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 \i UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, f 
 
GUIDO, 
 
 A tale; 
 
 SKETCHES FROM HISTORY, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 lANTHE. y jyU^. 
 
 'Tis to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 With forms our fancy, gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 G. * C. CARVII-L.-108 BROADWAY 
 
 1828. 
 
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 , SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK, sf^" ♦ • t^* 
 
 BE TT REM KMBERED^ that on the Thirtv-fiisVday of Oct*^bpr, A. D. 
 1828,ifiUie fil'ty'-^hjrd year of the Indepeiwleuc-e of theiJnited f-tates of A'mef- 1 j^ 
 jca. G (J- C. CarvUl, of'the said Dit^trici, h-Ave deposited in this office, thetitl* ^W^* 
 of a befck, the right whereof thejifcctaiirCas proprietors, in thejN'orcS'fbli6AyDgt "»• 
 tpwit: ^ '*'■-*»»*'•• 
 
 *' Gjjiido, a Tale; Sketclies from History, andt)tljier*Poeins. By laflttie. * 
 'Tis to create, and tncreathig l4\e ■ 
 
 A he ng more intense, ibat vre endow 
 With flftrmsoui fancy, gainyjg'aswe^ive * 
 
 The life we image, even as 1 do now. ^'t- ^ - * «. 
 
 ♦ * •<< ^ Byror^'^ :* * 
 
 In conformity to the Act of Congress of tlie United State% entitler!, *''An 
 Act for the encouragement of I>earniug, by securfhgth^ct^iesof '»!ajis, Charts, 
 *and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the time 
 therein mentior)(|d.V And also ^o an Act, entitled, "'An Act,suppi^meutary~ to 
 an Act, entitledan Act foi*the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies 
 of ^aps, Charts, an^} Books, to the»autl»ars and. proprietors of such copies, 
 during tlie times f hereiij mentioned, and extending the bfene^sthereol toXhe arta 
 ' ofnlesigning, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." , » 
 
 « *FRED. I ^fiTTS. 'V - 
 
 Clerk of the Southern District of New York.'* 
 
 * * . * %k 
 
 ♦ •'I • I 
 
 O •• ^ • • " 4 
 
 -* n -w X •» V**** 
 
 R <$- G. S. WOOD, PRINTERS. .• ^ " * 
 • * ^' V 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ♦ A 
 
 
 '^'•ir 
 
 
 *:^ 
 
 OUIDO: A TALE. 
 
 ^, Part •||. 
 Part II. 
 
 
 • 
 
 Page. > 
 
 • * 
 
 PjErt III. 
 
 
 
 SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 
 
 Jane p^ Ffajjce . ** . 
 
 Scenes in the iTfe or a Lovet . * * 
 
 « 
 
 Bpscolrel .^^ * 
 
 
 • Queen Elizabeth f •^^ ■ . ' 
 ^The Lament o£ Columbus 
 ' The Shipwr£;^k of ^Camoens 
 The Lament of Caaioens 
 The* P^l of Bethesda . a »,.*■ 
 
 ♦©• 
 
 Christ 'in the Tempest 
 
 '•r- 
 
 'BALES AI?D MISqpLLANEdUS PIECES. 
 
 t*li'Jmprt)visat|:ic§ , . ^ 
 ♦♦.Xhe^otheii, *,*.,♦ 
 
 I* Clara 
 
 
 32 
 40 
 51 
 60 
 66 
 72 
 78 
 81 
 85 
 
 91 
 100 
 106 
 
IV. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Edgar and Ada . 
 
 Mina 
 
 The Shepherd Boy 
 
 The Bride 
 
 The Lonely One 
 
 The Moravian Burial Ground 
 
 The Mother's Farewell to her Wedded 
 
 To the Evening Star 
 
 To Fancy 
 
 To 
 
 Stanzas . 
 
 William Tell on the Mountains 
 
 William Tell in Chains . 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 A Sketch 
 
 To 
 
 The Dying Year 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 The Maiden to her Rejected Lover 
 
 Stanzas . 
 
 Spring Breezes . 
 
 Song of Morning 
 
 The Farewell . 
 
 Life 
 
 The Faded Passion Flower 
 
 Daucfhter 
 
GUIDO. 
 
 A TALB 
 
 « 
 
 Dans le bonheur d'autrui je cherche mon bonheur." 
 
 Conieille.—'Le Cid. 
 
GUIDO 
 
 The halls were bright, and music echoed round, 
 While merry feet responded to the sound, 
 As light as is the gentle rustling heard 
 When the fresh leaves by evening's breath are stirred 
 Aye, beautiful v^ere those resplendent rooms, 
 All light, and flovrers, and dehcate perfumes ; 
 While many a brilliant form sv^^ept gaily by, 
 With lofty step, and proudly flashing eye ; 
 And many a knight, stern on the battle field, 
 Taught by sweet woman's witchery to yield, 
 Was bowed to her capricious smile ; and now 
 'Twas pleasant to behold the warrior brow 
 Bending before some gentle girl, as fair 
 And delicate as a thing all light or air. 
 
4 GUIDO. 
 
 Apart from the gay throng, a pale youth stood, 
 As, though mid thousands, still in solitude, 
 Holding a simple lyre : not his the form 
 That ladies love to look on and to charm : 
 Small, slender, boyish was his figure ; pale 
 His sunken cheek that told a mournful tale 
 Of early suffering ; though his eye was proud, 
 And bright as flashes from the thunder cloud ; 
 His thin and flexile lips seemed meant to pour 
 The wealth of song, but not the honied store 
 Of youthful love ; and though his raven hair 
 Fell on a lofty brow, yet early care 
 Had left its foot-prints on it. — What doth he 
 Amid that joyous scene of revelry ? 
 
 He was the castle's lord, and he in truth 
 Had tasted sorrow ; on his early youth 
 No parents kindly smiled ; their pride, their joy 
 Was centred in their younger, fairer boy. 
 
G U I D O. £ 
 
 The mother gazed upon the charms that dwelt 
 
 In JuUo's noble face, until she felt 
 
 Her soul, almost with loathing, turn away 
 
 From Guido's pale and shrunken form ; — each day 
 
 Guido more keenly felt this ; his stern sire 
 
 Loved the proud boy who stood with eye of fire 
 
 To hear the tale of battles fierce and wild, 
 
 But turned in scorn upon his feebler child — 
 
 *' What comest thou too ? no, boy, thy woman's hand 
 
 Was never meant to grasp the blood stained brand ; 
 
 Julio's high heart is vowed to chivalry, 
 
 But nursery legends are more fit for thee.'* 
 
 He little knew the being he despised — 
 
 Guido had not the gifts by warriors prized ; 
 
 But genius o'er his soul had poured its light : 
 
 His was the poet's wreath, and oh, how bright 
 
 It shone o'er wasted feeling's hopeless night ! 
 
 Dearly the brothers loved each other — birth 
 
 Placed Guido first ; but all men hold of worth, 
 
6 G U I D O. 
 
 All that they deem the richest goods of heaven, 
 Love, beauty, honour were to Julio given ; 
 While all the hapless elder-born could claim 
 Beyond his birthright, was a minstrel's fame. 
 Yet did they cling together — nought could speak 
 To Julio's heart like Guido's kindling cheek ; 
 And praise might fall upon his ear in vain, 
 If that loved voice re-echoed not the strain ; 
 While Guido felt as if not quite bereft 
 Of all life's joys, since Julio yet w^as left. 
 
 That sire w^as dead — that brother far away, 
 And Guido now must celebrate the day 
 When first he claimed his birthright, but how sad 
 Was his young heart while all around was glad ! 
 He felt that to his noble name he owed 
 The homage of the gay and thoughtless crowd. 
 He knew that, had he been the younger born. 
 He had been deemed a tiling that men might scorn 
 
G U I D O. 7 
 
 And, now he stood apart from all, a smile 
 
 Of cold contempt curled his pale lip the while 
 
 That they, who bowed the castle's lord to greet, 
 
 Should think him duped by such scarce-veiled deceit. 
 
 But these unkindly feelings were not made 
 
 To dwell with poesy: his fingers strayed 
 
 Across his harp strings, then, to still the throng 
 
 Of wayward thoughts, he calmed them thus with song : 
 
 Nay, tell me not of woman's charms — 
 Why should I heed though she be fair ; 
 
 Bid me not mark those brilliant forms 
 With step as light as summer air — 
 
 I dare not heed their witchery, 
 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 I gaze upon the lofty brow ; 
 
 But changeless is its snowy hue — 
 I view the cheek where roses glow ; 
 
 The lip where love sips honey dew ; 
 
» G U I D O. 
 
 But lip, cheek, brow in vain I see, 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 Yet I have dreamed of one whose cheek 
 
 Upon my bosom might find rest ; 
 Whose eye in love's sweet glance might speali, 
 
 Whose lip might to mine own be prest ; 
 But vain must all such visions be, 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 As one might gaze on some bright star 
 Lighting yon deep blue heaven above, 
 
 So I may worship from afar, 
 But never dare to hope or love — 
 
 Love's star is bright — alas for me ! 
 
 It shines not o'er my destiny. 
 
 The song had ceased ; but still the minstrel seemed 
 Gazing on visions he too oft had dreamed ; 
 
G U I D O. 9 
 
 Till the low tones of woman's voice awoke 
 
 New thoughts, new dreams ; for of himself she spoke : 
 
 " And is he always thus — so sad and pale ? 
 
 Surely that brow reveals a mournful tale." 
 
 He started — turned — oh ! years might not erase 
 
 The memory of that young and lovely face. 
 
 Her eye met his full gaze — a deep blush shone 
 
 O'er her fair cheek and brow — then — she was gone. — 
 
 But those sweet words of kind and gentle feeling, 
 
 The look, that beamed on him so bright, reveahng 
 
 All woman's pitying tenderness, now fell 
 
 On Guido's soul like some bewitching spell 
 
 Bidding his wayward phantasies depart, 
 
 And chasing all the demon from his heart. 
 
 Where is he now ? — his simple lyre thrown by, 
 With joyous smile the bard is seated nigh 
 That graceful girl — e'en had she not been fair 
 Guido had found some trace of beauty there ; 
 
10 GUI DO. 
 
 For he recalled the look, the low-breathed word 
 That with such new bom bliss his feelings stirred ; 
 But she was beautiful — ^'twas not the glow 
 Of simple beauty decked her cheek and brow ; 
 For on her lofty forehead, mind had made 
 Its visible temple ; her thick tresses strayed 
 Down on her neck, as if they feared to rest 
 On that proud brow, but loved her gentler breast ; 
 Her eye was dark as midnight, yet as bright 
 As if no tear had ever dimmed its light ; 
 Lovely as love's first dream were her sweet lips ; 
 Sweet as the honey that the wild bee sips 
 On famed Hjinettus ; the pale, pearl-like hue 
 Of her soft cheek was fair as if it drew 
 Its tint from purity ; the oval face 
 So like some sculptured statue's classic grace ; 
 The nobly-arching brow ; the veined lid, 
 'Neath which the full dark eye was scarcely hid ; 
 The short, curved upper lip — aye, Guido dwelt 
 On all these charms, until his spirit felt 
 
GUI DO. 11 
 
 As though it looked on some bright deity ; 
 But oh ! what passing joy was his, when she 
 Looked kindly on him, and, with gentle wile, 
 Sought to win back to his pale lip the smile ! 
 
 The crowd have passed away, and, mid the sighs 
 Of dying odours, Guido lonely lies 
 Wrapt in fair dreams of beauty ; but each thought 
 With the remembrance of one face is fraught : 
 He oft had fancied, but to night he feels 
 How much of sweetness w^oman's look reveals. 
 
PART II 
 
 Alas ! alas for me ! I cannot sing 
 Of happiness or joy's imagining ; 
 I touch my wild and mournful lyre in vain, 
 It but returns the murmurings of pain ; 
 Or if perchance I strike the chord of love, 
 It breathes the plaintive moanings of the dove 
 Who wails in loneliness her long lost mate ; 
 I sing of love — but love left desolate ! — 
 
 Time passed away — how rapidly time fleets, 
 When every hour is redolent of sweets ! 
 'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power- 
 What eye can mark the springing of a flower ? 
 
G U I D O . 13 
 
 All those impassioned feelings that so long 
 
 Were sealed in Guido's heart — the countless tlii'ong 
 
 Of early hopes and fancies — all were poured 
 
 Upon one altar : — oh, how rich the hoard 
 
 Of treasured love in such a heart must be ! - 
 
 And must its sole reward be misery ? 
 
 'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power — 
 
 Love was not here the playthmg of an hour : 
 
 They walked together, and the lovely face 
 
 Of nature wore for Guido richer grace ; 
 
 And e'en the breath of Heaven more perfume cast, . 
 
 When o'er Floranthe's cheek and lip it past ; 
 
 They read together, and new beauties shone 
 
 Upon the poet's page, till then unknown : 
 
 Ah, woman's eyes may charm, but there is nought 
 
 That with such peril to man's heart is fraught. 
 
 As when he breathes the poet's thoughts that burn 
 
 With passionate energy, and those eyes turn 
 
 With pleasure on him ; or when both are stirred 
 
 With simultaneous feeling ; though no word 
 
 3 
 
14 
 
 G u I D a. 
 
 Is uttered, yet the meeting look, the smile, 
 Betray how they have felt alike the while ; 
 Or when, with gentle care, he leads her mind 
 To loftier energies and thought refined, 
 And she is blushing, half with shame to know 
 She needs such knowledge, half with joy, to owe 
 Its wealth to him : — aye, Guido knew too well 
 How strongly this may aid love's powerful spell : 
 Within his breast self-love too had its part 
 (Ever an active spirit in man's heart) : 
 He oft had known the voice of praise, but ne'er 
 Till now, had heard its tones from lips so dear ; 
 His song had called forth tears in those bright eyes, 
 And could the minstrel ask a richer prize ? 
 
 And yet Floranthe loved him not — ^the pride 
 Of womanhood had taught her how to hide 
 Her struggling feelings ; but she well had known 
 Those son'ows so peculiarly love's own. 
 
G U I D O. 15 
 
 So young, and proud, and beautiful, and born 
 To princely honours — could there be a thorn 
 Amid these flowers of life ? — the heart replies ; 
 There dwells no balm in earthly vanities 
 To soothe a wounded spirit ; and the sway 
 Of the wide universe can ne'er repay 
 One who beholds love's early hopes decay. 
 She was a high souled woman ; her proud race 
 Had ever won Ambition's loftiest place : 
 What marvel then that, from her cliildhood, she 
 Should dwell on the wild tales of chivalry ? 
 She loved to roam alone through the rich halls, 
 Where pictured shades of heroes decked the walls, 
 Until a dream was formed within her heart, 
 Which no cold light of truth could bid depart ; 
 A visioned form too beautiful to fade, 
 Within her breast its dwelling place had made ; 
 And e'en when lofty ones before her bowed, 
 She gladly turned from the adoring crowd 
 
IB G U I D O. 
 
 To meet her spirit-love. — There was one name 
 She oft had heard breathed by the voice of fame : 
 And half unconsciously her visions bright 
 Were linked with fancies of that wondrous knight. 
 At length a tournament was held, and fair 
 Was the array of youth and beauty there. 
 Queen of the festival Floranthe shone. 
 The palm of peerless beauty hers alone ; 
 And oh ! what feelings then her bosom swelled. 
 When first that youthful hero she beheld ! 
 And oh, how richly did her young cheek glow. 
 When first she placed upon his bending brow 
 The laurel crown ! — The idol of her dreams. 
 Bright with the light of glory's sunny beams^ 
 Now stood before her, and she felt how faint 
 Were fancy's tints a form like his to paint. 
 From that hour she was changed — the holy flame 
 Which long was fostered by the breath of fame. 
 Now, like the vestal's sacred fire, had won 
 A purer radiance from its parent sun ; 
 
» U I D o. 17 
 
 That knight was Julio : hence it was that she 
 With pity looked on Guido's misery. 
 He was the brother of her love, and though 
 Nature had traced no beauty on his brow, 
 His voice, so like to Julio's, her heart stirred, 
 Like music o'er the moon-lit waters heard ; 
 And in his eyes she saw the same sweet light 
 That oft in Julio's glances shone so bright. 
 
 Why does my song thus linger ? — the dark day 
 Of strife was gone, and peace resumed her sway. 
 E'en as the prophet's wand could once unlock 
 The hidden waters of the riftless rock, 
 So thou, sweet Peace, from iron hearts can bring 
 Th' unwonted freshness of affection's spring ; 
 Till spurns the haughty chief his plumed crest, 
 And clasps his smiling infant to his breast, 
 While the proud soldier turns from scenes of war, 
 Rejoiced to worship beauty's gentler star. 
 
 3* 
 
l^ G IT 1 D O. 
 
 And mid ihe mailed warriors Julio came, 
 His brow encircled with its wreaths of fame. 
 No more alone with Guido now were past 
 Floranthe's happiest hours ; for Love had cast 
 His spell around them, and beneath his wing 
 Hope dared unfold her fragile blossoming ; 
 For well could she, in Julio's eye, discern 
 (Ah, when was woman slow such tales to learn ?) 
 The growing tenderness within his breast. 
 The love that made her all too wildly blest. 
 But where was Guido ? did not he too see 
 Within those tell-tale eyes Love's mastery ? — 
 One night there was a festival, and all 
 Of brave and lovely decked the joyous hall ; 
 Guido beheld Floranthe's gentle hand 
 Meet Julio's in the graceful saraband ; 
 Yet this was nothing ; but when the light dance 
 Was ended, and he saw the thrilling glance 
 Exchanged between them, and her slender form 
 So tenderly upheld by Julio's arm, 
 
GUIDO. 19 
 
 Willie she repaid him with a timid look 
 Of soft confiding love, he could not brook 
 Longer to gaze upon that blasting sight ; 
 Quickly he turned away — a mirror bright 
 Met his full gaze — reflected there his own 
 Pale, sunken cheek and wasted figure shone. 
 Then on his heart, like lightning flashes, came 
 The truth that woke despair's undying flame. — 
 Oh ! there are moments when the heart lives o'er 
 Ages of sorrow, when the eyes can pour 
 No gentle flood to ease the throbbing head ; — 
 But as if one among the mouldering dead 
 Should start to life, and vainly strive to burst 
 His prison-house, so that sad being, curst 
 With such o'erwhelming grief, in vain would find 
 A refuge from the horrors of the mind. 
 
PART III 
 
 It was a lovely summer eve, the bay 
 As calmly as a slmnbering infant lay ; 
 Floranthe sate within her lonely bower, 
 Her heart filled wuth strange feelings, the calm hour 
 To her brought no tranquillity — the bright 
 And glowing w^est, the clouds of rosy light 
 She gazed upon, but saw not, and she heard 
 Not e'en a sound, altho' the mild breeze stirred 
 And made sweet music in the leaves — her ear 
 Was all unheeding, but there was one neai' 
 Who long had gazed on her — the breeze had fanned 
 The clustering ringlets from her chet k ; her hand 
 As delicate as a wreath of new fallen s? ow, 
 Was pressed against her wildly throbbui^ brow, 
 
G IT I D O. 21 
 
 And, but that on her cheek there dwelt a flush 
 
 Like young Aurora's rosy-tinted blush, 
 
 And, but for her bright lip, she might have seemed 
 
 A changeless statue ; but she little deemed 
 
 He whom she loved to think on was so nigh — 
 
 Julio stood long and gazed on her, a sigh 
 
 Burst from her heaving bosom, and that eye, 
 
 Whose varying glance seemed meant but to express 
 
 The joy of love, the pride of loveliness, 
 
 Was clouded by sad tears — a moment more 
 
 And Julio with bright cheek was bending o'er 
 
 The trembling girl — but why should I repeat 
 
 Love's follies ? — words as gentle and as sweet 
 
 As the soft welling of the distant waves 
 
 Of ocean o'er his deep and hollow caves ; 
 
 Or summer breeze that sweeps the trembling strings 
 
 Of the Eolian harp — sweet as when sings 
 
 Some rose-lipped cherub in the starry sky : 
 
 And oh ! how quickly can Love's thrilling sigh 
 
22 G U I D o. 
 
 Win all it seeks : when Julio vowed he ne'er 
 Would brook the lonely weight of life, a tear 
 Stood in her eye, he felt she was his o^vn, 
 For she had paused to hear him, and the tone 
 Of her low voice grew fainter — they are gone. 
 
 That hour of deep, impassioned feeling past, 
 They sate within the hall, the moonbeam cast 
 A dim, sweet light through the thick orange trees 
 That filled the casement ; and the evening breeze 
 Was faint with their rich perfume. With a smile 
 That once could Guido's every grief beguile, 
 Floranthe bade him wake, in cheerful song, 
 Strains that to love and happiness belong : 
 
 'Tis all in vain — I cannot sing 
 The joys that happy Love may bring ; 
 I cannot win mirth's blooming wreath 
 Its fragrance o'er my lyre to breathe. 
 
G U I D O. 
 
 They say that in bright summer bowers 
 
 All redolent of buds and flowers 
 
 Young Love is dwelling ; o'er his head 
 
 The calmest, bluest skies are spread, 
 
 And flowrets spring beneath his feet, 
 
 As though to die by him were sweet ; 
 
 That some with rapturous feeling, gaze 
 
 Upon his brow's unclouded blaze. 
 
 While others prize the gentler grace 
 
 That glows around his half-veiled face, 
 
 And all are happy — is it so ? 
 
 Does Love ne'er see a shade of woe ? 
 
 Ask not the smiling lip to tell 
 
 The joys in Love's sweet home that dwell— ^ 
 
 Go ask the cheek where paleness sits 
 
 If no cloud o'er that blue sky flits ; 
 
 If o'er those bowers so green and bright 
 
 Grief's chilling breath ne'er throws a blight ; 
 
 If hope's young buds ne'er fade away 
 
 Beneath the touch of slow decay,— 
 
24 G U I D O. 
 
 But pride may dye the faded cheek 
 With hues that seem of joy to speak ; 
 And bright the eye may still appear, 
 Though all its lustre be a tear. 
 Then wonder not that my sad lyre 
 Breathes not of fancy's thrilling fire : 
 The man who ne'er beheld the sun 
 Save when dark mists its face had shrouded, 
 Could never paint flowers shone upon 
 By summer skies and light unclouded. 
 Thus I must shun each brighter theme, 
 And still of wasted feeling dream ; 
 Still tales of blighted love impart, 
 Because — I read them in my heart. 
 
 Floranthe little knew the thoughts that stirred 
 In Guido's breast ; she knew not he had heard 
 Their plighted vows, her tender tones, when she 
 Confessed the love long cherished hopelessly. 
 
G U I D o. 25 
 
 Aye Guido felt her falsehood had been bliss 
 To the wild thought she never had been his — 
 Is it not ever thus ? — oh, who could brook 
 The knowledge that each gentle word, each look 
 Which hope had fancied filled with tenderness, 
 Was only meant cold pity to express ? 
 Oh surely it is far less grief to see 
 Upon the altered brow inconstancy, 
 Than still to view the loved eye's chilling beam, 
 Like sun rays ghttering o'er a frozen stream. 
 Guido had seen his dearest hopes depart ; 
 And now one high resolve filled his lone heart, 
 He knew her sire would ne'er bestow her hand 
 On one whose wealth was but his battle-brand ; 
 Inly he vowed that not by him should she 
 Be doomed to long and hopeless misery : 
 The star of life had set — why should he care 
 For honours that Floranthe could not share ? 
 On the next morning Julio sought to bear 
 His joyful tale to liis loved Guido's ear, 
 
26 G U I D O. 
 
 But vainly did he seek — the orange bower, 
 The lonely grotto and the ruined tower, 
 All his loved haunts, were silent now and lone ; 
 His harpstrings too were broken, as if none 
 Might wake its gentle voice now he was gone. 
 They sought the chamber of his nightly rest, 
 It was untenanted, liis couch unprest ; 
 But on his ivory tablets he had traced 
 Words that a burning tear had half effaced : 
 " He loathed the false deceptive world, and now 
 A cowl must hide his early furrowed brow ; 
 And to the brother of his heart he gave 
 A name proud as Ambition's self could crave, 
 While for himself he sought an early grave." 
 
 Oh ! there is never need of words to tell 
 To woman's heart that she is loved too w^ell — 
 The glance, the sigh in ill-dissembled hour 
 Quickly betray the fulness of her power. 
 
G U I D o. 27 
 
 Haply Floranthe would not then unfold 
 Her every thought, while memory unrolled 
 Its darkened record, and her heart hung o'er 
 Each gentle look and tone unmarked before ; 
 And haply too, in after years, when prest 
 To her adoring husband's manly breast, 
 Floranthe felt she had not been thus blest 
 But for the self-devoted love which gave 
 Itself to be stern sorrow's veriest slave. 
 
SKETCHES 
 
 FROM 
 
 HISTORY. 
 
JANE OF FRANCE. 
 
 ^' Jeanne de France etoit fille de Louis XI. et soenr 
 de Charles VIII. On la maria a I'age de vingt deux ans 
 avec Louis XII., I'an 1476. Elle en usa bien avec lui 
 pendant qu' il etoit disgracie ; et ce fut elle qui, par ses 
 prieres, le fit sortir de prison, I'an 1491 ; mais cela ne 
 fut point capable de balancer dans le coeur de son mari 
 I'inclination violente qu' il avoit pour la veuve de Charles 
 VIII. C'etoit Anne de Bretagne , il I'avoit aimee, et en 
 avoit ete aime avant qu' elle epou^at Charles. Afin done 
 de contenter son envie, iljit rompre son mariage, et il pro- 
 mit tant de recompense an Pape Alexandre VI. qu' il en 
 obtint tout ce qu' il voulut." 
 
 Bayle^Dictionnaire, 
 
JANE OF FRANCE. 
 
 Pale, cold and statue-like she sate, and her impeded 
 
 breath 
 Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of 
 
 death. 
 While listening to the harsh decree that robbed her 
 
 of a throne. 
 And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world 
 
 alone. 
 
 And fearful was her look ; in vain her trembhng maid- 
 ens moved. 
 
 With all affection's tender care, round her whom well 
 they loved ; 
 
 Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless 
 spell. 
 
 Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their em- 
 brace she fell. 
 
JANEOPFRANCE. 33 
 
 How bitter was the hour she woke from that long 
 
 dreamless trance ; 
 The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane 
 
 of France ; 
 But soon her o'erfraught heart gave way, tears came 
 
 to her relief, 
 And thus in low and plaintive tones, she breathed her 
 
 hopeless grief: 
 
 *'0h! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy 
 
 shi'ine 
 My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp 
 
 of thine ; 
 And yet I hoped — ^My own beloved, how may I teach 
 
 my heart 
 To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must 
 
 part? 
 
34 JANEOFFRANCE. 
 
 *' Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah ! I 
 
 fondly thought 
 That years of such deep love as mine some change 
 
 ere this had wrought : 
 I dreamed the hour might yet arrive when, sick of 
 
 passion's strife. 
 Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected 
 
 wife. 
 
 " Vain, foolish hope ! how could I look upon thy glo- 
 rious form. 
 
 And think that e'er the time might come when thou 
 wouldst cease to charm ? 
 
 For ne'er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty's 
 magic art, 
 
 Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful 
 heart. 
 
JANEOFFRANCE. 35 
 
 *' In vain from memoiy's darkened scroll would other 
 thoughts erase 
 
 The loathing that was in thine eye, whene'er it met 
 my face: 
 
 Oh ! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all- 
 seeing sun, 
 
 To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look 
 upon. 
 
 " Woe, woe for woman's weary lot if beauty be not 
 
 hers; 
 Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs ; 
 And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart's 
 
 dearth, 
 The hour that fixed her fearful doom—- a helot from 
 
 her birth. 
 
36 JANEOFPRANCE. 
 
 " I would thou hadst been cold and stern, — the pride 
 of my high race 
 
 Had taught me then from my young heart thine image 
 to efface ; 
 
 But surely even love's sw^eet tones could ne'er have 
 power to bless 
 
 My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " Alas ! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul 
 And bid th' unbending spirit bow that never knew 
 
 control ; 
 But harder still when thus the heart against itself must 
 
 rise, 
 And stniggle on, while ever}^ hope that nerved the 
 
 warfare dies. 
 
JANEOFFRANCE. 37 
 
 " Yet all this have I borne for thee — aye, for thy sake 
 
 I learned 
 The gentleness of thought and word which once my 
 
 proud heart spurned ; 
 The treasures of an untouched heart, the wealth of 
 
 love's rich mine, 
 These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol's 
 
 shrine. 
 
 " In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, 'twas mock- 
 ery of prayer ; 
 
 In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis 
 there : 
 
 To him I gave the worship that I should have paid 
 my God, 
 
 But oh ! should his have been the hand to wield the 
 avenging rod ? 
 
SCENES IN THE LIFE OF 
 A LOVER. 
 
 Anne Boleyn, when maid of honour to Queen Catha- 
 rine, was betrothed to Henry Percy, afterwards Earl of 
 Northumberland, but at that time a page in the house- 
 hold of Cardinal Wolsey. The king, discovering their 
 attachment by means of some gem, a love-gift from 
 Percy to Anne, ordered him to be removed from court. 
 The young lover, after beholding the object of his alTec- 
 tion elevated to the highest station in the realm, was 
 finally compelled, as one of the peers of England, to pre- 
 side at her trial and condemnation. 
 
 See Miss Bender's Memoirs of Anne Boleyn. 
 
SCENES IN THE LIFE OP 
 A LOVER. 
 
 SCENE I, 
 
 Within a green and flower-decked glade they stood ; 
 The harvest moon was shedding a ricli flood 
 Of light around them, and revealed to view 
 The youth's bright glance, the deep and burning hue 
 That flushed the maiden's cheek ; her lover's arm 
 Was fondly clasped around her graceful form : 
 But half aside she turned ; she could not brook 
 The passionate fondness of his earnest look ; 
 And proudly did his o'er-fraught bosom swell 
 As there, to hide her blushing face, she fell. 
 Upon her brow he pressed one burning kiss, 
 And then in all the speechlessness of bhss 
 
LIFE OP A LOVER. 41 
 
 Stood gazing on her, till low murmurs broke 
 
 From her sweet lips, and his heart's pulses woke : 
 
 " Now am I thine, beloved one ; doubt me not 
 
 Amid the splendors of my courtly lot ; 
 
 For dearer far to me this little gem 
 
 Than e'er could be a queenly diadem ; 
 
 And when no more my bosom it shall grace — 
 
 The sweet remembrance of this fond embrace — 
 
 Then deem me faithless, Henry, and despise 
 
 The heart that only lives beneath thine eyes." 
 
 Then to her rosy lips the maiden prest 
 
 The gem with which his hand had decked her breast : 
 
 " Now fare thee well, beloved one, I must go 
 
 Once more to mingle in the heartless show 
 
 That fills yon haughty castle — one last kiss — 
 
 And shouldst thou doubt me, Henry, think on this." 
 
 She glided from his arms ; her flying feet 
 
 Scarce from the violet pressed its fragrance sweet ; 
 
 He was alone, and thus to music's spell 
 
 He joined the murmurs of his low farewell ; 
 
 5* 
 
42 
 
 SCENES IN THE 
 
 Farewell to thee, dear, 
 
 When I meet thee again, 
 Light hearts will be round us 
 
 And pageantries vain ; 
 But well do I know, 
 
 In life's sunniest hours, 
 Thou'lt think of our meeting 
 
 'Mid moonlight and flowers. 
 
 Farewell to thee, dear one. 
 
 And oh ! in thy dreams 
 When fancy sheds o'er thee 
 
 Her lovehest beams, 
 Then think that thou rovest 
 
 Through Percy's fair bowers, 
 And remember our meeting 
 
 'Mid moonlight and flowers. 
 
LITEOFALOVER. 43 
 
 SCENE II . 
 
 Hark ! hark to the tumuk ! the trumpets and drums 
 Are waking wild mirth as the pageantry comes ; 
 'Mid knights and fair dames, see tlie king proudly ride, 
 While near him is borne in her glory his bride ; 
 And never could England's proud diadem glean^ 
 On a brow where more beauty and majesty beam. 
 
 There's a flush on her cheek like the deep crimson 
 
 glow 
 That sunset sheds over the pure Alpine snow ; 
 And her eye sheds a brightness more glorious by far 
 Than the splendor that beams from Heaven's lovehest 
 
 star ; 
 There is joy in her heart, but does happiness speak 
 In the wildly bright eye, and the fever-flushed chetk? 
 
44 S C E N E S I N T II E 
 
 'Tis she — 'tis the maiden ! but where now is gone 
 The gem that so long on her bosom had shone ? 
 Though diamonds are sparkhng and pearls rich and 
 
 rare, 
 Yet the earliest offering of love is not there, 
 And the king at her side is not he on whose breast, 
 In that still hour of bliss, her sweet face had found rest. 
 
 Look, look to the queen ! o'er her features are spread 
 A hue like the paleness that dwells with the dead ; 
 Her wandering glance, as if urged by a spell, 
 Turned full on the form she had loved but too well : 
 And how did her heart with wild agony beat, 
 As she thought of those hours still in memory too 
 sweet ! 
 
 Oh ! sadly he looked on her robes rich and gay ; 
 He had seen that form fairer in simple array ; 
 And shuddering he gazed on her jewelled tiar 
 Less bright than her eye, once his loveliest star ; 
 
LIFEOPALOVER. 45 
 
 And his proud heart swelled high as he thought of 
 
 past hours, 
 And remembered their meeting 'mid moonlight and 
 
 flowers. 
 
 But vain such remembrance ; a tyrant's fierce love 
 
 Had broken the bonds young affection had wove. 
 
 The youth to another in sorrow is w ed ; 
 
 In glory the maid as a queen is now led ; 
 
 And soon as a subject he humbly must bow 
 
 To her on whose lips he had breathed his love-vow. 
 
46 
 
 SCENES IN THE 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 With black the stately hall was hung ; a cloud was on 
 
 each brow 
 That gathered round the council board in solemn 
 
 silence now ; 
 And pain and anxious doubt within each noble's bosom 
 
 stirred, 
 For well they knew that life and death, now hung 
 
 upon their word. 
 
 With snow-white robes and veiled brow, a female form 
 
 drew nigh ; 
 With calm and stately air she stepped, while fixed 
 
 was every eye ; 
 And 'mid the dark, stern visaged guards around her, 
 
 she might seem 
 The being of a higher sphere, the creature of a 
 
 dream. 
 
L I F E O F A L O V E R. 47 
 
 Now like a criminal she stood, wliile plainly she could 
 
 trace 
 The fearful workings of his soul upon each noble's 
 
 face ; 
 Yet w^as she calm, with queenly grace her veil aside 
 
 was thrown — 
 Unhappy Percy ! from thy lips burst that convulsive 
 
 groan ? 
 
 Well might his breast with anguish thrill ! few years 
 
 had passed away 
 Since that fair form within his arms in love's deep 
 
 fondness lay; 
 Since then she moved the stately queen — now the 
 
 disloyal wife, 
 For her deep treachery and wrong, must answer with 
 
 her life. 
 
48 S C E N E S I N T H E 
 
 Yet she was innocent — oh ! none could gaze upon her 
 
 eye 
 And deem that sin's dark stain within her bosom's 
 
 dc})ths could lie ; 
 But who might dare assert her tmth, when wearied 
 
 with her charms, 
 The tyrant had decreed that she should sleep in 
 
 death's cold arms ? 
 
 Now placed 'mid England's haughty peers, must Per- 
 cy seal the doom 
 
 That gave the creature of his love to fill a bloody 
 tomb; 
 
 Too soon the fatal deed was done — though pure as un- 
 sunned snow, 
 
 Yet must the fearful hand of death stamp guilt upon 
 her brow. 
 
LIFEOPALOVER. 49 
 
 He heard no more ; but wildly from the judgment hall 
 
 he rushed, 
 Too strong the tenderness within his anguished spirit 
 
 gushed ; 
 Till worn by such resistless pangs, o'ermastered by 
 
 the spell 
 Of demon thought, upon the earth in senselessness he 
 
 fell. 
 
 Stately and calm the queen had sate, but when she 
 heard his cry. 
 
 From her quick heaving bosom burst the half-convul- 
 sive sigh. 
 
 One pleading look to Heaven she cast, then spoke in 
 murmured tone : 
 
 " Slight is the bitterness of death when spotless fame 
 is gone." 
 
50 LIFEOFALOVER. 
 
 Thus did she die — the young, the fair, the good, com 
 
 pelled to bow, 
 Her graceful, swan-hke neck beneath the headsman's 
 
 heavy blow ; 
 Her shining locks were dabbled in the blood that 
 
 flowed like rain ; 
 But o'er the whiteness of her soul e'en blood could 
 
 leave no stain. 
 
BOSCOBEL. 
 
 " By the Earl of Derby's directions, Charles went to 
 Boscobel, a lone house, on the borders of Staffordshire, 
 inhabited by one Penderell, a farmer. To this man 
 Charles entrusted himself Penderell took the assistance 
 of his four brothers, equally honourable with himself; and 
 having clothed the king in a garb like their own, they 
 led him into a neighbouring wood, put a bill into his hand, 
 and pretended to employ themselves in cutting faggots. 
 For a better concealment, he mounted upon an oak, 
 where he sheltered himself among the leaves and branches 
 for twenty-four hours. He saw several soldiers pass by. 
 All of them were intent in search of the king ; and 
 some expressed in his hearing, their earnest wishes of 
 seizing him." 
 
 Hume's History of England. 
 
BOSCOBEL. 
 
 'Twas sunset, and the forest trees 
 
 Glowed 'neath the golden sky, 
 While evening's soft and dew-fraught breeze 
 
 Awoke its gentle sigh. 
 
 Slowly the toil-worn woodman came ; 
 
 His glance was high and proud ; 
 Though 'neath the faggot's painful weight 
 
 His drooping form was bowed. 
 
 At length in weariness he cast 
 
 His burden to the earth ; 
 And never such a look could beam 
 
 From one of lowly birth. 
 
B O S C O B E L. 53 
 
 The peasant's summer toil seemed traced 
 
 Upon his swarthy cheek 'r 
 But not more native pride than his 
 
 A kingly eye could speak. 
 
 Aye, majesty upon his brow 
 
 Its signet had imprest ; 
 And lofty was the heart that heaved 
 
 Beneath the woodman's vest ; 
 
 For he was one of royal race. 
 
 His heritage a throne ; 
 What doth he in the pathless wood. 
 
 Thus peasant-clad and lone ? 
 
 Beside the silver brook he threw 
 
 His wearied limbs and sighed : 
 
 ^* Alas ! must this then be the end 
 
 Of Stuart's kingly pride ? 
 6* 
 
54 BOSCOBEL. 
 
 " Woe for the glorious hopes that once 
 
 My lofty heart could fill ! — 
 The hand that grasped the warrior's sword, 
 
 Now bears the woodman's bill ; 
 
 " The neck that never bent before, 
 
 Now bows itself to wear 
 A burden that, in better days, 
 
 My slaves had scorned to bear. 
 
 " Better, far better 'twere to die 
 
 Beneath the assassin's knife, 
 Than thus drag on 'mid toil and care, 
 
 A painful load of hfe." 
 
 Hark to the sound of crashing boughs ! 
 
 A stranger's step is heard ! 
 Again the love of life within 
 
 The prince's bosom stirred. 
 
BOSCOBEL. 
 
 With lithe and active limb he climbed 
 
 An oak's majestic height ; 
 And, sheltered 'mid its clustering leaves, 
 
 Looked on a fearful sight. 
 
 A band of fierce-eyed men were there ; 
 
 Their sv^^ords were stained with blood ; 
 And they bent to lave their burning brows 
 
 Witliin the chrystal flood. 
 
 Then rose the ribald jest, the laugh, 
 
 The tale of daily guilt ; 
 And demon-like, the exulting boast 
 
 Of blood their hands had spilt. 
 
 But still they sought one victim more — ■ 
 The Prince ! the Prince ! for him 
 
 With frantic haste they hurry through 
 The forest-shadows dim. 
 
56 BOSCOBEL. 
 
 He heai'd their cries of baffled rage ; 
 
 He saw their eyes' fierce glare ; 
 He knew that he was hunted hke 
 
 A wild beast in his lair. 
 
 Then all death's bitterness was his ; 
 And down his swart cheek rolled 
 Big drops of agony that well 
 
 His soul's dread conflict told. — 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 Night dews upon the green sward shed 
 Full many a prepious gem, 
 
 And on the midnight skies was seen 
 Heaven's glorious diadem. 
 
 Stillness was on the peaceful earth, 
 And beauty filled the grove, 
 
 While nature seemed too fair for aught 
 Save gentleness and love. 
 
BOSCOBEL. 57 
 
 A hallowed sound that stillness broke ; 
 
 For, lowly kneeling there, 
 To pitying Heaven the rescued prince 
 
 Poured liis unwonted prayer. 
 
 And oh ! in after years, when placed 
 
 On England's glorious throne, 
 The wealth and power of regal state 
 
 Around him richly shone, 
 
 When pleasure o'er his fancy wove 
 
 Her bright and powerful spell, 
 Did not the monarch's proud heart bless 
 
 The shades of Boscobel ? 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 Sir James Melvll tells us that this princess, the even- 
 ing of his arrival in London, had given a ball to her 
 court at Greenwich, and was displaying all that spirit and 
 alacrity which usually attended her on these occasions : 
 but when news arrived of the prince of Scotland's birth, 
 all her joy was damped : She sunk into melancholy ; she 
 reclined her head upon her arm ; and complained to some 
 of her attendants, that the queen of Scots was mother 
 of a fair son, while she herself was but a barren stock." 
 Hume's History of England, 
 
 NOTE. — A slight, perhaps not unpardonable, liberty has been 
 taken with historical fact. The Queen is supposed to be at he? 
 toilette, preparing for the ball. 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 Coldly she sate, while graceful hands her stately form 
 
 arrayed 
 In silken robes, and wreathed her hair in many a 
 
 jewelled braid ; 
 But all a woman's vanity was in the vivid glow 
 That flattery's magic tones awoke upon her cheek 
 
 and brow. 
 
 Beside her hung the pictured form of Scotland's 
 
 matchless queen — 
 Oh ! language would need rainbow hues to paint that 
 
 glorious mien, 
 That face which bore the high impress of majesty, 
 
 and yet 
 Wliere Love, as if to win all hearts, his fairest seal 
 
 had set. 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 61 
 
 And bitter was the scorn that filled Elizabeth's proud 
 
 eye, 
 As turning from her mirrored self, she saw her rival 
 
 nigh ; 
 But transient was the cloud, and soon she bent with 
 
 smiles to greet 
 The graceful little page who now was kneeling at her 
 
 feet: 
 
 " Letters from Scotland" — eagerly she grasped the 
 
 the proffered scroll 
 Which sharper than a Scorpion's sting could pierce 
 
 her haughty soul ; 
 And timidly her maidens shrunk ; for quickly could 
 
 they trace 
 Fierce passion in the darkening hue that gathered o'er 
 
 her face. 
 
62 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 The white foam stood upon her hp, and wildly beat 
 
 her heart, 
 Till its convulsive throbbings rent her 'broidered zone 
 
 apart — 
 «' Away !" she cried — awe-struck they stood to hear 
 
 that anguished tone, — 
 " Away !" — ^like frighted fawns they fled, and she was 
 
 left alone. 
 
 Oh ! fiercer than the angry burst of ocean's tameless 
 
 wave 
 Is woman's soul, when thus unchecked its maddening 
 
 passions rave ; 
 But soon the storm was spent, and then like raindrops 
 
 fell her tears. 
 While thus the heart-struck queen bewailed her lone 
 
 and blighted years : 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 63 
 
 " All, all but this I could have borne — methought that 
 
 queenly pride 
 Had checked within my woman's breast affection's 
 
 swelling tide ; 
 But vainly has my spirit sought 'mid glory to forget 
 The youthful dreams whose faded light gleams o'er 
 
 my fancy yet. 
 
 And she has realized those dreams — aye, she whose 
 
 gentle brow, 
 In all its graceful loveliness, is turned upon me now — 
 Mary of Scotland ! gladly would my lofty heart resign 
 The pomps and vanities of power, to win such joy as 
 
 thine. 
 
64 QUEENELIZABETH. 
 
 Oh ! dearer far than halls of state the humble cottage 
 
 hearth, 
 Where childhood's joyous tones awake m all their 
 
 reckless mirth; 
 And happier far the meanest churl than she, within 
 
 whose breast. 
 Affection's soft and pleading voice by pride must be 
 
 represt. 
 
 A mother's joy ! a mother's pride ! — oh ! what is regal 
 
 power 
 To the sweet feelings that are born in such a blissful 
 
 hour? 
 Now well art thou avenged, fair queen, of all my 
 
 jealous hate ; 
 For thou hast clasped a princely son and I — am 
 
 desolate !" 
 
THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 '' Until now I have wept for others ; have pity upon me 
 Heaven, and weep for me earth ! In my temporal con- 
 cerns, without a farthing to give in offering ; in spiritual 
 concerns, cast away here in the Indies ; isolated in my 
 misery, infirm, expecting each day will be my last ; sur- 
 rounded by cruel savages, separated from the holy sacra- 
 ments of the church, so that my soul will be lost if sepa- 
 rated here from my body ! Weep for me whoever has 
 charity, truth, and justice. I came not on this voyage to 
 gain honour or estate ; for all hope of that kind is dead 
 within me. 1 came to serve your majesties with a sound 
 intention and an honest zeal, and I speak no falsehood." 
 Extract of a Letter from Columbus, 
 
 " He looked upon himself as standing in the hand of 
 Heaven, chosen from among men for the accomplishment 
 of its high purpose. He read, as he supposed, his con- 
 templated discovery foretold in holy writ, and shadowed 
 forth darkly in the mystic revelations of the prophets. 
 The ends of the earth were to be brought together, and 
 all nations and tongues and languages united under the 
 banners of the Redeemer. 
 
 Irving's Life of Columbus. 
 
THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS 
 
 there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being ****** 
 ************* 
 
 And but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him that bears, to all who ever bor6. 
 
 Childe Harold, 
 
 Not mine the dreams, 
 The vague chimeras of an earth-stained soul, 
 O'er which the mists of error darkly roll ; 
 
 For Heaven-sent beams 
 Have chased the gloom that round my soul was flung. 
 And pierced the clouds that o'er creation's mysteries 
 hung. 
 
THE LAMENT OP COLUMBUS. 67 
 
 From my youth up 
 For this high purpose was I set apart — 
 An unbreathed thought, it hved within my heart ; 
 
 And though hfe's cup 
 Was filled with all earth's agonies, I quaffed 
 Unmurmuring, for that hope could sweeten any draught. 
 
 There were who jeered, 
 And laughed to scorn my visionary scheme ; 
 They thought yon glorious sun's resplendent beam 
 
 So brightly cheered 
 And vivified alone the spot of earth 
 Where they, like worms, had lived and grovelled from 
 their birth. 
 
 But, called by God, 
 From home and friends my willing steps I turned ; 
 Led by the light that in my spirit burned, 
 
 Strange lands I trod ; 
 And lo ! new worlds uncurtained by my hand 
 Before th' admiring East in pristine beauty stand. 
 
(38 THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 And what was given 
 To recompense the many nameless toils 
 That won m}' king a new^ found empire's spoils ? 
 
 The smile of Heaven 
 Blessed him w ho sought amid those Eden plains 
 To plant the holy cross ; but man s reward was chains. 
 
 Forgot by all, 
 Amid a land of savages, I w^ait 
 From cruel hostile hands my coming fate ; 
 
 Or else to fall 
 Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart 
 While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit spirit must depart. 
 
 IIow^ have I w^ept 
 In pity for my followers, when afar 
 O'er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star 
 
 Our course we kept ; 
 But night W' inds only o'er my grave shall sigh ; 
 For, bowled with cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die. 
 
THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 69 
 
 No selfish hope 
 Of fame or honour led me here again 
 To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain — 
 
 He who must cope 
 With treachery and wrong, until the flame 
 Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame. 
 
 To serve my king 
 I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill ; 
 To glorify my God whose holy will 
 
 Taught me to fling 
 The veil of error from before my eyes. 
 And teach mankind his power as shown 'neath other 
 
 skies. 
 
 Weep for me, earth !. 
 Thou whose bright wonders I have oft explored, 
 Weep for me Heaven ! to whose proud heights has soared. 
 
 E'en from its birth, 
 My strong- winged spirit in its might alone ; 
 Lo ! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, unknown 
 
THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS, 
 
 " On his return from banishment, Camoens was ship- 
 wrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved 
 himself by chnging to a plank, and of all his little prop- 
 erty succeeded only in saving his poem of the Lusiad, 
 deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to 
 shore." 
 
 Sismondi. 
 
 NOTE. — He is described with his sword in his hand upon the 
 authority of his own words : — 
 
 " N'huma mad livros, n'outra, ferro et a^o, 
 N'huraa mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena/' 
 
THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water, 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swoln that met him. — 
 
 Tempest. 
 
 Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky, 
 
 The sun waxed dim and pale, 
 And the music of the waves was changed 
 
 To the plaintive voice of wail ; 
 And fearfully the light'ning flashed 
 
 Around the ship's tall mast, 
 While mournfully through the creaking shrouds 
 
 Came the sighing of the blast. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 73 
 
 With pallid cheek the seamen shrank 
 
 Before the deepening gloom ; 
 For they gazed on the black and boiling sea 
 
 As 'twere a yawning tomb ; 
 But on the vessel's deck stood one 
 
 With proud and changeless brow ; 
 Nor pain, nor terror was in the look 
 
 He turned to the gulf below. 
 
 And calmly to liis arm he bound 
 
 His casket and his sword ; 
 Unheeding, though with fiercer strength 
 
 The threatening tempest roared ; 
 Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried : 
 
 " For me there yet is hope, 
 The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain 
 
 With the stormy wave may cope. 
 
 8 
 
74 THE SHIPWRECK OF C A MO ENS. 
 
 " Now let the strife of nature rage, 
 
 Proudly I yet can claim, 
 Where'er the waters may bear me on, 
 * . , My freedom and my fame." 
 
 The dreaded moment came too soon, 
 
 The sea swept madly on. 
 Till the wall of waters closed around 
 
 And the noble ship was gone. 
 
 Then rose one wild, half-stifled ciy : 
 
 The swimmer's bubbling breath 
 Was all unheard, while the raging tide 
 
 Wrought well the task of death ; 
 But 'mid the billows still was seen 
 
 The stranger's struggling form ; 
 And the meteor flash of his sword might seem 
 
 Like a beacon 'mid the storm. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 75 
 
 For still, while with his strong right arm 
 
 He buffeted the wave, 
 The other upheld that treasured prize 
 
 He would give life to save. 
 Was then the love of pelf so strong 
 
 That e'en in death's dark hour, 
 The base-born passion could awake 
 
 With such resistless power ? 
 
 No ! all earth's gold were dross to him, 
 
 Compared with what lay hid. 
 Through lonely years of changeless woe, 
 
 Beneath that casket's lid ; 
 For there was all the mind's rich wealth. 
 
 And many a precious gem 
 That, in after years, he hoped might form 
 
 A poet's diadem. 
 
76 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 
 
 Nobly he struggled till o'erspent, 
 
 His nerveless limbs no more 
 Could bear him on through the waves that rose 
 
 Like barriers to the shore ; 
 Yet still he held his long prized wealth, 
 
 He saw the wished for land — 
 A moment more, and he was thrown 
 
 Upon the rocky strand. 
 
 Alas ! far better to have died 
 
 Where the mighty billows roll, 
 Than lived till coldness and neglect 
 
 Bowed down his haughty soul : 
 Such was his dreary lot, at once 
 
 His country's pride and shame ; 
 For on Camoen's humble grave alone 
 
 Was placed his wreath of fame. 
 
LAMENT OF CAMOENS. 
 
 Donna Catharina de Atayde, a lady of rank and fortune, 
 inspired Camoens with a love as deep as it proved last- 
 ing. He was her equal in birth, though destitute of 
 riches. His poverty however, in the opinion of her par- 
 ents, was a crime which could be expiated only by exile ; 
 and as she was attached to the court, they found no dif^ 
 ficulty in procuring from the sovereign a decree for his 
 banishment. This summary mode of proceeding, though 
 it separated the lovers, served but to increase their mutual 
 affection ; while it brought upon the unhappy Camoens 
 misfortune and disgrace. After a lapse of years, during 
 which he had suffered penury, shipwreck, and the loss of 
 the little property he had accumulated in the East Indies, 
 he returned to his native country, broken in health and in 
 spirits, only to weep over the grave of his beloved Cath- 
 arine, who had cherished her hopeless love for him to the 
 last moments of her life. 
 
 See Life of Camoens 
 8* ' 
 
THE LAMENT OF CAMOENS, 
 
 " Oh when in boyhood's happier scene, 
 
 1 pledged my love to thee ; 
 
 How very little did I ween 
 
 My recompense would now have beea 
 
 So much of misery !" 
 
 Camoens, 
 
 !My brow is wasted with its throbs of pain ; 
 
 My limbs have worn the exile's heavy chain ; 
 
 And now, in weariness of heart, I come 
 
 To seek my home — 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what hom e is left me save 
 
 The marble-stone that marks my Catharine's grave ? 
 
 Amid the loneliness of banished years, 
 When every hour was traced in bitter tears ; 
 When 'gainst itself my bosom learned to war ; 
 
 Thou wert the star 
 That o'er my path of dreary darkness shone, 
 My own sweet Catharine, and thou too art gone ! 
 
THE LAMENT OF C A M O E N S. 79 
 
 Too well thy faith, my gentle one, was kept ; 
 The love, the perfect tenderness that slept 
 Within thy bosom, on itself has preyed ; 
 
 Till thou wert laid 
 Within the shelter of earth's quiet breast, 
 The sinless victim of a love unblest. 
 
 Still thou didst glory in that love ; thy brow 
 With deep affection's brightest flush would glow ; 
 And though with bitter tears, when last we met, 
 
 Thy cheek was wet ; 
 Yet thou didst bear a spirit high and proud, 
 And bid me suffer on with soul unbowed. 
 
 Alas ! I hoped thou wouldst have heard my name 
 Linked with the voice of song, the breath of fame : 
 I fondly deemed that thou wouldst yet behold 
 
 My name enrolled 
 Amid my country's records, while my lyre 
 Should wake within all hearts a patriot fire. 
 
80 THE LAMENT OF CA^IOENS. 
 
 But that is past — once I had wept, and raved, 
 And cursed the fate that, through such perils, saved 
 Me to lament o'er early-faded dreams ; 
 
 Now reason seems 
 Gifted with hfe to add new stings to pain ; 
 For frenzy rules my heart, but not my brain. 
 
 No outward sign such mortal woe may speak ; 
 No tears, my Catharine, stain my hollow cheek ; 
 For ah ! this languid frame, this sinking heart 
 
 Tell me we part 
 But for a season ; soon my toil-worn soul 
 Shall throw aside this weary life's control. 
 
 Then shall death sanctify my lyre ; and then 
 Shall nations praise ' him of the sword and pen ;' 
 Then shall my grave become a pilgrim shrine ; 
 
 And then too thine, 
 Thus hallowed by a poet's love, shall be 
 Sought when forgot are thy proud ancestry. 
 
THE POOL OF BETHESDA. 
 
 St. John, v. 2 — 9. 
 
 Tranquil Bethesda's waters lay, 
 No breeze the surface stirred. 
 
 When sudden through the brightening air 
 A rustling wing was heard ; 
 
 Then loudly rose the joyous cry : 
 
 "* The angel of the pool is nigh !" 
 
 Well might they shout, the lame, the blind, 
 
 The fevered who had lain 
 Beside Bethesda's healing wave. 
 
 Through many a day of pain, 
 They knew it was the destined hour 
 When God would show his pitying power. 
 
THE POOL OF BETIIESDA. 
 
 Then with the selfishness that marks 
 
 Deep misery, they rushed 
 Towards the holy fount that now 
 
 With heaven-sent freshness gushed ; 
 For he who first should reach its brink, 
 New being from its wave might drink. 
 
 But there was one who stirless lay 
 
 Upon his weary couch ; 
 Nor sought amid the hurrying crowd 
 
 The troubled waters' touch ; 
 Yet in his bitter sigh was heard 
 The agony of " hope deferred." 
 
 Almost reproachfully he turned 
 
 His eye upon the stream ; 
 When lo ! a gentle voice awoke 
 
 Like music in a dream, 
 So soft, so sweet its accents stole — 
 " JNfy brother ! wilt thou not be whole V 
 
THE POOL OF BET HESD A. 83 
 
 Slowly he turned his feeble frame, 
 
 And gazed upon a face 
 Of more than woman's loveliness, 
 
 Of more than kingly grace ; 
 " Alas ! in vain my will," he cried, 
 " I cannot reach Bethesda's tide. 
 
 In more than infant feebleness, 
 Through long and changeless years, 
 
 I've lain beside this heahng pool 
 And yet no help appears ; 
 
 For ere my palsied limbs draw nigh. 
 
 The hour of mercy is gone by." 
 
 The saviour bent his noble form, 
 
 A heavenly smile passed o'er 
 His placid lip, " Arise !" he cried, 
 
 " Go hence and sin no more !" 
 Lo ! touched by those almighty hands, 
 Once more in manhood's strength he stands. 
 
84 THE POOL OF BET HESD A. 
 
 Surely this deed of wondrous power 
 
 A truth to us imparts, 
 When Heaven's best gifts have not the skill 
 
 To heal our broken hearts, 
 May we not look through faith to thee 
 Thou first born of eternity ? 
 
CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 
 
 St. Matthew, vin. 24 — 27. 
 
 Midnight was on the mighty deep, 
 And darkness filled the boundless sky, 
 
 While 'mid the raging wind was heard 
 The sea-bird's mournful cry ; 
 
 For tempest clouds were mustering wrath 
 
 Across the seaman's trackless path. 
 
 It came at length — one fearful gust 
 Rent from the mast the shivering sail, 
 
 And drove the helpless bark along, 
 The plaything of the gale, 
 
 While fearfully the lightning's glare 
 
 Fell on the pale brows gathered there, 
 
 9 
 
86 CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 
 
 But there was one o'er whose bright face 
 Unmarked the hvid hghtnings flashed ; 
 
 And on whose stirless, prostrate form 
 Unfelt the sea-spray dashed ; 
 
 For 'mid the tempest fierce and wild, 
 
 He slumbered like a wearied cliild. 
 
 Oh ! who could look upon that face, 
 And feel the sting of coward fear ? 
 
 Though hell's fierce demons raged around, 
 Yet heaven itself was here ; 
 
 For who that glorious brow could see 
 
 Nor own a present Deity ? 
 
 With hurried fear they press around 
 The lowly saviour's humble bed, 
 
 As if liis very touch had power 
 To shield their souls from dread ; 
 
 While, cradled on the raging deep, 
 
 He lay in calm and tranquil sleep. 
 
CHRISTINTHETEMPEST. 87 
 
 Vainly they struggled with their fears, 
 
 But wilder still the tempest woke, 
 Till from their full and o'erfraught hearts 
 
 The voice of terror broke : 
 " Behold ! we sink beneath the wave, 
 We perish, Lord ! but thou canst save." 
 
 Slowly he rose ; and mild rebuke 
 Shone in his soft and heaven-lit eye ; 
 
 ** Oh ye of httle faith," he cried, 
 " Is not your master nigh ? 
 
 Is not your hope of succour just ? 
 
 Why know ye not in whom ye trust ?" 
 
 He turned away, and conscious powder 
 
 Dilated his majestic form, . 
 As o'er the boiling sea he bent, 
 
 The ruler of the storm ; 
 Earth to its centre felt the thrill. 
 As low he murmui'ed : " Peace ! Be still !" 
 
5 CHRIST IX THE TEMP EST. 
 
 Hark to the burst of meeting waves, 
 The roaring of the angry sea ! 
 
 A moment more, and all is hushed 
 In deep tranquillity ; 
 
 While not a breeze is near to break 
 
 The min'ored surface of the lake. 
 
 Then on the stricken hearts of all, 
 Fell anxious doubt and holy awe, 
 
 As timidly they gazed on him 
 Whose will was nature's law : 
 
 " Wiat man is this," they cry, " whose word 
 
 E'en by the raging sea is heard ?" 
 
TALES 
 
 AND 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 
 
 9» 
 
L'IMPROVISATRICE 
 
 •* As in the sweetest bud 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
 Inhabits in the fairest wits of all," 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 Her cheek, wliite as the snowy couch, was prest 
 Against her delicate hand ; and her dark eye 
 Beamed with unearthly light and purity : 
 A hue like that within the rosebud's breast 
 Was on her lip, and thus she told the tale 
 Of sorrow wliich had made her cheek so pale. 
 
 It was in life's young morn — sixteen short springs 
 Had scarce yet bloomed for me ; my soul was filled 
 With vague and wandering hopes ; imaginings 
 Of some yet unknown bliss my bosom thiilled : 
 
92 
 
 I dreamed of some one loving and beloved, 
 Though yet unseen, whose gentle whispers moved 
 Like music o'er my spirit, till my heart 
 Was all attuned to tenderness and love.— 
 It needed but a master's hand to rove 
 Amid its chords, and teach them to impart, 
 A melody of magic power to bless, 
 Whose very echoes had been happiness — 
 Then, then 'twas I first saw him — the dark eye 
 Where dwelt the pride of intellect, the high 
 And snowy forehead, the lip full and bright, 
 The beaming smile like heaven's own sunny light. 
 These were the charms that met my gaze, yet oh ! 
 'Twas not alone the beauty of his brow 
 That won my heart ; it was the mind that dwelt 
 Within his form before whose shrine I knelt. 
 Yet I knew not I loved him — from the time 
 When I first saw him, and love's passion flower 
 Was budded in my young heart's sunny clime. 
 Until the sad and well remembered hour 
 
l'improvisatrice. 93 
 
 That saw its full and perfect blossoming 
 
 In ripened beauty, I knew not how well 
 
 My tenderness had nursed the fragile thing. 
 
 Alas ! his presence was a mighty spell 
 
 'Gainst which I could not strive : his look, his smile . 
 
 Had ever power my sadness to beguile ; 
 
 A glance from his all speaking eye at will 
 
 The troubled waves of painful thought could still. — 
 
 He was unhappy but I knew not why ; 
 
 It was enough for me that the deep sigh 
 
 Oft heaved his bosom, and the darkening shade 
 
 Oft crost his brow, and bade his sWeet smile fade. 
 
 Why lengthen out the tale ? — ^months rolled away, 
 Yet I was happy, and each changing day 
 Brought me new pleasure ; for I still could see 
 The being dearer than the world to me. 
 But now we soon must sever — I should be 
 
94 l'improvisatrice. 
 
 Forgot, or only claim a passing thought 
 Although his eveiy look and tone were fraught 
 With sad remembrance for my after years 
 Of pain and sorrow, loneliness and tears — 
 
 Once — 'twas in twilight's hour — we sate alone 
 Each heart responding to a saddened tone. 
 I had been weeping bitterly, and now 
 One hand was prest against my throbbing brow, 
 The other lay in his — I had nor power 
 Nor will to draw it thence — ^then bending o'er 
 He spoke in gentlest words, and, with a smile 
 Full of calm tenderness, he sought to guile 
 ]My mournful feelings, and I felt his arm 
 An instant closely clasped around my form ; 
 I felt his lip upon my burning cheek — 
 The first, first kiss ! I sprang from liis embrace 
 To hide my tearful and aye — happy face ; 
 A moment past and then — oh ! words were weak 
 My bosom's thrilling agony to speak : 
 
L ' I M P R O V I S A T R I C E. 95 
 
 Then first mine eyes were opened, and I knew 
 How dearly my heart held him, and then too 
 Came the conviction that I loved in vain— 
 I dare not dwell on this — too much of pain 
 Lies in the thought — on the next night we parted, 
 But stranger eyes were near, and cold ones stood 
 Around us, and I stilled the fearful flood 
 Of wild emotion — though half broken-hearted, 
 My voice ne'er faltered, and my clouded eye 
 Was tearless ; if the deep drawn struggling sigh 
 Burst from my lip, 'twas all unheeded while 
 My changeless cheek still wore a careless smile. 
 
 We parted ne'er to meet as we had met — 
 I knew too well he loved me not, and yet 
 'Twas sweet to hear the music of his voice, 
 And 'neath his smiles to feel my soul rejoice. 
 Time passed away, yet did my bosom cherish 
 Its fond idolatry — aye — love may may perish 
 
96 l'improvisatrice. 
 
 When nurst 'mid pleasures, but the love that springs 
 
 From sorrow, fed by hopelessness, still clings 
 
 To the young heart unchanged through every change, 
 
 No grief can chill it, and no time estrange ; 
 
 It lives until it wastes the heart away — 
 
 And such was mine — why do I thus delay? 
 
 There was a young fair girl with dove-like eyes 
 And voice as gentle as the southwind's sighs ; 
 And when long months had passed away, and I 
 Again beheld him, he was seated nigh 
 That gentle girl ; methought his bright eye burned 
 More brightly when upon her face it turned. 
 'Twas said he sought her for his bride, and she 
 Returned no answering fondness — could it be 
 That he to one who loved him not, had given 
 The tenderness which would have been my heaven ? 
 I never met him save when at her side, 
 And then my heart swelled high with woman's pride. 
 
l' I MP RO VIS A TRICE. 97 
 
 And hid my woman's love : at length I grew 
 
 Reckless of every thing in life — a new 
 
 And fearful demon haunted all my hours, 
 
 And charged with venom all my path's few flowers. 
 
 And then — then — all grew darkness — ask me not 
 
 What cast that shadow o'er my wayward lot — 
 
 'Twas my own folly — madness — but no more — 
 
 Memory extends a barren wildness there, 
 
 And life would fail me ere I could tell o'er 
 
 My bosom's agony, my heart's despair — ■ 
 
 But soon a sudden gleam of light dispelled 
 
 The darksome cloud, and then my proud heart swelled 
 
 With loftier feelings — I had sometimes strung 
 
 My humble lyre and in low accents su?ig 
 
 Of love and sorrow— now they b^e me sweep 
 
 Its chords with bolder hand, ^lor let them sleep 
 
 In silence ; and some saif? that on my brow 
 
 Ere long the poet's garland might be twined. 
 
 From that hour I was changed — I sought not now " 
 
 To die and leave no memory behind ; 
 
 10 
 
98 
 
 LI3IPROVISATRICE. 
 
 I bade my sleeping intellect unbind 
 Its listless pinions, and with lofty flight 
 Soar 'mid Imagination's realms of light — 
 I taught my lyre with Fancy's flame to glow, 
 And the soft notes in loftier strains to flow ; 
 While gay ones marvelled I could spend my dayi 
 In painful study — they knew not how strong 
 The impulse was — 'twas not mere love of prais 
 That bade me seek the highly gifted song — 
 Ah no ! I hoped the time would come when " 
 Would listen to my melancholy lays- 
 
 ne when he 
 
 - f 
 
 I hoped that he, so loved though lost, would Jee 
 Gladly, some future day, my humble name f 
 Placed high up<^n the glorious lists of fame,^ 
 And that " the swee^. surprise of sudden joy" 
 Would fill his generous h^art, when he beheld 
 The reckless girl, whom he so long had held 
 To be the sport of levity, the toy 
 Of wayward feeling, teach her soar^g soul 
 To spurn the fetters of the world's controul : 
 
\ 
 
 LIMPROVISATRICE 
 
 And with the pride of genius bear away 
 Upon her woman's brow the deathless bay- 
 Were these hopes bhghted ? — 
 
 99 
 
 Since I first saw him five long years have past 
 I And I am dying — yet 'tis not the hand 
 
 Of grief that o'er my brow this shade has cast : 
 I long have ceased to weep — an icy band 
 Seems drawn about my heart — I cannot weep, 
 But now upon my lone couch I could lie, 
 As calmly as an infant turns to sleep 
 Upon his gentle mother's breast — and die. — 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 To aid thy mind's developement, — to watch 
 Thy dawn of httle joys, — to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
 This, it should seem was not reserved for me." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 Hers was no brilliant beauty ; a pale tint, 
 As if a rose-leaf there had left its print, 
 Was on her cheek ; her brow was high and fair, 
 Crossed by light waving bands of chestnut hair ; 
 Her eyes were cast down on the lovely boy, 
 Beside whose couch she knelt ; but such calm joy, 
 
r H rj 31 O T II E R . 101 
 
 Such beautiful tranquillity as dwelt 
 Upon her features, none have ever felt 
 Save a fond mother : her tall graceful form 
 Was bending o'er him, and one round white arm 
 Supported his fair head, while her hand prest 
 Her bosom, as she feared that he might start 
 To feel the quickened pulses of her heart. 
 Yet still she drew him nearer to her breast 
 Almost unconsciously. At length, he woke, 
 And the soft sounds that from his sw^eet lips broke, 
 Were like the gentle murmurings of a brook 
 Along its pebbly channel ; but her look 
 Told joy that lay too deep for smiles or tears : 
 Twas a strange happiness where hopes and fears 
 Were wildly blended, yet 'twas happiness ; 
 For well she knew that nought on. earth could bless 
 A woman's heart like the deep, deathless love 
 A mother feels : all other joys may prove 
 But sin or vanity, this, this alone 
 
 10* 
 
102 THE MOTHER. 
 
 With perfect peace and purity is fraught. 
 On the fair tablet of a mothers thought 
 There is no stain of passion ; 'tis the one, 
 Sole trace of that pure joy man's knowledge cost, 
 Sole remnant of the heaven our parents lost. 
 
 When first man from his paradise was driven, 
 Woman's sweet wiles and witcheries were given 
 To cheer him through life's dreary wilderness ; 
 But what was left her erring heart to bless ? — 
 She once had loved him as a being sent 
 From Heaven in God's own image, yet he went 
 Astray e'en at her bidding — loved she less ? 
 No, but her adoration now was o'er ; 
 And earthly passions, sinless now no more, 
 Absorbed her heart while every pang or sigh 
 That burst from him, thrilled her with agony. 
 His stern reproach too she endured unmoved 
 And patient, for she feh how much she loved. 
 
THE MOTHER. 103 
 
 Then to repay her sufFerings, and atone 
 For man's unkmdness, seeds of joy were sown 
 Within her heart : a mother's love was given, 
 And this repaid her for the loss of Heaven. 
 
 Oh ! but to watch the infant as he lies 
 Pillowed upon his mother's breast ; liis eyes 
 Fixed on her face, as if his only light 
 On earth beamed from that face with fondness bright ; 
 Or to gaze on him sleeping, while his cheek 
 Moves with her heart's glad throbbings that bespeak 
 Feeling too full for words ; to see him break 
 The silken chains of slumber and awake 
 All light and beauty, while he lisps her name 
 " Mother !" although his childish lips can frame 
 No other sound — oh ! who, with joy like this. 
 Could ask from Heaven a dearer, deeper bliss ? 
 
 Again I saw the mother bending o'er 
 The pillow of her babe ; but joy no more 
 
104 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Was pictured in her face ; her sunken cheek, 
 Her faltering accents, tremulous and weak, 
 Told a sad tale : she had hung o'er that couch 
 For many a weary night, and every touch 
 Of his thin, wasted hand seemed to impart 
 A tlirilling sense of pain to her young heart : 
 Yet deemed she not that death could now destroy 
 So bright a blossom as her darling boy. 
 She feared not that ; she felt she could not bring 
 Aught to relieve him ; this to her was death. — 
 But when at last she felt his feverish breath 
 Pass o'er her brow, the deadly withering 
 Of early hope that young hearts only know, 
 First taught her all a youthful mother's woe. 
 Oft would she check the bursting sob of pain 
 When, as she marked the evening planets wane, 
 She thought that though another day had past. 
 Another came as mournful as the last ; 
 And oftentimes the bright big tear unbid 
 Would gather slowly 'neath her long-fringed lid ; 
 
THE MOTHER. 105 
 
 As rain-drops mark the coming storm whose shock 
 Shall blast the wild flower and its sheltering rock 
 In the same ruin — but each coming day- 
 She saw him wasting. One eve as he lay 
 Within iier arms, the moonbeams shining bright 
 Gave to his pallid face a ghastly light : 
 She gazed on him — she bent to hear his breath — 
 His heart tlii'obbed faintly — then — she gazed on Death ! 
 
/ 
 
 CLARA 
 
 " You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
 Follow such creatures." 
 
 Henry Fill. 
 
 She had sprung up like a sweet wild flower hid 
 From common eyes, in some lone dell, amid 
 The light and dews of heaven ; and ne'er was found 
 A purer bud on earth's unhallowed ground. 
 Her face was fair, but the admiring eye 
 Loved less its beauty than its pm^ity ; 
 No cloud e'er darkened o'er that placid brow ; 
 No cai-e e'er dimmed her bright smile's smmy glow ; 
 A gentle heart that ne'er had dreamed of sin 
 Or suffering, shone her dove-like eyes within ; 
 
CLARA. 107 
 
 And the high hope that with such calm joy stirs 
 The trusting soul — the Christians hope was hers ; 
 'Twas this that gave such sweetness to a mien 
 So softly gay, so peaceful and serene ; 
 Calm without apathy ; as woman mild, 
 Yet innocent and playful as a child. 
 
 But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought 
 With all a woman's holiest fondness fraught : 
 Hers was not wild, fierce passion, such as glows 
 In untamed hearts, but the calm love that grows 
 Within the soul like an expanding flower, 
 Breathing its perfume o'er each passing hour : 
 From infancy it grew. — The graceful boy 
 To whose embrace she clung with childish joy, 
 And on whose breast her head had oft reposed 
 When weariness her infant eyes had closed, 
 Was still as dear to her young bosom now. 
 Though time had written man upon his brow. 
 
108 CLARA, 
 
 There was no shame in such a love concealed 
 In her heart's quiet depths, or but revealed 
 By the slight tremor or the blush that came 
 O'er cheek and bosom when she heard his name. 
 
 And did not Henry look with loving eye 
 On the fair orphan who so tenderly 
 Cherished his image ? — long he vainly strove 
 To check the feeling fe dared not call love ; 
 He thought of earher days when she had smiled 
 In his encircling arms, a reckless child ; 
 Could she forget the difference in theu' years 
 And listen to a lover's hopes and fears 
 From one so much her elder ? — he might claim 
 A sister's tenderness ; but the pure flame 
 Of deep and deathless love could never be 
 Kindled by him in its intensity. 
 Thus deemed he in his hopelessness ; but vain 
 His efforts to repress the thrilling pain 
 
CLARA, 109 
 
 That tilled his heart, while thinking of the hour 
 When he should see his loved and cherished flower 
 Breathing its fragrance in another's bower. 
 
 One balmy summer eve, with him she roved 
 
 Through many a greenwood haunt they long had loved; 
 
 When as they gazed upon the glorious west, 
 
 Dark clouds obscured the bright sun's glowing crest ; 
 
 And through the forest trees the wind's wild cry 
 
 Rang as of some strong man in agony. 
 
 A storm was coming, and while, pale with fear, 
 
 She clung to him, his own proud castle near 
 
 Offered them shelter — in his arms he bore 
 
 The maiden to those halls oft trod before 
 
 In childhood's day ; and while the tempest's strife 
 
 Blackened the scene so late with gladness rife, 
 
 His heart was filled with joy ; for maiden pride 
 
 Was hushed by fear, and Clara dared to hide 
 
 Her face upon his breast, while the red fire 
 
 Flashed from dark clouds careering in their ire 
 
 11 
 
110 CLARA. 
 
 Like angry spirits — ere an hour had past. 
 The storm was spent, and its terrific blast 
 Hushed into stillness ; but before they turned 
 To leave the spot, the restless thoughts that burned 
 In Heniy's breast, were breathed o'er Clara's cheek, 
 And silence answered more than words could speak. 
 
 And they were wed — oh, gentle Love, how dear 
 Is thy sweet influence when thou thus dost rear 
 Amid our household gods thy sacred shrine, 
 And givest thy torch upon our hearths to shine, 
 Folding in calm repose thy radiant wings, 
 And gathering round our homes earth's purest, loveliest 
 things ! I 
 
EDGAR AND ADA. 
 
 *' The wretched are the faithful." 
 
 Byron. — Lament of Tasso. 
 
 He was all manly beauty, and she seemed 
 As fau' a form as ever poet dreamed 
 'Mid early love's imaginings ; with eyes 
 Dove-like and beautiful, and lofty brow 
 White as the snow on Alpine summits Hes ; 
 Upon her cheek there was a brilliant glow 
 Like young Aurora's earliest, brightest blush, 
 Deepening at her sweet lip, till it became 
 The crimson tint of summer eve ; — ^the flush 
 Of changeful feeling, hope, or joy or shame 
 
112 
 
 EDGAR AND ADA. 
 
 Gave sweetness to a face that else had been 
 Too samely beautiful : — none e'er had seen 
 Her innocent smile but paused to look again^ 
 She seemed so pure, so free from every stain 
 Of earthly feeling ; and young Edgar's heart 
 Scarce trusted its own bliss when in her face 
 / He read (what nought save looks can e'er impart) 
 The love, the tenderness that steals new grace 
 From maiden bashfulness ; — aye, low his proud 
 And lofty spirit at her shrine was bowed. 
 The guileless fancies of unsullied youth ; 
 Its high-souled aspirations after truth ; 
 The innocent wishes vague and undefined ; 
 The briUiant visions of a lofty mind ; 
 The hope that only on fame's mountain height 
 His eagle spirit e'er should rest its flight ; 
 All these were his ; and when the traitor Love 
 Around that spirit's snowy pinions w^ove 
 His silken bonds, in vain might he essay 
 Its heaven-ward course 'mid myrtle groves to stay 
 
EDGARANDADA. IT 
 
 The soft, light fetters only seemed to bring 
 Renewed freshness to each radiant wing. 
 
 Yet all his soul was hers ; and what did she 
 
 With such a prize ? Did she not joy to see 
 
 Its proud upspringing ? Did she not aspire 
 
 To catch a spark of the ethereal fire ? 
 
 And did not her less powerful mind reflect 
 
 A brightness from his vivid intellect ? 
 
 No ! all too glorious was the dazzling blaze 
 
 Of genius placed before her timid gaze ; 
 
 She shrank before its brilliancy, content 
 
 To find in vanity her element. 
 
 His love for her was pure as it was deep ; 
 
 Not like the shallow brook whose wavelets break 
 
 When the light breezes o'er its surface sweep, 
 
 But like the mighty ocean that can wake 
 
 Only to brave the tempest. 
 
 But when all thought him happiest, — for the time 
 
 When he might claim his promised bride drew near — 
 
 11* 
 
114 EDGAR AND ADA. 
 
 (Alas ! they know not the heart's changeful clime 
 Who only see its summer flowers) a shade 
 Gathered upon his brow ; he seemed to wear 
 Less joyous smiles than he was wont — 'twas said 
 That she was faithless ; but he breathed not one 
 Unkind reproach, the soul of life was gone 
 From him forever ; and nought now was left 
 Save a wide waste of all its bloom bereft. 
 The idol he had worshipped was o'erthrown ; 
 Its ruined fane was in his heart alone. 
 Yet he could not believe that she would brook 
 Another's tenderness — a little while 
 And she was wedded ; he beheld her smile 
 Upon another with the same sweet look 
 That once had greeted him : then first he knew 
 His bosom's hopeless misery ; then too 
 He felt how surely she had withered all 
 His spirit's high- wrought energies ; in vain 
 He strove his hopes of glory to recall — 
 ^Alas ! there was no guerdon now to gain. 
 
EDGAR AND ADA. 115 
 
 lie deemed hope dead within his heart, and then 
 Alas ! he plunged amid the haunts of men. 
 Aye, that proud heart so full of holy feeling 
 Was joined unto the world — the stain of earth 
 So slowly o'er his guileless bosom steahng, 
 Though hid beneath the sparkling flowers of mirth, 
 A darker, deeper madness could impart 
 Than even grief had left within his heart. 
 His spirit's plumes were sullied ; but not long 
 He paused to hear soft pleasure's syren song ; 
 Not long his noble nature thus could bear 
 The joys where innocence might find no share. 
 
 There was a gentle girl for whom he felt 
 A brother's tenderness, and she knew well 
 His wrongs and sufferings : often had she knelt 
 Beside him when she marked the fearful swell 
 Of the blue veins upon his brow, which told 
 That thought again her record had unrolled; 
 
116 EDGAR AND ADA, 
 
 And she alone his sadness could beguile 
 
 With her soft voice, her sweetly pensive smile ; 
 
 Or soothe with tears she sought not to repress. 
 
 She spoke to him of peace (for happiness 
 
 She Ivnew he hoped no longer) and she gave 
 
 Fresh motive for exertion — day by day 
 
 Her gentle Idndness won its silent way, 
 
 Until he felt that he again could brave 
 
 The world's wild storms. — Affection's deepest Stream 
 
 Was sealed within his bosom ; but the beam 
 
 Of kind benevolence across it glowed 
 
 Until it seemed as though again it flowed 
 
 Unfettered ; but such thought indeed were vain — 
 
 Nought now on earth could e'er unloose that chain ; 
 
 His lip again a tranquil smile might wear, 
 
 But memoiy's waste was ruled by fell despair. 
 
 Yet Ada felt that deep and passionate love 
 Was in her heart ; at first she vainly strove 
 
EDOAR AND ADA. 117 
 
 Against its power ; she knew she ought to fly ; 
 Yet what kind gentle one would then be nigh 
 To watch o'er Edgar's melancholy mood, 
 And save him from the heart's dread solitude ? — 
 Oh ! man can never know what treasures lie 
 Within the quiet depths of woman's soul ; 
 How strong the fortitude that dares to die 
 E'en with a broken heart, yet can control 
 Each painful murmur. — ^Ada knew she ne'er 
 Could be aught than his sister though so dear 
 Her innocent heart had held him, — a few years 
 Of mingled joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
 And then they must be parted, he would wear 
 Upon his brow the laurel's fadeless bloom, 
 While her heart, worn by many a secret tear, 
 Would find its shelter in the silent tomb, 
 
 Days passed away and Ada's bloom had fled, 
 She felt that soon the city of the dead 
 
118 EDGAR AND ADA. 
 
 Would greet her as its habitant ; and yet 
 
 Her gentle bosom breathed not one regret ; 
 
 She feared if she should live and he depart, 
 
 Grief might reveal the secret of her heart ; 
 
 But novv^ while she could hsten to his voice 
 
 Whose silver tones bade her sad soul rejoice ; 
 
 Now while to her his tenderness w^as given, 
 
 Death was the dearest boon she sought from Heaven, 
 
 Yet e'en this consolation was denied ; 
 
 For accident revealed what maiden pride 
 
 Had closely hidden ; — pangs that long had slept 
 
 In Edgar's breast were roused: — " Havel doomed thee, 
 
 Mine innocent child, to hopeless misery ?" 
 
 He clasped her to liis bosom and they wept, 
 
 Bitterly w^ept together, but she rose 
 
 As though the fountains of her weeping froze 
 
 E'en m their flow, her arms were round liim thrown, 
 
 One kiss upon liis brow and she was gone. — 
 
EDGAR AND ADA. 119 
 
 Days, weeks, passed on ; but from that time he ne'er 
 Had seen sweet Ada ; many a bitter tear 
 Had he in secret shed, when he was told 
 That she was dying ; ere that heart was cold 
 Which had loved him so well, ere she was free 
 From worldly thoughts, she prayed his face to see. 
 He came — she sate beside the latti e where 
 The jasmine twined its bridal blossoms fair, 
 A transient blush suffused her cheek, she sighed : 
 " Think, like this flower thine own dear Ada died, 
 It felt no lightning-stroke, no tempest's strife, 
 But withered 'neath the sun that gave it life." 
 She laid her head upon his breast — life's last 
 And happiest moment — then — her spirit pass'd 1 
 
MINA 
 
 " Nature is fine in love ; and when 'tis fine 
 
 It sends some precious instance of itself 
 
 After the thing it lovts." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 It was the place of tombs ; the dark leaved yew 
 And bending willow their sad shadows threw 
 Across the lowly graves ; no sound was heard 
 Save the soft murmur of a rippling stream, 
 Or the light carol of the lark that stirred 
 The balmy air with music : it might seem 
 That all things slept in some dehcious dream. 
 There was a hillock decked with many a wreath 
 Of young spring-flowers, but they had faded 'neath 
 The morning sun like young hopes pure and bright 
 Withering beneath the look that gave them light. 
 
M I N A . 121 
 
 And to that grave there came the form of one 
 Who had been beautiful ; but sickness now 
 And sorrow too had marked her for their own, 
 And stolen the joyous beauty from her brow. 
 On the damp grass she many a night had lain, 
 The star-gemmed heavens her only canopy, 
 And this had dimmed the lustre of her eye, 
 And faded her young cheek ; she came again 
 To deck with fresh culled flowers the lonely spot 
 She loved so well ; she sighed : " sure these are not 
 The flowers I braided — ah! the cruel sun 
 Has touched them, and their loveliness is gone." 
 She threw herself beside the grave and wreathed 
 The dewy flowers, while mournfully she breathed 
 A low and broken melody; 
 
 Aye, flowers may glow 
 In new-born beauty, and the rosy spring 
 To deck the earth her sparkling wreaths may bring ; 
 
 But where art thou? 
 
122 M I N A . 
 
 The early bloom 
 Of flowers in freshest hifancy I wreathe, 
 Their transient life of fragi-ancy to breathe 
 
 Upon thy tomb. 
 
 And I have sought 
 The lowly violet, that in shade appears 
 Shrinking from view, hke young love's tender fears, 
 
 "With sweetness fraught. 
 
 And rosebuds too. 
 Crimson as young Aurora's blush, or white 
 As woman's cheek when touched by sorrow's blight, 
 
 O'er thee I strew. 
 
 And flowers that close 
 Their buds beneath the sun, but pure and pale 
 Ope their sweet blossoms 'neath the dewy veil 
 
 That evening throws. 
 
M I N A . 123 
 
 The fragrant leaves 
 Of the white lily too with these I twine, 
 The drooping hly that seems born to shine 
 
 Where true love grieves. 
 
 But what doth this 
 Half- withered bud amid my blooming wreath? 
 Already its young charms have faded 'neath 
 
 The sun's warm kiss. 
 
 Ah! tliis shall lie 
 Upon my bosom — it is fit to strew 
 Such blighted flowers o'er her who only knew 
 
 To love and die ! — 
 
 There will be none 
 To deck thy grave with flowers and chant for thee 
 These snatches of remembered melody 
 
 When I am gone ; 
 
124 MINA. 
 
 But thou shalt have 
 A gift more pure than e'en the buds I fling — 
 A broken heart — my latest offering 
 
 Upon thy grave. 
 
 # * # # She laid 
 
 Upon the verdant flower- wreathed turf her head ; 
 The breeze amid her long, dark ringlets played, 
 And thus she slept— the dying with the dead. — 
 
 Hers was no wondrous history: should we seek 
 The cause that fades the bloom of woman's cheek, 
 'Twould oft be found a tale like this — she loved 
 As woman ever loves — undoubtingly — 
 His rich-toned voice o'er her young pulses moved 
 Like the soft breath of summer airs that sigh 
 Upon the wind-god's harp — his glorious eye 
 To her was as the sunbeam from on high 
 Nursing the passion-flowers within her heart, 
 And teaching them their fragrance to impart. 
 
MINA. 125, 
 
 He knew not a!I her love — she taught the deep 
 And strong emotions of lier breast to sleep 
 Beneath mirth's semblance, and whene'er she heard 
 His footstep, though her feelings wildly stirred, 
 The trembling of her downcast lid ; her cheek 
 Suffused with blushes — these alone could speak 
 Iler woman's fondness. — Ernold toyed awhile 
 With the fond heart whose eveiy throb was fraught 
 With tenderness for him ; and then the smile 
 Of one more fair claimed all the truant's thought. 
 Aye, thus man values woman's heart — a toy 
 That may amuse his changeful hours of joy, 
 Or charm his bosom's waywardness, then cast 
 Aside, or broken when the mood is past. 
 
 'Twere vain to tell of Mina's hopes and fears, 
 Her seeming gayety and secret tears ; 
 Woman too oft is doomed such pangs to prove, 
 And man— why should he know of woman's love ? 
 
 12* 
 
126 MINA. 
 
 Too soon the loved, the faithless one was wed 
 
 To one so beautiful she seemed to make 
 
 A very heaven about her, Euid to take 
 
 Captive those hearts whence feeling long had fled ; 
 
 Yet she was cold to him as is the snow 
 
 On mountain tops — she should have been as pure — 
 
 And silently he bade his heart endure 
 
 To see the same cold smiles upon her brow, 
 
 Like sunbeams glittering o'er a frozen lake ; 
 
 At length came one with magic power to wake 
 
 The beautiful statue into life, and she 
 
 Who should have shared her husband's destiny, 
 
 Unchanged through every change, was faithless ! — gave 
 
 Her name, her honour to become the slave 
 
 Of sinful passion. — From that fatal day 
 
 Grief wore the wretched Emold's life away ; 
 
 And when pain thus had wrung him, and decay 
 
 Had marked him for the grave — ^remembering nought 
 
 Save that he now was wretched, Mina sought 
 
MIN A 
 
 127 
 
 To soothe his misery ; and oft she led 
 His trembling footsteps to the river side, 
 Upon whose green bank they were wont to tread 
 When life was brighter, and whene'er he tried 
 To banish sad remembrance, she would smile 
 And seek with cheerful words his grief to 'guile. 
 Death came at length — she lived to dress his tomb 
 With sweet spring flowers, but pain had stolen her 
 
 bloom ; 
 She knew that she was djang — one bright mom 
 She went again the green grave to adorn, 
 But she returned not — she had calmly laid 
 Her cheek upon the grassy mound ; a braid 
 Of fresh buds in her hand, and thus beside 
 Her lover's tomb, her lastest breath was sighed. 
 
THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
 
 " Ma pur si aspre vie, ne si selvagge 
 Cercar non so ch' Amor non venga sempre 
 Ragionando con meco ed io con lui." 
 
 Petrarca, 
 
 He was a slender boy ; his coal black hair 
 
 Hung in tliick masses o'er his brow so fair. 
 
 His cheek was pale and sunken, and the light 
 
 Of his dark eye seemed as it had been bright, 
 
 Though now its flashing glance was quenched in tears, 
 
 And grief seemed preying on his early years. 
 
 O'erspent with toil he stood — liis native land 
 
 Lay far beyond the ken of that low vale 
 
 Whose gentle breezes now his hot cheek fanned ; 
 
 And when he strove to tell his simple tale, 
 
 It was in broken accents, but with tone 
 
 Sweet as love's whisper: " he was all alone 
 
THE SHEPHERD BOY* 129 
 
 In the wide world, and now he sought a home 
 Where coldness or univindness couid not come. 
 
 Four changeful seasons now had rolled away 
 Since first Celesto dwelt witliin that vale> 
 An humble shepherd boy, and yet no ray 
 Of joy e'er visited his cheek so pale* 
 He shunned the crowd of gay ones that were met 
 Upon the green at summer eve ; nor yet 
 Did he e'er seek to win a maiden's smile : 
 It seemed that nought on earth had power to 'guile 
 His wretchedness. He loved alone to sit 
 And watch the bright and various clouds that flit 
 Across the sunset sky, or, stretched beneath 
 The fragrant orange groves, to list the breath 
 Of Zephyr sweeping o'er the leaves that sigh 
 In answer and return sweet melody. 
 Once, and once only, did the sad boy quit 
 His lonely haunts, and join the festive throng ; 
 AikI then he seized the light guitar and wove, 
 
130 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
 
 In broken strains, a melancholy song 
 Breathing of blighted hope and hapless love : 
 
 ,/They called her fair ; and she oft had heard 
 The voice of song in the moon-lit grove ; 
 But oh ! how wildly her pulses stirred 
 When first she bent to the voice of love 1 
 
 Like Heaven's sweet breath o'er the win-god's l}Te, 
 It woke its tones in her guileless heart ; 
 
 But scarcely can Heaven itself inspire 
 Such joy as dwells in love's witching art. 
 
 To him who wakened each sleeping string 
 She gave her heart ; but be this the token 
 
 How well he valued the fragile tiling — 
 
 The music has ceased ! — the heart is broken ! 
 
 There was a j^oung fau' girl with sunny brow 
 And cheek where smiles were ever wont to glow — 
 
THE SHEPHERD BOY. 131 
 
 The gayest 'mid the gay ones, but her eye 
 
 Lost its bright gladness, and despondency 
 
 Marked her once laughing face ; her faded cheek 
 
 Was pale, save when she heard Celesto's name, 
 
 And then quick deepening blushes o'er it came, 
 
 Those tell-tales that a maiden's fondness speak. 
 
 The boy knew that she loved him, but he felt 
 
 That none w^ould love him long ; for grief had dwelt 
 
 Within his heart until it wore away 
 
 His life. Although his eye and cheek grew bright, 
 
 Yet 'twas the soul's last effort to give light 
 
 And beauty to the wasting frame's decay, 
 
 And steal from death part of its agony. 
 
 Soon, very soon the boy knew he must die, 
 
 And then he sought the pale girl, and unrolled 
 
 The tablets of sad memory ; then he told 
 
 His mournful tale. From that time, though the trace 
 
 Of tears was often left on Annette's face, 
 
 Yet was her spirit calm. 
 
132 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
 
 At length, one morn, 
 In that bright season when earth seems new born, 
 She sought the spot Celesto loved to tread ; 
 And there she saw the fair boy lying — dead ! 
 They came to robe him in funereal vest, 
 And then they found a maiden's snowy breast 
 Beneath the shepherd's coat. The imaged form 
 Of one whose eye possessed the serpent's charm 
 Hung from her neck — a dark browed cavalier — 
 They sought from sad Annette the tale to hear, 
 But she was silent : thus by all unknown 
 The hapless maiden lies. A solitary stone 
 Graved with the name Celesta, marks her tomb, 
 The onlv relic of her mournful doom. 
 
THE BRIDE, 
 
 Say as ye point to my early tomb 
 
 hac 
 
 Am 
 
 That the lover was dear tho' the bridegroom had come. 
 
 " But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
 Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire." 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 The lady sat in sadness ; her fair lid 
 Shrouding her eye's dark beauty ; while soft hands 
 Were wreathing her thick tresses, and amid 
 The glossy ringlets twining costly bands 
 Of snowy pearls ; but oft the deep-drawn sigh 
 Heaved the rich robe that folded o'er her breast ; 
 And when she raised her head, within her eye 
 
 Sparkled a tear which would not be represt. 
 
 13 
 
134 THE BRIDE. 
 
 She glanced towards the mirror, and a smile 
 Crossed her sweet lip — it was a woman's feeling 
 Of mingled pride and pleasure, even while 
 The blight of sorrow o'er her heart was stealing: 
 Yet as she gazed she thought of by-past hours, 
 When she was wont, within the orange bowers. 
 To sit beneath the moonlight ; and the arm 
 Of one she loved was folded round her form, 
 While to his throbbing breast she oft would cling. 
 And playfully her loosen'd tresses fling, 
 Light fetters, o'er his neck ; then, with bright cheek, 
 Smile when he gtrove his tenderness to speak. 
 
 Another change came o'er her face — she turned 
 And raised a chrystal cup that near her stood ; 
 Upon her cheek a deeper crimson burned, 
 And to her eye there rushed a fearful flood 
 Of wild emotion ; eagerly she quaffed. 
 With trembling lip, the strangely blended draught ; 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 135 
 
 And then in low and faltering accents cried : 
 " Am I not now a gay and happy bride ?'* 
 
 vt- vr ^ Tt- ^ T?» 
 
 She stood before the altar ; her pale brow 
 
 Uplifted to the holy cross. The sun 
 
 Shed through the painted window a deep glow 
 
 Upon her cheek ; and he w ho thus had won 
 
 Her hand without her heart, was at her side ; 
 
 The dark-robed priest too ; but as less allied 
 
 To earth than heaven, she stood — when called to speak 
 
 The sad response, her voice had grown so weak 
 
 She scarce could utter it ; her fragile form 
 
 Shook with convulsed emotion ; but the arm 
 
 Of her stern sire supported her ; her head 
 
 Fell helpless on his breast, and she was w^ed. 
 
 The bridegroom pressed his lip to her pale face ; 
 
 She shrunk from him as loathing his embrace ; 
 
 Then starting up with fearful calmness said : 
 
 " Father, I promised ; have I not obeyed ? — 
 
136 THE BRIDE. 
 
 But there is yet another vow unpaid ; 
 For I am the betrothed of Death, and lo I 
 The bridegroom waits his promised bride, e'en now. 
 Our nuptial torch shall be the glow-worm's light ; 
 Our bridal bed the grave — Oh ! it is sweet 
 To think that there no grief can throw its blight 
 O'er young affection — yes e'en I can greet 
 The marriage cup when dmgged with aconite." 
 She trembled ; would have fallen ; but again 
 Her haughty father's arm was near — her breath 
 Grew fainter; and her breast heaved as with pain ; 
 Lowly she muraiured: "Let my bridal wreath 
 Lie on my bier — he deems me faithless — now 
 Let him bend o'er tliis pale and stony brow, 
 And learn how well I loved" — one fleeting spot 
 Of crimson crossed her cheek, and she was not. 
 
THE LONELY ONE 
 
 " What deep wounds ever closed without a scar 1 
 The heart bleeds longest, and but heals to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
 With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear 
 Silence but not submission." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 Oh ! hers was not such love as worldlings feel ; 
 
 But an intense and passionate devotion 
 
 Pure as an infant thought was in her heart. 
 
 Yet she had none of woman's charms ; the low 
 
 And gentle voice ; the full bright lip ; the eye 
 
 All light and beauty ; these were not for her. 
 
 But on her spirit genius poured its rays ; 
 
 And in her eye the pride of intellect 
 
 13* 
 
138 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Was visibly enthroned ; yet proved she not 
 Herself a mere, mere woman, when she gave 
 Her heart to man's control ? No, he was one 
 Whom not to love had almost been a crime : 
 It seemed that heaven had formed him to be loved 
 E'en as itself was worshipped ; well did she 
 Obey its will — he was the life, the soul 
 Of her existence ; and she poured forth all 
 The richest fulness of her untouched heart 
 As incense on his shrine, e'en though she knew 
 Its sweetness would be wasted. Hopelessly 
 She gave it ; for she knew he looked on her 
 With kindness, friendship, every thing but love. 
 And yet she murmured not ; could she repine 
 When she received a brother's tenderness ? 
 She turned from scenes of gaiety ; for there 
 She could not think of him ; and gifted ones 
 Oft sought her love as 'twere a precious thing. 
 But how could one who worshipped the bright sun. 
 Pay the same homage to the meaner stars ? 
 
THE LONELY ONE. 139 
 
 She gave herself to loneliness ; a life 
 Of self-devotion to her hopeless love 
 Was dearer to her than all earthly joy. 
 
 At length the hour she long had looked for, came 
 And he was wed. She knew the very hour 
 That gave him to another. It were vain 
 To paint the fearful conflict of her heart ; 
 She knew he would be wretched if he dreamed 
 Of her deep sorrow ; and this gave her strength 
 To conquer woman's weakness : when she next 
 Beheld him he was near his youthful bride ; 
 Calmly she met his proffered hand, and looked 
 With smiles on her bright face, and though her cheek 
 Was deadly pale, yet her voice faltered not. 
 Her course through life was marl^ed out by the hand 
 Of changeless destiny ; her days were past 
 In painful study ; she explored the paths 
 Of science with a sad delight ; for one 
 Faint hope yet lingered that, in after years, 
 
140 TIIELONELYONE. 
 
 Wlien men should breathe her name in tones of praise, 
 
 He would remember her with thoughts of pride. 
 
 Yet she was not unhappy; she had taught 
 
 His wife to love her, and the innocent face 
 
 Of his fair child oft rested on her heart, 
 
 While its soft arms were twined about her neck 
 
 With all an infant's fondness. 
 
 Years passed on, 
 And long ere she had reached hfe's middle course. 
 Sorrow amid he lone-one's dark brown locks 
 Had mingled silver, while her sunken cheek 
 And wasted figure told a mournful tale 
 Of the heart's struggle. Well had she subdued 
 Each rebel thought ; her eye no longer quailed 
 In anguish to behold his tenderness 
 Bestowed upon another; for she gave 
 To his fair child the fullness of that love 
 She dared not yield to him. Alas ! alas ! 
 And did she think the heart would thus be swayed 
 
THE LONELY ONE. 141 
 
 E'en as she listed ; that her will could change 
 The course of its affections ? vain deceit ! 
 E'en as the breath of winter, while it binds 
 The mountain torrent in its icy chains, 
 Checks not the current which still rushes on 
 Beneath its frozen surface, so the strong, 
 Resistless energy of mind may stay 
 The outward struggles of the restless soul, 
 But cannot reach its inmost depths, where still 
 The waves of passion moan. Too soon she knew 
 How much she was deceived. Death came, but not 
 To her who waited him ; the grief-worn frame 
 Was all too mean a prey for him ; he seized 
 The gentle wife and mother ; she whose life 
 Had been a fairy tale. 
 
 No selfish thought 
 Was in the bosom of the lonely one, 
 As biending o'er the bed of death, she wept 
 Mingling her tears with his ; but when she found 
 
142 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 That still he sought for comfort in her kindness, 
 
 E'en when the smile revisited his hp ; 
 
 What marvel if within her breast awoke 
 
 Again the sweet delusions of young hope. — 
 
 The passionate feehngs of his youth w^ere gone ; 
 
 And now^ he turned with tranquil tenderness 
 
 To her affection, e'en as one \\i\\ pause, 
 
 Amid the weary vanities of life, 
 
 To hear some half-forgotten melody 
 
 That charmed his childish hours ; but ah ! the heart 
 
 Which bore so well with sorrow, could not brook 
 
 The fulness of such joy ; and as the flower 
 
 May bide the pelting of the storm, to die 
 
 Beneath the very sun that gave it life, 
 
 Thus did she wither ; but how did she shrink 
 
 To meet the death she once had sought ; how weep 
 
 To check again the love but half subdued ? 
 
 Thus months and weeks passed onw^ard, until he 
 
 Who, in her hour of youth and bloom, had turned 
 
 In coldness from her love, now sought for it 
 
THE LONELY ONE. 113 
 
 As 'twere his very being — who can speak 
 
 The anguish of her spirit, as with sick 
 
 And swelhng heart she gasped : " It is too late !'• 
 
 As the worn traveller amid the wilds 
 
 Of burning Araby, o'erspent with toil, 
 
 Falls ere he reach the brink of that pure wave 
 
 Which proffers life to his parched lip ; thus she 
 
 Found joy within her grasp but when she knew 
 
 It was her last, her dying hour. — She died — 
 
 Yet as a day of storms will oft-times sink 
 
 With a rich burst of sunlight at its close ; 
 
 Thus did the rays of happiness illume 
 
 Her parting spirit 
 
THE MORAVIAN BURIAL 
 GROUND. 
 
 The following lines are an attempt to convey an idea 
 of the simple beauty of the Moravian Burial Ground at 
 Bethlehem, Penn. The feelings described suggested 
 themselves on the spot ; and the incident alluded to ac- 
 tually occurred. 
 
 'Twas one of those sweet days when spring awakes 
 Her gentlest zephyrs and her softest hght, 
 
 Wooing the wild flower in the sunny brakes, 
 And winning the young bird to joyous flight ; 
 
 While rose the lulling murmur of the bee 
 
 'Mid the sweet soimds of nature's jubilee. 
 
BURIAL GROUND. 145 
 
 Our loitering feet unconsciously we turned 
 
 Towards a green and solitary lane ; 
 A pure, calm spirit in our bosoms burned, 
 
 And feelings saddened, though unmixed with pain — 
 Oh ! surely we were then in fitting mood 
 To ponder on the grave's dread solitude. 
 
 Through a low gate our quiet steps we bent — 
 Was this sweet, lonely spot a burial place ? 
 
 Here was no urn, no sculptured monument, 
 But o'er it spring had shed her loveliest trace ; 
 
 For the bright verdure and the fragrant bloom 
 
 Of the wild violet, decked each smiling tomb, 
 
 A lowly mounfl of earth, an humble stone, 
 Traced with the name of him who lay beneath, 
 
 A name still dear to love, though never known 
 To fame, were all that spoke of dreaded death ; 
 
 Fresh grass,, and flowers, and scented herbs were there 
 
 Filling with brightness earth, with odours air, 
 J 4 
 
146 THE MORAVIAN 
 
 High swelled my heart as 'mid those graves I trod ; 
 
 I felt life's nothingness in that calm hour ; 
 My spirit knew the presence of its God, 
 
 And bowed submissive to Almighty power ; 
 While humbly now I deemed I ne'er should shrink 
 To drain the cup that eai'thly love must drink. . 
 
 I had been an idolater — aye, still 
 
 My heart was vowed upon an earthly shrine ; 
 Though checked a moment by that holy thrill, 
 
 I knew my bosom never could resign 
 Its deep idolatry till life was past ; 
 Had I not cause to fear Heaven's frown at last ? 
 
 Filled with these thoughts,! turned e'en from the brow 
 That most I loved, to hide my gushing tears, 
 
 And gazing on the humble graves where low 
 Lay buried many a love of other years, 
 
 I threw myself beside a grassy mound 
 
 With reverence, for I felt 'twas holy ground. 
 
BURIAL GROUND. 147 
 
 For there, with eyhds closed in changeless night, 
 The mother and her sinless infant lay ; 
 
 In the same hour death breathed o'er both his blight ; 
 And in one pang their spirits passed away — 
 
 The all of mother's feelings she had known 
 
 Were the keen throe, the agony alone ; 
 
 Alas for earthly joy, and hope, and love, 
 
 Thus stricken down e'en in their holiest hour ! 
 
 What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove " 
 Who live to weep the blasted tree and flower! 
 
 Oh, woe, deep woe to earthly love's fond trust, 
 
 When all it once has worshipped lies in dust ! 
 
 There was one hillock decked beyond the rest. 
 Where rue, and thyme, and violets, were sighing ; 
 
 No trace of earth defaced its verdant breast ; 
 The wild bee o'er the sunny flowers was fl}ing, 
 
 Or hiding, mid the odorous buds and leaves. 
 
 Beneath the dewy veil the evening weaves. 
 
14$ THE MORAVIAN 
 
 There slept the patriarch of fourscore years, 
 Whose long life like an April day had closed 
 
 In smiles and sunsliine after clouds and tears ; 
 Now calm in death liis aged form i-eposed ; 
 
 Wliile oft affection's pearly teai's bedewed 
 
 The flowers that decked his peaceful sohtude. 
 
 Lo ! while we gazed, with slow and noiseless tread 
 A female form drew nigh ; her right hand bore 
 
 A water-urn ; and o'er th' unconscious dead 
 Lowly she bent its freshening dews to pour, 
 
 Till the flowers brightly 'neath the sun gleamed up, 
 
 Each beai'ing a rich gem within its cup. 
 
 Ten years had passed since he who slumbered there, 
 Had cast aside the weight of clay, and yet 
 
 His grave still fondly claimed a daughter's care ; 
 Still was it visited with deep regret ; 
 
 Such was the love of hearts o'er which no trace 
 
 Of earth had passed affection to efface. 
 
BURIAL GROUND. 
 
 149 
 
 Then with tumultuous feelings all subdued 
 By death's undreaded presence, I awoke 
 
 My song's low murmurs in that solitude, 
 
 And thus my half-breathed whispers softly broke : 
 
 When in the shadow of the tomb 
 
 This heart shall rest, 
 Oh ! lay me where spring flowerts bloom 
 
 On earth's bright breast. 
 
 Oh ! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay 
 
 My hfeless form ; 
 Seek not of such mean, worthless prey 
 
 To cheat the worm. 
 
 In this sweet city of the dead 
 
 I fain would sleep, 
 Where liowers may deck my narrow bed, 
 
 And night dews weep. 
 
 14* 
 
150 THE MORAVIAN, &C. 
 
 But raise not the sepulcliral stone 
 
 To mark the spot; 
 Enough, if by thy heart alone 
 
 'Tis ne'er forgot. 
 
THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL 
 
 TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER. 
 
 Go, dearest one, my selfish love shall never pale thy 
 cheek ; 
 
 Not e'en a mother's fears for thee will I in sadness 
 speak : 
 
 Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears 
 that start?— 
 
 Hast thou not turned from me to dwell within ano- 
 ther's heart ? 
 
 I think on earlier, brighter days, when first my lip was 
 
 prest 
 Upon thy baby brow wliilst thou lay helpless on my 
 
 breast. 
 In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face, 
 I hear thy hsping tones, and mark with joy thy cliild- 
 
 ish grace. 
 
153 TTiE mother's farewell 
 
 E'en then I knew it would be thus ; I thought e'en in 
 
 thiit hour, 
 Another would its perfume steal when I had reared 
 
 the flower ; 
 And yet I will not breathe a sigh — how can I dare 
 
 repine ? 
 The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once 
 
 by mine. 
 
 A mother's love ! — oh ! thou knowest not how much of 
 
 feeling lies 
 In those sweet words ; the hopes, the fears, the daily 
 
 strengthening ties : 
 It lives ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital 
 
 breath, 
 And dies but when the mother's heart chills in the ^ 
 
 grasp of death. 
 
TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 Will he in who se fond arms thou seek'st thine all of 
 
 earthly bliss, 
 E'er feel a love untiring, deep, and free from self as 
 
 this? 
 Ah, no ! a husband's tenderness thy gentle heart may 
 
 prove ; 
 But never, never wilt thou meet again a mother's 
 
 love. 
 
 My love for thee must ever be fond as in years gone 
 
 by; 
 While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory. 
 Dearest farewell, may angel hosts their vigils o'er thee 
 
 keep, — 
 IIow can I speak that fearful word * farewell' and yet 
 
 not weep ? 
 1825. 
 
TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 * * * " A single star 
 
 Is rising in the East, and from afar 
 Sheds a most tremulous lustre ; silent night 
 Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow." 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 " Oh what a vision were the stars 
 
 When tirst I saw them burn on high.' 
 
 Moore. 
 
 • Pale, melancholy star ! that pourest thy beams 
 So mildly on my brow, pure as the tear 
 A pitying angel sheds o'er earthly sorrow, 
 I love to sit beneath thy light and yield 
 My heart to its strange musings, waj^^ard dreams 
 Of things inscrutable, and searching thoughts 
 That would aspire to dwell in yon liigh sphere. 
 I love to think that thou art a bright world 
 Where bliss and beauty dwell ; where never sin 
 
TO THE EVENING STAR. 155 
 
 Has entered to destroy the perfect jo5^s 
 
 Of its pure, holy habitants. 'Tis sweet 
 
 To fancy such a quiet, peaceful home 
 
 Of innocence, and purity, and love. 
 
 There the first sire still dwells with all his race, 
 
 From his loved eldest-born to the sweet babe 
 
 Of yesterday ; there gentle maids are seen 
 
 Fair as the sun, with all that tenderness 
 
 So sweet in woman ; and soft eyes that beam 
 
 The fondest love, but freed from passion's stain. 
 
 There all have high communion with their God, 
 
 And though the fruit of knowledge is not plucked, 
 
 Yet doth its fragrance breathe on all around. 
 
 Oh ! what can knowledge give to recompense 
 
 The happy ignorance it cost ? Man gave 
 
 His heaven to gain it — what was his reward ? — 
 
 Deep, lasting misery ! 
 
 Sweet Star ! can those in thy bright sphere behold 
 Our fallen world ? do they not weep to view 
 
156 TO THE EVENING STAR, 
 
 Our blighting sorrows ? and do they not veil 
 
 Their brows in shame, to see heaven's choicest gifts 
 
 Profaned and trampled by our maddening passions ? 
 
 Surely tliis world is now as beautifld 
 
 As 'twas in earliest prime : the earth still blooms 
 
 With flowers and brilliant verdure ; the dark trees 
 
 Are thick with foilage, and the mountains tower 
 
 In proud sublimity ; the waters glide 
 
 All smoothly 'mid the green, enamelled mead, 
 
 Or dash o'er broken cliffs, flinging their spray 
 
 In high fantastic whirls. Surely 'tis fair 
 
 As it could be before the wasting flood 
 
 Had whelmed it. Let us forth and gaze upon 
 
 The face of nature. All is peaceful now, 
 
 Yet man will tread there too ; cities will rise 
 
 Where now the wild bird sings ; thousands will dwell 
 
 Where all is loneliness ; but will it be 
 
 More beautiful ? No ; where the wild flowers spring, 
 
 Where nought but the bird's note is heard, we may 
 
 Find friends in every leaf; each simple bud 
 
TO THE EVENING STAR. 157 
 
 >Spcaks to the heart and fills it with the sweet, 
 Soft tenderness of childhood ; but vain man 
 Makes it a peopled wilderness : the blight 
 Of disappointment and distrust is found 
 Wherever man has made his troubled home ; 
 And the most fearful desart is the spot 
 Where he best loves to dwell. 
 
 Oh ! let me hope, while gazing on thy light, 
 Sweet Star ! that yet a peaceful home is left 
 For those sad spirits who have found this world 
 All sin and sorrow. Haply in thy sphere 
 I yet may dwell, when cleansed from all the stains 
 Of passions that too darkly dwell within 
 This throbbing heart. Oh! had I early died, 
 I might have been a pure and sinless child 
 In some sweet planet ; and my only toil, 
 To light my censer by the sun's bright rays, 
 And fling its fire forever toward the throne 
 Of the Eternal One. 
 
 15 
 
TO FANCY 
 
 " Fancy, my internal sight." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Sweet Fancy ! I have been thy favoured child 
 From earliest infancy ; and thou wert wont 
 To show me thy bright imager}^ ere yet 
 My young lips could frame language to describe 
 The fair but fleeting shadows : thou hast nursed 
 Those warm and ardent feelings nature gave ; 
 And though 'tis true that thou hast taught my h^art 
 To heave the quickened throb of deeper anguish 
 Than cold ones e'er can feel ; yet thou has given 
 Joys they can never know. I love to see 
 The setting sun resting his broad bright rim 
 Upon the golden wave, as lingering there 
 
TO FANCY. 159 
 
 To bid tke world farewell ; and when he sinks, 
 To watch the thousand summer clouds he leaves 
 Of strange fantastic shape and varied hue. 
 Then is tliine hour bright Fancy — then is felt 
 Thy softest, sweetest influence o'er the heart. 
 Oh! when I gaze upon th' unclouded heaven 
 Studded with gems of brilliancy, my soul 
 Forgets the lapse of time ; and doth recall 
 The phantasies so proud and beautiful 
 Of ancient times : the stars were then in truth 
 * The poetry of Heaven,* and had high power 
 O'er mortal fate. 'Tis sad that those sweet dreams 
 Are now denied us : oh, how much more bliss 
 Lies in the legend of our infant years, 
 Than in the sad reahty we learn ! 
 
 Many would deem me weak ; but I have gazed 
 Upon the fairy clouds and pictured there 
 Familiar forms and faces ; and have felt 
 That I could almost weep to see them fade, 
 
160 
 
 TO FANCY. 
 
 So like a presage of the transient date 
 Of all life's changeful joys. It may be vain 
 To yield to these impressions ; but what heart 
 Could scorn such gentle dreams in early youth. 
 
 I love to look upon the clouded sky, 
 When the fierce forked lightning flashes bright. 
 And the deep roar of Heaven's artillery 
 Sounds fearfully ; and I can calmly view 
 The strife of elements ; and fancy then 
 I hear the shouts of proud rebellious spirits 
 Storming the towers and battlements of Heaven. 
 Oh, what a depth of feeling lies within 
 The full, the o'erfraught heart in such an hour ! — 
 And this too is thine hour, bright Fancy, this 
 Thy proudest, mightiest power. In the sweet calm 
 Of evening, thou dost come with whispers bland, 
 And all its gentleness ; but when the storm 
 Is raging thou dost speali in majesty, 
 And ihe full heart is lifted to the Heavens, 
 
TO FANCY. 161 
 
 While we can feel there yet is high communion 
 Between fallen man and pure angelic natures. 
 
 Could but the sceptic feel the thrilling power 
 Of chastened fancy at a time like tliis, 
 Surely the blush of shame would tinge his cheek. 
 Would not the deep emotions of his soul 
 Prove that high soul immortal ? Can it be 
 That we should have such glimpses of a light 
 Not of tliis world, if we are ne'er to see 
 The fulness of its glory ? Can the man 
 Who feels the restless workings of a mind 
 Aspiring after knowledge, think that earth 
 Can limit the expansion of his soul ? 
 No, he must deem that there will come a time 
 When all shall be unfolded — 'tis a proud, 
 An elevating thought — Oh, who would doubt ? 
 
 1824. 
 
 15^ 
 
TO 
 
 There's a cloud on the mountain, a mist on the lake ; 
 Is not this a warning the storm soon will break ? 
 Though the sun on the meadows is still shining clear, 
 Yet the wild winds are sighing, the tempest is near. 
 
 There's a shade on thy brow, and a tear in thine eye 
 Seen through the long lashes that over it lie ; 
 And though on thy hp is the bright beaming smile, 
 Yet sad thoughts are hid in thy bosom the while. 
 
 The sun's brilliant beams have dispersed the dark cloud, 
 And no longer the mist the lake's bosom doth shroud, 
 Oh ! thus let the smile on thy lip ever glow. 
 Till its brightness has driven the shade from thy brow. 
 
 Aye, changes may pass over nature's sweet face. 
 And smiles may the gloom of the countenance chase ; 
 But when sorrow has long made its home in the heart, 
 Oh ! w here is the light that can bid it depart ? 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 " The early g^rave 
 Which men weep over, may be meant to save." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Weep not for those 
 Who sink within the arms of death, 
 Ere yet the chilHng wintry breath 
 
 Of sorrow o'er them blows ; 
 But weep for them who iiere remain 
 The mournful heritors of pain, 
 Condemned to see each bright joy fade, 
 And mark grief's melancholy shade 
 
 Flung o'er hope's fairest rose. 
 
161 STANZAS. 
 
 Nay, shed no tear 
 For those Avho soundly, sweetly sleep ; 
 They heed not the cold blasts that sweep 
 
 Across theh' lowly bier ; 
 But weep for those who see the cloud 
 Of miseiy youth's bright heaven enshroud ; 
 And view the flowers that deck life's path 
 
 Fall dry and sear. 
 
 Dread not the tomb — 
 To those who feel that youth survives 
 The joys that youthful fancy gives, 
 
 It wears no face of gloom. 
 It is a quiet, peaceful home 
 For those who through life's desart roam : 
 A place for wearied ones to rest, 
 Where o'er the painful, care-worn breast 
 
 Spring flowers may bloom. 
 
WILLIAM TELL ON THE 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 "Yet, Freedom! yet, thy banner torn, but flying, 
 Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 Once more I breathe the mountain air, once more 
 I tread my own free hills — e'en as the child 
 Clings to its mother's breast, so do I turn 
 To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul 
 Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 
 'Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing 
 Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon 
 With eye undazzled. — Oh ! ye mighty race, 
 
166 WILLIAM TELL 
 
 That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guai'd 
 •My own proud land, why did ye not hurl down 
 The thundering avalanche, when at your feet 
 The base usurper stood ? A touch, a breath, 
 Nay, e'en the breath of prayer, ere now has brought 
 Destruction on the hunter's head, and yet 
 The tyrant passed in safety. — God of Heaven ! 
 Where slept thy thunderbolt ? 
 
 Oh! Liberty, 
 Thou choicest gift of heaven, £ind wEinting wliich, 
 Life is as nothing, ha«t thou then forgot 
 Thy native home ; and must the feet of slaves 
 Pollute this glorious scene ? It cannot be ! 
 E'en as the smile of heaven can pierce the depths 
 Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom. 
 In spots w^here man has never dared to tread ; 
 So thy sweet influence still is seen amid 
 These beetling cliffs : some hearts yet beat for thee 
 And bow alone to heaven : thy spirit lives, 
 
ON THE MOUNTAINS'. 167 
 
 Aye, and shall live, when e'en the very name . 
 
 Of tyrant is forgot. Lo ! while I gaze 
 
 Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, 
 
 The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes 
 
 A crown of glory on his hoary head: 
 
 Oh ! is not this a presage of the dawn 
 
 Of freedom o'er the w^orld ? Hear me, thou bright 
 
 And beaming heaven ! while kneeling thus, I swear 
 
 To live for freedom or with her to die. 
 
WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS. 
 
 What ! does he think that bonds can chain the mind ? 
 That dungeon air can taint the spotless soul ? 
 Fond fool ! let Gesler wear his princely pomp, 
 If he would know the weight of real chains ; 
 And learn that, to the base and crouching slave. 
 All earth is one wide prison house. In vain 
 They shut me from the blessed light of Heaven ; 
 They cannot dim the inward ray that sheds 
 Such brightness on my spirit. — I have dwelt 
 Upon the lofty mountain tops, and held 
 High converse with the elements, and gazed 
 
 Upon the sun, until Iiis very beams 
 
WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS. 169 
 
 Became as 'twere a language ; shall I seek 
 
 To win the smile of princes ? I have watched 
 
 The storm-clouds gather round the snow-capped cliff, 
 
 And, in the rolling thunder, heard the threat 
 
 Of an offended God ; shall I bow down 
 
 Before the wrath of tyrants ? — never, never ! 
 
 When thou canst tame the eagle down to wear 
 
 The jesses of the falcon, or canst yoke 
 
 The lion to the humble steer, then hope, 
 
 Proud Gesler, to behold the brow of Tell 
 
 Bending before thy footstool. 
 
 NOTE. — The first of these two pieces was written after seeing 
 Macready's personation of William Tell; and the second after 
 seeing Inman's admirable picture of that distinguished actor as 
 "William Tell in chains. 
 
 1(5 
 
/ 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 " Or sai tu dove e quando questi amori 
 Furpn creati e come." 
 
 I loved thee — not because thy brow 
 
 Was bright and beautiful as day, 
 Nor that on thy sweet lip the glow 
 
 Was joyous as yon sunny ray ; 
 No ; though I saw thee fairest far, 
 The sun that hid each meaner star ; 
 Yet 'twas not this that taught me fir^t 
 The love that silent tears have nui'fct. 
 
 Dante. 
 
STANZAS. 171 
 
 Nor was it that thine every word 
 With stores of intellect was fraught, 
 
 With eloquence each heart that stirred, 
 With deepest feeling, holiest tliought ; 
 
 Nor thy sweet voice, whose witching spell 
 
 Like music on my spirit fell, 
 
 Rich as the notes the mellow horn 
 
 Breathes when o'er moon-lit waters borne. 
 
 But I beheld the darkening stain 
 
 Of tears becloud that beaming eye, 
 And marked thy bosom's secret pain 
 
 Find utterance in the struggling sigh : 
 Then too, like some neglected lute, 
 My young heart's sweetest chords were mute ; 
 No hand had ever touched its strings 
 To wake its blissful murmurings — 
 Was it not then just fit to be 
 Roused by the touch of sympathy ? 
 
172 STANZAS. 
 
 Yes, thine the touch that first awdke 
 
 The hidden music of my heart ; 
 Thy hand the chain of silence broke, 
 
 And bade it love's sweet tones impart : 
 And now could even beauty wane 
 Till not one noble trace remain ; 
 Could genius sink in dull decay, 
 And wisdom cease to lend her ray ; 
 Should all that I have worshipped change, 
 E'en this could not my heart estrange ; 
 Thou still wouldst be the first, the first 
 That taught the love sad tears have nurst. 
 
A SKETCH. 
 
 The heart must 
 
 Leap kindly back to kindness." — 
 
 Byron. 
 
 One arm around her silent harp was flung ; 
 Her brow was bending o'er it, and its chords 
 Were twined with her dark tresses : wrapt in thought 
 She siirless sate ; but when the soft breeze fanned 
 The rii^lets from her cheek, a glow was seen 
 Like the rich hue that decks the Florence rose ; 
 And the sweet smile that hovered round her lip 
 Was bright as April sun-light ; in her eye 
 Was hope with sadness blended, as if joy 
 Had been so long a stranger to her heart 
 That now she scarce dared welcome it. She spoke, 
 And the low accents of her voice were sweet 
 
 16* 
 
1T4 A SKETCH. 
 
 Yet melancholy as the moaning wave : 
 * Affection wins affection'—" were not these 
 The blessed words he uttered ? — Yes, my heart 
 While yet with life it throbs, can ne'er forget 
 How like the fresh'ning dews of heaven they^ame, 
 Waking new hopes, renewing faded dreams 
 And thrilling all my frame with sudden joy" — 
 She paused, while her light fingers touched the harp 
 And woke a low and plaintive prelude, then 
 Again she murmured — "Oh, had not the eyes 
 Of strangers been upon us in that hour 
 Of new-born hope and happiness, methinks 
 I would have touched my harp and thus replied, 
 When he exclaimed," ' affection wins affection :' 
 
 Mine own beloved, believest thou aught of this ? 
 
 Oh ! then no more 
 My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss. 
 
 Its wail shall pour. 
 
A SKETCH. 175 
 
 Give me this hope, though only from afar 
 
 It sheds its Hght, 
 And, Hke yon dewy melancholy star, • 
 
 With tears is bright. 
 
 Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, 
 
 That could not sin 
 Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought. 
 
 Thy love may win : 
 
 Let me but hope the changeless love of years, 
 
 The tender care 
 That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, 
 
 Thy heart may share. 
 
 Or let me hope at least that, when no more 
 
 My voice shall meet 
 The ear that listens only to think o'er 
 
 Tones far more sweet ; 
 
1T6 A SKETCH. 
 
 Wlien the kind shelter of the grave shall hide 
 
 This faded brow, 
 This form once gazed upon with pride, 
 
 With coldness now ; 
 
 When never more my weary steps of pain 
 
 Around thee move, 
 "Wlien loosed forever is life's heavy chain, 
 
 Love will win love. 
 
TO 
 
 Thou art amid the festive halls, 
 
 Where beauty wakes her spells for thee : 
 Where music oh thy spirit falls 
 
 Like moonlight on the sea ; 
 But now while fairer brows are smiling, 
 And brighter lips thy heairt beguiling, 
 
 Thinkest thou of me ? 
 
 Fair forms and faces pass thee by 
 Like bright creations of a dream. 
 
 And love-lit eyes, when thou art nigh, 
 With softer splendors beam : 
 
 Life's gayest witcheries are round thee ; 
 
 But now while mirth and joy surround thee 
 Thinkest thou of me ? 
 
THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 The dying year ! how are those few w^ords fraught 
 
 With images of fading lovehness ! 
 How do they fill with dreams of saddened thought 
 
 The heart that sighs o'er all that once could bless ! 
 They fall with mournful sound upon the ear, 
 The knell of something we have long held dear. 
 
 Thou frail and dying year ! ah ! where are now 
 
 The charms that have in turn been all thine' own ? 
 The Spring's young bloom, the Summer's ripened 
 glow. 
 The Autumn's mournful splendor all are gone ; 
 And thou art sinking in oblivion's wave — 
 Would that the griefs thou gavest might there too fmd 
 a grave ! 
 
THE DYING YEAR. 179 
 
 Aye, years may pass ; but yet time's rapid flight 
 Would be unheeded, were it not he flings 
 
 A cloud o'er all youth's hopes and fancies bright — 
 Alas ! he bears upon his shadowy wings 
 
 Darkness, distrust, and sorrow ; wliile the mind 
 
 Pines 'mid the gloom to w hich it is consigned. 
 
 Thou dying year ! hast thou not swept away 
 Joys dearer far than any thou hast left ? 
 
 Have we not seen our hopes with thee decay ; 
 Felt ourselves almost desolate and reft 
 
 Of all the fairest, brightest things of earth ? — 
 
 Have we not turned away sick of the world's vain mirth? 
 
 Have we not prayed that thou wouldst quickly fleet, 
 When we were sunk in sorrow's deepest gloom ? 
 
 Have we not learned each coming day to greet, 
 Because it brought us nearer to the tomb ? 
 
 And thou hast fleeted, and with thee has past 
 
 The strong, deep misery that could not last. 
 
180 THE DYING YEAK. 
 
 Son'ow treads heavily, and leaves behind 
 A deep impression e'en when* she departs : 
 
 While joy trips by with steps light as the wind, 
 And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts 
 
 Of her faint footfalls :* only this is sure. 
 
 In this world nought save suffering can endure. 
 
 Yet thou art a kind monitor ; and we 
 
 In thee may trace the progress of our lives : 
 
 My si>ring time is yet new ; I ne'er may see 
 The summer ; and the fruits that autumn gives 
 
 For me may never ripen — o'er my brow 
 
 Ere then the grass may rustle. — Be it so ! 
 1825. 
 
 * The reader will easily recognize here one of Henry Neele' 
 beautiful thoughts. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 " None such true joy are reaping 
 As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 He slumbered ; and unseen I gazed 
 
 Upon his gentle brow ; 
 The eye where so much brightness blazed, 
 
 Was closed in darkness now ; 
 And yet its glories scarce were hid 
 Beneath that soft and shadowy lid. 
 
 He slumbered ; and his lip might seem 
 
 A young pomegranate flower, 
 Ere yet the sun had stolen the sweets 
 
 Of morning's dewy hour — 
 Oh ! words from other lips were nought 
 Compared with what his silence taught, 
 
 17 
 
182 STANZAS. 
 
 He woke — I started at the blaze 
 From 'neath his eyelid's veil ; 
 
 And felt before his earnest gaze 
 My lofty spn-it quail ; 
 
 Till love's sweet softness dimmed the pride 
 
 Of splendors which it could not hide. 
 
 He woke ; and o'er his glorious lip 
 
 A smile so lovely stole, 
 Like music from an angel harp 
 
 It thrilled my inmost soul : 
 Oh ! if in sleep that face was fair, 
 Think what it was When smiles were there. 
 
 Then blame me not ; say not 'tis sin 
 
 To deem that form divine ; 
 The noble mind that dwells within, 
 
 Is worthy such a shrine ; 
 And when I worship him I bow 
 Only to virtue's fairest brow. 
 
THE MAIDEN TO HER REJECTED 
 LOVER. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; it cannot turn away 
 
 To seek again the joys of earth, and mingle with the 
 gay: 
 
 The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow beneath the 
 shades of night, 
 
 Must wither when the sunbeam sheds its too resplen- 
 dent light. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; and vainly love's 
 soft power 
 
 Would seek to charm that heart anew, in some un- 
 guarded hour. 
 
 I would not that some gentle one should hear my fre- 
 quent sigh: 
 
 The deer that bears its death- wound turns in loneliness 
 to die. 
 
184 REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; I cannot now for- 
 get 
 
 The phantasy whose faded light illumes my spirit yet : 
 
 The summer sun may sink at once beneath the wes- 
 tern main, 
 
 But long u]3on Heaven's dark'ning brow the clouds his 
 light retain. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; yet there are mo- 
 ments still 
 
 When, like a pulse within my soul, I feel joy's tran- 
 sient thrill ; 
 
 For never can I hear unmoved the words of friend- 
 ship spoken : 
 
 The blast that rends the wind-god's harp, may leave 
 one string unbroken. 
 
STANZAS 
 
 "I did love once 
 As youth, as woman, genius loves." 
 
 L.E. L. 
 
 Oh ! knowest thou, dear one, the love of youth 
 
 \Vith its wayward fancies, its untried truth ; 
 
 Yet cloudless and warm as. the. sunny ray 
 
 That opens the flowers of a summer's day, 
 
 Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie 
 
 'Mid feelings pure as an angel's sigh ; 
 
 Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes 
 
 As an infant giant from slumber breaks : 
 
 Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
 
 In earher days such was mine for thee. 
 
 Oh, knowest thou, dear one, of woman's love 
 
 With its faith that woes but more deeply prove ; 
 
 .17*" 
 
186 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Its fondnes wide as the limitless wave, 
 
 And chainless by aught than the silent grave ; 
 
 With devotion as humble as that which brings 
 
 To his idol the Indian's offerings ; 
 
 Yet proud as that which the priestess feels, 
 
 When she nurses the flame of the shrine while she 
 
 kneels : 
 Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
 Such ever has been in my heart for thee. 
 
 Oh knowest thou the love of a poet's soul, 
 
 Of the mind that from heaven its brightness stole, 
 
 Wlien the gush of song, hke the life-blood springs 
 
 Unchecked from the heart, and the spirit's wings 
 
 Are nerved anew in a loftier flight 
 
 To seek for its idol a crown of light ; 
 
 When the visions that wake beneath fancy's beam, 
 
 But serve to brighten an earthly dream: 
 
 Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
 
 Such long has been in my heart for thee. 
 
STANZAS. 187 
 
 Oh, tell me, dear, can such love decay 
 Like the sapless weed in the morning ray i 
 Can the love of earlier, brighter years 
 Be chased away like an infant's tears ? 
 Can the long tried faith of a woman's heart 
 Like a summer bird from its nest depart 1 
 Can affection nursed within fancy's bowers, 
 Find deadly herbs 'mid those fragrant flowers? 
 Oh ! no, beloved one, it cannot be : 
 Such end awaits not my love for thee 
 
 Youth's pure fresh feelings have faded now ; 
 
 But not less warm is love's summer glow ; 
 
 Dark frowns may wither, unkindness blight 
 
 The heart where thou art the only light ; 
 
 And coldness may freeze the wild gush of song, 
 
 Or chill the spirit once tameless and strong ; 
 
 And the pangs of neglected love may prey 
 
 Too fatally, dear, on this fragile clay ; 
 
 But never, Oh ! never, beloved, can it be 
 
 That my heart should forget its deep fondness for thee. 
 
SPRING BREEZES. 
 
 Ye joyous breezes, 1 trace your way 
 O'er the meadows decked in their bright array : 
 The flowrets are bending your steps to greet ; 
 New blossoms are springing beneath your feet ; 
 While the rosebud her freshest fragrance flings, 
 And woos ye to rest your wearied wnngs. 
 
 But on ye pass — for no charm ye stay — 
 Still onw^ard ye hold your gladdening way. 
 Your breath has rippled the mountain stream. 
 And a thousand suns from its surface gleam ; 
 Your voice has wakened the wild bjrd's note, 
 And fragrance and melody round ye float. 
 
SPRING BREEZES. 189 
 
 Ye joyous breezes, still on ye go ; 
 Your breath is passing o'er beauty's brow ; 
 Your wings are stirring her radiant hair ; 
 Your kiss is brightening her cheek so fair ; 
 And the innocent thoughts of her heart rejoice 
 With the mirthful tones of your wild sweet voice. 
 
 *' Though flowers may gladden our path to day, 
 
 When to-morrow we come, they are passed away ; 
 / And the cheerful smile, and the rosy hue, 
 
 From the cheek of beauty have faded too ; 
 * "And our gentle whispers no more impart 
 
 A feeling of joy to her youthful heart. 
 
 " Is our path then marked by so much of mirth ? 
 
 Alas for the folly and blindness of earth ! 
 
 Is there not mingled a voice of wail 
 
 With the sweetest tones of the young spring gale ? 
 
 If like infancy's joyous laugh we rise, 
 
 Pass we not onward like manhood's sighs ? 
 
190 SPRING BREEZES*' - * 
 
 " We but do the will of our master here, 
 Our joy is found in a holier sfihere : 
 We are boi*n in Heaven, can our purer breath 
 Pass mirthfully over the fields of death ? 
 And what is earth with its transient bloom 
 And fading charms, but a flower-decked tomb ?*' 
 
SONG OF MORNING 
 
 I come, I come from the fields of light ; 
 
 My herald-star chases the shadows of night ; 
 
 The dew of the evening lies thick on the grass,. 
 
 Still gemming the pathway my footstep mast pass : 
 
 While the wild-flower joyously raises its head, 
 
 And breathes its rich sw eets 'neath my echoless tread. 
 
 O'er gardens just waking frf»m slumber I fling 
 The perfumes of Heaven from my noiseless wing ; 
 My breath is crisping the silent lake, 
 Till its gentle wavelets in brightness break ; 
 And the soft air is mingled with music and glee 
 By the song of the lark and the voice of the bee. 
 
192 SONG OF MORNING. 
 
 But man who alone of all creatures, may raise 
 
 To the glories of Heaven his uplifted gaze — 
 
 Is joy in his heart ; does delight fill his eye 
 
 When he sees my glad footsteps in brightness pass by ? 
 
 Like the song of the bird and the bee, does his voice, 
 
 In the pride of new life and new vigour rejoice ? 
 
 Oh ! no ; for too often my earliest glance 
 But rouses his soul from sleep's bright-visioned trance; 
 And coldly he turns from the sweet dreams of night 
 To the splendors that waken with mornings glad light ; 
 And the sunbeam small pleasure to him can impart, 
 When it w^akes to new sorrows his slumbering heart. 
 
 How often has burst forth the weariful sigh, 
 As the bloom and the freshness of morning came by 
 Outshining the light of the student's pale lamp, 
 But chilling the ardour no darkness could damp, 
 While wnth loathing he looks on the glorious ray 
 That calls liim from intellect's treasiures away. 
 
SOXa OF MORNING. 193 
 
 How oft have the sweets of my perfumed breath 
 Fanned the clustering locks on the forehead of death, 
 And played in the folds of the snow-white vest 
 That encircled the form for the earth-worm dressed, 
 Till it seemed to the mourner's bewildered eye 
 As if moved by the life-pulse again strong and high ! 
 
 And they who in dreams, see the gentle smile 
 
 That never their waking thoughts more shall beguile : 
 
 The broken in health, and the wearied in heart — 
 
 Oh ! joy they not rather to see me depart ? 
 
 And smile they not more at night's gathering gloom, 
 
 Since another day brings them more nigh to the tomb ? 
 
 18 
 
 "^f^ 
 
^ 
 
 THE FAREWELL 
 
 " It was a peasant girl's, whose soul was given 
 To one as far above her as the pine 
 Towers o'er the lowly violet." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 Go, dearest one ; nor think my heart will ever breathe 
 
 a sigh 
 Because it never now can share thy glorious destiny. 
 My love has never sought reward ; 'twas joy enough 
 
 for me 
 To pass my hfe in loneliness and cherish thoughts of 
 
 thee. 
 
THE FAREWELL. 195 
 
 Wliile yet a child, I freely gave afTection's untold 
 
 wealth ; 
 Since then I've known the swift decay of hope, and 
 
 joy, and health, 
 And murmured not at Heaven's decree ; though thus 
 
 of all bereft ; — 
 How could I mourn ? whilst iliou wert mine a world 
 
 of bhss was left. 
 
 Though other ties may bind thee, dear ; though we 
 
 are doomed to part ; 
 Yet still it is not sin to hide thine image in my heart ; 
 So pure, so holy was the spell which love around us 
 1%. cast. 
 
 That even now I would not wake, although the charm 
 be past. 
 
196 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 And in thy memory by-past days will leave their gen- 
 tle trace ; 
 
 Not all the fondness of a wife those bright tints can 
 efface. 
 
 Her lot may be of happiness beyond stern fate's con- 
 trol ; 
 
 But / have known a purer joy — the union of the soul, — 
 
 Farewell, beloved one, when thy brow the laurel 
 
 crown shall bind ; 
 And when adoring crowds shall own the sovereignty 
 
 of mind ; 
 
 Then think of one who looks on thee with more than 
 
 woman's pride, -*? 
 
 1 
 And glories in the thought that she has been thy spirits 
 
 bride. 
 
<-^^ 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 When Hope's faiiy fingers are straying 
 
 O'er the chords of the youthful heart, 
 And fancy in prospect displaying 
 
 The bliss that new years may impart ; 
 When sweet feelings are ever up-springing, 
 
 And the pulses all joyously beat ; 
 When each day a new pleasure is bringing, 
 
 Oh ! then indeed life is most sweet. 
 
 When the torch of affection just ligh ed, 
 
 Burns bright on the altar of truth, 
 Ere the cold, selfish world yet has blighted 
 
 One innocent feeling of youth ; 
 When earth seems a garden unfading 
 
 Where flowers spring around our glad feet ; 
 When no cloud our bright heaven is shading, 
 
 Oh ! then indeed life is most sweet. 
 
198 LIFE. 
 
 When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 
 
 O'er the chords of the youthful heart, 
 And the youthful eye, dimmed with strange weeping, 
 
 Sees the visions of fancy depart ; 
 When the bloom of young feeling is dyings 
 
 And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife ; 
 When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 
 
 Who then can find sweetness in hfe ? 
 
 When unkindness, or coldness has faded 
 
 The pm-e, hallowed light of true love, 
 And the mists of the dark earth have shaded 
 
 The dreams that o'er young spirits move ; 
 When earth seems a wide Waste of sorrow 
 
 No longer with bright blessings rife ; 
 When we look but for clouds on each morrow, 
 
 Who then can find sweetness in life ? 
 
# 
 
 THE FADED PASSION FLOWER 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; 'tis faded now, 
 And all unmeet to deck thy brow ; 
 But though of beauty thus bereft, 
 How much of sweetness still is left ! 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and if it grieves 
 Thy heart to see its faded leaves, 
 Forget it ever was more fair. 
 And think its fragrance still is there. 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; another eye 
 Might heedless pass the blossom by; 
 But will it not far dearer be 
 When wakes its perfume but for thee ? 
 
200 *¥he passion flower. 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and shouldst thou seek 
 An emblem of my faded cheek, 
 Thou'h find it there — from Heaven's own light 
 Came both its beauty and its blight. 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and it may seem 
 An emblem of my bosom's dream ; 
 Joy's brilliant hue not long could last ; 
 But when, oh ! when shall Love be past ? 
 
 THE END 
 
LIBRAHY ur y;^''^ 
 
 015 863 550 1 _W^