THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS. THE MANIAC'S DREAM, AND OTHER POEMS: BY HENRY T. FARMER, M.D. MKMBKR OF THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF NEW-YORK. NEW-YORK: PUBLISHED BY KIRK & MERCEIK, AND JOHN MILLER, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON. William A. Merceia, Printer. 1819. Southern District of New- York, ss. BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the twenty-eighth day of April, in the forty -third year of the Independence of the United Stales of America, Kirk & Mercein, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a Book, the right whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the words following, to wit : " Imagination; The Maniac's Dream, and other Poems; 03' Henry T. Farmer, M.D. Member of the Historical Society of New York. In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled " An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the time therein mentioned." And also to an Act, entitled " An Act, supplementary to an Act, entitled an Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein men tioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." JAMES DILL, Clerk of the Southern District of New-York. By EDW'D. TRENOR, Asst. Clk. &c DEDICATION. TO MRS. CHARLES BARING FAR in a desert's melancholy wild, Where seldom dew-drop wept, or sunbeam smil'd, A humble flower uprear'd its faded form, Chill'd by the wind, and shatter'd by the storm, Its early leaves were from the branches reft, And scarce a trace of feeble life was left; When lo ! a minstrel came, whose fostering power Remov'd it, kindly, to a cherish'd bower; Where it had thrived, but, still by fate fore-doom'd, Though buds appear'd that flowret never bloonVd. So, when misfortune o'er my childhood prest, Didst thou translate me to thy fostering breast; Bid me, 'midst fortune's sunny cliffs aspire, You sought a blossom but you found a briar. 8221.64 DEDICATION. Accept thy strains, for if there be one tone, Endued with power, to make the exile blest, Or lend a momentary dawn of rest, Such cadence is an echo of thine own, That stole, o'er mountain, moor, and woodland lone, The faint vibration of thy lofty lyre, Which caught my youthful ear, and jarr'd my mouldering wire. H. T. F. CONTENTS. Page DEDICATION vii Introduction 13 Imagination _....._ 45 On the Ruins of Sheldon Church - ... 38 The Maniac's Dream ...... 45 On the Separation of Lord and Lady Byron - 54 On the Death of Thomas R. Shepherd, Esq. 58 Sonnet to Sorrow 62 On a Jessamine ----,_.. 63 On a Bluebell 65 On the Moon 66 On seeing an Infant asleep ..... 68 On the Death of Mr. Hodgkinson - ... 69 The Maid of Lodi 71 Sonnet to Genius 73 X CONTENTS. To Nature 74 On the Death of Captain E. Coffin - 77 Epitaph on Dr. David Ramsay 79 Battle of the Isle 80 Epilogue to. the Tragedy of Altorf - 89 To the JEolian Harp 91 On Mind 92 Lines, written in a blank leaf of Burns' Poems 93 Epitaph on T. L. C. Esq. 94 On hearing a Lady sing ..... 96 Sonnet to Despair ...... 97 Sonnet to Genius ------- 98 To a Withered Rose 99 Lines, written after walking late in a Garden - - 100 On Worldly Prudence - - - - - - 102 Lines, addressed to Miss F. ... - 103 Lines, addressed to Miss C. - - - - - 104 To the jEolian Harp - 105 Lines, written after seeing a Painting of Malbone's - 107 Tribute to the Memory of a Lady - - - - 111 Tribute to Mrs. Barnes, of the New-York Theatre - 115 To James Eddy. M. D. 1 17 CONTENTS. xi Epitaph on the Rev. Andrew M'CuIly ... ng An Essay on Taste - - - -- - 119 To the Memory of Mrs. C. W. - 144 To Mrs. Hartley, of the New-York Theatre - - 146 To an Unfortunate Lady - 148 To Friendship - - 149 Hassen and Zeolede ; an Eastern Tale - 151 COME lovely \ 7 irgin, drest in vernal flowers, Here bend thy steps, here turn thine eyes of light; Without thy aid, the sky of Genius lowers, And Fancy wanders thro' the realms of night: Turn lovely maiden, turn thy glances bright On him, who twines a garland for thy hair, Who seeks thy smile then bless his wandering sight, For thou canst chase the phantom of despair, Far from the Poet's breast come Inspiration fair. Oh ! for the harp that lone in Ettrick swings, 'Neath the witch-elm tree, fam'd in minstrel tale; Oh ! for the bard who swept its trembling strings On Benvenue, and fair Loch Katrine's vale, Old Allan-Bane, that bending wizard pale. Deep, in a ruin's ivy-cover'd walls, Unknown to Fame, my rustic lyre is laid; It only murmurs when the rain-drop falls Upon its strings, all moulder'd and decay'd. o 14 INTRODUCTION. Among those strings, by dampness worn away, The flitting fire-fly shows his evening light; O'er that sad lyre unnumher'd glow-worms stray, Like restless meteors, o'er the vault of night. Come Inspiration ! lift it from the ground, Restore its shatter'd wire, and wonted sound. IMAGINATION, THE FRAGMENT OF A POEM. METHOUGHT last night a stranger guest Came to my couch, disturb'd tny rest, And bade me hasten to explore With him, some lone mysterious shore; His face was pale, his long beard gray, He murmur'd softly " haste away:" I sought the stranger's name to know; He answer'd pensively, " 'tis Wo." A marble gateway soon appear'd, On huge Corinthian pillars rear'd; A sentinel this gateway kept, A wizard pale, who seldom slept. His mind in musing trance seem'd bound, Unfinish'd scrolls were scatter'd round, Upon his brow his hand was prest, All seem'd not well about his breast; ] 6 POEMS. His glance was searching, quick, and wild, And fearful for he never smil'd. By time his feeble form was bent, His robe was old, and thin, and rent; To leave the gate he seem'd inclin'd, So frequently he look'd behind, As if upon the distant plain Were somewhat, he would view again. Well did this restless wizard know, The melancholy form of Wo; The latter his embraces sought, Whispered his name, and called him " Thought;" Shook from his brow the bursting tear, Led to a cavern damp and drear; Enter'd its wide unseemly door, Which closed and they were seen no more. Soon as I lost my pensive guide, I found a seraph by my side, A wreath resplendent bound her hair, The leaves that never rest in air, There wildly flutter'd, and the hue By turns was crimson, green, and blue; For all those leaves of aspine bright Were himin'd by the prism's light. POEMS. 17 Her sparkling zone I scarce could view, So frequently the maid withdrew; And when again I scann'd it o'er, It seem'd to differ from before; She smiled and drew a circle round Where tranced I stood on fairy ground, Then vanish'd Oh ! thou sprite of air When shall I meet a form so fair ? The hapless Bard when sore distress'd, If with thy magic visions blest, Screens from the wind his bosom cold, And wraps around thy mantle's fold; Bids fell reality to flee, And sooths his soul with dreams of thee. I wander'd soon, to fairy bowers, Hung round with sweet, embroider'd flowers; Some were illum'd with brilliant light, And some were dark as pitchy night, In some Love's rosy couch was spread, Whilst others held the silent dead. Here, near a torrent's bursting wave Reclined Childe BYRON, on a grave; Beside him, loose wild flowers were spread-, Which fell from off his aching head. 2* 18 POEMS. And left the willow chaplet bare Alone, to deck his sable hair ; The roses fresh, in early bloom, Had wither'd on that turf-clad tomb; The wreath that bound, had burst apart, Sad emblem of a broken heart. Who sought Childe BYRON'S hidden cave ? Who visited that lonely grave ? Pale Conrad's ghost, that Corsair drear, Sought his lost, lov'd, Medora here; Here, sometimes, too, with bosom bare, That beauteous, bloodstained, shade Gulnare, Would steal in silent hour of night, To catch one glimpse of Conrad's sprite ; And here alone, full many an hour The broken-hearted, frantic Giaour, Would gaze upon that crystal wave, And seek his dark-hair'd Leila's grave. Anon, I heard a hollow sound, A sudden horror shook the ground ! 'Twas he, swift o'er a distant mead, The Giaour came thundering on his steed; Down, down, he sprung his brow to lave; " I come, he paused to seek her grave POEMS. 19 " I come in grief his language flovv'd; " I come his cheek with madness glovv'd; " I come" his hand thrice smote his breast, A bloody mark remain'd imprest. " I come, like conquering hero proud, " With thee, to share thy snow-white shroud. " Leila! thy murderer's blood I've spilt; " Behold this faulchion's shatter'd hilt, " Behold this caftan too, he said, " Arid know that Hassan curst, is dead. " On Lakura's rude flinty stone, " He darkly dwells, nor dwells alone; " Night's dunnest robe now hides his grave, " He hid thee, 'neath the deep blue wave: " I come I fly, like warrior proud, " With thee to share thy snow-white shroud." He plunged into the fountain's flood, And tinged its waves with Hassan's blood; But that clear fountain's sloping shore, The Giaour shall never tread it more. Not far from thence, near beauteous grot, Reclin'd, that magic minstrel, SCOTT, With harebell wreath his brow was bound, With Scotland's sweetest flowers, wove round ; 20 POEMS. A slender wand own'd his control, And it had power to lead the soul To sorrow's haunt, or fairy grove, Or Paphian bovvers design 'd for love : Beside him hung that ready lyre, Whose sound can charm, inflame, inspire ; The witch-elm's boughs around were spread, Its dead bark dropp'd upon his head ; He plucked some sprigs of bending yew, To strew the grave of " Roderick Dhu ;" That mountain chieftain, whose command, Directed fell clan Alpin's baud. Who, leaning on a harp his head, Seem'd to bewail fell Roderic dead ? Old Allan-Bane, with temples bare, All tangled was his thin gray hair ; His sable robe, that drooped around, The wind had lifted from the ground ; Against the trembling wire it swept, The minstrel rais'd his head, and wept : Like sad farewell, when friends depart, That sound had touch'd his aged heart : " The wind may wake a tender strain, " But what ! shall Roderic wake again ? POEMS. 21 " Not Ellen Douglas, were she near, " To scatter rosebuds o'er his bier 1" Then through the shades a prelude rung, And thus that aged minstrel sung : " Low in the earth his bleeding body lies ; " Yon lovely wildflower withers o'er his bier; " Lone in her hall his widowed mother sighs, " She cannot shed one soul-relieving tear : " Oh L to her bosom when shall peace return, " And sooth her senses with the balm of rest ? " Never it withers in that cold, damp urn, " Which bears a just resemblance to her breast. " There all is silent there the spectre Grief " Spreads a dim cloud, and slowly damps the light : " A pale, cold hand, there proffers her relief, " And smooths her couch in Death's long starless night. " Oh ! to her bosom when shall peace return, " And sooth her senses with the balm of rest ? " Never it withers in that cold, damp urn, " Which bears a just resemblance to her breast." #*##*##****# Calm, pale, dejected, far apart, With folded arms, and heavy heart, Did Minstrel CAMPBELL softly sing, CAMPBELL, the bard of Wyoming ; 22 POEMS. That great magician, whose control Soften'd rude Outalissa's soul, And o'er sweet Gertrude's funeral bier Bade flow his first and latest tear. There was a melancholy grace Upon his thoughtful, care-worn face, And on his pallid brow deject, Seem'd writ that chilling word, neglect. A waving cypress-wreath he wore, He, careless, seem'd to seek no more ; Though every cultivated flower That blooms in Beauty's freshest bower, That e'er o'er Fancy's robe was spread, Or bound Imagination's head ; Nay, even Variety's gay store Was offered ; but he sought no more. To distant climes he look'd for rest, By Hope's soul-cheering presence blest ; That soft enchantress, nymph divine, Round whom unnumber'd beacons shine ; The least of which has power to light Despair's lone sedentary night. Oh ! what would this world's desert be, Were it not, maid of Heaven, for thee ? POEMS. MOORE seem'd in silence to deplore The fate of that unhappy shore, By various bards of old confest, The sweetest isle on Ocean's breast. The rose perpetual deck'd his head, From some lone buds the hues had fled; But others freshly bloom'd in air, Like cheek of virgin beauty, fair; A sparkling zone around was brac'd, Pluck'd from the Muse's slender waist, Who gaily danc'd in pleasure's bowers, With this he bound his tiara-flowers. Anon, he struck the sounding lyre, And sung the deeds of patriot fire In tones so loud, so wild, and deep, They waken'd Echo from his sleep : He stopt to dry a bursting tear, And laid his harp on EMMET'S bier ! ANACREON, from an amber cloud, Call'd upon MOORE to leave that shroud; Bade him his harp with flowers to twine, And drown his woes in rosy wine ; Or join the airy syren train, Which love had bound in silken chain; 24 POEMS. In vain he would not join the throng That swept in giddy dance along; He notic'd not their garish wiles, Nor would he clothe his face in smiles. " Think'st thou no real bliss is found, " Save in fantastic pleasure's round ?" Within the melancholy breast The soul of Genius seeks for. rest; There she forgets all worldly pelf, And finds new beauties in herself; So, in the damp and ruin'd tower Blooms many a wiid ambrosial flower, And, in the sad and gloomy mine, Golconda's brightest jewels shine. Along the grove there flashed a light That quickly caught my aching sight; A lofty pile appear'd on fire ; 'Twas a funereal Eastern pyre, Beside the flame, on golden bed, Kehama's vengeful son lay dead; In trance stood SOUTHEY near the hearse, As if he bore that Sultan's curse :- Around the poets's wildered head A blooming lotos wreath was spread; POEMS. For he distlain'd a flower to wear That did not bloom in Eastern air, Though Genius bright, with aspect sweet, Cast many a rosebud at his feet: For Fancy loved this restless wight; But he, alas ! loved Fancy's sprite; He seem'd to shun her real charms, And woo a shadow to his arms. **##*#*### Lone, near a willow's drooping shade, Was BURNS, the pride of Scotia, laid, And near him many a cowslip grew, And o'er him many a daisy blew; Above him, waving blue-bells swung, On a dead larch his lyre was hung; Its form had almost pass'd away, Approach'd by that fell blast, decay; It seem'd, as moving slow in air, The fated omen of despair : So, while he lived, his breast was rent, So was his noble spirit bent; No pale star cheer'd his eve of gloom, His bosom was joy's rayless tomb; And many a pealing storm of care Found his ill fated temples bare; 3 26 POEMS. Until, by frequent chills depress'd, He fell and found that blessing rest I I deck'd his moulder'd harp once more, With vines and flotvrets strew'd it o'er; Around the strings, all damp, decay'd, The hyacinthine tendrils stray'd, And hid the wreck with seeming art, Like smiles that hide the broken heart. ***#**#***# The wind, in darken'd column wound, Came sweeping headlong o'er the ground; Just at my feet that whirlwind stopp'd, And from the midst a coffin dropt; Which still, in hurried circle, turn'd, Till off its mouldering top was spurn'd: Then, clad in ample folds of white, Appear'd a melancholy sprite, His face, half veil'd beneath a shroud, Like moonbeams by a wintry cloud, Was youthful but the fiend Despair Had fix'd her dreadful signet there : A hemlock crown the spectre wore, With glow-worms thickly cover'd o'er, Where'er he journey'd through the night. Around his brow they cast a light, POEMS. And show'd his eyes like stars of day, Whose fires have almost pass'd away. Some hemlock from his brow he took, Steep'd it within the running brook; A cup he drew, from 'neath his gown, And drank the cursed poison down. One sentence from his pale lips broke, These words that youthful phantom spoke : " Oh ! bear me from the face of day, " Bear me to Lethe's cave away; " Give CHATTERTON a quick release, " And yield his aching bosom peace. "* Oh ! born to sound the Minstrel's lyre, Glowing with all the poet's fire; Thine early light beam'd fresh and gay, Like hills on which the sunbeams play; But Want was doom'd those hills to blight, And rob their sunny cliffs of light. Ye who for misery never feel, Think ye that CHATTERTON could steal; And ye who cavil o'er his end, When have ye prov'd the wretch's friend ? Far be it from the muse to spread A spotless garland o'er the dead; 8 POEMS. She fears to scatter one fair bud, Lest she should stain its leaves with blood : Extenuation pleads this truth, His mind unform'd, his morn of youth; Near him he saw no kindred mind, The world's success he could not find; That world, deceitful and uneven, He left, and sought the way to heaven; But urged by madness and despair, He dar'd become an outlaw there; He left, on earth, affliction's rod, And sought with guilty hand his God. A female* form stole gently by, Like white clouds o'er an autumn sky, Pale was her cheek, her eye distress'd, Like summer's flower on winter's breast; Of sorrow's plaint she did not speak, But, it was written on her cheek; What in that forceful brow was told, The Sybil did not write of old : It was the language most admir'd By kindred souls, the thought inspired * The person to whom this Poem is dedicated. POEMS. Which speaks within the poet's eye, And utters volumes in a sigh; 'Tis understood from pole to pole, The fairy language of the soul : Her bosom to the winds was bare, One rose-bud drest her flowing hair; Harsh was the piercing wreath that bound it, For briars were closely twisted round it. They seem'd against the flower to press. Like beauty wounded by distress : A spectre followed close behind, Who steals from truth, and preys on mind; Who haunts perfection's lonely bed, And plucks the pillow from her head; Who rides imperious o'er the wild, And leads in bondage, Fancy's child : When pointed lightning cleaves the sky, It spares the low, but blasts the high : While humble shrubs unhurt are bent, The towering pine in pieces rent, Leaves his exalted throne at last, And headlong to the earth is cast ; So genius, fancy, worth, renown, Are pluek'd by rancorous Envy down : 3* ) POEMS. Oh ! when shall cease thy fell control, Thou baneful vampyre of the soul ? Fast by I saw a streamlet glide, The stranger gaz'd upon its tide, And pour'd its cold wave on her head; The rose was wither'd now, and dead; The briar-wreath from her brow was swept., She wearied fell and falling slept; Her mind seem'd tranquil and beguil'd, For in that trance of sleep, she smiled : When lo ! the tragic muse drew nigh, I saw her start, but heard no sigh; Nay, she betray 'd no sullen frown, But laid her cup and dagger down; Knelt, where the lonely stranger slept, Strew'd flowers upon her breast, and wept. The fallen wreath of thorns she broke, Look'd up to heaven, and siglvd and spoke "I've laid my cup and dagger by, " Steel need not wound thy soul; " Thy dagger is affliction's sigh, " And wo thy poison'd bowl. " Sleep, and I'll bring thee magic spells " From that delusive shore, POEMS. 31 " Where bliss in fairy confine dwells, " And Wo is seen no more : " I love thee for thy sufferings past; " Pale sister this we know, " No friendship shall so surely last, " As one that's formed by Wo. " Sleep ! and I'll bring thee magic spells " From that enchanting shore, " Where bliss in fairy confine dwells, " And grief is seen no more. " Since no one binds thy sleeping brow " With flowret, sprig, or vine, " I'll leave this chaplet with thee now, " 'Twill suit thee for 'twas mine : " 'Twas torn from winter's blasted heath. " 'Midst drifted hills of snow; " A maniac Druid form'd the wreath " Of weeds and misleto: " The leaf with bloody drops is red, " Fresh from ' Virginia's"* side; " This lock I pluck'd from Dabdin's] head, " Just as the monarch died. * Heroine of the Tragedy of " Virginia." t Dabdin, hero of the Tragedy of " The Royal Recluse." These plays were written by the lady beforementioned. 32 POEMS. "Soft! I must bid a sad farewell, " My shadowy court is near; " I hear sad Zeuleme's* passing knell, " And go to deck her bier. " Sleep, and I'll bring thee magic spells " From that enchanting shore, " Where hope in fairy confine dwells, " And grief is seen no more." *#**##*#*#* I saw a rock o'erhang the deep, Like terror o'er the couch of sleep; And leaning on its flinty side, MONTGOMERY'S wo-struck form I spied; His night-shade wreath with blight was dead. The cold dew dropp'd upon his head : If ever on the brow was drawn The character of soul forlorn; If ever real wo could speak In language of the eye, or cheek, Sure that lone bard, of peace bereft, Had scarce a single blessing left; So pale his cheek, so sunk his eye, So blighted o'er with misery. To him the muse brought gems of yore, That gleam'd on Eden's happy shore; * Zeuleme, heroine of a Tragedy. POEMS. 33 Show'd him the minstrel Jubal's lyre, Which, like his own, could once inspire; Pointed the plain where Abel stood, When Cain, accursed, shed his blood. She led him to those spicy bowers, Where Eve first press'd a couch of flowers Where Innocence, her handmaid, stray'd, And drest in rosy folds the maid, E'er from the shade she sought the light, And burst on Adam's raptured sight. The lovely flowers which there entwin'd, Were splendid, as MONTGOMERY'S mind; But now their passing charms have fled, Hope's evergreen is almost dead; Whose branches wear continual bloom, And drop their blossoms on the tomb. E'en thou lone bard, when cold and dead, Shall wear fresh garlands round thy head; Above thy melancholy tomb Shall sprigs of fragrant cassia bloom, And youthful poets seek thy bier, And beauty bless thee with a tear. Far o'er a blasted heath alone, A pillar stood of marble stone; 3 l POEMS. Its capital, and slender form, Were rifted by the thunder storm; In bonnet blue, and Scotland's plaid, Near that tall spire a minstrel* play'd; He sung of Scotland's Queen and State, Of Rizzio's harp, and Mary's fate, And Ila Moore, " Kincraigy's" child, Who far, o'er haunted mountain wild, Though young, and fair, and lone, and poor, Sought " Mador," minstrel of the moor: The sounds stole gently o'er the plain; So sleep steals o'er the brow of pain; But soon the trembling strain was o'er, The echo spirit sung no more; And when the last sad murmur died, Deeply that woodland phantom sigh'd. So Hope, when every joy is past, Sighing takes leave but goes the last. He rais'd his brow, he dried a tear, When lo ! he saw Lord BYRON near; He dropp'd the lyre, and hung his head. As though his minstrel skill had fled; * Hogg. POEMS. 35 But why ? for merit never knew A judge more skill'd, a friend more true : From him, where is the real bard Who sought, and did not find regard ? He,* who bade murd'rous Bertram tear A gauntlet from his coal black hair, And raise his fell vindictive hand, In secret, 'gainst Lord Aldobrand : By woe's o'erwhelming power was prest, Unknown, unfriended, and unblest, Till BYRON came then sorrow fled, And fame rul'd o'er his bower instead, And he was hail'd with plaudits loud, Not by the undistinguish'd crowd, But by the gifted, who could view At once the light and shadow too. Childe BYRON took the minstrel's lyre, And swept, with force, the bending wire; His wildc'r'd touch it could not stand, But snapp'd beneath his ruling hand : Then, with no soft, or gentle tone, He sternly turn'd, and gave his own : Maturin. 35 POEMS. His friendly words have still been few. His part is not to say but do. Oh ! I have known the sweetest smile, And softest murmur, harbour guile; E'en in Elysium's field we meet The deadly serpent of deceit : The storm foretells its ruthless power, Its clouds, like threat'ning heralds, lower; In Egypt, e'er the blast of sand Whirls headlong, o'er the desert strand; Or that quick wind, whose burning breath Deals to the hapless wanderer death; Some warning voice, some mark of care, Bids the ill-fated wretch beware; But who, when thy fell smile is nigh, Whispers thy name, Hypocrisy ! And yet, the wretch's harshest doom, The blast of sand, the fell simoom, The lightning's bolt, the mountain sea. Yield, in destructive force, to thee. POEMS. 37 CONCLUSION. Once more I leave thee, in thy ruin'd cave, There the cold rain-drop may thy strain renew; Or bursting storms, that thro' thy dwelling rave, Or rustling vines, that bend with morning dew. Here, should the wanderer seek his evening rest, And cast his body on the leafless ground, May fairies scatter roses o'er his breast, And zephyrs raise a soft delusive sound; Such as the musing pilgrim faintly hears, In vision blest the music of the spheres. 38 POEMS. ON THE RUINS OF SHELDON CHURCH, HEAR BEAUFORT, "SOUTH-CAROLINA. LIKE chieftain, gray with many years, Whose armour hack'd and rent appears, Whose shield is pierc'd with battle spears, Whose helm its tangled plumage rears, To waive in air; Is this high temple, drear and lone, For time hath grayed its marble stone; Its columns are with weeds o'ergrown, The echo-sprite hath built his throne Upon its turrets bare : Like stately lady, bright and fair, With eyes that shame the diamond's glare, And form, like sylphic sprite of air, And rosy cheeks, and flowing hair, And spirits gay, So did this temple bless the sight, The sun-beam clad its steeple height, POEMS. 30 And drest the walls in mantle light, Till ruin came, with cloak of night, To pall the day, Burst the huge door with arm of might, And let, therein, decay. Hail, sacred remnant of the times long past! Hail to thy shatter'd walls; the drooping vines That linger on thy roof, like me seem joyless At thy wildered state, and mourn thine honours past. On yon tall column, where the woodbine flower Displays its crimson folds, sits pale Decay, With eyes long dimm'd by age, and sunken cheek, And hair all tangled by the win'tery storm : He is related to the wanderer Time, And near akin to fell destructive Death. Oh Time ! destroyer of the bloom of youth, Of thought, and love, and health; what change appears Since first this structure rear'd its sacred head, And strength and beauty reign'd upon its front. Once in these walls, religion's hallow'd voice, Gave thankful praise to Him who rules supreme : Once in these walls, rung music's swelling peals And minstrelsy, of virgins in their bloom: But now, the railings of the surly blast, 40 POEMS. Or deep-ten'd thunder of the midnight storm, Or gushing torrent of descending rain, Alone break silence here. Here, has the youth Put up his fervent prayer, and begg'd the nymph Who bless'd his soul with love; Here, has the elder man, with furrow'd cheek, And eye of sorrow's melancholy cast, Retir'd to pray, for rest and peace in heaven; And here, the maiden blush of pure delight, Has revell'd on the blooming, youthful cheek, When the bright eye of him the nymph held dear, Came in soft contact with her modest glance, And spake the fairy language, taught by love. The toiling slave, his weekly duty done, In the short space that rests his weary limbs, Has wandered here, to learn the laws of heaven. Oh, hapless slave ! for whom nor law, nor right, Nor kind protection, ever plead on earth, There may a time arrive, when thy bruis'd reed Shall waive in freshest meed of flowers. The vow of lasting love hath here been made, And the pure altar bound in silken chain The youthful votaries of Hymenial bliss. Alas, Matilda ! here thy youthful swain First told his tender tale, when evening lin'd, POEMS. 4 1 With orient gold, the west : here did he breathe The magic soft discourse, that gain'd thy spotless heart. Near yon lone willow didst thou love to roam : In life, it drooped around thine auburn locks, But now waives o'er thy turf-clad, mouldering grave. Raymond was young, and health's ambrosial tint Glovv'd on his manly cheek; the ways of truth He loved, and early had been taught the lowly Wiles of baseness to despise. The reverend man, whose life from youth to age, Had been devoted to the ways of heaven, Here join'd their hands, and here their fates were join'd. Oh life ! in thy dull round of measured time, There is no joy so pure as hallow 'd love: Oh earth ! no flower upon thy bosom blooms, So rich in tincture as Matilda's cheek; Nor hath thy hidden cavern one rare gem, So purely radiant as her sparkling eye, Or half so brilliant as her soul's intent. Their days pass'd on, in gently smiling peace, Till three short months had crown'd their mutual bliss, When Fate, grew. envious of their happy state, And wrought a work of fiendlike dark design. 42 POEMS. When early morning waiv'd her flag of blue, And shook the dew-drops from her rosy crown, Young Raymond cross'd Port Royal's placid wave, No breath of air upon its surface play'd, The Nereids slept within their coral bowers ; But when dull evening, with her sombre pall, Hover'd above the world, bleak winds arose, And tempests hurl'd their gloomy vengeance down, And ruffian Horror, from a throne high raised Upon a vasty wreck, laugh'd hoarsely loud, To see the hideous uproar rage so fierce. Ah, luckless maid ! where is thy Raymond now ? He, whom the morning hail'd with rosy cheek, And glowing pulse of health Where is he now ? Not in his peaceful dwelling blest with thee, Nor list'ning to the music of thy voice ; Nor gazing on thy vermil painted cheek. Ill-fated youth ! before he gain'd the beach, A sudden whirlwind plunged him in the deep, The hand of darkness shadowed o'er his brow, And pallid faintness chill'd his clay-cold limbs. He strove in vain the ruthless wind was loud; He strove in vain the angry flood was deep ; He strove in vain for life forsook his breast, POEMS. 43 While his last accents linger'd on the name Of 'lorn Matilda, doom'd to mourn his fate. ( Too soon the fatal story reach'd her ear} And yet no sigh bespoke her grief; no tear Bedew'd her cheek; but a wild laugh foretold That sanity had left the throne of her Distracted breast for two long, weary, days, She neither spoke nor wept; but when lone night (Array'd in plumes of dark, mysterious hue, O'er which were thinly spread small diamond sparks,) Resum'd her sable throne, she wandered forth Into yon gloomy, unfrequented wood, Where wild distraction thus betray'd her grief. " Oh ! never never my thirsty brain is moulder'd " Into dry dust my heart is chain'd in ice. " Wretch, bathe thy temples in yon mighty wave, " Plunge quickly, that the hissing spray may splash " The stars, and cause a din so clamorous and loud, ." That Echo shall scream back its counterpart! ' Cold, say'st thou, love ? my heart is chain'd in ice, ' But in my brain there is a burning spark, : ' Shall quickly thaw it thence Ha ! did he call ? " That voice was low and soft Matilda ! " I come I plunge Oh! clasp me once again." She fell and quivering anguish closed her 41 POEMS. Eyes in death oh ! madness ! To what pale demon shall I liken thee ? Thou art sick fancy's ghost, tired Memory's Trouhled dream; monarch of wild surmise, Who, with unequal rule, drags trembling horror From the breaking heart, and chains it in the Confines of the brain. Near yon gray ruin's aisle her body lies; But Time has been so busy with the spot, That no small trace remains, whereby the mind In pensive mood, might contemplate her grave; For all is desolation round, and wears The ruin'd garb of many 3'ears : Ruin ! potent Lord, to whom all nature bows, And who claims tribute from the firm-set earth; When shall thy havoc cease ? Never never, Till thou hast dash'd the sun forth from his sphere, And from its axle hearv'd the ponderous globe, Down to the depth where haggard Chaos reigns : Then Death shall stalk amidst the jarring wreck, And gloomy Echo, with appalling shriek, Make mockery at the mighty end of Time, And revel o'er the fragments of a world. POEMS. 45 This Poem was suggested by the Author's having seen a maniac in the yard of the. Pennsylvania Hospital. He was sitting on the ground and drawing lines with a shrub. He had been engaged to a lady, who was shortly afterwards con sumed by fire, in consequence of which his reason deserted him. To PROFESSOR DAVID HOSACK, PHYSICIAN OF THE LUNATIC ASYLUM OF NEW-YORK; This Poem is Dedicated, being an humble offering to his genius and acquirements. THE MANIAC'S DREAM. -oh ! madness ! To what pale demon shall I liken thee? Thcu art sick Fancy's ghost, tired Memory's Troubled dream ; Monarch of wild surmise, Who, with unequal rule, drags trembling horror From the breaking heart, and chains it in the Confines of the brain." FARMER. A PILGRIM, sad, friendless, obscure, and alone, Stood gazing on Schuylkill's bright wave, When, soon he beheld a pale sepulchre stone, And a Maniac stretched on a grave. 46 POEMS. His bosom was bare, and his aspect was dire, And his hair with dead lichens was bound; He started, and snatching a neighbouring briar, Stoop'd down, and drew lines on the ground. But the lines that he drew were erased by the wind, And he smote on his bosom so bare; Ah ! what can erase from the desolate mind, The lines that are traced by despair. Draw near, and I'll answer, he said with a sigh, Thy question was tender and meek; 'Twas ask'd by a gentle and pitying eye, 'Twas writ on a weather-worn cheek. Such language I love, it communes with the breast, Such language to sorrow is given; 'Tis well by the brow, and by silence, express'd, And 'tis used by the angels in heaven. Be calm ye that revel, nor smile ye that hope For the sunbeams of bliss on the morrow; The path that ye trace is a desolate slope, And descends to the confines of sorrow. POEMS. 47 For joy, like a beam of the evening hour, Is lost in the darkness around it, And hope, like the distant Cimmerian flower, Is hid for what wretch ever found it. And peace and contentment are shadowy forms, That smile upon fortune a day; But, where thought stalks abroad amid gathering storms, They flit like a vision away. And all that we feel, or behold, or desire, All things that are true, or that seem; All glories that mount, are eclipsed, and retire; They are merely a Maniac's dream. If one angel form should be dear to your soul, By fortune's reverses unshaken; Distrust for you taste not joy's flattering bowl 'Tis a dream still distrust, till you waken : Nay seek not for mine is no gathering flame For the mob of the world to discover; Oh! he that makes current a love-cherished nime, Deserves not the name of a lover. 48 POEMS. When the rain falls at night, and the wind whistles by I have heard a sweet voice gently calling, And I've seen a pale cheek, and a glimmering eye, That look'd dim, like a star when it's falling. List list to my tale, though the sky is o'ercast, Still memory traces a lingering beam; Like a comet it speeds, and gives light to the past, To illustrate a Maniac's dream. As pensive, musing, I reclin'd, Near Schuylkill's fragrant side, Sleep stole delusive o'er my mind, Like shadows o'er the tide; How sweetly then Aurora smil'd Within her Eastern bower, And Fancy o'er my bosom, wild Made every weed a flower. The sand seem'd gold, the clouds above Look'd fair, like angels dreaming; The dew-drops of the vernal grove Seem'd sapphires brightly gleaming : Yes, flowers were sweet, and clouds were light, And fair the spangled blossom : POEMS. 49 But sweeter far the lovely sprite That lean'd upon my bosom. She press'd my hand her grasp was cold Farewell, farewell, she sigh'd, But e'er she fled, shriek'd out " behold ! " Behold thy destin'd bride !" A sybil with dishevell'd hair Stood gazing on a briar; Her brow was deeply mark'd with care, Unstrung her shatter'd lyre : She held a taper in her hand, The light was backward cast; It beam'd upon no other strand But that already past. The blossoms that compos'd her wreath Hung faded round her head ; She glean'd them from a desert heath They grew above the dead. " Welcome," she cried " we must not part " Till death our hands shall sever; ep, For she's propell'd by steam. Long shall bewailing science mourn, O'er FULTON'S* cherish'd name; The crown from Neptune's brow is torn, To grace the god of flame. He lov'd, 'mid thought's ravines, to dwell, Deep by the tempest riven; He trac'd perfection to her cell, And then pass'd on to heaven. Uninjur'd if one chord remains, Upon my shatter'd lyre, * Robert Fulton, Esq. See his life by Colden. 132 POEMS. If .ever it was blest with strains, To govern or inspire; Ye whispering spirits of the lea, Who glide in shadow's light; Raise one delusive symphony, To genius and to WHITE.* Alas ! how soon the forest flower Is chill'd by early frost, And intellect's discarded bower, In poverty is lost. In WHITE was every mental charm, And moral sense combin'd; No fatal prospect could disarm The vigour of his mind. His ardent spirit still was blest, Mid falt'ring health's decay, For honours cheer'd his youthful breast, 'Till death usurp'd its sway. Life's taper sometimes scarcely gleams, Where genius is resplendent; Nay, magic fancy often seems On death's approach attendant. * The late Henry Kirk White. POEMS. 133 . In ruin'd shrines, and shatter'd walls, A thousand sunbeams stray; So, in the spirit's rifted halls, Beams intellectual day. His taste a minstrel pilgrim gives To whom his fame was known; His name in BYRON'S numbers lives, It lives too, in his own. STUART,* thou know'st the bounded sway That rules my rustic lyre; Alas ! it yields no fairy lay To gladden or inspire: Or I would bare my trembling arm, And raise its numbers loud, ' Till every sounding wire should charm Some angel from his cloud. According numbers then should give Thy genius its due, And every voluntary live, Because itbreath'd of you. Proceed in thy admir'd career, Though unobtrusive, strong; * Thomas Middleton Stuart, M. D. of Beaufort, South-Carolina. 12 134 POEMS. Though tranquil, ardent and sincere, And lofty in thy song. I need not dwell upon thy taste, Although the theme invites; 'Tis splendid, polish'd, learn'd, and chaste, In short 'tis HENRY WHITE'S. If I forget thee, RUSH,* may rest Flee reckless from my bosom; May I, unhonour'd and unblest, Sink like the wint'ry blossom. May every favour'd muse retire, And every friend forego me; May fell detraction break my lyre, And minstrels never know me. No favour'd poet writes thy name Upon his magic scroll; I give (thou'rt not in need of fame) The impulse of my soul. O'er thee a lonely woodland muse Shall weave a shadowy screen; And fair Aurora's freshest dews Shall keep thy grave-turf green. * Benjamin Rush, justly styled the American Sydenham. POEMS. 135 Yea, there shall thrive continual bloom, No stem shall droop or die; Detraction shall avoid thy tomb, And whispering envy sigh. His taste was to improve the age By reason's power divine; His life was all a pilgrimage To her unvarnish'd shrine. Tradition's mystic lore he scann'd, Anatomiz'd* the mind, And, with a master's ruling hand, Cast error to the wind. Nay, he explor'd the maze of doubt, Trac'd science to her throne, And where he found her lights were out, Supplied lights of his own. Next RUSH in science and in name, See gifted HOSACKJ stand; Endow'd with England's proffer'd fame, The BOERHAAVE of our land. * See that unrivalled production, " Rush on the Mind." t Dr. David Hosack, F.R.S. &c. professor of (he theory and practice of medicine, in the University of New-York. 136 POEMS. O'er reason and conviction still, He holds imperial sway; Possessing, with unbounded skill, The talent to convey. Clear as the fountain's limpid streams, That over crystals sweep, His mind a polish'd mirror seems, And his research is deep. Go, view those sweet neglected flowers,* Like Eden's groves of yore, E'er ADAM left his fragrant bowers, To seek some wilder'd shore: There did the mingling plantsf around A wonderous scene unfold, For, strange to tell, these lovers found Return, unsway'd by gold. And stranger yet, though many a fair By many a youth was blest, No noisy scandal rent the air, No jealousy distrest: Like spotless innocence they smil'd, This this was HOSACK'S taste: * The Elgin Botanic Garden, f See the " Loves of the Plants." POEMS. Now, withering on the sterile wild, They're trampled and defac'd. Oh ! once he held communion sweet. And silent through the day, With forms that hid no deep deceit, And smil'd not to betray. To bosoms scath'd by misery's blight, What solace can be given, Like flowers that wear the hues of light, And speak the words of heaven ? Come, lonely muse, the deep-ton'd storm Is bounding through the sky; I always seek thy angel form, When storm or wo is nigh. And I have found thee in thy cell, When passing ills deprest me, From morning's beam till midnight's bell, Thy smile has sometimes blest me. For thee 1 shun the hurried joy, Where noise and mirth preside; If there is bliss without alloy, I've found it by thy side. 12* 138 POEMS. . ' Then cherish SMITH'S* declining hour, Mark his time honour'd hair, Like snow upon a wasted tower, Whose roof is thin and bare. On fair philosophy, erewhile, He plac'd a firm reliance; You'll find upon his page her smile, But health fled with her science. Ah ! 'tis a melancholy truth, That application's sway Still preys upon the spoils of youth, And hastens time's decay. But he was blest, for in his bower There bloom'd a lovely maid; His daughter was a fragrant flower, But flowers are doom'd to fade. Her smile shone o'er his aged form, And half his anguish fled; When, like the rainbow o'er a storm, She bent, to bind his head. * Samuel Stanhope Smith, D. D. LL.D. late president of Princeton College, whose sermons, lectures on moral philosophy, and other writ ings, evince the Christian and the sage. POEMS. 139 'Tis past, no human power could save From blight, that early blossom; Ye, who would view the daughter's grave, Go seek the father's bosom. Theology's pure lines he trac'd, Far o'er contention's wild; Her mandates found his early taste, Before he lost his child. And since, when bow'd with age and grief Of that sweet flower bereft, Religion is his sole relief, His only blessing left. What chain can fetter rising thought, Or hold in bonds the mind ? Where are the bands of fancy wrought ? Can genius be connVd ? Behold yon exile, is he free ? Can shackles bind his heart ? Can long protracted misery Enslave thee, BUONAPARTE ? The soul, immeasurably great, Is to the body joiu'd; What voice, within the haunts of fate, Can cry, " hold, hold" to mind ? 140 POEMS. As soul to body, and no more, Is BUONAPARTE held down: Go, visit stern Iberia's shore, E'en now she wears his frown; Then seek the sanguine battle field, There, still behold his arm, His sword, see warlike science wield, Which could himself disarm. Within the Russian Kremlin drear, Shriek but his boding name; You'll see him glitter in the spear, And redden in the flame. Then turn ye to bewailing France, By ceaseless pangs deprest; He's there, in every veteran's glance, In every soldier's breast. Yea, in the stormy midnight hour, When Europe's monarchs start, They feel the arm, and dread the power, Of exil'd BUONAPARTE. His taste was bent on havoc rife, Who can forget the wood, Where murder soil'd her reeking knife In brave D ENGHIEN'S blood ? POEMS. 141 He sunk, exhausted on the plain, Like tempest-beaten flowers; His murderer feels eternal pain, Through years, and months, and hours. Remorse, with smoking carnage red, Still rings D'ENGHIEN'S knell; Still plucks the pillow from his head, And points to worse than hell. Had he, in anger, rais'd his arm 'Gainst a vindictive foe, And, hurried by her quick alarm, Like light'ning dealt the blow; Extenuation might have sought Some screen to cover blood; But this infernal deed was wrought In cool, deliberate mood, When calm reflection's moonlight shone Upon the murderer's lair: Exile I leave thee there, alone, Alone thou'rt always there. But, let us leave this dreary theme, And seek some happier shore; 142 POEMS. Where genius, wit, and humour gleam, Upon the brow of NOAH.* Long have I known his talent rare, His fascinating power To smooth the furrow'd cheek of care, And charm the fleeting hour. There is a candour in his soul, Unknown to art or guile; 'Tis shackled by no foe's control, 'Tis bartered for no smile. Proud of his country, of her fame, Her government and laws; He comes, a champion in her name, To Advocate her cause; Not with a cloak, nor hidden steel, Nor yet, with rancorous chalice; Too proud to cherish, or to feel, E'en 'gainst his foeman malice. * M. M. Noah, Esq. Author of" Shakspeare Illustrated," and "Noah's Travels." POEMS. 143 All things must end, the poet says, But it excites my sorrow, To end my solitary lays, And leave New- York to-morrow. May she be blest with bright renown, No jealousy provoke her, Unrivall'd as a trading town, Immortal for her CROAKER. 144 POEMS. TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. C. W . THOUGH others pass thy cold, unconscious bier, Without the tender offering of a tear; Here will I linger, and, with reverence, bend O'er the sad dwelling of my youthful friend. Come, calm reflection, trace me back the hours, When health, ambrosial, strew'd her path with flowers; When her dark hair in loosen'd ringlets flow'd, When on her cheek the rose of Ida glow'd; When her eyes, beaming with celestial light, Betray'd no omen of the coming night: That path, alas ! is now o'erspread with yew; Those flowers no more are bathed in morning dew; I see thy face but ah ! no smile is there, And that pnle brow 'tis like the brow of care: Was thy pure spirit to death's arms resign'd? Could'st thou part calmly with thy noble mind ? POEMS. 145 For that has fled alas ! 'tis but transferr'd To those pure realms where angel choirs are heard, And when the final signal shall be given, Must be return'd to fit thy frame for heaven. 13 146 POEMS. TO MRS. BARTLEY, OF THE NEW-YORK THEATRE-* WHEN hurried anger, with unmeasur'd art, Spreads, swift as light'ning, to arouse the heart; When fell revenge, or overwhelming rage, Sweeps, like a mountain-torrent, o'er the stage, HARTLEY, unrivall'd, still her claim maintains, Bears off the crown, and, like an empress, reigns. Next in expression contemplate her skill, The power that reasons when the lips are still; That, quick as thought, or fleeting fancy roves. And tells the youth if the sly virgin loves. When FAZIO, summoned by the fatal bell, Takes, ere his death, an agoniz'd farewell, No maddening fury rules BIANCA'S head, Her conscious spirit seems forever fled; No tear appears, no murmur moves her lips, The stars of mind are veil'd in dark eclipse. * Formerly Miss Smith, of the Theatres Royal, Covent Garden and Drury Lane. POEMS. 147 Death stalks abroad and yet she does not fear; She comes to listen but she does not hear; She comes to follow but she does not move; She comes to bless him but she does not love : As though all nature's attributes had fled, Or chang'd their course, she is alive and dead. Oh ! it is magic all: ascend the throne, Expression proffers thee, andthee alone: Oft have I wonder'd at thy skill before, And thought thee great but, now, I find thee more. 148 POEMS TO AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. I'M sorry that a form so fair To error's course is driven; Go leave this pestilential air, And be a form of heaven. Oh ! bow not to this heedless sway, But make thine offering pure; For young repentance is a ray That angels still endure. But -when pale age shall bend thee down, No seraph shall caress thee; Then, ministering angels frown, And none shall know, or bless thee. Oh ! cease, while yet that form is fair, Or thou shalt soon be driven To dwell with anguish and despair, Dower'd with the curse of heaven. POEMS. 149 TO FRIENDSHIP. DEDICATED TO DR. FRANCIS. CHILL falls the rain-drop from the darken'd sky, O'er the dull home a dreary spell is cast; The passing wind moans like a deep-drawn sigh, And seems prophetic of the stormy blast. Where shall I turn to some endearing power ? The heavy gloom seems gathering on my breast; There every shadowy spectre 'gins to lower; Where shall I turn for cheerfulness and rest ? Come, Friendship, smoother of the rugged way, Thou minister of candour and delight; Thou fairy impulse thou resplendent ray, Bid o'er the heath thy heavenly sunbeams play, And screen the bending flower from mildew and from blight. Oh, F s ! when by listless woes distrtps'4, 1 seek thy noble mind and all is rest 13* AN EASTERN TALE. THIS Tale is dedicated to Professor DAVID HOSACK, as a Memento of the Author's affection, gratitude, and admi ration. " 'Tis little, but 'tis all 1 have." SCOTT. HASSAN AND ZEOLEDE. As I journeyed through that beautiful valley in Thes- saly, which has been immortalized by the people of antiquity, I resolved to halt, until evening, in one of those fragrant grottos that surrounded me. The (low ers were lovely as the blush of beauty, and the distant murmur of fountains was sweet as the voice of truth. Being fatigued, and my senses becoming soothed by the gentle fall of waters, I reclined upon a rock under the boughs of a large palm, where sleep soon overpowered me. I had not slept long before I was awakened by the sound of a human voice, which did not accord with the surrounding gayety of the scene, for it was the voice of sorrow. At some distance from me, and near a small sheet of water, I beheld an old man; his coun tenance was not in unison with the blooming forest, for it was the countenance of affliction. He was thin and very pale. The sun shone full upon his visage, and discovered traces of no common grief. The sunshine added to the gloom of his brow, as the taper adds more 154 HASSAN AND ZEOLEDE ; gloom to the face of death. I resolved to continue hidden, in order to behold him. He drew near to the water, knelt down by its side, and taking a miniature from his bosom, turned it towards the brook ; he then looked down himself, exclaiming, " Now are we both together, Hassan and Zeolede. On thy face, oh ! Zeo- lede, sitteth youth, and on thy dimpled cheek the graces hold their court; for thy dimples are like the dimples of the cowslip, and thy teeth are whiter than the snow upon Mount Cithaeron; once more hast thou brought us together, thou limpid stream. Thy tremu lous wave gives life to her semblance; her lips move, her eyes beam upon me." Here he ceased speaking, but still continued gazing on the water; his eyes seemed fixed, his mind entranced; his thoughts appeared to sleep in lethargy. After some time he arose, replaced the miniature in his bosom, and proceeded forward. I followed slowly at a small dis tance. After walking about a mile, he stopped at a large steep rock, near the top of which a bluebell had climb ed ; he considered it attentively for a few. minutes, and said, " Sweet flower, thou resemblest my fortunes ; unlike the world, thou seekest the dwelling of misery, and spreadest thy little blossom to cheer the bosom of dis tress. How tranquilly dost thou rest on my cave ; AN E ASTERN TALE. 155 so rested Zeolide upon my bosom. Lovely flower, thou shalt fall to the ground, and all thy beauties be forgotten; like thee, Zeolede was young; like her thou shalt fall." When he ceased speaking, I came forward and said, " Father, I am weary, and the sun has almost found his western cave ! allow me, therefore, to tarry this night with thee, for I am a stranger." He took me by the hand, and led me under the rock, which formed a spacious cell. " My fare is humble," said he, " but my desires are more so ; that which is mine I offer thee with all my heart, and only regret it is not more worthy thy ac ceptance." After a frugal repast, the Hermit spread some rushes, pointed to them, and bid God bless me. Sleep soon scattered her poppies over me; sleep, that re storing angel, seeks the lowly couch, crowns the brow of labour with roses, leads peace to the bed of suffering virtue, and gives the captive leave to roam through the blossoming gardens of fancy. Early in the morning I arose, and taking the Hermit by the hand, begged he would relate the history of his life; adding, "It is not to gratify idle curiosity that this re quest is made, but to store my mind with useful informa tion, and to hear the accents of wisdom even in the wilderness." He consented, and wiped from his cheek 156 HASSANANDZEOLEDE; a tear which philosophy could not arrest, nor religion quite dry up : after which, setting down upon a fragment of the rock, he related the following tale: " My father was Grand Vizier to the Kaliph of Bagdat, and I was consequently brought up in the lap of magni ficent profusion ; but I took little delight in the bus tle of a court, having very early in life become enamour ed of solitude. My elder brother, Amgrad, was pre cisely my reverse in disposition, being pleased with nothing but pomp and pageantry; he was proud, lofty and overbearing. In consequence of my taking little pleasure in pomp and confusion, I was seldom in Bag dat ; besides, I had imbibed a love for travelling, and was frequently absent four or five months at a time. In the course of my wandering, I became acquaint ed with a Christian misanthrope, who inhabited this cave; a learned, melancholy man; and, but for this circumstance, I might still have remained in that state of utter darkness which overshadows the followers of Mahomet His greatest pleasure was" to give me in struction ; he placed in my view the beauties of Chris tianity, and. finally, I became his convert. After this, 1 returned to Bagdat, and attempted to dispel the mist that surrounded the belief of my father. ' What,' said the AN EASTERN TALE. 1 57 Vizier, * hast thou deserted Alia and Mahomet his pro phet ? Go, thy youth hath indeed blinded thee ; look at these Christians closely, and you will abhor them. They are the worshippers of gold, not the followers of Alia. The poorest Mussulman has more hospitality than their Cadi ; more charity than their Imans; more honesty than their Viziers. ' Go,' said he in a rage, ' go from my presence ; before to-morrow's sun kindles his flame upon the eastern hills, let me hear of thy penitence; or, by the beard of Omar, I swear, thou shalt linger out the remainder of thy existence at Stamboul, in the dun geon of the seven towers !' 'Oh, my father,' said I, 'judge not of the Christians by the traders thou hast seen at Bagdat; look at the beauty of their belief their faith.' ' Hold, reptile,' replied the enraged Vizier, ' they have no belief action is the fruit of belief; he who believes yon fire will burn, does not wantonly thrust his hand into it!' To conclude, I was dowered with his curse, and cast into a loathsome dungeon, where my father implored the prophet to send his angel and lead me back to light. Being a favourite, I soon found means to escape, when I again visited this cave, to be hold and bless my more than father. But I found him dead upon his couch! I loved him ; wept for him, and 14 J58 HASSAN AND ZEOLEDE; buried him; after which I travelled to Athens, that magnificent theatre of arts and arms, of which my benefactor had so frequently spoken. Here, after dis posing of my jewels, I lived in retirement, till I became enamoured of a lady, who would have borne the palm of beauty from Helen of Argos, or the bright-haired virgins of Circassia. Her ringlets fell almost to the ground, and her eyes like stars beamed with intellectual light. She was almost an angel. But of this no more. Suffice it to remark, that I obtained her hand, and des patched a messenger to the Grand Vizier, giving him an account of my marriage, asking his forgiveness, and blessing. When the slave was admitted to his presence, my father tore his gray hair in agony, called upon Alia for vengeance on my head, and vowed, prostrate in the dust, to shed my blood, as a peace-offering to the pro phet of Medina. But the circumstance preyed upon his spirits, and he shortly after died of a broken heart. Upon this, my brother, the proud Amgrad, lost his senses, and became a frantic maniac. He arrayed him self in a robe and a tiara flaming with barbaric gems, seated himself on a magnificent sofa, and ordered my messenger into his presence. After remaining silent for some time, he arose, and delivered himself thus: AN EASTERN TALE. 159 ' Yes, I will have vengeance, it shall be painted in bloody letters on my caftan. Ha ! is it Hassan : does he smile upon his father's corpse? 'Twas thou who didst tear those gray hairs by the root, to cast them in the dust. Athens ! my steel shall glitter in thy streets; thy mothers shudder at my approach, thy towers tremble at my foot steps. Alia ! strengthen the arm of thy minister, and direct his dagger aright. Go,' said he, ; inform the apostate murderer, that when Amgrad wakes he remembers Has san when Amgrad sleeps he dreams of Hassan.' " Upon receiving intelligence of these disasters, I was overcome by immoderate grief, and almost lost my senses; but Zeolede ministered to my afflictions like an angel of comfort, and whispered the accents of religious peace to my soul. Soon after this I was blessed with a son. Two years had scarcely elapsed since my father's death, when news was brought that the unhappy Amgrad had followed him to an early grave. One even ing, when the last rays of the setting sun were reflected from the lofty spires of Athens, Zeolede and myself beheld from a portico the awful sublimity of the scene. Suddenly was heard the sound of a guitar near the Acro polis, and soon afterwards a melancholy voice accom panied the instrument with the following lines : . 1 60 HASSAN AND ZEOLEDE ; * * Hail, temple high with moss o'ergrown, And mouldering spire and pale gray stone, All hail ! ye suit my pensive breast ; Within your pale I'll seek for rest; Once were thy walls with banners drest, And through thy portals chieftains prest, And smiles bespoke triumphant glee, But now thy walls resemble me. ' The weeds that wave upon thy stair, Are tangled like my raven hair; Her storm has stain'd thy marble white, And tears congeal'd have dimm'd my sight. In youth how gaily pass'd my hours, I wak'd to wealth, and slept on flowers, And smiles bespoke triumphant glee, But now thy walls resemble me.' " The music ceased, and we beheld a man clad in the habit of a pilgrim, who craved admittance for the night. This was readily granted. His robe was torn, his feet bare and wounded, and his lace almost hidden by a large hat pulled closely down. Zeolede proffered him a robe and sandals, but he refused them, adding, in a hollow voice, ' Affliction seeketh not costly raiments, neither AN EASTERN TALE. 16 1 does she wander upon flowers; nevertheless I revere thy hospitality, and thou shalt be rewarded. Long have f wandered in search of a murderer; he too possesses hospitality. Surely thou art fairer than the Houris in paradise. Yes, it shall be so.' He started up in an instant, and, with the quickness of lightning, stabbed Zeolede to the heart; off fell his outward disguise; when my brother of Bagdat stood before me, arrayed in eastern magnificence. Motionless with horror fixed like a statue I stood. ' Thou seest, Hassan, that Amgrad remembered thee when awake when asleep he dream ed of thee. He swore to use his dagger, and called on Alia to direct it aright. Amgrad has not shed one drop of thy blood, but still his dagger has reached thy heart. I am revenged go thou forth and rule in Bagdat.' He then raised the dagger and stfiote his bosom : his diamonds impeded the full progress of the blade, but the wound was mortal. ' Oh ! thou lovely ghost,' said Amgrad, go speed thee to paradise; there rule su preme; take thou the crescent from the fairest brow and place it on thine own. Comb down my father's locks they are torn out by the roots; carry them to him; teli him relent Amgrad sent thee go, be hi$ daughter now. Oh, Alia ! pour out thy cold dews upon my brow, and place thy hand upon my beating heart:' He died. I had forgotten to say, that when Zeolede fell. 162 HASSAN AND ZEOLEDE; four men entered in masks, two of whom disappeared with our child, while the other two held me. Allow me to throw a veil over what followed; and let those who love, ponder on my sufferings by imagining them selves in my situation. Premature age spread his snow upon my head, and the hand of affliction left channels upon my brow. After making many fruitless inquiries for my child, and searching in vain for the place of his concealment, I once more sought this friendly cell. Here have I continued for twenty years. When the flowers bloom they remind me of Zeolede; when they drop their blossoms, I mourn her loss; when again they bud in the spring season, I look forward to a meeting that may take place in heaven. But my son must be left behind; he shall not smooth his father's rushes, close his father's eyes, receive his father's blessing. He shall not be folded to this desolate heart, nor shall I again behold the cross impressed upon his bosom." At these words, I started and exclaimed, ' Oh heavens! my father, here, here is that mark.' I bared my bosom. His eyes were glazed he fell. He took from his breast the miniature his eyes sparkled again : " 'Tis your mother's it leaves me we part hold it fast, thou long lost stranger. I will tell Zeolede in heaven" ****** he ceased. The autumnal leaf falls silently to the ground; the last breeze on the mountain's bosom is AN EASTERN TALE. 1 63 scarcely heard, and the dew-drop falls almost noiseless from the flower: io a whisper soft as these, he said, " I will tell her that her son is" **** he expired, and silence threw her pall over the unfortunate Hassan forever. " Thus, must the wounded deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep, So goes this world away." THE END. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. FE.B RECTO 10M-1 1-50 '2555 470 REMINGTO. THE LIBRARY A A 000083908 4