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diff --git a/42769-0.txt b/42769-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..278fedd --- /dev/null +++ b/42769-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9074 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42769 *** + + 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, + That darken thus my waking hours? + And whence this blighting cloud, that seems + To wither all thy better powers? + What is this cankering worm that clings + Around my heart with deadly strain, + That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings, + And makes my life one age of pain? + + I find no joy in home or friends-- + E'en music's voice has lost its spell-- + To me the rose no perfume lends, + And mirth and I have said farewell. + I dare not think upon the past, + Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain; + Of youth's pure joys that could not last, + And hopes I ne'er shall know again. + + I dare not ask the coming years + What gifts their onward flight shall bring; + For what but grief, and shame, and tears, + From wasted time and powers can spring? + Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles, + And teach my heart to seem to glow, + Though colder than those Northern isles + Of ice and everlasting snow. + + Upon the frozen surface there, + With tenfold light the sunbeams play-- + But false the dazzling gleam as fair-- + No verdure springs beneath the ray. + And falser yet the laughing eye-- + The cheek that wears a seeming smile-- + The heart that hides its misery, + And breaks beneath its load the while. + + + + + TO A GOLDFINCH. + + BY ROSWELL PARK. + + Bird of the gentle wing, + Songster of air, + Home, from thy wandering, + Dost thou repair? + Art thou deserted then, + Wilder'd and lone? + Come to my breast again, + Beautiful one. + + Here in the rosy beds + Hover anew; + Eating the garden seeds, + Sipping the dew: + Then in my bower + The fragrance inhale + Of each lovely flower + That waves in the gale. + + When the bright morning star, + Rising on high, + Day's early harbinger, + Shines in the sky, + Then shall thy numbers, + So lively and gay, + Rouse me from slumbers, + To welcome the day. + + When the still evening comes, + Tranquil and clear; + When the dull beetle roams, + Drumming the air; + Then, on the willow-trees + Shading the door, + Sing me thy melodies + Over once more. + + Thus shall the moments fly + Sweetly along, + Tuned to thy minstrelsy, + Cheered by thy song; + Till as the light declines + Far in the west, + Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines, + Hush thee to rest. + + + + + THE MIDNIGHT BALL. + + BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. + + She's bid adieu to the midnight ball, + And cast the gems aside, + Which glittered in the lighted hall: + Her tears she cannot hide. + She weeps not that the dance is o'er, + The music and the song; + She weeps not that her steps no more + Are follow'd by the throng. + + Her memory seeks one form alone + Within that crowded hall; + Her truant thoughts but dwell on one + At that gay midnight ball. + And thence her tears unbidden flow-- + She's bid adieu to him; + The light of love is darken'd now-- + All other lights are dim. + + She throws the worthless wreath away + That deck'd her shining hair; + She tears apart the bright bouquet + Of flowrets rich and rare. + The leaves lie scattered at her feet, + She heeds not where they fall; + She sees in them an emblem meet + To mark the midnight-ball. + + + + + THE DESERTED BRIDE. + + [_Suggested by a Scene in the Play of the Hunchback._] + + BY G. P. MORRIS. + + "Love me!--No--he never loved me!" + Else he'd sooner die than stain + One so fond as he has proved me + With the hollow world's disdain. + False one, go--my doom is spoken, + And the spell that bound me broken! + + Wed him!--Never.--He has lost me!-- + Tears!--Well, let them flow!--His bride?-- + No.--The struggle life may cost me! + But he'll find that I have pride! + Love is not an idle flower, + Blooms and dies the self-same hour. + + Titles, lands, and broad dominion, + With himself to me he gave; + Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion, + And became my willing slave! + Knelt and pray'd until he won me-- + Looks he coldly now upon me? + + Ingrate!--Never sure was maiden + Wronged so foul as I. With grief + My true breast is overladen-- + Tears afford me no relief.-- + Every nerve is strained and aching, + And my very heart is breaking! + + Love I him?--Thus scorned and slighted-- + Thrown, like worthless weed, apart-- + Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted-- + Love him?--Yes, with all my heart! + With a passion superhuman-- + Constancy, "thy name is woman." + + Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion-- + Love?--Idolatry's the word + To speak the broadest, deepest passion, + Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd! + Vain to still the mind's desires, + Which consume like hidden fires! + + Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, + Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, + With a prayer for Clifford only, + I resign me to my fate. + Chains that bind the soul I've proven + Strong as they were iron-woven. + + Deep the wo that fast is sending + From my cheek its healthful bloom; + Sad my thoughts, as willows bending + O'er the borders of the tomb. + Without Clifford not a blessing + In the world is worth possessing. + + Wealth!--a straw within the balance, + Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: + Kindred--friendship--beauty--talents?-- + All to love as nothing seem; + Weigh love against all else together, + As solid gold against a feather. + + Hope is flown--away disguises-- + Nought but death relief can give-- + For the love he little prizes + Cannot cease and Julia live! + Soon my thread of life will sever-- + Clifford, fare thee well--for ever! + + + + + THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED FRIEND. + + BY JOHN INMAN. + + Loved, lost one, fare thee well--too harsh the doom + That called thee thus in opening life away; + Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb + I come at each return of this blest day, + When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom, + The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay, + For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone + Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone. + + But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings + Thy form before me as in life it came; + Affection conquers death, and fondly clings + Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name; + And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings, + While sad discourses of thy loss I frame, + With her the friend of thy most tranquil years, + Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears. + _Sunday Evening._ + + + + + SONG. + + BY THEODORE S. FAY. + + A careless, simple bird, one day + Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, + Fell in a cruel trap, which lay + All hid among the flowers, + Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers. + + The spring was closed; poor, silly soul, + He knew not what to do, + Till, squeezing through a tiny hole, + At length away he flew, + Unhurt--at length away he flew. + + And now from every fond regret + And idle anguish free, + He, singing, says, "You need not set + Another trap for me, + False girl! another trap for me." + + + + + ANACREONTIC. + + BY C. F. HOFFMAN. + + Blame not the Bowl--the fruitful Bowl! + Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, + And amber drops elysian roll, + To bathe young Love's delighted wing. + What like the grape Osiris gave + Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? + Illumines Memory's tearful wave, + And teaches drowning Hope to swim? + Did Ocean from his radiant arms + To earth another Venus give, + He ne'er could match the mellow charms + That in the breathing beaker live. + + Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard + In characters that mock the sight, + Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured, + Brings all their hidden warmth to light-- + Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, + Though graven deep, appear but dim, + Till filled with glowing Bacchus up, + They sparkle on the foaming brim. + Each drop upon the first you pour + Brings some new tender thought to life, + And as you fill it more and more, + The last with fervid soul is rife. + + The island fount, that kept of old + Its fabled path beneath the sea, + And fresh, as first from earth it rolled, + From earth again rose joyously; + Bore not beneath the bitter brine, + Each flower upon its limpid tide, + More faithfully than in the wine, + Our hearts will toward each other glide. + Then drain the cup, and let thy soul + Learn, as the draught delicious flies, + Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, + Truth beaming at the bottom lies. + + + + + MELODY. + + BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. + + If yon bright stars, which gem the night, + Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, + Where kindred spirits re-unite + Whom death has torn asunder here, + How sweet it were at once to die, + And leave this blighted orb afar, + Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, + And soar away from star to star. + + But oh, how dark, how drear and lone, + Would seem the brightest world of bliss, + If wandering through each radiant one + We failed to find the loved of this; + If there no more the ties shall twine + That death's cold hand alone could sever; + Ah! then these stars in mockery shine, + More hateful as they shine for ever. + + It cannot be each hope, each fear, + That lights the eye or clouds the brow, + Proclaims there is a happier sphere + Than this bleak world that holds us now. + There is a voice which sorrow hears, + When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; + 'Tis heaven that whispers--Dry thy tears, + The pure in heart shall meet again. + + + + + MY NATIVE LAND. + + BY THEODORE S. FAY. + + Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild, + In later ages, the huge seas above? + And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, + Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love? + Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove, + Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years, + When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove, + When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears, + When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers? + + Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, + Elysian solitudes, untrod by man, + Silent and lonely, since, around the sun, + Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began? + Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan? + With wasted perfume ever on them flung? + And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span, + When Alexander fought, when Homer sung, + And the old populous world with thundering battle rung? + + Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth, + No musty tomes are here to tell of thee; + None know, if cast when nature first the earth + Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree, + Or, whether since, by changes, silently, + Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; + Or if, before man's little memory, + Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, + And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. + + I know but that I love thee. On my heart, + Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now; + Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian art + Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, + No broken temples, fain at length to bow, + Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time. + Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw; + Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, + As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime. + + But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: + We worship thee for beauties all thine own. + Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be + Admired, but only for herself alone. + With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown. + No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise; + Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, + Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, + Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies. + + I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams. + Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast. + Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems + Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! + Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, + Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; + Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; + Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun-- + Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run! + + And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky; + And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven, + So softly blending, that the cheated eye + Forgets, or which is earth or which is heaven-- + Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even, + Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height + Puts off the azure hues by distance given; + And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight, + Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright. + + Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below + Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea. + Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, + Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; + Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, + Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, + At break of day, this scene, when, silently, + Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd, + While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold, + + Till earth receive him never can forget. + Even when returned amid the city's roar, + The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, + As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. + Imagination cons the moment o'er, + When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed. + Scarce loftier, Jove--whom men and gods adore-- + On the extended earth beneath him gazed, + Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised. + + Blow, scented gale--the snowy canvass swell, + And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. + Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, + That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. + By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, + By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, + At every turn, the vision breaks upon, + Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes + The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise, + + Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, + More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, + Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, + Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul! + The pent-up flood, impatient of control, + In ages past, here broke its granite bound; + Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole; + While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground, + And these gigantic hills for ever closed around. + + And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, + The nymph of sportive mockery, that still + Hides behind every rock, in every dell, + And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. + No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will, + The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, + Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, + The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, + Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er. + + Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired. + Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, + The Briton youth, lamented and admired, + His country's hope, her ornament and pride, + A traitor's death, ingloriously died, + On freedom's altar offered; in the sight + Of God, by men who will their act abide, + On the great day, and hold their deed aright, + To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light. + + But see! the broadening river deeper flows, + Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea, + While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws + Its softening hues on stream, and field and tree; + All silent nature bathing, wondrously, + In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, + And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, + Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, + Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires. + + May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, + Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. + Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar, + Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween-- + And every where thy various barks are seen, + Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, + Encircled by thy banks of sunny green-- + The panting steamer plying to and fro, + Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow. + + And radiantly upon the glittering mass, + The God of day his parting glances sends, + As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, + Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends, + Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, + More bright and bright, as near their end they be. + On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, + Each land irradiate, and every sea-- + But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee! + + + + + HE CAME TOO LATE! + + BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. + + He came too late!--Neglect had tried + Her constancy too long; + Her love had yielded to her pride, + And the deep sense of wrong. + She scorned the offering of a heart + Which, lingered on its way, + Till it could no delight impart, + Nor spread one cheering ray. + + He came too late!--At once he felt + That all his power was o'er! + Indifference in her calm smile dwelt, + She thought of him no more. + Anger and grief had passed away, + Her heart and thoughts were free; + She met him, and her words were gay, + No spell had memory. + + He came too late!--The subtle chords + Of love were all unbound, + Not by offence of spoken words, + But by the slights that wound. + She knew that life held nothing now + That could the past repay, + Yet she disdained his tardy vow, + And coldly turned away. + + He came too late!--Her countless dreams + Of hope had long since flown; + No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, + Nor in his whispered tone. + And when, with word and smile, he tried + Affection still to prove, + She nerved her heart with woman's pride, + And spurned his fickle love. + + + + + VERSES, + WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF FORTUNES, 1787. + + BY THE LATE GEN. MORTON. + + As through the garden's sweet domain + The bee from leaf to leaf will rove, + Will cull its sweets with anxious pain, + Then bear its treasures to his love; + So from those leaves which bring to view + Things hid by fate in Time's dark reign, + With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you, + The richest blessings they contain; + But fortune here our power restrains, + Nor leaves her blessings in our hand: + To _wish_, alone to _us_ remains, + The _Gift_ is still at _her_ command. + + Take, then, sweet maid, this wish sincere, + Which in a friendly heart doth glow-- + A heart which will thy worth revere + Till life's rich streams shall cease to flow: + On the fair morning of thy life + May love beam forth his brightest ray,-- + May friendship's joys, unvexed by strife, + Glad the meridian of thy day; + And when life's solemn eve shall come, + And time to you shall ever cease, + May then religion cheer the gloom, + And light thy path to endless peace. + + + + + EPITAPH UPON A DOG. + + BY C. F. HOFFMAN. + + An ear that caught my slightest tone + In kindness or in anger spoken; + An eye that ever watch'd my own + In vigils death alone has broken; + Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought + Affection to the last revealing; + Beaming almost with human thought, + And more than human feeling! + + Can such in endless sleep be chilled, + And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, + Because the pulse that here was stilled + May wake to no immortal morrow? + Can faith, devotedness, and love, + That seem to humbler creatures given + To tell us what we owe above! + The types of what is due to Heaven? + + Can these be with the things that _were_, + Things cherished--but no more returning; + And leave behind no trace of care, + No shade that speaks a moment's mourning? + Alas! my friend, of all of worth, + That years have stol'n or years yet leave me, + I've never known so much on earth, + But that the loss of thine must grieve me. + + + + + LINES FOR MUSIC. + + BY THEODORE S. FAY. + + Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing, + The blush of the sunset is glowing no more-- + And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing, + With ripples of silver is kissing the shore. + I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted, + In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem, + And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning, + From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them. + Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing, + And raise your young voices in music once more; + Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealing + In the ripples of silver which roll to the shore. + + But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded, + And the fields and the forests are withered and sere-- + When the friends now together, by distance are parted, + Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here; + Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united, + I lingered at evening to bid you adieu; + When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted, + And wished I might linger for ever with you? + Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing, + Though desolate oceans between us may roar, + The beach--and the stars--and the waters revealing + Thoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore. + + + + + STANZAS. + + BY JOHN INMAN. + + L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses + y font aussi beaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les + richesses, l'amour ne produit que la misère. + C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai.--_Madame de Beaumarchais._ + + Alas! alas, that poverty's cold hand + Should come to wither young affection's flowers-- + Marring the fairy pictures hope has planned + Of love and joy in future happy hours-- + Alas, that all the blessings fancy showers + O'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears, + Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years! + + A moment's pleasure and an age of pain-- + One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom-- + And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain-- + Of all who bow before thee, this the doom-- + And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom, + Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest, + To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest. + + + + + JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL. + + BY J. B. VANSCHAICK. + + The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers + Flash'd the red sun-beams gloriously back, + And the wind-driven banners, and the steel + Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly + The sun, and on the fortresses of rock + Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd + To the stern men who girded by its light. + Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath + Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon, + Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet + Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook + By the rude armour on their branches hung. + Suddenly in the camp without the walls + Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war + Gather'd around their kings, and "Joshua! + From Gilgal, Joshua!" was whisper'd low, + As with a secret fear, and then, at once, + With the abruptness of a dream, he stood + Upon the rock before them. Calmly then + Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare + And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;-- + "God of this people, hear! and let the sun + Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon + Rest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased-- + And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth + Stands on her axis indolent. The sun + Pours the unmoving column of his rays + In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still; + The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face; + The clouds and vapours that at night are wont + To gather and enshroud the lower earth, + Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up, + Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand, + Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down + In broken masses on the astonish'd plains. + The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds; + The weary birds go to their leafy nests, + But find no darkness there, and wander forth + On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest; + The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews, + Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat, + Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart. + On with thy armies, Joshua! The Lord + God of Sabaoth is the avenger now! + His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath + Poureth the beams of the retarded sun, + With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight. + The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky; + Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice, + Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels. + On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood + Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till + Thy banners in returning triumph wave; + Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds, + And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth, + Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God, + Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies. + + + + + SONG. + + BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. + + I trust the frown thy features wear + Ere long into a smile will turn; + I would not that a face so fair + As thine, beloved, should look so stern. + The chain of ice that winter twines, + Holds not for aye the sparkling rill, + It melts away when summer shines, + And leaves the waters sparkling still. + Thus let thy cheek resume the smile + That shed such sunny light before; + And though I left thee for a while, + I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more. + + As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam, + Or wander on a foreign strand, + Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home, + And better love his native land; + So I, though lured a time away, + Like bees by varied sweets, to rove, + Return, like bees, by close of day, + And leave them all for thee, my love. + Then let thy cheek resume the smile + That shed such sunny light before, + And though I left thee for a while, + I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more. + + + + + WEST POINT. + + [_Suggested by the attendance on Public Worship + of the Cadets.--June, 1833._] + + BY GEORGE D. STRONG. + + Bugles upon the wind! + Hushed voices in the air, + And the solemn roll of the stirring drum, + Proclaim the hour of prayer; + While, with measured tread and downcast eye + The martial train sweep silent by! + + Away with the nodding plume, + And the glittering bayonet now, + For unmeet it were, with bannered pomp, + To record the sacred vow. + To earth-born strife let display be given, + But the heart's meek homage alone to heaven. + + The organ's mellow notes + Come swelling on the breeze, + And, echoing forth from arch to dome, + Float richest symphonies! + While youthful forms, a sunny throng, + With their voices deep the strains prolong! + + Deserted now the aisles-- + Devotion's rites are past; + And again the bugle's cheering peals + Are ringing on the blast! + Come forth, ye brave, for your country now, + With your flashing eyes and your lofty brow! + + A voice from the glorious dead! + Awake to the call of fame! + By yon gorgeous banner's spangled folds, + And by Kosciusko's name! + And on Putnam's fort by the light that falls + On its ivied moat and its ruined walls, + + The wave-worn cavern sends + Hoarse echoes from the deep, + And the patriot call is heard afar + From every giant steep! + And the young hearts glow with the sacred fires + That burned in the breasts of their gallant sires. + + The glittering pageant's past, + But martial forms are seen, + With bounding step and eagle glance, + Careering o'er the green; + And lovely woman by their side, + With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride. + + Sunset upon the wave, + Its burnished splendours pour, + And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweeps + Like an arrow from the shore! + There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fanned + On the mirrored stream by the breezes bland. + + They have passed like shadows by + That fade in the morning beam, + And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye, + Are remembered like a dream; + But memory's sun shall set in night + Ere my soul forget those forms of light. + + + + + THANKSGIVING + AFTER ESCAPE FROM INDIAN PERILS. + + BY MRS. ANNE E. BLEECKER.--1778. + + Alas! my fond inquiring soul, + Doomed in suspense to mourn, + Now let thy moments calmly roll, + Now let thy peace return. + Why should'st thou let a doubt disturb + Thy hopes which daily rise, + And urge thee on to trust his word, + Who built and rules the skies? + + When Murder sent her hopeless cries, + More dreadful through the gloom, + And kindling flames did round thee rise, + Deep harvests to consume. + Who was it led thee through the wood, + And o'er the ensanguined plain, + Unseen by ambushed sons of blood, + Who track'd thy steps in vain. + + 'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears, + And bade my infants play, + To give an opiate to my fears + And cheer the lonely way. + And in the doubly dreadful night, + When my Abella died, + When horror-struck--detesting light, + I sunk down by her side; + + When winged for flight my spirit stood, + With this fond thought beguiled, + To lead my charmer to her God, + And there to claim my child. + Again his mercy o'er my breast + Effus'd the breath of peace, + Subsiding passion sunk to rest, + He bade the tempest cease. + + Oh, let me ever, ever praise + Such undeserved care, + Though languid may appear my lays, + At least they are sincere. + It is my joy that thou art God, + Eternal and supreme; + Rise, Nature--hail the power aloud, + From whom Creation came. + + + + + BALLAD. + BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. + + "La rose cueillie et le coeur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour." + + The maiden sat at her busy wheel, + Her heart was light and free, + And ever in cheerful song broke forth + Her bosom's harmless glee. + Her song was in mockery of love, + And oft I heard her say, + "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, + Can charm but for a day." + + I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, + And her lip so full and bright, + And I sighed to think that the traitor love, + Should conquer a heart so light: + But she thought not of future days of wo, + While she carroled in tones so gay; + "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, + Can charm but for a day." + + A year passed on, and again I stood + By the humble cottage-door; + The maid sat at her busy wheel, + But her look was blithe no more: + The big tear stood in her downcast eye, + And with sighs I heard her say, + "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, + Can charm but for a day." + + Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye, + And made her cheek so pale; + The maid had forgotten her early song, + While she listened to love's soft tale. + She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, + It had wasted her life away: + And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, + Had charmed but for a day. + + + + + FORGETFULNESS. + + BY MISS ELIZABETH S. BOGART. + + We parted--friendship's dream had cast + Deep interest o'er the brief farewell, + And left upon the shadowy past + Full many a thought on which to dwell. + Such thoughts as come in early youth, + And live in fellowship with hope; + Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, + Unfitted with the world to cope. + + We parted--he went o'er the sea, + And deeper solitude was mine; + Yet there remained in memory, + For feeling, still a sacred shrine. + And thought and hope were offered up + Till their ethereal essence fled, + And disappointment, from the cup, + Its dark libations poured, instead. + + We parted--'twas an idle dream + That _thus_ we e'er should meet again; + For who that knew man's heart, would deem + That it could long unchanged remain. + He sought a foreign clime, and learned + Another language, which expressed + To strangers the rich thoughts that burned + With unquenched power within his breast. + + And soon he better loved to speak + In those new accents than his own; + His native tongue seemed cold and weak, + To breathe the wakened passions' tone. + He wandered far, and lingered long, + And drank so deep of Lethe's stream, + That each new feeling grew more strong, + And all the past was like a dream. + + We met--a few glad words were spoken, + A few kind glances were exchanged; + But friendship's first romance was broken, + His had been from me estranged. + I felt it all--we met no more-- + My heart was true, but it was proud; + Life's early confidence was o'er, + And hope had set beneath a cloud. + + We met no more--for neither sought + To reunite the severed chain + Of social intercourse; for nought + Could join its parted links again. + Too much of the wide world had been + Between us for too long a time; + And he had looked on many a scene, + The beautiful and the sublime. + + And he had themes on which to dwell, + And memories that were not mine, + Which formed a separating spell, + And drew a mystic boundary line. + His thoughts were wanderers--and the things + Which brought back friendship's joys to me, + To him were but the spirit's wings + Which bore him o'er the distant sea. + + For he had seen the evening star + Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves, + And marked the moonbeams from afar, + Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves. + And he had gazed on trees and flowers + Beneath Italia's sunny skies, + And listened, in fair ladies' bowers, + To genius' words, and beauty's sighs. + + His steps had echoed through the halls + Of grandeur, long left desolate; + And he had climbed the crumbling walls, + Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate; + And mused o'er many an ancient pile, + In ruin still magnificent, + Whose histories could the hours beguile + With dreams, before to fancy lent. + + Such recollections come to him, + With moon, and stars, and summer flowers; + To me they bring the shadows dim + Of earlier and of happier hours. + I would those shadows darker fell-- + For life, with its best powers to bless, + Has but few memories loved as well, + Or welcome as _forgetfulness_. + + + + + ON SHIP-BOARD. + + BY THEODORE S. FAY. + + Now freshening breezes swell the sail, + Now leans the vessel to the gale; + So slant her deck, you have to cling + A moment to the nearest thing; + So far she bends into the deep, + Across her deck the white waves sweep; + Bursts through the flood the pointed prow, + That loves the startled foam to throw, + And thunders on before the wind, + Long breaks of whirl and froth behind; + And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm, + The captain mutters, "mind your helm!" + At night, when stormy shadows fall, + "All hands on deck," the captain's call. + Darkness around, save when below + Dim light the bursting billows throw-- + And heave the waves, and beats the rain-- + The labouring vessel groans with pain; + Strains--lurches--thunders--rocks and rolls, + We smile--but tremble in our souls! + Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud, + And rings the tempest long and loud; + But sweet the change, when tranquilly + In sunshine sleep the air and sea. + Pen may not paint each magic dye + On the soft wave and sunny sky, + When comes the charming silent eve, + And gentle billows idly heave. + The liquid floor bends smooth and bright, + Like molten silver to the light; + Till, as the western clouds enfold + The fiery sun, it turns to gold, + And then a thousand colours, straying + From heaven to earth, and sweetly playing + Upon the ocean's giant breast, + Compose his savage soul to rest. + And thus, within the human mind, + When waves are hushed and still the wind, + When passion's storm has passed away, + And vice no more obscures the day, + The beams of virtue and of love + Break softly, falling from above, + O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine, + And calm them with a power divine. + + + + + TO THEMIRA. + + BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. + + [_Written with French chalk[Q] on a pane + of glass in the home of a friend._] + + On this frail glass, to others' view, + No written words appear; + They see the prospect smiling through, + Nor deem what secret's here. + But shouldst thou on the tablet bright + A single breath bestow, + At once the record starts to sight + Which only thou must know. + + Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gaze + My heart seemed unimpress'd; + In vain did beauty round me blaze, + It could not warm my breast. + But as one breath of thine can make + These letters plain to see, + So in my heart did love awake + When breath'd upon by thee. + + + + + EVENING. + + [_From the Backwoodsman._] + + BY JAMES K. PAULDING. + + 'Twas sunset's hallow'd time--and such an eve + Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. + Never did brighter glories greet the eye, + Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: + Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold + More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. + Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast + Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, + Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, + By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, + Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign, + Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. + Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, + Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, + All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, + While hands unseen, or chance directs their way; + Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, + With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, + Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen + Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, + At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, + The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. + Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, + And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade; + The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, + And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds. + Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm, + The silent dews of evening dropt like balm; + The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, + To chase the viewless insect through the skies; + The bat began his lantern-loving flight, + The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, + Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, + His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear; + The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, + With idle hum, and careless blundering eye; + The little trusty watchman of pale night, + The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, + And took his merry airy circuit round + The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, + Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew, + In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew. + + + + + THOUGHTS ON PARTING. + + BY JOHN INMAN. + + Yes! I will hope, though fortune's stern decree + From all I love commands me soon to part; + Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of me + Shall sometimes find a place in every heart, + Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art-- + Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness, + Such as to feel bids bitter tears to start + From eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless? + + It cannot be that love like that which fills + My soul for them, should be bestowed in vain, + When but the fear that they forget me, chills + Each pulse and feeling--as the wintry rain + Chills earth and air, which yet may glow again + In summer's beams--but what can joy restore + To bosoms upon which that blight has lain? + From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more. + + For them I would have done--but let me not + Such thoughts recall--could service e'er repay + The blessings their companionship has wrought?-- + With them too swiftly passed the time away, + On pleasure's wings--weeks dwindled to a day, + And days to moments--such the charm they cast + O'er every scene, and such their gentle sway, + Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last. + + To them I turned, as Iran's tameless race + Toward their refulgent God looked till the last, + And died still gazing on his radiant face;-- + Alas! the spring-time of my year is past-- + From them afar my line of life is cast, + And I must wander now like one that's lost-- + A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast, + And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd. + + Oh no, it cannot be that grief like this + Should be reserved to blight my coming years-- + That moments of such almost perfect bliss + Should be succeeded by an age of tears-- + Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears; + I'll meet the future with undaunted eye, + Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers, + Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky. + + + + + THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. + + [_Translated from the Italian._[R]] + + BY SAMUEL L. MITCHELL.--1796. + + Borne to the rocky bed's extremest brow, + The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;-- + To join the whirlpool deep and vast below, + The saltless ocean hurries through the straits. + + Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n, + Dashes in air;--dissolving vapours press'd + Confound the troubled elements with heav'n:-- + Earth quakes beneath;--heart trembles in the breast. + + With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock, + To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie; + And all my senses feel a horrid shock + As down the steep I turn my dizzy eye. + + On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime, + Leaving the world and nature's works behind; + And as the pure empyreal heights I climb, + Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind. + + + + + CANZONET. + + BY J. B. VANSCHAICK. + + When motes, that dancing + In golden wine, + To the eyes' glancing + Speak while they shine-- + Then, the draught pouring, + Love's fountain free, + Mute, but adoring, + I drink to thee. + + When sleep enchaineth, + Sense steals away-- + Dream, o'er mind reigneth + With dark strange sway-- + One sweet face floateth + Sleep's misty sea, + Th' unconscious heart doateth + On thee--on thee. + + + + + THE PENNSYLVANIAN IMMIGRANT. + + [_From the Backwoodsman._] + + BY J. K. PAULDING. + + Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land, + Unheeded pass'd our little roving band, + --For every soul had something here to do, + Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view-- + By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide, + In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side, + And York and Lancaster--whose rival rose + In this good land, no bloody discord knows. + Not such their fate!--the ever grateful soil + Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil; + Richer and rounder every year he grows, + Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows + Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly, + Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky; + Before he sells, the market's sudden fall, + Or sudden rise, when sold--still worse than all! + Calmly he lives--the tempest of the mind, + That marks its course by many a wreck behind; + The purpose high that great ambition feels, + Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals, + But never in his sober waking thought + One stirring, active impulse ever wrought. + Calmly he lives--as free from good as blame, + His home, his dress, his equipage the same; + And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot + What once he was, or what he once was not-- + An honest man, perhaps,--'tis somewhat odd + That such should be the noblest work of God! + So have I seen, in garden rich and gay, + A stately cabbage waxing fat each day; + Unlike the lively foliage of the trees, + Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze, + Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around, + Upon its clumsy stem is ever found; + It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm, + And stands unmoved in one eternal calm. + At last, when all the garden's pride is lost + It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost, + And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end, + From which detested dish, me heaven defend! + + + + + LAKE GEORGE.--1829. + + BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD. + + I stood upon the shore, + And looked upon the wave, + While I thought me o'er and o'er + HERE SLEEP THE BRAVE! + + The shadow of the hills, + The azure of the flood, + The murmuring of the rills + Recall a scene of blood. + + When the war-cry filled the breeze, + And the rifle and the bow + Were like leaves upon the trees, + But did not daunt Munro! + + 'Mid the thunders of the train, + And the fires that flashed alarm! + And the shouts that rent the plain, + To battle rush'd Montcalm! + + But the red cross floats no more + Upon the ruin'd walls, + And the wind sighs on the shore, + Like the noise of waterfalls. + + And the spirit of the hour + Is as peaceful as yon wave, + While pleasure builds its bower + O'ER THE ASHES OF THE BRAVE. + + + + + CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. + + [_From the Backwoodsman._] + + BY J. K. PAULDING. + + Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day, + And bright and early had been on his way. + But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, + Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. + One endless chaos spread before his eyes, + No vestige left of earth or azure skies, + A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere, + Hid the green fields and silent all the air. + As look'd the traveller for the world below, + The lively morning breeze began to blow, + The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, + And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. + As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, + Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, + New objects open to his wondering view + Of various form, and combinations new. + A rocky precipice, a waving wood, + Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, + Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, + Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, + Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, + Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold. + So when the wandering grandsire of our race + On Ararat had found a resting place, + At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, + Mingling on every side with one blue sky; + But as the waters, every passing day, + Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, + Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep + From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, + Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, + Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, + Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole + Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. + Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, + In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, + Within the silent world, some living thing, + Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, + Or man, or beast--alas! was neither there, + Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air; + 'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay, + Whose occupant was drown'd the other day; + A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom + Amid the melancholy of the tomb; + A charnel house, where all the human race + Had piled their bones in one wide resting place; + Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, + And sadly sought the lifeless world below. + + + + + THE CLOUDS. + + BY GEORGE D. STRONG. + + How beauteous o'er the blue expanse + Pencilling their shadows on the evening sky, + The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfold + Their heaven wove tapestry: + Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun, + Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won! + + Behold! behold them now! + Tossing their gold-edged tresses on the breeze! + Gliding like angels o'er the star-gemmed floor + To heavenly symphonies! + While distant seen, like hope to faith's clear view, + Sleeps in calm splendour the cerulean blue! + + Ere yet imagination's wand + Has traced the vision on the teeming brain, + The fleeting pageant floats in mist, away + Beyond the billowy main: + But forms more beauteous wing again their flight, + While eve reposes on the lap of night. + + Yon castellated tower + As proudly cuts its turrets on the sky, + As if the portals of its airy halls + Blazoned with heraldry! + And who shall say, but in its chambers glide + Pale courtier's shadows--disembodied pride? + + The mimic ship unfolds + Her swelling canvass on the airy main; + And horsemen sweep in graceful circles o'er + Th' etherial plain: + While forms of light unknown to mortals here, + People in myriads the celestial sphere! + + And many-coloured flowers, + Changing their hues with every passing breeze, + Crown the far summits of the mountain steeps; + The shadowy trees + Fling their gigantic branches wide and far, + Dimming the lustre of full many a star. + + How oft in childhood's hour + I've watched the cloudlets pale the evening beam, + While the bright day-god quenched his waning fires + In ocean, pool, and stream. + Oh, then the clouds were ministers of joy + To the rapt spirit of the dreamy boy! + + Mother and sister! Ye + Have passed from earth like suns untimely set! + Do ye not look from yonder throne of clouds + Upon me yet, + Beckoning me now, with eager glance to come + To the bright portals of your heavenly home? + + Skeptic! whose chilling creed + Would chain the spirit to life's bounded span, + Learn from the clouds that _upward_ poise their wing, + To value _man_! + Nor deem the soul divested of its shroud-- + Less glorious in its essence than a _cloud_! + + + + + THE TORNADO. + + [_From the Backwoodsman._] + + BY J. K. PAULDING. + + Now down the mountain's rugged western side, + Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied, + Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast + The rolling fragments of the mountain rest; + Rocks tumbled on each other by rude chance, + Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance, + Through which a brawling river braved its way, + Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray. + Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world, + In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd, + Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke, + Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak; + With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side, + And arms extending round them far and wide, + They look'd coeval with old mother earth, + And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth. + There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base, + Our tired adventurers found a resting place; + Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow, + The little bevy nestled snug below, + And with right sturdy appetite, and strong, + Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along. + The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree, + And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee; + The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were, + Or heeded not the strange intruders there, + Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race + In that sequester'd mountain 'biding place; + For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend, + Man never makes the rural train his friend; + Acquaintance that brings other beings near, + Produces nothing but distrust or fear: + Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know, + And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow, + As thus in blithe serenity they sat, + Beguiling resting time with lively chat, + A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear, + Each moment waxing louder and more near, + A dark obscurity spread all around, + And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground, + While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd, + And not a sound but that low moan was heard. + There is a moment when the boldest heart + That would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart, + That never shrunk from certain danger here, + Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear; + 'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh, + And heaven itself seems threatening from on high. + Brave was our Basil, as became a man, + Yet still his blood a little cooler ran, + 'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear, + That every moment wax'd more loud and near. + The riddle soon was read--at last it came, + And nature trembled to her inmost frame; + The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak, + In writhing agonies the storm bespoke, + The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere, + Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air; + The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around, + The stoutest trees a stouter master found, + Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go, + And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below: + Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd, + Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd, + And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore + The gather'd spoils of earth along its shore, + While trees that not an hour before had stood + The lofty monarchs of the stately wood, + Now whirling round and round with furious force, + Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force, + And shiver like a reed by urchin broke + Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke; + A hundred cataracts, unknown before, + Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar, + And as with foaming fury down they go, + Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below; + Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung, + Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue, + While many a sturdy oak that stiffly braved + The threatening hurricane that round it raved, + Shiver'd beneath its bright, resistless flash, + Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash. + Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power, + And struggle for the mastery of the hour; + Higher the waters rose, and blacker still, + And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill. + + + + + TO A LADY. + + BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.--1804. + + Thy dimpled girls and rosy boys + Rekindle in thy heart the joys + That bless'd thy tender years: + Unheeded fleet the hours away; + For, while thy cherubs round thee play, + New life thy bosom cheers. + + Once more, thou tell'st me, I may taste, + Ere envious time this frame shall waste, + My infant pleasures flown. + Ah! there's a ray of lustre mild, + Illumes the bosom of a child, + To age, alas! scarce known. + + Not for my infant pleasures past + I mourn; those joys which flew so fast, + They, too, had many a stain; + But for the mind, so pure and light, + Which made those joys so fair, so bright, + I sigh, and sigh in vain. + + Well I remember you, bless'd hours! + Your sunbeams bright, your transient showers! + Thoughtless I saw you fly; + For distant ills then caus'd no dread; + Nor cared I for the moments fled, + For memory call'd no sigh. + + Fond parents swayed my every thought; + No blame I feared, no praise I sought, + But what their love bestowed. + Full soon I learn'd each meaning look, + Nor e'er the angry glance mistook + For that where rapture glowed. + + Whene'er night's shadows called to rest, + I sought my father, to request + His benediction mild. + A mother's love more loud would speak; + With kiss on kiss she'd print my cheek, + And bless her darling child. + + Thy lightest mists and clouds, sweet sleep! + Thy purest opiates thou dost keep, + On infancy to shed. + No guilt there checks thy soft embrace, + And not e'en tears and sobs can chase + Thee from an infant's bed. + + The trickling tears which flow'd at night, + Oft hast thou stay'd, till morning light + Dispell'd my little woes. + So fly before the sunbeam's power + The remnants of the evening shower + Which wet the early rose. + + Farewell, bless'd hours! full fast ye flew; + And that which made your bliss so true + Ye would not leave behind. + The glow of youth ye could not leave; + But why, why cruelly bereave + Me of my artless mind? + + Fond mother! hope thy bosom warms, + That on the prattler in thy arms + Heaven's choicest gifts may flow. + Thus let thy prayer incessant rise + To Him, who, thron'd above the skies, + Can feel for man below. + + "Oh! Thou, whose view is ne'er estrang'd + From innocence, preserve unchang'd + Through life my darling's mind; + Unchang'd in truth and purity, + Still fearless of futurity, + Still artless, though refin'd. + + "As oft his anxious nurse hath caught + And sav'd his little hand that sought + The bright, but treacherous blaze; + So, let fair Wisdom keep him sure + From glittering vices which allure, + Through life's delusive maze. + + "Oh! may the ills which man enshroud, + As shadows of a transient cloud, + But shade, not stain my boy. + Then may he gently drop to rest, + Calm as a child by sleep oppress'd, + And wake to endless joy." + + + + + SPRING IS COMING. + + BY JAMES NACK. + + Spring is coming, spring is coming, + Birds are chirping, insects humming; + Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, + Streams escaped from winter's keeping. + In delighted freedom rushing, + Dance along in music gushing, + Scenes of late in deadness saddened, + Smile in animation gladdened; + All is beauty, all is mirth, + All is glory upon earth. + Shout we then with Nature's voice, + Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! + + Spring is coming, come, my brother, + Let us rove with one another, + To our well-remembered wild wood, + Flourishing in nature's childhood; + Where a thousand flowers are springing, + And a thousand birds are singing; + Where the golden sunbeams quiver + On the verdure-girdled river; + Let our youth of feeling out, + To the youth of nature shout, + While the waves repeat our voice, + Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! + + + + + FROM A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN, + AFTER HAVING HAD HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM. + + BY C. C. MOORE. + + This semblance of your parent's time-worn face + Is but a sad bequest, my children dear: + Its youth and freshness gone, and in their place + The lines of care, the tracks of many a tear! + + Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure + Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave: + We pant for somewhat that may still endure, + And snatch at least a shadow from the grave. + + Poor, weak, and transient mortals! why so vain + Of manly vigour or of beauty's bloom? + An empty shade for ages may remain + When we have mouldered in the silent tomb. + + But no! it is not _we_ who moulder there; + We, of essential light that ever burns, + We take our way through untried fields of air, + When to the earth this earth-born frame returns. + + And 'tis the glory of the master's art + Some radiance of this inward light to find; + Some touch that to his canvass may impart + A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. + + Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show + But some faint shadow of a transient thought, + Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow, + Some swift impression in its passage caught. + + Oh! that the artist's pencil could pourtray + A father's inward bosom to your eyes; + What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, + What aspirations for your welfare rise. + + Then might this unsubstantial image prove, + When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, + A friend for ever urging you to move + In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. + + Let fond imagination's power supply + The void that baffles all the painter's art; + And when those mimic features meet your eye, + Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart. + + Think that you still can trace within those eyes + The kindling of affection's fervid beam, + The searching glance that every fault espies, + The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. + + Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, + Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, + The warning voice, or precepts that may raise + Your thoughts above this treach'rous world of ill. + + And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power; + To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend: + Not the companion of an idle hour, + But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend. + + + + + THE MITCHELLA. + + BY S. L. MITCHELL. + + [The Mitchella is a very delicate flower, a native of our + woods, and although originally named from another botanist + called Mitchell, was always a great favourite of Dr. S. L. Mitchell. + The "double nature" alluded to in the poem refers to the fact of the + flowers uniformly growing in pairs.] + + Sequestered safe beneath the sylvan bow'rs, + Lo! fair Mitchella spends her joyous hours. + The double nature on her form bestow'd + Displays a winning and peculiar mode. + With lilac wreath her beauteous front is grac'd, + A crimson zone surrounds her slender waist; + A robe of green trails sweeping o'er the ground, + And scents ambrosial fill the air around-- + Thus Proserpine o'er Enna's precincts stray'd + Till gloomy Dis surpris'd the unthinking maid. + From Earth to Tartarus transferr'd, in vain + She intercedes her native home to gain. + Jove grants in part her pray'r: above to know + One half the year, the rest to pass below: + And Ceres sees her daughter's two-fold mien, + On Earth a nymph, in Pluto's realms a queen. + + + + + A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. + + BY CLEMENT C. MOORE. + + 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house + Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; + The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, + In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; + The children were nestled all snug in their beds, + While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads; + And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, + Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap-- + When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, + I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter: + Away to the window I flew like a flash, + Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. + The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, + Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. + When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, + But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, + With a little old driver, so lively and quick, + I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. + More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, + And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; + "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! + On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen-- + To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! + Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" + As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, + When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, + So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, + With the sleigh full of toys--and St. Nicholas too. + And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof + The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. + As I drew in my head, and was turning around, + Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. + He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, + And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot; + A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, + And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack. + His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! + His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; + His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, + And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. + The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, + And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. + He had a broad face and a little round belly + That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. + He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf; + And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. + A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, + Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. + He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, + And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jirk, + And laying his finger aside of his nose, + And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. + He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, + And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; + But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, + "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" + + + + + ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY + WHOSE HEALTH WAS IMPAIRED BY THE AGUE AND FEVER. + + BY A. L. BLAUVELT.--1805. + + Dark minister of many woes, + That lov'st the sad vicissitude of pain, + Now shivering 'mid Antarctic snows, + Now a faint pilgrim on Medina's plain. + Say, can no form less fair thy vein engage? + Must feeble loveliness exhaust thy rage? + Oh, mark the faltering step, the languid eye, + And all the anguish of her burning sigh: + See the faintly struggling smile, + See resignation's tear the while; + So to the axe the martyr bends his form, + So bends the lovely lily to the storm. + Still though, sweet maid, thy yielding bloom decays, + And faint the waning tide of rapture strays, + Oh, may'st thou 'scape griefs more envenom'd smart, + Nor ever know the ague of the heart. + For rising from the sun bright plain, + The _bended_ lily blooms again; + But ah! what life imparting power + Can e'er revive the _broken_ flower? + + + + + THE GIFTS OF PROVIDENCE. + + BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.--1747. + + Oft on the vilest riches are bestow'd, + To show their meanness in the sight of God. + High from a dunghill see a Dives rise, + And, Titan-like, insult the avenging skies: + The crowd in adulation calls him lord, + By thousands courted, flatter'd, and adored: + In riot plunged, and drunk with earthly joys, + No higher thought his grovelling soul employs; + The poor he scourges with an iron rod, + And from his bosom banishes his God. + But oft, in height of wealth and beauty's bloom, + Deluded man is fated to the tomb! + For lo, he sickens, swift his colour flies, + And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes: + Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan, + Extort the unwilling tear, and wish him gone; + His sorrowing heir augments the tender shower, + Deplores his death--yet hails the dying hour. + Ah, bitter comfort! sad relief to die! + Though sunk in down, beneath a canopy! + His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light, + Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night: + And now the great, the rich, the proud, the gay, + Lies breathless, cold--unanimated clay! + He that just now, was flatter'd by the crowd + With high applause and acclamation loud; + That steel'd his bosom to the orphan's cries, + And drew down torrents from the widow's eyes; + Whom, like a God, the rabble did adore-- + Regard him now--and lo! he is no more. + + + + + FROM A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE. + + BY C. C. MOORE. + + The dreams of Hope that round us play, + And lead along our early youth, + How soon, alas! they fade away + Before the sober rays of Truth. + + And yet there are some joys in life + That Fancy's pencil never drew; + For Fancy's self, my own dear wife, + Ne'er dreamt the bliss I owe to you. + + You have awaken'd in my breast + Some chords I ne'er before had known; + And you've imparted to the rest + A stronger pulse, a deeper tone. + + And e'en the troubles that we find + Our peace oft threat'ning to o'erwhelm, + Like foreign foes, but serve to bind + More close in love our little realm. + + I've not forgot the magic hour + When youthful passion first I knew; + When early love was in its flower, + And bright with ev'ry rainbow hue. + + Then, fairy visions lightly moved, + And waken'd rapture as they pass'd; + But faith and love, like yours approved, + Give joys that shall for ever last. + + A spotless wife's enduring love, + A darling infant's balmy kiss, + Breathe of the happiness above; + Too perfect for a world like this. + + These heaven-sent pleasures seem too pure + To take a taint from mortal breath; + For, still unfading, they endure + 'Mid sorrow, sickness, pain, and death. + + When cruel Palsy's withering blow + Had left my father weak, forlorn, + He yet could weep for joy, to know + I had a wish'd-for infant born. + + And, as he lay in death's embrace, + You saw when last on earth he smil'd; + You saw the ray that lit his face + When he beheld our darling child.-- + + Strange, mingled scene of bliss and pain! + That, like a dream, before us flies; + Where, 'midst illusions false and vain, + Substantial joys are seen to rise.-- + + When to your heart our babes you fold, + With all a mother's joy elate, + I fondly think that I behold + A vision of our future state. + + Hope comes, with balmy influence fraught, + To heal the wound that rends my heart, + Whene'er it meets the dreadful thought + That all our earthly ties must part. + + Bless'd hope, beyond earth's narrow space, + Within high Heaven's eternal bound, + Again to see your angel face, + With all your cherubs clustering round. + + Oh! yes, there are some beams of light + That break upon this world below, + So pure, so steady, and so bright, + They seem from better worlds to flow. + + Reflected images are seen + Upon this transient stream of Time, + Through mists and shades that intervene, + Of things eternal and sublime. + + Then let us rightly learn to know + These heavenly messengers of love: + They teach us whence true pleasures flow, + And win our thoughts to joys above. + + And e'en when clouds roll o'er our head, + Still let us turn our longing eyes + To where Eternal Love has spread + The changeless azure of the skies. + + + + + PROPHETIC. + + [Lines written on the window-glass of an Inn in England + during the author's travels through Europe in 1774-5.] + + BY GULIAN VERPLANCK. + + Hail happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat; + Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great, + But wealth and power have no immortal day, + For all things ripen only to decay. + And when that time arrives, the lot of all, + When Britain's glory, power, and wealth shall fall; + Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchang'd decree + In other worlds another Britain see, + And what thou art, America shall be. + + + + + LINES + + [_Suggested by a Perusal of "The Life of Chatterton."_] + + BY A. L. BLAUVELT. + + And yet there are, who, borne on fortune's tide, + Down the smooth vale of time unconscious glide; + Ne'er dream of wretchedness when they repose, + Nor wake to other cares, to other woes. + And when the north wind rages through the sky, + Withhold from bleeding poverty a sigh; + Leave those to weep, who, torn from all held dear, + In want and silence shed the frequent tear; + Who, reared 'mid fortune's noon, ill brook the shade, + And feel with tenfold sense its damps invade; + Feel more than chilling frost neglects control, + And all the horrors of a wintry soul; + For ah; how oft from penury's cold grave, + Nor worth nor all the power of mind can save? + Condemned through life a ceaseless war to wage + With all the pride and dulness of the age; + Still vain each wish o'erwhelm'd, each hope elate, + Oft Genius sinks desponding to her fate, + Or moves the indignant pensioner of pride, + Her triumphs blazon, nor her spoils divide; + And, wrapt in chilling gloom, ne'er feels the day, + Taught by her hand round happier wealth to play. + Ah, stern decree! that minds whom Heaven inspires + With more than angel thought, than angel fires; + Whose virtues vibrate to the tenderest tone, + And wake to wo ere half her woes be known; + From the high boon a sterner fate derive, + And suffer most, to suffering most alive. + + + + + THE MAGIC DRAUGHT. + + [_Addressed to a young Lady who gave him + Seltzer water to drink._] + + BY DR. S. L. MITCHELL. + + Brisk sparkled the liquid, most lively and fine, + Transparent as amber, than crystal more pure, + Appearing those qualities rare to combine, + Adapted exactly his health to secure. + + Pursuant to order, he drank in a trice, + Full confidence in his physician he placed; + For who that is favour'd with lady's advice + Can ever refuse their prescriptions to taste? + + Unconscious what mischief within it might lurk, + He swallowed the doses again and again, + Till he fancied within him a manifold work, + Disturbing his heart and distracting his brain. + + Suspecting, at last, from his feelings unus'd, + A trick on his faith had been wantonly play'd, + "Some philter or potion" he swore "was infused, + Some magic or poison instilled by the maid." + + "Not this a Nepenthe the mind to compose, + Which Helen at Sparta employ'd in her feasts, + But a draught such as Circe, the sorceress, chose, + Transforming the drinkers to four-footed beasts." + + "Not a worse composition did Shakspeare behold, + Prepared in their cauldron by witches obscene, + Nor were drugs more detested, as Hayley has told, + Commix'd by the fiends when they conjur'd up Spleen." + + Thus railing and raving, awhile he went on, + Bethinking he soon must his testament make, + When lo! all the terrible symptoms were gone, + And his woful conjecture turn'd out a mistake. + + No water from Seltzer the vessel contain'd, + Nor has Pyrmont or Spa such a remedy known; + For she candidly, since the prescription, explain'd, + Prepar'd by a process entirely her own. + + The tears which at church on Good Friday she shed, + After Easter was over, had fairly been dry'd, + But the 'kerchief on which she supported her head + Was laid with the precious effusion aside. + + This 'kerchief, to bleech in the sunshine was plac'd, + And expos'd to the weather by night and by day; + With snow-flakes of April was often incas'd, + And moisten'd as often by dew-drops of May. + + In ether's high region, where thunders prevail, + Those drops by explosion's electric were form'd, + Had once in descending been frozen to hail, + And twice in the rainbow's refraction been warm'd. + + Collecting these drops on their fall from above, + With myrtle's quintessence she tinctur'd the mass; + Then breath'd in the mixture the spirit of love, + And blessing, enclos'd it securely in glass. + + This potent elixir, he plainly observes, + Of his head and his heart has pervaded the whole; + Excites every fibre, and quickens the nerves, + With sweet agitation delighting the soul. + + Yet he fears its effects on his temper and health + Will make him his toilsome exertions disclaim; + No more be devoted to projects of wealth, + Nor seek to be crown'd with the laurels of Fame. + + Nay--an antidote sovereign he long has possess'd, + His affections from spells and enchantments to free; + No foreign intruder can enter a breast, + Pre-occupied, heart winning S----h by thee. + + + + + IMPROMPTU. + + [_On Miss ----'s paying the tribute of a + tear to a scene of distress._] + + BY JACOB MORTON.--1790. + + Soft as the dews of evening skies + Which on the flow'ret's bosom fall, + Were those sweet tears in Anna's eyes + Which wak'd at pity's gentle call. + + Ah! may that tender, feeling heart, + Where thus sweet sympathy doth glow, + Ne'er feel the pang of sorrow's dart, + Nor sigh--but for _another's_ wo. + + + + + APPEAL + + TO A CERTAIN GREAT MAN, WHO HAS QUESTIONED + CERTAIN REVEALED TRUTHS. + + BY A. L. BLAUVELT.--1805. + + Thou talk'st of _Reason's_ unassisted eye: + Lift then thy darling Reason to the sky,-- + Paint, if thou wilt, the unincumber'd mind, + Vast in its powers, and in its views refin'd; + To truth aspiring on the wings of day, + And spanning systems with a godlike sway. + The portrait you have formed you dread to own, + And Guilt's deep blushes o'er its shades are thrown: + For has the Almighty thus inform'd the race, + His _truth_ to question and his laws deface? + Bestow'd a mind the Eternal's mind to blame, + And _Reason's_ deathless force, His reason to defame? + As well might Jove's imperial bird defy + The Power that made him soar, because he soars so high. + + + + + LINES + + TO A DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GOVERNOR CLINTON. + + BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK.--1829. + + And thou, fair flower of hope! + Like a sweet violet, delicate and frail, + Hast reared thy tender stem beneath an oak, + Whose noble limbs o'ershadowed thee. The damp + Cold dews of the unhealthy world fell not + On thee; the gaudy sunshine of its pomp + Came tempered to thine eye in milder beams. + The train of life's inevitable ills + Fell like the April rain upon the flowers, + But thou wert shielded--no rude pelting storms + Came down unbroken by thy sheltering tree. + + Fallen is the oak, + The monarch of a forest sleeps. Around, + The withered ivy and the broken branch + Are silent evidence of greatness past, + And his sweet, cherished violet has drunk + The bitter dews until its cup was full. + And now strange trees wave o'er it, and the shade + Of weeping-willows and down-swaying boughs + Stretch toward it with melancholy sorrow-- + All sympathizing with the drooping flower. + And years shall pass ere living trees forget + That stately oak, and what a fame he shed + O'er all the forest, and how each was proud + That he could call himself a kindred thing. + + Long may the beauty of that violet + Grow in the soil of hearts; till, delicate, + Yet ripened into summer loveliness, + A thousand branches all shall contending cast + Their friendly shadows in protection there! + + + + + THE SON OF SORROW. + + TO MYRA. + + BY A. L. BLAUVELT. + + When deep despondence gathers into shade, + And grief unfeign'd calls fiction to her aid-- + Paints through the vista of expected years, + Hours clad with wo and visions dim with tears-- + The past and future one large waste of gloom-- + Here mem'ry's madness, there oblivion's tomb; + No ear to list, no voice to soothe despair, + And even death is deaf to sorrow's prayer. + Oh! say, sweet minstrel, (for thy sighs I know + Are wont to mingle with the sighs of wo,) + Where shall the hope-deserted pilgrim fly + To live too wretched, and too weak to die? + Perhaps, e'en now, impassion'd and sincere, + The sigh of beauty steals upon his ear-- + Soft as the sky-wove theme of viewless lyres, + That soothe his spirit when the saint expires: + And oh! perhaps, ere quite dissolv'd in air, + That sigh may breathe oblivion to despair; + Melt o'er the throbbing string in Myra's lay, + Till wo, enraptur'd, bears herself away. + + + + + PORTRAITURE. + + [_From "Vice, a Satire," 1774._] + + BY GULIAN VERPLANCK. + + _Ob_: 1799. + + Go, learn thou this: From regulated Sense + Is all our bliss--from sober Temperance. + How much, Oh Temperance! to thee we owe, + What joys sincere from thy pure fountains flow; + Life's most protracted date derives from thee + A calm old age, and death from anguish free. + Doth Death affright thee with his dread parade, + The hearse slow moving, and the cavalcade? + Go, early learn its terrors to despise, + Read virtue's lesson, and in time be wise. + Enough of crimes on these Heav'n's vengeance wait, + Let Satire aim at faults of humbler state. + Whoe'er observes, will find in human race + More difference of character than face; + Some nice, odd turns, in all th' observer strike, + Each his peculiar has, nor find we two alike. + Blest with each art that soothes the ills of life, + A quiet mind, not made for noise and strife; + In whose fixed calm no jarring powers contend, + Design'd to act as husband, father, friend; + Had Philo been content with what was given, + And, truly wise, enjoy'd on earth his heav'n: + Philo had lived--but lived unknown to fame; + Had died content,--but died without a name. + No, Philo cried, be glorious praise my care, + Nor let this name be mix'd with common air; + For this he wastes the weary hours of night, + Leaves peace to fools, and banishes delight; + Nature in vain throws in her honest bars, + The wretch runs counter to himself and stars; + In vain--for lost no character he seems, + And Philo does not live, but only dreams. + Others there are, who to the shade retire, + Who'd shine if nature would the clods inspire, + And, as she gave them parts, would give them fire; + But languid bodies, scarce informed with soul, + In one dull round their vacant moments roll; + Heavy and motionless as summer seas, + They yawn out life in most laborious ease; + Passions, half formed, in their cold bosoms lie, + And all the man is sluggish anarchy. + Yet wits, and wise, when some small shocks awake, + As when the surface of some stagnant lake, + Urged by the action of the busy air, + Breaks its thick scum, and shows the bottom clear. + Who knows not Florio? sweet, enraptured elf! + Florio is known to all men but himself. + Him folly owned the instant of his birth, + And turned his soul to nonsense and to mirth; + Nor boasts a son, in all her dancing crowd, + So pert, so prim, so petulant, and proud. + Mixture absurd and strange! we find in him + Dulness with wit, sobriety with whim; + A soul that sickens at each rising art + With the mean malice of a coward's heart. + So milky soft, so pretty, and so neat, + With air so gentle, and with voice so sweet; + What dog-star's rage, what maggot of the brain, + Could make a fop so impudently vain, + To throw all modesty aside, and sit + The mighty censor of the works of wit? + Say, wretch! what pride could prompt thee to bestow + Abuse on power, the greatest power below; + The Muse's power? That power thyself shall know: + Her pen shall add thee to the long, long roll + That holds the name of every brother fool. + Of various passions that divide the breast, + Pride reigns supreme and governs all the rest; + Its form is varied, but to all supplied + In equal shares, however modified. + Blest source of action, whose perpetual strife + With sluggish nature, warms us into life; + Thou great first mover, 'tis alone from thee + That life derives its sweet diversity. + Yet hapless he, whose ill-directed pride + With soft seduction draws his steps aside + From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite; + With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height. + Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose, + A friend's defection, and the spleen of foes. + Black calumny invents her thousand lies, + And sickly envy blasts him if he rise-- + He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules, + Must think and act no more like other fools: + For him no more that social ease remains + Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains; + Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen, + To search for faults it spares in other men. + How shall he wish in vain, once more his own, + That hour when free, and to the world unknown, + Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown. + + + + + THE FAREWELL. + + BY JOHN I. BAILEY. + + Oh! leave me still thy tender heart, + Though love's delirious reign is over; + I, too, will act the traitor's part-- + Cordelia-like, become a rover. + No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine, + That beam as sweetly on another, + Save with the feelings pure that twine + Around the bosom of a brother. + + Loved smiles! that once around me shone, + And waked to feelings of devotion; + Thy sway is past, thy charm is gone-- + Thou art resigned without emotion. + No more to charm my wildered dream, + Or hope's delusive joys to heighten; + O'er my lone heart thy cheerless beam + Falls, but has lost the power to brighten. + + The auburn ringlets of thy hair + May twine as graceful still, and let them-- + Those locks were once as loved as fair, + Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them. + Yes! I could view those curls entwine + Around another's hand that wreath'd them; + Unmoved, recall those tones divine, + Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them! + + Thy form no longer wears the spell, + As when a lover's dreams it haunted; + Nor can affection fondly dwell + On every grace that once enchanted. + Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain; + Go! yield thy charms to bless another; + I would not seek their wiles again, + I only ask--to be thy brother. + + + + + SONNET TO MYRA. + + BY A. L. BLAUVELT. + + How sad the exile from his native skies + Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell-- + No ear to catch his penitential sighs, + No voice to soothe him in his last farewell. + Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore, + And gazes anxious on the main + Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign + Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more; + Then horror climbs the dusky wave, + And beckons madness to her grave, + Where, cradled by the surge to rest, + Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest." + Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms; + Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms. + + + + + TO CORDELIA. + + BY JOHN J. BAILEY. + + Smile not, sweet girl, 'tis even so-- + Cordelia, smile not unbelieving; + My words, though not so sweet, I know, + As thine, were never _so_ deceiving. + + And if I _must_ be sworn to prove + That I have said sincerely, thereby, + I'd choose thy brow, so formed for love, + To be the book I'd kissing swear by. + + Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vain-- + I value not thy frowns a feather-- + 'Tis not thy nature to retain + An unkind thought for hours together. + + I envy not thy lover's joys, + Nor flattering smiles that so endear them; + Thy brittle chains caprice destroys; + Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them? + + Yes! I could give thee many a name + Of those who've waked thy tender bosom; + A flame succeeding still to flame, + Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em. + + Content to wound that bosom too, + That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee; + Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true, + What joy could ranging thus afford thee? + + I trust an angel's form thou'lt wear + E'er I ascend to yonder Heaven; + Or I a tale could give in there, + Would leave thee lost and unforgiven. + + + + + SONG.--WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE + ROUND THEE. + + BY G. P. MORRIS. + + When other friends are round thee, + And other hearts are thine; + When other bays have crowned thee, + More fresh and green than mine. + Then think how sad and lonely + This wretched heart will be; + Which, while it beats--beats only, + Beloved one! for thee. + + Yet do not think I doubt thee; + I know thy truth remains, + I would not live without thee + For all the world contains. + Thou art the star that guides me + Along life's troubled sea, + And whatever fate betides me, + This heart still turns to thee. + + + + + DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. + + BY WILLIS G. CLARK. + + Young mother, he is gone, + His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast, + No more the music tone + Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest; + His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee, + Earth must his mother and his pillow be. + + His was the morning hour, + And he hath passed in beauty from the day, + A bud not yet a flower; + Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray, + The death wind swept him to his soft repose, + As frost in spring-time blights the early rose. + + Never on earth again + Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, + Like some Æolian strain, + Breathing at even-tide serene and clear; + His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes + The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies. + + And from thy yearning heart, + Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, + A gladness must depart, + And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; + While lonely memories, an unceasing train, + Will turn the raptures of the past to pain. + + Yet, mourner, while the day + Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, + And hope forbids one ray + To stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky, + There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom + A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb. + + 'Tis from the better land: + There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, + Thy lov'd one's wings expand, + As with the quoiring cherubim he sings; + And all the glory of that God can see, + Who said on earth to children, "Come to me." + + Mother! thy child is blest; + And though his presence may be lost to thee, + And vacant leave thy breast, + And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee-- + Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed, + Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last. + + + + + ELEGY ON THE EXILE AND DEATH OF OVID. + + [_Translated from the Latin of Angelus Politianus._] + + BY FRANCIS ARDEN.--1821. + + A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side, + Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds, + Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide, + The poet of the tender loves infolds. + + Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee, + That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood, + Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty, + Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood? + + Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase, + His weary minutes of disease away, + His frigid limbs upon the couch to place, + Or with sweet converse to beguile the day. + + One who would mark the throbbing of his veins, + The lotion's aid with ready hand apply, + Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains, + Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh. + + None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome, + From Pontus far detains his early friends, + Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home, + Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends. + + But the wild Bessi of enormous limb, + And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there; + Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim, + Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear. + + Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread, + His savage succours on the bard bestow'd; + The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led, + Borne to his horse's back a reeling load. + + The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eye + Deep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound, + Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky, + With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound. + + Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep, + The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow, + The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep, + And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow. + + Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore, + And Ister wails amid his waters' bed, + And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er, + Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed. + + There with the Paphian mother in swift haste, + The light-winged Doves through airy regions came, + With pious care the blazing torches plac'd + Beneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame. + + Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful sway + Consum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn, + His cherish'd relics they collect, and lay + In decent order in the cover'd urn. + + With this short verse the stone they next impress: + (The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,) + "He who sepulchred lies in this recess, + Was teacher of the tender art of love." + + Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand, + Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round, + And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's band + Pour strains my lays may not attempt to sound. + + + + + NAPOLEON. + + BY ISAAC CLASON.--1825. + + I love no land so well as that of France-- + Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne, + Renowned for valour, women, wit, and dance, + For racy Burgundy and bright Champagne, + Whose only word in battle was advance; + While that Grand Genius, who seemed born to reign, + Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birth + From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth, + + Greater than he who wore his buskins high, + A Venus armed impressed upon his seal; + Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy, + Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel. + Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sigh + As Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel," + Exclaiming, as he expired "Et tu, Brute," + But Brutus thought he only did his duty. + + Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, + On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate; + Who with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, + With feelings no reverse could moderate; + With talents such as few would dare engage, + With hopes that no misfortune could abate-- + Died like his rival--both with broken hearts; + Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's. + + Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall live + Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; + And if Eternity's confines can give + To space reverberation round and round + The spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive + Napoleon," in thunders shall rebound; + The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, + Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky! + + What though on St. Helena's rocky shore + Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, + Perhaps that son, the child thou did'st adore, + Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd + To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore + Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consum'd; + Perhaps may run the course thyself did'st run, + And light the world as comets light the sun. + + 'Tis better thou art gone, 'twere sad to see + Beneath an "imbecile's impotant reign" + Thine own unvanquished legions doomed to be + Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain; + That land so glorious once in chivalry, + Now sunk in slavery and in shame again; + To see th' imperial guard, thy dauntless band, + Made tools for such a wretch as _Ferdinand_. + + Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past; + No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; + But France, unhappy France shall long contrast + Thy deeds with those of worthless _D'Angoulême_. + Ye gods! how long shall Slavery's thraldom last? + Will France alone remain for ever tame? + Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington, + Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon? + + Is Freedom dead? is Nero's reign restored? + Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz; + The first, which made thy emperor the lord + Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits + _Great_ Frederick William; he, who, at the board + Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; + Frederick, the King of regimental tailors, + As _Hudson Lowe_, the very prince of jailors. + + Farewell, Napoleon! had'st thou have died + The coward scorpion's death, afraid, asham'd + To meet Adversity's advancing tide, + The weak had praised thee, but the wiser had blam'd; + But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, + With spirit unsubdued, with soul untam'd, + Great in misfortune as in glory high, + Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony. + + Pity, for thee shall weep her fountains dry; + Mercy, for thee shall bankrupt all her store; + Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, + And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er; + Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, + And smiling seraphs open wide Heav'n's door; + Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, + And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. + + Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell, + A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; + No craven Gaul dare wake his harp to tell, + Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. + No more thy name, that with its magic spell + Arous'd the slumb'ring nations of the earth, + Echoes around thy land; 'tis past--at length + France sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth. + + + + + THE BUTTERFLY. + + BY R. C. SANDS. + + [_From the French of De la Martine._] + + Born with the spring, and with the roses dying, + Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing, + On the young flowret's opening bosom lying, + Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling, + Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing, + And fading like a breath in boundless heaven,-- + Such is the butterfly's enchanted being; + How like desire, to which no rest is given, + Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure, + Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure. + + + + + FRAGMENT. + + BY ISAAC CLASON.--1825. + + He who has seen the red-forked lightnings flash + From out some bleak and tempest-gathered cloud, + And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash + Bursting in peals terrifically loud; + He who has marked the maddened ocean dash + (Rob'd in its snow-white foam as in a shroud,) + Its giant billows on the groaning shore, + While death seem'd echoed in the deaf'ning roar; + + He who has seen the wild tornado sweep + (Its path destruction, and its progress death,) + The silent bosom of the smiling deep + With the black besom of its boisterous breath, + Waking to strife the slumbering waves that leap + In battling surges from their beds beneath, + Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves + Like buried giants from their restless graves:-- + + He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, + Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood. + But Nature's warfare passes by degrees; + The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude. + The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, + The scowling sky throws by her cloud-capt hood, + The infant lightnings to their cradle creep, + And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep. + + But there are storms whose lightnings ever glare, + Tempests whose thunders never cease to roll-- + The storms of love when madden'd to despair, + The furious tempests of the jealous soul, + That kamsin of the heart which few can bear, + Which owns no limit and which knows no goal, + Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, + Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck. + + + + + LOVE'S REMEMBRANCER. + + BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. + + And is this all remains of thee, + Beloved in youth so well? + Of all the charms that threw o'er me + Affection's sweetest spell-- + The eye that beamed with light of mind, + The heart so warm and so refined, + This only left to tell? + Yet well does it recall again + The form beloved--alas! in vain. + + Sad relic! but few months are fled + Since thou didst grace the brow + Of her, who in death's marble bed + Is coldly sleeping now! + And when I leave my native home + O'er ocean's pathless waste to roam, + With many a whispered vow + Did she this raven tress confer, + And called thee, Love's Remembrancer. + + I placed thee next my throbbing heart, + Where soon I hoped to fold + The maid of whom alone thou art + All I can e'er behold! + And often, on the moonlight sea, + I've stolen a glance of love at thee, + While pleasure's tear-drop rolled + To think I should soon cross the main, + And meet my love--no, ne'er again! + + At last our bark return'd once more + O'er ocean's heaving breast; + And lightly on my native shore + My thrilling footsteps pressed: + With breathless haste I sought the form + That, day and night, through calm and storm, + Had been my bosom's guest-- + I sought--but ah! the grave had closed + Above that form, in death reposed! + + Dear gift! when now thou meet'st my gaze, + What burning thoughts arise! + O, how the soul of other days + Comes gushing from mine eyes! + I do not weep o'er pleasures fled; + Nor mourn I that the loved one's dead: + But when remembrance flies + Back o'er the scenes of early years, + In vain would I suppress my tears! + + I weep--yet scarce know why I weep-- + For I would not recall + That being from her dreamless sleep-- + I would not lift the pall + That shrouds her cold and pulseless breast-- + No! if a word could break her rest, + And give back life, love, all + That once made life so bright, so dear, + I could not--could not--wish her here! + + Now let the tempest pour its wrath + On my devoted head! + The clouds that lower upon my path + Cannot disturb the dead: + And oh! 'tis something still to know, + Howe'er mine eyes with anguish flow, + No tears can e'er be shed + By her, who, snatched in loveliest bloom, + Lies mouldering in an early tomb. + + Life's burden I have learned to bear, + But I would bear alone, + Nor have one other heart to share + The pangs that rend my own! + Yes, yes, loved pledge! where now nay view + Is fixed upon the raven hue, + It softens sorrow's moan + To know--whate'er 'tis mine to brave-- + Affliction cannot pierce the grave! + + + + + TO THE DYING YEAR. + + BY J. G. BROOKS. + + Thou desolate and dying year! + Emblem of transitory man, + Whose wearisome and wild career + Like thine is bounded to a span; + It seems but as a little day + Since nature smiled upon thy birth, + And Spring came forth in fair array, + To dance upon the joyous earth. + + Sad alteration! now how lone, + How verdureless is nature's breast, + Where ruin makes his empire known, + In Autumn's yellow vesture drest; + The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet + Broke on the breath of early day, + The summer flowers she loved to greet; + The bird, the flowers, Oh! where are they? + + Thou desolate and dying year! + Yet lovely in thy lifelessness + As beauty stretched upon the bier, + In death's clay cold, and dark caress; + There's loveliness in thy decay, + Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, + Like memory's mild and cheering ray + Beaming upon the night of ill. + + Yet, yet, the radiance is not gone, + Which shed a richness o'er the scene, + Which smiled upon the golden dawn, + When skies were brilliant and serene; + Oh! still a melancholy smile + Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, + To charm the eye a little while, + Ere ruin spreads his mantle there! + + Thou desolate and dying year! + Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, + How often love hath shed the tear, + And knelt beside the bed of death; + How many hearts that lightly sprung + When joy was blooming but to die, + Their finest chords by death unstrung, + Have yielded life's expiring sigh, + + And pillowed low beneath the clay, + Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn; + The proud, the gentle, and the gay, + Gathered unto the mouldering urn; + While freshly flowed the frequent tear + For love bereft, affection fled; + For all that were our blessings here, + The loved, the lost, the sainted dead! + + Thou desolate and dying year! + The musing spirit finds in thee + Lessons, impressive and serene, + Of deep and stern morality; + Thou teachest how the germ of youth, + Which blooms in being's dawning day, + Planted by nature, reared by truth, + Withers like thee in dark decay. + + Promise of youth! fair as the form + Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, + Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, + And sheds a light on every wo; + Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue, + A tone of melody is given, + As if her magic voice were strung + With the empyreal fire of Heaven. + + And love which never can expire, + Whose origin is from on high, + Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire, + From the pure fountains of the sky; + That ray which glows and brightens still + Unchanged, eternal and divine; + Where seraphs own its holy thrill, + And bow before its gleaming shrine. + + Thou desolate and dying year! + Prophetic of our final fall; + Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear, + Thy beauties shrouded in the pall; + And all the garniture that shed, + A brilliancy upon thy prime, + Hath like a morning vision fled + Unto the expanded grave of time. + + Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight, + How all life's phantoms fleet away; + The smile of hope, and young delight, + Fame's meteor beam, and Fancy's ray: + They fade; and on the heaving tide, + Rolling its stormy waves afar, + Are borne the wreck of human pride, + The broken wreck of Fortune's war. + + There in disorder, dark and wild, + Are seen the fabrics once so high; + Which mortal vanity had piled + As emblems of eternity! + And deemed the stately piles, whose forms + Frowned in their majesty sublime, + Would stand unshaken by the storms + That gathered round the brow of Time. + + Thou desolate and dying year! + Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; + Like evening shadows disappear, + And leave the spirit to repine. + The stream of life that used to pour + Its fresh and sparkling waters on, + While Fate stood watching on the shore, + And numbered all the moments gone:-- + + Where hath the morning splendour flown, + Which danced upon that crystal stream? + Where are the joys to childhood known, + When life was an enchanted dream? + Enveloped in the starless night, + Which destiny hath overspread; + Enroll'd upon that trackless flight + Where the death wing of time hath sped! + + Oh! thus hath life its even-tide + Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; + And thus divested of its pride, + It withers like the yellow leaf: + Oh! such is life's autumnal bower, + When plundered of its summer bloom; + And such is life's autumnal hour, + Which heralds man unto the tomb! + + + + + NEW-YORK: + Printed by SCATCHERD & ADAMS, + No. 38 Gold Street. + + + + + FOOTNOTES: + ____________ + + + [A] Goethe and his Faust. + [B] Cuvier. + [C] Spurzheim. + [D] Scott. + [E] Champollion. + [F] Crabbe. + [G] Jeremy Bentham. + [H] Adam Clarke. + [I] The Duke of Reichstadt. + [J] Charles Carroll. + [K] Not the sportsman's favourite (_scolopax minor_) of our Atlantic + shores, but the large crested woodpecker, so called in the + western counties. + [L] Or "Lake Kau-na-ong-ga," meaning literally "_two wings_." White + Lake, which is the unmeaning modern epithet of this beautiful + sheet of water, is situated in the town of Bethel, Sullivan + County, N. Y. It is in the form of a pair of huge wings expanded. + [M] The Rev. James W. Eastburn, by whom, in conjunction with + Mr. Sands, the poem of Yamoyden was written, + in separate portions. + [N] _Hesiod. Theog._ 1. 1. 60. 30. + [O] It may perhaps, to some, appear incongruous thus to mingle Heathen + musicians among the Hebrews; but it is believed the incongruity + will disappear on a moment's reflection upon the history and + character of Herod the Great. His expeditions to Rome, Greece, + and Syria, &c., were frequent, and he was not scrupulous in the + introduction of games, sports, and gorgeous customs of the + oriental nations, to heighten the effect of his own pageants. + He built and rebuilt divers Heathen temples, and among them the + Temple of Apollo, in Greece. Some historians deny that he was a + Jew; but say that he was originally the guardian of the Temple + of Apollo at Askalon, who, having been taken prisoner among the + Idumeans, afterwards turned Jew. + [P] These lines, so musical in the original, and susceptible of + equally melodious translation, were penned by the unfortunate + Mary a few hours before her execution. + [Q] The substance usually called French chalk has this singular + property, that what is written on glass, though easily rubbed + out again so that no trace remains visible, by being breathed + on becomes immediately distinctly legible. + [R] The above lines were translated by Dr. Mitchell, in October 1796, + from the Italian of Dr. Gian Baptista Scandella, an accomplished + gentleman, who afterwards, in September 1798, fell a victim to + the yellow fever in the city of New York, just as he had finished + his American tour, and was on the eve of embarking for Europe. + + + _____________________________________________________________ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The New-York Book of Poetry, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42769 *** |