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<Ticate and gentle loveliness of woman, a firm but 
 graceful dignity. Every thing around was busy, yet 
 all was quiet ; the face of earth, spread with luxuri- 
 ant harvests, lay in deep repose, and the mind need 
 never fly away to find a calm and peaceful resting- 
 place. Her parents were engaged in a life of indus- 
 try, in cultivating their farm, and were both professors 
 of religion. They strove studiously to instil into the 
 tender minds of their children the doctrines and pre- 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 cepts of the holy gospel of the SAVIOUR. Their 
 daughter always found at home a rigid school of moral 
 discipline. The parental trust was well and faithfully 
 executed. They early taught her the all-important 
 value of time, the duty of industry ; those cardinal 
 principles which dignify humanity, the love of virtue 
 and truth ; a profound reverence for the Deity, and a 
 deep sense of heartfelt gratitude for all his goodness, 
 in which this world bears*no part. 
 
 While young, Mrs. Daniels enjoyed the advan- 
 tages of the common schools, of which New England 
 may be so justly proud, where are taught the rudi- 
 ments of a solid, practical education, whose lasting 
 benefits ever after endear " the old school-house" 
 to the heart. Add to this a few terms at the semi- 
 nary, which were spent in the study of the natural 
 sciences, and in acquiring a knowledge of the Latin 
 and French languages, and we have the whole course 
 of her academical instruction. In history, poetry, 
 painting, (which was a favourite amusement,) philos- 
 ophy, and general literature, she was self-taught. A 
 vigorous mind is ever conscious of an inborn power, 
 
14* MEMOIR. 
 
 competent to master any thing within its reach. She 
 needed no incitement to study ; the Pierian spring 
 was as a fountain of life ; a book was a continual 
 feast ; and when but a young girl, she would sit for 
 hours with her mind lost in its pages, in the midst of 
 a gay and mirthful company, unconscious of their 
 presence. 
 
 Home is the great nursery of science and art. 
 Here their goddess reveals her mysteries, and schools 
 but echo her voice. From the retirements of home, 
 have gone forth the rays that have enlightened the 
 world, and the virtue and industry which have reared 
 up human institutions, and maintained the state. 
 Knowledge, like the Christian's hope, expands by 
 secret meditation. Whoever spends the hours of 
 relaxation from toil and business, in reading and 
 study, will never suffer the reproach of ignorance. 
 Mrs. Daniels was never idle. When not engaged in 
 household duties, she was occupied with book, or pen, 
 or pencil. She loved knowledge for itself, for its own 
 intrinsic beauty, and for the mental gratification which 
 i always brings. She conceived increase in know- 
 
MEMOIR. 15 
 
 ledge to be the growth of the soul, one great end and 
 aim of its creation. 
 
 It is a matter for deep regret that, after enjoying 
 the pleasure of composing, she destroyed most of her 
 writings. The passing events of the day were often 
 recorded in verse, and many a time has the family 
 circle been convulsed with laughter at the figure cut 
 by some well-known rustic fop, or quack doctor, 
 when dressed up in the garb of her young comic 
 muse. 
 
 Mrs. Daniels became the mother of six children, 
 two of whom preceded their parent to the grave. 
 The reader, in perusing her frequent and touching 
 allusions to the death of these children, cannot but 
 see and feel the depth and tenderness of her maternal 
 affection. They left behind them a bleeding heart. 
 Their little graves were often wet with a mother's 
 tears. The flowers, planted by her own hands, still 
 blossom over their tombs ; and, if a mother's prayers 
 were answered, their innocent spirits now repose in 
 the arms of their heavenly Father's love. It was a 
 star of joy amid the gloom of death, that she might 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 soon be \\ith her departed little ones again ; and 
 often in her last fatal illness, when speaking of the 
 recognition of friends after death, she remarked that, 
 after all, it might be one of God's mysterious mercies, 
 to separate her children, and take away a part of 
 them, to bear her company in the spirit-land. 
 
 Her last illness, which confined her to her room 
 for about three months, was peculiarly distressing ; so 
 much so, that she often exclaimed, " Qh ! how I 
 \\ i-h I could die !" Her health had always been very 
 precarious. Death approached by such slow degrees 
 that it became familiar, and lost its terrors. The mind 
 rose bright and triumphant over all, like the sun above 
 the mists of morning, calm, active, and unsubdued, 
 \vhile the heart-strings of life were breaking, and all the 
 dread panorama of eternity was full in view. It may not 
 be uninteresting to mention, that the poem, entitled, 
 " The flower of the Alps," was composed upon her 
 bed of death, and was written down by a friend, at 
 IUT dictation, but a day or two before her decease, 
 wheg she was too weak to use a pen. On the morn- 
 ing of the 16th of June, 1841, she conversed freely, 
 
MEMOIR. 17 
 
 and told her aged mother, afflicted husband, and 
 weeping relatives, who had gathered around her bed- 
 side, how well she had always loved them, and that 
 her only regret was, to leave them and her children, 
 and charged them to cherish the memory of the dead 
 as a sacred trust. The sure evidences of speedy dis* 
 solution were now manifest, and after a short struggle 
 she revived and said, " Pray to God to give me 
 patience." These were her last, her dying words. 
 The lamp of life burned steadily out, without a fitful 
 glare ; the pulse faded away, without one convulsive 
 throb ; her sun went down clear and cloudless ; time 
 closed the golden gates of day ; and the grave lost a 
 victory. 
 
 And is this death ? a calm and placid sleep the 
 quieting of mortal agonies the closing of the eye 
 upon the twilight of existence, to open it on dazzling 
 day ! This, the " Icing of terrors !" whose sceptre 
 is the olive-branch of peace ; whose subject's brow 
 betrays no thought of fear, and lip no murmur of 
 oppression ! Yes, this is what we see of death. 
 How serene it has left the features ! how bland and 
 
18 MEMOIR. 
 
 lifr-likr their expression ! the seeming influence of 
 a soul within ; as if the spirit, at the last moment, 
 catching a bright vision of eternity, lighted up the 
 countenance with a heavenly ray, and left there a 
 parting impress on its " tenement of clay," a smile 
 of joy, an earnest of its glorious immortality. 
 
 The name of Mrs. Daniels is one around which 
 cluster the most pleasing remembrances. We would 
 not say that she was endowed with a moral or intel- 
 lectual nature more exalted than belongs to the race 
 of man ; nor would we draw down, with impious 
 hand, a superior order of beings, to furnish attributes 
 for a mortal. It is difficult for the eye of kindred and 
 affection to view its object in the same light as the 
 world sees it. An indulgent sympathy throws around 
 those we love a veil of enchantment, which hides 
 their faults. Still, in the present instance, we may 
 say, without fear of denial, that any errors, or follies, 
 were of the head and not of the heart, and that " e'en 
 her failings leaned to virtue's side." 
 
 Many of the poems in this little volume were 
 written merely for amusement, and to while away 
 
MEMOIR. 19 
 
 a leisure hour, amid the labours, cares, and anxieties, 
 appertaining to the charge of a large family. These 
 hours were indeed few, but were so employed as to 
 produce more real happiness and lasting good than 
 the accumulated years of many a long life. Neither 
 were they composed with the remotest idea of publi- 
 cation, except in a very few instances, and then at 
 the earnest solicitation of friends. Fame or notoriety 
 had no part in their creation. In her unhappy state 
 of health, any employment which would divert the 
 mind from the pains of the body, and give if a free, 
 elastic wing, was the highest source of earthly happi- 
 ness. Writing was a pleasure, because it banished, 
 for the time, the thoughts of the ills of life ; and the 
 mind, when inspired by the muse, broke its earthly 
 chains, and went free of material influence. 
 
 When " THE FIRST SPRING FLOWER '* was sent 
 to Governor Hill for publication, the author accom- 
 panied it with a letter, from which is taken the fol- 
 lowing extract, which requires no words from us to 
 explain its application. 
 
 " After all, say what you will of the allurements 
 
20 MEMOIR. 
 
 of wealth, the applause of men, or the excitement of 
 competition the most potent spell operating on tin 
 mind of man, and stimulating to good and noble ex- 
 ertion, is a spell woven in the sanctuary of home. 
 Let a man go forth from a scene of domestic disorder 
 and discontent, though the sun shine ever so brightly, 
 or the dews of heaven fall ever so grateful, the heart 
 of that man will but ill accord with the gladness of 
 nature. He will be, if I may so express it, ' as one 
 Avho labours without hope ;' like the mariner, who 
 finds himself upon the broad sea with a leaky, ill- 
 conditioned craft, whose time and energies are con- 
 sumed in vainly striving to rectify vexatious dis- 
 orders. But that man whose home is the theatre of 
 order and usefulness whose motto is, 'judicious 
 economy in expenditure,' (the true key-stone of the 
 farmer's wealth) whose bosom friend is the faithful 
 treasurer of his purse, presents a striking and happy 
 contrast to the foregoing. Ever)^ effort within will 
 be a new incentive to action and energy without, and 
 prosperity the sure result of order, harmony, and con- 
 t." 
 
MEMOIR. 21 
 
 If we admit the simile of some philosophers, that 
 virtue is mental beauty and vice deformity, then the 
 mind of Mrs. Daniels was indeed beautiful. It was 
 adorned with high social, moral, and intellectual 
 graces, and was not marred by pride, malice, or self- 
 ishness. Her life seems to have been measured by 
 the golden rule. She recognized, theoretically and 
 practically, the duty of promoting " the greatest good 
 to the greatest number." The idea of a rigid ac- 
 countability seems to have been ever present in all 
 her thoughts. In the social relations her influence 
 was quickly and strongly felt. The stranger was 
 kindly received, and the friend welcomed with open 
 arms. Her hospitality and friendship were never 
 manifested by any trivial actions and expressions that 
 indicate weakness, or a forced politeness, but by 
 a frank, open-hearted dignity, which at once reached 
 the heart and won it. A vigilant care and scrutiny 
 were observed in the admission of persons to her inti- 
 macy, which those more lavish of their confidence 
 might mistake for hauteur, or coldness. Friendship 
 was regarded as a sacred thing, a spiritual union, in 
 
MI.MOIR. 
 
 whirl) mind was wedded to mind, for an everlasting 
 companionship of good. The breaking of such ties 
 must always deeply wound, and leave the keen regret 
 of abused trust and confidence misplaced. Such 
 pain rarely fell to her lot ; for, making intrinsic worth 
 and n-al merit so far as a good judgment could dis- 
 cern human character the test for admission to the 
 eirele of her bosom friends, the attachments spring- 
 ing up from such sources were firm and abiding. 
 Adversity but made them stronger, and death itself 
 could not destroy them. 
 
 The education of females has been too much 
 neglected. Superior to man, in many respects, they 
 have been denied the advantages which have opened 
 to him the paths to glory and fame. Knowledge is 
 power. History shows, that the education and 
 advancement of woman is the peculiar mark of civil- 
 ization. Woman is the presiding genius of refined 
 society her elevation has ever been " the bow in the 
 clouds," a sure covenant of promise that, thenceforth, 
 the rough storms of human passions should be hushed. 
 Home is indeed her station ; and where, in the whole 
 
MEMOIR. 23 
 
 round of the world, can be found a more important 
 post ? She is there the guardian of the nation's rising 
 hopes, and the keeper of its destiny. How important 
 is a mother's duty ! The child first smiles as she 
 smiles, acts as she acts, thinks as she thinks. From 
 her it receives its physical, intellectual, and moral life 
 and nourishment. Retired from the public gaze within 
 the bosom of her family, her powerful influence has 
 glided quietly down through the long vista of ages, 
 giving life and beauty to the whole field of the hu- 
 man mind, like the sacred river of Egypt, without 
 receiving a single tributary stream. Mrs. Daniels was 
 fully sensible of her maternal responsibility, and de- 
 voted her whole soul to the good of her children. 
 They were taught, by precept and example, that real 
 merit consists in noble deeds, and that a life of up- 
 rightness and industry is the only sure road to honour 
 and happiness. And as death removed them from 
 her, one by one, she folded the living nearer to her 
 bosom ; and there, the hearts of mother and child 
 commingling, they prayed together for their heavenly 
 Father's blessing. 
 
'24 MEMOIR. 
 
 As a scholar, Mrs. Daniels was, if we consider 
 her limited academical instruction, depressed state of 
 health, and the extent and burden of her domestic du-- 
 ties and cares, entitled to a high rank. These alone 
 would seem to have been sufficient to engage the 
 strongest mind, if not to weigh it completely down. 
 Still her attainments in the arts and sciences, in phi- 
 losophy, and polite and general literature, were varied 
 and extensive. She was always learning. The 
 intellect was competent to any task to which it was 
 applied ; and her ingenuity, whether directed to any 
 household handiwork, to drawing, or to painting 
 never failed to accomplish its end. By energy and 
 perseverance, much was done in a little time. Hers 
 was a well-regulated mind, in which the moral and 
 intellectual powers were blended in harmony with 
 each other, and with themselves. Such a mind is at 
 home anywhere ; readily adapts itself to any state of 
 things ; and, being ever under the control of reason, 
 its rightful guardian, is the highest earthly good. .Mr-. 
 Daniels believed that nothing was formed in vain, but 
 that good was in every thing, and neglected nothing 
 
MEMOIR. 25 
 
 as worthless. Her attention was alive to all that trans- 
 pired ; and useful information was often derived from 
 slight occurrences, which a listless mind would pass 
 by and forget. Whoever studies attentively a drop 
 of water, can discover the laws that bind the world 
 together. Her manner of reading was rapid, but the 
 memory had been so trained by judicious culture, that 
 what she read became incorporated with her own 
 ideas and sentiments, and could be recalled at a mo- 
 ment, as by intuition, and much of it literally re- 
 peated. By the aid of this happy faculty she pos- 
 sessed a large fund of knowledge, ever ready for im- 
 mediate use. 
 
 Her imagination was quick and vivid, but so well 
 directed by reason and judgment, that it never with- 
 drew the mind from the important pursuits of life. 
 Thus guided, it found a happy home among the 
 realities of the world. It viewed things and their 
 relations as God has made them. There was no im- 
 pious desire to improve upon Omniscience. Fallacious 
 forms and unreal conditions were cast aside as dreamy 
 nothings. The face of creation was fair. Earth 
 
 3 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 started up full of real beauty and truth; and these 
 were the themes on which her fancy loved to dwell. 
 It never went forth upon the wing, for the purpose 
 of vain sport, or idle speculation, but in search of 
 useful knowledge ; and the gay and fairy drapery 
 which it brought in, was always used to beautify and 
 make more enchanting the forms of truth and virtue. 
 Poetry thus became philosophy, and strewed the 
 rough way of life with many a flower. No unreal 
 states of fancied happiness appeared to fret away 
 existence, and dim the brightness of the star of truth. 
 Hope was clear and steady ; an all-wise and sovereign 
 Will was everywhere manifest ; and all the mental 
 faculties were united in happy concord, to form a 
 character just fitted for a world like this. 
 
 Of Mrs. Daniels's writings we deign not to speak 
 at length ; they carry with them their own best com- 
 ment. Whoever reads some of them, will feel rising 
 in his own soul the involuntary exclamation beauti- 
 ful ! And this is the best and truest criticism, the 
 free and spontaneous answering of the heart, untram- 
 melled by artificial rules, It is the judgment of nature 
 
MEMOIR. 27 
 
 assenting to the truth of her own image. Such of 
 them as have been published, have been widely 
 copied, and highly praised and admired, while their 
 author was unknown, for she was too modest and un- 
 assuming during life, to give them the sanction of her 
 name. The learned compilers of the " New-Hamp- 
 shire Book," which comprises selections from the 
 most celebrated writers of her native state, have 
 drawn upon her productions very freely, to adorn their 
 work. And when their author's name became known 
 by her decease, the public journals bore willing wit- 
 ness to her genius and worth, and recorded many a 
 mournful and heartfelt eulogy to her memory. 
 
 Now are those rural halls, which so lately echoed 
 the sweet music of the lyre, hung in mourning ; the 
 laurel is torn asunder to give place to the gloomy 
 cypress wreath ; the tenderest ties of kindred and af- 
 fection have been broken ; purity of life, the highest 
 social virtues, mental accomplishments, and talents, 
 offered no shield, but rather invited the aim of death 
 to the shining mark. Many a heart is full of grief; 
 taht most dearly beloved friend is no more. Another 
 
JS MEMOIR. 
 
 harp is broken, and the sweet strains that trembled 
 on its strings, are heard only in heaven. 
 
 The living may draw near, and, standing around 
 her grave, feel a seeming presence of the dead. They 
 may drop a tear over the unconscious dust, for such 
 a fleeting tribute may well befit the evanescent life 
 and utter ruin of " the human form divine." But the 
 mind ! the undying soul ! the eternal spirit ! THAT 
 hail from on high with hymns of victory ! echo back 
 its swelling song of triumph ! The grave is not its 
 resting-place. Baptized in immortality, its home is 
 pure, effulgent day. Hope and faith have become 
 sight. With powers set free, and capacities enlarged 
 and still increasing, it may guard us while we sleep, 
 and accompany us when we wake. How the mind 
 circles round the memory of her we loved ! The holy 
 influence of her spirit draws us to it. Though death 
 has taken her from us on earth forever, still the idea 
 of meeting again is a cheering hope. She was worthy 
 of our love, and received it. Her example is worthy 
 of our imitation. The living have yet a most im- 
 portant trust to execute, a troubled sea to pass. 
 
MEMOIR. 29 
 
 iftf 
 
 With her the tumult of life is o'er. " Time past is 
 contracted to a point, and that the infancy of being : 
 time to come is seen expanding into eternal exist- 
 
 " There, never more, may weeping minstrel borrow 
 
 The harp of Hope, to sooth the ear of Pain ; 
 There misery comes not, nor the tear of sorrow, 
 Nor shape of death, through all the broad domain." 
 
31 
 
 are 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE BIRTHPLACE. 
 
 I came to the place of my birth, and said, " The friends of ray youth ! where 
 they?" and echo answered, "Where are they?*' 
 
 OH ! well I remember the cherished spot > 
 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 
 
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