CASE 
 B 
 
 



FOOTPRINTS. 
 
 
FOOTPRINTS: 
 
 OR, 
 
 FUGITIVE POEMS. 
 
 When footprints on the shore are seen 
 We know some wanderer there hath been, 
 Gathering pebbles, it may be, 
 Or musing by the sounding sea ; 
 Those faint impressions none may save 
 Longer than coming of the wave. 
 If ye would scan the footprints here, 
 Be diligent! a wave is near! 
 Yet, though all trace will soon be past, 
 They may give pleasure while they last. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 JOHN PENINGTON. 
 
 1843. 
 
C. Sherman, Printer, 
 
 19 St. James Street, Philadelphia. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 A 
 
 THE verses contained in this little volume having been 
 received with a very unexpected degree of favour, as 
 they appeared severally in the " Banner of the Cross" 
 and elsewhere, they are now placed in a more accessible 
 form, in order to meet the wishes of some valued friends 
 who have expressed a desire to possess them. Without 
 any extravagant hopes for the success of this publica 
 tion, the writer will be abundantly satisfied should his 
 " weaved-up follies" be treated with the indulgence so 
 liberally extended towards many individual pieces of 
 
 this collection. 
 
 J. C. P. 
 
 August 24th, 1843. 
 
 M 
 

 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE VISION OF A DREAM - - 9 
 
 THOUGHTS ABOUT WORDSWORTH 12 
 
 THE STARS - 14 
 
 MOONLIGHT - 16 
 
 THE GREEN GATE OF PARADISE - 18 
 
 THE CROSS IN THE SKY - 20 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS - 23 
 
 TO THE MISSISSIPPI - 25 
 
 MERCY S DREAM - - 27 
 
 OXFORD 29 
 
 SYMBOLS - 30 
 
 BRIDAL THOUGHTS - 32 
 
 FAREWELL - 35 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF COLERIDGE 37 
 
 MEDITATIONS, ON VISITING AN OLD JEWS BURYING- 
 
 GROUND - - - - - 39 
 

 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 THE ARMY OF THE DEAD - 41 
 
 I LOVE THE SPRING - - 43 
 
 CONESTOGA - 45 
 
 SHE COULD NOT LIVE ALWAY - - 48 
 
 THE INAUGURATION - 50 
 
 TO A SWORD - -52 
 
 THE DREAM OF COLUMBUS 54 
 
 MOUNT VERNON - - - - 56 
 
 NIOBE CHANGED INTO STONE - 58 
 
 WILD FLOWERS - - 61 
 
 ADIEU TO WYOMING 63 
 
 THE MAD POET - - 66 
 
 THE CLOCK OF THE BURNING TOWER - 69 
 
 ABBOTSFORD - - 72 
 
 THE HOUSE OF PRAYER - 75 
 
 POCAHONTAS - - - 78 
 
 RAINY WEATHER - 80 
 
 AN OLD MAN S MUSINGS .- : - - 82 
 
 THE FATE OF THE HUMMING BIRD 85 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF AUTUMN - - 88 
 
 BOSTON NOTIONS .... 90 
 
FOOTPRINTS. 
 
 THE VISION OF A DUEAM. 
 
 IN silent watches of the night, 
 When sleep had lulled my weary frame, 
 I dreamed a dream, so beautiful, 
 Methought from Heaven it came ! 
 
 Before my eyes, uprose a church, 
 Of weather-stained and mossy stone ; 
 And sweet-toned bells chimed from its tower, 
 So old and ivy-grown. 
 
 Its oaken doors were never closed, 
 From balmy morn till dewy eve ; 
 And rustic folk went out and in, 
 Nor ever asked for leave. 
 2 
 
 
10 THE VISION OF A DREAM. 
 
 A white-robed priest, in meet array, 
 Within the hallowed chancel stood ; 
 And there he spake the word of life, 
 And dealt out angels food. 
 
 And one I saw a lady fair 
 Of sober mien, and nameless grace, 
 And like a heavenly bride she seemed, 
 .! ** , Of more than royal race. 
 
 With pensive voice, and winning smile, 
 " She freely beckoned all, to come : 
 Yet, though her blessing was for all, 
 It seemed in vain for some. 
 
 Behold ! an infant, child of sin, 
 To yon pure font she gently leads, 
 While, from a radiant Golden Book, 
 A prayer the pastor reads. 
 
 Again, as there a youthful group 
 
 Around the sacred chancel bend, 
 
 A bishop, from the Golden Book, 
 
 Prays strength unto the end. 
 
 From out that Book, the word of hope 
 To wedded hearts is freely given ; 
 There, too, are found those sweet old prayers, 
 That waft the soul to heaven. 
 
THE VISION OF A DREAM. 11 
 
 An ardent wish then o er me stole, 
 That such a precious book were mine, 
 To guide my pilgrim footsteps up 
 Where endless day-beams shine. 
 
 With sudden start, my sleep was gone ; 
 No time-stained church no bride was there, 
 But, clasped in fondness to my heart, 
 I held the Book of Prayer ! 
 
THOUGHTS ABOUT WORDSWORTH. 
 
 POET ! whose study is the leafy wood, 
 
 Or the green margin of some quiet lake 
 
 Hard by thy cottage-home : It were a rare 
 
 And precious privilege, to talk with thee 
 
 Of those high themes which thou hast builded up 
 
 In verse, whose solid fabric shall endure 
 
 With the strong language of thy native land ! 
 
 Age hath crept o er thee : but the hand of Time 
 Rests on thy head in blessing ! He hath left 
 No withering traces on that placid brow, 
 Nor in the wrinkled furrows of thy cheek ! 
 Sun of our darkened age ! we scarce have known 
 The greatness of thy all-embracing disk, 
 Till it hath reached its setting. Now we gaze 
 With quiet reverence on thy sinking orb. 
 
 When thou must pass down to thy dreamless sleep 
 Twill seem as evening to the little flower 
 That folds its petals at the shut of day ; 
 
THOUGHTS ABOUT WORDSWORTH. 13 
 
 For thou hast been of humblest things the friend, 
 Hast found companionship in withered leaves, 
 And deep religion in the lowliest clod ! 
 
 When thou must die, shall thy pale form be laid, 
 Amid the bones of poets and of kings, 
 In the Great Abbey, symbol of the Faith 
 Which claims the noblest offspring of thy lyre ? 
 Ah, no ! t were fit, thy place of rest should be 
 Calm as thy living life far from the din 
 Of busy traffic, and the hum of men, 
 In some lone spot where violets may bloom, 
 And birds may warble round thy grassy grave. 
 
 But, we do hope, that thou hast yet long years 
 To linger with the living to breathe out 
 Thy philosophic numbers and to show 
 How Genius brightens at the touch of Faith ! 
 
THE STARS. 
 
 Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of 
 Orion? JOB xxxviii. 31. 
 
 CELESTIAL spirits ! coyly peeping 
 Through the curtains of the sky : 
 
 Holding ward o er mortals sleeping, 
 With a soft, benignant eye ! 
 
 Can we wonder, ancient sages 
 Questioned ye for mystic lore ? 
 
 Seeking, in yon brilliant pages, 
 Fate s dark secrets to explore. 
 
 Not in vain, we pause and linger 
 
 Over aught in Nature s book : 
 For, with steady, silent finger, 
 
 Truth will guide us, if we look. 
 
 How stately moves Orion yonder ! 
 The Pleiades sweet influence shed, 
 
 And, white o er Pleiad lost we ponder, 
 Fond Memory counts her missing dead ! 
 
THE STARS. 
 
 O, night ! thou art the blessed season 
 Of each high and holy thought : 
 
 Far better truth than comes of reason, 
 By the solemn stars is taught. 
 
 Yon host of worlds had faded vanished- 
 In the dazzling glare of day, 
 
 But, soon as earthly light was banished, 
 Clear outshone each heavenly ray ! 
 
 Thus the spirit-land is near us, 
 Shrouded thinly from our sight, 
 
 Yet glimpses oft will steal before us, 
 In the lonely hours of night ! 
 
 15 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 WHEN the sky is clear, and the moon shines bright, 
 
 Touching forest and field with a silvery light : 
 
 Half-revealing the scenes, by her mellow ray, 
 
 That late were basking in the glare of day, 
 
 I love to wander, and muse alone 
 
 On bright hopes and pleasures for ever flown ; 
 
 To think of the absent, whose smile I love, 
 
 Or the faithful departed in realms above ; 
 
 And I wonder if yet they enjoy the boon, 
 
 To be gazing with me on that silent moon ! 
 
 How still is the night ! not the faintest sound 
 
 From the quiet homes that are sleeping around ! 
 
 Save the far-off bark of a farmer s dog, 
 
 Or the tuneless croak of a restless frog, 
 
 Or the rippling music of yonder stream, 
 
 That twinkles and laughs in the cold moon s beam. 
 
 Beautiful planet ! I love to trace 
 
 Every change that comes o er thy radiant face, 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 From thy new-wrought bow, with its slender arch, 
 To the full moon, sweeping in stately march, 
 Like a victor queen, of her army proud, 
 Leading troops of stars o er an Alpine cloud. 
 
 They say, bright moon ! when thou look st on the sea, 
 
 Old Ocean leaps up to welcome thee, 
 
 And the mighty tides, that o erswell the land, 
 
 Are obedient vassals at thy command ! 
 
 It may be so : but I only know 
 
 How the tides of feeling, that come and go 
 
 In the restless depths of a human soul, 
 
 Own the mystic chain of thy mild control ! 
 
 As the tender glance of a mother s face, 
 
 Bending o er her child with a nameless grace, 
 
 Makes the baby to laugh, with a happy glee, 
 
 Till he drops asleep on his parent s knee 
 
 So, that gentle moon, ere one s half aware, 
 
 Will efface each wrinkle from the brow of care, 
 
 And the soul, pressed down with the weight of ill, 
 
 Wears a robe of gladness against its will. 
 
 W T hen my ramble is o er, then I lay my head 
 On the soft, cool pillow of my lonely bed ; 
 On my closing eye streams the moon s pale ray, 
 Till it fades in the glory of new-born day. 
 When my moonlight career upon earth is done, 
 May the morning break with a cloudless sun ! 
 
THE GREEN G-ATE OF PARADISE. 
 (Scene : In a Moravian Burying-Ground.) 
 
 THE setting sun shines with his parting ray 
 On the low mansions of the humble dead ; 
 
 And clustering flowers above them, seem to say, 
 Each lies contented in his lowly bed. 
 
 No lordly sepulchre, with chilling frown, 
 Bears pompous epitaph with lying breath, 
 
 Nor on poor neighbours scornfully looks down, 
 Clinging to aristocracy in death. 
 
 The grassy turf, is covering for all : 
 
 One narrow stone lies shield-like o er each breast, 
 As old Crusaders, in some Gothic hall, 
 
 In armed effigy are seen to rest. 
 
 Each varying grade of life is ranged apart, 
 The only rank, is womanhood, or age, 
 
 Save where some sweeter flower proclaims a heart 
 That graved its name more deep on Memory s page. 
 
THE GREEN GATE OF PARADISE. 
 
 Here, lie the veterans, in stern repose, 
 
 Their struggles over, and life s labours done ; 
 
 There, little, span-long hillocks, are for those 
 Whose leaf was withered in the morning sun. 
 
 The graves of children ! beautiful, to me, 
 These earthen cradles of the infant dead ! 
 
 A more than mother s eye, methinks, I see, 
 Watching above each little dreamer s head. 
 
 Why should sad sights be clustered round the grave, 
 That friends must pass it with averted eyes ? 
 
 Roses should bloom, and flowering trees should wave 
 Around the tomb The Green Gate of the Skies! 
 
 19 
 
THE CROSS IN THE SKY. 
 
 As Constantine the Great 
 
 His valiant legions led, 
 With fell design, each foeman bold 
 
 To number with the dead ; 
 The shades of night came stealing on, 
 
 And many a twinkling star 
 Was seen above, in heaven s high arch, 
 
 Upon the eve of war. 
 
 But, as they view those radiant gems 
 
 Around the brow of night, 
 Behold ! the wonder that appears 
 
 To chain their ravished sight ! 
 See ! pictured on the darkening sky 
 
 Those ever-varying beams, 
 Like blush of rosy-coloured light 
 
 That from Aurora streams. 
 
 The chargers snort with panic dread, 
 And high their proud necks toss, 
 
THE CROSS IN THE SKY. 21 
 
 As, gleaming from the evening sky, 
 
 Outshines a blood-red Cross ! 
 Each moment, with intenser blaze, 
 
 The glimmering flashes shine ; 
 And, see ! above yon emblem stands 
 
 A soul-inspiring line ! 
 
 " Conquer by this !" in words of fire, 
 
 The awe-struck army reads, 
 As, onward, with high-mounting hopes 
 
 They urge their prancing steeds : 
 Anon, they reach the haughty foe 
 
 They join in headlong fight : 
 But, woe to foe of Constantine, 
 
 From that well-noted night. 
 
 And, ever after, as they say, 
 
 The cross was reared on high ; 
 Embroidered on each standard-fold 
 
 Sure pledge of victory. 
 Like some enchanted banner old, 
 
 That heaven-sent Cross appeared ; 
 For, was he not invincible 
 
 Who that high signal reared ? 
 
 And, is that sign less potent now, 
 
 To bless some conquering line, 
 Than when it floated proudly o er 
 
 The band of Constantine ? 
 3 
 
THE CROSS IN THE SKY. 
 
 " Conquer by this !" the war-cry still 
 Of Christian hearts should be ; 
 
 And, evermore, that heaven-sent Cross 
 The pledge of victory ! 
 
 
THE MINISTRY OF ANG-ELS. 
 
 How, precious, when earth looks deserted and dreary, 
 
 And for comfort in vain through life s follies we roam, 
 Is the faith, that in Heaven there s rest for the weary, 
 
 And angels around us that point to our home ! 
 For, I fain would believe, that, or waking, or sleeping, 
 
 Still hovering near, round my path and my bed, 
 One bright, special guardian lone vigil is keeping, 
 
 To ward off each danger that threatens my head. 
 
 And, methinks, from each clod-, and each leaf that s 
 around us, 
 
 Angel -voices have tones for the listening ear ; 
 And if once we might break from earth s chain that has 
 bound us, 
 
 Bright legions of angels would welcome us here. 
 Hast thou wandered alone in the calm, silent night, 
 
 When the stars gaze so thoughtfully down, 
 And ne er fancied them angel-eyes gifted with sight, 
 
 That could meet thee with smile or with frown ? 
 
24 THE MINISTRY OP ANGELS. 
 
 And, hast thou not felt, when the storm hath been raging, 
 
 And the whirlwind uprooted tall trees in his path, 
 As if angels embattled, fierce warfare were waging, 
 
 And outpouring on earth their dread vials of wrath? 
 Or, the soft breath that comes from the sunny southwest 
 
 Having kissed every flower it met on its way, 
 Seems it not like a voice from the Land of the Blest, 
 
 To allure thee from sin and from sorrow away? 
 
 Yes ! even those loved ones, whom death snatches 
 
 from us, 
 
 Away from life s pleasures, to mansions above, 
 Are transformed into angels, whose care will be o er us, 
 Till we, too, shall meet them, where all will be love. 
 Then, whene er this cold world looks deserted and 
 
 dreary, 
 And, for comfort, in vain through life s follies we 
 
 roam, 
 
 Be assured, that in heaven, there s rest for the weary, 
 And angels around us, that point to our home ! 
 

 TO THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 MAJESTIC river ! slowly faring 
 
 To the vast and solemn sea : 
 Onward still my thoughts are bearing, 
 
 While my vision rests on thee ! 
 
 Here, many a plant in beauty twining, 
 
 A chaplet for the forest weaves, 
 And many a proud magnolia s shining 
 
 In fadeless coronal of leaves. 
 
 And, from the trees, all gray and hoary, 
 Long-bearded mosses slowly wave ; 
 
 Each, like Old Lear, renowned in story, 
 
 When doomed the unpitying storm to brave. 
 
 And yonder, lo ! in beauty winding, 
 The King of Waters proudly glides ; 
 
 In Ocean s ample bosom finding 
 A refuge for his mingled tides. 
 3* 
 
26 TO THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 Far, far from thee, thou royal river ! 
 
 My wayward fancy loves to roam ; 
 For, though thou hast high thoughts to give her, 
 
 An angel haunts the pool of home. 
 
 And, when such cares as make us weary 
 Come thick upon the fainting soul : 
 
 And all around looks sad and dreary 
 But one Bethesda makes us whole. 
 
 Then, what though southern gales are breathing, 
 And gently comes each winter s day, 
 
 To him, whose silent thoughts are stealing 
 Toward friends, by rivers far away ! 
 
MERCY S DREAM. 
 (A picture by Huntington, from the Pilgrim s Progress.) 
 
 DELIGHTFUL picture ! when I gaze on thee, 
 A glimpse of other worlds, methinks, I see ; 
 Thou art e en lovelier than the vision came 
 To Bunyan, dreamer of immortal fame 
 When, rapt in sacred contemplation high, 
 He led his pilgrim to the upper sky. 
 
 See ! Mercy is asleep in holy rest 
 Her pious hands cross-folded on her breast, 
 While, just come down, all-radiant from on high, 
 A bright-winged seraph lightly hovers nigh, 
 And a pure halo, from an airy crown, 
 On Mercy s face streams luminously down ; 
 Round a small cross, the glory seems to linger ; 
 While, pointing upward, with inspired ringer, 
 The angel s teachings, to our fancy, seem 
 Pure as the vision of sweet Mercy s dream ! 
 
28 MERCY S DREAM. 
 
 Blest be the painter, who can make us see 
 The airy shapes of heaven-born Poesy 
 Such as they gleam upon the favoured sight 
 Of bards illumined with celestial light ! 
 Deem not these phantom-shapes, the useless toil 
 Of men, who live but cumberers of the soil. 
 No ! these are flashes of a purer light, 
 Sent to illume the darkness of our night : 
 A taper-ray, for wandering spirits given, 
 To lure us upward to our native heaven ! 
 
OXFORD. 
 (A Sonnet for the Intolerant) 
 
 YE antique towers, of another age ! 
 
 Where giant minds, the teacher and the taught, 
 
 Have fed, unceasingly, the lamp of thought, 
 
 And heaped with wisdom many a studious page, 
 
 Dear to the classic and the Christian sage ! 
 
 Within your walls, there gleameth now a light, 
 
 Dawning upon the church s star-lit night. 
 
 Yet, some are found, a bitter war to wage, 
 
 On the revivers of the ancient creed : 
 
 Shunning all knowledge, with closed eyes they grope, 
 
 Lest they become the victims of the Pope ! 
 
 They fly the monster valiantly, indeed ; 
 
 For, while they hurl back thunders, each meek man 
 
 Claims right to own a private Vatican ! 
 
SYMBOLS. 
 
 WHEN the mother s voice, at ever., 
 
 Guides her little one in prayer, 
 She lifts her soft blue eye to heaven, 
 
 One day, hoping to be there. 
 Then, the boy beside her kneeling, 
 
 Gazes fondly in her eye, 
 To his artless fancy, seeming 
 
 Like the blue vault of the sky ! 
 
 So, the Church, the blessed mother, 
 Of a new and heavenly birth, 
 
 To our spirit, seems none other 
 Than God s messenger on earth. 
 
 Her voice, it tells of endless glory 
 In a better world above : 
 
 Her kindling eye, beams with the story 
 Of a Saviour s dying love ! 
 
 Guarding all, the high and lowly, 
 From the cradle to the grave, 
 
SYMBOLS. 31 
 
 She whispereth her lessons holy 
 Upon land and o er the wave. 
 
 She doth smile upon our gladness, 
 Hath a tear for every woe 
 
 And, alike in joy or sadness-, 
 Followeth, where er we go. 
 
 At her feet, like children, kneeling, 
 
 May we seek her prayers to learn, 
 Till, with high and holy feeling, 
 
 Each dull soul begins to burn. 
 Then, while guiding to the portals 
 
 Of a better world above, 
 May her eye, to lisping mortals, 
 
 Be the symbol of God s love ! 
 
BUIDAL THOUG-HT3. 
 
 TO G. W. H. 
 
 FRIEND of my youth ! Hope s anxious day is o er, 
 And the young maiden who hath offered up 
 Her heart into thy keeping, vvaiteth now 
 To seal the life-long covenant of love ! 
 
 Yours, is no sudden fever of the brain, 
 Which dreams of happiness too vast for earth, 
 In this auspicious union ! Ye have felt 
 How frail is every thing in this poor world 
 That is not based on heaven. Ye have heard 
 The blessed teachings of our mother church, 
 Who, with a matron dignity, preserves 
 Her hallowed symbol of the wedding-ring, 
 And hath a rose-bud of celestial hue 
 For the pale forehead of the virgin bride. 
 
 The world is often cheerless ; friends prove false, 
 
BRIDAL THOUGHTS. 33 
 
 And cherished hopes, but castles in the air, 
 Which a rude breath will instantly dissolve. 
 Tis well that we should journey, two and two, 
 O er the rough pathway of our pilgrimage ; 
 Each mind a worthy lodging-place to hold 
 The best thoughts of the other, and each heart 
 The sacred store-house of our mutual cares. 
 Two kindred souls, thus closely intermingled, 
 Will gain a new perfection, and the faults 
 Clinging to either, will be cured in both. 
 
 Now, young and old are gathered ! with a slow 
 And solemn utterance, the man of God 
 Speaks out a thrilling question which receives 
 An audible and resolute reply. 
 Again, it is repeated : " Wilt thou have 
 This man to be thy husband?" A mute nod 
 Is eloquent of truth, deeper than words ! 
 
 The vow is past, and ye are knit together 
 Until death part ye : " Death !" a solemn word, 
 Methinks, ye tell me, for a merry meeting ; 
 Causing a shudder, like the bony thing 
 Grinning at Egypt s banquets. But, tis well 
 To be reminded of mortality, to feel 
 That here is not your rest, that one must pass 
 From hence, before the other ; one must feel 
 The desolation of a riven heart ! 
 4 
 
34 BRIDAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 Enough of gloom ! Such are the common woes 
 
 Of poor humanity. Your star is bright 
 
 And hath a merry twinkle in his eye, 
 
 Giving sure promise of the joys of earth, 
 
 And blissful entrance, through them, into heaven ! 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 THE summer birds, on restless wing, 
 
 Are gone from flower and tree ; 
 And Autumn, with her pensive smile, 
 
 Looks soberly on me ; 
 For, though I join the bright-winged birds 
 
 Who seek a sunnier shore 
 The wintry forests of my youth 
 
 Ah, yes ! I love them more. 
 
 And now, adieu ! my quiet home, 
 
 With many a valued friend ; 
 Howe er I roam in other lands, 
 
 I ll love you to the end ; 
 And if, perchance, some kindly word 
 
 By stranger lips be spoken 
 Twill but recall those silken ties, 
 
 By absence, rudely broken. 
 
 And if, to cheer my drooping heart, 
 Or speed the toilsome hours, 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 I sound again my feeble lute 
 
 By Mississippi s flowers, 
 May partial friends, whose cheering words 
 
 Have been so freely given, 
 For strength to bless the humble bard, 
 
 Breathe, sometimes, prayers to heaven ! 
 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF COLERIDGE. 
 
 The rapt one of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 WILD, wayward Coleridge ! unto thee belong 
 The highest dignities that earth can give ; 
 Christian, philosopher, and sweet-voiced bard ! 
 What, though no sounding title ever fell 
 By royal gift, upon thee ? thou hast gained 
 Far better tribute from a thoughtful few ! 
 
 Who, that has lingered o er sweet Christabel, 
 Or thy quaint, mystic story of the sea, 
 But oft, unconscious to himself, will murmur 
 Some fragments of the song ? Those airy notes 
 Do cling about the memory, like holy hymn, 
 Chanted in old cathedral where the sound 
 Of harmony floats round the pointed arches, 
 Though the loud organ may have ceased to sound. 
 
 Thy godlike forehead was all written over 
 
 With traces of high thought : those now pale lips 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF COLERIDGE. 
 
 Were eloquent with wisdom, and the eye 
 Kindled with inspiration, as thy voice 
 Poured, in full torrent, upon listening ears : 
 It seemed as if old Plato had come back 
 With his divine philosophy, which thou didst love ! 
 Thine was no common mission ! thou didst teach 
 The laws of spirit to a sensual age ! 
 What, if the simple mocked thee, and applied 
 To those high doctrines every term of scorn ? 
 Calling thee but a dreamer and a fool ! 
 Such is the fate of genius, which presumes 
 To step one inch beyond the common herd. 
 Meantime, the seed was falling on good ground, 
 And now, is ripening to a golden harvest : 
 Truth and religion own thee for a champion, 
 And grateful thousands love thy sainted name.! 
 
 A dreary spot were earth, did not Heaven send us 
 Sometimes, a great, good man with life devoted 
 To high and noble ends not all-engrossed 
 In getting means to live : but, whose large soul, 
 Spurning the petty tricks of low-born prudence, 
 Woos high philosophy, and sacred song ! 
 
MEDITATIONS, 
 On visiting an old Jews burying-ground, now deserted. 
 
 THE sun is gone from heaven, and clouds are glowing 
 
 In warmest colours of the radiant west, 
 As if a sea of liquid gold were flowing 
 
 Around the purple islands of the blest ! 
 At each slow step, day s parting blush grows dimmer, 
 
 One lonely star comes forth upon the sight : 
 And now, the moon s pale ray begins to glimmer 
 
 With a sweet smile, at coming on of night. 
 
 Around my path, tall grass and weeds are springing, 
 
 Not oft molested by a rover s tread ; 
 And moss-grown slabs beneath my feet are ringing, 
 
 That tell the virtues of the Jewish dead. 
 Here, Israel s children now lie all forgotten, 
 
 And, e en in death, seem strangers in the land, 
 Nor son, nor sire, of Hebrew race begotten, 
 
 Renews those epitaphs, with friendly hand. 
 
 
40 MEDITATIONS. 
 
 Of old, their sweet harps hanged upon the willows, 
 
 Because the exiles mourned their distant home, 
 Nor yet may Zion s hymns soothe dying pillows, 
 
 For the poor Hebrew, still, is doomed to roam. 
 Like a frail weed, dashed by the boiling ocean, 
 
 To rot and wither on a lonely shore, 
 The outcast Jew still pays his sad devotion 
 
 To Israel s God a friendly God no more. 
 
 The sires of those who here in dust are lying, 
 
 Were once the favoured children of the Lord ; 
 Until, too proudly on their strength relying, 
 
 They slew the Saviour, promised in his word. 
 Then, their great temple to the earth was riven, 
 
 By hostile legions, young and old were slain ; 
 And, from the promised land, in anger driven, 
 
 They ne er may view its olive-groves again. 
 
 Long hath the Jew, an exile and a stranger, 
 
 In every country now been forced to rove, 
 Yet, the Despised One, of the lowly manger, 
 
 Invites him home, with promises of love; 
 Soon may the veil, their weeping eyes now blinding, 
 
 Be torn, for ever, from the Hebrews sight ! 
 And, in the Son, the God of Abraham, finding, 
 
 May Jew and Christian, in one fold unite ! 
 
THE ARMY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 ON on on 
 
 And yet onward they come, 
 To the slow and solemn music 
 
 Of the deep-muffled drum ! 
 Behold ! how they march, 
 
 Moving on through the valley, 
 Toward the field of the dead, 
 
 Where the skeletons rally, 
 Even midnight grows blacker, 
 
 As onward they come, 
 To the slow and solemn music 
 
 Of the deep-muffled drum ! 
 
 Hark ! how they rattle ! 
 Those damp, musty bones 
 
 As, with firm tread and solemn, 
 They march o er the stones ! 
 
 And, yon grim-visaged king, 
 On his fleet, bony charger, 
 
42 THE ARMY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 While his stern orders ring, 
 Every moment, looms larger. 
 
 " On ! vassals ! on !" 
 Even nature is dumb, 
 
 As, with firm tread and solemn, 
 Yon skeletons come ! 
 
 But, the red lightning gleams : 
 
 What a horrible sight ! 
 Each cold, skinny hand, 
 
 A new corpse grapples tight ! 
 Ah ! the babes, and the maidens, 
 
 And strong-bodied men, 
 Who are clutched by these marchers, 
 
 Return not again : 
 But, still onward they move, 
 
 Ever silent and dumb, 
 To the slow and solemn music 
 
 Of the deep-muffled drum ! 
 
I LOVE THE SPUING-. 
 
 I LOVE the spring her bursting buds and flowers, 
 The blue-bird whistling in her leafy bowers ; 
 The waters, laughing with a merry sound, 
 That late were mute, in icy fetters bound. 
 
 I love the spring when snow-drops slily peep 
 From the warm curtain of their wintry sleep, 
 When purple violets to earth are given, 
 And blue-bells whisper hope, in hues of heaven. 
 
 I love the spring for then the bright-plumed birds 
 Pour richer melodies than human words ; 
 And each frail straw, borne to the cherished nest, 
 Teaches a lesson of domestic rest. 
 
 I love the spring e en when the lightnings flash, 
 And deep-toned thunders startle by their crash ; 
 Or April rains dispel our rising fears, 
 Like some pale beauty, smiling through her tears. 
 
44 I LOVE THE SPRING. 
 
 I love the spring it is the time to roam 
 In those still haunts where Nature makes her home ; 
 Where frowning rocks look down on silent streams, 
 As on a mirror giving back their beams. 
 
 I love the spring no more homeless child 
 Shall coldly shiver in the tempest wild : 
 Benignant spring ! thou art the poor man s friend, 
 And I will love thee till my life shall end ! 
 
CONESTOG-A. 
 
 IT is a wild and lovely stream, 
 
 As ever sported in the gleam 
 
 Of yon bright sun, whose merry beam 
 
 Plays on the water, 
 Once the smooth mirror, we may deem, 
 
 Of chieftain s daughter. 
 
 For, this tall crag whereon I stand, 
 
 Was loved by that ill-fated band 
 
 Who once roamed through our pleasant land, 
 
 To hunt the deer ; 
 But, faint of heart, and weak in hand, 
 
 Now, come not here. 
 
 Yet, never shall be lost, the trace 
 
 Of that once stern and silent race, 
 
 While these gray rocks still hold their place 
 
 Above the river, 
 That moves along, with quiet pace, 
 
 As young as ever ! 
 
46 CONESTOGA. 
 
 The fair stream loves her Indian name, 
 
 And, ever may it be the same, 
 
 As when the pale-faced warriors came 
 
 At first, to woo her ; 
 And foully murdered, without shame, 
 
 Each dusky lover. 
 
 With rod in hand, I love to think 
 Beside the brimfull river s brink, 
 Or watch the cork, and see it sink, 
 
 As when, of old, 
 The sun-fish made my young eyes blink, 
 
 With dazzling gold. 
 
 Poor fishes ! they re in consternation 
 About the " march of navigation ;" 
 Which threatens them with extirpation : 
 
 There s such a clatter, 
 Of puffing engines they ve no notion 
 
 Of what s the matter ! 
 
 Improvement ! Art s deformed child, 
 Oh ! never mar these woodlands wild, 
 Where sleeping Nature long hath smiled 
 
 In purest dress ; 
 And may she never be defiled 
 
 By your caress ! 
 
C O N E S T O G A. 47 
 
 Long may seclusion reign, as now, 
 
 Upon this tall cliff s rugged brow ; 
 
 Fit place for thought, or low-breathed vow 
 
 Of early love ; 
 Or, where the pious heart may bow 
 
 To God above ! 
 
-SHE COULD NOT LIVE ALWAY! 
 (In memory of Miss H .) 
 
 SHE could not live alway! then why should we mourn 
 That pure spirit, too early from earth has been torn ; 
 O, let us remember ! those calm, saintlike eyes 
 Are now looking downward, from out the blue skies. 
 
 She could not live alway, that household to cheer, 
 Which the loss of the loved one makes lonely and drear ; 
 But, ye grief-stricken mourners, O ! do not forget, 
 As a bright guardian angel, she cares for you yet. 
 
 Her good deeds will live alway : the grief-stricken band 
 Who were cheered by the bounty that fell from her hand, 
 When the cold pinches keenly, will sigh she s no more, 
 Giving comfort and hope as she used to before. 
 
 She no longer may follow the church-going bell, 
 Nor unite in that service she once loved so well ; 
 But she sleeps in the bosom of church-hallowed ground, 
 Where the organ-notes breathe in soft music around. 
 
"SHE COULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 49 
 
 The cold winds of November howl fierce o er her grave, 
 And tempest-tost boughs all disconsolate wave ; 
 But, again shall the blue-bird rejoice in the bowers, 
 And Spring shall encircle her tombstone with flowers. 
 
 So, the sharpness of anguish not always can last, 
 And friends gladly will muse over joys that are past : 
 Old Time, though he cuts down our roses in bloom, 
 Yet loves to shed beauty and grace round the tomb ! 
 
 She could not live alway ! then dry up your tears ! 
 Be ye ready, like her, and stern Death has no fears ; 
 Mark well the bright pathway she patiently trod ; 
 It will bear thee safe home, to thy Father and God ! 
 

 THE INAUGURATION. 
 March 4th, 1841. 
 
 WHY all this stir 1 why beats the nation s heart 
 With such intensity, in time of peace 1 
 Why do the people crowd in eager throngs 
 About the Capitol 1 as if this day 
 Were arbiter of life and death to all ? 
 
 Tis an eventful time ! the noble vessel 
 
 Built by our ancestors, and first commanded 
 
 By him who brought us to the promised land, 
 
 Is this day launched anew ; and all good Christians 
 
 Would breathe a blessing as she leaves the shore ; 
 
 Her noble freight is rich beyond compare, 
 
 And Freedom s friends watch eagerly her course ; 
 
 Here, the bright gems of Liberty are stored, 
 
 And, if the ship goes down she carries with her, 
 
 The dearest hopes of all who would be free : 
 
 Brave Kosciusko will have lived in vain, 
 
 And high-souled Emmet s death be impotent 
 
 To save green Erin from the spoiler s hand ! 
 
THE INAUGURATION. 51 
 
 If, from the realms of peace, departed spirits 
 
 Can e er behold the doings of our earth 
 
 The soul of Washington now hovers near ; 
 
 O ! may his honoured mantle ever rest 
 
 On his successor ; and, with it, every virtue 
 
 That shone so brightly in our country s Father, 
 
 In double portion ! May the hand of Age 
 
 Deal gently with him ! and, his mission ended 
 
 Prosperity restored our banner floating 
 
 In undimmed lustre over every sea. 
 
 Then, may his silvered head himself rejoicing 
 
 Lie down to sleep, amid a nation s tears ! 
 
 
 
TO A SWORD. 
 
 GAY, glittering blade ! 
 So brightly, beautifully wrought, 
 
 As if for plaything made 
 Thou art a theme for solemn thought ! 
 
 A changeful thing 
 The agent both of good and evil 
 
 I scarce know how to sing 
 Of thee half angel, and half devil ! 
 
 By such as thou, 
 Earth s proudest empires have been riven, 
 
 And hearts are bleeding now, 
 From unstaunched wounds which thou hast given ! 
 
 On that red field, 
 Where bleeding Poland gasps for breath, 
 
 Strong-armed usurpers wield 
 Thy blade, to cause young Freedom s death ! 
 
TO A SWORD. 53 
 
 Again, I see 
 Oppression vanquished by thy steel, 
 
 For patriot hands, by thee, 
 Must aim the blow that tyrants feel. 
 
 Then, softly lie 
 Within thy scabbard s narrow cell ; 
 
 Waiting the battle-cry 
 Of spirits such as Bruce or Tell. 
 
 And, O ! we pray, 
 Thou ne er may st answer to the call 
 
 Of men who coldly slay, 
 To fright the world with shroud and pall. 
 
 Bright one ! farewell ! 
 Rest long in silence and in shade, 
 
 And it shall please me well 
 To deck, with olive-boughs, thy blade ! 
 
THE DREAM OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 As his caravels light, o er the watery waste, 
 To the fabled Atlantis were bounding in haste, 
 The admiral saw, in the visions of night, 
 A picture of beauty burst full on his sight. 
 
 At first, in dim outline, the shadowy form 
 
 Of an island is seen, as the bow from the storm ; 
 
 Its gentle declivities carpeted o er, 
 
 With a velvet-like verdure, all down to the shore. 
 
 Mid its green, woody glens, and its palm-covered heights, 
 Was a people that revelled in Eden s delights ; 
 No labour was there ; but a fine-moulded race 
 Sought their food in the brooks, or the soul -stirring chase. 
 
 There, the valiant cacique, of great prowess in arms, 
 And the beauteous maiden, of unadorned charms, 
 In nature s simplicity roamed through the wood, 
 And happiness smiled on the land where they stood. 
 
\ 
 
 THE DREAM OP COLTJMBUS. 55 
 
 But, his vision is changed ! a dark cloud o er the isle 
 Dispels, in a moment, Utopia s smile : 
 The people are scattered they perish in fright, 
 As slowly the vision withdraws from his sight. 
 
 The shriek of the dying rings loud in his ear, 
 And his slumber is broken by wonder and fear ; 
 But, the creaking of masts, and the billows loud roar, 
 Remind him, that yet he is far from the shore ! 
 
 
MOUNT VEHNON. 
 
 LET Europe boast her storied halls 
 
 With graceful ivy crowned, 
 Arid legendary lore that breathes 
 
 From all her hallowed ground ! 
 I envy not her Marathon, 
 
 Nor castellated Rhine : 
 A greener spot than these, adorns 
 
 This forest-home of mine ! 
 
 Where old Potomac proudly bears 
 
 His tribute to the seas, 
 Behold yon mansion peeping through 
 
 Its tall, ancestral trees ! 
 O ! pass not by that sacred spot 
 
 With aught but pious tread, 
 For there a nation comes to weep, 
 
 Above the nation s dead ! 
 
 Well, Old Dominion ! may st thou love 
 To boast of such a son ; 
 
 
MOUNT VERNON. 57 
 
 And others, hardly less renowned, 
 
 Thy children, every one ! 
 And O ! direct thy later seed, 
 
 Of these apostate days, 
 To mark the glorious path of him 
 
 Whom all the nations praise. 
 
 These ancient rooms were wont to view 
 
 His tall, majestic form, 
 Who used to guide the helm of state, 
 
 And rule the battle s storm. 
 These mossy trunks he used to view, 
 
 As now we see them stand, 
 And yonder ancient orange-tree 
 
 Was planted by his hand. 
 
 Mementoes of the great and good ! 
 
 My heart within me bounds, 
 Whene er my roving footstep treads 
 
 Within these hallowed bounds. 
 Earth does not hold a purer spot 
 
 Than Vernon s patriot-shrine, 
 The only Mecca that adorns 
 
 This forest-land of mine ! 
 
NIOBE CHANGED INTO STONE. 
 (A Scene from the Classics.) 
 
 IT was a bright and joyous day in Thebes. 
 The sun rode gaily in the vault of heaven, 
 Tinging the altars with a hue of gold, 
 While the grave matron and the blooming maid 
 Poured votive incense on Latona s shrine. 
 
 With flashing eye, and step of solemn tread, 
 
 See Niobe advance ! with haughty grace 
 
 Shaking the tresses from her snow-white neck, 
 
 And from each full, round shoulder. " Foolish race!" 
 
 Exclaims the beauteous queen " these rites to pay 
 
 To a poor outcast, as Latona is. 
 
 I, vassals ! am your queen ; my noble blood 
 
 Hath its pure fountain in a line of gods, 
 
 While the twin children of my deadly foe 
 
 Were born on floating Delos as if earth 
 
 Would grant no resting-place for one like her. 
 
 I am the parent of seven lovely boys, 
 
 Graceful in movement as the nimble deer, 
 
NIOBE CHANGED INTO STONE. 59 
 
 And of seven lovely daughters fit to be 
 The cherished darlings of a mother s pride." 
 
 Latona now her injured children calls 
 To the high top of Cynthus : vengeance dire 
 She breathes against the queen : Apollo now, 
 And now the chaste Diana, she invokes 
 To smite the offspring of her queenly foe. 
 
 * * * * 
 Vengeance hath done its work : the noble sons 
 Of Niobe, careering on the plain, 
 
 Die by Apollo s arrow and their sire 
 Seeks death, by falling on his trusty sword. 
 
 Ill-fated Niobe ! alas, how changed ! 
 With frantic energy, she throws her arms 
 Round the cold bodies of the early dead, 
 And prints warm kisses on each lifeless cheek. 
 " Cruel Latona !" she in madness cries 
 " Feast your hard soul upon my heavy loss ! 
 Thou art a victor ! but what room for pride ? 
 Have I not yet seven daughters ? even now 
 My living offspring will outnumber thine ! 
 
 * # * * 
 Again a twanging of the silver bow ! 
 And those fair daughters perish, one by one, 
 Like sere leaves dropping from autumnal trees. 
 But one survives ! The mother braves the bolt, 
 And wraps the youngest darling in her robe. 
 
60 NIOBE CHANGED INTO STONE. 
 
 The death-blow lingers ! Ah ! the arrow strikes ! 
 And Niobe laments her childless woe. 
 
 " They all are now departed ! 
 Gone to the bosom of the silent land ! 
 
 And I, the broken-hearted, 
 
 No more may clasp my children by the hand ! 
 The fire-scathed limb of a once fruitful tree, 
 Were a fit emblem and a type of me !" 
 
 The strain is hushed and, on her pallid lip, 
 Dies in a low-breathed whisper, as she sinks, 
 Seated, amid the corpses of the slain. 
 A rigid coldness creeps o er every limb ; 
 Her golden tresses stir not in the breeze 
 Each languid eye gazes on vacancy, 
 As her numbed figure into marble grows-! 
 
 That lifeless form is beautiful in death, 
 
 And, bearing still the attitude of woe, 
 
 A weeping moisture trickles from the stone. 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 WELCOME to earth ! ye wild, untended flowers, 
 
 Blooming in beauty on the lonely hill : 
 Lifting your painted cups to taste the showers, 
 
 Or bending low, to drink the murmuring rill ! 
 Blossoms of hope ! o er all around ye, flinging 
 
 Odours more gentle than an infant s dream, 
 On sterile rocks, and far-off* mountains springing, 
 
 Emblems of virgin purity ye seem ! 
 
 Nodding securely on some dizzy fastness, 
 
 Where boldest cragsman may not dare to climb, 
 Ye look with favoured eyes on nature s vastness : 
 
 On scenes, now beautiful, and now sublime ! 
 Ye brave the tempest, in its fury, rending 
 
 The tender sapling, and the gnarled tree ; 
 And the warm south wind, gently o er ye bending, 
 
 Comes with a low and plaintive minstrelsy ! 
 
 Though your prime sisters of the neat-trimmed garden 
 May have more loveliness for other eyes, 
 6* 
 
 
62 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 It were a grave offence I ne er could pardon, 
 Should friend of mine your artlessness despise. 
 
 Whene er I think of you, my thoughts will wander 
 To one more beautiful and artless too, 
 
 Upon whose untaught grace I ne er can ponder 
 But some wild floweret I seem to view. 
 
 The glossy tresses, round her dark eyes wreathing, 
 
 Seem like the curling tendrils of the vine, 
 When the low-whispered evening winds are breathing, 
 
 And the young stars are dimly seen to shine : 
 Her merry laugh comes like the plash of waters, 
 
 Falling in dew-drops through the summer air ; 
 Brightest and best, of all earth s lovely daughters 
 
 Nature hath wrought her proudest triumph there. 
 
 I covet not some finely-chiselled creature, 
 
 Cold as the marble of the sculptor s art : 
 An air of thought should play around each feature, 
 
 And the warm blush betray the glowing heart ! 
 The velvet dahlia, in rare beauty standing, 
 
 Gives out no fragrance where it proudly blows, 
 Dearer to me, with spicy breath expanding, 
 
 The budding sweetness of my young wild rose ! 
 

 ADIEU TO WYOMING-. 
 
 SWEET valley ! famed for noble deeds, 
 
 In chronicle and song, 
 I cannot quit thy pleasant fields 
 
 Where I have tarried long, 
 Without a sigh of bitter pain, 
 
 That I no more may see 
 The friendly faces I have known, 
 
 Sweet Wyoming ! in thee. 
 
 Thy hills thy vales are beautiful, 
 
 As earthly scenes can be, 
 Yet beauty was a fatal gift, 
 
 Fair Wyoming ! to thee. 
 Two nations saw thy winning smile, 
 
 And wooed thee as a bride, 
 And for the prize of that fair form 
 
 Their stoutest champions died. 
 
 
64 ADIEU TO WYOMING. 
 
 So, Greeks and Trojans battled, 
 
 In ages long gone by, 
 To win the fair enchantress 
 
 With laughter-loving eye ; 
 Alas ! alas ! the cruel woes 
 
 Thy people that befell, 
 Upon that red-stained battle-field , 
 
 I cannot bear to tell ! 
 
 Fair land of beauty and of blood ! 
 
 Thy yellow grain-crops wave, 
 O er broken lance, and arrow-head, 
 
 Once wielded by the brave, 
 And bones of rare old patriots, 
 
 As brave as ever trod, 
 Who met the fierce invaders 
 
 In battle for thy sod. 
 
 And, Gertrude ! brightest, sweetest child, 
 
 That Fancy ever drew, 
 I cannot quit these peaceful scenes, 
 
 Without a sigh for you ! 
 Thy gentle spirit seems to float 
 
 O er every mist-clad hill ; 
 The music of thy voice, to breathe 
 
 From every bounding rill ! 
 
ADIEU TO WYOMING. 65 
 
 Home of the brave and beautiful ! 
 
 While memory shall be, 
 The children of our land will go 
 
 On pilgrimage to thee ! 
 Forget not all thy fathers did, 
 
 And, to thyself be true ; 
 And, now I leave thy storied vale, 
 
 Sweet Wyoming ! adieu ! 
 
THE MAD POET. 
 
 THE sweetest music often breathes 
 
 From harp of feeblest strings, 
 And finest chord, when harshly struck, 
 
 In wildest discord rings ; 
 But, where s the harp so nicely strung, 
 
 Trembling in every part, 
 As melody s own native home 
 
 The true-born poet s heart ! 
 
 What wonder if, in this rough world, 
 
 Its chords should oft be broken, 
 By stern misfortune s icy touch, 
 
 Or harsh word, lightly spoken ? 
 While dull stupidity plods on, 
 
 Which no dim ray inspires, 
 The soul of genius oft consumes 
 
 In its own lightning-fires. 
 
THE MAD POET. 67 
 
 Behold ! yon wretch, with glaring eye, 
 
 And hotly-burning brain 
 Whom charming once inspired 
 
 Is now alas ! insane. 
 The brilliant pageantry, that once 
 
 Gleamed on his favoured eye, 
 Is changed to wild fantastic shapes, 
 
 That now pass swiftly by. 
 
 Pure forms of light, and shapes of hell, 
 
 Come trooping on, together ; 
 As snow-drops, harbingers of spring, 
 
 Are seen in wintry weather. 
 Insult not thou, that wretched man, 
 
 Though bolts and bars are round him 
 Tis not for crime, nor fault of his, 
 
 That thus, they ve rudely bound him. 
 
 Imagination lured him on. 
 
 The nymph is crowned with roses, 
 But ah ! she puts a man in chains, 
 
 So soon as he reposes ! 
 That ruined mind, is like a church, 
 
 Where anthems once were pealing, 
 And chequered rays of mellow light 
 
 Through painted windows stealing; 
 
68 THE MAD POET. 
 
 But, roofless now, the moaning wind 
 
 Sighs through its crumbling arches, 
 And, in its long-deserted aisles, 
 
 Grim desolation marches. 
 That spot was once the cherished home, 
 
 Where holy thoughts resided ; 
 Nor, though ye slight those ruined walls, 
 
 Forget God once presided ! 
 
 

 
 THE CLOCK OF THE BURNING TO WER. 
 
 It is a fact mentioned in the newspapers, that during the late fire 
 which destroyed part of the Tower of London, the great clock of the 
 fortress was heard to strike the hour, just before it fell, and while the 
 dial-plate was wrapped in flames. 
 
 WOE to yon dusky fortress, 
 
 Reared by old British kings ! 
 See ! what a lurid brightness 
 
 The blaze around it flings ! 
 The roofs crash down, with thunder, 
 
 And around, armed soldiers stand, 
 To guard, from ruthless plunder, 
 
 The jewels of the land ! 
 
 There, suits of antique armour, 
 From many a well-fought field, 
 
 Are ranged in brilliant order, 
 With sword, and bruised shield. 
 
 7 
 
70 THE CLOCK OF THE BURNING TOWER. 
 
 Much have those turrets witnessed 
 
 Of gorgeous and sublime, 
 Since, beneath that .moated castle, 
 
 Hath rolled the stream of Time ! 
 
 We recall the crafty Norman, 
 
 Rufus long since a shade 
 By whom the strong foundations 
 
 Of London Tower were laid. 
 There, oft hath been proud Bess, 
 
 And Cceur-de-Lion, there ; 
 And there, the hosts of Cromwell 
 
 Have breathed fanatic prayer ! 
 
 O Time ! we pray thee, spare them ! 
 
 Those venerable walls I 
 The voice of the departed, 
 
 For mercy on thee calls. 
 But no ! the flame mounts higher, 
 
 Encircling wood and stone ; 
 The Old Clock, in his tower, 
 
 Stands up on high, alone. 
 
 Hark ! clear and loud that sentry 
 Rings out the passing hour; 
 
 Ah ! never more that silver voice 
 Shall peal from London Tower ! 
 
 A crash ! the ruin crumbles ! 
 Its glories now are past : 
 

 THE CLOCK OF THE BURNING TOWER. 71 
 
 But oh ! I love that faithful clock, 
 On duty to the last. 
 
 Methinks, a word of wisdom 
 
 Those smouldering ruins tell : 
 Happy the man, that ponders, 
 
 And reads that lesson well ! 
 Duty pursues thee, ever : 
 
 And, e en with dying breath, 
 Cling to that glorious motto 
 
 " Be faithful unto death !" 
 
 
ABBOT3FORD. 
 
 As when the spirit scarce hath fled 
 
 From some enchanting form, 
 Whose bland expression lingers yet, 
 
 Round lips so lately warm ; 
 Thy hallowed pile, lone Abbotsford ! 
 
 Still echoes with the lay 
 Of him, the Minstrel, who is gone 
 
 From this dull earth away ! 
 
 We cannot feel, he now lies low 
 
 Beneath the sluggish clod, 
 Where Dryburgh s cloisters used to swell 
 
 With orisons to God. 
 Come ! peep within his study door ; 
 
 We almost see him still ! 
 Perchance, he only wanders o er 
 
 The valley or the hill ! 
 
 Those books have never been profaned 
 By touch of common hand ; 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 73 
 
 Arid, near yon world-delighting desk, 
 
 His chair and footstool stand. 
 The antlers of the noble stag 
 
 Bring back the thrilling chase, 
 And each old helmet hangs aloft, 
 
 In its familiar place. 
 
 But see ! across yon ink-horn s fount, 
 
 And round each well-worn pen, 
 The spider wraps his silken thread, 
 
 To guard from meaner men. 
 No dog is heard, in lawn or bower, 
 
 No children in the hall : 
 Tweed s silver ripples, soft and low, 
 
 In mournful cadence fall. 
 
 And, can it be, that ne er again 
 
 That merry voice shall sound 1 
 And, ne er again, its ballad lore 
 
 Be heard on Scotland s ground ? 
 And hath that true and sturdy heart 
 
 Indeed, now ceased to beat ? 
 And shall that warm and trusty hand 
 
 No more the pilgrim greet ? 
 
 Alas ! no more! and yet, no fear 
 
 That thou canst be forgot, 
 Whose memory is shrined there, 
 
 Where change affects it not ! 
 
 7* 
 
74 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 We never knew those mellow tones 
 The twinkle of that eye : 
 
 Yet, every heart doth mourn a friend, 
 When such as thou must die ! 
 
 Time, with his swift-destroying fingers, 
 
 Which blight where er they fall, 
 E en visits gravestones with his touch, 
 
 And tioon effaces all. 
 But dark oblivion shall not rob 
 
 Thine epitaph from thee : 
 Its letters oft shall be retouched. 
 
 By Old Mortality ! 
 
THE HOUSE OF PUAYEU. 
 
 Written on the consecration of Christ s Church, Vicksburg, Mississippi, 
 by Bishop Otey, May 3d, 1843. 
 
 YOUNG May hath many a pleasant round 
 
 Of soft and dreamy hours, 
 And much she loves to linger in 
 
 This sunny land of flowers, 
 Where southern birds of gorgeous plume, 
 
 On clustering bay-trees sing, 
 And skies, as blue as Italy s, 
 
 Bend over us in Spring. 
 
 And, were the whole of this our life 
 
 Hemmed in by fleeting Time, 
 Twere good to dream it all away 
 
 In some delicious clime : 
 But ah ! too oft, the spirit s cry 
 
 Of agony is heard, 
 
76 THE HOUSE OF PRAYER. 
 
 Where nature rings with melody 
 From many a joyous bird. 
 
 But, list ! methinks a holier spell 
 
 Comes on the spring-tide air, 
 As pious hymns and anthems float 
 
 Around the House of Prayer ! 
 For pointed arch, and Gothic tower, 
 
 Whence silvery chimes shall ring, 
 Have tenderer voices for the heart, 
 
 Than flowers, or birds of spring. 
 
 A Bishop, robed in sacred vest, 
 
 In yonder aisles I see, 
 Imploring that the Triune God 
 
 Within these courts may be, 
 To bless, with his especial grace. 
 
 The contrite, humble prayer, 
 That toward the heavenly throne ascends, 
 
 Up through this hallowed air 
 
 That many a host of blessed ones 
 
 May here be born to life, 
 And here, may find a safe retreat 
 
 From daily cares and strife ; 
 That many a way-worn pilgrim, here, 
 
 By fate condemned to roam, 
 May find, in all our Mother s prayers, 
 
 Sweet memories of home. 
 
THE HOUSE OF PRAYER. 77 
 
 Here, never may the Church s voice 
 
 Be hushed in silence more, 
 Until the potent sound of truth 
 
 Has reached the gloomiest shore ! 
 Long may Old Time, the ravager, 
 
 God s holy temple spare, 
 And bring the ivy and the vine 
 
 To wreathe our House of Prayer ! 
 
POCAHONTAS. 
 A Ballad. 
 
 WAS there ever heard, in the whole wide world, 
 
 By the ear of a living man, 
 Of a nobler soul, than the soul that glowed 
 
 In the daughter of old Powhatan ? 
 
 Her eye was dark as the raven s wing, 
 
 Her cheek with its blushes warm, 
 And the wild gazelle might have envied well, 
 
 The rare ease of her bounding form. 
 
 When the white man came, o er the billowy main, 
 
 In his ship with the snow-white sail, 
 The dark-eyed maid, in her forest glade, 
 
 Right gladly the bark did hail. 
 
 Soon brave Smith was bound, on the cold cold ground, 
 
 And the club was uplifted high, 
 But her feeble arm was a shield from harm, 
 
 When he seemed just ready to die. 
 
 
POCAHONTAS. 79 
 
 Then, base Argall s crew, whom she thought so true, 
 
 Led her off from her wild-wood port, 
 And they carried down unto old Jamestown, 
 
 As a prize to the British fort. 
 
 But the doctrines wild of the savage child 
 
 She believeth no longer now, 
 Counting all things loss, for the holy cross 
 
 That was signed on her virgin brow. 
 
 Soon, a happy wife, in the bloom of life, 
 
 She sailed from her native shore ; 
 And she shed a tear, in prophetic fear, 
 
 That she ne er would behold it more. 
 
 With a royal grace, she surveyed each place 
 
 In old England s sea-girt isle, 
 And each proudest name on the roll of fame, 
 
 Sought the prize of her queen-like smile. 
 
 But unsparing Death, took away her breath, 
 When she thought to have crossed the sea ; 
 
 And she sadly smiled on her infant child, 
 As it played on a father s knee. 
 
 And now she sleeps in the green churchyard, 
 
 Beside old England s dead ; 
 And Gravesend spire, like a sword of fire, 
 
 Keepeth guard by her lowly bed. 
 
RAINY WEATHER. 
 
 WHEN prattling poets write about the weather, 
 They always paint it in " couleur de rose ;" 
 
 The sky is gorgeous as a peacock s feather, 
 And balmy zephyrs lull them to repose : 
 
 In short, if we might trust to what ilwy say, 
 
 Earth never witnessed yet, a rainy day ! 
 
 It is to dissipate this strange delusion, 
 
 That, in the blues, I venture now to write : 
 
 Indeed, I ve come almost to the conclusion, 
 That Phoebus ne er again will shed his light : 
 
 Each sad-faced mortal plods on with umbrella, 
 
 And wet feet, cased in leather or prunella. 
 
 The fickle weathercocks have rusted east, 
 And won t, I fear, shift posture very soon ; 
 
 For, knowing ones, who on our misery feast, 
 
 Assure us we must wait for " change of moon :" 
 
 From which " Job s comfort" kindly sent to cheer us, 
 
 It seems a ten days drizzle is before us ! 
 
KAINY WEATHER. 81 
 
 The gutters, swollen to a mighty flood, 
 
 May be a pleasant copy of the rill 
 To sentimental folks : but ah, the mud 
 
 Cuts off our access to Parnassus hill ! 
 We earth-born grovellers are grown splenetic : 
 One should have stout wings now to be poetic. 
 
 But come ! we ll try to think about the graces, 
 Weaving the light dance on fantastic toe, 
 
 A radiant group, with brightly beaming faces, 
 And fair necks whiter than the driven snow. 
 
 But ah ! their light robes are all strangely draggled, 
 
 In yon dull puddle where my thoughts have straggled. 
 
 Well ! that won t do : not even the bright moon 
 To which the dullest can address " O thou !" 
 
 Nor buds, nor blossoms, nor the merry tune 
 Of nature s songsters could inspire me now. 
 
 My ill-starred muse, in this detested weather, 
 
 Mopes, like a barn-fowl dripping at each feather. 
 
 But why indulge this low desponding mood ? 
 
 Or hate the rains which cheer the drooping earth ? 
 In these dark seasons, kindly sent for good, 
 
 All beauteous things are moistened into birth ; 
 And, though dull clouds obscure the sun to-day, 
 All will seem lovelier when they ve rolled away ! 
 
AN OLD MAN S MUSINGS. 
 " Laudator temporis acti." HORACE. 
 
 AH ! soon for me the parting word 
 
 To kind friends must be spoken; 
 And very soon, the silver cord 
 
 The golden bowl be broken : 
 Soon shall the birds, in leafy bowers, 
 
 Rejoice when I m no more, 
 And e en my own deserted flowers 
 
 Bloom sweetly as before. 
 
 Tis very true, that frosty age 
 
 Hath silvered o er my hair ; 
 My furrowed cheeks are as a page 
 
 All written o er with care ; 
 But yet my heart still beats as true 
 
 It thrills with purer joy, 
 Than when the light-winged moments flew 
 
 Above the laughing boy. 
 
AN OLD MAN S MUSINGS. 
 
 I love to walk with feeble tread 
 
 Where once I used to roam 
 With those, the absent or the dead, 
 
 Friends of my boyhood s home. 
 I love to see a sportive child 
 
 Who bounds in playful glee, 
 And often stops his frolic wild 
 
 With mournful glance on me. 
 
 Seems it, fair child ! my dim, sunk eye, 
 
 Was ne er so bright as thine ? 
 That thy young pulse, which now beats high, 
 
 Will ne er be slow as mine ? 
 I seek not to dispel thy dream 
 
 Which paints the world so gay : 
 Since life s young visions brightly gleam, 
 
 Enjoy them, while you may ! 
 
 Fond memory still calls me back 
 
 To sunny childhood s days, 
 And as the future grows more black, 
 
 The past hath brighter rays. 
 I sometimes wonder if the young 
 
 Are happy now, as they 
 Whose merry laugh once gayly rung 
 
 Amid our youthful play. 
 
84 AN OLD MAN S MUSINGS. 
 
 Methinks, the landscape shines less fair 
 
 The sun less brightly beams 
 There s less of fragrance in the air 
 
 Less music in the streams 
 Than when my early home was glad 
 
 With happy children s joy : 
 Methinks, the world is grown more sad, 
 
 Than when I was a boy ! 
 
THE FATE OF THE HUMMING- BIBD. 
 
 (Suggested by the finding of a dead humming bird, in one of the rooms 
 of a deserted house.) 
 
 A YOUTHFUL bird, one summer s day, 
 Flew from the parent nest away : 
 The world, to his delighted eyes, 
 Seemed far too good a place for sighs. 
 Nature looked bright, the bird was gay, 
 As through the air he winged his way. 
 At times, he d stoop to taste a flower ; 
 Awhile, he d rest in beauty s bower : 
 His fellow-songsters all were singing, 
 And gardens round their odours flinging, 
 " Well," said the bird, " I wonder why 
 Your moralists the world decry : 
 I m sure, tis beautiful to me, 
 And I shall ever joyous be. 
 Pleasures around, with eager haste, 
 Are beckoning to come and taste : 
 For my part, I intend to view, 
 Whatever s beautiful or new." 
 8* 
 
86 THE FATE OF THE HUMMING BIRD. 
 
 Then, lighting near a broken pane, 
 
 He listened long for sound, in vain ; 
 
 No children s voices met his ear, 
 
 And the old house looked chill and drear. 
 
 As closer to the pane he drew, 
 
 The more intense his wishes grew 
 
 To know the mystery within, 
 
 Although, to pierce it might be sin. 
 
 The fatal step is hardly taken, 
 
 When all his hopes are sadly shaken. 
 
 Alone, in that deserted room, 
 
 Each sight and sound is tinged with gloom.- 
 
 Flapping his wings, he tries to pass 
 
 Again through crevice in the glass. 
 
 Poor, foolish thing ! amid the glare, 
 
 He seeks in vain for exit there. 
 
 With battered wings, and bruised breast, 
 
 His thoughts fly toward the cherished nest, 
 
 Where those who have not learned to roam, 
 
 Are tasting yet the joys of home. 
 
 The captive bird, bereft of power, 
 Told slowly o er each leaden hour ; 
 His feeble throat refused to sing, 
 And downward drooped each lagging wing ; 
 A blinding film crept o er his eye, 
 And none was near to see him die. 
 
THE FATE OF THE HUMMING BIRD. 87 
 
 No friendly faces o er him hung 
 No warbling birds his requiem sung 
 None wept to hear the solemn knell, 
 While fairies tolled his funeral bell : 
 His death was far from bustling crowd, 
 And ruffled plumes his only shroud ! 
 
 
FOOTSTEPS OF AUTUMN. 
 
 WHERE are the birds, whose sweetly warbled notes 
 Were lately gushing forth from tuneful throats ? 
 They all have wandered south, to happier shores, 
 Where frost ne er pinches, and no tempest roars ? 
 
 Where are the many bright green glossy leaves 
 That laughing summer in her garland wreathes? 
 Withered and sere, they shiver on the trees, 
 Ere long to rustle on some truant breeze. 
 
 Methinks, a bevy of some ancient belles 
 Might well contemplate what the forest tells : 
 Tis nature s order, that a wrinkled leaf 
 Needs gayer costume as its life grows brief. 
 
 A solemn stillness reigns o er hilt and dale : 
 Each lonely rivulet sighs forth her tale. 
 Tis nature sorrowing for the death of flowers 
 She cherished lately in her inmost bowers ! 
 
FOOTSTEPS OF AUTUMN. 89 
 
 Ah ! many a sweet and softly nurtured flower 
 We thought too lovely for the tyrant s power, 
 That grew, at spring-time, fairest o er the sod 
 Now slumbers darkly underneath the clod ! 
 
 Earth s best and brightest soonest pass away, 
 For such, twere needless longer here to stay ; 
 Their dross refined, and every fault forgiven, 
 Tis innate buoyancy that lifts to heaven. 
 
 We do not sigh that summer birds are fled, 
 And sweetest flowers lie mingled with the dead; 
 Each following month owns some peculiar grace, 
 And sober Autumn wears a smiling face. 
 
 I love the quiet Sunday afternoon, 
 With nature s self in silence to commune, 
 To wander thoughtfully in some tall wood 
 Whose giant trunks have for long ages stood. 
 
 Then nature s calmness sinks into my breast, 
 
 And soothes each wilder passion into rest: 
 
 I would not part with Autumn s mellow reign, 
 
 For spring-time s bursting flowers, or summer s grain. 
 
 

 
 
 BOSTON NOTIONS. 
 
 (These lines were written, on hearing that Mr. Ralph Waldo Emer 
 son, and others, had commenced the publication of a transcendental 
 work called "The Dial," in Boston, the chief city of the old Pilgrim 
 Fathers.) 
 
 HEAR ! a ye goodly pilgrim flocks?, 
 Frae Kennebec to Plymouth rocks ! 
 The market for your wooden clocks, 
 
 Is well-nigh done ! 
 For Boston chields, wi " Dial" blocks, 
 
 Now track the sun ! 
 
 If e er ye catch an absent wight, 
 Gapin to see what s out o sight, 
 And claimin to hae patent-right 
 
 For this invention ; 
 I rede ye ! keep him fast an tight 
 
 In your attention ! 
 
BOSTON NOTIONS. 91 
 
 He has na lost his mental forces, 
 
 Ye simple ones ! when he discourses 
 
 O " inner light" which now commences 
 
 To make us wise, 
 By breakin down the crumblin fences 
 
 Of old philosophies ! 
 
 He s over-grand and sentimental, 
 To crush his food by process dental ; 
 But lives on air, and dainties mental 
 
 O purest wit ; 
 The foggy mystic transcendental ! 
 
 I think they ca it. 
 
 He prates o " movement" and " unrest ;" 
 The " nineteenth century" is far the best, 
 In his opinion, that e er left the nest 
 
 O unhatched time, 
 And Yankee notions richer than the rest 
 
 In true sublime. 
 
 Ah ! brither Ralph ! pray hae a care ! 
 My very banes do quake wi fear, 
 Lest ye should raise the Pilgrims here, 
 
 Frae out the ground ! 
 Puir simple folk ! they d gape, to hear 
 
 Sic learned sound ! 
 
92 BOSTON NOTIONS. 
 
 Your " inner light" will never blink, 
 
 But frae some tiny little chink, 
 
 O your dark lanthorn ; sae I think, 
 
 Tvvad do nae good 
 To guide my feet, when I would sink 
 
 In moral mud. 
 
 And, I would mind ye, one and all, 
 That honest men sic things ne er handle, 
 Without the risk to get a fall ! 
 
 Wi my puir pence, 
 I d rather buy the farthin candle 
 
 O common sense ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
10 
 
 
 R 5406 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY