UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 5441 8 M \ % SPECIMENS AMERICAN POETRY, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. IN THREE VOLUMES. BY SAMUEL KETTELL, VOI- II. BOSTON, 8. G. GOODRICH AND CO. MDCCCXXIX. BOSTON, Press of Isaac R. Butts. CONTENTS OP THE SECOND VOLUME. JOEL BARLOW, . . . .... . 1 The Hasty Pudding, . . ..... . . 18 From the Vision of Columbus, 21 Embassy of Rocha ' . . 23 GEORGE RICHARDS, . . . . . 28 The Declaration of Independence, . .... . 28 MERCY WARREN, . . . ' . . / . . 31 Simplicity, . . ' . . 31 THOMAS DA WES, . . ... . . 35 The Law given at Sinai, . . . ... . . 35 RICHARD DEVENS, . ... . . 38 Paraphrase of Job, 38 SAMUEL DEXTER, . . . . - . . . 40 The Progress of Science, 40 ST JOHN HONEYWOOD, 43 On the President's Farewell Address, .... 43 On the Capture of Rome by the French, .... 45 Modern Argumentation, " 46 ROY ALL TYLER, . . ... . . 47 Country Ode for the Fourth of July, .... 48 My Mistresses, 49 Address to Delia Crusca, . ^ . . . . . 50 Choice of a Wife, . . . . . .- . . 52 On a Ruined House, 52 The Town Eclogue, 53 IV CONTENTS. PAGE. RICHARD ALSOP, . ... . . . '-^ Echo, No. 1, .... V .... 68 Verses to the Shearwater, 60 The Incantation of Ulfo, 61 THEODORE DWIGHT, . : ^ M. i, r. v 1 ; . 67 African Distress, . 67 Echo No. 14, 69 Lines on the Death of Washington 71 Lines to a Mother, 78 SARAH W. MORTON, 75 The African Chief, 75 JOSIAS L. ARNOLD, 77 A Modern Eclogue, . . 77 The Warrior's Death Song, .-'.''. . .' .80 Fragment, -...//. -81 Song, . '' . ' . ' . '. . ' . ' ."..'. 81 WILLIAM BOYD, , . . 83 Woman, "V . 88 WILLIAM CLIFFTON, . . ..... 86 Mary will Smile, ' V. ? . \ ' ' ; *&f, To a Robin, . . . 88 To Fancy, .....- ' , 89 A Flight of Fancy, . ..... . . . .. . . Jjft ROBERT T. PAINE, ^. ci>* : r/*t> ' ' " Adams and Liberty, . . ..'..,. ', . . 96 The Street was a Ruin, . . . ' ., . . . 98 Ode for the Faustus Association, . ' . . . . 99 JOHN LATHROP, . . ... . . . 101 Speech of Canonicus, . . ,, . . .,.. . . ,. 102 JOSEPH STORY, ...-..-. . . 109 The Power of Solitude, . . . ^ . . . 109 DAVID EVERETT, '.. . . 113 A Branch of the Maple, ..... .- . 113 THOMAS G. FESSENDEN, 114 Elegy on the Death of Washington, . . . . 116 An Ode, "....' :*"',-" . 117 Tabitha Towzer, . . . ,i'<-Vi, r / :"-!/ H8 Signior Squeak's Dancing Advertisement, ; . , . 120 JOHN B. LINN, 121 The Powers of Genius, . . ... . . 124 JOHN SHAW, . . . .' . "1 . . 126 The Autumnal Flower, . . 128 Song, 129 WILLIAM L. PIERCE, 130 The Year, . . . . - . . . . . 130 LUCIUS M. SARGENT, . . .... 134 The Plunderer's Grave, . . . . . ' . . 134 WILLIAM RAY, ....... 137 Tripoli, "... 140 The Way to be Happy, 141 Village Greatness, , . . . 143 WILLIAM CRAFTS, . .'.'...' . . 144 Rapids in Love, . . . . : . . . 144 Serenade Song, 145 SELLECK OSBORN, 145 The Ruins, 147 The Quarrels of Love v * . 147 The Sailor, 148 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, . ' V V . . 149 The Paint King, 150 WILLIAM MAXWELL, . . ..-.'. 155 The Revery, 155 The Prize, . . . ' . . . . . \ . 156 Tea, . . 158 To a Fair Lady, 159 VOL. II. A* VI CONTENTS. ROBERT S. COFFIN, ...... 159 Song, 160 WILLIAM B. WALTER, .' . . 161 Romance, : . . 161 RICHARD DABNEY, : ^ .-'.'; . '. . 166 The Spring of Life, . ; . . . . ' ; . ' . '. 166 A Western War- Song, ....... 168 The Heroes of the West, . ; '. . . ' .. . , 169 Turn not to the East, .".'-. . . . . 170 To a Lady, ..'..... . . 171 WASHINGTON IRVING, . ' .' '"'".' . . 172 The Falls of the Passaic, . . . . . . 173 HENRY T. FARMER, . ., . , ..'.',. 174 The Battle of the Isle, . . . t . . . . 174 JAMES K. PAULDING, * . * . , ''. ' . 179 The Backwoodsman, . ^ .-. . . . 180 PAUL ALLEN, . . . . . . . . 185 Noah, Canto II, .,..--. . . . . . 187 CRYSTALINA, . . . ' . 194 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 204 Excuse for not fulfilling an engagement, .... 207 The Coral Insect, . . . . ., . . . 208 Death of an Infant, 209 With Wild Flowers to a Sick Friend, . . 210 Missolonghi, . . ... . . 210 Burial of the Young, ..'.'. . . . 212 To the Moon, ..... .214 A Vision of the Alps, . . . . . 215 Connecticut River, . . 220 Flora's Party, . 222 Musing Thoughts, . . ... . . . . 226 CONTENTS. VII ROBERT C. SANDS, *228 Yamoyden, ..'- 229 ROBERT DINSMOOR, 240 The Braes of Glenniffer, 240 SAMUEL WOODWORTH, 241 The Bucket, 242 The Landsend, . . ..-."-.. . < v -v-, 243 Love's Eyes, . . . . . . > .-.{. ( ,- . 244 The Pride of the Valley, 244 Wreath of Love, 245 JOHN PIERPONT, ..'.;. . . . 246 Airs of Palestine, . . ......... . 250 The Pilgrim Fathers, 269 Warren's Address to the American Soldiers, . . . 269 On Laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, 289 Independence, . . . . . . - . 270 For a Lady's Album, . .... . 271 HENRY PICKERING, 272 To a Beautiful Lake, 273 Daphne, ...''. y. , . . 275 Flowers, . . ._.... 277 I Thought it Slept, . . . .... . . 279 To the Fringilla Melodia, . 280 The Waterfall, . 281 Descriptive Sonnets, - 283 HENRY C. KNIGHT, . . . . . . 285 The Country Oven, . ' . . . < . . . 285 F. S. KEY, . . . . ... Xft !;-. ..'..- . . 288 The Star- Spangled Banner, . . . . . . . 288 KATHARINE A. WARE, 290 There is a Voice, . ..... . . . 291 Greece, : 291 The Parting, ,293 Vlll CONTENTS. SARAH J. HALE, 296 The Father's Choice, 296 The Victor's Crown, 298 The Light of Home, , . 300 The Gifts, '-:-. -. . . 300 The Mother to her Child, . . ... . 302 ENOCH LINCOLN, . . . .',-.. 303 The Village, ' ' . ... 303 JOHN C. M'CALL, . . . ^u f . 314 The Troubadour, . .''.". -'i" . . . 315 EDWIN C. HOLLAND, . ... ^ . . 328 The Pillar of Glory, . . . ,' . V V',.. . 328 Rise Columbia, . . . . t . . . '. 330 DANIEL BRYAN, . v _- ^. ,.,... v - . . 331 Lafayette, . . . ' . . ,..;... . 331 ALONZO LEWIS, .'.'..... 332 Death Song, . . . . ' . . , . . . 332 The Minstrel's Love, . . . -,* . . -. 333 The Wanderer of Africa, . .'' . "".' ' . . 1 334 NATHANIEL A. HAVEN, . .... 335 Lines on Frederic the Great, . ... , . 335 The Purse of Charity, . . . ,. . . . 338 Autumn, . . . . . . . . . . 336 JAMES N. BARKER, ...... . . 337 Little Red Riding Hood, . . . . . . . 338 GEORGE W. DOANE, ....:. 341 That Silent Moon, 342 Oh ! that I had Wings like a Dove, 343 Lines on Sunset, . . . . . . . . 344 Spirit of Spring, . . . . . . . . 346 On a very old Wedding Ring, . ,& / ". . . . 347 The Cloud Bridge. . . . 348 NATHANIEL H. WRIGHT, ,/'.'" 3 349 CONTENTS. IX FAGE. The Isle of Flowers, 349 The Star of Bethlehem, .... 350 SOLYMAN BROWN, . .%..' .... 351 Lady Byron to her Husband, . . . . . 351 The Emigrant's Farewell, 353 JOSEPH R. DRAKE, 354 The American Flag, 354 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE, . ,i: ;. ;; . . 356 Hadad, Scene in, . . 358 An Apologue, . . . . . . . . 363 THOMAS WELLS, 365 At Musing Hour, - ; . 366 Solitude, * ;! . 866 AVision, . . . . . . . . . 369 The Battle of New Orleans, . * -f - '' 371 Sonnet, . . . . 373 WILLIAM B. TAPPAN, .... . . . 373 Retrospection, . - . . . . . . . 373 Why should we sigh ? . . ,., . . . . 374 When Death shall Lay, ... . . . . 374 O come from a World, '...'.. 375 To the North Star, . .- 376 SAMUEL H. JENKS, . . . . . . 377 O ! may we not Weep, . 377 The Patriot's Grave, . . - . . " . . . 378 Powers of Rhyme, . . . - . . . 379 ANTHONY BLEECKER, . . . ', . . 381 On revisiting the Cottage of Rosa, . . v . . 382 Trenton Fa 11s, . ....... 382 Jungfrau Spaiger's Apostrophe to her Cat, : . 384 Epitaph of Mornaidu Plessis, 386 G. A. GAMAGE, 386 My Early Day, 886 X CONTENTS. ALBERT G. GREENE, . . . ,-.- .... 388 Lines, ' . . . 383 Lucifer, . . . . , ,. ... 393 WILLIAM H. BRADLEY, .'"-,.,-. '. . . 394 Giuseppino, . . . . . %-'. ' ' '. ' . . 894 SAMUEL DEANE, .-1- . t v$AoIU ,/i . 398 The Populous Village, .-; . . - - .' . 398 SAMUEL GILMAN, . . Ai' . . . . 404 History of a Ray of Light, .-.-.-.. . . 404 SPECIMENS OF AMERICAN POETRY, WITH CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. JOEL BARLOW. JOEL BARLOW was born at Reading, a small village in Fair- field county, Connecticut, about the year 1755. His father was a farmer in independent, though moderate circumstances, and had ten children, of whom our poet was the youngest. He died while Joel was a lad at school, and left him little more than sufficient to give him a liberal education of such a sort as was customary at that period. He entered first at Dart- mouth college in New Hampshire, but that seminary being then in its infancy, and laboring under many embarrassments, he removed after a short residence, to Yale college in New Haven. In the third year of his academic course, the revolu- tionary war broke out, and the Connecticut militia being called out in great numbers to strengthen Washington's army, Bar- low could not resist the inclination to join the camp where four of his brothers were in arms. He shouldered his musket during the college vacations, and fought in many of the skir- mishes at the beginning of the war. After completing his studies with great reputation, he received a degree in 1778, on which occasion he first came before the public as a poet, by pronouncing an original poem, which was soon after print- VOL. II. 1 * JOEL BARLOW. ed. He had previously made some attempts at verse, but not it appears, of any serious character. This earliest of his works may be found in a volume with the title of " American Poems" published at Litchfield in 1793. On leaving college he betook himself to the study of law, but continued it only for a shortjtime. He was strongly urged to enter the army as a chaplain, there being a great deficiency of this kind among the troops. Although he had never under- taken a course of theological reading, yet the high opinion entertained of his talents and character, and the influence of his friends, enabled him after a preparatory study of six weeks, to pass examination, and obtain a license to preach as a congregational minister. He repaired immediately to the army, where in the strict and punctual discharge of his clerical duties he sustained a high reputation. In the severe labors of his office, he did not neglect his more elegant studies, but mingled devotion to the muses with his spiritual exhortations. He composed patriotic songs and addresses to the soldiery, and made all his powers subservient to the great purpose of arousing the patriotism of the troops, and sustaining their courage under their numerous hardships and perils. He continued with the army throughout the war, and amid these occupations was also engaged in the composition of the poem afterwards published under the title of " The Vision of Co- lumbus." On receiving the degree of Master of Arts at New Haven, in 1781, he recited a poem called " The Prospect of Peace. " This was published and announced as a specimen of the larger work he had in hand, in which the substance of it is still to be found. About the same period he was married to Miss Baldwin of New Haven, a sister of the Hon. Abra- ham Baldwin, senator in Congress, from Georgia. Mr Barlow had not chosen the theological profession in accordance with any decided taste for the calling, nor with any view beyond the emergency which had brought about his connexion with it. The scenes moreover with which he had been familiarized in the discharge of his numerous labors in the ranks of the army, had induced such habits as to render it a JOEL BARLOW. work of difficulty for him to assume at once, and with good effect the character of a parish clergyman. He had no scru- ple therefore in throwing aside the clerical office, and return- ing to his law studies. He settled himself at New Haven, and as his profession did not bring him any great immediate profit, he undertook the management of a weekly paper. His extensive knowledge, and the ability he displayed as a writer, soon gained the work great circulation and credit, as but few of the public prints at that time were conducted with any talent, or indeed were anything more than meagre repositories for the news of the day. During this connexion he prepared for the press his Vision of Columbus, which was published in 1787. He had become so widely known in the army, and was so well aided by his friends, that a large subscription was obtained for the work. He dedicated it to Louis XVI, and had the satis- faction of seeing it meet with a very favorable acceptance from the public. A few months after its appearance, it was reprinted in London, and subsequently went through a second edition in this country, and one in Paris. After the publication of his poem, Barlow was engaged by the general association of the clergy of Connecticut, to re- vise Watts's version of the Psalms which had been in gen- eral use in their churches, and were regarded by them as capable of improvement by supplying omissions and altering those parts referring to the politics and religion of Great Bri- tain. This task he performed in a very satisfactory manner. Twelve psalms which had been omitted by Watts were added, and six nearly rewritten, besides numerous corrections, improv- ing the grammar and poetical expression of the original, as well as adapting the national allusions to the circumstances of this country. A selection of hymns was also added from Watts, and originals by himself, in which he succeeded so well in imitating his model, that as they are interspersed in the volume without being marked with the name of the author, it is not easy to make the distinction among them. This work be- came the authorized version of the Connecticut churches. Some alterations were afterwards made by Dr Dvvight, and it 4 JOEL BARLOW. still continues in common use. Barlow upon the publication: of his psalms, opened a bookstore in Hartford for the sale of the work, and as soon as this was effected, returned to the practice of law, having before abandoned his connexion with the newspaper. As a lawyer, he did not meet with a very flattering success, His oratorical powers were by no means of a high order, and his manners wanted that engaging pliancy, which is so effect- ual in aiding the exertions of him who is striving for the pop- ular favor. He does not appear to have had a sufficiently strong liking for the study, to incite him to such assiduity in th& pursuit of it, as might have overcome these great hinderances. He was soon aware that he could indulge no hope of rising to eminence in the career which he had begun, or even acquire a sufficient sum for his maintenance. The property which he had acquired by his literary undertakings was rapidly disap- pearing, and he was under the necessity of betaking himself to some new occupation. Under these circumstances he was applied toby certain members of a land association, called the Ohio Company, and some other persons who were regarded as men of property, to go to Europe as the agent of a concern for disposing of large tracts of land in the western territory. By fraudulent manoeuvres, these persons obtained the management of a large portion of the funds of the Ohio Company, and giv- ing themselves the name of the Scioto Company, offered vast quantities of land for sale, to which they had no claim. Bar- low was totally ignorant of the true character of the under- taking, and readily agreed to the proposal. He sailed for England in 1788, and from that country proceeded to France, where he succeeded in disposing of some of the lands. The agency however turned out unfortunate for Barlow. His reputation gained him the intimacy of the public char- acters of the greatest note and influence in Fiance, and the singularly novel and interesting scenes which the revolu- tion in that country was exhibiting from day to day, caused him to enter into politics with great ardor. As an Ameri- can, and one who had already lent his aid to the cause JOEL BARLOW. O of revolution, he could not hesitate to join the republican party. He was affected with no small portion of the common enthusiasm of the day, and indulged in zealous and confident anticipations of the wonders in the political and social order of the universe, which it was judged were to be the final result of those early convulsions in the political system of Europe. He sided with that portion of the republican party, called the Girondists, and made himself distinguished as one of their most active and zealous partizans. He returned to England in 1791 and published in London the first part of a work with the title of " Advice to the privileged orders," which with subsequent additions, has been several times reprinted ; it is a performance of some ability, but abounding in the extrava- gances which the revolutionary effervescence had engendered. This was followed the next year by a poem called " The Con- spiracy of Kings, " in which, as the title manifests, he took for his subject the engrossing topic of political interest. In autumn of the same year he published a letter to the National Convention, on the defects of the first constitution, in which he suggested several improvements, such as abolishing the royal power, diminishing the public salaries, making elections more frequent and popular, and dissolving the connexion of the church with the government. Barlow in consequence of these publications, became associated with the leading char- acters in England, who were on the side of reform, as also with a great number of men of literature and science in Lon- don. In the latter part of 1792 the London Constitutional Society, of which he was a member, voted an address to the National Convention, and Barlow with another passed over to France to present it. The Convention, as a mark of respect, conferred on him the rights of a French citizen : rights, how- ever, which we believe he never exercised or claimed by any public act. After a few weeks stay in Paris, he was about to return to England, when information of the notice which the British government had taken of his mission, led him to think he should be unsafe in England. The revolutionary spirit had VOL. II. 1* JOEL BARLOW. extended widely in that country, and the government became alarmed. Barlow's errand to Paris was suspected to have some connexion with a secret political undertaking, and the business was officially investigated. In this state of things he determined to remain in France, and sent for Mrs Barlow from England. In the latter part of 1792 he accompanied his friend the Abbe Gregoire, and a deputation of the Convention to Savoy, whither they were despatched to organise that territo- ry, as a department of the French republic. He spent the winter at Chamberry, and at the request of his friends wrote an address to the Piedmontese inciting them to throw off their allegiance to the king of Sardinia. It was translated into French and Italian, and distributed throughout the country, but failed to produce any great effect. Another work which has been much better received by the public, occupied the remainder of the season. His poem of Hasty Pudding, the most popular of all his writings, was written at Chamberry. From this country he returned to Paris, and engaged in com- mercial speculations, from which he reaped considerable profit. We do not find that he took any share in politics at this period: and although many political writings of a violent and atrocious character were given to the public under his name about this time, we have his own assurance that he never wrote them. He continued to indulge hopes that the struggles which were then convulsing France with still mightier power, would soon work out her politibal regeneration ; but the scenes of turbulence, anarchy, and blood, which recurred from day to day, shook his faith in the cause of the revolution, and kept him aloof from the scene of contest. Notwithstanding he continued to reside at Paris for about three years. His character as a neutral insured him a degree of safety amid the tumults around him, which he could not otherwise have enjoyed. In 1795 or near that time, he visited the north of Europe, and on his return received information that lie had been ap- pointed by President Washington, Consul for the United States at Algiers, and Plenipotentiary for the negotiation of a JOEL BARLOW. 7 peace with the Dey, and the redemption of all the American captives in the Barbary states. Barlow undertook the charge,-' and passing over to the Mediterranean through Spain, proceed- ed to Algiers, and began the business of negotiation. He encountered powerful obstacles from the intrigues of several of the European agents, but had the address to conclude the treaty expeditiously. The next year he negotiated a treaty with Tripoli, and ransomed all the American prisoners who could be found in Barbary. In this exertion we are assured that he was often obliged to hazard his life, to accomplish his humane purposes. Having discharged these duties, he gave up his consulship, returned to Paris, and entered again into trade, by which he acquired a handsome fortune, a great part of which he laid out in landed estates in France. One of his purchases, was the elegant hotel of Clermont Tonnere in Paris, where he lived some years in a splendid style. Mr Barlow was not commissioned by instructions from government to set on foot any negotiation respecting the dif- ficulties which arose at this time between the United States and France ; nevertheless he made some exertions to bring about an adjustment of differences, and published some writ- ings to the same end in the United States. About the same time he offered a memoir to the French government, on the subject of privateering, blockade, and other points in maritime warfare. In this he condemned the system of privateering, as no better than robbery, and asserted the right of neutrals to trade in articles which the international code has set down as contraband of war. The memoir was received respectful- ly, but the new French constitution then framing, and for which it was designed, was hurried through with all possible expedition, to answer the immediate purposes of some of the leading politicians, and Barlow's suggestions were passed by unheeded for want of time for their consideration. He had now been absent nearly seventeen years from his native country. Paris was no longer the theatre of faction and turbulence, but had regained a sufficient degree of quiet to render it an agreeable place of abode. Its magnificent 8 JOEL BARLOW. repositories of everything precious in literature and the arts, offered the strongest attractions to a man of letters, but the desire of revisiting the land of his birth, and beholding the wonderful improvements in her social and political state which the lapse of a few years had wrought, induced him to sell his property in France, and embark for America. After a short visit to England, he arrived in this country in 1805. He fixed his abode at Washington, where he purchased an elegant house, and lived in a splendid and hospitable manner, on terms of intimacy with the President, and the most noted public men. One of his earliest undertakings after his return was the plan of a national college or academy, under the immediate patronage of the government, which had been originally sug- gested by Washington, and now received the approbation of Mr Jefferson. Barlow drew up a prospectus of the proposed institution, which is described as an academy to be erected at the seat of government " which should combine the two great objects of scientific investigation and of instruction, together with national views, by uniting a university to a learned soci- ety, formed on a plan resembling that of the national institute of France, and adding to both a military and naval academy, and a school of fine arts." This prospectus he published in a pamphlet at his own expense, and circulated it throughout the country. The plan met with considerable opposition from the friends of several of the literary institutions in the differ- ent states, but was so warmly received in many quarters, that it was brought before Congress. On the 4th of March 1806, a bill was introduced in the senate, to incorporate a national academy upon the plan offered by Barlow. It was passed to a second reading and referred to a committee. After some debate as to the name which the institution should bear, the bill was referred to a select committee who never reported ; whether from a disapproval of the* entire project, or want of time for deliberation upon the business, we are not informed. Thus the project failed, and Barlow never renewed his at- tempt. JOEL BARLOW. 9 He now entered upon an undertaking which he had con- templated for many years, and the preparations for which had already occupied a great portion of his life. This was the publication of his Columbiad, the title he bestowed upon the rifacdamento of the national poem of his early years. That production had been received by the American public with a degree of favor, highly flattering to the author. Our native literature at that period was but scanty, and a work of any pretensions though of ordinary merit, was sure to attract notice. The Vision of Columbus made its appearance in an attractive shape, and with strong claims upon the general regard. It was the most national and patriotic performance, both in frame and spirit, which any native writer had produced. The subject was familiar to every one, and the scenes of the revolution which furnished the author with so large a portion of the in- cidents of his story, had an interest for his readers, which dis- posed them to look with partiality upon the strains in which those deeds were sung. When we add, that the state of criticism was comparatively low among us in those days, and that correct taste which is formed by extensive reading, was by means an ordinary accomplishment, it will not appear sur- prising that such a production should be read under the influ- ence of strong prepossessions, or that the judgment passed up- on its merits, should have been regulated by no very discrimi- nating and philosophical notion of poetical excellence. The consequence was, that the Vision of Columbus was overpraised, and Barlow, who was accustomed to be spoken of as the first in rank among the American bards, was tempted to claim a high- er character in the poetical scale, by giving his work the im- posing stateliness and symmetry of the epopee. For this pur- pose he cast the poem anew, and made such additions as he deemed requisite to give it the epic fulness and perfection. He spared no pains nor expense in the publication, and in 1808 the Columbiad was 1 issued from the press in a style of ele- gance which few works, either American or European, have ever equalled. An edition in duodecimo was published the next year, and the poem was also reprinted in London. 10 JOEL BARLOW. Although the Columbiad was the performance upon which Barlow chiefly relied for his fame, yet now that it was completed and before the world, he did not seem disposed to desist in any measure from his literary enterprises. He made large collec- tions of materials for a general history of the United States, and was busily engaged in planning the work in 1811 when he received the appointment of minister plenipotentiary to France. The objects of his mission were the negotiation of a treaty of commerce and indemnification for the French spoliations. He accepted the appointment, sailed for France, and entered immediately upon the business, which he found it difficult to accomplish, from the many delays and obstacles which the French government contrived to throw in his way. Mr Barlow spared no zeal nor perseverance to effect his pur- pose, and beirvj invited in 1812 to a conference with Napoleon at Wilna, he set out in October and travelled day and night in that severe season, which annihilated the phalanxes of the French Emperor. The country through which his course lay, after leaving France, was so wasted by the ravages of war, as hardly to afford a meal to the traveller, and in a state of extreme debility from fatigue and want of food and sleep, he was exposed to sudden changes from cold to heat, in the small and crowded cottages of the Jews, which afford the only tav- erns to be met with in Poland. This produced a violent in- flammation of the lungs, of which he died on the 22d of De- cember, 1812, at Zarnawica, a village in Poland near Cracow. Barlow, as a poet, can by no means be allowed the highest rank among his countrymen, even those of his own day ; yet he has drawn upon himself by the publicity of his career, and the efforts he made for that purpose, a greater degree of no- tice, than any other of our native bards. To the European world, Barlow was the only transatlantic poet. The witlings of the British periodical press pointed their gibes at our lit- erature in the person of this single writer, and regarded the Coiumbiad as the sum total of American genius in the shape of verse. A better standard of taste has now lowered the estimation of his powers among us, and it is no longer JOEL BARLOW. II fashionable to consider the literary reputation of the country as resting upon his attempt at epic poetry. Still, the talents which he has unquestionably displayed in his writings, entitle him to no small share of our attention. The Conspiracy of Kings is a vehement invective against the potentates of Europe, and the enemies of the French revolution. In this piece, he expatiates upon the common topics of the writers in the same cause, with great warmth and spirit. It is a good specimen of animated, vigorous de- clamation. The Hasty Pudding will probably retain a greater share of popularity than any other portion of his works. This poem is executed in a lively and entertaining manner, and affords in the familiar and homely nature of the subject, and the gaiety with which it is treated, an agreeable contrast to the gravity and stateliness of the author's general style. The Columbiad has met with small favor from the critics, and its faults, both in plan and execution, were severely com- mented upon at its first appearance. The absurdity of attempt- ing to give an epic unity and interest through the medium of a vision, to a series of actions so unconnected in date and sub- ject : and the strange and awkward neologisms by which the language of the poem is disfigured, called forth the reprehen- sions of the reviewers in every quarter. It had no popularity among us, and is now fallen quite into neglect, a fate which the reader may ascribe to the improved taste and understand- ing in literary matters, of the present day, but which was in part occasioned by the higher character which the poem as- sumed over the work as it stood in its original state. The Vision of Columbus, while no one claimed for it any very ex- alted rank, continued to be spoken of in terms of respect. But in its new shape it came out with the high pretensions of an epic, and having been pronounced a failure, nobody reads it. In his preface he avows the object of the Columbiad to be altogether of a moral and political nature. Most epic poems are regarded as having some similar ami. They were designed to leave some more important and durable impression than JOEL BARLOW. what arises from contemplating the interest of the story or the beauty of the language. We are led to conclude, however, from Barlow's explanation of his plan, that he considered more the philosophy than the poetry of his work ; that he was less solicitous for the classical regularity and interest of the fable, than for the general sentiments and moral effect of the per- formance, forgetting that without a proper degree of skill in arranging the narrative which was to be the vehicle of the sentiments, they must fail of accomplishing their object. It is surprising that Barlow's judgment should have allowed him to imagine that to render his poem perfectly national in character, it was necessary that it should embrace the history and topo- graphy, as it were, of the whole American continent; or that he could have hoped to excite interest by a story which ex- tended through hundreds of years ; which treated of Manco Capac and Washington, described the conquest of Mexico, and the battle of Bunker Hill ; and contained long philosophi- cal speculations upon almost every subject political, moral, and scientific. How utterly he has failed in this particular we need waste no criticism in showing. His notions of what was requisite to give the epic dignity to his performance seem to have embraced the most objectionable part of the old doctrines upon the subject with ideas of his own altogether novel. The ma- chinery which he deemed it necessary to introduce, accom- plishes hardly anything of its destined purpose in controlling the main events, or bringing about the catastrophe of the story ; and the topics which he had occasion to handle offered such a temptation to speculate, descant, and moralize, that the quantity of matter in a digressory strain which he has em- bodied in the work, gives it the character in some parts of a philosophical instead of a narrative poem, a defect of plan which the highest graces of composition could hardly redeem. The versification in this poem is elaborated with great care, but it is not flowing nor graceful. The language is often tu- mid, and extravagant, and disfigured with ornaments which denote a vitiated taste. There is throughout a want of ima- gination, fire, and the marks of that inbred faculty of the soul, JOEL BARLOW. 13 that refined intellectual feeling which pours out its energies with a fervor that reaches the heart. Barlow was a poet by dint of study and lahor ; hut in the creations which his fancy has bodied forth, we seek in vain for the breathings of that spirit of unearthly tone, which act like a spell upon the senses, whose visitings thrill the bosom in its deepest and most hal- lowed recesses, stir our sympathies with a magic potency, and stamp the memory with a deep and abiding impression. His powers were inadequate to the accomplishment of the undertaking which he meditated in the Columbiad. The poem cannot be commended as a whole, but there are portions of it which exhibit the author's talent in a very favorable manner. It has many passages of spirited, rich, and splendid description : and in expatiating in a moral and philosophical strain, he dis- plays a loftiness of sentiment, and an enthusiasm, which inspire noble thoughts and kindle some of our most exalted emotions. The moral scope of the work, in spite of its miscarriage as an epic, will recommend it to our regard as the earnest endeavor of a sincere philanthropist to further the progress of the human race in their advances to political and moral perfection. THE HASTY PUDDING. CANTO I. YE Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise, To cramp the day and hide me from the skies ; Ye Gallic flags, that o'er their heights unfurled, Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world, I sing not you. A softer theme I choose, A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse, But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire The purest frenzy of poetic fire. Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd, Who hurl your thunders round the epic field ; Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring ; Or on some distant fair your notes employ, And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy. 14 JOEL BARLOW. I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, My morning incense, and my evening meal, The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl, Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul. The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine, Its substance mingled, married in with thine, Shall cool and temper thy superior heat, And save the pains of blowing while I eat. Oh ! could the smooth, the emblematic song Flow like thy genialjuices o'er my tongue, Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime, And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme, No more thy awkward unpoetic name Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame ; But rising grateful to the accustom'd ear, All bards should catch it, and all realms revere ! Assist me first with pious toil to trace Through wrecks of time, thy lineage and thy race ; Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, (Ere great Columbus sought thy native'shore) First gave thee to the world ; her works of fame Have lived indeed, but lived without a name. Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, First learn'd with stones to crack the well dried maize, Through the rough sieve to shake the golden shower, In boiling water stir the yellow flour : The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd with haste, Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim ; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, And the whole mass its true consistence takes. Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, Rise, like her labors, to the son of song, To her, to them, I 'd consecrate my lays, And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. Not through the rich Peruvian realms alone The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be known, But o'er the world's wide clime should live secure, Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure. Dear Hasty Pudding, what unpromised joy Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy ! Doom'd o'er the world through devious paths to roam, Each clime my country, and each house my home, My soul is soothed, my cares have found an eud, I greet my long lost, unforgotten friend. For thee through Paris, that corrupted town, JOEL BARLOW. How long in vain I wandered up and down, Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard, Cold from his cave usurps the morning board. London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea; No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee ; The uncouth word, a libel on the town, Would call a proclamation from the crown. For climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays, ChilPd in their fogs, exclude the generous maize : A grain, whose rich, luxuriant growth requires Short gentle showers, and bright etherial fires. But here, though distant from our native shore, With mutual glee, we meet and -laugh once more. The same ! I know thee by that yellow face, That strong complexion of true Indian race, Which time can never change, nor soil impair, Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air ; For endless years, through every mild domain, Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to reign, But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, In different realms to give thee different names. Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant Polanta call, the French of course Polante. E'en in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush! On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn Insult and eat thee by the name Suppaivn. All spurious appellations, void of truth ; I 've better known thee from my earliest youth, Thy name is Hasty-Pudding ! thus our sires Were wont to greet thee fuming from their fires ; And while they argued in thy just defence With logic clear, they thus explain'd the sense : " In haste, the boiling cauldron, o'er the blaze, Receives and cooks the ready powder'd maize ; In haste 't is served, and then in equal haste, With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast. No carving to be done, no knife to grate The tender ear, and wound the stony plate ; But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip, And taught with art the yielding mass to dip, By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored, Performs the hasty honors of the board." Such is thy name, significant and clear, A name, a sound to every Yankee dear, But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste Preserve my pure hereditary taste. JOEL BAKLOwV There are who strive to stamp with disrepute The luscious food, because it feeds the brute ; In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs Compare thy nursling, man, to pamper'd pigs ; With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. What though the generous cow gives nae to quaff The milk nutritious : am I then a calf? Or can the genius of the noisy swine, Though nursed on pudding, thence lay claim to mine ? Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy praise, Runs more melodious than the notes they raise. My song resounding in its grateful glee, No merit claims : I praise myself in thee. My father loved thee through his length of days ! For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize; From thee what health, what vigor he possess'd, Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest ; Thy constellation ruled my natal morn, And all my bones were made of Indian corn. Delicious grain ! whatever form it take, To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, In every dish 't is welcome still to me, But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee. Let the green succotash with thee contend, Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend, Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, And a long slice of bacon grace their side ; Not all the plate, how famed soe'er it be, Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. Some talk of 'Hoe-Cake, fair Virginia's pride, Rich Johnny-Cake, this mouth has often tried ; Both please me well, their virtues much the same Alike their fabric, as allied their fame, Except in dear New England, where the last Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, To give it sweetness and improve die taste. But place them all before me, smoking hot, The big, round dumpling, rolling from the pot, The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast, With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast ; The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides A belly soft 'ie pulpy apple hides ; The yellow bread whose face like amber glows, And all of Indian that the bake pan knows, You tempt jne not my fav'rite greets my eyes. To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct flies. JOEL BARLOW. To mix the food by vicious rules of art, To kill the stomach, and to sink the heart, To make mankind to social virtue sour, Cram o'er each dish, and be what they devour ; For this the kitchen muse first framed her book, Commanding sweat to stream from every cook ; Children no more their antic gambols tried, And friends to physic wonder'd why they died. Not so the Yankee his abundant feast, With simples furnish'd and with plainness drest, A numerous offspring gathers round the board, And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous taste, And health attends them from the short repast. While the full pail rewards the milk-maid's toil, The mother sees the morning cauldron boil ; To stir the pudding next demands their care ; To spread the table and the bowls prepare ; To feed the children, as their portions cool, And comb their heads, and send them off to school. Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart, For nature scorns not all the aids of art. E'en Hasty-Pudding, purest of all food, May still be bad, indifferent, or good, As sage experience the short process guides, Or want of skill, or want of care presides. Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan, To rear the child and long sustain the man ; To shield the morals while it mends the size, And all the powers of every food supplies, Attend the lesson that the muse shall bring. Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing. But since, O man ! thy life and health demand Not food alone, but labor from thy hand, First in the field, beneath the sun's strong rays, Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize : She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. When now the ox, obedient to thy call, Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall, Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain, And plant in measured hills the golden grain. But when the tender germ begins to shoot. And the green spire declares the sprouting root, Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, VOL. n. 2* 18 JOEL BARLOW. The insidious worm, the all-devouring crow. A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire, Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire ; The feather'd robber with his hungry maw Swift flies the field before your man of straw, A frightful image, such as schoolboys bring, Wlien met to burn the pope, or hang the king. Thrice in the season, through each verdant row Wield the strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe ; The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, To till the summer corn, and roast the winter cakes. Slow springs the blade, while check'd by chilling rains, Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains ; But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, Then start the juices, then the roots expand ; Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold ; The busy branches all the ridges fill, Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. Here cease to vex them, all your cares are (lone : Leave the last labors to the parent sun ; Beneath hisigenial smiles, the well-clrest field. When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; The suckling ears the silky fringes bend, And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend ; The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows, O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows : High as a hop-field waves the silent grove, A safe retreat for little thefts of love, When the pledged roasting-ears invite the maid, To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade ; His generous hand unloads the cumbrous lull, And the green spoils her ready basket fill ; Small compensation for the two-fold bliss, The promised wedding, and the present kiss. Slight depredations these ; but now the moon Calls from his hollow trees the sly raccoon ; And while by night he bears his prize awav, The bolder squirrel labors through the day". Both thieves alike, but provident of time," A virtue rare, that almost hides their crime. Then let them steal the little stores they can, And fill their gran'rics from the toils of" man; We 've one advantage, where they take no part, With all their wiWthey ne'er have found the art JOEL BARLOW. To boil the Hasty-Pudding ; here we shine Superior far to tenants of the pine ; This envied boon to man shall still belong, Unshared by them, in substance or in song. At last the closing season browns the plain, And ripe October gathers in the grain ; Deep loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill, The sack distended marches to the mill ; The lab'ring mill beneath the burthen groans, And showers the future pudding from the stones ; Till the glad housewife greets the powdered gold, And the new crop exterminates the old. CANTO III. THE days grow short ; but though the falling sun To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done, Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, And yield new subject to my various song. For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest home, The invited neighbors to the husking come ; A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, Unite their charms, to chase the hours away. Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall, The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beans, Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows, Assume their seats, the solid mass attack ; The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack ; The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, And the sweet cider tiips in silence round. The laws of husking every wight can tell ; And sure no laws he ever keeps so well: For each red ear a general kiss he gains, With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains; But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, Red as her lips, and taper as her waist, She walks the round, and culls one favored beau, Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. Various the sport, as are the wits and brains Of well pleased lasses and contending swains ; Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, And he that gets the last ear wins the day. Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care, The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare. The sifted meal already waits her hand, The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand, 20 JOEL BARLOW. The fire flames high ; and, as a pool (that takes The headlong stream that o'ei the mill-dam breaks) Foams, roars, and rages, with incessant toils, So the vex'd cauldron rages, roars and boils. First with clean salt, she seasons well the food, Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood. Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand ; To stir it well demands a stronger hand ; The husband takes his turn : and round and round The ladle flies ; at last the toil is crown'd ; When to the board the thronging huskers pour, And take their seats as at the corn before. I leave them to their feast. There still belong More copious matters to my faithful song. For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet, Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. Some with molasses line the luscious treat, And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet. A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise, A great resource in those bleak wintry days, When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow, And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow. [ Blest cow ! thy praise shall still my notes employ, Great source of health, the only source of joy ; Mother of Egypt's god, but sure, for me, Were I to leave my God, I 'd worship thee. ) How oft thy teats these precious hands have press'd ! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! How oft I 've fed thee with my favorite grain ! And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain ! Yes, swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah ! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer ; When spring returns, she '11 well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own. Milk then with pudding I would always choose ; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Well for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide Their littlo bulk beneath the swelling tide ; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, JOEL BARLOW. Then check your hand ; you 've got the portion due, So taught our sires, and what they taught is true. There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear The nice distinction, yet to me 't is clear. The deep bowl'd Gallic spoon, contiived to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings ; Where the strong labial muscles must embrace, The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the freight, A bowl less concave but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. Experienced feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art. These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide, Though not in song ; the muse but poorly shines In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines : Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose egg shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide - The distance from the centre to the side. Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin : Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin ; or like me, Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee ; Just in the zenith your wise head project, Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, The wide mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all ! WHERE Spring's coy steps, in cold Canadia stray, And joyless seasons hold unequal sway ; He saw the pine its daring mantle rear, Break the rude blast, and mock the inclement year, Secure the limits of the angry skies, And bid all southern vegetation rise. Wild o'er the vast impenetrable round, The untrod bowers of shadowy nature frown'd ; The neighboring cedar waved its honors wide, The fir's tall boughs, the oak's resistless pride, 22 JOEL BARLOW. The branching beech, the aspin's trembling shade, Veil'd the dim heavens and brown'd the du.;ky glade. Here in huge crowds those sturdy sons of earth, In frosty regions, claim a nobler birth ; Where heavy trunks the sheltering dome requires, And copious fuel feeds the wintry fires. While warmer suns, that southern climes emblaze, A cool deep umbrage o'er the woodland raise : Floridia's blooming shores around him spread, And Georgian hills en ct their shady head ; Beneath tall trees, in livelier verdure gay, Long level walks a humble garb display ; The infant corn, unconscious of its worth, Points the green spire and bends the foliage forth ; Sweeten'd on flowery banks, the passing air Breathes all the untasted fragrance of the year ; Unbidden harvests o'er the regions rise, And blooming life repays the genial skies. Where circling shores around the gulf extend, The bounteous groves with richer burdens bend ; Spontaneous fruits the uplifted palms unfold, The beauteous oiange waves a load of gold, The untaught vine, the wildly- wanton cane Bloom on the waste, and clothe the enarbor'd plain, The rich pimento scents the neighboiing skies, And woolly clusters o'er the cotton rise. Here, in one view, the same glad branches bring The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring; No wintry blasts the unchanging year deform, Nor beasts unshelter'd fear the pinching storm: But vernal breezes o'er the blossoms rove, And breathe the ripen'd juices through the grove. Beneath the crystal wave's inconstant light, Pearls undistinguish'd sparkle on the sight; From opening earth, in living lustre, shine The various treasures of the blazing mine ; Hills, cleft before him, all their stores unfold, The quick mercurius and the burning gold ; Gems of unnumber'd hues, in bright array, Illume the changing rocks and shed the beams of day. JOEL BAKLOW. EMBASSY OF ROCHA. FROM THE COLUMBIAD. 23 SOON the glad prince, in robes of white array'd, Call'd his attendants, and the sire obey'd ; A diamond broad, in burning gold imprest, Display'd the sun's bright image on his breast; A pearl-dropt girdle bound his waist below, And the white lautu graced his lofty brow. They journey'd forth, o'ermarching far the mound That flank'd the kingdom on its Andean bound ; Ridge after ridge through vagrant hordes they pass'd, Where each new tribe seem'd wilder than the last; To all they preach and prove the solar sway And climb fresh mountains on their tedious way. At length, as .through disparting clouds they rise, And hills above them still obstruct the skies, While a dead calm o'er all the region stood And not a leaf could fan its parent wood, Sudden a strange portentous noise began ; The birds fled wild, the beasts for shelter ran ; Slow, sullen, loud, with deep astounding blare, Swell the strong tones of subterranean war ; Behind, before, beneath them groans the ground, Earth heaves and labors with the shuddering sound ; Columns of smoke, that cap the rumbling height, Roll reddening far through heaven and choke the light : From tottering steeps descend their clift's of snow, The mountains reel, the valleys rend below ; The headlong streams forget their usual round And shrink and vanish in the gaping ground. The sun descends ; but night recalls in vain Her silent shades, to recommence her reign ; The bursting mount gapes high, a sudden glare Corruscates wide, till all the purpling air Breaks into flame ; it wheels and roars and raves And wraps the welkin in its folding waves. Light sailing cinders, through its vortex driven, Stream high and brighten to the midst of heaven ; And, following slow, full floods of boiling ore Swell, swoop aloft, and through the concave roar. Torrents of molten rocks, on every side, Lead o'er the shelves of ice their fiery tide ; Hills slide before them, skies around them burn, Towns sink beneath and heaving plains upturn ; JOEL BARLOW. O'er many a league the flaming deluge hurl'd, Sweeps total nations from the staggering world. Meanwhile, at distance through the livid light, A busy concourse met their wondering sight ; The prince drew near ; where lo ! an altar stood, Rude in its form and fill'd with burning wood ; Wrapt in the flames a child expiring lay And the fond father thus was heard to pray : " Receive, O dreadful power, from feeble age This last pure offering to thy sateless rage ; Thrice has thy vengeance on this hated land Claim'd a dear infant from my yielding hand, Thrice have those lovely lips the victim press'd, And all the mother torn that tender breast, When the dread duty stifled every sigh And not a tear escaped her beauteous eye. Our fourth and last now meets the fatal doom ; Groan not, my child, thy god remands thee home ; Attend once more, thou dark infernal name, From yon far streaming pyramid of flame ; Snatch from his heaving flesh the blasted breath, Sacred to thee and all the fiends of death ; Then in thy hall, with spoils of nations crown'd, Confine thy walks beneath the rending ground ; No more on earth the embowell'd flames to pour, And scourge my people and my race no more." Thus Rocha heard ; and to the trembling crowd Turn'd the bright image of his beaming god. The afflicted chief, with fear and grief oppress'd, Beheld the sign, and thus the prince address'd : " From what far land, O royal stranger, say, Ascend thy wandering steps this nightly way ? From plains like ours, by holy demons fired ? Have thy brave people in the flames expired-? And hast thou now, to stay the whelming flood, No son to offer to the furious god ? " " From happier lands I came," the prince returns, "Where no red flaming flood the concave burns, No furious god bestorms our soil and skies, Nor yield our heftids the bloody sacrifice ; But life and joy the Power delights to give, And bids his children but rejoice and live. Thou seest through heaven the day-dispensing Sun In living radiance wheel his golden throne, O'er earth's gay surface send his genial beams, Force from yon cliffs of ice the vernal streams ; While fruits and flowers adorn the cultured field, JOEL BARLOW. And seas and lakes their copious treasures yield : He reigns our only god. In him we trace The friend, the father of our happy race. Late the lone tribes, on those unlabor'd shores, Ran wild, and served imaginary powers ; Till he in pity taught their feuds to cease, Devised their laws and fashion'd all for peace. My sacred parents first the reign began, Sent from his courts to guide the paths of man, To plant his fruits, to manifest his sway, And give their blessings where he gives the day.' The legates now their further course descried, A young cazique attending as a guide, O'er craggy cliffs pursued their eastern way, Trod loftier champaigns, meeting high the day : * Saw timorous tribes in these sublime abodes Adore the blasts and turn the storms to gods ; While every cloud that thunders through the side Claims from their hands a human sacrifice. Awhile the youth, their better faith to gain, Strives with his usual art, but strives in vain ; In vain he pleads the mildness of the sun; A gale refutes him ere his speech be done ; Continual tempests from their orient blow, And load the mountains with eternal snow. The sun's own beam, the timid clans declare, Drives all their evils on the tortured air ; He draws the vapors up their eastern sky, That sail and centre round his dazzling eye ; Leads the loud storms along his mid-day course And bids the Andes meet their sweeping force, Builds their bleak summits with an icy throne, To shine through heaven, a semblance of his own Hence the sharp sleet, these lifted lawns that wait And all the scourges that attend their state. Two toilsome days the virtuous Inca strove To social life their savage minds to move ; When the third morning glow'd serenely bright, He led their elders to an eastern height ; The world unlimited beneath them lay, And not a cloud obscured the rising day. Vast Amazonia, starr'd with twinkling streams, In azure drest, a heaven inverted seems ; Dim Paraguay extends the aching sight, Xaraya glimmers like the mooii of night, JOEL BARI.ou Land, water, sky, in blending borders play And smile and brighten to the lamp of day. When thus the prince : What majesty divine ! What robes of gold ! what flames about him shine ? There walks the god ; his starry sons on high Draw their dim veil and shrink "behind the sky : Earth with surrounding nature 's born anew, And men by millions greet the glorious view. Who can behold his all delighting soul Give life and joy, and heaven and earth control, Bid death and darkness from his presence move, Who can behold and not adore and love ? Those plains, immensely circling, feel his beams, He greens the groves, he silvers gay the streams, Swells the wild fruitage, gives the beast his food. And mute creation hails the genial god. But richer boons his righteous laws impart, To aid the life and mould the social heart, His arts of peace through happy realms to spread, And altars grace with sacrificial bread ; Such our distinguish'd lot, who own his sway, Mild as his morning stars and liberal as the day. His unknown laws, the mountain chief replied, May serve perchance your boasted race to guide ; And yon low plains, that drink his partial ray, At his glad shrine their just devotions pay. But we nor fear his frown nor trust his smile ; Vain as our prayers is every anxious toil ; Our beasts are buried in his whirls of snow, Our cabins drifted to his slaves below. Even now his placid looks thy hopes beguile, He lures thy raptures with a morning smile ; But soon (for so those saffron robes proclaim) His own black tempest shall obstruct his flame, Storm, thunder, fire against the mountains driven, Rake deep their sulphur'd sides, disgorging here his heaven. He spoke ; they waited, till the fervid ray High from the noontide shot the faithless day ; When lo, far gathering under eastern skies, Solemn and slow, the dark red vapors rise ; Full clouds, convolving on the turbid air, Move like an ocean to the watry war. The host, securely raised, no dangers harm, They sit unclouded and o'erlook the storm ; While far beneath, the sky-borne waters ride, Veil the dark deep and sheet the mountain's side : GEORGE RICHARDS. 5 The lightning's glancing fires in fury curl'd Bend their long forky foldings o'er the world ; Torrents and broken crags and floods of rain From steep to steep roll down their force amain In dreadful cataracts ; the bolts confound The tumbling clouds, and rock the solid ground. The blasts unburden'd take their upward course, And o'er the mountain top resume their force. Swift through the long white ridges from the north, The rapid whirlwinds lead their terrors forth ; High walks the storm, the circling surges rise, And wild gyrations wheel the hovering skies ; Vast hills of snow, in sweeping columns driven, Deluge the air and choke the void of heaven ; Floods burst their bounds, the rocks forget their place, And the firm Andes tremble to their base. Long gazed the host ; when thus the stubborn chief, With eyes on fire, and fill'd with sullen grief; Behold thy careless god, secure on high, Laughs at our woes and peaceful walks the sky, Drives all his evile on these seats sublime, And wafts his favors to a happier clime ; Sire of the dastard race, thy words disclose, There glads his children, here afflicts his foes. Hence ! speed thy flight ! pursue him where he leads, Lest vengeance seize thee for thy father's deeds, Thy immolated limbs assuage the fire Of those curst powers, who now a gift require. The youth in haste collects his scanty train And with the sun flies o'er the western plain ; The fading orb with plaintive voice he plies, To guide his steps and light him down the skies. So when the moon and all the host of even Hang pale and trembling on the verge of heaven, While storms ascending threat their nightly reign, They seek their absent sire and sink below the main. GEORGE RICHARDS, WAS born in Rhode Island. He lived for some time in Boston, where he became a preacher of the Universalist persuasion. He afterwards removed to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and thence to Philadelphia. He has been de- ceased we believe, twenty years or more. He wrote much VOL. n. 3* 28 GEORGE RICHARDS. poetry in the Massachusetts Magazine, among other pieces, a long poem called the Zenith of Glory, which was published from time to time in that journal. He printed in 1793, a poem called The Declaration of Independence ; in this production he has contrived to introduce the name of every individual who signed the Declaration. We shall extract the first part. THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. THE daring muse with retrospective eye, Throws back her glance, to that immortal day, When millions sworn to conquer or to die, Roused as a lion panting for the prey, And rushing headlong to the field of war, Rode, vengeful rode, on slaughter's gore-besprinkled car. Why burnt thus fierce within the frenzied soul, Undying freedom's life-enkindled flame ? Who led the lightning ? bade the thunder roll ? What godlike power ? what deathless son of fame, Rent the dark veil of ancient days in twain, And gave to independence, liberty's loosed rein ? Say, can'st thou count the sum of untold wrong, Which fired to rage this last discover'd world, To high wrought valor drove the impassion'd throng, And the hot bolt of tricene vengeance hurl'd, At the proud puppets of a venal throne, Whom eastern lust of haughtiest rule had blush'd to own ? As well, might gaze intense on yon gemm'd spheres, Bring to one point of view the stars of heaven ; As soon, the dew drops, nature's pearly tears, Or autumn's leaves by rapid whirlwinds driven, Shall be wrote down on registers of time, As art numeric, number more than countless crime. Heard ye that sigh ? -it is the sigh of law, The grand palladium of terrestrial right ; GEORGE RICHARDS. m Lies crush'd by despotism's Typhosan paw, And justice sinks to realms of brooding night: Juries are driven before the rising storm, And king-paid judges, judgment's gold-ruled bench deform. Are there no Hampdens, Pyms who dare to rise No Marvels who abhor the Danaen shower ? Yes ! Roman patriots crowd these western skies, Nor heed the scorpion lash of Nimrod power: Temperate, yet firm, they poise the dubious scales But private vice, awhile, o'er public good prevails. The mild petition, bold remonstrance fail ; Infuriate demons, lust of power and gold, (Whose cheeks ne'er turn'd at human misery pale) The reins of government triumphant hold : New deeds of wrong, and acts first penn'd in blood, Howl, as wild furies, o'er the Atlantic flood. Spirit of Wolfe ! and ghost of gallant Howe : Was it for this, Columbia's yeomen bled, When 'mid the vale, or on the mountain's brow, Your arms to death, or crest-plumed victory led, A bold, intrepid, hardy, rustic train, Whose life, with elder Albion's, dyed the reeking plain. Lo, 'mid the bowers of sweet, domestic peace, Intrusive. treads the son of hated war : Whilst harpies sworn, a bleeding land to fleece, The merchant trap in iron nets of law : Trade dies away and commerce quits the shore, Where right to hard earn'd property, is known no, more. * * * # See, ravage mark a desolated coast. Old ocean groans beneath the sharks of power. In panoply of steel, a Gorgon host, Snuff blood afar and wait the opening hour, Which hurl'd on Lexington the volleyed storm, And onward pour'd, in vengeance, life-demanding form. Behold ! that curling flame which mounts in air, 'T is Charlestown, rolling flagrant to the skies : How deep those groans of agony, despair! 30 GEORGE RICHARDS. What piercing screams in wild discordance rise ! These run, those fly, t' avoid encircling fire, Give one fond look at home, fall down, convulse, expire. * * * * Cry not the ghosts of gallant freemen slain, How long ! how long! ere vengeance strikes the blow ? The dust of Charlestown flitting o'er the plain, All eloquent, accuses loud the foe. Heavens ! shall their union'd voice a boon demand, And rouse not into agonies a madd'ning land? * * * * Black in the south, grim Afria's soot-steep'd race, Lift at a master's throat the sharp edged knife. Red in the north, the biped of the chase, Quaffs from embowell'd captives streaming life ; Whilst fierce Areskoui, frantic, fires his soul, And raging, stamps to atoms, mercy's wine fill'd bowl. All ages, sexes, ranks are doom'd the prey, Of loosen'd havock's cannibalian hounds : Cities and villas melt in flame away : And foul dishonor tramples virgin mounds : The son, the sire, the husband, wife are kilPd : And Abel's righteous blood, by Cain's rude hand, is spill'd. Eternal Judge of everlasting right! Shall thine own image bend beneath the stroke ? Forbid it earth ! forbid it worlds of light ! Oh nerve the arm, as nature nerves the oak, Which, whilst the sounding axe repeats the blow, Acquires new strength, and scorns the idly threatening foe. 'Tis done! the councils of the sky decree, That ancient compacts shall for ever cease : The trump of heaven, it hails Columbia, free : As enemies, in war ; as friends, in peace, America, henceforth, Britannia eyes : The last appeal is lodged; it thunders to the skies. Strong, in reliance on the power divine, United Delegates impress the seal : Heroes and statesmen, hail ! Your names shall shine On glory's page, when heaven, earth, ocean, feel, Those chymic fires which purge the dross away, And leave creation's gold impassive of decay. MERCY WARREN. 31 Shall not the muse, record each patriot name, On the rich tablet of harmonic sound ? Glows not the goddess of immortal fame, To waft their praises, wide, the world around? Yes ! poesy and fame enraptured join, Inspire the beating heart, and swell the emphatic line. MERCY WARREN. MRS WARREN was the wife of General James Warren, of Plymouth, and the daughter of James Otis of Barnstable, cel- ebrated in the political history of Massachusetts. She had an extensive acquaintance with the public men of the revolution- ary period, and the chief persons of literary distinction in the country. These advantages enabled her to compose a History of the American Revolution, and this work has made her fa- vorably known. She also wrote before the Revolution, two political works called The Adulator, and The Group. In 1790, she published a volume containing two tragedies, and some miscellaneous poems. She died in 1814. Her writings are very creditable to her for learning, good judgment, and a cul- tivated mind. Her versification is distinguishable for correct- ness and ease. SIMPLICITY. DEEP in the bosom of old Time there stood, Just on the margin of the sea-green flood, A virgin form, in lucid robes array'd, Whose ebon tresses negligently play'd In flowing ringlets, as the wavy main Felt the soft breeze that fann'd the verdant plain ; While the young blush of innocence bespoke Her innate worth in every graceful look ; Her meek-eyed aspect, modest and benign, Evinced the fair one's origin divine ; Virtue, at once her ornament and shield, And truth the trident that the goddess held. Beneath her reign, behold a happy race, 32 MERCY WARREN. Who ne'er contested titles, gold, or place. Ere commerce's whiten'd saUs were wafted wide, And every bosom caught the swelling pride Of boundless wealth, surcharged with endless snares, Exotic follies, and destructive cares ; Ere arts, or elegance, or taste refined, And tempting luxury assail'd mankind ; There oaks and evergreens, and poplar shades, In native beauty, rear'd their conic heads ; The purple tinge with golden hues inwrought, In dappled forms, as sportive nature taught ; The silken foliage open'd through the mead, And the clear fount in wild meanders play'd ; Beside whose gentle murmuring stream there stood The humble hamlet, by the peasant trod, Whose heart, unblacken'd by so mean a vice, As lust of gold, or carking avarice ; No guilty bribes his whiten'd palm possess'd, No dark suspicion lurk'd within his breast: Love, concord, peace, and piety and truth, Adorn'd grey hairs and dignified the youth ; There stingless pleasures crown'd the temperate feast, And ruddy health, a constant welcome guest, Fill'd up the cup, and smiled at every board, The friend and handmaid of her generous lord. The rosy finger'd morn, and noontide ray, The streaked twilight or the evening gray, Were pass'd alike in innocence and mirth, No riot gendering slow but certain death 5 Unclouded reason guided all their way, And virtue's self sat innocently gay. The winged hours serenely glided by, Till golden Phoebus deck'd the western sky; And when enwrapp'd in evening's sable vest, And midnight shadows hush'd the world to rest, On the famed ladder, whose extended bars, From earth's low surface reach'd beyond the stars, From orb to orb, thought reach'd the airy void, Through widen'd space the busy mind employ'd, While angel guards to watch his fate were given Prelusive dreams anticipated heaven. But ere the bird of dawn had hail'd the day, Or warbling songsters chirp'd their early lay, The grateful heart its joyful matins raised, And nature's God in morning anthems praised. Thus happy that ideal golden age, That lives descriptive in the poet's page ; MERCY WARREN. But now, alas ! in dark oblivion lost, The sons of Adam know it to their cost ; Since God forbade the mother of mankind To taste the fruit to which she most inclined : Her taste so delicate, refined and nice, That the exuberance even of Paradise, The grassy banks beside the blue cascade, The winding streams from Pison's golden head, The spicy groves on Gihon's lengthen'd side, Hiddekel's fount, Assyria's blooming pride, The fruits luxuriant on Euphrates' shores, The rich profusion that all Eden pours, The shady dome, the rosy vaulted bower, And nature deck'd with every fruit and flower Were insufficient, rude, and incomplete. For taste ran wanton, and the fair must eat. Since which the garden's closely lock'd by fate, And flaming cherubs guard the eastern gate ; This globe is traversed round from pole to pole, And earth research'd to find so rich a dole As happiness unmix'd : the phantom flies, No son of Eve has ever won the prize. But nearest those, who nearest nature live, Despising all that wealth or power can give, Or glittering grandeur, whose false optics place, The summum bonum on the frailest base ; And if too near the threshold of their door, Pride blazes high, and clamors loud for more More shining pomp, more elegance and zest, In all the wild variety of taste ; Peace and contentment are refined away, And worth, unblemish'd, is the villain's prey. Easy the toil, and simple is the task, That yields to man all nature bids him ask ; And each improvement on the author's plan, Adds new inquietudes to restless man. As from simplicity he deviates, Fancy, prolific, endless wants creates ; Creates new wishes, foreign to the soul, Ten thousand passions all the mind control, So fast they tread behind each other's heels, That some new image on the fancy steals ; . Ere the young embryo half its form completes, Some new vagary the old plan defeats ; Down comes the Gothic or Corinthian pile, And the new vista wears the Doric style. The finer arts depopulate and waste, 34 MERCY WARREN. And nations sink by elegance and taste : Empires are from their lofty summits rent, And kingdoms down to swift perdition sent, By soft, corrupt refinements of the heart, Wrought up to vice by each deceptive art. Rome, the proud mistress of the world, displays A lasting proof of what my pen essays ; High-wrought refinement usher'd in replete, With all the ills that sink a virtuous state ; Their sumptuary laws grown obsolete, They, undismay'd, the patriot's frown could meet ; Their simple manners lost their censors dead, Spruce petit maitres o'er the forum tread. I weep those days when gentle Maro sung, And sweetest strains bedeck' d the flatterer's tongue ; When so corrupt and so refined the times, The muse could stoop to gild a tyrant's crimes. Then paint and sculpture, elegance and song, Were the pursuits of all the busy throng ; When silken commerce held the golden scales, Empire was purchased at the public sales : No longer lived the ancient Roman pride, Her virtue sicken'd, and her glory died. What blotted out the '.Carthaginian fame, And left no traces but an empty name ? Commerce ! the source of every narrow vice, And honor, barter'd at a trivial price. By court intrigues, the Commonwealth 's disgraced, Both sufietes, and senators debased : By soft refinement, and the love of gold, Faction and strife grew emulous and bold, Till restless Hanno urged his purpose on, And Scipio's rival by his arts undone. From age to age since Hannibal's hard fate, From Caesar's annals to the modern date, When Brunswick's race sits on the British throne, And George's folly stains his grandsire's crown ; When taste improved by luxury high wrought, And fancy craves what nature never taught ; Affronted virtue mounts her native skies, And freedom's genius lifts her bloated eyes; As late I saw, in sable vestments stand, The weeping fair, on Britain's naked strand. The cloud-capt hills, the echoing woods and dales, (Where pious Druids dress'd the hallow'd vales ; And wrote their missals on the birchen rind, And chanted dirges with the hollow wind,) THOMAS DAWES. 35 .Breathe murmuring sighs o'er that ill fated isle, Wrapt in refinements both absurd and vile. Proud Thames deserted her commercial ports Seized and possess'd by hated foreign courts ; No more the lofty ships her marts supply, The Neriads flap their watery wings and die : Gray Neptune rises from his oozy bed, And shakes the sea-weed from his shaggy head ; He bids adieu to fair Britannia's shore, The surge rebounds, and all the woodlands roar ; His course he bends toward the western main, The frowning Titans join the swelling train, Measure the deep, and lash the foaming sea, In haste to hail the brave Columbia free : Ocean rebounds, and earth reverberates, And heaven confirms the independent states ; While time rolls on, and mighty kingdoms fail, They, peace and freedom on their heirs entail, Till virtue sinks, and in far distant times, Dies in the vortex of European crimes. THOMAS DAWES WAS born in Boston in 1757, and was educated for the law. He was appointed a Judge of the Supreme Court in 1792. This station he resigned in 1802, and was then made Judge of Probate for the county of Suffolk, and Judge of the Mu- nicipal Court in Boston. The former office he retained till his death in July 1825. He wrote some pieces of occasional poetry in the early part of his life. THE LAW GIVEN AT SINAI. THROUGH heaven's high courts the trump eternal roars Lift up your heads ye everlasting doors ; And wait the God of gods ! Lo, at the sound, Wide fly the portals, blazing all around. And see he comes ! adown the rending skies, 36 THOMAS DAWES. Borne on the whirlwind's rapid wing he flies, Cherub and seraphim prepare his way, Black thunder lolls and livid lightnings play. Heaven's radiant bow his awful head arrays, His face the sun's refulgent beam displays ; Beneath his feet the avenging bolts are hurl'd, The avenging bolts that shake a guilty world. Sounds but his dread command, when down they fly, The deep-mouth'd thunder rends the vaulted sky ; All nature trembles as they issue down, Deep groans the earth, her utmost regions groan. And lo, on Sinai's top descends the God, That wrapt in tempest, trembled as he trod. Flame, smoke, and whirlwind clothe its awful brow, While earthquake heaves the groaning base below. Tremendous scene, oh how shall men withstand, When God in thunder gives the world command ! And hark ! the trumpet's intermitted sound Roars from the mount and shakes all nature round. " I am the King of Kings, the Lord of all, At whose dread shrine even Gods in honor fall: By whom creation rose, divinely fair, Who form'd the stars, and launch'd them in the air : Whose mighty nod the rough tumultuous sea, The whirlwind's sweep, and rending bolt obey. I speak and lo ten thousand thunders roll I breathe and lightning gleams from pole to pole. The Almighty is my name at my command Thick darkness rose that veil'd the Memphian land. Empower'd by me, your leader smote the main, And call'd up plagues that poison'd all their plain ; That e'en the earth and air, which gave them birth, Conspired and smote them with enormous death. I spake the word, asunder Jordan rode, That Israel o'er its dry foundations trod. Egypt pursued, I bade the same dread wave Roll back, and whelm their millions in a grave. 'Twas said the raging elements combined, The rushing tempest and the warring wind ; Till own'd too late a God's superior power, They sunk in depths, and sunk to rise no more ! Still would ye have the assistance of that God Continued through a life's perplexing road ; That when at last the heavens and earth expire, And nature rolls in one devouring fire, Ye might in transport view the advancing hour, THOMAS DA WES. In transport hear the last dread thunders roar ; Then like the day emerging from the gloom, Arise to flourish in eternal bloom With due respect, with holy awe receive Those institutions which your God will give ! For this he trod the unhallow'd realms below, In all the pomp the powers of heaven could show. * * * * * * Thus spake the Legislator of the sky And earth's long shores return the loud reply. Pealpush'd on peal, the doubling thunders roar, Bellow the winds the flamy lightnings glare. ****** Such shall the scene be at that dreadful time. When the last trump shall sound his wrath sublime : That potent trump which every head shall call From each dark chamber of the bursting ball. Then at the flames which in his nostrils glow, The everlasting hills in streams shall flow The affrighted sun shall from yon arch retire, Shook from his sphere, and help the general fire. Yon moon in blood ! then every star shall fall, In rude combustion o'er a flaming ball : Creation sunk, and all God's thunder hurl'd Down on the wrecks of each expiring world. But where 's the muse ? behold the Almighty rise : The whirlwind bears him up the flaming skies. Follow harmonious all the tuneful choir. Sweet concert sweeping from the swelling lyre. Such notes as at creation's birth they sung, When heaven's broad arch with hallelujahs rung. Hark at the strain the enraptured spheres rebound ; And laboring echo lengthens out the sound. " Lift up your heads, celestial gates ! " they sing : And see they open to receive the king. The expecting host their loudest accents raise " Eternal God, how glorious are thy ways ! O for some great, some more than angel song, To speak the praises which to thee belong ! Imagination faints on this great scene ; Thought is too low, and majesty too mean : So great thy condescension thus to own Vile man, the meanest prostrate at thy throne May from his grateful altar ever rise A glad perfume of incense to the skies. " 37 38 RICHARD DEVENS. RICHARD DEVENS WAS born at Charlestown, Massachusetts, October 23d, 1749. He displayed in early life such a passion for letters as to induce his father to give him a collegiate education. He was sent to Princeton college in 1764, and received a degree in 1768. The three following years he spent in teaching schools in New Jersey and New York ; after which he was appointed tutor and professor of mathematics at Princeton college. He exer- cised the duties of these offices till 1774, when in consequence of too intense application to his studies, he fell into a state of mental derangement, in which he has continued from his 24th year to the present day. He wrote a Paraphrase of a part of the Book of Job, pub- lished in 1773, and subsequently in 1795 with alterations. WHOSE art, where human foot ne'er access found, Adorns, in wild diversity, the ground ? Makes lonely walks to bloom confusedly gay, And with rich fragrance to perfume the day ? Through all her lately flourishing increase, When vegetation droops, canst thou release From wasting drought the summer ? Will the rain Rush at thy bidding, down in floods amain ? When the black clouds th' impetuous torrent pour, Canst thou in middle-deluge stop the shower ? Whose thunder, when fierce flames the welkin wrap, Stuns nature's ear with the tremendous clap ? Didst thou the rainbow fix ? its hues impart Those hues that distance the exploits of art ? Who generates the hoary frost ? and who Bespangles morning with his orient dew ? Hath mist a sire ? canst thou congeal the main ? From whom descend the pearly streams of rain ? Dost thou ordain the seasons of the year ? And govern all the changes of the air ? Who gives the live-green earth its vernal hue ? Dost thou the odor of the fields renew ? Ripen the harvest? drive the eastern blast? And lay the opulence of autumn waste? RICHARD DEVENS. 39 Give meads with yellow pomp to cheer the sight ? Or deck in majesty of winter's white ? By whom instructed do the planets know, Where orient or meridian beams must glow ? Who taught Arcturus, round the northern pole, His destined circuit with his suns to roll ? Or Mazaroth to wind athwart the night, In his appointed hours, his length of light ? When th' early Pleiades benignly gleam, Canst thou in bands of crystal bind the stream? The beauties of th' enamell'd spring withhold, And blast the foliage with autumnal cold ? Oppress'd by Sirius, when the fields complain, His unpropitious influence restrain? With vernal showers the parching wind allay, And chase the fervor of th' inclement day ? Or when Orion glares upon thy view, Make earth to bloom and vegetate anew ? Breathes the minutest rover of the air, Held by thy power, or nourish'd by thy care ? Who feeds the ravens, when the croaking brood Raise hoarsely querulous their plaint to God ? Didst thou the ostrich clothe with plumes so neat, Who leaves her eggs exposed to heedless feet ? Hatch'd by the genial influence of the sun, Alone, the unfledged brood are left to run. In flighfrshe scorns the rider and his steed ; Through eddies of the sand upspurn'd, her speed Impetuously she skims ; than winds more fleet ; She triumphs in th' alertness of her feet. The peacock view, still exquisitely fair, When clouds forsake, and when invest the air : His gems now brightened by a noontide ray ; He proudly waves his feathers to the day. A strut, majestically slow, assumes, And glories in the beauty of his plumes. The hawk, before autumnal tempests rise, Pursues the summer through the southern skies : Knows she from bleak inclement months to flee, And find perpetual August, taught by thee ? Who lifts the eagle on her lofty way, To rove exulting in a cloudless day ? On high and craggy cliffs she dwells alone ; Their strength remains impregnably her own : 40 SAMUEL DEXTER, With darting haste, behold her ample size. Full to th' enjoy'd, though distant victim hies : Couch'd horrid now she nimbly hovers o'er Her untorn prey, in raptures of its gore. Back to her nest she shapes her upward flight, Her young suck ap the blood, with dire delight. SAMUEL DEXTEH, BORN 1761. Died 1816. Mr Dexter's biography belongs to a department distinct from that of poetry. As a statesman and lawyer, a roan of profound intellect, and splendid powers of eloquence, he claims no ordinary notice, yet as he never aimed at distinction in the character of a poet, we think it unnecessary to introduce any details of Ms life here. The lines which follow are from a piece written in his youth, and delivered at a public exhibition at Harvard College. THE PROGRESS OF SCIENCE. LET martial souls, whom wild ambition warms, The trumpet's clangor, and rude din of arms, Point out the path victorious heroes trod, The pest of nations, and the scourge of God : Mine be the task, in humbler verse to trace The real greatness of the human race. Though rude and savage Afric's sons we find, Yet there first science dawn'd upon mankind, There curb'd the passions in perpetual strife, And there begat the softer arts of life. Blest by kind nature with a generous soil, That yielded herbage, though not dress'd with toil, In philosophic ease they pass'd their years, And watch'd the motions of the rolling spheres. Their modest wants plain nature could redress, And science gave them rural happiness. Egypt beheld her twilight's fainter ray, SAMUEL DEXTER. And form'd fond hopes of her meridian day ; When, lo ! tyrannic rage usurp'd the whole, And cramp'd with fetters each high swelling soul. Disorder'd fancy superstition hred ; She clapp'd her wings, and thought her foe was dead : Yet she but fled, to gain in happy Greece, What Egypt had denied her rural peace. The Grecian souls, form'd of the subtlest kind, In freedom nurtured, strengthen'd and refined, Quick catch'd the flame ; it ran from soul to soul, And like electric fire, inspired the whole. Here poets sang, and rhetoricians plead, Here statesmen sat, and patriot worthies bled. Ah blindness to the future ! headlong toss'd, They grasp'd the shadow, but the substance tost. Greece led her armies Troy's high walls to raze ; The city shook and tottered to its base, At length it fell but from its ruins rose A vagrant band to subjugate their foes. Imperial Rome, the mistress of the world, Towns, cities, kingdoms into ruin hurl'd, And reign'd supreme alone. Greece felt her force, Nor stemm'd the torrent in its rapid course ; All victims fell to its resistless rage, The rough Barbarian, and the Grecian sage. Ardent the Romans Grecian science view'd, Nor scorn'd to learn of those they had subdued ; They reach'd the same sublimity of thought, And those, who learned, equall'd those, who taught. There godlike Homer rear'd his awful head, Here Virgil sang, and here great Tully plead. As when some mighty torrent, swoln with rain, Falls rushing, dashing, till it meets the plain, O'er craggy rocks bends its resistless force, From clift to clift loud thundering in its course ; So did the Athenian patriotic rave, And taught his country to be nobly brave. Not so the Roman. As the ancient Nile Glides smoothly on within its banks a while : Slow, gradual, rising, then o'erspreads the plain, And adds all Egypt to the swelling main ; So syren Tully onward gentlyrolls, Enchants, enraptures, and subdues qur souls. Behold far north the gathering tempest rise, Rushing impetuous, as the whirlwind flies ; VOL. II. 4* 41 To form an anagram, or egg in They stifled genius with pedan And labor'd hard to prove that- 42 SAMUEL DEXTER, Towns, cities, kingdoms from their basis fall, And one wide ruin overwhelms -them all. Eternal Rome sinks to the common grave, Bursts, like a bubble dancing on the wave, Flies off in smoke, and rules the world no more Oh ! blush then, earthly grandeur ! pageant power I Age after age in one sad tenor ran, A blank a chasm in the page of man. Men drudged their labor'd dulness to rehearse, r in verse ; lantic rules, to prove that they were fools. No mighty task, though labor'd in so long, Each line was proof, was demonstration strong ; And men, Oh dulness to perfection brought ! Blush'd to be guilty of a noble thought. Yet in this gloom did Roger Bacon rise, Like lightning flashing through the clouded skies, He burst the barrier of pedantic rules, And all the labor'd jargon of the schools. As forked lightnings, with their hasty light, Serve but to show the horrors of the night ; So he but show'd the dulness of the age, A stain a blot upon th' historic page. As when cold Zembla, wrapt in darkest shade, First sees the sun erect his radiant head, In gratitude to the benignant power, They gather round and Persian-like adore ; He gives them light, not only light, but heat ; Warms with new life, and makes that life complete. The expanding blossoms smile on every clod, And laughing valleys own the present God ; Loud hymns of praise the feather'd tribes employ, And savage beasts howl their tremendous joy. ST JOHN HONEYWOOD. 43 ST JOHN HONEYWOOD WAS born at Leicester, in Massachusetts, in 1765. His parents died in his youth, and left him without resources ; but through the generosity of some individuals, he was placed in a Latin school at Lebanon in Connecticut, and from thence transferred to Yale College, where he became a favorite of Dr Stiles, the president, and received much assistance from him. He was distinguished at college for his superior classi- cal attainments. After completing his studies, he went to re- side at Schenectady, in New York, where he continued about two years as Preceptor to an Academy. He then removed to Albany and studied law. After being admitted to the bar he fixed his residence at Salem, in the county of Washington, and there passed the remainder of his life. He was made a Master in Chancery, but resigned the office on being appointed Clerk of the county. He was one of the Electors of the President when Adams succeeded Washington. He died September 1st, 1798, in his 34th year. ON THE PRESIDENT'S FAREWELL ADDRESS. - As the rude Zemblian views with anxious eyes The sun fast rolling from his wintry skies, While gathering clouds the shaded vaults deform, And hollow winds announce the impending storm, His anguish'd soul recoils with wild affright, From the dread horrors of the tedious night ; Such fears alarm'd such gloom o'ercast each mind, When Washington his sacred trust resign'd, And open'd to his much loved country's view, The instructive page which bid the long adieu. So erst Nunnides, of prophetic tongue, Chief victor seer, to Judah's listening throng, Gave his last blessings : So long ages since, Mild Solon and the stern Laconian prince, Those boasts of fame, their parting counsels gave, When worn with toil they sought the peaceful grave. 44 ST JOHN HONEYWOOD. Columbians ! long preserve that peerless page, Stamp'd with the precepts of your warrior sage ; In all your archives be the gift enroll'd, Suspend it to your walls encased with gold ; Bid schools recite it, let the priestly train Chant it on festal days, nor deem the task profane : When round your knees your infant offspring throng, To join the matin prayer or evening song, Those rites perform'd, invite them to attend The farewell counsels of their good old friend, And say, he left you, as his last bequest, These golden rules to make a nation blest. land, thrice blest, if to thy interest wise, Thy senates learn this precious boon to prize : While guilty Europe's blood-stain'd empires fall, While heaven incensed lets loose the infuriate Gaul, Thy states in phalanx firm, a sacred band, Safe from the mighty wreck unmoved shall stand. ***** Behold the man ! ye crown'd and ermined train, And learn from him the royal art to reign ; No guards surround him, or his walks infest, No cuirass meanly shields his noble breast ; His the defence which despots ne'er can find, The love, the prayers, the interest of mankind. Ask ye what spoils his far famed arms have won, What cities sack'd, what hapless realms undone ? Though Monmouth's field supports no vulgar fame, Though captured York shall long preserve his name. 1 quote not these a nobler scene behold, Wide cultured fields fast ripening into gold ! There, as his toil the cheerful peasant plies, New marts are opening, and new spires arise ; Here commerce smiles, and there en groupe are seen, The useful arts and those of sprightlier mien : To cheer the whole, the Muses tune their lyre, And Independence leads the white robed choir. Trophies like these, to vulgar minds unknown, Were sought and prized by Washington alone, From these, with all his country's honors crown'd, As sage in councils as in arms renown'd ; All of a piece, and faithful to the last, Great in this action as in all the past, He turns and urges as his last request, Remote from power his weary head to rest. Illustrious man, adieu ! yet ere we part, ST JOHN HONEYWOOD. 45 Forgive our factions which have wrung thy heart ; Still with indulgent eyes thy country see, Whose ceaseless prayers ascend the heavens for thee : Go, 'midst the shades of tranquil Vernon stray, In vain attempt to shun the piercing ray Of circumambient glory, till refined All that could clog to earth the heaven-lent mind, Then soar triumphant to the blest abodes, And join those chiefs whom virtue raised to gods. ON THE CAPTURE OF ROME BY THE FRENCH. ON Rome's devoted head the bolt descends ; The proud oppressor's long dominion ends : Spirits of martyrs pure ! if aught ye know, In the bright realms of bliss, of things below, Join the glad hymn of triumph, ye who stood Firm for the faith, and seal'd it with your blood. No more shall Rome disturb the world's repose, Quench'd is her torch, and blood no longer flows ; Crush'd is the fell destroyer in her turn, And the freed world insults her hated urn. O Truth divine ! thou choicest gift of God ! Man's guide and solace in this drear abode ! Plain was thy garb, and lovely was thy mien, When usher'd by the spotless Nazarene: From shouting crowds and pageantry he fled, To the lone desert or the pauper's shed ; There taught his humble followers to despise All that the proud affect, or worldlings prize ; Truly he gave to man's repentant race, The peerless treasures of his sovereign grace ; Yet bade no fires descend, no thunders roll, To force his bounty on the wayward soul. Join then, celestial Truth, the glad acclaim ; Crush'd is the proud usurper of thy name; Who first with blood thy snow-white robes distain'd, And with vain pomp thy holy rites profaned. 46 ST JOHN HONESWOOD. MODERN ARGUMENTATION.* T WAS at Commencement tide, so goes the tale, At Harvard, Dartmouth, Princeton, King's, or Yale, A candidate for learning's prime degree Proposed this question to the faculty : " This horse will always from a tan-yard fly, While that, unmoved, a tan-yard passes by ; Which is the \viser horse, say, learned sirs, The one that starts, or he that never stirs ? " The question thus proposed and understood, Pro more solito, debate ensued. ****** The starting advocates this truth premise : " That of all excellence below the skies, Man is the standard ; hence, whene'er we find In beasts or birds strong semblance to mankind, We count it worth, and are well pleased to see In instinct aught that apes humanity. Exempli gratia, who, since time began, E'er hurt the bird that builds her nest with man ? If Mrs Jliry, though involved in debt, Paid ten bright dollars for a paroquet, And for a monkey six, the cause we know ; This talk'd, that flutter'd, like her favorite beau Yet the same lady loathed the serpent's form, And call'd for hartshorn if she saw a worm : Now to apply this reasoning to our case, We deem him worthiest of the human race Who, at the mention of atrocious deeds, Starts back with horror, and with pity bleeds. But the vile miscreant, whose supreme delight Is placed in havoc and in scenes of light, Who rudely revels in the house of wo, We hate, and blush that man can sink so low. Why starts the steed whene'er a tan-yard 's spied, But that he sees a brother's reeking hide ? Here then, they say, a strong resemblance lies, Ergo, the horse that starts is quasi wise." ****** " Ay, but to man and horse this rule extends, The means must be subservient to the ends. What's the chief end of horse ? his lord to please, To bear his weight with safety, speed, and ease ; * Written extempore, with a pencil, while the author was tiding with * friend, whose horse started ou passing a tan-yard. IIOYALL TYLER. 47 'T is not to start, to heave, to weep, to whine, In notes distracted, Methodist, like thine. Can he be said with safety to convey His lord, who starts and stumbles by the way ? Doth he with speed transport his master's weight, Who stops to start at every tanner's gate ? And, lastly, where 's the ease ? at every breath The rider fears the horse will prove his death ; 'T is plain, the starter deviates from all rule Of right, and when he deviates, is a fool." Thus, sophists, have your arguments been plied, What now remains but that we should decide ? On due consideration, then, we say, " He is the iviser horse who fearless speeds his way." ROYALS TYLER WAS born in Boston, and educated at Harvard College. He received a degree in 1776. When the rebellion of Shays broke out, he was aide de camp to General Lincoln who com- manded the troops that marched against him. On this occa- sion he was charged with a special mission to the government of Vermont. About 1790 he removed his residence to that state, and soon distinguished himself in his profession of law. He was an assistant Judge to the Supreme Court for six years and chief Judge of the same six years more. He died at Brattleboro', Vermont, August J6th, 1825. Judge Tyler was a dramatic writer of respectable talent. The first piece which he composed for the stage, was " The Contrast " this was produced soon after the revolution, and played at New York and Philadelphia, with considerable ap- plause. It was also represented in Boston at the Board Al- ley Theatre. In 1796, he wrote a farce called " The Georgia Spec, or Land in the Moon," in which he turned to ridicule the rage then prevalent in New England for speculating in Georgia lands of the Yazoo purchase. This was performed . repeatedly at the Haymarket Theatre. He wrote besides, other dramatic pieces which have not been made public. His writings of a light and sportive character in prose and verse 48 . ROYALL TYLER. are very numerous. The greater part of them first appeared in the Farmer's Museum, a paper of high celebrity published at Walpole in New Hampshire. Tyler was the associate of Dennie, its editor, and contributed many of the best articles in that journal. He was also the author of the Algerine Captive, a novel of great merit and interest, which passed with some readers in England for a story of real life. A critic of that country, as we are informed, undertook to show that it contain- ed some errors in point of fact. In addition to these works he published a collection of legal cases in two volumes 8vo, en- titled Vermont Reports. His poems are lively and entertaining, but we are not ac- quainted with any one among, them of magnitude. They are short unstudied sallies of a sprightly fancy. COUNTRY ODE FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, SQUEAK the fife, and beat the drum. Independence day is come ! ! Let the roasting pig be bled, Quick twist off the cockerel's head, Quickly rub the pewter platter, Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter. Set the cups, and beaker glass. The pumpkin and the apple sauce, Send the keg to shop for brandy ; Maple sugar we have handy. Independent, staggering Dick, A noggin mix of swingeing thick, Sal, put on your russet skirt, Jotham, get your boughten shirt, Today we dance to tiddle diddle. Here comes Sambo with his fiddle ; Sambo, take a dram of whiskey, And play up Yankee doodle frisky. Moll, come leave your witched tricks, And let us have a reel of six. Father and mother shall make two ; Sal, Moll and I stand all a-row, Sambo, play and dance with quality ; This is the day of blest equality. ttOYALL TfLER. Father and mother are but men, And Sambo is a citizen. ' Come foot it, Sal Moll, figure in, And, mother you dance up to him ; Now saw as fast as e'er you can do, And father, you cross o'er to Sambo. Thus we dance, and thus we play, On glorious Independent day. Rub more rosin on your bow, And let us have another go. Zounds ! as sure as eggs and bacon, Here 's ensign Sneak, and uncle Deacon, Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her, On blundering mare, than beetle blinder. And there 's the 'Squire too, with his lady Sal, hold the beast, I '11 take the baby. Moll, bring the 'Squire our great arm chair, Good folks, we 're glad to see you here. Jotham, get the great case bottle, Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple. Ensign, Deacon, never mind; 'Squire, drink until you 're blind. Thus we drink and dance away, This glorious Independent day ! MY MISTRESSES. LET Cowley soft in amorous verse The rovings of his love rehearse, With passion most unruly, Boast how he woo'd sweet Amoret, The sobbing Jane, and sprightly Bet, The lily fair and smart brunette, In sweet succession truly. But list, ye lovers, and you '11 swear, I roved with him beyond compare, And was far more unlucky. For never yet in Yankee coast Were found such girls, who so could boast, An honest lover's heart to roast, From Casco to Kentucky. When first the girls nicknamed me beau, And I was all for dress and show, VOL. II. 5 50 ROYALL TYLER. I set me out a courting. A romping miss, with heedless art, First caught, then almost broke, my heart. Miss Conduct named ; we soon did part, I did not like such sporting. The next coquette, who raised a flame, Was far more grave, and somewhat lame, She in my heart did rankle. She conquer'd, with a sudden glance : The spiteful slut was call'd Miss Chance ; I took the gipsy out to dance ; She almost broke my ankle. A thoughtless girl, just in her teens, Was the next fair, whom love it seems Had made me prize most highly. I thought to court a lovely mate, But, how it made my heart to ache ; It was that jade, the vile Miss Take ; In troth, love did it slyly. And last Miss Fortune, whimpering came, Cured me of love's tormenting flame, And all my beau pretences. In widow's weeds, the prude appears ; See now she drowns me with her tears, With bony fist, now slaps my ears, And brings me to my senses. ADDRESS TO DELLA CRUSCA. O THOU, who, with thy blue cerulean blaze, Hast circled Europe's brow with love-lorn praise ; Whose magic pen its gelid lightning throws, Is now a sunbeam, now a fragrant rose. Child of the dappled spring, whose green delight, Drinks, with her snow-drop lips, the dewy light Son of the summer's bland, prolific rays, Who sheds her loftiest treasures in thy lays: Who swells her. golden lips to trump thy name, Which sinks to whispers, at thy azure fame. Brown autumn nursed thee with her dulcet dews, And lurid winter rock'd thy cradled muse. Seasons and suns, and spangled systems roll, Like atoms vast, beneath thy cloud- capt soul. ROYALL TYLER. Time wings its panting flight in hurried chase, But sinks in dew-dropt languor in the immortal race. O thou, whose soul the nooky Britain scorns ; Whose white cliffs tremble, when thy genius storms. The sallow Afric, with her curled domains, And purpled Asia with her muslin plains, And surgy Europe vain thy soul confined, Which fills all space and e'en Matilda's mind ! Anna's capacious mind, which all agree, Contain'd a wilderness of words in thee. More happy thou than Macedonia's lord, Who wept for worlds to feed his famish'd sword, Fatigued by attic conquest of the old, Fortune to thee a novel world unfolds. Come, mighty conqueror, thy foes disperse ; Let loose thy epithets, those dogs of verse ; Draw forth thy gorgeous sword of damask'd rhyme, And ride triumphant through Columbia's clime, Till sober letter'd sense shall dying smile, Before the mighty magic of thy style. What tawny tribes in dusky forest wait, To grace th ovation of thy victor state. What ochred chiefs, vermilion'd by thy sword, Mark'd by thy epithets, shall own thee lord. The punic Creek, and nigrified Choctaw, The high boned Wabash, and bland hanging Maw ; Great little Billy, Piamingo brave, With pity's dew-drops wet M'Gilvery's grave. What sonorous streams meander through thy lays, What lakes shall bless thy rich bequest of praise, Rough Hockhocking, and gentle Chicago, The twin Miamis placid Scioto. How will Ohio roll his lordly stream, What blue mists dance upon the liquid scene, Gods ! how sublime shall Delia Crusca rage, When all Niagara cataracts thy page. What arts, what arms, unknown to thee belong ? What ruddy scalps shall deck thy sanguined song ? What fumy cal'mets scent the ambient air, What love-lorn war-whoops capitals declare. Cerulean tomahawks shall grace each line, And blue-eyed wampum glisten through thy rhyme. Rise, Delia Crusca, prince of bards sublime, And pour on us whole cataracts of rhyme. Son of the sun, arise, whose brightest rays, All merge to tapers in thy ignite blaze. 52 ROYALL TYLER. Like some colossus, stride the Atlantic o'er, A leg of genius place on either shore, Extend thy red right arm to either world ; Be the proud standard of thy style unfurl'd; Proclaim thy sounding page, from shore to shore, And swear that sense in verse, shall be no more. CHOICE OF A WIFE. FLUTTERING lovers, giddy boys, Sighing soft for Hymen's joys, Would you shun the tricking arts, Beauty's traps for youthful hearts, Would you treasure in a wife, Riches, which shall last through life ; Would you in your choice be nice, Hear Minerva's sage advice. Be not caught with shape, nor air, Coral lips, nor flowing hair ; Shape and jaunty air may cheat, Coral lips may speak deceit. Girls unmask'd would you descry, Fix your fancy on the eye ; Nature there has truth design'd, 'T is the eye, that speaks the mind. Shun the proud, disdainful eye, Frowning fancied dignity, Shun the eye with vacant glare ; Cold indifference winters there. Shun the eager orb of fire, Gloating with impure desire ; Shun the wily eye of prude, Looking coy to be pursued. From the jilting eye refrain, Glancing love, and now disdain. Fly the fierce, satiric eye, Shooting keen severity ; For nature thus, her truth design'd And made the eye proclaim the mind. ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY. AND this reft house is that the which he built. Lamented Jack ! and here his malt he piled, ROYALL TYLER. 53 Cautious in vain ! these rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming through the glade ! Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, Yet, aye, she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd ; And, aye, beside her stalks her amorous knight ! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And through those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white ; As when through broken clouds at night's high noon Peeps in fair fragments forth the full orb'd harvest moon ! THE TOWN ECLOGUE. SEE, see, bluff winter quits the town, And congees with her surly frown : In her train the beldame carries All sweet fashion's gay vagaries ; Her cork-soled shoes, and bonnet rough, Her camel shawl, and bearskin muff, Her beaver gloves and fleecy dress, Red comforter and silk pelisse ; And what is worse, the beldame 's stole Of all our bliss the very soul, Has stole the concert, play, and ball ; And what is still the worst of all, Has Cooper stole, and with him fled, And left us ****** in his stead. See the town-bred Spring advancing, Friend to grass, and foe to dancing ! See adorn her lovely tresses Cabbage sprouts and water cresses ! While for plume, the hoyden lass Sports a bunch of sparrow-grass. See, beneath her market wreath, \She smiles her dandelion teeth ; ^Whilst with voice as sweet, or sweeter, Than Billings' strains or Sternhold's metre, With voice which music cannot ape her, Like nightingale or Mrs Draper, She cheers her pannier'd mare and screams Her strawberries and fresh string-beans : Or, whilst her one wheel'd chariot rattles, She bawls her epicurean chattels ; VOL. ii. 5* 54 RICHARD ALSOP. Her shelly stores from old Cape Cod, Her mackerel, lobsters, and torn-cod : Or, in her awning stalls displays, Her tempting lures to hungry gaze ; Her luscious stores of fish, fowl, flesh, Her salmon smoked and salmon fresh ; Cod's tongues and sounds, and smelt, and eel, Calves' feet and head, and pluck, and veal Far richer flowers than rural spring From all her scented hoards can bring. For can the rose's gayest dye With salmon soused in beauty vie ? Or can the rose's sweetest smell Vie with a fresh caught mackerel ? Her rustic coz let others sing, But let me taste the town-bred Spring. Close by her side see ****** smile, That critic in dumb fish and oil, Who thinks there 'a heaven in good dinners. And hell is fill'd with hungry sinners. Close by her side the glutton stands, And takes his snuff, and rubs his hands, With critic nose assays her trash, And licks his lips and pays the cash. RIC'HARI> ALSOP. RICHARD ALSOP was born at Middletown, in Connecticut, in 1759, and resided in that place during the most of his life. He was bred to the mercantile profession, but devoted himself occasionally to letters, from a native taste for-the pursuit. His object in writing appears to have been amusement rather than distinction, as few of his productions were given to the world under his name. His works are numerous, and embrace a great variety of subjects. He published various translations from the French and Italian ; among others, a portion of Ber- ni's Orlando Inamorato, which was printed in 1808, under the title of The Fairy of the Enchanted Lake. He left a large number of unpublished works behind him, one of them a poem RICHARD ALSOP. 55 of considerable length, called The Charms of Fancy. He died at Flatbush, on Long Island, August 20th, 1815. Mr Alsop made too little effort for literary distinction to acquire much credit or notoriety as a writer beyond the circle of his own acquaintance. His talents have not been displayed to the world at large, nor perhaps sufficiently appreciated by the few who were admitted to his intimacy. His powers were certainly above the ordinary level of our native authors, and had they been prompted to exercise by a strong endeavor to establish a name, rather than an occasional desire for recrea- tion with the pen, would have placed him in a conspicuous rank among his countrymen. Many of his pieces show him to have been possessed of a luxuriant fancy and a happy facility of poetical thought and. expression. Others exhibit a talent at light raillery and the treatment of humorous subjects, which we do not often see equalled. We are disposed to believe that the publication, at the present day, of his best performances would be alike honorable to his memory and creditable to the country. He was one of the contributors to the Echo, a work, which on several accounts is deserving of particular notice. This is a medley of burlesque and satirical pieces, designed originally to expose the pedantry and affectation of newspaper writers ; and is executed by turning into rhyme such paragraphs in the public journals as presented a proper scope for ridicule, and setting their extravagance of style or sentiment in a ludicrous view, by arraying them in a mock-heroical dress. The plan of the work owed its origin to an accidental and momentary freak of literary sportiveness, in this manner. In the year 1791, some young gentlemen, consisting of Alsop, Theodore Dwight, Dr Cogswell, and a few others, were casually met one evening, at the office of William Brown, in Hartford. The editor of the Connecticut Courant had just taken his papers from the post office, and as he passed by, threw a number of them in for the amusement of the party. An inflated descrip- tion of a thunder-storm at Boston caught the eye of one of the gentlemen, who read it aloud for the diversion of his compan- 56 RICHARD ALSOP. ions. This turned the conversation upon the absurd and con- ceited productions with which most of the newspapers of that day were filled ; and the notion was suggested of ridiculing this bad taste by versifying some extravagant piece of that sort. The Boston thunder-storm was fixed upon ; each con- tributed a few lines, and a considerable part of the work was soon executed. Alsop took the writing home, gave it a few finishing strokes, and sent it to the editor of the Hartford paper. The performance was happily executed. The solemn bombast and bathos of the gazetteer's eloquence were dressed out in a figure of the most ludicrous cut, and the public were so much entertained as to induce the authors to execute other pieces in the same strain. Hopkins, Trumbull, and others, soon united in the business, the work gained an extensive notice, and the appellation of the " Hartford wits " became a widely known and honorable designation. The novelty of the plan, and the high degree of talent which the writers of the work brought to the undertaking, were sin- gularly effectual in accomplishing the designed object. The Echo obtained great influence. No scheme could have been devised better fitted for casting derision upon the wordy and bombastic nonsense so common in the newspaper effusions of that period. The plan of the work was soon extended. From ridiculing affectations of style, the writers passed to a wider field for the exercise of their satiric weapons, and levelled their shafts against the political doctrines of which they were oppo- nents, for party dissensions had begun to wax warm. The Echo soon became principally occupied in responding traves- ties of public speeches, and writings of a political cast. It took sides with the Federal party, end inveighed zealously agaiast the principles of the French revolution, and Mr Jef- ferson's administration. The satire which it dealt in, is not without severity, but is in general free from that coarse, illib- eral abuse, and bitterness of animosity, which characterize most of the party writings of the same stamp. The humor- ous part is very happy in its way, and the general execution of the work spirited and easy. Its defects are a want of harmo- RICHARD ALSOP. 57 ny and correctness occasionally in the versification ; faults how-, ever, which the critic will be less disposed to quarrel with, upon the reflection that the main object of the work left out of sight and significance these minor perfections. The wit and sarcasm adapted for popular effect, were relied upon by the writers, rather than the grace and euphony of the numbers, if indeed the harsh and rugged style of versification in which the Echo is written, were not purposely selected as the most appropriate to its character and purpose. The politics of the Echo, we do not feel called upon to crit- icise. We speak of it in its literary character alone, with- out the intention of having our remarks construed into ap- probation or disapprobation of the doctrines which it was the principal design of that performance to uphold. The originality of plan " which it exhibits, and the reputation and ability of its authors, call it into notice as the most re- markable production of the poetical kind which our country has seen. The several pieces of which it consists were col- lected into a volume, and illustrated with some excellent de- signs by Tisdale. The volume was published in connexion with some other poems by the same authors, in 1807. Alsop wrote a greater portion of the Echo than any other contributor, though it is impossible to assign the separate au- thorship of more than one or two pieces. Dr Hopkins, who excelled his associates in bold and inventive genius, furnished many original thoughts to Alsop, and devolved upon him, on ac- count of his readiness at versification, the task of clothing them in numbers. The poem of Guillotina and the first of the new year's verses, which accompany the Echo, were principally the work of Hopkins. The Political Green-House in the same volume, was written for the most part by Alsop. These display much of the characteristic talent of their authors, but are too deeply involved in matters which have lost their interest, to be read with satisfaction at the present day. 58 RICHARD AL80P. ECHO NO. I.* ON Tuesday last great Sol, with piercing eye, Pursued his journey through the vaulted sky, And in his car effulgent roll'd his way Four hours beyond the burning zone of day ; When lo ! a cloud, o'ershadowing all the plain, From countless pores perspired a liquid rain, While from its cracks the lightnings made a peep, And chit-chat thunders rock'd our fears asleep. But .soon the vapory fog dispersed in air, And left the azure blue-eyed concave bare : Even the last drop of hope, which dripping skies Gave for a moment to our straining eyes, * In order that this piece may be understood, the newspaper paragraph which furnished the occasion for it is here subjoined. " On Tuesday last, about four o'clock, P. M. came on a imart shower of rain, attended with lightning and thunder, no ways remarkable. The clouds soon dis- sipated, and the appearance of the azure vault, lea trivial hopes of further needful supplies from the uncorked bottles of heaven. In a few moments the horizon was again overshadowed, and an almost impenetrable gloom mantled the face of the skies. The wind frequently shifting from one point to another, waft- ed the clouds in various directions, until at last they united in one common centre and shrouded the visible globe in thick darkness* The attendant lightning, with the accompanying thunder, brought forth from the treasures that embattled ele- ments to awful conflict, were extremely vivid, and amazing loud. Those buildings that were defended by electric rods, appeared to be wrapped in sheets of livid flame, and a flood of the pura fire rolled its burning torrents down them with alarming violence. The majestic roar of disploding thunders, now bursting with a sudden crash, and now wasting the rumbling Echo of their sounds in other lands, added indescribable grandeur to the sublime scene. The windows of the upper regions appeared as thrown wide open, and the trembling cataract poured impetuous down. ' More salutary showers, and more needed, have not been experi- enced this summer; Several previous weeks bad exhibited a melancholy sight : the verdure of fields was nearly destroyed j and the patient husbandman almost experienced despair. Two beautiful rainbows, the one existing in its native glo- ries, and the other a splendid reflection of primitive colors, closed the magnificent picture, and presented to the contemplative mind, the angel of mercy, clothed with the brilliance of this irradiated arch, and dispensing felicity to assembled worlds. It is not unnatural to expect that the thunder storm would be attended with some damage. We hear a barn belonging to Mr Wythe of Cambridge caught fire from the lightning, which entirely consumed the same, together with several tons of hay, &c." RICHARD ALSOP. 59 Like Boston rum, from heaven's junk bottles broke, Lost all the corks, and vanish'd into smoke. But swift from worlds unknown, a fresh supply Of vapor dimm'd the great horizon's eye ; The crazy clouds, by shifting zephyrs driven, Wafted their courses through the high-arch' d heaven, Till piled aloft in one stupendous heap, The seen and unseen worlds grew dark, and nature 'gan to weep. Attendant lightnings stream'd their tails afar, And social thunders waked ethereal war, From dark deep pockets brought their treasured store, Embattled elements increased the roar Red crinkling fires expended all their force, And tumbling rumblings steer'd their headlong course. Those guarded frames by thunder poles secured, Though wrapp'd in sheets of flame, those sheets endured ; O'er their broad roofs the fiery torrents roll'd, And every shingle seem'd of burning gold. Majestic thunders, with disploding roar, And sudden crashing, bounced along the shore, Till, lost in other lands, the whispering sound Fled from our ears and fainted on the ground. Rain's house on high its window sashes oped, And out the cataract impetuous hopp'd, While the grand scene by far more grand appear'd, With lightnings never seen and thunders never heard. More salutary showers have not been known, To wash dame Nature's dirty homespun gown For several weeks the good old Joan's been seen, With filth bespatter'd like a lazy quean. The husbandman fast travelling to despair. Laid down his hoe and took his rocking chair: While his fat wife, the well and cistern dried, Her mop grown useless, hung it up and cried. Two rainbows fair that Iris brought along, Pick'd from the choicest of her color'd throng ; The first born deck'd in pristine hues of light, In all its native glories glowing bright, The next adorn'd with less refulgent rays, But borrowing lustre from its brother's blaze ; Shone a bright reflex of those colors gay That deck'd with light creation's primal day, When infant Nature lisp'd her earliest notes, And younker Mam crept in petticoats : And to the people to reflection given, 60 RICHARD ALSOP. " The sons of Boston, the elect of heaven," Presented Mercy's angel smiling fair, Irradiate splendors frizzled in his hair, Uncorking demi-johns, and pouring down Heaven's liquid blessings on the gaping town. N. B. At Cambridge town, the selfsame day, A barn was burnt well fill'd with hay. Some say the lightning turn'd it red, Some say the thunder struck it dead, Some say it made the cattle stare, And some it kill'd an aged mare ; But we expect the truth to learn, From Mr Wythe, who own'd the barn. VERSES TO THE SHEARWATER ON THE MORNING AFTER A STORM AT SEA.* WHENCE with morn's first blush of light Com'st thou thus to greet mine eye, Whilst the furious storm of night Hovers yet around the sky ? On the fiery tossing wave, Calmly cradled dost thou sleep, When the midnight tempests rave, Lonely wanderer of the deep ? Or from some rude isle afar, Castled 'mid the roaring waste, With the beams of morning's star, On lightning pinion dost thou haste ? In thy mottled plumage drest, Light thou skimm'st the ocean o'er, Sporting round the breaker's crest Exulting in the tempest's roar. O'er the vast-rolling watry way While our trembling bark is borne, And joyful peers the lamp of day, Lighting up the brow of morn ; * This piece, wo believe, haa never before been printed. RICHARD ALSOP. 61 As through yon cloud its struggling beams Around a partial lustre shed, And mark at fits with golden gleams The mountain billow's surging head ; Whilst the long lines of foamy white, At distance o'er the expanse so blue, As domes and castles spiring bright, Commingling, rise on fancy's view From wave to wave swift skimming light, Now near, and now at distance found, Thy airy form, in ceaseless flight, Cheers the lone dreariness around. Through the vessel's storm-rent sides, When the rushing billows rave ; And with fierce gigantic strides, Death terrific walks the wave, . Still on hovering pinion near, Thou pursuest thy sportive way ; Still uncheck'd by aught of fear, Calmly seek'st thy finny prey. Far from earth's remotest trace, What impels thee thus to roam ? What hast thou to mark the place When thou seek'st thy distant home ? Without star or magnet's aid, Thou thy faithful course dost keep ; Sportive still, still undismay'd, Lonely wanderer of the deep ! THE INCANTATION OF UJLFO. FROM THE CONQUEST OF SCANDINAVIA, FORTH from his camp the dire enchanter stray'd, 'Mid the weird horrors of the midnight shade, Till a lone dell his wandering footsteps found, Fenced with rough cliffs, with mournful cypress crown'd ; VOL. II. 6 2 RICHARD ALSOP. There stayed his course : with stern, terrific look, Thrice waved on high, his magic wand he shook ; And thrice he raised the wild funereal yell, That calls the spirits from th' abyss of hell. When, shrilly answering to the yell afar, Borne on the winds, three female forms appear ; Dire as the hag who, 'mid the dreams of night, Pursues the fever'd hectic's trembling flight. With gestures strange, approach the haggard band, And nigh the wizard take their silent stand. Near, in a rock, adown whose rugged side The lonely waters of the desert glide, O'ergrown with brambles, oped an ample cave, Drear as the gloomy mansions of the grave. Within, the screech-owl made her mournful home, And birds obscene that hover round the tomb ; Dark, from the moss-grown top, together clung, Ill-omen'd bats, in torpid clusters, hung ; And o'er the bottom, with dank leaves bestrow'd, Crept the black adder, and the bloated toad. Thither the magic throng repair'd, to form Their spells obscure, and weave the unhallow'd charm. Muttering dire words, thrice strode the wizard round ; Thrice, with his potent wand, he smote the ground ; Deep groans ensued ; on wings of circling flame, Slow-rising from beneath, a cauldron came ; Blue gleam'd the fires amid the shades of night, And o'er the cavern shot a livid light. Now oped a horrid scene : all black with blood, Th' infernal band, prepared for slaughter, stood. Two beauteous babes, by griffons borne away, While lock'd in sleep the hapless mothers lay, Whose smiles the frozen breast to love might warm, And e'en the unsparing wolf to pity charm, The hags unveil'd ; and sportive as they play'd, Deep in their hearts embrued the murderous blade ; Their dying pangs with smile malignant view'd, And life's last ebbings in the sanguine flood. Now, mix'd with various herbs of magic power, In the dark cauldron glows the purple gore : The night-shade dire, whose baleful branches wave, In glooms of horror o'er the murderer's grave ; The manchineel, alluring to the eye, Where, veil'd in beauty, deadliest poisons lie ; The far-famed Indian herb, of power to move The foes of nature to unite in love, RICHARD .ALSOP. 63 The serpent race to infant mildness charm, And the fierce tiger of his rage disarm, Known to the tribes that range the trackless wood Where mad Antonio heaves the headlong flood ; The monster plant that blasts Tartaria's heath ; And Upas fatal as the stroke of death : Boil'd the black mass, the associate fiends advance, And round the cauldron form the magic dance. Three times around, in mystic maze they trod, With hideous gesture, and terrific nod ; While Runic rhymes, and words that freeze the soul, From their blue lips, in tones of horror, roll. The wizard raised his voice, the cavern round, Wild shuddering, trembled at the fearful sound ; In mute attention stood the haggard throng, As thus he woke th' incantatory song. From the dreary realms below, From the dark domains of fear, From the ghastly seats of wo, Hear ! tremendous Hela, hear ! Dreadful Power ! whose awful form Blackens in the midnight storm ; Glares athwart the lurid skies, While the sheeted lightning flies ; When the thunder awful roars ; When the earthquake rocks the shores ; Mounted on the wings of air, Thou rulest the elemental war. When famine brings her sickly train ; When battle strews the carnaged plain ; When pestilence her venom'd wand Waves o'er the desolated land ; Rush the ocean's whelming tides O'er the foundering vessel's sides ; Then ascends thy voice on high ; Then is heard thy funeral cry ; Then, in horror, dost thou rise On th' expiring wretch's eyes. From the dreary realms below, From the dark domains of fear, From the ghastly seats of wo, Hear ! tremendous Hela., hear I 64 RICHABD ALSOF. Goddess ! whose terrific sway Nastrond's realms of guilt obey ; Where, amid impervious gloom, Sullen frowns the serpent dome ; Roll'd beneath th' envenom'd tide, Where the sons of sorrow 'bide ; Thee, the mighty demon host ; Thee, the giants of the frost; Thee, the genii tribes adore ; Fenris owns thy sovereign power : And th' imperial prince of fire, Surtur, trembles at thine ire. Thine, the victor's pride to mar ; Thine, to turn the scale of war ; Chiefs and princes at thy call, From their spheres of glory fall ; Empires are in ruin hurl'd ; Desolation blasts the world. From the dreary realms below, From the dark domains of fear, From the ghastly seats of wo, Hear ! tremendous Hela, hear ! Queen of terror, queen of death! Thee, we summon from beneath. From the deep infernal shade ; From the mansion of the dead ; Niflheim's black, funereal dome ; Hither rise, and hither come ! By the potent Runic rhyme, Awful, mystic, and sublime ; By the streams that roar below ; By the sable fount of wo ; By the burning gulf of pain, Muspel's home, and Surtur's reign; By the day when, o'er the world, Wild confusion shall be hurl'd, Rymer mount his fiery car, Giants, genii, rush to war, To vengeance move the prince of fire. And heaven, and earth, in flames expire ! RICHARD ALSOP. 65 From the dreary realms below, From the dark domains of fear, From the ghastly seats of wo, Hear ! tremendous Hela ! hear. He ceased the flames withdrew their magic light, And, clothed in deeper horrors, frown'd the night. At once, an awful stillness paused around, Hush'd were the winds, and mute the tempest's sound, One deep, portentous calm o'er nature spread, Nor e'en the aspen's restless foliage play'd ; Such the dire calm that glooms Caribean shores, Ere, roused to rage, the fell tornado roars: Not long, for lo ! from central earth released, Shrill through the cavern sigh'd a hollow blast ; Wild wails of wo, with shrieks of terror join'd, In deathful murmurs groan along the wind ; Peal following peal, hoarse bursts the thunder round f Redoubling echoes swell the dreadful sound ; Flash the blue lightnings in continual blaze ; One sheet of fire the kindling gloom displays ; And o'er the vault, with pale, sulphureous ray, Pour all the horrors of infernal day. Now heaved the vale around, the cavern'd rock, The earth, deep trembling, to its centre shook, Wide yawn'd the rending floor, and gave to sight A chasm tremendous as the gates of night. Slow from the gulf, 'mid lightnings faintly seen, Rose the dread form of death's terrific queen ; Of wolfish aspect, and with eyes of flame, Black Jarnvid's witch, her fell attendant, came ; Than whom, no monster roams the dark abodes, More fear'd by friends, more hated by the gods. More frightful, more deform'd, than fancy's power Pourtrays the demon of the midnight hour, In hideous majesty, of various hue, Part sallow ptde, and part a livid blue, A form gigantic, awful Hela frown'd : Her towering head with sable serpents crown'd ; Around her waist, in many a volume roll'd, A crimson adder wreathed his poisonous fold ; And o'er her face, beyond description dread, A sulphury mist its shrouding mantle spread. Her voice, the groan of war, the shriek of wo, When sinks the city whelm'd in gulfs below, VOL. ir. 6* RICHARD ALSOF. In tones of thunder, o'er the cavern broke, And nature shudder'd as the demon spoke. " Presumptuous mortal ! that, with mystic strain, Dost summon Hela from the realms of pain, What cause thus prompts thee rashly to invade The deep repose of death's eternal shade ? What, from the abodes of never-ending night, Calls me, reluctant, to the climes of light?"" " Empress supreme ! whose wide-extended sway- All nature owns, and earth and hell obey : The solemn call no trivial wish inspires ; No common cause thy potent aid requires : The dooms of empires on the issue wait, And doubtful tremble in the scale of fate. The glow of morn, on yon extended heath, Will light the nations to the strife of death. There Saracinia's sons their force unite With Scandia's monarch, Woldomir, in fight ; By strength combined, proud Odin to o'erwhelm. The fierce invader of the Scandian realm; By Woden favor'd with peculiar grace ; Friend of the gods, and odious to thy race. Then, in th' impending fight, thy succor lend, And o'er our host thy arm of strength extend; The hostile bands, protected by thy foes, With dangers circle, and with ruin close ; With wild dismay their shrinking ranks pervade ; Whelm their pale numbers in th' eternal shade ; And vying, with certain aim, the missive dart, Or point the falchion, to the leader's heart." Thus Ulfo spoke and Hela thus return'd. " Know, while in primal night creation mourn'd, The eternal cause, the great, all-ruling mind, The various term of human life assign'd ; Irrevocably firm, the fix'd intent No power can vary, and no chance prevent. Mark'd by the fates, for years of bloody strife, Rolls the long flood of Odin's varied life ; Nor is it ours the stern decree to thwart By open violence, or by covert art. Yet still the power is left us to annoy, Whom rigid heaven denies us to destroy ; And, though of life secure, the hostile chief. The wretched victim of severest grief, Shall mourn his arms disgraced, on yonder plain, His laurels blasted, and his heroes slain." THEODORE DWIGHT. C7 She ceased ; in thunder vanishing from view, The fiends, the cauldron, and the hags withdrew. Back to the camp the enchanter sped his way, Ere, o'er the east, arose the first faint glimpse of day. THEODORE DWIGHT. MR DWIGHT is a native of Northampton in Massachusetts, and brother of the late President Dwight. He received a degree at Yale College in 1798, and followed the profession of law in the early part of his life at Hartford, Connecticut. He was appointed to several public offices, among others, that of Representative in Congress from Connecticut. About the year 1810, he established the Connecticut Mirror at Hartford, and sometime afterward removed to Albany, where he had the editorial charge of the Daily Advertiser of that place. He has since established a new paper under the same title, in New York. These journals he has conducted with distin- guished ability. Mr Dwight is now principally known as a statesman and political writer, but in early life he gave him- self- occasionally to poetry, and was one of the most noted among the " Hartford wits." His New Year's rhymes, writ- ten under the strong excitement of party feeling both before and during the late war, must be well recollected. In a spe- cies of dignified Hudibrastic verse he has had few equals, although from the transient interest of the topics which the most of his writings embrace, his poetical talents have not been exerted in a way to obtain a lasting reputation in this department of literature. He has the credit of having fur- nished some of the best pieces in the Echo. AFRICAN DISTRESS. " HELP ! oh, help ! thou God of Christians! Save a mother from despair ! Cruel white men steal my children ! God of Christians, hear my prayer ! THEODORE DWIGHT. "From my arms by force they're rended, Sailors drag them to the sea ; Yonder ship, at anchor riding, Swift will carry them away. " There my son lies, stripp'd, and bleeding ; Fast, with thongs, his hands are bound. See, the tyrants, how they scourge him ! See his sides a reeking wound " See his little sister by him ; Quaking, trembling, how she lies ! Drops of blood her face besprinkle ; Tears of anguish fill her eyes. " Now they tear her brother from her ; Down, below the deck, he 's thrown ; Stiff with beating, through fear silent, Save a single, death-like, groan. " Hear the little creature begging ' " Take me, white men, for your own ! Spare, oh, spare my darling brother ! He 's my mother's only son. " See, upon the shore she 's raving : Down she falls upon the sands : Now, she tears her flesh with madness ; Now, she prays with lifted hands. " I am young, and strong, and hardy ; He 's a sick, and feeble boy ; Take me, whip me, chain me, starve me, All my life I '11 toil with joy. ( ' Christians ! who 's the God you worship 2 Is he cruel, fierce, or good ? Does he take delight in mercy ? Or in spilling human blood ? " Ah, my poor distracted mother ! Hear her scream upon the shore." Down the savage captain struck her, Lifeless on the vessel's floor. Up his sails he quickly hoisted, To the ocean bent his way ; Headlong plunged the raving mother, From a high rock, in the sea. THEODORE DWIGHT. 69 ECHO WO. 14.* " Our song resounds a thunder storm once more " But Norwich' far transcends Bostonia's roar." ON Monday last, the sun with scorching ray, Pour'd down on Norwich rocks a red hot day, Along the streets no verdant weeds appear'd, No blades of grass the geese and goslings cheer'd, No brook, nor pond, rnud-puddle, slough, nor pool, Where ducks might paddle, and where pigs might cool : But all was so completely burnt and bare, That had old Babel's king been pastured there, On such short feed, (I do not mean to joke) He never would have staid without a poke. At length, slow rising up north-western skies, Some little clouds about Elijah's size, Told us in hints and indications plain, That they were sensible we wanted rain. At first the teazing showers our patience tried, By sailing northerly at distance wide, Till three o'clock when lo ! a wondrous cloud, From the Norwich Packet, of June 20, 1793. " MONDAT the 27th inst. being very warm, there appcnred in the N. W. several small clouds, which indicated whut the earth greatly stood in need of, viz. showers of rain, which afterwards collected and directed their course to the northward of this place, till about three o'clock, when a cloud clothed in sable black gathered in the west, arose and passed in a direct line over this city : wafted with uncommon violence by the wind fluctuating in various directions, presented to the human mind a spectacle alarming to behold : it was highly charged with electric fluid, and almost incessantly burst in streams of crimson fire, which streaked the heavens with astonishing lustre ; several of which, from the near connexion between the blaze and report, must have reached the earth not far distant, though we do not loam of any consequential damages sustained. It continued to disburden itself of its contents with unremitted ardor and violence until the shades of evening had spread around us the curtains of the night, when it gradually disappeared ; and the horizon shone again clear and bright. Gay Luna who in majestic sway was now travelling the downward skies shone with unusual splendor, and the star be- spangled canopy of heaven furnished a scene at once beautiful to the eye of the beholder. The feathered tribe who during the storm were hushed in silence, noxv erected their plumy wings, as one, attuned to the God of nature their feeble songg of praise, and the neighboring groves amidst creation's smiles, harmonized music echoed through the skies ! the earth has received a goodly supply of rain, and the ivorks of nature, undisturbed, laugh and rejoice ; let audible giatitude awake the voice of man on this occasion for one of the choicest of heaven's blessings. " We hear that three cows were killed at Bolton last Monday evening, by the lightning." 70 THEODORE DWIGHT. Full dress'd in sable black like funeral shroud, Rose in the west, and climb'd its awful way, In proud defiance of the god of day, Who soon perceived his rays were vainly shed, And therefore rashly stripp'd, and went to bed. But not much used to blankets in the heat Of June, his godship soon began to sweat, And snore, and puff, and piteously complain, Which we mistook for thunder, wind and rain. This reverend cloud came on with dreadful rumpus, Wafted by winds which blew all round the compass, And to the mind (the medium of sight) A scene presented pregnant with affright. For overcharged with true electric shot, (Which all who 've felt, well know are rather hot) As musket loaded deep on training day, When Captain Flip commands to " bouze away" From breech to muzzle splits in splinters dire The cloud incessant burst in streams of fire ; While o'er the inky vault the lustre spread, And streak'd the concave with surprising red. Some of these streaks were follow'd by a roar, Which came so near the streak that went before, That if the first the earth did ever find, The latter surely was not far behind. And though we have not heard which way they went, What place they stopp'd at, where their fury spent, Whene'er they 're found, like birds of equal feather, I '11 lay my ears you '11 find them both together. The ardent cloud continued to unlade, Like sea-sick man in violent cascade, Till evening shades, afraid to see the light, Took care to spread the curtains of the night, But all in vain old Sol, his sweating o'er, Kick'd off the clothes, and still'd his tuneful snore, Just raised his head and oped his drowsy eyes, And gave one flash of lightning through the skies, When lo ! the stars who thought the night begun, In wild amazement started back and run ; While nodding Phoebus, trimm'd in slumbering cap, Yawn'd out a smile and took his evening nap. But Luna, somewhat wiser than the rest, Stepp'd softly out, in pink and silver dress'd, And trode with cautious step the western way, To see if all were safe where Phoebus lay : For well she knew if Sol again should rise, THEODORE DWIGHT. And catch her idly flaunting round the skies, He 'd make her strip to gratify his ire, And dress herself in every day's attire. But when she found he certainly reposed, His lamp in truth burnt out, his eye-lids closed, Round heaven's high arch her car celestial roll'd, O'er starry pavements gemm'd with living gold, From orb to orb her fiery coursers flew, And new born splendors clothed the etherial blue. The feather'd tribe o'erjoy'd to lose the storm, Now ventured forth in many a cackling swarm. And fill'd with noise upraised the plumy wing, And stretch'd on tiptoe oped their throats to sing, And all around, from every stump and tree, Proceeded songs of praise, and songs of glee ; While men and beasts stood staring all the while, To see creation ope her mouth and smile. The earth has got of rain a good supply, And everything is wet that late was dry Now nature's self with mighty legs and voice, May skip in earthquakes and in songs rejoice, While man, the master of the tuneful throng, Shall sound the pitch, and lead the choral song. P. S. As such a storm does rarely fly For nought across the azure sky, 'T is said that on the self-same night Three cows were kill'd at Bolton by 't ! Poor Mr Wythe two years ago, Had his barn burnt exactly so. LINES ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON. FAR, far from hence be satire's aspect rude, No more let laughter's frolic-face intrude, But every heart be fill'd with deepest gloom, Each form be clad with vestments of the tomb. From Vernon's sacred hill dark sorrows flow, Spread o'er the land, and shroud the world in wo. From Mississippi's proud, majestic flood, To where St. Croix meanders through the wood, Let business cease, let vain amusements fly, Let parties mingle, and let faction die, The realm perform, by warm affection led, Funereal honors to the mighty dead. 72 THEODORE DWIGHT. Where shall the heart for consolation turn, Where end its grief, or how forget to mourn ? Beyond these clouds appears no cheering ray, No morning star proclaims th' approach of day. Ask hoary Age from whence his sorrows come, His voice is silent, and his sorrow dumb ; Enquire of Infancy why droops his head, The prattler lisps " great Washington is dead." Why bend yon statesmen o'er their task severe ? Why drops yon chief the unavailing tear ? What sullen grief hangs o'er yon martial band ? What deep distress pervades the extended land ? In sad responses sounds from shore to shore " Our Friend, our Guide, our Father is no more. 1 ' Let fond remembrance turn his aching sight, Survey the past, dispel oblivion's night, By Glory led, pursue the mazy road, Which leads the traveller to her high abode, Then view that great, that venerated name, Inscribed in sunbeams on the roll of Fame. No lapse of years shall soil the sacred spot, No future age its memory shall blot ; Millions unborn shall mark its sacred fire, And latest Time behold it and admire. A widow'd country ! what protecting form Shall ope thy pathway through the gathering storm i What mighty hand thy trembling bark shall guide, Through Faction's rough and overwhelming tide ! The hour is past thy Washington no more Descries, with angel-ken, the peaceful shore. Freed from the terrors of his awful eye, No more fell Treason seeks a midnight sky, But crawling forth, on deadliest mischief bent, Rears her black front, and toils with cursed intent. Behold ! arranged in long, and black array, Prepared for conflict, thirsting for their prey, Our foes advance, nor force nor danger dread, Their fears all vanish'd when his spirit fled. Oft, when our bosoms, fill'd with dire dismay, Saw mischief gather round our country's way ; When furious Discord seized her flaming brand, And threatened ruin to our infant land ; When faction's imps sow'd thick the seeds of strife, And aim'd destruction at the bliss of life ; When war with bloody hand her flag unfurl'd, THEODORE DWIGHT. 73 And her loud trump alarm'd the western world ; His awful voice bade all contention cease, At his commands the storms were hush'd to peace. But who can speak, what accents can relate, The solemn scenes which marked the great man's fate ! Ye ancient sages, who so loudly claim The brightest station on the list of Fame, At his approach with diffidence retire, His higher worth acknowledge, and admire. When keenest anguish rack'd his mighty mind, And the fond heart the joys of life resign'd, No guilt, nor terror stretch'd its hard control, No doubt obscured the sunshine of the soul. Prepared for death, his calm and steady eye, Look'd fearless upward to a peaceful sky ; While wondering angels point the airy road, Which leads the Christian to the house of God. LINES ADDRESSED TO A MOTHER, WHO HAD BEEN ABSENT FROM HOME SEVERAL WEEKS, ON HER SEEING HER INFANT CHILD ASLEEP. WRAPP'D in innocent repose, Lost to all its little woes, See that lovely infant rest, On the pillow's downy breast. Wearied with the toils of day, Little frolics, childish play, Frequent joy, and frequent grief, Nature yields a short relief. Say, my sleeping cherub, say, Whither doth thy spirit stray ? Art thou flown to realms above, On some angel's wings of love, Where, array'd in purest white, Dwell the sainted sons of light, Hymning round the eternal throne, Praise to God's Almighty Son ? Or dost thou now at random roam ; Through creation's nightly tomb, Borne by Death's insidious power, To his temporary bower ? VOL. II. 7 74 THEODORE D WIGHT. Hush the thought! I see thee smile ! Dreams thy little lieart beguile ; O'er thy sweet, enchanting face, Steals inimitable grace. Say, my little cherub, say, Whither doth thy spirit stray ? Hark ! his answering. smile replies " Far from hence my spirit flies ; Borne on Fancy's wing, I move To a mother's arms of love, And clasp'd in sweet embraces, rest On her balmy angel-breast. Here the tides of pleasure roil, Rapture charms the licensed soul, Here divinest transports play, Here affection loves to stray, Here I share the envied kiss, Sink in pleasure, drown in bliss. Spotless as the beams of light, Crowding on the ravish'd sight, Ever new its beauties rise, Charming unforbidden eyes. Hark ! My mother's voice benign, Speaks in harmony divine " Peaceful here, my infant rest, On your raptured parent's breast. Here no hand shall enter rude, No unhallow'd eye intrude ; In this paradise of joy, Dwells no spirit to destroy ; But, on Virtue's spotless throne, Thy happy Father reigns alone, Licensed here alone to move, Bathing in voluptuous love, Pleasure here without alloy, Bours an endless stream of joy, While its blissful currents roll, Through the mazes of his soul. SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON. 75 SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON, WIFE of the Hon. Perez Morton, Attorney General of Massachusetts, is a native of Boston, and occupied the first rank among the female writers of America in the early part of her life. Her verses published under the name of Phile- nia, enjoyed about thirty years since a wide popularity. Of late years she has not devoted herself much to poetry ; but in 1823 ehe published a volume of prose and verse, entitled "My Mind and its Thoughts." THE AFRICAN CHIEF. SEE how the black ship cleaves the main, High bounding o'er the dark blue wave, Remurmuring with the groans of pain, Deep freighted with the princely slave ! Did all the gods of Afric sleep, Forgetful of their guardian love, When the white tyrants of the deep, Betrayed him in the palmy grove. A chief of Gambia's golden shore, Whose arm the band of warriors led, Or more the lord of generous power, By whom the foodless poor were fed. Does not the voice of reason cry, " Claim the first right that nature gave, From the red scourge of bondage fly, Nor deign to live a burden'd slave." Has not his suffering offspring clung, Desponding round his fetter'd knee ; On his worn shoulder, weeping hung, And urged one effort to be free ? His wife by nameless wrongs subdued, His bosom's friend to death resign'd ; The flinty path-way drench'd in blood ; He saw with cold and frenzied mind. 76 SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON. Strong in despair, then sought the plain, To heaven was raised his steadfast eye, Resolved to burst the crushing chain, Or 'mid the battle's blast to die. First of his race, he led the band, Guardless of danger, hurling round, Till by his red avenging hand, Full many a despot stain'd the ground. When erst Messenia's sons oppress'd, Flew desperate to the sanguine field, With iron clothed each injured breast, And saw the cruel Spartan yield, Did not the soul to heaven allied, With the proud heart as greatly swell, - As when the Roman Decius died, Or when the Grecian victim fell ? Do later deeds quick rapture raise, The boon Batavia's William won, Paoli's time-enduring praise, Or the yet greater Washington ! If these exalt thy sacred zeal, To hate oppression's mad control, f For bleeding Afric learn to feel, Whose chieftain claira'd a kindred soul. Ah, mourn the last disastrous hour, Lift the full eye of bootless grief, While victory treads the sultry shore, And tears from hope the captive chief; While the hard race of pallid hue, Unpractised in the power to feel, Resign him to the murderous crew, The horrors of the quivering wheeL Let sorrow bathe each blushing cheek, Bend piteous o'er the tortured slave, Whose wrongs compassion cannot speak. Whose only refuge was the grave. JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. 77 JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD WAS born at Providence, Rhode Island, about the year 1768, and was the son of one of the first settlers and proprietors of St Johnsbury in Vermont. He studied at Dartmouth College, and afterwards officiated for a short time as rector of the Academy at Plainfield in Connecticut. He then removed to Providence and began the study of law. He was admitted to the bar, but did not pursue this profession, as we presently find him exer- cising the office of a tutor in the college at Providence. On the death of his father he settled in St Johnsbury, where he died June 7th, 1796, in his 29th year. His performances, con- sisting of a few light and hasty effusions in verse, were pub- lished after his death* A. MODERN ECLOGUE. CARYL the barber, and his wife, of late Had, journeying homeward, words of high debate ; He long had lived suspicious of the fair ; ("To jealous bosoms, trifles light as air Are confirmations strong") yet ne'er had been So prompt before to charge her with the sin. The Muse was by, and, pleased with such rare sport, Has told the dialogue in this here sort. CARYL. At three new Boston shopsters have I tried, And bought a chintz would ornament a bride ; This bosom-pin, this locket tied with blue, I bought for Susan, thinking she was true : But, ah ! for all my love what sad return, Since you for swains beside your Caryl burn. 'T is well I saw you not these eyes had flow'd Away in tears, and I had lifeless stood. How times have alter'd since I first thee knew ! How am I left the wedding day to rue ! Ah, luckless Caryl ! Susan, faithless fair, Has soii'd her fame, and sunk thee to despair ! *The piece entitled " The Last Words of Shalum," which the editor has in eluded in Arnold's volume, is by Preneau. VOL. II. 7* 78 JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. 'Tis true, O Caryl, times have alter'd quite, Since first you kiss'd me on the nuptial night ; Indeed they 've alter'd in four seasons gone ; But charge not me the fault is all thy own. While stood our cot on Bagley's fertile plain, I was thy nymph, and thou rny only swain. Then in thy presence brighten'd every scene, More red the rose grew, and the grass more green Soon as the sun from eastern skies arose, We left our leafy couch and sweet repose ; Then did I first beneath the ashes hide Twice twenty rough-skins, and our meal provide ; Then swept and to my spinning-wheel sat down, Nor envied her who wears a golden crown ; And when at noon, with labor spent and heat, Thou didst, O Caryl, to thy cot retreat, I cheer'd thee fainting with a cup of whey, From Comstock's brought, and fann'd the heat away. How often then, attest ye stars above, Did Susan, breadless, make a meal on love. How oft did she refrain from every crust, Though pinch'd with hunger, and, to quench thy thirst, To thee, O Caryl, all the whey resign'd, Contented always while her swain was kind. How oft, O sun, within yon pine-tree grove, Hast thou heard Caryl tell me tales of love ; And when thou, hastening down the western eky, Didst seek at eve in Thetis' lap to lie, Then did we to our humble cot repair, And seek for rest and satisfaction there. But now, alas ! the happy glass is run, Caryl is faithless Susan is undone. CARYL,. Stay, Susan, stay ; from all reproach refrain, ^^d prove me faithless, ere thou dost complain. Here" Caryl stands, a pure and spotless youth, (So heaven preserve me as I speak th Here stands he pure as thou, my lovely bride, Six months before the nuptial knot was tied ; But say'st thou this thy own disgrace to cure ? Ha ! that's a trick I never will endure. I '11 beat thee, Susan, for thou art my wife ; 1 11 beat thee, though I love thee as my life. JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. Stay, Caryl, stay ; thy beating love restrain, And I '11 unfold the reasons why I 'plain. When first, on fame and worldly riches bent, Thee to Pawtucket thy base genius sent, Then fled the sunshine of my former life, And fortune frown'd on Caryl's faultless wife; When at thy shop three customers a day Were shaved, and each his coppers three did pay ; How didst thou strut, and talk, and look as big As old M'Laugnlin in his horse-tail wig. E'en then I saw some symptoms of disdain, And thought thee colder than my country swain. But when to every house in town you run, And shaved and dress' d them every mother's son, Then money rattled in your once lank purse, And all was prinking, pranking, mince and fuss. Now Caryl drinks with gentry, and carouses At gaming tables and at brothel houses. Now oft at midnight Susan opes the door, And lets him in, a traveller on all four. CARYL. Take that you hussy, for your lie. SUSAN. Have done. CARYL. I have, you baggage ; now you may go on. SUSAN. Then your affection to decay began, And first I knew th' inconstancy of man. But still your love I did not cease to prize, And tried to make me pleasing in your eyes. When you came home and call'd me swarthy brown, And said such colors would not do in town, Did I not try, at morning, noon and night, And wash and scour and labor to be white ? Did I not eat of pipe-stems near a gross, And take of herb-drinks many a bitter dose ? Devour raw rice and paper Indian meal, And chalk as much as ever I could steal ? And when, in scorn, " d n such a shape," you cried, Did I not lace me till I almost died ? 79 80 . JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. Yet still I fail'd you sought another fair, And Dermot saw you, Caryl, you know where. You loathed my love, your Susan's arms you fled, And cruel left me in a lonely bed ; A female weakness then usurp'd my breast ; I sought revenge my tears must tell the rest. Dermot was false, and all he told thee lies ; But I forgive thee, Susan ; wipe thine eyes. This is the only reason I can give For my past conduct ; but with thee I '11 live In future, Caryl, spotless as the dove, And faithful as the redbreast to her love. But now let 's leave this vile Pawtucket town, And in the country once more settle^own : Let 's move our hut to Bagley's fertile plain, And dwell in love and happiness again. THE WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG. DEEP in the west the sun is gone, And darkness rapidly comes on ; But soon his beams again shall rise. And radiant light o'erspread the skies. Thus, though the raging flame destroy This mortal flame, to scenes of joy The soul shall fly, where Podar reigns O'er pleasant woods and fertile plains. There nations shall no more be foes, Nor warriors tribe to tribe oppose ; No hideous war-song shall be heard, But peace inspire the ravish'd bard. No arrows tipt with polish'd bone, Nor tomahawk shall there be known ; But all, till time itself shall cease, Shall live in harmony and peace. Urge thea the torments, haughty foes ; Thus death the sooner shall disclose . JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. 81 The land where every torment flies, Where endless joys and pleasures rise. Bid fiercer flames around him roll, And try to bend his stubborn soul ; Yet vain the hope, the trial vain, To make great Ellac's son complain. No sting of wo, nor pain severe, Shall from his eyelids draw a tear ; But e'en his foes themselves shall say, A noble chief has fall'n today. Tell then your sons, ye warriors, tell Without complaint how Kallack fell ; How his firm breast no fear appall'd, To die whene'er his nation call'd. Thus shall their manly bosoms glow, With souls invincible by wo, Exult like Ellac's son to die, And to the realms of Podar fly. Thus spake the hero of the shore, Where broad Kanhawa's waters roar ; Then closed his eyes, untaught to weep, And sunk in glory's arms to sleep. FRAGMENT, DESCRIPTIVE OF THOSE EXTRAORDINARY ANI- MALS WHOSE BONES HAVE BEEN FOUND IN THE WEST- ERN COUNTRY. THE monsters rage, and round the earth Spread ruin and destruction fell, Sent by the great *Pehoogthsi's wrath, Fierce from the angry gates of hell. Haste, my Shootai, haste away, Destruction waits upon delay! Above the highest pines they raise In horrid majesty their head ; Their eyes in vengeful anger blaze, Their jaws grind nations of the dead. *Evil Spirit. 83 JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD. , Haste, my Shootai, haste away, Destruction waits upon delay ! Save us, fOroonoh ! at a leap O'er Allegany's height they bound, O'er Huron's darkly rolling deep, And with convulsions rend the ground. Haste, my Shootai, haste away, Destruction waits upon delay ! They breathe, the woods are prostrate laid, The rocks are moved ; they roar, Old Erie on his fall is stay'd, Kanhawa trembles on his shore. Haste, my Shootai, haste away, Destruction waits upon delay ! WHILE zephyrs fan the verdant groves, And flowerets grace the plain, While shepherds tell the nymphs their loves, And flaunt in pleasure's train ; To yonder cottage of my fair My anxious footsteps tend ; What joy so great as viewing there A lover and a friend ? To her I fear not to disclose The feelings of my heart ; She bears a part in all my woes, In all my joys a part. If e'er she weeps, I kiss the tear, And bid her sorrows end ; If she is pleased, joy shows me near A lover and a friend. She 's youthful, innocent and gay, Of perfect mind and mien ; She quickly steals all hearts away, Wherever she is seen. But though each shepherd's heart she charms, And they before her bend, Round me alone she throws her arms, A lover and a friend. WILLIAM BOYD. 83 WILLIAM BOYD WAS born in 1777. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1796, and had nearly completed a course of medical stu- dies, when he was seized with a consumption, of which he died January 13th, 1800, in his 24th year. He published at the age of nineteen, a poem, entitled " Woman," delivered by him at a public exhibition at college. WHEN time was young, and nature first began To form this odd, fantastic being, man, She rack'd her fancy to invent a joy Unknown before, to please the smiling boy. Her choicest viands from the Held she brought, Cherish'd each herb, and all their uses taught ; Press'd the cold earth, and bade the fountain pour Its stream meandering to the distant shore. To cheer the day and banish every pain, She spread luxuriance o'er the festive plain, Smiled on the scene, and call'd the choirist's song To sweeten pleasure, and the joy prolong. Though far around was pour'd the plenteous tide, No charm forgotten, and no bliss denied ; Though rich profusion lavish'd all its store, Man saw the tasteless sweets, and pined for more. Still anxious care his feeling heart oppress'd, And pensive languor rankled.on his breast. The plague ennui his dearest joys had stole, And solitude's cold pleasure chill'd his soul. Parental care again the task renew'd, Again each art, with fondest zeal pursued ; From opening roses cull'd the blushing dye, And the mild lustre of the new-born sky ; From every sweet expanding to the view The magic power a soft perfection drew ; Bestow'd each grace, that nicest skill could give, And call'd the lovely composition, Eve. The winning fair, from nature's wardrobe dress'd, By heaven applauded, and by man caress'd, 84 WILLIAM BOYD. Each melting charm with artless pride display'd, In form an angel, and in heart a maid. Now pleasure, chaste as virtue's self could feign, Refined the heart and warm'd the lingering vein ; Each joy complete ; and man exulting wove The silken fetters of connubial love. Had heaven's behest in providence denied Nature's best gift, and man's too charming pride, No gentle tie the savage breast could bind, And instinct only rule the vacant mind. Enchanting woman bade an Eden smile, Where the rough glebe defied the laborer's toil ; On the bare rock a pleasing And taught the flint to yield a downy bed. The happy peasant climbs the mountain's brow, Builds on the cliff, nor asks the plain below ; Content and peace beneath the tempest dwell, And lovely woman cheers the humble cell. In softer climes, where beams a milder ray, Where laughing fields enjoy eternal May, Enlighten' d man, to female merit true, Has paid the homage to perfection due. The hardy veteran quits the fatal plain, Where laurell'd honor strode amid the slain ; To gentler passions yields the willing heart. Bows to the fair, and owns the pleasing smart. The sceptred despot, now no longer proud, Deserts the throne, and leaves the fawning crowd, Himself a suppliant, to the fair he flies, Lives in her smile, and in her frown he dies. Empires and states in maddening discord rage, Forget affection, and the combat wage For some fair she, whom artful man beguiled, And Troy expires, because a Helen smiled. Cornelia's worth shall grace th' historic page, And all her virtues live to latest age ; A shining portrait e'er held up to life, An ancient model for a modern wife. The modest matron, far from public show, Bent the young mind, and taught the heart to grow ; Deep in the nursery's shade unenvied shone, Nor wish'd the gewgaws of the world her own. No diamond there its blazing lustre shed, No toilet splendor to the eye was spread ; The infant's prattle, and the winning play, WILLIAM BOYD. 85 With dearer joys beguiled the tedious day, Than tinsell'd show and fading wealth impart, These charm the head, but those delight the heart. Far to the north, where Lapland deserts lie, A waste unpitied by the inclement sky, The savage boor, to sympathy unknown, Aud mutual pleasures, which decrease his own, Stretch'd at his ease, neglects the husband's care, While menial labors grind the hapless fair. From Afric sands, where Siroc's poisonous breath Blasts the young herb, and teems with wasting death, To the mild clime where Ganges laves the plain, Where smiling spring and whispering zephyrs reign, Still lives this truth, by savage man confess'd, Woman beloved, yet woman the oppress'd. The Turk, a tyrant to the captive maid, Confines her beauties to the haram's shade ; There, on its wall each dastard act engraved, He counts his glories by the fair enslaved. The jealous knave would tame a female's hate With splendid trifles and the charms of state ; With regal pride the lover's warmth would give, And in a prison bid affection live. Preposterous thought ! where slavery's galling chain Chills the young wish, and turns each joy to.pain, Love, free as air, from cursed oppression flies, Pines at the fetter, and imprison'd dies. In milder Europe, when the infant ray Of pure refinement beam'd uncertain day, The hapless fair each humble labor plied, And cold neglect attended at her side. Now genial science, on the mind has shone, Its rigor soften'd, and its passions won ; Now female worth shall honest praise assume, Nor fade neglected in the cloister's gloom. Columbia hail ! along thy favor'd shore, The fiend oppression shall be heard no more: No tyrant lord, with jealous fear, shall bind The soft affections of the female mind ; No groveling wretch with impious zeal shall dare, Assault the .rights of heaven-protected fair. Soon shffl the world receive the generous fire, Blush at its follies, and the fair admire ; Soon shall the time, by ancient bards foretold, A joyful era to the heart unfold ; 86 WILLIAM CLIFPTON. When female worth with purest beam shall shine, Nor rival man with sordid envy pine ; When mutual pleasures undisturb'd shall roll, And the rude Arab own a woman's soul. WILLIAM CLIFFTOJT. WILLIAM CLIFFTON was the son of a quaker of Philade*- phia, and was born in 1772. He is said to have manifested in his early years an uncommon vivacity and quickness of mind, and soon distinguished himself for his attachment to elegant literature, and strong thirst for' every kind of liberal know- ledge. His health, which was precarious from infancy, re- ceived so severe a shock by the rupture of a blood vessel at the age of nineteen, as to disqualify him for all kinds of active business. . His feeble condition having from the beginning held out nothing favorable for his future prospects in life as regards the common occupations of the world, he was not ed- ucated with a view to any particular profession. The circum- stances of his father, who was a wealthy man, enabled him to devote the intervals of his time, which debility ap.d disease allowed, to study. He mingled little in society, and was led by no control or advice in the course of his literary pursuits, trusting to his own sound judgment and correct taste. Under this guidance the great masters of poetry and eloquence were studied and imitated, with all the zeal and assiduity which his physical infirmities gave opportunity for exerting. By his parents, who were among the straitest of their sect, he was brought up in a rigid adherence to the quaker manners and principles. These, however, although not altogether in- compatible with a taste for polite letters, as recent examples have shown, yet were found quite unsuitable to the character and partialities of the young devotee of the muses. In the latter part of his life, therefore, he threw off the quaker dress WILLIAM CLIFFTON. 87 and manners, and applied himself to those elegant pursuits which are excluded by the society of friends from their severe and simple system of education. He died in December 1799, at the age of twentyseven. His earliest performances were various satirical effusions in prose and verse, upon the sub- jects of political debate at the period of Jay's treaty with Great Britain. Upon the publication in this country of Gif- ford's Baviad and Marviad, he wrote a poetical epistle to the author, which was prefixed to the work as an introduction. This performance, although of no great length, is executed throughout with much taste and poetical feeling. The greater part, however, of Cliffton's poetry is of a de- scription that will find little acceptance with readers of the present time. The politics of the hour afforded the principal theme for his satirical talent, and most of his pages are filled with vituperations of the French revolutionists, and the party enemies of the writer. These outpourings of spleen and sar- casm were relished in their day, but we prefer recommending to our- readers the few compositions which he left behind him of a different character. MART WILL SMILE. THE morn was fresh, and pure the gale, When Mary, from her cot a rover, Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale To bind the temples of her lover. As near his little farm she stray'd, Where birds of love were ever pairing, She saw her William in the shade, The arms of ruthless war preparing. " Though now," he cried, " I seek the hostile plain, Mary shall smile, and all be fair again." She seized his hand, and " Ah ! " she cried, " Wilt thou to camps and war a stranger Desert thy Mary's faithful side, And bare thy life to every danger ? Yet go, brave youth ! to arms away ! WILLIAM CLIFFTON. My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away, I'll drop a silent tear and bless thee. Return'd with honor, from the hostile plain, Mary will smile, and all be fair again. The bugles through the forest wind, The woodland soldiers call to battle, Be some protecting angel kind, And guard thy life when cannons rattle ! " She sung, and as the rose appears In sunshine, when the storm is over, A smile beam'd sweetly through her tears, The blush of promise to her lover. Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain. All shall be fair, and Mary smile again. TO A ROBIN. FROM winter so dreary and long, Escaped, ah ! how welcome the day, Sweet Bob with his innocent song, Is return' d to his favorite spray. When the voice of the tempest was heard, As o'er the bleak mountain it pass'd, He hied to the thicket, poor bird ! And shrunk from the pitiless blast. By the maid of the valley survey'd, Did she melt at thy comfortless lot ? Her hand, was it stretch'd to thy aid, As thou pick'dst at the door of her cot ? She did ; and the wintery wind, May it howl not around her green grove ; Be a bosom so gentle and kind, Only fann'd by the breathings of love. She did ; and the kiss of her swain, With rapture, the deed shall requite, That gave to my window again Poor Bob and his song of delight. WILLIAM CLIFFTON. AIRY traveller, queen of song, Sweetest fancy, ever young, I to thee my soul resign ; All my future life be thine : Rich or beggar'd, chain'd or free, Let me live and laugh with thee. Pride perhaps may knock, and say, " Rise thou sluggard, come away:" But can he thy joy impart, Will he crown my leaping heart ? If I banish hence thy smile Will he make it worth my while ? Is my lonely pittance past, Fleeting good too light to last, Lifts my friend the latch no more, Fancy, thou canst all restore ; Thou canst, with thy airy shell, To a palace raise my celL At night, while stretch'd on lowly bed, When tyrant tempest shakes my shed, And pipes aloud ; how bless'd am I, All cheering nymph, if thou art by, If thou art by to snatch my soul Where billows rage and thunders roll. From cloud, o'er peering mountain's brow We '11 mark the mighty coil below, While round us innocently play The lightning's flash, and meteor's ray And, all so sad, some spectre form Is heard to moan amid the storm. With thee to guide my steps I '11 creep In some old haunted nook to sleep, Lull'd by the dreary night-bird's scream, That flits along the wizard stream, And there, till morning 'gins appear, The tales of troubled spirits hear. OL. II. 8* 90 WILLIAM CLIFFTON. Sweet 's the dawn's ambiguous light, Quiet pause 'tween day and night, When, afar, the mellow horn Chides the tardy-gaited morn, And asleep is yet the gale On sea-beat mount, and river'd vale. But the morn, though sweet and fair, Sweeter is when thou art there ; Hymning stars successive fade, Fairies hurtle through the shade, Love-lorn flowers I weeping see, If the scene is touch'd by thee. When unclouded shines the day, When my spirits dance and play, To some sunny bank we '11 go Where the fairest roses blow, And in gamesome vein prepare Chaplets for thy spangled hair. Thus through life with thee I '11 glide, Happy still whate'er betide, And while plodding sots complain Of ceaseless toil and slender gain. Every passing hour shall be Worth a golden age to me. Then lead on, delightful power, Lead, Oh ! lead me to thy bower ; I to thee my soul resign, All my future life be thine. Rich or beggar'd, chain'd or free. Let me live and laugh with thee. A FLIGHT OF FANCY. FOR lonely shades, and rustic bed, Let philosophic spirits sigh ; ask no melancholy shed, No hermit's dreary cave, not I. WILLIAM CLIFFTON. 91 But where, to skirt some pleasant vale, Ascends the rude uncultured hill, Where 'midst its cliffs to every gale, Young Echo mocks the passing rill : Where spring to every merry year, Delighted trips her earliest round ; Sees all her varied tints appear, And all her fragrant soul abound : There let my little villa rise, In beauty's simple plumage drest : And greet with songs the morning skies, Sweet bird of art, in nature's nest ! Descending there, on golden wing, Shall fancy, with her bounties roam ; And every laurell'd art shall bring An offering fair to deck my home. Green beds of moss, in dusky cells, When twilight sleeps from year to year, And fringed plats, where Flora dwells, With the wild wood shall neighbor near. The fairies through my walks shall roam, And sylphs inhabit every, tree ; Come Ariel, subtlest spirit, come, I '11 find a blossom there for thee ; Extended wide, the diverse scene, My happy casement shall command, The busy farm, the pasture green, And tufts where shelter'd hamlets stand. Some dingle oft shall court my eye To dance among the flow'rets there, And here a lucid lake shall lie, Emboss'd with many an islet fair. From crag to crag, with devious sweep, Some frantic flood shall headlong go, And, bursting o'er the dizzy steep, Shall slumber in the lake below. 92 WILLIAM CLIFFTON. In breezy isles and forests near, The sylvans oft their haunts shall leave ; And oft the torrent pause to hear The lake -nymph's song, at silent eve. There shall the moon with half shut eye, Delirious, hear her vocal beam, To fingering sounds responsive sigh, And bless the hermit's midnight dream. No magic weed nor poison fell Shall tremble there ; nor drug uncouth, To round the muttering wizard's spell, Or bathe with death the serpent's tooth. No crusted ditch nor festering fen With plagues shall teem, a deadly brood. No monster leave his nightly den To lap the 'wilder'd pilgrim's blood. But on the rose's dewy brink, Each prismy tear shall catch the gleam ; And give the infant buds to drink, The colors of the morning beam. The waters sweet,' from whispering wells, Shall loiter 'neath the flowery brake ; Shall visit oft the Naiad's cells, And hie them to the silver lake. The muse shall hail, at peep of dawn, Melodiously the coming day ; At eve her song shall soothe the lawn, And with the mountain echoes play. There spring shall laugh at winter's frown, There summer blush for gamesome spring, And autumn, prank'd in wheaten crown, His stores to hungry winter bring. T is mine ! 't is mine ! this sacred grove, Where truth and beauty may recline, The sweet resort of many a love ; Monimia, come and make it thine. ROBERT TREAT PAINE. For thee the bursting buds are ripe, The whistling robin calls thee here, To thee complains the woodland pipe ; Will not my loved Monimia hear ? A fawn I '11 bring thee, gentle maid, To gambol round thy pleasant door ; I '11 curl thee wreaths that ne'er shall fade, What shall I say to tempt thee more ? The blush that warms thy maiden cheek, The morning eye's sequester'd tear, For me, thy kindling passion speak And chain this subtle vision here. Spots of delight, and many a day Of summer love for me shall shine ; In truth my beating heart is gay, At' sight of that fond smile of thine. Come, come, my love, away with me, The morn of life is hastening by, To this gay scene we '11 gaily flee, And sport us 'neath the peaceful sky. And when that awful day shall rise, That sees thy cheek with age grow pale, And the soul fading in thine eyes, We '11 sigh and quit the weeping vale. RORERT TREAT PAINE. ROBERT TREAT PAINE* was born at Taunton in Massa- chusetts, December 9th, 1773. His father was the Hon. Rob- ert Treat Paine, one of the signers of the Declaration of In- dependence. In his eighth year his father removed to Boston, and he entered Harvard University in 1788, where he began * His name was originally Thomas Paine, and altered by an act of the legisla- ture in 1801. 94 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. to write verses on the occasion of having been the subject of some satirical lines scrawled upon the walls of the college. His success prompted him to further endeavors, and he soon acquired a high reputation for poetry among his associates. After a temporary suspension in consequence of refractory behaviour in certain matters connected with the discipline of the seminary, he was graduated in 1792. On leaving college, he was placed in the counting room of a merchant in Boston, most probably rather in accordance with the wishes of his pa- rents, than his own inclination, as he does not appear to have applied himself to business with any degree of industry or good will. He continued for a year or two penning stanzas when he should have engrossed, till his minority was expired, when he bade adieu to the leger, and began his career as a man of letters, by setting up a weekly newspaper in Boston, with the title of " The Federal Orrery." His ambition for ex- celling in poetry had before this received a new stimulus by the reception of a gold medal for a prize poem, at the opening of the Boston Theatre in 1793. This was the foundation of an attachment to the pleasures of the stage which exerted a pow- erful influence upon his fortunes. In 1795 he married Miss Baker, a beautiful and accomplished actress, who belonged to the first company of comedians that occupied the Federal street boards. The match produced a separation between him and his father, whose prejudices against the character of a public performer could not be overcome, although Mrs Paine never appeared upon the stage after her marriage. The Federal Orrery was not successful ia his hands. A large subscription was first obtained for it in consequence of the high opinion entertained of the talents of the editor, but the public expectation was disappointed. Paine gave hardly any attention to the concerns of the paper. Amusements and indolent habits consumed his time, and he suffered a work with which he had connected his name and reputation, to sink into disregard. During this period, he wrote the Invention of Letters, a poem which he delivered at Cambridge on receiv- ing a Master's degree. This was printed, and obtained such ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 95 a popularity as to pass through two editions, and bring the author a profit of fifteen hundred dollars. In April 1769, he gave up his paper, and devoted himself to the business of the theatre, where he had been appointed Master of Ceremonies, an office to which was attached a salary sufficient for his main- tenance. He was selected in 1797 by the society of Phi Beta Kappa to pronounce a poem before them ; on which occasion he produced The Ruling Passion, which has been the most highly esteemed of his larger poems, and was nearly as profit- able to him as The Invention of Letters. The song of Ad- ams and Liberty written shortly after this, was still more so, considering the comparative quantity of matter. The sale of it yielded him the sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars, more than eleven dollars for each line of the piece, a munificence of reward for literary labor, which has rarely been equalled in any age or country. And considering the real merit of the performance, certainly no rhymes were ever more generously paid for. His friends at this time prevailed upon him to aban- don his connexion with the theatre, and devote himself to the law, a career in which it was judged his splendid talents and wide reputation, would secure him an undoubted success. He removed to Newburyport, and began as a student under the direction of Theophilus Parsons, afterwards chief justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts. The next year Mr Parsons removed his office to Boston, whither Paine accompanied him, and in July 1802, he was admitted to the bar. He had a good flow of business in the outset, but his Interest and resolution in the pursuit soon languished, and after neglecting his occu- pation for a few years, he gave up his office. A course of dis- sipated habits, which we have no inclination to dwell upon, but which the kind officiousness of his biographer has detailed to the world in a pretty ample catalogue, broke his health and reduced him to the lowest state of penury. He died Nov- ember ]3th, 1811, in his thirtyeighth year. No writer of our country has enjoyed a higher flow of pop- ularity during his lifetime than Paine, and no one has more rapidly sunk into neglect. His poems gained him enormous 96 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. sums of money, and the most extravagant praise, but a volume of his works could not now be sold. His prose writings in the shape of orations, occasional addresses, and the like, which received no less applause than his effusions in verse, are among the most remarkable specimens of bad taste which that species of writing can exhibit. Some of his most elaborate pieces rise above mediocrity, but the bulk of his poetry has about the same degree of merit, as the common run of magazine rhymes. His stage prologues and epilogues, are next to one or two of his smaller pieces, perhaps the best of his works. His nation- al song of Adams and Liberty is the most widely known. The patriotic spirit of the piece gave it a currency which its merits as a literary production alone, would have failed to se- cure. There is an approach towards a poetical idea in a sin- gle stanza, but the general strain of thought and expression, is quite commonplace. Paine was immoderately overrated in the heyday of his pop- ularity, yet his talents were respectable. His fancy was rich and lively, but not reined in by a proper taste. We are told he endeavored to form his style of composition after the manner of Dryden ; it is surprising that the study of such a model should not have rendered him more attentive to the correctness and polish of his diction. ADAMS AND LIBERTY. YE sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought For those rights, which unstained from your sires had de- scended, May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought, And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended. 'Mid the reign of mild peace, May your nation increase, With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece ; And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world, Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion, ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 97 The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd, To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean. But should pirates invade, Though in thunder array'd, Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. For ne'er shall the sons, &c. The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway, Had justly ennobled our nation in story, Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day, And enveloped the sun of American glory. But let traitors be told, Who their country have sold, And barter'd their God for his image in gold, That ne'er will the sons, &c. While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood, And society's base threats with wide dissolution ; May peace, like the dove who returned from the flood, Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution. But though peace is our aim, Yet the boon we disdain, If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame. For ne'er shall the sons, &c. T is the fire of the flint, each American warms Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision, Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms, We 're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division. While with patriot pride, To our laws we 're allied, No foe can subdue us, no faction divide. For ne'er shall the sons, &c. Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak ; Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd : But long e'er our nation submits to the yoke, Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourished. Should invasion impend, Every grove would descend. From the hilltops, they shaded, our shores to defend. For ne'er shall the sons, &c. Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm ; Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion ; 98 ROBERT TREAT PATNE. Then let clouds thicken round us ; we heed not the storm ; Our realms fear no shock, but the earth's own explosion. Foes assail us in vain, Though their fleets bridge the main, For our altars and laws with our lives we '11 maintain. For ne'er shall the sons, &c. Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne'er rend freedom's temple asunder ; For, unmoved, at its portal, would Washington stand, And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder ! His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep ! For ne'er shall the sons, &c. Let fame to the world sound America's voice ; No intrigues can her sons from their governments sever ; Her pride is her Adams ; her laws are his choice, And shall flourish, till liberty slumbers for ever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leonidas' band, And swear to the God of the ocean and land, That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. THE STREET WAS A R0IJT. THE street was a ruin, and night's horrid glare Illumined with terror the face of despair ; While houseless, bewailing, Mute pity assailing, A mother's wild shrieks pierced the merciless air. Beside her stood Edward, imploring each wind, To wake his loved sister, who linger'd behind ; Awake, my poor Mary, Oh ! fly to me, Mary ; In the arms of your Edward, a pillow you '11 find. In vain he call'd, for now the volumed smoke, Crackling, between the parting rafters broke ; Through the rent seams the forked flames aspire, All, all, is lost ; the roof, the roof 's on fire ! ROBERT TREAT PAINE. A flash from the window brought Mary to view, She screara'd as around her the flames fiercely blew ; Where art thou, mother ? Oh ! fly to me, brother ! Ah ! save your poor Mary, who lives but for you ! Leave not poor Mary, Ah ! save your poor Mary ! Her vision'd form descrying, On wings of horror flying. The youth erects his frantic gaze, Then plunges in the maddening blaze ! Aloft he dauntless soars, The flaming room explores ; The roof in cinders crushes, Through tumbling walls he rushes ! She 's safe from fear's alarms ; She faints in Edward's arms ! Oh ! nature, such thy triumphs are, Thy simplest child can bravely dare. ODE SUNG AT THE ANNIVERSARY OP THE FAUSTUS ASSOCIATION. ON the tent-plains of Shinah, truth's mystical clime, When the impious turret of Babel was shatter'd, Lest the tracks of our race, in the sand-rift of time, Should be buried, when Shem, Ham and Japheth were scat- tered, Rose the genius of art, Man to man to impart, By a language, that speaks, through the eye, to the heart. CHORUS. Yet rude was invention, when art she reveal'd, For a block stamp'd the page, and a tree plough'd the field. As time swept his pennons, art sigh'd, as she view'd How dhn was the image, her emblem reflected ; When, inspired, father Faust broke her table of wood, Wrought its parts into shape, and the whole reconnected, Art with mind now could rove, For her symbols could move, Ever casting new shades, like the leaves of a grove. 100 ROBERT TREAT PAINE, CHORUS. And the colors of thought in their elements run, As the prismatic glass shows the hues of the sun. In the morn of the west, as the light roll'd away From the grey eve of regions, by bigotry clouded, With the dawn woke our Franklin, and, glancing the 'day, Turn'd its beams through the mist, with which art was en- shrouded ; To kindle her shrine, His Promethean line Drew a spark from the clouds, and made printing divine ! CHORUS. When the fire by his rod was attracted from heaven, Its flash by the type, his conductor, was given. Ancient wisdom may boast of the spice and the weed, Which embalm'd the cold form of its heroes and sages ; But their fame lives alone on the leaf of the reed, Which has grown through the clefts in the ruins of ages ; Could they rise, they would shed, Like Cicero's head, Tears of blood on the spot, where the world they had led. CHORTTS. Of Pompey and Caesar unknown is the tomb, But the type is their forum, the page is their Rome. Blest genius of type ! down the vista of time As thy flight leaves behind thee this vex'd generation, Oh ! transmit on thy scroll, this bequest from our clime, The press can cement, or dismember a nation. Be thy temple the mind ! There, like Vesta, enshrined, Watch and foster the flame, which inspires human kind ! CHORUS. Preserving all arts, may all arts cherish thee ; And thy science and virtue teach man to be free ! JOHN LATHROP. 101 JOHtf LATHROP. JOHN LATHROP was born in Boston, in January, 1772, and was the son of the Rev. John Lathrop of the same place. He studied at Harvard University, and commenced busi- ness in Boston as a lawyer. He afterwards removed to Ded- ham, where he was appointed clerk of the court for that county. He held the office only for a short time, and returned to Boston. He met with so little success in his profession, that he determined to leave his country, and seek his fortune in India. It does not appear that he had any very distinct views or expectations in that quarter, but we are told that he met with disappointments, and after some time, opened a school in Calcutta, in which, however, he was not allowed to pursue so extensive a system of education as he contemplated. He presented to the Marquis Wellesley, Governor General of India, a plan of a literary institution in which the youth of India might be educated without going to England to prose* cute their studies. The proposal was rejected from the ap- prehension that such an establishment would tend to weaken the dependence of British India upon the mother country, and lay the foundation for a revolt. He passed ten years in India, employed in the cares of hie school, and in writing for the public journals, but without realiz- ing any of those golden prospects of success, the anticipation of which had enticed him from his home. The government was jealous of foreigners, the public press was under severe restrictions, and the paths to wealth and distinction were oc- cupied by more adventurous and fortunate competitors. He returned to this country in 1809, and at first meditated the establishment of a literary journal, but the period was most unfavorable to such an enterprise. The violence of party dis- putes which occupied the public attention, had nearly banished all taste and inclination for literary pursuits, and hardly any- thing was relished which did not relate in some shape or other to the local politics of the day. Lathrop had little partiality TOL. n. 9* 102 JOHN LATHROP. for such avocations, besides that his absence from home had estranged him from all interest and familiarity with most of the prominent topics of political debate. The design of the journal was dropped, and as he was prevented by the long in- terval which he had passed out of practice, from resuming his profession of the law, he betook himself to his later employ- ment of teaching. He superintended a school in Boston for several years, besides delivering scientific lectures, addresses and orations. He was enabled to gain a support in this man- ner, but after a while the prospect of better success induced him to remove to the south. He pursued the business of in- struction, delivered lectures, and exercised his pen in that quarter, and finally obtained a situation in the post office. He died January 30th, 1820. Lathrop possessed talents which might have secured him wealth, and distinction, but his facility of disposition, his want of foresight, and his improvidence, hindered them from being exerted much to the emolument or renown of the possessor. His benevolent feelings prompted him to acts of kindness which threw him into embarrassments, and materially hindered the accomplishment of many of his plans. His poems consist mostly of occasional pieces, on miscella- neous topics, published in the newspapers in this country and India. We believe no collection has ever been made of them. His longest piece is the Speech of Canonicus, written on the voyage to India, and first published at Calcutta. It was re- printed in Boston, in 1803, but has been so little known among us, that a biographer of the poet was ignorant that it had ever passed through the American press. This poem is a sort of Indian Theogony, made up of the aboriginal traditions. SPEECH or OUR God commands. To fertile realms I haste, Compared with which, your gardens are a waste ; There, in full bloom, eternal spring abides, And swarming fishes glide through azure tides ; Continual sunshine gilds the cloudless skies, JOHN LATHROP. No mist conceals Keesuckquand* from our eyes, Herds of red deer before the hunter bound, And fragrance floats along th' enamell'd ground. There, your forefathers, dexterous with the bow, Urge the fleet chase, and o'er the greensward glow ; Or, in a grove recount their deeds of war, Number their scalps, and glory in each scar, Or, contemplate their most exalted theme The power and goodness of their chief supreme ! Yet ere he goes, your Sachem will relate, Your primal origin and future fate, Nor think th' important history too long, An idle story, or a foolish song ; For him, when young, his parent king inform'd, And while the impressive tale his bosom warm'd, Deep in his memory sunk the truths sublime, And still their prints are unimpaired by time. Observe ye then ; when summer's heats are gone, The north wind rushes from the frozen zone, Borne by the blasts, the shivering seabirds fly To milder regions and a warmer sky, Through the keen air they skim their lofty way, To where the sun beams ever genial day, And far beyond Potomac's swelling tides, They seek the pleasant fields where God resides : There, coeternal with the earth he reign'd, And a long solitary rule maintain'd ; For then, these plains no verdant herbage bore, No cheerful wigwam show'd its matted door, No forests waved their foliage in the wind, Nor round the chestnut clung the sheltering rind ; This ample range no living creature trod, And in the universe, alone, was God ! First, in his image, Manitoos he made, Inferior spirits, his designs to aid, He bade Keesuckquand live in yon bright blaze, And o'er creation shed enlivening rays : Placed Paumpagussitf in the heaving seas, Subjecting winds and waves to his decrees. Next in mild radiance shone the silent moon, Queen of the sprites that gleam in night's pale noon, Whose strong enchantment and mysterious spell, Can e'en the dead from their repose compel ; With heat accursed dissolve our flesh away, * The deity who resides in the eun. f The ea-jod. 103 J04 JOHN LATHROP. And torture, as they mould the magic clay. Yotaanit,* too, he form'd, who, when 't is dark, Elicits from a stone, the precious spark, That, the poor Indian, cold and weary, warms, And cheers the tedious hours when winter storms Bid the chill'd blood through all life's channels flow, And draws a beverage pure and sweet from snow, When, bridged with ice, the stagnant rivers sleep, And cease to pour their tributes to the deep. Tempt not his rage, for dreadful is his ire, Then harvests, trees and towns ascend in fire ; If his consuming wrath our crimes provoke, He scatters to the winds our wealth in smoke ; From him our comfort or distress proceeds, Evil or good proportioned to our deeds. Then burst our mother Earth's prolific womb ; Then, groves aspired and meads began to bloom, The living streams, each mountain source to shun, Roll sparkling down, and in their courses run ; The Seipmanitog, f confluent waters wed, And o'er the teeming soil a green luxuriance spread. Next, beasts were formed, the tenants of the wood, Birds for the air, and fishes for the flood. First in the briny depth, the cumbrous whale ; The eagle, yon blue eminence to scale ; The wily fox, whose sense eludes our arts, And venomed snake, that on the unwary darts ; The reasoning beaver ; and the moose we prize, Whose flesh our meat whose skin our garb supplies ; Innumerous animals of various brood, That prey with ravenous teeth, or browsing, gain their food. Creation groan'd when with laborious birth, Mammoth was born to rule his parent earth,- Mammoth ! I tremble while my voice recounts, His size that tower'd o'er all our misty mounts, His weight a balance for yon pine-crowned hills, On whose broad front half heaven in dew distils ; His motions forced the starry spheres to shake, The sea to roar the solid land to quake. His breath a whirlwind. From his angry eye, Flash'd flames like fires that light the northern sky ; The noblest river scarce supplied him drink, Nor food, the herds that grazed along its brink ; * The god of fire. f River gods. JOHN LATHROP. 105 Trampling through forests would the monster pass, Breasting the stoutest oaks like blades of grass ! Creation finished, God a sabbath kept, And twice two hundred moons profoundly slept : At length, from calm and undisturbed repose, With kind intent the sire of nature rose ; Northward he bent his course, with parent care, To view his creatures and his love declare, To bless the works his wisdom erst had plann'd, And with fresh bounties fill the grateful land. Hoar Paumpagussit swell'd with conscious pride, And bore the Almighty o'er each looming tide ; Sweet flowering bushes sprang where'er he trod, And groves, and vales, and mountains, hail'd jtheir God : With more effulgent beams Keesuckquand shone, And lent to night a splendor like his own. Thus moved the deity. But vengeful wrath, Soon gather'd awful glooms around his path, Approaching near to Mammoth's wide domain, He view'd the ravage of the tyrant's reign. Not the gaunt wolf, nor cougar fierce and wild, Escaped the tusks that all the fields despoil'd ; No beast that ranged the valley, plain or wood, Was spared by earth's fell chief and his insatiate brood. Nor did just anger rest. Behold, a storm Of sable horrors clothe the eternal's form. Loud thunders burst while forked lightnings dart, And each red bolt transfix'd a Mammoth's heart, Tall cedars crash'd beneath them falling prone, And heaven rebellow'd with their dying groan. So, undermined by inward fires, or time, Some craggy mount that long has tower'd sublime, Tumbles in ruins with tremendous sound, And spreads a horrible destruction round ; The trembling land through all its caverns roars, And ocean hoarsely draws his billows from the shores. Mammoth, meanwhile, opposed his maily hide, And shagged front, that thunderbolts defied ; Celestial arms from his rough dead he shook, And trampling with his hoofs, the blunted weapons broke. At length, one shaft discharged with happier aim, Pierced his huge side and wrapp'd his bulk in flame. Mad with the anguish of the burning wound, With furious speed he raged along the ground, And pass'd Ohio's billows with a bound, Thence, o'er Wabash and Illinois he flew, 106 JOHN LATHROP. Deep to their beds the river gods withdrew, Affrighted nature trembled as he fled, And God alone, continued free from dread. Mammoth in terrors awfully sublime, Like some vast comet, blazing from our clime, Impetuous rush'd. O'er Allegany's brow He leap'd, and howling plung'd to wilds below ; There, in immortal anguish he remains, No peace he knows ; no balm can ease his pains ; And oft his voice appals the chieftain's breast, Like hollow thunders murmuring from the west, To every Sachem dreadful truths reveals, And monarchs shudder at its solemn peals. Such is the punishment, by righteous fate, The dread avenger of each injured state, Reserved for tyrant chiefs, who madly dare Oppress the tribes committed to their care. Almighty wrath pursues them for their deeds, They stab their souls in every wretch that bleeds, The hideous wound eternal shall endure, Remorse, despair, alas, what skill can cure ! ****** Onega then, the forest's fairest child, Sweet as the violet, as the turtle mild, Bloom'd in her sixteenth summer's perfect charms, And fill'd each bosom with love's soft alarms. One favor'd youth her gentle breast inspired, One youth her heart with mutual passion fired : Yet chastely tender was the virgin flame, That warm'd life's genial current through her frame ; The beauteous novice gave it friendship's name ; Alas ! too soon the maid was forced to prove, What sad misfortunes owe their birth to love. Oswego, pride of Narraghanset's plains, Tower'd as the cedar, o'er his fellow swains ; His air was noble, every motion grace, His soul's high valor lighten'd from his face ; Fearless of death he ranged the dangerous field, And scorn'd the raging boar or foe conceal'd, The insidious serpent in the tangled brake, Or herds of moose, whose hoofs the champaign shake Each night, how welcome every night return'd ' While his true heart with fond impatience burn'd, He flew, Onega in the grove to meet, And lay his choicest trophies at her feet, JOHN LATHROP. 107 To pass mild evening's happy hours away, And rest in love's embrace from all the toils of day. Ah mortals ! reckless of approaching doom, How soon the sun of pleasure sets in gloom, The fairy fields of juvenile delight, Are veiled in shades of unexpected night ! One summer eve, as by a limpid stream, In pleasing converse on their darling theme, Lost to the world no truant thought had flown, To other pleasures than were their's alone ; In sweet idea rose their calm retreat, Their russet cabin mild contentment's seat, Where every joy concentered should create, A state of bliss to mock the frowns of fate, And as the raptured mind uncheck'd could trace, Each 'other's beauties in their infant race, A modest glow suffused Onega's face. Sudden she shriek'd ! Aghast the Indian swain, Beheld her life-blood ! Speech and sense are vain What words can utter what no breast can know Murder's first pang and nature's primal throe ! Death instant seized his prey ! A fatal dart Pierced to the inmost fountain of her heart. Oswego ! what avail'd thy speed or skill, Thy love, thy faith, to avert the blow of ill. Happy for thee had he that skill possess'd, Who aim'd the erring arrow at thy breast! God's mission'd Wakon * when her spirit fled, To his abode th' angelic stranger led, The Sire divine a gracious welcome smiled, And view'd well pleased his pure and fairest child ; Companion now of him and first restored, She shines in heaven by grateful man adored. Next to the moon, she sheds her genial light, The brightest star that decks the breast of night. But when Keesuckquand rolls his orb on high, She shuns the intenser ardor of the sky, With Cawtontowwit's love supremely blest, In paradise she finds the balm of rest. O'er sad Oswego's heart-afflicting tale, Sweet Indian girls shall many an eve bewail! Ere yet his mind was from delirium free, The ruthless murderers bound him to a tree ; With cruel taunts, exulting in his wo, *Tho wakon-bird. 108 JOHN LATHROP. And savage yells they broke his useless bow, > Thus break thy heart, they cried, that love repaid, With the fond passion of the matchless maid, Now gone to keaven ! Ah hadst thou fallen alone, Our ears had feasted on her piteous moan Her life protracted through long years of wo, Had caused our hearts with ecstasies to glow. No joy remains for us. Peace ne'er shall come, With scented breath to cheer our dreary home, No parent's welcome meet us at the door, For us no feasts shall load the verdant floor, No wives or children soothe our toil or care, Ours is the deepest hell of black despair. We fly from this ensanguined scene, and leave Our fathers, mothers, sisters, friends to grieve ; Die then, before we go ! and taste a joy We cannot covet, witness or destroy A friendly tomax then like lightning driven, Released Oswego's soul it flew to love and heaven ! This deed of death perform' d, the vagrant band, gojourn'd in exile to a distant land, And near Ontario's hoarsely murmuring wave They form'd a tribe, blood-thirsty, bold and brave : At length, in justice to Oswego's fame, They gave their council town his deathless name And long as Onondaga's waters flow, Shall live th' effects of murder war and wo ; Deep in our woods and round our rock-bound coasts, Shall rage, alas ! their mad infuriate hosts, And transient peace, but deadlier vigor yield To rush with wilder vengeance to the field. Hence, train'd to arms our strong and dauntless bands Yell the loud war-whoop through offending lands ; Snuif the red smoke that mantles o'er the plain, Crimson'd with gore and reeking with the slain, Till full revenge hath satisfied our wrongs, And the clouds echo with triumphant songs. JOSEPH STORY. 109 JOSEPH STORY. JUDGE STORY is the author of a volume of poems published in 1804, since which time we believe he has altogether aban- doned the muses, and devoted himself to the severer labors of the profession in which he has become so eminent. His principal work is of the descriptive kind, and entitled The Power of Solitude. The volume does not appear to have been widely known, but we think its merits should preserve it from neglect. FAR from the world, its pleasures and its strife, The good St. Aubin passed his tranquil life ; Deep in a glen the rural mansion rose, And half an acre spann'd its modest close ; Just by the door a living streamlet roll'd, Whose pebbly bottom gleam'd with sandy gold, There first the woodlark hail'd propitious spring* The humming insect dipp'd his glossy wing, The branching elms in ancient grandeur spread, Inweaved with myrtles near its babbling head. Behind, vast mountains closed the wondrous vi Hung o'er the horizon veil'd in hazy blue, Save when the shutting eve mid vapors hoar Roll'd its last gleams their woody summits o'er ; And, seen at distance, through some opening brake Transparent brightness lit the neighboring lake. Scenes, where Salvator's soul had joy'd to climb Mid wilds abrupt, and images sublime, Or caught with kindling glance the bold designs, Where horror's form on beauty's lap reclines. Meek was St. Aubin's soul, his gentle air, Spoke to the searching glance the man of care ; Unlike the giant oak, which propp'd on high, Looks o'er the storm, and dares its bolts defy, But as the humbler reed, whose pliant train Bend to the breeze, and rise to bloom again. His ready smile relieved the welcome poor, Who throng'd with daily joy his opening door ; Unskill'd by worldly arts the soul to scan, VOL. II. 10 110 JOSEPH STORY. His social nature loved the race of man ; Nor sought by godly rites religious praise, More pleased to pay obeisance, than to raise ; Nor wish'd the book-taught lore, whose schemes confined To one small spot the charities of mind. Let the vain Levite pass the other side In courtly pomp, in dull, official pride, His proffer'd alms the wandering stranger found, Wine for his heart, and ointment for his wound ; The cheer reply, the scholar's modest jest, In Avant a shelter, and a home for rest. One darling daughter claim'd the good man's care, Gay, as the lark, but scarce more gay thaa fair ; Light were the sportive locks, whose curls profuse Hung o'er her neck in native wildness loose ; Blue were the speaking eyes, whose bended lash Half hid and half betray'd a fluttering flash ; Health's glowing rose, in shadow'd lustre sleek, Diffused its virgin blush o'er either cheek ; Love in her form the bright perfection traced, Yet dress'd the model, still to nature chaste ; No sober tricks, no mawkish whims confined Her lively ease, her innocence of mind ; A parent's taste, each pure refinement taught, And fix'd the polish, when it form'd the thought, To fancy's lustre lent the touch of art, And gave the judgment force to guide the heart. Up w ? ith the morn the hermit skimm'd the dew, And through the echoing woods his shrill horn blew ; At noon well pleased beside some rippling stream Wove blameless fiction's legendary dream, Or, lull'd to peace, with curious love pursued The courteous muse through every changing mood, Wept at her woes, of many a tear beguiled, And felt her joys, and acted o'er the child. But when the curfew toll'd the hour of rest, And eve's fine blush imbued the glowing west. Beneath a shadowy bower, with myrtles crown'd, His moral lectures constant audience found. Charm'd to his knej;s his cheerful infant came To lisp with trembling voice a father's name, Rehearsed her early task, and pleased awhile With earnest sweetness drew his anxious smile. There too in riper age the artless Jane Pour'd in wild tones her melancholy strain, Or touch'd the lute with many a pensive air, Or breath'd her grateful soul in thanks and prayer ; JOSEPH STORY. Ill Such holy rites the good man loved to keep, Till praise and blessing brought the hour of sleep. Well may remembrance love the favor'd day My truant footsteps chance to pass that way, When on his door-stone sat the sage and told, How mind and sense their gradual powers unfold ; Then higher raised the moral pleasures traced, Whose touch harmonious charms the nascent taste, With love and rapture warms the poet's page, Or moulds to deeds divine a slothful age ; And thence, as holier purpose fired his soul, Sung the First Cause, whose wisdom form'd the whole. The while he spoke, methought his spirit shed Some heavenly dew of mingled hope and dread ; Mysterious influence seem'd to haunt the shade, And round his face transfiguring brightness play'd. But all is past, and scarce the eye can trace One ruin'd monument of former grace. Short is the tale, nor power, nor harsh disdain, With lordly triumph grasp'd his small domain, Nor base seduction lured by syren charms His rifled treasure from a father's arms : Heaven frown'd severe, its awful mandate sent, And claim'd the darling hope its bounty lent. Beside the couch, where Jane expiring lay, . The hermit knelt, and prayed, or seem'd to pray, Dim were his eyes, with anxious vigils worn, Yet spoke a soul with no harsh tumults torn ; E'en in the agonies of dumb despair, Devotion's smile -was seen and cherish'd there : And, as the lingering powers of life decayed, Faith beam'd her radiance through the deepening shade, With firm reliance drank the parting breath, Kiss'd the pale lips, and closed the eyes in death. Through brighter realms the unbodied cherub sought, Realms pure in bliss beyond the soar of thought. Slow through the narrow path, by misery worn, Pass'd the veil'd corpse, in shrouded silence borne ; No vain parade, no courtly pageant spread Their sickly honors round the virgin dead ; Strew'd o'er the bier some vernal flowers were seen, And here and there a sweet briar fell between. The father came in sorrow's holiest gloom, His raised eye fix'd on hopes beyond the tomb, Still, as the tempest, hush'd in dread suspense, Yet mild, as twilight greets the wakening sen, No mutter'd groans, no stifled anguish shook 112 JOSEPH STORf, His meek repose, his calm, unalter'd look, Save, when the ritual closed its sainted strain-,. And o'er the coffin roll'd the earth again, One lingering tear, that seem'd the man to speak, With briny lustre trickled down his cheek, One lingering tear was all his spirit gave, Then bow'd a last farewell, and left the grave ! Yet had not memory lost her soothing art, Nor fancy closed her empire in the heart : When up the groves unclouded moonlight streamed At the lone hour, to goblins sacred deem'd, When sober day, mid vapory glooms descried, Shot its faint crimson round at eventide, Oft would he rove some mountain's brow along, And pour in shatter'd tones his plaintive song ; Kiss the stray flowers, which dress'd the streamlet's marge, Or row athwart the lake his aged barge ; And when some spot, where Jane was wont to roam Some favorite pastime call'd his spirit home, If once a sigh his heaving bosom press'd, His trust in heaven was all that sigh express'd. Oft would he trim his wintry hearth, and court Remember'd scenes of pleasantry and sport, Mark, where the lute secured its dusty place, The needled landscape on the wainscot trace, The quaint remark, the evening task review, And chase the fleeting shades, and dream anew. Nor smile, ye proud, if thoughts, like these, engage The friendless soul in melancholy age, More sweet, than all the hymns of active joy, One moment sacred to this chaste employ, One pious hour, to moral musing given, Its relish truth, its harmonies from heaven ! And, as the hapless wretch, by storms o'ercast, Clings, shuddering clings him, to the fatal mastj So hope and love, yet buoyant on the wave, Shall snatch their relics from the ravenous grave, And most, as life recedes, with fond alarms Fold the dear types immortal in their arms. Near where a cypress shades the lonely heath, Long has St. Aubin slept the sleep of death ; O'er the rude hillock waves the rank grass high y And moans the wild blast, as it hurtles by : One simple stone, with village rhymes bedight, Just tells the tale to every passing wight, And bids his drooping soul aspire to raise Such love in life, in death such honest praise* DAVID EVERETT. 113 DAVID EVERETT WAS born at Princeton, in Massachusetts, and educated at Dartmouth College, where he was graduated about the year 1795. He was the editor of a newspaper in some part of the state of New Hampshire, in the early part of his life, and also contributed to the Farmer's Museum. He was after- wards one of the editors and proprietors of the Boston Patriot He died a few years since in the state of Ohio. He wrote a volume of essays in prose, entitled " Common Sense in Dishabille : " and a -work upon the Prophecies. ' His poetry consists of a few short pieces, and a tragedy called Daranzel, or the Persian Patriot, which was acted and pub- lished at Boston in 1800. The play is deficient in accurate and striking representations of individual character, but has many eloquent passages, and scenes of high dramatic interest. A BRANCH OF THE MAPLE. LET the tall oak the bolts of heaven deride, Or deal his mimic thunder on the tide ; Be this the theme for Albion's lofty muse, An humbler task, my fame! ess pen pursues. Shall roses bloom in verse from age to age, Shrubs spread their foliage on the pdet's page ; The willow, poplar, fir and cedar throng Alike the rustic and the classic song ; Pines wave in Milton, and no bard be found, To plant the maple on poetic ground ? Columbia's muse forbids, in simple strain, She eings the maple and the hardy swain, Who draw^ the nectar from her silver pores, Nor envies India all its pamper'd stores. \Vh;~t though the cane, our colder clime denies ; The cultured plant a native tree supplies ; A tree, the fairest of the forest kind, Alike for use and ornament design'd. For use to those, who first essay the wood, To form the table and supply its food ; VOL. II. 10* 114 THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. To warm the laborer by its bounty fed ; And rear the lowly cottage o'er his head : For ornament, to grace the winding rill, Shade the green vale or wave upon the hill : Or leave the forest, where it useless grows, Rise in the cultured field in stately rows, Spread o'er the rocky waste a shady grove, The haunt for sportive mirth and pensive love. Ere jarring seasons rest in equal scales ; While winter now, and now the spring prevails : Sol's milder beams around the maple play, Frost chills by night, a thrilling warmth by day. 'Dilates each tube ;the tube, by mystic laws, ' The sap nutritious from earth's bosom draws ; As higher still the swelling tube distends, The circling sap to every branch ascends ; fow each young bud the rich donation shares, .For laurel'd spring his earliest wreath prepares. Great universal cause, mysterious power ! That clothes the forest, and that paints the flower : .Bids the fell poison in the Upas grow, And sweet nutrition in the maple flow ; Let Berkeley's pupil dream in endless trance ; .The wilder'd athiest form his world by chance, By this, his reason, that his sense belied, A world discarded, and a God denied; In spite of these, the impartial eye musk see Each leaf a volume its great author, thee ; Nor less in every twig than Aaron's rod, Behold the agency of nature's God ! THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. MR FESSENDEN is the son of a clergyman of Walpole, in New Hampshire. His father having a numerous family, he was indebted to his own exertions for the means of his edu- cation, and by teaching schools during the terms of vacation, was enabled to accomplish a collegiate course at Dartmouth, where he was graduated in 179G, after which he applied him- THOJIAS G. FESSENDEN. - 115 self to the study and practice of law. In 1801, he left this country on an errand to Europe, as agent for a company formed in Vermont, for the purpose of securing a patent in London of a newly invented hydraulic machine. On his arrival at London, he had the mortification of finding that the machine was a deception. Mr Fessenden, who was a member of the company as well as agent, and therefore a sufferer in the fail- ure of the undertaking, made attempts to retrieve the loss by an invention of his own ; he succeeded in constructing a hy- draulic apparatus, which was pronounced by several gentle- man of high mechanical skill and reputation, to be new, inge- nious and useful ; but the great expense of obtaining a patent, and the difficulty which always accompanies the attempt to procure efficient patronage to a new scheme, were such as to deter him from prosecuting his enterprise. Under these discouragements, and further loss in conse- quence of having been induced to become a partner in another patent concern, which turned out to be the scheme of a swind- ler, Mr Fessenden was forced to resort to Bis pen for the means of support. He had before made trial of his powers in sundry poetical essays, which had been published with appro- bation in some of the American newspapers. In the great me- tropolis of England he was at no loss in the search of objects for the exercise of his satirical talent, the faculty in which he was be'st adapted to shine. At this period, the metallic tractors of Perkins were a great object of attention in England, and Fessenden fully believing in their efficacy, undertook to pro- mote the cause of his countryman's invention, by attacking with the weapons of ridicule such of the medical profession and other distinguished persons, as had opposed the new discovery. With this view he wrote his burlesque poem of the Modern Philosopher, or Terrible Tractoration, a work which was highly popular while the matter which afforded the theme of it continued to occupy the public mind. About the same time he also published a volume of miscellaneous poems, which were very favorably noticed in England and in 116 THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. this country. After his return to America, he gave to the world his Democracy Unveiled, another satire in Hudibrastic verse, which enjoyed high favor so long as the public appetite was in a state to relish whatever came hotly seasoned with the red pepper of party vituperation. Mr Fessenden has succeeded best in his light and burlesque compositions. For many years past he has nearly abandoned hia rhymes. He has conducted a paper at Bellows Falls in Vermont, and is now the editor of the New England Farmer in Boston. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON. WHY moves to mournful measures slow Yon sable retinue of wo, With tearful eye and visage pale ? And why this universal gloom ? Sure Nature trembles o'er her tomb, And bids her wilder'd children wail ! Do plagues infest, do wars alarm, Has God in wrath made bare his arm, To hurl his bolts of vengeance round ? Have towns been sack'd by hostile ire, Have cities sunk in floods of fire, While earthquakes shook the shuddering ground ? Ah ! no, thy sons, Columbia, mourn, A hero past that fatal " bourne From whence no traveller returns ; " Before him none more good, more great, E'er felt th' unerring shafts of fete, Though glory's lamp illume their urns. Behold yon pallid war-worn chief, A marble monument of grief, Who once our troops to victory led; The burst of sorrow now control, But now the tears of anguish roll, A tribute to th' immortal dead ! Fain would the muse those virtues scan, Which dignified the godlike man, THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. 117 And launch in seas without a shore ; But sure his name alone conveys More than a thousand hymns of praise, The matchless Washington 's no more ! AIAIIGHTY Power! the One Supreme ! Our souls inspire, attune our lays With hearts as solemn as our theme, To sing hosannas to thy praise ! Then, while we swell the sacred song, And bid the pealing anthem rise, May seraphim the strain prolong. And hymns of glory fill the skies. Thy word omnific form'd this earth, Ere time began revolving years Thy fiat gave to nature birth And tuned to harmony the spheres. When stern oppression's iron hand Our pious fathers forced to roam, And o'er the wild wave seek the land Where freedom rears her hallow'd dome- When tempests howl'd, and o'er the main, Pale horror rear'd his haggard form ; Thou didst the fragile bark sustain To stem the fury of the storm ! When savage hordes, from wilds immense, Raised the shrill war-whoops frantic yell, Thine arm made bare in our defence, Dispersed the gloomy hosts of hell ! Thou bad'st the wilderness disclose The varied sweets of vernal bloom The desert blossom'd like the rose, And breathed Arabia's rich perfume [ 118 TH03IAS G. FESSENDEN. Look down from heaven's empyreal height, And gild with smiles this happy day. Send us some chosen son of light Our feet to guide in wisdom's way. The sons of Faction strike with awe, And hush the din of party rage, That liberty, secured by law, May realize a golden age. On those thy choicest blessings shower To whom the cares of state are given ; May justice wield the sword of power, Till earth 's the miniature of heaven ! TABITHA TOWZER. Miss TABITHA TOWZER is fair, No guinea pig ever was neater, Like a hakmatak slender and spare, And sweet as a mush-squash, or sweeter. Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek, When dress'd in her pretty new tucker, Like an otter that paddles the creek, In quest of a mud-pout, or sucker. Her forehead is smooth as a tray, Ah ! smoother than that, on my soul, And turn'd, as a body may say, Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl. To what shall I liken her hair, As straight as a carpenter's line, For similes sure must be rare, When we speak of a nymph so divine. Not the head of a Nazarite seer, That never was shaven or shorn. Nought equals the locks of my dear, But the silk of an ear of green corn. THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. 119 My dear has a beautiful nose, With a sled-runner crook in the middle, Which one would be led to suppose . Was meant for the head of a fiddle. Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes, Glass buttons shone never so bright, Their love-lighted lustre outvies The lightning-bug's twinkle by night. And oft with a magical glance, She makes in my bosom a pother, When leering politely askance, She shuts one, and winks with the other. The lips of my charmer are sweet, As a hogshead of maple molasses, And the ruby-red tint of her cheek, The gill of a salmon surpasses. No teeth like her's ever were seen, Nor ever described in a novel, Of a beautiful kind of pea-green, And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel. Her fine little ears, you would judge, Were wings of a bat in perfection ; A dollar I never should grudge To put them in Peale's grand collection. Description must fail in her chin, At least till our language is richer ; Much fairer than ladle of tin, Or beautiful brown earthern pitcher. So pretty a neck, I'll be bound, Never join'd head and body together, Like nice crook'd-neck'd squash on the ground, Long whiten'd by winter-like wither. Should I set forth the rest of her charms, I might by some phrase that 's improper, Give modesty's bosom alarms, Which I would n't do for a copper. 120 THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. Should I mention her gait or her air, You might think I intended to banter ; She moves with more grace you would swear, Than a founder'd horse forced to a canter. She sang with a beautiful voice, Which ravish'd you out of your senses ; A pig will make just such a noise When his hind leg stuck fast in the fence is. SIGNIOR SQJCEAK'S DANCING ADVERTISEMENT. A GENTLEMAN of vast agility, Who teaches capers and civility, And whose whole life consists of play days, Informs the gentlemen and ladies Of Bellows Falls, and other places, That he 's grand master of the graces Professor of the violin, And hopes to suit them to a pin In teaching arts, and fascinations, Dancing and other recreations. Amphion, Orpheus, or Apollo,. In fiddling he can beat all hollow; And all those wonder-working elves, Who made huge houses build themselves, And rocks responsive to their ditties, Rise into palaces and cities, Compared with him, are every one Like fire-bugs liken'd to the sun. He steps a hornpipe so genteel, You 'd think him dealing with the de'il. Can teach young ladies nineteen millions Of spick and span new French cotillions, With flourishes, and turns, and twists, Of arms and elbows, toes and wrists, And attitudes of fascination, Enough to ravish all creation. He whirls, and bounds, and sinks and rises, Makes figures of all sorts and sizes, Flies nine times round the hall, before He condescends to touch the floor, And now and then like lightning springs And borne aloft on pigeons' wings, JOHN BLAIR LINN. 121 Cuts capers wonderful and rare Like fairy frolicking in the air. He waltzes in a style so smart A lady's adamantine heart Will be inevitably melted, Like ore that's in a furnace smelted. All these and fifty other capers Not fit to print in public papers, Which put the genteel polish on, And fit a tippy for the ton, Said Signior Squeak will teach his scholars ; Terms, per quarter, twenty dollars. Bene ladies grown, Said Signior waits upon alone, Teaching graces, arts, and airs, And other delicate affairs ; How to look and act as prettily As belles of England, France, or Italy. JOHN BLAIR LINN WAS born at Shippensburg in Pennsylvania, March 14th, 1777. His father removed with him to New York about nine years after his birth. Having passed two or thee years at school in Flatbush on Long Island, he entered Columbia col- lege in New York, where he completed his education. He studied, law under the direction of Alexander Hamilton, but at the end of a year discovered that he had no inclination for the pursuit. He had imbibed a strong partiality for the stage, and before quitting his legal studies, produced a play call- ed Bourville Castle, which was represented with success, but the plans which this might have led him to form, were quickly laid aside for an undertaking of a totally different cast. The religious impressions which from his earliest life had at intervals occupied his mind, now took such powerful hold of him, that he determined to embrace the ministry. As he had VOL. II. 11 122 JOHN BLAIR LINN. a repugnance to exercise his new profession at New York, amid the scenes of his juvenile gaieties, and in an intimacy with the companions who had been familiar with the light amusements of his former life, he removed to Schenectady, where he completed a course of theological study, and was settled as a preacher in the First Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia, in 1799. The vacillation of purpose which he had displayed in changing his pursuits from the law to the stage, and from the stage to the desk, seems not to have left him at any period of his life. He had assumed the character of a clergyman in obedience to one of those strong impulses of feeling which lead a man of ardent and sanguine temperament to the hasty adoption of any novel object of pursuit. His disposition was warm and enthusiastic, and his fervid imagination gilded the prospect which opened upon him with the splendor which a youthful fancy will confer upon the scenes of its own creating. But in his new profession he was still doomed to disappoint- ment. The recurrence of his wavering inclination disturbed his repose, clouded his fond anticipations. It is easy to per- ceive that while prosecuting his studies of divinity, he was . dissatisfied and gloomy ; but in adopting his last profession he had taken a step which he felt scrupulous in retracing without a more specious and solid reason, than an abatement of zeal in the undertaking. He evidently struggled hard to i-ecoucile himself to his situation, the strong sense of duty prevailing over the transient inclinations of which his mind was susceptible. He exerted himself with unwearied assiduity in the discharge of his clerical functions, mingling the elegant avocation of a poet with the grave and severe duties of a minister, paying court to the muses, and dealing in the subtilties of polemical argumentation. Cr Priestley had published a religious tract which called forth the animadversions of the theologians, and Linn wasamon? the foremost who strove for the distinction of breaking a lance with the great champion of Unitarianism. He received the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the univer- sity of Pennsylvania at an earlier ago than the same honor had ever been bestowed. upon another. JOHN BLAIR LINN. 1* He was married to the object of his early attachment, but the endearments of his domestic circle, could not charm away the effect of those melancholy broodings, in which he was ac- customed to indulge. His temperament had a strong hypo- condriacal cast, which under the pressure of ill health, at last settled down into an incurable melancholy. A violent fever, occasioned by an exposure to the sun during a journey, seized him in 1802, from which he experienced a temporary amend- ment, but its effects were too deep to be removed. The consti- tutional bias to consumption, which had long been the object of his dread, received a potent aid by this accident, and he soonbe- gan to sink rapidly under his disease. The exertions of medi- cine, relaxation from his employment, and travelling, were of no avail. Neither his bodily ailment, nor the tone of his spir- its, showed any symptoms of improvement, and he formed the resolution of abandoning his ministerial pursuits, for some oc- cupation better suited to the feeble state of his powers. What particular design he contemplated, he did not Uvelong enough to show. His disease continued to advance, and his mind to droop, presenting a scene of melancholy suffering to the last, which is mournful to contemplate. He died on the 30th of October, 1805. Linn is best known as a writer, by his Powers of Genius, a poem which has gone through repeated editions in this coun- try and England. It is of the didactic order, and the design in the words of the writer, is "to draw the general outlines of genius, to describe its progress, to ascertain the marks by which it may be known, and to give the prominent features of those writers who have excelled in its different departments ; " a subject sufficiently copious and extensive, but which the author has not treated with any philosophical regularity of plan, or any very accurate conception of the matter which he at- tempts to illustrate. In the proper execution of such a work as his description gives us an idea of, it should be the writer's aim to distinguish the higher intellectual powers from those of a common order, to mark the nicer shades of variety in the 124 JOHN BLAIR LINN. human faculties, and to illustrate the superiority of those rare and lofty mental endowments, which are the gift of nature, over those of a factitious and conventional stamp, such as are acquir- ed by study and imitation. Linn makes some endeavor in his preface, at a regular analysis of that great power of the hu- man mind which forms the subject of his work, but in the po- em he is totally deficient in metaphysical accuracy. His ideas are vague and indistinct, and his attempts to illustrate them, embarrassed by a great incorrectness of style and con- fusion of imagery. His poem is not as it purports to be, a philosophical view of the development and operation of the highest power of the soul, but a string of desultory sketches made up by glancing indiscriminately at the various phenom- ena which the works of human intellect, of whatever degree or nature, exhibit. In the argumentative part of the poern, he has certainly ftiiled, but in some of his descriptive passages he gives evi- dence of considerable imaginative power. His posthumous poem of Valerian, which his friends considered it due to his memory to publish, has little to recommend it to our notice. THE POWERS OF GENIUS., THE human fabric early from its birth Feels some fond influence from its parent earth : In different regions different forms we trace, Here dwells a feeble, there an iron race ; Here genius lives and wakeful fancies play, Here noiseless stupor sleeps its life away. A rugged race the cliffs and mountains bear, They leap the precipice and breast the air, Follow the chamois on the pointed rock, And clamber heights to seek their bearded flock. Loud from the Baltic sounds the dreadful storm. And gathering hosts the face of day deform : Beneath their rage the soft Italian yields His boasted laurels and his blooming fields. The wandering Tartars by their rigorous land, Were led to war, to victory and command. JOHN ULAIR LINN. While southern climes were sunk in deep repose, (An easy conquest to invading foes.) Where spreads the quiet and luxuriant vale, For ever fann'd by spring's ambrosial gale; Where over pebbles runs the limpid rill, And woods o'ershade the wildly sloping hill : There roves the swain, all gentle and serene, And guards his sheep while browsing on the green. He leads the dance by Cynthia's silver light, And lulls with sport the dusky ear of night ; Breathes from his pipe the dulcet strain of love, And warbles Ellen through the mead and grove. In those drear climes where scorching suns prevail, And fever rides the tainted burning gale ; Where draws the giant snake his loathsome train, And poisons with his breath the yellow plain ; There languid pleasure waves his gilded wings., And slothful ease the mental power unstrings. Where Iceland spreads her dark and frozen wild On whose fell snows no cheering sunbeam smiled, There in their stormy, cold, and midnight cell, The cheerless fishermen with stupor dwell : Wrapt in their furs they slumber life away, And mimic with their lamps the light of day. Chill through his trackless pines the hunter pass'd, His yell arose upon the howling blast: Before him fled, with all the speed of fear,. His wealth and victim, yonder helpless deer. Saw you the savage man, how fell and wild, With what grim pleasure as he pass'd he smiled? Unhappy man ! a wretched wigwam's shed Is his poor shelter, some dry skins his bed ; Sometimes alone upon the woodless height He strikes his fire and spends his watchful night j His dog with howling bays the moon's red beam, And starts the wild-deer in his nightly dream Poor savage-man, for him no yellow grain Waves its bright billows o'er the fruitful plain j For him no harvest yields its full supply When winter hurls his tempest through the sky. No joys he knows but those which spring from "strife^ Unknown to him the charms of social life. Rage, malice, envy, all his thoughts control, And every dreadful passion burns his soul,-^ VOL. II, 11* 125 126 JOHN SHAW. Should culture meliorate his darksome home, And cheer those wilds where he is wont to roam ; Beneath the hatchet should his forests fall And the mild tabor warble through his hall, Should fields of tillage yield their rich increase, And through his wastes walk forth the arts of peace; His sullen soul would feel a genial glow, Joy would break in upon the night of wo ; Knowledge would spread her mild, reviving ray, And on his wigwam rise the dawn of day. JOHN SHAW. DR JOHN SHAW was born at Annapolis in Maryland, May 4th, 1778. He was educated at St John's college in that place, where he received a degree in 1795. He began the study of medicine in Annapolis, and in 1798 removed to Philadelphia to attend the medical lectures there. At this time a fleet was fitting out at Philadelphia for the Mediterranean, and Shaw who had a natural desire for rambling, was tempted by a va- cancy in the office of surgeon of the fleet, to join the expedi- tion. This resolution was hastily adopted, without consulting bis father, and against the remonstrances of his friends, and caused him no little regret afterwards. The fleet arrived at Algiers in February 1800, and afterwards visited Tunis, where Shaw remained as secretary to the American consul, General Eaton. He was induced to accept this station, by the hope of profit in the practice of physic, but the negotiations between our consul and the Bey, were thrown into such difficulties that Shaw was soon despatched to London, to consult the Ameri- can minister there. During his stay at Tunis he appears to have made pretty diligent observation of the state of the country and manners of the people, the result of which he has given in his journal. " In my inquiries respecting poetry and litera- JOHN SHAW. 127 ture," he remarks, " I was surprised to find that they have in Tunis a translation of the well known song of Maryborough. This simple, melancholy air is said to please all nations that are in a state of nature. An instance of it is given in Cook's voyages, and Captain Geddes assured me that he had seen it have the effect of engaging the earnest attention of the natives of Madagascar, when all other tunes failed in exciting any emotion." The vessel in which he sailed from Tunis, met with bad weather, and after being driven about the Mediterranean, put into Gibraltar, from which place Shaw returned to America. In 1801 he embarked for Europe, and completed his medical studies at Edinburg. In 1803 he accompanied Lord Selkirk upon his expedition for forming a settlement on St John's island in Upper Canada. Selkirk's account of this colony speaks in high terms of the conduct of Dr Shaw in his labors to restore health to the settlement, which at the time of his arrival was languishing under the attacks of an infectious fever. In 1805 he returned to Annapolis and began the practice of physic, in connexion with Dr Shaaf his former preceptor. In 1807 he married a lady to whom he had been long attached, and shortly after removed to Baltimore, not meeting with a sufficiency of business at Annapolis for his maintenance. At Baltimore he soon grew into credit, and was appointed one of the physicians to the dispensary, and Professor of chemistry in the new college. In 1808 while making some chemical experiments, he took a violent cold which brought on a consumption. With the hope of im- proving his health he sailed for South Carolina in the autumn of 1808. From Charleston he embarked for the Bahama islands, and died on the passage, January 10th, 1809. His poems wer.e published after his death. 128 JOHN SHAW. THE AUTUMNAL FLOWER. AH why, when all the scene around Has told approaching Winter nigh, When dark November's gloom has frown'd And sadden'd all the sickly sky ; Ah why, soft flow'ret, dost thou dare Upon this bleak ascent to bloom ? Thou com'st amid the dying year To waste, untimely, thy perfume. Thou shouldst have hail'd the vernal tide, When first the green bud clothed the plain, Or sought the breezy valley's side When Summer held his golden reign. Then many a morning's sunny sheen Had waked thee with soft magic spells, And many a dewy eve had seen Thee close, unhurt, thy tender bells. Soft fostering gales had made their care To chaso each nipping frost away, And murmuring wild bees linger'd near Thy odors, all the joyful day. But Summer's golden reign is o'er, And genial Spring, long since, lias flown ; The wild bees murmur here no more, And every tepid gale is gone. Already, o'er the sea-girt hill, The "blasts that lead the tempest blow j And lo ! the frighten'd billows swell, And whiten all the shore below. Soft flower, thy fate the wanderer mourns, Who o'er these rocky summits strays, While eve with chilling damps returns And dims the sun's departing rays. Poor flower! before those rays once more Shall kindle up the tardy day, JOHN SHAW. 129 Thy life, thy fragrance shall be o'er, Thy simple beauties die away. No sunny morn shall call thee forth, Nor evening smile on thy repose ; For dark and cold the coming North Bids all thy shrinking flow 'rets close. * * * K # In vain the radiant step of Spring Awakes the year e'er Autumn close; No vernal joys now spread the wing : No give me to my native snows ! To these I go. Farewell, sweet flower ! Thou rocky, sea-girt isle, farewell ! Where hostile strangers strive for power, And fear and superstition dwell. .Yon vessel in the bay below Tomorrow bears me o'er the foam ; And some returning morn shall show A land of freedom and a home. He said, and from the lonely height He turn'd, and downward bent his way; And sought, while darker grew the night, The ship at anchor in the bay. But many a sun shall seek the sea, And many a long, long night be o'er, Ere morn, returning, srnile to see The wanderer on his native shore, WHO has robb'd the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? Who from India's distant wave, For thee, those pearly treasures drew ? Who, from yonder orient sky, Stole the morning of thine eye? 130 WILLIAM LEIGH PIERCE. Thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, t Lest thy snows should melt away. But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart ; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air a heart. Fairest ! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh take that heart from me. WILLIAM LEIGH PIERCE, A NATIVE, we believe, of the western part of the state of New York, where he died several years since, published at the age of 22 a poem called " The Year." It is a review of the political occurrences of the year 1812 relating to this country, and displays considerable talent, for one of his age The object of the poem, as the writer informs us, was " pe- culiarly confined to circulating more generally in society such political tenets as he conceived were correct." Party preju- dices and antipathies, in which he seems to have participated deeply, will account for the harshness of his invectives, and the gloomy and distorted picture which in many cases he has drawn of the state of affairs. THE YEAR. IN all the varied change and state of life, The calm of solitude, or noisy strife, Man still is man, and read him as you will, Unstript, he stands the child of interest still ; The Wandering Tartar, and the swarthy Moor ; The Parthian archer, and Norwegian boor ; WILLIAM LEIGH PIERCE- 131 The booted Pole, whose birthright is his sword ; The bearded Saxon, barter'd by his lord ; The stubborn Russ, devoted to his czar ; The crafty Frenchman, clamorous for war ; The whisker'd Spaniard, solemn, grave, and sad ; The Highland soldier, in his tartan plaid ; The soft Italian, studious of wile ; The generous Briton, faithful to his i?\e ; The brave Columbian, freedom's favor'd son ; All, all alike, the race of interest run. Seldom the wise man may expect to find That rich, rare diamond, an imbiass'd mind ; Few, few are those whose pure, exalted hearts Are proof against corruption's cunning arts, Who act for others, not themselves alone, No pliant courtiers bending round a throne. In this drear age, when misery's cup o'erflows, When fate has loosed the train of human woes ; In this drear age, which rouses virtue's fears, W^hen intrigue triumphs o'er a world in tears ; Thine too, my country, has high heaven decreed, Be the hard lot to suffer and to bleed. Alas! what crime has stern, unyielding fate, Doom'd all thy woes, dear land, to expiate ? ****** Columbia spurn'd at heaven's just decree, To idols bow'd, and bent her votive knee ; In days of prosperous peace sheswell'd with pride, And madly vain, eternal right defied ; Behold her punishment, deception's art Has planted rankling sorrow in her heart; Outcasts and wretches, foster'd on her soil, Her riches plunder, load themselves with spoil, While virtue wandering through her ruin'd shore, Is left to batten on a meagre moor. Yet deeper grief her land is doom'd to bear; Her harvests smile, with each revolving year; Her wealth still grows beneath her careful hand, But grows, to glut intrigue's rapacious band ; Prometheus thus, in fabled days of old, Crown'd with success, grew arrogant and bold; Braved heaven's high lord, with blest immortals strove, And raised his arm against the throne of Jove ; The god enraged, with mighty vengeance hurl'd 132 WILLIAM LEIGH PIERCE. The daring miscreant to the nether world ; In durance stretch'd, and bound with massy chains, Condemn'd to torment and eternal pains ; On his torn breast a greedy vulture fares, Sucks the warm blood, the tender liver tears ; In vain devours, in vain the torrent flows, Still, still, the bloody feast immortal grows. May heaven, all bounteous, with benignant hand, Shower choicest blessings o'er thee, dearest land ! But, ah ! be faithful to thyself the while, And guard against the arts of crafty wile ; With harvest's sheaf her ruddy teniples bound, Does not blithe Ceres cheerful smile around ? Are not thy hills with verdant honors spread ? Does not the oak thus warn thee from its shade ? " Behold, Columbia, yon extended plain ; Do all its luscious fruits thus blush in vain? Where is the hand that harvest to collect, Or where the force, such plenty to protect? Shall idle waste permit those fruits to die, Or fall to earth and there neglected lie ? Cerulean waves old ocean stretches wide, Thy girting strands yet eager kiss his tide ; Freight the blue billows of the roaring deep, Thy commerce loiters lo ! kind zephyrs sweep ; Let me descend from every hill and plain And bear your produce o'er the briny main, To save your commerce from dark plunder's stroke Bid freedom's thunders clothe her native oak." Alas, my country ! why in darkness lay ? Why close thine eyes and shun the dawning day ? The gaunt wolf prowls, the tiger is abroad ; The shepherds see their havoc, and applaud; Remember, oh, remember who have bled ! Thy youth's defenders, stern oppression's dread. Dear was the treasure which your ransom bought, For many, and gallant, were the brave who fought ; O, then respect thyself, thy rights preserve, Stand forth in vigor, swell each generous nerve ; With high-soul'd honor raise the arm of force, Nor longer wayward tread a devious course ; Arrest corruption, strip delusion bare, And drive the artful leopard from his lair ; Behold thy sons in meanest bondage lie, Forge their own chains, for stripes and slavery sigh WILLIAM LEIGH PIERCE. 133 What magic charm, what incantation fell, Has mix'd the potion, wove the fatal spell ? Is he less slave, who yields to wear the chain, While one, or while one thousand tyrants reign ? Trust me, the difference is not vastly great If demagogues or despots rule a state ; Self is the shrine where either basely bend ; Self all the object, self the dearest friend. And are you free ? behold your barter'd polls ! Wisdom is silent while intrigue cajoles. Hear yon unletter'd upstart coarsely bawl, He seeks your suffrage for the congress hall ; What virtues brings "he to that lofty seat ? Deception's scholar, skill'd to cringe and cheat. He pours the whiskey in a copious flood, While reeling drunkards call him wise and good : Nay more, perhaps from distant lands he came, And sports the tinsel of a foreign name ; Perhaps in France, with eager eyes, he saw Disorder triumph over prostrate law : Perhaps he heard around a bleeding queen, A nation shout, " God save the guillotine ! " Perhaps he tells you with exulting smile, The rebel story of his dear green isle ; Besides, Columbia's native sons are weak, Smite them on one, they turn the other cheek. Their recreant arms are quite unskill'd to wield The warrior's blade, and rule the battle field ; Much prone to fear, the coward souls aspire No further than the cravings of desire ; Illiterate they, in science dull and slow, So Europe says, and sure it must be so. 134 LUCIUS M. SARGENT. LUCIUS M. SARGENT, OF Boston, gave to the world in 1813, the poem of Hubert and Ellen, with other pieces. He is also the author of a translation of the Culex of Virgil, which was published with the text in 1807. We believe he has not on any recent occasion come before the public as a poet. THE PLUNDERER'S GRAVE. SNOW hides the green mountain, Beneath its white billow ; And chill'd is the fountain, And leafless the willow : The tempest, loud swelling, Now drives along, dreary ; Before the storm, yelling, The sea-mew flies, weary, And, cowering, seeks shelter, from ocean's wild roar. While billows are boum.'ing, O'er rude rocks, surrounding The long sandy beach, and the craggy lee-shore. Where now does the bark ride, The wild water braving ? Where now, o'er the dark tide, The gay streamer waving ? And where now, so fearless, The mariner, helming, 'Mid clouds, dark and cheerless, And ocean o'erwhehxing ? Where now is the heart of that mariner brave ? That bark is dismasted ! That mariner blasted ! That streamer has drunken the wild water-wave O'er breakers, loud crashing, The waves fiercely bound her ; While rude billows, dashing, In riot, roll round her. Go, helmsman, mid ocean, Thine arm now must save thee ! Oh ! kiss with devotion, LUCIUS M. SARGENT. The pledge, that she gave thee, Who ne'er may behold thee, her sailor, again ! Think of her, who is dearest, When danger is nearest, Then plunge thy bold form, in the rough, rolling main Now tall waves dash o'er him, Ah ! vainly contending ; Hope sinks fast, before him ; His struggles are ending. Now, waves, gently growing, Seem rising to save him ; Now, o'er the beach, flowing, More softly they lave him : His motionless corse, on the lone shore, they lay. Rude waves, loudly roaring, Along the strand, pouring, Now bear him again, o'er the watery way ! Again rise the surges ; Again they restore him : Again the wave urges Its refluence o'er him! Who, reckless of danger, Now braves, 'mid the ocean ? How wild looks the stranger! How frantic his motion ! He rescues the corse, from the rough rolling wave ! The strand, for its pillow, From out the salt billow, He rescues the corse but it is not to save ! There stands, dark and lonely, The plunderer's dwelling ; He seeks the strand only When sea-mews are yelling. When, 'mid the storm howling, No star is seen beaming, The wretch then is prowling ; The false fire is gleaming, To lead the poor mariner, on to his doom ! When waves bear him, senseless, He robs the defenceless, And plunges the corse, in the billowy tomb ! The foul hearted demon, The sailor despoiling, Now rends, from the seaman, The fruit of his toiling ! 135 136 LUCIUS M. SARGENT, O'er wild ocean, braving, Hard earn'd was the treasure, Through tempest, loud raving ; Though toiling was pleasure, For her, who was dear, to the mariner bold. The fierce hand, unsparing, Now rudely is tearing The poor humble garb from the corse that is cold ! The pledge of devotion Thine arm still is wearing ! That pledge, 'mid the ocean, Gave heart to thy daring. When eyes, brightly beaming, Have ever beset thee ; . When false fears were dreaming, Thy girl would forget thee ; It brighten'd thy love, and it solaced thy fears : For, the girl, who was dearest, When danger was nearest, There bound the fair pledge, and bedew'd it with tears. The eye of the demon Glares, horrid, in pleasure ; Poor, heart-sunken seaman ! He grasps at thy treasure ! And shall he bereave thee ? Thy darling pledge sever ? And cruelly leave thee ? No, mariner, never ! The tall wave indignantly rolls to the shore ! The arm of the Thunderer Seizes the plunderer ! Floods overwhelm him ! he rises no more ! The refluent_billow Now leaves the beach, waveless ; The flood is the pillow Of mariner, graveless. But, mark the wave, stranding, More boldly aspiring ; The mariner landing, Then slowly retiring ! The plunderer comes not along with the tide ! The shark is heard, dashing, Amid the wave, splashing ! The froth of the billow with crimson is dyei ! While chill blasts are blowing, * WILLIAM RAY. 137 Who, o'er the corse, gazes ? His garb, round it, throwing, The sailor he raises. From winds, cold and storming, The stranger has borne him ; The blaze, kindly warming, To life, shall return him : The stranger shall aid him, the stranger defend. His pulse now is flowing, His bosom is glowing ; He ne'er shall forget the poor mariner's friend. The white winter billow Has left the green mountain ; Now leaves dress the willow ; Now ripples the fountain. Where tempests were swelling, Soft breezes are sweeping, The sea-mew, late yelling, Is, 'neath the rock, sleeping ; The sailor is far from the rough rolling main. The girl, that was dearest, When danger was nearest, Now holds to her bosom, her sailor again ! WILLIAM RAY. WILLIAM RAT was born at Salisbury, in the county of Litchfield, Connecticut, December 9th, 1771. He wrote verses at about ten years of age, which the minister of his pa- rish pronounced wonderful, and flattered the young author with the hopes of becoming as great a poet as Dr Watts. His father removed to the state of New York, and in the re- mote and solitary spot which he occupied, the youth had little chance to pursue his inclination for letters. At the age of nineteen, he went to reside in Dover, in Dutchess county, where he taught a school. This occupation he soon abandon- ed, and betook himself to trade, which he pursued for a few VOL. II. 12* 133 WILLIAM RAY. years, when he became bankrupt, and finding it impossible to obtain a release from his creditors, or support himself at home in any manner, he was forced to leave his wife, and set off for another quarter. He reached Philadelphia, with the pros- pect of finding a situation as an editor, but meeting with dis- appointment in this and every other attempt he made to pro- vide for himself, and destitute of resources, he entered in a low capacity on board the frigate Philadelphia, according to his own statement, "without either inquiring or caring where she was bound." She sailed in July, 1803, for the Mediterra- nean. . The Philadelphia was destined to join our squadron against Tripoli. After cruising in several ports of the Mediterranean, she fell in with an enemy's ship off the harbor of Tripoli, on the 31st of October, and while giving her chase four or five miles from the town, the frigate struck on a rock, and in spite of all the efforts made to save her, was obliged to surrender to the Tripolitan gunboats. The crew were stripped, marched on shore, and set to hard labor. In their captivity, which en- dured more than a year and a half, they suffered great mise- ries, of which Ray has given us a very striking picture in his narrative. " One hundred and fifty of our men, myself among the rest, were sent to raise an old wreck of a vessel, deeply barred in the sand under water, eastward from the town. It was now the coldest season of the year, we were almost naked, and were driven into the water up to our arm- pits. We had to shovel the sand from the bottom, and carry it in baskets to the banks. The chilling waves almost arrested the flow of life for ever, and the Turks seemed more barbarous than usual, healing us with their bamboos, and exulting in our sufferings. They kept us in the water from about sunrise, until two o'clockP. M., before we were permitted to come out, or to taste a mouthful of food for that day. When we had ' snatched a short repast,' we were driven again into the wa- ter, and kept there until sunset. We had no clothes to change, but were obliged to sleep in our wet ones, on the damp earth WILLIAM RAY. 139 the following night. With such usage, life became almost insupportable, and every night, when I laid my head on the ' lap of earth,' I most sincerely prayed that I might neve'r experience the horrors of another morning." * * * "Februa- ry, 17th, early in the morning, and much earlier than usual, our prison doors were unbolted, which had been doubly guard- ed the night before, and the keepers rushed in amongst us, like so many fiends, and fell to beating and cursing every one they could see, spitting in our faces, gnashing their teeth, and hissing like dragons. Word was soon brought, that the wreck of the frigate Philadelphia lay smoking in the rocks, at a point where she had drifted, burned down to the water. We could not disguise our joy at this event, which exaspera- ted the Turks still more, so that every boy we met in the streets, took the liberty to spit on us as we passed, not forget- ting to pelt us severely with stones. Our tasks were also redoubled, our bread withheld for three days, and every driver exercised cruelties over us tenfold more rigid than before. We were so hungry, that for my part, I was glad to pick up the peels of oranges in the dirty streets and eat them, filth and all. * * * Many of us had to drag a heavy wagon, (left by Bona- parte, in his expedition to Egypt) five or six miles into the country, over the burning' sands, barefoot and shirtless, and back again, loaded with timber, before they had anything to eat, except perhaps, a few raw carrots." * * * The Tripo- litans began to be frightened, (during the bombardment of the city by the American fleet,) and some of their principal officers treated us with more respect than before the attacks, but the low wretches continued to abuse and insult us, and some of the keepers, who had lost friends in the engagements, were more savage than ever. The management of the prisoners was in a great manner confided to these inhuman villains, and they almost starved us to death. December 10th starving again. Our keepers opened the prison doors in the morning, and ordered us tola fora (all out.) Not a man moved, and we 140 WILLIAM RAY. unanimously resolved, that if death should be the consequence, not to turn out another day without food, and this brought the Turks to terms for that time." In June, 1805, a peace was concluded with the Tripolitan government, and Ray, on regaining his liberty, entered as cap- tain's clerk on board the frigate Essex, and the next year re- turned home. In 1809, he settled in Essex county, New York, and resumed his occupation of trading, but with no better success than before. On the declaration of war in 1812, he was made a major in the detached militia, which was stationed at Plattsburgh. After a short term of service in that quarter, he resided in several parts of the state of New York, and final- ly settled in Onondaga, holding the office of a Justice of the Peace, and commissioner in courts of record. He died at Auburn, in 1827. His volume of poems was published in 1821. They cannot be allowed any very high praise, but a claim upon our atten- tion is put forth in their favor, after a manner not to be re- sisted, in the closing couplet of the writer's " Exordium." " When you 're captured by a Turk Sit down and write a better work." YE lurid domes ! whose tottering columns stand, Marks of the despot's desolating hand : Whose weed-grown roofs and mouldering arches show The c'lr^- oi" tyranny, a nation's wo; In every rain every pile 1 find A warning lesson to a thoughtful mind. Your gloomy cells expressive silence break, Echo to groans, and eloquently speak ; " The Christian's blood cements the stones he rears ; This clay was moisten' d with a Christian's tears; Pale as these walls, a prisoner oft has lain, Felt the keen scourge and worn the ruthless chain ; While scoffing foes increasing tortures pour, WILLIAM RAY. Till the poor victim feels, alas ! no more ! " Here thy brave tars, America, are found Lock'd in foul prisons and in fetters bound. Heavens ! what sad times ! must free Columbians bow- Before yon tinsel tyrant's murky brow ? Cringe to a power which death and rapine crown ? Smile at a smile, and tremble at a frown ? Kneel at a throne, its clemency implore, Enrich'd by spoils, and stain'd with human gore? Bear the sharp lash, the ponderous load sustain, Suppress their anger, and revenge restrain ? Leave a free clime, explore the treacherous wtives, The sport of miscreants and the slave of slaves ? Heavens ! at the sight each patriot bosom glows With virtuous hatred on its country's foes ; At every blow indignant passions rise, And vengeance flashes from resentful eyes. But heaven is just, though man's bewilder'd mind To the dark ways of providence is blind ; Else why are some ordain'd above the rest, Or villains treated better than the best ? Why, martyr'd virtue, hang thy injured head? Why lived an Arnold, while a Warren bled? Earth's murderers triumph, proud oppressors reign, While patriots bleed, and captives sigh in vain? Yet slumbering justice soon shall wake and show Her sword, unsheath'd, aud vengeance wing the blow : Columbia's genius, glorious as the sun, With thy blest shade, immortal Washington ! Unite to guard us from nefarious foes, And heaven defend, and angels interpose, Devoted tyrants cause just wrath to feel, Make Beys and Bashaws in submission kneel ; Man's equal right, sweet liberty, restore, And despotism crush, to rise no more. THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. Do troubles overwhelm thy soul, Like billows of the ocean, That o'er the shipwrecked victim roll, In terrible commotion ; Seize bold Imagination's wing, 141 142 WILLIAM RAY. And soar to heaven, so seeming, Or reign a potentate and king 'T is all obtain'd by dreaming. Do pain and poverty unite To rob thee of all pleasure Like thieves break in at dead of night, And steal away thy treasure, The treasure of a tranquil mind With joy and rapture teeming, Seek seek, my friend, and thou shalt find More solid joy in dreaming. For let the world still darker frown Than night-clouds on creation, And shower its tenfold vengeance down, Its wrath and indignation, On this devoted head of mine, One star is still left gleaming, One light that will for ever shine The hope the bliss of dreaming. The world can neither give nor take Away these mental riches ; They 're mine and sleeping or awake, I love the little witches ; They charm my senses to repose, While cares and wants are screaming My eyes and ears, to misery close, And give me peace in dreaming. Whene'er I lay me down to rest, With toils and sorrows weary A heart most feelingly distress'd, And all on earth looks dreary ; Aerial powers around me throng, With light and glory beaming, And waft my raptured soul along The paradise of dreaming. And oft as pensively I walk In solitary places, I hear celestial spirits talk, And think I see their faces ; WILLIAM RAY. 143 They bid me leave all earthly things, While tears of grief are streaming I mount Imagination's wings, And find my heaven in dreaming. VILLAGE GREATNESS. IN every country village, where Ten chimney smokes perfume the air, Contiguous to a steeple, Great gentlefolks are found, a score, Who can't associate, any more, With common " country people." Jack Fallow, born amongst the woods, From rolling logs, now rolls in goods, Enough awhile to dash on Tells negro stories smokes segars Talks politics decides on wars And lives in stylish fashion. Tim Ox-goad, lately from the plough, A polish'd gentleman ic now, And talks of " country fellows ; " But ask the fop what books he 's read You '11 find the brain-pan of his head As empty as a bellows. Miss Faddle, lately from the wheel, Begins quite lady-like to feel, And talks affectedly genteel, And sings some tasty songs, too ; But my veracity impeach, If she can tell what part of speech Gentility belongs to. Without one spark of wit refined, Without one beauty of the mind Genius or education, Or family, or fame, to boast, To see such gentry rule the roast, Turns patience to vexation. 144 WILLIAM CRAFTS. To clear such rubbish from the earth, Though real genius mental worth, And science to attend you, You might as well the sty refine, Or cast your pearls before the swine, They 'd only turn and rend you. WILLIAM CRAFTS WAS born at Charleston, South Carolina, January 24th, 1787. He received his education at Harvard University, and studied law and spent the remainder of his life in his native city, where he became noted as a lawyer of great ability and elo- quence. He was a member of the legislature of South Caro- lina, and was for some time editor of the Charleston Courier. He died at Lebanon Springs, New York, September 23d 1826, at the age of 39. A collection of hig works, comprising poems, essays in prose, and orations, with a biographical me- moir, was published at Charleston during the last year. RAPIDS IN LOVE. THERE are rapids in love, but they fall as they flow, Thus pleasure inhabits the bodies of wo, And the tears of their union though sunbeams illume, They meet in the rainbow, and part in the gloom. There are rapids in love, but they must be past o'er By those who will not be confined to the shore ; Even danger has charms when it points to delight, And morning is lovelier for following night. Let us risk the descent our barks shall combine, Our hopes and our hearts shall together incline : Love beckons us on to the perilous wave, One moment shall ruin us both, or shall save. Protect us, ye stars of the fond and the true, The dangers of lovers are sacred to you ; SELLECK OSBORN. 145 The rapids are over, surviving, secure, In the sea of delight our barks we will moor. SERENADE SONG. BEWARE the soft seducer ; Elude his silken snare, And guard thy tender bosom From anguish and despair. Believe him not yojnglacly! Though by the stars he swear ; The night is" past ! already The stars do disappear. But there is one remaining, The morning star alone, Just like a maid complaining When all her hopes are gone. SELtECK OSBORN. SELLECK OSBORN was born, we believe, in Litchfield, Con- necticut, and brought up to the trade of a printer. He con- ducted a newspaper in Litchfield, about 1806 or 1808, and was imprisoned in that place for a publication which, under the influence of party excitement, was declared libellous. The sympathy of his political friends was powerfully excited by this event, and a public procession was made to the place of his confinement. This circumstance, leads to the mention of another anec- dote respecting him, which illustrates the influence of political attachments and prejudices, while it offers a conjuncture of in- cidents, which might afford the ground work of a good com- edy. Osborn had been engaged to deliver an oration at VOL. II. 13 146 SELLECK OSBORN. Ridgefield, in Fairfield county, on the 4th of July. The day came, the audience had assembled, and the orator mounted the desk, when he discovered that he had lost his manuscript in his way to the meeting-house. He had ridden a long dis- tance, to search for it was hopeless, and the confusion and perplexity into which the loss had thrown him, rendered it im- possible to prepare any off-hand succedaneum for his written performance. A situation more awkward can hardly be im- agined. A thronging auditory collected on the great national holiday, animated with the excitement of politics, at the most busy and over-heated time of party turbulence, and the orator with nothing to say ! Meanwhile a post rider on his course from Ridgefield, had spied the manuscript upon the road and picked it up ; on examining it, the first glance discovered to him that it was a production designed for public recital on that day, and perhaps at that moment. Here the catastrophe of the affair stood upon a sharp edge. The post rider was a warm partizan, (every man was a politician then) and it de- pended upon the political character of the oration whether it should be returned seasonably to the owner. Fortunately for Osborn, the finder of his manuscript was one of his own party, and he was placed in the dilemma of either hastening back with the writing to the owner, and thereby incurring a forfeiture for delay in transporting the mail, or subjecting his friends to the mortification and disappointment of losing their oration. He hesitated but for a moment, and turned his horse back. He arrived at Ridgefield in time to hand the manu- script to the orator just as he had abandoned himself to despair and was descending from the rostrum. Osborne once edited a paper at Windsor, Vermont, and in the latter part of his life he was the editor of a paper in the state of Delaware. He published a collection of his poems at Boston, in 1823, and died in Philadelphia in 1826, SELLECK OSBORN. 147 THE RUISS. I'VE seen, in twilight's pensive hour, The moss-clad dome, the mouldering tower, In awful ruin stand; That dome, where grateful voices sung, That tower, whose chiming music rung, Majestically grand] I 've seen, 'mid sculptured pride, the tomb Where heroes slept, in silent gloom, Unconscious of their fame ; Those who, with laurel'd honors crown'd, Among their foes spread terror round, And gain'd an empty name ! I 've seen, in death's dark palace laid, The ruins of a beauteous maid, Cadaverous and pale ! That maiden who, while life remain'd, O'er rival charms in triumph reign' d, The mistress of the vale. I've seen, where dungeon damps abide, A youth, admired in manhood's pride, In morbid fancy rave ; He who, in reason's happier day, Was virtuous, witty, nobly gay, Learn'd, generous and brave. Nor dome, nor tower, in twilight shade, Nor hero fallen, nor beauteous maid, To ruin all consign'd Can with such pathos touch my breast As (on the maniac's form impress'd) The ruins of the mind ! THE QUARRELS OF LOVE. MARK ye that cloud, whose sudden shade Succeeds the recent smile of morn ; Such was the frown of my dear maid Whose early love was turn'd to scora ! 148 SELLECK OSBORIV. Oh, how that frown did chill my heart, And quench my too presumptuous flame f Of my regret how keen the smart! How glow'd my burning cheek with shame I How could I, with unhallow'd lip- That bosom's purity profane ? Or dare ambrosial sweets to sip, For which e'en love had sued in vain ? Mark how that cloud, in drops of pearl. Dissolves, as sunshine breaks the while ; So wept my kind, relenting girl, When penitence regain'd her smile. Mark, how that mild, cerulean hue, Expands, amidst retiring shade ; 'T was thus her eye, of heavenly blue, All her returning love betrayM. Mark too, that bow, of splendid light, That bends o'er earth its graceful form, That shines so cheering to the sight, When bursting sunbeams chase the storm : As glows that signal, from above, Of promised peace 'tween man and heaven, So glow'd the blush of yielding love, While gently murm'ring, " thou 'rt forgiven THE SAILOR. " THE wary sea-bird screams afar Along the wave dire omens sweep From the veil'd sky no friendly star Beams on the undulating deep. Hark ! from the cliffs of distant shores, The Lorn emits his dismal cry The wave portentous warning roars, And speaks the threatening tempest nigh. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 149 What guardian angel's watchful power Shall snatch me from the angry deep, Qr bid, in that tremendous hour, The demon of the waters sleep ? Or who, if on some desert wild I drift, weak, famished and distrest, % Shall hush the sorrows of my child, Or soothe Lavinia's wounded breast ? Sweet objects of my early love, For you with aching heart I mourn ; Far from your peaceful vale I rove, Ah ! hopeless ever to return ! Yet, should it be my happy lot To hail again my native shore, Secure within my humble cot, I '11 brave the restless deep no more." His prayer was heard the rolling bark Rode through the storm with stubborn pride ; And William, blithe as morning lark, Flew to his sweet enraptured bride. Yet Will, with love and liquor warm, Ere yet a month had pass'd in glee, Forgot the terrors of the storm, And, singing, squared away for sea! WASHINGTON ALLSTON WAS born in South Carolina, and received his education in New England. He was graduated at Harvard University in 1800. He has since made himself well known to the world as a painter, in which capacity he has given evidence of a genius of the first order. He has resided in the course of his labors in Italy and England, but is at present in Boston, em- vot. ii. 13* 150 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ploying his pencil upon an historical subject of a highly inter- esting character. His poems, consisting of The Sylphs of the Seasons, and a few short pieces, were published in 1813. THE PAINT KING. FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young, No damsel could with her compare ; Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, And bards without number in ecstasies sung, The beauties of Ellen the fair. Yet cold was the maid ; and though legions advanced, All drill'd by Ovidean art, And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced, Like shadows they came, arid like shadows they glanced From the hard polish'd ice of her heart. Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore A something that could not be found ; Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar Of breakers high dashing around. From object to object still, still would she veer, Though nothing, alas, could she find ; Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear, Yet doom'd like the moon, with no being to cheer The bright barren waste of her mind. But rather than sit like a statue so still When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground. One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined, Pass'd the youth with a frame in his hand. The casement she closed not the eye of her mind For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind; Still before her she saw the youth stand. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 151 " Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid, " Ah, what with that frame can he do ? " And she knelt to the goddess of secrets and pray'd, When the youth pass'd again, and again he display'd The frame and a picture to view. " Oh, beautiful picture ! " the fair Ellen cried, " I must see thee again or I die." Then under her white chin, her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, When the youth, looking back, met her eye. " Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while) " This picture I see you admire : Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 't will beguile Some moments of sorrow ; (nay, pardon my smile) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise From the cunning young stripling received. But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, When sparkling with rapture they gazed on her prize Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived ! 'T was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined, And the sculptor he seern'd of the stone ; Yet he languish'd as though for its beauty he pined, And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'T was the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old ; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd ; " Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold, And press me this day as thy bride." She said : when behold, from the canvas arose The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame : With a furious transport his arms did enclose The love-plighted Ellen: and, clasping, he froze The blood of the maid with his flame! She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing. " Oh, heaven ! cried she, who art thou ? " From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, 152 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. As frowning, he thunder'd " I am the Paint-King ! And mine, lovely maid, thou art now ! " ^ Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift The loud-screaming maid like a blast ; And he sped though the air like a meteor swift, While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift To the right and the left as he pass'd. Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, With an eddying whirl he descends ; The air all below him becomes black as night, And the ground where he treads, as if moved with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian bends. " I am here ! " said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd At the gates of a mountainous cave ; The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd, While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd Like an island of ice on the wave. 'Oh, mercy ! " cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms, But the Paint-King, he scoffd at her pain. " Prithee, love," said the monster, " what mean these alarms ?' She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms, That work her to horror again. She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes Behold the fair youth she would woo ; Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise; His face, like a palette of villainous dies, Black and white, red, and yellow, and blue. On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, Sat the fiend, like the grim giant Gog, While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied, Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried As it looms through an easterly fog. And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen, In horrid festoons on the wall, Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between, Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane, By the Devil dress'd out for a ball. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 153 '* Ah me !" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet. "Must I hang on these walls to be dried? " _ " Oh, no ! " said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat, " A far nobler fortune^iy person shall meet ; Into paint will I grind thee, my bride ! " Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, An oil jug, he plung'd her within. Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air, All cover'd with oil to the chin. On the morn of the eight, on a huge sable stone Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid ; With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone, But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan ; For life had forsook not the maid. Now reaching his palette, with masterly care Each tint on its surface he spread ; The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair, And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red. Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, " Now I brave, cruel fairy, thy scorn ! " When lo ! from a chasm wide-yawning there came A light tiny chariot of rose color'd flame, By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, Fair Geraldine sat without peer ; Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light, And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, And a beam of the moon was her spear. In an accent that stole on the still charmed air Like the first gentle language of Eve, Thus spake from her chariot the fairy so fair : "I come at thy call, but, oh Paint- King, beware, Beware if again you deceive." " 'T is true,'' said the monster, " thou queen of my heart, Thy portrait I oft have* essay 'd ; Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art 154 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. The least of thy wonderful beauties impart ; And my failure with scorn you repaid. " Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail ! : And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, " If again with these magical colors I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be rny jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. " But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine ! Thy promise with justice I claim, And thou, queen of fairies, shalt ever be mine, The bride of my bed ; and thy portrait divine Shall fill all the earth with my fame." He spake ; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form On the canvas enchantingly glow'd ; His touches they Hew like the leaves in a storm ; And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm Contending in harmony flow'd. And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem To the figure of Geraldine fair : With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem Each muscle, each feature ; in short, not a gleam Was lost of her beautiful hair. Twas the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack ; I who shall c~ And who shall describe the terrific surprise That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries Not a speck of his palette of black ! " I am lost," said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief Whisk away from his sight with a bound. "I am lost ! " said the fiend, and he fell like a stone ; Then rising the fairy in ire With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) A^ J she swell'd to a column of fire. WILLIAM MAXWELL. 155 Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air, And sulphur the vault fill'd around ; She smote the grim monster ; and now by the hair High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair Down the depths of the chasm profound. Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, " Come forth ! " said the good Geraldine ; When, behold, from the canvass descending, appear Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, With grace more than ever divine 1 WILLIAM MAXWELL, A NATIVE of Virginia, received his education at Yale Col- lege, and was for some time editor of the New York Journal of Commerce. We believe he has since resided in Norfolk as a lawyer. He published a volume of poems at Philadelphia in 1816. THE REVERT. I AM come to this sycamore tree, And lay myself down in its shade : The world has no pleasure for me ; The hopes of my youth are betray'd. Flow on, thou sweet musical stream, My murmurs shall mingle with thine ; My spirit is wrapt in a dream. The sadness I feel is divine. Hope took me, a gay little child, And soothed me to sleep on her breast And, like my own mother, she smiled O'er th dreams of my innocent rest* Then beauty came whispering sweet, Every word had a magical power; And pleasure, with eyes of deceit, Enticed me to enter her bower. ]56 WILLIAM MAXWELL. There love sliow'd his glittering dart, Just bathed in the nectar of bees ; While fancy persuaded rny heart, That his only design was to please. And fame held her wreath of renown, All blooming with laurels divine ; And promised the flourishing crown, To circle these temples of mine. Then I said to myself in my sleep, How lovely is all that I see ! I shall never have reason to weep, For the world is a garden to me. But an angel came down from the skies, And claim'd me at once as her own ; Fair truth shed her light on my eyes, And the shades of delusion are flown. I sigh for the dreams of my youth, All melted away into air ; Yet say, that the sweet light of truth Betray my poor heart to despair ? Ah no ! I may mourn for awhile, Till my bosom is freed from its leaven ; Then peace shall return with a smile, And faith waft my spirit to heaven. THE PRIZE. CLODPOLE, a simple rustic clown, Lived just a few miles out of town The city's name ? I wont be sure, I think though, it was Baltimore- An honest countryman by trade, Extremely clever with his spade, Could drive his plough off in a race, And plant potatoes with a grace. His wife too was a tidy soul, A thriving pair upon the whole. But times grew hard ; Embargo came ; Poor things ! they did 'nt know who to blame. Some said, " the English are the cause : " Some said, " Red-Breeches burn his laws ! " WILLIAM MAXWELL. 157 But now a lottery appearM ! Poor Clodpole read the scheme and stared. For certainly the plan was great, And was n't it sanction'd by the state ? He goes at once to buy a ticket, And begs the clerk to let him pick it ; ('T was at the office kept by Waite, That is so truly fortunate ;) Then looks and looks with all his eyes, And wisely thinks to choose the prize, And now all day he reads the scheme, And ev'ry night he dreams a dream. He thought the money in his pocket, And bought a chest and key to lock it. At length the lottery is drawn. Clod hears the news, and he is gone. "My wife," says he, " I 'm off for town, To see if I am still a clown. So if you see me coming, Harriot, A sure 'nough great man in my chariot, Mind, see it well with both your eyes, You may be sure I 've got the prize. Then seize your longest-handled broom, And fly like lightning round the room ; Break ev'rything you 've got more too And we '11 buy everything that 'snew. Yes ! and I '11 give you such a gown ! Like Mrs Dashaway's in town." He goes to town, or rather flies : " My ticket, Sir, is it a prize ? " The clerk soon read the fellow through, And felt a little waggish too. So with a strange, mysterious look, He turns, and turns, and turns his book. " Your ticket, friend" Clod stretch'd his eyes " Has drawn has drawn " " what ? what ?" " no prize But a dead blank ! " Clod heard no more, But down he fell upon the floor. " A doctor ! run ! the man will die." A doctor was just riding by ; (These doctors are as thick as crows ;) He smelt the carrion I suppose. He feels Clod's pulse, and shakes his head '* It is a fit : he must be bled. VOL. II. 14 158 WILLIAM MAXWELL. His constitution though 's 'good stuff. I '11 give him medicine enough. They '11 cure him if they should n't kill- At any rate they '11 help the bill." Out lancet, and he stuck a vein. The clown comes to himself again, And rolls around his wondering eyes, Like a wise owl, in great surprise. The doctor bears him off in haste To his own chariot, sees him placed, And bids the coachman drive him home. Dame Harriot sees the carriage come, " O ! he has got the prize ! we 're made ! Good by t' ye to the hoe and spade !" Away she ran, and seized the broom, And flew like lightning round the room, Breaking up all she could get at Except the jug she could n't break that- A present from her mother Gray, And given her on her wedding day : There was none like it to be sold, And such fine beer as it would hold ! But all the rest demolished quite, You never saw now such a sight. Just then poor Clodpole enters in : " Stop ! stop !" he cries ; " it is a sin. For mercy quit this foolish prank, He says my prize has drawn a blank.'' See ! there they stand as stiff as posts ; And white as two meal-powder'd ghosts ! At last Clod cries, " Give me a hug. I 'm glad to find you 've saved the jug. Confound all lotteries, I say ! Stick to the plough, and work away ! Bad luck has made me monstrous wise, So, spite of chance, I 've got the prize." GIVE me, give me here my tea ; Ladies' nectar ! give it me ; Sweet as what the Hummer sips, Or the dew on Beauty's lips. Tea 'tis makes the spirits flow, ROBERT S. COFFIN. 159 Tickles up the heart of wo. Sets the tongue, enlivens wit, Gives the sweet poetic fit. Tea 'tis makes the charming fair Sprightly, pleasing, as they are. What is more than all, 't was Tea, Tea, that set Columbia free. TO A FAIR LADY. FAIREST, mourn not for thy charms, Circled by no lover's arms ; While inferior belles, you see, Pick up husbands merrily. Sparrows when they choose to pair, Meet their matches anywhere ; But the Phoenix, sadly great, Cannot find an equal mate. Earth, though dark, enjoys the honor Of a moon to wait upon her ; Venus, though divinely bright, Cannot boast a satellite. ROBERT S. COFFIN, WAS born in the state of Maine, and spent the early portion of his life in Newburyport, where he served an apprenticeship as a printer, an occupation which he afterwards pursued in Bos- ton, New York, and Philadelphia. He dreamed that the gods had made him poetical, and put forth quantities of metre at an early age. In the latter part of his life, his rhymes, under the name of "The Boston Bard," obtained him some notice as an inditer for the poet's corner of the newspapers, and his various pieces were collected and published in a volume, in 1826. It contains but a small amount of tolerable matter. We remem- ber while a schoolboy, to have read some local satires of his 160 ROBERT S. COFFIN. in manuscript, which showed respectable powers of sarcasm and ridicule. He died at Rowley, near Newburyport, in May, 1827, at the age of about thirty. His life was chequered by considerable variety, he having been at onetime a sailor; the public sympathy was much excited for him toward the close of his career, and Mr Bryan wrote a poem, the profits of which were given to relieve his necessities. LOVE, the leaves are falling round thee ; All the forest trees are bare ; Winter's snow will soon surround thee, Soon will frost thy raven hair : Then say, with me, Love, wilt thou flee, Nor wait to hear sad autumn's prayer ? For winter rude Will soon intrude, Nor aught of summer's blushing beauties spare. Nature's charms will quickly fly thee, Chilling rains around thee pour : Oh, then with me, Love, wilt thou flee, Ere whirling tempests round thee roar, And winter dread Shall frost thy head, And all thy raven ringlets silver o'er? Love, the moon is shining for thee ; All the lamps of heaven are bright ; Holy spirits glide before thee, Urging on thy tardy flight ; i sav, with me, , wilt the Love, wilt thou flee, Nor wait the sun's returning light ? Time's finger rude, Will soon intrude Relentless, all thy blushing beauties blight. Love, the flowers no longer greet thee, All their lovely hues are fled ! WILLIAM B. WALTER. 161 No more the violet springs to meet thee, Lifting slow its modest head : Then say, with me, Love, wiltthou flee, And leave this darkling desert dread ? And seek a clime Of joy sublime, Where fadeless flowers a lasting fragrance shed ? WILLIAM B. WALTER, WAS born in Boston, and educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine. He afterwards studied divinity at Cambridge, but never entered the pulpit. He died at Charleston, S. C., in 1822, aged about twentysix or seven. He wrote " Sukey," and a volume of poems, published in 1821. 'Tis the last hour! far o'er the beetling steep, The glorious sun descends into the deep, And flings around a fiery flood of light, In farewell beams magnificently bright ! The shadowing clouds in mingled clusters driven, In lingering splendor float along the heaven : On roseate wings all softly now are stealing, Veil his bright beams then suddenly revealing ; Tinging the towering cliffs and glowing skies, With radiant streaks of blue and purple dyes ; While the long gleam that sweeps the crimson west, Traces the mighty limits of his rest. So sink the powerful, and the good of earth, From this fair world, that gloried in their birth ! Their fame beams bright o'er death's dispersing gloom, And crowns with living light their hallow'd tomb ! 'T is the last hour ! and all around is still ! No murmur breaks on Calvary's lone hill ! vox,, ii. 14* 162 WILLIAM B. WALTER. Gihon's green banks and waves of heavenly blue, And vales and woods touch'd with a soften'd hue, Shine gladly forth, and greet the raptured view ! Hush'd is the fall of waters ! evening's purple dew- Is all around the sweet flowers blossoming Droop their bright heads over the sacred spring ! The high blue depths of air are silent now ! And spirits crowd along that mountain's brow ! Their rushing plumes are waving in the light, Spangled with stars, their waving tresses bright, Circled with diadems enwreath'd with flowers ! They come in glory from immortal bowers ; Hark ! 't is the music of a golden string, Swept by the sweet winds softly quivering ! That trembles on the air with thrilling wing, And soothes the soul with its wild wandering ! Like the loved hymn of early joys departed, That leaves the pilgrim almost broken-hearted ; Too richly dear, its deep enchanting swell That has no name but only breathes farewell ! 'T is gone ! and silent now the broad blue skies, Rolling in splendor as they gently rise ! Soaring on radiant wings, far, far away ! How solemnly beautiful departing day ! And oh ! how changed from that when Jesus died On that lone mountain's solitary side ! Thick clouds of darkness veil'd its hallow'd crest, And hovering lower'd upon its awful breast ; Heavy and still the gathering volumes form ; Hark ! 't is the hollow muttering of the storm ! It comes at last, in gloom and wildering terror ; The skies hang heavy like a mighty mirror, Despoil'd of all its splendor and its light ! Dim crowding shapes are thronging down the night \-> Redoubling peal on peal the thunder rolls, And rends the reddening vapor's bloody folds ! ******* Sudden and quick the lurid flashes driven In angry quiverings shot along the heaven, Shivering the foldings of that darksome shroud ! Rent are the mountain rocks ! earth shrieks aloud I The tempest winds are struggling fierce and far Down the deep vale rolls on the fearful war ! The volumed mass, all trembling, now receding^ WILLIAM B. WALTER. 163 In wandering fires, high o'er the proud crest spreading In billowy flames ! high on their flashing wings, Wrecks of old clouds and awful thunderings ! And meteors stricken from the firmament Shower round their sulphurous rains ! in wild lament, Phantoms of light burst from the yawning earth On burning wings, the earthquake's wondrous birth ! The sun goes down in blood, and day is gone ! Nature convulsive shakes, groans deep, 't is done ! The whirlwinds rage, the graves give up their dead ! Thousands of thunders roll ! Where is that spirit fled ? The godhead's power was there ! and all was night! The godhead's power was there ! and all was light ! ****** Lo ! rising from the shade of years, Visions or" light are beaming ! They pass away ! a host appears ! How bright the visionary shapes are gleaming ! Hark! 'tis the trumpet clang! the warrior band Sweep the dark waters for the holy land ; Knights, chieftains, paladins and kings ! Amid ten thousand banner'd things ! Bright gleam the far off spears and golden armor ringing^. Proud plumage waving, and red crosses flinging, Are all around, where upward they are winging, In pomp and pride of chivalry, Their streaming terrors to the sky ! And see, where burns the crescent high, Melting in clouds of purple dye ! And gay pavilions proudly shine, Gilded throne and gorgeous shrine Are stretched on Syria's strand ! And there the Moslem banner throws, Its threatening folds to coming foes ! See the Saracen lines are unveil'd, and display, The burning crests of their long array, And glance in fearful light, the sun's last trembling ray '. Hear ye no cry on Gaza's shore ? No victor shout, no battle roar ? The ringing trump come piercingly On the startled ear, and the hoarse war cry 1 The peal of drum rolling deeply on ! The war horn's din, and gonfalon ; Saw ye no flash of the scimetar's wave. 1G4 WILLIAM B. WALTER. As it fell on the crests of the warrior brave ? The crimson plume mingling with crescent of light ; The struggles of death in the heat of the fight ! Where the wild war horse trampled over the dead, And crush'd out the souls of the living, and fled ? His fetlocks all gory, and ghastly his eye ! And the groan and the curse, and the horrible yell Of the victor and vanquish'd, like spirits of hell From their chains unbound and warring high, Shrieking out the long curse of their agony I- Banners are spread on the mountain rock ! Dark shadows are melting ! and lo ! there 's a shock, And the battle is ending ! a loud stirring cry . Swells on the cloud wind exultingly ! The dark volumed smoke rolls awfully there ! Livid flashes' of light through its canopy glare ! Like meteor flame in the stormy air-^- Million of shafts giving dreadful token ! Spears kindling along ! all bloody and broken ! Like the angry clouds of the lowering morn ! Wildly they rush through the smoke and flame, Fighting to win a glorious name, Or lonely there to die ! Whence is that form that comes terribly on ? With a helmet of light in the dark battle won. In the splendor of youth ! it is vanish'd and gone ! O, gone for aye in the whirlwind breath Of the spirit that rides on the clouds of death! His white courser plunging with terrible wrath And leaping along the encumber'd path ! His rider he drags o'er the carnage ground ; Still muttering out an encouraging sound, And waving in vain his broken sabre round ; His bosom gore stained with a sabre wound ! In vain ! the scimetars are nearer clashing ! And arms of blood like death stars flashing ! Rolling of drums, and shrieks for life ! The earthquake motion of the strife ! And hark ! a fearful pause in that din profound ! The dark fight deepens, and gathers round ! The red cross banners are up on the gale ! And their floating is like the shattered sail Of the proud ship wreck'd by the ocean storm t Some frigate of air, of the bravest form, Flashing in blood, by the thunder torn ! WILLIAM B. VT .ALTER. 165 How they hurry along ; by their flight upborne ! The crescents are down ! there are suns in the sky I And hark ! the glad shout of victory ! Dark as the wave when spectres lower And shroud the deep at midnight hour ! Thick as the leaves when autumn tide, Has reft the forest of its pride ! Swift as the clouds by whirlwinds driven Far far along the troubled heaven ! The glorious vision pass'd ! Red ruin grasped his scythe, and strode along the waste ! - ******* The moon rides high in heaven ; the stars are bright Along the azure depths, shedding a timid light ! Who has not felt the mysteries of night ? Yea ! there is something hallow'd in this hour, When the mind wanders in its newborn power, Far from the things of earth to things above, And worships in the world of holiness and love ! In regions pure, where veil'd archangels dwell, Circling the eternal front of life ineffable I Sometimes we wander to the fairy land, Where the soul dances and her wings expand! And dewy shrubbery, and moonlight bowers, Retreat of fancy's glittering vagrant powers. Fair heaven ! where many color'd clouds enfold, Bright islets floating in the sea of gold ! Proud domes and palaces are shining there, With ivory columns, gemm'd with fire-stain'd spar ! There wanton zephyrs dance on budding flowers, And waft the fragrant leaves in snowy showers ; By sunny banks the silver waters whirl A'wildering music o'er their sands of pearl! And birds are singing from their star-lit bowers, To lull the sleeping of the blue eyed hours ! Light things are flitting in this world of air ! Gay creatures born of thought, are dwelling there ! The elfin race, who bathe in dews of morn ! And climb the rainbow of the summer storm ! Floating about, in thinnest robes of light, From meteors caught, that shoot along the night. Crowns, studded o'er with gems, their brows adorn, Stole from the eyelids of the waking morn ! 166 RICHARD DABNET. They wave bright sceptres, wrought of moonlight beams, And spears of crystal, tinged with lightning gleams ! Young naked Loves are sporting on the main, Or glide on clouds along the ethereal plain ! Their snowy breasts floating the waves among, Are kiss'd by shapes of light, and swim along In liquid sapphire with their humid locks Dropping thick diamonds o'er their mossy rocks ! The sea-green realm is all with emeralds shining, With rainbow arches o'er the depths reclining 1 And other skies are deeply rolling under, With clouds of trembling flame and slumbering thunder! And minstrels blow their horns of tulip flowers ! In echoes softly from their air-borne towers, Floats back the music, with a dreamy sound! A dove-wing'd presence, hovering round and round ! Visions of joy ! in sun-robe garments sporting, Dear Loves ! with gay looks in green pathways courting ! Who speak with eyes, and move with steps of sadness, And now, we list a cheerful song of gladness ! RICHARD DABNEY, A NATIVE of Virginia; he resided for a time in Philadel- phia, where he was engaged in some literary occupations. Further than this, we have obtained no information respecting him. He is the author of a small volume of poems published in 1814 at Philadelphia, several of which were included in Roscoe's specimens of American poetry, an J received a good deal of commendation from the editor in his critical remarks. THE SPRING OF LIFE. 'T is not enough that virtue sways Our present hours and passing days ; 'T is not enough, our purpose be From every base intentbn frae ; RICHARD DABNEY. 167 All that polluted life's first source Will float along its downward course, And dark shall be each future year, Unless the spring of life is clear. Though words of truth eternal say, Repentance washes guilt away ; If former times display a stain, The future shall the blot retain ; The hue and color of the past Upon the coming hour is cast ; And dark shall be each future year, Unless the spring of life be clear. O then, upon those future years, Bestow not agony and tears ! Though all thy sins shall be forgiven, And blotted from the book of heaven ; Their shades shall flit around, and fling Dark horror from their raven wing ; And bitter be each future year, Unless the spring of life is clear. * * * * * In early life when trusting youth Thinks all is goodness, worth, and truth, A holy inmate charms man's breast, And lulls its many woes to rest. It watches o'er his pillow'd head, And lures sweet slumbers to his bed ; It adds fresh charms to morning's ray, And guards him through the eventful day No might, but his, can bid depart, That holy inmate from his heart 'T is stainless conscience boon of heaven, To man, for heavenly purpose, given. But when amidst the world he roves, And that he ought to hate, he loves, Unheeded pass its frequent cries, The holy inmate quickly dies ; But oft within the varying scene, When thought his follies wakes between ; But oft within the gloom of night, 168 RICHARD DABNEY. Its shade, avenging, meets his sight Comes, deck'd with all the warmth of youth, When life was love, and peace, and truth, Comes, deck'd with all the charms that blest, In early life, his guiltless breast. It smiles in fancied view, appears, The virtuous bliss of youthful years ; It frowns before his blasted eyes, His present vices hideous rise. A WESTERN WAR SONG. To the north-western wilds, has our gallant youth gone Though his breast, with a tempest of feeling, was torn, Yet he scorn'd a weak tear, and disdained a weak sigh He is wedded to vengeance, or bounden to die, For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. On his dauntless steed borne, he hastens to ride, On his shoulder his rifle, his sword by his side O'er rivers, through forests, like the swift wind he flies To the sounds, that he pants for, the battle-field's cries. For wedded to vengeance, and stranger to fear, Is the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. Hurra, at Moravia, that battle-cry wakes, From the ranks the dire peal of the musketry breaks. The brave volunteer, 'midst the death-flashing cloud, Invokes the dear name of the murdered, aloud ; Then quick to the charge, with his death- dealing blow, Pours his wrath on the friends of the hatchet and bow. For wedded to vengeance, a stranger to fear, Is the soul of the hero, the brave volunteer. At that dread hour of night, when his cherish'd love bled, And her mangled form slept with the massacred dead, He had sworn a dread oath, that his rifle and steel, On the merciless demons, deep vengeance should deal, For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. RICHARD DABNEY. 10 Then joy to the brave volunteer, who has sped To the wilds of the north-west, where thousands have bled, Who, wedded to vengeance, a dread oath has sworn, On the arms of his comrades, a corse to be borne ; Or the deep debt of vengeance in tenfold to deal On the merciless fiends, with his rifle and steel, For the soul-harrowing scathe of the victim so dear To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. THE HEROES OF THE WEST. How sweet is the song of the festal rite, When the bosom with rapture swells high ; When the heart, at the soft touch of pleasure, beats light, And bright is the beam of the eye. In the dirge, that is pour'd o'er affection's bier, How holy an interest dwells, When the frequent drop of the frequent tear, The heart-rending anguish tells ; But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise To the patriot victor's fame, And livelier the tones of the heart-gender'd praise, That should wake from the harp at his name : But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour O'er the fallen hero's grave, Whose arm wields the sword for his- country no more, Who has died the death of the brave. There lives in the bosom a feeling sublime ; Of all, 't is the strongest tie ; Unvarying through every change of time, And only with life does it die. 'T is the love that is borne for that lovely land, That smiled on the hour of our birth ; 'Tis the love, that is planted by nature's hand, For our sacred native earth. 'T was this that the patriot victor inspired, Was strong in the strength of his arm, With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired, And to danger and death gave a charm. 'T was this that the dying hero blest, And hallow'd the hour when he fell, voi. ii. 15 170 RICHARD DABNEY. That throbb'd in the final throb of his breast,^ And heaved in his bosom's last swell : When a thousand swords, in a thousand hands, To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright ; When the willing hearts of Columbia's bands, Were firm for Columbia's right ; When the blood of the west, in the battle was pour'd, In defence of the rights of the west ; When the blood of the east stain'd the point of the sword, At the Eastern king's behest : Till the angel form of returning peace, O'er the plain and the mountain smiled Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease, And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild. She smiled and the nation's mighty woes Ceased to stream from the nation's eyes; She smiled and a fabric of wisdom arose, And exalted its fame to the skies. Then firm be its base, as the giant rock 'Midst the ocean waves alone, That the beating rain and the tempest shock, For numberless years has borne. And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan That, glorious structure's fall ; But still may it sanction the rights of man, And liberty guardian to all. Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise. To the patriot victor's fame, And lively the tones of the heart-gender'd praise, That should wake from the harp 'at his name. Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour, O'er the fallen hero's grave, Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more, Who has died the death of the brave. TURN NOT TO THE EAST. CAN the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat, For a different land feel its warm pulses beat ? Can the eye, oped not here, prop the heart-gender'd tear On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear ? RICHARD DABNEY. 171 Turn not to the East with the eye of desire, Turn not to the East like the sect'ry of fire ; For the wind of the East in its poison'd gale brings The fell breath of despots, and curses of kings. See the star of the West in its mild glories rise, See the star of the West tread its path in the skies : How sweet is the sight, while its soft radiance beams On my native land's hills, and my native land's streams. That star, when the proud boasting sons of the East Have danced through their day, and have finish'd their feast That star then shall shine over millions more blest, In the realms doom'd to rise in the wilds of the West- Then look to the Eastern horizon's blue bound, As if past its precincts no mortal is found ; Then look to the Eastern horizon's red light, As if past its rays brood oblivion and night. Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat, For a different land feel its warm pulses beat? Can the eye, oped not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear, On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear? TO A LADY. LADY, that form so slight and fair Was, surely, never framed to bear The season's change, the hand of pain, And fell disease's racking train, That must, from year to year, attend Life's course, till life itself shall end. That heart, so pure, so soft, so good, That scarce has yet a pang withstood, Was, surely, never meant to bear Grief, sorrow, wo, deceit, despair, And all the mental ills, that rend The human heart, till life shall end. Some happy island far removed, Whose groves of bliss an angel loved, 172 WASHINGTON IRVING. Where winter's gloom was never known, Nor fell disease's hollow groan ; Where grief, deceit, despair and wo Dare not their forms of horror show, Lady, was placed thy destined lot But fate, that destiny forgot ; Or, envious of thy blissful state, Some fiend of earth, and earthly hate, Gave thee to pain and sorrow here Betray'd thee to this world of care. WASHINGTON IRVING WAS born in the city of New York, and educated at Colum- bia College. His earliest productions were written at about the seventeenth year of his age, and appeared first in the New York Morning Chronicle, under the title of The Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle. These light and hasty performances of his youth were a few years since collected and republished in a volume. He began the study of law, but in 1805, the de- clining state of his health induced him to undertake a voyage to Europe. He travelled over most of the South of Eu- rope, and England, and returned to this country in 1807. He completed his law studies, but feeling more attachment to lit- erary occupations he did not pursue the profession. In 1807 he began in connexion with Mr Paulding and Mr Verplanck, the publication of Salmagundi, which appeared in numbers at irregular periods, and attained to such a popularity, that in a year it ran through six editions. In 1810 he gave to the world Knickerbocker's History of New York, a work which gave him a wide reputation. He furnished a great amount of mat- ter for the Analectic Magazine, among other articles, the bio- graphies of our most distinguished naval commanders. During the war, Mr Irving was military secretary, and aide-de-camp to the Governor of the state of New York. In 1815 he went WASHINGTON IRVING. 173 .to Europe, where he has since resided. The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, Tales of a Traveller, The Life of Co- lumbus, and biographies of the principal writers of Great Britain, works which he has executed since he left this coun- try have extended his fame wherever English literature is known. The subjoined extract is the only poetry to our knowledge, that has been published with his name. THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC. IN a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear. No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight, No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight; Here the wild flovv'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved. But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode, Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm ; All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came, Where the red me"n encounter'd the children of flame, While the noise of .the war-whoop still rang in his ears, And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears : With a glance of disgust, he the landscape survey'd, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide waving shade ; Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene. He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low ; He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow; He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave, And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave VOL. II. 15* 174 HENRY T. FARMER. Countless moons have since roll'd in the long lapse of time Cultivation has softened those features sublime ; The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade, And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade. But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye, On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high ; Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam, Where the torrent leaps hea'dlong embosom'd in foam. HENRY T. FARMER, A NATIVE of Charleston S. C., where he now resides as a physician, is the author of a volume of poems published in 1819. THE BATTLE OF THE ISLE. PART I. THE ISLE. ON the verge of the deep, where the dark sea-bird hovers, Where the wave, in loud fury, bursts wild on the shore ; Near the light-house, whose flame to the wandterer discovers A beam, like the glance of those long-sever'd lovers, Who meet in blest rapture, to sever no more ; An isle of white sand, like a desert is seen, Where no wild flower blushes in meadow of green ; But, where long tangled sea-weed is cast on the strand, Like the gray locks of age, pluck'd by merciless hand ; For the storm tore it up from its deep oozy bed, As the ruffian tears locks from the wanderer's head : Oh! ye who would view "this famed desert" aright, Go visit the strand by the " pale starry light ; " When the bleak wind is high, and the breakers are gleaming, And the owl is abroad, and the sea-gull is screaming ; Then, sit near yon circummured castle awhile, And behold the fell grandeur of Sullivan's isle. The moonbeam just gleams on yon ruin so bare, HENIIY T. FARMER. 175 One moment the moonbeam has fled ; Like the quick frantic smile on the face of despair, When she bends o'er the couch of the dead. Oft to visit this spot a blest seraph is seen, With an eye ever bright, and a robe ever green, And a cheek, where the red rose for ever must bloom : And she covers with daisies the path to the tomb ; The youth that she smiles on is certainly blest, He has strength for the chase, and fair visions for rest ; I have wiped the big drops from a brow cold as stone, But I have seldom seen health on her diamond throne. Far famed was the castle, now lost in decay, That frown'd o'er the high surging sea ; Though pale is the blood-stain, and long past the day, Still, who has not heard of that noble affray, And its banner, the green island tree ? PART II. THE NIGHT. In bugle bed-gown frown'd the night, Like angry witch with baneful spite ; She scarce allow'd the stars to light The sandy hills around. The moon, 't is thought, was fast asleep, In distant cavern dark and deep, Where silence doth her vigils keep, In mystery profound. The stricken drum announced the hour, The sentry paced round fosse and tower, And fearing much a drenching shower, Around his watch-coat drew : A sudden sorrow fill'd his mind, His memory, with hint unkind, Spoke of past times, and he repined His coat was now not new. Ah ! little did that watchman dream Of battle field e'er morning beam, Of noisy shout and piercing scream, From virgin beauty fair ; Or he had bow'd his lofty crest, And wiped his eyes," and smote his breast, And 'gainst his brow steel gauntlet press'd, In token of despair. Now arm in arm, or hand in hand, Two knights pass'd slowly o'er the strand, 176 tfENRY T. FARMER. Unarm'd with battle-axe or brand, Or faulchion bioacl, or spear: Anon they stopp'd before the tower, Where fair Floressa* slept in bower, Far from enchanter's baneful power, Or haggard wizard drear. " I know this beauteous virgin rare, And by yon vaulted arch I swear, A foot more light, a face more fair, And 'sooth an eye more bright, On earth before has never been, And she yclept the fairy queen By wilder'd knight or damsel seen, Would wither in her sight. Let poet Spenser deftly tell, Of Britomart and Florimel, And loudly wild his numbers s\vell, In either damsel's praise : Or e'en let Ariosto rear A trophy to Marphisa's spear, Or Tasso crown his virgin dear With never-fading bays : For these must bow before her shrine, And e'en the Amazon divine, Who tasted Alexander's wine, And Joan of Arc beside." Thus spoke the foremost knight, and strode In silence o'er the sandy road, That led toward her blest abode ; The gate flew open wide. PART III. THE VISIT. Slow o'er the platform paced a knight, f In glittering vest and armor dight ; High on his helm, .like passing cloud, With awful nod, A horsetail bow'd. 'T was said by Douglas, in his pride, " Right fairly " doth Lord Alarmion ride ; To give this mailed chief his due, He rode as well and fairly too. The steed Bucephalus of yore, * A>ich widow. f The hero_of the piece, who kept livery stables. HENRY T. FARMER. Triumphant through the battle bore Great Philip's son, in warlike pride ; 'T is said, when that famed stallion died, The monarch many a tear-drop shed, And built a city o'er his head : Our chief, for love of faithful steed, Had done almost as good a deed ; To build a city, though not able, He built, 't was all he could a stable. The knights* who to the gateway came, Call'd on Floressa's honor'd name, Saying, within that lady's bower, They came to spend a short half hour. The mailed chieftain, turning, said, " That lady bright has gone to bed : " The knight his rnanly port admired. And bowing would have soon retired ; When quick they heard a mighty jar, A tumult wild, a din of war: High on the castle's slanting stair, Appear' d the form of female fair ; Wild was her look with haggard fright, Her hair was loose, her dress was white : Down down she swept, like fell Simoom, Left all her armor in her room, Toss'd from her eyes the flowing hair, Brandished her stalwart arm in air ; And thus 'midst thunders, fire, and smoke, That tender, lovely virgin spoke, PART IV. THE BATTLE. " Hold ! thieves and murderers, on your lives, Bring pistols, scissors, carving knives, And shed their impious gore : " She caught the foremost by his coat, Grasp'd with her sinewy hand his throat, To dash him on the floor ; " A knife, a knife, fly quickly, fly, Attack the villains or I die. What, pistols, ho ! is no one nigh ? Quick, minion, on thy life ; My castle for a gleaming steel, Two officers belonging to the United States array; 177 178 HENRY T. FARMER. To make those damned robbers feel The deadly blow this arm can deal ; My kingdom for a knife ! ! Fire quick "a flash beam'd ruddy bright, A bullet took its erring flight From smoking petronel. Death now appear'd to call his court, For soon, as if in playful sport, A seeming victim fell. " Off, from my hall, you scoundrels base, Let no one longer show his face, This is my own domain and place, Let no damn'd slave deride it; Who dares among you all to frown? I paid in yonder distant town, Each farthing of the money down, The very hour / buy'd it. Down with the huge portcullis straight, Go, quick as lightning shut the gate, The lowly villains bind ;" With that, she gave a hearty damn- To either knight, the gate goes slam, And one remains behind : Gleam'd in her hand the pointed knife, 'T is aim'd at that lone captive's life, With many a deadly thrust ; The servants shudder with affright, For never was a mortal wight So handled, and so cursed. Against such gentleness, such charms, What knight could wield his missile arms ? Sure all must be subdued ! And he who tarried in her hold, And saw her meek demeanor bold, In cool amazement stood ! ! The chieftain with the waving crest Felt some compunction in his breast, And oped the gate again ; From whence the captive soon withdrew, And oaths like hailstones after flew In Eleusinian strain. Thus ended, without blood or spoil, The battle's rage and loud turmoil, And imprecations vile ; From hence ye warriors all beware, JAMES K. PAULDING. 179 Still ponder on that lady fair, And ever in your memories bear, The battle of the isle. JAMES K. PAULDING Is a native of the state of New York, and resides at pres- ent in the city of New York in the capacity of Navy Agent of the United States. Mr Paulding is well known to the public as one of the writers of Salmagundi, and the author of many other popular prose compositions. He wrote during the late war with Great Britain, The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, a sprightly and entertaining parody of one of Scott's poems. His poem of " The Backwoodsman," published in 1818, waa written with the view of pointing out to our native writers the rich materials for poetry with which our country abounds. The most striking characteristic of this work is its distinct and decided nationality. The author has aimed at giving a patri- otic and vernacular cast to the train of sentiment which pre- vails throughout the poem, as well as at preserving the truth and identity of his local descriptions. The design of the work is carried into effect with a proper attention to all the circum- stances necessary to give it success so far as the plan can be pronounced suitable ; but the writer has not succeeded in giv- ing sufficient interest to his performance to obtain for it any considerable popularity. There is in the story too little attempt to chain our attention by variety and novelty of incident, or striking delineation of individual character. Had more care been bestowed upon the narrative, The Backwoodsman might have been a favorite work. The descriptive parts are the best, and are entitled to much commendation for spirit and fidelity. 180 JAMES K. PAULDING. THE BACKWOODSMAN. 'T WAS sunset's hallow'd time and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky : Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fastanchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, Their flitting airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way ; Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, With swelling purple-sail, they rapid glide, Gay as the bark, where Egypt's wanton queen Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, The subject world sliptfrom his dotard rule. Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade ; The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds. Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm, The silent dews of evening dropt like balm; The hungry nighthawk from his lone haunt hies, To chase the viewless insect through the skies ; The bat began his lantern-loving flight, The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, His shrill notequaver'd in the startled ear; The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, With idle hum, and careless blundering eye ; The little trusty watchman of pale night, The fire-fly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, And took his merry airy circuit round The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew, In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew. JAMES K, PAULDING. 181 Now all throu^ Unheeded pass'd our little" roving band, For every soul had something here to do, Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide, In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side, And York and Lancaster whose rival rose In this good land, no bloody discord knows. .Not such their fate ! the ever grateful soil Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil : Richer and rounder every year he grows, Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly, Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky ; Before he sells, the market's sudden fall, Or sudden rise, when sold still worse than all ! Calmly he li% r es the tempest of the mind, That marks its course by many a wreck behind; The purpose high that great ambition feels, Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals, But never in his sober waking thought One stirring, active impulse ever wrought. Calmly he lives as free from good as blame, His home, his dress, his equipage the same, And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot What once he was, or what he once was not An honest man, perhaps, 'tis somewhat odd, That such should be the noblest work of God! So have I seen in garden rich and gay, A stately cabbage waxing fat each day ; Unlike the lively foliage of the trees, Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze, Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around, Upon its clumsy stem is ever found ; It heeds not noontide heats, or evening's balm, And stands unmoved in one eternal calm. At last, when all the garden's pride is lost, It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost, And in a savory sourkrout finds its end, From which detested dish, me heaven defend ! ****** Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day, And bright and early had been on his way, " VOL. II. 16 182 JAMES K. PAULDINGF. But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. One endless chaos spread before his eyes, No vestige left of earth or azure skies, A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere, Hid the green fields, and silent all the air. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow, The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. As light the fleeting vapors upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth, or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows greon, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, Or man, or beast alas ! was neither there, Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air ; 'T was a vast silent mansion rich and gay, Whose occupant was drown'd the other day ; A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom Amid the melancholy of the tomb ; A charnel house, where all the human race Had piled their bones in one wide resting place ; JAMES K. PAULDING, 183 Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, And sadly sought the lifeless world below. Now down the mountain's rugged western side. Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied, Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast The rolling fragments of the mountain rest ; Rocks tumbled on each other, by rude chance, Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance, Through which a brawling river braved its way. Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray. Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world, In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd, Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke, Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak ; With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side. And arms extending round them far and wide, They look'd coeval with old mother earth, And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth. There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base, Our tired adventurers found a resting place ; Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow, The little bevy nestled snug below, And with right sturdy appetite, and strong, Devour'u the rustic meal they brought along. The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree, And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee : The woodcock crovv'd as if alone he were, Or heeded not the strange intruders there, Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race In that sequester'd mountain 'biding place ; For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend, Man never makes the rural train his friend ; Acquaintance that brings other beings near, Produces nothing but distrust or fear: Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know, And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow, As thus in blithe serenity they sat, Beguiling resting time with lively chat, A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear, Each moment waxing louder, and more near, A dark obscurity spread all aroutid, And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground, While not a leaf e'en of the aspin stirr'd, And not a sound but that low moan was heard. There is a moment when the boldest heart 184 JAMES K. PAULD1NG. That would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart y That never shrunk from certain danger here, Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear ; 'T is when some unknown mischief hovers nigh, And heaven itself seems threatening from on high. Brave was our Basil, as became a man, Yet still his blood a little cooler ran, Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear, That every moment wax'd more loud and near. The riddle soon was read at last it came, And nature trembled to her inmost frame ; The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak, In writhing agonies the storm bespoke, The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere, Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air, The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around, The stoutest trees a stouter master found, Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go, And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below : Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd, Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd, And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore The gather'd spoils of earth along its shore, While trees that not an hour before had stood The lofty monarchs of the stately wood, Now whirling round and round with furious force, Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force. And shiver like a reed by urchin broke, Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke ; A hundred cataracts, unknown before, Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar, And as with foaming fury down they go, Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below; Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung^ Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue, While many a sturdy oak that stiffly braved The threatening hurricane that round it raved, Shiver'd beneath its bright resistless flash, Came tumbling down amain vvitli fearful crash. Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power, And struggle for the mastery of the hour; Higher the waters rose, and blacker still, And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill. PAUL ALLEN. 185 PAUL ALLEN. PAUL ALLEN was born at Providence, Rhode Island, Feb- ruary loth, 1775. His father, Paul Allen, was a representa- tive from that town in the General Assembly, toward the close of the Revolutionary war. Mr Allen was educated at Rhode Island College, and received his degree in 1796. He was educated for the bar, but never practised. After residing some time in Providence, he went to Philadelphia, and was engaged as a writer in the Port Folio and the United States Gazette in that place. About the same time, he was employed to prepare the travels of Lewis and Clark for the press, a piece of work which gave him credit and noto- riety as a writer, although the performance was certainly not calculated to call any high degree of talent into exercise. He was directly after this, engaged as one of the editors of the Federal Republican, and assisted in conducting that paper for some time, but not being able to obtain a support from the business, and disagreeing with his partner in the editorship, he abandoned it, and fell into a nervous affection, under which he was impressed with a fixed belief that he was to be way- laid and murdered. In addition to this mental disorder, he was in a condition of extreme indigence, with a widowed mother to support, who had left her home in her old age, and journeyed to Baltimore to reside with her favorite son. Some years before this, he had proposed to write a History of the American Revolution, and for a long time it was an- nounced every few months as nearly ready for publication. Meantime he had not written a line of the work, nor as it ap- pears from the relation of those who were intimate with him. at that period, so much as made the preparation of reading & single book upon the subject. His poverty was such at this time, that he was thrown into jail for a debt of thirty dol- lars, and the bad state of his health so increased his nervous malady, tiat he would leave his bed at midnight, under the VOL. n. 16* 186 PAUL ALLEN. impression that there were persons in his room or under his window, conspiring to take his life. In the midst of his troubles, however, he had friends, and an undertaking was set on foot in his behalf, by the establishment of the Journal of the Times, the direction of which was entrusted to him. The paper went on for a short time, but was discontinued for ^anl of capital. He was about this period a writer in the Portico, a magazine published at Baltimore, in which enter- prise he was associated with Pierpont and Neal, names since highly distinguished in American literature. At last, his friends succeeded in establishing the Baltimore Morning- Chronicle, a paper which under his care, soon ob- tained a wide, and apparently a profitable circulation. While Allen's reputation was at the height, it was determined to bring out the History of the Revolution, which the public had been so long expecting, and for which a subscription unequalled it is believed, in this country, had been obtained. Allen had done nothing, and could do nothing toward the work, and after a deal of negotiation, the whole work was actually written by Neal and Watkins,* although it appeared, in order to corres- pond with the proposals, under the name of Allen, who wrote only a page or two of the preface. His poem of Noah was ateo submitted to Neal, and by him cut down to about one fifth of its original size, and revised and altered throughout before publication. It made its appearance in 1821. He continued, we believe, editor of the Morning Chronicle till his death, which took place in 1826. Allen was a member of the Delphian Club of Baltimore, and by an incident occasioned by his connexion with that body, got considerable reputation as a humorist, nevertheless, we are assured by one who knew him well, that he had little hu- mor of any sort in him. " As a man," the same authority proceeds, " he was one of the best I ever knew ; as child-like * Xcal began with the Declaration of Independence, and finished the fiwt volume. It was very badly printed : he informs us that he never saw a proof. PAUL ALLEN. . 1ST and credulous with most, and as full of suspicion towards others, as anybody that ever breathed." Besides his Noah, he published a volume of miscellaneous poems in 1801. Allen's poetry is not characterized by those qualities, which distinguish his prose, brilliancy and show. His muse does not attempt any lofty flights. His earlier verses have the common marks of juvenility, but Noah has feeling and simplicity, and is, we think, deserving of more at- tention than it has yet received. CANTO. II. THE sun had sunk behind the watery waste, When night's pale regent, beautiful and chaste, With silent footsteps stole upon thexsight, As fearful to awake the dreams of night; Calmly she mounted up the azure plain, With all her twinkling vassals in her train ; Cloud after cloud, in long fantastic chase, Sweep in succession o'er her pallid face ; But she still travelling up the blue serene, Holds her calm course, and lifts her light between, Till, by no intervening shade o'ercast, She gives a steady settled ray at last : The treacherous deep, so late by tempests worn, And storms, as if by human passions torn, Now like a blessed spirit, once forgiven, Reflects the pure and sacred light of heaven. The ark, now gliding under easy sail, Urged by the pressure of a gentle gale, While no rude breath of wind the prospect mars. Moves o'er a liquid firmament of stars. At length she rests but with a shock so light, That not a single slumberer of the night Wakes from his dream. At morn's returning ray Shem oped the window to behold the day ; He gazed around, and o'er his head was seen The smiling olive, with its leaf of green. " Father, come forth ! " he cries, with heart elate, " For now the waters do indeed abate." Strange to relate, in these unthinking times, The traveller, while exploring distant climes, 188 PAUL ALLEN. Leaves thee, O Ararat ! and feels no shame, And scarcely do his lips inquire thy name. Had not thy towering summit long before Redeem'd the burden, that the deluge bore, Thou hadst not worn memorials so unjust, The prints of thoughtless footsteps in thy dust : And earth until this very hour had run A silent planet round the golden sun. 'T was Ararat alone preserved from death The little portion of almighty breath. When the fierce warfare of the heaven is o'er : And thunders, answering thunders cease to roar, How beautiful to see the sun's bright helm Shining serene in his recover'd realm ! The victor in his robes of triumph drest, Looks gay and smiling from the rosy west ! The dew drops catch the triumphs of the sky, And flash a little sun on every eye ! Such joy did in the patriarch's bosom reign, When first the arch reposed on earth again. He cries, " in reverence to this holy place. Put off your sandals, all of Noah's race ! It is the hour of mercy, and invites The bleeding sacrifice and solemn rites." The few survivors of the flood draw near; An alter form'd with pious haste they rear, And fain would female pity intercede, The favorite lamb is now condemn'd to bleed ; He, unsuspecting injury, draws nigh, Nor thinking he is ever doom'd to die, Bounds by the altar, with his merry feet ; The mountain echoes still return 4iis bleat ; When Japheth grasps him by his snowy fleece, Upward he looks, his eyes betoken peace, So pure is innocence, so undismay'd ! He sees no terror in the lifted blade : Then faint and dying at the altar's base, One look he casts upon the female face, And while the ruddy drops his vestuje stain He wonders why he feels the sudden pain. The flame ascends, and while the suppliants kneel, And offer up their prayers with pious zeal, They start, they listen, for a sudden sound Disturbs the sacred quiet reigning round ; It calls thee ! Noah, and the accent flows, Soft as a zephyr's whisper to a rose. PAUL ALLEN. 189 He turn'd, and saw a face that seera'd to wear A mingled character of joy and care: It was not joy ; for though upon the cheek A smile appear'd, it was a smile so meek, So coy, so placid, every eye might know 'T was touch'd with memory of former wo ; And though the foreheads yielding ivory wore The marks that Care's rude hand had sculptured o'er, The traces now were fugitive and faint, Smoothed to the resignation of a saint. He saw an eye, that when it cast a look Down on the deluge, instantly partook Of deep anxiety ; when on the face Of Noah, it had found a resting place, Sorrow was banish'd from its orbit quite, It sparkled with a tender mild delight. The patriarch gazed, and felt, he knew not why, Uncommon reverence for that pensive eye ; But when he saw the bow that rose and spread Itsmellow'd radiance round the stranger's head; When he beheld upon her panting breast The dove alight, and close his wings to rest ; Doubt was removed, he cried with welcome brow, Angel of mercy, I behold thee now ! " Thee, Patriarch, I have known," the vision said ; " From earliest infancy I 've watched thy head. I knew thee in that season, when the toy Of merry childhood could afford thee joy : Saw thee, when truant from a parent's care With spirits high, and heart as light as air, Thy infant eye had caught in summer hour The insect plunderer of the fragrant flower, Loading his little thighs with waxen spoil And humming like a laborer o'er his toil. Beheld thy hand that could not then forbear To seize the poor mechanic seated there, The little captive look'd, and saw with dread The infant blossqm closing o'er his head ; Disconsolate, he roam'd his narrow cell, The petty prisoner of a floweret bell. Be it my present office to display Some great events that time's unfolding ray In long futurity shall bring to light, Though now deep buried in the shades of night. No more the thorns and thistles in thy ground, Shall raise their martial points to fence thee round ; 190 PAUL ALLEN. That sad and mournful family, that shun All vegetation and the cheering sun, And seem in some secluded spot to tell, In whispers to the wind, that Adam fell. Thy spot of ground no ruffian weed shall taunt, But in its stead, thy hand the vine shall plant, The fruitful vine, and, while thou joy'st to know How full and dark its clustering honors gro More shalt thou joy to hear what God enjoins : hy progeny shall far exceed the vine's. But ah ! thou little know'st what depth of sin, What idiot frenzy dwells the grape within ; Reason no longer holds her balance true. With eyes once bathed in this bewildering dew; He tastes ; the victim knows not when to stop, Though frantic demons poison every drop. Down, down, he sinks in ruin and despair ; In vain may sacred friendship, weeping there, In vain may fathers, brothers intercede, In vain may honor execrate the deed. Still does the charm, the infernal spell allure, The demon laughs, his prey is now secure. The solid earth presents too small a space To bound the enterprise of Adam's race; A hardy race of men shall spring from thee Whose only residence an ark shall be. For lo ! astonish'd ocean shall survey, In future times, though distant now the day, Such wonders as have never reach'd his ken. His empire humbled by the sons of men. Arks beyond number, borne by heavenly breath, Shall dare the surface of the roaring death. Vain does he fret and climb the heights of air, Like some proud steed that scorns his lord to bear. In vain he foams and rears, for human skill Has conquer'd, and he feels the bridle still. Ocean's proud giant sees the roaring main Usurp'd by man, and flies, but flies in vain, O'er liquid mountains, horrible to name, Intent on death, man seeks the timorous game In vain the monster trembles, and retreats To his dark caverns, and his coral seats. The persecutor, anxious for his prey, Waits his return unto the beams of day ; There struck he flies and flounders with the pain, PAUL ALLEN. 191 And seeks the dark recesses of the main *, Vain is his flight opposed to human skill, For there, the barb of death pursues him still ; Again he rises to the upper air, In vain, for hostile vengeance follows there ; Now see! the monster spouts away his breath, Lashes the foaming surge, then sinks to death, His native element is no retreat, He pours his life-blood at his conquerer's feet. Would that his life alone might ocean stain ! Ah no, the spirit of departed Cain Henceforth shall rise and walk the earth again. In vain may suppliant mercy intercede, How many Abels shall be doom'd to bleed ! More wonders still ! thy race, by vengeance driven, Shall seize and hurl the thunderbolt of heaven ! Yea, the dread lightning by divine command, Shall flash hereafter in a human hand. O while ye grasp the bolts of heaven forbear ! The life of brother ! man, in pity spare I O cherish still the transitory breath, Nor call these agents to the aid of death ! Vain is the wish, the man in future days Shall claim the high reward, his country's praise I For all the varied misery that appears In father's, brother's, widow's, orphan's tears ; For lives so dear thus butcher : d day by day, A leaf of paltry laurel shall repay ; Detested plant ! see all its verdant veins Are running now with deep and scarlet stains ! Fann'd by, O innocence ! thy sacred sighs, The floweret smells and blossoms to the skies ! How horrible to tell I and yet how true ! The plant is nourished by a bloody dew. I. hear the thunder roar, the dying shriek The raven flap the terrors of his beak ! He sees the tumult in his airy way, He scents the carnage, and he stoops for prey. O righteous heaven ! why is Almighty love So long delay'd, why lingers yet my dove ? The earth shall mourn, and desolate with grief, And rue the absence of the olive leaf Refrain, my sons this dreadful deed refrain Let not the tears of mercy plead in vain ! The eagle towei < in his pride of place, PAUL ALLEN. Shall see some venturous son of Adam's race, Mounted on wings, with balance just and true, Scouring with him the firmament of blue ; Such wonders shall be known in future times ; Unterrified from cloud to cloud, he climbs, Till from the height of his celestial seat, Rivers shall vanish underneath his feet. And even Ararat that towers so grand, Shall seem diminish'd to a grain of sand. Behold him where the aerial tribes are seen Supported by a bubble, sail serene, And though the sport of all the winds that blow, He sees a subjugated world below. Now, in a cloud the glittering wonder hides, Anon, it skims along the clear blue tides, While shouting thousands with admiring gaze, Pursue this sailor of the solar blaze. The time shall come, so speaks Almighty doom, When human art shall triumph o'er the tomb ; r The body form'd with such transcendant art, Such nicety of skill in every part, Shall, though the seat of an immortal mind. Vanish from earth, and leave its shade behind. Thy tame, obsequious shadow in thy way, That humble offspring of the solar ray, Lives to proclaim this truth to all thy line, A sunbeam boasts a longer date than thine. Go worship at ambition's bloody fane, Till even rapine would its rage restrain ; Go climb the fields of air, the heights explore, Beyond where even eagles dare to soar ; Go set thy footstep on the roaring wave, Defy the ocean's depth, his coral cave ; Go snatch the lightning from the azure field, And teach thy hand the bolt of heaven to wield ; Then, son of Adaih, count thy mighty gains, Of all thy glory, but the corpse remains ; Poor heir of sickness, sorrow, and decay, Thou wretched tenant of a little day, One moment moving, like a god august, The next a mass of silent mouldering dust; Though death with such remorseless vengeance drives, Thy cold insensate shadow still survives. It lives to tell how small the human span What frail materials constitut " _i man ; PAUL ALLEN. 193 It lives a satire on the very name Of human grandeur, and thy hopes of fame. Still art shall triumph with the conqueror's wreath, And teach the rugged marble how to breathe ; The human form beneath her magic shock Breaks from the rude recesses of the rock ; The frowning quarry that no tempest fears, That bears the brunt of heaven for endless years, When touch'd by art, and fashion'd by her skill, Dissolves in female beauty at her will. Behold, enrapturing every heart and hand, Cold and serene the marble virgin stand ! What harmony, what symmetry, what grace, Move o'er each limb and languish on the face ! How loose, how lovely all the tresses flow Upon that bosom's pure and lustrous snow ; She frowns, each bold intruder to reprove, Ah ! why does not the lovely vision move ? Wherefore this silence, why this steadfast air ? Rouse from thy slumber, speak, thou lovely fair ! Alas ! how vain is all this blaze of skill, The breath, the Almighty breath is wanting still ; Stay, and this lovely prodigy behold, How beautiful to view, and yet how cold. What idle industry, what fruitless pain The virgin steps into the block again. Monarchs shall strive amidst an empire's shock To gain possession of this beauteous block: Poets shall sing its praise in strains so sweet, That even listening angels might repeat ; From distant nations, pilgrims still shall come, And gaze till admiration's self be dumb ; 'T is still bereft of an Almighty breath, And stands a steadfast monument of death. Unconquer'd man, by science guided far, Shall boldly measure every brilliant star, Till all these orbs in glory so replete Shall roll in silent homage at his feet. Here is a triumph for thy honor'd brow : Is man encircled with the laurel now ? This conquest, purchased by no bloody stains, Among thy kindred no distinction gains, In vain the lights of yonder heaven may plead If carnage does not consecrate the deed ! ' VOL. II. 17 194 CRYSTALINA. The angel paused ; her face so fair to view Look'd lovelier in the drops of sorrowing dew ; 1 - patriarch gazed, the vision sunk in air, Mercy's tears were still remaining there. The But CRYSTALIIVA. " CRYSTALINA, a Fairy Tale, by an American," was pub- lished at New York in 1816. We have not been able to learn the name of/the author, but the high merit of the poem will not allow us to pass it without notice. It is a tale of wild and wondrous adventure, replete with all the marvels of Fairy Land, and the potent and wonder-working machinery of magic and incantation. The execution is very unequal, but a great portion of the work shows extraordinary power of imagina- tion, and command of poetical language. It would be difficult to produce from the whole body of English literature, any- thing of the same kind superior to the passages of bold and magnificent description with which this anonymous production abounds. THEN down the vale, the hermit led the way; The Knight pursued, impatient of delay : Dark was that vale, of tall gigantic wood, The grim abode of elves and beasts of blood ; The couchant tiger scream'd as they pass'd by, And on them wudjy roll'd his meteor-eye ! The wolf sprang frighted from the crackling brake, And in their pathway coil'd the hissing snake. High o'er their heads, umbrageous oaks outspread Their giant arms, and awful murmurs made. Scarce had they reach'd the centre of the vale, When lo ! black clouds, before a northern gale, Came sweeping on, and with a dusky veil CRYSTALINA. 195 Shrouded the moon the mountain tops, oak crown'd, Toss'd in the storm, and echoed to the sound ^ Of trees uptorn, and thunders rolling round.*** They sat them down beneath an aged oak, Which, though late riven by a thunder-stroke, Seem'd tempest-proof, and there the fearless Knight Waited impatient for returning light. * * * * Tremendous scene ! the prowlers of the wood Stopp'd in mid-chase and spared their victim's blood, Fled to their caves, or crouching with alarm, Howl'd at the passing spirits of the storm ! Eye-blasting spectres and bleach'd skeletons, With snow-white raiment, and disjointed bones, Before them strode ; and meteors, flickering dire, Around them trail'd their scintillating fire, Livid and pale as light of funeral pyre. Serenely grand, the venerable Sage Beheld the scene and heard the tempest rage, Then rose abruptly, and with accents dire, Bade the fierce demons of the storm retire 1 The clouds dispersed ; again the tranquil moon Sat in mid sky upon her silver throne, And heaven's blue vault with stars unnumber'd shone. No sound was heard, save where the torrent hoar Down the steep mountain fell with sullen roar, Or far away, exploding long and loud, The deep-toned thunder rent the fiery cloud. Then thus, beneath the thunder-riven oak, The hoary wizard to Rinaldo spoke " See'st thou yon glade, where quivering moon-beams play, Like dancing spectres on a tomb-stone gray ? In that still glade, a fairy-circle lies When Cynthia, Night's torch-bearer, lights the skies There sportive Fairies dance till Phoebus rise ; If so thou dar'st, approach that circle dread, And thrice three times around it boldly tread. Then shall the earth beneath thy feet expand, And a dark road disclose to Fairy land." The Hermit ceased, and by the dim moon-light, Rinaldo spied the circle, glistening bright. Back to his cave the old magician went, Whilst bold Rinaldo towards the circle bent His desperate course his temper'd steel he drew, And thrice around the mystic circle flew. 196 CR1TSTALINA, Then rose from earth deep groans and fearful crieff. And lurid meteors shot along the skies. When round the ring he hurried thrice again, The earth sent up a blue sulphureous flame, That burnt and quiver'd like a dying lamp But on he press'd with lirm and fearless tramp. Now when nine times the Knight had hasted round, The hollow earth sent forth a rumbling sound, And, wide and sudden, yawn'd the rocking ground. Down the dark chasm the desp'rate warrior strode, With random steps along a viewless road ; Till massy rocks his onward march opposed, And o'er his head the earth in thunder closed ; But soon a passage in the cloven stone With joy he found, and boldly hurried on. But slow and cautious, with his pond'rous spear, Poised his bold march along the labyrinth drear. Through rayless glooms ; through silence deep and dread, Down, downward far the dismal cavern led. At length beneath him shone a silver light, Like glow-worm twinkling through the gloom of night, And tuneful sounds, celestial, high, and clear, Rose from beneath and charm'd his wondering ear. Thither he sped, and from the narrow way Sprang with delight into a realm of day, And upright stood upon the radiant plain Of Fairy land, a heavenly domain. O ! 't was a Valley of enchanting view, Where all things lovely and delightful grew ; Where groves of orange, cinnamon, and myrrh, Trees that bled frankincense and balsams rare, With grateful odors fill'd the breezy air Elysian groves of harmony and flowers, Leafy pavilions and ambrosial bowers ; With many a mead, and many a winding stream, Glade flowering fair, and glittering lake between. Not the spiced breeze, from Ceylon's groves that springs, Or shakes Arabian odors from its wings ; Not shining gardens of Hesperides, Whose golden rivers and auriferous trees, The setting sun from his prone chariot sees, Nor aught on earth for fragrance could compare, Nor yet for beauty with this valley fair. This gay, celestial valley to enclose, Mountains sublime in even circle rose, CRYSTALINA. 197 And towering 1 high, on tip-toe seem'd to stand, To gaze enchanted on the radiant land. Glowing aloft a golden cloud was spread, Whose splendid vault a rich effulgence shed On all below for sun, nor moon, nor star Was ever seen, or ever needed there. Like a vast amphitheatre it seem'd, With mountain-walls ; from storm and sunshine screen'd By costly canopy of sheeted gold But greater far and fairer to behold. In sweet amaze and exultation high, O'er all the scene the youth directs his eye His wilder'd thoughts in floods of rapture float, And time, and place, and being are forgot " Celestial visions ! " cried th' astonish'! Knight " Ye golden prospects that enchant my sight ! Are ye indeed substantial ? or but vain, And wild illusions of a love-sick brain ? Methinks I dream ! " When thus Rinaldo said, His well-known self, he doubtfully survey'd, And waved his arm and shook his plumed head. But soon the memory of his captive love The sweet amazement from his senses drove. " Fair land ! " he cried " and dangerous as fair, A foe to thy prosperity is near ; Darkness shall soon thy saffron skies o'erwhelm I come to spoil thee of thy richest gem But where, where fly to find my captive fair? No cities, fields, or cottages appear. 'T is desert all th' unnumber'd flow'rets sweet Lift their gay heads unbruised by living feet ; Even at my hand the fearless songsters sing> And round me flutter with familiar wing ; Or 'mid the flowers, like sunbeams, glance about, Sipping with slender tongues the dainty nectar out. * * * * He ceased, and now a glittering palace sees, Deep in the vale amid embowering trees ! A splendid pile of precious gems it seems, Wrapt in a blaze of variegated beams With cautious steps he thither bent his way, Whilst all around, irradiations gay Full on his pathway beam'd celestial day.. He trode on carpets, gorgeously display'd, Of woven flowers and grassy verdure made. VOL. u. 17* 198 CRYSTALINA. From all the waving trees, the plumy throngs, Welcomed the warlike stranger with their songs And lo ! from bowers of myrtle, fair and green, A choir of damsels dance with smiling mien ! Their silken robes the playful zephyrs throw From side to side, and wantonly bestow Delightful glimpses of their limbs of snow. With lily-hands they strike the trembling strings Of golden lyres the grove responsive rings, Soothing his soul with endless echoings. * * * * Towards the palace, silent and alone The hero moved afar the fabric shone Like gorgeous clouds that throng the setting sun : But ere he reach'd that palace, huge and bright, A glorious scene detain'd the wondering Knight A pearly river ! whose melodious tide Laved golden shores ! whose banks were beautified With trees wide-waving, paridisian bowers tude of flowers liberal Flora showers, its branches twain, In circling sweep around a flowery plain, Through vocal groves, then fondly met again. The Islet fair, so form'd, arose between, With dome-like swell, array'd in richest green. So fair it was, so smooth, so heavenly sweet r It seem'd made only for angelic feet. On this green isle the splendid palace stood, And rainbow bridges arch'd the pearly flood A fairer bow fair Juno ne'er display'd In vernal skies, though not, like Juno's, made Of subtle sun-beams, but of solid gems, Such as adorn imperial diadems. Ita blue was solid sapphire. Its gay green Was massy emerald. The ruby sheen Form'd its bright curve of rich and rosy red ; Its yellow hue the golden topaz shed. Seem'd either end on snow-white clouds to lie They were not clouds, but sculptured ivory ! And now a bugle breathed a silver sound, Whose notes with soft reverberations, round Rang sweet and long ; now silently unfold The diamond gates on hinge of polish'd gold ; vv mi irees wiae-waving, paruus And all the gaudy multitude of That on spring's lap the liberal '. This stream, dividing, roll'd its 1 CRYSTALINA. 199 And now rode out a fairy cavalcade In order'd march ; with banners bright display'd, With diamond lances and with golden helms, And shields of gold emboss'd with sparkling gems, Advanced the pageant ; proud beneath each knight, O'er grassy levels pranced their steeds milk-white, Whose ivory hoofs in glittering silver shod, With nimble grace on blushing flow'rets trod. Prancing they came, and as the trumpets blew, They neigh'd for pride, and arch'd their necks of snow ; Toss'd their proud heads indignant of the rein, Champ'd their foam'd bits and paw'd the trembling plain, Warrior and steed array'd for battle shone, Whose burnish'd mail and bright caparison Illumed, far round, the flower- enwoven field, And restless splendors flash'd from shield to shield. Loud in the van the wreathed bugle spoke, Till woods and floods with martial clamors shook. * # * * Now sad, amid a shady solitude, On the green margin of a prattling flood, Rinaldo paused as there forlorn he stood, The swell of distant melody he heard ; Anon, a golden chariot appear' d, Proudly advancing, drawn by peacocks fair, With gorgeous plumery, dancing in the air. On that bright chariot, in imperial state, The queen of Oberon, fair Titania, sate : On downy cushion, rich with gold and green, Aloft she sat, like Jove's celestial queen, When, through the skies, she drives her glowing car, And gazing gods adore her from afar. Around Titania, youths and damsels throng, Warbling, with dulcet breath, a magic song, Whose mazy tide intoxicates the soul From neighboring rocks a thousand echoes roll The refluent sounds, and fondly multiply, With busy tongues, th' angelic harmony. In robes of green, fresh youths the concert led, Measuring, the while, with nice, emphatic tread Of tinkling sandals, the melodious sound Of smitten timbrels ; some, with myrtles crown'd, Pour the smooth current of sweet melody, Through ivory tubes ; some blow the bugle free, 200 CKYSTALINA. And some, at happy intervals, around, With trumps sonorous swell the tide of sound ; Some, bending raptured o'er their golden lyres, With cunning fingers fret the tuneful wires ; With rosy lips, some press the syren shell, And through its crimson labyrinths, impel Mellifluous breath, with artful sink and swell. Some blow the mellow, melancholy horn, Which, save the Knight, no man of woman born, E'er heard and fell not senseless to the ground, With viewless fetters of enchantment bound. The nodding trees its magic influence own, And, spell-struck, drop their golden clusters down; The forests quaver, and elysian bowers, With pleasing tremors shed their fragrant flowers. An awful silence, winds and waters keep ; And spell-chain'd brooks, that bound from steep to eteep, On jutting rocks, delay their headlong leap. The cross alone, the holy cross disarms The Fairy, fiends, and baffles all their charms. SONG OF THE SEER. On sweet May-eve, when groves were green, And wild birds chanted merrily, When the air was calm, the sky serene, It was a lady of high degree, And she sat under a green-wood tree, O ! she waited there for her dear knight, But the sun had set, the birds were mute, The dark wolf howl'd on the mountain height ; The raven croak'd, the owl did hoot, And pale-red meteors round her shoot. O ! oft she gazed, and oft she sigh'd ; Oft listened for Alonzo's tread " Why tarries thus my love ? " she cried " The hour, the appointed hour has fled, The night-dew chills my houseless head. " Ah ! why did I believe his tale, And leave my father's castle gay, To meet him in this secret vale ? Or why, ah ! why does Alonzo stay ? 'T is night, and the castle is far away ! CRYSTALINA. 201 " But hark ! a distant voice I hear ! 'T is not my love, but the night owl's cry " Thus wails Syrenna, wild with fear ; Her raven-locks on the night-winds fly, Her breath is quick and her heart beats high. Now the sky grew black, the winds blew loud, n the dusky vale his deep-blue cloud d pale, And shriek'd and fled through the stormy gale , The lightning gleam'd on the dusky vale And thunder spoke from his deep-blu Up rose Syrenna, wild and pale, ek'd and fled But when she reach'd a lonely glade, Where wild-briars rude and thistles stood, A ghastly fiend her eyes survey'd! It beckon'd her to a gloomy wood " 'T is my love ! " she cried and swift pursued. It led the maid to a cavern deep ! But on the gulf the lightning glared, Before she took the fatal leap ! The spectre laugh'd and disappear'd But the Benshie's fatal scream she heard. And she heard, in her ear, a death-bell toll, And the raven croak on a blasted tree The Lord have mercy on her soul ! It was a piteous sight to see The sorrows of that sweet lady. And now a-down that dusky glen She saw, she chased the fell rush-light It led her to a watery fen, Then shriek'd, and quench'd its taper bright And all was horror, all was night. And now strange voices fill the air, And yells, and shouts botli loud and long Ah fly ! ah fly ! distracted fair, For fierce and fast the fiends come on, And see ! grim phantoms round thee throng. Syrenna fled, in vain fled she ; For the ghastly crew met her blasted view, And a black fiend spoke, and fierce spoke he, CRYSTALINA. As his arms round her snow-white neck he threw, " We, lady fair ! are the Elfin crew ! " Thrice welcome to our merry glen ! And thou shalt be our mistress bright, And dance with us on the quaking fen, To the rush-light's red and glimmering light, When tempests howl at dead of night." They grasp'd her hard by her tender hand, They dragg'd her away by her raven hair ; Her shrieks were loud, but the ghastly band To a stormy heath led the lady fair, And bared her breast to the driving air. On the stormy heath a ring they form ; They place therein the fearful maid, And round her dance in the howling storm The winds beat hard on her lovely head ; But she clasp'd her hands and nothing said. O ! 't was, I ween, a ghastly sight, To see their uncouth revelry ; The lightning was the taper bright, The thunder was the melody, To which they danced with horrid glee ! The fierce-eyed owl did on them scowl ; The bat play'd round on leathern wing ; The coal-black wolf did at them howl, The coal-black raven did croak and sing And o'er them flap his dusky wing. An earthquake heaved beneath their feet ; Pale meteors revel'd in the sky ; The clouds sail'd by like a routed fleet, The night-winds shriek'd as they pass'd by, The dark-red moon was eclipsed on high But hark ! what voice, as thunder loud, Now shakes the wilderness profound? Whose form appears so tall and proud ? Beneath whose foot-step quakes the ground, And whose bright armor gleams around ? CRYSTALINA. O ! 't is Alonzo true and brave, And loud he calls on his true-love's name He comes ! he comes the maid to save, Through thunder, lightning, wind and rain, With buckler broad and sword of flame. Alonzo spied his lady fair, He spied her amid that ghastly crew, And he spurr'd his steed and couch'd his spear But the holy cross on his breast they knew, And shriek'd, and away like lightning flew. "And hast thou come ? " cried the lady bright " Alonzo comes ! " the knight replied, " To keep his promise with thee to-night ; For spite of thy father's cruel pride, Sweet lady ! thou shalt be my bride." He spoke, and mounted his foamy steed, He took his lady fair, behind, And away he rode to their bridal bed, More swiftly than the mountain-hind When the hunter's cry is on the wind. But all that night raved the tempest dire ; A thunder shaft on the castle fell, Of dark Almanzor, the lady's sire, And the winds all night rung his castle-bell They rung it loud for Almanzor's knell ! 203 204 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. MRS SIGOURNEY is a native of Norwich, Connecticut. Du- ring the first twenty years of her life she resided in her native town ; she has since lived at Hartford, and is now the wife of Charles Sigourney, Esq. of that city. It is an omen of favorable import to our national literature, that the claims of female talent have heen ably advanced, and readily acknowledged. The value of such an accession to its interests, cannot fail of being duly estimated in an age, which is enjoying the pure and delightful breathings of Mrs Heman's poetry and the strong practical sense of Miss Edgeworth. T and scattered, by the bursts of praise, That swells the song th' astonish'd Hebrews raise? The desert waked at that proud anthem, flung From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue : The first to Liberty that e'er was sung. But if, when joy and gratitude inspire, Such high-toned triumph walks along the lyre, What are its breathings, when pale sorrow flings Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings ? At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns His life and empire in prophetic lines. Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends, And conscious earth, as when the dew descends, Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell, Her herbs shoot greener, at that fond farewell. Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows : And as that harp, which God alone bestows, Is swept in concert with that sinking breath, Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death. It was the touch of death ! Sweet be thy slumbers, Harp of the prophet ! but those holy numbers, That death-denoting, monitory moan. Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan, From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw, O'er Jordan's wave, where Canaan met his view. His sunny mantle and his hoary locks Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks. Where is that mantle ? Melted into air. Where is the prophet ? God can tell thee where. So, on the brow of some romantic height, A fleecy cloud hangs hovering in the light, Fit couch for angels; which while yet we view, 'T is lost to earth, and all around is blue. Who is that Chief, already taught to urge The battle stream, and roll its darkest surge, Whose army marches through retiring seas, Whose gory banner spreading on the breeze, Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers, And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers? The moon can answer ; for she heard his tongue, And cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung. VOL. ii. 22 253 254 JOHN PTERPONT. The sun can tell : O'er Gibeon's vale of blood, Curving their beamy necks, his coursers stood, Held by that hero's arm, to light his wrath, And roll their glorious eyes upon his crimson path. What mine, exploding, rends that smoking ground ? What earthquake spreads those smouldering ruins round? The sons of Levi, round that city, bear The ark of God, their consecrated care, And, in rude concert, each returning morn, Blow the long trump, and wind the curling horn. No blackening thunder smoked along the wall : No earthquake shook it: Music wrought its fall. The reverend hermit, who from earth retires, Freezes to love's, to melt in holier fires, And builds on Libanus his humble shed, Beneath the waving cedars of his head ; Year after year, with brighter views revolving, Doubt after doubt, in stronger hopes dissolving ; Though neither pipe, nor voice, nor organ's swell, Disturb the silence of his lonely cell ; Yet hears enough, had nought been heard before, To wake a holy awe, and teach him to adore. For, ere the day with orisons lie closes, Ere on his flinty couch his head reposes, A couch more downy in the hermit's sight, Than beds of roses to the Sybarite ; As lone he muses on those naked rocks, Heaven's last light blushing on his silver locks, Amid the deepening shades of that wild mountain, He hears the burst of many a mossy fountain, Whose crystal rills in pure embraces mingle, And dash, and sparkle down the leafy dingle, There lose their liquid notes : with grateful glow, The hermit listens, as the waters flow, And says there 's Music in that mountain stream, The storm beneath him, and the eagle's scream. There lives around that solitary man, The tameless music, that with time began ; Airs of the Power, that bids the tempest roar, The cedar bow, the royal eagle soar ; The mighty Power, by whom those rocks were piled, Who moves unseen, and murmurs through the wild. What countless chords does that dread Being strike ! Various their tone, but all divine alike : JOHN PIERPONT. 255 There, Mercy whispers in a balmy breath, Here, Anger thunders, and the note is death ; There, 'tis a string that soothes with slow vibration, And here, a burst that shakes the whole creation. By heaven forewarn'd, his hunted life to save, Behold Elijah stands by Horeb's cave ; Grieved that the God, for whom he 'd warmly striven, Should see his servants into exile driven, His words neglected, by those servants spoken, His prophets murder'd, and his altars broken. His bleeding heart a soothing strain requires : He hears it : softer than JEolian lyres, " A still, small voice," like Zephyr's dying sighs, Steals on his ear : he may not lift his eyes, But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings, And hears a whisper from the King of kings. Yet, from that very cave, from Horeb's side, Where spreads a desert prospect, wild and wide, The prophet sees, with reverential dread, Dark Sinai rear his thunder-blasted head ; Where erst was pour'd on trembling Israel's ear, A stormier peal, that Moses quaked to hear. In what tremendous pomp Jehovah shone, When on that mount he fix'd his burning throne ! Thick, round its base, a shuddering gloom was flung ; Black, on its breast, a thunder-cloud was hung : Bright, through that blackness, arrowy lightnings came, Shot from the glowing vail, that wrapp'd Its head in flame. And when that quaking mount the Eternal trod, Scorch'd by the foot of the descending God, Then blasts of unseen trumpets, long and loud, Swell'd by the breath of whirlwinds, rent the cloud, And Death and Terror stalk'd, beneath that smoky shroud. Seest thou that shepherd boy, of features fair, Of eye serene, and brightly flowing hair, That leans, in thoughtful posture, on his crook, And, statue-like, pores o'er the pebbly brook ? Yes : and why stands he there, in stupor cold ? Why not pursue those wanderers from his fold ? Or, 'mid the playful children of his flocks, Toss his light limbs, and shake his amber locks, Rather than idly gaze upon the stream ? > That boy is lost in a poetic dream : And, while his eye follows the wave along, His soul expatiates in the realm of song. 256 JOHN PIERPONT. For oft, where yonder grassy hills recede, I 've heard that shepherd tune his rustic reed ; And then such sweetness from his fingers stole, I knew that Music had possess'd his soul. Oft, in her temple shall the votary bow, Oft, at her altar breathe his ardent vow, And oft suspend, along her coral walls, The proudest trophies that adorn her halls. Even now, the heralds of his monarch tear The son of Jesse from his fleecy care, And to the hall the ruddy minstrel bring, Where sits a being, that was once a king. Still, on his brow, the crown of Israel gleams, And cringeing courtiers still adore its beams, Though the bright circle throws no light divine, But rays of hell, that melt it while they shine. As the young harper tries each quivering wire, It leaps and sparkles with prophetic fire, And, with the kindling song, the kindling rays Around his fingers tremulously blaze, Till the whole hall, like those bless'd fields above, Glows with the light of melody and love. Soon as the foaming demon hears that psalm, Heaven on his memory bursts, and Eden's balm ; He sees the dawning of too bright a sky ; . Detects the angel in the poet's eye ; With grasp convulsive, rends his matted hair ; Through his strain' d eye-balls shoots a fiend-like glare ; And flies, with shrieks of agony, that hall, The throne of Israel, and the breast of Saul ; Exiled to roam, or, in infernal pains, To seek a refuge from that shepherd's strains. The night was moonless: Judau's shepherds kept Their starlight Avatch : their flocks around them slept. To heaven's blue fields their wakeful eyes were turn'tl, And to the fires that there eternal burn'd. Those azure regions had been peopled long, With Fancy's children, by the sons of song : And there, the simple shepherd, conning o'er His humble pittance of Chaldean lore, Saw, in the stillness of a starry night, The Swan and Eagle wing their silent flight ; And, from their spangled pinions, as they flew, On Israel's vales of verdure shower the dew : Saw there, the brilliant gems, that nightly flare, In the thin mist of Berenice's hair ; JOHN PIERPONT. 257 And there, Bootes roll his lucid wain, On sparkling wheels, along the etherial plain ; And there, the Pleiades, in tuneful gyre, : Pursue for ever the star-studded Lyre ; And there, with bickering lash, heaven's Charioteer | Urge round the Cynosure his bright career. While thus the shepherds watch'd the host of night, O'er heaven's blue concave flash'd a sudden light. The unrolling glory spread its folds divine, O'er the green hills and vales of Palestine ; And lo ! descending angels, hovering there, Stretch'd their loose wings, and in the purple air, Hung o'er the sleepless guardians of the fold: When that high anthern, clear, and strong, and bold On wavy paths of trembling ether ran : " Glory to God ; Benevolence to man ; Peace to the world : " and in full concert came, From silver tubes, and harps of golden frame, The loud and sweet response, whose choral strains Linger'd and languished on Judea's plains. Yon living lamps, charm'd from their chambers blue, By airs so heavenly, from the skies withdrew : All ? all, -but one, that hung and burn'd alone, And with mild lustre over Bethlehem shone. Chaldea's sages saw that orb afar, Glow unextinguish'd ; 'twas Salvation's Star. Hear'st thou that solemn symphony, that swells And echoes through Philippi's gloomy cells ? From vault to vault the heavy notes rebound, And granite rocks reverberate the sound. The \vretch, who long, in dungeons cold and dank, Had shook his fetters, that their iron clank Might break the grave-like silence of that prison, On which the Star of Hope had never risen ; Then sunk in slumbers, by despair oppress'd, And dream'd of freedom in his broken rest ; Wakes at the music of those mellow strains, Thinks it some spirit, and forgets his chains. 'T is Paul and Silas ; who, at midnight, pay To him of Nazareth a grateful lay. Soon is that anthem wafted to the skies : An angel bears it, and a God replies. At that reply, a pale, portentous light Plays through the air, then leaves a gloomier night. The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch, VOL. ii. 22* 258 JOHN PIERPONT. The rocking walls confess an earthquake's march, The stars look dimly through the roof: behold, From saffron dews and melting clouds of gold, Brightly uncurling on the dungeon's air, Freedom walks forth serene : from her loose hair, And every glistening feather of her wings, Perfumes that breathe of more than earth she flings, And \\ith a touch dissolves the prisoner's chains, Whose song had charm'd her from celestial plains. 'T is night again : for Music loves to steal Abroad at night ; when ah 1 her subjects kneel, \ In more profound devotion, at her throne : i And, at that sober hour, she '11 sit alone, Upon a bank, by her sequester'd cell, And breathe her sorrows through her wreathed shell. Again 't is night the diamond lights on high, Burn bright, and dance harmonious through the sky : And Silence leads her downy-footed hours, Round Sion's hill, and Salem's holy towers. The Lord of Life, with his few faithful friends, Drown'd in mute sorrow, down that hill descends. They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes ; And climb the steep, where oft the midnight air Received the Sufferer's solitary prayer. There, in dark bowers imbosom'd, Jesus flings His hand celestial o'er prophetic strings ; Displays his purple robe, his bosom gory, His crown of thorns, his cross, his future glory : And, while the group, each hallow'd accent gleaming, On pilgrim's staff, in pensive posture leaning Their reverend beards, that sweep their bosoms, wet With the chill dews of shady Olivet- Wonder and weep, they pour the song of sorrow, With their loved Lord, whose death shall shroud the morrow. Heavens ! what a strain was that ! those matchless tones, That ravish " Princedoms, Dominations, Thrones ; " That, heard on high, had hush'd those peals of praise, That seraphs swell, and harping angels raise, Soft, as the wave from Siloa's fount that flows, Through the drear silence of the mountain rose. How sad the Saviour's song! how sweet ! how holy ! The last he sung on earth : how melancholy ! Along the valley sweep the expiring notes : On Kedron's wave the melting music floats : JOHN PIERPONT. 259 From her blue arch, the lamp of evening flings Her mellow lustre, as the Saviour sings : The moon above, the wavejjeneath is still, And light and music mingle on the hill. The glittering guard, whose viewless ranks invest The brook's green margin, and the mountain's crest, Catch that unearthly song, and soar away, Leave this dark orb, for fields of endless day, And round the Eternal's throne on buoyant pinions play. Ye glowing seraphs, that enchanted swim, In seas of rapture, as ye tune the hymn Ye bore from earth O say, ye choral quires, Why in such haste to wake your golden lyres ? Why, like a flattering, like a fleeting dream, Leave that lone mountain, and that silent stream ? Say, could not then the " Man of Sorrows " claim Your shield of adamant, your sword of flame ? Hell forced a smile, at your retiring wing, And man was left to crucify your King. But must no other sweets perfume my wreath, Than CarmePs hill a.nd Sharon's valley breathe ? Are holy airs borne only through the skies, Where Sinai thunders, and where Horeb sighs ? And move they only o'er Arabia's sea, Bethesda's pool, the lake of Galilee ? And does the hand that bids Judea bloom, Deny its blossoms to the desert's gloom? No : turn thine eye, in visionary glance, To scene's beyond old ocean's blue expanse, Where vast La Plata rolls his weight along, Through worlds unknown to science and to song, And, sweeping proudly o'er his boundless plain, Repels the foaming billows of the main. Let Fancy lap thee in Paraguay's bowers, And scatter round thee Nature's wildest flowers : For Nature there, since first her opening eye Hail'd the bright orb her Father Jmng on high, Still, on her bosom wears the enamel'd vest, That bloom'd and budded on her infant breast ; Still, to the sportive breeze that round her blows, Turns her warm cheek, her unshorn tresses throws ; With grateful hand her treasured balm bequeaths, For every sigh the enamor'd rover breathes, And even smiles to feel the flutterer sip The virgin dew that cools her rosy lip. W) JOHN P1ERPONT. There, through the clouds, stupendous mountains rise, And lift their icy foreheads to the skies ; There, blooming valleys and secure retreats Bathe all thy senses in voluptuous sweets : Reclining there, beneath a bending tree, Fraught with the fragrant labors of the bee, Admire, with me, the birds of varied hue, That hang, like flowers of orange and of blue, Among the broad magnolia's cups of snow, Quaffing the perfumes, from those cups that flow. But, is all peace, beneath the mountain shade ? Do Love and Mercy haunt that sunny glade, And sweetly rest upon that lovely shore, When light retires, and nature smiles no more ? No : there, at midnight, the hoarse tiger growls : There, the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls : And there, in painted pomp, the yelling Indian prowls. Round the bold front of you projecting cliff, Shoots, on white wings, the missionary's skiff, And, walking steadily along the tide, Seems, like a phantom, o'er the wave to glide, Her light cymar unfolded to the breeze, That breaks not, though it moves, the mirror of the seas. Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears His reverend front, plough'd by the share of years. He takes his harp : the spirits of the air Breathe on his brow, and interweave his hair, In silky flexure, with the sounding strings : And hark ! the holy missionary sings. 'T is the Gregorian chant: with him unites, On either hand, his quire of neophytes, While the boat cleaves its liquid path along, And waters, woods, and winds protract the song. Those unknown strains the forest war-whoop hush : Huntsmen and warriors from their cabins rush, Heed not the foe, that yells defiance nigh, See not the deer that dashes wildly by, Drop from their hand the bow and rattling quiver, Crowd to the shore, and plunge into the river, Breast the green waves, the enchanted bark that toss, Leap o'er her sides, and kneel before the cross. Hear yon poetic pilgrim of the west, Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest. Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, JOHN PIERPONT. 261 And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws ; Who hangs the canvas where Atala glows, On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded ; Who, for the son of Outalissa, twines, Beneath the shade of ever whispering pines, A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss, That time already sprinkles on the cross, Raised o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps, And Superstition o'er her victim weeps ; Whom now, the silence of the dead surrounds, Among Scioto's monumental mounds ; Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw, O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below, By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, Lost in those towering tombs of other times ; For where no bard has cherish'd Virtue's flame, No ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame. With sacred lore this traveller beguiles His weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves, Or through the wide and green savanna roves, His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest cadence of Idumea's airs. Now, he recalls the lamentable wail, That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, A note, for Satan's, and for Herod's ear. Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, * Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, The pilgrim stands ; and o'er his memory rushes The mingled tide of tears, and blood, that gushes Along the valleys, where his childhood stray'd, And round the temples where his father pray'd. How fondly then, from all but Hope exiled, To Zion's wo recurs Religion's child ! He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters ; While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, Wrapp'd in the mist, that o'er the river hung, Felt but the breeze, that wanton'd o'er the billow, And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. And could not Music soothe the captive's wo ? But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe ? 262 JOHN PJEUPONT. While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanced between a revery and a dream, Backward he springs : and, through his bounding heart, The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, Just in the act, with greenly venom'd fangs, To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs. Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ; His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides ; Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, And freezing poisons thicken on his gums ; His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry ; A spark of hell lies burning on his eye : While, like a vapor, o'er his writhing rings, Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings. Soon as dumb Fear removes her icy fingers From off his heart, where gazing wonder lingers, The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight, Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, From his soft flute throws Music's air around, And meets his foe, upon enchanted ground. See ! as the plaintive melody is flung, The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue ; The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold Throws changeful clouds of azure, green and gold ; A softer lustre twinkles in his eye ; His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye ; His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, And his relaxing circles roll in light. Slowly the charm retires : with waving sides, Along its tract the graceful listener glides ; While Music throws her silver cloud around, And bears her votary off, in magic folds of sound. On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone, at night, the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen: he sees her image on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest, Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore ; JOHN PIEKPONT. ~Ud Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rests her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen ! How dark the mountain's shade ! how still the scene ! Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. Hark ! 't is a convent's bell : its midnight chime. For music measures even the march of Time : O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise : the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar ; a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of night? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, To charm the parting spirit of the dead. Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear, That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ; Why should she mount ? why pant for brighter bliss, A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ? On Caledonia's hills, the ruddy morn Breathes fresh : the huntsman winds his clamorous horn. The youthful minstrel from his pallet springs, Seizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings. Lark-like he mounts o'er gray rocks, thunder-riven, Lark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest-driven, And lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs, Whose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes. With airy foot he treads the giddy height ; His heart all rapture, and his eye all light; His voice all melody, his yellow hair Floating and dancing on the mountain air, Shaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls, That gather clustering on his golden curls ; And, for a moment, gazes on a scene, Tinged with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening green ; Then plays a mournful prelude, while the star Of morning fades : but when heaven's gates unbar, And on the world a tide of glory rushes, 2C4 JOHN PIERPONT. Burns on the hill, and down the valley blushes ; The-mountain bard in livelier numbers sings, While sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings, And his young bosom feels the enchantment strong, Of light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song. From rising morn, the tuneful stripling roves, Through smiling valleys and religious groves ; Hears there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat, Here, the lone turtle pour her mournful note, Till night descends, and round the wanderer flings The dew drops dripping from her dusky wings. Far from his native vale, and humble shed, By nature's smiles, and nature's music led, This child of melody has thoughtless stray'd, Till darkness wraps him in her deepening shade. The scene he smiled on, when array'd in light, Now lowers around him with the frown of night. With weary foot the nearest height he climbs, Crown' d with huge oaks, giants of other times ; Who feel, but fear not autumn's breath, and cast Their summer robes upon the roaring blast, And glorying in their majesty of form, Toss their old arms, and challenge every storm. Below him, ocean rolls : deep in a wood, Built on a rock, and frowning o'er the flood, Like the dark Cyclops of Thnacria's isle, Rises an old and venerable pile : Gothic its structure ; once a cross it bore, And pilgrims throng'd to hail it and adore. Mitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar, The solemn organ led the chanting quire, When in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung, And o'er the dead, a requiescat rung. Now, all is still: the midnight anthem hush'd : The cross is crumbled, and the crosier crush'd. And is all still ? No : round those ruin'd altars, With feeble foot as our musician falters, Faint, weary, lost, benighted, and alone, He sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone. Here nameless fears the young enthusiast chill: They 're superstitious, but religious still, He hears the sullen murmur of the seas, That tumble round the stormy Orcades, Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar, Their sparkling surges to that savage shore ; JOHN PIERPONT. 265 And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves Through rifted rocks, and hollow rumbling caves. Round the dark windows clasping ivy clings, Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings ; Its green leaves rustle : heavy winds arise : The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs. Now Fancy sees th' ideal canvas stretch'd, And o'er the lines that Truth has dimly sketch'd, Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly Hurtled along before her frenzied eye. The scudding cloud that drives along the coast, Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost, Who sails serenely in his gloomy pall, O'er Morven's woods and Tura's mouldering wall, To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall. Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill. Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill ? No 'tis the mountain blast, that nightly rages, Around those walls, gray with the moss of ages. Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light Shines in yon vault, before a spectre white ? No : 'tis a glow-worm, burning greenly there, Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air. What mighty organ swells its deepest tone, And sighing heaves a low, funereal moan, That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms, And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs ? Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides ! The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides ; Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave ; Or shrieking, off" at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave. Yes ! 't is some Spirit that those skies deforms, And wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms. Yes: 'tis a Spirit in those vaults that dwells, Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells. Yes : 't is some Spirit on the blast that rides, And wakes the eternal tumults of the tides. That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream, Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream, Lured his young foot to every vale that rung, And charm'd his ear in every bird that sung; With various concerts cheer'd his hours of light, But kept the mightiest in reserve till night ; Then, throned in darkness, peal'd that wildest air, Froze his whole soul, and chain'd the listener there. VOL. ii. 23 2G6 JOHN PIERPONT. ( That mighty spirit once from Teman came : '. Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame. < Bow'd the perpetual hills: the rivers fled : ,' Green ocean trembled to his deepest bed : \ Earth shrunk aghast, eternal mountains burn'd, And his red axle thunder'd as it turn'd. O ! thou dread Spirit! Being's End and Source ! O ! check thy chariot in its fervid course. Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire, And with one smile immortalize our lyre. Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne, Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown, Swelling one ceaseless song of praise to thee, Eternal Author of Eternity ! Still hast thou stoop'd to hear a shepherd play, To prompt his measures, and approve his lay. Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest! Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest ! How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim, From Zion's hill to mount Moriah came, Benqath the wings of cherubim to rest, In a rich vail of Tyrian purple drest; When harps and cymbals join'd in echoing clang, When psalteries tinkled, and when trumpets rang, And white-robed Levites round thine altar sang ! Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd, Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud, And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud. And now, Almighty Father, well we know, When humble strains from grateful bosoms flow, Those humble strains grow richer as they rise, And shed a balmier freshness on the skies. What though no cherubim are here display'd, No gilded walls, no cedar colonnade, No crimson curtains hang around our quire, Wrought by the ingenious artisan of Tyre ; No doors of fir on golden hinges turn ; No spicy gums in golden censers burn ; No frankincense, in rising volumes, shrouds The fretted roof in aromatic clouds ; No royal minstrel, from his ivory throne, Gives thee his father's numbers or his own ; If humble love, if gratitude inspire, Our strain shall silence even the temple's quire, And rival Michael's trump, nor yield to Gabriel's lyre JOHN PIERFONT. 267 In what rich harmony, what polish'd lays, Should man address thy throne, when nature pays Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore, The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar, The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods, The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods, The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann'd, The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spann'd, The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen, The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men, The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree, Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free. The scorching bolt, that from thine armory hurl'd, Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world ; All these are music to Religion's ear : Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. Thy hand invested in their azure robes, Thy breath made buoyant yonder circling globes, That bound and blaze along the elastic wires, That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres, And in that high and radiant concave tremble, Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble, To catch the notes, from those bright spheres that flow, Which mortals dream of, but which angels know. Before thy throne, three sister Graces kneel ; Their holy influence let our bosoms feel ! Faith, that with smiles light up our dying eyes ; Hope, that directs them to the opening skies ; And Charity, the loveliest of the three, That can assimilate a worm to thee. For her our organ breathes ; to her we pay The heart-felt homage of an humble lay ; And while to her symphonious chords we string, And Silence listens while to her we sing, While round thine altar swells our evening song, And vaulted roofs the dying notes prolong, The strain we pour to her, wilt thou approve, For Love is Charity, and Thou art Love. 268 JOHN PIERPONT. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE pilgrim fathers where are they ? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore : Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day, When the May-Flower moor'd below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide ; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile sainted name ! The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; But the pilgrim where is he ? The pilgrim fathers are at rest : When Summer 's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The pilgrim spirit has not fled : It walks in noon's broad light ; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars, by night It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, JOHN PIEUPONT. 2C9 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. STAND ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ? Hope ye mercy still ? What 's the mercy despots feel ! Hear it in that battle peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel ! Ask it ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire ! Will ye to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! they 're afire ! And, before you, see Who have done it ! From the vale On they come ! and will ye quail ? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! In the God of battles trust ! Die we may and die we must: But, O, where can dust to dust Be consign'd so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr'd patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell ! ON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. O, is not this a holy spot ? 'T is the high place of freedom's birth! VOL. ii. 23* 270 JOHN PIERPONT. God of our fathers ! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quench'd is thy flame on Horeb's side ; The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; And those old men, thy seers, abide No more on Zion's mournful brow. But on'this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, Since round its head the war-cloud curl'd, And wrapp'd our fathers, where they knelt In prayer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust : 't is holy ground : And we, the children of the brave, From the four winds are gather'd round, To lay our offering on their grave. Free as the winds around us blow, Free as the waves below us spread, We rear a pile, that long shall throw Its shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : Thine ear was bovv'd to hear their cal], And thy right hand shall guard their fame. INDEPENDENCE. DAT of glory ! welcome day ! Freedom's banners greet thy ray ; See ! how cheerfully they play With thy morning breeze, On the rocks wherepilgrims kneel'd, On the heights wttH% squadrons wheel'd, When a tyrant's thunder peal'd, O'er the trembling seas. God of armies ! did thy " stars In their courses " smite his cars, Blast his arm, and wrest his bars JOHN PIERPONT. 271 From the heaving tide ? On our standard, lo ! they burn, And, when days like this return, Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn, Who for freedom died. God of peace ! whose spirit fills All the echoes of our hills, All the murmurs of our rills, Now the storm is o'er ; O, let freemen be our sons ; And let future Washingtons Rise, to lead their valiant ones, Till there 's war no more. By the patriot's hallow'd rest, By the warrior's gory breast, Never let our graves be press'd By a despot's throne : By the pilgrim's toil and cares, By their battles and their prayers, By their ashes, let our heirs Bow to thee alone. FOR A LADY 9 ALBUM. Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain. SOLOMOX. OH, say not, wisest of all the kings * That have risen on Israel's throne to reign ! Say not, as one of your wisest things, That grace is false, and beauty vain. Your harem beauties resign ! resign Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song ! To your garden come forth, ammg things divine, And own you do grace and BTOuty wrong. Is beauty vain because it will fade ? Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain : For this shall be lost in evening's shade, And that in winter's sleety rain. 272 HENRY PICKERING. But earth's green mantle, prank'd with flowers, Is the couch where life with joy reposes ; And heaven gives down, with its light and showers, To regale them, fruits ; to deck them, roses. And while opentpg flowers in such beauty spread, And ripening fruits so gracefully swing, Say not, O king, as you just now said, That beauty or grace is a worthless thing. This willow's limbs, as they bend in the breeze, The dimpled face of the pool to kiss ; Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees That there is beauty and grace in this ! And do not these boughs all whisper of Him, Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them ; Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim, And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them ? And are not the beauty and grace of youth, Like those of this willow, the work of love ? Do they not come, like the voice of truth, That is heard all around us here from above ? Then say not, wisest of all the kings That have risen on Israel's throne to reign ! Say not, as one of your wisest things, That grace is false, and beauty vain. HENRY PICKERING, Is a resident of Salem, D^wgachusetts, and son of the Hon. Timothy Pickering. We Tiave met with the name of this gentleman but recently. His poetry is perhaps too much of the old school, to suit the taste of the day. He is, however, a poet, and his works will doubtless survive much that is read and admired more, at the present moment f HENRY PICKERING. 273 One of the characteristics of a poet, we apprehend to be, an imagination which perceives the beauties of nature, but never perceives them alone ; as the moon has its halo, and the rainbow its imitation, so to him has every leaf, and flower, and wood, and waterfall, some associated counterpart. Such an imagination is a mirror, which catches the forms of nature, and reflects their moral resemblances as the lake gives to the eye a duplicate of the landscape, more beautiful than that which blooms along its border. We think the specimens which follow, will show their au- thor to be possessed of this master talent of a poet in a high degree of perfection. If the reader is disposed to be criti- cal, he may perhaps observe an occasional want of music in the versification. The writer, also, is too partial to blank verse; a vehicle not generally suited to other than great subjects. If Mr Pickering were to write under any very strong sense of responsibility to public opinion, he would easily remove the defects we have noticed. TO A BEAUTIFUL LAKE. RAPT in a vision of the barbarous past, I saw upon thy marge a wild-eyed race, And, startled, heard the yell That echoed round thy shores ! And now, enchanted with the picture fair, Which Fancy holds to view, I fain would blend The murmur of thy waves, And warblings of my lute. Translucent flood ! within thy ever pure And stainless breast, the heavens with wonder view As beautiful a heaven, As tranquil and serene : 274 HENRY PICKERING. The while, a new creation spreads around Hills piled on hills, seem laughing in thy wave, And groves, inverted, nod To like majestic groves. And what if o'er thy hrink no frowning cliffs Impend no cloud-tipt mountains, as with wall Insuperable, fence Thee from the northern blast, Yet dost thou scornful mock its utmost force, And ruffian winter's rudest breath defy ; Fiercely he sweeps along, But may not chain thy wave.* And still exulting with the dancing spring, Thou seest new beauties deck thy soft domain ; And when from summer's gaze The earth dejected shrinks, Thou spread'st thy dazzling bosom to the sun : While pleased, anon, with Autumn's rainbow hues And mournful shell, thou bidd'st Thy waves wild music make. In that glad moment, when the star of morn Leads up the effulgent day, and liquid pearls Are on the flowers, and thou In snowy mist art wrapp'd, How have I stood, delighted, to behold The sun, like a young deity look forth, And, with a glance, thy face At once again unveil ! And when the golden curtains of the west Are gathering round his couch, and his last ray Descending, seems to melt In thy unruffled flood, How have I rivetted my eye on thee, And wish'd that on my breast a heavenly gleam Seneca Lake is not known to freeze. HENRY PICKERING. 275 Might fall, and thus within My soul as softly sink ! Yet if there be a more propitious hour, 'T is when the moon from out the silvery east In chasten'd splendor beams, And sheds o'er thee, and o'er The tranquil earth, her mild and holy light : A shadowy grandeur then invests the scene, While through the willing mind A pleasing sadness steals. O fond remembrance ! but what boots it now To sing of absent charms ? Thou calmly sleep'st Beneath thy circling hills, While I am tempest -tost! Yet brighter eyes, and innocent as bright, Shall long upon thy varied beauties gaze, And young glad beings too Delight in thee to lave : And science, haply, on thy banks shall rear Her proudest domes ; and, emulous of fame, Bards, yet unborn, shall chant In lofty verse thy praise. DAPHNE. " Elle etoit do ce monde ou les plus belles chosea Ont le pire destin ; Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses, **. THE winds are hush'd ; but the chill air of night Pervades my shivering frame. The crisped leaves Which lately waved in undulations soft, To every genial breeze, and look'd so green, But now were wafted from the neighboring wood, And cumber all my solitary paths. Softly I tread the mazy labyrinth, lest 276 HENRY PICKERING. The rustling noise should interrupt the deep And fearful stillness round. 'T is thus amid The forest wilds, when Autumn crowns, as now, The plenteous year, and the gay antler'd herds Look sleek, the unwearied hunter threads his way, And with a step, cautious as Guilt, pursues The timid chase. But what shall I alarm In these deserted haunts, where none of choice Repair, save those whom wretchedness has taught, After long toil, to seek for refuge here ? The mole has burrow'd deep, and heeds me not ; The bat has ta'en his headlong flight in search Of gentler skies, or nestles in some lone And cover'd nook ; while at my feet sleep those, Whom not the crash of worlds shall wake again ! Hah ! is it so ? and wilt not thou awake, My dear, lamented Daphne ? Shall that form, That form so heavenly fair, ne'er bloom again ? Thy dust, alas ! is not commingled here With kindred dust ; but doth it aught avail ? Lo ! where repose the long forgotten race^ The lengthen'd line of thy progenitors : * Whilst thou, o'eicanopied by balmier heavens, Beneath the tamarind and the orange tree Fit resting place hast found ! No winter there Shivers the glories of the circling year, Nor tarnishes the lustre of the groves : Thy favorite myrtle there can never die There every gale wafts perfumes o'er thy grave! Ah why, 'mid scenes thus fair, should man decay? With lavish bounty nature there adorns The wild, and bids the flowers perpetual bloom, And yet to him a longer date denies, Nay, warns him thence before his custom'd time. And such, my Daphne, was thy hapless lot! And worse for thou wast fated twice to die And twice in the full vernal bloom of youth The cup at parting bitterer than Death's ! How wast thou torn, all lovely as thou wast, And beauteous too as Maia's self when flush'd By genial beams of the young sun, from arms Unwilling to be loosed from thine ! How flow'd Thy tears, when every tenderer tie which bound x Thee here, was sunder'd! And how throbb'd thy heart When, in a last embrace, 'twas press'd to mine I HENRY PICKERING. 277 But years since that sad parting have gone hy, And years have flown since thou wast rapt to heaven ! Yet how can I forget or thou forgive ? True thou didst oft invite me to thy home, Didst beckon me amid thy fragrant groves To taste of golden fruits, and blissful breathe Thy incensed air, and, dearer far, enjoy Thy converse sweet : but, such my wayward mood, I spurn'd the call (though softer not than thine An angel's voice) or thought, as worldlings do, At fitting hour to come. Thus wisdom's fool'd, And thus was I infatuated too. My Daphne ! art thou then for ever fled ? once again appear as thou wast wont! Thou smilest in my dreams : and when I wake, 1 pay thee with my late repentant tears : Tears are thy due ah, doubly due from one On whom thy infant eyes beam'd only love Whom thou remember'dst to thy latest breath ! FLOWERS. " La vue d'une fleur caresse mon imagination et flatte mra sens a un point ic ezprimable: elle reveille avec volupte le sentiment do mon existence." Mad. Roland. THE impatient morn, With gladness on his wings, calls forth " Arise ! To trace the hills, the vales, where thousand dyes The ground adorn, While the dew sparkles yet within the violet's eyes : " And when the day In golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet Mild evening comes to lure the willing feet With her to stray, Where'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet. Near the moist brink Of music-loving streams they ever keep, And often in the lucid fountains peep ; VOL. ii. 24 278 HENRY PICKERING. Oft, laughing, drink Of the rnad torrent's spray, perch'd near the thundering steep : And everywhere Along the plashy marge, and shallow bed Of the still waters, they innumerous spread ; Rock'd gently there The beautiful Nymphsea* pillows its bright head. Within the dell, Within the rocky clefts they love to hide ; And hang adventurous on the steep hill-side ; Or rugged fell, Where the young eagle waves his wings in youthful pride. In the green sea Of forest leaves, where nature wanton plays, They modest bloom ; though through the verdant maze The tulip-tree Its golden chalice oft triumphantly displays : And, of pure white, Embedded 'mid its glossy leaves on high, There the superb Magnolia lures the eye ; While, waving light, The locust's myriad tassels scent the ambient sky. But O, ye bowers, Ye valleys where the spring perpetual reigns, And flowers unuumber'd o'er the purple plains Exuberant showers, How fancy revels in your lovelier domains ! All love the light ; And yet what numbers spring within the shade, And blossom where no foot may e'er invade ; Till comes a blight, Comes unaware, and then incontinent they fade ! And thus they bloom, And thus their lives ambrosial breathe away ; Thus flourish too the lovely and the gay : *The white-pond lily. HENRY PICKERING. 279 And the same doom Youth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay. I THOUGHT IT SLEPT. [From Recollections of Childhood.] I SAW the infant cherub soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Deck'd with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange Fill'd my young breast with wonder, and I gazed Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept And yet its little bosom did not move ! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed : then, softly clasp'd its hand, But mine it would not clasp. What should I do ? " Wake, brother, wake ! " I then impatient cried, " Open thine eyes, and look on me again ! " He would not hear my voice. All pale beside My weeping mother sat, " and gazed and look'd Unutterable things." Will he not wake ? I eager ask'd : She answer'd but with tears. Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look Were cast now on the babe once more were fix'd And now on me : then with convulsive sigh And throbbing heart, she clasp'd me in her arms, And in a tone of anguish faintly said " My dearest boy ! thy brother does not sleep ; Alas ! he 's dead ; he never will awake." He 's dead ! I knew not what it meant, but more To know I sought not. For the words so sad, " He never will awake" sunk in my soul : I felt a pang unknown before, and tears That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.* *From this little talo of unaffected childish sorrow, Mr Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. It was exhibited during the last season, at the National Academy in that city. HENR.Y PICKERING. TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA. 17 JOT fills the vale, With joy ecstatic quivers every wing, As floats thy note upon the genial gale, Sweet bird of spring ! The violet Awakens at thy song, and peers from out Its fragrant nook, as if the season yet Remain'd in doubt While from the rock The columbine its crimson bell suspends, That careless vibrates, as its slender stalk The zephyr bends. Say ! when the blast Of winter swept our whiten'd plains, what clime, What sunnier realm thou charm'dst, and how was past Thy joyous time ? Did the green isles Detain thee long ? or, 'mid the palmy groves Of the bright south, where liberty now smiles, Did'st sing thy loves ? O, well I know Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers So near the sun have lesser charms than now Our land of flowers : Thou art return'd On a glad errand, to rebuild thy nest, And fan anew the gentle fire that burn'd Within thy breast. And thy wild strain, Pour'd on the gale, is love's transporting voice That, calling on the plumy choir again, Bids them rejoice : *Tho song-sparrow. HENRY PICKERING. 281 Nor calls alone /, but bids improve the fleeting hour Bids all" that ever heard love's witching tone, Or felt his power. The poet too It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire ; Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few His song admire ! But thy sweet lay, Thou darling of the spring ! no ear disdains ; Thy sage instructress, nature, says " Be gay ! " And prompts thy strains. O, if I knew Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire, Youth should enchanted throng, and beauty sue To hear my lyre. Oft as the year In gloom is wrapp'd, thy exile I shall mourn Oft as the spring returns, shall hail sincere Thy glad return. THE WATERFALL. IMPETUOUS Torrent ! Nature piled Thy rocks amid the sylvan wild ; With flower and shrub their crags she graced, And through them thy dark pathway traced ; Then bade thee with resistless force Pursue thy mad, tumultuous course, Plunging from slippery steep to steep Till lost in the profounder deep, While 'mid the rush of waters round, Eternal thunders shake the ground ! Impetuous Torrent ! Time, perhaps, For centuries hath mark'd thy lapse ; VOL. n. 24* ! HENRY PICKERING. Yet has that ruthless spoiler fear'd To mar the work which nature rear'd. Still in rude grandeur tower thy rocks, Still all restraint thy current mocks, In verdant pride still wave thy trees, Sway'd ever by the varying breeze ; And the dark cliffs, where wild flowers cling, And where the bee flies murmuring, In matchless beauty robed still, Aye sets at nought the painter's skill. And here upon thy margent green, The Indian hunter once was seen, Gazing on thee in thoughtful mood, Or bounding swift, as he pursued Panther or deer across the glade, Nor reck'd the coil thy waters made. Child of the Forest ! thou art fled, Thy joys, thy pastimes, all are sped ; The antler'd herd are far away, The panther is no more thy prey, Nor more the timorous Echo wakes, Startled as when thy war-whoop breaks: And yet in Fancy's view still near, Thou brightly art depicted here. The rock that spurns the rush of waves, Is thy stern soul, that danger braves; Amid the flood's incessant roar Thy dreaded voice I hear once more ; And as I mark its maddening strife, I think o'er all thy stormy life : While through the spray that falls in showers Upon the trees, the shrubs, the flowers, That wild, bright heaven, so dear to thee, In yon ethereal brede I see. Impetuous Torrent ! other times And other men from distant climes, Have now arrived ; and thou despoil'd Of all thy charms, thy proud waves soil'd By busy art, shalt be a theme Fit only for a poet's dream. Yet should the forest shade no more The banks o'er which it waved before, And all thy lovelier features too Vanish for ages from the view, HENRY PICKERING. 283 Still through the mournful waste shalt thou Pursue thy rapturous course as now : And when the race that here bear sway Are in oblivion swept away, Thou shalt resume thy pristine reign And, deck'd in beauty, once again, Shalt the brown hunter's heart rejoice, And wake the forest with thy voice. DESCRIPTIVE SONNETS. SUNLIGHT ON THE WATER. " THERE is nothing more beautiful than water. It has always the same pure flow, and the same low music, and is always ready to bear away your thoughts upon its bosom, like the Hindoo's barque of flowers, to an imaginative heaven." Unwritten Poetry. , THERE is a balmy freshness in the air; And as the sunbeams on its surface gleam It seems as if upon the rippled stream A shower of diamonds fell : or as if there, Fantastic knit in frolic mood, some fair Invisible Spirits in the instant wound On airy tiptoe through the measured round, And left their dazzling foot-prints everywhere. 'T is a glad sight ! and many a time I 've stood Upon the fringed banks the streamlets lave, Or perch'd me where some rock o'erhangs the flood, To see the light thus kiss each little wave : Ay ! gaze even yet almost with the same joy As when I was a young gay-hearted boy. AUTUMNAL PICTURE : A SKETCH. SEE how the forest waves ! The gnarled oak Even bends and as the unruly wind sweeps through Its sturdy branches, showers of leaves bestrew The ground, or diverse fly ; the crow, just broke From out the warring wood, with ominous croak 2S4 HENRY PICKERING. Wheels heavily through air ; the glorious hue Of the bright mantle summer lately threw O'er earth, is gone ; and the sere leaves now choke The turbid fountains and complaining brooks ; The o'ershadowing pines, alone, through which I rove, Their verdure keep, although it darker looks : And hark ! as it comes sighing through the grove, The exhausted gale a Spirit there awakes, That wild and melancholy music wakes. THE RAINBOW AFTER A SUMMER TEMPEST. SYMBOL of peace ! lo, there the ethereal bow ! And see, on flagging wing, the storm retreats Far 'mid the depths of space ; and with him fleets His lurid train the while in beauty glow Vale, hill and sky once more. How lustrous now Earth's verdant mantle ! and the woods how bright ! Where grass, leaf, flower, are sparkling in the light Prompt ever with the slightest breeze to throw The rain drops to the ground. Within the grove Music awakes ; and from each little throat, Silent so long, bursts the wild note of love ; The hurried babblings of the rill denote Its infant joy ; and rushing swift along, The torrent gives to air, its hoarse and louder song. EVENING SUNLIGHT. How beautifully soft it seems to sleep Upon the lap of the unbreathing vale, And where, unruffled by the gentlest gale, The lake its bosom spre'ads, and in its deep Clear wave, another world appears to keep, To steal the heart from this ! for through the veil Transparent we may see, tree, rock, hill, dale, And sapphire sky, and golden mountain steep, That real seem, though fairer than our own : Still, picture faint of that pure region drawn HENRY C. KNIGHT. 2S5 By prophet's pen, but not to mortal shown, Where flow rivers of bliss and vale, and lawn Are strewn with flowers immortal where, alone, Night never comes, and day is without dawn. HENRY C. KNIGHT, Is a native, we believe, of Rowley in Massachusetts. He wrote the Cypriad and other poems, published in 1809, and a further collection in two volumes, published in 1821. THE COUNTRY OVEN. I SING the oven glowing, fruitful theme/ Happy for me, that mad Achilles found, And weak Ulysses erst, a servile bard, That deign'd their puny feats, else lost, to eing. And happy that JEneas, feeble man ! Fell into hands of less emprise than mine ; Too mean the subject for a bard so high. Not Dante, Ariosto, Tasso, dared Sport their gross minds in such grand element. Nor he, dame nature's master-journeyman, Who nimbly wrought a comic tragedy, As poet woos a muse, one Shakspeare called! Nor Milton, who embattled Devils sung ; Nor bold Sir Blackmore, who an Epic built, Quick as can mason rear a chimney stack ; Nor later these, Klopstock and Wieland famed. Who sung, this King of Elves, that King of kings ; Dared the prolific Oven blaze in song. Expect not now of Furnaces to hear, Where JEolus dilates the liquid glass ; Nor where the Hollanders, in nests of tow, With mimic nature, incubate their eggs ; For the Domestic Oven claims my powers. Come then, from kilns of flame, and tropic suns, Each salamander Muse, and warm my brain. 286 HENRY C. KNIGHT. Need I describe ? Who hath a kitchen seen, And not an arched concavity call'd Oven? ' Grand farinaceous nourisher of life ! See hungry gape its broad mouth for its food, And hear the faggots crackling in its jaws, Its palate glowing red with burning breath. Do not approach too near ; the ingulphing draught Will drink your respiration ere you list. Glance now the fire-jambs round, and there observe Utensils formed for culinary use. Shovel and tongs, like ancient man and wife, He, with his arms akimbo, she in hoops, There, dangling sausages in chains hang down ; As Sciences and Arts, distinct, allied ; Or, as in Union bound our sister States. Here, flayed eels, strung pendant by the waist ; So swing aloof victims in heathen climes ; O Algier hearts ! to mock at writhing pain. And, high in smoke-wreaths, ponderous ham to cure ; So may each traitor to his country hang ! And, thick on nails, the housewife's herbs to dry ; Coltsfoot for pipe, and spearmint for a tea. Upon the hearth, the shrill-lunged cricket chirpa Her serenade, not waiting to be press'd. And Sue, poking the cinders, smiles to point, As fond associations cross the mind, A gallant, ring, or ticket, fashion'd there. And purring puss, her pied-coat licked sleek, Sits mousing for the crumbs, beside black Jack. He, curious drone, with eyes and teeth of white, And natural curl, who twenty falls hath seen, And cannot yet count four! nor ever can, Though tasked to learn, until his nose be sharp. 'T is marvel, if he thinks, but when he speaks ; Else, to himself, why mutter loud, and strange, And scold, and laugh, as half a score were by ? In shape and parts, a seed of Caliban ! He now is roasting earth-nuts by the coals, And hissing clams, like martyrs mocking pain ; And sizzing apples, air-lanced with a pin ; While in the embers -hops the parching corn, Crack ! crack ! disploding with the heat, like bombs. Craunching, he squats, and grins, and gulps his mug, And shows his pompion-shell, with eyes and mouth, HENRY C. KNIGHT. 287 And candle fitted, for the tail of kite, To scare the lasses in their evening walk For, next day, and Thanksgiving-Eve will come. Now turn we to the teeming Oven ; while, A skilful midwife, comes the aged dame ; Her apron clean, and nice white cap of lawn: With long lean arm, she lifts the griding slice. And inward slides it, drawing slowly out. In semi-globes, and frustums of the cone, Tann'd brown with heat, come, smoking, broad high loaves ; And drop-cakes, ranged like cocks round stack of hay ; Circles and segments, pies and turn-overs, For children's children, who stand teasing round, Scorching their mouths, and dance like juggler's apes, Wishing the pie more cool, or they less keen. Next, brown and wrinkled, like the good dame's brow, Come russet-coated sweetings, pulp for milk ; A luscious dish would one were brought me now ! And kisses, made by Sue for suitor's pun. And when the morrow greets each smiling face, And from the church, where grateful hearts have pour'd, Led by the Man of God, their thanks and prayers, To Him, who fills their granaries with good, They hurry home, snuffing the spicy steams ; The pious matron, with full heart draws forth The spare-rib crisp more savory from the spit ! Tall pots of peas and beans vile, flatulent ; And puddings, smoking to the rafter'd walls ; And sweet-cup custards, part of the dessert. These all, concreted some, some subtilized, And by the generative heat matured, A goodly birth, the welcome time brings forth. Illustrious Oven ! warmest, heartiest friend ! Destroy but thee, and where were festive smiles? We, cannibals, might torrify and seethe ; Or dry blood-reeking flesh in the cold sun ; Or, like the Arab, on his racing horse, Beneath the saddle swelter it for food. And yet, ere thou give us, we must give thee. Thus many an Oven barren is for life. O poverty ! how oft thy wishful eye Rests on thine Oven, hungry as thyself! Would I might load each Oven of the poor, With what each palate craves a fruitless wish ! Yet seldom hear we Industry complain ; And no one should complain, who hath two eyes, Two hands, and mind and body, sound and free. And such, their powers to worthy ends applied, Be pleased, indulgent Patroness, to feed. F. S. KEY, OF Baltimore, is the author of the short lyrical piece enti- tled The Star-Spangled Banner, which has enjoyed a high popularity. Of the occasion which led to the composition of these lines, the following account is given. A gentleman had left Baltimore, with a flag of truce, for the purpose of getting released from the British fleet, a friend of his who had been captured at Marlboro'. He went as far as the mouth of the Patuxent, and was not permitted to return, lest the intended attack on Baltimore should be disclosed. He was, therefore, brought up the Bay to the mouth of the Patapsco, where the flag vessel was kept under the guns of a frigate, and he was compelled to witness the bombardment of Fort M'Henry, which the admiral had boasted that he would carry in a few hours. He watched the flag at the Fort, through the whole day, with an anxiety that can be more easily conceived than described, until the night prevented him from seeing it. In the night, he watched the bomb shells, and at eaily dawn, his eye was again greeted by the proudly waving flag of his country. STAR SPANGLED BANNER. O! SAT, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes, and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming ? F. S. KEY. 289 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O ! say, does that Star-spangled Banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam ; In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream. 'Tis the Star-spangled Banner, O ! long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion, A home and a country, should leave us no more ! Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph doth wave, O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. O ! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand, Between their loved home, and the war's desolation, Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto " In God is our trust ; " And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 290 KATHARINE A. WARE. KATHARINE A. WARE* MRS WARE is the daughter of the late Dr Joseph W. Rhodes of Rhode Island. She was born at Q,uincy, Massa- chusetts. Her first attempts at verse attracted the notice of her kinsman Robert Treat Paine, and the praises which she received from him incited her to follow her inclination for poetry. The earliest production of her's, that attracted pub- lic notice, was a poem entitled " Columbia's Bard," written at the age of fifteen, and published on the death of Mr Paine. These lines were included in the volume of his works which appeared after his death. From this period, to the time of her marriage with Mr Charles A. Ware, of the United States Navy, we hear little of her poetry, except some trifling con- tributions to the corners of a newspaper. Shortly after this event, she was called upon by a committee for a national ode for the anniversary of the seventeenth of June. The favora- ble reception which this ode received, caused her to be con- stantly solicited for others, on public occasions, and in several instances she complied. Bostonians well remember the cir- cumstance of a little girl of five years old, who presented a wreath and a copy of verses to Lafayette, at his arrival on Boston Common ; this was Mrs Ware's eldest child. During a year's residence in New York, Mrs Ware became favorably known as a writer for the American Atheneum, and received many liberal tokens of approbation from the editor of that paper, and others. She was complimented also with a gold chain, from the manager of the Chatham Theatre, for an ode which was recited in honor of Governor Clinton at the canal celebration. In January, 1828, she commenced a periodical publication in Boston called The Bower of Taste. In this, and other similar works, her verses have been given to the public. j KATHARINE A. WARE. 291 THERE IS A VOICE. THERE is a voice in the western breeze, As it floats o'er spring's young roses ! Or sighs among the blossoming trees, Where the spirit of love reposes : It tells of the joys of the pure and young, Ere they wander life's wildering paths among. There is a voice in the summer gale, Which breathes amid regions of bloom ! Or murmurs soft, through the dewy vale, In moonlight's tender gloom : It tells of hope, unblighted yet And of hours, that the soul can ne'er forget ! There is a voice in the autumn blast, That wafts the falling leaf, When the glowing scene is fading fast For the hour of bloom is brief: It tells of Life its sure decay And of earthly splendors, that pass away ! There is a voice in the wintry storm, For the blasting spirit is there Breathing o'er every vernal charm, O'er all that was bright and fair ; It tells of death, as it moans around, And the lonely hall returns the sound. And there 's a voice a small, still voice, That conies, when the storm is past It bids the sufferer's heart rejoice I In the haven of peace at last ; It tells of joys, beyond the grave, And of Him who died a world to save ! WHERE Art's wide realm in mouldering ruin sleeps, And Science o'er departed glory weeps Where wreathing ivy shrouds in dark array, The desolating progress of decay 292 KATHARINE A. WARE. Where time is ranging with remorseless tread, Amid the trophies of the mighty dead, There, Grecia's genius hovers o'er the scene Of ruin'd grandeur glories that have been Views the vast wreck of power with kindling eye, And kneels beside the tomb of Poesy. Where fame's proud relics strew her classic ground, In gloomy majesty she glides around, Pausing, with rapt devotion, to survey The prostrate splendors of her early day. Those ancient courts, where erst with wisdom fraught, Her senate listen'd, and her sages taught ; Where that bold patriot, firm in virtue's cause, The immortal Solon, thunder'd forth his laws ! The temple raised to Theseus' mighty name The storied arch of Hadrian's deathless fame ! Raises her eye to where, with beam divine, Apollo blush'd upon the Delphic shrine As bow'd that chief, to learn a nation's fate, Who gave his royal life, to save the state. With pride, she seeks Dodona's sacred grove, Where towers the temple of imperial Jove, Frowning, in ruin'd majesty sublime, The proudest wreck that braves the blast of time ! Shows the broad Stadium, where the gymnic art, Nerved the young arm, and energized the heart Gave a bold race of warriors to her field, Whose godlike courage was their only shield 1 Surveys that grot, where still her olives twine In wild luxuriance o'er its fallen shrine Where Dian's vestal daughters came to lave Their snowy bosoms in Ionia's wave. All dark and tuneless are those laurel shades, Which once enshrined Castalia's classic maids For barbarous hands have raised their funeral pyre And hush'd the breathings of their seraph lyre Save when the light of heaven around it plays, And wakes the hallow 1 d chant of other days! Oh ! then, 'mid storied mounds, and mouldering urns, Once more, the flame of inspiration burns ! Here, pilgrim Genius comes to muse around, To wake one strain o'er consecrated ground ! From prostrate fanes, and altars of decay, He learns the glory of their former day And, in the tender blush of twilight gloonij KATHARINE A. WARE. He writes the story of some ruin'd tomb ; From dark oblivion snatches many a gem, To glisten in his own fair diadem. Immortal Byron ! thou, whose courage plann'd The rescue of that subjugated land Oh ! hadst thou lived to rear thy giant glaive, Thou 'dst bid the Christian cross triumphant wave ! Mark'd the pale crescent wave 'mid seas of blood, And stamp'd proud Grecia's freedom in the flood. But, Oh ! 't was fate's decree thou should'st expire, Swan-like, amid the breathings of thy lyre Even in the sacred light of thine own song As sinks the glorious sun amid the throng Of bright robed clouds, the pageantry of Heaven Thy last retiring beam to earth was given. Where Scio's isle blushes with Christian gore, And recreant fiends still yell around her shore ; Where Missolonghi's bloody plain extends, 'Mid war's red blots, Athena's Queen descends. Mark, where she comes in all the pomp of wo Darkling around her sable vestments flow With throbbing bosom in the tempest bare Wild, on the breeze, floats her unwreathed hair, Though learning's classic diadem is there. Where fate's dark clouds the face of heaven deform With steadfast brow she meets the bursting storm, Turns to Olympus with imploring eye, And claims the aegis of her native sky. Hark ! round its base th' eternal thunders roll, And Jove's own lightnings flash from pole to pole His voice is there ! he bids creation save Minerva's "first born," from a barbarous wave. THE PARTING. SHE loved him e'en in childhood, with that pure Devotion, which the bosom feels secure In youthful innocence when first the heart Elects its idol, sacred and apart From other beings : oh ! there is a truth, A beam, that wakes not when the glow of youth Is past, 'tis like the ray that morning throws, Upon the bosom of the blushing rose. VOL. ii. 25* 293 294 KATHARINE A. WARE. She was a creature such as painters love To draw, like her who to imperial Jove The nectar'd goblet bore ; just such an eye, And such a cheek was hers its roseate dye Seem'd borrow'd from the morning her bright hair Like braided gold, wreath'd round a brow as fair As Parian marble all those curving lines That mark perfection and which taste defines As beautiful, gave to her youthful form A loveliness, a grace, so thrilling warm That every motion seem'd to speak a soul Whose inborn radiance illumed the whole. He too, was in life's joyous spring ; the glow Of sunny health was on his cheek bis brow Was bold and fearless, his keen eagle eye Was looking forth to scenes of victory ; For War had plumed his crest and nerved his arm And there was breathing round him, all the charm Of high devotion to his country's weal ; While the bright panoply of gold, and steel, That mail'd his breast and liash'd upon his brow Gave proud assurance of the soldier's vow. # * * * He dream'd not that he loved her for in truth He knew the child e'en from her earliest youth. Oft had he look'd upon the young Elolse As a sweet being whom he wish'd to please To gather roses for, and braid her hair, To guard her with a brother's tender care But never dream'd of love, for haply he Had fix'd h~is hopes on higher destiny. With pride he heard his summon to the field : Yet, hadJiis heart its secret thoughts reveal'd, Some shades of sadness had been lingering there, On leaving home, and friends, and scenes so fair He came to bid adieu 't was a mild night Of softest moonshine and its dewy light Was on the shrubs, and flowers that bloom'd around And thero was music in the soothing sound Of the bright rill that murmur'd through the glade, And sparkled 'neath the willow's pensile shade, The summer breeze was sighing through its boughs In whispers, soft as youthful lovers' vows. She was reclining in the latticed bower Musing, as 't were upon the stilly hour. KATHARINE A. WARE. 295 " Dear Eloise ! " he said (the sudden flush Of new-born feeling call'd a crimson blush On her young cheek, that, made the life-blood start In thrilling eddies round his conscious heart,) " Dear Eloise I come to bid adieu To these fair scenes, to happiness, and you. Hast thou no wish no blessing, for thy friend ? Who, far from thee, and all he'loves, s'hall wend His pilgrimage, through wilderness and toil, Uncheer'd by friendship's voice or Beauty's smile. He laid his hand upon her seraph head, Press'd a warm kiss upon her brow, and said " May heaven preserve thee, pure, as angels are The world is wicked lovely one beware ! Thou art an orphan would that title might Protect thy innocence from the fell blight Of those who hover in fair virtue's way, To tempt the steps of guileless youth astray. Would I could guard thee but my path of life Lies through the ranks of war, 'mid battle's strife There duty calls me should I ne'er return, Say wouldst thou sorrow o'er thy soldier's urn ? Yet if some future day I dare to claim The dear bought honors of a hero's name May Eloisa's fond remembrance prove Her youthful friendship ripen'd into love?" Pure as a vestal's hymn that breathes to heaven ! That night, their vows of mutual faith were given. Years have roll'd on but yet no warrior came With laurell'd brow, his youthful bride to claim Years have roll'd on the wintry frosts have shed Their sparkling crystals o'er his lowly bed. Where proud St Lawrence wreathes his crested wave, That youthful hero found an early grave. But though unwept by fond affection's tear A soldier's honors graced his funeral bier. Years have roll'd on since Nature's loveliest child, Within her garden bower in beauty smiled Years have roll'd on, and spring with annual bloom Still twines her wreath o'er Eloisa's tomb, While kindred spirits hymn her requiem there. And freight with sweetest sounds the balmy air. Xyo SARAH J. HALE. SARAH J. HALE. MRS HALE was born at Newport, New Hampshire, Octo- ber 24th, 1790. Her husband, David Hale, Esq. died in 1822. Her first work was published in 1823. It was a volume of poems selected mostly from articles written for amusement in years previous. The necessities of a fatherless family made her an author. The profits of her volume, however, were not such as to encourage her to pursue the vocation, and she con- templated no further enterprise of a literary character, but the failure of all her other attempts to support her family com pelled her once more to appear before the public. In 1827, she published "Northwood," a novel in two volumes, which was very favorably received. Since that period, she has cont buted to many of the periodicals of the day, souvenirs, &c. both prose and verse, the latter under the signature of " Cor- nelia." In January 1828, she undertook the editorship of the Ladies' Magazine, published in Boston, where she now resides. It gives us pleasure to state, that her talents have been so well appreciated, that her efforts to provide for her children have thus far been crowned with success. THE FATHER'S CHOICE.* Now fly, as flies the rushing wind Urge, urge thy lagging steed ! The savage yell is fierce behind, And life is on thy speed. * In the year 1G97, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haverhill, Massachu- setts, killed and carried into captivity forty inhabitants. A party of the Indians approached the house of an individual, who was abroad at his labor, but who, on their approach, hastened to the house, sent his children out, and ordered them to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger was approaching. He then mounted his horse, and determined to snatch up the child with which he was un- willing to part, when he should overtake the little flock. When he came up to SARAH J. HALE. 297 And from those dear ones make thy choice The group he wildly eyed, When " father ! " burst from every voice, And " child ! " his heart replied. There 's one that now can share his toil, And one he meant for fame, And one that wears her mother's smile, And one that bears her name. And one will prattle on his knee, Or slumber on his breast ; And one whose joys of infancy, Are still by smiles express'd. They feel no fear while he is near ; He '11 shield them from the foe : But oh ! his ear must thrill to hear Their shriekings, should he go. In vain his quivering lips would speak, No words his thoughts allow ; There 's burning tears upon his cheek, Death's marble on his brow. And twice he smote his clenched hand Then bade his children fly ! And turn'd, and even that savage band Cower'd at his wrathful eye. Swift as the lightning wing'd with death, Flash'd forth the quivering flame ! Their fiercest warrior bows beneath The father's deadly aim. them, about two hundred yards from his house, he was unable to make a choice, or to leave any one of the number. He therefore determined to take his lot with them, and defend them from their murderers, or die by their side. A body ot the Indians pursued, and came up with him ; and when at a short distance, fired on him and his little company. He returned the fire, and retreated alternately ; still, however, keeping a resolute face to the enemy, and so effectually sheltered hi* charge, that he finally lodged them all safe in a distant house. 298 SARAH J. HALE. Not the wild cries, that rend the skies, His heart or purpose move ; He saves his children, or he dies The sacrifice of love. Ambition goads the conqueror on, Hate points the murderer's brand But love and duty, these alone Can nerve the good man's hand. The hero may resign the field, The coward murderer flee ; He cannot fear, he will not yield, That strikes, sweet love, for thee. They come, they come he heeds no cry, Save the soft childlike wail, " O father, save ! " " My children, fly ! " Were mingled on the gale. And firmer still he drew his breath, And sterner flash'd his eye, As fast he hurls the leaden death, Still shouting, " children fly ! " No shadow on his brow appear'd, Nor tremor shook his frame, Save when at intervals he heard Some trembler lisp his name. In vain the foe, those fiends unchain'd, Like famish'd tigers chafe, The sheltering roof is near'd, is gain'd, All, all the dear ones safe ! THE VICTOR'S CROWN. A CROWN for the victor a crown of light ! From a land where the flowers ne'er feel a blight, SARAH J. HALE. 299 Was gathered the wreath that around it glows, And he who o'ercometh his treacherous foes, That radiant crown shall gain : A king went forth on the rebel array That arose where a beautiful hamlet lay He frown'd and there 's nought save ashes and blood And blacken'd bones where tjiat hamlet stood, Yet his treacherous foes he hath not slain. A crown for the victor a crown of light ! Encircled with jewels so pure and bright, Night never hath gloom'd where their lustre glows, And he who can conquer his proudest foes, That glorious crown shall gain : A hero came from the crimson field, And low at his feet the pale captives kneel'd In his might he had trodden a nation down, But he may not challenge the glorious crown, For his proudest foe he hath not slain. A crown for the victor a crown of light ! Like the morning sun, to the raptured sight From the night of a dungeon raised, it glows : And he who can slay his deadliest foes, That shining crown shall gain : With searching eye and stealthy tread, The man of wrath sought his enemy's bed Like festering wounds, are the wrongs he hath borne, And he takes the revenge his soul hath sworn, But his deadliest foe he hath not slain. A crown for the victor a crown of light ! To be worn with a robe whose spotless white Makes darkness seem resting on Alpine snows And he who o'ercometh his mightiest foes That robe and crown shall gain: With eye upraised and forehead bare, A pilgrim knelt down in holy prayer He hath wrestled with self and with passion striven, And to hitn hath the sword of the Spirit been given O, crown him, for his foes his sins are slain ! 300 SARAH J. HALE. THE LIGHT OF HOME. MY boy, thou wilt dream.the world is fair, And thy spirit will sigh to roam, And thou must go ; but never when there, Forget the light of home. Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray : Like the meteor's flash 't will deepen the night, When thou treadest the lonely way. But the hearth of home has a constant flame, And pure as vestal fire : *T will burn, 't will burn, for ever the same, For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest tost, ~ And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; But when sails are shiver'd and rudder lost, Then look to the light of home. And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, Thou shalt see the beacon bright, For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quench'd its holy light. The sun of fame 't will gild the name, But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are but beams of a wintry day. And how cold and dim those beams must be, Should life's wretched w r anderer come ! But my boy, when the world is dark to thee, Then turn to the light of home. THE GIFTS. LADY, I 've climb' d the mountain side, And roam'd the flowery lea, SARAH J. HALE. 301 And gathered the garden's glowing pride, And the rose and lily in soft bands tied, A garland meet for thee. the wreath is fair but fairest flowers They fade too easily ! And they fold their leaves at evening hours, And they droop and die when the tempest lowers, Then offer not flowers to me. Lady, earth's richest mines I 've sought, And search'd the deep blue sea, Where coral caves are with gems inwrought, And these diamonds pure, and pearls I 've brought, As fitting gifts for thee. O, those are gifts the great demand, They are offered on bended knee, With a grudging heart by the servile band, A tribute or bribe to the tyrant's hand, Then offer not pearls to me. Lady, this glittering star to gain, The price of victory, 1 rush'd upon the battle plain, And traced my path by the heaps of slain This star I '11 pledge to thee. O, titled fame ! an airy word, A puff of vanity ! Ah, think what crimson streams are pour'd, That man, weak man, may be hail'd a Lord ! Then offer not rank to me. Lady, I have a heart as pure As the birthright of the free : And the faith I vow will for aye endure, And my love as flowers to the spring is sure ; This heart I '11 give to thee. O, 't is now thy words have power to move ! My warm tears speak for me ; For on earth below, or in heaven above, The richest gift is the heart of love And here 's a heart for thee ! 96 302 SARAH J. HALE. THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. ONE kiss, ray boy upon thy cheek, That cheek so young and bright, And once again I 'd hear thee speak Thy softly lisp'd " good night." Then rest, and not a shade of earth Can cloud thy slumbers fair ; Dark dreams from worldly cares have birth, And thou hast nought of care. O why might not life's silver tide With thee thus ever smoothly glide ! Who gazes on the bloom of May, Nor sighs that all will wither? And yet che blossoms must decay Ere we the fruit may gather ; And life's sweet morning buds of joy Like spring-flowers soon depart ; And thou must change, yet wear, my boy, Life's freshness in thy heart. Pure feelings, like the flower's perfume, Embalm the memory of its bloom. Man's lot, dominion o'er the earth, Maketh his sinews strong, . And that proud lot will lead thee forth All ardent 'mid the throng. Life's onward path is wrapp'd in night, And dangers are its fame ; Ambition holds an eagle flight, And spurns at quiet's name, And pleasure's siren songs entice, And flowers conceal the precipice. O ! wilt thou wander then, my boy ? Away ! ye idle fears, Why shroud our sun of present joy In clouds of future years? There 'a One will watch thee though I sleep Where morning never shone ; There's One thy faltering steps can keep, Wouldst thou His voice were known? Then list amid the world's wide din The still, small voice thy heart within. ENOCH LINCOLN. 303 ENOCH LINCOLN, THE present governor of the State of Maine, is a native of Worcester, Massachusetts. He was educated for the law, and besides exercising that profession has been several times a representative in congress from the state over which he now presides. He is the author of The Village, a poem pub- lished in 1816, an unpretending performance, but one of merit and interest. The Village is a picture of rural scenery and character, accompanied with such moral reflections as the matters touched upon are calculated to awaken. It has of course nothing imposing in the subject, nor is there anything bril- liant or striking in the style, no straining after novelties of thought or fine expressions. As the author disdains the use of the common stock of embellishments which belong to verse, this production has perhaps little which were we to refine our criticism, would pass for downright poetry. But it has a fund of good sense and direct obvious mean- ing which compensates for the want of more showy qual- ities. Those who bend with interest over the sober and moral page of Cowper, or are delighted with the sim- plicity and pathos of Goldsmith, will find The Village a work which will afford high satisfaction in the perusal. The tone of sentiment which prevails throughout is noble and elevated, and the political and moral precepts highly commendable. The versification is perhaps a little heavy, and the language occasionally prosaic. There is, how- ever, a strength of feeling, and at times an eloquence, dis- played in the poem that render the reader in some degree insensible to their defects. THE VILLAGE. SHALLOW and deep, by turns, and swift and slow, There I behold the winding Saco flow. ii04 ENOCH LINCOLN. In early spring 1 , when showers increase its tides, And melted snows pour down the mountains' sides, I've seen it raging, boisterous, and deep, O'erflow its banks and through the upland sweep. The farmer's hopes, the lumberer's hard earn'd thrift, Logs, bridges, booms, and boats were all adrift ; Trees, fences, fields, whate'er opposed its course, Were torn and scatter'd by the o'erwhelming force. Loosed from the fold to crop the tender feed, The hungry flock were grazing on the mead. Their saving Ararat, a trifling mound. Secured them from the deluge spreading round, Till, taught no more to let the stragglers roam, The careless shepherd bore them to their home. And then, from spouting clouds no longer fed, Our little Nile return'd within its bed. Along its borders, spreading far and wide, The tall, straight pines appear on every side. To these thick woods the hardy laborer goes, And rears his sheltering tent amid the snows, His couch the hemlock's twigs, his household ware, A jug and basket till'd with simplest fare. Ye, who indulge in indolence and ease, Whom spleen invades and moody vapors seize, To whom each day an age of trouble seems, Whose nights are wakeful or disturb'd by dreams, Observe the happy quiet of his rest, And learn, like him, by labor to be blest. Ye bloated epicures, disease's prey, Who waste in vile excess your lives away, Observe his frugal board, be wise at length, And gain like him, from temperance, health and strength. The frosty boreal blast, the pelting storm, Solstitial suns, or seasons mildly warm, The western breezes, or the southern air, Alike to him, wake not one passing care. With nervous arm he wields the keen-edged axe, And plies anew each day untired attacks, Till by his strokes the forest leveli'd round, With prostrate trunks and branches heaps the ground. The oxen, faithful sharers of his toil, Drag to the river's brink the heavy spoil, Thence floated downward to the distant mart, And changed from Nature's form to works of Art. But not alone the lofty pine trees fall, The axe unsparing strikes alike on all. ENOCH LINCOLN. 305 Now a rich treasury of golden grain, Few moons have wax'd and waned since yonder plain, A shady solitude, a drear retreat, Had scarcely known the print of human feet. When, joining hand in hand, what charms imparts The potent touch of Labor and the Arts. Planted by them, the sweetly scented rose, On dreary wilds, in blooming beauty grows ; The fields, where famine reign'd or wild beasts ranged. By them to peopled villages are changed. Their aid invoked, with no retarding fears, His cumber'd land the sturdy yeoman clears. Fell'd by his strokes, the forest prostrate lies ; Its vital sap the glowing summer dries, And last the bonfires burn, the boughs consume, And spreading flames the hemisphere illume. The fresh'ning breezes fan the growing blaze, Bear the light sparks, and cloudy columns raise, And whirl the storm of rushing fire along O'er lighted hills, and crackling vales among. Swift fly the birds, as spreads the ruin round, The frighted reptiles hide within the ground, And all the forest tribes grow wilder at the sound. But see yon simple hut, of structure rude, Of unplaned boards contrived and logs unhew'd : The threat'ning fires pursue their blasting way, And the low fabric falls their certain prey. Alas ! 't was Poverty's last hope, the place Where dwelt Contentment with her sister, Peace. Ah ! Charity, thou comforter of wo, Wipe now the tears from Misery's eye that flow : Thou Angel Almoner of pitying heaven, Now let thy treasures of relief be given, Take to thy bosom the poor child of need, The houseless shelter, and the hungry feed : By blessings wing'd their prayer shall make its way To heaven's high Chancery ; there will God repay. More sacred than the Thunderer's chosen oak, Let not the maple feel the woodman's stroke. Fair maple ! honors purer far are thine Than Venus' myrtle yields, or Bacchus' vine ; Minerva's olive, consecrated tree, Deserves not half the homage due to thee. The queen of trees, thou proudly tower'st on high, Yet wave thy limbs in graceful pliancy. VOL. ii. 26* 306 ENOCH LINCOLN. On yonder river's bank, around thy root, The closely interweaving fibres shoot, And numerous branches spreading far and wide, Swiftly the wind, strongly must rush the tide To overthrow thy deep and stately strength, And on the strand to measure out thy length. From every twig of thee, as blows the breeze, Fly the ripe germes, the little embryo trees, And forrn'd with each a wing- by Nature's care, Float lightly, quivering in the passing air, Or, dropping, fall upon the stream and flow With rich alluvion, and to forests grow. Fair maple ! let thy leaves my brows surround, And laurel wreaths I trample on the ground. The suffering Negro in West Indian Isles, Soothed at thy name, amid his sorrow smiles, Hope's cheering rays dispel his gloomy care, And tinge with dawning light his deep despair. Do not our soil and frosty clime insure Sweets as salubrious, exquisite and pure, As those which burning suns, or humid air With swarming insects fill'd, and slaves prepare ? They do ! our blest New England's fruitful soil Requires no culture by a servile toil ; No master's torturing lash offends the ear, No slave is now nor ever shall be here. Whene'er he steps upon our sacred fields, Their guardian Genius an asylum yields, His chains drop from him, and on Reason's plan, He claims the gift of God, the rights of man. ****** Enough of mountains, rocks, and woods, and streams ; We turn our view to more instructive themes : The varied landscape let us cease to scan, And strive to sketch the qualities of man, Whilst from the camera of the faithful brain, We paint the little village of the plain. Let others trace a more extensive view, And different scenes with higher aim pursue : Let them become familiar with the great, And ope the hidden mysteries of state, Or march with conquering armies and rehearse The deeds of heroes in the epic verse: My lowly subjects humbler strains invite, " And check the Fancy's more aspiring flight : ENOCH LINCOLN. 307 Yet, though the numerous hamlets rise around, And many tempting charms in each abound, She will 'not stray from this her little sphere ; The brief epitome of all is here. With admiration fill'd, by beauty fired, By virtue awed, by all her charms inspired, With sacred tenderness and watchful care, First should I pay my homage to the fair. Satire avaunt! throw down thy poison'd darts, Forbear to fix thy wounds in female hearts, Forbear to draw'from Beauty's eye the tear, A scornful jest to barb, or point a sneer. True, some are mark'd by follies, subjects fit For jeers and taunts, for laughter and for wit. A jilt may cheat you, a coquette may vex, A Messalina may disgrace her sex, A Ciytemnestra may her husband kill, A father's blood a furious Tullia spill, A cruel Mary light the Smithfield fire, And numerous victims in the flames expire ; But is the starry firmament less bright, Or would you veil the blaze of solar light, Because a transient cloud obscures the one, Or now and then a spot comes o'er the sun? Exceptions to their sex those monsters call, And for their faults and crimes condemn not all. For one of those a thousand you may find Of charming person and of cultured mind. Behold the politic, the good Queen Bess By virtuous rule a happy nation bless, A Joan of Arc invading armies brave, And fall herself a tottering realm to save. See the Czarina, as her father great, In all the arts and policy of State, The heroine Roland tyrant power defy, The patriot Corday for her country die, With learning fraught, Dacier's scholastic page, By female genius signalize an age, And, in our native land, a Warren's name Rank near a Gibbon's on the roll of Fame, And Adams, rich in history's various lore, The arduous path of literature explore ; With Shakspeare, great blasphemer of the fair, " Wo:nan thy name is Frailty," then declare, The " semper varium " of the bard relate 308 ENOCH LINCOLN. Who sang the lovely Dido's hapless fate, And let the strains of satire all be be sung-, From bitter Juvenal down to pungent Young ; Those female worthies still shall live in fame, And honor's haloes circle every name ; Still shall the virtues of a countless crowd Proclaim the bards malicious, false and proud. The foul injustice of their pens to show, Proofs, living proofs, full many here I know. And now forgive, ye fair, if, bold and rude, The muse unbidden on your homes intrude ; 'T is not to drag you to the common gaze, For modest merit shinks from public praise ; 'T is not, with flattery's sycophantic guile, To smooth a frowning brow or win a smile ; But 'tis to pay the homage which is due, To Truth, to Beauty, Innocence and you. Some could I name, who never fail to please By manners joining dignity and ease ; Strictly correct in everything they say, In Virtue's balance every act they weigh, And while to all the social duties true, Good their delight and heaven their hopeful view. Even watching envy not a fault can find, But owns them pure of heart and rich in mind : Censure is dumb, while families and friends Revere those virtues, which the world commends. Thrice happy he, by Fortune highly bless'd, By such, as husband loved, or child caress'd, And whom the ties of marriage, or of blood, Have made the guardian angels of his good. Ye men of pleasure, roving, wild, and gay, Can lawless riot these pure joys repay ? Say which, through life's great voyage, will rather please, Love's furious whirlwind or its gentle breeze? Say, when enjoyments have the senses pall'd, And unimpassion'd Reason is recall'd To hold again her abdicated throne, Do you not feel abandon'd and alone ? When on your spirits moody sorrow weighs, When on your health destructive sickness preys, When on your rights invade malignant foes, Assail your fame, and stab at your repose, Surely no greater good by pitying heaven Can, in its vast beneficence, be given, ENOCH LINCOLN. 309 Than one, the friend in all the scenes of life, The kind companion, and the loving wife. Yet truth must own such paragons are rare, And few so good, so lovely, and so fair. Though frequent quarries may the earth unfold, Yet rare are diamonds or the mines of gold : So we perceive the mass of human kind, Though fair in spots, is rough and unrefined. Those bless'd with beauty and by virtue loved, Of manners polish'd and of taste improved, Are precious gems, 'midst barren mountains found, Where dreary wastes and frowning cliffs abound. 'T is happily contrived that man is made With tastes and powers of every varying shade. Hence every one the other's wants subserves, And each her own peculiar praise deserves, As well the housewife 'neath the humble roof, Plying the wheel and laboring warp and woof, As the gay charmer, mistress of the heart, Who plays in higher life a brighter part. But she above all competition towers Who adds to other gifts high mental powers. ****** But man, wild, active, versatile, and bold, What pen his various nature can unfold, Depict his actions, character, and mien, And dramatize the vast and changeful scene ! Behold him here, the Village for his stage, The scenery Nature, and the plot the Age, .Life's tragi-comic subject for the Play, And Actors of all stamps, from grave to gay, From bustling, strutting, pompous, loud, and vain, To simple merit's large and lowly train. Think not the moment lost, as these we scan, For the best " study of mankind is man." First comes the lawyer ; 't is an honor'd name, A title glorious on the roll of Fame, Too dear for wealth, which birth cannot bestow, Or flattery wreathe around a lordling's brow; A title from the fane of Science borne, By weary vigils earn'd, by wisdom worn, Of import vast, in which the honors blend Of honor's champion and of freedom's friend ; Yet Justice fails the sacred name to save From profanation of the fool and knave, Who, jackdaws still, the peacock's pomp assume, And strut in pride with half a pilfer'd plume. 310 ENOCH LINCOLN. Prompt with demurrers, skilful in abatements, To circumvention tr-ain'd, and bold in statements, Each villain's hireling, used by every knave, Of meanest wretches even a meaner slave, To rob too cowardly, too proud to steal, The pettifogger preys on public weal, And makes some Justice, a comrnission'd fool, For paltry aims a secret legal tool, Or deeper cheats, to gain him larger fees, Performs by quibbles, sophistry and pleas. As princes, heedless whether wrong or right, Their forces sell in foreign wars to fight ; So he, for fees or popular applause, Fits out his arguments for any cause, Like hireling Hessians still enlists for pay, Nor cares who falls or conquers in the fray. Does Law's plain letter stare him in the face ; Its spirit then must take the letter's place ; But if the spirit shall oppose his aim, The letter then must perfect reverence claim. His declaration do clear proofs deny, Does Reason give his sophistry the lie ; Then Reason ? s "felse and not to be believed, And every witness perjured or deceived. If, notwithstanding his absurd harangues, Neglect attends him or dark want o'erhangs, Fictitious indorsees his costs may swell, Or clients under par their notes may sell ! Or if by clients, whom his frauds have warn'd, Avoided, fear'd, despised, abhorr'd, and scorn'd, Yet may his malice rob some wealthy foe, Whilst perjury aids to lay the victim low. If vengeance urge or avarice allure, No virtue 's safe and no estate secure. O'er your whole life the never-sleeping spy, Whilst memory notes, directs his piercing eye, And if, perchance, with careless feet you stray From law's oft doubtful and much winding way, At once the villain, dead to honest shame, Urges his bloodhounds on your wealth and fame, Turns pimp to catchpolls, and would take with joy From off a hangman's hands his vile employ. When bless'd with soul and gifted with a mind, And such there are, we honest lawyers find, Those whose high office is to guard the laws, And vindicate from wrong the righteous cause, ENOCH LINCOLN. 311 We yield the meed of merited applause : Yes more, even those whom headstrong passions urge, To tempt of daring vice the utmost verge, Who, great in crimes, in their eccentric course, Superior art display or mightier force, If Genius beam its animating fire, We cannot help to pity and admire ; But when thick skull d, dispassionate, and mean, A creeping villain or dull rogue is seen, If not from sense of justice quite exempt, We load the wretch with hatred and contempt. A lawyer he ! O no ; he sinks the name To lowest depths of infamy and shame. Much more the humble appellation fits Of petty scribe of low, vexatious writs, Whom ne'er a single ray of fancy warms To cheer the gloom of precedents and forms, Extortion's drudge, a mere machine, which Jews, In works too vile for them, may freely use. Provoked by insults or some trifling wrong, To vengeance urged law's mazy path along, The fretful litigant resolves to fit Th' offending neighbor with a "special ivrit." Varus, a lawyer skilFd in legal arts, Of high repute for management and parts, Of boldest courage to maintain a lie, In reasoning subtle, in evasion sly, To feeling dead, in principle a knave, Forever craving as the insatiate grave, And now mayhap by hunger urged to seize On any job which gives a chance for fees, His client's burning fury feeds with oil, Urges the suit and lights him to the spoil. 'Squire Quirk, the Justice, to dispense the laws Sits in the pride of power to judge the cause, Grave as an owl in solemn state presides, And as sly Varus bids, the cause decides: Vain all authorities, and justice vain, Not Dexter's self a single point could gain: Cold as the snows which freeze around the pole, No eloquence could warm his frigid soul ; Dark as the shades of Milton's Stygian night, His mind admits no glimmering ray of light; Too dull for reasoning and too proud for shame, No power can move him from his steadfast aim. Resolved, in folly's and in knavery's spite, 312 ENOCH LINCOLN. In other courts to vindicate his right, The aggrieved defendant, now on fortune's wheel, Still by reviews, new trial, and appeal, Through every change of law is whirl'd around, And whirls and changes still, but gains no ground. At last his wealth, by fritters worn away, By lawyers' fees and witnesses in pay, Through long delays although he wins his cause, He falls beneath the bulwark of the laws ; Yet blame not them, themselves most wise and pure, But those who use them to oppress the poor : . They 're speculators, usurers, and knaves, And those who condescend to be their slaves, On,whom should rest th' accumulated weight Of private anger and of public hate. ******* YetO! beware of Party Spirit's rage, The course of direst ills to every age, The lowering cloud o'er freedom's brilliant star, Heavy with ruin, black with civil war. As where in deserts of Arabian lands Some gushing spring spouts up amidst the sands, Its dewy freshness feeds the towering palms, And clothes the spot with all of Nature's charms : But when the hot Sirocco rushes by, The withering beauties catch the blast and die : So, 'midst a world of tyranny and dread, Where blooming Freedom droops its flowery head, In this blest land, its blushing honors blow, And ripening fruits in rich luxuriance grow ; But Party Spirit's pestilential power Wilts the fair growth and blights the charming flower, While factious feuds and unforgiving hate Waste half the civil honors of our state. The Ins and Outs a constant warfare wage, With all the malice of vindictive rage, With all the ardor avarice inspires, And ail ambition's stimulating fires. To either side unnumber'd followers throng, Some right in motive, most in action wrong, Assailants fierce, accoutred cap a pie, In pride's and prejudice's panoply. With loud declaiming demagogues at head, Or now and then, perchance, by statesmen led, Resolved, though conquer'd, still to scorn to yield, They take with clash of arguments the field : ENOCH LINCOLN. 313 Truth tilts with Error and she hurls amain Her forceful weapons, but she hurls in vain ; On Folly's mail they fall with thundering sound, And blunted fall unhonor'd by a wound. ****** Some meanly selfish, a more venal crew, With nought but power or riches in their view, While frowning virtue interdicts in vain, Use basest means the favorite end to gain. At patriot merit slander's shafts they aim, With vacant heads and noisy tongues declaim, Decry the statesman, puff the stupid knave, Support the traitor, stigmatize tiie brave, Call wisdom folly, honor's self defame, Discolor truth and everything misname. And why ? Forsooth a rival to disgrace, To win a salary or to steal a place. * * * * . * * Aloof, the Patriot eyes the scene below, With calm contempt or with indignant glow. His wide philanthropy spreads unconfiued, Beyond a Paity's bounds to all mankind ; His liberal mind a general system frames, And in that system knows no private aims, No views to self, no patronage of friends, No mean contrivances for paltry ends. No factious tumults move his steadfast soul, No lures entice him, and no threats control ; Through changing times, 'midst all the scenes of State, As stern as Justice, and as fix'd as Fate, He stands sublime and nobly stems the storm Of Folly's rage and popular alarm, Till, all his greatness by the world confess'cl, Fear'd by tiie vicious, by the good caress'd, He meets at last the meed he spurn'd to claim, The unsought prize of office and of fame ; Yet office adds to him no higher grace, 'T is he reflects his brightness on his place. Diffusive blessings widely swell around, And public weal with party spoils is crown'd. Ye virtuous yeomen, guardians of the land, Be yours the heart, the ever ready hand, Such worth to aid, such wisdom to select, Sucli truth to shield, such honor to protect. What though no gay araiorials declare VOL. ii. 27 314 JOHN c. M'CALL. Of titled knaves that he 's the legal heir ? His rank is first by Heraldry of heaven, To whom the powers of intellect are given. What though no pomp his humble state allows ? He 's truly rich whom virtue's wealth endows: Placed on the level where your fortunes rest, He knows your wants, he feels when you 're oppresa'd, Enjoys your good, participates your pains, Sinks as you fall, and as you prosper gains. Such, your wise choice, in happy union blend The servant, statesman, patriot, and friend. Your forms of government, by Wisdom given, Have met the approving smile of favoring heaven. Your rightful heir, posterity demands Your sainted sires' entailment at your hands. O guard it with the Vestal's sleepless care, And leave it even more perfect and more fair. JOHN C. M'CALL, Is a native of Philadelphia, and received an education for the bar, but we understand is not at present engaged in practice. He is known as the author of The Troubadour, The Condottier, Fleurette, and other small poems. The first named of these is the only one we have had an opportu- nity of seeing. It has many passages of rich and graceful description, which dispose us to think highly of the author's poetical talent. We must add, that this poem is marked by some of the strangest metrical anomalies that have ever come in our way. Mr M'Call we are informed, writes only for amusement, and does not seem to bestow the necessary at- tention upon the more mechanical department of poetry. We should be gratified to see him put forth his strength upon a work of higher character, with a studied and persevering effort. JOHN c. M'CALL. 315 THE TROUBADOUR. THE mists lay dreaming on the mountain's breast, The lazy winds were sinking into rest, And softly breathing as they died away, Sigh'd o'er the splendors of departing day. In awful grandeur 'mid a blaze of light . That threw its countless iiues, of colors bright, O'er clouds and hills, o'er dells and babbling streams, The sun of even shed his crimson beams. The hollow murmurs of the rushing rill, The mellow horn that sounded 'cross the hill, The nightly anthem of the feather'd host, All golden sounds and sober evening's boast, Mix'd their sweet discords with seraphic skill, And held the wanderer listening at their will. The lowing herds crept slowly 'long the vale, And distant echoes bore the hunter's hail. The curling smoke above the foliage flew, Fantastic wreathing as the zephyrs blew. The merry tabor, and the pipe's shrill sound Made buoyant light the village-maidens' bound, As in the mazy grass they beat the ground. The evening breeze bore fragrance on its wing, O'er all the richest odors scattering. In frow'hing grandeur, on the distant height, An antique castle lower'd in its might ; Its lofty turrets blushing with the hue That now o'er all the scene the red sun threw. Its lord the bold Sir Brian de Valance, The pride and boast of all chivalric France, Here held his court amid Provencal peers, Stranger alike to pity and to fears. 'T was evening's hour, when down the mountain's road, A stranger Minstrel solitary strode. Fatigued he secm'd, and faint his gait was slow, And^oft he stopp'd to listen to the flow Of streams precipitate, that fell with sound Of soothing music on the ear, and found Their devious paths o'er al! the rugged ground. Or else he gazed on all the faiiy scene Of rocks and hills, and laughing plains between; The towering mounts that in succession grew Up to the clouds, and all their shadows threw On richest vineyards, where the bursting grape Blush 'd 'mid the tendrils that its clusters drape ; 316 JOHN c. M'CALL. Which, intertwined in light and meshy rings, Like feathers on the bird of Eden's wings. Onward he came, and o'er his back was slung A harp and from his graceful shoulders hung The garb that poets of the time then wore, While nature's richest, noblest stamp he bore Of light etherous on his open brow, Though something sad was on {>is features now. His port was such as ladies love to view, Haught and chivalric yet besides there grew A poet's sadness o'er his speaking face, That paled his front, but stole no single grace. * * * - * In Bryan's hall the revels were begun, Many a heart had now been lost and won. Blazing with light the rich and festive room, With scorn shut out the coming night's dull gloom. The pride of France and chivalry had met, And winsome pleasure wanton'd without let : The joyous laugh from lip to lip went round, And sense enchanted drank the thrilling sound. * * * * The moon held pale dominion o'er the scene, While light and fleecy clouds were oft between Her and the earth in all their beauty seen, Alt'ring their vaporous forms and sailing on, Their magic changes hardly seen ere gone, Veiling the silver graces of that orb, Whose modest charms all other charms absorb. A bugle's call then sounded from the gate. The warder enter'd, and with feudal state, Whisper'd his lord, who cries " throu ope the door, And let us welcome greet the Troubadour, He comes with skilful harp, and soft'ning lay : Ne'er to such guests can courtly knights say nay." The doors flew open, and with graceful mien, The Minstrel enter'd in his garb of green. In wild luxuriance o'er his front there play'd, Thick, clustering locks that even blacker made The swarthy hue that darken'd in his face, And lent his flashing eye a gloomier grace ; While in the lowly bow he made around, More of the knight than peasant there was found. Now ceased the lively dance, and dames drew near The harp's full tone and melody to hear. ' Then lowly bending o'er the strings he rung A wild and mournful prelude er re he sung. JOHN c. M'CALL. 317 With wilder'd eye the lady Ella stood, Watching the Troubadour as though she would Recall some well-known air, or former tone, Shadow or light that o'er his face had flown. " It is and yet it cannot be that air ! And yet his brow was wont to be so fair. That voice and I should sure be well acquaint." # * * * The Minstrel watch'd the changes of her thought, And when the warm and well-known glance he caught, Like Egypt's statue kiss'd by golden beams Of mantling morn new-waking from her dreams, A full, harmonious peal of music threw From chords melodious soft as summer dew. He ceased and bowing lowly once again. The melting echoes of his wondrous strain, Borne on the bosom of the evening breeze Died 'mid the shadows of the distant trees. Then came a burst of rich and noble praise, The poet's choicest meed for all his lays, From pleasure-beaming eyes and lips where smiles, With wildest sporting, flung around their wiles. O'er one fair face the hue of joy was thrown ; With lustrous gladness every feature shone. She look'd her thanks, but trusted not her voice, Content in blissful silence to rejoice. With courteous grace his thanks the Baron made, And turning to his glittering menials, bade Them bear the gold-embossed beaker near, Then pledged his guest and every high-born peer But as he "quaif'd the sparkling liqour down, His searching eye was lower'd with a frown ; A sudden thought seem'd crossing o'er his mind, And with his falcon-glance he seem'd to find, As every lineament he sternly scann'd, With look so long accustom'd to command, Some well-known feature in the Minstrel's face, Whose dusky forehead gave of change no trace. * * * * While through the hall loud peals of rapture rung And pleasure's accents dwelt on every tongue, A happy moment then the Minstrel caught, Whispering, to tell the tidings that he brought. " Oft, my loved Ella, since that hated morn, VOL. ii. 27* 319 JOHN c. M'CALL. When fierce and more when unrequited scorn, Fell withering from thy father's lip, to blast My fair and knightly fame hut that is past, I will not strike upon a chord that rings No mellow music but that wildly flings Its piercing discord on the shuddering air. Oft with various guise and subtle care I watched thy casement under which T sung Some air of kinder days past by, and hung On quivering lights, and gliding forms that past With breathless hope, still praying that at last, Thy form would glad my sight, and once again Thy melting accents chase acutest pain. Alas ! you came not then with desperate hand, I caught the harp of Minstrels of our land ; Threw o'er my face the nut-brown olive hue, And from the knight a wandering poet grew, Hoping amid the revels of the time, An entrance for the Trouvere and his rhyme ; Then won with melody, like him of old, A prize denied to conquering love of gold." Here glancing on a stern and martial form Whose features bore the impress of the storm ; Like some fierce figure bySalvator drawn, , Darkling and towering in his strength of brawn ; 'Mid rocks and gloomy woods and savage men Waiting at th' entrance of some banditt's den ; The fire's dull embers pouring their red light On stern, \vild features, and on armor bright : The brow of Guiscard darken'd, and his eye Threw out a light, as though he would defy, In th' hour of gasping death, the warrior dark, Who took of song and dance but slender mark. **** While old age lives on mem'ry of the past, Youth feeds on hope delusive to the last; A cheating phantom follows as it flies, Deck'd with gay promise though embalm'd in lies, In rapt and burning syllables he told His lover's tale while smooth and swiftly roll'd In course untired and same the heedless hour. The morning-moon, half hid amid the bower, In streams of silver light descending, shed Her rays soft melting on the flow'ring bed, .That seem'd with dewy fragrance to repay The wand'ring kisses of each smiling ray. JOHN c. M'CALL. 319 The fleeting wind too bore upon its breast The grateful essence and with odors dress'd, Lavish'd its perfumed riches all around, On dames knights marble and the verdant ground. And now not mark'd, the lovers stood beside A lofty, narrow casement opening wide Its painted leaves (whose glowing colors told Some tale chivalric, where a Baron bold For love had died struck by a rival's hand, Who smiled and waved aloft his bloody brand.) Ella look'd up into her lover's face And round her mouth with melancholy grace, A faint smile languish'd, as she earnest pray'd No fate of theirs should be like that portray'd With cunning skill, upon the polish'd glass. Laughing, her lover bade the boding pass. Yet still the gentle girl in silence sigh'd, O'er her wild fancies brooding, strove to hide Even from her timid self her chilling fear, Her soft eye glistening with the heavy tear. * * * * The lady listen'd to his ardent theme Like one entranced in a rapturous dream. " My arms and horse," then said the youthful knight, Those that must serve me in the morrow's fight, Conceal'd, I left amid the forest's gloom, Hard by the rough-wrought cross and ruin'd tomb. Thou must remember, love, 't was there I first, In fond, but low and broken accents durst Tell thee I loved amid the awful scene Of towering trees wild streams and rude rocks green With antique moss and 'neath tiiat sacred sign, All holy men have ever deem'd divine, Our faith we mutual pledged. Now I retread That path, and at the dwelling of the dead The coining morn must bide. If in the just Yon haughty Julian and thy Guiscard thrust, Thy lovely image still will brace my arm, Still lend new vigor, and preserve from harm. Then should he fall, thy father may relent And pitying yield his oft withheld consent. * * * * At once to shun remark or curious glance, Aside each turn'd, to watch the entangling dance, Where floating lightly through its endless maze 320 JOHN c. M'CALL. Young beauties sought and won th' admiring gaze. From rich-gemm'd ringlets spicy odors flew, From streaming curls of every sunny hue. In Grecian folds the snowy draperies hung, While wreaths of velvet flowers were o'er them strung. Love-darting eyes in melting softness shone, And vermeil lips dropt words of mellowest tone. Their white, impearled arms, thrown light in air, Strew'd rose, and hyacinths, and blossoms rare. The dewy freshness of the leafy showers Rain'd essence o'er the hall, now strewn with flowers. Soft voices sang with air and tone as sweet As those of sea-maids when they haply meet Some blooming boy, who rides the foamy wave, Drinks the rich music, and forgets the grave That yawns and gazes on the syren's hairs That stream unearthly beautiful, and dares, Of billows' wrath unmindful, still to feed Enrapt upon their smiles and seems, indeed, To deem it bliss t' obey th' enticing sio'n, And plunge in awful depths for love divine. His billowy tomb then quickly rears Its foam-topp'd pyramid and disappears. * * * # With fragrant breath the morning now arose, On joy gay smiling, and an keenest woes: The stars, sown o'er the jetty head of night, In brilliance paled before the orb of light ; Dark seas of mist roll'd back their murky wave Before the bright, young beams that richly lave, In tints prismatic all his vaporous throne, In glittering splendor, awful and alone. The cool breeze, rambling, woke the sleeping leaves, With that soft breathing that alternate heaves The yellow harvest and the quiet lake, And balmy freshness showers o'er the brake. Ella arose, and from the casement hung Enchanted, on the quiet scene that flung Its still and fragrant spell on all around. Far up the sloping hills the merry sound Was heard of early shepherd's pipe, and bell Of grazing flocks, re-echoed from the dell. * * * * The hours flew onward, and in crowds the dames And low-born serfs and knights of haughty names, JOHN c. M'CALL. 321 Gay in the rich array of gaudy dress, In expectation, to the lists now press. A lovely mead, romantically wild, Stretch'd at the feet of rocks and cliffs uppiled In forms grotesque inclined its verdant breast, Just swelling from the hills, in quiet test. The hoary forest cast its sombre shade, In darkling masses thrown athwart the glade ; While, here and there, an aged, branching oak The lengthen'd sameness of the green plain broke. De Valance' lofty towers on the left, Of beauty now and chivalry bereft, With splendor glowing of the morning beam, With richest tints of brightest purple gleam. 'T was here the lists enclosed with palisade, Ran far across the smooth and grassy glade. At each extremity was placed a gate, Where heralds pursuivants and trumpets wait, And men at arms to guard the portal's way, Watch o'er the order of the gay tournay, Decide the quality of knight, and fame Of those who peril'd in the warlike game. Pavilions, rich with gold and every dye, At measured distance regularly lie ; Squires beside them, in grotesque array, Guard the bright war-worn shields that near them lay, Caress the foaming steed that rears from joy, His gold bit champs or bites some martial toy. To rich and lofty seats with velvet spread, The lady guests, with Ella, now were led, Soft eyes shone brightly, and some hearts beat high. From one there came a deep, though smother'd sigh. As queen of love and beauty on that day, Peerless in rank young Ella led the way. She passed like Luna on her azure sea, In beauty sailing yet reluctantly ; Like visions seen by Castaly's pure stream, In the rapt poet's airy, radiant dream. For her the acclaim of rapture bore no charm ; To one so gentle it echoed alarm ; And on her snowy lid and long eye-lash Black care with laughing pleasure seem'd to clash. Up to her sparkling throne she trembling pass'd, Gazing on knights and plunging steeds aghast. Pallid she sat, and on the entrance-gate Her deep gaze planted as if fix'd by fate. 322 JOHN c. M'CALL. As yet, through all the waving plumes in sight, Her anxious eye still sought the nodding white. It came and trumpets sounding, wildly threw Their warlike clamors all the barriers through. Clarions and cymbals cast their echoes round, Fair women smiled, and chargers paw'd the ground. The Heralds "Largess" cried, while golden showers Fell plenteous o'er their heads, like falling flowers, From hands of gallant peers and lovely dames, Of martial line and far-famed, ancient names. The Marshals too, arm'd cap-a-pie now stand, Prepared at once to judge and to command. With shouts and wild huzzas the lists resound, To this knight first and then to that redound. Full twenty knights now ranged on either side, Sternly impatient, for the signal bide. Firm in the stirrup and the spear in rest, Each pants to put his armor to the test, O'er one fierce party dark-brow'd Julian sways, His polish'd armor glistening in the rays. While through the steel-clad ranks he quickly glides, And keenly eyes each warrior as he rides ; With careful glance he views each barbed steed, And knight impatient for the warlike deed. In firm array the adverse squadron stands, With rich-dyed streamers, and with well-tried brands. And from the martial column G discard brooks With burning ardor all his rival's looks. Unknown, he asks a knightly rank and post, Claims a front station in the armed host. * * * * Now blew the load shrill trump its warrior cry: The breathless audience waited silently ; While, circled in a cloud of blacken'd dust, Each party clash'd and mingled in thejust. The sounds of clarions and of clanging arms Falling with horrid jar the wild alarms Of martial outcries and the trampling steed, Fled howling to the mountain from the mead. A mist of darkling dust enwrap' the field ; The lance now shatter'd, fell before the shield ; Horses and men now roll'd along the plain, Bleeding struck down and writhing in their pain. Cries of fierce agony with shouts were heard, Dreadful commingling as the coursers spurr'd, With hoofs ensanguined tore the fallen knight, JOHN C. M CALL. 323 Who helpless, shriek'd amidst the furious fight. Gay, streaming plumage drifted on the gale. As leaves autumnal with the loud breeze sail. The piteous cries and groans of those who fell Stole tremulously fearful o'er the dell. Still o'er the scene spectators shouted loud, And kerchiefs waved from out the beauteous crowd. With skill and gallant guise ypung Guiscard fought, Sternly impatient for his rival sought. Willing they met, and 'mid the horrid din, With fury strove the mastery to win. How fared that maid who madly gazed intent, With eye distended and her fair neck bent ? With throbbing heart she gazed and madden'd brain, On bright swords gleaming and the bloody stain. The pale and panting girl beheld the steel On high bright beam and then beneath it reel, Her lover prostrate and she saw no more Than that he fell, ensanguined with his gore; A cry in deep, but still half-stifled wo, (Like moan of loud winds baffled as they go. Through dreary caverns speeding or some vault, Angry or frighted at th' unlook'd-for halt) In plaintive agony she gave, and sunk, A pale and lovely yet a breathless trunk. Sir Brian saw his beauteous daughter fall, And sternly motion'd for the trumpet-call, That rolls its peaceful clamors all around, And drowns of mimic war the harsher sound. With wildest uproar teem'd the tournay scene, As borne off, lifeless, disappear'd its queen. Whilst squires attending on each suffering Knight, The deep wound stanch'd unclasp'd the helmet bright; Thirsting and faint the hapless Guiscard lay, Wailing the fortune of th' unhappy day, Till o'er the lists.the Baron's rambling eye With anger lighten'd then fix'd instantly. The fallen Knight he knows, and unqueuch'd hate With rapid vehemence decides his fate; , That wakeful hate that burning, never dies Till in the silent tomb its victim lies ; That canc'rous rots the heart where it has sway, And night's dull hue spreads o'er each smiling day. He turn'd with quick decision and command, And scornfI4 pointing with his unsheath'd brand, Bade his arm'd menials to a dungeon bear, ' And guard with fetters "and their studied care, JOHN c. M'CALL. The stubborn fool whose obstinacy led Where meet reward should shower on his head. Full oft the sun had bathed his glorious ray, Crimsoning the waters of the distant bay ; Dyed golden masses of the evening's cloud With streaks of blushes, and with purple proud ; Dropt on the leaning bark's white-swelling sail Those tints that brighten e'en the canvas pale : And lapt the glowing landscape in rich hues, Whose dazzling 's mellow'd by the falling dews. Long months had pass'd since Guiscard hapless lay, Shut from the genial smiling of the day : But now flew on the happy hour, when Young Hope and Love misfht shed their joys again. With passion's eloquence and conquering gold, Rich in the latter with the former bold ; With tears and melting words, the lady brought That tearful meeting she so fondly sought, Entranced she sunk upon her lover's breast. Content t' enjoy that happy breathless rest^ Till by the trembling jailor roused in fear, Th' escape she plans and dries the fruitful tear. Long-told adieus and frequent, then were past, Moie mournful each and tenderer than the last, Till pale with dread, the trembling soldier bore His lingering mistress from the dungeon's door. Noiseless as one of Autumn's stilly days, When sluggish winds ne'er rouse the veiling haze "VN hich wraps in deep'ning mist the distant height, Soft'ning the radiance of too brilliant light, With stealthy pace they trod the vaulted way, (Ne'er seen nor brighten'd by the cheering day,) Nor dream't suspicion's glance, with subtle art, Divined the secret of the maiden's heart. Turn we to that fierce father once again, The storm of passion raging in his brain. With hurried pace he treads the princely hall, While two dark menials summon'd at his call, Their stern lord's mandate in the distance wait. Sudden he turns and checks his rapid gait, Beckons the ruffians to a nearer stand, With haughty air delivers his command. " Ye know the prisoner in the western tower ? c, MCALI 325 'T is well then ere the coming morning's hour, See that he dies ; and when the deed is done, Pluck out his heart I 've use for such a one." Turning he marshals them their murderous way : Wildly impatient chides the tardy day. The breezy morn sped o'er its orient path, Nor frown'd indignant on th' assassin's wrath: Too well and swiftly done, the bloody deed Nor darks its rising, nor controls its speed ; Heaven's pure rays with equal bounty shed Their balmy kiss on Crime and Virtue's head. With smile malignant and with fiendish sneers, The villains' full recital Brian hears; Lists the whole history of his victim's death, The last deep sighing of his fleeting breath : His wild hate gluts with long and gloomy gaze On the dread relic that before him lays : Now bids a servant, with ferocious air, A deep gold goblet to his presence bear. Throws in the bleeding object of his ire ; Then as a gift from fond and doting sire, Commands they bear it to his darling child, " Fair as obedient as sincere as mild." O'er that sad daughter's brow the night-breeze flew, Her fever's heat unbated by the dew. The fresh'ning moisture of the morning air Threw no soft coolness on that forehead fair : Each snowy eye-lid swoln and drooping hung, Told of a heart with speechless misery wrung. Her tearless, mournful glance, towards heaven now led, Spoke the dead calm of soul when hope is dead : That cold, undying agony of mind, Too keenly poignant e'er to be defined ; That sinks but rarely to its short-lived rest, And waking burns still fiercer in the breast. A young and weeping page now slowly bore That gorgeous beaker, chased with clotted gore, Laid the dread offering at the lady's feet, Trembling essay'd his message to repeat. With sobs and faltering then he told his tale, Deeply intent upon his mistress pale. "My noble lord has sent," 'twas thus it ran, " That which he says will pleasure ye to scan, 'T was kind, he says, such precious gift to send, 'T was what ye prized e'en more than sire or friend. J cannot tell, dear lady, what is meant, VOL. ii. 28 32G JOHN c. M'CALL. But his eye burnt fiercely and his brow was bent, And round his mouth there lurk'd a laughing scorn, That seem'd of fiercest Hatred to be born." With mien unchanging and with steadfast look, The blood-stain'd goblet hapless Ella took. The page's words now made its meaning plain, All prayer or piteous plaint were now but vain : Despair too, lent a calmness to her tone, Nor fell one tear nor solitary groan. " My father hath done wisely," then she said, " In such rich sepulchre should e'er be laid A heart whose feeblest pulse to honor beat, The home of Courage sacred Virtue's seat ! The richest tribute of my thanks then bear That doting parent for his fostering care : This precious gift is all I ever sought, 'T is far too costly e'er to have been bought." The heavy, scalding tear overflowing then, Her slumb'ring maiden-softness woke again. With deep, unsatedlook of love intense, That fix'd, unwandering gazing of the sense, Her glance now fasten'd on the blood-stain'd urn, While her pale cheek still paler 'gan to turn. From the wild gipsy's casket then she took, With mild and pensive but determined look, A dark thick liquid, and with upturn'd eye, She faintly smiled and drank it instantly. The deadly poison coursed its lightning way ; Death's hue now wandered o'er her, as she lay. The young and faithful page had gazed with air Of love respectful tender brother's care : But when he saw that ghastly shadow creep O'er his fair mistress' face, he ceased to weep : Swift flew to summon to Iier couch's side Her weeping maidens ere the lady died. And when they came, they found that goblet prest Closely and tightly on her pantiug breast. # * # * Now all grew silent and pale Ella's eye, Languid and glassy, sought the azure sky : A gentle motion o'er her lips then ran, As if she pray'd for that dark-hearted man; And then they closed and with convulsive throe, The spirit fled this scene of earthly wo. On her fair face a holy calm was spread, As if she slept but not among tlie dead : JOHN C. M'CALL. 327 Her fallen lid, with blue, meandering vein, Seem'd Parian marble with its wandering stain. Sad wore that day in Brian's gilded halls, And long its memory in those stately walls. The silver tones of revelry had fled, While griefs dull notes were wandering in their stead. The piercing trumpet and the martial drum Slept silent, 'mid the low and deepen'd hum Of sorrowing vassals, on vain grief intent, On mournful duties silently now bent. The hour had come, for that sad requiem said By weeping friendship o'er the festering dead : That harrowing tearful moment, when the grave Sullenly closes o'er the young and brave ; When the dread sound of fast descending mould Strikes on the wounded heart so fearful cold. Many that requiem heard, and told the tale To those who listen'd, e'en when it was stale. * * * * 'T was a dark, chilly morn in bleak November, Such as old, gray-bearded men remember : The clouds were heavy dull and scattering, Large drops of rain, at times, fell pattering On red and purple leaves that strow'd the ground, While the blast blew with melancholy sound : And falling foliage darken'd all the air, Rich in autumnal dyes, of tints most fair. * * * * And ever and anon a lulling note Of sadful music, air-borne, seem'd to float Through all the windings of the brown hued grove, And with the harsher sounds rich sweetness wove. Then the full, solemn hymning for the dead Fell, sullen on the listening ear and spread, While bursting on the sight a moving train Crept slowly onward down the shelving plain. Knights and fair women holy priests were seen, In robes fair flowing plumes and costliest sheen. Then the sad bier, with dim and black array, In awful slowness pass'd upon its way. Within its dark funereal bosom laid , The brave young knight beside the beauteous maid. From those who gazed (a crowd of young and old,) In unaffected grief, the big tears roll'd. VOL. ii. 28* 328 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. Of their sad passion many a tale went round, Told with the low and fearful, smother'd sound. Some said lord Brian, when his daughter died, Wept madly, even in his hour of pride: Raved o'er the lovely relics of that child, In all the tempest of his passions wild. 'T was even lightly whisper'd he had sworn, That the bright helm and glaive should ne'er be born But that the pilgrim's staff or monkish beads Best fitted one of such foul, bloody deeds. Onward the long procession sadly pass'd, Till to a lonely dell it came at last, Where moody cypress and the clambering vine, In close and loving meshes intertwine. There in one grave lie maid and cavalier, Their cold tomb bathed with many a sad tear : And on its sculpture village damsels hung Fresh flowers, and frequent in the evening sung. Among the rustics too a lay went round, That notes aerial wander'd o'er that ground, On moonless nights, and when the wind was high, And black clouds sailed heavily in the sky. In that lone spot beside a quiet stream And mouldering ruin, those two lovers dream. EDWIN C. HOLLAND WAS a lawyer of Charleston, S. C., and died a few years since. He published a volume of poetry which we have not seen. The two following naval odes appeared in the Port Folio in 1813. THE PILLAR OF GLORY. HAIL to the heroes whose triumphs have brighten'd The darkness which shrouded America's name ; Long shall their valor in battle that lighten'd, Live in the brilliant escutcheons of fame : EDWIN C. HOLLAND. Dark where the torrents flow, And the rude tempests blow, The storm clad spirit of Albion raves ; Long shall she mourn the day, When, in the vengeful fray, Liberty walk'd like a god on the "waves. The ocean, ye chiefs, (the region of glory, Where fortune has destined Columbia to reign,) Gleams with the halo and lustre of story, That curl round the wave as the scene of her fame ; There, on its raging tide, Shall her proud navy ride, The bulwark of freedom, protected by heaven ; There shall her haughty foe, Bow to her prowess low, There shall renown to her heroes be given. The Pillar of Glory, the sea that enlightens, Shall last till eternity rocks on its base, The splendor of fame its waters that brightens, Shall light the footsteps of time in his race : Wide o'er the stormy deep, Where the rude surges sweep, Its lustre shall circle the brows of the brave ; Honor shall give it light, Triumph shall keep it bright, Long as in battle we meet on the wave. Already the storm of contention has hurl'd From the grasp of Old England the trident of war, The beams of our stars have illumined the world, Unfurl'd our standard beats proud in the air : Wild glares the eagle's eye, Swift as he cuts the sky, Marking the wake where our heroes advance ; Compass'd with rays of light, Hovers he o'er the fight ; Albion is heartless and stoops to his glance. 329 330 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. RISE COLUMBIA. WHEN Freedom first the triumph sung That crush'd the pomp of Freedom's foes, The harps of heaven responsive rung, As thus the choral numbers rose, Rise Columbia ! brave and free ! Thy thunder when in battle hurl'd, Shall rule the billows of the sea, And bid defiance to the world. Supremely blest by fate's decree, Thy hardy tars in battle brave, Shall plume thy wings and keep thee free As is the motion of thy wave. Rise Columbia, &c. The stars that in thy banner shine, Shall rain destruction on thy foes, Yet light the brave of every clime, To kindred friendship and repose. Rise Columbia, &c. The storms that on thy surges rock, Around thy flag shall idly sweep : Proof to the te wpest's fiercest shock, Its stripes shall awe the vassal deep. Rise Columbia, &c. Encircled with a flood of light, I suprei )ry in fi ;lory to ia, Sic. Lead thee to victory in fight, And bear thy glory to the skies. Rise Columbia DANIEL BRYAN. DANIEL BRYAN 331 Is a native of Virginia, and has been a senator in the legis- lature of that state. He is, we understand, at present Post Master at Georgetown, D. C. He wrote The Mountain Muse, published some years since, and has been more recently known as the author of The Lay of Gratitude, a volume of verses on the reception of Lafayette, and The Appeal for suffering Genius, written to obtain charity for the " Boston Bard." LAFAYETTE. ' AND this," he exclaims, " is the country whose charms A tyrant's rude fetter would mangle and mar ! Where the war-demon howls forth his chilling alarms, And the death-vulture hangs o'er his slaughtering car ! Columbia ! a pilgrim approaches thy shrine, m , ~ . * & _ .** . ^ '. Tenngs he ;m thy champion his life shall be thine ! He seeks this high honor o'er ocean's dark flood." The offerings he brings are his sword and his blood ! O ! make him th Lo ! the beautiful wood-nymph of freedom appears ! Wreaths of blooming magnolia her forehead entwine, Around her an evergreen mantle she wears, And her eyes with effusions of tenderness shine : Majestic and mild, the young Hero she meets, And accepts his devotion with smiles of delight ; His heart to her wishes responsively beats, And she points where her votaries sustain the dread fight. Entranced by her blessing and holy embrace, His soul is uplifted on pinions of flame, And, as flies the swift steed in the emulous race, He rushes to battle, to conquest, and fame. Where danger and carnage bestride the red plain, And death's giant arm, through the dark thundering clouds, Drivea'his broad lance and piles up his mountains of slain, The whirlwind of conflict our hero enshrouds ! 332 ALONZO LEWIS. Descending through ether on pinions of snow, The angel of peace to our country returns, Stripes the concave of blue with the dyes of her bow, And enshrines here in separate and beautiful urns, The dust of the warriors who fell on our plains Each nation's apart yet in nearness arranged And her olive tree planting to shade the remains Bids it flourish and bloom there through ages unchanged. She waves her white flag, and two figures advance The elder 's a matron commanding and proud in her port But she meets with confusion the maiden's sweet glance, And her cheek seems of varied passions the sport : Her head wears a crown but its splendor is dim For its richest and loveliest jewel is gone ! On her arm hangs a banner whose emblem, so grim, And so couchant, was lately the pride of a throne. But now her bold lion is humbled and lorn And where laurel and sea-weed once form'd his proud lair, He is stretch'd on a bed that's dismantled and torn, And his eye is despoil'd of its conquering glare. The younger though stately is modest of mien, And we know by her costume and aspect benign, That in her loved presence before we have been, And that she is liberty's guardian divine ! ALONZO LEWIS. MR LEWIS is a native of Lynn, Massachusetts, where he is now employed as an instructor. A volume of his poems was published in 1823, and he has since contributed others for the newspapers. DEATH SONG. GREAT Sassacus fled from the eastern shores, Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars, For the white men came from the world afar, And their fury burnt like the bison star. ALONZO LEWIS. 333 His sannaps were slain by their thunder's power, And his children fell like the star-eyed flower ; His wigwams are burnt by the white man's flame, And the home of his youth has a stranger's name His ancestor once was our countryman's foe, And the arrow was placed in the new-strung bow, The wild deer ranged through the forest free, While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea. But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent, With his hair untied, and his bow unbent, And found not the blood of the wild deer shed, And the calumet lit, and the bear-skin bed. But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine, And bid its broad light like his valor to shine ; Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps, And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps. THE MINSTREL'S LOVE. MY love is a lady slender and fair, Whose mantle is light as the thin blue air, And falls from her neck as floatingly, As the vapor that rolls o'er a moonlight sea The clustering wreaths of her long thick hair, Curl over her forehead, as dark and fair, As the nightly clouds that heavily flow Over star-loving Sunapee's mount of snow. Like the moon which looks out from a cloudy sky, Is the soul which beams from her large blue eye, Where utterless thoughts appear and flee, Like shadows of clouds o'er a sunny sea. In the sleepless night, and the ceaseless stir Of the busy day, my thought is with her, And memory and love are with sighing repaid, Because of the form of that slender maid. 3-34 ALONZO LEWIS. THE WANDERER OF AFRICA. HE launch'd his boat where the dark waves flow, Through the desert that never was white with snow When the wind was still, and the sun shone bright, And the stream glow'd red with the morning light. He had sat in the cool of the palm's broad shade And drank of the fountain of Kafnah's glade, When the herb was scorch'd by the sun's hot ray, And the camel failed on his thirsty way. And the dark maids of Sego their mats had spread, And sung all night by the stranger's bed ; And his sleep was sweet on that desert sand, For his visions were far in his own loved land. He was weary and faint in a stranger clime, But his soul was at home as in youth's sweet time, And he lay in the shade, by his cot's clear pool, And the breeze which came by was refreshing and cool. And the look of his mother was gentle and sweet, And he heard the loved steps of his sister's light feet, And their voices were soft and expressive and low, Like the distant rain, or the brook's calm flow. And this was the song which the dark maids sung, In the beautiful strains of their own wild tongue ; " The stranger came far, and sat under our tree, We will bring him sweet food, for no sister has he." And the stranger went forth when the night-breeze had died, And launch'd his light bark on the Joliba's tide ; And he waved his white kerchief to those dark maids, As he silently enter'd the palmy shades. And the maidens of Sego were sad and lone, And sung their rude song, like the death spirit's moan: " The stranger has gone where the simoom will burn, Alas ! for the white man will never return '." NATHANIEL APPLETON HAVEN. 335 NATHANIEL APPLETON HAVEN WAS born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, January 14th, 1790. He studied at Harvard College, and after receiving his degree, applied himself to theology, hut soon relinquished the pursuit from ill health, and other causes. He then turned his attention to the law, and entered upon his practice in Portsmouth, where he passed the remainder of his life, ex- cepting a short visit to Europe in 1815. He died June 3d, 1826, at the age of 36. Mr Haven was for several years the editor of the Ports- mouth Journal, and his writings in that paper may rank with the best newspaper effusions of our country. He wrote also a variety of other articles highly creditable to his talents and character, among them a few pieces of poetry. After his death, a selection from his works was published, with a biographical memoir by Professor Ticknor of Harvard Uni- versity. LINES ON FREDERIC THE GREAT. " Aprcs ma mort, quand toutes mea parties Tar la corruption sont aneanties, Par un raeme destin il ne pensera plus ! " Frederic le Grand. ARE these the dictates of eternal truth ? These the glad news your boasted reason brings? Can these control the restless fire of youth, The craft of statesmen, or the pride of kings ? Whence is the throb that swolls my rising breast, What lofty hopes my beating heart inspire? Why do I proudly spurn inglorious rest, The pomp of wealth, the tumult of desire ? Is it to swell the biazen trump of fame, To bind the laurel round an aching head, To hear for once a people's loud acclaim, Then lie for ever with the nameless dead ? 336 NATHANIEL APPLETON HAVfctf. Oh no ! far nobler hopes my life control, Presenting scenes of splendor, yet to be ; Great God, thy word directs the lofty soul To live for glory, not from man, but thee. THE PURSE OF CHARITY. THIS little purse, of silver thread And silken cords entwined, Was given, to ease the painful bed, And soothe the anxious mind. The maker's secret bounty flows, To bid the poor rejoice, And many a child of sorrow knows The music of her voice. The little purse her hands have wrought, Should bear her image still ; And with her generous feelings fraught, Her liberal plans fulfil. Its glittering thread should never daunt The humble child of wo ; But well the asking eye of want Its silver spring should know. While a