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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ODODll'^BOt.S 
 
1 '^ ' i' "^ 
 
 I 
 
 ph^ary of fiJaugu^.^. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOME, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. WASHINGTON MORTON. 
 
 PITTSBURGH 
 
 :NGRAM & M'CANDLESS, PUBLISHERS, WOOD STREET 
 
 Printed by A. Jaynes, Franklin Head. Tkird-st. 
 
 1841. 
 
75 2^34- 
 
 Entered according lo the Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by 
 J. Washington Morton, in the Clerk's Office of the District 
 Court of the United States, for the Western District of Penn- 
 svlvaipa. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF HOME. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
ANALYSIS OF CANTO FIRST 
 
 The Poem opens with a description of the earth, when in a chaoti'- 
 state. The separation of land and water, in the process of renovation. 
 Apostrophe to ocean. The flowing of streams, and the return of day and 
 night.. Creation of plants and trees. Birds, and their music, t^reation of 
 man, and his first location in Paradise : his primeval happiness consum 
 mated in the creation of woman: the universal joy that succeeded. The 
 fall and expulsion of man, with their attendant miseries. 
 
 Love of home, natural to man. The peculiar tastes of different indi- 
 viduals, as exhibited in the localities of their homes. Description of a 
 home in the city — in the suburbs. Rural life. The sweets of solitude. 
 
 Apostrophe to solitude. The pious Hermit and the Misanthrope, con- 
 trasted. 
 
 Home, the seat of influence. Influence of the wife. Apostrophe to 
 
 woman. Influence of parents and teachers. Mutual influence of brothers 
 
 rind sisters. The pleasures of home continuous, and common to all. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF HOME. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 TiiERi: was a time, when dark mists gatliered round 
 This shapeless earth. The ocean knew no bound; 
 But o'er the lofty hills the billows swept, 
 And lawless, on the mountain's summit, slept. 
 Scarcely the risen sun, with glowing flame, 
 Could penetrate the gloom, when morning came; 
 But o'er that wide expanse, where cheerless night 
 Brooded in silence, cast a wand'ring light, — 
 And scarcely told that solitary ray 
 How low that sphere, once bright, in ruins lay. 
 There was no home — no happy firesivie, there. 
 Nor living thing to breathe the misty air. 
 
 The Spirit of the Lord went forth, to play 
 Along the gloomy waste, and brushed away 
 The heavy clouds. The waters poured their tide 
 Backward, and filled the valleys deep and wide, 
 And sought their level. Then arose to sight 
 The hills, and mountains, of majestic height; 
 And, as the ever-restless ocean roared, 
 And on the rocky coast its mad waves poured,; 
 Those tovv'ring hills sent back their answering wail. 
 While echo went careering round the vale. 
 1* 
 
6 
 
 Ocean! how bold the music of thy waves, 
 That roll, in peerless might, above the graves 
 Of sleeping ages! Silent is thy bed, 
 With flowers of Time's first loveliness o'erspread, 
 And gems of pure, unfading beauty, sleep 
 Down in the storehouse of the mighty deep! 
 
 Then playfully came forth the murmuring rills, 
 From fountains in the bosom of the hills, 
 And, gliding down the bare and rocky steep, 
 Hastened to yield their tribute to the deep. 
 Once more revolving day and night returned; 
 Once more the sun through kindling ether burned; 
 The moon began her night! v vigils too, 
 And bright stars, twinkling, shone through heaven's blue. 
 
 Gay morning dawned upon the ocean isles 
 In dazzling splendor, while her gladdening smiles 
 Rested on every stream and every hill. 
 And deep through Nature's bosom sent a thrill 
 Of holiest rapture; and the sunshine beamed 
 With such pure lustre, that the fabric seemed 
 Like some fair palace, which th' omniscient mind 
 Of earth's Almighty Framer had designed. 
 To show the glowing beauties of his face, 
 Created for his own bright dwelling-place. 
 
 But soon the hills and vales were covered o'er 
 With richer beauties. From the ocean's shore, 
 Along each verdant plain, extended wide, 
 And up the lofty mountain's rugged side, 
 The springing grass, and budding flowers were seen, 
 And Nature's face was decked with smiling green. 
 
Ere long, majestic trees began to shoot, i 
 
 Their branches bending down with golden fruit, i 
 
 Beside the rolling streams, whose waters pure j 
 
 A gentle niurmuring made, and seemed to lure, ; 
 
 With songs of harmony, and lays of love, ■' 
 
 The angels from their happy homes above. i 
 
 The joy-inspiring groves of Eden bloomed 
 In pristine loveliness, while they perfumed ! 
 
 With sweelest fragrance the surrounding air, ' 
 
 And shed their drops of balm and nectar there. i 
 
 And beautiful the ripened fruits that hung, i 
 
 With none to pluck them, while the sweets they flung ; 
 
 Abroad so largely,, seemed but thrown away, i 
 
 Thus to become the sport of winds at play. ; 
 
 Nor long was Eden silent; for the flowers ; 
 
 Were scarcely full blown in her heavenly bowers, ' 
 
 When loudly, to the great Creator's praise, 
 The happy birds began their stirring lays. \ 
 
 It was a rich and soul inspiring strain, | 
 
 In which ten thousand voices joined: the plain i 
 
 Was rendered vocal with the moving song, | 
 
 And angels listened as it swept along. 
 
 Each morning early, ere arose the sun, j 
 
 Was that impassioned lay of joy begun, | 
 
 And, when the same in noonday splendor glowed. 
 Sweetly the same unlettered numbers flowed, 
 Nor ceased, till faded e%^ning's milder beam, | 
 
 And silvery moonlight glittered in the stream. j 
 
 Fair was the scene! Alas! no one was there, I 
 
 With heart to feel, or tongue to tell, hoic fair/ 
 
But soon, a being of peculiar mien 
 Appeared in Eden's bowers, to crown the scene; 
 A bright intelligence, majestic, grand. 
 Rose fresh beneath the Maker's forming hand, 
 And he who lay at morn, a senseless clod. 
 At evening, animated, walked abroad. 
 And, stamped with his Creator's image bright. 
 His spirit tilled with pure and heavenly light, 
 With ecstacy the glowing scene surveyed, 
 And felt the all-pervading joy that played 
 Upon those inward chords, by wisdom strung, 
 To speak the soul's delight with burning tongue. 
 
 O! with what inward gratitude did man 
 The glories of his wide dominion scan! 
 How largely did his grateful heart o'erflow, 
 When he received, as lord of all below, 
 His Maker's blessing! and he sung a lay 
 Of loftiest music on his natal day, — 
 A rapturous song, by nature's Author tuned. 
 With whose eternal Spirit he communed. 
 
 And well he might, for it was fair to gaze 
 Upon the morning sun's unclouded blaze, 
 And evening glory, when he sank to rest. 
 And mildly beamed upon the ocean's breast. 
 And sweet it was, among the flowering trees. 
 By Eden's streams, to listen to the breeze 
 That whispered so delightfully along, 
 And bore upon its wings the night-bird's song, 
 While soft and sportive moonlight lit the sky, 
 And stars looked down in beauty from on high. 
 
Nor least of all the joys of that bright hour, 
 Was the inspiring thought, that all — the bower, 
 The birds, the stream, and grove, on which alone 
 Man gazed, as sovereign ruler — were his own. 
 His were the flowers that smiled before his eyes, 
 And his the golden fruits of Paradise. 
 To him was language given, to impart 
 The rich o'erflowings of a grateful heart; 
 Grateful to Him who gave him power to roam, 
 And seek for pleasures, round his happy home. 
 And happily the golden moments flew; 
 The joys of life assumed their varied hue; 
 Nought but society was wanting there, 
 To render that bright home supremely fair. 
 
 Few were the days that thus by man were spent, 
 When Heaven's last and greatest boon was sent, 
 And woman came, whose presence brought a ray 
 Of light, to cheer man's solitary way. 
 
 The sons of God, whose happy shout had made 
 The heavens echo, when the Builder laid 
 The earth's foundation; and the stars of morn. 
 Who chanted when the universe was born, 
 Saw the re-furnished earth, so lately void. 
 And all the happy hosts of seraphs joyed, 
 As they beheld the fast unfolding plan, 
 That Wisdom had prepared a home for man. 
 
 Hail, bright, auspicious morn! when seraphs made 
 A feast of solemn joy; when rapture played 
 Upon the chords of Heaven's lofty lyre, 
 Mingled with strains of the angelic choir. 
 
10 
 
 That melted into harmony and love, 
 Breathing the sympathy of worlds above. 
 
 How pleasantly were Eden's groves perfumed 
 With flowers, that in their native wildness bloomed. 
 Sweeter than grew beside Castalia's fount, 
 Or graced the gentle slopes of Ida's mount, 
 Yielded the nectar of Olympic Jove, 
 Or shed their sweets in Eiina's pleasant grove. 
 
 What pleasure filled the aromatic air, 
 And swelled the bosoms of the happy pair! 
 Their cup was full. There were no bitter tears 
 To dim their sparkling eyes; no restless fears 
 To mar their quiet; and they felt no pain. 
 That might contract the placid brow; no stain 
 To dim the spotless heart, and make them feel 
 The stings of Conscience, or the poignant steel 
 Of grim Remorse; but all was bright and calm 
 As their own sunny skies, that yielded balm, 
 More rich than that of Gilead, and pure. 
 Though needed not, where none were found to cure. 
 
 Full well they loved their home! when glad and bright 
 They lefl their couch, refreshed, at morning light; 
 And when, in harmony with nature's lays. 
 They sang their morning h^'^mn of g ateful praise! 
 Strangers alike to sinful thoughts and guile! 
 The husband spake his joys; the wife's sweet smile 
 Revealed what bliss was her's. Nor had they fled 
 From that delightful home, though they had shed 
 Warm tears of fond regret — ^almost despair — 
 O'er crimes and Jollies perpetrated there. 
 
11 ; 
 
 Had not the sword of God been forced to rise, j 
 
 And drive them from the joys of Paradise. \ 
 
 Sad was the liour, when that enamored pair, \ 
 
 Thrust out from home, and all the pleasures there, , 
 
 Surrendered, with a tear, each darling sweet, j 
 
 While flaming cherubs guarded their retreat! 1 
 
 Wisdom has planted in the human breast 
 A love of home. 'Tis silently expressed ' 
 
 In all the leading actions of mankind, i 
 
 The fairest, noblest attribute of mind. i 
 
 All love their homes, and fancy they are bright^ 
 Though widely differing to outward sight. 
 With mind and feelings ever active, some 
 
 Delight to dwell amid the busy hum j 
 
 Of crowded city; and they love to meet, ^ 
 
 At every corner, friends whom they may greet 
 With answering smiles. To them, the cheerful ring 
 Of loud and happy voices sweeps a string 
 
 Upon life's strangely sounding instrumemt, • 
 
 That ever vibrates to the heart's content. 
 
 And many love the gorgeous, festal hall, j 
 
 When young and old, responding to the call J 
 
 Of mirth and revelry, together meet, \ 
 
 And cheerfully enjoy the social treat; 
 
 When hopeful hearts beat high, and faces bright i 
 
 With loveliness, are smiling in the light ; 
 
 Of brilliant chandeliers; when every ear 1 
 
 Is ringing with a tale of happy cheer; | 
 
 When light hearts mingle in the merry dance, ] 
 
 And warm sighs, half suppressed, with stolen glance. 
 
12 
 
 Unconsciously reveal what hidden truth 
 Lurks in the bosom of the love-sick youth. 
 0! there are many who imagine this 
 The highest joy of mortals — perfect bliss! 
 
 But when those sickening pleasures are enjoyed 
 To full satiety, how deep the void 
 They leave within the aching breast! The soul, 
 Now tired of careless wandering, seeks the goal. 
 And, while the flame of disappointment burns, 
 Back to its home the weary heart returns, 
 To seek its rest. Q! 'tis the kindling joy 
 Of fireside scenes, that nothing can alloy. 
 
 With calmer disposition, and a mind 
 To peace and rural quiet more inclined, 
 The man of easy life prepares a seat. 
 Without the bustling town; a still retreat. 
 Where he may choose, as pleasure is, to spend 
 The time in solitude, or with a friend, 
 Of known and tested worth. He loves to^aze 
 Upon the distant city, and the blaze 
 Of evening sunshine, like unearthly fires. 
 Reflected brightly from her hundred spires 
 Of gilded surface, and the windows bright, 
 Bathed in the glories of the fading light. 
 These have their kindling pleasures to impart; 
 Each has a charm to captivate his heart. 
 
 He cultivates a grove of flowering trees 
 Around his home, and when the tuneful breeze 
 So playfully awakes and whispers by. 
 
13 
 
 Like a fond mother's tender, anxious sigh, 
 Or like the murmuring of gentle streams, 
 O how it makes the spirit bound! and seems 
 A voice from Academus! and the well 
 or Science, sweet and deep, begins to swell 
 To overflowing, while its waters roll. 
 With bolder current onward, and the soul 
 Approaches, pleased to stand upon the brink. 
 Admire the beauty of the scene, and drink. 
 
 O happy swain! how noble is thy choice! 
 How many, sick and weary, would rejoice. 
 With thee the paths of rural lore to tread. 
 And borrow wisdom from the mighty dead! 
 
 Yet e'en those pleasures, though exalted all. 
 Too long and copiously enjoyed, must pall; 
 And when the votary of Science turns 
 Aside from his Philosophy, and learns 
 That 'tis a fruitless, vain pursuit, to tread 
 Her labyrinthine windings; when his head 
 Is filled with fancies, that he fain would strive, 
 Yet knows not how, from memory to drive; 
 O 'tis a thing of silent, wondrous power 
 To calm the troubled mind, to spend an hour 
 Of sweet tranquillity, or joyous mirth, 
 With those, beloved above all else on earth! 
 And happy he, to whom his Maker sends 
 The blessed boon of family and friends! 
 
 Far down amidst a green, sequestered vale, 
 By lordly forests sheltered from the gale, 
 
14 
 
 That sweeps along the hills, and by its rude, 
 Neglected state, and by the solitude. 
 Unbroken, free, and still, that reigns around, 
 Protected from the storms of war, and sound 
 Of civil discord; there, unused to strife. 
 Another leads a peaceful, quiet life. 
 
 With care he cultivates his little farm, 
 With his own implements, nor dreams of harm; 
 Gathers the golden harvest from his field, 
 While ail the blessings industry can yield, 
 A free and easy conscience, with a mind 
 To all the ways of Providence resigned. 
 Continued health, a clear, unclouded brow, 
 Sacred alone to those who wield the plough; 
 A pure and guileless soul; unbroken sleep; 
 A readiness to weep with those that weep; 
 A heart to joy with all the sons of bliss. 
 All these belong to him, and more than this. 
 Content, that richest gift that heaven can 
 Bestow upon a fallen, mortal man. 
 But what to him were all those varied means 
 Of reaping pleasure — all those rural scenes, 
 Without the joys of home, and kindred dear^ 
 A cheerless, empty blank in man's career. 
 
 Lo! far removed from busy haunts of men, 
 The tenant of a wild and lonely den. 
 The pious Hermit dwells, and offers there 
 To heaven the morning and the evening prayer, 
 And song of gratitude to Him, whose grace 
 Gave, in the wilderness, a lodging place. 
 
15 
 
 Like that for which the mourning i»rophet sighed, 
 And nielancholy Covvper, when he cried 
 To Iieaven for pity on a rebel land, 
 That trembled under God's avenging hand. 
 
 Few are his pleasures, but serene his mind; 
 His wants are few, and simple in their kind; 
 The trees that skirt the forest wilds, afTord 
 Sufficient bread to crown his simple board. 
 He drinks pure water from the running brook. 
 And reads in Nature's fair, unlettered book. 
 The plain, unvarnished truth. O happy lot! 
 What place so calm, so fit for pious thought! 
 
 Engaging Solitude! how much the wise 
 Of every age thy consolations prize! 
 O how delightful for the lone recluse, 
 In some sequestered, still retreat, to muse 
 Upon the changing world! 'Twas in a cave 
 The Cretan Statesman* framed the laws he gave 
 To the admiring nations. He, who spies 
 A distant crowd, best knows its form and size. 
 
 Now to his solitary cell repair — 
 And can the human eye discover there 
 The elements of home? Js there a friend, 
 A brother, wife, or child, in whom may blend 
 The pleasures of society? Ah, no! 
 But there is more — there's heaven begun below! 
 
 O scorn him not! for 'twas a Hermit's hand, 
 That swift through Europe bore a lighted brand; 
 
 * Minos. 
 
16 
 
 Against the Infidel's oppression hurled 
 
 His thunderbolts, and roused the Christian world. (1) 
 
 And brighter shines the Hermit in his cave, 
 
 Than Eastern gem, or pearl beneath the wave. 
 
 But who is this who treads, with visage wan, 
 Bleak, stormy wilds, where none before have gone! 
 Misanthrope! fool! convinced that all are foes, 
 And tortured with imaginary woes! 
 Those evil passions he affects to spurn, 
 That in his own vile bosom hottest burn. 
 Most worthless offspring of our hapless fall, 
 Justly detested, hated, spurned by all. 
 
 Unlike the pious Hermit, who admires 
 The pleasing thoughts that Solitude inspires, 
 Because he loves to stand and meditate, 
 W^ith awe, on Nature's wonders, vast and great. 
 He passes all her simpler beauties by. 
 And to her fearful works directs his eye. 
 He loves to stand upon the riven rock, 
 And contemplate the earthquake's dreadful shock. 
 When storms come up, he climbs the mountain's lieight, 
 Not to adore and tremble at the sight, 
 But on the summit plants his fragile form. 
 Mocks at the lightning, and defies the storm! (2) 
 Mysterious lightning! who can understand 
 The terrors of thy strong, though viewless hand! 
 Who does not quake, when glows the parted air! 
 Who does not tremble at thy sudden glare! 
 
 And has that gloomy wretch a home? Ah, no! 
 la vain he seeks around, above, below, 
 
17 
 
 For such a boon as Heaven never gave ! 
 
 To Crime's black worshipper, or Passion's slave; j 
 
 And never yet did man on earth abide, ; 
 
 VVithoLit a home, who happy lived or died. 
 
 How strange and boundless is the influence 
 Men wield at home! A gracious Providence 
 Has wisely ordered in his perfect plan, 
 
 That all the leading interests of man S 
 
 Should cluster round liis peaceful fireside, where j 
 
 His power to fashion, with assiduous care, \ 
 
 Each darling object at his will, is known, . i 
 
 Almost without a bound; and he alone 
 
 That duty can perform; his forming hand, | 
 
 Outstretched above the dear, domestic band, ; 
 
 Is fraught with power almost omnipotent, ■ 
 
 To point the course the young twig shall be bent; \ 
 
 Out of that mass of living clay to frame 
 Vessels of honor, or of endless shame.. i 
 
 When evening comes, and day's hard toils are o'er, 
 
 The wife to meet her husband in the door 
 
 Of their neat cottage stands, in all her charms, j 
 
 Ready to greet him home with open arms. ] 
 
 When, gladly welcomed in, he takes his seat .' 
 
 Beside their frugal meal, by toil made sweet, ; 
 
 With honied smiles, and sweet, enchanting voice, - 
 
 She bids his broken spirit to rejoice. ■ 
 
 Soon he forgets the labors of the day, ■ 
 
 While cheerfully she hymns the evening lay, 
 
 And kindness, to ail other charms preferred, 
 
 Breathes in the richness of each tender word. \ 
 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 O woman! mighty is thy influence! 
 A cup of sweetest bahn; a fountain, whence 
 Those deep, pure streams of milk and honey flow, 
 Whose healing power the sons of misery know. 
 How strong thy soft endearments to assuage 
 Anger's hot fever, Passion's burning rage! 
 To guide the wandering steps of those that roam; 
 But, to be strong, they must be felt at home. 
 
 How beautiful the spectacle! how grand, 
 Around the blazing Are, to see a band 
 Of smiling youth, whose visages are bright 
 With hope, and glow with intellectual light. 
 The chilling blasts of winter cannot freeze 
 The warm life-blood, in happy hearts like these; 
 For, though along th' unsheltered glade, the storm 
 In all its fury rage, their hearth is warm; 
 Though howling tempests revel on the heath, 
 In fearful, deathlike madness; though beneath 
 The snow is deep, and winds are loud above; 
 Yet all within that home is peace and love. 
 
 How pleasing is the sight, when parents take 
 The mask of dignity, for children's sake, 
 Off from their sunny features, and unite 
 With them in sports and frolicksome delight! 
 And when a bright hour thus has passed away 
 In innocent amusement, and the gay, 
 Youn^T hearts are warm, and e'en inclined to burn 
 With ra])ture over-much, how sweet to turn 
 Their thoughts to serious things, and light that flame, 
 Which Reason and Religion justly claim! 
 
19 
 
 Who does not love to see the infant mind 
 z\nd heart improve, beneath the proper kind 
 Of cultivation! Who would hesitate 
 To take the soul in its incipient state> 
 And sow the seeds of intellectual might, 
 With sensibility, and moral height, 
 In fearless hope that Providence will send 
 The dews of Heaven's power, that may descend 
 Deep in the soil, and make the furrowed field 
 Display, at harvest, an abundant yield! 
 
 When days and years have slowly wandered past, 
 And childhood scenes have faded all at last; 
 When girls to blushing womanhood, and boys 
 To rugged manhood grow, then higher joys, 
 And nobler hopes light up the placid brow, 
 But short in their duration. Ye, who now 
 Possess the pleasures of that happy state, 
 Enjoy those pleasures, ere it be too late! 
 
 0! who can e'er divine the matchless power 
 A winning sister wields, when in the flower 
 Of virgin loveliness! What brother feels 
 Her soft and gentle pressure, when she seals 
 Upon his heart, with unaffected skill, 
 The stamp indelible of good or ill! 
 The brother, too! How fondly does he gaze 
 Upon that sister's countenance, where rays 
 Of holy light, with kindling lustre shine, 
 And brighter grow, and seem almost divine! 
 
 And wake those sacred pleasures al! for nougl>f? 
 Dim traces on the bloKed page of thought? 
 
20 
 
 And leave those richest, rarest flowers of mind, 
 No grateful scent, no golden fruits behind? 
 O yes! their history is written bright 
 On memory's page, in characters of light; 
 And ne'er shall fade those pure, celestial fires, 
 Or vanish, till eternity expires! 
 
 O! sweet domestic pleasures! still the same 
 Where'er enjoyed! Beneath the glowing flame 
 Of Afric's hottest sun, or 'mid the snows 
 And frosts of Arctic isles; where onward flows 
 The river, with its broad, majestic stream; 
 Where icy mountains glow with morning's beam. 
 In forests deep, where roams the wild beast free, 
 And even on the wide, unbounded sea! 
 
THE PLEASURES OF H M li. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
ANALYSIS OF CANTO SECOND. 
 
 Native home exhibited under the similitude of a sacred fountain. Lot* 
 of domestic pleasures induces patriotism. The Patriot's afiectioTi for his 
 native land, and the scenes of his youth. Apostrophe to music. 
 
 Reasons for the Patriot's love, given, and illustrated: his zeal and coii- 
 stancy in the hour of his country's trial. Reference to the Patriots of 
 Greece — of Britain, Reference to J. Q. Adams, the renowmed champion 
 of the right of petition. The Patriot's courage on the field of battle. Noble 
 death of the Mart%Ts of Liberty, in all ages. Apostrophe to Liberty. Na 
 tional monuments, an evidence of patriotism. Disappointment of the sol- 
 dier, who returns, and finds his home plundered and forsaken. 
 
 The wanderer's love of home. Reference to the mariner. Peculiar af 
 fection of die Swiss. Miseries of the exile. The Hebrew captives The 
 unhappy fate of the North American Indians 
 
THE PLEASURES OF H O M E= 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 Delightful moment! when the star of eve 
 Shines dimly forth, and day is taking leave 
 Of mountain, stream, and grove, to turn aside, 
 And wander near some hallowed fount, whose tide 
 Possesses strong, mysterious, healing power! 
 O! happy twilight season! tranquil hour! 
 Sacred to contemplation! How the mind 
 O'erflows, with joy unspeakable, to find 
 That that deep fountain, whence, in days of yore. 
 There came forth living waters, spreading o'er 
 The vast surrounding plains, with power to cure 
 The maladies of men, is still as pure, 
 As healing in its nature, as when first, 
 Forth from the bowels of the earth, it burst! 
 
 The scene is still, and Silence has begun 
 Her noiseless reign. The feelings outward run, 
 With smooth and placid current, while the soul 
 Is lifted up, and on the wings she stole 
 From swift Imagination, backward flies. 
 And to the tombs of sleeping sages hies. 
 Who, ages long ago, enjoyed their prime, 
 And flourished in the infancy of time. 
 
24 
 
 When on that same rich scented, flowery bank, 
 Ancestral myriads sat, and deeply drank 
 Their fill, and lays of heaven-born rapture sung, 
 While every grove with twilight music rung. 
 Then as the soul surveys the scene, and feels 
 Devotion's holy fire, how gently steals 
 A strain of half-forgotten tones, that sweep 
 AjfFection's chords, with veneration deep! 
 The stars look downward with a purer light; 
 The glowing skies are fairer to the sight; 
 The trees put on a richer green, and bloom 
 With richer flowers, and balmier perfume! 
 
 And still more pleasing is the strange effect 
 Produced upon the mind, when we reflect, 
 That those pure, healing streams are not confined 
 To those about their source; but are designed 
 For all who choose their blessings to ensure; 
 Who feel their virtues, and desire a cure. 
 Far down the green and sunny vale, where flows 
 That river, still, majestic, deep, that grows. 
 As on it travels, happy myriads, own 
 Its power, and far its influence is known. 
 
 Even so, the blissful joys of home, that spring 
 Around the dear, domestic fireside, bring 
 Pleasure where'er they go, while they impart 
 A healing balm to every fainting heart. 
 
 From fireside joys, the fond possessor turns 
 His anxious gaze around him, when he learns 
 That much, full much he owes his native land. 
 And dearly should he love the social band. 
 
25 
 
 Thus he, who loves his family to-day, 
 
 To-morrow freely gives himself away, 
 
 A patriot, to his country's cause resigned — 
 
 Next day an ardent lover of mankind. 
 
 The patriot loves the land where he was born. 
 
 Where happily he spent his youthful morn: 
 
 He loves to tread among her hills and vales. 
 
 And feels peculiar freshness in the gales 
 
 That whistle round her fanes, with echo deep, 
 
 Or through her lordly forests idly sweep: 
 
 He loves to view each cultivated field. 
 
 And taste the luscious fruits her orchards yield; 
 
 The merry singing of her birds to hear. 
 
 While all the leaves upon her trees are dear. 
 
 The brook that murmurs playfully along. 
 
 Far down the verdant landscape, breathes a song 
 
 He loves to hear: the mountain torrent bold 
 
 Whispers strange oracles, before untold. 
 
 He loves the tall, majestic spires that t(5wer 
 
 Above her sacred temples, when the hour 
 
 Of prayer is come, and multitudes ascend 
 
 Into the high and holy court, to bend 
 
 The knee submissively, and offer there 
 
 To Him who deigns to answer humble prayer, 
 
 Their solemn supplications; and the psalm. 
 
 Borne thrilling through the still and deathlike calm 
 
 Of Sabbath eve, sung with united voice 
 
 By pious choristers; while all rejoice 
 
 At strains so heavenly, so full of power 
 
 To soothe the feelings for devotion's hour! 
 3 
 
26 
 
 O music! soul of power! The mind gives way, 
 And hearts are melted down beneath thy sway! 
 Strong on the battle field, thy strain can gird 
 The soldier, when the trump of war is heard! 
 Strong in the halls of wild and giddy mirth, 
 Among the gay, licentious ones of earth! 
 All other motives and restraints above, 
 Who can resist the tempting lay of love! 
 But when, on holy Sabbath day, thy lays 
 Are chanted to the great Creator's praise, 
 Then angel wings are lent to earth-born man. 
 While Music teaches him high Heaven to scan! 
 
 Whence this unconquerable love that fills 
 The firm, unshrinking patriot's breast? Why thrills 
 His swelling heart with such exalted joy; 
 And why such noble themes his thoughts employ? 
 Are more resplendent skies above his head? 
 Are more refreshing dews around him shed? 
 And are the meadows clothed with richer green? 
 Is there enchantment in the mag;ic scene? 
 No! but there are a thousand charms that lie 
 Concealed, and hidden from the stranger's eye, 
 Which he can understand and realize; 
 And well he knows how highly he should prize 
 Their rare, peculiar beauty! Such delight 
 Makes native home superlatively bright, 
 And landscapes that, to other eyes, look dim. 
 Are fair, and full of interest to him. 
 
 Some love to gaze upon a beauteous star 
 At midnight, not because its pure beams are 
 
27 
 
 Ot' brighier lustre, but because a friend, 
 With whom the spirit ever loves to blend, 
 Was wont to look upon it with delight: 
 This renders that the brightest star of night. 
 
 The old man, on the borders of the grave, 
 Ueady to plunge beneath the gloomy wave 
 Of death, delights to hear the distant horn 
 At pensive twilight hour, or golden morn, 
 That echoes round the vales in accents low 
 As zephyr's breath, yet stirring as the flow 
 Of mountain stream; because he hears the lays 
 That moved his heart so oft in by-gone days; 
 Because it brings to mind the scones of youth, 
 Deeply impressing there the solemn truth, 
 That human life is short — at best a span — 
 That few and evil are the days of man! 
 
 What man or woman does not love to tread 
 Amid some silent city of the dead, 
 Where friends lie mingling with the l^indrcd clod, 
 Their graves now green with Nature's crowning sod! 
 O! it is sweet, though sad, to sit beside 
 The grave of some beloved one, who died 
 Long years ago! Who ever kindly smiled 
 On all, and with her tenderness beguiled 
 The bitter anguish of the drooping heart, 
 Consoled affliction's pang, and sorrow's smart! 
 But who would linger round the stranger's tomb? 
 And who would sorrow for they know not whom? 
 
 The patriot's sky is sometimes o'erspread 
 With gloomy clouds, that seem prepared to shed 
 
28 
 
 Their sad, unwelcome treasures o'er the land 
 
 He loves so dearly. Oft tlie outstretched hand 
 
 Of reckless tyrant threatens to destroy 
 
 The peace that millions, free and blest, enjoy. 
 
 And when the fires of Revolution glow, 
 
 And drunken nations, reeling to and fro. 
 
 Shake to their centre; when the times revolve 
 
 With giddy whirl, and^ ready to dissolve 
 
 Appear those iron bands that hold the frame 
 
 Of State together, in Ambition's flame; 
 
 Then, how the patriot labors to defend 
 
 His country's cause and glory to the end! 
 
 With what assiduous care he watches those 
 
 Who call themselves her warmest friends, while foes 
 
 In heart and life; who would betray their Lord, 
 
 Like Judas, for the hireling's mean reward. 
 
 For, ever since unhappy, fallen man, 
 
 His sad career of sin on earth began, 
 
 There are not wanting patriots in name, 
 
 In spirit wedded to their country's shame. 
 
 Like him who once, for sensual pleasures, sold 
 
 His birthright, they would give away for gold 
 
 Their native land — their warm afFection's throne, 
 
 The dearest treasure man can call his own! 
 
 With what resistless eloquence he pleads 
 Loud for his suffering country, while she bleeds 
 O'er wrongs inflicted by the tyrant's chain. 
 While streams of crimson flow from every vein! 
 His voice, like thunder, in the council hall, 
 
29 
 
 Predicts her glory, or her shameful fall; 
 Glory, if mindful of her ancient fame; 
 If false to her first honor, lasting shame! 
 Unshaken in his purpose, there he stands. 
 The man whom honor ne'er forsook, with hands 
 Strong to uphold, prepared to act his part. 
 With daring, worthy of a noble heart. 
 
 Thus plead the orators of Greece, when foes 
 Invaded her without, or factions rose, 
 Each with its tyrant leader at its head. 
 To mar her inward peace; when mischief, bred 
 By wild ambition, shot its deadly fire, 
 Lit up by man's inordinate desire 
 For power, and this world's honors, through the heart 
 Of the Republic, like a poisoned dart. 
 
 Who can sufficiently admire the brave 
 And noble answer that the Archon* gave, 
 Who. would not brand his country's spotless fame, 
 By vile injustice, with immortal shame! 
 
 'Twas thus the patriots of Britain plead. 
 Through long and tedious years, for those who bled 
 In cheerless slavery, until they saw. 
 Upon the basis of eternal law. 
 Their country firmly settled; and the slave 
 Enjoyed the precious light that Freedom gave. 
 'Twas Liberty that crowned the worthy name 
 Of mighty Wilberforce with endless fame. 
 
 And even in later days, when Freedom's light 
 
 * Aristides. 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 Was waxing dim, and men began to slight 
 The claims of Liberty; when laws were made 
 To stop the mouths of those who humbly prayed 
 For helpless fellow-beings, trodden down, 
 And smitten dumb, beneath the tyrant's frown; 
 A host was found, still ready to defend 
 Their own and others' rights; who would not bend, 
 Till forced by power superior, to wear * 
 The heaviest chain Oppression could prepare. 
 Dear to the patriot are the names of those 
 Who nobly battled with his freedom's foes; 
 And 0! may Liberty and righteous laws. 
 Ne'er want an Adams to defend their cause. 
 
 Nor in the nation's council hall alone, 
 Is courage seen, and love of country shown: 
 But in her darkest hour, on battle field, 
 His arm is nerved with double power to wield 
 Th' uplifted sword in her defence, who fights 
 For all he values highly; for his rights, 
 His cherished home, his family, and friends, 
 Besides his country's. good, that far transcends 
 All other motives. Who can e'er withstand, 
 Although a countless host, the little band, 
 Who freely undergo the arduous toils 
 Of mad and bloody conflict, not for spoils, 
 Or wider reign; who would not strike the blow 
 For leave to triumph o'er a vanquished foe. 
 But for their country's glory, and that peace 
 Mpiy round their happy firesides never cease. 
 
31 
 
 Weak is the trembling hand, and false the heart 
 Of him, who would refuse to act his part. 
 When darling Liberty lies bleeding, chained, 
 Her holy altar broken down, profaned! 
 And vain the boasting freeman's high pretense, 
 Who would not risk his all in. her defense. 
 
 Grand is the spectacle upon- the day 
 Of some eventful battle> to survey 
 Th' opposing hosts, in concentrated power. 
 Awaiting silently the combat's hour! 
 And when the trumpet thrills with war's alarms, 
 And first gives forth the thundering call to arms, 
 How the inspiring battle hymn resounds. 
 While high the soul of every freeman bounds. 
 As onward to the charge they boldly move, 
 The justness of their noble cause to prove! 
 
 O! who could wish a nobler death to die, 
 Than those who fell beneath the sunny sky 
 Of far-fam.ed Italy, once proud and fr^e; 
 Who watered with their richest blood the tree 
 Of Liberty! Who might not envy those 
 Who bravely fell, victorious o'er their foes, 
 And left behind in death the honored stain 
 Of unbought blood, upon the reeking plain 
 Of famous Marathon! Who would not bleed, 
 As bled the Spartan band? What nobler deed 
 Than that, which crowned with everlasting fame, 
 And fresh renown, the fearless Switzer's"* name? 
 And who could wish to fill a nobler grave 
 * Arnold Winkelreid. 
 
32 
 
 Than that where sleep Columbia's fallen brave? 
 
 O Liberty! how much we owe to thee! 
 The joys of home, peculiar to the free; 
 Domestic bliss, that hangs upon thy fate; 
 With all the pleasures of the social state! 
 Ye happy swains, who now enjoy the prize, 
 Whose sun of liberty, through cloudless skies, 
 Pours down his potent radiance, will ye let 
 That glorious sun in clouds and darkness set? 
 Preserve that light, which, like the sacred fire 
 By vestal virgins guarded, may expire 
 Some hapless moment, but, unlike that flame. 
 May never be rekindled! Let the name 
 Of Liberty be sacred to the last, 
 Nor e'er one cloud that sunny sky o'ercast! 
 
 What means yon monumental pile, that stands 
 So lonely 'mid the tombs, by human hands 
 Set up, and covered o'er with heroes' names, 
 Their mighty deeds, their sufferings, and their claims! 
 It tells how men delight to honor those 
 Who rescued Freedom from her haughty foes! 
 
 The victory won at last, the battle o'er. 
 And clash of hostile armor heard no more. 
 With musing steps the conquering soldier bends 
 His silent course towards his home and friends. 
 What are his feelings, as he winds along 
 The hills, and listens to the wonted song 
 Of wild and merry blackbirds, when he sees, 
 Appearing in the distance, those old trees — 
 Those chestnuts, so familiar to his gaze. 
 
33 
 
 That stood, like ancient monarchs, in the days 
 or sunny boyhood, when he came, and played. 
 Gathered their fruits, and reveled in their shade? 
 Delightful hopes his busy thoughts employ, 
 Sweet foretastes of anticipated joy! 
 But see! the crowning feature of the scene, 
 The first glimpse of his humble cot, between 
 The separated hills! Tt meets his view. 
 And swells the fountains of his heart anew. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind the Western main; 
 The birds had ceased their warbling, and the plain 
 Was silent. Evening shades were gathering fast, 
 And noiselessly, while nothing but the blast, 
 That sometimes shook the rose from Nature's bower, 
 Disturbed the silence of the twilight hour. 
 He fancied that he saw the loved one's form, 
 Her eye lit up with expectation warm, 
 Seated upon the bench that stood before 
 The little porch that screened the cottagfe door. 
 Beside where dwelt the sweet-briar's rich perfume, 
 And roses flourished in their loveliest bloom. 
 He thought he heard the voices, low and sweet, 
 Of little ones at play, who soon would greet 
 His glad return with happy smiles, and tears 
 Of bursting joy; but Fancy filled his ears 
 With false, delusive sounds— the voice of rills, 
 Playing their evening song among the hills! 
 Ah! little dreamed he what a change came o'er 
 That valley in his absence! 'Twas no more 
 A home of peace! The foe had come, and torn 
 
34 
 
 The wife and children from their home, and borne 
 In triumph proud their sad, defenseless prey, 
 Far from the warm embrace of frien-ds away! 
 
 She sleeps, the lovely, in her grave of peace, 
 The green turf o'er her, where the wicked cease 
 From troubling, and the weary are at rest, 
 Her little ones reclining on her breast! 
 
 Soon he approached and stood beside that cot. 
 Now tenantless, in deep, absorbing thought; 
 Upon the window silently he gazed 
 Where playfully the evening moonlight blazed, 
 And whispering of Heaven, as it beamed, 
 Peeped from behind the circling vines, and seemed 
 Like Laura's smile, upon their parting day; 
 Yet 'twas not like it, for it sent no ray 
 Of consolation to the soldier's heart! 
 Alas! it but increased the deadly smart! 
 Ah! what were now the laurels he had won! 
 What were the deeds of valor he had done! 
 All were forgotten, as he stood alone. 
 And dropped a tear upon the threshold stone! 
 O hallowed is the spot, and doubly dear, 
 Where the iron-hearted soldier wastes a tear! 
 
 The cheerless wanderer through the world's wide maze, 
 In all his racking troubles, loves to gaze 
 Back on the scenes of home! No other spot 
 Possesses charms so powerful, to blot 
 From Memory all her melancholy views. 
 And leave the landscape bright with pleasure's hues! 
 
35 
 
 The mariner, by fate and fortune crossed, 
 Long time upon the restless billows tossed, 
 Thinks, as he gazes on the midnight star. 
 While keeping watch, of happy scenes afar. 
 By night he loves to pace the deck alone. 
 And listen to the sea-wave's hollow moan, 
 Wrapped up in pleasant dreams of future joy, 
 When the sea's perils shall no more annoy; 
 When safely landed on his native shore. 
 He hopes, ere long, the tedious voyage p'er, 
 Again to meet his wife and children dear, 
 Ready to welcome him with happy cheer! 
 
 Does not the Switzer feel, where'er he goes, 
 A lasting love of native home, and those, 
 With whom he spent his first and happiest days? 
 He does. And where the mountain torrent plays, 
 And wild flowers fling their sweets abroad, to stray 
 Is ever his delight; and where the ray 
 Of morning rests upon the mountain's height, 
 In frozen, cheerless beauty, ever bright. 
 He makes his dwelling place; because 'tis there 
 He is reminded of the evening prayer, (3) 
 When pious shepherds, from their lofty seat, 
 Pronounce, while rocks and hills below repeat. 
 The solemn Hallelujah! and the land. 
 On bended knees, obey th' august command! 
 His love is ever constant, and it steals 
 Its ardor from above; he never feels 
 The "shivering coldness of the Alpine stream" 
 
36 
 
 Come o'er his soul, to quench its heavenly beam: 
 
 The gloomy Exile, v^hen he seeks the deep 
 Recesses of his lonely isle, to weep, 
 Is free as any beast that roams the plain. 
 Nor man, nor fiend, his conscience can restrain; 
 And yet he has within some hidden care — 
 O! ^yho can tell how oft his home is there! 
 
 The Hebrew Captives sat beside where swept 
 The mighty streams of Babylon, and wept! 
 Sadly upon the willow boughs they hung 
 Their plaintive harps, forgotten, and unstrung! . 
 But when, to liberty restored, that band 
 Returned once more to their own native land. 
 Sweet and exalted was the joy that thrilled 
 Through every heart, and every bosom filled! 
 Thus, when the rain in torrents long descends, 
 The flower beneath th' oppressive burden bends, 
 Till sunbeams, bright and warm, the drops exhale, — 
 O then its fragrance loads the passing gale! 
 
 Fair are Columbia's cultivated plains. 
 And blithe and happy are the peaceful swains 
 That reap her golden harvests. But alas! 
 How soon the joys of nauve home may pass 
 Beyond our reach! These lands were once possessed 
 By noble freemen, in whose savage breast 
 The love of native home was deep and strong; 
 Who rather chose to die than suffer wrong! 
 Courage is vain! When Christian powers invade, 
 The Indian must quit his forest shade. 
 And cease to gaze upon th' Atlantic waves, 
 
37 - j 
 
 The Beauteous River, (4) and the honored graves , 
 
 Of warrior sires. His richest blood must flow, ■< 
 
 To make the white man's plant of Freedom grow! | 
 
 Great wrong! But still more deeply must he feel j 
 
 The loss of home, than e'en the murderer's steel! »-,..^ | 
 
 How deep was Logan's grief, who suflfered long i 
 
 Cruel barbarity, and shameful wrong! i 
 Low in his prison cell, all hope denied, 
 
 How mournfully brave Osceola died! • 
 
 Poor, hapless outcasts! Is their certain doom ■ 
 
 Immutable? And shall the heavy gloom, \ 
 
 That follows vile oppression's deadly rage, I 
 
 Forever dim their history's bloody page? ! 
 Yes! they may mourn their lot, revenge may burn, 
 
 But to their home thev never can return! :' 
 
THE PLEASURES OF HOME 
 
 CANTO THIRD 
 
ANALYSIS OF CANTO THIRD 
 
 Comparison between Noah's dove and the human mind. The hope of 
 immortality universal. The absurd idea of transmigration. The Elysium 
 of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The Mohaimnedan Paradise. The 
 Hunting Grounds of the American Indians. The Christian's bright antici- 
 pations of a Heavenly Home. The Pleasures of that Home described. 
 Allusion to the Martyrs of Religion. Allusion to Job. 
 
 The happiness of a village Pastor described. Home, the seat of Con- 
 tentment. Aloanor, an Episode. Apostrophe to Home 
 
THE PLEASURES OF HOME. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 The dove, on man's important errand sent, 
 With ready wing, forth from the window went, 
 And onward borne, in patient flight she traced 
 The cheerless surface of the trackless waste, 
 And wandering far along the watery plain, 
 Essayed to find a resting place in vain. 
 Then, worn with constant vigilance for nought, 
 And spent with wakefulness, again she sought 
 The ark, that lay upon the ocean's breast 
 So hopefully, her weary wing to rest» 
 
 Thus mortal man is wont to turn aside. 
 And tread the paths of vanity and pride, 
 Among the false and flattering toys of earth, 
 Seeking for bliss, that gift of heavenly birth, 
 And hoping still the golden prize to win 
 Ere long, till some kind monitor within 
 Reminds the soul of joys that never cease; 
 Of Immortality, and endless peace! 
 
 Who does not hope to live beyond the tomb? 
 Who would not flourish in immortal bloom, 
 In the bright sunshine of eternal day, 
 When time and earthly things have passed away? 
 
42 
 
 In every land on earth, throughout all time, 
 From distant East to farthest Western clime, 
 Men, with united mind, agree to brave 
 The monster Death, and live beyond the grave! 
 The soul shrinks back, and shudders at the thought, 
 That cold annihilation e'er can blot 
 Her hopes — her fondest day-dreams from the page 
 Of Immortality; that e'er the rage 
 Of Time's hot fires can check the onward course 
 Of that bright essence, of Empyreal source! 
 
 What finite being ever sat, and drank 
 From the pure stream of knowledge, till he sank 
 Exhausted down, and fully satisfied. 
 Upon its green and flowery bank, and cried, 
 "It is enough!" Oh! never can the soul, 
 Till fully sated, drain the sweetened bowl 
 0[ knowledge, or of joy! Her march is still 
 Onward and upward, on the rugged hill 
 Of Science! Go, and give the ocean bands! 
 Go, make the river flow 'mid desert sands! 
 Then bid the immortal spirit, " Here abide! 
 Here end thy course, and here be satisfied!" 
 
 The insect, wanton creature of a day, 
 A moment lies, and swallows up the ray 
 That gave it birth; and very soon we find 
 A being, full and perfect in its kind! 
 Its end fulfilled, it gaily mounts aloft, 
 On wings of varied hue, that beat the soft 
 And yielding air with gentle stroke, and flies 
 Life's short and rapid current down — then dies! 
 
43 
 
 But long e'er Man has reached perfection's height, 
 Death's poisoned arrow, in its speedy flight, 
 Arrests his course; his body turns to clay; 
 His spirit wings her everlasting way! 
 
 Why is the soul so anxious to survive? 
 Why does she wish to flourish, grow, and thrive, 
 Throughout eternal ages? Does she hope 
 For joy? Or would she be content to grope 
 Her way through darkness, fear, and pain along. 
 Far down, amid the black, infernal throng? 
 No! Though, by common suffrage, some are doomed 
 To live in misery's awful gulph entombed, 
 Each for himself, inclined to hope the best. 
 Can read a 'Hitle clear" among the blest! 
 
 The wild Pythagorean hopes to find 
 The future home of his immortal mind, 
 A transient residence, within the frame 
 OC some loved animal, of meaner name. 
 The lion bold, or eagle, soaring free. 
 The grazing ox, or monster of the sea, 
 He imitates, their favor to secure. 
 As if he thus could make his heaven sure! 
 Weak man! how vain thy speculations all, 
 Designed to prop the soul that cannot fall! 
 
 A more refined and philosophic race. 
 The polished Greek and Roman, choose their place 
 Of future residence in sylvan bowers, 
 Perfumed with odors of the sweetest flowers; 
 In shady groves, where rich, spice-bearing trees, 
 With balmy fragrance load the passing breeze: 
 
44 
 
 Where constantly ambrosial dews descend, 
 And strains of bold and soothing music blend! 
 
 How charming were the pleasures, that, of yore. 
 The false Arabian Prophet held before (5) 
 His sensual followers! On beds of ease 
 They saw themselves reclined beneath the trees 
 Of paradise, whose burdened boughs were bent 
 With fruits, in never failing plenty sent! 
 They saw the fairest forms that dwell above, 
 Dancing amid the rosary of love, 
 And beauteous Houris, deigning to impart 
 Angelic smiles to captivate the heart! 
 
 The Indian, who roams the Western wild. 
 Nature's neglected and unlettered child. 
 Expects to tread the Mississippi vale, 
 Clothed with perpetual vigor, swift and hale; 
 To skim the level prairie at a bound. 
 Forever joyful in his hunting ground! 
 
 But O! how bright the Christian's hope, who heeds 
 The Book of Revelation, where he reads 
 That tender, true, and melting tale of love, 
 Which only could proceed from God above! 
 
 There is a home, unseen by mortal eye, 
 That lies above the fair, ethereal sky; 
 Beyond yon white and fleecy clouds, that sail. 
 Borne gently onward by the passing gale, 
 So beautiful in ether's purest blue! 
 There, pleasures are unmixed; there, friends are true; 
 All freely speak the meaning of their hearts, 
 
45 
 
 Nor dare to use the false and guileful arts 
 Of baneful flattery; all love to share 
 Their rich enjoyments mutually; for there, 
 Companions dwell, whose breasts are full of love; 
 Nor treason's breath infects the air above! 
 
 That home is full of bliss, and ever bright 
 With God's eternal presence, while the light 
 That issues kindly from his beaming face, 
 Throughout all ages, charms the sacred place! 
 It is the glow his peaceful smiles impart, 
 That lights the fire of joy in every heart; 
 That warms the spirit with devotion's flame, 
 And makes the happy throng adore the name 
 Of their Almighty Author: only this 
 Could fill the heavenly world with perfect bliss! 
 
 There, loving friends, long separated, meet, 
 And sit down calmly at their Maker's feet, 
 Happy at last. The fettered captive feels 
 His limbs released from bondage, while he steals 
 A draught from. Freedom's fount, and feasts his eyes 
 Upon the glowing scenes of paradise! 
 Man gazes with suspicious eye no more 
 On him who was his enemy before; 
 But greets him with a welcome smile, that shows 
 What holy fire within his bosom glows! 
 
 The brother meets a cherished sister there, 
 Whose absence filled their earthly home with care. 
 And bitter anguish many a year before: 
 How sweet the thought, they meet to part no more! 
 And — what unbounded joy! — all meet the Friend, 
 
46 
 
 The loved Redeemer, who could condescend, 
 
 Though God of heaven, to work Salvation's plan,' 
 
 And taste the miseries of mortal man! 
 
 The harps of angels breathe their solemn strains 
 
 Of holy minstrelsy, to charm the plains 
 
 Of happy Salem; and the saints employ 
 
 Their notes responsive to the sounding joy! 
 
 In melting lays they celebrate His love. 
 
 Who first for fallen man prepared above, 
 
 A home of happiness. They chant that deed 
 
 So noble, when a God came down to bleed 
 
 On blood-stained Calvary, willing to expire, 
 
 To turn away Jehovah's dreadful ire! 
 
 This is the home for which the Martyrs sighed, 
 Who freely yielded to the scourge, and dyed 
 Their garments red in blood; or, 'mid the rocks 
 Of their own highlands, sheltered from the shocks 
 Of persecution, sang their lay of trust 
 Tn Him, who levels kingdoms with the dust! 
 
 How long the patient man of old endured 
 The fiercest trials of the world, assured 
 Of happiness! convinced, that when the clod 
 Should cover him, he should behold his God! (6) 
 
 How happy is the man who spends his life. 
 Free from the busy world's annoying strife, 
 In pointing out the ways of truth and love. 
 And leading men to happiness above! 
 He was a hoary headed man, and grave, 
 Though sweet and cheerful in his way, who gave 
 His holy lessons, when > we met to pray 
 
47 
 
 fn God's own house, upon the Sabbath day. 
 That church! O how delightfully it stands 
 
 Upon yon hill! The springing flower expands 
 
 In freedom on that little grassy plain, 
 
 While sweet birds echo back each solemn strain! 
 
 Each grove around that hallowed spot, how fair! 
 
 How richly the wild apple scents the air! 
 Often that aged man would point the road 
 
 That upward leads to Mercy's bright abode; 
 
 And oft he told us, how the sting of death 
 
 Was lost, when the Redeemer's laboring breath 
 
 Declared, " 'Tis finished!" and the rocks were rent 
 
 In pieces, when the God of sinners went 
 
 Triumphantly to heaven, to prepare 
 A mansion for his chosen people there! 
 Many there are who listened to his voice 
 
 Long since, who now in brighter scenes rejoice; 
 
 And many more, whose trials soon shall cease, 
 When they shall follow to their home oT peace! 
 
 How pleasing is the thought, that when the world 
 Is dreary, and the shafts of malice, hurled 
 By hostile hands, are round us thickly sent, 
 We find at home inviolate Content! 
 
 'Twas morn, nor ever dawned a fairer morn, 
 Nor ever did a brighter sun adorn 
 The mountains! Not a cloud obscured the day. 
 Nor mist arose to dim the sparkling ray! 
 Alcanor was about to take his leave, 
 And stood before his parents to receive 
 Their parting blessing. He had listened oft 
 
48 
 
 To tales of other climes, where smooth and soft 
 Was the enchanted pathway to renown, 
 To palms of victory, and honor's crown. 
 And now he was about to bid farewell 
 To the old cottage, and his native dell; 
 About to leave behind those sparkling eyes, 
 Whose looks of love he yet must learn to prize! 
 
 The father bade him act a generous part. 
 And ne'er betray a weak, unmanly heart: 
 The mother clasped him to her breast, and wept, 
 To think how oft in infancy he slept 
 Upon her bosom, smiling sweetly there, 
 Remembered in a mother's silent prayer! 
 Alonzo bade him spurn all needless fear, 
 While fair Elmina dropped a silent tear! 
 
 Alcanor longed to win a conqueror's fame. 
 And twine unfliding laurels round his name; 
 By valiant deeds and bold exploits, to plead 
 His well-earned claim to Glory's generous meed. 
 
 Often, as round the dreamy world of thought 
 He strayed, he met the enemy, and fought 
 With matchless courage, while his sharp sword drank 
 The blood of many mighty men, who sank 
 Like a huge snow bank in the summer sun! 
 The world admired the wonders he had done! 
 He almost felt the blooming laurels spring 
 Upon his warrior temples! Such a thing 
 Imagination is, to make a man 
 Strong to perform what deeds no other can! 
 
 Afar in Southern climes he spent his days 
 
49 
 
 In listless idleness, or foolish ways, 
 
 With nothing good his young thoughts to employ, 
 
 Bereft of every friend, and every joy. 
 
 But soon he listened to the voice of fools, 
 
 And soon, alas! forgot the pious rules 
 
 He learned at honie, till, by degrees, he strayed 
 
 From Virtue's path, by vile companions swayed. 
 
 Ah, miserable youth! How sad thy lot! 
 Possessor of that joy that changeih not, 
 A mother's love, through every scene the samej 
 A sister's warm affection, holy flame; 
 Would that ambition had not made thee roam, 
 Far from thy quiet, safe retreat at home! 
 
 The pensive maid directs her eye above. 
 And fixes it upon the Star of Love; 
 Fancies she greets a long-lost lover's glance. 
 In each bright beam that cleaves the wide expanse, 
 And follows him in all his wanderings there, 
 O'er trackless fields, till lost in upper airf 
 How lonely must she feel, as thus she soars 
 Around Eternity's delightful shores! 
 
 Thus felt Elmina, when she thought upon 
 
 That brother, ruined, and forever gone: 
 
 Thus felt Alcanor, when the pleasures lost 
 
 With home fell soft upon his spirit, tossed 
 
 Upon life's troubled sea, like the pure smile 
 
 Of evening sun, on Ocean's lonely isle! 
 
 When, after spending five long wretched years 
 
 In dissipation — poverty and tears 
 
 Were all on earth he dared to call his own, 
 5 
 
50 
 
 No wonder that he felt bereft — alone! 
 
 As thus, in misery's lowest depth he lay, 
 Hope smiled upon him with her genial ray: 
 " I will arise," he cried, "and seek once more 
 My native wilds, upon the rocky shore 
 Of the rough stream, whose free and bounding wave 
 Shall teach me sin's most deadly shaft to brave: 
 Perhaps I yet may be a mother^s care. 
 Perhaps a sister's tenderness may share!" 
 
 Long days and weary nights Alcanor spent, 
 A mendicant unpitied, while he bent 
 His sad steps homeward; and as near he drew, 
 The scenes of happy boyhood met his view! 
 
 Darkness was coming on; the world was still. 
 When pensively he wandered up the hill. 
 Until his eye beheld the moon-lit dome. 
 That overhung his once delightful home! 
 Then struggling feelings, both of joy and shame. 
 Ascendency within his bosom claim! 
 
 But hark! what sweet and heavenly sounds are these, 
 That float along upon the idle breeze? 
 Is it the love-lay of the reveling throng? 
 Is it the wakeful night-bird's tender song? 
 No! but it is the evening offering. 
 That pious families delight to bring. 
 While from their holy altar praise ascends, 
 And sweetly with the songs of heaven blends! 
 
 Alcanor halted where the fountain played 
 Its merry tune, beneath the locust shade, 
 Whose waters, gliding down the grassy lawn. 
 
51 
 
 Played with the moonlight, as they travelled on. 
 There, on a bank, where early violets bloomed, 
 While peach and fragrant plum the air perfumed, 
 He sat, the warm tears trickling down like rain. 
 Regaled by WindhaiTi's melancholy strain. 
 
 in deep base-notes he heard the aged sire 
 Breathe forth devotion's pure and hallowed fire: 
 The mother's voice to heaven seemed to mount 
 in treble-tones, like the low, warbling fount. 
 O how his soul was melted down, to hear 
 Elmina's sweet soprano, soft and clear! 
 While, solemn as the tempest's moan. 
 Far distant was Alonzo's barytone! 
 
 And is the soul by this so deeply fired? 
 Is she by earthly music so inspired? 
 What will it be, when on the listening ears 
 First breaks the music of the "chiming spheres!" 
 
 The last note echoed in the distant wood, 
 He came, and close before the window stood; 
 A hopeful penitent was weeping there. 
 And listening to the voice of humble prayer! 
 They prayed for him — that Heaven would restore 
 His feet to the same path he trod before, 
 And lead him gently, by the still, small voice, 
 To penitence, that angels might rejoice! 
 
 The prayer was ended, and the child of sin 
 And sorrow sought the door, and entered in: 
 "Father — O mother dear! — forgive!" he cried, 
 "The follies of a wretched son, who died. 
 But is alive again; who wandered round, 
 
52 
 
 Lost in deceitful ways, but now is found!" 
 Then father, mother, sister, brothers, all 
 
 Once more upon their knees devoutly fall. 
 
 And thank that God, who lead, with watchful care, 
 
 The wanderer back, in answer to their prayer! 
 
 Who would pretend to measure the delight 
 
 That family enjoyed that happy night! 
 
 How bright the flame of holy rapture burned. 
 
 While thus they hailed the prodigal returned! 
 Sweet Home! man's richest portion here below! 
 
 How pure the bliss the fireside can bestow! 
 
 How dignified the joys of native land! 
 
 How blithe and happy is the social band! 
 
 But all must fade and change, beneath the sky: 
 
 Even man, God's noblest work, was "born to die!" 
 
 When fail at last thy faintly glimmering fires; 
 
 When, death-struck, thy last fading light expires; 
 
 Who would not cease 'mid restless things to roam, 
 
 And joyful hail the soul's Eternal home! 
 
NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOME 
 
NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOME 
 Note i, Page 16. 
 
 'Twas a Hermit's hand 
 That swept through Europe, bore a lighted brand; 
 Against the Infidel's oppression hurled 
 His thunderbolts, and roused the Christian world! 
 
 " The Hermit's fervid eloquence was not poured forth 
 in vain. The heart of Europe beat tumultuously with a 
 sympathetic enthusiasm, and the loud and unanimous call 
 of the nations was, 'To Arms!' " — Knickerbocker Mag, 
 Vol. 15, No, 1. Art. Chivalry and the Crusades. 
 
 Note 2, Page 16. 
 
 Mocks at the lightning, and defies the storm! 
 
 1 have lately read, in some periodical, an Essay on the 
 Character of Lord Byron, containing a passage which 
 suggested this picture; but I don't recollect either the 
 name or language of the writer. 
 
 Note 3, Page 35. 
 
 Because 'tis there 
 He is reminded of the evening prayer, (Sec. 
 
 *' When the sun has quitted the valley, and his lingering 
 beams still cast a glow of fading light on the summits of 
 the mountains, the shepherd, whose hut is placed on the 
 highest Alps, grasps his horn, and pronounces, through 
 his speaking trumpet, the solemn injunction to the world 
 below, — ' Praise ye the Lord!' Every shepherd in the 
 neighborhood, who catches this sound in succession, re- 
 peats the same sentence at the door of his cabin. Thus, 
 
56 
 
 j)erhaps, for a quarter of an hour, the cliffs and rocky 
 precipices fling to each other oft-repeated echoes of the 
 sublime, ' Praise ye the Lord!' A solemn stillness suc- 
 ceeds the last reverberation; and all kneel bare-headed, 
 and in silent devotion, till darkness rests upon the earth, 
 and veils the towering mountains. Again the horn re- 
 sounds, and the peaceful, social ' good night!' once more 
 awakens the echoes. Hills, vales, and rocky cliffs, and 
 all, sink to rest." — Oriental Key to the Scriptures. 
 
 Note 4, Page 37. 
 
 The Beauteous River! — This was the name given to 
 the Delaware, by the Indians. 
 
 Note 5, Page 44. 
 
 How charming were the pleasures that, of yore, 
 The false Arabian Prophet held before 
 His sensual followers! 
 
 "The celestial joys of Mohammed were addressed chiefly 
 to the indulgence of luxury and appetite. Rivers of water, 
 trees of gold, tents of rubies and emeralds, beds of musk, 
 garments of the richest brocades, crowns set with pearls 
 of matchless lustre, silken carpets, couches and pillows of 
 delicate embroidery, are among the rare treasures pro- 
 vided for the gratification of the external senses." — See 
 Crichtoii's History of Arabia, vol. 1, pp. 287, '8S. 
 
 Note 6, Page 46. 
 
 Convinced, that when the clod 
 Should cover him, he should behold his God! 
 
 "And though, after my skin, worms destroy this body, 
 yet in my flesh shall I see God." — Joh^ chap. 19, v. 26. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
\ 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 TO MY HARF. 
 
 I. 
 Awake, my Harp, and let thy strains 
 
 Float softly on the breeze, 
 That plays along those sunny plains, 
 And whispers oft the voice of swains. 
 
 And humming of the bees: 
 O break the solitude, that reigns 
 
 Among the forest trees! 
 While yet the pensive muse remains. 
 
 Nor from her wild home flees? 
 While yet one tuneful chord retains 
 Its power, this woodland silence break* 
 
 My gentle Harp, awake! 
 II. 
 My Harp, 1 ask thee not to spread, 
 
 Since weak thy strains must flow. 
 The honors of the mighty dead. 
 Whose names such hallowed influence shed; 
 
 Nor sing, in tones of wo, 
 Of troublous times, when heroes bled, 
 
 Or chased the vanquished foe; 
 
60 
 
 Who now upon their honored bed 
 
 Of kindred dust lie low: 
 'Tis thine to tell the joys that tread 
 
 In Nature's steps — how zephyr's shake 
 
 The flowers. My Harp, awake! 
 III. 
 My Harp, 'twas in life's early morn 
 
 I met thee. All was gay: 
 'Twas summer. 'Mid the growing corn 
 I strayed, and heard the sounding horn 
 
 Of hunters far away. 
 I found thee, silent and forlorn; 
 
 I touched thy strings in play; 
 'Twas a wild sound, yet sister born 
 
 To Nature's own deep lay. 
 I gave thee flowers: the same adorii 
 
 Thy strings that first thy silence brake: 
 
 My long-loved Harp, awake' 
 IV. 
 My Harp, though humble are thy lays. 
 
 And those to sadness prone; 
 Though few would dare to speak thy praise, 
 Yet some have loved, in by-gone days, 
 
 To listen to thy tone. 
 Though sentimental sadness strays 
 
 Amid thy numbers lone; 
 Though pensiveness so often play.s 
 
 Along thy midnight moan: 
 Though sorrow quench thy fire's bright blaze, 
 
61 
 
 Yet sorrow ne'er shall mar, nor break 
 Thy chords. Sweet Harp, awake! 
 
 V. 
 
 Sweet Harp, I leave my cares behind, 
 
 Which thou hast lulled to rest; 
 While peace, and thy loved strains combined, 
 Are mine, though all of human kind 
 
 Forsake me, I am blest. 
 Thy lays may, to a polished mind, 
 
 Seem awkwardly expressed: 
 O may they still an echo find 
 
 In every kindred breast! 
 Sweet solace of my joys, reclined 
 
 On thee, my resting place I make. 
 
 My own soft Harp, awake! 
 
 6 
 
62 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF AFFECTION. 
 
 "A refuge from distrust, 
 A stream of purer life, still freshly swelling, 
 To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
 With flowers divine!" — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 I. 
 
 sacred fount, how rich the flowers, 
 That God hath planted round thy spring! 
 
 How sweet the odor of the flowers, 
 That thy fair watered gardens bring! 
 
 Daisies and violets bloom. The rose, 
 Emblem of faded sweetness, there. 
 
 In all its native beauty blows, 
 
 And sheds its fragrance on the air! 
 
 Thy wide, extended valley yields 
 
 The pleasure of Elysian fields. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas in those bowers that tirst I met 
 The fair Florinda, gay and young; 
 
 Just as the golden sun had set. 
 
 And groves with woodland music rung. 
 
 1 heard her sing her own wild strains. 
 
 That brought such breathing thoughts along. 
 As spring but from a heart, where reigns 
 
 Aflection deep, and pure, and strong: 
 And, as she breathed her numbers lone, 
 Mv heart re-echoed every tone. 
 
63 
 
 III. 
 
 With her I spent my life's sweet morn; 
 
 With her I rambled o'er the hills. 
 1 gathered wild flowers, to adorn 
 
 Her garland, by the sparkling rills. 
 She, my superior in age, 
 
 With anxious care watched o'er my youth; 
 Wrote on my heart's unblotted page, 
 
 The first fair rudiments of truth. 
 Are those first lessons all erased? 
 Those first impressions all defaced^ 
 
 IV. 
 'Twas night. The pale moon from the sky 
 
 Her soft and silvery glances hurled, 
 And looked with tender, pitying eye, 
 
 Down on a dark, benighted world. 
 We sat within our rustic bower. 
 
 Where played the soft wind's gehtle blast; 
 There we beguiled the passing hour. 
 
 With songs and stories of the past. 
 O sweet the memory of the hours 
 We've spent among the tender flowers! 
 
 V. 
 One eve, in harvest time, we strolled 
 
 Far from the gay and festive throng, 
 By a clear rivulet, that rolled, 
 
 Near her wild home, its tide along. 
 She spake to me of parting hours; 
 
 1 trembled, yet I knew not why. 
 
64 
 
 She pointed to some fresh mown flowers, 
 
 And said, "Observe how soon they die!" 
 She also spake about the tomb: 
 My young heart felt unusual gloom! 
 
 VI. 
 i saw her stretched upon a bed 
 
 Of sickness — 'twas a bed of death! 
 She rolled and tossed her aching head 
 
 From side to side, and gasped for breath. 
 Many and bitter were the tears 
 
 That fond affection bade to flow, 
 While I beheld the flight of years, 
 
 And vanity of all below! 
 'Twas strange that e'er the desert air 
 Could nip a flower so fresh and fair! 
 
 VII. 
 She saw her end approaching near, 
 
 Yet ere her eyes were closed in death, 
 Fn speaking thus to calm my fear. 
 
 She spent the remnant of her breath: 
 "0! trust in nought beneath the sun. 
 
 But while the privilege is given, 
 Believe in God, as I have done, 
 
 And lay thy treasure up in heaven!" 
 I heard the charge, believed it true, 
 Yet what she meant, I scarcely knew. 
 VIII. 
 
 Oft as I wander by her tomb, 
 I meet her lonely sister there; 
 
65 
 
 She scatters, with a heart of gloom, 
 
 Pale wild flowers, with a sister's care. 
 She kneels, and gazes on the spot 
 
 Where she, the loved, the virtuous sleeps. 
 Deep is the flow of tender thought; 
 
 Her tears stream fast, and as she weeps, 
 Her soft glance seems to ask me, why 
 No bitter tear o'erflows my eye? 
 
 IX. 
 Florinda, from thy rest look down. 
 
 And pardon me, if I forbear 
 Now, when my sorrows darkest frown, 
 
 Upon thy grave to shed a tear! 
 The sacred treasures of that stream 
 , To the cold turf I cannot trust: 
 It would not rouse thee from thy dream, 
 
 Nor wake to life thy sleeping dust: 
 Why should a fountain burst its bands, 
 To lose itself in arid sands? 
 
 X. 
 No! I had rather calmly wait 
 
 The time, when God's own firm decree 
 Shall fix in their eternal state 
 
 Our kindred souls, unchained, and free. 
 Then, 0! how sweet 'twill be to pour 
 
 Upon thy spiritual breast 
 Aflection's rich, o'erflovving shower, 
 
 From spiritual eyes expressed; 
 
 And know that neither days nor years 
 
 Can e'er exhaust Afl!ection's tears! 
 6* 
 
66 
 
 MEMORY 
 
 I. 
 
 1 hear a sound! 'tis like the voice of streams, 
 That whispers to our hearts, where'er we roam, 
 A sweet, though faint remembrance; and it seems 
 To bear my spirit back to its loved home; 
 And music too of sweetest sound, which swells 
 On memory's pensive harp-strings, soft and clear. 
 And falls, like the low chime of evening bells, 
 Laden with sadness, on the listening ear: 
 O strain of sweetest melody! to me, how dear! 
 
 II. 
 The morning breeze that wakes the rural song, 
 And from the flower shakes the pearly dew, 
 Bears on its wide, extended wings along 
 That soft, pathetic strain, forever new. 
 Enraptured, on the stirring sound I dwell, 
 And deeply feel, yet cannot speak its worth; 
 Enjoy its moving power, yet cannot tell 
 Why such sweet lays are not of heavenly birth, 
 Or how such tones as these can sound from harps of earth. 
 
 III. 
 How strange, that Nature in the heart so deep 
 Hath fixed the seat of feeling, that the wave 
 Of sorrow long may o'er its ruins sweep. 
 Nor soil the impress that Afl!ection gave! 
 
67 
 
 0! 'tis a happy privilege to taste 
 The streams of that pure fount, whose swelling tide, 
 O'erflowing deep the heart's wild, arid waste, 
 Pours fresh luxuriance on every side; 
 A joy so rarely felt, we weened the source was dried. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How dear to me the calm and silent hour, 
 When thus, by heaven favored, I can gaze 
 Back on the fading past, and feel that power, 
 By memory snatched from scenes of other days! 
 Deeply I feel the spirit-wakenings 
 That those bright visions of the past afford, 
 And seem at once borne back on Fancy's wings, 
 And to th' embrace of former joys restored. 
 Rich music playing on my heart's long-silent chord. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Tis no romantic vision — no vain thought. 
 From haunts of wild imagination sprung. 
 That thus upon my pensive mind hath wrought, 
 And every nerve with tender vigor strung; 
 As huge and spectral forms, at Fancy's call, 
 May from some antiquated ruin rise. 
 Or moving shades in some deserted hall. 
 May fill th' amazed beholder with surprise, 
 Then, like the grey mist, vanish from before his eyes! 
 
 VI. 
 
 But 'tis the opening of a brighter scene 
 
 Than Fancy's art can paint; and sounds more strong. 
 
 More clear, and deep, salute the ear, than e'en 
 
68 
 
 The fabled melody of Syren's song: 
 
 It brings a pleasure to the troubled heart, 
 
 And bids the weary pilgrim cease to roam: 
 
 As soft a balm its hallowed lays impart, 
 
 As breezes that from Southern gardens come, 
 
 And every strain harmonious seems a voice from home. 
 
 VII. 
 It sings the song of those far distant hills, 
 Where, in the morn of life, I loved to stray: 
 O, who can tell th' impassioned joy that fills 
 My bosom, as I listen to that lay! 
 A lay of rapture, which so oft I've sung, 
 When in the blest society of friends, 
 With whose sweet voices the wild valleys rung. 
 O'er that bright scene my gladdened spirit bends. 
 While mantling joy, with tender grief, how sweetly! blends. 
 
 VIII. 
 It whispers of the many golden hours, 
 Long passed, when I have gazed on Nature's book. 
 When wandering free among her own fair bowers, 
 Along the margin of the cooling brook: 
 And those clear, starry skies, from whence there beamed 
 The mildest beauties of the Queen of night. 
 Who gazed upon the radiant smile, that seemed 
 To play, with inexpressible delight. 
 On every earthly scene beneath her genial light. 
 
 IX. 
 How often I have stood, as in a dream. 
 And gazed upon her fair, resplendent orb, 
 Whose image quivered in the ruffled stream,. 
 
69 
 
 That danced, and seemed as if it would absorb 
 The distant planet's beauty. I have thought, 
 When I have seen her crescent fair expand, 
 That beams so beautiful as these were not 
 Than Heaven's brightest, purest rays less grand, 
 Or concentrated glories of the spirit land. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ah, cheerless Memory!* I hail thee not 
 
 As once I hailed thee: I indulge no more 
 
 The cooling, pleasant draught, that thou hast brought 
 
 To my parched, thirsty soul, in days of yore' 
 
 I feel no pleasure when the day returns. 
 
 No kindling rapture, when its beams depart; 
 
 For changeless is the wasting fire that burns 
 
 Within my breast, with ever torturing smart! 
 
 Alas, my joys are fled, and broken is my heart! 
 
 * Coniposed in a fit of melancholy 
 
70 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 •' Pallida mors sequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
 Regumque turres." — Horace. 
 
 I. 
 
 The rich man died. His pale and prostrate frame 
 In the cold, silent sepulchre was laid. 
 He sleeps; but his high monument proclaims 
 To each beholder, " Life is but a shade!" 
 He sees no more the poor despised afar, 
 Nor friends, when o'er his sleeping dust they stand- 
 How strong, O Death, thy iron fetters are! 
 No mortal man- can burst thy icy band, 
 Nor e'er escape the grasp of thy cold, shivering hand! 
 
 II. 
 Strange, that the modest little flowers, that grow 
 In the wild woods, and flourish in their prime, 
 All know the season when to spring, and blow, 
 Wither, and die at their appointed time! 
 But we, poor mortals, hasting to our end, 
 Decay at every season, every hour; 
 Our proud heads droop; we to our graves descend, 
 While yet, with many a cool, refreshing shower, 
 God, in his bounty, stoops to cheer the tender flower! 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet I have seen a tender plant, that blushed 
 Beside where streams of limpid waters flow, 
 Beneath a sky serene, untimely crushed 
 
71 
 
 By the rough tread of the wild mountain roe: 
 Even thus, frail man, the creature of a day, 
 Often, when all around looked fair, has fled! 
 When every earthly pleasure courts his stay, 
 And Nature brightest smiles, he hangs his head, 
 And falls, O Death, beneath thy cold, unfeeling tread! 
 
 IV. 
 It is a melancholy thing, to hear 
 The cold clods rattling on the coffin lid, 
 While sadly falls the bitter, streaming tear 
 Upon the spot where once-loved clay lies hid,- 
 And know, that but a few short, worthless years, 
 In time's long catalogue, shall pass away, 
 Ere those, the living now, who shed those tears. 
 Shall also mingle with their kindred clay. 
 And sleep until the morning of the judgment day! 
 
 V. 
 Yet shrink not, O my soul! Although 'tis pain 
 To see a fellow-creature's corse laid low in dust. 
 Yet lift thine eye to yonder starry plain, 
 And read, amidst those gems, thy fadeless trust! 
 Dry up thy tears! Though man is born to die, 
 And life is but a span, yet flowers perfume 
 Our pathway to the grave. The smiling eye 
 Of our blest Savior has dispersed the gloom; 
 The mighty God has burst the portals of the tomb' 
 
72 
 
 DEPARTED DAYS. 
 
 I love to think on moments past, 
 And seasons gone that once were fair: 
 Their song is on the wintry blast, 
 
 And on the summer air. 
 The memory of distant times 
 Falls, with a sweet and melting power, 
 Upon us, like the bell's low chimes 
 
 At twilight's pensive hour. 
 There is a calm and holy spell, 
 That comes the musing spirit o'er, 
 Oft as the depths of feeling swell 
 
 Back to the days of yore. 
 How sweet the voices of the dead, 
 Whom once we loved, salute the ear! 
 How sweet, o'er follies past to shed 
 
 The "penitential tear!" 
 
 Our present joys! how swift they fleet! 
 As o'er the stream the sunbeam plays: 
 There is no pleasure half so sweet 
 As that of other days! 
 
73 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S TOMB. 
 
 •• Where'er by some forsaken grave, 
 Some nameless greensward heap, 
 A bird may sing, a wild flower wave, 
 A star its vigils keep."— Mrs. Hemans. 
 I. 
 It was the dark and midnight hour, when o'er 
 The glowing surface of the rippled wave, 
 A faithful band by moonlight bore 
 Their chieftain to his grave. 
 II. 
 That morn, he stood upon the battle field. 
 Proud son of hope! the boldest of his train: 
 His spirit knew not how to yield, 
 Or wear oppression's chain. 
 III. 
 There came an arrow from a hosfile bow, 
 Swift as the wind, and quivered in his breast: 
 Then, Nature's harp-strings sounded low: 
 
 Laconda sunk to rest. 
 IV. 
 The spirit of the Indian rose, unchained, 
 While forth the life-blood gushed, to meet his God: 
 A nobler river never stained 
 Old Marathon's green sod! 
 V. 
 They laid his body in a bark canoe, 
 
 And swiftly rowed across the ruffled stream: 
 
 7 
 
74 
 
 Soft on his couch, as o'er he flew, 
 Fell the moon's silvery beam. 
 
 VI. ; 
 
 They hastened to a lonely forest, where 
 iMajeatic mountains rose, in solemn gloom, 
 With dark, deep vales between, and there 
 Prepared the Warrior^s tomb. 
 
 VII. 
 Then sadly in his winding-sheet they rolled 
 His tall form,-T-in a blood-stained bison's hide. 
 The same in which his comrades bold 
 Had wrapped him, when he died. 
 VIII. 
 They laid him, where the voice of mountain strearYij? 
 Pours forth, in loud, though sweet, harmonious sounds: 
 
 They left him, wrapped in golden dreams 
 Of distant hunting grounds. 
 
 IX. 
 Yea, mournfully their parting eyes they raised, 
 And stood, in silent, reverential thought. 
 Before his tomb, as if they gazed 
 Upon some hallowed spot. 
 
 X. 
 Then, as the meek-eyed moon, with lustre pale, 
 Shone on the aged pine-tree's barkless stem. 
 The owl began his nightly wail. 
 And sang his requiem. 
 
75 
 
 SABBATH SONNETS. 
 
 Tis Sabbath morn. The stars are peeping o'er 
 The Eastern hills; the air is calm; the sky- 
 Is clear, without a cloud; the wind's low sigh 
 
 Has died away, along the river's shore! 
 
 There's not a breath of wind to agitate 
 
 The glassy stream, that, with its whispering song, 
 Moves in its silent majesty along! 
 
 Now heaven and earth reposes. Happy state! 
 
 All are not silent; for the birds awake, 
 And early fill with tender lays of love, 
 To God omnipotent, the shady grove. 
 
 Rich harmony their strains unlettered rnake, 
 
 While speaking smiles the hills and vales adorn! 
 
 Oh, still and lovely is the Sabbath morn! 
 
 II. 
 'Tis Sabbath eve. The glorious sun has set. 
 
 Arrayed in cloudless beauty, in the West. 
 
 O what a godlike influence wins the breast, 
 Where innocence reigns spotless, to forget 
 The pains of human life! The vesper hymn 
 
 Comes stealing over from yon rustic bower, 
 
 And clothes the spirit with resistless power! 
 The hills, amid the gathering shades, look dim; 
 
The happy birds have ceased their caroling; 
 The flowers begin to shed the tears of night, 
 And stars to burnish, with their twinkling light, 
 
 The upper world. . How still is every thing, 
 
 While day, with all its charms, is taking leave! 
 
 Oh, what so lovely as the Sabbath eve! 
 
77 
 
 THE DEATH OF SAPPHO. 
 
 I. 
 
 All hushed and still arose that fatal morn, 
 Upon Leucates' top: no sound was heard, 
 But the shrill warbling of the mountain bird. 
 Or the low winding of the hunter's horn, 
 Who in the distant vale the chase pursued. 
 The lonely prey of mingled grief and ire, 
 Upon that towering cliff desponding stood. 
 'Twas she, the mistress of the Grecian lyre; 
 Despair had kindled in her breast its hottest fire. 
 
 II, 
 She gazed around her. " What is life," she said, 
 *' To one, whose heart is broken, — whose sad doom 
 Js fixed immutably — who, for a tonrrb, 
 Upon the wave- worn rock must lay her head! 
 Sad is my lot! My soul with passion glows! 
 
 might I die, as die the honored brave! 
 But I have deeply drained my cup of woes! 
 
 1 long to cool my flame in yonder wave, 
 
 And, by one fatal plunge, secure a watery grave!" 
 
 III. 
 
 She stood majestic on the airy cliff, 
 And gazed into tlie dark, blue sea below, 
 Where, stretched upon his coral bed full low. 
 Lay many a wasted lover, cold and stiff. 
 
78 
 
 Calmly awoke the morning breeze, and fanned 
 Her spectral form, and tossed her flowing hair: 
 The songster of the wood, in accents bland, 
 Began his lay, as if to mock her care: 
 The strain went to her heart, but found no echo there. 
 
 IV. 
 She thought that dreadful hour of friends and home, 
 Whom she had left afar, in Lesbos isle. 
 And of the Mytelenian youth, whose smile 
 Had lured her from her sunny bowers to roam! 
 She shed no bitter tear — ah! why not weep? 
 Was there no vent for sorrow's swelling tide? 
 Was every tender feeling lulled to sleep? 
 Tears were not her's; for fate her spirit tried, 
 And tears, the sad heart's sole relief, were then denied. 
 
 V. 
 
 As thus she stood upon th' eternal verge, 
 Gazed she no farther than the silent tomb? 
 Did she not strive to spy, amid its gloom, 
 What lay beneath Time's overpowering surge? 
 She did. A being cannot leave the world, 
 And not inquire, " How shall the future stand?" 
 She paused — but Reason from her throne was hurled; 
 The swelling surge her spirit vainly scanned. 
 Like a tossed ship without a helm when far from land. 
 
 VI. 
 She fell a sacrifice, — O tragic isle, — 
 Upon thy coast. Her incense offered there, 
 Was passion — thy white rocks her altar were; 
 
79 
 
 The ocean's vast profound, her funeral pile- 
 Ere yet she cleared the rough and craggy steep; 
 Ere yet were hushed the strains of her soft lyre, 
 Day's King had thrown his mantle o'er the deep; 
 The morning sun arose on wings of fire, 
 Shone soft upon the emblazoned sea, and lit her pyre! 
 
80 
 
 OFT, WHEN THE GATHERING CLOUDS OF SORROW 
 
 I. 
 
 Oft, when the gathering clouds of sorrow 
 Hang, like the vapors of the tomb, 
 Over the dim, uncertain morrow. 
 Filling the anxious mind with gloom, 
 Fondly I turn, with warm devotion. 
 Back to the joyous days of youth; 
 Days when the heart's sincere emotion 
 Whispered a tale of inward truth! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oft, when the heart is inly smarting, 
 When its delights are borne away, 
 Hope, from the weary soul departing, 
 Leaves her without one cheering ray: 
 Sweet to behold the shades affrighted 
 Fleeing before the orient beam! 
 Friendship, and Truth, and Love united, 
 Pouring abroad their golden stream! 
 
SI 
 
 WHAT MEANETH THIS SADNESS' 
 
 I. 
 
 What meaneth this sadness 
 That preys on my heart? 
 And why is the tear-drop 
 
 So ready to start! 
 For the Spring will return 
 
 With her gladdening voice, 
 And the fields, in the light 
 Of her smile, shall rejoice! 
 II. 
 The woods and the meadows 
 
 Shall flourish again. 
 And violets and daisies 
 Shall cover the plain; 
 The night-bird shall warble 
 
 Of love's tender theme; 
 And the moon in her glory 
 Shall dance in the stream* 
 III. 
 But where is the loved one, 
 With whom I have gazed 
 On the wave, when the moon 
 
 In her majesty blazed- 
 She has fled from my sight; 
 
 As a vision would flee' 
 Ah! Spring, thou art welcome 
 No longer, to me! 
 
82 
 
 THE TEAR DROP. 
 
 •'An angel, wandering from her sphere, 
 Who saw this bright, tliis frozen gem, - ' . 
 
 To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, 
 And hung it on her diadem." — MooRE. 
 
 • I- ' . • ■•' 
 
 Sweet Angelina, often I 
 
 Have seen the tear-drop start 
 Down from thy spiritual eye, 
 
 When joy was in thy heart. 
 But oh! if that bright tear can speak, 
 
 Thy spirit is not glad; 
 Those glittering drops upon thy cheek. 
 
 Proclaim thee sad. 
 11. 
 How oft, at such a time as this^ 
 
 We've told our hopes and fears, 
 And smiles of joy, and looks of bliss. 
 
 Have mingled with thy tears! i , 
 But now, a veil has overspread 
 
 The brightness of thy days, 
 And smiles of joy no longer shed 
 
 Their lively rays. 
 
 III. 
 Why tremblest thou, when I would hush 
 
 Thy grief, and calm thy fears? 
 
83 
 
 Or why in pensive silence blush. 
 
 While faster flow thy tears? 
 Is there a chord within thy breast 
 
 So sensitive and weak, 
 Which they, who would disturb its rest. 
 
 Must almost break? 
 IV. 
 Wilt thou that I should bring sweet flowers, 
 
 Thy garland to adorn, 
 Which we have gathered in the bowers, 
 
 So oft at rising morn; 
 Or which along the sparkling rills 
 
 We've plucked, so fresh and gay, 
 While softly faded on the hills 
 
 The golden day! 
 
 V. 
 
 This morn I joined the rural chase 
 
 After the mountain deer; 
 
 ♦ 
 
 I saw our long-loved meeting place, 
 
 Beside that fountain clear. 
 I passed that little shaded mound, 
 
 Where pinks and laurels bloom, 
 And wild-flowers scent the air around 
 
 Thy mother's tomb. 
 VI. 
 
 I saw the stately chestnut trees, 
 Where thrushes build their nests; 
 
 I heard the humming of the bees 
 Among their blossomed crests. 
 
84 
 
 Sweet Angelina, may I dare 
 To brush that tear away? 
 O no! its rest is hallowed there, — 
 -There let it stay' 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah! well 1 understand that tear-: 
 
 Thy secret it reveals! 
 It tells th' alternate hope and fear 
 
 Thy inward spirit ieels. 
 O! happy thou, girl of my song, 
 
 Whose tears have power to gain 
 What smiles and honied words have long 
 
 Essayed in vain! 
 
65 
 
 FAREWELL TO SLIPPERY ROCK HILLS. 
 I. 
 
 Ye Hills of Slippery Rock, farewell! 
 
 I leave you with a sigh; 
 For oh how lovely, none can tell! 
 
 How beauteous to my eye! 
 H. 
 Oft have I trodden with a heart 
 
 Far lighter than the breeze, 
 Along your roughest, wildest part, 
 
 Or 'mid your shady trees. 
 III. 
 
 Ofl; have 1 stood upon your rocks. 
 
 By Nature's finger piled. 
 That forth 'mid thunder's wildest shocks, 
 
 So many years have smileJ! 
 IV. 
 
 And downward gazed upon the stream 
 
 That rolled in beauty on, 
 Far Westward, where the golden beam 
 
 Of fading day had gone. 
 V. 
 
 Ofl have I roamed where torrents roared, 
 
 Far down your valleys deep, 
 
 And every dark ravine explored 
 
 Along each craggy steep! 
 8 
 
86 
 
 And oft Fve paused with listening ear, 
 
 Within some quiet dell, 
 Intent on distant hill to hear 
 
 The well known heifer bell! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Recorded on my inmost heart 
 
 Are those dear scenes of youth; 
 Nor can the world^s most perfect art, 
 
 Efface that record's truth? 
 VIII. 
 But I must leave you, and afar 
 
 My wandering feet may stray; 
 Yet still your memory, like a star, 
 
 Shall guide my doubtful way! 
 IX. 
 
 Once more, my native Hills, adieu! 
 
 And, when my time has come. 
 Since here my vital breath 1 drew. 
 
 Here let me start for home! 
 
m 
 
 AN EVENING MELODY 
 I. 
 The sound of flutes is on the air, 
 The swelling music softly rolls, 
 And gently breathes, as if it were 
 
 The balm of wounded souls. 
 II. 
 There's freshness in the evening breeze, 
 There's painted radiance in the sky, 
 When such transcendent tones as these 
 
 Are sweetly echoed by. 
 
 III. 
 
 O! for the pinions of the wind. 
 
 To bear my spirit far away 
 
 To some lone spot, where I migl\t find 
 
 A home of changeless day! 
 IV. 
 To some wild, solitary land, 
 Where Nature rears her fairest flowers, 
 The choicest products of her hand, 
 
 To decorate her bowers! 
 V. 
 There's loveliness in every tone, 
 Enough to soothe the heart's alarm, 
 And in the harp-string's wildest moan, 
 
 There is a secret charm. 
 
88 
 
 VI. 
 
 There's beauty in the garden, where 
 The tender rose-bud opening shoots; 
 And aongs of streams upon the air, 
 Awake the sound of flutes. 
 
89 
 
 EVENING WORSHIP AT EDGE WORTH SEMINARY 
 
 I. 
 
 I love to hear the wild bee, 
 
 When it comes, the Spring to greet, 
 Filling the trees with music, - 
 
 And the flowers with echoes sweet! 
 II. 
 How innocent its love-lav, 
 
 As it gaily glides along! 
 But it fails to charm the listener, 
 
 Like the Christian's evening song! 
 III. 
 I love to hear the streamlet. 
 
 As it babbles down the hill: 
 How laughingly it chatters! 
 
 How it makes the bosom thrtll! 
 IV. 
 Its song is never-ending. 
 
 And its notes are rich and rare; 
 But it is not half so stirring 
 
 As the voice of evening prayer! 
 V. 
 I love to hear the night-wind, 
 
 In a still and lonely spot, 
 
 Breathing its notes of sorrow, 
 
 When the soul is wrapped in thought 
 8* 
 
90 
 
 VI. 
 
 But oh! the breeze is lighter, 
 
 And its voice is doubly strong, 
 When it bears upon its bosom 
 
 The low-warbled evening song! 
 VII 
 I !ove to hear the thunder 
 
 As it peals, with godlike power. 
 Along the echoing heavens, 
 
 At the awful midnight hour. 
 VIII 
 For solemn is the death-note 
 
 That succeeds the lightning's glare; 
 But it cannot melt the spirit, 
 
 Like the voice of evening prayer. 
 IX. 
 I love to stray at morning 
 
 By Sewickly's gentle stream. 
 While lightly plays the zephyr. 
 
 Like the echo of a dream. 
 X. 
 But more I love at evenmg 
 
 To behold the gathered throng. 
 When, around their sacred altar, 
 
 They pour forth the evening song' 
 XI. 
 1 )ove by night to wander 
 
 The green hills and valleys o'er, 
 
91 
 
 And revel in the moonlight 
 On Ohio's pleasant shore! 
 
 XII 
 
 Yet bright though be the moonlight, 
 There is nought so charming there 
 
 As the sacred song of twilight, 
 And the grateful evening prayer!* 
 
 * Edge WORTH Seminary is located on the Ohio river, fifteen milea be 
 low Pittsburgh, on an extensive plain, called Sewickly valley. The situa 
 tion is at once pleasant and healthful, while its natural advantages are 
 greatly enhanced by careful cultivation. Under the care of its Principal, 
 Mrs, Olver, a lady possessing, besides the requisite stock of knowledge, 
 all the additional charms of he accomplished female; and situated as it in, 
 in the midst of a growing and highly intelligent population, this Institu* 
 tion still continues, as hereiofors, to merit and receive an extensive and 
 well deserved patronage. 
 
92 
 
 TO MIR A. 
 
 I. 
 
 MiRA, perhaps thy heart sincere 
 
 Is lighted up by pleasure's beam: 
 May heaven forbid that aught should e*er 
 
 Disturb the bliss of thy young dream! 
 II. 
 May pleasure cliarm, with seraph voice; 
 
 Hope's flowers long around thee hloorn; 
 Yet oh! remember, 'mid thy joys, 
 
 The lonely, hapless child of gloom! 
 III. 
 While cradled in the lap of ease, 
 
 O may one wish to Heaven ascend; 
 A wish that God may guide in peace 
 
 The wandering footsteps of thy friend! 
 
93 
 
 THE WILD FLOWER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Who ever saw a flower so fair^ 
 
 As the lonely one that blooms 
 Beside yon mountain streamlet, where 
 The humming bird and wild bee share 
 
 Alone its rich perfumes? 
 II. 
 The morning sun comes up so bright 
 
 To cheer a spot like this, 
 And with his sweet, reviving light, 
 He chases back the gloom of night, 
 
 While Nature wakes to bliss! 
 
 III. 
 
 There, far from gay and crowded throngs. 
 
 The forest floweret blows, 
 While every wild charm that belongs 
 To Nature's sweet, inspiring songs> 
 
 Around the beauty glowso 
 IV. 
 There are no hands around its home 
 
 To disturb its tiny cup; 
 It hears but the rill, the birds, and hum 
 Of the busy wild bees, when they come 
 
 To suck its nectar upc 
 
94 
 
 V. 
 Mary, the flower girl, bright and hale, 
 
 Has quitted her bed of chaff; 
 For she loves to trip across the vale, 
 To catch a breath of the morning gale, 
 And hear the rill's soft laugh. 
 VI. 
 
 She loves that solitary flower, 
 
 Lone tenant of the hills, 
 And well she knows its moving power 
 Were lost, when snatched from Nature's bower, 
 
 Beside the mountain rills. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O who would take that flower away 
 
 From its solitary home, 
 Where wild birds chant their sweetest lay. 
 And purest zephyr's ever play, 
 
 Nor poisonous vapors come! 
 VIII. 
 
 O touch it not! but let it grow 
 
 In its wild and shady dell; 
 Let purest breezes round it flow. 
 Let brightest sunshine o'er it glow, 
 
 And softest mu^i$ swell! 
 IX. 
 
 It graces well the lonely spot 
 
 Where Nature gave it birth; 
 A lovely scene' with beauty fraught, 
 
And yet so wild, 'tis seldom sought 
 By the cruel lords of earth! 
 
 X. 
 And on it smiles in beauty there, 
 
 And we wonder as we gaze 
 On the stem, so simple, yet so fair, 
 And the flower, so common, yet so rare, 
 
 With its soft, subduing blaze!* 
 
 * The plant, Aquilegia Canadensis, the flower of which I used 
 to fency resembled flame in appearance. 
 
96 
 
 I SING TO THEE, LOVED ONE. 
 I. 
 
 I sing to thee, loved one, when the stars 
 
 Look dimly from on high, 
 And the sun begins to burst the bars 
 
 Of the gilded Eastern sky! 
 
 II. 
 
 I sing to thee, loved one, when the ray 
 
 Of burning noon is bright. 
 And a countless host of insects play 
 
 In the warm and glowing light! 
 
 III. 
 
 I sing to thee, loved one, when the West 
 
 Is like a sea of gold, 
 Or a flaming fire on Ocean's breast. 
 
 As of beauty's fairest mould! 
 
 IV. 
 
 1 sing to thee, loved one, oft by night, 
 When midnight silence reigns; 
 
 While a vision flits before my sight, 
 And I hear thy melting strains! 
 
 V. 
 
 I sing to thee, loved one, when I stray 
 Beside the mountain stream: 
 
97 
 
 it returns an echo to my lay, 
 Like a half-forgotten dream! 
 
 VI. 
 
 1 sing to thee, loved one, and I wait 
 To hear thy answering tone; 
 
 But alas! the ways of cruel Fate! 
 She hath left me all alone! 
 9 
 
98 
 
 OH! HAS EARTH NO PEACE? 
 I. 
 
 Oh! has earth no peace? 
 Will not sorrow cease? 
 Life is full of trouble, 
 
 Even from the cradle 
 To the distant bourne: 
 "Man was made to mourn!" 
 
 II. 
 
 Who can dry our tears? 
 Who dispel our fears? 
 
 He whose mercy gave us 
 
 Christ the Lord to save us, 
 
 Wipes the tear-drop dry 
 
 From the mourner's eye. 
 III. 
 In the hour of death, 
 Must we yield our breath? 
 
 Yes, the day is coming, 
 
 When our God shall summon 
 
 To his awful bar, 
 
 People near and far! 
 
99 I 
 
 i 
 
 IV. 
 
 Who shall be our stay, 
 In that awful day? 
 
 'Tis the love of Jesus, 
 
 From the curse that frees us; 
 
 'Tis his pardoning blood, 
 
 Reconciles to God! 
 
IDO 
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 Cahn as the Ocean's wave, 
 When storms are past and gone. 
 Now in thy silent grave, 
 Rest, happy one. 
 
 Now thou shalt weep no more! 
 On the Redeemer's breast, 
 Life's weary troubles o'er. 
 
 Fair spirit, rest! 
 
 Rest in peace' 
 
101 
 
 TO AGNES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Kind Agnes, when I touch the lyre, 
 
 It is not my intention 
 To tamper with unhallowed fire, 
 
 Or cheat thy condescension. 
 If I should tune the strings to love, 
 
 My harp would sink to slumbers: 
 Its songs, believe me, soar above 
 
 Those soft and plaintive numbers. 
 
 ♦ 
 II. 
 
 I wish no purer, holier flame, 
 
 Than that which Friendship kindles; 
 Its sacred light is still the same; 
 
 Its lustre never dwindles; 
 Its orb is like the pale-faced moon, 
 
 Our silvery beamed torch-lighter; 
 Its rays, though scarcely felt at noon, 
 
 At midnight shine far brighter. 
 
 III. 
 
 I wish no tear-drop, pillowed soft, 
 On those sweet summer flowers; 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 -I wish no iove-sick sigh to waft 
 
 My soul to Eden's bowers; 
 
 But oh! my gentle Agnes, cast 
 
 Thy gunny smiles around me! 
 Should they but sun-bursts prove at last, 
 They'll cheer, but cannot wound me! 
 
 IV. 
 Amidst anxiety and Tears, 
 
 Reclining on thy bosom, 
 Should care provoke to bi-tter tears, 
 
 How sweetly could I lose him! 
 Or should they trickle o'er thy breast, 
 
 That no dark spot or stain knows, 
 Let smiles upon the tear-drop rest, 
 
 And kindle it to rainbows. 
 
 V. 
 'Tis Friendship that supports our breath. 
 
 Our doubts and fears beguiling; 
 Enables us to greet pale Death, 
 
 And hail the cold tomb, smiling! 
 But Friendship; shall survive the tomb, 
 
 And burst^ through each dark portal, 
 Shall rise, embalmed in heaven's perfume. 
 
 And drest in youth immortal! 
 
 Accept the tribute of thy friend, 
 Whose prayers for thee are given; 
 
 Who hopes, when life's dull cares shall end. 
 To meet thee high in heaven; 
 
103 
 
 When pillowed on thy virtuous heart, 
 Despair can never hurt me; 
 
 For Hope and I shall never part. 
 Till every friend desert me. 
 
104 
 
 DOST THOU REMEMBER? 
 I. 
 
 Dost thou remember that bright smile, 
 That played upon thy lips the while, 
 When sorrow made thy bosom smart, 
 And peace had vanished from thy heart? 
 As on the mountain's snowy height. 
 The sun may cast a lingering light, 
 When all is lone and dark beneath, 
 Robed in the livery of death! 
 
 II. 
 
 Dost thou remember that bright tear, 
 Forth gushing from its fountain clear. 
 That on thy breast so gently fell. 
 That breast thai heaved with pity's swell? 
 Or has it vanished where it lay, 
 Like dew-drops in the morning ray? 
 And did the thought that bade it start, 
 As quickly vanish from thy heart? 
 
 III. 
 Dost thou remember that bright hour. 
 When Hope returned with quickening power, 
 And shone upon thee like the star 
 Of mercy, beaming from afar? 
 
105 
 
 O happy hour! when hearts o'erflow 
 With joy ho other heart can know! 
 That hour, when Hope's sustaining beam 
 Plays upon sorrow's sluggish stream! 
 
106 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air, — ^^Araby^s Daughter.^'' 
 
 I. 
 
 Farewell to thee, soft flowing Conoquenessing; 
 Smile on in thy beauty, when I am afar! 
 And oh! while enjoying my parents' fond blessing, 
 ni tell them how lovely thy bright waters are! 
 Hereafter, through many a stormy commotion 
 My spirit may pass; but will ever be true. 
 And ne'er will forget, with what tender emotion. 
 This morning, I bid thee a pensive adieu! 
 
 II. 
 
 Farewell, ye bright faces, that cluster around me! 
 
 Enchanting your smiles, but I cannot delay; 
 
 I must go to the region where fortune hath bound me, 
 
 Of sad disappoinment, the desolate prey! 
 
 Yet say, will ye treasure the hour when we parted, 
 
 With the beautiful Conoquenessing in view? 
 
 And remember the tear that so bitterly started. 
 
 That morn, when I bade you a pensive adieu! 
 
107 
 
 WHERE CAN A PILGRIM, SPENT WITH CARE? 
 
 I. 
 
 Where can a pilgrim, spent with care, 
 
 And many a tear of anguish shed. 
 
 Find, O Content, a mansion, where 
 
 He may lay in peace his aching head! 
 
 O can the weary spirit find 
 
 A balm for sorrow's piercing smart? 
 
 A home in some congenial mind, 
 
 In th' embrace of some confiding heart? 
 
 II. 
 
 Contentment, to thy shrine I go, 
 To linger round thy peaceful urn, 
 Till tears of bliss refuse to flow, 
 And thy sacred fires have ceased to burn! — 
 O weary pilgrim, find a rest. 
 Unbroken, calm, and roam no more. 
 Reclined on woman's faithful breast, 
 And the burden of thy toils is o'er! 
 
108 
 
 SPECIMEN OF TRANSLATION. 
 
 "DifTugere nives: redeunt jam gramina caropis, 
 Arboribusque comse." — ^Horace. 
 
 I. 
 
 The cheerless snow is melted 
 
 By Spring's soft, gentle breeze; 
 Green herbage crowns the meadows, 
 
 And leaves adorn the trees. 
 All Nature joys at finding 
 
 Another season fled; 
 And gently flow the rivers 
 
 Along their pebbly bed. 
 
 The Nymphs, and pleasant Graces, 
 
 With tender flowing song. 
 Are swift to chant their numbers, 
 
 And lead the dance along. 
 Our days, so swiftly passing. 
 
 Our moments gliding by, 
 Forbid the expectation 
 
 Of Immortality. 
 
 III. 
 
 How softly breathe the zephyrs! 
 How sweet the flowers they bring! 
 
109 
 
 But soon those flowers are faded, 
 For Summer chases Spring: 
 
 And when the sober Autumn 
 With fruits adorns the plain, 
 
 The shortened days remind us 
 Of Winter's dreary reign. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Moon repairs her losses; 
 
 But where our bones are laid, 
 We wait our resurrection — 
 
 We are but dust and shade! 
 Who knows that on to-morrow 
 
 The glorious sun shall rise? 
 All hangs upon the pleasure 
 
 Of Him, who rules the skies, 
 
 V. 
 
 Why do we gather riches * 
 
 To leave among our heirs, 
 Since every earthly portion 
 
 Can but increase their cares'? 
 When once the gloomy portals 
 
 Of Death's dark vale are past, 
 And when the last decision 
 
 Upon our souls is past — = 
 
 VI. 
 
 Nor wealth, nor noble parents. 
 Nor soft- toned eloquence, 
 10 
 
110 
 
 Nor piety, nor honor, 
 Can e'er recall us thence. 
 
 The labor of Diana 
 And Theseus, how vain! 
 
 To rescue the beloved one, 
 Or break th' infernal chain! 
 
Ill 
 
 THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP. 
 I. 
 
 My Harp, farewell! In happier days, 
 
 'Twas sweet to wake thy plaintive tone: 
 I loved alike thy cheerful lays, 
 
 And thy wild, solitary moan: 
 But sorrow's cold and shivering blast 
 
 Has dried at length my heart's deep springs: 
 Thy days of melody are past; 
 
 For frozen tears have clogged thy strings! 
 II. 
 Cold frowns, and disappointment bleak, 
 
 Have fastened silence, deep and long, 
 Upon thy chords, ill-tuned and weak, 
 
 E'en in the midst of thy young §ong. 
 Still would thy struggling numbers tell 
 
 The shaft that made my bosom smart; 
 The dreadful shipwreck that befel 
 
 My fond and unsuspecting heart. 
 III. 
 Yet may thy strains resound above, 
 
 When in my cold and watery grave 
 I sleep — in some dark coral grove 
 
 Beneath the blue, transparent wave! 
 May heavenly breezes waft thee o'er 
 
 The troubled ocean, vast and wide. 
 
112 
 
 To bright Elysium's happy shore, 
 On the rough surface of the tide! 
 IV. 
 
 May some fair spirit, wandering there, 
 
 Find thee, and snatch thee from the surge; 
 That on thy strings a milder air 
 
 May play thy master's funeral dirge! 
 May many in that spirit land 
 
 Hear thy wild-warbled numbers rise. 
 Long as thy breathing chords are fanned 
 
 By the soft winds of paradise! 
 
POEMS BY THE AUTHOR'S SISTER- 
 
 10^ 
 
115 
 
 POEMS BY THE AUTHOR'S SISTER. 
 
 The following poems were written by the author's sister, 
 and are inserted here at the request of a number of 
 the patrons of the present work. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The Night comes on, and twilight's holy spell 
 Is gently resting on the quiet earth: 
 The cool and gentle breezes stir the air, 
 And Cynthia sheds her nnellow light around. 
 At this hushed hour, when Nature calmly sleeps; 
 When care-worn laborers seek the still repose 
 Of their own dwellings, let me wander forth 
 Through shady groves, where Muses hold their court. 
 And win the wood-nymph from her flowery nook — 
 My object gained, my lyre attuned to song, 
 I haste to chant thy numbers, "Starry Night." 
 How beautiful the dome of Heaven appears, 
 When night-gems glitter in the vast expanse 
 Of boundless, deep, unfathomable blue! 
 When Hesperus and Cynthia lead on 
 Their sister planets in the mystic dance, 
 And, one by one, they joyfully come forth 
 To join the revelry, and sing the praise 
 Of Him who fixed creation's utmost bound! 
 
116 
 
 Night's beautiful, when weary Nature seeks 
 Relief from all her toils in balmy sleep; 
 When her untiring watchers, peering forth 
 From out the still recesses of the sky, 
 Watch o'er the brow, where many furrows drawn 
 By Care's hard hand, reveal each tale of wo. 
 And o'er the lid, where sleep toil sweetened rests! 
 
 Night's beautiful, when hill and valley, clad 
 In robes of green, rejoice in Luna's smile; 
 When, in her silver car, high o'er the earth 
 She threads her way through mists of upper air, 
 And smiles in love upon this wandering ball. 
 
 Night's beautiful. 'Tis in its silent hush 
 My thoughts unfettered stray to realms unknown, 
 And mingle in the joys of other spheres; 
 And oft, 'mid the low breathings of the air, 
 Mysterious melody swells on my ear. 
 Hark! on the passing breeze are borne the notes 
 Of some lost loved one, wafted from afar; 
 From Heaven's clime, some note of comforting 
 To mourning friends, who weep the absent dead, 
 And sorrowing drop a tear on memory's shrine! 
 
 But morning comes: I know it by that star 
 That, robed in glory, twinkles in the court 
 Of Eastern hemisphere, and whispers low, 
 "Morn comes!" See, see! the streak of light that first 
 But dimly shone, grows brighter, and the clouds 
 Are faintly tinged with red. Then let me steal 
 Into the still retreat of my own breast. 
 And there abide, silent and voiceless, till 
 
117 
 
 The glorious orb of day shall once again 
 Descend behind the Western mountain peaks, 
 And Night, with all her shadowy stillness, 
 Closes around. 
 
118 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 I. 
 
 What is it steals on balmy wing, 
 
 With air serene and light? 
 It flows in every breath of spring, 
 
 With pure and holy flight. 
 
 II. 
 
 It breathes in summer's rosy bowers, 
 
 Where all around is gay. 
 What steals the rich perfume of flowers? 
 
 'Tis Music's softest lay. 
 
 III. 
 
 When, robed in Autumn's yellow leaves, 
 
 The forest trees decay, 
 What is it then the mind relieves? 
 
 'Tis Music's softest lay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When, flitting round the wintry fire. 
 
 The moments calmly glide, 
 Then Music's gentle streams conspire 
 
 To smooth life's ebbing tide. 
 
 V. 
 
 Where'er we go, where'er we rest, 
 It still salutes the ear; 
 
119 
 
 It calms the sorrows of the breast, 
 And sooths the rising fear, 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is the zephyr's sweetest breath, 
 That yields a placid calm; 
 
 It is the soul's relief in death. 
 The spirit's healing balm! 
 
120 
 
 THE INDIAN MAIDEN'S LAMENT. 
 
 Around my wigwam, the twilight fall 
 Is shedding its dews on the sycamores tall: 
 The moon looks from heaven, all radiant and clear, 
 And the water-fall's murmuring is soft on my ear: 
 The bold Chieftain's war-song revives my lone heart, 
 And bids the remembrance of wo to depart! 
 
 Oh! hear my sigh! ye whose homes are bright, 
 Whose hearths and firesides are fraught with delighf! 
 You think not, alas! of the Indian Maiden, 
 Whose breast is with care and sorrow laden! 
 My parents are laid in the silent tomb, 
 And the fall flower fades on their forest home: 
 My friends and my kindred around me lie. 
 And o'er their lone graves the breezes sigh! 
 
 I am told, when you plough the soil, you find 
 The dart which the warrior hath left behind; 
 That you dwell in the forests where once, arrayed 
 In chieftain's garb, the proud hunter strayed; 
 That you love your streamlets: O think! they lave 
 The flowers that bloom on the Red Man's grave! 
 
 And you tread in the vales where our fathers trod, 
 And pour out your prayer to the Indian's God: 
 But where is the Indian? His form may glide 
 O'er your lofty dwellings at eventide; 
 Or you hear his moan in the willow shade, 
 
121 
 
 When the tempest howls through the tangled glade; 
 But you see him not, though his ghost is there, 
 And his wail of grief rends the midnight air! 
 
 We will soon, alas! be known no more! 
 We'll be far beyond the Western shore! 
 No longer our peaceful dwellings you'll trace; 
 But the Forest will weep for a fallen race! 
 I have thought, as I've gazed on the setting sun. 
 That the race of the Red Man would soon be run; 
 That he'll sink, like a star, behind the wave. 
 And find in its depths a coral grave. 
 Then, where will the Indian spirit be found? 
 In our distant and happy hunting ground! 
 
 11 
 
122 
 
 THE HEBREW CAPTIVES. 
 
 The air was fragrant, and serene the sky; 
 The spicy gales swept balmily along; 
 The sun was sinking glorious in the West, 
 And cast his level rays across the land 
 Of dire captivity — the land of sighs — 
 When Judah's captives sat desponding down, 
 Beneath the shadow of the willow tree. 
 
 How did their swelling hearts with anguish burn. 
 When they remembered Zion! All the joys 
 That once they tasted in that favored land. 
 Rose up before them, but to mock their grief. 
 And call unbidden Ibrth the sorrowing tear! 
 O Euphrates! that e'er the scalding tear 
 Of Slavery's sons should mingle in thy tide! 
 That e'er the broken sigh should rend the air 
 That hangs so peaceful o'er thy pebbly bed. 
 
 Alas! for Judah's crowned head is low! 
 The sceptred hand hath fallen silently; 
 And on the mountain tops dread silence reigns, 
 Where once the shepherd sang the simple lay 
 Of freedom, and rejoiced in still repose. 
 
 'Twas night on Babel's lofty terraces. 
 And thro' the gorgeous towers the wild winds strayed: 
 The Moon had marshalled all her starry host, 
 And onward moved in graceful majesty. 
 
123 
 
 So still, methinks, she kept her vigils o'er 
 The revellers within the banquet hall 
 Of Kinor Belshazzar. All was mirth, 
 And not a sound was heard save that of joy: 
 The song and wine went round, and once again 
 They mingled in the dance. 
 
 But in that hour, 
 Judah's lone captives sought the willowy strand 
 Of proud Euphrates, there to vent their grief, 
 And hang their harps upon the pendant boughs 
 That lightly quivered o'er their drooping heads. 
 
 Well might they thus their choral song suspend. 
 When, on the wings of memory, they turned 
 Back to their native land, their Father's home, 
 The spot that gave them birth, and nurtured into life 
 The first young dawnings of fraternal love. 
 What were they now? A spoiled and injured band, 
 Torn from that home and kindred tjes, which bind 
 The sorrowing soul to earth, and turn the cup 
 Of bitterness into a draught of sweet. 
 And while, beneath that starred and moonlit sky, 
 They, one by one, in adoration knelt, 
 The low and thrilling tones of Daniel's voice 
 Arose, like incense, from devotion's shrine. 
 
 Full well they knew, the time drew near, the time 
 Predicted by the holy man of God, 
 When Babylon must fall; when to the earth 
 Her proud and haughty King should bow his head. 
 The seventy years had gone their tedious round, 
 And brought the tyrant's reign so near a close, 
 
124 
 
 They now but waited for the morrow's sun 
 
 To dawn upon their freedom, or to blast 
 
 The loved and cherished promise of their God. 
 
 The tear that gathered in the pensive eye, 
 While they rehearsed the story of their wrongs, 
 Too plainly told, that all the band were not 
 In that lone gathering, that once had met 
 "Along the banks of Babel's rolling streams." 
 The hoary-headed veteran, who had seen 
 The rise and fall of kingdoms, stood alone, 
 Leaning upon his staff, while from his side 
 His sons and daughters, one by one, had fallen. 
 
 The morrow dawned. But was Belshazzar there, 
 Upon his lofty throne? Did, at his feet. 
 Counsellors and courtiers obeisance make? 
 O no! The sounds of revelry had ceased, 
 And mirth had fled those lately brilliant halls» 
 
125 
 
 TO HARRIET. 
 
 I. 
 
 Jf memory can lend a balm 
 
 To wounds, inflicted when we part, 
 O then let sorrow cease, and calm 
 
 Be every drooping, throbbing heart. 
 II. 
 You go to busy scenes of life; 
 
 I to my lonely walks repair: 
 The friends and joys thou'lt meet are rife 
 
 With blessings, you'll hereafter share. 
 
 III. 
 But, when your mind is light and gay. 
 
 When smiles upon your lips do start, 
 Oh! chase the airy dream away, 
 
 And think on my sad, lonely heart! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oft, scenes of sadness bade us weep, 
 And tears o'erflowed each mournful eye; 
 
 Those seasons past in memory keep, 
 And think of them whene'er you sigh! 
 
 V. 
 
 Where'er you go, may you be blest! 
 May heavenly dews upon your soul 
 11* 
 
126 
 
 Descending, give you gentle rest, 
 
 While times and seasons round do roll! 
 
 VI. 
 
 We ne'er may meet; but in my heart 
 
 Your memory shall ever be! 
 O then, dear friend, let mine have part 
 
 In yours, and still "remember me!" 
 
127 
 
 TO SAMANTHA, ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND. 
 
 » 
 I. 
 
 He has gone to the land where the weary rest, 
 Where the waves cease to roll o'er the pilgrim's breast, 
 Where the air is fragrant, the sky ever clear; 
 For the God of love sheds his glories there. 
 
 II. 
 
 He has gone to his home beyond the sky, 
 No more to sorrow — no more to die; 
 He has stemmed the tide of Jordan's wave. 
 And reigns in glory beyond the grave. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then mourn not, bereaved one, though lone may seem 
 Thy path through a land where dangers teem. 
 His spirit will guard you where'er you roam. 
 And smile as you near his far off home! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou hast heard of a region far away. 
 Where our sun sends not his golden ray; 
 Where the river of life flows calm and clear, 
 And harpers and minstrels are wandering near: 
 There, in those realms of endless day, 
 Is thy loved one, whispering, "Come away!" 
 
128 
 
 TO MISS E. S. 
 
 I. 
 
 There is a voice I've often heard 
 Amid the gloom of sorrow's night; 
 
 'Tis borne upon an angel's wing 
 
 From distant realms of joy and light. 
 
 II. 
 'Tis Friendship's voice — may you its tones 
 
 In all your cares and sorrows hear! 
 May friends still rise to heal your woes, 
 
 And life's dark pathway sweetly cheer! 
 
 III. 
 
 This boon I ask, — though distant far 
 In other climes you chance to roam, 
 
 Remember her, whose prayer shall be, 
 That you may find in Heaven a hom!e 
 
129 
 
 THE EMPRESS. 
 
 She sat absorbed in gloomy thought, — the fair, 
 
 The gifted one, the Empress Josephine. 
 
 Her deep bhie eye, in its cahn clearness, gazed 
 
 Upon the round full moon, as on she rode 
 
 In silvery brightness through the midnight sky. 
 
 Dark robes were thrown around her airy form, 
 
 And the rich tresses shaded her pale brow. 
 
 She sat alone. No gentle voice was near 
 To sooth the sorrows of her bursting heart. 
 Or pour the balm of tender words upon 
 The burning fount of unrequited love. 
 
 Her way had been a weary one. The Star 
 Of love, at first but dimly lighted, ^soon 
 Went down behind Ambition's stormy wave, 
 And left her tide-worn bark, in darkness lone, 
 Without a helm, on time's tempestuous sea. 
 
 What deep thought filled her soul, and caused 
 A saddened smile upon her radiant face? 
 Was it that memory, with its magic power, 
 Was reveling 'mid Parisian throngs, 
 Where once the gifted Josephine had shone, 
 The reigning star in beauty's galaxy? 
 Was it that, on imagination borne. 
 Once more she stood upon the parapets 
 Of her ancestral palace, gazing far 
 
130 
 
 Around the rich and widely spread domain, 
 Waiting the coming of the fondly loved? 
 
 Or did a memory of infant years 
 Come o'er the strings of her affections, like 
 A zephyr soft from other climes doth fan 
 The exile's aching brow? 
 
 O no! her ever true, her woman's heart. 
 Was far away amid the ocean isles, 
 With him who once had been her bosom's lord! 
 
131 
 
 THE SISTER'S FAREWELL. 
 
 I. 
 
 My brother, dost thou go forever 
 
 O'er the world's wide waste to roam? 
 And wilt thou then revisit never 
 
 The peaceful scenes around our home? 
 II. 
 "Yes, dear sister, we must sever, 
 
 Though our hearts have loved so well; 
 Hence our paths must be divided; 
 
 None alas! our way may tell!" 
 III. 
 Go then — go, my youthful brother! 
 
 Though my heart be filled with wo, 
 Thou wilt never hear me murmur; • 
 
 Thou my grief wilt never know' 
 IV. 
 Cradled on the stormy ocean, 
 
 Far from sister, friends and home, 
 Thou wilt soon forget thy mourner, 
 
 When thy feet have learned to roam! 
 V. 
 Shouldst thou ever be forsaken; 
 
 Should the cold world friendless prove; 
 None be near thee to awaken 
 
 The memory of a sister's love; 
 
132 
 
 VI. 
 
 Still that love is ever with thee, 
 Though thy lot may lowly be; 
 
 And o'er life's tempestuous billows, 
 A sister's prayers shall follow thee. 
 
 VII. 
 
 May the God of heaven go with thee, 
 Shield thy lonely path from harm! 
 
 Guard thee ever by his presence, 
 And uphold thee with his arm! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Farewell — farewell — for time is waning, 
 The hour draws nigh, and we must part! 
 
 Go! but with thee bear thy sister. 
 Ever graven on thy heart!