THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 w/l
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 PROSE AND POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 MARY L. GARDINER 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY 
 
 J.WINCHESTER, 30 ANN STREET. 
 1843.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, by J. WINCHESTER, in the Clerk'* 
 Office of the Southern District of New York, in the year 1843.
 
 
 BENJAMIN F. THOMPSON, ESQ., 
 
 MY EARLY FRIEND AND PATRON, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS VERT RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN committing a volume of some hundred pages to the press, it 
 may not, without reason, be expected that the reader should be 
 favored with some account of the author's labors, and of the 
 reasons which may have induced the publication of the present 
 work. Indeed, the explanation seems the more appropriate, at 
 a period when productions of a similar character have become 
 not only common, but, probably in the opinion of the great mass 
 of readers, quite too frequent, to be useful. So considerable a 
 volume filled with pieces mostly poetical, and upon subjects, many 
 of which have scarcely the recommendation of novelty, may seem 
 to demand some apology for its intrusion upon the public in these 
 prosaic times. 
 
 The author of this miscellaneous collection, (many parts of 
 which have appeared in different publications,) is, but to a small 
 extent, known to fame, and possesses no inordinate ambition 
 for distinction as a writer, beyond the limits of her native island. 
 
 Feeling, as she does, her own inferiority, in comparison with a 
 host of others whom it would be easy to mention, it may be 
 easily supposed, that it is not without much hesitation and 
 solicitude, that she submits her literary labors to the judgment of 
 Jin impartial community. The writer is as sensible as the most 
 fastidious of her readers can be, of the many imperfections which 
 exist in these compositions, and that others, which she knows not of, 
 will be discovered, thereby exposing her performances (and justly 
 too) to the severity of criticism. She is equally well assured that 
 the privileges of her sex guaranties no exemption from an ordeal,
 
 to which all who venture before the public as authors, must sub- 
 mit. 
 
 Whether the circumstances, under which most of her pieces 
 were composed, will be accepted as a partial excuse for their 
 defects, must be left to the candor and consideration of the reader. 
 It is, however, true, that no idea of their publication was origin- 
 ally entertained, beyond, perhaps, the ephemeral pages of a news- 
 paper ; and they are now collected into a volume, more for the 
 gratification of her friends, than from a conviction of their possess- 
 ing any intrinsic value. 
 
 An almost Uninterrupted state of ill-health, of many years' con- 
 tinuance, attended with a great prostration of energy, made it impos- 
 sible for her to discharge the most ordinary domestic duties ; and 
 the writer could only employ her occasional exemption from pain, 
 in such amusements as her books and her pen afforded. Poetry 
 has always been to her the most delightful species of liteiature, 
 and this propensity will account for the preponderance of her 
 poetical, over her prose compositions. The subject of many of 
 them were, as will be perceived, prompted by particular incidents, 
 and written upon the occasions which called them forth. A few 
 were addressed to friends, whose hearts had been wounded by the 
 stroke of death within their family circles ; while others were 
 composed upon the happening of some event of a more general 
 character. In all instances, the writer has had constantly in view 
 the cause of virtue and religion. 
 
 Whatever value may be attached to these effusions of her pen, the 
 writer cannot help indulging the fond hope that the perusal may 
 yield a pleasure proportionate, in some degree, to that experienced 
 in their composition. 
 
 In conclusion, the author cannot withhold the expression cf 
 her gratitude to Heaven, by whose assistance alone she has been 
 enabled to prepare her materials for this purpose ; and she consoles 
 herself with the honest hope, that they contain naught which, in 
 dying, she could wish to blot. 
 
 MARY L. GARDINER. 
 SAO HARBOR, L. I.
 
 PROSE AND POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 MARY L. GARDINER.
 
 VICISSITUDE. 
 
 AH, what is our life but a dream, 
 
 A shadow that passes away ; 
 A light which is cast on the stream, 
 
 By moonbeams that fitfully play. 
 
 I CAME to the halls of Cona, where all was mirth and song. 
 The old man in his pride sat gazing upon his children, while the 
 silver tresses shaded his brow. The mother, living again in the 
 fairy forms around her, revealed the joy of her heart in her 
 expressive countenance. Their sons were like the mountain 
 oak, and their daughters like the first roses of summer. The 
 sun rose biightly upon their habitation, unobscured by a single 
 cloud, and descended in rayless majesty into the crystal wave. 
 The elms towered in the gusty air, and the willows waved in the 
 gentle breeze. Flowers and shrubs emitted their sweet perfume, 
 and the green grass bent in beauty beneath their feet. No sorrow 
 was there, for love held its empire over every heart, and the holy 
 chain of filial affection bound them together. They were bright 
 and beautiful as the morning, and buoyant as the young fawns of 
 the mountain. They danced at the sound of the viol and guitar, 
 while the flute in its sweetness reverberated over the dewy land- 
 scape. From each other's eyes they drank their fullest bliss ; for 
 in their soft light was mirrored the harmony within, which as 
 yet no blight had marred. Beautiful structure ! and transient 
 as beautiful ! 
 
 Again I traversed the mountain, drank at the clear cascades, 
 scrambled over the shelving clefts, stood amid the rattling thun- 
 der, and gazed upon the lightning as it played fitfully around my 
 path. I saw the strong oak bend beneath the whirlwind, and trees
 
 10 VICISSITUDE. 
 
 of lesser strength uprooted by the blast. The spirit of the storm 
 screamed wildly as she passed, and my ears were stunned by the 
 roar of the elemental war. The music of the tornado was 
 awfully sublime and terrible, as it swept from before it every trace 
 of beauty. Prostrate, I lay upon the damp earth, and felt sensi- 
 bly my connection with my fellow clay. Fiercely the tempest 
 howled, and swept thundering down the sides of the mountain, at 
 the base of which was situated the dwelling of Cona, and thither 
 I bent my footsteps. 
 
 As I approached, a kind of superstitious dread took possession 
 of my bosom. Years had passed away since I was there, and as 
 I mused amid the peltings of the storm, I anticipated a reverse of 
 what I had witnessed during my first visit at the house of my 
 friend. Hoarsely the tempest shrieked, and its fitful gusts hur- 
 ried me forward. Brown and bare was the rock which, like a 
 battlement, protected the house of Cona; no wild rose twined its 
 clustering amis around its craggy points ; no young violets reared 
 their timid heads amid the clefts all was bare and barren. 
 Closed were the gates, and everything, as if awed to silence by 
 the spirit of the storm , was still as death. There was something 
 awfully foreboding in the silence which enwrapped every object 
 as the storm suddenly became hushed so mysteriously enervating 
 my whole system, that, as I rung faintly at the door of the man- 
 sion, I leaned against the portico for support. Faintly as I rung, 
 the sound of the bell came back upon my ear unbroken. Pres- 
 ently a step approached the door opened, and I was ushered into 
 the room where I had passed hours of unmingled delight. " Has 
 the storm been here ?" I exclaimed, as I gazed around. "What 
 means this silence? Has a tempest more destructive than the 
 one I have witnessed torn from their native soil the beautiful 
 blossoms which but yesterday were blooming in their dewy fresh- 
 ness ? " 
 
 As I mused, the aged parents entered. Bent were their totter- 
 ing frames, which trembled as they drew near. They read my 
 inquiry in my looks, and, pressing my hand, motioned for me to 
 be seated. Sobs, loud and audible, burst from the broken heart 
 of the mother; while the father, calm, patient, and submissive, 
 bowed to the will of Heaven, knowing that with God there is no 
 injustice. 
 
 " Thou lookest around," he exclaimed, but what seest thou ?
 
 VICISSITUDE. 11 
 
 Thou listenest, but what dost thou hear? - The lights of my 
 dwelling are extinct ; my birds of song are mute, and their notes 
 of love and joyousness are no longer heard. You found us in 
 prosperity, and left us united and happy ; but the dark storm of 
 adversity overtook us, beat upon our bosoms, desolated our hopes, 
 frustrated our fondest schemes, and blighted our sweetest flowers. 
 My sons, the pride and glory of my house, died in a foreign land ; 
 they fell in the field of battle, their brows crowned with laurels, 
 and their life-blood swelling the tide of victory ! My daughters, 
 young and beautiful as the morning, faded and died in the dreamy 
 month of June, whose roses were not more sweet and lovely 
 than those fair sisters, who, hand in hand,. wandered amid their 
 blushing tints, training the delicate ones with their transparent 
 fingers, not less transient than themselves. The flute and the 
 viol ceased, the guitar quivered under their slight touch, as their 
 voices died away like the evening breeze, leaving the world to 
 us like the silence of midnight, unbroken by even the softest 
 murmur." 
 
 Tears flowed from the old man's eyes, they gushed in streams 
 from his heartfull fountain, and mingled with those of the com- 
 panion of his declining years. What, thought 1, are the outward 
 storms to this ? Nature revives after the sweeping tempest ; the 
 leafy oak becomes more erect, and the young shrubs and flowers, 
 glittering in the rain drops, are again fragrant and flourishing; 
 but where are the lovely, who were once here ? 
 
 Transplanted to a purer clime 
 
 They bloom forever, where 
 No change, no storm, no coming time 
 
 Their beauty can impair.
 
 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 IT was a cold evening in November, when Mrs. Seldon, seated 
 by a small fire, was anxiously waiting for her only son, who had 
 left in the morning to ascertain whether he could find employment 
 in a counting house in the city of New- York. Mrs. Seldon was 
 the widow of a clergyman, who died when his son was in the 
 twelfth year of his age, leaving him and his mother with a few 
 hundred dollars, and an excellent library. Mr. Seldon had spared 
 no pains in Henry's education ; and, at the early age of ten years, 
 he had become acquainted, not only with the general rudiments of 
 the English, but had made considerable advancement in the Latin, 
 Greek, and French languages. Henry Seldon was beautiful as 
 the morning ; his eye was keen as the young eagle's, at the same 
 time soft as the beams of the setting sun. His hair was black 
 and glossy as the raven's, his brow was lofty, his mouth sweet 
 and fascinating, his nose aquiline, and the general contour of his 
 face classical. His form was elegance and grace, and all who 
 saw him loved him. His father and mother's existence seemed 
 identified with his; they lived in their son, and next to their 
 Saviour, they loved him. One Sabbath, after Mr. Seldon returned 
 from church , he complained of indisposition. A physician was 
 called ; life lingered until morning, when he breathed his last 
 eigh upon the bosom of his wife, in the full hope of a glorious 
 resurrection. Henry in vain strove to comfort his mother, who, 
 for a few hours, was in a fearful delirium. So sudden had been 
 the blow, that her frame, like a tree twisted by the tempest, could 
 only recover from the shock by the slow application of time. 
 After she became composed, she summoned every effort of her 
 mind and body for her son. Alone, they pursued the course they 
 considered the most prudent for their scanty means. Henry 
 applied himself closely to his studies, while Mrs. Seldon attended
 
 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 13 
 
 to her domestic concerns. Henry instructed a few boys, sons ot 
 their particular friends, who remembered them with undiminished 
 affection, when the pastor they loved, and to whose voice they had 
 listened for many years, was silent in the grave. Years rolled 
 by, and Henry, who was well calculated for mercantile business, 
 left home for the purpose of obtaining employment. 
 
 Mrs. Seldon spent the day in deep reflection, and many were 
 the tears which fell from her eyes as she thought of a separation. 
 Fervent were her supplications, and her countenance shone with 
 the holy emotions of her soul. The tumult in her bosom had 
 subsided, and she felt a calmness within, such as the Christian 
 alone knows, and affectionate mothers feel, when they have com- 
 mitted the children of their love into the arms of their God. She 
 had spread her table ; warm toast and coffee stood upon the hearth ; 
 and she sat with a heart subdued by divine grace, waiting for her 
 son's approach. She soon heard the sound of his welcome step ; 
 the door opened, and Henry entered, his eyes sparkling with 
 animation, and his face radiant with manly beauty. 
 
 " My child," said Mrs. Seldon, " how rejoiced I am to see you ! 
 Oh, how could I live without you ?" 
 
 As she spoke the tears fell from her eyes upon the hand of her 
 beloved son, who, kissing her affectionately, said 
 
 " Dear mother ! just dry your tears, and pour me out some warm 
 coffee, for T am both cold and hungry." 
 
 Mrs. Seldon drew the table nearer the fire, and, seating herself 
 by it, inquired how he had succeeded. Henry, after drinking a 
 cup of excellent coffee, said 
 
 " Now, my dear mother, I will tell you; just let me, however, 
 finish this nice piece of toast. I called on cousin Mary as we 
 proposed, who promised to remain with you during my absence, 
 should I conclude to leave home. T then proceeded to New-York ; 
 I found Mr. Oswald in his office, who received me both politely 
 and affectionately. He invited me to dine with him, which I did." 
 
 Henry's face crimsoned as he spoke ; his mother saw it, but 
 inquired not the cause. In a moment he proceeded. 
 
 " We have entered into an engagement which is satisfactory to 
 both. I am to be there on the tenth, and cousin Mary is to stay 
 with you." 
 
 Mrs. Seldon thought she was composed, thought her will was 
 Bubdued, and no more conflicts would arise. But when she heard
 
 14 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 him say he was going when, on looking up, she encountered the 
 softened brilliancy of his expressive eyes, and saw his look of 
 love resting upon her, she sighed deeply, and her hand trembled 
 violently. 
 
 Henry had finished ; he drew the table back ; he saw the 
 struggle in her bosom. It was what he expected ; as he took her 
 cold hand in his, while she endeavored to remove her handkerchief 
 from her eyes, her feelings overpowered her, and she wept in the 
 fullness of her soul. Henry sat with her hand clasped in his. He 
 spoke not, for he knew the conflict would soon terminate, and his 
 mother's good sense prevail. A little canary, who had been 
 their sole companion for many years, as if he knew their feelings 
 and wished to alleviate them, trilled his sweetest notes in long 
 and reiterated strains. 
 
 "Sweet bird," said Mrs. Seldon, looking up, " did you say 
 you would cheer my solitude ? I will indeed listen to you, for 
 there is wisdom in your voice, and I will be composed." 
 
 "Thank you, my kind friend," said Henry, " you have broken 
 a spell that was fastening too deep for nature." 
 
 The word of God closed the scenes of the day, and both mother 
 and son slept sweet under the guardianship of the angels. 
 
 One week had elapsed since Henry Seldon left his home, when 
 a letter was handed his mother by the post boy. She broke the 
 seal with joyful emotions, and pressed the well-known characters 
 to her bosom. Mary Greenly, anxious to hear from her cousin, 
 begged her aunt to read aloud, which she did. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER In compliance with your request, I will 
 now give you a description of the family with whom I am con- 
 nected. Mr. Oswald is a man of wealth and influence, possessed 
 of good sense, and strictly honest, but rather inattentive to his 
 business. Ardently attached to his wife and daughters, he seldom 
 denies them anything they wish. Mrs. Oswald is a fine-looking 
 woman, fond of high life, and quite out of her element unless 
 engaged in some scene of dissipation. Still she is an excellent 
 woman, and kind to all around her. Julie and Emilie, her two 
 eldest daughters, are handsome, genteel girls ; but, like their mo- 
 ther ; their whole heart seems absorbed in pleasure. One remains, 
 my dear mother, and now, as you ever have done, you shall still 
 know every avenue to my heart. Smile, if you please, and say
 
 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 15 
 
 I am in Jove ; let it be so. I will endeavor to describe Gertrude, 
 the youngest daughter of Mr. Oswald. Do you recollect hearing 
 me speak of a young lady I saw on a sailing excursion, from the 
 
 seminary of ? Gertrude Oswald is the same. She is just 
 
 seventeen, and certainly one of the most lovely girls I ever beheld. 
 She is truly beautiful ; there is a sedateness in her manners which 
 renders her both dignified and interesting. Her mind is highly 
 cultivated, and throws a charm around her whenever she speaks, 
 that is irresistible. I would hope she might one day be mine, but 
 I am poor, and although I confess I admire her, I will endeavor 
 to banish the idea from my mind. But really, my dear mother, 
 she is just the very being that you would, and I do love. My 
 love to cousin Mary. I fancy I see you seated by your cheerful 
 fire, your table covered with periodicals and papers, all laid aside 
 to read my letter. Home, with its endearments, often rushes upon 
 my mind ; scenes I can never forget, and a mother I can never 
 cease to love, are the sweet anodynes which at night lull me to 
 repose. You will say T am getting quite sentimental ; was I not 
 always so, and will I not ever be ? Your affectionate son, 
 
 " HENRY." 
 
 All was confusion in Mr. Oswald's splendid mansion. Carriage 
 after carriage rolled to and fro from the door, and the drawing- 
 rooms were crowded with beauty and fashion. There was nothing 
 wanting to make the scene interesting, for nature and art had 
 united their efforts to render it enchanting. Mrs. Oswald was 
 delighted, and Julie and Emilie were in raptures. But Gertrude, 
 the youngest and the loveliest of the bright band, looked around 
 upon a scene which, while it dazzled, sickened her. The conti- 
 nued round of folly and dissipation she was compelled to witness 
 was trying to her nature, and she trembled at the vortex she saw 
 the whole family approaching. The saloon was elegantly adorned ; 
 refreshments of various kinds were tastefully arranged. The 
 fruit looked as if it was in reality growing upon the stem, so beau- 
 tiful were the miniature trees represented ; and the grapes hung 
 luxuriant upon the vines which curled around the little fairy 
 arbors. Wine sparkled in the goblets, pyramids glittered beneath 
 the rays of the hundred lights, while music echoed in thrilling 
 sweetness through the apartments. Beauty languished on elegant 
 ottomans and reclined on gilded sofas; large mirrors were empan.
 
 16 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 nelled in the wall, so that the rooms, as the giddy throng joined 
 in the voluptuous waltz, had the appearance of magic. It was 
 nearly twelve, when Henry Seldon made his appearance. He 
 stood for some time absorbed in meditation leaning against an arch 
 wreathed with artificial flowers, beautiful as if bursting from 
 nature's shrine. Round and round flew the excited throng, 
 and many were the bright eyes cast upon him, for there was not a 
 lady present but would have been proud of his attention. Sighing 
 deeply, he looked up and beheld Gertrude at the far end of the 
 room, intently viewing a verbena he purchased a lew weeks previ- 
 ous for his mother, and had given to her to nurse until he should 
 send or carry it home. She was so engrossed in her own reflec- 
 tions as not to heed his approach. 
 
 " Can a simple flower," he inquired, " engage the attention of 
 oe so young in the midst of so much mirth and pleasure ?" 
 
 Gertrude raised her eyes at his well-known voice, and blushing 
 deeply, said 
 
 " I can find enjoyment in nothing else ; this alone seems re- 
 deemed from the blight of sin and folly, and I love it for its 
 purity." 
 
 Henry, bending over her, whispered in tones which thrilled 
 through every winding of her heart, 
 
 " One other lovely creation is also redeemed ; will you allow me 
 a few moments' conversation ?" 
 
 Gertrude took his arm, and they walked about to escape 
 interruption. 
 
 Henry Seldon entered the family of Mr. Oswald, when his 
 whole estate seemed suspended upon the action of a single moment. 
 He found his accounts in a disordered, loose state, and immedi- 
 ately commenced arranging them. Mr. Oswald's family was one 
 of the most wealthy in the city. His wife and two eldest daugh- 
 ters were wholly absorbed in the fashion and extravagance of the 
 day. New equipage, furniture, and dress, were the themes of 
 their conversation. Gertrude, the youngest, had lately returned 
 from a boarding-school near the village where Henry Seldon and 
 his mother resided. She had been absent four years, and boarded 
 in a pious family, where her young heart became imbued with 
 the spirit of religion. So strongly and steadily had the voice of 
 wisdom sounded in her ears, and so beautifully were the precepts 
 of the Gospel exemplified in the family of Mr. L., that she loved
 
 THE FOBCE OF EDUCATION. 17 
 
 the very earth which surrounded his habitation, and every shrub, 
 flower and tree, were dear to her. It was during an excursion on a 
 lake near the dwelling of Mr. L. she first saw Henry Seldon, though 
 she never met him again until at her father's table. They con- 
 versed but seldom ; but there was a mingling of souls, a commu- 
 nion of hearts which expressed itself in their eyes, and unfolded 
 the secrets of their love. Mr. Oswald, having the fullest confi- 
 dence in Henry, intrusted him with the whole care of his business. 
 Henry saw with regret Mr. Oswald's and his family's thirst for 
 show and pleasure, and knew by the bills that were continually 
 handed in, that he could not long keep up such an appearance. 
 Anxious for his family, he consulted his excellent mother what 
 course to pursue. Great responsibility rested upon him. Mr. Os- 
 wald felt as if all was secure ; knowing the fidelity of Henry, 
 whose control over the clerks was absolute, though not despotic. 
 They loved him ; and a look, a single word, was sufficient, and 
 they obeyed him as if by magic. Mrs. Seldon wrote her son that 
 it was her opinion he had better speak to Mr. Oswald, and plainly 
 state to him his situation. 
 
 For weeks there was a continued rush of parties, etc. One day 
 a bill of five thousand dollars was handed him, and he could not 
 meet the demand. Mr. Oswald came into the counting-room at 
 the same moment, when Henry, in the mildest manner possible, 
 mentioned his fears to him. Mr. Oswald started, and his color 
 went and came with every impulse of his feeling. 
 
 " Young man, I certainly know my own business." 
 
 "Dear sir," said Henry, "let me be candid with jou ; indeed, 
 you do not. I do not mention this to irritate or displease you : far 
 from it." And laying his hand kindly on Mr. Oswald's arm, 
 begged him to pay instant attention to his affairs, as he felt the 
 responsibility resting upon him more than he was willing to bear. 
 Mr. Oswald listened for a moment with evident emotion. 
 
 " What can I do ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Retrench," said Henry ; " not suddenly, but gradually." 
 
 " My wife and daughters will spurn the idea." 
 
 *' Be resolute," replied Henry, " and all may yet go well ; a 
 few steps further and you are lost." 
 
 Mr. Oswald remained silent for a moment ; his face was 
 blanched, and his bosom heaved with an inward struggle. 
 
 " I have given my consent for a soiree to be at my house next
 
 18 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 week, and I cannot prevent it, for the invitations are given 
 out." 
 
 Henry looked distressed, but remained silent. Mr. Oswald 
 walked the room much agitated, when turning suddenly round, 
 he exclaimed, " Henry Seldon, can I bear these expenses ?" 
 
 Henry spoke not. 
 
 Mr. Oswald, still paler, said, " Speak quick, and save me from 
 distraction, and my wife and daughters from despair." 
 
 " Daughters !" said Henry ; " have you no bright spot, no 
 redeeming virtue ?" 
 
 " Yes, my Gertrude ; and if I mistake not, she is also your 
 guiding-star. But you will not want a penniless wife. Oh, 
 why did I not listen to you before, when in the gentlest terms 
 you have hinted to me we were living too fast !" 
 
 Henry felt deeply for Mr. Oswald, and taking him kindly by 
 his arm, closed the door, and led him to the desk. 
 
 " Here are all your bills ; I will look them over, and if this 
 party can be given, and you can be saved, I will inform you ; 
 but, then, you must remember and be resolute." 
 
 After investigatiag the accounts, it was concluded to give the 
 party, and then acquaint the family ; and if possible go on with 
 the business. Henry and Gertrude conversed freely upon their 
 situation. They had both for a long time dreaded the result of 
 their extravagance. As they were promenading they met Mr. 
 Oswald, who, looking upon them, rejoiced ; there were those who 
 arose above the fascinations of folly and fashion. He longed 
 for the scene to end ; it pained him to see his wife and daughters 
 so wholly absorbed in pleasure, and he trembled for the morrow. 
 He looked on Henry as his guardian angel ; and on Gertrude, who 
 had so often been ridiculed by her sisters for her Methodism, as 
 a beautiful flower which had escaped the blight of the destroyer. 
 
 " To morrow, Mr. Oswald," said Henry. 
 
 " To-morrow, my dear father," said Gertrude; "be resolute, 
 and all will be well." 
 
 " Can you bear the storm that will burst, my child ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Gertrude ; " and long to hear its approaching 
 murmur." 
 
 " Your father might have prevented it," said he ; " can you 
 forgive him ?" 
 
 Gertrude took his hand she loved her father dearly she was
 
 THE FOBCE OF EDUCATION. 19 
 
 his youngest, and his darling child pressing it affectionately to 
 her bosom, she said, " Dear father, you have never offended me ; 
 you need nothing but resolution, and we shall again be happy." 
 
 Mr. Oswald could not rest. Such were his emotions, that sleep 
 departed from him. 
 
 After the company had all retired, and the family, as he sup- 
 posed, asleep, he entered the deserted rooms. All was still and 
 cheerless. Their silence spoke volumes to his soul. He looked 
 around; the few remaining lights burned dimly. Here was a 
 glove from the hand of beauty, and there a wilted flower, dropped 
 amid the strife of folly and affectation. Looking upon it, he ex- 
 claimed, " Such will be the remembrance of the past, and the 
 scene for which I last night expended thousands, live no longer in 
 remembrance than this simple flower, which, last evening for an 
 hour, drew around it the gaze of the multitude." 
 
 He walked on the terrace, for his brow was feverish, and his 
 heart beat wildly. The scene from where he stood was delightful. 
 The night was still the moon wending her way through fields of 
 light, surrounded by innumerable stars, all singing in sweetness 
 and harmony, "The hand that made us is divine ;" while man, 
 God's best and noblest work, lives unmindful of his high destiny. 
 The East River lay in beautiful relief before his eyes ; it was calm 
 and peaceful as the sleep of inlancy ; not a sound was heard ; 
 nature was hushed, and silence spread her pall over the universe. 
 He gazed upon the scene until he became composed. " I will," 
 said he, " listen to Henry and Gertrude. I will be resolute ! I 
 will now enter my office and see the worst of my affairs. Alone, I 
 can venture to look over my bills." As he proceeded, he passed hy 
 Gertrude's room, from whence he heard a murmuring souni. He 
 listened. It was his daughter's voice ; it was his own Gertrude 
 at that late hour praying for him. He heard her distinctly say, 
 " Sustain him, oh, my God ! in this trying scene, and give him 
 fortitude to perform his duty." 
 
 Mr. Oswald wept ; " Fortitude to perform my duty !" and 
 clasping his hands, he hurried to his office, repeating, " fortitude 
 to perform my duty." 
 
 On opening the door, he was startled by a light at the further 
 end of the room, where, sitting by a table, was Henry Seldon 
 busily engaged in looking over bills and papers which were 
 strewed around. His entrance was so still, he was unheard by
 
 THE FORCE OF 
 
 Henry, who, with a pen in one hand, was resting his head upon 
 the other. On seeing Mr. Oswald, he arose precipitately from his 
 seat, and approached him. 
 
 " Excellent young man !" said Mr. Oswald, extending his hand, 
 " and have you devoted your hours for rest to me, who have 
 been so ungrateful and unmindful of your kindness ? What do I 
 not owe you ?" 
 
 " Mr. Oswald," said Henry, knowing the probability of receiv- 
 ing many bills to-morrow, and the necessity of having the past 
 accounts accurate, " I have deferred taking my rest that I might 
 aid you." 
 
 " How are my affairs ?" said Mr. Oswald ; " let me know the 
 worst, for 1 am nerved for the investigation nerved by a daugh- 
 ter's prayers." 
 
 Henry cast a look of inquiry, and Mr. Oswald related how he 
 had passed the night. 
 
 " Gertrude is a treasure," said Henry, " an exception to all I 
 ever knew." 
 
 " And she shall be yours, Henry Seldon. I have read your 
 note, and shall with pride own you for my son. You have, since 
 you have been here, accumulated a handsome property. I am 
 happy to hear from you that your mother has come in possession 
 of so handsome an estate. But had you not a penny, and Gertrude 
 a million, I would rather have her your wife, than any other man's 
 living." 
 
 Henry's heart was full ; he had loved Gertrude from the first 
 moment he saw her. She was just the being he admired just 
 what his young heart panted for. They had plighted their vows, 
 and he had that day asked her of her father. Gertrude seldom 
 went with her sisters and mother ; she did not wish to go ; and 
 they, conscious of her superior charms, did not urge her. At 
 home, conversing with Henry, and reading his mother's letters 
 and talking of her, she had derived more enjoyment than in all 
 the round of fashionable life. Mrs. Oswald had always been 
 accustomed to parade and show, and knew not how to live with- 
 out it. She loved her husband and worshipped her children ; and 
 thoughtlessly, rather than wilfully, pressed her wishes upon him. 
 She, with all the family, looked upon Henry as a superior being, 
 and shrank from his penetrating eye, and chilling but true remarks. 
 They knew he loved Gertrude, and was willing she should return
 
 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 21 
 
 his affection. Still, in the moment of irritable excitement, she 
 was often the butt of their unpleasant feelings she and her Cal- 
 vinistic beau, as ihey termed him. 
 
 The next morning Gertrude hastened to the breakfast-room, 
 where she waited long for the family. At length Mrs. Oswald 
 entered. " My dear mother," said Gertrude, approaching her, 
 " you need not wait for my father, he is engaged, and cannot 
 breakfast with you." 
 
 " Not breakfast with us ! why, this is quite uncommon ; where 
 are your sisters ?" 
 
 " Here," said Gertrude, as they entered. 
 
 " Well, girls, how did you enjoy yourselves last evening ?" 
 inquired Mrs. Oswald. 
 
 " Very much indeed, ft was indeed a brilliant affair Did you 
 notice how astonished the Darlingtons were when they entered 
 the room ?" 
 
 " Yes, : ' replied the mother; " and many others. We succeeded 
 in our plan to admiration, and eclipsed all the other parties that 
 have been given this winter. You were a good girl, Gertrude, for 
 arranging the flowers and fruit so beautifully. All, even Henry 
 Ssldon, admired it ; but how singularly you behaved !" 
 
 " I know it," said Emilie ; " I never saw you so provokingly 
 Calvinistic in my life." 
 
 " You are well aware, my dear sisters," replied Gertrude, " I 
 do not love these parties; I cannot enjoy them, and I do sincerely 
 hope our father will never give his consent for another." 
 
 " Mercy !" cried Julie ; " why, you are growing not only more 
 puritanical, but a real pope ; and before we know it, we shall 
 have an inquisition established." 
 
 As she spoke, Mr. Oswald and Henry entered. Gertrude turned 
 deadly pale. 
 
 " Why, really, Mr. Oswald," said his wife, " what in the 
 world has detained you ? it was very late when I arose ; we 
 waited some time for the girls, and now it is nearly twelve. But 
 here," ringing the bell, " you shall have a good cup of coffee." 
 
 " No, my dear," replied he, in a softened voice ; " I do not 
 wish any. I have particular business to attend to." 
 
 " Well, do hurry, papa," said the girls, " for we have an 
 engagement at two, and must be ready at the time appointed." 
 
 " Where ?" demanded the father.
 
 22 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 " To Harlem ; all of us. It is Queen Victoria's birth day, and 
 there will be a great rush to the celebration." 
 
 " I cannot go," said Mr. Oswald. 
 
 " Cannot go ?" said his wife and daughters ; " but we are abso- 
 lutely engaged." 
 
 Gertrude, " severe in her youthful beauty," reproved her sis- 
 ters, and urged them to be still. 
 
 " I cannot," said Mr. Oswald ; and approaching his wife, he 
 reached her his hand. 
 
 " Mercy !" shrieked Mrs. Oswald, " what ails you ? How 
 pale you look ! Oh, reach me my salts I shall faint." 
 
 Julie and Emilie looked wildly at their father, but meeting Mr. 
 Seldon's look and Gertrude's pale face, they remained silent. 
 Gertrude handed the smelling-bottle to her mother, who was indeed 
 faint, took her hand, and affectionately pressing it to her bosom, 
 said, " My dear mother, do not go ; do not urge papa ; be silent 
 for a few moments." 
 
 In a few words, Mr. Oswald made his family acquainted with 
 their situation. A clap of thunder from a clear sky could not be 
 more sudden. The girls shrieked, and their mother fainted. Mr. 
 Oswald looked to Henry, who, waving his hand, said, " Be still. 
 The storm is at its height, and will soon be over." 
 
 Mr. Oswald kissed his wife and folded her to his bosom. Ger- 
 trude and Henry soothed the sisters, who became calm by listening 
 to their melting importunities. " How the Aldingtons will exult !" 
 said they ; " oh, how can we endure their scorn ! how they will 
 delight to see our pride humbled !" 
 
 Mrs. Oswald, recovering, said, " Why was this delayed ? Why 
 did you not tell us before ?" 
 
 " It was owing to my neglect," said Mr. Oswald. " Can you 
 forgive me ?" and he wept freely. 
 
 " Oh, my husband !" said Mrs. Oswald. " Oh, my father, my 
 dear father!" said the girls, all hanging around him ; "you never 
 did wrong. Oh, look up and smile, and we shall be happy!" 
 
 As Henry Selclon gazed upon the interesting scene, he seemed 
 like the fabled Mentor, when he saved Ulysses from the snare of 
 the Syren. " Mrs. Oswald," said he, approaching her, " I'hope 
 you will pardon me for being the cause of this sudden sorrow ? 
 Mr. Oswald might have continued for some time in the course you 
 were pursuing ; but the bubble would eventually have burst, and
 
 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 23 
 
 there would have been no redemption. Now, my dear madam, 
 by retrenching gradually, and by proper management, you can 
 be saved." 
 
 " We owe all to Mr. Seldon," said Mr. Oswald. "He is our 
 preserver, and what reward can we make him ? It is owing 
 entirely to him we have a house to live in that we are not beg- 
 gars in the street." 
 
 Mrs. Oswald and the girls crowded round him and wept their 
 thanks. " We can never repay him," said Mrs. Oswald, " and I 
 blush to look up." 
 
 Henry gazed around, and his eyes overflowed with the pure 
 emotions of his soul. " May I claim my reward ?" said he, bow- 
 ing to Mrs. Oswald ; " will you bestow on me the richest gift 
 heaven can bestow ?" 
 
 " With all my heart, provided it is in my power." 
 
 " Then, give me," said he, stepping to Gertrude, and leading 
 her forward, " give me your child." Gertrude, trembling with 
 excess of feeling, sank upon her mother's breast. " Will you 
 bestow the gift ?" he tenderly inquired. 
 
 " My child," said Mrs. Oswald " my sweet Gertrude, what 
 Bhall I say ?" 
 
 " Have I no debt to pay my mother ?" she said, and bursting 
 into tears, she hid her blushing face in her bosom. 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was on one of those beautiful mornings in June, when every- 
 thing in nature has a softening influence upon the mind, and 
 comes home to the soul in a mysterious, yet delightful manner, 
 
 when a carriage stopped at the parsonage of C , and Henry 
 
 Seldon led his young and lovely bride to his fund and doting mother. 
 Mrs. Seldon wept tears of joy as she folded Gertrude to her bosom. 
 She had been acquainted with all the circumstances relative to her 
 father's family, having heard from her son all that had transpired. 
 
 " We have just stopped to look at you, my dear mother," said 
 Henry ; " we are on a short tour; when that is accomplished, we 
 will return and spend the remainder of our days together." 
 
 Gertrude gazed around in an ecstacy of delight. Rural simpli- 
 city reigned in every direction. Nothing could have been more 
 gratifying, more as she wished. It was a true picture of what, in 
 her imagination, she had long sighed for. The place had under- 
 gone a thorough repair. A beautiful lawn surrounded the dwell-
 
 24 THE FORCE OF EDUCATION. 
 
 ing, embowered with trees of various descriptions, among which 
 were elms of half a century, under whose branches Henry had 
 wiled away the happy hours of childhood. The shrubs and 
 curling vines ran luxuriantly over the portico, the seats of which 
 were filled with flowers of the choicest kind. Henry led her to 
 one, which was placed upon his mother's work-table. It was the 
 verbena she nursed. Gertrude's heart was full, as Henry asked 
 her, " if there it was the only redeeming virtue ?" " No ! oh, no !" 
 she replied ; " all is redeeming here. This is the earthly paradise 
 my soul has panted for." At that moment the canary trilled his 
 sweetest notes, and associations, strong and irresistible, came over 
 them. Cousin Mary appeared with strawberries and cream. After 
 partaking of them, and enjoying a walk in the garden, they bade 
 Mrs. Seldon adieu, and started for Saratoga. 
 
 Reader, would you behold a scene of as perfect happiness as 
 
 this changing world can afford, go to the parsonage of C , and 
 
 in a room neatly furnished, you will find seated on a sofa, two 
 females, their feet resting on an ottoman, on which sits Henry 
 Seldon, with a hand of each clasped in his. They are his wife 
 and mother. The breath of love lingers upon their lips, as the 
 dew of the morning on the young rose leaves. The law of kind- 
 ness is in their hearts, and their dwelling is the abode of happiness 
 and peace. Such is the force of education, such the effect of 
 rightly training the mind, such the ways of virtue that there is 
 more real pleasure to be derived from the consciousness of doing 
 good, than from any other source. Here in this picture is plainly 
 portrayed from whence all true enjoyment springs. Religion and 
 virtue wreath the altar of domestic love, and happiness flows 
 spontaneously from a fount so pure and lovely.
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 
 
 MRS. STANHOPE was the widow of an American officer, who was 
 killed in the battle of Princeton, and who fell by the side of the 
 brave Col. Mercer. Mr. Stanhope's grandfather, Robert Stanhope, 
 crossed from Europe to America in the Mayflower, and was one 
 of that bright constellation, who sang the song of praise on Ply- 
 mouth's ice-clad rock. His son, Samuel Stanhope, penetrated the 
 wilds of Virginia, cleared for himself a farm, on which he hved 
 many years, and which, at his death, he bequeathed to his son, 
 Robert Stanhope, the officer above mentioned. 
 
 He had become in early life attached to Adelaide Mowbray, 
 whom he married with every prospect of earthly enjoyment. 
 Never were hearts more truly devoted. They lived in each other's 
 smiles in calm retirement, and cultivated their farm with comfort 
 and pleasure. The risinz sun brightened, as he cast his radiance 
 upon their dwelling; and the soft rays of their beaming counte- 
 nances, as they knelt at their devotions, mingled with the pure 
 glow of the morning. Labor to them was sweet, for it was love 
 which prompted them to action ; love cleared the land ; love 
 spread the table ; love enlightened the winter's eve, and shed its 
 benign influence on all around. The labors of the day ended with 
 a smile ; their slumbers were sweet and tranquil ; their own soft 
 breathings lulled them to repose, and with the lark their songs of 
 praise arose on the morning breeze. One lovely child was the 
 pledge which sealed their vows, and made their union still more 
 sweet. For her they labored, and each shared in her soft caresses. 
 Her infant glee, her merry laugh, her tottering steps, her every 
 action, served but to rivet the chains which bound them closer 
 together. 
 
 The little Emily operated like a charm upon their senses, and 
 her presence threw around them a halo of increasing brightness. 
 Religion, innocence, peace, and contentment were the inmates of 
 their abode. When the difficulties first commenced between Great
 
 26 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 
 
 Britain and America, a day was set apart, as one of fasting and 
 prayer in their own State, which was observed by them with holy 
 devotion. Mr. S. was a true patriot ; his country was as dear to 
 him as life, and he was among the first who stepped forward in 
 the defence of his nation's rights and privileges. It was an hour 
 of bitterness when he told his young and lovely wife he must 
 leave her. Well as she loved her husband, agonizing as was the 
 idea of parting, she did not yield to despair. He saw the color 
 forsake her cheek as he spoke of his departure ; saw the tears, 
 like rain drops, fall from her beautiful eyes, but heard no loud 
 exclamation from her lips. She was a woman of noble mind ; 
 she understood the situation of her country, and panted for its 
 deliverance. But could she yield up her husband, dear as her 
 own life, the father of her Emily, the sharer of every joy and 
 sorrow ? Could she be left without him ? It was indeed a strug- 
 gle ; but he must go. 
 
 Never did a more fervent desire ascend before the throne of 
 infinite purity, than arose from this fond pair on the night previ- 
 ous to the departure of Mr. S. As their petitions ended, they 
 embraced each other in silence for some moments; while on their 
 knees they took little Emily between them, and solemnly dedi- 
 cated her to God, and gave themselves renewedly to his care. 
 Overcome by contending emotions, they sank to repose. The 
 morning broke upon them, and the bright rays, which peeped 
 through the casements of their window from the rising sun, were 
 the last beams which ever met their views together while in this 
 vale of tears. Mr. Stanhope took his beloved Adelaide in his 
 arms, and held her for many moments in speechless agony : as he 
 brushed back the raven curls from her beautiful brow, he im- 
 printed upon her lips his farewell kiss. With frantic agony she 
 hung upon his neck, and clasped him to her bosom bathed his 
 face, his hands, with her tears, and stood the silent picture of wo. 
 Stepping to the bed, he kissed and blessed his sleeping babe cast 
 one more glance upon his beloved wife, and hurried away from 
 the spot dearest to him on earth, to return no more. 
 
 After the agony of parting was over, Mrs. Stanhope turned her 
 attention to the cultivation of her farm, to her household, and her 
 child. She was a woman of high-souled courage, although pos- 
 sessed of the finest sensibilities of her sex. Well as she loved her 
 husband, she gloried in his patriotism and his honor. Many were
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 27 
 
 the prayers, which arose from pious mothers and wives during 
 that momentous struggle for liberty and independence, but none 
 more fervently than those of Adelaide Stanhope, while her husband 
 was following his brave commander, the immortal Washington, 
 from place to place, amid discouragements, hardships, cold, wea- 
 riness and hunger, even with naked, bleeding feet, over our newly 
 fertilized land, in the pursuit of those blessings we so richly enjoy. 
 For hours would she plead for them and for her beloved country; 
 and often would her little Emily, while kneeling by her mother's 
 side, wipe the tears from her eyes, and twine her little arms 
 around her neck. So fervent, so pure, so rapt, were the devotions 
 of this sainted woman, that the sacredness of the scene was such 
 as to inspire her child, young as she was, with feelings that her 
 mother's communion was holy and sublime ; and thus her youthful 
 mind became imbued wilh the pure precepts that were continually 
 instilled into her expanding intellect. 
 
 Anxiously did Mrs. Stanhope watch for any intelligence con- 
 cerning the army ; sometimes encouraged, sometimes almost ready 
 to despair of ever seeing him she loved, or of hearing the silver 
 clarion of peace echoing throughout our then bloodstained land. 
 
 It was in November, just at evening's soft and tranquil hour, 
 as Mrs. S. was sitting with her little Emily, chanting her vesper 
 hymn, that a rap was heard, and a stranger entered. Mrs. S. read 
 the fatal news in his eye, and it was soon confirmed. Her be- 
 loved husband was no more ! He had fallen on the battle-field, 
 crowned wilh the laurels of his country ! 
 
 Like the lily which bows its gentle head to the winds of heaven, 
 Mrs. Stanhope yielded to the blow with the meekness of a Chris- 
 tain. Closer than ever did she cling to the throne of grace, and 
 nearer and more holy was her communion with her God. The 
 salvation of her child was now her chief desire, and she looked 
 forward with a sacred joy to their re-union in heaven. 
 
 After the storm of war was hushed through our land, and Peace 
 sat triumphantly upon her throne, crowned with a chaplet of 
 unfading laurels ; when Liberty, waving her star-spangled banner, 
 declared our country free, Mrs. Stanhope disposed of her farm, 
 bade adieu to the place with which the image of her beloved hus- 
 band was strongly associated, and settled upon the banks of 
 the beautiful Potomac. 
 
 Her health received a shock at her husband's death, from which
 
 28 FILIAL PIETY EEWAKDED. 
 
 ehe never recovered. She was a stranger in R. ; lived secluded, and 
 was seldom seen, save in the sanctuary of God. Possessed of a 
 well-cultivated mind, she attended to the education of her daugh- 
 ter, whose intellectual powers were not inferior to her own; 
 and under her fostering hand she bloomed, like the young flowers 
 of summer; nor were they more beautiful or more pure than 
 Emily Stanhope. 
 
 One Sabbath afternoon, while they were at church, a shower 
 suddenly arose, accompanied by heavy thunder and vivid light- 
 ning. Mr. James, the clergyman, awed by the sublimity of the 
 scene, spoke eloquently of the coming judgment. The earth had 
 become drenched with rain : Mrs. Stanhope's health being ex- 
 tremely delicate, she hesitated on going immediately out. As she 
 and her daughter were standing near the door, viewing the scenery 
 around, the trees and bushes, dripping with the rain drops, now 
 glittering like emerald blossoms, Emily directed her mother's eye 
 to a beautiful rainbow which arched the heavens. The sun at the 
 same moment, bursting from behind a cloud, added brilliancy to 
 the scene. Laying her hand gently upon her mother's arm, she 
 exclaimed, in a sweet, soft voice, 
 
 " Is not this delightful ?" 
 
 Her mother, glancing her eye upward, said, " It is the bow of 
 promise, my child ; it tells me we shall meet in yonder heaven." 
 
 There was a sacredness, a solemnity, in the words of Mrs. S. 
 which touched Emily's heart, while an unaccountable sensation 
 pervaded her soul. 
 
 At that moment a carriage drove up to the door, and a young 
 gentleman, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, had 
 heard the conversation between the mother and daughter, and 
 had more than once seen Emily Stanhope, stepped forward, and 
 asked them to take seats in his carriage. As he was a stranger, 
 Mrs. Stanhope declined his proposal ; when Mr. James came for- 
 ward, and, introducing him as Mr. Charles Hammond, said, 
 
 " I am to go in this carriage, and beg that you and your daughter 
 will permit us to see you safe home." 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope trembled violently ; her countenance was pale 
 with excitement; the discourse to which she had been atten- 
 tively listening had affected her spirits. Bowing to the young man, 
 she ascended the steps, followed by her daughter. When seated, 
 Mr. James, being animated with the beautiful appearance of na-
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 29 
 
 ttire after the shower, spoke in raptures. But his observations 
 were unheeded by Emily, who saw her beloved mother unusually 
 agitated ; and knowing how frail she was, she trembled with fear 
 lest some rude blast might sweep her away forever. As she sat 
 silently gazing upon her wan countenance, she sighed involunta- 
 rily, and a silent tear fell heavily upon her hand. She raised her 
 eyes, and met the ardent, the fixed gaze of the stranger riveted 
 upon her, as if to read her very soul. 
 
 When they reached their dwelling, the gentlemen assisted Mrs. 
 Stanhope from the carriage, who, leaning on the arm of the cler- 
 gyman, walked toward the door, while the stranger aided Emily. 
 On opening the gate, she raised her eyes to thank him for his po- 
 liteness ; but she was confused, and without saying one word, 
 entered the yard. 
 
 " Good afternoon," said Mr. Hammond ; " I hope neither your- 
 self nor your mother will receive injury from the storm." 
 
 She turned, and met a smile so sweet, fhat her young heart 
 drank in its exuberance, while a sun-lit glow came over her al- 
 most new existence. 
 
 Hastening to her 'mother, she prevailed upon her to lie down 
 for a short time and rest. She then entered her chamber, where 
 alone she poured out her soul to her heavenly Father for submis- 
 sion to his will ; for she saw evidently she must soon be left an 
 orphan. She arose calm and serene ; on entering the parlor, she 
 found her mother seated on the sofa. 
 
 " Come here, my Emily," said Mrs. Stanhope, when taking her 
 daughter's hand. " I see you are agitated about me, and beg you 
 will be composed. You have ever heard from me, my child, how 
 fleeting and vain are all terrestrial things. I have ever endeavored 
 to lead your mind above, to prepare you for the scenes of life ; and 
 feel confident that He, who clothes the lilies of the field, will take 
 care of you. I may live long, but feel a presentiment that I shall 
 not. The discourse this afternoon has opened a future state so 
 clearly and powerfully to my mind, and the glories of the upper 
 world have beamed so sweetly upon me, I feel almost anxious to 
 become one of the happy number who, through much tribulation, 
 have washed their robes white in the blood of the Lamb." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear mother my dear mother," said the weeping 
 Emily, " what can I do in this bleak world without you ? Oh that 
 I might die too !"
 
 30 FILIAL PIETY BEWARDED. 
 
 " Say not so, my child," replied Mrs. S. ; " be willing to remain 
 here, and accomplish your Father's will. Endeavor to fill with 
 fidelity every station in which you may be placed, looking by 
 faith to One who will never leave or forsake you. You have 
 long been devoted to me, and your filial piety and affectionate love 
 will never pass unrewarded. Look, my Emily, to yonder setting 
 sun, and as he quickly sinks behind the mountain, sing me my 
 favorite hymn." 
 
 With a faint voice, and a countenance lit up with holy fervor, 
 the sweet girl obeyed her mother's commands. Her soul caught 
 the inspiration of the hour, and her voice, clear and melodious, 
 rose and swelled on the gentle breeze, then died away in heavenly 
 strains, as she sang the following hymn 
 
 AN EVENING THOUGHT. 
 
 AH ! what is our life but a dream, 
 
 A shadow which fleeth away, 
 A light which is cast on the stream, 
 
 By moon-beams that fitfully play ; 
 
 A flash of delight, which at best 
 
 Is false as 'tis fleeting and vain, 
 Which retires like the sun in the west ; 
 
 When he dips his bright disk in the main ; 
 
 An arrow which flies through the air, 
 
 And is borne in its speed from our sight ; 
 
 A vision as transient as fair, 
 
 And brief as a dream of the night ; 
 
 A dew-drop which sparkles at mom, 
 And glows in the sun's golden rays : 
 
 Its brilliance. the flow'rets adorn, 
 Then dies and expires in his blaze. 
 
 Then why, oh my soul ! dost thou sigh 
 
 To drink in its cup of delight, 
 When earth's brightest glories all die, 
 
 All vanish and fade on our sight ! 
 
 Its cup of enchantment is broke, 
 Its loveliest vision has fled ;
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 31 
 
 'Tis crushed, 'tis eclipsed by a stroke, 
 'Tis withered, 'tis blighted and dead. 
 
 Away through yon regions of peace, 
 
 Where pleasures unceasingly roll, 
 I would fly to behold that lov'd face, 
 
 Whose beauties enrapture the soul. 
 
 Where tempest and clouds never come, 
 
 Where all is immortal and fair, 
 I would rest in my heaven, my home, 
 
 And revel in blessedness there. 
 
 On the ensuing day, Mr. James called : his conversation and 
 his prayers were soothing to the souls of both, and his visit 
 more esteemed, more gratifying, than the choicest treasures of the 
 East. He informed them that the young gentleman to whom they 
 were introduced was the only son of a respectable merchant, who 
 had lately fixed himself in the place. He left them with the 
 promise of calling soon. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope's circumstances were humble. Emily had the 
 sole care of her mother, who was so unwell as to be confined to 
 her room. She did not let her know how many difficulties she had 
 to encounter, but carefully concealed them from her. She was 
 her nurse by day and by night, and watched with intense anxiety 
 her very breath. 
 
 One day, as she was crossing the street to obtain from a store 
 opposite some necessaries, being in haste, the wind took her bon- 
 net, which was untied, and carried it a short distance from her. 
 Throwing back her hair, which hung in wild confusion around 
 her beautiful neck and finely-turned shoulders, she saw a gentle- 
 man bringing her bonnet. It was Charles Hammond, 
 
 Whose memory, like a brilliant star, 
 
 Around her pathway shone ; 
 Whose twinkling beauty from afar, 
 
 Oft cheered her when alone. 
 
 She received it from him blushingly, and thanked him. He in- 
 quired after her mother's health, and passed on. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope continued more unwell ; a physician was applied 
 to. She was subject to faintness, wkich so much alarmed Emily,
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 
 
 that she was entirely overpowered. She had become nervous 
 through continued walchings. It was after one of these affections, 
 that Mrs. S. opened her eyes, and beheld her beloved child gazing 
 upon her with all the tenderness of her young heart. 
 
 " I am better, my love, I am better," she exclaimed, " and shall 
 live a little longer, I hope, for your sake." 
 
 " Oh ! my mother," said Emily, " I was fearful the long agony 
 of your life was over;" and, stooping down, her warm tears 
 mingled with her kisses. 
 
 Long and still was the silence which ensued, broken only by 
 an hysterical sob from the lovely being, who, while bending over 
 her mother's almost inanimate body, saw nothing before her but 
 one wild solitary waste. 
 
 Just then the physician entered, who was about forty years of 
 age, kind and attentive, constituting a friend and physician both. 
 He entered their abode as a stranger, but he felt, after a few visits, 
 like a fiiend and a father. He admired Mrs. Stanhope for her 
 meekness, her piety, her sweetness of manners ; and he looked 
 upon Emily as one of the most perfect of huma>i beings. He had 
 witnessed her unwearied care, her entire devotedness ; saw how 
 her whole soul was identified with her mother's life : and his 
 heart bled within him, when he beheld how fast the messenger, 
 death, was approaching to sever this young and tender blossom 
 from its parent stem, and at a time when she most needed her 
 counsel and her love. He became acquainted with their circum- 
 stances, and had consulted with Mr. James, who was his friend, 
 what course to pursue in regard to Emily after her mother's de- 
 cease. Mr. James was anxious she should live with him, as he 
 had no child ; and it was concluded upon. 
 
 On entering the room one day, he found Emily sitting by the 
 bed side of her mother, and reading aloud in the sacred book. 
 Upon Mrs. Stanhope's wan countenance a glow of unearthly 
 brightness lingered ; for, as she listened to the soft voice of her 
 child, she seemed to catch a glimpse of a better world. 
 
 " Oh !" said she, " doctor, could I but see my Emily pleasantly 
 situated, I should have no further wish. I could depart," raising 
 her emaciated hands, " yes, this moment." 
 
 " Say not so, dearest madam," said the doctor ; " perhaps your 
 wish may yet be granted." As he spoke, he handed Emily a note. 
 She opened it a deep blush overspread her face.
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 33 
 
 The doctor said he would retire for a few moments, and cajl 
 again, casting an arch look at Emily; "for I wait your commands." 
 
 After he was gone, Emily read the note to her mother. Tt waa 
 from Charles Hammond, stating an avowal of his love, and re- 
 questing permission to visit her. Mrs. Stanhope fixed her eyes 
 upon her child. She had, from the day they met in the church, 
 felt confident an attachment had sprung up in her heart, although 
 she never mentioned it ; for Charles Hammond was a youth of 
 uncommon beauty and suavity of manners. She remembered her 
 young dream of love, a bright vision which had followed her 
 through life, and never slumbered ; and she read in her daughter's 
 face, which was the index of her heart, that all was not quiet 
 there. 
 
 " Shall we admit his visits, my dear ?" said Mrs. Stanhope, 
 " for I see the doctor is coming, and he will require an answer." 
 
 " Dear mother," said the blushing girl, " what shall I do ?" 
 
 " Just as you please, my love." 
 
 As she spoke, the doctor entered. He seated himself by Mrs. 
 S., while Emily retired. Alone, in her chamber, she knelt and 
 prayed for divine direction. That she loved was true sincerely, 
 devotedly, from the first hour they met. She arose from her rest- 
 ing-place, calm, determined, and happy. Having answered the 
 note, she handed it to the doctor, who" immediately withdrew ; 
 then leaning her head on her mother's pillow, she burst into tears. 
 Mrs. Stanhope, parting the raven rair which shaded her beauti- 
 ful face, kissed her ; Ihen, laying her trembling hand upon her 
 daughter's, she closed her eyes in silent prayer. 
 
 The next day brought Charles Hammond to the habitation of 
 one he had adored from the first moment he saw her. Emily re- 
 ceived him with modest dignity, and unaffectedly listened to an 
 avowal of his ardent affections. 
 
 " I had seen you often," said he, " before you knew it ; have 
 often watched you and your mother as you walked in the garden, 
 and wished for an introduction, a desire that was granted me in 
 the church. I am anxious you should receive assistance ; your 
 mother's health and your own require it. Will you permit me to 
 see her ?" 
 
 Emily led the way into her mother's room. Mrs. Stanhope 
 received him with ease and a degree of cheerfulness. She listened 
 to his requests, and peimitted him to supply her with a nurse.
 
 34 FILIAL PIETY BEWARDED. 
 
 From this time Mrs. Stanhope gradually declined. A smile of 
 content rested upon her once beautiful features. She saw her be- 
 loved Emily surrounded with friends, with the pleasing prospect 
 of being united to one truly deserving of her. 
 
 One day, as Emily and Mr. Hammond were sitting by her mo- 
 ther, each had tenderly taken her hand. She was gazing intently 
 upon them. Emily was pale with excitement, and her eyes red 
 with weeping ; for she loved her mother as her own life, and she 
 wept as she saw her sinking to the grave. Mrs. S., sensible of 
 her feelings, spoke of the happiness which awaited her in a better 
 land, and of the re-union which would take place when liberated 
 from her prison of clay. Seeing a change in her appearance, they 
 arose. At that moment the doctor and Mr. James entered. They 
 assisted Mrs. S., who had fainted. Emily bent in anguish over 
 her beloved parent, who, looking up, motioned for Mr. Hammond ; 
 then taking a hand of either, she joined them together, saying, 
 
 " Love and cherish one another, and meet me in " 
 
 Heaven, she would have said, but again fainted. In a few mo- 
 ments she revived, when, looking upon Mr. James, she feebly 
 articulated " Pray." 
 
 All knelt but Emily : she hung in agony over her dying mo- 
 ther, kissed her cold marble brow, laid her hand softly on her's, 
 bent low to catch her last breath. Her respirations grew fainter 
 and fainter ; and as Mr. James poured forth his soul to God, Mrs. 
 Stanhope's pure spirit fled, and Emily fell senseless into the arms 
 of her friends 
 
 As the timid flower rears its beauteous head beneath the genial 
 rays of a summer's sun after a pitiless shower, so did Emily Stan- 
 hope look up and smile amid kind and devoted friends. Her lovely 
 eyes beamed with lustrous softness as she met the ardent gaze of 
 Charles Hammond, who watched over her with intense affection, 
 and, by Ins kindness and love, caused her gentle soul to repose 
 quietly under his protecting care. After spending a few months 
 with her reverend friend with a blushing face, and a trembling 
 hand, she gave herself forever to the object of her dearest affec- 
 tions, who received her from Mr. James as the choicest blessing 
 heaven could bestow. 
 
 On the evening of the same day, winding her arm around her 
 lover's, with a look of ineffable sweetness, and a countenance ra- 
 diant with smiles and tears, she asked him to accompany her on
 
 FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. 35 
 
 a short excursion. With a basket of fresh flowers in one hand, 
 culled from the choicest plants, she led their way to the place in 
 silence. Over the green turf which covered the remains of her 
 beloved mother, she strewed the sweet blossoms of spring, and 
 round the white urn of love she twined a garland of jessamine and 
 roses, formed by her own fair hands, and bathed with her flowing 
 tears ; then, kneeling upon her mother's grave, she looked upward 
 as if to invoke her sainted spirit to smile upon and bless them. 
 So calm and tranquil was the scene, so impassioned her look, so 
 exalted her piety, so free, so unmixed with earth, that her hus- 
 band, as he gazed "upon her, felt his own soul imbued with the 
 spirit of Emily's, and, like her, he inhaled the very atmosphere of 
 heaven. 
 
 Years have passed away, but the place remains. It is hallowed 
 by the recollection of those who sleep within its bosom. A white 
 stone, inscribed to Filial Piety, points the wanderer to the resting- 
 place of Charles and Emily Hammond, and their sainted mother.
 
 THE CONTRAST; 
 
 OR, THE BLUE MANTILLA. 
 
 CHARLES MILNOR and Edward Crayton, were, for many years, 
 joint partners in a mercantile house in the city of Philadelphia, 
 where they accumulated an immense fortune. When they closed 
 their business, Mr. Milnor retired with his family about two miles 
 from the city, and took possession of a beautiful villa he had pur- 
 chased. He married in early life an amiable, pious, and judicious 
 woman ; one whom he loved from his youth. A striking simila- 
 rity of taste existing between them, rendered every object they 
 pursued both pleasant and delightful. Heaven had blessed them 
 with three lovely children Charles, Alice, and Augusta who 
 shared equally in their affections. They were educated by their 
 mother, who was possessed of a superior mind, and had received 
 a thorough education. Their servants were faithful, and but sel- 
 dom exchanged owing to the prudent management of Mrs. Mil- 
 nor. Her knowledge of housewifery, and the systematic arrange- 
 ment, afforded them leisure hours for their own benefit, without 
 the suffering of her domestic affairs by their relaxation. 
 
 Theirs was indeed a happy family, whose chief source of de- 
 light sprung from their own hearts, which were fountains of con- 
 tentment, and the little tributary streams that flowed from them 
 fertilized every spot they visited. Mr. Crayton was himself fond 
 of parade and show, and exceedingly fond of his wife, who, sensi- 
 ble of her complete influence over him, by her management and 
 tact accomplished every undertaking. Extravagant in the highest 
 degree, her ambition knew no bounds ; every new and fashionable 
 article was eagerly sought alter until obtained, when the gratifi- 
 cation ceased with the possession. The more exorbitant the 
 price, the more congenial to her taste for display, until Mr. Cray- 
 ton saw, too late to remedy it, the evil result of his indulgence.
 
 THE CONTRAST. 37 
 
 The last article she had fixed her eyes upon was a blue man- 
 tilla ; the extreme beauty of the color rendered it an object of at- 
 traction, being one becoming her complexion, and she was deter- 
 mined to procure it. For the first time in his life, her husband 
 was resolved not to purchase. Their children Agnes, Isabella, 
 and George were very handsome, but ungoverned and unres- 
 trained. They were seldom the companions of their mother, who 
 should have concentrated their centre of attraction whose bosom, 
 to them, should have been a receptacle of all that was delightful, 
 her smile their meed of reward, and her kiss their seal of enjoy- 
 ment. They were placed under a governess, and foreign teachers, 
 who were more anxious to obtain a handsome support, than to 
 bend the young minds, committed to their training, as woiil I be 
 most beneficial to them, to their parents, and to the world. Thus 
 these sweet children were left to the guidance of their own wills, 
 without that restraint which would have rendered them agree- 
 able to all. Mr. Crayton beheld with mingled emotions the 
 situation of his family ; his expenses were enormous ; a contin- 
 ued routine of fashionable life engrossed every moment of time ; 
 and not until he felt his own health impaired did he awake fully 
 to the misery of his situation. He pitied, while he admired, his 
 beautiful wife, the victim of folly and dissipation. He was ar- 
 dently attached to his children, and much, indeed, did he wish for 
 an alteration in his mode of living. He called occasionally on 
 his friend Mr. Milnor, and was struck with the order and regula- 
 rity of his family; and wished Mrs. Crayton and his children to 
 have more frequent interviews with them hoping his wife might 
 be led to imitate what she could not but admire in Mrs. Milnor, 
 and the children be prompted to obedience by the amiable deport- 
 ment of the little Milnors. Although Mr. Milnor and Mr. Crayton 
 were daily together, their families were, for a long time, strangers 
 to each other. A sister of Mr. Crayton's married under the most 
 cheering prospects, but her hopes were soon cut off in the death of 
 her husband ; and, in giving birth to a daughter, she expired, leav- 
 ing her little Emilie in the care of her brother, in whose family 
 she became a member. Although surrounded by her cousins, who 
 were of the same age as herself, she was lonely, and sighed for 
 something she knew not what. She delighted in sitting alone, 
 gazing upon the clear blue sky, fancying each beautiful fringed 
 cloud, as it floated in the liquid air, the abode of her parents ; and,
 
 38 THE CONTRAST; 
 
 when oppressed with a sense of her desolation, would reach forth 
 her dimpled hands, as if to implore their blessing. She lovel to 
 ramble among the flowers, and rear their drooping heads ; and 
 was never more happy than when nursing the little slips commit- 
 ted to her care by her cousins, who seldom gave their attention to 
 them leaving, like their mother, the cultivation of all that is 
 lovely, to the gardener and nature. 
 
 One day, on his return home, Mr. Crayton expressed his desire 
 for his wife to call upon Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " Why, if she wishes my acquaintance, does she not call on 
 me ? but I imagine she is such a home body, and has so little 
 intercourse with the fashionable world, that she is quite out of the 
 way of making or receiving calls from them." 
 
 " You are much mistaken in your opinion, Mrs. Crayton," 
 said her husband ; " I have been there a number of times, and am 
 anxious you should call upon her. I will order tke carrid e and 
 go-" 
 
 " Well, you can go if you please, but I shall remain at home. 
 I do not like to be dictated to, when and where I shall go." 
 
 " 1 do not know wherein I have dictated ; name your own 
 time, and we will go whenever you say." 
 
 " I have been waiting for these two hours for the money I 
 asked you for this morning." 
 
 " Why, really, my dear, I thought you had given up that fool- 
 ish project." 
 
 " No, indeed, I have not; and if I am not there by eleven 
 o'clock, the mantilla will be sold, as it was to be kept for ma no 
 longer. Have you the money ?" 
 
 Mr. Crayton shrugged his shoulders, and commenced hum- 
 ming an air, which he ever did when he felt determined not to 
 comply with a request. 
 
 "Oh, do, mamma, go," said Agnes. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, do,'' responded Isabella. 
 
 " And let me hold the whip, papa," said George. 
 
 " Life is but a song," said Mr. Crayton, walking up and down 
 the room, occasionally viewing himself in a large mirror. 
 
 " Do go, mamma," said the children. " Father, will you ?" 
 
 " Certainly, if it is your mother's wish." 
 
 "Dear papa, if you will just drive down to Coney's, and let 
 mother get the mantilla, and me a whip," said George, " and Ag
 
 THE CONTRA ST. 39 
 
 nes, and Isabella, and Emilie, each, one of those beautiful boxes 
 made at the fair, she will go." 
 
 " Only hear these sweet coaxers," said his wife ; and putting 
 her arm in her husband's, being determined to get the mantilla, 
 she promenaded the room with him, to the great delight of their 
 little ones, who followed them. 
 
 "What a dear little group of love," continued Mrs. Cray ton. 
 " Come, love, please us all ; give me the bill I have asked you 
 for, and we will go ; and you will have the sweet consolation of 
 knowing you have made us all happy." 
 
 " Oh, do, papa," cried the children ; " it is a beautiful morning, 
 and we want a ride very much." 
 
 Mr. Crayton hesitated a moment; then, putting his pocket-book 
 into his wife's hand, he yielded to her request, in the hope it 
 might eventually be for the best. 
 
 "Oh, this is really very good very kind;" then, call ing for her 
 hat and shawl, and ordering the children to be ready on their 
 return, she gave her hand to her husband, and, putting on her 
 sweetest smiles, asked him, " if she did not look happy ?" 
 
 Mr. Crayton, with a sigh, replied, " Yes, if it would but last : 
 but I have not the most distant hope the mantilla will satisfy you; 
 for, as has ever been the case, the possession of this article will 
 only make you wish for another." 
 
 " Oh, fye, Mr. Crayton, why do you wish to check my viva- 
 city, when you know how very nervous I am ? I am almost 
 tempted to be angry with you ;" then, casting her eyes upon the 
 ground with much tact, her husband, fearing an overflow of un- 
 pleasant words, called aloud for the carriage. 
 
 " Your most obedient, Mrs. Crayton you have come just in 
 time," said the witty tradesman. " Five minutes more, and the 
 mantilla would have been sold ; there are three ladies now wait, 
 ing for it." 
 
 " How very fortunate we are, my dear," said Mrs. Crayton, 
 turning to her husband her spirits reviving at the idea of being 
 the purchaser. 
 
 " I think the mantilla, you said, I might have for eighty-five 
 dollars, the pocket-handkerchief for thirty, the cape for twenty-five, 
 and six yards of lawn for fifty, which makes one hundred and 
 ninety dollars; take this bill, and hand me the remainder." 
 
 " Thank you, madam, thank you ; but will you not just look
 
 40 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 at this piece o| dark satin ? It is partly engaged, but it is such a 
 good fit for the mantilla, and so becoming to your complexion," 
 holding it up, and letting the rich folds fall over her white hands, 
 her taper fingers peeping from beneath as if to show the contrast. 
 " Partly engaged, I allow," whispering her ; " but you have been 
 such a constant customer of mine, that I really feel bound to let 
 you have it, if you wish." , , 
 
 Mrs. Crayton took up the satin and examined it. It was, in- 
 deed, beautiful ; and so soft as to show no marks of pressure. 
 
 " There is but one like it in the city, and that I sold to Judge 
 Laurens' lady. It was not quite so nice as this. I was fearful 
 she would discover it, for she seemed most inclined to .take this; 
 but I thought of you, and just laid it aside, praising the piece 
 she purchased very highly, that you might, if you wished, take 
 this for yourself there is but one pattern." 
 
 Mrs. Crayton wanted the satin its being superior to Mrs. 
 Laurens', increased her desire. 
 
 "Come," said Mr. Crayton, "the children will be waiting for 
 us." 
 
 " Stop one moment, my dear ; do you not think this satin 
 elegant ?" 
 
 Mr. Crayton said nothing, but looked reproachfully at her. 
 
 " Oh, you see, my dear madam, your husband has no objec- 
 tions ; let me do it up for you." 
 
 " How much is it ?" inquired Mrs. Crayton. 
 
 " It comes to just the remainder of the bill, with the exception 
 of these three quarters of a yard, which I will throw in. It is 
 quite a bargain quite a bargain, I assure you." 
 
 " Mr. Crayton, if you have no objections, I will take it." 
 
 Her husband bit his lip with vexation, and, turning round, bent 
 his steps toward the door. The bundle was placed in the carriage 
 by the delighted shopkeeper, who bowed low to his fair customer 
 as she ascended the steps, when they went home in silence Mr. 
 Crayton offended, and his wife conscious she had gone a step too 
 far, but determined to conceal her feelings. The mantilla had 
 occupied her thoughts both day and night, but never met with her 
 husband's approbation : he seemed from the first opposed to it. 
 She had " priced" the other articles unknown to him, and knew 
 not how lie would bear the purchase, but as he had given her 
 much more than she expected, she presumed to take them. The
 
 THE CONTRAST. 41 
 
 satin was what she never thought of. But she was taken in the 
 snare of the practised salesman, and could not resist the tempta- 
 tion ; she knew her husband had too much pride to deny her in 
 public, and she took advantage of his situation to her future 
 sorrow. On the steps of their fine dwelling, stood the children 
 equipped for the ride. 
 
 " What have you got for me and for me ?" cried the children, 
 after they were seated. 
 
 Mr. Crayton looked at his wife, who had been so completely 
 engrossed in her own selfish motives, that she had forgotten their 
 simple requests. 
 
 " Did you get me a whip ?" said George. " I said I wanted a 
 whip, so t could drive the horses." 
 
 " Did you buy me the box and the screen ?" said the girls ; 
 " oh, do let us see them ?" 
 
 " What did you expect, Emilie ?" inquired her uncle. 
 
 " Not anything." 
 
 " Well, I declare," said the heartless Mrs. Crayton, " you alone 
 are not disappointed " 
 
 " What is this ?" said George, taking up the bundle, which they 
 omitted leaving at home. " My whip is here, I know ?" 
 
 " No, my child, it is not ; I forgot to buy it, but you shall have 
 one." 
 
 " I want one now, and will have one ;" and down went the 
 contents of the bundle. 
 
 "Oh, you image !" said Mrs. Crayton, picking them up; "my 
 mantilla is unfolded, and my lace undone." 
 
 George, persisting in searching for his whip, became entangled 
 in the lace, and, in extricating himself, tore it. 
 
 "Oh, my lace !" exclaimed Mrs. Crayton ; " George, you must 
 be corrected. Mr. Crayton, why do you not speak to him ?" 
 
 "He wants his whip," he replied ; " and he is a child." 
 
 Mrs. Crayton felt the reproof. The girls helped her to collect 
 the articles. Mr. Crayton took George upon his knee, and gave 
 him the driver's whip. Thus the difficulties were settled, and the 
 children became composed as they drove up to Mr. Milnor's 
 dwelling. 
 
 " I have never seen them in their new habitation," said Mrs. 
 Crayton. " It is a pity that people of so much wealth should be 
 so penurious; no one knows they are al ; ve."
 
 42 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 " In your circle they may not," replied her husband ; " but ask 
 those around them," pointing to the neat white houses on either 
 side of the road. 
 
 As the carriage drove up the avenue, the children were told to 
 behave well. They were met by Mr. and Mrs. Milnor, and re- 
 ceived with much politeness. 
 
 " You have got a very pretty place," said Mrs. Crayton, aston- 
 ished at the elegance of the hall and rooms through which they 
 
 " I believe you have never called upon us since we moved," 
 said Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 "Why, no; I have so many engagements always on hand, 
 that I 
 
 " Come here, Emilie," said Mrs. Milnor, very prudently turn- 
 ing the conversation, in order to prevent the fashionable beauty 
 framing a wrong excuse. " How do the plants grow that Alice 
 gave you ?" 
 
 " Oh, finely ; they are as large as those," pointing to a number 
 arranged in the window. 
 
 Agnes and Isabella, observing a beautiful geranium in bloom, 
 without thought, broke off a large branch. At that moment, Alice 
 and Augusta, with their brother, entered. 
 
 "Good morning, my dears," said Mr. Crayton, " you see I 
 have fulfilled my promise, and brought you your young friends 
 to see you." 
 
 "Bless me," said Mrs. Crayton, taking Alice by the hand, 
 " how j'ou have grown ! and Charles, too ! why, really, I am 
 surprised ;" and a feeling of envy rankled in her bosom as she 
 looked upon them. 
 
 Charles and his sisters returned her compliments with so much 
 dignity and ease that she was confounded. ' 
 
 " Come," said George and his sisters, " come, let us go down 
 the lawn we want to see the flowers and the beautiful pond." 
 
 " Shall we go, dear mother ?" inquired the little Milnors. 
 
 " You may, but be careful of the plants." 
 
 Alice took Emilie's hand, and away they flew, followed by 
 George, with the whip, of which he still kept possession. 
 
 " What have you here .'" inquired Mrs. Crayton, turning over 
 some new books which lay upon the centre-table. " Anything 
 new ?"
 
 THE CONTRAST. 43 
 
 " This is the ' Patriarch,' and this the 'Christian Family Ma- 
 gazine,' " replied Mrs. Milnor ; " the plates in both are very fine, 
 and they are excellent works." 
 
 " Dear me, do you read them ? I seldom read, and when I do, 
 it is always my favorite authors 'Buhver,' and 'Byron,' and 
 sometimes ' The Lady's Book' all other reading appears insipid." 
 
 " We have a great variety of books. Here is Abbott's works, 
 Phillips's writings, and my favorite Cowper." 
 
 " What is this ?" inquired Mrs. Crayton, taking up an elegantly 
 bound book. 
 
 " ' Milton's Paradise Lost.' " 
 
 " Mercy ! Did you ever read it through ?" 
 
 " Often," replied Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " Why, I should think it would take you an age. Is it a late 
 production ?" 
 
 Mrs. Milnor caught Mr. Crayton's eye, who blushed deeply at 
 his wife's ignorance. 
 
 " ' Johnson's works,' ' Montgomery's Poems,' ' Rogers,' 
 Campbell,' ' Henry Kirke While' why, these are quite new ;" 
 and, laying them down, she walked to the window. 
 
 " Isn't it very lonely out here ?" 
 
 " By no means," replied Mrs. Milnor; " our time is all occupied." 
 
 " Who are your teachers?" 
 
 " Mrs. Milnor is the principal one," replied her husband. 
 
 " Mercy ! you teach your children ? I should never have pa- 
 tience. I am always rejoiced when school commences, that I 
 may be relieved from their noise and confusion. But, pray, how 
 do you employ yourselves ?" 
 
 " It would take some time to make you acquainled with my 
 form of managing. Shall we walk out and meet the children ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, for it is nearly time for us to go." 
 
 " Will you not spend the day ? you surely cannot be lonely 
 with your husband and children." 
 
 Mrs. Crayton pleaded an engagement, and they walked down 
 the lawn. Charles and Alice were busily engaged in arranging 
 the pots of flowers, some of which were overthrown and the 
 branches broken. At the same moment came Agnes and Isabella, 
 followed by George with his whip in his hand. In his haste he 
 overthrew a beautiful verbena, and broke the pot which con- 
 tained it.
 
 44 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 " You have made sad work with the plants, my children," said 
 Mr. Cray ton, very much mortified, and trying to replace them. 
 
 " Oh, they are nothing but children," said his wife ; " I know 
 you will forgive them." 
 
 " See, he has broken another !" said Agnes. 
 
 " No, I did not 'twas you," he replied, with a stroke of his 
 whip. 
 
 " Come, come," said his mother, " you are crazy, I believe. 
 Really, Mrs. Milnor, you have a very fine yard The children are 
 like birds let out of a cage ; we brought them out for liberty, and 
 they do so enjoy it." 
 
 "Shall we return?" inquired Mr. Crayton, extremely grieved. 
 
 " Oh, don't go," cried the children, " we want to stay longer." 
 
 Mrs. Crayton thought of her new purchase, and told them they 
 must. On returning to the house, they visited the music room, 
 in which was an elegant organ, a piano, and harp : at the end of 
 the room was an extensive library of choice books. Charles 
 played the organ, Alice the piano, and Mrs. Milnor the harp. At 
 Mrs. Crayton's request, they performed a few pieces in such an 
 admirable manner that her heart died within her, as she listened to a 
 hymn in which every member of the family joined. Mrs. Milnor 
 ordered refreshments, and the children, without ceremony, enjoyed 
 the banquet. Strawberries, raspberr es, cream and cake, disap- 
 peared under their touch, like dew in the sunlight. 
 
 " Will you come again and see your young friends ?" inquired 
 Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," replied George, " if you will give us more of 
 your nice fruit." 
 
 " I wish I could stay now," said Emilie. 
 
 " Do you ?" inquired Mrs. Milnor " If your uncle and aunt 
 are willing, you may stay." 
 
 " Can I stay, dear aunt ?" 
 
 "I have no objections, if you wish to stay, and Mrs. Milnor 
 requests you." 
 
 " Let her remain, if you please ; we shall be happy to have her 
 spend a few weeks with us." 
 
 " Good morning," and, with his whip in his hand, George led 
 the way to the carriage, followed by his parents and sisters. 
 
 Mrs. Milnor soon arranged her books and flowers, and, after a 
 few orders to the servants, entered the recitation room.
 
 THE CONTRAST. 45 
 
 " My dear Emilie, as you have expressed a wish to remain with 
 us, you must submit to the rules of the school, and if you wish, 
 can study with the girls; would you like that?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, very much." 
 
 " Well, here is a geography, and here are globes, atlases, etc. ; 
 your first lesson will be on this page. Have you ever studied 
 geography ?" 
 
 " I have a little ; I like it much, but aunt says it is too hard for 
 us, and not very necessary." 
 
 " Have you studied grammar?" 
 
 " Yes, madam, and can parse very well ; aunt says that it is a 
 dry study, and we must be older to understand either." 
 
 " Well, my dear, we shall see what proficiency you can make 
 here." 
 
 " I will show you," said Charles, who was older than his 
 sisters. * 
 
 " You must not think you are too young to learn any of the 
 branches my children study. You must be patient, be willing to 
 be taught, and apply yourself closely." 
 
 The evening closed with reading a chapter in the Bible with 
 the notes, and singing a hymn, in which all, including the servants, 
 joined. A prayer was offered by Mr. Milnor, whose grateful 
 heart went up in holy aspirations under a sense of the goodness 
 of God. After Emilie retired to rest, she could not sleep ; the idea 
 of returning home was painful. At her uncle's all was noise and 
 confusion. Continued calls occupying most of her aunt's time, 
 either in making or receiving them, she paid but little attention to 
 her children, who were often ill-natured it restrained by their go- 
 verness, and out of patience with their teachers if they exacted a 
 perfect lesson. They flew with every little complaint to theirmother, 
 who, fatigued with continued excitements, satisfied them by say- 
 ing she would write an excuse thus every attempt of the teach- 
 ers for their improvement, was rendered abortive. They were 
 pleased with Emilie, and took much pleasure in instructing her. 
 But it was in vain to keep up any regular system in the school, 
 it being continually interrupted by calls to ride, to see particular 
 friends, etc. ; thus their education was neglected. Mr. Crayton 
 saw with pain the situation of his family, but knew of no way 
 in which it could be remedied. He was struck with the order, 
 neatness, and regularity of Mr. Milnor's, whenever he called ; and
 
 46 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 concluded the best way to commence a reformation in his own, 
 was to take Mrs. Crayton there, with her children. He was 
 much attached to Emilie ; saw how unlike in many ways she was 
 from her cousins, and knew she was unhappy. He conversed 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Milnor respecting her the latter proposed her 
 staying with them, which was brought about as has before been 
 mentioned. 
 
 Emilie was left with a handsome \estate, and only required 
 proper instruction to be all he wished. She was the exact image 
 of his sister, whom he idolized ; and he felt a deep interest in her 
 welfare. Owing to Mrs. Crayton's extravagance and utter ne- 
 glect of household duties, their expenses were enormous, and 
 continually increased. On looking into his affairs, he was aston- 
 ished at finding his expenditures much larger than he apprehended. 
 The pressure of the times he felt to bear hard upon him. One bank, 
 in which he had thirty thousand dollars, failed ; others were fol- 
 lowing failures every day, and he trembled for himself. It was 
 in vain for him to inform his wife that they were living too fast, 
 that the times were hard, and every kind of business in a fluctuating 
 state. She only laughed at him, told him he was growing old, 
 and that avarice increased with years. Fashion was her idol, a 
 shrine at which she worshipped, and wreathed with her own wild 
 fancies. She gave large parties, attended places of amusement, 
 was excessively vain, fond of flattery, and little suspected those 
 loudest in her praise, who were the first, when absent, to laugh at 
 her ignorance and folly. 
 
 Mr. Crayton hesitated a long time about the mantilla, not on 
 account of the price, but, seeing no end to her requests, he felt 
 it was time to be firm. She had many times in a joke called him 
 Rip van Winkle,' and, although he knew it was done in mere 
 pleasantry, still he saw with his own eyes, a resemblance. He 
 knew of no way to induce her to call on the Milnors except by 
 gratifying her in the purchase, and it was to accomplish that end 
 he gave her the money, not knowing what other articles she had 
 in view. These, too, he could have put up with, but her effrontery 
 in purchasing the satin, and taking advantage of him in public, 
 was a point beyond what he conceived to be right. And in 
 this last act, she severed the chain which had hitherto bound 
 them, and her beauty from that hour ceased to attract. His whole 
 soul was in requisition for his children he saw the precipice on
 
 THE CONTRAST. 47 
 
 which they stood. He felt his own health yielding to the nervous 
 tremor, which, by weariness of mind, shook his frame, and an 
 occasional coagh he could not control. When they returned, the 
 bundle was opened ; and when the mantilla was unfolded and 
 thrown around her, she discovered a large spot on the corner. It 
 was found to be a stain from a bunch oi strawberries, accidentally 
 dropped into the bundle by the children. The lace was torn in two 
 places. After scolding George, and fretting at the servants, for 
 not leaving it at home, she tried in vain to remedy the injury; it 
 was seriously hurt and looked bad. 
 
 " Are you not ashamed, George ? you must be punished, indeed 
 you must." 
 
 " Why did you not buy me a whip ? I should not have touched 
 them if you had. I only wanted a little whip to drive the horses, 
 mamma." 
 
 " Go away you are a troublesome boy. How the satin is 
 injured ; dear me ! 1 wish I had never seen the Milnors, nor heard 
 of them." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I do not," said the girls ; " I loved to be there ; 
 what a fine yard, and what a beautiful woman ; how pleasant 
 she spoke to her children." 
 
 " And how well her children behaved," said Mr. Crayton. " I 
 hope my own little boy and girls will pattern after them. I was 
 grieved that you should behave so rude, and overturn the pots of 
 flowers ; you must never do so again." 
 
 " I never upset them," said George. 
 
 " Yes, you did," said Agnes. " And where is the orange you 
 picked ? You need not deny it, for I saw you," said Isabella. 
 
 Poor little George, already irritated by his mother, and sensible he 
 had done wrong, could not restrain his passions ; and giving his 
 sister a blow, said, " take that !" 
 
 " Stop, stop !" said their father; "come here, and I will tell 
 you what I wish you to do in future." 
 
 " Mercy, Mr. Crayton, do let the children be; you are always 
 raising a breeze in some way or another. If it had not been for 
 the Milnors, all would have been well, and my mantilla would 
 not have been spoiled. Do, pray, let the children alone, they 
 have done no material injury to anything." 
 
 " Done no injury, Mrs. Crayton ! Have you not just scolded 
 George for injuring your shawl, and said he ought to be corrected?
 
 48 . THE CONTRAST. 
 
 His behavior at the Milnors, in my opinion, requires far more 
 censure. I do hope we have all seen that in our friends we shall 
 delight to imitate." 
 
 " Imitate ! Do you think I am going to keep school, and con- 
 fine myself to the drudgery of housekeeping, cooking, etc. ? but 1 
 am both hungry and tired." 
 
 " And vexed," said Mr. Crayton, "about the mantilla." 
 
 A servant entering, announced dinner was ready ; when the 
 children scampered after him, followed by their parents. 
 
 The next day Mr. Crayton received a note from Mrs. Milnor, 
 saying Emilie would like to remain with them a few weeks, per- 
 haps months, with her aunt's permission. Mrs. Crayton con- 
 sented, quite will-ng to be released from her niece, who, young 
 as she was, became often a silent reprover of her actions. George 
 bad his hobby-horse and whip, the girls their embroidered boxes, 
 and all went on as usual. 
 
 "We will, if you please, ride to town this afternoon, and take 
 the children to the water works," said Mr. Milnor, to his wife, 
 one pleasant morning. 
 
 " I will mention it to them," she replied, " and we will go." 
 
 " Shall we return Mrs. Crayton's call ?" he inquired. 
 
 " I think we will ; I should like to see how they appear at 
 home. Emilie is a very interesting child ; she certainly has the 
 most discernment I ever saw one possess at her age ; she has al- 
 ready wound herself around my heart. I am fearful her cousins 
 are suffering, in consequence of improper example, from a reverse, 
 where they ought to derive the most profit- -a mothers ex-ample 
 and instruction." 
 
 "I fear the same," replied Mr. Milnor; "I tremble for my 
 friend. He has, it is true, many imperfections, but some excellent 
 traits of character. He is the dupe of his wife an artful, design- 
 ing, ignorant, ungrateful woman. He married her without a 
 penny married her for her beauty ; he loves hi$ 'children, and 
 of late has manifested his anxiety for them." 
 
 " Why does he let her have such influence over him ? Why 
 not at once put a stop to her extravagance, and deny her ?" 
 
 " Because she has so much tact to manage him. He hates confu- 
 sion ; and would rather suffer that he may have peace. He \va 
 unwell when he called last ; he has a cough, and looks pale and
 
 THE CONTRAST. 49 
 
 care-worn. I am fearful, should these times continue, he may 
 be still a greater loser. He has indorsed notes for a large amount 
 for two of our great business men, who, to-day, I hear, are calling 
 in their accounts." 
 
 " We will call there this afternoon, and, in the meantime, I will 
 attend to the children's recitations ; we shall be ready by four." 
 
 As Mrs. Milnor entered the study, she found the children 
 busily engaged in studying the globes, and pointing out particular 
 places to Emilie, showing her the meridians, equator, latitudes 
 and longitude, of which she understood but little. These neces- 
 sary items had been overlooked, and she was anxious to learn 
 every particular. Their lesson was a description of Palestine. 
 With delight did Emilie listen to Mrs. Milnor, as she mingled the 
 history of the Jews with their lesson commencing with their ear- 
 liest history. Emilie, to whom the theme was new, listened with 
 intenseness to the description given of Abraham and his descend- 
 ants. As Mrs. Milnor led her through their wanderings until their 
 entrance into the promised land ; and gave their history, their types 
 and shadows, their sacrifices, their captivity, ele., to the birth of 
 the promised Messiah, she became entranced. Mrs. Milnor, pleased 
 and gratified with the deep interest she took in the story, drew her 
 affectionately to her bosom ; and pictured the Saviour in such 
 glowing colors, that her young heart seemed as if it would burst 
 its frail tenement. 
 
 " This is the Saviour who sweat drops of blood in the garden of 
 Gethsemane, and who expired upon the cross to save sinners 
 this is the God we worship ; and will you love him, too ? You 
 have no father, nor mother, my dear Emilie, but God will be both, 
 if you put your confidence in him." 
 
 Thus did this excellent woman lead the little orphan to Him in 
 whom she afterwards found comfort. 
 
 "Your dear father intends taking you all to town this after- 
 noon, and I will now release you ; you must be ready precisely 
 at four " 
 
 At the hour appointed, the coach was at the door, and soon 
 each one of the happy family were seated. Mr. and Mrs. Milnor, 
 with the truest pleasure, pointed out the surrounding scenery, and 
 the children were delighted. 
 
 " See what a beautiful world God has made, my children," said 
 their father ; " how he clothes the field with grass and flowers
 
 50 THECONTRASTi 
 
 how the harvest bends with its rich stores ; and, like the waves 
 of the ocean, rises and falls beneath the gentle breeze, forming 
 the most perfect shades. Behold the clouds, how sweetly they 
 blend their gorgeous hues, and sail away in the distance like 
 islands of the blessed. We shall have, I think, a brilliant sunset 
 when we return." 
 
 " Dear father !" said the children, " will you have the curtains 
 up that we may see the sun's rays upon the mountains, and watch 
 his retiring beams as we ride upon the banks of the Delaware ?" 
 
 " I would much rather look at the fields, and remain in the coach 
 with you, than go to my aunt's, or ride around the town," said 
 Emilie. 
 
 " Why, my dear, do you not wish to see your uncle, aunt and 
 cousins, and shop with us ? are there no little things you wish to 
 purchase ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I love my uncle dearly; I do want to see him," 
 said Emilie, brushing away a tear ; " and my aunt and cousins, 
 too, but I do not want to stay with them." 
 
 " You shul! return with us, my dear." 
 
 " May I ? that is all I desire ; and I would like to buy some 
 oranges for the poor sick woman we visited last evening." 
 
 " You shall, my love, and carry them to her when you return." 
 
 " I love to go with you to visit poor Mrs. N., and hear her 
 talk about heaven ; she said we should all meet there by and by, 
 and be happy." 
 
 Snap went the coachman's whip, as they turned the street by 
 Girard College. 
 
 " Drive slowly," said Mr. Milnor, " while we view this noble 
 edifice." 
 
 " Mr. Girard was a good man to do so much for the poor, was 
 he not?" 
 
 ". Yes, my son, he was compassionate and full of benevolence." 
 
 " Was he very rich, father ?" inquired the girls. 
 
 " He was. He endowed this college, and thus immortalized his 
 name. Through coming time he will be handed down to posterity, 
 like many other great and good men. Drive now to the water- 
 works," said Mr. Milnor. 
 
 Here the children were delighted, as their father explained in 
 what manner the water was conducted in its devious course through 
 the city.
 
 THE CONTRAST. 51 
 
 " I wish you could have been with me at the Croton celebra- 
 tion in New- York," said Mr. Milnor, ' it was, indeed, a splendid 
 affair." 
 
 " How far is the Croton River lake from the city ?" inquired 
 Charles. 
 
 " It is forty-five miles from the Battery ; it cost the city twelve 
 millions of dollars ; a large sum, but well appropriated. The 
 fountain in the Park is very beautiful, its jets throwing the water 
 sixty feet into the air. I saw it playing, and its appearance was 
 like a silver tree ; the sun-light on the spray was fine, forming 
 ten thousand diadems sparkling with excessive brightness. So 
 transparent were the streams, and so tremblingly beautiful did the 
 beams of a noon-day sun fall on them, that they wore the semblance 
 of magic as their mimic rainbows fantastically arched the scene." 
 
 " Do, dear father ! tell us the particulars of the celebration." 
 
 " At sunrise, one hundred guns were fired, and all the bells in 
 the city were rung. Every one seemed to wake up upon the ac- 
 casion, and in less than an hour the streets and public places be- 
 gan to be filled. In the centre of the Bowling-Green there was a 
 beautiful temporary fountain, constructed of shells, and marble 
 images of the Graces, etc., arranged with great taste, and having 
 eight jets, throwing small streams to a height of some twenty feet. 
 The procession was very large, consisting of the various societies, 
 fire companies, etc., and was two hours and fifteen minutes in 
 passing Niblo's Garden. You would have been delighted to have 
 seen it all, but particularly a little boat eight feet lonsj, mounted upon 
 wheels ; in it were seated two little girls and two boys, some 
 seven or eight years old, tastefully dressed and bearing flags ; the 
 boat was inscribed ' The Sisters of the Croton Lake.' Among 
 others was the identical press lately brought from England by J. 
 B. Murray, Esq., on which Franklin there worked. Colonel 
 Stone, the oldest representative of the craft, was comportably seated 
 in a large arm-chair, and presided over the typographical perform- 
 ance with due grace and dignity. Copies of the ode of General 
 Morris were worked off and distributed through the crowd, as the 
 procession moved along the streets ; the one I brought you was 
 struck off in Broadway. All day the bells rang ; balloons were 
 sent into the air ; trees were covered with banners ; flags and stream- 
 ers waved from the Astor House, City Hall, Museums, Tribune 
 Buildings, and other public places the roofs of which were cov- 

 
 52 THECONTEAST. 
 
 ered with spectators. It was, indeed, a proud day for the city of 
 New-York ; and well may she be named the City of Fountain*." 
 
 " Oh, how delighted we should have been could we have been 
 there !" exclaimed the children. 
 
 " Let us turn our attention for a moment," said Mrs. Milnor, 
 " to another topic. I have been thinking, while standing here 
 viewing this beautiful city, of the day when Washington, Eo- 
 chambeau, and La Fayette, passed through with their troops, 
 before the surrender of Cornwallis. What a brilliant throng, 
 and what patriotic hearts there panted, trembled, and died, for the 
 blessings we now enjoy. But for them, New- York would never 
 have witnessed such a day as your father has described." 
 
 " Mother, will you tell us how the victory was obtained when 
 we get home ?" 
 
 " Yes, my children. We must now hasten, and make our pur- 
 chases and our calls, for it will soon be time for us to return." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Milnor, with their lovely family, were welcome 
 customers in the few stores they entered. They inquired for 
 nothing but what they wished, and were decided in what articles 
 they purchased. The dress patterns for the girls were quickly 
 chosen, a few books and worsteds, and a box of oranges. They 
 then called at Mr. Crayton's. Mrs. Crayton was out : the chil- 
 dren had gone a walking. Mr. Crayton was confined to the 
 house by his cough. 
 
 "I am very glad, indeed, to see you," said he ; " pray be seated. 
 I regret Mrs. Crayton is out, and the children and yet 1 am glad, 
 on my own account, they are ; I have long wished to see you. 
 Come here, Emilie," taking her upon his knee ; " how do you 
 like your new home ?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear uncle, I am very happy there ; I like it much 
 better " 
 
 " Than here, my child, do you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear uncle," said Emilie, clasping her arms around his 
 neck, and kissing him ; " but I do love you." 
 
 " Is your cough better ?" inquired Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " No better," he replied ; " I have tried various remedies, but 
 they afford me no relief." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Milnor were startled at his altered appearance. 
 
 " I have wished to see you for some time, my friend. I see 
 by the papers the banks are giving way, and the Cliffords have
 
 THE CONTRAST. 53 
 
 closed their business. They have ten thousand dollars of mine, 
 which I fear 1 shall lose. It is in vain for me to convince my 
 wife of our situation. She either does not wish to know, or will 
 not believe me, when I converse with her upon the subject of re- 
 trenchment. Should my health fail," and he wept, " what will 
 become of my children ?" 
 
 At that moment they entered ; George first, with his hands full 
 of toys ; the girls with each a new basket made of shells. 
 
 " Look, father, see what we have got !" 
 
 " But, my children, do you not see Mr. and Mrs. Milnor, and 
 your cousin and friends ?" 
 
 Emilie flew to them and kissed them. They Avere delighted at 
 seeing her. 
 
 "Now, you will stay with us will you not?" inquired her 
 
 " Do you wish me to ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, we do." 
 
 " Well, I will one of these days." 
 
 " Oh, do stay now," they cried. 
 
 " My dears," said Mrs. Milnor, seeing Emilie's distress, " your 
 cousin is now engaged in her studies ; we shall have a vacation 
 by and by, when she shall come and see you." 
 
 Then, calling them to her, and brushing back their rich flowing 
 hair, she kissed them, and folding them to her bosom, a tear of 
 commiseration stole down her cheek at the idea of their situation. 
 Mr. Crayton had a very severe attack of coughing, and broke a 
 slight blood vessel. They were much alarmed. However, it 
 soon subsided, and he was better. He lay upon the sofa, sup- 
 ported by pillows; Mrs. Milnor stood bending over him, with 
 her bonnet partly off, when his wife entered. Had she been 
 dressed for the opera, she could not have made a greater display. 
 She wore the elegant satin before mentioned, a collar of the finest 
 work trimmed with broad Mecklin lace, a pink shirred hat, and a 
 blonde veil thrown over her shoulders which nearly reached the 
 floor. Flowers were wreathed in her dark hair pearls and bril- 
 liants glistened on her hands and arms. Entering the room with 
 her usual grace, she inquired the cause of such deep interest as 
 was manifested. When explained, she replied that Mr. Crayton's 
 cough had been better, and she presumed he would soon recover. 
 
 " Do you feel better ?" she inquired, approaching him. 

 
 54 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 " I do," he replied. 
 
 " How long have you been here ?" said Mrs. Crayton, ad- 
 dressing Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " Nearly an hour." 
 
 " Dear me, I did not think I had been gone so long; but time 
 flies so quickly in good company, and I have been so delighted 
 since I have been gone " 
 
 " That you forgot your husband," said Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 Had a viper stung her, she could not have started quicker. 
 Conscience-struck, and surprised that any one would have the 
 presumption to speak to her in such a manner, she blushed and 
 remained silent. 
 
 "We must leave you, Mr. Crayton," said Mrs. Milnor, taking 
 his hand ; " I hope you will soon be better." 
 
 The children kissed each other seeing their father ill , and wit- 
 nessing the kindness and attention of their friends, they were 
 filled with surprise ; and following them to the door, begged they 
 would come again. Mr. Craytoa took Mr. Milnor's hand. 
 " Come to-morrow, will you '" 
 
 " If nothing prevents ; good afternoon." 
 
 They left Mrs. Crayton still sitting in the elegant chair into 
 which she had thrown herself on entering, her bonnet in her 
 hand, her cap untied, her face flushed, and holding in her hand a 
 bouquet ot flowers which partly concealed the brilliants that 
 sparkled upon her fingers. 
 
 After Mr. Milnor's family were seated in the coach, they were 
 silent for a few moments. Emilie's tears fell fast, and her young 
 heart beat with fearful rapidity. 
 
 "Poor friend Crayton," exclaimed Mr. Milnor; "yours is a 
 hard case." His eyes filled as he looked at his amiable and be- 
 loved wife. "You see, my children, in Mrs. Crayton, the effect 
 of vanity and folly. We will all allow she is beautiful very 
 beautiful ; but heartless and cold. So strong is her ruling pas- 
 sion, she can leave her husband for display, for dress leave him 
 when he needs her care, to gratify her vanity ; she is truly to be 
 pitied." 
 
 " Had mother found you so ill, how frightened she would have 
 been," said Alice ; " but Mrs. Crayton was not." 
 
 " It is not fashionable, my dear, to weep and to make a fuss, 
 as it is called, when our friends are sick, or die ; we must be
 
 THE CONTRAST. 55 
 
 philosophers we cannot alter anything, and it is not genteel to 
 mourn." 
 
 " Who says so, my dear mother ?" 
 
 " The fashionable and the gay, my daughter." 
 
 " Not you, my mother." 
 
 " No, my children," replied their father, "not your mother 
 She is quite the reverse, and I wish you all to be like her." 
 
 " I hope I shall be just like her," said Emilie. 
 
 " I hope you will" said Charles ; " and then I shall love you 
 still better." 
 
 He spoke with animation and feeling. Emilie, young as she 
 was, blushed ; and Charles understood by his own emotions the 
 secret spring from which the roseate hue emanated. 
 
 " Then you would rather have your mother appear in her plain 
 dress, and manage in her own way, than be like Mrs. Crayton ?" 
 
 " I do not like Mrs. Crayton at all she does not please me," 
 said Charles. 
 
 " But you allow she is handsome." 
 
 " I do not see her beauty to me it is hid under the dark shade of 
 unkindness. If we had found her with her husband, administer- 
 ing to his wants, and cheering his solitude by her efforts to please, 
 even in a cottage, in the humblest garb, she would have appeared 
 more lovely." 
 
 " Well, my children, I hope we shall all profit by this day's 
 scene." 
 
 " See the sun, dear father! it is not so brilliant as you antici- 
 pated." 
 
 " 'Tia true," he replied ; " human life is drawn in glowing colors 
 upon the heavens. The sky was bright when we left bright and 
 beautiful and indicated a rich, an Italian sunset; but see, it is 
 obscured, and a dark cloud awaits the sun's disk; the mountains 
 are dark : can you not draw a moral from it ?" 
 
 The children looked at their mother who sat absorbed in 
 thought, and had scarcely spoken since she entered the coach. The 
 scene she had witnessed oppressed her her heart was touched ; 
 and she pitied the heartless beauty she had beheld, and still more 
 the dying husband, for as such she looked upon him. The chil- 
 dren had touched her soul ; she saw and felt what they needed, 
 to be useful and respected in the world, and imagined what might 
 be their circumstances should their father die.
 
 56 THS CONTRAST. 
 
 " Come, dear mother, the moral." 
 
 "Have you not," she replied, "seen those whose prospects 
 were bright as the blue heavens when we left our home. No 
 cloud dimmed their horizon, and all was serene and lovely. Have 
 you not witnessed the gathering cloud setting around the strong 
 and the healthy as they shrank away beneath the chill blast of 
 adversity, while their nearest and dearest, best beloved ones, de- 
 serted them ? Have you not seen blasted hopes, losses, trials, dis- 
 appointment and gloom, settle upon each treasured object, until 
 the horizon, but yesterday so brilliant, became obscured, and the 
 soul setting like the sun in darkness .'" 
 
 Mr. Milnor looked at his children ; his heart was full as he 
 gazed upon the being dearest to his soul, and beheld her counte- 
 nance light up with the pure principles fixed in her bosom, as 
 invariable as true. 
 
 " Do you understand the moral, my children ?" 
 
 They looked one upon another. 
 
 " Speak," said their father. 
 
 "Oh, yes, papa, we all understand it; it is Mr. Crayton's 
 family. Do you think he will die, dear mother ?" 
 
 " I fear he will. Let us remember him and his dear children 
 in our prayers also his dear wife." 
 
 Emilie laid her head on Mrs. Milnor's hand as she spoke, and 
 kissed it in the fervency of her soul. All was silent until they 
 reached home. Early the next morning, Mr. Milnor received a 
 note requesting his immediate attendance on Mr. Crayton, who was 
 very ill having had an attack of hemorrhage during the night, and 
 was thought to be dying. His wife, conscience-smitten by Mrs. 
 Milnor's remark, for the first time condemned herself. She looked 
 at the happy family of Milnors as they left ; she looked at her own 
 blooming children, so entirely neglected both in mind and morals ; 
 she looked upon the altered countenance of her husband, and she 
 recollected his conversation with her respecting his property all 
 rushed upon her recollection, and for some time she remained mo- 
 tionless. She felt her heart softened by reflection, and repented of 
 her unkindness to her husband. The children entered, crying 
 because Emilie had left them. Mr. Crayton called them to him 
 and embraced them, while tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks. 
 Mrs. Crayton was touched ; she threw down her bonnet, and ap- 
 proaching him, said, in a subdued tone, " I did not think you was
 
 THECONTRA8T. 57 
 
 so unwell. I am sorry I left you," and, sinking upon the sofa 
 beside her husband, burst into tears. Her sympathy was, indeed, 
 welcome to both father and children ; and they spent a more plea- 
 sant evening than they had in a long time. Mr. Crayton rested 
 well the first part of the night, but toward morning he was ex- 
 tremely restless. About sunrise he coughed much, which pro- 
 duced another hemorrhage. A physician was called. Mrs. Crayton 
 went into strong hysterics, and the children cried aloud. Mr. 
 Crayton desired Mr. Milnor to be sent for. When he arrived he 
 was no better. 
 
 "I want to see you, my friend," said he. " I feel I am going. 
 It is my wish that you attend to my business when I am gone ; 
 save what you can, and take care of my wife and children." 
 
 Mr. Milnor begged him to be composed, and hoped he might re- 
 vive although he feared that the hand of death was fast fixing its 
 seal upon his sunken features. He pointed his views to a brighter 
 and a happier world, and found, by Mr. Crayton's reply, that 
 he had reflected upon their former conversation respecting a fu- 
 ture stale. 
 
 " I wish my children to be religiously educated ; will you pro- 
 mise to be their guardian ?" 
 
 " I will," replied Mr. Milnor. 
 
 He then administered some medicine, and begged him to seek 
 repose. He lay very still for a few moments, when, opening his 
 eyes, he asked for his wife and children. They came horror- 
 stricken, Mrs. Crayton fainted the children, seeing their father's 
 altered looks, and their mother's fainting form, cried aloud. He 
 extended his hand ; they clung to it and kissed it. He was deeply 
 affected as he clasped one after the other to his aching heart, and, 
 exhausted by the effort, he sank upon his pillow. 
 
 " Oh, my father my dear father !" they cried ; " do not die ; 
 do not leave us !" 
 
 " Love God," said their dying father ; and, casting a look of 
 thrilling interest upon them, expired. 
 
 All was confusion. Mr. Milnor dispatched a messenger for 
 his wife, who, in a short time, arrived there. He led her immedi- 
 ately to Mrs. Crayton, who lay in violent hysterics. She did not 
 notice her children, although their fears that she would die made 
 them nearly frantic. Mrs. Milnor removed them gently from the 
 room, and sat down by their wretched mother. She untied 1 e r
 
 58 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 cap, bathed her beautiful forehead, and parted her long dark hair, 
 which hung in profusion over her face hair that she had dressed 
 and adorned to please her vanity, and influence her husband to 
 submit to her requests by her unrivalled beauty bathed her 
 clenched hands, sparkling with diamonds, and removed them one 
 by one as they relaxed. By judicious management she succeeded 
 in restoring her. She inquired for her husband. Knowing by her 
 friend's looks that he was dead, again she would have fainted, 
 but the administering of prompt remedies relieved her. She sat 
 by her until she fell into a gentle slumber, and leaving her with 
 a domestic, she sought the children. They flew to her as she 
 opened the door of their apartment ; taking them in her arms, and 
 folding them affectionately to her bosom, she wept tears over them 
 of kindness and love. They were like frightened lambs ; their 
 eyes were red with weeping, and their little hands burnt as 
 with a fever. Overcome by her feelings, she drew them still 
 closer in her embrace, and, falling upon her knees, she raised the 
 voice of supplication and prayer for them. So sweetly did she 
 plead, so fervently did she pray that God would be their father, 
 and so unreservedly did she commit them to the care of the gen- 
 tle shepherd so touching was her language, so new, so novel 
 was the scene, they felt as if they indeed had a father somewhere, 
 although they knew him not, who would take care of them. 
 
 Emilie and Mrs. Milnor were admitted to the chamber where 
 the remains of Mr. Crayton lay enshrouded. Emilie wept bit- 
 terly. Mrs. Milnor soothed her, by saying she should remain 
 with them ; and Charles, taking her hand, wiped away her falling 
 tears. The little Craytons ran to meet their cousin and the chil- 
 dren, and wept together. Silence was at last restored where 
 mirth and hilarity had so long held their sway where discontent 
 and vanity had been a worm that had gnawed at the root of every 
 enjoyment, and nipped every flower in the bud. The breath of 
 passion and folly had blighted every unfolding petal, and its per- 
 fume died away ere it was inhaled. The parlor was closed the 
 piano's notes were hushed. The servants stepped lightly; the 
 hall echoed to every tread, as awe-struck they wandered through 
 the lonely rooms, once the resort of the fashionable and the gay 
 where wine and music flowed, and where many a sharp contest 
 was held. Mr. Milnor attended to the funeral obsequies ; all was 
 over, and the body of his friend left to mingle with its kindred dust.
 
 THE CONTRAST. 59 
 
 Mrs. Cray ton continued in an excited state until a fever fixed 
 upon her nervous system, and she was ill indeed. Mrs. Milnor 
 watched over her continually, and she awoke to consciousness only 
 to relapse again into a state of deeper despair. She talked ot her 
 husband, of the Milnors, the mantilla said she had never worn 
 it, that it was spoiled, and she would never look upon it again. 
 
 Her physician was of the same mind with Mrs. Milnor; both 
 thought she would not recover. A continued round of excitement, 
 close rooms, late hours, and excesses, had injured her health, and 
 brought on a nervous attack, which they feared would prove fatal. 
 At one time she would call for the carriage, then for the children, 
 and always for the mantilla; then declare she would not wear it. 
 The third week she was more rational. Mrs. Milnor remained 
 with her, and, like an angel of mercy, watched around her bed. 
 
 " T know all," said Mrs. Crayton, gazing upon her one day as 
 she awoke ; " I know all ! Where are my children ?" 
 
 " At my house." 
 
 " How very kind you are,*' she replied, and a tear trickled 
 down her face. 
 
 Mrs. Milnor bending over her, kissed it away, and quieted her 
 by saying they were well. She expressed her thanks for her 
 friend's kindness and attention ; and through the night conversed 
 considerably, acknowledging her faults, and lamenting over them. 
 
 Mrs. Milnor, by degrees, led her mind to the subject of religion ; 
 she read the Bible, which was once, to her, a sealed book, and 
 its truths fell like idle tales upon her ear. But she could not 
 resist the melting importunities of Mrs. Milnor for her salvation, 
 and wept under their soul-subduing influence. Daily she mourned 
 her ingratitude, and said she had never enjoyed an hour's peace 
 since she purchased the mantilla, for Mr. Crayton's conduct 
 was ever marked and cold after it : she saw her error, but could 
 not remedy it. The more cold he became, the more she would have 
 her own way. When she saw how correctly everything was 
 managed in Mrs. Milnor's family, she was filled with envy. The 
 more Mr. Crayton praised, the more she condemned them, until her 
 own children reproved her. And now she saw her folly when 
 too late to atone for it. Her children were permitted to see her 
 occasionally; she besought them to listen to Mr. and Mrs. Mil- 
 nor's advice ; and calling Agnes, her eldest daughter, told her to 
 keep the mantilla, the cause of all her sorrow, and never part with
 
 60 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 it ; and, whenever in after life she was disposed io act contrary to 
 the wishes of a superior, to look at the mantilla, and think of her 
 mother. A rapid decline soon laid the unfortunate woman, the 
 victim of folly and extravagance, hy the side of her husband. Mr. 
 Crayton's estate, after his affairs were settled, was sufficient to 
 make his children independent. 
 
 Charles and George entered the University in New- York. The 
 Miss Craytons are placed under the care ai\d instruction of Mrs. 
 Milnor with Emilie and her own daughters, for she has no disposi- 
 tion to resign them or her own to other hands. Under her fostering 
 care they grow in every virtue, and they love her as their own 
 mother.
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 E. 1'H. WAS the youngest child of a large family, and the 
 "pet lamb" of the flock. His brothers and sisters were well 
 settled in life, and happy in their connections. His parents were 
 of the old Puritan origin, who were driven to this country during 
 the persecutions of the Huguenots in France in the reign of Louis 
 XIV. They settled first in Rochelle, to which place they gave 
 the name. His father, S. 1'H., was converted under the preach- 
 ing of the immortal Whitfield, at the time when he passed through 
 our land like a brilliant meteor, whose dazzling light was remem- 
 bered long after the bright vision had fled. 
 
 They were great readers of history ; their library consisted of a 
 selection of books from the best English and American authors. 
 The first book their children remember, next to the Bible, is 
 Josephus, a large, unwieldy volume, filled with pictures of the 
 Jews and Romans, which they were permitted to look at when- 
 ever they pleased, with the express command not to injure it. 
 Scarcely was there a step taken by the Jews, from the days of 
 Abraham, until the first society was formed for the melioration of 
 that devoted sect, with which their parents were not more or less 
 acquainted. His mother, among various other reading, from the 
 time she was eleven years of age until her sixty-ninth year, when 
 she died, read the Bible every year once, twice, and very often 
 three times. The village, where they resided, was one hundred 
 miles from the emporium of our land. The population was 
 small, and although very near a town of the first settlement in 
 our country, was young in its institutions. 
 
 Mr. 1'H., the father ol E., was a man of eminent piety, sound 
 and vigorous mind, of much influence, wealthy and respected. 
 For some time after the close of the American revolution there 
 
 T
 
 62 H DISAPPOIMTMfi Jtf< 
 
 was no church in the place where he resided. Mr. 1'H. on the 
 Sabbath met with the few, but devoted Christians, dwelling in the 
 village ; after organizing a church, he himself, ior a long time, 
 led their worship, when the people were called together by the 
 beating of a drum.* The abode of Mr. 1'H. was, for many years, 
 the resort of gospel ministers, among whom none met with a 
 more cordial reception than the Rev. Dr. Richards, of Newburgh. 
 A clergyman was soon settled among them, and, in a few years, 
 they were a fast growing people. Commerce and agriculture 
 increased with institutions for learning. The eldest son of Mr. 
 1'H. was, for many years, a merchant in London, after which he 
 returned to America, and established himself in New- York, where 
 he became a police officer. Another son removed to the then far 
 West. 
 
 Dispersed thus, in the providence of God, the young E. became 
 the idol of their hearts. He was kept constantly at school, under 
 excellent teachers, in an adjoining town. At the early age of 
 fourteen, he delivered an oration before the debating society, which 
 gained him great applause. 
 
 He continued his academical studies in a classic school, where 
 he made rapid advances, until he went to New Haven, then under 
 the superintendence of the Rev. Timothy D wight, D. D., and grad- 
 uated with much honor at nineteen years of age. He delivered 
 an oration in his native village during the war of 1814, wherein 
 he displayed his oratorical powers much to the satisfaction of his 
 friends. His vacations were spent at home, in the bosom of his 
 father's family, and were often afterwards looked upon as green 
 spots in their existence. 
 
 Never was a youth more idolized than E., and how could it 
 have been otherwise. He was all the fondest wish could desire. 
 His heart overflowed with the very milk of human kindness; 
 his address was easy ; his manners winning and endearing ; his 
 whole soul was devoted to his parents, brothers and sisters, and 
 one other, whom he dearly loved a young lady of intelligence 
 and virtue, possessed of every pleasing attraction. Many and 
 long were the petitions offered for him by his parents. Oh, hovr 
 has that tender father plead for his child ; many are the petitions 
 
 * The same village has now three churches, a population of nearly 
 three thousand, and a fleet of whaling ships, amounting to between 
 forty and fifty.
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 63 
 
 registered in heaven, that ascended for his salvation ; and how 
 delighted was that father when his son returned from New Haven, 
 as he placed his diploma in his hands, and thanked him for all he 
 had done for him ! After spending a few weeks at home, he left 
 for New York, where he studied with the Hon. N. Sandford until 
 admitted to the bar. With much delight his friends saw him 
 rising to eminence, pleasantly situated in his office, with his 
 hooks, etc., around him. Young, healthful, ambitious, talented 
 and respected his prospects were bright, his sky clear, the world 
 smiled, and he was happy. 
 
 Alas, for human expectations ! the morning came the long- 
 desired and looked for day, when the full cup of happiness was 
 to be drunk. Yes, the morning dawned ; the nuptial feast was 
 prepared, all things were ready, and the lovely Mary, looking 
 from the window, discovered a sail in the distance. " He is 
 coming ? " she exclaimed, and dressed her hair with maiden pride 
 to receive him. 
 
 " There is a sail in sight," said one te the doting parents. 
 
 The aged father, delighted, walked the room ; the mother 
 wiped the full tear of joy from her eye ; and the sisters, with smiles, 
 prepared the festive board, and impatiently waited the coming of 
 their beloved brother. The door opened, and a person entered. 
 
 " Has he come ? " eagerly inquired his father. 
 
 The messenger remained silent. 
 
 " Has he come ? " again inquired the old gentleman. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Is he coming ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Rising suddenly from his chair, and looking earnestly in the 
 speaker's face, he tremblingly inquired : 
 
 " What is the cause of your silence ? " 
 
 He returned no answer. 
 
 " Is my child dead ? " said the old man. 
 
 " Yes," replied the messenger, " he is ! " 
 
 Great God ! what a scene ensued. Covering his face with his 
 hands, his father bowed his hoary head, and, like David of old, 
 exclaimed : " My son, my son, would to God I had died for thee !" 
 His mother, pale as the mountain lily, remained immovable ; 
 tears coursed each other down her cheeks ; her hands were 
 clasped around her weeping daughters, as they knelt before her.
 
 64 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 " Oh, my son ! " " Oh, my brother my dear brother ! " they 
 cried. Sighs, groans, prayers, despair and agony, mingled in 
 their aspirations. One beloved sister had been with her hus- 
 band to a neighboring town, where he had been preaching on 
 a thanksgiving day. On their return home, a cloud, dark and 
 impervious, was seen rising with fearful rapidity from the north. 
 She watched it with much trembling, as it indicated a heavy rush 
 of wind. Expecting her brother, it alarmed her, and wrapping 
 herself in her cloak, she silently watched the scowling heavens 
 until she reached her father's dwelling. Seeing the front door 
 open, she said quickly to her husband : " He is come ! " As she 
 entered, a gentleman's cloak was hanging across the bannister 
 " He is here ! " she cried ; and ran quickly through the hall, and 
 opened the door leading into the parl Dr. But, oh God ! what a 
 scene met her eye ! 
 
 Letters lay scattered upon the table ; a profound silence reigned, 
 although the room was filled with people. Instantly she guessed 
 the cause, and flinging herself upon her knees before her aged 
 father, she faintly inquired : 
 
 " Is my brother dead ? " 
 
 The old gentleman laying his trembling hand upon her head, 
 said: 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, he is gone winged his way to a brighter 
 world gone from us for ever gone from his poor old father." 
 
 Again their sorrows burst forth, when the door opened, and a 
 brother of the deceased entered, leading in the young lady to 
 whom E. was betrothed, almost in a state of distraction. She, 
 who in the morning was the affianced bride the happy antici- 
 pator of promised bliss who dressed the hymeneal bower with 
 taste and beauty ; who counted the lingering moments as they 
 fled ; who watched each rippling wave, until the bark that was to 
 bring to her embraces a lover, arrived ; bearing not E. not the 
 young, the lovely, the ardent admirer but the heart-rending 
 intelligence of his death ! Can fancy paint more finished wretch- 
 edness ? What a scene ! 
 
 Amid this tempest of grief, the aged father's voice arose in 
 prayer. His soul still relied upon his God, although smitten with 
 the rod of his power. And, while his heart was bleeding at every 
 pore, by faith he drew near to Him, who controls not only the 
 elements of nature, but the conflicting, overwhelming passions of
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 65 
 
 the soul. What a lesson ! How uncertain and fleeting are all 
 earthly joys ! how frail the tenure by which we hold alTcreated 
 things ! how liable to disappointment is man ! how quickly 
 are his best plans frustrated, his fairest prospects blighted, and 
 his fondest hopes destroyed ! Alas! for E. ; when his heart beat 
 high with promised happiness when all was bright, and the cup 
 of enjoyment had well nigh reached his lips death, -sudden and 
 unexpected, came, and in three days laid the young and the lovely 
 low. When the arms of beauty were opened to receive him, the, 
 cruel spoiler claimed him as his own, and clasped him for ever 
 within his cold embrace. 
 
 Like evening's sweetest star, 
 
 The earliest in the train ; 
 While pleasure woo'd him from afar 
 
 He sank beneath the main. 
 
 Just as he raised his head, 
 
 To quaff the honied bowl, 
 The charm dissolv'd the vision fled, 
 
 And night involved his soul. 
 
 Far from the friends he lov'd, 
 
 He gently closed his eyes ; 
 Passed like a meteor from the^sight, 
 
 And sought his native skies. 
 
 His beloved mother yielded to the blow, and faded away like 
 the flower of the field, when visited too rudely by the winds of 
 heaven. Patient, resigned, and calm, she sat am.'d her surviving 
 children a treasured one indeed. But all their fond desires, nor 
 all their tender care, could keep her with them. The husband of 
 her youth bent in anguish over her dying bed like the oak that 
 withstood the tempest's rage, with its branches spread around the 
 objects of his love, forming a shade from the heated furnace. 
 Her children clustered around, and knelt beside her, when dressed 
 for the grave; knelt beside the mother who bore them who 
 shared their every sorrow, and their every joy ; knelt by her, as 
 she lay sweetly released from every earthly ill her countenance 
 calm, composed and happy ; her hands, which were ever ready to 
 administer to their wants, gently laid upon that bosom which had 
 been a receptacle of every kindness which had so often beat
 
 66 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 with convulsive sorrow that dear bosom, to which in their 
 infancy they had clung was still and motionless. Ye, who 
 have bent over a beloved mother, and felt as if every tie on earth 
 was riven ye can only know their feelings. Tken,in a good old 
 age, with a hope full of immortality, the aged father smiled, as 
 the messenger of Death approached^ and with a brighter, and a 
 happier world in view, bade him welcome. 
 
 " Sure the last end of the good man is peace* 
 Night dews fall not more gently on the earth, 
 Nor weary, worn-out winds expire more soft." 
 
 How many precious souls have met above how many beloved 
 ones are garnered there. Delightful hour, when the cherished of 
 earth shall meet in a " better land," where separations, and 
 adieus, can never come, and disappointments never have admis- 
 sion.
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 ON a cold December evening, Mr. and Mrs. Heartly, seated by 
 their cheerful fire, surrounded by their children, seemed lost in 
 deep reflection, as the winter winds howled around their dwelling. 
 " Father," said little Gilbert, "when will brother Henry return ?" 
 His father, with a deep-drawn sigh, fastened his eyes upon his 
 little boy, and attempted to speak, but the effort was ineffectual; 
 and, placing his hands over his eyes, he remained silent. The 
 child, as if divining the cause of the father's musings, again in- 
 quired, " When will my brother Henry come, for I want him to 
 make me some more tops, and balls, and help me to fly my kite as 
 he used to do when he was at home." His father arose from his 
 chair, and cast his eyes upon the countenance of his amiable com- 
 panion, which was pale, and her eyes suffused with tears. He 
 read in her bosom feelings corresponding with his own for they 
 had both been thinking of their eldest, best beloved son, away 
 from his home, and under what circumstances they knew not. 
 
 Henry Heartly was the eldest son of the Rev. James and Mary 
 
 Heartly, occupants of the parsonage of C , a delightful village 
 
 in one of the New England States. It was a lovely spot, seem- 
 ingly designed by nature for a contemplative mind. Their dwell- 
 ing, embowered by large elms, shewed its white front through the 
 vines, which curled around the piazza and bow windows ; and 
 was situated upon a beautiful sloping lawn, adoriied with beds 
 neatly arranged, and bordered with green myrtle and box, forming 
 a name of each loved inhabitant. Trees of various descriptions 
 decorated this earthly paradise, and flowers of the choicest kind 
 emitted their sweet perfume, and displayed their beauteous hues 
 to the eye of the passing stranger. It was here that Henry Heartly 
 first drew his infant breath, and was first taught to lisp the 
 endearing names of father and mother. He was a young man of 
 ardent piety, promising talents, beautiful exterior, manners soft
 
 68 THE RETURN. 
 
 and dignified, a heart tremblingly alive to every sense of honor, 
 and ardently attached to his parents, brothers and sisters. He was 
 ever the idol of the family one, whom every member had ex- 
 erted themselves to assist in educating. He had been graduated at 
 Yale College, at the early age of eighteen. His vacations were a 
 sweet repast ; and it was during these seasons of enjoyment, he as- 
 sisted his little brother Gilbert in spinning his top and flying his 
 kite, and entered into all his little sports with the feelings of 
 boyhoo"d. 
 
 He assisted his sister Mary in drawing and painting, and se- 
 lected such books as he wished her to read. In the garden was a 
 beautiful arbor, where, for hours, he would read to her, and watch 
 with delight the bright beams of her intelligent countenance, ani- 
 mated by the inward impulse of her sensitive mind as it responded 
 to the touching descriptions. His father, whose salary amounted 
 to one thousand a year, by the prudence and economy of an ex- 
 cellent wife, managed to live genteely, and within their means. 
 Mrs. H. was a woman of highly cultivated mind, and eminently 
 pious. She loved her husband with an intensity of soul which is 
 known by few, and her children seemed identified with her very 
 existence. Henry was her eldest child, upon whose infant charms 
 she had gazed with all a mother's love ; and, as he lay upon her 
 bosom, with laughing eyes and dimpled mouth, her tears and 
 prayers would mingle with her smiles and caresses ; and her heart 
 was so full of rapture, that its clay tenement seemed too small to 
 contain its prisoner. For this son she had exerted every faculty 
 of mind and body. In the nursery, she had poured into his open- 
 ing intellect lessons of wisdom and piety. With his little hands 
 clasped together, as he knelt at her maternal feet, often and 
 often would he repeat " Our Father" in accents sweet as the rapt 
 seraph's song. Mr. H. was also much attached to Henry, and looked 
 upon him with glowing pride as he arose to manhood. His heart 
 beat but for his welfare, so anxious did he feel for his temporal 
 and spiritual interest. He exerted every effort, and denied himself 
 and family many necessaries, that he might meet his expenses. 
 Many a homely meal was sweetened by the mentioning of his 
 name, and smiles and prayers were to them a richer desert than 
 all the choice viands of the great. Each one arose stimulated to 
 greater efforts for one so beloved. His sister, contented with her 
 plain white dress without ornaments, for she needed none and
 
 THK RETT7RN. DV 
 
 her close cottage hat, with a wreath of green and white flowers 
 made by her own fair hands, exerted every power for him she 
 loved. The piece of embroidery she worked, the baskets she 
 made, the flowers she formed of wax so beautifully constructed, 
 so exquisitely blended in their different shades, that, ere one was 
 aware, they would eagerly strive to inhale their perfume were 
 all quickly disposed of by the discreet and devoted mother, and 
 the avails carefully expended to procure such articles as were 
 necessary for her son's advancement. Nor was he insensible to 
 it. In a thousand ways did he return this love. Books, atlases, 
 and prints, would he send to his brothers and sisters. Thus this 
 happy family glided on in peace. 
 
 In the city of New-York, he rose rapidly to eminence and res- 
 pectableness, and faithfully did he return every testimony of their 
 affection. Mary, his idolized sister, was fully compensated for 
 all she had done, as on her guitar she played and sung the fol- 
 lowing piece, which Henry composed for her one day as he placed 
 in her hand a beautiful rose which he brought her : 
 
 TO MARY . 
 
 OH, let me place this rose divine 
 
 Beside thy forehead fair, 
 Its blushing beauties, let them twine 
 
 Among thy raven hair. 
 
 The tear which falls from thy dark eye 
 
 Shall but renew its bloom, 
 And, fanned by memory's gentle sigh, 
 
 Yield thee a sweet perfume. 
 
 Remember, that a brother's love 
 
 Till death for ever flows 
 Pure as the drops that from above 
 
 Fall on this beauteous rose. 
 
 Dear sister ! keep this little flower, 
 Which blooms so sweet for thee, 
 And oft in twilight's pensive hour, 
 When gone remember me. 
 
 Pure incense arose from the domestic altar, and often did the firm 
 voice of the pastor tremble under a sense of the goodness of God.
 
 70 THEK.ETURM. 
 
 It was on an evening of one of those autumnal days which 
 often diffuse the beauty of a southern clime in the surrounding 
 atmosphere, as this happy family were seated at their evening's 
 employment, a carriage drove up the lawn, in which, from the 
 window, by the clear light of the silvery moon, they discovered, 
 as they alighted from it, their brother, accompanied by two 
 young gentlemen. They soon entered, and were introduced as 
 Edward Middleton and Charles Bentley, who were his classmates 
 at Yale. 
 
 The latter was tall, well proportioned, handsome, and ex- 
 tremely polite a beau ideal of the polished world ; but there was 
 an expression of haughtiness in the curl of his lip, as he cast a 
 hasty glance around the room. Edward Middleton, a fine, noble- 
 looking young, roan, in the full flush of youthful manhood, as he 
 cast his expressive eyes around the apartment, seemed delighted 
 with all he saw. If he was pleased with the appearance of the 
 parsonage as he rode up the beautiful lawn, decorated with dah- 
 lias of varied hues, artimisias, and every description of those 
 bright, gaudy flowers which, at seasons of the year, charm every 
 eye; if he in voluntarily jumped from the carriage after Henry, as 
 they stopped before this charming spot, and with him caught a 
 glimpse of the bright faces peeping from the window, how was 
 he now pleased and delighted ! He looked from the father to the 
 mother, to her beautiful daughter, from her to the two little boys, 
 and their youngest sister, whose eyes were fixed on thair beloved 
 Henry. Happy, thrice happy scene ! Contentment, innocence, 
 and lore, were there. The father spoke ; but the mother, her 
 countenance radiant with the overflowing of a grateful heart, sat 
 with her hands clasped in her lap, in which she held one of her 
 little Adelia's, who would look alternately from one to the other, 
 and then nestle in her mother's bosom. The little boys had 
 climbed upon their brother's knees, and were engaging him for 
 their sports on the morrow. Mary, with a heart vibrating like 
 the aspen leaf, to the feelings and sympathies which surrounded 
 her, could only reply by her smiles to the remarks of her friends, 
 as she cautiously wiped away a tear of the purest joy from her 
 eyes, which vied in beauty with earth's brightest gems, and 
 sparkled more resplendently from the liquid gems which filled them. 
 Henry gazed with pride on all around; his young heart was full; 
 his eye rested upon his father with delight, as he saw him con-
 
 THE RKtTIRK. 71 
 
 versing with his friends, for he was in early life an elegant schol- 
 ar, and in the University held a high eminence. Years had but 
 brightened his intellect, and on this happy occasion he developed 
 the powers of his feeling, eloquent heart. Henry's eye caught his 
 mother's enraptured glance, and Mary's ardent gaze ; delicacy 
 alone prevented their flying to him, and folding him in their warm 
 embrace. 
 
 Moments otrapture could you fear an end ? 
 
 " That ghastly thought, would drink up all your joy, 
 
 And quite unparadise" this realm of bliss. 
 
 Before they retired family prayers were offered, and on their 
 pillows each one sought repose. But " tired nature's sweet res- 
 torer" came not to all ; Mary's eyes, although " unsullied with a 
 tear," she could not close as usual. She had before seen Edward 
 Middleton, and she loved him ; he of whom she had so often 
 dreamed, and of whom her brother spoke in the most glowing terms 
 as his friend. The next morning, as she was gathering fresh flow- 
 ers for the vases, he approached and begged permission to assist 
 her. His discriminating eye soon selected the fairest ; as he pre- 
 sented them to her, he took one of the purest white, and said, " ac- 
 cept this, Miss Heartly, a an emblem of yourself." She received 
 it with blushing sweetness, and, as she raised her eyes, the glance 
 which emanated from his thrilled through her soul, and the words 
 *' thank you," died away upon her parted lips. At that instant 
 Charles Bentley drew near ; he had witnessed the scene, and felt, 
 as the wily serpent did when he saw our first parents in Eden's 
 blissful bowers, that it was to him 
 
 " Sight hateful sight tormenting." 
 
 He had heard much of Mary Heartly ; often had she been the 
 theme of her loved brother's conveisation, and he knew that Mr. 
 Middleton's visit was to her, whom he had before seen and admired. 
 Though confident of Edward's favored reception, he took every 
 opportunity of rendering himself agreeable, to win Mary's gentle 
 heart, and make an avowal of his love. She received his proposal 
 with modest dignity, but declined his attentions. 
 
 Stung to the quick, he left the day following. His sudden de- 
 parture caused Henry some uneasiness, and he inquired the rea- 
 aon of his sister, who told him all. " You have done right," 
 said he ; " my Mary it is not wealth that will make you happy ;
 
 72 THE RKTUXtf. 
 
 true merit, like a never-failing spring, will ever tend to enjoyment 
 Let the man you love be worthy of you." 
 
 She affectionately pressed his hand in silence, and at that moment 
 their father appeared. He was soon made acquainted with the 
 circumstances, and enjoined silence respecting it. Mrs. Heartly, on 
 Henry's arrival, had perceived in him, occasionally, a disposition 
 to cough. She did not at first mention it, but her maternal bosom 
 augured evil. She thought it might pass off in a few days, but 
 was disappointed. In answer to her inquiries, he always replied 
 he was well, and gently reproved her for her unnecessary anx- 
 iety. The time drew near when he and his friend were to leave 
 his paternal roof. Mr. Middleton had become ardently attached 
 to Mary. Her innocent loveliness had won his undivided heart ; 
 and sweet were the hours he passed with her in reading, walking, 
 and listening to her soft voice, as she accompanied her guitar. He 
 loved the sensibility of her soul, the fervor of her piety, which led 
 her to breathe cadences of such thrilling pathos, such entrancing 
 melody, as awakened, as if by magic, those sensations in his bosom 
 which drew from him the warm expressions of his subdued heart. 
 As he gazed upon this sweet child of nature, the fascination of 
 her mind riveted the chains her artless beauty forged, and he 
 longed to call her his that no rude hand might tear her from him. 
 
 To Edward and Mary the hours flew imperceptibly away ; they 
 plighted their young vows in the pastor's beautiful garden, when 
 the flowers shed their delightful fragrance, and seemed vicing with 
 each other to attract the eyes of the one who had arranged them 
 in their perfect order. Herself the fairest flower, unconscious of 
 her surpassing loveliness, she listened to the fascinating voice of 
 Edward, as he pictured before her youthful imagination, years of 
 unclouded happiness. The day arrived when Henry and his 
 friend were to leave the parsonage for New- York. Henry, after 
 embracing his little brother and sister, turning to Mary, said, " In 
 a few months we shall return," and, as the soft flush of beauty 
 lighted up her cheek, he whispered, "when you will be given 
 away forever." He took his father's hand, and received his part- 
 ing blessing. Last was his mother she was pale, and her eyes 
 red with weeping ; clasping him in her arms, she held him long 
 to her agonized bosom. Tears, burning tears, stole down her 
 face, for she felt a sickness at her heart a presentiment that this 
 washer last embrace. " God bless you, my beloved son !" she cried;
 
 THE BET U EN. 73 
 
 " oh, fly to Him in every time of need." Henry folded her closely 
 to his bosom, as he whispered, " farewell, my mother !" 
 
 As the drops of dew on the blushing leaves of the rose, so stood 
 the tears on the beautiful cheeks of Mary, which fell fast from her 
 humid eyes, as she received the hardly articulate adieu of Edward. 
 He took her passive hand, and led her to her father, saying, " Into 
 your care I commit this precious trust ; keep her for me." The 
 servants had taken their trunks from the hall, and announced that 
 all was ready. They were gone, and silence reigned in the pas- 
 tor's dwelling. 
 
 Six months from this period had elapsed, when little Gilbert, 
 softly whispering his father, asked him the startling question 
 when his brother Henry would return ? 
 
 For some time after the departure of Henry and Edward, every 
 mail brought letters of love and affection to this happy family. 
 Henry mentioned his leaving New- York for a short time, to ac- 
 company Mr. Middleton as far as Washington, on his intended 
 tour ; he thought it might be of service to him, as his health was 
 delicate. After an absence of two months, he returned to New- 
 York, but his letters only brought a confirmation of his illness. 
 Edward's had entirely ceased, and a paleness came over the beau- 
 tiful face of Mary, " who never told her grief," but her parents 
 marked the change, and trembled for its consequence. Her elastic 
 step became slow, and her sylph-like form no longer glided like 
 the fawn before them. 
 
 She loved with all the ardor of youth, and had received letters 
 from Edward, which she treasured up as a sacred deposit. She 
 had read them again and again, and laid them in her bosom. By 
 some unaccountable circumstance they had ceased, and she 
 knew not where the beloved of her young heait now was. Per- 
 haps he loved another, and she was forgotten. Uncertainty rested 
 upon this once happy family; and it was while musing upon these 
 events, that Mr. Heartly placed his hands over his eyes, and sighed 
 in the fullness of his soul, as little Gilbert urged him to answer 
 his questions ; for his young heart participated in the general 
 gloom, although he knew it not, and he longed for his brother to 
 return, that all might be bright again. " Sister, dc sing," said 
 he ; " here is your guitar," placing it before her; " sing to me as 
 you used to do," and he softly whispered, " when Mi. Middleton 
 was here !"
 
 74 THE RETURN. 
 
 She clasped him in her arms, and burst into tears. The dear 
 child, not willing to yield his point, collected his books and 
 took them to his mother. " Will you," said he, " hear me 
 reaJ and say my lesson ? I will recite the one brother Henry 
 taught me, and you and father must clap your hands when I am 
 done, just as you used to." That angel woman, regardless of her 
 own feelings, strove to render her little son happy, although he 
 had touched the finest chord of her soul ; and as her bosom hove 
 with a convulsive effort, she told him to begin. He commenced, 
 but suddenly stopped. 
 
 *' Father," said he, looking around," what is that ?" He bounded 
 to the window, for his ear had caught the distant sound of a car- 
 riage. " Come h,ere," said he, " for I see something coming 
 very slowly." Amid the shadows of the evening, they descried a 
 carriage. vJt drew near it turned toward their dwelling it 
 stopped at the door. All was intense anxiety. 
 
 " Who is it ?" said Mary. 
 
 " Hush !" said her discreet mother. " Let us raise no hopes 
 nor anticipate joy, but calmly wait." 
 
 Mr H. went to the door, and soon returned. " Come, my love," 
 said he to his wife, " our beloved Henry has come ; will you not 
 go and meet him ?" 
 
 "I cannot," she replied for she saw by her husband's looks 
 that something dreadful awaited her. 
 
 Mary sprang forward, and returned with her beloved, idolized 
 brother. He clasped his mother to his bosom, who silently re- 
 turned his embrace, as she beheld him pale, wan, and enfeebled. 
 Although cold, there was an unnatural heat in his breath, and 
 she beheld with agony upon his countenance, the premonitor of 
 the tomb! While under her mingled emotions she fainted. Her 
 husband assisted her to a sofa; Henry knelt at her feet assuring 
 her he was better; and Mary, kissing her mother, begged her 
 to be composed. Mrs. H. soon became tranquil the deep agony 
 of her soul was over. The bitterness of death was lost in the in- 
 terview so long desired, so often dreaded, so truly anticipated. 
 From that moment she arose in her Saviour's strength. With her 
 faith fixed on heaven, she forgot herself, forgot earth, and lived 
 only for her son and his soul's salvation. She saw the grave 
 opening before him ; she viewed the dark chamber of the tomb, 
 where the son she loved so well must soon lie ; where that beau-
 
 THE RETURN. 75 
 
 tiful form and intelligent eye must repose in darkness. As soon 
 as Henry was sufficiently rested, he related to his listening friends 
 what they so much wished to know. Ho, soon after leaving 
 home, found his cough very troublesome. Edward, anxious for 
 his health, knowing how dear he was to his friends, procured him 
 a physician, who thought a change of climate might be beneficial 
 to him. It was Mr. Middleton's intention to travel, and spend 
 about six months in different parts of the United States, then re- 
 turn, accompany Henry home, and receive from a father's hand 
 his precious treasure. They informed Mr. H. of their intentions, 
 carefully concealing Henry's indisposition, hoping soon to com- 
 municate the pleasing intelligence of his recovery. 
 
 At Washington they were met by Mr. Bentley, who, chagrined 
 and mortified by Miss Heartly's refusal, had vowed vengeance 
 upon that happy family ; and had long been waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity to inflict a wound which Mary, in particular, should feel. 
 As soon as he ascertained from Mr. Middieton his intention of 
 travelling, he offered to accompany him, and was accepted. On 
 leaving, Mr. Middieton gave Henry a letter to Mary, assuring 
 her of his undiminished love, his intention of soon returning and 
 claiming her by the endearing appellation of husband. Henry re- 
 turned to New-York, but finding his cough increase, he settled his 
 business and hastened to his beloved home. He had received but 
 two letters from his friend the first in his usual warm, friendly 
 style ; the last, cold and distant, and without alluding to the par- 
 sonage. He was surprised-and grieved on finding that Mary had 
 received no intelligence from Edward. He conversed freely on the 
 subject with his parents, but said little to Mary, who strove to be 
 cheerful for her brother's sake; while, at the same time, her re- 
 tired moments and sleepless nights witnessed her utter desolation 
 of soul. "Oh, my Edward i" she would often exclaim "oh, 
 my Edward, where are you ? Has another supplanted me in 
 your affections ? If so, indulgent heaven, let me never know it; 
 let me fall and die, like my own fair flowers, and with my beloved 
 Henry, soar to our native heaven !" 
 
 Week after week passed away the storms of winter beat around 
 that hallowed spot, while the fervent prayers of the parents, and 
 the secret sighs of the sufferer mingled with the mournful breeze 
 and the howling tempest. Often would Henry, for he was now 
 confined to his room, request his mother and sister to bring their
 
 76 THERE-TURN. 
 
 work-baskets, and sit with him. His little brothers and sister, 
 finding his strength decay, teased him no longer with their balls 
 and tops, but stood still at a distance, as their mother, with her 
 linger on her lips, motioned them to silence. Occasionally, as 
 they peeped in at the door, they were admitted for a few moments, 
 and each in turn permitted to take their brother's emaciated hand 
 in theirs, and softly imprint upon it a kiss of love. One very 
 cold afternoon, when nature was locked in adamantine chains, all 
 were at Henry's particular request, seated in his room. He looked 
 at his father, calm, dignified and submissive, who sat with his 
 eyes closed, his hand resting upon the word of God which he had 
 just been reading. His mother evidently struggled with conflict- 
 ing emotions ; while Mary was silent over her piece of embroi- 
 dery. As he gazed upon her, he saw a tear fall from her eye upon 
 a beautiful rose she had just finished, and, blending with its rich 
 colors, for a moment it seemed robbed of its beauty. She looked 
 at her brother, who, in his sister, beheld a striking resemblance of 
 the lovely flower. Disappointment had withered the bloom on 
 her cheek. As she rested it upon her fairy hand, and sighed a 
 response to ' her brother's anticipated thoughts, he motioned for 
 her to approach, when, ben.ling over him, he whispered, " Fear 
 not, my dear sister, all will yet be well ; and your own Edward 
 will restore again, by his presence, the bloom on your cheek." 
 
 She sobbed aloud in the embrace of her brother, as he held her 
 close to his bosom. What a scene for their beloved parents ! 
 Overcome by their emotions, they involuntarily fell upon their 
 knees, and fled by faith to their only refuge. Fervent was that 
 prayer, and as the recording angel registered it in heaven it was 
 heard and answered. The ensuing month brought a letter, which 
 was quickly opened. In it was one inclosed to Mary. They 
 were from Edward. He was in New- York, and would soon be 
 with them. At Henry's request, his father read as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND My feelings at this moment rush upon me 
 with such impetuosity, I can hardly allow myself time to write 
 one word, so anxious am I to see you. Henry, could I but know 
 how you are, how our beloved Mary is, and our dear friends, I 
 should feel relieved. But oh ! uncertainty rests upon everything 
 dear to me. I will try to be composed, while I state to you the 
 cause of my present agitation. Charles Bentley, whom you left 
 with me as a companion and friend, is dead ! but my resentment
 
 THE RETURN. TT 
 
 follows him no further than the grave. He has been a deceiver a 
 villain ; he has made me wretched, and wrapt all my bright visions 
 in gloom and obscurity. We travelled through different States, 
 visited every place of notoriety much to my satisfaction, and I should 
 have been charmed with my tour, but for your and your sister's 
 silence. I wrote continually, but received no answer. When I 
 spoke of you to Mr. Bentley, he would reply by a disdainful smile, 
 and sing, ' They say that absence conquers love,' in an ironical, 
 unfeeling manner. Two weeks since he was seized with a ma- 
 lignant disease, whichjerminated in his death. I rendered him 
 every assistance in my power, and was continually with him. He 
 seemed one day unusually agitated as he looked upon me. I in- 
 quired the cause. 
 
 " ' I am very ill,' said he ; ' my physicians give me little encou- 
 ragement. Oh, Mr. Middleton, lam wretched beyond description I 
 Now do T awake to the awful realities of what I have ever ridi- 
 culed the immortality of the soul. I am a villain, a deceiver ; I 
 have ruined my own soul, and I fear ruined your peace for ever.* 
 I asked him what he meant? He replied, ' T loved Mary Heartly ; 
 I offered myself, and was refused, as you know.' 'No,' I replied; 
 ' 1 never knew it.' ' Noble girl !' said he ; ' and did she then con- 
 ceal what so many of her sex would have triumphed to declare ? 
 Buf it is too late to make reparation. Now, then, Mr. M., 1 was 
 determined upon revenge ; I hated you because you were beloved, 
 and I felt as if you gloried in it. I swore revenge ; I intercepted 
 your letters not one has ever reached your friends. I wrote Mr. 
 H. in your name. You know how well I can counterfeit your 
 hand. It was a letter calculated to wound deep, and lead him to 
 believe your friendship for him and his sister had ceased.' Oh, 
 Henry, my friend, judge what my feelings were. Seeing my dis- 
 tress 'Oh ! forgive me,' said he, with an imploring look ; 'you 
 will see them again -you will be happy. But where, oh, 
 where shall I appear !' His anguish was intense ; I bent over 
 him as he grasped my hand. ' Forgive me,' said he. ' I do,' 1 
 cried ; ' I do forgive you.' He lived but one day after this ; and 
 after seeing him consigned to his mother earth, I have written 
 this hasty letter. I shall write to my beloved, my injured Mary, 
 and be with you immediately. Oh ! that I could annihilate both 
 time and space, and be with you. Yours, 
 
 ." E.
 
 78 THE RETURN. 
 
 Mary's letter contained sentiments of unaltered love and fidelity. 
 What a change ! Health and strength quailed beneath the over- 
 powering effects of joy ; and she who had never sunk amid earth's 
 desolations, now fainted. On the following morning, Mary 
 Heartly entered the room where her flowers were kept flowers 
 often watered by the tears of sadness, but now moistened by those 
 of joy. She loved them all but the one most dear was the white 
 dahlia, from which Edward had selected one on the first morning 
 after they met, and presented her. Overcome with mingled emo- 
 tions, she sank involuntarily upon her knees; and so engaged was 
 she in prayer, so fervent were the aspirations of her soul, so 
 deep were her devotions, that she heeded not the sound of the 
 carriage which conveyed Edward Middleton to the parsonage. 
 He was met at the door by Mr. and Mrs. Heartly, who received 
 him with paternal kindness. As he entered the room, he cast his 
 eyes around in search of still dearer objects. He was informed of 
 Henry's illness, but it was thought proper that he should not see 
 him immediately. 
 
 " Then lead me to Mary," said he. 
 
 Mrs. H. led the way to the flower-room ; the door was open 
 just sufficient for them to have a view of the fair pleader. Her 
 eyes were filled with tears were turned upward ; her hands 
 were clasped together, while a beautiful glow played over%er 
 almost divine countenance, as she ejaculated, 
 
 " Let me but see my Edward again, oh ! my heavenly Father !" 
 
 " You shall, my Mary my lovely, injured Mary," said he, 
 and caught her fainting form in his arms. 
 
 Restored to life, to happiness, she gazed upon the beloved face 
 of Edward, and listened to his well-known voice. Mrs. H. hast- 
 ened with her husband to their beloved Henry, to inform him of 
 his friend's arrival. He was calm and collected ; a holy joy 
 beamed in his eye, for he, too, had held sweet communion with his 
 Maker, and by faith had tasted the blessedness of a brighter world. 
 
 In a few moments Edward and Mary entered. Henry extended 
 his hand and welcomed his friend, who started at beholding the 
 change in him; his beautiful form prostrate; his eloquent eye 
 ..sunken, yet resplendently bright ; the hectic flush across his pale 
 face, and his raven hair falling over one of the most beautiful 
 foreheads he had ever beheld, thrilled through his soul. Henry 
 perceived it, and exerting all his strength, said,
 
 THE RETURN. 79 
 
 " Look not thus upon me, Edward, bat rather rejoice I am so 
 near my Father's house above so nearly released from the con- 
 flicting scenes of life." 
 
 Together they conversed upon the past events, upon the perfi- 
 dy of Charles Bentley, and rejoiced that vice was not permitted to 
 triumph over virtue. It was Henry's wish that Edward and 
 Mary should be soon united, and the day was fixed for the cere- 
 mony. The lamp of life burned dimly, and its flickering light 
 seemed ready to expire ; but death for once spared his victim until 
 his last earthly wish was accomplished. 
 
 On the morning of the eventful day, little Gilbert entered with 
 his brother and sister, bearing a small basket of white roses. 
 They took them to their mother, who had them formed into a 
 beautiful wreath according to Henry's directions, which she then 
 gave to him. The children were seated ; the nurse and servants 
 entered, happy, yet melancholy, and took their seats in silence. 
 Mr. Heartly entered with light and tremulous step ; he assisted 
 Mrs. H. in supporting Henry, as the nurse pillowed him up. She 
 took her station behind her beloved son, whose head rested on 
 her maternal bosom. As Edward and Mary entered, they per- 
 ceived a change in him ; they knelt at his bed side he laid his 
 hand upon their heads, and uttered a short prayer. As they arose, 
 he placed the wreath of white roses around the head of his idol- 
 ized sister, and give her a parting kiss ! A profound silence 
 reigned as Mr Heartly, with the deepest emotion, began the cere- 
 mony. Mary was slightly pale, although happy in the prospect 
 of being for ever united to the one she had ever so fondly loved ; 
 still, to her young heart, there was something so awfully sacred 
 about her as sent a chill to her soul. Occasionally a faint glow 
 passed over her beautiful face, like the reflection of a summer's 
 sunset cloud upon the blue expanse of waters. Edward gazed 
 with unmingled admiration upon her as he pressed her trembling 
 hand, and his warm, eloquent blood mantled his manly brow, as 
 they gave themselves to each other in that chamber of death. 
 Henry had fixed his eyes intently upon them : as the ceremony 
 closed, a celestial smile played over his icy features. He placed 
 his hand in his mother's, and turned his cold cheek upon her be- 
 loved face ; and quiet and serene as the first born pledge of love 
 falls asleep in its young mother's bosom, so did this pure and 
 gentle spirit pass into the hands of Him who gave it.
 
 A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE LATE CELEBRATION AT BUNKER HILL. 
 
 " OH ! is not this a favored spot ? 
 
 'Tis the high place of freedom's birth. 
 God of our fathers ! is it not 
 
 The holiest spot of all the earth ?-" 
 
 I SAID, as I gazed upon the immense multitude which crowded 
 Boston heights, on the late memorable and glorious celebration. 
 It was a day of uncommon loveliness ; a morning without clouds. 
 The sun, as if exulting on the occasion, appeared in his most 
 brilliant attire, and cast a flood of the purest light over the whole 
 heavens. The air was soft and balmy ; the atmosphere exhili- 
 rating, as if filled with the wild harpings of martyred souls, who 
 hovered around and chimed their sweet response to the many 
 thousands there congregated. Amid that immense throng, my 
 attention was particularly arrested by an aged man, who sup- 
 ported himself, partly by the fence on which he leaned, and partly 
 by his staff. He gazed around upon the multitude, and then raised 
 his eyes to the noble spire which towered in all the majesty of 
 American glory ; and covering his face with his hands, wept in 
 the fullness of his soul. 
 
 I approached him with caution and deep respect, for there was 
 a sacredness in his tears which inspired me with awe, as I 
 gazed upon his venerable form, bent with infirmity, while over 
 his sunken temples the silvery locks flowed carelessly in the 
 breeze. After the throng had dispersed, and the noise and shouts 
 of the populace had ceased although surrounded with loveliness 
 and beauty, (for never were brighter eyes seen, in this land of 
 song, than sparkled that day on that consecrated ground,) I tore 
 myself from the fascination of their charms, and followed the 
 aged veteran, determined, if possible, to learn the cause of his
 
 A TALK OF THE REVOLUTION. 81 
 
 emotion. He was among the last who left the enchanted spot, 
 when, casting his eyes upward, he exclaimed 
 
 " Stand thou there, thou noble spire, a lasting monument of our 
 nation's gfory, and a terror to every foreign foe ; lay your foun- 
 dation deep, for the soil on which you stand, was moistened by 
 the choicest blood of my country !" 
 
 He tottered under the mingled emotions of his heart, and would 
 have fallen had I not caught his arm ; for in his enthusiasm, he 
 raised his hand, and the staff on which he leaned had dropped. I 
 picked it up and presented it to him. He received it with grati- 
 tude; and, as he walked along, I accompanied him. 
 
 " This is a proud day for America," I remarked, " and the ex- 
 citement will be long felt by those who witnessed the interesting 
 scene." 
 
 Looking upon me with surprise, he replied 
 
 " A proud day, indeed I can remember well, when a foreign 
 foe paraded through these streets, and brave-hearted colonists met 
 the points of their bayonets." 
 
 " You are weary," said I, " and if you will permit me to 
 convey you to your home, I will order a carriage, and take you 
 there." 
 
 " You are near my home," said he, pointing to a neat white 
 house, but a little distance from the road ; " and if you will enter 
 my humble dwelling, I will tell you a story which will ever be 
 fresh in my mind, and which this day's scene, as old as I am, has 
 rendered vivid in my remembrance." 
 
 He was received at the door by an intelligent-looking woman, 
 who politely invited me to enter, which I did. Seated in his easy 
 
 chair, surrounded by myself, Mrs. , and two fine lads, who, 
 
 with their cheeks glowing with health and beauty, had just re- 
 turned from the all-absorbing monument, he related the following 
 narrative. 
 
 " My name is Sidney ; my forefathers were among those who 
 were treated with rigor and ciuelty during the reign of Elizabeth, 
 Queen of England, and, in the commencement of the reign of James 
 the first, fled from the kingdom to Holland. After remaining there 
 a few years they sailed for America, and in 1620 arrived in Ply- 
 mouth, where the first permanent settlement was made in New 
 England. The colony then was small ; they landed amid all the 
 perils and privations of a barren shore, and labored under various
 
 82 A TALK OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 difficulties in erecting habitations for their wives and children. At 
 the time Governor Winthrop and others came over, they brought 
 the charter of the colony, and founded Boston. My grandfather 
 at that time became a resident of this town ; he suffered much on 
 account of the hostilities of the Indians, and lived through those 
 days of terror and oppression, which tried the patriot spirits of 
 our fathers. He had but one child, Frederick Sidney, who was the 
 father of three sons, James, Henry, and myself, and one daughter. 
 He inherited all the energy of his father, and was one of the 
 bravest men of the colony : he was among the first who rose up 
 against the taxation imposed upon the colonists. The stamp act 
 he deprecated; and helped to muffle the bells when the knell of 
 freedom was tolled in this place. 
 
 " He was determined, with others, to resist the enforcement of 
 British laws ; and when the bill was repealed in England by our 
 bold defender, William Pitt, he assisted in firing the cannon, 
 and aided in all the festivities of joy. He was one of those fearless 
 ones, who, disguised in their Indian costume, poured the tea into 
 the ocean, and came home rejoicing. My eldest brother, (who 
 was married to one of the most lovely of women,) accompanied 
 him. I can remember well, how my father spoke to my mother 
 as he entered ' Come, Isabel, make me some toast, and biing me 
 some pure water; I would rather drink it until I die, than submit to 
 British task-masters.' And I can remember how she spread that 
 oaken table with a cloth, white as the pure snow of heaven, and 
 with what pleasure she listened to his relation of that daring at- 
 tempt, as the tears fell from her eyes on the head of my young 
 sister, who stood by her side. On the 5th of September, 1774, 
 my father was among the delegates who met in Congress, at Phil- 
 adelphia. This session continued eight weeks. Many and long 
 were the speeches there made; theirs was burning eloquence ; 
 their patriotism was pure flowing from hearty firm in the cause 
 of freedom. Their sound reasonings and ardent vindication of 
 their rights, caused many of the British Parliament to favor their 
 cause, particularly Mr. Pitt, who spoke in the highest terms of 
 the Congress. My eldest brother, James, was a captain in the 
 militia; my brother Henry was a bold, intrepid lieutenant, when I 
 was 18 years of age. Great was the excitement among us. We 
 began to train ourselves to the use of the sword and musket, and 
 were among the 12,000 men who stood ready to march at a mo-
 
 A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. 83 
 
 merit's warning ; determined not to submit, but maintain our rights 
 against the most powerful nation in the world. 
 
 " At this time, the Colonists had collected a quantity of provi- 
 sions and military stores at Concord, which General Gage resolved 
 to destroy. This news spread like electricity, and bells and signal 
 suns gave the alarm. My father and brother were at the battle 
 of Lexington, and heard Major Pitcairn exclaim, Disperse, you 
 rebels !' Well I remember when Colonel Ethan Allen demanded 
 the surrender of Ticonderoga, and took it without resistance. And 
 why ? because he demanded it in the name of the Great Jehovah ! 
 who fought our battles and gave us victory ! yes, the victory !" 
 
 Here the old gentleman paused, and, raising his eyes, exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh, liberty ! liberty '. how deadly thou wert purchased ! For 
 thee, the brightest flowers were withered that ever bloomed in the 
 western Acadia. For thee, men fell, whose hearts were firm as 
 their own mountains. For thee, mothers' cheeks became blanched, 
 and the young and the lovely wept over their heart's first love, 
 be'neath the moon's pale beams, and mingled their souls' deep 
 symphonies with the breeze of evening Congress again assem- 
 bled in May, 1775, when John Hancock was chosen President, 
 and voted that an arxy of 20,000 men should be raised, under 
 the command of the immortal Washington. Many a night have 
 we sat in close debate, and many and fervent were the players 
 offered under my paternal roof. My brother's wife, as I have 
 before mentioned, was truly lovely, and was ardently attached to 
 her husband. Often have I seen her twine her affectionate arms 
 around his neck, the tears flowing like rain from her beautiful 
 eyes, and exclaim, ' I love you, James; and I love my country t 
 be faithful to its cause ; and when peace spreads her soft banner 
 over us, may we, with our sweet little ones, rest in calm security 
 beneath its flowing banners.' My mother possessed a true Roman 
 spirit, while her heart was filled with the finest sensibilities of 
 woman. How often have T seen her weep as she wiped the dust 
 from our muskets, and smile through her tears as she gave them 
 to us, saying, Never forsake your cause ; be firm ; be faithful !' 
 
 " The evening preceding the eventful battle of Bunker Hill, we 
 eat around our table, for the last time together : we gazed upon 
 each other in silence. My mother spoke not, but her countenance 
 was voluminous with feelings too deep for utterance. My sister, 
 paler than the mountain lily, looked upon her husband with in-
 
 84 A TALE OP THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 tense affection, as the tears fell fast on her sleeping babe, which 
 lay cradled on her bosom ; she rested her head upon her hand, 
 waiting for the usual blessing to be implored. My father at- 
 tempted to speak, but could not : the solemnity of death reigned 
 in that peaceful dwelling, broken only by sighs from the heart's 
 deep fountain. At length, my aged grandfather, lifting his trem- 
 bling hands, and raising his streaming eyes to heaven, prayed that 
 ' God would give us the victory over our enemies ; bless us toge- 
 ther ; bless us when separated ; and finally, gather us, an unbroken 
 band, in heaven.' It was our last meal, and it was a cheerless 
 one like the Israelites of old, it was eaten with bitter herbs. 
 
 " The hour of separation had come ! My father and brothers 
 were to leave immediately, and commence operations on Breed's 
 Hill at midnight. We separated amid sobs and groans ! As the 
 door closed on those beloved ones, my mother sank beside my 
 aged sire, and buried her face on his knees; he laid his clasped 
 hands upon her head, and bowed his silvered brow in silence, and 
 incense, pure and holy, ascended to heaven from their souls' deep 
 orisons ! As I received from the arms of my sister her sleeping 
 babe, her blue eyes opened from her tranquil slumbers amid this 
 scene of anguish, as the light of heaven gleams forth amid the 
 gathering tempest. I released it from its mother's arms as she fell 
 senseless in mine. Oh ! it was a night of thrilling interest one 
 I shall never cease to remember!" exclaimed the old man, with 
 excitement. " The morning was ushered in by a roar of artillery ; 
 and every house-top, hill, and street, was crowded with anxious 
 spectators I need not tell you how nobly they fought how 
 repeatedly they vanquished the foe ; I need not say how they 
 retreated, overcome by numbers. There the brave Warren fell ; 
 and with him, my two brothers !" 
 
 As the solitary oak is shaken by the winds of many winters, 
 BO did this aged man tremble under the mingled emotions of his 
 soul's deep feeling. My tears flowed with his ; the little boys, 
 who had often heard him " recount his battles o'er," listened at 
 this time with increased interest, and sobbed aloud. The lady of 
 the house advanced, and tenderly soothed his bursting sighs, say- 
 ing, " My dear uncle, this is too much for your feeble nature." 
 Again and again I thanked the heart-broken pilgrim, no longer won- 
 dering at the feelings he manifested on viewing the monument on 
 Bunker Hill. Taking my hand, he exclaimed
 
 A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. 85 
 
 " Did I not say right, when I told you the soil was moistened 
 by the choicest blood of the nation ? A brother's blood ! blood, 
 which brought the gray hairs of my aged grandfather to the grave 
 broke my mother's heart, and drove the smile of joy for ever 
 from the bright blue eyes of my beloved sister. This is her daugh- 
 ter," said he, pointing to Mrs. , " the babe I took from her 
 
 mother's arms on that eventful night." 
 
 I took her hand I took his my heart was full ; and bowing, 
 I bade them adieu. It was an eventful day to me, a day which 
 will live on the last pages of my memory. I had seen the famed 
 city of the East, the grand theatre of events gone for ever events 
 pregnant with the future destiny of my beloved country. I had 
 gazed on Bunker Hill, till I became inspired with the spirit of 
 Warren and his brave associates. I walked over those grounds, 
 wet with their tears, and hallowed by their blood. I entered 
 Faneuil Hall with feelings of veneration, and almost listened to 
 catch the burst of Ciceronian eloquence which had there rolled 
 over congregated assemblies, and, by its magic influence, moved 
 them, as the waves of the ocean are agitated by the winds of hea- 
 ven. But never were my feelings more strongly excited, and my 
 heart more deeply touched, than while listening to the narrative 
 of the descendant of those who fled from the cruel rage of perse- 
 cution, and found an asylum 
 
 " Where the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave."
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE PAST. 
 
 TIME, where hast thou fled ! Thou hast heen here, but where 
 art thou now ? Where can we trace thy steps, or listen to thy 
 awakening voice ? Look we to the leafless trees, now brown and 
 bare, bending beneath the tempest ? But yesterday they were co- 
 vered with foliage, which scarcely trembled in the summer's breeze. 
 The spirit of beauty rested upon them, but it has departed. Flow- 
 ers, which drank the evening dews, and smiled with renovated 
 loveliness in the morning beams opening their petals to the rising 
 sun, and exulting in his splendor whose perfume floating on the 
 gentle gale, embalmed the air with their odors these, also, 
 have departed ; and all we can "re tain of their beauty, are the trea- 
 sured leaves which affection lias placed in some favorite book. 
 Time, time has laid his withering hand upon them, -and they have 
 passed away. Look we into the dear domestic circle, where mirth 
 and song resounded through the dwelling ; where the young and 
 the beautiful clustered around their parents, and drank in their 
 fullest bliss from their smiles and approbation ; where the beam- 
 ing eye, the light step, the merry voice echoed and re-echoed from 
 day to day; where hearts light as their own mountain air, beat 
 in sweet unison with each other, unconscious of what awaited 
 them upon the tremulous billows of life. Where are they now ? 
 They were but now, now where are they ? Time has been there, 
 but is gone. The hearth is desolate, the music has ceased ; the 
 light step, the pleasant laugh, is heard no more ! The spirit of 
 beauty placed her stamp upon the fairest of earth's creatures, but 
 they vanished benealh her plastic hand ! The parents sleep in 
 tke tomb; some have passed into maturity, while the bright- 
 eyed and beautiful, who were actors upon life's busy stage, are 
 no more ! The family circle has narrowed; the harp hangs ne- 
 glected, the piano's notes are hushed, the books remain untouched, 
 and the music-seat is desolate. The spirit of beauty, which
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE PAST. 
 
 delighted in lingering over a scene so pure, has departed ! Who 
 are those that sit weeping, as the grate burns brightly, and the 
 astral lamp emits its softened lustre ? Why do they weep, when 
 all around bespeaks comfort and enjoyment ? Why do they weep ? 
 Because their hearts are full of sorrow. " They had but one, one 
 darling child," who grew up in all the pride of beauty. 
 
 " Each morn their life they lighted at her eye." 
 From the dawn of infancy they watched each opening charm, 
 cherished each honeyed word, steadied each trembling step, until 
 increased strength enabled her to approach them, and eagerly share 
 the impassioned kiss of fond affection. From infancy to child- 
 hood they loved and caressed her ; from childhood to youth, they 
 idolized they more than loved her. She was the light of their 
 eyes, the joy of their hearts, the sun of their existence. Theirs 
 was a wealth greater than Peru more valuable than all the riches 
 of the East. On such an evening as this, she would strew the 
 table with her choicest books, and read aloud to them. Her voice 
 was as sweet as a seraph's, and such was the melting expres- 
 sion of her words, that music flowed in every sentence ; while 
 the characters, feelings, and scenery described, stood in beautiful 
 relief before them. She played, she sung to them she loved them. 
 She was their all : the " Eden bird" which formed their paradise. 
 
 " Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
 In every gesture dignity and love." 
 
 Her beauty and accomplishments drew around her many ad- 
 mirers, who sought her hand in vain ; until a youth of talent 
 and beauty, by his winning address, his fascinations and smiles, 
 won her young and trusting heart, and she vowed to be his. There 
 they sat in that very room by the same grate, read by the same 
 lamp, where her parents watched her, as she listened to his voice, 
 her fair cheek resting upon her jewelled hand, shaded by the rich 
 dark curls which clustered around her beautiful face watched 
 her as they saw her turn her eyes with such confiding trustful- 
 ness to his, as drew tears from their own. Not that they were 
 unwilling she should love him, but lest in some future day he 
 might wound the fair being who clung thus fondly to him. Hers 
 was no common love ; it was deep, fixed, and changeless. He 
 left them for the South, where his parents resided, with the pro- 
 mise of soon returning, when they were to yield their hearts'
 
 S3 . THOUGHTS ON THE PAST. 
 
 sweetest treasure to his embraces. A correspondence, tender, affec- 
 tionate, breathing love, picturing unclouded days of bliss, became 
 less frequent, until it finally ceased. They saw, with deep regret, 
 the effect it produced upon their child. Their hearts ached with 
 intense anxiety ; while they encouraged, they trembled, nor were 
 their fears groundless. A report of his marriage reached them, 
 and his perfidy became public. Before his acquaintance with 
 Matilda, he was engaged to a young lady in his native town, who 
 was heiress to an immense property, which had far more attrac- 
 tions than her mind or person. The beauty and arflessness of 
 Matilda captivated his heart, and won his affection. He was 
 determined on his return home to break his engagement with Miss 
 
 E , and marry Matilda, whom he truly loved. Great, indeed, 
 
 was his astonishment on his return home, to find his father deeply 
 involved in debt, and extremely anxious for his immediate union 
 
 with Miss E . As there was no other possible way to save 
 
 him, he yielded to his wish, and was married. Matilda gave no 
 credit to the report, and believed him true, until it could be no 
 longer doubted, for the full conviction of his treachery flashed 
 upon her, and she fell senseless into her parents' arms. In vain 
 was their sympathy- -in vain their love, to heal the anguish of 
 her soul. For her parents' sake, she endeavored to be cheerful, 
 and would try to smile ; but it was transient as a sunbeam, and 
 served only to deepen her gloom. No word of reproach escaped 
 her lips, no wish breathed, but for the happiness of one who had 
 smiled but to destroy. Her parents beheld her fade away like a 
 beautiful flower, when too roughly visited by the winds of heaven. 
 The bright hectic flush upon her cheek, and increasing lustre of 
 her eyes, revealed the fatal malady which was rioting within. 
 Fainter and fainter grew each trembling step ; quicker and quicker 
 each hurried breath, until upon her mother's bosom she closed her 
 lovely eyes upon all created things, and her pure and trusting 
 spirit took its upward flight. 
 
 Weep on, ye bereaved ones ; let the tears gush forth from your 
 heart's full fountain. The finest chord of life is touched, and well 
 may you weep. The chain which bound you to life is sundered. 
 Look where the treasured object of your garnered affections is at 
 rest ; where the unfaithful will wound no more, nor the trusting 
 heart be deceived by the perfidy of inconstant man. What has 
 the present to do with the past ? Yet how striking the resem-
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE PAST. 89 
 
 blance ! as in a mirror we view each living i'eature, and trace 
 each varying expression. Time was time is. The present mo- 
 ment will be sought for, but none will find it! The verdant 
 grove, the balmy leaf, the beautiful maiden, which passed away 
 in their own brief loveliness they will be sought, but never 
 found. Remembrance will sweep the chords of the soul, whose 
 echoes will die, when the spirit of beauty departs from this world 
 for ever!
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 " IT is a dreadful night," said Joseph Anderson, to his wife, as 
 he shook the snow from his fishing coat " it is a dreadful night, 
 
 " God have mercy on the poor sailors, and save them," said his 
 wife, wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron. 
 " Oh ! that my poor William had never left his father's cabin on 
 this lonely shore, for the. dangers of the ocean. For never since he 
 left us have I heard its dashing waves, but they seemed to speak 
 his name." 
 
 " Just so," replied her husband ; " and yet, when I have been 
 fishing from the banks, when it was clear and pleasant, I could 
 not blame him." 
 
 As he spoke, Susan Ellis came in. 
 
 " I have come over to stay with you to-night," said she, in a 
 plaintive tone; " I fear we are going to have a heavy tempest." 
 
 " You are a kind, good girl, Susan," said Mrs. Anderson ; 
 " and I hope God will reward you for all your kindness to us this 
 lonely winter." 
 
 " Ay," replied Joseph, " that he will ; and I do hope our boy 
 will return again, and make us all happy once more." 
 
 "Amen," said the young girl, laying aside her bonnet and 
 cloak, which were wet with sleet and rain ; and throwing back a 
 redundance of fine auburn hair, displayed a face of loveliness. As 
 she drew near the fire, a tremendous gust of wind shook the ca- 
 bin, and at the same time twisted the only tree which shaded it 
 in pieces. 
 
 " Alack-a-day," said Mrs. Anderson, " what a crash that was. 
 Oh, my poor William !" 
 
 " I thought of him, too," said her husband ; " dear me, how he 
 loved that tree." 
 
 Susan spoke not, but her heart died within her at the sound ;
 
 ASKETCH. 91 
 
 beneath its branches she had passed many a pleasant hour with 
 William Anderson, who was a youth, and who loved his parents, 
 and the fair Susan, with all his heart. " I will endeavor to make 
 my father and mother more comfortable," thought he, "in their 
 old age ; and as for Susan, she is worthy of a better home. Well 
 as I love her, I will leave her for this purpose." 
 
 His parents expostulated ; Susan wept, but promised him she 
 would come often and see them when he was gone. He embraced 
 his father and mother, and received their parting blessing ; bade 
 Susan good bye, and kissed her, promising to make her his wed- 
 ded wife when he returned. 
 
 " A sail was seen this morning," said Susan. 
 
 " Who saw it r" inquired Joseph. 
 
 " My father." 
 
 " Dear me," said Mrs. Anderson ; " husband, did you see it ?" 
 
 " T did," said the husband, " but did not tell you, because a sail 
 always worries you ; and, since the gale, I was glad I ilid not." 
 
 " 1 am exceedingly sorry I mentioned it," said Susan, observ- 
 ing how deadly pale Mrs. Anderson looked." 
 
 "Well," said Joseph, " since we cannot make ' one hair white 
 or black,' let us get the Bible and read, and try to pray." 
 
 Susan took the sacred Book it was one William had bought, 
 and his name was written on the first leaf. She looked at it for 
 some time. 
 
 " Ay, you are a good girl, Susan," said Joseph, " to look for 
 some passage to comfort us." 
 
 She blushed and turned over the leaves, and read the 107th 
 Psalm 
 
 " Let us pray," said the husband. " Our Father, who art in 
 Heaven, oh, be our Father on earth this dreadful night," prayed 
 Joseph ; " hold these angry winds in thy fist, and these raging 
 seas in the hollow of thy hand ; cause them to be still, until thou 
 dost return our dear son to us again, if it be thy will." 
 
 And the wind, which for a moment had lulled, broke forth 
 with redoubled fury, and Joseph's cabin shook like a leaf. 
 
 " Halloo !" said a voice. 
 
 Dismayed, they flew to the door. 
 
 " Who's there ?" said Joseph. 
 
 " Help ! help ! for God's sake !" said a voice. 
 
 Joseph hastened with a light.
 
 92 ASKETCH. 
 
 " There is a ship on shore, and I am afraid that every soul on 
 board has perished ! Hasten, and we will try to aid them. Go 
 back, young woman," said he to Susan, " you cannot live long 
 out of doors on such a night as this is." 
 
 The heavens were wrapped in gloom, and the clouds scowled 
 as they rolled their dense black folds together, which, as they 
 faintly parted, made the scene still more appalling. The roaring 
 of the sea was awful as it lashed the shore with tremendous 
 surges. 
 
 The men proceeded on their way; Susan returned to the cabin, 
 wrapped herself in a close jacket which hung by the door, tied 
 her handkerchief around her head, and followed them. As she 
 proceeded toward the shore, the scene was awfully terrific : pre- 
 senting to her view,5pars, masts, and heavy planks, strewed along 
 the beach, with here and there a dead body. 
 
 The men hallooed at a distance their voices broke wildly upon 
 her ear amid the fitful blast, and she trembled as she gazed upon 
 the elemental flood which threatened to overwhelm her with in- 
 evitable destruction. Following the sound of their voices, she 
 discovered a number of men busily engaged in rescuing from the 
 sea the senseless bodies which floated from the wreck ; over which 
 the breakers, with their wreaths of white foam, swelled and 
 broke, as if the very waves were mad. 
 
 " Here is a young man," said one, clapping his hands to pre- 
 vent their freezing. The wind, at the same time, took his hat, 
 which whistled as it bore it from him. 
 
 " Look ye, young woman," said he, " seeing you would come, 
 look ye to this poor body, that it float not back into the water 
 again, and I will once more see what I can do, stiff as I am with 
 cold." 
 
 The poor girl stooped down and turned the drenched body over, 
 wiped the sand from his face with her coarse coat, and brushed 
 back his dripping hair. A parting cloud cast a gleam of light 
 upon his countenance, and discovered, to her astonished sight, her 
 own dear William ! She shrieked aloud, drew him toward her, 
 laid his head upon her lap, put her face to his, breathed on his 
 pale lips, bent over him in agony then, looking up to heaven, 
 implored divine aid. The man, hearing her shriek, returned. 
 " Who have you here ?" 
 As he stooped down, Joseph approached.
 
 A SKETCH. yc$ 
 
 " What, Susan, are you here ? Ah, you have a good heart, 
 but who is this you are so busy with : look up, Susan, and tell 
 me if you know him? It must be some one you have seen, or 
 you would not sit here shivering such a night as this over him." 
 
 " Look !" said the gentle girl, as she raised the coarse covering 
 from his face,. which she had held close to her beating heart 
 " look here !" 
 
 The day was faintly dawning as Joseph stooped down, and in 
 the bitterness of his soul, exclaimed 
 
 " It is my poor William !" 
 
 " Ay, and so it is," said the man, " and we must try to restore 
 him to life. Come, let us carry him home." 
 
 Susan went first toward the cabin to prepare Mrs. Anderson for 
 the scene before her. She met her on the shore, and urged her to 
 return. The men brought in the cold and senseless body. 
 
 " Mother," said Susan, " it is our poor William ; pray be calm 
 and still, and he may yet live." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Anderson, pale as death, hung over the apparently 
 dead body of her son, with streaming eyes and clasped hands. 
 They succeeded in restoring him to life. William once more 
 opened his eyes, and beheld, bending over him, those dearest to 
 him on earth. 
 
 The storm was hushed, and the morning sun cast his bright 
 rays upon their humble dwelling. The sea, spread out before 
 them, slumbered in calm security, and mirrored the bright scintil- 
 lations of heaven in its pellucid bosom. And in that rude cabin, on 
 that lonely shore, there were grateful hearts and true happiness.
 
 REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. 
 
 WHY do we cling so closely to this earth, when everything 
 around tells us it is not our home ? Why do we love earthly 
 objects with such intensity, when we know they are lent bless- 
 ings, and are liable every moment to be taken from us : when 
 everything in nature warns us by its decay of our own mortality ? 
 Why are we so deaf to its voice ? The trees of the forest, the 
 shrubs and flowers, all have a voice to speak, and show us how 
 transient are all earthly enjoyments ; how fleeting and vain are all 
 terrestrial things. The aged oak, which has towered for years, 
 and withstood the tempest's rage, is in an instant scathed by the 
 lightnings of heaven : its branches are severed, and its trunk de- 
 cays. The sweetest flowers speak the loudest their beauty and 
 fragrance charm us : while we hold them, while we admire them, 
 even in our hands, they recoil at our touch ; the breath which 
 (speaks their praises, withers their bloom they droop and fade, 
 while but a moment in our possession. We arrange them with 
 the nicest skill ; we place them in gilded vases ; replenish them 
 with pure water ; touch them lightly ; yet, with all care, how 
 soon they die ! The leaves fall from the stalk, their loveliness 
 departs, their beauty is withered ! What a lesson ! They teach 
 us their choicest comforts are as the morning flowers ; that " the 
 spider's most attenuated thread, is chord, is cable, to man's tender 
 tie on earthly bliss." See that lovely maiden how she trips along ; 
 health blooms upon her cheek; joy sparkles in her eye; her 
 step is light as the young fawn's ; her laugh is clear and plea- 
 sant ; her voice is sweet as the breath of morn ; her accents fall 
 upon the ear like the mellifluous sounds of the flute on the pellucid 
 bosom of the placid lake. The idol of her parents, the delight of 
 their eyes, the joy of their hearts ; their looks follow her as she 
 moves, and they seem to live only in her smiles. Who would 
 mar such beauty ? Is there a touch so rude ? Look again in a
 
 REFLECTIONS OR DEATH. 95 
 
 retired room, silent as the house of death, a flickering light is seen ; 
 a form moves around with steps as light as the falling snow- 
 ilakea ; while on a bed, beneath its white drapery, palej restless, 
 emaciated, lies this beauteous fab: one. The raven hair hangs 
 loosely around her neck of snow, her dark eye kindles with un- 
 earthly brightness ; and the hue of her cheek varies from pale to 
 the deepest crimson. A sepulchral voice breaks the dreary si- 
 lence. 
 
 " Mother, I am dying !" 
 
 She stretches out her transparent hand the father enters ; he 
 bends in agony over his idolized child ; the mother, cold as the 
 lovely form before her, lays her face on her beloved daughter 5 ?, 
 kisses her marble brow, clasps in anguish her lifeless hand, 
 presses it to her lips, to her heart she bends, she weeps, she 
 is heart-broken ! 
 
 " Father*," says the dying fair one, " father, pray ; mother, 
 dear mother, we shall meet in heaven we shall see our Saviour." 
 
 Then, with a celestial smile, she looks upward, and hails the 
 messenger, Death ! 
 
 Sure, life is like a morning flower, 
 Which blossoms bright and gay ; 
 
 It lives and blooms but one short hour, 
 Before it fades away.
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 " WHY does not your father return ?" said Mrs. Selwyn, as 
 she looked anxiously from the window, on which the rain beat 
 violently; " what can detain him from home on such a night as 
 this, when the very elements seem to war with each other ?" 
 
 " I observed he was pale at dinner," said Julia. 
 
 " Did you ?" replied the mother, with a deep sigh ; " how I 
 wish he would return." 
 
 Silence reigned in Mrs. Selwyn's parlor for some moments, 
 when, rising abruptly, Mrs. Selwyn ordered more coal on the 
 grate, and inquired of James where his master was ? 
 
 " I do not know, madam," he replied ; " but when he left 
 home, I saw him, after looking around for some time, take his 
 handkerchief from his pocket, and wipe his eyes." 
 
 " Bless me, what can this mean .' Go, James, go immediately 
 to the office, and see if your master is there." 
 
 Agitated and alarmed, Mrs. Selwyn walked to and fro in her 
 princely room, whose magnificence seemed to mock the agony of 
 her soul. Julia endeavored to calm her mother's feelings by 
 assuring her all was well, and begged her to be composed. 
 
 "Oh, my child," said Mrs. Selwyn, "something unusual has 
 occurred, I am confident, or your father would not absent himself 
 from his home at this late hour, amid the peltings of this pitiless 
 storm. Oh, if he is but alive, and I can once more hear his cheer- 
 ing voice, I shall be happy." 
 
 " Look, mamma," said Julia, terrified by her mother's intense 
 anxiety, " look at these beautiful prints, and the splendid orna- 
 ments you so much desired." 
 
 " Not at present," said Mrs. Selwyn, " I could not endure the 
 sight of them now. I wish I had never seen them. Oh, my 
 husband, how willing would I give them up, and everything I 
 possess, could I once more hear your welcome voice."
 
 CONTENTMENT. 97 
 
 " Listen, mamma," said Julia, scarcely less disturbed, " they 
 are coming." 
 
 It was James. 
 
 " Where is your master ?" 
 
 " I do not know; I cannot find him ; the office is closed, and 
 it is now past one o'clock." 
 
 Clasping her hands, Mrs. Selwyn would have fainted, but a 
 step was heard. It was her husband he entered she rushed 
 forward and threw herself into his arms, as did Julia. Mr. Sel- 
 wyn folded them both to his beating heart, and then seated him- 
 self between them on the sofa. 
 
 " I see I have caused you both much anxiety, and am exceed- 
 ingly sorry." 
 
 " It is of no consequence now," said Mrs. Selwyn, " you are 
 here ; I see you, and hear your voice it is enough." 
 
 " What ails you, my dear father ?" said Julia, " you are very 
 pale ; are you sick ?" 
 
 Placing his hands over his eyes, Mr. Selwyn sighed deeply, 
 while his countenance betrayed feelings of the most intense nature. 
 
 " Mr. Selwyn," said his wife, " I can bear anything but this 
 eilence ; speak, or you will kill me." 
 
 " Can you bear anything,'' said he, " my love, but this ? Can 
 you bear disappointment, mortification, poverty, and labor ? Can 
 you bear to hear me say I am penniless ?" 
 
 " Yes," said his amiable companion, who now anticipated his 
 miserable situation, " yes, my dear, I can. Nor shall you find me 
 the weak woman you suppose." 
 
 The next day, Mr. Selwyn's property was given up to his cre- 
 ditors. When I saw them last, they were living in a small, neat 
 house, cheerful and happy. Mrs. Selwyn and Julia attended to 
 domestic concerns, while Mr. Selwyn managed a small, but ex- 
 cellent farm. I have often visited them in their days of splendor, 
 but never have I seen them more truly happy.
 
 THE LAST CALL OF THE SABBATH OF 1842. 
 
 LISTEN to the knell of departed hours ! Listen to the year's 
 last call ! Behold I am passing away with all my brightness, 
 with all my joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. I am winging 
 my way to a vast unknown, where every event I have witnessed 
 will be registered. I am going to hand in my report of Earth's 
 scenes, soon to be closed for ever ! One hour more, and the seal 
 will be made sure, the signature stamped, and laid over for the 
 great day of account. I have in my turn to follow my sister years. 
 I have shielded you through the cold blast of winter 1 have 
 spread my white ermine over the earth T have formed for your 
 delight, fairy castles sparkling with innumerable gems. Silvered 
 trees have bent in the sunbeams, emerald bowers have reflected 
 their beauty, while each young shrub has laughed in its fleeting 
 splendor. I have locked the rivers and covered the ponds with a 
 glassy pavement, where the young have bounded in their glee, and 
 passed some of the brightest hours of their existence. I have 
 warmed the earth with my gentle breath, streams of adamant have 
 dissolved, meandered sweetly in their silvery course, and ran de- 
 lighted to the ocean. Flowers have burst upon their native shrine, 
 and perfumed the air with their fragrance. The summer fruits 
 have been gathered in ; and the husbandman has rejoiced, as his 
 fields, bending with their golden store, have waved in beauty be- 
 fore him. I have appeared in majesty and glory on the floating 
 vapor. I have enrolled myself in darkness, and spoken in thun- 
 der ; and by the electric flash have purified the air for your preser- 
 vation. 1 have rained gentle showers upon the earth, and clothed 
 it in a mantle of green, embossed with flowers and shrubs to 
 please the eye. I have lingered upon the autumnal cloud, and 
 cast my mellowed light over the landscape. I have dressed the 
 western sky in gorgeous array, and from evening's glowing censer 
 thrown a flood of liquid light over the world. I have delighted
 
 THKLASTCALL. 99 
 
 the eye of -the poet with my varied hues, and brought to his con- 
 templative mind the songs of the blessed, as on the floating clouds 
 they have bent in immortal beauty over redeemed man. I have 
 overshadowed him with spirits of the departed, until the myste- 
 rious music of their golden lyres have murmured around him at 
 the softened hour of twilight. 
 
 I am once more on my throne of ice The God of storms is 
 marshalling his forces. The ice-king is coming to hold his revels 
 upon the tempest to sport with human misery around the wi- 
 dow's hearth and on the flowing deep. He chills the sailor boy 
 upon the shivered ,mast, whose last thoughts are of home and 
 mother. I am going; my speed is fleeter than the wind, swifter 
 than the weaver's shuttle ! I fly to join unnumbered years before 
 me. What tidings shall I bear to Him who created all things, 
 and bestows upon man every needed blessing ? What return, 
 oh, man, hast thou made for mercies received ? How hast thou 
 improved Sabbath days and sanctuary privileges where the sceptre 
 of divine love has been extended ? Have ye touched it, ye care- 
 less ones ? For that is all that is required of you. Touch the 
 sceptre, and you are safe ! You shall live and reign for ever and 
 ever. I am going. What shall I say ? Will you live ? One 
 short hour remains for your decision ! On these moments of 
 time may turn your everlasting destiny ! Shall 1 say to the God 
 of mercy you are thankful for his gifts ? Fathers, are you not 
 thankful for the preservation of your families ? Mothers, are you 
 grateful for your children's lives ? How many hearts have been 
 wrung ; how many idols have been rent away ; how many souls 
 have writhed in anguish over their cherished ones, while others 
 have enjoyed uninterrupted pleasure, and drank freely from the 
 enchanted cup ! Remember all is change. The brightest clouds 
 are followed by dark and impervious vapors. Storms succeed the 
 sunshine. All is fleeting, evanescent, baseless ! The Saviour is 
 pleading the hours are flying. He smiles upon you from his 
 throne of mercy. " Come," he cries, " come and revel in the 
 fullness of my joy. Come and rest in the bowers of Paradise." 
 Come, then, you young and lovely, come in the spring-tide of your 
 life. Come in your beauty, and give your hearts to God. 
 
 Bright as the world appears, many are its shadows. You will 
 need the support of divine grace in your hours of darkness. When 
 your bosoms are wrung with convulsive sorrow when smiles
 
 100 THE LAST CALL. 
 
 depart when earth's love grows cold when the averted eye, the 
 chilling neglect, the bitter retort withers the soul and drinks up 
 the senses when friends prove false, and pass away like the 
 deceitful brook when the scorching rays of an arid sky shall 
 beat upon your defenceless heads, amid the dreary desert, this cold 
 world may prove to you that Jesus Christ is the green oasis ; his 
 love, the cooling fountain ; his promises, your bowers of delight; 
 his spirit, your fullness. You will see the rivers of pleasure, and 
 wander amid the verdant groves, where the air is redolent with 
 ever blooming flowers, and where the birds of Paradise warble 
 their sweetest notes. Amid your woes you will behold the far off 
 land of bliss. Its songs will reach your spirit's depths, and buoy 
 you up through every ill. Hope, like a star of beauty, will beam 
 upon your path, and light you to the Eden above. I am going 
 time closes the shadows descend darkness enwraps the uni- 
 verse : what say you ? A few more sands remain ! Fainter, and 
 still more faintly they fall decide, for the moon's disk is in the 
 ocean ! Her brilliance is dimmed her last rays illume the moun- 
 tain ! They fade ! they die ! my missioo is closed.
 
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 
 ADELAIDE MOWBRAY was the only child of wealthy parents, 
 who hailed her birth as the brightest era of their existence. Lov- 
 ing each other with that pure and, holy affection which connects 
 kindred souls, their every wish centered in this sweet pledge of 
 their affections ; who, ere she attained her tenth year, was left an 
 orphan a prevailing disease having swept her parents 10 the 
 grave. Mrs. Mowbray's spirit was the first to soar away to a 
 brighter sphere. She committed her child to God, as an unfailing 
 friend. As she drew near the final scene, Adelaide, who but sel- 
 dom left her, clung still more closely to her bosom,, kissed her pale 
 lips again and again, as the last mortal agony fixed its seal upon, 
 her icy features. Mr. Mowbray, with a heart overflowing with 
 anguish, hung over his beloved wife, and supported her head 
 upon his bosom ; while his daughter, clasping her mother's hand, 
 pressed it to her heart. Mrs. Mowbray gazed upon them with 
 intense affection, returned their love by an agonizing kiss ; and 
 then, with a hope full of immortality, welcomed the messenger 
 of death. 
 
 Mr. Cleaveland, who was a brother of Mrs. Mowbray, on re- 
 ceiving news of her death, hastened, with Mrs. C., to their brother, 
 whom they found very ill ; and remained with him until he died, 
 which was only two weeks after the death of his wife. Sensible 
 he could not recover, Mr. Mowbiay, tenderly embracing Ade- 
 laide, committed her to the care of her uncle and aunt ; requesting 
 them to bring her up, and educate her with their own children. 
 Taking the weeping child in their arms, they promised faithfully 
 to attend to his request, and be a father and a mother unto her. 
 Their hearts were touched by her grief, as in anguish of soul she 
 clung to her beloved father ; nor could they separate her from 
 him. Knowing she must be composed, or relinquish his hand, 
 which she grasped firmly in her own, with her face resting upon
 
 102 THE COUSINS. 
 
 it, she would sit by his bed-side and gaze upon him until her 
 young heart was nigh bursting, while her only movement was 
 to frequently brush away her gushing tears. 
 
 She received a lesson in the death of her parents she never for- 
 got. She recollected, through her whole after life, the chapters 
 that were read, and the hymns that were sung around their dying 
 beds: and ere Adelaide Mowbray was twelve years of age, she 
 was a lamb of Christ's fold. 
 
 She returned with her uncle and aunt to their abode, where they 
 were welcomed by Edwin and Emma. Mr. and Mrs. Cleaveland 
 sighed as they saw the little orphan wipe away the tears from 
 her eyes, as they embraced their children. 
 
 " Come here, my dear," said Mr. Cieaveland, " these are your 
 cousins." 
 
 Emma wound her arms affectionately around Adelaide's neck, 
 and kissed her. 
 
 " You must love each other," continued Mrs. Cleaveland ; 
 " Adelaide has no parents, no brother or sister; you must be very 
 kind to her and remember, as an orphan, she has a double claim 
 upon your affections." 
 
 Adelaide retired to rest, but " tired nature's sweet restorer" fled 
 from her eyes, steeped with sorrow's tears ; while her cousins 
 rested and slept in sweet tranquillity. Parents whom she loved 
 rushed upon her mind kind words, pleasant voices, endearing 
 actions, soft and cherished smiles stole over her, and she wept 
 under their soul-subduing influence. If she for a moment be- 
 came lost in sleep, she heard the soft murmuring of their voices, 
 and her arms were extended to embrace them which effort broke 
 the ideal charm, and she awoke to a perfect consciousness of her 
 situation. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cleaveland were untiring in their efforts to render 
 her happy ; nor was Adelaide insensible to their kindness and 
 affection. 
 
 Edwin Cleaveland, although a youth, had the maturity of man- 
 hood. He was sixteen years of age when his cousin first met his 
 eyes. He saw her in the very bud of her being. As the opening 
 rose becomes more lovely by morning dews, so were the charms 
 of Adelaide heightened by her falling tears. Her mourning dress, 
 her white neck, her rich and flowing hair, her expressive eyes, 
 ever moistened by sorrow, even in her gayest mood, rendered her
 
 THE COUSINS. 103 
 
 an object of peculiar interest, as if the spirits of the departed were 
 present to her view. 
 
 Emma soon became attached to her cousin. So much did they 
 resemble each other, they were like " a double cherry seeming 
 parted, but a union in partition." Mr. Cleaveland procured teach- 
 ers of the first respectability for the girls, who closely and faith- 
 fully applied themselves to their studies. Theirs was no superfi- 
 cial education : every branch which they pursued was thoroughly 
 understood. They were proficient in the English and French 
 languages, skilled in music, fond of reading, fond of retirement, 
 and happy in themselves. Their own family circle formed their 
 world of enjoyment. No seeds of bitterness sprung up among 
 them : all was peace and love. They mingled but little with the 
 gay world : independent and free from the shackles of the fashion- 
 able routine of cily life, they studied their owji happiness, and the 
 happiness of those around them ; and their own fireside and shaded 
 arbor were to them the brightest spots below the sky. 
 
 Mr. Cieaveland's dwelling was situated on the banks of a beau- 
 tiful river, which wound its silvery way amid wooded hills and 
 valleys. The grounds around were laid out with the nicest taste, 
 exhibiting the high character of their possessor. The lawn was 
 clothed in nature's own dress, with here and there a forest tree, 
 rendered dear by associations, and which shared equally in admi- 
 ration with the magnolias which towered in majesty above them. 
 Flowers and shrubs sparkled in the sunbeams, while Adelaide and 
 Emma presided over these mute emblems of their Creator. The 
 little birds, won by their gentleness and love, warbled their sweet- 
 est notes, happy and unrestrained amid the branches. 
 
 Edwin Cleaveland watched the progress of his sister and cou- 
 sin's minds. He was at the University of R , and during 
 
 his vacations he devoted his leisure hours to them. The opening 
 charms of both surprised, while they pleased ; and he felt a 
 glowing delight, as he contrasted them with many young ladies 
 
 in the city of R . They were buoyant as the air, and their 
 
 forms were light as theyoungfawns of the mountain, when, with 
 disheveled hair and glowing cheeks, they indulged in their favor- 
 ite ramble on the river's banks, climbing the sloping hills, and 
 reposing on the velvet sod. But in conversation they were ra- 
 tional, sensible, and communicative. So well read were they in 
 the English classics, they hesitated not in giving their opinion
 
 104 THE COUSINS. 
 
 of different authors. They read no works so slightly as to be un- 
 able to judge of their merits or defects; neither praising nor con- 
 demning as the popular voice decided. This was what he wished, 
 and approved. He furnished them with the literature of the day, 
 and saw with pleasure their judicious selections. Their favorite 
 retreat was a Gothic structure on the banks of the river, at the 
 termination of the lawn, beneath the spreading branches of two 
 splendid magnolias. The room was large there being but one in 
 which was a library of select books. Flowers of various de- 
 scriptions ornamented this rural abode. The front of the veranda 
 was arched with folding doors of Venitian work ; which, when 
 opened, commanded a view of the river and the surrounding 
 scenery. It was here they loved to assemble ; it was here that 
 poetry and music hallowed every feeling of their souls, and made 
 their lives pass on in uninterrupted happiness. 
 
 At the close of a summer evening, when even nature herself 
 seemed dressed in primeval loveliness, Emma requested her bro- 
 ther to read to them, as they reclined beneath the curling vines 
 which wreathed the arched dome. 
 
 " Come," said she, " read now our favorite pieces." 
 
 Edwin cheerfully complied with her request, and taking from 
 his pocket a small book, inquired what she would like. 
 
 " Read ' Marco Bozzaris,' if you have it." 
 
 " It is here, I believe," said he. " I always carry that, and a 
 few other choice pieces with me," smiling sweetly on Adelaide 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Are they those Ady placed in your pocket-book ?" inquired 
 Emma, archly. 
 
 " Yes," replied he, opening it. " Here is Bryant's ' Thana- 
 topsis' that is a favorite piece of yours, I believe, Adelaide; 
 Hal leek's ' Marco Bozzaris ;' part of Campbell's ' Vale of Wyo- 
 ming ;' ' The Musician's Last Hour,' by Park Benjamin ; Long- 
 feliow's ' Voice of the Night ;' ' David's Lament over Absalom,' 
 by N. P. Willis, and Irving's ' Broken Heart.' Choice pieces, 
 indeed ; and now we will form a Lyceum hem ladies, which 
 piece shall be the first ?" 
 
 " Speak," said Emma to Adelaide, " for I see you are getting 
 quite sentimental." 
 
 Adelaide turned her soft blue eyes upon her cousin, while a 
 faint smile played over her countenance.
 
 THE COUSINS. 105 
 
 " Read what you please, but let the ' Musician's Last Hour' be 
 the concluding one." 
 
 " Then," said Emma, " while it is bright, read ' Marco Boz- 
 zaris.' " 
 
 Edwin commenced, but the look Adelaide gave Emma had 
 reached his very soul, quickening every pulsation of his heart. 
 Piece after piece he read, until, excited by the irresistible pathos 
 of the poems, his eyes, like the personification of Genius, kindled 
 with unusual brightness ; and never had Adelaide Mowbray 
 known until that hour, how closely her existence was connected 
 with his. During the first years they were together, he won her 
 affections by his tenderness and watchful care; many a falling 
 tear had he wiped away, and hushed many a half suppressed sob 
 and bursting sigh, which wrun^ her young and tender heart; led 
 her forth among the flowers, plucked the fairest and dressed her 
 flowing hair with wreaths his own hands had formed ; fed the 
 canary, and listened with pleasure to its reiterated notes; wooed 
 the ring-dove to their hands, and listened to its shrill.coos as they 
 caressed it. These attentions won her friendship and her affec- 
 tions ; she sighed when he was absent ; but never, never until 
 this hour, did she know how dearly she loved him. While read- 
 ing the pieces mentioned, the spirit of them took such full pos- 
 session of their hearts, that the very air seemed impregnated with 
 the witching strains of poetry ; and the breeze, as it gently moved 
 the branches of the magnolias, chimed a dulcet note to every awak- 
 ening and soul-subduing measure. The spirits of the brave, the 
 dead and dying, overshadowed them, as they sat rapt and in- 
 spired beneath the melting influence of exalted minds. 
 
 " Do not read the ' Broken Heart,' Edwin," said Adelaide. " I 
 cannot bear it now." 
 
 " No," said Emma, " do not read it, I beg of you. I confess I 
 am all poetry myself, and shall fly away, if a little more excited, 
 upon some floating zephyr." 
 
 " Shall I read the ' Musician's Last Hour ?' " said Edwin, as he 
 gazed upon Adelaide, who sat with her head resting upon her 
 cousin's bosom, whose arm was wound around her neck. 
 
 " Yes," said Adelaide, " for see, the sun's last rays are de- 
 parting." 
 
 As Edwin gazed upon her, he felt as his sister did when she 
 gaid she was all poetry: he felt as if he could have gazed, end
 
 106 THK COUSINS. 
 
 gazed for ever, on the two beautiful beings before him. " 'Where 
 shall the pure and lovely rest ?' " said he. 
 
 " Proceed," said Adelaide. 
 
 Never was that inimitable sketch read with more feeling than 
 in that hour. The air seemed rife with the harp's last echoes, 
 and the fire and enthusiasm of the dying musician, as his daugh- 
 ter swept the chords, flushed their beating hearts with the same 
 glowing flame. 
 
 " Let us return," said Adelaide. " Oh, lead us home. What a 
 scene is this ! Methinks I hear the dying away of distant music, 
 like the soul's last echo ! Oh, the sun is setting, unobscured by a 
 single ckmd. Now now he sinks is gone ! So die the right- 
 eous so let me die ?" 
 
 " Talk not of dying, dear Adelaide," said Emma ; " but really, 
 brother, you must not let me see that pocket-book again while you 
 are home. 
 
 " What shall we name this spot ?" said Edwin. 
 
 " This fatal spot," said Emma, as she saw the blush which 
 mantled the cheeks of her brother and cousin. 
 
 " It has three names already," said Edwin. " When I am 
 gone, and you here gaze upon this beauteous landscape, will 
 you think of the one, who, with you, so richly enjoyed this ban- 
 quet of soul, this never to be forgotten hour ?" 
 
 Alone in her chamber, Adelaide mused upon her feelings dur- 
 ing the past hour. " He will leave us soon, and how lonely we 
 shall be. Oh, my parents, my beloved parents, were you but here 
 to guide and direct me. But I will look to One, even my Father 
 in heaven, and pray for wisdom. There was something in that 
 setting sun that had a voice which whispered, ' so die the right- 
 eous,' when my heart responded ' so let me die.' " She took the 
 sacred volume, and opened to her favorite psalm. " Best of books," 
 cried she, " while mortals' writings pain me by their exquisite 
 power, these calm and delight me by their beautiful influence. 
 Both I love but oh ! how different the effects which they pro- 
 duce." 
 
 Calm and composed by communion with her Maker, she sunk 
 to repose ; nor awaked until Emma, kissing her forehead, beauti- 
 ful as a Madonna's, softly whispered, " Dear Adelaide, come, we 
 have an invitation to spend the day with the Misses Morton ; 
 they have company from New York, and wish for our fair selves
 
 THE COUSINS. 107 
 
 to help to form a constellation, whose brilliance shall dazzle even 
 the widower, their father." 
 
 When Adelaide appeared, there was indeed a smile upon her 
 face, like a sunset glow, which lights up every surrounding object, 
 while a roseate flush covered her face. 
 
 " My dear child," said her aunt, approaching her, " did you 
 feel fatigued with your walk last evening? Have you rested 
 well ?" and leading her to a sofa, she threw her arm around her 
 beautiful niece, and drew her closely to her affectionate bosom. 
 Mrs. Cleaveland was one of those mothers who live their lives 
 over in their children. She was the confident of each one, and 
 knew the avenues to their young hearts. She had heard from 
 Edwin of the last evening's scene : she loved her niece, and what 
 more could a fond mother wish, than to know that all around her 
 were happy. 
 
 " My dear cousin," said Emma, "are you ready for our visit ?" 
 
 Adelaide would rather have remained at home, and expressed 
 her wish to stay. 
 
 " Why, my dear," said Mrs. Cleaveland, " you are not afraid 
 to meet these city ladies, are you ?" 
 
 " No, not exactly afraid, my dear aunt, but I had rather remain 
 with you." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Emma, " I insist upon your going : there is 
 just enough poetry remaining in you to render you enchanting ; 
 and as for myself, I shall be a looker on. But go I certainly shall, 
 and see who the gay ladies are ; perhaps there is a beau among 
 them for me. What say you, my fair cousin ?" 
 
 " I will go with you," said Adelaide. 
 
 Edwin had not spoken ; he hardly knew whether he wished her 
 to go or not. But when he saw how willingly she yielded to his 
 sister's request, he banished self from his own heart, and hast- 
 ened to accompany them. 
 
 The cousins were met at the door by Frances and Elizabeth 
 Morton two sweet, blooming girls the only children of the Hon. 
 E. Morton of R . Their mother died when they were young ; 
 and they were the idols of their father's heart. They received 
 their visiters with much pleasure, and hastened to introduce them 
 to their friends. The drawing-room was rilled with gentlemen 
 and ladies, who chatted incessantly about " Fanny Elssler," "Mr. 
 Slick's Letters," " Prince de Joineville," &c., until dinner was an-
 
 108 THE COUSINS. 
 
 nounced, paying but little attention to the cousins. At the table 
 the conversation turned upon general subjects. Mr. Morton was 
 a member of Congress, possessed of a highly cultivated mind, 
 affable and agreeable in his address, attentive to all, particularly 
 to Adelaide and her cousin. He by degrees drew them forth in 
 conversation ; the readiness and tact they manifested in their quick 
 replies, their prompt and decided answers, their unrestrained man- 
 ners, their gracefulness and ease, their beauty and intelligence, 
 produced a spell, which, unconsciously to themselves, wound 
 itself around every heart. While some admired, others envied; 
 and even the orphan Adelaide, the child of tears, became the ob- 
 ject of vituperation and scorn. 
 
 " I wonder," said Miss Mountford, to a gentleman sitting near 
 her, " who these two little importants are ?" 
 
 The gentleman seeing her object, and knowing from whence it 
 came, replied, 
 
 " I do not know. I had no idea of finding such beauty and 
 talent in so secluded a place as this." 
 
 " Beauty and talent ! Do you think them handsome ?" 
 
 " I do," he replied ; " with the exception of your fair self, be- 
 yond anything I have lately, if ever, met with." 
 
 " I dislike very much to see country girls put on su;h airs ; to 
 me they are always disgusting." 
 
 " True merit," replied Mr. Vernon, " is often concealed. The 
 poet spoke true when he said 
 
 ' Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.' " 
 
 Miss Mountford bit her lip with vexation as Mr. Vernon 
 turned away. 
 
 Mr. Morton led the way to the music room, and all followed 
 him. 
 
 " Now, ladies," said he, " for the melting strains of Orpheus 
 such as shall indeed soothe the savage breast, soften rocks, and 
 bend the knotted oaks." 
 
 The Misses Mountford exulted in the victory they anticipated, 
 and with apparent pleasure suffered themselves to be led to the 
 piano. They had no idea the cousins understood music, and 
 played with manifest consciousness of their superior powers. 
 They were a long time selecting their pieces, but their taste was 
 not calculated to please. Edwin looked at the girls, but he
 
 THK COUSINS. 109 
 
 trembled not conscious pride sustained him, for he knew their 
 powers. When the Misses Mountford finished, or rather stopped, 
 with the idea of being urged to play longer, Frances Morton 
 asked Emma to play. Mr. Vernon, the gentleman who had been 
 conversing with Miss Mountford, led Emma to- the piano, and 
 while he hoped, he trembled for the lovely girl. Seating herself 
 with much composure, she turned over but one leaf when a fa- 
 vorite piece met her eye. How he was pleased, on her being 
 asked to sing, to see her commence without fear ; and listened 
 with delight to her voice, which, while it enraptured, enchained 
 his heart. She arose covered with blushes, and Mr. Vernon 
 led her to the sofa where her cousin was sitting. Mr. Morton, 
 approaching Adelaide, said, 
 
 " Will you permit me, Miss Mowbray, to conduct you to the 
 piano ?" 
 
 Adelaide looked up as if to say, excuse me, when she met the 
 encouraging eye of Edwin, who, with a sweet smile, beckoned 
 her to come. She arose with dignity, and seating herself, Edwin 
 turned to their favorite piece, " I would not live alway ;" and as 
 he pressed the leaf down with his hand he at the same time 
 pressed hers, which was under it, as if to say, fear nothing. 
 They both overheard the remarks made by Miss Mountford, and 
 he was anxious she should see what " the little important" could 
 do. At first her voice was weak and tremulous, but on recollect- 
 ing the remark, she exerted herself; and her clear, rich voice rose 
 and fell in impassioned strains with the instrument, which seemed 
 to feel the electric touch of her taper fingers, as they flew over, 
 rather than touched the keys. Not with her strength did she 
 play, not mechanically, but her whole soul was in requisition ; 
 for both Edwin's and Mr. Vernon's voice mingled with heir's ; and 
 BO forcible, so touching were her strains so imbued had she 
 become with the spirit of the words she was singing, that she 
 seemed to have forgotten all else till she had finished them. Loud 
 was the applause as she arose ; but she displayed no vanity, fox 
 she felt none. 
 
 " I dare say she is some poor clergyman's daughter," said Mies 
 Mountford to Mr. Williams, a young lawyer present, " and this 
 is all done for effect." 
 
 " And what an effect it has produced," he replied -with em- 
 phasis.
 
 ,-<m 
 
 110 THE COUSINS. 
 
 As Miss M. was turning over some plates which lay upon the 
 centre table, she covered her eyes with her hands as she caught 
 Mr. Vernon looking steadily upon her. He was a young gentle- 
 man whose friendship she prized above all others, and whom she 
 had for a long time hoped to have ranked in the list of her admi- 
 rers. But he was a person of too much good sense to be duped 
 by the artifice of an envious woman. He had heard from the 
 Misses Morton a glowing description of the fair cousins whom he 
 had admired. He had long been in the fashionable world, and, 
 tired of its empty show and parade, was really " in search of a 
 wife" one who would make his home pleasant, mingle in his 
 feelings, and manage his affairs with discretion ; whose mind as 
 well as person was adorned with every necessary grace. Emma 
 Cleaveland was one with whom he thought he could be happy. 
 
 The next day, as he was walking with Mr. Morton, he in- 
 quired of him concerning the cousins. Mr. Morton spoke in the 
 highest terms of Mr. Cleaveland ; and observed, as they were 
 near his dwelling, they would call upon them. They were re- 
 ceived with much politeness by the family, and after spending an 
 hour very pleasantly, they returned. 
 
 " You see," said Mr. Morton, " what an excellent mother and 
 aunt these young ladies are blest with. Mrs. Cleaveland is a 
 woman of excellent mind, good taste, and sound judgment. She 
 manages her household affairs herself ; and in addition to the young 
 ladies' other accomplishments, they are excellent housewives." 
 
 Man) inquiries were made on their return, much to the chagrin 
 and mortification of the Misses Mountford, who were surprised to 
 hear of Miss Mowbray's wealth. Frances and Elizabeth Morton 
 were sincerely attached to the cousins, and when they saw how 
 certainly envy would punish itself, they learned a lesson they 
 ever afterwards remembered. 
 
 Edwin Cleaveland and Charles Vernon were kindred souls: a 
 friendship which was never broken commenced with their first in- 
 terview, ft had long been Edwin's determination to visit Europe. 
 Charles Vernon concluded to go with him. The morning they 
 left, the vows of both parties were plighted, and they parted with 
 the pleasing anticipation of being united on their return. 
 
 It was in April when they left; Adelaide and Emma, like the 
 fitful month, were sunshine and tears, as they dwelt upon those 
 hours which preceded their departure. Like the roses of summer,
 
 THE COTSINS. til 
 
 they bloomed in their native vale, lovelier for their retirement. 
 Although the cousins loved each other from their first interview, 
 ties of a holier nature now bound them more firmly together. 
 Their eyes were the index of their minds, and they read each 
 other's souls by intuition. They walked, read, and sung together. 
 How many would have given thousands for their unrivalled skill 
 in music, which, like the rose in the desert, often wafted its 
 sweetness over their own happy souls when alone. From one 
 altar arose their hearts' pure incense; for they both knew and 
 realized the sources of all their enjoyments. Both clung to the 
 same promises, while their prayers and thanksgivings blended to- 
 gether. And never were more fervent petitions offered up for a 
 friend and brother, than arose from the lips o* these fair cousins. 
 
 One evening, as they with their parents were seated around the 
 centre table, all looking over the numerous publications just 
 handed in, Adelaide's attention was arrested by an article which 
 met her eye. Hardly conscious of what she did, she touched 
 Emma's hand, which hung over her shoulder, and pointed to the 
 place. A mist seemed to blind her, as she motioned to her cousin 
 to read what she could not. 
 
 " What have you found, my children ?" said Mr. Cleaveland, 
 seeing their agitation, his own countenance expressive of deep 
 emotion. 
 
 Emma handed the paper to her father, who read aloud the sup- 
 posed loss of the President, in which ill-fated vessel it had been 
 the intention of the two Iriends to sail ; or, if disappointed in this 
 respect, in one of the regular sailing packets the New York, 
 
 " Did Edwin surely sail in that ship ?" inquired Mrs. Cleaveland, 
 
 " I cannot really say," replied her husband ; " do you know, 
 girls, in which packet he sailed ?" 
 
 " I think," said Emma, " it was in the New York." 
 
 "Do you know, my dear Adelaide?" tenderly inquired her 
 uncle, seeing her extreme nervousness. 
 
 "Indeed I do not; but I think the President. Edwin thought 
 he should go in her." 
 
 "I think so too," replied Mr. Cleaveland. "But this may be 
 only a rumor ; I presume she is safe ; she is a noble ship strong, 
 well manned, and faithfully proved." 
 
 " What is proof, my dear uncle, against winds and waves ?" 
 said Adelaide.
 
 112 THE COUSINS. 
 
 " God holds them in his fist, my beloved one," said her aunt ; 
 " cheer up, my child, I feel they are safe ;" while the falling tear 
 she endeavored in vain to conceal, told a different tale. But Mrs. 
 Cleaveland did feel her heart comforted by her knowledge of a 
 supreme power ; and there was something in her own soul which 
 cheered her darkness, and illuminated every hour of gloom. 
 
 Time passed on ; but no further tidings came. All was anx- 
 iety all was still ; the sun shone in vain, the flowers opened and 
 died unheeded, the canary's notes no longer delighted, and the 
 music ceased. Close doors, constant examination and prayer, 
 were the daily scenes of that once cheerful abode. 
 
 Mr. Cleaveland went directly to New York, where he found the 
 names of his son and Mr. Vernon entered as usual for the Presi- 
 dent; but upon further inquiry he found that they were also en 
 tered for the New York. It appeared that, from some unknown 
 circumstance, they had changed their minds in respect to the Pre- 
 sident ; and, owing to the hurry and bustle of the moment, it was 
 left undetermined in which vessel they sailed. Notwithstanding 
 this unsatisfactory intelligence, and although darkness had shroud- 
 ed their horizon, hope, like a star of beauty, gleamed faintly in 
 the distance. Emma indeed felt, but, like her mother, she did not 
 despair. She seemed impressed with the idea of their safety. 
 
 Not so Adelaide. " From my childhood's hour," said she to 
 Emma, as she wiped away the falling tears, " have I been the vic- 
 tim of sorrow and disappointment ! What did I ever love but was 
 sure to fade and die ? Come, let us go to the consecrated spot 
 where Edwin told us to remember him ; for oh ! I feel we shall 
 never meet again." 
 
 " Dear Adelaide," said Emma, " you had better not ; your eye 
 is sunken, your cheek is pale, and you are unwell." 
 
 " Perfectly well," replied Adelaide. " Pray accompany me ; if 
 not, I shall go alone " 
 
 Emma looked at her mother. 
 
 " Go, my love," said Mrs. Cleaveland, " go with your cousin, 
 but do not stay ;" and kissing them both, she returned to her 
 chamber to weep. 
 
 Neither of the cousins spoke until they reached the beautiful, 
 the charming, the consecrated spot. Adelaide threw back her bon- 
 net; her hair, escaping at the same time from its confinement, 
 hung in loose curls around her beautiful neck, and her counte-
 
 THE COUSINS. 113 
 
 nance beamed with mingled emotion, as she exclaimed with enthu- 
 siasm, 
 
 " Look, my Emma, that is the same glorious sunset as on the 
 evening when Edwin read to us ; look, my cousin, see the gor- 
 geous hues of the western sky ; see the shadows upon the moun- 
 tains just so, when he read Bryant's ' Thanatopsis ;' when we 
 could almost see, in the varying colors, man's constant changes 
 Remember you not the kindling up of his eye, the swelling of his 
 breast, as he read the concluding sentence ' Hast thou followed 
 in the caravan, my love, my love?'" she exclaimed; "hast thou 
 indeed wrapped thy mantle around thee and laid down to soft and 
 pleasant dreams ?" 
 
 Emma did not interrupt her : she gazed upon her like an angel 
 of light ; she saw an unearthly lustre enkindling her countenance, 
 and her heart drank in the spirit of her dream, and mingled in her 
 aspirations. Stretching out her beautiful hands, as the sun sank 
 beneath the horizon, she cried " So die the righteous ! was I not 
 right? Edwin, in your last hour remembered you not your Ade- 
 laide ? Thought you not of this hallowed spot ? But we shall 
 meet again ryes, in the spirit land, where all is bright, and no 
 earthly mixture comes : 
 
 ' There we shall meet as heretofore, 
 On that unknown and silent shore.' " 
 
 She stood gazing upon the scene for a moment, when sh.e ex- 
 claimed, " Who brought the harp to thee ? What were the notes 
 which fell upon thy ear ? Not thy Adelaide's or thy Emma's 
 voice, like Ella's, soothed thy last hours: the wind-god swept the 
 strings, while ocean's depths sent back its echoes ; and thy blest 
 soul in the mysterious music soared to its native heaven ?" 
 
 " Adelaide, my dear Adelaide, let us return," said Emma, over- 
 come by her emotions. 
 
 Adelaide spoke not ; she was still, calm, and beautiful. "Her 
 enthusiasm had ceased, her soul had wasted its energies, scarcely 
 a pulse moved the mysterious mechanism of her heart ; when, 
 casting a hurried glance on all around, she gathered her veil about 
 her neck, and Emma put on her bonnet, and, without speaking, 
 returned home. Mr. and Mrs Cleaveland met them, and were 
 both struck with their appearance. Emma had been weeping, 
 and her face was flushed. Adelaide was pale and cold as marble ; 
 and ere they reached the house, almost as senseless. Mr. Cleave-
 
 114 THE COUSINS. 
 
 land raised her in his arms, and bore his lovely burthen home. A 
 physician was sent for ; her aunt and Emma watched with her 
 through the night; a burning fever was upon her, and for many 
 days her life quivered upon a single point. Frances and Eliza- 
 beth Morton were continually with her, assisting in administering 
 to her wants. Her youth and constitution prevailed over the dis- 
 ease; and, as consciousness returned, the first object she saw was 
 her aunt hanging over her who, kissing her affectionately, whis- 
 pered, " be composed, my child, all is well." 
 
 All was well; for while Mrs. Cleaveland and Emma hung over 
 Adelaide's bed, listening to her wild and incoherent murmurings, 
 which were stilled only by the repetition of some sweet promises 
 from God's holy word, or some treasured hymn while Mr. 
 Cleaveland was walking the room almost in a state of distraction, 
 the post-boy, ever a welcome guest, entered with letters, giving 
 him ihe pleasing intelligence of Edwin's and Mr. Vernon's safety. 
 They were in Boston arrived in the Caledonia, from Liverpool; 
 and would, after spending a few days in New York, return home. 
 Mr. Cleaveland stood like one amazed ; he was transfixed ; he 
 spoke not stirred not, until a servant inquired if he would have 
 a chair. Awakening from a reality of brightness, which he fan- 
 cied still a vision, he sought Mrs. Cleaveland, and communicated 
 the cheering news. 
 
 "God be praised!" she exclaimed. " Oh, my children my 
 children my children, how have I felt for you ! How have I 
 died and revived under your smiles and tears." 
 
 " How is Adelaide ?" inquired Mr. Cleaveland. 
 
 "No better- wild and restless; continually murmuring some 
 melting expression. I have, as I watched her through the night, 
 thought there was a slight change foi the better, but I dare not 
 hope. I will go to her immediately, and send Emma to you." 
 
 Mrs. Cleaveland entered Adelaide's chamber as she opened her 
 eyes from a peaceful slumber of half an hour, with Emma's cheek 
 laid down to her's, who herself was sleeping when her mother 
 entered; kiseing Adelaide, she softly whispered, "All is well: 
 be quiet, my child here is Emma close your eyes again, my 
 love, while I watch you both." 
 
 Weak and feeble, Adelaide faintly smiled, and turning her face 
 nearer to her beloved cousin, gently lell asleep. Mrs. Cleaveland's 
 heart beat with fearful rapidity her frame seemed panting with
 
 THE COUSINS. 113 
 
 excess of joy. If ever mortal tasted of an unmingled cup of bliss, 
 Mrs. Cleaveland did, as she gazed upon those lovely children of her 
 heart's deep affection knowing those they loved best on earth, 
 for whom their every prayer was breathed, were safe her Edwin 
 well perhaps on his way home. A ray of light beamed in her 
 countenance when the cousins awoke together, and Adelaide gave 
 evidence of her return to consciousness. Emma, scarcely know- 
 ing whether she was asleep or awake, gazed first upon her mo- 
 ther and then upon Adelaide ; the wildness of whose eyes had fled, 
 while a lustrous softness remained, as she closed her long silken 
 lashes, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Mrs. Cleaveland 
 brought her some nourishment. She partook of it and motioned 
 for more, saying, " This is good, my dear aunt." 
 
 Frances Morton took her seat by the bed-side, as Mrs. Cleave- 
 land and Emma withdrew Emma, that she might yield to the 
 joy of grief; Mrs. Cleaveland, that she might tell her child the 
 pleasing news of her brother's and lover's safety. 
 
 " Weep not, my Emma," said Mrs. Cleaveland, as the lovely 
 girl, in the fullness of her soul, shed the gushing tears of gratitude. 
 
 " Oh, let me weep, my mother ! these are delicious tears. She 
 lives ! she knows me, and I am contented." 
 
 " Emma, my child, be composed; there is great bliss in store 
 for you," and taking her in her arms, she unfolded the pleasing 
 tale. Emma sobbed aloud upon her mother's bosom, and their 
 tears mingled as they fell. 
 
 " Let us go to our beloved Adelaide," said Emma. 
 
 " Be sure you do not say one word, my child ; the least excite- 
 ment would injure, if not destroy her." 
 
 When Mrs. Cleaveland and Emma entered, Frances Morton was 
 conversing in a low tone with Adelaide, whose hand was clasped 
 in her's. 
 
 ' My dear aunt," said Adelaide, " have I been dreaming ?" 
 
 " If you have, it is sufficient you are now awake ; be still and 
 quiet, and in a few days you may talk with us, and sit up a little." 
 
 "May I, dear aunt?" she replied, when a shade passed over 
 her beautiful features, as a fleecy cloud passes over the face of 
 the sun, concealing for a moment the resplendent beams. Mrs. 
 Cleaveland understood the cause, and motioning for the girls to 
 withdraw, she sweetly soothed her lovely niece by telling her 
 who ruled and reigned.
 
 Two weeks had passed from the day Adelaide awoke from her 
 fearful delirium. As she from day to day regained her strength, 
 she saw a smile so sweet resting upon the countenance of her 
 uncle, aunt, and Emma, she could not avoid remarking it. 
 
 " We are so glad you are better," said her aunt, reading her 
 heart. 
 
 " Oh, hut you are so cheerful." 
 
 Her lip trembled as she spoke, and, covering her face with her 
 hands, she burst into tears. It was then with the greatest caution 
 they hade her hope. Adelaide, with intensity of soul, watched 
 every word, investigated every look questioned them ; until, 
 with much trembling, fearing that, as she drank so deeply of the 
 cup of bitterness, these mercy drops would burst the frail tenure 
 of her existence, they told her of Edwin's safety. As the flowers 
 of summer, withered beneath the scorching rays of an arid sky, 
 when moistened by the dews of heaven in the morning, bloom 
 and blush with renovated beauty, so did the news of Edwin's 
 safety heal the malady of her heart ; and as the springs of life 
 were again moved by the seraph Hope, Adelaide looked up and 
 lived. The meeting of friends is a bliss too sacred for the pen of 
 mortals to paint. Let the curtain close over the soul's full foun- 
 tain, and imagination brings home a joy so full and overflowing. 
 The meeting was such as is only known in those families where 
 love is the connecting chain ; where the happiness of one is the 
 happiness of all ; where the slightest sigh finds a response in 
 every heart, and the smiles ot content, like the sun's bright rays, 
 dispense joy and pleasure to all around. Daily did the fair invalid 
 regain her strength ; and beauty, rendered more transcendently 
 beautiful by sorrow and joy, robed Adelaide Mowbray in her 
 brightest hues.. 
 
 Edwin and Mr. Vernon had concluded when they left home to 
 embark in the President, b,ut a friend of Mr. Vernon had taken 
 passage on board the New York, with his family, and being a par- 
 ticular acquaintance of his, and engaged in the same business, he 
 and Edwin changed their minds and sailed in the same vessel. 
 
 They wrote from Havre, after a passage of fifteen days. These 
 letters, however, never reached those for whom they were de- 
 signed ; and the want of opportunity, owing to their rapid travel- 
 ling, together with, perhaps, a little more neglect than should have 
 been manifested under the circumstances, the gentlemen did not
 
 THE COUSINS. 117 
 
 trouble themselves with writing again until they had reached Bos- 
 ton, on their return home. Hence the uncertainty in which the 
 family remained for so long a time, and the serious consequences 
 that followed. From Havre they proceeded up the Seine to Rouen ; 
 thence in a post chaise to Paris, where they tarried for some time, 
 much delighted in viewing the vast variety of interesting and 
 delightful objects of nature and art which met their eyes in every 
 direction. They left Paris in a diligence for Brussels, passed 
 through a portion of Belgium, visited Ghent, Antwerp, &c. Took 
 boat for Rotterdam, thence to Amsterdam, where, after spending a 
 week, they returned to Rotterdam by the Hague, and embarked 
 for London, where they remained for some weeks, busily engaged 
 in " sight-seeing" gazing upon what unnumbered eyes had be- 
 held before on scenes which had often been pictured forth by 
 able and glowing pens, both in history and poetry. By mail coach 
 they proceeded to Oxford, Stratford, and a number of other places; 
 visited Melrose and Abbotsford, and arrived in Edinburgh, where 
 they spent some time in making excursions to old abbeys and cas- 
 tles : next to the highlands of Scotland, visiting Falkirk, Stirling', 
 and Bannockburn, and many other places of note ; sailed up Loch 
 Lomond, stopping at Ellen's Island ; then passing on to Rob Roy's 
 cave, rambled over ^e hills and ascended Ben Lomond ; thence in 
 a steamboat to Dunbarton, and thence by the Clyde to Glasgow ; 
 visited the Giant's Causeway ; thence to Dublin, crossed over to 
 Liverpool, where they embarked on board the Caledonia, and left 
 the old world for the new, with the joyful anticipations of their 
 approaching union. Their hearts were truly pained at the recital 
 of the sufferings their absence had caused their friends. But now 
 all was joy and gladness again, and Edwin and Adelaide deter- 
 mined upon a speedy union. Emma and Charles Vernon were 
 to be married at the same time ; and again the sun of prosperity 
 beamed upon their dwelling. 
 
 " Emma," said Adelaide, one day, as the gentlemen were plan- 
 ning their bright schemes of future happiness, " I vrould like to 
 select a place " for the ceremony, she would have said, when, 
 blushing deeply, she hesitated. 
 
 " Speak, my Adelaide," said Edwin, "select a place for what?" 
 
 " For our union," replied the lovely girl. 
 
 " It shall be just where you please, and just as you please," re- 
 plied he, " but let it be soon."
 
 118 THE COUSINS. 
 
 " Where," asked Mr. Vernon, " is the favored place ?" 
 
 " That must remain a secret between myself and Emma," re- 
 plied Adelaide. 
 
 " We will confide cheerfully in your selection," said he, taking 
 Emma's hand, " hearts like yours will hallow every spot, and 
 beings like yourselves will confer peace and happiness upon any 
 place." 
 
 It was in the leafy month of June, when the Gothic structure, 
 beautifully decorated by nature and art, formed the sacred spot 
 where the altar of Hymen was erected. Frances and Elizabeth 
 Morton, ever happy in dispensing pleasure, assisted Adelaide and 
 Emma in decorating the temple dedicated to Friendship, with fes- 
 toons of laurel and woodbine, hanging a garland of the choicest 
 flowers from their arch. And there, at the close of a day without 
 clouds, on that spot, that hallowed .fatal spot where the extreme 
 of life's pulsations had vibrated where the Muses held their revel, 
 and wound their hidden spells around the heart where they had 
 feasted upon the beauties of nature and drank deep of the soul of 
 poetry there, upon the banks of that beautiful river, while the 
 sun was casting his last rays athwart the landscape, they gave 
 themselves to each other in the sight of earth and heaven.
 
 THE SOUL'S OWN HOUR. 
 
 THE day, with its vicissitudes, had closed. The din of business 
 had ceased. The laborer had found rest in his humble cot. The 
 breezes of evening had chimed their vesper hymn. Night in ray- 
 less majesty curtained the earth with its sombre pall. The light 
 step and the merry laugh had passed away with its own echo, and 
 silence swayed her magic wand over the whole face of nature. 
 Then came a hush which wound its spell over the soul, and con- 
 centrated all the pulses of life. The past appeared in the distance 
 like a speck in the horizon like the vanishing away of clouds 
 after a brilliant sunset like the dying away of those bright tints 
 which gleam athwart the heavens, and fade quickly from the sight. 
 The past! oh, tell me where it is ? Or rather, tell me where it is 
 not ? The happy days of childhood, which awake with the blush- 
 ing morn, and slumbered with the dewy eve ; the school-house 
 bell, which operated like a charm upon each young heart; the 
 cheerful faces, convened over their accustomed tasks, bespeaking 
 minds free from care ; the shrill laugh, and the hum of busy 
 voices, which mingle wildly in the wanton breeze ; youth, with 
 her chaplet of bright flowers, and her breath sweet as the lone 
 rose of the desert, her step light, and her bosom throbbing with 
 the pure impulse of nature ; the early dawn, the spangled vale, 
 the lofty mountain with its mystic wreaths of vapor: the tall 
 forest trees and the opening blossoms, filled the heart with delight 
 and pleasure. There was joy there was bliss, in listening to the 
 warbling of the birds, as from bough to bough their shrill notes 
 came trilling on the ear. There was rapture in the parent's eye, 
 as the look of love beamed soft upon the soul, imparting a sense 
 of the depth of that holy affection which reigns in a father's and 
 a mother's bosom. The expression, though untold, can never be 
 forgotten. It lingers upon the mind; and though, like the faint 
 rays of the evening, it seems at times scarcely perceptible, yet
 
 120 THI SOUL'S OWN 
 
 such is its mysterious power, that the slightest touch of sorrow 
 kindles the lambent flame ; and its hallowed influence once felt, 
 the soul clings to the dear remembrance, and will for ever cling, 
 even while it sickens at the recollections of the past yet rejoices 
 that it has been. From youth we step to maturer age ; when 
 cares, hopes, pleasures, pains and anxieties, cluster together ; 
 when the full beams ~of the noon-tide sun descend; when the 
 autumn of our lives succeed spring and summer, and we see, if 
 ever, the fulfilment of our hopes. Then, at quiet eve, when our 
 schemes are accomplished when the light and shade of our lives 
 have passed away, and the sun has climbed far over the zenith, 
 and the lengthening shadows of the evening extend over the land- 
 scape when the silver chord is loosening, and the bowl marred, 
 if not broken, at the fountain when twilight leads the mind to 
 gaze upon the stars, those silent messengers of the skies, as one 
 by one they faintly gleam in the blue vault of heaven ; and the 
 crescent moon slowly wends her way over the towering trees, until 
 unobserved by their waving branches, she peers aloft in all their 
 transcendent brightness then comes the hush over the soul ! an 
 indescribable stillness, mingled with the sweet recollections of by- 
 gone days. Then comes the spirit's hour ! when it communes 
 with its God ; and looks away to those pure mansions, where 
 blooms eternal youth, where change never comes, where no sick- 
 ening thoughts of the past cast a shade over the soul, and cause 
 the heart to exclaim, " O, that I had wings like a dove, for then I 
 would fly away and be for ever at rest."
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 CHILDHOOD and Youth, like the sweet flowers of summer, are 
 beautiful : beautiful in their own bright forms happy in their 
 own sweet visions. Light as the air they breathe, no cares, no 
 anxieties press upon them, save those which are like the still dews 
 of evening that fall on the blushing flowers, and pass away in the 
 first rays of the morning sun. 
 
 Childhood and Youth, like flowers, soon fade soon cease to at- 
 tract, by their richness and beauty, the admiring eye. Some retain 
 their fragrance, long after their loveliest hues are fled while 
 others more gaudy, more strikingly brilliant, expire as they close 
 their bright petals, and we know them no more for ever : no per- 
 fume remains to render their faded leaves precious. How neces- 
 sary for the young to cultivate their minds while living among 
 sunshine and flowers, and derive instruction from them. As they 
 grow in years, and enter upon the active duties of life, how desir- 
 able it is that they should perform their part upon its tragic stage, 
 in such a manner as shall render them useful and respected. 
 They will soon be parents soon have the care of young mor- 
 tals ; surrounded by those who will look up to them for amuse- 
 ment and instruction. Their minds must be cultivated, if they 
 would be happy and make others so ; their hearts store- houses of 
 intelligence, from which should emanate all that can delight. 
 Home must be the bright spot; earth must know none which can 
 equal it. It must be the resort of love, of peace, of joy. Every- 
 thing depends upon the proper cultivation of the mind. Let the 
 Bible be first studied ; it is from this sacred fount the infant 
 becomes first nourished. How the bright eyes of the listening 
 cherubs gleam with the varied emotions of joy and grief, at the 
 recital of its interesting stories ! 
 
 Let truth be first stamped upon opening intellects, for great is the 
 pleasure derived from this pure fountain of enjoyment! The
 
 122 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 mother can gain much by conversing with her children ; they can 
 be calmed and stilled in this way, better than in any other. 
 Children become weary of their playthings, and are often irrita- 
 ble : their feelings must be soothed by their mother ; this is her 
 peculiar province ; and as they grow in years she must strengthen 
 her efforts. Home must still be the elysium of their souls. If sepa- 
 rated, much still depends upon the mother ; she must follow her 
 children with her letters and her counsel. Her communications 
 must be such as to keep alive the flame of love, and draw their 
 minds back to the scenes of their childhood, that, however remote 
 they may be in whatever situation they may be placed in temp- 
 tation, in sickness, in health, in prosperity or adversity like a 
 charm, home and mother must operate upon them, and prove a 
 talisman to guide them all in their devious ways. 
 
 In affliction's stormy hour, when the bright orb of day is shut 
 from the weakened eye when the voice of song is hushed, and 
 the rambling among the flowers are over when the same mono- 
 tonous scene occurs from day to day, from month to month, and 
 not unfrequently from year to year, it is then the mind seeks relief : 
 it wants enjoyment, for it is an active principle which will never, 
 which can never sleep ; and the more intense the suffering the 
 more active the spirit. Nothing can chain it ; it will work it will 
 ruminate upon the by-gone scenes of joy and grief ; lights and 
 shades pass over it. It receives consolation from its own re- 
 sources. The books studied, the lessons imparted, sermons well di- 
 gested, miscellanies, lyrics, poetry, history, &c., all serve to com- 
 fort and relieve the aching mind. Persons in distress can over- 
 come a thousand nameless evils, by reciting or composing ; such 
 a train of thoughts overcomes pain and lifts the soul above earth. 
 How necessary to enrich the mind in early life, before " the evil 
 days come." It dies not with the body ; it runs parallel with God. 
 It is a living, undying principle, and must be enriched here. The 
 more it knows of God, the more it will be like him ; and the bet- 
 ter prepared for sublimer enjoyments above. The soul that views 
 God in all his works, in every tree, shrub, and flower, " sees him 
 in clouds, and hears him in the wind." With every change, with 
 every object, associates the Deity. That soul lives a life truly great, 
 and will rise high in a purer clime, amid that bright constellation 
 of intellectual beings who worship continually before the throne 
 of God and the Lamb. Let the youth attend to these things, and
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 123 
 
 for a moment suspend their anxiety for the outward adornment of 
 their persons; and remember, a well educated mind is a jewel far 
 more estimable in the eyes of an intelligent man, than the most 
 beautiful exterior, deficient of this treasure. It is the only source 
 of permanent enjoyment here, and will enhance their happiness in 
 another and a brighter world.
 
 POETICAL PIECES. 
 
 THE .&GEAN SEA. 
 
 THE jEgean sea ! how beautiful 
 
 Its sun-lit waters flow ; 
 Where fabled Delos floated once 
 
 Till Juno's dreadful vow, 
 That on the earth there should no spot 
 
 Be found for one, whose charms 
 Dimm'd here a moment, and seduc'd 
 
 Her husband from her arms. 
 
 To shun her wrath, immortal Jove, 
 
 To Delos quick convey'd 
 The fair Latona, where her boy 
 
 The floating island stay'd : 
 The fam'd Apollo, he whose lute 
 
 Sent forth such rapt'rous strains 
 The rocks were charm'd the birds were mute 
 
 Upon the dewy plains. 
 
 The swains, delighted, in the vales, 
 
 Danced on the blooming flowers ; 
 As his soft voice on whispering .gales 
 
 Stole o'er the vine-clad bowers. 
 The ^Egean sea ! how beautiful ! 
 
 It opens on the eye, 
 As soft and clear its azure blue, 
 
 Mirrors the spangled sky.
 
 126 THE AEGEAN SEA. 
 
 The JEgean sea ! the ^Egean sea ! 
 
 How charming is the name ; 
 Go read the Greek mythology 
 
 And learn from whence it came. 
 Once jEgeus and his son agreed 
 
 A monster to destroy ; 
 And as a sign, should he succeed, 
 
 He told his darling boy, 
 
 To raise on high the snow-white sail 
 
 Upon the floating tide, 
 In triumph on the prosperous gale, 
 
 His noble bark should ride ; 
 But should th' immortal Gods oppose, 
 
 And Jove his thunders hurl, 
 Then, as the white wave 'round him flows, 
 
 The broad, black seal unfurl. 
 
 Theseus departs, the monster slays 
 
 By Ariadne led ; 
 And from his labyrinthian cave, 
 
 Brought forth the monster dead ! 
 Low at her feet, his laurels green 
 
 Theseus delighted laid ; 
 She smil'd, he lov'd, till by a wretch 
 
 She was from him betray'd ! 
 
 So full of anguish was his soul 
 
 At his ill-fated lot, 
 The waves unheeded round him roll, 
 
 The signal is forgot ! 
 He thought not of that anxious mind 
 
 On winds and waves intent 
 That father, whom he left behind, 
 
 With age and sorrow bent. 
 
 The ship of Theseus presses on 
 Toward the whitened sands,
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Where high upon the towering rock, 
 
 The aged jEgeus stands. 
 Far off, upon the deep blue main, 
 
 He turns his eager eyes ; 
 And in the misty distance sees 
 
 A sail in faintness rise ! 
 
 The whitened flag meets not his view 
 
 And in his heart-felt grief 
 For Theseus, by the monster slain, 
 
 Sprung from the shelving reef ! 
 Deep in the opening, foaming spray, 
 
 He sank in maniac glee ! 
 And in that last sad fatal leap, 
 
 Baptiz'd th' uEgean sea. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON ROCKAWAY BEACH 
 
 Written while at the residence of Benj. F. Thompson, Biq. 
 
 OCEAN ! majestic, beautiful and grand ! 
 
 Thy waves enchain me by their ceaseless roar ; 
 Thou elder brother of the solid land, 
 
 I stand entranced upon thy lonely shore. 
 Creative fancy pictures to my view 
 
 The thrilling scenes which once was witnessed here ; 
 When the tall ship and her devoted crew 
 
 Perished amid these waters deep and clear.
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Hark ! on the breeze from the engulfing wave, 
 
 I hear the shrieks of mortals in despair ; 
 Is there no arm, Eternal Power, to save ? 
 
 No ear to listen to their dying prayer ? 
 High rolls the sea, and dark each flying cloud, 
 
 The howling storm comes rushing from afar; 
 The tempest raves in moanings long and loud, 
 
 Enwrapped in gloom is every beaming star ! 
 
 On billows high the reeling ship is tossed, 
 
 Like a mere feather on the boundless waste ; 
 Her chart, her compass, and her anchor lest, 
 
 While o'er her deck the wild waves madly haste. 
 Far in the distance, like a snowy bird, 
 
 She skims along, and nears the treacherous strand ; 
 Amid the blast, from sinking souls is heard 
 
 The piteous cry, " Oh, bear us to the land 1" 
 
 The little boat leaps o'er the swelling wave, 
 
 It rises high now sinks now mounts again ; 
 Gains the tall ship, and from a watery grave 
 
 Preserves a few, and brings them to the main. 
 Brings a fond mother, and her children dear, 
 
 But where's the husband father tell me where ? 
 God speed the boat ! again it ventures near 
 
 Hope lives ! it dies ! Love, what avails thy prayer ? 
 
 Behold the husband clinging to the wreck, 
 
 He sees with joy the little skiff afar 
 Life, love, and joy the world a misty speck, 
 
 Illumin'd only by hope's tremulous star. 
 How vain its light ! For ever fled its beams 1 
 
 The little boat returns to him no more ! 
 He stares, as from some strange bewildering dream, 
 
 And wakes upon a still more boundless shore !
 
 REFLECTIONS. 129 
 
 Scarce dies the echo on the listening ear, 
 
 When louder, clearer, comes the startling wail ! 
 Borne on the blast amid the tempest drear, 
 
 Rising in anguish o'er the shivering gale ! 
 What numbers line the sandy beach. Dismay'd 
 
 They hear the shrieks, but no relief can give ; 
 Fain would they yield the dying sufferers aid, 
 
 Could they but reach their fated bark and live. 
 
 *Tis vain ! No answer to their cry is given 
 
 Their starting tear bespeaks their inward grief; 
 'Till one may his reward be sweet in heaven ! 
 
 Hisk'd his own life and sprung to their relief. 
 While Ocean's God above the wild waves flies, 
 
 Spurring his steeds o'er the phosphoric deep ; 
 He braves the storm, and every effort tries, 
 
 And saves the master by one desperate leap ! 
 
 One thrilling wail ascends upon the breeze, 
 
 Floats o'er the deep, and echoes from the shore ; 
 The proud ship sinks amid the flowing seas, 
 
 And hope's bright visions die to live no more. 
 Wave after wave bears on its glassy breast, 
 
 The lov'd of many a fond and faithful heart ; 
 Clasp'd close in death, in calm repose they rest, 
 
 Nor winds, nor waves, <;an ever more them part. 
 
 But who are these ? how beautiful that form 
 
 How sweet the expression of that lovely face ; 
 Surely they cared not for the gath'ring storm, 
 
 So closely they cling within love's dear embrace. 
 And this sweet babe, upon whose young fair brow, 
 
 With what delight the mother's lip has press'd ; 
 Colder than ice, or mountain's drifted snow, 
 
 It slumbers deep upon her frozen breast. 
 
 The marble spire that rears its pointed head, 
 Where buried hopes and joys are now inurn'd,
 
 130 FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 Warns the lone traveller to lightly tread 
 
 On forms which once with joyous spirits bum'd. 
 
 'Twas hard to die when all was bright and new, 
 The port they longed for just within their sight ; 
 
 Their souls exulting in the opening view, 
 To sink for ever in eternal night ! 
 
 ON READING TRIER'S HISTORY OF THE 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 WHEN evil discord rent a nation's breast, 
 
 And all was horror, terror, and dismay ; 
 When crowds on crowds in wild confusion press'd, 
 
 Like thirsty bloodhounds in pursuit of prey ; 
 Hearts firm, undaunted as the mountain height, 
 
 Met the full torrent of the purple gore ; 
 Shrank not amid the cannon's flashing light, 
 
 But stood unshrinking 'mid the dread uproar. 
 
 Ill-fated France ; convuls'd, dishonor'd, riven 
 
 How sad the fate of her beloved ones ; 
 When youth and talent to the block were given, 
 
 And on the scaffold bled her martyr'd sons! 
 When frantic woman clasped the manly form 
 
 Of him she loved, and hung in wild despair 
 Upon his bosom, heedless of the storm 
 
 Which howl'd terrific through the troubled air, 
 
 Conflicting passions, like the heaving main, 
 Convuls'd each breast, and madly bore along
 
 FRENCH BEVOLUTION. 131 
 
 TV infuriated mob, as treacherous, as vain, 
 
 Seeking revenge 'mid ribaldFy and song. 
 Determin'd spirits, resolute and bold, 
 
 Who faced unflinching deaths of every kind ; 
 Struggling for liberty, and not for gold, 
 
 Fell, like the oak, before the driving wind ? 
 
 E'en royalty, with all its pemp and power, 
 
 Ceased to attract, and " down with tyrants," criea 
 Those who had worshipped but an hour before 
 
 The wretched Louis, and his beauteous bride. 
 What heart can read, and yet refrain to weep 
 
 O'er the lov'd group, within their gloomy cell ; 
 Immersed in misery, blasting, withering, deep 
 
 Beyond the power of mortal man to tell. 
 
 'Mid those dark hours, what were the gilded charms 
 
 Of courts and palaces, and lofty dome, 
 But treacherous snares a syren's deadly arms 
 
 Dragging them down where all of hope had flown ? 
 Let me not read of Royalty again. 
 
 My heart is sick of the sad tale of wo ; 
 Deceit and bribery are in their train, 
 
 And dark suspicion lurks where'er they go. 
 
 Hark ! how the tocsin thunders from the halls ! 
 
 Hark ! the shrill echo ! quick ! to arms, to arms !" 
 Louder and louder on the ear it falls, 
 
 And even life of every hope disarms ! 
 God speed the day, when tyranny shall cease, 
 
 And equal rights to every soul be given ; 
 Earth one grand altar where celestial peace 
 
 Shall raise her.pseari to a smiling Heaven.
 
 132 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE; CTR THE PRAYER OF FAITH, 
 
 " IT is a fearful night, my babe, 
 
 The storm is gathering fast ; 
 Oh ! God of mercy, shield, I pray, 
 
 My husband from the blast ! 
 
 " My husband ! yes, my loved, my own, 
 
 My bosom's sweetest joy ; 
 A light which o'er my path hath shone ; 
 
 Let not that light destroy. 
 
 " Hush, hush thy wail, my baby dear, 
 
 Rest thou upon my breast ; 
 Soon shall the voice our spirits cheer 
 
 Of him, whom we love best." 
 
 The wind howled loud and fearfully, 
 
 The thunders rent the sky ; 
 And 'mid the lightning's fitful gleam 
 
 'Rose the young mother's cry. 
 
 " Oh ! shield him from the dreadful storm, 
 And bring him home once more ; 
 
 Let him not perish far away 
 From his own cottage door. 
 
 " I know, I feel the blighted curse, 
 
 Which rests upon his head ; 
 But oh ! I love him still ; and ne'er 
 
 Shall cease 'till life has fled. 
 
 " The hour I never can forget 
 When first we fondly met ;
 
 WOMAN'S LOVB. 133 
 
 The look of love, the kindling eye, 
 I see, I see them yet. 
 
 " Full well I know how changed he is, 
 
 Know how the sparkling bowl 
 Has robbed me of my highest bliss, 
 
 And pierced my inmost soul. 
 
 " But still I'll love, and still I'll pray, 
 
 That he from vice may turn ; 
 I'll fold him closer to my heart, 
 
 And plead in ' words that burn.' 
 
 "Hush thee, my little baby boy, 
 
 While I the throne of grace 
 Implore, that he we fondly love 
 
 May each rash step retrace." 
 
 Oh ! 'twas an hour of agony 
 
 The mother and the wife 
 Wrestled with such intensity, 
 
 As saved her husband's life. 
 
 He stood upon the door's cold stone, 
 
 Unsheltered 'mid the blast ; 
 The fire was burning on his brow 
 
 The rain was falling fast. 
 
 He saw the bending form of one 
 
 Who, like an angel, knelt; 
 Wretch as he was, once more his soul 
 
 Woman's kind influence felt. 
 
 He heard her prayer he saw her look, 
 
 'Twas strange unearthly wild ! 
 She paused then clasped the Holy Book, 
 
 And kissed her sleeping child.
 
 134 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 Heard her exclaim " He will refrain 
 
 He will, he will, my boy ; 
 He cannot no, he cannot rob 
 
 Us both of every joy." 
 
 She pressed her baby to her breast 
 
 " Thy father's image here, 
 Shall ever find a welcome rest : 
 
 Away, repining tear !" 
 
 Subdued, he clasped her in his arms, 
 
 " Thou'st conquered, love," he cries ; 
 " Hereafter nought shall dim thy charms, 
 In thy fond husband's eyes* 
 
 " Away, away, enchanted cup, 
 
 My lips shall ne'er again 
 Taste the accursed, deadly drop : 
 
 Her hopes shall not be vain." 
 
 Nor were they vain the temperance pledge 
 Received his willing name ; 
 
 And ne'er again, in that loved cot, 
 The wily tempter came ! 
 
 'Twas woman's love, 'twas woman's prayer 
 Availed he ceased to roam ; 
 
 An angel sought the prodigal, 
 
 And brought the wanderer home !
 
 135 
 
 WE ALL DO FADE AS A LEAF.' 
 
 AND is it true, that all must die 
 
 All that is lovely must decay ? 
 Each flower beneath yon sunny sky, 
 
 Fade in its beams and pass away ? 
 
 Sweet Spring ! thy opening charms all hail ! 
 
 A striking emblem of that hour 
 When man, weak, impotent and frail, 
 
 Shall rise by an Almighty power. 
 
 Summer ! delightful season ! all 
 Beneath thy cheering rays rejoice ; 
 
 Nature and art obey thy call, 
 
 And fly with transport at thy voice. 
 
 Autumn ! to me for ever sweet, 
 Thy golden sunsets and thy hues, 
 
 Which linger where the shadows meet, 
 And sparkle in the morning dews. 
 
 Thy falling leaf speaks loud to me ; 
 
 The music of thy voice I love I 
 They charm me with their minstrelsy, 
 
 And waft my raptured soul above. 
 
 Winter ! thou, too, hast many charms, 
 For thou hast seen thy sweets decay ; 
 
 Spring, Summer, Autumn, from thy arms, 
 Have faded, died, and passed away. 
 
 And thus I've seen ah ! who has not ? 
 Life's brightest prospects wrapped in gloom
 
 136 THE VISION OF THE MOUNT. 
 
 Remembrance lingers on that spot 
 Where beauty slumbers in the tomb. 
 
 Away from earth, this changing earth, 
 I'll look where autumn leaves ne'er fade ; 
 
 Where flowers, perennial from their birth, 
 Bloom sweetly on the perfumed glade. 
 
 A brighter spot than eye hath seen 
 
 Remains, where change can never come ; 
 
 A sweeter rest for those, I ween, 
 
 Who sigh to find their heavenly home. 
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOUNT. 
 
 I SAW upon a mountain's top, 
 A group of beings bright ; 
 
 Sparkling amid the summer flowers, 
 Beneath the sun's soft light. 
 
 Gayly they danced, gayly they sung, 
 Their hearts were full of glee ; 
 
 And ever and anon, the laugh 
 Went forth from spirits free, 
 
 Like insects of a day, they basked 
 Amid life's dazzling rays ; 
 
 A happy throng, they passed along 
 In pleasure's wildering maze.
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOUNT. 137 
 
 In their bright eyes no care was seen ; 
 
 No thought of future ill 
 Disturbed their bosom's calm serene'; 
 
 But all was hushed and still. 
 
 The heavens vrere bright, the air was sweet, 
 
 Young zephyrs fanned their brows ; 
 And where the murmuring brooklets meet, 
 
 They paid their morning vows. 
 
 A pure oblation from their hearts 
 
 Went up in incense bright ; 
 The scene around, on high, afar, 
 
 Was one of pure delight. 
 
 I looked again and oh, how changed ! 
 
 Each face was blanched with care, 
 And all looked sad and wo-begone, 
 
 Where all was bright and fair. 
 
 " What means this change ?" I inly cried; 
 
 " Those buoyant spirits, where 
 Have they departed ? where the young, 
 
 With dark and flowing hair ? 
 
 " What means this blight, these lingering steps, 
 
 These looks of withering care ; 
 These forms disabled, tottring, bent, 
 
 And fragile as the air ? 
 
 " Can these be those, the beautiful 
 
 Who gayly laughed and smiled? 
 Can these be those who yesterday 
 
 Were blithe as Eden's child ?" 
 
 There came a voice upon the wind, 
 Over the rolling wave ;
 
 138 THE VISION OF THE MOUNT. 
 
 I looked, and saw old Time appear, 
 With visage dark and grave. 
 
 Calmly he bore a living form, 
 Trembling, as nature's springs, 
 
 By one and one, alternate broke, 
 Upon his ebon wings. 
 
 Raising his powerful voice on high, 
 He shook his magic wand ; 
 
 Turned his keen eye on sea and sky, 
 And on the solid land. 
 
 " Behold !" he cried, " how beautiful 
 Each scene to you appears ;" 
 
 Then, with his hand waved o'er my head, 
 He brought the weight of years. 
 
 "Read now the vision in yourself 
 Why leap ye not and run, 
 
 With buoyant feet and eagle eye, 
 O'er lands beneath the sun ?" 
 
 Oppress'd and weak, my spirits gone ; 
 
 Tired, faint, and nerveless, I 
 Fell on my face, and cried, " Oh, tell 
 
 Me, Time, if I must die !" 
 
 " Not yet, not yet go travel on, 
 With all your weight of years, 
 
 And from the ' Vision of the Mount,' 
 Learn life is fraught with tears."
 
 139 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 HOURS gone by, for ever fled, 
 Numbered with the silent dead, 
 
 'Tis for you I mourn. 
 Will your light no more appear? 
 The young, the beautiful, the dear, 
 With eyes undimmed by sorrow's tear, 
 
 Will they ne'er return ? 
 
 Memory ! 'tis thine to bring 
 The brilliant hues of life's bright spring- 
 Each fond remembrance trace ; 
 The witching form, the cheek so fair, 
 The deep blue eyes, the flowing hair, 
 The rose that bloomed without a care 
 Upon the dimpled face. 
 
 Thou canst bring the moonlit bower, 
 Thou canst bring the stilly hour, 
 
 The fond impassioned kiss ; 
 Give back again the pleasing thrill, 
 The flame which age can never chill, 
 The pulse which death alone can still 
 
 Give back sweet hours of bliss. 
 
 O, blest memory ! thine's the power, 
 When skies are dark and tempests lower, 
 
 To wake the slumbering soul ; 
 To bring again the inquiring eye, 
 Which sought the cause of every sigh, 
 And softly whispered, " tell me why 
 
 The burning tear-drops roll ?"
 
 140 TO THE COMET. 
 
 Come bring again the look of love 
 Which erst did every grief remove 
 
 Come take my willing hand ; 
 Bring to my heart in close embrace, 
 The friends I loved the soul-lit face ; 
 Each living feature let me trace, 
 
 Though from the spirit land I 
 
 I will not start their forms to meet, 
 Though through the air on pinions fleet 
 
 They wind their mystic way ; 
 But I will hail them with delight, 
 My soul shall clasp their spirits bright, 
 And with them take my upward flight 
 
 To an unclouded day. 
 
 TO THE COMET. 
 
 MYSTERIOUS stranger ! from afar, 
 
 Through boundless space, thy course is run ; 
 Thou drivest on thy fiery car, 
 
 In endless circles round the sun. 
 
 With thy portentous blazing train 
 
 Thou wheel's! thy way through yonder sky ; 
 Then com'st to view our Earth again, 
 
 And draw the world's admiring eye. 
 
 The trembling millions quake and stare, 
 Fill'd with amaze and dread affright ;
 
 TO THE COMET. 
 
 To see thy bright phosphoric glare, 
 Illume the darksome clouds of night. 
 
 Thou hurriest on thy mystic way, 
 Mid rolling orbs, in depths of space ; 
 
 While none thy onward march can stay, 
 Nor all thy mighty wanderings trace. 
 
 Beyond those distant shining spheres, 
 
 Where Saturn, Herschel, wheel their rounds; 
 
 Thou swiftly fliest a thousand years, 
 To vast creation's utmost bounds. 
 
 What breath lights up thy lurid fires, 
 Or fuel feeds thy wondrous flame, 
 
 That fiercely burns, but ne'er expires, 
 
 Nor sinks to nought, from whence it came ? 
 
 At evening's hour thy trail of light, 
 Sweeps brilliant o'er the distant west, 
 
 As on thou tnov'st with winged flight, 
 Obedient to God's high behest. 
 
 The planets all, thou passest by, 
 
 As things of nought which lay behind ; 
 
 Scarce noticed by thy flaming eye, 
 While to their narrow paths confined. 
 
 The Voice which bade the systems roll, 
 Sublimely through each circling sphere, 
 
 Alone thy wanderings can control, 
 And hold thee in thy wild career. 
 
 141
 
 142 
 
 THE END OF TIME. A D RE AM. 
 
 UPON a cloud of fleecy light, 
 
 I gazed on all around ~, 
 The heavens at noon were wrapped in night, 
 And furious whirlwinds in their might 
 Caused solid rocks to speed their flight, 
 
 And shook creation's bound. 
 
 I saw th' affrighted nations stand, 
 
 And view'd each cloud-capt tower ; 
 Touch'd by th' Almighty's awful wand, 
 They crumbled 'neath his withering hand, 
 And scenes majestic, solemn, grand, 
 Displayed his wondrous power 1 
 
 Than rushing waters far more loud, 
 
 A startling peal was heard ! 
 When issuing from a parted cloud, 
 Round whom cherubic angels crowd, 
 As if his glory they would shroud, 
 
 Gabriel with trump appeared. 
 
 Upon the broad Pacific's breast, 
 
 One foot in grandeur trod, 
 One on old ^Etna's burning crest 
 Whose heaving bosom ne'er found rest, 
 Till by this mighty angel prest 
 
 The footstool of a God ! 
 
 Then looking upward to the sky, 
 And round from shore to shore, 
 While lightnings gleamed beneath his eye, 
 He raised his powerful wand on high,
 
 THE END OF TIME. 
 
 And loud and fearful was the cry, 
 That time shall be no more ! 
 
 Vast magazines of blazing fire 
 
 Exploded on my sight ! 
 Earth reeled and groaned, a funeral pyre, 
 While hills and mountains straight retire, 
 In strong, convulsive throes expire 
 
 In one broad sea of light. 
 
 The elements with awe obey 
 
 All nature stood aghast ! 
 The sea gave up its hidden prey, 
 Hell op'd its bosom to the day, 
 And Death, the monster, fled away 
 
 Before the trumpet's blast ! 
 
 Dismayed the sun in terror stood, 
 
 And shuddered at his pall ! 
 I saw his splendors turn to blood, 
 When trembling o'er the heaving flood, 
 He veiled him in his gory hood, 
 
 And down I saw him fall ! 
 
 The moon and stars in dire dismay, 
 
 'Reft of their borrowed light, 
 Fled from th' appalling scene away, 
 For ever quenched each brilliant ray, 
 Chaotic darkness veiled their day, 
 
 And wrapped their beams in night ! 
 
 Then 'midst a light, which cast no shade, 
 
 A throne was seen afar, 
 On which One sat, who all things made ; 
 Resplendent rainbows round him played 
 His head with diadems arrayed, 
 
 Decked with the morning star ! 
 
 143
 
 144 THE END OF TIME. 
 
 Eternal youth beamed in his eye, 
 
 His chariot rolled beneath ! 
 Hailstones and coals of fire did fly, 
 The symbols of his majesty, 
 Borne onward, loud and fearfully, 
 By his almighty breath ! 
 
 At his rebuke, heaven, earth and sea, 
 
 Affrighted fled away ! 
 The small, the great, the bond, the free, 
 Each soul from all eternity, 
 Assembled at his firm decree, 
 
 Stood there in wild dismay I 
 
 Around he cast his eyes of fire 
 Ah me! what lightnings gleamed ! 
 
 " Depart," said he, " depart retire 
 
 Ye who my love could ne'er desire ; 
 
 Go wail for ever nor expire, 
 Where mercy never beamed !" 
 
 Then, with a sweet angelic look 
 No language can portray, 
 
 Smiling, he closed the sacred book ; 
 
 O'er burning worlds his saints he took, 
 
 While nature from her moorings shook, 
 Bore them to endless day !
 
 THE EXILE. GEN. 28. 
 
 Far from his home, sad and alone, 
 
 An Exile laid his weary head 
 Upon the cold and harden'd stone, 
 
 The sky his covering, earth his bed. 
 He drcam'd he saw a vision bright, 
 
 Of shining seraphs hand in hand, 
 With radiant brows and wings of light, 
 
 Descending from the spirit land. 
 
 So beauteous was each fairy form, 
 
 So heavenly sweet their faces shone, 
 The Exile felt his heart grow warm, 
 
 Though pillow'd on the earth's cold stone. 
 A brilliant pathway arch'd the sky, 
 
 And wandering spirits filled the air 
 Flitting around, below, on high, 
 
 Ethereal forms, divinely fair, 
 
 Who, one by one, came from above 
 
 On emerald steps, and reach'd the earth ; 
 Told him of Jesus, and his love, 
 
 And sung the story of his birth. 
 Above the radiant steps his eye 
 
 Beheld a form too bright to view; 
 A voice of love and majesty, 
 
 Broke forth in words for ever true. 
 
 As dew descends, the blessings fell 
 Upon the Exile, and his race ; 
 
 The angelic choir with rapture swell 
 Their harps, and holier grows the place.
 
 "Fear not, my son," the Almighty said, 
 " Arise, pursue your onward way ; " 
 
 The Exile raised his wilder'd head, 
 And hail'd with joy a two-fold day. 
 
 The rocky pillow he remov'd, 
 
 Rear'd it on high, a beacon bright; 
 The oil divine around it flow'd, 
 
 And lit a Bethel with its light. 
 Thus he who laid him down oppress'd, 
 
 Without a bed, without a home, 
 Arose, with heavenly influence bless'd, 
 
 Possessor of a princely dome. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Written on the 15tb February, 1843, when the Eanh was covered with Snow. 
 
 OFT have I lingered, as the setting sun 
 
 Cast his rich beams across the dreamy west, 
 Watched the lone stars, as gleaming one by one, 
 
 They shone like diamonds throned on beauty's breast. 
 Pleased have I gazed upon the verdant grove, 
 
 Where the young violet rears its timid head ; 
 Viewed the pale moon through fields of ether rove, 
 
 Throwing her cold beams o'er the slumb'ring dead. 
 
 I've seen, when storms have ceased, the blooming flowers, 
 Dripping with rain-drops, sparkle in the beams 
 
 Of cloudless sunshine, and the roseate bowers 
 Mirror their beauties in the murmuring streams ;
 
 147 
 
 Beheld the bow of promise arch the sky, 
 
 Spanning creation with its orient arms ; 
 Gazed on its colors, seen them fade and die, 
 
 And disappear with all their magic charms. 
 
 On scenes like these, how often have I gazed, 
 
 'Till my rapt spirit struggled to express 
 My inward feelings, and my lips have praised, 
 
 In words of transport, nature's loveliness ! 
 But never never on my raptured eye 
 
 Appeared a more magnificent display, 
 Than when each tree and shrub beneath the sky 
 
 Were capp'd in crystal, and the orb of day 
 
 Rose glorious from his watery bed, and shook 
 
 His bright effulgence over hill and dale, 
 O'er lakes and ponds, and every winding brook, 
 
 Mountains, and woodlands, cliffs and spangled vale. 
 When leafless trees their pointed heads raised high, 
 
 Like emerald spires amid the sun's fierce light ; 
 And arbors hung with gems of richest dye, 
 
 Like airy castles, sparkled on the sight. 
 
 When 'round the shrubs, the snow-wreaths gently wound 
 
 Their feathery arms, tipping with silver cress, 
 Each little twig, and every leaflet crowned 
 
 Gleamed like a Fairy in her gala dress. 
 A hymn of praise the joyous earth sent forth, 
 
 Exulting sang as on her natal morn ; 
 Nor looked she fairer in her primal birth, 
 
 When man exulted over woman born. 
 
 No brighter flow'rets decked their bridal bower 
 In Paradise, than those which gleamed around ; 
 
 No sweeter birds carrolled on shrub or flower, 
 Than the young snow-birds on the frosty ground. 
 
 Fancy ne'er formed a sight more truly grand, 
 Nor mind conceived a more resplendent scene,
 
 U8 PAEE.NT'S LOVE. 
 
 Than the fair morning, when o'er sea and land 
 The ice-king rode, adorned in silver sheen. 
 
 Like human joys the splendid frostwork fled ! 
 
 Fled 'neath the power that formed its brightest ray : 
 And thus, I've marked how oft ! the early dead 
 
 Sparkle the brightest at life's closing day. 
 And Hopes like haloes on each mimic flower, 
 
 Dancing in sunbeams, fleeting as they're vain, 
 Die on the vision wither in an hour, 
 
 Like the fair morning with its brilliant train. 
 
 PARENT'S LOVE. 
 
 THERE is in a parent's heart a holy throb of undying love toward 
 children, which commences with their earliest existence, and con- 
 tinues to vibrate until the life-blood rushes to its last citadel. Nothing 
 can still it nothing subdue it coldness, contempt, ingratitude nor 
 neglect can blunt it ; it beats on cruelty nor disgrace can chill it 
 it burns the brighter ; for pity swells the tide of love, and quickens 
 the pulsations. And should the arm be raised to take the life of the 
 parent the last sigh will breathe forgiveness, the look of love will 
 linger upon the dagger's point, and as it enters the bosom, a prayer 
 will ascend for the murderer. Wo, wo to those parents whose hearts 
 are pierced by Absaloms, for they, like Israelite's smitten king, are, 
 indeed, sufferers. 
 
 How often was the monarch bowed, 
 Beneath the chastening rod ! 
 
 How like a sea his sorrows flowed, 
 Although beloved of God !
 
 PARENT'S LOVE. 149 
 
 But never did the wild waves roll 
 
 So high as when his son, 
 As with an arrow, pierced his soul 
 
 His Absalom, his own. 
 
 'Twas hard to flee, when love was new, 
 
 His brow with garlands wreathed 
 When 'round him kings and nobles drew, 
 
 As music o'er them breathed. 
 
 'Twas hard to rend from friendship's charms, 
 
 And to the desert hie 
 To leave his throne, 'mid beauty's arms, 
 
 And in the damp cave lie. 
 
 'Twas hard to hear the cruel taunts 
 
 Fall from a father's tongue, 
 Amid the wild wood's dismal haunts, 
 
 As on his spear he hung. 
 
 When wearied with the battle strife, 
 
 'Twas hard, when he returned, 
 To find no children, home, or wife 
 
 HLs house, and temples burned. 
 
 'Twas hard, (when from Gilboa's top 
 
 A wail broke on his ear,) 
 To know the pride of Gibeon's vale 
 
 Had fallen by the spear. 
 
 Sure this was hard but mockery to 
 
 The ills which flowed from one, 
 Who from his veins his life-blood drew 
 
 His Absalom, his son ! 
 
 His hope, his pride, his light, his joy 
 Who climbed, with infant glee,
 
 150 PARENT'S I.OVK. 
 
 A beautiful, young, lovely boy, 
 Upon his father's knee. 
 
 To know this child, beloved and fair, 
 
 Led on the hostile foe, 
 Was more than David's heart could bear 
 
 He sank beneath his wo. 
 
 Keen was the pang the monarch felt 
 'Twas agony, 'twas grief 
 
 At mercy's altar if he knelt, 
 Could it afford relief? 
 
 Could it afford relief to pray 
 The foe might from him run ? 
 
 What could a tender father say ? 
 Their leader was his son ! 
 
 How soft and kind was his request, 
 Should they his Absalom find : 
 
 " Be sure no arrow pierce his breast 
 No anguish fill his mind." 
 
 He saw him in no other light 
 
 But beautiful as morn, 
 When first Aurora, dazzling, bright, 
 
 Illumes the spangled lawn. 
 
 Oh ! it was agony intense, 
 To think that beauteous boy, 
 
 Who should have been his firm defence, 
 Should he himself destroy. 
 
 The battle came the fight drew on 
 The foeman raised the spear 
 
 And slew the pride of David's house, 
 His son, beloved and dear.
 
 The tidings came his heart was weak- 
 Loud was the spirit's moan, 
 
 No other language could he speak 
 But "Absalom, my son." 
 
 " Oh ! Absalom my son," he cried 
 " Oh ! Absalom my own 
 
 Oh ! would to heaven for thee I'd died 
 Oh ! Absalom, my son 1" 
 
 There is a world where no lament 
 From parent's heart is heard 
 
 A world of peace, and calm content, 
 Where no rude foe is feared. 
 
 Where no kind father's heart will yearn 
 
 Over a fallen son 
 But one Amen will echo while 
 
 Eternal ages run. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN on reading an account, in the New World, of the inter- 
 view of the Rev. Dr. Lester with Drs. C. and B., together with a pri- 
 vate letter relating to Lord Byron's death. 
 
 I MUSED, until my beating heart 
 Fluttered within its narrow home ; 
 
 As if with all of life 'twould part, 
 O'er Europe's classic soil to roam.
 
 152 LINES. 
 
 There ramble o'er each hill and dale, 
 
 Where Moore, and Burns, and Cowper strayed 
 
 Where Milton wandered in the vale 
 Where Young reposed 'neath evening's shade. 
 
 t On Scotia's heights where Wallace fought, 
 
 Where Oscar of Malvina sang, 
 Where chivalry by knights was taught, 
 
 Through groves where oft their helmets rang. 
 'Mid forests, where in feudal days, 
 
 Grand ancient castles towered on high ; 
 Where beauty heard the songs of praise 
 
 And owned the triumph in her eye. 
 
 See Abbotsford, where vapors float 
 
 At evening 'round fair Melrose bright ; 
 Enter the place where Scott once wrote, 
 
 And view it " by the pale moon's light." 
 Survey the tombs, wherein the forms 
 
 Repose, where once fierce passions thrilled, 
 All heedless of time's gathering storms, 
 
 The pulse of life for ever stilled ! 
 
 Mingle with that inspired throng, 
 
 Whose notes have echoed o'er the sea, 
 O'er mountains, glens, and groves among, 
 
 In strains of witching melody. 
 Oh, could I converse hold with those, 
 
 Whose spirits in their writings burn, 
 And hear them speak in verse and prose, 
 
 Each as they felt, each in his turn. 
 
 Heard them converse of Wyoming, 
 Until the poet's heart was thrilled ; 
 
 With feelings which were slumbering, 
 Within a breast which time had chilled. 
 
 Have seen the kindliness of his eye, 
 As of our native land he spoke ;
 
 163 
 
 Beheld the smile of ecstacy, 
 
 The gush of feeling and the look 
 
 Enjoy'd that feast, that flow of soul, 
 
 That blissful hour when memories welled 
 When feelings they could ne'er control, 
 
 Within their bosoms rose and swelled 
 Not viands culled from India's grove, 
 
 Not goblets sparkling, full and free, 
 Had yielded what I so much love 
 
 As that rich feast of imagery. 
 
 No wonder age forgot its years, 
 
 Time, standing still, was lost in bliss ; 
 No wonder smiles blended with tears, 
 
 In such a rapturous hour as this. 
 Unhappy Greece, I'll think of thee, 
 
 When on his couch a warrior lay ; 
 Whose soul was formed of poetry, 
 
 And rashly threw that soul away. 
 
 A child of song, but rightly tuned, 
 
 Had swept the harp with angel's skill ; , 
 With heaven, not earth, had he communed, 
 
 Had led all captive at his will. 
 Oh, write again, immortal bard ! 
 
 Once more my waking soul inspire ; 
 Sweet is thy lay, rich have we fared 
 
 Oh, sweep again thy. ^breathing lyre.
 
 154 
 
 TO E , ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 
 
 THIS is thy natal morn ! my muse awake ! 
 
 Sing of the past, a bright bewildering train ; 
 One kasty glance, oh ! let my spirit take, 
 
 And taste gone pleasures, o'er and o'er again. 
 
 This is thy natal morn ! the tears which start, 
 Flow forth in fond remembrance of thy charms ; 
 
 When at life's fountain, cradled on my heart, 
 Thou slep'st a sweet young cherub in my arms. 
 
 On time's broad ocean thou hast launched, my boy, 
 Thy bark upon the changing tide of Fate ; 
 
 At its full flood, oh ! may it be thy joy, 
 To catch the breeze, and sail with heart elate. 
 
 O'er rocks and quicksands, may you safely glide, 
 Virtue your helmsman ; while each flowing sail 
 
 In snowy whiteness, o'er the rippling tide, 
 
 Wafts thee, my boy, before the prosperous gale. 
 
 This is thy natal morn ! memories awake ! 
 
 Wake with a power no mortal hand can stay ! 
 The pulses in the general joy partake, 
 
 And throb for thee, the loved one far away ! 
 
 'Tis from thy mother, she who gave thee birth, 
 This morning lay, fresh from the minstrel's hand, 
 
 Seeks her loved son, 'mid scenes of youthful mirth, 
 And warns of rocks on pleasure's witching strand. 
 
 Should your frail bark, by storms and tempests driven, 
 Fly for a shelter to some fairy isle ;
 
 TO E , ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Trust not the imagery which paints its heaven, 
 Nor list though music should each hour beguile. 
 
 Flee, flee the Syren, whose seductive breath 
 
 Would lure thy feet from virtue's heavenly way ; 
 
 Her steps lead down to everlasting death ! 
 Her pleasures sicken, and her smiles betray ! 
 
 Oh ! flee her charms, as you would flee a foe 
 
 Who deals out darkness which no ray can pierce ; 
 
 Her halls loud echo with the wails of wo, 
 
 Wrung forth from souls replete with passions fierce ! 
 
 Oh ! shun the wine-cup ! Though it sparkle bright, 
 'Tis a false meteor, kindling its own day 
 
 Shut, s.hut thine eyes on the bewildering sight 
 Its flash is horror nothing can portray ! 
 
 Oh ! think, when tempted by the fatal snares, 
 Of thy loved mother sisters brothers dear 
 
 Think of thy sainted father's brow, and cares 
 To wrest from either one embittered tear ! 
 
 Could'st thou, my son, disturb our social hearth 
 Where, when the winter winds howl sad and drear 
 
 Memories awake to sense of joy and mirth, 
 When thou wert present, with thy voice so dear ? 
 
 This is thy natal day ! So live, my boy, 
 That we may meet, as on that happy morn, 
 
 When cheerful voices sang in notes of joy 
 The rapturous lay, another son is born ! 
 
 So live., that when for ever on thy eye 
 
 All earthly scenes shall fade and disappear, 
 
 The bright'ning splendors of an opening sky 
 May light thee upward from this dusky sphe re.
 
 156 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " Joys departed never to return- 
 How bitter the remembrance !" 
 
 DAYS of rapture will you never 
 Bring your light to me again, 
 
 Why should fate such fond hearts sever ? 
 Hope's bright visions all be slain ? 
 
 As the brilliant hues of even 
 Fade beneath th' autumnal sky, 
 
 Hours to love and friendship giv'n, 
 Soonest from our presence fly. 
 
 Would they like spring's early blossoms 
 Bloom again when winter 's o'er, 
 
 Waft their fragrance o'er our bosoms, 
 Bring again their magic power. 
 
 Bring those hours when on us gazing, 
 Eyes of love, with kindness filled ; 
 
 Hours of transport, when embracing, 
 Every pulse with rapture thrill'd. 
 
 Hours, how transient, vain and fleeting, 
 Like the hues of closing day, 
 
 When the wreaths of vapor meeting, 
 Brighten as they pass away. 
 
 Who that ever gazed on nature, 
 Mountain, river, lake and stream, 
 
 But has seen in every .feature, 
 
 Glimpses of his life's young dream.
 
 STANZAS. 157 
 
 As the shadows from the mountains, 
 
 Tremble o'er the dewy plain ; 
 So, those joys from life's young fountains, 
 
 Prove like shadows, false and vain. 
 
 Rivers, from their various sources, 
 
 Sweep o'er chasms deep and wide ; 
 Bearing onward on their courses, 
 
 Youth and beauty with their tide. 
 
 Lakes, with their pellucid bosom, 
 
 Slumber in repose to-day, 
 Ere to-morrow all 's confusion, 
 
 Tempests o'er their surface play. 
 
 Thus the babbling brooks of summer, 
 
 Laughing in their sources run ; 
 Cheering mortals with their murmur, 
 
 Parched beneath a burning sun. 
 
 Such is life, that we can never 
 Bring again our youth's bright bloom ; 
 
 Joys departed, cease for ever : 
 Cradles rock us to the tomb. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 OH, there are hours to mortals given, 
 
 When past enjoyments roll ; 
 When memories, like the dews of heaven, 
 
 Fall gently on the soul.
 
 158 STANZAS. 
 
 When voices on the gusty breeze, 
 Warble their plaintive notes ; 
 
 And through the waving forest trees, 
 Mysterious music floats. 
 
 When the pale moon's pellucid rays 
 
 Illume the spangled grove, 
 They bring the bliss of other days, 
 
 The first sweet dream of love. 
 
 When the tempestuous waves of life 
 Were hidden from the sight, 
 
 Then the young heart, with pleasures rife, 
 Drank in each fond delight. 
 
 When every smile found free access 
 
 Within the trusting heart, 
 Each look of love, each kind caress, 
 
 Fresh rapture did impart. 
 
 When nature wore one beauteous wreath 
 
 Of flowers divinely fair, 
 And spring, with her sweet vernal breath, 
 
 Perfumed the ambient air ; 
 
 When nought in this cold world was seen, 
 But what was dazzling bright, 
 
 No fairy hand then raised the screen, 
 To show how false its light. 
 
 When smiling landscapes spread their arms, 
 Decked with ambrosial flower?, 
 
 Wooing the lovely by their charms 
 To revel in their bowers 
 
 Oh, who does not, as memories wake, 
 Feel each pulsation move 1
 
 159 
 
 What hearts but in past joys partake 
 Past scenes of early love ? 
 
 How often 'round th' impassioned soul, 
 This magic spell will twine ; 
 
 Remembrance, 'neath its soft control, 
 Kindles on Nature's shrine. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 I ASKED the limpid streamlet as it ran 
 In solemn silence o'er its pebbly bed, 
 
 If e'er the mighty ocean it would reach ? 
 " I shall in time," it murmuringly said, 
 
 Then kissed the sod, by which its course was led, 
 And gently breathed " farewell." 
 
 I hailed the mighty river as it rolled 
 
 In swelling billows, urged by wind and storm, 
 
 And asked if in the basin of the sea 
 
 It e'er would lose its devious winding form ? 
 
 " I shall," it said, then gayly, wild and free, 
 Press'd to its ocean grave. 
 
 To the deep roaring cataract, as it poured 
 
 In thundering fierceness down the steep descent, 
 
 O'er pointed rocks, 'mid chasms deep, I called, 
 And asked if e'er its fury would be spent ? 
 
 " It will," was echoed, " when the globe is rent, 
 And time shall be no more."
 
 160 "WHAT IS YOUK LIFE?" 
 
 I asked the wide spread ocean, aa it leapt 
 In mighty undulations to the shore, 
 
 If e'er in peace its surges would be hushed, 
 And calm succeed its everlasting roar ? 
 
 " Time will do all," it said, then wildly rushed 
 To kiss the arching sky. 
 
 " Who is this Time ?" I asked, and turning 'round 
 He stood before me in his dread attire, 
 
 His scythe and sickle gleamed before my eye, 
 The earth his home, the tolling bell his lyre ! 
 
 Fearful I asked, "Old Time, wilt thou e'er die?" 
 
 Starting he shook his powerful arm on high, 
 And cried, " Eternity !" 
 
 WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?' 
 
 MAN'S life is like a summer flower, 
 
 Which opens on the sight ; 
 Illusive as the meteor's power, 
 
 And fleeting as its light. 
 
 -i! *r>:^<iJfV*S;f 
 He lives, exists, and dreams awhile, 
 
 Serene his youth's bright day ; 
 He revels in another's smile, 
 
 And glides from earth away. 
 
 For true it is, decay will come, 
 The mind and form grow frail ; 
 
 Man lives a wanderer 'round his home, 
 A stranger in his vale.
 
 "WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?" 
 
 His voice, his name, hia memory dies ; 
 
 Time, with his withering power, 
 Scatters his hopes like mists that rise 
 
 In morning's golden hour. 
 
 The sweetest pleasures here, he knows, 
 
 Yield no substantial bliss ; 
 Care from his choicest comfort flows, 
 
 And wormwood 's in his kiss. 
 
 Yet there is something strangely bright 
 
 Allures his spirit here : 
 Something, which through the darkest night, 
 
 Illumes this dusky sphere. 
 
 But oh ! how faint e'en that one spot, 
 When he, with faith's clear eye, 
 
 Looks upward, 'till the world 's forgot, 
 To joys which never die. 
 
 Joys, which will ever in their flight 
 
 Grow brighter on his soul ; 
 Arise, expand, entrance, delight, 
 
 As ceaseless ages roll. 
 
 Then if his life be like a flower, 
 
 There is a spark, divine, 
 More brilliant grows with every hour, 
 
 As days and suns decline.
 
 162 
 
 TO MRS. LYDIA JANE PIERSON. 
 
 SWEETEST of minstrels ! I followed thy theme, 
 
 'Till my muse in her flight caught a wandering beam 
 
 Of the " Spirit of Beauty," in mantle of light, 
 
 Gilding the earth, and the sea in her flight ; 
 
 Gleaming in splendor, o'er woodlands and bowers, 
 
 Streaming in brightness o'er castles and towers ; 
 
 Resting on roses, on zephyrs, which play, 
 
 On the young spires of grass, in their jewel'd array ; 
 
 In mists of the morning which curl on the breeze, 
 
 Wreathing fantastically over the tress. 
 
 On the storm-clouds which gather, in the lightning's red flash, 
 
 On the wild waves of ocean in thunder's deep crash ! 
 
 " Spirit of Beauty .'" thou'rt everywhere 
 
 A ray of Omnipotence floating in air ! 
 
 Placing God's image on all we behold, 
 
 From dew drops to mountains, majestic and bold. 
 
 On infants, on manhood, and silvery age, 
 
 On peasant and noble, unlettered and sage, 
 
 On the spirit which yields to the Saviour's control, 
 
 When the seal of redemption is stamped on the soul ; 
 
 On the saint, as he cheerfully yields up his breath, 
 
 When falling asleep in the cold arms of death ; 
 
 On the lovely and young who, with purpose divine, 
 
 Mingle, Hymen invoking, their vows at his shrine. 
 
 All these have I seen in their beauty and power, 
 
 And gazed on the landscape at twilight's soft hour ; 
 
 On the earth in her pride ; on the dark rolling sea ; 
 
 On the clouds which at sunset hang over the lea ; 
 
 On the hues of the rainbow which arched the blue sky, 
 
 'Till its beauties have faded and died on my eye. 
 
 But ne'er did the " Spirit of Beauty" appear 
 
 So strikingly perfect as when on the bier
 
 S U M M E R S II O \V E E . 163 
 
 It rested on one, who, beloved and true, 
 
 Departed too soon for his friends from their view. 
 
 Her stamp on his beautiful brow she had set, 
 
 I gazed on it then, and I gaze on it yet 
 
 And ever will think, 'till my life shall depart, 
 
 How beauty sat throned on that young faithful heart ! 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER, 
 
 How glorious is the hour, 
 
 How beautiful the scene, 
 When wash'd by summer's gentle shower, 
 
 Fair Nature's robes of green. 
 
 The clouds, like drifted snow, 
 
 In wild confusion lie ; 
 The thunders, murmuring long and low, 
 
 In the dim distance die. 
 
 Lightning, whose fitful fires 
 
 Shot upward on the sight, 
 Displaying, mid their arrowy sp'res, 
 
 A panorama bright. 
 
 Those lightnings from afar, 
 
 Flash faintly o'er the deep ; 
 Hushed is the elemental war, 
 
 Rocked by its power asleep. 
 
 O'er the ethereal height, 
 Far as the eye can see,
 
 164 SUMMER 8HOWER. 
 
 The rainbow throws her hallowed light. 
 And spans the earth and sea. 
 
 The calm, pellucid stream, 
 How tranquil is its rest 
 
 Lovely as the young infant's dream, 
 Pillowed on beauty's breast. 
 
 How sweet the vernal grove, 
 The wooded hills, the vale ; 
 
 Bright insects through the branches rove, 
 And sport upon the gale. 
 
 Amid the sylvan bowers, 
 The balmy zephyr floats ; 
 
 And birds amid the blushing flowers 
 Warble th^ir thrilling notes. 
 
 On such a scene as this, 
 
 Unmoved, can mortals gaze ? 
 
 Is there a soul but tastes the bliss 
 Which nature here displays ? 
 
 Ye votaries of power, 
 
 Ye worshippers of gold, 
 Be yours the pleasures of an hour 
 
 Let mine be nature bold ! 
 
 Where nature holds her throne, 
 Let me commune with Him, 
 
 Whose power demands our praise al 
 Whose glories never dim.
 
 165 
 
 TO THE HON. JOHN C. CALHOUN, 
 
 THE FRIEND AND CLASSMATE OF REV. J. V. 8. 
 
 TRTTE, we are strangers here, 
 
 Earth's children wander wide ; 
 Some wear a smile, and some a tear, 
 
 As down the stream they glide. 
 Thine is the laurell'd brow 
 
 And in thy soul-lit eye 
 Is seen the firmness of the vow 
 
 That's register'd on high. 
 
 Amid the wise and great, 
 
 Unmov'd by fortune's frown, 
 Thine is the eloquent debate, 
 
 That awes th' opposer down. 
 For thee, immortal fame 
 
 A fadeless wreath has twin'd ; 
 Our country knows no higher name, 
 
 Nor boasts a nobler mind. 
 
 Within the humble vale 
 
 Of sweet domestic love, 
 Thy friend, before the gentle gale, 
 
 Speeds to his rest above. 
 Oft has his bark been driv'n 
 
 By winds and raging seas ; 
 But every wave shall waft to heav'n, 
 
 And God direct the breeze. 
 
 If in the Congress hall, 
 Or in the vine-clad bower,
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Death's summons on thy ear shall fall, 
 
 Sweet be thy parting hour ; 
 And sweet thy meeting, too, 
 
 On that unbounded shore, 
 Where faithful friends, belov'd and true, 
 
 Embrace to part no more. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Urcx the summit of a towering rock, 
 
 Whose base was wreath'd by Ocean's dashing waves, 
 Where fierce tornadoes, with a stunning shock, 
 
 Reechoed hoarsely o'er the gaping caves, 
 Alone I stood ; while, like a wandering star, 
 
 The storm-king stalked, a tall and shadowy form ; 
 Musing, I hail'd the elemental war, 
 
 And loved the music of the driving storm. 
 
 ^olus loosed his warring winds, and loud 
 
 The wild blast shriek'd amid the waving surge ; 
 The lightnings blazed upon the blackening cloud, 
 
 And muttering thunders chimed a mournful dirge. 
 From coral palaces the sea-nymphs leapt, 
 
 Their forms encircled with phosphoric fire ; 
 Mingled their voices as the wind-god swept 
 
 His fearful blast o'er Ocean's thundering lyre. 
 
 Old Neptune, on his throne of clouds enroll'd, 
 Rode dauntless forth above the raging main ; 
 
 Rein'd his proud steeds, impatient, fierce, and bold, 
 Then drove them forward through the ethereal plain.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Amazed I looked upon the wide spread sea, 
 When, in the distance, lo I a sail I spied, 
 
 Urging its way toward the treacherous lea, 
 Onward impell'd by the resistless tide. 
 
 The breakers high rolled fearfully around, 
 
 Lashing the helmless, mastless, found'ring bark, 
 Whose timbers parting with a creaking sound, 
 
 Were pitching, tossing, 'mid the mad wakes dark ! 
 Borne on the breeze, a shriek of wild despair, 
 
 Deeper and louder than the sweeping storm, 
 Assail'd my ear. Oh, God, what sight was there ! 
 
 Upon the wreck struggled a human form ! 
 
 A sailor boy, on whose fond mother's breast 
 
 He'd pillow'd oft his fair, young, sunny brow 
 In childhood nestled as a place of rest ; 
 
 How wide the contrast 'twixt that hour and now ! 
 'Mid the dim air, upon the billow's crest, 
 
 He rais'd on high one loud and piteous wail ! 
 Then fainting, sinking, by the wild waves prest, 
 
 His cries were lost amid the shivering gale. 
 
 Fiercely the billows lashed the rocky shore, 
 
 Bearing on high the shapeless, shatter'd wreck ; 
 When came the tempest with an awful roar, 
 
 And rolled the white waves foaming o'er the deck. 
 The sea-bird scream'd as o'er the hulk he flew, 
 
 Flapp'd his broad wings, and hied him from the strand- 
 From the dread scene I straight myself withdrew, 
 
 Thanking my God my home was on the land. 
 
 When morning dawned o'er the dark blue main, 
 The sun broke forth with bright unclouded ray ; 
 
 The winds retired within their caves again, 
 And, like a " cradled infant," quiet lay.
 
 108 THE END OF TIME. 
 
 No sound was heard, save the low, hollow moan, 
 Murmuring in mournful numbers o'er the sea ; 
 
 Not e'en an echo of that mortal groan 
 Which closed for ever nature's agony. 
 
 THE END OF T IM E. REV. CHAP. 10. 
 
 FBOM opening clouds a form divine 
 
 Descends to earth in bright array ; 
 Resplendent rainbows round him shine, 
 
 While lightnings from the centre play. 
 On wings of storm he speeds his flight, 
 
 From radiant thrones above the sky, 
 Through trackless glooms and fields of light, 
 
 That he this glimmering orb may spy. 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, are left behind, 
 
 As on he sails 'mid countless spheres, 
 Among the planets Earth to find, 
 
 And stop its swiftly rolling years. 
 While on he speeds through boundless space, 
 
 With vision strong, he kens afar 
 This globe a speck he scarce can trace, 
 
 When view'd from some more distant star. 
 
 Now he descends sublimely grand, 
 
 One foot he places on the sea ; 
 The other fix'd on solid land, 
 
 Then loud proclaims his high decree. 
 Up to the heavens his hand he rears 
 
 While standing thus on sea and shore,
 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR ME. 
 
 With voice more loud than thunder, swears 
 " That earth and time shall be no more !" 
 
 The sun grows dim as evening's hour, 
 
 No more shines forth in splendors bright ; 
 Extinguish'd by the angel's power, 
 
 Goes out and leaves the world in night ! 
 The globe to its deep centre shakes, 
 
 Heaven's tottering pillars crash and fall ; 
 All nature's realms with terror quakes, 
 
 Till seas of flame engulf them all ! 
 
 The waves of time no longer roll 
 
 O'er wide creation's mighty bound ; 
 The sun, the moon, the distant pole, 
 
 All sink where years are never found ! 
 The angel from the scene ascends, 
 
 Lit upward by earth's burning pyre ; 
 Swiftly his way to heaven he wends, 
 
 And leaves this world enwrapt in fire ! 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR ME. 1 
 
 WEEP not for me at evening's hour, 
 
 When gather'd round th' autumnal fire ; 
 
 When in the dew-bespangled bower, 
 Is heard no more the wild bird's lyre. 
 
 When on the light breeze murmuring 'round, 
 There comes in accents sad and drear,
 
 170 
 
 Expiring summer's mellowed tone, 
 Shed not for me one bitter tear. 
 
 " Weep not for me" when flowers have fled, 
 And beauteous shrubs have leafless grown ; 
 
 When from the altar of the dead 
 
 Is heard the heart's mysterious moan. 
 
 When o'er the harp love's fingers sweep, 
 And strains as sweet as angels breathe 
 
 Steal o'er the soul, then do not weep, 
 Nor let the cypress leaf enwreath 
 
 Thy pallid brow ; but bind the flower 
 I loved so well, and let it bloom 
 
 In sweetness through each coming hour, 
 And waft its perfume o'er my tomb 
 
 That from above, as low I bend 
 To catch the incense rising high, 
 
 Springing where fondest memories blend, 
 And floating up the ethereal sky. 
 
 My ransom'd soul, more fully blest 
 With holier, happier, thoughts of thee, 
 
 Shall enter its eternal rest, 
 
 And joyful sing, " Weep not for me."
 
 v 
 
 TO MRS. S. L. G., 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST 
 
 A SERAPH of beauty has lit on the earth 
 
 Bright was the morning that told of her birth, 
 
 The angel who watches o'er innocence here, 
 
 On the young mother's face saw the smile and the tear, 
 
 As the cry of her first born came over her soul, 
 
 Like the songs of the blest, as in sweetness they roll. 
 
 With the scroll in his hand the angel he flew, 
 
 While the roses were drinking the fresh drops of dew. 
 
 Recorded the birth on the tablets above, 
 
 While the gift was received at the fountain of love. 
 
 Oh, mother, sweet mother, what now is your meed 
 To Him who sustain'd, and from agony freed ? 
 What now in your heart will you lay on the shrine ? 
 What now shall arise in an incense divine ? 
 
 To you is committed a treasure from heav'n, 
 Be sure you return what to you now is giv'n ; 
 'Tis a spark ef the Deity kindled on high, 
 That mirrors its beams in the light of your eye. 
 The casket is yours, but the jewel enwrought 
 Is design'd for the skies and can never be bought. 
 
 Then remember, dear A e, the beautiful flower 
 
 You now call your own may expire in an hour. 
 The young bud be nipp'd by the cold frost of death, 
 And the blossoms be blighted that fashion your wreath. 
 
 What return can you make, where so much is due, 
 For the sweet pledge of love now committed to you ?
 
 172 SATURDAY EVENING. 
 
 What now in your heart will you lay on the shrine ? 
 Let your incense be pure, for the treasure is thine. 
 
 The steps of the angel comes soft on my ear, 
 He takes 'tis his own sweet gratitude's tear ; 
 The gem of the heart, more lovelier far 
 Than the soft beamy lustre of evening's first star. 
 On the altar it gleams the heavens above 
 With pleasure approve of the off'ring of love. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON SATURDAY EVENING. 
 
 WELL does my heart remember, when the week is past and gone, 
 The scenes of youth's young morning when life was in its dawn ; 
 When willows bent in beauty, and the roses washed in dew, 
 Gave forth their sweet perfumery and all was bright and new. 
 
 When the weary week was ended, and care aside was laid, 
 None wandered to the haunts of mirth at home each member staid ; 
 When a father called his family, and a mother dear was there, 
 He seated with his Bible, she in her old arm-chair. 
 
 When children, servants gathered 'round, on every one a spell 
 Fastening mysteriously on all as the slow accents fell, 
 Selected from the holy book, to lead the thoughts above, 
 And then the incense which arose from the pure shrine of love. 
 
 How rich the blessings as they flowed from lips which knew no guile ! 
 How kind the look, how soft the hand, how sweet the pleasant smile ! 
 The holy fervor of those prayers, when to their bosoms prest, 
 The little group of cherished ones e'er they retired to rest.
 
 SATURDAY EVENING. 173 
 
 The blessed Sabbath morning, how hallowed was its light ! 
 Early we hail'd the god of day o'er hill and mountain bright ; 
 Again around the mercy seat all knelt my father prayed 
 That through the scenes of this cold world each foostep might be 
 staid. 
 
 Then to the sanctuary with solemn steps we came, 
 
 Where from Mount Sinai's sacred top the thunder, smoke, and flame 
 
 Came issuing forth, in loud appeal, till in the dust we lay ; 
 
 And Calvary opened on our view, and chased our fears away. 
 
 Oft at the twilight's pensive hour, when all was calm and still, 
 And nought was heard but gushing sounds from sparkling fount and 
 
 rill; 
 
 I stood beside my father, and hung upon his knee, 
 And read for him to sing aloud, " Show pity, Lord," to me. 
 
 Still to my heart far sweeter than Mozart's touching strain, 
 Waking a thrilling impulse in every circling vein ; 
 'Twas a symphony which angels, delighted, bent to hear, 
 As from his holy soul arose the notes so bold and clear. 
 
 Oh, hours beloved, they never can be blotted from my mind, 
 While amid the lights and shadows of earthly scenes I wind ; 
 Now, often when the moon rides high amid her dreamy sphere, 
 I gaze until my eyes o'erflow with memory's burning tear. 
 
 And every star that glimmers in the deep blue vault on high, 
 To me appear like windows within the spangled sky 
 Through which I often fancy my parents dear I see, 
 Happy amid the " Spirit Land," waiting to welcome me.
 
 174 
 
 THE CHINESE PRISONER, 
 
 'MiD distant Asia's flowery realms was one, 
 By poets called the city of the sun, 
 Renowned by fame for interesting tales 
 Of fairy groves and dew-bespangled vales ; 
 Of palaces, where wealth and splendor rolled, 
 And monarch's thrones glittered with gems and gold. 
 Much more of the celestial empire had been known, 
 But for the blaze by Chi-Hoang-ti blown, 
 When he consumed the archives of the past- 
 Over each scene a veil of darkness cast. 
 Not only works, but authors too, expired, 
 And fed the burning pyre his vengeance fired ; 
 From off the wreck one single leaf was whirled, 
 And winged its way to this Atlantic world ; 
 From which my muse the following tale has won 
 The touching story of a Chinese son. 
 
 In the famed city, where the noon-day beams 
 Pour their full splendor on the fairy streams 
 Where art and nature over follies shine, 
 The mystic wreaths of superstition twine 
 Where the bright bays in sparkling beauty glide, 
 With barks of pleasure on their silver tide 
 Where music mingles with the whispering gale, 
 As love reclines beneath the damask sail, 
 Seated in state, on the imperial throne, 
 Over this flowery empire there was one, 
 Who, 'mid his greatness, 'mid his pomp and power, 
 Thought of the victims of an adverse hour. 
 With God-like soul, the royal monarch he 
 Unbarred the doors and set the prisoners free !
 
 THE CHINESE PRISONEU. 175 
 
 Among the number \tas one poor old man, 
 
 " Whose days had dwindled to the shortest span!" 
 
 Fifty long years he in a dungeon lay, 
 
 Secluded from the cheering light of day. 
 
 With trembling limbs, with faltering steps and slow, 
 
 He left the mansion of long years of wo. 
 
 His eyes were dazzled by the sun's fierce light, 
 
 As nature burst on his astonished sight. 
 
 The trees, the brooks, the busy hum which rose, 
 
 Awaked his senses from their long repose. 
 
 The lofty spires which tremble on the eye, 
 
 As through the air they pierce the starry sky ; 
 
 The blue expanse, where countless systems roll, 
 
 With sweet delight filled his enraptured soul. 
 
 He gazed around upon th' enchanting scene, 
 
 As if he woke from some bewildering dream ; 
 
 Then to the village, where in youth he roved, 
 
 He bent his course to seek the friends he loved. 
 
 His heart beat quick, his eye with transport beamed, 
 
 From life's pure fountain tears of rapture streamed. 
 
 At every step he moved with lighter feet, 
 
 And spread his hands as forth he flew to meet 
 
 One he would clasp within his withered arms, 
 
 And feel once more the force of friendship's charms. 
 
 Oh, home ! sweet home ! the bright abode of bliss ! 
 
 How it concentrates all of happiness ; 
 
 Oh, home ! sweet spot ! remembrance lured him on 
 
 E'en life seemed new, and age forgot was gone. 
 
 Eager he looked, impatient to descry 
 
 One whom he knew to meet his anxious eye ; 
 
 But who can paint the anguish of his soul ? 
 
 Who can conceive what disappointment stole 
 
 Within his bosom ? nothing could he see 
 
 Of all he loved, but one old oaken tree. 
 
 He finds the spot, but oh ! except the ground 
 
 And the old oak, not e'en a shrub is found.
 
 THE CHINESE PRISONER. 
 
 No radiant landmarks could the old man find, 
 Nor wife, nor children, whom he left behind. 
 Nought now remained oblivion's purple wave 
 Had swept each vestige to their native grave. 
 Oppressed with wo his soul in anguish wept, 
 A shivering horror o'er his senses crept. 
 " Oh ! where," he cries, " are now my former joys, 
 My wife, my daughter, and my infant boys ? 
 Where can I turn to find the friends I love ? 
 Oh ! did I know, how gladly would I rove 
 To earth's remotest verge, without a sigh, 
 Embrace them once, then lay me down to die." 
 
 Memory ! how strong was then thy magic power ! 
 How wild the impulse of that feverish hour ! 
 " Where, where," he cries, " where do the lovely stray ?' 
 Oh ! give them back, or take my life away." 
 
 Another mansion occupied the spot, 
 
 Where in seclusion stood his humble cot, 
 
 And other children rambled o'er the lawn, 
 
 Where once his sported at the early dawn. 
 
 Against the oak he leaned his aching head 
 
 As if they wept, the branches round him spread ; 
 
 And their green boughs encircled him once more, 
 
 Alone, forsaken, on life's stormy shore. 
 
 Prostrate he fell, and fondly kissed the ground, 
 
 And with his arms clasped the old oak round. 
 
 " Oh ! precious relic of departed joys, 
 
 How oft -at eve, with my young prattling boys, 
 
 Have I reclined beneath your verdant shade, 
 
 And cropt the wild flowers springing from the glade ; 
 
 Twined the bright wreath round the raven hair 
 
 Of her I loved the fairest of the fair." 
 
 All pass him by, regardless of his tears, 
 'Till a poor beggar on his knees appears.
 
 THE CHINESE PRISONER. 177 
 
 He from the splendid dome was sent away, 
 In misery keen to end life's dreary day. 
 Of the old man he asked, and found relief, 
 Who heard from him the story of his grief. 
 That beauteous one, who at the early day 
 Smiled in his face, as in his arms she lay, 
 Like a bright cloud at sunset's golden hour, 
 Faded away within her roseate bower. 
 And those dear children, cherished buds of bliss, 
 Who, with their mother, shared the envied kiss ; 
 Far from their home with weary steps had fled, 
 In other climes to beg their bitter bread ! 
 
 The air resounded with a piteous wail, 
 
 As from the beggar came the harrowing tale ! 
 
 Overwhelmed with anguish, back the old man crept, 
 
 And at his sovereign's feet he kneeling wept. 
 
 " Oh ! send me back, great prince," he feebly cried, 
 
 " All that I ever loved on earth have died. 
 
 Oh ! send me to my prison's dreary gloom, 
 
 'Tis light to me, compared with morning's bloom. 
 
 Amid this city, populous and great, 
 
 I feel alone no pleasures round me wait ; 
 
 Its splendors mock my mournful solitude, 
 
 Its music sickens and its smiles intrude. 
 
 Oh ! send me back, where from the light of day 
 
 This aged form may daily waste away ; 
 
 Whence I can ne'er the joys of others scan, 
 
 Tortured to madness by the face of man. 
 
 Famish where plenty spreads her golden store, 
 
 And die with thirst where living fountains pour. 
 
 Send me, great prince, where pity's voice can ne'er 
 
 Soothe my sad heart nor dry the falling tear 
 
 Send me where darkness wraps its solemn pall 
 
 Around my prison where the damp dews fafl ; 
 
 Where no mild beam can ever wend its way 
 
 To cheer my dungeon with the light of day ;
 
 178 THE CHINESE PRISONER. 
 
 Where pressed with sorrows and the weight of years, 
 I find relief amid my gushing tears." 
 
 The monarch wept ; strange feelings fired his breast, 
 
 On his bright throne the old man he caressed. 
 
 " Is there no charm within this splendid dome 
 
 To compensate for your once pleasant home ? 
 
 Here you may range in gold and purple dressed, 
 
 Your aged form on gilded divans rest ; 
 
 My beauteous queen, your anguish to appease, 
 
 Her baby boys shall place upon your knees. 
 
 And my young daughter, from the curling vine 
 
 Fresh grapes shall bring, with odors all divine. 
 
 On pleasure's streams your days serenely glide, 
 
 And down to death sail on its fairy tide." - 
 
 " Ha !" cries the old man, " how your accents thrill, 
 
 And through each nerve fresh agony distil ! 
 
 Once I would say my wife and children too 
 
 Since they are not, vain world adieu adieu ! 
 
 Quick ! send me where the light can never come, 
 
 The only place I wish to call my home !" 
 
 Through misery's depths, through freedom's sunny hour, 
 
 Through the sad spot where fate displayed her power 
 
 Through disappointed hopes and frantic grief, 
 
 We've viewed the old man 'mid his journey brief. 
 
 Seen the mysterious power which nature sways 
 
 O'er all her subjects seen her winding ways 
 
 The depth of love seen how the holy flame 
 
 Burns on the altar pure as when It came. 
 
 From sinless bowers, lit by the Almighty's breath, 
 
 To be extinguished never but in death. 
 
 From this sad drama, nothing more is learned 
 But that the old man to his prison turned, 
 Entered within the dungeon's massy walls 
 Over his fate, oblivion's curtain falls.
 
 179 
 
 A CHILD'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 AT A MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 THY dust, dear mother, slumbers here, 
 'Tis to thy child a sacred spot ; 
 
 I'll drop upon thy grave a tear, 
 Nor shall thy tomb be e'er forgot. 
 
 Thy love shall in my memory dwell, 
 Thy kindness in my heart abide ; 
 
 Thy virtues bright my tongue shall tell, 
 Till I shall slumber by thy side. 
 
 From the first hour I saw the light, 
 And hung upon thy faithful breast, 
 
 Thou watch'd me always with delight, 
 Till from the world thou sunk to rest. 
 
 Thy friendship holy, pure and true, 
 Pursued me with maternal care ; 
 
 And when thou bad'st the world adieu, 
 Gave me a blessing in thy prayer. 
 
 'Tis now in vain I seek to find 
 
 In this wide world a friend like thee 
 
 So full of love, sincere and kind 
 So faithful, true, and dear to me. 
 
 Thy ashes here shall rest in peace, 
 And nought disturb the sweet repose, 
 
 Till sun and moon, and stars shall cease, 
 And God eternal scenes disclose.
 
 180 
 
 The willow o'er thy tomb shall bend, 
 Its foliage o'er thy urn shall wave, 
 
 'Till Jesus from his throne shall send 
 A voice to call thee from the grave. 
 
 Then shall thy lovely form arise 
 
 To life shall spring thy mouldering dust, 
 
 And soar to meet him in the skies, 
 To live and reign among the just. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 HOPE ! sweet delirium of the human breast, 
 Thou art the day-star through this gloomy vale, 
 
 Thy radiant beams allure the soul to rest 
 
 When gloom and darkness human bliss assail. 
 
 When joys depart, and life 's an aching void 
 
 When waves of anguish o'er the bosom roll ; 
 
 Earth's dearest prospects blighted and destroy'd, 
 
 And sorrow's pall enwrap the troubled soul ; 
 
 Thine is the power to still the plaintive moan, 
 To wipe the tear from beauty's weeping eye, 
 
 To kindly soothe the deep-despairing groan, 
 And hush to peace the heart's tumultuous sigh. 
 
 Thou lived'st eternal : 'mid the ills of life, 
 'Mid Alpine snows and Afric's burning sand, 
 
 'Mid deserts drear with every danger rife, 
 In cold Siberia's waste and sterile land.
 
 A FAMILY. 191 
 
 When clouds impervious shroud the mental eye, 
 And human ken no ray of light can trace ; 
 
 Like God's own bow of promise arch'd on high, 
 Thou clear'st the gloom and show'st thy lovely face. 
 
 Serenely pointing to yon azure heaven, 
 Thy flowing vestments floating in the air ; 
 
 A seraph bright, to erring mortals giv'n, 
 In this bleak world of darkness and despair. 
 
 Celestial smiles thy opening lips adorn, 
 
 Thy upward glance directs the mourner's eye, 
 
 Where clouds disperse to an eternal morn, 
 Which breaks resplendent through yon ambient sky. 
 
 A FAMILY, OR THE GARDEN OF LOVE, 
 
 I'D a beautiful garden inclosed, 
 
 Adorned with the choicest of flowers ; 
 
 'Mid its odors I sweetly reposed, 
 And roved through its bright sunny bowers. 
 
 There JEoli&n harps sweetly played, 
 The breeze of the morn was their song ; 
 
 Pure fountains sprung up in the shade, 
 And murmured in sweetness along. 
 
 The sun in his splendor arrayed, 
 Illumined my grove with his beams ; 
 
 The moon as she pensively strayed, 
 Cast her silvery light on the streams.
 
 182 A FAMILY. 
 
 The stars in their loveliness shone, 
 
 And peeped from their chambers above ; 
 
 Bright Venus reclined on her throne, 
 Smiled sweet on my garden of love. 
 
 I watched my young plants with delight, 
 And saw them with transport unfold ; 
 
 Like magic they burst on my sight, 
 All sparkling like rubies in gold. 
 
 I nursed them with kindness and care, 
 Watched o'er them by day and by night ; 
 
 Their fragrance perfumed the air, 
 Their beauties enraptured the sight. 
 
 I walked through my garden of love 
 And cherished my delicate flowers ; 
 
 Brushed off the light dew with my glove, 
 And screened them from fast falling showers. 
 
 There grew in this garden of mine 
 Two beautiful buds on one stem, 
 
 Both pure as the dew-drops which shine 
 And glitter on earth's diadem 
 
 But transient and fleeting as morn, 
 When throned in her roseate bowers ; 
 
 A blast through my garden was borne, 
 And withered my beautiful flowers. 
 
 Those buds which my senses regaled, 
 The sweetest to me ever given, 
 
 Just sparkled, just beamed were exhaled, 
 Then closed their bright petals for heaven ! 
 
 In a favorite vase there was one, 
 The idol and pride of my grove ;
 
 A COTTAGE SCENE. 
 
 Like a bright scintillation it shone, 
 Then flew to its bower above. 
 
 If ' 
 A dark cloud my grove overcast, 
 
 And shrouded my roses awhile ; 
 They shrunk from the pitiless blast, 
 And none for a season could smile. 
 
 But the cloud in the distance has flown ; 
 
 The sweet bow of promise on high 
 Around its bright splendor has thrown, 
 
 And clear is yon ambient sky. 
 
 Though the breezes my flowerets have blown, 
 They are yet in their purity drest ; 
 
 Some still round my garden are strown 
 One blossoms away in the west. 
 
 I look from my flowers above, 
 
 Where all is immortal and fair ; 
 And hope in those regions of love, 
 
 For ever to dwell with them there. 
 
 183 
 
 
 A COTTAGE SCENE. 
 
 I SAW a cottage round whose wall 
 The rose and woodbine curled, 
 
 While young delight danced in its hall 
 And formed a little world.
 
 184 A COTTAGE SCENE. 
 
 I ventured in, while at the gate 
 
 I met a smiling band ; 
 With rosy cheeks and hearts elate, 
 
 Each took my offered hand, 
 
 And led me forth with glowing pride, 
 Toward their cottage door. 
 
 There sat their parents side by side 
 A babe played on the floor. 
 
 In this abode of earthly bliss, 
 Could I the picture draw, 
 
 The kindling smile, the cherub kiss, 
 The happiness I saw. 
 
 Tell how the mother, in her arms, 
 Caressed her darling boy, 
 
 And gazed upon her husband's charms, 
 Her pride, her boast, and joy. 
 
 Tell how that father proudly stood, 
 
 The glory of his name, 
 The kind, benevolent and good 
 
 He sought no higher fame. 
 
 On her he loved he fondly smiled, 
 Round him his children clung, 
 
 Domestic bliss his hours beguiled, 
 And high its banner hung. 
 
 Pleased with my call, I took my leave 
 With pleasure and with pain ; 
 
 As they my blessing did receive, 
 All cried, " Do come again." 
 
 Again I sought the cottage fair, 
 That little hallowed spot,
 
 A COTTAGE SCENE. 185 
 
 Their envied bliss once more to share, 
 A bliss I ne'er forgot. 
 
 But all was changed the festive hall 
 
 With childish sports no more 
 Resounded, as the whirling ball 
 
 Fell noiseless on the floor. 
 
 Pale was that face which bloomed so bright, 
 
 Dimmed were those eyes of love, 
 Despair had quenched their earthly light, 
 
 No glimmer seemed to move. 
 
 Shrouded and dark was all the scene, 
 
 Husband nor father smiled ; 
 The very grass which looked so green, 
 
 Now wore an aspect wild. 
 
 Two beauteous boys, their mother's all, 
 
 Hung fondly round her knees, 
 And quickly at her softest call, 
 
 Each strove their best to please. 
 
 No father came to welcome me 
 
 The husband smiles no more 
 Weeping and sad, alone was she, 
 
 Beside her cottage door. 
 
 At my approach she quickly rose, 
 
 While fast the tears did fall, 
 And by her bosom's bursting throes, 
 
 I read I saw it all. 
 
 Short was her story, fraught with wo 
 
 Her frame convulsed with grief, 
 Was cold as Alpine's frost and snow, 
 
 And trembled like its leaf.
 
 186 A COTTAGE SCENE. 
 
 Death, in its course, which never tires, 
 Aimed sure his fatal bow ; 
 
 Dipt his keen arrows in those fires 
 Which laid her husband low. 
 
 Her kind protector and her friend, 
 
 The father of her boys, 
 Changed from an angel to a fiend, 
 
 Had blighted all her joys. 
 
 As morning mists, which quickly fly 
 Before the sun's bright ray, 
 
 Soon as he raised the wine-cup high, 
 She saw her hopes decay. 
 
 But still she loved, too fondly loved, 
 Around his form she hung, 
 
 And never wished, and seldom moved, 
 But like the ivy clung. 
 
 With his dark eye, the look was death ! 
 
 He spurned her from his arms, 
 And like the poisonous upas' breath, 
 
 He withered all her charms. 
 
 She read her doom, her heart could feel, 
 For her there was no rest ; 
 
 She saw the accursed chalice steal 
 Her image from his breast. 
 
 Alone through many a dreary night, 
 When down the rain did pour, 
 
 She watched beside her nickering light, 
 And listened to its roar. 
 
 With eye upturned to heaven, her home, 
 Where hope her anchor cast ;
 
 187 
 
 Trembling, she watched to see him come, 
 Unsheltered from the blast. 
 
 Such was her history of the past, 
 Crushed hopes and joys entombed, 
 
 Intemperance came with deadly blast, 
 Where once an Eden bloomed. 
 
 With this lone dove I knelt and prayed, 
 And her sweet cherub band ; 
 
 Faith took the offering high, and laid 
 It safe at God's right hand. 
 
 Oh ! ye who oft the wine-cup sip, 
 
 With bosoms light as air, 
 Whene'er you raise it to your lip, 
 
 Think of that cottage fair. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 A 
 
 WRITTEN DURING A HEAVY FALL OF SNOW. 
 
 SEE the flakes of snow descending, 
 Downward through the chilling air ; 
 
 See the trees and bushes bending 
 'Neath their snowy wreaths so fair. 
 
 O'er the mountains, hills, and dales, 
 Winter throws her mantle white ; 
 
 Crested garlands deck the vales, 
 Glowing like some diamond bright.
 
 188 LINES. 
 
 Oft I've gaz'd on such a scene 
 In my childhood's sportive hour ; 
 
 Fancied many a fairy queen, 
 Seated in her sylvan bower. 
 
 While I gaz'd all passed away, 
 
 Castles, and groves, and garlands fair ; 
 
 Those beauteous wreaths of snow which lay 
 In mystic forms, dissolv'd in air. 
 
 And thus in life's maturer hours, 
 I've look'd on those I lov'd too well, 
 
 Form'd in my mind Elysian bowers, 
 And placed them there in bliss to dwell. 
 
 But, like the snowy landscape, brief, 
 I've seen my fondest hopes decay, 
 
 Friend after friend, like autumn's leaf, 
 Tremble and dropt, and passed away ; 
 
 Yes, pass'd for ever from my sight, 
 And nought remains but memory's power ; 
 
 Faithful she brings the vision bright, 
 And hallows oft some lonely hour. 
 
 Their shadowy forms flit o'er my mind, 
 Whispering they softly seem to say 
 
 In accents melting, sweet and kind, 
 Dear sister, rise and haste away 
 
 To heaven, where changes never come, 
 Where groves of bliss for ever bloom, 
 
 Where friends shall meet in " home, sweet home,' 
 And fear no more the insatiate tomb.
 
 189 
 
 CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. 
 
 'TwAS night, and darkness reigned on high, 
 Black clouds enwrapt the earth and sky, 
 
 And all was fearful gloom ; 
 Dismayed the appalled disciples stood, 
 And gazed with terror on the flood, 
 
 Their pathway to the tomb ! 
 
 While the dread tempest gathered higher, 
 And fierce winds swept their thundering lyre 
 
 In bold terrific tone ; 
 Around with anxious fear they cast 
 Their eyes, when lo ! amid the blast, 
 
 Unsheltered and alone, 
 
 A form was seen approaching near, 
 Calm, dignified, devoid of fear ; 
 
 With terror, quick they fly ! 
 When soon a sweet seraphic voice 
 Made each despairing heart rejoice, 
 
 Exclaiming, " It is 1 1" 
 
 Thus, when the soul's convulsive dread 
 Of death, with earthquake's heavy tread, 
 
 Affrighted, shrinks away 
 As morning shows its beauteous rays 
 So Jesus his pierced side displays, 
 
 And straight 'tis heavenly day.
 
 190 
 TO MISS GERALDINE SHALER GARDINER, 
 
 ON HER FIRST VISIT TO HER GRANDFATHER'S, THE REV. J. D. G. 
 
 WELCOME, little beauteous stranger, 
 To my bosom quickly come ; 
 
 Free from care, a little ranger, 
 Welcome to your father's home. 
 
 Lay your little head, my darling, 
 On the same fond, loving breast, 
 
 Where in infancy's young morning, 
 Oft your father sought his rest. 
 
 Like the sweet bouquet thou wearest, 
 Placed by love upon your breast ; 
 
 May you like the flowers, my dearest, 
 Find your heart your seat of rest. 
 
 Father, mother, first-born treasure, 
 All of earth, and doomed to die ; 
 
 Live, and love, then reap the pleasure, 
 For the pure in heart on high.
 
 191 
 
 GOD IN ALL HIS WORKS. A POEM. 
 
 GOD is a spirit yet he deigns 
 
 To dwell on earth, to dwell with man ; 
 In every form his image reigns, 
 
 In all his works his mind we scan. 
 
 We view Him in our wondrous frame, 
 We feel Him in each heaving breath ; 
 
 His spirit, which pervades the same, 
 
 Exists through life, and lives through death. 
 
 In nature we behold his name, 
 
 Portrayed in all that 's bright and fair ; 
 
 His breath is in the warring wind, 
 And in the gentlest breeze of air, 
 
 The landscape decked in glowing charms, 
 Spread out upon some lovely isle ; 
 
 Like beauty clasped in ocean's arms, 
 Enjoys his light, rests in his smile. 
 
 The thunder speaks his hidden power, 
 The sheeted lightning show his wrath ; 
 
 The fierce tornadoes as they lower, 
 Speak forth their terrors in his path. 
 
 The rainbow with its brilliant shades, 
 O'erarching nature grand ajid high ; 
 
 Speaks his sweet promise as it fades 
 In beauty from th' admiring eye. 
 
 'Mid pensive evening's silent train, 
 'Mid murmuring waters soft and clear,
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 
 
 'Mid nature's harpings o'er the plain, 
 The breathings of his love we hear. 
 
 The lovely flower which rears its head 
 In sweetness o'er the vernal plain, 
 
 Speaks forth his care, its petals spread, 
 Blushing amid the golden train. 
 
 The sighing winds, the moaning woods, 
 The glimmerings of some lonely star ; 
 
 The moonbeams trembling o'er the floods, 
 Reveal his kindness ever there. 
 
 Man cannot turn his eye abroad, 
 But in some mirror he will see 
 
 Some bright remembrance of his God, 
 Some semblance of the Deity. 
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 
 
 ' What sight on earth so sweet and yet so rare, 
 As kindred love and family repose." YOUNG. 
 
 Is there upon this earth a sight 
 
 So beautiful and fair 
 So fraught with bliss so pure and bright, 
 
 And yet a sight so rare, 
 
 As kindred love, that holy flame, 
 
 And family repose ? 
 Is there a joy that earth can name, 
 
 Which round such pleasure throws ?
 
 THE SILVER. MOON. 
 
 If aught below resembles heaven 
 Aught like the world above, 
 
 'Tis where each frailty is forgiven, 
 And hearts are filled with love. 
 
 'Tis like a lute of various notes, 
 
 Melodious, soft, and clear. 
 Which o'er the soul in sweetness floats, 
 
 And charms the listening ear. 
 
 But should one note lose its soft tone, 
 Each fellow chord is mute : 
 
 One single note one note alone, 
 Destroys this lovely lute. 
 
 Then, oh ! how cautious all should be, 
 Lest one rude, angry breath 
 
 For ever mar its minstrelsy, 
 And hush its notes in death. 
 
 Upon my ear, from day to day, 
 
 The Lydian measures roll, 
 And as my moments glide away, 
 
 They sweep across ray soul. 
 
 THE SILVER MOON. 
 
 HAIL, thou bright orb ! resplendently stealing 
 
 O'er the slumbering world o'er the land o'er the sea 
 
 Past scenes of enjoyment thy mild rays revealing 
 Past scenes, once so dear and so lovely to me. 
 
 R
 
 1 94 T H K S I L V E R M O () X . 
 
 Oh ! where are those eyes that gazed on thy brightness, 
 And marked thy soft rays on the clear winding stream ? 
 
 Oh ! where are those voices which sung in their lightness, 
 " The sea, the blue sea," 'neath thy pale lucid beam ? 
 
 Gone down to the grave when their hopes were the fleetest, 
 When friendship and fortune smiled bright on their way ; 
 
 Gone down to the grave when their joys were the sweetest, 
 Nor friendship nor fortune could lengthen their stay. 
 
 Oh ! say, lovely moon, oh ! say did'st thou never 
 In clouds veil thy face as thou gazed'st below ? 
 
 When joys, pure as angels, were blighted for ever, 
 And hopes, bright as Eden, were shrouded in wo. 
 
 Thou queen of the night, in yonder bright heaven ! 
 
 Memory revives as we gaze on thy charms ; 
 Sunlight and shade o'er my pathway have striven, 
 
 Pleasures have waked and have died in my arms. 
 
 Thou gem of the evening ! less transient I know 
 Than man, but as mortal thy splendors must die ; 
 
 And this beautiful earth thou lightest below, 
 In terror one day from her orbit shall fly. 
 
 Like life's brightest hopes, all, all must expire, 
 
 Save the soul, great, immortal, by mercy redeemed ; 
 
 That soul, as the sun, mounting higher and higher, 
 
 Shall soar in those realms where thy light never beamed.
 
 195 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ' Sweet were those scenes my fancy drew 
 As life first opened to my view." 
 
 YES, sweet those scenes, which on the mind 
 Left naught unpleasant or unkind. 
 Sweet hours of youth, when care and gloom 
 Were strangers to our early bloom ; 
 When visions bright, and free as air, 
 Danced o'er the mind devoid of care 
 Painted like rainbows on the sky, 
 And beautiful to love's young eye, 
 In thousand forms of silvery hue, 
 And fancied by the heart as true. 
 
 Deceptive dreams, as false as fair, 
 As vain as false, and light as air ; 
 Those meteors bright, whose flashing ray 
 Allures and gilds but to betray. 
 Frail as the flower, those early charms 
 Fade ere we fold them in our arms 
 A gilded phantom, which aspires, 
 Sparkles a moment, then expires. 
 
 Ah ! who has not, in life's young morn, 
 Seen hopes decay which scarce were born ? 
 Felt in their soul a void as deep, 
 As if creation were asleep ? 
 Seen youth's bright visions pass away, 
 Like stars before the opening day. 
 Transient as on some blushing leaf 
 The dew-drops sparkle, and as brief.
 
 196 HOLY CONVERSE. 
 
 Had we but weighed them ere they passed, 
 Those phantoms bright we ne'er had clasped. 
 Had we but known how soon the eye 
 Which beamed with love, on us, must die ; 
 How soon the form beloved and dear, 
 Like morning mist, must disappear ; 
 The tear had oft the smile outweighed, 
 Which on the face so sweetly played 
 The sigh had lingered where the soul 
 Drank in its bliss without control. 
 
 HOLY CONVERSE. 
 
 SPIRITS of the mighty dead ! 
 
 Souls which long to heaven have gone, 
 Hover round with lightsome tread, 
 
 As I sit and muse alone. 
 Like a cloud ye wrap me round, 
 Yet I hear no voice or sound. 
 
 Spirits of the peaceful dead ! 
 
 Whither do ye wander now ? 
 Is your home where angels tread 
 
 Where the ransom'd bow ? 
 Do ye flit around this sphere, 
 Dimm'd by disappointment's tear ? 
 
 Do ye watch o'er lovely forma 
 Which upon your bosoms lay ? 
 
 See you all the bitter storms 
 That around their footsteps play ?
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Storms o'er which the saints in heaven 
 Would weep, if tears could there be given. 
 
 Shadows of departed worth ! 
 
 Spirits of the friends I love ! 
 Hearts devoted, firm and true, 
 
 Whither, whither do ye rove ? 
 Are ye near ? methinks I feel 
 
 The kindlings of seraphic fire ; 
 Are ye near ? behold, I kneel ! 
 Grant, oh, grant me my desire. 
 
 Hark ! I hear them from afar, 
 Warbling through each twinkling star ; 
 'Mid those silvery orbs of light 
 Lo ! they rush upon my sight. 
 Sweet the angelic numbers roll 
 O'er my fetter'd, struggling soul 
 Panting now with warm desire, 
 To mingle with the blissful choir ! 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 MY native land ! I love thy flowing streams, 
 Thy foaming cataracts, and thy mountains bold 
 
 Thy glorious sunsets, and thy sylvan scenes, 
 Thy summer breezes, and thy winter's cold. 
 
 My native land ! thy boundless seas I love, 
 I love the music of their ceaseless roar ; 
 
 My soul inspir'd as on thy banks I rove, 
 Delighted lingers on the rock bound shore.
 
 My native land ! I love thy forests wild, 
 Thy shaded groves, when starlight faintly gleams ; 
 
 I love to wander where the moonbeams mild, 
 Mirror their beauties in the limpid streams. 
 
 My native land ! I love thy classic bowers ; 
 
 I love to climb fair Science' lofty mount ; 
 In sober thought, to call immortal flowers, 
 
 And drink true pleasure from each sacred fount. 
 
 I love thy Temples, where the spirit free 
 
 Worships the Deity, to man reveal'd ; 
 In crowded Domes, or 'neath the forest tree, 
 
 I love that Temple, public or conceal'd. 
 
 I love the soil where patriot spirits bled, 
 
 Whose blood enriched the ground on which they trod 
 Imagination lingers in their tread, 
 
 And rears an altar to the living God. 
 
 The Magna Charta of our nation's rights, 
 Our heroes, statesmen, stars of brilliant hue ; 
 
 I love their virtues, and their lofty flights, 
 The guardians of our Constitution, true. 
 
 Bright constellation ! may they ever shine, 
 From day to day, with an increasing flame ! 
 
 Fame 'round their brows a fadeless wreath entwine, 
 And Heaven above record each honored name. 
 
 My native land ! thine is a favored lot, 
 
 To high-born souls, and patriot spirits given. 
 
 My native land ! earth knows no holier spot 
 No lovelier one beneath the light of Heaven !
 
 199 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS S. H. 
 
 BRING flowers, bring flowers for the early dead 
 
 Bright be the beautiful wreath ; 
 Scatter them 'round with a noiseless tread, 
 O'er the verdant sod of their green summer bed, 
 
 All fragrant with morning's pure breath. 
 
 Gemmed with the lustre of sympathy's tear, 
 
 Let friendship her offring bestow ; 
 Twine the green chaplet, for virtue lies here 
 The spirit of beauty has lit on the bier, 
 
 And placed her bright stamp on her brow. 
 
 Bring flowers for the lovely, and scatter them round- 
 Strevr them over the white urn of love; 
 
 Let no cypress wave its dark shade o'er the mound, 
 
 But scatter young roses over the ground, 
 For the spirit is happy above. 
 
 Bright is the clime where on high it has fled 
 
 No night the skies ever wear ; 
 Then scatter fresh flowers o'er the beautiful dead, 
 When at evening you come with a lingering tread 
 
 To weep for the maiden so fair.
 
 200 
 
 THE STUDENTS, 
 
 [THE following piece was written in memory of Gilbert Livingston 
 Smith, the particular friend of the Rev. S. Ely, of East Hampton, 
 Long Island, who were classmates in Yale College.] 
 
 IN childhood's morn two kindred souls were seen, 
 At school, at church, and on the village green ; 
 In all their sports, in all their youthful glee, 
 Where one was seen the other sure would be. 
 
 In every joy they shared an equal part, 
 
 And griefs alike subdued each kindred heart ; 
 
 Through childhood's morn, through youth's enchanting hours, 
 
 In halls of science, each displayed their powers ; 
 
 No rivalry, no jarring passions moved 
 
 Their youthful bosoms, for they truly loved. 
 
 At morning's dawn with lightsome feet they strayed, 
 
 And swept the light dew from the forest glade. 
 
 Often amid their spirits' airy flight, 
 
 They viewed fair Greece, and saw her temples bright ; 
 
 Viewed the famed spot, where Marathon once stood 
 
 That post of honor, and that field of blood. 
 
 Together trod fair science' steep ascent 
 
 Oft through Italian bowers in fancy went ; 
 
 Climbed the tall cliffs, and viewed the far famed shere 
 
 Of fair Thessalia, bright with classic lore ; 
 
 Where spreading palms embowered the spangled grove, 
 
 And yeung Adonis breathed his vows of love 
 
 Where Homer strayed amid the vine clad hills, 
 
 Or tuned his lyre beside his native rills
 
 THE STUDENTS. 201 
 
 'Mid perfum'd bowers, where Orpheus' silver strain 
 Melodious swept along the dewy plain. 
 Surveyed the palace where the Caesars stood 
 Gazed, till the Tiber rolled with human blood 
 Wept over Carthage, where a Marius roved 
 When all was gone, which he had ever loved. 
 
 Soon fled those halcyon days : and then adieu 
 
 To Academe the busy world in view ; 
 
 And " Home, sweet Home," with all its winning charms, 
 
 Received them both within its hallowed arms. 
 
 Nor fields of glory found these friends a place ; 
 Not laurels gathered from the bar did grace : 
 To them were given a task divinely sweet 
 They learned obedience at the Saviour's feet. 
 The Gospel trumpet's soft enchanting strain 
 Flowed from their lips, and echoed o'er the plain. 
 While all was bright when all around them smiled, 
 And love and friendship every hour beguiled, 
 Death envious viewed their summer's opening bloom, 
 And laid young Gilbert in the darksome tomb. 
 
 How love and friendship through that gloomy hour, 
 In anguish writhed beneath death's withering power ! 
 Maternal fondness watched around his bed, 
 Kissed his pale lips, and held his aching head ; 
 Caught the last whisper of his parting breath, 
 And smoothed his pillow, till he sunk in death. 
 Then from his couch, in frantic grief they tore 
 His fainting mother from the son she bore. 
 How true the words, the best of poets cries, 
 " 'Tis not the dead ; but the survivor dies." 
 
 Smith sleeps ! but memory wakes ; the plastic mind 
 Brings back each feature, every action kind. 
 Like yonder ocean lashing now our shore, 
 His requiem sings in one eternal roar.
 
 202 THI MANIAC. 
 
 Nor will it sleep ; till in its orb this earth 
 
 Shall cease to move hung pendant from its birth. 
 
 Memory ne'er sleeps ; she on this sea-girt isle, 
 
 Brings back the early, well remembered smile ; 
 
 She speaks a name, a name that's ever dear, 
 
 And whispers oft the loved one in our ear. 
 
 Oft takes the hand, the hand in friendship plighted, 
 
 And clasps again the form which once delighted. 
 
 She treasures up each well remembered word, 
 
 In sweet retrospect views the friend adored. 
 
 Distance nor time the charm can ever break ; 
 
 The sea may roar, earth's highest mountains quake ; 
 
 Volcanoes, war, and famine fill our earth, 
 
 But friendship's tie is of immortal birth. 
 
 Pure are its joys, it softens human woes, 
 
 Eternity alone its sweets disclose ; 
 
 While life exists, man with the poet cries, 
 
 " 'Tis not the dead ; but the survivor dies." 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 SEE you that lovely, beauteous maid, 
 With visage wild and maniac stare 1 
 
 Her noble mind in ruins laid, 
 
 And reason throned no longer there. 
 
 She sits all mute from day to day, 
 In some dark, lone, sequestered spot 
 
 And weeps and sings in mournful lay, 
 By friends and kindred all forgot.
 
 THE M A X I A C . 203 
 
 Her mind is like the troubled deep, 
 
 Whose restless billows lash the shore ; 
 Where angry .waves in fury sweep, 
 
 And ocean's waves eternal roar. 
 
 The lute's soft note, its touching strain, 
 
 Falls dead upon her listless ear ; 
 And harps ^Eolian sing in vain, 
 
 For music has no power to cheer. 
 
 The minstrel's voice, the night bird's song, 
 
 The torrent's sound on distant hill, 
 The thunders as they roll along, 
 
 And babblings of the distant rill, 
 
 Are all alike to her, poor soul ! 
 
 Whose mind in awful ruin lies, 
 And o'er her have no more control 
 
 Than clouds and vapors in the skies. 
 
 Nor sun, nor moon, nor stars serene, 
 
 Now gleam upon her mental night ; 
 No light of reason there is seen 
 
 To shed its radiance on her sight. 
 
 Poor hapless maid ! had I the power, 
 
 I'd place thy mind upon its throne ; 
 Dispel thy gloom, and bring the hour 
 
 When reason's lamp with splendor shone.
 
 204 
 THE AURORA BOREALIS, 
 
 AS BEHELD ON THE EVENING OF NOVEMBER 16, 1841. 
 
 OH, could my muse amid her flight, 
 
 But dip her pencil in the sky, 
 Then would I paint in colors bright 
 
 A gorgeous scene of imagery 5 
 
 Paint glittering circles as they beamed, 
 From winged clouds as black as night ; 
 
 Through which no starlight faintly gleamed, 
 No moon's pale rays of trembling light. 
 
 On high a brilliant arch arose, 
 Illumin'd with a roseate glow ; 
 
 While rainbows sparkled as they froze, 
 Emerging from their beds of snow. 
 
 Up through the misty air the spires, 
 Like crimson needles, flashed on high ; 
 
 Luke pyramids of blazing fires, 
 
 Gleaming athwart the troubled sky. 
 
 The airy phantoms danced in view, 
 Like flaming armies robed in light ; 
 
 Then quick the dazzling cohorts flew, 
 And ope'd new squadrons on the sight. 
 
 Borne on a cloud of thousand lights, 
 The God of storms in grandeur rode ; 
 
 Marshalled his hosts of frosty knights, 
 As up the azure depths they strode.
 
 205 
 
 The electric troops with sparkling crest, 
 
 On fiery steeds majestic came ; 
 While all in blazing armor drest, 
 Battled amid the lightning's flame. 
 
 The air seemed rife with aerial forms, 
 
 Holding their mystic revelry ; 
 Their gala was the strife of storms 
 
 The roaring seas their minstrelsy. 
 
 The frost king in his chariot bright, 
 
 Moved quickly 'round th' electric pole ; 
 
 Then dashing up the dizzy height, 
 One brilliant flash illumed the whole ! 
 
 The massy columns fled away, 
 
 Floating upon th' etherial tide ; 
 Like beacons, lest the spirits stray, 
 
 And wander from their unknown guide. 
 
 Quick, up the zenith fleecy waves 
 Of lucid light cast their bright ray ; 
 
 Trembled a moment, o'er their graves, 
 Then flashing, changing died away ! 
 
 What mind conceive, what tongue can tell, 
 From whence, and where these mystic fires ' 
 
 Within what cavern vast, they dwell, 
 Shooting on high their numerous spires ! 
 
 What hidden charm invests the pole ? 
 
 The needle by its mgic power, 
 'Mid furious storms feels its control, 
 
 Nor wavers for a single hour. 
 
 Thus may the Almighty by his grace, 
 Sweetly attract the wandering soul ; 
 
 That man, secure in his embrace, 
 
 May rest when earth's foundation's roll !
 
 206 
 
 THE DYING DAUGHTER 
 
 OR A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 " DEAR mother, will you bring me that beautiful flower, 
 
 And let me inhale its perfume ? 
 An emblem, how striking, of life's fleeting hour, 
 
 Of joys which expire in the tomb. 
 
 " Come, now, my dear mother, and sit by my bed, 
 And smooth down my dark flowing hair ; 
 
 Come place this sweet rose on the side of my head 
 Once you said it looked beautiful there. 
 
 " Dear mother, will you please draw the curtain away 
 
 And bring my geranium here ? 
 How often I've watched its green leaves as I lay, 
 
 Watched them often, alas ! with a tear. 
 
 " 'Tis my favorite plant, I will give it to you, 
 Soon this young bud in beauty will bloom ; 
 
 And when its bright colors shall burst on your view, 
 Your Mary may sleep in the tomb. 
 
 " Dear mother, sweet mother, take the Bible and read 
 Pray once more for the child whom you love ; 
 
 One kiss, dearest mother, I am going, indeed, 
 To far brighter mansions above." 
 
 That mother bent over her beautiful child 
 
 She kissed her again and again ; 
 Her Mary was gone that mother was wild ! 
 
 Her blood coursed cold through each vein.
 
 207 
 
 " Oh, now can I live in this cold world," she cried, 
 
 " I have nothing on earth more to do." 
 She sank by the side of her daughter and died, 
 And quick to her Mary she flew. 
 
 The tall grass waves mournfully over their tomb, 
 
 The moon faintly gleams through the trees ; 
 The wild rose is there, all fresh in its bloom, 
 And its fragrance is borne on the breeze. 
 
 E Z E K I E L 2 42 6 . 
 
 "Son of man, behold I take away from you, the desire of your eyes with a stroke.' 
 
 BRIGHTL the morning arose, 
 
 And sweet was the ambient air ; 
 The moss cup, the lilly and rose, 
 
 Bloom'd forth in their lovliness fair. 
 
 Two fond hearts devoted and true, 
 Must be rent from each other away ; 
 
 No more thro' the emerald grove, 
 Delighted they longer could stray. 
 
 One was fair as morn's earliest gem, 
 
 And lay in the arms of her love ; 
 Her beauty was bright as the dawn, 
 
 Her breath was as soft as the dove. 
 
 As he gazed on his own chosen one, 
 
 And lived in the light of her eye ; 
 A voice cried aloud from the throne, 
 
 " The wife of your bosom shall die."
 
 203 TO WILLIAM H. HART. 
 
 But shed not one tear, nor repine, 
 
 She is mine, and my mandate is seal'd ; 
 
 The Idol you fancied divine, 
 Must soon from your sight be conceal'd. 
 
 'Twas done and at evening's soft hour, 
 
 He sat in his arbor alone ; 
 Alas ! for the beautiful flower, 
 
 'Twas wither'd, and faded, and gone. 
 
 TO WILLIAM H. HART, 
 
 ON HIS LEAVING SA& HARBOR. 
 
 FAREWELL little Willy, the joy of each heart, 
 From so sweet a cherub 'tis anguish to part ; 
 
 We shall miss your lov'd voice, so happy and free, 
 Gushing forth in rich music, like a bird full of glee. 
 
 Farewell little Willy, no more will the hall, 
 
 Reecho at morn with your silvery call ; 
 No more will your feet in their buoyancy move, 
 
 To meet the warm kiss of affection and love. 
 
 From those in the mansion, where the sun's golden light, 
 Dawn'd clearly, and beautifully first on your sight ; 
 
 Where your father bent over his young darling boy, 
 And your mother's soft bosom beat high in its joy. 
 
 Farewell little Willy, you go from us now, 
 
 With a smile in your eye, and no cloud on your brow ;
 
 209 
 
 Unconscious of sorrow, a stranger to fear, 
 Unknowing the cause of each glistening tear. 
 
 You go little Willy, from hearts, on whose throne, 
 You reign'd in your glory supreme and alone. 
 
 You go with the waters of life on your brow, 
 From the baptismal font, how bright is the glow 
 
 They left on your beautifal face ; now I see 
 
 Your black sparkling eyes as they lit upon me. 
 
 0, ne'er from my mind can that soft glance depart, 
 'Tis stamp'd on my soul, 'tis engrav'd on my heart ; 
 
 I shall think of you often, when absent, and tell, 
 How dearly we loved you, sweet Willy farewell. 
 
 ON THE PARTING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 To part, and feel that we again 
 
 On earth, once more our friends shall meet ; 
 Robs the torn breast of half its pain, 
 
 And makes e'en farewell anguish sweet. 
 
 But oh, to rend away and know 
 
 It is forever, and the heart 
 Which lov'd thro' every ebb and flow 
 
 Of life, forever MUST depart. 
 
 Forever vanish from our view, 
 
 No wish, or power can them replace ; 
 
 A phantom, which if we pursue, 
 
 Still onward flies and leaves no trace.
 
 210 ON LEAVING THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. 
 
 To part, to part, and know no more, 
 The voice we loved, so soft and clear, 
 
 Like winds from Araby's mild shore, 
 Shall fall upon the listening ear. 
 
 To feel no time can ever bring, 
 
 The cherished one to us again ; 
 Lashes the soul with scorpion sting, 
 
 And chills the blood in every vein. 
 
 Or sends the vital current on, 
 
 More rapid in its winding way ; 
 'Till life, and time, seem lost and gone, 
 
 Or on the wildering Senses play. 
 
 None can describe, no tongue can tell, 
 None can conceive, but those who taste ; 
 
 The anguish of that parting knell 
 
 Which speaks this world a barren waste. 
 
 Speaks every joy like bubbles blown, 
 
 Scattered upon the desert air ; 
 A knell, that echoes peace has flown ! 
 
 And leaves the mind to wild despair. 
 
 ON LEAVING THE OLD MANSION HOUSE, 
 
 I LEAVE thee mansion of long years of peace, 
 I leave thee sorrowing, yet I leave with joy ; 
 
 For here I've seen life's brightest prospects cease, 
 And here I've tasted bliss without alloy.
 
 I leave thee, leave thy pleasant rooms and halls, 
 I leave my nursery, where in love I've pass'd, 
 
 The dearest, sweetest hours, 'mid infant calls, 
 I e'er shall spend while time and memory last. 
 
 I leave thee willows, which so oft at night 
 
 Have drooped in beauty o'er each cherish'd flower ; 
 
 Willows, through which the pale moon's silvery light, 
 Has gleam'd within the sweet domestic bower. 
 
 I leave thy shade, I leave thy weeping boughs 
 Which oft have wav'd in pensive sympathy ; 
 
 As on my bed I've breath'd my evening vows, 
 When sickness spread her ebon pall o'er me. 
 
 I leave thee, study where my husband pray'd, 
 And conn'd his sermons for the pious ear ^ 
 
 I leave thee, school-room, where my children play'd, 
 Bright spots of earth, to me forever dear. 
 
 Old oak I leave thee too thou dear old tree ; 
 
 Often at sun-sets mellow'd hour I've stray'd, 
 Beneath thy branches ; many an hour of glee, 
 
 I've spent delighted on the velvet glade. 
 
 Old oak belov'd ! the spot of childish mirth 
 Has been beneath thy shadowy boughs at eve ; 
 
 My children there, have gambol'd from their birth. 
 With deep regret, thy foliage now I leave. 
 
 Farewell, sweet home associations rise, 
 Farewell I must not dwell too long on thee, 
 
 Yet thou art dear the garden, arbor, skies, 
 All, all, I love even the old Oak Tree.
 
 212 
 
 A SABBATH SCENE 
 
 THE day was one of lovliness, the sun in splendor shone, 
 O'er castle, tower, and mountain top, o'er gilded spire and dome ; 
 The bells chim'd forth in sweetness upon the gusty air, 
 And hearts of humble gratitude, met in the house of pray'r. 
 
 'Twas a day of thrilling interest, hundreds and hundreds came ; 
 The crowded aisle was fill'd with those, who loved the Saviour's 
 
 name ; 
 
 The man of God raised high his hand, his heart with virtue glow'd, 
 The old, the young, the beautiful, around the altar bow'd. 
 
 Peace sat serenely on the brow which once was knit with care, 
 Grace wrapped her spotless robe around the fairest of the fair ; 
 The mother with the daughter came, the sire the son embraced, 
 And e'en the orphan, all alone, look'd heavenly as she pass'd. 
 
 Angels above, delighted bent, the rapturous scene to view, 
 Bright seraphs spread their golden wings, and near the temple drew ; 
 The echoing heavens in praises rang, to God's eternal son, 
 And saints in humble rev'rence bow'd, before the three in One. 
 
 O, 'twas a day, through coming time, will tune the Christian's lyre, 
 A day, which through eternity, will nobler thoughts inspire ; 
 Within the groves of Paradise, delighted there, they'll tell, 
 What strong emotions sway'd their souls, what burning tears here 
 fell. 
 
 O, may the scene, the blissful scene, on earth be oft renew'd, 
 More precious souls be gather'd in, more stubborn wills subdued ; 
 The Gospel chariot, light convey o'er a benighted world, 
 The King of Glory, guide its way, with banners bright, unfurl'd.
 
 
 213 
 
 CHRISTMAS REMINISCENCES, 
 
 FAIR muse, assist me in my humble lay, 
 
 As memory wakes upon this Christmas day 
 
 Goes back to scenes once fraught with purest bliss 
 
 When from each child came the enraptur'd kiss, 
 
 E'er morning dawned, as round my bed they drew, 
 
 Anxious for Santa's presents bright and new. 
 
 Cakes, nuts, and candies in profusion strewed, 
 
 The sight of which their infant glee renewed, 
 
 As in each hanging sock, or on each plate, 
 
 Their Christmas gifts, they viewed with hearts elate, 
 
 Then back to bed, with buoyant minds and feet, 
 
 And spread their treasure o'er the whiten'd sheet. 
 
 Up with the sun, and o'er the whiten'd earth, 
 
 With sleds and skates they bound in jocund mirth, 
 
 Upon the glossy pond or down the hill, 
 
 The air resounding with their voices shrill. 
 
 Ah ! now methinks I hear the merry laugh, 
 
 And from past pleasures sweet delight I s quaff 
 
 While from my eye the tears of memory roll, 
 
 As joys departed steal across my soul. 
 
 Where are those loved ones ? Some are far away 
 
 To manhood grown past is their summer's day. 
 
 Those lovely babes, which slumbered in my arms, 
 
 They, too, have flown, with all their winning charms. 
 
 Beneath the green turf, sweetly now they rest, 
 
 While one beloved roams in the distant west 
 
 One cherished gem, on this bright holiday, 
 
 For the first time from his loved home away 
 
 Those who remain recall life's sunny hours, 
 
 And weep and smile like summer's opening flowers,
 
 214 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 When to the sun they rear their dewy heads, 
 
 And sparkle in the lustre which he sheds. 
 
 Gone gone for ever nought can e'er restore 
 
 Past scenes of joy, to be beheld no more ! 
 
 But busy memory, oft to fancy's mind, 
 
 Brings back each smile, each action, soft and kind. 
 
 Comes to the heart with memory's magic power, 
 
 And oft unfolds the past, the golden hour, 
 
 Touches a source from whence life's pleasure flow, 
 
 A chord of feeling mothers only know 
 
 A fountain deep which never can run dry, 
 
 It springs eternal in the mother's eye ; 
 
 There 's nought on earth which can arrest the stream, 
 
 Which mingles in the bliss of love's young dream. 
 
 Seas may retire. The sun through chaos rove 
 
 All sink and die, except a mother's love ; 
 
 This, this shall live when all things else retire, 
 
 And rise immortal o'er earth's funeral pyre. 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 How wonderous must that Being be 
 Who dwells where mortals never trod 
 
 His dazzling glories, who can see ? 
 Or comprehend Him, but a God ! 
 
 Musing, I'm lost all things retire 
 And leave me with myself alone ; 
 
 To things unseen, my thoughts aspire, 
 And rove with angels round his throne.
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 215 
 
 Eternity ! thou vast abyss ! 
 
 How deep ! how dark ! and how profound ! 
 Fain would I soar to view thy bliss, 
 
 And fly o'er thy eternal round. 
 
 How sweet the thought ; sublime, and grand 
 That through thy realms the undying soul 
 
 Shall rise for ever and expand, 
 
 Where countless years successive roll. 
 
 When this fair earth shall be refined, 
 
 And back to its loved scenes we come, 
 With forms immortal as the mind, 
 
 To dwell in our eternal home. 
 
 Where scenes, for ever new, unfold 
 
 Their beauties to the enraptured eye, 
 Where joys, which Seraph's never told, 
 
 And streams perrennial never dry. 
 
 Tears, clouds, and storms for ever past, 
 
 All tumult hushed in sweet repose ; 
 The soul on pinions soaring fast 
 
 Beyond those heights which Gabriel knows. 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars shrink from the view, 
 Eearth's thrones and kingdoms all retire, 
 
 When Nature's God forms all things new, 
 And fills with bliss each vast desire ! 
 
 Eternity ! thou rolling stream, 
 
 In thee, time sinks is known no more ! 
 
 And ages past are but a dream 
 When viewed from thy unbounded shore. 
 
 Unbounded shore ! What words are these ? 
 And shall I view that ocean strand,
 
 216 TO MRS. E. B. S., ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD. 
 
 Shall my frail bark o'er life's rude seas 
 Securely reach that " better land ?" 
 
 Ay ! yes if mercy guides her way, 
 
 My little bark shall safely rove ; 
 Oh ! may it in that joyful day, 
 
 Contain the souls of those I love. 
 
 TO MRS. E. B. S., 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED CHILD. 
 
 AND has that little cherub fled, 
 On whom so late you smiled ; 
 
 And have you numbered with the dead, 
 Your sweet, your lovely child ! 
 
 How short, how transient was her stay, 
 How swift her upward flight ; 
 
 As clouds obscure the breaking day. 
 She vanished from your sight. 
 
 An angel wand 'ring from his sphere, 
 
 Beheld your precious gem 
 Too bright, too pure to sparkle here 
 
 Upon earth's diadem. 
 
 Among the pearls which round you hung, 
 
 He took your lovely one- 
 O'er her his robe of mercy flung, 
 
 And bore her to his throne.
 
 TH1I DOVK. 217 
 
 The Savior on the offering smil'd, 
 
 And laid it on his breast ; 
 Embraced with holy joy your child, 
 
 And placed it with the blest. 
 
 A seraph bright, behold her rove 
 
 Where the pure and lovely meet, 
 Warbling, she flies from grove to grove, 
 
 The stainless and the sweet. 
 
 Amid those bright celestial bands 
 
 She strikes her golden lyre, 
 Sweeps o'er its chords her tiny hands, 
 
 And swells the blissful choir. 
 
 When life, with all its scenes, shall close 
 
 For ever on your view, 
 Where noon-tide glory round her flows, 
 
 She waits to welcome you. 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 Lo ! from her home the bird once flew, 
 And left her storm-rocked bark behind ; 
 
 A world of waters swift to view, 
 And there a resting-place to find. 
 
 On pinions light as air she hies, 
 O'er the high waters' dashing roar; 
 
 No rest she finds below the skies, 
 'Mid waste so wide without a shore.
 
 218 THE DOVE. 
 
 No lofty mountain reared its head 
 Above the white-capt-towering wave, 
 
 On which her tiny feet eould tread, 
 To save her from a watery grave. 
 
 With searching eye and weary wing, 
 Long o'er the wide expanse she sailed ; 
 
 That she some olive leaf might find, 
 Before her keeper's hope had failed. 
 
 The tempests rage, the billows roll, 
 Loud thunders mutter from afar ; 
 
 Earth reels, and rocks from shore to pole, 
 While blackest clouds veil every star. 
 
 The wandering dove, with fears distrest, 
 O'er the dark flood, the wide domain, 
 
 With patient wing, still seeks for rest, 
 But all her searchings are in vain. 
 
 From clime to clime, from deep to deep, 
 The feathered post pursues her way, 
 
 O'er watery realms where nations sleep, 
 But finds no spot for rest or stay. 
 
 No chart nor compass guides her flight ; 
 
 No dim lone star directs her course ; 
 She wings her way through storms and night, 
 
 Led on alone by instinct force. 
 
 No human voice, no living sound, 
 No cheering accents meet her ear, 
 
 To tell where peace or rest is found, 
 
 While wandering through a scene so drear. 
 
 In this dark, sad, and helpless hour, 
 When this lone bird was tempest-tost,
 
 T11E LUNAR ECLIPSE. 219 
 
 She found a strange mysterious power, 
 That bore her up when hope was lost. 
 
 She looked ! and saw the Ark once more, 
 Loom, like some speck, through misty space, 
 
 She sought the home she'd left before, 
 Ane there she found a resting-place. 
 
 THE LUNAR ECLIPSE, FEB. 5th, 1841 
 
 THE evening woke from sweet repose, 
 And marshall'd every twinkling star; 
 
 The pale-faced moon in splendor rose, 
 And beamed resplendent from afar. 
 
 Up the blue vault, majestic, grand, 
 She sailed amid the misty air, 
 
 Cast her bright rays o'er sea and land, 
 And never did she look more fair. 
 
 Soon o'er the azure sky above, 
 A pall of awful darkness spread ; 
 
 The planets sighed as forth they rove, 
 And nature mourned her light had fled. 
 
 The earth's dark shadow slowly veiled, 
 The queen of night enthroned on high ; 
 
 Wrapped her in gloom, as forth he sailed, 
 And hid her beams from every eye. 
 
 Each mountain top, each hill and dale, 
 Were shrouded in impervious gloom ;
 
 220 
 
 The timid Indian, weak and frail, 
 
 Wailed fearful at his threatened doom. 
 
 In A fric's sunny region, where 
 
 The untutored Negro wildly roves, 
 
 He looks above in dire despair, 
 
 And shrieking, hies him through the groves. 
 
 The Islanders afirighted pause, 
 
 And shudder with an awe profound 
 
 All strangers to those mighty laws 
 Which turn the rolling planets round. 
 
 The moon moves round her destined sphere, 
 
 Holds on her high majestic way ; 
 Breaks forth from the eclipse so drear, 
 
 And shines with more resplendent ray. 
 
 Enlightened man, though he could smile, 
 
 And gaze untroubled on the sky, 
 Felt his proud heart own for awhile, 
 
 There is a God who rules on high. 
 
 The scene was splendid, grand, sublime ! 
 
 A striking emblem of that power 
 Which stills the last strong pulse of time, 
 
 And shrouds in gloom man's brightest hour. 
 
 The dark eclipse on the pale moon, 
 
 Whose face shone forth with radiance bright 
 
 Tells me that all life's scenes as soon 
 May sink in darkness from my sight. 
 
 That this fair world, with rapid roll, 
 May soon enshroud each earthly joy ; 
 
 A dim eclipse o'erspread the soul, 
 And all life's sweetest hopes destroy.
 
 221 
 
 Fain would I view that peaceful home, 
 Those verdant plains, on Canaan's shore, 
 
 Where earth's dark shadows never come, 
 And dim eclipses are no more. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 ADIEU, stern winter, thou hast flown, 
 
 With all thy icy train ; 
 The beauteous snow-wreaths now are gone, 
 The pearly showers of hail-wrought stone, 
 Rest on the mountain's top alone, 
 
 While flowers adorn the plain. 
 
 The whirlwind with its furious roar, 
 
 Sleeps in the flying cloud ; 
 The waves curl round the ice-bound shore, 
 And struggling, urge their way once more 
 Toward the ocean ; where they pour 
 
 -Their waters clear and loud. 
 
 The little rivulets rejoice, 
 
 And smoothly glide along ; 
 Sweet is the music of their voice, 
 Meandering in their silvery course 
 In silent, unobstructed force, 
 
 Murm'ring their vernal song. 
 
 The beauteous songsters of the grove, 
 
 Carol their morning lay ; 
 The nightingale and turtle dove,
 
 222 
 
 Warble amid the bowers of love ; 
 Their peerless notes symphonious move, 
 To hail the new-born day. 
 
 And oh, how sweet the Spring's fresh air 
 
 Which fans the dewy lawn ; 
 Young flowrets beautiful and fair, 
 Burst forth beneath their Maker's care, 
 Vicing while each its bounty share, 
 
 And sparkle in the dawn. 
 
 The same Almighty hand which shook 
 
 The solid land and sea, 
 Dresses the lillies of the brook, 
 Brings nature forth with his kind look, 
 Smiling, as when an Eden broke, 
 
 All bright at his decree. 
 
 The forest trees, so brown and drear, 
 
 Arrayed in verdant green, 
 Spread their proud branches far and near, 
 Their foliage decked with Spring's brigh tear, 
 Sparkling in morning's sunbeams clear, 
 
 To beautify the scene. 
 
 As nature droops and dies away, 
 
 When wintry storms appear ; 
 So -manhood's power and strength decay, 
 When stern affection's dread array 
 Their blighted influence display, 
 
 And force the unbidden tear. 
 
 But if the soul on God relies, 
 
 And does securely rest, 
 As flowrets from the earth arise 
 'Neath the bright rays of sunny skies ; 
 So sure that soul shall gain the prize 
 
 Reserved for the just :
 
 A TRUE FRIEND. 223 
 
 Where one eternal Spring shall bloom, 
 
 And winters pass away ; 
 Disease and death there ne'er find roofn ; 
 They have no power beyond the tomb, 
 There 's nought in that bright world of bloom, 
 
 But one unclouded day. 
 
 A TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 OH ! tell me not of earthly love, 
 
 'Tis fleeting transient vain ; 
 
 Give me a friend in heaven above, 
 
 One who can every grief remove, 
 
 As through this wilderness I rove, 
 
 Amid life's busy train. 
 
 One, who when all is sparkling bright, 
 
 Can purify each joy ; 
 Add to our pleasure fresh delight, 
 Throwing around a hallowed light, 
 For ever bright'ning on the sight, 
 
 And mixed with no alloy. 
 
 One, who can cheer affliction's hour, 
 
 And whisper peace divine ; 
 A being of almighty power, 
 Who shields alike each trembling flower, 
 When gathering tempests round U3 lower, 
 
 Let such a friend be mine.
 
 A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN 
 
 THE young bride left the altar, 
 
 Kissed each loved friend and smiled, 
 
 Nor did her footsteps falter, 
 
 For love each thought beguiled. 
 
 But when her mother whispered, 
 
 My dearest child, farewell ! 
 A tear which long had trembled, 
 
 Upon her bosom fell. 
 
 And when her father blessed her, 
 A shade came o'er her soul ; 
 
 A thrill, when he caressed her, 
 Which she could not control. 
 
 Each brother came, and sister, 
 Took her white jewelled hand! ; 
 
 Raised their young heads and kissed her, 
 The brightest of the band. 
 
 Again, a shade of darkness 
 
 Flitted across her aoul ; 
 Again she felt a sadness 
 
 Which she could not control. 
 
 Upon the deep blue waters 
 
 The bells impatient chime ; 
 " Hasten ye sons and daughters, 
 
 For Europe's fairy clime."
 
 A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN- 235 
 
 As spring's first opening blossoms 
 
 Shrink from the bitter storm, 
 So on her mother's bosom, 
 
 Lay Ellen's lovely form. 
 
 But the smile of love gleamed o'er her, 
 
 Such was its magic power ; 
 Its light dispelled the darkness, 
 
 As sunbeams do the shower. 
 
 The last fond look is given, 
 
 On the flowing seas they ride ; 
 Each forms the other's heaven, 
 
 As o'er the waves they glide. 
 
 " Hark ! whither comes that wailing 
 
 That shriek of wild despair ! 
 Securely we are sailing, 
 
 Where is the danger, where ?" 
 
 " Oh ! see yon icy mountains, 
 
 Great God ! behold they come ! 
 From Greenland's frozen fountains, 
 
 Upon their stormy home. 
 
 They are closing round upon us, 
 
 Like bulwarks strong and high ; 
 Within their cold embraces 
 
 We all must surely die 1" 
 
 Hope, hope, that bright-winged seraph, 
 
 Their guard by night and day ; 
 Now veiled her face afrighted, 
 
 And shrieking fled away ! 
 
 Over the young bride's bosom, 
 The same dark shadow stole,
 
 22C A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 
 
 Which at the sacred altar 
 Fell on her happy soul. 
 
 There 's a shriek upon the ocean 
 There 's a wail upon the breeze ; 
 
 All, all is wild commotion, 
 Upon the flowing seas. 
 
 Like a thousand sunbeams flashing, 
 The floating castles come ! 
 
 Their emerald spires reflecting 
 Upon the curling foam. 
 
 The husband team's bosom 
 Clasps his young blooming bride ; 
 
 Beneath the waves of ocean, 
 They slumber side by side 1 
 
 The Naiads are their bride-maids, 
 Around their coral bowers ; 
 
 They drew the curtains closely, 
 And strew them o'er with flowers. 
 
 Mourn for the gallant steamer 
 Who lately left the shore ; 
 
 Mourn for the young and lovely, 
 You'll hear from them no more. 
 
 Mourn for the man of letters, 
 Mourn for the young and old ; 
 
 Mourn for the hardy seaman, 
 And for the steamer bold !
 
 227 
 
 TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Go, little stranger, (o thy woodland home, 
 No longer in confinement shalt thou stray ; 
 
 Mid vernal groves in joyous spirits roam, 
 
 And with thy young chant forth thy sweetest lay. 
 
 How oft I've made thy little heart to feel 
 
 Thou wert a prisoner in these wires confined ; 
 
 While thy shrill notes in plaintive measures steal 
 Upon my ear, and float upon the wind. 
 
 Sweet is thy lay, but sweeter far 'twould sound, 
 Couldst thou but warble in thy native vale ; 
 
 Where the green ivy clasps the tree around, 
 And blushing flowers nod in the gentle gale. 
 
 Pure is the water from yon bubbling spring, 
 Each morn 'tis brought to lave thy plumage bright 
 
 The hands of love thy little offerings bring, 
 And spread thy store with pleasure and delight. 
 
 But thou shalt now expand each beauteous wing, 
 And none shall stay thee in thy dizzy height ; 
 
 The forests dense shall with thy wild notes ring, 
 So fare thee well, sweet Robin, speed thy flight. 
 
 Man in his dungeon sighs for freedom dear, 
 
 He scorns the despot 'neath whose rod he bends ; 
 
 And thou, my Robin, shall no longer hear 
 My voice, but hie thee to thy feathery friends.
 
 228 WRECKS OF TIME. 
 
 Freedom alone can make thee happy now, 
 Thy song must echo from the waving tree ; 
 
 Thy perch shall be the old oak's leafy bough, 
 Thy home the desert, and thy brook the sea. 
 
 WRECKS OF TIME. 
 
 " THE clowd-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Y a, all that it inherits shall dissolve ; 
 And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 Leave not a a wreck behind." 
 
 WHERE are those ancient cities fled, 
 For whom whole armies fought and bled, 
 When by their gallant heroes led, 
 
 To meet the dauntless foe ? 
 Where is the eye which beamed so bright 
 When urging on the deadly fight, 
 That weakness rallied with its light, 
 
 And fiercely twanged the bow ? 
 
 Where is Jerusalem renowned ? 
 Her fates of valor seldom found ; 
 Upon whose consecrated ground 
 
 The Savior's blood was shed ? 
 Where is the impious hand which raised 
 The torch ; from which a column blazed, 
 Which soon its beauteous temple raised, 
 
 And wild confusion spread ?
 
 SKETCKS OF TIMES. 
 
 Where now is Thebes of all the states 
 The greatest with her hundred gates ? 
 Who now around her palace waits, 
 
 Arrayed with martial pride ? 
 Where is proud Babylon, with her walls, 
 Her thrones of gold, her gilded halls, 
 Which echoed with her monarch's calls 
 
 Like music on the tide ? 
 
 Where are the palaces of Rome, 
 Her lofty towers, her sacred dome, 
 A people's pride a Caesar's home, 
 
 Her forum dressed in gold ? 
 Where beauteous Athens ? Flower of Greece ! 
 Her heroes her Acropolis- 
 Her groves of palms, her vales of peace, 
 
 Her mountains high and bold ? 
 
 Oh tell me where is ancient Tyre, 
 Her brazen walls, her glittering spire, 
 Which Alexander did aspire, 
 
 To conquer or to die ? 
 Powers and dominions where, oh, where 
 Can they be found ? Nor earth, nor air, 
 One remnant of their glory share ; 
 
 They all in ruins lie. 
 
 Within the imperial palace weaves 
 The spider, on his bed he leaves, 
 Where human pomp no more deceives, 
 
 His tiny web alone. 
 
 Perched on the summit of those towers 
 Which cost men lives of toilsome hours, 
 The lonely owl her watch-note pours 
 
 A melancholy tone. 
 
 229
 
 230 FRIENDS OF TUB LOST. 
 
 Why should vain man still onward hie, 
 When thousand beacons round him fly, 
 Uttering their piercing, thrilling cry 
 
 " All nations fade away." 
 Oh ! what to him is burnished gold, 
 If his immortal part is sold, 
 When death appears terrific, bold, 
 
 And claims him as his prey ! 
 
 FRIENDS OF THE LOST. 
 
 FRIENDS of the lost oh ! turn your eyes above 
 The world is dark in such an hour as this ! 
 
 Nought to your arms will bring the one you love, 
 And nought again restore their honied kiss. 
 
 Around your board no more will they appear, 
 Nor e'en at evening 'round your social hearth ; 
 
 Their seat is vacant, and the voice so dear 
 Will break no more in sadness or in mirth. 
 
 When autumn winds sigh through the frosted leaf, 
 And the long shadows of declining day 
 
 Whisper at evening human joys are brief, 
 Like stars which gleam and quickly fade away. 
 
 When gathering clouds each cheering prospect aim, 
 And waves of sorrow your frail bark o'erwhelm 
 
 When memories waken with the vesper hymn, 
 Oh ! then remember who directs the helm.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER. 231 
 
 Remember, 'tis the living God who sees 
 
 And orders all things by his sacred will ; 
 Reveals to mortals not of his decrees, 
 
 The winds obey Him, and the waves are still. 
 
 Then look to Him, there is no other place 
 From whence relief can to the spirit come ; 
 
 His own soft hand from every weeping face, 
 
 Shall wipe the tears and lead the mourner home. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER 
 
 A TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION, 
 
 A STAR from her orbit has flown, 
 
 Her brilliance is veiled from our eyes, 
 
 Has vanished away and is gone, 
 
 Where the bloom of the soul never dies 
 
 Amid the bright galaxy there, 
 
 She soars unrestrained in her flight ; 
 
 Her spirit is buoyant as air, 
 
 And pure as the regions of light. 
 
 No fetters of body or mind 
 
 Weigh down her regenerate soul ; 
 
 In numbers as free as the wind, 
 Her beautiful melodies roll. 
 
 The joys of the blest are her theme, 
 The Saviour her song of delight ;
 
 232 ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER, 
 
 No longer a vision or dream 
 
 The glories which burst on her sight. 
 
 Away through the regions of space, 
 She flies with her cherubim guide ; 
 
 Where time in its flight leaves no trace, 
 As it sails o'er the emerald tide. 
 
 With her harp ever tuned on the mount, 
 She warbles her praises above, 
 
 She drinks at the poet's pure fount, 
 Which flows in the Eden of love. 
 
 She drinks, and her spirit is calmed, 
 Each drop is a fullness of heaven ; 
 
 She breathes, and her soul is embalmed 
 With sweets to the ransomed given. 
 
 Her soul, in its twilight no more, 
 
 'Mid splendors far brighter than gold, 
 
 Looks forth from Eternity's shore, 
 Immortal, unfettered and bold. 
 
 A star in the system of light, 
 
 'Round the Saviour, her centre and home ; 
 She revolves with the seraphim bright, 
 
 Where eclipses and clouds never come. 
 
 Ye daughters of poesy, twine 
 A wreath of remembrance true ; 
 
 Had she lived how her spirit divine, 
 Had woven a chaplet for you ! 
 
 Mourn, mourn not, ye loved of the heart, 
 But look where the spirit is free ; 
 
 Although it was painful to part, 
 
 Where else would ye wish her to be ?
 
 PREPARE YE THZ WAY OF THE LORD. 233 
 
 Though you miss her light step in the hall, 
 
 Her soft silver voice in the groye, 
 Oh, grieve not, no more shall the pall 
 
 Encircle the friend whom you love. 
 
 Look away, when at evening alone, 
 
 The tears from her mother's soft eye, 
 Falls fast for her child who has gone 
 
 To her glorified home in the sky ! 
 
 PREPARE-YE THE WAY OF THE LORD.' 
 
 Writ en on reading a sermon delivered in London, by the Rev. Edward 
 N. Kirk, A. M., on Temperance. 
 
 HEAR ye the sound " prepare ye the way' 
 
 Make straight a path to God : 
 He comes in all his dread array, 
 
 Blood calls aloud for blood ! 
 
 Ho ! ye who raise the wine cup high 
 
 And tempt the unwary youth, 
 Can ye his vengeance still defy, 
 
 And spurn at right and truth ? 
 
 He comes, surrounded by a band 
 
 Of witnesses they fly 
 O'er mountains, deserts, seas and land, 
 
 With lightning in their eye. 
 
 Widows' and orphans' thrilling cries 
 Float on the gusty air ;
 
 234 
 
 Mingling they pierce through yonder skies, 
 " Prepare ye the way prepare !" 
 
 Ye who withstood his awful frown 
 
 Ye who his wrath defy 
 Ye who have swept whole nations down, 
 
 Shall quail beneath his eye. 
 
 When one eternal vortex rolls, 
 
 And fire's encircling flame 
 Far, far beneath the drunkards' souls 
 
 Shall writhe the vender's frame ! 
 
 Look at your dark-eyed beauteous one, 
 
 Think of his infant glee ; 
 When, like a wild young sportive fawn, 
 
 He frolicked on your knee. 
 
 Oh ! think should he, in some rash hour, 
 
 Sip the bewildering bowl 
 Fall 'neath the syren's witching power, 
 
 And madly sell his soul. 
 
 Think of your anguish when you draw 
 
 Round your deserted hearth ; 
 Where ever with delight you saw 
 
 The one who gave him birth. 
 
 Then view her soul in wild dismay 
 
 List for that pleasant voice ; 
 Which erst had made, at night or day, 
 
 Her anxious heart rejoice. 
 
 Should you behold your own loved child 
 
 A wanderer from your door, 
 Would ye not shriek, in accents wild, 
 
 " Ye venders, sell no more ?"
 
 RELIGION. 235 
 
 Hear ye the word up and prepare, 
 
 Turn mountains into plains ; 
 Proclaim one everlasting war, 
 
 And bind the foe in chains. 
 
 What ! though he 's strong you need not fear ; 
 
 Our fathers, in their day, 
 From beauty's cheeks kissed off the tear, 
 
 And drove their foes away. 
 
 Now, rally round unite in one 
 
 Raise your triumphant cry 
 Shout, freemen, shout ! with trumpet tone, 
 
 " The monster RUM shall die !" 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 THERE is a germ of noble birth, 
 
 By God to mortals given ; 
 A bud celestial formed on earth, 
 
 To bloom in yonder heaven. 
 
 A germ of origin divine, 
 
 Its leaves transcendant fair ; 
 Not all the wreaths that art can twine, 
 
 Can with its hues compare. 
 
 When nursed with kindness and with love, 
 It throws such fragrance round, 
 
 As wafts the raptured soul above 
 This low, this narrow bound.
 
 236 THE COTTAGE. 
 
 When clouds impervious wrap the sky 
 Without one glimmering ray, 
 
 Its perfume shall ascend on high, 
 And turn the night to day. 
 
 This beauteous germ ghall wide expand, 
 And deep its roots shall be ; 
 
 It branches spread from land to land, 
 And wave o'er every sea. 
 
 When fortune frowns when friends are few. 
 
 And those few stand afar ; 
 Its balm distills like evening dew 
 
 Beneath some lovely star. 
 
 Man's dying hours, its virtues cheer 
 Lights up the shadowy vale ; 
 
 From beauty's cheek wipes every tear, 
 And sooths the mourner's wail. 
 
 This is the germ of heavenly birth, 
 Which God to man hath given, 
 
 To beautify the scenes of earth, 
 And bloom in yonder heaven. 
 
 THE COTTAGE. 
 
 GIVE me some lone, sequestered spot 
 Amid the vine-clad shadowy bower, 
 
 Where I may build my rural cot, 
 
 And spend in peace life's fleeting hour. 
 
 Free from the world's tumultuous strife, 
 From fashion, show, and mirthful song,
 
 THE COTTAGE. 237 
 
 I'd pass the stilly hours of life, 
 And heed no more the noisy throng. 
 
 There in the tones of ancient lore, 
 
 I'd converse with the mighty dead ; 
 While o'er time's dusty leaves I'd pour, 
 
 And scan the pages round me spread. 
 I'd learn the wisdom Plato taught, 
 
 List to the strains of Orpheus's lyre ; 
 With sweet delight drink every thought 
 
 That could with joy my soul inspire. 
 
 Through fancy's clear mysterious glass, 
 
 Old sages learned, should rise to view ; 
 Along time's shadowy vista pass, 
 
 Unfolding wonders ever new. 
 Within this low umbrageous vale, 
 
 No storms should break my sweet repose ; 
 Secure from each tempestuous gale, 
 
 Where blushing flow'rs their sweets disclose. 
 
 Smiling in beauty on their stem, 
 
 Unmindful of the gathering storm ; 
 Each lifting high its diadem, 
 
 And boasting its unrivalled form. 
 Amid th' enrapturing scene I'd dwell, 
 
 Where all is quiet, peace and love ; 
 And in the lonely tranquil dell, 
 
 My nobler thoughts should soar above. 
 
 My ears would feast on warbling notes 
 
 Of wild birds' songs amid the grove, 
 Which on each gentle zephyr floats, 
 
 As 'mid the waving trees I rove. 
 The babbling streams meandering round, 
 
 With waters cool would slake my thirst ; 
 While nature's God, with awe profound, 
 
 Would sure receive my praises first.
 
 233 
 
 THE SISTERS, 
 
 NOT purer are the stars above, 
 Nor stainless than a sister's love. 
 
 Twin sisters like two roses grew 
 
 Within their natal bowers, 
 Death took the parents while the dew 
 
 Was sparkling on the flowers. 
 Alone they sought the forest glade 
 
 The beautiful and fair ; 
 Plucked the sweet blossoms as they strayed, 
 
 And dressed their flowing hair. 
 
 They slumbered in each other's arms, 
 
 And when the morning came, 
 It smiled upon their glowing charms, 
 
 And brightened beauty's flame. 
 They slept and dreamed of pleasant things, 
 
 They told each fancied flight, 
 And only wanted angel's wings 
 
 To be as truly bright. 
 
 Together trod the dewy lawn, 
 
 And wooed the timid dove 
 Together hailed the early dawn 
 
 And sang the hymns of love. 
 Together swept the trembling lyre 
 
 When evening shadows meet ; 
 Glowing with pure seraphic fire, 
 
 The stainless and the sweet. 
 
 One heart, one soul, one breath they drew, 
 Smiled, hoped, and wept and sighed,
 
 GOD SEEN IN ALL HIS WORKS. 239 
 
 Until a youth beloved and true, 
 
 Claimed Ellen as his bride. 
 Then o'er her sister's face a cloud 
 
 Hung like a mystic veil ; 
 She never told her grief aloud 
 
 Her eyes revealed the tale. 
 
 Her smile was like a fitful beam, 
 
 Like lightning in the sky ; 
 When darkness by the transient gleam 
 
 Grows deeper on the eye. 
 Young Edwin soothed but 'twas in vain, 
 
 The charm of life was o'er ; 
 The star of hope sunk 'neath the main, 
 
 And lit her sky no more ! 
 
 Sad was the morning when he took 
 
 His lovely bride away, 
 And sad the last fond tender look, 
 
 Cast on Emeile that day. 
 She sank upon her sister's breast, 
 
 Yet not a word she spoke ; 
 They raised her from her place of rest, 
 
 But her young heart was broke ! ,. 
 
 GOD SEEN IN ALL HIS WORKS. 
 
 IN nature's works the mind alone 
 The character of God can trace ; 
 
 Mortals can never reach his throne, 
 Nor view his clear unclouded face.
 
 GOD SEEN IN ALL HIS WORKS. 
 
 But in this beauteous world which He 
 Form'd by his power, made by his skill, 
 
 His wisdom and his love we see, 
 In every mountain, vale and hill. 
 
 Yon azure dome of brilliant gems, 
 
 Glimmering beneath their hallowed light 
 
 Hung round like mystic diadems, 
 Gilding the lonely hours of night. 
 
 And this fair earth, among those spheres, 
 What human thought could form such plan ; 
 
 So equal poise through rolling years, 
 This beautiful abode of man ! 
 
 What monument of art, what skill 
 Could form a body like our own ; 
 
 Who has the power, had he the will, 
 To speak and let the work be done ? 
 
 The eye within its orbit bright, 
 Paints the whole range of nature fair, 
 
 The ear, that organ of delight, 
 
 With its perceptions, what compare ? 
 
 What harmony, what pleasing sounds 
 Rush o'er the mind by his keen sense ; 
 
 What rapture o'er the spirit bounds, 
 Bearing the soul of feeling hence. 
 
 Not only man his wisdom shows, 
 The violet and the rose he paints ; 
 
 The little birds in shady groves, 
 
 Warble in measures soft their plaints. 
 
 Nor yet for man his beauties shine, 
 In forests deep, and climes unknown,
 
 THE ROSE of i VAN HEN, 241 
 
 Bright flowers with fragrant shrubs entwine, 
 And waft their sweetness to his throne. 
 
 In ocean's depths we see his love* 
 
 In pearls which glitter 'neath its waves ; 
 
 No eye but his can o'er them rove, 
 Nor view them in their coral gravesi 
 
 But the perfection of his love 
 
 Is found not in these works alone , 
 The mind of man lit from above, 
 
 Sits regent on wide nature's throne. 
 
 THE ROSE OF IVANHEN, 
 
 DR A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 
 
 I\ deep sequestered haunts of forest shade. 
 
 Unseen by any save the spirit God, 
 The Indian lone with silent footsteps stray'd, 
 
 With quiver at his back and fishing rod. 
 While wandering 'mid the green-wood he espied, 
 As by a river's purling stream he lay, 
 
 Watching the ripples on its silvery tide, 
 
 A cottage in the distance far away. 
 
 Attracted by the curling smoke, he drew 
 
 Nearer and nearer to the lovely spot, 
 Where the green grass yet wet with the morning dew, 
 
 Gleam'd in the sun-shine round the white man's cott 
 v
 
 243 OE A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 Screen'd from its inmates by the leafy bowers, 
 He drew his bow and by an arbor fled ; 
 
 A maiden seated 'mid the blooming flowers, 
 Startled in terror at his hasty tread. 
 
 Fleet as the wind she darted from his sight 
 
 Entranc'd he stood as through the grove she flew, 
 Then to the woods with meaning took his flight, 
 
 Resolv'd on pleasures which he never knew. 
 Close was the council secret, subtle, still 
 
 With them o'er whom he reigned, and then away ; 
 Each one retired, such measures to fulfil 
 
 As he should name upon another day. 
 
 'Twas morning when Oachim sought the stream, 
 
 Rolling in silence through the forest drear ; 
 Where scorching sun-beams never pierc'd, nor gleam 
 
 Of brightness warm'd the gushing waters near. 
 With half-closed hands he raised the cooling draught, 
 
 And eager quaffed it from the hunter's bowl ; 
 Then with a bound, despising boat and craft, 
 
 He cleared the brook, gliding with noiseless roll. 
 
 Swiftly he sped his course, for well he knew 
 
 The mazy pathway of the woods to thread, 
 Then soon with rapid bounds was lost to view, 
 
 And none knew where his path mysterious led. 
 Yet he himself knew well the winding way 
 
 Which led him through the deep entangled wood, 
 His spirit lingered on the sunny day, 
 
 When first before fair Ivanhen he stood. 
 ****** 
 
 Thick heavy clouds lower'd o'er Niagara's foam, 
 The fierce winds swept in wrath their mystic lyre, 
 
 The chainless tempest from its stormy home, 
 Scatter'd amazement and destruction dire !
 
 THE ROSE OF IVANHEN, 243 
 
 The mountain eagle from his dizzy height, 
 
 Screaming survey'd the elemental war ; 
 Swiftly he circled in the gleaming light, 
 
 Wheeling and darting boldly near and far. 
 
 When on a cliff towering above the foam, 
 
 Amid the waning cataract's heaving surge, 
 Oachim stood ! strange that 'mid wind and storm, 
 
 He from the forest dark should dare emerge. 
 His mien was manly and his brow was bare 
 
 As the cold rocks on which his damp feet press'd ; 
 Unawed he stood amid the lightning's glare 
 
 Which scathed the forests on the mountain's crest. 
 
 With sudden bound he darted down the steep, 
 
 From cliff to cliff with fearless speed he sprang ; 
 Anon he took a wild impetuous leap, 
 
 And the dark caverns with his war-song rang. 
 Toward a ravine dark his course he wound, 
 
 Plunged 'mid those depths where oft at eve he roved ; 
 The waving winds, the thunder's distant sound, 
 
 Form'd the sweet music which his spirit loved. 
 
 Dark night approach'd, and with the closing day 
 
 The winds were gather'd to their rocky caves ; 
 The moon shone fitful with a shivering ray, 
 
 Lighting the summits of the crested waves. 
 Onward he walked, the dim stars were his guide, 
 
 Threading the forest by the moon's pale light, 
 'Till by a mountain's dark and sombrous side, 
 
 He stood where silence made a deeper night ! 
 
 Then broke his voice amid the desert drear, 
 And quick before him rose a hideous crew ; 
 
 Then came a maiden overwhelm'd with fear, 
 Shrieking, as forth her trembling form they drew !
 
 244 
 
 With searching glance she eyed ach tawny sou 
 As round they gathered in their close debate, 
 
 'Till she beheld her loved, her cherish'd one, 
 The doomed object of their deadliest hate. 
 
 Bursting the barriers that opposed her way, 
 
 She bounded forward with a strength unknown 
 Before that hour, in terror and dismay, 
 
 Like a young bird when from its prison flown. 
 Pale was her face, her hair dishevelled hung 
 
 In raven ringlets 'round her neck of snow ; 
 In wild despair she to her lover clung, 
 
 Himself the picture of the deepest wo ! 
 
 Loud rang the yell, the woods gave back the sound, 
 
 The raven answer'd to the startling cry ! 
 When quick as lightning, with a screech and bound, 
 
 A hundred Indian's from their coverts fly ! 
 " Haste to the torture !" cried the savage chief, 
 
 He who had trod the mountain top alone ; 
 " Kindle the faggots, let the work be brief, 
 
 The fair will smile ere half your task is done." 
 
 With fierce demoniac stare he eyed the maid 
 
 As to her lover's breast her spirit drew ; 
 Then with his bold uplifted arm he sway'd 
 
 A scalping-knife, stained with a crimson hue ! 
 " Unbind them, loose them, let the flames ascend 
 
 Curl 'round their forms and wreath amid the air ; 
 With their deep groans let savage voices blend, 
 
 For thus shall die the beautiful and fair. 
 
 But if the lily will the Indian wed, 
 
 And wander with him through the green wood shade 
 The heather flowers shall form our bridal bed, 
 
 >ur nuptial song shall be the bright cascade.
 
 THE ROSE OF IVANHBN, 246' 
 
 Her friend shall live and learn to twang the bow, 
 With us ascend the mountain's dizzy height ; 
 
 O'er the blue waters skim the light canoe, 
 And smoke the calumet 'neath the moon's pale light." 
 
 The Indian knelt, strong passions fired his breast ; 
 
 His stalwart arm hung powerless by his side ; 
 His bosom heaved with feelings long suppress'd, 
 
 While life's red current 'round his heart seemed dried !. 
 Like forest trees the red men stood around 
 
 With folded arm, .yet- no one stirred or spoke ; 
 Not e'en a footstep gave its starling sound, 
 
 Nor zephyr's breath the awful silence broke ! 
 
 The maid with calmness raised her burning head 
 
 From off her lover's ever faithfurbreast ; 
 Where, though each glimmering ray of hope had fled. 
 
 She, for a moment, found a heaven of rest. 
 Her eye indignant on Oachim cast 
 
 A look of stern contempt, when from afar 
 Was heard the echo of a trumpet's blast, 
 
 And trampings of an army trained for war!. 
 
 Embowered within a deep umbrageous wood, 
 
 Through which the Susquehannah winds its way, 
 Dwelt Elbarn and Lavinia the good, 
 
 A lovelier pair ne'er saw the light of day. 
 One child was theirs, who, 'neath their tender care, 
 
 Grew like the wild flowers blushing in the glen ; 
 They gazed delighted on her beauty rare, 
 
 Aad called their pride the Rose of Ivanhen. 
 
 When all was calm as autumn's closing day, 
 
 And soft as evening's latest sigh, 
 Death called Lavinia from her child away, 
 And wrapt in gloom her bright unclouded sky !.
 
 210 OR A TALK OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 Beneath a father's eye the maiden grew, 
 In every grace his constant joy and care ; 
 
 A treasured being chaste as morning dew, 
 And fair as chaste, and good as she was fair. 
 
 Young Amyr sought this lily of the vale, 
 
 Their vows were plighted, life and bliss were their? ; 
 When war's dread tocsin floated on the gale, 
 
 And smiles dispersed 'mid gloomy doubts and tear?. 
 Elburn, in whose pure patiotic soul 
 
 The love of country swayed its magic power, 
 Phaced his own name upon the nation's roll, 
 
 Left his sweet home and his young opening flower. 
 
 Left in the wild wood, with Hortense her friend, 
 
 The child he loved ; not to gain applause 
 Allured him onward while love's accent's blend, 
 
 His heart beat purer for a holier cause. 
 From Saratoga's crimsoned heights he sent 
 
 Young Amyr, who fought boldly by his side, 
 To Ivanhen. He left his guarded tent, 
 
 And sought with transport his affianced bride. 
 
 Sad and alone remained the lovely maid, 
 
 Her father, Amyr, those she loved away ; 
 Within a bower through which the light breeze played, 
 
 One morn she wound her solitary way. 
 While musing, near her whizzed a feather'd dart, 
 
 And soon an Indian bounded from the glen } 
 He saw the maiden, and his savage heart 
 
 Bowed to Lamine, the Rose of Ivanhen. 
 
 Alarmed, she sought a more secure retreat, 
 And with Hortense her lonely vigils kept ; 
 
 'Till Amyr came, what joy was theirs to meet, 
 As to his bosom her fond spirit leapt !
 
 THE ROSE OF 1VANHEN, 247 
 
 The morning dawned, and with Hortense their friend, 
 Who nursed Lamine during her childhood hours, 
 
 They left, where fond associations blend 
 With trees and shrubs, green fields and shady bowers. 
 
 Lo ! from the hills as fast they speed their way 
 
 To their lov'd father on the embattled field, 
 A savage hord rushed on their precious prey, 
 
 Who unresisting to their numbers yield. 
 For in the tangled wood, 'mid brake and brier, 
 
 They dragged their victims, bound them to a tree ; 
 Then in debate around their council fire. 
 
 Planned their deep schemes of horrid villany. 
 
 From time to time the Indian hunter came, 
 
 Besought and wooed the Rose of Ivanhen ; 
 'Twas vain, and passions which no force can tame, 
 
 Aroused the vengeance of the savage men. 
 Hortense, the nurse, crept unobserved away, 
 
 While all were in narcotic slumbers bound ; 
 A look exchanged with Lamine that day, 
 
 Revealed her purpose as she stole around. 
 
 When from their sleep the savage tribe awoke, 
 
 And saw their prisoner from their circle gone, 
 Their wrath rekindled, and their fury broke 
 
 Like clouds when by a sudden whirlwind torn. 
 Apart the lovers wept 'till tears were dry, 
 
 Then to enrbrace, e'en at the stake, was sweet ; 
 On wings of love they to each other fly, 
 
 And 'mid their foes their souls delight to meet. 
 
 Where the shrill tocsin tolled its startling peal ! 
 
 Where cannon's roar and hostile armies stood ; 
 Where ranks o'er ranks in wild confusion reel, 
 
 'Till e'en the green earth reddens with their blood
 
 248 OR A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 Elburn undaunted met the battle strife, 
 
 Nor yielded till through long delay he feared 
 
 For Amyr and his young affianced wife, 
 From whom no tidings and no sign appear'd. 
 
 Within his tent sleep fled his weary eye, 
 
 Suspense, that withering harpy of the soul, 
 Which neither lets its victim live or die, 
 
 Around his spirit wound its dread control. 
 'Till from Hortense a letter he received 
 
 She had escaped a captive was his child .' 
 The dreadful tidings pained, while they relieved, 
 
 His face was flush'd, his wandering eye was wild 
 
 " Who'll save my child ? the wretched father cried, 
 
 " For what is life to me without Lamine ? 
 Lavina's gift on the sad morn she died 
 
 The only ray that lit the gloomy scene." 
 With rapid strides he to his children flew, 
 
 O'er hills and dales, through tangled wood and glen ; 
 Brave hearts of oak for lore their sabres drew, 
 
 Resolved to save the Rose of Ivanhen. 
 
 List ! on the dim air comes again a sound ! 
 
 The martial tramp, the bugle's notes from far I 
 Oachim, fearful lest his prey unbound 
 
 Escape his fury, now prepares for war ! 
 " Apply the torch, quick ! let the flames arise ! 
 
 Bow every knee, and with your quivering breath, 
 Blow up the fire 'till it enwrap the skies, 
 
 And fill the air with poisoned darts and death ! 
 
 Louder and louder came the trumpet's blast, 
 
 The cannon's roar the deep damp ravines shook; 
 
 In wild despair the timid Indians haste, 
 Seeking concealment in each tree and nook.
 
 THE HOSE FO I VAN HEN. 249 
 
 To Amyr's bosom clung th' affrighted maid, 
 When on a war horse darting fearless by ; 
 
 Elburn, with eagle eye and flashing blade, 
 Was quick arrested by his daughter's cry ! 
 
 He caught her fainting, while her lover leapt 
 
 Like a fierce vulture pouncing on his prey; 
 Dealing destruction as his falchion swept 
 
 Each tawny son down time's oblivious way, 
 The fearful war-whoop rang on every side, 
 
 With nicest skill the red men drew the bow ; 
 The whites prevail, and in his hasty stride, 
 
 Young Amyr lit upon his mortal foe J 
 
 Grasping Oachim with his powerful arm, 
 
 He flung him head-long on the smoking fire ; 
 Anon the Indian, filled with passions warm, 
 
 Seized firm his victim, ready to expire. 
 Awhile they struggled, every nerve was strung, 
 
 To die or conquer, passion, vengeance swayed 
 Their sinewy arms, till fiercely Amyr flung 
 
 Oachim breathless on the forest glade, 
 
 Then to Lamina with joyful haste he flew, 
 And to his bosom held her close and long ; 
 
 Old Elburn smild, his soul was young and new, 
 While victor shouts rose from the parting throng. 
 
 The goddess Peace soon wound her silvery horn, 
 Its thrilling echoes cheered the hearts of men ; 
 
 The heavens exulted o'er a nation born, 
 And Eden bloomed once more in Ivenhen.
 
 850 
 
 SHUN THE WINE CUP. 
 
 " LOOK not upon the wine cup when it is red, when it giveth his 
 color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright : At the last it biteth 
 like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." Prrov. xxiii. v. 31, 32. 
 
 OH ! shun the wine cup dash the flowing bowl ; 
 Trust not the witchery of its soft control ; 
 Dangers lie hid beneath its sparkling foam, 
 Satyrs and harpies round the goblit roam. 
 Oh ! shun the meteor, whose illusive light 
 Will lead thee down to everlasting night ; 
 Oh ! shun the syren, whose bewildering breath 
 Is steep'd in hemlock, nightshade, rue, and death ! 
 Trust not the Lethean spring, its powers will fail 
 To lull thy senses through death's gloomy vale ; 
 Vain then its strength, its magic influence flies, 
 And he who tastes the deadly Upas dies ! 
 Trust not the imagery which paints its sky 
 As you pursue, the vision fair will fly ; 
 The clouds collect, the bursting thunders roll, 
 And forked lightnings sweep each trembling pole ! 
 Such the dense darkness of the thrilling scene, 
 No light amid the shadows intervene ; 
 No cheering ray, no hope of promise gleams 
 Awakened horros from bewildering dreams, 
 Seize on the soul it shrieks amid its wo, 
 And wailing sinks within the gulf below ! 
 Sinks, where no sound of mercy ever hies 
 Sinks, where the conscience never, never dies 
 Sinks, where the waves eternally will roll 
 The waves of justice o'er the ruined soul !
 
 COME BRING THE HARP. 251 
 
 The soul ! great God ! the soul which fain would hide, 
 Would shun thy frown beneath th' o'erwhelming tide ; 
 That soul immortal, by the wine cup stain, 
 Shall seek for death, and ever seek in vain ! 
 
 COME BRING THE HARP. 
 
 COME bring the harp, 'tis memory's hour, 
 A spell is winding round my soul 
 
 Which melts at music's magic power, 
 And faints beneath its soft control. 
 
 Come bring the harp, my senses wake, 
 My heart beats quick with mental fire, 
 
 Oh, sweep the chords, though life should break 
 Beneath the breathings of the lyre. 
 
 Come bring the harp, and let it steal, 
 
 Like summer winds o'er blushing flowers, 
 
 Sweep the low notes till they reveal 
 The dreamy bliss of life's young hours. 
 
 Oh, sing of joys for ever flown, 
 
 Of hopes which cheered me with their light ; 
 Hopes, false as fair, for ever gone, 
 
 And mourn with me their early flight. 
 
 Ay, sing to me of other days, 
 Warble again the plaintive strain 
 
 Which echoed through the winding ways, 
 And thrilled life's every circling vein.
 
 252 KINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Sing on, till 'neath the moon|s pale beams 
 On clouds of azure light enthroned, 
 
 Are seen the loved of life's young dreams, 
 With golden harps and garlands crowned. 
 
 Then raise each note, sweep every string, 
 Till with that choir they mingk sweet, 
 
 'Neath music's power, on fancy's wing, 
 I'd soar where youth and beauty meet. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 How sweet is health ! no earthly good 
 Can vie with what its joys impart ; 
 
 There is no pleasure but I would 
 
 Dispense with, would it reach my heart. 
 
 Oh ! who can paint the restless hours, 
 The feverish dreams, the nervous dread ; 
 
 When prostrate by disease, our powers 
 Shrink from the lightest, softest tread. 
 
 How oft our choicest blessings teaze, 
 And when we feel ourselves alone, 
 
 How dreadful then to view disease 
 Sit regent on its ebon throne I 
 
 To feel each vigorous thought restrained, 
 Compelled by weakness to expire ; 
 
 Each effort of the mind enchained, 
 Though kindled by Promethean fire.
 
 TIME, OR THE NEW YEAR. 253 
 
 How beautiful and bright the world 
 When from our couch of pain we rise ; 
 
 See nature's glories all unfurled, 
 Rejoicing 'neath the sunny skies. 
 
 Around this beauteous world I gaze, 
 
 And love to trace in all I see, 
 Wonders which wrap one in amaze, 
 
 And link me with the Deity. 
 
 'Tis the perfections of my God, 
 
 Which stamp this world with all that's fair; 
 And 'tis when bending 'neath his rod, 
 
 I view his kindness and his care. 
 
 Oh ! let me look where all is bright, 
 
 Where opening scenes the hours beguile ; 
 
 Where heaven reflects the dazzling light, 
 Enkindled by Jehovah's smile. 
 
 TIME, OR THE NEW YEAR 
 
 YEAR after year with eagle flight, 
 On time's swift wing bears us away ; 
 
 Toward the tomb's oblivious night, 
 Uncheer'd by life's brief twinkling ray. 
 
 Just entering on the period new, 
 'Tis wisdom's part to eye the past ; 
 
 To take one short and serious view 
 Of objects which have fled so fast.
 
 254 TIME, OR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 If fancy range through tracts of time, 
 And see yon sun commence his roll, 
 
 All nature rising grand, sublime, 
 
 With splendors bright from pole to pole. 
 
 Survey those orbs, those mighty spheres, 
 That deck yon azure vaulted sky, 
 
 Begin their circling round of years, 
 Which o'er this wide creation fly. 
 
 How soon amid this brilliant scene 
 
 Are change and clouds here seen to rise, 
 
 Fierce storms and darkness intervene, 
 And hide this vision from our eyes. 
 
 Along time's deep engulfing stream 
 
 The proud waves dash, the billows roar ; 
 
 Earth's brightest glories, like a dream, 
 Are buried, lost, and seen no more. 
 
 Lo ! cities, kingdoms, empires vast, 
 
 Like mouldering wrecks beneath the ware, 
 
 Are down in awful ruins cast, 
 
 To sleep in time's oblivious grave. 
 
 His withering look, his awful frown, 
 But falls on cities soaring high ; 
 
 Their walls, their loftiest towers haste down, 
 Straight in the mouldering dust to lie. 
 
 We see the fate, we read the doom, 
 Of grandest nations in their fall ; 
 
 How swift their transit to that tomb 
 
 Where time's brief years inurn them all. 
 
 What mortal power can stay his course, 
 Or stay one hour his rolling tide ?
 
 TIME, OR THE NEW YEAR. 256 
 
 Which hurrying with resistless force, 
 
 - Lays thrones and kingdoms side by side. 
 
 The warrior's brow with laurels crown'd, 
 From crimson'd fields and millions slain ; 
 
 The statesman rais'd to high renown, 
 He" views alike with proud disdain. 
 
 The marble rear'd, by pride to last, 
 The scroll of fame, the sculptur'd urn, 
 
 Touch'd by his glance, his withering blast, 
 All into ruin'd dust return. 
 
 Beneath his power all nature fades, 
 
 The hills, the trees, the flowery vales, 
 The moss-clad rocks, the forest glades, 
 
 And mountains lash'd by thousand gales. 
 
 He withers beauty, mocks at power, 
 
 All human glory laughs to scorn 
 Sends to the grave in one short hour> 
 
 All which the noblest art adorn. 
 
 The highest place which man enjoys, 
 
 Time views as fleeting, empty vain ; 
 As nought but phantoms, childish toys, 
 
 Which dying mortals strive to gain. 
 
 He smiles to see ambition climb, 
 
 Throgh strife and blood yon dizzy height^ 
 
 To take its stand on hill sublime, 
 But to sink down in endless night. 
 
 As bubbles on the ocean tost, 
 
 On which the loudest tempests sweep, 
 So man appears, is seen, then lost, 
 
 Amid old Time's unfathora'd deep.
 
 256 TIME, OR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 What then is wealth, or pomp, or power, 
 That struggling millions strive to find, 
 
 But toys which fleeting years devour, 
 Nor leave one wither'd wreck behind ? 
 
 What numbers of that smiling throng, 
 The young, the cheerful, thoughtless gay, 
 
 Whose hours are fill'd with mirth and song, 
 This new-born year will sweep away. 
 
 From earth, and time, and kindred dear, 
 From those bright skies, from yonder sun, 
 
 To the lone tomb where silence drear, 
 Proclaims life's hasty glass is run. 
 
 Since, like a conqueror o'er our world, 
 The flight of years blasts every flower; 
 
 And all earth's brightest joys are hurl'd 
 Down to the grave in one short hour. 
 
 We'll look above these rolling spheres, 
 Where time's swift changes never come, 
 
 Beyond the reach of wasting years, 
 To our eternal Father's home, 
 
 Where bloom and beauty never fade, 
 And virtue's charms will never die ; 
 
 Nor sin, nor pain, nor death invade, 
 Nor sorrow's tears bedim the eye,
 
 257 
 
 A MORNING WALK 
 
 I WANDER 'D forth at early day 
 
 Upon the dewy lawn, 
 7 o catch the sun's first golden ray 
 
 Which lighted up the dawn. 
 
 Through fields and glens, 'mid akies serene, 
 
 With sweet delight I rov'd, 
 And gaz'd upon the enchanting scene 
 
 Which then my bosom mov'd. 
 
 Well pleas'd, I cropt each opening flow'r, 
 
 And drank unmingled bliss 
 From roses wild, from honied bow'r, 
 
 And zephyrs balmy kiss. 
 
 The sun rose bright without a cloud, 
 
 Its splendors round me threw, 
 As earth and sea, and mountains proud, 
 
 Met my enraptur'd view. 
 
 The mists curl'd graceful from the trees, 
 From bushes, brake and grove ; 
 
 And in fantastic fold and wreaths, 
 Soon vanish'd far above. 
 
 The little birds around me drew, 
 
 And carol'd sweet their lay ; 
 Spread wide their beauteous wings and flew 
 
 To hail the new-born day.
 
 A MORNING WALK. 
 
 They warbled forth their notes of love 
 
 In praises to their king ; 
 Made every spot around, above, 
 
 And every valley ring. 
 
 The torrents sound so loud and deep, 
 
 Came rolling on my ear, 
 While dashing o'er the rocky steep, 
 
 In waters pure and clear. 
 
 The heaving billows lash'd the shore, 
 
 Urg'd on by distant storms ; 
 I listen'd to their solemn roar, 
 
 And watch'd their varying forms. 
 
 Their crested waves, like mirrors bright, 
 
 Were circling full in view ; 
 Their summits caught the sun's first light, 
 
 And shone with every hue. 
 
 Transfix'd and rapt amid the scene, 
 
 I gaz'd with transport, round, 
 And wonder'd if it were a dream, 
 
 Upon enchanted ground. 
 
 From this brief spot I turn'd my eyes 
 
 To my eternal home, 
 To that blest morn beyond the skies, 
 
 Where night can never come.
 
 259 
 
 TO MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 THY peerless lay, thy soothing song, 
 Falls sweetly on my listening ear ; 
 
 In sounds melodious floats along, 
 Like richest music soft and clear. 
 
 Pure is the fount from which they flow, 
 The fervent breathings of thy soul, 
 
 Thy numbers melting, thrilling, slow, 
 In lucid sweetness o'er me roll. 
 
 A sacred charm thy words impart, 
 A rush of feeling which I love, 
 
 They come directly to my heart, 
 And o'er my senses gently move. 
 
 Thy songs I love divinely sweet, 
 
 So strangely winding round each sense, 
 
 My mingled passions as they meet, 
 Bear my enraptured spirit hence. 
 
 I love thy mild, subduing strains, 
 They melt the ice-drops of my heart, 
 
 And give within my circling veins 
 The blood a quicker, purer start. 
 
 I love to mingle in thy dreams, 
 I love to share thy upward flight, 
 
 I love to wander through those scenes 
 Which gave thee once such pure delight. 
 
 But most of all, I love thy lay 
 Which pictures forth domestic bliss,
 
 200 THE SERENADE. 
 
 As round thy feet thy children play, 
 And share with thee the envied kiss. 
 
 To thee belongs the magic touch, 
 To kindle, waken, and enflame 
 
 Each dormant sense ; thy power is such, 
 That man's rude passion it can tame. 
 
 Thy power is such it melts the soul, 
 And draws a tear from beauty's eyes, 
 
 E'en vice turns from the madd'ning bowl, 
 And from the pois'nous chalice flies. 
 
 Thy pensive moans, thy plaintive strain, 
 Deep touch a chord within my breast, 
 
 Tell me life's joys are fleeting vain, 
 That man has here no settled rest. 
 
 Mild be the beamings of thine eye, 
 As faith lights up the coming hour, 
 
 When earth's loved scenes shall fade and die, 
 And thy rapt spirit upward soar. 
 
 Oh, may that grace which gilds the bed 
 Of death and shines with kindling ray, 
 
 Cast its bright splendors round thy head, 
 And waft thee to a brighter day. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 IT was a lovely evening, 
 All nature seemed at rest, 
 
 Alike an infant sleeping 
 Upon its mother's breast.
 
 THE SEESNADE. 261 
 
 The silvery moon revealing 
 
 Its brightness through the trees, 
 When music sweetly stealing, 
 
 Rose on the gentle breeze. 
 
 The strains melodious lingered 
 
 Upon the listening ear. 
 Mid evening's stilly softness, 
 Like rushing waters clear. 
 
 They come upon the weary 
 
 Like seraph songs above, 
 Floating in sweetness round them, 
 
 Breathing the notes of love. 
 
 Sweet are thy charms, oh, music, 
 
 We bow before thy shrine, 
 And thanks from beauty's bosom,- 
 
 Brave band be truly thine. 
 
 Thanks for those thrilli c; numbers, 
 
 Which rich in raptures roll, 
 Entrancing all the senses, 
 
 And stealing through the soul. 
 
 Thanks to each kind musitian, 
 
 And these bright sylvian bowers, 
 Like the enchanting evening, 
 
 Be all their future hours.
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 THE following lines were written on reading an article in the 
 Literary Gem, on the meeting of the pure in heart. 
 
 OH ! yes, the pure in heart shall meet 
 In heaven, their voices mingle sweet 
 
 Shall wake the breathing lyre ; 
 Rolling in melting, thrilling strains, 
 For ever o'er the etherial plains, 
 Where one eternal echo reigns, 
 
 From notes which never tire. 
 
 Souls which on earth drank in their bliss 
 From viewing others happiness, 
 
 Delighted there shall rove ; 
 Shall ramble o'er the perfumed glade, 
 With amaranthine flowers arrayed, 
 Recline beneath their crimson shade, 
 
 And bathe in seas of love* 
 
 Look backward on the parting hour* 
 When nature sunk beneath the power 
 
 Of the destroyer, death ! 
 When love hung o'er the sufferer's bed, 
 Wept, as each trace of reason fled, 
 Pressed to her heart the wildcring head, 
 
 And caught her last drawn breath. 
 
 Where the bright seraph spreads his wmg> 
 The pure in heart shall meet and sing
 
 263 
 
 " Sin, pain, and death no more ! 
 Sin, pain, and death are fled," they cry, 
 " For ever fled," the saints reply ; 
 Cherubic armies sound it high 
 
 " Sin, pain, and death no more I" 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN IN VIEW OF THE RIVER THAMES, THS DEPOT, STC. 
 
 THE busy world moves swiftly on, 
 Nothing prevents its rapid roll ; 
 
 The magic scenes we gaze upon, 
 Like meteors flash athwart the soul. 
 
 Soon will these scenes be lost to me, 
 
 These bells, this steam, these cars no more 
 
 Shall I behold nor shrub, nor tree, 
 Upon my own loved sea-girt shore. 
 
 There shall I muse upon these hours, 
 When through the stilly noon of night, 
 
 I've listend to their mighty powers, 
 Nor check 'd my spirit's upward flight. 
 
 Immortal Fulton ! every stream, 
 From fairy Thames to Indies' sea, 
 
 Bears on its crested wave thy name, 
 S on of a nation proud and free !
 
 644 
 
 Steam's mighty power contracts the world, 
 Impelled forth by hidden fires ; 
 
 As over seas and mountains whirled, 
 It rushes on and never tires. 
 
 High o'er the blue waves, like a bird, 
 The steamer comes with spirits rife ; 
 
 When not a gossamer veil is stirred 
 By gentle breezes true to life. 
 
 Like a white swan in pride she sails, 
 With snowy breast and flashing eye ; 
 
 Hurries whereon the glittering rails, 
 She sees the cars like lightning fly ! 
 
 And then the rush the tinkling bells, 
 The roar of steam, the quick exchange 
 
 The parting looks, the sad farewells, 
 As each to different countries range. 
 
 I'll think of this when borne along 
 Majestic o'er the watery waste ; 
 
 Where Naiads chaunt their vesper song, 
 As forth the evening shadows haste. 
 
 And when on my beloved isle, 
 
 I listen to the Atlantic's roar, 
 I'll speak of thee where young eyes smile, 
 
 And tell thy wonders o'er and o'er.
 
 LINES, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE AMIABLE MRS. P. G. GARDNER, WIFE OF THK 
 
 R1V. R. GARDNER, AND DAUGHTER OF COL. S. MILLER, 
 
 OF EAST HAMPTON. 
 
 HOPE'S loveliest vision for ever has fled, 
 And the young and the beautiful sleep with the dead ; 
 Like a bright summer-cloud she has pass'd from our eyes, 
 But its brilliance and form in the mind never dies. 
 
 So the blast of the tempest goes forth in its wrath, 
 And the lightnings of heav'n scatter death in their path, 
 And the sun which to-day without clouds meets our eyes, 
 To-morrow 's eclips'd in his path through the skies. 
 
 When hope smiles the sweetest, 'tis often the hour ; 
 When the heart moves the fleetest, then death in his pow'r 
 Dissolves the gay frost-work of earthly delight, 
 And hope, love, and beauty, expire on the sight. 
 
 Could the kindness of friends, could the prayers of the just, 
 Could the tears of her husband, her bosom's first trust, 
 Have arrested the blow, the stern mandate of heav'n, 
 And back to their arms her brief loveliness given, 
 How would they have striven the stroke to evade ! 
 And sunlight had pierced through the depth of the shade. 
 
 Vain, vain were their efforts, for the signet of death 
 Stood pale on her brow as they watched her last breath ; 
 And their hopes, like the leaves of the autumn, are fled 
 Like the seared leaves of autumn, are blighted and dead. 
 
 x
 
 266 THE MEETING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Oh, torn from thy friends in the bright morn of life, 
 
 When thy days were the sweetest ; when daughter and wife 
 
 Softly blended together in a mixture of bliss 
 
 When a mother's warm lips gave the mother's first kiss ; 
 
 In an hour when thy hopes and thy joys were the highest, 
 
 And all thou desired or wished for were nighest ; 
 
 In those hours of rapture which announced thee a mother, 
 
 Thou wast call'd from this sphere of delight to another. 
 
 Thou hast gone in thy loveliness down to the tomb, 
 Like the young flowers of summer, all fresh in thy bloom ; 
 While the wail of thy babe broke low on thy ear, 
 And drew from thy bosom's deep fountain a tear. 
 
 When over thy soul came thy husband's deep sigh, 
 Like the sad dirge of autumn when its beauties all die, 
 'Mid the heart's desolation, 'mid earth's dreary wild, 
 One gem still remains, 'tis thy own precious child : 
 Now sparkling in beauty, to the mourner 'tis given, 
 To remind him while here of his lov'd one in heaven. 
 
 THE MEETING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 THE meeting of friends ! oh, what joy it imparts, 
 When long years of absence have vanished away ; 
 
 What melting of souls, what communion of hearts, 
 What thrills of delight o'er the mind sweetly play. 
 
 E'en life seems to tremble, as in the embrace 
 
 The warm gush of feeling flows fresh from the soul 
 
 And the bright tear of joy, as it steals down the face. 
 Speaks the fulness of bliss in its eloquent roll.
 
 THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 267 
 
 The heart's cheering welcome, the kind how d'ye do, 
 The smile on the lip, the eye's softened glance, 
 
 Show the feeling of love ever fervent and true, 
 Which, the mines of the Indies could never enhance. 
 
 Past scenes, past enjoyments rush quick o'er the mind, 
 The curtain is rais'd by Remembrance' fond hand, 
 
 And the voices of love, once soothing and kind, 
 Fall sweet on the ear of a " far better land." 
 
 There 's a rapture in meeting which ne'er can be told, 
 But in its intenseness there 's often a pain ; 
 
 And the heart's warm emotions grow frozen and cold, 
 As the bosom responds, " we must soon part again." 
 
 Part again ? oh, beware ! let no tincture of gloom 
 Arise to destroy this bright " frost-work of bliss ;" 
 
 'Tis the raven who croaks, let him speed to the tomb, 
 And flap his broad wings where the foul serpents hiss. 
 
 But the heart will rejoice in this banquet of sweets, 
 The soul will exult in such fulness of bliss ; 
 
 Dissolve, as transported the loved one it greets, 
 And faints 'neath the touch of the life-giving kiss, 
 
 THE SOLAR SYSTEM 
 
 How glorious must that being be 
 Who formed creation by a nod 
 
 None can behold his brilliancy, 
 Or comprehend him, but a god. 

 
 THE SOLAE SYSTEM. 
 
 His wond'rous works, His power divine, 
 Inspire with awe my trembling soul ; 
 
 And planets as they sweetly shine, 
 Delight me with their ceaseless roll. 
 
 All balanced in the empty air, 
 
 All marshalled in their bright array, 
 
 System outstretching system fair, 
 All lightly moving on their way. 
 
 The sun, vast luminary, grand, 
 A centre formed of blazing fire, 
 
 Around which worlds at God's command 
 Revolve in space and never tire. 
 
 No human power can scan his bound, 
 Nor comprehend this globe of flame ; 
 
 High in the ether rolling round, 
 As bright as when from naught it came. 
 
 First, Mercury takes his silent course, 
 And his burning splendor plays, 
 
 Borne onward by a secret force, 
 To revel in his brilliant rays. 
 
 Next Venus comes, the lover's star, 
 The earliest in evening's train ; 
 
 Listening she hears her vows afar, 
 And weeps when they arc false and vain. 
 
 Earth follows on with steady pride, 
 And round and round delighted rolls, 
 
 Sailing upon the etherial tide, 
 And balancing her central poles. 
 
 Next Mars, the god of war, appears, 
 Majestic in his dizzy height ;
 
 THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 
 
 He smiles with scorn at human tears, 
 
 And urges on the deadly fight. 
 
 A. 
 Then Jupiter, with face divine, 
 
 Is seen in dazzling splendor drest, 
 His moons around him sweetly shine, 
 
 Like diamonds 'throned on beauty's breast. 
 
 Next Saturn, like an exiled queen, 
 
 Girt with a lucid zone around, 
 Far in the distance, lo ! he 's seen 
 
 Alone in gloomy grandeur crowned. 
 
 Last, slowly on his winding ways, 
 Arrayed in brilliant robes of light, 
 
 Herschel his sattelites displays, 
 Revolving round their centre bright. 
 
 The Comet speeds his upward flight, 
 And fearless drives his fiery car, 
 
 Darting amid yon worlds of light, 
 Away beyond each twinkling star. 
 
 Our solar system placed on high, 
 
 With the bright sun which makes our day, 
 Forms but a speck in yon arch'd sky, 
 
 Where thousand other systems play. 
 
 Those fixed stars to other spheres, 
 
 Suns larger far than one we see, 
 With their bright beams through rolling years, 
 
 Proclaim aloud a Deity ! 
 
 One who upholds them by his power, 
 Who formed them by his own decree 
 
 " Let there be light !" and in that hour 
 They rushed from all eternity !
 
 *70 
 
 Oh ! might I rise through boundless space, 
 Where other suns and systems roll, 
 
 And gaze upon that lovely face. 
 Whose smiles delight the enraptured soul- 
 
 Who spake ! and straight at his command, 
 Each twinkling star from chaos sprung ; 
 
 Then forth from his almighty hand, 
 Abroad like sparkling gems was flung. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. P., OF SAG HARBOR, ON THE RECENT DEATH 
 OF THEIR CHILD. 
 
 WEEP, for the cherub of beauty has fled, 
 Mourn, for the lovely lies shrouded and dead, 
 Weep, that on earth he no longer could stay, 
 Mourn, that so soon he was summoned away. 
 
 Weep for the eyes which sparkled so bright, 
 Are closed for ever and shrouded in night ; 
 Mourn, for the light which around him he threw, 
 Was brilliant and fleeting as morning's light dew. 
 
 Weep for the smile which played over his face, 
 For those dimples which charmed when in your embrace ; 
 For that smile it has fled, and those dimples are gone, 
 And your young bud of promise lies cold and alone.
 
 Mourn, that no longer will break on your eat- 
 That soft silver tone so enchanting and clear, 
 " My father, my mother," which came o'er the soul, 
 Like the songs of the spheres as in sweetness they roll. 
 
 Ah ! yes, you may mourn, for no longer he'll greet 
 Those parents he loved with his light buoyant feet, 
 That young bounding heart which illumined his face, 
 Lies chilled by the fervor of death's cold embrace. 
 
 When the grate is replenished and the lights burning clear, 
 When the fierce winds of winter howl dismal and drear, 
 When the billows of ocean, as they break o'er the deep, 
 Chill the heart of the mourner, ay, then you may weep, 
 
 For the tempests which thunder in wrath through the sky, 
 But increase the warm tears as they gush from your eye ; 
 For remembrance will linger where the green willows wave, 
 And weep as the storm murmurs sad o'er his grave. 
 
 But here you must stop, and remember 'tis o'er 
 The child whom you worshipped will suffer no more : 
 From earth he's escaped, like a bird from his snare, 
 And lit on those groves ever blooming and fair. 
 
 Oh, look as the tears of affection they roll, 
 As the dark waves of anguish pass over the soul 
 Look away to yon heaven where the lovely all meet, 
 The " stainless with stainless, the sweet with the sweet," 
 
 In the regions of bliss behold now your boy, 
 
 Your young pledge of love, your pride and your joy ; 
 
 The angel of mercy has borne him on high, 
 
 Where he warbles with seraphs the songs of the sky.
 
 272 
 
 THE SAVIOUR'S VOICE. 
 
 I SAW him walking on the wave, 
 
 On billows high which lashed the shore, 
 
 Arrayed with power divine to save, 
 When tempests wild tumultuous roar. 
 
 He lifts his voice above the storm 
 
 That madly sweeps o'er sea and sky j 
 
 In tones more sweet than seraph's form, 
 He bids the winds in silence die. 
 
 The waves are stilled in quiet rest, 
 A placid smile plays o'er the deep ; 
 
 The storm-rocked ocean's heaving breast, 
 Like a hushed infant sinks to sleep. 
 
 The dark, wild clouds all straight retire, 
 The roaring winds are heard no more j 
 
 The glorious sun, bright orb of fire, 
 Around his dazzling beauties pour. 
 
 The bow of promise spans the world, 
 Where all in deep despondence lay ; 
 
 It brilliance o'er the earth unfurled, 
 Sheds forth a pure and hallowed ray. 
 
 With faith and hope fixed on his arm, 
 Whose voice can still the tempest's power, 
 
 Man stands secure from every harm, 
 And smiles to meet his final hour.
 
 273 
 
 'WHAT THINK YE OF CHRIST! 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER A COMMUNIN SEASON. 
 
 CAN you tell me what of One 
 
 Who left the bright abode on high, 
 
 Who on the mountain's top alone, 
 Wept over sinners doomed to die ? 
 
 Can you tell me what his name, 
 
 Who he isj and whence he came ? 
 
 Can you tell me why he stooped 
 
 To visit mortals here below, 
 Why his lovely head he drooped, 
 
 Where Cearon's waters murmur low ? 
 Why in Gethsemane's lone vale, 
 Was heard afar his dying wail ? 
 
 Say, what think you of that love 
 
 Which naught could conquer or subdue, 
 
 Love which first in heaven above, 
 Spoke a language bold and true. 
 
 Hear a Saviour deified, 
 
 " Father, spare them, I have died." 
 
 When the heart is tempest toss'd, 
 When each earthly scene looks dim, 
 
 When e'en the anchor hope seems lost, 
 Do you love to think of Him ? 
 
 Do you love in such an hour 
 
 To plead his promise and his power?
 
 274- WHAT THINK TE OF CHRIST. 
 
 How to you does he appear, 
 
 Is he lovely, all divine ? 
 Does his grace your spirits cheer 
 
 As his glories round you shine ? 
 Do you long to fly away, 
 And reign with him in endless day ? 
 
 Then around if thus your souls 
 Pant for God the table come, 
 
 Gather where salvation rolls, 
 Lo ! its waters waft you home, 
 
 Waft you to the shores of bliss, 
 
 To the far off land of peace. 
 
 Lo ! the banner is unfurl'd I 
 Jesus meets his people here ; 
 
 Lo ! the Saviour of the world 
 Calls his weeping children near. 
 
 Raise your suppliant voices high, 
 
 Pleas'd he listens to your cry. 
 
 Here, the feast for you is spread, 
 Here his blood like water flows, 
 
 Come and taste the living bread, 
 
 Come where heavenly pasture grows. 
 
 Come embrace your dying Lord, 
 
 Come and worship round his board.
 
 275 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 WHEN on the trembling lip is breathed 
 
 The last farewell ; and anguish there 
 Around the soul her spell has wreathed, 
 
 And left the mind to dark despair 
 How all the earth fades on the sight, 
 
 And desolation's strong control 
 Shrouds all created things in night, 
 
 And wraps its pall around the soul ! 
 
 Nature 's a blank, with all her charms, 
 
 The sun emits no cheering ray ; 
 The world, were it within our arms, 
 
 Could not convert our night to day ; 
 Could not restore the pleasing smile, 
 
 Could not bring back the look of love, 
 Could not the tedious hours beguile, 
 
 And make this world like that above. 
 
 Could not within our echoing halls 
 
 Bring back the bird-like voice again, 
 Nor to the lute's unuttered calls, 
 
 Restore its simple, touching strain. 
 No joy the tortured bosom feels, 
 
 Each living thing renews its wo ; 
 In every breath remembrance steals 
 
 The past returns where'er we go. 
 
 Oh, eould the soul one ray of hope 
 To meet indulge for one brief hour,
 
 576 A THUNDZB STOEM. 
 
 Creation's verge, its farthest slope, 
 To it would prove a fairy bower. 
 
 'Tis the blest hope which heaven bestowe, 
 That forms a halo 'round this earth ; 
 
 And the pure light that from it flows, 
 Illumes the spirit from its birth. 
 
 A hope which gives religion power, 
 
 Exerts o'er man a magic sway, 
 Gilds with its beams life's darkest hour, 
 
 And points to an unclouded day. 
 Where all the loved of earth shdl meet, 
 
 And as eternal ages roll 
 " We part no more" in accents sweet, 
 
 Prove the response of every soul. 
 
 A THUNDER STORM. 
 
 'TwAS midnight, and the thunder's crash 
 
 Broke loudly on my ear ; 
 Then came the light'ning's vivid flash, 
 
 Proclaiming God was near. 
 
 Fitful they played around my head, 
 Bright were their arrowy forms ; 
 
 While far and near, with noiseless tread, 
 Wandered the God of storms. 
 
 Revolving clouds rolled dark and high, 
 
 And ever and anon, 
 The light'ning's flash, and thunder's crash. 
 
 Came quick, and then were gone.
 
 STANZAS. 277 
 
 Hushed for a moment was the strife 
 
 Of elemental war ; 
 E'en nature's pulse seemed 'reft of life, 
 
 When sudden from afar 
 
 Was heard the roar of warring winds, 
 
 Borne by the clouds along ; 
 The rain fell fast from thousand springs, 
 
 And mingled in the song. 
 
 One wild uproar, one constant flash, 
 
 Illumed the troubled sky ; 
 The wind, the rain, the thunder's crash, 
 
 Raised the grand pean high. 
 
 Lord ! what an emblem of that day, 
 For which all days were made ; 
 
 When all that 's born on earth must stand 
 Before thy throne arrayed. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 TO MRS. E. S., ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD. 
 
 SAY, has that lovely cherub fled, 
 
 On whom so late you smiled ? 
 And have you numbered with the dead, 
 
 Your youngest, sweetest child ? 
 They tell me how from day to day 
 
 He bowed his beauteous head, 
 'Till his young spirit soared away 
 
 Among the happy dead.
 
 278 STANZAS. 
 
 They tell me that his bright blue eyes 
 
 Now smile on you no more ; 
 They tell me how his mother cries 
 
 And weeps for him she bore. 
 My dear Elizabeth, restrain 
 
 Your fast, your flowing tears ; 
 Remember, you can ne'er again 
 
 Bring back his baby years. 
 
 Remember, he was not your own, 
 
 But lent a while to lore ; 
 Your bird of song to heaven has flown, 
 
 To welcome you above. 
 Then think not of his opening charms 
 
 As on your breast he lay ; 
 When softly slumbering on your arms, 
 
 You gazed the hours away, 
 
 And think not of his forehead fair, 
 
 Nor of his dimpled chin ; 
 Gaze not upon that lock of hair, 
 
 Sole relic left of him. 
 Oh, think not of those happy hours, 
 
 When your sweet babies played 
 Beneath the trees among the flowers, 
 
 And gambolled in the shade. 
 
 Dwell not upon his infant glee, 
 
 Twill but increase your grief; 
 The strongest powers of memory 
 
 Can yield you no relief. 
 But look, dear friend, to yon bright sky 
 
 Where storms and tempests cease, 
 Where tears no more shall dim the eye, 
 
 And all the realm is peace.
 
 279 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN AT DE. P. . .'s, AT GREEN PORT, L. I., BY THE AUTHOR, 
 
 THE FIRST TIME SHE WAS THERE AFTER THE DEATH OF 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 WITHIN this hospitable dome, 
 
 This seat of earthly bliss, 
 From place to place, as 'round I roam, 
 
 One little form I miss ; 
 Whose placid looks and cheerful smile, 
 
 Illumined every scene ; 
 Did every lingering hour beguile, 
 
 Sweet beauteous Prosaline. 
 
 With bird-like voice, and blooming face, 
 
 And features mild and fair, 
 Moving around with matchless grace, 
 
 And steps as light as air. 
 From whose bright eye there stole a beam, 
 
 As soft, as sweet, as mild, 
 As moonlight on some silver stream 
 
 'Mid forests deep and wild 
 
 Whose wavy hair in ringlets hung, 
 
 Around her neck of snow ; 
 And o'er her face such sweetness flung, 
 
 As earth could seldom show. 
 Ah, where is now that seraph form, 
 
 And that sweet tuneful voice, 
 Which made the coldest bosom warm, 
 
 Made every heart rejoice ?
 
 280 
 
 Alas ! I read the reason why 
 
 In her dear parent's face, 
 Why I cannot her form descry, 
 
 Nor her bright image trace. 
 Insatiate death, that cruel foe, 
 
 Has sized the victim fair ; 
 And laid the little cherub low, 
 
 The child of so much care. 
 
 Full well he knew how sweet the flower, 
 
 And came with ruthless sway ; 
 With his keen scythe, and in an hour, 
 
 Cut the young bud away. 
 That cherished bud of roseate hue, 
 
 Just bursting from the shrine ; 
 He plucked, while yet the morning dew 
 
 Sparkled upon the vine. 
 
 But now he 's done his work is done 
 
 His barrier is the tomb ; 
 But this sweet flower, 'neath heaven's bright sun, 
 
 Eternally shall bloom. 
 Where never withering wreaths entwine 
 
 'Mid fields of living green ; 
 There may I see thy form divine, 
 
 Sweet, beauteous Prosaline.
 
 281 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF HENRY E. THOMPSON, ELDEST SON OF 
 BENJAMIN F. THOMPSON, ESQ., OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I. 
 
 DELUSIVE hope ! enchanter of the soul, 
 
 How it deceives with visions bright and fair ; 
 Visions, which vanish as the moments roll, 
 
 False as the wind, and baseless as the air. 
 Yet such is man, fixed is his steady eye, 
 
 On joys as evanescent as they're vain ; 
 Fleeting as rainbows painted on the sky, 
 
 Transient as evening in her gilded train. 
 
 The hues of beauty mingle as the light 
 
 Shows her soft drapery o'er the earth and sea ; 
 Brightens, as Sol pursues his upward flight, 
 
 And spreads at eve his brilliance o'er the lea. 
 Hope sits enthron'd on the retiring cloud, 
 
 With gorgeous hues she paints the dreamy west 
 Man looks for light, but oh, the darken'd shroud, 
 
 That wraps at morn its pall around his breast. 
 
 Thus human joys perish within our grasp, 
 
 We hug the phantoms, but we find them air ; 
 They pierce our bosoms as we fondly clasp 
 
 Their airy forms, and fill us with despair. 
 Thus die the lovely, thus the fairest flower 
 
 That opes its petals to the rising day ; 
 Withers and fades, nor all the earthly power 
 
 Can bring its bloom, or wrest its longer stay.
 
 282 
 
 The living die when cherish'd ones depart, 
 
 'Tie they who feel the sting as death draws near ; 
 The living weep when hope forsakes the heart, 
 
 And lays its broken promise on the bier. 
 'Tis not in circles where the giddy meet, 
 
 'Tis not where revelry and banquet yield 
 Their feverish joys ; not these the sorrowing greet 
 
 The gay of heart, where every pulse is steeled. 
 
 No though they once within the lighted dome 
 
 Pursued the star that with its cheering beams 
 Illumed their path, its shadows round them come, 
 
 And sad reality awakes from dreams. 
 A withering pall o'er every joy is spread, 
 
 The heart 's a desert where no spring is found ; 
 Visions of darkess flit with noiseless tread, 
 
 And dance in solemn mockery all around. 
 
 Henry, on thy young brow hope's fairy hand 
 
 Pencili'd the promise of unclouded days ; 
 Oh, how deceptive was her magic wand 
 
 Which lit the future, then obscured its rays. 
 Bright was thy morn, discretion led the way, 
 
 Strewing thy path with sweetest flowers of earth ; 
 No rankling thoughts the guilty past portray, 
 
 Though oft in scenes of vanity and mirth. 
 
 Thine was the form, and thine the active mind, 
 
 The winning face, the pure confiding heart, 
 In which each noble virtue was enshrin'd, 
 
 Which drew from death the keen envenom'd dart. 
 From thy dark eye impassion'd beauty stole 
 
 Like sunlight on the deep, when from afar 
 The god of day lit up each distant pole, 
 
 And in his splendor faded every star.
 
 HEMPSTEAD HARBOR. 253 
 
 No more when evening spreads her silvery light, 
 
 Wilt thou return thy parents' hearts to bliss ; 
 Brothers and sisters, through the stilly night, 
 
 No more will pant to view thy loveliness. 
 Thou'rt dead, sweet youth draped are the echoing halls 
 
 Where music gave the soul-subduing lay ; 
 Like morning dew the silent footstep falls, 
 
 And friendship mourns the loved one far away. 
 
 HEMPSTEAD HARBOR. 
 
 JWRITTEN WHILE AT THE RESIDENCE OF JOSEPH M. MOULTO*, ISQ. 
 
 spot ! glory of all the earth, 
 
 Bright miniature of Eden's blissful bowers ; 
 Beauteous, as when in thy primitive birth, 
 
 Thou stood'sl array 'd in shrubs and blooming flowers. 
 Before the blight of sin faded thy bloom, 
 
 Unbounded nature knew no fairer spot ; 
 And when creation felt her withering doom, 
 
 Amid her works thou surely wert forgot. 
 
 Thy hills and streams, and each pelucid popl, 
 
 Reflecting soft the silvery orbs of even ; 
 Thy purling brooks and limpid waters cool, 
 
 Sweetly resemble faith's bright views of heaven. 
 Hill after hill meets the enraptur'd eye, 
 
 In one unbroken, undulating reef; 
 Stretching along beneath the blue-arch'd sky, 
 
 'Till all appear in striking, bold relief !
 
 284 HJEMPSTEAD HARBOR. 
 
 Embower'd beneath the sheltering cliffs afar, 
 
 The neat white cots are in the distance seen, 
 Lit up at evening like some lovely star, 
 
 Throwing its radience on the fairy scene. 
 Amid the groves, beneath the verdant boughs, 
 
 Waving in beauty 'mid the gusty air ; 
 The lover breaths at eve his tender vows, 
 
 And happier grows amid a scene so fair. 
 
 The autumnal spirit o'er the wavy wood, 
 
 Spreads her soft mantle, bright with nature's dye : 
 Beauty, delighted, lingers on the flood, 
 
 And lends enchantment to the admiring eye. 
 Majestic, grand, sublime at morning's hour, 
 
 When o'er the landscape, gemm'd with pearly dew : 
 The sun appears, and in a golden shower, 
 
 Shows his rich beams upon the pleasing view. 
 
 From Moulton's heights, how beautiful the scene, 
 
 Varied and bold, magnificent arid grand ; 
 Lakes, vales and streams, mingle the hills between, 
 
 And the blue Sound laving the solid land. 
 I stand delighted 'mid the tangled wood, 
 
 I gaze enraptur'd from his lofty dome ; 
 I look around, and wish my pencil could 
 
 Portay the beauties of his pleasant home. 
 
 But language fails the eye of man must see, 
 
 See for himself no pen can e'er describe, 
 Nor poet tell, the bold sublimity 
 
 That meets the view surveyed from either side. 
 Nor least, at twilight bursts the thrilling view, 
 
 When the pale moon upon the babbling stream 
 Throws her mild light, and stars with silvery hue, 
 
 Mirror their beauty as they sweetly beam. 
 
 Oh, I could gaze upon this heavenly spot, 
 And feast my soul upon its magic charms ;
 
 TO MISS M. S. K. 
 
 Till time itself, amid the scene forgot, 
 Should steal like friendship from my folded arms. 
 
 Not only trees, and shrubs, and wooded hill, 
 Lakes, ponds the bay, and the blue rippling sound 
 
 Attracts and please, but manners soft distill, 
 And show a genial influence all around. 
 
 M le and C., to thee my thanks are due, 
 
 And H t, crowned with honor and with years ; 
 Fond recollections shall the past renew, 
 
 And steep its memory in delicious tears. 
 Farewell, bright groves and every winding stream, 
 
 I leave you now for purer joys at home ; 
 Where o'er my vision, like a fairy dream, 
 
 Your sweet remembrance shall in fancy come. 
 
 TO MISS M. S. K. 
 
 OFTEN your image steals o'er me 
 
 Since you have left your own sweet home 
 And now shall wake my minstrelsy, 
 
 While in a distant land you roam. 
 
 'Twas hard to rend yourself away, 
 
 Although your guiding star was bright ; 
 
 'Twas hard from her you loved to stray, 
 And turn her sunny day to night. 
 
 How oft I've thought, who now will cheer 
 That mother when her Julia 's gone 1 
 
 At evening's hour, what kindred dear 
 Will hear her sigh when all alone ?
 
 TO MISS II. S. K. 
 
 When all alone she trims her fire, 
 As winter winds howl sad and drear 
 
 Their anthems on the wild wood lyre, 
 Ah, who will view the bitter tear 
 
 Steal down her cheek, as of the loved 
 Her spirit dreams, now far away ; 
 
 Children, who oft her kindness proved, 
 Who formed her heaven, who lit her day ? 
 
 How oft around her vine-clad cot, 
 
 Like a bright seraph have you strayed ; 
 
 We look, but ah, we see you not, 
 The lovely girl, the dark-eyed maid. 
 
 No longer music's melting strain 
 Comes stealing o'er the list'ning ear ; 
 
 Thrilling through every circling vein 
 In notes melodious, soft and clear. 
 
 Thy brother, too, whose winning smile 
 
 Illumined oft the social bower, 
 No more the hours his flute beguile, 
 
 No more we feel its witching power. 
 
 In southern climes this cherished gem 
 Inhales the soft enlivening breeze ; 
 
 Beholds fair nature's diadem 
 
 Impearled on spangled groves and trees, 
 
 Oft as he rambles o'er the lawn, 
 
 Culling the wild flowers wet with dew, 
 
 At evening's hour, or early morn, 
 
 His thoughts fly quick to home and you. 
 
 Who with him oft delighted shared 
 In chilhood's morn the envied kiss ;
 
 TO MISS M. S. K. 287 
 
 To that loved mother, now debarred, 
 The fullness of her earthly bliss. 
 
 Awake, my lyre ! a nobler theme 
 
 Comes rushing o'er my spirits now : 
 Awake ! it is no feverish dream 
 
 Inspires me with its transient glow ! 
 
 On high, above this dusky sphere, 
 
 Enthroned, I see among the blest, 
 One who, when here, dried every tear, 
 
 And soothed each anxious care to rest. 
 
 Your sainted father, lo ! he stands 
 Arrayed in robes of dazzling light, 
 A golden harp within his hands, 
 Waiting your spirit's upward flight. 
 
 Another beauteous form I see, 
 
 The young-eyed cherub is her guide ; 
 It is Louisa beckoning thee 
 
 To purer pleasures by her side. 
 
 Again my muse with pinions spread, 
 
 Flies quickly o'er time's hasty round, 
 Mingles among the rising dead, 
 
 And lists the trumpet's solemn sound ! 
 
 The sunny south, the distant west, 
 
 The chilling north, the eastern world, 
 Are all convened ; the good, the blest, 
 
 'Neath heaven's bright banner's wide unfurled. 
 
 Upon a throne of liquid light, 
 
 Which from its splendors casts no shade, 
 Encircled with a halo bright, 
 
 The Prince of glory stands arrayed.
 
 888 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Your father, mother, sister dear, 
 I see amid that brilliant band, 
 
 You, with your brother too, appear 
 And hail with joy the " better land." 
 
 List ! on the ear from opening skies 
 Impassioned strains of music roll ; 
 
 A choral band of symphonies 
 
 Awake new pleasures in my soul. 
 
 How soft the strain at this lone hour, 
 When midnight tolls her solemn knell, 
 
 And with a strange mysterious power 
 Comes o'er my spirit fare thee well. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 HE'S gone, 'tis o'er, the last farewell is breathed, 
 And love's warm kiss the trembling lip has wreathed. 
 The spell is broken, which for years has wound 
 Its magic influence o'er the hearts it bound. 
 Fled sunny days and evening's peaceful hour, 
 When seated in the dear domestic bower ; 
 He read aloud, until in bold relief, 
 Before our eyes appeared each object brief. 
 'Till the pure flame which glowed on every page, 
 Found a response in childhood, youth, and age. 
 Our bosoms glowing, as enwrapt inspired 
 We wept, and smiled, we wandered and admired. 
 His pencil, too, with what delight we viewed 
 Its rapid progress, as each touch renewed 
 The kindling up of genius in his soul, 
 '
 
 THE D EPARTTTHE. 289 
 
 Which naught had power to conquer or control. 
 The verdant landscape with each sylvan scene, 
 The towering castle on the mountain green; 
 The limpid pool, the broad majectic sea, 
 The bright cascades which tumbled o'er the lea. 
 All these, with faces of the loved and dear 
 So often sketched and then the smile sincere 
 As parents praised, as all fond parents do, 
 When nature prompts what genius would pursue. 
 
 Oh, blessed scenes, when all around was bright, 
 And morn renewed the pleasures of the night; 
 When gathered round the sparkling grate we read 
 The great achievments of the sleeping dead. 
 
 Thanks to thy name, immortal Homer, thou 
 
 Sole king of poets, with the laurelled brow ; 
 
 Thine was the power to paint the soul-lit eye 
 
 Of spartan beauty and each grace descry. 
 
 Picture the living characters of men, 
 
 The shield, the helmet, and the diadem. 
 
 The Olympian mount, where the great thunderer Jove, 
 
 And Juno dwelt, themselves the sport of love. 
 
 When night dews fell upon the landscape, oft 
 
 He read the Illiad, 'till his bosom soft 
 
 Heaved with the impulse which each figure gave 
 
 Of heathen gods, the beautiful and brave, 
 
 Of Virgil, too, whose fascinating verse 
 
 Of Trojan wars, the senses all immerse ; 
 
 As forth through coming time the spirit goes, 
 
 When unborn nations, whom the world compose, 
 
 Shall read astonished of the present time, 
 
 As we of Greece, of Rome, or Persian clime. 
 
 Delightful hours, when on the sacred page, 
 
 We trace the Saviour, prophet, priest and sage, 
 
 The Jewish nation, and from them on earth, 
 
 All the renowned of valor or of birth. 
 
 z
 
 290 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 For ever fled, for ever past the hours, 
 When from the study, 'mid the blooming flowers, 
 He culled the fairest with its gaudy wing, 
 And to the loved gave the first flower of spring. 
 Oh, world deal gently with thy tender charge, 
 On thy rough tide is launched his fragile barge ; 
 Let prosperous winds fill every fluttering sail 
 As forth he rides before the enchanting gale. 
 Should all prove fair, and not a ripple move 
 The sunlit stream o'er which he's called to rove, 
 Let him prepare for fortune's changing tide, 
 For often whirlpools treacherous billows hide. 
 On thy broad bosom, world, oh, may he find 
 Deep veins of knowledge, where his ardent mind 
 Shall rich luxuriate in the golden store 
 Of classic beauty, and of hidden lore. 
 Guided by wisdom to those golden mines, 
 Which lead to honor and the mind refines ; 
 Praising his soul above each meaner scene, 
 The world made better, that on earth he 'a been. 
 
 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 THE day was cold and chill, 
 The earth in snow was drest, 
 
 Which glittered on each rising hill, 
 Like gems on beauty's breast. 
 
 The roaring winds were hushed, 
 The sun in splendors bright, 
 
 Poured its rich beams upon the floods, 
 And filled the world with light.
 
 THE BAPTISM. 291 
 
 When from his peaceful home, 
 
 Toward a cottage fair, 
 A man of God urged on his way, 
 
 And soon was welcomed there. 
 
 A gentle female form 
 
 Received him at the door, 
 And in a soft and silver tone, 
 
 His presence did implore. 
 
 Toward a little room 
 
 She quickly led the way,' 
 Where on a sick and dying bed, 
 
 A widowed mother lay. 
 
 Her racking pains had fled, 
 
 Her face with glory shone, 
 A holy joy which seemed to say, 
 
 Thy will, oh, God ! be done. 
 
 There the baptismal font, 
 
 The Bible lay there too, 
 And the rapt seraph bowed his head 
 
 The solemn scene to view. 
 
 Two lovely children clung 
 
 Close by their nurse's side, 
 One, a sweet cherub, smiling hung, 
 
 While her young brother cried. 
 
 Softly, the man of God 
 
 Whispered the dying one, 
 " Yes, I have strength," she faintly said, 
 
 " Now let the rite be done." 
 
 Upon her sunken cheek 
 There came a roseate hue,
 
 292 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 As on her babes she turned her eyes, 
 Her eyes of heavenly blue. 
 
 " Into my Father's hands 
 My children I commend ; 
 
 Better than life I've loved them here, 
 And loved them to the end." 
 
 She called them to her bed, 
 Their infant forms were bent ; 
 
 Her dark eyes closed, we knelt in prayer, 
 Her soul on God intent. 
 
 Upon her little son 
 
 Her beauteous hand did rest, 
 
 The other clasped the roundj white arm, 
 Which lay across her breast. 
 
 Then hand in hand they came, 
 The sacred rite was done. 
 
 Most touching was the heavenly scene, 
 As she embraced her son. 
 
 " Dear mother," asked her child, 
 " Are now our hearts quite clean ?" 
 
 " God cleanses them, my dear," she said, 
 " Now you must lean on him." 
 
 " Mother, I'm glad," he said, 
 " He'll be your father, too, 
 
 And sisters, when we both are good, 
 And that will comfort you." 
 
 A sweet celestial smile 
 Illumined her angel face, 
 
 And calm as infancy's soft dream, 
 She sunk in death's embrace. 

 
 
 HTTMAK LIFI. 29S 
 
 ^ here was within that room 
 A silence long and deep, 
 As that young mother closed her eyes 
 In their cold marble sleep. 
 
 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 I STOOD upon a towering rock, 
 
 Amid time's ocean wide ; 
 I saw the smooth sea smiling mock 
 The heaving billow's maddening lock, 
 And felt the elemental shock 
 
 Of winds and surging tide. 
 
 Alternate changes rolle,d before 
 
 At once the sea was bright ; 
 And then again its angry roar 
 In awful grandeur swept the shore, 
 And shook the rocky base which bore 
 
 Me on its dizzy height. 
 
 And thus, I thought, is human life ; 
 
 At once the flatterer creeps 
 And winds around his silken spell, 
 Or bitter imprecations swell, 
 Furious and loud, a dying knell 
 
 To innocence' soft sleep. 
 
 Alike the treacherous winds that blow 
 
 And vary every hour ; 
 Thus man's short life is fraught with wo,
 
 294 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 'Mid smiles and tears I see him go, 
 Aspiring high or sinking low, 
 Exerting every power. 
 
 At times the smooth sea's quiet roll, 
 
 Invites his steps along ; 
 Ten thousand beauties charm his soul, 
 His passions rage without control 
 Heedless he quaffs the poisonous bowl, 
 
 Lured by the syren's song. 
 
 While mirrored in the flowing deep, 
 
 Ten tnousand beauties rise 
 In brilliant hues, like beacons sweep, 
 Warning the soul of man to keep 
 Aloof from pleasure's dangerous sleep, 
 Where peace and virtue dies. 
 
 But by their brighness lured away, 
 
 All reckless of bis doom, 
 He rushes onward nought can stay, 
 Not e'en the clouds which shroud his way, 
 So artfully the phantoms slay 
 
 Their tenants of the tomb. 
 
 His fancied pleasures, bubbles fair, 
 
 That break as he pursues 
 He grasps them, and they flee like air, 
 And fill his soul with wild despair, 
 And rack his breast with anxious care ; 
 Still he the chase renews. 
 
 Although around on every side 
 
 Are fragments of his hope, 
 
 Before him still his mirror wide 
 
 Allures his steps along the tide, 
 
 A fleeting phantom is his guide, 
 
 And ruin is her scope.
 
 295 
 
 ' 
 
 Like to a mother's warning voice, 
 
 His own experience tries 
 To arrest his steps but vain the joys 
 That leaves no sting which never cloys 
 Thai heavenly peace which ever buoys 
 
 The virtuous to the skies. 
 
 From ruin he would fain absolve 
 His steps he would reclaim ; 
 
 He listens, and would fain resolve ; 
 
 A thousand times his mind revolves, 
 
 " A thousand times he re-resolves, 
 And then he dies the same." 
 
 STANZAS TO 
 
 WHEN the sweet and lovely die, 
 
 When parents' hearts are riven, 
 Friendship's off'ring is a sigh 
 
 Which wings its way to heaven. 
 And through the lovely twilight hour, 
 
 When hush'd and still the scene, 
 Fancy sways her magic pow'r, 
 
 And pictures what has been. 
 
 Look back on days and hours of bliss, 
 When in their infant's earliest kiss, 
 
 These parents seal'd their love ; 
 When cradled on her mother's breast, 
 So sweetly there she sunk to rest,
 
 296 
 
 That angel's round her pillow prcst, 
 And watch'd her from above. 
 
 They saw she was too pure for earth, 
 And mark'd her as their prize ; 
 
 'Mid beauty's bloom and infant mirth, 
 They bore her to the skies. 
 
 Through the lone hall 
 No footsteps fall 
 
 No greetings meet the ear 
 No cherub voice 
 The hearts rejoice, 
 
 Of parents once so dear. 
 Upon her little breast, 
 Her tiny hands they rest, 
 
 Which ne'er were still before ; 
 Her mother's plaited hair, 
 Across her forehead fair, 
 
 She'll part no more. 
 How calm and still her sleep I 
 
 Like infancy's soft dream, 
 A holy slumber, long and deep, 
 
 On eternity's cold stream. 
 
 Sweet cherub I didst thou lose thy way 
 Could nought below induce thy stay 
 
 Was earth so bleak and wild ? 
 So fill'd with wo, so fraught with pain, 
 That thou so soon should'st seek again 
 
 Thy heav'n, my child ? 
 Adown life's silver tide, 
 How quickly thou didst glide, 
 
 A seraph bright i 
 With sails all trimm'd and furl'd, 
 Through this low world, 
 
 How swift thy flight. 
 Thy hasty voyage is o'er,
 
 STANZAS. 297 
 
 Thy brightly beaming eye, 
 Will upward cast its glance no more 
 
 To meet thy parent's sigh. 
 The last sweet kiss is given, 
 
 The last lov'd word is spoke, 
 Flown to thy native heaven, 
 
 While their fond hearts are broke. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how deep 
 
 Is their lov'd infant's sleep ; 
 
 Time scarce can number, 
 
 In her last slumber, 
 
 The years before their eyes shall meet, 
 
 With joys divine, each other greet 
 
 Where spring immortal blooms, 
 
 ^Yond earth's confining tombs, 
 
 In worlds of bliss above, 
 
 Amid bright bo-w'rs of love, 
 
 When time can ne~"er again destroy 
 
 Their first born pledge of hope and joy. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 ON VIEWING A BEAUTIFUL LAWN, ONCE A 
 
 FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 ALL hail ! thou lovely spot of earth, 
 How beautiful and green ; 
 
 Thou ever from thy birth 
 With fond delight wert seen.
 
 Through many changes thou hast pass'd, 
 And known the blightning pow'r, 
 
 Oft times sharp scythe, and felt the blast 
 That withers in an hour. 
 
 Once thou wert fill'd with choicest flow's, 
 
 Arrang'd with nicest care, 
 Often I've stray'd in childhood's hour 
 
 Amid the roses fair. 
 
 Thou wert a fav'rite spot of one, 
 
 My own sweet mother dear, 
 Whose daily task it was to come 
 
 Each tender plant to rear. 
 
 Her bending form, with nicest skill, 
 
 Assign'd each flow'r a place ; 
 The hyacinth and daffodil, 
 Came forth with matchless grace. 
 
 How oft at twilight's pensive hour, 
 
 I've heard her gentle tread 
 Supporting in her roseate bow'r, 
 
 The lily's drooping head. 
 
 Each weed she pull'd with tender care, 
 And nurs'd each trembling leaf, 
 
 Till all would flourish strong and fair, 
 In their bright transit brief. 
 
 Like falling tears the dew drops hung 
 
 Upon the leaves all night, 
 And sparkled as the morning flung 
 
 Abroad her crimson light. 
 
 My mother ! oh, that hallow'd name, 
 Like some enchanted flow'r,
 
 STANZAS. 299 
 
 Around her threw a holy Same 
 Which brighten'd every hour. 
 
 'Twas by her care, sweet spot of earth, 
 
 Thou didst like Eden bloom ; 
 She watched each flower's unfolding birth, 
 
 And drank its rich perfume. 
 
 My father ! oft I've seen him stand 
 
 With rapture in his eye, 
 Look through these flow'rs to Canaan's land, 
 
 To brighter worlds on high. 
 
 Sweet spot of earth, thy charm remains, 
 
 Though all thy beauties fled ; 
 A guardian pow'r my life sustains, 
 
 While those I lov'd, are dead. 
 
 Are dead ah, yes ! their lovely forms, 
 
 Like the sweet flow'rs which bloom'd, 
 Are swept away by life's fierce storms 
 
 Are crush'd, decay'd, intomb'd. 
 
 Alone, upon this fair green spot, 
 
 One crown imperial rears 
 Her steatly head, and mourns her lot 
 
 In her pelucid tears. 
 
 And naw within my father's halls 
 
 Which onca were fill'd with glee, 
 Silent and sad each echo falls, 
 
 But one lov'd form I see. 
 
 One sister dear, upheld by him 
 
 Who rules and reigns above, 
 Whose eyea by mem'ry oft are dim, 
 
 Whose bosom beats with love.
 
 300 
 
 She still remains on earth to bless 
 
 And cheer me on my way, 
 Mere travellers through life's wilderness 
 
 To heaven's unclouded day, 
 
 Where pleasure rolls her living streams 
 
 Amid celestial bowers, 
 And noon-tide glory pours its beams 
 
 Through everlasting hours. 
 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WmlTTEN ON READING AN ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DUKI. 
 
 AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 HARK ! hear that mournful wail 
 
 Break wildly on the ear ; 
 And see that widow sad and pale, 
 
 Bedew'd with sorrow's tear. 
 
 Behold her streaming eyes 
 
 And her uplifted hand, 
 And mark her soul's deep agonies 
 
 O'er them she's no command. 
 
 In anguish hear her shriek 
 For him she lov'd to come ; 
 
 " Wilt thou not answer when I speak, 
 Come home, my love, come home.
 
 STANZAS. 301 
 
 Come to your babies and me, 
 
 And clasp us in thy arms ; 
 Let me once more my Cilley see, 
 
 And gaze upon his charms. 
 
 They say you. 're dead, my love, 
 
 Oh God ! and can it be ? 
 My smitten band, where shall we rove, 
 
 Thy father's face to see ?" 
 
 Heart broken, stricken one, 
 
 Well may your sorrows flow, 
 For fate her deadliest work has done, 
 
 Has struck her deadliest blow. 
 
 A nation 's bath'd in tears, 
 
 A nation weeps for thee ; 
 While on a sable cloud appears, 
 
 The goddess Liberty. 
 
 Not with a laurell'd wreath 
 
 To deck the victor's brow, 
 But wither'd by a murderer's breath, 
 
 She bears the cypress bough. 
 
 " Was it for this," she cried, 
 
 " Through toil, and blood, and strife, 
 
 Your fathers fought and nobly died, 
 And yielded up their life ? 
 
 Was it to see young Cilley fall 
 
 Beneath a barbarous hand, 
 That sorrow spread her darkest pall 
 
 O'er fair Columbia's land ! 
 
 Was it to grieve your patriot sires 
 In brighter worlds on high, 
 
 A2
 
 302 
 
 That you thus aim the rifle's firea 
 By which her sons must die ! 
 
 I can't indure the sight, 
 
 It pains me to the heart, 
 To see my chosen guardians fight, 
 
 I must from hence depart." 
 
 Thus spake the weeping maid, 
 Her stay was sad and brief ; 
 
 She in the hall of Congress laid 
 The wither'd cypress leaf. 
 
 The mourner fled away 
 
 And veiled her lovely eyes ; 
 
 Oppress'd with terror and dismay, 
 From scenes of blood she flea. 
 
 Ye rulers of our land 
 
 In whom we put our trust, 
 
 Disgrace no more your honor'd band 
 By words and deeds unjust. 
 
 List to that widow's moan, 
 And hear those orphans' cries ; 
 
 Indignant in one general tone, 
 Let your displeasure rise, 
 
 And spurn the base who dare 
 
 Destroy domestic peace ; 
 And firmly on the altar swear 
 
 That duelling shall cease. 
 
 Ye children of our God, 
 
 Whene'er you bend the knee, 
 
 Cast your kind sympathies abroad, 
 And human suffering see.
 
 303 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 THE sad days of autumn have returned again, 
 
 To some they are sweet and they love them the best, 
 
 No shade of spring's festival now they retain, 
 The buds and the flowers have all sunk to rest. 
 
 The songs of the birds in their green bowers of bliss, 
 The soft babbling fountain, the clear gushing stream, 
 
 Which rush from the opening with winter's cold hiss, 
 Have gladdened our hearts and fled like a dream. 
 
 But yesterday, summer beamed bright on the hill, 
 With sunshine so fierce and the insects' night song, 
 
 The lone bird of night, and the shrill whipperwill, 
 The zephyr's mild breeze floating sweetly along. 
 
 Now summer has gone, the brown spoiler has come, 
 The leaf turns pale, it trembles and dies, 
 
 The groves are deserted, the tenants have flown 
 To climes more congenial 'neath soft southern skies. 
 
 The last sheaf is gather'd, the harvest is o'er, 
 
 The moon turns pale 'mid her bright starry train, 
 
 The moss-cup and lily will blossom no more, 
 On autumn's shrine wither'd all faded and vain. 
 
 The sunbeams which play'd on the fair folded leaves, 
 On the fields which the flowers so richly adorn'd ; 
 
 All brown dark and dreary its dark robe now weaves, 
 For autumn its odors and sweets have purloin'd. 
 
 The autumnal winds howl, and the torrents loud roar, 
 Chant summer's sad dirge as they break on the ear,
 
 304 
 
 While old ocean heaves his mad waves on the shore, 
 And clouds and wild storms around us appear. 
 
 Sad is the reflection that earth's loveliest things 
 Must fall and decay, there is none can resist 
 
 The unsparing power of old time's rapid wings, 
 The beauteous and lovely they fly like a mist. 
 
 But 'mid these dense shadows there 's sunlight and bloom 
 When beauty's soft spirit descends on the woods ; 
 
 Deep, varied, and beautiful, unwreathing their tomb, 
 And casting their tints on the silvery floods. 
 
 The gamiature of heaven is stretching away, 
 In the dim hazy distance revolving in space, 
 
 The hills are all clad in their vestments of gray, 
 And the hoary dense forests in autumnal grace. 
 
 The intermingling of beauty as the sun he retires, 
 
 Of the earth and the heavens, like the poet's sweet dream, 
 
 Sinking slowly from sight in the chariot of fires, 
 In peerless magnificence down the blue stream. 
 
 In the perishing bloom and the slow falling leaf, 
 When all things around us are dying away, 
 
 The head sinks on the hand in a prospect so brief, 
 As mem'ry recalls the events of the day. 
 
 As round the lov'd circle the eye wanders wild, 
 Since the last vernal season 'tis narrow'd and small, 
 
 We look but the aged, the youth and the child, 
 
 Like the sear'd leaves of autumn, are dead to our call. 
 
 Oh ! may we by faith be enabled to spy 
 
 A spring-time immortal whence change ne'er can come, 
 A season of joy and beauty on high, 
 
 Undying in glory, in heaven our home.
 
 305 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 HARK ! hear the tempest as it howling flies 
 
 O'er earth and seas, and wraps in gloom the skies. 
 
 See hail, and snow, and sleet, in fury hurl'd, 
 
 And maddening waves in awful grandeur curl'd ; 
 
 See lofty trees their yielding bodies bend, 
 
 As the fierce winds their twisting branches rend ; 
 
 See nature struggling 'mid the furious blast, 
 
 As o'er creation her dark pall is cast ; 
 
 Hear the wild shriek which comes in every form, 
 
 High in the blast, upon the wings of storm : 
 
 Its thundering roar breaks o'er the deep wide main, 
 
 With power resistless nothing can restrain. 
 
 The trembling bark upon the rolling wave 
 
 Points the tossed seaman to a watery grave, 
 
 As high they're cast upon the dashing spray, 
 
 And then engulfed beyond the light of day. 
 
 Alas for man ! what now are dreams of bliss, 
 
 Of home, of friends, of love's " sweet honied kiss ?" 
 
 High in the air their cherished names are borne 
 
 With wild despair their aching hearts are torn. 
 
 The proud ship reels as deafening tempests roar, 
 
 And urge her onward to the rock-bound shore. 
 
 High dash the waves, the sea-bird screams afar ; 
 
 Man looks in vain to view one wandering star : 
 
 All disappear as o'er the shattered deck 
 
 The white waves curl and sweep the parted wreck. 
 
 Of " home, sweet home," of friends most dear they speak, 
 
 Mercy and home 'mid closing waters shriek ! 
 
 As down they sink amid the deep blue wave, 
 
 'Mid caverns drear in ocean's coral cave, 
 
 Where breakers lash the proud Atlantic shore, 
 
 And chant their dirge in one eternal roar.
 
 306 THE WRECK. 
 
 As the fond mother trims her evening light, 
 
 And while her babes draw round with faces bright, 
 
 Whose cherub voices mingle all in one, 
 
 And cry, " Dear mother, when will father come ?" 
 
 " Soon as the spring with its sweet vernal flowers 
 
 Return to bless us with its sunny hours, 
 
 Then from the blue seas will your father come, 
 
 And fly with transport to his own sweet home." 
 
 While yet the smile sits radiant in her eye, 
 
 And her young heart with joy is beating high, 
 
 There comes a wail from off the Atlantic wave, 
 
 Borne on the breeze from ocean's dreary cave, 
 
 A wail of sorrow, as the whitening sail 
 
 Moves slowly on before the eastern gale. 
 
 Can nought arrest it from that beauteous one, 
 
 On whose soft bosom sleeps her infant son ? 
 
 Whose little daughter, kneeling by her chair, 
 
 With cherub voice lisping her evening prayer, 
 
 Repeats the words which love can ne'er retain, 
 
 " Oh, bring our father back to us again !" 
 
 Can nought, oh God ! avert the pointed dart, 
 
 That time now brings to pierce that tender heart ? 
 
 Ah no ! she reels the fatal truth 's revealed, 
 
 And all her dreams of future bliss are sealed. 
 
 Closely she clasps her children in her arms ; 
 
 Oh ! who will now gaze on your infant charms ? 
 
 A mist of anguish o'er her senses roves, 
 
 In wild despair she shrieks for him she loves ! 
 
 Deaf is his ear, and nerveless is his power 
 
 To cheer her in this dark, this trying hour, 
 
 But One can soothe the anguish of her soul, 
 
 He who the winds and waves alone control ; 
 
 'Tis He alone can give her spirit rest, 
 
 And calm the tumults of her throbbing breast.
 
 307 
 
 WHAT IS YOUR LIFE? 
 
 I'VE seen the lovely infant die 
 
 Upon its mother's breast, 
 Seen the last glance of his bright eye 
 
 Look upward to his rest. 
 
 At morn I've seen the sprightly boy 
 
 With bounding ball and kite, 
 His bosom fill'd with hope and joy, 
 
 Lie cold and dead at night. 
 
 I've seen the youth in beauty drest, 
 
 With bright and sparkling eye, 
 The rainbow promise in his breast, 
 
 In death's embraces lie. 
 
 I've seen the son, his parent's all, 
 For whom each life-pulse beat, 
 
 By honor's artful syren call, 
 Lie breathless at their feet. 
 
 I've seen the daughter, whose young charm? 
 
 Grew brighter every hour, 
 Within her frantic mother's arms, 
 
 Yield to the tyrant's power. 
 
 I've seen the youthful partner bend, 
 
 With pangs too keen to bear, 
 Over the death-bed of her friend, 
 
 In mute, in wild despair.
 
 308 WHAT IS TOUR LIFE. 
 
 I've seen her kiss the quiv'ring lip 
 
 Of him she lov'd in death, 
 With frantic grief the nectar sip 
 
 With ev'ry short'ning breath. 
 
 I've seen the husband, father, stand, 
 
 His soul with anguish riv'n, 
 A cherub form in either hand, 
 
 And faith fast fix'd on heaven. 
 
 I've seen him yield that form to earth 
 
 He'd seen in beauty drest, 
 The one who gave his children birth, 
 
 And nurs'd them on her breast. 
 
 And I have seen the aged die, 
 
 As stars which sink in even, 
 Seen the rapt spirit upward fly, 
 
 Toward its native heav'n 
 
 Stood round the eouch and watch'd the flight 
 
 Of ev'ry fleeting breath ; 
 Eternal joys dispell'd their night, 
 
 And grace it conquer'd death. 
 
 I've seen the sun in splendor bright 
 Roll through the vaulted sky 
 
 Have seen his glory quench'd in night, 
 And ev'ry glimmer die. 
 
 I've seen creation's richest bloom 
 While nature round me smil'd ; 
 
 Seen tempests hurl them to the tomb, 
 In blasting fury wild. 
 
 I've seen the loveliest flow'rs of earth 
 Rear high each crimson head,
 
 MY BROTHER'S LAST KISS. 309 
 
 Beheld them in their earliest birth 
 All faded, pale, and dead. 
 
 I've look'd upon the aged oak 
 
 With branches spreading wide, 
 Have seen it fell'd by one rude stroke, 
 
 'And trunk and branch have died. 
 
 Then oh ! my soul, if such is life, 
 
 And such its transient hour, 
 Yield up to God the unequal strife, 
 
 And glory in his power. 
 
 MYBROTHER'S LAST KISS- 
 
 WHILE mem'ry lives, oh ! in my heart, 
 That place, that spot, that hour of bliss, 
 
 Will never, never, once depart, 
 
 Where I receiv'd my brother's kiss. 
 
 My brother's kiss so pure and warm 
 So fraught with love so free from guile ! 
 
 There lurk'd within that kiss a charm 
 Which blended with his parting smile. 
 
 I see him yet as he was when 
 
 We laughed away the sunny hours ; 
 
 When by the brooks and through the glen, 
 We ran to crop the opening flowers. 
 
 For ever fled, those halcyon days ! 
 
 Ah ! my lone heart, well may you sigh ;
 
 You'll trace no more those winding ways, 
 Nor o'er the beauteous landscape fly. 
 
 Can I forget his last embrace ? 
 
 Can I forget his pleasant voice ? 
 And mem'ry fond no more retrace 
 
 Those sounds which made my heart rejoice ? 
 
 Can I forget the soft delight 
 
 The transport oh ! the rush of bliss ? 
 
 Can I forget those spots so bright, 
 Where oft I've felt his fervent kiss ? 
 
 Whatever yet I may forget, 
 
 One long remembered thrill there is, 
 
 Which I have felt, and feel it yet 
 My brother's last last parting kiss ! 
 
 Its freshness on my mind shall dwell 
 
 Till I resign my fleeting breath ; 
 My lips shall of its sweetness tell, 
 
 Until they're still and cold in death. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [THREE bodies were recently seen floating on a cake of ice near 
 Green Point, L. I., supposed to have been among the number of 
 those who lately perished by the burning of the ill-fated Lexington . 
 The following lines whre composed on hearing of this event.] 
 
 THODGH beautiful in death 
 
 Their lovely forms appear, 
 Yet soft affection's balmy breath, 
 
 Nor loye's bright pearly tear,
 
 Can ever o'er them flow, 
 
 Can ever o'er them weep, 
 A joy so pure friends ne'er can know, 
 
 Nor wake their marble sleep. 
 
 Rolling billow, still thy motion, 
 
 Let thy current gently glide ; 
 Soft thy dirge, thou heaving ocean, 
 
 Over thy pelucid tide. 
 
 Fierce tornadoes, hush your roar, 
 Let the breezes gently blow ; 
 
 Cease awhile, ye rains, to pour, 
 Lightly fall, ye flakes of snow. 
 
 Let the undulating wave, 
 
 Though 'tis winter's dreary hour, 
 
 Gently roll o'er ocean's cave, 
 Where beauty sleeps in coral bow'r. 
 
 Dolphins, who delight to play 
 
 In yoar elemental flood, 
 For awhile your gambols stay, 
 
 And restrain your merry mood. 
 
 Naiads of the stormy deep, 
 
 Rock, with anxious care, your young 
 Let them not awake to weep, 
 
 Nor break the silence with your song. 
 
 Mermaids with luxurious hair, 
 
 In your pearly rooms below, 
 As you weave the sea flowers fair, 
 
 Chant your requiem wild and slow. 
 
 Dryads of the grove and wood, 
 
 As you tread the mountain's height, 
 
 Should you see them on the flood, 
 Lift on high your beacon light
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Till the sea, with faithful care, 
 
 Shall, upon its crested wave* 
 Waft the beautiful and fair 
 
 On our shores to find a grave. 
 
 For there float upon our waters, 
 
 Forms beloved, for ever dear ; 
 Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, 
 
 On their surface cold and clear. 
 
 Be propitious, oh, our Father ! 
 
 Kindly grant us this request ; 
 Let friendly hands these loved ones gather, 
 
 Lay them in their tombs to rest. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 [THE following ballad was woven from a story written by Pro- 
 fessor Park, called Plowden Hulsey, who was killed by the acciden- 
 tal explosion of a sub-marine machine, called a Torpedo, in 1814, 
 in New London harbor.] 
 
 WHEN loud upon Columbia's plain 
 
 The silver clarion pealed, 
 Warriors upon this western main 
 
 Rushed to the embattled field. 
 
 Along New England's crimsoned coast 
 
 Albion's proud banner streamed ; 
 To humble their vainglorious boast, 
 
 The eye of freedom gleamed.
 
 STANZAS. 313 
 
 Wisdom and strength, and art combine, 
 
 To form a dread machine, 
 Beneath the waves to spring the mine 
 
 Which deals out death unseen. 
 
 The fiery car in caverns deep, 
 
 Where ocean rolls its tide, 
 Assails the foe while wrapped in sleep, 
 
 Spreads ruin far and wide. 
 
 While Bacchus in the goblet shines 
 
 The feverish lip to lave, 
 The haughty foe destruction finds 
 
 Beneath the rolling wave. 
 
 While on the fields the cannon's roar 
 
 'Mid battle's dread array, 
 Torpedoes lingered on the shore, 
 
 Armed for the deadly fray. 
 
 The cry was loud, Who'll meet the foe 
 
 Upon yon stormy flood ? 
 Brave Halsey cried, " Here 's one will go" 
 
 Straight on the shore he stood ! 
 
 Although upon his glowing face 
 
 Warm were his mother's tears, 
 And warmer still the fond embrace 
 
 Of one he'd loved for years ; 
 
 Although from her bright beaming eyes 
 
 The tears like dew-drops fall, 
 Away he rushed from beauty's cries, 
 
 To obey his country's call. 
 
 What though that mother's eyes were wild, 
 Her heart with anguish riven ! 
 
 B 2
 
 314 
 
 She loved her country and her child, 
 But gave them both to heaven. 
 
 But oh ! alas ! for that sweet maid, 
 
 The beautiful and fair : 
 She wept beneath the myrtle shade, 
 
 And tore her raven hair. 
 
 Soon as she saw the patriot's fire 
 
 Illume her lover's breast, 
 With soothing strains she swept her lyre, 
 
 To lull his soul to rest. 
 
 'Twas vain he gave the parting kiss, 
 
 And held the maiden long 
 Close to his heart : how short the bliss ! 
 
 And glory oh, how strong I 
 
 Upon his mother's heaving breast 
 
 Awhile entranced he lay ; 
 Then on her lips sweet kisses pressed, 
 
 And tore himself away ! 
 
 Toward the shore he sped his flight, 
 
 His faithful friends to meet, 
 While here and there a flickering light 
 
 Lay mirrored in the deep. 
 
 That fearful night was dark and drear, 
 
 Scarcely a zephyr played ; 
 Dense clouds of blackness far and near, 
 
 The angel death portrayed ! 
 
 Into his bark, already manned, 
 
 The youthful patriot sprung, 
 Which darting from his native land, 
 
 Quick from its moorings swung.
 
 315 
 
 Oh ! was not it a thrilling hour, 
 
 When that young hero stood 
 Firm in his bark, with nervos power, 
 
 And gazed upon the flood ? 
 
 The rattling rain in torrents fell, 
 
 The howling winds arose ! 
 His soul's deep anguish who can tell, 
 
 As he drew near his foes ? 
 
 When prisoned in his dire machine, 
 
 Did none for Halsey weep, 
 As down beneath the waves unseen 
 
 They lowered him in the deep ? 
 
 Beneath the Atlantic's stormy wave, 
 
 They left this exiled one ; 
 He sank, oh God ! in his lone grave, 
 
 Unknelled, unmourned, alone ! 
 
 His friend who watched the proud ship's mast, 
 
 Beheld a darting light, 
 And heard a noise amid the blast, 
 
 Like men prepared for fight. 
 
 Mounting upon the billowy height, 
 
 Their trembling bark is driven, 
 When lo ! a blue, unearthly light 
 
 Enwraps the sea and heaven ! 
 
 Then quickly came a startling peal 
 Than thunder's voice more loud ! 
 
 'Mid whirlpools did the proud ship reel, 
 Engulfing mast and shroud ! 
 
 Britannia's sons, a grave they find 
 'Mid billows dashing high,
 
 316 STANZAS. 
 
 While like a feather in the wind, 
 Their trembling barks all fly ! 
 
 But where, oh where, is he, the young, 
 
 The beautiful and brave, 
 Round whom the arms of beauty clung, 
 
 To shield him from the grave ? 
 
 Exploded is the dread machine ! 
 
 The awful work is done ! 
 No more among his friends is seen 
 
 Columbia's martyred son ! 
 
 Though seas were calm and sparkling bright, 
 Hushed by the Almighty's breath, 
 
 To that lone mother all was night, 
 Horror, despair, and death ! 
 
 'Twas darkness to that lovely girl 
 
 No joys their rays impart ; 
 To her, oh ! what was ocean's curl, 
 
 Maid of the broken heart ? 
 
 Far down beneath the deep blue wave, 
 
 On coral's rocky bed, 
 Where sea flowers bloom 'mid ocean's cave, 
 
 There rests the hero's head ! 
 
 But not in vain the hero fell, 
 
 Unhonor'd did not die 
 A nation's groan his dying knell, 
 
 His requiem beauty's sigh. 
 
 For many a long and lingering year 
 
 An angel form was seen, 
 At morn and eve to wander near 
 
 Upon the churchyard green.
 
 THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. 31*7 
 
 There on a sculptured marble stone 
 
 Which bore her lover's name, 
 She wept her flowing tears alone 
 
 When pensive evening came. 
 
 The silent grief, the secret sigh, 
 
 Consumed her lovely form ; 
 She sank as early blossoms die 
 
 Beneath an April storm. 
 
 Where the young willows' branches wave 
 
 O'er the white urn of love, 
 They sweep across the maiden's grave, 
 
 And sigh whene'er they move. 
 
 That mother ! calm was her last breath, 
 
 On God her soul she cast ; 
 The hour her son encountered death, 
 
 Its bitterness had passed. 
 
 With angel spirits round the throne, 
 
 The pure and lovely rest ; 
 They roar 'mid seraphs' loftiest tone, 
 
 The stainless and the blest. 
 
 THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. 
 
 Go stand on Alpine's stormy height, 
 Whose summit hails the sun's first light, 
 
 Girdled with clouds around ; 
 Or where the cypress' deepest snade 
 Enwraps with gloom the forest glade, 
 Where human footsteps never strayed, 
 Nor harps JEo\ian ever played 
 
 There the Almighty 's found !
 
 318 THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. 
 
 Go list the dashing cataract high, 
 Whose thunders rend the earth and sky, 
 
 In one broad sheet of foam ; 
 Whose bursting waters leaping o'er, 
 Roll, rush, and break, as forth they pour 
 Over huge rocks with ceaseless roar, 
 And lash with sullen pride the shore 
 
 There 'a the Almighty's home ! 
 
 Where tempests sweep, where thunders break, 
 Where lightnings rife earth's centre shake, 
 
 With flash and forked form ; 
 'Mid scenes imposing, grand, sublime, 
 Where elemental powers combine, 
 And winds, and waves, and clouds entwine 
 There God in awful splendor shines, 
 
 And rides on wings of storm ! 
 
 Whfire mom smiles sweet through summer showers, 
 Enthroned within its roseate bowers, 
 
 All bright, serene, and clear ; 
 Where zephyrs sport on every gale, 
 The sun repeats the pleasing tale, 
 And flies o'er every hill and dale, 
 O'er every landscape, every vale, 
 
 And echoes God is here ! 
 
 Thus when the soul its orgies keeps, 
 And every passion 's lulled asleep, 
 
 Save that of holy fear, 
 Which wraps the senses round and round, 
 When heart, and soul, and spirit is bound, 
 And every place seems sacred ground 
 Who, that on earth such peace has found, 
 
 But feels that God is near ?
 
 319 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 OH, why disturb his marble sleep, 
 
 Or break his solitude : 
 Rocked by the undulating deep, 
 He slumbers where the willows weep, 
 His lullaby, the ocean's sweep, 
 
 Where no rude feet intrude. 
 
 No din of arms, no cannon's roar, 
 
 Disturbs him o'er the seas ; 
 On St. Helena's rocky shore 
 He hears the startling peal no more, 
 Nor sees the floating standard soar 
 
 High in the gusty breeze. 
 
 Then let the exile here remain, 
 
 In dreamy silence rest ; 
 No more upon the embattled plain, 
 Amid the dying and the slain, 
 You see the conqueror again, 
 
 Nor view his dancing crest. 
 
 Mountains nor rivers, lakes nor seas, 
 
 Shall feel the hero's tread ; 
 Europe no more at every breeze 
 Shall start, least she Napoleon sees 
 
 The " thunderer" is dead ! 
 
 Ah ! let him rest, ye sons of France, 
 There 's none can fear him now ; 
 Closed is the eye whose piercing glance 
 Could lead whole armies in advance, 
 No more he wields the warrior's lance, 
 No crown adorns his brow.
 
 320 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 He sleeps in silence and alone 
 
 Upon yon sea-girt isle ; 
 No tears of love on his cold stone 
 Is shed no widow's thrilling moan, 
 No friend's deep, despairing groan, 
 
 Rise o'er his funeral pile. 
 
 Should Europe's varied powers combine 
 
 His obsequies to grace, 
 Garlands of gold would they entwine, 
 Which should a thousand suns outshine, 
 His deeds of glory to enshrine, 
 
 They never could efface, 
 
 They never, never could atone 
 When his full heart was riven ; 
 
 For that sad hour he fled alone, 
 
 To England's monarch on his throne, 
 
 When other refuge he had none 
 Through fire and blood he'd striven. 
 
 Oh, had the haughty monarch bent, 
 And made his heart his home ; 
 
 Eagles, their golden wings had lent, 
 
 Round the wide world his deeds had went, 
 
 Angelic spirits had been sent, 
 To guard his kingly dome. 
 
 Now let him rest ah, let him sleep 
 
 Beneath the willow tree ; 
 His faithful sentinel shall keep 
 His sacred slumbers long and deep, 
 Where wind and waves unceasing sweep 
 
 There let the hero be.
 
 321 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [THE following lines were occasioned on reading an account of 
 the last days of Bishop Be ve ridge, in the New- York Observer.] 
 
 AH ! say, can memory ever sleep ? 
 
 Can hearts forget to love ? 
 Can time in dark oblivion steep 
 
 Joys pure as those above ? 
 
 Say, can true friendship e'er expire ? 
 
 Can memory lose its power ? 
 Can men forget the soft desire, 
 
 The impulse of that hour, 
 
 When round his soul, in life's young morn, 
 
 Love wove her silken chain 
 When woman's love was newly born, 
 
 And Eden smiled again ? 
 
 Scenes of delight can man forget 
 
 When infant beauty smiled, 
 When with redoubled joy they met, 
 
 The parents and the child ? 
 
 Oh, days of bliss ! can memory fail 
 
 To dwell on such an hour ? 
 O'er the bright world sweeps there a gale 
 
 To blight so fair a flower ? 
 
 Can memory cease, ah ! can it cease ? 
 
 Can the remembrance die, 
 When angel women whispered peace, 
 
 And soothed each rising sigh ?
 
 322 
 
 Ah ! yes, it can, it will forget 
 
 Objects beloved and dear 
 Those scenes so blest, so truly sweet, 
 
 When death 's approaching near. 
 
 To each remembrance man is lost, 
 
 And life appears a dream, 
 As near eternity he 's tossed 
 
 Upon its chilling stream. 
 He then forgets each tender tie ; 
 
 Life and its pleasures fade : 
 But point his eye of faith on high, 
 
 Point where his hope is staid. 
 
 And though he may forget them all, 
 
 Forget each scene of bliss, 
 Forget love's sweetest, softest call, 
 
 Forget its honied kiss. 
 
 What though his mind becomes a wreck, 
 Like some frail shattered bark, 
 
 And in the distance life 's a speck, 
 While all within is dark. 
 
 Still there 's a chord whose pulse will beat 
 
 Even in the hour of death 
 A chord which springs, if touched, to meet, 
 
 When the departing breath 
 
 Is lingering round the immortal frame, 
 
 Impatient to be gone 
 Will bound with joy at Jesus' name, 
 
 And hail heaven's rising dawn.
 
 323 
 
 LINES TO S. C. NEWMAN. 
 
 THE busy day had flown, 
 
 Night, with her ebon wings, 
 A rayless majesty had thrown 
 
 O'er all created things. 
 At midnight's stilly hour 
 
 I mused upon the past, 
 Until a strange mysterious power, 
 
 O'er me its influence cast. 
 
 My heart awoke and sung 
 
 To memory's breathing lyre ; 
 While lovely spirits o'er me hung 
 
 And fanned the hallowed fire. 
 I little thought that hour, 
 
 When walking with the dead, 
 A soul on earth would feel its power, 
 
 When the bright vision fled. 
 
 But oh, to nature's harp 
 
 There are a thousand springs 
 Which vibrate, if the slightest touch 
 
 Sweeps o'er the trembling strings. 
 Though Alpine's mountains rise, 
 
 And seas in grandeur roll, 
 There is a sympathy in sighs 
 
 Which melts the feeling soul. 
 
 Oh, if one pulse has beat 
 
 For heaven beneath my strain, 
 
 In death the thought will be most sweet, 
 That I've not lived in vain.
 
 324 LINKS TO S. C. NEWMAN. 
 
 My lyre had ever slept, 
 
 Had sunshine crowned my days, 
 
 'Twas adverse winds which o'er it swept, 
 That tuned its sweetest lays. 
 
 Affliction taught my soul 
 
 To feel another's wo ; 
 Could both the Indies round me roll, 
 
 I'd not that life forego. 
 For there is a bliss in tears 
 
 The world has never known ; 
 A joy in sorrow, hope in fears, 
 
 A smile when all is flown. 
 
 Could I but catch the strains 
 
 My friend had sung so sweet, 
 I'd cull a wreath from laureled plains, 
 
 And lay them at his feet. 
 My grateful muse would soar, 
 
 In bolder numbers swell, 
 Wing her bright way o'er sea and shore, 
 
 On green Parnassus dwell. 
 
 There would she sing his praise, 
 
 Who paints to nature true, 
 And pour new pleasures from his lays 
 
 Like drops of morning dew 
 Whose thrilling measures roll 
 
 Upon the gusty breeze, 
 Like music stealing o'er the soul 
 
 Upon the flowing seas. 
 
 Though we are strangers here 
 
 In this dark world below, 
 Yet in a brighter, happier sphere, 
 
 May we each other know. 
 Where poets tune their song, 
 
 And strike their harps of gold, 
 Their sweet enrapturing strains prolong 
 
 In numbers never told.
 
 325 
 
 TIME. 
 
 " Time, like an ever rolling stream. 
 Bears all its sins away." 
 
 TIME is a stream upon whose steady tide 
 Kingdoms, and thrones, and empires glide away. 
 Heroes, renowned in every age, pass like 
 Swift-speeding bubbles from the astonished gaze, 
 Down his oblivious stream. And loveliness 
 And beauty, in all their glowing charms, float 
 On his rolling current. 
 
 Proud man, adorned 
 
 With health, girt round with strength, abroad he casts 
 His eyes, and cries in his own majesty, 
 " These, these are all my own. This lofty dome, 
 Those towering spires, this spacious amphitheatre 
 Of all that's grand and great ; these flocks and herds, 
 These singing men and women ; these timbrels 
 And these harps are all my own ! 
 
 Move, move along 
 
 The giddy dance ; raise high the flowing bowl, 
 Sing aloud of pleasure !" His lofty brow 
 He rears, his curling lip he presses, and 
 Folds his arms as if he were immortal. 
 While drinking in full drafts of adulation, 
 A whirling eddy sweeps his sands away ; 
 He totters ! lo, he falls ! and where is he ? 
 
 The warm devoted lover, flushed with hope, 
 His bosom beating high with promised bliss, 
 
 c2
 
 326 
 
 Feels his full soul rejoice, and in his laughing 
 Eyes, you read his transport ; as gently from 
 Her hallowed shrine a mother's breast he rears 
 His beauteous bride ; as the sweet rose is 
 Plucked from off its parent stem in all its 
 Purity, and leads her forth, sweet gift, from 
 Her loved father's hand, in glowing pride to 
 The hymeneal altar. 
 
 Ere yet the rite 
 
 Begins, she seems identified with his 
 Existence. And with suppressed rapture 
 His happy soul catches the breathings of 
 Her parted lips lists to the solemn vow 
 " I'm thine." Then, when he'd fold her as his own 
 For ever to his loved bosom, and bid 
 Her seek her heaven there. She faints ! great God ! 
 She reels, and in his arms she falls ! The deep 
 Pulsations of her heart art still no breath 
 Is found no look no murmuring from her cold 
 Compressed lips. Closed are her beamy eyes 
 On all she ever loved ! 
 
 Then rose a cry 
 
 From the deep fount of wo a shriek of wild 
 Despair as down they laid her on her bed 
 Her bridal bed to sleep alone, the long, 
 Long sleep of death ! Like a bright meteor, 
 Whose little day was spent then disappeared 
 In its own brilliancy. 
 
 The pleasant boy 
 
 With hoop and ball, bounds o'er the dewy lawn, 
 The pride and joy of his fond parent's eyes. 
 Upon life's flowery bank he careless strays, 
 Catching at bubbles as they blow along. 
 While his Lght heart is filled with mirth ; while o'er
 
 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 327 
 
 His lilly brow the breath of love soft steals, 
 And kisses mingle on his young fair lips : 
 Forward he bounds, the gayest of the gay 
 And while his eyes are sparkling with delight, 
 Away he's borne and strait is seen no more ! 
 
 This is the mirror God holds up to man 
 Vain, puny man, he scorns'the beacon light, 
 Laughs loud at human wo ; and on the tide, 
 The treacherous tide, he rushes still, till death 
 And judgment stare him in the face ! 
 
 Oh ! then 
 
 He'd fain return worlds, worlds he'd give for one 
 Short hour's reprieve. The stream rolls on he's gone ! 
 And thus like pebbles on the clear smooth lake, 
 Each circle widens till it laves the shore, 
 And sets its impress on eternity ! 
 
 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 AMERICAN LADIES PROVE YOURSELVES WORTHY OF YOUR 
 PATRIOTIC MOTHERS." 
 
 LISTEN to the thrilling cry 
 
 Borne upon the gentle breeze, 
 Raise the monument on high 
 Beauty now the moments seize. 
 To you, ye fair, the honor 's lent 
 To crown the noble monument.
 
 328 BUNKEE HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 Woman freemen turn to thee, 
 
 Turn to thee with hearts intent, 
 Daughters of the brave and free, 
 Help us build the monument. 
 
 Man waits the kindlings of thine eye, 
 To rear the lofty spires on high ! 
 
 Here was Freedom's stormy birth ! 
 Here she drew her vital breath 
 Rocked by the whirlwinds in their mirth, 
 Nursed by carnage, fire, and death ! 
 There she dug th' oppressor's grave 
 Burst the fetter of the brave ! 
 
 Let mothers to their children tell 
 The tragic story o'er and o'er, 
 How the trumpet's martial swell 
 Mingled with the cannon's roar. 
 Tell how frantic women prest 
 Infant beauty to her breast. 
 
 Tell how oft our patriot sirea, 
 
 When their bosoms glowed with love, 
 Left their altars, homes, and fires, 
 
 Through the trackless wilds to rove 
 Upon the embattled plain they met, 
 Where their sun of life is set ! 
 
 Freedom, from the gilded tower, 
 
 Wept to hear their dying groans ; 
 Peace, within her sylvan bower, 
 Shrank afrighted from their moans. 
 Now we revel on the flood 
 Channelled by their noblest blood. 
 
 A lasting monument we deem 
 Bunker Hill, demands its due,
 
 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 Based upon the crimson stream, 
 Colored by its purple hue ! 
 Beauty, lift the tearful eye, 
 Raise the monument on high. 
 
 Look, ye fair ones of our land, 
 
 Look and view the unfinished spire 
 
 Quick ; extend your fairy hand^ 
 
 Touch the fane it rises higher. 
 
 Martyred spirits on you smile. 
 
 As you near their funeral pile. 
 
 Lovely in her native charms, 
 
 Let the fair Celumbeia bride 
 Take the bracelets from her arms 
 Take the bauble from her side. 
 Beauty needs no ornament, 
 Give them to the monument. 
 
 Lay the gift on Freedom's shrine, 
 
 Beauty's offering it shall be 
 Wreaths immortal shall enshrine 
 Woman's name with liberty ! 
 Let her stand our nation's pride, 
 Where the gallant Warren died I 
 
 Go pursue your work of love, 
 
 Meet like Roman women true ; 
 Lay aside the hat and glove, 
 And the honored task renew. 
 Delighted let the needle ply, 
 To rear the monument on high. 
 
 Let faithful memory turn her eye 
 
 With meteor wings upon the past, 
 Listen to the matron's sigh, 
 See the maiden stand aghast ! 
 From their hearts convulsed with wo, 
 Hear them sob beloved go.
 
 330 STANZAS. 
 
 Tell the tragic story o'er, 
 
 Till your breasts with Spartan fire 
 Burn like patriot hearts of yore, 
 To erect the honored spire. 
 Beauty ! unto you 'tis given, 
 Rear the monument to heaven I 
 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN ON VISITINO THE ATLANTIC OCEAN IN A STORK. 
 
 IN twilight's sad and pensive hour 
 I stray'd along the sea-beat strand, 
 
 And gazed with wonder on that power, 
 Who holds the ocean in his hand. 
 
 The tempest raged with deafening roar, 
 The storm was awful, grand, sublime ; 
 
 The foaming billows lash'd the shore 
 Which they had beat from earliest time. 
 
 The clouds grew dark, the winds were wild, 
 The heavens in blackest sackcloth spread ; 
 
 No sun, nor moon, nor star now smil'd 
 Upon the gloom around my head. 
 
 No feathery sea-bird's scream from far 
 Came o'er the wave to greet mine ear 
 
 To calm my fears amid the war, 
 
 That loud proclaim'd destruction near.
 
 STANZAS. -21 
 
 The lightnings blaze, the thunders roll, 
 The earth's deep centre seemed to shake : 
 
 All nature, too, from pole to pole, 
 With awful terror seemed to quake. 
 
 The cliffs, the hills, the mountains round, 
 Looked trembling on the swelling tide, 
 
 While beasts, and birds, and solid ground, 
 Seemed anxious for a place to hide. 
 
 While omens dire on wings of storm, 
 Were seen o'er Ocean's waves to sweep, 
 
 And winds unpent, in raving form, 
 Warred furious on the troubl'd deep. 
 
 Alone I stood and view'd aghast 
 
 This grand, sublime, and awful scene ; 
 
 And hoped amid the angry blast, 
 Once more to see the sky serene. 
 
 That moment did an angel's voice, 
 
 High o'er the storm, fall on my (far, 
 And bid my trembling soul rejoice, 
 
 And cast away my every fear. 
 
 " I hold the winds, I chain the waves, 
 
 I hold the thunders lightnings dart ; 
 My word 'mid raging tempests saves, 
 
 And gives sweet calmness to the heart. 
 
 " No more distrust my powers divine, 
 
 While in life's dark and stormy way, 
 But let true faith and hope combine, 
 
 And point thee to a brighter day." 
 
 He spake ; the tempest cease to roar, 
 The clouds disperse, the thunders cease.
 
 THE TEMPERANCE BOY. 
 
 The billows die upon the shore 
 The face of Ocean smiles in peace. 
 
 The sky is clear, the moon shines bright, 
 The evening star hangs o'er the west ; 
 
 I wander homeward by their light, 
 And find with joy my couch of rest. 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE BOY 
 
 " DEAR father, will you go with me 
 
 Where the people flock around 
 A little flag on a temperance tree, 
 
 And call it holy ground ? 
 
 " My uncle Ben and all his sons 
 
 Are standing 'round the tree ; 
 They're going to fire the temperance guns 
 
 Come, father, go with me. 
 
 " Aunt Mary 'a there with her young boy> 
 
 And never in my life 
 Did I e'er hear such shouts of joy 
 
 The very air is rife 1 
 
 " There 's six big men who stand and speak 
 
 Till every body cries ; 
 And even poor old father Zeke 
 
 Had tears in both his eyes. 
 
 " Those very men who used to drink, 
 And, father, curse and swear
 
 THE TEMPERANCE BOY. 333 
 
 I saw those very men, I think, 
 Stand up and make a prayer. 
 
 " The women smile, though every eye 
 
 Is gushing forth with tears ; 
 The greatest men among us cry 
 
 And every body cheers ! 
 
 " I want to see my mother smile * 
 
 As other women do ; 
 Now all the hours she spares from toil, 
 
 She spends in prayers for you. 
 
 " Dear father, come, and go with me, 
 
 There 's a paper handed round 
 Which makes each one who signs it, free 
 
 Upon that holy ground." 
 
 " I cannot go, my son," he cried, 
 
 " My clothes are old and gray ; 
 How often have I wished I'd died 
 
 Before I'd seen this day." 
 
 " Oh yes, dear father yes, you can, 
 
 They had a temperance creed, 
 And I heard good Mr. Delavan 
 
 Say that you can succeed. 
 
 " He says there 's men from Baltimore 
 
 The temperance pledge have signed, 
 And thousands on old England's shore 
 
 And many more inclined." 
 
 He pulled him gently by the arm, 
 
 While the breath of woman stole 
 Over his bosom like a charm, 
 
 And fixed his wav'ring soul.
 
 334 THE TEMPERANCE BOY. 
 
 " ' Hurrah ! hurrah !' oh ! hear them cry- 
 ' Hurrah, hurrah,' they say ; 
 
 ' The temperance flag, oh ! let it fly, 
 We're sober men to-day !' " 
 
 He led his father to the tree 
 
 Where the banner broudly waved 
 
 In triumph and in majesty, 
 O'er men no more enslaved. 
 
 Around upon the gathering crowd 
 He fixed his steadfast eye, 
 
 And then exclaimed in accents loud, 
 " My deadly foe shall die !" 
 
 He laid the paper on his knee, 
 His face was bright with joy, 
 
 " I sign this pledge," he cried, " for thee 
 My brave, my noble boy !" 
 
 His son beheld him write his name, 
 While tears of rapture flowed ; 
 
 'Round his young form a hallowed flame 
 In all its pureness glowed. 
 
 Clasping his little hands, he cried, 
 " Come, cheer my father too ;" 
 
 " Hurrah" a thousand lips replied - 
 " Hurrah for him and you !"
 
 335 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 ON SEEING A PICTURE OF THE SAILOR'S WIFE'S GRAVE IN 
 LADY'S GARLAND, THE FOLLOWING FACT WAS PENNED. 
 
 THOU moumest not alone, 
 
 Young sailor of the deep ; 
 A brother fain would come 
 
 And on the altar weep. 
 One like thyself oppress'd with grief, 
 On the cold grave would seek relief. 
 
 Loved'st thou the things of earth, 
 
 And did they quickly fade ? 
 The scenes of joy and mirth 
 
 The shadows of a shade ? 
 Does thy heart bleed o'er blighted love ? 
 Then let me all a brother prove. 
 
 Bright was my nuptial morn, 
 
 No fairer sun e'er shone 
 Than that which lit the dawn 
 
 When H. was all my own. 
 A fair young bride of yesterday, 
 And beautiful as flowers in May. 
 
 Over the wooded hills, 
 
 And through the shaded grove, 
 Beside the murmuring rills, 
 
 We breath'd the tale of love. 
 The blue waves as they kiss'd the shore, 
 Witness'd our vows when day was o'er.
 
 336 STANZAS. 
 
 Soon the white sail was spread, 
 " All hands on board," they cry ; 
 
 Then ceased our pensive tread 
 Beneath the starry sky, 
 
 To see us weep, the pale moon veil'd 
 
 Her lovely face as forth she sail'd. 
 
 I sought the bounding main, 
 And 'neath love's dewy star 
 
 The past appeared again, 
 And Harriett smil'd afar. 
 
 I saw her in her bridal dress, 
 Imaged in her own loveliness. 
 
 I dream'd my sleep was sweet 
 I drew her to my breast. 
 
 Again " no more we met" 
 Disturbed, and broke my rest. 
 
 Yet still I hope, and still I sigh'd, 
 
 To view once more my beauteous bride. 
 
 Borne on by gentle gales, 
 We sought our native land ; 
 
 And soon our flowing sails 
 Sped by the whiten'd strand, 
 
 Where oft we stray 'd in days of yore, 
 
 And listen'd to the ocean roar. 
 
 The dangerous coast we passed, 
 And reach'd the wished-for shore ; 
 
 My Harriett's form I clasp'd, 
 And thought my perils o'er, 
 
 Clasp'd in my mind, to my fond heart, 
 
 Resolv'd we never more should part. 
 
 With buoyant step I flew 
 To grasp th' extended hand ;
 
 337 
 
 When back I quickly drew 
 Not one of the bright band 
 Appear'd to welcome me but all 
 Looked sad, and tears began to fall. 
 
 Swift as the lightning's speed 
 I sprang from off the deck ; 
 My spirit, as if freed, 
 
 Floated a mote a speck 
 Around, above, afar it fled, 
 Then waked to know my bride was dead ! 
 
 Was dead and laid in earth ! 
 
 And our young bud of love, 
 Just passed her hour of birth, 
 
 And flew to realms above. 
 They both were dead ! and I alone 
 Oh, God ! why turn'd I not to stone ? 
 
 They led me to the spot 
 Where the green willows wave ; 
 
 And there alone forgot 
 I found my Harriet's grave. 
 
 A little mound rear'd by her side, 
 
 My precious babe, and my young bride. 
 
 What was this world to me ? 
 
 I sought the waves again ; 
 Gaz'd on the deep blue sea, 
 
 And wooed the heaving main. 
 And long'd within its glassy breast 
 To find ray everlasting rest. 
 
 With thee now let me weep, 
 
 I'll give thee tear for tear ; 
 The verdant sod we'll steep 
 
 With memories ever dear. ' _^ 
 Where shall we hapless sailors turn, 
 Who knew no home but beauty's urn ?
 
 338 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 " DEAR father, will you lead me where 
 
 The pretty violets grow ? 
 And where the mountain daisy peeps, 
 
 And yellow cowslips blow ? 
 
 How long before the flowers will bloom, 
 
 The lilac and the rose, 
 We placed around our Willy's tomb, 
 
 To guard his sweet repose ? 
 
 It seems but yesterday he died, 
 
 My darling little brother ; 
 Then every one around us cried, 
 
 And you, and I, and mother. 
 
 How like a lily pale he lay, 
 Dress'd in his cambric bands ; 
 
 His forehead, oh, how beautiful ! 
 And his white waxen hands. 
 
 How beautiful the lock of hair 
 
 Upon his face of snow, 
 Which mother used to dress each day, 
 
 And curl upon his brow. 
 
 I wish our Willy could have liv'd 
 
 And gone with me to play, 
 I miss him every where I go, 
 
 And more and more each day. 
 
 

 
 FILIAL PIETY. 339 
 
 When you are gone my mother weeps, 
 
 Her heart is sore oppress'd ; 
 I cry until I fall asleep 
 
 Upon her gentle breast. 
 
 She says the summer soon will come, 
 
 And pretty flowers will bloom, 
 And then with me she'll wander forth, 
 
 And dress sweet Willy's tomb. 
 
 The other day she took me there, 
 
 And then she knelt and pray'd, 
 And on the cold white altar stone, 
 
 Her own sweet face she laid. 
 
 I sometimes fear that she will die, 
 
 And then what should we do ? 
 No other in the world I'd have, 
 
 But only God and you. 
 
 Come, father, let us both return, 
 
 And homeward bend our way ; 
 To visit little Willy's tomb, 
 
 We'll come some other day." 
 
 With quicken'd steps they sought their home, 
 
 The father and the child ; 
 No mother smiled to see them come, 
 
 Her eyes was strangely wild. 
 
 " Why brought you not my Willy dear ? 
 
 For him I've waited long, 
 I cannot, will not, tarry here, 
 
 But seek my bird of song. 
 
 I see him like a seraph bow 
 And reach his little hand ;
 
 340 FILIAL, PIETY- 
 
 With fadeless flowers around his brow, 
 Pluck'd from the ' spirit land.' " 
 
 The father caught her to his breast, 
 Entranc'd awhile she lay 
 
 Clung closely to her place of rest, 
 Then soared from earth" away. 
 
 " Thy mother's heart, my child, is broke 
 Look now to God and me ; 
 
 Oh, heavy, heavy is the yoke 
 So early laid on thee." 
 
 " Oh, father, father, take me where 
 
 Sweet Willy lies alone, 
 And lay my mother by my side, 
 
 Close by the altar stone." 
 
 " What, leave your father all alone, 
 My sweetest, dearest joy ; 
 
 Thy mother, Willy, Charley gone, 
 Who'll care for me, my boy ?" 
 
 " No, father, no, for you I'll wait 
 Till mother from on high, 
 
 And Willy calls us, then we both 
 Will lay us down and die."
 
 341 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR, 
 
 THE proud Saxon gazed on his beautiful child - 
 
 As she came in her jewels array'd ; 
 " No Norman," he cried, " in these dense regions wild, 
 Shall look on her charms so heavenly and mild, 
 Though he come on his war horse, a knight-errant styl'd, 
 
 Nor glance e'en his eye on the maid." 
 
 How deluded the Saxon, he knew not the hours 
 
 Which love had made joyous and sweet ; 
 He knew not how often in Sherwood's green bowers, 
 When the wild primrose bloom'd 'mid a forest of flowers, 
 The Norman had knelt, disarmed of his powers, 
 
 And bowed himself low at her feet. 
 
 " Come, haste thee, my loved one," the proud Saxon cried, 
 
 " To the tournament quickly repair ; 
 And I on my palfrey my banner have tied, 
 The old and the young in their gladness have hied, 
 My helmet and shield, and thee by my side, 
 
 I pant in my soul to be there." 
 
 To the tourney they sped, already were there, 
 
 A multitude gathered around ; 
 The knights of the garter, the temple and star, 
 The Norman, the Saxon, the hero from far, 
 Appeared in their armor, equipped for the war, 
 
 And assembled en masse on the ground. 
 
 The arena was cleared the conflict began, 
 The contest was bloody and long ;
 
 342 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 Two brave gallant knights, whom all to a man, 
 Had yielded their prowess, met now in the van ; 
 They hurl'd their bright lances, on each other ran, 
 Inspired by the shouts of the throng. 
 
 " Be ye Norman or Saxon," the bold Harold cried, 
 
 " By my vow no longer I'm bound ; 
 The one who shall conquer, let what will betide, 
 The fair Saxon beauty shall have for his bride- 
 Such a son in my halls, my glory and pride, 
 
 Ere nightfall shall surely be found." 
 
 The white plume of Edgar waved high in the air 
 
 As the words of the Saxon were heard ; 
 He leaped from his steed with chivalrous care, 
 And met the young foeman, whose dark waving hair 
 Had escaped from his visor, while the eyes of the fair, 
 Revealed how the contest was feared. 
 
 The young Saxon beauty looked on in dismay, 
 For the loved of her heart was dismayed ; 
 
 'Twas a moment when bright in his costly array, 
 
 The shield of his foe 'neath his valor gave way ; 
 
 He conquer'd and hastened his laurels to lay 
 At the feet of the maiden alarmed. 
 
 1 he young queen of beauty bowed low as he knelt, 
 
 And received the white glove from his hand ; 
 'Twas a Norman, and Harold, though displeasure he felt, 
 Yet true to his word, gave his quiver and belt, 
 And hail'd him the lord of his land. 
 
 At the board the wine-cup went merrily round, 
 
 The guests were assembled in glee ; 
 Old Harold he laughed as the joke fully wound, 
 To think that the knight, on his own kingly ground, 
 Was no stranger, but that the fair Saxon had found, 
 
 And charmed with his sweet minstrelsey.
 
 THE SPIRIT LAND. 343 
 
 His lady-love smiled as the Norman he bowed, 
 
 And led her delighted along ; 
 As they passed to the altar amid the dense crowd) 
 The Saxon looked up and his heart became proud ; 
 He remembered the day when his own praise was loud, 
 
 And he danced to the Troubadour's song. 
 
 THE "SPIRIT LAND.' 
 
 I DREAMED I soared 'mid fields of light, 
 Above each twinkling orb afar ; 
 
 My form array'd in dazzling white, 
 And on my head the morning star. 
 
 Immortal youth upon my brow, 
 Enstamped her living image there ; 
 
 Flowers, which alone in Eden grow, 
 Were braided in my flowing hair. 
 
 Celestial music 'round me stole, 
 In one unbroken, heavenly choir, 
 
 Enwrapt, entranced, all ear, all soul, 
 I mounted higher yet, and higher, 
 
 'Till in the distance, far away, 
 
 Throned on a cloud of azure blue ; 
 
 A temple, brighter far than day, 
 Arose mid hosts, like morning dew.
 
 344 STANZAS. 
 
 No sun was there, nor full orbed moon, 
 No stars dispensed their silvery light ; 
 
 And yet, more brilliant far than noon, 
 Arose that temple on my sight. 
 
 Two winged ones, as near I drew, 
 With golden harps in either hand, 
 
 Flew from the city in my view, 
 
 And whispered, 'tis the " Spirit Land. : 
 
 The " Spirit Land !" oh, take me there, 
 And let me find my place of rest ; 
 
 They bore me upward through the air, 
 And laid me on my Saviour's breast. 
 
 STANZAS TO- 
 
 HEAVEN oped its golden portals wide 
 And bade the lovely come ; 
 
 Sent angel spirits for her guide 
 To bear her safely home : 
 
 On pinions bright they swiftly sped, 
 
 And hovered 'round her dying bed. 
 
 She heard the music of their lyres 
 As near her couch they drew, 
 
 But still her bosom's warm desires 
 To one loved object flew. 
 
 She could not leave her house of clay 
 
 'Till she had seen the loved away.
 
 STANZAS. 345 
 
 She wished once more to fondly gaze 
 
 On one for ever dear. 
 The sweet companion of those days, 
 
 Undimm'd by sorrow's tear. 
 Her spirit waited for the voice 
 Which ever made her heart rejoice. 
 
 Her burning head she longed to lay 
 
 Upon his faithful breast 
 To have him kiss her life away, 
 
 While to his bosom prest ; 
 She thought 'twould ease the pains of death, 
 To have him catch her dying breath. 
 
 'Twas sweet, she thought, when called to die, 
 
 To know that he was near ; 
 'Twas sweet to think her latest sigh 
 
 Would murmur in his ear. 
 She wished once more to grasp his hand, 
 And point him to the " Spirit Land." 
 
 Death could not draw the fatal dart 
 
 O'er one so passing fair ; 
 He could not stop her throbbing heart, 
 
 And crush the fond hope there. 
 The foe insatiate quailed to see 
 Such mingled love and agony. 
 
 'Twas love undying, love divine, 
 
 Which back the arrow kept ; 
 'Twas the pure light on friendship's shrine, 
 
 Which never yet had slept. 
 The hidden power of woman's love, 
 That made the archer back remove. 
 
 Her wavy hair dishevelled lay 
 Upon her neck of snow ;
 
 346 
 
 Her life was ebbing fast away, 
 
 Its pulses waning low, 
 More breathless every moment grew, 
 'Till the loved object met her view. 
 
 Enfolded in his loved embrace, 
 
 Her happy spirit fled ; 
 He read the triumph in her face, 
 
 The beautiful was dead I 
 She clasped the blessing she implored 
 Beloved in life, in death adored. -, 
 
 Take now one lock of her dark hair, 
 
 If one to you be given ; 
 Time never can the gift impair, 
 
 'Tis true as yonder heaven. 
 Keep the bright curl one fleeting year, 
 And steep it oft with memory's tear. 
 
 This sacred relic take, 
 
 And wear it near your heart ; 
 
 Oh, keep it for Maria's sake, 
 And never with it part. 
 
 And when with care and wo oppress'd, 
 
 'Twill prove a talisman of rest. 
 
 And if you should in after yeara 
 
 Select another friend, 
 Still will you know there 's bliss in tears, 
 
 Which life can only end. 
 The tear of fond regret will roll, 
 When joys departed light the soul.
 
 347 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 SWEET is the hour when lingering in the west, 
 
 Departing day throws 'round his roseate hue ; 
 When gorgeous vapors on the mountain rest, 
 
 And valleys glitter with the falling dew. 
 When eve's first star above the distant main, 
 
 Like a pure spirit from a holier sphere, 
 Hangs in the beauty of some hidden chain, 
 
 And throws around a radiance mild and clear. 
 
 When the pale moon up the etherial height 
 
 In silent grandeur winds her mystic way, 
 Veils with a cloud her lovely face from sight, 
 
 And then breaks forth with more refulgent ray. 
 When in the distance the lone Whippowill 
 
 Pours his shrill notes from off some friendly tree, 
 And from the summit of a neighboring hill, 
 
 Are heard the echoes of the Kata Dee. 
 
 When ocean rolling o'er its coral caves, 
 
 Dashes in thunder on the lonely shore, 
 While on the cliffs the wild grass gently wavas, 
 
 And bows to hear its everlasting roar. 
 When the young sailor on the flowing deep, 
 
 Firm at his helm, surveys the dashing foam, 
 Thinks of the cottage where the woodbines creep 
 
 Around the windows of his " own sweet home." 
 
 When wearied man plods on his musing way, 
 His scanty earnings o'er his shoulder flung, 
 
 Sees 'round his door his little ones at play, 
 
 With words of kindness flowing from their tongue. 
 
 When from his home, to meet his fond embrace, 
 His Ellen hastens with a joyful bound ;
 
 348 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The smiles of pleasure beaming on her face, 
 As husband, children, circle her around. 
 
 The mellowed hour, when pensive lovers stray 
 
 O'er wooded hill and through the shaded grove 
 When murmuring brooklets, as they softly play, 
 
 Listen delighted with their vows of love. 
 The spirit hour, when o'er the dewy earth, 
 
 Memory comes dancing 'mid her shadowy train 
 Of hopes that perish'd in their hour of birth, 
 
 As vain as fair, and false as they were vain. 
 
 To well-remember'd scenes she soars away ; 
 
 When 'round the altar of domestic bliss, 
 Parents' lov'd smiles lit up each opening day, 
 
 And children climb'd to gain the envied kiss. 
 When the charm'd cup gave forth its dreamy draught, 
 
 And wrapt the senses in untold delight ; 
 When morning in the glorious sunshine laugh'd, 
 
 And evening revell'd in the moon's pale light. 
 
 To golden moments when the heart beat high, 
 
 And music lent enchantment to the hours, 
 When love was breath'd beneath the star-lit sky, 
 
 And dew-drops sparkled on ambroisal flowers. 
 When fears were banish'd and the heavens were bright, 
 
 When tempests slept and whirlwinds held their breath, 
 When thunders linger'd neath th' electric light, 
 
 And hope and joy disarm'd the monster death. 
 
 Bright spots on which remembrance loves to dwell, 
 
 As evening shadows drape the world around ; 
 Oases green, which on life's desert tell, 
 
 That here and there a little rill was found. 
 Rills of delight, they murmur 'round the soul, 
 
 As twilight brings the lov'd of other years ; 
 Their gushing music o'er the senses roll, 
 
 And melt the senses in delicious tears.
 
 349 
 
 Like healing balm rich virtue tears impart. 
 
 When memory, too faithful to her trust, 
 Unlocks the secret chambers of the heart, 
 
 And there surveys the beautiful, in dust. 
 The beautiful, who, though they sleep in death, 
 
 Whisper at twilight in the curling vine, 
 Float through the air upon a zephyr's breath, 
 
 And 'round the soul their shadowy arms entwine. 
 
 We clasp the phantoms 'neath love's dewy star, 
 
 The tell-tale planet of departed joys ; 
 Converse of hopes which glimmer'd from afar, 
 
 And met the blast that with a breath destroys. 
 The blast which scattered in its direful wrath 
 
 Contagious vapors o'er earth's fairest flowers ; 
 
 Poison'd the fountains playing in its path, 
 
 And dimm'd the lustre of its silver showers. 
 
 These forms etherial on the spangled sky, 
 
 Teach us a language God has written there ; . 
 Show how the stars that gild the vault on high, 
 
 His love and glory in their light declare. 
 They bid Remembrance yield to Faith her wand, 
 
 Faith, heavenly maid, wipes every tear away ; 
 Mounting, she bears us to the " Spirit Land," 
 
 And opes the regions of unclouded day. 
 
 Delightful prospect ! where eternal noon 
 
 For ever shines, " where skies no night e'er wear, 1 
 Where the dim stars and the inconstant moon, 
 
 No more are seen in waning beauty fair. 
 But one broad stream of uncreated light, 
 
 Bursts from the centre Grid himself the gaol, 
 Dispensing strength tj the immortal sight, 
 
 As day succeeds the " twilight of the S;>ul."
 
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