- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
OL I AT T A 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 
 HOWARD H. CALDWELL 
 
 REDFIELD 
 
 34 BEEKMAN STREET, NEW YORK 
 18 55 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 J. S. REDFIELD, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 
 
 latofoarti ©. Hmftt'ns, printer, 
 A w v '2 S Frankfort Street. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Oliatta, .-.--.. i 
 
 "L 'Envoi," ------ 84 
 
 EVADNE, ----- - 87 
 
 The Shadow of the Cross, ----- 96 
 
 The Fall of the Leaf, ----- 103 
 
 The Last Sigh of the Moor, - 107 
 
 Mary Stuart's Farewell, - - - - 116 
 
 Lines on the Death of F. M. N., - - - 120 
 
 The Swallows, ------- 125 
 
 Chant of Azrael, ------ 128 
 
 The Dying Christian, - - - - - 186 
 
 The Tomb and the Rose, - - - - - 138 
 
 Artemisia, ------- 139 
 
 Tiirenodia, ------- 145 
 
 Aiden — Where is it ? - - - - 153 
 
 Tovg yap davovreg 158 
 
 Memories of the Locust, ----- 161 
 
 Again to Thee, ------ 166 
 
 Song from Marmontel, ------ 169 
 
 The Cyprus Wine, ------ 171 
 
 The Daughter of O'Taiti, - - - - - 177 
 
 Souvenir, ------- 184 
 
 The Prisoner, - - - - - - - 187 
 
 Regret, ------- 190 
 
 Egeria of my Heart, ------ 193 
 
 The Butterfly, - - - - - - 195 
 
 Midnight Musing, ------ 196 
 
INTRODUCTION TO OLTATTA 
 
INTRODUCTION TO OLIATTA. 
 
 In the summer of 1851, I was passing my college 
 
 vacation at the pleasant village of A n. One 
 
 evening, in a party of young ladies, a strangely wild 
 and striking melody was sung by one of them. Upon 
 procuring the words, I found them to be in keeping 
 with the music. This ballad seems to be founded 
 upon some legend of the Dismal Swamp, else it would 
 certainly be one of the most incomprehensible of 
 modern ballads, which is surely saying a great deal. 
 Here it follows : — 
 
 " Come to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 I wait in my light canoe, 
 The pale moon-beams dim my fire-fly lamp, 
 And my drink is the midnight dew. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The ghost of the warrior chief I see, 
 As he calls for his maiden bride ; 
 
 And I hear the moan of the cypress tree, 
 Where the maid by his arrow died ! 
 
 Come ! let us sail in my phantom barque, 
 
 And sport in its fox-fire light, 
 Chase the swift bat with our meteor spark, 
 
 'Till the sun drinks the dews of night. 
 We'll glide o'er the waters blithe and gay, 
 
 Tho' the murderer's howl we hear ; 
 And we'll seek a cave for the sun-bright day, 
 
 Where we'll sleep 'till the stars appear! 
 
 Come to my barque, 'tis moored for thee, 
 And the whip-poor-will warbles — come ! 
 
 You will love, I am sure, his sad melody, 
 For it tells of your loved one's home. 
 
 My fire-fly lamp begins to burn dim, 
 And the morn-star is shining bright ; 
 
INTRODUCTION. O 
 
 Then away, away, o'er the lake I skim, 
 And bid thee, dearest, good-night I" 
 
 Wherever I have sung this wild ballad, the ques- 
 tion has been asked, What does it mean ? On replying 
 to a young lady, that it was a labyrinth without a clue, 
 she begged me to weave one. " Oliatta" is the result 
 of my compliance. 
 
 The above-quoted ballad resembles Moore's well- 
 known " Lake of the Dismal Swamp," not only in 
 matter, but the identical phrases are employed, such 
 as "fire-fly lamp," "meteor spark," "light canoe." 
 "cypress tree," &c, &c. So great a resemblance is 
 there, that at first sight one might suppose that this 
 latter ballad were only a sort of song-copy of Moore's. 
 Here follows the ballad alluded to: — 
 
 " THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP." 
 
 " They tell of a young man who lost his mind on the 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 death of a girl he loved ; and who suddenly disappearing 
 from his friends, was never afterward heard of. As he 
 frequently said in his ravings that she was not dead, but 
 gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed that he had 
 wandered to that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, 
 or been lost in some of its dreadfal morasses." 
 
 " La Poesie a ses rnonstres, comme la Nature. 1 ' 
 
 " They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a soul so warm and true : 
 And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swam}), 
 Where all night long, with a fire-fly lamp, 
 
 She paddles her light canoe. 
 
 And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
 
 And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
 Long and loving our life shall be, 
 And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
 
 When the footstep of death comes near. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, 
 
 His path was rugged and sore ; 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
 And many a fen where the serpent feeds, 
 
 And man never trod before. 
 
 And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 
 
 If slumber his eye-lids knew, 
 He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
 Its venemous tear, and nightly steep 
 
 The flesh with blistering dew ! 
 
 And near him the she- wolf stirred the brake, 
 And the copper snake breathed in his ear, 
 'Till- he starting, cried, from his dream awake, 
 ' Oh ! when shall I see the dusky lake, 
 And the white canoe of my dear V 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 
 
 Quick o'er its surface played — 
 ' Welcome !' he cried, ' my dear one's light !' 
 And the dim shore echoed for many a night, 
 
 The name of the death-cold maid. 
 
 Far, far he followed the meteor spark, 
 'Till he hollowed a boat of birchen bark, 
 
 Which carried him off from shore ; 
 The wind was high, and the clouds were dark, 
 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 
 
 This lover and maid so true, 
 Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
 To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, 
 
 And paddle their white canoe !" 
 
 Moore s Works, p. 168. 
 
INTRODU CTION. 9 
 
 It will be observed that there are two things hinted 
 at in the first-quoted ballad, which are not at all 
 explained by this one of Moore : to wit, the mention 
 of "a ghost of a warrior chief," who seems to be the 
 same as he who is spoken of in the "murderer's 
 howl;" and secondly, a right, real or imaginary, 
 which the murderer aforesaid seems to have had as to 
 the " maiden bride." Hence, it was deemed a pretty 
 good task for my invention to supply a story which 
 would explain away these things. 
 
 This species of composition is neither new nor rare. 
 It was to a task of this nature that we are indebted 
 for Praed's "Lillian," which was written to render 
 reasonable by a story, the odd lines, 
 
 " A dragon's tail is flayed to warn 
 A headless maiden's heart." 
 
 In a higher circle, the old notion of a human being, 
 1* 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 delivered over to Satan to be tempted, (of which Job 
 seems to be the original,) has given to the world, in 
 attempted elncidation ; this catalogue of sublime re- 
 mits: the "Doctor Faustus" of Marlowe; " Faust" of 
 Goethe; "Festus" of Bailey; and, more recently, the 
 " Golden Legend" of Prof. Longfellow. 
 
 It is only at the solicitation of many, who have a 
 right to direct me in such matters, that I suffer this 
 volume to appear in print. Any hopes of Fame or 
 Profit, grounded on such a volume as this, would be 
 built upon the sand; and the reader will trust me 
 when I say, that for the few who love me, and 
 the many whom I love, this volume is prepared. 
 
 This unpretending collection scarcely can be said 
 to lay itself open to the investigation of criticism, for, 
 so far from challenging it, I most earnestly deprecate 
 any such calamity ! If the reader is pleased or enter- 
 tained, he may say so, and it will be agreeable, very 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 agreeable, to the author to know it. If not, remember 
 that no pretensions are set up for you to annihi- 
 late ! 
 
 Gentle reader, I commit my firstling to your tender 
 mercies. 
 
OLIATTA. 
 
" In the neighborhood of Norfolk, and lying south of it 
 and Portsmouth, about eight miles, is an extensive marsh, 
 called by the forbidding name of the ' Dismal Swamp] 
 rendered familiar to English readers by the beautiful ballad 
 of T. Moore. The principal trees found in this swamp are 
 cypress and juniper. The greater part of the swamp is 
 covered with impenetrable thickets of reeds, grass, and 
 bushes." — Buckingham's America. 
 
 " It looks like a grand avenue, surrounded on either side 
 by magnificent forests. The trees here, cypress, juniper? 
 oak, pine, &c, are of enormous size, and richest foliage ; 
 while below is a thick entangled undergrowth of reeds, 
 woodbines, grape vines, mosses, and creepers, shooting and 
 spirally twisted around, interlaced and complicated, so as 
 almost to shut out the sun." — Howe's Historical Collections of 
 Virginia. 
 
OLIATTA. 
 
 " When star-light is beaming o'er valley and grove, 
 
 And the whip-poor-will sings by the nest, 
 When stilly and calm lies the azure above, 
 
 And a purple tint glows in the west ; 
 When zephyr is stealing the breath of the flowers, 
 
 And the grove is as calm as the grave, 
 We come, with full hearts, to the juniper bowers, 
 
 To sing Him, the mighty to save ! 
 And as in full chorus our voices shall swell, 
 
 Eocks far shall reecho again, 
 'Till the sound of the song fills valley and hill, 
 
 And Nature shall answer — Amen ! 
 Thou God of our sires, whose hand was our guide 
 
 In the storms of a death-rolling sea, 
 
18 OLIATTA. 
 
 We gather in prayer at the calm eventide, 
 
 To lift np our voices to Thee ! 
 Here, here in thy temple of flowerets and trees, 
 
 We send up our offerings of praise, — 
 The heart's pure devotions, thou knowest but these- 
 
 Heart-incense alone do we raise. 
 Here, none may molest or make us afraid — 
 
 Here, hearts beat devotion all free ! 
 Our altar the turf, our temple the shade, 
 
 We kneel, Freedom's God, unto Thee I" 
 — The sound of the voices is hushed o'er the hill, 
 
 And the night-wind alone may be heard, 
 Save where from the ash, the lone whip-poor-will 
 
 His sad plaintive melody poured. 
 The group of the exiles sat by their rude cot, 
 
 All silently dreaming of home — 
 Each long- vanished joy, each bliss-hallowed spot, 
 
 Each bower and hall, every tomb. 
 
OLI AT T A . 
 
 19 
 
 The father and mother, whose silvery hair 
 
 O'er low-stooping shoulders fell free, 
 And the youth, on whose brow were no traces of care, 
 
 All were dreaming of scenes far away. 
 There, too, sat a woman, whose pale, joyless face 
 
 Told of sorrow, the conqueror there. 
 In eyes, once so bright, every tear left a trace, 
 
 And the widow's cap crowned her dark hair. 
 Ah ! when on the deep, with him by thy side, 
 
 Home was left, and its memories dear, 
 Then, Agatha! thou wast a bright happy bride, 
 
 And joy gave thee each crystal tear. 
 When a storm in the breast of th' Atlantic arose, . 
 
 And the winds whistled wildly around ; 
 O'er the dark billows the frail vessel goes, 
 And waves rolling high, upward bound 
 O'er the deck, and now Ulric's lithe form disappears— 
 His voice is soon lost in the storm ; 
 
20 O L I A T T A . 
 
 Far, far o'er the deep, the wild billow bears, 
 
 While the foam hides his struggling form. 
 "When night had departed, and the sun came out glad, 
 
 And the waters from storm- winds were free, 
 The bride of a week had a widow been made, 
 
 And her hopes buried in the dark sea ! 
 Now, hopeless, and joyless, at calm twilight hour 
 
 She dreamed of the days of past bliss ; 
 For pleasures of earth, when their raptures are o'er, 
 
 Do but darken the clouds of distress !* 
 Slowly now spoke the aged sire, — " Alas! 
 The home of my heart, the dear land of my birth 
 
 Lies far o'er yon waters away ; 
 The loveliest spot on this green sunny earth, 
 
 No more has a welcome for me. 
 
 * " ZrjXoJrog ev ye tu npiv AvSpofiaxr] XP 0V $ 
 
 Nvv d'ec rig aXXt] dvorvxeorepa x vvr \ 
 
 'Fijiov irecpvicev 7) %evr]<7ETai 7tot£." 
 
 Euripides. 
 
OLIATTA. 21 
 
 There stands the minster in which all my sires 
 
 Vowed their service of valor to God ! 
 — But I've seen, the last time, those heaven-pointing 
 spires, 
 
 Those dim aisles, the last time, I've trod. 
 No more shall the solemn Gregorian strain 
 
 Steal thro' the dim columns for me ; 
 — Oh, why must I dream of those places again, 
 
 When there I may ne'er again be? 
 I wander, with nothing to bind me to earth 
 
 Save you, dearest relics of joy ! 
 Must memory aye turn to the land of my birth, 
 
 All my visions of hope to destroy ?" 
 This, spoken in a slow desponding tone, 
 Brought tears to all, save Kudolpho's eyes alone, 
 When thus he spoke, with earnest flushing brow : 
 " Father ! this grief is worse than useless now. 
 When we the olive tree most sharply wound, 
 
22 OLIAT T A . 
 
 There flows a sweet, like which was never found ;* 
 
 The gall, when pressed, a poisonous stream doth flow :f 
 
 Thus, 'neath oppressing sorrow here below, 
 
 Holy and sweet the good man's silent tears, 
 
 While heaven-directed countenance he bears ; 
 
 But from the evil, bitterness alone 
 
 Comes from the heart where darkness holds the 
 
 throne ! 
 'Tis lonely here ; our friends are far away, — 
 Must, then, our life one hopeless sighing be ? 
 Dismiss these sad repinings ; hope again ! 
 Break memory's chords if all they yield is pain ! 
 Trusting in God, here let our little band 
 Find freedom's home — a better fatherland I" 
 
 * " The eleomili of the ancients, a sweet juice like honey, is said 
 to be got by wounding the olive tree." — History of Virginia, by a 
 Resident. London: 1*792. 
 
 f " The gall bush has a berry, which, when pricked, produces a 
 very black liquor." — Howe's Hist. Coll. 
 
O L I A T T A . 23 
 
 " But my heart, like the pole that will turn to the north, 
 
 Whatever its wanderings may be, 
 . Must turn to that land, while I'm wandering forth, 
 Nor that love may transfer to aught other of earth, 
 
 'Tis the heart's Mecca still unto me !" 
 Then sweetly swelled from out the tangled wood, 
 A hymn of calm and faithful gratitude. 
 
 — 'Tis the hour of the tryst — Rudolpko, away, 
 
 Now hastens the dark shadows thro', 
 To the spot where the white rocks are covered with 
 spray, 
 
 And the flowerets are glistening with dew. 
 The willows bend low o'er the flowery bank, 
 
 To shelter the jessamine's bloom — 
 The white lilies droop, in the streamlet to drink, 
 And in the clear water they rise now, now sink, 
 
 As they catch the blue violet's perfume, 
 
24 OLIATTA. 
 
 Around spreads a carpet of moss o'er the spot, 
 
 And mimosa buds "blushing lie there — 
 The dark bays encircle the flowery grot, 
 And almost all view from the woodland shut out, 
 
 Save when, waved the green creepers, in air. 
 As Eudolpho looked in, the light of the stars 
 
 Eevealed to his gaze a young girl, 
 With brow on her hand, with eyes full of tears, 
 
 While free o'er her neck fell each curl. 
 * " Oliatta! mine own, why is sorrow thy guest, 
 
 And the smiles from thy brow all departed ? 
 Is it doubt, is it fear in thy wild-heaving breast ? 
 
 Why art thou at this hour heavy-hearted?" 
 
 * Bartram relates a case (vide Travels, p. 109) of a white settler 
 who became desperately enamored of, and married an Indian 
 woman. After their marriage, she treated him with the greatest 
 brutality ; indeed, so much, that her own kindred persuaded him 
 to leave her. This he was utterly unable to do, so great was the 
 fascination with which he was possessed ! 
 
OLIATTA. 25 
 
 — "Kudolpho ! the pale-face may call me his love, 
 
 And his voice bid my tears to depart ; 
 Tho' he may forget, every hour in this grove 
 
 Leaves new love in Indian girl's heart. 
 Kudolpho ! think not that the child of the wood 
 
 Can forget, having once been so blest : 
 Thy love is my life, while ever the blood 
 
 Shall flow in the forest-girl's breast. 
 The Indian maiden forever will weep, 
 
 That the bliss she once knew is all o'er. 
 No years may this heart in forgetfulness steep, 
 
 But in dreams she will still love him more I" 
 — "As when I first loved thee, now even as then, 
 
 Oliatta ! my heart is thine own. 
 I press thy soft hand, I ask thee in vain, 
 
 Alas ! colder now thou hast grown " 
 
 — " Can the heart of the pale-face be true as he says, 
 
 Or with words a poor maid does deceive ? 
 2 
 
26 O L I ATT A . 
 
 Oh, often this heart for the death-quiet prays, 
 
 For no calm shall it know while I live !" 
 — "Wildly thou speakest, my own forest maid, 
 
 Nor yet can I dream why 'tis so : 
 Confide in Rudolpho, sure thou'rt not afraid 
 
 To trust me the secret" " No, no ! 
 
 To my lips as they tremble, now bend down thine ear, 
 
 While my heart breathes its sorrow to thee — 
 No, no ! go — be happy — the woe I will bear 
 
 'Twill be less, it will trouble but me." 
 " Oliatta," he cried, as his heart wildly beat, 
 
 " Speak not thus if thou love me at all. 
 But tell me — the danger together we'll meet." — 
 
 She turned, "list! the tale I'll recall — 
 Yesterday evening, Manischa, my sire, 
 
 Gave me unto a young hunter-brave, 
 
 
 The Indians call their best hunters, braves." — Hist. Virg. 
 
O L I A T T A . 27 
 
 Talligo — whose eye is as bright as the fire, 
 
 "Whose heart is as dark as the grave. 
 Talligo has said I am loved of his heart, 
 
 But Oliatta can never consent 
 To sit by his fire and bid thee depart, 
 
 — My heart for thy heart Heaven meant ! 
 But my father has said, and a poor girl like me, 
 
 What can poor Oliatta now do ? 
 And Talligo is base — he knows I love thee, 
 
 I told the brave that, long ago !" 
 — " Mine own forest-maid ! by the Dismal Swamp shore 
 
 I laid me down moaning to die — 
 But I woke to the sound of a swift-beating oar, 
 
 And the light of an Indian maid's eye. 
 Oliatta ! since then my heart has been thine, 
 
 I ask not, I wish not again ." 
 
 — "Hist!" she cried, "bend thee low, — there's a brave 
 by yon pine — " 
 
 A moment, and her warning were vain ! 
 
28 OLIATTA. 
 
 For e'en as she spoke in the violet bed 
 
 An arrow sunk deep in the ground, 
 Quick, up to the pine-grove Oliatta then sped, 
 
 And the lurking assassin there found. 
 " Talligo !" she cried, " an Indian brave 
 
 To steal on us thus, oh ! a shame " 
 
 — " By Manischa I'm sent his daughter- to save, 
 
 forgetful of nation and name. 
 And he who comes yonder, he surely shall die, 
 
 Oliatta loves Kudolpho too well. 
 Talligo with her to his wigwam will hie, 
 
 There happy the White-Kose will dwell." 
 " Talligo knows not Oliatta's deep love. 
 
 — For yon pale-face she'd joyfully die ! 
 And rather than living with thee to remove, 
 
 "With Eudolpho in death would she lie !" 
 The twang of a bow resounds o'er the hill, 
 
 An arrow now smites the brave low : 
 
O LI ATT A, 29 
 
 Sadly he moans, and his red blood the while 
 
 O'er the flowers does rapidly flow. 
 Eudolpho looked around — no form could he see, 
 
 And the bootless inquiry then leaving, 
 He hastened to where the young maid, by the tree 
 
 A bandage of wild herbs was weaving. 
 Oliatta now staunched the red blood with the weed 
 
 Of healing, that grew all around ; 
 They' bound it with willows and creepers with speed, 
 
 In speed and in silence profound. 
 Eudolpho looked up at the stars' fading light, 
 
 " Farewell — to-morrow eve meet me again — " 
 " Yes," answered she then, "I will be here with Night ;." 
 
 Then rising, she sought the wide plain. 
 Eudolpho now laid the young brave on the ground, 
 
 And applied a firm bandage of grass ; 
 Again with strong willow- withes wrapped it around, 
 
 And then hastened across the morass. 
 
30 O L I A T T A . 
 
 Now, on as he went thro' the deep-tangled mass, 
 
 A figure gigantic appeared. 
 He moved — the figure did instantly pass, 
 
 He looked — the huge head outward peered. 
 It seemed to be watching to see what he did ; 
 
 Now, he rose on a tuft, and with haste 
 Then beckoned to it, with a beck it replied, 
 
 And moved on as Kudolpho now passed. 
 Determined to solve it, he hastened across 
 
 O'er the rocks where the rivulet fell, 
 But ere his foot rested upon the green moss 
 
 The figure was gone like a spell ! 
 When Kudolpho returned, he beheld it again, 
 
 Moving, acting as he did ; then he 
 Knew at once 'twas the Mirage he followed in vain, 
 
 Then he passed thro' the woodland away. 
 " Thus," he mused, " thus do often dark shadows arise, 
 
 And the weak-hearted flee at the sight, 
 
O L I A T T A . 31 
 
 But the bold heart, that trusts not to fallible eyes, 
 Seeks the fact, and they fade into night. 
 
 E'en thus, o'er my pathway a cloud bendeth down, 
 Dark phantoms hang over the way, 
 
 But a firm heart can make a bright smile of a frown, 
 And the darkness but harbinger day ! * 
 
 * We had ridden only a few paces further when the hunters 
 uttered a sudden and simultaneous cry. A new object, an object 
 of terror, was before us. Along the mountain-foot appeared a string 
 of dark forms. They were mounted men ! We dragged our horses 
 to their haunches, the whole line halting as one man. " Indians !" was 
 the exclamation of several. " Indians they must be," said Seguin, 
 " there are no others here. Indians ! no — there never were such 
 men as these. See ! they are men ! Look at their long guns — 
 their huge horses — they are giants !" For a moment, I was awe- 
 struck like the rest ; only a moment. A sudden memory flashed 
 upon me — I thought of the Hartz mountains and their daemons ; 
 I knew that the phenomenon before us could be no other, an optical 
 delusion, a creation of the Mirage. I raised my hand above my 
 head, the foremost of the giants imitated my motion : I put spur 
 
32 L I A T T A . 9 
 
 I will forward ! and boldly the phantom will meet ! 
 
 If it be as the Mirage hath been, 
 It is well : — if not, at least 'twill be sweet 
 
 To know that no fear entered in ! 
 Dear maid of the woods ! far over the hills 
 
 Perchance thou art weeping for me : 
 While my heart to the core, convulsively thrills 
 
 With the love thou hast bid there to be. 
 The prayer thy heart sends, in my strength, gentle maid ! 
 
 Soon the phantoms shall vanish and die ! 
 A more blessed light shall follow the shade 
 
 That hangs o'er our love-lighted sky !" 
 
 As the maiden went, wearied she sat by a tree, 
 While the moon o'er her soft features played, 
 
 to my horse, and after a few springs I passed the refracting angle, 
 and like a thought the shadowy giants vanished into air."' — Scalp 
 Hunters of Mexico. 
 
L I A T T A . 33 
 
 Her locks, where the zephyrs were wandering free, 
 
 O'er a wild-beating bosom then strayed. 
 One hand on her breast, — a tear in her eye, 
 
 She gazed on the streamlet below, 
 While the whip-poor-will sang in the cypress tree nigh, 
 
 His melody plaintive and low. 
 "Yes! yes!" cried the maiden, "sing on, lonely bird! 
 
 My heart echoes aye to thy song." 
 The bird hushed his song as the soft voice he heard, 
 
 And flew off, the dark swamp-reeds among. 
 " Ah, thus!" sighed she then, "is it ever with me, 
 
 Scarce the dawn of a blessed hope comes 
 To cheer my lone path, ere it fleeteth away, 
 
 And to night my sad heart again dooms. 
 The bird, as I answered his melody sweet ; 
 
 Grieved that I should delight in the strain, 
 Flew off to the swamp, and his pinions too fleet 
 
 Bear him where I'll not hear him again ! 
 2* 
 
34 O L I A T T A . 
 
 Even so, as I learned to be glad in the heart 
 
 The pale-face had given me for mine, 
 Joy then all took wing, Hope then did depart, 
 
 And to sorrow my life doth consign. 
 I mourn him, for now he may never be mine, 
 
 And in darkness of heart henceforth, I, 
 In the soul's inmost chambers, that love will enshrine, 
 
 There, there to be still till I die ! 
 But, child of the Moon ! I see thee on high * 
 
 Warning, day is approaching again." 
 She dashed the bright tears from out her dark eye, 
 
 And hastened across the still glen. 
 
 All, all was silent at the exiles' cot, 
 While Agatha lay on her lonely bed : 
 
 * The morning star Yenus, they call " child of the moon.' 
 Squier's Serpent Symbol. 
 
O L I A T T A . 35 
 
 Peace o'er her sorrows spread her pinions not, 
 
 And tears that brought no hushing spell she shed. 
 Ulric and youth, — the love despite of friends, 
 
 The hasty marriage and the fatal wave : 
 The shadowy Past dark o'er her Present bends 
 
 Like some pale spectre from a loved one's grave. 
 With weeping now, and memory-opprest, 
 
 She all at once heard hasty steps without : 
 The sound raised no emotion in her breast, 
 
 And yet she listened, less in fear than doubt. 
 When lo ! the window opens, and a face 
 
 Peers thro' the moon-light in her darkened room : 
 At sight of which, all sorrow soon gives place 
 
 To wild emotions chasing all her gloom. 
 " Ulric!" she cried in low and trembling tone, 
 
 " Art thou the spirit of that loved one lost ? 
 Speak, heavenly messenger of that dear one, 
 
 Speak, or my heavy heart at once will burst!" 
 
36 OLIATTA. 
 
 — "Hist! listen now — I am no spirit, come 
 
 To warn or fright thee, — but still quick with love : 
 Not fresh with terrors from a mouldering tomb, 
 
 — Feel this warm heart, reality to prove !" 
 Now on his breast she laid her trembling hand, 
 
 And felt it beat and glow as ever warm — 
 " How didst thou ever find us in this land ? 
 
 — How didst thou ever buffet thro' that storm ? 
 — Why didst thou come at this lone midnight hour, 
 
 Nor meet thy father and thy kinsmen dear ?" 
 — u Hush ! bend thine ear, that I may whisper lower, 
 
 For 'tis a fearful tale to greet thine ear. 
 That last and awful storm you well recall. — 
 
 Listen ! I went upon the watery deck 
 To cheer the sailors, fear possessing all, 
 
 And, but for me, the ship had been a wreck. 
 The storm was fast subsiding, when I stood 
 
 Calmly reflecting, when your father came 
 
OLIATTA. 37 
 
 Near where I leaned, out-gazing on the flood 
 
 He eyed me sternly, — and then called my name. 
 I thought he wished to speak, so we conversed, 
 
 And while we spoke three of his servants came 
 And stood near me : I was surprised at first, 
 
 But evil from Ms hand I'd never dream. 
 I knew he loved me not, but wed to thee 
 
 I deemed all safe, altho' he ne'er approved, 
 And scowled e'en when he gave thy hand to me ; 
 
 — But what cared one so loving, so beloved ? 
 Fearless of danger from the waiting band, 
 
 I all unguarded, unsuspecting, stood, 
 "When, all at once, aloft he waved his hand, 
 
 They seized and cast me in the angry flood ! 
 There, while I floundered in the surging deep 
 
 I struck a log ; upon it then I lay, 
 It floated off, and every billow's sweep 
 
 Drifjed me further o'er the deep away. 
 
38 OLIATTA. 
 
 Next day I spied a sail afar away, 
 
 Hither I bent, and when on deck I rose 
 In fearful fever sunk. Ah ! many a day 
 
 I lay and tossed in wildly maddening throes. 
 A year I wandered up and down the coast 
 
 Seeking some news of where your sire went, 
 Almost I gave you up, forever lost, 
 
 When fortune led me by mere accident 
 To ask a sailor on yon beach, — I heard 
 
 Count Caspar here had come — / came /" 
 — Past, Present, Future, hang on every word, 
 
 And Grief and Joy alternate shade and beam. 
 "Whither, ah whither, Ulric, may we fly 
 
 In this lone land of forests dense and wide?" 
 — "Dearest! dismiss that sad desponding sigh, 
 
 I have a home prepared for thee, my bride ! 
 Far o'er the waters of the Dismal Swamp, 
 
 Beyond the wide lake's bosom ever blue, 
 
O L I A T T A . 39 
 
 Beyond the jungle of the reed- vines damp, 
 
 Stands our cottage where the roses grow. 
 There, no disturbers of our peace may be, 
 
 Come, best beloved one, Agatha ! oh come ! 
 Quick from this hated place forever flee 
 
 With love and me, to that calm woodland home ! 
 There close at hand some sturdy Saxons dwell, 
 
 Who lent their aid to rear our humble cot. 
 Let Hope new visions from the future call, 
 
 And be past tears in coming smiles forgot ! 
 Come, where the silent cottage waits for thee, 
 
 Thine is its blessing, all its joy be thine! 
 Come, let us haste — the Morn's twilight I see* 
 
 Dim thro' the shadow of yon arching pine." 
 " Ulric ! to-morrow evening come again, 
 
 Thou knowest I'm willing — then I'll be prepared, 
 
 * " Morning twilight." De Quincey, in his vision of sudden death, 
 employs this very expressive phrase. 
 
40 O L I A T T A . 
 
 Come thou, — and come as night begins to wane." 
 
 Farewells were said and Ulric disappeared. 
 E'en as he went, he heard a hasty step : 
 
 Down in the grass he dropped without delay, 
 Rudolpho passed, in meditation deep 
 
 Just home returning ere it should be day. 
 " Ah," murmured Ulric, " what does this thing mean? 
 
 Eudolpho musing at this hour!" He went, 
 And passing thro' the shadowy woodland, then 
 
 Toward the lake his hasty steps he bent. 
 
 Now Morn o'er the hills in full glory arose 
 When a brave found Talligo — so deep 
 
 Was the wound, and so fearful the throes. 
 
 He muttered and moaned, as in fiend-haunted 
 sleep ! 
 
 Hogee called loudly — he stirred not at all : 
 Then he bore him away o'er the plain ; 
 
O L T A T T A , 41 
 
 Arrived at the village, aloud did he call, 
 
 " Talligo, our brave ! he is slain!" 
 Manischa, the chief, heard the cries, and he came 
 
 To the place where the crowd gathered near, 
 He spoke to Talligo — but as one in a dream 
 
 The hunter seemed nothing to hear. 
 " Ilogee ! where found you Talligo as now?" 
 
 — "By the pine-grove he lay, as I went 
 To join in the hunt" — on Manischa's dark brow 
 
 A cloud gathered now as he bent 
 O'er the body of him, who so late was all life, 
 
 And he whispered some words in his ear : 
 Talligo moved then ; but the moment was brief 
 
 Ere he sunk again lifelessly there. 
 " Talligo was brave — a coward did this — 
 
 Manischa will burn the vile man !" 
 The leeches come now, — the mourners give place 
 
 And their wail they resume soon again. 
 
42 OLIATTA. 
 
 But of all who were there, Oliatta was not 
 
 'Till Manischa had bid her come near; 
 She came, and with bitter remembrances fraught 
 
 In her eyes stole a glistening tear : 
 " Talligo, Talligo ! awake from thy sleep, 
 
 Oliatta doth bid thee arise ! 
 When she calls will he still motionless keep?" 
 
 — A moan to her calling replies. 
 Now all his friends murmured in direst alarm 
 
 When this failure his suffering revealed. 
 Now, the sorcerer raised toward heaven his arm, 
 
 And there a black cloud they beheld. 
 He sat remote, nor yet had breathed a word, 
 
 Lip on his hand he gazed in silent mood. 
 Manischa called — the ashes then he stirred 
 
 And slowly said — "Manitou scents the blood!* 
 
 * This word, with very slight variation of form, was the universal 
 
O L I A T T A . 43 
 
 See there ! he frowns — a storm is just ahead, 
 
 Manitou's heart is sore against us now !" 
 He bent in silence when these words he said, 
 
 And stirred the ashes, with a lowering brow. 
 — Morn hath a glorious freshness in her sky 
 
 When clouds obscure not, and no tempests are : 
 But ah ! how drear when darkness from on high 
 
 Drops his black mantle o'er the rose-tints fair. 
 Now from the west 'the clouds roll darkly on, 
 
 And whistling winds are sweeping thro' the trees, 
 Now the dark curtain hides the morning sun, 
 
 And far and wide the vivid lightnings blaze. 
 Flash upon flash shows cloud come fast on cloud, 
 
 The thunders roll and echo back again ; 
 
 name for the Great Spirit among the North American Indians. 
 Squier tells us that it means literally " serpent" — as does the He- 
 brew seraph — i. e., Wisdom — " wise as a serpent," &c. 
 
14 L] A TT A 
 
 The hills and vales in utter darkness shroud, 
 
 And Gloom sits regnant o'er the storm-swept plain. 
 Now, o'er the hills the wild tornadoes rush, 
 
 And trees and flowers uprooted in the blast 
 In a huge heap in onward course they crush, 
 
 Then far and wide the blooming spoil they cast. 
 The frightened Indians when the storm drew near 
 
 Fled to their huts, and sat in wild dismay ; 
 The men resigned to any fate, — but fear 
 
 Bade trembling mothers take their babes and pray. 
 A moment's silence hope of quiet gave, 
 
 Sincere all breathe a supplication now : 
 — How soon we learn when shrinking from the grave 
 
 To frame a prayer, to swear a solemn vow ! * 
 Calmly Talligo lies, in seeming rest, 
 
 While watched the eager leeches by his side : 
 
 * " La priere naquit du premier soupir, de la premiere peine, de la 
 premiere jo-ie du cceur humaine." — Lamartine. 
 
OLIATTA. 45 
 
 And now the clouds roll back into the west, 
 
 And hopeful sunbeams from the heavens glide. 
 Now forth in joy the Indians haste to come, 
 
 To gaze on ruin by the tempest made ; 
 Swollen rolled by the darkly yellow stream, 
 
 Eapidly o'er the nower-bereav'd glade. 
 Trees, shrubs and flowers were scattered far and near, 
 
 Dead lay a bright bird near a burning oak, 
 And see ! a once majestic pine lies here, 
 
 Now fast consuming from a lightning stroke. 
 Fearful as such a tempest wild as this 
 
 To scatter all the beauty of the plain ! 
 Unlike man's evil, Life may ne'er redress, 
 
 The voice of Spring will bid all bloom again ! 
 — "When the storm had subsided, Talligo awoke — 
 
 And in brief words, he said to the chief 
 That the hand of Kudolpho had given the stroke 
 
 Which no leech of the tribe might relieve. 
 
46 O L I A T T A . 
 
 — Manischa, whom fever had brought nigh to death, 
 
 Count Caspar once succored, and saved. 
 And when poor Talligo with short- gasping breath 
 
 Told this tale, how the chieftain's breast heaved ! 
 For when in that illness the death mist had come, 
 
 He to Caspar had solemnly said, 
 If then he would save him from that fearful doom 
 
 He would grant anything that he prayed ! 
 And now as Oliatta, in trembling came nigh, 
 
 Talligo said — "Now — all is well — 
 It were sweet for the love of one like thee to die, 
 
 But 'twere Heaven by her side e'er to dwell !". 
 — "Oh false, false Talligo, Eudolpho did not 
 
 Wound thee there, but bound up thy wound — 
 How, how can all nobleness thus be forgot, 
 
 And such baseness in thy heart be found ? 
 Some other's hand there had doomed thee to die ; 
 
 To thy side, to thine aid then we went : 
 
O L I A T T A , 4:7 
 
 "We gathered the herbs from the morasses nigh 
 
 When thy strength, nay thy life was near spent ! 
 Shame, shame on thee, chieftain ! I come not to thee ! 
 
 I had rather the Jebi to wed ! * 
 Thy heart is as dark as the caves of the sea, 
 
 And as cold as the home of the dead !" 
 Now flashed the dark eye of wounded young brave, 
 
 As he 'rose from the reeds — but again 
 He sunk hopeless back — a low moan he gave, 
 
 As if nearly expiring of pain. 
 Now, in the wild passion that knows no control, f 
 
 Oliatta, with eyes brightly glowing, 
 
 * "Jehi" Indian evil-spirits. (See Legend of the Discovery of Coal.) 
 f " I have seen Love, Jealousy, Hatred, Superstition, and Rage 
 carried to an extent among women which is never experienced by 
 men. It is particularly in moments such as these women surprise 
 us, beautiful as the Seraphim of Klopstock, and terrible as Milton's 
 Satan. Woman bears within herself an organ susceptible of the 
 
48 OLIATTA. 
 
 Seized the hands of her sire ; a deep crimson stole 
 
 O'er her cheeks : — her grief overflowing, 
 "Father!" she cried, " Kudolpho was lying 
 
 On the weeds of the lone Dismal Swamp ; 
 As I came from the lake, the pale-face was dying, 
 
 O'ercome with the dews and the damp. 
 The poisonons breath of the vines hanging o'er, 
 
 With the blistering tears of the flowers, 
 Had conquered him then — away from the shore 
 
 Him I took to the juniper bowers. 
 By his side I watched him long, as he lay 
 
 Gasping, as if he soon would expire ; 
 But as the stars rose, and died the warm day, 
 
 His black eye had found its own fire. 
 
 most terrific spasmodic emotions ; it is during this hysterical deliri- 
 um, she looks back to past times, and rushes forward to the future ; 
 all time is present to her mind." — Diderot. 
 
OLIATTA. 49 
 
 — Alas ! for me — too soon, too soon I knew 
 
 What a deep spell his presence was to me ; 
 He told me of Love — my own heart said, ' True !' 
 
 And my will was thenceforth never free. 
 Then we loved : yester e'en, as we sat at the tryst, 
 
 I beheld this Talligo come near ; 
 And while we bent low, an arrow then passed, 
 
 And sunk in the violet-bed there. 
 E'en while I reproached him, he fell to the ground, 
 
 From some warrior unseen came the arrow ; 
 Eudolpho and I then bound up the wound, 
 
 And parted in haste and in sorrow. 
 Aye! the wild alligator will hunt with the gar,* 
 
 And the gar fears no danger from him : 
 
 * " The gar being, like themselves (alligators) , a warlike, vora- 
 cious creature, they seem to be in league or confederacy together, 
 to enslave and devour the numerous defenceless tribes." — Bartram. 
 
 " The alligator will not eat the gar, but they hunt together." — 
 Sketches of Seminole War. 
 
50 O L I A T T A . 
 
 But the friend base Talligo had brought with him there 
 
 Surpassed e'en his master in crime ! 
 — False, false is his tale ; he had died but for us, 
 
 Yile wretch, that no gratitude. knows !" 
 She ceased — the grim warriors all sighed at the close, 
 
 And from her eye the sad tear now flows : 
 Manischa then bade Oliatta be gone, 
 
 Then he lowered his black brow again : 
 "Ilogee!" he said, "to Caspars house turn, 
 
 And take with thee ten chosen men. 
 Go, watch till 'tis twilight, when the settlers have gone 
 
 Each one to his own quiet home ; 
 Bind Caspar and all of his household — his son 
 
 I will bring here myself to his doom. 
 For he and yon White Eose have promised to meet 
 
 Again in the grove by the hill : 
 Her sire and his warriors the pale-face shall greet, 
 
 And a different tale will they tell ! 
 
OLIATTA. 51 
 
 Bind Caspar and all of his household, for they 
 
 Would claim the dread promise I made. 
 Be sure ye harm none, — mark well what I say ! 
 
 Their hurt with your lives shall be paid ! 
 Come, chieftains ! and let us now talk of the girl, 
 
 My daughter she was, but I vow 
 Every tie of affection from this heart I hurl, 
 
 E'en as this vain hair-locket now !" 
 A locket of hair, Oliatta's dark hair, 
 
 "Which Agatha braided so well, 
 Quick from his neck, the chieftain doth tear, 
 
 And cast it far over the hill. 
 " Her mother is sleeping in yonder still grave, 
 
 And the white rose is all left to me ! 
 — But she loved like a woman, and lied like a slave, 
 
 My daughter no more shall she be !" 
 The council-fire kindled, the sages draw near, 
 
 And with fierce speech and savage reply 
 
52 O L I A T T A . 
 
 They counsel and plot until plainly appear 
 The shadows of eve in the sky. 
 
 Faintly now glow the sun's last rays 
 
 Far o'er the valleys of the West, 
 And solemn night draws on, apace, 
 
 Nursing the gold stars in her breast.* 
 The night-birds on the pale moon gaze, 
 
 And sing their low chant by the nest, 
 While softly steals the evening breeze, 
 
 Tired Nature's gentle call to rest. 
 Unconscious bowers from out their hearts 
 
 Shed their sweet perfumes on the air, 
 And the light breeze to each imparts 
 
 A breath some other gave it wear. 
 — The evening hymn had died away 
 
 Far on the echoes of the vale : 
 
 * " SLvvt, {leXcuva, xpvoetiv dorpoyv rpotye." 
 
 Euripides. 
 
OLIATTA. 53 
 
 (The exiles still at close of day 
 
 Their gratitude to Heaven would tell.) 
 Dark lowered old Caspar's brow this eve, 
 
 His prayer was low, his voice was faint ; 
 — What tissues dark remorse can weave ! 
 
 What pictures memory's hand can paint ! 
 For o'er his future loomed a cloud 
 
 No light might pierce, no joy illume ; 
 In his ear still a voice came loud, 
 
 — The storm that swept o'er Ulric's tomb ! 
 " Last night," in whispering voice, he said, 
 
 "I dreamed of Ulric — start not child ! 
 I dreamed he came up from the dead, 
 
 And Agatha again had smiled. 
 ISTo ghastly wound our Ulric bore, 
 
 No mark of blood, but just the same 
 As when we on the parting shore 
 
 Grave him our child ; nay, weep not, dame ! 
 
54 O L I A T T A . 
 
 'Twas but a dream, an idle dream — 
 
 And yet metliought I heard him say, 
 'Agatha, dearest!' just the same 
 
 As he was wont in happier day. 
 I went to gaze out on the moon, 
 
 Troubled by such a dream as this, 
 When steps I heard — I looked, and soon 
 
 He passed — by Heaven! I saw him pass!" 
 The sweat stood on his brow, and yet 
 
 No word escaped from those around. 
 " Oh, could I but that deed forget—" 
 
 He paused, thrilled by his voice's sound. 
 " Father !" cried Agatha, " why, oh why 
 
 Did Ulric meet such treatment, and from thee f 
 How couldst thou doom that noble youth to die, 
 
 Dooming at once Ulric and hope and me !" 
 — "Ah! could I but that awful deed recall, 
 
 Life should be but one penitential tear — " 
 
OLIAT'TA. 55 
 
 Quick, hasty steps upon their hearing fall, 
 
 Now, Ulric stands beside old Caspar's chair ! 
 "Hasten, old man! for God's sake tell me why 
 
 You bade your minions cast me in the deep — " 
 Therese, the aged wife, with joyous cry 
 
 Embraced his neck, and loud began to weep ! 
 " Hasten," he said, " and let thy words be brief, 
 
 I should not be here, but I heard this eve 
 The Indians all have sworn Eudolpho's life 
 
 For slain Talligo, — and to you they give 
 No chance to save him, by the oath once made 
 
 When from the jaws of death Manischa came. 
 — Behold ! the warriors stealing thro' the shade 
 
 To keep you here, lest you the oath may claim ! 
 God for the right !" cried Ulric. At the word 
 
 Forth from the thicket came a gallant band 
 Of settlers now — and gleamed the gun and sword 
 
 Brandished by stalwart men with brawny hand ! 
 
56 OLIATTA. 
 
 Thrice strong in number and in warlike power, 
 
 The Indians saw their disadvantage well, 
 Then backward to the shades the band did cower, 
 
 And to their village fled, the tale to tell. 
 The settler band now follow from the gate, 
 
 Ulric still crying ont to haste again. 
 " Now as we go, the story all relate ; 
 
 Haste, lest we go to aid the boy in vain !" 
 — As one who wakes in fear from troubled dreams, 
 
 Of phantoms grim, that chase all thought of rest, 
 Sees o'er the hills the sun's first rising beams, 
 
 — Such joy irradiates old Caspar's breast ! 
 "Iorge swore once, 'twas thy fell plot to come, 
 
 Calmly obedient, 'till we settled here, 
 And then, by force to drive from our new home 
 
 All save the men who in his secret were. 
 Me, that thou woulclst arraign, and then condemn 
 
 To die for crimes, your chosen men would prove : 
 
O L I ATT A. 57 
 
 And thou wouldst be the seigneur over them, 
 
 All bound by ties of common-crime, or love. 
 Stung to the soul at thought of it, I said 
 
 He counselled well — and then I gave the sign 
 To seize upon thee, and did cause the deed 
 
 That cast thee wondering in .the surging brine. 
 When Iorge lay upon his dying bed, 
 
 He did confess, and e'en confessing died ; 
 No such a plot had Ulric ever made, 
 
 My hate and lust the falsehood had supplied. 
 And oh, my son !" said aged Caspar then, 
 
 "Since that curst hour, my heart enwrapped in gloom 
 Never has known a thrill of joy again ; 
 
 Day was remorse, and sighs did night consume !" 
 Away, away they sped across the wood, 
 
 Pine groves, and reed banks, and the tangled brake ; 
 — Now swell the cries of Indians mad for blood, 
 3* 
 
58 OLIATTA. 
 
 And poured their torches a bright, fiery flood, 
 While all the echoes of the hills awake ! 
 
 'Tis the home of the tryst— Oliatta is there, 
 
 On the moss-bank now her form now reposes ; 
 Loose over her shoulders now falls her dark hair, 
 
 Hanging down o'er a bed of white roses. 
 While waiting his coming in wonder and pain, 
 
 A footstep she hears in. the shade : 
 It was not his step — she listens again, 
 
 Now a dark band encompass the maid ! 
 " Ah ! here thou art waiting," one said, coming nigh- 
 
 And around her they stand — "do not speak — 
 Ere yet 'twill be midnight Kudolpho shall die, 
 
 And thou, thou shalt go o'er the lake !" 
 "Ah, traitor, !" she cried, "hast thou ; too, become 
 
 A foe in mine hour of need?" 
 
O LI ATT A. 59 
 
 " Hush ! now it is vain, ordained is thy doom. 
 
 Come, let us dispatch her with speed." 
 As he spoke, they took the long fetters of reeds 
 
 And bound her securely and fast, 
 And then o'er the wide Savannah of weeds 
 
 To the lake in silence they passed. 
 There she saw, as they came to the moss-covered shore, 
 
 A barque fastened well to a tree, 
 'Twas trembling and floating the green water o'er, 
 
 As if longing to bound o'er it free. 
 Now, now they unloosed the canoe, and laid 
 
 The girl's trembling form therein ; 
 — "Now, away on the current drift on, gentle maid, 
 
 No face shalt thou e'er see again, 
 Save the wild spotted panther that screams in the tree, 
 
 And the snake that shall hang in the vine ; 
 When the creepers shall catch the light barque in its 
 way, 
 
 And the reeds the frail boat shall entwine* 
 
60 OLIATTA. 
 
 Thou shalt float slowly on, in the current away, 
 
 And when a long mile shall be past, there's a place 
 Where the waters move slow, the bamboos are gray, 
 
 And the green snakes are sleeping in peace. 
 There, o'er thee the poisonous flowers shall bend, 
 
 As the wave slowly carries thee in ; 
 Around thee the vines will all silently wind, 
 
 And the boat may return not again. 
 Afar o'er the hills will the wild panther scream, 
 
 And the wolf cry in joy at the sight ; 
 The green snake will paddle in haste o'er the stream, 
 
 Where the copper snakes mingle in fight. 
 At last, when the stars shall burn low in the West, 
 
 Thine hour of death is come nigh ! 
 The foul snake will slowly crawl over thy breast ! 
 
 Wolf and panther will gaze at thine eye. 
 Then, then wilt thou sorrow, that ever on earth 
 
 Thou hast met the pale-face in yon grove ! 
 
OLIATTA. 61 
 
 The serpent shall lick the eyes once bright with mirth j 
 
 And the wolf tear thy bosom of love ! 
 — Away ! then away let the light birchen float — 
 
 Let the maiden pass on to her death. 
 Now cut loose the cord, now shove off the boat, 
 
 — Thus the Indian worketh his wrath!" 
 Away from the swamp the Indians passed, 
 
 And as slowly they went, loud they sang 
 The fearful death-song ; on the evening blast, 
 
 Far o'er the still waters it rang. 
 Slow, slow, with gentle swell, the boat goes on, 
 
 While Oliatta lay within, resigned ; 
 While came in fitful and distracting tone 
 
 The mournful death-dirge on the hollow wind ! 
 Now, now the moon is hid behind a cloud, 
 
 And pale, pale starlight is her only view ; 
 Now sweeps the moon from out her fleecy shroud, 
 
 And bathes in light the wide expanse of blue ! 
 
62 OLIATTA. 
 
 Now, on the sullen whispers of the wind 
 
 Came the low song the night-bird sent 
 With far-off cry of panther now combined, 
 
 And with the death- dirge wildly blent! 
 — Spirit of Love ! what is thy magic spell, 
 
 That conquers fear, and gloom, and icy death ? 
 What charm of wondrous witchery dost thou tell 
 
 To win in peace the last expiring breath ? 
 Trembling, within the hollow birch she lay, 
 
 Calm, e'en in trembling, was the maiden's breast ; 
 Awaiting death, as opening flowers the day 
 
 That calls their blossoms from their dewy rest ! 
 Float on ! float on ! the Cyprus shade 
 
 Bends o'er the fragile birchen now, 
 And hides the smiles that come and fade 
 
 In rosy hues upon her brow ! 
 Now the thick vines bend o'er, and soon 
 
 She felt them pass across her face ; 
 
OLIATTA. 63 
 
 And h y the dim light of the moon 
 
 She knew this was the stopping-place. 
 Hist ! now against the barque she hears 
 
 Splashing and hissing — fiercely now 
 A savage cry breaks on her ears ; 
 
 In the vine, forest-maid, art thou ! 
 Now, on the boat a copper-snake 
 
 Eaised up his head, and peered within — 
 A host now rush against it, quick — 
 
 And drive the boat down stream again. 
 The snakes, when striving there to rise, 
 
 Pushed the light barque from where it lay, 
 The moon again streams on her eyes 
 
 As the reeds break off and float away ! 
 Now stops the boat beside the bank, 
 
 — Lilies had stopped its passing now ! 
 Far back she saw the vine-grove dank, 
 
 And hope again smiled on her brow. 
 
64 OLIATTA. 
 
 The cords bound tight, caused fearful pain ; 
 
 " Oli, vile Talligo !" thoughtlessly she said. 
 " Who speaks ?" a voice exclaimed — now plain 
 
 She saw an Indian warrior's feathered head. 
 " Who curses vile Talligo?" asked the voice. 
 
 "Let me, oh, let me hear the words once more I" 
 The sympathy of woe — and breaking hearts rejoice 
 
 To know another feels what wounds our bosom's core ! 
 " Ah ! here condemned to float until I die, 
 
 By his vile falsehood and their mad design ; 
 Here waiting for the copper-snake I lie — 
 
 Was ever love and woe as deep as mine ?" 
 Now bent the hunter o'er the little barque, 
 
 And loosed the cords — upright again she stood : 
 " Come now, kind hunter, guide me o'er this dark, 
 
 Dark desert- water to yon distant wood.* 
 
 * " In the midst of the swamp is Lake Drummond, fifteen miles 
 in circumference." — McCulloch. 
 
OLIATTA, 65 
 
 I fear I am too late to save my friend, 
 
 The white man doomed to death by foul deceit. 
 Oh ! if we haste that way our course to bend, 
 
 We may get there ere his heart cease to beat. 
 They'll take my life, but by him will I bleed ; 
 
 Oh ! loved Kudolpho — I will come — away !" 
 Now o'er the waters do the Indians speed, 
 
 And high his paddle dashed the yellow spray. 
 "You know not," he said, "whose hand did the deed 
 
 That shall yet cause Talligo to die ? 
 — I will tell thee a tale as we go, gentle maid, 
 
 For the slayer of Talligo was I ! 
 Far, far o'er the lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 
 Where the hunters seldom come, 
 And not oft is heard a wanderer's tramp, 
 
 My wigwam stood — my home ! 
 There, my sister dear, by night and day, 
 
 Kept the fire e'er warm for me, 
 
6$ OLIATTA. 
 
 And time rolled blissfully away, 
 
 How nappy then were we ! 
 I chased the wild deer while 'twas day, 
 
 The hills and brakes among, 
 And at home when the sun had sunk away, 
 
 We sang, and how glad was our song [* 
 — Once I was away two moons from home 
 
 On a war-chase with thy sire ; 
 And soon I saw as I returned 
 
 Her eye had lost all its fire. 
 On her brow a cloud affliction had come, 
 
 And her songs, they were maddening to hear ! 
 I asked for the cause — her heart kept her dumb, 
 
 And she cherished the dark secret there ! 
 
 * " These people, like all other nations, are fond of music ; the 
 tambour and the rattle accompanied by their low, sweet voices, 
 produces a pathetic harmony." — (Bartram, 503.) " There is a lan- 
 guishing sweetness in their music, exquisitely pleasing in their 
 solitary places, when all nature is silent." — Ibid., 243. 
 
O L I A T T A . 67 
 
 She sickened, she pined ; and, as dying she lay, 
 
 She told me it all — listen now : 
 Talligo was lost in the forest one day, 
 
 And wandering with sorrowful brow, 
 When Inorna was gathering flowers in the mead, 
 
 He canght her, and begged a night's rest. 
 Homeward the weary yonng hnnter she led, 
 
 — Woman-like, caring for the distressed. 
 He stayed in the wigwam for more than a moon, 
 
 And tales of his love there he told : 
 The maid listened, trusted — for sweet is Love's tone, 
 
 And her own heart to him did unfold. 
 She loved him ! and he, he betrayed the young maid ; 
 
 When he left her she sickened and died. 
 The earth then to me was hidden in shade — 
 
 My sister lost — hope, joy, and pride ! 
 I followed Talligo, — I'd sworn he should die ; 
 
 I tracked him e'en there on that night.* 
 
68 O L I A T T A . 
 
 I accomplished my will — I saw him low lie, 
 And I've felt my last thrill of delight." 
 
 — "Wilt thou tell this tale, confirming my own, 
 To the chieftains who doubted my word ? 
 
 Talligo has sworn by Eudolpho 'twas done, 
 And my tale with cold faces they heard." 
 
 II Yes! I will confront him, if still he may live, 
 
 For that poisonous dart must prevail 
 In the course of a day, howe'er they may strive ; 
 
 — All skill before it must fail ! 
 When the coppersnake, angrily spreading its tongue, 
 
 Died of anguish and passion untold, 
 The poison I caught ; then the dart, steeping long, 
 
 All with venomous weeds did enfold. 
 Then 'round the sharp point did the poison encrust, 
 
 And whatever it enters must die ! 
 I, I saw it drinking the blood of his breast, 
 
 While I lay in the vine-thicket nigh. 
 
OLIATTA. 69 
 
 Yes, yes, I will go ; I will save thee, poor maid, 
 
 Tho' death, should my going reward ; 
 For since she has died, the debt to be paid 
 
 Alone, has to me life endeared ! 
 To my lone heart now, in this world- wilderness, 
 
 All visions of Hope seem but drear, 
 But soon shall Inorna my aching sight bless, 
 
 In the hunting far, far up there !" 
 " Mondawah ! noble friend ! how far is 't yet 
 
 To the shore where yon pines whistle loud?" 
 "Not far — we will soon pass the yellowy sheet," 
 
 And away o'er the waters he rowed. 
 " Sing, sing me a song, gentle maid, as we go, 
 
 It may charm the wild tears into rest ; 
 For Inorna could bid my tears softly to flow, 
 
 Or hush every storm in my breast." 
 — "I will sing thee a song of the 'Isles of the Blest,'* 
 
 My mother sang to me, a child — 
 
 * See Bartram, p. 25, for a description of the Indian superstition. 
 
70 O L I A T T A . 
 
 As she drew me up close to her nestling breast, 
 
 And the tears of my childhood beguiled. 
 I'll sing a song of the Isles of the Blest — 
 
 My mother now is there ! 
 And there, my spirit pants for rest, 
 
 With Eudolpho free from care ! 
 Oh Earth ! how drear thou seemest now, 
 
 To what thou wast to me 
 When first he breathed his tender vow, 
 
 And stole my heart away ! 
 Oh ! how this night I prayed in vain 
 
 For a fall and endless rest, 
 Where faithful hearts come not in twain, 
 In the Islands of the Blest !"* 
 
 * In No. 206 of the " Notes and Queries," p. 344, after a notice of 
 the universality of the notion of the Islands of the Blest, or Para- 
 dise, being far away in some Western country, the author goes on 
 
O L I A T T A . 71 
 
 — " Yes, sing, sweet maid, for there is one, 
 
 My loved Inorna's there, 
 And this sad soul pants to be gone, 
 
 To dwell in these islands fair !" 
 
 to say, " The same veneration for the West prevails among many 
 of our Indian tribes, who place their Paradise in an island beyond 
 the great Lake (the Pacific), and far towards the setting sun. 
 There the good Indians enjoy a fine country, abounding in game ; 
 are always clad in new skins, and live in warm, new lodges. Thither 
 they are wafted by prosperous gales, but the bad Indians are driven 
 back by adverse storms, wrecked on the coast, where the remains 
 of their canoes are to be seen, covering the strand in all directions." 
 
72 OLIATTA. 
 
 " Far away, away where Zephyr is born, 
 
 In the orange groves of the West, 
 Where it ever seems to be almost morn, 
 When the moon's last rays are nearly gone, 
 
 Are the Islands of the Blest ! 
 — No noonday's glowing sun doth scorch 
 
 The hills of that summer shore ; 
 But the amorous rays of twilight touch 
 With a soft embrace, as if afraid, too muck, 
 
 ' As they bend the still valleys o'er. 
 — There, all the melodies of the birds, 
 
 And the echoes of the grove, 
 Are in a language sweeter than words, 
 And softer than earthly music accords 
 
 The song of Joy and Love ! 
 
OLIATTA. 73 
 
 The breathless heavens that hold the stars 
 
 Are not deeper than love is there : 
 — Like the sleeping smile an infant wears, 
 As day his golden gates unbars, 
 
 Are all hearts in that haven fair ! 
 — Oh, when shall I on my hunter's breast 
 
 In those fair Islands rove ? 
 Where, in eternity of rest, 
 Will faithful hearts be forever blest, 
 
 And Time but one sigli of Love !" 
 
 Away to the village they hasten ; and now, 
 
 As they rise on the neighboring hills, 
 What brings such a cloud on the young maiden's brow ? 
 
 — 'Tis the death-song that mournfully swells ! 
 In the crowd she sees poor Kudolpho fast bound, 
 
 While Talligo is held up to see 
 4 
 
74 O L I A T T A . 
 
 His rival, ere jet the flames sliall surround, 
 
 Or that body in ashes shall be ! 
 His eyes, by coming Death made such 
 
 As the daemons of Dreams seem to have, 
 Gleamed fiercely, while he reached to touch, 
 
 Lest aught might his vengeance deceive. 
 Mondawah came now, and in thundering voice 
 
 He bade all the Indians desist : 
 Eudolpho was wondering what silenced the noise, 
 
 When the maid to his cold bosom pressed ! 
 And e'en as she came from the side of the wood, 
 
 Eushed Caspar and Ulric in fear ; 
 In horror and wonder a moment they stood, 
 
 Then quick to Manischa drew near : 
 " Manischa ! Manischa I" cried Caspar aloud, 
 
 "When I saved thee, thou saidst to me then, 
 Whatever I ask thee shall sure be bestowed ; 
 
 No boon should I ask thee in vain ! 
 
O L I A T T A . 75 
 
 Now, chieftain, I call on thee ; save me my son ! 
 
 Oh, by all that is holy, I pray !" 
 Manischa's head bendeth in deep sorrow down, 
 
 He turned his head slowly away. 
 u Hear me, warriors, hear me I" cried Mondawah then, 
 
 " Loose the pale-face — Talligo I shot I" 
 Manischa stepped forward and broke the reed-chain, 
 
 And then bade Endolpho wait not. 
 "Hear me, warriors! Talligo had killed a young maid, 
 
 My sister — and I swore a vow 
 That I would avenge her : and to yonder shade 
 
 I followed, and there laid him low ! 
 He left her to pine in his absence — she died. 
 
 Do you wonder I followed him, then, 
 And struck the sharp-pointed dart in his side?" 
 
 — An approving shout came from the men ! 
 'He may linger a day, but he must expire 
 
 In agonies words may not tell : 
 
76 O L I A T T A . 
 
 Now get thee gone, pale-face — for me is tlie fire, 
 
 For Talligo by my arrow fell I" 
 Then men shouted here, and tremblingly now 
 
 Talligo in faintest voice cried, 
 "Oliatta! come hither; oh, haste quickly, thou, 
 
 The death-mists roll over my head ! 
 By the side of the river ere long shall I rest,* 
 
 My last words this secret shall be : 
 Come hither, I've cherished it long in my breast — 
 
 Come hither, I'd tell it to thee." 
 The maiden came near to the warrior's side, 
 
 And low to his lips bent her head ; 
 He muttered some words, and as she replied, 
 
 Struck a knife in the heart of the maid ! 
 "Kudolpho ! Eudolpho !" the dying girl said, 
 
 As the death-clouds rolled over her eyes, 
 
 * " The burying-grounds of the Indians are generally to be found 
 on the river banks." — Sketches of Seminole War. 
 
O L I A T T A . 77 
 
 "On the Dismal Swamp shore, oh, meet thine 
 
 OWN MAID, 
 
 When the stars of the evening arise !" 
 Clasped now in his fond arms, she faints, she sinks low ! 
 
 — Now Talligo they cast on the pile, 
 Wildly around him the lurid flames glow, 
 
 And his death-song he's singing the while: 
 " Death has no terrors now for me, 
 
 No clouds his steps surround : 
 — Far o'er the distant hills I see 
 The light of glory soon to be 
 
 In the heavenly hunting-ground ! 
 — The wild deer leaps across the hill, 
 
 — There, there, the pale-face dies ! 
 — The Indian maidens round me smile ! 
 — The hunting-grounds grow clearer still, 
 
 Ha! ha! I rise! I rise!" 
 Loud came the cries of the women then, 
 
 As Eudolpho rushed away, 
 
78 L IATTA. 
 
 Far thro' tlie deep-entangled glen, 
 
 Where the shadows wildly play. 
 Silent he stood, that honored chief, 
 
 Gazing all mute on that fearful place, 
 Till the heart, that well-nigh burst with grief, 
 
 Sent the tears down his furrowed face. 
 Calmly in death Oliatta lay there, 
 
 A smile from her face was still beaming ; 
 The red blood still flowed o'er her bosom so fair, 
 
 But she lay like the sinless in dreaming! 
 
 Night o'er the Dismal Swamp has thrown 
 Her hushing spell on all around ; 
 
 Silence sits sovereign now alone, 
 
 Nor e'en the night-bird's songs resound. 
 
 All lies in lonely stillness now, 
 Save the low rippling of the wave, 
 
OLIATTA. 79 
 
 Which, while it crept the woodbine thro', 
 
 A dull, low murmur ever gave ; 
 And where yon vines are closely bound, 
 
 No light by night or day may come, 
 There spreads afar a cave profound, 
 
 Where gurgle waters in the gloom. 
 Darkness sleeps ever in that cave, 
 
 Save when the fiery mists arise, 
 And faintly light the sluggish wave 
 
 With tints like evening's fading skies I* 
 No sound of life is echoed there, 
 
 Till comes the serpent from beneath, 
 A moment hissing on the air, 
 
 Then lulls in Lethean sleep like death. 
 
 * " Quo nunquam radiis oriens, medius-ve, cadens-ve 
 Phoebus adire potest. Nebulae caligine mixtas 
 Exhalantur humo." — Ovid. 
 
80 OLIAT T A . 
 
 Above, the wild mimosas bloom, 
 
 And send their perfumes on the breeze ; 
 And cypress, fitter for the gloom, 
 
 Bends o'er the weeping- willow trees. 
 Anxiously now upon the shore 
 
 Caspar and Ulric seek in vain 
 That youth, whom they shall see no more, 
 
 AVho never shall return again ! 
 Hither they'd hastened from the cot, 
 
 Knowing he'd seek the lonely lake ; 
 And while they stood, they heard a shout 
 
 Kesounding far across the brake. 
 Caspar but too well knew the cry 
 
 "It is Eudolpho ! in that place 
 Seeking his loved one's words t' obey : 
 
 — His steps he never may retrace !" 
 — Hark! what sweet music swelleth there ? 
 . An angel- voice now sings alone, 
 
OLIATTA. 81 
 
 While all the echoes, thro' the air 
 
 Far o'er the wave the sound have borne. 
 See ! thro' the shadows of yon vines 
 
 A light of gentle radiance now 
 Full o'er the matted jungle shines, 
 
 And on the yellow waves below. 
 List ! as the barque doth swiftly come, 
 
 The spirit-music softly swell : 
 The night-birds hush the copse- wood from, 
 
 And silent Nature aids the spell : 
 
 u Will you come to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 
 And its shades of eternal gloom ? 
 There, 'neath the groves of dark vines damp, 
 
 The flowers immortal bloom. 
 There, the matin song of the earliest bird 
 
 Shall bid us glide o'er the wave, 
 4* 
 
82 OLIATTA 
 
 To rest, where never a footstep stirred, 
 In the Night of the rayless cave ! 
 
 "Will you come to the spirit-call I send, 
 
 And drink of the vine I give ? 
 — Then, then indeed may our beings blend, 
 
 When the earth-part shall cease to live ! 
 Then soul with soul, in our phantom-barque, 
 
 We'll glide o'er the waters blue, 
 When the stars shall call with awakening spark 
 
 The maiden and lover so true !" 
 
 — A wild and maniac cry then swelled 
 
 Far o'er the listening wave ; 
 The phantom-barque Eudolpho held 
 
 On his way to the rayless cave. 
 Afar they sped o'er the waters wide, 
 
 And her spirit-songs were heard, 
 
OLIATTA. 83 
 
 While lie followed the course of his angel-bride 
 Till the mouth of the cave they neared. 
 
 The light fades on the vision there, 
 Nor lover or boat is seen ; 
 
 Silence again dwells on the air, 
 And the waters are still again ! 
 
"L'E N V O I." 
 
 TO E. T. W. 
 
 Thus, then, my lyre awhile I've strung, 
 
 Wandering in Fancy's devious path ; 
 I've found the meaning of the song, 
 
 And solve it thus — "Love, e'en to death. 1 ' 
 Since thou hast bid these verses be, 
 
 If thou approve the simple strain, 
 'Tis all that I may hope of thee, 
 
 — The little song is not in vain. 
 May thy warm heart, young maiden, be 
 
 Blest with a love as deep as hers, 
 Whose woes called forth the tear I see, 
 
 Thy roseate-tinted cheek traverse ! 
 
"l'exvoi ." 
 
 Love ! flower of life, whose blest perfume 
 
 Steals on the storm-swept breath of even, 
 And will in life's dark shadows bloom, 
 
 Bathed in immortal dews from heaven ! 
 — My song is o'er — and yet whene'er 
 
 I think for whom the lyre was strung, 
 A thousand faults at once appear, 
 
 And I half tremble for my song ! 
 But thou art not, I feel next sure, 
 
 Like the young, careless Jewish maid, 
 Who scorns the offering of a flower, 
 
 Nor marks the feeling with it paid.* 
 
 * " The Jews, wherever scattered, have an aversion to agricul- 
 ture, and almost to its products. A Jewish girl will refuse to ac- 
 cept a flower, but if you offer her a piece of money, or jewelry, or 
 embroidery, she knows well enough what to make of the proffered 
 courtesy." — Hacquet's Travels in Carpathia. 
 
86 " L ' E ST VOI." 
 
 This little one I pluck for thee, 
 Wear it, if but for one brief hour ; 
 
 And friendship's violet let it be — 
 Take thou the unpretending flower 
 
EVADNE. 
 
 High o'er yon rocks, that beetling spread 
 O'er Ceres' dome their solemn shade, 
 
 Behold Evadne stand ! 
 Kobed in her richest garments, there 
 She clasps the love-devoted hair 
 
 In wildly trembling hand. 
 Lo ! 'neath the rock Capaneus' pile,* 
 Eeared near the comrades of his toil, 
 
 Chiefest of oil the seven ! 
 
 * " 0H. tov fiev Atbg rrXrjyevra Kanavea nvpl 
 AA. ?/ x^P 1 ^ i £ P 0V &S vexpov ddxpai $eXei(; ; 
 OH. vac : rovg 6e y' aXXovg ndvrag ev fua Trvpi" 
 — k. r. A. — lketides of Euripides, 935. 
 
88 EVADXE, 
 
 Alone lay the hero of the host, 
 Most gallant of the gallant lost, 
 
 Whom lightning struck from Heaven I* 
 Together all the others lay, 
 Cold, and as rigid as the clay 
 
 Around the Theban town ; 
 Where Creon said their forms should lie, 
 And doomed Antigone to die, 
 
 Because she rescued one ! 
 Upon the topmast beams are laid 
 The clay-cold bodies of the dead, 
 
 And 'neath them now are placed 
 Honey and fat, and fragrant oil,f 
 
 * See the passage in the " Septem contra Thebas" of iEschylus, 
 line 423 :— 
 
 " Kanavevg 6' en' HAe/c r^aiaiv^ &c. 
 f Vide Iliad, xxiii., 150, et seq. " wc eintiv ev xepwv." — 
 
 K. T. X. 
 
E V A D X E . S9 
 
 While slaughtered victims near the pile 
 
 Their, pious care expressed. 
 But she, old Iphis' daughter, there 
 Looked calmly down, while not a tear 
 
 Bedimmed her sparkling eye ; 
 Her trembling hand alone bespoke 
 What feelings all her bosom shook — 
 
 The queen had come to die ! 
 
 " Night ! Chaos ! Erebus ! attend my vow, 
 
 And three-fold Hecate, attend me thou!* 
 Hearken, dear Iris ; in thy high abode 
 Come with thy blessing from the arching cloud !f 
 To you, ye shades, and Night ! to you I come, 
 Persephone ! I seek thy house of gloom : 
 
 * " Erebumque, Chaosque 
 
 Tergeminamque Hecaten, tria Virginia ora Diana?." 
 
 —jEn., iv. 510. 
 f — " Irimque dimisit Olympo," etc. — Ibid., 694. 
 
90 EVAD X E. 
 
 Daughter of Ceres ! in thy realm below 
 
 Another parting never may we know ! 
 
 A spectre on the shadowy Stygian shore 
 
 Waits on this scene, and longs to hasten o'er. 
 
 But ere thou goest o'er that silent river, 
 
 Thy wife will join thee, more to leave thee never! 
 
 Yea ! I who turned from bright Apollo's prayers, 
 
 And laughed derision at his love-like tears, 
 
 Yea ! I will come, and o'er the tideless wave 
 
 Evadne's soul shall join her husband brave ! 
 
 — What God did madness in thy heart infuse, 
 
 My lord, my life ! my brave, brave Capaneus ? 
 
 Thou wast the first to gain the fatal porch, 
 
 And thou the first to seize the flaming torch, 
 
 Boasting aloud that Heaven need not to aid 
 
 Thine arm determined ; quick the lightning played* 
 
 * Vide iEschylus, " enla em Qrjfiac," line 427. Dante rep- 
 resents Capaneus to be the most disdainful of heaven, in torment. 
 — Inferno, xiv. 59. 
 
EVADXE. 91 
 
 Around thy head, and thou in dust wast laid, 
 And thy proud motto hidden 'neath the dead!"* 
 — Now from beneath a wailing voice there came, 
 And slowly dragging his emaciate frame ; 
 Old Iphis beat his breast and tore his hair, 
 In the wild phrensy of unchecked despair ! 
 " Eteoclus, my gallant son, is slain, 
 By hostile spears stretched on the Theban plain ; 
 And poor Evadne wanders now from me, 
 Speak, dames and virgins, fled she by this way?" 
 Now from the rock Evadne's voice is heard, 
 "Here, o'er my Capaneus, like some poor bird,f 
 I hover o'er my husband's funeral pyre, 
 I wait the rising of the yellow fire ! 
 
 *Tke device on Capaneus' shield was, " frprjOG) ttoXlv' — 
 " I will take the city." — Septem contra Thebas, 440. 
 
 j- "?J d 1 eyo) Tteipaq eixi 
 
 "Opvig rig wcrei." Supplicants 1045. 
 
92 E V A D N E . 
 
 Oil, wretched sons of fated (Edipus ! 
 
 Eteocles, — oh, faithless, treacherous I* 
 
 Gallant Adrastus ! gallant but in vain, 
 
 How Argos wails her sons untimely slain ! 
 
 The Seven, whose arms were terror to the foe, 
 
 Now call these pyres, these plaintive notes of woe. 
 
 And but for fleet Areion, wondrous steed, 
 
 Thou too, Adrastus, shouldst be with these dead !f 
 
 And all the glory of thy after-life 
 
 Lost on the bloody field of Theban strife ! 
 
 -Surely a curse from heaven, an awful doom 
 
 On all the race of CEdipus has come ! 
 Not on them only, but on all who went 
 To aid the right, the direful curse is sent ! 
 Sons of an awful incest ! Heaven decreed 
 No common sacrifice for it should bleed ; 
 
 * Eteoclus was Iphis' son, Eteocles was the son of (Edipus. 
 f Vide Iliad, 23d, 347. 
 
E V A D N E . 93 
 
 Not goats and sheep, and sturdy bullocks slain, 
 
 But bravest of the Mars-beloved men ! 
 
 Yea ! where the noblest blood bedyed the plain 
 
 Brothers by hands fraternal there were slain ! 
 
 Ismene ! only remnant of thy race, 
 
 Whose sighs end not, whose tears may never cease, 
 
 Here is an answer to your every woe, 
 
 A tear for every tear your eyes may know ! 
 
 I join awhile my sorrowing voice with thine, 
 
 Oh ill-starred daughter of a fated line ! 
 
 No kinsman left, no dear one spared to thee — 
 
 Thee, sister of earth's one, heaven-like Antigone I* 
 
 — Alas, my Capaneus ! when by thy side 
 
 At first I walked, a veiled and blushing bride, 
 
 *In the (Edipus Coloneus of Sophocles, on the arrival of Ismene, 
 (Edipus speaks pathetically of the devoted love of his daughters, 
 especially that of Antigone : a character which the three great 
 tragedians delighted to touch, and in which they have left posterity 
 a most lovely model. 
 
94 E V A D N E . 
 
 E'en from that hour, I knew our fates were one, 
 And I must follow when my lord was gone ! 
 Ah, little dreams the unsuspecting heart 
 How Love takes all, and will not have a part ! 
 In him we love, our own life we forget, 
 And in Love's ocean lose Self's rivulet ! 
 The Past, that was not his, is all forgot. 
 What tho' once dear ? hem those scenes was not ; 
 The Future all is his, the Present his ; 
 "Without him, dark were Elysium's fabled bliss ! 
 Alas ! that she who rules all spirits so, 
 Is spring and source of every mortal woe ; 
 Alas ! that she, the Queen of all delight, 
 Must doom her votaries to unending Night ! 
 
 And I have lived and loved — now let me die ! 
 Ye sorrowing matrons, swell the funeral cry ; 
 Loud let the wail of widowed hearts arise, 
 High heavenward borne, with smoke of sacrifice ! 
 
E V A D N E . 95 
 
 See ! on the lofty pile of Capaneus 
 Now rise the flames around the lifeless corse ; 
 Ye call me, yellow flames ! ye call me down 
 To mingle with his sacred dust my own — 
 I come ! I come !" 
 
 Down from the rock s]je leapt, 
 Where high and wide the funeral fires swept. 
 A moment — and 'tis o'er — from the flame 
 No cry of pain, no wail of anguish came. 
 Dread sounds ! the fires that fiercer, ruddier glow, 
 And the wild cry of Widowhood and woe ! 
 — Now on the pyres the whitened ashes lie, 
 Where late the yellow flames were rising high ; 
 And when the dying embers glowed no more, 
 The purple wine upon their bones they pour ; 
 While far, far wafted on the sighing gale, 
 Came broken-hearted Iphis' parting wail.* 
 
 *The lament of Iphis, beginning " oifiot ~i 6e ftporoiGiv" 
 is most pathetically beautiful. — Iketides of Euripides, 1080. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 « 
 
 The midnight stars arc gleaming from the calm and 
 azure sky, 
 
 And the moon's soft lustre streaming from a fleecy- 
 cloud on high. 
 
 Low the river murmurs, stealing from the valley far 
 away, 
 
 Like the song at Compline, pealing with a spell un- 
 known to day. 
 
 O'er familiar scenes I wander, hallowed all by love or 
 pain, 
 
 And the hearts death smote asunder seem to beat to 
 mine again. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 97 
 
 By the clmrch-yarcl stand I dreaming, while the moon- 
 beams glancing forth, 
 O'er the towers and turrets streaming, making a cross 
 
 upon the earth. 
 'Tis a sign from far-off heaven, — from the cross upon 
 
 the church 
 Is a long, wide shadow given, near the dark and silent 
 
 porch. 
 — I remember one, all tearful, who throughout a sor- 
 rowing life 
 Bore that sacred emblem, prayerful, as a charm for 
 
 every strife; 
 When the woes of earth opprest her, when the shad- 
 ows darkly fell, 
 That heavenly presence blest her with a peace-com- 
 pelling spell ! 
 Oh, weary one! kind Heaven, with each tear, and 
 pang, and loss, 
 
98 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Had a blest Nepenthe given with, the Shadow of the 
 
 Cross ! 
 — While I pondered, downward gazing on the cross so 
 
 lowly spread, 
 Seemed a cloud the cross upraising till it stood in 
 
 heaven o'erhead, — 
 There, the pallid stars were fleeting from the new- 
 illumined sky, 
 And an angel-chorus greeting with their harps the 
 
 sign on high : 
 And amid the glory streaming which had hid the pale 
 
 moon quite, 
 Angel-faces there were beaming, angel-songs stole on 
 
 the night. 
 There, the band of saints and martyrs, there the 
 
 prophet-men of Eld, 
 And the host who quaffed the waters which from 
 
 Aiden's bosom welled ; 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 99 
 
 There, amid the song so saintly, heard I tones erst 
 
 learnt by me, 
 When the dream of heaven rose faintly, bending at 
 
 my mother's knee ! 
 There, the voice was outward pealing once my Men- 
 tor-voice in youth, 
 Still the same as when with feeling he had told where 
 
 was truth ! 
 And the faces blest and cheerful looked down from 
 
 heaven on me — 
 Me, the dreaming one and tearful, whom all Hope and 
 
 Love doth flee : 
 And their gaze thro' life I'll treasure; never more 
 
 shall it depart, 
 'Tis the last sad smile of Pleasure, as she abdicates 
 
 my heart ! 
 — Now no cherubim are bending, with their heavenly 
 
 wings outspread, 
 
100 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 O'er the fireside altar, blending blessings with the tears 
 
 we shed ; 
 Where our vows arose to heaven, where our songs 
 
 were wont to blend, 
 Now a stranger's vows are given, now a stranger's 
 
 prayers ascend. 
 1 awoke from this wild dreaming, and I heard 
 
 the night winds sigh, 
 And the white stars still were gleaming in the far-off 
 
 azure sky : 
 But, not in lands where I've been straying, e'en tho' 
 
 Nature ever seems 
 There, in deed and truth displaying what my soul had 
 
 seen in dreams ; 
 Not the grand old ocean- river, not the rock-cliffs of 
 
 Ozark, 
 Whence the shades are falling ever o'er the brake of 
 
 woodland dark : 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 101 
 
 Not the verdant, wide-spread prairie, where eternal 
 
 silence reigns, 
 Where the hunter's foot grows weary, and the eye with 
 
 distance pains ; 
 Not the mounds once reared to glory of the hero- 
 chiefs of eld, 
 Living yet in song and story 'mong a race where soul 
 
 is quelled : 
 Oh ! not these are spells that bind me in chains too 
 
 strong to break ! 
 But the past that lies behind me, on a sadly chequered 
 
 track. 
 Here, I find again the beaming of visions beauteous, 
 
 fled, 
 And Memory's voice redeeming eyes long closed 
 
 among the dead : 
 There the heart is wildly throbbing in awe, or dreams 
 
 of fame, 
 
102 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 All the future grandly robing in. the halo of a name! 
 Bather in this spell Elysian let the holy charm be 
 
 given 
 Which shall woo in sweetest vision to the blissfulness 
 
 of Heaven; 
 For those holy voices chanting, and with her life's 
 
 chiefest loss, 
 Still my memory shall be haunting, with the Shadow 
 
 of the Gross! 
 
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 "la chute des feuilles" of miller 
 
 The spoils of forests late in bloom, 
 
 O'er earth had autumn flung ; 
 The grove had no mysterious gloom, 
 
 The nightingale no song. 
 Sad and mournful, in life's morn, 
 
 An invalid did stray, 
 On trembling foot, o'er woodland borne, 
 
 Scenes loved in childhood's day : 
 " Woods that I've loved, farewell ! I yield ; 
 
 Your mourning sadly bodes my fate, 
 And in each falling leaf's revealed 
 
 Dark presage of the woes that wait. 
 
104 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 Thou Epidaurian oracle !* 
 
 Thou'st said, "in chilling blast 
 The yellow leaves once more shall fall, 
 
 But this time is the last. 
 Eternal cypress covers thee ; 
 
 — Paler than autumn pale may be, 
 Thou bendest to the tomb : 
 TTiy youth shall surely pass away 
 
 Before yon meadows green be gray, 
 Or vine groves shed their bloom ! 
 And I shall die ! the chill winds play 
 
 Around my sinking head ; 
 I've seen my every hope decay, 
 
 And vanish like a shade. 
 Fall day -lived leaves, together there, 
 
 To hide the grave of sorrow — 
 
 * Epidaurus was celebrated for an oracle of iEscnlapius. 
 
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 105 
 
 Hide from my mother's wild despair, 
 
 Where I shall sleep to-morrow. 
 Die by the path where lone and sad 
 
 My loved one's steps shall come, 
 As first the day begins to fade ; 
 
 Then softly sighing o'er my tomb, 
 A moment wake my sleeping shade, 
 
 From that still and voiceless home !" 
 
 He spoke, and passed fbre'er away : 
 
 Now the last leaflet gave 
 The sign to mark his final day ; 
 
 'Neath the oak they made his grave. 
 — But the loved one will not come that way, 
 
 To weep where the roses bloom 
 O'er a lonely cross, and myrtles stray 
 
 On his cold and unwatched tomb ; 
 5* 
 
106 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 And shepherds that pass, sole disturbers may be 
 Of that grave's unbroken gloom !* 
 
 * For the original French of this morceau, I am indebted to 
 Mons. Henri H s. 
 
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 
 
 "Pero a sultana Aixl su madre que le accompafiaba, muy mas fuerte, con voz 
 indignada le digo ; 'Llora ! llora, como una muger, pues que no has sabido defender 
 t reino como hombre : Al Africa !"' — Ultimo Abencerage. 
 
 High o'er Alhambra's sombre walls 
 
 The moonbeams now are streaming, 
 While each rose-vine which the wind enfolds, 
 In the green Vega swells and falls, 
 
 Like a maiden's breast in dreaming ! 
 The midnight wind steals softly by, 
 
 To bear the floweret's treasure, 
 And whispering 'mid the blossoms nigh, 
 Breathes a bewitching lullaby, 
 
 In fitful dream-like measure. 
 
108 THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOB 
 
 — A band of fugitives stood there, 
 
 To look their last farewell ; 
 While in Boabdil's eye, the tear, 
 The sudden start, the vacant stare, 
 
 Told what words may not tell. 
 To leave thy boyhood's happy home, 
 
 And graves of valorous sires, 
 And thine own mother's hallowed tomb, 
 This, ill-starred monarch, is thy doom, 
 
 'Tis this thy fate requires ! 
 11 Alhambra! thou whose shadows fall 
 Across my heart, the moments call 
 My last farewell of sorrow, 
 For Gothic king shall proudly tread 
 Thy halls, with Moorish trophies spread, 
 
 In triumph on the morrow ! 
 — By yonder Xenil's crystal tide, 
 How fleetly did the moments glide, 
 
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 109 
 
 Thro' all my radiant spring ; 
 Bright and as pure as dewdrops shower, 
 That sleeps on breast of virgin flower, 
 
 Ere wild bee is on wing ! 
 Morayma ! thou, my drooping bride, 
 IIow oft we roved at even-tide, 
 
 By yonder rippling river ; 
 And thought, that bliss so wild, so sweet, 
 Might never fly on pinions fleet, 
 
 To leave us woe forever ! 
 Oft did our tears of pity flow, 
 O'er Mej noun's love, and Liela's woe, 
 
 ' When grandams told the story ; 
 And then from Ali-atar heard 
 Of all the Campeador dared, 
 
 Del Carpio's toil and glory. 
 Brave Ali-atar ! Memory yet 
 Eecalls the scene, when he would sit 
 
110 THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 
 
 And smile at our young love; 
 And when the tales of war were told, 
 Knit his dark brows when he'd behold 
 Those tales no feeling move. 
 Oft did he tell me of the name, 
 The glorious name Abencerage I* 
 And curse the sickly arts of peace, 
 And praise the fabled iron age. 
 Alas ! alas ! Orlando's fame 
 And Roncesvalle's bloody fight 
 
 Could kindle in my breast no flame, 
 Love had absorbed my feelings quite. 
 
 Oh, that within a hero's grave 
 
 My weary body might repose 
 
 * " Among the Oriental races, the Abencerages held a distin- 
 guished rank ; priding themselves on a pure Arab descent from the 
 Beni-seraj, one of the tribes who were anseres or companions of the 
 prophet." — Irviyig's Alhambra, 136. 
 
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. Ill 
 
 By Tristan's side, or Eoland brave, 
 
 Or e'en with Roderick, 'neath the wave, 
 
 To end my tale of woes ! 
 Like that ill-fated monarch, I 
 Am doomed my happy home to fly, 
 
 To cheat my conqueror's pride ; 
 E'en as from Xere's deadly fight 
 Orelia bore in hasty flight 
 
 Him, by the river's side. 
 That vile seducer deeply paid 
 The evil his curst passion made, 
 
 — Florinda's ruined fame. 
 Yea ! and on holy solitude, 
 Where mortal never durst intrude, 
 
 The rash, rash Roderick came !* 
 
 * In the " Historia veredada del rey don Rodrigo," there is a 
 marvellous story of an enchanted tower which had remained sealed 
 for centuries. It had also been a tradition that he who opened it 
 
112 THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 
 
 — When did I ever play such, part 
 With youthful maiden's yielding heart, 
 
 To curse my name for aye ? 
 Or when in dark forbidden place 
 Dared I a sacred seal erase, 
 
 High Allah to defy?" 
 
 Sighed the Moor thus, while the sad train 
 
 Moved mournfully along, 
 When far amid the verdant glen 
 
 Swelled the sweet Compline song. 
 
 And blending with its solemn notes 
 
 *> 
 
 The bells call forth to prayer, 
 Then loud the exultant chorus floats 
 Far on the midnight air. 
 
 should lose his kingdom. Roderick, however, broke it open, and 
 there saw fearful sights of the future. (See Sir Walter Scott's 
 Works.) — Vision of Don Roderick, p. 376. 
 
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 113 
 
 "No more," he cried, "shall Allah here 
 
 Be worshipped or adored ! 
 Where late the Crescent gleamed in air, 
 
 Now floats the Cross abhorred ! 
 When late at solemn twilight hour 
 
 Muezzims called to prayer, 
 Will peal the bell from ancient tower, 
 
 And muttering priests be there !" 
 Now, as he gazed upon the scene, 
 
 From tower to distant steep, 
 Eobed in a beauty scarce terrene, 
 
 The exile bowed to weep ! 
 No eye was dry amid that throng, 
 
 At sight of his distress, 
 Save his mother's, who, to madness stung, 
 
 Thus spoke in bitterness : 
 — "Weep like a woman, since thy hand 
 
 Knew not thine own to keep — 
 
114 THE LAST SIGH OF T H E MO K 
 
 Nor like a man thy home defend, 
 
 Weep like a woman, weep ! 
 Sons of the desert ! we return 
 
 Our Africa to seek ! 
 Chico ! I curse the day thou wert born, 
 
 Man, as a woman weak!" 
 
 — Boabdil died, as heroes die, — 
 
 In dread Bacuba's fight 
 The exile closed his weary eye 
 In death, beneath a foreign sky, 
 
 Dying for another's right !* 
 
 * " The King of Fez, his kinsman, kindly received him. Thirty- 
 four years afterwards he followed the King of Fez to the field, to 
 quell a rebellion of the brothers named Zerifes. At the ford of 
 Bacuba, on the banks of G-nadiswed, he fell, ' dying 1 ,' as the ancient 
 
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 115 
 
 Where Tunis' ancient towers arise 
 
 Beside the sounding shore, 
 The natives show to strangers' eyes 
 The spot where 'neath the green turf lies 
 
 The brave the ill-starred Moor ! 
 
 chronicler (Marmol, Descrip. cle Africa), said, "in defence of the 
 kingdom of another, after wanting spirit to die in defence of his 
 own.' " — Irving's Conquest of Granada, 387. 
 
MARY STUART'S FAREWELL TO FRANCE. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.) 
 
 Adieu, dear land of France, adieu ! 
 My heart is thine where'er I hie, 
 Thou cradle of my childhood blest — 
 Adieu ! to leave thee is to die ! 
 
 Thou land, long chosen for my home, 
 
 Which now an exile I must fly, 
 Hear, France ! my last adieus that come, 
 
 Hear and remember Mary's sigh ! 
 The breeze is up, we leave the shore, 
 And heedless of my bosom's pain, 
 Heaven bids no blessed gale restore 
 Thy Ma ry to thy soil again ! 
 
mary stuart's farewell. 117 
 
 Adieu, dear land of France, adieu ! 
 My heart is thine where'er I hie, 
 Thou cradle of my childhood blest — 
 Adieu ! to leave thee is to die ! 
 
 When 'mid the people that I loved 
 The sparkling lilies first I wore, 
 Their warm hearts more my youth approved, 
 
 Than the high titles that I bore ! 
 The regal grandeur of the Scot 
 
 Is waiting now for me ; but vain 
 Is royalty, if it be not 
 O'er gallant Frenchmen's hearts to reign ! 
 
 Adieu, dear land of France, adieu ! 
 My heart is thine where'er I hie, 
 Thou cradle of my childhood blest — 
 Adieu ! to leave thee is to die ! 
 
118 MARY STUART'S FAREWELL 
 
 Love, glory, genius, ye were made 
 
 A maddening spell in other years ; 
 But Caledonia's solemn shade 
 
 Will bid these glories die in shade. 
 Alas ! what fearful visions stream, 
 
 To yield my spirit to despair ; 
 For often in a warning dream 
 
 I see my scaffold rising there ! 
 
 Adieu, dear land of France, adieu ! 
 My heart is thine where'er I hie, 
 Thou cradle of my childhood blest — 
 Adieu ! to leave thee is to die ! 
 
 But, France ! amid my darkest fears, 
 The Stuart's daughter still shall be, 
 As on this day, in burning tears, 
 Still turning her sad eyes to thee ! 
 
And, now ! oh, heaven ! the fluttering sail 
 
 Bears me away to stranger skies ; 
 And night spreads forth her humid veil, 
 To hide thee from my straining eyes ! 
 Adieu, dear land of France, adieu ! 
 My heart is thine where'er I hie, 
 Thou cradle of my childhood blest — 
 Adieu ! to leave thee is to die ! 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF F. M. N 
 
 Coldly yon midnight stars look down, 
 
 And chill winds pass with sullen breath, 
 While 'neath her constellated crown 
 
 Night whispers low of gloom and death ! 
 — One to whose eyes yon stars above 
 
 Were inspiration deep and pure, 
 No more may see them upward move, 
 
 And they for him shall glow no more. 
 
 Earth, in her chambers dark and drear, 
 Still spreads her poison-feast for us ; 
 
 No Lethean balm for us is here, 
 — Tis his beneath yon early moss ! 
 
LINES. 121 
 
 ' Alway I would not live," ah, no ! 
 
 Death, hope's last refuge, bids depart 
 The darkest shades of mortal woe 
 
 That spread their blight upon the heart ! 
 
 From night to day, from noise to peace ! 
 
 E'en midnight's darkest hour of gloom, 
 We know in radiant morn shall cease, 
 
 Morn, which the darkness tells will come. 
 Thus in the silence of yon graves 
 
 The darkest hour precedes the day, 
 And light eternity retrieves 
 
 The gloom that now o'ershades the way ! 
 
 When life's gay dreams are fled away 
 
 The grave we hope, as for repose ; 
 But why must darkness chase the ray 
 
 That morning's earliest hours disclose ? 
 6 
 
122 LINES. 
 
 When hope is weaving amaranth flowers, 
 And glorious visions float on high, 
 
 Why must the golden winged hours 
 Find their last goal in one short sigh ? 
 
 Ah, call untimely ! fatal doom, 
 
 To bid Youth's maddening pulses cease, 
 While in the low and dreamless tomb 
 
 Hope yields her sceptre unto Peace ! 
 " Peace ! Peace !" we breathe th' Orestes-prayer 
 
 When all our joy on wing we see ; 
 But Peace is Death if Hope be near, 
 
 And still we love our fleeting clay ! 
 
 "Leave me," Youth cries, "a mother's tears, 
 A father's woe will mark my tomb : 
 
 Leave me to cheer their sunset years, 
 Leave me to light their evening gloom!" 
 
LINES. 123 
 
 Softly breathes Mercy from above, 
 
 " They shall be watched when thou art gone ! 
 Come thou away ! my nursing love 
 
 Shall never leave their hearts alone I" 
 
 He in thy bosom sleeps, oh God ! 
 
 Nor pain nor woe may know again : — 
 And while we sigh, in high abode 
 
 He hears and joins th' angelic strain. 
 We mourn him, for he was a part 
 
 In many a bosom's love ; and now 
 Plucked are the flowers from out the heart, 
 
 And sighs must fall and tears must flow. 
 
 Oh Thou ! who givest light and shade 
 
 To cheer or darken as we go, 
 With spreading wings vouchsafe thine aid 
 
 To calm the sufferer's tears that flow. 
 
124 LINES. 
 
 Be to that lonely mother's heart, 
 That father's soul, a pitying God ; 
 
 Let not thy presence now depart, 
 
 But lead them down Life's evening road 
 
THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.) 
 
 Captive on the Moorish shore, 
 
 Bowed beneath his heavy chain, 
 A warrior sang, "Ye summer birds, 
 
 Your coming glads my heart again. 
 Blithe swallows ! hope deserts you not, 
 
 Hither with you she still doth come ; 
 France is the lovely land you left, 
 
 — Tell ye not something of my home ? 
 
 For three long years, I've prayed you oft 
 Some token of my home to bring, 
 
 From the still valley where I saw 
 The blissful visions of my spring. 
 
126 THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 Beside the stream which winds its way 
 Between the banks where lilacs bloom, 
 
 Surely you've seen our little cot, 
 
 — Tell ye not something of my home ? 
 
 Perchance, the light first met your eyes 
 
 Upon the roof, 'neath which I drew 
 My life-breath first, and ye have seen 
 
 The tears my mother's cheeks bedew. 
 Dying, at every hour she dreams 
 
 She hears my footstep in the grove ; 
 She listens, and then weeps again, 
 
 — Tell ye not something of her love ? 
 
 My sister, — is she wedded yet? 
 
 Or have ye seen the youthful crowd 
 That at her nuptials joined to sing 
 
 Her praise in songs heartfelt and loud ? 
 
T H E SW A L L O W S. 127 
 
 And those dear friends of earlier years, 
 
 In battle following me so well, 
 Have they returned to that dear place ? 
 
 — Something of these have ye to tell ? 
 
 Across their bodies now, perchance 
 
 The stranger-foes the valley tread ; 
 My cottage may be their abode, 
 
 My sister's vows they may have stayer). 
 — For me, no mother more shall pray, 
 
 My fetters bind me fast and well. 
 My country's swallows ! of her woes 
 
 Have ye not something sad to tell ?"* 
 
 * " This elegy, filled with regrets for the domestic roof, has re- 
 cently received a new consecration. Many soldiers of our army in 
 Africa, prisoners among the Arabs, joined one evening to sing 
 ' The Swallows' but it was impossible to proceed to the last verse. 
 Their voices were hushed, their faces were clouded with tears. 
 Thus, the Hebrew captives sang, ' Superflumina Babylonis,' and 
 wept — ' when they remembered Jerusalem.' " — Note of Editor. 
 
CHANT OF THE DEATH-ANGEL AZRAEL. 
 
 The midnight winds are sighing o'er the summer- 
 glories fled, 
 And the yellow leaves are lying where the pathway 
 
 lately spread. 
 Round the hushed and darkened dwelling falls the 
 
 lonely, lonely rain, 
 Ceasing almost now, now swelling in a torrent on each 
 
 pane. 
 While within this chamber sitting, sad and pensive, 
 
 all alone, 
 Round me Fancy's shades are flitting in the forms of 
 
 loved ones gone : 
 And when soft the winds are breathing, or in silence 
 
 dying low, 
 
CHANT OF AZRAEL. 129 
 
 'Mid my tears all hot and seething, come the tones of 
 
 long ago. 
 — Hark ! what sound is that, appalling, bidding every 
 
 phantom flee 
 Like the early morn-breath calling to the ghosts to 
 
 flee away? 
 'Tis no sound of fierce commotion, 'tis no wildly fear- 
 ful sound, 
 Like the foamy crests of ocean when they starward 
 
 madly bound ; 
 But a quick and hasty rustling, like an eagle on the 
 
 wing, 
 When with food for hungry nestling, to her eyrie she 
 
 doth spring ! 
 With a song, the angel-flying wakes the solemn dream 
 
 of Night, 
 Loud and Paean-like now, now dying into dirge-like 
 
 lingering flight. 
 
130 CHANT OF A Z R A E L . 
 
 Proudly sings " he now in soaring, as he claps his 
 wings on high, 
 
 Now the strain in plaint deploring, does in wail fune- 
 real die. 
 
 'Tis the dread Death-Angel singing on his life- 
 destroying path, 
 
 And the wind, his music bringing, it is Sansar, wind 
 of Death I* 
 
 Pale spirits ! why flee ? what fear ye ? he may bring 
 no curse to you : 
 
 Come, ye goblins ! gather near me, hear his solemn 
 chant anew. 
 
 Come, the morn is not yet breaking, nor the pallid 
 stars yet fail, 
 
 Yet no breath of morn is waking from the fresh turf 
 of the vale. 
 
 *See Yathek, p. 1*72. 
 
CHANT OF AZRAEL. 131 
 
 Hear his plaint, his song of glory; hear his wildly 
 
 changing strain, 
 Then, go draw your cold sod o'er ye, get ye to your 
 
 graves again ! 
 
 u I come ! I come ! my conquering path 
 
 The hero's chaplet strews : 
 I break his sword, I calm his wrath, 
 And with the pallid band of death 
 
 Wreathe his victorious brows ! 
 The wail of widowed hearts I heard, 
 
 I longed to cut him down, 
 And forth when came th' Almighty word, 
 Qui civ flew my fast-avenging sword, 
 
 A moment, and 'twas done ! 
 
 I come ! I come ! and o'er my path 
 Lie all earth's fairest flowers ; 
 
1 32 C II A N T OP A Z R A E L . 
 
 The laurel crown, the orange wreath, 
 The oaken chaplet, lie beneath 
 
 The shades of cypress bowers. 
 The rose, that Love to Faith has given, 
 
 Before my path is laid, 
 While vows attested by yon heaven, 
 And its white stars, my hand has riven, 
 
 'Tis o'er, the victor's dead ! 
 
 I come ! I come ! but call me not 
 
 A conqueror in this scene ! 
 Yonder, within that widow's cot, 
 Her only son's life flickering out, 
 
 With sobs, his breaths between. 
 The moss is on her husband's breast, 
 
 Her other babes are gone ; 
 And e'en while to her bosom prest, 
 In love's despairing fondness kissed. 
 
 My hand must cut him down ! 
 
CHANT OF AZRAEL. 133 
 
 I come ! I come ! In yonder hall 
 
 A prince is bending o'er his bride : 
 Loudly for aid and comfort call, 
 Offer thy gold, thy lands, thy all, 
 
 Thy name, thy blood, thy pride ! ' 
 I wrap my icy arms around, 
 
 I draw the wavering breath ; 
 He listens for the prayed-for sound, 
 But in his fond embraces bound, 
 
 He clasps the bride of Death ! 
 
 I come ! I come ! and call me blest 
 
 When in yon gloomy pile 
 I fold the maniac to my breast, 
 And give his soul to Light and Eest, 
 
 And free his limbs from toil ! 
 Lately, with bloodshot eye, he cried, 
 
 In his lone Night of mind. 
 But all these pangs I bade subside ; 
 
134 CHANT OF AZRAEL. 
 
 Bathed deep in Lethe's blessed tide, 
 His woes are left behind. 
 
 I come ! I come ! and not alone, 
 
 To seek an isolated One. 
 Bnt from the cloud I come from high, 
 I bid whole cities droop and die, 
 
 I make their markets lone ! 
 Lo ! where their navies cut the wave, 
 
 Their armies rule the land ! 
 Their young, their beautiful, and brave, 
 I doom unto a common grave, 
 
 Smiting with viewless hand ! 
 
 I come ! the gentle breeze of eve 
 May bring the blighting spell, 
 E'en as a wildly -roaring wave, 
 — In calms that hush, in storms that rave, 
 In Noise, in Peace I dwell. 
 
C HANT OF AZRA E L . 135 
 
 Behold me in the storm, the cloud, 
 
 Or hot sirocco-breath ; 
 Hear me when rage the billows loud, 
 Or when the breeze bids lilies nod — 
 
 All things are forms of Death!" 
 
THE DYING CHRISTIAN 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.) 
 
 — What heavenly songs thro' all the air resound ? 
 — What pious mourners weeping stand around ? 
 
 For whom this song? — this funeral light for whom? 
 Oh Death ! is this thy voice resounding clear ? 
 This time the last ? — I understand, I hear — 
 
 On the borders of my tomb ! 
 Oh thou ! the fire divine, the radiant light 
 Of this poor body whence thou takest flight, 
 
 Disperse these fears — Death should not terrify ! 
 Oh soul ! take now thy flight, thy chains depose, 
 Lay off the coil of earthly cares and woes 
 
 And is this, then, to die ? 
 
THE DYING CHRISTIAN, 137 
 
 Aye ! Time for me no more shall mark his hours ! 
 Ye glorious heralds of immortal bowers, 
 
 To what new home now bear ye me, on high ? 
 Now, now I swim on seas of heavenly light, 
 And earth grows dim and fades upon my sight, 
 
 And heaven's bright fields come nigh ! 
 — " Alas !" just as I wake to bliss, I hear 
 Sighing and groans, how harsh unto mine ear ! 
 
 Dearly beloved ones, do not, do not mourn. 
 For from the cup of blest Forgetfulness 
 I drink Oblivion, and my soul in peace 
 Enters its heavenly bourne ! 
 
THE TOMB AND THE ROSE. 
 
 (FROM "LES VOIX TNTERIEUREs" OF VICTOR HUGO.) 
 
 The tomb said to the rose, 
 
 " "With, tears which morning o'er thee throws, 
 What dost thou, flower of Love ?" 
 The rose said to the tomb, 
 
 " What dost thou with those in the gloom 
 Of thy jaws that may never move?" 
 
 The rose said, " Sombre tomb ! 
 Of these tears I make sweet perfume ; 
 Amber-and-honey gales make I." 
 
 The tomb said, "Plaintive flower! 
 Of every soul that my shades embower, 
 I make an angel for the sky." 
 
ARTEMISIA. 
 
 When fading sunlight o'er the deep 
 
 Its parting radiance faintly gave, 
 From the white rocks on Lencas' steep* 
 
 Looked a pale mourner o'er the wave. 
 Her lofty brow was dark with care, 
 
 Her swan-like bosom swelled with pain ; 
 Her flashing eyes, dimmed with a tear, 
 
 Were fixed upon the murmuring main. 
 Above the billowy deep she bent, 
 
 While wooed the Ionian waves below ; 
 Then on the night-breeze came her plaint, 
 
 Her last sad sigh of love and woe : — 
 
 * This promontory took its name from the whiteness of the rocks. 
 
140 ARTEMISIA. 
 
 "Farewell, thou sun, in darkness fading, 
 
 Farewell thy light forever more ! 
 Another shore I'll soon be treading — 
 
 A dark, a never-sunlit shore. 
 Upon thy waves that roll below me, 
 
 Calm sea of Io ! Sappho fell : 
 And here, long ages legends show me 
 
 A rest for hearts that love too well ! 
 Here, when faithless Phaon fled thee, 
 
 Here, Sappho ! didst thou find thy rest : 
 And the self-same voice that led thee 
 
 Whispers now in my sad breast. 
 /, to yield to such a madness ! 
 
 I, who led th' embattled host ! 
 I, a prey to tears and sadness ! 
 
 The army's pride, and Xerxes' boast.* 
 
 * " Xerxes, after the battle of Salamis, sent Artemisia a complete 
 suif of Grecian armor ; to the commander of his fleet, a distaff and 
 spinole." — Poly^nus. 
 
A R T EMISIA. 141 
 
 W lien the Greek in fearful battle 
 
 Felled the Persian and the Mede, 
 Who then saved the timorous cattle ? 
 
 Who the dire destruction stayed ? 
 Who, when all around were flying, 
 
 Gave the Greek his watery grave ? 
 And, heedless of the dead and dying, 
 
 Mixed their red blood with the wave ? 
 I, on Euboea's day of sorrow, 
 
 When our hosts were scattered far, 
 Made the foe await the morrow, 
 
 Gave new spirit to the war ! 
 Warriors, chieftains, then before me, 
 
 Tremble at my bloody sword ! 
 Like myself, ah, then I bore me ! 
 
 — Would that boldness were restored ! 
 When Salamis, that fight unworthy 
 
 The hand of man, was 'gainst the king, 
 
l-±2 ARTEMISIA. 
 
 Proud Artemisia ! glory o'er thee 
 
 Then did splendid triumphs bring. 
 All fled in haste, but I, in flying, 
 
 Slew many a Greek — the noble foe ! 
 And yet, and yet, I die of sighing — 
 
 I, for whose head the Greek wished so ! 
 " Ten thousand drachmas" would be given 
 
 To him whose valor captured me I* 
 Pallas Parthenia ! thou from Heaven 
 
 Wast then my guide, my help, my stay ! 
 Oh, how my bright sword in their gore 
 
 Drank to its satisfaction then, 
 While to the still and listening shore 
 
 Drifted the heads of my murdered men !f 
 
 * Vide Herodotus, Book viii., Chap. 93. 
 
 f " So the two brothers and their murdered man 
 
 Kode past fair Florence," &c. Keats. 
 
A 11 T E MISIA. 143 
 
 — Peace led me home ; the lute, the lyre, 
 
 Sounded my praise, alas ! I heard. 
 Then Yenus 'woke the deadly fire 
 
 In Dardanus' every song and word ! 
 I learned to sigh, I learned to weep, 
 
 And yet I knew not, dreamt not why : 
 A thought would bid him near me creep — 
 
 He came, invoked by Memory ! 
 Ah, then, cold Dardanus ! when thou 
 
 Didst tell of all thy love for her, 
 I listened to each ardent vow 
 
 Like music never heard before. 
 Alas ! the vows were not for me ; 
 
 Cruel one, all thy love was hers ! — 
 And when thou didst remove away, 
 
 Burst from my heart the maddening tears, 
 Whose poison in the cup of Life 
 
 Sends a dire madness to the soul ; 
 
14:4 ARTEMISIA. 
 
 And I with jealous pkrensy rile, 
 
 Ordered a deed, a crime most foul ! 
 Lost, now forever lost to me, 
 
 He roams a wanderer o'er the wild ; 
 And I bend o'er the surging sea 
 
 With thought of death well reconciled ! 
 Yenus ! destroyer ! in the sea 
 
 I lay my body to repose ; 
 In Hades come not thou to me, 
 
 With all thy thrilling hopes and woes. 
 Leucas ! thou place where lovers die, 
 
 I cast me from thy blessed height ; 
 Ye zephyrs, take my parting sigh ; 
 
 Eeceive my body, mother Night !" 
 — She said — and down the rocky steep afar 
 
 She cast herself upon the listening wave ; 
 One moment blotted the reflected star, 
 
 Then found beneath a quiet and a grave ! 
 
THRENODIA. 
 
 " In the heavens above, 
 The angels whispering to one another 
 Can find among their burning words of love 
 None so devotional as that of— Mother !" 
 
 Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 Breathe low, my lyre, thy melting spell, 
 
 If e'er enchantment dwelt in thee ; 
 And as thy solemn strains shall swell, 
 
 Oh ! may the tear-fount ope for me ! 
 For since she breathed her last, my seething brain 
 Burns with the tears that will not flow again ! 
 
 Mother ! — all Nature seems to know 
 Why thus my heart is dark within ; 
 
 7 
 
14:6 THBENODIA. 
 
 And Autumn's winds around me strew 
 
 The faded leaf, so lately green : 
 While slowly dies the day'.s last fading light, 
 Comes the breeze-plaint, sad requiem of Night ! 
 
 Thus fading light from those dear eyes, 
 
 As o'er her dying form I bent, 
 E'en from death's final agonies 
 
 Love's last, most feeble ray was sent : 
 Smile ! last sad remnant of the countless throng, 
 For me, that clustered there, so oft, so long. 
 
 I bent o'er her, while softly spread 
 A radiant look of love that smiled, 
 
 While like a tone from 'mong the dead 
 Came the low cry, " My child ! my child !" 
 
 — 'Tis the last blessing ere the soul departs, 
 
 And I have locked it in my heart of hearts ! 
 
THRENODIA. 117 
 
 E'en when I held her clay-cold hand, 
 
 And she Avas fading, fading fast, 
 Around her bed a seraph-band 
 
 Gathered, in mantling shades o'ercast, 
 — Shadows from light in far-off spirit-land, 
 That tell the final moment close at hand, 
 
 "Stay, seraphs!" loud in grief I cried; 
 
 "Spare her one hour more — oh, spare !" 
 The sinless angels turned aside, 
 
 And Death e'en turned to wipe a tear. 
 Should I thus pray ? the angels asked no proof — 
 She was my mother — mother ! 'twas enough. 
 
 Now o'er her closing eyes there came 
 A light, which told the moment blest, 
 
 When 'rose Heaven's music, like a dream 
 Of Peace in valley of Unrest. 
 
148 THRENOD'IA. 
 
 Hushed the breath then, the angel-forms all fled, 
 Save one alone — my mother, eold and dead ! 
 
 Oh ! oft, when earth lowered darkest o'er, 
 My soul could bid the clouds depart ; 
 
 My voice could charm the icy power, 
 And bid the blessed tears to start. 
 
 " Oh, where shall Best be found ?" was then our song ; 
 
 Thy rest is found, the angelic host among ! 
 
 Why hast thou left me, mother dear ! 
 
 To all earth's baleful bitterness ? 
 For thou, thro' Sin's long darkened year, 
 
 Wast still a light, my path to bless. 
 Where Pleasure palled, and all my Hopes had flown, 
 Still thou wert left, and I was not alone. 
 
 Now, now where is a heart for me ? 
 Is not this earth a barren wild ? 
 
TKRENODIA. 149 
 
 Who now a constant friend may be 
 
 To thj poor erring, wandering child ? 
 — For hadst thou lived to see these locks turn gray, 
 Still should I e'er have been " my child" to thee ! 
 
 — Now, in one moment all the Past 
 
 'Eose at the bidding of my heart ; 
 From scene to scene the visions haste 
 
 In every place where she was part. 
 Oh, death ! why art thou in those visions sweet? 
 The new-made grave at every step I meet. 
 
 See ! 'neath those noble oaks, where once 
 My boyhood played, a mantling cloud 
 
 Has gathered o'er the silent manse, 
 — An angel child lies in his shroud ; 
 
 While sighs around the sad autumnal gale, 
 
 And echoes back the parent's bitter wail. 
 
150 T HRENOD I A . 
 
 Oft have I gazed upon that boy, 
 Where Nature in her glory smiled, 
 
 And pictured to myself the joy 
 Of parents of such angel-child. 
 
 But oh ! what tongue the speechless woe can tell 
 
 To breathe o'er such an one love's last farewell ? 
 
 There, in the spring-time of my life, 
 
 I had a brother like him ; he 
 Passed on this earth a moment brief, 
 
 Then left Life's gathered shades to me. 
 But o'er these clouds, and o'er the coming Night, 
 Still beams my mother's love, and all was bright ! 
 
 Now on my vision 'rose the home 
 In the still woodland ; there, my sire 
 
 Breathed his last sigh — then o'er her came 
 The blight of that consuming fire 
 
THRENO.DIA. 151 
 
 Which leaves the heart a troubled dream : 
 
 And tears their only sad deliverance found 
 
 In prayers that Life with death would soon be crowned ! 
 
 Insatiate Archer ! thou art near : 
 
 She, the dear sister of my youth, 
 Bends o'er her infant's early bier 
 
 With woe, no earthly power can soothe ! 
 Father of Heaven ! when will thy judgments cease 
 On grief-struck children of a mourning race ? 
 
 That seraph-babe ! in life how oft 
 
 Asked for the dear one whom we weep, 
 
 And folded then its eyelids soft, 
 
 Lulled in her "aunty's" arms to sleep! 
 
 Now, both repose in Jesus' gentle arms, 
 
 Far from our cankering cares, our rude alarms ! 
 
152 T H R E N O I> I A , 
 
 — Thou sleepest, mother ! 'neath the clay, 
 The stars have seen me watching there ; 
 
 Seen me — aye, me, bend low to pray, 
 For then I felt that thou wast near. 
 
 Could it be heaven, if thou couldst never be 
 
 At hand, to soothe thy son's wild agony ? 
 
 Come, in the spell of soft dream-light, 
 When this sad heart is dark with care ; 
 
 Come, with no watcher save the Night, 
 And bring that precious boon, a tear ! 
 
 A tear, to tell of love that may not die : 
 
 — Hush thee, my lyre — the angel-form is nigh ! 
 
AIDEN-WHERE IS IT P 
 
 " Eden is nearer home than most men think.'''' 
 
 Heart — my heart ! how oft of Aiden 
 
 Hast thou dreamed at even-tide, 
 When the breeze, with flower-breaths laden, 
 
 Softly o'er the valleys sighed ! 
 Far, oh far away before thee, 
 
 Eose that vision heavenly fair ; 
 High o'er earth the dream-light bore thee, 
 
 Thro' the twilight's charmed air. 
 
 Sweetly wooed that dream Elysian, 
 Calmly didst thou yield thy heart ; 
 
 To thine eyes rapt in the vision 
 Beauty would from beauty start ! 
 7* 
 
154 AIDEN — WHERE IS IT? 
 
 From one rose in fragrance springing 
 Grew a cluster while I viewed, 
 
 And one bird there sweetly singing 
 Would call a choir from leafy wood ! 
 
 To the white magnolia's blossom 
 
 Streamlet sighed from mossy shore, 
 Till consenting, on its bosom 
 
 Dropped the sweetly -languid flower : 
 While, within the still shades dwelling, 
 
 Fairy hands awoke the lute, 
 Till, when softest strains were swelling, 
 
 E'en the nightingales grew mute ! 
 
 Tints, like eve's bewitching blushes, 
 Spread across the azure sky, 
 
 And between the lute's soft hushes 
 Breathed the winds their lullaby. 
 
AIDEN — WHERE IS IT? 155 
 
 Fragrant breaths the flowers were sighing, 
 
 Stifling as Love's rapturous kiss, 
 When beneath the crocus lying 
 
 Life is but one thrill of bliss ! 
 
 Youth and Hope were all before me — 
 
 Could it but a vision be ? 
 Had not all the future o'er me 
 
 Spread like a reality ? 
 True ! I loved the dear ones near me, 
 
 And my heart was true to Home ; 
 But methought, their love will cheer me 
 
 To the glorious scenes to come ! 
 
 Now one dear one we were losing, 
 
 Dark the shadows 'gan to fall ; 
 While my tears, all dreams confusing, 
 
 His Death's drear o'erspreading pall. 
 
156 AIDEN — WHERE IS I T V 
 
 Loud the cries of woe assailed me, 
 Death had borne our Head away ! 
 
 Then the hope-lit visions failed me — 
 Night was following on the Day ! 
 
 Fate, unheeding all my prayers, 
 
 Now bore my mother's form away ; 
 Then, thro' dark and burning tears, 
 
 Learned I where true Aiden be. 
 — Not in far-off lands of glory, 
 
 Not where poet's dream-eyes gaze ; 
 Not where fame holds laurels o'er thee, 
 
 Not where Peru's treasures blaze : 
 
 But above the fireside altar, 
 
 Where cherubic wings are spread, 
 
 Hallowing every prayer we falter, 
 Blessing every tear we shed ; — 
 
A I D E N — WHERE IS IT? 157 
 
 There, oh there, a light from Heaven, 
 
 All to mortals that may come, 
 In that sacred place is given — 
 
 In the heart's own Aiden Home ! 
 
"Tovg yap Oavovreg ovx opco XvnovfiEvovg." 
 
 Sophocles. 
 
 I stood among the silent graves, 
 Where weeping- willow sadly waves, 
 Gloom from the sad scene borrowing ; — 
 
 But so calm all lay, 
 
 That they seemed to say, 
 " The dead we see not sorrowing." 
 
 The green moss hangs upon each tomb, 
 Where falls the autumnal floweret's bloom, 
 Oh ! 'twere a spot soul-harrowing, 
 
 Did not the flowers pale 
 
 Breathe soft on the gale, 
 " The dead we see not sorrowing." 
 
S ILENT GRAVES. 159 
 
 Ah ! dark is the tear-shade on my face, 
 As I come to kneel by the lonely place 
 Where earth o'er my loved is narrowing ; 
 
 But a voice there comes 
 
 From the marble tombs, 
 u The dead ye see not sorrowing!" 
 
 How calm ! they sleep to wake no more, 
 The thrill, the tear, the pang is o'er, 
 For they to heaven, on arrow- wing, 
 
 Have gone, to chime, 
 
 To unending time, 
 " The dead ye see not sorrowing." 
 
 I call ye not back from the tomb 
 
 To earth's vain smiles, that die in gloom, 
 
 But far from scenes soul-narrowing 
 
160 SILENT G HAVES. 
 
 I long for a home 
 Where no tears may come — 
 For "the dead we see not sorrowing." 
 
 Hark ! how the gentle breeze of even 
 Steals like an angel's breath from heaven, 
 The flowers' sweet perfume borrowing ; 
 
 "lis the call to Best, 
 
 Oh my aching breast ! 
 " The dead we see not sorrowing !" 
 
 When, bent submissive to my woes, 
 The dark obscuring tear-drop flows, 
 And Hope does ne'er her morrow bring, 
 I pray for the peace 
 Where all heart-aches cease, 
 Where "the dead we see not sorrowing." 
 
MEMORIES OF THE OLD LOCUST.* 
 
 -The mighty trees 
 
 In many a lazy syllable repeating 
 Their old poetic legends to the wind." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Far down the vista of the Past I gaze 
 
 Years long ago : the woods primeval, then 
 Cast o'er these hills a dark and shadowy haze, 
 
 And silence held a calm unbroken reign. 
 I was a sprout then, slowly shooting up 
 
 'Neath the rich foliage of a spreading oak ; 
 And when the Day-God bade my branches droop, 
 
 The sheltering foliage all the sun-light took. 
 
 * Alone, in the very heart of the town of Newbury, stood a 
 venerable locust of enormous size ; but since these lines were writ- 
 ten it has been cut down to give place to a range of buildings. 
 
162 THE OLD LOCUST. 
 
 Well I remember in my earliest days, 
 
 One summer eve, when first the vesper star 
 Grave trembling to the flowers her silver rays, 
 
 From the blue vaults of yonder heaven afar, 
 Yes ! at the watching hour of twilight, low 
 
 The whip-poor-will poured forth his plaintive song 
 Across yon hill, where bloomed the violet blue, 
 
 And the wild-rose among a blushing throng. 
 Save the soft ripple of yon waters clear, 
 
 And birds' low chant, no sounds the grove invade, 
 When quick with doubtful steps, then hastened here 
 
 A dusky warrior and a trembling maid ! 
 — Then o'er me quickly stole a thrilling thrall, 
 
 A spell of witchery, new, and wild, and deep. 
 Thro' long-fled years that scene I well recall, 
 
 And still with life the memory shall keep. 
 Did he breathe low the tale of fervent love ? 
 
 The bursting sigh her sympathy records ! 
 
T TT E L 1) L OCUST. 16?» 
 
 Did tie vow never from her side to move ? 
 
 Tears spoke a thought too passionful for words ! 
 — E'en now, aye in this age of Progress-making, 
 
 I've heard the sigh of passionate regret 
 Come, as of old, from one true heart that's breaking, 
 
 Because one memory Life may ne'er forget. 
 Oh pale young dreamer ! in the hearts of yore 
 
 Dwelt Passion deep, and Love as true as thine ; 
 But Mammon rules where love was king before, 
 
 And gilded Misery bridal wreaths entwine ! 
 Love ! oh immortal Love ! tho' Mammon's power 
 
 Is great on earth, yet thou dost not depart ; 
 Thine altar-fires still are watched, — the more 
 
 Because in solitude by one lone heart. 
 Dream on ! dream on ! for it is sweet to dream 
 
 When grief is all Eeality has lent thee ; 
 Hope shows a haven to Life's turbid stream, 
 
 Where tears shall cease, and hearts drink in 
 Nepenthe ! 
 
164 THE OLD LOCUST. 
 
 The Saxon came ! the sturdy forest oak 
 
 Fell 'neath his axe to rear a freeman's home ! 
 Then a new spirit in the land awoke, 
 
 The dawn of better times at last had come. 
 The wigwam and the war-whoop passed away, 
 
 And the thick darkness which here once abode, 
 Fled at the sunlight of Hope's radiant day, 
 
 As 'rose the temples of the Pilgrim's God ! 
 The savage rites all vanished, and instead 
 
 Came Truth as fled the fables of those times, 
 Onward the van of Light and Hope hath led, 
 
 While Progress sounds her call in church-bell 
 chimes ! 
 
 All my companions gone ! and soon I may 
 Be borne away by the tide now bearing all ; 
 
 A palace stand where I was wont to be, 
 And Commerce hurrv with her busy call. 
 
THE OLD LOCUST. 165 
 
 And yet, how oft beneath my spreading shade 
 
 The young, the light of heart and free of soul, 
 Have sat, as slow the day began to fade, 
 
 Nor marked how fast Time's fleeting moments roll. 
 Oh ! may they think when I am fading fast, 
 
 Of the dark hour when Life's new roseate bloom 
 Must fade in Night that knows no dawn, at last, 
 
 The voiceless silence of the waiting tomb ! 
 
"AGAIN TO THEE 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) 
 
 " Ahora y siempre." 
 
 Device of Pomfret. 
 
 To thee ! .always to thee ! what now, my lyre ? 
 
 For thee a hymn of Love, a nuptial hymn ? 
 Can other name awake the slumbering fire, 
 
 Or can I glow with any other theme ? 
 — 'Tis thou, whose look clears up my sombre night — 
 
 Thou, whose bright image smiles upon my dream. 
 In darkness wandering, thou dost guide me right, 
 
 For from thine eyes the rays of heaven-light stream ! 
 — My destiny is guarded by thy prayer ; 
 
 It watches o'er me when my angel sleeps : 
 
"again t o t hee." 167 
 
 And when my heart thy stirring voice doth hear, 
 
 Forth to. the combat, daring Fate, it leaps. 
 Does not a voice from Heaven call thee back, 
 
 Thou flower, like which, none else to earth belongs ? 
 Sister of angels ! on this heart to make 
 
 Eeflection of their fires, and echo of their songs ! 
 — When thy dark eye speaks, turning full on me, 
 
 Or thy loose robe doth brush against me light, 
 I dream some temple- veil is fluttering nigh, • 
 
 And like Tobias say, "An angel in my Night!"* 
 When thou dost chase my sorrow-clouds away, 
 
 I knew thy heart was meant by Heaven for mine ; 
 E'en as he knew, who saw at close of day 
 
 The virgin's footsteps to the fount incline.f 
 
 * See Tobit, the most entertainiug of the narratives of the 
 Apocrypha, 
 f Jacob. 
 
168 ''AGAIN TO THEE." 
 
 I love thee so, tears at thy name will come — 
 
 Tears that this life is so replete with woes : 
 — In this land thou hast no abiding home, 
 
 The tree thou lean'st on, elsewhere spreads its 
 boughs ! 
 — Oh Lord ! let Peace and joy around her roll, 
 
 Cloud not her path, — 'tis in thy hand, oh Lord! 
 She should receive thy blessing, for her soul 
 
 Deserves the holiest bliss that Virtue can afford ! 
 
s o n a. 
 
 (FROM MARMONTEL — " IL FAUT AIMER.") 
 
 But we must love ! Wisdom pursues a shade 
 
 In all her rambles after real bliss ; 
 The bliss to which she ever seems to lead, 
 
 Is found one way alone ; and it is this, 
 That we must love ! 
 'Tis love alone that gives to Life its worth, 
 
 Life cannot be enjoyed save 'neath her reign. 
 — The shepherd's joys ye envy, kings of earth ! 
 
 While for the shepherd splendor glows in vain- 
 'Tis Love alone ! 
 Until we learn to love, we never live. 
 
 In the deep calm, e'en Hope itself is dull ! 
 
170 SONG. 
 
 Desire predicts a morning will arrive 
 
 Of which Bliss is the noon-day radiance full ! 
 We love, we live ! 
 Cold Eeason, are we wrong thee to forget ? 
 To yield us to the heaving of the breast ! 
 How canst thou say that folly we commit 
 In the acts of kindness, care of being blest ? 
 Cold Eeason, are Ave wrong? 
 — Then, we must love ! Kind Nature, aye, has given 
 
 This lesson to be conned, all life along ! 
 Yea ! in thy heart, Iris with voice of Heaven, 
 Tells thee this truth far better than my song, 
 That we must love ! 
 
CYPRUS WINE. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.) 
 
 Thy wine, oh Cyprus, doth recall my youthful dreams 
 again, 
 Again the rosy god appears, with bandage o'er his 
 face ; 
 Jove, Mars and Venus, Juno, Pallas, who so long have 
 been 
 By my short Credo all ignored, and having there no 
 place : 
 If all our authors, who do seem such heathens in each 
 look, 
 Have made me curse the faith which now I see such 
 charms adorn, 
 
172 CYPKUS WINK. 
 
 'Twas but because the stupid souls of Cyprus ne'er 
 partook, 
 For of this goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 were born ! 
 
 Now to the Grecian faith again, taught in each school- 
 boy's class, 
 I do return in haste, so much hath Bacchus done 
 for me ; 
 Dance, oh ye Muses, to my songs, ye Graces on the 
 grass 
 Smile, oh divine Apollo, smile, ye zephyrs near me 
 be! 
 Come Fauns and woodland deities, Dryads, bacchantes, 
 come ! 
 Around me stand and let the song in merry chorus 
 turn ; 
 
CYPRUS WIN E . 173 
 
 But from my cellar drive away yon Naiads to their 
 home ; 
 — For of this goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 were born ! 
 
 Thanks to the bottle (wrapt in tar to keep its flavor 
 still), 
 I dream I sail away to seek the altars hoar of Eld ; 
 Where Beauty crowned with myrtle-leaves the rap- 
 ' tured heart might fill, 
 Beneath a sky forever blue ; — and left no hearts 
 she quelled ! 
 We, born beneath a colder sky, where clouds and tem- 
 pests lower, 
 From Fancy's tongue alone may of those happy 
 regions learn ; 
 Men might delight to spend a life on such a blissful 
 shore, 
 
174 CYPRUS WINE. 
 
 Where, of the goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 were born ! 
 
 Our friend, old Hesiod, gazing out upon the open sky, 
 Eacked his dry brains to give his gods a high and 
 sounding name ; 
 And as invention failed him quite, the ode he thought 
 he'd try, 
 When to his house a monstrous skin of Cyprus 
 wine there came. 
 Our Greek got "glorious" and bestrode his Pegasus 
 again ; 
 With nectar flushed, to thought again the bard doth 
 turn, 
 And all Olympus' deities come from that swelling 
 skin ! 
 'Twas thus of goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 were born ! 
 
CYPRUS WINE. 175 
 
 -But now, instead of deities, raised in the ancient 
 
 We raise up devils, who possess but small attrac- 
 tions ; true ! 
 Witches and ghouls and vampires dread, come in the 
 poet's rhyme, 
 These beauteous pastimes, these alone, the Middle 
 Ages knew. 
 Away with all your spirits damned ! those spectres and 
 their tombs, 
 Away with all the horrible ! 'tis contagious, I'll be 
 sworn ! 
 Ye bats, avaunt! while every branch a cooing dove 
 assumes ! 
 — Out of the goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 were born ! 
 
 Menander and Anacreon, Homer and JEschylus, here 
 Drank deep for inspiration, drank for immortality ! 
 
176 CYPRUS W [ N E . 
 
 Ah ! let them pour it out for me, and my ephemeral 
 
 lyre, 
 Yet for the waiting future may perchance a sound 
 
 of music be ! 
 Alas! — but see! in leading down full many a frolic 
 
 love, 
 Hebe has left the Olympian throng a moment all 
 
 forlorn ; 
 And smiling bringeth down to me the wine-cup from 
 
 above ! 
 — Out of this goodly Cyprus wine the gods of Eld 
 
 were born ! 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF O'TA TI. 
 
 (PROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) 
 
 " Que fait-il done celui que sa douleur attend? 
 Sans doute, il n'aime pas celui qu'elle aime tant !" 
 
 De Vignt. 
 
 " Oh, tell me ! clost thou wish to fly ? and the ever 
 fluttering sail 
 Soon from these shores shall carry thee, far from 
 my anxious eyes ? 
 To-night I heard the sailors' songs, my hope began to 
 
 fail; 
 — While they their tents began to fold, they sang down 
 in the vale, 
 And I — I bent me low and wept to hear their joy- 
 ous cries ! 
 8* 
 
178 o'taiti. 
 
 "Why wilt thou thus then leave our isle? 'far in thy 
 stranger home 
 Are there the skies more blue than these ? less sor- 
 row have they there ? 
 
 Will thine own kinsmen, when thou diest, more sor- 
 rowing 'round thee come, 
 
 To shade with spreading plane-trees, thee in thy silent 
 tomb? 
 Plane-trees, whose sacred flowers are left ungathered 
 by us here. 
 
 " Dost thou remember of the day, when by a prosper- 
 ous wind 
 First thou wast brought to look upon our still and 
 /happy shore ? 
 Me, in the flowery woods afar, thy voice that day did 
 find 
 
o'taiti. 179 
 
 Before I knew that to our shores a stranger's steps 
 inclined ; 
 I rose, and followed at the call, led by some magic 
 power. 
 
 " Then I was fair, but now my tears have bid all beauty 
 
 flee. 
 Stay with me, oh young stranger, breathe not the 
 
 sad adieu ! 
 Tell me again of thy mother dear, so ever loved by 
 
 thee, 
 And sing again thy country's songs so doubly sweet 
 
 to me: 
 And chant the praise of thy great God, that charms 
 
 my spirit so ! 
 
 " Thou shall be all of earth to me — to thee I all resign ! 
 — What have I done to make thee go ? remain be- 
 neath our sky ! 
 
180 ' T A 1 T I . 
 
 I, I will heal thy every woe with this deep love of 
 
 mine, 
 And I will call thee by the name, beloved name of 
 
 thine ! 
 By which they call thee in the land where thy 
 
 father's ashes lie ! 
 
 " I will be, if thon will it so, thine ever faithful slave! 
 Only the blessing of thy smile upon my heart, to 
 prove. 
 Stay, oh young stranger ! stay with me ; new beauty 
 
 will I have, 
 Unlike our swallows, unto me more than summer- 
 love oh give ! 
 For I, alas ! while yet I breathe, still must I ever 
 love! 
 
 "Alas! and thou wilt go from me, — in thy native 
 mountains now, 
 
o'ta.iti. 181 
 
 Doubtless a maiden waits for thee, and prays thy 
 soon return ! 
 — Oh deign to take me with thee there, my lord ! my 
 
 master, thou ! 
 — Perchance I too may love her if my going thou'lt 
 allow, 
 I'll love her, if for her thy heart in faithfulness doth 
 yearn. 
 
 11 Far from my parents, whose old blood is warmed to 
 fire for me, 
 Far from the woods where to thy arms I first did 
 raptured fly, 
 Far from these flowers and from these palms, life could 
 
 not joyous be, 
 Here, here I wish to die — but I will go along with thee ; 
 Eather than live apart from thee, there would I go 
 — to die! 
 
182 u'taiti. 
 
 "If 'neath the banana tree thy steps were welcomed 
 here, 
 If gratitude or love thou hast, do not forsake me 
 now: 
 
 Without me do not take thy way to thine island home 
 afar, 
 
 Lest in the mist obscured my soul be lost in wander- 
 ing there, 
 Without a ray from thee to show whither thy foot- 
 steps go !" 
 
 — When Morning gilded the white sails with her first 
 
 coming ray, 
 In vain they sought the maiden, in her stilly rural 
 
 hut: 
 They found her not in groves around, nor by the 
 
 streams away, 
 
O ' T A IT I. 183 
 
 Grone was the maiden who had sung with plaintive 
 melody ;* 
 — The stranger too had sought his home, but with 
 him the maid was not ! 
 
 *This girl of O'Taiti seems to have been a sort of barbarous 
 Dido, who had fixed her affections upon some wandering ^Eneas, 
 and like the heroine of Carthage, was deserted. 
 
 " Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ." 
 
SOUVENIR. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.) 
 
 In vain does day succeed to day, 
 
 They come, they go, and leave no trace ; 
 — But naught thine impress may efface, 
 
 Most beauteous dream, Love's given to me 
 
 Around me now, the rapid year 
 
 I do behold accumulate, 
 
 E'en as the oak sees fallen prostrate 
 The greenest of the leaves she bears. 
 
 But still thy bright and beauteous image, 
 Which fond regret will ever cherish, 
 
SOUVENIR. 185 
 
 From my heart shall never perish, 
 Like the soul, which knows no age. 
 
 Thy beauty, which entrances me, 
 Shall follow thee into the skies : 
 — The source of light, thy radiant eyes 
 
 Shall glow in immortality ! 
 
 Thy form has never left mine eyes ; 
 And when thy pilgrimage is o'er, 
 And thou on earth art seen no more, 
 
 Then will I see thee in the skies ! 
 
 The zephyr's softly sighing breath 
 Plays in thy dark rich hair, 
 Which floats above thy bosom fair, 
 
 Falling in rich bless tress beneath I 
 
186 SOUYENJ H . 
 
 — 'Tis thee I hear, 'tis thee I see, 
 
 In the desert, in the sky ; 
 
 The wave reflects thee to mine eye, 
 And zephyr brings thy voice to me ! 
 
 Thus, when the world is sleeping near, 
 If soft I hear the night- winds sigh, 
 I dream that thou art hovering nigh, 
 
 To breathe soft words in my fond ear ! 
 
 As two fond beams of morning's ray, 
 Two sighs together softly run, 
 Our souls shall be, beloved, but one ! 
 
 And still I ever sigh for thee ! 
 
THE PRISONER. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.) 
 
 "Queen of the waves! within thy barque 
 Sing, while the echoes bear thy song ! 
 
 — The winds are hushed — the waves are calm, 
 Heaven smiles — thy light boat speed along."* 
 
 Thus sang a prisoner thro' his bars — 
 
 A captive, who each day beheld 
 A lovely maiden skim the waves, 
 
 That round his gloomy prison swelled. 
 " I, captive in my early prime, 
 
 In this dark prison still must be ; 
 
 * This couplet is repeated between each stanza in the original , 
 by way of chorus ; but it seems unnecessary here. 
 
188 THE P K T S O N E JR . 
 
 Here I await thy passing by, 
 
 E'en as I wait for Liberty ! 
 The waves reflect thy beauty rare, 
 
 I see thy swelling bosom move ; 
 Say, what doth guide thy tiny barque — 
 
 Is it the Zephyr's voice, or Love ? 
 — What Hope is gladdening all my soul ! 
 
 Thou from this place wilt rescue me ; 
 And, freed, I'll follow thee for aye, " 
 
 For where thou art, there bliss must be ! 
 Thy boat is still ; my woes, perchance, 
 
 Brighten with a tear thy jetty eye : 
 Alas ! like Hope, thou fleetest now, 
 
 Thou speedest from me, and I die ! 
 My rapturous dream of thee is o'er ; 
 
 — But no ! thy hands are outward spread 
 In pity still : — 'to-morrow let, 
 
 Star of my life, thy beams be shed ! 
 
THE PRISONER. 189 
 
 " Queen of the waves ! within thy barque 
 Sing, while the echoes bear thy song ! 
 
 — The winds are hushed — the waves are calm : 
 Heaven smiles — thy light boat speed along!" 
 
REGRET. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) 
 
 Yes ! the bliss of my lifetime is vanished away ! 
 
 — We follow ; in Hope's arms to sleep we betake, 
 And like the stol'n Cretan,* at dawning of day, 
 We find us alone when we 'wake. 
 
 We seek Bliss afar in the Future immense, 
 
 And cry, " Oh, return, sweetest friend of my life!" 
 Bliss flies from the heart, nor leaves, going from thence, 
 Any smiles for a moment's relief! 
 
 * Ariadne. 
 
REGRET. 191 
 
 If desires impure should offer their flame, 
 I would say, " Go, respect my sad Fate ! 
 Bliss has left me, in flying, a dark, dreary dream ; 
 TJwu wouldst give me remorseful regret !" 
 
 However, my friends, I'd not quench Pleasure's fire — 
 
 I will seem as I knew not of cares ; 
 I'll smile for your smiles, while concealing my lyre, 
 For its strings are all humid with tears. 
 
 Each one of you, may be, 'neath fleeting smiles 
 
 In his own sad heart hiding regret ; 
 Yes ! every one present with his own sorrow toils, 
 While his friend never dreaineth of it ! 
 
 —To thy law all accustomed, thou hast a young dove ; 
 
 Thy love, maid ! thou'st given to a flower : 
 What boots it ? For life like the floweret will prove — 
 Like the bird, Bliss will heed thee, an hour ! 
 
192 REGRET. 
 
 We blush at our tears, are ashamed of our grief- 
 
 Of our cares, and of Memory's throng ; 
 As if we were sent, in this being so brief, 
 
 But for Joy and a life-lasting song ! 
 
 Alas ! Time has left me, without any trace 
 Of the blessings I strove for, the while ! 
 Its Bliss glows a while, and then dies apace, 
 
 Like a suddenly -broken young smile ! 
 
EGKERIA OF MY HEART. 
 
 " Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 "Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast." 
 
 Childe Haeold. 
 
 When lone I wander to the leafy bower, 
 
 Bidding all thought, save dreams of thee, farewell, 
 Egeria of my heart ! at vesper hour 
 
 Comest thou there, with all thy magic spell. 
 Thy form glides near me in the fading light, 
 
 Thine eyes are there, to call up visions holy 
 Out from the silence of the coming Night, 
 
 While o'er the hills the stars are rising slowly. 
 Come then the memories, cherished but too well, 
 
 O'er my heart stealing, bid its dreams to be : 
 And as they come awake the maddening thrill, 
 
 So well that marks idolatry of thee ! 
 9 
 
194 E G E R I A OF MY HEART. 
 
 Oil only star of Hope for me below, 
 
 To thee I look while down Life's stream I glide, 
 Let but thy smile upon my frail barque glow, 
 
 Then rage unheeded wind, and storm, and tide ! 
 Long years ago my heart felt one deep charm, 
 
 And sought the sweet enchantress far and wide ; 
 None, none could satisfy a love so warm, 
 
 And one by one they fled me, and I sighed; — 
 Sighed, not that Love with such as these had gone, 
 
 But that my heart's Egeria was not found ! 
 Sad was that hopeless sigh, as the low tone 
 
 Departing light bade Memnon's harp resound ! 
 But in thy presence, as first time I came, 
 
 A new emotion trembled in my heart ; 
 Forth from its darkness rose a steady flame, 
 
 And now, with life alone it may depart ! 
 Passion's strange song around me 'gan to swell, 
 
 A new, wild meteor spread my path upon ; 
 To Peace I breathe my last and sad farewell, 
 
 Crossed was Life's doom-deciding Rubicon ! 
 
THE BUTTERFLY. 195 
 
 Egeria of my heart, I know thee now, 
 
 And in this soul henceforth thou e'er shalt be : 
 
 Past shadows fade, when Hope doth seal the vow 
 Of life and love forever given to thee ! 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 ( U LE PAPILLON" OF LAMARTINE.) 
 
 Born with the Spring, with early rose to die ; 
 
 Flying on zephyrs' wing the azure thro', 
 Upon the breasts of half-blown flowers to lie, 
 
 Drinking perfumes of earth and skies so blue ! 
 Shaking the powder from its wings, to fly 
 Up the blue vault far arching from on high : — 
 
 Enchanted Destiny to it is given ! 
 Like the deep longing of the heart, which knows 
 No rest, from flower to flower it sipping goes, 
 
 . And flies, at last, to seek that rest in Heaven! 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 yXvueiai iraideg dp%aiov IiKotov." 
 
 CEdip. Col. 
 
 " I heard the sounds of Sorrow and Delight, 
 The manifold, soft chimes, 
 That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 
 Like some old poet's rhymes." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 When hushed is every voice and sound, 
 And the tired world has sunk to sleep, 
 
 Morpheus, with poppy-chaplets crowned, 
 Stills the lone night-bird, and the deep 
 Sighs sadly in its dull, low sweep. 
 
 We sit remote, while, zephyr-borne, 
 Comes the sweet music of the Night, 
 
 Breathing a low and mournful tone 
 Up to the stars of radiance white 
 Which calmly gaze from yonder height. 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 197 
 
 — Come with me, dear one ! Day is dead — 
 
 List we " the voices of the Night" 
 Sighing for Day's wild visions fled — 
 
 Those dreams with such a dazzling light 
 
 Yet like earth's gifts, all doomed to flight ! 
 Far npon high, the Pleiads shed 
 
 A doubtful smile on fleecy cloud, 
 As if yet tremulous with dread, 
 As when first from Orion fled, 
 
 Whom they see peep from snowy shroud ! 
 While Perseus still glows far on high, 
 
 She, whom he saved, descends the west; 
 Andromeda ! and passing nigh, 
 The steed* comes down the faint-lit sky 
 
 To where Night's solemn shadows rest. 
 
198 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 And Night has robed all earth in gloom, 
 Save where, the stars peep from the skies ; 
 
 As a maid, who hides her blushing bloom 
 
 Behind her hands, will yet let come 
 A ray from one of her bright eyes ! 
 
 — Now, at this hour of gloom and love, 
 Sleeps our mad race, to 'wake again 
 
 More madly to their fates to move : 
 — A moment's bliss for years of pain — 
 Oh ! how they live and die in vain ! 
 
 But, like Enceladus of old,* 
 
 They weary 'neath the heavy load 
 
 Of life, whose purpose is not told : 
 
 — To move, all powers wi thing them goad, 
 And moving, make the mine explode ! 
 
 * The eruptions of Mount Vesuvius were fabled to have been 
 caused by Enceladus' moving. 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 199 
 
 I love it not, this angry strife 
 
 Of Passion, words may not define ; 
 Which hastes us to a starless life, 
 
 Where Pleasures in false colors shine : 
 
 Oh, no ! — a calmer lot be mine. 
 For I know, how once at Carthage drear 
 
 An exiled Marius sat alone, 
 Musing upon his vain career, 
 
 Eeproved by night- wind's sullen moan, 
 
 That came from Dido's fallen throne ! 
 I know, how o'er Grenada's vales 
 
 Moresco guzlas breathed on air, 
 While to the rose sang nightingales, 
 
 And bliss ruled in that city fair, 
 
 Where Joy was all, and naught was Care ! 
 And he, whose name made Europe thrill 
 
 To her core once ; whose thirst for power 
 Led on to Russia's snow- clime chill, 
 
200 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 And St. Helena's desert isle, 
 
 — Kemember his fate, at this hour ! 
 
 The silent, many-teaching Night 
 
 Calls up the Past, to mark the truth ; 
 
 And I'll remember, in the light, 
 
 Ere Fame misguide, and cast her blight 
 On our bliss of Love and Youth ! 
 
 Estelle ! I clasp thee to my breast, 
 
 Thy love shall every wish requite : 
 — I leave ambition — I'll be blest 
 Upon thy faithful heart to rest : — 
 
 — Come ! let us dream no more to-night ! 
 
REDFIKLDS NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 SIMMS' REVOLUTIONARY TALES. 
 
 UNIFORM SERIES. 
 
 New and entirely Revised Edition of William Gilmore Simms 
 Romances of the Revo ution, with Illustrations by Darley, 
 Each complete in one vol., 12mo, cloth ; price $1.25. 
 
 I. THE PARTISAN. III. KATHARINE WALTON. 
 
 II. MELLICHAMPE. IV. THE SCOUT. 
 
 V. WOODCRAFT. 
 " The field of Revolutionary Romance was a rjch one, and Mr. Simms has worked It 
 admirably." — Louisville Journal. 
 
 " But few novelists of the age evince more power in the conception of a story, more 
 artistic skill in its management, or more naturalness in the final denouement than Mr 
 Simms." — Mobile Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " Not only par excellence the literary man of the South, but next to no romance writer 
 in America." — Albany Knickerbocker. 
 
 "Simms is a popular writer, and his romances are highly creditable to American 
 literature." — Boston Olive Branch. 
 
 "These books are replete with daring and thrilling adventures, principally drawn 
 from history." — Boston Christian Freeman. 
 
 " We take pleasure in noticing another of the series which Redfield is presenting to 
 the country of the brilliant productions of one of the very ablest of our American 
 authors — of one indeed who, in his peculiar sphere, is inimitable. This volume is a 
 continuation of 'The Partisan.' "—Philadelphia American Courier. 
 
 ALSO UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE 
 
 THE YEMASSEE, 
 
 A Romance of South Carolina. By Wm. Gilmore Simms. New 
 and entirely Revised Edition, with Illustrations by Darley. 12mo, 
 cloth; price $1.25. 
 
 '•' In interest, it is second to but few romances in the language ; in power, it holds a 
 high rank; in healthfulness of style, it furnishes an example worthy of emulation."— 
 Giee?ie County Whig. 
 
 SIMMS 1 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Poems : Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary, and Contemplative. 
 By Wm. Gilmore Simms. With a portrait on steel. 2 vols., 
 12mo, cloth; price $2.50. 
 
 Contents : Norman Maurice ; a Tragedy. — Atalantis ; a Tale of the Sea. — Tales and 
 Traditions of the South.— The City of the Silent— Southern Passages and Pictures.— 
 Historical and Dramatic Sketches.— Scripture Lege^s.— Francesca da Rimini, etc. 
 
 " We are glad to see the poems of our best Southern author collected in twc hand- 
 s me volumes. Here we have embalmed in graphic and melodious verse the scenic 
 wonders and charms of the South ; and this feature of the work alone gives it a per- 
 manent and sppcial value. None can read 'Southern Passages and Pictures' without 
 feeling that therein the poetic aspects, association, and sentiment of Southern life and 
 Scenery are vitally enshrined. ' Norman Maurice' is a dramatic poem of peculiar scope 
 and unusual interest; and ' Atalantis,' a poem upon which some of the author's finest 
 powers of thought and expression are richly lavished. None of our poets offer so great 
 a variety of style or a more original choice of subjects."— Boston Traveller. 
 
 "His versification is fluent and mellifluous, yet not lacking in point of vigor wheifliS^ 
 energetic style is requisite to the subject." — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 "Mr. Simms ranks among the first poets of our country, and these well- printed 
 volumes contain poetical productions of rare merit." — Washington (11 C.) Star. 
 
Memoirs of a Distinguished Financier. 
 
 FIFTY YEARS 
 IN BOTH HEMISPHEEE8; 
 
 OR, REMINISCENCES OF A MERCHANT'S LIFE. 
 
 By Vincent Nolte. 12mo. Price $1.25. [Eighth Edition] 
 
 The following, being a few of the more prominent names introduced in 
 the work, will show the nature and extent of personal and anecdotal inter- 
 est exhibited in its pages : — 
 
 Aaron Burr ; General Jackson ; John Jacob Astor ; Stephen Girard ; 
 La Fayette ; Audubon ; the Barings ; Robert Fulton ; David Parish ; Sam- 
 uel Swartwout ; Lord Aberdeen ; Peter K. Wagner ; Napoleon ; Paul 
 Delaroche ; Sir Francis Chantry ; Queen Victoria ; Horace Vernet ; Major 
 General Scott ; Mr. Saul ; Lafitte ; John Quincy Adams ; Edward Living- 
 ston ; John R. Grymes ; Auguste Davezac ; General Moreau ; Gouverneur 
 Morris; J. J. Ouvrard ; Messrs. Hope & Co. ; General Claiborne; Marshal 
 Soult ; Chateaubriand ; Le Roy de Chaumont ; Duke of Wellington ; Wil- 
 liam M. Price ; P. C. Labouchere ; Ingres ; Charles VI., of Spain ; Mar- 
 shal Blucher ; Nicholas Biddle ; Manuel Godoy ; Villele ; Lord Eldon ; 
 Emperor Alexander, etc. etc. 
 
 " He seldom looks at the bright side of a character, and defPly loves — he 
 confesses it — a bit of scandal. But he paints well, describes well, seizes 
 characteristics which make clear to the reader the nature of the man whom 
 they illustrate." 
 
 The memoirs of a man of a singularly adventurous and speculative turn, who entered 
 upon the occupations of manhood early, and retained its energies late ; has been aneye- 
 witness of not a few of the important events that occurred in Europe and America be- 
 tween the years 1796 and 1S50, and himself a sharer in more than one of them ; who has 
 been associated, or an agent in some of the largest commercial and financial operations 
 that British and Dutch capital and enterprise ever ventured upon, and has been brought 
 into contact and acquaintance— not unfrequently into intimacy — with a number of the 
 remarkable men of his time. Seldom, either in print or in the flesh, have we fallen in 
 with so restless, versatile and excursive a genius as Vincent Nolte, Esq., of Europe and 
 America — no more limited address will sufficiently express his cosmopolitan domicile. — 
 Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 As a reflection of real life, a book stamped with a strong personal character, and filled 
 with unique details of a large experience of private and public interest, we unhesita- 
 tingly call attention to it as one of the most note-worthy productions of the day. — New 
 York Churchman. 
 
 Our old merchants and politicians will find it very amusing, and it will excite vivid 
 reminiscences of men and things forty years ago. We might criticise the hap-hazard 
 and dare-devil spirit of the author, buf the raciness of his anecdotes is the result of these 
 very defects. — Boston Transcript. 
 
 His autobiography presents a spicy variety of incident and adventure, and a great deal 
 of rea'.ly useful and interesting information, all the more acceptable for the profusion af 
 anecdote and piquant scandal with which it is interspersed. — JY. Y. Jour, of Commerce. 
 
 Not th.3 least interesting portion of the work, to us here, is the narration of Nolte ? s 
 intercourse with our great men, and his piquant and occasionally ill-natured notice of 
 their faults and foibles. — JV. Y. Herald. 
 
 It is a vivid chronicle of varied and remarkable experiences, and will serve to rectify 
 the errors which too often pass amona men as veritable history. — Evening Post. 
 
 T'he anoHc'^s, declamations, sentiments, descriptions, and whole tone of the book, 
 ^.are- vivacious and genuine, and, making allowance for obvious prejudices, graphic ana 
 reliable. To the old it will be wonderfully suggestive, to the young curiously inform- 
 ing, and to both rich in entertainment. — Boston Atlas. 
 
 As an amusing narrative, it would be difficult to find its superior ; but the book has 
 peculiar interest from the freedom with which the author shows up our American noto- 
 rieties of the past forty years — Courier 
 
REDFIELD S NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 TRENCH'S PHILOLOGICAL WORKS. 
 
 THE STUDY OF WORDS. 
 
 By Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, B. D. One vol., 12mo, 
 price 75 cents. 
 
 *' He discourses in a truly learned and lively manner upon the original unity of Ian 
 guage, and the origin, derivation, and history of words, with their morality and separate 
 spheres of meaning." — Evening Post. 
 
 " This is a noble tribute to the divine faculty of speech. Popularly written, for use 
 as lectures, exact in its learning, and poetic in its vision, it is a book at once for the 
 scholar and the generHl reader." — N. Y. Evangelist. 
 
 " It is one of the most striking and original publications of the day, with nothing of 
 hardness, dullness, or dryness about it, but altogether fresh, lively, and entertaining."— 
 Boston Evening Traveller. 
 
 **, 
 
 ENGLISH, PAST AND PRESENT. 
 By Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, B. D. 12mo, price 75 cts. 
 
 " An able work by an able author. The subject is treated under the several heads 
 of, the English a composite language*; its gains ; its diminutions ; the changes in its 
 meaning ; and the changed spelling." — Hartford Courant. 
 
 "The entire work is so clearly and simply written, and the information imparted is 
 of so interesting a nature, and is so pleasantly given, that it may be read with zest by 
 the most careless and amusement-seeking." — Boston Post 
 
 " In its most vivid and charming sketches of the component parts of the English lan- 
 guage, it will give as much pleasure as instruction." — Philadelphia Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 ■J 
 
 THE SYNONYMS OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. 
 By Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, B. D. 12mo, price 75 cts. 
 
 "The nice distinctions between words of nearly the same significations, and the shades 
 of different meaning often applied to the same word, render a book of this jkind not 
 only convenient, but in fact necessary. All may be enlightened by its perusal." — Chris- 
 tian Herald and Messenger. 
 
 " It shows great exactness of thought, and a wide range of philological training ; and 
 we can hardly imagine how the subject could have been treated at once more concisely 
 and more luminously. Every biblical student, especially every clergyman, ought to be 
 in possession of the volume." — Puritan Recorder. 
 
 " This book is well worth the perusal of every thorough theological student. Like 
 all ihe works of Mr. Trench it evinces marks of great scholarship. As an exegetical 
 aid in the solution of the meaning of the New Testament, the work under notice is in- 
 valuable."- Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 ON THE LESSONS IN PROVERBS. 
 By Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, B. D. 12mo, price 50 cts. 
 
 " It is a book at once profoundly instructive, and at the same time, deprived of all 
 approach to dryness, by the charming manner in which the subject is treated." — Ar~ 
 thur's Home Gazette. 
 
 "It is a wide field, and one which the author has well cultivated, adding not only i<>- 
 his own reputation, but a valuable work to our literature." — Albany Even. Transcript. 
 
 " The work shows an acute perception, a genial appreciation of wit, and great re- 
 search. It is a very rare and agreeable production, which may be read with profit and 
 delight." — Neio York Evangelist. 
 
redfield's new and popular publications. 
 
 LORENZO BENONI; 
 
 Or, Passages in the Life of an Italian. Edited by a Friend. One 
 Tol., 12mo ; price $1.00. 
 
 " The aulhor of the volume is Giovanni Ruffini, a native of Genoa. Being implicated 
 in the attempt at revolution in 1833, he was compelled to seek safety in flight, and has 
 since that period resided in England and France. Under fictitious names he gives an 
 authentic history of real characters and true incidents. It is a graphic picture of Italian 
 life and habits; and a true, though mournful exhibition of the baneful effects of des- 
 potic rule, and priestly control in education." — Norfolk (Va.) Herald. 
 
 " From the first page to the last, it absorbs the reader's faculties with the intensity of 
 its interest, and leaves him little consciousness outside the circle in which its characters 
 have their being. Yet over the whole work there broods such a terrible shadow of 
 despotism and the suffering it has caused, that its fascination is of a strange and painful 
 kind." — New York Daily Times. 
 
 " This is one ot the books occasionally met with, having a species of Tarantella power, 
 charming the reader, and admitting of no cessation in its perusal, until the volume is en- 
 tirely completed, leaving him even then like little Oliver, 'asking for more.' " — Ev. Post. 
 
 GRISCOM ON VENTILATION. 
 
 The Uses and Abuses of Air: showing its Influence in Sustaining 
 Life, and Producing Disease, with Remarks on the Ventilation 
 of Houses, and the best Methods of Securing a Pure and Whole- 
 some Atmosphere inside of Dwellings, Churches, Workshops, &c 
 By John H. Griscom, M. D. One vol. 12mo, $1.00. 
 
 "This comprehensive treatise should be read by all who wish to secure health, 
 and especially by those constructing churches, lecture-rooms, school-houses, &c— It 
 is undoubted, that many diseases are created and spread in consequence of the little 
 attention paid to proper ventilation. Dr. G. writes knowingly and plainly upon this all- 
 important topic." — Newark Advertiser. 
 
 "The whole book is a complete manual ol the subject of which it treats; and we 
 renture to say that the builder or contriver of a dwelling, school-house, church, thea- 
 tre, ship, or steamboat, who neglects to inform himself of the momentous truths it 
 asserts, commits virtually a crime against society." — N. Y. Metropolis. 
 
 " When shall we learn to estimate at their proper value, pure water and pure air, 
 which God provided for man before he made man, and a very long time before he 
 permitted the existence of a doctor ? We commend the Uses and Abuses of Air to ouv 
 readers, assuring them that they will find it to contain directions for the ventilation ol 
 dwellings, which every one who values health and comfort should put in practice." — 
 N. Y Dispatch. 
 
 HAGAR, A STORY OF TO-DAY. 
 
 By Alice Carey, author of " Clovernook," " Lyra, and Other 
 Poems," &c. One vol., 12mo, price $1.00. 
 
 "A story of rural and domestic life, abounding in humor, pathos, and that natural- 
 ness in character and conduct which made ' Clovernook' so great a favorite last season. 
 Passages in ' Hagar' are written with extraordinary power, its moral is striking and 
 just, and the book will inevitably he one of the most popular productions of the sea- 
 eon." 
 
 " She haR s fine, rich, and purely original genius. Her country stories are almost 
 suequaled ." — Knickerbocker Magazine. 
 
 " The Times speaks of Alice Carey as standing at the head of the living female wri- 
 ters of America. We go even farther in our favorable judgment, and express the opin- 
 ion that among those living or dead, she has had no equal in this country ; and we know 
 of few in the annals of English literature who have exhibited superior gifts of real pc 
 etic genius."— TJu (Portland, Me. ) Eclectic 
 
REDFIELDS NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 COSAS DE ESPANA. 
 
 (Strange Things of Spain.) Going to Madrid, via Barcelona. 
 12mo. $1 00. 
 
 "We commend this volume as a most charming one, written with elegance and ease, 
 full of vivacity and wit, and describing the odd customs of quaint old Spain in the most 
 spicy and delightful manner.'' — Boston Evening Telegraph. 
 
 " The history of the Spanish pig would not be unworthily placed with the famed essay 
 of Elia. The volume is instructive, humorous, a model of style, in short, a most remark- 
 able book that will bear many readings. Anybody who knows what a good book is, we 
 advise to buy this." — Newark Daily Advertiser. 
 
 "The author is a gay fellow, never out of spirits, no matter what may be the annoy- 
 ances around him. and he compels his reader to enter with zest into all the scenes he 
 describes. The volume is altogether a most agreeable one." —Philadelphia Eve. Bulletin. 
 m " This racy volume contains a series of pictures of Spanish life, painted by an artist 
 whose pencil is both skilled and practised." — Zion's Herald, Boston. 
 
 '•The author is of the rollicking school of travellers, and is a pleasant companion. 
 He has a charm in his method of handling his subjects which can not fail to fascinate bifl 
 readers." — Louisville Journal. 
 
 A 
 
 SOUTHWARD HO! 
 
 A Spell of Sunshine, by William Gilmore Simms, author of " The 
 Partisan," &c. 12mo. Cloth. $1 25. 
 
 " This is one of Simms's works that readers will be most pleased with. It is sprightly 
 and full of variety, serving up southern life, character, and scenery, with the fidelity and 
 force of a master." — Worcester Palladium. 
 
 "There is a great deal of literary excellence in this work. It embraces a series of 
 continuous tales of the most interesting and lively nature, written in an admirable man- 
 ner, and calculated to please all tastes." — Daily Times. 
 
 " This is one of the ablest, most entertaining, and popular productions of the above- 
 named author. It abounds in striking delineations of character, and is pervaded through- 
 out with a truly American and patriotic spirit." — Christian Intelligencer. 
 
 " ' Southward Ho !' has modern life for its theme, and with the gleaming wit, and 
 graphic descriptive powers of the writer, abounds with entertainment." — Baltimore Sun. 
 
 HOSMER'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Poetical Works of W. H. C. Hosmer. Now first collected. 
 With a Portrait on steel. 2 vols., 12mo. $2 00. 
 
 " Imagination, poetic spirit, and diction, are patent in these polished compositions. 
 The first volume is chiefly devoted to the legendary lore of Indian tradition, and abounds 
 in picturesque descriptions of Nature's wildest scenery. Occasional poetic effusions, 
 evoked by some incident of the hour, or suggested by the teeming travail of a glowing 
 imagination, make up the second volume. The work constitutes a body of lyrics, and 
 of rich specimens of almost every metre in English poesy." — National Intelligencer. 
 
 " The poems designed to perpetuate the traditions of the Indian race particularly, are 
 of a high order, the subject being evidently suited to the author's peculiar genius. Some 
 of the "Bird Notes" also are exquisitely beautiful, and so too are many of the Miscella- 
 neous pieces. The volumes are highly creditable to the author and to the country." 
 Puritan Recorder. 
 
 " He has certainly written a great deal of agreeable and flowing verse, abounding in 
 smooth descriptions of nature, and illustrated by apt and pleasing imagery. — New York 
 Tribune. 
 
REDFIELD S NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LIFE OF SEWARD. 
 
 Life of the Honorable William H. Seward, with Selections from 
 his Works. Edited by • George E. Baker. 12mo. Cloth. 
 Portrait. $1 00. 
 
 " The work presents, in a form well adapted for popular circulation and perusal, some 
 of the most striking evidences of the genius and statesmanlike ability of Mr. Seward. It 
 is ornamented with a well engraved portrait of Senator Seward." — Boston Journal. 
 
 " In short, it embraces all that the general reader could desire in regard to the history 
 of the great statesman of New York." — Christian Secretary, Hartford. 
 
 " All agree that Mr. Seward is a man of remarkable powers, and that the productions 
 of his pen are generally highly honorable both to the intellect and the literature of the 
 country. The present volume contains a very felicitous epitome of the history of his 
 public career, and a selection of some of his best discourses, illustrative of his character 
 both as a statesman and a scholar." — Puritan Recorder. 
 
 '• To any person who wishes to know about William H. Seward, all that the public 
 have a right to know, we recommend this book. It contains the cream of his speeches 
 and the history of his life."— New Bedford Mercury. 
 
 * 
 
 THE YOUTH OF JEFFERSON; 
 
 A Chronicle of College Scrapes at Williamsburg, in Virginia, A. D. 
 1764. 12mo. $1 00. 
 
 " Few of cultivated taste who take the volume up, will fail to read it through at a sit- 
 ting. The originality of its construction, the correctness and easy flow of its style, and 
 the" reader's consciousness that he is enjoying, with the author himself, the gay moments 
 of a learned, thoughtful, and observing man, make the book one of the most delightful 
 of the day." — N. Y. Courier and Enquirer. 
 
 "It recounts some of the college pranks of Jefferson and a few of his fellow-students. 
 It is really a delightful little volume, written in a dashing, brilliant style ; and it can not 
 possibly be read in an ill humor." — Christian Freeman. 
 
 " This is a little volume, the title of which fully explains its contents. It is full of cap- 
 ital stories of student life, and rollicking, youthful experiences in the early days of the 
 ' Old Dominion.' " — Buffalo Democracy. 
 
 # 
 
 TOM MOORE'S SUPPRESSED LETTERS. 
 
 Notes from the Letters of Thomas Moore to his Music Publisher, 
 James Power, (the publication of which was suppressed in 
 London) with an Introductory Letter from Th< mas Crofton 
 Croker, Esq., F. S. A. With four Engra\ings on Steel. 12mo. 
 Cloth. $1 50. 
 
 "The present work is intended to correct misapprehensions naturally arising from a 
 perusal of the ' Memoirs' of Moore by Lord John Russell. No one can hesitate to con- 
 vict his Lordship of very gross breaches of historic truth, in the suppression of portions 
 of the letters he pretended to edit; his entire aim appearing to be the withholding of any 
 thing in Moore's letters inconsistent with the opinion his Lordship wished the public to 
 entertain of his author. The publication of these suppressed letters and fractions, will 
 set right these misapprehensions. Here Moore is presented to the world under his own 
 hand.and seal "' — Winchester Democrat. 
 
REDFIELDS NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LAS CASES' NAPOLEON. 
 
 Memoirs of the Life, Exile, and Conversations of the Emperor Na- 
 poleon. By the Count Las Cases. 4 vols. 12 mo. Cloth, with 
 eight Portraits on Steel, two Maps, and ten Illustrations, $4 ; half 
 calf or morocco, extra, $8. 
 
 " The earlier American editions of these fascinating memoirs have long been out of 
 print. Of all the works relating to Napoleon by his personal friends and. associates, 
 this is the best and most important." — N. Y. Herald. 
 
 "In no other work can be found so full and truthful a statement of the private quali- 
 ties or natural disposition of the soul of the greatest general which the world has ever 
 produced, as in Las Cases' Journal." — Christian Secretary, Hartford. 
 
 " A work which for minuteness of detail, keenness of description, and interesting in- 
 formation in regard to one of the greatest soldiers that ever lived, is not surpassed, if 
 equalled. The author, favored as he was with constant companionship of the Emperor, 
 for years, possessed peculiar advantages for collecting material for such a volume." — 
 Buffalo Express. 
 
 HISTORY OF LOUISIANA. 
 
 The History of Louisiana — Spanish Domination. By Charles 
 
 Gayarre.' 8vo., cloth. $2 50. 
 The History of Louisiana — French Domination. By Charles 
 
 Gayarre. 2 vols., 8vo, cloth. $3 50. 
 
 "Its author is an accomplished scholar, a fine writer, and has devoted himself to his 
 subject with commendable fidelity and zeal. His work is an important and valuable ad- 
 dition to the local and early history of an interesting portion of our country, and de- 
 serves a place in every library in which works of American history form any part." — 
 Boston Post. 
 
 "There is little need of looking beyond Gayarre, who rests his narrative on authentic 
 documents." — Bancroft's History of the United States, Vol. VI. 
 
 " It includes, among a variety of interesting passages, the war of 1776 ; the politics and 
 intrigues of the West, for the navigation of the Mississippi ; the intrigues of Wilkinson, 
 M'Gillivray, and others ; the Yazoo scheme ; the curious episode of William Au- 
 gustus Bowles ; and a variety of interests, adventures, experiments, and politics, all 
 of which are luminously stated, logically arranged, and argued to just conclusions of 
 history." — W. Gilmore Simms. 
 
 J 
 
 FRANCHERE'S NARRATIVE. 
 
 Narrative of a Voyage to the Northwest Coast of America, in the 
 years 1811, '12, '13, and '14; or the First Settlement on the 
 Pacific. By Gabriel Franchere. Translated and Edited by 
 J. V. Huntington. 12mo, cloth. Plates. $1 00. 
 
 "Of all the narratives of travel and adventure in our Northwestern wilderness, there 
 is none that gives a more vivid and picturesque description of the events, or in which 
 the personal adventures of the narrator are told with more boldness, yet, freer from all 
 egotism, than in this unpretending work of Mr. Franchere. It is truly a fragment of 
 our colonial history, saved from oblivion." — Philadelphia National Argus. 
 
 " The great value of this work, as an authentic and decisive narrative of critical events 
 was strongly attested by Colonel Benton, in the great debate of 1846. on the Oregon 
 boundary question. It is a pleasant narrative, simply told. Irving made much use of 
 it in his Astoria." — Boston Atlas. 
 
 " The De Foe-like simplicity of the style, its picturesque descriptions of personal ad- 
 venture, and of the features of the countries traversed by the author, confer an interest 
 on this narrative, apart rrom that which springs from its historical value."— New York 
 Evening Post. 
 
redfield's new and popular publications. 
 
 SATIRE AND SATIRISTS. 
 
 By James Hannay, Author of " Singleton Fontenoy." 12mo. 
 Cloth. 75 cents. 
 
 " As respects nice analysis of character, sharp penetration, general culture and knowl 
 edse of the times of which he speaks, Mr. Hannay deserves to be classed among the best 
 modern essayists."— Christian Enquirer. 
 
 " A more entertaining, useful, and reliable volume upon the important and compre- 
 hensive subject of which it treats, we have never had the pleasure of reading."— Charles- 
 ton Weekly News. 
 
 •• These lectures are very much after the fashion of Thackeray's brilliant series, and we 
 pay Mr. Hannay the highest possible compliment when we say his sketches do not suffer 
 by comparison with those of the author of Pendennis." — Savannah Journal and Courier. 
 
 " The anecdotes of the satirists, with which the work abounds, furnish a wholesome 
 seasoning to the dish and add increased interest to this well -digested little volume."— 
 Christian Secretary, Hartford. 
 
 * 
 
 FINGER RINGS. 
 
 The History and Poetry of Finger Rings. By Charles Edwards, 
 Esq. With numerous illustrations. 12mo. Cloth. $1 00. 
 
 " A publication even more unique in its text than peculiar in its title. It is issued in 
 beautiful style, displays a remarkable industry in exploring so novel a field of research, 
 and contains much that is both curious and interesting."— Boston Atlas. 
 
 " It is remarkable how much authentic history, antiquarian lore, pleasant anecdote, 
 and true poetry may be drawn through a ring. The author writes con amore, and has 
 given us one of the pleasantest and most useful books of the season." — Arthur's Home 
 Gazette. 
 
 " The book is richly interspersed with anecdotes and is certainly one of the most no- 
 ticeable publications of the day for novelty and interest." — Boston Journal. 
 
 m 
 
 FULL PROOF OF THE MINISTRY. 
 
 By Rev. J. N. Norton, A. M., Rector of Ascension Church, Frank- 
 fort, Ky., author of " The Boy Trained to be a Clergyman." 
 12mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 
 
 " Those who have read ' The Boy who was trained up to be a Clergyman,' from the 
 pen of the same gentleman, need only be told that this is a sequel to that tale. For oth- 
 ers we will add that this volume is crowded with incident, is racily written, and of course 
 full of interest." — Lowell American Citizen. 
 
 "The author must be a preacher of short sermons, for his book make3 a short story 
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 of two volumes." — Worcester Palladium. 
 
 " All Christians may obtain from it some valuable hints to direct them in their religious 
 dutie*." — Hartford Religious Herald. 
 
 " The style is chaste and concise, and the teachings of the book of the highest moral 
 worth." — Detroit Democrat. 
 
 " It is unnecessary for us to recommend it to parents and teachers. Its influence will 
 be excellent upon any mind, particularly if young." — Buffalo Democracy. 
 
REDFIELDS NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MOORE'S LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 Memoirs of the Life of the Rt. Hon. Richard Brinsley Shendan^ 
 by Thomas Moore, with Portrait after Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 Two vols., 12mo, cloth, $2.00. 
 
 "One of the most brilliant biographies in English literature. It is the life of a wil 
 written by a wit, and few of Tom Moore's most sparkling poems are more brilliant and 
 "ascinating than this biography."— Boston Transcript. 
 
 " This is at once a most valuable biography of the most celebrated wit of the times, 
 id one of the most entertaining works of its gifted author."— Springfield Republican. 
 
 "The Life of Shpridan, the wit, contains as much food for serious thought as the 
 best sermon that was ever penned." — Arthurs Home Gazette. 
 
 "The sketch of such a character and career as Sheridan's by sue tend as Moore's 
 can never cease to be attractive." — N. Y. Courier and Enquirer. 
 
 " The work is instructive and full of interest." — Christian Intelligencer. 
 
 " It is a gem of biography ; full of incident, elegantly written, warmly appreciative, 
 and on the whole candid and just. Sheridan was a rare and wonderful genius, and haa 
 in this work justice done to his surpassing merits."— N. Y. Evangelist. 
 
 BARRINGTONS SKETCHES. 
 
 Personal Sketches of his own Time, by Sir Jonah Barringtok, 
 Judge if the High Court of Admiralty in Ireland, with Illustra- 
 tions by Darley. Third Edition, 12mo, cloth, $1 25. 
 
 " A more entertaining book than this »' not often thrown in our way. His sketches 
 of character are inimitable ; and many of the prominent men of bis time are hit off in 
 the most striking and graceful outline." — Albany Argus. 
 
 " He was a very shrewd observer and eccentric writer, and his narrative of his own 
 life, and sketches of society in Ireland during his times, are exceedingly humorous and 
 interesting." — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 " It is one of those works which are conceived and written in so hearty a view, and 
 brings before the reader so many palpable and amusing characters, that the entertain 
 ment and information are equally balanced."— Boston Transcript. 
 
 " This is one of the mo6t entertaining books of the season."— N. Y. Recorder. 
 
 " It portrays in life-like colors the characters and daily habits of nearly all the Eng 
 lish and Irish celebrities of that period."— N. Y. Courier and Enquirer. 
 
 JOMINPS CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 
 
 The Political and Military History of the Campaign of Waterloo 
 from the French of Gen. Baron Jomini, by Lieut. S V. Benet 
 U. S. Ordnance, with a Map, 12mo, cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 " Of great value, Doth for its historical merit and its acknowledged impartiality."— 
 Christian Freeman, Bosto?i. 
 
 " It has long been regarded in Europe as a work of more than ordinary merit, while 
 to military men his review of the tactics and manoeuvres of the French Emperor dur 
 ing the few days which preceded his final and most disastrous defeat, is considered as 
 Instructive, as it is interesting.''— Arthur's Home Gazette. 
 
 " It is a standard authority and illustrates a subject of permanent interest. Witfc 
 military students, and historical inquirers, it will be a favorite reference, and for toe 
 general reader it possesses great value and interest." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " It throws much light on often mooted points respecting Napoleon's military <tnd 
 political genius. The translation is one of much vigor." — Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 "It supplies an important chapter in the most interesting and eventful period 0* "*» 
 poleon's military career. ' — Savannah Daily News. 
 
 * It is ably written and skilfully translated." — Yankte Blade. 
 
redpield's new and popular publications. 
 
 NAPOLEON IN EXILE ; 
 
 Or, a Voice from St. Helena. Being the opinions and reflections of 
 Napoleon, on the most important events in his Life and Govern- 
 ment, in his own words. By Barry E. O'Meara, his late Sur> 
 geon, with a Portrait of Napoleon, after the celebrated picture of 
 Delaroche, and a view of St. Helena, both beautifully engraved 
 on steel. 2 vols. 12mo, cloth, $2. 
 
 " Nothing can exceed the graphic truthfulness with which these volumes record the 
 words and habits of Napoleon at St. Helena, and its pages are endowed with a charm 
 far transcending that of romance."— Albany State Register. 
 
 " Every one who desire* to obtain a thorough knowledge of the character of Napoleon, 
 should possess himseif of this book of O'Meara's." — Arthur's Home Gazette. 
 
 " It is something indeed to know Napoleon's opinion of the men and events of the 
 thirty years preceding his fall, and his comments throw more light upon history than 
 anything we have read. "—Alb any Express. 
 
 " The two volumes before us are worthy supplements to any history of France." 
 f tton "Evening Gazette. 
 
 MEAGHER S SPEECHES* 
 
 Speeches on the Legislative Independence of Irelano, with Intro- 
 ductory Notes. By Francis Thomas Meagher. 1 vol. 12mo, 
 Cloth. Portrait. $1. 
 
 " The volume before us embodies some of the noblest specimens of Irish eloquence -, 
 not florid, bombastic, nor acrimonious, but direct, manly, and convincing." — New York 
 Tribune. 
 
 " There is a glowing, a burning eloquence, in these speeches, which prove the author 
 a man of extraordinary intellect." — Boston Olive Branch. 
 
 " As a brilliant and effective orator, Meagher stands unrivalled." — Portland Eclectic. 
 
 " All desiring to obtain a good idea of the political history of Ireland and the move- 
 ments of her people, will be greatly assisted by reading these speeches." — Syracust 
 Daily Star. 
 
 "It is copiously illustrated by explanatory notes, so that the reader will have no diffi- 
 culty in understanding the exact state of affairs when each speech was delivered." — 
 Boston Traveller. 
 
 " fSBk 
 THE PRETTY PLATE, 
 
 A. new and beautiful juvenile. By John Vincent. Illustrated by 
 Darley. 1 vol. 16mo, Cloth, gilt, 63 cts. Extra gilt edges, 88 cts, 
 
 "We venture to say that no reader, great or small, who takes up this book, wk lay if 
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 " This is an elegant little volume for a juvenile gift-book. The story is one of prculiaj 
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 Boston Christian Freeman. 
 
 " One of the very best told and sweetest juvenile stories that has been issued from the 
 oress this season. It has a most excellent moral."— Detroit Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " A nice little book for a holyday present. Our little girl has read it through, and pro 
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 "■ Tt is a pleasant child's book, well told, handsomely published, and illustra'.cd U 
 DarJey's best stylo *— Albany Express 
 
J. S. REDFIELD, 
 
 110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORL 
 
 HAS JUST PUBLISHED: 
 
 EPISODES OF INSECT LIFE. 
 
 By Acheta Domestica. In Three Series : I. Insects of Spring.- 
 II. Insects of Summer. — III. Insects of Autumn. Beautifully 
 illustrated. Crown 8vo., cloth, gilt, price $2.00 each. The same 
 beautifully colored after nature, extra gilt, $4.00 each. 
 
 " A book elegant enough for the centre table, witty enough for after dinner, and wise 
 enough for the study and the school-room. One of the beautiful lessons of this work is 
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 " Moths, glow-worms, lady-birds, May-flies, bees, and a variety of other inhabitants of 
 the insect world, are descanted upon in a pleasing style, combining scientific information 
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 " The book includes solid instruction as well as genial and captivating mirth. The 
 wuentific knowledge of the writer is thoroughly reliable." — Examiner 
 
 MEN AND WOMEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 By Arseive Houssaye, with beautifully Engraved Portraits of 
 Louis XV., and Madame de Pompadour. Two volume 12mo. 
 450 pages each, extra superfine paper, price $2.50. 
 
 Contents.— Du*»esny, Fontenelle, Marivaux, Piron, The Abbe Prevost, Gentil-Bernard, 
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 margo, Mile. Clairon, Mad. de la Popeliniere, Sophie Arnould, Crebillon the Tragic, 
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 the Chevalier de la Clos. 
 
 " A more fascinating book than this rarely issues from the teeming press. Fascina- 
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 Boeton Commonwealth. 
 
 " A Book of Books. — Two deliciously spicy volumes, that are a perfect bonne i 
 fojr so epicure in reading." — Home Journal. 
 
redfield's new and popular publ. cations. 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE IRISH BAR. 
 
 By the Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil, M. P. Edited with 
 a Memoir and Notes, by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie. Fourth 
 Edition. In 2 vols. Price $2 00. 
 
 " They attracted universal attention by their brilliant and pointed style, and their lib 
 
 erality of sentiment. The Notes embody a great amount of biographical information, 
 
 terary gossip, legal and political anecdote, and amusing reminiscences, and, in fact, 
 
 omit nothing that is essential to the perfect elucidation of the text."— New York Tribune. 
 
 " They are the best edited books we have met for many a year. They form, with 
 Mackenzie's notes, a complete biographical dictionary, containing succinct and clever 
 sketches of all the famous people of England, and particularly of IreJand, to whom the 
 slightest allusions are made in the text." — The Citizen {John Mitchel). 
 
 *'Dr. Mackenzie deserves the thanks of men of letters, particularly of Irishmen, for 
 his research and care. Altogether, the work is one we can recommend in the highest 
 terms." — Philadelphia City Item. 
 
 "Such a repertory of wit, humor, anecdote, and out-gushing fun, mingled with the 
 deepest pathos, when we reflect upon the sad fate of Ireland, as this book atfords, it were 
 hard to find written in any other pair of covers." — Buffalo Daily Courier. 
 
 " As a whole, a more sparkling lively series of portraits was hardly ever set in a single 
 gallery It is Irish all over ; the wit, the folly, the extravagance, and the fire are al 
 alike characteristic of writer and subjects." — New York Evangelist. 
 
 " These volumes afford a rich treat to the lovers of literature." — Hartford Christian Set. 
 
 A 
 
 CLASSIC AND HISTORIC PORTRAITS. 
 By James Bruce. 12rao, cloth, $1 00. 
 
 " A series of personal sketches of distinguished individuals of all ages, embracing pen 
 and ink portraits of near sixty persons from Sappho down to Madame de Stael. They 
 show much research, and possess that interest which attaches to the private life of those 
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 "They are comprehensive, well-written, and judicious, both in the selection of sub- 
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 " The author has painted in minute touches the characteristics of each with various 
 personal details, all interesting, and all calculated to furnish to the mind's eye a complete 
 portraiture of the individual described." — Albany Knickerbocker. 
 
 " The sketches ar^ull and graphic, many authorities having evidently been consulted 
 by theauth4»^fct^Bpreparation." — Boston Journal. 
 
 689 ^ 
 
 THE WORKINGMANS WAY IN THE WORLD. 
 
 Being the Autobiography of a Journeyman Printer. By Charles 
 Manby Smith, author of " Curiosities of London Life." 12mo, 
 cloth, $1 00. 
 
 " Written by a man of genius and of most extraordinary powers of description."- 
 Boston Traveller. 
 
 " It will be read with no small degree of interest by the professional brethren cf the 
 author, as well as by all who find attractions in a well-told tale of a workingman." — 
 Boston Atlas. 
 
 "An amusing as well as instructive book, telling how humble obscurity cuts its way 
 through the world with energy, perseverance, and integrity." — Albany Knickerbocker. 
 
 "The book is the most entertaining we have met with for months."— Philadelphia 
 Evening Bulletin. 
 
 •' He has evidently moved through the world with his eyes op^n and having a vein 
 of humor in his nature, has written one of the most readable doors ot the season *■ 
 Zion's Herald. 
 
It