GIFT OF Elisabeth Whitney Putnafr 4^6 JNfRS. DANIELS' POEMS. BY MRS. EUNICE TRUE DANIELS. Jitemcir of Noil ))im.i uioruu: HUH, f , , >*. , *' NEW-YORK: PRINTED BY JOHN F. TROW. 1843. ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by BENJAMIN K. TRUE, in the Clerk's Office of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New-York. PREFACE. THE friends of Mrs. DANIELS have often expressed a desire to have her poems printed, or put in some form which would insure their preservation. This is now undertaken in obedience to their wishes. Only a small number of copies of this edition is now printed, and that, solely for private distribution among her relatives and friends. These Poems have been selected from a large folio manuscript, neatly bound, in which she copied some of her own productions, as well as many choice pieces of poetry by other authors, and also from loose leaves found in her possession, or kindly furnished by those who had received them from her own hands. Some of them were composed when Mrs. DANIELS was not more than fifteen years of age, and without the care which so young a mind miiiht even ilicn bestow; which may account for, and uell exniM', any inaccuracies in grammar, or \vantof correct taste. It is believed that this volume is suffi- cinitly large to answer the purpose in view; though, from the abundance of materials, its size might have been augmented. Though the author of these Poems no longer dwells among us on earth, her mind is embalmed in these pages, her thoughts are here present, she here speaks to us from the tomb. We can read, and, reading, feel as she felt think as she thought and breathe with her the same air of poetry and beauty. The introduction of the reader to a train of thought and associations so happy as those suggested by these Poems, requires no further remark, and needs no apology. B. K. T. JVew- York, August, 1843. CONTENTS. PAGE MEMOIR ..... The Birthplace ... 31 The First Spring Flower . . . .35 Early Life ... 38 The Fall of Jerusalem . 40 The Ray of Feeling . . 45 Pray Without Ceasing 47 Love Tokens . . 50 The Angel's Choice . 55 The Child's Grave . - 58 Spring The White Rose . 63 Contentment . ' Night . . 68 Early Death . The Forest Fight Home The Puritan's Bride To a False Heart 89 CONTEN1 B i'A<;r Ilurial . !M Tli.- MOMI-IHT . . !Ki Autiiiiin's La-t Flower . . . . I u-J 1 1 \ inn ...... 104 Tli.- Widow of St. Mary's Well . . .107 I.. -inn nt ....... Ill ill! I'rayrr ...... 114 Tin- Hurial i.flVmpey . . . . .117 Lake ('li.iinjihun . .... 123 Tin- Out.-.. ... . 125 Autumn ....... 129 To a Friend removing to the West . . . .134 Song of the Husbandman .... 138 Evening Hour ...... 143 The Wine-Cup 145 es of the Revolution ..... 149 A Young Mother's Death .... 152 Loss of the Lexington ..... 156 The Flower of the Alps ..... 158 f l'h.- Spirit-Land . . . . . .161 Song 164 Meditations in the Grave-Yard .... 166 Tin Farewell ...... 171 Ilannihars Dirge . . . . . . l?(i Tin- Dream . 182 MEMOIR OP MRS. E. T, DANIELS, THE memory of our departed friends is to us much like a continuance of their lives the spirit of the dead dwelling among the living. We can go back to the very morn of life, when their thoughts and feelings first answered ours, salute them with the pure smile arid kiss of young affection, and starting \vith them, hand in hand, trace and retrace their path from the cradle to the tomb, live life over again and again, with all its joys and sweet relations, until we are led to exclaim, Oh ! blessed memory ! what to us were all things past, without thee ? Oblivion noth- ing. How, but by thy hallowed light, could we read 10 MEMOIK memorial of former days, or revive a single token of by -gone joys and affections ? Thou causest the departed to live again, and makest mind and spirit enjoy an empire of holy communion, over which " the stern monarch of the grave" has no control. And are not these pleasant memories ? Memories, which for a time re-create, as it were, the lovely forms of our friends and kindred, who but yesterday were among us, gay and happy, the life of our life, our lirurN thrilling with mutual love, and beating as with a common pulse, but are now numbered with the silt -nt dead. Death has thrown its dark but kindly pall over their faults ; the grave has consecrated their ashes ; their spirits come to us robed in the purity of Heaven. Their influence is holy, for it is all on the side of good they teach lessons of virtue and truth, and raise aspirations for the enjoyment of God's eternal favour. The thoughts which they inspire, make us wiser and better. And who shall say that thry are not pleasant? Ay! they are doubly so, when stirred by tlx K UK mlnance of ONE, from whose tomb comes up no voice but that of kindness and MEMOIR. 11 truth no sound but such music as virtue strikes from the harp of love. Miss EUNICE K. TRUE was born at Plainfield, New-Hampshire, November 14, 1806 ; was married to Mr. William H. Daniels in the month of August, 1830, and died at the same town, on the sixteenth day of June, in the year 1841, at the age of thirty- four years. This simple mention of the time of her birth and death, to those who knew her well, may seem all that the occasion requires. It is very true that the history of her life is well known to most whose eyes will ever meet this page ; and, when marshalled by association, its scenes still pass through our minds, with all the distinctness and vivacity of the events of a real, present, passing life. They are graven upon our minds, as with a diamond's point, in letters of living light, and will endure so long as life lasts. But we owe it, as a duty to our departed friend, to pay some tribute to her memory ; and, be- sides, we would transmit to our children's children some short memorial of her life, for their instruction and imitation. I 'I MI.MOIR. The short life of Mrs. Daniels was very far from IM ing an eventful one. Her quiet and retired resi- dence and domestic habits, had nothing in them to elicit romance or adventure. It was the even tenor of an existence, every day obedient to all its natural laws. Hers is a simple story of a fond and dutiful child, a noble and generous woman, and a prudent and affectionate wife and mother. Far away from the gay dissipation of cities, and all the luxuries which tend to enervate talent and banish industry, her home was among the green hills, majestic forests, and bab- bling brooks of a New-England country town, where nature's bold and rugged scenery imparts, even to the d Where stood, of old, my father's cot, Where the first young breath of life I drew, And the sunny hours of my childhood flew. 'Twas a rural home, and quietly stood. From the village afar, by the beechen wood, Where the softened sound of the vesper-bell On the ear, with a mellowed murmur, fell ; And trod by few was the grassy road That threaded the hills by our abode. I remember it well ; a curling vine Went up the door, on a Ihmjn line ; The woodbine chuiir. \\itli a fimier hold, To the lattice-bars of the windows old, And, creeping along the mossy eaves, Flung gaily out its glistening leaves. The rose was there, with its blushing smile, And the breath of the patient camomile The lily queen, on her waving stem, With the pearly dews for a diadem The sun-flower gay, and hollyhock, Shot up by the marge of the granite rock, In whose rugged clefts, the violet sweet Her young buds hid from the noonday heat ; Dear, dear to my heart was each simple bell Of my cottage flowers, I remember well How the stream, from the spring in the poplar grove, Sung out, on its race to the reedy cove, 33 With a joyful hum, and a merry call, And a shout, at the fairy waterfall, Till its mirth was hushed at the shallow brink Of the pool, where the herds came down to drink. There oft have I pulled the wild rose's spray, As the blackbird carolled his roundelay ; Or tossed the pebble afar, to mark The wave flash up, like a diamond spark ; Or deftly drew, in the glittering sand, Young fancy's forms, with a careless hand, Ere the dove of peace, from my quiet breast, Went out on earth, for a place to rest, Or ever I deemed that sorrow, or care, Or guilt, had a place in a world so fair. But years rolled on ; the innocent child, That chased the bee from the roses wild, To cull their flowers by the river shore, And wreath them up at the cottage door, 34 Was off to the hills, with a bounding, tread, Or far on the ocean's foaming bed. How oft on the hills, with the fleecy flock, In the cooling shade of some old gray rock, On a grassy knoll, I have mused away Full many an hour of the summer's day ! Nor dreamed of home, till the setting sun, From his burning throne, as his day was done, A farewell gift to the mount threw down, A twilight robe and a golden crown. THE FIRST SPRING FLOWER. ERE melt the dews in liquid showers, Or trees their vernal robes renew, The first-born of the race of flowers Spreads to the sky its answering blue. Born of the sun's first genial kiss, That wooes to love the chaste cold earth ; Sweet bud of hope ! a nameless bliss Thrills the warm heart, to hail thy birth. I find thee in the leafless wild, Beside the snow-wreath blossoming, As Winter, in his dotage mild, Would ape the brighter robe of Spring ; 36 Or the soft south, in wayward mood, While loitering by the rocky cleft, Amid the dreary solitude, This frail and sweet memorial left. No warbler of the glades is near, No scented shrub, or floweret fair ; But glittering flake, and ice-pearl clear, Thy chill and mute companions are. But the same Power ordained thy birth, And tinged thy soft cerulean eye, That poised in space this mighty earth, And hung its quenchless lamps on high. And, in each cup, each tinted grace, Each leaf thy mossy stem uprears, The moulding of THAT HAND I trace, That fashioned, in their pride, the spheres. 37 $t art thou frail ! thy transient hour <# bloom and beauty will be o'er, *Ere spring shall dress the greenwood bower, . And spread her bright, voluptuous store. Even now thy hues are in their wane, Thou first-born of the race of flowers ! Go ! thou shalt bloom on earth again, Unlike the loved and lost of ours. 38 EARLY LIFE. WHEN life was young, and knew no sorrow, How blithely flew the gladsome day ! Bright dreams of joy led on the morrow, And gilt the sun's declining ray. Then sweet and tranquil were my slumbers, My eye was never dimmed with tears, No sadness, which the heart encumbers, Foretold the pains of after years. No treacherous friendships then had found me, Nor thought of death had chilled my breast, Hope spread her fair illusions round me, And life, in full enchantment, dressed. Long pictured years of tranquil pleasure, Peace, and content, she held to view, My trusting heart smiled o'er its treasure, And thought the lovely visions true. Dear days of bliss ! ye wake my sorrow ! Now, slowly drags the tedious day, Dread, lowering clouds o'erhang the morrow, And shade the sun's declining ray. 40 THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. MATTHEW, CHAP. 24. How fair is that land to the eye ! How lovely its prospects appear ! The cedars of Lebanon flourish on high, And the roses of Sharon are here. The milk, and the honey, and wine, From the " land of the chosen" are flowing Mount Carmel is spread with a carpet of vine, And the balm is from Gilead blowing ; The lily and rose in the vallies are seen, And the hills of Judea are sunny and green. 41 Jerusalem ! proud is thy story ! With splendour, and pomp, and high daring allied! Here glittered the temple, thy pageant of glory, The crowning of Palestine's pride. The sound of the tabret and sackbut was heard, As nations went in at thy gate ; The heathen the gleam of thy panoply feared, And named thee, the mighty and great. Art thou guiltless ? ah no ! for the groans of the just, And the blood of thy martyrs, cry out from the dust. Art thou guiltless ? oh ! answer, ye tears That fell upon Bethany's plain ! Bear witness the scourge, and the cross that appears On the hill where MESSIAH was slain ! The angel of death, with the scroll of thy doom, Shall the hand of offended Omnipotence stay ! Speak ! Prophet of Nazareth ! speak from the tomb, Where thy murdered mortality lay ! Art thou guiltless ? oh, never ! for damp is thy sod With the blood of thy martyrs, the tears of thy God. 4 42 There's a curse on thy green sunny bowers ; The voice of the thunder is fearful and loud. From the cloud hanging over thy turrets and towers ; And red is the fringe of that ominous cloud I- Ah ! hushed be the song of thy mirth ; Ye guilty ! with terror turn pale ! The march of the earthquake re-echoes from earth, And a clangor of conflict is borne on the gale. ye innocent ! flee to the mountains ! for nigh 1- the doom of the guilty, and sealed from on high ! Proud city ! thy glory is fading ! The armour of David is covered with rust ; And the Roman avenger through carnage is wading, To trample thy splendour in dust ! See ! proud o'er that battle array, The Julian banner is streaming ! And, bright as the sunbeams that gladden the day, The lance and the helmet are gleaming. Abandoned Solyma ! the phial is poured, And famine and faction combine with the sword ! 43 Oh ! where is the shield that was spread. When the Infidel came in his might ? When the hearts of the valiant were throbbing with dread, As he bared his red arm for the fight ? And oft the proud Roman was there, To rob and bear captive away ; Yet the Lion of Judah awoke from his lair, And rent from the spoiler his prey. Mourn, hapless Judea ! in sackcloth and dust ; Thy GOD thou hast crucified ! where is thy trust ? For the foemen have entered, and keen are their blades, The flame of thy ruin is blazing ; Thy battlements, temples, and high palisades, The hand of destruction is razing. Oh ! fearful and dark was that ominous day, As the swift-footed hurricane rushing ; The angel of darkness, well sated with prey, Strode dark, where the carnage was gushing ! 44 Proud Salem is fallen ! her glory hath flown, And her temple is rent to the uttermost stone ! Now, the Ottoman sits on her throne, And sways his cursed rod o'er her subjugate lands ; On the hill, where the temple of Solomon shone, The mosque of the Saracen stands. The hand of oppression hath scattered a blight, And Fate her anathema spoken ! In vain, ye crusaders, ye rush to the fightj For her bondage is not to be broken 1 Not yet to be broken, accomplished the cUrse ; None but the Most High her dark doom shall reverse. 45 THE RAY OF FEELING. OH ! there are moments bright and gay, When life is like the opening rose, And golden dreams like sunbeams play Around the heart that warmly glows ; And love, and hope, and young delight, Thought, taste, and genius, gathering near, Are grouped in constellations bright, To gild our mental hemisphere. Oh ! then the ray of feeling shines, Like the young crescent in the west ; And through the soul's rich, sparkling mines, Beams loveliest, brightest, fairest, best. 46 And there are shadowy moments, when Burst the dark springs of doubts and fears, And fancy views, with clouded ken, Her evening suns go down in tears ; And feverish phantoms of the night Obey the mind's fantastic call, And come, with baneful dews, to blight The flowers of hope's gay coronal. Oh ! then how sweet to mark afar, The ray of feeling gleaming yet ; A lone, pure, melancholy star The only one that hath not set. 47 PRAY WITHOUT CEASING. WHEN, from the portals of the west. The lingering sun throws gently down, Upon the mountain monarch's* crest, His parting gift a golden crown ; Then, calm and clear the Alpine horn Rings out upon the still, cold air, And wakes, where clouds and storms are born, Its echoing peal " To PRAYER, TO PRAYER !" And there, where zephyr never stirs Where clustering roses never blow Where whirlwinds wring the forest firs, And bursting glaciers rush below, * Mount Blanc. 48 The lowly dweller of the rock, In meek devotion, joys to raise To Him who guards his humble flock, The grateful voice of prayer and praise. Dark symbols of a Power Divine Inspire the Brahmin's mystic rite ; The Gheber, at his fire-lit shrine, Invokes the source of life and light ; The turbaned votary of the mosque, At morning's blush at evening's gray In tented field, or calm kiosk, Still minds him of his hour to pray. Fierce, quivered chiefs, in western wilds, Before the God of thunders kneel ; And dwellers of the far-off isles A dim and shadowy faith reveal. 49 The Hebrew, wandering o'er each zone Where gold hath gleamed, or Commerce trod, Though named as Mammon's slave alone, Still looks and prays to Abraham's God. But thou ! who boasts, thy God hath given The creed of life and truth alone, - A lamp, that gilds thy path to Heaven, And lights thee to his dazzling throne, - His word a chart thy bark to steer,. His smile the pole-star's quenchless ray, Forever shining calm and clear, Oh ! CHRISTIAN ! dost THOU " cease to pray ?" 50 LOVE TOKENS. A BALLAD, FROM THE HEBREW. GENESIS, CHAP. 24. FAR had the wearied traveller fared, O'er herbless heath and sandy waste. Till, weak and worn, his brow he bared, By Haran's well, the wave to taste. And who is she whose light steps deem To seek the fountain's mossy frame ? For oft to draw the pure, still stream, At eve, the Syrian maidens came. Meek daughter of a quiet race, Her brow the seal of kindness bore ; No thefts from art her form deface, No robes of glittering pride she wore. 51 But lovelier far, than wealth e'er flung To deck its peers in gorgeous dress^ The charm of nature's beauty hung Around the graceful shepherdess. She bent to hear the stranger tell Of far-off home, and wearying road ; She gave him of the crystal well, And led him to her calm abode. (Alas ! that at the shrine of art Fond nature e'er should bend the knee Or the pure promptings of the heart Bow to the world's cold courtesy !) The household throng, with care sincere, The fainting pilgrim's wants supply ; They urge to rest from toil severe, And lay his way-worn sandals by. The plenteous feast, with courteous haste, The hand of liberal kindness swells, With clusters of the rich vine graced, And the pure gush of Syrian wells. With thanks the grateful guest repaid, Then, whence he came, his lips unfold, And, void of pomp or vain parade, His brief and simple story told. " My master rests beneath his vine, In flowery vales his flocks increase, And oft he pays, on God's own shrine, The grateful sacrifice of peace. " He sends to cull a kindred flower, To bloom in beauty by his side, The glory of his leafy bower ; Speak, maiden ! wilt thou be his bride ?' 53 She thought upon her own dear bowers, And oft her heart the inquiry knew, " Are Canaan's fields as green as ours As warm her suns her skies as blue?" She thought upon the flowery dell, The peaceful water's silent flow, The quiet flock, the mossy well ; And could she leave them ? no ! Oh, no ! She thought of eve's pure radiancy, So sweet, from peaceful planets shed, When her glad step, all light and free, With Haran's girls the dances led. And then the thoughts that deepest move, With potent spell, young feeling's glow, A father's smile a mother's love A brother's fondness /could she go ? 54 The stranger paused ; his hand unstrung The scrip his master's care had graced, And bracelets round her hands he flung, The ear-ring 'mid her tresses placed. The diamond, through her clustering locks, Beamed love's own pure unclouded ray ; The stream the dell the bleating flocks, No more can charm ; " away ! away !" " I'll go !" she cries, in accents bland, And look all purity and truth, "My thoughts are in a foreign land, My soul is with the stranger youth." 55 THE ANGEL'S CHOICE. THAT spirit, to whose charge 'twas given A form of seraph birth To bear below the gifts of heaven. Unfurled his wings for earth. Three gifts he bore from that bright world, But one to yield had power : Three goodly gifts a beaming pearl, A diamond, and a flower. The angel mused in anxious thought, And sent his searching eye Along the course of dim years, sought In far futurity. 56 He saw the proud oppress the meek. And rend the spoils away ; The strong arm raised to crush the weak, And man his brother slay. Then sadness stained that heavenly face, Earth cast its shadows there ; " Be thine," he cried, " thou wayward race ! A gift that all may share." % Then to the earth a sacred trust That blooming flower he gave ; But hid the diamond in the dust, The pearl beneath the wave. Still cheers that gift our lowly lot, Still blooms that peerless flower, As sweet beside the peasant's cot As in the monarch's bower. 57 And still its pure and scented breath The balm of Heaven retains : Queen of the flowers, in every wreath, The ROSE unrivalled reigns ! THE CHILD'S GRAVE. The grave of FRANCES DE LORD WALWORTH, in the church- yard at Saratoga, was weekly adorned with fresh flowers. PAVSI-: gently here: this flow'ry mound Contains within a holy trust ; Tread lightly ! for His hallowed ground, Where love yields up its " dust to dust ;" For every flower that blossoms here,. And every wild shrub waving by, Hath oft been wet with many a tear, And oft embalmed with many a sigh ; For here upon its silken hair, From a young mother's fostering breast, With soft sweet eyes, and features fair, A cherub's form was laid to rest. 59 The velvet cheek, and fragrant lips. Where love its dewy kisses pressed, All, all, beneath death's chill eclipse, Are gathered here in dreamless rest. And fond affection, lingering near, Hath strown her sweetest flowerets round Breathe softly ! for the dead are here ; Tread lightly ! for 'tis hallowed ground. SPRING. SWEET Spring ! thou art coming, the season of mirth, The bridal of time with this beautiful earth, When even the hearts of the sinful must feel The impulse of pure devotion, steal Away from things dark, to that BEING above, Who spread this scene of beauty and love. Thy breath can awaken, to music and mirth, Every fibre, where passionate feelings have birth ; Yet the minstrel hath gazed on thy clear, azure sky, The poet hath marked with enthusiast eye, As he wandered thy scenes of magic along, And wove all thy beauties in music and song ; The limner hath plundered thy treasures, to dress His canvass with beauty and loveliness, 61 When thyself, walking forth in thy pride, canst in- spire A feeling that never was waked by the lyre, A feeling, the pencil can never impart, For nature, to me, is far dearer than art. I have looked upon Summer, and thought of the day, When youth, for manhood, is fading away ; On Autumn's scathed and withering flower, And it brought to mind my dying hour ; I have listed the wintry winds, and wept, For the blast o'er the graves of the dearest swept. I have looked on thee, Spring ! in thy green, blushing youth, And thought thee as fair as the spirit of truth, As bright as youth's visions, too sunny to last, As sweet as the hopes of the present and past. Yet soon is it said of thy innocent pride, As of all things bright, " it hath withered and died ;" And the heart that admires thee, will soon be laid In the damp, cold cell, for the perishing made. Then, Spring's fair promise of bliss and delight, And summer's profusion, and autumn's blight, And the wintry tempest, so cheerless and dread, Will be heeded and valued alike by the DEAD. 63 THE WHITE ROSE. WHEN gently breathes the soft south-west, And summer-clouds, in pearly showers, Are strown on earth's embroidered vest, We greet the fair, unfolding flowers. Far from the crowded scenes of strife For wealth and power, and folly's wile, In happier haunts of rural life, They brightest bloom, and sweetest smile. t Pride of thy race, thou snow-white rose ! As, calm and pure in scented bower, Thy alabaster leaves unclose, I hail thee, as my favourite flower. 64 Emblem of purity and truth ! To me thy gentle presence brings Sweet memories of unsullied youth, Twined with all fair and lovely things ; And thoughts of purer climes than ours Wake, as thy quiet smile I see ; Linked with those far, unfading bowers, Where every flower is pure like thee. While day-born buds, sweet flower of hope ! In dreams, with folded drapery, lie, Unchilled thy fearless blossoms ope On midnight's dark and shadowy eye. The glistering bells that drink the dew, With glowing lips and gorgeous vest, And sister flowers of blushingjfcue, In fancy's varied tints, are dressed. 65 From thee pale, pure, and passionless Thee, spotless Vestal of the flowers ! No answering blush returns the kiss Of the warm sun, at morning hours. No gaudy hues thy charms deface, Nor borrowed tint of earthly die ; Pearls pearls alone thy vesture grace, And on thy snowy bosom lie. And dreaming fancy's pencil-power ^jf * So bright each charm around thee flung . Still points thee as that Eden-flower, From which all other roses sprung. - 06 CONTENTMENT. SHALL we, who are mortal and formed of the clay We, pilgrims and sojourners here Shall we sigh for a name that will never decay ? When a morning, an evening, a night, and a day, Are the round of our pilgrimage drear ! Shall we gaze with regret, when the trappings of pride Flutter by us in costly array ? Oh, no ! for too often a bosom they hide, Where envy, and hatred, and sorrow abide, To scourge its enjoyment away. 67 Shall we murmur that beauty, our features to gloze With her magical wonders, forebore ? Oh, no ! soon the curtain forever will close Round the loveliest eye, and the worm have the rose And the lily, that all did adore. Shall we mourn over joys that are perished and past, As frail as the apple-tree's bloom ? Oh, no ! they were lovely, too lovely to last And the tears of regret will but wither and blast All the fruit that would spring in their room. Shall we grieve for the dearest that sleep in the dust, When faith would our sorrows forbid ? Ah, no ! for thrice blessed is the rest of the just ; And the living ! the living acquitted their trust, When the clod settled down on the dark coffin-lid. 68 NIGHT. 1 love the solemn night. The gorgeous day, With her rich garniture of varying skies, And showers, and shades, and gleams, is beautiful, And eloquent of thought. But yet, methinks, Too much upon her fickle brow, she weareth Inconstancy and change, blended, withal, With what the wcyld calls vanity. But night, Majestic night ! great Nature's solemn queen, And priestess of her Sabbath still the same Walketh in calm, unchanging majesty. She, ceaseless on her awful forehead, wears The solemn impress of Omnipotence. Hers are no rainbow plumes, nor gorgeous hues 69 That charm the sense, but steal away the soul From serious thoughts. Nor beaming smiles are hers, Save what the pale, cold moon on Nature's face Lights up, 'mid dewy tears, like that faith wears. When dust to dust is given. But to the soul That thirsteth for deep waters, spurning at The bubbles of a poor, capricious world, Her hand hath many a gift. It is the hour, When Genius lights his torch at Fancy's shrine. And bathes his plumes in those far hidden waters That murmur not by day. It is the hour To learn deep lore ; when meditation leads The willing spirit to the grave's dark side. Bidding it talk with death, as with a brother. Night is the hour of prayer. And oh ! 'twere sweet So were the spirit pure to tread the courts Of Heaven, when all earth's crowded populace Are gathered to their dreams. It is the hour Of sweet remembrance, when earth's dull, cold forms 70 Fly far ; and, bursting from the frost of years, Our young affections bloom. It is the blossom-time of peaceful thoughts. Holiest of all, when fond affection hears The silent wing of blessed memories. And more, yea, more than all, 'tis the proud hour Of elevated feeling ! when the soul Walks forth, in all her glorious majesty, To drink deep mysteries, and read, inscribed On every wandering world, and every star That gems the dewy coronal of night, The name of the eternal Architect. 71 EARLY DEATH. 'TWAS morn. I saw the blooming boy, All mirth, and smiles, and bounding glee, Spring forth to drink of nature's joy, 'Mid bloom and flowers less fair than he. The sweet wild-rose of life was fresh On lip and cheek, where smiles were playing ; The breeze was in the clustering mesh Of his light locks, the soft curls swaying. And then his voice ! it haunts me still ! And oft in happy dreams comes o'er me ; And that bright form go where I will In all its light, oft flits before me. 72 'Twas night. The boy ! oh ! where was he ? Where ! Manhood's stately head was bowed. And woman sobbed in agony, The boy was in his folding shroud. I gazed the pure, white brow was there The smile, around the lip still wreathing The round, white arm, the silken hair In glossy rings all, all still breathing An angel's beauty round the dead, A charm that not e'en death could sever ; But ah ! life's roseate hues had fled, And the sweet voice was hushed forever. 73 THE FOREST FIGHT. , 'TWAS a wild glen. The burning sun had rolled His bright car o'er it, and no record told The number of his years. The red man rude Walked forth, sole sovereign of the solitude ! 'Mid rocks, and woods, and streams, he fearless strayed The wild, beneath the bay and poplar shade. None gladdened, as the varying skies brought down Their robes of change ; but summer laid her crown On Autumn's golden throne ; and Winter came, And Spring returned ; and still it was the same ; Save that some veteran oak, or aged pine, Or hoary cypress, parent of a line 6 74 Of sylvan mourners, had bowed down, and laid Its head in dust forever. Through the shade, When came from far the stranger warrior-train, They paused to mark the gloom, then hurrying, bore On to the thickening fight and battle-plain, With their strong features sterner than before. A step ! a sound ! A deepening murmur shakes the still air round ! The wild rose trembles, and its woodland bed Gives back the soldier's modulated tread, And the proud war-horse's stamp ! as, through the gloom, A noble band, with banner, sword, and plume, Marched fearless on ! A princely train they were, That mingled throng ! From England's home of smiles Their dauntless chieftain* came ; and, high in air, Towered the proud ensign of the Queen of Isles : Strange sight in western wilds ! With pensive grace, A youthf led on the Pilgrim Father's race, * General Braddock. f Washington. 75 Mingling with forms from far. The bright sun's glance, To the dark wood, flashed wide from sword and lance ; And white plumes trembling waved, as through the dell The track they beat. Hush ! hark ! the savage yell, That deafening shout, the ambushed foeman's cry, Rings from the pass ! The faltering gun Told that the work of death was well nigh done, When, from the fight, a train, with looks of grief, Bear the pale relics of their fallen chief, Senseless and cold, with streaming fountains dyed, And the proud bearing of the Island-pride Humbled to dust ; and soon, with breathless haste, Before the fiery warriors of the waste, All fled or fell ! Up came the heavy breeze. Burdened with groans and mortal agonies, 76 From the deep ravine's gloom ! What met it there ? But shapes of blood that crimsoned all the air ! Oh, Death ! thou art a fearful thing, at best, And stout hearts tremble, when thy wing they hear ; But, sure, to sink upon some gentle breast, And hear the soft, low sigh, and mark the tear, Would sooth the parting soul. But, oh ! to die 'Mid burning blood ! when none but fiends are nigh, To mock the wrung heart's groans, the dying prayer ! That were its veriest bitterness ! But where is he, the gallant youth who led Columbia's train-bands ? hath the red man bound him ? Or doth he sleep ? not so : the hunter said, That the Great Spirit spread his buckler round him. Warding off death. Last on the bloody plain, Cheering the remnant of his flying train, The proud boy's form was seen ! a crimson streak Of shame and sorrow flushed his noble cheek, 77 Oft varying, as the hue that fever wears To mark young beauty, when the gentle airs Of spring light up her eye. Wilt thou not fly ? The foe hath triumphed, and his steel is nigh. Flashing revenge ! Away ! that proud, stern look ! It boots not now, when death and peril lurk So thick around ! Oh, Freedom cannot brook That thou should'st perish ! she hath glorious work For thee. Young chief, away ! The bright sun shed A gleam of glory on the green hill's head, And sunk to rest. Majestic evening rose To hush the forest to more deep repose, As oft before. Before ! oh, who can tell The deeds of darkness, wrought in that lone dell That awful night ? Woe to the captive throng ! The eye of night the kindling death-pyre viewed, And shouts of vengeance echoed loud and long, Far off upon the mountain's solitude, 78 Heavy with sounds of death ! The hunters found A tale of fearful note. But how they sped, Unknown if bowed the heart in mute despair, Or plead the lip for mercy ! Who hath read The annals of the wilderness ? 79 HOME. LINES TO A NEWLY ACQUIRED FRIEND. WHEN far from the scenes of our childhood we stray, And leave every early attachment behind, How gloomy the feelings, when others are gay ! How sad are the thoughts of the desolate mind ! Though fair be the flow'rets that spring at our feet. And bright be the prospect wherever we roam, The stranger's enjoyment is still incomplete, For the magnet of feeling is ever at home. Though much I may love other friends I have seen, Yet the friends of my youth are the first in my breast ; Though the hills I now tread may be sunny and green, Yet the hills of my childhood are brightest and best. And fairer than flowers that are blossoming here, Are the roses that bloom on my own native plain ; And the fields of my home to my heart are more dear, Than the vallies that smile on the banks of Cham- plain. You may think me ungrateful, but banish the thought ! For, oft when far distant, again and again Shall I think of the warm-hearted stranger, who sought To gild with enjoyment the pathway of pain. 81 And, oft when at home, with a silent appeal To my heart, shall affection, a monitor true, Bring the thoughts of the past, and remembrance shall steal Beyond the Green Mountains, to linger with you. 82 THE PURITAN'S BRIDE. " An unfrequented and barren heath, on the shores of Lincolnshire, was the selected spot where the feet of the pilgrims were to tread, for the last time, the land of their lathers." " Among this interesting group of exiles was a young and beautiful female, the descendant of a noble and powerful family, who had been disinherited and disowned by her family, in consequence of her having imbibed the sentiments of Robert- son, and a romantic attachment to a young man of the same religious principles. She became his wife, and subsequently resisted every overture of her relatives to abandon the idea of exile and remain in England." Now, let thy brow no shadow wear, No fears, thy breast control, For well I read each anxious care That haunts thy troubled soul. 83 The boat is moored beside the The bark is on the sea, But I am thine forevermore, And I will go with thee. Well have my proud and high-born race Each chord of feeling tried, To win me to my birth-right place,- To lure me from thy side ; And, to their fostering arms again, Fain would they welcome me, So could they break our wedlock chain ; But I will go with thee. They tell of proud and lofty walls, Where courtly beauties tread, Of arching domes, and marble halls With silken carpets spread. 84 Bui what are countless hordes of gold, Or pomp, or pride, to me ? I have a pearl of price untold, When I shall go with thee. Oh ! fear thou not my shrinking form Shall blanch in death, before The terrors of the ocean storm, The perils of that shore ; For this weak frame within doth bear A spirit firm and free, And thou shalt learn what love can dare, When I do go with thee. The raging of the billowy tide, And whirlwind's wrath, I know ; The smooth and treacherous waves, that hide The caves of death below ; 85 The angry sky, that fiercely lowers Above the yawning sea, When fall the thunder-bolts in showers ;- Still I will go with thee. Chill sweep the wintry blasts along. And crested surges roar, Where dark and pathless forests throng The bleak New-England shore. No cheerful hearth will welcome home The wanderers of the sea, Nor shelter, save Heaven's arching dome ;- Yet I will go with thee. There doth the fierce, fleet panther hide,- The savage stern and dire, Dark, quivered chiefs ! and woe betide Who wake their vengeful ire. 86 And danger's voice shall swell each tone Of whispering stream and tree, And Death sit watching for his own ; Yet will I go with thee. No more, amid these clustering curls, Will circling diamonds shine ; No flashing gems, nor orient pearls, Shall ever more be mine. Back to their kindred dust, I fling Earth's costliest gifts from me, And fondly to each impulse cling, That bids me go with thee. This form, in festive hall, no more Shall trace the mazy dance, Where manhood's pride bows down before Resistless beauty's glance ; 87 Where courtly homage bares the brow, And bends the suppliant knee,- Such pageants seem but mockery now And I will go with thee. No more my heart, in boding sighs, Shall breathe thy name most dear, Or pleading tones at midnight rise, Which none but Heaven might hear. With heartless crowds at pompous shrines No more my heart shall be ; For hope, a star of glory, shines, And bids me go with thee. The harp shall rest its magic power, And lute neglected lie, The clustering roses of my bower, Untended, droop and die. 88 That faith which lifts my soul above The chainless and the free Blends sweetly with a mortal love, And tells me, go with thee ! Now haste thee ! for the pilgrim band Are gathering for their flight ! Their footsteps print the wave-beat sand- They ride the seas to-night ! Their boat is moored beside the shore ! Their bark is on the sea ! Come ! I am thine forevermore ! AND I WILL GO WITH THEE ! 89 TO A FALSE HEART. I GAVE you every purer thought) That springs from truth's exhaustless mine. And falsehood in my heart was not ; Alas ! the falsehood all was thine. Each fancied wish, and lovely theme. Which fond imagination drew, And every pure and golden dream, And every prayer were all for you. I bound for thee a wreath of flowers, A lovely wreath, without a thorn, Fresh, blooming from affection's bowers, And you returned a smile of scorn. 7 90 [ thank thee for your smile of scorn, And every faithless gift besides ; They've taught me that the piercing thorn, Beneath the sweetest roses, hides. ? Tis well the charm of earth is broke ! This heart was proud, but not untrue ; It well deserved an humbling stroke, But, ah ! it should not come from you. 91 THE BURIAL. NIGHT gathered on Judea ; but there came No time for peaceful thought. The holy, calm, And soothing influence of the hour, when night Resteth in beauty on the dewy hills, Was sadly changed to deep and deathlike gloom, Hushed, but not hallowed still, but not serene. Creation seemed to mourn ; the earth was sad, And nature's self was sad. There came no breeze, As wont, from distant Gilead's land of balm, To wake the stilly air. The flowers bent down, As at the hour of noontide heat, and leaned Their blossoms on the breast of earth ; for Eve Had closed her vesper urn, and scorned to pour Her hallowed fountains on that blood-stained land. There was no sound of music flowing forth ; The wonted gush of melody, that came From the moonlit waters, wakened not, And the hushed streams forgot their serenades. And where is He ? the holy beautiful The sadly fair the pensive Nazarene ? Where is he ? 'Tis the hour when he is wont, With solemn step, alone, to wander forth Along the sweeping Jordan, or ascend The dewy sides of Olivet, to pour His melancholy spirit forth in prayer. Where is he ? Ask the glorious eastern Star That was his herald lamp ! Nay, ask it not ! Above mount Calvary, a deep, dun cloud Hath veiled it, as the envious pall of death Shadows the features of the beautiful. Alas ! the earth hath lost him ! Death hath won That glorious being's semblance ! He hath drank The cup of mortal sorrows. He, whose birth, With deep, angelic music rolling from 93 The clouds, was hailed, hath died ! The King of kings The Prince of peace the only best beloved Of the Eternal Father, died ! For man, On the accursed cross, he gave himself A sacrifice ! But yesterday, arrayed In sackcloth, the heavens were moved ; earth, through All her thrones of rock, convulsive shook and The bright sun mantled up his head, and wept, As burst that mighty heart. On sped the shadowy night. The raven wing Of darkness brooded low on Calvary, Veiling its brow in gloom ; save, that by turns Abrupt, a fitful, transitory glare, Gilding the vine-leaves and dark olive-boughs, Flashed suddenly and died ; for then went forth, Along Golgotha's garden, silently, The curtained lamp of those that bear the dead, On to the grave's dark side. There was a tomb, 94 Where noon-shades fell, dim and heavily, Upon the tall, untrodden grass that waved Around the vacant sepulchre ; for ne'er Had aught of perishable dust been laid Within its rocky chamber, to repose. And now they came that bear the dead, and laid. From their encircling arms, within the tomb, Their precious burden, gently as Affection Lays down to rest her sleeping babe ; and then, Lifting the shroud up from the face of Death, Gazed long and silently. Oh ! there are hours, When grief, that oft is wild and passionate, Becomes a holy feeling, and the tones, The wailing tones of the deep spirit-chords, Too rudely touched by woe, are heard alone In the heart's outward temples. Was it death ? And were those hues the shadows of the grave, Mantling o'er that bright ruin ? Can Death wear Such calm and holy lineaments ? It seemeth More like an awful trance, when the Soul Walks forth awhile, in all her majesty. Leaving her " tenement of clay/' to come Again unlike the nothingness of death. But now He lay, the dark tomb's captive ; He Whose voice had woke the dead ! whose awful word Restrained the angry warring of the winds, While sank the roaring waves, to pave his path Upon the mighty waters ! He, whose beck Had moved the angels from their bright abodes, Lay, a lone dweller in a mortal tomb ! # * * * # The hour of midnight came to usher in The day of holy rest ; and they rose up, Who long had watched in silence o'er the dead, And closed the portal of the tomb, sustained By the strong faith that turns away from man, And leans its trust on God ; for well they knew, That the Almighty Framer of the heavens Would never suffer his Anointed One To see corruption. 96 THE MOURNER. THERE'S a cloud upon thy brow, There's a shadow on thine eye, And crystal tears, on thy pale cheek, now. Like dew on lilies, lie. Thy voice, that erst was glad, Hath a tone of sadness deep ; Now, tell me why thy heart is sad, And wherefore dost thou weep. ' Deep, deep within my breast, The fount of sorrow dwells : Too deep, too powerful for its rest, That troubled fountain swells. 97 I had wealth, a countless store, Like a dream, by night, it fled, And the lips that could number thousands o'er, May plead in vain for bread." Well, riches are worthless dross, On wings of wind they fly ; But that treasure never suffers loss, That is garnered up on high. Look heavenward, with a meek And contrite heart, for aid, And thou shalt find, if thou dost seek, A wealth that cannot fade. " I'd a jewel rich and rare, A pure and spotless fame ; But, like the poisonous siroc air, The breath of slander came. By the crowds that once did bow, And lingering wait my smile, My name is breathed in mockery now, And numbered with the vile." There is One faithful friend, Upon whose sheltering breast, When the ties of earth asunder rend, The troubled soul may rest. When the mourner's eye was dim, And sorrow veiled her brow, If thou hadst put thy trust in Him, He had not left thee now. " My heart, in a holy band, Was bound to its bosom's lord ; But Death, with a fierce and cruel hand, Hath severed the clasping cord. 99 He is low in a watery grave, In the caverns of the deep, Far, far beneath the billowy wave ;- Oh ! leave me ! I must weep !" Weep on ! thou shouldst no less, But ah ! where tears are meet : Unbind, unbind each clustering tress, And bathe thy Saviour's feet. Then raise thy mournful eye, And plead for sin forgiven ; So shalt thou lay thy sackcloth by, And be the bride of Heaven. " I had one only child, Affection's sacred dower, That ever, to my smiling, smiled A pure and spotless flower. 100 In my widowed heart's deep fold, A dim and curtained shrine, I hid, as a miser hides his gold, That idol babe of mine." " Soft was its cheek's pure glow, Its sweet and murmuring words Came warbling o'er the ear of woe, Like the song of morning birds. They are hushed in silence deep, Where the fresh round earth is piled ; Oh ! I must weep, forever weep, My loved, my darling child !" Come from the lowly ground, Where thy soul's idols sleep ; Come ! there's a rest for the weary found, And a balm for eyes that weep. 101 * Oh ! kiss the chastening rod That thy wounded spirit bore ; Awake ! arise ! and call on God, And thou shall weep no more ! AUTUMN'S LAST FLOWER. BENEATH a branching pine, that hung Its tasselled boughs against the sky, A flow'ret of the forest sprung, And heavenward turned its quiet eye. The angry winds the branches tossed^-* The dark cloud poured the chilling shower,- And blighting dews, and glittering frost, Fell harmless round that sheltered flower. Each blossom of the summer fields, Each bud of spring, can truth impart ; But autumn's lowly wild-flower yields A dearer moral to the heart. 103 He, who through blight, and frost, and storm, From baleful dews, and chilling showers, Thus gently shields its fragile form, Will mind him of his human flowers. 104 HARVEST HYMN. GOD of the rolling year ! to Thee Our songs shall rise, whose bounty pours, In many a goodly gift, with free And liberal hand, our autumn stores. No firstlings of our flocks we slay, No soaring clouds of incense rise ; But, on thy hallowed shrine, we lay Our grateful hearts in sacrifice. Born of thy breath, the lap of spring Was heaped with many a blooming flower, And smiling summer joyed to bring The sunshine and the gentle shower ; 105 And autumn's rich luxuriance now The ripening seed, the bursting shell, And golden sheaf, and laden bough The fullness of thy bounty tell. No menial throng, in princely dome, Here wait a titled lord's behest. But many a fair arid happy home Hath won thy peaceful dove, a guest. No groves of palm our fields adorn, No myrtle shades, or orange bowers, But rustling meads of golden corn, And fields of waving grain, are ours. Safe in thy care, the landscape o'er, Our flocks and herds securely stray ; No tyrant-master claims our store. No ruthless robber rends away* 8 100 No fierce volcano's withering shower, No fell simoon, with poisonous breath. Nor burning suns, with hiileful power, Awake the fiery plagues of death. Arid here shall rise our songs to Thee, Where lengthened vales and pastures lie. And streams go singing wild and free, Beneath the clear New-England sky ; Where ne'er was reared a mortal throne, Where crowned oppressor never trod, Here at the throne of Heaven alone We'll bow to thee, our King our GOD ! 107 THE WIDOW OF ST. MARY'S WELL. IN rising blast and gusty swell, By turns, the boisterous night-wind blew. And chilling rain in torrents fell, While dark the gloomy forest grew. In gloomy wood a lonely spot, Far from the pleasant homes of men A widow built her lowly cot, Within a wild, sequestered glen. Hard by Saint Mary's crystal well, Her lone and humble dwelling stood ; And strange the tales old legends tell, Of marvels, at its sainted flood. 108 That night, the storm was raging high ; The widow spread her scanty store, And heavenward oft upturned her eye, As rose the anxious thought for more ; For all that penury could supply, Upon the meagre board was set ; But He who hears the raven's cry, Had kept from utter misery yet. There came a worn and wearied form, The chill rain down his garments fell, Bewildered in the nightly storm, A votary to St. Mary's well. He seemed a pilgrim old and gray, With feeble voice and faltering tread ; He told the wanderings of his way, And humbly craved for rest and bread. 109 That meek appeal her bosom stirs. Like pearls, where hidden memories sleep ; For still one only boy was hers, A wandering sailor on the deep. At some inhospitable door, Oh ! should he vainly plead for bread ! " Oh ! stranger ! poor and scant my store, But all is freely thine," she said. But lo ! the pilgrim's altered guise ! He rends the tattered robe away ; And, hushed in wonder and surprise, She sees a youth erect and gay. The full black eyes, and forehead fair, The raven locks that clustered o'er, The glance, the very smile was there, In youth her cherished husband wore. no And at his mother's feet he fell ; And, round her neck, his arms he threw ;- The widow of St. Mary's well Such joy and rapture never knew. No boding fear, nor rising doubt, Disturbed the transport of that night ; The storm was fierce and wild without, But all within was calm and bright. Ill LAMENT. ELIAS ROBERTS, a brother of the Author, died at Mobile, Ala., June 12, 1824. OH ! sad was the hour, for thy death had so made it. And gloomy the moment let silence pervade it ! And grievous the words of the mandate, when spoken, That the chord must be loosed, and the golden bowl broken ! Death looked on his prey, and saw honor shine round him, Hope bloom in his path, and the firm ties that bound him 112 To life and its glory ; he stayed not to plunder " Oh, my triumph !" he cried, and he burst it asunder ! Oh, why are unknown ones his death-bed attend- ing, And where are the forms that should o'er him be bending ? They are far from his pillow, unconscious of danger, While his dim eye is sealed by the hand of the stranger. Ah ! never again, in its pale and cold dwelling, Shall that pure soul of feeling with sorrow be swelling, Nor ever be moved by a softer emotion, For all there is hushed in death's dark, waveless ocean. Alas ! that the arrow of death so hath power, To eclipse the bright sunshine of life's glowing hour, A blight for the blossoms, by memory strown O'er the tomb of a friend, or wreathed round its stone. 113 Who was that loved being, whose sickness and danger Could wake anxious fear in the breast of the stranger ? O'er whose bier, sadly bending, they sought not to smother The anguish of feeling ? Oh, God ! 'twas our brother ! The cypress and myrtle wave silently o'er him, But all who have known, will forever deplore him. 114 EVENING PRAYER FATHER in Heaven ! when shades descend, In the hushed night, to thee we go ; The world is cold but thou wilt bend To hear the wanderer's tale of woe. No flowery song or festal flow, Up to thy courts, shall ever rise ; But pure devotions, soft and low, In melting murmurs reach the skies. Father of Love ! too oft we bow At shrines, where seeming splendors burn. And meteors lure but, Father ! thou The wandering eye to heaven canst turn. 115 Oh ! make my heart a hallowed urn, Where love divine the flame shall bring, And holy thoughts, like incense, burn, In offering to the heavenly King. Father of Light ! mine eye would know, Around thy bright, eternal throne, What glories shine, what splendors glow But, hush ! to do thy will be mine. Enough, enough, that smile of thine, Of changeless, mild, and hallowed ray, Along my path of tears, to shine, And light me on my heavenward way. Father of Life ! with wasting care, Oh ! bid each murmuring word depart ; Unmoved, thy chastening scourge I bear, So mingling mercy soothe the smart. 116 When death shall chill my burning heart, (Irani on thy breast my head to lay ; So shall my soul in glory part, As stars, at morning, fade away. THE BURIAL OF POMPEY. [Cneus Pompey, surnamed the Great, is one of the most renowned names of antiquity ; whether we consider him as a Roman General and Consul, or as a leader in the bloody civil wars of his time. He was appointed by the Senate to defend the state against the victorious approach of Julius Caesar, who had already passed " the Rubicon." The two armies met at Pharsalia, in Macedonia, B. C. 48. Pompey was defeated, and retired by sea to Asia, and thence to Egypt. Here he was invited, in a friendly manner, to land ; but before the boat reached the shore, he was treacherously murdered, in sight of his wife and son his head severed from his body, and the head- less trunk left naked on the sand. A poor, fugitive Roman sol- dier, who had served under Pompey still faithful in adversity piously collected some wood from wrecks, and, according to the custom of the time, burned the body of his illustrious master. Such was the sad end of him who had been master of Rome ; and who once said to Cicero, " I have only to stamp with my foot, and an army will arise out of the ground."] AN exile stood, on Egypt's shore, A warrior's corse beside ; The hue of death the pale brow wore, Blent with a mournful pride. 118 Alone lie stood no mourners press'd, Nor followers of the dead There lay no banner on his breast, No shield beneath his head. Why art thou here ?" he cried, " alone ! 'Tis thus that guilt should die Unhonored as the slave unknown, Proud chief of thousands ! why ? Thine ear hath drank of stormy cheer, Thy hand the battling host hath led, Thy step was up on high career How hath thy greatness fled ? " Thou'rt low, fallen spirit ! thou, whose wing, On glory's burning track, Spread broad and free a powerless thing Earth wins thee darkly back. 119 Reft is thy truncheon of command. That graced thy princely hand ere-while ; No bending nobles round thee stand, No warriors wait thy smile. " I've seen thee, in thy hour of pride, Thy chiefs to combat lead ; Proud forms were clustering by thy side, And legions bade thee speed ; And gallant plumes came waving by, On many a high and noble brow, With banners purpling air and sky Who sways those legions now ? " I've seen, before that flashing eye, The savage Vandal quail The Goth, at whose loud battle cry Rome's mighty brow grew pale. From thee ahd thine, tliou gallant dead> The fierce barbarian turned in fear ; Hark to hi- hills the Scythian fledj Before thy flashing spear. "I've seen thee, when the Empire-Queen Thy victor triumph gave ; Thou, 'mid the pride of realms, wert seen, The bravest of the brave. Thy brows the Forum's master crowned, With laurels steeped in bloody showers $ And stormy plaudits, echoing round) Shook all the seven-hilled towers. " I've seen thee in thy bower of rest, By Arno's peaceful tide ; A voice was near, whose rich tones blessed- A flower was by thy side. The light of love was round thee thrown Meet lamp to search for glory by All perished ! past ! past with the groan That burst when thou didst die. " All perished ! past ! Ah, ne'er again Shall tower thy helm on high ; Far, on Pharsalia's bloody plain, Thy slaughtered armies lie. A crown is on thy conqueror's brow Thy native land, ne'er chained before, A lordly tyrant fetters now, And Rome is fiee no more." A stranded wreck the exile sought, On Egypt's sea-beat shore ; To crown the pyre his care had wrought, That warrior's corse he bore. 9 And, where great Pompey's pillar stand-, That hero found a nameless grave; His urn was but the hollowed sands, His dirge, the moaning wave ! 123 LAKE CHAMPLAIN. THAT rising moon, whose gladsome ray So sweetly charms my wondering view, Brings to the heart a parted day, And wafts my spirit back to you. Arrayed in nature's faithful dress. The lovely visions yet remain, Of that sweet hour, I saw caress Thy banks and crystal waves, Champlain ! Far onward, from the fairy shore, The slow receding sail grew dim ; While nearer boatman plied his oar, And rudely sung his vesper hymn. 124 The moon was on her silvery way, O'er rising hill, and distant fane, And gilded with her purest ray The placid bosom of Champlain. Oft when my heart, with bodings drear, Is pondering o'er its wayward fate ; When life is sad, and hope is sere, And mind is dark and desolate : Oh ! then, to calm the rising sigh, I'll bid my memory wake again That magic hour of bliss gone by, I spent upon the bright Champlain. 125 THE OUTCAST. THEIR path was in the desert. They had passed That alien mother and her outcast child Forth from the face of man. Along the wild Together, onward fared the homeless pair, Mother and child ; the young boy, wild with glee, That his free step was bounding on the hills, Apart from all mankind. For he was one, Like the young roe, whose heart is of the wild ; And when his voice, from the dim solitudes, Rang wildly back, or his eye caught, at eve, The forest bird's high wing, that sped for rest On to the sun-crowned mountains, it beamed out A milder joy than e'er, amid the bloom And blossoms of the plain. 126 So seemed the boy, Whilst at his side, with ever watchful love, The mother pressed, and oft her trem'lous voice Restrained his ardent bound, that far would spring Up for the forest rose or wild vine, blossoming Where scarce the fawn might crop them. And. whene'er She bathed his burning lip from the low fount Of her fast-failing urn, or tenderly Flung her long locks about him, as he sank Upon her breast in dreams, she reared, the while, Through gathering dews, her dark Egyptian eye To Abraham's God. Now, day and night had passed, Wakening, by turns, bright smiles and dewy tears Upon the young earth's cheek ; and now the sun, From the blue, cloudless depths of Syria's heaven, Looked down with burning fervor. The hushed air Was pulseless, e'en as death, and sultriness 127 Came, like a troubled slumber, on all things, As too deep rest. Where was that mother then ? She of the long dark locks, and dewy eye Where was she at that hour ? Did the heart fail, That thing of strength, when failed the scanty store ? It faltered not, though, in her own meek breast, With quenchless thirst, the raging fever's power Was at its very fountains, quaffing there The springs of life up. Oh ! what line shall sound The waters of affection, or what power Mete out the measure of that deep, deep love, The heart hath for its own ! Beside the shrub, Where laid her hand, for death, the faltering child, She watched his woe, in speechless agony. But when his voice, in the low, murmuring tone Of pain and suffering, plead her hand to lead Where gushed his father's wells, or lay his head, If but a moment, 'neath the sheltering vine, It was too much for nature ; and she sate 128 Apart, and lifted up her voice and wept. Sad tears they were, and bitter ; but they fell Not without witness. From them rose a voice, A deep, low, suppliant tone, that e'en to heaven Stole up, most eloquent to the ear of Him Who heareth the young ravens when they cry, And the wind tempereth to the shorn lamb. 129 AUTUMN. " The glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift ! What is it but the telescope of truth, That brings life near in utter nakedness ?" 'Tis past ! the sunny hour Of Nature's quiet beauty, when the sigh Of summer's farewell, breathed on leaf and flower, Spake of a time to die. Sweet was the soft, low tone, And sad ! deepening in mournful eloquence That mystic voice from shadowy lands unknown, And warning hence. 130 And earth grew sad the while Sad for her beautiful, thus briefly given ! While the far sun, N\ ith melancholy smile, Strayed on through heaven. Meanwhile, in gloomy power, I*}) came the breeze, and o'er its wanderings lone, Summer's bright treasures Autumn's golden dower. \\Vre rudely strown. Where now, the warbling gush Of many a fount's low-breathing melodies ! Earth's smile of young delight, and roseate blush, As marked by morn's returning kiss ! Where sunset's rich displays ! Bright banners, hung in many a gorgeous fold, O'er sun-crowned mountains, robed in purple haze, Like mighty kings of old ! 131 Then the calm, hallowed ray Of night's deep, dewy eye, gleaming on shade, Where her lone songstress poured her roundelay, So sweet, by answering echo made. And the pure, graceful moon, Like a fair shepherdess, with stately tread, O'er the blue hills of heaven, at night's high noon, Her bright flocks led. Dreams ! dreams ! Earth had a brow Smiling with gems and blooming coronal, As a young bride the sun's affianced now, 'Tis beauty, gathered in her pall ! But yet, 'tis wisdom's part, From nature's change to cull her varied store ; Oh ! Autumn ! thine, to teach the wayward heart Its deep and melancholy lore ! 132 Lo ! where the bleak northwest Wars \\ith yon leaf, the loftiest and the last Of its green kindred, gathered by the blast To their long, dreamless rest. Mark the frail trembler cope With power, the mightier far, as loath to part E'en as the last of many a cherished hope Clings to the desolate heart. Hush ! hark ! methinks I hear l/iirai'tlily tones ! as spirit lands were nigh Tuning the dirge-note of the dying year, In wild and stormy minstrelsy ! 'Tis the rude dissonance Of warring winds, the storm is up in \\nith. Bending the forests on its awful path In wild and sullen reverence. 133 'Twere well, methinks, to pause. Where nature's rugged pages open lie. Where stern decay his living image draws, 'Twere well, to learn to die ! 134 TO A FRIEND REMOVING TO THE WEST. Now fare thce well, my own dear friend ! Bright be thy lot below, Good angels on thy steps attend, And blessings with thee go ! Long cloudless prove that ruling star, That leads thee from thy home so far ; And every mortal woe be shed In mercy, on thy gentle head ! For, in thy new and distant home. Whate'er thy fortune prove, Full many a haunting thought will conic. And many a dream of love ; 135 The yearning of the soul, to hear Familiar voices sweet and dear, The heart's loved music, all its own, Which wakes within an answering tone. Though bright the golden sunshine be, On prairie broad and fair, And soft the breeze, and blue the sky The heart will not be there. And bright savannahs, richly dressed In flowers, that woo the warm southwest, Will wake less wild, impassioned dreams, Than granite rocks, and mountain streams. Each flower an unknown name will bear, An unknown fragrance lend ; Each tree will be a stranger there, And not a cherished friend ; 136 For every tree that bends above Our childhood's home, doth claim our love. And every flower, in youth we rear. Hath many a tie to bind us near. God shield thee in that distant land ! Should grief or pain betide ; For few will be the household band That cluster by thy side ; And stranger hands can ill supply The love that shields our infancy, And pity's voice is scarce her own, Breathed in a new and unknown tone. Lo ! her bright lens, triumphantly, To Fancy's eye she rears ! Outspread beneath the western sky, A magic land appears ! 137 All foreign foes its power defies ; Tall spires from crowded cities rise ; And golden commerce richly pours Her tributes from a thousand shores. Then, MARY, go ! and hope, sweet hope, Still to thy heart be given ; The rough ascent the flowery slope Both lead alike to Heaven. And oft when Memory's soft, low tone Shall name lost friends and pleasures flown, Her hand will point to scenes of rest, Where all may meet, and all be blessed. 10 138 SONG OF THE HUSBANDMAN. NEW-ENGLAND'S soil, our happy home, The land of hardy worth, Where plenty crowns the social board, And love lights up the hearth : The land of rock, and mount, and glen, Of noble streams that sweep Through valleys, rich with verdure, In gladness to the deep. Blue are the arching skies above, And green the fields below ; And autumn fruits, and summer flowers, In wild profusion grow. 139 The towering oak and ancient pine Our noble forests bear ; The maple-bough its blossoms Flings on the scented air ; And flocks, and herds, and waving grain, Each slope and upland crown ; And autumn winds, from laden bough, The mellow fruits shake down. The fragrant clover tempts the bee Its blushing sweets to pry, And, in tall ranks, the glossy maize Points upward to the sky. No tyrant landlord wrings our soil, Or rends its fruits away ; The flocks, upon our own green hills, Secure from plunder, stray. No bigot's scourge, no martyr's fires, A barb'rous creed fulfil ; 140 For the spirit of our stern old sires Is with their children still. And pure, to Heaven, our altars rise. Upon a bloodless sod ; Where man, with free, unfettered faith, Bows down, and worships God. No midnight revel wastes our strength > Or prints our brows with care : We shun the noisy wassail The serpent's coiling there. But childhood's ringing tones of mirth, And love's refined caress, With the pure page of knowledge, Our peaceful evenings bless. And, underneath our pillow, There's a spell for slumber's hour, And, for the sons of toil alone, That magic spell hath power. 141 Our homes ! our dear New-England homes ! Where sweet affections meet, Where the cool poplar spreads its shade, And flowers our senses greet : The lily rears her polished cup, The rose as freshly springs, And to the sky looks gaily up, As in the courts of kings ; And the vine, that climbs the window, Hangs drooping from above, And sends its grateful odors in, With messages of love. Then hail to thee ! New-England ! Thou cherished land of ours ! Our sons are like thy granite rocks, Our daughters, like the flowers ! We quail to none, of none we crave, Nor bend the servile knee ; 142 The life-blood, that our fathers gave, Still warms the firm and free. Free as our eagle spreads his wings, We own no tyrant's rod, No master, but the King of kings, No monarch, but our GOD. 143 EVENING HOUR. OH ! happy hour ! when fancy wakes Her golden visions clear and fast ; Thrice happy hour ! when memory takes A survey of the past. She brings before the pensive mind The hallowed scenes of early years, And friends who long have been consigned To silence and to tears. The few we liked the^oNE we loved, In seeming life, come stealing on, And many a scene afar removed, And many a pleasure gone. 144 Friendships, that erst in death were hushed, And young affection's broken chain, And hopes, that time too quickly crushed, In memory live again. These glorious visions ! Oh ! how frail ! All when the gleams of day are done Night covers with her awful veil. Till none are left not one. 145 THE WINE-CUP. THEY come ! they come ! bring forth the wine ! They're gathering round the festive board ! See ! how the sparkling goblets shine ! And hark ! the bubbling wave is poured ! 'Tis but a phantom of the brain, Nor wine, nor revellers, are here ; 'Tis but the rattling of my chain, 'Tis but the mocking fiend I hear ! The mocking fiend ! dark, withering power ! No stain had soiled my spotless name, When first, in youth's unguarded hour, In angel guise, thou, tempter, came ! 146 He sought me with a flower-wreathed cup, His lip the smile of friendship wore, He bade me quaff the beverage up ; I drank and was athirst for more ! Oh ! would my frenzied hand could tear Each pencilled leaf from memory's book ; For many a pictured page is there, On which 'tis madness but to look ! I see my sire's thin, silvery hair ; But, ah ! the damp, fresh mould is piled Hark ! hark ! a widowed mother's prayer Pleads fervent for her outcast child. And there was one, my bosom's love ! Oh ! rashly did that bosom spurn The sweetness of the spirit-dove, When gently pleading, "Turn, oh, turn !"- 147 I broke me from her white arm's clasp, I turned me from her mournful eye. And wildly, madly, rushed to grasp The cursed wine-cup brimming high ! But she is blest in Eden-bowers, No cloud upon her angel brow ; But oh, her babes ! her cherished flowers ! Oh God ! those babes are beggars now ! They crouch to wretches basely born, They drink the dregs of misery up, And bide the jeering taunts of scorn, All, all for thee, thou cursed cup ! Wretch that I was ! my sun-bright hopes, Sweet visions of my boyhood's prime, Rich treasured mines that science opes, And genius' soaring thoughts sublime, us And love, and life, and broad domain, I bartered for the wine-cup's spell ; Till soon the maniac's burning chain Will drag me to the drunkard's hell ! Dark, wildering visions of the past, Blent with the future's dread unknown, With mingling gloom, each ray o'ercast, And reason spurns her crumbling throne.- The fiend that lured me to my doom, At last the shrinking soul to crave, With lowering eye and raven plume, Sits watching by a yawning grave ! 149 HEROES OF THE REVOLUTION. A NOBLE race they were, the tried And true of olden time. Our glorious sires who bled and died For this, our own free clime. Oh ! hallowed be each sacred name That fearless to the conflict came, And, freely on the battle plain, Poured out their blood like drops of rain. Few are the sculptured gifts of art A nation's love to tell, And many a brave and gallant heart Hath mouldered where it fell. 150 The spiry maize, luxuriant, waves Its long green leaves o'er heroes' graves ; And thoughtless swains this harvest reap, Where our stern fathers' ashes sleep. But after years the tale shall tell, In words of light revealed, Who bravely fought who nobly fell ; And many a well-fought field, Outspread beneath the western sun, Shall live with ancient Marathon ; And Bunker Hill, and Trenton's name, Be linked with old Platea's fame ! But the surviving few, who stand, A remnant weak and old, Sole relics of that glorious band, Whose hearts were hearts of gold, 151 Oh ! honored be each silvery hair ! Each furrow, trenched by toil and care ! And sacred, each old bending form That braved oppression's battle-storm 1 A YOUNG MOTHER'S DEATH. MRS. HANNAH BRYANT died at Plainfield, New Hampshire, April 18, 1839. No sculptured marble shrines thy dust, Nor mantling verdure grows, Where sleeps thy form, with many tears Just borne to its repose ; But memory chants her solemn lay, Sweet spirit of the dead ! While damp the sod, and fresh the mound, Above thy narrow bed. Though Faith uprears her mournful eye, To that bright land of rest, Where thou hast won thy birthright crown, And art for ever blessed ; 153 Yet drooping Sorrow strings her lyre For numbers sad and slow. And, weeping, wakes each trembling chord, Attuned to tones of woe. Alas ! for earth ! its brighest hopes, On fleetest pinions, fly, In rosy wreaths, the cherished buds Are oft the first to die. The flowers that graced thy bridal wreath. Scarce withered is their bloom, When Death the cypress garland wove, That crowned thee for the tomb. Oh ! who can solve the dark decree That bade thee thus depart ? The well-springs of a mother's love Just gushing in thy heart ; 11 154 Who, for thy fair and cherished babe, A mother's love fulfil ? And guard, like thee, its opening bloom, And shield from every ill ? Who, but thy God ? to whom thy heart Its sacred treasure gave, In that dread hour, when life's last sands Were dropping in the grave. Thy God, who heard that murmured prayer, From spirit undefiled, Will fold the mantle of his love Around thy precious child, And he, who claimed thy bosom's love, Unchilled by damps of death, Who clasped in his thy dying hand, And caught thy parting breath, 155 Whose name was on thy marble lips, And in thy latest prayer, How shall he drink this mingled cup Which thou canst never share ? But, fare thee well ! no power of earth Might stay thy fleeting breath ; Nor fond regret, nor yearning love, Shall win thee back from death ; But, o'er thy tomb, unfailing showers Shall sweet affection shed, And memory chant her solemn lay, Sweet spirit of the dead ! 156 LOSS OF THE LEXINGTON. HARK ! from the shore, the warning bell Proclaims the time of parting near, And kind adieu, and fond farewell, Are echoing from the crowded pier. On on the gallant vessel glides, Like some proud ocean-bird, nor craves Protection from the heaving tides, Nor favor from the storms and waves. No freighted bark, with wealth untold, From sunny India's palmy shore, With gems and coral, pearl and gold, Such precious cargo ever bore. Oh ! for the crowded deck was rife With beauty's shape, and manly form ; A priceless freight of human life, And hearts with hope and feeling warm. 157 There stood the patriot, and the brave The master of the scenic art The conqueror of the ocean wave And man of God, with humble heart ; With youth, full blooming as the rose, And childhood, with its locks of light : All all secure, as round them close The sable curtains of the night. But many a breast, with mortal fear, Hath throbbed at memory's sickening tale, And many an orphan weeps to hear The name of that ill-omened sail. She never reached her destined strand ; But well we know the doom she bore, For stiffened corse, and wave-quenched brand, Came drifting on the frozen shore. 158 THE FLOWER OF THE ALPS. The Alpine Flower, (Rosa Alpina,) a species of the Rho- dodendron, is a native of the Alps and some other high moun- tains, and grows above all other ligneous vegetation. It is found, on the Alps, at an elevation of over 7000 feet, and near the region of perpetual snow, a solitary flower, to adorn the ice-bound courts of the palace of the king of storms. With its roots deep set in the fissures of the rocks, it stands there, upon the very outpost of vegetation a lone sentinel the boundary line of life and throws out its bright, red flower, and sweet odors, upon the surrounding desolation a blush on the cheek of death. ON Alpine cliffs, forever white With ancient drift and snow-wreath old, The sun pours out his floods of light, Where all is drear, and stern, and cold* 159 There, never doth the violet blue, That vesper flower, its azure show ; Nor purple bell, nor wild-rose hue, With tinted shadows, flush the snow. But, far below, from beetling cliffs, The vulture spreads his sail-like wings ; And heedless, o'er unfathomed drifts, From crag to crag, the chamois springs. But, far above the vulture's nest, The dauntless mountaineer hath trod, Where life seems locked in dreamless rest, And Nature dwells alone with God. There doth he find that wondrous flower, Whose buds those chilling airs endure ; Its only bed, some rocky tower, Tts only food, the sunshine pure. 160 Pale as the lily cheek of death, It breathes a balmy fragrance there ; As if some viewless angel's breath Were floating on the still, cold air. 'Tis ever thus ; could we but soar, And track the mind's mysterious flight, Or the deep caverned heart explore, Where thought lies, curtained from the sight ; There, haply should some maze unfold Bright tokens of its birthright power, No human heart, so stern, so cold, But bears some pure, redeeming flower. 161 THE SPIRIT-LAND. KNOW ye the land afar, in shadowy distance, The Spirit-Land, by mortal feet untrod ? Where the free spirit, from a frail existence, Springs from its fetters and returns to God ? Man roams the earth, its forests, wilds, and mountains, From the bright tropic, to the Arctic sea ; Tracks, to their hidden source, the desert's fountains, But vain his search, O Spirit-Land ! for thee ! Nor e'er hath bark, old ocean's wastes exploring, Its coasts descried ; nor mariner, by night, Hailed from aloft, when winds and waves were roaring, The warning beacon of its watchtower light. 162 Yet have the pure in heart, with raptured vision, Caught from afar, by Faith's adoring eye, Bright, glorious glimpses of a land Elysian, Laved by the Ocean of Eternity. A land of peace, within whose hallowed bowers, The weary pilgrim of the earth may rest ; A land of cooling shades, and blooming flowers, And trees of life in deathless foliage dressed. There, never more, may weeping minstrel borrow The harp of Hope, to soothe the ear of Pain ; There misery comes not, nor the tear of sorrow, Nor shape of death, through all the broad domain. Tell me ! some spirit, from the blue arch bending A pitying look on scenes of grief and care, Tell ! e'en in dreams a balm to sorrow lending, If my soft buds of beauty blossom there ! 163 And oh ! where earth's lost flowers, once more re- newing Their bloom and beauty, grace the fair domain, Heaven's balmly air with deathless odors strewing, Shall I not greet my long lost flowers again ? Could I but clasp them, feel their pure hearts beat- ing ! If in those eyes remembrance linger yet, Heaven ! heaven itself, were in that blessed meeting ! My own my HAMPDEN and my HENRIETTE ! 164 SONG. NIGHT unfurled her spangled banner, And the silvery moonlight fell, In a soft, though glorious manner, O'er all nature, like a spell. Gushing streams, beneath its splendor, Streams, all day so still and mute, Woke in music wildly tender, As a mourning fairy's lute. Voicelessly young leaves were quivering, Though the night-breeze fanned the bower, And the clasping woodbine, shivering, Strewed on earth a diamond shower. 165 Buds, that moonlight magic closes. Bowed them to their graceful rest, And the night-breath of the roses * Nature's lovely forms caressed. Deem ye why each bright revealing, With a new, wild rapture, stole O'er each chord of blissful feeling, 'Mid the harpstrings of the soul ? 'Twas the hour, when love's devotion Whispered first, " Wilt thou be mine ?" And my heart, with wild emotion, Softly murmured' " thine, love, THINE !" 166 MEDITATIONS IN THE GRAVE-YARD. " TREAD Virtue's path," the dying saint exclaimed ; u Oh ! love your God, when I no more am named : Oh ! choose the sure, the only path to bliss, And find the blessing in an hour like this." Thus died ; the soul, with nature's parting sigh, Was wafted on to immortality. Angelic being ! hail ! beyond the tide Of life or death spirit beatified ! If saints can weep, Oh ! drop a pitying tear For life's poor, sad companions wandering here. Thus vagrant fancy wanders through the gloom, Sighs o'er each mound, and leans on every tomb 167 Of dear, departed worth, and sheds the tear Of kind affection, o'er each hallowed bier; From memory's flowers, with fond devotion, weaves The fadeless wreath around each urn, and leaves The spot, where virtue's cold remains abide, To ponder at thy grave, poor Suicide ! Poor child of sorrow, suffering, sin, and shame ! Sad was the goal, to which thy wanderings came ! But thou wast mortal, and our birth we may Claim from the same, poor, weak, and fragile clay. And say, proud soul of mine ! couldst thou abide A spirit scorned, or cope with wounded pride ? And thou hadst griefs which none, perchance, might see, Deep, nameless griefs though, far be it from me, The weary, earth-worn spirit, to entice To deeds like thine or twine a wreath for vice. Thine was the lot, degenerate child of earth ! To draw, from mean obscurity, thy birth : No ray of science ever shone to bless The shadowed scenery of thy lowliness ; 168 No guardian friend hadst thou, in early youth. To guide thy footsteps in the path of truth. Point up thy soul, and bid thy feet repair Around the altar reared for household prayer ; And the dim spark of conscience, placed within, Could not restrain thy nature prone to sin. And I have said again I will not say 3 Tis well for earth, that thou hast passed away ; I will not say, thou didst deserve the meed Of such a death, by many a sinful deed ; A death, by strange infatuation moved, Which Cato wrought, and Chatterton approved. Oh ! may her dying words, that still unlock The shuddering thoughts, and every fibre shock, Restrain my soul, that weakly, pronely errs, From every thought of impious deeds like hers ; So may my spirit shun the dark abyss, Nor rashly, madly taste a death like this. And I have loved, at midnight hour, to pore O'er Darwin's rich and philosophic lore, 169 Enraptured hung, with eye that would not tire. O'er Moore's half holy, half licentious lyre ; With Volney's eye, Palmyra's ruins scan, Or view, with Pope, the secret soul of man : Alas ! the enchanted lay that charmed before, Hath power to soothe the moody mind no more. Like Young, whose musej arrayed in sable gloom, So fondly loiters at Narcissa's tomb, My fancy, too, would seek the silent shade, Where the loved forms of virtuous friends are laid. Thou, too, my father ! ever honoured name, Sad was the scene that with thy exit came ! I saw thy pain I heard thy dying voice That bade thy children, make thy God their choice ; The eye's bright energy I see it now It spoke the soul ; the cold and dewy brow, And quivering lip, I saw but could not see The last death-pang of nature's agony ! I saw the mournful hearse thy form convey To this last dwelling of our mortal clay ; 12 170 Pensive I listened, while thy dirge was sung, And heard the clod that on thy coffin rung ; Then thought was withered ; how could offspring bear To leave a FATHER, in dark silence, there ! Though days have passed, and moons have rolled away, Since thou wert left, entombed in kindred clay ; Though, on thy grave, the verdant wild flowers bloom, And earth's green robe is mantling o'er thy tomb, I love thy memory still ; thy guardian care, Shrined in my heart, is well remembered there. Sad was the hour, when death, in dread array, Again returned to claim its destined prey. Within the halls of home, again, the wail Of woe was heard for she was cold and pale, My friend, my SISTER, bade a last adieu ; But faith, the soul's bright anchor, cheered her through That dismal gulf, those shades of frightful gloom, And stayed her soul triumphant o'er the tomb. 171 THE FAREWELL. Now fare thee well, my own dear babe ! Dark fate hath left for me No pang more bitter, than the grief Of parting thus with thee. Thou'rt gone, and slumbering low! in vain. These scalding tears are shed In vain, I press thy cold, cold form, My own, my precious dead ! Ah ! little deemed my careless heart, When, warm in life, I pressed The softness of thy velvet cheek, And hushed thee on my breast, And caught the fragrance of thy breath, The laughter of thine eye, Ah ! little deemed my careless heart, So fair a thing could die. 172 Though many a glorious dream was mine. And many a vision rare, 1 had no thought of happiness, In which thou didst not share ; And hope, in soothing accents, spake Of rapturous scenes to be, And sent her Dove, through future years* For many a bough for thee. But, all too soon, the spoiler came, And marked thee for his prey ; Too soon, within these fostering arms* All faint and fading lay, Just like a pale and withering flower, Thy loved and cherished form, Borne down, in all its opening bloom, By some o'ermastering storm* 173 Though mine hath been full many a tear, And many a bitter woe. And many a chill and boding fear That mothers only know ; Yet, when beside thy dying bed, I trembled, wept, and prayed, All other griefs grew light, to think I could nqt give thee aid. And when, with bursting heart, I came, And o'er thee wildly bent, And saw that little, quivering frame, With wild convulsions rent. And caught the low and murmuring groan, The faint and struggling breath, I could I think I could have died, To win thee back from death. 174 Full well I knew, life's flowery maze Thy feet should never tread, Yet, when they came, with solemn phrase, And told me thou wert dead, I feared to look upon thy face, For fear mine eye might see, 'Mid death's still grace, some wakening trace Of life and agony. But hours passed on thou didst not wake ; Forever in thy breast, The mortal strife of death and life Was sweetly hushed to rest : I came ; that throbbing pulse was still, So wrung with pain before, And that soft eye was turned to mine, With joyous look, no more. 175 I know the angel's lot is thine ; I know that thou art blest. Where no wild dream of earthly woe Shall haunt thy peaceful rest ; Yet, 'mid the yearnings of its love, This heart laments thee still, For thou hast left a void within, No earthly gift can fill. But fare thee well ! around thy bed The wintry wind shall rave, And Summer sunbeams warmly smile, And Autumn's harvest wave ; And Spring shall come, with balmy breath, To deck the flowery lea, And bring the rose and violet back, And every flower but thee. HANNIBAL'S DIRGE, Hamilcar Barcas, the father of Hannibal, made his son, when he was hut nine years old, swear, at the altar, eternal enmity to the Romans; and well did the man keep the boy's vow. In the second of those terrible wars waged between Carthage, a powerful state in the North of Africa, and Rome, called the " Punic wars," Hannibal commanded the armies of Carthage. At the age of twenty-six years, Hannibal led the Car- thagenian forces through Gaul, and over the Alps, in mid- winter : defeated, in succession, three Roman consular armies ; and afterwards, at Cannae, with 50,000 men, completely over- threw the Roman soldiery, under command of the Consul Varro, consisting of 87,000 men, the very flower of the Roman legions. After wasting, with fire and sword, and keeping possession of the finest part of Italy for nearly seventeen years, and en- rainping under the very walls of proud Rome herself, Hannibal was recalled to Carthage to defend his native land against tin victorious arms of Scipio. His countrymen were compelled to accept a humiliating peace, which his haughty spirit could not brook, and Hannibal retired, first to Antiochus, King of 177 {Syria, and afterwards to Prusias, King of Bithynia, with both of whom he formed powerful leagues, and prosecuted fierce and bloody wars against Rome. But being finally unsuccessful, to prevent his being delivered up to grace the triumph of his sworn enemies, the hero terminated his own life at the age of sixty-four years B. C. 183 by taking poison, which he always carried about him for the purpose, concealed in a ring. Now, hail ! thou draught of deathful name ! And welcome, thou destroying bowl ! Thy wave shall quench high valor's flame, And chill a hero's burning soul. I scorn to blanch at fear of ill ; I die, but die a freeman still ! To scourge the Roman's purple pride, While yet a stripling boy, I swore, And manhood, urged by wrong, defied The yoke their slavish vassals wore : 178 This iron heart hath kept its truth, And age repeats the ban of youth ! When Carthage spurned the name of slave, And braved her rival from afar, My banner to the winds I gave, And led her free-born sons to war. In many a fierce and bloody fight, The mail-clad legions owned my might, And many a field of battle won, Bears witness what this hand hath done. My course was like the torrent's roar, And down the frozen Alps I swept ! Destruction forged the mail I wore, And sternly true my oath I kept : My oath of anger, hatred, shame, And vengeance on the Roman name ! 179 I met the haughty Consul's band. And swept them to a gory tomb ; I battered, with this own right hand. Great Scipio's helm, and Varro's plume, And reaped the laurels glory yields On martial plains and battle-fields. My gallant band ! where are ye now ? I hear your battle-cry no more ! Reft is the morion from each brow, That lowered, unscathed, the carnage o'er ! Ye can not list your chieftain's call, To yield his corse a soldier's rite, Or cross your swords upon the pall Of him, that led you to the fight ; But ye the laurel wreath may claim, And share your leader's deathless fame ! 180 Oh ! had I died in glory's arms, 'Mid Cannae's purple fields of gore ! Or sunk beneath the dread alarms, On Thrasymene's bloody shore ! Then, with no vulgar burst of grief, Had Carthage mourned her fallen chief, Borne on his shield, the hero's hearse - And Rome had felt my dying curse ! It could not be ! some Syrian slave, That never drew the free-born air, Shall hollow out a nameless grave, And lay the mighty slumberer there ! INo martial requiem will be heard, As o'er my breast the turf shall close ! Nor proud mausoleum be reared To mark the spot, where I repose ! But, never, shall this plebeian grave Eclipse the memory of the brave ! And never, never shall go down My sun of glory and renown ! 181 Then hail ! thou draught of deathful name ! And welcome, thou destroying bowl ! Thy wave shall quench high valour's flame, And chill a hero's burning soul. This parting cup of deathless hate, I pledge thee, Rome ! with scorn and tears, I yield my spirit to its fate, My glory, to succeeding years ! 182 THE DREAM. I HAD a dream : methought, in boundless space, Soaring aloft, the spirit-wing swept free, Chainless enfranchised each dim, shadowy trace Of its poor, pitiful mortality, Swept from its nobler nature. Still the power, Quenchless within, that lit its being first, Glowed with unwonted fervor, in that hour Of brief redemption ; deep the burning thirst, To drink the cup of mysteries ; alone, To scan great Nature's round, mirror of the unknown ! But to my theme. Above, around me rose A mighty dome, unlike what art can show, Vast and sublime ! nor marble walls enclose, Nor gates of brass the entrance guard below. Its moveless, deep foundations who could know ? The eternal hills but as its threshold were, Robed with the deep blue heavens, where ceaseless glow 183 Unfailing lamps ! How awful, yet how fair. Seemed the proud structure, of a perfect plan, For through each vast design, grace, order, beauty, ran. I marked the priestess ; and her crown, I thought, Was yon old sun, in all the gorgeous blaze Of splendid noon ! her drapery was wrought Of the curled clouds, and fringed with purple haze ! Girt with the bow of heaven, her awful form She reared sublime, while tempests, winds, and waves, Performed her bidding ! Sandalled with the storm, Her course she held o'er generations' graves, On to Eternity ! ever still the same Her shape, for countless years ! Great Nature was her name ! There dim, methought, as through full aisles I pressed, Half caught mine eye, amid the deepening shade, The sepulchre of ages, where, to rest, The ashes of antiquity were laid. 184 It miirht not be ; for, from the hallowed shrine. Hushing eacli impulse in a deep surprise, Pealed on my ear the oracle divine, A deep and thrilling tone, that cried, " Be wise, Ye of the dust, be wise ! for ye have trod The temple of Himself; bow dowri and worship God !" Then rose the deep, full cadences of prayer, In tones of mingled multitudes combined, A- all bowed down, in solemn reverence, there. To Him, first, last, sole, uncreated Mind The Invisible ! But then I woke, to find Myself a worshipper at Fancy's shrine, Whose airy hand each glorious scene designed, Though half obscured by lowly phrase of mine. So passed the dream away ; yet not forgot Its theme gathered with things that luu and are not. re i i