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VACANT HOURS. 
 
 A SEQUEL 
 
 TO 
 
 "RECREATIONS OF A SICK ROOM." 
 
 BY EZEKIEL BACON, 
 
 X 
 
 <^ 1 
 
 UTICA : 
 
 R. W. ROBERTS, PRINTER, 58 C4ENESEE STREET 
 1845. 
 
4 
 
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PREFACE 
 
 If the minority of a noble lord secured to his "Hours of Idleness" no 
 impunity from the unsparing hands of his merciless critics, it is hardly to 
 be expected that the "Vacant Hours" of a septengenarian will entitle 
 them to any more favorable indulgence in the same high court. 
 
 Tliis consideration, however, is of small moment to one who, while 
 employed in "catching flies" for his own amusement, is ambitious only 
 of preserving them in such fonn as may best subserve his own convenience, 
 and that of the few friends who may possibly, at some future passing hour, 
 take an occasional interest in these small apologues ; forming, perhaps, not 
 an inappropriate Sequel to the "Sick Dreams" by wliich they have been 
 preceded. 
 
 We may venture to add, in the language of the same noble bard, in 
 regard to his early juvenile productions, — that "to a few of our age the 
 writer may possibly afford some amusement, and trust that they will, at 
 least, be found harmless ;" — and that 
 
 " If our songs be languid. 
 They surely are but few." 
 
ODE 
 
 FOR THE NEW YEAR, JANUARY FIRST, 1844. 
 
 " How swiftly glide our fleeting years ! 
 • Alas ! nor piety nor tears, 
 Can stay the passing day." 
 
 The scene is closed !— Time's rapid wheel has run 
 Its ceaseless circuit round the rolling year ; 
 Perhaps to run again ; though Miller now 
 Must fain re-cast his horoscope anew ; 
 Correct his log-book ; from his starting goal 
 A new departure from old Earth to take. 
 
 Within the passing year, the Sun's bright orb 
 Hath rose and set in orderly succession, 
 And day and night alternate changed ; the Moon, 
 Though still a lunatic, hath not run random 
 From her course. The tides have ebbed and flowed ; 
 The vernal flowers have bloomed as Eden's fresh ; 
 Summer hath poured its beams on nature's bosom. 
 Of choicest fruits for man and beast prolific ; 
 And Autumn's sombre shades have gathered round 
 The pall funereal of the waning year. 
 
Thus much hath Nature done, impelled 
 By the sustaining hand of Nature's God ; 
 And thus His works, obedient to His laws, 
 Their great heaven-ordered ends have all fulfilled : — 
 All but His " last best work," frail, erring man, 
 Who placed within his sphere, and "very good" 
 By the Great iVrchitect of all pronounced, 
 Shoots madly from that sphere ; and wildly wandering 
 On a devious track, in darkhng clouds enveloped. 
 And through a dreary waste of waters wide. 
 Pursues his reckless way, to wisdom lost. 
 Hence the wild dreams which in the sickly brains 
 Of fancy oft concocted, cheat the sense 
 Of dark prognosticators ; ills portending. 
 Unknowing whence or what ; and though defeated, 
 Still return again ; again to dream 
 Of "Gorgons, Hydras, and chimeras dire." 
 
 So, too, as if impatient of the good 
 Wliich God, through nature, with a bounteous hand 
 Strews thick in all his paths ; or envious that 
 His brother man should also set him down 
 At the same plenteous board ; or fearful lest 
 The ever falhng sands of life should waste too slow, 
 Shakes its brief hour-glass ; anxious that the dust 
 
That measures it should hasten to its end, 
 And run no more. As if to make this sure, 
 Is raised the murd'rous arm, bathing its sinews 
 In fraternal blood, in Cain-like fell revenge. 
 
 For this, those wars which oft at " one fell swoop" 
 Lay desolate God's earth ; distressing nations ; 
 And in one grave the works of ages lay, 
 Reared by man's weary toil, his pleasant seats, 
 And temples consecrate to prayer and praise. 
 No toil too great, no distance so remote, 
 As to deter him from his aim, or force 
 From off his mad attempt to glut his rage, 
 And scatter fire-brands from his vengeful hand. 
 Thus, far Hindostan s shores, on Ganges' banks, 
 Whose fertile plains have stirred in Briton's hearts 
 Dire thirst of gold, though oceans roll between ; 
 And "the Celestial Empire," more remote. 
 Have drawn down on their unoffending heads 
 The scathing thunder of proud Albion's arms. 
 She wages murderous war— and calls it " peace;" 
 Makes desolate fair cities ; and then boasts 
 That commerce is laid open ; and, oh shame ! 
 Congratulates the world that the mild Gospel 
 Of " the Prince of Peace" can now be sent 
 To bhnd Confucians ; and that God's great name 
 
8 
 
 Under licr cannon's mouth can run, have honor, 
 And be glorified. 
 
 For diis, the simple and unlettered race 
 Who peopled these wide realms, on them bestowed 
 By that " Great Spirit" who regards the sparrow 
 That falleth to the ground, and meets the crowds 
 Who pay their vows in temples " made with hands," 
 Alike with him who bows the prostrate head 
 " Beneath the plantain shade ;" — for this it is 
 That these defenceless, unprotected tribes. 
 Step after step, by force or fraud expelled, 
 Have yielded up their goodly heritage 
 Within this western world ; and still receding 
 Over the "King of Waters," driven at length 
 To wilds more distant still, in " the Far West," 
 Near to that setting Sun, which though it rise 
 For all God's creatures else, on them no more ! 
 
 To x\varice, the rocky barriers of 
 More distant Oregon oppose no stay. 
 Where savage beasts, and yet more savage men, 
 Prowl for their prey its vasty wilderness. 
 Tempting the crowds of Mammon's greedy sons 
 To stem mad floods, rude mountains scale, which lift 
 Their frowning turrets o'er the arid waste. 
 
Yes, — 'tis this thirst for gold the miser gnaws, 
 
 Steeling his heart and nerving his clenched fist 
 
 Against the sweetest charities of life. 
 
 This and Ambition, sisters twain, contend 
 
 On the same course, vaulters on the same steed. 
 
 Greedy of gain, while mines of sordid gold 
 
 Ai'e left unwrought by one, or worlds yet unsubdued 
 
 By the fierce sword, high brandished in the hand 
 
 Of some fell Moloch, drenched with human gore. 
 
 For this, all nature groaneth, and from out 
 Man's cruel bondage for deliverance sighs. 
 And where or whence shall that deliverance come. 
 When man to brother man his rights shall yield ; 
 The human face, to face divine respond ; 
 And each discordant string which jarring breaks 
 The harmony of earth, to peace attuned. 
 Proclaims in accents loud — '' Good will on earth," — 
 And songs of universal love shall swell 
 Into one choral anthem to His praise 
 Who made, and then pronounced "all fair and good ;" 
 Still sheds his tender mercies o'er his works, 
 And by His soul-redeeming power shall yet 
 Restore His image, howsoe'er defaced 
 By sin's attritions, and by guilt degraded? 
 
10 
 
 Roll on, auspicious day ! ye years foretold 
 By prophets and by seers of ancient time ! 
 Great age ! which " not by observation comes," 
 Yet come it shall, in God's own time, whose purposes 
 Are fixed, His pleasure working sure, as well 
 Among the hosts of heaven above, as with 
 The dwellers on this footstep of His throne. 
 
ODES 
 
 FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE "BERKSHIRE JUBILEE. 
 
 The following, it will be perceived, is but a different version, and with 
 very contrasted impressions, of the prevailmg ideas which occupied the 
 mind of the writer when inditing the article entitled "Berkshire Vale," 
 in a former collection by the same hand ; although penned under very 
 different auspices, and to commemorate the joyous scenes contemplated 
 on the happy occasion for which it was designed. 
 
 "OUR FATHER LAND/ 
 
 Good " Father Land," thy landscapes fair 
 
 Salute our wistful eyes ; 
 Compared with thine, no fields so green. 
 
 So bright no other skies. 
 
 Land of our youth ! we love those vales 
 
 In flowery verdure drest, 
 Where once we thought, life's journey done, 
 
 To lay us down to rest ; 
 
12 
 
 (For here enshrined in humble hope, 
 
 Beneath thy peaceful soil, 
 The spirits of our fathers find 
 
 Repose from earth-born toil.) 
 
 Thy rushing streams, expanded pools, 
 
 Thy well-remembered groves, 
 Where nature's songsters trilled their notes, 
 
 And maidens told their loves. 
 
 Thy pastures trod by grazing herds, 
 
 Thy meadows' florid pride, 
 Thy harvests waving in the breeze. 
 
 Upon the mountain side. 
 
 Thy swelling hills, thy gentle rills. 
 
 Each knoll, and brook, and tree, 
 Thy greensward dales, through which we strayed, 
 
 When " whistling o'er the lea." 
 
 Here stood, where now they stand no more. 
 
 The old paternal halls ; 
 The stranger's hand long since has razed. 
 
 Their ancient, time worn walls. 
 
13 
 
 " Rocked by the storm of thousand years," 
 
 Our Elm* still lifts its head ; 
 Though on its scathed, yet vigorous form, 
 
 The lightning's bolt hath sped. 
 
 But where the patriot and the sage, 
 
 "The fathers, where are they?" 
 The guides and guardians of our youth ? 
 
 Theij all have " passed away." 
 
 Here dwelt the objects of our love, 
 
 The hopes of better days, 
 Before our weary feet had trod 
 
 Life's devious, thorny ways. 
 
 Here rest the visions of the past, 
 
 The friends of other years ; 
 We scarce recall thine altered face, 
 
 Seen through thick mists of tears. 
 
 Dear " Father Land !" that long-lost face 
 
 Once more we joy to view. 
 Before of life and thee we take 
 
 Our long and last adieu ! 
 
 *The celebrated old Elm Tree, standing on the Public Square, at 
 Pittsfield. 
 
 2 
 
OUK NATIVE VALE, 
 
 Dear native Vale ! upon thy placid breast 
 We love to gaze, our hearts delight to rest, 
 As by thy quiet and unruffled side, 
 The gentle Housatonic's waters glide. 
 
 We love those peaceful and composed retreats, 
 On which no wave tumultuous ever beats, 
 But calm seclusion from the world's alarms, 
 Protects thy borders 'midst conflicting storms. 
 
 Yet no austere dark anchorite art thou, 
 With aspect gloomy, melancholy brow ; 
 Here the swift wheel of life goes ever round. 
 The stirring notes of industry resound. 
 
 Fast by the embowering groves, whose grateful shades, 
 With foliage green o'erspread embosomed glades ; 
 The toil-worn laborer luring to repose 
 His weary limbs, his cheerful task to close. 
 
 Thy leaping hillocks, and thy lowly dells, 
 Where the fair Nymph Hygeia ever dwells, 
 
15 
 
 Slill as in pristine loveliness appear, 
 
 As brightening halos on life's waning year. 
 
 No slavish chain constrains the free-born mind, 
 No manacles his fettered muscles bind ; 
 Bat, free as nature's denizens, man trills 
 His gladsome pa3ans o'er his native hills. 
 
 Such be our safe retreat, when round the world. 
 By life's rude waves, our shattered bark is hurled ; 
 Such peaceful port, inviting to repose, 
 'Midst sheltering groves, near "Sharon's deathless 
 Rose !" 
 
THE EMIGRANT'S RETURN, 
 
 Hark ! from our "Father Land" we hear 
 
 Its fond inviting voice, 
 "Haste to your natal jubilee, 
 
 And with my son's rejoice !" 
 
 We come, we come, — from distant climes, 
 
 With joy to greet the day. 
 And in thy sacred temples here, 
 
 Once more our vows to pay. 
 
 We come from Maine's stern rock-bound coast. 
 
 From homes upon the deep ; 
 From where the vine and olive bloom. 
 
 The balmy zephyrs sleep. 
 
 Where'er our wandering feet may roam, 
 
 Where'er our lot is cast. 
 To thee, dear land, our hearts still turn, 
 
 Our first love, — and our last. 
 
 For on thy fair and fostering soil, 
 Our cradled limbs were rocked ; 
 
17 
 
 To thee our early years were given, 
 ' Our ripe afFections locked. 
 
 And though the bosoms kind that nursed 
 
 Our infancy may rest 
 Within their "dark and narrow bed," 
 
 In cla3^-cold vestments drest, — 
 
 The temples where we humbly knelt 
 No more may lift their spires, 
 
 And in the old paternal halls 
 Ma}' cease their wonted fires, — 
 
 Yet long those sainted names shall live, 
 "The memories of the just," 
 
 The holy fanes our feet have trod. 
 Though mouldered long in dust ; 
 
 Within these pleasant, peaceful vales, 
 
 Temples more glorious rise. 
 As through their hallowed portals pass, 
 
 Fresh pilgrims to the skies. 
 
 2* 
 
THl PILffRIM'S SOU. 
 
 When erst the chosen tribes 
 Broke from the oppressor's rod, 
 
 To Palestine they took their way,. 
 Their guardian — Israel's God. 
 
 Beneath the Almighty arm, 
 Upheld by heavenly might, 
 
 His cloud — their beacon in the day, 
 His fire — their guide by night. 
 
 On Jordan's palmy banks, 
 
 Gennesareth's fair shore, 
 Their heritage from him who blest 
 
 Their basket and their store. 
 
 So when from bigot realms 
 The Pilgrim race was driven. 
 
 To this fair land they bent their course; 
 And trusted all — to Heaven. 
 
 And when b}' stern decree 
 The Hebrevv^ race was riven. 
 
19 
 
 Worn wanderers o'er a homeless worlds 
 Deserted e'en by Heaven ; 
 
 Where'er their lot is cast, 
 
 Where'er their footsteps roam, 
 
 Jerusalem is still their joy, 
 Their ever-present home. 
 
 With all of Israel's zeal, 
 
 With all his fervent prayer, 
 The wanderer from the Pilgrim land 
 
 Rests his affections there. 
 
 There passed his youthful dreams, 
 There broke his morning sun, 
 
 And there he prays may set its beams. 
 When life's swift race is run ! 
 
 Long as in Israel's heart 
 
 Jerusalem shall stand — 
 So long— in the worn Pilgrim's breast, 
 
 Shall dwell — his Father Land. 
 
OUK OWN LOTID NATAL LAND. 
 
 Tune — " Heber's Missionary Hymn." 
 
 From Maine's bleak snow-capped Mountains, 
 
 From Georgia's scorching sand ; 
 From where the King of Fountains 
 
 Breaks on the wasting strand ; 
 From many a distant dwelhng, 
 
 From homes be3^ond the deep, — 
 We come, with full hearts swelling, 
 
 Our Jubilee to keep. 
 
 "We come, our memories meeting 
 
 With visions of the past; 
 We come, with rapture greeting 
 
 Our first love and — our last. 
 In vain though glittering treasure 
 
 May tempt our feet to stray. 
 Our hearts from thee can never 
 
 By gold be torn away. 
 
 What though more balmy breezes 
 
 May blow on India's strand, 
 That breeze our heart more pleases 
 
 Which fans our native land. 
 
21 
 
 And though more mighty fountains 
 May lave far richer shores, 
 
 Stil] brighter from her mountains 
 Our Hous ATONIC pours. 
 
 Here sleep our gentle Mothers, 
 
 Companions of the blest; 
 And here in peaceful slumbers. 
 
 Our sainted Fathers rest. 
 Here passed our youthful dreamingSj 
 
 Here rose our morning sun. 
 And here in life's late gleamings, 
 
 We would its sands should run. 
 
 Thrice welcome then, ye mountains, 
 
 Which greet our wistful eyes ! — 
 All hail, ye healthful fountains 
 
 Which in yon hillocks rise ! — 
 Those fountains yet may perish, 
 
 Those hills no longer stand. 
 The Pilgrim still shall cherish 
 
 His OWN LOVED Natal Land, 
 
HTMN 
 
 For the Consecration of the Church of the Messiah, at Symcuse, on 
 the 23d day of November, 1843. 
 
 Almighty Father ! in thy Word, 
 This blessed truth we see — 
 
 Wherever I record my name, 
 I will be found of thee. 
 
 Cheered by the promise of that Word, 
 This Fane our hands have raised, 
 
 That here thy favor may be sought, 
 Thy holy name be praised ! 
 
 Around this earthly temple, then, 
 Thy richest blessings shed. 
 
 Our souls by heavenly food be filled, 
 "By gentle waters led." 
 
 Within no narrow creed confined, 
 We seek our Faith to prove, 
 
 Diffusive as thy Charity, 
 And boundless as thy Love ! 
 
23 
 
 Whate'er of truth, or trustfulness, 
 
 Within our hearts be found, 
 Here may that glimm'ring spark be fanned. 
 
 That truth the more abound ! 
 
 Here may the stern rebuke await 
 
 The froward and the bold ; 
 And here, by fond Affection's voice, 
 
 The sorrowing heart consoled ! 
 
 May love to God, and love to man, 
 
 Our better passions move — 
 Assimilated thus to Him, 
 
 Whose first great law is Love. 
 
 And when in temples here, no more 
 
 Resound our songs of praise, 
 In Fanes, "not built by hands," would we 
 
 Our choral anthems raise! 
 
REFLECT 
 
 On viewing the exscinded Woodbine lately covering the house of 
 Moses Bagg, Esq., in Utica. 
 
 At length, high reaching vine, 
 
 Th}^ upward race is run, 
 Thy aspiring head is now laid low, 
 
 And thy brief journey done. 
 
 Through summer's scorching heat. 
 And winter's wasting storm, 
 
 I've watched the progress of thy life. 
 Admired thy beauteous form. 
 
 The hand that placed thy root 
 
 Within its genial cla}^ 
 And cherished long thy tender germs, 
 
 That, too, hath "passed away." 
 
 Yet, thy once vigorous trunk. 
 Within its "mother earth," 
 
 Hath struck a deep, tenacious root, 
 Pledge of thy "second birth." 
 
25 
 
 Fit emblem of that sainted soul, 
 Who, ere life's noon had passed. 
 
 Had stamped her impress on her age, 
 In prints that long shall last. 
 
 And, as from thy prolific stem 
 Bright branches yet shall rise, 
 
 So germs of grace, her plants, shall spring 
 To join her in the skies. 
 
LINE 
 
 Addressed to Mrs. A. T., on receiving from her a beautiful bouquet of 
 Roses, Eglantines, and Mignonettes, on the 12th day of January, 1844. 
 The Thermometer at twelve degrees below zero. 
 
 While wintry winds are w^ailing, 
 
 And nature shrinks aghast; 
 When flesh and heart seem failing, 
 
 And each fond vision past, — 
 
 Fresh, fair, and brightly blooming. 
 
 As by some magic wand. 
 Their spirit disentombing. 
 
 These fragrants flow'rets stand. 
 
 Thus, when from death's dark slumbering, 
 Shall wake these wistful eyes. 
 
 With kindred spirits numbering. 
 May these freed spirits rise ! 
 
THE CHINESE MISSION PRESS, 
 
 Where eastern skies distill the liquid shower, 
 
 And heaven's bright beams their full effulgence pour; 
 
 Where Nature revels in its golden charms, 
 
 And passion fierce the human bosom warms ; 
 
 There man, debased by superstition's chain, 
 
 Gropes for the light which God hath given, — in vain. 
 
 'T is to diffuse that light to Christians given, 
 
 To cheer his way, and point his path to heaven ; 
 
 To burst the thraldom of the fettered mind. 
 
 And the hard slave-chain of the soul unbind ; 
 
 For this, while offering up our fervent prayer, 
 
 We send God's message of salvation there. 
 
 Though weak our arm, and feeble be our hand, 
 
 God's power can make it strong as Gideon's band, 
 
 When round Sin's frowning walls their trumpet 
 
 sounded. 
 And the fell foes of Israel were confounded; — 
 So may your wilhng alms when freely given 
 Be blessed by man and sanctified by Heaven ! 
 
A THOUGHT 
 
 On the erection of t\vo Monumental Stones in the Grave-Yard, at 
 Stockbridge, (JNIass.,) October 6, 1843. 
 
 'T is done. The Monumental Stone is laid. 
 Silent memorial of the sleeping dead ; — 
 Last tribute that my chastened heart can rear 
 To the fond memory of parents dear. 
 Though sweeps around the equinoctial storm, 
 And billowy clouds this pleasant vale deform ; 
 Though Sorrow holds sad vigils round these urns, 
 And sore regret within this bosom burns ; 
 This consolation still my heart can cheer, 
 Whate'er life's storms, eternal peace is here. 
 And oh ! that when this restless dream is o'er, 
 And time's last surge dies on the eternal shore. 
 Some kindly hand, by blood and love allied. 
 Placing these mortal relics by their side, 
 With equal truth and trustfulness may say, 
 " Here, too, is peace, beneath this mouldering clay." 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 To the memoiy of Mrs. Jane E. Porter, wife of the Rev. Charles S. 
 Porter, a lady of uncommon worth and pecuHarly engaging character. 
 Deceased at Utica, December 5th, 1843, hi the thirty-second year of her 
 age. Her remams were carried to, and interred in the " Sepulchre of 
 her Fathers," at Cambridge, Mass. 
 
 In sweet repose, where wintry winds 
 
 Chant requiems to thy shade, 
 Rest gentle Spirit ! now no more 
 
 Rude storms thy peace invade ! 
 
 There rest, till thy great Maker's voice 
 
 Shall bid thee up ascend, 
 Where kindred spirits for thee wait, 
 
 And sister saints attend. 
 
 And oh ! that when that morn shall dawn, 
 
 That sainted spirit rise. 
 Then, too, may that bright vision greet 
 
 Our glad, transported eyes ! 
 
 3* 
 
HFMNS 
 
 Simg at the Anniversary Commencement, at Yale College, 1844. 
 Tune— ''Old Hundred." 
 
 Our fathers' God ! — before thy throne 
 We bow with reverence, and adore ; 
 
 Thy hand it was that led them forth, 
 And placed their feet on this far shore. 
 
 Through seas of storm, their course they laid, 
 O'er billows rude, their barque was driven ; 
 
 Their faith in Thee they ne'er forsook. 
 And ventured all for truth and Heaven. 
 
 'T VN-as thy good Spirit bore them through 
 The perils of "the vasty deep ;" 
 
 And in the wasting wilderness 
 
 Their "wives and little ones" didst keep. 
 
 It was that Spirit moved their hearts 
 To found these fanes to science dear ; 
 
 And on Religion's heavenly base 
 To fix their firm foundations here. 
 
31 
 
 Thy Providence, which safely led 
 
 Through savage beasts, more savage men, 
 
 The wandering footsteps of their sons, 
 Now brings us to this Home again. 
 
 And when, in distant, future years. 
 
 As new-born generations rise, 
 May the}^ as with our fathers, we, 
 
 Find "better Homes" beyond the skies! 
 
THE PARTINS HAND 
 
 Tune — "Auld Lan": Syne. 
 
 Can ancient friendships be forgot. 
 And never brought to mind ? — 
 Shall by-gone da^-s not be recalled, 
 And years of auld lang syne ? 
 
 For auld lang S3me, my friend, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 
 We'll grasp the hand of friendship now. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We all have trod life's toilsome round, 
 And tried each var3n'ng clime ; 
 We 've wandered many a weary step. 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my friend, &c. 
 
 We, too, have felt Dame Fortune's freaks, 
 (We hope she still may shine,) 
 While waters wide between us rolled. 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my friend, &c. 
 
33 
 
 And here's a hand, my early friend, 
 Give me that hand of thine ; 
 We '11 take once more a hearty shake, 
 For an Id lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my friend, &c. 
 
 And sure you '11 ken this parting tear, 
 As sure as I will thine ; 
 So here 's to all a kind farewell, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my friend, &c. 
 
THE PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 Thoughts, ou revisiting tlie scenes of a former residence, after an 
 absence of thirty years. 
 
 As rising halos on life's waning years 
 This scene of distant, by-gone days appears ; 
 Here, stand around " the everlasting hills ;" 
 Beneath, pass on the ever-moving rills ; 
 Those to assure me that " the world abides," 
 And these, an emblem of life's changing tides. 
 From all — above the sunshine of youth's early dream, 
 Fresh gleams of brightness on the vision beam. 
 All these remain, obedient to the laws 
 Of nature's God, the Great Eternal Cause. 
 
 I turn from them, and seek those oft-trod ways 
 Pressed by my feet in former, fresher days, — 
 And as I thread the once familiar street, 
 The early-known I dream, as then, to greet. 
 They come not now, and in each stranger-face 
 I trace but relics of that scattered race, 
 Who, some impelled by lofty Fame's desire, 
 And some by Mammon's all-consuming fire ; 
 
35 
 
 Others, by stern Necessity compelled, 
 
 To leave the homes in which their fathers dwelled, 
 
 To other climes have winged their vent'rous way, 
 
 Beneath the western sun's descending ray ; 
 
 Or strew the burning sands of India shore. 
 
 And more, still more, to yon lone church-yard bore. 
 
 To this I turn my steps at early dawn. 
 As breaks it on this silent, Sabbath morn. 
 Here rest the men of other times, whose name 
 Has swelled the clarion-trump of village fame. 
 He of the sacred desk, who, in his day, 
 * 'Allured to brighter worlds — then led the way ;" 
 The master of the healing art, who gave 
 To others life, "himself he could not save." 
 And could the gifted Towner find no friend, 
 To rear the stone which told his sorrowing end ? 
 Alas ! that should no speaking marble stand 
 To him, whose heart was open as his hand ; 
 Some brief memorial of a name which long 
 Shall fall with fervor from affection's tongue. 
 Grave counsellors and sages of the law. 
 The man of substance, and *' the man of straw ;" 
 The tender mother and the faithful wife. 
 The kindly neighbor, and the fiend of strife ; 
 The haggard vagrant, and the beauteous maid ; 
 
36 
 
 All these in one receptacle are laid ; 
 With more, of whom all that the world can say 
 Is, *' here lies low a piece of mouldering clay.'* 
 While "dust to dust" fulfills that stern decree, 
 Which teaches man what human pride shall be. 
 
 One clustered mound is seen above the rest, 
 With votive flowers, near weeping marble drest, 
 On which, in breathing lines that long shall stand. 
 Traced b}^ a mother's warm and gifted hand, 
 Rest those memorials of devoted love. 
 Which only the sore chastened heart can move ; 
 Such as when Sorrow^, clothed in "words that burn," 
 Pours its rich tribute on Affection's urn. 
 
 Still moves unceasing Nature's mighty power, 
 Though 'neath its w^heel fall insects of an hour ; 
 Yet in some brighter form these yet may rise. 
 The eternal tenants of unfading skies. 
 
 WiLLiAMSTOWN, Mass., Juiie, 1844. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Amongst all the touching incidents accompanying this most melan- 
 choly catastrophe, none can, probably, be more so, than those connected 
 with the fate and fortunes of "the Fair Betrothed One" from our 
 city ; who, in the fullness of early but mature Hfe, just then, as it were, 
 re-opening upon her delighted vision and her high hopes of the future, 
 was suddenly an-ested in her joyous progress to the supposed consum- 
 mation of that auspicious event on which hung all those high hopes and 
 fond anticipations. — "Sic itur ad astra" 
 
 THE FATED BARpE. 
 
 — The day was fixed : — the bridal train was bid ; 
 To heart responded heart; and o'er their cynosure 
 No cloud disastrous lowered. 
 
 Forth went the fair betrothed, in beauty's bloom, 
 With bounding footstep : her fond heart exulting. 
 Hopeful, and with high expectation fraught 
 To meet her loved one. He while impatient stood 
 With throbbing heart, and bosom swelhng deep 
 Expectant too, to meet on the thronged deck 
 And greet with fond embrace "the lady of his love." 
 4 
 
38 
 
 Preladed by the curling vapor blast, forth from 
 Its struggling caverns madly vomiting 
 Its lurid glare, a steam-forced barque appears. 
 Wide and still wider strained, peer anxious eyes, 
 And quicker beats the feverish pulse of friends 
 Waiting to give and to receive the loving greet 
 Of long expected dear ones, meeting there. 
 The gallant fire-ship comes; — the doating mother 
 Clasps to her warm embrace the daughter dear; 
 Fond lovers meet; and the long cherished hope 
 To full fruition ripens now apace. 
 
 Not so that fated barque, whose broad saloons 
 On eve of yesterday enclosed their happy crowds 
 Of ga}' and joyous ones, whose laughing hours 
 Passed "rosy footed" on, adown time's tide; 
 And in her train with other precious gems 
 She bears the beauteous and affianced one. 
 But now, though others come, — she cometh not. 
 For in its course, that fated barque beset 
 B}^ wasting surges tossed, by reckless hands 
 Conducted o'er the Hudson's stormy tides. 
 On fatal rock transfixed hes the poor wreck, 
 Of all devouring flood and flame the storm-beat prey. 
 Oh! what an hour was that ! when friends who long 
 In sweet communion joined, — commune no more. 
 
39 
 
 And hearts close knit whose severed ties are rent, 
 Not here again in earthly bonds to join. 
 
 Fast for a moment clinging to that rock 
 On which all hopes were dashed, hung the affianced 
 
 fair one ; 
 But soon, ah soon, the refluent wave approaching 
 Sweeps the frail treasure from its grappled hold ; 
 Till plunged beneath that wave, life's silver cord 
 Disparts its lustrous strands; and the pure Spirit- 
 In death still placid, calmly yields its breath 
 Unto its God, — still spotless as it came. 
 
 That wildering scene is past. With her 't is welL 
 But where and how is Ac, her plighted lord. 
 From whom lover and friend afar hath God removed. 
 And to its native dust his handiwork hath turned ? 
 That faithful heart whose soul to hers was knit 
 In bonds more close than adamantine chain? 
 Ah ! who shall paint the sad and sore bereav'd 
 There speechless standing, fixed in "death of wo?" 
 " So faint resemblance ! on the marble tomb 
 The well dissembled mourner stooping stands, 
 Forever silent, and forever sad!" 
 
40 
 
 Oh, soft may be thy slumbers, gentle Spirit ;— 
 And thy sleep, in thy " dark narrow house" 
 In sweet repose, the sleep of angel forms! 
 But soon to wake to renovated life 
 In that bright world where pains and partings cease, 
 And loving hearts no more by anguish torn, 
 Haste to rejoin again the kindred soul 
 Which not till then, its kindred heart shall meet I 
 
 Utica, April, 1845. 
 
"PLEASANT MEMORIES" 
 
 OF A SWEET POETESS. (mRS. L. H. S. 
 
 The many friends of an amiable and gifted American Poetess, have 
 seen lately announced in the public papers, with much concem, that she 
 was languishing under the afflictions of a very threatening disease. 
 
 It was under the apprehensive presentiments excited by such announce- 
 ment, that the following feeble tribute to her character and accomplish- 
 ments was dictated. Should, as is most ardently hoped, this meet the 
 eyes of herself and her many attached friends and admirers, wliile she is 
 stiU in the enjoyment of renewed health, and in the exercise of her 
 admirable faculties and benevolent manifestations — they may still receive 
 it as what might, in a more adverse event, have constituted a posthumous 
 though very inadequate tidbute to her estimable and cherished memory 
 by one of them. 
 
 The harp of the minstrel is mute ; 
 
 The spirit hath gone to its rest : 
 There is sorrow and sighing on earth, 
 
 And joy in the land of the blest. 
 
 For that harp which was ever attuned 
 To discourse the sweet music of love, 
 
 Has departed, — to join the bright throng 
 Who chant hallelujahs above. 
 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 That heart which with sympathy beat 
 In the cause of the children of woe, 
 
 Its throbbings has ceased ; and that head 
 'Neath the clod of the valley lies low. 
 
 Oh ! soft may her slumberings be, 
 And light on her breast lie the sod ! 
 
 Not there is her spirit, — that rests 
 In peace with herself, and her God. 
 
 Adieu ! sweetest Minstrel, adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! when shall such other arise ? 
 What seraph shall take up her song, 
 
 As she wings her bright way to the skies ? 
 
 August 25, 1845. 
 
LINEl 
 
 Written in the Album of a married Lady, who, in a note prefixed to 
 it, had said, "That she would not have the lavished praise of the flatterer, 
 nor the lover's sickening muse, but asked only for the autograph of her 
 friends." 
 
 REASONS 
 
 WHY THE WRITER CAN't COMPLY WITH HER REQUEST, 
 
 Good Lady ! pray what is the matter, 
 That I may not a woman "flatter?" 
 'T is a new case in Album writing 
 To be debarred one's thoughts inditing. 
 
 "The lover's sickening muse," in truth, 
 Would ill become such a green youth 
 As is, alas ! your humble servant, 
 Compelled to be of forms observant. 
 But could he mount some young Pegasus 
 Of speed and bottom, — oh, my gracious ! 
 With all the force of whip and spur. 
 He 'd make the little rascal stir ; 
 
44 
 
 Content to plunge through thick and thin, 
 Could he once hope such prize to win ; 
 But since no chance can now remain 
 Such a rich guerdon to obtain, 
 His broken harp must hang suspended. 
 And all his tuneful numbers ended. 
 
 And as to his poor ^'autograph," 
 Upon my soul you make me laugh, 
 Since whatsoe'er I write or scrawl, 
 Like the hand- writing on the wall, 
 Will need, I fear, a Daniel's art. 
 Its hidden meaning to impart. 
 The best 3"ou can the matter handle, 
 "The play will not be worth the candle." 
 And, though you keep a serious phiz, 
 I fear you only mean to quiz ; 
 Since the magnates of the land 
 Are the only ones to *'show their hand ;" 
 But sure, you '11 find yourself mistaken, 
 If thus you think to quiz — 
 
 E. B N. 
 
THE OLD ASHLAND TREE. 
 
 Tune— 'The Brave Old Oak." 
 
 A song for the Sage, 
 The brave old Sage, 
 We have known and honored "him long; 
 Whilst fame and renown have encircled his crown, 
 With garlands enduring and strong. 
 There was fear in his frown, when his eye looked 
 
 down 
 On the hosts who environed his way.; 
 And he rose in his might, midst storms of the night, 
 And put the fierce foeman at bay. 
 
 Let us sing of the Sage, the brave old Sage, 
 
 Who stands in his glory alone ! 
 And still stand he, as the firm oak tree. 
 When Lindenwold saplings are gone. 
 
 O'er the years of his youth 
 
 Shone honor and truth, 
 As his star ascended the sky ; 
 
 It still, with bright beams, round the horizon gleams, 
 As bursts its clear light from on high. 
 
46 
 
 We well knew the daj^ when he moved on his way, 
 Widi patriots and sages of j^ore, 
 Now gone to their rest, in the land of the blest, 
 And we walk in their shadows no more. 
 
 Still we sing of the Sage, the Ashland Sage, 
 
 Yet standing unscathed and alone ; 
 And long stand he, the same storm-beaten tree, 
 When the time-worn forest is gone ! 
 
 As the cedar's strong hold, 
 He struck his root bold. 
 When sounded the clarion of war ; 
 When faction was rife, the world rent w^ith strife. 
 And invasion came from afar ; 
 Our barriers of Clay held Britons at bay, 
 With Madison firm at the helm ; 
 So now for the right we rise in Whig might, 
 And hordes of fell faction o'erwhelm. 
 
 Then a song for the Sage, the time-honored Sage, 
 
 Yet towering in fame and renown ; 
 There long shall he stand, the pride of the land, 
 Still shining as ever he shone. 
 
 May, 1844. 
 
THE WHIG FLAG. 
 
 Full bright was the day, 
 
 When, for old Harry Clay, 
 Rose the Whigs of "the whole Yankee nation. 
 
 And dark was the hour 
 
 When Slavery's fell power 
 Prevailed for foul "annexation." 
 
 And our own "Empire" realm 
 
 Entrusted the helm 
 To a pilot all in the wrong ; 
 
 Though his name 's about W-right, 
 
 It is all his dehght 
 To dance to the "Barnburners'" song. 
 
 Still there 's "hght in the east," 
 
 And a plentiful "feast 
 Of fat things" for the nation in store ; 
 
 Since the glorious "Bay State," 
 
 With her Adams the great. 
 Will yet pilot us safely to shore. 
 
 Though Dorr's rabble rout 
 May swagger and flout, 
 
48 
 
 And Slamm, Bang, and Croswell may jeer, 
 
 There 's a true-hearted band 
 
 Will ne'er see the good land 
 Of "old Roger" surrendered to fear. 
 
 The lords of the slave 
 
 May bully and rave, — 
 McDuffie and Pickens may swell 
 
 Like the frog in the fable, — 
 
 But they '11 never be able 
 To sound the old Puritans' knell. 
 
 Little Vix Caroline 
 
 Thinks to "cut up a shine," 
 And run on "old Codfish" her riggs ; 
 
 With her hook and her line 
 
 She will bring her up fine, 
 And "flax her out straight" with her Briggs. 
 
 Though Birney's false wiles, 
 With his hypocrite smiles, 
 
 His myrmidon dupes may allure ; 
 We will rise in new might, 
 Put these humbugs to flight, 
 
 And true Liberty's triumph secure. 
 
49 
 
 For when Freedom 's at stake 
 
 Fresh courage v/e '11 take — 
 For poor Tyler we '11 budge not an inch, — 
 
 And these hearts of true oak 
 
 Will ne'er bow to the yoke 
 Of a Polk — that poor "Jack at a pinch.'' 
 
 The "Natives" may strive 
 
 To stir up our hive, 
 And put us on some better scent ; 
 
 But their net is too small 
 
 To make a good haul, — 
 With ilic old hive we 're better content. 
 
 Thus we hoist the Whig Flag, 
 
 So long as a rag 
 Remains to be "nailed to the mast ;" 
 
 And with truth for its guide. 
 
 The brave vessel shall ride — 
 That proud Flag streaming high to the blast. 
 
THE SONIET. 
 
 What good reason could ever he assigned .for the odd and ai'bitrary 
 rule, that what is called ''A Sonnet" should consist of just no more or 
 less than fourteen lines, we have never been able, to divdne, or have 
 revealed to us. But so it is, that whether the subject treated of demands, 
 or the wit or the \\'isdom exercised in illustrating it is either redimdant 
 or deficient, it must, as it seems, at all events, be stretched out or cut 
 down to the exact dimensions of the fourteen-line procustean bedstead. 
 
 As might reasonably, in such case, be expected, "the Somiet" is, for 
 the most pai-t, a meagre and mawkish sort of a concoction, employed, 
 usually, as the resom'ce and I'efuge of rather feeble and frail writers ; and, 
 as we are told in the Classical Dictionary, has been very litde used by 
 any English WTiter of rei)utation smce the days of INIilton ; who, to be 
 sure, sometimes amused himself with it, as we may imagine Hercules 
 did with the eflfemuiate distaff. 
 
 The more modem attempts to revive and bring it out into fasliionable 
 society, wath the other Hght badinage of the day, will hardly, as we 
 think, meet with much success, — the example of the great author of 
 ''Paradise Lost" notwithstanding. We do not recollect that either 
 Byron, or Bryaxt, or Pieepont, ever wrote a single one. 
 
 You ask for a Sonnet ; — 
 
 I can not think on it, 
 Enough my hand at it to try ; 
 
 And before I commit 
 
 Just a fourteen-line dit, 
 Should like to know some reason, why ? 
 
51 
 
 For this fourteen-line rule 
 Seems but playing the fool, 
 
 And setting all sense at defiance ; 
 Pray excuse, then, the task 
 Of your friend, which you ask,- 
 
 All the Muses forbid a compliance. 
 
 Whate'er else you require, 
 Oh ! suppress this desire, 
 
 The task is too cruelly hard ; 
 It is not my good pleasure 
 To write by hoard measure^ 
 
 Or deal out small wit hy the yard, 
 
 'T is a wretched pretence 
 
 To measure out sense 
 By such a mechanical rule ; 
 
 And how else you may use me, 
 
 Pray, good sir ! excuse me 
 From thus to be playing the fool. 
 
THE OLD TEOEN BUSH. 
 
 Now standing erect and vigorous; on the hill north of Stockbridge 
 Plain, after the snows of three-score winters had passed over it, near the 
 site where once stood the httle tenement — 
 
 'Where in her noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
 
 Old scraggy bush ! I know thee weil, 
 
 And love thy hardy form ; 
 Though from thy stem rude branches shoot. 
 
 And bristling thorns deform. 
 
 Welcome, old friend, thy long-lost face ! 
 
 For, in thy grateful shade, 
 At summer's noon I 've oft reclined, 
 
 Beneath those branches played ; 
 
 Have plucked fall oft th}- crimson fruit, 
 Have climbed thy gnarled trunk. 
 
 Ere weaning years had blanched this cheek, 
 B}- time and sorrows sunk. 
 
53 
 
 And now when age these limbs has touched, 
 
 And these dim eye-balls fade, 
 Thou, still unscathed by winter's storms, 
 
 Yet spreadst thy sheltering shade. 
 
 And when, as this frail body fails, 
 
 And life itself departs, 
 Thy stately form shall still remain 
 
 To gladden other hearts. 
 
 Then, welcome to my sight once more, 
 
 Thy old familiar face ! 
 Which tells the story of the past — 
 
 Those hve-long summer days. 
 
 And when, in future, passing years. 
 Like mine, thy root shall wither. 
 
 From each may goodlier scions spring, 
 Like us, commune together ! 
 
 5* 
 
NHGI, OR TMILES. 
 
 To Mws * * '^ * *****, on being requested to write her Epithalamium . 
 
 A lady asks me to indite 
 Something to grace her bridal night. — 
 My fair young friend, I have a thought, 
 That in this noose you 're not soon caught ; 
 Hoping your swain will still be steady 
 In his devoirs, till you ''re quite ready. 
 
 But have a care ! it 's not so clever 
 To wait a woman's time forever ; 
 And sure, no poor, rejected gander 
 Can live in fire, like Salamander; 
 And, though so sweetly now things chime, 
 He may not always "bide your time." 
 Take warning, then, and "make j^our hay" 
 While sunshine gilds your summer's day ; 
 Lest, when youth's fresher hours are spent, 
 You take up, then, this sad lament : — 
 
 "Oh ! had I trod, in life's young day, 
 The pleasant path of Hymen's way ! 
 
55 
 
 But now, the things that charm the wise, 
 Alas ! are ' hidden from my eyes ;' 
 So true it is, 'there 's many a sKp 
 'Tvveen Matrimony's cup and hp.' 
 Oh ! that he would again ' propose,' 
 1 'd quickly now the bargain close. 
 And 'bout it make no further fuss, 
 I may 'go further and fare worse.' 
 With Hymen's call no more I '11 trifle, 
 Nor Cupid's kindly promptings stifle; 
 Since while love's lamp holds out to burn. 
 The seerest virgin may return." 
 
VALENTINE 
 
 FOR A YOUNG LADY BY REQUEST. 
 
 You ask me for a Valentine ; 
 I should, indeed, look wondrous fine, 
 To waste my wit on such a matter, 
 To stop a woman's clitter-clatter. 
 
 'T is true that on this luckless day. 
 As the old gossips choose to say. 
 Each silly goose her gander chooses. 
 And with tight cord his neck she nooses. 
 But venture not to think that you 
 Can noose so slick your gander, too ; 
 For man, you '11 find, is quite too wise. 
 To be thus taken by surprise. 
 Have patience, then, and "bide your time." 
 You are but little past your prime ; 
 Let first your elders have a chance. 
 Before you venture to advance. 
 Take pattern from our friend. Miss K — , 
 And not presume by her to slip ; 
 
57 
 
 'T is soon enough, some ten years hencej, 
 To think of leaping Hymen's fence ; 
 And thhik not you in such a race, 
 To be the Piercy of the chase. 
 
APOLOGI 
 
 To a fine Lady, wlio com jilaiiied that the writer had called her a Rake. 
 
 A Rake. A gay fellow. 
 
 Gay. Airy, cheerful, meny, frohcsome, fine, showy. 
 
 Classical Dictionary. 
 
 'T is true, I pronounced a fine Lady a Rake, 
 But how could she so sadty my meaning mistake ? 
 If she '11 turn to her Webster, she'll find he will tell her, 
 A RaJce means no more than *'a g^y, merry fellow," 
 "Air}^ cheerful, and frolicsome," "show}^ and fine;" 
 All these in the Raises happy temper combine. 
 What belter than this could she wish wrote above her, 
 Whenever wiih her, life's wild dreaming is over ? 
 
ACROSTIC. 
 
 A Lady, whose person and character are unkno%vn to me, and whose 
 name is mdicated in the initial letters of these lines, wished me to write 
 an Acrostic upon her name. 
 
 WHY I CAN^T DO IT. 
 
 My Lady fair, the thing you ask 
 Ain't, I am sure, an easy task. 
 Rehearse I might, like love-sick youth, 
 Your charms, your beauty, and your truth t 
 
 Just as it chanced the sketch would be 
 
 Unseemly, and unfit to see. 
 
 Dear Lady ! will you risk your face 
 
 Li such strange hands, and hope for grace, 
 
 Truth, beauty, virtue, all sweet charms 
 
 Harmonious, luring to your arms ? 
 
 Dangerous this shooting in the dark- 
 Ulysses' bow might miss the mark. 
 No,-— I '11 not try my hand at this, 
 Heedless if so I hit or miss. 
 And so, however else you use me, 
 My Damsel fair, this task excuse me. 
 
IPITAPH, 
 
 By request, for a Lady, who said that she deprecated being the object 
 of pity while li^^ng, or the cause of a tear over her gi-ave. 
 
 Non "siste viator.^^ 
 
 Stop not, traveller ! 
 
 Seek not to know 
 What poor dust lies 
 
 Entombed below. 
 
 Shed not a tear, 
 
 Heave not one groan, 
 But pass on quickly, 
 
 And leave me alone ! 
 
 Whate'er I have been 
 You ask in vain ; 
 
 What 't is I am now 
 None can explain. 
 
I xN D E X 
 
 Page. 
 
 Preface, 3 
 
 New Year's OJe, 5 
 
 Berkshire Jubilee Odes, 11—20 
 
 Consecration Hymn, 22 
 
 The Exscinded Woodbine, 21 
 
 Lhies on a Winter Bouquet, 2<) 
 
 Tlie Chhiese Mission Press, 27 
 
 Monumental Inscription, 2o 
 
 Obituary Tribute, 29 
 
 Anniversary Commencement Hymns, 30 — 32 
 
 The Past and tlie Present, 31 
 
 The Fated Barque, 37 
 
 " I'leasant Memories," 11 
 
 Lines for an Album, 43 
 
 The Old Ashland Tree, 45 
 
 The Whig Flag, 17 
 
 The Sonnet, ^ 50 
 
 The Old Thorn Bush, 52 
 
 Epithalamium, 54 
 
 A Valentine, 56 
 
 An Apology, 5« 
 
 An Acrostic, 59 
 
 An Epitaph, GO 
 
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