The New-York Book of Poetry
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Title: The New-York Book of Poetry
Editor: Charles Fenno Hoffman
Release date: May 22, 2013 [eBook #42769]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW-YORK BOOK OF POETRY ***
THE
NEW-YORK BOOK
OF
POETRY.
_______________
"Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior."
_______________
NEW-YORK.
GEORGE DEARBORN, PUBLISHER,
NO. 38 GOLD STREET.
_______
1837.
NEW-YORK:
Printed by SCATCHERD & ADAMS,
No. 38 Gold Street.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The work here presented to the Public is compiled from the poetical
writings of natives of the State of New-York. The chief object in making
the collection was to give 'a local habitation and a name' to fugitive
pieces, which, though deemed worthy of being thus preserved, have
hitherto been circulated in the newspapers and periodicals solely. It
was thought well, however, by way of giving completeness to the work, to
embody with the rest specimens of those New-York poets whose writings
have been already collected in another shape. The design of executing
such a work only suggested itself to the Publisher a fortnight before
the last sheet was put to press; and as he was desirous that THE
NEW-YORK BOOK should appear at the season when the annuals and other
similar publications are most in request, those who have aided him in
the compilation have perhaps vainly attempted to make up in industry for
the want of time. Under the most favourable circumstances, however, it
would be idle to attempt making such a collection what it ought to be in
a single volume. The field of our Anthology is wider than any casual
observer could conceive; and even in thus rapidly exploring it, the
sources of so many new specimens have been indicated that it is hoped
the reception of this volume will be such as to warrant the Publisher in
soon following it up by another of the same character.
_38 Gold Street, Dec. 24, 1836._
LIST OF WRITERS.
_______
Arden Francis
Bailey, J. I.
Barker, Robert
Bleecker, Mrs. Ann E.
Bleecker, Anthony
Bloodgood, S. De Witt
Bogart, A. H.
Bogart, David S.
Bogart, W. H. L.
Bogart, Elizabeth
Brooks, J. G.
Brooks, Miss Mary E.
Blauvelt, A. L.
Clark, Willis G.
Clinch, Elizabeth C.
Crosswell, Rev. William
Clason, Isaac
Davidson, Lucretia M.
Doane, Rt. Rev. G. W.
Drake, J. R.
Duer, William
Ellet, Mrs. E. F.
Embury, Emma C.
Fay, Theodore S.
Faugeres, Margaretta V.
Hawes, W. P.
Hoffman, C. F.
Irving, Washington
Inman, John
Low, Samuel
Lawrence, Jonathan, Jr.
Leggett, William
Livingston, William
Morris, George P.
Morton, General Jacob
Murray, Lindley
Mitchell, Dr. Samuel L.
Moore, Clement C.
Nack, James
Park, Roswell
Paulding, J. K.
Sanford, Edward
Sands, R. C.
Seymour, D.
Slidell, Thomas
Street, A. B.
Stone, William L.
Strong, George D.
Sutermeister, J. R.
Tucker, T. W.
Vining, W. H.
Van Schaick, J. B.
Verplanck, Gulian
CONTENTS.
_______
PAGE
Anacreontic, 10
Anacreontic, 172
Address to Black Hawk, 11
Address to a Musquito, 27
A Poet's Epistle, 37
A Roman Chariot Race, 59
Affection wins affection, 71
Ah No! Ah No! To a favourite Child, 146
A Health, 147
A Hymn, 149
A Song of May, 152
A Visit from St. Nicholas, 217
Appeal, 229
Byron, 103
Bronx, 122
Ballad, 191
Chansonette, 50
Canzonet, 201
Crossing the Alleghanies, 204
Drink and away, 107
Despondency, 164
Death of the First-Born, 238
Elegiac Lines, 151
Epitaph upon a Dog, 182
Elegy on the Exile and Death of Ovid, 241
Fragment, 246
Fears of Death, 72
Fragment, 102
Faded Hours, 134
Forgetfulness, 192
From a Father to his Children, 215
From a Husband to his Wife, 221
Greece--1832, 55
Hope, 116
He came too late, 179
Inconstancy, 31
Indian Summer, 54
Impromptu, 58
Impromptu, 228
Joy and Sorrow, 104
Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to stand still, 184
Lines on a Skull dug up by the Plough, 15
Lines written on a Bank Note, 42
Lines for Music, 59
Love and Faith, 66
Lament, 70
Lines, 77
Lake George, 83
Lines written in an Album, 85
Lines written on the cover of a Prayer Book, 96
Look Aloft, 101
Lützow's Wild Chase, 130
Lines, 132
Lament, 136
Lines written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend, 138
Life's Guiding Star, 164
Lines for Music, 183
Lake George--1829, 203
Lines suggested by the perusal of "The Life of Chatterton," 225
Lines to a Daughter of the late Governor Clinton, 229
Love's Remembrancer, 247
Moonlight on the Hudson, 7
Morning Musings among the Hills, 21
Morning, 82
Midnight Thoughts, 94
Morning Hymn, 121
Moonlight, 128
Melody, 173
My Native Land, 174
Ode to Jamestown, 97
On reading Virgil, 155
On Ship-board, 195
On seeing a beautiful Young Lady whose health was impaired
by the fever and ague, 219
Proem to Yamoyden, 87
Prophetic, 224
Portraiture, 231
Reflections, 75
Rhyme and Reason, 144
Reminiscences, 150
Song, (I know thou dost love me), 17
Song, (Nay think not Dear), 23
Song of the Hermit Trout, 46
Song of Spring Time, 63
Song, Rosalie Clare, 126
Song, 129
Song, 171
Stanzas, 184
Song, 186
Spring is coming, 214
Sonnet to Myra, 236
Song, (When other friends are round thee), 238
Thoughts of a Student, 1
The Settler, 3
The Worst, 6
The minisink, 18
The Dend of 1832, 24
To a Lady, who declared that the sun prevented her
from sleeping, 27
The Callicoon in Autumn, 32
The Western Hunter to his Mistress, 36
The Delaware Water Gap, 43
To May, 47
To the Whip-poor will, 49
The Clouds, 50
The Isle of Rest, 53
The Shipwreck of Camoens, 64
The Last Song, 68
To my Wife, 69
The Bride's Farewell, 73
The Guardian Angel, 78
The Brave, 81
The Faded One, 86
The Indian, 91
To the Evening Star, 104
The Falls of the Passaic, 105
The Hudson, 108
Trenton Falls, 110
The Dumb Minstrel, 111
The Green Isle of Lovers, 113
That Silent Moon, 114
To a Cigar, 116
The Lake of Cayostea, 117
The American Flag, 118
The Storm King, 124
To a Packet Ship, 127
The Wife's Song, 135
The Sepulchre of David, 139
The Last Prayer of Mary Queen of Scots, 156
The Recollections of the People, 159
The Husband to his Wife, on her birth-day, 162
To a Goldfinch, 166
The Midnight Ball, 167
The Deserted Bride, 168
Thoughts at the Grave of a departed Friend, 171
To Themira, 196
Thanksgiving after escape from Indian perils, 189
Thoughts on Parting, 199
The Falls of Niagara, 200
The Pennsylvanian Immigrant, 202
The Clouds, 206
The Tornado, 208
To a Lady, 211
The Mitchella, 217
The Magic Draught, 226
The Son of Sorrow, 230
The Farewell, 234
To Cordelia, 236
To the Dying Year, 250
Weehawken, 40
White Lake, 61
What is Solitude, 79
Woman, 144
West Point, 187
Verses to the Memory of Colonel Wood, of the
United States' Army, who fell at the Sortie of Erie, 163
Verses written in a Book of Fortunes, 181
[Transcriber Note:
The following page number errors were corrected in the TOC:
Canzonet - page 301 corrected to 201
Fragment - page 2 corrected to 246
Rhyme & Reason - page 104 corrected to 144
The Mitchella - page 220 corrected to 217 ]
POEMS.
______
THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
_Ob_: 1833, _æt._ 25.
Many a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,
Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly wooed
My heart from its study's solitude.
Oft when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,
And the flowers peep softly out to see
The frolic Spring as she wantons by,
When the breeze and beam like thieves come in,
To steal me away, I deem it sin
To slight their voice, and away I'm straying
Over the hills and vales a Maying.
Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be,
Every fountain hath then a voice
That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains, that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And flashing away in the sun has gone,
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish,
Many a hue of fancy, when
The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.
Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking as fancy does in sleep
The secret transports of the soul,
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.
Many a big, proud tear have I,
When from my sweet and roaming track
From the green earth and misty sky,
And spring and love I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travelled thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts that cheer
The toilsome day, and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,
And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.
And though I may sometimes sigh to think
Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea,
And know that the cup which others drink
Shall never be brimmed by me;
That many a joy must be untasted,
And many a glorious breeze be wasted,
Yet would not, if I dared, repine,
That toil and study and care are mine.
THE SETTLER.
BY A. B. STREET.
His echoing axe the settler swung
Amid the sea-like solitude,
And rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans of the wood;
Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd
From out his mossy nest, which crash'd
With its supporting bough,
And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd
On the wolf's haunt below.
Rude was the garb, and strong the frame,
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;
The soul, that warm'd that frame, disdain'd
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd,
This forest tamer deck'd.
The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees,
The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers,
The winds that swell'd their harmonies
Through those sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast--the green arcade,
The nestling vale--the grassy glade,
Dark cave and swampy lair;
These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.
His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot,
'Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew not,
Throve in the sun and rain.
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low--the bleat--the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle
Of deeds that wrought the change.
The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,
The rose of Summer spread its glow,
The maize hung out its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one labour'd there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied
His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.
He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth, and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;
He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day
With streaming bough and sever'd root,
Hurl'd whizzing on its way.
His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd,
The grim bear hush'd his savage growl,
In blood and foam the panther gnash'd
His fangs, with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,
The beaver sank beneath the wound
Its pond-built Venice by.
Humble the lot, yet his the race!
When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place,
To fight--to bleed--to die.
Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red,
By hope, through weary years were led,
And witness'd York Town's sun
Blaze on a Nation's banner spread,
A Nation's freedom won.
THE WORST.
BY W. H. VINING.
_Ob_: 1822, _æt._ 28.
Oh, I have lived through keenest care,
And still may live through more,
We know not what the heart can bear,
Until the worst be o'er;
The _worst_ is not when fears assail,
Before the shaft has sped,
Nor when we kiss the visage, pale
And beautiful, though dead.
Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope
With danger and distress,
The very impulse left by hope
Will make despair seem less;
Then all is life--acute, intense,
The thoughts in tumult tost,
So reels the mind with wildered sense,
It knows not what is lost.
But when that shuddering scene is past,
When earth receives her own,
And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last
The heart is left alone;
When all is gone--our hopes and fears
All buried in one tomb,
And we have dried the source of tears,
There comes a settled gloom.
Then comes the _worst_, the undying thought
That broods within the breast,
Because its loveliest one _is not_,
And what are all the rest?
MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
_Written at West Point._
I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,
There are some moments when one can't help feeling
As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred
By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing
A little music in his soul still lingers
Whene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:
And even here, upon this settee lying,
With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing,
Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,
Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing:
For who can look on mountain, sky, and river,
Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?
Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yon
Azure fields--Thou who, once earthward bending,
Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion
On dewy Latmos to his arms descending--
Thou whom the world of old on every shore,
Type of thy sex, _Triformis_, did adore:
Tell me--where'er thy silver barque be steering,
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,
Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,
Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands--
Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,
A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?
Doth Achelöus or Araxes flowing
Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers--
Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing,
Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,
The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver,
Match they in beauty my own glorious river?
What though no turret gray nor ivied column
Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear?
What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn
Of despots tell and superstition here--
What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls
Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls--
Its sinking arches once gave back as proud
An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal,
As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd
As ever beat beneath a vest of steel,
When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day
Called forth chivalric host to battle fray:
For here amid these woods did He keep court,
Before whose mighty soul the common crowd
Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought,
Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed--
HE who his country's eagle taught to soar,
And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.
And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered,
Within these wild ravines have had their birth;
Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered,
And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth;
And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary
But treasures up within the glorious story.
And yet not rich in high-souled memories only,
Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming,
Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely,
And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming:
But such soft fancies here may breathe around,
As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.
Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night--
Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul,
Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light,
Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole--
Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth
To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?
But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending
Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest,
And Night, more nearly now each step attending,
As if to hide thy envied place of rest,
Closes at last thy very couch beside,
A matron curtaining a virgin bride.
Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,
While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,
As of the good when heavenward hence departing,
Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.
So--could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray--
Would I too steal from this dark world away.
ANACREONTIC.
BY A. H. BOGART.
_Ob_: 1826, _æt._ 22.
The flying joy through life we seek
For once is ours--the wine we sip
Blushes like Beauty's glowing cheek,
To meet our eager lip.
Round with the ringing glass once more!
Friends of my youth and of my heart--
No magic can this hour restore--
Then crown it ere we part.
Ye are my friends, my chosen ones--
Whose blood would flow with fervour true
For me--and free as this wine runs
Would mine, by Heaven! for you.
Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.
Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.
Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain--
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?
No--pour the wine again!
ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK.
BY EDWARD SANFORD.
There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high
And manly beauty of the Roman mould,
And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye
Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold;
Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,
Ambition, that survives the battle route.
The man within thee scorns to play the mime
To gaping crowds that compass thee about.
Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,
Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.
Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet--
Vanquished and captive--dost thou deem that here--
The glowing day star of thy glory set--
Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?
Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,
Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?
To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast
Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,
To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,
And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?
For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter
The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,
Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late
To crush the hordes who have the power, and will,
To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains,
And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.
Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,
There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder,
Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense
The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?
Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,
That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;--
Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things
Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by?
Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,
What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?
Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies
That grin in darkness in their coffin cases;
What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,
So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?
Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage
Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;
Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,
Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower.
Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,
Pass in a moment from a king--to clown.
Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow?
Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters
Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow
By a sly cup or so of our fire waters?
They are thy people's deadliest poison. They
First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves,
And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,
And lives of misery, and early graves.
For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.
Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?
To the deep bosom of thy forest home,
The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,
And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?
Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws,
For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,
Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,
That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?
The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,
Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.
Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the west,
The victor of a hundred forest wars,
Should'st in thy age, become a raree show
Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new caught monster, who is all the go,
And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown?
Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about,
The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?
Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,
Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one,
The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame
Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,
And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee,
Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile,
Of a bound warrior in his agony,
Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile.
Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's,
Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.
Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree
Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now.
I'll not insult its fallen majesty,
Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough
Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,
Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air,
No second verdure quickens in our cold
New, barren earth; no life sustains it there.
But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing,
Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."
Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,
Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;
The best of blood glows in thy every feature,
And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy,
Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;
Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye,
He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow
All question of thy noble family;
For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety,
A leader in our city good society.
LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.
[_From the German of Friedrich Kind._]
BY D. SEYMOUR.
Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast?
Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers?
Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest
She grants to all her children's countless numbers?
In narrow bed they sleep away the hours
Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers;
No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow,
Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.
How naked art thou! Pale is now that face
Which once, no doubt, was blooming--deeply dinted,
A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface;
Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted?
Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning!
No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening;
Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad,
As though I power o'er thy destiny had.
I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee
To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields;
But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee,
And try if to my spells thy silence yields;
Wert thou my brother once--and did those glances
Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances?
Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept?
Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?
What, silent still!--wilt thou make no disclosure?
Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still?
Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure?
Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will?
Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered,
On a new field of life and duty entered?
Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine,
Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone _thine_?
Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions,
The murderer or the murdered to be?
Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions,
Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free?
Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story,
Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory?
The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand,
Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?
Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains,
The tear may tremble in a mother's eye,
And as approaching death dries up life's fountains,
Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh;
Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying,
Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing,
And dream not that upon this little hill
The dews of night upon thy skull distil.
Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti
Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany?
Who made the field a desert, fired the city,
Defiled the pure, and captive led the free?
Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish,
Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish?
Then--God of righteousness! to thee belongs,
Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.
The sun already toward the west is tending,
His rays upon thy hollow temples strike;
Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending
On good and bad, just and unjust alike.
The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing,
Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying;
Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then;
Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.
Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal
Were hurried out of life; we are at peace;
Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal,
Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease.
Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes,
And may the perfume of the forest roses
Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast!
Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.
SONG.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
I know thou dost love me--ay! frown as thou wilt,
And curl that beautiful lip
Which I never can gaze on without the guilt
Of burning its dew to sip.
I know that my heart is reflected in thine,
And, like flowers that over a brook incline,
They toward each other dip.
Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light,
'Mid the careless, proud, and gay,
I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night,
And pilfer its thoughts away.
I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,
And thy soul in secret shall own the power
It dares to mock by day.
THE MINISINK.
BY A. B. STREET
Encircled by the screening shade,
With scatter'd bush, and bough,
And grassy slopes, a pleasant glade
Is spread before me now;
The wind that shows its forest search
By the sweet fragrance of the birch
Is whispering on my brow,
And the mild sunshine flickers through
The soft white cloud and summer blue.
Far to the North, the Delaware
Flows mountain-curv'd along,
By forest bank, by summit bare,
It bends in rippling song;
Receiving in each eddying nook
The waters of the vassal brook,
It sweeps more deep and strong;
Round yon green island it divides,
And by this quiet woodland glides.
The ground bird flutters from the grass
That hides her tiny nest,
The startled deer, as by I pass,
Bounds in the thicket's breast;
The red-bird rears his crimson wing
From the long fern of yonder spring,
A sweet and peaceful rest
Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound
Of battle shook the gory ground.
Long will the shuddering hunter tell
How once, in vengeful wrath,
Red warriors raised their fiercest yell
And trod their bloodiest path;
How oft the sire--the babe--the wife
Shriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife
'Mid havoc's fiery scathe;
Until the boldest quail'd to mark,
Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.
At length the fisher furl'd his sail
Within the shelter'd creek,
The hunter trod his forest trail
The mustering band to seek;
The settler cast his axe away,
And grasp'd his rifle for the fray,
All came, revenge to wreak--
With the rude arms that chance supplied,
And die, or conquer, side by side.
Behind the footsteps of their foe,
They rush'd, a gallant throng,
Burning with haste, to strike a blow
For each remembered wrong;
Here on this field of Minisink,
Fainting they sought the river's brink
Where cool waves gush'd along;
No sound within the woods they heard,
But murmuring wind and warbling bird.
A shriek!--'tis but the panther's--nought
Breaks the calm sunshine there,
A thicket stirs!--a deer has sought
From sight a closer lair;
Again upon the grass they droop,
When burst the well-known whoop on whoop
Shrill, deafening on the air,
And bounding from their ambush'd gloom,
Like wolves the savage warriors come.
In vain upsprung that gallant band
And seized their weapons by,
Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand,
Alas! 'twas but to die;
In vain the rifle's skilful flash
Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash;
The hatchet hiss'd on high,
And down they fell in crimson heaps,
Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.
In vain they sought the covert dark,
The red knife gash'd each head,
Each arrow found unerring mark,
Till earth was pil'd with dead.
Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear
Some voice and footstep meet her ear,
Till hope grew faint with dread;
Long did she search the wood-paths o'er,
That voice and step she heard no more.
Years have pass'd by, the merry bee
Hums round the laurel flowers,
The mock-bird pours her melody
Amid the forest bowers;
A skull is at my feet, though now
The wild rose wreathes its bony brow,
Relic of other hours.
It bids the wandering pilgrim think
Of those who died at Minisink.
MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze,
How pure it seems, from earth how free;
What sweet and sad moralities
Breathe from this air that comes to me.
Look down, my spirit! see below,
Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail,
Or wakes to tears that vainly flow,
Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.
Why should'st thou linger there, and burn
With passions like these fools of time?
Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn,
And soar to yon eternal clime.
Look round, my spirit! to these hills
The earliest sunlight lends its ray;
Morning's pure air these far heights fills,
Here evening holiest steals away.
Thus when with firm-resolving breast,
Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high,
Shalt thou with earlier light be blest,
More purely live, more calmly die.
This darkling dawn, doth it not bring
Visions of former glory back?
Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing,
And soar with me on holier track.
Canst thou not with unclouded eye,
And fancy-rapt, the scene survey,
When darkness bade its shadows fly,
And earth rose glorious into day?
Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring
Unfaded yet by death or crime,
In freshest green, yet mellowing
Into the gorgeous Autumn's prime?
Dost thou not see the eternal choir
Light on each peak that wooes the sky,
Fold their broad wings of golden fire,
And string their seraph minstrelsy?
Then what sublimest music filled
Rejoicing heaven and rising earth,
When angel harps the chorus swelled,
And stars hymned forth creation's birth.
See how the sun comes proudly on
His glorious march! before our sight
The swathing mists, their errand done,
Are melting into morning light.
He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly,
He walks its sides, and shades retreat;
He pours his flood of radiancy
On streams and lowlands at its feet.
Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume
Each dim recess within my heart;
From its deep darkness chase all gloom,
And to its weakness strength impart.
Thus let thy light upon me rise,
Here let my home for ever be;
Far above earth, its toys and ties,
Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!
SONG.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
_Ob: 1820, æt. 25._
Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret
That another awakened thy sigh,
Or repine that some traces remain of it yet
In the beam of that eloquent eye.
Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone
Ere it taught me the way to adore,
Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own,
Because it was polished before?
And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,
It but fits it the better for bliss;
As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.
THE DEAD OF 1832.
BY R. C. SANDS.
_Ob: 1832, æt. 33._
Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!
Not always in the storm of war,
Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:
In crowds the good and mighty go,
And to those vast dim chambers hie:--
Where, mingled with the high and low,
Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!
Dread Ministers of God! sometimes
Ye smite at once, to do His will,
In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,
Those--whose renown ye cannot kill!
When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banished from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return
Such lustre to the coming years?
For where is he[A]--who lived so long--
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,
And showed his fate, in powerful song,
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?
Where he--who backwards to the birth
Of Time itself, adventurous trod,
And in the mingled mass of earth
Found out the handiwork of God?[B]
Where he--who in the mortal head,[C]
Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace
The soul's vast features, that shall tread
The stars, when earth is nothingness?
Where he--who struck old Albyn's lyre,[D]
Till round the world its echoes roll,
And swept, with all a prophet's fire,
The diapason of the soul?
Where he--who read the mystic lore,[E]
Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;
And dared presumptuous to explore
Secrets four thousand years could keep?
Where he--who with a poet's eye[F]
Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,
And made even sordid Poverty
Classic, when in HIS numbers glazed?
Where--that old sage so hale and staid,[G]
The "greatest good" who sought to find;
Who in his garden mused, and made
All forms of rule, for all mankind?
And thou--whom millions far removed[H]
Revered--the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
He too--the heir of glory--where[I]
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!
Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,[J]
Last of the brave who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!
They go--and with them is a crowd,
For human rights who THOUGHT and DID,
We rear to them no temples proud,
Each hath his mental pyramid.
All earth is now their sepulchre,
The MIND, their monument sublime--
Young in eternal fame they are--
Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time.
TO A LADY
WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER
FROM SLEEPING.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire,
Prints on your lip the burning kiss;
Why should he not your charms admire,
And dip his beam each morn in bliss?
Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light
The beam-haired coursers of the sky,
I'd stay their course the livelong night
To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.
Then let the dotard fondly spring,
Each rising day, to snatch the prize;
'Twill add new vigour to his wing,
And speed his journey through the skies.
ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO.
BY EDWARD SANFORD.
_His_ voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.--_King Lear._
Thou sweet musician, that around my bed
Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn,
By what unseen and secret influence led,
Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?
The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine,
The hum of falling waters not more sweet,
I own, _indeed_, I own thy song divine.
And when next year's warm summer nights we meet,
(Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be
A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.
Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse
Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire?
Some old musician? or did'st take a course
Of lessons from some master of the lyre?
Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump?
Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full?
Art a phrenologist, and is the bump
Of song developed on thy little skull?
At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute
Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute?
Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song,
Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,
Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long
Still night? With song dost drive away dull care?
Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,
A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets,
Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,
Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets?
Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee,
"In maiden meditation, fancy free?"
Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore
Charmed with their songs till men forgot to dine,
And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore,
Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine,
They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing
As if to lull our senses to repose,
That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little sting
The very moment we begin to doze;
Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper,
Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper!
Nature is full of music, sweetly sings
The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,)
Through the wide circuit of created things,
Thou art the living proof the bard sings true.
Nature is full of thee; on every shore,
'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child,
From warm Peru to icy Labrador,
The world's free citizen thou roamest wild.
Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll,"
Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."
The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou,
"The Fairies' midwife;"--thou dost nightly sip,
With amorous proboscis bending low,
The honey dew from many a lady's lip--
(Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt)
On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep,
Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout"
"Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;"
And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan,
"On the fore-finger of an alderman."
Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth.
As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave,
So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth,
The living water, and the fresh air gave
A portion of their elements to create
Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there.
So lean and gaunt, that economic fate
Meant thee to feed on music or on air.
Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee,
Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.
The hues of dying sunset are most fair,
And twilight's tints just fading into night,
Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are
By far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight.
The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine;
Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard;
'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline,
To hear the opening song of evening's bird.
But notes of harp or bird at distance float
Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.
The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge;
Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom.
Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge
Whelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb,
Then soar, and sing thy little life away!
Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now.
'Tis well to end in music life's last day,
Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou:
For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours,
And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.
INCONSTANCY.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Yes! I swore to be true, I allow,
And I meant it, but, some how or other,
The seal of that amorous vow
Was pressed on the lips of another.
Yet I did but as all would have done,
For where is the being, dear cousin,
Content with the beauties of one
When he might have the range of a dozen?
Young Love is a changeable boy,
And the gem of the sea-rock is like him,
For he gives back the beams of his joy
To each sunny eye that may strike him.
From a kiss of a zephyr and rose
Love sprang in an exquisite hour,
And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows,
Is this child of a sigh and a flower.
THE CALLICOON IN AUTUMN.
BY A. B. STREET.
Far in the forest's heart, unknown,
Except to sun and breeze,
Where solitude her dreaming throne
Has held for centuries;
Chronicled by the rings and moss
That tell the flight of years across
The seamed and columned trees,
This lovely streamlet glides along
With tribute of eternal song!
Now, stealing through its thickets deep
In which the wood-duck hides,
Now, picturing in its basin sleep
Its green pool-hollowed sides,
Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps,
There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps,
And foaming, hoarsely chides;
Then slides so still, its gentle swell
Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.
Nature, in her autumnal dress
Magnificent and gay,
Displays her mantled gorgeousness
To hide the near decay,
Which, borne on Winter's courier breath,
Warns the old year prepare for death,
When, tottering, seared, and gray,
Ice-fettered, it will sink below
The choking winding-sheet of snow.
A blaze of splendour is around,
As wondrous and as bright
As that, within the fairy ground,
Which met Aladdin's sight.
The sky, a sheet of silvery sheen
With breaks of tenderest blue between,
As though the summer light
Was melting through, once more to cast
A glance of gladness ere it passed.
The south-west airs of ladened balm
Come breathing sweetly by,
And wake amid the forest's calm
One quick and shivering sigh,
Shaking, but dimpling not the glass
Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass--
They scarcely wheel on high
The thistle's downy, silver star,
To waft its pendent seed afar.
Dream-like the silence, only woke
By the grasshopper's glee,
And now and then the lazy stroke
Of woodcock[K] on the tree:
And mingling with the insect hum,
The beatings of the partridge drum,
With frequently a bee
Darting its music, and the crow
Harsh cawing from the swamp below.
A foliage world of glittering dyes
Gleams brightly on the air,
As though a thousand sunset skies,
With rainbows, blended there;
Each leaf an opal, and each tree
A bower of varied brilliancy,
And all one general glare
Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight
With dazzling and unequalled light.
Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here
The birch and maple twine,
The beech its orange mingles near
With emerald of the pine;
And e'en the humble bush and herb
Are glowing with those tints superb,
As though a scattered mine
Of gems, upon the earth were strewn,
Flashing with radiance, each its own.
All steeped in that delicious charm
Peculiar to our land,
Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm,
When Indian Summer's hand
Has filled the valley with its smoke,
And wrapped the mountain in its cloak,
While, timidly and bland,
The sunbeams struggle from the sky,
And in long lines of silver lie.
The squirrel chatters merrily,
The nut falls ripe and brown,
And gem-like from the jewelled tree
The leaf comes fluttering down;
And restless in his plumage gay,
From bush to bush loud screams the jay,
While on the hemlock's crown
The sentry pigeon guards from foes
The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.
See! on this edge of forest lawn,
Where sleeps the clouded beam,
A doe has led her spotted fawn
To gambol by the stream;
Beside yon mullein's braided stalk
They hear the gurgling voices talk,
While, like a wandering gleam,
The yellow-bird dives here and there,
A feathered vessel of the air.
On, through the rampart walls of rock
The waters pitch in white,
And high, in mist, the cedars lock
Their boughs, half lost to sight
Above the whirling gulf--the dash
Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash
Their limits in their flight,
Whose roar the eagle, from his peak,
Responds to with his angriest shriek.
Stream of the age-worn forest! here
The Indian, free as thou,
Has bent against thy depths his spear,
And in thy woods his bow;
The beaver built his dome; but they,
The memories of an earlier day,
Like those dead trunks, that show
What once were mighty pines--have fled
With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.
THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,
Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,
From the safron orchis and lupin blue,
And those like the foam on my courser's bit.
One steed and one saddle us both shall bear,
One hand of each on the bridle meet;
And beneath the wrist that entwines me there
An answering pulse from my heart shall beat.
I will sing thee many a joyous lay,
As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side,
While the winds that over the prairie play
Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.
Our home shall be by the cool bright streams,
Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat,
And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams
Through the branches around our lodge that meet.
Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend,
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
A POET'S EPISTLE.
[_Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq._]
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity,
I'll wad ye curse the vera city
From which I write a braid Scots ditty
Afore I learn it;
But gif ye canna mak it suit ye,
Ye ken ye'll burn it.
My grunzie's got a twist until it
Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it
I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it
'll keep the gait,
Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet
And write it straight.
Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather
Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather
O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether,
To you a feast;
But stop! ye will not light on either
This time at least.
Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie,
Then drap your lip and glower surly;
Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly,
Ye'll no be right;
We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.
What it may be when summer deeds
Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And broomy knowes,
I dinna ken; but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.
For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted,
A few bit pines and larches planted,
And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit
As e'er thou sawest;
Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Hech! there's a forest.
For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle
That would na float a shull bairn's coble,
A cripple stool might near hand hobble
Dry-baughted ever;
Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble,
And there's a river.
And then their cauld and reekie skies,
They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise
Amaist the day;
Just a noon blink that hardly dries
The dewy brae.
Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women,
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,
For luver's heart or blade of foeman
O'er baith victorious;
E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,
Grows bright and glorious.
Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang,
I've whistled out an unco sang
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet;
But, faith, the farther that I gang
The mair ye'll get.
Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon,
At cutty sark.
And I shall tread the hallowed bourne
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin
My braw Scots style to English loppin;
I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin
I'd quit it quite:
If so, I e'en must think o' stopping,
And sae, gude night.
WEEHAWKEN.
BY R. C. SANDS.
Eve o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirror'd outline fades
Amid the fast extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That laves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,--
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;--
Her son,--the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon cape the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay,
Before him in their glory lay,--
Scenes of his love and of his fame,--
The instant ere the death-shot came.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.
BY T. W. TUCKER.
Thou fragile thing
That with a breath I could destroy,
What mighty train of care and joy
Do ye not bring?
Emblem of power!
By thee comes public bane or good;
The wheels of state, without thee, would
Stop in an hour.
Tower, dome, and arch,
Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste,
Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'st
The army's march.
The spreading seas
For thee unnumbered squadrons bear,
Ruler of earth, and sea, and air--
When bended knees
Are bowed in prayer,
Although to heaven is given each word,
Thy influence in the heart, unheard,
Is upmost there!
Fly! minion, fly!
Thine errand is unfinished yet--
The boon I covet,--to forget!
Thou canst not buy.
THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot.
The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand,
Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast
A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,
Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below
The silent river, with majestic sweep,
Pursues his shadowed way,--his glassy face
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.
Talk ye of solitude?--It is not here.
Nor silence.--Low, deep murmurs are abroad.
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky
That smiles upon their summits;--and the wind
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,
And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf,
Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright,
And nod to greet his coming!--And the brook,
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down
From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell;
The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;--
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,
Send forth their perfume as an added gift.
The river utters, too, a solemn voice,
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,
When not a sound was heard along his shores,
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek
Of some expiring captive,--and no bark
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves
Are vocal often with the hunter's song;--
Now visit, in their glad and onward course,
The abodes of happy men--gardens and fields--
And cultured plains--still bearing, as they pass,
Fertility renewed and fresh delights.
The time has been,--so Indian legends say,--
When here the mighty Delaware poured not
His ancient waters through--but turned aside
Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales.
Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill,
Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed
The wealth of summer on its graceful slope.
Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired
To light their council fires,--while its dim height,
For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared--
'Tis said--to scale; save one white-haired old man,
Who there held commune with the Indian's God,
And thence brought down to men his high commands.
Years passed away--the gifted seer had lived
Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more
His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit.
New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien,
Who strove against each other. Blood and death
Filled those green shades, where all before was peace,
And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive
E'en on the precincts of that holy spot
Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned
The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest
Again to seek the consecrated height,
Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.--
They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly
High up the steep ascent--and vanished soon
Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark
As the last hues of sunset passed away.
The night fell heavily--and soon were heard
Low tones of thunder from the mountain top,
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills
In deep and solemn peal,--while lurid flashes
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.
Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash
Burst on the startled ear;--the earth, convulsed,
Groaned from its solid centre--forests shook
For leagues around,--and by the sudden gleam
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot,
A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent
From top to base--and where so late had smiled
Green boughs and blossoms--yawned a frightful chasm,
Filled with unnatural darkness.--From afar
The distant roar of waters then was heard;
They came--with gathering sweep--o'erwhelming all
That checked their headlong course;--the rich maize field,--
The low-roofed hut--its sleeping inmates--all--
Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin.
Morn looked upon the desolated scene
Of the Great Spirit's anger--and beheld
Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:--
And men looked on in silence and in fear,
And far removed their dwellings from the spot,
Where now no more the hunter chased his prey,
Or the war-whoop was heard.--Thus years went on:
Each trace of desolation vanished fast;
Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread
With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth
Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides.
The river passed majestically on
Through his new channel--verdure graced his banks;--
The wild bird murmured sweetly as before
In its beloved woods,--and nought remained,--
Save the wild tales which chieftains told,--
To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.
SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.
BY W. P. HAWES.
Down in the deep
Dark holes I keep,
And there in the noontide I float and sleep,
By the hemlock log,
And the springing bog,
And the arching alders, I lie incog.
The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye;
For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook,
No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,
And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!
But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,
Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,
Then, then look out
For the hermit trout;
For he springs and dimples the shallows about,
While the tired angler dreams.
TO MAY.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
Come, gentle May!
Come with thy robe of flowers,
Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;
Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,
From their imprisoning and mysterious night,
The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.
Come, wondrous May!
For at the bidding of thy magic wand,
Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,
In all their green and glorious array
They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.
Come, vocal May!
Come with thy train, that high
On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or carolling thy praise the live-long day,
Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling,
'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.
Come, sunny May!
Come with thy laughing beam,
What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,
Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray,
Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower
Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.
Come, holy May!
When sunk behind the cold and western hill,
His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,
And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;
Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be
Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.
Come, beautiful May!
Like youth and loveliness,
Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress,
The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear,
Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.
Yet, lovely May!
Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,
The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,
And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,
Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.
And let me too, sweet May!
Let thy fond votary see,
As fade thy beauties, all the vanity
Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay
In his short winter, bury beauty's frame,
In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway,
Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Bird of the lone and joyless night--
Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?
Attendant on the pale moon's light,
Why shun the garish blaze of day?
When darkness fills the dewy air,
Nor sounds the song of happier bird,
Alone amid the silence there
Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.
Thyself unseen--thy pensive moan
Poured in no loving comrade's ear--
The forest's shaded depths alone
That mournful melody can hear.
Beside what still and secret spring,
In what dark wood, the livelong day,
Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing,
To while the hours of light away.
Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me,
That life's deceitful gleam is vain;
And well the lesson profits thee,
Who will not trust its charms again!
Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,
To listening night when mirth is o'er:
I, heedless of the warning, still
Believe, to be deceived once more!
CHANSONETTE.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
They are mockery all, those skies! those skies!
Their untroubled depths of blue;
They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes!
Which seem so warm and true;
Each quiet star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random flies
The other's lashes through.
They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too.
For the winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the lips deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre;
Which flowers spring to strew.
THE CLOUDS.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
The clouds have their own language unto me
They have told many a tale in by-gone days,
At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie
Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays
With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,
And leave their storied circles where they pass.
So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,
With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;
And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds
The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,
And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,
They have their language and their melody.
Have you not felt it when the dropping rain
From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth
With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when
The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth
In misty radiance, until cloud and spot
Were blended in one brightness? Can you not
Look out and love when the departing sun
Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical
In his last splendour, and reflects upon
Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall
Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams
Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"
Or giving back those tints indefinite,
Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch
Whereon the angel-spirits of the light
Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march,
When sank the whelming waters, and again
Left the green islands to the sons of men?
Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw
Its growing shadow on the sinking tide,
How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,
As its new lustre told that wrath had died,
Till the blue waves within their limits curled,
And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.
Gaze yet again, and you may see on high
The opposing hosts that mutter as they form
Their stern battalions, ere the artillery
Bids the destroying angel guide its storm;
If you have heard on battle's eve the low
Defiance quickly uttered to the foe,
When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow
And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast
With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,
Pulsations which perchance may be their last,
Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud;
If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.
How from the bosom of its blackness springs
The cleaving lightning kindling on its way,
Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,
That he who looks grows drunk with its array
Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim,
And dazzling darkness overshadows him.
Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known
The wondrous workings of thy firmament,
Thine untold majesty, around whose throne
They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent
In light or darkness on their destined path,
Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.
Then here, in this thy lower temple, here
We kneel to thee in worship; what to these
Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear
Are painted domes or priestly palaces;
On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,
We call on thee to commune and to bless,
And see in holy fancy each pure sigh
Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.
THE ISLE OF REST.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
_Some of the islands where the fancied paradise
of the Indians was situated, were believed to be
in Lake Superior._
That blessed isle lies far away--
'Tis many a weary league from land,
Where billows in their golden play
Dash on its sparkling sand.
No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar,
Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.
There the light breezes lie at rest,
Soft pillowed on the glassy deep;
Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast,
And watch their silent sleep.
There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing
Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.
And far within, in murmurs heard,
Comes, with the wind's low whispers there,
The music of the mounting bird,
Skimming the clear bright air.
The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide,
Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.
The sun there sheds his noontide beam
On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers;
And gaily by the shaded stream
Spring forth the forest flowers.
The fountain flings aloft its showery spray,
With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.
And when the dewy morning breaks,
A thousand tones of rapture swell;
A thrill of life and motion wakes
Through hill, and plain, and dell.
The wild bird trills his song--and from the wood
The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.
There, when the sun sets on the sea,
And gilds the forest's waving crown,
Strains of immortal harmony
To those sweet shades come down.
Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng,
And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.
E'en on this cold and cheerless shore,
While all is dark and quiet near,
The huntsman, when his toils are o'er,
That melody may hear.
And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam,
The glories of that isle, his future home.
INDIAN SUMMER--1828.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere
The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes
That gaily deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind she pours her parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;--
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee--to thee--though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore--
I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
GREECE--1832.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Land of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valour burned,
And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land, where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopylæ of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!
Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung--
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain,
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?
No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play;
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shattered--spear in rust--
Thy honour but a dream--and thou
Despised--degraded in the dust!
Where sleeps the spirit, that of old
Dashed down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chant of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?--
The bold three hundred--where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hushed them into rest.
Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled;
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light,
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.
Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,
Behold thy banner waves afar;
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprize,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might--in majesty revealed.
In vain, in vain the hero calls--
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!
His banner totters--see! it falls
In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud:
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
Their valour's but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.
Lost land! where Genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where Science raised her sacred fane,
Its summits peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.
Thy sun hath set--the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon the sky!
Gone is thy glory's diadem,
And freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem
O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!
IMPROMPTU TO A LADY BLUSHING.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
The lilies faintly to the roses yield,
As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,
(Who would not strive upon so sweet a field
To win the mastery?)
And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed,
Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.
I could not wish that in thy bosom aught
Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,
Yet can't regret that thou--forgive the thought--
As flowers when shaken
Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,
Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.
A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.
BY J. I. BAILEY.
Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved
At glorious sports like these? Even now I see
Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed
In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky,
The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue!
And now with eager hopes and proud desires
Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band
Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins!
Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail
The alternate victor as he speeds along;
Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight,
And as they gaze, as many thousand souls
Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out.
Then comes the glorious moment when the goal
Is almost reached--they goad the foremost steeds
Lashing with all their might upon their flanks;
The golden chariot glitters in the course,
And swifter than the wind is borne along--
And now the victor, like a flash of light,
Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim,
While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air!
_Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I._
LINES FOR MUSIC.
BY G. P. MORRIS.
O would that she were here,
These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By echo's airy tongue,--
Where jocund Nature smiles
In all her gay attire,
Amid deep-tangled wiles
Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
O would that she were here,
That fair and gentle thing,
Whose words are musical as strains
Breathed by the wind-harp's string.
O would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in their joyousness,
Adown the rocky steep,--
Where rosy Zephyr lingers
All the livelong day,
With health upon his pinions,
And gladness in his way.
O would that she were here,
Sure Eden's garden-plot
Did not embrace more varied charms
Than this romantic spot.
O would that she were here,
Where frolic by the hours,
Rife with the song of bee and bird,
The perfume of the flowers,--
Where beams of peace and love,
And radiant beauty's glow,
Are pictured in the sky above,
And in the lake below.
O would that she were here--
The nymphs of this bright scene,
With song, and dance, and revelry,
Would crown BIANCA queen.
WHITE LAKE.[L]
BY A. B. STREET.
Pure as their parent springs! how bright
The silvery waters stretch away,
Reposing in the pleasant light
Of June's most lovely day.
Curving around the eastern side,
Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet
With fringe of grass and fern, the tide
Which sparkles at their feet.
Here busy life attests that toil,
With its quick talisman, has made
Fields green and waving, from a soil
Of rude and savage shade.
While opposite the forests lie
In giant shadow, black and deep,
Filling with leaves the circling sky,
And frowning in their sleep.
Amid this scene of light and gloom,
Nature with art links hand in hand,
Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,
As by a seer's command.
Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke,
The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark
As when the hermit waters woke
Beneath the Indian's bark.
Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek
With the herd's quiet lowings swell,
The wolf's fierce howl terrific break
Upon the sheepfold's bell.
The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer
Dart from his covert to the wave,
And fearless in its mirror clear
His branching antlers lave.
Here, the green headlands seem to meet
So near, a fairy bridge might cross;
There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet
In smooth, unruffled gloss.
Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,
A lilied harbour lurks below,
Where on the sand each ripple weaves
Its melting wreath of snow.
Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods
To the light wind in murmurs wake,
The voice of the vast solitudes
Is speaking to the lake.
The fanning air-breath sweeps across
On its broad path of sparkles now.
Bends down the violet to the moss,
Then melts upon my brow.
SONG OF SPRING-TIME.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Where dost thou loiter, Spring,
While it behoveth
Thee to cease wandering
Where'er thou roveth,
And to my lady bring
The flowers she loveth.
Come with thy melting skies
Like her cheek blushing,
Come with thy dewy eyes
Where founts are gushing;
Come where the wild bee hies
When dawn is flushing.
Lead her where by the brook
The first blossom keepeth,
Where, in the sheltered nook,
The callow bud sleepeth;
Or with a timid look
Through its leaves peepeth.
Lead her where on the spray,
Blithely carolling,
First birds their roundelay
For my lady sing--
But keep, where'er she stray
True-love blossoming.
THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun waxed dim and pale,
And the music of the waves was changed
To the plaintive voice of wail;
And fearfully the lightning flashed
Around the ship's tall mast,
While mournfully through the creaking shrouds
Came the sighing of the blast.
With pallid cheek the seamen shrank
Before the deepening gloom;
For they gazed on the black and boiling sea
As 'twere a yawning tomb;
But on the vessel's deck stood one
With proud and changeless brow;
Nor pain, nor terror was in the look
He turned to the gulf below.
And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength
The threatening tempest roared;
Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:
"For me there yet is hope,
The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.
"Now let the strife of nature rage,
Proudly I yet can claim,
Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame."
The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,
Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.
Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death;
But 'mid the billows still was seen
The stranger's struggling form;
And the meteor flash of his sword might seem
Like a beacon 'mid the storm.
For still, while with his strong right arm
He buffeted the wave,
The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.
Was then the love of pelf so strong
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?
No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,
Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;
For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem
That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.
Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent,
His nerveless limbs no more
Could bear him on through the waves that rose
Like barriers to the shore;
Yet still he held his long prized wealth,
He saw the wished-for land--
A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.
Alas! far better to have died
Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect
Bowed down his haughty soul:
Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoen's humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.
LOVE AND FAITH; A BALLAD.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather,
A rosy, warm, inviting hour,
That Love and Faith went out together,
And took the path to Beauty's bower.
Love laughed and frolicked all the way,
While sober Faith, as on they rambled,
Allowed the thoughtless boy to play,
But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.
So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled
Upon the guests whom chance had sent her,
That Love and Faith were both beguiled
The grotto of the nymph to enter;
And when the curtains of the skies
The drowsy hand of Night was closing,
Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes,
While Faith was on her heart reposing.
Love thought he never saw a pair
So softly radiant in their beaming;
Faith deemed that he could meet no where
So sweet and safe a place to dream in;
And there, for life in bright content,
Enchained, they must have still been lying,
For Love his wings to Faith had lent,
And Faith he never dream'd of flying.
But Beauty, though she liked the child,
With all his winning ways about him,
Upon his mentor never smiled,
And thought that Love might do without him;
Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled,
And now one knows not where to find him;
While mourning Love quick followed
Upon the wings he left behind him.
'Tis said, that in his wandering
Love still around that spot will hover,
Like bird that on bewildered wing
Her parted mate pines to discover;
And true it is that Beauty's door
Is often by the idler haunted;
But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more
The spell that held his wings enchanted.
THE LAST SONG.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;
Then let the melancholy strain
Be hushed in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,
Creative fancy, be thou still;
And let oblivious Lethe pour
Upon my lyre its waters chill.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Then be its fitful chords unstrung,
Silent as is the grave's domain,
And mute as the death-mouldered tongue,
Let not a thought of memory dwell
One moment on its former song;
Forgotten, too, be this farewell,
Which plays its pensive strings along!
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,
And they shall sound no more for aye:
And hang it on the cypress tree,
The hours of youth and song have passed,
Have gone, with all their witchery;
Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.
TO MY WIFE.
BY LINDLEY MURRAY.
When on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise,
Of Husband and of Wife.
One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,
Even years have not destroyed;
Some sweet sensation, ever new,
Springs up and proves the maxim true,
That love can ne'er be cloy'd.
Have I a wish?--'tis all for thee,
Hast thou a wish?--'tis all for me,
So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleas'd to see our happy days,
And bid us live--and love.
If cares arise--and cares will come--
Thy bosom is my softest home,
I'll lull me there to rest;
And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,
And lose it in my breast.
Have I a wish?--'tis all her own;
All hers and mine are roll'd in one--
Our hearts are so entwined,
That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,
'Tis death to be disjoined.
LAMENT.
BY MARY E. BROOKS.
Oh, weep not for the dead!
Rather, oh rather give the tear
To those that darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled;
Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold cheerless sorrowing,
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on;
But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.
Oh, weep not for the dead!
No more for them the blighting chill,
The thousand shades of earthly ill,
The thousand thorns we tread;
Weep for the life-charm early flown,
The spirit broken, bleeding, lone;
Weep for the death pangs of the heart,
Ere being from the bosom part;
But never be a tear-drop given
To those that rest in yon blue heaven.
"AFFECTION WINS AFFECTION."
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this?
Oh! then no more
My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss
Its wail shall pour.
Give me this hope, though only from afar
It sheds its light,
And, like yon dewy melancholy star,
With tears is bright--
Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,
That could not sin
Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,
Thy love may win:
Let me but hope the changeless love of years,
The tender care
That fain would die to save thine eye from tears,
Thy heart may share.
Or let me hope at least that, when no more
My voice shall meet
The ear that listens only to think o'er
Tones far more sweet;
When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide
This faded brow,
This form once gazed upon with pride,
With coldness now;
When never more my weary steps of pain
Around thee move,
When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,
Love will win love.
FEATS OF DEATH.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
_Ob: 1825, æt. 17._
I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.
My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.
I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.
I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity--I stay not to save.
I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.
The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove.
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,
O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.
THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.
BY MARY E. BROOKS.
Farewell to thee,
To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell!
How often will thy form in memory
Renew the spell;
Each burning tone,
Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note;
Across my spirit like a dream by-gone,
Their voices float.
When rose the song,
The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free,
There breathed no sorrow as it swept along
Thy halls of glee;
Oh, when the gay,
The merry hearted blend the tide again,
Then fling to her, the loved one far away,
One kindly strain.
The skies are bright
That canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest;
And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light,
The loveliest:
The bird among
Thy deep perfumes pours its rich melody;
Oh, in the music of that matin song
Remember me!
Another now,
Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend;
And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow,
Who then will tend
Thy fading light?
Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly,
The last gush of thy spirit in its flight,
Remember me!
Sister, one sigh
Upon the midnight's balmy breath did float;
One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky,
One echo note:
Oh, never yet,
Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy,
Can I the mingling of those hours forget;
Remember me!
The chained spell
Is strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever;
And bound in loveliness to break, no, never!
Then fare thee well:
And perished here,
As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell,
I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear;
My own bright home, farewell!
REFLECTIONS.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
[_Written in her Fifteenth year, on seeing an
ancient picture of the Virgin Mary._]
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of book, of rosary, and bell;
Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom,
Immured within her living tomb;
Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song,
Borne gently by the breeze along;
Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell;
Of _ave maria_, and funeral knell;
Of midnight taper, dim and small,
Just glimmering through the high-arched hall;
Of gloomy cell, of penance lone,
Which can for darkest deeds atone:
Roll back, and lift the veil of night,
For I would view the anchorite.
Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at Superstition's tale;
Crossing his breast with meagre hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Arrayed before him, urge their claim
To heal in the Redeemer's name;
To mount the saintly ladder, (made
By every monk, of every grade,
From portly abbot, fat and fair,
To yon lean starveling, shivering there,)
And mounting thus, to usher in
The soul, thus ransomed from its sin.
And tell me, hapless bigot! why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids of saints must rise
To form a passage to the skies?
And think you man can wipe away
With fast and penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade
Before a bleeding Saviour's shade?
O ye of little faith, beware!
For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,
Would ought avail ye without Him,
Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise
The faded forms of other days!
Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,
The work of some forgotten hand,
Will teach thee half thy mazy way,
While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of secret charm, of holy spell,
Of Superstition's midnight rite,
Of wild Devotion's seraph flight;
Of Melancholy's tearful eye,
Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,
That trembling from her bosom rose,
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes
And some warm image lingering there,
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer,
Still, like an outcast child, will creep
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep,
And mingle its unhallowed sigh
With cloister-prayer and rosary;
Then tell the pale, deluded one
Her vows are breathed to God alone;
Those vows, which tremulously rise,
Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.
LINES.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
When in the shadow of the tomb
This heart shall rest,
Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloom
On earth's bright breast.
Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay
My lifeless form;
Seek not of such mean, worthless prey
To cheat the worm.
In this sweet city of the dead
I fain would sleep,
Where flowers may deck my narrow bed,
And night dews weep.
But raise not the sepulchral stone
To mark the spot;
Enough, if by thy heart alone
'Tis ne'er forgot.
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I rest
In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast;
At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat,
When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat.
When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow
In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow;
O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art,
And listen to music which steals from thy heart.
Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul,
My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll;
I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs,
And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes.
The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me;
There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee,
Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast,
Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.
Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies,
With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies;
I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping,
To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping.
I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight,
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night;
Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie,
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy;
My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art,
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart.
Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled,
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.
WHAT IS SOLITUDE?
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Not in the shadowy wood,
Not in the crag-hung glen,
Not where the sleeping echoes brood
In caves untrod by men;
Not by the sea-swept shore
Where loitering surges break,
Not on the mountain hoar,
Not by the breezeless lake,
Not in the desert plain
Where man hath never stood,
Whether on isle or main--
Not there is Solitude!
There are birds in the woodland bowers,
Voices in lonely dells,
And streams that talk to the listening hours
In earth's most secret cells.
There is life on the foam-flecked sand
By ocean's curling lip,
And life on the still lake's strand
'Mid flowers that o'er it dip;
There is life in the tossing pines
That plume the mountain crest,
And life in the courser's mane that shines
As he scours the desert's breast.
But go to the crowded mart,
'Mid the sordid haunts of men,
Go there and ask thy heart,
What answer makes it then?
Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,
In hall or festal grot;
Where love-lit eyes are beaming,
But Love himself is not!--
Go--if thou wouldst be lonely--
Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,
And own that there--there only--
'Mid crowds is Solitude.
THE BRAVE.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Where have the valiant sunk to rest,
When their sands of life were numbered?
On the downy couch? on the gentle breast
Where their youthful visions slumbered?
When the mighty passed the gate of death,
Did love stand by bewailing?
No! but upon war's fiery breath
Their blood-dyed flag was sailing!
Not on the silent feverish bed,
With weeping friends around them,
Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,
When death's dark angel found them.
But in the stern and stormy strife,
In the flush of lofty feeling,
They yielded to honour the boon of life,
Where battle's bolts were pealing;
When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane
Trampled on breasts all stained and gory,
Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,
And shared in the rider's glory.
Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,
'Neath the dark and restless water;
Seek them beneath the whelming wave,
So oft deep dyed with slaughter.
There sleep the gallant and the proud,
The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;
For whom the trump of fame rang loud,
When the body and soul were parted.
Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,
Where the vulture and the raven hover;
There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:
And widowed love goes there to weep,
That their bright career is over.
MORNING.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;
When my gay purple banners are waving afar;
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven
Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even;
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,
To their far away harbour, all silently driven,
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake!
LAKE GEORGE.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Not in the bannered castle
Beside the gilded throne,
On fields where knightly ranks have strode,
In feudal halls--alone
The Spirit of the stately mien,
Whose presence flings a spell,
Fadeless on all around her,
In empire loves to dwell.
Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters,
Call up the shadows vast
That linger in their dim domain,
Dreams of the visioned past!
As sweep the gorgeous pageants by
We watch the pictured train,
And sigh that aught so glorious
Should be so brief and vain.
But here a spell yet deeper
Breathes from the woods and sky,
Proudlier these rocks and waters speak
Of hoar antiquity;
Here Nature built her ancient realm
While yet the world was young,
Her monuments of grandeur
Unshaken stand, and strong.
Here shines the sun of Freedom
For ever o'er the deep,
Where Freedom's heroes by the shore
In peaceful glory sleep;
And deeds of high and proud emprize
In every breeze are told,
The everlasting tribute
To hearts that now are cold.
Farewell, then, scenes so lovely,
If sunset gild your rest,
Or the pale starlight gleam upon
The water's silvery breast--
Or morning on these glad, green isles
In trembling splendour glows--
A holier spell than beauty
Hallows your pure repose!
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
BY W. H. L. BOGART.
Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home
In the wild regions of the far-off west,
And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,
Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.
Like him I have sought out a solitude
Where all around me is unsullied yet,
And reared a tenement of words as rude
As the first hut on Indian prairies set.
O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread
Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land,
Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,
And sway the soil with high and proud command.
And round my verse the better, brighter thought
Of beauty and of genius will be placed--
Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,
By manly or by fairy fingers traced.
Our fate's the same--the gentle and the proud
Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,
And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd
That seek a place within thy memory.
THE FADED ONE.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
Gone to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell;
Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;
Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom,
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,
A bond of loneliness--a spell of death!
Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee
Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours;
Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,
And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.
The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,
Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze,
While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,
And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.
How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,
Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.
PROEM TO YAMOYDEN.
BY R. C. SANDS.--1820.
Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay!
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them, in a happier day:
Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay
Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave;
His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!
Friend of my youth,[M] with thee began the love
Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,
'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;
Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams
Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage,
For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;
Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,
Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.
There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear,
O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll;
Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,
Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole;
There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,
In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;
Or hold communion with the musing soul
Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,
In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.
Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late
Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,
Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate
And kept the key, till three millenniums past;
When, as creation's noblest work was last,
Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see
Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,
And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be
An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.
And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,
Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;--
Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round
Their birth and story, as the hue they bore.
"Earth was their mother;"--or they knew no more,
Or would not that their secret should be told;
For they were grave and silent; and such lore,
To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,
The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.
Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew
Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;
And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,
But with no servile reverence, as their lord.
And on their mountain summits they adored
One great, good Spirit, in his high abode,
And thence their incense and orisons poured
To his pervading presence, that abroad
They felt through all his works,--their Father, King, and God.
And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,
The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,
Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,
They imaged spirits beautiful and good;
But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,
Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,
Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,
The angry forms they saw of powers malign;
These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.
As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,
With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,
Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,
And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame;
Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;
These simple truths went down from sire to son,--
To reverence age,--the sluggish hunter's shame,
And craven warrior's infamy to shun,--
And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.
From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,
When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,
The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,
Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.
Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride
From shores and hills has vanished, with the race,
Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,
Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,
In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.
And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet
Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain;
And so began our young, delighted strain,
That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,
And bid their martial hosts arise again,
Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave,
And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.
Friend of my youth! with thee began my song,
And o'er thy bier its latest accents die;
Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,--
Though not to me the muse averse deny,
Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry,
Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er;
And he who loved with thee his notes to try,
But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore,
And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.
But, no! the freshness of the past shall still
Sacred to memory's holiest musings be;
When through the ideal fields of song, at will,
He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee;
When, reckless of the world, alone and free,
Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way,
That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea;
Their white apparel and their streamers gay,
Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;--
And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless breeze;
Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports: the gales benign
Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbour sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.
Muses of Helicon! melodious race
Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné;
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
And drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove;
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way
Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove,
That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above.
Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone
Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;
Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known
The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;
Rightly invoked,--if right the elected swain,
On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,
Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain,
Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,--[N]
Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.
THE INDIAN.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
Away, away to forest shades!
Fly, fly with me the haunts of men!
I would not give my sunlit glades,
My talking stream, and silent glen,
For all the pageantry of slaves,
Their fettered lives and trampled graves.
Away from wealth! our wampum strings
Ask not the toil, the woes of them
From whom the lash, the iron wrings
The golden dross, the tear-soiled gem;
Yet bind our hearts in the pure tie
That gold or gems could never buy.
And power! what is it ye who rule
The hands without the souls? oh, ye
Can tell how mean the tinselled fool,
With all his hollow mockery!
The slave of slaves who hate, yet bow,
With serving lip but scorning brow.
And love, dear love! how can they feel
The wild desire, the burning flame,
That thrills each pulse and bids us kneel--
The power of the adored name;
The glance that sins in the met eye,
Yet loved for its idolatry!
They never knew the perfect bliss,
To clasp in the entwined bower
Her trembling form, to steal the kiss
She would deny but hath not power;
To list that voice that charms the grove,
And trembles when it tells of love.
Nor have they felt the pride, the thrill,
When bounding for the fated deer;
O'er rock and sod, o'er vale and hill,
The hunter flies, nor dreams of fear,
And brings his maid the evening prey,
To speak more love than words can say.
Have they in death the sod, the stones,
The silence of the shading tree;
Where glory decks the storied bones
Of him whose life, whose death, was free;
And minstrel mourns his arm whose blow
The foeman cowered and quailed below?
No; they, confined and fettered, they
The sons of sires to fame unknown,
With nerveless hands and souls of clay,
Half life, half death, loathe, but live on;
And sink unsung, ignobly lie
In dark oblivion's apathy.
Poor fools! the wild and mountain chase
Would rend their frail and sickly forms;
But for their God, how would they face,
Our bands of fire, our sons of storms;
Breasts that have never recked of fears,
And eyes that leave to women, tears.
They tell us of their kings, who gave
To them our wild, unfettered shore;
To them! why let them chain the wave,
And hush its everlasting roar!
Then may we own their sway, but hark!
Our warriors never miss their mark.
Away, away from such as these!
Free as the wild bird on the wing,
I see my own, my loved green trees,
I hear our black-haired maidens sing;
I fly from such a world as this,
To rove, to love, to live in bliss!
MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.
BY WILLIAM DUER.
Fair orb! so peacefully sublime,
In silence rolling high,
Know'st thou of passion, or of crime,
Or earthly vanity?
In that bright world can lust abide,
Or murder bare his arm?
With thee are wars, and kings, and pride,
And the loud trump's alarm?
What beings, by what motives led,
Inhale thy morning breeze?
Doth man upon thy mountains tread,
Or float upon thy seas?
Say, whence are they? and what their fate?
Whom whirls around thy ball?
Their present and their future state,
Their hopes and fears recall?
Canst thou of a Redeemer tell,
Or a Betrayer's kiss?
Their's is a Heaven or a Hell?
Eternal woe or bliss?
Can infidelity exist,
And gaze upon that sky?
Here would I bid the Atheist
God's finger to deny.
What horrid sounds! what horrid sights!
What wretched blood is spilt!
While thou, and all the eternal lights,
Shine conscious on the guilt?
Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry;
Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace;
And Avarice hide his heap and sigh;
And Rapine's reckless face.
In thy pale light the Suicide,
By some deep lonely lake,
Or from the headlong torrent's side
Doth the vain world forsake.
And often, ere thy course is run,
Thy cold, uncertain light
Gleams where the culprit's skeleton
Swings to the winds of night.
A light cloud hangs upon thy brow,
(What foul deed would it hide?)
'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now,
Looks down on human pride.
And now the midnight hour invites
Th' accursed witch's vow,
While to her thrice accursed rites
Sole witness rollest thou!
Lo! underneath yon falling tower
The tottering beldame seeks
Herbs, of some hidden evil power,
While muttered charms she speaks.
Or where some noisome cavern yawns,
Where vipers get their food,
Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawns
Her pestilential brood:
There--while the bubbling cauldron sings
Beneath their eldritch glance--
As wild their fiendish laughter rings,
The haggard sisters dance.
Can sin endure thy majesty,
Nor thy pure presence fly?
'Tis like the sad severity
Of a fond father's eye.
There, where no mortal eye can see,
No mortal voice can tell,
Wisdom hath marked thy path to be
Th' Almighty's sentinel.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE COVER OF A PRAYER BOOK.
BY THOMAS SLIDELL.
There is a tree, whose boughs are clad
With foliage that never dies;
Whose fruits perennially thrive,
And whose tall top salutes the skies.
There is a flower of loveliest hues,
No mildews blast its changeless bloom;
It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath,
And breathes a still more sweet perfume.
There is a star, whose constant rays
Beam brightest in the darkest hour,
And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart,
Though storms around his pathway lower.
That tree, the Tree of Life is called,
That flower blooms on Virtue's stem,
That star, whose rays are never veiled,
Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Old cradle of an infant world,
In which a nestling empire lay,
Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd,
Her gallant wing and soar'd away;
All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west,
Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!
What solemn recollections throng,
What touching visions rise,
As wand'ring these old stones among,
I backward turn mine eyes,
And see the shadows of the dead flit round,
Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.
The wonders of an age combin'd
In one short moment memory supplies,
They throng upon my waken'd mind,
As time's dark curtains rise.
The volume of a hundred buried years,
Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears.
I hear the angry ocean rave,
I see the lonely little barque
Scudding along the crested wave,
Freighted like old Noah's ark,
As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd,
With the forefathers of another world.
I see a train of exiles stand,
Amid the desert, desolate,
The fathers of my native land,
The daring pioneers of fate,
Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth,
And gave a boundless empire birth.
I see the gloomy Indian range
His woodland empire, free as air;
I see the gloomy forest change,
The shadowy earth laid bare;
And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer,
The smiling labours of the white appear.
I see the haughty warrior gaze
In wonder or in scorn,
As the pale faces sweat to raise
Their scanty fields of corn,
While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,
By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food.
A moment, and the pageant's gone;
The red men are no more;
The pale fac'd strangers stand alone
Upon the river's shore;
And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd,
Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.
The forest reels beneath the stroke
Of sturdy woodman's axe;
The earth receives the white man's yoke,
And pays her willing tax
Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,
And all that nature to blithe labour yields.
Then growing hamlets rear their heads,
And gathering crowds expand,
Far as my fancy's vision spreads,
O'er many a boundless land,
Till what was once a world of savage strife,
Teems with the richest gifts of social life.
Empire to empire swift succeeds,
Each happy, great, and free;
One empire still another breeds,
A giant progeny,
To war upon the pigmy gods of earth,
The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.
Then, as I turn, my thoughts to trace
The fount whence these rich waters sprung,
I glance towards this lonely place,
And find it, these rude stones among.
Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound,
The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.
Their names have been forgotten long;
The stone, but not a word, remains;
They cannot live in deathless song,
Nor breathe in pious strains.
Yet this sublime obscurity, to me
More touching is, than poet's rhapsody.
They live in millions that now breathe;
They live in millions yet unborn,
And pious gratitude shall wreathe
As bright a crown as e'er was worn,
And hang it on the green leav'd bough,
That whispers to the nameless dead below.
No one that inspiration drinks;
No one that loves his native land;
No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,
Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand,
Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear
Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.
The mighty shade now hovers round--
Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career,
Is written on this sacred ground
In letters that no time shall sere;
Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew,
And founded Christian Empires in the new.
And SHE! the glorious Indian maid,
The tutelary of this land,
The angel of the woodland shade,
The miracle of God's own hand,
Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace,
And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.
Sister of charity and love,
Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,
Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove.
Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,
He is no man who does not bend the knee,
And she no woman who is not like thee!
Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock,
To me shall ever sacred be--
I care not who my themes may mock,
Or sneer at them and me.
I envy not the brute who here can stand,
Without a prayer for his own native land.
And if the recreant crawl _her_ earth,
Or breathe Virginia's air,
Or, in New-England claim his birth,
From the old Pilgrim's there,
He is a bastard, if he dare to mock,
Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.
LOOK ALOFT.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have
been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about
to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate's
characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber."]
In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail--
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart--
"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart--
The wife of thy bosom--in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."
And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast,
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!
FRAGMENT.
BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.--1747.
Father of Light! exhaustless source of good!
Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!
Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,
Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;
Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light
Shone queen amid the silver host of night,
High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,
By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.
With the celestial choir then let me join
In cheerful praises to the power divine.
To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire
A mortal breast with more than mortal fire.
In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,
With light encircled, and with glory crown'd:
Through all infinitude extends thy reign,
For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain;
But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky
Thy omnipresence fills immensity.
BYRON.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
His faults were great, his virtues less,
His mind a burning lamp of Heaven;
His talents were bestowed to bless,
But were as vainly lost as given.
His was a harp of heavenly sound,
The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;
But ah! some demon, hovering round,
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.
His was a mind of giant mould,
Which grasped at all beneath the skies;
And his, a heart, so icy cold,
That virtue in its recess dies.
JOY AND SORROW.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime,
In worship to the rising sun;
But Sorrow loves the calmer time,
When the day-god his course hath run;
When night is on her shadowy car,
Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep;
And guided by the evening star,
She wanders forth to muse and weep.
Joy loves to cull the summer flower,
And wreath it round his happy brow;
But when the dark autumnal hour
Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low;
When the frail bud hath lost its worth,
And Joy hath dashed it from his crest;
Then Sorrow takes it from the earth,
To wither on her withered breast.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
Thou brightly-glittering star of even,
Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven,
Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,
How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee.
How calmly, brightly dost thou shine,
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine!
Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast
Was never ransomed, never lost.
There, beings pure as Heaven's own air,
Their hopes, their joys together share;
While hovering angels touch the string,
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.
There cloudless days and brilliant nights,
Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights;
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll,
And unregretted by the soul.
Thou little sparkling star of even,
Thou gem upon an azure Heaven,
How swiftly will I soar to thee
When this imprisoned soul is free.
THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
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 flow'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 men 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.
Countless moons have since rolled 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 headlong embosom'd in foam.
DRINK AND AWAY.
BY THE REV. WILLIAM CROSWELL.
[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received
into a large basin, which bears name signifying
"Drink and Away," from the great danger of
meeting with gues and assassins.--DR. SHAW.]
Up! pilgrim and rover,
Redouble thy haste!
Nor rest thee till over
Life's wearisome waste.
Ere the wild forest ranger
Thy footsteps betray
To trouble and danger,--
Oh, drink and away!
Here lurks the dark savage
By night and by day,
To rob and to ravage,
Nor scruples to slay.
He waits for the slaughter:
The blood of his prey
Shall stain the still water,--
Then drink and away!
With toil though thou languish,
The mandate obey,
Spur on, though in anguish,
There's death in delay!
No blood-hound, want-wasted,
Is fiercer than they:--
Pass by it untested--
Or drink and away!
Though sore be the trial,
Thy God is thy stay,
Though deep the denial,
Yield not in dismay,
But, wrapt in high vision,
Look on to the day
When the fountains Elysian
Thy thirst shall allay.
There shalt thou for ever
Enjoy thy repose
Where life's gentle river
Eternally flows,
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee
For ever and aye,
With none to molest thee--
Then, drink and away.
THE HUDSON.
BY MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES, 1793.
Through many a blooming wild and woodland green
The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray;
Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,
And now through arching willows steal away:
Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,
Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade,
And many a stately dome, in ancient pride,
And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.
There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand,
The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view,
Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland,
The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue;
The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove,
The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank,
The long green valley where the white flocks rove,
The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank;
The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,
Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam;
The bending willow weeping o'er the stream,
The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.
Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,
For many a league the sullen waters glide,
And the deep murmur of the crowded tide,
With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills.
On the green summit of yon lofty clift
A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow,
Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,
Tremendous falls in the white surge below.
Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,
Around it mountains vast their forests rear,
And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car,
The dews of night have shed their odours there.
There hangs a loüring rock across the deep;
Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around;
Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,
While Horror startles at the fearful sound.
The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,
Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep:
Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees,
And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.
TRENTON FALLS, NEAR UTICA.
BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.
_Ob: 1827._
Ye hills, who have for ages stood
Sublimely in your solitude,
Listening the wild water's roar,
As thundering down, from steep to steep,
Along your wave-worn sides they sweep,
Dashing their foam from shore to shore.
Wild birds, that loved the deep recess,
Fell beast that roved the wilderness,
And savage men once hover'd round:
But startled at your bellowing waves,
Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves,
Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.
How changed the scene!--your lofty trees,
Which bent but to the mountain breeze,
Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade;
New sun-light through your forest pours,
Paths wind along your sides and shores,
And footsteps all your haunts invade.
Now boor, and beau, and lady fair,
In gay costume each day repair,
Where thy proud rocks exposed stand,
While echo, from her old retreats,
With babbling tongue strange words repeats,
From babblers on your stony strand.
And see--the torrent's rocky floor,
With names and dates all scribbled o'er,
Vile blurs on nature's heraldry;
O bid your river in its race,
These mean memorials soon efface,
And keep your own proud album free.
Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers,
But soon Autumnus with his showers,
Shall all thy wasted strength restore;
Then will these ramblers down thy steep,
With terror pale their distance keep,
Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.
But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage,
One name upon thy stony page;
'Tis hers--the fairest of the fair;
And when she comes these scenes to scan,
Then tell her, Echo, if you can,
His humble name who wrote it there.
THE DUMB MINSTREL.
BY JAMES NACK.
And am I doom'd to be denied for ever
The blessings that to all around are given?
And shall those links be re-united ever,
That bound me to mankind till they were riven
In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever
From social intercourse, the doom of heaven
Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,
That the decree may be recall'd again.
Amid a throng in deep attention bound,
To catch the accents that from others fall,
The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound
Breathed from the soul of melody, while all
Instructed or delighted list around,
Vacant unconsciousness must _me_ enthrall!
I can but watch each animated face,
And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.
Unheard, unheeded are the lips by _me_,
To others that unfold some heaven-born art,
And melody--Oh, dearest melody!
How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart,
Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,
Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!
How had my heart responsive to the strain,
Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.
In vain--alas, in vain! thy numbers roll--
Within my heart no echo they inspire;
Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control,
To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,
Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;
And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,
That can to animation kindle stone,
To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.
THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS.
BY R. C. SANDS.
They say that afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.
There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers:
'Tis the land of the sunbeam,--the green isle of lovers!
Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover
On high with their shade the green isle of the lover.
But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile;
From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.
And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,
The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!
THAT SILENT MOON.
BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.
That silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.
But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile, in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.
And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,
On those who mourn, and those who die.
But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendour may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart--
What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day:--
But oh! be mine a fairer boon--
That silent moon, that silent moon!
TO A CIGAR.
BY SAMUEL LOW.--1800.
Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive even want and lassitude away,
And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,
Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?
If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,
Till I, departing taper, light another.
HOPE.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,
One little star benignant peep,
To light along their trackless path
The wanderers of the stormy deep.
And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form
In sorrow's gloomy night shall be
The sun that looks through cloud and storm
Upon a dark and moonless sea.
When heaven is all serene and fair,
Full many a brighter gem we meet;
'Tis when the tempest hovers there,
Thy beam is most divinely sweet.
The rainbow, when the sun declines,
Like faithless friend will disappear;
Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines
When all is wail and weeping here.
And though Aurora's stealing beam
May wake a morning of delight,
'Tis only thy consoling gleam
Will smile amid affliction's night.
THE LAKE OF CAYOSTÊA.
BY ROBERT BARKER.
_Ob: 1831, æt. 27._
Thy wave has ne'er by gondolier
Been dash'd aside with flashing oar,
Nor festive train to music's strain
Performed the dance upon thy shore.
But there, at night, beneath the light
Of silent moon and twinkling ray,
The Indian's boat is seen to float,
And track its lonely way.
The Indian maid, in forest glade,
Of flowers that earliest grow,
And fragrant leaves, a garland weaves
To deck her warrior's brow.
And when away, at break of day,
She hies her to her shieling dear,
She sings so gay a roundelay,
That echo stops to hear.
Would it were mine to join with thine,
And dwell for ever here,
In forest wild with nature's child,
By the silent Cayost[=e]a.
My joy with thee would ever be
Along these banks to roam;
And fortune take beside the lake,
Whose clime is freedom's home.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendours fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
For ever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
MORNING HYMN.
_Genesis_ i. 3.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke,
And from the abyss where darkness rode
The earliest dawn of nature broke,
And light around creation flow'd.
The glad earth smiled to see the day,
The first-born day came blushing in;
The young day smiled to shed its ray
Upon a world untouched by sin.
"Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth,
The God who first the day-beam pour'd,
Whispered again his fiat forth,
And shed the Gospel's light abroad.
And, like the dawn, its cheering rays
On rich and poor were meant to fall,
Inspiring their Redeemer's praise
In lonely cot and lordly hall.
Then come, when in the Orient first
Flushes the signal light for prayer;
Come with the earliest beams that burst
From God's bright throne of glory there.
Come kneel to Him who through the night
Hath watched above thy sleeping soul,
To Him whose mercies, like his light,
Are shed abroad from pole to pole.
BRONX.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
I sat me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,
Like parting friends who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,
Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.
Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,
Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;
When first his power in infant pastime trying,
Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.
From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.
The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;
The antic squirrel capered on the ground
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet:
Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.
There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting
Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,
Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting
A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden
Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.
The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,
The winding of the merry locust's horn,
The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:
Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,
Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.
And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand
Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?
Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see
A well-remembered form in each old tree,
And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.
THE STORM-KING.
BY ROSWELL PARK.
The mist descended from the snow
That whiten'd o'er the cliff;
The clouds were gather'd round its brow,
And solemn darkness reign'd below
The peak of Teneriffe.
For on that rocky peak and high,
Magnificent and lone,
The awful _Storm-King_ of the sky,
Beyond the reach of mortal eye,
Had rear'd his cloudy throne.
By him the raging winds unfurl'd,
Swept o'er the prostrate land;
And thence, above the affrighted world,
The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'd
Forth from his red right hand.--
Uprising from his cave of jet,
While mists obscured his form,
With streaming locks and vesture wet,
The _Spirit_ of the ocean met
The _Spirit_ of the storm.
"And why so madly dost thou dare,
Proud Spirit of the sea,
To tempt the monarch of the air,
With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare?
What seekest thou of me?"
"I have risen afar from my coral caves,
Where the pearls are sparkling bright,
To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves;
And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves,
And I challenge thee here to the fight!"
"Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'd
From the midst of a cloud of fire;
The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd,
And the island forest his footsteps crush'd,
In the burning of his ire.
Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom,
And the depths of the ocean uprend;
Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam,
And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom,
Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend.
But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall,
And evades his fierce controul;--
Away in his ice-clad crystal hall,
He still reigns absolute monarch of all
That surrounds his frozen pole.
The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,--
Again are the elements free;
But many a vessel is still sinking fast,
And many a mariner rests at last,
In the bosom of the sea!
SONG--ROSALIE CLARE.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair--
Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare?
Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field,
And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield;
For no gallant can splinter--no charger can dare
The lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare.
When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board
Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured,
And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up
From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,--
What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,
Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare?
They may talk of the land of the olive and vine--
Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;--
Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles,
Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;
But what flower of far away clime can compare
With the blossom of ours--bright Rosalie Clare?
Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair?
Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare!
Let him list to her voice--let him gaze on her form--
And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm,
Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air
Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.
TO A PACKET SHIP.
BY ROSWELL PARK.
Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave!
The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;--
The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the spray
That lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.
Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free,
The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea!
Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair,
Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there!
Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board,
Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord;
And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain,
To welcome her long-absent lover again.
Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine,
Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine;
And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait;
For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate.
Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar,
And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star;
The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct,
And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect!
Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash;
And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;--
Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high;
Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by!
Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past;
Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast;
Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn,
And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!
MOONLIGHT.
BY ROBERT BARKER.
How dear to love the moonlight hour,
Beneath the calm transparent ether,
It seems as if by magic power
They breathe in unison together.
When forest glen and fountain bright
Are tinged with shades of mellow light,
And every earthly sound is still
Save murmur of the mountain rill;
'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion,
And waken every soft emotion,
To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears,
And place the smiles of rapture there,
"Celestial music of the spheres"
Comes floating on the evening air.
'Tis then that fancy wings her flight
Beyond the bounds to mortals given;
To regions where the lamps of night
Illume the path which leads to heaven.
'Tis then she holds communion sweet
With seraphs round the eternal throne,
Where long-departed spirits meet,
To worship him who sits thereon.
'Tis then man dreams of Paradise,
If aught he dreams of place like this,
'Tis then he breathes the crystal air,
Which Peris breathe who wander there,
And sips the fount of Native Love
Found no where but in heaven above.
SONG.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky;
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.
'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;
When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.
Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,
And love will droop in the cheerless shade,
Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,
It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.
But oh! the light of the constant soul
Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim;
Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl,
Love still shall hover around its brim.
LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE.
[_Translated from the German of Körner._]
BY ROSWELL PARK.
What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day?
Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer!
It hither approaches in gloomy array,
While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way,
The soul overwhelming with terror!
Those swart companions you view in the race,--
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade,
From mountain to mountain deploying?
They place themselves nightly in ambuscade,
They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade,
The French usurpers destroying!
Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,--
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by,
The tyrant securely is sleeping;--
They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky;
With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply;
Soon safe on his island-shore leaping!
Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar,
Where swords in thick carnage are clashing?
Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore;
The spark of true freedom is kindled once more,
From war's bloody altars out-flashing!
Those horsemen swart who the combat face,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun,
'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery?
Death creeps o'er their visage,--their labours are done;--
Their valiant hearts tremble not;--victory's won;
Their father-land rescued from slavery!
Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace,
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
The wild German Yagers,--their glorious careers
Dealt death to the tyrant oppressor!
Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers,
When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears;
Since we alone died to redress her.
Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;--
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
STANZAS.
BY JAMES NACK.
I know that thou art far away,
Yet in my own despite
My still expectant glances stray
Inquiring for thy sight.
Though all too sure that thy sweet face
Can bless no glance of mine,
At every turn, in every place,
My eyes are seeking thine.
I hope--how vain the hope, I know--
That some propitious chance
May bring thee here again to throw
Thy sweetness on my glance.
But, loveliest one, where'er thou art,
Whate'er be my despair,
Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heart
Will love thee every where.
LINES.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
[_Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet
standing among the ruins of Carthage._]
Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstood
The silent lapse of many ages,
The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,
Around whose base the ocean rages;
Who reared thy walls that proudly brave
The tempest, battle, and the wave?
Was it beneath thy ample dome
That Marius rested, and from thee,
When he had lost imperial Rome,
Learned high resolve and constancy?
Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,
And well might'st teach the lesson great.
Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung
Of yore, with laughter's merry shout,
While beauty round her glances flung
To cheer some monarch's wassail rout;
But mirth and beauty long have fled
From this lone City of the Dead.
Where busy thousands oft have trod
Beneath thy mouldering marble brow,
Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,
Around thee all is silence now.
And thus the breath of foul decay
Shall melt at last thy form away.
Thou desolate, deserted pile,
Lone vestage of departed glory,
Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,
While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,
As if resolved the tale to tell
Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.
Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,
Around thee strewn may yet be seen
The broken column, sculptured stone,
And relics sad of what hath been.
But thou alone survivest the fall,
Defying Time, dread leveller of all.
FADED HOURS.
BY J. R. SUTERMINSTER.
_Ob. 1836: æt. 23._
Oh! for my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,
While flow'd its sparkling waters fair--
And went upon his pathway proud,
And threw a brighter lustre there;
And smiled upon the golden heaven,
And on the earth's sweet loveliness,
Where light, and joy, and song were given,
The glad and fairy scene to bless!
Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,
When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,
To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,
While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!
And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,
While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,
Who spread for him that scene of love
And made him, so supremely blest!
That scene of love!--where hath it gone?
Where have its charms and beauty sped?
My hours of youth, that o'er me shone--
Where have their light and splendour fled?
Into the silent lapse of years--
And I am left on earth to mourn:
And I am left to drop my tears
O'er memory's lone and icy urn!
Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;
Oh, my dark hours on earth are few--
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;--
And I shall soon bid life adieu,
To seek enduring joys in heaven!
THE WIFE'S SONG.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
As the tears of the even,
Illumined at day
By the sweet light of heaven,
Seem gems on each spray;
So gladness to-morrow
Shall shine on thy brow,
The more bright for the sorrow
That darkens it now.
Yet if fortune, believe me,
Have evil in store,
Though each other deceive thee,
I'll love thee the more.
As ivy leaves cluster
More greenly and fair,
When winter winds bluster
Round trees that are bare.
LAMENT.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
There is a voice, I shall hear no more--
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,--
Precious and rich--but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear--
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed--
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!
Alas! for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes--on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom--
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died--
Oh loved one!--would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm--
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom--thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest--
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid--
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;--
All that was lovely to me is there,
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
LINES
[_Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend._]
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
As playful boys by ocean's side
Upon its margin trace,
Some frail memorial which the tide
Returning must efface;
Thus I upon this brittle glass
These tuneless verses scrawl,
That they, when I away shall pass,
May thought of me recall.
The waves that beat upon the strand
Wash out the schoolboy's line,
As soon some rude or careless hand
May shiver those of mine.
But though what I have written here
In thousand fragments part,
I trust my name will still be dear,
And treasured in the heart.
THE SEPULCHRE OF DAVID.
BY WILLIAM L. STONE.
"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the
cities, both without and within his own kingdom:
and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus, who had
been king before him, had opened David's
sepulchre, and taken out of it three thousand
talents of silver, and that there was a greater
number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice
all his wants, he had a great while an intention
to make the attempt; and at this time he opened
that sepulchre by night and went into it, and
endeavoured that it should not be at all known in
the city, but he took only his most faithful
friends with him. As for any money, he found
none, as Hyrcanus had done, but that furniture of
gold, and those precious goods that were laid up
there, all which he took away. However, he had a
great desire to make diligent search, and to go
farther in, even as far as the very bodies of
David and Solomon; where two of his guards were
slain by a flame that burst out upon those that
went in, as the report was. So he was severely
affrighted, and went out and built a propitiatory
monument of that fright he had been in, and this
of white stone, at the mouth of the sepulchre,
and that at a great expense also."--_Josephus._
High on his throne of state,
A form of noblest mould,
The Hebrew monarch sate,
All glorious to behold.
With purest gold inwrought,
Full many a sparkling gem,
From distant India brought,
Enriched his diadem.
A crystal mirror bright,
Beneath the canopy,
Shot back in silvery light
The monarch's panoply!
All round the lofty halls,
Rich tapestries of gold
Hung from the glittering walls,
In many an ample fold.
And breathing sculptures there
In living beauty stood,
Borne by the monarch's care
From o'er the Ægean flood.
Dipt in the rainbow's dyes,
Apelles's magic hand,
To please the wondering eyes
Of Judah's haughty land,
In liquid colours bright,
And traced with matchless care,
Had left, in glorious light,
Its richest beauties there!
The silver lamps by day,
Hung massive, rich, and bright;
And from the galleries gay
Shone brilliantly by night.
And by the monarch's side,
His guards, a noble band,
Arrayed in regal pride,
In burnished armour stand.
Proud chiefs and ladies fair,
Swept the broad courts along:--
In pleasures mingled there,--
A gay and gallant throng!
Apollo's tuneful choir,
And Korah's sons of song,
With psaltery, harp, and lyre,
Were mingled in the throng.[O]
And from each trembling string,
Sweet sounds of music stole;
Gentle as Zephyr's wing,
The tuneful numbers roll.
Beyond the portals wide,
Beneath the sylvan bower,
Cool founts, in sparkling pride,
Send forth their silvery shower.
The flowerets gay and wild,
In beauty bloomed not less,
Than erst when Eden smiled,
In pristine loveliness.
And through the gorgeous halls
Rich odours filled the air,
Sweet as the dew that falls
On Araby the fair!
All that could foster pride,
All that could banish care,
Was gathered by his side,
And richly lavished there.
Lost to the splendid show,
The monarch's restless mind
Darkened an anxious brow,
Which furrows deep had lined.
He rose and left the hall,
The night was drear and wild--
Above the embattled wall
Tempestuous clouds were piled.
Deep in the deeper gloom,
He held his sullen way--
To David's hallowed tomb
To where his ashes lay.
The haughty monarch came,--
Earth trembled at his tread--
With sacrilegious aim
To rob the royal dead.
No treasures found he there,
Nor precious gems, nor gold--
The walls were damp and bare--
The region drear and cold.
He cast his anxious eye
Where slept great _David's_ son,
Where _Wisdom's_ ashes lie,
The peerless _Solomon_!
He raised his ruthless arm
Against the low-arched wall--
While wild and dread alarm
Rang through the vaulted hall.
Loud on the monarch's ear
Broke the hoarse thunder's crash--
And blazed around the bier
The vivid lightning's flash.
Death came upon the blast;
As by the lurid light
They saw that he had passed,
And triumphed in his might:
For on the chilly ground,
Inanimate as clay,
The troubled monarch found
His favourite captains lay.
Aghast and pale he fled,--
And shook through every limb--
Cold drops rolled down his head,
Lest death should follow him!
He raised a marble fane
Upon the hallowed spot,
But ne'er, O ne'er again
Could that night be forgot!
And oft in after years
He woke in wild affright,
And wailed, with scalding tears,
The deed of that dread night!
WOMAN.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
No star in yonder sky that shines
Can light like woman's eye impart,
The earth holds not in all its mines
A gem so rich as woman's heart.
Her voice is like the music sweet
Poured out from airy harp alone,
Like that when storms more loudly beat,
It yields a clearer--richer tone.
And woman's love's a holy light
That brighter burns for aye,
Years cannot dim its radiance bright,
Nor even falsehood quench its ray.
But like the star of Bethlehem
Of old, to Israel's shepherds given,
It marshals with its steady flame
The erring soul of man to heaven.
RHYME AND REASON.
AN APOLOGUE.
BY G. P. MORRIS.
Two children, "once upon a time,"
In the summer season,
Woke to life--the one was Rhyme,
The other's name was Reason.
Sweet Poesy enraptured prest
The blooming infants to her breast.
Reason's face and form to see
Made her heart rejoice;
Yet there was more of melody
In Rhyme's delicious voice;
But both were beautiful and fair,
And pure as mountain stream and air.
As the boys together grew,
Happy fled their hours--
Grief or care they never knew
In the Paphian bowers.
See them roaming, hand in hand,
The pride of all the choral band.
Music with harp of golden strings,
Love with bow and quiver,
Airy sprites on radiant wings,
Nymphs of wood and river,
Joined the Muses' constant song
As Rhyme and Reason pass'd along.
But the scene was changed--the boys
Left their native soil--
Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,
Reason's manly toil.
Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,
While Reason grew exceeding rich.
Since that dark and fatal hour
When the brothers parted,
Reason has had wealth and power--
Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted.
And now, on bright or stormy weather,
They twain are seldom seen together.
AH NO! AH NO!
_To a Favourite Child._
BY JAMES NACK.
In life, perhaps, thou hast only trod
As yet in a path as soft and sweet
As the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod,
Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet.
In the path thou hast only begun to tread,
Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting;
And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled,
By innocence chased on her snow-white wing:
For often a paradise seems to attend
Our earliest steps in this world below;
But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end?
Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!"
The tree with verdure adorns the shore
While the laving spray at its foot is thrown;
But the waves roll on to return no more,
And the tree stands withering all alone.
Each friend of our early years is a wave
In the sea of joy we are flourishing by;
But they roll away to the gulf of the grave,
And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh.
And such is the doom I must bear--for now,
While yet in my boyhood I find it so--
But never, dear cherub, may heaven allow
Such doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!
A HEALTH.
BY MISS ELIZABETH C. CLINCH.
_Ob. 1832: æt. 17._
Fill high the cup!--the young and gay
Are met with bounding hearts to-night;
And sunny smiles around us play,
And eyes are sparkling bright:
Let wit and song the hours beguile,
But yet, amid this festal cheer,
Oh, let us pause to think awhile
Of him who is not here.
Fill high the cup!--yet ere its brim
One young and smiling lip has pressed,
Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to him
Now far o'er ocean's breast!
The cordial wish each lip repeats,
By every heart is echoed here;
For none within this circle beats,
To whom he is not dear.
A sudden pause in festive glee--
What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth,
Hath checked each heart's hilarity,
And given to sadness birth?
O! read it in the shades that steal
Across each animated brow;
The wish none utters, yet all feel,
"Would he were with us now!"
Yet chase away each vain regret,
And let each heart be gay;
Trust me, the meeting hour shall yet
Each anxious thought repay.
Is not his spirit with us now?
Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam,
The wanderer's yearning heart can know
No resting-place--but home!
Then smile again, and let the song
Pour forth its music sweet and clear--
What magic to those notes belong
Which thus chain every ear!
Soft eyes are filled with tears--what spell
So suddenly hath called them there?
That strain--ah, yes! we know it well;
It is his favourite air.
With every note how forcibly
Return the thoughts of other days!
The shaded brow, the drooping eye,
Are present to our gaze.
With all around his looks are blent;
His form, is it not gliding there?
And was it not _his_ voice which sent
That echo on the air?
One wish, with cordial feeling fraught,
Breathe we for him ere yet we part,
That for each high and generous thought
That animates his heart,
That Power which gives us happiness,
A blessing on his head would pour!
Oh! could affection wish him less?
Yet, could we ask for more?
A HYMN.
BY DAVID S. BOGART.--1791.
Almighty King, who reign'st above,
Thou art the source of purest love;
The splendid heavens thy glories show,
Thy wisdom shines in all below;
Seraphs before thee humbly fall,
Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all;
And, wrapt in high transporting joy,
Thy attributes their thoughts employ.
Shall mortals, then, refuse to join
In works so heavenly and divine,
Mortals who live and move in thee,
And thy continual goodness see;
Thou God of Grace, make it my choice
In praising thee, to lend my voice;
Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm,
And make my troubled soul all calm;
Teach me the duty of my life,
Preserve me from unhappy strife,
Conduct me safe through all my days,
And keep me in thy peaceful ways.
When time is done, and death draws nigh,
Then leave me not alone to sigh;
Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart,
And, sure of heaven, let me depart.
REMINISCENCES.
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.
Oh, who would flee the melody
Of woodland, grove, and stream--
The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky
By morning's virgin beam;
To wander 'mid the busy throng
That threads each city's street,
Where cank'ring care and folly's glare
In unblest union meet?
Emilia! o'er the fleeting hours
Thy smile once bathed in light,
Fond memory hovers pensively,
And joins them in their flight;
And lovelier far than sunset's glow,
By rainbow beauties spann'd,
Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole
When first I press'd thy hand.
The south wind, on its joyous way,
Came fraught with balmier breath,
And frolic life, in thousand forms,
Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!
Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,
Re-tuned the shepherd's song;
And bird and bee, in reckless glee,
Pour'd melody along.
The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade
Upon the streamlet's breast,
The red bird, on the chesnut bough,
Re-builds its fairy nest;
But through the thicket's leafy screen
Fancy alone can trace
The sparkling eye--the vermeil dye
That mantled o'er thy face.
Though since that hour, upon my path
Are graven hopes and fears,
And transient smiles, like April beams,
Have gilded sorrow's tears;
From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,
My soul with rapture flies
To the sweet grove, where faith and love
Beamed from Emilia's eyes!
Then woo me not to sculptured halls,
Where pride and beauty throng;
Far lovelier is my mountain-home,
The wild-wood paths among;
And though the hopes by boyhood nursed
Have vanish'd like the dew,
In Memory's light they bless my sight
With charms for ever new.
ELEGIAC LINES.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
While you, my friend, with tearful eye,
These soft elegiac lines read o'er,
And while you heave the tender sigh
For lov'd Amanda now no more.
This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,
Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,
This lesson from Amanda learn,--
That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.
That he alike his ruthless reign
Does o'er each age, each sex, extend,
That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,
Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.
But in the height of Beauty's bloom,
Each dear connexion of the heart,
He points them to the gloomy tomb,
He bids them--and they must depart.
A SONG OF MAY.
BY W. G. CLARK.
The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling--
There are songs in the stream--there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale;
The desolate reign of old winter is broken--
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm,--and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.
The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers--
He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.
The young bird is out on his delicate pinion--
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure--
The woodlands are singing--the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!--
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild-wood--the sheen of the blossom--
The fresh-welling fountain,--their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams--when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.
From the wide-spreading earth--from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:
The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth--
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;--
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended--
'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the _newness_ and sweetness of Being are ended--
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping--
There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.
It is shut to the glow of this present existence--
It hears, from the past, a funereal strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish--
Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.
It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given,
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven--
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;--
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.
ON READING VIRGIL.
BY MRS. ANN E. BLEECKER.
_Written in 1778._
Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by,
Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye;
Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,
And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?
Like him, I lost my fair one in my flight
From cruel foes, and in the dead of night.
Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs,
And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours?
See York on fire--while, borne by winds, each flame
Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main,
The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,
From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.
Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade
I saw my aged parent safe conveyed;
Then sadly followed to the friendly land
With my surviving infant by the hand:
No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed,
To load my shoulders and my flight impede;
Protection from such impotence who'd claim?
My Gods took care of me--not I of them.
The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his last
When all domestic dangers he had passed;
So my lov'd parent, after she had fled,
Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed:
--He held his way o'er the Cerulian main,
But I returned to hostile fields again.
THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
BY W. G. CLARK.
"O Domini Deus speravi in te,
O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me:
In dura catena, in misera pena,
Desidera te--
Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!"[P]
It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glide
Along the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide;
When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen,
When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men;
And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye,
A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;
For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set,
And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.
Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,
As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul--
When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her
bursting tears,
The phantasies of early hope--dreams of departed years;
When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung
Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among--
When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye,
When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.
Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,
Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's
mysterious flame;
When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one,
Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun;
Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow--
The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow:
But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,
Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.
And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven,
Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given;
They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway,
And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way;
It was the last dim night of life--the sun had sunk to rest,
And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;
And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,
Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:
"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,
The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth;
The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round
On the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground;
And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar,
Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star;
I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light,
And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night.
"Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring--
While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing?
Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?--the syren voice which flung
The chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?
Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,
Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred?
Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death,
As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its
chilling breath?
"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes
are gone,
And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one!
Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath
been spoken,
And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,
Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bend
In humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend!
Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee,
Give me the eagle's fearless wing--the dove's to mount to thee!
"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears--
How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years!
I give my heart to earth no more--the grave may clasp me now--
The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough;
The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away,
And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;
I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each
kindred breast,
'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE.
[_From the French of Beranger._]
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
They'll talk of him, and of his glory,
The cottage hearth, at eve, around;
Fifty years hence no other story
Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound.
Then shall the villagers repair
To some gray ancient dame,
And bid her long-past times declare,
And tell his deeds, his fame.
"Ah, though it cost us life and limb,"
They'll say, "our love is still the same,
And still the people love his name;
Good mother, tell of him!"
My children, through this very region
He journey'd with a train of kings,
Followed by many a gallant legion!
(How many thoughts to me it brings,
That tell of days so long gone by!)
He climbed on foot the very hill
Where, seated on the bank, was I
To see him pass. I see him still;
The small, three-coloured hat he wore,
And the surtout of gray.
I trembled at his sight all o'er!--
Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!"
"Mother, he spoke to you, you say?"
"Ay, said 'good day' once more."
Next year at Paris, too, one morning,
Myself, I saw him with his court,
Princes and queens his _suite_ adorning,
To Notre Dame he did resort;
And every body blest the day
And prayed for him and his;
How happily he took his way,
And smiled in all a father's bliss,
For heaven a son bestowed!
"A happy day for you was this,
Good mother!" then they say:
"When thus you saw him on the road,
In Notre Dame to kneel and pray,
A good heart sure it showed."
"Alas! ere long, invading strangers
Brought death and ruin in our land!
(Alone he stood and braved all dangers,
The sword in his unconquer'd hand.)
One night, (it seems but yesterday,)
I heard a knocking at the door--
It was himself upon his way,
A few true followers, no more,
Stood worn and weary at his side.
Where I am sitting now he sat--
'Oh what a war is this!' he cried.
Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that?
Did he, then, sit in that same chair?"
"My children, yes!--he rested there!"
"I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladly
I brought him country wine and bread;
The gray surtout was dripping sadly;
He dried it by this fire. His head,
He leaned against this wall, and slept--
While, as for me, I sat and wept.
He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer!
I go to Paris, France to free,
And better times, be sure, are near!'
He went, and I have ever kept
The cup he drank from--children, see!
My greatest treasure!" "Show it me,"
"And me!"--"and me!" the listeners cry--
"Good mother, keep it carefully!"
"Ah, it is safe! but where is he?
Crowned by the pope, our father good,
In a lone island of the sea
The hero died. Long time we stood
Firm in belief he was not dead,
And some by sea, and some by land--
But all, that he was coming, said.
And when, at length, all hope was o'er,
Than I, were few that sorrowed more!"
"Ah, mother, well we understand!
Our blessings on you; we too weep,
We will pray for you ere we sleep!"
THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain--
Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain.
The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,
Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;
And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng,
Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.
This is thy birth-day, dearest--the fairest of the year--
To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;
The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee,
As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that
sets him free.
I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills
My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills.
I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,
Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live--
But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,
Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.
VERSES
TO THE MEMORY OF COL. WOOD OF THE UNITED STATES' ARMY,
WHO FELL AT THE SORTIE OF ERIE.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
What though on foeman's land he fell,
No stone the sacred spot to tell,
Yet where the noble Hudson's waves
Its shores of lofty granite laves,
The loved associates of his youth,
Who knew his worth--his spotless truth,
Have bade the marble column rise,
To bid the world that worth to prize;
To teach the youth like him aspire,
And never-fading fame acquire;
Like him on Glory's wings to rise,
To reach, to pierce the azure skies.
And oft the Patriot _there_ will sigh,
And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye,
Whene'er fond memory brings again
The Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.
LIFE'S GUIDING STAR.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
The youth whose bark is guided o'er
A summer stream by zephyr's breath,
With idle gaze delights to pore
On imaged skies that glow beneath.
But should a fleeting storm arise
To shade awhile the watery way,
Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes,
And speeds to reach some sheltering bay.
'Tis thus down time's eventful tide,
While prosperous breezes gently blow,
In life's frail bark we gaily glide
Our hopes, our thoughts all fixed below.
But let one cloud the prospect dim,
The wind its quiet stillness mar,
At once we raise our prayer to Him
Whose light is life's best guiding star.
DESPONDENCY.
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION AND SORROW FOR LOST TIME.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams,
Th
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