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diff --git a/42769.txt b/42769.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2d3a643..0000000 --- a/42769.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9464 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The New-York Book of Poetry, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The New-York Book of Poetry - -Author: Various - -Release Date: May 22, 2013 [EBook #42769] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW-YORK BOOK OF POETRY *** - - - - -Produced by Katherine Ward, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - THE - NEW-YORK BOOK - OF - POETRY. - - _______________ - - "Patriae 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 - Luetzow'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, _aet._ 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, _aet._ 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 Acheloeus 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, _aet._ 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, aet. 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, aet. 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 Caesars 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 garcon, 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 Thermopylae 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, aet. 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 Mnemosyne; - 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 louering 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 CAYOSTEA. - - BY ROBERT BARKER. - - _Ob: 1831, aet. 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. - - - - - LUeTZOW'S WILD CHASE. - - [_Translated from the German of Koerner._] - - 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 Luetzow'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 Luetzow'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 Luetzow'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 Luetzow'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 Luetzow'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 Luetzow'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: aet. 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 AEgean 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: aet. 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 AEneas 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 misere. - 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 gagne 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 AEolian 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'Angouleme_. - 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 THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW-YORK BOOK OF POETRY *** - -***** This file should be named 42769.txt or 42769.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/7/6/42769/ - -Produced by Katherine Ward, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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