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 SMITHSONIAN DEPOSI1. 
 
THE 
 
 POETS AND POETRY 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 BY EUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. 
 
 HERE THE FREE SPIRIT OP MANKIND AT LENGTH 
 TUROWS ITS LAST FETTERS OFF; AND WHO SHALL PLACE 
 A' LIMIT TO THE GIANT'S UNCHAINED STRENGTH? 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 ERE LONG, THINE EVERY STREAM SHALL FIND A TONGUE, 
 LAND OF THE MANY WATERS! HOFFMAN. 
 
 THIS BE THE POET'S PRAISE! 
 THAT HE HATH EVER BEEN OF LIBERTY 
 THE STEADIEST FRIEND : OF JUSTICE AND OF TRUTH 
 FIRMEST OF ALL SUPPORTERS. 
 
 AMERICAN PROSPHCTS-1K3. 
 
 Sixittntlj HSiJittotr, 
 
 carefully revised, much enlarged, and continued to the present time. 
 SKiilj |)oriraiis, on: Sltel, from ©righral $)kta«a, 
 
 OP RICHARD H. DANA, WILLIAM C. BRYANT. JAMES G. PERCIVAL, HENRY W, LONGFELLOW, 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER, EDGAR A. POE, PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE, 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, AND BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 PARRY AND M C MILLAN, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO A. HART, late CAREY & HART. 
 
 1855. 
 
-fbi- 
 
 7 f 
 
 ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OP CONGRESS. IN THE TEAR 1M2, BY CABET Sr HART, IN THE OFFICE OF THI 
 CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 PF.INTED BY T. K. AND P. Q. COLLINS. 
 
^xtkit U % Sfctafjj €h\tm. 
 
 By the publication of " The Female Poets of America," in 1849, this 
 survey of American Poetry was divided into two parts. From " The Poets 
 and Poetry of America" were omitted all reviewals of our female poets, 
 and their places were supplied with notices of other authors. The entire 
 volume was also revised, re-arranged, and in other respects improved. 
 
 The book v^s in the first place too hastily prepared. There was difficulty 
 in procuring materials, and in deciding, where so many had some sort of 
 claim to the title, whom to regard as Poets. There had been published in 
 this country about five hundred volumes of rhythmical compositions of various 
 kinds and degrees of merit, nearly all of which I read, with more or less 
 attention. From the mass I chose about one fifth, as containing writings 
 hot unworthy of notice in such an examination of this part of our literature 
 as I proposed to make. I have been censured, perhaps justly, for the wide 
 range of my selections. But I did not consider all the contents of the 
 volume Poetry. I aimed merely to show what had been accomplished 
 toward a Poetical Literature by our writers in verse before the close of the 
 first half century of our national existence. With much of the first order of 
 excellence more was accepted that was comparatively poor. But I believe 
 nothing was admitted inferior to passages in the most celebrated foreign 
 works of like character. I have also been condemned for omissions. But 
 on this score I have no regrets. I can think of no name not included in the 
 first edition which I would now admit without better credentials than were 
 before me when that edition was printed. 
 
 The value of books of this description has been recognised from an early 
 period. Besides the few leading authors in every literature whose works 
 are indispensable in libraries to be regarded as in any degree complete, there 
 are a far greater number of too little merit to render the possession of all 
 their productions desirable. The compilations of English poetry by Mr. 
 Southey, Mr. Hazlitt, Mr. Campbell, and Mr. S. C. Hall, embrace as 
 many as most readers wish to read of the effusions of more than half the 
 
4 PREFACE TO THE SIXTEENTH EDITION. 
 
 writers quoted in them ; and of the qualities of all such, indications are given 
 in criticisms or specimens as will intelligibly guide the lover of poetry to 
 more comprehensive studies. In our own country, where there are compara- 
 tively few poets of a high rank, the majority would have little chance of a just 
 appreciation but for such reviewals. 
 
 The earliest project for a general collection of Specimens of American 
 Poetry was that of James Rivington, the celebrated royalist printer of New 
 York, who in January, 1778, sent a printed circular on the subject to several 
 persons in the colonies who had reputations as poets, and soon after published 
 in his "Royal Gazette" the following advertisement: 
 
 " The public is hereby notified that the printer of this paper has it in contemplation to pub- 
 lish with all convenient speed a Collection of Poems by the Favorites of the Muses in 
 America, on the same plan with Dodsley's celebrated English Compilation. Such ladies and 
 gentlemen, therefore, as will please to honour the attempt with their productions, (which will 
 be treated with the utmost impartiality by a gentleman who hath undertaken to conduct the 
 publication,) will confer a favor on the public in general, and particularly on their much 
 obliged and very humble servant, James Rivington. 
 
 The execution of Rivington's design was prevented by the approaching 
 revolution, and no such, book appeared until 1791, when Matthew Carey 
 brought out his "Beauties of Poetry, British and American," in which 
 selections are given from nineteen native writers. In 1793 the first of a 
 proposed series of volumes of "American Poems, Selected and Original," 
 was printed in Litchfield, Connecticut, under the editorial supervision of 
 Richard Alsop. It is curious and interesting, and students in our literary 
 history will regret that its sale did not warrant a completion of the under- 
 taking. In 1794 " The Columbian Muse, a Selection of American Poetry by 
 various Authors of established Reputation," appeared from the press of 
 J. Carey, in New York. The next publication of this kind was the compre- 
 hensive and judicious " Specimens of American Poetry, wi£h Critical and 
 Biographical Notices," in three volumes, by Mr. Samuel Kettell, in 1829 ; 
 followed in 1831 by Dr. Cheever's " American Common-Place Book of 
 Poetry, with occasional Notes ;" in 1839 by " The Poets of America, illus- 
 trated by one of her Painters," edited by Mr. Keese, and in the same year 
 by " Selections from the American Poets," by Mr. Bryant. 
 
 Since the reconstruction of the present work, in the eleventh edition, the 
 sale has been still greater than previously, and I have now added many new 
 authors, and notices of the new productions of authors already mentioned, 
 with additional extracts. 
 
 No. 22, West Twentythied Steeet, New Yoek, 1855. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EIBST EDITION. 
 
 This book is designed to exhibit the progress and condition of Poetry in 
 the United States. It contains selections from a large number of authors, all of 
 whom have lived in the brief period which has elapsed since the establishment 
 of the national government. Considering the youth of the country, and the many 
 circumstances which have had a tendency to retard the advancement of letters 
 here, it speaks well for the past and present, and cheeringly for the future. 
 
 There is nothing in our country to prevent the successful cultivation of 
 literature and the arts, provided the government places our own authors 
 upon an equality with their foreign rivals, by making it possible to publish 
 their works at the same prices. A National Literature is not necessarily 
 confined to local subjects ; but if it were, we have no lack of themes for 
 romance, poetry, or any other sort of writing, even though the new relations 
 which man sustains to his fellows in these commonwealths did not exist. 
 The perilous adventures of the Northmen ; the noble heroism of Columbus ; 
 the rise and fall of the Peruvian and Mexican empires ; the colonization of 
 New-England by the Puritans ; the witchcraft delusion ; the persecution of 
 the Quakers and Baptists ; the rise and fall of the French dominion in the 
 Canadas ; the overthrow of the great confederacy of the Five Nations ; the 
 settlement of New- York, Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia, by people of 
 the most varied and picturesque characters; the beautiful and poetical my- 
 thology of the aborigines ; and that revolution, resulting in our independence 
 and equal liberty, which forms a barrier between the traditionary past and the 
 familiar present: all abound with themes for imaginative literature. Turning 
 from these subjects to those of a descriptive character, we have a variety not less 
 extensive and interesting. The chains of mountains which bind the continent ; 
 the inland seas between Itasca and the ocean ; caverns, in which whole nations 
 might be hidden ; the rivers, cataracts, and sea-like prairies ; and all the 
 varieties of land, lake, river, sea and sky, between the gulfs of Mexico and 
 Hudson, are full of them. 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The elements of power in all sublime sights and heavenly harmonies 
 should live in the poet's song. The sense of beauty, next to the miraculous 
 divine suasion, is the means through which the human character is purified 
 and elevated. The creation of beauty, the manifestation of the real by the 
 ideal, in " words that move in metrical array," is the office of the poet. 
 
 This volume embraces specimens from a great number of authors ; and 
 though it may not contain all the names which deserve admission, the judi- 
 cious critic will be more likely to censure me for the wide range of my 
 selections than for any omissions. In regard to the number of poems I have 
 given from particular writers, it is proper to state that considerations uncon- 
 nected with any estimates of their comparative merit have in some cases 
 guided me. The collected works of several poets have been frequently 
 printed and are generally familiar, while the works of others, little less deserving 
 of consideration, are comparatively unknown. 
 
 There is in all the republic scarcely a native inhabitant of Saxon origin who 
 cannot read and write. Every house has its book closet and every town its 
 public library. The universal prevalence of intelligence, and that self-respect 
 and confidence arising from political and social equality, have caused a great 
 increase of writers. Owing, however, to the absence of a just system of copy- 
 right, the rewards of literary exertion are so precarious that but a small number 
 give their exclusive attention to literature. A high degree of excellence, espe- 
 cially in poetry, is attained only by constant and quiet study and cultivation. 
 Our poets have generally written with too little preparation, and too hastily, to 
 win enduring reputations. 
 
 In selecting the specimens in the work, I have regarded humorous and 
 other rhythmical compositions, not without merit in their way, as poetry, though 
 they possess few of its true elements. It is so common to mistake the form for 
 the divine essence, that I should have been compelled to omit the names of 
 many who are popularly known as poets, had I been governed by a more 
 strict definition. 
 
 Philadelphia, March, 1842. 
 
(fatats. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SIXTEENTH EDITION page 3 
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 5 
 
 AMERICAN POETS BEFORE THE REVOLUTION 15 
 
 Literary Character of the Puritans 15 
 
 First Verses written in America 16 
 
 The Bay Psalm-Book 16 
 
 Messrs. Bradstreet, Rogers, Oakes, Peter Foulger 17 
 
 Benjamin Thomson, the first native American Poet 18 
 
 Cotton Mather, Roger Wolcott 19 
 
 Michael Wigglesworth's " Day of Doom" 20 
 
 Benjamin Colman, John Adams 21 
 
 First Writers of Verse in the Middle Colonies 22 
 
 Holme, Brooke, George Webb, Taylor 22 
 
 Benjamin Franklin and James Ralph 23 
 
 Writers for the " American Magazine," in 1757 24 
 
 Thomas Godfrey and Nathaniel Evans 25 
 
 John Beyeridge, John Osborn 26 
 
 Mather Byles and Joseph Green 27 
 
 The Authors of " Pietas et Gratulatio" 28 
 
 Livingston, Bolling, Rugely, Verplanck, Prime 29 
 
 James Allen, J. M. Sewell, Doctor Ladd 30 
 
 British Poets in America during the Revolution 30 
 
 Revolutionary Songs and Ballads 30 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU 31 
 
 On the Title Letters of Rivington's Royal Gazette 32 
 
 The Dying Indian 35 
 
 The Inrlian Burying-Ground 35 
 
 To an Old Man 36 
 
 The Wild Honeysuckle ■. 36 
 
 To the Memory of the Americans who fell at Eutaw 37 
 
 Indian Death-Song 37 
 
 The Prospect of Peace 37 
 
 Human Frailty 37 
 
 Extracts from " The Life of Hugh Gaine" 38 
 
 Literary Importation 38 
 
 The Indian Student, or the Force of Nature 39 
 
 A Bachanalian Dialogue 39 
 
 ST. GEORGE TUCKER 40 
 
 Days of my Youth 40 
 
 JOHN TRUMBULL 41 
 
 Ode to Sleep 42 
 
 The Country Clown, from "The Progress of Dulness" 44 
 
 The Fop, from the same 44 
 
 Character of McFingal, from " McFingal" 45 
 
 Extreme Humanity, from the same 46 
 
 The Decayed Coquette 47 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT 48 
 
 An Indian Temple 49 
 
 England and America 50 
 
 The Social Visit " ".50 
 
 The Country Pastor 51 
 
 The Country Schoolmaster 52 
 
 The Battle of Ax, from "The Conquest of Canaan" 52 
 
 The Lamentation of Selima, from the same 53 
 
 Prediction to Joshua relative to America, from the same 53 
 
 Evening after a Battle, from the same 54 
 
 " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise 1" 54 
 
 DAVID HUMPHREYS „ 55 
 
 On the Prospect of Peace ".".*56 
 
 Western Emigration gg 
 
 American Winter 5g 
 
 Revolutionary Soldiers 5g 
 
 /JOEL BARLOW 57 
 
 The Hasty Pudding ""'."!".".""" !.*59 
 
 Burning of New-England Villages, from " The Columhiad"..62 
 
 To Freedom, from the same g3 
 
 Morgan and Tell, from the same g3 
 
 The Zones of America, from the same 63 
 
 RICHARD ALSOP Gi 
 
 From a Monody on the Death of Washington 64 
 
 ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD 65 
 
 Crimes and P unishment s g5 
 
 A Radical Song of 1786 """67 
 
 Reflections on seeiug a Bull slain in the Country 67 
 
 Impromptu on an Order to kill the Dogs in Albany 67 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS page 68 
 
 Extract from Dermot McMorrogh 68 
 
 The Wants of Man 69 
 
 The Plague in the Forest 70 
 
 To a Bereaved Mother 71 
 
 JOSEPH HOPKIXSON 72 
 
 Hail Columbia 1 72 
 
 WILLIAM CLIFTON 73 
 
 Epistle to William Gilford, Esq 73 
 
 Mary will smile 74 
 
 ROBERT TREAT PAINE 75 
 
 Adams and Liberty 76 
 
 Extract from a "Monody on the death of Sir John Moore" 77 
 
 WILLIAM MUNFORD 78 
 
 Extracts from " The Iliad" 79 
 
 JOHN SHAW 80 
 
 " Who has robbed the Ocean Cave?" 80 
 
 The Lad from Tuckahoe 80 
 
 The False Maiden so 
 
 CLEMENT C. MOORE 81 
 
 Lines to Philip Houe 81 
 
 A Visit from St. Nicholas 82 
 
 To my Children, with my Portrait 82 
 
 JAMES KIRKE PAULDING 83 
 
 Ode to Jamestown 83 
 
 Passage down the Ohio, from " The Backwoodsman" 84 
 
 Evening, from the same 84 
 
 Crossing the Alleghanies, from the same 85 
 
 The Old Man's Carousal 85 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON 86 
 
 The Paint-King 87 
 
 The Sylphs of the Seasons 89 
 
 America to Great Britain . 93 
 
 The Spanish Maid 93 
 
 On Greenough's Group of the Angel and Child 94 
 
 On a Falling Group in the Last Judgment, of Michael Angelo... 94 
 On Rembrandt : occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream. . .94 
 
 On the Pictures, by Rubens, in the Luxemburg Gallery 94 
 
 To my venerable Friend Benjamin West 94 
 
 On seeing the Picture of ^Eolus, by Feligriuo Tibaldi 95 
 
 On the Death of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 95 
 
 The Tuscan Maid 95 
 
 Rosalie 95 
 
 LEVI FRISBIE 96 
 
 A Castle in the Air ; 96 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT 97 
 
 Passing away 98 
 
 Ode for the Charlestowu Centennial Celebration 99 
 
 My Child 99 
 
 Ode for the Massachusetts Mechanics' Charitable Association. 100 
 
 Her Chosen Spot 100 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers 101 
 
 Plymouth Dedication Hymn 101 
 
 The Exile at Rest 101 
 
 Jerusalem 102 
 
 The Power of Music, from "Airs of Palestine" 103 
 
 Obsequies of Spurzheim 103 
 
 Hymn for the Dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, in Boston.. 104 
 
 The Sparkling Bowl 104 
 
 Ode for the Fourth of July 104 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWORTH 105 
 
 The Bucket 105 
 
 The Needle 105 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON 1C6 
 
 Lines written after the Death of Charles Eliot 106 
 
 A Summer Shower 107 
 
 Hymn 107 
 
 To Mrs. , on her departure for Europe 107 
 
 Hymn for the dedication of a Church 108 
 
 Fortitude 108 
 
 The Close of the Year 103 
 
 On listening to a Cricket 109 
 
 A Summer Night 109 
 
 A Winter Morning 109 
 
 The Parting HO 
 
 On the Death of a Young Friend 110 
 
 7 
 
ANDREWS NORTON, (Continued.) 
 
 To a Fricud, after her Marriage paob 110 
 
 Funeral Hymn 110 
 
 "Oh, ne'er upon my grave be shed" 110 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA Ill 
 
 The Buccaneer 112 
 
 The Ocean, from "Factitious Life" 120 
 
 Daybreak 120 
 
 Extract from " The Husband and Wife's Grave" 121 
 
 The Little Beach-Bird 121 
 
 The Moss supplicateth for the Poet. 122 
 
 Washington Allston 122 
 
 EICHARD HEXRY WILDE 123 
 
 Ode to Ease 1 24 
 
 Solomon and the Genius 125 
 
 A Farewell to America 126 
 
 Napoleon's Grave 127 
 
 "My Life is like the Summer Rose" 127 
 
 Lord Byron 127 
 
 To the Mocking- Bird 127 
 
 FRANCIS S. KEY 128 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner 128 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 128 
 
 Home, Swoet Home 1 128 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE 129 
 
 The Judgment 131 
 
 Hadad's Description of the City of Jerusalem 137 
 
 Untold Love, from "Demetria" 137 
 
 Scene from "Hadad" 138 
 
 Arthur's Soliloquy, from "Percy's Masque" 139 
 
 JOHN M. HARNEY HO 
 
 Extracts from " Crystalina" 140, 141 
 
 On a Friend 141 
 
 The Fever Dream 142 
 
 Echo and the Lover 142 
 
 ALEXANDER H. EVERETT 143 
 
 The Portress 143 
 
 The Young American 145 
 
 SAMUEL GILMAN 146 
 
 The Silent Girl 146 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE 147 
 
 Curiosity 148 
 
 Shakspeare Ode 154 
 
 The Brothers 155 
 
 Art, an Ode 156 
 
 "Look on this Picture" 156 
 
 Centennial Ode 157 
 
 Lines to a Young Mother 161 
 
 "I see thee still" 161 
 
 Lines on the Death of M. S. C 162 
 
 The Family Meeting 162 
 
 The Wiuged Worshippers 163 
 
 Dedication Hymn 163 
 
 To my Cigar 163 
 
 SEBA SMITH 164 
 
 A Burning Ship at Sea 164 
 
 The Snow Storm 164 
 
 N. L. FROTHINGHAM 165 
 
 The Old Family Clock 165 
 
 To a Dead Tree with a Vine Traiued over it 165 
 
 Strength 166 
 
 The Four Halcyon Points of the Year 166 
 
 HENRY K. SCHOOLCRAFT 167 
 
 Extract from " The White Fish" 167 
 
 Extract from " Likes and Dislikes" 167 
 
 Geehale, an Indian Lament 168 
 
 The Birchen Canoe 168 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 169 
 
 The Prairies 171 
 
 Thanatopsis 172 
 
 Forest Hymn 172 
 
 Hymn to the North Star 173 
 
 The Antiquity of Freedom 174 
 
 The Return of Youth 174 
 
 The Winds 175 
 
 " Oh Mother of a Mi ghty Race 1" 175 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 176 
 
 To the Past 176 
 
 The Hunter of the Prairies 177 
 
 After a Tempest 177 
 
 The Rivulet 178 
 
 June 178 
 
 To the Evening Wind 179 
 
 Lines on Revisiting the Country 179 
 
 The Old Man's Counsel 180 
 
 An Evening Reverie, from an unfinished Poem 180 
 
 Hymn of the City 181 
 
 To a Waterfowl 181 
 
 TheBatrle-Field 182 
 
 WILLIAM COLLF.N BRYANT, (Continued.) 
 
 The Death of the Flowers pace 182 
 
 The Future Life 183 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian 183 
 
 "Oh, fairest of the rural Maids 1" 183 
 
 The Maiden's Sorrow 183 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX 184 
 
 Spring in New England, from "The Age of Benevolence".... 185 
 
 A Summer Noon, from the same 186 
 
 September, from the same 186 
 
 Sunset in September, from the same 187 
 
 Summer Evening Lightning, from the same 187 
 
 The Castle of Imagination, from " The Religiou of Taste".. .188 
 
 Rousseau and Cowper, from the same 189 
 
 The Cure of Melancholy, from the same 189 
 
 Sights and Sounds of the Night 190 
 
 Live for Eternity 190 
 
 HENRY WARE, Jr 191 
 
 To the Ursa Major 191 
 
 Seasons of Prayer 192 
 
 The Vision of Liberty 193 
 
 JOHN NEAL 194 
 
 Invocation to the Deity, from " The Conquest of Peru" 195 
 
 A Cavalcade at Sunset, from " The Battle of Niagara" 195 
 
 Approach of Evening, from the same 195 
 
 Movements of Troops at Night, from the same 196 
 
 An Indian Apollo, from the same 196 
 
 Morning after a Battle, from the same 197 
 
 Music of the Night, from the same 197 
 
 Night, from the same 198 
 
 Ontario, from the same 198 
 
 Trees, from the same 198 
 
 Invasion of the Settler, from the same 198 
 
 WILLIAM B. TAPPAN 199 
 
 On seeing Twenty Thousand Sabbath-School Children 199 
 
 Song of the Hundred Thousand Drunkards 200 
 
 Heaven 200 
 
 To the Ship of the Line Pennsylvania 200 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT 201 
 
 Santa Croce 201 
 
 To a Sister 202 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 203 
 
 The Culprit Fay 204 
 
 Bronx 209 
 
 The American Flag 210 
 
 To Sarah ; 210 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 211 
 
 Weehawken, from " Fanny" 212 
 
 The Recorder and Cajsar, from " The Recorder" 212 
 
 Burns: To a Rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, 1822 213 
 
 Red Jacket, Chief of the Tuscaroras 214 
 
 Connecticut 215 
 
 Alnwick Castle 216 
 
 Magdalen 217 
 
 Twilight 217 
 
 Marco Bozzaris 218 
 
 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL 219 
 
 Conclusion of the "Dream of a Day" 2^0 
 
 The Poet, a Sonnet 221 
 
 Night, a Sonnet 221 
 
 Choriambic Melody 221 
 
 Sappho 221 
 
 The Festive Evening 221 
 
 The Sun, from "Prometheus" 222 
 
 Consump tiou 223 
 
 To the Eagle 224 
 
 Prevalence of Poetry 225 
 
 Clouds 226 
 
 Morning among the Hills 226 
 
 The Deserted Wife 227 
 
 The Coral Grove 228 
 
 Decline of the Imagination 228 
 
 Genius Slumbering 228 
 
 Genius Waking 228 
 
 New England 229 
 
 May 230 
 
 To Seneca Lake 230 
 
 The Last Days of Autumn 230 
 
 The Flight of Time 230 
 
 " It is great for our Country to die" 231 
 
 F.xtract from ' ' Prometheus" 231 
 
 Home 231 
 
 SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH 2S2 
 
 Birthnight of the Humming-Birds 232 
 
 TheRivor 233 
 
 The Leaf 23 * 
 
 Lake Superior '- >3 * 
 
 The Sportive Sylphs 231 
 
 ISAAC CLASON 235 
 
 Napoleon, etc., from the " Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan". .235 
 Jealousy, from the same.... 236 
 
1 ISAAC CLASON, (Continued.) 
 
 Early Love.from "The Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan" page 236 
 A 11 is Vanity, from " The Eighteenth Canto of Don Juan" . . .236 
 
 IJOHN G. C. BRAINARD 237 
 
 Jerusalem 238 
 
 On Connecticut River 239 
 
 i On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh 240 
 
 | On alate-Loss 241 
 
 Sonnet to the Sea-Serpent 241 
 
 j The Pall of Niagara 241 
 
 On the Death of a Friend 241 
 
 Epithalamium 241 
 
 To the Dead 242 
 
 The Deep 242 
 
 Mr. Merry's Lament for "Long Tom" 242 
 
 The Indian Summer 242 
 
 !(he Storm of War 243 
 
 The Guerilla 243 
 
 TW Sea-Bird's Song 244 
 
 To the Daughter of a Friend - 244 
 
 Saimon River 244 
 
 WALTER COLTON 245 
 
 The Sailor 246 
 
 My rirst Love and my Last 246 
 
 WILLIAM B. WALTER 247 
 
 "Where is He?" 247 
 
 Extract from " Lines to an Infant" 247 
 
 JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN 248 
 
 ToPneuma 248 
 
 Song of an Indian Mother 248 
 
 KOBERT C. SANDS 249 
 
 Proem to Yamoyden 253 
 
 Dream of the Princess Papantzin 254 
 
 Monody on Samuel Patch 257 
 
 E \'ening 259 
 
 Wee hawken 259 
 
 The Green Isle of Lovers 260 
 
 The Dead of 1832 260 
 
 Parting 261 
 
 Conclusion to Yamoyden 261 
 
 Invocation 262 
 
 Good-Night 262 
 
 | From a Monody on J. W. Eastburn 262 
 
 To theManitto of Dreams 263 
 
 WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY 264 
 
 Hymn of Nature 264 
 
 To William 264 
 
 Monadnock 265 
 
 The Winter Night 266 
 
 Death 266 
 
 Autumn Evening 266 
 
 GRENVILLE MELLEN 267 
 
 English Scenery 268 
 
 Mount Washington 268 
 
 The Bugle 268 
 
 On seeiug an Eagle pass near me in Autumn twilight 269 
 
 The True Glory of America 269 
 
 GEORGE W. DOANE. 270 
 
 On a very old Wedding-Ring 270 
 
 Malleus Domini 270 
 
 " Stand, as an Anvil" 271 
 
 " That Silent Moon" 271 
 
 Thermopylae 271 
 
 The Robin Redbreast 271 
 
 "What is that, Mother?" 272 
 
 A Cherub 272 
 
 Lines by the Lake side 272 
 
 The Christian's Death 272 
 
 GEORGE BANCROFT 273 
 
 Midnight, at Meyringen 273 
 
 The Simplon: Farewell to Switzerland 273 
 
 An Address to the Deity : at Kandersteg 274 
 
 My Goddess: from " Goethe" 274 
 
 GEORGE HILL 275 
 
 From "The Ruins of Athens" 275 
 
 The Mountain-Girl 276 
 
 / TheMigbtof Greece, from " The Ruins of Athens" 276 
 
 The Fall of the Oak 277 
 
 Liberty 277 
 
 To a Young Mother 277 
 
 Spring 277 
 
 Nobility 277 
 
 JAMES G. BROOKS 278 
 
 Greece— 1832 278 
 
 To the Dying Year 279 
 
 To th e Autumn Leaf. 280 
 
 The Last Song 280 
 
 Joy and Son ow 280 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS 281 
 
 "I never have been False to Thee" 282 
 
 Woman ! 282 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS, (Continued.) 
 
 " We were boys together" pare 282 
 
 The West 283 
 
 Land-Ho ! 283 
 
 The Chieftain's Daughter 283 
 
 Near the Luke 283 
 
 " When other Friends are round Thee" 284 
 
 "Woodman, spare that Tree" 284 
 
 " Where Hudson's Wave" 284 
 
 The Pastor's Daughter 284 
 
 WILLIAM LEGGETT 285 
 
 A Sacred Melody 286 
 
 Love and Friendship '-86 
 
 Song 286 
 
 Life' s Guiding Star 2S8 
 
 To Elmira 286 
 
 EDWARD C. PINKNEY 2 S 7 
 
 Italy 288 
 
 The Indian's Bride 288 
 
 Song 289 
 
 A Health 289 
 
 The Voyager's Song '.!!!) 
 
 A Picture-Song 290 
 
 The Old Tree -91 
 
 To - 
 
 .291 
 .291 
 
 Elysium 
 
 ToH 292 
 
 Sereu ad e 292 
 
 The Widow' s Song 292 
 
 Song 292 
 
 FORTUNATUS COSBY 293 
 
 The Mocking Bird 293 
 
 JAMES W. MILLER 204 
 
 A Shower 294 
 
 ALBERT G. GREENE ..295 
 
 The Baron's Last Banquet 295 
 
 To the Weathercock on our Steeple 296 
 
 Adelheid 296 
 
 Old Grimes 297 
 
 " Oh, think not that the Bosom's Light" 297 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 298 
 
 The Apology 298 
 
 Each in All 299 
 
 " Good-bye, Proud World 299 
 
 To the Humble-Bee 300 
 
 The Rhodora SCO 
 
 The Snow-Storin 300 
 
 The Sphinx 301 
 
 The Problem 302 
 
 The Fore-Runners 302 
 
 The Poet 303 
 
 Dirge 303 
 
 To Rhea 304 
 
 To Eva "04 
 
 The Amulet 304 
 
 " Thine Eyes still shined" 301 
 
 SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD 305 
 
 Destruction of Pompeii, from " The Last Night of Pompeii" . .306 
 
 Visions of Romance -■ 307 
 
 An Evening Song of Piedmont 307 
 
 RTJFIJS DAWES 30s 
 
 Lancaster 308 
 
 Anne Boleyn .31 1 
 
 Suurise, from Mount Washington 311 
 
 Spirit of Beauty *t? 
 
 Love Unchangeable » 312 
 
 Extract from ' ' Geraldine" 312 
 
 EDMUND D. GRIFFIN 813 
 
 Lines written on leaving Italy 31.1 
 
 Description of Love, by Venus 314 
 
 Emblems 314 
 
 To a Lady 314 
 
 J. H. BRIGHT 31 ^ 
 
 The Vision of Death. 315 
 
 He wedded again 316 
 
 " Should Sorrow o'er thy Brow" :; l(i 
 
 OTWAY CURRY 317 
 
 The Great Hereafter -"1 7 
 
 Kingdom Come 31 8 
 
 The Armies of the Eve 318 
 
 To a Midnight Phantom 3I 8 
 
 WILLIAM CROSWELL 319 
 
 Ad Amicum 
 
 To George W. Doane 319 
 
 The Synagogue 30 
 
 The Clouds ™ 
 
 The Ordinal. . . :; 2> 
 
 Christmas Eve 321 
 
 Tne Death of Stephen 321 
 
 The Christmas Offering "' 
 
10 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 GEORGE D. PRENTICE page 822 
 
 The Closing Year 322 
 
 Lines to a Lad; 3J2 
 
 The Dead Mariner 828 
 
 Babbnth Evening 3 - - * 
 
 To i Lady 3 'J4 
 
 Lines written at my Mother's Grave 324 
 
 William pitt palmer 3-5 
 
 Light 325 
 
 Linos to a Chrysalis 326 
 
 The Hume Valentine 3-6 
 
 GEORGE W. BETHUNE 327 
 
 To my Mother 327 
 
 Nighl Study 327 
 
 On Thorwttldsen's Bas- Relief representing Night 328 
 
 To my Wife 328 
 
 CHARLES FKNNO HOFFMAN 3-9 
 
 Moonlight on the Hudson 332 
 
 The Forest Cemetery 333 
 
 The Boh-O-Linkum 334 
 
 The Remonstrance 334 
 
 Pri meviil Woods 334 
 
 Rio Bravo, a Mexican Lament 335 
 
 Love's Memories 335 
 
 Rosalie Clare 338 
 
 Think of Me, Dearest 336 
 
 We parted in Sadness 336 
 
 The Origin of Mint Juleps 336 
 
 Le Faineant 337 
 
 To an Autumn Rose 337 
 
 S v mpa thy 337 
 
 A~ Portrait.. 337 
 
 Indian Summer, 1828 338 
 
 Town Repiuings 338 
 
 The Western Hunter to his Mistress 338 
 
 Thy Name 338 
 
 The Myrtle and Steel 339 
 
 Epitaph upon a Dog 339 
 
 Anacreontic 339 
 
 A Hunter's Matin 33 9 
 
 "Why seek her Heart to understand?" 340 
 
 Seek not to understand her 340 
 
 Ask me not why I should love her 340 
 
 She loves, but 'tis not me she loves 340 
 
 Thy Smiles 340 
 
 Love and Polities 341 
 
 What is Solitude? 341 
 
 JAMES NAOJi 342 
 
 " Spring is Coming!" 342 
 
 Mlgnonue 342 
 
 Mary's Bee 3 « 
 
 VfTXLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 343 
 
 Extracts from " Atalantis" 343 
 
 The Slain Eagle 345 
 
 The Brooklet 346 
 
 T :<- Shaded Water 346 
 
 To the Breeze 347 
 
 The Lost Pleiad 347 
 
 The Edge of the Swamp 348 
 
 Changes of Home 348 
 
 JONATHAN LAWRENCE 349 
 
 Thoughts of a Student 349 
 
 Sea-Song 350 
 
 Look Aloft 350 
 
 To May 350 
 
 J. O. ROCKWELL 351 
 
 The Sum of Life 352 
 
 To Ann 352 
 
 The Lost at Sea 352 
 
 The Death- Bed of Beauty 353 
 
 To the Ice-Mountain 353 
 
 The Prisoner for Debt 353 
 
 To a Wave 353 
 
 MICAH P. FLINT 354 
 
 On Passing the Grave of my Sister 354 
 
 After a Storm 354 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 355 
 
 Nuremberg 356 
 
 The Arsenal at Springfield 357 
 
 The Skeleton in Armor 357 
 
 A Psalm of Life 359 
 
 The Light of Stars 359 
 
 F.ndymiotl 359 
 
 Footsteps of Angels 360 
 
 The Beleaguered City 360 
 
 It is not always May 360 
 
 Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 361 
 
 The Village Blacksmith 361 
 
 Excelsior 362 
 
 The Rainy Day 362 
 
 Maidenhood 362 
 
 GEORGE LDNT PAGE 363 
 
 Au tumn M usings 363 
 
 Jewish Battle-Song 96 1 
 
 " Pass ou, relentless World" :'.i; 
 
 Hampton Bcacb 96) 
 
 Pilgrim Song 965 
 
 The Lyre and Sword 315 
 
 ROBERT H. MESSINGER 316 
 
 Give me the Old i66 
 
 JOHN H. BRYANT !67 
 
 The New England Pilgrim's Funeral ,'',67 
 
 A Recollection 368 
 
 My Native Village 368 
 
 From a Poem entitled " A Day in Autumn" 3G9 
 
 On Finding a Fountain in a secluded part of a Forest 369 
 
 The Traveller's Return 969 
 
 The Indian Summer 370 
 
 The Blind Restored to Sight 870 
 
 Two Sonnets 370 
 
 N. P. WILLIS 371 
 
 Melauie 372 
 
 The Confessional 375 
 
 Lines ou Leaving Europe 376 
 
 Spring 377 
 
 To Ermengarde 377 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness 378 
 
 Thoughts while makioga Grave for a first Child, borndead...379 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon 379 
 
 April 380 
 
 The Annoyer 380 
 
 To a Face beloved 360 
 
 THEODORE S. FAY 381 
 
 My Native Land 381 
 
 Song 382 
 
 EDWARD SANFORD 383 
 
 Address to Black Hawk 383 
 
 To a Musquito 384 
 
 THOMAS WARD 385 
 
 Musings on Rivers 385 
 
 To the Magnolia 386 
 
 To an Infant in Heaven 386 
 
 EPHRAIM PE ABOD Y 387 
 
 The Skater's Song 387 
 
 Lake Erie 387 
 
 The Backwoodsman 3S8 
 
 Raf tin g 388 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 3S9 
 
 The Ballad of Cassandra Southwick -"90 
 
 New England 392 
 
 To John Picrpont 392 
 
 Palestine 393 
 
 Pentucket 393 
 
 Liues on the Death of S. Oliver Torrey, of Boston 394 
 
 Randolph of Roanoke 395 
 
 The Prisoner for Debt 396 
 
 The Merrimack 396 
 
 Gone! 397 
 
 Lines written in the Book of a Friend 898 
 
 Democracy 399 
 
 The Cypress Tree of Ceylon 400 
 
 The Worship of Nature 400 
 
 The Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 401 
 
 Raphael 4 0'2 
 
 Memories 402 
 
 To a Friend on her Return from Europe 403 
 
 The Reformer iOi 
 
 My Soul and 1 405 
 
 To a Friend, on the Death of his Sister 408 
 
 GEORGE W. PATTEN 407 
 
 To S. T. P 407 
 
 FREDERICK W. THOMAS 408 
 
 " 'Tis said that Absence conquers Love" 403 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER 409 
 
 Conservatism 410 
 
 The Invalid • 44° 
 
 The Early Lost ' l0 
 
 Fifty Years ago 411 
 
 Truth and Freedom 4'1 
 
 August 412 
 
 Spring Verses '12 
 
 May " 3 
 
 Our Early Days 413 
 
 The Labourer ui 
 
 The Mothers of the West 4U 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ^ 
 
 Extracts from " Poetry, a Metrical Essay" 415 
 
 On lendiug a Punch-Bow'. 41S 
 
 Lexington 417 
 
 A Song of other Days 417 
 
 The Cambridge Ch urchyard 4 ' 8 
 
 An Evening Thought " 9 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 11 
 
 OLIVER 'WENDELL HOLMES, (Continued.) 
 
 La Grisette page 419 
 
 The Treadmill Song 419 
 
 Departed Days 420 
 
 The Dilemma 420 
 
 TheStar and the Water-Lily 420 
 
 The Music- Grinders 421 
 
 The Philosopher to his Love 421 
 
 L'Inconnue 422 
 
 The Last Reader 422 
 
 The Last Leaf 422 
 
 Old Ironsides 423 
 
 " Strange 1 that one lightly- whisper'd tone" 423 
 
 Th e Steamboat 423 
 
 B. B. THATCHER 424 
 
 The Bird of the Bastile 424 
 
 ALBERT PIKE 425 
 
 Hymns to the Gods 426 
 
 To Neptune - 426 
 
 To Apollo 426 
 
 To Venus '. 427 
 
 To Diana 428 
 
 To Mercury 428 
 
 To Bacchus 429 
 
 ToSomnus 430 
 
 To Ceres 430 
 
 To the Planet Jupiter 431 
 
 To the Mocking-Bird 433 
 
 To Spring 434 
 
 Lines written on the Rocky Mountains 434 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN 435 
 
 Gold 436 
 
 Upon seeing a Portrait of a Lady ....436 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 436 
 
 The Nautil us 436 
 
 To one Beloved 437 
 
 The Tired Hunter 438 
 
 The Departed 438 
 
 I am not Old 438 
 
 The Dove's Errand 439 
 
 " How cheery are the Mariners I" 439 
 
 Lines spoken by a Blind Boy 440 
 
 The Elysian Isle 4 440 
 
 Sonnets 441 
 
 RALPH HOYT 442 
 
 Old 442 
 
 New 443 
 
 Sale 445 
 
 Snow 445 
 
 Extract from " The Blacksmith's Night" 446 
 
 WILLIS GATLORD CLARK 447 
 
 Lines written in an Autumn Evening 447 
 
 A Lament 448 
 
 Memory 448 
 
 Song of May 449 
 
 Death of the First-Born 449 
 
 Summer 450 
 
 The Early Dead 450 
 
 The Signs of God 450 
 
 Euthanasia 451 
 
 An Invitation 451 
 
 The Burial-Place 451 
 
 A Contrast 452 
 
 The Faded One 452 
 
 A Remembrance 452 
 
 JAMES A LDRIC H 453 
 
 Morn at Sea 453 
 
 A Death-Bed 453 
 
 My Mother's Grave 453 
 
 A Spring-Day Walk 454 
 
 To One far away 454 
 
 Beatrice 454 
 
 " Underneath this Marble cold" 454 
 
 The Dreaming Girl 454 
 
 ISAAC McLELLAN, Jk 455 
 
 New England's Dead 455 
 
 The Death of Napoleon 455 
 
 The Notes of the Birds 456 
 
 Lines, suggested by a Picture by "Washington Allston 456 
 
 JONES VERT 457 
 
 To the Painted Columbine 457 
 
 J>ines to a -withered Leaf seen on a Poet's Table 457 
 
 The Heart 457 
 
 Sonnets 458 
 
 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE 460 
 
 Triformis Diana 460 
 
 Cana 461 
 
 . The Genuine Portrait 461 
 
 White-cap t Waves 461 
 
 The Poet 461 
 
 Jacob's Well 462 
 
 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE, (Continoed.) 
 
 The Violet PAG e 462 
 
 To a Bunch of Flowers 462 
 
 GEORGE W. CUTTER '. 463 
 
 The Song of Steam 463 
 
 The Song of Lightning 464 
 
 On the Death of General Worth 464 
 
 ROBERT T. CONRAD 465 
 
 On a Blind Boy, playing the Flute 466 
 
 The Stricken f. 466 
 
 My Brother 467 
 
 The Pride of Worth 467 
 
 HENRY R. JACKSON 468 
 
 My Father 468 
 
 My Wife and Child 468 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 469 
 
 The City in the Sea 470 
 
 Annabel Lee 470 
 
 Ulalume : a Ballad 471 
 
 To Zante 471 
 
 To 472 
 
 Dream-Land 472 
 
 Lenore 473 
 
 Israfel 473 
 
 The Bells 474 
 
 ToF. S. 474 
 
 For Annie 475 
 
 To one in Paradise 475 
 
 The Raven 476 
 
 The Conqueror Worm 477 
 
 The Haunted Palace 478 
 
 The Sleeper 478 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET 479 
 
 The Gray Forest-Eagle 480 
 
 Fowling 481 
 
 A Forest Walk 482 
 
 "Winter 483 
 
 The Settler 483 
 
 An American Forest in Spring 484 
 
 The Lost Hunter 484 
 
 WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH 486 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 486 
 
 " Let there be Light" 487 
 
 June 487 
 
 Spring 4S8 
 
 Requiem 488 
 
 Stanzas written on visiting my Birthplace 488 
 
 ToH. A. B 489 
 
 To 489 
 
 " Believe not the slander, my dearest Katrine 1" 490 
 
 Sonnets 490 
 
 LOUIS LEGRAND NOBLE 491 
 
 The Cripple-Boy 491 
 
 To a Swan flying at Midnight in the Vale of the Huron 492 
 
 THOMAS MACKELLAR 493 
 
 Life's Evening 493 
 
 The Sleeping Wife 493 
 
 Remember thePoor 493 
 
 MATTHEW C. FIELD 494 
 
 To my Shadow 494 
 
 Poor Tom 494 
 
 CHARLES T. BROOKS 495 
 
 ' ' Alabama" 495 
 
 To the Mississippi 495 
 
 " Our Country— Right or Wrong" 496 
 
 A Sabbath Morning, at Pettaquamscutt 496 
 
 Sunrise on the Sea-coast 496 
 
 C. P. CRANCH 497 
 
 Beauty 497 
 
 My Thoughts 498 
 
 The Hours 498 
 
 On hearing Triumphant Music 499 
 
 Stanzas = 4 " 
 
 Margaret Fuller Ossoli 499 
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN 500 
 
 Giovanni 501 
 
 The Holy Land 502 
 
 To an Elm 502 
 
 Mary 503 
 
 "You call us inconstant" 503 
 
 Greenough's "Washington 503 
 
 Alone once more 504 
 
 Sonnets 504 
 
 Luna : an Ode 505 
 
 Tasso to Leonora 505 
 
 The Law of Beauty, from " The Spirit of Poetry" 505 
 
 Columbus, from the same 506 
 
 Florence, from the same 506 
 
 Poetry Immortal, from the same . 506 
 
-y 
 
 12 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 willi\m n. c. hosmer... paoe 507 
 
 Extracts from " Yoimondio" 607 
 
 The Immortality of Genius 508 
 
 The Sold icr of the Closet 508 
 
 Tho Battle-Field of Deuonvllle 509 
 
 Menomeucc Dirge 509 
 
 The Swallow 510 
 
 AFloridian Scene 510 
 
 JEDIDIAH V. HUNTINGTON 511 
 
 Sonnets suggested by the Coronation of Queen Victoria 511 
 
 On Reading Bryant's Poem of "The Winds" 511 
 
 To Emmcline: a Threnodia 512 
 
 CORNELIUS MATHEWS 513 
 
 The Journalist 513 
 
 The Citizen 513 
 
 The Reformer 514 
 
 The Masses 5H 
 
 The Mechauic 514 
 
 WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIE 515 
 
 "Go forth into the Fields" 515 
 
 To the Autumn Forest 515 
 
 On the Death of a Friend 516 
 
 Our Country 516 
 
 "I hear thy Voice, O Spring" 516 
 
 " I stood beside the Grave of him" 516 
 
 EPES SARGENT 517 
 
 Records of a Summer Voyage to Cuba 517 
 
 The Days that are Past 519 
 
 The Martyr of the Arena 519 
 
 Summer in the Heart 520 
 
 The Fugitive from Love 520 
 
 The Night-Storm at Sea 520 
 
 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 521 
 
 To my Daughter Lily 523 
 
 F.mily: Proem to the " Froissart Ballads" 524 
 
 Life in the Autumn Woods 526 
 
 Florence Vane 527 
 
 CHARLES G. EASTMAN 528 
 
 " The Farmer satin his Easy Chair" 528 
 
 Mill May 528 
 
 " Her Grave is by her Mother's" 528 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE 529 
 
 The Proud Miss MacBride : a Legend of Gotham 529 
 
 Fashion, from " Progress" 532 
 
 " The Press," from the same 532 
 
 " Association" from the same 532 
 
 Bereavement 532 
 
 HENRY B. HIRST 533 
 
 Extract from " Endymion" 533 
 
 The Last Tilt 534 
 
 Berenice 534 
 
 The Lost Pleiad 535 
 
 No More 535 
 
 As tarte 535 
 
 AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE 536 
 
 Extract from "Parnassus in Pillory" 536 
 
 Ode to the Greek Slave 536 
 
 E. SPENCER MILLER 537 
 
 Niagara 537 
 
 The Wind 537 
 
 " Tho Bluebeard Chambers of the Heart" 538 
 
 The Glowworm 538 
 
 Extract from " Abel" 539 
 
 Extract from "Rest" 539 
 
 FREDERICK S. COZZENS 510 
 
 A Babylonish Ditty 540 
 
 GEORGE H. COLTON 541 
 
 Tecumseh and the Prophet, from " Tecumseh" 542 
 
 The Death of Tecumseh, from the same 542 
 
 A Forest Scene, from the same 543 
 
 To the Night- Wind in Autumn 543 
 
 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE 544 
 
 Extract from "Athanasion" 544 
 
 Manhood 545 
 
 Old Churches 545 
 
 The Heart's Song 546 
 
 The Chimes of England 546 
 
 March 546 
 
 WILLIAM W. LORD 547 
 
 Keats 547 
 
 To my Sis ter 547 
 
 The Brook 548 
 
 A Rime 548 
 
 GEORGE W. DEWEY 549 
 
 The Rustic Shrine 549 
 
 Blind Louise 549 
 
 A Memory 549 
 
 A Blighted May 5o0 
 
 To an Old Acquaintance 550 
 
 The Rh'"1v Si*" 550 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE paoe 551 
 
 Rest 551 
 
 Wordsworth 552 
 
 The Mounds or America 554 
 
 Greenwood Cemetery 555 
 
 Hymn to tho Hudson River 555 
 
 Chant of a Sotd 556 
 
 The Gods of Old: an Ode 557 
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 559 
 
 Extract from an Epistle " To Walter Savage Landor" 559 
 
 Campanile de Pisa 560 
 
 The Shadow of the Obelisk 561 
 
 On a Lady singing 561 
 
 Hudson River 562 
 
 On the Death of Daniel Webster 563 
 
 On a Magdalen by Guido 563 
 
 To James Russel Lowell, in return for a Talbotype of Venice. .564 
 On a Bust of Dante 564 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 565 
 
 To the Dandelion 566 
 
 To the Memory of Thomas Hood 566 
 
 Sonnets 567 
 
 The Poet 568 
 
 Extract from " A Legend of Brittany" 569 
 
 The Syrens 569 
 
 An Incident in a Railroad Car 570 
 
 The Heritage 571 
 
 To the Future 572 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS 573 
 
 On a Pair of Antlers, brought from Germany 573 
 
 Ballad of the Tempe s t 573 
 
 A Valentine 574 
 
 On a Book of Sea-Mosses, sent to an eminent English Poet . .574 
 
 Glory, from " The Post of Honor" 574 
 
 True Honor, from the sam e S74 
 
 Webster, from the same 574 
 
 The Old Year 575 
 
 Sleighing- Song 575 
 
 Fair Wind 575 
 
 Dirge for a Young Girl 575 
 
 Last Wishes of a Child 575 
 
 A Bridal Melody 575 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 576 
 
 Extract from " Dora Lee" 576 
 
 Ben Bolt 575 
 
 J. M. LEGARE 577 
 
 Thanatokallos 577 
 
 Maize in Tassel 578 
 
 ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH 579 
 
 What is the Use 7 579 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 581 
 
 The Brickmaker 582 
 
 The Stranger on the Sill 5*3 
 
 "Bring me the juice of the Honey Fruit" 583 
 
 The Deserted Road 583 
 
 The Closiug Scene 584 
 
 An Invitation 584 
 
 My Hermitage 585 
 
 Passing the Icebergs 585 
 
 A Dirge for a Dead Bird 586 
 
 Midnight 58H 
 
 The Nameless 586 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER 587 
 
 The Song of the Earth ftSS 
 
 A Ballad of Sir John Franklin 591 
 
 Ode to England 592 
 
 Lida 503 
 
 Sonnet 593 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON 594 
 
 Extract from "The Greek Slave" 594 
 
 To Emilie Louise Rives 594 
 
 CHARLES G. LELAND 595 
 
 Theleme 595 
 
 A Dream of Love 596 
 
 Manes 5 ;"; 
 
 The Three Friends 5 % 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR 597 
 
 "In Italy" ,9S 
 
 Nubia.... 6W 
 
 Extract from a Poem to R. H. Stoddard 600 
 
 Metempsychosis of the Pine 600 
 
 ElCanal'o "'* 
 
 The Bison-Track 
 
 ■ Bedouin Song 60S 
 
 The Arab and the Palm "~ 
 
 Ku bleh 
 
 Charmian e °? 
 
 The Poet in the East b ™ 
 
 „.,. ,. 606 
 
 Kihmandjaro 
 
 An Oriental Idyl ouft 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 13 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR, (Continued.) 
 
 Hassan to his Mare page 607 
 
 The Phantom 607 
 
 "Moan, ye wild Winds" 607 
 
 RICHARD COB 608 
 
 Smiles and Tears 608 
 
 Emblems 608 
 
 R. H. STODDARD 609 
 
 Hymn to the Beautiful 610 
 
 Spring 41 610 
 
 The Witch's Whelp 611 
 
 A Household Dirge 612 
 
 Leo n at us 612 
 
 A Dirge 613 
 
 The Shadow of the Hand 613 
 
 A Serenade 613 
 
 The Yellow Moon 6U 
 
 Invocation to Sleep 614 
 
 At the Window 614 
 
 At Beat. 614 
 
 WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER page 615 
 
 The New Argonauts 61 5 
 
 The Incognita of Raphael 616 
 
 TThlaud 61<2 
 
 HENRY W. PARKER 617 
 
 A Vision of the Death of Shelley 617 
 
 The Dead- Watch 618 
 
 Sonnets 618 
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 619 
 
 Extraets from ' ' Stanzas" 619 
 
 Clouds 620 
 
 May C20 
 
 Memories 620 
 
 WILLIAM CBOSWELL DOANE 621 
 
 Gray Cliff, Newport 621 
 
 My Father's fifty-third Birth-Day 621 
 
 Shells 621 
 
 INDEX TO-NAUES OP AUTHORS 622 
 
THROUGH THE GROWING PRESENT 
 •WESTWARD THE STARRY PATH OF POEST LIES ; 
 HER GLORIOUS SPIRIT, LIEE THE EVENING CRESCENT, 
 COMES BOUNDING UP THE SKIES. 
 
 T. B. BEAD. 
 
%\jt Urate wb |ratf y Bf 
 
 BEFORE THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 The literary annals of this country before the 
 revolution present few names entitled to a per- 
 manent celebrity. Many of the earlier colonists 
 of New England were men of erudition, pro- 
 foundly versed in the dogmas and discussions of 
 the schools, and familiar with the best fruits of 
 ancient genius and culture, and they perpetuated 
 their intellectual habits and accomplishments 
 among their immediate descendants ; but they 
 possessed neither the high and gentle feeling, the 
 refined appreciation, the creating imagination, nor 
 the illustrating fancy of the poet, and what they 
 produced of real excellence was nearly all in those 
 domains of experimental and metaphysical reli- 
 gion in which acuteness and strength were more 
 important than delicacy or elegance. The "re- 
 nowned" Mr. Thomas Shepherd, the " pious" 
 Mr. John Norton, and our own "judicious" Mr. 
 Hooker, are still justly esteemed in the churches 
 for soundness in the faith and learned wisdom, as 
 well as for all the practical Christian virtues, and 
 in their more earnest." endeavours" they and se- 
 veral of their contemporaries frequently wrote ex- 
 cellent prose, an example of which may be found 
 in the " attestation" to Cotton Mather's "Mag- 
 nalia," by John Higginson, of Salem, which has 
 not been surpassed in stately eloquence by any 
 modern writing on the exodus of the Puritans. In 
 a succeeding age that miracle of dialectical sub- 
 tlety, Edwards, with Mayhew, Chauncey, Bel- 
 lamy, Hopkins, and others, demonstrated the 
 truth that there was no want of energy and ac- 
 tivity in American mind in the direction to which 
 it was most especially determined; but our elabo- 
 rate metrical compositions, formal, pedantic, and 
 quaint, of the seventeenth century and the earlier 
 part of the eighteenth, are forgotten except by cu- 
 rious antiquaries, who sec in them the least valua- 
 ble relics of the first ages of American civilization. 
 
 ''The remark has frequently been quoted from 
 Mr. Jefferson, that when we can boast as long 
 a history as that of England, we shall not have 
 cause to shrink from a comparison of our litera- 
 tures ; but there is very little reason in such a 
 suggestion, since however unfavourable to the cul- 
 tivation of any kind of refinement are the neces- 
 sarily prosaic duties of the planters of an empire 
 in wilderness countries, in our case, when the 
 planting was accomplished, and ourancestorschose 
 
 to turn their attention to mental luxuries, they had 
 but to enter at once upon the most advanced con- 
 dition of taste, and the use of all those resources 
 in literary art acquired or invented by the more 
 happily situated scholars to whom had been con- 
 fided in a greater degree the charge of the Eng- 
 lish language. When, however, the works of 
 Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton 
 were as accessible as now, and the living harmo- 
 nies of Dryden and Pope were borne on every 
 breeze that fanned the cheek of an Englishman, 
 the best praise which could be awarded to American 
 verses was that they were ingeniously grotesque. 
 There were displayed in them none of the graces 
 which result from an sesthetical sensibility, but 
 only such ponderous oddities, laborious conceits, 
 and sardonic humors, as the slaves of metaphysi- 
 cal and theological scholasticism might be ex- 
 pected to indulge when yielding to transient and 
 imperfect impulses of human nature. Our fathers 
 were like the labourers of an architect ; they 
 planted deeply and strongly in religious virtue 
 and useful science the foundations of an edifice, 
 not dreaming how great and magnificent it was 
 to be. They did well their part; it was not for 
 them to fashion the capitals and adorn the arches 
 of the temple. 
 
 The first poem composed in this country was a 
 description of New England, in Latin, by the 
 Reverend William Morrell, who came to the 
 Plymouth colony in 1623, and returned to London 
 in the following year. It has been reprinted, with 
 an English translation made by the author, in the 
 collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. 
 
 Mr. George Sandys, while " treasurer for 
 the colony in Virginia," about the year 1625, 
 wrote probably the earliest English verse pro- 
 duced in America. Michael Drayton, author 
 of the "Polyolbion," addressed to him an epistle 
 in which he says — ■ 
 
 '■' My worthy George, by industry and use, 
 Let's see what lines Virginia will produce; 
 Go on with Ovid, as you have begun 
 With the first five books: let your numbers run 
 Glib as the former : so, it shall live long 
 Aud do much honor to the English tongue." 
 
 Sandys completed in Virginia his translation 
 of the "Metamorphoses," dating hence his dedi- 
 cation to the king, and probably wrote here all 
 
 15 
 
L6 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 his "Paraphrase upon the Psalms," and "Songs 
 selected out of the Old and New Testaments." 
 Dkyden and Poi'E unite in praising his poems, 
 and his version of the Book of Psalms has heen 
 described as incomparably the most poetical in 
 the English language. 
 
 The oldest rhythmical composition from the 
 hand of a colonist which has come down to us is 
 believed to have been written about the year 
 1630. The name of the author has been lost: 
 
 " New England's annoyances, you that would know them, 
 Pray ponder these verses which briefly do show them. 
 
 " The place where we live is a wilderness wood, 
 Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good: 
 Our mountains and hills and our valleys below 
 Being commonly cover' d with ice and with snow: 
 And when the northwest wind with violence blows, 
 Then every man pulls his cap over his nose : 
 But if any 's so hardy and will it withstand, 
 lie forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand. 
 
 " But when the spring opens, we then take the hoe, 
 And make the ground ready to plant and to sow; 
 Our corn being planted and seed being sown, 
 The worms destroy much before it is grown; 
 And when it is growing some spoil there is made 
 By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade; 
 And when it is come to full corn in the ear, 
 It is often destroy'd by raccoon and by deer. 
 
 " And now do our garments begin to grow thin, 
 And wool is much wanted to card aud to spin; 
 If we get a garment to cover without, 
 Our other in-garments are clout upon clout: 
 Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn, 
 They need to be clouted soon after they 're worn ; 
 But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing, 
 Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothing. 
 
 " If fresh meat be wanting, to fill up our dish, 
 We have carrots and pumpkins and turnips and fish: 
 And is there a mind lor a delicate dish, 
 We repair to the clam banks, and there we catch fish. 
 'Stead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies, 
 Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies: 
 We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon; 
 If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone. 
 
 "If barley be wanting to make into malt, 
 We must be contented and think it no fault; 
 For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips 
 Of pumpkins aud parsnips and walnut-tree chips 
 
 "Now while some are going let others be coming, 
 For while liquor's boiling it must have a scumming; 
 But I will not blame them, for birds of a feather, 
 By seeking their fellows, are flocUiug together. 
 But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring, 
 Forsake not the honey for fear of the sting; 
 But bring both a quiet and contented mind, 
 And all needful blessings you surety will find." 
 
 The first book published in British America 
 was "The Psalms, in Metre, faithfully Trans- 
 lated, for the Use, Edification and Comfort of the 
 Saints, in Public and Private, especially in New 
 England," printed at Cambridge, in 1640. The 
 version was made by Thomas Welde, of Rox- 
 bury, Richard Mather, of Dorchester, and John 
 EliOT, the famous apostle to the Indians. The 
 translators seem to have been aware that it pos- 
 sessed but little poetical merit. "If," say they, 
 in their preface, "the verses are not always so 
 smooth and elegant as some may desire and ex- 
 pect, let them consider that God's altar needs not 
 our polishings; for we have respected rather a 
 
 plain translation, than to smooth our verses with 
 the sweetness of any paraphrase, and so have at- 
 tended to conscience rather than elegance, and 
 fidelity rather than poetry, in translating Hebrew 
 words into English language, and David's poetry 
 into English metre." Cotton Mathkh laments 
 the inelegance of the version, but declares that 
 the Hebrew was most exactly rendered. After 
 a second edition had been printed, President 
 Dunster,* of Harvard College, assisted by Mr. 
 Richard Lyon, a tutor at Cambridge, attempted 
 to improve it, and in their advertisement to the 
 godly reader they state that they "had special eye 
 both to the gravity of the phrase of sacred writ 
 and sweetness of the verse." Dunster's edition 
 was reprinted twenty-three times in America, and 
 several times in Scotland and England, where it 
 was long used in the dissenting congregations. 
 The following specimen is from the second edition: 
 
 psalm cxxxvii. 
 " The rivers on of Babilon 
 
 There when wee did sit downe, 
 Yea, even then, wee mourned when 
 Wee remembered Sion. 
 
 " Our harp wee did hang it amid, 
 Upon the willow tree, 
 Because there they that us away 
 Led in captivitee 
 " Requir'd of us a song, and thus 
 Askt mirth us waste who laid, 
 Sing us among a Sion's song, 
 Unto us then they said. 
 " The Lord's song sing can wee, being 
 In stranger's land? then let 
 Lose her skill my right hand if I 
 Jerusalem forget. 
 "Let cleave my tongue my pallate on 
 If mind thee doe not I, 
 If chiefe joyes o're I prize not more 
 Jerusalem my joy. 
 " Remember, Lord, Edom's sons' word, 
 Unto the ground, said they, 
 It rase, it rase, when as it was 
 Jerusalem her day. 
 
 " Blest shall he be that payeth thee, 
 Daughter of Babilon, 
 Who must be waste, that which thou hast 
 Rewarded us upon. 
 
 " happie hee shall surely bee 
 That taketh up, that eke 
 The little ones against the stones 
 Doth into pieces breake. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Bbadstreet, " the mirror of her 
 age and glory of her sex," as she is styled by a 
 contemporary admirer, came to America with her 
 husband, Governor Simon Bradstreet, in 1630, 
 
 * Thomas Duxster was the first president of Harvard 
 College, and was inaugurated on the twenty-seventh of 
 August. 1640. In 1054 he became unpopular on account 
 of his public advocacy of auti-pivdobaptism, and was com- 
 pelled to resign. When he died, in 1059. he bequeathed 
 legacies to the persons who were most active in causing 
 his separation from the College. In the life of DBNSTBR, 
 in the Magnolia, is the following admonition, by Mr. 
 Shepherd, to the a\ithors of the New Psalm Book : 
 
 " You Roxli'ry poets keep clear of the'erime 
 Of missing to give us very good rhyme. 
 And vou of Dorchester, your verses lengthen. 
 But with the texts' oan ivords vou will them strengthen.' 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 and J^years afterward published her celebrated 
 volume of " Several Poems, compiled with great 
 variety of wit and learning, full of delig'ot ; where- 
 in especially is contained a compleat Discourse 
 and Description of the four Elements, Constitu- 
 tions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, to- 
 gether with an exact Epitome of the Three 
 First Monarchies, viz, : the Assyrian, Persian, and 
 Grecian ; and the Roman Commonwealth, from 
 the beginning, to the end of the last King ; with 
 divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems." Nor- 
 ton declares her poetry so fine that were Maro 
 to hear it he would condemn his own works to 
 the fire ; the author of the " Magnalia" speaks of 
 her poems as a "monument for her memory be- 
 yond the stateliest marble ;" and John Rogees, 
 one of the presidents of Harvard College, in some 
 verses addressed to her, says — 
 
 " Your only hand those poesies did compose : 
 Your head the source, whence all those springs did flow : 
 Your voice, whence change's sweetest notes arose : 
 Your feet that kept the dance alone, I trow: 
 Then veil your bonnets, poetasters all, 
 Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly fall, 
 And deem, yourselves advanced to be her pedestal. 
 
 " Should all with lowly congees laurels bring, 
 Waste Flora's magazine to find a wreath, 
 Or Pineus' banks, 't were too mean offering ; 
 Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath 
 To guard your fairer front; here 't is your name 
 Shall stand immarbled; this your little frame 
 Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal fame." 
 
 Sue died in September, 1672. Of her history 
 and waitings a more ample account may be found 
 in my " Female Poets of America." 
 
 William Bradford, the second governor of 
 Plymouth, who wrote a " History of the People 
 and Colony from 1602 to 1647," composed also 
 "A Descriptive and Historical Account of New 
 England, in Verse," which is preserved in the Col- 
 lections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. 
 
 When John Cotton, an eminent minister of 
 Boston, died, in 1652, Benjamin Woodbridge, 
 the first graduate of Harvard College, and after- 
 ward one of the chaplains of Charles the Second, 
 wrote an elegiac poem, from a passage in which 
 it is supposed Franklin borrowed the idea of his 
 celebrated epitaph on himself. Cotton, says 
 Woodbridge, was 
 
 " A living, breathing Bible ; tables where 
 Both covenants at large engraven were ; 
 Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column, 
 His head an index to the sacred volume, 
 His very name a title-page, and next 
 His life a commentary on the text. 
 0, what a monument of glorious worth, 
 When in a new edition he comes forth, 
 "Without erratas, may we think he '11 be, 
 In leaves and covers of eternity !" 
 
 The lines of the Reverend Joseph Capen, on 
 the death of Mr. John Foster, an ingenious 
 mathematician and printer, are yet more like the 
 epitaph of Franklin : 
 
 " Thy body which no activeness did lack, 
 Now 's laid aside like an old almanack; 
 But for the present only 's out of date, 
 'T will have at length a far more active state : 
 2 
 
 Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be, 
 Yet at the resurrection we shall see 
 A fair edition, and of matchless worth, 
 Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth; 
 'T is but a word from God the great Creator, 
 It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur." 
 
 The excellent President TJrian Oakes, styled 
 "the Lactajjtius of New England," was one of 
 the most distinguished poets of his time. The 
 following verses are from his elegy on the death 
 of Thomas Shepard, minister of Charlestown : 
 
 " Art, nature, grace, in him were all combined 
 To show the world a matchless paragon ; 
 In whom of radiant virtues no less shined, 
 Than a whole constellation ; but hee 's gone! 
 Hee 's gone, alas! down in the dust must ly 
 As much of this rare person, as could die. 
 
 " To be descended well, dd*th that commend? 
 
 Can sons their fathers' glory call their own? 
 
 Our Shepard justly might to this pretend, 
 
 (His blessed father was of high renown, 
 Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,) 
 But his own personal worth 's a better claim. 
 
 " His look commanded reverence and awe, 
 Though mild and amiable, not austere : 
 Well humour'd was he, as I ever saw, 
 And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear. 
 The muses and the graces too, conspired, 
 To set forth this rare piece to be admired. 
 
 " He breathed love, and pursued peace in his day, 
 As if his soul were made of harmony : 
 Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay 
 In such a piece of frail mortality. 
 Sure Father Wilson's genuine son was he, 
 New-England's Paul had such a Timothy. 
 
 "My dearest, inmost, bosome friend is gone! 
 Gone is my sweet companion, soul's delight! 
 Now in a huddling crowd, I 'm all alone, 
 And almost could bid all the world good-night. 
 
 Blest be my rock ! God lives : ! let him be 
 
 As he is all, so all in all to me." 
 
 At that period the memory of every eminent 
 person was preserved in an ingenious elegy, epi- 
 taph, or anagram. Shepard, mourned in the 
 above verses by Oakes, on the death of John 
 Wilson, "the Paul of New England," and ''the 
 greatest anagrammatizer since the days of Ly- 
 cophron," wrote — 
 
 " John Wilson, anagr. John Wilson. 
 " 0, change it not ! No sweeter name or thing, 
 Throughout the world, within our ears shall ring." 
 
 Thomas Welde, a poet of some reputation in 
 his day, wrote the following epitaph on Samuel 
 Danforth, a minister of Roxbury, who died soon 
 after the completion of a new meeting-house : 
 
 "Our new-built church now suffers too by this, 
 Larger its windows, but its lights are less." 
 
 Peter Fotjlger, a schoolmaster of Nantucket, 
 and the maternal grandfather of Doctor Frank- 
 lin, in 1676 published a poem entitled "A Look- 
 ing-glass for the times," addressed to men in 
 authority, in which he advocates religious liberty, 
 and implores the government to repeal the un- 
 charitable laws against the Quakers and other 
 sects. He says — 
 
 " The rulers in the country I do owne them in the Lord : 
 And such as are for government, with them I do accord. 
 
But that which I intend thereby, is that they would keep 
 
 bound ; 
 And meddle not with God's worship, for which they have 
 
 no ground. 
 And 1 am not alone herein, there's many hundreds more, 
 That have for many years ago spoke much more upon that 
 
 Bcoro. 
 Indeed, I really believe, it's not your business, 
 lo meddle with the church of God in matters more or less." 
 
 In another part of his " Looking Glass" — 
 
 "Now loving friends and countrymen, I wish we may be 
 wise; 
 
 ! T is now a time for every man to see with his own eyes. 
 
 'T is easy to provoke the Lord to send among us war; 
 
 "f is easy to do violence, to envy and to jar; 
 
 To show a spirit that is high ; to scold and domineer ; 
 
 To pride it out as if there were no God to make us fear; 
 
 To covet what is not our own; to cheat and to oppress; 
 
 To live a life that might free uf from acts of righteousness ; 
 
 To swear and lie and to be drunk ; to backbite one another ; 
 
 To carry tales that may do hurt and mischief to our bro- 
 ther; 
 
 To live in such hypocrisy, as men may think us good, 
 
 Although our hearts within are full of evil and of blood. 
 
 AH these, and many evils more, are easy for to do; 
 
 But to repent and to reform we have no strength thereto." 
 
 The following are the concluding lines: 
 
 " I am for peace, and not for war, and that's the reason why 
 I writemore plain than some men do.that use to daub and lie. 
 But I shall cease and set my name to what I here insert: 
 Because to be a libeller, I hate with all my heart. 
 From Sherbonton, where now I dwell, my name I do put 
 
 here, 
 Without offence, your real friend, it is Peter Foulger." 
 
 Probably the first native bard was he who is de- 
 scribed on a tombstone at Roxbury as "Benjamin 
 Thomson, learned schoolmaster and physician, 
 and ye renowned poet of New England." He was 
 Aiorn in the town of Dorchester, (now Quincy,) in 
 LS40, and educated at Cambridge, where he receiv- 
 ed a degree in 1622. His principal work, "New 
 England's Crisis," appears to have been written 
 during the famous wars of Philip, sachem of the 
 Pequods, against the colonists, in 1675 anil 1676. 
 The following is the prologue, in which he laments 
 the growth of luxury among the people: 
 
 " The times wherein old Pompion was a saint, 
 When men fared hardly, yet without complaint, 
 On vilest cates : the dainty Indian-maize 
 Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes, 
 Under thatched huts, without the cry of rent, 
 And the best sawce to every dish, content. 
 When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats, 
 And men as well as birds had chirping notes; 
 When Cimnels were accounted noble blood, 
 Among the tribes of common herbage food, 
 Of Ceres' bounty formed was many a knack, 
 Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack. 
 These golden times (too fortunate to hold) 
 "Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold. 
 'T was then among the bushes, not the street, 
 If one in place did an inferior meet, 
 "Good-morrow, brother, is there aught you want ? 
 Take freely of me, what I have you ha'nt." 
 Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now, 
 As ever since, "Your servant, Sir," and bow. 
 Dee,p-skirted doublets, puritanick capes, 
 Which now would render men like upright apes, 
 Were comclier wear, our wiser fathers thought, 
 Than the last fashions from all Europe brought. 
 'T was in those dayes an honest grace would hold 
 Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold, 
 4.nd men had better stomachs at religion, 
 
 Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeou ; 
 
 When honest sisters met to pray, not prate, 
 
 About their own and not their neighbour's state. 
 
 During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud 
 
 Of the ancient planters' race before the flood, 
 
 Then times were good, merchants cared not a rusn 
 
 For other fare than jonakin and mush. 
 
 Although men fared and lodged very hard, 
 
 Vet innocence was better than a guard. 
 
 'T was long before spiders and worms had drawn 
 
 Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne 
 
 New England's beautys, which still seem'd to me 
 
 Illustrious in their own simplicity. 
 
 'T was ere the neighboring Yirgin-Land had broke 
 
 The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak. 
 
 ! T was ere the Islands sent their presents in, 
 
 Which but to use was counted next to sin. 
 
 'T was ere a barge had made so rich a fraight 
 
 As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight ; 
 
 Ere wines from France, and Muscovadoe too, 
 
 Without the which the drink will scarcely doe ; 
 
 From western isles ere fruits and delicasies 
 
 Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces. 
 
 Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war 
 
 Was from our towns and hearts removed far. 
 
 No bugbear comets in the chrystal air 
 
 Did drive our Christian planters to despair. 
 
 No sooner pagan malice peeped forth 
 
 But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth, 
 
 "Who by their prayers slew thousands; angel-like, 
 
 Their weapons are unseen with which they strike. 
 
 Then had the churches rest ; as yet the coales 
 
 Were covered wp in most contentious souls: 
 
 Freeness in judgment, union in affection, 
 
 Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection. 
 
 Then were the times in which our councells sate, 
 
 These gave prognosticks of our future fate. 
 
 If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase, 
 
 These warrs will usher in a longer peace. — 
 
 But if New England's love die in its youth, 
 
 The grave will open next for blessed truth. 
 
 This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours 
 
 "When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers. 
 
 Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn 
 
 To draw the figure of New England's urne. 
 
 New England's hour of passion is at hand; 
 
 No power except divine can it withstand. 
 
 Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out, 
 
 But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about, 
 
 Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings, 
 
 To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinuings. 
 
 So that the mirror of the Christian world 
 
 Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd. 
 
 Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize 
 
 Not dastard spirits only, but the wise. 
 
 Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye 
 
 Of the big-swoln expectant standing by: 
 
 Thus the proud ship after a little turn, 
 
 Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne; 
 
 Thus hath the heir to many thousands bora 
 
 Been in an instant from the mother torn : 
 
 Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale, 
 
 And thy supporters through great losses fail. 
 
 This is the Prologue to thy future woe, 
 
 The Epilogue no mortal yet can know." 
 
 Thomson died in April, 1714, aged 74. He 
 wrote besides his "great epic," three shorterpoems, 
 neither of which have much merit. 
 
 Roger Williams, whose best verses appear in 
 his book on the Indian languages, Nathaniel 
 Pitcher, and many others were in this period 
 known as poets. The death of Pitcher was ce- 
 celebrated in some verses entitled " Pitchero Thre- 
 nodia,"in which he was compared to Pindar,Ho- 
 race, and other poets of antiquity. 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 19 
 
 The most remarkable character of his age in 
 this country was the Reverend Cotton Mather, 
 D.D. and F.R. S., who was born in Boston on the 
 ninth of February, 1662. "When twelve years 
 of age he was qualified for admission to the col- 
 lege at Cambridge; at sixteen composed systems 
 of logic and physics ; and on receiving his master's 
 degree, chose for his thesis ' ; Puncta Hebraica sunt 
 originis divinae." The president, in his Latin ora- 
 tion, at commencement, said, "Mather is named 
 Cotton Mather. What a name ! but I am wrong : 
 I should have said, what names.' I shall say nothing 
 of his reverend father, since I dare not praise him 
 to his face ; but should he represent and resemble 
 his venerable grandfathers, John Cotton and Ri- 
 chard Mather,* in piety, learning, and elegance 
 of mind, solid judgment, prudence, and wisdom, he 
 will bear away the palm ; and I trust that in him 
 Cotton and Mather will be united and flourish 
 again." In his eighteenth year he was invited to 
 become a colleague of his father in the ministry of 
 the "North Church," but declined the place for 
 three years. In 1684 he was married, and from 
 this period devoted himself with untiring assiduity 
 to professional and literary duties. During the last 
 days of the disgraceful administration of Sir Ed- 
 mund Andros he took an active part in politics, 
 and twice by his eloquence and wisely temperate 
 counsels saved the city from riot and revolution. 
 In 1692 he was unfortunately conspicuous in the 
 terrible scenes connected with the witchcraft super- 
 stition, and he has been unjustly ridiculed and 
 condemned for the credulity and cruelty he then 
 manifested. But he was no more credulous or 
 cruel than under similar circumstances were Sir 
 Matthew Hale, and many others, whose intel- 
 lectual greatness and moral excellence are unques- 
 tioned ; and in an age when tens of thousands be- 
 lieve in the puerile, ridiculous, and contemptible 
 stuff called "spiritualism," the silliest and most dis- 
 gusting delusion that ever illustrated the weakness 
 of the human understanding, it certainly should 
 not be a cause of surprise that the strange pheno- 
 mena which he undoubtedly witnessed led Mather 
 into the far more respectable as well as time-hon- 
 ored error of a visible and punishable complicity 
 of men and women with devils. In the reaction 
 of the popular excitement an attempt was made 
 to show that he was responsible for the excesses 
 which had tarnished the fame of the colony; but 
 a candid examination of the subject will lead to a 
 different conclusion; participating, as it must be 
 confessed he did, in the melancholy infatuation, 
 he yet counselled caution and moderation, and 
 evinced a willingness to sacrifice his convictions 
 as to demoniacal interference rather than hazard 
 the lives of any of the accused. 
 
 Although his mind was not of the first order for 
 clearness and solidity, he was nevertheless a man 
 of genius, and of extraordinary erudition, facility 
 in literary execution, and perseverance. He wrote 
 readily in seven languages, and was the author of 
 
 * An epitaph upon Richard Mather runs thus : 
 " Under this stone lies Richard Matheb, 
 Who had a son, greater than his father, 
 And eke a grandson greater than either." 
 
 three hundred and eighty-three separate publica- 
 tions, besides unpublished manuscripts sufficient 
 for half a dozen folio volumes. The " Magnalia," 
 "Christian Philosopher," "Essays to do Good," 
 "Wonders of the Invisible World," and many 
 more, however disfigured by those striking faults 
 of style which at the time were a prevailing fash- 
 ion, contain passages of eloquence not less attract- 
 ive than peculiar. With all their pedantry, their 
 anagrams, puns, and grotesque conceits, they are 
 thoughtful and earnest, and abound in original and 
 shrewd observations of human nature, religious 
 obligation, and providence. 
 
 In 1718 Doctor Mather published "Psalterum 
 Americanum: the Book of Psalms, in a Transla- 
 tion exactly conformed to the Original, but all in 
 Blank Verse, fitted unto the Tunes commonly used 
 in our Churches: Which pure Offering is accom- 
 panied with Illustrations, digging for hidden Trea- 
 sures in it, and Rules to employ it upon the glo- 
 rious Intentions of it." Other poetical "compo- 
 sures" are scattered through nearly all his works, 
 and they are generally as harsh and turgid as the 
 worst verses of his contemporaries. The following 
 lines from his "Remarks on the Bright and the 
 Dark Side of that American Pillar, the Reverend 
 Mr. William Thomson," are characteristic: 
 "Apollyon, owing him a cursed spleen 
 Who an Apollos in the church had been — 
 Dreading his traffic here would be undone 
 By numerous proselytes he daily won — 
 Accused him of imaginary faults, 
 And pushed him down, so, into dismal vaults — 
 Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief, 
 Till Heaven, alarmod, sent him a relief. 
 Then was a Daniel in the lion's den, 
 A man, oh, how beloved of God and men! 
 By his bedside an Hebrew sword there lay, 
 "With which at last he drove the devil away. 
 Quakers, too, durst not bear his keen replies, 
 But fearing it, half-drawn, the trembler flies. 
 Like Lazarus, new-raised from death, appears 
 The saint that had been dead for many years. 
 Our Nehemiah said, ' Shall such as I 
 Desert my flock, and like a coward fly!' 
 Long had the churches begg'd the saint's release; 
 Released at last, he dies in glorious peace. 
 The night is not so long, but Phosphor's ray 
 Approaching glories doth on high display, 
 faith's eye in him discerned the morning star, 
 His heart leap'd : sure the sun cannot be far. 
 In ecstacies of joy, he ravish'd cries, 
 'Love, love the Lamb, the Lamb!' in whom he dies." 
 
 There are however glimpses of nature even in 
 the poems of Cotton Mather. After having 
 mentioned the sad fate of the Lady Arbella 
 Johnson, whose religious ardor brought her to 
 America, and who sunk under the fatigues and 
 privations of exile, he adds, with touching pathos: 
 "And for her virtuous husband, Isaac Johnson, 
 " he tried 
 
 To live without her — liked it not — and died!" 
 Cotton Mather himself died on the thirteenth 
 of February, 1724, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. 
 Roger Wolcott, a major-general at the cap- 
 ture of Louisburg, and afterward governor of Con- 
 necticut, published a volume of verses at New 
 London, in 1725. His principal work is "A 
 Brief Account of the Agency of the Honorable 
 
20 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 John Wintiirop, Esquire, in the Court of King 
 Charles the Second, Anno Domini 1662, when 
 he obtained a Charter for the Colony of Connec- 
 ticut." In this he describes a miracle by one of 
 Winthrop's company, on the return voyage. 
 " The winds awhile 
 Are courteous, and conduct them on their way, 
 To near the midst of the Atlantic sea, 
 When suddenly their pleasant gales they change 
 For dismal storms that o'er the ocean range. 
 For faithless iEOLUS, meditating harms, 
 Breaks up the peace, and priding nfueh in arms, 
 Unbars the great artillery of heaven, 
 And at the fatal signal by him given, 
 The cloudy chariots threatening take the plains; 
 Drawn by wing'd steeds hard pressing on their reins. 
 These vast battalions, in dire aspect raised, 
 Start from the barriers — night with lightning blazed, 
 Whilst clashing wheels, resounding thunders crack, 
 Strike mortals deaf, and heavens astonished shake. 
 
 " Here the ship captaiu, in the midnight watch, 
 Stamps on the deck, and thunders tip the hatch, 
 And to the mariners aloud he cries, 
 ' Now all from safe recumbency arise I 
 All hands aloft, and stand well to your tack, 
 Engendering storms have clothed the sky with black, 
 Big tempests threaten to undo the world : 
 Down topsail, let the mainsail soon be furled : 
 Haste to the foresail, there take up a reef: 
 'Tis time, boys, now if ever, to be brief; 
 Aloof for life; let 's try to stem the tide, 
 The ship 's much water, thus we may not ride : 
 Stand roomer then, let 's run before the sea, 
 That so the ship may feel her steerage way : 
 Steady at the helm!' Swiftly along she scuds 
 Before the wind, and cuts the foaming suds. 
 Sometimes aloft she lifts her prow so high, 
 As if she 'd run her bowsprit through the sky; 
 Then from the summit ebbs and hurries down, 
 As if her way were to the centre shown. 
 
 " Meanwhile our founders in the cabin sat, 
 Reflecting on their true and sad estate ; 
 Whilst holy Warham's sacred lips did treat 
 About God's promises and mercies great. 
 
 " Still more gigantic births spring from the clouds, 
 Which tore the tattered canvass from the shrouds, 
 And dreadful balls of lightning fill the air, 
 Shot from the hand of the great Thunderer. 
 
 " And now a mighty sea the ship o'ertakes, 
 Which falling on the deck, the bulk-head breaks; 
 The sailors cling to ropes, and frightened cry, 
 'The ship is foundered, we die! we die!' 
 
 " Those in the cabin heard the sailors screech ; 
 All rise, and reverend Warham do beseech, 
 That he would now lift up to heaven a cry 
 For preservation in extremity. 
 He with a faith sure bottom'd on the word 
 Of Him that is of sea and winds the Lord, 
 His eyes lifts up to heaven, his hands extends, 
 And fervent prayers for deliverance sends. 
 The winds abate, the threatening waves appease, 
 And a sweet calm sits regent on the seas. 
 They bless the name of their deliverer, 
 Whom now they found a God that heareth prayer. 
 " Still further westward on they keep their way, 
 Ploughing the pavement of the briny sea, 
 Till the vast ocean they had overpast, 
 And in Connecticut their anchors cast." 
 In a speech to the king, descriptive of the val- 
 ley of the Connecticut, Winthrop says — 
 " The grassy banks are like a verdant bed, 
 With choicest flowers all enamelled, 
 O'er which the winged choristers do fly, 
 And wound the air with wondrous melody. 
 Here Philomel, high perched upon a thorn, 
 Sings cheerful hymns to the approaching morn. 
 
 The song once set, each bird tunes up bis lyre, 
 
 Responding heavenly music through the quire 
 
 ''Each plain is bounded at its utmost edge 
 With a long chain of mountains in a ridge, 
 Whose azure tops advance themselves so high, 
 They seem like pendants hanging in the sky." 
 
 In an account of King Philip's wars, he tells 
 how the soldier — 
 
 " met his amorous dame, 
 Whose eye had often set his heart in flame. 
 Urged with the motives of her love and fear, 
 She runs and clasps her arms about her dear, 
 Where, weeping on his bosom as she lies, 
 And languishing, on him she sets her eyes, 
 Till those bright lamps do with her life expire, 
 And leave him weltering in a double fire." 
 
 In the next page he paints the rising of the sun — 
 '• By this Aurora doth with gold adorn 
 The ever-beauteous eyelids of the morn ; 
 And burning Titan his exhaustless rays 
 Bright in the eastern horizon displays; 
 Then, soon appearing in majestic awe, 
 Makes all the starry deities withdraw — 
 Vailing their faces in deep reverence, 
 Before the throne of his magnificence." 
 Woecott retired from public life, after having 
 held many honorable offices, in 1755, and died in 
 May, 1767, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. 
 
 The next American verse-writer of much reputa- 
 tion was the Reverend Michael Wigglesworth, 
 (1631, 1707.) He was graduated at Harvard Col- 
 lege soon after entering upon his twentieth year, 
 became a minister, and when rendered unable to 
 preach, by an affection of the lungs, amused him- 
 self with writing pious poems. One of his volumes 
 is entitled " Meat out of the Eater, or Meditations 
 concerning the necessity and Usefulness of Af- 
 fliction unto God's Children, all tending to pre- 
 pare them for, and comfort them under, the Cross." 
 His most celebrated performance, "The Day of 
 Doom, or a Poetical Description of the Great and 
 Last Judgment, with a short Discourse about Eter- 
 nity," passed through six editions in this country, 
 and was reprinted in London. A few verses will 
 show its quality — 
 
 " Still was the night, serene and bright, 
 When all men sleeping lay ; 
 Calm was the season, and carnal reason 
 
 Thought so 'twould last for aye. 
 ' Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, 
 
 Much good thou hast in store:' 
 This was their song, their cups among, 
 The evening before." 
 
 After the " sheep" have received their reward, 
 the several classes of " goats" are arraigned before 
 the judgment-seat, and, in turn, begin to excuse 
 themselves. When the infants object to damna- 
 tion on the ground that 
 
 " Adam is set free 
 And saved from his trespass, 
 Whose sinful fall hath spilt them all, 
 And brought them to this pass," — 
 
 the Puritan theologist does not sustain his doctrine 
 very well, nor quite to his own satisfaction even : 
 and the judge, admitting the palliating circum- 
 stances, decides that although 
 " in bliss 
 They may not hope to dwell, 
 Still unto them He will allow 
 The easiest room in hall." 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 21 
 
 At length the general sentence is pronounced, and 
 the condemned begin to 
 
 " wring their hands, their caitiff-hands, 
 And gnash their teeth for terror ; 
 They cry, they roar, for anguish sore, 
 And gnaw their tongues for horror. 
 But get away, withoutMelay, 
 Ciirist pities not your cry : 
 Depart to hell, there may ye yell, 
 And roar eternally." 
 The Reverend Benjamin Colman, D.D.," mar- 
 ried in succession three widows, and wrote three 
 poems;" but though his diction was more elegant 
 than thatof most of his contemporaries, he had less 
 originality. His only daughter, Mrs. Jane Tu- 
 rell, wrote verses which were much praised by 
 the critics of her time. 
 
 The " Poems, on several Occasions, Original 
 and Translated, by the late Reverend and Learned 
 John Adams, M.A.," were published in Boston in 
 1745, four years after the author's death. The vo- 
 lume contains paraphrases of the Psalms, the Book 
 of Revelation in heroic verse, translations from Ho- 
 race, and several original compositions, of which 
 the longest is a " Poem on Society," in three can- 
 tos. The following picture of parental tenderness 
 is from the first canto: 
 
 " The parent, warm with nature's tender fire, 
 Does in the child his second self admire; 
 The fondling mother views the springing charms 
 Of the young infant smiling in her arms, 
 And when imperfect accents show the dawn. 
 Of rising reason, and the future man, 
 Sweetly she hears what fondly he returns, 
 And by this fuel her affection burns. 
 But when succeeding years have fixed his growth, 
 And sense and judgment crown the ripened youth, 
 A social joy thence takes its happy rise, 
 And friendship adds its force to nature's ties." 
 The conclusion of the second canto is a de- 
 scription of love — 
 
 " But dow the Muse in softer measure flows, 
 And gayer scenes and fairer landscapes shows : 
 The reign of Fancy, when the sliding hours 
 Are past with lovely nymphs in woven bowers, 
 Where cooly shades, and lawns forever green, 
 And streams, and warbling birds, adorn the scene; 
 Where smiles and graces, and the wanton train 
 Of Cytherea, crown the flowery plain. 
 What can their charms in equal numbers tell — 
 The glow of roses, and the lily pale ; 
 The waving ringlets of the flowing hair; 
 The snowy bosom, and the killing air ; 
 Their sable brows in beauteous arches bent ; 
 The darts which from their vivid eyes are sent, 
 And, fixing in our easy-wounded hearts, 
 Can never be removed by all our arts. 
 'T is then with love, and love alone possest — 
 Our reason fled, that passion claims our breast. 
 How many evils then will fancy form ! 
 A frown will gather, and discharge a storm : 
 Her smile more soft and cooling breezes brings 
 Than zephyrs fanning with their silken wings. 
 But love, where madness reason does subdue, 
 E'en angels, were they here, might well pursue. 
 Lovely the sex, and moving are their charms, 
 But why should passion sink us to their arms? 
 Why should the female to a goddess turn, 
 And flames of love to flames of incense burn? 
 Either by fancy fired, or fed by lies, 
 Be all distraction, or all artifice? 
 True love does flattery as much disdain 
 As, of its own perfections, to be vain. 
 
 The heart can feel whate'er the lips reveal, 
 Nor syren's smiles the destined death conceal. 
 Love is a noble and a generous fire ; 
 Esteem and virtue feed the just desire; 
 Where honour leads the way it ever moves, 
 And ne'er from breast to breast, inconstant, roves. 
 Harboui J d by one, and only harbour'd there, 
 It likes, but ne'er can love, another fair. 
 Fix'd upon one supreme, and her alone, 
 Our heart is, of the fair, the constant throne. 
 Nor will her absence, or her cold neglect, 
 At once, expel her from our just respect: 
 Inflamed by virtue, love will not expire, 
 Unless contempt or hatred quench the fire." 
 
 Adams died on the twenty-second of January, 
 1740. The following letter from a correspondent 
 at Cambridge, which shows the estimation in 
 which he was held by his contemporaries, is co- 
 pied from the " Boston Weekly Newsletter,"* 
 printed the day after his interment: 
 
 " Last Wednesday morning expired, in this place, in the 
 thirty-sixth year of his age, and this day was interred, 
 with a just solemnity and respect, the reverend and 
 learned John Adams, M.A., only son of the Honourable 
 John Adams, Esquire. The corpse was carried and placed 
 in the center of the college hall, from whence, after a por- 
 tion of Holy Scripture, and a prayer very suitable to the 
 occasion, by the learned head of that society, it was taken 
 and deposited within sight of the place of his own educa- 
 tion. The pall was supported by the fellows of the college, 
 the professor of mathematics, and another master of arts. 
 And, next to a number of sorrowful relatives, the remains 
 of this great man were followed by his honour the lieu- 
 tenantgovernor, with some of his majesty's council and 
 justices ; who, with the reverend the president, the profes- 
 sor of divinity, and several gentlemen of distinction from 
 this and the neighbouring towns, together with all the 
 members and students of the college, composed the train 
 that attended in an orderly procession, to the place that 
 had been appointed for his mournful interment. The cha- 
 racter of this excellent person is too great to be comprised 
 within the limits of a paper of intelligence. It deserves 
 to be engraven in letters of gold on a monument of mar- 
 ble, or rather to appear and shine forth from the works of 
 some genius, of an uncommon sublimity, and equal to his 
 own. But sufficient to perpetuate his memory to the 
 latest posterity, are the immortal writings and compo- 
 sures of this ■ departed gentleman; who, for his genius, 
 his learning, and his piety, ought to be enrolled in the 
 highest class in the catalogue of Fame." 
 
 In the Middle Colonies literature was cultivated 
 as industriously as in New England, and generally 
 in a more liberal spirit, though Quakerism, when 
 its ascendancy was absolute, was much more in- 
 tolerant than Puritanism, as may be learned from 
 the interesting history of William Bradford, 
 the first printer in Pennsylvania. The founder 
 of the colony, indeed, had been unwilling to have 
 a printing-press set up in Philadelphia, and was 
 probably delighted when Bradford was driven 
 away. 
 
 The earliest attempt at poetry in the region 
 drained by the Delaware, was probably " A True 
 Relation of the Flourishing State of Pennsylva- 
 nia," by John Holme, of Holmesburg, first pub- 
 
 * This was the first newspaper published in America. 
 The first number was issued the twenty-fourth of April, 
 1704, and the first sheet printed was taken damp from the 
 press by Chief Justice Sewel, to exhibit as a curiosity to 
 President Willaed, of Harvard University. The " News- 
 letter" was continued seventy-two years. 
 
22 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 lished, from the original manuscript in my pos- 
 session, by the Pennsylvania Historical Society, 
 in 1848. It is exceedingly curious. The author 
 says : 
 
 " I have often travelled up and down, 
 And made my observations on each town; 
 The truth of matters I well understand, 
 And thereby know how to describe this land ;" 
 
 and after nearly a thousand lines in this style 
 gives us the following pleasant picture of the 
 state of the country : 
 
 "Poor people here stand not in fear 
 The nuptial knot to tie ; 
 The working hand in this good land 
 Can never want supply. 
 "If children dear increase each year 
 So do our crops likewise, 
 Of stock and trade such gain is made 
 That none do want supplies. 
 " Whoe'er thou art, take in good part 
 These lines which I have penned; 
 It is true love which me doth move 
 Them unto thee to send. 
 " Some false reports hinder resorts 
 Of those who would come here ; 
 Therefore, in love, I could remove 
 That which puts them in fear. 
 " Here many say they bless the day 
 That they did see Penn's wood ; 
 To cross the ocean back home again 
 They do not think it good. 
 
 " But here they '11 bide and safely hide 
 Whilst Europe broils in war; 
 The fruit of the curse, which may prove worse 
 Than hath been yet, by far. 
 " For why should we, who quiet he, 
 Return into the noise 
 Of fighting men, which now and then 
 Great multitudes destroys? 
 " I bid farewell to all who dwell 
 In England or elsewhere, 
 Wishing good speed when they indeed 
 Set forward to come here." 
 
 About the year 1695 Mr. Henry Brooke, a son 
 of Sir Henry Brooke, of York, was appointed to a 
 place in the customs, at Lewiston, in Delaware, 
 and for many years was much in the best society 
 of Philadelphia. One of his poetical pieces is a 
 " Discourse concerning Jests," addressed to Ro- 
 bert Gracie, whom Franklin describes as a 
 young man of fortune — generous, animated, and 
 witty — fond of epigrams, and more fond of his 
 friends. A specimen is here quoted : 
 
 " I prithee, Bob, forbear, or if thou must 
 Be talking still, yet talk not as thou do'st: 
 Be silent or speak well ; and oh, detest 
 That darling bosom sin of thine, a jest. 
 Believe me, 't is a fond pretence to wit, 
 To say what's forced, unnatural, unfit, 
 Frigid, ill-timed, absurd, rude, petulant — 
 ' 'T is so,' you say, ' all this I freely grant ;' 
 Yet such were those smart turns of conversation, 
 When late our Kentish friends, in awkward fashion, 
 Grinned out their joy, and I my indignation. 
 Oh, how I hate that time! all, all that feast, 
 When, fools or mad, we scoured the city last! 
 All the false humour of our giddy club, 
 
 The tread, the watch, the windows, door, or tub 
 
 These, though my hate — and these God knows I hate 
 Much more than Jones or Story do debate, 
 
 More than all shapes of action, corporation, 
 
 Remonstrances, a Whig or Tory nation, 
 
 Reviews, or churches, in or out of fashion, 
 
 The Bradburys, Dintons, Ridpaths, ' Observators,' 
 
 Or true-born Daniels, unpoetic satyrs, — 
 
 From wine's enchanting power have some excuse; 
 
 But for a man in 's wits, »upoisoued with the juice, 
 
 To indulge so wilfully in empty prate, 
 
 And sell rich time at such an under-rate, 
 
 This hath no show nor colour of defence, 
 
 And wants so much of wit, it fails of common sense." 
 
 The entire performance is in the same respect- 
 able style. It is possible that one of the "Kent- 
 ish friends" referred to was the author of "The 
 Invention of Letters," of whom some account will 
 be given on another page. That the excellences 
 of Brooke were appreciated by his literary asso- 
 ciates is evident from a passage in a satire entitled 
 "The Wits and Poets of Pennsylvania," — • 
 
 " In Brooke's capacious heart the muses sit, 
 Enrobed with sense polite and poignant wit." 
 
 When Franklin arrived in Philadelphia, in 
 1723, there were several persons in the city dis- 
 tinguished for talents and learning. Andrew 
 Hamilton, the celebrated lawyer, and James 
 Logan, whose translation of Cicero's "Cato 
 Major" is the most elegant specimen we have of 
 Franklin's printing, were now old men ; but 
 Thomas Godfrey, the inventor of the quadrant, 
 John Bartram, who won from LiNNiEus the 
 praise of being the "greatest natural botanist in 
 the world," and John Morgan, afterward a mem- 
 ber of the Royal Society, were just coming for- 
 ward; and there were a large number of persons, 
 for so small a town, who wrote clever verses and 
 prose essays. George Webb, an Oxford scholar 
 working in the printing office of Keimer, whose 
 eccentric history is given in Franklin's Memoirs, 
 was as confident as any succeeding Philadelphia 
 writer of the destined supremacy of the city, and 
 in a poem published in 1727 gives this expression 
 to his sanguine anticipations : 
 
 " 'T is here Apollo does erect his throne : 
 This his Parnassus, this his Helicon ; 
 Here solid sense does every bosom warm — 
 Here noise and nonsense have forgot to charm. 
 Thy seers, how cautious! and how gravely wise 
 Thy hopeful youth in emulation rise, 
 Who, if the wishing muse inspired does sing, 
 Shall liberal arts to such perfection bring, 
 Europe shall mourn her ancient fame declined, 
 And Philadelphia be the Athens of mankind." 
 
 In the same production he implores the goddess 
 of numbers so to aid him that he may sing the 
 attractions of his theme in verses 
 
 " Such as from Brientnall's pen were wont to flow, 
 Or more judicious Taylor's used to show." 
 
 Franklin describes Brientnall as "a great 
 lover of poetry, reading every thing that come in 
 his way, and writing tolerably well ; ingenious in 
 many little trifles, and of an agreeable conversa- 
 tion." Jacob Taylor, schoolmaster, physician, 
 surveyor, almanac-maker, and poet, 
 
 " With years oppressed, and compassed with woes," 
 gave to the public the last and best of his works, 
 " Pennsylvania," a descriptive poem, in 1728. In 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 23 
 
 the same year Thomas Makin, who nearly half 
 a century before had been an usher in the school 
 kept by the famous George Keith, dedicated to 
 James Logan a Latin poem called " Encomium 
 Pennsylvania," and in the year following another, 
 "In laudes Pennsylvania?," of both of which 
 Proud, the historian, gives specimens and trans- 
 lations. 
 
 Among Franklin's more intimate associates, 
 was James Ralph, a young printer, characterized 
 by him as "ingenious, genteel in his manners, and 
 extremely eloquent." He had been a schoolmas- 
 ter in Maryland, and a clerk in Philadelphia, and 
 now had such confidence in his literary abilities 
 that he was disposed to abandon the pursuit of 
 printing entirely for that of authorship. Charles 
 Osborne, another acquaintance, endeavoured to 
 dissuade him from attempting a literary life, assur- 
 ing him that his capacities were better suited for 
 his trade ; but it was in vain, and Franklin 
 soon after assisted in a little scheme of deception, 
 the. result of which confirmed him in all the sug- 
 gestions of his vanity. Franklin, Ralph, Os- 
 borne, and Joseph Watson, agreed to write 
 verses for each other's criticism, as a means of 
 mutual improvement; and as Franklin had no 
 inclination for the business, he was persuaded to 
 offer as his own a piece by Ralph, who believed 
 that Osborne had depreciated his talents from 
 personal envy. The stratagem succeeded ; the 
 production was warmly applauded by Osborne, 
 and Ralph enjoyed his triumph. Ralph accom- 
 panied Franklin to England, and was very 
 badly treated by him there, as Franklin admits. 
 He became a prolific author, in prose and verse. 
 His longest poem, "Zeuma, or the Love of Liber- 
 ty," was partly written in Philadelphia, and was 
 first published in London, in 1729. A few lines 
 from it will sufficiently display his capacities in 
 this way: 
 
 " Tlascala's vaunt, great Zagnar's martial son, 
 Extended on the rack, no more complains 
 That realms are wanting to employ his sword ; 
 But, circled with innumerable ghosts, 
 Who print their keenest vengeance on his soul, 
 For all the wrongs, and slaughters of his reign, 
 Howls out repentance to the deafeu'd skies, 
 And shakes hell's concave with continual groans." 
 
 In the following fifteen years he wrote several 
 plays, some of which were acted at Drury Lane. 
 Among his shorter poems were two called " Cyn- 
 thia" and "Night,"and a satire in which he abused 
 Pope, Swift, and Gay. This procured him the 
 distinction of a notice in " The Dunciad," — 
 
 "Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to 'Cynthia' howls, 
 And makes 'Night' hideous: answer him, ye owls!" 
 
 His book on "The Use and Abuse of Parlia- 
 ments" was much talked of, and his " History of 
 England during this Reign of William the Third" 
 is praised by Hallam as " accurate and faith- 
 ful," and led Fox to refer to him as " a historian 
 of great acuteness and diligence." His last work 
 was "The Case of Authors stated, with regard to 
 Booksellers, the Stage, and the Public." He died 
 on the twenty-fourth of January, 1762. 
 
 The poems written by Franklin himself are 
 not very poetical. The best of them is the amus- 
 ing little piece entitled 
 
 " PAPER. 
 
 " Some wit of old — such wits of old there were — 
 "Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care, 
 By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, 
 Called clear blank paper every infant mind, 
 Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, 
 Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot. 
 
 " The thought was happy, pertinent, and true ; 
 Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. 
 I — can you pardon my presumption? — I, 
 No wit, no genius, yet for once will try. 
 
 "Various the papers various wants produce — 
 The wants of fashion, elegance, and use ; 
 Men are as various ; and, if right I scan, 
 Each sort of paper represents some man. 
 
 " Pray, note the fop — half powder and half lace — 
 Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place ; 
 He 's the gilt paper, which apart you store, 
 And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire. 
 
 " Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth, 
 Are copy paper, of inferior worth ; 
 Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed, 
 Pree to all pens, and prompt at every need. 
 
 " The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, 
 Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, 
 Is coarse broivn paper ; such as pedlers choose 
 To wrap up wares, which better men will use. 
 
 " Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys 
 Health, fame and fortune, in a round of joys. 
 Will any paper match him ? Yes, throughout, 
 He 's a true sinJring paper, past all doubt. 
 
 " The retail politician's anxious thought 
 Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; 
 He foams with censure — with applause he raves — 
 A dupe to rumours, and a stool of knaves : 
 He '11 want no type his weakness to proclaim, 
 While such a thing as fools-cap has a name. 
 
 " The hasty gentleman whose blood runs high, 
 Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, 
 Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure : 
 What is he? What? touch-paper to be sure. 
 
 "What are- the poets, take them as they fall. 
 Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all ? 
 Them and their works in the same class you '11 find; 
 They are the mere waste paper of mankind. 
 
 " Observe the maiden, innocently sweet, 
 She 's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet; 
 On which the happy man, whom fate ordains, 
 May write his name, and take her for his pains. 
 
 " One instance more, and only one, I '11 bring; 
 'T is the great mam, who scorns a little thing — 
 Whose thoughts, whose deeds, wh ose maxims are his own, 
 Formed on the feelings of his heart alone: 
 True, genuine royal paper is his breast ; 
 Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best." 
 
 The "General Magazine," published by Frank- 
 lin, from January to June, in 1741, contained a 
 few original and a much larger number of select- 
 ed poerns, most of the latter being from the " Vir- 
 ginia Gazette." The " American Magazine, and 
 Monthly Chronicle for the British Colonies," es- 
 tablished by William Bradford, a nephew of 
 the first printer west of Boston, and published for 
 twelve months, was a periodical of far higher 
 character than Franklin's, or indeed than any 
 that had yet been attempted on the continent. In 
 the preface the editor says of his contributors, 
 
24 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 " Some are grave and serious, while others are 
 gay ami facetious ; some have a turn for matters 
 of state and government, while others are led to 
 the study of commerce, agriculture, or the mechanic 
 arts ; some indulge themselves in the belles-lettres, 
 and in productions of art and fancy, while others 
 are wrapt up in speculation and wholly beset on 
 the abstruser parts of philosophy and science." 
 The principal poetical contributors to the "Ameri- 
 can Magazine" were an anonymous writer, of 
 Kent, in Maryland, whose name I have not been 
 able to discover, and Joseph Shipfen, Thomas 
 Godfrey, Nathaniel Evans, Francis Hopkin- 
 son, and John Beveridge, the professor of an- 
 cient languages in the Philadelphia college. 
 
 The anonymous writer here mentioned was 
 the son of an officer distinguished in the military 
 service, in Ireland, Spain, and Flanders. In early 
 life he had been intimate with Mr. Pope, upon 
 whose death, in 1744, he wrote a pastoral, which 
 makes between two and three hundred lines, be- 
 sides numerous learned notes. Anticipating Bish- 
 op Berkley's famous verses on the prospect of 
 the arts in America, he says in his invocation: 
 
 " Pierian nymphs that haunt Sicilian plains, 
 And first inspired to sing in rural strains, 
 A western course has pleased you all along : 
 Greece, Rome, and Britain, flourish all in song. 
 Keep on your way, and spread a glorious &me; 
 Around the earth let all admire your name. 
 Chuse in our plains or forests soft retreats; 
 For here the muses boast no antient seats. 
 Here fertile fields, and fishy streams abound; 
 Nothing is wanting but poetic ground. 
 Bring me that pipe with which Alexis charm'd 
 The eastern world, and every bosom warm'd. 
 Our western climes shall henceforth own your power ; 
 Thetis shall hear it from her wat'ry bower; 
 Even Phoebus listen as his chariot flies, 
 And smile propitious from his flaming skies. 
 
 " Haste, lovely nymphs ! and quickly come away, 
 Our sylvan gods lament your long delay; 
 The stately oaks that dwell on Delaware, 
 Bear their tall heads to view you from afar; 
 The naiads summon all their scaly crew, 
 And at Henlopen anxious wait for you. 
 Haste, lovely nymphs ! and quickly reach our shore ; 
 Th' impatient river heeds his tides no more, 
 Forsakes his banks, and where he joins the main, 
 Heaps waves on waves to usher in your train. 
 
 "But hark! they come! the dryads crowd the shore, 
 The waters rise, I hear the billows roar ! 
 Hoarse Delaware the joyful tidings brings, 
 And all his swans, transported, clap their wings. 
 Our mountains ring with all their savage host — 
 Thrice welcome, lovely nymphs, to India's coast! 
 Not more Parnassian rocks Phoebus admire, 
 Nor Thracian mountains Orpheus' tuneful lyre; 
 Not more sad lovers court the darkling note 
 Of Philomela's mournful warbling throat; 
 Not more the morning lark delights the swains, 
 Than you, sweet maids, our Pennsylvania plains!" 
 
 He had recommended to Mr. Pope the disco- 
 very of printing as a subject worthy of his genius, 
 and when that poet died, without having made use 
 of the suggestion, he wrote from the banks of the 
 Delaware, in 1749, his own "Poem on the Inven- 
 tion of Letters," which is inscribed to Mr. Rich- 
 ardson, " the author of 'Sir Charles Grandison,' 
 and other works for the promotion of religion, vir- 
 
 tue, and polite manners, in a corrupted age," whom 
 he describes as "himself the Grandison he paints:" 
 
 "These lays, ye Great! to Richardson belong; 
 His Art and Virtues have inspired the song. 
 Forgive the bard — who dares transfer, from you, 
 A tribute to superior merit due — 
 Who, midst war's tvunults, in flagitious times, 
 And regions distant from maternal climes, 
 Industriously obscure, to heaven resign'd, 
 Salutes the friend and patron of mankind." 
 
 Colonel Joseph Shippen, who in 1759 wrote 
 " The Glooms of Ligonier," an amatory song 
 much in vogue for a quarter of a century, was the 
 author of the following early recognition of the 
 genius of Benjamin West :* 
 
 "ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF MISS , BY Mn. WEST. 
 
 " Since Guico's skilful hand, with mimic art, 
 Could form and animate so sweet a face, 
 Can nature still superior charms impart, 
 Or warmest fancy add a single grace? 
 
 " The enliven'd tints in due proportion rise, 
 
 Her polish'd cheeks with deep vermilion glow ; 
 The shining moisture swells into her eyes, 
 
 And from such lips nectareous sweets must flow. 
 
 " The easy attitude, the graceful dress, 
 
 The soft expression of the perfect whole, 
 Both Guido's judgment and his skill confess, 
 Informing canvas with a living soul. 
 " How fixt, how steady, yet how bright a ray 
 Of modest 1 ustre beams in every smile ! 
 Such smiles as must resistless charms convey, 
 Enliven'd by a heart devoid of guile. 
 "Yet sure his flattering pencil's un sincere, 
 His fancy takes the place of bashful truth, 
 And warm imagination pictures here 
 The pride of beauty and the bloom of youth. 
 " Thus had I said, and thus, deluded, thought, 
 Had lovely Stella still remained unseen, 
 Whose grace and beauty, to perfection brought, 
 Make every imitative art look mean." 
 
 Thomas Godfrey, a son of the inventor of 
 the quadrant, was esteemed a prodigy of youthful 
 genius. He was a lieutenant in the expedition 
 against Fort Du Quesne in 1759, and on the dis- 
 banding of the colonial forces went to New Pro- 
 vidence, and afterward to North Carolina, where he 
 died, on the third of August, 1763, in the twenty- 
 seventh year of his age. His poems were published 
 in Philadelphia in 1765, in a quarto volume of two 
 hundred and thirty pages. His " Prince of Parthia" 
 was the first tragedy written in America. "The 
 Court of Fancy," which the editor of the "Ame- 
 rican Magazine" thought evinced "an elevated and 
 daring genius," is in smooth but feeble heroic verse, 
 and betrays very little inventive capacity. Some 
 of his shorter poems are more striking. The fol- 
 lowing is from an " Ode to Wine :" 
 
 " Haste, ye mortals ! leave yoiir sorrow ; 
 Let pleasure crown to-day — to-morrow, 
 
 * In the " American Magazine" for February, 175S, oc- 
 curs, probably, the first paragraph ever printed in commen. 
 dation of the genius of West. The editor says, introducing 
 the above poem on one of his portraits : 
 
 " We are glad of this opportunity of making known to the world 
 the name of so extraordinary a genius as Mr. "West. He was born in 
 Chester county in this province, and without the assistance of any 
 master, has acquired such a delicacy and correctness of expression 
 in his paintings, joined to sueh a laudable thirst of improvement, 
 that we are persuaded, when he shall have obtained more experience 
 and proper opportunities of viewing the productions of able mas- 
 ters, he will become truly eminent in his profession." 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 25 
 
 Yield to fete. 
 
 Join the universal chorus — 
 Bacchus reigns, ever great — 
 Bacchus reigns, ever glorious — 
 
 Hark ! the joyful groves rebound, 
 
 Sporting breezes catch the sound, 
 
 And tell to hill aud dale around, 
 Bacchus reigns ! while far away, 
 The busy echoes die away." 
 One of Godfrey's most intimate friends was 
 Nathaniel Evans, a native of Philadelphia, ad- 
 mitted to holy orders by the Bishop of London in 
 1765. He died in October, 1767, in the twenty- 
 sixth year of his age, and his poems, few of 
 which had been printed in his lifetime, were soon 
 afterward by his direction collected and publish- 
 ed under the editorial supervision of the Reverend 
 William Smith, and Miss Elizabeth Grjeme, 
 subsequently so well known as Mrs. Ferguson. 
 Evans was preparing a collection of his poems 
 for the press, and had written part of the preface, 
 in which, after having referred to the unhappy for- 
 tunes of many men of genius, he said: "Some- 
 times, alas! the iron hand of death cuts them sud- 
 denly off, as their beauties are just budding into 
 existence, and leaves but the fair promise of future 
 excellences." These were his last words ; and 
 Doctor Smith suggests that they were so applica- 
 ble to his case that he should have feared to publish 
 them as from the mind of the deceased poet, if he 
 had neglected to preserve the autograph to show 
 that they had not been accommodated to that 
 event. The nicest carefully finished of the pieces 
 by Evans is an " Ode on the Prospect of Peace," 
 written in 1761, but several in a lighter vein were 
 more pleasing. In the following, we have aglimpse 
 of our great philosopher, in his middle age : 
 
 "TO BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, ESQ., LL.D. 
 
 " ON HEARING HIM PLAT ON THE HARMONICA. 
 
 " In grateful wonder lost, long had we view'd 
 Each gen'rous act thy patriot-soul pursued; 
 Our little state resounds thy just applause, 
 And, pleased, from thee new fame and honour draws; 
 In thee those various virtues are combined, 
 That form the true preeminence of mind. 
 " What wonder struck us when we did survey 
 The lambent lightnings innocently play ; 
 And down thy rods beheld the dreaded fire 
 
 In a swift flame descend and then expire ; 
 
 "While the red thunders, roaring loud around, 
 
 Burst the black clouds, and harmless smote the ground. 
 
 Blest iise of art! applied to serve mankind — 
 
 The noble province of the sapient mind ! 
 
 For this the soul's best faculties were given, 
 
 To trace great nature's laws from earth to heaven. 
 
 " Yet not these themes alone thy thoughts command ; 
 Each softer science owns thy fostering hand; 
 Aided by thee, Urania's heavenly art, 
 With finer raptures charms the feeling heart; 
 Th' Harmonica shall join the sacred choir, 
 Fresh transports kindle, and new joys inspire. 
 Hark! the soft warbliugs, sounding smooth and clear, 
 Strike with celestial ravishment the ear, 
 Conveying inward, as they sweetly roll, 
 A tide of melting music to the soul ; 
 And sure if aught of mortal-moving strain, 
 Can touch with joy the high angelic train, 
 'T is this enchanting instrument of thine, 
 Which speaks in accents more than half divine!" 
 Among some trifles inscribed to Miss Graeme, 
 
 who had rallied him on his indisposition to marry, 
 
 was a new version of the story of 
 
 " ORPHEUS AND EURTDICE. 
 " Orpheus, of old, as poets tell, 
 Took a fantastic trip to hell, 
 To seek his wife, as wisely guessing, 
 She must be there, since she was missing. 
 Downward he journeyed, wonderous gay, 
 And, like a lark, sang all the way. 
 The reason was — or they belied him, 
 His yoke-fellow was not beside him. 
 Whole grottoes, as he pass'd along, 
 Daiiced to the music of his song. 
 So I have seen, upon the plains, 
 A fiddler captivate the swains, 
 And make them caper to his strains. 
 To Pluto's court at last he came, 
 Where the god sat enthroned in flame, 
 And ask'd if his lost love was there — 
 Eurtdice, his darling fair? 
 The fiends, who listening round him stood, 
 At the odd question laugh'd alo.ud : 
 'This must some mortal madman be — 
 We fiends are happier far than he.' 
 But music's sounds o'er hell prevail; 
 Most mournfully he tells his tale, 
 Soothes with soft arts the monarch's pain, 
 And gets his bargain back again. 
 " Thy prayers are heard," grim Pluto cries, 
 ' On this condition take thy prize : 
 Turn not thine eyes upon the fair — 
 If once thou turn'st, she flies in air.' 
 In amorous chat they climb th' ascent — 
 Orpheus, as order'd, foremost went; 
 (Though, when two lovers downwards steer, 
 The man, as fit, falls in the rear ;) 
 Soon the fond fool turns back his head — 
 As soon, in air, his spouse was fled! 
 If 'twas designed, 'twas wonderous well; 
 But, if by chance, more lucky still. 
 Happy the man, all must agree, 
 Who once from wedlock's noose gets free ; 
 But he who from it twice is freed, 
 Has most prodigious luck indeed !" 
 
 A portrait of Evans, by his young friend West, 
 is preserved in Philadelphia. Among the sub- 
 scribers for his volume of poems, was Dr. Gold- 
 smith, with whom he had probably become ac- 
 quainted while visiting London for ordination. 
 
 The celebrated wit, lawyer, and statesman, 
 Francis HoPKiNSON,born in 1737, made his first 
 appearance as a poet in Bradford's "American 
 Magazine," one of his earlier contributions to 
 which was a tribute to the genius of Wollas- 
 ton,* the painter, then living in Philadelphia, from 
 which the following is an extract: 
 
 " To you, famed Wollaston, these strains belong, 
 And be your praise the subject of my song. 
 When your soft pencil bids the canvas shine 
 With mimic life, with elegance divine, 
 The enraptured muse, fond to partake thy fire, 
 With equal sweetness strives to sweep the lyre ; 
 With equal justice fain would paint your praise, 
 And by your name immortalize her lays. 
 
 " Ofttimes with wonder and delight I stand 
 To view the amazing conduct of your hand. 
 At first unlabored sketches lightly trace 
 The glimmering outlines of a human face, 
 Then, by degrees, the liquid life o'erflows 
 Each rising feature — the rich canvas glows 
 With heightened charms— the forehead rises fair— 
 In glossy ringlets twines the nut-brown hair, 
 
 * Wollaston is honorably mentioned in Horace Wal- 
 pole's " Anecdotes." The finest of his known American 
 portraits is that of Martha Dandridge, afterward the wife 
 of Washington. 
 
2G 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 And sparkling eyes give meaning to the whole, 
 
 And seem to speak the dictates of the soul 
 
 Thus the gay Sowers, that paint the embroidered plain, 
 
 By rising steps their gloving beauties gain. 
 
 No leaves at first their burning glories show, 
 
 But, wrapt in simple forms, unnoticed grow, 
 
 Till, ripened by the sun's meridian ray, 
 
 They spread perfection to the blaze of day. 
 
 " IS or let the muse forget thy name, 0, West! 
 Loved youth, by -virtue, as by nature blest. 
 If such the radiance of thy early morn, 
 What bright effulgence must thy noon adorn! 
 Hail, sacred genius! mayst thou ever tread 
 The pleasing paths your Wollaston has led; 
 Let his just precepts all your works refine, 
 Copy each grace, and learn like him to shine. 
 So shall some future muse her sweeter lays 
 Swell with your name, and give you all his praise !" 
 
 This poem is not reprinted in the collection of 
 Hopkixson's Works, published in Philadelphia 
 in 1793. His " Battle of the Kegs," a satirical 
 ballad, is the most celebrated of his productions; 
 and several pieces of humorous prose, written by 
 him before the revolution, are among the familiar 
 and popular examples of early American literature. 
 John Beveridge, the author of numerous 
 Latin poems in the "American Magazine" and 
 other miscellanies of that period, was a native of 
 Scotland, and had studied under " the great Rud- 
 DIMAN" in Edinburgh. He emigrated in 1752 
 to New England, where he remained five years, 
 and became intimate with Doctor Jonathan 
 Mayhew and other scholars. In 1757 he pro- 
 ceeded to Philadelphia, and was appointed pro- 
 fessor of languages in the college there. An en- 
 tertaining account of him is given in Captain 
 Alexander Graydon's admirably written "Me- 
 moirs of a Life passed chiefly in Pennsylvania." 
 In 1765 he published by subscription his volume 
 entitled "Epistolae Familiares et alia qua^dam 
 Miscellanea," several of which were translated by 
 Alexander Alexander, who prefixes some 
 verses " on Mr. Beveridge's poetical perform- 
 ances," wherein he says — 
 
 "If music sweet delight your ravished ear, 
 No music's sweeter than the numbers here. 
 In former times famed Maeo smoothly sung, 
 But, still, he warbled in his native tongue; 
 His towering thoughts and soft enchanting lays 
 Long since have crowned him with enchanting bays ; 
 But ne'er did Maro such high glory seek 
 As to excel Mceonides in Greek, 
 Here you may view a bard of modern time, 
 Who claims your Scotland as his native clime, 
 Contend with Flacccs on the Roman lyre, 
 His humor catch, and glow with kindred fire." 
 While in Boston Beveridge addressed the fol- 
 lowing epistle to one of his friends in Scotland: 
 
 "AD REV. JACOB INNESIUM, V.D.M. 
 
 " Taedium longi maris et viarum, 
 Bella ventorum varias vicesque, 
 Et procellosi rabiem profundi, 
 
 Jam superavi. 
 " Atque tranquillus requiesco pace, 
 L;"etus ad ripam viridantis amnis, 
 Tuta qui Casco sinuosus offert 
 
 Littora nautis; 
 "Gratior qua sol radiis refulget, 
 Aptior tellus avidis colonis, 
 Lenior gratis zephyri susurris 
 
 Murmurat aura. 
 
 " Dama ftecundis levis errat agris, 
 Piscium puris genus omne rivis, 
 Alites sylvis, aviumque turba 
 
 I'lurinia dumis. 
 "iEstuet vultu Boreas minaci, 
 Saeviat diris Aquilo procellis, 
 Eurus algentes glacialis imbres 
 
 Spiret ab ortu ; 
 "Hie tamen vitse liceat beatas 
 Mi bonis uti, pariter saveutis 
 Lasta fortunoe, masa seu minantis 
 Ferre parato. 
 " Nam juvant sylvis operum labores, 
 Gratus et sudor fluit, atra bilis 
 Cura nee vanis animum querelis 
 
 Anxia turbat. 
 " Attamen torquet male nunc, amice, 
 Talus intortus: glacies sesellit 
 Lavis incautum, subitusque lapsu 
 Volvor iniquo. 
 "Cseterum vivunt reliqui valentque, 
 Omnibus ridet locus, atque ridet 
 Capium spendens inarata cornu 
 
 Terra benigno. 
 " Scire nunce hrec te volui. Tabellas 
 Mitterem longas ; sed aquam bibenti 
 Scripta sunt am brevis, ut probavit 
 
 Carmine Flaccus."* 
 
 John Osborn, son of a schoolmaster of Sand- 
 wich, in Massachusetts, who was born in 1713 
 and died in 1753, wrote a "Whaling Song," 
 which was well known in the Pacific for more 
 than half a century. While in college, in 1735, 
 he addressed an elegiac epistle to one of his sis- 
 ters, on the death of a member of the family, of 
 which the following is a specimen : 
 
 * The following is a translation of the above Ode, by the 
 Reverend Doctor Jonathan Mayhew, of Boston : 
 
 "TO THE REVEREND MR. J. INNES, &c. 
 
 " I've now o'ercome the long fatigue 
 Of seas extended many a league, 
 The war of winds, their rage and sleep, 
 And all the madness of the deep ; 
 Once more in joyous peace abide 
 Upon a river's verdant side, 
 Where Casco's shore, of winding form, 
 Invites the sailor from the storm ; 
 Where shoots the sun a milder ray ; 
 And scatters round the genial day : 
 ■Where a more kind and generous soil 
 Invites the eager lab'rer's toil : 
 Where murmuring zephyrs still I hear 
 And gentle breezes fan the air. 
 
 " Here the light deer still take their round, 
 And o'er the fruitful valleys bouud; 
 Here purer streams alive I find, 
 With finny swarms of every kind ; 
 The woods with feather'd life abound 
 Of every size, of every sound, 
 And airy music warbles round. 
 
 " With angry face, let Boreas storm, 
 Let northern blasts the heav'ns deform, 
 Let Eurus rage with all his power, 
 And headlong drive the snowy shower ; 
 Yet I can here enjoy my rest, 
 A life with nature's bounty blest; 
 Alike prepared, if fortune lend 
 Precarious bliss, or evil send, 
 To live contented to the end. 
 
 " For iu these groves, from morn to night, 
 Sweat grateful flows, and toils delight; 
 Black choler here no place can find, 
 Nor fruitless cares distract the mind. 
 
 " Yet, friend, my ancle by a sprain, 
 At present gives unwelcome pain : 
 Along incautious as I stray'd, 
 The slippery ice my heels betray 'd, 
 And, while I dreamt no harm at all, 
 Gave me a base dishonest fall. 
 
 " Excepting this, all friends are well, 
 Charm'd with the country where we dwell ; 
 And charm'd, while here the bounteous field 
 Spontaneous promises, uutill'd, 
 With copious horn, its stores to yield, 
 
 " I thought it could not much displease 
 To tell a friend such things as these: 
 And should have writ a longer letter, 
 Only his verse, whose drink is water, 
 Can live but for a moment's time, 
 As Horace proved long since in rhyme." 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 27 
 
 "Dear sister, seethe smiling spring 
 In all its beauties here ; 
 The groves a thousand pleasures bring : 
 
 A thousand grateful scenes appear. 
 With tender leaves the trees are crown'd, 
 And scattered blossoms, all around, 
 Of various dyes 
 Salute your eyes, 
 And cover o'er the speckled ground. 
 Now thickets shade the glassy fountains, 
 
 Trees o'erhang the purling streams, 
 Whisp'ring breezes brush the mountains, 
 Grots are fill'd with balmy steams. 
 " But, sister, all the sweets that grace 
 The spring, and blooming nature's face — 
 The chirping birds, 
 Nor lowing herds ; 
 The woody hills, 
 Nor murm'ring rills ; 
 The sylvan shades. 
 Nor flowery meads, 
 Tome their former joys dispense. 
 Though all their pleasures court my sense, 
 But melancholy damps my mind ; 
 I lonely walk the field, 
 With inward sorrow fill'd, 
 And sigh to every breathing wind." 
 The facetious Mather Byles was in his 
 time equally famous as a poet and wit. A con- 
 temporary bard exclaims — 
 
 " Would but Apollo's genial touch inspire 
 Such sounds as breathe from Byles's warbling lyre, 
 Then might my notes in melting measures flow, 
 And make all nature wear the signs of wo." 
 And his humor is celebrated in a poetical ac- 
 count of the clergy of Boston, copied by Mr. 
 Loeing in his " Hundred Orators of Boston : " 
 " There 's punning Byles. provokes our smiles, 
 A man of stately parts. 
 He visits folks to crack his jokes, 
 Which never mends their hearts. 
 " With strutting gait, and wig so great, 
 He walks along the streets ; 
 And throws out wit, or what's like it, 
 To every one he meets." 
 
 Byles was graduated at Cambridge in 1725, 
 and ordained the first minister of the church in 
 Hollis street, in 1732. He soon became eminent 
 us a preacher, and King's College at Aberdeen 
 conferred on him the degree of Doctor in Divinity. 
 He was one of the authors of "A Collection of 
 Poems by several Hands," which appeared in 1744, 
 and of numerous essays and metrical compositions 
 in "The New England Weekly Journal," the merit 
 of which was such as to introduce him to the notice 
 of Pope and other English scholars. One of his 
 poems is entitled, " The Conflagration ;" and it is 
 " applied to that grand catastrophe of our world 
 when the face of nature is to be changed by a deluge 
 of fire." The following lines are from this effusion : 
 " Yet shall ye, flames, the wasting globe refine, 
 And bid the skies with purer splendor shine. 
 The earth, which the prolific fires consume, 
 To beauty burns, and withers into bloom ; 
 Improving in the fertile flame it lies, 
 Fades into form, and into vigor dies : 
 Fresh-dawning glories blush amidst the blaze, 
 And nature all reuews her flowery face. 
 With endless charms the everlasting year 
 Bolls round the seasons in a full career; 
 Spring, ever-blooming, bids the fields rejoice, 
 And warbling birds try their melodious voice; 
 
 Where'er she treads, lilies unbidden blow, 
 Quick tulips rise, and sudden roses glow : 
 Her pencil paints a thousand beauteous scenes, 
 Where blossoms bud amid immortal greens ; 
 Each stream, in mazes, murmurs as it flows, 
 And floating forests gently beud their boughs. 
 Thou, autumn, too, sitt'st in the fragrant shade, 
 While the ripe fruits blush all around thy head : 
 And lavish nature, with luxuriant hands, 
 All the soft months in gay confusion blends." 
 
 Byles was earnestly opposed to the revolu- 
 tion, and in the spring of 1777 was denounced in 
 the public assemblies as a Tory, and compelled to 
 give bonds for his appearance before a court for 
 trial. In the following June he was convicted of 
 treasonable conversation, and hostility to the 
 country, and sentenced to be imprisoned forty 
 days on board a guard-ship, and at the end of 
 that period to be sent with his family to England. 
 The board of war however took his case into con- 
 sideration, and commuted the punishment to a 
 short confinement under a guard in his own 
 house ; but, though he continued to reside in 
 Boston during the remainder of his life he never 
 again entered a pulpit, nor regained his ante- 
 revolutionary popularity. He died in 1788, in 
 the eighty-second year of his age, 
 
 He was a favorite in every social or convivial 
 circle, and no one was more fond of his society 
 than the colonial governor, Belchee, on the death 
 of whose wife he wrote an elegy ending with — 
 
 " Meantime my name to thine allied shall stand, 
 Still our warm friendship, mutual flames extend; 
 The muse shall so survive from age to age, 
 And Belcher's name protect his Byles's page." 
 
 The doctor had declined an invitation to visit 
 with the governor the province of Maine, and 
 Belchee resorted to a stratagem to secure his 
 company. Having persuaded him to drink tea 
 with him on board the Scarborough ship of war, 
 one Sunday afternoon, as soon as they were seated 
 at the table the anchor was weighed, the sails set, 
 and before the punning parson had called for his 
 last cup, the ship was too far at sea for him to 
 think of returning to the shore. As every thing 
 necessary for his comfort had been thoughtfully 
 provided, he was easily reconciled to the voyage. 
 While making preparations for religious services, 
 the next Sunday, it was discovered that there was 
 no hymn-book on board, and he wrote the fol- 
 lowing lines, which were sung instead of a selec- 
 tion from Steenhold and Hopkins — 
 
 " Great God, thy works our wonder raise ; 
 To thee our swelling notes belong ; 
 While skies and winds, and rocks and seas, 
 Around shall echo to our song. 
 " Thy power produced this mighty frame, 
 Aloud to thee the tempests roar, 
 Or softer breezes tune thy name 
 Gently along the shelly shore. 
 
 ♦'Round thee the scaly nation roves, 
 
 Thy opening hands their joys bestow, 
 Through all the blushing coral groves, 
 These silent gay retreats below. 
 
 " See the broad sun forsake the skies, 
 
 Glow on the waves, and downward glide ; 
 Anon heaven opens all its eyes, 
 
 And star-beams tremble o'er the tide. 
 
28 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 " Kach various scene, or day or night, 
 
 LORD I points to theo our nourish'd soul; 
 Thy glories iix our whole delight ; 
 
 So the touch'd needle courts the pole. 
 
 Joseph Green, a merchant of Boston, who had 
 been a classmate of Byles at Cambridge, was lit- 
 tle less celebrated than the doctor for humour; 
 and some of his poetical compositions were as 
 popular a hundred years ago as more recently 
 have been those of " Croaker & Co.," which 
 they resemble in spirit and playful ease of versi- 
 fication. The abduction of the Hollis street mi- 
 nister was the cause of not a little merriment in 
 Boston ; and Green, between whom and Byles 
 there was some rivalry, as the leaders of oppos- 
 ing social factions, soon after wrote a burlesque 
 account of it : 
 
 " In David's Psalms an oversight 
 
 Byles found one morning at his tea, 
 Alas ! that he should never write 
 A proper psalm to sing at sea. 
 " Thus ruminating on his seat, 
 
 Ambitious thoughts at length prevail'd 
 The hard determined to complete 
 The part wherein the prophet fail'd. 
 "He sat awhile, and stroked his Muse,* 
 Then taking up his tuneful pen, 
 Wrote a few stanzas for the use 
 Of his seafaring hretheren. 
 " The task perform'd, the hard content — 
 Well chosen was each flowing word — 
 On a short voyage himself he went, 
 To hear it read and sung on hoard. 
 " Most serious Christians do aver, 
 
 (Their credit sure we may rely on,) 
 In former times that after prayer, 
 They used to sing a song of Zion. 
 "Our modern parson having pray'd, 
 Unless loud fame our faith beguiles, 
 Sat down, took out his book and said, 
 " Let's sing a psalm of Mather Byles." 
 " At first, when he began to read, 
 
 Their heads the assembly downward hung, 
 But he with boldness did proceed, 
 And thus he read, and thus they sung. 
 
 THE PSALM. 
 " With vast amazement we survey 
 The wonders of the deep, 
 Where mackerel swim, and porpoise play, 
 And crabs and lobsters creep. 
 " Fish of all kinds inhabit here, 
 And throng the dark abode. 
 Here haddock, hake, and flounders are. 
 And eels, and perch, and cod. 
 " Prom raging winds and tempests free, 
 So smoothly as we pass, 
 The shining surface seems to be 
 A piece of Bristol glass. 
 " But when the winds and tempests rise, 
 And foaming billows swell, 
 The vessel mounts above the skies 
 And lower sinks than hell. 
 " Our heads the tottering motion feel 
 And quickly we become 
 Giddy as new-dropp'd calves, and reel 
 Like Indians drunk with rum. 
 " What praises then are due that we 
 Thus far have safely got, 
 Amarescoggin tribe to see, 
 And tribe of Penobscot. 
 
 * Byles's favorite cat, so named by his friends. 
 
 In 1750 Green published "An Entertain 
 ment for a Winter Evening," in which he ridi- 
 cules the freemasons ; and afterward "The Sand 
 Bank," "A True Account of the Celebration of 
 St. John the Baptist," and several shorter pieces, 
 all of which I believe were satirical. His epi- 
 grams are the best written in this country before 
 the revolution; and many anecdotes are told to 
 show the readiness of his wit and his skill as an 
 improvisator. On one occasion, a country gen- 
 tleman, knowing his reputation as a poet, pro- 
 cured an introduction to him, and solicited a 
 " first-rate epitaph," for a favorite servant, who 
 had lately died. Green asked what were the 
 man's chief qualities, and was told that " Cole 
 excelled in all things, but was particularly good 
 at raking hay, which he could do faster than any- 
 body, the present company, of course, excepted." 
 Green wrote immediately : 
 
 " Here lies Ihe body of John Cole, 
 His master loved him like his soul ; 
 He could rake hay, none could rake faster 
 Except that raking dog, his master." 
 Iff his old age he left Boston for England, 
 rather from the infirmities of age, than indif- 
 ference to the cause of liberty. 
 
 The most remarkable book of poems printed 
 in this country during the eighteenth century is 
 the " Pietas el Gratulatio Collegii Canlabrigiensis 
 npud Novanglos," (1761,) in which the president 
 and fellows of Harvard College celebrated the 
 death of George II. and the accession of his 
 grandson. It was handsomely printed in a quarto 
 of one hundred and six pages, and the copy in 
 my possession, one of two that were sent to the 
 king, is very richly bound, in red morocco, pro- 
 fusely gilt. Dr. Holyoke, who was then president 
 of the college, and whose contribution, "Jldhorlatio 
 Prasidis," which the "Monthly Keview" for 1763 
 praises as truly Horatian, is the first piece in the 
 collection, describes it in a letter to Thomas Hol- 
 lis as "an attempt of several young gentlemen here 
 with us, and educated in this college, to show their 
 pious sorrow on account of the death of ourlateglo- 
 rious king, their attachment to his royal house, the 
 joy they havein the accession of hispresentmajesty 
 to the British throne, and in the prospect they have 
 of the happiness of Britain from the royal pro- 
 geny which they hope for from his alliance with 
 the illustrious house of Mechlenburg." The 
 " Critical Review" for October, 1763, expresses 
 an opinion that " the verses from Harvard Col- 
 lege already seem to bid fair for a rivalship with 
 the productions of Cam and Isis." The prose 
 introduction has been ascribed both to Governor 
 Hutchinson and to Governor Francis Bernard, 
 but was probably from the pen of the latter, who 
 was a very accomplished scholar. Numbers ii. in 
 Latin and xxv. in English were by John Lovell ; 
 iii. xii. xiv. andxxiii. in Latin, xv. and xvi. in Greek, 
 and v. in English, by Stephen Sewell; vii. in 
 English by John Lowell; x. in English by Sa- 
 muel Deane ; xi. by Doctor Benjamin Church; 
 xiii. by Doctor Samuel Cooper ; xviii. in Greek, 
 xix. a Latin translation of it, xx. the same in Eng- 
 lish, and xxi. in Latin, by Governor Bernard ; xxvi. 
 
COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 29 
 
 in Latin, and xxii., an English Version of it, by 
 Doctor John Winthrop ; and xxix. by Thomas 
 Oliver, afterwards lieutenant-governor. A wri- 
 ter in the " Monthly Anthology" for 1809 gives 
 the authorship of these pieces from MS. notes in 
 a copy which had been owned by Mr. Sewell, 
 and believes, from internal evidence, that xxviii., 
 an English lyric, was by Doctor Cooper. Mr. 
 Kettle says Governor James Bowdoin was a 
 contributor to the work. 
 
 The best English poem in the Pielas et Gratula- 
 tio is that of the celebrated Doctor Benjamin 
 Church. He was born in Boston in 1739, and 
 graduated at Cambridge when in the sixteenth 
 year of his age. After finishing his professional 
 education, he established himself as a physician 
 in his native city, and soon became eminent by 
 his literary and political writings. At the com- 
 mencement of the revolutionary troubles he was 
 chosen a member of the Massachusetts legisla- 
 ture, and after the battle of Lexington was ap- 
 pointed surgeon-general of the army. In the au- 
 tumn of 1775 he was suspected of treasonable 
 correspondence with the enemy, arrested by order 
 of the commander-in-chief, tried by the general 
 court, and found guilty. By direction of the 
 Congress, to whom the subject of his punishment 
 was referred, he was confined in a prison in Con- 
 necticut; but after a few months, on account of 
 the condition of his health, was set at liberty ; 
 and in the summer of 1776 embarked at New- 
 port for the West Indies, in a ship which was 
 never heard of after the day on which it sailed. 
 The concluding lines of his address to George III., 
 to which allusion has been made, are as follows : 
 
 " May one clear calm attend thee to thy close, 
 One lengthen' d sunshine of complete repose : 
 Correct our crimes, and beam that Christian mind 
 O'er the wide wreck of desolate mankind ; 
 To ealm-brow'd Peace, the maddening world restore, 
 Or lash the demon thirsting still for gore ; 
 
 ' Till nature's utmost bound thy arms restrain, 
 And prostrate tyrants bite the British chain." 
 
 Church also wrote " The Times," « The 
 Choice," and "Elegies on George Whitfield 
 and Doctor Mayhew." He was a man of va- 
 rious and decided talents, but his poetical writings 
 possess but a moderate degree of excellence. 
 
 William Livingston, a member of the first 
 Congress, and the first republican governor of 
 New Jersey, was born in New York in 1723, and 
 graduated at Yale College in 1741. His " Philo- 
 sophic Solitude, or the Choice of a Rural Life," 
 written while he was a student, was first printed in 
 1747. It is in smoothly flowing verse, evinces a 
 careful study of good models, and may be regarded 
 as the most chaste and agreeable poem of con- 
 siderable length produced in America before the 
 close of the first half of the last century. Its pre- 
 vailing tone is indicated in the opening lines : 
 
 " Let ardent heroes seek renown in arms, 
 Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms ; 
 To shining palaces let fools resort, 
 . And dunces cringe to be esteem'd at court : 
 Mine be the pleasure of a rural life, 
 From noise remote, and ignorant of strife; 
 
 Far from the painted belle, and white-gloved beau, 
 The lawless masquerade, and midnight show, 
 From ladies, lap-dogs, courtiers, garters, stars, 
 Fops, fiddlers, tyrants, emperors, and czars." 
 
 Mr. Livingston was an able and manly writer 
 on public affairs before the revolution and during 
 the war; and continued in old age occasionally 
 to indulge his early predilection for poetical com- 
 position. When more than sixty he addressed a 
 poem, marked by generous feeling and good sense, 
 to Washington, with whom he had maintained 
 the most friendly relations. He died in 1790. 
 
 Robert Bolling, of Buckingham county Vir- 
 ginia, born in 1738, wrote with facility in Latin, 
 Italian, and French, and some of his poetical 
 pieces in these languages and in English have 
 been printed. He left in manuscript two vo- 
 lumes of verses, which a writer in the " Colum- 
 bian Magazine" for 1787 describes as "Horatian." 
 His poems which have been submitted to the pub- 
 lic hardly justify this praise. 
 
 Another southern poet of the same period was 
 Rowland Rugelt. In June, 1782, while Mat- 
 thew Carey contemplated the publication of an 
 extensive American Anthology, Trumbull, the 
 author of " MacFingal," wrote to him: " Rugely, 
 of South Carolina, is a poet certainly better 
 than Evans. He published a volume of poems 
 in London near twenty years ago, chiefly in the 
 manner of Prior, many of which are well worth 
 preserving; and since that a travestie of the 
 fourth book of Virgil, which for delicacy and true 
 humor is superior to Cotton's." I have ex- 
 amined Rugely's volume, published at Oxford, in 
 1763, and cannot quite concur in Judge Trum- 
 bull's estimate of its merits. 
 
 Gulian Verplanck, of New York, after com- 
 pleting his education, travelled abroad, and while 
 in England, in 1773, wrote the following pro- 
 phetic lines on the destiny of this country : 
 
 " Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat! 
 Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great, 
 But wealth and power have no immortal day, 
 For all things ripen only to decay ; 
 And when that time arrives — the lot of all— 
 "When Britain's glory, power, and wealth shall fall, 
 Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decree 
 In other worlds another Britain see, 
 And what thou art, America shall be." 
 
 In 1774 Mr. Verplanck published li Vice, a 
 Satire," written with elegance and spirit. 
 
 Dr. Prime, also of New York, finished his pro- 
 fessional education in Europe, and on returning 
 applied for a commission in the army, but did not 
 succeed in obtaining one. He alludes to his dis- 
 appointment in an elegy on the death of a friend, 
 Doctor Scuddeb, who was slain in the skirmish 
 at Shrewsbury in New Jersey : 
 
 " So bright, bless'd shade ! thy deeds of virtue shine : 
 So, rich, no doubt, thy recompense on high ! 
 My lot's far more lamentable than thine — 
 Thou liv'st in death, while I in living die. 
 " With great applause hast thou perform'd thy part, 
 Since thy first entrance on the stage of life, 
 Or in the labors of the healing art, 
 Or in fair Liberty's important strife 
 
30 
 
 COLONIAL POETS. 
 
 "But I, alas! like some unfruitful tree. 
 
 That useless stands, a eumberer of the plain, 
 My faculties unprofitable see, 
 And five long years have lived almost in vain. 
 
 "While all around me, like the busy swarms 
 That ply the fervent labors of the hive. 
 Or guide the state, with ardor rush to arms, 
 Or somo less great but needful business drive, 
 " I see my time inglorious glide away. 
 
 Obscure and useless, like an idle drone: 
 And uneonducive each revolving day 
 Or to my country's interest or my own." 
 
 A manuscript satire of the Welsh, in Latin 
 and English, entitled " Muscipula sive Cambro- 
 myomachia," was found among Doctor Prime's 
 papers after his death, and published with a col- 
 lection of his poetical writings: but it has been 
 discovered that he was not the author of it. On 
 the passage of the stamp act he composed "A 
 Song for the Sons of Liberty," which is superior 
 to any patriotic lyric up to that time written here. 
 Jambs Allen, a native of Boston, born in 1739, 
 published in 1782 "Lines on the Massacre," 
 which are in a fluent style, and display an ardent 
 devotion to the popular cause. He afterward 
 wrote many other pieces, but his indolent habits 
 prevented their appearance in print. Brissot 
 de Warville, in his "Travels in the United 
 States," after remarking that poets must be more 
 rare among us than other writers, — an opinion 
 in which he seems to have been mistaken — says, 
 "they speak however in Boston of an original but 
 lazy poet named Allen; his verses are said to 
 be full of fire and force ; they mention particularly 
 a manuscript poem of his on the famous battle of 
 Bunker Hill; but he will not print it; he has for 
 his reputation and his money the carelessness of 
 Lafontaine." 
 
 MACPHERSON's"Ossian" was reprinted in Phi- 
 ladelphia soon after its first publication, and had 
 for many years a decided influence upon poetical 
 taste in this country. Among those who attempt- 
 ed to paraphrase it was Jonathan Mitchell 
 Sewell, of New Hampshire, who began the task 
 of turning it into heroic verse in 1770, and after- 
 ward submitted to the public specimens of his com- 
 pleted work, but their reception did not encourage 
 him to a further expenditure in that way. Sew- 
 ell was the author of an epilogue to Addison's 
 "Cato," containing the often quoted lines: 
 " No pent-up Utica contracts our powers, 
 But the whole boundless continent is ours." 
 and in the early part of the revolution wrote a pa- 
 triotic song called, "War and Washington" which 
 had for many years extraordinary popularity. 
 
 Joseph Brown Ladd, M.D., of Rhode Island, 
 author of "The Poems of Arouet," began to write 
 during the early days of the revolution. His 
 productions have very little merit. He lost his 
 life in a duel, at Charleston, in 1785. 
 
 Among the emigrants from the mother country 
 within, a few years of the commencement of the 
 
 war was John Lowe, a native of Scotland, horn 
 in 1752, who arrived in Virginia in 1773, and be- 
 came a successful teacher at Fredericksburg. He 
 wrote there the celebrated song entitled " Mary's 
 Dream." He died in 1798. 
 
 The year following that in which Lowe came 
 to America, Thomas Paine followed, and settled 
 in Philadelphia, where he was employed by Ro- 
 bert Aitkin, in 1775, to edit " The Pennsylva- 
 nia Magazine," in which he published several 
 poetical pieces, one of which is " On the Death 
 of General Wolfe," and another is a song en- 
 titled " The Liberty Tree."* 
 
 The ballads and songs relating to " tragedies 
 in the wilderness," to the Indian wars, the "old 
 French war," and the revolution — of which I have 
 succeeded in collecting more than a thousand — 
 though many of them are extremely rude, are 
 upon the whole far more fresh, vigorous and poet- 
 ical than might be supposed. Enough for a vo- 
 lume refer to the single event of the taking of 
 Louisburg, in 1747. On the approach of the pe- 
 riod in which the colonies separated from Great 
 Britain the newspapers and magazines were filled 
 with lyrical appeals to the patriotism of the peo- 
 ple, some of which were by the most dignified pub- 
 lic characters. John Dickinson, author of " The 
 Farmer's Letters," inclosing to James Otis, in 
 1774, a copy of the famous song commencing — 
 
 " Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all, 
 And rouse your bold hearts at Liberty's call," 
 
 informs him that it was his own production, ex- 
 cept eight lines, which were by his friend Ar- 
 thur Lee, of Virginia. General Warren's song 
 of "Free America," is well known. A much 
 better piece, "American Taxation," is supposed 
 to have been written by a Connecticut school- 
 master named St. John. In a paper on "The 
 Minstrelsy of the Revolution," in "Graham's 
 Magazine," for 1842, I have given a considerable 
 number of the compositions which illustrate this 
 subject, and it is my intention hereafter to present 
 the public a large collection of our historical 
 verses, with suitable introductions and notes. 
 
 Of the American women known as poets dur- 
 ing our colonial era, notices may be found in 
 "The Female Poets of America." The leading 
 poets of the revolution — Freneau, Barlow, 
 Dwight, Trumbull, and Humphries, — are sub- 
 jects of separate articles in the following pages. 
 
 * Of British and other foreign poets who have written in 
 this country since the revolution I have given no speci- 
 mens in the following pages, though, perhaps, I should 
 have quoted from Alexander Wilson his spirited poem on 
 "The Blue Bird," and other pieces from Mr. Da Ponte, 
 Dr. Francis Lieber, Mr. Henry William Herbert, and a 
 few others who have made their homes in the United States. 
 But "Mary's Dream" and the lyrics of Thomas Paine, are 
 as little entitled to be called American poems as the verses 
 of Myles Cooper, Sir John Burgoyne, or Major Andre, or 
 those in which Thomas Moore celebrated his visits to the 
 Dismal Swamp and the Schuylkill. 
 
PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 [Bom 1752. Died 1832.] 
 
 The first attempts to establish in America a 
 refuge for French Protestants were made under 
 the direction of the Admiral Coligny in 1652. It 
 was not, however, until Louis the Fourteenth re- 
 voked the edict of Nantz, in 1685, that there was 
 any considerable emigration of the Reformers to 
 this country. From that period, for many years, 
 Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Vir- 
 ginia, and the Carolinas, received some of the 
 best elements of their subsequent civilization in 
 the polite, industrious and variously skilful ex- 
 iles whom the intolerance of the Roman Catholics 
 compelled to abandon the soil of France. Those 
 who settled in New York founded the old church 
 of Saint Esprit, which was long the centre of the 
 Huguenot influence on this continent. Among 
 the principal families connected with it were the 
 De Lanceys, Jays, Pintards, Allaiees, and 
 Fresneaus. In 1712 we find the latter name 
 written without the s, and four years later Andre 
 Freneau is referred to in the Journal of Jean 
 Fontaine, as a leading citizen, and a frequenter 
 of the French club. This Andre Freneau was 
 the grandfather of Philip, whc was born in New 
 York on the thirteenth of January, (the second, 
 old style,) 1752. His mother was a native of New 
 Jersey, and his elder brother, Peter,* was born in 
 that colony, to which the family appears to have re- 
 turned after the death of the poet's father, in 1754. 
 
 Young Freneau entered Nassau Hall, then 
 known as the New Jersey " Log College," in 
 1767, so far advanced in classical studies that the 
 acting president made his proficiency the subject 
 of a congratulatory letter to one of his relations. 
 His room-mate here was James Madison, and 
 Hugh H. Breckenridge, who afterwards wrote 
 " Modern Chivalry," was also in the same class. 
 Madison, Breckenridge, and Freneau, were 
 intimate friends ; and being all gifted with un- 
 usual satirical powers, which they were fond of 
 displaying as frequently as there were fair occa- 
 sions, they joined in lampooning, not only the 
 leaders of adverse parties in the college, but also 
 those prominent public characters who opposed 
 the growing enthusiasm of the people for liberty. 
 I have before .me a considerable manuscript vo- 
 lume of personal and political satires, written by 
 them in about equal proportions, and in which 
 they exhibit nearly equal abilities, though Madi- 
 son's have the least coarseness, and the least spir- 
 
 * Peter Freneau occasionally wrote verses, though I be- 
 lieve nothing of more pretension than a song or an epigram. 
 He was a man of wit and education ; was one of Mr. Jeffer- 
 son's warmest adherents ; and when the democratic party 
 came into power in South Carolina, was made Secretary of 
 State there. Thomas, in his "Reminiscences," says that " his 
 style of writing combined the beauty and smoothness of Ad- 
 dison with the simplicity of Cobbeii." He died in 1814. 
 
 it. Several theological students, particularly two 
 or three whose family connections were very hum- 
 ble, were objects of their continual ridicule. In 
 the class below were Aaron Burr, and the 
 refined and elegant William Bradford, whose 
 occasional verses show that he might have equal- 
 ed any of his American contemporaries as a poet, 
 if such had been the aim of his ambition. Fre- 
 neau graduated on the nineteenth of September, 
 1771, being then a few months over twenty years 
 of age. The earliest of his printed poems is " The 
 Poetical History of the Prophet Jonah," in four 
 cantos, dated in 1768, the year after he went to 
 Princeton. While in college he also formed the 
 plan of an epic on the discovery of this continent, 
 of which an "Address to Ferdinand," and a series 
 of sixteen "Pictures of Columbus," are probably 
 fragments. His valedictory exercise was a dia- 
 logue, in blank verse, on " The Rising Glory of 
 America," in the composition and recitation of 
 which he was associated with Breckenridge. 
 It was printed in 1772, in an octavo pamphlet, at 
 Philadelphia, where Freneau went to reside, with 
 an intention of studying the law. It has been 
 stated that he was on terms of familiar intimacy, 
 while here, with Judge Hopkinson, author of " The 
 Battle of the Kegs," but the late venerable Dr. 
 Mease, who had been well acquainted with Fre- 
 neau, remarks in a letter to me that "the humour- 
 ist knew him only as a young scapegrace." 
 
 For some cause he appears to have abandoned 
 the design of becoming a lawyer, and an irregular 
 and aimless life of two or three years ended in his 
 going to sea, but in what capacity, at first, I can- 
 not ascertain. In 1774 and 1775 he was living 
 in New York, where, during this period, he began 
 to publish those pieces of political burlesque and 
 invective which made his name familiar and po- 
 pular throughout the country during the revolu- 
 tionary war. His style was pointed, and he was 
 successful in representing the exploits of th e ene my 
 in a ludicrous light, and in ridiculing the charac- 
 ters and conduct of the neutrals, loyalists, and 
 others who were obnoxious to the prejudices of 
 the Whigs. The speeches of the king and his 
 ministers, and the proclamations of the royal go- 
 vernors and generals, he parodied and travestied 
 in an amusing manner, and every memorable 
 event, on land or sea, was celebrated by him in 
 verses easily understood, and none the less ad- 
 mired, perhaps, for a dash of coarseness by which 
 most of them were distinguished. 
 
 In 1776 he passed several months in the Danish 
 West Indies, and wrote there two of his longest 
 poems, " The House of Night," and " The Beauties 
 of Santa Cruz." In 1778 he was in Bermuda, and 
 during the following year we find him in Phila- 
 
32 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 delphia, editing for Francis Bailey "The United 
 States Magazine." This periodical was not suc- 
 cessful, and on its discontinuance he again turned 
 his attention to the sea. He sailed for St. Eusta- 
 tia in May, 1780, in the ship Aurora, which soon 
 after leaving the Delaware was captured by a Bri- 
 tish cruiser. Freneau with his companions was 
 taken to New York, and in the hot weather of June 
 and July confined seven weeks on board the Scor- 
 pion and the Hunter, those floating hells in which 
 so many ofour countrymen experienced the extrem- 
 est horrors of the war. On being released he return- 
 ed to Philadelphia, and in the family of his friend 
 Bailey gradually regained the health lost during 
 his confinement. He now published " The British 
 Prison Ship," in four cantos, in which he described, 
 with indignant energy, the brutalities to which he 
 had been subjected, and urged the people to new ef- 
 forts against the cruel and remorseless enemy. 
 
 On the twenty-fifth of April, 1781, appeared 
 the first number of "The Freeman's Journal," 
 printed and published by Bailey, and edited or 
 in a large degree written by Freneau. For three 
 or four years his hand is apparent in its most 
 pungent paragraphs of prose, as well as in nume- 
 rous pieces of verse, on public characters and pass- 
 ing events, and particularly in a succession of sa- 
 tires on the New York printers, Hugh Gaine and 
 James Rivington, whom he delighted in assailing 
 with all the resources of his abusive wit. Of 
 Gaine, a, sort of Vicar of Bray, " who lied at the 
 sign of the Bible and Crown," he wrote a "Biog- 
 raphy," and of Rivington, who edited " The Roy- 
 al Gazette," in which the Whigs were treated with 
 every species of absurd and malicious vitupera- 
 tion, he gave the " Reflections," the " Confessions," 
 the " Last Will and Testament," &c. The follow- 
 ing lines are characteristic of these productions: 
 
 Occasioned by the title of Mr. Rivington's Royal Gazette 
 being scarcely legible. 
 Says Satan to Jemmy, " I hold you a bet, 
 That you mean to abandon our Royal Gazette; 
 Or, between you and me, you would manage things better 
 Than the title to print in so sneaking a letter. 
 Now, being connected so long in the art, 
 It would not be prudent at present to part; 
 And the people, perhaps, would be frightened, and fre + 
 If the devil alone carried on the Gazette." 
 Says Jemmy to Satan, (by way of a wipe,) 
 "Who gives me the matter, should furnish the type; 
 And why you find fault I can scarcely divine, 
 For the types, like the printer, are certainly thine." 
 
 A remonstrance against the worn-out vignette — 
 the king's arms — is too gross for quotation, but 
 when the appearance of the " Gazette" was suffi- 
 ciently improved — 
 
 " From the regions of night, with his head in a sack, 
 
 Ascended a person, accoutred in black," 
 
 who looks over the paper, and the printing-room, 
 
 and expresses his approbation of the change: 
 
 " My mandates are fully complied with at last, 
 
 New arms are engraved, and new letters are cast; 
 
 I therefore determine and fully accord, 
 
 This servant of mine shall receive his reward." 
 
 Then turning about, to the printer he said, 
 
 " Who late was my servant, shall now be my aid ; 
 
 Kneel down ! for your merits I dub you a knight; 
 
 From a passive subaltern I bid you to rise — 
 
 The inventor, as well as the printer, of lies." 
 
 In 1783, a few months after its appearance 
 in Paris, Freneau translated and published in 
 Philadelphia, the Nouveau Voyage duns V Jtmeriqix 
 Seplentrionah en Pannee 1781, by the Abbe Ro- 
 bin, a chaplain in the army of the Count de 
 Rocuambeau, and he was much occupied during 
 this and the two following years in various lite- 
 rary services for Mr. Bailey, who was his warm 
 friend as well as liberal employer. 
 
 In 1784 he left Philadelphia, and after a few 
 months spent in travel, and in visiting his old 
 friends, become master of a vessel which sailed 
 between New York and the West Indies, and 
 New York and Charleston. In a letter to Bailey 
 he gives a striking account of a disastrous ship- 
 wreck which he suffered in one of his voyages, 
 in the summer of 1788. Writing from Norfolk 
 in Virginia, he says : 
 
 " After leaving New York, on the twenty-first of July, I 
 had the misfortune to have my vessel dismasted, thrown 
 on her beam ends, the bulk of her cargo shifted and ruined, 
 and every sail, mast, spar, boat, and almost every article 
 upon deck, lost, on the Wednesday afternoon following, in 
 one of the hardest gales that ever blew on this coast. Cap- 
 tain William Cannon, whom I think you know, and who 
 was going passenger with me to Charleston, and JosiahStil- 
 well, a lad of a reputable family in the state of New Jersey, 
 were both washed overboard and drowned, notwithstand- 
 ing every effort to save them. All nry people besides, except 
 an old man who stuck fast in one of the scuttles, were seve- 
 ral times overboard, but had the luck to regain the wreck, 
 and, with considerable difficulty, save their lives. As to 
 myself, when I found the vessel no longer under my guid- 
 ance, I took refuge in the main weather shrouds, where, in- 
 deed, I saved myself from being washed into the sea, but 
 was almost staved to pieces in a violent fall I had upon the 
 main deck — the main mast having given way six feet above, 
 and gone overboard. I was afterwards knocked in the 
 head by a violent stroke of the tiller, which entirely de- 
 prived me of sensation, for, I was told, near a quarter of an 
 hour. Our pumps were now so choked with corn that they 
 would no longer work. Upwards of four feet of water was 
 in the hold. Fortunately our bucket was saved, and with 
 this we went to bailing, which alone prevented us from 
 foundering, in one of the most dismal nights that ever man 
 witnessed. The next morning the weather had cleared, and 
 the wind come round to the north-east — during the gale 
 having been east- north-east. The land was now in sight, 
 about five miles distant, latitude at noon 3(3° 17'. I soon 
 rigged out a broken boom, and set the fore topsail — the 
 only sail remaining — and steered for Cape Henry, making 
 however but little way, the vessel being very much on one 
 side, and ready to sink with her heavy cargo of iron and 
 other weighty articles. We were towed in next day, Fri- 
 day, by the friendly aid of Captain Archibald Bell, of the 
 ship Betsy, from London. I have since arrived at this port, 
 by the assistance of a Potomac pilot. Nothing could exceed 
 our distress : no fire, no candle, our beds soaked with sea- 
 water, the cabin torn to pieces, a vast quantity of corn da- 
 maged and poisoning us to death, &c. &c. As we entered 
 Norfolk, on the twenty-ninth of July, the very dogs look- 
 ed at us with an eye of commiseration, the negroes pitied 
 us, and almost every one showed a disposition to relieve 
 us. In the midst of all our vexation the crew endeavored 
 to keep up their spirits with a little grog, while I had re- 
 course to my old expedient of philosophy and reflection. I 
 have unloaded my cargo, partly damaged, partly otherwise. 
 This day I shall also begin to refit my vessel, and mean to 
 proceed back to New York as soon as refitted. It is possi- 
 ble, however, that I may be ordered to sell the vessel here. 
 If so, I shall take a passage to Baltimore, and go to New 
 York by way of Philadelphia, to look out for another and 
 a more fortunate barque than that which I now command. 
 Yours, &c. P. Freneau." 
 
PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 After Feeneau left Philadelphia Bailey is- 
 sued the first collection of his poems, in a volume 
 of more than four hundred pages, entitled " The 
 Poems of Philip Feeneau, written chiefly du- 
 ring the late War." In his advertisement, dated 
 the sixth of June, 1786, the publisher says : 
 
 " The pieces now collected and printed in the following 
 sheets were left in my hands by the author, above a year 
 ago, with permission to publish them whenever I thought 
 proper. A considerable number of the performances con- 
 tained in this volume, as many will recollect, have appear- 
 ed at different times in newspapers, (particularly the Free- 
 man's Journal) and other periodical publications in the dif- 
 ferent states of America, during the late war, and since; 
 and from the avidity and pleasure with which they gene- 
 rally appear to have been read by persons of the best taste, 
 the printer now the more readily gives them to the world 
 in their present form, (without troubling the reader with 
 any affected apologies for their supposed or real imperfec- 
 tions.) in hopes they will afford a high degree of satisfaction 
 to the lovers of poetical wit, and elegance of expression." 
 
 In the following October notice was given in 
 the Freeman's Journal, that " An Additional Col- 
 lection of Entertaining Original Performances, in 
 Prose and Verse, by Philip Feeneau," would be 
 issued as soon as a sufficient number of copies 
 should be subscribed for; but such a time did not 
 arrive, and it was not until the twenty-seventh of 
 April, 1788, that Mr. Bailey gave the public 
 " The Miscellaneous Works of Philip Feeneau, 
 containing his Essays and Additional Poems." 
 Nearly half the copies of this volume were sub- 
 scribed for in Charleston. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of April, 1789, General 
 Washington arrived in New York from Mount 
 Vernon, to enter upon his duties as President of 
 the United States. As the procession of boats 
 by which he was attended from Elizabeth town 
 Point approached the city, it is mentioned in the 
 journals of the day, that the schooner Columbia, 
 Captain Philip Feeneau, eight days from 
 Charleston, came up the bay. This was the poet's 
 last voyage for several years. He now engaged 
 with the printers, Childs and Swaine, to edit the 
 New York " Daily Advertiser," and continued in 
 this employment until the removal of the govern- 
 ment to Philadelphia, when he became a translat- 
 ing clerk in the Department of State, under Mr. 
 Jeffeeson, and editor of the " National Gazette," 
 which gained an infamous reputation by its attacks 
 on AVashington's administration. Feeneau 
 made oath to a statement that Mr. Jeffeeson did 
 not compose or suggest any of the contents of his 
 paper, but in his old age he acknowledged to Dr. 
 John W. Feancis that the Secretary wrote or 
 dictated the most offensive articles against Wash- 
 ington and his friends, and to Dr. James Mease 
 he exhibited a file of the "Gazette," in which what 
 were alleged to be his contributions were marked. 
 This matter has been much and angrily debated, 
 but it has not been denied that the conduct of 
 the clerk was in the main, at least, approved by 
 his employer. The President could not forbear 
 speaking to Mr. Jeffeeson of Feeneau's abuse, 
 and requesting him, as a member of his cabinet, 
 to administer him some rebuke. Mr. Jeffeeson 
 
 tells us in his " Anas" what course he chose to 
 3 
 
 pursue. At a cabinet council, he says, Wash- 
 ington remarked that "That rascal, Feeneau, 
 sent him three copies of his papers every day, as 
 if he thought he (Washington) would become 
 the distributor of them ; that he could see in this 
 nothing but an impudent design to insult him: 
 he ended in a high tone." Again, speaking of 
 the President, Mr. Jeffeeson says, " He adverted 
 to a piece in Feeneau's paper of yesterday ; he 
 said he despised all their attacks on him person- 
 ally, but that there had never been an act of the 
 government, not meaning in the executive line 
 only, but in any line, which that paper had not 
 abused. He was evidently sore and warm, and I 
 took his intention to be, that I should interpose 
 in some way with Feeneau, perhaps withdraw 
 his appointment of translating clerk in my office. 
 But I will not do it. His paper has saved our 
 Constitution, which was galloping fast into mon- 
 archy, and has been checked by no one means 
 so powerfully as by that paper. It is well and uni- 
 versally known that it has been that paper which 
 has checked the career of the monocrats," &c. 
 
 During the prevalence of the yellow fever in 
 Philadelphia, in 1793, the publication of the " Na- 
 tional Gazette" was suspended ; and Mr. Jef- 
 feeson having retired from the cabinet, it was not 
 resumed. Feeneau was for a few months with- 
 out any regular occupation. I have seen two let- 
 ters, one written by Jeffeeson and the other by 
 Madison, in which he is commended to certain citi- 
 zens of New York, for his " extensive information, 
 sound discretion," and other qualities, as a candi- 
 date for the editorship of a journal which it was 
 intended to establish in that city. The project 
 was abandoned, or his application unsuccessful, 
 and on the second of May, 1795, he commenced 
 " The Jersey Chronicle," at Mount Pleasant, 
 near Middletown Point, in New Jersey, which 
 was continued every week for one year, the fifty- 
 second number having appeared on the thirtieth 
 of April, 1796. In the " Chronicle" he main- 
 tained his opposition to the administration of 
 Washington, and the unpopularity of its poli- 
 tics with the reading classes doubtless prevented 
 its success. He now again turned his attention 
 to New York, and on the thirteenth of March, 
 1797, issued there the first number of" The Time- 
 Piece and Literary Companion," which was pub- 
 lished tri-weekly, and devoted more largely than 
 any other paper in the country to belles-lettres, 
 while it embraced news and frequent discussions 
 of public affairs. Feeneau himself contributed to 
 almost every number one or more copies of verses, 
 and he had many poetical correspondents. After 
 six months, Matthew L. Davis, then a very 
 young man, became his partner, and at the end 
 of the first year " The Time-Piece" was resigned 
 entirely to his direction.* 
 
 * "The Time-Piece" was afterwards edited by John 
 D'Oi.ey Burke, an Irishman, who, in 1798, was arrested un- 
 der the Alien and Sedition law. Burke was a noisy Demo- 
 crat, and possessed of but moderate abilities. He wrote 
 " Bunker Hill, or the Death of Warren," a play ; " The Co- 
 lumbiad, an Epic Poem ;" " The History of Virginia," &c, 
 and was killed in a duel, in 1808. 
 
34 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 In 1798 Freneau went again to South Caro- 
 lina, and, becoming master of a merchant ship, 
 he made several voyages, of which we have some 
 souvenirs in his subsequently published poems. 
 In 1799 and in 1801 he visited St. Thomas; in 
 1803 he was in the island of Madeira; in 1804 
 he declines in a copy of verses an invitation to 
 visit a nunnery in Teneriffe, and in 1806 he leaves 
 New York, in command of the sloop Industry, for 
 Savannah, Charleston, and the West Indies. From 
 some lines " To Hezekiah Salem," a name by 
 which he frequently describes himself, it may be 
 inferred that he also made a voyage to Calcutta. 
 
 While conducting the "Jersey Chronicle," at 
 Monmouth, in 1795, he had published a second 
 edition of his collection of poems, in a closely- 
 printed octavo volume ; and in 1809, after his final 
 abandonment of the life of a sailor, he issued a 
 third edition, in Philadelphia, in two duodecimo 
 volumes, entiled " Poems written and published 
 during the American Revolutionary War, and 
 now republished from the original Manuscripts, 
 interspersed with Translations from the Ancients, 
 and other Pieces not heretofore in Print." In 
 the last-mentioned year he addressed a short poem 
 to his friend ?*tr. Jefferson, on his retirement 
 from the Presidency of the United States, and 
 celebrated in another the death of Thomas Paine, 
 of whom he was an ardent admirer. 
 
 When the second war with Great Britain came 
 on, he restrung his lyre, and commemorated in 
 characteristic verses the triumphs of our arms, es- 
 pecially our naval victories ; and his songs and 
 ballads relating to these events are still reprinted 
 in " broadsides," and sold in every port. They 
 were for the most part included in two small vo- 
 lumes which he published in New York, after the 
 peace, under the title of " A Collection of Poems 
 on American Affairs, and a Variety of other Sub- 
 jects, chiefly Moral and Political, written between 
 1797 and 1815." He afterwards contemplated 
 a complete edition of his works, and in a letter 
 to Dr. Mease inquires whether there is "still 
 enough of the old spirit of patriotism abroad to 
 insure the safety of such an adventure." His 
 house at Mount Pleasant was destroyed by fire 
 in 1815 or 1816, and he laments to the same 
 correspondent the loss, by that misfortune, of 
 some of his best compositions, which had never 
 been given to the public. 
 
 In his old age Freneau resided in New Jer- 
 sey, but made occasional visits to Philadelphia, 
 where he was always welcomed by Mrs. Lydia R. 
 Bailey, who was the daughter-in-law of his early 
 friend and publisher, Francis Bailey, and had 
 herself been his publisher in 1809. More frequent- 
 ly he passed a few days in New York, where he 
 found living many of the companions of his ac- 
 tive and ambitious life. Here too he became 
 intimate with Dr. John W. Francis, to whom he 
 was wont to recount the incidents of his varied 
 history, and to discourse of his ancient associa- 
 tions, with a careless enthusiasm, such as only the 
 genial inquisition of a Francis could awaken. 
 Mrs. Bailey, who still carries on the printing 
 
 house which her father-in-law established three- 
 quarters of a century ago, has described to me the 
 poet as he appeared to her in his prime. " He 
 was a small man," she says, "very gentleman- 
 like in his manners, very entertaining in his con- 
 versation, and withal a great favourite with the 
 ladies;" the venerable ex-manager of the Phila- 
 delphia theatre, Mr. William B. Wood, now (in 
 1855) seventy-seven years old, also remembers him, 
 and concurs in this description. Dr. Francis's 
 recollections of the bard are of a later date; he 
 describes him as having dressed, in his later years, 
 like a farmer, and as having had " a fine expres- 
 sion of countenance for so old a man — mild, pen- 
 sive, and intelligent." 
 
 Freneau perished in a snow-storm, in his 
 eightieth year, during the night of the eighteenth 
 of December, 1832, near Freehold. On the ap- 
 proach of evening he had left an inn of that village 
 for his home, a mile and a half distant. He was 
 unattended, and it is supposed he lost his way. 
 The next morning, says Mr. William Lloyd of 
 Freehold, in a letter to Dr. Mease, from which I 
 derive these particulars, his body was found, par- 
 tially covered by the snow, in a meadow, a little 
 aside from his direct path. 
 
 Freneau was unquestionably a man of consid- 
 erable genius, and among his poems are illustra- 
 tions of creative passion which will preserve his 
 name long after authors of more refinement and 
 elegance are forgotten. His best pieces were for 
 the most part written in early life, when he was 
 most ambitious of literary distinction. Of these, 
 " The Dying Indian," " The Indian Student," 
 and others copied into the following pages, are 
 finely conceived and very carefully finished. It 
 is worthy of notice that he was the first of our 
 authors to treat the " ancients of these lands" 
 with a just appreciation, and in a truly artistical 
 spirit. His song of " Alknomock" had long the 
 popularity of a national air. Mr. Washington 
 Irving informs me that when he was a youth it 
 was familiar in every drawing-room, and among 
 the earliest theatrical reminiscences of Mr. Wil- 
 liam B. Wood is its production, in character, 
 upon the stage. The once well-known satire, 
 entitled "A New England Sabbath-day Chase," 
 was so much in vogue when Mr. Irving was a 
 school-boy, that he committed it to memory as an 
 exercise in declamation. The political odes and 
 pasquinades which he wrote during the revolution 
 possess much historical interest, and, with his 
 other works, they will some time undoubtedly be 
 collected and edited with the care due to unique 
 and curious souvenirs of so remarkable an age. 
 
 In an address " To the Americans of the United 
 States," first published in November, 1797, Fre- 
 neau himself evinces a sense of the proper distinc- 
 tion of his writings : " Catching our subjects," 
 he says, 
 
 " from the varying scene, 
 
 Of human things, a mingled work we draw, 
 Chequered with fancies odd and figures strange, 
 
 Such as no courtly poet ever saw 
 Who writ, beneath some great man's ceiling placed, — 
 Traveled no lands, nor roved the watery waste." 
 
PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 3 r > 
 
 THE DYING INDIAN. 
 
 " On yonder lake I spread the sail no more ! 
 Vigour, and youth, and active days are past — 
 Relentless demons urge me to that shore 
 On whose black forests all the dead are cast : — 
 Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song, 
 For I must go to shades below, 
 Where all is strange and all is new; 
 Companion to the airy throng ! — 
 
 What solitary streams, 
 
 In dull and dreary dreams, 
 All melancholy, must I rove along ! 
 
 To what strange lands must Chequi take his way ! 
 Groves of the dead departed mortals trace : 
 No deer along those gloomy forests stray, 
 No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase, 
 But all are empty, unsubstantial shades, 
 That ramble through those visionary glades ; 
 No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend, 
 But sickly orchards there 
 Do fruits as sickly bear, 
 And apples a consumptive visage shew, 
 And withered hangs the whortleberry blue. 
 
 Ah me ! what mischiefs on the dead attend ! 
 Wandering a stranger to the shores below, 
 Where shall I brook or real fountain find ! 
 Lazy and sad deluding waters flow — • 
 Such is the picture in my boding mind ! 
 
 Fine tales, indeed, they tell 
 
 Of shades and purling rills, 
 
 Where our dead fathers dwell 
 
 Beyond the western hills ; 
 But when did ghost return his state to shew; 
 Or who can promise half the tale is true ! 
 
 I too must be a fleeting ghost ! — no more — 
 None, none but shadows to those mansions go; 
 I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore, 
 
 For emptier groves below ! 
 
 Ye charming solitudes, 
 
 Y"e tall ascending woods 
 Ye glassy lakes and purling streams, 
 
 Whose aspect still was sweet, 
 
 Whether the sun did greet, 
 Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams — 
 
 Adieu to all ! 
 To all, that charm'd me where I strayed, 
 The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade ; 
 
 Adieu all triumphs here ! 
 Adieu the mountain's lofty swell, 
 Adieu, thou little verdant bill, 
 And seas, and stars, and skies — farewell, 
 
 For some remoter sphere ! 
 
 Perplex'd with doubts, and tortured with despair, 
 Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep 1 
 Nature at last these ruins may repair, [weep ; 
 When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to 
 Some real world once more may be assigned, 
 Some new-born mansion for the immortal mind ! 
 Farewell, sweet lake ; farewell, surrounding woods : 
 To other groves, through midnight glooms I stray, 
 Beyond the mountains and beyond the floods, 
 Beyond the Huron bay ! 
 
 Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, 
 My trusty bow and arrows by my side, 
 The cheerful bottle and the venison store ; 
 For long the journey is that I must go. 
 Without a partner, and without a guide." 
 
 He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, 
 Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep ! 
 
 THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND. 
 
 In spite of all the learn'd have said, 
 
 I still my old opinion keep ; 
 The posture that ive give the dead, 
 
 Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 
 
 Not so the ancients of these lands — 
 The Indian, when from life released, 
 
 Again is seated with his friends, 
 And shares again the joyous feast.* 
 
 His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 
 And venison, for a journey dressed, 
 
 Bespeak the nature of the soul, 
 Activity that knows no rest. 
 
 His bow, for action ready bent, 
 And arrows, with a head of stone, 
 
 Can only mean that life is spent, 
 And not the old ideas gone. 
 
 Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, 
 No fraud upon the dead commit — 
 
 Observe the swelling turf, and say, 
 They do not lie, but here they sit. 
 
 Here still a lofty rock remains, 
 
 On which the curious eye may trace 
 
 (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains,) 
 The fancies of a ruder race. 
 
 Here still an aged elm aspires, 
 
 Beneath whose far-projecting shade 
 
 (And which the shepherd still admires) 
 The children of the forest played ! 
 
 There oft a restless Indian queen 
 
 (Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) 
 
 And many a barbarous form is seen 
 To chide the man that lingers there. 
 
 By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 
 
 In habit for the chase arrayed, 
 The hunter still the deer pursues, — 
 
 The hunter and the deer, a shade!"}" 
 
 And long shall timorous fancy see 
 The painted chief and pointed spear; 
 
 And Reason's self shall bow the knee 
 To shadows and delusions here. 
 
 * The North American Indians bury their dead in a 
 sitting posture ; decorating the corpse with wampum, the 
 images of birds, quadrupeds, &c. : and (if that of a war- 
 rior) with hows, arrows, tomahawks, and other military 
 weapons. 
 
 t Campbell appropriated this line, in his beautiful poem 
 entitled " O'Conor's Child :" 
 
 " Now o'er the hills in chase he flits— 
 The hunter and the deer— a shade." 
 
36 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 TO AN OLD MAN. 
 
 Why, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan 
 Beneath a weight of years and wo ; 
 
 Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, 
 And age proclaims, " 'T is time to go." 
 
 To willows sad and weeping yews 
 With us a while, old man, repair, 
 
 Nor to the vault thy steps refuse ; 
 
 Thy constant home must soon be there. 
 
 To summer suns and winter moons 
 
 Prepare to bid a long adieu ; 
 Autumnal seasons shall return, 
 
 And spring shall bloom, but not for you. 
 
 Why so perplex'd with cares and toil 
 To rest upon this darksome road 1 
 
 'T is but a thin, a thirsty soil, 
 A barren and a bleak abode. 
 
 Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, 
 These dregs of life are bought too dear ; 
 
 'T is better far to die, than bear 
 The torments of life's closing year. 
 
 Subjected to perpetual ills, 
 
 A thousand deaths around us grow : 
 The frost the tender blossom kills, 
 
 And roses wither as they blow. 
 
 Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail ; 
 
 The blasted apple seeks the ground ; 
 The peaches fall, the cherries fail ; 
 
 The grape receives a mortal wound. 
 
 The breeze, that gently ought to blow, 
 Swells to a storm, and rends the main ; 
 
 The sun, that charm'd the grass to grow, 
 Turns hostile, and consumes the plain; 
 
 The mountains waste, the shores decay, 
 Once purling streams are dead and dry — 
 
 'T was Nature's work — 't is Nature's play, 
 And Nature says that all must die. 
 
 Yon flaming lamp, the source of light, 
 In chaos dark may shroud his beam, 
 
 And leave the world to mother Night, 
 A farce, a phantom, or a dream. 
 
 What now is young, must soon be old : 
 Whate'er we love, we soon must leave ; 
 
 "V is now too hot, 't is now too cold — 
 To live, is nothing but to grieve. 
 
 How bright the morn her course begun ! 
 
 No mists bedimm'd the solar sphere ; 
 The clouds arise — they shade the sun, 
 
 For nothing can be constant here. 
 
 Now hope the longing soul employs, 
 In expectation we are bless'd ; 
 
 But soon the airy phantom flies, 
 For, lo ! the treasure is possess'd. 
 
 Those monarchs proud, that havoc spread, 
 (While pensive Reason dropt a tear,) 
 
 Those monarchs have to darkness fled, 
 And ruin bounds their mad career. 
 
 The grandeur of this earthly round, 
 Where folly would forever stay, 
 
 Is but a name, is but a sound — ■ 
 Mere emptiness and vanity. 
 
 Give me the stars, give me the skies, 
 Give me the heaven's remotest sphere, 
 
 Above these gloomy scenes to rise 
 Of desolation and despair. 
 
 Those native fires, that warm'd the mind, 
 Now languid grown, too dimly glow, 
 
 Joy has to grief the heart resign'd, 
 And love itself, is changed to wo. 
 
 The joys of wine are all your boast, 
 
 These, for a moment, damp your pain ; 
 
 The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost — • 
 And darkness clouds the soul again. 
 
 Then seek no more for bliss below, 
 Where real bliss can ne'er be found ; 
 
 Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow, 
 And fairer flowers bedeck the ground ; 
 
 Where plants of life the plains invest, 
 And green eternal crowns the year : — 
 
 The little god, that warms the breast, 
 Is weary of his mansion here. 
 
 Like Phospher, sent before the day, 
 His height meridian to regain, 
 
 The dawn arrives — he must not stay 
 To shiver on a frozen plain. 
 
 Life's journey past, for fate prepare, — 
 'T is but the freedom of the mind ; 
 
 Jove made us mortal — his we are, 
 To Jove be all our cares resign'd. 
 
 THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. 
 
 Faik flower that dost so comely grow, 
 
 Hid in this silent, dull retreat, 
 Untouch'd thy honey 'd blossoms blow, 
 Unseen thy little branches greet : 
 
 No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
 No busy hand provoke a tear. 
 
 By Nature's self in white arrayed, 
 
 She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 
 And planted here the guardian shade, 
 And sent soft waters murmuring by ; 
 Thus quietly thy summer goes — 
 Thy days declining to repose. 
 
 Smit with those charms, that must decay, 
 
 I grieve to see your future doom ; 
 They died — nor were those flowers more gay — 
 The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 
 Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power 
 Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 
 
 From morning suns and evening dews 
 
 At first thy little being came: 
 If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
 For when you die you are the same ; 
 The space between is but an hour, 
 The frail duration of a flower. 
 
PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 37 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS 
 WHO FELL AT EUTAW.* 
 
 At Eutaw Springs the valiant died; 
 
 Their limbs with dust are cover'd o'er ; 
 Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide — 
 
 How many heroes are no more ! 
 If, in this wreck of ruin, they 
 
 Can yet be thought to claim the tear, 
 Oh smite your gentle breast and say, 
 
 The friends of freedom slumber here ! 
 Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain, 
 
 If goodness rules thy generous breast, 
 Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; 
 
 Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest ! 
 Stranger, their humble graves adorn ; 
 
 You too may fall, and ask a tear ; 
 'T is not the beauty of the morn 
 
 That proves the evening shall be clear. 
 
 They saw their injured country's wo — 
 
 The flaming town, the wasted field, 
 Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe ; 
 
 They took the spear, but left the shield."}" 
 Led by the conquering genius, Greene, 
 
 The Britons they compell'd to fly : 
 None distant viewed the fatal plain ; 
 
 None grieved, in such a cause, to die. 
 
 But like the Parthians, famed of old, 
 
 Who, flying, still their arrows threw ; 
 These routed Britons, full as bold, 
 
 Retreated, and retreating slew. 
 Now rest in peace, our patriot band; 
 
 Though far from Nature's limits thrown, 
 We trust they find a happier land, 
 
 A brighter sunshine of their own. 
 
 INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 
 
 The sun sets at night and the stars shun the day, 
 But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
 Begin, ye tormentors ! your threats are in vain, 
 For the son of Alknomock can never complain. 
 
 Remember the woods where in ambush he lay, 
 And the scalps which he bore from your nation 
 
 away. 
 Why do ye delay 1 'till I shrink from my pain 1 
 Know the son of Alknomock can never complain. 
 
 Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; 
 Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. 
 The flame rises high — you exult in my pain ! 
 But the son of Alknomock will never complain. 
 
 I go to the land where my father has gone; 
 His ghost shall exalt in the fame of his son. 
 Death comes like a friend ; he relieves me from pain, 
 And thy son, oh Alknomock ! has scorned to com- 
 plain. 
 
 * The Battle of Eutaw, South Carolina, fought Septem- 
 ber 8, 1781. 
 
 j- Sir Walter Scott adopted this line in the introduction 
 to the third canto of " Marmion :" 
 
 " When Prussia hurried to the field, 
 And snatched the spear, tut left the shield." 
 
 THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. 
 
 Though clad in winter's gloomy dress 
 
 All Nature's works appear, 
 Yet other prospects rise to bless 
 
 The new returning year. 
 The active sail again is seen 
 
 To greet our western shore, 
 Gay plenty smiles, with brow serene, 
 
 And wars distract no more. 
 
 No more the vales, no more the plains 
 
 An iron harvest yield ; 
 Peace guards our doors, impels our swains 
 
 To till the grateful field : 
 From distant climes, no longer foes, 
 
 (Their years of misery past,) 
 Nations arrive, to find repose 
 
 In these domains at last. 
 
 And if a more delightful scene 
 
 Attracts the mortal eye, 
 Where clouds nor darkness intervene, 
 
 Behold, aspiring high, 
 On freedom's soil those fabrics plann'd, 
 
 On virtue's basis laid, 
 That makes secure our native land, 
 
 And prove our toils repaid. 
 
 Ambitious aims and pride severe, 
 
 Would you at distance keep, 
 What wanderer would not tarry here, 
 
 Here charm his cares to sleep 1 
 Oh, still may health her balmy wings 
 
 O'er these fair fields expand, 
 While commerce from all climates brings 
 
 The products of each land. 
 
 Through toiling care and lengthened views, 
 
 That share alike our span, 
 Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, 
 
 The eternal friend of man : 
 The darkness of the days to come 
 
 She brightens with her ray, 
 And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, 
 
 When sickening to decay ! 
 
 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 Disasters on disasters grow, 
 
 And those which are not sent we make ; 
 The good we rarely find below, 
 
 Or, in the search, the road mistake. 
 
 The object of our fancied joys 
 
 With eager eye we keep in view : 
 
 Possession, when acquired, destroys 
 The object and the passion too. 
 
 The hat that hid Belinda's hair 
 Was once the darling of her eye ; 
 
 'T is now dismiss'd, she knows not where* 
 Is laid aside, she knows not why. 
 
 Life is to most a nauseous pill, 
 
 A treat for which they dearly pay : 
 
 Let 's take the good, avoid the ill, 
 Discharge the debt, and walk away. 
 
38 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "GAINE'S LIFE." 
 
 Now, if I was ever so given to lie, 
 My dear native country I would n't deny; 
 (I know you love Teagucs) and I shall not conceal, 
 That I came from the kingdom where Phelim 
 
 O'Neal 
 And other brave worthies ate butter and cheese, 
 And walked in the clover-fields up to their knees : 
 Full early in youth, without basket or burden, 
 With a staff in my hand, I pass'd over Jordan, 
 (I remember, my comrade was Doctor Magraw, 
 And many strange things on the waters we saw, 
 Sharks, dolphins and sea dogs, bonettas and whales, 
 And birds at the tropic, with quills in their tails,) 
 And came to your city and government seat, 
 And found it was true, you had something to eat ! 
 When thus I wrote home: "The country is good, 
 They have plenty of victuals and plenty of wood ; 
 The people are kind, and whate'er they may think, 
 I shall make it appear lean swim where they'll sink ; 
 And yet they 're so brisk, and so full of good cheer, 
 By my soul ! I suspect they have always New Year, 
 And, therefore, conceive it is good to be here." 
 
 So said, and so acted : I put up a press, 
 And printed away with amazing success; 
 Neglected my person and looked like a fright, 
 Was bothered all day, and was busy all night, 
 Saw money come in, as the papers went out, 
 While Parker and Weyman were driving about, 
 And cursing and swearing and chewing their cuds, 
 And wishing Hugh Gaine and his press in the suds. 
 
 Thus life ran away, so smooth and serene — 
 Ah! these were the happiest days I had seen! 
 But the saying of Jacob I've found to be true, 
 "The days of thy servant are evil and few !" 
 The days that to me were joyous and glad, 
 Are nothing to those which are dreary and sad ! 
 The feuds of the stamp act foreboded foul weather, 
 And war and vexation, all coming together. 
 Those days were the days of riots and mobs, 
 Tar, feathers, and tories, and troublesome jobs — 
 Priests preaching up war for the good of our souls, 
 And libels, and lying, and liberty-poles, 
 From which when some whimsical colors you waved 
 We had nothing to do, but look up and be saved ! 
 But this was the season that I must lament; 
 I first was a whig, with an honest intent — 
 Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart — 
 But still was unwilling with Britain to part. 
 I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain, 
 I thought she would turn and embrace us again, 
 And make us as happy as happy could be, 
 By renewing the era of mild sixty-three; 
 And yet, like a cruel, undutiful son, 
 Who evil returns for the good to be done, 
 Unmerited odium on Britain to throw, 
 I printed some treason for Philip Freneatj! 
 
 At this time arose a certain king Sears, 
 Who made it his study to banish our fears. 
 He was, without doubt, a person of merit, 
 Great knowledge, some wit, and abundance of spirit, 
 Could talk like a lawyer, and that without fee, 
 And threatened perdition to all who drank tea. 
 Long sermons did he against Scotchmen prepare, 
 
 And drank like a German, and drove away care, 
 Ah !don't you remember what a vigorous hand he put 
 To drag off the great guns, and plague Captain 
 
 Vandeput, 
 That night when the hero (his patience worn out) 
 Put fire to his cannon, and folks to the rout, 
 And drew up his ship with a spring on his cable, 
 And gave us a second confusion of Babel ! . . .. 
 
 For my part, I hid in a cellar, (as sages 
 And Christians were wont, in the primitive ages.) 
 Yet I hardly could boast of a moment of rest, 
 
 The dogs were a howling, the town was distrest 
 
 From this very day till the British came in, 
 "We lived, I may say, in the Desert of Sin ; .. . 
 We townsmen, like women, of Britons in dread. 
 Mistrusted their meaning, and foolishly fled; 
 Like the rest of the dunces, I mounted my steed, 
 And galloped away with incredible speed; 
 To Newark I hastened — but trouble and care 
 Got up on the crupper, and followed me there ! .... 
 So, after remaining one cold winter season, 
 And stuffing my papers with something like treason, 
 I, cursing my folly and idle pursuits, 
 Returned to the city and hung up my boots! .... 
 
 LITERARY IMPORTATION. 
 
 However we wrangled with Britain awhile 
 We think of her now in a different style, 
 And many fine things we receive from her isle : 
 
 Among all the rest, 
 
 Some demon possess'd 
 Our dealers in knowledge and sellers of sense 
 To have a good Bishop imported from thence. 
 
 The words of Sam Chandler were thought to be 
 
 vain, 
 When he argued so often and proved it so plain, 
 That Satan must flourish till bishops should reign: 
 
 Though he went to the wall 
 
 With his project and all, 
 Another bold Sammy, in bishop's array, 
 Has got something more for his pains than his pay. 
 
 It seems we had spirit to humble a throne, 
 Have genius for science inferior to none, 
 But never encourage a plant of our own : 
 
 If a college be planned, 
 
 'Tis all at a stand 
 'Till to Europe we send at a shameful expense, 
 To bring us a pedant to teach us some sense. 
 
 Can we never be thought to have learning or grace 
 Unless it be brought from that horrible place 
 Where tyranny reigns with her impudent face, 
 
 And popes and pretenders, 
 
 And sly faith-defenders, 
 Have ever been hostile to reason and wit, 
 Enslaving a world that shall conquer them yet? 
 
 'Tis a folly to fret at the picture I draw : 
 
 And I say what was said by a Doctor Magraw ; 
 
 "If they give us their teachers, they'll give us their 
 
 How that will agree [law." 
 
 With such people as we, 
 I leave to the learn'd to reflect on awhile. 
 And say what they think in a handsomer style. 
 
PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 39 
 
 THE INDIAN STUDENT: OR, FORCE 
 OF NATURE. 
 
 From Susquehanna's farthest springs, 
 Where savage tribes pursue their game, 
 
 (His blanket tied with yellow strings,) 
 A shepherd of the forest came 
 
 Some thought he would in law excel, 
 Some said in physic he would shine ; 
 
 And one that knew him passing well, 
 Beheld in him a sound divine. 
 
 But those of more discerning eye, 
 
 Even then could other prospects show, 
 
 And saw him lay his Virgil by, 
 To wander with his dearer bow. 
 
 The tedious hours of study spent, 
 The heavy moulded lecture done, 
 
 He to the woods a hunting went — 
 
 Through lonely wastes he walked, he run. 
 
 No mystic wonders fired his mind 
 He sought to gain no learned degree, 
 
 But only sense enough to find 
 The squirrel in the hollow tree 
 
 The shady bank, the purling stream, 
 The woody wild his heart possessed, 
 
 The dewy lawn his morning dream 
 In fancy's gayest colors drest. 
 
 "And why," he cried, "did I forsake 
 My native woods for gloomy walls 1 
 
 The silver stream, the limpid lake 
 For musty books and college halls ? 
 
 "A little could my wants supply — 
 Can wealth and honor give me more ? 
 
 Or, will the sylvan god deny 
 
 The humble treat he gave before? 
 
 "Let seraphs gain the bright abode, 
 And heaven's sublimest mansions see; 
 
 I only bow to Nature's god — 
 
 The land of shades will do for me. 
 
 " These dreadful secrets of the sky 
 
 Alarm my soul with thrilling fear- 
 Do planets in their orbits fly ? 
 
 And is the earth indeed a sphere'? 
 
 "Let planets still their course pursue, 
 
 And comets to the centre run: 
 In him my faithful friend I view, 
 
 The image of my God — the sun. 
 
 "Where nature's ancient forests grow, 
 
 And mingled laurel never fades, 
 My heart is fixed, and I must go 
 
 To die among my native shades." 
 
 He spoke, and to the western springs, 
 (His gown discharged, his money spent, 
 
 His blanket tied with yellow strings,) 
 The shepherd of the forest went. 
 
 A BACCHANALIAN DIALOGUE. 
 
 ■WRITTEN IN 1803. 
 
 Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines, 
 Where mountains and valleys abound, 
 
 Where the sun the mild juice of the cluster refines, 
 To gladden the magical ground: 
 
 As pensive I strayed, in her elegant shade, 
 Now halting, and now on the move, 
 
 Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head, 
 In the darkest recess of a grove. 
 
 I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear, 
 As I roved by his mountains and springs, 
 
 When he said with a sneer, "How dare you come 
 You hater of despots and kings? [here, 
 
 "Do you know that a prince and a regent renown'd 
 
 Presides in this island of wine? 
 Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round 
 
 And spreads from the pole to the line? 
 
 " Haste away with your barque ; on the foam of the 
 To Charleston I bid you repair; [main 
 
 There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the braia ; 
 You shall have no Madeira — I swear!" 
 
 " Dear Bacchus," I answered, for Bacchus it was 
 That spoke in this menacing tone: 
 
 I knew by the smirk, and the flush on his face, 
 It was Bacchus and Bacchus alone — 
 
 " Dear Bacchus," I answered, " ah, why so severe ? 
 
 Since your nectar abundantly flows, 
 Allow me one cargo — without it I fear 
 
 Some people will soon come to blows : 
 
 "I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife 
 
 Political feuds were so high — 
 I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life, 
 
 And almost requested to die." 
 
 The deity smiling, replied, "I relent: 
 For the sake of your coming so far, 
 
 Here, taste of my choicest: go, tell them repent, 
 And cease their political war. 
 
 "With the cargo I send, you may say I intend 
 To hush them to peace and repose ; 
 
 With this present ofmine, on the wings of the wind 
 You shall travel, and tell them, 'Here goes — 
 
 " 'A lienllhto old Bacchus/.'' who sends them the best 
 
 Of the nectar his island affords, 
 The soul of the feast, and the joy of the guest, 
 
 Too good for your monarchs and lords. 
 
 " No rivals have I in this insular waste, 
 
 Alone will I govern the isle, 
 With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste, 
 
 And all in the popular style. 
 
 "But a spirit there is in the order of things, 
 
 To me it is perfectly plain, 
 That will strike at the sceptres of despots and kings, 
 
 And only king Bacchus remain." 
 
ST. GEORGE TUCKER. 
 
 [Born about 1750. Died 1827.] 
 
 St. Geokge Tucker was born in Bermuda 
 about the middle of the last century. His family 
 had been in that island ever since it was settled, 
 and one of his ancestors, Daniel Tucker, who 
 had lived a while in Virginia, was its governor in 
 1616. His father came into Virginia while still a 
 young man, but spent much of his time in England, 
 where he was agent for the colony. He there met 
 Dr. Franklin, with whom he occasionally corres- 
 ponded. He had four sons, two of whom adhered 
 to England on the breaking out of the revolution, 
 and two joined the Americans, and continued 
 through life stanch republicans. These were Tho- 
 mas Tudor Tucker, many years representative 
 of South Carolina in Congress, and St. George, 
 who lived and died in Virginia. The latter was gra- 
 duated at. the College of William and Mary, and 
 afterwards studied the law, but, tired of the silence 
 of the courts, on the approach of the war, resorted 
 to arms. In the early part of the contest he is said 
 to have planned a secret expedition to Bermuda, 
 where he knew there was a large amount of military 
 stores, in a fortification feebly garrisoned. The pe- 
 rilous enterprise proved entirely successful, and it 
 appears from a recent biography of his nephew, 
 Henry St. George Tucker, one of the directors 
 of the East India Company, that he personally 
 aided in it. He was with the army at Yorktown, 
 holding the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and re- 
 ceived during the siege a slight scratch in the face, 
 from the explosion of a bomb; upon which General 
 Washington, in a more jocular mood than was 
 his wont, congratulated him on his honorable scar. 
 He was soon afterwards appointed to a seat in the 
 General Court; while a judge, was professor of law 
 in the College of William and Mary ; was next ad- 
 vanced to the Court of Appeals ; and finally to 
 the District Court of the United States. He was 
 one of the commissioners of Virginia who met at 
 Annapolis, in 1796, and recommended the conven- 
 tion which formed the present federal constitution. 
 
 By his first wife, Mrs. Randolph, mother of 
 John Randolph, he has numerous descendants; 
 by his second, he had none who survived him. 
 
 Judge Tucker had a ready talent for versifica- 
 tion, which he exercised through life, and he was 
 
 particularly successful in vers dc sonde, when that 
 species of literary accomplishment was more prac- 
 tised and admired than it is at the present day. 
 His rhymed epistles, epigrams, complimentary 
 verses, and other bagatelles, would fill several vo- 
 lumes; but he gave only one small collection of 
 them to the public in this form. When Dr. Wol- 
 cott's satires on George the Third, written under 
 the name of " Peter Pindar," obtained both in this 
 country and in England a popularity far beyond 
 their merits, Judge Tucker, who admired them, 
 was induced to publish in Freneau's " National 
 Gazette" a series of similar odes, under the sig- 
 nature of " Jonathan .Pindar," by which he at 
 once gratified his political zeal and his poetical pro- 
 pensity. His object was to assail John Adams 
 and other leading federalists, for their supposed 
 monarchical predilections. His pieces might well 
 be compared with Wolcott's for poetical qualities, 
 but were less playful, and had far more acerbity. 
 Collected into a volume, they continued to be read 
 by politicians, and had the honour of a volunteer re- 
 print from one of the earliest presses in Kentucky. 
 
 Judge Tucker was capable of better things than 
 these political trifles. He wrote a poem entitled 
 " Liberty," in which the leading characters and 
 events of the revolution are introduced. Of his 
 numerous minor pieces some are characterized by 
 ease, sprightliness, and grace. One of them, entitled 
 " Days of My Youth," so affected John Adams, 
 in his old age, that he declared he would rather 
 have written it than any lyric by Milton or Shak- 
 speare. He little dreamed it was by an author 
 who in earlier years had made him the theme of 
 his satirical wit. 
 
 In prose also Judge Tucker was a voluminous 
 writer. His most elaborate performance was an 
 edition of Blackstone's " Commentaries," with 
 copious notes and illustrative dissertations. He 
 lived to a great age, and through life had nume- 
 rous and warm friends. He was an active and 
 often an intolerant politician, yet such was the 
 predominance of his kindly affections and com- 
 panionable qualities, that some of his most che- 
 rished friends were of the party which in the 
 mass he most cordially hated. 
 
 DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 Days of my youth, ye have glided away : 
 Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray: 
 Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more: 
 Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er; 
 Strength of my youth, all your vigour is gone : 
 Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 
 
 Days of my youth, I wish not your recall : 
 Hairs of my youth, I 'm content ye should fall : 
 40 
 
 Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen : 
 Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have been : 
 Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray: 
 Strength of my youth, why lament your decay 7 
 
 Days of my age, ye will shortly be past: 
 Pains of my age, yet awhile you can last: 
 Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight: 
 Eyes of my age, be religion your light: 
 Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod - 
 Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 
 
JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 [Born 1750. Died 1S3I.] 
 
 John Trumbull, LL.D., the author of" McFin- 
 gal," was born in Waterbury, Connecticut, on 
 the twenty-fourth day of April, 1750. His father 
 was a Congregational clergyman, and for many 
 years one of the trustees of Yale College. He 
 early instructed his son in the elementary branches 
 of education, and was induced by the extraordinary 
 vigour of his intellect, and his unremitted devotion 
 to study, to give him lessons in the Greek and 
 Latin languages before he was six years old. At 
 the age of seven, after a careful examination, 
 young Trumbull was declared to be sufficiently 
 advanced to merit admission into Yale College. 
 On account of his extreme youth, however, at that 
 time, and his subsequent ill health, he was not 
 sent to reside at New Haven until 1763, when 
 he was in his thirteenth year. His college life 
 was a continued series of successes. His superior 
 genius, attainments and industry enabled him in 
 every trial to surpass his competitors for academic 
 honours ; and such of his collegiate exercises as 
 have been printed evince a discipline of thought 
 and style rarely discernible in more advanced years, 
 and after greater opportunities of improvement. 
 He was graduated in 1767, but remained in the 
 college three years longer, devoting his attention 
 principally to the study of polite letters. In this 
 period he became acquainted with Dwight, then 
 a member of one of the younger classes, who had 
 attracted considerable attention by translating in 
 a very creditable manner two of the finest odes of 
 Horace, and contracted with him a lasting friend- 
 ship. On the resignation of two of the tutors in 
 the college in 1771, Trumbull and Dwight 
 were elected to fill the vacancies, and exerted all 
 their energies for several years to introduce an im- 
 proved course of study and system of discipline 
 into the seminary. At this period the ancient 
 languages, scholastic theology, logic, and mathe- 
 matics* were dignified with the title of "solid 
 learning," and the study of belles lettres was de- 
 cried as useless and an unjustifiable waste of time. 
 The two friends were exposed to a torrent of cen- 
 sure and ridicule, but they persevered, and in the 
 end were successful. Trumbull wrote many 
 humorous prose and poetical essays while he was 
 a tutor, which were published in the gazettes of 
 Connecticut and Massachusetts, and with Dwight 
 produced a series in the manner of the " Spectator," 
 which extended to more than forty numbers. The 
 " Progress of Dulness" was published in 1772. It 
 is the most finished of Trumbull's poems, and 
 was hardly lesF serviceable to the cause of educa- 
 tion than « McFingal" was to that of liberty. The 
 puerile absurdity of regarding a knowledge of the 
 Greek and Hebrew languages as of more import- 
 ance to a clergyman than the most perfect ac- 
 
 quaintance with rhetoric and belles lettres, then 
 obtained more generally than now, and dunces 
 had but to remain four years in the neighbourhood 
 of a university to be admitted to the fellowship 
 of scholars and the ministers of religion. In the 
 satire, Tom Brainless, a country clown, too 
 indolent to follow the plough, is sent by his weak- 
 minded parents to college, where a degree is 
 gained by residence, and soon after appears as a 
 full-wigged parson, half-fanatic, half-fool, to do his 
 share toward bringing Christianity into contempt. 
 Another principal person is Dick Hairbrain, an 
 impudent fop, who is made a master of arts in the 
 same way ; and in the third part is introduced a. 
 character of the same description, belonging to the 
 other sex. 
 
 During the last years of his residence at College, 
 Trumbull paid as much attention as his other 
 avocations would permit to the study of the law, 
 and in 1773 resigned his tutorship and was ad- 
 mitted to the bar of Connecticut. He did not 
 seek business in the courts, however, but went 
 immediately to Boston, and entered as a student 
 the office of Joins' Adams, afterward President 
 of the United States, and at that time an eminent 
 advocate and counsellor. He was now in the 
 focus of American politics. The controversy 
 with Great Britain was rapidly approaching a 
 crisis, and he entered with characteristic ardour 
 into all the discussions of the time, employing hi3 
 leisure hours in writing for the gazettes and in 
 partisan correspondence. In 1774, he published 
 anonymously his "Essay on the Times," and 
 soon after returned to New Haven, and with the 
 most flattering prospects commenced the practice 
 of his profession. 
 
 The first gun of the revolution echoed along the 
 continent in the following year, and private pur- 
 suits were abandoned in the general devotion to 
 the cause of liberty. Trumbull wrote the first 
 part of "McFingal," which was immediately 
 printed in Philadelphia, where the Congress was 
 then in session, and soon after republished in 
 numerous editions in different parts of this country 
 and in England. It was not finished until 1782, 
 when it was issued complete in three cantos at 
 Hartford, to which place Trumbull had removed 
 in the preceding year. 
 
 "McFingal" is in the Hudibrastic vein, and 
 much the best imitation of the great satire of 
 Butler that has been written. The hero is a 
 Scotish justice of the peace residing in the vicinity 
 of Boston at the beginning of the revolution, and 
 the first two cantos are principally occupied with 
 a discussion between him and one Honorius on 
 the course of the British government, in which 
 McFingal, an unyielding loyalist, endeavours to 
 
4 -Z 
 
 JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 make proselytes, while all his arguments are 
 directed against himself. His zeal and his logic 
 are together irresistibly ludicrous, but there is no- 
 thing in the character unnatural, as it is common 
 for men who read more than they think, or attempt 
 to discuss questions they do not understand, to 
 use arguments which refute the positions they wish 
 to defend. The meeting ends with a riot, in which 
 McFingal is seized, tried by the mob, con- 
 victed of violent toryism, and tarred and feathered. 
 On being set at liberty, he assembles his friends 
 around him in his cellar, and harangues them 
 until they are dispersed by the whigs, when he 
 escapes to Boston, and the poem closes. These 
 are all the important incidents of the story, yet 
 it is never tedious, and few commence reading 
 it who do not follow it to the end and regret its 
 termination. Throughout the three cantos the 
 wit is never separated from the character of the 
 hero. 
 
 After the removal of Trumbull to Hartford a 
 social club was established in that city, of which 
 Barlow, Colonel Humphries, Doctor Lemuel 
 Hopkins, and our author, were members. They 
 produced numerous essays on literary, moral, and 
 political subjects, none of which attracted more 
 applause than a series of papers in imitation of 
 the " Rolliad," (a popular English work, ascribed 
 to Fox, Sheridan, and their associates,) entitled 
 "American Antiquities" and "Extracts from the 
 Anarchiad," originally printed in the New Haven 
 
 Gazette for 1786 and 1787. These papers have 
 never been collected, but they were republished 
 from one end of the country to the other in the 
 periodicals of the time, and were supposed to have 
 had considerable influence on public taste and 
 opinions, and oy the boldness of their satire to 
 have kept in abeyance the leaders of political dis- 
 organization and infidel philosophy. Trumbull 
 also aided Barlow in the preparation of his edi- 
 tion of Watts's version of the Psalms, and wrote 
 several of the paraphrases in that work which 
 have been generally attributed to the author of 
 "The Oolumbiad." 
 
 Trumbull was a popular lawyer, and was ap- 
 pointed to various honourable offices by the people 
 and the government. From 1795, in consequence 
 of ill health, he declined all public employment, 
 and was for several years an invalid. At length, 
 recovering his customary vigour, in j.800 he was 
 elected a member of the legislature, and in the 
 year following a judge of the Superior Court. 
 In 1808 he was appointed a judge of the Supreme 
 Court of Errors, and held the office until 1819, 
 when he finally retired from public life. His 
 poems were collected and published in 1820, 
 and in 1825 he removed to Detroit, where his 
 daughter, the wife of the Honourable William 
 Woodbridge, recently a member of the United 
 States Senate for Michigan, was residing, and 
 died there in May, 1831, in the eighty-first year 
 of his age. 
 
 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come, gentle Sleep ! 
 Balm of my wounds and softener of my woes, 
 And lull my weary heart in sweet repose, 
 And bid my sadden'd soul forget to weep, 
 And close the tearful eye ; 
 While dewy eve, with solemn sweep, 
 Hath drawn her fleecy mantle o'er the sky, 
 
 And chased afar, adown the ethereal way, 
 The din of bustling care and gaudy eye of day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Come, but thy leaden sceptre leave, 
 Thy opiate rod, thy poppies pale, 
 Dipp'd in the torpid fount of Lethe's stream, 
 That shroud with night each intellectual beam, 
 And quench the immortal fire, in deep Oblivion's 
 wave. 
 Yet draw the thick, impervious veil 
 O'er all the scenes of tasted wo ; 
 Command each cypress shade to flee ; 
 Between this toil-worn world and me 
 Display thy curtain broad, and hide the realms be- 
 low. 
 
 III. 
 
 Descend, and, graceful, in thy hand, 
 
 With thee bring thy magic wand, 
 
 And thy pencil, taught to glow 
 
 In all the hues of Iris' bow. 
 
 And call thy bright, aerial train, 
 Each fairy form and visionary shade, 
 
 That in the Elysian land of dreams, 
 
 The flower-enwoven banks along, 
 Or bowery maze, that shades the purple streams, 
 Where gales of fragrance breathe the enamour'd 
 In more than mortal charms array'd, [song, 
 People the any vales and revel in thy reign. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But drive afar the haggard crew, 
 That haunt the guilt-encrimson'd bed, 
 
 Or dim before the frenzied view 
 Stalk with slow and sullen tread ; 
 
 While furies, with infernal glare, 
 Wave their pale torches through the troubled air ; 
 
 And deep from Darkness' inmost womb, 
 Sad groans dispart the icy tomb, 
 
 And bid the sheeted spectre rise, 
 Mid shrieks and fiery shapes and deadly fantasies 
 
 * See a note on this subject appended to the Life of 
 Barlow in this volume. 
 
JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 43 
 
 V. 
 
 Come and loose the mortal chain, 
 
 That binds to clogs of clay the ethereal wing ; 
 And give the astonish' d soul to rove, 
 Where never sunbeam stretch'd its wide domain ; 
 And hail her kindred forms above, 
 In fields of uncreated spring, 
 Aloft where realms of endless glory rise, 
 And rapture paints in gold the landscape of the 
 skies. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then through the liquid fields we'll climb, 
 
 Where Plato treads empyreal air, 
 Where daring Homer sits sublime, 
 
 And Pindar rolls his fiery car ; 
 Above the cloud-encircled hills, 
 
 Where high Parnassus lifts his airy head, 
 And Helicon's melodious rills 
 Flow gently through the warbling glade ; 
 And all the Nine, in deathless choir combined, 
 Dissolve in harmony the enraptured mind, 
 And every bard, that tuned the immortal lay, 
 Basks in the ethereal blaze, and drinks celestial 
 day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Or call to my transported eyes 
 
 Happier scenes, for lovers made ; 
 Bid the twilight grove arise, 
 
 Lead the rivulet through the glade. 
 In some flowering arbour laid, 
 Where opening roses taste the honey'd dew, 
 
 And plumy songsters carol through the shade, 
 Recall my long-lost wishes to my view. 
 Bid Time's inverted glass return 
 
 The scenes of bliss, with hope elate, 
 And hail the once expected morn, 
 And burst the iron bands of fate 
 Graced with all her virgin charms, 
 
 Attractive smiles and past, responsive flame, 
 Restore my ***** to my arms, 
 
 Just to her vows and faithful to her fame. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Hymen's torch, with hallow'd fire, 
 
 Rising beams the auspicious ray. 
 Wake the dance, the festive lyre 
 
 Warbling sweet the nuptial lay ; 
 Gay with beauties, once alluring, 
 
 Bid the bright enchantress move, 
 Eyes that languish, smiles of rapture, 
 
 And the rosy blush of love. 
 On her glowing breast reclining, 
 
 Mid that paradise of charms, 
 Every blooming grace combining, 
 
 Yielded to my circling arms, 
 I clasp the fair, and, kindling at the view, 
 Press to my heatt the dear deceit, and think the 
 transport true. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hence, false, delusive dreams, 
 Fantastic hopes and mortal passions vain 
 
 Ascend, my soul, to nobler themes 
 Of happier import and sublimer strain. 
 Rising from this sphere of night, 
 Pierce yon blue vault, ingemm'd with golden fires ; 
 
 Beyond where Saturn's languid car retires, 
 Or Sirius keen outvies the solar ray, 
 To worlds from every dross terrene refined, 
 Realms of the pure, ethereal mind, 
 Warm with the radiance of unchanging day : 
 Where cherub-forms and essences of light, 
 With holy song and heavenly rite, 
 From rainbow clouds their strains immortal pour; 
 An earthly guest, in converse high, 
 Explore the wonders of the sky, 
 From orb to orb with guides celestial soar, 
 And take, through heaven's wide round, the uni- 
 versal tour; 
 
 X. 
 
 And find that mansion of the blest, 
 Where, rising ceaseless from this lethal stage, 
 Heaven's favourite sons, from earthly chains re- 
 leased, 
 In happier Eden pass the eternal age. 
 
 The newborn soul beholds the angelic face 
 Of holy sires, that throng the blissful plain, 
 
 Or meets his consort's loved embrace, 
 Or clasps the son, so lost, so mourn'd in vain. 
 There, charm'd with each endearing wile, 
 Maternal fondness greets her infant's smile ; 
 Long-sever'd friends, in transport doubly dear, 
 Unite and join the interminable train — 
 
 And, hark ! a well-known voice I hear 
 I spy my sainted friend ! I meet my Howe* again ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Hail, sacred shade ! for not to dust consign'd, 
 Lost in the grave, thine ardent spirit lies, 
 
 Nor fail'd that warm benevolence of mind 
 To claim the birthright of its native skies. 
 What radiant glory and celestial grace, 
 Immortal meed of piety and praise ! 
 Come to my visions, friendly shade, 
 'Gainst all assaults my wayward weakness arm, 
 Raise my low thoughts, my nobler wishes aid, 
 When passions rage, or vain allurements charm ; 
 
 The pomp of learning and the boast of art, 
 The glow, that fires in genius' boundless range, 
 The pride, that wings the keen, satiric dart, 
 And hails the triumph of revenge. 
 Teach me, like thee, to feel and know 
 Our humble station in this vale of wo, 
 Twilight of life, illumed with feeble ray, 
 The infant dawning of eternal day ; 
 With heart expansive, through this scene improve 
 The social soul of harmony and love ; 
 To heavenly hopes alone aspire and prize 
 The virtue, knowledge, bliss, and glory of the 
 skies. 
 
 * Rev. Joseph Howe, pastor of a church in Boston ; 
 some time a fellow-tutor with the author at Yale College. 
 He died in 17T5. The conclusion of the ode was varied, 
 by inserting this tribute of affection. 
 
44 
 
 JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CLOWN.* 
 
 Buf.d in distant woods, the clown 
 Brings all his country airs to town; 
 The odd address, with awkward grace, 
 That bows with all-averted face ; 
 The half-heard compliments, whose note 
 Is swallow'd in the trembling throat; 
 The stiffen'd gait, the drawling tone, 
 By which his native place is known ; 
 The blush, that looks, by vast degrees, 
 Too much like modesty to please ; 
 The proud displays of awkward dress, 
 That all the country fop express : 
 The suit right gay, though much belated, 
 Whose fashion 's superannuated ; 
 The watch, depending far in state, 
 Whose iron chain might form a grate 
 The silver buckle, dread to view, 
 O'crshadowing all the clumsy shoe; 
 The white-gloved hand, that tries to peep 
 From ruffle, full five inches deep ; 
 With fifty odd affairs beside, 
 The foppishness of country pride. 
 
 Poor Dick ! though first thy airs provoke 
 The obstreperous laugh and scornful joke, 
 Doom'd all the ridicule to stand, 
 While each gay dunce shall lend a hand ; 
 Yet let not scorn dismay thy hope 
 To shine a witling and a fop. 
 Blest impudence the prize shall gain, 
 And bid thee sigh no more in vain. 
 Thy varied dress shall quickly show 
 At once the spendthrift and the beau. 
 With pert address and noisy tongue, 
 That scorns the fear of prating wrong 
 'Mongst listening coxcombs shalt thou shine, 
 And every voice shall echo thine. 
 
 THE FOP.t 
 
 How blest the brainless fop, whose praise 
 Is doom'd to grace these happy days, 
 When well-bred vice can genius teach, 
 And fame is placed in folly's reach ; 
 Impertinence all tastes can hit, 
 And every rascal is a wit. 
 The lowest dunce, without despairing, 
 May learn the true sublime of swearing ; 
 Learn the nice art of jests obscene, 
 While ladies wonder what they mean ; 
 The heroism of brazen lungs, 
 The rhetoric of eternal tongues ; 
 While whim usurps the name of spirit, 
 And impudence takes place of merit, 
 And every money'd clown and dunce 
 Commences gentleman at once. 
 
 For now, by easy rules of trade, 
 Mechanic gentlemen are made ! 
 From handicrafts of fashion born ; 
 Those very arts so much their scorn. 
 
 * From the " Progress of fiulness." 
 + From the same. 
 
 To tailors half themselves they owe, 
 Who make the clothes that make the beau. 
 
 Lo ! from the seats, where, fops to bless, 
 Learn'd artists fix the forms of dress, 
 And sit in consultation grave 
 On folded skirt, or straiten'd sleeve, 
 The coxcomb trips with sprightly haste, 
 In all the flush of modern taste ; 
 Oft turning, if the day be fair, 
 To view his shadow's graceful air ; 
 Well pleased, with eager eye runs o'er 
 The laced suit glittering gay before ;* 
 The ruffle, where from open'd vest 
 The rubied brooch adorns the breast ; 
 The coat, with lengthening waist behind, 
 Whose short skirts dangle in the wind ; 
 The modish hat, whose breadth contains 
 The measure of its owner's brains ; 
 The stockings gay, with various hues ; 
 The little toe-encircling shoes ; 
 The cane, on whose carved top is shown 
 A head, just emblem of his own ; 
 While, wrapp'd in self, with lofty stride, 
 His little heart elate with pride, 
 He struts in all the joys of show 
 That tailors give, or beaux can know. 
 
 And who for beauty need repine, 
 That 's sold at every barber's sign ; 
 Nor lies in features or complexion, 
 But curls disposed in meet direction, 
 With strong pomatum's grateful odour, 
 And quantum sufficit of powder 7 
 These charms can shed a sprightly grace 
 O'er the dull eye and clumsy face ; 
 While the trim dancing-master's art 
 Shall gestures, trips, and bows impart, 
 Give the gay piece its final touches, 
 And lend those airs, would lure a duchess. 
 
 Thus shines the form, nor aught behind, 
 The gifts that deck the coxcomb's mind; 
 Then hear the daring muse disclose 
 The sense and piety of beaux. 
 
 To grace his speech, let France bestow 
 A set of compliments for show. 
 Land of politeness ! that aifords 
 The treasure of new-fangled words, 
 And endless quantities disburses 
 Of bows and compliments and curses ; 
 The soft address, with airs so sweet, 
 That cringes at the ladies' feet ; 
 The pert, vivacious, play-house style, 
 That wakes the gay assembly's smile ; 
 Jests that his brother beaux may hit, 
 And pass with young coquettes for wit, 
 And prized by fops of true discerning, 
 Outface the pedantry of learning. 
 Yet learning too shall lend its aid 
 To fill the coxcomb's spongy head ; 
 And studious oft he shall peruse 
 The labours of the modern muse. 
 From endless loads of novels gain 
 Soft, simpering tales of amorous pain, 
 
 * This passage alludes to the mode of dress then in 
 fashion. 
 
JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 45 
 
 With double meanings, neat and handy, 
 From Rochester and Tristram Shandy.* 
 The blundering aid of weak reviews, 
 That forge the fetters of the muse, 
 Shall give him airs of criticising 
 On faalts of books, he ne'er set eyes on. 
 The magazines shall teach the fashion, 
 And commonplace of conversation, 
 And where his knowledge fails, afford 
 The aid of many a sounding word. 
 
 Then, lest religion he should need, 
 Of pious Hume he'll learn his creed, 
 By strongest demonstration shown, 
 Evince that nothing can be known ; 
 Take arguments, unvex'd by doubt, 
 On Voltaire's trust, or go without ; 
 'Gainst Scripture rail in modern lore, 
 As thousand fools have rail'd before ; 
 Or pleased a nicer art display 
 To expound its doctrines all away, 
 Suit it to modern tastes and fashions 
 By various notes and emendations ; 
 The rules the ten commands contain, 
 With new provisos well explain ; 
 Prove all religion was but fashion, 
 Beneath the Jewish dispensation. 
 A ceremonial law, deep hooded 
 In types and figures long exploded ; 
 Its stubborn fetters all unfit 
 For these free times of gospel light, 
 This rake's millennium, since the day 
 When Sabbaths first were done away ; 
 Since pander-conscience holds the door, 
 And lewdness is a vice no more ; 
 And shame, the worst of deadly fiends, 
 On virtue, as its squire, attends. 
 
 Alike his poignant wit displays 
 The darkness of the former days, 
 When men the paths of duty sought, 
 And own'd what revelation taught ; 
 Ere human reason grew so bright, 
 Men could see all things by its light, 
 And summon'd Scripture to appear, 
 And stand before its bar severe, 
 To clear its page from charge of fiction, 
 And answer pleas of contradiction ; 
 Ere miracles were held in scorn, 
 , Or Bolimbroke, or Hume were born. 
 And now the fop, with great energy, 
 Levels at priestcraft anu the clergy, 
 At holy cant and godly prayers, 
 And bigots' hypocritic airs ; 
 Musters each veteran jest to aiJ, 
 Calls piety the parson's trade ; 
 Cries out 't is shame, past all abiding, 
 The world should still be so priest-ridden ; 
 Applauds free thought that scorns control. 
 And generous nobleness of soul, 
 That acts its pleasure, good or evil, 
 And fears nor deity nor devil. 
 These standing topics never fail 
 To prompt our little wits to rail, 
 
 * Sterne's Tristrnm Shandy was then in the highest 
 vogue, and in the zenith of its transitory reputation. 
 
 With mimic drollery of grimace, 
 And pleased impertinence of face, 
 'Gainst virtue arm their feeble forces, 
 And sound the charge in peals of curses. 
 
 Blest be his ashes ! under ground 
 If any particles be found, 
 Who, friendly to the coxcomb race, 
 First taught those arts of commonplace, 
 Those topics fine, on which the beau 
 May all his little wits bestow, 
 Secure the simple laugh to raise, 
 And gain the dunce's palm of praise. 
 For where 's the theme that beaux could hit 
 With least similitude of wit, 
 Did not religion and the priest 
 Supply materials for the jest ; 
 The poor in purse, with metals vile 
 For current coins, the world beguile ; 
 The poor in brain, for genuine wit 
 Pass off a viler counterfeit ; 
 While various thus their doom appears, 
 These lose their souls, and those their ears ; 
 The want of fancy, whim supplies, 
 And native humour, mad caprice ; 
 Loud noise for argument goes off, 
 For mirth polite, the ribald's scoff; 
 For sense, lewd drolleries entertain us, 
 And wit is mimick'd by profaneness. 
 
 CHARACTER OF McFINGAL.* 
 
 Whew Yankees, skill'd in martial rule, 
 First put the British troops to school ; 
 Instructed them in warlike trade, 
 And new manoeuvres of parade ; 
 The true war-dance of Yankee-reels, 
 And manual exercise of heels ; 
 Made them give up, like saints complete, 
 The arm of flesh, and trust the feet, 
 And work, like Christians undissembling, 
 Salvation out by fear and trembling ; 
 Taught Percy fashionable races, 
 And modern modes of Chevy-Chaces if 
 From Boston, in his best array, 
 Great Sq.uire McFingal took his way, 
 And, graced with ensigns of renown, 
 Steer'd homeward to his native town. 
 
 His high descent our heralds trace 
 To Ossian's famed Fingalian race ; 
 For though their name some part may lack, 
 Old Fijtgal spelt it with a Mac ; 
 Which great McPhersox, with submission, 
 We hope will add the next edition. 
 
 His fathers flourish'd in the Highlands 
 Of Scotia's fog-benighted island ; 
 Whence gain'd our squire two gifts by right, 
 Rebellion and the second-sight. 
 
 * From " McFingal." 
 
 t Lord Percy commanded the party that was first 
 opposed hy the Americans at Lexington. This allusion 
 to the family renown of Chevy-Chace arose from the pre- 
 cipitate manner of his quitting the field of battle, and re- 
 turning to Boston. 
 
46 JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 Of these the first, in ancient days, 
 
 Feasted with blood his Scottish clan, 
 
 Had gain'd the noblest palms of praise ; 
 
 And hang'd all rebels to a man ; 
 
 'Gainst kings stood forth, and many a crown'd 
 
 Divided their estates and pelf, 
 
 With terror of its might confounded ; [head 
 
 And took a goodly share himself. 
 
 Till rose a king with potent charm 
 
 All this, with spirit energetic, 
 
 His foes by goodness to disarm ; 
 
 He did by second-sight prophetic. 
 
 Whom every Scot and Jacobite 
 
 Thus stored with intellectual riches, 
 
 Straight fell in love with — at first sight ; 
 
 Skill'd was our squire in making speeches, 
 
 Whose gracious speech, with aid of pensions, 
 
 Where strength of brains united centres 
 
 Hush'd down all murmurs of dissensions, 
 
 With strength of lungs surpassing Stentor's. 
 
 And with the sound of potent metal, 
 
 But as some muskets so contrive it, 
 
 Brought all their blust'ring swarms to settle ; 
 
 As oft to miss the mark they drive at, 
 
 Who rain'd his ministerial mannas, 
 
 And, though well aim'd at duck or plover, 
 
 Till loud sedition sung hosannas ; 
 
 Bear wide and kick their owners over : 
 
 The good lords-bishops and the kirk 
 
 So fared our squire, whose reas'ning toil 
 
 United in the public work ; 
 
 Would often on himself recoil, 
 
 Rebellion from the northern regions, 
 
 And so much injured more his side, 
 
 With Bute and Mansfield swore allegiance, 
 
 The stronger arguments he applied ; 
 
 And all combined to raze, as nuisance, 
 
 As old war-elephants, dismay'd, 
 
 Of church and state, the constitutions ; 
 
 Trod down the troops they came to aid, 
 
 Pull down the empire, on whose ruins 
 
 And hurt their own side more in battle 
 
 They meant to edify their new ones ; 
 
 Than less and ordinary cattle : 
 
 Enslave the American wildernesses, 
 
 \ et at town meetings ev'ry chief 
 
 And tear the provinces in pieces. 
 
 Pinn'd faith on great McFingal's sleeve- 
 
 For these our squire, among the valiant'st, 
 
 And, as he motioned, all, by rote, 
 
 Employ 'd his time, and tools, and talents; 
 
 Raised sympathetic hands to vote. 
 
 And in their cause, with manly zeal, 
 
 The town, our hero's scene of action, 
 
 Used his first virtue — to rebel ; 
 
 Had long been torn by feuds of faction ; 
 
 And found this new rebellion pleasing 
 
 And as each party's strength prevails, 
 
 As his old king-destroying treason. 
 
 It turn'd up different heads or tails ; 
 
 Nor less avail'd his optic sleight, 
 
 With constant rattling, in a trice 
 
 And Scottish gift of second-sight. 
 
 Show'd various sides, as oft as dice: 
 
 No ancient sibyl, famed in rhyme, 
 
 As that famed weaver, wife to Ulysses, 
 
 Saw deeper in the womb of time ; 
 
 By night each day's work pick'd in pieces 
 
 No block in old Dodona's grove 
 
 And though she stoutly did bestir her. 
 
 Could ever more oracular prove. 
 
 Its finishing was ne'er the nearer : 
 
 Nor only saw he all that was, 
 
 So did this town, with steadfast zeal, 
 
 But much that never came to pass; 
 
 Weave cobwebs for the public weal ; 
 
 Whereby all prophets far outwent he, 
 
 Which when completed, or before, 
 
 Though former days produced a plenty : 
 
 A second vote in pieces tore. 
 
 For any man with half an eye 
 
 They met, made speeches full long-winded, 
 
 What stands before him may espy ; 
 
 Resolved, protested, and rescinded ; 
 
 But optics sharp it needs, I ween, 
 
 Addresses sign'd, then chose committees, 
 
 To see what is not to be seen. 
 
 To stop all drinking of Bohea-teas ; 
 
 As in the days of ancient fame, 
 
 With winds of doctrine veer'd about, 
 
 Prophets and poets were the same, 
 
 And turn'd all Whig committees out. 
 
 And all the praise that poets gain 
 
 Meanwhile our hero, as their head, 
 
 Is but for what they invent and feign : 
 
 In pomp the Tory faction led, 
 
 So gain'd our squire his fame by seeing 
 
 Still following, as the squire should please 
 
 Such things as never would have being ; 
 
 Successive on, like files of geese. 
 
 Whence he for oracles was grown 
 The very tripod of his town. 
 
 
 
 Gazettes no sooner rose a lie in, 
 
 
 But straight he fell to prophesying ; 
 
 EXTREME HUMANITY.* 
 
 Made dreadful slaughter in his course, 
 
 
 
 O'erthrew provincials, foot and horse ; 
 
 Thus Gage's arms did fortune bless 
 
 Brought armies o'er by sudden pressings 
 
 With triumph, safety, and success: 
 But mercy is without dispute 
 
 Of Hanoverians, Swiss, and Hessians ;* 
 
 
 His first and darling attribute ; 
 
 
 * This prophecy, like some of the prayers of Homer's 
 
 So great, it far outwent, and conquer'd, 
 
 heroes, was but half accomplished. The Hanoverians, &c, 
 
 His military skill at Concord. 
 
 indeed came over, and much were they feasted with 
 
 There, when the war he chose to wage, 
 
 blood ; but the hanging of the rebels and the dividing 
 
 Shone the benevolence of Gage ; 
 
 their estates remain unfulfilled. This, however, cannot 
 be the fault of the hero, but rather the British minister, 
 
 
 
 who left off the war before the work was completed. 
 
 * From " McFingal." 
 
JOHN TRUMBULL. 
 
 47 
 
 Sent troops to that ill-omen'd place 
 
 On errands mere of special grace, 
 
 And all the work he chose them for 
 
 Was to prevent a civil war ; 
 
 And for that purpose he projected 
 
 The only certain way to effect it, 
 
 To take your powder, stores, and arms, 
 
 And all your means of doing harms : 
 
 As prudent folks take knives away, 
 
 Lest children cut themselves at play. 
 
 And yet, though this was all his scheme, 
 
 This war you still will charge on him ; 
 
 And though he oft has swore and said it, 
 
 Stick close to facts, and give no credit, 
 
 Think you, he wish'd you 'd brave and beard 
 
 him'? 
 Why, 'twas the very thing that scared him. 
 He 'd rather you should all have run, 
 Than stay'd to fire a single gun. 
 And for the civil law you lament, 
 Faith, you yourselves must take the blame in't ; 
 For had you then, as he intended, 
 Given up your arms, it must have ended ; 
 Since that's no war, each mortal knows, 
 Where one side only gives the blows, 
 And the other bear 'em ; on reflection 
 The most you'll call it, is correction. 
 Nor could the contest have gone higher, 
 If you had ne'er return'd the fire ; 
 But when you shot and not before, 
 It then commenced a civil war. 
 Else Gage, to end this controversy, 
 Had but corrected you in mercy : 
 Whom mother Britain, old and wise, 
 Sent o'er the colonies to chastise ; 
 Command obedience on their peril 
 Of ministerial whip and ferule, 
 And, since they ne'er must come of age, 
 Govern'd and tutor'd them by Gage. 
 Still more, that this was all their errand, 
 The army's conduct makes apparent. 
 What though at Lexington you can say 
 They kill'd a few they did not fancy, 
 At Concord then, with manful popping, 
 Discharg'd a round, the ball to open — 
 Yet, when they saw your rebel-rout 
 Determined still to hold it out ; 
 Did they not show their love to peace, 
 And wish that discord straight might cease, 
 Demonstrate, and by proofs uncommon, 
 Their orders were to injure no man '.' 
 For did not every regular run 
 As soon as e'er you fired a gun 1 
 Take the first shot you sent them greeting, 
 As meant their signal for retreating ; 
 
 And fearful, if they stay'd for sport, 
 
 You might by accident be hurt, 
 
 Convey themselves with speed away 
 
 Full twenty miles in half a day ; 
 
 Race till their legs were grown so weary, 
 
 They 'd scarce suffice their weight to carry 1 
 
 Whence Gage extols, from general hearsay, 
 
 The great activity of Lord Percy, 
 
 Whose brave example led them on, 
 
 And spirited the troops to run ; 
 
 And now may boast, at royal levees, 
 
 A Yankee chace worth forty Chea-ys. 
 
 Yet you, as vile as they were kind, 
 
 Pursued, like tigers, still behind ; 
 
 Fired on them at your will, and shut 
 
 The town, as though you 'd starve them out ; 
 
 And with parade preposterous hedged, 
 
 Affect to hold him there besieged. 
 
 THE DECAYED COQUETTE.* 
 
 New beauties push her from the stage; 
 She trembles at the approach of age, 
 And starts to view the alter'd face 
 That wrinkles at her in her glass : 
 So Satan, in the monk's tradition, 
 Fear'd, when he met his apparition. 
 At length her name each coxcomb cancels 
 From standing lists of toasts and angels; 
 And slighted where she shone before, 
 A grace and goddess now no more, 
 Despised by all, and doom'd to meet 
 Her lovers at her rival's feet, 
 She flies assemblies, shuns the ball, 
 And cries out, vanity, on all ; 
 Affects to scorn the tinsel-shows 
 Of glittering belles and gaudy beaux ; 
 Nor longer hopes to hide by dress 
 The tracks of age upon her face. 
 Now careless grown of airs polite, 
 Her noonday nightcap meets the sight : 
 Her hair uncomb'd collects together, 
 With ornaments of many a feather ; 
 Her stays for easiness thrown by, 
 Her rumpled handkerchief awry, 
 A careless figure half undress'd, 
 (The reader's wits may guess the rest;) 
 All points of dress and neatness carried, 
 As though she'd been a twelvemonth married , 
 She spends her breath, as years prevail, 
 At this sad wicked world to rail, 
 To slander all her sex impromptu, 
 And wonder what the times will come to. 
 
 * From the "Progress of Dulness." 
 
TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 [Born 1752. Died 1S17.] 
 
 TnroTHT Dwibht, D.D., LL.D., was born in 
 Northampton, Massachusetts, on the fourteenth 
 of May, 1752. His father was a merchant, of 
 excellent character and liberal education ; and his 
 mother, a daughter of the great Jonathan Ed- 
 wards, was one of the noblest matrons of her 
 time, distinguished not less for her maternal soli- 
 citude, ardent temperament, and patriotism, than 
 for the intellectual qualities which made so illus- 
 trious the name of the New England metaphysi- 
 cian. She early perceived the indications of 
 superior genius in her son ; and we are told by his 
 biographers that under her direction he became 
 familiar with the rudiments of the Latin language 
 before he was six years old, and at the same early 
 period laid the foundation of his remarkable 
 knowledge of history, geography, and the kindred 
 departments of learning. When thirteen years 
 old he entered Yale College. His previous unre- 
 mitted attention to study had impaired his health, 
 and he made little progress during the first two 
 years of his residence at New Haven ; but his 
 subsequent intense and uninterrupted application 
 enabled him to graduate in 17G9, the first scholar 
 in the institution. Immediately after obtaining 
 the degree of bachelor of arts, he opened a gram- 
 mar-school in New Haven, in which he continued 
 two years, at the end of which time he was elected 
 a tutor in his alma mater. Yale College was 
 established in the year 1700 by several Congrega- 
 tional clergymen, and had, before the period at 
 which Dwight returned to it, become generally 
 unpopular, in consequence of the alleged illiberality 
 of the trustees towards other denominations of 
 Christians. At this time two of the tutors had 
 resigned, leaving in office Mr. Joseph Howe, 
 a man of erudition and liberal sentiments, and 
 Dwight and John Trumbull were chosen in 
 their places. The regeneration of the seminary 
 now commenced ; the study of belles lettres was 
 successfully introduced ; its character rapidly rose, 
 and so popular did Dwight become with the 
 students, that when, at the age of twenty-five, 
 he resigned his office, they drew up and almost 
 unanimously signed a petition to the corporation 
 that he might be elected to the presidency. He, 
 however, interfered and prevented the formal pre- 
 sentation of the application. 
 
 In 1771, Dwight commenced writing the "Con- 
 quest of Canaan," an " epic poem in eleven books," 
 which he finished in 1774, before he was twenty- 
 three years of age. The subject probably was not 
 the most fortunate that could have been chosen, 
 but a poet with passion and a brilliant imagination, 
 by attempting to paint the manners of the time and 
 the natural characteristics of the oriental world, 
 might have treated it more successfully. Dwight 
 48 
 
 " endeavoured to represent such manners as are re- 
 moved from the peculiarities of any age or country, 
 and might belong to the amiable and virtuous of 
 any period ; elevated without design, refined with- 
 out ceremony, elegant without fashion, and agreea- 
 ble because they are ornamented with sinceritv, 
 dignity, and religion ;" his poem therefoi'e has no 
 distinctive features, and with very slight changes 
 would answer as well for any other land or period 
 as for Judea at the time of its conquest by Joshua. 
 Its versification is harmonious, but monotonous, 
 and the work is free from all the extravagances of 
 expression and sentiment which so frequently 
 lessen the worth of poetry by youthful and inex- 
 perienced writers. Some of the passages which I 
 have quoted from the " Conquest of Canaan" are 
 doubtless equal to any American poetry produced 
 at this period. 
 
 In 1777, the classes in Yale College were sepa- 
 rated on account of the war, and, in the month of 
 May, Dwight repaired with a number of students 
 to Weathersfield, in Connecticut, where he re- 
 mained until the autumn, when, having been 
 licensed to preach as a Congregational minister, 
 he joined the army as a chaplain. In this office 
 he won much regard by his professional industry 
 and eloquence, and at the same time exerted con- 
 siderable influence by writing patriotic songs, which 
 became popular throughout New England. The 
 death of his father, in 1778, induced him to resign 
 his situation in the army, and return to Northamp- 
 ton, to assist his mother to support and educate 
 her family. He remained there five years, labour- 
 ing on a farm, preaching, and superintending a 
 school, and was in that period twice elected a 
 member of the Legislature of Massachusetts. De- 
 clining offers of political advancement, he was, in 
 1783, ordained a minister in the parish of Green- 
 field, in Connecticut, where he remained twelve 
 years, discharging his pastoral duties in a manner 
 that was perfectly satisfactory to his people, and 
 taking charge of an academy, established by him- 
 self, which soon become the most popular school 
 of the kind that had ever existed in America. 
 
 The " Conquest of Canaan," although finished 
 ten years before, was not printed until the spring 
 of 1785. It was followed by " Greenfield Hill," 
 a descriptive, historical, and didactic poem, which 
 was published in 1794. This work is divided 
 into seven parts, entitled " The Prospect," " The 
 Flourishing Village," "The Burning of Fairfield," 
 " The Destruction of the Pequods," " The Clergy- 
 man's Advice to the Villagers," " The Farmer's 
 Advice to the Villagers," and « The Vision, or 
 Prospect of the Future Happiness of America." 
 It contains some pleasing pictures of rural life, 
 but added little to the author's reputation as a 
 
TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 49 
 
 poet. The " Triumph of Infidelity," a satire, occa- 
 sioned by the appearance of a defence of Universal- 
 ism, was his next attempt in poetry. It was printed 
 anonymously, and his fame would not have been less 
 had its authorship been still a secret. 
 
 On the death of Dr. Styles, in 1795, Dwight 
 was elected to the presidency of Yale College, 
 which at this time was in a disordered condition, 
 and suffering from pecuniary embarrassments. The 
 reputation of the new president as a teacher soon 
 brought around him a very large number of stu- 
 dents; new professorships were established, the li- 
 brary and philosophical apparatus were extended, the 
 course of study and system of government changed, 
 and the college rapidly rose in the public favour. 
 Besides acting as president, Dwight was the stated 
 preacher, professor of theology, and teacher of the 
 senior class, for nearly twenty-one years, during 
 which time the reputation of the college was inferior 
 to that of no other in America. 
 
 Dr. D wight died at his residence in New Haven 
 on the eleventh of January, 1817, in the sixty-fifth 
 year of his age. *The following catalogue of his 
 works is probably complete : " America," a poem in 
 the style of Pope's " Windsor Forest," 1772 ; « The 
 History, Eloquence and Poetry of the Bible," 1772 ; 
 "The Conquest of Canaan," a poem, 1785 ; "An 
 Election Sermon," 1791 ; "The Genuineness and 
 Authenticity of the New Testament," 1793; "Green- 
 field Hill," a poem, 1794 ; « The Triumph of Infi- 
 delity," a satire, and two "Discourses on the Nature 
 and Danger of Infidel Philosophy," 1797; "The 
 
 Duty of Americans in the Present Crisis," 1798; 
 " Discourse on the Character of Washington," 1800; 
 " Discourse on some Events in the last Century," 
 1801 ; « Sermons," on the death of E. G. Marsh, 
 1804; on Duelling, 1805; at the Andover Theolo- 
 gical Seminary, 1808 ; on the ordination of E. Pear- 
 son, 1808 ; on the death of Governor Trumbull, 
 1809; on Charity, 1810; at the ordination of N. 
 W. Taylor, 1812 ; on two days of public fasting, 
 1812; and before the American Board of Foreign 
 Missions, 1813 ; " Remarks on a Review of Inchi- 
 quin's Letters," 1815; "Observations on Language," 
 and an "Essay on Light," 1816; and "Theology 
 Explained and Defended," in a series of sermons, 
 and « Travels in New England and New York," 
 in which is given an account of various spring and 
 autumn vacation excursions, each in four volumes, 
 published after his death. 
 
 The merits of Dr. Dwight as a poet are emi- 
 nently respectable. Cowpee, who wrote a criti- 
 cism of his "Conquest of Canaan" in "The An- 
 alytical Review," for 1789, says: "His numbers 
 imitate pretty closely those of Pope, and there- 
 fore cannot fail to be musical; but he is chiefly 
 to be commended for the animation with which 
 he writes, and which rather increases as he pro- 
 ceeds than suffers any abatement A strain of 
 
 fine enthusiasm runs through the whole seventh 
 book, and no man who has a soul impressible by 
 a bright display of the grandest subjects that re- 
 velation furnishes, will read it without some emo- 
 tion." 
 
 AN INDIAN TEMPLE. 
 
 Tkeue too, with awful rites, the hoary priest, 
 Without, beside the moss-grown altar stood, 
 (His sable form in magic cincture dress'd,) 
 And heap'd the mingled offering to his god. 
 What time with golden light calm evening glow'd, 
 The mystic dust, the flower of silver bloom 
 And spicy herb, his hand in order strew'd ; 
 Bright rose the curling flame, and rich perfume 
 On smoky wings upflew or settled round the tomb. 
 
 Then o'er the circus danced the maddening throng 
 As erst the Thyas roam'd dread Nysa round, 
 And struck to forest notes the ecstatic song, 
 While slow beneath them heaved the wavy ground. 
 With a low, lingering groan of dying sound, 
 The woodland rumbled; murmur 'd deep each 
 
 stream ; 
 Shrill sung the leaves ; the ether sigh'd profound ; 
 Pale tufts of purple topp'd the silver flame, 
 And many-colour' d forms on evening breezes came: 
 
 Thin, twilight forms, attired in changing sheen 
 Of plumes, high-tinctured in the western ray — 
 Bending, they peep'd the fleecy folds between, 
 Their wings light-rustling in the breath of May ; 
 
 Soft-hovering round the fire in mystic play, 
 They snuff'd the incense waved in clouds afar, 
 Then silent floated toward the setting day ; 
 Eve redden'd each fine form, each misty car, 
 And through them faintly gleam'd, at times, the 
 western star. 
 
 Then — so tradition sings — the train behind, 
 In plumy zones of rainbow beauty dress'd, 
 Rode the Great Spirit, in the obedient wind, 
 In yellow clouds slow-sailing from the west. 
 With dawning smiles the god his votaries blest, 
 And taught where deer retired to ivy dell ; 
 What chosen chief with proud command t' invest; 
 Where crept the approaching foe, with purpose fell, 
 And where to wind the scout, and war's dark storm 
 dispel. 
 
 There, on her lover's tomb in silence laid, [beam, 
 While still and sorrowing shower'd the moon's pale 
 At times expectant, slept the widow'd maid, 
 Her soul far-wandering on the sylph- wing'd dream. 
 Wafted from evening skies on sunny stream, 
 Her darling youth with silver pinions shone ; 
 With voice of music, tuned to sweetest theme, 
 He told of shell-bright bowers beyond the sun, 
 Where years of endless joy o'er Indian lovers run. 
 
50 
 
 TIMOTHY D WIGHT. 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA.* 
 
 Soon fleets the sunbright form, by man adored ! — 
 Soon fell the head of gold to Time a prey, 
 The arms, the trunk, his cankering tooth devour'd, 
 And whirlwinds blew the iron dust away. 
 Where dwelt imperial Timur, far astray 
 Some lonely-musing pilgrim now inquires ; • 
 And, rack'd by storms and hastening to decay, 
 Mohammed's mosque foresees its final fires, 
 And Rome's more lordly temple day by day expires. 
 
 As o'er proud Asian realms the traveller winds, 
 His manly spirit, hush'd by terror, falls 
 When some forgotten town's lost site he finds ; 
 Where ruin wild his pondering eye appals, 
 Where silence swims along the moulder'd walls, 
 And broods upon departed Grandeur's tomb, 
 Through the lone, hollow aisles, sad Echo calls 
 At each slow step ; deep sighs the breathing gloom, 
 And weeping fields around bewail their enmress' 
 doom. 
 
 Where o'er a hundred realms the throne uprose 
 The screech-owl nests, the panther builds his home ; 
 Sleep the dull newts, the lazy adders doze 
 Where pomp and luxury danced the golden room; 
 Low lies in dust the sky-resembled dome, 
 'Tall grass around the broken column waves, 
 And brambles climb and lonely thistles bloom ; 
 The moulder'd arch the weedy streamlet laves, 
 And low resound, beneath, unnumber'd sunken 
 graves. 
 
 In thee, Albion ! queen of nations, live [known ; 
 Whatever splendours earth's wide realms have 
 In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive, 
 And Greece her arts, and Rome her lordly throne ; 
 By every wind thy Tyrian fleets are blown ; 
 Supreme, on Fame's dread roll, thy heroes stand ; 
 All ocean's realms thy naval sceptre own ; 
 Of bards, of sages, how august thy band ! 
 .And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd land. 
 
 But, how vast thy crimes! Through Heaven's 
 
 great year, 
 When few eenturial suns have traced their way ; 
 When Southern Europe, worn by feuds severe, 
 Weak, doting, fallen, has bow'd to Russian sway, 
 And setting Glory beam'd her farewell ray, 
 To wastes, perchance, thy brilliant fields shall turn ; 
 In dust thy temples, towers, and towns decay; 
 The forest howl where London turrets burn, 
 .And all thy garlands deck thy sad funereal urn. 
 
 Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of fame, 
 Scepter' d with arts and arms, (if I divine,) 
 Some unknown wild, some shore without a name, 
 In all thy pomp shall then majestic shine. 
 As silver-headed Time's slow years decline, 
 Not ruins only meet the inquiring eye ; 
 Where round yon mouldering oak vain brambles 
 The filial stem, already towering high, [twine, 
 Ere long shaU stretch his arms, and nod in yonder 
 sky. 
 
 * The extract above and the one which precedes it are 
 from the canto on the destruction of the Pequod Indians, 
 .in "Greenfield Hill:" 
 
 Where late resounded the wild woodland roar 
 Now heaves the palace, now the temple smiles; 
 Where frown'd the rude rock and the desert shore 
 Now Pleasure sports, and Business want beguiles, 
 And Commerce wings her flight to thousand isles ; 
 Culture walks forth, gay laugh the loaded fields, 
 And jocund Labour plays his harmless wiles; 
 Glad Science brightens, Art her mansion builds, 
 And Peace uplifts her wand, and Heaven his bless- 
 ing yields. 
 
 THE SOCIAL VISIT.* 
 
 Ye Muses ! dames of dignified renown, 
 Revered alike in country and in town, 
 Your bard the mysteries of a visit show ; 
 (For sure your ladyships those mysteries know :) 
 What is it, then, obliging sisters ! say, 
 The debt of social visiting to pay 1 
 
 'Tis not to toil before the idol pier; 
 To shine the first in fashion's lunar sphere ; 
 By sad engagements forced abroad to roam, 
 And dread to find the expecting fair at home ! 
 To stop at thirty doors in half a day, 
 Drop the gilt card, and proudly roll away ; 
 To alight, and yield the hand with nice parade ; 
 Up stairs to rustle in the stiff brocade ; 
 Swim through the drawing-room with studied air, 
 Catch the pink'd beau, and shade the rival fair; 
 To sit, to curb, to toss with bridled mien, 
 Mince the scant speech, and lose a glance between ; 
 Unfurl the fan, display the snowy arm, 
 And ope, with each new motion, some new charm: 
 Or sit in silent solitude, to spy 
 Each little failing with malignant eye ; 
 Or chatter with incessancy of tongue, 
 Careless if kind or cruel, right or wrong; 
 To trill of us and ours, of mine and me, 
 Our house, our coach, our friends, our family, 
 While all the excluded circle sit in pain, 
 And glance their cool contempt or keen disdain : 
 To inhale from proud Nanking a sip of tea, 
 And wave a courtesy trim and flirt away : 
 Or waste at cards peace, temper, health, and life, 
 Begin with sullenness, and end in strife; 
 Lose the rich feast by friendly converse given, 
 And backward turn from happiness and heaven. 
 
 It is in decent habit, plain and neat, 
 To spend a few choice hours in converse sweet, 
 Careless of forms, to act the unstudied part, 
 To mix in friendship, and to blend the heart ; 
 To choose those happy themes which all must feel. 
 The moral duties and the household weal, 
 The tale of sympathy, the kind design, 
 Where rich affections soften and refine , 
 To amuse, to be amused, to bless, be bless'd, 
 And tune to harmony the common breast ; 
 To cheer with mild good-humour's sprightly ray, 
 And smooth life's passage o'er its thorny way ; 
 To circle round the hospitable board, 
 And taste each good our generous climes afibrd , 
 To court a quick return with accents kind, 
 And leave, at parting, some regret behind. 
 
 *From' Greenfield Hill." 
 
TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 51 
 
 THE COUNTRY PASTOR.* 
 
 Ah ! knew he but his happiness, of meirj- 
 Not the least happy he, who, free from broils 
 And base ambition, vain and bustling pomp, 
 Amid a friendly cure, and competence, 
 Tastes the pure pleasures of parochial life. 
 What though no crowd of clients, at his gate, 
 To falsehood and injustice bribe his tongue, 
 And flatter into guilt 1 — what though no bright 
 And gilded prospects lure ambition on 
 To legislative pride, or chair of state 1 
 What though no golden dreams entice his mind 
 To burrow, with the mole, in dirt and mire 1 
 What though no splendid villa, Eden'd round 
 With gardens of enchantment, walks of state, 
 And all the grandeur of superfluous wealth, 
 Invite the passenger to stay his steed, 
 And ask the liveried foot-boy, " Who dwells here 1" 
 What though no swarms, around his sumptuous 
 
 board, 
 Of soothing flatterers, humming in the shine 
 Of opulence, and honey from its flowers 
 Devouring, till their time arrives to sting, 
 Inflate his mind ; his virtues round the year 
 Repeating, and his faults, with microscope 
 Inverted, lessen, till they steal from sight 1 — 
 Yet from the dire temptations these present 
 His state is free ; temptations, few can stem ; 
 Temptations, by whose sweeping torrent hurl'd 
 Down the dire steep of guilt, unceasing fall 
 Sad victims, thousands of the brightest minds 
 That time's dark reign adorn ; minds, to whose grasp 
 Heaven seems most freely offer' d ; to man's eye, 
 Most hopeful candidates for angels' joys. 
 
 His lot, that wealth, and power, and pride forbids, 
 Forbids him to become the tool of fraud, 
 Injustice, misery, ruin ; saves his soul 
 From all the needless labours, griefs, and cares, 
 That avarice and ambition agonize ; 
 From those cold nerves of wealth, that, palsied, feel 
 No anguish, but its own ; and ceaseless lead 
 To thousand meannesses, as gain allures. 
 
 Though oft compell'd to meet the gross attack 
 Of shameless ridicule and towering pride, 
 Sufficient good is his; good, real, pure, 
 With guilt unmingled. Rarely forced from home, 
 Around his board his wife and children smile ; 
 Communion sweetest, nature here can give, 
 Each fond endearment, office of delight, 
 With love and duty blending. Such the joy 
 My bosom oft has known. His, too, the task 
 To rear the infant plants that bud around ; 
 To ope their little minds to truth's pure light ; 
 To take them by the hand, and lead them on 
 In that straight, narrow road where virtue walks ; 
 Tx) guard them from a vain, deceiving world, 
 
 * From "Greenfield Hill." 
 {■Ah! knew he but his happiness, of men 
 The happiest he, &c. Thomson. 
 
 O fortunatos niniium sua si bona norint, 
 Agricolas ! Virgil, Gears- 2. 
 
 And point their course to realms of promised life. 
 His too the esteem of those who weekly hear 
 His words of truth divine ; unnumber'd acts 
 Of real love attesting to his eye 
 Their filial tenderness. Where'er he walks, 
 The friendly welcome and inviting smile 
 Wait on his steps, and breathe a kindred joy. 
 
 Oft too in friendliest association join'd, 
 He greets his brethren, with a flowing heart, 
 Flowing with virtue; all rejoiced to meet, 
 And all reluctant parting; every aim, 
 Benevolent, aiding with purpose kind ; 
 While, season'd with unblemish'd cheerfulness, 
 Far distant from the tainted mirth of vice, 
 Their hearts disclose each contemplation sweet 
 Of things divine ; and blend in friendship pure, 
 Friendship sublimed by piety and love. 
 
 All virtue's friends are his : the good, the just, 
 The pious, to his house their visits pay, 
 And converse high hold of the true, the fair, 
 The wonderful, the moral, the divine : 
 Of saints and prophets, patterns bright of truth, 
 Lent to a world of sin, to teach mankind 
 How virtue in that world can live and shine ; 
 Of learning's varied realms ; of Nature's works ; 
 And that bless'd book which gilds man's darksome 
 
 way 
 With light from heaven; of bless'd Messiah's throne 
 And kingdom ; prophecies divine fulfill' d, 
 And prophecies more glorious yet to come 
 In renovated days ; of that bright world, 
 And all the happy trains which that bright world 
 Inhabit, whither virtue's sons are gone: 
 While God the whole inspires, adorns, exalts ; 
 The source, the end, the substance, and the soul. 
 
 This too the task, the bless'd, the useful task, 
 To invigour order, justice, law, and rule ; 
 Peace to extend, and bid contention cease ; 
 To teach the words of life ; to lead mankind 
 Back from the wild of guilt and brink of wo 
 To virtue's house and family ; faith, hope, 
 And joy to inspire ; to warm the soul 
 With love to God and man ; to cheer the sad, 
 To fix the doubting, rouse the languid heart ; 
 The wandering to restore ; to spread with down 
 The thorny bed of death ; console the poor, 
 Departing mind, and aid its lingering wing. 
 
 To him her choicest pages Truth expands, 
 Unceasing, where the soul-entrancing scenes 
 Poetic fiction boasts are real all : 
 Where beauty, novelty, and grandeur wear 
 Superior charms, and moral worlds unfold 
 Sublimities transporting and divine. 
 
 Not all the scenes Philosophy can boast, 
 Though them with nobler truths he ceaseless blends, 
 Compare with these. They, as they found the mind, 
 Still leave it ; more inform'd, but not more wise. 
 These wiser, nobler, better, make the man. 
 
 Thus every happy mean of solid good 
 His life, his studies, and profession yield. 
 With motives hourly new, each rolling day 
 Allures, through wisdom's path and truth's fair field, 
 His feet to yonder skies. Before him heaven 
 Shines bright, the scope sublime of all his prayers, 
 The meed of every sorrow, pain, and toil. 
 
52 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.* 
 
 Where yonder humble spire salutes the eye, 
 Its vane slow-turning in the liquid sky, 
 Where, in light gambols, healthy striplings sport, 
 Ambitious learning builds her outer court ; 
 A. grave preceptor, there, her usher stands, 
 And rules without a rod her little bands. 
 Some half-grown sprigs of learning graced his brow : 
 Little he knew, though much he wish'd to know ; 
 Enchanted hung o'er Virgil's honey'd lay, 
 And smiled to see desipient Houace play ; 
 Glean'd scraps of Greek ; and, curious, traced afar, 
 Through Pope's clear glass the bright Masonian star. 
 Yet oft his students at his wisdom stared, 
 For many a student to his side repair'd; 
 Surprised, they heard him Dil worth's knots untie, 
 And tell what lands beyond the Atlantic lie. 
 
 Many his faults ; his virtues small and few ; 
 Some little good he did, or strove to do ; 
 Laborious still, he taught the early mind, 
 And- urged to manners meek and thoughts refined; 
 Truth he impress'd, and every virtue praised; 
 While infant eyes in wondering silence gazed ; 
 The worth of lime would day by day unfold, 
 And tell them every hour was made of gold. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF Al.t 
 
 Now near the burning domes the squadrons stood, 
 Their breasts impatient for the scenes of blood: 
 On every face a death-like glimmer sate, 
 The unbless'd harbinger of instant fate. [spires, 
 High through the gloom, in pale and dreadful 
 Rose the long terrors of the dark-red fires ; 
 Torches, and torrent sparks, by whirlwinds driven, 
 Stream'd through the smoke, and fired the clouded 
 
 heaven ; 
 As oft tall turrets sunk, with rushing sound, 
 Broad flames burst forth, and sweep the ethereal 
 
 round ; 
 The bright expansion lighten'd all the scene, 
 And deeper shadows lengthen'd o'er the green. 
 Loud through the walls, that cast a golden gleam, 
 Crown'd with tall pyramids of bending flame, 
 As thunders rumble down the darkening vales, 
 Roll'd the deep, solemn voice of rushing gales : 
 The bands, admiring, saw the wondrous sight, 
 And expectation trembled for the fight. 
 
 At once the sounding clarion breathed alarms ; 
 Wide from the forest burst the flash of arms ; 
 Thick gleam'd the helms; and o'er astonish'd fields, 
 Like thousand meteors rose the flame-bright shields. 
 In gloomy pomp, to furious combat roll'd [gold ; 
 Ranks sheath'd in mail, and chiefs in glimmering 
 In floating lustre bounds the dim-seen steed, 
 And cars unfinish'd, swift to cars succeed : 
 From all the host ascends a dark-red glare, 
 Here in full blaze, in distant twinklings there ; 
 
 * From "Greenfield Hill." 
 
 t This and the three following extracts are from " The 
 Conquest of Canaan." 
 
 Slow waves the dreadful light, as round the shore 
 Night's solemn blasts with deep confusion roar: 
 So rush'd the footsteps of the embattled train, 
 And send an awful murmur o'er the plain. 
 
 Tall in the opposing van, bold Iiiad stood, 
 And bid the clarion sound the voice of blood. 
 Loud blew the trumpet on the sweeping gales, 
 Rock'd the deep groves, and echoed round the vales ; 
 A ceaseless murmur all the concave fills, 
 Waves through the quivering camp, and trembles 
 
 o'er the hills. 
 High in the gloomy blaze the standards flew ; 
 The impatient youth his burnish'd falchion drew ; 
 Ten thousand swords his eager bands display'd, 
 And crimson terrors danced on every blade. 
 With equal rage, the bold, Hazorian train 
 Pour'd a wide deluge o'er the shadowy plain ; 
 Loud rose the songs of war, loud clang'd the shields, 
 Dread shouts of vengeance shook the shuddering 
 
 fields ; 
 With mingled din, shrill, martial music rings, 
 And swift to combat each fierce hero springs. 
 So broad, and dark, a midnight storm ascends, 
 Bursts on the main, and trembling nature rends ; 
 The red foam burns, the watery mountains rise, 
 One deep, unmeasured thunder heaves the skies ; 
 The bark drives lonely ; shivering and forlorn, 
 The poor, sad sailors wish the lingering morn : 
 Not with less fury rush'd the vengeful train ; 
 Not with less tumult roar'd the embattled plain. 
 Now in the oak's black shade they fought conceal'd ; 
 And now they shouted through the open field ; 
 The long, pale splendours of the curling flame 
 Cast o'er their polish'd arms a livid gleam ; 
 An umber'd lustre floated round their way, 
 And lighted falchions to the fierce affray. 
 Now the swift chariots 'gainst the stubborn oak 
 Dash'd ; and the earth re-echoes to the shock. 
 From shade to shade the forms tremendous stream, 
 And their arms flash a momentary flame. 
 Mid hollow tombs as fleets an airy train, 
 Lost in the skies, or fading o'er the plain ; 
 So visionary shapes, around the fight, 
 Shoot through the gloom, and vanish from the sight ; 
 Through twilight paths the maddening coursers 
 
 bound, 
 The shrill swords crack, the clashing shields resound. 
 There, lost in grandeur, might the eye behold 
 The dark-red glimmerings of the steel and gold ; 
 The chief; the steed; the nimbly-rushing car; 
 And all the horrors of the gloomy war. 
 Here the thick clouds, with purple lustre bright, 
 Spread o'er the long, long host, and gradual sui.k, 
 
 in night ; 
 Here half the world was wrapp'd in rolling fires, 
 And dreadful valleys sunk between the spires. 
 Swift ran black forms across the livid flame, 
 And oaks waved slowly in the trembling beam: 
 Loud rose the mingled noise ; with hollow sound, 
 Deep rolling whirlwinds roar, and thundering 
 
 flames resound. 
 As drives a blast along the midnight heath, 
 Rush'd raging Irad on the scenes of death; 
 High o'er his shoulder gleam'd his brandish 'd blade, 
 And scatter'd ruin round the twilight, shade. 
 
 =J 
 
TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 53 
 
 Full on a giant hero's sweeping car 
 He pour'd the tempest of resistless war; 
 His twinkling lance the heathen raised on high, 
 And hurl'd it, fruitless, through the gloomy sky ; 
 From the bold youth the maddening coursers wheel, 
 Gash'd by the vengeance of his slaughtering steel ; 
 'Twixt two tall oaks the helpless chief they drew ; 
 The shrill car dash'd ; the crack'd wheels rattling 
 
 flew; 
 Crush'd in his arms, to rise he strove in vain, 
 And lay unpitied on the dreary plain. 
 
 THE LAMENTATION OF SELIMA. 
 
 Caxst thou forget, when, call'd from southern 
 bowers, 
 Love tuned the groves, and spring awaked the 
 
 flowers, 
 How, loosed from slumbers by the morning ray, 
 O'er balmy plains we bent our frequent way 1 
 On thy fond arm, with pleasing gaze, I hung, 
 And heard sweet music murmur o'er thy tongue ; 
 Hand lock'd in hand, with gentle ardour press'd, 
 Pour'd soft emotions through the heaving breast ; 
 In magic transport heart with heart entwined, 
 And in sweet languor lost the melting mind. 
 
 'T was then thy voice, attuned to wisdom's lay, 
 Show'd fairer worlds, and traced the immortal way ; 
 In virtue's pleasing paths my footsteps tried, 
 My sweet companion and my skilful guide ; 
 Through varied knowledge taught my mind to soar, 
 Search hidden truths, and new-found walks explore : 
 While still the tale, by nature learn'd to rove, 
 Slid, unperceived, to scenes of happy love. 
 Till, weak and lost, the faltering converse fell, 
 And eyes disclosed what eyes alone could tell ; 
 In rapturous tumult bade the passions roll, 
 And spoke the living language of the soul. 
 With what fond hope, through many a blissful hour, 
 We gave the soul to fancy's pleasing power ; 
 Lost in the magic of that sweet employ 
 To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy ! 
 We saw mild peace o'er fair Canaan rise, 
 And shower her pleasures from benignant skies. 
 On airy hills our happy mansion rose, 
 Built but for joy, nor room reserved for woes. 
 Round the calm solitude, with ceaseless song, 
 Soft roll'd domestic ecstasy along : 
 Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day, 
 By raptures number'd, lightly danced away : 
 To love, to bliss, the blended soul was given, 
 And each, too happy, ask'd no brighter heaven. 
 Yet then, even then, my trembling thoughts would 
 
 rove, 
 And steal an hour from Irad, and from love, 
 Through dread futurity all anxious roam, 
 And cast a mournful glance on ills to come. . . . 
 
 And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll ] 
 Must no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul 1 
 Spring charm around me brightest scenes, in vain, 
 And youth's angelic visions wake to pain '! 
 O, come once more ; with fond endearments come ! 
 Buist the cold prison of the sullen tomb ; 
 
 Through favourite walks thy chosen maid attend, 
 Where well known shades for thee their branches 
 
 bend ; 
 Shed the sweet poison from thy speaking eye, 
 And look those raptures lifeless words deny ! 
 Still be the tale rehearsed, that ne'er could tire, 
 But, told each eve, fresh pleasure could inspire ; 
 Still hoped those scenes which love and fancy drew, 
 But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new ! 
 
 Again all bright shall glow the morning beam, 
 Again soft suns dissolve the frozen stream, 
 Spring call young breezes from the southern skies, 
 And, clothed in splendour, flowery millions rise — 
 In vain to thee ! No morn's indulgent ray 
 Warms the cold mansion of thy slumbering clay. 
 No mild, ethereal gale, with tepid wing, 
 Shall fan thy locks, or waft approaching spring : 
 Unfelt, unknown, shall breathe the rich perfume, 
 And unheard music wave around thy tomb. 
 
 A cold, dumb, dead repose invests thee round ; 
 Still as a void, ere Nature form'd a sound. 
 O'er thy dark region, pierced by no kind ray, 
 Slow roll the long, oblivious hours away. 
 In these wide walks, this solitary round, 
 Where the pale moonbeam lights the glimmering 
 
 ground, 
 At each sad turn, I view thy spirit come, 
 And glide, half-seen, behind a neighbouring tomb; 
 With visionary hand, forbid my stay, 
 Look o'er the grave, and beckon me away. 
 
 PREDICTION TO JOSHUA RELATIVE 
 TO AMERICA. 
 
 Fah o'er yon azure main thy view extend, 
 Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : 
 Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heaven design'd 
 The last retreat for poor, oppress'd mankind ; 
 Form'd with that pomp which marks the hand 
 
 divine, 
 And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumber'd 
 
 shine. 
 Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, 
 Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade ; 
 Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, 
 And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. 
 With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, 
 And fairer lustre purples round the pole. 
 Here, warm'd by happy suns, gay mines unfold 
 The useful iron and the lasting gold ; 
 Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, 
 And mock the splendours of the covenant bow. 
 On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, 
 That smile to see the future harvest nod, 
 In glad succession plants unnumber'd bloom, 
 And flowers unnumber'd breathe a rich f ertiime. 
 Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, 
 And health, reviving, light her purple flame. 
 Far from all realms this world imperial lies, 
 Seas roll between, and threat'ning tempesls rise. 
 Alike removed beyond ambition's pale, 
 And the bold pinions of the venturous sail ; 
 
64 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 Till circling years the destined period bring, 
 And a new Moses lift the daring wing, 
 Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores, 
 And hails a new Canaan's promised shores. 
 On yon far strand behold that little train 
 Ascending venturous o'er the unmeasured main ; 
 No dangers fright, no ills the course delay ; 
 'Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way. 
 Speed — speed, ye sons of truth ! let Heaven befriend, 
 Let angels waft you, and let peace attend. 
 O ! smile, thou sky serene ; ye storms, retire ; 
 And airs of Eden every sail inspire. 
 Swift o'er the main behold the canvass fly, 
 And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky ; 
 See verdant fields the changing waste unfold ; 
 See sudden harvests dress the plains in gold; 
 In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend, 
 And dancing woods to spires and temples bend. . . 
 Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise, 
 And Peace, and Eight, and Freedom greet the 
 
 skies ; 
 To morn's far realms her trading ships shall sail, 
 Or lift their canvass to the evening gale: 
 In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar, 
 Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore. 
 And, hark! what strange, what solemn breaking 
 
 strain 
 Swells, wildly murmuring, o'er the far, far main ! 
 Down Time's long, lessening vale the notes decay, 
 And, lost in distant ages, roll away. 
 
 EVENING AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 Above tall western hills, the light of day 
 Shot far the splendours of his golden ray ; 
 Bright from the storm, with tenfold grace he smiled, 
 The tumult soften'd, and the world grew mild. 
 With pomp transcendent, robed in heavenly dyes, 
 Arch'd the clear rainbow round the orient skies ; 
 Its changeless form, its hues of beam divine — 
 Fair type of truth and beauty — endless shine 
 Around the expanse, with thousand splendours rare; 
 Gay clouds sail wanton through the kindling air; 
 From shade to shade unnumber'd tinctures blend, 
 Unnumber'd forms of wondrous light extend; 
 In pride stupendous, glittering walls aspire, 
 Graced with bright domes, and crown'd with towers 
 
 of fire; 
 On cliffs cliffs burn ; o'er mountains mountains roll : 
 A burst of glory spreads from pole to pole : 
 Rapt with the splendour, every songster sings, 
 Tops the high bough, and claps his glistening wings; 
 With new-born green reviving nature blooms, 
 And sweeter fragrance freshening air perfumes. 
 
 Far south the storm withdrew its troubled reign, 
 Descending twilight dimm'd the dusky plain ; 
 Black night arose , her curtains hid the ground : 
 Less roar'd, and less, the thunder's solemn sound ; 
 The bended lightning shot a brighter stream, 
 Or wrapp'd all heaven in one wide, mantling flame ; 
 By turns, o'er plains, and woods, and mountains 
 
 spread 
 Faint, yellow glimmerings, and a deeper shade. 
 
 From parting clouds, the moon out-breaking shone, 
 And sate, sole empress, on her silver throne ; 
 In clear, full beauty, round all nature smiled, 
 And claimed, o'er heaven and earth, dominion mild; 
 With humbler glory, stars her court attend, 
 And bless'd, and union'd, silent lustre blend. 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
 The queen of the world and the child of the skies ; 
 Thy genius commands thee ; with rapture behold, 
 While ages on ages thy splendours unfold. 
 Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time ; 
 Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; 
 Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name ; 
 Be freedom and science, and virtue thy fame. 
 
 To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; 
 Whelm nations in blood and wrap cities in fire; 
 Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, 
 And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. 
 A world is thy realm ; for a world be thy laws, 
 Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause ; 
 On Freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise, 
 Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. 
 
 Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, 
 And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her 
 
 star; 
 New bards and new sages, unrivall'd, shall soar 
 To fame, unextinguish'd when time is no more; 
 To thee, the last refuge of virtue design'd, 
 Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; 
 Here, grateful, to Heaven with transport shall bring 
 Their incense, more fragrant than odours of spring. 
 
 Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, 
 And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; 
 The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 
 And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire: 
 Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, 
 And virtue's bright image enstamp'd on the mind, 
 With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, 
 And light up a smile in the aspect of wo. 
 
 Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, 
 The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 
 Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, 
 And the east and the south yield their spices and 
 
 gold. 
 As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendour shall 
 
 flow, 
 And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow, 
 While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurl'd, 
 Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. 
 
 Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, 
 From war's dread confusion I pensively stray'd — 
 The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired, 
 The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired , 
 Perfumes, as of Eden, flow'd sweetly along, 
 And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 
 " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." 
 
DAVID HUMPHREYS. 
 
 [Bom 1753. Died 1818.] 
 
 David Humphreys, LL. D., was the son of a 
 Congregational clergyman, at Derby, in Con- 
 necticut, where he was born in 1753. He was 
 educated at Yale College, with D wight, Trum- 
 bull, and Barlow, and soon after being gradu- 
 ated, in 1771, joined the revolutionary army, 
 under General Parsons, with the rank of cap- 
 tain. He was for several years attached to the 
 staff of General Putnam, and in 1780 was ap- 
 pointed aid-de-camp to General Washington-, 
 with the rank of colonel. He continued in the 
 military family of the commander-in-chief until 
 the close of the war, enjoying his friendship and 
 confidence, and afterward accompanied him to 
 Mount Vernon, where he remained until 1784, 
 when he went abroad with Franklin, Adams, 
 and Jefferson, who were appointed commis- 
 sioners to negotiate treaties of commerce with 
 foreign powers, as their secretary of legation.* 
 Soon after his return to the United States, in 
 1786, he was elected by the citizens of his native 
 town a member of the Legislature of Connecticut, 
 and by that body was appointed to command a 
 regiment to be raised by order of the national 
 government. On receiving his commission, Co- 
 lonel Humphreys established his head-quarters 
 and recruiting rendezvous at Hartford ; and there 
 renewed his intimacy with his old friends Trum- 
 bull and Barlow, with whom, and Doctor 
 Lemuel Hopkins, he engaged in writing the 
 " Anarchiad," a political satire, in imitation of the 
 "Rolliad," a work attributed to Sheridan and 
 others, which he had seen in London. He re- 
 tained his commission until the suppression of 
 the insurrection in 1787, and in the following 
 year accepted an invitation to visit Mount Vernon, 
 where he continued to reside until he was ap- 
 pointed minister to Portugal, in 1790. He re- 
 mained in Lisbon seven years, at the end of 
 which period he was transferred to the court of 
 Madrid, and in 1802, when Mr. Pinckney was 
 made minister to Spain, returned to the United 
 States. From 1802 to 1812, he devoted his 
 attention to agricultural and manufacturing pur- 
 suits ; and on the breaking out of the second war 
 
 * In a tetter to Doctor Franklin, written soon after 
 the appointment of Humphreys to this office, General 
 Washington, says : " His zeal in the cause of his 
 country, his good sense, prudence, and attachment to 
 me. have rendered him dear to me ; and I persuade my- 
 self you will find no confidence which you may think 
 pT.Der to repose in him, misplaced. He possesses an 
 excellent heart, good natural and acquired abilities, and 
 sterling integrity, as well as sobrict)', and an obliging 
 disposition. A. full conviction of his possessing all these 
 good qualities makes me less scrupulous of recommend- 
 ing him to your patronage and friendship." — Sparks"s 
 Life of Washington, vol. ix. p. 46. 
 
 with Great Britain, was appointed commander of 
 the militia of Connecticut, with the rank of bri- 
 gadier-general. His public services terminated 
 with the limitation of that appointment. He 
 died at New Haven, on the twenty-first day of 
 February, 1818, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. 
 The principal poems of Colonel Humphreys 
 are an "Address to the Armies of the United 
 States," written in 1772, while he was in the 
 army ; " A Poem on the Happiness of America," 
 written during his residence in London and Paris, 
 as secretary of legation ; " The Widow of Mala- 
 bar, or The Tyranny of Custom, a Tragedy, imi- 
 tated from the French of M. Le Mierre," writ- 
 ten at Mount Vernon ; and a " Poem on Agri- 
 culture," written while he was minister at the 
 court of Lisbon. The " Address to the Armies 
 of the United States" passed through many edi- 
 tions in this country and in Europe, and was 
 translated into the French language by the Mar- 
 quis de Chastellux, and favourably noticed in 
 the Parisian gazettes. The " Poem on the Hap- 
 piness of America" was reprinted nine times in 
 three years ; and the " Widow of Malabar" is 
 said, in the dedication of it to the author of 
 "McFingal," to have met with "extraordinary 
 success" on the stage. The " Miscellaneous Works 
 of Colonel Humphreys" were published in an 
 octavo volume, in New York, in 1790, and again 
 in 1804. The Works contain, besides the author's 
 poems, an interesting biography of his early friend 
 and commander, General Putnam, and several 
 orations and other prose compositions. They 
 are dedicated to the Duke de Rochefouc ault, who 
 had been his intimate friend in France. In the 
 dedication he says : " In presenting for your 
 amusement the trifles which have been composed 
 during my leisure hours, I assume nothing be- 
 yond the negative merit of not having ever writ- 
 ten any thing unfavourable to the interests of re- 
 ligion, humanity, and virtue." He seems to have 
 aimed only at an elegant mediocrity, and his 
 pieces are generally simple and correct, in thought 
 and language. He was one of the " four bards 
 with Scripture names," satirized in some verses 
 published in London, commencing 
 
 "David and Jonathan, Joel and Timothy, 
 Over the water, set up the hymn of the" — etc., 
 
 and is generally classed among the " poets of the 
 Revolution." The popularity he enjoyed while 
 he lived, and his connection with Trumbull, 
 Barlow, and Dwight, justify the introductio i 
 of a sketch of his history and writings into this 
 volume. The following extracts exhibit his style. 
 The first alludes to the departure of tne British 
 fleet from New York. r r 
 
56 
 
 DAVID HUMPHREYS. 
 
 ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. 
 
 E'en now, from half the threaten'd horrors freed, 
 See from our shores the lessening sails recede ; 
 See the proud flags that, to the wind unfurl'd, 
 Waved in proud triumph round a vanquished world, 
 Inglorious fly ; and see their haggard crew, 
 Despair, shame, rage, and infamy pursue. 
 
 Hail, heaven-born peace ! thy grateful blessings pour 
 On this glad land, and round the peopled shore ; 
 Thine arc the joys that gild the happy scene, 
 Propitious days, and happy nights serene ; 
 With thee gay Pleasure frolics o'er the plain, 
 And smiling Plenty leads the prosperous train. 
 
 Then, O blest land ! with genius unconfined, 
 With polish'd manners, and the illumined mind, 
 Thy future race on daring wing shall soar, 
 Each science trace, and all the arts explore. 
 Till bright religion, beckoning to the skies, 
 Shall bid thy sons to endless glory rise. 
 
 WESTERN EMIGRATION. 
 
 With all that 's ours, together let us rise, 
 Seek brighter plains, and more indulgent skies ; 
 Where fair Ohio rolls his amber tide, 
 A nd nature blossoms in her virgin pride ; 
 Where all that Beauty's hand can form to please 
 Shall crown the toils of war with rural ease. 
 
 The shady coverts and the sunny hills, 
 The gentle lapse of ever-murmuring rills, 
 The soft repose amid the noontide bowers, 
 The evening walk among the blushing flowers, 
 The fragrant groves, that yield a sweet perfume, 
 And vernal glories in perpetual bloom 
 Await you there ; and heaven shall bless the toil : 
 Your own the produce, and your own the soil. 
 
 There, free from envy, cankering care and strife, 
 Flow the calm pleasures of domestic life ; 
 There mutual friendship soothes each placid breast : 
 Blest in themselves, and in each other blest. 
 From house to house the social glee extends, 
 For friends in war in peace are doubly friends. 
 
 There cities rise, and spiry towns increase, 
 With gilded domes and every art of peace. 
 There Cultivation shall extend his power, 
 Rear the green blade, and nurse the tender flower ; 
 Make the fair villa in full splendours smile, 
 And robe with verdure all the genial soil. 
 There shallrich Commerce court the favouring gales, 
 And wondering wilds admire the passing sails, 
 Where the bold ships the stormy Huron brave, 
 Where wild Ontario rolls the whitening wave, 
 Where fair Ohio his pure current pours, 
 And Mississippi laves the extended shores. 
 A nd thou Supreme ! whose hand sustains this ball, 
 Before who5e nod the. nations rise and fall, 
 Propitious smile, and shed diviner charms 
 On this blest land, the queen of arts and arms ; 
 Make the great empire rise on wisdom's plan, 
 The seat of bliss, and last retreat of man. 
 
 AMERICAN WINTER. 
 
 TiiF.if doubling clouds the wintry skies deform, 
 And, wrapt in vapour, comes the roaring storm ; 
 With snows surcharged, from tops of mountains 
 
 sails, 
 Loads leafless trees, and fills the whiten'd vales. 
 Then Desolation strips the faded plains, 
 Then tyrant Death o'er vegetation reigns ; 
 The birds of heaven to other climes repair, 
 And deepening glooms invade the turbid air. 
 Nor then, unjoyous, winter's rigours come, 
 But find them happy and content with home ; 
 Their granaries fill'd — the task of culture past 
 Warm at their fire, they hear the howling blast, 
 While pattering rain and snow, or driving sleet, 
 Rave idly loud, and at their window beat : 
 Safe from its rage, regardless of its roar, 
 In vain the tempest rattles at the door. 
 'Tis then the time from hoarding cribs to feed 
 The ox laborious, and the noble steed ; 
 'Tis then the time to tend the bleating fold, 
 To strew with litter, and to fence from cold. 
 The cattle fed, the fuel piled within, 
 At setting day the blissful hours begin ; 
 'Tis then, sole owner of his little cot, 
 The farmer feels his independent lot ; 
 Hears, with the crackling blaze that lights the wall. 
 The voice of gladness and of nature call ; 
 Beholds his children play, their mother smile, 
 And tastes with them the fruit of summer's toil. 
 From stormy heavens the mantling clouds unroll'd, 
 The sky is bright, the air serenely cold. 
 The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snows, 
 For months entire o'er frozen regions blows ; 
 Man braves his blast ; his gelid breath inhales, 
 And feels more vigorous as the frost prevails. 
 
 REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIERS. 
 
 O, what avails to trace the fate of war 
 Through fields of blood, and paint each glorious 
 
 scar! 
 Why should the strain your former woes recall, 
 The tears that wept a friend's or brother's fall, 
 When by your side, first in the adventurous strife, 
 He dauntless rush'd, too prodigal of life ! 
 Enough of merit has each honour'd name, 
 To shine untarnish'd on the rolls of fame, 
 To stand the example of each distant age, 
 And add new lustre to the historic page ; 
 For soon their deeds illustrious shall be shown 
 In breathing bronze or animated stone, 
 Or where the canvass, starting into life, 
 Revives the glories of the crimson strife. 
 And soon some bard shall tempt the untried themes, 
 Sing how we dared, in fortune's worst extremes ; 
 What cruel wrongs the indignant patriot bore, 
 What various ills your feeling bosoms tore, 
 What boding terrors gloom'd the threatening hour. 
 When British legions, arm'd with death-like power, 
 Bade desolation mark their crimson'd way, 
 And lured the savage to his destined prev. 
 
JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 [Born 1755. Died 1812] 
 
 The author of the " Columbiad" was born in 
 the village of Reading, in Connecticut, in 1755. 
 He was the youngest in a family of ten, and his 
 father died while he was yet a child, leaving to 
 him property sufficient only to defray the costs of 
 his education. On the completion of his prepara- 
 tory studies he was placed by his guardians at 
 Dartmouth College, but was soon induced to re- 
 move to New Haven, where he was graduated, in 
 1778. Among his friends here were D wight, 
 then a college tutor, Colonel Humphreys, a re- 
 volutionary bard of some reputation, and Trum- 
 bull, the author of " McFingal." Barlow 
 rec ited an original poem, on taking his bachelor's 
 degree, which is preserved in the " American 
 Poems," printed at Litchfield in 1793. It was 
 his first attempt of so ambitious a character, and 
 possesses little merit. During the vacations of the 
 college he had on several occasions joined the 
 army, in which four of his brothers were serving ; 
 and he participated in the conflict at White Plains, 
 and a number of minor engagements, in which he 
 is said to have displayed much intrepidity. 
 
 For a short time after completing his academic 
 course, Barlow devoted his attention chiefly to 
 the law ; but being urged by his friends to qualify 
 himself for the office of chaplain, he undertook the 
 study of theology, and in six weeks became a 
 licensed minister. He joined the army immediately, 
 and remained with it until the establishment of 
 peace, cultivating the while his taste for poetry, by 
 writing patriotic songs and ballads, and composing, 
 in part, his " Vision of Columbus," afterward ex- 
 panded into the " Columbiad." When the army 
 was disbanded, in 1783, he removed to Hartford, 
 to resume his legal studies; and to add to his 
 revenue established "The Mercury," a weekly 
 gazette, to which his writings gave reputation and 
 an immediate circulation. He had previously 
 married at New Haven a daughter of the Honour- 
 able Abiiaham Baidwik, and had lost his early 
 patron and friend, the Honourable Tittjs Hosmer, 
 on whom he wrote an elegant elegy. In 1785 he 
 was admitted to the bar, and in the same year, in 
 compliance with the request of an association of 
 Congregational ministers, he prepared and publish- 
 ed an enlarged and improved edition of Watts' s 
 version of the Psalms,* to which were appended a 
 
 * Of the psalms omitted by Watts and included in 
 this edition, only the eighty-eighth and one hundred and 
 thirty-seventh were paraphrased by Barlow. His ver- 
 sion of the latter added much to his reputation, and has 
 born considered the finest translation of the words of 
 David th<U has been written, though they have received 
 it metrical dress from some of the best poets of England 
 and America. Recently the origin of this paraphrase 
 has been a subject of controversy, hut a memorandum 
 found among the papers of the late Judge Trumbull, 
 
 collection of hymns, several of which weie written 
 by himself. 
 
 " The Vision of Columbus" was published in 
 1787. It was dedicated to Louis XVI., with 
 strong expressions of admiration and gratitude, 
 and in the poem were corresponding passages of 
 applause ; but Barlow's feelings toward the 
 amiable and unfortunate monarch appear to have 
 changed in after time, for in the " Columbiad" he is 
 coldly alluded to, and the adulatory lilies are sup- 
 pressed. The " Vision of Columbus" was re- 
 printed in London and Paris, and was generally 
 noticed favourably in the reviews. After its pub- 
 lication the author relinquished his newspaper and 
 established a bookstore, principally to sell the 
 poem and his edition of the Psalms, and as soon 
 as this end was attained, resumed the practice of 
 the law. In this he was, however, unfortunate, for 
 his forensic abilities were not of the most popular 
 description, and his mind was too much devoted 
 to political and literary subjects to admit of the 
 application to study and attention to business 
 necessary to secure success. He was engaged 
 with Colonel Humphreys, Johst Trumbull, and 
 Dr. Lemuel Hopkins, a man of some wit, of the 
 coarser kind, in the " Anarchiad," a satirical poem 
 published at Hartford, which had considerable 
 political influence, and in some other works of 
 a similar description; but, obtaining slight pe- 
 cuniary advantage from his literary labours, he 
 was induced to accept a foreign agency from 
 the " Sciota Land Company," and sailed for Eu- 
 rope, with his family, in 1788. In France he 
 sold some of the lands held by this association, but 
 deriving little or no personal benefit from the trans- 
 actions, and becoming aware of the fraudulent 
 character of the company, he relinquished his 
 agency and determined to rely on his pen for support. 
 
 Who aided in the preparation of the Connecticut edition 
 of Watts, settles the question in favour of Barlow. 
 The following is the version to which we have alluded : 
 
 THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. 
 
 Along the banks where Babel's current flows, 
 Our captive bands in det-p despondence stray'd; 
 
 Where Zion's fall in sad remembrance rose, — 
 Her friends, her children, mingled with the dead. 
 
 The tuneful harp that once with joy we strung, 
 
 When praise employ'd and mirth inspired the lay, 
 In mournful sik'nce on the willows hung, 
 
 And growing grief prolong'd the tedious day. 
 Our proud oppressors, to increase our wo, 
 
 With taunting smiles a song of Zion claim ; 
 Bid sacred praise in strains melodious flow, 
 
 While they blaspheme the great Jehovah's name. 
 
 Bat how, in heathen chains, and lands unknown, 
 
 Shall Israel's sons the sicn-d anthems raise? 
 O hapless Silem! Ood's terrestrial throne, 
 
 Thou land of glory, sacred mount of praise ! 
 If e'er my memory lose thy lovely name, 
 
 If my cold heart neglect my kindred race, 
 Let dire destruction seize thisguiliy frame! 
 
 My hands shall perish and my voice shall cease 1 
 Yet shall the Lord who hears when Zion calls, 
 
 O'ertake her foes with terror and dismay j 
 Hie arm aven<e her desola ed walls. 
 
 And raise her children to eternal day. . >y 
 
58 
 
 JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 In 1791, Barlow published in London « Advice 
 to the Privileged Orders," a work directed against 
 the distinguishing features of kingly and aristo- 
 cratic governments ; and in the early part of the 
 succeeding year, " The Conspiracy of Kings," a 
 poem of about four hundred lines, educed by the 
 first coalition of the continental sovereigns against 
 republican France. In the autumn of 1792, he 
 wrote a letter to the French National Conven- 
 tion, recommending the abolition of the union be- 
 tween the church and the state, and other reforms ; 
 and was soon after chosen by the " London Con- 
 stitutional Society," of which he was a member, 
 to present in person an address to that body. 
 On his arrival in Paris he was complimented with 
 the rights of citizenship, an " honour" which had 
 been previously conferred on Washington and 
 Hamilton. From this time he made France his 
 home. In the summer of 1793, a deputation, of 
 which his friend Gregorie,w1io before the Revo- 
 lution had been Bishop of Blois, was a member, 
 was sent into Savoy, to organize it as a department 
 of the republic. He accompanied it to Chamberry, 
 the capital, where, at the request of its president, 
 he wrote an address to the inhabitants of Piedmont, 
 inciting them to throw off allegiance to " the man 
 of Turin who called himself their king." Here 
 too he wrote "Hasty Pudding," the most popular 
 of his poems. 
 
 On his return to Paris, Barlow's time was 
 principally devoted to commercial pursuits, by 
 which, in a few years, he obtained a considerable 
 fortune. The atrocities which marked the pro- 
 gress of the Revolution prevented his active parti- 
 cipation in political controversies, though he con- 
 tinued under all circumstances an ardent republican. 
 Toward the close of 1795, he visited the North of 
 Europe, on some private business, and on his re- 
 turn to Paris was appointed by Washington 
 consul to Algiers, with power to negotiate a com- 
 mercial treaty with the dey, and to ransom all the 
 Americans held in slavery on the coast of Barbary. 
 He accepted and fulfilled the mission to the satis- 
 faction of the American Government, concluding 
 treaties with Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli, and 
 liberating more than one hundred Americans, who 
 were in prisons or in slavery to the Mohammedans. 
 He then returned to Paris, where he purchased 
 the splendid hotel of the Count Clermont de 
 Tons ere, and lived several years in a fashionable 
 and costly manner, pursuing still his fortunate 
 mercantile speculations, revising his " great epic," 
 and writing occasionally for the political gazettes. 
 
 Finally, after an absence of nearly seventeen 
 years, the poet, statesman, and philosopher re- 
 turned to his native country. He was received 
 with kindness by many old friends, who had cor- 
 responded with him while abroad or been remem- 
 bered in all his wanderings ; and after spending a 
 few months in travel, marking, with patriotic pride, 
 the rapid progress which the nation had made in 
 greatness, he fixed his home on the banks of the 
 Potomac, near the city of Washington, where he 
 built the splendid mansion, known afterward as 
 " Kalorama," and expressed an intention to spend 
 
 there the remainder of his life. In 1806, he pub- 
 lished a prospectus of a National Institution, at 
 Washington, to combine a university with a naval 
 and military school, academy of fine arts, and 
 learned society. A bill to carry his plan into 
 effect was introduced into Congress, but never be- 
 came a law. 
 
 In the summer of 1808, appeared the " Colum- 
 biad," in a splendid quarto volume, surpassing in the 
 beauty of its typography and embellishments any 
 work before that time printed in America. From 
 his earliest years Barlow had been ambitious to 
 raise the epic song of his nation. The " Vision 
 of Columbus," in which the most brilliant events 
 in American history had been described, occupied 
 his leisure hours when in college, and afterward, 
 when, as a chaplain, he followed the standard 
 of the liberating army. That work was executed 
 too hastily and imperfectly, and for twenty years 
 after its appearance, through every variety of for- 
 tune, its enlargement and improvement engaged 
 his attention. 
 
 The events of the Revolution were so recent and 
 so universally known, as to be inflexible to the 
 hand of fiction ; and the poem could not therefore 
 be modelled after the regular epic form, which 
 would otherwise have been chosen. It is a 
 series of visions, presented by Hesper, the genius 
 of the western continent, to Columbus, while in 
 the prison at Valladolid, where he is introduced to 
 the reader uttering a monologue on his ill-requited 
 services to Spain. These visions embrace a vast 
 variety of scenes, circumstances, and characters . 
 Europe in the middle ages, with her political and 
 religious reformers ; Mexico and the South Ameri- 
 can nations, and their imagined history ; the pro- 
 gress of discovery ; the settlement of the states 
 now composing the federation ; the war of the 
 Revolution, and establishment of republicanism ; 
 and the chief actors in the great dramas which he 
 attempts to present. 
 
 The poem, having no unity of fable, no regular 
 succession of incidents, no strong exhibition of 
 varied character, lacks the most powerful charms 
 of a narrative ; and has, besides, many dull and 
 spiritless passages, that would make unpopular a 
 work of much more faultless general design. The 
 versification is generally harmonious, but mechani- 
 cal and passionless, the language sometimes in- 
 correct, and the similes often inappropriate and 
 inelegant. Yet there are in it many bursts of elo- 
 quence and patriotism, which should preserve it 
 from oblivion. The descriptions of nature and of 
 personal character are frequently condensed and 
 forceful ; and passages of invective, indignant and 
 full of energy. In his narrative of the expedition 
 against Quebec, under Arnold, the poet exclaims: 
 
 Ah, gallant trnop! deprived of half the praise 
 That deeds like yours in other times repays, 
 Since your prime chief (the favourite erst of Fame,) 
 Hath sunk so deep his hateful, hideous name, 
 That every h'mest muse with horror flings 
 It fortli unsounded from her sacred strings , 
 Else what high tones of rapture must have told 
 The first great actions of a chief so bold! 
 
 These lines are characteristic of his manner. 
 
JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 59 
 
 The " Columbiad" was reprinted in Paris and 
 London, and noticed in the leading critical gazettes, 
 but generally with little praise. The London 
 " Monthly Magazine" attempted in an elaborate 
 article to prove its title to a place in the first class 
 of epics, and expressed a belief that it was sur- 
 passed only by the "Illiad," the "iEneid" and 
 " Paradise Lost." In America, however, it was re- 
 garded by the judicious as a failure, and reviewed 
 with even more wit and severity than in England. 
 Indeed, the poet did not in his own country receive 
 the praise which he really merited ; and faults were 
 imputed to his work which it did not possess. Its 
 sentiments were said to be hostile to Christianity,* 
 and the author was declared an infidel ; but there 
 is no line in the "Columbiad" unfavourable to 
 the religion of New England, the Puritan faith 
 which is the basis of the national greatness ; and 
 there is no good reason for believing that Baii- 
 low at the time of his death doubted the creed 
 of which in his early manhood he had been a 
 minister. 
 
 After the publication of the " Columbiad," Bak- 
 iow made a collection of documents, with an in- 
 tention to write a history of the United States ; but, 
 in 1811, he was unexpectedly appointed minister 
 plenipotentiary to the French government, and 
 immediately sailed for Europe. His attempts to 
 negotiate a treaty of commerce and indemnifica- 
 tion for spoliations were unsuccessful at Paris ; 
 
 and in the autumn of 1812 he was invited by the 
 Duke of Bassano to a conference with Napoleon 
 at Wilna, in Poland. He started from Paris, and 
 travelled without intermission until he reached 
 Zarnowitch, an obscure village near Cracow, 
 where he died, from an inflammation of the lungs, 
 induced by fatigue and exposure in an inhospitable 
 country, in an inclement season, on the twenty- 
 second day of December, in the fifty-fourth year 
 of his age. In Paris, honours were paid to his 
 memory as an important public functionary and a 
 man of letters ; his eulogy was written by Dupgnt 
 de Nemours, and an account of his life and 
 writings was drawn up and published, accom- 
 panied by a canto of the " Columbiad," translated 
 into French heroic verse. In America, too, his death 
 was generally lamented, though without any pub- 
 lic exhibition of mourning. 
 
 Bahloav was much respected in private life for 
 his many excellent social qualities. His manners 
 were usually grave and dignified, though when 
 with his intimate friends he was easy and familiar. 
 He Was an honest and patient investigator, and 
 would doubtless have been much more successful 
 as a metaphysical or historical writer than as a 
 poet. As an author he belonged to the first class 
 of his time in America ; and for his ardent pa- 
 triotism, his public services, and the purity of his 
 life, he deserves a distinguished rank among the 
 men of our golden age. 
 
 THE HASTY PUDDING. 
 
 Ye Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise, 
 To cramp the day and hide me from the skies ; 
 Ye Gallic flags, that, o'er their heights unfurl'd, 
 Bear death to kings and freedom to the world, 
 I sing not you. A softer theme I choose, 
 A virgin theme, unconscious of the muse, 
 But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire 
 The purest frenzy of poetic fire. 
 
 Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd, 
 Who hurl your thunders round the epic field ; 
 Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing 
 Joys that the vineyard and the stillhouse bring ; 
 Or on some distant fair your notes employ, 
 And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy. 
 
 * It is now generally believed that Barlow, while in 
 Prance, abjured the Christian religion. The Reverend 
 Thomas Robbins, a venerable clergyman of Rochester, 
 Massachusetts, in a letter written in 1840, remarks that 
 "Barlow's deistical opinions were not suspected pre- 
 \ious to the publication of his ' Vision of Columbus,' in 
 1787 ;" and further, that " when at a later period he lost 
 his character, and became an open and bitter reviler of 
 Christianity, his psalm-book was laid aside ; but for that 
 cause only, as competent judges still maintained that no 
 revision of Watts possesses as much poetic merit as 
 Barlow's." I have seen two letters written by Barlow 
 during the last year of his life, in which he declares him- 
 self "a sincere believer of Christianity, divested of its 
 
 I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, 
 My morning incense, and my evening meal, — 
 The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl, 
 Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul. 
 The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine, 
 Its substance mingled, married in with thine, 
 Shall cool and temper thy superior heat, 
 And save the pains of blowing while I eat. 
 
 O ! could the smooth, the emblematic song 
 Flow like thy genial juices o'er my tongue, 
 Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime, 
 And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme, 
 No more thy awkward, unpoetic name 
 Should shun the muse or prejudice thy fame; 
 But, rising grateful to the accustom'd ear, 
 All bards should catch it, and all realms revere ! 
 
 Assist me first with pious toil to trace 
 Through wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race ; 
 
 corruptions." In a letter to M. Gregorie, published in 
 the second volume of Dennie's "Port Folio," pages 471 
 to 479, he says, "the sect of Puritans, in which I was 
 born and educated, and to which I s'ill adhere, for the 
 same reason that you adhere to the Catholics, a conviction 
 that they are right," etc. The idea that Barlow disbelieved 
 in his later years the religion of his youth, was probably 
 first derived from an engraving in the " Vision of Colum- 
 bus," in which the cross, by which he intended to repre- 
 sent monkish superstition, is placed among ihe " symbols 
 of prejudice." He never "lost his character" as a man of 
 honourable sentiments and blameless life ; and I could pre- 
 sent numerous other evidences that he did not abandon 
 his religion, were not the above apparently conclusive. 
 
60 
 
 JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, 
 (Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore,) 
 1 irst gave thee to the world ; her works of fame 
 Have lived indeed, but lived without a name. 
 Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, 
 First learn'd with stones to crack the well-dried 
 
 maize, 
 Through the rough sieve to shake the golden 
 
 shower, 
 In boiling water stir the yellow flour: 
 The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd with haste, 
 Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, 
 Then pulls and wallops, rises to the brim, 
 Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim; 
 The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, 
 And the whole mass its true consistence takes. 
 
 Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, 
 Rise, like her labours, to the son of song. 
 To her, to them I'd consecrate my lays, 
 And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. 
 Not through the rich Peruvian realms alone 
 The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be known, 
 But o'er the world's wide clime should live secure, 
 Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure. 
 
 Dear Hasty Pudding, what unpromised joy 
 Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy ! 
 Doom'd o'er the world through devious paths to 
 
 roam, 
 Each clime my country, and each house my home, 
 My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end: 
 I greet my long-lost, unforgotten friend. 
 
 For thee through Paris, that corrupted town, 
 How long in vain I wander'd up and down, 
 Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching 
 
 hoard, 
 Cold from his cave usurps the morning board. 
 London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea ; 
 No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee ; 
 The uncouth word, a libel on the town, 
 Would call a proclamation from the crown. 
 For climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays, 
 Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous maize : 
 A grain whose rich, luxuriant growth requires 
 Short, gentle showers, and bright, ethereal fires. 
 
 But here, though distant from our native shore, 
 With mutual glee, we meet and laugh once more. 
 The same ! I know thee by that yellow face, 
 That strong complexion of true Indian race, 
 Which time can never change, nor soil impair, 
 Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air ; 
 For endless years, through every mild domain, 
 Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to 
 
 reign. 
 But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, 
 In different realms to give thee different names. 
 Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant 
 Polanta call ; the French, of course, Polante. 
 E'en in thy native regions, how I blush 
 To bear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush! 
 On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn 
 Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn. 
 All spurious appellations, void of truth ; 
 I've better known thee from my earliest youth : 
 Thy name is Hasty Pudding! thus our sires 
 Were wont to greet thee fuming from the fires ; 
 
 And while they argued in thy just defence 
 With logic clear, they thus explained the sense: 
 " In haste the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze. 
 Receives and cooks the ready powdcr'd maize; 
 In haste 'tis served, and then in equal haste, 
 With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast. 
 No carving to be done, no knife to grate 
 The tender ear and wound the stony plate ; 
 But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip, 
 And taught with art the yielding mass to dip, 
 By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored, 
 Performs the hasty honours of the board." 
 Such is thy name, significant and clear, 
 A name, a sound to every Yankee dear, 
 But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste 
 Preserve my pure, hereditary taste. 
 
 There are who strive to stamp with disrepute 
 The luscious food, because it feeds the brute ; 
 In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs 
 Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs; 
 With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, 
 Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. 
 What though the generous cow gives me to 
 
 quaff 
 The milk nutritious; am I then a calf] 
 Or can the genius of the noisy swine, 
 Though nursed on pudding, thence lay claim to 
 
 mine 1 
 Sure the sweet song I fashion to thy praise, 
 Runs more melodious than the notes they raise. 
 
 My song, resounding in its grateful glee, 
 No merit claims : I praise myself in thee. 
 My father loved thee through his length of days 
 For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize ; 
 From thee what health, what vigour he possess'd, 
 Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest; 
 Thy constellation ruled my natal morn, 
 And all my bones were made of Indian corn. 
 Delicious grain ! whatever form it take, 
 To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, 
 In every dish 'tis welcome still to me, 
 But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee. 
 Let the green succotash with thee contend ; 
 Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend ; 
 Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, 
 And a long slice of bacon grace their side; 
 Not all the plate, how famed soe'er it be, 
 Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. 
 Some talk of Hoe- Cake, fair Virginia's pride ! 
 Rich Johnny-Cahe this mouth hath often tried; 
 Both please me well, their virtues much the same, 
 Alike their fabric, as allied their fame, 
 Except in dear New England, where the last 
 Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, 
 To give it sweetness and improve the taste. 
 But place them all before me, smoking hot, 
 The big, round dumpling, rolling from the pot; 
 The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast. 
 With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast; 
 The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides 
 A belly soft the pulpy apple hides; 
 The yellow bread, whose face like amber glows, 
 And all of Indian that the bakepan knows, — 
 You tempt me not; my favourite greets my eyes, 
 To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct flies. 
 
JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 61 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 To mix the food by vicious rules of art, 
 To kill the stomach and to sink the heart, 
 To make mankind to social virtue sour, 
 Cram o'er each dish, and be what they devour ; 
 For this the kitchen muse first framed her book, 
 Commanding sweat to stream from every cook; 
 Children no more their antic gambols tried, 
 And friends to physic wonder'd why they died. 
 
 Not so the Yankee: his abundant feast, 
 With simples fumish'd and with plainness dress'd, 
 A numerous offspring gathers round the board, 
 And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; [taste, 
 Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous 
 And health attends them from the short repast. 
 
 While the full pail rewards the milkmaid's toil, 
 The mother sees the morning caldron boil ; 
 To stir the pudding next demands their care ; 
 To spread the table and the bowls prepare : 
 To feed the children as their portions cool, 
 And comb then heads, and send them off to school. 
 
 Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart, 
 For nature scorns not all the aids of art. 
 E'en Hasty Pudding, purest of all food, 
 May still be bad, indifferent, or good, 
 As sage experience the short process guides, 
 Or want of skill, or want of care presides. 
 Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan, 
 To rear the child and long sustain the man ; 
 To shield the morals while it mends the size, 
 And all the powers of every food supplies, — 
 Attend the lesson that the muse shall bring; 
 Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing. 
 
 But since, man! thy life and health demand 
 Not food alone, but labour from thy hand, 
 First, in the field, beneath the sun's strong rays, 
 Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize; 
 She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, 
 And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. 
 
 When now the ox, obedient to thy call, 
 Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall, 
 Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain, 
 And plant in measured hills the golden grain. 
 But when the tender germ begins to shoot, 
 And the green spire declares the sprouting root, 
 Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, 
 The insidious worm, the all-devouring crow. 
 A little ashes sprinkled round the spire, 
 Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire ; 
 The feather'd robber, with his hungry maw 
 Swift flies the field before your man of straw, 
 A frightful image, such as schoolboys bring, 
 When met to burn the pope or hang the king. 
 
 Thrice in the season, through each verdant row, 
 Wirld tne strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe ; 
 The faithful hoe, a double task that takes. 
 To till the summer corn and roast the winter cakes. 
 
 Slow springs the blade, while check'd by chilling 
 rains, 
 Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains; 
 But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, 
 Then start the juices, then the roots expand ; 
 Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, 
 The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold ; 
 
 The busy branches all the ridges fill, 
 Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. 
 Here cease to vex them; all your cares are done: 
 Leave the last labours to the parent sun ; 
 Beneath his genial smiles, the well-dress'd field, 
 When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. 
 
 Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, 
 And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; 
 The suckling ears the silken fringes bend, 
 And, pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend ; 
 The loaded stalk, while still the burden grows, 
 O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows; 
 High as a hop-field waves the silent grove, 
 A safe retreat for little thefts of love, 
 When the pledged roasting-ears invite the maid 
 To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade ; 
 His generous hand unloads the cumbrous hill, 
 And the green spoils her ready basket fill ; 
 Small compensation for the twofold bliss, 
 The promised wedding, and the present kiss. 
 
 Slight depredations these ; but now the moon 
 Calls from his hollow trees the sly raccoon ; 
 And while by night he bears his prize away, 
 The bolder squirrel labours through the day. 
 Both thieves alike, but provident of time, 
 A virtue rare, that almost hides their crime. 
 Then let them steal the little stores they can, 
 And fill their granaries from the toils of man ; 
 We've one advantage where they take no part — 
 With all their wiles, they ne'er have found the art 
 To boil the Hasty Pudding; here we shine 
 Superior far to tenants of the pine ; 
 This envied boon to man shall still belong, 
 Unshared by them in substance or in song. 
 
 At last the closing season browns the plain, 
 And ripe October gathers in the grain ; 
 Deep-loaded carts the spacious cornhouse fill; 
 The sack distended marches to the mill ; 
 The labouring mill beneath the burden groans, 
 And showers the future pudding from the stones; 
 Till the glad housewife greets the powder'd gold, 
 And the new crop exterminates the old. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The days grow short ; but though the falling sun 
 To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done, 
 Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, 
 And yield new subjects to my various song. 
 For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest home, 
 The invited neighbours to the husking come; 
 A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, 
 Unite their charms to chase the hours away. 
 
 Where the huge heap lies center'd in the hall, 
 The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, 
 Brown, corn-fed nymphs, and strong, hard-handed 
 Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows, [beaus, 
 Assume their seats, the solid mass attack ; 
 The dry husks rustle, and the corncobs crack ; 
 The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, 
 And the sweet cider trips in silence round. 
 
 The laws of husking every wight can tell, 
 And sure no laws he ever keeps so well : 
 For each red ear a general kiss he gains, 
 With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains ; 
 
62 
 
 JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, 
 Red as her lips and taper as her waist, 
 She walks the round and culls one favour'd beau, 
 Who leaps the luscious tribute to bestow. 
 Various the sport, as are the wits and brains 
 Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains; 
 Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, 
 And he that gets the last ear wins the day. 
 
 Meanwhile, the housewife urges all her care, 
 The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare. 
 The sifted meal already waits her hand, 
 The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand, 
 The fire flames high ; and as a pool (that takes 
 The headlong stream that o'er the milldam breaks) 
 Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils, 
 So the vex'd caldron rages, roars, and boils. 
 
 First with clean salt she seasons well the food, 
 Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood. 
 Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand ; 
 To stir it well demands a stronger hand ; 
 The husband takes his turn : and round and round 
 The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown'd; 
 When to the board the thronging huskers pour, 
 And take their seats as at the corn before. 
 
 I leave them to their feast. There still belong 
 More copious matters to my faithful song. 
 For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet, 
 Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. 
 
 Some with molasses line the luscious treat, 
 And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet. 
 A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise; 
 A great resource in those bleak wintry days, 
 When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow, 
 And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow. 
 
 Bless'd cow ! thy praise shall still my notes em- 
 ploy, 
 Great source of health, the only source of joy ; 
 Mother of Egypt's god — but sure, for me, 
 Were I to leave my God, I 'd worship thee. 
 How oft thy teats these precious hands have press'd ! 
 How oft thy bounties proved my only feast! 
 How oft I 've fed thee with my favourite grain ! 
 And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain ! 
 
 Yes, swains who know her various worth to prize, 
 Ah ! house her well from winter's angry skies. 
 Potatoes, pumpkins should her sadness cheer, 
 Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; 
 When spring returns, she '11 well acquit the loan, 
 And nurse at once your infants and her own. 
 
 Milk then with pudding I would always choose ; 
 To this in future I confine my muse, 
 Till she in haste some further hints unfold, 
 Well for the young, nor useless to the old. 
 First in your bowl the milk abundant take, 
 Then drop with care along the silver lake 
 Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide 
 Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide ; 
 But when their growing mass no more can sink, 
 When the soft island looms above the brink, 
 Then check your hand ; you've got the portion due : 
 So taught our sires, and what they taught is true. 
 
 There is achoice in spoons. Though small appear 
 The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. 
 The deep-bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop 
 In ample draughts the thin, diluted soup, 
 
 Perforins not well in those substantial things, 
 Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings; 
 Where the strong labial muscles must embrace 
 The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. 
 With ease to enter and discharge the freight, 
 A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, 
 Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, 
 A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. 
 Experienced feeders can alone impart 
 A rule so much above the lore of art. 
 These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have trie J, 
 With just precision could the point decide, 
 Though not in song ; the muse but poorly shines 
 In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines ; 
 Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, 
 Is that small section of a goose-egg shell, 
 Which in two equal portions shall divide 
 The distance from the centre to the side. 
 Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin: 
 Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin 
 Suspend the ready napkin ; or, like me, 
 Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee 
 Just in the zenith your wise head project; 
 Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, 
 Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, — 
 The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all ! 
 
 BURNING OF THE NEW ENGLAND 
 VILLAGES.* 
 
 Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires 
 Climb in tall pyramids above the spires, 
 Concentring all the winds ; whose forces, driven 
 With equal rage from every point of heaven, 
 Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour 
 The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar 
 Suck up the cinders, send them sailing far, 
 To warn the nations of the raging war ; 
 Bend high the blazing vortex, swell'd and curl'd, 
 Careering, brightening o'er the lustred world : 
 Seas catch the splendour, kindling skies resound, 
 And falling structures shake the smouldering 
 
 ground. 
 Crowds of wild fugitives, with frantic tread, 
 Flit through the flames that pierce the midnight 
 
 shade, 
 Back on the burning domes revert their eyes, 
 Where some lost friend, some perish'd infant lies. 
 Their maim'd, their sick, their age-enfeebled sires 
 Have sunk sad victims to the sateless fires ; 
 They greet with one last look their tottering walls, 
 See the blaze thicken, as the ruin falls, 
 Then o'er the country train their dumb despair, 
 And far behind them leave the dancing glare ; 
 Their own crush'd roofs still lend a trembling light, 
 Point their long shadows and direct their flight. 
 Till, wandering wide, they seek some cottage door, 
 Ask the vile pittance due the vagrant poor ; 
 Or, faint and faltering on the devious road, 
 They sink at last and yield their mortal load. 
 
 * This and the following extracts arc from the " Colum- 
 biad." 
 
JOEL BARLOW. 
 
 63 
 
 TO FREEDOM. 
 
 Sun of the moral world ! effulgent source 
 Of man's best wisdom and his steadiest force, 
 Soul-searching Freedom ! here assume thy stand, 
 And radiate hence to every distant land ; 
 Point out and prove how all the scenes of strife, 
 The shock of states, the impassion'd broils of life, 
 Spring from unequal sway ; and how they fly 
 Before the splendour of thy peaceful eye ; 
 Unfold at last the genuine social plan, 
 The mind's full scope, the dignity of man, 
 Bold nature bursting through her long disguise, 
 And nations daring to be just and wise. 
 Yes ! righteous Freedom, heaven and earth and sea 
 Yield or withhold their various gifts for thee ; 
 Protected Industry beneath thy reign 
 Leads all the virtues hi her filial train ; 
 Courageous Probity, with brow serene, 
 And Temperance calm presents her placid mien ; 
 Contentment, Moderation, Labour, Art, 
 Mould the new man and humanize his heart ; 
 To public plenty private ease dilates, 
 Domestic peace to harmony of states. 
 Protected Industry, careering far, 
 Detects the cause and cures the rage of war, 
 And sweeps, with forceful arm, to their last graves, 
 Kings from the earth and pirates from the waves. 
 
 MORGAN AND TELL. 
 
 Morgan in front of his bold riflers towers, 
 His host of keen-eyed marksmen, skill'd to pour 
 Their slugs unerring from the twisted bore. 
 No sword, no bayonet they learn to wield, 
 They gall the flank, they skirt the battling field, 
 Cull out the distant foe in full horse speed, 
 Couch the long tube, and eye the silver bead, 
 Turn as he turns, dismiss the whizzing lead, 
 And lodge the death-ball in his heedless head. 
 So toil'd the huntsman Tell. His quivering dart, 
 Press'd by the bended bowstring, fears to part, 
 Dread the tremendous task, to graze but shun 
 The tender temples of his infant son ; 
 As the loved youth (the tyrant's victim led) 
 Bears the poised apple tottering on his head. 
 The sullen father, with reverted eye, 
 Now marks the satrap, now the bright-hair'd boy ; 
 His second shaft impatient lies, athirst 
 To mend the expected error of the first, 
 To pierce the monster, mid the insulted crowd, 
 And steep the pangs of nature in his blood. 
 Deep doubling toward his breast, well poised and 
 
 slow, 
 Cu/ve the strain'd horns of his indignant bow ; 
 His left arm straightens as the dexter bends, 
 And his nerved knuckle with the gripe distends ; 
 Soft slides the reed back with the stiff drawn strand, 
 Till the steel point has reach'd his steady hand ; 
 Then to his keen fix'd eye the shank he brings 
 Twangs the loud cord, the feather'd arrow sings, 
 
 Picks off the pippin from the smiling boy, 
 
 And Uri's rocks resound with shouts of joy. 
 
 Soon by an equal dart the tyrant bleeds ; 
 
 The cantons league, the work of fate proceeds ; 
 
 Till Austria's titled hordes, with their own gore, 
 
 Fat the fair fields they lorded long before ; 
 
 On Gothard's height while Freedom first unfurl'd 
 
 Her infant banner o'er the modern world. 
 
 THE ZONES OF AMERICA. 
 
 Where Spring's coy steps in cold Canadia 
 
 stray, 
 And joyless seasons hold unequal sway, 
 He saw the pine its daring mantle rear, 
 Break the rude blast, and mock the brumal year, 
 Shag the green zone that bounds the boreal skies, 
 And bid all southern vegetation rise. 
 Wild o'er the vast, impenetrable round 
 The untrod bowers of shadowy nature frown'd ; 
 Millennial cedars wave their honours wide, 
 The fir's tall boughs, the oak's umbrageous pride, 
 The branching beach, the aspen's trembling shade 
 Veil the dim heaven, and brown the dusky glade. 
 For in dense crowds these sturdy sons of earth, 
 In frosty regions, claim a stronger birth ; 
 Where heavy beams the sheltering dome requires, 
 And copious trunks to feed its wintry fires. 
 But warmer suns, that southern zones emblaze, 
 A cool, thin umbrage o'er then woodland raise ; 
 Floridia's shores their blooms around him spread, 
 And Georgian hills erect their shady head ; 
 Whose flowery shrubs regale the passing air 
 With all the untasted fragrance of the year. 
 Beneath tall trees, dispersed in loose array, 
 The rice-grown lawns their humble garb display ; 
 The infant maize, unconscious of its worth, 
 Points the green spire and bends the foliage 
 
 forth ; 
 In various forms unbidden harvests rise, 
 Aud blooming life repays the genial skies. 
 Where Mexic hills the breezy gulf defend, 
 Spontaneous groves with richer burdens bend : 
 Anana's stalk its shaggy honours yields ; 
 Acassia's flowers perfume a thousand fields ; 
 Their cluster'd dates the mast-like palms unfold ; 
 The spreading orange waves a load of gold ; 
 Connubial vines o'ertop the larch they climb ; 
 The long-lived olive mocks the moth of time ; 
 Pomona's pride, that old Grenada claims, 
 Here smiles and reddens in diviner flames ; 
 Pimento, citron scent the sky serene ; 
 White, woolly clusters fringe the cotton's green ; 
 The sturdy fig, the frail, deciduous cane, 
 And foodful cocoa fan the sultry plain. 
 Here, in one view, the same glad branches bring 
 The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring ; 
 No wintry blasts the unchanging year deform, 
 Nor beasts unshelter'd fear the pinching storm ; 
 But vernal breezes o'er the blossoms rove, 
 And breathe the ripen'd juices through the grove 
 
RICHARD ALSOP. 
 
 [Born 1759. Died 1815.] 
 
 Riciiaiit) Aisor was a native of Middletown, 
 Connecticut, where he resided during the greater 
 part of his life. He commenced writing for the 
 gazettes at a very early age, but was first known 
 to the public as the author of satires on public 
 characters and events, entitled "The Echo," "The 
 Political Greenhouse," etc., printed in periodicals 
 at New York and Hartford, and afterward col- 
 lected and published in an octavo volume, in 
 1807. In these works he was aided by Theodore 
 Dwight, and, in a slight degree, by Dr. Hopkins, 
 though he was himself their principal author. 
 "The. Echo" was at first designed to exhibit the 
 wretched style of the newspaper writers, and the 
 earliest numbers contain extracts from contem- 
 porary journals, on a variety of subjects, "done 
 into heroic verse and printed beside the originals." 
 Alsop and his associates were members of the 
 Federal party, and the "Echo" contained many 
 ludicrous travesties of political speeches and 
 essays made by the opponents of the administra- 
 tion of John Adams. The work had much wit 
 and sprightliness, and was very popular in its 
 time ; but, with the greater part of the characters 
 and circumstances to which it related, it is now 
 nearly forgotten. In 1800, Alsop published a 
 "Monody on the Death of Washington," which 
 was much admired; and in the following year a 
 translation of the second canto of Berni's "Or- 
 lando Inamorato," under the title of " The Fairy 
 
 of the Lake," and another of «he Poem of Si- 
 nus Italicus on the Second Punic War. In 
 1807, he translated from the Italian the " History 
 of Chili," by the Abbe Molina, to which he 
 added original notes, and others from the French 
 and Spanish versions of the same history. At 
 different periods he translated several less im- 
 portant works from the Greek, Latin, Italian, 
 Spanish, and French languages, and wrote a 
 number of poems and essays for the periodicals. 
 His last publication was "The Adventures of 
 John Jewett," printed in 1815. He died on the 
 twentieth of August, in that year, at Flatbush, 
 Long Island, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. 
 He had, for a considerable period, been writing 
 "The Charms of Fancy," a poem; and besides 
 this, he left manuscript fragments of a poem on 
 the Conquest of Scandinavia by Odin; "Aris- 
 todemus," a tragedy, from the Italian of Monti ; 
 the poem of Qtjintus Calaber on the Trojan 
 war, from the Greek, and a prose translation of a 
 posthumous work by Florian. As a poet Alsop 
 was often elegant, but his verse was generally 
 without energy. Probably no other American of 
 his time was so well acquainted with the litera- 
 ture of England, France, and Italy, and few were 
 more familiar with the natural sciences. He is 
 said to have been deficient in strength and deci- 
 sion of character, but he was amiable and ho- 
 nourable, and had many friends and few enemies. 
 
 FROM 
 
 "A MONODY ON THE DEATH 
 OF WASHINGTON." 
 
 Before the splendours of thy high renown, 
 How fade the glow-worm lustres of a crown! 
 How sink, diminish' d, in that radiance lost, 
 The glare of conquest and of power the boast! 
 Let Greece her Alexander's deeds proclaim, 
 Or Cesar's triumphs gild the Eoman name; 
 Stript of the dazzling glare around them cast, 
 Shrinks at their crimes humanity aghast; 
 With equal claim to honour's glorious meed, 
 See Attila his course of havoc lead; 
 O'er Asia's realm, in one vast ruin hurl'd, 
 See furious Zinges' bloody flag unfurl'd. 
 On base far different from the conqueror's claim, 
 Rests the unsullied column of thy fame; 
 His on the graves of millions proudly based, 
 With blood cemented and with tears defaced; 
 Thine on a nation's welfare fixed sublime, 
 By freedom strengthen'd, and revered by time : 
 He, as the comet whose portentous light 
 Spreads baleful splendour o'er the glooms of night, 
 With dire amazement chills the startled breast, 
 While stormsand earthquakes dread its course attest; 
 64 
 
 And nature trembles, lest in chaos hurl'd 
 Should sink the tottering fragment of the world; 
 Thine, like the sun, whose kind, propitious ray, 
 Opes the glad morn, and lights the fields of day, 
 Dispels the wintry storm, the chilling rain, 
 With rich abundance clothes the fertile plain, 
 Gives all creation to rejoice around, 
 And light and life extends, o'er nature's utmost 
 
 bound. 
 Though shone thy life a model bright of praise, 
 Not less the example bright thy death portrays , 
 When, plunged in deepest wo around thy bed, 
 Each eye was fix'd, despairing sunk each head, 
 While nature struggled with extremest pain, 
 And scarce could life's last lingering powers retain ; 
 In that dread moment, awfully serene, 
 No trace of suffering marked thy placid mien, 
 No groan, no murmuring plaint escaped thy tongu e ; 
 No longing shadows o'er thy brow were hung ; 
 But, calm in Christian hope, undamp'd with fear, 
 Thou sawest the high reward of virtue near. 
 On that bright meed, in surest trust reposed, 
 As thy firm hand thine eyes expiring closed, 
 Pleased, to the will of Heaven resign'd thy breath, 
 And smiled, as nature's struggles closed in death. 
 
ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. 
 
 [Born 1765. Died 1798.] 
 
 St. John Honey wood was a native of Lei- 
 cester, Massachusetts, and was educated at Yale 
 College. In 1785, being at that time about 
 twenty years old, he removed to Schenectady, 
 New York, where, during the two succeeding 
 years, he was the principal of a classical school. 
 In 1787 he became a law student in the office of 
 Peter W. Yates, Esquire, of Albany, and on 
 being admitted to the bar removed to Salem, in 
 the same state, where he remained until his death, 
 in September, 1798. He was one of the electors 
 of President of the United States when Mr. 
 
 Adams became the successor of General Wash- 
 ington', and he held other honourable offices. 
 He was a man of much professional and general 
 learning, rare conversational abilities, and scru- 
 pulous integrity ; and would probably have been 
 distinguished as a man of letters and a jurist, had 
 he lived to a riper age. The poems embraced in 
 the volume of his writings published in 1801, are 
 generally political, and are distinguished for wit 
 and vigour. The longest in the collection was 
 addressed to M. Adet, on his leaving this coun- 
 try for France. 
 
 CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS.* 
 
 Of crimes, empoison'd source of human woes, 
 Whence the black flood of shame and sorrow flows, 
 How best to check the venom's deadly force, 
 To stem its torrent, or direct its course, 
 To scan the merits of vindictive codes, 
 Nor pass the faults humanity explodes, 
 I sing — what theme more worthy to engage 
 The poet's song, the wisdom of the sage ] 
 Ah ! were I equal to the great design, 
 Were thy bold gemus, blest Beccaiiia! mine, 
 Then should my work, ennobled as my aim, 
 Like thine, receive the meed of deathless fame. 
 Jay ! deserving of a purer age, 
 Pride of thy country, statesman, patriot, sage, 
 Beneath whose guardian care our laws assume 
 A milder form, and lose their Gothic gloom, 
 Read with indulgent eyes, nor yet refuse 
 This humble tribute of an artless muse. 
 
 Great is the question which the learn'd contest, 
 What grade, what mode of punishment is best; 
 In two famed sects the disputants decide, 
 These ranged on Terror's, those on Reason's side ; 
 Ancient as empire Terror's temple stood, 
 Capt with black clouds, and founded deep in blood ; 
 Grim despots here their trembling honours paid, 
 And guilty offerings to their idol made: 
 The monarch led — a servile crowd ensued, 
 Their robes distain'd in gore, in gore imbrued ; 
 O'er mangled limbs they held infernal feast, 
 Mor.octi the god, and Draco's self the priest. 
 Mild Reason's fane, in later ages rear'd, 
 With sunbeams crown'd, in Attic grace appear'd; 
 In just proportion finish'd every part, 
 With the fine touches of enlighten'd art. 
 A thinking few, selected from the crowd, 
 At the fair shrine with filial rev'rence bow'd ; 
 The sage of Milan led the virtuous choir, 
 To them sublime he strung the tuneful lyre: 
 
 * This poem was found among the author's manu- 
 scripts, after his decease ; and was, doubtless, unfinished. 
 5 
 
 Of laws, of crimes, and punishments he sung, 
 And on his glowing lips persuasion hung: 
 From Reason's source each inference just he drew, 
 While truths fresh polish'd struck the mind as new . 
 Full in the front, in vestal robes array'd, 
 The holy form of Justice stood display 'd: 
 Firm was her eye, not vengeful, though severe, 
 And e'er she frown'd she check'd the starting tear. 
 A sister form, of more benignant face, 
 Celestial Mercy, held the second place ; 
 Her hands outspread, in suppliant guise she stood, 
 And oft with eloquence resistless sued; 
 But where 'twas impious e'en to deprecate, 
 She sigh'd assent, and wept the wretch's fate. 
 
 In savage times, fair Freedom yet unknown, 
 The despot, clad in vengeance, fill'd the throne ; 
 His gloomy caprice scrawl'd the ambiguous code, 
 And dyed each page in characters of blood : 
 The laws transgress' d, the prince in judgment sat, 
 And Rage decided on the culprit's fate : 
 Nor stopp'd he here, but, skill'd in murderous art, 
 The scepter'd brute usurp'd the hangman's part ; 
 With his own hands the trembling victim hew'd, 
 And basely wallow'd in a subject's blood. 
 Pleased with the fatal game, the royal mind 
 On modes of death and cruelty refined : 
 Hence the dank caverns of the cheerless mine, 
 Where, shut from light, the famish'd wretches 
 
 pine; 
 The face divine, in seams unsightly sear'd, 
 The eyeballs gouged, the wheel with gorebesmear'd, 
 The Russian knout, the suffocating flame, 
 And forms of torture wanting yet a name. 
 Nor was this rage to savage times confined ; 
 It reach'd to later years and courts refined. 
 Blush, polish'd France, nor let the muse relate 
 The tragic story of your Damien's fate; 
 The bed of steel, where long the assassin lay, 
 In the dark vault, secluded from the day : 
 The quivering flesh which burning pincers tore, 
 The pitch, pour'd flaming in the recent sore ; 
 His carcase, warm with life, convulsed with pain, 
 By steeds dismember'd, dragg'd along the plain. 
 
 65 
 
66 
 
 ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. 
 
 As daring quacks, unskill'd in medic lore, 
 Prescribed the nostrums quacks prescribed before ; 
 Careless of age or sex, whate'er befall, 
 The same dull recipe must serve for all : 
 Our senates thus, with reverence be it said, 
 Have been too long by blind tradition led : 
 Our civil code, from feudal dross refined, 
 Proclaims the liberal and enlighten'd mind ; 
 But till of late the penal statutes stood 
 In Gothic rudeness, smear'd with civic blood ; 
 What base memorials of a barbarous age, 
 What monkish whimsies sullied every page ! 
 The clergy's benefit, a trifling brand, 
 Jest of the law, a holy sleight of hand : 
 Beneath this saintly cloak what crimes abhorr'd, 
 Of sable dye, were shelter'd from the lord ; 
 While the poor starveling, who a cent purloin' d, 
 No reading saved, no juggling trick essoin'd; 
 His was the servile lash, a foul disgrace, 
 Through time transmitted to his hapless race ; 
 The fort and dure, the traitor's motley doom, 
 Might blot the story of imperial Rome. 
 What late disgraced our laws yet stand to stain 
 The splendid annals of a George's reign. 
 
 Say, legislators, for what end design'd 
 This waste of lives, this havoc of mankind 1 
 Say, by what right (one case exempt alone) 
 Do ye prescribe, that blood can crimes atone? 
 If, when our fortunes frown, and dangers press, 
 To act the Roman's part be to transgress ; 
 For man the use of life alone commands, 
 The fee residing in the grantor's hands. 
 Could man, what time the social pact he seal'd, 
 Cede to the state a right he never held? 
 For all the powers which in the state reside, 
 Result from compact, actual or implied. 
 Too well the savage policy we trace 
 To times remote, Humanity's disgrace; 
 E'en while I ask, the trite response recurs, 
 Example warns, severity deters. 
 No milder means can keep the vile in awe, 
 And state necessity compels the law. 
 But let Experience speak, she claims our trust; 
 The data false, the inference is unjust. 
 Ills at a distance, men but slightly fear; 
 Delusive Fancy never thinks them near: 
 With stronger force than fear temptations draw, 
 And Cunning thinks to parry with the law. 
 " My brother swung, poor novice in his art, 
 He blindly stumbled on a hangman's cart ; 
 But wiser I, assuming every shape, 
 As Proteus erst, am certain to escape." 
 The knave, thus jeering, on his skill relies, 
 For never villain deem'd himself unwise. 
 
 When earth convulsive heaved, and, yawning 
 wide, 
 Engulf'd in darkness Lisbon's spiry pride, 
 At that dread hour of ruin and dismay, 
 'T is famed the harden'd felon prowl'd for prey ; 
 Nor trembling earth, nor thunders could restrain 
 His daring feet, which trod the sinking fane; 
 Whence, while the fabric to its centre shook, 
 By impious stealth the hallow'd vase he took. 
 
 What time the gaping vulgar throng to see 
 Some wretch expire on Tyburn's fatal tree ; 
 
 Fast by the crowd the luckier villain clings, 
 And pilfers while the hapless culprit swings. 
 If then the knave can view, with careless eyes, 
 The bolt of vengeance darting from the skies, 
 If Death, with all the pomp of Justice join'd, 
 Scarce strikes a panic in the guilty mind, 
 What can we hope, though every penal code, 
 As Draco's once, were stamp'd in civic blood? 
 
 The blinded wretch, whose mind is bent on ill. 
 Would laugh at threats, and sport with halters still , 
 Temptations gain more vigour as they throng, 
 Crime fosters crime, and wrong engenders wrong; 
 Fondly he hopes the threaten'd fate to shun, 
 Nor sees his fatal error till undone. 
 Wise is the law, and godlike is its aim, 
 Which frowns to mend, and chastens to reclaim, 
 Which seeks the storms of passion to control, 
 And wake the latent virtues of the soul ; 
 For all, perhaps, the vilest of our race, 
 Bear in their breasts some smother'd sparks of grace : 
 Nor vain the hope, nor mad the attempt to raise 
 Those smother'd sparks to Virtue's purer blaze. 
 When, on the cross accursed, the robber writhed, 
 The parting prayer of penitence he breathed ; 
 Cheer'd by the Saviour's smile, to grace restored, 
 He died distinguish'd with his suffering Lord. 
 As seeds long sterile in a poisonous soil, 
 If nurs'd by culture and assiduous toil, 
 May wake to life and vegttative power, 
 Protrude the germ and yield a fragrant flower : 
 E'en thus may man, rapacious and unjust, 
 The slave of sin, the prey of lawless lust, 
 In the drear prison's gloomy round confined, 
 To awful solitude and toil consign'd; 
 Debarr'd from social intercourse, nor less 
 From the vain world's seductions and caress, 
 With late and trembling steps he measures back 
 Life's narrow road, a long abandon' d track ; 
 By Conscience roused, and left to keen Remorse, 
 The mind at length acquires its pristine force : 
 Then pardoning Mercy, with cherubic smile, 
 Dispels the gloom, and smooths the brow of Toil, 
 Till friendly Death, full oft implored in vain, 
 Shall burst the ponderous bar and loose the chain ; 
 Fraught with fresh life, an offering meet for God, 
 The rescued spirit leaves the dread abode. 
 
 Nor yet can laws, though Solon's self should 
 frame, 
 Each shade of guilt discriminate and name ; 
 For senates well their sacred trust fulfil, 
 Who general cures provide for general ill. 
 Much must by his direction be supplied, 
 In whom the laws the pardoning power confide ; 
 He best can measure every varying grade 
 Of guilt, and mark the bounds of light and shade; 
 Weigh each essoin, each incident review, 
 And yield to Mercy, where she claims her due: 
 And wise it were so to extend his trust, 
 With power to mitigate — when 't were unjust 
 Full amnesty to give — for though so dear 
 The name of Mercy to a mortal's ear, 
 Yet should the chief, to human weakness steel'd 
 Rarely indeed to suits for pardon yield ; 
 For neither laws nor pardons can efface 
 The sense of guilt and memorv of disgraeo 
 
ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. 
 
 67 
 
 Say, can the man whom Justice doom'd to shame, 
 With front erect, his country's honours claim 1 
 Can he with cheek unblushing join the crowd, 
 Claim equal rights, and have his claim allow'd! 
 What though he mourn, a penitent sincere ; 
 Though every dawn be usher'd with a tear ; 
 The world, more prone to censure than forgive, 
 Quick to suspect, and tardy to believe, 
 Will still the hapless penitent despise, 
 And watch his conduct with invidious eyes : 
 But the chief end of justice once achieved, 
 The public weal secured, a soul reprieved, 
 'Twere wise in laws, 'twere generous to provide 
 Some place where blushing penitence might hide ; 
 Yes, 'twere humane, 'twere godlike to protect 
 Returning virtue from <he world's neglect 
 And taunting scorn, which pierce with keener pains 
 The feeling mind, than dungeons, racks, and chains : 
 Enlarge their bounds; admit a purer air; 
 Dismiss the servile badge and scanty fare; 
 The stint of labour lessen or suspend, 
 Admit at times the sympathizing friend. 
 
 Repentance courts the shade ; alone she roves 
 By ruin'd towers and night-embrowning groves ; 
 Or midst dark vaults, by Melancholy led, 
 She holds ideal converse with the dead: 
 Lost to the world and each profaner joy, 
 Her solace tears, and prayer her best employ. 
 
 A RADICAL SONG OF 1786. 
 
 Huzza, my Jo Bunkers ! no taxes we'll pay; 
 Here 's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, 
 
 and Day;* 
 Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old 
 
 cause ; 
 Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws : 
 Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush ; 
 Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush. 
 New laws and new charters our books shall display, 
 Composed by conventions and Counsellor Grey. 
 
 Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown, 
 We '11 make them to know we can let them alone. 
 Of Glasgow or Pelham we '11 make a seaport, 
 And there we '11 assemble our General Court : 
 Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work, 
 And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork ; 
 In Adams or Greenwich he '11 live like a peer 
 On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year. 
 
 Grand jurors, and sheriff's, and lawyers we '11 spurn, 
 As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn, 
 And sit the whole term, without pension or fee, 
 Nor Ccjshixg or Sewal look graver than we. 
 Our wigs, though they 're rusty, are decent enough ; 
 Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff"; 
 
 * Names of the leaders of the insurrection that arose, 
 in 1786, in the state of Massachusetts, chiefly in the coun- 
 ties of Hampshire, Berkshire, and Worcester ; which, 
 after convulsing the state for about a year, was finally 
 quelled by a military force under the command of Gene- 
 ral Lincoln and General Shepherd. The leaders fled 
 from the state, and were afterwards pardoned. See 
 Minot's History of the Insurrection in Massachusetts. 
 
 Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain, 
 That poor people no more shall have cause to com- 
 plain. 
 
 To Congress and impost we '11 plead a release ; 
 The French we can beat half-a-dozen a piece ; 
 We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance ; 
 And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance. 
 Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers ! no taxes we '11 pay ; 
 Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, 
 
 and Day ; 
 Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old 
 
 cause ; 
 Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON SEEING A BULL 
 SLAIN IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The sottish clown who never knew a charm 
 Beyond the powers of his nervous arm, 
 Proud of his might, with self-importance full, 
 Or climbs the spire, or fights the maddening bull ; 
 The love of praise, impatient of control, 
 O'erflows the scanty limits of his soul ; 
 In uncouth jargon, turbulently loud, 
 He bawls his triumphs to the wondering crowd : 
 " This well-strung arm dispensed the deadly blow, 
 Fell'd the proud bull and sunk his glories low :" 
 Not thoughts more towering fill'd Pelides' breast, 
 When thus to Greece his haughty vaunts express'd : 
 " I sack'd twelve ample cities on the main, 
 And six lay smoking on the Trojan plain ;" 
 Thus full and fervid throbb'd the pulse of pride, 
 When " Vent, vidi, vici," Cjesar cried. 
 Each vain alike, and differing but in names; 
 These poets flatter — those the mob acclaims ; 
 Impartial Death soon stops the proud career, 
 And bids Legendre rot with Dumotjrier. 
 The God whose sovereign care o'er all extends, 
 Sees whence their madness springs, and where it 
 
 ends; 
 From his blest height, with just contempt, looks 
 
 down 
 On thundering heroes and the swaggering clown : 
 But if our erring reason may presume 
 The future to divine, more mild his doom 
 Whose pride was wreck'd on vanquish'd brutes 
 
 alone, 
 Than his whose conquests made whole nations 
 
 groan. 
 Can Ganges' sacred wave, or Lethe's flood, 
 Wash clear the garments smear'd with civic blood '? 
 What hand from heaven's dread register shall tear 
 The page where, stamp'd in blood, the conqueror's 
 
 crimes appear 1 ? 
 
 IMPROMPTU ON AN ORDER TO RILL 
 THE DOGS IN ALBANY. 
 
 'Tis done! the dreadful sentence is decreed! 
 The town is mad, and all the dogs must bleed ! 
 Ah me ! what boots it that the dogs are slain, 
 Since the whole race of puppies yet remain ! 
 
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 [Born, 1767. Died, 1848.] 
 
 WnEN Mr. Adams took a degree at Harvard 
 College, in 1787, he had already seen much of the 
 world, in foreign schools, or travelling in the suite 
 of his father, or in the official life upon which he had 
 entered, at this early age, as secretary to the Ameri- 
 can legation at St. Petersburg. In 1790 he was 
 admitted to the bar; in 1791 he wrote a reply to 
 Paine's "Rights of Man;" in 1794hewas appoint- 
 ed minister to the Hague, in 1796 minister to Lis- 
 bon, in 1797 minister to Berlin ; in 1801 he returned 
 to the United States, in 1803 was chosen to the 
 senate, in 1806 was made professor of rhetoric at 
 Cambridge, in 1809 went to Russia as minister, 
 in 1S14 was a member of the peace commission 
 at Ghent, in 1815 became envoy at the court of 
 London, in 1817 was recalled to enter the office 
 of Secretary of State, and in 1824 was elected 
 President. After the close of his administration, 
 in 1829, he was for a short period in private life, 
 but in 1831 he reentered Congress, as the repre- 
 sentative of his native district, and by successive 
 elections held his seat there until he died, on the 
 twenty-third of February, 1848. 
 
 The merits of Mr. Adams as a poet are not great, 
 but he wrote much in verse, and frequently with 
 good sense, humour, and scholarly polish. Among 
 his earlier productions are translations of the sev- 
 enth and thirteenth satires of Juvenal, written for 
 Dennie's "Port Folio," and he once showed me 
 a translation of Wieland's "Oberon," which he 
 made while residing officially at Berlin, in 1798. 
 It would have been printed at the time, had not 
 Wielaxd informed a friend of Mr. Adams, who 
 exhibited to him the manuscript, of the English 
 version of his poem then just published by Mr. 
 Sotiieby, of the existence of which Mr. Adams 
 had not been aware. 
 
 The longest of Mr. Adams's original poems is 
 " Dermot Mac Morrogh, or the Conquest of Ire- 
 land, an Historical Tale of the Twelfth Century, 
 in Four Cantos," which appeared in 1832. It is 
 a story of various profligacy and brutality, in which 
 it is difficult to see any poetical elements ; but Mr. 
 Adams deemed the subject suitable for an histori- 
 cal tale, and to give it " an interest which might 
 invite readers," it appeared "advisable to present 
 it in the garb of poetry." He says, "it is intended 
 also as a moral tale, teaching the citizens of these 
 United States the virtues of conjugal fidelity, of 
 genuine piety, and of devotion to their country, 
 by pointing the finger of scorn at the example six 
 hundred years since exhibited, of a country sold 
 to a foreign invader by the joint agency of violated 
 marriage vows, unprincipled ambition, and reli- 
 gious imposture." It was suspected by shrewd 
 critics that the distinguished bard was thinking 
 6S 
 
 of some events nearer home, and that the chron- 
 icle of Giraldus Cambkensis, which he refers 
 to as an authority, had not half as much to do 
 with the suggestion of his theme and its treat- 
 ment as certain scandalous chronicles respecting 
 his own successful competitor for the presidency, 
 and the wife of one of his leading partizans. This 
 suspicion was not lessened by the disclaimer in 
 the opening stanzas of the poem: 
 
 "I sing of Dermot, Erin's early pride; 
 
 The pious patriot of the Emerald strand; 
 The first deliverer, for a stolen bride, 
 
 Who sold to Albion's king his native land. 
 But, countrymen of mine, let wo betide 
 
 The man who thinks of aught but what's in hand. 
 What I shall tell you, happen'd, you must know, 
 Beyond the seas, six hundred years ago. 
 
 " 'T is strange how often readers will indulge 
 Their wits a mystic meaning to discover; 
 
 Secrets ne'er dreamt of by the bard divulge, 
 And where he shoots a duck will find a plover, 
 
 Satiric shafts from every line promulge, — 
 Detect a tyrant, when he draws a lover : — 
 
 Nay, so intent his hidden thoughts to see, 
 
 Cry, if he paint a scoundrel — ' That means me.' . . . 
 
 " Against all this I enter my protest ; 
 
 Dermot Mac Morrogh shows my hero's face ; 
 Nor will I, or in earnest or in jest, 
 
 Permit another to usurp his place ; 
 And give me leave to say that I know best 
 
 My own intentions in the lines I trace ; 
 Let no man therefore draw aside the screen, 
 And say 't is any other that I mean." 
 
 " Dermot Mac Morrogh" added very little to 
 Mr. Adams's literary fame. Reviewers of all 
 parties condemned it as an utter failure in poetry, 
 philosophy, and wit. It is probable that the emi- 
 nent position of the author was as injurious to 
 him with the critics, as it was advantageous to 
 his booksellers with the public. 
 
 A collection of his shorter effusions appeared 
 soon after his death under the title of "Poems of 
 Religion and Society," and the editor expresses an 
 opinion that many of them " are informed with 
 wisdom and various learning," and that some of the 
 illustrious writer's hymns " are among the finest 
 devotional lyrics in our language." This praise 
 is not altogether undeserved, but perhaps it may 
 be discovered that they are more remarkable for 
 the quality of piety than for that of poetry. 
 
 Of the intellectual activity of Mr. Adams, his 
 erudition, temper, and general literary character, 
 I.have given some account in " The Prose Writers 
 of America." Though one of our most volumin- 
 ous authors, and possessed of abilities by which 
 he might have been among the most distinguished, 
 he will probably be longer remembered as a states 
 man than as a man of letters. 
 
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 69 
 
 THE WANTS OF MAN. 
 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long. — Goldsmith. 
 
 " Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 'T is not with me exactly so, 
 
 But 't is so in the song. 
 My wants are many, and if told 
 
 Would muster many a score ; 
 And were each wish a mint of gold, 
 
 I still should long for more. 
 
 What first I want is daily bread, 
 
 And canvas-backs and wine ; 
 And all the realms of nature spread 
 
 Before me when I dine ; 
 With four choice cooks from France, beside, 
 
 To dress my dinner well ; 
 Four courses scarcely can provide 
 
 My appetite to quell. 
 
 What next I want, at heavy cost, 
 
 Is elegant attire : 
 Black sable furs for winter's frost, 
 
 And silks for summer's fire, 
 And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace 
 
 My bosom's front to deck, 
 And diamond rings my hands to grace, 
 
 And rubies for my neck. 
 
 And then I want a mansion fair, 
 
 A dwelling-house, in style, 
 Four stories high, for wholesome air — 
 
 A massive marble pile ; 
 With halls for banquetings and balls, 
 
 All furnished rich and fine ; 
 With high blood studs in fifty stalls, 
 
 And cellars for my wine. 
 
 I want a garden and a park, 
 
 My dwelling to surround — 
 A thousand acres, (bless the mark !) 
 
 With walls encompass'd round — 
 Where flocks may range and herds may low, 
 
 And kids and lambkins play, 
 And flowers and fruits commingled grow, 
 
 All Eden to display. 
 
 I want, when summer's foliage falls, 
 
 And autumn strips the trees, 
 A house within the city's walls, 
 
 For comfort and for ease; 
 But here, as space is somewhat scant, 
 
 And acres somewhat rare, 
 My house in town I only want 
 
 To occupy — a square. 
 
 I want a steward, butler, cooks; 
 
 A coachman, footman, grooms ; 
 A library of well-bound books, 
 
 And picture-garnished rooms , 
 Cobeegio's Magdalen, and Night, 
 
 The Matron of the Chair; 
 Guido's fleet Coursers, in their flight, 
 
 And Claudes at least a pair. 
 
 I want a cabinet profuse 
 
 Of medals, coins, and gems ; 
 A printing-press, for private use, 
 
 Of fifty thousand ems ; 
 And plants, and minerals, and shells ; 
 
 Worms, insects, fishes, birds ; 
 And every beast on earth that dwells, 
 
 In solitude or herds. 
 
 I want a board of burnished plate, 
 
 Of silver and of gold ; 
 Tureens, of twenty pounds in weight, 
 
 And sculpture's richest mould; 
 Plateaus, with chandeliers and lamps, 
 
 Plates, dishes — all the same ; 
 And porcelain vases, with the stamps 
 
 Of Sevres and Angouleme. 
 
 And maples, of fair glossy stain, 
 
 Must form my chamber doors, 
 And carpets of the Wilton grain 
 
 Must cover all my floors ; 
 My walls, with tapestry bedeck'd, 
 
 Must never be outdone ; 
 And damask curtains must protect 
 
 Their colours from the sun. 
 
 And mirrors of the largest pane 
 
 From Venice must be brought ; 
 And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane, 
 
 For chairs and tables bought; 
 On all the mantel-pieces, clocks 
 
 Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, 
 And screens of ebony and box 
 
 Invite the stranger's hand. 
 
 I want (who does not want !) a wife, 
 
 Affectionate and fair, 
 To solace all the woes of life, 
 
 And all its joys to share ; 
 Of temper sweet, of yielding will, 
 
 Of firm, yet placid mind, 
 With all my faults to love me still, 
 
 With sentiment refined. 
 
 And as Time's car incessant runs, 
 
 And Fortune fills my store, 
 I want of daughters and of sons 
 
 From eight to half a score. 
 I want (alas ! can mortal dare 
 
 Such bliss on earth to crave I) 
 That all the girls be chaste and fair — 
 
 The boys all wise and brave. 
 
 And when my bosom's darling sings, 
 
 With melody divine, 
 A pedal harp of many strings 
 
 Must with her voice combine. 
 A piano, exquisitely wrought, 
 
 Must open stand, apart, 
 That all my daughters may be taught 
 
 To win the stranger's heart. 
 
 My wife and daughters will desire >. ... 
 
 Refreshment from perfumes, 
 Cosmetics for the skin require, 
 
 And artificial blooms. 
 
70 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 The civet fragrance shall dispense, 
 
 And treasured sweets return ; 
 Cologne revive the flagging sense, 
 
 And smoking amber burn. 
 
 And when at night my weary head 
 
 Begins to droop and dose, 
 A chamber south, to hold my bed, 
 
 For nature's soft repose ; 
 With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet, 
 
 Mattrass, and sack of down, 
 And comfortables for my feet, 
 
 And pillows for my crown. 
 
 I want a warm and faithful friend, 
 
 To cheer the adverse hour, 
 Who ne'er to flatter will descend, 
 
 Nor bend the knee to power ; 
 A friend to chide me when I 'm wrong, 
 
 My inmost soul to see ; 
 And that my friendship prove as strong 
 
 For him, as his for me. 
 
 I want a kind and tender heart, 
 
 For others wants to feel ; 
 A soul secure from Fortune's dart, 
 
 And bosom arm'd with steel ; 
 To bear divine chastisement's rod, 
 
 And, mingling in my plan, 
 Submission to the will of God, 
 
 With charity to man. 
 
 I want a keen, observing eye, 
 
 An ever-listening ear, 
 The truth through all disguise to spy, 
 
 And wisdom's voice to hear ; 
 A tongue, to speak at virtue's need, 
 
 In Heaven's sublimest strain ; 
 And lips, the cause of man to plead, 
 
 And never plead in vain. 
 
 I want uninterrupted health, 
 
 Throughout my long career, 
 And streams of never-failing wealth, 
 
 To scatter far and near — 
 The destitute to clothe and feed, 
 
 Free bounty to bestow, 
 Supply the helpless orphan's need, 
 
 And soothe the widow's wo. 
 
 I want the genius to conceive, 
 
 The talents to unfold, 
 Designs, the vicious to retrieve, 
 
 The virtuous to uphold ; 
 Inventive power, combining skill, 
 
 A persevering soul, 
 Of human hearts to mould the will, 
 
 And reach from pole to pole. 
 
 I want the seals of power and place, 
 
 The ensigns of command, 
 Charged by the people's unbought grace, 
 
 To rule my native land; 
 Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask, 
 
 But from my country's will, 
 By day, by night, to ply the task 
 
 Her cup of bliss to fill. 
 
 I want the voice of honest praise 
 
 To follow me behind, 
 And to be thought, in future days, 
 
 The friend of human kind ; 
 That after ages, as they rise, 
 
 Exulting may proclaim, 
 In choral union to the skies, 
 
 Their blessings on my name. 
 
 These are the wants of mortal man ; 
 
 I cannot need them long, 
 For life itself is but a span, 
 
 And earthly bliss a song. 
 My last great want, absorbing all, 
 
 Is, when beneath the sod, 
 And summon'd to my final call, — 
 
 The mercy of my God. 
 
 And oh! while circles in my veins 
 
 Of life the purple stream, 
 And yet a fragment small remains 
 
 Of nature's transient dream, 
 My soul, in humble hope unscared, 
 
 Forget not thou to pray, 
 That this thy want may be prepared 
 
 To meet the Judgment-Day. 
 
 THE PLAGUE IN THE FOEEST. 
 
 Time was, when round the lion's den, 
 
 A peopled city raised its head ; 
 'T was not inhabited by men, 
 
 But by four-footed beasts instead. 
 The lynx, the leopard, and the beai; 
 The tiger and the wolf, were there; 
 
 The hoof-defended steed ; 
 The bull, prepared with horns to gore, 
 The cat with claws, the tusky boar, 
 
 And all the canine breed. 
 
 In social compact thus combined, 
 
 Together dwelt the beasts of prey ; 
 Their murderous weapons all resigned, 
 
 And vowed each other not to slay. 
 Among them Reynard thrust his phiz ; 
 Not hoof, nor horn, nor tusk was his, 
 
 For warfare all unfit; 
 He whispered to the royal dunce, 
 And gained a settlement at once; 
 
 His weapon was, — his wit. 
 
 One summer, by some fatal spell, 
 
 (Phcebus was peevish for some scoff,) 
 The plague upon that city fell, 
 
 And swept the beasts by thousands off. 
 The lion, as became his part. 
 Loved his own people from his heart, 
 
 And taking counsel'sage, 
 His peerage summoned to advise 
 And offer up a sacrifice, 
 
 To soothe Apollo's rage. 
 
 Quoth Lion, " We are sinners all, 
 And even it must be confessed, 
 
 If among sheep I chance to fall, 
 I — I am guilty as the rest. 
 
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 71 
 
 To me the sight of lamb is curst, 
 It kindles in my throat a thirst,— 
 
 I struggle to refrain, — ■ 
 Poor innocent ! his blood so sweet ! 
 His flesh so delicate to eat ! 
 
 I find resistance vain. 
 
 " Now to be candid, I must own 
 
 The sheep are weak and I am strong, 
 But when we find ourselves alone, 
 
 The sheep have never done me wrong. 
 And, since I purpose to reveal 
 All my offences, nor conceal 
 
 One trespass from your view ; 
 My appetite is made so keen, 
 That with the sheep the time has been 
 
 I took, — the shepherd too. 
 
 "Then let us all our sins confess, 
 
 And whosoe'r the blackest guilt, 
 To ease my people's deep distress, 
 
 Let his atoning blood be spilt. 
 My own confession now you hear, 
 Should none of deeper dye appear, 
 
 Your sentence freely give ; 
 And if on me should fall the lot 
 Make me the victim on the spot, 
 
 And let my people live." 
 
 The council with applauses rung, 
 
 To hear the Codrus of the wood; 
 Though still some doubt suspended hung, 
 
 If he would make his promise good, — 
 Quoth Reynard, " Since the world was made, 
 Was ever love like this displayed ] 
 
 Let us like subjects true 
 Swear, as before your feet we fall, 
 Sooner than you should die for all, 
 
 We all will die for you. 
 
 "But please your majesty, I deem, 
 
 Submissive to your royal grace, 
 You hold in far too high esteem 
 
 That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race ; 
 For oft, reflecting in the shade, 
 I ask myself why sheep were made 
 
 By all-creating power 1 
 And howsoe'er I tax my mind, 
 This the sole reason I can find — 
 
 For lions to devour. 
 
 " And as for eating now and then, 
 
 As well the shepherd as the sheep, — 
 How can that braggart breed of men 
 
 Expect with you the peace to keep 1 
 'T is time their blustering boast to stem, 
 That all the world was made for them — 
 
 And prove creation's plan; 
 Teach them by evidence profuse 
 That man was made for lion's use, 
 
 Not lions made for man." 
 
 And now the noble peers begin, 
 
 And, cheered with such examples bright, 
 Disclosing each his secret sin, 
 
 Some midnight murder brought to light; 
 Reynard was counsel for them all, 
 No crime the assembly could appal, 
 
 But he could botch with paint : 
 Hark, as his honeyed accents roll: 
 Each tiger is a gentle soul, 
 
 Each blood-hound is a saint. 
 
 When each had told his tale in turn, 
 
 The long-eared beast of burden came, 
 And meekly said, " My bowels yearn 
 
 To make confession of my shame; 
 But I remember on a time 
 I passed, not thinking of a crime, 
 
 A haystack on my way : 
 His lure some tempting devil spread, 
 I stretched across the fence my head, 
 
 And cropped, — a lock of hay." 
 
 " Oh, monster ! villian !" Reynard cried — ■ 
 
 " No longer seek the victim, sire ; 
 Nor why your subjects thus have died, 
 
 To expiate Apollo's ire." 
 The council with one voice decreed ; 
 All joined to execrate the deed, — 
 
 " What, steal another's grass!" 
 The blackest crime their lives could show, 
 Was washed as white as virgin snow ; 
 
 The victim was, — The Ass. 
 
 TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 
 
 Sure, to the mansions of the blest 
 
 When infant innocence ascends, 
 Some angel, brighter than the rest, 
 
 The spotless spirit's flight attends. 
 On wings of ecstasy they rise, 
 
 Beyond where worlds material roll ; 
 Till some fair sister of the skies 
 
 Receives the unpolluted soul. 
 That inextinguishable beam, 
 
 With dust united at our birth, 
 Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam 
 
 The more it lingers upon earth. . . . 
 
 But when the Lord of mortal breath 
 
 Decrees his bounty to resume, 
 And points the silent shaft of death 
 
 Which speeds an infant to the tomb — 
 No passion fierce, nor low desire, 
 
 Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; 
 Back, to its God, the living fire 
 
 Reverts, unclouded as it came. 
 Fond mourner ! be that solace thine ! 
 
 Let Hope her healing charm impart, 
 And soothe, with melodies divine, 
 
 The anguish of a mother's heart. 
 
 Oh, think! the darlings of thy love, 
 
 Divested of this earthly clod, 
 Amid unnumber'd saints, above, 
 
 Bask in the bosom of their God. . . . 
 O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend ; 
 
 For thee the Lord of life implore; 
 And oft, from sainted bliss descend, 
 
 Thy wounded quiet to restore. 
 Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; 
 
 Their part and thine inverted see : 
 Thou wert their guardian angel here, 
 
 They guardian angels now to thee. 
 
JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 
 
 [Born, 1770. Died, 1812.] 
 
 Joseph Hopkinson, LL. D., son of Francis 
 Hopkinson, author of >« The Battle of the Kegs," 
 &c, was born in Philadelphia in 1770, and edu- 
 cated for the bar in the office of his father. He 
 wrote verses with fluency, but had little claim to 
 be regarded as a poet. His " Hail Columbia !" 
 is, however, one of our very few national songs, 
 and is likely to be looked for in all collections of 
 American poetry. In his old age Judge Hopkin- 
 son wrote me a letter, in which the history of this 
 song is thus given : 
 
 ..." It was written in the summer of 1798, when war 
 with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was 
 then in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that im- 
 portant subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken 
 place. The contest between England and France was rag- 
 ing, and the people of the United States were divided into 
 parties for the one side or the other, some thinking that 
 policy and duty required us to espouse the cause of repub- 
 lican France, as she was called ; while others were for con- 
 necting ourselves with England, under the belief that she 
 was the great preservative power of good principles and 
 safe government. The violation of our rights by both bel- 
 ligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of 
 President Washington, which was to do equal justice to 
 both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and 
 honest neutrality between thim. The prospect of a rup- 
 ture with France was exceedingly offensive to the portion 
 of the people who espoused her cause ; and the violence 
 of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think not 
 so high, in our country, as it did at that time, upon that 
 
 question. The theatre was then open in our city. A young 
 mau belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was 
 about to take his benefit. I had known him when he was 
 at school. On this acquaintance, he called on me one Sa- 
 turday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the fol- 
 lowing Monday. His prospects were very disheartening ; 
 but he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted 
 to the tune of the ' President's March,' he did not doubt 
 of a full house ; that the poets of the theatrical corps ha.d 
 been trying to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I 
 told him I would try what I could do for him. lie came 
 the next afternoon ; and the song, such as it is, was ready 
 for him. 
 
 " The object of the author was to get up an American 
 spirit, which should be independent of, and above the inter- 
 ests, passions, and policy of both belligerents ; and look and 
 feel exclusively for our own honour and rights. No allusion 
 is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them ; 
 or to the question, which was most in fault in their treat- 
 ment of us: of course the song found favour with both 
 parties, for both were Americans ; at least neither could 
 disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such 
 is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely 
 beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any 
 merit it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclu- 
 sively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit." 
 
 At the time of his death, which occurred on the 
 fifteenth of January, 1842, the author was Presi- 
 dent of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine 
 Arts, one of the Vice-Presidents of the American 
 Philosophical Society, and a Judge of the District 
 Court of the United States. 
 
 HAIL COLUMBIA. 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
 Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band ! 
 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 Enjoy'd the peace your valour won ! 
 Let independence be our boast, 
 Ever mindful what it cost; 
 Ever grateful for the prize, 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 Firm — united — let us be, 
 Rallying round our liberty; 
 As a band of brothers join'd, 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Immortal patriots! rise once more; 
 
 Defend your rights, defend your shore; 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 Let no rude loe, with impious hand, 
 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 W r hile offering peace sincere and just, 
 In Heaven we place a manly trust, 
 72 
 
 That truth and justice will prevail, 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause, 
 Ring through the world with loud applause: 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 With equal skill and godlike power, 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war; or guides with ease, 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands. 
 
 Once more to serve his country stands — 
 The rock on which the storm will beat, 
 The rock on which the storm will beat : 
 
 But, armed in virtue firm and true, 
 
 His hopes are fixed on heaven and you. 
 When Hope was sinking in dismay, 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 Resolved on death or liberty. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
WILLIAM CLIFFTON. 
 
 [Born 1772. Died 1799.] 
 
 The father of William Clifftott was a 
 wealthy member of the society of Friends, in 
 Philadelphia. The poet, from his childhood, had 
 little physical strength, and was generally a suf- 
 ferer from disease; but his mind was vigorous 
 and carefully educated, and had he lived to a 
 mature age, he would probably have won an en- 
 during reputation as an author. His life was 
 marked by few incidents. He made himself ac- 
 quainted with the classical studies pursued in the 
 universities, and with music, painting, and such 
 field-sports as he supposed he could indulge in 
 with most advantage to his health. He was 
 considered an amiable and accomplished gen- 
 tleman, and his society was courted alike by 
 
 the fashionable and the learned. He died in 
 December, 1799, in the twenty-seventh year of 
 his age. 
 
 The poetry of Cliffton has more energy of 
 thought and diction, and is generally more cor- 
 rect and harmonious, than any which had been 
 previously written in this country. Much of it 
 is satirical, and relates to persons and events of 
 the period in which he lived; and the small 
 volume of his writings published after his death 
 doubtless contains.some pieces which would have 
 been excluded from an edition prepared by him- 
 self, for this reason, and because they were un- 
 finished and not originally intended to meet the 
 eye of the world. 
 
 TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ.* 
 
 In - these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, 
 Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies ; 
 Where few and feeble are the muse's strains, 
 And no fine frenzy riots in the veins, 
 There still are found a few to whom belong 
 The fire of virtue and the soul of song ; 
 Whose kindling ardour still can wake the strings, 
 When learning triumphs, and when Giffokd sings. 
 To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays, 
 His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys; 
 Pleased, if permitted round thy name to bloom, 
 To boast one effort rescued from the tomb. 
 
 While this delirious age enchanted seems 
 With hectic Fancy's desultory dreams ; 
 While wearing fast away is every trace 
 Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace, 
 With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, 
 As Horace polish'd, and as Perseus bold, 
 Reclaim the art, assert the muse divine, 
 And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. 
 Since that great day which saw the Tablet rise, 
 A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes, 
 No time has been that touch'd the muse so near, 
 No Age when Learning had so much to fear, 
 As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame, 
 And every rebus-weaver talks of Fame. 
 
 When Truth in classic majesty appear' d, 
 And Greece, on high, the dome of science rear'd, 
 Patience and perseverance, care and pain 
 Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain: 
 None but the great the sun-clad summit found ; 
 The weak were baffled, and the strong were crown' d. 
 
 * Prefixed to William Cobbett's edition of the " Ba- 
 viad and Majviad," published in Philadelphia, in 1799. 
 
 The tardy transcript's nigh-wrought page confined 
 To one pursuit the undivided mind. 
 No venal critic fatten'd on the trade ; 
 Books for delight, and not for sale were made ; 
 Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought, 
 The chief who govern'd, and the sage who taught: 
 The drama then with deathless bays was wreath'd, 
 The statue quicken'd, and the canvass breathed. 
 The poet, then, with unresisted art, 
 Sway'd every impulse of the captive heart. 
 Touch'd with a beam of Heaven's creative mind, 
 His spirit kindled, and his taste refined : 
 Incessant toil inform'd his rising youth ; 
 Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted truth, 
 Till, all complete, his perfect soul display'd 
 Some bloom of genius which could never fade. 
 So the sage oak, to Nature's mandate true, 
 Advanced but slow, and strengthen'd as it grew ! 
 But when, at length, (full many a season o'er,) 
 Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore ; 
 When steadfast were its roots, and sound its heart, 
 It bade defiance to the insect's art, 
 And, storm and time resisting, still remains 
 The never-dying glory of the plains. 
 
 Then, if some thoughtless Bavius dared appear, 
 Short was his date, and limited his sphere ; 
 He could but please the changeling mob a day, 
 Then, like his noxious labours, pass away : 
 So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower 
 Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour, 
 Scatters its little poison through the skies, 
 Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies. 
 
 Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore, 
 To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel bore, 
 The sacred plant to hands divine was given, 
 And deathless Maro nursed the boon of Heaven 
 Exalted bard ! to hear thy gentler voice, 
 The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice ; 
 
 73 
 
74 
 
 WILLIAM CLIFFTON. 
 
 ]3ut when, on some wild mountain's awful form, 
 We hear thy spirit chanting to the storm, 
 Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore, 
 We rage, we sigh, we wonder, and adore. 
 Thus Rome with Greece in rival splendour shone, 
 But claim'd immortal satire for her own; 
 While Horace pierced, full oft, the wanton breast 
 With sportive censure, and resistless jest; 
 And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay 
 Thy kindred genius can so well display, 
 With many a well-aim'd thought, and pointed line, 
 Drove the bold villain from his black design. 
 For, as those mighty masters of the lyre, 
 With temper'd dignity, or quenchless ire, 
 Through all the various paths of science trod, 
 Their school was Nature and their teacher God. 
 Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head, 
 The savage tempest of the north was spread; 
 Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came, 
 And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame. 
 
 But soon the arts once more a dawn diffuse, 
 And Daste hail'd it with his morning muse; 
 Petrarch and Boccace join'd the choral lay, 
 And Arno glisten'd with returning day. 
 Thus science rose ; and, all her troubles pass'd, 
 She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last; 
 But Faustus came : (indulge the painful thought,) 
 Were not his countless volumes dearly bought'? 
 For, while to every clime and class they flew, 
 Their worth diminish'd as their numbers grew. 
 Some pressman, rich in Homer's glowing page, 
 Could give ten epics to one wondering age ; 
 A single thought supplied the great design, 
 And clouds of Iliads spread from every line. 
 Nor Homer's glowing page, nor Virgil's fire 
 Could one lone breast with equal flame inspire, 
 But, lost in books, irregular and wild, 
 The poet wonder'd, and the critic smiled : 
 The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays ; 
 For fools will print, while greater fools will praise. 
 
 Touch'd with the mania, now, what millions rage 
 To shine the laureat blockheads of the age. 
 The dire contagion creeps through every grade ; 
 Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade : 
 And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, 
 For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot. 
 Ere to his breast the wasteful mischief spread, 
 Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed ; 
 And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind, 
 His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind, 
 He laugh'd at toil, with health and vigour bless'd, 
 For days of labour brought their nignts of rest: 
 But now in rags, ambitious for a name, 
 The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame, 
 His conscience haunts him with his guilty life, 
 J lis starving children, and his ruin'd wife. 
 Thus swarming wits, of all materials made, 
 Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid, 
 And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm, 
 Call lust, refinement; anarchy, reform. 
 
 No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong, 
 Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along: 
 And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom 
 To the dark level of an endless tomb. 
 
 By arms assail'd we still can arms oppose, 
 And rescue learning from her brutal foes ; 
 But when those foes to friendship make pretence, 
 And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, 
 Carouse with passion, laugh at God's control, 
 And sack the little empire of the soul, 
 What warning voice can save 1 Alas ! 't is o'er, 
 The age of virtue will return ho more ; 
 The doating world, its manly vigour flown, 
 Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. 
 Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, 
 Be still the muses' and religion's friend; 
 Again the banner of thy wrath display, 
 And save the world from Darwin's tinsel lay. 
 A soul like thine no listless pause should know ; 
 Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow 
 From every conquest still more dreadful come, 
 Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb. 
 
 MARY WILL SMILE. 
 
 The morn was fresh, and pure the gale, 
 
 When Mary, from her cot a rover, 
 Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale 
 
 To bind the temples of her lover. 
 As near his little farm she stray'd, 
 
 Where birds of love were ever pairing, 
 She saw her William in the shade, 
 
 The arms of ruthless w T ar preparing. 
 "Though now," he cried, "I seek the hostile plain, 
 Marx shall smile, and all be fair again." 
 
 She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried, 
 
 " Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger, 
 Desert thy Mart's faithful side, 
 
 And bare thy life to every danger'] 
 Yet, go, brave youth ! to arms away ! 
 
 My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, 
 And when the drum beats far away, 
 
 I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee. 
 Return'd with honour, from the hostile plain, 
 Mary will smile, and all be fair again. 
 
 " The bugles through the forest wind, 
 
 The woodland soldiers call to battle : 
 Be some protecting angel kind, 
 
 And guard thy life when cannons rattle !" 
 She sung — and as the rose appears 
 
 In sunshine, when the storm is over, 
 A smile beam'd sweetly through her tears — 
 
 The blush of promise to her lover. 
 Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain, 
 All shall be fair, and Mary smile again. 
 
ROBERT TREAT PAINE 
 
 [Bom, 1773. Died, 1811.] 
 
 This writer was once ranked by our American 
 critics among the great masters of English verse ; 
 and it was believed that his reputation would en- 
 dure as long as the language in which he wrote. 
 The absurd estimate of his abilities shows the 
 wretched condition of taste in his time, and per- 
 haps caused some of the faults in his later works. 
 
 Robert Treat Paine, junior,* was born at 
 Taunton, Massachusetts, on the ninth of Decem- 
 ber, 1773. His father, an eminent lawyer, held 
 many honourable offices under the state and na- 
 tional governments, and was one of the signers of 
 the Declaration of Independence. The family hav- 
 ing removed to Boston, when he was about seven 
 years old, the poet received his early education in 
 that city, and entered Harvard University in 1788. 
 His career here was brilliant and honourable ; no 
 member of his class was so familiar with the an- 
 cient languages, or with elegant English literature ; 
 and his biographer assures us that he was person- 
 ally popular among his classmates and the offi- 
 cers of the university. When he was graduated, 
 " he was as much distinguished for the opening 
 virtues of his heart, as for the vivacity of hirs wit, 
 the vigour of his imagination, and the variety of 
 his knowledge. A liberality of sentiment and a 
 contempt of selfishness are usual concomitants, and 
 in him were striking characteristics. Urbanity of 
 manners and a delicacy of feeling imparted a charm 
 to his benignant temper and social disposition." 
 
 While in college he had won many praises by 
 his poetical " exercises," and on the completion of 
 his education he was anxious to devote himself to 
 literature as a profession. His father, a man of 
 singular austerity, had marked out for him a dif- 
 ferent career, and obtained for him a clerkship in 
 a mercantile house in Boston. But he was in no 
 way fitted for the pursuits of business ; and after 
 a few months he abandoned the counting-room, 
 to rely upon his pen for the means of living. In 
 1794 he established the "Federal Orrery," a po- 
 litical and literary gazette, and conducted it two 
 years, but without industry or discretion, and there- 
 fore without profit. Soon after leaving the uni- 
 versity, he had become a constant visiter of the 
 theatre, then recently established in Boston. His 
 intimacy with persons connected with the stage 
 led to his marriage with an actress ; and this to 
 his exclusion from fashionable society, and a dis- 
 agreement with his father, which lasted until his 
 death. 
 
 He was destitute of true courage, and of that 
 
 * He was originally called Thomas Paine ; but on the 
 death of an elder brother, in 1801, las name was changed 
 by an act of the Massachusetts legislature to that of his 
 father. 
 
 kind of pride which arises from a consciousness of 
 integrity and worth. When, therefore, he found 
 himself unpopular with the town, he no longer en- 
 deavoured to deserve regard, but neglected his per- 
 sonal appearance, became intemperate, and aban- 
 doned himself to indolence. The office of " mas- 
 ter of ceremonies" in the theatre, an anomalous 
 station, created for his benefit, still yielded him a 
 moderate income, and, notwithstanding the irreg- 
 ularity of his habits, he never exerted his poetical 
 abilities without success. For his poems and other 
 productions he obtained prices unparalleled in this 
 country, and rarely equalled by the rewards of the 
 most popular European authors. For the "In- 
 vention of Letters," written at the request of the 
 President of Harvard University, he received fif- 
 teen hundred dollars, or more than five dollars a 
 line. " The Ruling Passion," a poem recited be- 
 fore the Phi Beta Kappa Society, was little less 
 profitable ; and he was paid seven hundred and 
 fifty dollars for a song of half a dozen stanzas, en- 
 titled "Adams and Liberty." 
 
 His habits, in the sunshine, gradually improved, 
 and his friends who adhered to him endeavoured 
 to wean him from dissipation, and to persuade him 
 to study the law, and establish himself in an hon- 
 ourable position in society. They were for a time 
 successful ; he entered the office of the Honourable 
 Theophilus Parsons, of Newburyport ; applied 
 himself diligently to his studies; was admitted to 
 the bar, and became a popular advocate. No law- 
 yer ever commenced business with more brilliant 
 prospects; but bis indolence and recklessness re- 
 turned ; his business was neglected ; his reputa 
 tion decayed ; and, broken down and disheartened 
 by poverty, disease, and the neglect of his old as- 
 sociates, the evening of his life presented a melan- 
 choly contrast to its morning, when every sign 
 gave promise of a bright career. In his last years, 
 says his biographer, " without a library, wandering 
 from place to place, frequently uncertain whence 
 or whether he could procure a meal, his thirst for 
 knowledge astonishingly increased ; neither sick- 
 ness nor penury abated his love of books and in- 
 structive conversation." He died in " an attic 
 chamber of his father's house," on the eleventh of 
 November, 1811, in the thirty-eighth year of his 
 age. 
 
 Dr. Johnson said of Drtden, of whom Paine 
 was a servile but unsuccessful imitator, that " his 
 delight was in wild and daring sallies of sentiment, 
 in the irregular and eccentric violence of wit ;" that 
 he " delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning, 
 where light and darkness begin to mingle ; to ap- 
 proach the precipice of absurdity, and hover over 
 the abyss of unideal vacancy." The censure is 
 
 75 
 
76 
 
 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 
 
 more applicable to the copy than the original. 
 There was no freshness in Paine's writings; his 
 subjects, his characters, his thoughts, were all com- 
 monplace and familiar. His mind was fashioned 
 by books, and not by converse with the world. He 
 had a brilliant fancy, and a singular command of 
 language ; but he was never content to be simple 
 and natural. He endeavoured to be magnificent 
 and striking ; he was perpetually searching for con- 
 ceits and extravagances; and in the multiplicity of 
 his illustrations and ornaments, he was unintelli- 
 gible and tawdry. From no other writer could so 
 many instances of the false sublime be selected. 
 He never spoke to the heart in its own language. 
 Paine wrote with remarkable facility. It is 
 related of him by his biographers, that he had 
 finished "Adams and Liberty," and exhibited it to 
 some gentlemen at the house of a friend. His host 
 pronounced it imperfect, as the name of Washing- 
 ton was omitted, and declared that he should not 
 approach the sideboard, on which bottles of wine 
 had just been placed, until he had written an ad- 
 
 ditional stanza. The poet mused a moment, called 
 for a pen, and wrote the following lines, which are, 
 perhaps, the best in the song : 
 
 Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, 
 
 Its holts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder; 
 For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand, 
 And repulse with his hreast the assaults of the thunder I 
 His sword from the sleep 
 Of its scabbard would leap, 
 And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep ! 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 He had agreed to write the " opening address," 
 on the rebuilding of the Boston Theatre, in 1798. 
 Hodgkinson, the manager, called on him in the 
 evening, before it was to be delivered, and upbraid- 
 ed him for his negligence ; the first line of it being 
 yet unwritten. " Pray, do not be angry," said 
 Paine, who was dining with some literary friends ; 
 "sit down and take a glass of wine." — "No, sir," 
 replied the manager ; " when you begin to write, 
 I will begin to drink." Paine took his pen, at a 
 side-table, and in two or three hours finished the 
 address, which is one of the best he ever wrote. 
 
 ADAMS AND LIBERTY. 
 
 Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought 
 For those rights, which unstain'd from your sires 
 had descended, 
 May you long taste the blessings your valour has 
 bought, 
 And your sons reap the soil which their fathers 
 defended. 
 Mid the reign of mild Peace 
 May your nation increase, 
 With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece ; 
 And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
 While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls 
 its waves. 
 
 In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the 
 world, 
 Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's com- 
 motion, 
 The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd, 
 To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean. 
 But should pirates invade, 
 Though in thunder array'd, 
 Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway, 
 
 Had justly ennobled our nation in story, 
 'Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young 
 day, 
 And envelop'd the sun of American glory. 
 But let traitors be told, 
 Who their country have sold, 
 And barter'd their God for his image in gold, 
 That ne'er will the sons, &c. 
 
 While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in 
 
 blood, 
 And society's base threats with wide dissolution, 
 May Peace, like the dove who retum'd from the 
 
 flood, 
 
 Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution. 
 But though peace is our aim, 
 Yet the boon we disclaim, 
 If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame. 
 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 'Tis the fire of the flint each American warms: 
 
 Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision ; 
 Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms; 
 We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a di- 
 vision. 
 While, with patriot pride, 
 To our laws we 're allied, 
 No foe can subdue us, no faction divide. 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak, 
 Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nour- 
 ish'd ; 
 But long e'er our nation submits to the yoke, 
 Not a tree shall be left on the field where it 
 flourished. 
 Should invasion impend, 
 Every grove would descend 
 From the hilltops they shaded our shores to defend. 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm, 
 Lest our liberty's growth should be checked by 
 corrosion ; 
 Then let clouds thicken round us ; we heed not 
 the storm ; 
 Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own 
 explosion. 
 Foes assail us in vain, 
 Though their fleets bridge the main, 
 For our altars and laws with our lives we '11 main- 
 tain. 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, 
 Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple 
 asunder ; 
 
ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 
 
 7? 
 
 For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington 
 
 stand, 
 And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the 
 thunder ! 
 His sword from the sleep 
 Of its scabbard would leap, 
 And conduct with its point every flash to the deep ! 
 For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
 Let Fame to the world sound America's voice ; 
 No intrigues can her sons from their government 
 sever; 
 Her pride is her ArjAurs ; her laws are his choice, 
 And shall flourish till Liberty slumbers forever. 
 Then unite heart and hand, 
 Like Leonitias' band, 
 And swear to the God of the ocean and land, 
 That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
 While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls 
 its waves ! 
 
 FROM A « MONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
 SIR JOHN MOORE." 
 
 His heart elate, with modest valour bold, 
 Beat with fond rage to vie with chiefs of old. 
 Great by resolve, yet by example warm'd, 
 Himself the model of his glory form'd. 
 A glowing trait from every chief he caught : 
 He paused like Fabitjs, and like Cesah fought. 
 His ardent hope survey'd the heights of fame, 
 Deep on its rocks to grave a soldier's name ; 
 And o'er its cliffs to bid the banner wave, 
 A Briton fights, to conquer and to save 
 
 Inspired on fields, with trophied interest graced, 
 He sigh'd for glory, where he mused from taste. 
 For high emprise his dazzling helm was plumed, 
 And all the polish'd patriot-hero bloom'd. 
 Arm'd as he strode, his glorying country saw 
 That fame was virtue, and ambition law ; 
 In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire [fire. 
 Her Marlborough's fortune and her Sidney's 
 Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deform'd, 
 His path to fame toil'd up the breach he storm'd ; 
 Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen, 
 Sublime in terror, and in height serene. 
 
 His equal mind so well could triumph greet, 
 He gave to conquest charms that soothed defeat. 
 The battle done, his brow, with thought o'ercast, 
 Benign as Mercy, smiled on perils past. 
 The death-choked fosse, the batter'd wall, inspired 
 A sense, that sought him, from the field retired. 
 Suspiring Pity touch'd that godlike heart, 
 To which no peril could dismay impart ; 
 And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine, 
 That lighten'd courage down the thundering line. 
 So mounts the sea-bird in the boreal sky, 
 And sits where steeps in beetling ruin lie ; 
 Though warring whirlwinds curl the Norway seas, 
 And the rocks tremble, and the torrents freeze ; 
 Yet is the fleece, by beauty's bosom press'd, 
 The down that warms the storm-beat eider's breast ; 
 Mid floods of frost, where Winter smites the deep, 
 Are fledged the plumes on which the Graces sleep. 
 
 In vain thy cliffs, Hispania, lift the sky, 
 Where Cesar's eagles never dared to fly ! 
 To rude and sudden arms while Freedom springs, 
 Napoleon's legions mount on bolder wings. 
 In vain thy sons their steely nerves oppose, 
 Bare to the rage of tempests and of foes ; 
 In vain, with naked breast, the storm defy 
 Of furious battle and of piercing sky : 
 Five waning reigns had marked, in long decay, 
 The gloomy glory of thy setting day ; 
 While bigot power, with dark and dire disgrace, 
 Oppress'd the valour of thy gallant race. 
 No martial phalanx, led by veteran art, 
 Combined thy vigour, or confirmed thy heart : 
 Thy bands dispersed, like Rome in wild defeat, 
 Fled to the mountains, to entrench retreat 
 
 Illustrious Moohe, by foe and famine press'd, 
 Yet by each soldier's proud affection bless'd, 
 Unawed by numbers, saw the impending host, 
 With front extending, lengthen down the coast. 
 " Charge ! Britons, charge !" the exulting chief ex- 
 claims : 
 Swift moves the field ; the tide of armour flames ; 
 On, on they rush ; the solid column flies, 
 And shouts tremendous, as the foe defies. 
 While all the battle rung from side to side, 
 In death to conquer was the warrior's pride. 
 Where'er the war its unequal tempest pour'd, 
 The leading meteor was his glittering sword ! 
 Thrice met the fight, and thrice the vanquish'd Gaul 
 Found the firm line an adamantine wall. 
 Again repulsed, again the legions drew, 
 And Fate's dark shafts in volley'd shadows flew. 
 Now storm'd the scene where soul could soul attest, 
 Squadron to squadron join'd, and breast to breast ; 
 From rank to rank the intrepid valour glow'd, 
 From rank to rank the inspiring champion rode 
 Loud broke the war-cloud, as his charger sped ; 
 Pale the curved lightning quiver'd o'er his head ; 
 Again it bursts; peal, echoing peal, succeeds; 
 The bolt is launch' d ; the peerless soldier bleeds ! 
 Hark ! as he falls, Fame's swelling clarion cries, 
 " Britannia triumphs, though her hero dies !" 
 The grave he fills is all the realm she yields, 
 And that proud empire deathless honor shields. 
 No fabled phoenix from his bier revives ; 
 His ashes perish, but his country lives. 
 
 Immortal dead ! with musing awe thy foes 
 Tread not the hillock where thy bones repose ! 
 There, sacring mourner, see, Britannia spreads 
 A chaplet, glistening with the tears she sheds ; 
 With burning censer glides around thy tomb, 
 And scatters incense where thy laurels bloom ; 
 With rapt devotion sainted vigil keeps — 
 Shines with Religion, and with Glory weeps ! 
 Sweet sleep the brave ! in solemn chant shall sound 
 Celestial vespers o'er thy sacred ground ! 
 Long ages hence, in pious twilight seen, 
 Shall choirs of seraphs sanctify thy green; 
 At curfew-hour shall dimly hover there, 
 And charm, with sweetest dirge, (he listening air ! 
 With homage tranced, shall every pensive mind 
 Weep, while the requiem passes on the wind 
 Till, sadly swelling Sorrow's softest notes, 
 It dies in distance, while its echo floats ! 
 
WILLIAM MUNFORD, 
 
 [Born, 1775. Died, 1825-1 
 
 William Munford, the translator of the "Il- 
 iad." was born in the county of Mecklenburg, in 
 Virginia, on the fifteenth of August, 1775. His fa- 
 ther, Colonel Robert Munford, was honourably 
 distinguished in affairs during the Revolution, and 
 afterward gave much attention to literature. Some 
 of his letters, to be found in collections relating to 
 the time, are written with grace and vigour, and 
 he was the author of several dramatic pieces, of 
 considerable merit, which, with a few minor po- 
 ems, were published by his son, the subject of the 
 present article, at Petersburg, in 1 798. In his best 
 comedy, " The Candidates," in three acts, he ex- 
 poses to contempt the falsehood and corruption by 
 which it was frequently attempted to influence the 
 elections. In " The Patriots," in five acts, he con- 
 trasts, probably with an eye to some instance in 
 Virginia, a real and pretended love of country. 
 He had commenced a translation of Ovid's " Met- 
 amorphoses" into English verse, and had finished 
 the first book, when death arrested his labours. 
 He was a man of wit and humour, and was re- 
 spected for many social virtues. His literary ac- 
 tivity is referred to thus particularly, because I 
 have not seen that the pursuits and character of 
 the father, have been noticed by any of the writers 
 upon the life of the son, which was undoubtedly 
 in a very large degree influenced by them. 
 
 William Munford was transferred from an 
 academy at Petersburg, to the college of William 
 and Mary, when only twelve years of age. In a 
 letter written soon after he entered his fourteenth 
 year, we have some information in regard to his 
 situation and prospects. "I received from na- 
 ture," he says, " a weakly constitution and a sick- 
 ly body ; and I have the unhappiness to know that 
 my poor mother is in want. I am absent from 
 her and my dear sisters. Put this in the scale of 
 evil. I possess the rare and almost inestimable 
 blessing of a friend in Mr. Withe and in John 
 Randolph ; I have a mother in whose heart I 
 have a large share ; two sisters, whose, affections 
 I flatter myself are fixed upon me ; and fair pros- 
 pects before me, provided I can complete my edu- 
 cation, and am not destitute of the necessaries 
 of life. Put these in the scale of good." This 
 was a brave letter for a boy to write under such 
 circumstances. 
 
 Mr. Withe here referred to was afterward the 
 celebrated chancellor. He was at this time pro- 
 fessor of law in the college, and young Munfohd 
 lived in his family ; and, sharing the fine enthusi- 
 asm with which the retired statesman regarded the 
 literature of antiquity, he became an object of his 
 warm affection. His design to translate the " Il- 
 iad" was formed at an early period, and it was 
 probably encouraged bv Mr. Wythe, who per- 
 78 
 
 sonally instructed him in ancient learning. In 
 1792, when Mr. Withe was made chancellor, and 
 removed to Richmond, Mr. Munford accompa- 
 nied him, but he afterward returned to the college, 
 where he had graduated with high honours, to at- 
 tend to the law lectures of Mr. St. Georre Tuck- 
 er. In his twentieth year he was called to the bar, 
 in his native county, and his abilities and industry 
 soon secured for him a respectable practice. He 
 rose rapidly in his profession, and in the public 
 confidence, and in 1797 was chosen a member of 
 the House of Delegates, in which he continued 
 until 1802, when he was elected to the senate, 
 which he left after four years, to enter the Privy 
 Council, of which he was a conspicuous member 
 until 1811. He then received the place of clerk 
 of the House of Delegates, which he retained un- 
 til his death. This occurred at Richmond, where 
 he had resided for nineteen years, on the twenty- 
 first of July, 1825. In addition to his ordinary 
 professional and political labours, he reported the 
 decisions of the Virginia Supreme Court of Ap- 
 peals, preparing six annual volumes without as- 
 sistance, and four others, afterward, in connexion 
 with Mr. W. W. Henry. He possessed in a 
 remarkable degree the affectionate respect of the 
 people of the commonwealth ; and the House of 
 Delegates, upon his death, illustrated their regard 
 for his memory by appointing his eldest son to the 
 office which he had so long held, and which has 
 thus for nearly a quarter of a century longer con- 
 tinued in his family. 
 
 The only important literary production of Mr. 
 Munford is his Homer. This was his life-la- 
 bour. The amazing splendour of the Tale of Troy 
 captivated his boyish admiration, and the cultiva- 
 tion of his own fine mind enabled him but to see 
 more and more its beauty and grandeur. It is 
 not known at what time he commenced his ver- 
 sion, but a large portion of it had been written in 
 1811, and the work was not completed until a 
 short time before he died. In his modest preface 
 he says : " The author of this translation was in- 
 duced to undertake it by fond admiration of the 
 almost unparalleled sublimity and beauty of the 
 original ; neither of which peculiar graces of Ho- 
 mer's muse has, he conceives, been sufficiently 
 expressed in the smooth and melodious rhymes 
 of Pope. It is true that the fine poem of that 
 elegant writer, which was the delight of my boy» 
 ish days, and will always be read by me with un- 
 common pleasure, appears in some parts more 
 beautiful than even the work of Homer himself; 
 but frequently it is less beautiful ; and seldom does 
 it equal the sublimity of the Greek." He had not 
 seen Cowper's " Iliad" until his own was consid- 
 erably advanced, and it does not appear that he 
 
WILLIAM MUNFORD. 
 
 79 
 
 was ever acquainted with Chapman's or Sothe- 
 by's. He wrote, too, before the Homeric poetry 
 had received the attention of those German schol- 
 ars whose masterly criticisms have given to its 
 literature an entirely new character. But he had 
 studied the " Iliad" until his own mind was thor- 
 oughly imbued with its spirit ; he approached his 
 task with the fondest enthusiasm; well equipped 
 with the best learning of his day ; a style fash- 
 ioned upon the most approved models: dignified, 
 various, and disciplined into uniform elegance ; 
 and a judicial habit of mind, joined with a consci- 
 
 entious determination to present the living Homer, 
 as he was known in Greece, to the readers of our 
 time and language. 
 
 His manuscript remained twenty years in the 
 possession of his family, and was finally published 
 in two large octavo volumes, in Boston, in 1846. 
 It received the attention due from our scholars to 
 such a performance, and the general judgment ap- 
 pears to have assigned it a place near to Chap- 
 man's and Cowper's in fidelity, and between 
 CowPEn's and Pope's in elegance, energy, and 
 all the best qualities of an English poem. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE "ILIAD." 
 
 THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
 
 To her the mighty Hector made reply : 
 " All thou hast said employs my thoughtful mind. 
 But from the Trojans much I dread reproach, 
 And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the 
 If, like a coward, I should shun the war ; [ground, 
 Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline, 
 Since to be always bravest I have learn'd, 
 And with the first of Troy to lead the fight; 
 Asserting so my father's lofty claim 
 To glory, and my own renown in arms. 
 For well I know, in heart and mind convinced, 
 A day will come when sacred Troy must fall, 
 And Priam, and the people of renown'd 
 Spear-practised Priam ! Yet for this, to me 
 Not such concern arises ; not the woes 
 Of all the Trojans, not my mother's griefs, 
 Nor royal Priam's nor my brethren's deaths, 
 Many and brave, who slain by cruel foes 
 Will be laid low in dust, so wring my heart 
 As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks 
 In brazen armour ciad, shall drive thee hence, 
 Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave ! 
 Perhaps at Argos thou mayst ply the loom, 
 For some proud mistress ; or mayst water bring, 
 From Mepsa's or Hyperia's fountain, sad 
 And much reluctant, stooping to the weight 
 Of sad necessity : and some one, then, 
 Seeing thee weep, will say, ' Behold the wife 
 Of Hector, who was first in martial might 
 Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought 
 Around the walls of Ilion !' So will speak 
 Some heedless passer-by, and grief renew'd 
 Excite in thee, for such a husband lost, 
 Whose arm might slavery's evil day avert. 
 Rut me may then a heap of earth conceal 
 Within the silent tomb, before I hear 
 Thy shrieks of terror and captivity." 
 
 This said, illustrious Hector stretch'dhis arms 
 To take his child ; but to the nurse's breast 
 The babe clung crying, hiding in her robe 
 His little face, affrighted to behold 
 His father's awful aspect ; fearing too 
 The brazen helm, and crest with horse-hair crown'd, 
 Which, nodding dreadful from its lofty cone, 
 Alarm'd him. Sweetly then the father smiled, 
 And sweetly smiled the mother! Soon the chief 
 Removed the threatening helmet from his head, 
 And placed it on the ground, all beaming bright ; 
 
 Then having fondly kiss'd his son beloved 
 And toss'd him playfully, he thus to Jove 
 And all the immortals pray'd : " grant me, Jove, 
 And other powers divine, that this my son 
 May be, as I am, of the Trojan race 
 In glory chief. So ! let him be renown'd 
 For warlike prowess and commanding sway 
 With power and wisdom join'd, of Ilion king! 
 And may the people say, ' This chief excels 
 His father much, when from the field of fame 
 Triumphant he returns, bearing aloft 
 The bloody spoils, some hostile hero slain, 
 And his fond mother's heart expands with joy !" 
 He said, and placed his child within the arms 
 Of his beloved spouse. She him received, 
 And softly on her fragrant bosom laid, 
 Smiling with tearful eyes. To pity moved, 
 Her husband saw : with kind consoling hand 
 He wiped the tears away, and thus he spake : 
 " My dearest love ! grieve not thy mind for me 
 Excessively. No man can send me hence, 
 To Pluto's hall, before the appointed time ; 
 And surely none of all the human race, 
 Base or e'en brave, has ever shunn'd his fate — 
 His fate foredoom'd, since first he saw the light. 
 But now, returning home, thy works attend, 
 The loom and distaff, and direct thy maids 
 In household duties, while the war shall be 
 Of men the care ; of all, indeed, but most 
 The care of me, of all in Ilion born." 
 
 EMBARKATION OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 When with food and drink 
 All were supplied, the striplings crown'd with wine 
 The foaming bowls, and handed round to each, 
 In cups, a portion to libations due. 
 They, all day long, with hymns the god appeased ; 
 The sons of Greece melodious paeans sang 
 In praise of great Apollo — he rejoiced 
 To hear that pleasant song — and when the sun 
 Descended to the sea, and darkness came, 
 They near the cables of their vessels slept. 
 Soon as the rosy-finger'd queen appear'd, 
 Aurora, lovely daughter of the dawn, 
 Toward the camp of Greece they took their way, 
 And friendly Phoebus gave propitious gales. 
 They raised the mast, and stretch'd the snowy sheet, 
 To catch the breeze which fill'd the swelling sail. 
 Around the keel the darken'd waters roar, 
 As swift the vessel flies. The billows dark 
 She quickly mounting, stemm'd the watery way. 
 
JOHN SHAW. 
 
 [Born, 1778. Died, 1809.] 
 
 John Shaw was born in Annapolis, Maryland, 
 on the fourth of May, 1778; graduated at St. John's 
 College, in that city, in 1796; after studying medi- 
 cine two years, with a private teacher, entered the 
 medical school connected with the University of 
 Pennsylvania. in 1798; in the same year suddenly 
 sailed for Algiers, as surgeon of several vessels built 
 in this country for the Algerine government; be- 
 came secretary to General Eaton, our consul at Tu- 
 nis ; returned to Annapolis in 1800; thenextyear 
 went to Edinburgh for the completion of his profes- 
 sional education; in 1803 left Scotland with Lord 
 
 Selkirk, then about to establish his colony on the 
 north side of Lake St. Clair; in 1805 settled in his 
 native town as a physician; in 1807 was married, 
 and removed to Baltimore, and was busy with efforts 
 to found a medical college there, when his health 
 failed, and died, on a voyage to the Bahama Islands, 
 on the tenth of January, 1809. He had beenawriter 
 for " The Port Folio," and other periodicals, and af- 
 ter hisdeath acollection of his poems was published 
 in Baltimore. They have notgenerally much merit, 
 butamongthcmisabeautifulsong,beginning,"Wbo 
 has robbed the ocean cave]" which will live. 
 
 WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN 
 CAVE] 
 
 Who has robbed the ocean cave, 
 
 To tinge thy lips with coral hue 1 
 Who, from India's distant wave, 
 
 For thee those pearly treasures drew 1 
 Who, from yonder orient sky, 
 Stole the morning of thine eye ] 
 
 Thousand charms thy form to deck, 
 
 From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; 
 Roses bloom upon thy cheek, 
 
 On thy breath their fragrance borne: 
 Guard thy bosom from the day, 
 Lest thy snows should melt away. 
 
 But one charm remains behind, 
 
 Which mute earth could ne'er impart; 
 Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
 Nor in the circling air, a heart : 
 Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
 Take, oh take that heart from me. 
 
 THE LAD FROM TUCKAHOE. 
 
 Oh the lad from Tuckahoe, 
 Is the lad whom I love dearly, 
 I tell it you sincerely, 
 
 That all the truth may know. 
 From the day that first I knew him 
 
 He struck my fancy so, 
 That my love shall still pursue him, 
 
 The lad from Tuckahoe. 
 
 He alighted at the door, 
 Where my aunt and I were spinning, 
 And his looks they were so winning, 
 
 I thought of work no more. 
 My aunt, her anger hiding, 
 
 Ask'd what made me trifle so, 
 But I never mind her chiding, 
 
 When be comes from Tuckahoe. 
 80 
 
 THE FALSE MAIDEN. 
 
 Oh, wert thou hail'd the sole queen 
 
 Of all that greets the day-star's view, 
 And brighter were thy beauty's sheen 
 Than ever form that fancy drew, 
 Yet I would never love thee — 
 No, no, I would not love thee ! 
 Nor ever sigh or tear of mine 
 Should idly strive to move thee. 
 As brightly rolls thy dark eye, 
 
 And curling falls thy glossy hair, 
 As soft thy warm cheek's crimson die 
 They swelling bosom still as fair, 
 As when I first did love thee, 
 Most tenderly did love thee ; 
 But now no more my passion lives 
 Since false as fair I prove thee. 
 
 For ah ! thy flinty cold heart 
 
 111 suits thy beauty's treacherous glow, 
 'T is filled alone with woman's art, 
 And ne'er could love or pity know. 
 Ah, wo to him who loves thee ! — 
 Not knowing thee he loves thee; 
 For thou canst trifle with his woes, 
 While passion never moves thee. 
 
 With what fond love I wooed thee, 
 
 Each sleepless night sad witness bears, 
 My breast that heaved with sighs for thee, 
 My wan cheek wet with bitter tears. 
 All told how much I loved thee, 
 And thou didst know I loved thee, 
 And thou couldst smile to see the pain 
 Of him who dearly loved thee. 
 
 But broken is the fond spell : 
 
 My fate no more depends on thee; 
 And thou, perhaps, one day shaft tell 
 Thy sorrow and remorse for me; 
 For none can ever love thee 
 As dearly as I loved thee, 
 And I shall court thy chains no more, — 
 No ! no ! I will not love thee ! 
 
CLEMENT C. MOORE. 
 
 [Born about 1778.] 
 
 Clement C. Moore, LL.D., a son of the Right 
 Reverend Benjamin Moore, Bishop of the Pro- 
 testant Episcopal Church in New York, was born 
 at Newtown, on Long Island, about the year 1778, 
 and graduated bachelor of arts at Columbia Col- 
 lege in 1799. His early addiction to elegant lite- 
 rature was illustrated in various poetical and prose 
 contributions to the "Port Folio" and the New 
 York " Evening Post ;" and his abilities as a critic 
 were shown in a pungent reviewal of contempo- 
 rary American poetry, especially of Mr. Joseph 
 Story's "Powers of Solitude," in a letter pre- 
 fixed to his friend John Duer's " New Transla- 
 tion of the Third Satire of Juvenal, with Miscel- 
 laneous Poems, Original and Translated," which 
 appeared in 1806. "Anna Matilda," and "Delia 
 Crusca,"* were still the fashionable models of our 
 sentimentalists, and Mr. Story followed Mrs. Mor- 
 ton, Robert Treat Paine, William Ladd, and 
 others of that school, who, to use Mr. Moore's lan- 
 guage, " if they could procure from the wardrobe 
 of poesy a sufficient supply of dazzling ornaments 
 wherewith to deck their intellectual offspring, were 
 utterly regardless whether the body of sense which 
 these decorations were designed to render attrac- 
 tive were worthy of attention, or mean and dis- 
 torted and in danger of being overwhelmed by the 
 profusion of its ornaments." 
 
 Devoting his attention to biblical learning, Mr. 
 
 * Robert Merry, after being graduated master of arts at 
 Oxford, went to Italy, and by some means was elected into 
 the celebrated Florentine academy of " Delia Crusca," the 
 came of which he adopted, with characteristic modesty, as 
 the signature of numerous pieces of Terse which he wrote 
 in rapid succession for " The Florence Miscellany," and a 
 periodical in London called " The World." He became the 
 leader of a school of small poets, one of whom was Mrs. 
 Piozzi, so well known to the readers of Boswell, who wrote 
 under the pseudonym of "Anna Matilda," and another, Mrs. 
 v Robinson, a profligate actress, who announced herself as 
 " Laura Maria." The " nonsense yerses" of these people 
 became fashionable ; the press teemed for some years with 
 their silly effusions ; and men of taste could not refrain 
 from regarding them as an intolerable nuisance. At the 
 same time a base fellow, named John Williams, was writing 
 lampoons in verse under the name of " Anthony Pasquin." 
 After the publication of Gifford's "Baviad andMaeviad," 
 "Anthony Pasquin" was driven from England by con- 
 tempt, and " Delia Crusca" by derision ; and both found an 
 asylum in the United States — the libeller to become the 
 editor of a democratic newspaper, and the sentimentalist to 
 , acquire an influence over our fledgeling poets not less appa- 
 rent than that which Tennyson has exerted in later years. 
 He resided in our principal cities, and continued to write 
 and publish till he died, in Baltimore, on the twenty-fourth 
 of December, 1798, in the forty-third year of his age. Story, 
 in his "Powers of Solitude," pays him the following tribute : 
 
 " "Wild bard of fancy ! o'er thy timeless tomb 
 Shall weep the cypress, and the laurel bloom; 
 While village nymphs, composed each artless play, 
 To sing, at evening close, their roundelay, 
 With Spring's rich flowers shall dress thy sacred grave, 
 Where sad Patapsco rolls bis freighted wave." 
 
 Moore in 1809 published in two volumes the first 
 American " Lexicon of the Hebrew Language," 
 and he was afterwards many years professor of 
 Hebrew and Greek in the General Theological 
 Seminary, of which he was one of the founders 
 and principal benefactors. His only or most im- 
 portant publications in later years have been a 
 volume of "Poems," in 1844, and " George Cas- 
 triot, surnamed Scanderbeg, King of Albania," an 
 historical biography, in 1852. 
 
 In some touching lines to Mr. Sotjthey, writ- 
 ten in 1832, Dr. Moore reveals a portion of his 
 private history, which proves that the happiest 
 condition is not exempt from the common ills ; 
 but his life appears to have been nearly all passed 
 very quietly, in the cultivation of learning, and in 
 intercourse with a few congenial friends. In his 
 old age, sending a bunch of flowers to the late Mr. 
 Philip Hone, he wrote to him : 
 
 " These new-cull'd blossoms which I send, 
 With breath so sweet and tints so gay, 
 I truly know not, my kind friend, 
 In Flora's language what they say; 
 
 " Nor which one hue I should select, 
 Nor how they all should be combined, 
 That at a glance you might detect 
 The true emotions of my mind. 
 
 " But, as the rainbow's varied hues, 
 
 If mingled in proportions right, 
 
 All their distinctive radiance lose, 
 
 And only show unspotted white. 
 
 " Thus, into one I would combine 
 
 These colours that so various gleam, 
 And bid this offering only shine 
 With friendship's pure and tranquil beam." 
 
 In his answer, Mr. Hone says : 
 
 " Filled as thou art with attic fire, 
 And skilled in classic lore divine, 
 Not yet content, wouldst thou aspire 
 In Flora's gorgeous wreath to shine ? 
 
 " Come as thou wilt, my warm regard, 
 And welcome, shall thy steps attend ; 
 Scholar, musician, florist, bard — 
 More dear to me than all, as friend." 
 In the preface to the collection of his poems, 
 Dr. Moore remarks that he has printed the me- 
 lancholy and the lively, the serious, the sportive, 
 and even the trifling, that his children, to whom 
 the book is addressed, might have as true a picture 
 as possible of his mind. They are all marked by 
 good taste and elegance. " I do not pay my read- 
 ers," he says, " so ill a compliment as to offer the 
 contents of this volume to their view as the mere 
 amusements of my idle hours, as though the refuse 
 of my thoughts were good enough for them. On 
 the contrary, some of the pieces have cost me much 
 time and thought, and I have composed them all 
 as carefully and correctly as I could." 
 
 81 
 
82 
 
 CLEMENT C. MOORE. 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 'T was the night before Christmas, when all 
 
 through the house 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
 The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 
 And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
 Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap — 
 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
 I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
 Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
 The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 
 Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, 
 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer, 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
 And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by 
 
 name; 
 " Now, Hasher ! now, Lancer ! now, Prancer and 
 
 Vixen ! 
 On ! Comet, on ! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen — 
 To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
 Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
 When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
 So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
 With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too. 
 And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
 As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
 He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 
 A nd his clothes were al 1 tarnisht with ash es and soot; 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
 And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 
 His eyes ho w th ey twinkled ! his dimples ho w merry ! 
 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
 And the beard on his chin was as white as the sn ow. 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
 And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. 
 He had a broad face and a little round belly 
 That shook,when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. 
 He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf; 
 And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
 A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
 He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
 And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 
 And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
 And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; 
 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
 "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night !" 
 
 TO MY CHILDREN, 
 
 AFTER HAVING MY PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM. 
 
 This semblance of your parent's time-worn face 
 Is but a sad bequest, my children dear: 
 
 Its youth and freshness gone, and in their place 
 The lines of care, the track of many a tear ! 
 
 Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure 
 
 Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave : 
 
 We pant for something that may still endure, 
 And snatch at least a shadow from the grave. 
 
 Poor, weak, and transient mortals ! why so vain 
 Of manly vigour, or of beauty's bloom 1 
 
 An empty shade for ages may remain 
 
 When we have mouldered in the silent tomb. 
 
 But no ! it is not we who moulder there, 
 We, of essential light that ever burns ; 
 
 We take our way through untried fields of air, 
 When to the earth this earth-born frame re- 
 turns. 
 
 And 'tis the glory of the master's art 
 
 Some radiance of this inward light to find, 
 
 Some touch that to his canvas may impart 
 A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. 
 
 Alas ! the pencil's noblest power can show 
 But some faint shadow of a transient thought, 
 
 Some wakened feeling's momentary glow, 
 Some swift impression in its passage caught. 
 
 Oh that the artist's pencil could portray 
 A father's inward bosom to your eyes, 
 
 What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, 
 What aspirations for your welfare rise. 
 
 Then might this unsubstantial image prove 
 When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, 
 
 A friend forever urging you to move 
 In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. 
 
 Let fond imagination's power supply 
 
 The void that baffles all the painter's art ; 
 
 And when those mimic features meet your eye, 
 Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart. 
 
 Think that you still can trace within those eyes, 
 The kindling of affection's fervid beam, 
 
 The searching glance that every fault espies, 
 The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. 
 
 Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, 
 Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, 
 
 The warning voice, or precepts that may raise 
 Your thoughts above this treacherous world 
 of ill. 
 
 And thus shall art attain her loftiest power; 
 
 To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend : 
 Not the companion of an idle hour, 
 
 But Virtue's handmaid, and Religion's friend. 
 
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 
 
 [Bora 1779.] 
 
 Mr. Paulding is known by his numerous novels 
 and other prose writings, much better than by his 
 poetry ; yet his early contributions to our poetical 
 literature, if they do not bear witness that he pos- 
 sesses, in an eminent degree, " the vision and the 
 faculty divine," are creditable for their patriotic 
 spirit and moral purity. 
 
 He was born in the town of Pawling, — the 
 original mode of spelling his name, — in Duchess 
 county, New York, on the 22d of August, 1779, 
 and is descended from an old and honourable 
 family, of Dutch extraction. 
 
 His earliest literary productions were the papers 
 entitled " Salmagundi," the first series of which, 
 in two volumes, were written in conjunction with 
 Washington Irving, in 1807. These were suc- 
 ceeded, in the next thirty years, by the following 
 works, in the order in which they' are named: 
 John Bull and Brother Jonathan, in one volume ; 
 The Lay of a Scotch Fiddle, a satirical poem, in 
 one volume ; The United States and England, in 
 one volume ; Second Series of Salmagundi, in two 
 
 volumes ; Letters from the South, in two volumes ; 
 The Backwoodsman, a poem, in one volume ; 
 Koningsmarke, or Old Times in the New World, 
 a novel, in two volumes ; John Bull in America, 
 in one volume ; Merry Tales of the Wise Men of 
 Gotham, in one volume ; The Traveller's Guide, 
 or New Pilgrim's Progress, in one volume ; The 
 Dutchman's Fireside, in two volumes ; Westward 
 Ho ! in two volumes ; Slavery in the United States, 
 in one volume ; Life of Washington, in two vo- 
 lumes ; The Book of St. Nicholas, in one volume ; 
 and Tales, Fables, and Allegories, originally pub- 
 lished in various periodicals, in three volumes. 
 Beside these, and some less pretensive works, 
 he has written much in the gazettes on political 
 and other questions agitated in his time. 
 
 Mr. Paulding has held various honourable 
 offices in his native state ; and in the summer of 
 1838, he was appointed, by President Van Buren, 
 Secretary of the Navy. He continued to be a 
 member of the cabinet until the close of Mr. Van 
 Buren's administration, in 1841. . 
 
 ODE TO JAMESTOWN. 
 
 Old cradle of an infant world, 
 
 In which a nestling empire lay, 
 Struggling a while, ere she unfurl'd 
 Her gallant wing and soar'd away ; 
 All hail ! thou birth-place of the glowing west, 
 Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest! 
 
 What solemn recollections throng, 
 
 What touching visions rise, 
 As, wandering these old stones among, 
 I backward turn mine eyes, 
 And see the shadows of the dead flit round, 
 Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound ! 
 
 The wonders of an age combined, 
 
 In one short moment memory supplies ; 
 They throng upon my waken' d mind, 
 As time's dark curtains rise. 
 The volume of a hundred buried years, 
 Condensed in one bright sheet, appears. 
 
 I hear the angry ocean rave, 
 
 I see the lonely little barque 
 
 Scudding along the crested wave, 
 
 Freighted like old Noah's ark, 
 
 As o'er the drowned earth 'twas hurl'd, 
 
 With the forefathers of another world. 
 
 I see a train of exiles stand, 
 Amid the desert, desolate, 
 The fathers of my native land, 
 The daring pioneers of fate, 
 Who braved the perils of the sea and earth, 
 And gave a boundless empire birth. 
 
 I see the sovereign Indian range 
 
 His woodland empire, free as air; 
 I see the gloomy forest change, 
 The shadowy earth laid bare ; 
 And, where the red man chased the bounding deer, 
 The smiling labours of the white appear. 
 
 I see the haughty warrior gaze 
 
 In wonder or in scorn, 
 As the pale faces sweat to raise 
 Their scanty fields of corn, 
 While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, 
 By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food. 
 
 A moment, and the pageant's gone ; 
 
 The red men are no more ; 
 The pale-faced strangers stand alone 
 Upon the river's shore ; 
 And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdain' d, 
 Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign' d. 
 
 The forest reels beneath the stroke 
 
 Of sturdy woodman's axe ; 
 The earth receives the white man's yoke, 
 And pays her willing tax 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, 
 And all that nature to blithe labour yields. 
 
 Then growing hamlets rear their heads, 
 
 And gathering crowds expand, 
 Far as my fancy's vision spreads, 
 O'er many a boundless land, 
 Till what was once a world of savage strife, 
 Teems with the richest gifts of social life. 
 
 S3 
 
84 
 
 JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 
 
 Empire to empire swift succeeds, 
 
 Each happy, great, and free; 
 One empires still another breeds, 
 A giant progeny, 
 Destined their daring race to run, 
 Each to the regions of yon setting sun. 
 
 Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace 
 
 The fount whence these rich waters sprung, 
 I glance towards this lonely place, 
 And find it, these rude stones among. 
 Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round, 
 The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found. 
 
 Their names have been forgotten long ; 
 The stone, but not a word, remains; 
 They cannot live in deathless song, 
 Nor breathe in pious strains. 
 Yet this sublime obscurity, to me 
 More touching is, than poet's rhapsody. 
 
 They live in millions that now breathe ; 
 
 They live in millions yet unborn, 
 And pious gratitude shall wreathe 
 As bright a crown as e'er was worn, 
 And hang it on the green-leaved bough, 
 That whispers to the nameless dead below. 
 
 No one that inspiration drinks ; 
 
 No one that loves his native land ; 
 No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, 
 Can mid these lonely ruins stand, 
 Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear 
 Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here. 
 
 The mighty shade now hovers round — 
 
 Of him whose strange, yet bright career, 
 Is written on this sacred ground 
 In letters that no time shall sere ; 
 Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, 
 And founded Christian empires in the new. 
 
 And she ! the glorious Indian maid, 
 
 The tutelary of this land, 
 The angel of the woodland shade, 
 The miracle of God's own hand, 
 Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, 
 And thrice redeem'd the scourges of her race. 
 
 Sister of charity and love, 
 
 Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, 
 Dear goddess of the sylvan grove, 
 Flower of the forest, nature's pride, 
 He is no man who does not bend the knee, 
 And she no woman who is not like thee ! 
 
 Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock 
 
 To me shall ever sacred be — 
 I care not who my themes may mock, 
 Or sneer at them and me. 
 I envy not the brute who here can stand, 
 Without a thrill for his own native land. 
 
 And if the recreant crawl her earth, 
 
 Or breathe Virginia's air, 
 Or, in New England claim his birth, 
 From the old pilgrims there, 
 He is a bastard, if he dare to mock 
 Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock. 
 
 PASSAGE DOWN THE OHIO.* 
 
 As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide, 
 Oarless and sailless, silently they glide, 
 How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair 
 Was the lone land that met the stranger there ! 
 No smiling villages or curling smoke 
 The busy haunts of busy men bespoke ; \ 
 
 No solitary hut, the banks along, 
 Sent forth blithe labour's homely, rustic song ; 
 No urchin gamboll'd on the smooth, white sand, 
 Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand, 
 While playmate dog plunged in the clear blue wave, 
 And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save. 
 Where now are seen, along the river side, 
 Young, busy towns, in buxom, painted pride, 
 And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd, 
 To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound. 
 Nothing appear'd but nature unsubdued, 
 One endless, noiseless woodland solitude, 
 Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be 
 As level and as lifeless as the sea ; 
 They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone, 
 Heirs of the earth — the land was all their own ! 
 
 'T was evening now : the hour of toil was o'er, 
 Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore, 
 Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep, 
 And spring upon and murder them in sleep ; 
 So through the livelong night they held their way, 
 And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day; 
 So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign, 
 They cared not though the day ne'er came again. 
 The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above, 
 Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove, 
 That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell, 
 Whisper'd it loved the gentle visit well 
 That fair-faced orb alone to move appear'd, 
 That zephyr was the only sound they heard. 
 No deep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray 'd, 
 No lights upon the shore or waters play'd, 
 No loud laugh broke upon the silent air, 
 To tell the wanderers, man was nestling there 
 All, all was still, on gliding bark and shore, 
 As if the earth now slept to wake no more. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 'T was sunset's hallow'd time — and such an eve 
 Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. 
 Never did brighter glories greet the eye, 
 Low in the warm and ruddy western sky : 
 Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold 
 More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. 
 Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast 
 Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, 
 Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, 
 By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, 
 Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, 
 Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. 
 
 * This, and the two following extracts, are from the 
 " Backwoodsman." 
 
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 
 
 85 
 
 Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, 
 Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, 
 All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, 
 While hands unseen, or chance directs their way ; 
 Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, 
 With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, 
 Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen 
 Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, 
 At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, 
 The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. 
 Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, 
 And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade ; 
 The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, 
 And pale, and paler wax the changeful clouds. 
 Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm ; 
 The silent dews of evening dropp'd like balm ; 
 The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, 
 To chase the viewless insect through the sides ; 
 The bat began his lantern-loving flight, 
 The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, 
 Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, 
 His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear ; 
 The buzzing beetle forth did gayly hie, 
 With idle hum, and careless, blundering eye ; 
 The little trusty watchman of pale night, 
 The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, 
 And took his merry airy circuit round 
 The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, 
 Where blossom'd clover, bathed in palmy dew, 
 In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew. 
 
 CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 As look'd the traveller for the world below, 
 The lively morning breeze began to blow ; 
 The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, 
 And a gay landscape smiled upon the day. 
 As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, 
 Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, 
 New objects open to his wondering view 
 Of various form, and combinations new. 
 A rocky precipice, a waving wood, 
 Deep, winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, 
 Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, 
 Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, 
 Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
 Like giant capp'd with helm of burnish'd gold. 
 So when the wandering grandsire of our race 
 On Ararat had found a resting-place, 
 At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, 
 Mingling on every side with one blue sky ; 
 But as the waters, every passing day, 
 Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, 
 Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep 
 From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, 
 Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, 
 Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, 
 Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole 
 Combined tc» win the gazing patriarch's soul. 
 Yet, oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, 
 In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, 
 
 Within the silent world, some living thing, 
 Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, 
 Or man, or beast — alas ! was neither there 
 Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air ; 
 'T was a vast, silent, mansion rich and gay, 
 Whose occupant was drown'd the other day ; 
 A churchyard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom 
 Amid the melancholy of the tomb; 
 A charnel-house, where all the human race 
 Had piled their bones in one wide resting-place ; 
 Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, 
 And sadly sought the lifeless world below. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL. 
 
 Drink ! drink ! to whom shall we drink 1 
 To friend or a mistress 1 Come, let me think ! 
 To those who are absent, or those who are here 1 
 To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear 1 
 Alas ! when I look, I find none of the last ! 
 The present is barren — let 's drink to the past. 
 
 Come ! here 's to the girl with a voice sweet and low, 
 The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow, 
 Who erewhile in the days of my youth that are fled, 
 Once slept on my bosom, and pillow'd my head ! 
 Would you know where to find such a delicate prize'! 
 Go seek in yon churchyard, for there she lies. 
 
 And here 's to the friend, the one friend of my youth, 
 With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth, 
 Who travell'd with me in the sunshine of life, 
 And stood by my side in its peace and its strife ! 
 Would you know where to seek a blessing so rare 1 
 Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there. 
 
 And here 's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine, 
 With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine, 
 Who came but to see the first act of the play, 
 Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away. 
 Would you know where this brace of bright 
 
 cherubs have hied 1 
 Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. 
 
 A bumper, my boy's ! to a gray-headed pair, 
 Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care, 
 God bless them, and keep them, and may they look 
 
 down, 
 On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown! 
 Would you know whom I drink to ? go seek mid 
 
 the dead, 
 You will find both their names on the stone at 
 
 their head. 
 
 And here 's — but, alas ! the good wine is no more, 
 The bottle is emptied of all its bright store ; 
 Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled, 
 And nothing is left of the light that it shed. 
 Then, a bumper of tears, boys ! the banquet here 
 
 ends, 
 With a health to our dead, since we've no living 
 
 friends. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 [Bore, 1779. Died, 1843.] 
 
 Ma. Allston was born in South Carolina, of a 
 family which has contributed some eminent names 
 to our annals, though none that sheds more lustre 
 upon the parent stock than his own. When very- 
 young, by the advice of physicians, he was sent to 
 Newport, Rhode Island, where he remained until 
 he entered Harvard College in 1796. In his boy- 
 hood he delighted to listen to the wild tales and 
 traditions of the negroes upon his father's planta- 
 tion; and while preparing for college, and after 
 his removal to Cambridge, no books gave him so 
 much pleasure as the most marvellous and terrible 
 creations of the imagination. At Newport he be- 
 came acquainted with Malbone, the painter, and 
 was thus, perhaps, led to the choice of his profes- 
 sion. He began to paint in oil before' he went to 
 Cambridge, and while there divided his attention 
 between his pencil and his books. Upon being 
 graduated he returned to South Carolina, to make 
 arrangements for prosecuting his studies in Eu- 
 rope. He had friends who offered to assist him 
 with money, and one of them, a Scottish gentle- 
 man named Bowman, who had seen and admired 
 a head which he had painted of Peter hearing the 
 cock crow, pressed him to accept an annuity of one 
 hundred pounds while he should remain abroad ; 
 but he declined it, having already sold his paternal 
 estate for a sum sufficient to defray his looked- 
 for expenses ; and, with his friend Malbone, em- 
 barked for England in the summer of 1801. 
 
 Soon after his arrival in London, he became a 
 student of the Royal Academy, then under the 
 presidency of our countryman, West, with whom 
 he contracted an intimate and lasting friendship. 
 His abilities as an artist, brilliant conversation, and 
 gentlemanly manners, made him a welcome guest 
 at the houses of the great painters of the time ; 
 and within a year from the beginning of his resi- 
 dence in London, he was a successful exhibitor at 
 Somerset House, and a general favourite with the 
 most distinguished members of his profession. 
 
 In 1804, having been three years in England, 
 he accompanied John Vandeklyn to Paris. Af- 
 ter passing a few months in that capital, he pro- 
 ceeded to Italy, where he remained four years. 
 Among his fellow-students and intimate asso- 
 ciates here, were Vandeiilyn and the Danish 
 sculptor Thorwaldsen. Another friend with 
 whom he now became acquainted, was Cole- 
 ridge. In one of his letters he says : " To no 
 other man do I owe so much, intellectually, as to 
 Mr. Coleridge, with whom I became acquainted 
 in Rome, and who has honoured me with his 
 friendship for more than five-and-twenty years. 
 He used to call Rome the silent city ; but I never 
 could think of it as such, while with him ; for 
 meet him when or where I would, the fountain of 
 86 
 
 his mind was never dry, but, like the far-reaching 
 aqueducts that once supplied this mistress of the 
 world, its living stream seemed specially to flow 
 for every classic ruin over which we wandered. 
 And when I recall some of our walks under the 
 pines of the villa Borghese, I am almost tempted 
 to dream that I had once listened to Plato in the 
 groves of the Academy." 
 
 In 1809 Allston returned to America, and 
 was soon after married at Boston to a sister of Dr. 
 Channing. In 1811 he went a second time to 
 England. His reputation as a painter was now 
 well established, and he gained by his picture of 
 the " Dead Man raised by the Bones of Elisha"* a 
 prize of two hundred guineas, at the British In- 
 stitution, where the first artists in the world were 
 his competitors. A long and dangerous illness 
 succeeded his return to London, and he removed 
 to the village of Clifton, where he wrote " The 
 Sylphs of the Seasons," and some of the other 
 poems included in a volume which he published in 
 1813. Within two weeks after the renewal of his 
 residence in the metropolis, in the last-mentioned 
 year, his wife died, very suddenly ; and the event, 
 inducing the deepest depression and melancholy, 
 caused a temporary suspension of his labours. 
 
 In 1818 he accompanied Leslie to Paris, and 
 in the autumn of the following year came back to 
 America, having been previously elected an asso- 
 ciate of the English Royal Academy. In 1830 
 he married a sister of Richard H. Dana, and 
 the remainder of his life was tranquilly passed at 
 Cambridgeport, near Boston, where he was sur- 
 rounded by warm and genial friends,, in assiduous 
 devotion to his art. He died very suddenly, on 
 the night of the eighth of July, 1843. 
 
 As a painter Allston had no superior, perhaps 
 not an equal, in his age. He differed from his 
 contemporaries, as he said of MonalDi, " no less 
 in kind than in degree. If he held any thing in 
 common with others, it was with those of ages 
 past, with the mighty dead of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury. From them he had learned the language of 
 his art, but his thoughts, and their turn of expres- 
 sion, were his own." Among his principal works 
 are " The Dead Man restored to Life by Elisha ;" 
 the "Angel liberating Peter from Prison;" "Jacob's 
 Dream ;" " Elijah in the Desert ;" the " Trium- 
 phant Song of Miriam ;" " The Angel Uriel in the 
 Sun ;" " Saul and the Witch of Endor ;" " Spala- 
 tro's Vision of the bloody Hand ;" "Gabriel setting 
 the Guard of the Heavenly Host ;" " Anne Page 
 and Slender ;" " Rosalie ;" " Donna Marcia in the 
 Robber's Cave ;" and " Belshazzar's Feast, or the 
 
 * This work lie subsequently sold to the Pennsylvania 
 Academy of Fine Arts, for thirty-five hundred dollars. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 87 
 
 Handwriting on the Wall." The last work, upon 
 which he had been engaged at intervals for nearly 
 twenty years, he left unfinished. 
 
 Besides the volume of poems already mentioned, 
 and many short pieces which have since been given 
 to the public, Mr. Allston was the author of 
 " Monaldi," a story of extraordinary power and 
 interest, in which he displays a deep sensibility to 
 beauty, and philosophic knowledge of human pas- 
 sion. He wrote also a series of discourses on art, and 
 various essays and poems, which are unpublished. 
 
 Although Axxston owed his chief celebrity to 
 his paintings, which will preserve for his name a 
 place in the list of the greatest artists of all the 
 nations and ages, his literary works alone would 
 have given him a high rank among men of genius. 
 A great painter, indeed, is of necessity a poet, 
 though he may lack the power to express fittingly 
 his conceptions, in language. Alls-ton had in 
 remarkable perfection all the faculties required for 
 either art "The Sylphs of the Seasons," his 
 longest poem, in which he describes the scenery 
 
 of Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, and the 
 effects of each season on the mind, show that he 
 regarded nature with a curious eye, and had 
 power to exhibit her beauties with wonderful dis- 
 tinctness and fidelity. " The Two Painters" is 
 an admirable satire, intended to ridicule attempts 
 to reach perfection in one excellency in the art of 
 painting, to the neglect of every other; the "Paint 
 King" is a singularly wild, imaginative story ; and 
 nearly all his minor poems are strikingly original 
 and beautiful. It was in his paintings, however, 
 that the power and religious grandeur of his ima- 
 gination were most strongly developed. 
 
 When this work was originally published, I 
 dedicated it to Mr. Allston, with whom I had the 
 happiness to be personally acquainted, addressing 
 him as " the eldest of the living poets, and the most 
 illustrious of the painters" of our country. I retain 
 the dedication in this edition, as an expression of 
 the admiration and reverence in which I, with all 
 who knew him, continue to hold, his genius and 
 character. 
 
 THE PAINT KING. 
 
 Faiti Ellen was long the delight of the young, 
 
 No damsel could with her compare ; [tongue, 
 Her charms were the theme of the heart and the 
 A nd bards without number in. ecstasies sung 
 The beauties of Ellen the fair. 
 
 Sfet cold was the maid ; and though legions advanced, 
 
 All drill'd by Ovidean art, . 
 And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced, 
 Like shadows they came, and like shadows they 
 
 From the hard polish'd ice of her heart, [glanced 
 
 Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore 
 
 A something that could not be found ; 
 Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore, 
 With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar 
 Of breakers high dashing around. 
 
 From object to object still, still would she veer, 
 
 Though nothing, alas, could she find ; [clear, 
 Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and 
 Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer 
 The bright barren waste of her mind. 
 
 But rather than sit like a statue so still 
 
 When the rain made her mansion a pound, 
 Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill, 
 And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill, 
 From the tiles of the roof to the ground. 
 
 One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined, 
 Passed a youth, with a frame in his hand. 
 
 The casement she closed — not the eye of her mind ; 
 
 For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind ; 
 Still before her she saw the youth stand. 
 
 *'Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid, 
 
 " Ah, what with that frame can he do V 
 And she knelt to the goddess of secrets and pray'd, 
 When the youth pass'd again, and again he display 'd 
 The frame and a picture to view. 
 
 " Oh, beautiful picture !" the fair Ellen cried, 
 
 " I must see thee again or I die." 
 Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, 
 And after the youth and the picture she hied, 
 
 When the youth, looking back, met her eye. 
 
 " Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while,) 
 
 "This picture I see you admire : 
 Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile 
 Some moments of sorrow ; (nay, pardon my smile) 
 
 Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." 
 
 Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise 
 From the cunning young stripling received, 
 But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, 
 When sparkling with rapture they gazed on her 
 Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived ! [prize — 
 
 'T was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined, 
 
 And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone ; 
 Yet he languish'd as though for its beauty he pined, 
 And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind 
 Reflected the beams of his own. 
 
 'T was the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old ; 
 
 Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd ; 
 " Ah, couldstthou but lift from that marble so cold, 
 Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold, 
 
 And press me this day as thy bride." 
 
 She said : when, behold, from the canvas arose 
 
 The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame : 
 With a furious transport his arms did enclose 
 The love-plighted Ellen : and, clasping, he froze 
 The blood of the maid with his flame ! 
 
 She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing. 
 
 "Oh, Heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?" 
 From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer 
 
 ring, 
 As, frowning, he thunder'd " I am the Paint King! 
 
 And mine, lovely maid, thou art now !" 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift 
 
 The loud-screaming maid like a blast ; 
 And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, 
 While the clouds, wand' ring by him,did fearfully dri ft 
 To the right and the left as he pass'd. 
 
 Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, 
 
 With an eddying whirl he descends ; 
 The air all below him becomes black as night, 
 And the ground where he treads, as if moved with 
 Like the surge of the Caspian, bends, [affright, 
 
 « I am here !" said the fiend, and he thundering 
 
 At the gates of a mountainous cave ; [knocked 
 
 The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd, 
 
 While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, 
 
 Like an island of ice on the wave. [rocked 
 
 " Oh, mercy !" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms, 
 But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain. 
 
 " Prithee, love," said the monster, " what mean these 
 alarms'?" 
 
 She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms, 
 That work her to horror again. 
 
 She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes 
 Behold the fair youth she would woo ; 
 
 Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise ; 
 
 His face, like a palette of villanous dyes, 
 Black and white, red and yellow, and blue. 
 
 On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, 
 
 Sat the fiend, like the grim giant Gog, 
 While aloft to his mouth a hugh pipe he applied, 
 Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried 
 As it looms through an easterly fog. 
 
 And anon, as he puff 'd the vast volumes, were seen, 
 
 In horrid festoons on the wall, 
 Legs and. arms, heads and bodies emerging between, 
 Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney 
 
 By the Devil dressed out for a ball. [Beane, 
 
 « Ah me !" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet, 
 
 "Must I hang on these walls to be dried 1" 
 " Oh, no !" said the fiend, while he sprung from his 
 " A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet ; [seat, 
 Into paint will I grind thee, my bride !" 
 
 Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, 
 
 An oil jug he plunged her within ; 
 Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, 
 Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air, 
 
 All covered with oil to the chin. 
 
 On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone 
 
 Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid ; 
 With a rock for his muller he crushed every bone, 
 But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan ; 
 
 For life had forsook not the maid. 
 Now reaching his palette, with masterly care 
 
 Each tint on its surface he spread ; 
 The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, 
 And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair, 
 
 And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red. 
 
 Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, 
 
 " Now I brave, cruel fairy, thy scorn !" 
 When lo ! from a chasm wide-yawning there came 
 A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame, 
 By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. 
 
 Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, 
 
 Fair Geraldine sat without peer ; 
 Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light, 
 And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, 
 
 And a beam of the moon was her spear. 
 
 In an accent that stole on the still charmed air 
 
 Like the first gentle language of Eve, 
 Thus spake from her chariot the fairy so fair : 
 " I come at the call, but, oh Paint-King, beware, 
 Beware if again you deceive." 
 
 «'Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my 
 Thy portrait I oft have essay'd; [heart, 
 
 Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art 
 The least of thy wonderful beauties impart ; 
 And my failure with scorn 3 r ou repaid. 
 
 " Now I swear by the light of the comet-king's tail !" 
 
 And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, 
 " If again with these magical colours I fail, 
 The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, 
 And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. 
 
 " But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine ! 
 
 Thy promise with justice I claim, 
 And thou, queen of fairies, shalt ever be mine, 
 The bride of my bed ; and thy portrait divine 
 
 Shall fill all the earth with my fame." 
 
 He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form 
 On the canvas enchantingly glow'd ; 
 
 His touches — they flew like the leaves in a storm ; 
 
 And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm 
 Contending in harmony flow'd. 
 
 And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem 
 
 To the figure of Geraldine fair : 
 With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem 
 Each muscle, each feature ; in short not a gleam 
 
 Was lost of her beautiful hair. 
 
 'T was the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes 
 
 Still a pupil did ruefully lack ; 
 And who shall describe the terrific surprise 
 That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he des- 
 
 Not a speck on his palette of black ! [cries 
 
 "I am lost !" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; 
 
 When, casting his eyes to the ground, 
 He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief 
 In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief 
 
 Whisk away from his sight with a bound. 
 
 "I am lost !" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone ; 
 
 Then rising the fairy in ire 
 With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone, 
 (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) 
 
 And she swell'd to a column of fire. 
 
 Her spear, now a thunder-bolt, flash'd in the air, 
 
 And sulphur the vault fill'd around : 
 She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair 
 High-lifting, she hmi'd him in speechless despair 
 Down the depths of the chasm profound. 
 
 Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, 
 
 " Come forth !" said the good Geraldine ; 
 When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear 
 Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, 
 With p-race more than ever divine ! 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 89 
 
 THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS, 
 a poet's dkeam. 
 
 Lojtg has it been my fate to hear 
 The slave of Mammon, with a sneer, 
 
 My indolence reprove. 
 Ah, little knows he of the care, 
 The toil, the hardship that I bear 
 While lolling in my elbow-chair, 
 
 And seeming scarce to move : 
 
 For, mounted on the poet's steed, 
 I there my ceaseless journey spe*d 
 
 O'er mountain, wood, and stream : 
 And oft, within a little day, 
 Mid comets fierce, 't is mine to stray, 
 And wander o'er the milky-way 
 
 To catch a poet's dream. 
 
 But would the man of lucre know 
 What riches from my labours flow— 
 
 A dream is my reply. 
 And who for wealth has ever pined, 
 That had a world within his mind, 
 Where every treasure he may find, 
 
 And joys that never die ! 
 
 One night, my task diurnal done, 
 (For I had travell'd with the sun 
 
 O'er burning sands, o'er snows,) 
 Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest ; 
 My wonted prayer to Heaven address'd ; 
 But scarce had I my pillow press'd, 
 
 When thus a vision rose : — 
 
 Mefhought, within a desert cave, 
 Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, 
 
 I suddenly awoke. 
 It seem'd of sable night the cell, 
 Where, save when from the ceiling fell 
 An oozing drop, her silent spell 
 
 No sound had ever broke. 
 
 There motionless I stood alone, 
 
 Like some strange monument of stone 
 
 Upon a barren wild ; 
 Or like (so solid and profound 
 The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round) 
 A man that's buried under ground, 
 
 Where pyramids are piled. 
 
 Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I pass'd, 
 And now I heard, as from a blast, 
 
 A voice pronounce my name : 
 Nor long upon my ear it dwelt, 
 When round me 'gan the air to melt, 
 And motion once again I felt 
 
 Quick circling o'er my frame. 
 
 Again it call'd ; and then a ray, 
 That seem'd a gushing fount of day, 
 
 Across the cavern stream'd. 
 Half-struck with terror and delight, 
 I hail'd the little blessed light, 
 And follow'd till my aching sight 
 
 An orb of darkness seem'd. 
 
 Nor long I felt the blinding pain ; 
 For soon upon a mountain plain 
 
 I gazed with wonder new. 
 There high a castle rear'd its head ; 
 And far below a region spread, 
 Where every season seem'd to shed 
 
 Its own peculiar hue. 
 
 Now, at the castle's massy gate, 
 Like one that's blindly urged by fate, 
 
 A bugle-horn I blew. 
 The mountain-plain it shook around, 
 The vales return'd a hollow sound, 
 And, moving with a sigh profound, 
 
 The portals open flew. 
 
 Then entering, from a glittering hall 
 I heard a voice seraphic call, 
 
 That bade me " Ever reign ! 
 All hail !" it said in accent wild, 
 " For thou art Nature's chosen child, 
 Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defiled, 
 
 Hail, lord of this domain !" 
 
 And now I paced a bright saloon, 
 That seem'd illumined by the moon, 
 
 So mellow was the light. 
 The walls with jetty darkness teem'd, 
 While down them crystal columns stream'd, 
 And each a mountain torrent seem'd, 
 
 High-flashing through the night. 
 
 Rear'd in the midst, a double throne 
 Like burnish'd cloud of evening shone ; 
 
 While, group'd the base around, 
 Four damsels stood of fairy race ; 
 Who, turning each with heavenly grace 
 Upon me her immortal face, 
 
 Transfix'd me to the ground. 
 
 And thus the foremost of the train : 
 "Be thine the throne, and thine to reign 
 
 O'er all the varying year ! 
 But ere thou rulest, the Fates command, 
 That of our chosen rival band 
 A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand, 
 
 Thy sovereignty to share. 
 
 " For we, the sisters of a birth, 
 Do rule by turns the subject earth 
 
 To serve ungrateful man ; 
 But since our varied toils impart 
 No joy to his capricious heart, 
 'Tis now ordain'd that human art 
 
 Shall rectify the plan." 
 
 Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene, 
 " 'T is I thy joyous heart, I ween, 
 
 With sympathy shall move : 
 For I with living melody 
 Of birds in choral symphony, 
 First waked thy soul to poesy, 
 
 To piety and love. 
 
 " When thou, at call of vernal breeze, 
 And beckoning bough of budding trees, 
 Hast left thy sullen fire ; 
 
90 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 And strctch'd thee in some mossy dell, 
 And heard the browsing wether's bell. 
 Blithe echoes rousing from their cell 
 To swell the tinkling choir : 
 
 " Or heard from branch of flowering thorn 
 The song of friendly cuckoo warn 
 
 The tardy-moving swain ; 
 Hast bid the purple swallow hail ; 
 And seen him now through ether sail, 
 Now sweeping downward o'er the vale, 
 
 And skimming now the plain ; 
 
 « Then, catching with a sudden glance 
 The bright and silver-clear expanse 
 
 Of some broad river's stream, 
 Beheld the boats adown it glide, 
 And motion wind again the tide, 
 Where, chain'd in ice by winter's pride, 
 
 Late roll'd the heavy team : 
 
 " Or, lured by some fresh-scented gale 
 That woo'd the moored fisher's sail 
 
 To tempt the mighty main, 
 Hast watch'd the dim, receding shore, 
 Now faintly seen the ocean o'er, 
 Like hanging cloud, and now no more 
 
 To bound the sapphire plain ; 
 
 " Then, wrapt in night, the scudding bark, 
 (That seem'd, self-poised amid the dark, 
 
 Through upper air to leap,) 
 Beheld, from thy most fearful height, 
 The rapid dolphin's azure light 
 Cleave, like a living meteor bright, 
 
 The darkness of the deep : 
 
 " 'T was mine the warm, awakening hand 
 That made thy grateful heart expand, 
 
 And feel the high control 
 Of Him, the mighty Power that moves 
 Amid the waters and the groves, 
 And through his vast creation proves 
 
 His omnipresent soul. 
 
 " Or, brooding o'er some forest rill, 
 Fringed with the early daffodil, 
 
 And quivering maiden-hair, 
 When thou hast mark'd the dusky bed, 
 With leaves and water-rust o'erspread, 
 That seem'd an amber light to shed 
 
 On all was shadow'd there ; 
 
 " And thence, as by its murmur call'd, 
 The current traced to where it brawl'd 
 
 Beneath the noontide ray ; 
 And there beheld the checker' d shade 
 Of waves, in many a sinuous braid, 
 That o'er the sunny channel play'd, 
 
 With motion ever gay : 
 
 " 'T was I to these the magic gave, 
 That made thy heart, a willing slave, 
 
 To gentle Nature bend; 
 And taught thee how with tree and flower, 
 And whispering gale, and dropping shower, 
 In converse sweet to pass the hour, 
 
 As with an early friend: 
 
 " That mid the noontide, sunny haze 
 Did in thy languid bosom raise 
 
 The raptures of the boy ; 
 When, waked as if to second birth, 
 Thy soul through every pore look'd forth, 
 And gazed upon the beauteous earth 
 
 With myriad eyes of joy : 
 
 " That made thy heart, like HIS above, 
 To flow with universal love 
 
 For every living thing. 
 And, O ! if I, with ray divine, 
 Thus tempering, did thy soul refine, 
 Then let thy gentle heart be mine, 
 
 And bless the Sylph of Spring." 
 
 And next the Sylph of Summer fair ; 
 The while her crisped, golden hair 
 
 Half-veil'd her sunny eyes : 
 " Nor less may I thy homage claim, 
 At touch of whose exhaling flame 
 The fog of Spring, that chill'd thy frame, 
 
 In genial vapour flies. 
 
 " Oft, by the heat of noon oppress'd 
 With flowing hair and open vest, 
 
 Thy footsteps have I won 
 To mossy couch of welling grot, 
 Where thou hast bless'd thy happy lot, 
 That thou in that delicious spot 
 
 Mayst see, not feel, the sun : 
 
 " Thence tracing from the body's change, 
 In curious philosophic range, 
 
 The motion of the mind ; 
 And how from thought to thought it flew, 
 Still hoping in each vision new 
 The fairy land of bliss to view, 
 
 But ne'er that land to find. 
 
 " And then, as grew thy languid mood, 
 To some embowering, silent wood 
 
 I led thy careless way ; 
 Where high from tree to tree in air 
 Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare, 
 So bright ! — as if, entangled there, 
 
 The sun had left a ray : 
 
 " Or lured thee to some beetling steep, 
 To mark the deep and quiet sleep 
 
 That wrapt the tarn below ; 
 And mountain blue and forest green 
 Inverted on its plane serene, 
 Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen 
 
 That glazed the painted show ; 
 
 " Perchance, to mark the fisher's skiff 
 Swift from beneath some shadowy cliff 
 
 Dart, like a gust of wind ; 
 And, as she skimm'd the sunny lake, 
 In many a playful wreath her wake 
 Far-trailing, like a silvery snake, 
 
 With sinuous length behind. 
 
 "Not less, when hill, and dale, and heath 
 Still Evening wrapt in mimic death. 
 Thy spirit true I proved : 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 91 
 
 Around thee as the darkness stole, 
 Before thy wild, creative soul 
 I bade each fairy vision roll 
 Thine infancy had loved. 
 
 " Then o'er the silent, sleeping land, 
 Thy fancy, like a magic wand, 
 
 Forth call'd the elfin race : 
 And now around the fountain's brim 
 In circling dance they gayly skim ; 
 And now upon its surface swim, 
 
 And water-spiders chase ; 
 
 " Each circumstance of sight or sound 
 Peopling the vacant air around 
 
 With visionary life : 
 For if amid a thicket stirr'd, 
 Or flitting bat, or wakeful bird, 
 Then straight thy eager fancy heard 
 
 The din of fairy strife ; 
 
 " Now, in the passing beetle's hum 
 The elfin army's goblin drum 
 
 To pigmy battle sound ; 
 And now, where dripping dew-drops plash 
 On waving grass, their bucklers clash, 
 And now their quivering lances flash, 
 
 Wide-dealing death around : 
 
 « Or if the moon's effulgent form 
 The passing clouds of sudden storm 
 
 In quick succession veil ; 
 Vast serpents now, their shadows glide, 
 And, coursing now the mountain's side, 
 A band of giants huge, they stride 
 
 O'er hill, and wood, and dale. 
 
 « And still on many a service rare 
 Could I descant, if need there were, 
 
 My firmer claim to bind. 
 But rest I most my high pretence 
 On that, my genial influence, 
 Which made the body's indolence 
 
 The vigour of the mind." 
 
 And now, in accents deep and low, 
 Like voice of fondly-cherish'd wo, 
 
 The Sylph of Autumn sad : 
 « Though J may not of raptures sing, 
 That graced the gentle song of Spring, 
 Like Summer, playful pleasures bring, 
 
 Thy youthful heart to glad ; 
 
 " Yet still may I in hope aspire 
 Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, 
 
 And purifying love : 
 For I with vision high and holy, 
 And spell of quickening melancholy, 
 Thy soul from sublunary folly 
 
 First raised to worlds above. 
 
 " What though be mine the treasures fair 
 Of purple grape and yellow pear, 
 
 And fruits of various hue, 
 And harvests rich of golden grain, 
 That dance in waves along the plain 
 To merry song of reaping swain, 
 
 Beneath the welkin blue ; 
 
 " With these I may not urge my suit, 
 Of Summer's patient toil the fruit, 
 
 For mortal purpose given; 
 Nor may it fit my sober mood 
 To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, 
 Or dyes of many-colour' d wood, 
 
 That mock the bow of heaven. 
 
 " But, know, 't was mine the secret power 
 That wak'd thee at the midnight hour 
 
 In bleak November's reign : 
 'T was I the spell around thee cast, 
 When thou didst hear the hollow blast 
 In murmurs tell of pleasures past, 
 
 That ne'er would come again : 
 
 " And led thee, when the storm was o'er, 
 To hear the sullen ocean roar, 
 
 By dreadful calm oppress'd ; 
 Which still, though not a breeze was there, 
 Its mountain-billows heav'd in air, 
 As if a living thing it were, 
 
 That strove in vain for rest. 
 
 " 'T was I, when thou, subdued by wo, 
 Didst watch the leaves descending slow, 
 
 To each a moral gave ; 
 And as they moved in mournful train, 
 With rustling sound, along the plain, 
 Taught them to sing a seraph's strain 
 
 Of peace within the grave. 
 
 " And then, upraised thy streaming eye, 
 I met thee in the western sky 
 
 In pomp of evening cloud ; 
 That, while with varying form it roll'd, 
 Some wizard's castle seem'd of gold, 
 And now a crimson'd knight of old, 
 
 Or king in purple proud. 
 
 "And last, as sunk the setting sun, 
 And Evening with her shadows dun 
 
 The gorgeous pageant past, 
 'T was then of life a mimic show, 
 Of human grandeur here below, 
 Which thus beneath the fatal blow 
 
 Of Death must fall at last. 
 
 " O, then with what aspiring gaze 
 Didst thou thy tranced vision raise 
 
 To yonder orbs on high, 
 And think how wondrous, how sublime 
 'T were upwards to their spheres to climb, 
 And live, beyond the reach of Time, 
 
 Child of Eternity !" 
 
 And last the Sylph of Winter spake; 
 The while her piercing voice did shake 
 
 The castle-vaults below. 
 " 0, youth, if thou, with soul refin'd, 
 Hast felt the triumph pure of mind, 
 And learn'd a secret joy to find 
 
 In deepest scenes of wo ; 
 
 " If e'er with fearful ear at eve 
 Hast heard the wailing tempests grieve 
 Through chink of shatter'd wall ; 
 
92 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 The while it conjured o'er thy brain 
 Of wandering ghosts a mournful train, 
 That low in fitful sobs complain 
 Of Death's untimely call : 
 
 « Or feeling, as the storm increased, 
 The love of terror nerve thy breast, 
 
 Didst venture to the coast ; 
 To see the mighty war-ship leap 
 From wave to wave upon the deep, 
 Like chamois goat from steep to steep, 
 
 Till low in valley lost ; 
 
 « Then, glancing to the angry sky, 
 Behold the clouds with fury fly 
 
 The lurid moon athwart; 
 Like armies huge in battle, throng, 
 And pour in volleying ranks along, 
 While piping winds in martial song 
 
 To rushing war exhort : 
 
 " 0, then to me thy heart be given, 
 To me, ordain'd by Him in heaven 
 
 Thy nobler powers to wake. 
 And O ! if thou, with poet's soul, 
 High brooding o'er the frozen pole, 
 Hast felt beneath my stern control 
 
 The desert region quake ; 
 
 " Or from old Hecla's cloudy height, 
 When o'er the dismal, half-year's night 
 
 He pours his sulphurous breath, 
 Hast known my petrifying wind 
 Wild ocean's curling billows bind, 
 Like bending sheaves by harvest hind, 
 
 Erect in icy death ; 
 
 " Or heard adown the mountain's steep 
 The northern blast with furious sweep 
 
 Some cliff dissever'd dash ; 
 And seen it spring with dreadful bound 
 From rock to rock, to gulf profound, 
 While echoes fierce from caves resound 
 
 The never-ending crash : 
 
 "If thus, with terror's mighty spell 
 Thy soul inspired, was wont to swell, 
 
 Thy heaving frame expand ; 
 O, then to me thy heart incline ; 
 For know, the wondrous charm was mine, 
 That fear and joy did thus combine 
 
 In magic union bland. 
 
 " Nor think confined my native sphere 
 To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear, 
 
 Or desolation wild : 
 For I of pleasures fair could sing, 
 That steal from life its sharpest sting, 
 And man have made around it cling, 
 
 Like mother to her child. 
 
 « When thou, beneath the clear blue sky, 
 So calm, no cloud was seen to fly, 
 
 Hast gazed on snowy plain, 
 Where Nature slept so pure and sweet, 
 She seem'd a corse in winding-sheet, 
 Whose happy soul had gone to meet 
 
 The blest, angelic train ; 
 
 " Or mark'd the sun's declining ray 
 In thousand varying colours play 
 
 O'er ice-incrusted heath, 
 In gleams of orange now, and green, 
 And now in red and azure sheen, 
 Like hues on dying dolphin seen, 
 
 Most lovely when in death ; 
 
 " Or seen, at dawn of eastern light 
 The frosty toil of fays by night 
 
 On pane of casement clear, 
 Where bright the mimic glaciers shine, 
 And Alps, with many a mountain pine, 
 And armed knights from Palestine 
 
 In winding march appear : 
 
 " 'T was I on each enchanting scene 
 The charm bestow'd that banished spleen 
 
 Thy bosom pure and light. 
 But still a nobler power I claim ; 
 That power allied to poets' fame, 
 Which language vain has dared to name — 
 
 The soul's creative might. 
 
 "Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair, 
 And joyous Spring demand a share 
 
 Of Fancy's hallow'd power, 
 Yet these I hold of humbler kind, 
 To grosser means of earth confined, 
 Through mortal sense to reach the mind, 
 
 By mountain, stream, or flower. 
 
 "But mine, of purer nature still, 
 Is that which to thy secret will 
 
 Did minister unseen, 
 Unfelt, unheard ; when every sense 
 Did sleep in drowsy indolence, 
 And silence deep and night intense 
 
 Enshrouded every scene ; 
 
 " That o'er thy teeming brain did raise 
 The spirits of departed days 
 
 Through all the varying year ; 
 And images of things remote, 
 And sounds that long had ceased to float, 
 With every hue, and every note, 
 
 As living now they were : 
 
 " And taught thee from the rootle}' mass 
 Each harmonizing part to class, 
 
 (Like Nature's self employ'd ;) 
 And then, as work'd thy wayward will, 
 From these, with rare combining skill, 
 With new-created worlds to fill 
 
 Of space the mighty void. 
 
 « then to me thy heart incline ; 
 To me, whose plastic powers combine 
 
 The harvest of the mind ; 
 To me, whose magic coffers bear 
 The spoils of all the toiling year, 
 That still in mental vision wear 
 
 A lustre more refined." 
 
 She ceased — And now, in doubtful mood, 
 All motionless and mute I stood, 
 Like one by charm oppress'd : 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 93 
 
 By turns from each to each I roved, 
 And each by turns again I loved; 
 For ages ne'er could one have proved 
 More lovely than the rest. 
 
 " O blessed band, of birth divine, 
 What mortal task is like to mine !" — 
 
 And further had I spoke, 
 When, lo ! there pour'd a flood of light 
 So fiercely on my aching sight, 
 I fell beneath the vision bright, 
 
 And with the pain awoke. 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.* 
 
 All hail ! thou noble land, 
 
 Our fathers' native soil ! 
 stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ; 
 For thou, with magic might, 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phcebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The genius of our clime, 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep, 
 Shall hail the great sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim, 
 Then let the world combine — 
 O'er the main our naval line, 
 Like the milky-way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have pass'd 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravell'd seas to roam, — 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 That blood of honest fame, 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ] 
 
 While the language free and bold 
 Which the bard of Avon sung, 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung, 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
 While this, with reverence meet, 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, while the arts, 
 
 That mould a nation's soul. 
 Still cling around our hearts, 
 Between let ocean roll, 
 Our joint communion breaking with the sun : 
 Yet, still, from either beach, 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 "We are one !" 
 
 * This poem was first published in Coleridge's " Sy- 
 hilline Leaves," in 1810. 
 
 THE SPANISH MAID. 
 
 Five weary months sweet Inez number'd 
 From that unfading bitter day 
 When last she heard the trumpet bray 
 That call'd her Isidor away — 
 
 That never to her heart has slumber'd ; 
 
 She hears it now, and sees, far bending 
 Along the mountain's misty side, 
 His plumed troop, that, waving wide, 
 Seems like a rippling, feathery tide, 
 
 Now bright, now with the dim shore blending; 
 
 She hears the cannon's deadly rattle — 
 And fancy hurries on to strife, 
 And hears the drum and screaming fife 
 Mix with the last sad cry of life. 
 
 O, should he — should he fall in battle ! 
 
 Yet still his name would live in story, 
 And every gallant bard in Spain 
 Would fight his battles o'er again. 
 And would not she for such a strain 
 
 Resign him to his country's glory] 
 
 Thus Inez thought, and pluck'd the flower 
 That grew upon the very bank 
 Where first her ear bewilder'd drank 
 The plighted vow — where last she sank 
 
 In that too bitter parting hour. 
 
 But now the sun is westward sinking ; 
 And soon amid the purple haze, 
 That showers from his slanting rays, 
 A thousand loves there meet her gaze, 
 
 To change her high heroic thinking. 
 
 Then hope, with all its crowd of fancies, 
 Before her flits and fills the air ; 
 And, deck'd in victory's glorious gear, 
 In vision Isidor is there. 
 
 Tften how her heart mid sadness dances ! 
 
 Yet little thought she, thus forestalling 
 The coming joy, that in that hour 
 The future, like the colour'd shower 
 That seems to arch the ocean o'er, 
 
 Was in the living present falling. 
 
 The foe is slain. His sable charger 
 
 All fleck'd with foam comes bounding on ; 
 The wild Morena rings anon, 
 And on its brow the gallant Don, 
 
 And gallant steed grow larger, larger ; 
 
 And now he nears the mountain-hollow ; 
 The flowery bank and little lake 
 Now on his startled vision break — 
 And Inez there. — He 's not awake — 
 
 Ah, what a day this dream will follow ! 
 
 But no — he surely is not dreaming. 
 Another minute makes it clear. 
 A scream, a rush, a burning tear 
 From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear 
 
 That bliss like his is only seeming. 
 
94 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF THE 
 ANGEL AND CHILD. 
 
 I stood alone; nor word, nor other sound, 
 Broke the mute solitude that closed me round ; 
 As when the air doth take her midnight sleep, 
 Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep, 
 So slept she now at noon. But not alone 
 My spirit then: a light within me shone 
 
 That was not mine; and feelings undefined, 
 And thoughts flow'd in upon me not my own. 
 'T was that deep mystery — for aye unknown — ■ 
 
 The living presence of another's mind. 
 
 Another mind was there — the gift of few — 
 
 That by its own strong will can all that's true 
 
 In its own nature unto others give, 
 
 And mingling life with life, seem there to live. 
 
 I felt it now in mine ; and oh ! how fair, 
 
 How beautiful the thoughts that met me there — 
 
 Visions of Love, and Purity, and Truth ! 
 Though form distinct had each,they seem'd,as'twere, 
 Imbodied all of one celestial air — 
 
 To beam for ever in coequal youth. 
 
 And thus I Iearn'd — as in the mind they moved — 
 These stranger Thoughts the one the other loved; 
 That Purity loved Truth, because 'twas true, 
 And Truth, because 'twas pure, the first did woo; 
 While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain ; 
 Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain 
 
 That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless, 
 Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain 
 Of melting sounds they seem'd; then, changed again, 
 
 One angel form they took — Self-Happiness. 
 
 This angel form the gifted Artist saw, 
 That held me in his spell. 'T was his to draw 
 The veil of sense, and see the immortal race, 
 The Forms spiritual, that know not place. 
 He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth, 
 And stay'd it by his will, and gave it birth 
 
 E'en to the world of sense ; bidding its cell, 
 The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth 
 The shape ethereal fix, and body forth 
 
 A being of the skies — with man to dwell. 
 
 And then another form beside it stood ; 
 ' T was one of this our earth — though the warm blood 
 Had from it pass'd — exhaled as in a breath 
 Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death. 
 Its little " dream of human life" had fled ; 
 And yet it seem'd not number'd with the dead, 
 
 But one emerging to a life so bright 
 That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread, 
 Its very consciousness did seem to shed 
 
 Rays from within, and clothe it all in light. 
 
 Now touch'd the Angel Form its little hand, 
 
 Turning upon it with a look so bland, 
 
 And yet so full of majesty, as less 
 
 Than holy natures never may impress — 
 
 And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook. 
 
 The Creature of the Earth now felt that look, 
 
 And stood in blissful awe — as one above 
 Who saw his name in the Eternal Book, 
 And Him fliit open'd it ; e'en Him that took 
 
 The Little Ch^d, and bless'd it in his love. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ON A FALMNG GROUP IN THE LAST JUDG- 
 MENT OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 How vast, how dread, o'erwhelming is the thought 
 
 Of space interminable ! to the soul 
 
 A circling weight that crushes into naught 
 
 Her mighty faculties ! a wond'rous whole, 
 
 Without or parts, beginning, or an end ! 
 
 How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send 
 
 The fancy e'en amid the waste profound ! 
 
 Yet, born as if all daring to astound, 
 
 Thy giant hand, Angelo, hath hurl'd 
 
 E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight, 
 
 Down the dread void — fall endless as their fate ! 
 
 Already now they seem from world to world 
 
 For ages thrown ; yet doom'd, another past, 
 
 Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last ! 
 
 ON REMBRANT: OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE 
 OF JACOB'S DREAM. 
 
 As in that twilight, superstitious age, 
 
 When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind 
 
 Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind, 
 
 When e'en the learned philosophic sage, 
 
 Wont with the stars thro' boundless space to range, 
 
 Listen'd with reverence to the changeling's tale , 
 
 E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange ! 
 
 E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail ; 
 
 That like the rambling of an idiot's speech, 
 
 No image giving of a thing on earth, 
 
 Nor thought significant in reason's reach, 
 
 Yet in their random shadowings give birth 
 
 To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, 
 
 And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb. 
 
 ON THE PICTURES BY RUBENS. IN THE LUX- 
 EMBOURG GALLERY. 
 
 There is a charm no vulgar mind can reach, 
 No critic thwart, no mighty master teach ; 
 A charm how mingled of the good and ill ! 
 Yet still so mingled that the mystic whole 
 Shall captive hold the struggling gazer's will, 
 Till vanquish'd reason own its full control. 
 And such, O Rubens, thy mysterious art, 
 The charm that vexes, yet enslaves, the heart ! 
 Thy lawless style, from timid systems free, 
 Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea, 
 High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge 
 Impending hangs ; yet, ere the foaming surge 
 Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste 
 Back from the shore impels the wat'ry waste. 
 
 TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND THE PRESIDENT 
 OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 From one unused in pomp of words to raise 
 A courtly monument of empty praise, 
 Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile, 
 Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile, 
 Accept, O West, these unaffected lays, 
 Which genius claims and grateful justice pays. 
 Still green in age, thy vig'rous powers impart 
 The youthful freshness of a blameless heart : 
 For thine, unaided by another's pain, 
 The wiles of en v y, or the sordid train 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 95 
 
 Of selfishness, has been the manly race 
 Of one who felt the purifying grace 
 Of honest fame ; nor found the effort vain 
 E'en for itself to love thy soul-ennobling art. 
 
 ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF JJOLUS. BY 
 PELIGRINO TIBALDI. 
 
 Ftjlt, well, Tibaidi, did thy kindred mind 
 
 The mighty spell of Bonaroti own. 
 
 Like one who, reading magic words, receives 
 
 The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown, 
 
 'T was thine, deciph'ring Nature's mystic leaves, 
 
 To hold strange converse with the viewless wind : 
 
 To see the spirits, in imbodied forms, 
 
 Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. 
 
 For, lo ! obedient to thy bidding, teems 
 
 Fierce into shape their stern, relentless lord : 
 
 His form of motion ever-restless seems ; 
 
 Or, if to rest inclined his turbid soul, 
 
 On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word 
 
 To subject winds that sweep the desert pole. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE. 
 
 And thou art gone,mostloved,mosthonour'dFriend! 
 No — never more thy gentle voice shall blend 
 With air of earth its pure ideal tones — 
 Binding in one, as with harmonious zones, 
 The heart and intellect. And I no more 
 Shall with thee gaze on that unfathom'd deep, 
 The human soul ; as when, push'd off the shore, 
 Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep, 
 Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seem'd 
 As on some starless sea — all dark above, 
 All dark below- — yet, onward as we drove, 
 To plough up light that ever round us stream'd. 
 But he who mourns is not as one bereft 
 Of all he loved : thy living truths are left. 
 
 THE TUSCAN MAID. 
 
 tide 
 
 How pleasant and how sad the turning 
 Of human life, when side by side 
 The child and youth begin to glide 
 Along the vale of years; 
 The pure twin-being for a little space, 
 With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face, 
 Too young for wo, though not for tears. 
 
 This turning tide is Ursulina's now; 
 The time is mark'd upon her brow ; 
 Now every thought and feeling throw 
 Their shadows on her face ; 
 And so are every thought and feeling join'd, 
 *T were hard to answer whether heart or mind 
 Of either were the native place. 
 
 The things that once she loved are still the same ; 
 Yet now there needs another name 
 To give the feeling which they claim, 
 While she the feeling gives ; 
 She cannot call it gladness or delight ; 
 And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light 
 On e'en the humblest thing that lives. 
 
 She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by, 
 
 And sees it sip the flowret nigh; 
 
 Yet not, as once, with eager cry 
 She grasps the pretty thing ; 
 Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood— 
 So poised in air, as if on air it stood 
 
 To show its gold and purple wing. 
 
 She hears the bird without a wish to snare, 
 But rather on the azure air 
 To mount, and with it wander there 
 To some untrodden land ; 
 As if it told her in its happy song 
 Of pleasures strange, that never can belong 
 To aught of sight or touch of hand. 
 
 Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove, 
 And outward things around her move, 
 Pure ministers of purer love, 
 And make the heart her home ; 
 Or to the meaner senses sink a slave, 
 To do their bidding, though they madly crave 
 Through hateful scenes of vice to roam. 
 
 But, Ursulina, thine the better choice; 
 Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice : 
 Thy heart may still in earth rejoice 
 And all its beauty love; 
 But no, not all this fair, enchanting earth, 
 With all its spells, can give the rapture birth 
 That waits thy conscious soul above. 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 O, pour upon my soul again 
 That sad, unearthly strain, 
 
 That seems from other worlds to plain; 
 
 Thus falling, falling from afar, 
 
 As if some melancholy star 
 
 Had mingled with her light her sighs, 
 And dropped them from the skies. 
 
 No — never came from aught below 
 
 This melody of wo, 
 That makes my heart to overflow 
 As from a thousand gushing springs 
 Unknown before ; that with it brings 
 This nameless light — if light it be — 
 
 That veils the world I see. 
 
 For all I see around me wears 
 The hue of other spheres ; 
 And something blent of smiles and tears 
 Comes from the very air I breathe. 
 O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, 
 Can mould a sadness like to this — 
 So like angelic bliss. 
 
 So, at that dreamy hour of day, 
 When the last lingering ray 
 
 Stops on the highest cloud to play — 
 
 So thought the gentle Rosalie 
 
 As on her maiden revery 
 
 First fell the strain of him who stole 
 In music to her soul. 
 
LEVI FRISBIE. 
 
 [Born 1781. Died 1822.] 
 
 Professor Frisbie was the son of a respect- 
 able clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He 
 entered Harvard University in 1 798, and was gradu- 
 ated in 1802. His father, like most of the cler- 
 gymen of New England, was a poor man, and 
 unable fully to defray the costs of his son's edu- 
 cation ; and Mr. Frisbie, while an under-graduate, 
 provided in part for his support by teaching a 
 school during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. 
 His friend and biographer, Professor Andrews 
 Norton, alludes to this fact as a proof of the 
 falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the 
 only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united 
 with correct morals, and good manners, pass un- 
 questioned all the artificial barriers of society, and 
 
 their claim to distinction is recognised more wil- 
 lingly than any other. 
 
 Soon after leaving the university, Mr. Fhtsbie 
 commenced the study of the law ; but an affection 
 of the eyes depriving him of their use for the 
 purposes of study, he abandoned his professional 
 pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in 
 Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Pro- 
 fessor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Profes- 
 sor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held 
 until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was 
 an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a 
 pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing 
 a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and 
 a few poems, was published in 1823. 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 I 'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife, 
 Whene'er I scan this scene of life, 
 
 Inspires my waking schemes, 
 And when I sleep, with form so light, 
 Dances before my ravish'd sight, 
 
 In sweet aerial dreams. 
 
 The rose its blushes need not lend, 
 Nor yet the lily with them blend, 
 
 To captivate my eyes. 
 Give me a cheek the heart obeys, 
 And, sweetly mutable, displays 
 
 Its feelings as they rise ; 
 
 Features, where, pensive, more than gay, 
 Save when a rising smile doth play, 
 
 The sober thought you see ; 
 Eyes that all soft and tender seem, 
 And kind affections round them beam, 
 
 But most of all on me; 
 
 A form, though not of finest mould, 
 Where yet a something you behold 
 
 Unconsciously doth please ; 
 Manners all graceful without art, 
 That to each look and word impart 
 
 A modesty and ease. 
 
 But still her air, her face, each charm 
 Must speak a heart with feeling warm, 
 
 And mind inform the whole; 
 With mind her mantling cheek must glow, 
 Her voice, her beaming eye must show 
 
 An all-inspiring soul. 
 
 Ah ! could I such a being find, 
 And were her fate to mine but join'd 
 By Hymen's silken tie, 
 
 To her myself, my all I 'd give, 
 For her alone delighted live, 
 For her consent to die. 
 
 Whene'er by anxious care oppress'd, 
 On the soft pillow of her breast 
 
 My aching head I 'd lay ; 
 At her sweet smile each care should cease, 
 Her kiss infuse a balmy peace, 
 
 And drive my griefs away. 
 
 In turn, I 'd soften all her care, 
 Each thought, each wish, each feeling 
 share ; 
 
 Should sickness e'er invade, 
 My voice should soothe each rising sigh, 
 My hand the cordial should supply ; 
 
 I 'd watch beside her bed. 
 
 Should gathering clouds our sky deform, 
 My arms should shield her from the storm; 
 
 And, were its fury hurl'd, 
 My bosom to its bolts I 'd bare ; 
 In her defence undaunted dare 
 
 Defy the opposing world. 
 
 Together should our prayers ascend ; 
 Together would we humbly bend, 
 
 To praise the Almighty name; 
 And when I saw her kindling eye 
 Beam upwards in her native sky, 
 
 My soul should catch the flame. 
 
 Thus nothing should our hearts divide, 
 But. on our years serenely glide, 
 
 And all to love be given ; 
 And, when life's little scene was o'er, 
 We 'd part to meet and part no more, 
 
 But live and love in heaven. 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 [Born 1785.] 
 
 The author of the "Airs of Palestine," is a 
 native of Litchfield, Connecticut, and was born on 
 the sixth of April, 1 785. His great-grandfather, the 
 Reverend James Pierpont, was the second minis- 
 ter of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale 
 College ; his grandfather and his father were men 
 of intelligence and integrity; and his mother, 
 whose maiden name was Elizabeth Collins, 
 had a mind thoroughly imbued with the religious 
 sentiment, and was distinguished for her devotion 
 to maternal duties. In the following lines, from 
 one of his recent poems, he acknowledges the in- 
 fluence of her example and teachings on his own 
 character : 
 
 " She led me first to God ; 
 Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew. 
 
 For, when she used to leave 
 
 The fireside, every eve, 
 I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. 
 
 " That dew, that bless'd my youth,— 
 
 Her holy love, her truth, 
 Her spirit of devotion, and the tears 
 
 That she could not suppress, — 
 
 Hath never ceased to bless 
 My soul, nor will it, through eternal years. 
 
 <: How often has the thought 
 
 Of my mourn'd mother brought 
 Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power 
 
 The tempter to repel! 
 
 Mother, thou knowest well 
 That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!" 
 
 Mr. Pierpont entered Yale College when fifteen 
 years old, and was graduated in the summer of 
 1804. During a part of 1805, he assisted the 
 Reverend Doctor Backus, in an academy of which 
 he was principal previous to his election to the 
 presidency of Hamilton College ; and in the au- 
 tumn of the same year, following the example of 
 many young men of New England, he went to 
 the southern states, and was for nearly four years 
 a private tutor in the family of Colonel William 
 Allston, of South Carolina, spending a portion 
 of his time in Charleston, and the remainder on 
 the estate of Colonel Allstojt, on the Waccamaw, 
 near Georgetown. Here he commenced his legal 
 studies, which he continued after his return to his 
 native state in 1809, in the school of Justices 
 Reeve and Gould; and in 1812, he was ad- 
 mitted to the bar, in Essex county, Massachusetts. 
 Soon after the commencement of the second war 
 with Great Britain, being appointed to address 
 the Washington Benevolent Society of Newbu- 
 ryport, his place of residence, he delivered and 
 afterward published "The Portrait," the earliest 
 of the poems in the recent edition of his works. 
 
 In consequence of the general prostration of 
 business in New England during the war, and of 
 1 
 
 his health, which at this time demanded a more 
 active life, he abandoned the profession of law, 
 and became interested in mercantile transactions, 
 first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore ; but 
 these resulting disastrously, in 1816, he sought a 
 solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year 
 published "The Airs of Palestine." The first 
 edition appeared in an octavo volume, at Balti- 
 more ; and two other editions were published in 
 Boston, in the following year. 
 
 The " Airs of Palestine" is' a poem of about 
 eight hundred lines, in the heroic measure, in which 
 the influence of music is shown by examples, prin- 
 cipally from sacred history. The religious sub- 
 limity of the sentiments, the beauty of the language, 
 and the finish of the versification, placed it at once, 
 in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion 
 on the subject, before any poem at that time pro- 
 duced in America. As a work of art, it would be 
 nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduction 
 of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity 
 of the ten-syllable verse, induced by the intention 
 of the author to recite it in a public assembly. 
 He says in the preface to the third edition, that he 
 was "aware how difficult even a good speaker 
 finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any length 
 of time, without perceiving in his hearers the 
 somniferous effects of a regular cadence," and 
 "the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally 
 thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly 
 gliding river, to break the current, which, without 
 it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the meiody, 
 which might otherwise become monotonous." The 
 following passage, descriptive of a moonlight scene 
 in Italy, will give the reader an idea of its manner i 
 
 " On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, 
 And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws. 
 Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, 
 Alone, — at night,— the Italian boatman sails. 
 High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride, 
 Night's queen ;— he sees her image on that tide,. 
 Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest 
 Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest ; 
 Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, 
 Whose every sweep is echo'd from the shore ; 
 Now, far before him, on a liquid bed 
 Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. 
 How mild the empire of that virgin queen ! 
 How dark the mountain's shade ! how still the scene ! 
 Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep 
 On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, 
 Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir 
 The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, 
 Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, 
 Nor brush, with ruffling wind, that glassy river. 
 
 " Hark !— 't is a convent's bell : its midnight chime ; 
 For music measures even the march of time :— 
 O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, 
 Gray turrets rise : — the eye can catch no more. 
 The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, 
 Suspends his oar :— a low and solemn swell, 
 
98 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, 
 Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. 
 What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night? 
 A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, 
 Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, 
 To charm the parting spirit of the dead. 
 Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear, 
 That uncaged spirit hovering, lingers near; — 
 Why should she mount ? why pant for brighter bliss t 
 A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this !" 
 
 Soon after the publication of the « Airs of Pales- 
 tine," Mr. Pierfont entered seriously upon the 
 study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, 
 and afterward as a member of the theological 
 school connected with Harvard College. He left 
 that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, 
 was ordained as minister of the Hollis Street Uni- 
 tarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Re- 
 verend Doctor Hollet, who had recently been 
 elected to the presidency of the Transylvania Uni- 
 versity, in Kentucky. 
 
 In 1835 and 1836, in consequence of impaired 
 health, he spent a year abroad, passing through 
 the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, 
 and extending his tour into the East, visiting 
 Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, 
 Constantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some 
 of the other cities of Greece ; of his travels in 
 which, traces will occasionally be found in some 
 of the short poems which he has written since his 
 return. 
 
 Mr. Pieiipont has written in almost every metre, 
 
 and many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, 
 are remarkably spirited and melodious. Seve- 
 ral of them, distinguished alike for energy of 
 thought and language, were educed by events con- 
 nected with the moral and religious enterprises of 
 the time, nearly all of which are indebted to his 
 constant and earnest advocacy for much of their 
 prosperity. 
 
 In the preface to the collection of his poems pub- 
 lished in 1840, he says, " It gives a true, though an 
 all too feeble expression of the author's feeling and 
 faith, — of his love of right, of freedom, and man, 
 and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred 
 of every thing that is at war with them ; and of 
 his faith in the providence and gracious promises 
 of God. Nay, the book is published as an expres- 
 sion of his faith in man,- his faith that every line, 
 written to rebuke high-handed or under-handed 
 wrong, or to keep alive the fires of civil and reli- 
 gious liberty, — written for solace in affliction, for 
 support under trial, or as an expression, or for the 
 excitement of Christian patriotism or devotion ; or 
 even with no higher aim than to throw a little 
 sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it 
 is going through some of the wearisome passages 
 of life's history, — will be received as a proof of 
 the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellow- 
 men, of his desire to serve them, and consequently 
 of his claim upon them for a charitable judgment, 
 at least, if not even for a tespectful and grateful 
 remembrance." 
 
 " PASSING AWAY." 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 
 
 That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, — 
 Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 
 
 That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 
 When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
 And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, 
 She dispensing her silvery light, 
 And he, his notes as silvery quite, 
 While the boatman listens and ships his oar, 
 To catch the music that comes from the shore 1 — 
 
 Hark ! the notes, on my ear that play, 
 
 Are set to words : — as they float, they say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 
 
 Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; 
 Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
 Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear, 
 As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 
 That told of the flow of the stream of time. 
 For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, 
 And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung ; 
 (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
 That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) 
 And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, 
 And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 0, how bright were the wheels, that told 
 
 Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow ! 
 And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, 
 
 Seemed to point to the girl below. 
 And lo ! she had changed : — in a few short hours 
 Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
 That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
 This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
 In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, 
 That told me she soon was to be a bride ; — 
 Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 
 -In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade 
 Of thought, or care, stole softly over, 
 
 Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, 
 Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. 
 
 The rose yet lay on Tier cheek, but its flush 
 
 Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
 
 And the light in her eye, and the light on the 
 wheels, 
 That marched so calmly round above her, 
 
 Was a little dimm'd, — as when evening steals 
 Upon noon's hot face: — Yet one couldn't but 
 love her, 
 
 For she look'd like a mother, whose first babe lay 
 Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day ; — 
 And she seem'd, in the same silver tone to say, 
 « Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 99 
 
 While yet I Iook'd, what a change there came ! 
 
 Her eye was quench' d, and her cheek was wan : 
 Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, 
 
 Yet, just as busily, swung she on ; 
 The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ; 
 The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 
 The hands, that over the dial swept, 
 Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept, 
 And still there came that silver tone 
 From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone, — 
 
 (Let me never forget till my dying day 
 
 The tone or the burden of her lay,) — 
 
 " Passing away ! passing away !' 
 
 FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTEN- 
 NIAL CELEBRATION. 
 
 Two hundred years ! two hundred years ! 
 
 How much of human power and pride, 
 What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears 
 
 Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! 
 
 The red man at his horrid rite, 
 
 Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, 
 
 His bark canoe, its track of light 
 Left on the wave beneath the moon ; 
 
 His dance, his yell, his council-fire, 
 
 The altar where his victim lay, 
 His death-song, and his funeral pyre, 
 
 That still, strong tide hath borne away. 
 
 And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 
 
 That on this shore with trembling trod, 
 
 Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
 The ark of freedom and of God. 
 
 And war— that since o'er ocean came, 
 And thunder'd loud from yonder hill, 
 
 And wrapp'd its foot in sheets of flame, 
 To blast that ark — its storm is still. 
 
 Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 
 
 That live in story and in song, 
 Time, for the last two hundred years, 
 
 Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 
 
 'T is like a dream when one awakes, 
 
 This vision of the scenes of old ; 
 'T is like the moon when morning breaks, 
 
 'T is like a tale round watchfires told. 
 
 Then what are we 1 then what are we 1 
 Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd 
 
 O'er our green graves, our names shall be 
 A morning dream, a tale that's told. 
 
 God of our fathers, in whose sight 
 
 The thousand years that sweep away 
 Man and the traces of his might 
 
 Are but the break and close of day- 
 Grant us that love of truth sublime, 
 
 That love of goodness and of thee, 
 That makes thy children in all time 
 
 To share thine own eternity. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 I cannot make him dead ! 
 
 His fair sunshiny head 
 Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
 
 Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
 
 With tears, I turn to him, 
 The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 
 
 I walk my parlour floor, 
 
 And, through the open door, 
 I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 
 
 I 'm stepping toward the hall 
 
 To give the boy a call; 
 And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 
 
 I thread the crowded street; 
 
 A satchell'd lad I meet, 
 With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair : 
 
 And, as he's running by, 
 
 Follow him with my eye, 
 Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin lid ; 
 Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt; 
 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
 Yet my heart whispers that— he is not there ! 
 
 I cannot make him dead ! 
 
 When passing by the bed, 
 So long watch'd over with parental care, 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 
 Seek it inquiringly, 
 Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 
 
 When, at the cool, gray break 
 
 Of day, from sleep I wake, 
 With my first breathing of the morning air 
 
 My soul goes up, with joy, 
 
 To Him who gave my boy, 
 Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 
 
 When at the day's calm close, 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 
 
 Whate'er I may be saying, 
 
 I am, in spirit, praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 
 
 Not there ! — Where, then, is he 1 
 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress, 
 Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — he is not there ! 
 
 He lives ! — In all the past 
 
 He lives; nor, to the last, 
 Of seeing him again will I despair ; 
 
 In dreams I see him now ; 
 
 And, on his angel brow, 
 I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there .' " 
 
 Yes, we all live to God! 
 
 Father, thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
 
 That, in the spirit land, 
 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 'Twill be our heaven to find that— he is there! 
 
100 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE MASSA- 
 CHUSETTS MECHANICS' CHARITA- 
 BLE ASSOCIATION. 
 
 Loud o'er thy savage child, 
 
 O God, the night-wind roar'd, 
 As, houseless, in the wild 
 He bow'd him and adored. 
 Thou saw'st him there, 
 As to the sky 
 He raised his eye 
 In fear and prayer. 
 
 Thine inspiration came ! 
 
 And, grateful for thine aid, 
 An altar to thy name 
 
 He built beneath the shade : 
 The limbs of larch 
 That darken'd round, 
 He bent and bound 
 In many an arch ; 
 
 Till in a sylvan fane 
 
 Went up the voice of prayer, 
 And music's simple strain 
 Arose in worship there. 
 The arching boughs, 
 The roof of leaves 
 That summer weaves, 
 O'erheard his vows. 
 
 Then beam'd a brighter day ; 
 
 And Salem's holy height 
 And Greece in glory lay 
 Beneath the kindling light. 
 Thy temple rose 
 On Salem's hill, 
 While Grecian skill 
 Adorn'd thy foes. 
 
 Along those rocky shores, 
 
 Along those olive plains, 
 Where pilgrim Genius pores 
 O'er Art's sublime remains, 
 Long colonnades 
 Of snowy white 
 Look'd forth in light 
 Through classic shades. 
 
 Forth from the quarry stone 
 
 The marble goddess sprung ; 
 And, loosely round her thrown, 
 Her marble vesture hung ; 
 And forth from cold 
 And sunless mines 
 Came silver shrines 
 And gods of gold. 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem burn'd ! 
 
 And where the Stoic trod, 
 The altar was o'erturn'd, 
 
 Rained " to an unknown God." 
 And now there are 
 No idol fanes 
 On all the plains 
 Beneath that star. 
 
 To honour thee, dread Power ! 
 
 Our strength and skill combine, 
 And temple, tomb, and tower 
 Attest these gifts divine. 
 A swelling dome 
 For pride they gild, 
 For peace they build 
 An humbler home. 
 
 By these our fathers' host 
 Was led to victory first, 
 When on our guardless coast 
 The cloud of battle burst ; 
 Through storm and spray, 
 By these controll'd, 
 Our natives hold 
 Their thundering way. 
 
 Great Source of every art ! 
 
 Our homes, our pictured halls, 
 Our throng'd and busy mart, 
 That lifts its granite walls, 
 And shoots to heaven 
 Its glittering spires, 
 To catch the fires 
 Of morn and even ; 
 
 These, and the breathing forms 
 
 The brush or chisel gives, 
 With this when marble warms, 
 With that when canvass lives ; 
 These all combine 
 In countless ways 
 To swell thy praise, 
 For all are thine. 
 
 HER CHOSEN SPOT. 
 
 While yet she lived, she walked alone 
 Among these shades. A voice divine 
 
 Whisper'd, " This spot shall be thine own ; 
 Here shall thy wasting form recline, 
 Beneath the shadow of this pine." 
 
 "Thy will be done!" the sufferer said. 
 
 This spot was hallow'd from that hour ; 
 And, in her eyes, the evening's shade 
 And morning's dew this green spot made 
 
 More lovely than her bridal bower. 
 
 By the pale moon — herself more pale 
 And spirit-like — these walks she trod ; 
 
 And, while no voice, from swell or vale, 
 Was heard, she knelt upon this sod 
 And gave her spirit back to God. 
 
 That spirit, with an angel's wings, 
 
 Went up from the young mother's bed : 
 
 So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. 
 
 She's lost to earth and earthly things ; 
 But "weep not, for she is not dead, 
 
 She sleepeth!" Yea, she sleepeth here, 
 The first that in these grounds hath slept. 
 
 This grave, first water'd with the tear 
 That child or widow'd man hath wept, 
 Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 101 
 
 The babe that lay on her cold breast — 
 A rosebud dropp'd on drifted snow — 
 Its young hand in its father's press'd, 
 Shall learn that she, who first caress'd 
 Its infant cheek, now sleeps below. 
 
 And often shall he come alone, 
 
 When not a sound but evening's sigh 
 Is heard, and, bowing by the stone 
 That bears his mother's name, with none 
 But God and guardian angels nigh, 
 
 Shall say, " This was my mother's choice 
 For her own grave : 0, be it mine ! 
 
 Even now, methinks, I hear her voice 
 Calling me hence, in the divine 
 And mournful whisper of this pine." 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they? — 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore : 
 Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day 
 
 When the Mayflower moor'd below, 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists, that wrapp'd the Pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale 
 
 When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ; — 
 As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The Pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hill-side and the sea, 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; — 
 
 But the Pilgrim, — where is he 1 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 
 
 When summer 's throned on high, 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On that hallow'd spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The Pilgrim spirit has not fled ; 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light ; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With their holy stars, by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 The winds and waves were roaring ; 
 
 The Pilgrims met for prayer ; 
 And here, their God adoring, 
 
 They stood, in open air. 
 When breaking day they greeted, 
 
 And when its close was calm, 
 The leafless woods repeated 
 
 The music of their psalm. 
 
 Not thus, O God, to praise thee, 
 
 Do we, their children, throng ; 
 The temple's arch we raise thee 
 
 Gives back our choral song. 
 Yet, on the winds that bore thee 
 
 Their worship and their prayers, 
 May ours come up before thee 
 
 From hearts as true as theirs ! 
 
 What have we, Lord, to bind us 
 
 To this, the Pilgrims' shore ! — 
 Their hill of graves behind us, 
 
 Their watery way before, 
 The wintry surge, that dashes 
 
 Against the rocks they trod, 
 Their memory, and their ashes,— 
 
 Be thou their guard, O God ! 
 
 We would not, Holy Father, 
 
 Forsake this hallow'd spot, 
 Till on that shore we gather 
 
 Where graves and griefs are not ; 
 The shore where true devotion 
 
 Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, 
 And see no other ocean 
 
 Than that of love divine. 
 
 THE EXILE AT REST. 
 
 His falchion flash'd along the Nile ; 
 
 His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; 
 O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, 
 
 His eagle flag unroll' d — and froze. 
 Here sleeps he now alone : not one 
 
 Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 
 Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, 
 
 Hath ever seen or sought his grave. 
 Here sleeps he now alone ; the star 
 
 That led him on from crown to crown 
 Hath sunk ; the nations from afar 
 
 Gazed as it faded and went down. 
 He sleeps alone : the mountain cloud 
 
 •That night hangs round him, and the breath 
 Of morning scatters, is the shroud 
 
 That wraps his mortal form in death. 
 High is his couch ; the ocean flood 
 
 Far, far below by storms is curl'd, 
 As round him heaved, while high he stood, ' 
 
 A stormy and inconstant world. 
 Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, 
 
 And from Siberia's wastes of snow, 
 And Europe's fields, a voice that bids 
 
 The world he awed to mourn him ? No : 
 
105 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 The only, the perpetual dirge 
 
 That's heard there, is the seabird's cry, 
 The mournful murmur of the surge, 
 
 The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 
 
 JERUSALEM. 
 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 
 
 How glad should I have been, 
 Could I, in my lone wanderings, 
 
 Thine aged walls have seen ! — 
 Could I have gazed upon the dome 
 
 Above thy towers that swells, 
 And heard, as evening's sun went down, 
 
 Thy parting camels' bells : — 
 
 Could I have stood on Olivet, 
 
 Where once the Saviour trod, 
 And, from its height, look'd down upon 
 
 The city of our God ; 
 For is it not, Almighty God, 
 
 Thy holy city still, — 
 Though there thy prophets walk no more,— 
 
 That crowns Moriah's hill ? 
 
 Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, 
 
 The streets of Salem now, 
 Nor are their voices lifted up 
 
 On Zion's sadden'd brow ; 
 Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres 
 
 With pious sorrow kept, 
 Where once the same Jerusalem, 
 
 That kill'd them, came and wept. 
 
 But still the seed of Abraham 
 
 With joy upon it look, 
 And lay their ashes at its feet, 
 
 That Kedron's feeble brook 
 Still washes, as its waters creep 
 
 Along their rocky bed, 
 And Israel's God is worshipp'd yet 
 
 Where Zion lifts her head. 
 
 Yes; every morning, as the day 
 
 Breaks over Olivet, 
 The holy name of Aliah comes 
 
 From every minaret ; 
 At every eve the mellow call 
 
 Floats on the quiet air, 
 " Lo, God is God ! Before him come, 
 
 Before him come, for prayer !" 
 
 I know, when at that solemn call 
 
 The city holds her breath, 
 That Omar's mosque hears not the name 
 
 Of Him of Nazareth; 
 But Abraham's God is worshipp'd there 
 
 Alike by age and youth, 
 And worshipp'd, — hopeth charity, — 
 
 « In spirit and in truth." 
 
 Yea, from that day when Salem knelt 
 
 And bent her queenly neck 
 To him who was, at once, her priest 
 
 And king, — Melchisedek, 
 
 To this, when Egypt's Abraham* 
 
 The sceptre and the sword 
 Shakes o'er her head, her holy men 
 
 Have bow'd before the Lord. 
 
 Jerusalem, I would have seen 
 
 Thy precipices steep, 
 The trees of palm that overhang 
 
 Thy gorges dark and deep, 
 The goats that cling along thy cliffs, 
 
 And browse upon thy rocks, 
 Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, 
 
 Thy shepherds and their flocks. 
 
 I would have mused, while night hung out 
 
 Her silver lamp so pale, 
 Beneath those ancient olive trees 
 
 That grow in Kedron's vale, 
 Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides 
 
 The city's wall sublime, 
 Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks 
 
 Defy the scythe of time. 
 
 The garden of Gethsemane 
 
 Those aged olive trees 
 Are shading yet, and in their shade 
 
 I would have sought the breeze, 
 That, like an angel, bathed the brow, 
 
 And bore to heaven the prayer 
 Of Jesus, when in agony, 
 
 He sought the Father there. 
 
 I would have gone to Calvary, 
 
 And, where the Marts stood, 
 Bewailing loud the Crucified, 
 
 As near him as they could, 
 I would have stood, till night o'er earth 
 
 Her heavy pall had thrown, 
 And thought upon my Saviour's cross, 
 
 And learn'd to bear my own. 
 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 
 
 Thy cross thou bearest now ! 
 An iron yoke is on thy neck, 
 
 And blood is on thy brow ; 
 Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, 
 
 Thou didst reject as dross, 
 And now thy cross is on thee laid — 
 
 The crescent is thy cross ! 
 
 It was not mine, nor will it be, 
 
 To see the bloody rod 
 That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, 
 
 Thou city of our God ! 
 But round thy hill the spirits throng 
 
 Of all thy murder'd seers, 
 And voices that went up from it 
 
 Are ringing in my ears, — 
 
 Went up that day, when darkness fell 
 
 From all thy firmament, 
 And shrouded thee at noon ; and when 
 
 Thy temple's vail was rent, 
 And graves of holy men, that touch'd 
 
 Thy feet, gave up their dead : — 
 Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, 
 
 HlS BLOOD IS ON THI HEAD! 
 
 *This name is now generally written Ibuahim. 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 103 
 
 THE POWER OF MUSIC* 
 
 Hear yon poetic pilgrinrj- of the west 
 Chant music's praise, and to her power attest ; 
 Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, 
 Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, 
 And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws; 
 Who hangs the canvass where Atala glows, 
 On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, 
 That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded : 
 Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines 
 Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines 
 A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss 
 That Time already sprinkles on the cross 
 Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps, 
 And Superstition o'er her victim weeps; 
 Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, 
 Among Scioto's monumental mounds; 
 Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears 
 A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, 
 To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw 
 O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below, 
 By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, 
 Lost in those towering tombs of other times ; 
 For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame, 
 No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame. 
 With sacred lore this traveller beguiles 
 His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles. 
 Whether he kneels in venerable groves, 
 Or through the wide and green savanna roves, 
 His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears 
 The faintest breath of Idumea's airs. 
 
 Now he recalls the lamentable wail 
 That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, 
 When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, 
 A note for Satan's and for Herod's ear. 
 Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, 
 Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, 
 The pilgrim stands ; and o'er his memory rushes 
 The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes 
 Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd, 
 And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. 
 How fondly then, from all but hope exiled, 
 To Zion's wo recurs religion's child! 
 He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters 
 Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters; 
 While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, 
 Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung, 
 Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'er the billow, 
 And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. 
 
 And could not music soothe the captive's wol 
 But should that harp be strung for Jctdah's foe] 
 
 While thus the enthusiast roams along the 
 stream, 
 Balanced between a revery and a dream, 
 Backward he springs; and through his bounding 
 
 heart 
 The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. 
 For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, 
 Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, 
 Just in the act, with greenly venom'd fangs, 
 To strike the foot that heedless o'er him hangs. 
 
 * From "Airs of Palestine.' 
 
 •f- Chateaubriand. 
 
 Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ; 
 His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides ; 
 Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, 
 And freezing poisons thickens on his gums; 
 His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry ; 
 A spark of hell lies burning on his eye: 
 While, like a vapour o'er his writhing rings. 
 Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings 
 
 Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers 
 From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers, 
 The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight, 
 Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, 
 From his soft flute throws music's air around, 
 And meets his foe upon enchanted ground. 
 See ! as the plaintive melody is flung, 
 The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue ; 
 The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold 
 Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold ; 
 A softer lustre twinkles in his eye ; 
 His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye; 
 His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, 
 And his relaxing circles roll in light. 
 Slowly the charm retires : with waving sides, 
 Along its track the graceful listener glides ; 
 While music throws her silver cloud around, 
 And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound. 
 
 OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM. 
 
 Stranger, there is bending o'er thee 
 Many an eye with sorrow wet ; 
 
 All our stricken hearts deplore thee ; 
 Who, that knew thee, can forget ] 
 
 Who forgot that thou hast spoken 1 
 Who, thine eye, — rthat noble frame ] 
 
 But that golden bowl is broken, 
 . In the greatness of thy fame. 
 
 Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither 
 
 On the spot where thou shalt rest ; 
 'T is in love we bear thee thither, 
 
 To thy mourning mother's breast. 
 For the stores of science brought us, 
 
 For the charm thy goodness gave 
 To the lessons thou hast taught us, 
 
 Can we give thee but a grave 1 
 
 Nature's priest, how pure and fervent 
 
 Was thy worship at her shrine ! 
 Friend of man, of God the servant, 
 
 Advocate of truths divine, — 
 Taught and charm'd as by no other 
 
 We have been, and hoped to-be; 
 But, while waiting round thee, brother, 
 
 For thy light, — 't is dark with thee. 
 
 Dark with thee] — No ; thy Creator, 
 
 All whose creatures and whose laws 
 Thou didst love, shall give thee greater 
 
 Light than earth's, as earth withdraws 
 To thy God, thy godlike spirit 
 
 Back we give, in filial trust ; 
 Thy cold clay, — we grieve to bear it 
 
 To its chamber, — but we must. 
 
104 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.* 
 
 Thou, who on the whirlwind ridest, 
 
 At whose word the thunder roars, 
 Who, in majesty, prcsidest 
 
 O'er the oceans and their shores ; 
 From those shores, and from the oceans, 
 
 We, the children of the sea, 
 Come to pay thee our devotions, 
 
 And to give this house to thee. 
 
 When, for business on great waters, 
 
 We go down to sea in ships, 
 And our weeping wives and daughters 
 
 Hang, at parting, on our lips, 
 This, our Bethel, shall remind us, 
 
 That there's One who heareth prayer, 
 And that those we leave behind us 
 
 Are a faithful pastor's care. 
 
 Visions of our native highlands, 
 
 In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd, 
 Winds that come from spicy islands 
 
 When we long have lain becalm'd, 
 Are not to our souls so pleasant 
 
 As the offerings we shall bring 
 Hither, to the Omnipresent, 
 
 For the shadow of his wing. 
 
 When in port, each day that 's holy, 
 
 To this house we '11 press in throngs ; 
 When at sea, with spirit lowly, 
 
 We'll repeat its sacred songs. 
 Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, 
 
 Lose its flag behind the seas ; 
 Homeward bound, we '11 greet with gladness 
 
 Its first floating on the breeze. 
 
 Homeward bound ! — with deep emotion, 
 
 We remember, Lord, that life 
 Is a voyage upon an ocean, 
 
 Heaved by many a tempest's strife. 
 Be thy statutes so engraven 
 
 On our hearts and minds, that we, 
 Anchoring in Death's quiet haven, 
 
 All may make our home with thee. 
 
 THE SPARKLING BOWL. 
 
 Tnou sparkling bowl ! thou sparkling bowl ! 
 
 Though lips of bards thy brim may press, 
 And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll, 
 
 And song and dance thy power confess, 
 I will not touch thee ; for there clings 
 A scorpion to thy side, that stings ! 
 
 Thou crystal glass ! like Eden's tree, 
 Thy melted ruby tempts the eye, 
 
 And, as from that, there comes from thee 
 The voice, " Thou shalt not surely die." 
 
 I dare not lift thy liquid gem ; — 
 
 A snake is twisted round thy stem ! 
 
 Thou liquid fire ! like that which glovv'd 
 
 On Mclita's surf-beaten shore, 
 Thou 'st been upon my guests bestow'd, 
 
 But thou shalt warm my house no more. 
 For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls, 
 Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls ! 
 
 What, though of gold the goblet be, 
 Emboss' d with branches of the vine, 
 
 Beneath whose burnish'd leaves we see 
 Such clusters as pour'd out the wine 1 
 
 Among those leaves an adder hangs ! 
 
 I fear him ; — for I 've felt his fangs. 
 
 The Hebrew, who the desert trod, 
 And fell the fiery serpent's bite, 
 
 Look'd up to that ordain'd of God, 
 And found that life was in the sight. 
 
 So, the toor/Ti-bitten's fiery veins 
 
 Cool, when he drinks what God ordains. 
 
 Ye gracious clouds ! ,ye deep, cold wells ! 
 
 Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip ! 
 Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells 
 
 Gush o'er your granite basin's lip ! 
 To you I look ; — your largess give, 
 And I will drink of you, and live. 
 
 * Written for the dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, 
 under the direction of the Boston Port Society, Septem- 
 ber fourth, 1833. 
 
 FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. 
 
 Day of glory ! welcome day ! 
 Freedom's banners greet thy ray ; 
 See ! how cheerfully they play 
 
 With thy morning breeze, 
 On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd, 
 On the heights where squadrons wheel'd, 
 When a tyrant's thunder peal'd 
 
 O'er the trembling seas. 
 
 God of armies ! did thy " stars 
 In their courses" smite his cars, 
 Blast his arm, and wrest his bars 
 
 From the heaving tide 1 
 On our standard, lo ! they burn, 
 And, when days like this return, 
 Sparkle o'er the soldiers' urn 
 
 Who for freedom died. 
 
 God of peace ! — whose spirit fills 
 All the echoes of our hills, 
 All the murmurs of our rills, 
 
 Now the storm is o'er ; — 
 O, let freemen be our sons ; 
 And let future "Washington's 
 Rise, to lead their valiant ones, 
 
 Till there 's war no more. 
 
 By the patriot's hallow'd rest, 
 By the warrior's gory breast, — 
 Never let our graves be press'd 
 
 By a despot's throne; 
 By the Pilgrims' toils and cares, 
 By their battles and their prayers, 
 By their ashes, — let our heirs 
 
 Bow to thee alone. 
 
SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 
 
 [Born, ITS; 
 
 Mh. Woodworth was a native of Scituate, in 
 Massachusetts. After learning in a country town 
 the art of printing, he went to New York, where 
 he was editor of a newspaper during our second 
 war with England. He subsequently published 
 a weekly miscellany entitled "The Ladies' Lite- 
 rary Gazette," and in 1823, associated with Mr. 
 George P. Mourns, he established "The New 
 York Mirror," long the most popular journal of 
 literature and art in this country. For several 
 years before his death he was an invalid, and in 
 this period a large number of the leading gentle- 
 men of New York acted as a committee for a 
 complimentary benefit given for him at the Park 
 Theatre, the proceeds of which made more plea- 
 sant his closing days. He died in the month of 
 December, 184 2, in the fifty-seventh year of his 
 age, much respected by all who knew him, for his 
 
 modesty and integrity as well as for his literary 
 abilities. 
 
 Mr. Woodwohth wrote many pieces for the 
 stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two 
 or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, 
 relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic 
 life. He dwelt always with delight upon the 
 scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was 
 compelled to make his home amid the strife and 
 tumult of a city. He was the poet of the " com- 
 mon people," and was happy in the belief that 
 " The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never 
 heard of " Thanatopsis." Some of his pieces have 
 certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection 
 might be made from his voluminous writings that 
 would be very honourable to his talents and his 
 feelings. There has been no recent edition of any 
 of his works. • // , _. 
 
 THE BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 
 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. 
 
 That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, 
 
 For often at noon, when return'd from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
 
 As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
 
 The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
 
 And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-cover'd bucket that hangs in the well ! 
 
 THE NEEDLE. 
 
 The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling 
 
 In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadiille ; 
 And seek admiration by vauntingly telling 
 
 Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; 
 But give me the fair one, in country or city, 
 
 Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, 
 Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 
 
 While plying the needle with exquisite art. ' 
 The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle, 
 
 The needle directed by beauty and art. 
 
 If Love have a potent, a magical token, 
 
 A talisman, ever resistless and true — 
 A charm that is never evaded or broken, 
 
 A witchery certain the heart to subdue — 
 'Tis this — and his armoury never has furnish'd 
 
 So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart ; 
 Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnish'd, 
 
 And Oh ! it is certain of touching the heart. 
 The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle^ 
 
 The needle directed by beauty and art. 
 
 Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration 
 
 By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all ; 
 You never, whate'er be your fortune «>• station, 
 
 Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, 
 As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, 
 
 Each cheerfully active and playing her part, 
 Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, 
 
 And plying the needle with exquisite art. 
 The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle, 
 
 The needle directed by beauty and art. 
 105 
 
ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 [Born, 1786. Died, 1853.] 
 
 The late eminent scholar, Andbews Norton, 
 descended from the father of the celebrated John 
 Norton, minister of Ipswich, was born in Hing- 
 harn, near Boston, on the thirty-first of December, 
 1786. He was graduated at Harvard College in 
 1804; studied divinity, and for a short time, in 
 1809, preached in Augusta, Maine; spent a year 
 as tutor in Bowdoin College; for another year was 
 tutor in mathematicsat Cambridge; in 1812 com- 
 menced the "General Repository," a religious and 
 literary magazine, which he conducted with remark- 
 able ability two years; inl813 was chosen librarian 
 of Harvard College,which office he held eight years; 
 about the same time was appointed lecturer on the 
 criticism and interpretation of the Scriptures, in the 
 college, and on the organization of the Divinity 
 School, in 1819, Dexter professor of sacred litera- 
 ture; in 1821 was married to Catherine, daughter 
 of Samuel Eliot, of Boston; in 1822 delivered 
 an address before the university on the life and cha- 
 racter of his friend Professor Frisbie, whose lite- 
 rary remains he afterward edited; in 1826, collected 
 the poems of Mrs. Hemans, and prepared for the 
 press the first American edition of them; in 1828 
 
 passed several months in England, and in 1830 
 resigned his professorship, to reside at Cambridge 
 as a private gentleman. 
 
 He now turned his attention to the composition 
 and completion of those important works in criti- 
 cism and theology which have established his fa me 
 as one of the greatest scholars of the last age. His 
 "Statement of Reasons for not Believing the Doc- 
 trine of the Trinity" appeared in 1833; the first 
 volume of his "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 
 1837; a treatise "On the Latest Form of Infidel- 
 ity," in 1839; the second and third volumes on 
 the "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1844; "The 
 Internal Evidences of the Gospels," in 1851; and 
 "Tracts on Christianity," in 1852. He died at his 
 summer residence, in Newport, on the evening of 
 the eighteenth of September, 1853 ; and his last 
 work, a new "Translation of the Gospels," has 
 been published since his death. He was the most 
 able,ingenious,and thoroughly accomplished writer 
 of the Unitarian party in America. 
 
 What he was, and what he might have been, 
 in poetry, is evinced by the following highly fin- 
 ished and beautiful productions. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. 
 
 Farewell! before we meet again, 
 
 Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown, 
 That lie in distant years of pain, 
 
 I have to journey on alone ; 
 To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, 
 
 Perchance with joys thou canst not share; 
 And when we both were wont to kneel, 
 
 To breathe alone the silent prayer; 
 
 But ne'er a deeper pang to know, 
 
 Than when I watched thy slow decay, 
 
 Saw on thy cheeck the hectic glow, 
 And felt at last each hope give way. 
 
 But who the destined hour may tell, 
 That bids the loosened spirit fly] 
 E'en now this pulse's feverish swell 
 May warn me of mortality. 
 
 But chance what may, thou wilt no more 
 
 With sense and with my hours beguile, 
 Inform with learning's various lore, 
 
 Or charm with friendship's kindest smile. 
 Each book I read, each walk I tread, 
 
 Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, 
 All speak of hopes forever fled, 
 
 All have some tale to tell of thee. 
 
 I shall not, should misfortune lower, 
 Should friends desert, and life decline, 
 106 
 
 I shall not know thy soothing power, 
 Nor hear thee say, " My heart is thine." 
 
 If thou hadst lived, thy well-earned fame 
 Had bade my fading prospect bloom, 
 
 Had cast its lustre o'er my name, 
 
 And stood, the guardian of my tomb. 
 
 Servant of God ! thy ardent mind, 
 
 With lengthening years improving still, 
 
 Striving, untired, to serve mankind, 
 Had thus performed thy Father's will. 
 
 Another task to thee was given ; 
 
 ' T was thine to drink of early wo, 
 To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, 
 
 And blend submissive to the blow; 
 
 With patient smile and steady eye, 
 To meet each pang that sickness gave y 
 
 And see with lingering step draw nigh 
 The form that pointed to the grave. 
 
 Servant of God ! thou artnot there ; 
 
 Thy race of virtue is not run; 
 What blooms on earth of good and fair, 
 
 Will ripen in another sun. 
 
 Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow 
 
 With which the soul her welcome hears, 
 
 Dost thou still think of us below, 
 Of earthly scenes, of human tears ? 
 
ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 107 
 
 Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return 
 To when in summer's moonlight walk, 
 
 Of all that now is thine to learn, 
 
 We framed no light nor fruitless talk. 
 
 We spake of knowledge, such as soars 
 
 From world to world with ceaseless flight ; 
 
 And love, that follows and adores, 
 As nature spreads before her sight. 
 
 How vivid still past scenes appear ! 
 
 I feel as though all were not o'er ; 
 As though 'twere strange I cannot hear 
 
 Thy voice of friendship yet once more. 
 
 But I shall hear it ; in that day 
 
 Whose setting sun I may not view, 
 
 When earthly voices die away, 
 Thine will at last be heard anew. 
 
 We meet again ; a little while, 
 And where thou art I too shall be. 
 
 And then, with what an angel smile 
 Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me ! 
 
 A SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 The rain is o'er — How dense and bright 
 
 Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! 
 Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, 
 
 Contrasting with the deep-blue sky ! 
 
 In grateful silence earth receives 
 
 The general blessing ; fresh and fair, 
 
 Each flower expands its little leaves, 
 As glad the common joy to share. 
 
 The soften'd sunbeams pour around 
 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 
 The wind flows cool, the scented ground 
 
 Is breathing odours on the gale. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
 
 Methinks some spirit of the air 
 Might rest to gaze below a while, 
 
 Then turn to bathe and revel there. 
 
 The sun breaks forth — from off the scene, 
 Its floating veil of mist is flung ; 
 
 And all the wilderness of green 
 
 With trembling drops of light is hung. 
 
 Now gaze on nature — yet the same — 
 Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd, 
 
 Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 
 
 Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. 
 
 Hear the ncn music of that voice, 
 Which sounds from all below, above ; 
 
 She calls her children to rejoice, 
 
 And round them throws her arms of love. 
 
 Drink in her influence — low-born care, 
 And all the train of mean desire, 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Mr God, I thank thee ! may no thought 
 E'er deem thy chastisements severe ; 
 
 But may this heart, by sorrow taught, 
 Calm each wild wish, each idle fear 
 
 Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; 
 
 The sun shines bright, and man is gay ; 
 Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom 
 
 That darkens o'er his little day. 
 
 Full many a throb of grief and pain 
 Thy frail and erring child must know ; 
 
 But not one prayer is breathed in vain, 
 Nor does one tear unheeded flow. 
 
 Thy various messengers employ ; 
 
 Thy purposes of love fulfil ; 
 And, mid the wreck of human joy, 
 
 May kneeling faith adore thy will ! 
 
 TO MRS. 
 
 ON HER DEPARTURE 
 
 FOR EUROPE. 
 
 Fareweli ! farewell ! for many a day 
 Our thoughts far o'er the sea will roam ! 
 
 Blessings and prayers attend thy way ; 
 Glad welcomes wait for thee at home. 
 
 While gazing upon Alpine snows, 
 Or lingering near Italian shores ; 
 
 Where Nature all her grandeur shows, 
 Or art unveils her treasured stores ; 
 
 When mingling with those gifted minds 
 That shed their influence on our race, 
 
 Thine own its native station finds, 
 
 And takes with them an honour'd place ; 
 
 Forget not, then, how dear thou art 
 To many friends not with thee there ; 
 
 To many a warm and anxious heart, 
 Object of love, and hope, and prayer. 
 
 When shall we meet again? — some day, 
 In a bright morning, when the gale 
 
 Sweeps the blue waters as in play ; 
 Then shall we watch thy coming sail ? 
 
 When shall we meet again, and where? 
 
 We trust not hope's uncertain voice ; 
 To faith the future all is fair: 
 
 She speaks assured ; " Thou shalt rejoice.' 
 
 Perhaps our meeting may be when, 
 Mid new-born life's awakening glow, 
 
 The loved and lost appear again, 
 
 Heaven's music sounding sweet and low. 
 
108 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A 
 CHURCH. 
 
 Where ancient forests round us spread, 
 Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall, 
 
 On the lone mountain's silent head, 
 There are thy temples, God of all ! 
 
 Beneath the dark-blue, midnight arch, 
 
 Whence myriad suns pour down their rays, 
 
 Where planets trace their ceaseless march, 
 Father ! we worship as we gaze. 
 
 The tombs thine altars are ; for there, 
 When earthly loves and hopes have fled, 
 
 To thee ascends the spirit's prayer, 
 T'nou God of the immortal dead ! 
 
 All space is holy ; for all space 
 
 Is fill'd by thee ; but human thought 
 
 Burns clearer in some chosen place, 
 
 Where thy own words of love are taught. 
 
 Here he they taught ; and may we know 
 That faith thy servants knew of old ; 
 
 Which onward bears through weal and wo, 
 Till Death the gates of heaven unfold ! 
 
 Nor we alone ; may those whose brow 
 Shows yet no trace of human cares, 
 
 Hereafter stand where we do now, 
 And raise to thee still holier prayers ! 
 
 FORTITUDE. 
 
 Faint not, poor traveller, though thy way 
 Be rough, like that thy Saviour trod ; 
 
 Though cold and stormy lower the day, 
 This path of suffering leads to God. 
 
 Nay, sink not ; though from every limb 
 Are starting drops of toil and pain ; 
 
 Thou dost but share the lot of Him 
 With whom his followers are to reign. 
 
 Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone, 
 Must bear the sorrows that assail ; 
 
 Look upward to the eternal throne, 
 And know a Friend who cannot fail. 
 
 Bear firmly ; yet a few more days, 
 And thy hard trial will be past ; 
 
 Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze, 
 Thy feet will rest on heaven at last. 
 
 Christian ! thy Friend, thy Master pray'd, 
 When dread and anguish shook his frame ; 
 
 Then met his sufferings undismay'd ; ■ 
 Wilt thou not strive to do the same 1 
 
 ! think' st thou that his Father's love 
 Shone round him then with fainter rays 
 
 Than now, when, throned all height above, 
 Unceasing voices hymn his praise 1 
 
 Go, sufferer ! calmly meet the woes 
 
 Which God's own mercy bids thee bear; 
 
 Then, rising as thy Saviour rose, 
 Go ! his eternal victory share. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Another year ! another year ! 
 
 The unceasing rush of time sweeps on 
 Whelm'd in its surges, disappear 
 
 Man's hopes and fears, forever gone ! 
 
 0, no ! forbear that idle tale ! 
 
 The hour demands another strain, 
 Demands high thoughts that cannot quail, 
 
 And strength to conquer and retain. 
 
 'T is midnight — from the dark -blue sky, 
 The stars, which now look down on earth, 
 
 Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, 
 And given to countless changes birth. 
 
 And when the pyramids shall fall, 
 And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, 
 
 The dwellers on this alter'd ball 
 
 May still behold them glorious there. 
 
 Shine on ! shine on ! with you I tread 
 The march of ages, orbs of light ! 
 
 A last eclipse o'er you may spread, 
 To me, to me, there comes no night. 
 
 ! what concerns it him, whose way 
 Lies upward to the immortal dead, 
 
 That a few hairs are turning gray, 
 Or one more year of life has fled 1 
 
 Swift years ! but teach me how to bear, 
 To feel and act with strength and skill, 
 
 To reason wisely, nobly dare, 
 
 And speed your courses as ye will. 
 
 When life's meridian toils are done, 
 
 How calm, how rich the twilight glow ! 
 
 The morning twilight of a sun 
 
 Which shines not here on things below. 
 
 But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain 
 
 To leave, or lose wife, children, friends ! 
 
 What then — shall we not meet again 
 Where parting comes not, sorrow ends 1 
 
 The fondness of a parent's care, 
 
 The changeless trust which woman gives 
 The smile of childhood, — it is there 
 
 That all we love in them still lives. 
 
 Press onward through each varying hour ; 
 
 Let no weak fears thy course delay ; 
 Immortal being ! feel thy power, 
 
 Pursue thy bright and endless way. 
 
ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 1C9 
 
 ON LISTENING TO A CRICKET. 
 
 I love, thou little chirping thing, 
 
 To hear thy melancholy noise ; 
 Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing 
 
 Of summer past and fading joys. 
 
 Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers, 
 Nor sport along the traveller's path ; 
 
 But, through the winter's weary hours, 
 Shalt warm thee at my lonely hearth. 
 
 And when my lamp's decaying beam 
 But dimly shows the lettered page 
 
 Rich with some ancient poet's dream, 
 Or wisdom of a purer age — 
 
 Then will I listen to the sound, 
 And, musing o'er the embers pale 
 
 With whitening ashes strewed around, 
 The forms of memory unveil ; 
 
 Recall the many-colored dreams 
 That fancy fondly weaves for youth 
 
 When all the bright illusion seems 
 The pictured promises of Truth ; 
 
 Perchance observe the fitful light, 
 And its faint flashes round the room, 
 
 And think some pleasures feebly bright 
 May lighten thus life's varied gloom. 
 
 I love the quiet midnight hour, 
 
 When Care and Hope and Passion sleep, 
 And Reason with untroubled power 
 
 Can her late vigils duly keep. 
 
 I love the night; and sooth to say, 
 Before the merry birds that sing 
 
 In all the glare and noise of day, 
 Prefer the cricket's grating wing. 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 How sweet the summer gales of night, 
 That blow when all is peaceful round, 
 
 As if some spirit's downy flight 
 
 Swept silent through the blue profound! 
 
 How sweet at midnight to recline 
 
 Where flows their cool and fragrant stream ! 
 There half repeat some glowing line, 
 
 There court each wild and fairy dream ; 
 
 Or idly mark the volumed clouds 
 
 Their broad deep mass of darkness throw, 
 When, as the moon her radiance shrouds, 
 
 Their changing sides with silver glow; 
 
 Or see where, from that depth of shade, 
 The ceaseless lightning, faintly bright, 
 
 In silence plays, as if afraid 
 
 To break the deep repose of night ; 
 
 Or gaze on heaven's unnumbered fires, 
 While dimly-imaged thoughts arise, 
 
 And Fancy, loosed from earth, aspires 
 To search the secrets of the skies ; 
 
 What various beings there reside ; 
 
 What forms of life to man unknown, 
 Drink the rich flow of bliss, whose tide 
 
 Wells from beneath the eternal throne; 
 
 Or life's uncertain scenes revolve, 
 And musing how to act or speak, 
 
 Feel some high wish, some proud resolve 
 Throb in the heart, or flush the cheek. 
 
 Meanwhile may reason's light, whose beam 
 Dimmed by the world's oppressive gloom, 
 
 Sheds but a dull unsteady gleam, 
 In this still hour its rays relume. 
 
 Thus oft in this still hour be mine 
 The light all meaner passions fear, 
 
 The wandering thought, the high design, 
 And soaring dreams to virtue dear. 
 
 A WINTER MORNING. 
 
 The keen, clear air — the splendid sight — 
 
 We waken to a world of ice ; 
 Where all things are enshrined in light, 
 
 As by some genii's quaint device. 
 
 'T is winter's jubilee : this day 
 
 Her stores their countless treasures yield; 
 See how the diamond glances play, 
 
 In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field. 
 
 The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged, 
 The naked woods are seen no more ; 
 
 This earth to fairy-land is changed, 
 With glittering silver sheeted o'er. 
 
 The morning sun, with cloudless rays, 
 
 His powerless splendor round us streams ; 
 
 From crusted boughs and twinkling sprays 
 Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams. 
 
 With more than summer beauty fair, 
 The trees in winter's garb are shown : 
 
 What a rich halo melts in air, 
 
 Around their crystal branches thrown ! 
 
 And yesterday — how changed the view 
 From what then charmed us ; when the sky 
 
 Hung, with its dim and watery hue, 
 O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh ! 
 
 The distant groves, arrayed in white, 
 Might then like things unreal seem, 
 
 Just shown awhile in silvery light, 
 The fictions of a poets' dream. 
 
 Like shadowy groves upon that shore, 
 O'er which Elysium's twilight lay, 
 
 By bards and sages feigned of yore, 
 
 Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day. 
 
 O God of nature ! with what might 
 Of beauty, showered on all below, 
 
 Thy guiding power would lead aright 
 Earth's wanderer all thy love to know ! 
 
110 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 We did not part as others part ; 
 
 And should we meet on earth no more, 
 Yet deep and dear within my heart 
 
 Some thoughts will rest a treasured store. 
 
 How oft, when weary and alone, 
 
 Have I recalled each word, each look, 
 
 The meaning of each varying tone, 
 And the last parting glance we took ! 
 
 Yes, sometimes even here are found 
 
 Those who can touch the chords of love, 
 
 And wake a glad and holy sound, 
 
 Like that which fills the courts above. 
 
 It is as when a traveller hears, 
 
 In a strange land, his native tongue, 
 
 A voice he loved in happier years, 
 A song which once his mother sung. 
 
 We part ; the sea may roll between, 
 
 While we through different climates roam: 
 
 Sad days — a life — may intervene; 
 But we shall meet again at home. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Oh, stay thy tears! for they are blest 
 
 Whose days are past, whose toil is done ; 
 
 Here midnight care disturbs our rest, 
 Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun. 
 
 For laboring Virtue's anxious toil, 
 
 For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh, 
 For faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, 
 
 Heaven grants the recompense, — to die. 
 
 How blest are they whose transient years 
 Pass like an evening meteor's light ; 
 
 Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears; 
 Whose course is short, unclouded, bright ! 
 
 How cheerless were our lengthened way, 
 
 Did Heaven's own light not break the gloom, 
 
 Stream downward from eternal day, 
 And cast a glory round the tomb ! 
 
 Then stay thy tears: the blest above 
 Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth, 
 
 Sung a new song of joy and love, 
 
 And why should anguish reign on earth 1 
 
 TO A FRIEND AFTER HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Nat, ask me not now for some proof that my heart 
 Has learn'd the dear lesson of friendship for thee; 
 
 Nay, ask not for words that might feebly impart 
 The feelings and thoughts which thy glance 
 cannot see. 
 
 Whate'er I could wish thee already is thine; 
 
 The fair sunshine within sheds its beam through 
 thine eye; 
 And Pleasure stands near thee, and waits but a sign, 
 
 To all whom thou lovest, at thy bidding to fly. 
 
 Yet hereafter thy bosom some sorrow may feel, 
 Some cloud o'er thy heart its chill shadow may 
 throw : 
 Then ask if thou wilt, and my words shall reveal 
 The feelings and thoughts which thou now canst 
 not know. 
 
 FUNERAL HYMN. 
 
 He has gone to his God, he has gone to his home ; 
 No more amid peril and error to roam. 
 His eyes are no longer dim, 
 
 His feet no more will falter ; 
 No grief can follow him, 
 
 No pang his cheek can alter. 
 
 There are paleness and weeping and sighs below ' 
 For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow : 
 But the harps of heaven are ringing ; 
 
 Glad angels come to greet him, 
 And hymns of joy are singing, 
 
 While old friends press to meet him. 
 
 Oh ! honored, beloved, to earth unconfined, 
 Thou hast soared on high., thou hast left us behind ; 
 But our parting is not for ever: 
 
 We will follow thee by heaven's light, 
 Where the grave cannot dissever 
 The souls whom God will unite. 
 
 OH! NE'ER UPON MY GRAVE BE SHED. 
 
 Oh! ne'er upon my grave be shed 
 
 The bitter tears of sinking age, 
 That mourns its cherished comforts dead, 
 
 With grief no human hopes assuage. 
 
 When, through the still and gazing street, 
 
 My funeral winds its sad array, 
 Ne'er may a Father's faltering feet 
 
 Lead with slow steps the church-yard way. 
 
 'T is a dread sight, — the sunken eye, 
 The look of calm and fixed despair, 
 
 And the pale lips which breathe no sigh, 
 But quiver with the unuttered prayer. 
 
 Ne'er may a Mother hide her tears, 
 As the mute circle spreads around ; 
 
 Or, turning from my grave, she hears 
 The clods fall fast with heavy sound. 
 
 Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, 
 
 The dreary loneliness of grief, 
 When all is o'er, — when all depart, 
 
 And cease to yield their sad relief; 
 
 Nor, entering in my vacant room, 
 Feel, in its chill and lifeless air, 
 
 As if the dampness of the tomb 
 And spirits of the dead were there. 
 
 Oh! welcome, though with care and pain, 
 The power to glad a parent's heart ; 
 
 To bid a parent's joys remain, 
 And life's approaching ills depart. 
 
rdci's establishment from aPliotogiaph 
 
 (Z^Z-ti/lk 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 [Born 1787.] 
 
 William Dana, Esquire, was sheriff of Mid- 
 dlesex during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 His only descendant at that time living, Richard 
 Dana, came to America about the middle of the 
 seventeenth century, and settled at Cambridge, 
 then called Newtown, near Boston. A grandson 
 of this gentleman, of the same name, was the 
 poet's grandfather. He was an eminent member 
 of the bar of Massachusetts, and an active whig 
 during the troubles in Boston immediately before 
 the Revolution. He married a sister of Edmund 
 Trowbridge, who was one of the king's judges, 
 and the first lawyer in the colony. Francis 
 Dana, the father of Richard H. Dana, after 
 being graduated at Harvard College, studied law 
 with his uncle, Judge Trowbridge, and became 
 equally distinguished for his professional abilities. 
 He was appointed envoy to Russia during the 
 Revolution, was a member of Congress, and of 
 the Massachusetts Convention for adopting the 
 national constitution, and afterward Chief Jus- 
 tice of that Commonwealth. He married a daugh- 
 ter of the Honourable William Ellery, of 
 Rhode Island, one of the signers of the Declara- 
 tion of Independence, and through her the subject 
 of this sketch is lineally descended from Anne 
 Bradstreet, the wife of Governor Bradstreet, 
 and daughter of Governor Dudley, who was the 
 most celebrated poet of her time in America. 
 Thus, it will be seen, our author has good blood 
 in his veins : an honour which no one pretends to 
 despise who is confident that his grandfather was 
 not a felon or a boor. 
 
 Richard Henry Dana was born at Cam- 
 bridge, on the fifteenth of November, 1787. 
 When about ten years old he went to Newport, 
 Rhode Island, where he remained until a year or 
 two before he entered Harvard College. His 
 health, during his boyhood, was too poor to admit 
 of very constant application to study ; and much 
 of his time was passed in rambling along the rock- 
 bound coast, listening to the roar and dashing of 
 the waters, and searching for the wild and pic- 
 turesque ; indicating thus early that love of na- 
 ture which is evinced in nearly all his subsequent 
 writings, and acquiring that perfect knowledge of 
 the scenery of the sea which is shown in the 
 " Buccaneer," and some of his minor pieces. On 
 leaving college, in 1807, he returned to Newport, 
 and passed nearly two years in studying the Latin 
 language and literature, after which he went to 
 Baltimore, and entered as a student the law office 
 of General Robert Goodhue Harper. The ap- 
 proach of the second war with Great Britain, and 
 the extreme unpopularity of all persons known to 
 belong to the federal party, induced him to return 
 to Cambridge, where he finished his course of 
 study and opened an office. He soon became a 
 
 member of the legislature, and was for a time a 
 warm partisan. 
 
 Feeble health, and great constitutional sensi- 
 tiveness, the whole current of his mind and feel- 
 ings, convinced him that he was unfitted for his 
 profession, and he closed his office to assist his 
 relative, Professor Edward T. Channing, in the 
 management of the "North American Review," 
 which had then been established about two years. 
 While connected with this periodical he wrote 
 several articles which (particularly one jipon 
 Hazlitt's British Poets) excited much atten- 
 tion among the literary men of Boston and Cam- 
 bridge. The Pope and Queen Anne school was 
 then triumphant, and the dicta of Jeffrey were 
 law. Dana praised Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, and saw much to admire in Byron ; he 
 thought poetry was something more than a recrea- 
 tion; that it was something superinduced upon the 
 realities of life ; he believed the ideal and the 
 spiritual might be as real as the visible and the 
 tangible ; thought there were truths beyond the 
 understanding and the senses, and not to be 
 reached by ratiocination; and indeed broached 
 many paradoxes not to be tolerated then, but 
 which noW the same community has taken up 
 and carried to an extent at that time unthought of. 
 
 A strong party rose against these opinions, and 
 Dana had the whole influence of the university, 
 of the literary and fashionable society of the city, 
 and of the press, to contend against. Being in a 
 minority with the " North American Club," he in 
 1819 or 1820 gave up all connection with the 
 Review, which passed into the hands of the Eye- 
 retts and others, and in 1821 began "The Idle 
 Man," for which he found a publisher in Mr. 
 Charles Wiley, of New York. This was read 
 and admired by a class of literary men, but it was 
 of too high a character for the period, and on the 
 publication of the first number of the second vo- 
 lume, Dana received from Mr. Wiley informa- 
 tion that he was "writing himself into debt," and 
 gave up the work. 
 
 In 1825, he published his first poetical produc- 
 tion, "The Dying Raven," in the "New York 
 Review," then edited by Mr. Bryant;* and two 
 
 * While Dana was a member of the " North American 
 Club," the poem entitled "Thanatopsis" was offered for 
 publication in the Review. Our critic, with one or two 
 others, read it, and concurred in the belief that it could 
 not have been written by an American. There was a 
 finish and completeness about it, added to the grandeur 
 and beauty of the ideas, to which, it was supposed, none 
 of our own writers had attained. Dana was informed, 
 however, that the author of it was a member of the Mas- 
 sachusetts Senate, then in session, and he walked imme- 
 diately from Cambridge to the State House in Boston to 
 obtain a view of the remarkable man. A plain, middle- 
 aged gentleman, with a business-like aspect, was pointed 
 
 111 
 
112 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 years after gave to the public, in a small volume, 
 "The Buccaneer, and other Poems." This was 
 well received, the popular taste having, in the five 
 years which had elapsed since the publication of 
 the " Idle Man," been considerably improved ; but 
 as his publishers failed soon after it was printed, 
 the poet was not made richer by his toil. In 1833 
 he published his " Poems and Prose Writings," 
 including "The Buccaneer," and other pieces em- 
 braced in his previous volume, with some new 
 poems, and the "Idle Man," except the few papers 
 written for it by his friends. For this he received 
 from his bookseller about enough to make up for 
 the loss he had sustained by the " Idle Man." His 
 case illustrates the usual extent of the rewards of 
 exertion in the higher departments of literature in 
 this country. Had his first work been successful, 
 he would probably have been a voluminous writer. 
 
 In 1839, he delivered in Boston and New York 
 a series of lectures on English poetry, and the 
 great masters of the art, which were warmly ap- 
 plauded by the educated and judicious. These 
 have not yet been printed. 
 
 The longest and most remarkable of Dana's 
 poems is the " Buccaneer," a story in which he 
 has depicted with singular power the stronger and 
 darker passions. It is based on a tradition of a 
 murder committed on an island on the coast of 
 New England, by a pirate, whose guilt in the end 
 
 meets with strange and terrible retribution. In 
 attempting to compress his language he is some- 
 times slightly obscure, and his verse is occasionally 
 harsh, but never feeble, never without meaning. 
 The "Buccaneer" is followed by a poem of very 
 different character, entitled "The Changes of 
 Home," in which is related the affection of two 
 young persons, in humble life, whose marriage is 
 deferred until the lover shall have earned the 
 means of subsistence ; his departure in search 
 of gain ; his return in disappointment ; his second 
 departure, and death in absence — a sad history, 
 and one that is too often lived. " Factitious 
 Life," "Thoughts on the Soul," and "The Hus- 
 band's and Wife's Grave," are the longest of his 
 other poems, and, as well as his shorter pieces, 
 they are distinguished for high religious purpose, 
 profound philosophy, simple sentiment, and pure 
 and vigorous diction. 
 
 All the writings of Dana belong to the perma- 
 nent literature of the country. His prose and 
 poetry will find every year more and more readers. 
 Something resembling poetry " is oftentimes borne 
 into instant and turbulent popularity, while a work 
 of genuine character may be lying neglected by 
 all except the poets. But the tide of time flows 
 on, and the former begins to settle to the bottom, 
 while the latter rises slowly and steadily to the 
 surface, and goes forward, for a spirit is in it." 
 
 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 " Boy with thy blac berd, 
 I rede that thou blin, 
 And sone set the to shrive, 
 With sorrow of thi syn ; 
 Ze met with the merchandes 
 Arid made tham ful bare : 
 It es gude reason and right 
 That ze evill misfare." 
 
 Laurence Minot. 
 
 The island lies nine leagues away. 
 
 Along its solitary shore, 
 Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
 No sound but ocean's roar, 
 Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, 
 Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 
 
 But when the light winds lie at rest, 
 
 And on the glassy, heaving sea, 
 The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
 Sits swinging silently ; 
 How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
 And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 
 
 out to him ; a single glance was sufficient ; the legislator 
 could not be the author of Thanatopsis ; and he returned 
 without seeking an introduction. A slight and natural 
 mistake of names had misled his informant. The real 
 author being at length discovered, a correspondence en- 
 sued ; and Bryant being invited to deliver the Phi Beta 
 Kappa poem at Cambridge, they became personally ac- 
 quainted, and a friendship sprung up which has lasted 
 until the present time. 
 
 And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 
 
 The brook comes tinkling down its side ; 
 From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
 Rings cheerful, far and wide, 
 Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, 
 That feed about the vale among the rocks. 
 
 Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat 
 
 In former days within the vale ; 
 Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet ; 
 Curses were on the gale ; 
 Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men ; 
 Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 
 
 But calm, low voices, words of grace, 
 
 Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
 A quiet look is in each face, 
 Subdued and holy fear : 
 Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done — 
 Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. 
 
 Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee 
 
 Held in this isle unquestion'd sway ; 
 A dark, low, brawny man was he ; 
 His law — " It is my way." 
 Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke 
 From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph spoke, 
 ir. 
 Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, 
 
 Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil, 
 He little reck'd of good or harm, 
 Fierce both in mirth and toil ; 
 Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were : 
 Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 113 
 
 Amid the uproar of the storm, 
 
 And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, 
 Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; 
 His axe glanced quick in air; 
 Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge 1 
 There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge. 
 
 « Nay, ask him yonder ; let him tell ; 
 
 I make the brute, not man, my mark. 
 Who walks these cliffs, needs heed him well ! 
 Last night was fearful dark. 
 Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel 1 
 An ugly gash ! — These rocks — they cut like steel." 
 
 He wiped his axe ; and, turning round, 
 Said, with a cold and harden'd smile, 
 " The hemp is saved — the man is drown'd. 
 Wilt let him float a while 1 
 Or give him Christian burial on the strand l 
 He '11 find his fellows peaceful 'neath the sand." 
 
 Lee's waste was greater than his gain. 
 
 "I'll try the merchant's trade," he thought, 
 " Though less the toil to kill, than feign — 
 Things sweeter robb'd than bought. — 
 But, then, to circumvent them at their arts !" 
 Ship mann'd, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs. 
 
 'T is fearful, on the broad-back'd waves, 
 
 To feel them shake, and hear them roar; 
 Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves: 
 Around, no cheerful shore. 
 Yet mid this solemn world what deeds are done 1 
 The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight's won ; 
 
 And wanton talk, and laughter heard, 
 
 Where speaks God's deep and awful voice. 
 There's awe from that lone ocean-bird ; 
 Pray ye, when ye rejoice ! 
 "Leave prayers to priests," cries Lee; "I'm ruler 
 
 here ! 
 These fellows know full well whom they should 
 fear !" 
 
 The ship works hard ; the seas run high ; 
 
 Their white tops, flashing through the night, 
 Give to the eager, straining eye, 
 A wild and shifting light. 
 "Hard at the pumps! — The leak is gaining fast! 
 Lighten the ship ! — The devil rode that blast !" 
 
 Ocean has swallow'd for its food 
 
 Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee ; 
 Mat, could its waters wash out blood, 
 It had been well for thee. 
 Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear 
 Hast thou for sin? — Then wait thine hour of fear. 
 
 The sea has like a plaything toss'd 
 
 That heavy hull the livelong night. 
 The man of sin — he is not lost ; 
 Soft breaks the morning light. 
 Torn spars and sails — her cargo in the deep — 
 The ship makes port with slow and labouring 
 sweep. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Within a Spanish port she rides. 
 
 Angry and sour'd, Lee walks her. deck. 
 " Then peaceful trade a curse betides 1 — 
 And thou, good ship, a wreck ! 
 Ill luck in change ! — Ho ! cheer ye up, my men ! 
 Rigg'd, and at sea, we'll to old work again!" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A sound is in the Pyrenees ! 
 
 Whirling and dark, comes roaring down 
 A tide, as of a thousand seas, 
 Sweeping both cowl and crown. 
 On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood. 
 Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood, 
 
 And wrath and terror shake the land ; 
 
 The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights ; 
 Soon comes the tread of that stout band — 
 Bold Arthur and his knights. 
 Awake ye, Merlin ! Hear the shout from Spain ! 
 The spell is broke ! — Arthur is come again ! 
 
 Too late for thee, thou young fair bride : 
 
 The lips are cold, the brow is pale, 
 That thou didst kiss in love and pride : 
 He cannot hear thy wail, 
 Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmur'd 
 
 sound : 
 His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. 
 
 He fell for Spain — her Spain no more ; 
 For he was gone who made it dear ; 
 And she would seek some distant shore, 
 At rest from strife and fear, 
 And wait, amid her sorrows, till the day 
 His voice of love should call her thence away. 
 
 Lee feign'd him grieved, and bow'd him low. 
 
 'T would joy his heart could he but aid 
 So good a lady in her wo, 
 He meekly, smoothly said. 
 With wealth and servants she is soon aboard, 
 And that white steed she rode beside her lord. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The sun goes down upon the sea ; 
 
 The shadows gather round her home. 
 " How like a pall are ye to me ! 
 My home, how like a tomb ! 
 ! blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head. 
 Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." 
 
114 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 And now the stars arc burning bright ; 
 
 Yet still she's looking toward the shore 
 Beyond the waters black in night. 
 " I ne'er shall see thee more ! 
 Ye 're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow ; 
 And I 'm alone — scarce know I where to go." 
 
 Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea ! 
 The wash of waters lulls thee now ; 
 His arm no more will pillow thee, 
 Thy fingers on his brow. 
 He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. 
 The ground is his — the sea must be thy grave. 
 
 The moon comes up ; the night goes on. 
 
 Why, in the shadow of the mast, 
 Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone 1 
 Thy pledge, man ; keep it fast ! 
 Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee ; 
 Helpless, alone — and, then, her trust in thee. 
 
 When told the hardships thou hadst borne, 
 
 Her words to thee were like a charm. 
 With uncheer'd grief her heart is worn ; 
 Thou wilt not do her harm ! 
 He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light, 
 And growls an oath — " It is too still to-night !" 
 
 He sleeps ; but dreams of massy gold, 
 
 And heaps of pearl. He stretch' d his hands. 
 He hears a voice — " 111 man, withhold !" 
 A pale one near him stands. 
 Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek ; 
 Her touch is cold. — He wakes with piercing shriek. 
 
 He wakes ; but no relentings wake 
 
 Within his angry, restless soul. 
 " What, shall a dream Mat's purpose shake ? 
 The gold will make all whole. 
 Thy merchant trade had nigh unmann'd thee, lad ! 
 What, balk my chance because a woman's sad !" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He cannot look on her mild eye ; 
 
 Her patient words his spirit quell. 
 Within that evil heart there lie 
 The hates and fears of hell. 
 His speech is short ; he wears a surly brow. 
 There 's none will hear her shriek. What fear 
 ye now 1 
 
 xxvr. 
 The workings of the soul ye fear ; 
 
 Ye fear the power that goodness hath ; 
 Ye fear the Unseen One, ever near, 
 Walking his ocean path. 
 From out the silent void there comes a cry — 
 " Vengeance is mine ! Thou, murderer, too, shalt 
 die!" 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Nor dread of ever-during wo, 
 
 Nor the sea's awful solitude, 
 Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego. 
 Then, bloody hand, — to blood ! 
 The scud is driving wildly overhead ; 
 The stars burn dim ; the ocean moans its dead. 
 
 Moan for the living ; moan our sins, — 
 
 The wrath of man, more fierce than thine. 
 Hark ! still thy waves ! — The work begins — 
 Lee makes the deadly sign. 
 The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand 
 Speak fearful meanings through that silent band. 
 
 They 're gone. — The helmsman stands alone : 
 
 And one leans idly o'er the bow. 
 Still as a tomb the ship keeps on ; 
 Nor sound nor stirring now. 
 Hush, hark ! as from the centre of the deep — 
 Shrieks — fiendish yells ! They stab them in theii 
 sleep ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, 
 
 The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry, 
 The panting, throttled prayer for life, 
 The dying's heaving sigh, 
 The murderer's curse, the dead man's fix'd, still 
 
 glare, 
 And fear's and death's cold sweat — they all are 
 there ! 
 
 xxxr. 
 On pale, dead men, on burning cheek, 
 
 On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, 
 On hands that with the warm blood reek, 
 Shines the dim cabin lamp. 
 Lee look'd. " They sleep so sound," he, laughing, 
 
 said, 
 " They '11 scarcely wake for mistress or for maid." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A crash ! They 've forced the door, — and then 
 
 One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream 
 Comes thrilling through the growl of men. 
 'Tis hers ! — God, redeem 
 From worse than death, thy suffering, helpless child! 
 That dreadful shriek again — sharp, sharp, and wild! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It ceased. — With speed o' th' lightning's flash, 
 A loose-robed form, with streaming hair, 
 
 Shoots by. — A leap — a quick, short splash ! 
 
 > 'T is gone ! — There 's nothing there ! 
 The Waves have swept away the bubbling tide. 
 Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride ' 
 
 She's sleeping in her silent cave. 
 
 Nor hears the stern, loud roar above, 
 Nor strife of man on land or wave. 
 Young thing ! her home of love 
 She soon has reach'd ! — Fair, unpolluted thing ! 
 They harm'd her not ! — Was dying suffering'! 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 115 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 O, no ! — To live when joy was dead ; 
 
 To go with one lone, pining thought — 
 To mournful love her being wed — 
 Feeling what death had wrought ; 
 To live the child of wo, yet shed no tear, 
 Bear kindness, and yet share no joy nor fear ; 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 To look on man, and deem it strange 
 
 That he on things of earth should brood, 
 When all its throng'd and busy range 
 To her was solitude — 
 0, this was bitterness ! Death came and press'd 
 Her wearied lids, and brought her sick heart rest. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Why look ye on each other so, 
 
 And speak no word ? — Ay, shake the head ! 
 She's gone where ye can never go, 
 What fear ye from the dead ? 
 They tell no tales ; and ye are all true men ; 
 But wash away that blood ; then, home again ! — 
 
 xxxviir. 
 'T is on your souls ; it will not out ! 
 
 Lee, why so lost ? 'T is not like thee ! 
 Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout 1 
 " That pale one in the sea ! — 
 I mind not blood. — But she — I cannot tell ! 
 A spirit was 't ? — it flash'd like fires of hell ! — 
 
 " And when it pass'd there was no tread ! 
 
 It leap'd the deck. — Who heard the sound! 
 I heard none! — Say, what was it fled? — 
 Poor girl ! — And is she drown'd ? — 
 Went down these depths ? How dark they look, 
 
 and cold! 
 She's yonder! stop her! — Now! — there! — hold 
 her, hold!" 
 
 They gazed upon his ghastly face. 
 
 "What ails thee, Lee ; and why that glare 1" 
 "Look! ha, 'tis gone, and not a trace! 
 No, no, she was not there ! — 
 Who of you said ye heard her when she fell ? 
 'Twas strange — I'll not be fool'd — Will no one 
 telll" 
 
 XLI. 
 
 He paused. And soon the wildness pass'd. 
 
 Then came the tingling flush of shame. 
 Remorse and fear are gone as fast. 
 " The silly thing 's to blame 
 To quit us so. 'T is plain she loved us not ; 
 Or she 'd have stay'd a while, and shared my cot." 
 
 And then the ribald laugh'd. The jest, 
 
 Though old and foul, loud laughter drew; 
 And fouler yet came from the rest 
 Of that infernal crew. 
 Note, heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust ! 
 Lust panders murder — murder panders lust ! 
 
 Now slowly up they bring the dead 
 From out that silent, dim-lit room. 
 No prayer at their quick burial said ; 
 No friend to weep their doom. 
 The hungry waves have seized them one by one 
 And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on. 
 
 Cries Lee, " We must not be betray'd. 
 
 'Tis but to add another corse! 
 Strange words, 'tis said, an ass once bray'd: 
 I '11 never trust a horse ! 
 Out ! throw him on the waves alive ! He '11 swim 
 For once a horse shall ride ; we all ride him." 
 
 xtv. 
 
 Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came 
 
 As rang far o'er the waters wide. 
 It shook with fear the stoutest frame: 
 The horse is on the tide ! 
 As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry 
 Comes lower now, and now 'tis near and high. 
 
 And through the swift wave's yesty crown 
 
 His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light, 
 And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down. 
 Now heaves again to sight, 
 Then drifts away ; and through the night they hear 
 Far off that dreadful cry. — But morn is near. 
 
 xivn. 
 O hadst thou known what deeds were done, 
 
 When thou wast shining far away, 
 Would' st thou let fall, calm-coming sun, 
 Thy warm and silent ray ? 
 The good are in their graves ; thou canst not cheer 
 Their dark, cold mansions : Sin alone is here. 
 
 "The deed's complete! The gold is ours! 
 
 There, wash away that bloody stain ! 
 Pray, who'd refuse what fortune showers ? 
 Now, lads, we '11 lot our gain. 
 Must fairly share, you know, what's fairly got 1 
 A truly good night's work ! Who says 'twas not?" 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There's song, and oath, and gaming deep, 
 Hot words, and laughter, mad carouse; 
 There's naught of prayer, and little sleep* 
 The devil keeps the house ! 
 "Lee cheats!" cried Jack. Lee struck him to 
 
 the heart. 
 "That's foul!" one mutter'd. — "Fool! you take 
 your part ! — 
 
 i. 
 
 "The fewer heirs the richer, man ! 
 
 Hold forth thy palm, and keep thy prate ! 
 Our life, we read, is but a span. 
 What matters, soon or late?" 
 And when on shore, and asked, Did many die ? 
 " Near half my crew, poor lads !" he 'd say, and sigh. 
 
116 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 Within our bay, one stormy night, 
 
 The isle-men saw boats make for shore, 
 With here and there a dancing light, 
 That flash'd on man and oar. 
 When hail'd, the rowing stopp'd, and all was dark. 
 '< Ha ! lantern-work ! — We '11 home ! They 're play- 
 ing shark!" 
 
 HI. 
 
 Next day, at noontime, toward the town, 
 
 All stared and wonder'd much to see 
 Mat and his men come strolling down. 
 The boys shout, " Here comes Lee !" 
 " Thy ship, good Lee 1 " " Not many leagues from 
 
 shore 
 Our ship by chance took fire." — They learn'd no 
 more. 
 
 IIII. 
 
 He and his crew were flush of gold. 
 
 "You did not lose your cargo, then?" 
 " Learn, where all 's fairly bought and sold, 
 Heaven prospers those true men. 
 Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook 
 Oar ways of sin, and honest courses took ! 
 
 HV. 
 
 " Wouldst see my log-book 1 Fairly writ 
 
 With pen of steel, and ink of blood ! 
 How lightly doth the conscience sit ! 
 Learn, truth's the only good." 
 And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer, 
 He fled repentance, if he 'scaped not fear. 
 
 Remorse and fear he drowns in drink. 
 
 « Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew! 
 It thicks the blood to mope and think. 
 Here's merry days, though few!" 
 And then he quaffs. — So riot reigns within ; 
 So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin. 
 
 Mat lords it now throughout the isle. 
 His hand falls heavier than before. 
 All dread alike his frown or smile. 
 None come within his door, 
 Save those who dipp'd their hands in blood with him ; 
 Save those who laugh'd to see the white horse swim. 
 
 « To-night 's our anniversary ; 
 
 And, mind me, lads, we '11 have it kept 
 With royal state and special glee ! 
 Better with those who slept 
 Their sleep that night, had he be now, who slinks! 
 And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks !" 
 
 lviii. 
 
 The words they speak, we may not speak. 
 
 The tales they tell, we may not tell. 
 Mere mortal man, forbear to seek 
 The secrets of that hell ! 
 Their shouts grow loud : — 'T is near mid-hour of 
 
 night : 
 What means upon the waters that red light T 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Not bigger than a star it seems : 
 
 And, now, 'tis like the bloody moon: 
 And, now, it shoots in hairy streams 
 Its light ! — 'twill reach us soon ! 
 A ship ! and all on fire ! — hull, yards, and mast ! 
 Her sheets are sheets of flame! — She's nearing 
 fast! 
 
 IX. 
 
 And now she rides, upright and still, 
 
 Shedding a wild and lurid light 
 Around the cove, on inland hill, 
 Waking the gloom of night. 
 All breathes of terror ! men, in dumb amaze, 
 Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze. 
 
 It scares the sea-birds from their nests ; 
 
 They dart and wheel with deafening screams ; 
 Now dark — and now their wings and breasts 
 Flash back disastrous gleams. 
 0, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth 1 
 The world, man, is wailing o'er thy birth. 
 
 And what comes up above the wave, 
 
 So ghastly white 7 — A spectral head ! — 
 A horse's head ! — (May Heaven save 
 Those looking on the dead — 
 The waking dead !) There, on the sea, he stands — 
 The Spectre-Horse ! — He moves ; he gains the 
 sands ! 
 
 Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides 
 
 Are streaming with a cold, blue light. 
 Heaven keep the wits of him who rides 
 The Spectre-Horse to-night ! 
 His path is shining like a swift ship's wake ; 
 Before Lee's door he gleams like day's gray break. 
 
 IXIT. 
 
 The revel now is high within ; 
 
 It breaks upon the midnight air. 
 
 They little think, mid mirth and din, 
 
 What spirit waits them there. 
 
 As if the sky became a voice, there spread 
 
 A sound to appal the living, stir the dead. 
 
 The spirit-steed sent up the neigh. 
 
 It seem'd the living trump of hell, 
 Sounding to call the damn'd away, 
 To join the host that fell. 
 It rang along the vaulted sky : the shore 
 Jarr'd hard, as when the thronging surges roar. 
 
 It rang in ears that knew the sound ; 
 
 And hot, flush'd cheeks are blanch'd with fear, 
 And why does Lee look wildly round ] 
 Thinks he the drown'd horse near? 
 He drops his cup — his lips are stiff with fright. 
 Nay, sit thee down ! It is thy banquet night. 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 117 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 « I cannot sit. I needs must go : 
 The spell is on my spirit now. 
 I go to dread — I go to wo !" 
 O, who so weak as thou, 
 Strong man ! — His hoof upon the door-stone, see, 
 The shadow stands ! — His eyes are on thee, Lee ! — 
 
 Thy hair pricks up ! — " O, I must bear 
 
 His damp, cold breath ! It chills my frame ! 
 His eyes — their near and dreadful glare 
 Speak that I must not name!" 
 Thou 'rt mad to mount that horse ! — " A power 
 
 within, 
 I must obey — cries, < Mount thee, man of sin !' " 
 
 He's now upon the spectre's back, 
 
 With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 
 'T is fearful speed ! — the rein is slack 
 Within his senseless hold ; 
 Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides, 
 Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides. 
 
 He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! 
 And now they 're on the hanging steep ! 
 And, now ! the living and the dead, 
 They '11 make the horrid leap ! 
 The horse stops short : — his feet are on the verge. 
 He stands, like marble, high above the surge. 
 
 And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, 
 
 With red, hot spars, and crackling flame. 
 From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone. 
 She burns, and yet's the same ! 
 Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, 
 On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. 
 
 Through that cold light the fearful man 
 
 Sits looking on the burning ship. 
 He ne'er again will curse and ban. 
 How fast he moves the lip ! 
 And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! 
 What see you, Lee 1 the bodies of the drown'd 1 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 " I look, where mortal man may not — 
 
 Into the chambers of the deep. 
 I see the dead, long, long forgot ; 
 I see them in their sleep. 
 A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, 
 Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." 
 
 Thou mild, sad mother — waning moon, ' 
 
 Thy last, low, melancholy ray 
 Shines toward him. Quit him not so soon ! 
 Mother, in mercy, stay ! 
 Despair and death are with him ; and canst thou, 
 With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now ] 
 
 O, thou wast born for things of love ; 
 
 Making more lovely in thy shine 
 Whate'er thou look'st on. Hosts above, 
 In that soft light of thine, 
 Burn softer : — earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. 
 Thou'rt going down ! — hast left him unforgiven! 
 
 1XXVI. 
 
 The far, low west is bright no more. 
 
 How still it is ! No sound is heard 
 At sea, or all along the shore, 
 But cry of passing bird. 
 Thou living thing — and dar'st thou come so 
 
 near 
 These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear I 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Now long that thick, red light has shone 
 
 On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, 
 On man and horse, that seem of stone, 
 So motionless are they. 
 But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : 
 The night is going — faint, gray dawn returns. 
 
 That spectre-steed now slowly pales ; 
 
 Now changes like the moonlit cloud ; 
 That cold, thin light, now slowly fails. 
 Which wrapp'd them like a shroud. 
 Both ship and horse are fading into air. — 
 Lost, mazed, alone — see, Lee is standing there ! 
 
 IXXIX. 
 
 The morning air blows fresh on him : 
 
 The waves dance gladly in his sight; 
 The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim — 
 0, blessed morning light ! 
 He doth not hear their joyous call ; he sees 
 No beauty in the wave ; nor feels the breeze. 
 
 For he's accursed from all that's good; 
 
 He ne'er must know its healing power ; 
 The sinner on his sins must brood, 
 And wait, alone, his hour. 
 A stranger to earth's beauty — human love ; 
 There 's here no rest for him, no hope above ! 
 
 ixxxr. 
 
 The hot sun beats upon his head ; 
 
 He stands beneath its broad, fierce blaze, 
 As stiff and cold as one that's dead : 
 A troubled, dreamy maze 
 Of some unearthly horror, all he knows— 
 Of some wild horror past, and coming woes. 
 
 The gull has found her place on shore ; 
 
 The sun gone down again to rest ; 
 And all is still but ocean's roar : 
 There stands the man unbless'd. 
 But, see, he moves — he turns, as asking where 
 His mates !— Why looks he with that piteous stare 1 
 
118 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 Go, get thee home, and end thy mirth ! 
 
 Go, call the revellers again ! 
 They 're fled the isle ; and o'er the earth 
 Are wanderers like Cain. 
 As he his door-stone pass'd, the air blew chill. 
 The wine is on the board ; Lee, take thy fill ! 
 
 rxxxiv. 
 
 "There's none to meet me, none to cheer; 
 The seats are empty — lights burnt out ; 
 And I, alone, must sit me here : 
 Would I could hear their shout !" 
 He ne'er shall hear it more — more taste his wine ! 
 Silent he sits within the still moonshine. 
 
 Day came again; and up he rose, 
 
 A weary man from his lone board ; 
 Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose 
 Did that long night afford. 
 No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest — 
 No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast ! 
 
 He walks within the day's full glare 
 
 A darken'd man. Where'er he comes, 
 All shun him. Children peep and stare ; 
 Then, frighten'd, seek their homes. 
 Through all the crowd a thrilling horror ran. 
 They point, and say, — " There goes the wicked 
 man!" 
 
 He turns and curses in his wrath 
 
 Both man and child ; then hastes away 
 Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path ; 
 But there he cannot stay : 
 Terror and madness drive him back to men ; 
 His hate of man to solitude again. 
 
 IXXXVIII. 
 
 Time passes on, and he grows bold — 
 
 His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud ; 
 None dare from Lee the hand withhold ; 
 He rules and scoffs the crowd. 
 But still at heart there lies a secret fear ; 
 For now the year's dread round is drawing near. 
 
 1XXXIX. 
 
 He swears, but he is sick at heart ; 
 
 He laughs, but he turns deadly pale ; 
 His restless eye and sudden start — 
 These tell the dreadful tale 
 That will be told : it needs no words from thee, 
 Thou self-sold slave to fear and misery. 
 
 Bond-slave of sin, see there — that light ! 
 
 "Ha! take me — take me from its blaze!" 
 Nay, thou must ride the steed to-night ! 
 But other weary days 
 And nights must shine and darken o'er thy head, 
 Ere thou shalt go with him to meet the dead. 
 
 Again the ship lights all the land ; 
 
 Again Lee strides the spectre-beast ; 
 Again upon the cliff they stand. 
 This once he '11 be released ! — 
 Gone horse and ship; but Lee's last hope is o'er; 
 Nor laugh, nor scoff, nor rage can help him more. 
 
 His spirit heard that spirit say, 
 
 " Listen ! — I twice have come to thee. 
 Once more — and then a dreadful way ! 
 And thou must go with me!" 
 Ay, cling to earth, as sailor to the rock ! 
 Sea-swept, suck'd down in the tremendous shock. 
 
 He goes ! — So thou must loose thy hold, 
 
 And go with Death ; nor breathe the balm 
 Of early air, nor light behold, 
 Nor sit thee in the calm 
 Of gentle thoughts, where good men wait their 
 
 close. 
 In life, or death, where look'st thou for repose? 
 
 xciv. 
 Who's sitting on that long, black ledge, 
 
 Which makes so far out in the sea; 
 Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge ? 
 Poor, idle Matthew Lee ! 
 So weak and pale? A year and little more, 
 And bravely did he lord it round this shore ! 
 
 xcv. 
 
 And on the shingles now he sits, 
 
 And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; 
 Now walks the beach ; then stops by fits, 
 And scores the smooth, wet sands ; 
 Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds 
 The isle ; then home from many weary rounds. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 They ask him why he wanders so, 
 
 From day to day, the uneven strand ? 
 « I wish, I wish that I might go ! 
 But I would go by land ; 
 And there's no way that I can find — I 've tried 
 All day and night !" — He seaward look'd, and 
 sisrh'd. 
 
 It brought the tear to many an eye 
 
 That, once, his eye had made to quail. 
 " Lee, go with us ; our sloop is nigh ; 
 Come! help us hoist her sail." 
 He shook. "You know the spirit-horse I ride! 
 He '11 let me on the sea with none beside !" 
 
 He views the ships that come and go, 
 
 Looking so like to living things. 
 ! 't is a proud and gallant show 
 Of bright and broad-spread wings, 
 Making it light around them as they keep 
 Their course right onward through the unsounded 
 deep. 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 119 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 And where the far-off sand-bars lift 
 
 Their backs in long and narrow line, 
 The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, 
 And send the sparkling brine 
 Into the air ; then rush to mimic strife — 
 Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life — 
 
 But not to Lee. He sits alone; 
 No fellowship nor joy for him. 
 Borne down by wo, he makes no moan, 
 Though tears will sometimes dim 
 That asking eye. O, how his worn thoughts 
 
 crave — 
 Not joy again, but rest within the grave. 
 
 The rocks are dripping in the mist 
 That lies so heavy off the shore ; 
 Scarce seen the running breakers ; — list 
 Their dull and smother'd roar ! 
 Lee hearkens to their voice. — " I hear, I hear 
 Your call. — Not yet ! — I know my time is near !" 
 
 And now the mist seems taking shape, 
 
 Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, — 
 Enormous thing !• — There 's no escape ; 
 'T is close upon the coast. 
 Lee kneels, but cannot pray. — Why mock him so 1 
 The ship has clear'd the fog, Lee, see her go ! 
 
 A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, 
 
 Chants to his ear a plaining song ; 
 
 Its tones come winding up the heights, 
 
 Telling of wo and wrong ; 
 
 And he must listen, till the stars grow dim, 
 
 The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. 
 
 civ. 
 O, it is sad that aught so mild 
 
 Should bind the soul with bands of fear; 
 That strains to soothe a little child, 
 The man should dread to hear ! 
 But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace — un- 
 strung 
 The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. 
 
 In thick, dark nights he 'd take his seat 
 
 High up the cliffs, and feel them shake, 
 As swung the sea with heavy beat 
 Below — and hear it break 
 With savage roar, then pause and gather strength, 
 And then, come tumbling in its swollen length. 
 
 But he no more shall haunt the beach, 
 
 Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown, 
 Nor go the round of all that reach, 
 Nor feebly sit him down, 
 Watching the swaying weeds : — another day, 
 And he '11 have gone far hence that dreadful way. 
 
 To-night the charmed number 's told. 
 
 "Twice have I come for thee," it said. 
 " Once more, and none shall thee behold. 
 Come ! live one, to the dead !" — 
 So hears his soul, and fears the coming night ; 
 Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light. 
 
 Again he sits within that room : 
 
 All day he leans at that still board ; 
 None to bring comfort to his gloom, 
 Or speak a friendly word. 
 Weaken'd with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, 
 Poor, shatter'd wretch, there waits he that pale 
 horse. 
 
 Not long he waits. Where now are gone 
 
 Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood 
 Beautiful, while the west sun shone 
 And bathed them in his flood 
 Of airy glory? — Sudden darkness fell; 
 And down they went, peak, tower, citadel. 
 
 The darkness, like a dome of stone, 
 
 Ceils up the heavens. — 'Tis hush as death — 
 All but the ocean's dull, low moan. 
 How hard Lee draws his breath ! 
 He shudders as he feels the working Power. 
 Arouse thee, Lee ! up ! man thee for thine hour ! 
 
 'T is close at hand ; for there, once more, 
 
 The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame 
 And shafts of fire she show'd before ; — 
 Twice thus she hither came ; — 
 But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws 
 A wasting light ! then, settling, down she goes. 
 
 And where she sank, up slowly came 
 
 The Spectre-Horse from out the sea. 
 And there he stands ! His pale sides flame. 
 He '11 meet thee shortly, Lee. 
 He treads the waters as a solid floor ; 
 He 's moving on. Lee waits him at the door. 
 
 They 're met. — " I know thou comest for me, 
 
 Lee's spirit to the spectre said ; 
 " I know that I must go with thee — 
 Take me not to the dead. 
 It was not I alone that did the deed !" 
 Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral steed. 
 
 Lee cannot turn. There is a force 
 
 In that fix'd eye, which holds him fast. 
 How still they stand ! — the man and horse. 
 " Thine hour is almost past." 
 "0, spare me," cries the wretch, "thou fearful 
 
 one !" 
 " My time is full — I must not go alone." 
 
120 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 "I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay !" 
 
 " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee !" 
 The horse and man are on their way ; 
 He bears him to the sea. 
 Hark ! how the spectre breathes through this still 
 
 night : 
 See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light J 
 
 He 's on the beach ; but stops not there ; 
 
 He 's on the sea ! — that dreadful horse ! 
 Lee flings and writhes in wild despair ! — 
 In vain ! The spirit-corse 
 Holds him by fearful spell ; — he cannot leap. 
 Within that horrid light he rides the deep. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 It lights the sea around their track — 
 
 The curling comb, and dark steel wave ; 
 There, yet, sits Lee the spectre's back — 
 Gone ! gone ! and none to save ! 
 They 're seen no more ; the night has shut them in. 
 May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin ! 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 The earth has wash'd away its stain ; 
 
 The sealed-up sky is breaking forth, 
 Mustering its glorious hosts again, 
 From the far south and north ; 
 The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. 
 —0, whither on its waters rideth Lee 1 
 
 THE OCEAN.* 
 
 Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made 
 To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, 
 To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, 
 Then back into themselves in rivers run, 
 Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, 
 Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. 
 
 Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains 
 And flings to break his strong and viewless chains ; 
 Foams in his wrath ; and at his prison doors, 
 Hark ! hear him ! how he beats and tugs and roars, 
 As if he would break forth again and sweep 
 Each living thing within his lowest deep. 
 
 Type of the Infinite ! I look away 
 Over thy billows, and I cannot stay 
 My thought upon a resting-place, or make 
 A shore beyond my vision, where they break ; 
 But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain 
 To think ; then rests, and then puts forth again. 
 Thou hold'st me by a spell ; and on thy beach 
 I feel ill soul ; and thoughts unmeasured reach 
 Far back beyond all date. And, ! how old 
 Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast 
 
 roll'd. 
 Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn, 
 Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn ; 
 Waiting, thou mighty minister of death, 
 Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath. 
 
 At last thou didst it well ! The dread command 
 Came : and thou swept'st to death the breathing land ; 
 And then once more, unto the silent heaven 
 Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. 
 
 And though the land is throng'd again, Sea ! 
 Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. 
 The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call, 
 Share thy own spirit : it is sadness all ! 
 How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down 
 Yonder tall cliff — he with the iron crown. 
 And see ! those sable pines along the steep, 
 Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep ! 
 Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge 
 Over the dead, with thy low beating surge. 
 
 * From " Factitious Life. 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 
 "The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose 
 window opened towards the sun-risings the name of the 
 chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, 
 and then he awoke and sang." — The Pilgrim's Progress. 
 
 Now, brighter than the host that all night long, 
 
 In fiery armour, far up in the sky 
 
 Stood watch, thou comest to wait the morning's 
 
 song, 
 Thou comest to tell me day again is nigh, 
 Star of the dawning ! Cheerful is thine eye ; 
 And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. • 
 Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why 
 My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; 
 Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in 
 Him. 
 
 Canst thou grow sad, thou say'st, as earth grows 
 
 bright 1 
 And sigh, when little birds begin discourse 
 In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light 
 Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh 
 
 source 1 
 With creatures innocent thou must perforce 
 A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. 
 And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, 
 Of ills and pains of life must be the cure, 
 And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to 
 
 endure. 
 
 I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue, 
 Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red ; 
 Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew ; 
 And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread 
 With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort 
 
 shed. 
 Still — save the bird that scarcely lifts its song — 
 The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead — 
 The silent city emptied of its throng, 
 And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and 
 
 wrong. 
 
 But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth 
 Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil and strife, 
 With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth 
 With discord strange, and all that man calls life. 
 With thousand scatter'd beauties nature 's rife ; 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 121 
 
 And airs and woods and streams breathe harmonies : 
 Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; 
 Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties : — 
 He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. 
 
 It-is because man useth so amiss 
 Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad ; 
 Else why should she in such fresh hour as this 
 Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, 
 From her fair face 1 — It is that man is mad ! 
 Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine 
 When nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. 
 Thou look'st toward earth ; but yet the heavens 
 are thine ; 
 While I to earth am bound : — When will the 
 heavens be mine ] 
 
 If man would but his finer nature learn, 
 And not in life fantastic lose the sense 
 Of simpler things; could nature's features stern 
 Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense 
 I should not yearn for God to take me hence, 
 B ut bear my lot, albeit in spirit bow'd, 
 Remembering humbly why it is, and whence : 
 But when I see cold man of reason proud, 
 My solitude is sad — I'm lonely in the crowd. 
 
 But not for this alone, the silent tear 
 Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, 
 Nor for this solemn hour : fresh life is near ; — 
 But all my joys ! — they died when newly born. 
 Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn, 
 And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye 
 Shall see them pass. Breathe calm — my spirit's 
 
 torn; 
 Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high ! — 
 Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring 
 
 nigh. 
 
 And when I grieve, 0, rather let it be 
 That I — whom nature taught to sit with her 
 On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea — 
 Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir 
 Of woods and waters — feel the quickening spur 
 To my strong spirit; — who, as my own child, 
 Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur 
 A beauty see — that I this mother mild 
 Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce 
 and wild ! 
 
 How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft 
 Shot 'thwart the earth ! In crown of living fire 
 Up comes the day ! As if they conscious quaff 'd — 
 The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire 
 Laugh in the wakening light. — Go, vain desire ! 
 The dusky lights are gone ; go thou thy way ! 
 And pining discontent, like them, expire ! 
 Be call'd my chamber, Peace, when ends the day ; 
 And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and 
 pray. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.* 
 
 O, listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
 " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
 
 * From the "Husband's and Wife's Grave." 
 
 Hymn it around our souls : according harps, 
 
 By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars 
 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 
 The song of our great immortality ! 
 
 Thick, clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
 
 The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 
 — 0, listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in 
 
 From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
 
 'T is floating in day's setting glories ; night, 
 
 Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step 
 
 Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ; 
 
 Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve, 
 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
 
 As one vast, mystic instrument, are touch'd 
 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee : 
 
 — The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
 THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. 
 
 Thotx little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
 Why takest thou its melancholy voice 1 
 And with that boding cry 
 O'er the waves dost thou fly 1 ? 
 ! rather, bird, with me 
 
 Through the fair land rejoice ! 
 
 Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
 As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
 Thy cry is weak and scared, 
 As if thy mates had shared 
 The doom of us : Thy wail — 
 What does it bring to me 1 
 
 Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt' st the surge, 
 Restless and sad : as if, in strange accord 
 With the motion and the roar 
 Of waves that drive to shore, 
 One spirit did ye urge — 
 The Mystery — the Word. 
 
 Of thousands, thou both sepulchre and pall, 
 Old ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead, 
 From out thy gloomy cells 
 A tale of mourning tells — 
 Tells of man's wo and fall, 
 His sinless glory fled. 
 
 Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
 Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
 Thy spirit never more. 
 Come, quit with me the shore, 
 For gladness and the light 
 Where birds of summer sing. 
 
RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE 
 POET. 
 
 Though I am humble, slight me not, 
 
 But love me for the Poet's sake; 
 Forget me not till he's forgot ; 
 
 I, care or slight, with him would take. 
 
 For oft he pass'd the blossoms by, 
 And gazed on me with kindly look ; 
 
 Left flaunting flowers and open sky, 
 And woo'd me by the shady brook. 
 
 And like the brook his voice was low : 
 So soft, so sad the words he spoke, 
 
 That with the stream they seem'd to flow : 
 They told me that his heart was broke ; — 
 
 They said, the world he fain would shun, 
 And seek the still and twilight wood — 
 
 His spirit, weary of the sun, 
 
 In humblest things found chiefest good ; — 
 
 That I was of a lowly frame, 
 
 And far more constant than the flower, 
 
 "Which, vain with many a boastful name, 
 But flutter'd out its idle hour; 
 
 That I was land to old decay, 
 
 And wrapt it softly round in green, 
 
 On naked root and trunk of gray 
 
 Spread out a garniture and screen : — 
 
 They said, that he was withering fast, 
 Without a sheltering friend like me ; 
 
 That on his manhood fell a blast, 
 And left him bare, like yonder tree ; 
 
 That spring would clothe his boughs no more, 
 Nor ring his boughs with song of bird — 
 
 Sounds like the melancholy shore 
 
 Alone were through his branches heard. 
 
 Methought, as then, he stood to trace 
 The wither'd stems, there stole a tear-"— 
 
 That I could read in his sad face, 
 Brother, our sorrows make us near. 
 
 And then he stretch'd him all along, 
 And laid his head upon my breast, 
 
 Listening the water's peaceful song, — 
 How glad was I to tend his rest ! 
 
 Then happier grew his soothed soul. 
 
 He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play 
 Upon my face, as in it stole, 
 
 Whispering, Above is brighter day ! 
 
 He praised my varied hues — the green, 
 The silver hoar, the golden, brown ; 
 
 Said, Lovelier hues were never seen : 
 Then gently press'd my tender down. 
 
 And where I sent up little shoots, 
 He call'd them trees, in fond conceit : 
 
 Like silly lovers in their suits 
 
 He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat. 
 
 I said, I'd deck me in the dews, 
 Could I but chase away his care, 
 
 And clothe me in a thousand hues, 
 To bring him joys that I might share. 
 
 He answer'd, earth no blessing had 
 To cure his lone and aching heart — 
 
 That I was one, when he was sad, 
 Oft stole him from his pain, in part. 
 
 But e'en from thee, he said, I go, 
 To meet the world, its care and strife, 
 
 No more to watch this quiet flow, 
 Or spend with thee a gentle life. 
 
 And yet the brook is gliding on, 
 And I, without a care, at rest, 
 
 While back to toiling life he's gone, 
 Where finds his head no faithful breast. 
 
 Deal gently with him, world, I pray ; 
 
 Ye cares, like soften'd shadows come ; 
 His spirit, wellnigh worn away, 
 
 Asks with ye but awhile a home. 
 
 Oh, may I live, and when he dies 
 Be at his feet an humble sod ; 
 
 Oh, may I lay me where he lies, 
 To die when he awakes in God ! 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 I iook through tears on Beauty now; 
 And Beauty's self, less radiant, looks on me, 
 Serene, yet touch'd with sadness is the brow 
 (Once bright with joy) I see. 
 
 Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad 1 
 Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone 
 At which my heart and earth and skies were glad — 
 That link'd us all in one. 
 
 It is not on the mountain's breast ; 
 It comes not to me with the dawning day; 
 Nor looks it from the glories of the west, 
 As slow they pass away. 
 
 Nor on those gliding roundlets blight 
 That steal their play among the woody shades, 
 Nor on thine own dear children doth it light — 
 The flowers along the glades. 
 
 And alter'd to the living mind 
 (The great high-priestess with her thought-born race 
 Who round thine altar aye have stood and sbined) 
 The comforts of thy face. 
 
 Why shadow'd thus thy forehead fair? 
 Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom 1 
 And spreads away upon the genial air, 
 Like vapours from the tomb ] 
 
 Why should ye shine, you lights above 1 
 Why, little flowers, open to the heatS 
 No more within the heart ye filled with love 
 The living pulses beat. 
 
 Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand ! 
 The fine beholding eye whose constant look 
 Was turn'd on thee is dark — and cold the hand 
 That gave all vision took. 
 
 Nay, heart, be still ! — Of heavenly birth 
 Is Beauty sprung. — Look up ! behold the place ! 
 There he who reverent traced her steps on earth 
 Now sees her face to face. 
 
RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 [Born, 1789. Died, 1817.] 
 
 The family of the late Mr. Wilde are of Saxon 
 origin, and their ancient name was De Wilde ; 
 but his parents were natives of Dublin, and his 
 father was a wholesale hardware merchant and 
 ironmonger in that city during the American war ; 
 near the close of which he emigrated to Maryland, 
 leaving a prosperous business and a large capital 
 in the hands of a partner, by whose bad manage- 
 ment they were in a few years both lost. 
 
 Richard Henry Wilde was born in the year 
 1789, and his childhood was passed in Baltimore. 
 He was taught to read by his mother, and received 
 instruction in writing and Latin grammer from a 
 private tutor until he was about seven years old. 
 He afterward attended an academy; but his fa- 
 ther's affairs becoming embarrassed, in his eleventh 
 year he was taken home and placed in a store. 
 His constitution was at first tender and delicate. 
 In his infancy he was not expected to live from 
 month to month, and he suffered much from ill 
 health until he was fifteen or sixteen. This in- 
 duced quiet, retiring, solitary, and studious habits. 
 His mother's example gave him a passion for read- 
 ing, and all his leisure was devoted to books. The 
 study of poetry was his principal source of plea- 
 sure, when he was not more than twelve years old. 
 About this time his father died ; and gathering as 
 much as she could from the wreck of his property, 
 his mother removed to Augusta, Georgia, and 
 commenced there a small business for the support 
 of her family. Here young Wilde, amid the 
 drudgery of trade, taught himself book-keeping, 
 and became familiar with the works in general 
 literature which he could obtain in the meagre 
 libraries of the town, or from his personal friends. 
 The expenses of a large family, and various 
 other causes, reduced the little wealth of his mo- 
 ther; her business became unprofitable, and he 
 resolved to study law. Unable, however, to pay the 
 usual fee for instruction, he kept his design asecret, 
 as far as possible ; borrowed some elementary books 
 from his friends, and studied incessantly, tasking 
 himself to read fifty pages, and write five pages of 
 notes, in the form of questions and answers, each 
 day, besides attending to his duties in the store. 
 And, to overcome a natural diffidence, increased 
 by a slight impediment in his speech, he appeared 
 frequently as an actor at a dramatic society, which 
 he had called into existence for this purpose, and 
 to raise a fund to establish a public library. 
 
 All this time his older and graver acquaintances, 
 who knew nothing of his designs, naturally con- 
 founded him with his thoughtless companions, 
 who sought only amusement, and argued badly 
 of his future life. He bore the injustice in silence, 
 and pursued his secret studies for a year and a half; 
 at the end of which, pale, emaciated, feeble, and 
 
 with a consumptive cough, he sought a distant 
 court to be examined, that, if rejected, the news 
 of his defeat might not reach his mother. When 
 he arrived, he found he had been wrongly informed, 
 and that the judges had no power to admit him. 
 He met a friend there, however, who was going 
 to the Greene Superior Court; and, on being in- 
 vited by him to do so, he determined to proceed im- 
 mediately to that place. It was the March term, 
 for 1809, Mr. Justice Early presiding; and the 
 young applicant, totally unknown to every one. 
 save the friend who accompanied him, was at in- 
 tervals, during three days, subjected to a most 
 rigorous examination. Justice Early was well 
 known for his strictness, and the circumstance of 
 a youth leaving his own circuit excited his suspi- 
 cion ; but every question was answered to the 
 satisfaction and even admiration of the examin- 
 ing committee; and he declared that" the young 
 man could not have left his circuit because he 
 was unprepared." His friend certified to the 
 correctness of his moral character; he was ad- 
 mitted without a dissenting voice, and returned 
 in triumph to Augusta. He was at this time 
 under twenty years of age. 
 
 His health gradually improved ; he applied him- 
 self diligently to the study of belles letters, and to 
 his duties as an advocate, and rapidly rose to emi- 
 nence; being in a few years made attorney-gene- 
 ral of the state. He was remarkable for industry 
 in the preparation of his cases, sound logic, and 
 general urbanity. In forensic disputations, he never 
 indulged in personalities, — then too common at the 
 bar, — unless in self-defence; but, having studied the 
 characters of his associates, and stored his mem- 
 ory with appropriate quotations, his ridicule was a 
 formidable weapon against all who attacked him. 
 In the autumn of 1 8 1 5,when only a fortnight over 
 the age required by law, Mr. Wilde was elected a 
 member of the national House of Representatives. 
 At the next election, all the representatives from 
 Georgia, but one, were defeated, and Mr. Wilde 
 returned to the bar, where he continued, with the 
 exception of a short service in Congress in 1825, 
 until 1828, when he again became a representa- 
 tive, and so continued until 1835. I have not 
 room to trace his character as a politician very 
 closely. On the occasion of the Force Bill, as it 
 was called, he seceded from a majority of Con- 
 gress, considering it a measure calculated to pro- 
 duce civil war, and justified himself in a speech 
 of much eloquence. His speeches on the tariff, 
 the relative advantages and disadvantages of a 
 small-note currency, and on the removal of the 
 deposites by General Jackson, show what are 
 his pretensions to industry and sagacity as a poli- 
 tician. 
 
 123 
 
Mr. Wilde's opposition to the Force Bill and 
 the removal of the deposites rendered him as un- 
 popular with the Jackson party in Georgia, as his 
 letter from Virginia had made him with the nul- 
 lifies, and at the election of 1834 he was left out 
 of Congress. This afforded him the opportunity 
 he had long desired of going abroad, to recruit his 
 health, much impaired by long and arduous public 
 service, and by repeated attacks of the diseases in- 
 cident to southern climates. He sailed for Europe 
 in June, 1835, spent two years in travelling through 
 England, France, Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, 
 and settled during three years more in Florence. 
 Here he occupied himself entirely with literature. 
 The romantic love, the madness, and imprison- 
 ment of Tasso had become a subject of curious 
 controversy, and he entered into the investigation 
 "with the enthusiasm of a poet, and the patience 
 and accuracy of a case-hunter," and produced a 
 work, published after his return to the United 
 States, in which the questions concerning Tasso 
 are most ably discussed, and lights are thrown upon 
 them by his letters, and by some of his sonnets, 
 which last are rendered into English with rare 
 felicity. Having completed his work on Tasso, 
 he turned his attention to the life of Dante; and 
 having learned incidentally one day, in conversa- 
 tion with an artist, that an authentic portrait of 
 this great poet, from the pencil of Giotto, proba- 
 bly still existed in the Bargello, (anciently both 
 the prison and the palace of the republic,) on a 
 wall, which by some strange neglect or inadver- 
 tence had been covered with whitewash, he set on 
 foot a project for its discovery and restoration, 
 which after several months, was crowned .with 
 complete success. This discovery of a veritable 
 portrait of Dante, in the prime of his days, says 
 Mr. Irving, produced throughout Italy some such 
 sensation as in England would follow the sudden 
 
 discovery of a perfectly well-authenticated like- 
 ness of Shakspeare. 
 
 Mr. Wilde returned to the United States in 
 1840, and was engaged in literary studies and in 
 the practice of his profession until his death, on 
 the tenth of September, 1847, at New Orleans, 
 where he held the professorship of law in the 
 University of Louisiana. His life of Dante, and 
 translated " Specimens of the Italian Poets," were 
 nearly ready for publication, but have not yet 
 been given to the press ; nor has the public received 
 any collection of his miscellaneous writings. 
 
 Mr. Wilde's name first became familiar in our 
 literature in consequence of a charge of having sto- 
 len his beautiful song, "My Life is like the Sum- 
 mer Rose," from an early and obscure Irish bard 
 named Kelly, of whose pretended genius the al- 
 leged specimen was printed. The accusation was 
 met with a simple denial, and when it began to be 
 discredited, from a want of proof that such a per- 
 son as Kelly had existed, to divert attention from 
 this point it was declared that both Kelly and 
 Wilde had translated a fragment of the Greek of 
 AlCjEUS; and some very good Greek verses, which 
 might have been the original of the piece, were 
 produced, and the impeachment generally be- 
 lieved until a gentleman came out with a card ac- 
 knowledging the Greek to be his own rendition of 
 Mr. Wilde's performance into that language. 
 
 Mr. Wilde's original poems and translations 
 are always graceful and correct. Those that have 
 been published were mostly written while he was 
 a member of Congress during moments of relaxa- 
 tion, and they have never been printed collectively. 
 Examples of his translations are excluded, by the 
 plan of this work. His versions from the Italian, 
 Spanish, and French languages, are among the 
 most elegant and scholarly productions of their 
 kind that have been produced in this country. 
 
 ODE TO EASE. 
 
 I never bent at glory's shrine ; 
 
 To wealth I never bow'd the knee; 
 Beauty has heard no vows of mine ; 
 
 I love thee, Ease, and only thee; 
 Beloved of the gods and men, 
 
 Sister of joy and liberty, 
 When wilt thou visit me again; 
 In shady wood, or silent glen, 
 By falling stream, or rocky den, 
 Like those where once I found thee, when, 
 Despite the ills of poverty, 
 And wisdom's warning prophecy, 
 I listened to thy siren voice, 
 And made thee mistress of my choice ! 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and glory fled ; 
 For me no more her laurels spread ; 
 Her golden crown shall never shed 
 Its beams of splendor on my head. 
 And when within the narrow bed, 
 To fame and memory ever dead, 
 
 My senseless corpse is thrown, 
 Nor stately column, sculptured bust, 
 Nor urn that holde within its trust 
 The poor remains of mortal dust, 
 
 Nor monumental stone. 
 Nor willow, waving in the gale, 
 Nor feeble fence, with whiten'd pale, 
 Nor rustic cross, memorial frail, 
 
 Shall mark the grave I own. 
 No lofty deeds in armor wrought; 
 No hidden truths in science taught; 
 No undiscover'd regions sought; 
 No classic page, with learning fraught, 
 Nor eloquence, nor verse divine, 
 Nor daring speech, nor high design, 
 Nor patriotic act of mine 
 On history's page shall ever shine: 
 But, all to future ages lost, 
 Nor even a wreck, tradition toss'd, 
 Of what I was when valued most 
 By the few friends whose love I boast, 
 In after years shall float to shore, 
 And serve to tell the name I bore. 
 
RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 125 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and Wealth withdrew, 
 
 Indignant at the choice I made, 
 And, to her first resentment true, 
 
 My scorn with tenfold scorn repaid. 
 Now, noble palace, lofty dome, 
 Or cheerful, hospitable home, 
 
 Are comforts I must never know : 
 My enemies shall ne'er repine 
 At pomp or pageantry of mine, 
 Nor prove, by bowing at my shrine, 
 
 Their souls are abject, base, and low. 
 No wondering crowd shall ever stand 
 With gazing eye and waving hand, 
 
 To mark my train, and pomp, and show : 
 And, worst of all, I shall not live 
 To taste the pleasures Wealth can give, 
 
 When used to soothe another's wo. 
 The peasants of my native land 
 Shall never bless my open hand ; 
 No wandering bard shall celebrate 
 His patron's hospitable gate : 
 No war-worn soldier, shatter'd tar, 
 Nor exile driven from afar, 
 Nor hapless friend of former years, 
 Nor widow's prayers, nor orphan's tears, 
 Nor helpless age relieved from cares, 
 Nor innocence preserved from snares, 
 Nor houseless wanderer clothed and fed, 
 Nor slave from bitter bondage led, 
 Nor youth to noble actions bred, 
 Shall call down blessings on my head. 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and yet the while, 
 So sweet was Beauty's scornful smile, 
 So fraught with every lovely wile, 
 Yet seemingly so void of guile, 
 
 It did but heighten all her charms; 
 And, goddess, had I loved thee then 
 But with the common love of men, 
 My fickle heart had changed agen, 
 Even at the very moment when 
 
 I woo'd thee to my longing arms: 
 For never may I'hope to meet 
 A smile so sweet, so heavenly sweet. 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and now for me 
 
 No heart shall ever fondly swell, 
 No voice of rapturous harmony 
 
 Awake the music-breathing shell ; 
 Nor tongue, or witching melody 
 
 Its love in faltering accents tell ; 
 Nor flushing cheek, nor languid eye, 
 Nor sportive smile, nor artless sigh, 
 
 Confess affection all as well. 
 No snowy bosom's fall and rise 
 Shall e'er again enchant my eyes ; 
 No melting lips, profuse of bliss, 
 Shall ever greet me with a kiss ; 
 Nor balmy breath pour in my ear 
 The trifles Love delights to hear : 
 But, living, loveless, hopeless, I 
 Unmourned and unloved must die. 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and yet to me 
 Coy and ungrateful thou hast proved ; 
 
 Though I have sacrificed to thee 
 Much that was worthy to be loved. 
 
 But come again, and I will yet 
 
 Thy past ingratitude forget : 
 
 O ! come again ! thy witching powers 
 
 Shall claim my solitary hours : 
 
 With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen, 
 
 And conscience clear, and health serene, 
 
 And friends, and books, to banish spleen, 
 
 My life should be, as it had been, 
 
 A sweet variety of joys ; 
 And Glory's crown, and Beauty's smile, 
 And treasured hoards should seem the while 
 
 The idlest of all human toys. 
 
 SOLOMON AND THE GENIUS.* 
 
 Spirit or Thought ! Lo ! art thou here 1 
 Lord of the false, fond, ceaseless spell 
 
 That mocks the heart, the eye, the ear — 
 Art thou, indeed, of heaven or hell ] 
 In mortal bosoms dost thou dwell, 
 
 Self-exiled from thy native sphere ] 
 Or is the human mind thy cell 
 
 Of torment 1 To inflict and bear 
 
 Thy doom 1 — the doom of all who fell 1 
 
 Since thou hast sought to prove my skill, 
 
 Unquestion'd thou shalt not depart, 
 Be thy behests or good or ill, 
 
 No matter what or whence thou art ! 
 
 I will commune with thee apart, 
 Yea ! and compel thee to my will — 
 
 If thou hast power to yield my heart 
 What earth and Heaven deny it still. 
 
 I know thee, Spirit ! thou hast been 
 
 Light of my soul by night and day ; 
 All-seeing, though thyself unseen ; 
 
 My dreams — my thoughts — and what are they, 
 
 But visions of a calmer ray 1 
 All ! all were thine — and thine between 
 
 Each hope that melted fast away, 
 The throb of anguish, deep and keen ! 
 
 With thee I 've search'd 'the earth, the sea, 
 The air, sun, stars, man, nature, time, 
 
 Explored the universe with thee, 
 
 Plunged to the depths of wo and crime, 
 Or dared the fearful height to climb, 
 
 Where, amid glory none may see 
 
 And live, the Eternal reigns sublime, 
 
 Who is, and was, and is to be ! 
 
 And I have sought, with thee have sought, 
 Wisdom's celestial path to tread, 
 
 Hung o'er each page with learning fraught; 
 Question'd the living and the dead: 
 
 * The Moslem imagine that Solomon acquired do- 
 minion over all the orders of the genii — good and evil. 
 It is even believed he sometimes condescended to con- 
 verse with his new subjects. On this supposition he has 
 been represented int< rrogating a genius, in the very 
 wise, but very disagreeable mood of mind which led to 
 the conclusion that "All is vanity !" Touching the said 
 genius, the author has not been able to discover whether 
 he or she (even the sex is equivocal) was of Allah or 
 Eblis, and, therefore, left the matter where he found 
 it — in discreet doubt. 
 
126 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 The patriarchs of ages fled — 
 The prophets of the time to come — • 
 
 All who one ray of light could shed 
 Beyond the cradle or the tomb. 
 
 And I have task'd my busy brain 
 
 To learn what haply none may know, 
 
 Thy birth, seat, power, thine ample reign 
 O'er the heart's tides that ebb and flow, 
 Throb, languish, whirl, rage, freeze, or glow 
 
 Like billows of the restless main, 
 Amid the wrecks of joy and wo 
 
 By ocean's caves preserved in vain. 
 
 And oft to shadow forth I strove, 
 
 To my mind's eye, some form like thine, 
 
 And still my soul, like Noah's dove, 
 Return'd, but brought, alas ! no sign : 
 Till, wearying in the mad design, 
 
 With fever'd brow and throbbing vein, 
 I left the cause to thread the mine 
 
 Of wonderful effects again ! 
 
 But now I see thee face to face, 
 Thou art indeed, a thing divine ; 
 
 An eye pervading time and space, 
 And an angelic look are thine, 
 Ready to seize, compare, combine 
 
 Essence and form — and yet a trace 
 Of grief and care — a shadowy line 
 
 Dims thy bright forehead's heavenly grace. 
 
 Yet thou must he of heavenly birth, 
 
 Where naught is known of grief and pain ; 
 
 Though I perceive, alas ! where earth 
 And earthly things have left their stain : 
 From thine high calling didst thou deign 
 
 To prove — in folly or in mirth — 
 
 With daughters of the first-born Cain, 
 
 How little Human Love is worth 1 
 
 Ha ! dost thou change before mine eyes ! 
 
 Another form ! and yet the same, 
 But lovelier, and of female guise, 
 
 A vision of ethereal flame, 
 
 Such as our heart's despair can frame, 
 Pine for, love, worship, idolize, 
 
 Like hers, who from the sea-foam came, 
 And lives but in the heart, or skies. 
 
 Spirit of Change ! I know thee too, 
 
 I know thee by thine Iris bow, 
 By thy cheek's ever-shifting hue, 
 
 By all that marks thy steps below ; 
 
 By sighs that burn, and tears that glow — 
 False joys — vain hopes — that mock the heart ; 
 
 From Fancy's urn these evils flow, 
 Spirit of Lies ! for such thou art ! 
 
 Saidst thou not once, that all the charms 
 
 Of life lay hid in woman's love, 
 And to be lock'd in Beauty's arms, 
 
 Was all men knew of heaven above 1 
 
 And did I not thy counsels prove, 
 And all their pleasures, all their pain 1 
 
 No more ! no more my heart they move, 
 For I, alas ! have proved them vain ! 
 
 Didst thou not then, in evil hour, 
 Light in my soul ambition's flame 1 
 
 Didst thou not say the joys of power, 
 Unbounded sway, undying fame, 
 A monarch's love alone should claim? 
 
 And did I not pursue e'en these 1 
 
 And are they not, when won, the samel 
 
 All Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Didst not, to tempt me once again, 
 
 Bid new, deceitful visions rise, 
 And hint, though won with toil and pain, 
 
 " Wisdom's the pleasure of the wise ]" 
 
 And now, when none beneath the skies 
 Are wiser held by men than me, 
 
 What is the value of the prize 1 
 It too, alas ! is Vanity ! 
 
 Then tell me — since I 've found on earth 
 
 Not one pure stream to slake this thirst, 
 Which still torments us from our birth, 
 
 And in our heart and soul is nursed ; 
 
 This hopeless wish wherewith we're cursed, 
 Whence came it, and why was it given ! 
 
 Thou speak'st not ! — Let me know the worst! 
 Thou pointest ! — and it is to Heaven ! 
 
 A FAREWELL TO AMERICA.* 
 
 Farewell ! my more than fatherland ! 
 
 Home of my heart and friends, adieu ! 
 Lingering beside some foreign strand, 
 
 How oft shall I remember you ! 
 
 How often, o'er the waters blue, 
 Send back a sigh to those I leave, 
 
 The loving and beloved few, 
 Who grieve for me, — for whom I grieve ! 
 
 We part ! — no matter how we part, 
 
 There are some thoughts we utter not, 
 Deep treasured in our inmost heart, 
 
 Never reveal' d, and ne'er forgot ! 
 
 Why murmur at the common lot 1 
 We part ! — I speak not of the pain, — 
 
 But when shall I each lovely spot 
 And each loved face behold again 1 
 
 It must be months, — it may be years, — 
 
 It may — but no ! — I will not fill 
 Fond hearts with gloom, — fond eyes with tears, 
 
 " Curious to shape uncertain ill." 
 
 Though humble, — few and far, — yet, still 
 Those hearts and eyes are ever dear ; 
 
 Theirs is the love no time can chill, 
 The truth no chance or change can sear ! 
 
 All I have seen, and all I see, 
 
 Only endears them more and more ; 
 Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, 
 
 Affection lives when all is o'er ! 
 
 Farewell, my more than native shore ! 
 I do not seek or hope to find, 
 
 Roam where I will, what I deplore 
 To leave with them and thee behind ! 
 
 ♦ Written on board ship Westminster, at sea, off the 
 Highlands of Neversink, June 1, 1835. 
 
RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 12/ 
 
 NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 
 
 Faint and sad was the moonbeam's smile, 
 Sullen the moan of the dying wave ; 
 
 Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle, 
 
 As I stood by the side of Napoleon's grave. 
 
 And is it here that the hero lies, 
 
 Whose name has shaken the earth with dread 1 
 And is this all that the earth supplies — 
 
 A stone his pillow — the turf his bed 1 
 
 Is such the moral of human life 1 
 
 Are these the limits of glory's reign 1 
 
 Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife, 
 And a thousand battles been all in vain ] 
 
 Is nothing left of his victories now 
 
 But legions broken — a sword in rust — 
 
 A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow — 
 A name and a requiem — dust to dust 1 
 
 Of all the chieftains whose thrones he rear'd, 
 Was there none that kindness or faith could bind 1 ? 
 
 Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared, 
 Had none one spark of his Roman mind 1 
 
 Did Prussia cast no repentant glance 1 
 Did Austria shed no remorseful tear, 
 
 When England's truth, and thine honour, France, 
 And thy friendship, Russia, were blasted here 1 
 
 No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven, 
 Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock ; 
 
 And glorious Titan, the unforgiven, 
 
 Was doom'd to his vulture, and chains, and rock. 
 
 And who were the gods that decreed thy doom 1 
 A German Cjesar — a Prussian sage — 
 
 The dandy prince of a counting-room — 
 
 And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age. 
 
 Men call'd thee Despot, and call'd thee true ; 
 
 But the laurel was earn'd that bound thy brow ; 
 And of all who wore it, alas ! how few 
 
 Were freer from treason and guilt than thou ! 
 
 Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde ! 
 
 Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore 1 
 Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword 
 
 Was never so false to its trust before. 
 
 Where was thy veteran's boast that day, 
 " The old Guard dies, but it never yields 1" 
 
 O ! for one heart like the brave Dessaix, 
 One phalanx like those of thine early fields ! 
 
 But, no, no, no ! — it was Freedom's charm 
 Gave them the courage of more than men ; 
 
 You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm, 
 Though you were invincible only then. 
 
 Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow ; 
 
 One struggle, and France all her faults repairs — 
 But the wild Fayette, and the stern Carnot 
 
 Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Mi life is like the summer rose 
 
 That opens to the morning sky, 
 But ere the shades of evening close, 
 
 Is scatter'd on the ground — to die ! 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
 As if she wept the waste to see — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My life is like the autumn leaf 
 
 That trembles in the moon's pale ray, 
 Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 
 
 Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
 Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 
 
 My life is like the prints, which feet 
 
 Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 
 All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 Yet, as if grieving to efface 
 All vestige of the human race, 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea, 
 But none, alas! shall mourn for me ! 
 
 TO LORD BYRON. 
 
 Br Ron ! 'tis thine alone, on eagles' pinions, 
 
 In solitary strength and grandeur soaring, 
 
 To dazzle and delight all eyes ; outpouring 
 The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions 
 Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions, 
 
 Nature, man, time, the universe exploring ; 
 And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, 
 opinions, 
 
 Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing : 
 ! how I love and envy thee thy glory, 
 
 To every age and clime alike belonging ; 
 Link'd by all tongues with every nation's glory. 
 
 Thou Tacitus of song ! whose echoes, thronging 
 O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary 
 
 And forests with the name my verse is wronging. 
 
 TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 Wing'd mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! 
 
 Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
 Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
 
 Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe : 
 
 Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe. 
 Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
 
 To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
 Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
 
 For such thou art by day — but all night long 
 Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 
 
 As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
 Like to the melancholy Jac qjjes complain, 
 
 Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, 
 And sighing for thy motley coat again. 
 
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 [Born, 17 — Died, 1843.] 
 
 The author of the "Star Spangled Banner" was 
 a very able and eloquent lawyer, and one of the 
 most respectable gentlemen whose lives have ever 
 adorned American society. During our second 
 war with England he was residing in Baltimore, 
 and left that city on one occasion for the purpose 
 of procuring the release from the British fleet of 
 a friend who had been captured at Marlborough. 
 He went as far as the mouth ofthePatuxent, but was 
 not permitted to return, lest the intended attack 
 on Baltimoreshouldbedisclosedby him. Brought 
 up the bay to the mouth of the Petapsco, he was 
 placed on board one of the enemy's ships, from 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 ! sat, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last 
 
 gleaming; 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 
 
 perilous fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly 
 
 streaming'? 
 And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still 
 
 there ; 
 O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave 1 
 
 On theshore,dimlyseen through the mists of the deep 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- 
 poses, 
 
 What, is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep 
 As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half discloses? 
 
 Now it catches thegleam of the morning's firstbeam; 
 
 Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream : 
 
 which he was compelled to witness the bombard- 
 ment of Fort McHenry, which the admiral had 
 boasted that he would carry in a few hours, and 
 the city soon after. Mr. Key watched the flag 
 over the fort through the whole day, with intense 
 anxiety, and in the night, the bombshells; but he 
 saw at dawn "the star-spangled banner" still 
 waving over its defenders. The following song 
 was partly composed before he was set at liberty. 
 He was a man of much literary cultivation and 
 taste, and his religious poems are not without merit. 
 He died very suddenly at Baltimore on the eleventh 
 of January, 1843. 
 
 'T is the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 And where is the band who so vauntingly sworej 
 
 Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
 
 A home and a country they'd leave us no more 1 
 
 Their blood hath wash'd out their foul footsteps' 
 
 pollution; 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 ! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand 
 
 Between our loved home and the war's desolation ; 
 Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
 rescued land 
 Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
 a nation ! 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust," 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 [Born, 1792. Died, 1852.] 
 
 Mr. Payne was born in New York, on the ninth 
 of June, 1792. His remarkable career as an actor 
 and dramatist belongs to the history of the stage. 
 
 As a poet he will be known only by a single song. 
 He died at Tunis, where he was sometime Consul 
 for the United States. 
 
 SWEET HOME. 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ! 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
 Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Home! home, sweet home ! 
 There's no place like home ! 
 128 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again 
 The birds singing gayly that come at my call: 
 Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer than all. 
 
 Home ! sweet, sweet home ! 
 
 There's no place like home 
 
 * From an opera by the author, entitled "Clari, or the 
 Maid of Milan." 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 [Born 1789. Died 1841.] 
 
 The author of " Hadad" was descended from 
 an ancient, and honourable Irish family, in the 
 county of Derry, and his ancestors emigrated to 
 this country and settled in Connecticut in 1720. 
 A high order of intellect seems to have been their 
 right of inheritance, for in every generation we 
 find their name prominent in the political history 
 of the state. The grandfather of the poet, the 
 Honourable William Hillhouse, was for more 
 than fifty years employed in the public service, as 
 a representative, as a member of the council, and 
 in other offices of trust and honour. His father, 
 the Honourable James Hillhouse, who died in 
 1833, after filling various offices in his native 
 state, and being for three years a member of the 
 House of Representatives, was in 1794 elected to 
 the Senate of the United States, where for sixteen 
 years he acted a leading part in the politics of the 
 country. His wife, the mother of the subject of 
 this sketch, was the daughter of Colonel Melaku- 
 thon Woolset, of Dosoris, Long Island. She 
 was a woman distinguished alike for mental su- 
 periority, and for feminine softness, purity, and 
 delicacy of character. Although educated in re- 
 tirement, and nearly self-taught, her son was accus- 
 tomed to say, when time had given value to his 
 opinions, that she possessed the most elegant mind 
 he had ever met with ; and much of the nice dis- 
 crimination, and the finer and more delicate ele- 
 ments of his own character, were an inheritance 
 from her. Among the little occasional pieces 
 which he wrote entirely for the family circle, 
 was one composed on visiting her birth-place, after 
 her death, which I have been permitted* to make 
 public. 
 
 "As yonder frith, round green Dosoris roll'd, 
 Reflects the parting glories of the skies, 
 
 Or quivering glances, like the paly gold, 
 When on its breast the midnight moonbeam lies; 
 
 "Thus, though bedlmm'd by many a changeful year, 
 The hues of feeling varied in her cheek, 
 
 That, brightly flush'd, or glittering with a tear, 
 Seem'd the rapt poet's, or the seraph's meek. 
 
 "I have fulfill'd her charge, — dear scenes, adieu !— 
 The tender charge to see her natal spot ; 
 
 My tears have flow'd, while busy Fancy drew 
 The picture of her childhood's happy lot. 
 
 "Would I could paint the ever-varying grajce, 
 The ethereal glow and lustre of her mind, 
 
 Which own'd not time, nor bore of age a trace, 
 Pure as the sunbeam, gentle and refined!" 
 
 * I am indebted for the materials for this biography to 
 the poet's intimate friend, the Reverend William In- 
 graham Kipp, Rector of St. Paul's Church, in Albany, 
 Now York, who kindly consented to write out the cha- 
 racter of the poet, as he appeared at home, and as none 
 but his associates could know him, for this work. 
 9 
 
 Mr. Hillhouse was born in New Haven, on 
 the twenty-sixth of September, 1789. The home 
 of such parents, and the society of the intelligent 
 circle they drew about them, (of which President 
 Dwight was the most distinguished ornament,) 
 was well calculated to cherish and cultivate his 
 peculiar tastes. In boyhood he was remarkable 
 for great activity and excellence in all manly and 
 athletic sports, and for a peculiarly gentlemanly 
 deportment. At the age of fifteen he entered Yale 
 College, and in 1808 he was graduated, with high 
 reputation as a scholar. From his first junior 
 exhibition, he had been distinguished for the ele- 
 gance and good taste of his compositions. Upon 
 taking his second degree, he delivered an oration 
 on " The Education of a Poet," so full of beauty, 
 that it was long and widely remembered, and in- 
 duced an appointment by the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society, (not much in the habit of selecting juve- 
 nile writers,) to deliver a poem before them at 
 their next anniversary. It was on this occasion 
 that he wrote "The Judgment," which was pro- 
 nounced before that society at the commencement 
 of 1812. 
 
 A more difficult theme, or one requiring loftier 
 powers, could not have been selected. The re- 
 flecting mind regards this subject in accordance 
 with some preconceived views. That Mr. Hill- 
 house felt this difficulty, is evident from a remark 
 in his preface, that in selecting this theme, « he 
 exposes his work to criticism on account of its 
 theology, as well as its poetry; and they who 
 think the former objectionable, will not easily be 
 pleased with the latter." Other poets, .too, had 
 essayed their powers in describing the events of 
 the Last Day. The public voice, however, has 
 decided, that among all the poems on this great 
 subject, that of Mr. Hillhouse stands unequalled. 
 His object was, " to present such a view of the 
 last grand spectacle as seemed the most susceptible 
 of poetical embellishment;" and rarely have we 
 seen grandeur of conception and simplicity of de- 
 sign so admirably united. His representation of 
 the scene is vivid and energetic ; while the man- 
 ner in which he has grouped and contrasted the 
 countless array of characters of every age, displays 
 the highest degree of artistic skill. Each character 
 he summons up appears before us, with historic 
 costume and features faithfully preserved, and we 
 seem to gaze upon him as a reality, and not merely 
 as the bold imagery of the poet. 
 
 "For all appear'd 
 As in their days of earthly pride ; the clank 
 Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe 
 Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings " 
 
 His description of the last setting of the sun in 
 the west, and the dreamer's farewell to the even- 
 ing star, as it was fading forever from his sight, 
 
 129 
 
130 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 are passages of beauty which it would be difficult 
 to find surpassed. 
 
 About this period Mr. Hielhouse passed three 
 years in Boston, preparing to engage in a mercan- 
 tile life. During the interruption of business which 
 took place in consequence of the last war with 
 England, he employed a season of leisure passed 
 at home, in the composition of several dramatic 
 pieces, of which "Demetria" and "Percy's Masque" 
 best satisfied his own judgment. When peace was 
 restored, he went to New York, and embarked in 
 commerce, to which, though at variance with his 
 tastes, he devoted himself with fidelity and perse- 
 verance. In 1819, he visited Europe, and though 
 the months passed there were a season of great 
 anxiety and business occupations, he still found 
 time to see much to enlarge his mind, and accu- 
 mulated stores of thought for future use. Among 
 other distinguished literary men, from whom while 
 in London he received attentions, was Zacart 
 Macaulay, (father of the Hon. T. Babbistgton 
 Macaulay,) who subsequently stated to some 
 American gentlemen, that "he considered Mr. 
 Hilliiouse the most accomplished young man 
 with whom he was acquainted." It was during 
 his stay in England that " Percy's Masque" was 
 revised and published. The subject of this drama 
 is the successful attempt of one of the Percies, the 
 son of Shakspeare's Hotspur, to recover his an- 
 cestral home. The era chosen is a happy one for 
 •a poet. He is dealing with the events of an age 
 where every thing to us is clothed with a roman- 
 tic interest, which invests even the most common 
 every-day occurrences of life. 
 
 "They carved at the meal 
 With gloves of steel, 
 And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd." 
 
 Of this opportunity he fully availed himself, in 
 >the picture he has here given us of the days of 
 chivalry. As a mere work of art, "Percy's 
 "Masque" is one of the most faultless in the lan- 
 guage. If subjected to scrutiny, it will bear the 
 strictest criticism by which compositions of this 
 kind can be tried. We cannot detect the violation 
 of a single rule which should be observed in the 
 construction of a tragedy. When, therefore, it 
 was republished in this countiy, it at once gave 
 its author an elevated rank as a dramatic poet. 
 
 In 1822, Mr. Hillhottse was united in mar- 
 riage to Cornelia, eldest daughter of Isaac Law- 
 rence, of New York. He shortly afterward 
 returned to his native town, and there, at his 
 beautiful place, called Sachem's Wood, devoted 
 himself to the pursuits of a country gentleman 
 and practical agriculturist. His taste extended 
 also to the arts with which poetry is allied; and 
 in the embellishment of his residence, there was 
 exhibited evidence of the refinement of its accom- 
 plished occupant. Here, with the exception of a 
 few months of the winter, generally spent in New 
 York, he passed the remainder of his life. " And 
 never," remarks his friend, the Reverend Mr. Ktfp, 
 «' has a domestic circle been anywhere gathered, 
 uniting within itself more of grace, and elegance, 
 and intellect. He who formed its centre and its 
 
 charm, possessed a character combining most beau- 
 tifully the high endowments of literary genius, 
 with all that is winning and brilliant in social life. 
 They who knew him best in the sacred relations 
 of his own fireside, will never cease to realize, that 
 in him their circle lost its greatest ornament. All 
 who were accustomed to meet his cordial greeting, 
 to listen to his fervid and eloquent conversation, 
 to be delighted with the wit and vivacity of his 
 playful moments ; to witness the grace and ele- 
 gance of his manners, the chivalric spirit, the 
 indomitable energy and high finish of the whole 
 character, can tell how nobly he united the com- 
 bined attractions of the poet, the scholar, and the 
 perfect gentleman. Never, indeed, have we met 
 with one who could pour forth more eloquently 
 his treasures, drawn from the whole range of Eng- 
 lish literature, or bring them to bear more ad- 
 mirably upon the passing occurrences of the day. 
 Every syllable, too, which he uttered, conveyed 
 the idea of a high-souled honour, which we asso- 
 ciate more naturally with the days of old romance, 
 than with these selfish, prosaic times. His were 
 indeed ' high thoughts, seated in a heart of cour- 
 tesy.' " 
 
 "Hadad" was written in 1824, and printed in 
 the following year. This has generally been 
 esteemed Hielhouse's masterpiece. As a sacred 
 drama, it is probably unsurpassed. The scene is in 
 Judea, in the days of David ; and as the agency 
 of evil spirits is introduced, an opportunity is af- 
 forded to bring forward passages of strange sub- 
 limity and wildness. For a work like this, Hiel- 
 house was peculiarly qualified. A most intimate 
 acquaintance with the Scriptures enabled him to 
 introduce each minute detail in perfect keeping 
 with historical truth, while from the same study 
 he seems also to have imbibed the lofty thoughts, 
 and the majestic style of the ancient Hebrew 
 prophets. 
 
 In 1840, he collected, and published in two 
 volumes, the works which at that time he was 
 willing to give to the world. In addition to those 
 I have already mentioned, was "Demetria," a 
 domestic tragedy, now first revised and printed, 
 after an interval of twenty-six years since its first 
 composition, and several orations, delivered in New 
 Haven, on public occasions, or before literary 
 societies in other parts of the country. The 
 manly eloquence of the latter, is well calculated 
 to add the reputation of an accomplished ora- 
 tor, to that which he already enjoyed as a poet. 
 These volumes contain nearly all that he left us. 
 It is a mistake, however, to suppose that he passed 
 his life merely as a literary man. The early part 
 of it was spent in the anxieties of business, while, 
 through all his days, literature, instead of being 
 his occupation, was merely the solace and delight 
 of his leisure moments. 
 
 About this time his friends beheld, with anxiety, 
 the symptoms of failing health. For fifteen 
 months, however, he lingered on, alternately cheer- 
 ing their hearts by the prospect of recovery, and 
 then causing them again to despond, ar his weak- 
 ness increased. In the fall of 1840, ne left home 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 13L 
 
 for the last time, to visit his friends in Boston. He 
 returned, apparently benefited by the excursion, 
 and no immediate danger was apprehended until 
 the beginning of the following January. On the 
 second of that month his disorder assumed an 
 alarming form, and the next day was passed in 
 intense agony. On Monday, his pain was alle- 
 viated ; yet his skilful medical attendants beheld 
 in this but the precursor of death ; and it became 
 their duty, on the following morning, to impart 
 to him the news that his hours were few and 
 numbered. 
 
 « Of the events of this solemn day, when he 
 beheld the sands of life fast running out, and 
 girded up his strength to meet the King of Ter- 
 rors," says the writer to whom I have before al- 
 luded, "I cannot speak. The loss is still too 
 recent to allow us to withdraw the veil and 
 tell of his dying hours. Yet touching was the 
 scene, as the warm affections of that noble heart 
 gathered in close folds around those he was about 
 to leave, or wandered back in remembrance to the 
 opening of life, and the friends of childhood who 
 had already gone. It was also the Christian's 
 death. The mind which had conceived so vividly 
 the scenes of the judgment, must often have 
 looked forward to that hour, which he now could 
 meet in an humble, trusting faith. And thus the 
 day wore on, until, about eight o'clock in the eve- 
 ning, without a struggle, he fell asleep." 
 
 As a poet, he possessed qualities seldom found 
 united : a masculine strength of mind, and a 
 most delicate perception of the beautiful. With 
 an imagination of the loftiest order — with " the 
 vision and the faculty divine" in its fullest exer- 
 cise, the wanderings of his fancy were chastened 
 and controlled by exquisite taste. The grand 
 
 characteristic of his writings is their classical 
 beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost, 
 yet there is no exuberance, no sacrifice to false 
 and meretricious taste. He threw aside the gaudy 
 and affected brilliancy with which too many set 
 forth their poems, and left his to stand, like the 
 doric column, charming by its simplicity. Writing 
 not for present popularity, or to catch the sense- 
 less applause of the multitude, he was willing to 
 commit his works — as Lord Bacon did his memo- 
 ry — " to the next ages." And the result is proving 
 how wise were his calculations. The " fit audi- 
 ence," which at first hailed his poems with plea- 
 sure, from realizing their worth, has been steadily 
 increasing. The scholar studies them as the pro- 
 ductions of a kindred spirit, which had drunk 
 deeply at the fountains of ancient lore, until it 
 had itself been moulded into the same form of 
 stern and antique beauty, which marked the old 
 Athenian dramatists. The intellectual and the 
 gifted claim him as one of their own sacred bro- 
 therhood ; and all who have a sympathy with 
 genius, and are anxious to hold communion with 
 it as they travel on the worn and beaten path of 
 life, turn with ever renewed delight to his pages. 
 They see the evidences of one, who wrote not be- 
 cause he must write, but because he possessed a 
 mind crowded and glowing with images of beauty, 
 and therefore, in the language of poetry, he poured 
 forth its hoarded treasures. Much as we must 
 lament the withdrawal of that bright mind, at an 
 age when it had just ripened into the maturity of 
 its power, and when it seemed ready for greater 
 efforts than it yet had made, we rejoice that 
 the event did not happen until a permanent 
 rank had been gained among the noblest of our 
 poets. 
 
 THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 The rites were past of that auspicious day 
 When white-robed altars wreath'd with living green 
 Adorn the temples ; — when unnumber'd tongues 
 Repeat the glorious anthem sung to .harps 
 Of angels while the star o'er Bethlehem stood ; — 
 When grateful hearts bow low, and deeper joy 
 Breathes in the Christian than the angel song, 
 On the great birthday of our Priest and King. 
 That night, while musing on his wondrous life, 
 Precepts, and promises to be fulfill'd, 
 A trance-like sleep fell on me, and a dream 
 Of dreadful character appall'd my soul. 
 Wild was the pageant : — face to face with kings, 
 Heroes, and sages of old note, I stood ; 
 Patriarchs, and prophets, and apostles saw, 
 And venerable forms, ere round the globe 
 Shoreless and waste a weltering flood was roll'd, 
 With angels, compassing the radiant throne 
 Of Mart's Son, anew descended, crown'd 
 With glory terrible, to judge the world. 
 
 Methought I journey'd o'er a boundless plain, 
 Unbroke by vale or hill, on all sides stretch'd, 
 Like circling ocean, to the low-brow'd sky ; 
 Save in the midst a verdant mount, whose sides 
 Flowers of all hues and fragrant breath adorn'd. 
 Lightly I trod, as on some joyous quest, 
 Beneath the azure vault and early sun ; 
 But while my pleased eyes ranged the circuit green, 
 New light shone round ; a murmur came, confused, 
 Like many voices and the rush of wings. 
 Upward I gazed, and, 'mid the glittering skies, 
 Begirt by flying myriads, saw a throne 
 Whose thousand splendours blazed upon the earth 
 Refulgent as another sun. Through clouds 
 They came, and vapours colour'd by Aurora, 
 Mingling in swell sublime, voices, and harps, 
 And sounding wings, and hallelujahs sweet. 
 Sudden, a seraph that before them flew, 
 Pausing upon his wide-unfolded plumes, 
 Put to his mouth the likeness of a trump, 
 And toward the four winds four times fiercely 
 
 breathed. 
 Doubling along the arch, the mighty peal 
 
132 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 To heaven resounded ; hell return'd a groan, 
 And shuddering earth a moment reel'd, confounded, 
 From her fixed pathway as the staggering ship, 
 Stunn'd by some mountain billow, reels. The isles, 
 With heaving ocean, rock'd : the mountains shook 
 Their ancient coronets : the avalanche 
 Thunder'd : silence succeeded through the nations. 
 Earth never listen'd to a sound like this. 
 It struck the general pulse of nature still, 
 And broke, forever, the dull sleep of death. 
 
 Now, o'er the mount the radiant legions hung, 
 Like plumy travellers from climes remote 
 On some sequester'd isle about to stoop. 
 Gently its flowery head received the throne ; 
 Cherubs and seraphs, by ten thousands, round 
 Skirting it far and wide, like a bright sea, 
 Fair forms and faces, crowns, and coronets, 
 And glistering wings furl'd white and numberless. 
 About their Lord were those seven glorious spirits 
 Who in the Almighty's presence stand. Four 
 
 lean'd 
 On golden wands, with folded wings, and eyes 
 Fix'd on the throne : one bore the dreadful books, 
 The arbiters of life : another waved 
 The blazing ensign terrible, of yore, 
 To rebel angels in the wars of heaven : 
 What seem'd a trump the other spirit grasp'd, 
 Of wondrous size, wreathed multiform and strange. 
 Illustrious stood the seven, above the rest 
 Towering, like a constellation glowing, 
 What time the sphere-instructed huntsman, taught 
 By Atlas, his star-studded belt displays 
 Aloft, bright-glittering, in the winter sky. 
 
 Then on the mount, amidst these glorious shapes, 
 Who reverent stood, with looks of sacred awe, 
 I saw Emmanuel seated on his throne. 
 His robe, methought, was whiter than the light ; 
 Upon his breast the heavenly Urim glow'd 
 Bright as the sun, and round such lightnings flash'd, 
 No eye could meet the mystic symbol's blaze. 
 Irradiant the eternal sceptre shone 
 Which wont to glitter in his Father's hand : 
 Resplendent in his face the Godhead beam'd, 
 Justice and mercy, majesty and grace, 
 Divinely mingling. Celestial glories play'd 
 Around with beamy lustre ; from his eye 
 Dominion look'd ; upon his brow was stamp'd 
 Creative power. Yet over all the touch 
 Of gracious pity dwelt, which, erst, amidst 
 Dissolving nature's anguish, breathed a prayer 
 For guilty man. Redundant down his neck 
 His locks roll'd graceful, as they waved, of old, 
 Upon the mournful breeze of Calvary. 
 
 His throne of heavenly substance seem'd com- 
 posed, 
 Whose pearly essence, like the eastern shell, 
 Or changeful opal, shed a silvery light. 
 Clear as the moon it look'd through ambient clouds 
 Of snowy lustre, waving round its base, 
 
 That, like a zodiac, thick with emblems set, 
 Flash'd wondrous beams, of unknown character, 
 From many a burning stone of lustre rare, 
 Stain'd like the bow whose mingling splendour 
 
 stream'd 
 Confusion bright upon the dazzled eye. 
 Above him hung a canopy whose skirts 
 The mount o'ershadow'd like an evening cloud. 
 Clouds were his curtains : not like their dim types 
 Of blue and purple round the tabernacle, 
 That waving vision of the lonely wild, 
 By pious Israel wrought with cherubim ; 
 Veiling the mysteries of old renown, 
 Table, and altar, ark, and mercy-seat, 
 Where, 'twixt the shadow of cherubic wings, 
 In lustre visible Jehovah shone. 
 
 In honour chief, upon the Lord's right hand 
 His station Michael held : the dreadful sword 
 That from a starry baldric hung, proclaim'd 
 The Hierarch. Terrible, on his brow 
 Blazed the archangel crown, and from his eye 
 Thick sparkles flash'd. Like regal banners, waved 
 Back from his giant shoulders his broad vans, 
 Bedropt with gold, and, turning to the sun, 
 Shone gorgeous as the multitudinous stars, 
 Or some illumined city seen by night, 
 When her wide streets pour noon, and, echoing 
 
 through 
 Her thronging thousands, mirth and music ring. 
 
 Opposed to him, I saw an angel stand 
 In sable vesture, with the Books of Life. 
 Black was his mantle, and his changeful wings 
 Gloss'd like the raven's; thoughtful seem'd his 
 
 mien, 
 Sedate and calm, and deep upon his brow 
 Had Meditation set her seal ; his eyes 
 Look'd things unearthly, thoughts unutterable, 
 Or utter'd only with an angel's tongue. 
 Renown'd was he among the seraphim 
 For depth of prescience, and sublimest lore ; 
 Skill'd in the mysteries of the Eternal, 
 Profoundly versed in those old records where, 
 From everlasting ages, live God's deeds ; 
 He knew the hour when yonder shining worlds, 
 That roll around us, into being sprang ; 
 Their system, laws, connexion ; all he knew 
 But the dread moment when they cease to be. 
 None judged like him the ways of God to man, 
 Or so had ponder'd ; his excursive thoughts 
 Had visited the depths of night and chaos, 
 Gathering the treasures of the hoary deep. 
 
 Like ocean billows seem'd, ere this, the plain, 
 Confusedly heaving with a sumless host 
 From earth's and time's remotest bounds : a roar 
 Went up before the multitude, whose course 
 The unfurl'd banner guided, and the bow, 
 Zone of the universe, athwart the zenith 
 Sweeping its arch. In one vast conflux roll'd, 
 Wave following wave, were men of every age, 
 Nation, and tongue ; all heard the warning blast. 
 And, led by wondrous impulse, hither came. 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 133 
 
 Mingled in wild confusion, now, those met 
 In distant ages born. Gray forms, that lived 
 When Time himself was young, whose temples 
 
 shook 
 The hoary honours of a thousand years, 
 Stood side by side with Koman consuls : — here, 
 Mid prophets old, and heaven-inspired bards, 
 Were Grecian heroes seen : — there, from a crowd 
 Of reverend patriarchs, tower'd the nodding 
 
 plumes, 
 Tiars, and helms, and sparkling diadems 
 Of Persia's, Egypt's, or Assyria's kings ; 
 Clad as when forth the hundred gates of Thebes 
 On sounding cars her hundred princes rush'd ; 
 Or, when, at night, from off the terrace top 
 Of his aerial garden, touched to soothe 
 The troubled monarch, came the solemn chime 
 Of sackbut, psaltery, and harp, adown 
 The E aphrates, floating in the moonlight wide 
 O'er sleeping Babylon. For all appear'd 
 As in their days of earthly pride ; the clank 
 Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe. 
 Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings. 
 Though on the angels while I gazed, their names 
 Appeared not, yet amongst the mortal throng 
 (Capricious power of dreams!) familiar seem'd 
 Each countenance, and every name well known. 
 
 Nearest the mount, of that mix'd phalanx first, 
 Our general parent stood: not as he look'd 
 Wandering, at eve, amid the shady bowers 
 And odorous groves of that delicious garden, 
 Or flowery banks of some soft-rolling stream, 
 Pausing to list its lulling murmur, hand 
 In hand with peerless Eve, the rose too sweet, 
 Fatal to Paradise. Fled from his cheek 
 The bloom of Eden ; his hyacinthine locks 
 Were changed to gray; with years and sorrows 
 
 bow'd 
 He seem'd, but through his ruined form still shone 
 The majesty of his Creator : round 
 Upon his sons a grieved and pitying look 
 He cast, and in his vesture hid his face. 
 
 Close at his side appear'd a martial form, 
 Of port majestic, clad in massive arms, 
 Cowering above whose helm with outspread wings 
 The Roman eagle flew; around its brim 
 Was character'd the name at which earth's queen 
 Bow'd from her seven-fold throne and owned her 
 
 lord. 
 In his dilated eye amazement stood ; 
 Terror, surprise, and blank astonishment 
 Blanch'd his firm cheek, as when, of old, close 
 
 hemm'd 
 Within the capitol, amidst the crowd 
 Of traitors, fearless else, he caught the gleam 
 Of Brutus' steel. Daunted, yet on the pomp 
 Of towering seraphim, their wings, their crowns, 
 Their dazzling faces, and upon the Lord 
 He fix'd a steadfast look of anxious note, 
 Like that Pharsalia's hurtling squadrons drew 
 When all his fortunes hung upon the hour. 
 
 Near him, for wisdom famous through the east, 
 Abraham rested on his staff; in guise 
 A Chaldee shepherd, simple in his raiment 
 As when at Mamre in his tent he sat, 
 The host of angels. Snow-white were his locks 
 And silvery beard, that to his girdle roll'd. 
 Fondly his meek eye dwelt upon his Lord, 
 Like one, that, after long and troubled dreams, 
 A night of sorrows, dreary, wild, and sad, 
 Beholds, at last, the dawn of promised joys. 
 
 With kindred looks his great descendant gazed. 
 Not in the poor array of shepherds he, 
 Nor in the many-coloured coat, fond gift 
 Of doating age, and cause of direful hate ; 
 But, stately, as his native palm, his form 
 Was, like Egyptian princes', proudly deck'd 
 In tissued purple sweeping to the ground. 
 Plumes from the desert waved above his head, 
 And down his breast the golden collar hung, 
 Bestow'd by Pharaoh, when through Egypt word 
 Went forth to bow the knee as to her king. 
 Graced thus, his chariot with impetuous wheels 
 Bore him toward Goshen, where the fainting heart 
 Of Israel waited for his long-lost son, 
 The son of Rachel. Ah ! had she survived 
 To see him in his glory ! — As he rode, 
 His boyhood, and his mother's tent, arose, 
 Link'd with a thousand recollections dear, 
 And Joseph's heart was in the tomb by Ephrath. 
 
 At hand, a group of sages mark'd the scene. 
 Plato and Socrates together stood, 
 With him who measured by their shades those piles 
 Gigantic, 'mid the desert seen, at eve, 
 By toiling caravans for Memphis bound, 
 Peering like specks above the horizon's verge, 
 Whose huge foundations vanish in the mist 
 Of earliest time. Transfix'd they seem'd with 
 
 wonder, 
 Awe-struck, — amazement rapt their inmost souls. 
 Such glance of deep inquiry and suspense 
 They threw around, as, in untutor'd ages, 
 Astronomers upon some dark eclipse, 
 Close counselling amidst the dubious light 
 If it portended Nature's death, or spoke 
 A change in heaven. What thought they, then, 
 
 of all 
 Their idle dreams, their proud philosophy, 
 When on their wilder'd souls redemption, Christ, 
 And the Almighty broke 1 But, though they err'd 
 When all was dark, they reason'd for the truth. 
 They sought in earth, in ocean, and the stars, 
 Their maker, arguing from his works toward God ; 
 And from his word had not less nobly argued, 
 Had they beheld the gospel sending forth 
 Its pure effulgence o'er the farthest sea, 
 Lighting the idol mountain-tops, and gilding 
 The banners of salvation there. These men 
 Ne'er slighted a Redeemer ; of his name 
 They never heard. Perchance their late-found 
 
 harps, 
 Mixing with angel symphonies, may sound 
 In strains more rapturous things to them so new. 
 
134 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 Nearer the mount stood Moses ; in his hand 
 The rod which blasted with strange plagues the 
 
 realm 
 Of Misraim, and from its time-worn channels 
 Upturn' d the Arabian sea. Fair was his broad, 
 High front, and forth from his soul-piercing eye 
 Did legislation took ; which full he fix'd 
 Upon the blazing panoply, undazzled. 
 No terrors had the scene for him who, oft, 
 Upon the thunder-shaken hill-top, veil'd 
 With smoke and lightnings, with Jehovah talk'd, 
 And from his fiery hand received the law. 
 Beyond the Jewish ruler, banded close, 
 A company full glorious, I saw 
 The twelve apostles stand. O, with what looks 
 Of ravishment and joy, what rapturous tears, 
 What hearts of ecstasy, they gazed again 
 On their beloved Master ! what a tide 
 Of overwhelming thoughts press'd to their souls, 
 When now, as he so frequent promised, throned, 
 And circled by the hosts of heaven, they traced 
 The well-known lineaments of him who shared 
 Their wants. and sufferings here ! Full many a day 
 Of fasting spent with him, and night of prayer, 
 Rush'd on their swelling hearts. Before the rest, 
 Close to the angelic spears, had Peter urged, 
 Tears in his eye, love throbbing at his breast, 
 As if to touch his vesture, or to catch 
 The murmur of his voice. On him and them 
 Jesus beam'd down benignant looks of love. 
 
 How diverse from the front sublime of Paul, 
 Or pale and placid dignity of him 
 Who in the lonely Isle saw heaven unveil'd, 
 Was his who in twelve summers won a world ! 
 Not such his countenance nor garb, as when 
 He foremost breasted the broad Granicus, 
 Dark-rushing through its steeps from lonely Ida, 
 His double-tufted plume conspicuous mark 
 Of every arrow ; cheering his bold steed 
 Through pikes, and spears, and threatening axes, up 
 The slippery bank through all their chivalry, 
 Princes and satraps link'd for Cyrus' throne, 
 With cuirass pierced, cleft helm, and plumeless 
 
 head, 
 To youthful conquest : or, when, panic-struck, 
 Darius from his plunging chariot sprang, 
 Away the bow and mantle cast, and fled. 
 His robe, all splendid from the silk-worm's loom, 
 Floated effeminate, and from his neck 
 Hung chains of gold, and gems from eastern mines. 
 Bedight with many-colour' d plumage, flamed 
 His proud tiara, plumage which had spread 
 Its glittering dyes of scarlet, green, and gold, 
 To evening suns by Indus' stream : around 
 Twined careless, glow'd the white and purple band, 
 The imperial, sacred badge of Persia's kings. 
 Thus his triumphal car in Babylon 
 Display'd him, drawn by snow-white elephants, 
 Whose feet crush'd odours from the flowery wreaths 
 Boy-Cupids scatter'd, while soft music breathed 
 And incense fumed around. But dire his hue, 
 Bloated and bacchanal as on the night 
 
 When old Persepolis was wrapp'd in flame ! 
 Fear over all had flung a livid tinge. 
 A deeper awe subdued him than amazed 
 Parimenio and the rest, when they beheld 
 The white-stoled Levites from Jerusalem, 
 Thrown open as on some high festival, 
 With hymns and solemn pomp, come down the hill 
 To meet the incensed king, and wondering saw, 
 As on the pontiff's awful form he gazed, 
 Glistering in purple with his mystic, gems, 
 Jove's vaunted son, at Jaddua's foot, adore. 
 
 Turn, now, where stood the spotless Virgin : 
 sweet 
 Her azure eye, and fair her golden ringlets ; 
 But changeful as the hues of infancy 
 Her face. As on her son, her God, she gazed, 
 Fix'd was her look, — earnest, and breathless; — 
 
 now, 
 Suffused her glowing cheek; now, changed to 
 
 pale ; — 
 First, round her lip a smile celestial play'd, 
 Then, fast, fast rain'd the tears. — Who can in- 
 terpret ? — 
 Perhaps some thought maternal cross'd her heart, 
 That mused on days long past, when on her breast 
 He helpless lay, and of his infant smile ; 
 Or, on those nights of terror, when, from worse 
 Than wolves, she hasted with her babe to Egypt. 
 
 Girt by a crowd of monarchs, of whose fame 
 Scarce a memorial lives, who fought and reign'd 
 While the historic lamp shed glimmering light, 
 Above the rest one regal port aspired, 
 Crown'd like Assyria's princes ; not a crest 
 O'ertopp'd him, save the giant seraphim. 
 His countenance, more piercing than the beam 
 Of the sun-gazing eagle, earthward bent 
 Its haught, fierce majesty, temper'd with awe. 
 Seven years with brutish herds had quell'd his 
 
 pride, 
 And taught him there's a mightier king in heayen. 
 His powerful arm founded old Babylon, 
 Whose bulwarks like the eternal mountains heaved 
 Their adamantine- heads ; whose brazen gates 
 Beleaguering nations foil'd, and bolts of war, 
 Unshaken, unanswer'd as the pelting hail. 
 House of the kingdom ! glorious Babylon ! 
 Earth's marvel, and of unborn time the theme ! 
 Say where thou stood'st : — or, can the fisherman 
 Plying his task on the Euphrates, now, 
 A silent, silver, unpolluted tide, 
 Point to thy grave, and answer 1 From a sash 
 O'er his broad shoulder hung the ponderous sword, 
 Fatal as sulphurous fires to Nineveh, 
 That levell'd with her waves the walls of Tyrus, 
 Queen of the sea; to its foundations shook 
 Jerusalem, and reap'd the fields of Egypt. 
 
 Endless the task to name the multitudes 
 From every land, from isles remote, in seas 
 Which no adventurous mariner has sail'd :— 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 135 
 
 From desert-girdled cities, of whose pomp 
 Some solitary wanderer, by the stars 
 Conducted o'er the burning wilderness, 
 Has told a doubted tale : as Europe's sons 
 Describing Mexic', and, in fair Peru, 
 The gorgeous Temple of the Sun, its priests, 
 Its virgin, and its fire, forever bright, 
 Were fablers deem'd, and, for belief, met scom. 
 Around while gazing thus, far in the sky 
 Appear'd what look'd, at first, a moving star ; 
 But, onward, wheeling through the clouds it came, 
 With brightening splendour and increasing size, 
 Till within ken a fiery chariot rush'd, 
 By flaming horses drawn, whose heads shot forth 
 A twisted, horn-like beam. O'er its fierce wheels 
 Two shining forms alighted on the mount, 
 Of mortal birth, but deathless rapt to heaven. 
 Adown their breasts their loose beards floated, white 
 As mist by moonbeams silver'd ; fair they seem'd, 
 And bright as angels ; fellowship with heaven 
 Their mortal grossness so had purified. 
 Lucent their mantles ; other than the seer 
 By Jordan caught ; and in the prophet's face 
 A mystic lustre, like the Urim's, gleamed. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now for the dread tribunal all prepared : 
 Before the throne the angel with the books 
 Ascending kneel' d, and, crossing on his breast 
 His sable pinions, there the volumes spread. 
 A second summons echoed from the trump, 
 Thrice sounded, when the mighty work began. 
 Waved onward by a seraph's wand, the sea 
 Of palpitating bosoms toward the mount 
 In silence roll'd. No sooner had the first 
 Pale tremblers its mysterious circle touched 
 Than, instantaneous, swift as fancy's flash, 
 As lightning darting from the summer cloud, 
 Its past existence rose before the soul, 
 With all its deeds, with all its secret store 
 Of embryo works, and dark imaginings. 
 Amidst the chaos, thoughts as numberless 
 As whirling leaves when autumn strips the woods, 
 Light and disjointed as the sibyl's, thoughts 
 Scatter'd upon the waste of long, dim years, 
 Pass'd in a moment through the quicken'd soul. 
 Not with the glozing eye of earth beheld ; 
 They saw as with the glance of Deity. 
 Conscience, stern arbiter in every breast, 
 Decided. Self-acquitted or condemned, 
 Through two broad, glittering avenues of spears 
 They cross'd the angelic squadrons, right, or left 
 The judgment-seat ; by power supernal led 
 To their allotted stations on the plain. 
 As onward, onward, numberless, they came, 
 And touch'd, appall'd, the verge of destiny, 
 The heavenly spirits inly sympathized : — 
 When youthful saints, or martyrs scarr'd and white, 
 With streaming faces, hands ecstatic clasp'd, 
 Sprang to the right, celestial beaming smiles 
 A ravishing beauty to their radiance gave ; 
 But downcast looks of pity chill'd the left. 
 What clench'd hands, and frenzied steps were there ! 
 Yet, on my shuddering soul, the stifled groan, 
 Wrung from sorae proud blasphemer, as he rush'd, 
 
 Constrain'd by conscience, down the path of death, 
 Knells horrible. — On all the hurrying throng 
 The unerring pen stamp'd, as they pass'd, their fate. 
 Thus, in a day, amazing thought ! were judged 
 The millions, since from the Almighty's hand, 
 Launch'd on her course, earth roll'd rejoicing. 
 
 Whose 
 The doom to penal fires, and whose to joy, 
 From man's presumption mists and darkness veil. 
 So pass'd the day ; divided stood the world, 
 An awful line of separation drawn, 
 And from his labours the Messiah ceased. 
 
 By this, the sun his westering car drove low ; 
 Bound his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud 
 Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold : 
 Along the horizon castled shapes were piled, 
 Turrets and towers, whose fronts embattled gleam'd 
 With yellow light : smit by the slanting ray, 
 A ruddy beam the canopy reflected ; 
 With deeper light the ruby blush'd ; and thick 
 Upon the seraphs' wings the glowing spots 
 Seem'd drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff 
 With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung, 
 Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits, 
 Cast off upon the dewy air huge flakes 
 Of golden lustre. Over all the hill, 
 The heavenly legions, the assembled world, 
 Evening her crimson tint forever drew. 
 
 But while at gaze, in solemn silence, men 
 And angels stood, and many a quaking heart 
 With expectation throbb'd ; about the throne 
 And glittering hill-top slowly wreathed the clouds, 
 Erewhile like curtains for adornment hung, 
 Involving Shiloh and the seraphim 
 Beneath a snowy tent. The bands around, 
 Eyeing the gonfalon that through the smoke 
 Tower'd into air, resembled hosts who watch 
 The king's pavilion where, ere battle hour, 
 A council sits. What their consult might be, 
 Those seven dread spirits and their Lohd, I mused, 
 I marvell'd. Was it grace and peace 1 — or death? 
 Was it of man 1 — Did pity for the lost 
 His gentle nature wring, who knew, who felt 
 How frail is this poor tenement of clay?* — 
 Arose there from the misty tabernacle 
 A cry like that upon Gethsemane 1 — 
 What pass'd in Jesus' bosom none may know, 
 But close the cloudy dome invested him ; 
 And, weary with conjecture, round I gazed 
 Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn, 
 Faded the glories of the dying day. 
 Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud, 
 The solitary star of evening shone. 
 While gazing wistful on that peerless light, 
 Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft, 
 In dreams strange images will mix,) sad thoughts 
 Pass'd o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, " Farewell, 
 Pale, beauteous planet, that displayest so soft 
 
 * For we have not an high priest which cannot bn 
 touched with the feeling of our infirmities.— Heb. iv. 15. 
 
136 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 Amid yon glowing streak thy transient beam, 
 A long, a last farewell ! Seasons have changed, 
 Ages and empires roll'd, like smoke, away, 
 But thou, unalter'd, beamcst as silver fair 
 As on thy birthnight! Bright and watchful eyes, 
 From palaces and bowers, have hail'd thy gem 
 With secret transport ! Natal star of love, 
 And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy, 
 How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray ! 
 How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green, 
 Signal of rest, and social converse sweet, 
 Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheer'd 
 The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison . 
 Pride of the west ! beneath thy placid light 
 The tender tale shall never more be told, 
 Man's soul shall never wake to joy again : 
 Thou sett'st forever, — lovely orb, farewell !" 
 
 Low warblings, now, and solitary harps 
 Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned 
 As to an evening hymn, preluding soft 
 To cherub voices ; louder as they swell'd, 
 Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, 
 Mix'd with clear, silver sounds, till concord rose 
 Full as the harmony of winds to heaven ; 
 Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies 
 To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening eyes 
 Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds 
 Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, 
 The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, 
 The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, 
 Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellow'd bell, 
 Come, like the echo of his early joys. 
 In every pause, from spirits in mid air, 
 Responsive still were golden viols heard, 
 And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down. 
 
 Calm, deep, and silent was the tide of joy 
 That roll'd o'er all the blessed ; visions of bliss, 
 Rapture too mighty, swell'd their hearts to bursting ; 
 Prelude to heaven it seem'd, and in their sight 
 Celestial glories swam. How fared, alas ! 
 That other band! Sweet to their troubled minds 
 The solemn scene ; ah ! doubly sweet the breeze 
 Refreshing, and the purple light to eyes 
 But newly oped from that benumbing sleep 
 Whose dark and drear abode no cheering dream, 
 No bright-hued vision ever enters, souls 
 For ages pent, perhaps, in some dim world 
 Where guilty spectres stalk the twilight gloom. 
 For, like the spirit's last seraphic smile, 
 The earth, anticipating now her tomb, 
 To rise, perhaps, as heaven magnificent, 
 Appear'd Hesperian : gales of gentlest wing 
 Came fragrance-laden, and such odours shed 
 As Yemen never knew, nor those blest isles 
 In Indian seas, where the voluptuous breeze 
 The peaceful native breathes, at eventide, 
 From nutmeg groves and bowers of cinnamon. 
 How solemn on their ears the choral note 
 Swell'd of the angel hymn ! so late escaped 
 The cold embraces of the grave, whose damp 
 Silence no voice or string'd instrument 
 
 Has ever broke ! Yet with the murmuring breeze 
 Full sadly chimed the music and the song, 
 For with them came the memory of joys 
 Forever past, the stinging thought of what 
 They once had been, and of their future lot. 
 To their grieved view the passages of earth 
 Delightful rise, their tender ligaments 
 So dear, they heeded not an after state, 
 Though by a fearful judgment usher'd in. 
 A bridegroom fond, who lavish'd all his heart 
 On his beloved, forgetful of the Mam 
 Of many Sorrows, who, for him, resign'd 
 His meek and spotless spirit on the cross, 
 Has marked among the blessed bands, array'd 
 Celestial in a spring of beauty, doom'd 
 No more to fade, the charmer of his soul, 
 Her cheek soft blooming like the dawn in heaven. 
 He recollects the days when on his smile' 
 She lived ; when, gently leaning on his breast, 
 Tears of intense affection dimm'd her eyes, 
 Of dove-like lustre. — Thoughtless, now, of him 
 And earthly joys, eternity and heaven 
 Engross her soul. — What more accursed pang 
 Can hell inflict 1 With her, in realms of light, 
 In never-dying bliss, he might have roll'd 
 Eternity away; but now, forever 
 Torn from his bride new-found, with cruel fiends, 
 Or men like fiends, must waste and weep. N ow, now 
 He mourns with burning, bitter drops his days 
 Misspent, probation lost, and heaven despised. 
 Such thoughts from many a bursting heart drew 
 
 forth 
 Groans, lamentations, and despairing shrieks, 
 That on the silent air came from afar. 
 
 As, when from some proud capital that crowns 
 Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze 
 Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog 
 Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers, 
 Bright on the eye rush Brahma's temples, capp'd 
 With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets, 
 Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnish'd domes, 
 Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun, 
 So from the hill the cloudy curtains roll'd, 
 And, in the lingering lustre of the eve, 
 Again the Saviour and his seraphs shone. 
 Emitted sudden in his rising, flash'd 
 Intenser light, as toward the right hand host 
 Mild turning, with a look ineffable, 
 The invitation he proclaim'd in accents 
 Which on their ravish'd ears pour'd thrilling, like 
 The silver sound of many trumpets heard 
 Afar in sweetest jubilee ; then, swift 
 Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, 
 That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice 
 Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them 
 Seem'd like the crush of heaven, pronounced the 
 
 doom. 
 The sentence utter'd, as with life instinct, 
 The throne uprose majestically slow; 
 Each angel spread his wings ; in one dread swell 
 Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets, 
 And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet, 
 And many a strange and deep-toned instrument 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 137 
 
 Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, 
 And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim 
 Of all the ransom'd, like a thunder-shout. 
 Far through the skies melodious echoes roll'd, 
 And faint hosannas distant climes return'd. 
 
 Down from the lessening multitude came faint 
 And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal, 
 All else in distance lost ; when, to receive 
 Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded. 
 Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse 
 The wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks 
 Of splendour, golden quivering radiance shone, 
 As when the showery evening sun takes leave, 
 Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world. 
 Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by, 
 Slow-turning to the light their snowy wings. 
 A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped 
 The hapless outcasts, when upon the Loud 
 The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood 
 Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven, 
 As if to catch, alas ! a hope not there^ 
 But shades began to gather; night approach'd 
 Murky and lowering : round with horror roll'd 
 On one another, their despairing eyes 
 That glared with anguish : starless, hopeless gloom 
 Fell on their souls, never to know an end. 
 Though in the far horizon linger'd yet 
 A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there ; 
 Red flashes, follow'd by low muttering sounds, 
 Announced the fiery tempest doom'd to hurl 
 The fragments of the earth again to chaos. 
 Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing 
 Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals 
 Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes 
 Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged 
 Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-fowl dive 
 
 Their watery element. O'erwhelmed with sights 
 
 And sounds appalling, I awoke ; and found 
 For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo, 
 The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed 
 Serene and peaceful. Gladly I survey'd her 
 Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven, 
 And blessed the respite ere the day of doom. 
 
 HADAD'S DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY 
 OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 'T is so ; — the hoary harper sings aright ; 
 How beautiful is Zion ! — Like a queen, 
 Arm'd with a helm, in virgin loveliness, 
 Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, 
 She sits aloft, begirt with battlements 
 And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard 
 'I he sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, 
 Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods 
 Which tuft ner summit, and, like raven tresses, 
 Waved their dark beauty round the tower of 
 
 David. 
 Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, 
 The embrasures of alabaster shine ; 
 
 Hail'd by the pilgrims of the desert, bound 
 To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. 
 But not, for thou art fair and turret-crown'd, 
 Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and bless'd 
 With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, 
 Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, 
 Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern 
 
 law 
 Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, 
 And where the glory hovers, here I war. 
 
 UNTOLD LOVE.* 
 
 The soul, my lord, is fashion'd — like the lyre. 
 Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate. 
 Your name abruptly mention'd, casual words 
 Of comment on your deeds, praise from your 
 
 uncle, 
 News from the armies, talk of your return, 
 A word let fall touching your youthful passion, 
 Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye 
 A momentary lustre ; made her pulse 
 Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate. 
 I could not long be blind, for love defies 
 Concealment, making every glance and motion, 
 Silence, and speech a tell-tale 
 
 These things, though trivial of themselves, begat 
 Suspicion. But long months elapsed, 
 Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever. 
 One night, when all were weary and at rest, 
 I, sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatch'd, 
 Thinking she slept, suffer'd my lids to close. 
 
 Waked by a voice, I found her never, Signor, 
 
 While life endures, will that scene fade from me, — 
 A dying lamp wink'd in the hearth, that cast, 
 And snatched the shadows. Something stood be- 
 fore me 
 In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought 
 I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen, 
 And standing in her night-robe with clasp'd hands, 
 Like one in prayer. Her pallid face display'd 
 Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty. 
 She presently turn'd round, and fix'd her large, 
 
 wild eyes, 
 Brimming with tears, upon me, fetched a sigh, 
 As from a riven heart, and cried : " He 's dead ! 
 But, hush! — weep not, — I've bargain'd for his 
 
 soul, — 
 That's safe in bliss !" — Demanding who was dead, 
 Scarce yet aware she raved, she answer'd quick, 
 Her Cosmo, her beloved ; for that his ghost, 
 All pale and gory, thrice had pass'd her bed. 
 With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord, 
 She pour'd her lamentation forth in strains 
 Pathetical beyond the reach of reason. 
 " Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew 
 I loved him !" — I 'd no power to speak, or move.— 
 I sat stone still, — a horror fell upon mu 
 At last, her little strength ebb'd out, she sank, 
 And lay, as in death's arms, till morning. 
 
 * From " Deraetria. 
 
138 
 
 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 SCENE FROM HAD AD. 
 
 The terraced roof of Absalom's house by night; 
 adorned with vases of flowers and fragrant 
 shrubs i an awning over part of it. Tamah 
 and Hadad. 
 
 Tarn. No, no, I well remember — proofs, you said, 
 Unknown to Moses. 
 
 Had. Well, my love, thou know'st 
 I 've been a traveller in various climes ; 
 Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled 
 The snow-clad mountains ; trusted to the deep ; 
 Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea, 
 And with the wise conversed of many nations. 
 Tarn. I know thou hast. 
 Had. Of all mine eyes have seen, 
 The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful 
 Is that dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain. 
 Tarn. Who] 
 
 Had. None knows his lineage, age, or name : 
 his locks 
 Are like the snows of Caucasus ; his eyes 
 Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. 
 In green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said, 
 The generations pass, like autumn fruits, 
 Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life, 
 Again to perish, while he views the sun, 
 The seasons roll, in rapt serenity, 
 And high communion with celestial powers. 
 Some say 'tis Shem, our father, some say Enoch, 
 And some Melchisedek. 
 Tarn. I've heard a tale 
 Like this, but ne'er believed it. 
 
 Had. I have proved it. 
 Through perils dire, dangers most imminent, 
 Seven days and nights, mid rocks and wildernesses, 
 And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice, 
 Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing, 
 Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared 
 My desperate way, resolved to know or perish. 
 Tarn. Rash, rash adventurer ! 
 Had. On the highest peak 
 Of stormy Caucasus there blooms a spot 
 On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers 
 And verdure never die ; and there he dwells. 
 Tarn. But didst thou see him 1 
 Had. Never did I view 
 Such awful majesty : his reverend locks 
 Hung like a silver mantle to his feet; 
 His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow 
 Rose like the gate of Paradise; his mouth 
 Was inusical as its bright guardians' songs. 
 Tarn. What did he tell thee 1 ! what wisdom 
 fell 
 From lips so hallow'd 1 
 
 Had. Whether he possesses 
 The Tetragrammaton — the powerful name 
 Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he wrought 
 Unheard-of wonders, which constrains the heavens 
 To shower down blessings, shakes the earth, and 
 
 rules 
 The strongest spirits ; or if God hath given 
 A delegated power, I cannot tell. 
 
 But 'twas from him I learn'd their fate, their fall, 
 Who erewhile wore resplendent crowns in heaven ; 
 Now scatter'd through the earth, the air, the sea. 
 Them he compels to answer, and from them 
 Has drawn what Moses, nor no mortal ear 
 Has ever heard. 
 
 Tarn. But did he tell it thee ! 
 
 Had. He told me much — more than I dare reveal 
 For with a dreadful oath he seal'd my lips. 
 
 Tarn. But canst thou tell me nothing] Why 
 unfold 
 So much, if I must hear no more ] 
 
 Had. You bade 
 Explain my words, almost reproach me, sweet, 
 For what by accident escaped me. 
 
 Tarn. Ah! 
 A little — something tell me — sure not all 
 Were words inhibited. 
 
 Had. Then promise never, 
 Never to utter of this conference 
 A breath to mortal. 
 
 Tarn. Solemnly I vow. 
 
 Had. Even then, 'tis little I can say, compared 
 With all the marvels he related. 
 
 Tarn. Come, 
 I 'm breathless. Tell me how they sinn'd, how fell. 
 
 Had. Their head, their prince involved them in 
 his ruin. 
 
 Tarn. What black offence on his devoted head 
 Drew endless punishment 1 
 
 Had. The wish to be 
 Like the All-Perfect. 
 
 Tarn. Arrogating that 
 Due only to his Maker ! awful crime ! 
 But what their doom 1 their place of punishment? 
 
 Had. Above, about, beneath ; earth, sea, and air; 
 Their habitations various as their minds, 
 Employments, and desires. 
 
 Tarn. But are they round us, Hadad 1 not 
 confined 
 In penal chains and darkness 1 
 
 Had. So he said, 
 And so your holy books infer. What saith 
 Your prophet 1 what the prince of Uz 1 
 
 Tarn. I shudder, 
 Lest some dark minister be near us now. 
 
 Had. You wrong them. They are bright in- 
 telligences, 
 Robb'd of some native splendour, and cast down, 
 'T is true, from heaven ; but not deform'd and foul, 
 Revengeful, malice-working fiends, as fools 
 Suppose. They dwell, like princes, in the clouds, 
 Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky ; 
 Or arch their palaces beneath the hills, 
 With stones inestimable studded so, 
 That sun or stars were useless there. 
 Tarn. Good heavens ! 
 
 Had. He bade me look on rugged Caucasus. 
 Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken, 
 Naked and wild, as if creation's ruins 
 Were heaped in one immeasurable chain 
 Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms 
 Of everlasting winter. But within 
 Are glorious palaces and domes of light, 
 Irradiate halls and crystal colonnades. 
 
JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 
 
 139 
 
 Vaults set with gems the purchase of a crown, 
 Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam, 
 Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking 
 The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. 
 Tarn. Unheard-of splendour! 
 Had. There they dwell, and muse, 
 And wander ; beings beautiful, immortal, 
 Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky, 
 Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come, 
 And glow with light intense, imperishable. 
 Thus, in the sparry chambers of the sea 
 And air-pavilions, rainbow tabernacles, 
 They study nature's secrets, and enjoy 
 No poor dominion. 
 
 Tarn. Are they beautiful, 
 And powerful far beyond the human race 1 
 
 Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. 
 When 
 The sage described them, fiery eloquence 
 Flow'd from his lips; his bosom heaved, his eyes 
 Grew bright and mystical ; moved by the theme, 
 Like one who feels a deity within. 
 
 Tarn. Wondrous! What intercourse have they 
 
 with men 1 
 Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man, 
 But oft with woman. 
 
 Tarn. Ha ! with woman 1 
 Had. She 
 Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft, 
 And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves. 
 They have been known to love her with a passion 
 Stronger than human. 
 
 Tarn. That surpasses all 
 You yet have told me. 
 
 Had. This the sage affirms ; 
 And Moses, darkly. 
 
 Tarn. How do they appear ! 
 How manifest their love 1 
 
 Had. Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified 
 By beatific dreams, or more distinct 
 And glorious apparition. They have stoop'd 
 To animate a human form, and love 
 Like mortals. 
 
 Tarn. Frightful to be so beloved ! 
 Who could endure the horrid thought ! What makes 
 Thy cold hand tremble 1 or is't mine 
 That feels so deathy 1 
 
 Had. Dark imaginations haunt me 
 When I recall the dreadful interview. 
 
 Tarn. O, tell them not: I would not hear them. 
 Had. But why contemn a spirit's love 1 so high, 
 So glorious, if he haply deign'd ? 
 
 Tarn. Forswear 
 My Maker ! love a demon ! 
 
 Had. No— 0, no— 
 My thoughts but wander'd. Oft, alas! they wander. 
 Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly now? And 
 Thine eyes are fix'd again upon Arcturus. [lo ! 
 Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb, 
 Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power 
 To cause or cure thy melancholy mood'? 
 
 [He appears lost in thought. 
 Tell me, ascribest thou influence to the stars 1 
 Had. (starting.) The stars ! What know'st 
 thou of the stars 1 
 
 Tarn. I know that they were made to rule the 
 
 night. 
 Had. Like palace lamps ! Thou echoest well 
 thy grandsire. 
 Woman ! the stars are living, glorious, 
 Amazing, infinite! 
 
 Tarn. Speak not so wildly. 
 I know them numberless, resplendent, set 
 As symbols of the countless, countless years 
 That make eternity. 
 
 Had. Eternity! 
 ! mighty, glorious, miserable thought ! 
 Had ye endured like those great sufferers, 
 Like them, seen ages, myriad ages roll ; 
 Could ye but look into the void abyss 
 With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments, 
 Then mightst thou name it, name it feelingly. 
 Tarn. What ails thee, Hadad ? Draw me not 
 
 so close. 
 Had. Tamae ! I need thy love — more than thy 
 
 love — 
 Tarn. Thy cheek is wet with tears — Nay, let us 
 'Tis late — I cannot, must not linger. [part — 
 
 [Breaks from him, and exit. 
 Had. Loved and abhorr'd ! Still, still accursed ! 
 [He paces twice or thrice up and down, ivith 
 passionate gestures ; then turns his face to 
 the sky, and stands a moment in silence.] 
 O ! where, 
 In the illimitable space, in what 
 Profound of untried misery, when all 
 His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill 
 With life and beauty yonder infinite, 
 Their radiant journey run, forever set, 
 Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning 1 
 
 [Exit. 
 * 
 
 ARTHUR'S SOLILOQUY.* 
 
 Here let me pause, and breathe a while, and wipe 
 These servile drops from off my burning brow. 
 Amidst these venerable trees, the air 
 Seems hallow'd by the breath of other times. — 
 Companions of my fathers ! ye have mark'd 
 Their generations pass. Your giant arms 
 Shadow'd their youth, and proudly canopied 
 Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory, 
 These walks they trod to meditate on heaven. 
 What warlike pageants have ye seen ! what trains 
 Of captives, and what heaps of spoil ! what pomp, 
 When the victorious chief, war's tempest o'er, 
 In Warkworth's bowers unbound his panoply ! 
 What floods of splendour, bursts of jocund din, 
 Startled the slumbering tenants of these shades, 
 When night awoke the tumult of the feast, 
 The song of damsels, and the sweet-toned lyre ! 
 Then, princely Percy reigned amidst his halls, 
 Champion, and judge, and father of the north. 
 0, days of ancient grandeur ! are ye gone 1 
 Forever gone ? Do these same scenes behold 
 His offspring here, the hireling of a foe 1 
 O, that I knew my fate ! that I could read 
 The destiny which Heaven has mark'd for me ! 
 
 *From "Percy's Masque. 
 
JOHN M. HAENEY. 
 
 [Born, 1789. Died, 1825.] 
 
 John M. Haeney, the second of three sons of 
 Thomas Harney, an officer in the continental 
 forces during the revolution, was born in Sussex 
 county, Delaware, on the ninth of March, 1789. 
 In 1791 the family removed to the vicinity of 
 Nashville, Tennessee, and in a few years to Lou- 
 isiana. The elder brother and our author studied 
 medicine, and the former became a surgeon in the 
 army. The younger brother also entered the 
 army, was commissioned as lieutenant in 1818, 
 and in 1847 was brevetted a brigadier general for 
 gallant conduct in the battle of Cerro Gordo. 
 
 Dr. John M. Haeney settled in Bardstown, 
 Kentucky, where in 1814 he was married to a 
 daughter of Judge John Rowan. In 1816 he vi- 
 sited the eastern states ; and the death of his wife, 
 soon after, caused him to abandon his pursuits 
 at Bardstown and return to Tennessee ; and, as 
 soon as he could make suitable preparations, to go 
 abroad. He travelled in Great Britain, Ireland, 
 France, and Spain ; spent several years in the 
 naval service of Buenos Ayres ; and coming back 
 to the United States, took up his residence at Sa- 
 vannah, Georgia, where he conducted a political 
 newspaper. Excessive exertion and exposure at 
 a fire, in that city, brought on a fever which under- 
 mined his constitution, and having removed again 
 to Bardstown, he died there, on the fifteenth of 
 January, 1825. 
 
 His "Crystalina, a Fairy Tale," in six cantos, 
 was completed when he was about twenty-three 
 years of age, but in consequence of " the proverb- 
 ial indifference, and even contempt, with which 
 Americans receive the works of their country- 
 men," he informs us in a brief preface, was not 
 published until 1816, when it appeared anony- 
 mously in New York. It received much atten- 
 tion in the leading literary journals of that day. 
 Its obvious faults were freely censured, but upon 
 the whole it was reviewed with unusual manifesta- 
 tions of kindly interest. The sensitive poet, how- 
 ever, was so deeply wounded by some unfavor- 
 able criticisms, that he suppressed nearly all the 
 copies he had caused to be printed, so that it has 
 since been among our rarest books. 
 
 The poem is founded chiefly upon superstitions 
 which prevail among the highlands of Scotland. 
 A venerable seer, named Altageand, is visited 
 by the knight Rinaldo, who informs him that 
 the monarch of a distant island had an only 
 daughter, Ceystalina, with whom he had fall- 
 en in love ; that the princess refused to marry 
 him unless he first distinguished himself in bat- 
 tle; that he "plucked laurel wreaths in danger's 
 bloody path," and returned to claim his promised 
 reward, but was informed of the mysterious disap- 
 pearance of the maid, of whose fate no indica- 
 140 
 
 tions could be discovered, and that he for years 
 had searched for her in vain through every quar- 
 ter of the world. He implores the aid of the 
 seer, who ascertains from familiar spirits, sum- 
 moned by his spells, that Ceystalina has been 
 stolen by Obeeon, and, arming Rinaldo with a 
 cross and consecrated weapons, conducts him to 
 a mystic circle, within which, upon the perform- 
 ance of a described ceremony, the earth opens 
 and discloses the way to Fairy Land. In the 
 second, third, and fourth cantos, are related the 
 knight's adventures in that golden subterranean 
 realm ; the various stratagems and enchantments 
 by which its sovereign endeavored to seduce or 
 terrify him; his annihilation of all obstacles by 
 exhibiting the cross ; the discovery of Crysta- 
 lina, transformed into a bird, in Obeeon's pa- 
 lace; the means by which she was restored to her 
 natural form of beauty ; and the triumphant re- 
 turn of the lovers to the upper air. In the fifth 
 and sixth cantos it is revealed that Altageand is 
 the father of Rinaldo, and the early friend of the 
 father of Ceystalina, with whom he had fought 
 in the holy wars against the infidel. The king, 
 : inspired with joy and wine, 
 
 Prom his loose looks shook off the snows of time," 
 and celebrated the restoration of his child and 
 his friend, and the resignation of his crown to 
 Rinaldo, in a blissful song: 
 
 ..." Ye rolling streams, make liquid melody, 
 
 And dance into the sea. 
 
 Let not rude Boreas, on this halcyon day, 
 
 Forth in his stormy chariot be whirled ; 
 Let not a cloud its raven wings display, 
 
 Nor shoot the oak-rending lightnings at the world. 
 Let Jove, auspicious, from his red right hand, 
 Lay down his thunder brand — 
 A child I lost, but two this day have found, 
 Let the earth shout, and let the skies resound. . . . 
 
 ' Let Atropos forego her dismal trade, 
 And cast her fatal, horrid shears, away, 
 
 While Lachesis spins out a firmer thread ; 
 Let hostile armies hold a truce to-day, 
 
 And grim-faced war wash white his gory hand, 
 
 And smile around the land — 
 
 A child I lost, but two this day have found, 
 
 Let the earth shout, and let the skies resound. . . . 
 " Let all the stars of influence benign, 
 
 This sacred night in heavenly synod meet; 
 
 Let Mars and Venus be in happy trine, 
 
 And on the wide world look with aspect sweet; 
 
 And let the mystic music of the spheres 
 
 Be audible to mortal ears — 
 
 A child I lost, but two this day have found, 
 
 Then shout, oh earth, and thou, oh sea, resound." 
 
 In 1816, Mr. John Neal was editing "The 
 Portico," a monthly magazine, at Baltimore, and 
 he reviewed this poem in a long and character- 
 istic article. After remarking that it was " the 
 
JOHN M. HARNEY. 
 
 141 
 
 most splendid production" that ever came before 
 him, he says — 
 
 " We can produce passages from ' Crystalina' which have 
 not been surpassed in our language. Spenser himself, who 
 seemed to have condensed all the radiance of fairy-land 
 upon his starry page, never dreamed of more exquisitely 
 fanciful scenery than that which our bard has sometimes 
 painted. . . . Had this poet written before Skakspeare and 
 Spenser, he would have been acknowledged ' the child of 
 
 fancy.' Had he dared to think for himself— to blot out 
 
 some passages, which his judgment, we are sure, could 
 not have approved — the remainder would have done credit 
 
 to any poet, living or dead It is not our intention to 
 
 run a parallel between the author of ' Crystalina' and the 
 Shakspeare, Spenser, or Milton, of another country. . . . 
 He moves in a different creation, but he moves in as radiant 
 a circle, and at as elevated a point, in his limited sphere, 
 as any whom we have mentioned." 
 
 I cannot quite agree with Mr. Neal. " Crysta- 
 lina" does not seem to me very much superior to 
 his own " Battle of Niagara." It however evinces 
 decided poetical power, and if carefully revised, 
 by a man of even very inferior talents, if of a more 
 cultivated taste and greater skill in the uses of 
 language, it might be rendered one of the most 
 attractive productions in its class. The precept 
 of Horace, that a poet should construct his fable 
 from events generally believed to be true, is justi- 
 fied by the fact that so few works in which the 
 characters are impossible, and the incidents alto- 
 gether incredible, have been successful in modern 
 times. Drake's " Culprit Fay" is undoubtedly 
 a finer poem than Morris's " Woodman, spare 
 that Tree," but it will never be half as popular. 
 That Dr. Harnet had an original and poet- 
 ical fancy will be sufficiently evident from a few 
 examples: 
 
 "Thrice had yon moon her pearly chariot driven 
 Across the starry wilderness of heaven, 
 
 In lonely grandeur ; thrice the morning star 
 Danced on the eastern hills before Hyperion's car." 
 
 " Deep silence reigned, so still, so deep, and dread, 
 
 That they might hear the fairy's lightest tread, 
 Might hear the spider as he wove his snare, 
 From rock to rock." 
 
 . . . . " The mountain tops, oak-crowned 
 Tossed in the storm, and echoed to the sound 
 Of trees uptorn, and thunders rolling round." 
 
 " The prowlers of the wood 
 
 Fled to their caves, or crouching with alarm, 
 Howled at the passing spirits of the storm ; 
 Eye-blasting spectres and bleached skeletons, 
 With snow-white raiment, and disjointed bones, 
 Before them strode, and meteors flickering dire, 
 Around them trailed their scintillating fire." 
 . . . . " The fearless songsters sing, 
 And round me flutter with familiar wing, 
 Or mid the flowers, like sunbeams glance about, 
 Sipping, with slender tongues, the dainty nectar out." 
 
 . . . . " Morn, ascending from the sparkling main, 
 Unlocked her golden magazines of light, 
 And on the sea, and heaven's cerulean plain, 
 Showered liquid rubies, while retreating Night 
 In other climes her starred pavilion spread." 
 
 After the publication of" Crystalina," Dr. Har- 
 ney commenced an epic poem, of which fragments 
 were found, with numerous shorter compositions, 
 among his papers, after he died. Mr. Gallagher, 
 who examined some of his manuscripts, says 
 "they were worthier than ' Crystalina' of his genius 
 and acquirements;" but nearly all of them disap- 
 peared, through the negligence or the jealous care 
 of his friends. Among his latest productions was 
 "The Fever Dream," which was written at Sa- 
 vannah, after he had himself been a sufferer from 
 the disease he so vividly describes. In a lighter 
 vein is the ingenious bagatelle entitled "Echo and 
 the Lover," which, as well as " The Fever Dream," 
 was first published after the poet's death. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM " CRYSTALINA." 
 
 SYLPHS, BATHING. 
 
 The shores with acclamations rung, 
 As in the flood the playful damsels sprung: 
 Upon their beauteous bodies, with delight, 
 The billows leapt. Oh, 't was a pleasant sight, 
 To see the waters dimple round, for joy, 
 Climb their white necks, and on their bosoms toy : 
 Like snowy swans they vex'd the sparkling tide, 
 Till little rainbows danced on every side. 
 Some swam, some floated, some on pearly feet 
 Stood sidelong, smiling, exquisitely sweet. 
 
 TITANIA'S CONCERT. 
 
 In robes of green, fresh youths the concert led, 
 Measuring the while, with nice, emphatic tread 
 Of tinkling sandals, the melodious sound 
 Of smitten timbrels ; some, with myrtles crown'd, 
 Pour the smooth current of sweet melody, 
 Through ivory tubes; some blow the bugle free, 
 And some, at happy intervals, around, 
 With trumps sonorous swell the tide of sound ; 
 Some, bending raptured o'er their golden lyres, 
 
 With cunning fingers fret the tuneful wires ; 
 With rosy lips, some press the syren shell, 
 And, through its crimson labyrinths, impel 
 Mellifluous breath, with artful sink and swell. 
 Some blow the mellow, melancholy horn, 
 Which, save the knight, no man of woman born, 
 E'er heard and fell not senseless to the ground, 
 With viewless fetters of enchantment bound. 
 
 ON A FRIEND. 
 
 Devout, yet cheerful ; pious, not austere ; 
 To others lenient, to himself severe; 
 Though honored, modest; diffident, though praised; 
 The proud he humbled, and the humble raised ; 
 Studious, 3 r et social ; though polite, yet plain ; 
 No man more learned, yet no man less vain. 
 His fame would universal envy move, 
 But envy's lost in universal love. 
 That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt, 
 Yet certain 't is we ne'er have found them out. 
 If faults he has, (as man, 'tis said, must have,) 
 They are the only faults he ne'er forgave. 
 I flatter not : absurd to flatter where 
 Just praise is fulsome, and offends the ear. 
 
142 
 
 JOHN M. HARNEY. 
 
 THE FEVER DREAM. 
 
 A fever scorched my body, fired my brain; 
 Like lava in Vesuvius, boiled my blood 
 Within the glowing caverns of my heart ; 
 I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught 
 Of fountain water. 'T was, with tears, denied. 
 I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept, 
 % But rested not — harassed with horrid dreams 
 Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains, 
 Mountains disgorging flames, forests on fire, 
 Steam, sunshine, smoke, and ever-boiling lakes — 
 Hills of hotsand, and glowing stones, that seemed 
 Embers and ashes of a burnt-up world. 
 Thirst raged within me. I sought the deepest vale, 
 And called on all the rocks and caves for water ; — 
 I climbed a mountain, and from cliff to cliff, 
 Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water; — 
 I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots, 
 Still crying, "Water!" while the cliffs and caves, 
 In horrid mockery, re-echoed « Water !" 
 Below the mountain gleamed a city, red 
 With solar flame, upon the sandy bank 
 Of a broad river. " Soon, oh soon," I cried, 
 "I'll cool my burning body in that flood, 
 And quaff my fill !" I ran ; I reached the shore ; 
 The river was dried up ; its oozy bed 
 Was dust ; and on its arid rocks I saw 
 The scaly myriads fry beneath the sun ; 
 Where sank the channel deepest, I beheld 
 A stirring multitude of human forms, 
 And heard a faint, wild, lamentable wail. 
 Thitber I sped, and joined the general cry 
 Of » Water !" They had delved a spacious pit 
 In search of hidden fountains : sad, sad sight ! 
 I saw them rend the rocks up in their rage, 
 With mad impatience calling on the earth 
 To open and yield up her cooling springs, [gaze, 
 Meanwhile the skies, on which they dared not 
 Stood o'er them like a canopy of brass — 
 Undimmed by moisture; the red dog-star raged, 
 And Phoebus from the house of Virgo shot 
 His scorching shafts. The thirsty multitude 
 Grew still more frantic. Those who dug the earth 
 Fell lifeless on the rocks they strained to upheave, 
 And filled again, with their own carcasses, 
 The pits they made — undoing their own work. 
 Despair at length drove out the laborers, 
 At sight of whom a general groan announced 
 The death of hope. Ah I now no more was heard 
 The cry of " Water!" To the city next, 
 Howling we ran — all hurrying without aim : — 
 Thence to the woods. The baked plain gaped 
 
 for moisture, 
 Andfrom its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed 
 Breath of a furnace — fierce, volcanic fire, 
 Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands 
 To clouds. Amid the forests we espied 
 A faint and bleating herd. Suddenly, shrill 
 And horrid shouts arose of « Blood ! blood ! blood !" 
 We fell upon them with a tiger's thirst, 
 And drank up all the blood that was not human; 
 We were all dyed in blood. Despair returned ; 
 The cry was hushed ; and dumb confusion reigned. 
 Even then, when hope was dead, and all past hope, 
 
 I heard a laugh, and saw a wretched man 
 Rip madly his own veins, and bleeding drink 
 With eager joy. The example seized on all; 
 Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins 
 Fiercely in search of blood. And some there were, 
 Who having emptied their own veins, did seize 
 Their neighbors' arms,and slay them for their blood. 
 Oh ! happy then were mothers who gave suck. 
 They dashed their little infants from theirbreasts, 
 And their shrunk bosoms tortured, to extract 
 The balmy juice, oh ! exquisitely sweet [gone ! 
 To their parched tongues ! 'T is done ! now all is 
 Blood, water, and the bosom's nectar! — all! 
 
 " Rend, oh, ye lightnings ! the sealed firmament, 
 And flood a burning world. Rain ! rain ! pour! pour! 
 Open, ye windows of high heaven! and pour 
 The mighty deluge ! Let us drown and drink 
 Luxurious death! Ye earthquakes split the globe, 
 The solid, rock-ribbed globe — and lay all bare 
 Its subterranean rivers and fresh seas !"' 
 
 Thus raged the multitude. And many fell 
 In fierce convulsions; many slew themselves. 
 And now I saw the city all in flames — 
 The forest burning — earth itself on fire ! 
 I saw the mountains open with a roar, 
 Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders, 
 And seas of lava rolling headlong down, 
 Through crackling forests, fierce, and hot as hell — 
 Down to the plain. I turned to fly — and waked ! 
 
 ECHO AND THE LOVER. 
 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 Lover. 
 
 Echo. 
 
 Echo ! mysterious nymph, declare 
 
 Of whatyou 're made and what you are — 
 
 " Air !" 
 'Mid airy cliffs, and places high, 
 Sweet Echo ! listening, love, you lie — 
 
 "You lie!" 
 You but resuscitate dead sounds — 
 Hark ! how my voice revives, resounds ' 
 
 " Zounds !" 
 I'll question you before I go — 
 Come, answer me more apropos ! 
 
 "Poh! poh!" 
 Tell me fair nymph, if e'er you saw 
 So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw 1 
 
 « Pshaw !" 
 Say, what will win that frisking coney 
 Into the toils of matrimony 1 
 
 " Money !" 
 Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow 1 
 Is it not white as pearl — as snow ? 
 
 " Ass, no !" 
 Her eyes ! Was ever such a pair ! 
 Are the stars brighter than they are ? 
 
 "They are!" 
 Echo, you lie, but can't deceive me ; 
 Her eyes eclipse the stars, believe me — 
 
 "Leave me." 
 But come, you saucy, pert romancer, 
 Who is as fair as Phoebe? answei. 
 
 " Ann. sir." 
 
ALEXANDER H. EVERETT. 
 
 [Bora, 1790. Died, 1847.] 
 
 Alexander Hill Everett, one of the most 
 learned and respectable of our public characters, 
 is best known as a writer by his various, nume- 
 rous and able productions in prose ; but is entitled 
 to notice in a reviewal of American poetry by the 
 volume of original and translated "Poems," which 
 he published in Boston in 1845. He was a son 
 of the Reverend Oliver Everett, of Dorchester, 
 and an elder brother of Edward Everett, and was 
 born on the nineteenth of March, 1790. He was 
 graduated, with the highest honours, at Harvard 
 College, at the early age of sixteen ; the follow- 
 ing year was a teacher in the Exeter Academy ; 
 and afterwards a student in the law office of John 
 Quincy Adams, whom in 1809 he accompanied 
 to Russia, as his private secretary. In St. Pe- 
 tersburgh he passed two years in the assiduous 
 study of languages and politics, and returning to 
 this country was appointed secretary of lega- 
 tion to the Netherlands, in 1813, and in 1818 be- 
 came charge d'affaires at that post, and in 1825 
 
 minister to Spain. He came home in 1829, and in 
 the same year undertook, the editorship of " The 
 North American Review." He was subsequently 
 an active but not a very successful politician, seve- 
 ral years, and in 1845, after having for a short 
 time been president of the University of Louisiana, 
 was appointed minister plenipotentiary to China, 
 and sailed for Canton in a national ship, but was 
 compelled by ill health to return, after having 
 proceeded as far as Rio Janeiro. The next 
 year, however, he was able to attempt the voyage 
 a second time, and he succeeded in reaching 
 Canton, but to die there just after his arrival, 
 the twenty-ninth of June, 1847. 
 
 The principal works of Mr. Everett are 
 described in " The Prose Writers of America." 
 His poems consist of translations from the Greek, 
 Latin, Norse, German, French and Spanish, 
 with a few original pieces, more wise, perhaps, 
 than poetical. Some of the translations are exe- 
 cuted with remarkable grace and spirit. 
 
 THE PORTRESS. 
 
 L ENVOI, TO M. L. 
 
 Fair Saint ! who, in thy brightest day 
 
 Of life's meridian joys, 
 Hast turn'd thy serious thoughts away 
 
 From fashion's fleeting toys, 
 And fasten'd them with lofty view 
 Upon the Only Good and True, 
 Come, listen to me while I tell 
 A tale of holy miracle. 
 
 Come ! fly with me on fancy's wing 
 
 To that far, sea-girt strand, 
 The clime of sunshine, love, and spring, 
 
 Thy favorite Spanish land! 
 And lo! before our curious eyes 
 An ancient city's turrets rise, 
 " And circled by its moss-grown wall, 
 There stands a vast, baronial hall. 
 
 And opposite, a convent pile 
 
 Its massy structure rears, 
 And in the chapel's vaulted aisle 
 
 A holy shrine appears: 
 And at the shrine devoutly bent, 
 There kneels a lovely penitent, 
 In sable vesture, sadly fair, 
 Come — listen with me to her prayer 
 
 ballad. 
 " Blest shrines ! from which in evil hour 
 
 My erring footsteps stray'd, 
 Oh ! grant your kind protecting power ! 
 
 To a repentant maid ! 
 
 Sweet Virgin ! if in other days 
 I sang thee hymns of love and praise, 
 And plaited garlands for thy brow, 
 Oh ! listen to thy votary now ! 
 
 " The robe, in which thy form is drest, 
 
 These patient fingers wrought ; 
 The flowers that bloom upon thy breast 
 
 With loving zeal I brought ; 
 That holy cross, of diamond clear, 
 I often wash'd with many a tear, 
 And dried again in pious bliss, 
 Sweet A^irgin ! with a burning kiss. 
 
 " And when by cruel arts betray'd, 
 
 My wayward course began, 
 And I forsook thy holy shade, 
 
 With that false-hearted man, 
 I breathed to thee my parting prayer, 
 And gave me to thy gentle care; 
 Sweet Virgin ! hear thy votary's vow, 
 And grant her thy protection now !" 
 
 Unhappy Margaret! she had been 
 
 The fairest and the best, 
 In pious zeal and modest mien 
 
 Outshining all the rest ; 
 And was so diligent withal, 
 That she had won the trust of all, 
 And by superior order sate 
 As Portress at the convent gate. 
 And well she watch'd that entrance o'er ;- 
 
 Ah ! had she known the art 
 To guard as faithfully the door 
 
 Of her own virgin heart. 
 
 143 
 
144 
 
 ALEXANDER H. EVERETT. 
 
 But when the glozing tempter came 
 With honied words of sin and shame, 
 She broke her order's sacred bands, 
 And follow 'd him to distant lands. 
 
 And there, in that delicious clime 
 Of song, romance, and flowers, 
 While guilty love was in its prime, 
 
 They dream'd away the hours; 
 But soon possession's touch of snow 
 Subdued his passion's fiery glow, 
 Converting love to scorn and hate, 
 And he has left her desolate. 
 
 And she from Madrid's courtly bowers 
 
 A weary way has gone, 
 To seek in old Palencia's towers 
 
 False-hearted Alarcon 
 His hall is vacant : not a beam 
 Is from the windows seen to-gleam, 
 Nor sound of life is heard to pour 
 From balcony or open door. 
 
 But lo ! where in the cool moonlight, 
 
 Her home of former years, 
 The well-known convent opposite 
 
 Its massy structure rears: 
 And open stands the chapel door, 
 Saying, with mute language, to the poor, 
 The heavy-laden, and distrest, 
 "Come in ! and I will give you rest!" 
 
 And she has enter'd, and has knelt 
 
 Before the blessed shrine, 
 And stealing o'er her senses felt 
 
 An influence divine; 
 And the false world's corrupt control 
 No more can subjugate her soul, 
 Where thoughts, of innocence again, 
 With undivided empire reign. 
 
 Again she sees her quiet cell. 
 
 And the trim garden there; 
 Again she hears the matin bell, 
 
 That summons her to prayer; 
 Again she joins, in chorus high, 
 The strain of midnight minstrelsy, 
 That lifts her with each thrilling tone, 
 In transport to the eternal throne. 
 
 "Ah! who will give me back]" she said, 
 
 With hotly-gushing tears, 
 "The blameless heart, the guiltless head 
 
 Of my departed years'? 
 What heavenly power can turn aside 
 The course of time's unchanging tide, 
 And make the Penitent again 
 The Pure one, that she might have been!" 
 
 While musing thus, around the dome, 
 
 She casts a vacant glance; 
 She sees, emerging from the gloom, 
 
 A graceful form advance. 
 Proceeding forth with noiseless feet, 
 From a far chapel's dim retreat, 
 The figure, clad in nun's array, 
 Along the pavement took her way. 
 
 A lantern in her hand she bore, 
 
 The shade upon her face; 
 And Margaret vainly scann'd it o'er, 
 
 Familiar lines to trace; 
 Then murmur'd, fearing to intrude, 
 " She is not of the sisterhood — ■ 
 Perhaps a novice, who has come, 
 Since Maegaret left her convent home." 
 
 From shrine to shrine with measured pace, 
 
 The figure went in turn, 
 And placed the flowers, and trimm'd the dress, 
 
 And made the tapers burn : 
 Nor ever rested to look back : 
 And Margaret follow'd in her track, 
 Though far behind : a charm unknown 
 With secret impulse led her on. 
 
 Fair sight it was, I ween, but dread 
 
 And strange as well as fair, 
 To see how as she visited 
 
 Each separate altar there, 
 A wondrous flame around it play'd, 
 So soft it scarcely broke the shade, 
 But glow'd with lustre cold and white, 
 Like fleecy clouds of boreal light. 
 
 Save only where around the nun 
 
 A warmer blaze it threw; 
 For there the bright suffusion shone 
 
 With tints of various hue ; 
 Pale azure, clear as seraph's eyes, 
 Mix'd with the rose's blushing dyes, 
 And gathering to a halo, spread 
 In rainbow circles round her head. 
 
 And every flower her touch beneath 
 
 Renew'd its former bloom, 
 And from its bell of odorous breath, 
 
 Sent forth a sweet perfume; 
 And though no voice the silence stirr'd, 
 A low, sweet melody was heard, 
 That fell in tones subdued but clear, 
 Like heavenly music on the ear 
 
 Entranced, in ecstacies of awe, 
 
 And joy that none can tell, 
 The Penitent at distance saw 
 
 The beauteous miracle ; 
 And scarce can trust the evidence 
 That pours in floods through every sense; 
 And thinks, so strange the vision seems, 
 That she is in the land of dreams. 
 
 At length, each altar duly dight, 
 
 And all her labors o'er, 
 The wondrous nun resumed the light, 
 
 And cross'd the minster floor ; 
 Returning to the chapel shade, 
 From which her entrance she had made, 
 Along the aisle where Margaret stood, 
 And, passing, brush'd the maiden's hood. 
 
 Then she the stranger's mantle caught, 
 
 And something she would say, 
 But on her lips the unutter'd thought 
 
 In silence died away, 
 
ALEXANDER H. EVERETT. 
 
 145 
 
 "What would'st thou with me, gentle one]" 
 In sweetest tones inquired the nun. 
 Poor Mab.gab.et still no language found, 
 But gazed intently on the ground. 
 
 " Say, then, who art thoul" At her side 
 
 Pursued the form divine, 
 « My name is* Mab.gab.et." She replied, 
 
 "It is the same with mine." 
 "Thy office, maiden]" "Lady dear! 
 For years I was a sister here ; 
 And by superior order sate 
 As Portress at the convent gate." 
 
 " I too," the nun replied, "as one 
 
 Among the sisters wait, 
 And am to all the convent known, 
 
 As Portress at the gate." 
 Then first, entranced in wild amaze, 
 Her downcast eyes did Mab.gab.et raise 
 And fix them earnestly upon 
 The stranger's face; — it was her own! 
 
 Reflected rn that glorious nun, 
 
 She sees herself appear: 
 The air, the lineaments, her own, 
 
 In form and character : 
 The dress the same that she has worn ; 
 The keys the same that she has borne ; 
 Herself in person, habit, name, 
 At once another and the same. 
 
 Struck down with speechless ecstasy, 
 
 Astonished Margaret fell : 
 "Rise!" spake the vision, "I am she, 
 
 Whom thou hast served so well; 
 And when thou forfeitedst thy vows, 
 To be a perjured traitor's spouse, 
 And mad'st to me thy parting prayer 
 For my protecting love and care : 
 
 " I heard and granted thy request, 
 
 And to conceal thy shame, 
 I left the mansion of the blest 
 
 And took thy humble name, 
 Thy features, person, office, dress; 
 And did the duty of thy place, 
 And daily made report of all 
 In order to the principal. 
 
 " Behold ! where still at every shrine 
 
 The votive taper stands ; 
 The dress that once thou wor'st is thine, 
 
 The keys are in thy hands: 
 Thy fame is clear, thy trial o'er : 
 Then, gentle maiden ! sin no more ! 
 And think on her, who faithfully 
 In hours of danger thought on thee !" 
 
 A lightning flash! — a thunder peal! — 
 
 And parting o'er their heads, 
 The church's vaulted pinnacle 
 
 An ample passage spreads ; 
 And lo ! descending angels come 
 To guard their queen in triumph home, 
 
 The while the echoing minster rings 
 With sweetest notes from heavenly strings. 
 
 Then up, on cherub pinions borne, 
 
 The Virgin-Mother passed ; 
 And as she rose, on the forlorn 
 
 A radiant smile she cast; 
 And Margaret saw, with streaming eyes 
 Of grateful joy, the vision rise, 
 And watched it till, from earthly view, 
 It vanished in the depths of blue. 
 
 THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 
 
 Soion of a mighty stock ! 
 Hands of iron, — hearts of oak, — 
 Follow with unflinching tread 
 Where the noble fathers led. 
 
 Craft and subtle treachery, 
 Gallant youth! are not for thee: 
 Follow thou in word and deeds 
 Where the God within thee leads. 
 
 Honesty with steady eye, 
 Truth and pure simplicity, 
 Love that gently winneth hearts, 
 These shall be thy only arts, — 
 
 Prudent in the council train, 
 Dauntless on the battle plain, 
 Ready at the country's need 
 For her glorious cause to bleed. 
 
 Where the dews of night distil 
 Upon Vernon's holy hill ; 
 Where above it, gleaming far, 
 Freedom lights her guiding star, — 
 
 Thither turn the steady eye, 
 Flashing with a purpose high ; 
 Thither "with devotion meet 
 Often turn the pilgrim feet. 
 
 Let thy noble motto be 
 God, — the Country, — Liberty ! 
 Planted on Religion's rock, 
 Thou shalt stand in every shock. 
 
 Laugh at danger far or near; 
 Spurn at baseness, — spurn at fear; 
 Still with persevering might, 
 Speak the truth, and do the right. 
 
 So shall peace, a charming guest, 
 Dove-like in thy bosom rest, 
 So shall honor's steady blaze 
 Beam upon thy closing days. 
 
 Happy if celestial favor 
 Smile upon the high endeavor : 
 Happy if it be thy call 
 In the holy cause to fall. 
 
 10 
 
SAMUEL GILMAN. 
 
 [Born, about 1791.] 
 
 Samuel Gilman, D.D. was born in Gloucester, 
 Massachusetts, where his father had been success- 
 fully engaged in commerce, until the capture of 
 several vessels in which he was interested, by the 
 French, in 1798, reduced him to bankruptcy, with 
 loss of health perhaps, for he died soon after, leav- 
 ing a widow with four small children. Among 
 these Samuel was the only son, and his mother, 
 determining to educate him in the best manner 
 possible, placed him in the family of the Reverend 
 Stephen Peabodt, of Atkinson, New Hampshire, 
 a remarkable character, of whom Dr. Gilman has 
 given an interesting account in an article in "The 
 Christian Examiner" for 1847, entitled "Reminis- 
 cences of a New England Clergyman at the Close 
 of the Last Century." Having been prepared for 
 college by Mr. Peabodt, he entered Harvard in 
 1807, in the same class with N. L. Frothingham 
 and Edwaed Everett. He was graduated in 
 1811, and was afterwards, from 1817 to 1819, 
 connected with the college as a tutor; but in the 
 latter year he was married to Miss Caroline How- 
 ard, who, as Mrs. Gilman, has been so creditably 
 distinguished in literature, and removed to Charles- 
 ton, South Carolina, where he has ever since re- 
 sided, as pastor of the Unitarian church of that city. 
 
 Of Dr. Gilman's earlier writings none received 
 more attention than a series of able papers con- 
 tributed to the " North American Review," while 
 he was a tutor at Cambridge, on the philosophical 
 
 "Lectures" of Dr. Thomas Brown. About the 
 same time he translated in a very elegant manner 
 several of the satires of Boileau, which he also 
 printed in the " North American Review." After 
 his removal to Charleston he completed his version 
 of Boileau, and sent the MS. to Mr. Murray, 
 of London, for publication, but by some mischance 
 it was lost, and no efforts have since availed for 
 its recovery. In 1829 he gave to the public his 
 "Memoirs of a New England Village Choir," a 
 little book remarkable forquiet and natural humor, 
 presenting a picture, equally truthful and amusing, 
 of village life in New England in the first quarter 
 of this century. He has more recently published 
 elaborate and thoughtful papers in the reviews, 
 on "The Influence of One National Literature 
 upon Another," " The Writings of Edward Ev- 
 erett," and other subjects, besides literary and 
 theological discourses, biographies, essays, and 
 translations, all executed with taste and scholar- 
 ly finish. 
 
 Among the original poems of Dr. Gilman, the 
 most noticeable are the " History of the Raj' of 
 Light," which is reprinted in the second volume of 
 Mr. Kettell's "Specimens of American Poetry," 
 and his " Poem read before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society" of Harvard College. Some of his minor 
 pieces have been deservedly popular, and may be 
 found in numerous school-books and choice selec- 
 tions of literature. 
 
 THE SILENT GIRL. 
 
 She seldom spake ; yet she imparted 
 
 Far more than language could — 
 So birdlike, bright, and tender-hearted, 
 
 So natural and good! 
 Her air, her look, her rest, her actions, 
 
 Were voice enough for her : 
 Why need a tongue, when those attractions 
 
 Our inmost hearts could stir] 
 
 She seldom talked, but, uninvited, 
 
 Would cheer us with a song; 
 And oft her hands our ears delighted, 
 
 Sweeping the keys along. 
 And oft when converse round would lan- 
 guish, 
 
 Ask'd or unasked, she read 
 Some tale of gladness or of anguish, . 
 
 And so our evenings sped. 
 
 She seldom spake ; but she would listen 
 With all the signs of soul; 
 146 
 
 Her cheek would change, her eye would glisten ; 
 
 The sigh — the smile — upstole. 
 Who did not understand and love her, 
 
 With meaning thus o'erfraught? 
 Though silent as the sky above her, 
 
 Like that, she kindled thought. 
 
 Little she spake ; but dear attentions 
 
 From her would ceaseless rise ; 
 She checked our wants by kind preventions, 
 
 She hush'd the children's cries ; 
 And, twining, she would give her mother 
 
 A long and loving kiss — 
 The same to father, sister, brother, 
 
 All round — nor would one miss. 
 
 She seldom spake — she speaks no longer ; 
 
 She sleeps beneath yon rose ; 
 'Tis well for us that ties no stronger 
 
 Awaken memory's woes : 
 For oh ! our hearts would sure be broken, 
 
 Already drained of tears, 
 If frequent tones, by her outspoken, 
 
 Still lingered in our ears. 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 [Born, 1791.] 
 
 Charles Spragtte was born in Boston, on the 
 twenty-sixth day of October, in 1791. His father, 
 who still survives, was one of that celebrated band 
 who, in 1773, resisted taxation by pouring the tea 
 on board several British ships into the sea. 
 
 Mr. Spragtje was educated in the schools of 
 his native city, which he left at an early period to 
 acquire in a mercantile house a practical know- 
 ledge of trade. When he was about twenty-one 
 years of age, he commenced the business of a mer- 
 chant on his own account, and continued in it, I 
 believe, until he was elected cashier of the Globe 
 Bank, one of the first establishments of its kind in 
 Massachusetts. This office he now holds, and he 
 has from the time he accepted it discharged its 
 duties in a faultless manner, notwithstanding the 
 venerable opinion that a poet must be incapable 
 of successfully transacting practical affairs. In 
 this period he has found leisure to study the works 
 of the greatest authors, and particularly those of 
 the masters of English poetry, with which, proba- 
 bly, very few contemporary writers are more fami- 
 liar ; and to write the admirable poems on which 
 is based his own reputation. 
 
 The first productions of Mr. Spragtte which 
 attracted much attention, were a series of brilliant 
 prologues, the first of which was written for the 
 Park Theatre, in New York, in 1821. Prize thea- 
 trical addresses are proverbially among the most 
 worthless compositions in the poetic form. Their 
 brevity and peculiar character prevents the develop- 
 ment in them of original conceptions and striking 
 ideas, and they are usually made up of common- 
 place thoughts and images, compounded with little 
 skill. Those by Mr. Spragtje are certainly among 
 the best of their kind, and some passages in them 
 are conceived in the true spirit of poetry. The 
 following lines are from the one recited at the 
 opening of a theatre in Philadelphia, in 1822. 
 
 "To grace the stage, the bard's careering mind 
 Seeks other worlds, and leaves his own behind; 
 He lures from air its bright, unprison'd forms, 
 Breaks through the tomb, and Death's dull region storms, 
 O'er ruin'd realms he pours creative day, 
 And slumbering kings his mighty voice obey. 
 From its damp shades the long-laid spirit walks, 
 And round the murderer's bed in vengeance stalks. 
 Poor, maniac Beauty brings her cypress wreath, — 
 Her smile a moonbeam on a blasted heath; 
 Round some cold grave she comes, sweet flowers to strew, 
 And, lost to Heaven, still to love is true. 
 Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads; 
 Power lifts his axe, and Truth's bold service bleeds ; 
 Remorse drops anguish from his burning eyes, 
 Feels hell's eternal worm, and, shuddering, dies; 
 War's trophied minion, too, forsakes the dust, 
 Grasps his worn shield, and waves his sword of rust, 
 Springs to the slaughter at the trumpet's call, 
 Again to conquer, or again to fall." 
 
 The ode recited in the Boston theatre, at a pa- 
 geant in honour of Shakspeare, in 1823, is one 
 
 of the most vigorous and beautiful lyrics in the 
 English language. The first poet of the world, 
 the greatness of his genius, the vast variety of his 
 scenes and characters, formed a subject well fitted 
 for the flowing and stately measure chosen by our 
 author, and the universal acquaintance with the 
 writings of the immortal dramatist enables every 
 one to judge of the merits of his composition. 
 Though to some extent but a reproduction of the 
 creations of Shakspeare, it is such a reproduction 
 as none but a man of genius could effect. 
 
 The longest of Mr. Spragtte's poems is entitled 
 " Curiosity." It was delivered before the Phi 
 Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in August, 
 1829. It is in the heroic measure, and its diction 
 is faultless. The subject was happily chosen, and 
 admitted of a great variety of illustrations. The 
 descriptions of the miser, the novel-reader, and 
 the father led by curiosity to visit foreign lands, are 
 among the finest passages in Mr. Spragtte's writ- 
 ings. " C uriosity" was published in Calcutta a few 
 years ago, as an original work by a British officer, 
 with no other alterations than the omission of a 
 few American names, and the insertion of others 
 in their places, as Scott for Cooper, and Chal- 
 mers for Channistg ; and in this form it was re- 
 printed in London, where it was much praised in 
 some of the critical gazettes. 
 
 The poem delivered at the centennial celebra- 
 tion of the settlement of Boston, contains many 
 spirited passages, but it is not equal to " Curiosity" 
 or "The Shakspeare Ode." Its versification is 
 easy and various, but it is not so carefully finished 
 as most of Mr. Sprague's productions. "The 
 Winged Worshippers," "Lines on the Death of 
 *M. S. C.," "The Family Meeting," "Art," and 
 several other short poems, evidence great skill in 
 the use of language, and show him to be a master 
 of the poetic art. They are all in good taste ; they 
 are free from turgidness ; and are pervaded by a 
 spirit of good sense, which is unfortunately want- 
 ing in much of the verse written in this age. 
 
 Mr. Sprague has written, besides his poems, 
 an essay on drunkenness, and an oration, pro- 
 nounced at Boston on the fiftieth anniversary of 
 the declaration of independence ; and I believe he 
 contributed some papers to the "New England 
 Magazine," while it was edited by his friend J. 
 T. Buckingham. The style of his prose is florid 
 and much less carefully finished than that of his 
 poetry. 
 
 He mixes but little in society, and, I have been 
 told, was never thirty miles from his native city. 
 His leisure hours are passed among his books; 
 with the few "old friends, the tried, the true," who 
 travelled with him up the steeps of manhood ; or in 
 the quiet of his own fireside. His poems show the 
 strength of his domestic and social affections. 
 
 147 
 
148 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 CURIOSITY.* 
 
 It came from Heaven — its power archangels 
 knew, 
 When this fair globe first rounded to their view ; 
 When the young sun reveal'd the glorious scene 
 Where oceans gather'd and where lands grew green; 
 When the dead dust in joyful myriads swarm'd, 
 And man, the clod, with God's own breath was 
 
 wann'd : 
 It rergn'd in Eden — when that man first woke, 
 Its kindling influence from his eye-balls spoke; 
 No roving childhood, no exploring youth 
 Led him along, till wonder chill'd to truth ; 
 Full-form'd at once, his subject world he trod, 
 And gazed upon the labours of his God ; 
 On all, by turns, his charter'd glance was cast, 
 While each pleased best as each appear'd the last ; 
 But when She came, in nature's blameless pride, 
 Bone of his bone, his heaven-anointed bride, 
 All meaner objects faded from his sight, 
 And sense turn'd giddy with the new delight ; 
 Those charm'd his eye, but this entranced his soul, 
 Another self, queen-wonder of the whole ! 
 Rapt at the view, in ecstasy he stood, 
 And, like his Maker, saw that all was good. 
 
 It reign'd in Eden — in that heavy hour 
 When the arch-tempter sought our mother's bower, 
 In thrilling charm her yielding heart assail' d, 
 And even o'er dread Jehovah's word prevail'd. 
 There the fair tree in fatal beauty grew, 
 And hung its mystic apples to her view : 
 " Eat," breathed the fiend, beneath his serpent guise, 
 "Ye shall know all things; gather, and be wise!" 
 Sweet on her ear the wily falsehood stole, 
 And roused the ruling passion of her soul. 
 "Ye shall become like God," — transcendent fate! 
 That God's command forgot, she pluck'd and ate; 
 Ate, and her partner lured to share the crime, 
 Whose wo, the legend saith, must live through time. 
 For this they shrank before the Avenger's face, 
 For this He drove them from the sacred place ; 
 For this came down the universal lot, 
 To weep, to wander, die, and be forgot. 
 
 It came from Heaven — it reigned in Eden's 
 shades — 
 It roves on earth, and every walk invades: 
 Childhood and age alike its influence own ; 
 It haunts the beggar's nook, the monarch's throne ; 
 Hangs o'er the cradle, leans above the bier, 
 Gazed on old Babel's tower — and lingers here. 
 
 To all that's lofty, all that's low it turns, 
 With terror curdles and with rapture burns ; 
 Now feels a seraph's throb, now, less than man's, 
 A reptile tortures and a planet scans ; 
 Now idly joins in life's poor, passing jars, 
 Now shakes creation off, and soars beyond the stars. 
 
 'Tis Curiosity — who hath not felt 
 Its spirit, and before its altar knelt 1 
 In the pleased infant see the power expand, 
 When first the coral fills his little hand ; 
 Throned in its mother's lap, it dries each tear, 
 As her sweet legend falls upon his ear ; 
 
 * Delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Har- 
 vard University, in 1829 
 
 Next it assails him in his top's strange hum, 
 Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum ; 
 Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows, 
 He longs to break, and every spring expose. 
 Placed by your hearth, with what delight he pores 
 O'er the bright pages of his pictured stores ; 
 How oft he steals upon your graver task, 
 Of this to tell you, and of that to ask ; 
 And, when the waning hour to-bedward bids, 
 Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids, ' 
 
 Hdw winningly he pleads to gain you o'er, 
 That he may read one little story more ! 
 
 Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined, 
 It sits, dark brooding, o'er his embryo mind : 
 Take him between your knees, peruse his face, 
 While all you know, or think you know, you trace ; 
 Tell him who spoke creation into birth, 
 Arch'd the broad heavens, and spread the rolling 
 
 earth ; 
 Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, 
 And bade the seasons in their circles run ; 
 Who fill'd the air, the forest, and the flood, 
 And gave man all, for comfort, or for food ; 
 Tell him they sprang at God's creating nod — 
 He stops you short with, " Father, who made God V 
 Thus through life's stages may we mark the power 
 That masters man in every changing hour. 
 It tempts him from the blandishments of home, 
 Mountains to climb and frozen seas to roam ; 
 By air-blown bubbles buoy'd, it bids him rise, 
 And hang, an atom in the vaulted skies ; 
 Lured by its charm, he sits and learns to trace 
 The midnight wanderings of the orbs of space ; 
 Boldly he knocks at wisdom's inmost gate, 
 With nature counsels, and communes with fate ; 
 Below, above, o'er all he dares to rove, 
 In all finds God, and finds that God all love. 
 
 Turn to the world — its curious dwellers view, 
 Like Paul's Athenians, seeking something new. 
 Be it a bonfire's or a city's blaze, 
 The gibbet's victim, or the nation's gaze, 
 A female atheist, or a learned dog, 
 A monstrous pumpkin, or a mammoth hog, 
 A murder, or a muster, 'tis the same, 
 Life's follies, glories, griefs, all feed the flame. 
 Hark, where the martial trumpet fills the air, 
 How the roused multitude come round to stare ; 
 Sport drops his ball, Toil throws his hammer by, 
 Thrift breaks a bargain off, to please his eye ; 
 Up fly the windows, even fair mistress cook, 
 Though dinner burn, must run to take a look. 
 In the thronged court the ruling passions read, 
 Where Stout dooms, where Wirt and Webster 
 
 plead ; 
 Yet kindred minds alone their flights shall trace, 
 The herd press on to see a cut-throat's face. 
 Around the gallows' foot behold them draw, 
 When the lost villain answers to the law; 
 Soft souls, how anxious on his pangs to gloat, 
 When the vile cord shall tighten round his throat ; 
 And, ah! each hard-bought stand to quit how 
 
 grieved, 
 As the sad rumour runs — " The man's reprieved !" 
 See to the church the pious myriads pour, 
 Squeeze through the aisles and jostle round the door; 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 149 
 
 Does Langdon preach 1 — (I veil his quiet name 
 Who serves his God, and cannot stoop to fame ;) — 
 No, 'tis some reverend mime, the latest rage, 
 Who thumps the desk, that should have trod the 
 
 stage, 
 Cant's veriest ranter crams a house, if new, 
 When Paul himself, oft heard, would hardly fill 
 a pew. 
 
 Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, 
 Holds its warp'd mirror to a gaping age ; 
 There, where, to raise the drama's moral tone, 
 Fool Harlequin usurps Apollo's throne ; 
 There, where grown children gather round, to praise 
 The new-vamp'd legends of their nursery days ; 
 Where one loose scene shall turn more souls to 
 
 shame, 
 Then ten of Ckattntng's lectures can reclaim; 
 There, where in idiot rapture we adore 
 The herded vagabonds of every shore : 
 Women unsex'd, who, lost to woman's pride, 
 The drunkard's stagger ape, the bully's stride ; 
 Pert, lisping girls, who, still in childhood's fetters, 
 Babble of love, yet barely know their letters ; 
 Neat-jointed mummers, mocking nature's shape, 
 To prove how nearly man can match an ape ; 
 Vaulters, who, rightly served at home, perchance 
 Had dangled from the rope on which they dance ; 
 Dwarfs, mimics, jugglers, all that yield content,. 
 Where Sin holds carnival and Wit keeps Lent ; 
 Where, shoals on shoals, the modest million rush, 
 One sex to laugh, and one to try to blush, 
 When mincing Ravenot sports tight pantalettes, 
 And turns fops' heads while turning pirouettes ; 
 There, at each ribald sally, where we hear 
 The knowing giggle and the scurrile jeer ; 
 While from the intellectual gallery first 
 Rolls the base plaudit, loudest at the worst. 
 
 Gods ! who can grace yon desecrated dome, 
 When he may turn his Shakspeare o'er at home'? 
 Who there can group the pure ones of his race, 
 To see and hear what bids him veil his face 1 
 Ask ye who can 1 why I, and you, and you ; 
 No matter what the nonsense, if 't is new. 
 To Doctor Logic's wit our sons give ear ; 
 They have no time for Hamlet, or for Leah ; 
 Our daughters turn from gentle Juliet's wo, 
 To count the twirls of Almaviva's toe. 
 
 Not theirs the blame who furnish forth the treat, 
 But ours, who throng the board and grossly eat ; 
 We laud, indeed, the virtue-kindling stage, 
 And prate of Shakspeare and his deathless page ; 
 But go, announce his best, on Cooper call, 
 Cooper, "the noblest Roman of them all ;" 
 Where are the crowds, so wont to choke the door 1 
 'T is an old thing, they 've seen it all before. 
 
 Pray Heaven, if yet indeed the stage must stand, 
 With guiltless mirth it may delight the land ; 
 Far better else each scenic temple fall, 
 And one approving silence curtain all. 
 Despots to shame may yield their rising youth, 
 But Freedom dwells with purity and truth; 
 Then make the effort, ye who rule the stage — 
 With novel decency surprise the age ; 
 Even Wit, so long forgot, may play its part, 
 And Nature yet have power to melt the heart ; 
 
 Perchance the listeners, to their instinct true, 
 May fancy common sense — 't were surely some- 
 thing new. 
 Turn to the Press — its teeming sheets survey, 
 Big with the wonders of each passing day ; 
 Births, deaths, and weddings, forgeries, fires, and 
 
 wrecks, 
 Harangues, and hail-storms, brawls, and broken 
 
 necks ; 
 Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek 
 An immortality of near a week ; 
 Where cruel eulogists the dead restore, 
 In maudlin praise, to martyr them once more ; 
 Where ruffian slanderers wreak their coward spite, 
 And need no venom'd dagger while they write : 
 There, (with a quill so noisy and so vain, 
 We almost hear the goose it clothed complain,) 
 Where each hack scribe, as hate or interest burns, 
 Toad or toad-eater, stains the page by turns ; 
 Enacts virtu, usurps the critic's chair, 
 Lauds a mock Guido, or a mouthing player; 
 Viceroys it o'er the realms of prose and rhyme y 
 Now puffs pert "Pelham," now "The Course of 
 
 Time ;" 
 And, though ere Christmas both may be forgot, 
 Vows this beats Milton, and that Walter Scott; 
 With Samson's vigour feels his nerves expand, 
 To overthrow the nobles of the land ; 
 Soils the green garlands that for Otis bloom, 
 And plants a brier even on Cabot's tomb; 
 As turn the party coppers, heads or tails, 
 And now this faction and now that prevails ; 
 Applauds to-day what yesterday he cursed, 
 Lampoons the wisest, and extols the worst ; 
 While, hard to tell, so coarse a daub he lays, 
 Which sullies most, the slander or the praise. 
 
 Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst. 
 While still the more we drink, the more we thirst 
 Trade hardly deems the busy day begun, 
 Till his keen eye along the page has ran ; 
 The blooming daughter throws her needle by, 
 And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh; 
 While the grave mother puts her glasses on, 
 And gives a tear to some old crony gone ; 
 The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down, 
 To know what last new folly fills the town ; 
 Lively or sad, life's meanest, mightiest things, 
 The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting kings ; 
 Naught comes amiss, we take the nauseous stuff, 
 Verjuice or oil, a libel or a puff. 
 
 'T is this sustains that coarse, licentious tribe 
 Of tenth-rate type-men, gaping for a bribe ; 
 That reptile race, with all that's good at strife, 
 Who trail their slime through every walk of life ; 
 Stain the white tablet where a great man's name 
 Stands proudly chisell'd by the hand of Fame ; 
 Nor round the sacred fireside fear to crawl, 
 But drop their venom there, and poison all. 
 
 'T is Curiosity — though, in its round, 
 No one poor dupe the calumny has found, 
 Still shall it live, and still new slanders breed ; 
 What though we ne'er believe, we buy and read ; 
 Like Scotland's war-cries, thrown from hand to 
 
 hand, 
 To rouse the angry passions of the land. 
 
150 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 So the black falsehood flies from ear to ear, 
 While goodness grieves, but, grieving, still must 
 
 hear. 
 All are not such? O no, there are, thank Heaven, 
 A nobler troop, to whom this trust is given; 
 Who, all unbribed, on Freedom's ramparts stand, 
 Faithful and firm, bright warders of the land. 
 By them still lifts the Press its arm abroad, 
 To guide all-curious man along life's road ; 
 To cheer young Genius, Pity's tear to start, 
 Tn Truth's bold cause to rouse each fearless heart; 
 O'er male and female quacks to shake the rod, 
 And scourge the unsex'd thing that scorns her God; 
 To hunt Corruption from his secret den, 
 And show the monster up, the gaze of wondering 
 
 men. 
 How swells my theme ! how vain my power I 
 
 find, 
 To track the windings of the curious mind ; 
 Let aught be hid, though useless, nothing boots, 
 Straightway it must be pluck'd up by the roots. 
 How oft we lay the volume down to ask 
 Of him, the victim in the Iron Mask ; 
 The crusted medal rub with painful care, 
 To spell the legend out — that is not there ; 
 With dubious gaze, o'er mossgrown tombstones 
 
 bend, 
 To find a name — the heralds never penn'd ; 
 Dig through the lava-deluged city's breast, 
 Learn all we can, and wisely guess the rest : 
 Ancient or modern, sacred or profane, 
 All must be known, and all obscure made plain ; 
 If 'twas a pippin tempted Eye to sin; 
 If glorious Byron drugg'd his muse with gin; 
 If Troy e'er stood; if Shakspeare stole a deer; 
 If Israel's missing tribes found refuge here ; 
 If like a villain Captain Henry lied ; 
 If like a martyr Captain Morgan died. 
 
 Its aim oft idle, lovely in its end, 
 We turn to look, then linger to befriend ; 
 The maid of Egypt thus was led to save 
 A nation's future leader from the wave ; 
 New things to hear, when erst the Gentiles ran, 
 Truth closed what Curiosity began. 
 How many a noble art, now widely known, 
 Owes its young impulse to this power alone ; 
 Even in its slightest working, we may trace 
 A deed that changed the fortunes of a race : 
 Bruce, bann'd and hunted on his native soil, 
 With curious eye survey'd a spider's toil : 
 Six times the little climber strove and fail'd ; 
 Six times the chief before his foes had quail'd ; 
 ' Once more," he cried, " in thine my doom I 
 
 read, 
 Once more I dare the fight, if thou succeed;" 
 'T was done — the insect's fate he made his own, 
 Once more the battle waged, and gain'd a throne. 
 
 Behold the sick man, in his easy chair, 
 Barr'd from the busy crowd and bracing air, — 
 How every passing trifle proves its power 
 To while away the long, dull, lazy hour. 
 As down the pane the rival rain-drops chase, 
 Curious he '11 watch to see which wins the race ; 
 And let two dogs beneath his window fight, 
 He '11 shut his Bible to enjoy the sight. 
 
 So with each new-born nothing rolls the day, 
 Till some kind neighbour, stumbling in his way, 
 Draws up his chair, the sufferer to amuse, 
 And makes him happy while he tells — the news. 
 The news ! our morning, noon, and evening 
 
 cry, 
 Day unto day repeats it till we die. 
 For this the cit, the critic, and the fop, 
 Dally the hour away in Tonsor's shop ; 
 For this the gossip takes her daily route, 
 And wears your threshold and your patience out; 
 For this we leave the parson in the lurch, 
 And pause to prattle on the way to church; 
 Even when some coffin'd friend we gather round, 
 We ask, "What news?" then lay him in the 
 
 ground ; 
 To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest, 
 For this the dinner cools, the bed remains un- 
 
 press'd. 
 What gives each tale of scandal to the street, 
 The kitchen's wonder, and the parlour's treat ? 
 See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly, 
 When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers sigh; 
 See Tom your pockets ransack for each note, 
 And read your secrets while he cleans your coat; 
 See, yes, to listen see even madam deign, 
 When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain. 
 This wings that lie that malice breeds in fear, 
 No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; 
 Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly, 
 Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to Polly; 
 On this each foul calumniator leans, 
 And nods and hints the villany he means ; 
 Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies 
 In the close whisper and the dark surmise ; 
 A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke 
 A warmer throb than if a Dexter spoke ; 
 And he, o'er Everett's periods who would nod, 
 To track a secret, half the town has trod. 
 
 O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can 
 
 save, 
 Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave, — 
 Felon unwhipp'd ! than whom in yonder cells 
 Full many a groaning wretch less guilty dwells, 
 Blush — if of honest blood a drop remains, 
 To steal its lonely way along thy veins, 
 Blush — if the bronze, long harden'd on thy cheek, 
 Has left a spot where that poor drop can speak ; 
 Blush to be branded with the slanderer's name, 
 And, though thou dread'st not sin, at least dread 
 
 shame. 
 We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear 
 The insidious falsehood and the heartless jeer ; 
 For each dark libel that thou lick'st to shape, 
 Thou mayest from law, but not from scorn escape ; 
 The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, 
 Insulted virtue's hiss — thou canst not fly. 
 
 The churl, who holds it heresy to think, 
 Who loves no music but the dollar's clink, 
 Who laughs to scorn the wisdom of the schools, 
 And deems the first of poets first of fools ; 
 Who never found what good from science grew, 
 Save the grand truth that one and one are two ; 
 And marvels Bowditch o'er a book should pore, 
 Unless to make those two turn into four; 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 151 
 
 Who, placed where Catskill's forehead greets the 
 
 sky, 
 Grieves that such quarries all unhewn should lie ; 
 Or, gazing where Niagara's torrents thrill, 
 Exclaims, "A monstrous stream — to turn a mill!" 
 Who loves to feel the blessed winds of heaven, 
 But as his freighted barks are portward driven: 
 Even he, across whose brain scarce dares to creep 
 Aught but thrift's parent pair — to get, to keep : 
 Who never learn'd life's real bliss to know — 
 With Curiosity even he can glow. 
 
 Go, seek him out on yon dear Gotham's walk, 
 Where traffic's venturers meet to trade and talk : 
 Where Mammon's votaries bend, of each degree, 
 The hard-eyed lender, and the pale lendee ; 
 Where rogues, insolvent, strut in white-wash'd 
 
 pride, 
 And shove the dupes, who trusted them, aside. 
 How through the buzzing crowd he threads his way, 
 To catch the flying rumours of the day, — 
 To learn of changing stocks, of bargains cross'd, 
 Of breaking merchants, and of cargoes lost ; 
 The thousand ills that traffic's walks invade, 
 And give the heart-ache to the sons of trade. 
 How cold he hearkens to some bankrupt's wo, 
 Nods his wise head, and cries, " I told you so : 
 The thriftless fellow lived beyond his means, 
 He must buy brants — I make my folks eat beans ;" 
 What cares he for the knave, the knave's sad wife, 
 The blighted prospects of an anxious life ] 
 The kindly throbs, that other men control, 
 Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul ; 
 Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, 
 An incarnation of fat dividends ; 
 But, when to death he sinks, ungrieved, unsung, 
 Buoy'd by the blessing of no mortal tongue, — 
 No worth rewarded, and no want redress'd, 
 To scatter fragrance round his place of rest, — 
 What shall that hallow'd epitaph supply — 
 The universal wo when good men die 1 
 Cold Curiosity shall linger there, 
 To guess the wealth he leaves his tearless heir; 
 Perchance to wonder what must be his doom, 
 In the far land that lies beyond the tomb ; — 
 Alas ! for him, if, in its awful plan, 
 Heaven deal with him as he hath dealt with man. 
 
 Child of romance, these work-day scenes you 
 spurn ; 
 For loftier things your finer pulses burn ; 
 Through Nature's walk your curious way you take, 
 Gaze on her glowing bow, her glittering flake, — 
 Her spring's first cheerful green, her autumn's last, 
 Born in the breeze, or dying in the blast ; 
 You climb the mountain's everlasting wall ; 
 You linger where the thunder-waters fall ; 
 You love to wander by old ocean's side, 
 And hold communion with its sullen tide; 
 Wash'd to your foot some fragment of a wreck, 
 Fancy shall build again the crowded deck 
 That trod the waves, till, mid the tempest's frown, 
 The sepulchre of living men went down. 
 Yet Fancy, with her milder, tenderer glow, 
 But dreams what Curiosity would know; 
 Ye would stand listening, as the booming gun 
 Proclaim'd the work of agony half-done ; 
 
 There would you drink each drowning seaman's 
 
 cry, 
 As wild to heaven he cast his frantic eye ; 
 Though vain all aid, though Pity's blood ran cold, 
 The mortal havoc ye would dare behold ; 
 Still Curiosity would wait and weep, 
 Till all sank down to slumber in the deep. 
 
 Nor yet appeased the spirit's restless glow: 
 Ye would explore the gloomy waste below ; 
 There, where the joyful sunbeams never fell, 
 Where ocean's unrecorded monsters dwell, 
 Where sleep earth's precious things, her rifled 
 
 gold, 
 Bones bleach'd by ages, bodies hardly cold, 
 Of those who bow'd to fate in every form, 
 By battle-strife, by pirate, or by storm ; 
 The sailor-chief, who Freedom's foes defied, 
 Wrapp'd in the sacred flag for which he died ; 
 The wretch, thrown over to the midnight foam, 
 Stabb'd in his blessed dreams of love and home ; 
 The mother, with her fleshless arms still clasp'd 
 Round the scared infant, that in death she grasp'd ; 
 On these, and sights like these, ye long to gaze, 
 The mournful trophies of uncounted days ; 
 All that the miser deep has brooded o'er, 
 Since its first billow roll'd to find a shore. 
 
 Once more the Press, — not that which daily 
 flings 
 Its fleeting ray across life's fleeting things, — 
 See tomes on tomes of fancy and of power, 
 To cheer man's heaviest, warm his holiest hour. 
 Now Fiction's groves we tread, where young Ro- 
 mance 
 Laps the glad senses in her sweetest trance ; 
 Now through earth's cold, unpeopled realms wo 
 
 range, 
 And mark each rolling century's awful change ; 
 Turn back the tide of ages to its head, 
 And hoard the wisdom of the honour'd dead. 
 'T was Heaven to lounge upon a couch, said 
 Gray, 
 And read new novels through a rainy day : 
 Add but the Spanish weed, the bard was right; 
 'T is heaven, the upper heaven of calm delight ; 
 The world forgot, to sit at ease reclined, 
 While round one's head the smoky perfumes wind, 
 Firm in one hand the ivory folder grasp'd, 
 Scott's uncut latest by the other clasp'd ; 
 'T is heaven, the glowing, graphic page to turn, 
 And feel within the ruling passion burn; 
 Now through the dingles of his own bleak isle, 
 And now through lands that wear a sunnier smile, 
 To follow him, that all-creative one, 
 Who never found a " brother near his throne." 
 
 Look, now, directed by yon candle's blaze, 
 Where the false shutter half its trust betrays, — - 
 Mark that fair girl, reclining in her bed, 
 Its curtain round her polish'd shoulders spread , 
 Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in power, 
 What keeps her waking in that dreary hour 1 ? 
 See where the volume on her pillow lies — 
 Claims Radciiffe or Chapone those frequent 
 
 sighs 1 
 'T is some wild legend, — now her kind eye fills, 
 And now cold terror every fibre chills ; 
 
152 
 
 CHARLES SPKAGUE. 
 
 Still she reads on — in Fiction's labyrinth lost — 
 Of tyrant fathers, and of true love cross'd ; 
 Of clanking fetters, low, mysterious groans, 
 Blood-crusted daggers, and uncoffin'd bones, 
 Pale, gliding ghosts, with fingers dropping gore, 
 And blue flames dancing round a dungeon door; — 
 Still she reads on — even though to read she fears, 
 And in each key-hole moan strange voices hears, 
 While every shadow that withdraws her look, 
 Glares in her face, the goblin of the book; 
 Still o'er the leaves her craving eye is cast ; 
 On all she feasts, yet hungers for the last ; 
 Counts what remain, now sighs there are no more, 
 And now even those half tempted to skip o'er; 
 At length, the bad all killed, the good all pleased, 
 Her thirsting Curiosity appeased, 
 She shuts the dear, dear book, that made her weep, 
 Puts out her light, and turns away to sleep. 
 
 Her bright, her bloody records to unrol, 
 See History come, and wake th' inquiring soul : 
 How bounds the bosom at each wondrous deed 
 Of those who founded, and of those who freed ; 
 The good, the valiant of our own loved clime, 
 Whose names shall brighten through the clouds 
 
 of time. 
 How rapt we linger o'er the volumed lore 
 That tracks the glories of each distant shore; 
 In all their grandeur and in all their gloom, 
 The throned, the thrall'd rise dimly from the tomb ; 
 Chiefs, sages, bards, the giants of their race, 
 Earth's monarch men, her greatness and her grace ; 
 Warm'd as we read, the penman's page we spurn, 
 And to each near, each far arena turn ; 
 Here, where the Pilgrim's altar first was built, 
 Here, where the patriot's life-blood first was spilt ; 
 There, where new empires spread along each spot 
 Where old ones flourish'd but to be forgot, 
 Or, direr judgment, spared to fill a page, 
 And with their errors warn an after age. 
 
 And where is he upon that Rock can stand, 
 Nor with their firmness feel his heart expand, 
 Who a new empire planted where they trod, 
 And gave it to their children and their God 1 
 Who yon immortal mountain-shrine hath press'd, 
 With saintlier relics stored than priest e'er bless' d, 
 But felt each grateful pulse more warmly glow, 
 In voiceless reverence for the dead below 1 
 Who, too, by Curiosity led on, 
 To tread the shores of kingdoms come and gone, 
 Where Faith her martyrs to the fagot led, 
 Where Freedom's champions on the scaffold bled, 
 Where ancient power, though stripp'd of ancient 
 
 fame, 
 Curb'd, but not crushed, still lives for guilt and 
 
 shame, 
 But prouder, happier, turns on home to gaze, 
 And thanks his God who gave him better days 1 
 
 Undraw yon curtain ; look within that room, 
 Where all is splendour, yet where all is gloom : 
 Why weeps that mother 1 why, in pensive mood, 
 Group noiseless round, that little, lovely brood ? 
 The battledore is still, laid by each book, 
 And the harp slumbers in its custom'd nook. 
 Who hath done this 1 what cold, unpitying foe 
 Hath made this house the dwelling-place of wo 1 
 
 'T is he, the husband, father, lost in care, 
 O'er that sweet fellow in his cradle there : 
 The gallant bark that rides by yonder strand, 
 Bears him to-morrow from his native land. 
 Why turns he, half-unwilling, from his home 1 
 To tempt the ocean and the earth to roam 1 
 Wealth he can boast, a miser's sigh would hush, 
 And health is laughing in that ruddy blush ; 
 Friends spring to greet him, and he has no foe — 
 So honour'd and so bless'd, what bids him go ? — 
 His eye must see, his foot each spot must tread, 
 Where sleeps the dust of earth's recorded dead; 
 Where rise the monuments of ancient time, 
 Pillar and pyramid in age sublime ; 
 The pagan's temple and the churchman's tower, 
 War's bloodiest plain and Wisdom's greenest 
 
 bower ; 
 All that his wonder woke in school-boy themes, 
 All that his fancy fired in youthful dreams : 
 Where Socrates once taught he thirsts to stray, 
 Where Homer pour'd his everlasting lay; 
 From Vir&il's tomb he longs to pluck one flower, 
 By Avon's stream to live one moonlight hour ; 
 To pause where England " garners up" her great, 
 And drop a patriot's tear to Milton's fate ; 
 Fame's living masters, too, he must behold, 
 Whose deeds shall blazon with the best of old : 
 Nations compare, their laws and customs scan, 
 And read, wherever spread, the book of man ; 
 For these he goes, self-banish'd from his hearth, 
 And wrings the hearts of all he loves on earth. 
 
 Yet say, shall not new joy these hearts inspire, 
 When grouping round the future winter fire, 
 To hear the wonders of the world they burn, 
 And lose his absence in his glad return 1 — 
 Return ! alas ! he shall return no more, 
 To bless his own sweet home, his own proud shore. 
 Look once again — cold in his cabin now, 
 Death's finger-mark is on his pallid brow ; 
 No wife stood by, her patient watch to keep, 
 To smile on him, then turn away to weep ; 
 Kind woman's place rough mariners supplied, 
 And shared the wanderer's blessing when he died. 
 Wrapp'd in the raiment that it long must wear, 
 His body to the deck they slowly bear ; 
 Even there the spirit that I sing is true ; 
 The crew look on with sad, but curious view; 
 The setting sun flings round his farewell rays ; 
 O'er the broad ocean not a ripple plays ; 
 How eloquent, how awful in its power, 
 The silent lecture of death's Sabbath-hour : 
 One voice that silence breaks — the prayer is said, 
 And the last rite man pays to man is paid ; 
 The plashing waters mark his resting-place, 
 And fold him round in one long, cold embrace , 
 Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er, 
 Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more ; 
 Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep, 
 With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep. 
 
 " Alps rise on Alps" — in vain my muse essays 
 To lay the spirit that she dared to raise : 
 What spreading scenes of rapture and of wo, 
 With rose and cypress lure me as I go. 
 In every question and in every glance, 
 In folly's wonder and in wisdom's trance, 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 153 
 
 In all of life, nor yet of life alone, 
 In all beyond, this mighty power we own. 
 We would unclasp the mystic book of fate, 
 And trace the paths of all we love and hate ; 
 The father's heart would learn his children's 
 
 doom, 
 Even when that heart is crumbling in the tomb ; 
 If they must sink in guilt, or soar to fame, 
 And leave a hated or a hallow'd name ; 
 By hope elated, or depress'd by doubt, 
 Even in the death-pang he would find it out. 
 
 What boots it to your dust, your son were born 
 An empire's idol or a rabble's scorn 1 
 Think ye the franchised spirit shall return, 
 To share his triumph, his disgrace to mourn 1 
 Ah, Curiosity ! by thee inspired, 
 This truth to know how oft has man inquired ! 
 And is it fancy all ] can reason say 
 Earth's loves must moulder with earth's moulder- 
 ing clay 1 
 That death can chill the father's sacred glow, 
 And hush the throb that none but mothers know ? 
 Must we believe those tones of dear delight, 
 The morning welcome and the sweet good-night, 
 The kind monition and the well-earn'd praise, 
 That won and warm'd us in our earlier days, 
 Turn'd, as they fell, to cold and common air 1 — 
 Speak, proud Philosophy ! the truth declare ! 
 
 Yet, no, the fond delusion, if no more, 
 We would not yield for wisdom's cheerless lore ; 
 A tender creed they hold, who dare believe 
 The dead return, with them to joy or grieve. 
 How sweet, while lingering slow on shore or hill, 
 When all the pleasant sounds of earth are still, 
 When the round moon rolls through the unpillar'd 
 
 skies, 
 And stars look down as they were angels' eyes, 
 How sweet to deem our lost, adored ones nigh, 
 And hear their voices in the night-winds sigh. 
 Full many ah idle dream that hope had broke, 
 And the awed heart to holy goodness woke ; 
 Full many a felon's guilt in thought had died, 
 Fear'd he his father's spirit by his side ; — 
 Then let that fear, that hope, control the mind ; 
 Still let us question, still no answer find ; 
 Let Curiosity of Heaven inquire, 
 Nor earth's cold dogmas quench the ethereal fire. 
 Nor even to life, nor death, nor time confined — 
 The dread hereafter fills the exploring mind ; 
 We burst the grave, profane the coffin's lid, 
 Unwisely ask of all so wisely hid ; 
 Eternity's dark record we would read, 
 Mysteries, unravell'd yet by mortal creed ; 
 Of life to come, unending joy and wo, 
 And all that holy wranglers dream below; 
 To find their jarring dogmas out we long, 
 Or which is right, or whether all be wrong; 
 Things of an hour, we would invade His throne, 
 And find out Him, the Everlasting One ! 
 Faith we may boast, undarken'd by a doubt, 
 We thirst to find each awful secret out ; 
 Hope may sustain, and innocence impart 
 Her sweet specific to the fearless heart ; 
 The inquiring spirit will not be controll'd, 
 We would make certain all, and all behold. 
 
 Unfathom'd well-head of the boundless soul ! 
 Whose living waters lure us as they roll, 
 From thy pure wave one cheering hope we draw — 
 Man, man at least shall spurn proud Nature's law. 
 All that have breath, but he, lie down content, 
 Life's purpose served, indeed, when life is spent; 
 All as in Paradise the same are found ; 
 The beast, whose footstep shakes the solid ground, 
 The insect living on a summer spire, 
 The bird, whose pinion courts the sunbeam's fire ; 
 In lair and nest, in way and want, the same 
 As when their sires sought Adam for a name : 
 Their be-all and their end-all here below, 
 They nothing need beyond, nor need to know; 
 Earth and her hoards their every want supply, 
 They revel, rest, then, fearless, hopeless, die. 
 But Man, his Maker's likeness, lord of earth, 
 Who owes to Nature little but his birth, 
 Shakes down her puny chains, her wants, and woes. 
 One world subdues, and for another glows. 
 See him, the feeblest, in his cradle laid; 
 See him, the mightiest, in his mind array'd ! 
 How wide the gulf he clears, how bold the flight 
 That bears him upward to the realms of light ! 
 By restless Curiosity inspired, 
 Through all his subject world he roves untired : 
 Looks back and scans the infant days of yore, 
 On to the time when time shall be no more ; 
 Even in life's parting throb its spirit burns, 
 And, shut from earth, to heaven more warmly 
 
 turns. 
 Shall he alone, of mortal dwellers here, 
 Thus soar aloft to sink in mid-career ! 
 Less favour'd than a worm, shall his stern doom 
 Lock up these seraph longings in the tomb 1 — 
 O Thou, whose fingers raised us from the dust, 
 Till there we sleep again, be this our trust : 
 This sacred hunger marks the immortal mind, 
 By Thee 'twas given, for Thee, for heaven design d; 
 There the rapt spirit, from earth's grossness freed, 
 Shall see, and know, and be like Thee indeed. 
 Here let me pause — no further I rehearse 
 What claims a loftier soul, a nobler verse ; 
 The mountain's foot I have but loiter'd round, 
 Not dared to scale its highest, holiest ground ; 
 But ventured on the pebbly shore to stray, 
 While the broad ocean all before me lay ; — 
 How bright the boundless prospect there on high ! 
 How rich the pearls that here all hidden lie ! 
 But not for me — to life's coarse service sold, 
 Where thought lies barren and naught breeds but 
 
 gold — 
 'T is yours, ye favour'd ones, at whose command 
 From the cold world I ventured, here to stand : 
 Ye who were lapp'd in Wisdom's murmuring 
 
 bowers, 
 Who still to bright improvement yield your hours ; 
 To you the privilege and the power belong, 
 To give my theme the grace of living song ; 
 Yours be the flapping of the eagle's wing, 
 To dare the loftiest crag, and heavenward spring ; 
 Mine the light task to hop from spray to spray, 
 Bless'd if I charm one summer hour away. 
 One summer hour — its golden sands have run, 
 And the poor labour of the bard is done. — ■ 
 
154 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 Yet, ere I fling aside my humble lyre, 
 Let one fond wish its trembling strings inspire ; 
 Fancy the task to Feeling shall resign, 
 And the heart prompt the warm, untutor'd line. 
 Peace to this ancient spot ! here, as of old, 
 May Learning dwell, and all her stores unfold ; 
 Still may her priests around these altars stand, 
 And train to truth the children of the land ; 
 Bright be their paths, within these shades who rest, 
 These brother-bands — beneath his guidance bless'd, 
 Who, with their fathers, here turn'd wisdom's page, 
 Who comes to them the statesman and the sage. 
 Praise be his portion in his labours here, 
 The praise that cheer'daKinKLAND's mild career; 
 The love that finds in every breast a shrine, 
 When zeal and gentleness with wisdom join. 
 Here may he sit, while race succeeding race 
 Go proudly forth his parent care to grace; 
 In head and heart by him prepared to rise, 
 To take their stations with the good and wise : 
 This crowning recompense to him be given, 
 To see them guard on earth and guide to heaven ; 
 Thus, in their talents, in their virtues bless'd, 
 be his ripest years his happiest and his best ! 
 
 SHAKSPEARE ODE.* 
 
 God of the glorious lyre ! 
 Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang, 
 
 While Jove's exulting choir 
 Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang — 
 Come ! bless the service and the shrine 
 We consecrate to thee and thine. 
 
 Fierce from the frozen north, 
 When Havoc led his legions forth, 
 O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyer 
 spread : 
 In dust the sacred statue slept, 
 Fair Science round her altars wept, 
 And Wisdom cowl'd his head. 
 
 At length, Olympian lord of morn, 
 The raven veil of night was torn, 
 
 When, through golden clouds descending, 
 Thou didst hold thy radiant flight, 
 
 O'er Nature's lovely pageant bending, 
 Till Avon rolled, all sparkling to thy sight ! 
 
 There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade, 
 Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed minstrel 
 stray'd. 
 Lighting there and lingering long, 
 Thou didst teach the bard his song; 
 
 Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, 
 And round his brows a garland curl'd ; 
 
 On his lips thy spirit fell, 
 And bade him wake and warm the world ! 
 
 Then Shakspeatie rose ! 
 Across the trembling strings 
 His daring hand he flings, 
 And, lo ! a new creation glows ! 
 
 * Delivered in the Boston Theatre, in 1823, at the exhi- 
 bition of a pageant in honour of Shakspeare. 
 
 There, clustering round, submissive to his will, 
 Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil. 
 
 Madness, with his frightful scream, 
 Vengeance, leaning on his lance, 
 Avarice, with his blade and beam, 
 Hatred, blasting with a glance ; 
 Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars, 
 And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and mur- 
 ders, yet adores. 
 
 Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit, 
 Waking laughter's merry swell, 
 Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, 
 That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes 
 his bell. 
 
 Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, 
 Kiss'd by the virgin moon's cold beam, 
 Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, 
 And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes, 
 Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest, 
 Beneath the bubbling wave, that shrouds her 
 maniac breast. 
 
 Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, 
 Now drooping o'er the hallow'd tomb 
 Where his plighted victims lie — 
 Where they met, but met to die : 
 And now, when crimson buds are sleeping, 
 Through the dewy arbour peeping, 
 Where Beauty's child, the frowning world 
 forgot, 
 To youth's devoted tale is listening, 
 Rapture on her dark lash glistening, 
 While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard 
 the happy spot. 
 
 Thus rise the phantom throng, 
 Obedient to their master's song, 
 And lead in willing chain the wandering soul along, 
 For other worlds war's Great One sigh'd in vain — 
 O'er other worlds see Shakspeare rove and reign ! 
 The rapt magician of his own wild lay, 
 Earth and her tribes his mystic wand obey. 
 Old Ocean trembles, Thunder cracks the skies, 
 Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale spectres rise : 
 Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep, 
 And faithless Guilt unseals the lip of Sleep : 
 Time yields his trophies up, and Death restores 
 The mouldered victims of his voiceless shores. 
 The fireside legend, and the faded page, 
 The crime that cursed, the deed that bless'd an 
 
 age, 
 All, all come forth, the good to charm and cheer, 
 To scourge bold Vice, and start the generous 
 
 tear; 
 With pictured Folly gazing fools to shame, 
 And guide young Glory's foot along the path of 
 Fame. 
 
 Lo ! hand in hand, 
 Hell's juggling sisters stand, 
 To greet their victim from the fight ; 
 
 Group'd on the blasted heath, 
 They tempt him to the work of death, 
 Then melt in air, and mock his wondering 
 sight. 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 155 
 
 In midnight's hallow'd hour 
 He seeks the fatal tower, 
 Where the lone raven, perch'd on high, 
 Pours to the sullen gale 
 Her hoarse, prophetic wail, 
 And croaks the dreadful moment nigh. 
 See, by the phantom dagger led, 
 
 Pale, guilty thing, 
 Slowly he steals with silent tread, 
 And grasps his coward steel to smite his sleeping 
 king. 
 Hark ! 't is the signal bell, 
 Struck by that bold and unsex'd one, 
 Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone ; 
 His ear hath caught the knell — 
 'T is done ! 't is done ! 
 Behold him from the chamber rushing, 
 Where his dead monarch's blood is gushing: 
 Look, where he trembling stands, 
 
 Sad, gazing there, 
 Life's smoking crimson on his hands, 
 And in his felon heart the worm of wild despair. 
 
 Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering ! 
 
 There flit the slaves of conscience round, 
 With boding tongues foul murderers num- 
 bering ; 
 Sleep's leaden portals catch the sound. 
 In his dream of blood for mercy quaking, 
 At his own dull scream behold him waking ! 
 Soon that dream to fate shall turn, 
 For him the living furies burn; 
 For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak, 
 And chides the lagging night, and whets her hun- 
 gry beak. 
 Hark ! the trumpet's warning breath 
 Echoes round the vale of death. 
 Unhorsed, unhelm'd, disdaining shield, 
 The panting tyrant scours the field. 
 Vengeance ! he meets thy dooming blade! 
 The scourge of earth, the scorn of heaven, 
 He falls ! unwept and unforgiven, 
 And all his guilty glories fade. 
 Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies, 
 And hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes ! 
 
 Behold yon crownless king — 
 
 Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire — 
 Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring, 
 And burst their streams of flood and fire ! 
 He gave them all — the daughters of his love : 
 That recreant pair! they drive him forth to 
 rove; 
 In such a night of wo, 
 The cubless regent of the wood 
 Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood, 
 And caverns with her foe ! 
 Yet one was ever kind : 
 Why lingers she behind 1 
 pity ! — view him by her dead form kneeling, 
 Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling. 
 His aching eyeballs strain, 
 To see those curtain'd orbs unfold, 
 That beauteous bosom heave again : 
 
 But all is dark &nd cold. 
 In agony the father shakes ; 
 
 Grief's choking note 
 Swells in his throat, 
 Each wither'd heart-string tugs and breaks ! 
 Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes, 
 And on her marble lips his last, his death-ldss 
 breathes. 
 
 Down! trembling wing: shall insect weakness keep 
 The sun-defying eagle's sweep 1 
 A mortal strike celestial strings, 
 And feebly echo what a seraph sings 1 
 
 Who now shall grace the glowing throne, 
 Where, all unrivall'd, all alone, 
 Bold Shakspeare sat, and look'd creation through, 
 The minstrel monarch of the worlds he drew 1 
 
 That throne is cold — that lyre in death unstrung, 
 On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung. 
 Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps, 
 One spot shall spare — the grave where Sh akspe are 
 
 sleeps. 
 Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, 
 But Nature's laureate bards shall never die. 
 Art's chisell'd boast and Glory's trophied shore 
 Must live in numbers, or can live no more. 
 While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may 
 
 claim, 
 Still roars the Olympic car in Pindar's fame: 
 Troy's doubtful walls, in ashes pass'd away, 
 Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay ; 
 Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes, 
 Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains ; 
 So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, 
 On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles, 
 To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend, 
 And all her triumphs in her Shakspeare end ! 
 
 O thou ! to whose creative power 
 
 We dedicate the festal hour, 
 While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand, 
 Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipp'd 
 
 band — 
 Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown, 
 Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. 
 Deep in the west, as Independence roves, 
 His banners planting round the land he loves, 
 Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace, 
 In Time's full hour shall spring a glorious race: 
 Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear, 
 And deck for thee the vaulted temple there. 
 
 Our Roman-hearted fathers broke 
 
 Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; 
 
 But thou, harmonious monarch of the mind, 
 
 Around their sons a gentler chain shall bind ; 
 
 Still o'er our land shall Albion's sceptre wave, 
 
 And what her mighty lion lost, her mightier swan 
 
 shall save. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 We are but two — the others sleep 
 Through death's untroubled night ; 
 
 We are but two — O, let us keep 
 The link that binds us bright. 
 
156 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
 That warms us is the same ; 
 
 That good old man — his honest blood 
 Alike we fondly claim. 
 
 We in one mother's arms were lock'd- 
 
 Long be her love repaid ; 
 In the same cradle we were rock'd, 
 
 Round the same hearth we play'd. 
 
 Our boyish sports were all the same, 
 
 Each little joy and wo ; — 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame, 
 
 Lit up so long ago. 
 
 We are but two — be that the band 
 
 To hold us till we die ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 
 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
 ART. 
 
 When, from the sacred garden driven, 
 
 Man fled before his Maker's wrath, 
 An angel left her place in heaven, 
 
 And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path. 
 "T was Art ! sweet Art ! new radiance broke 
 
 Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, 
 And thus with seraph voice she spoke : 
 
 " The curse a blessing shall be found." 
 
 She led him through the trackless wild, 
 
 Where noontide sunbeam never blazed ; 
 The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled, 
 
 And Nature gladden'd as she gazed. 
 Earth's thousand tribes of living things, 
 
 At Art's command, to him are given; 
 The village grows, the city springs, 
 
 And point their spires of faith to heaven. 
 
 He rends the oak — and bids it ride, 
 
 To guard the shores its beauty graced ; 
 He smites the rock — upheaved in pride, 
 
 See towers of strength and domes of taste. 
 Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, 
 
 Fire bears his banner on the wave, 
 He bids the mortal poison heal, 
 
 And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. 
 
 He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, 
 
 Admiring beauty's lap to fill ; 
 He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, 
 
 And mocks his own Creator's skill. 
 With thoughts that fill his glowing soul, 
 
 He bids the ore illume the page, 
 And, proudly scorning Time's control, 
 
 Commerces with an unborn age. 
 
 In fields of air he writes his name, 
 
 And treads the chambers of the sky, 
 He reads the stars, and grasps the flame 
 
 That quivers round the throne on high. 
 In war renown'd, in peace sublime, 
 
 He moves in greatness and in grace; 
 His power, subduing space and time, 
 
 Links realm to realm, and race to race. 
 
 "LOOK ON THIS PICTURE." 
 
 0, it is life ! departed days 
 Fling back their brightness while I gaze : 
 'Tis Emma's self — this brow so fair, 
 Half-curtain'd in this glossy hair, 
 These eyes, the very home of love, 
 The dark twin arches traced above, 
 These red-ripe lips that almost speak, 
 The fainter blush of this pure cheek, 
 The rose and lily's beauteous strife — 
 It is — ah no ! — 'tis all but life. 
 
 'Tis all but life — art could not save 
 
 Thy graces, Emma, from the grave ; 
 
 Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, 
 
 Thy love-lit eyes have look'd their last ; 
 
 Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, 
 
 All we adored of thee is hid ; 
 
 Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, 
 
 Is throbless in the narrow cell ; 
 
 Thy gentle voice shall charm no more ; 
 
 Its last, last, joyful note is o'er. 
 
 Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, 
 The requiem of the fair and young ; 
 The theme is old, alas ! how old, 
 Of grief that will not be controll'd, 
 Of sighs that speak a father's wo, 
 Of pangs that none but mothers know, 
 Of friendship, with its bursting heart, 
 Doom'd from the idol-one to part — 
 Still its sad debt must feeling pay, 
 Till feeling, too, shall pass away. 
 
 O say, why age, and grief, and pain 
 Shall long to go, but long in vain ; 
 Why vice is left to mock at time, 
 And, gray in years, grow gray in crime ; 
 While youth, that every eye makes glad, 
 And beauty, all in radiance clad, 
 And goodness, cheering every heart, 
 Come, but come only to depart ; 
 Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, 
 Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away. 
 
 'Tis darkness all ! black banners wave 
 
 Round the cold borders of the grave ; 
 
 There, when in agony we bend 
 
 O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, 
 
 One only comfort then we know — 
 
 We, too, shall quit this world of wo ; 
 
 We, too, shall find a quiet place 
 
 With the dear lost ones of our race ; 
 
 Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, 
 
 And life's sad story find an end. 
 
 And is this all — ^this mournful doom 1 
 Beams no glad light beyond the tomb ? 
 Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride ; 
 They do not quench the orb they hide ; 
 Still there it wheels — the tempest o'er, 
 In a bright sky to burn once more ; 
 So, far above the clouds of time, 
 Faith can behold a world sublime — 
 There, when the storms of life are past, 
 The light beyond shall break at last. 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 157 
 
 CENTENNIAL ODE.* 
 
 Not to the pagan's mount I turn 
 
 For inspirations now ; 
 Olympus and its gods I spurn — 
 
 Pure One, be with me, Thou ! 
 
 Thou, in whose awful name, 
 
 From suffering and from shame 
 Our fathers fled, and braved a pathless sea ; 
 
 Thou, in whose holy fear, 
 
 They fix'd an empire here, 
 And gave it to their children and to Thee. 
 
 And You ! ye bright-ascended Dead, 
 
 Who scorn'd the bigot's yoke, 
 Come, round this place your influence shed ; 
 
 Your spirits I invoke. 
 
 Come, as ye came of yore, 
 
 When on an unknown shore 
 Your daring hands the flag of faith unfurl'd, 
 
 To float sublime, 
 
 Through future time 
 The beacon-banner of another world. 
 
 Behold! they come — those sainted forms, 
 Unshaken through the strife of storms ; 
 Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, 
 And earth puts on its rudest frown ; 
 But colder, ruder was the hand 
 That drove them from their own fair land ; 
 
 Their own fair land — refinement's chosen seat, 
 
 Art's trophied dwelling, Learning's green retreat; 
 
 By valour guarded, and by victory crown' d, 
 
 For all, but gentle charity renown'd. 
 With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart, 
 Even from that land they dared to part, 
 
 And burst each tender tie ; 
 Haunts, where their sunny youth was pass'd, 
 Homes, where they fondly hoped at last 
 
 In peaceful age to die. 
 Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurn'd ; 
 
 Their fathers' hallow'd graves ; 
 And to a world of darkness turn'd, 
 Beyond a world of waves. 
 
 When Israel's race from bondage fled, 
 Signs from on high the wanderers led ; 
 But here — Heaven hung no symbol here, 
 Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer ; 
 They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, 
 Naught but the fagot's guilty light ; 
 The cloud they gazed at was the smoke 
 That round their murder'd brethren broke. 
 Nor power above, nor power below 
 Sustain'd them in their hour of wo ; 
 
 A fearful path they trod, 
 And dared a fearful doom ; 
 
 To build an altar to their God, 
 And find a quiet tomb. 
 
 * Pronounced at the Centennial Celebration of the 
 Settlement of Boston, September, 1830. 
 
 But not alone, not all unbless'd, 
 The exile sought a place of rest ; 
 One dared with him to burst the knot 
 That bound her to her native spot ; 
 Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke, 
 As round their bark the billows broke ; 
 She through the midnight watch was there, 
 With him to bend her knees in prayer ; 
 She trod the shore with girded heart, 
 Through good and ill to claim her part ; 
 In life, in death, with him to seal 
 Her kindred love, her kindred zeal. 
 
 They come ; — that coming who shall tell 1 
 The eye may weep, the heart may swell, 
 But the poor tongue in vain essays 
 A fitting note for them to raise. 
 We hear the after-shout that rings 
 For them who smote the power of kings ; 
 The swelling triumph all would share, 
 But who the dark defeat would dare, 
 And boldly meet the wrath and wo 
 That wait the unsuccessful blow'? 
 It were an envied fate, we deem, 
 To live a land's recorded theme, 
 
 When we are in the tomb ; 
 We, too, might yield the joys of home, 
 And waves of winter darkness roam, 
 
 And tread a shore of gloom — 
 Knew we those waves, through coming time, 
 Should roll our names to every clime ; 
 Felt we that millions on that shore 
 Should stand, our memory to adore. 
 But no glad vision burst in light 
 Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight ; 
 Their hearts no proud hereafter swell'd ; 
 Deep shadows veil'd the way they held ; 
 The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
 Their monument, a grave without a name. 
 
 Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, 
 
 On yonder ice-bound rock, 
 Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 
 
 To meet fate's rudest shock. 
 Though anguish rends the father's breast, 
 For them, his dearest and his best, 
 
 With him the waste who trod — 
 Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds 
 Upon her children's houseless heads — 
 
 The Christian turns to God ! 
 
 Tin. 
 In grateful adoration now, 
 Upon the barren sands they bow. 
 What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer 
 As bursts in desolation there ] 
 What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 
 As waits to crown that feeble hour 1 
 There into life an infant empire springs ! 
 There falls the iron from the soul ; 
 There Liberty's young accents roll 
 Up to the King of kings ! 
 
158 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 To fair creation's farthest bound 
 That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; 
 The dreaming nations shall awake, 
 And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake. 
 Pontiff and prince, your sway 
 Must crumble from that day ; 
 Before the loftier throne of Heaven 
 The hand is raised, the pledge is given — 
 One monarch to obey, one creed to own, 
 That monarch, God ; that creed, His word alone. 
 
 Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
 Of days and deeds to reverence dear; 
 A zeal like this what pious legends tell 1 
 On kingdoms built 
 In blood and guilt, 
 The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell — 
 But what exploits with theirs shall page, 
 
 Who rose to bless their kind — 
 Who left their nation and their age, 
 Man's spirit to unbind ? 
 
 Who boundless seas pass'd o'er, 
 And boldly met, in every path, 
 Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, 
 To dedicate a shore, 
 Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow, 
 And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
 Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, 
 And set up there an everlasting home'! 
 
 0, many a time it hath been told, 
 The story of those men of old. 
 
 For this fair Poetry hath wreathed 
 Her sweetest, purest flower ; 
 
 For this proud Eloquence hath breathed 
 His strain of loftiest power ; 
 Devotion, too, hath linger'd round 
 Each spot of consecrated ground, 
 
 And hill and valley bless'd ; 
 There, where our banish'd fathers stray'd, 
 There, where they loved, and wept, and pray'd, 
 
 There, where their ashes rest. 
 
 And never may they rest unsung, 
 While Liberty can find a tongue. 
 Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them, 
 More deathless than the diadem, 
 Who, to life's noblest end, 
 Gave up life's noblest powers, 
 
 And bade the legacy descend 
 Down, down to us and ours. 
 
 By centuries now the glorious hour we mark, 
 When to these shores they steer'd their shatter'd 
 
 bark; 
 And still, as other centuries melt away, 
 Shall other ages come to keep the day. 
 When we are dust, who gather round this spot, 
 Our joys, our griefs, our very names forgot, 
 Here shall the dwellers of the land be seen, 
 To keep the memory of the Pilgrims green. 
 
 Nor here alone their praises shall go round, 
 Nor here alone their virtues shall abound — 
 Broad as the empire of the free shall spread, 
 Far as the foot of man shall dare to tread, 
 Where oar hath never dipp'd, where human tongue 
 Hath never through the woods of ages rung, 
 There, where the eagle's scream and wild wolf's cry 
 Keep ceaseless day and night through earth and sky, 
 Even there, in after time, as toil and taste 
 Go forth in gladness to redeem the waste, 
 Even there shall rise, as grateful myriads throng, 
 Faith's holy prayer and Freedom's joyful song ; 
 There shall the flame that flash'd from yonder Rock, 
 Light up the land, till nature's final shock. 
 
 Yet while, by life's endearments crown'd, 
 To mark this day we gather round, 
 And to our nation's founders raise 
 The voice of gratitude and praise, 
 Shall not one line lament that lion race, 
 For us struck out from sweet creation's face? 
 Alas ! alas ! for them — those fated bands, 
 Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green 
 
 lands; 
 Our fathers call'd them savage — them,whose bread 
 In the dark hour, those famish'd fathers fed ; 
 We call them savage, we, 
 Who hail the struggling free 
 Of every clime and hue ; 
 We, who would save 
 The branded slave, 
 And give him liberty he never knew ; 
 We, who but now have caught the tale 
 That turns each listening tyrant pale, 
 And bless'd the winds and waves that bore 
 The tidings to our kindred shore ; 
 The triumph-tidings pealing from that land 
 Where up in arms insulted legions stand ; 
 There, gathering round his bold compeers, 
 Where He, our own, our welcomed One, 
 Riper in glory than in years, 
 Down from his forfeit throne 
 A craven monarch hurl'd, 
 And spurn'd him forth, a proverb to the world ! 
 
 We call them savage — 0, be just ! 
 
 Their outraged feelings scan ; 
 A voice comes forth, 'tis from the dust — > 
 
 The savage was a man ! 
 Think ye he loved not ? Who stood by, 
 
 And in his toils took part 1 
 Woman was there to bless his eye — 
 
 The savage had a heart ! 
 Think ye he pray'd not 1 When on high 
 
 He heard the thunders roll, 
 What bade him look beyond the sky ? 
 
 The savage had a soul ! 
 
 I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, 
 
 Yet for the red man dare to plead — 
 
 We bow to Heaven's recorded laws, 
 He turn'd to nature for a creed ; 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 159 
 
 Beneath the pillar'd dome, 
 We seek our Gon in prayer ; 
 
 Through boundless woods he loved to roam, 
 And the Great Spirit worshipp'd there. 
 But one, one fellow- throb with us he felt ; 
 To one divinity with us he knelt ; 
 Freedom, the self-same Freedom we adore, 
 Bade him defend his violated shore. 
 
 He saw the cloud, ordain'd to grow, 
 
 And burst upon his hills in wo ; 
 
 He saw his people withering by, 
 
 Beneath the invader's evil eye ; 
 Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones ; 
 
 At midnight hour he woke to gaze 
 
 Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
 And listen to his children's dying groans. 
 
 He saw — and, maddening at the sight, 
 
 Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; 
 
 To tiger rage his soul was driven ; 
 
 Mercy was not — nor sought nor given ; 
 
 The pale man from his lands must fly ; 
 
 He would be free — or he would die. 
 
 And was this savage 1 say, 
 Ye ancient few, 
 Who struggled through 
 Young Freedom's trial-day — 
 What first your sleeping wrath awoke 1 
 On your own shores war's larum broke ; 
 What turn'd to gall even kindred blood ? 
 Round your own homes the oppressor stood ; 
 This every warm affection chill'd, 
 This every heart with vengeance thrill'd, 
 And strengthen'd every hand ; 
 From mound to mound 
 The word went round — 
 " Death for our native land !" 
 
 Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh 
 For them who thus could dare to die 1 
 Are all your own dark hours forgot, 
 
 Of soul-sick suffering here 1 
 Your pangs, as, from yon mountain spot, 
 Death spoke in every booming shot 
 
 That knell'd upon your ear '! 
 How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell, 
 As round your knees your children's children hang, 
 
 Of them, the gallant ones, ye loved so well, 
 Who to the conflict for their country sprang ! 
 In pride, in all the pride of wo, • 
 
 Ye tell of them, the brave laid low, 
 
 Who for their birth-place bled ; 
 In pride, the pride of triumph then, 
 Ye tell of them, the matchless men, 
 
 From whom the invaders fled. 
 
 And ye, this holy place who throng, 
 The annual theme to hear, 
 And bid the exulting song 
 Sound their great names from year to year ; 
 Ye, who invoke the chisel's breathing grace, 
 In marble majesty their forms to trace ; 
 
 Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise, 
 To guard their dust and speak their praise ; 
 Ye, who, should some other band 
 With hostile foot defile the land, 
 Feel that ye like them would wake, 
 Like them the yoke of bondage break, 
 Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn, 
 Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn — 
 Say, have not ye one line for those, 
 
 One brother-line to spare, 
 Who rose but as your fathers rose, 
 And dared as ye would dare 1 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Alas ! for them — their day is o'er, 
 Their fires are out from hill and shore ; 
 No more for them the wild deer bounds ; 
 The plough is on their hunting-grounds ; 
 The pale man's axe rings through their woods 
 The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, 
 
 Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
 Their children — look, by power oppress'd, 
 Beyond the mountains of the west, 
 
 Their children go — to die. 
 
 0, doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close 
 
 Around their triumphs and their woes. 
 
 On other realms, whose suns have set, 
 
 Reflected radiance lingers yet ; 
 
 There sage and bard have shed a light 
 
 That never shall go down in night ; 
 
 There time-crown'd columns stand on high, 
 
 To tell of them who cannot die ; 
 
 Even we, who then were nothing, kneel 
 In homage there, and join earth's general peal. 
 But the doom'd Indian leaves behind no trace, 
 To save his own, or serve another race ; 
 With his frail breath his power has pass'd away, 
 His deeds, his thoughts are buried with his clay ; 
 
 Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page 
 
 Shall link him to a future age, 
 
 Or give him with the past a rank ; 
 His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
 His history but a tale of wrong and wo, 
 
 His very name must be a blank. 
 
 Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; 
 
 O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; 
 No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, 
 To bless his coming and embalm his end ; 
 Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; 
 By foes alone his death-song must be sung ;> 
 
 No chronicles but theirs shall tell 
 His mournful doom to future times ; 
 
 May these upon his virtues dwell, 
 And in his fate forget his crimes. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Peace to the mingling dead i 
 
 Beneath the turf we tread, 
 
 Chief, pilgrim, patriot sleep. 
 All gone ! how changed ! and yet the same 
 As when Faith's herald bark first came 
 
 In sorrow o'er the deep. 
 
160 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 Still, from his noonday height, 
 The sun looks down in light ; 
 Along the trackless realms of space, 
 The stars still run their midnight race ; 
 The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore 
 Still echoes to the same wild ocean's roar; — 
 But where the bristling night-wolf sprang 
 
 Upon his startled prey, 
 "Where the fierce Indian's war-cry rang 
 
 Through many a bloody fray, 
 And where the stern old pilgrim pray'd 
 
 In solitude and gloom, 
 Where the bold patriot drew his blade, 
 And dared a patriot's doom, — 
 Behold ! in Liberty's unclouded blaze 
 We lift our heads, a race of other days. 
 
 xxnr. 
 All gone! the wild beast's lair is trodden out; 
 Proud temples stand in beauty there ; 
 Our children raise their merry shout 
 
 Where once the death-whoop vex'd the air. 
 The pilgrim — seek yon ancient mound of graves, 
 Beneath that chapel's holy shade ; 
 Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves, 
 Who, who within that spot are laid : 
 The patriot — go, to Fame's proud mount repair; 
 The tardy pile, slow rising there, 
 With tongueless eloquence shall tell 
 Of them who for their country fell. 
 
 xxiv. 
 
 All gone ! 't is ours, the goodly land — 
 
 Look round — the heritage behold ; 
 Go forth — upon the mountains stand ; 
 Then, if ye can, be cold. 
 See living vales by living waters bless'd ; 
 
 Their wealth see earth's dark caverns yield ; 
 See ocean roll, in glory dress'd, 
 
 For all a treasure, and round all a shield ; 
 Hark to the shouts of praise 
 Rejoicing millions raise ; 
 Gaze on the spires that rise 
 To point them to the skies, 
 Unfearing and unfear'd ; 
 Then, if ye can, O, then forget 
 To whom ye owe the sacred debt — 
 
 The pilgrim race revered ! 
 The men who set Faith's burning lights 
 Upon these everlasting heights, 
 To guide their children through the years of time ; 
 The men that glorious law who taught, 
 Unshrinking liberty of thought, 
 And roused the nations with the truth sublime. 
 
 xxr. 
 Forget 1 No, never— ne'er shall die 
 
 Those names to memory dear; 
 I read the promise in each eye 
 That beams upon me here. 
 Descendants of a twice-recorded race ! 
 Long may ye here your lofty lineage grace. 
 'T is not for you home's tender tie 
 
 To rend, and brave the waste of waves; 
 'T is not for you to rouse and die, 
 Or yield, and live a line of slaves. 
 
 The deeds of danger and of death are done: 
 
 Upheld by inward power alone, 
 
 Unhonour'd by the world's loud tongue, 
 
 'T is yours to do unknown, 
 And then to die unsung. 
 To other days, to other men belong 
 The penman's plaudit, and the poet's song ; 
 
 Enough for glory has been wrought ; 
 
 By you be humbler praises sought ; 
 
 In peace and truth life's journey run, 
 And keep unsullied what your fathers won. 
 
 Take then my prayer, ye dwellers of this spot! 
 Be yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot. 
 I plead not that ye bask 
 In the rank beams of vulgar fame ; 
 
 To light your steps, I ask 
 A purer and a holier flame. 
 No bloated growth I supplicate for you, 
 No pining multitude, no pamper'd few ; 
 'T is not alone to coffer gold, 
 Nor spreading borders to behold ; 
 'T is not fast-swelling crowds to win, 
 The refuse-ranks of want and sin. 
 This be the kind decree : 
 Be ye by goodness crown'd ; 
 Revered, though not renown'd ; 
 Poor, if Heaven will, but free ! 
 Free from the tyrants of the hour, 
 The clans of wealth, the clans of power, 
 The coarsf", cold scorners of their God ; 
 Free from the taint of sin, 
 The leprosy that feeds within, 
 And free, in mercy, from the bigot's rod. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride, 
 
 Ye do not fear; 
 No conquest blade, in life-blood dyed, 
 
 Drops terror here, — 
 Let there not lurk a subtler snare, 
 For wisdom's footsteps to beware. 
 The shackle and the stake 
 
 Our fathers fled ; 
 Ne'er may their children wake 
 A fouler wrath, a deeper dread ; 
 Ne'er may the craft that fears the flesh to bind, 
 Lock its hard fetters on the mind ; 
 Quench'd be the fiercer flame 
 That kindles with a name ; 
 The pilgrim's faith, the pilgrim's zeal, 
 Let more than pilgrim kindness seal ; 
 Be purity of life the test, 
 Leave to the heart, to heaven, the rest. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 So, when our children turn the page, 
 To ask what triumphs mark'd our age — 
 What we achieved to challenge praise, 
 Through the long line of future days — 
 
 This let them read, and hence instruction draw: 
 "Here were the many bless'd, 
 Here found the virtues rest, 
 
 Faith link'd with Love, and Liberty with Law; 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 161' 
 
 Here industry to comfort led ; 
 
 Her book of light here learning spread ; 
 
 Here the warm heart of youth 
 Was woo'd to temperance and to truth; 
 
 Here hoary age was found, 
 By wisdom and by reverence crown'd. 
 No great but guilty fame 
 Here kindled pride, that should have kindled shame ; 
 These chose the better, happier part, 
 That pour'd its sunlight o'er the heart, 
 That crown'd their homes with peace and health, 
 And weigh'd Heaven's smile beyond earth's 
 wealth ; 
 Far from the thorny paths of strife 
 They stood, a living lesson to their race, 
 
 Rich in the charities of life, 
 Man in his strength, and woman in her grace ; 
 In purity and truth their pilgrim path they trod, 
 And when they served their neighbour, felt they 
 served their Gob." 
 
 This may not wake the poet's verse, 
 
 This souls of fire may ne'er rehearse 
 
 In crowd-delighting voice ; 
 
 Yet o'er the record shall the patriot bend, 
 
 His quiet praise the moralist shall lend, 
 
 And all the good rejoice. 
 
 This be our story, then, in that far day, 
 When others come their kindred debt to pay. 
 In that far day ] — 0, what shall be, 
 In this dominion of the free, 
 When we and ours have render'd up our trust, 
 And men unborn shall tread above our dust] 
 O, what shall be ? — He, He alone 
 The dread response can make, 
 Who sitteth on the only throne 
 That time shal^never shake : 
 Before whose all-beholding eyes 
 Ages sweep on, and empires sink and rise. 
 Then let the song, to Him begun, 
 
 To Him in reverence end ; 
 Look down in love, Eternal One, 
 
 And Thy good cause defend ; 
 Here, late and long, put forth thy hand, 
 To guard and guide the Pilgrim's land. 
 
 LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 Young mother ! what can feeble friendship say, 
 To soothe the anguish of this mournful day "? 
 They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled, 
 Know how the living sorrow for the dead ; 
 Each tutor'd voice, that seeks such grief to cheer, 
 Strikes cold uii r a the weeping parent's ear ; 
 I 've felt it a' ' alas ! too well I know 
 How vair < earthly power to hush thy wo ! 
 God ckcjer thee, childless mother ! 'tis not. given 
 For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven. 
 11 
 
 I 've felt it all — as thou art feeling now ; 
 Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow, 
 I 've sat and watch'd by dying beauty's bed, 
 And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed ; 
 I 've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face, 
 And vainly tried some comfort there to trace ; 
 I 've listen'd to the short and struggling breath ; 
 I 've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death ; 
 Like thee, I 've veil'd my head in speechless gloom, 
 And laid my first-born in the silent tomb. 
 
 I SEE THEE STILL. 
 
 " I rock'd her in the cradle, 
 And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. 
 What fireside circle hath not felt the charm 
 Of that sweet tie t The youngest ne'er grew old. 
 The fond endearments of our earlier days 
 We keep alive in them, and when they die, 
 Our youthful joys we bury with them." 
 
 I see thee still : 
 Remembrance, faithful to her trust, 
 Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; 
 Thou comest in the morning light, 
 Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night ; 
 In dreams I meet thee as of old : 
 Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, 
 And thy sweet voice is in my ear : 
 In every scene to memory dear 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still, 
 In every hallow'd token round ; 
 This little ring thy finger bound, 
 This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 
 This silken chain by thee was braided, 
 These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, 
 Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me ; 
 This book was thine, here didst thou read ; 
 This picture, ah ! yes, here, indeed, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still: 
 Here was thy summer noon's retreat, 
 Here was thy favourite fireside seat; 
 This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
 I sat and watch'd thy sad decay ; 
 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, 
 Here, on this pillow, thou didst die : 
 Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold ; 
 As then I saw thee, pale and cold, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still : 
 Thou art not in the grave confined — 
 Death cannot claim the immortal mind; 
 Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, 
 But goodness dies not in the dust ; 
 Thee, ! my sister, 'tis not thee 
 Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; 
 Thou to a fairer land art gone ; 
 There, let me hope, my journey done, 
 
 To see thee still ! 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF M. S. C. 
 
 I knew that we must part — day after day, 
 T saw the dread Destroyer win his way ; 
 That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, 
 As on my ear its prophet-warning fell ; 
 Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, 
 Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, 
 Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clang, 
 E.ich sweet "Good night" fell fainter from thy 
 
 tongue ; 
 I knew that we must part — no power could save 
 Thy quiet goodness from an early grave ; 
 Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they 
 
 cast, 
 Looking a sister's fondness to the last ; 
 Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek, 
 Thy voice — alas ! thou couldst but try to speak ; — 
 All told thy doom ; I felt it at my heart ; 
 The shaft had struck — I knew that we must part. 
 
 And we have parted, Mart — thou art gone ! 
 Gone in thine innocence, meek, suffering one. 
 Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep 
 So peacefully, it seem'd a sin to weep, 
 In those fond watchers who around thee stood, 
 Aiad felt, even then, that God, even then, was good. 
 Like stars that struggle through the clouds of 
 
 night, 
 Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light, 
 As if to thee, in that dread hour, 'twere given 
 To know on earth what faith believes of heaven ; 
 Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest, 
 Nor one, one pang the awful change confess'd. 
 Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face, 
 And touch'd each feature with a new-born grace ; 
 On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay, 
 And told that life's poor cares had pass'd away. 
 In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me ! 
 I ask no more than this — to die like thee. 
 
 But we have parted, Mary — thou art dead ! 
 On its last resting-place I laid thy head, 
 Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took 
 A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look ; 
 Those marble lips no kindred kiss return'd ; 
 From those veil'd orbs no glance responsive burn'd ; 
 Ah ! then I felt that thou hadst pass'd away, 
 That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay ; 
 And then came Memory, with her busy throng 
 Of tender images, forgotten long ; 
 Years hurried back, and as they swiftly roll'd, 
 I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old ; 
 Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew; 
 Manhood was moved, and Sorrow claim'd her due ; 
 Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started ; 
 I turn'd away — and felt that we had parted. — 
 
 But not forever — in the silent tomb, 
 Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room ; 
 A little while, a few short years of pain, 
 And, one by one, we'll come to thee again; 
 The kind old father shall seek out the place, 
 And rest with thee, the youngest of his race ; 
 The dear, dear mother, bent with age and grief, 
 fe'hal) lay her head by thine, in sweet relief; 
 
 Sister and brother, and that faithful friend, 
 True from the first, and tender to the end, — 
 All, all, in His good time, who placed us here, 
 To live, to love, to die, and disappear, 
 Shall come and make their quiet bed with thee, 
 Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree ; 
 With thee to sleep through death's long, dream- 
 less night, 
 With thee rise up and bless the morning light. 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING.* 
 
 We are all here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 All who hold each other dear. 
 Each chair is fill'd — we're all at home; 
 To-night let no cold stranger come : 
 It is not often thus around 
 Our old familiar hearth we're found: 
 Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; 
 For once be every care forgot; 
 Let gentle Peace assert her power, 
 And kind Affection rule the hour; 
 
 We're all — all here. 
 
 We 're not all here ! 
 Some are away — the dead ones dear, 
 Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth, 
 And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
 Look'd in and thinn'd our little band : 
 Some like a night-flash pass'd away, 
 And some sank, lingering, day by day ; 
 The quiet graveyard — some lie there — 
 And cruel Ocean has his share — 
 
 We 're not all here. ' 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Even they — the dead — though dead, so dear ; 
 Fond Memory, to her duty true, 
 Brings back their faded forms to view. 
 How life-like, through the mist of years, 
 Each well-remember'd face appears ! 
 We see them as in times long past ; 
 From each to each kind looks are cast; 
 We hear their words, their smiles behold ; 
 They 're round us as they were of old — 
 
 We are all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 You that I love with love so dear. 
 This may not long of us be said ; 
 Soon must we join the gather'd dead ; 
 And by the hearth we now sit round, 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 O ! then, that wisdom may we know, 
 Which yields a life of peace below ! 
 So, in the world to follow this, 
 May each repeat, in words of bliss, 
 
 We're all — all here! 
 
 * Written on the accidental meeting of all the surviving 
 members of a family. 
 
CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 163 
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 
 
 Gat, guiltless pair, 
 What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 
 
 Ye have no need of prayer, 
 Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here, 
 Where mortals to their Maker bend 1 
 
 Can your pure spirits fear 
 The God ye never could offend 1 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for which we come to weep. 
 
 Penance is not for you, 
 Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 
 
 To you 't is given 
 To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spread each wing, , 
 Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
 
 And join the choirs that sing 
 In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands. 
 
 Or, if ye stay, 
 To note the consecrated hour, 
 
 Teach me the airy Way, 
 And let me try your envied power. 
 
 Above the crowd, 
 On upward wings could I but fly, 
 
 I 'd bathe in you bright cloud, 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 'T were heaven indeed 
 Through fields of trackless light to soar, 
 
 On Nature's charms to feed, 
 And Nature's own great God adore. 
 
 DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 God of wisdom, God of might, 
 
 Father ! dearest name of all, 
 Bow thy throne and bless our rite ; 
 
 'T is thy children on thee call. 
 Glorious One ! look down from heaven, 
 
 Warm each heart and wake each vow ; 
 Unto Thee this house is given ; 
 
 With thy presence fill it now. 
 
 Fill it now ! on every soul 
 
 Shed the incense of thy grace, 
 While our anthem-echoes roll 
 
 Round the consecrated place ; 
 While thy holy page we read, 
 
 While the prayers Thou lovest ascend, 
 While thy cause thy servants plead, — 
 
 Fill this house, our God, our Friend. 
 
 Fill it now— O, fill it long ! 
 
 So, when death shall call us home, 
 Still to Thee, in many a throng, 
 
 May our children's children come. 
 Bless them, Father, long and late, 
 
 Blot their sins, their sorrows dry; 
 
 Make this place to them the gate 
 Leading to thy courts on high. 
 
 There, when time shall be no more, 
 
 When the feuds of earth are past, 
 May the tribes of every shore 
 
 Congregate in peace at last ! 
 Then to Thee, thou One all-wise, 
 
 Shall the gather'd millions sing, 
 Till the arches of the skies 
 
 With their hallelujahs ring. 
 
 TO MY CIGAR. 
 
 Yes, social friend, I love thee well, 
 
 In learned doctors' spite ; 
 Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, 
 
 And lap me in delight. 
 
 What though they tell, with phizzes long, 
 
 My years are sooner pass'd ? 
 I would reply, with reason strong, 
 
 They 're sweeter while they last. 
 
 And oft, mild friend, to me thou art 
 
 A monitor, though still ; 
 Thou speak' st a lesson to my heart, 
 
 Beyond the preacher's skill. 
 
 Thou'rt like the man of worth, who gives 
 
 To goodness every day, 
 The odour of whose virtues lives 
 
 When he has passed away. 
 
 When, in the lonely evening hour, 
 
 Attended but by thee, 
 O'er history's varied page I pore, 
 
 Man's fate in thine I see. 
 
 Oft as thy snowy column grows, 
 
 Then breaks and falls away, 
 Itoace how mighty realms thus rose, 
 
 Thus tumbled to decay. 
 
 A while, like thee, earth's masters burn, 
 And smoke and fume around, 
 
 And then, like thee, to ashes turn, 
 And mingle with the ground. 
 
 Life 's but a leaf adroitly roll'd, 
 And time 's the wasting breath, 
 
 That late or early, we behold, 
 Gives all to dusty death. 
 
 From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, 
 One common doom is pass'd : 
 
 Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe, 
 Must all burn out at last. 
 
 And what is he who smokes thee now 1 — 
 
 A little moving heap, 
 That soon like thee to fate must bow, 
 
 With thee in dust must sleep. 
 
 But though thy ashes downward go, 
 
 Thy essence rolls on high ; 
 Thus, when my body must lie low, 
 
 My soul shall cleave the sky. 
 
SEBA SMITH. 
 
 [Born, 1792.] 
 
 Seba Smith was born in Buckfield, Maine, on 
 the fourteenth of September, 1792 ; graduated at 
 Bowdoin College in 1818; and having studied the 
 law, settled in Portland, where his literary tastes led 
 him to a connection with the press, and he edited 
 successively the " Eastern Argus," and the " Port- 
 land Courier." It was during his residence in Port- 
 land that he originated the popular and natural cha- 
 racter of" Major Downing," which has served more 
 frequently and successfully than any other for the il- 
 lustration of New England peculiarites, in speech 
 and manners. When about thirty years of age, he 
 
 was married to Elizabeth Oakes Prince, who 
 has since been one of the most conspicuous literary 
 women of this country. In 1842 they removed to 
 New York, where Mr. Smith has published "Let- 
 ters of Major Jack Downing," " Powhattan, a Met- 
 rical Romance," "Way Down East, or Portraitures 
 of Yankee Life," "New Elements of Geometry," 
 dec. One of his earliest attempts in verse was 
 "An Auction Extraordinary," frequently quoted 
 as Ltjcretia Maria Davidson's. Among his mi- 
 nor poems several are dramatic and picturesque, 
 and noticeable for unusual force of description. 
 
 THE BURNING SHIP AT SEA. 
 
 The night was clear and mild, 
 
 And the breeze went softly by, 
 And the stars of heaven smiled 
 As they wandered up the sky ; 
 And there rode a gallant ship on the wave — 
 But many a hapless wight 
 Slept the sleep of death that night, 
 And before the morning light 
 
 Found a grave ! 
 All were sunk in soft repose 
 
 Save the watch upon the deck ; 
 Not a boding dream arose 
 Of the horrors of the wreck, 
 To the mother, or the child, or the sire ; 
 Till a shriek of wo profound, 
 Like a death-knell echo'd round — 
 With a wild and dismal sound, 
 
 A shriek of " fire !" 
 Now the flames are spreading fast — 
 
 With resistless rage they fly, 
 Up the shrouds and up the mast, 
 And are flickering to the sky ; 
 Now the deck is all a blaze ; now the rails — 
 There's no place to rest their feet; 
 Fore and aft the torches meet, 
 And a winged lightning sheet 
 Are the sails. 
 
 No one heard the cry of wo 
 
 But the sea-bird that flew by ; 
 There was hurrying to and fro, 
 But no hand to save was nigh; 
 Still before the burning foe they were driven— 
 Last farewells were uttered there, 
 With a wild and phrenzied stare, 
 And a short and broken prayer 
 
 Sent to Heaven. 
 
 Some leap over in the flood 
 
 To the death that waits them there ; 
 
 Others quench the flames with blood, 
 And expire in open air; 
 164 
 
 Some, a moment to escape from the grave, 
 On the bowsprit take a stand ; 
 But their death is near at hand — 
 Soon they hug the burning brand 
 
 On the wave. 
 From his briny ocean-bed, 
 
 When the morning sun awoke, 
 Lo, that gallant ship had fled ! 
 And a sable cloud of smoke 
 Was the monumental pyre that remained ; 
 But the sea-gulls round it fly, 
 With a quick and fearful cry, 
 And the brands that floated by 
 
 Blood had stained. 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 The cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
 
 And pathless was the dreary wild, 
 And mid the cheerless hours of night 
 
 A mother wander'd with her child : 
 As through the drifting snow she press'd, 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And colder still the winds did blow, 
 
 And darker hours of night came on, 
 And deeper grew the drifting snow: 
 
 Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was goiie: 
 " Oh, God !" she cried, in accents wild, 
 " If I must perish, save my child !" 
 She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, 
 
 And bared her bosom to the storm, 
 And round the child she wrapp'd the vest 
 
 And smiled to think her babe was warm. 
 With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
 And sunk upon her snowy bed. 
 At dawn a traveller passed by, 
 
 And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 
 The frost of death was in her eye, 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; 
 He moved the robe from off the child — 
 The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled ! 
 
N. L. FROTHINGHAM. 
 
 [Born, 1793.] 
 
 The Reverend Nathaniel Langdon Froth- 
 ingham, D.D., was born in Boston in the sum- 
 mer of 1793, and was graduated at Cambridge in 
 the class of 1811. While a student there he pro- 
 nounced the poem at the installation of Dr. Kirk- 
 land as president of the university, but his first 
 printed verses of any considerable extent were 
 the " Poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society" in 1813, which appeared in Mr. An- 
 drews Norton's "General Repository." The 
 year before this he became an instructor in rheto- 
 ric and oratory in the college, an office which he 
 was the first to hold, and in which he was suc- 
 ceeded by his friend J. M. Wainwright, after- 
 wards bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church 
 in New York. He remained in it till the spring 
 of 1815, when he was ordained as pastor of the 
 First Congregational Church in Boston. In this 
 pastorate he continued until ill-health compelled 
 him to resign it, at the same point of the year, 
 in 1850. 
 
 Dr. Frothingham has been many years a con- 
 tributor to the "Christian Examiner,'' and, less 
 frequently, to some other periodicals. In 1845 
 he published "Deism or Christianity" in four 
 
 discourses; in 1852 "Sermons, in the order of a 
 Twelvemonth ;" and in other years, about fifty ser- 
 mons and addresses of various kinds. In 1855 ho 
 has gratified his friends, and enriched our litera- 
 ture by printing a collection of his poems, under 
 the title of "Metrical Pieces, Translated and Ori- 
 ginal." 
 
 A singular grace of expression and refinement 
 of sentiment pervade the prose writings of Dr. 
 Frothingham, and his poetry is also marked by 
 exquisite finish and tasteful elegance. His works 
 are among the best models of composition which 
 contemporary New England scholars will present 
 to posterity. The longest of his poems is a mas- 
 terly version of " The Phenomena or Appearances 
 of the Stars," from the Greek of Aratus. His 
 translations from the German have been very high- 
 ly esteemed by the most competent critics for fidel- 
 ity to their first authors, and as English poems. 
 He has exhibited what the Germans accomplished 
 in their own language and what they would have 
 done in ours. His independent productions in 
 verse are what might have been expected from a 
 mind in contemplation and action subordinated so 
 instinctively and sedulously to the laws of beauty. 
 
 TO THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK, 
 
 SET DP IN A NEW PLACE. 
 
 Old things are come to honor. Well they might, 
 If old like thee, thou reverend monitor! 
 So gravely bright, so simply decorated ; 
 Thy gold but faded into softer beauty, 
 While click and hammer-stroke are just the same 
 As when my cradle heard them. Thou holdst on, 
 Unwearied, unremitting, constant ever; 
 The time that thou dost measure leaves no mark 
 Of age or sorrow on thy gleaming face. 
 The pulses of thy heart were never stronger; 
 And thy voice rings as clear as when it told me 
 How slowly crept the impatient days of childhood. 
 More than a hundred years of joys and troubles 
 Have passed and listened to thee ; while thy tongue 
 Still told in its one round the unvaried tale; — 
 The same to thee, to them how different, 
 As fears, regrets, or wishes gave it tone ! 
 
 My mother's childish wonder gazed as mine did 
 On the raised figures of thy slender door; — 
 The men, or dames, Chinese, grotesquely human; 
 The antler'd stag beneath its small round window; 
 The birds above, of scarce less size than he; 
 The doubtful house ; the tree unknown to nature. 
 
 I see thee not in the old-fashioned room, 
 That first received thee from the mother land, 
 But yet thou mind'st me of those ancient times 
 
 Of homely duties and of plain delights, 
 Whose love and mirth and sadness sat before thee; — 
 Their laugh and sigh both over now, — their voices 
 Sunk and forgotten, and their forms but dust. 
 
 Thou, for their sake, stand honored there awhile, 
 Honored wherever standing, — ne'er to leave 
 The house that calls me master. When there's none 
 I thus bequeath thee as in trust to those [such, 
 
 Who shall bear up my name. For each that hears 
 The music of thy bell, strike on the hours; 
 Duties between, and heaven's great hope beyond 
 them ! 
 
 TO A DEAD TREE, 
 
 WITH A VINE TRAINED OVER IT. 
 
 The dead tree bears; each dried-up bough 
 
 With leaves is overgrown, 
 And wears a living drapery now 
 
 Of verdure not his own. 
 
 The worthless stock a use has found, 
 The unsightly branch a grace; 
 
 As climbing first, then dropped around, 
 The green shoots interlace. 
 
 So round that Grecian mystic rod 
 To Hermes' hand assigned, — 
 
 The emblem of a helping god — 
 First leaves, then serpents, twined. 
 165 
 
166 
 
 Is. L. FRO THING HAM. 
 
 In thee a holier sign I view 
 
 Than in Hebrew rods of power ; 
 Whether they to a serpent grew, 
 
 Or budded into flower. 
 This Vine, but for thy mournful prop, 
 
 Would ne'er have learned the way 
 Thy ruined height to overtop, 
 
 And mantle thy decay. 
 O thou, my soul, thus train thy thought 
 
 By Sorrow's barren aid ! 
 Deck with the charms that Faith has brought 
 
 The blights that Time has made. 
 On all that is remediless 
 
 Still hang thy gentle vails ; 
 And make thy charities a dress, 
 
 When other foliage fails. 
 The sharp, bare points of mortal lot 
 
 With kindly growth o'erspread ; — 
 Some blessing on what pleases not, 
 
 Some life on what is dead. 
 
 THE FOUR HALCYON POINTS OF THE 
 YEAR. 
 
 STRENGTH: TO AN INVALID. 
 
 "When I am weak, I'm strong," 
 The great Apostle cried. 
 The strength that did not to the earth belong 
 
 The might of Heaven supplied. 
 
 " When I am weak, I 'm strong," 
 
 Blind Milton caught that strain 
 And flung its victory o'er the ills that throng 
 
 Round Age, and Want, and Pain. 
 
 " When I am weak, I 'm strong," 
 
 Each Christian heart repeats; 
 These words .will tune its feeblest breath to song, 
 
 And fire its languid beats. 
 
 O Holy Strength ! whose ground 
 
 Is in the heavenly land ; 
 And whose supporting help alone is found 
 
 In God's immortal hand ! 
 
 blessed ! that appears 
 
 When fleshly aids are spent; 
 And girds the mind when most it faints and fears, 
 
 With trust and sweet content ! 
 
 It bids us cast aside 
 
 All thoughts of lesser powers ; — 
 Give up all hopes from changing time and tide, 
 
 And all vain will of ours. 
 
 We have but to confess 
 
 That there 's but one retreat ; 
 And meekly lay each need and each distress 
 
 Down at the Sovereign feet; — 
 
 Then, then it fills the place 
 
 Of all we hoped to do ; 
 And sunken Nature triumphs in the Grace 
 
 That bears us up and through. 
 
 A better glow than health 
 
 Flushes the cheek and brow, 
 The house is stout with store of nameless wealth ; — 
 
 We can do all things now. 
 
 No less sufficience seek; 
 
 All counsel less is wrong; [weak; — 
 
 The whole world's force is poor, and mean, and 
 
 " When I am weak, I 'm strong." 
 
 Four points divide the skies, 
 Traced by the Augur's staff in days of old : 
 " The spongy South," the hard North gleaming 
 
 And where days set and rise. [cold. 
 
 Four seasons span the year : — 
 The flowering Spring, the Summer's ripening glow, 
 Autumn with sheaves, and Winter in its snow ; 
 
 Each brings its separate cheer. 
 
 Four halcyon periods part, 
 With gentle touch, each season into twain, 
 Spreading o'er all in turn their gentle reign. 
 
 O mark them well, my heart ! 
 
 Janus ! the first is thine. 
 After the freezing solstice locks the ground ; — 
 When the keen blasts, that moan or rave around, 
 
 Show not one softening sign; — ■ 
 
 It interposes then. 
 The air relents; the ices thaw to streams ; 
 A mimic Spring shines down with hazy beams, 
 
 Ere Winter roars again. 
 
 Look thrice four weeks from this. 
 The vernal days are rough in our stern clime; 
 Yet fickle April wins a mellow time, 
 
 Which chilly May shall miss. 
 
 Another term is run. 
 She comes again — the peaceful one — though less 
 Or needed or perceived in summer dress — 
 
 Half lost in the bright sun; 
 
 Yet then a place she finds, 
 And all beneath the sultry calm lies hush ; — ■ 
 Till o'er the chafed and darkening ocean rush 
 
 The squally August winds. 
 
 Behold her yet once more, 
 And O how beautiful ! Late in the wane 
 Of the dishevelled year; when hill and plain 
 
 Have yielded all their store; — 
 
 When the leaves thin and pale — 
 And they not many — tremble on the bough; 
 Or, noisy in their crisp decay, e'en now 
 
 Roll to the sharpening gale ; 
 
 In smoky lustre clad, 
 Its warm breath flowing in a parting hymn, 
 The "Indian Summer" upon Winter's rim, 
 
 Looks on us sweetly sad. 
 
 So with the Year of Life. 
 An Ordering Goodness helps its youth and age, 
 Posts quiet sentries midway every stage, 
 
 And gives it truce in strife. 
 
 The Heavenly Providence, 
 With varying methods, but a steady hold, 
 Doth trials still with mercies interfold, 
 
 For human soul and sense. 
 
 The Father that's above, 
 Remits, assuages; still abating one 
 Of all the stripes due to the ill that's done, 
 
 In his compassionate love. 
 
 Help Thou our wayward mind 
 To own Thee constantly in all our states — 
 The world of Nature and the world of Fates — 
 
 Forbearing, tempering, kind. 
 
HENEY HOWE SCHOOLCRAFT. 
 
 [Born, 1793.] 
 
 The family name of this learned and volumi- 
 nous author, he informs us in his " Personal Me- 
 moirs," was Calcraft. The change of the ini- 
 tial syllable was induced by the occupation of his 
 father as a teacher, the usage of the neighborhood 
 being tacitly adopted in the household. He was 
 born in Guilderland, near Albany, on the twenty- 
 eighth of March, 1793. His chief works are a 
 "Treatise on Vitreology," 1817; "View of the 
 Lead Mines of Missouri," 1819; "Journal of a 
 Tour into the Interior of Missouri and Arkansas," 
 1820; "Narrative of an Expedition to the Head 
 Waters of the Mississippi," 1821; " Travels in the 
 Central Portions of the Mississippi Valley," 1822; 
 "An Expedition to Itasca Lake," 1834; "Algic 
 Researches, comprising Inquiries respecting the 
 Mental Characteristics of the North American In- 
 dians," 1839; " Oneota, or Characteristics of the 
 Red Race of America," 1844; " Notes on the Iro- 
 quois," 1846; "Personal Memoirs of a Residence 
 of Thirty Years with the Indian Tribes," 1851 ; 
 
 " Scenes and Adventures in the Ozark Mountains," 
 1853 ; and "Information respecting the History, 
 Condition, and Prospects, of the Indian Tribes of 
 the United States," in five quarto volumes, pub- 
 lished by the government. 
 
 The poetical compositions of Dr. Schoolcraft 
 are numerous, frequently ingenious, and have all 
 about them a pleasing air of genuineness. Living 
 many years in remote solitudes, he had "no resort 
 to pass away his time" but the cultivation of his 
 natural taste for verse, and he wisely selected his 
 themes from his own fresh and peculiar experi- 
 ences. Besides contributions to literary journals, 
 during nearly half a century, he has published, 
 " Transallegania, a Poem," 1820; "The Rise of 
 the West, or a Prospect of the Mississippi Valley," 
 1830; " The Man of Bronze, a Poem on the Indian 
 Character, in Six Books," read before the Algic 
 Society, at Detroit, 1833; " Alhalla, or the Lord 
 of Talladega, a Tale of the Creek War," 1843 ; 
 and " Helderbergia," in four cantos, 1855. 
 
 FROM « THE WHITE FISH." 
 
 Of venison let Goldsmith so wittily sing, 
 A very fine haunch is a very fine thing ; 
 And Burns, in his tuneful and exquisite way, 
 The charms of a smoking Scot's haggis display; 
 But 't is often much harder to eat than descant, 
 And a poet may praise what a poet may want. 
 Less question shall be with my muse of my dish, 
 W hilst her power I invoke in the praise of white fish : 
 So fine on a platter, so tempting a fry, 
 So rich in a broil, and so sweet in a pie, 
 That even before it the red trout must fail, 
 And that mighty bonne bouche of the land, beaver tail ! 
 Its beauty and flavor no person can doubt, 
 If seen in the water, or tasted without; 
 And all the dispute that an epicure makes, 
 Of this king of lake fishes, this deer of the lakes, 
 Regards not its choiceness, to ponder or sup, 
 But the best mode of dressing and serving it up. 
 Now this is a point where good livers may differ, 
 
 As tastes become fixed, or opinions are stifler 
 
 The merchant, the lawyer, the cit, and the beau, 
 The proud and gustative, the poor and the low, 
 The gay habitant, the inquisitive tourist, 
 The chemic physician, the dinner crost jurist — 
 To these it is often a casual sweet, 
 As they dine by appointment, or taste as a treat; 
 Not so, or as mental or physical joy, 
 Comes the sight of this fish to the courier de bois; 
 That wild troubadour with his joy-loving crew, 
 Who sings as he paddles his birchen canoe, 
 And thinks all the hardships that fall to his lot, 
 Are richly made up at the platter and pot. 
 167 
 
 To him there's a charm neither feeble nor vague 
 In the mighty repast of the grande Ticameg;* 
 And oft as he starves amid Canada's snows, 
 On dry leather lichens and bouton de rose, 
 He cheers up his spirits to think he shall still 
 
 Qfpoisson blanc bouillon once more have his fill 
 
 The muse might appeal to the science of books 
 To picture its ichthyological looks, 
 Show what is its family likeness or odds, 
 Compared with its cousins, the salmons and cods ; 
 Tell where it approximates, point where it fails, 
 By counting its fins, or dissecting its scales; 
 Or dwell on its habits, migrations, and changes — 
 The modes of its capture, its cycles and ranges : 
 But let me forbear — 'tis the fault of a song, 
 A tale, or a book, if too learned or long. 
 Thus ends my discussion. More would you, I pray, 
 Ask Mitchell, or Harlan, Lesieur, or De Kay. 
 
 FROM "LIKES AND DISLIKES." 
 
 Whate'er is false, impertinent or dull, 
 A fop, a meddler, formalist or fool, 
 O'erbearing consequence, o'ervaunting sense, 
 The lounger's visit, and the rake's pretence, 
 The idle man's excuse, the babbler's prate, 
 These ask for censure, and all these I hate. 
 
 I hate the cit, whose tread diurnal brings. 
 Wit's cast off robes, and learning's worn out things; 
 At home, abroad, in place, or out of place, 
 With fearful longitude of knowing face. 
 
 * A name given the white fish by the Canadians. 
 
1C8 
 
 HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT. 
 
 Who crowds the jest — half hitting and half hit - 
 The vapid ribaldry, which is not wit ; 
 Or where misfortune bows a noble heart, 
 Wounds the seared bosom with satiric dart. 
 
 I hate the tattler, whose bad thirst of fame 
 Seeks rest in publishing his neighbor's shame, 
 Whose task it is to catch the latent tale, 
 The rumored doubt, or inuendo stale, 
 To fan the darling falsehoods as they rise, 
 To ponder scandal, and to retail lies. 
 
 I hate that ever busy, bustling man, 
 Whose wink or nod direct the village clan, 
 Intent not on the public joy or good, 
 Or e'en his own — a point not understood — 
 But, armed with little talent, much pretence, 
 Ten grains of impudence, and one of sense, 
 A strange compound of villain, fop, and clown, 
 Struts on, the busy-body of the town. 
 
 I hate the sly, insiduous, smirking "friend" 
 Who, ever driving at some secret end, 
 Bespeaks your interest for a vote or place, 
 With smiling sweet amenity of face ; 
 A splendor based upon a neighbor's cash ; 
 Rogues escaped halter, prison, stocks, or lash: 
 All these, howe'er allied to fortune or to fate, 
 Demand my censure, and all these I hate. 
 
 GEEHALE: AN INDIAN LAMENT. 
 
 The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
 As sweetly and gayly as ever before; 
 For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, 
 And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 
 The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, 
 And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light 
 As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. 
 When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were 
 The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 
 Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 
 And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, 
 For they know that their mates are expecting 
 
 them back. 
 Each bird and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: 
 All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 
 
 I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; 
 I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; 
 I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, 
 And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; 
 I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, 
 For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 
 But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay: 
 The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 
 
 This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 
 I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: 
 Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, 
 Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
 I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; 
 I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night; 
 I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, 
 And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 
 And will take a new Manito — such as shall seem 
 To be kind and propitious in every dream. 
 
 0, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 
 And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; 
 
 I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain, 
 Red — red shall, alone, on my visage remain! 
 I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
 By night and by day I will follow the foe ; 
 Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor 
 
 snows ; 
 His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 
 
 They came to my cabin when heaven was black ; 
 I heard not their coming, I knew not their track; 
 Bi>t I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, 
 They were people engender'd beyond the big seas : 
 My wife and my children, — 0, spare me the tale! 
 For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ! 
 
 THE BIRCHEN CANOE. 
 
 In the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep, 
 
 My beautiful fabric was built; 
 Light cedars supported its weight on the deep, 
 
 And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt. 
 
 The bright leafy bark of the betula* tree 
 
 A flexible sheathing provides ; 
 And the fir's thready roots drew the parts to agree, 
 
 And bound down its high swelling sides. 
 
 No compass or gavel was used on the bark, 
 
 No art but in simplest degree; 
 But the structure was finished, and trim to remark, 
 
 And as light as a sylph's could be. 
 
 Its rim was with tender young roots woven round, 
 Like a pattern of wicker-work rare; 
 
 And it prest on the waves with as lightsome a 
 As a basket suspended in air. [bound 
 
 The builder knew well, in his wild merry mood, 
 A smile from his sweet-love to win, [wood, 
 
 And he sung as he sewed the green bark to the 
 Leen ata nee saugein.j" 
 
 The heavens in their brightness and glory below, 
 Were reflected quite plain to the view, 
 
 And it moved like a swan, with as graceful a show, 
 My beautiful birchen canoe. 
 
 The trees on the shore, as I glided along, 
 Seemed rushing a contrary way ; 
 
 And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song, 
 That caused every heart to be gay. 
 
 And still as I floated by rock and by shell, 
 
 My bark raised a murmur aloud, [fell, 
 
 And it danced on the waves as they rose and they 
 Like a fay on a bright summer cloud. 
 
 I thought as I passed o'er the liquid expanse, 
 With the landscape in smiling array, 
 
 How blest I should be, if my life should advance, 
 Thus tranquil and sweetly away. 
 
 The skies were serene, not a cloud was in sight, 
 Not an angry surge beat on the shore, 
 
 And I gazed on the waters, and then on the light, 
 Till my vision could bear it no more. 
 
 Oh ! long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes, 
 And the scenes they exposed to my view ; 
 
 My friends and the wishes I formed for their sakes, 
 And my bright yellow birchen canoe. 
 
 Betula papyraca;. 
 
 t You only I lovo. 
 

 , 
 
 erreotype bj Biadj 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 [Born, 1791.] 
 
 Mr. Bryant was horn in Cummington, Mas- 
 sachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. 
 At a very early age he gave indications of superior 
 genius, and his father, an eminent physician, dis- 
 tinguished for erudition and taste as well as for 
 extensive and thorough knowledge of science, 
 watched with deep interest the development of his 
 faculties under the most careful and judicious in- 
 struction. At ten years of age he made very cre- 
 ditable, translations from some of the Latin poets, 
 which were printed in a newspaper at Northamp- 
 ton, and during the vehement controversies between 
 the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the 
 period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote " The 
 Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in 
 Boston in 1808. Tasso when nine years of age 
 wrote some lines to his mother which have been 
 praised, Cowley at ten finished his " Tragical 
 History of Pyramus and Thisbe," Pope when 
 twelve his " Ode to Solitude," and " the wondrous 
 boy Chatterton," at the same age, some verses 
 entitled " A Hymn for Christmas Day ;" but none 
 of these pieces are superior to that which gave a 
 title to the volume of our precocious American. 
 The satire was directed against President Jeffer- 
 son and his party, and has recently been quoted 
 to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the 
 last forty years having furnished no ground, it may 
 be supposed, for such an accusation. The descrip- 
 tion of a caucus, in the following extract, shows 
 that there has been little change in the character 
 of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that 
 the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for 
 so young an author : 
 
 " E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, 
 Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame ; 
 Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, 
 And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride. 
 She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound, 
 A motley throng, obedient, flock around ; 
 A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings, 
 And darkness perches on all her dragon wings ! 
 
 "Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, 
 Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell ! 
 But vain the wish, for, hark ! the murmuring meed 
 Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed ; 
 Enter, and view the thronging concourse there, 
 Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare ; 
 While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, 
 Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands ; 
 To adulation tunes his servile throat, 
 And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." 
 
 Some of the democrats affected to believe that 
 Master Bryant was older than was confessed, or 
 that another person had written "The Embargo;" 
 but the bock was eagerly read, and in a few months 
 a second edition appeared, with some additional 
 pieces. To this was prefixed the following ad- 
 vertisement ; 
 
 " A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly 
 Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen 
 years could have been the author of this poem — 
 in justice to his merits the friends of the writer 
 feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal 
 knowledge of himself and his family, as well as 
 his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. 
 They would premise, that they do not come un- 
 called before the public to bear this testimony. 
 They would prefer that he should be judged by his 
 works, without favour or affection. As the doubt 
 has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of 
 justice to remove it, after which they leave him a 
 candidate for favour in common with other literary 
 adventurers. They therefore assure the public 
 that Mr. Bryant, the author, is a native of Cum- 
 mington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the 
 month of November last arrived at the age of four- 
 teen years. These facts can be authenticated by 
 many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as 
 by several of his friends, who give this notice ; and 
 if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the prin- 
 ter is enabled to disclose their names and places 
 of residence." 
 
 In the sixteenth year of his age, Bryant en- 
 tered an advanced class of Williams College, in 
 which he soon became distinguished for his attain- 
 ments generally, and especially for his proficiency 
 in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from 
 the faculty an honourable discharge, for the pur- 
 pose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 
 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced 
 the practice of his profession in the village of Great 
 Barrington, where he was soon after married. 
 
 When but little more than eighteen years of 
 age he had written his noble poem of " Thanatop- 
 sis," which was published in the North American 
 Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before 
 the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College 
 his longest poem, " The Ages," in which, from a 
 survey of the past eras of the world, and of the 
 successive advances of mankind in knowledge, vir- 
 tue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and 
 confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the 
 future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of 
 Spenser, and in its versification is not inferior to 
 " The Faerie Queene." " To a Waterfowl," " In- 
 scription for an entrance to a Wood," and several 
 other pieces of nearly as great merit were likewise 
 written during his residence at Great Barrington. 
 
 Having passed ten years in successful practice in 
 the courts, he determined to abandon the unconge- 
 nial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention 
 more exclusively to literature. With this view, 
 in 1825, he removed to the city of New York, and 
 
 1 See note on page ' 
 
 169 
 
170 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 with a friend, established " The New York Re- 
 view and Atheneum Magazine," in which he pub- 
 lished several of his finest poems, and in " The 
 Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the 
 memory of his father, who died in that year. In 
 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Even- 
 ing Post," one of the oldest and most influential 
 political and commercial gazettes in this country, 
 with which he has ever since been connected. 
 In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with 
 Mr. Vehplanck and Mr. Sands in the production 
 of " The Talisman," an annual ; and he wrote 
 two or three of the " Tales of Glauber Spa," to 
 which, besides himself, Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paul- 
 ding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. 
 An intimate friendship subsisted between him and 
 Mr. Sands, and when that brilliant writer died, in 
 1832, he assisted Mr. Verplanck in editing his 
 works. 
 
 In the summer of 1834, Mr. Bryant visited 
 Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few 
 years to literary studies, and to the education of 
 his children. He travelled through France, Ger- 
 many, and Italy, and resided several months in 
 each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and 
 Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner 
 and associate, the late William Leggett, com- 
 pelled him to return hastily in the early part of 
 1836. The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida 
 and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1S44 he 
 revisited Europe. He resides still in the city of 
 New York, and continues to devote the chief part 
 of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, 
 which has been for many years the leading journal 
 of the democratic party. 
 
 In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. Bry- 
 ant had then written was published in New York ; 
 it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy 
 ofi it reaching Washington Irving, who was 
 then in England, he caused it to be published in 
 London, where it has since passed through several 
 editions. In 1842 he published "The Fountain 
 and other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-Footed 
 Deer and other Poems," and in 1846 a splendid 
 edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated 
 with engravings from pictures by Leutze, has been 
 published in Philadelphia by Carey & Hart. No 
 volume has issued from the American press, of 
 which the country should be more proud. We 
 may send it abroad as a representative of our lite- 
 rature, and as a proof of our proficiency in the arts. 
 
 The many and high excellencies of Mr. Bryant 
 have been almost universally recognised. With 
 men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. 
 His works abound with passages of profound re- 
 flection which the philosopher meditates in his 
 closet, and with others of such simple beauty and 
 obvious intention as please the most illiterate. 
 In his pages are illustrated all the common defini- 
 tions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single 
 purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior 
 characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he 
 has a perfect mastery. Very few equal him in 
 grace and power of expression. Every line has 
 compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows 
 
 with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His man- 
 ner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. 
 His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and 
 playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery 
 is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which 
 distinguishes the productions of an author writing 
 from his own observations of life and nature ra- 
 ther than from books. 
 
 Mr. Bryant is a translator to the world of the 
 silent language of the universe. He " conforms 
 his life to the beautiful order of God's works." In 
 the meditation of nature he has learned high les- 
 sons of philosophy and religion. With no other 
 poet does the subject spring so naturally from the 
 object ; the moral, the sentiment, from the contem- 
 plation of the things about him. There is nothing 
 forced in his inductions. By a genuine earnest- 
 ness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and pre- 
 pares him to anticipate his thought. By an imper- 
 ceptible influence he carries him from the beginning 
 to the end of a poem, and leaves him infused with 
 the very spirit in which it is conceived. 
 
 In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable 
 fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree 
 the actual impression of what is grand and beauti- 
 ful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and 
 shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the 
 seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching 
 in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest 
 vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he 
 brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with 
 the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as 
 those which Cole puts on the canvas. 
 
 It has been complained that there is very little 
 sentiment, very little of the blending of passion 
 with philosophy, in Bryant's poetry ; that his 
 antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed 
 with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, 
 but in many of his poems are passages of touching 
 pathos, and his interest in his race appears, con- 
 trary to the general experience, to increase with 
 his age. 
 
 It has been denied by some persons, reasoning 
 from our descent, education, language, and man- 
 ners, identifying us so closely with another people, 
 that we can have a distinctive national literature. 
 But there are very few of Bryant's poems that 
 could have been written in any country but our 
 own. They breathe the very spirit of our young 
 and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the 
 grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only 
 in our own land, than he does the elevating influ- 
 ences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed 
 by none but the citizens of this republic. To the 
 thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs 
 to America, and is as different from what marks 
 the poetry of England as it is from that which 
 most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or 
 France. 
 
 Mr. Bryant is still in the meridian of his life; 
 among the most recent of his productions are some 
 of the finest he has written ; and we may look 
 with confidence to an increase of the bases of his 
 high reputation, second now to that of no contem- 
 porary who writes in our language. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 171 
 
 THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 These are the gardens of the desert, these 
 The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
 For which the speech of England has no name — 
 The prairies. I behold them for the first, 
 And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
 Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
 In airy undulations, far away, 
 As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
 Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd, 
 And motionless forever. — Motionless 1 — 
 No — they are all unchain'd again. The clouds 
 Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
 The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
 Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
 The sunny ridges. Breezes of the south ! 
 Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 
 And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have 
 Among the palms of Mexico and vines [play'd 
 Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks 
 That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
 Into the calm Pacific — have ye fann'd 
 A nobler or a lovelier scene than this'? 
 Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 
 The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 
 And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their 
 
 slopes 
 With herbage, planted them with island groves, 
 And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 
 For this magnificent temple of the sky — 
 With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
 Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
 Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, — 
 A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 
 Than that which bends above the eastern hills. 
 
 As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 
 Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides, 
 The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
 A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
 Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 
 The dead of other days'? — and did the dust 
 Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
 And burn with passion 1 Let the mighty mounds 
 That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
 In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks, 
 Answer. A race, that long has pass'd away, 
 Built them ; — a disciplined and populous race 
 Heap'd, with long toil, the earth, while yet the 
 Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms [Greek 
 
 Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
 The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
 Nourish'd their harvests ; here their herds were fed, 
 When haply by their stalls the bison low'd, 
 And bow'd his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
 All day this desert murmur'd with their toils, 
 Till twilight blush'd, and lovers walk'd, and woo'd 
 In a forgotten language, and old tunes, 
 From instruments of unremember'd form, 
 Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came — 
 The roaming hunter-tribes, warlike and fierce, 
 And the mound-builders vanish'd from the earth. 
 The solitude of centuries untold 
 
 Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf 
 Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 
 Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 
 Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone — 
 All — save the piles of earth that hold their bones — 
 The platforms where they worshipp'd unknown 
 
 gods — 
 The barriers which they builded from the soil 
 To keep the foe at bay — till o'er the walls 
 The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 
 The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heap'd 
 With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 
 Flock'd to those vast, uncover'd sepulchres, 
 And sat, unscared and silent, at their ftast. 
 Haply some solitary fugitive, 
 Lurking in marsh and forest, till the s*.nse 
 Of desolation and of fear became 
 Bitterer than death, yielded himself ti die. 
 Man's better nature triumph'd. Kindly words 
 Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
 A bride among their maidens, and at length 
 Seem'd to forget, — yet ne'er forgot, — the wife 
 Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
 Butcher'd, amid their shrieks, with all his race. 
 
 Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
 Races of living things, glorious in strength, 
 And perish, as the quickening breath of God 
 Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too — 
 Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, 
 And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
 A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
 No longer by these streams, but far away, 
 On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
 The white man's face — among Missouri's springs, 
 And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, 
 He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
 The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
 Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, 
 Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
 The earth with thundering steps — yet here I meet 
 His ancient footprints stamp'd beside the pool. 
 
 Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
 Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
 They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
 And birds, that scarce have learn'd the fear of man, 
 Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
 Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
 Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
 A more adventurous colonist than man, 
 With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
 Fills the savannas with his murmu rings, 
 And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
 Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
 To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
 The sound of that advancing multitude 
 Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the 
 
 ground 
 Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 
 Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
 Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 
 Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 
 Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 
 A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream. 
 And I am in the wilderness alone. 
 
172 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; — 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form is laid with many tears, 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix for ever with the elements, — 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills 
 Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
 The venerable woods — rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— [all, 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
 Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ; 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 T n their last sleep — the dead there reign alone. 
 
 So shalt thou rest, — and what if thou withdraw 
 Unheeded by the living — and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure 1 All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 
 His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
 
 And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
 
 Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side, 
 
 By those who, in their turn, shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, that moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave, at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain'd and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one that draws the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 FOREST HYMN. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere man 
 learn'd 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 
 Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
 And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks, 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influences, 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless power, 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised 1 Let me, at least, 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
 Acceptance in his ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose [down 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood, 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
 Report not. No fantastic carvings show, 
 The boast of our vain race, to change the form 
 Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds, 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 In music; — thou art in the cooler breath, 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 173 
 
 That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 
 
 Comes, scarcely felt; — the barky trunks, the ground, 
 
 The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
 
 Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, 
 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
 
 Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, 
 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
 
 Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 
 
 Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 
 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 
 
 Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, 
 
 By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem 
 
 Almost annihilated, — not a prince, 
 
 In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 
 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
 
 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 
 
 With delicate breath, and look so like a smile, 
 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me, when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on 
 In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
 Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd 
 Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo ! all grow old and die — but see, again, 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth, 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost 
 One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
 After the flight of untold centuries, 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch-enemy, Death — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
 From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor seem'd 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them ; — and there have been holy men 
 Who deem'd it were not well to pass life thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, 
 And tremble and are still. O, God ! when thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
 With all the waters of the firmament, 
 The swift, dara whirlwind that uproots the woods 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
 
 Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by] 
 0, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
 Of the mad, unchain'd elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
 In these calm shades thy milder majesty, 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 
 
 The sad and solemn night 
 Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 
 
 The glorious host of light 
 Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
 All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
 Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, 
 and go. 
 
 Day, too, hath many a star 
 To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 
 
 Through the blue fields afar, 
 Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
 Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
 Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 
 
 And thou dost see them rise, 
 Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 
 
 Alone, in thy cold skies, 
 Thou keep'st thy old, unmoving station yet, 
 Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, 
 Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 
 
 There, at morn's rosy birth, 
 Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 
 
 And eve, that round the earth 
 Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
 There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
 The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure 
 
 ■ walls. 
 
 Alike, beneath thine eye, 
 The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 
 
 High towards the star-lit sky 
 Towns blaze — the smoke of battle blots the sun — 
 The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud — 
 And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and 
 cloud. 
 
 On thy unaltering blaze 
 The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost, 
 
 Fixes his steady gaze, 
 And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot- 
 steps right. 
 
 And, therefore, bards of old, 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
 That bright, eternal beacon, by whose ray 
 The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. 
 
174 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, 
 That stream with gray-green mosses; here the 
 
 ground 
 Was never touch'd by spade, and flowers spring up 
 Unsown, and die ungather'd. It is sweet 
 To linger here, among the flitting birds 
 And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds 
 That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 
 A fragrance from the cedars thickly set 
 With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 
 Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
 My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 
 Back to the earliest days of Liberty. 
 
 Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, 
 A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 
 And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
 With which the Roman master crown'd his slave, 
 When he took oft" the gyves. A bearded man, 
 Arm'd to the teeth, art thou : one mailed hand 
 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy 
 Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd [brow, 
 With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
 Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has 
 
 launch'd 
 His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
 They could not quench the life thou hast from Hea- 
 Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, [ven. 
 And his swart annourers, by a thousand fires, 
 Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee 
 
 bound, 
 The links are shiver'd, and the prison walls 
 Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 
 As springs the flame above a burning pile, 
 And shoutest to the nations, who return 
 Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 
 
 Thy birth-right was not given by human hands : 
 Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
 While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, 
 To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 
 And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
 Thou by' his side, amid the tangled wood, 
 Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 
 His only foes : and thou with him didst draw 
 The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
 Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 
 The enemy, although of reverend look, 
 Hoary with many years, and far obey'd, 
 Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
 The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
 The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 
 
 Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 
 But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 
 Feebler, yet subtler ; he shall weave his snares, 
 And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
 His wither'd hands, and from their ambush call 
 His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
 Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 
 To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
 To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
 Twine round (Jiee threads of steel, light thread on 
 
 thread, 
 That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 
 
 With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 
 Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by 
 Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids 
 In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. 
 And thou must watch and combat, till the day 
 Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou 
 Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, [rest 
 These old and friendly solitudes invite 
 Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
 Were young upon the unviolated earth, 
 And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
 Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 
 
 THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Mi friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 
 
 For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; 
 Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 
 
 Of cheerful hopes that fill'd the world with light, 
 Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, 
 
 Thy tongue was prompt the generous thought to 
 speak, 
 And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 
 
 Summon' d the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 
 
 Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 
 
 Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ; 
 A path, thick-set with changes and decays, 
 
 Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 
 And they who walk'd with thee in life's first stage, 
 
 Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 
 Thou seest the sad companions of thy age — 
 
 Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear. 
 
 Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, 
 
 Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. 
 Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 
 
 Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; 
 Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, 
 
 Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ; 
 Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering 
 bides, 
 
 Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 
 
 There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 
 
 On his bright morning hills, with smiles more 
 sweet 
 Than when at first he took thee by the hand, 
 
 Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. 
 He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 
 
 Life's early glory to thine eyes again, 
 Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 
 
 Thy leaping heart with warmer love ihan then. 
 
 Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 
 
 Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? 
 Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 
 
 A gentle rustling of the morning gales ; 
 A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, 
 
 Of streams that water banks for ever fair, 
 And voices of the loved ones gone before, 
 
 More musical in that celestial air ? 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 175 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 Yz winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 
 Softly ye play'd a few brief hours ago ; 
 
 Ye bore the murmuring bee ; ye toss'd the hair 
 O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow ; 
 
 Ye roll'd the round, white cloud through depths of 
 blue ; 
 
 Ye shook from shaded flowers thelingering dew; 
 
 Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, 
 
 Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 
 
 How are ye changed ! Ye take the cataract's sound, 
 Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might ; 
 
 The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; 
 The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. 
 
 The clouds before you sweep like eagles past; 
 
 The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; 
 
 Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, 
 Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. 
 
 The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, 
 
 To scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. 
 Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; 
 
 The harvest field becomes a river's bed ; 
 And torrents tumble from the hills around, 
 Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drown'd, T 
 And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, 
 Rise, as the rushing floods close over head. 
 
 Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
 A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray ; 
 
 Ye fling its waters round you, as a bird 
 
 Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's 
 spray. 
 
 See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; 
 
 Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, 
 
 And take the mountain billow on your wings, 
 And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. 
 
 Why rage ye thus 1 — no strife for liberty [fear, 
 Has made you mad ; no tyrant, 3trong through 
 
 Has chain'd your pinions, till ye wrench'd them free, 
 And rush'd into the unmeasured atmosphere: 
 
 For ye were born in freedom where ye blow; 
 
 Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go ; 
 
 Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of 
 snow, 
 Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 
 
 O, ye wild winds ! a mightier power than yours 
 
 In chains upon the shores of Europe lies ; 
 The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, 
 
 Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes : 
 And armed warriors all around him stand, 
 And, as he struggles, tighten every band, 
 And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, 
 To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. 
 
 Yet, O, when that wrong'd spirit of our race, 
 
 Shall break,as soon he must, his long-worn chains, 
 And leap in freedom from his prison-place, 
 
 Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, 
 Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, 
 To waste the loveliness that time could spare, 
 To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair 
 
 Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. 
 
 But may he, like the spring-time, come abroad, 
 
 Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, 
 When in the genial breeze, the breath of Gob, 
 
 Come spouting up the unseal'd springs to light ; 
 
 Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, 
 
 The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, 
 
 And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, 
 
 Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. 
 
 OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE ! 
 
 Oh mother of a mighty race, 
 Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
 The elder dames; thy haughty peers, 
 Admire and hate thy blooming years. 
 
 With words of shame 
 And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 
 
 For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
 That tints the morning hills with red ; 
 Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
 Within thy woods, are not more fleet ; 
 
 Thy hopeful eye 
 Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 
 
 Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones — 
 While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
 They do not know how loved thou art — 
 How many a fond and fearless heart 
 
 Would rise to throw 
 Its life between thee and the foe ! , 
 
 They know not, in their hate and pride, 
 What virtues with thy children bide ; 
 How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
 Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 
 
 What generous men 
 Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen : 
 
 What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
 By the lone rivers of the west ; 
 How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
 And man is loved, and God is fear'd, 
 
 In woodland homes, 
 And where the solemn ocean foams ! 
 
 There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
 For earth's down-trodden and oppress'd, 
 A shelter for the hunted head, 
 For the starved labourer toil and bread. 
 
 Power, at thy bounds, 
 Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 
 
 Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow 
 Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
 Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
 The thronging years in glory rise, 
 
 And, as they fleet, 
 Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 
 
 Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
 Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
 And when thy sisters, elder born, 
 Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 
 
 Before thine eye, 
 Upon their lips the taunt shall die ! 
 
176 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good green wood, 
 
 Our tent the cypress tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, \ 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 We know its walls of thorny vines, 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Wo to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear: 
 When, waking to their tents on fire, 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil: 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
 
 As if a hunt were up, 
 And woodland flowers are gather'd 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly, 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads — 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 T is life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain; 
 'T is life to feel the night-wind 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away 
 Back to the pathless forest, 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs, 
 Their hearts are all with Marios', 
 
 For Marion- are their prayers. 
 And lovely ladies greet our band 
 
 Witti kindliest welcoming, 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more, 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 TO THE PAST. 
 
 Thou unrelenting Past ! 
 Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 
 
 And fetters, sure and fast, 
 Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 
 
 Far in thy realm withdrawn, 
 Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom ; 
 
 And glorious ages gone 
 Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 
 
 Childhood, with all its mirth, 
 Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground. 
 
 And last, man's life on earth, 
 Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 
 
 Thou hast my better years, 
 Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind, 
 
 Yielded to thee with tears — 
 The venerable form — the exalted mind. 
 
 My spirit yearns to bring 
 The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 
 
 And struggles hard to wring 
 Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 
 
 In vain — thy gates deny 
 All passage, save to those who hence depart ; 
 
 Nor to the streaming eye 
 Thou givest them back — nor to the broken heart. 
 
 In thy abysses hide 
 Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 
 
 Earth's wonder and her pride 
 Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea. 
 
 Labours of good to man, 
 Unpublish'd charity — unbroken faith — 
 
 Love, that midst grief began, 
 And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. 
 
 Full many a mighty name 
 Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered ; 
 
 With thee are silent fame, 
 Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd. 
 
 Thine, for a space, are they — 
 Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 
 
 Thy gates shall yet give way, 
 Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 
 
 All that of good and fair 
 Has gone into thy womb, from earliest time, 
 
 Shall then come forth, to wear 
 The glory and the beauty of its prime. 
 
 They have not perish'd — no ! 
 Kind words, remember'd voices, once so sweet, 
 
 Smiles, radiant long ago, 
 And features, the great soul's apparent seat ; 
 
 All shall come back, each tie 
 Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 
 
 Alone shall evil die. 
 And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 
 
 And then shall I behold 
 Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
 
 And her, who, still and cold, 
 Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 177 
 
 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 
 
 Were never stain'd with village smoke : 
 The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
 
 Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
 Here, with my rifle and my steed, 
 
 And her who left the world for me, 
 I plant me, where the red deer feed 
 
 In the green desert — and am free. 
 
 For here the fair savannas know 
 
 No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
 Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 
 
 Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
 In pastures, measureless as air, 
 
 The bison is my noble game ; 
 The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
 
 The branches, falls before my aim. 
 
 Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
 
 From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
 The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, 
 
 Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
 In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 
 
 The brinded catamount, that lies 
 Hign in the boughs to watch his prey, 
 
 Even in the act of springing, dies. 
 
 With what free growth the elm and plane 
 
 Fling their huge arms across my way, 
 Gray, old, and cumber d with a train 
 
 Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
 Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
 
 No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; 
 Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 
 
 Where never scythe has swept the glades. 
 
 Alone the fire, when frostwinds sere 
 
 The heavy herbage of the ground, 
 Gathers his annual harvest here, 
 
 With roaring like the battle's sound, 
 And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 
 
 And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: 
 I meet the flames with flames again, 
 
 And at my door they cower and die. 
 
 Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
 
 Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
 The boundless future in the vast 
 
 And lonely river, seaward rolFd. 
 Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? 
 
 Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
 And trains the bordering vines, whose blue, 
 
 Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? 
 
 Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 
 
 Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
 Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 
 
 Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
 I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies 
 
 O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
 And kind the voice, and glad the eyes 
 
 That welcome my return at night. 
 
 AFTER A TEMPEST. 
 
 The day had been a day of wind and storm; — 
 
 The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, — 
 And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm 
 
 Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
 
 I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
 My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
 
 Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
 And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
 With pleasant vales scoop'd out and villages be- 
 tween. 
 
 The rain-drops glisten'd on the trees around, 
 
 Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirr'd, 
 Save when a shower of diamonds to the ground 
 
 Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 
 
 For birds were warbling round, and bees were 
 About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung [heard 
 
 And gossip'd, as he hasten'd ocean-ward; 
 To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
 And chirping from the ground the grasshopper 
 upsprung. 
 
 And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
 
 Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 
 And darted up and down the butterfly, 
 
 That seem'd a living blossom of the air. 
 
 The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
 The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
 
 Stroll'd groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
 The farmer swung the scythe or turn'd the hay, 
 And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at 
 play. 
 
 It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
 Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
 
 Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 
 And precipice upspringing like a wall, 
 And glassy river and white waterfall, 
 
 And happy living things that trod the bright 
 And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all, 
 
 On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
 
 Was pour'd from the blue heavens the same soft, 
 golden light. 
 
 I look'd, and thought the quiet of the scene 
 An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
 
 When, o'er earth's continents and isles between, 
 The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 
 And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
 
 When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
 No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 
 
 Nor the black stake be dress'd, nor in the sun 
 
 The o'erlabour'd captive toil, and wish his life were 
 done. 
 
 Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
 And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
 
 The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
 And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
 The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 't is past. 
 
 Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
 And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
 
 O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
 
 On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven 
 shall lie. 
 
178 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE RIVULET. 
 
 This little rill that, from the springs 
 Of yonder grove, its current brings, 
 Plays on the slope a while, and then 
 Goes prattling into groves again, 
 Oft to its warbling waters drew 
 My little feet, when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were dress'd, 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
 My truant steps from home would stray, 
 Upon its grassy side to play, 
 List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, 
 And crop the violet on its brim, 
 With blooming cheek and open brow, 
 As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 
 
 And when the days of boyhood came, 
 And I had grown in love with fame, 
 Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
 My first rude numbers by thy side. 
 Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
 The scenes of life before me lay. 
 Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
 Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
 Pass'd o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, 
 A name I deem'd should never die. 
 
 Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
 The tall old maples, verdant still, 
 Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
 How swift the years have pass'd away, 
 Since first, a child, and half-afraid, 
 I wander' d in the forest shade. 
 Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, 
 Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
 And sporting with the sands that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave, 
 And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
 Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
 My early childhood loved to hear ; 
 As pure thy limpid waters run, 
 As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
 As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
 Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
 The violet there, in soft May dew, 
 Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
 As green amid thy current's stress, 
 Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress ; 
 And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
 Still cnirps as merrily as then. 
 
 Thou changest not — but I am changed, 
 Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
 And the grave stranger, come to see 
 The play-place of his infancy, 
 Has scarce a single trace of him 
 Who sported once upon thy brim. 
 The visions of my youth are past — 
 Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
 I 've tried the world — it wears no more 
 The colouring of romance it wore. 
 Vet well has Nature kept the truth 
 She promised to my earliest youth : 
 
 The radiant beauty, shed abroad 
 On all the glorious works of God, 
 Shows freshly, to my sober'd eye, 
 Each charm it wore in days gone by. 
 
 A few brief years shall pass away, 
 And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
 Bow'd to the earth, which waits to fold 
 My ashes in the embracing mould, 
 (If haply the dark will of fate 
 Indulge my life so long a date,) 
 May come for the last time to look 
 Upon my childhood's favourite brook. 
 Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
 The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
 And faintly on my ear shall fall 
 Thy prattling current's merry call ; 
 Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
 As when thou met'st my infant sight. 
 
 And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 Children their early sports shall try, 
 And pass to hoary age, and die. 
 But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
 Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
 Amid young flowers and tender grass 
 Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 I gazed upon the glorious sky 
 
 And the green mountains round ; 
 And thought, that when I came to lie 
 
 Within the silent ground, 
 'T were pleasant, that in flowery June, 
 When brooks sent up a cheerful tune, 
 
 And groves a joyous sound, 
 The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
 The rich, green mountain turf should break. 
 
 A cell within the frozen mould, 
 
 A coffin borne through sleet, 
 And icy clods above it roll'd, 
 
 While fierce the tempests beat — 
 Away ! — I will not think of these — 
 Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
 
 Earth green beneath the feet, 
 And be the damp mould gently press'd 
 Into my narrow place of rest. 
 
 There, through the long, long summer hours, 
 
 The golden light should lie, 
 And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers 
 
 Stand in their beauty by. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-tale, close beside my cell ; 
 
 The idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be heard 
 The housewife-bee and humming bird. 
 
 And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon, 
 
 Come, from the village sent, 
 Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 
 
 With fairy laughter blent 1 
 
WILLIAM CIJLLEN BRYANT. 
 
 179 
 
 And what if, in the evening light, 
 Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
 
 Of my low monument 1 
 I would the lovely scene around 
 Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 
 
 I know, I know I should not see 
 The season's glorious show, 
 Nor would its brightness shine for me, 
 
 Nor its wild music flow; 
 But if, around my place of sleep, 
 The friends I love should come to weep, 
 
 They might not haste to go. 
 Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom 
 Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 
 
 These to their soften'd hearts should bear 
 
 The thought of what has been, 
 And speak of one who cannot share 
 
 The gladness of the scene ; 
 Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
 The circuit of the summer hills, 
 Is — that his grave is green ; 
 And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
 To hear, again, his living voice. 
 
 TO THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Spihit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
 That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 
 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; 
 Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
 
 Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
 Roughening their crests, and scattering high 
 their spray, 
 
 And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
 
 To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 
 
 Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
 Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
 
 And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
 
 And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 
 Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight. 
 
 Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, — 
 
 God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 
 
 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 
 
 Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
 
 The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, 
 Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
 
 The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
 
 The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
 
 And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the 
 grass. 
 
 Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
 The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone ; 
 
 That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
 And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, 
 
 May think of gentle souls that pass'd away, 
 Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 
 
 Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, 
 
 And gone into the boundless heaven again. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 
 
 And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread 
 His temples, while his breathing grows more 
 deep; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
 Go — but the circle of eternal change, 
 
 Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 
 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
 Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more ; 
 
 Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
 Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 
 
 And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
 
 He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
 
 LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I stand upon my native hills again, 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky, 
 With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
 
 Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, 
 While deep the sunless glens are scoop'd between, 
 Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 
 
 A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
 And ever restless feet of one, who, now, 
 
 Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year ; 
 There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 
 
 As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 
 
 Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 
 
 For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
 * To gaze upon the mountains, to behold, 
 With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, 
 And clouds along its blue abysses roll'd, 
 To love the song of waters, and to hear 
 The melody of winds with charmed ear. 
 
 Here, I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, 
 Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; 
 
 And where the season's milder fervours beat, 
 And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
 
 The song of bird, and sound of running stream, 
 
 Am come a while to wander and to dream. 
 
 Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
 In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. 
 
 The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, 
 From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. 
 
 The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 
 
 Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. 
 
 The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all 
 The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry 
 time, 
 
 He stoops him from his vast, cerulean hall, 
 He seems the breath of a celestial clime ; 
 
 As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow, 
 
 Health and refreshment on the world below. 
 
180 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 
 
 AitoxG our hills and valleys, I have known 
 Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent 
 
 hands 
 Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth, 
 Were reverent learners in the solemn school 
 Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent 
 Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower 
 That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat 
 On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, 
 Some truth ; some lesson on the life of man, 
 Or recognition of the Eternal Mind, 
 Who veils his glory with the elements. 
 
 3ne such I knew long since, a white-hair' d man, 
 Pithy of speech, and merry when he would ; 
 \ genial optimist, who daily drew 
 From what he saw his quaint moralities. 
 Kindly he held communion, though so old, 
 With me, a dreaming boy, and taught me much, 
 That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget. 
 
 The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, 
 And steep'd the sprouting forests, the green hills, 
 And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 
 Upon the apple tree, where rosy buds 
 Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom, 
 The robin warbled forth his full, clear note 
 For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, 
 Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce 
 
 cast 
 A shade, gay circles of anemones 
 Danced on their stalks ; the shad-bush, white with 
 
 flowers, 
 Brighten'd the glens ; the new-leaved butternut, 
 And quivering poplar, to the roving breeze 
 Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields, 
 I saw the pulses of the gentle wind 
 On the young grass. My heart was touch'd with 
 
 j°y> 
 
 At so much beauty, flushing every hour 
 
 Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend, 
 
 The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, 
 
 Gazed on it mildly sad. I ask'd him why. 
 
 " Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied, 
 
 "With the glad earth, her springing plants and 
 
 flowers, 
 And this soft wind, the herald of the green, 
 Luxuriant summer. Thou art young, like them, 
 And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight 
 Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, 
 It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims 
 These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be 
 
 quench'd 
 In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?" 
 
 1 listen'd, and from midst the depth of woods 
 Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears 
 A sable ruff around his mottled neck: 
 Partridge they call him by our northern streams, 
 And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 
 Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and 
 
 made 
 A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes 
 
 At first, then fast and faster, till at length 
 They pass'd into a murmur, and were still. 
 
 "There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type 
 Of human life. 'T is an old truth, I know, 
 But images like these will freshen truth. 
 Slow pass our days in childhood, every day 
 Seems like a century ; rapidly they glide 
 In manhood, and in life's decline they fly ; 
 Till days and seasons flit before the mind 
 As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, 
 Seen rather than distinguish'd. Ah ! I seem 
 As if I sat within a helpless bark, 
 By swiftly-running waters hurried on 
 To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks 
 Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, 
 Bare sands, and pleasant homesteads ; flowery 
 
 nooks, 
 And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear 
 Each after each; but the devoted skiff 
 Darts by so swiftly, that their images 
 Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell 
 In dim confusion ; faster yet I sweep 
 By other banks, and the great gulf is near. 
 
 " Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, 
 And this fair change of seasons passes slow, 
 Gather and treasure up the good they yield — 
 All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts, 
 And kind affections, reverence for thy Gon, 
 And for thy brethren ; so, when thou shalt come 
 Into these barren years that fleet away 
 Before their fruits are ripe, thou mayst not bring 
 A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart." 
 
 Long since that white-hair'd ancient slept — but 
 
 still, 
 When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard 
 
 bough, 
 And the ruff 'd grouse is drumming far within 
 The woods, his venerable form again 
 Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. 
 
 AN EVENING REVERIE.* 
 
 The summer day has closed — the sun is set: 
 Well have they done their office, those bright hours, 
 The latest of whose train goes softly out 
 In the red west. The green blade of the ground 
 Has risen, and herds have cropp'd it; the young 
 
 twig 
 Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; 
 Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown, 
 And wither'd ; seeds have fallen upon the soil 
 From bursting cells, and in their graves await 
 Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 
 Have fill'd the air a while with humming wings, 
 That now ai - e still forever; painted moths 
 Have wander'd the blue sky, and died again; 
 The mother-bird hath broken, for her brood 
 Their prison-shells, or shoved them from the nest, 
 
 From an unfinished poem. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 181 
 
 Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, 
 In woodland cottages with barky walls, 
 In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 
 Mothers have clasp'd with joy the new-born babe. 
 Graves, by the lonely forest, by the shore 
 Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
 Of the throng'd city, have been hollow'd out, 
 And fill'd, and closed. This day hath parted friends, 
 That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit 
 New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight 
 Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 
 Hath woo'd ; and it hath heard, from lips which late 
 Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, 
 That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 
 Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! One glad day 
 Is added now to childhood's merry days, 
 And one calm day to those of quiet age. 
 Still the fleet hours run on ; and as I lean 
 Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit 
 By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 
 Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes 
 Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 
 And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. 
 
 O thou great Movement of the universe, 
 Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! 
 That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
 Into Night's shadow, and the streaming rays 
 Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me 1 
 I feel the mighty current sweep me on, 
 Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 
 The courses of the stars ; the very hour 
 He knows when they shall darken or grow bright : 
 Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death 
 Come unfore warned. Who next, of those I love, 
 Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 
 From virtue 1 Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 
 With friends, or shame, and general scorn of 
 
 men — 
 Which, who can bear 1 — or the fierce rack of pain, 
 Lie they within my path 1 ? Or shall the years 
 Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 
 Into the stilly twilight of my age 1 
 Or do the portals of another life, 
 Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, 
 Impend around me 1 ! beyond that bourne, 
 In the vast cycle of being, which begins 
 At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 
 Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 
 Its workings'! Gently — so have good men taught — 
 Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 
 Into the new, the eternal flow of things, 
 Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 
 Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 
 
 HYMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Not in the solitude 
 Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see 
 
 Only in savage wood 
 And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 
 
 Or only hear his voice 
 Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd 
 
 Through the great city roll'd, 
 With everlasting murmur, deep and loud — 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, 
 
 And lights their inner homes — 
 For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy spirit is around, 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 
 And this eternal sound — 
 Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 
 
 Like the resounding sea, 
 Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brme, 
 
 Hushing its billowy breast — 
 The quiet of that moment, too, is thine ; 
 
 It breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way! 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side! 
 
 There is a power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
 The desert and illimitable air, — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fann'd, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows; reed3 shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
182 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Ostcf. this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
 Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
 
 And fiery hearts and armed hands 
 Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. 
 
 Ah ! never shall the land forget 
 
 How gush'd the life-blood of her brave — 
 Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, 
 
 Upon the soil they fought to save. 
 
 Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 
 
 Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
 And talk of children on the hill, 
 
 And bell of wandering kine are heard. 
 
 No solemn host goes trailing by 
 
 The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain ; 
 Men start not at the battle-cry ; 
 
 ! be it never heard again. 
 
 Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
 Who minglest in the harder strife 
 
 For truths which men receive not now, 
 Thy warfare only ends with life. 
 
 A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
 Through weary day and weary year. 
 
 A wild and many-weapon'd throng 
 
 Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 
 
 Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
 And blench not at thy chosen lot. 
 
 The timid good may stand aloof, 
 
 The sage may frown — yet faint thou not, 
 
 Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
 The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn ; 
 
 For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
 The victory of endurance born. 
 
 Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again: 
 The eternal years of God are hers; 
 
 But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 
 And dies among his worshippers. 
 
 Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
 
 When they who help'd thee flee in fear, 
 
 Die full of hope and manly trust, 
 Like those who fell in battle here. 
 
 Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
 Another hand the standard wave, 
 
 Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd 
 The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, 
 
 The saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
 
 And meadows brown and sear. 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, 
 
 The wither'd leaves lie dead; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, 
 
 And to the rabbit's tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, 
 
 And from the shrubs the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
 
 Through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
 
 That lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, 
 
 A beauteous sisterhood ? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves ; 
 
 The gentle race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, 
 
 With the fair and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie, 
 
 But the cold November rain 
 Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, 
 
 The lovely ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, 
 
 They perish'd long ago, 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died, 
 
 Amid the summer glow ; 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, 
 
 And the aster in the wood, 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook 
 
 In autumn beauty stood, 
 Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, 
 
 As falls the plague on men, 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone, 
 
 From upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 
 
 As still such days will come, 
 To call the squirrel and the bee 
 
 From out their winter home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
 
 Though all the trees are still, 
 And twinkle in the smoky light 
 
 The waters of the rill, 
 The south wind searches for the flowers 
 
 Whose fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood 
 
 And by the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in 
 
 Her youthful beauty died, 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up 
 
 And faded by my side ; 
 In the cold, moist earth we laid her, 
 
 When the forest cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely 
 
 Should have a life so brief: 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, 
 
 Like that young friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, 
 
 Should perish with the flowers. 
 
WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 
 
 183 
 
 THE FUTURE LIFE. 
 
 How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
 The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
 
 When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
 And perishes among the dust we tread 1 
 
 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain ' 
 If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 
 
 Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
 In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 
 
 Will not thy own meek heart demand me there 7 
 That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? 
 
 My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 
 
 Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven 1 
 
 In meadows framed by heaven's life-breathing wind, 
 In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 
 
 And larger movements cf the unfetter'd mind, 
 Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here; 
 
 The love that lived through all the stormy past, 
 And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 
 
 And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, — 
 Shall it expire with life, and be no more 1 
 
 A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 
 
 Await thee there ; for thou hast bow'd thy will 
 
 In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
 And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 
 
 For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell 
 
 Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll ; 
 
 And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
 Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 
 
 Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 
 Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 
 
 The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 
 Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same 1 
 
 Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home 
 The wisdom that I learn'd so ill hi this — 
 
 The wisdom which is love — till I become 
 Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? 
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
 And colour'd with the heaven's own blue, 
 That openest, when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
 
 Or columbines in purple dress'd, 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
 When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The aged year is near his end. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Iiook through its fringes to the sky, 
 Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
 OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 
 
 On, fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
 Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thy infant eye. 
 
 Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
 Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart and on thy face. 
 
 The twilight of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves. 
 
 Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen; 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook. 
 
 The forest depths, by foot unpress'd, 
 Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
 The holy peace that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes, is there. 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. 
 
 Seveit long years has the desert rain 
 Dropp'd on the clods that hide thy face ; 
 
 Seven long years of sorrow and pain 
 I have thought of thy burial place. 
 
 Thought of thy fate in the distant west, 
 Dying with none that loved thee near ; 
 
 They who flung the earth on thy breast 
 Tum'd from the spot without a tear. 
 
 There, I think, on that lonely grave, 
 Violets spring in the soft May shower ; 
 
 There in the summer breezes wave 
 Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. 
 
 There the turtles alight, and there 
 Feeds with her fawn the timid doe ; 
 
 There, when the winter woods are bare, 
 Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. 
 
 Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away ; 
 
 All my task upon earth is done ; 
 My poor father, old and gray, 
 
 Slumbers beneath the church-yard stone. 
 
 In the dreams of my lonely bed, 
 Ever thy form before me seems; 
 
 All night long I talk with the dead, 
 All day long I think of my dreams. 
 
 This deep wound that bleeds and aches, 
 This long pain, a sleepless pain — 
 
 When the Father my spirit takes 
 I shall feel it no more airain. 
 
CAKLOS WILCOX. 
 
 [Born, 1794. Died, 1S27.] 
 
 The ancestors of Cahlos Wilcox were among 
 the early emigrants to New England. His father 
 was a respectable farmer at Newport, New Hamp- 
 shire, where the poet was born, on the twenty- 
 second day of October, 1794. When he was about 
 four years old, his parents removed to Orwell, in 
 Vermont; and there, a few years afterward, he ac- 
 cidentally injured himself with an axe ; the wound, 
 for want of care or skill, was not healed ; it was a 
 cause of suffering for a long period, and of lame- 
 ness during his life ; it made him a minister of 
 religion, and a poet. 
 
 Perceiving that this accident and its conse- 
 quences unfitted him for agricultural pursuits, his 
 parents resolved to give him a liberal education. 
 When, therefore, he was thirteen years old, he was 
 sent to an academy at Castleton; and when fifteen, 
 to the college at Middlebury. Here he became re- 
 ligious, and determined to study theology. He 
 won the respect of the officers, and of his asso- 
 ciates, by the mildness of his temper, the gravity 
 of his manners, and the manliness of his conduct ; 
 and he was distinguished for his attainments in 
 languages and polite letters. 
 
 He was graduated in 1813; and after spending 
 a few months with a maternal uncle, in Georgia, 
 he entered the theological school at Andover, in 
 Massachusetts. He had not been there long when 
 one of his classmates died, and he was chosen by 
 his fellows to pronounce a funeral oration. The 
 departed student was loved by all for his excellent 
 qualities; but by none more than by Wilcox ; 
 and the tenderness of feeling, and the purity of 
 diction which characterized his eulogy, established 
 his reputation for genius and eloquence in the 
 seminary. 
 
 Wilcox had at this time few associates ; he was 
 a melancholy man ; " I walk my room," he remarks, 
 in one of his letters, "with my hands clasped in 
 anguish, and my eyes streaming with tears;" he 
 complained that his mind was unstrung, relaxed 
 almost beyond the power of reaction ; that he had 
 lost all control of his thoughts and affections, and 
 become a passive slave of circumstances; "I feel 
 borne along," he says, "in despairing listlessness, 
 guided by the current in all its windings, without 
 resolution to raise my head to see where I am, or 
 whither I am going ; the roaring of a cataract before 
 me would rather lull me to a deeper sleep than 
 rouse me to an effort to escape destruction." His 
 sufferings were apparent to his friends, among 
 whom there were givings-out concerning an un- 
 requited passion, or the faithlessness of one whose 
 hand had been pledged to him; and he himself 
 mentioned to some who were his confidants, troubles 
 of a different kind : he was indebted to the college 
 faculty, and in other ways embarrassed. Whatever 
 may havn been the cause, all perceived that there 
 J 184 
 
 was something preying on his mind ; that he was 
 ever in dejection. 
 
 As time wore on, he became more cheerful ; he 
 finished the regular course, of theological studies, 
 in 1817, and in the following spring returned to 
 Vermont, where he remained a year. In this period 
 he began the poem, in which he has sung 
 
 "Of true Benevolence, its charms divine, 
 Willi other motives to call forth its power, 
 And its grand triumphs." 
 
 In 1819, Wilcox began to preach ; and his pro- 
 fessional labours were constant, for a year, at the 
 end of which time his health failed, and he ac- 
 cepted an invitation from a friend at Salisbury, in 
 Connecticut, to reside at his house. Here he re- 
 mained nearly two years, reading his favourite 
 authors, and composing "The Age of Benevo- 
 lence." The first book was published at New 
 Haven, in 1822; it was favourably received by the 
 journals and by the public. He intended to com- 
 plete the poem in five books ; the second, third, 
 and fourth, were left by him when he died, ready 
 for the press ; but, for some reason, only brief frag- 
 ments of them have been printed. 
 
 During the summer of 1824, Wilcox devoted 
 his leisure hours to the composition of " The Re- 
 ligion of Taste," a poem which he pronounced 
 before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College ; 
 and in the following winter he was ordained as 
 minister of the North Congregational Church, in 
 Hartford. He soon obtained a high reputation for 
 eloquence ; his sermons were long, prepared with 
 great care, and delivered with deep feeling. His 
 labours were too arduous ; his health rapidly de- 
 clined ; and in the summer of 1825, he sought 
 relief in relaxation and travel. He visited New 
 York, Philadelphia, the springs of Saratoga, and, 
 for the last time, his home in Vermont. In the 
 autumn he returned to his parish, where he re- 
 mained until the spring, when, finding himself 
 unable to perform the duties of his office, he sent 
 to the government of the church his resignation. 
 It was reluctantly accepted, for he had endeared 
 himself, as a minister and a man, to all who knew 
 him. The summer of 1826 was passed at New- 
 port, Rhode Island, in the hope that the sea-breeze 
 and bathing in the surf would restore his health. 
 He was disappointed ; and in September, he visited 
 the White Mountains, in New Hampshire, and 
 afterward went to Boston, where he remained se- 
 veral weeks. Finally, near the end of December, 
 he received an invitation to preach in Danbury, in 
 Connecticut. He went immediately to his new 
 parish, and during the winter discharged the duties 
 of his profession regularly. But as the spring 
 came round, his strength failed; and on the 27th 
 of May, 1827, he died. 
 
CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 185 
 
 There is much merit in some passages of the 
 fragment of the " Age of Benevolence." Wixcox 
 was pious, gentle-hearted, and unaffected and re- 
 tiring in his manners. The general character of 
 his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a 
 
 lover of nature, and he described rural sights and 
 sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the 
 ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less 
 successful than in the descriptive; but an earnest- 
 ness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote. 
 
 SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.* 
 
 Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and 
 buds 
 Start at the touch of vivifying beams. 
 Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph 
 Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field 
 A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, 
 Is naked Nature in her full attire. 
 On the first morn, light as an open plain 
 Is all the woodland, fill'd with sunbeams, pour'd 
 Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below, 
 With strong reflection: on the last, 'tis dark 
 With full-grown foliage, shading all within. 
 In one short week the orchard buds and blooms ; 
 And now, when steep'd in dew or gentle showers, 
 It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, 
 Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. 
 E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth, 
 And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, 
 Fill'd with a watery glimmering, receives 
 A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. 
 Each day are heard, and almost every hour, 
 New notes to swell the music of the groves. 
 And soon the latest of the feather'd train 
 At evening twilight come ; the lonely snipe, 
 O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, 
 Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones, 
 Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; 
 And, in mid air, the sportive night-hawk, seen 
 Flying a while at random, uttering oft 
 A cheerful cry, attended with a shake 
 Of level pinions, dark, but when upturn'd 
 Against the brightness of the western sky, 
 One white plume showing in the midst of each, 
 Then far down diving with a hollow sound ; 
 And, deep at first within the distant wood, 
 The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. 
 She, soon as children from the noisy sport 
 Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones, 
 To hear the echoes of the empty barn, 
 Are by her voice diverted and held mute, 
 Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; 
 And when the twilight, deepen'd into night, 
 Calls them within, close to the house she comes, 
 And on its dark side, haply on the step 
 Of unfrequented door lighting unseen, 
 Breaks into strains articulate and clear, 
 The closing sometimes quicken'd, as in sport. 
 Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve 
 All harmony, activity, and joy, 
 Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime. 
 The robin to the garden or green yard, 
 
 * This and the four following extracts are from "The 
 Age of Benevolence." 
 
 Close to the door, repairs to build again 
 Within her wonted tree ; and at her work 
 Seems doubly busy for her past delay. 
 Along the surface of the winding stream, 
 Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, 
 Or round the borders of the spacious lawn 
 Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er 
 Hillock and fence with motion serpentine, 
 Easy, and light. One snatches from the ground 
 A downy feather, and then upward springs, 
 Follow'd by others, but oft drops it soon, 
 In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, 
 When all at once dart at the falling prize. 
 The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown, 
 Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick 
 Till her breath fails, when, breaking off, she drops 
 On the next tree, and on its highest limb 
 Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, 
 Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes 
 Of every tone, mix'd in confusion sweet, 
 All chanted in the fulness of delight, 
 The forest rings : where, far around enclosed 
 With bushy sides, and cover'd high above 
 With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, 
 Like pillars rising to support a roof, 
 It seems a temple vast, the space within 
 Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. 
 Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, 
 The merry mocking-bird together links 
 In one continued song their different notes, 
 Adding new life and sweetness to them all. 
 Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields 
 Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, 
 Here chirps so shrill, that human feet approach 
 Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries 
 Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat 
 Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; 
 But oft a moment after reappears, 
 First peeping out, then starting forth at once 
 With a courageous air, yet in his pranks 
 Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far 
 Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze, 
 Singly and mutely, the contented herd ; 
 And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep ; 
 Regardless of the frolic lambs, that, close 
 Beside them, and before their faces prone, 
 With many an antic leap and butting feint, 
 Try to provoke them to unite in sport, 
 Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts ; 
 When, gathering in one company apart, 
 All vigour and delight, away they run, 
 Straight to the utmost corner of the field, 
 The fence beside ; then, wheeling, disappear 
 In some small sandy pit, then rise to view ; 
 Or crowd together up the heap of earth 
 Around some upturn'd root of fallen tree. 
 
186 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 And on its top a trembling moment stand, 
 
 Then to the distant flock at once return. 
 
 Exhilarated by the general joy, 
 
 And the fair prospect of a fruitful year, 
 
 The peasant, with light heart and nimble step, 
 
 His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet. 
 
 With many a cheering word, his willing team 
 
 For labour fresh, he hastens to the field 
 
 Ere morning lose its coolness ;, but at eve, 
 
 When loosen'd from the plough and homeward 
 
 turn'd, 
 He follows slow and silent, stopping oft 
 To mark the daily growth of tender grain 
 And meadows of deep verdure, or to view 
 His scatter' d flock and herd, of their own will 
 Assembling for the night by various paths, 
 The old now freely sporting with the young, 
 Or labouring with uncouth attempts at sport. 
 
 A SUMMER NOON. 
 
 A sultry noon, not in the summer's prime, 
 When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, 
 But near its close, when vegetation stops, 
 And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, 
 Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, 
 Its images of silence and of rest, 
 The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; 
 The husbandman has gone to his repast, 
 And, that partaken, on the coolest side 
 Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. 
 Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, 
 The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, 
 And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, 
 No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, 
 While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, 
 The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath 
 Brushes along the surface with a shade 
 Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. 
 The slender stalks their heavy bended heads 
 Support as motionless as oaks their tops. 
 O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; 
 E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung 
 By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, 
 Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, 
 Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside 
 Some shading object, in a silver shower 
 Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, 
 Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; 
 And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, 
 Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. 
 White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct 
 From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, 
 On the soft bosom of the air becalm'd, 
 Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, 
 On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; 
 Or in the polish'd mirror of the lake, 
 In which the deep reflected sky appears 
 A calm, sublime immensity below. 
 
 No sound nor motion of a living thing 
 The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, 
 Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. 
 The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, 
 Mutely, the thistle's seed ; but in her flight, 
 
 So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread 
 To rise a little, closed to fall as far, 
 Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, 
 With each new impulse chimes a feeble note. 
 The russet grasshopper at times is heard, 
 Snapping his many wings, as half he flies, 
 Half-hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun, 
 With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain, 
 Or stony mount, or in the close, deep vale, 
 The harmless locust of this western clime, 
 At intervals, amid the leaves unseen, 
 Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound, 
 As with a long-drawn breath, beginning low, 
 And rising to the midst with shriller swell, 
 Then in low cadence dying all away. 
 Beside the stream, collected in a flock, 
 The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground, 
 Continue still to wave their open fans 
 Powder'd with gold ; while on the jutting twigs 
 The spindling insects that frequent the banks 
 Rest, with their thin, transparent wings outspread 
 As when they fly. Ofttimes, though seldom seen, 
 The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, 
 Is heard to moan, as if at every breath 
 Panting aloud. The hawk, in mid-air high, 
 On his broad pinions sailing round and round, 
 With not a flutter, or but now and then, 
 As if his trembling balance to regain, 
 Utters a single scream, but faintly heard, 
 And all again is still. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 The sultry summer past, September comes, 
 Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. 
 All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace ; 
 The fading season ere the falling come, 
 More sober than the buxom, blooming May, 
 And therefore less the favourite of the world, 
 But dearest month of all to pensive minds. 
 'Tis now far spent ; and the meridian sun, 
 Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, 
 Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. 
 Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, 
 Checker' d by one night's frost with various hues, 
 While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, 
 Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
 Down the smooth stream to glide, and s^e it tinged 
 Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, 
 The yellow, red, or purple of the trees 
 That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick 
 Adorn the shores ; to see, perhaps, the side 
 Of some high mount reflected far below, 
 With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots 
 Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad 
 To wander in the open fields, and hear, 
 E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, 
 The lulling insects of the summer's night ; 
 To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 
 A lonely bee long roving here and there 
 To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
 Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, 
 In widening circles round and round his head, 
 
CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 187 
 
 Straight by the listener flying clear away, 
 
 As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; 
 
 To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, 
 
 Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps, 
 
 The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd 
 
 From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. 
 
 SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.* 
 
 The sun now rests upon the mountain tops — 
 Begins to sink behind — is half conceal'd — 
 And now is gone : the last faint, twinkling beam 
 Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. 
 Sweet to the pensive is departing day, 
 When only one small cloud, so still and thin, 
 So thoroughly imbued with amber light, 
 And so transparent, that it seems a spot 
 Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, 
 Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few 
 Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, 
 At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, 
 With golden borders,sometimes straight and smooth, 
 And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, 
 A half-hour's space above the mountain lie ; 
 Or when the whole consolidated mass, 
 That only threaten'd rain, is broken up 
 Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, 
 One as the ocean broken into waves ; 
 And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep 
 The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed 
 
 * Every person, who has witnessed the splendour of 
 the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight 
 the local as well as general truth and beauty of this de- 
 scription. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot 
 wh^re the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, 
 amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. 
 In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and 
 impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; 
 the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of 
 which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution ; 
 the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which 
 rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; 
 the perfect outline of the horizon ; the noble range of 
 blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire 
 one beyond another almost to infinite distance ; together 
 with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from 
 the elevated spot, — these features constitute at all times 
 a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary 
 with gazing. When the sun goe3 down, it is all in a blaze 
 with his descending glory. The sunset is the most per- 
 fectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just pre- 
 ceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of 
 amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the 
 richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, 
 which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes 
 the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant 
 golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and 
 shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the 
 whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a 
 yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then 
 come the varying iints of twilight, "fading, still fading," 
 til i the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night 
 reigns, with its silence, shadows, and repose. In the 
 summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm 
 and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the 
 north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow- 
 banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, 
 sigh lot a more congenial climate. — Rev. G. B. Cheever. 
 
 Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, 
 As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, 
 All fading soon as lower sinks the sun, 
 Till twilight end. But now another scene, 
 To me most beautiful of all, appears : 
 The sky, without the shadow of a cloud, 
 Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow 
 So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye, 
 Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force 
 Its power of vision to admit the whole. 
 Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye, 
 Midway, the blushing of the mellow peach 
 Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep ; 
 And here, in this most lovely region, shines, 
 With added loveliness, the evening-star. 
 Above, the fainter purple slowly fades, 
 Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. 
 
 Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun 
 Descended, in a single row arranged, 
 As if thus planted by the hand of art, 
 Majestic pines shoot up into the sky, 
 And in its fluid gold seem half-dissolved. 
 Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands 
 With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, 
 A stately colonnade, with verdant roof; 
 Upon a nearer still, a single tree, 
 With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; 
 While, farther northward, through a narrow pass 
 Scoop'd in the hither range, a single mount 
 Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, 
 And of a softer, more ethereal blue, 
 A pyramid of polisli'd sapphire built. . 
 
 But now the twilight mingles into one 
 The various mountains ; levels to a plain 
 This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, 
 Where every object to my sight presents 
 Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls, 
 And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks 
 Under thick foliage, reflective shows 
 Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line 
 Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth ! 
 
 SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING. 
 
 Far off and low 
 In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, 
 Where sleeps in embryo the midnight storm, 
 The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets, 
 Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus 
 Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge ; 
 Or if the bolder fancy so conceive 
 Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus 
 Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops 
 With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright 
 The distant flashes gleam as to efface 
 The window's image, on the floor impress'd 
 By the dim crescent ; or outshines the light 
 Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, 
 If haply, to illume a moonless night, 
 The lighted taper shine ; though lit in vain, 
 To waste away unused, and from abroad 
 Distinctly through the open window seen, 
 Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp. 
 
188 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.* 
 
 Just in the centre of that wood was rear'd 
 Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white ; 
 Above the thick young trees, its top appear'd 
 Among the naked trunks of towering height ; 
 And here at morn and eve it glitter'd bright, 
 As often by the far-off traveller seen 
 In level sunbeams, or at dead of night, 
 When the low moon shot in her rays between 
 That wide-spread roof and floor of solid foliage 
 green. 
 
 Through this wide interval the roving eye 
 From turrets proud might trace the waving line 
 Where meet the mountains green and azure sky, 
 And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine ; 
 Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine, 
 But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm 
 Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine 
 C all 'd home again, or by the soft alarm 
 Of Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm. 
 
 Through this wide interval, the mountain side 
 Show'd many a sylvan slope and rocky steep : 
 Here roaring torrents in dark forests hide ; 
 There silver streamlets rush to view, and leap 
 Unheard from lofty cliffs to valleys deep : 
 Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow, 
 Along the clear horizon's western sweep ; 
 There from some eastern summit moonbeams flow 
 Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below. 
 
 Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone 
 Round that horizon ; now o'er mountains proud 
 Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone : 
 An ebon wall, a smooth, portentous cloud, 
 First muttering low, anon with thunder loud, 
 Now rises quick, and brings a sweeping wind 
 O'er all that wood in waves before it bow'd ; 
 And now a rainbow, with its top behind 
 A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth 
 to bind. 
 
 Above the canopy, so thick and green, 
 And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, 
 Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen 
 Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail 
 In moonlight clear before the gentle gale : 
 Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance ; 
 Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, 
 Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance ; 
 And oft the milky-way gleams through the white 
 expanse. 
 
 That castle's open windows, though half-hid 
 With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair : 
 A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid 
 Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear 
 The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, 
 Oft caught the eye a moment : and the sound 
 Of low, sweet music often issued there, 
 And by its magic held the listener bound, 
 And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around. 
 
 * This and the two extracts which follow are from 
 " The Religion of Taste." 
 
 Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, 
 While glad attendants at her glance unfold 
 Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and 
 
 earth, 
 Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, 
 Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, 
 And rising in the midst of trophies bright, 
 That bring her memory from the days of old, 
 And help prolong her reign, and with the flight 
 Of every year increase the wonders of her might. 
 
 In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, 
 Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, 
 Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, 
 And stop the dreamer on his unknown way; 
 There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, 
 The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung 
 As that enchantress moved in might or play ; 
 And there was many a harp but newly strung, 
 Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley 
 rung. 
 
 There, from all lands and ages of her fame, 
 Were marble forms, array 'd in order due, 
 In groups and single, all of proudest name ; 
 In them the high, the fair, and tender grew 
 To life intense in love's impassion'd view, 
 And from each air and feature, bend and swell, 
 Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw 
 O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, 
 The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. 
 
 The walls around told all the pencil's power ; 
 There proud creations of each mighty hand 
 Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour 
 When the last touch was given at the command 
 Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, 
 Exulting in its great and glowing thought: 
 Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, 
 Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, 
 From history, from fable, and from nature brought. 
 
 With these were others all divine, drawn all 
 From ground where oft, with signs and accents 
 
 dread, 
 The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall 
 Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread 
 Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, 
 And where strong angels flew to blast or save, 
 Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, 
 And where their mighty Lord o'er land and wave 
 Spread life and peace till death, then spread them 
 
 through the grave. 
 
 From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, 
 Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow, 
 Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky, 
 On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro, 
 Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow ; 
 Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn 
 Truths they had fear'd or felt ashamed to know; 
 The skeptic would believe, the lost return ; 
 And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. 
 
 Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast,, 
 The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined ; 
 And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast, 
 They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their kind 
 
CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 189 
 
 To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, 
 And its communion with things all its own, 
 Its forms sublime and lovely ; as the blind, 
 Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown, 
 Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone. 
 
 Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell 
 With all whom that enchantress held subdued, 
 As in the holiest circle of her spell, 
 Where meaner spirits never dare intrude, 
 They dwelt in calm and silent solitude, 
 Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet, 
 In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued 
 With its devotion to life's inmost seat, 
 As drawn from all the charms which in that val- 
 ley meet. 
 
 ROUSSEAU AND COWPER. 
 
 Rousseau could weep — yes, with a heart of stone 
 The impious sophist could recline beside 
 The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone 
 On all its loveliness at eventide : 
 On its small running waves, in purple dyed 
 'jeneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky, 
 On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, 
 And on surrounding mountains wild and high, 
 Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye. 
 
 But his were not the tears of feeling fine, 
 Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flow'd, 
 Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine, 
 By lightning fired ; his heart with passion glow'd 
 Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd 
 A chilling coldness both to friend and foe, 
 As Etna, with its centre an abode 
 Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow 
 Of all its desert brow the living world below. 
 
 Was he but justly wretched from his crimes 1 
 Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen, 
 With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes 
 Genius and feeling, and to things unseen 
 Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be- 
 tween 
 The earth and skies, to darken human hope 1 
 Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene 
 To render vain faith's lifted telescope, 
 And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to 
 grope 1 
 
 He, too, could give himself to musing deep ; 
 By the calm lake at evening he could stand, 
 Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep 
 On all its breast, by not an insect fann'd, 
 And hear low voices on the far-off strand, 
 Or through the still and dewy atmosphere 
 The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, 
 From fronting shore and woody island near 
 In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more 
 clear. 
 
 And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, 
 Tn the pine grove, when low the full moon fair 
 Shot under lofty tops her level beams, 
 Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, 
 
 In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, 
 As of some temple vast or colonnade, 
 While on green turf, made smooth without his care, 
 He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade 
 And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs 
 pervade. 
 
 'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude 
 He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage ; 
 'T was thus his tender spirit was subdued, 
 Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; 
 And his had been a useless pilgrimage, 
 Had he been gifted with no sacred power, 
 To send his thoughts to every future age ; 
 But he is gone where grief will not devour, 
 Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never 
 lower. 
 
 THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 And thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends 
 No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, 
 Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, 
 Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate ; 
 None seek thy misery, none thy being hate ; 
 Break from thy former self, thy life begin ; 
 Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate, 
 And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within, 
 And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win. 
 
 With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, 
 He dies in triumph or serene delight ; 
 Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame 
 At every breath, but in immortal might 
 His spirit grows, preparing for its flight : 
 The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, 
 But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more 
 
 bright, 
 All intervening mists far off are driven ; 
 The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief 1 
 Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold 1 
 Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? 
 Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold : 
 'T is when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold 
 Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
 Its life and beauty ; not when, all unroll'd, 
 Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair 
 Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the am- 
 bient air. 
 
 Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, 
 Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the 
 
 night 
 When death is waiting for thy number'd hours 
 To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
 Wake ere the earthbom charm unnerve thee quite, 
 And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; 
 Do something — do it soon — with all thy might; 
 An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
 And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd 
 
 Some high or humble enterprise of good 
 Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, 
 
190 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, 
 And kindle in thy heart a flame refined ; 
 Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind 
 To this thy purpose — to b?gin, pursue, 
 With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind, 
 Strength to complete, and with delight review, 
 And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. 
 
 No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit 
 To light on man as from the passing air ; 
 The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, 
 If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, 
 Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; 
 And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 
 Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, 
 That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and 
 showers 
 Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. 
 
 Has immortality of name been given 
 To them that idly worship hills and groves, 
 And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven] 
 Did Newton" learn from fancy, as it roves, 
 To measiire worlds, and follow where each moves 1 
 Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, 
 By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ] 
 Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace, 
 By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of 
 Greece 1 
 
 Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear 
 But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
 Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear 
 From other lips, without a blush of shame, 
 Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, 
 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
 The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
 'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, 
 Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 
 
 Rouse to some work of high and holy love, 
 And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — 
 Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; 
 The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
 In many a branching stream, and wider grow; 
 The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, 
 Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, 
 Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, 
 And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal 
 bowers. 
 
 SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Ere long the clouds were gone, the moon was set; 
 When deeply blue without a shade of gray, 
 The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met, 
 Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray ; 
 Through their transparent air the milky-way 
 Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white, 
 As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray, 
 Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight, 
 That for a moment shone its whole long track of 
 light. 
 
 At length in northern skies, at first but small, 
 A sheet of light mcteorous begun 
 To spread on either hand, and rise and fall 
 In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run 
 Along its edge, set thick but one by one 
 With spiry beams, that all at once shot high, 
 Like those through vapours from the setting sun; 
 Then sidelong as before the wind they fly, 
 Like streaking rain from clouds that flit along the 
 sky. 
 
 Now all the mountain-tops and gulfs between 
 Seem'd one dark plain ; from forests, caves pro- 
 found, 
 And rushing waters far below unseen, 
 Rose a deep roar in one united sound, 
 Alike pervading all the air around, 
 And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill, 
 And from it through soft ether to resound 
 In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill 
 To every finger's end from rapture deep and still. 
 
 LIVE FOR ETERNITY. 
 
 A bright or dark eternity in view, 
 With all its fix'd, unutterable things, 
 What madness in the living to pursue, 
 As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, 
 The joys that death-beds always turn to stings ! 
 Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste 
 To dance along the path that always brings 
 Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste 
 Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ! 
 
 Our life is like the hurrying on the eve 
 Before we start, on some long journey bound, 
 When fit preparing to the last we leave, 
 Then run to every room the dwelling round, 
 And sigh that nothing needed can be found ; 
 Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break ; 
 We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound 
 For our departure calls ; we rise and take 
 A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. 
 
 Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms 
 Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, 
 Men come and go like vegetable forms, 
 Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, 
 Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, 
 Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room 
 For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, 
 While yet they know not if beyond the tomb 
 A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. 
 
 What matter whether pain or pleasures fill 
 The swelling heart one little moment here? 
 From both alike how vain is every thrill, 
 While an untried eternity is near ! 
 Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career ; 
 The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside 
 Like bubb'cs, and thy bark right onward steer 
 Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, 
 Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. 
 
HENRY WARE, JR. 
 
 [Bom, 1794. Died, 1843.] 
 
 Henry Ware, D. D., a son of Henry Ware, 
 D. D., and brother of William Ware, D. D., 
 author of " Probus," etc., was born in Hingham, 
 Massachusetts, on the seventh of April, 1794; 
 was graduated at Cambridge in 1812; completed 
 his theological studies in 1815; was ordained 
 minister of the Second Congregational Church, in 
 Boston, in 1817; received Ralph Waldo Emer- 
 son as his colleague, in 1829 ; for the recovery of 
 his health soon after visited Europe ; and on his 
 return, in 1830, resigned his charge and entered 
 
 upon the office of Professor of Pulpit Eloquence 
 and the Pastoral Care in the Theological School 
 connected with Harvard College, which he held 
 until the summer of 1842, when he gave up his 
 public duties. He died September 22, 1843. 
 
 Dr. Ware's writings, theological, critical, and 
 miscellaneous, are numerous and valuable. In 1815 
 he published " A Poem on Occasion of the Peace ;" 
 in 1824 "The Vision of Liberty;" in 1837, "The 
 Feast of the Tabernacles," and at various times 
 many shorter pieces, chiefly devotional. 
 
 TO THE URSA MAJOR. 
 
 With what a stately and majestic step 
 That glorious constellation of the north 
 Treads its eternal circle ! going forth 
 Its princely way among the stars in slow 
 And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail ! 
 I joy to see thee on thy glowing path 
 Walk, like some stout and girded giant ; stern, 
 Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot 
 Disdains to loiter on its destined way. 
 The other tribes forsake their midnight track, 
 And rest their weary orbs beneath thy wave ; 
 But thou dost never close thy burning eye, 
 Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on, 
 While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds 
 Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. 
 The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. 
 Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit 
 Thy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still, 
 Dost guard the fix'd light of the universe, 
 And bid the north forever know its place. 
 Ages have witness'd thy devoted trust, 
 Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God 
 Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through 
 
 heaven, 
 And echo'd from the outer spheres that bound 
 The illimitable universe, thy voice 
 Join'd the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs 
 The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, 
 Who thus had cast another sparkling gem, 
 Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd 
 Of splendours that enrich his firmament. 
 As thou art now, so wast thou then the same. 
 Ages have rolfd their course, and time grown gray; 
 The earth has gather'd to her womb again, 
 And yet again, the myriads that were born 
 Of her uncounted, unremember'd tribes. 
 The seas have changed their beds ; the eternal hills 
 Have stoop'd with age ; the solid continents 
 Have left their banks ; and man's imperial works — 
 The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had 
 
 flung 
 
 Their haughty honours in the face of heaven, 
 As if immortal — have been swept away : 
 Shatter'd and mouldering, buried and forgot. 
 But time has shed no dimness on thy front, 
 Nor touch'd the firmness of thy tread ; youth, 
 
 strength, 
 And beauty still are thine ; as clear, as bright, 
 As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth, 
 Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, 
 To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim 
 The eternal chorus of eternal Love. 
 
 I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, 
 Undimm'd, unquench'd — just as I see it now — 
 Has issued from those dazzling points through years 
 That go back far into eternity. 
 Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renew'd 
 Forever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, 
 Which now descend upon my lifted eye, 
 Left their far fountain twice three years ago. 
 While those wing'd particles, whose speed outstrips 
 The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth 
 Compass'd its tedious circuit round and round, 
 And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld 
 Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. 
 So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ! 
 So vast the void through which their beams descend! 
 Yes, glorious lamp of God ! He may have quench'd 
 Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night 
 Rest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings reach 
 This distant planet. Messengers still come 
 Laden with your far fire, and we may seem 
 To see your lights still burning ; while their blaze 
 But hides the black wreck of extinguish'd realms, 
 Where anarchy and darkness long have reign'd. 
 
 Yet what is this, which to the astonish'd mind 
 Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought 
 Confounds 1 A span, a point, in those domains 
 Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars 
 Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight 
 Embraces all at once ; yet each from each 
 Recedes as far as each of them from earth. 
 And every star from every other burns 
 No less remote. From the profound of heaven, 
 
 191 
 
is-; 
 
 HENRY WARE, JR. 
 
 Untravell'd even in thought, keen, piercing rays 
 Dart through the void, revealing to the eense 
 Systems and worlds unnumbcr'd. Take the glass 
 And search the skies. The opening skies pour down 
 Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire ; 
 Stars, crowded, throng'd, in regions so remote, 
 That their swift beams — the swiftest things that 
 
 be— 
 Have travell'd centuries on their flight to earth. 
 Earth, sun, and nearer constellations ! what 
 Are ye amid this infinite extent 
 And multitude of God's most infinite works ! 
 
 And these are suns ! vast, central, living fires, 
 Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds 
 That wait as satellites upon their power, 
 And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, 
 And meditate the wonder ! Countless suns 
 Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless 
 
 worlds ! 
 Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice, 
 And drink the bliss of being from the fount 
 Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know, 
 What tongue can utter all their multitudes ! 
 Thus numberless in numberless abodes ! 
 Known but to thee, bless'd Father ! Thine they are, 
 Thy children, and thy care ; and none o'erlook'd 
 Of thee ! No, not the humblest soul that dwells 
 Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course 
 Amid the giant glories of the sky, 
 Like the mean mote that dances in the beam 
 Amongst the mirror'd lamps, which fling 
 Their wasteful splendour from the palace wall, 
 None, none escape the kindness of thy care ; 
 All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing, 
 Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. 
 
 Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne 
 Ye mark the rolling provinces that own 
 Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes 1 
 How form'd, how gifted 1 what their powers, their 
 
 state, 
 Their happiness, their wisdom 1 Do they bear 
 The stamp of human nature 1 Or has God 
 Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms 
 And more celestial minds 1 Does Innocence 
 Still wear her native and untainted bloom 1 
 Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, 
 And sow'd corruption in those fairy bowers 1 
 Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire 1 
 And Slavery forged his chains ; and Wrath, and 
 
 Hate, 
 And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust 
 Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth , 
 And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy] 
 Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen 
 And uncorruptl existence one long joy, 
 Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
 Upon the heart, or weariness of life ; 
 Hope never quench'd, and age unknown, 
 And death unfear'd ; while fresh and fadeless youth 
 Glows in the light from Gon's near throne of love? 
 
 Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! 
 Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds 
 Unfold ! No language 1 Everlasting light 
 And everlasting silence 1 Yet the eye 
 May read and understand. The hand of God 
 
 Has written legibly what man may know, 
 The glory of the Maker. There it shines, 
 Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man, 
 Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe, 
 May know and ask no more. In other days, 
 When death shall give the encumber'd spirit wings, 
 Its range shall be extended ; it shall roam, 
 Perchance, among those vast, mysterious spheres, 
 Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each, 
 Familiar with its children ; learn their laws, 
 And share their state, and study and adore 
 The infinite varieties of bliss 
 And beauty, by the hand of Power divine 
 Lavish'd on all its works. Eternity 
 Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; 
 No pause of pleasure or improvement ; world 
 On world still opening to the instructed mind 
 An unexhausted universe, and time 
 But adding to its glories. While the soul, 
 Advancing ever to the Source of light 
 And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns 
 In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. 
 
 SEASONS OF PRAYER. 
 
 To prayer, to prayer ; — for the morning breaks, 
 And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. 
 His light is on all below and above, 
 The light of gladness, and life, and love. 
 O, then, on the breath of this early air, 
 Send up the incense of grateful prayer. 
 
 To prayer ; — for the glorious sun is gone, 
 And the gathering darkness of night comes on. 
 Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, 
 To shade the couch where his children repose. 
 Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, 
 And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of 
 night. 
 
 To prayer ; — for the day that God has bless'd 
 Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. 
 It speaks of creation's early bloom ; 
 It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. 
 Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, 
 And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies. 
 
 0, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows 
 
 With rapture a mother only knows. 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, 
 Where the heart is pledged with the tremblinghand. 
 What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, 
 As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 
 Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, 
 And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. 
 
 Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, 
 And pray for his soul through Him who died. 
 Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow — 
 0, what is earth and its pleasures now ! 
 
HENRY WARE, JR. 
 
 193 
 
 And what shall assuage his dark despair, 
 But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? 
 
 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
 And hear the last words the believer saith. 
 He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; 
 There is peace in his eye that upward bends ; 
 There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; 
 For his last thoughts are Gon's,his last words prayer. 
 
 The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! 
 
 A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. 
 
 It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
 
 It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; 
 
 It points to the glory where he shall reign, 
 
 Who whisper'd, " Thy brother shall rise again." 
 
 The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! 
 But gladder, purer, than rose from this. 
 The raasom'd shout to their glorious King, 
 Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; 
 But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; 
 And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 
 
 Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength 
 
 To join that holy band at length. 
 
 To him who unceasing love displays, 
 
 Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, 
 
 To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; 
 
 For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. 
 
 THE VISION OF LIBERTY.* 
 
 The evening heavens were calm and bright ; 
 
 No dimness rested on the glittering light [high; 
 That sparkled from that wilderness of worlds on 
 
 Those distant suns burn'd on in quiet ray ; 
 
 The placid planets held their modest way : 
 And silence reign'd profound o'er earth, and sea, 
 and sky. 
 
 what an hour for lofty thought ! 
 My spirit burn'd within^; I caught 
 
 A holy inspiration from the hour. 
 
 Around me man and nature slept ; 
 
 Alone my solemn watch I kept, 
 Till morning dawn'd, and sleep resumed her power. 
 
 A vision pass'd upon my soul. 
 I still was gazing up to heaven, 
 As in the early hours of even ; 
 
 1 still beheld the planets roll, 
 And all those countless sons of light 
 
 Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the 
 moonless night. 
 
 When, lo, upon the plain, 
 
 Just where it skirts the swelling main, 
 
 A massive castle, far and high, 
 
 In towering grandeur broke upon my eye. 
 
 Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile 
 Flung up its time-defying towers ; 
 
 Its lofty gates seem'd scornfully to smile 
 At vain assault of human powers, 
 
 And threats and arms deride. 
 
 Its gorgeous carvings of heraldric pride 
 
 * From a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society, at Cambridge, in 1825. , n 
 
 In giant masses graced the walls above, 
 And dungeons yawn'd below. 
 
 Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, 
 Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow. 
 
 Bursting on my steadfast gaze, 
 
 See, within, a sudden blaze ! 
 So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell, 
 
 That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top, 
 
 Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop, 
 The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell. 
 
 But soon it spread — 
 
 Waving, rushing, fierce, and red — 
 
 From wall to wall, from tower to tower, 
 
 Raging with resistless power ; 
 Till every fervent pillar glow'd, 
 
 And every stone seem'd burning coal, 
 Instinct with living heat, that flow'd 
 
 Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole. 
 
 Beautiful, fearful, grand, 
 
 Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand. 
 
 At length a crackling sound began ; 
 
 From side to side, throughout the pile it ran ; 
 
 And louder yet and louder grew, 
 
 Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew; 
 
 Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke, 
 
 Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke. 
 
 The shatter'd walls were rent and riven, 
 
 And piecemeal driven 
 
 Like blazing comets through the troubled sky 
 
 'Tis done; what centuries had rear'd, 
 
 In quick explosion disappear' d, 
 Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye. 
 
 But in their place — 
 
 Bright with more than human grace, 
 Robed in more than mortal seeming, 
 
 Radiant glory in her face, [ing — 
 
 And eyes with heaven's own brightness beam- 
 Rose a fair, majestic form, 
 As the mild rainbow from the storm. 
 I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye ; 
 
 And when, with gesture of command, 
 
 She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand, 
 My slumbers fled mid shouts of " Liberty !" 
 
 Read ye the dream ? and know ye not 
 How truly it unlock'd the world of fate ! 
 
 Went not the flame from this illustrious spot, 
 And spreads it not, and burns in every state ? 
 
 And when their old and cumbrous walls, 
 Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense, 
 Vainly they rear'd their impotent defence : 
 
 The fabric falls ! 
 
 That fervent energy must spread, 
 
 Till despotism's towers be overthrown ; 
 
 And in their stead, 
 Liberty stands alone ! 
 
 Hasten the day, just Heaven ! 
 
 Accomplish thy design ; 
 And let the blessings thou hast freely given, 
 
 Freely on all men shine ; 
 Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd 
 And human power for human good employ'd ; 
 Till law, and not the sovereign, rule sustain, 
 And peace and virtue undisputed reign. 
 
JOHN NEAL. 
 
 [Born about 1794.] 
 
 Mn. Neal is a native of Portland. In 1815 he 
 went to Baltimore, and was there associated several 
 years with John Pierpont in mercantile transac- 
 tions ; but these resulting disastrously, he turned 
 his attention to literature, commencing his career 
 by writing for " The Portico," a monthly maga- 
 zine, a series of critical essays on the works of 
 Byron. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool," a 
 novel, and in the following year " The Battle of 
 Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other 
 Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,"* and " Otho," a tra- 
 gedy. He also wrote a large portion of Alien's 
 " History of the American Revolution," which ap- 
 peared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in 
 Philadelphia a second novel, entitled "Logan," 
 which was reprinted soon after in London. This 
 was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most 
 popular of his fictions; " Randolph,"! a story 
 which attracted considerable attention at the time 
 'by the notices it contained of the most prominent 
 politicians, authors, and artists then in the country ; 
 and " Errata, or the Works of Will Adams." 
 
 Wear the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. 
 Neal went abroad. Soon after his arrival in Lon- 
 don he became a contributor to various periodicals, 
 for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an 
 Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous 
 opinions which prevailed in regard to the social 
 and political condition of the United States. He 
 made his first appearance in Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine, in " Sketches of the Five American Presi- 
 dents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," 
 a paper which was widely republished, and, with 
 others, led to his introduction to many eminent 
 persons, among whom was Jeremy Bentham, 
 who continued until his death to be Mr. Neal's 
 warm personal friend. 
 
 After passing four years in Great Britain and on 
 the continent, in which time appeared his " Brother 
 Jonathan," a novel, Mr. Neae came back to his 
 
 * "Jehu O'Cataract" was a name given to Neal 
 by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which Paul Allen, 
 Gen. Winder, ,Rev. John Pierpont, Judge Buecken- 
 iudqe, Neal, and other distinguished men, were then 
 members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara 
 was published in 1819, and for " Jehu O'Cataract" was 
 substituted the real name of the author. 
 
 In this edition of " The Poets and Poetry of America" 
 I have quoted from the " Battle of Niagara" as it appear- 
 ed with the " last additions and corrections." I had 
 seen only the first impression of it when this work was 
 originally prepared for the press. 
 
 t In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. Neal says 
 he wrote " Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an inter- 
 val of about a week between the two volumes, in which 
 he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine 
 days ; and " Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During 
 - this time he was engaged in professional business. 
 ,194 
 
 native city of Portland, where he now resides. 
 Since his return he has published " Rachel Dyer," 
 "Authorship," " The Down Easters," and " Ruth El- 
 der ;" edited " The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two 
 years, and contributed largely to other periodicals. 
 
 Mr. Neal's novels contain numerous passages 
 marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression, 
 and occasional scenes which show that he possesses 
 dramatic ability. They are original ; they are writ- 
 ten from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded 
 by the peculiarities of his character ; but most of 
 them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are 
 without unity, aim, or continuous interest. 
 
 His poems have the unquestionable stamp of 
 genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of 
 sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. 
 The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses 
 with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. 
 But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He 
 has no just sense of proportion. No one with so 
 rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in 
 using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn 
 the structures of the imagination, he reverses the 
 poetical law, giving to the imagination the second- 
 ary office, so that the points illustrated are quite 
 forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the 
 imagery. The " Battle of Niagara," with its rapid 
 and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the 
 ear as if it were composed to martial music. It 
 is marred, however, by his customary faults. The 
 isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow 
 as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he 
 crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it 
 would be very fine but for lines or single words 
 which, if the reader were not confident that he had 
 before him the author's own edition, he would think 
 had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy. 
 
 I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the 
 rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in 
 Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of 
 Pierpont, and read to him a poem which he had 
 just completed. The author of" Airs of Palestine" 
 was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed 
 out the faults of the performance. Neal promised 
 to revise it, and submit it again on the following 
 morning. At the appointed time he repaired to 
 the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new 
 poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had 
 tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had 
 chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced 
 an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep. 
 
 In the last edition of his Poems, Mr. Neal pre- 
 sents some specimens of an intended epic on the 
 conquest of Peru ; and he has written many lyrical 
 pieces, not included in his collections, which have 
 been popular. 
 
JOHN NEAL. 
 
 195 
 
 FROM THE CONQUEST OF PERU. 
 INVOCATION TO THE DEITY. 
 
 O Thou, from whom the rebel angels fled, 
 When thou didst rend thine everlasting veil, 
 And show thy countenance in wrath ! Thou, 
 Before whose brow, unclothed in light — put forth 
 In awful revelation — they that stood 
 Erect in heaven, they that walk'd sublime, 
 E'en in thy presence, Lord ! and they that shone 
 Most glorious 'mid the host of glorious ones, 
 With Lucifer — the Morning Star, the Terrible, 
 The chief of old immortals — with the sight 
 Were suddenly consumed ! Almighty ! Thou, 
 Whose face but shone upon the rebel host 
 Of warring constellations, and their crowns 
 Were quench'd for ever ! and the mightiest fell, 
 And lo ! innumerable wings went up, 
 And g^ther'd rqund about the Eternal's throne, 
 And til the solitudes of air were fill'd 
 With thunders and with voices ! and the war 
 Fled from thy presence ! And thy wrath was o'er, 
 And heaven again in peace ! 
 
 O Thou — our Inspiration — Thou, God ! 
 To whom the prophets and the crowned kings, 
 The bards of many years, who caught from Thee 
 Their blazing of the spirit ! Thou, to whom 
 The Jewish monarchs, on their ivory thrones, 
 Flaming with jewelry, have fallen down 
 And rung their golden harps, age after age ! 
 O Thou, to whom the gifted men of old, 
 Who stood among the mysteries of heaven, 
 Read the thick stars, and listened to the wind, 
 Interpreted the thunder, told the voice 
 Of Ocean tumbling in his caves, explained 
 The everlasting characters of flame 
 That burn upon the firmament, and saw 
 The face of him that sitteth in the sun, 
 And read the writing there, that comes and goes, 
 Revealing to the eyes the fate of men, 
 Of monarchs, and of empires ! — men who stood 
 Amid the solitudes of heaven and earth, and heard 
 From the high mountain-top the silent Night 
 Give out her uninterpreted decrees ! — 
 The venerable men ! the old, and mighty, 
 Prophets and bards and kings, whose souls were fill'd 
 With immortality, and visions, till 
 Their hearts have ached with weary supplication ; 
 Till all the Future, rushing o'er their strings, 
 In tempest and in light, hath drown'd their prayers, 
 And left their mighty harps all ringing loud 
 With prophecy and wo ! Thou, to whom 
 Innumerable suns, and moons, and worlds, 
 The glorious elevations of the sky, 
 The choirs of cherubim and seraphim — 
 Immortal multitudes, that worship round 
 Thine echoing throne — upon their golden harps 
 And silver trumps, and organs of the air, 
 Pour everlasting melody ! O Thou, to whom 
 All this hath been familiar from the hour 
 When thou didst bow the heavens, and, at the sound 
 Of many thunders, pealing thy decree, 
 Creation sprang to light, when time began 
 And all the boundless sky was full of suns, 
 Rolling in symphony, and man was made 
 
 Sublime and confident, and woman, up 
 
 From the sunshine of the Eternal rose, 
 
 All intellect and love ! and all the hills 
 
 And all the vales were green, and all the trees in flower. 
 
 — O, bless our trembling harp ! 
 
 FROM THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA. 
 
 A CAVALCADE SEEN AT SUNSET THROUGH A 
 GORGE. 
 
 Ah, now let us gaze ! what a wonderful sky ! 
 How the robe of the god, in its flame-colored dye, 
 Goes ruddily, flushingly, sweepingly by ! . . . . 
 Nay, speak ! did you ever behold such a night 1 
 While the winds blew about, and the waters were 
 The sun rolling home in an ocean of light ! [bright, 
 But hush ! there is music away in the sky ; 
 Some creatures of magic are charioting by ; [wild 
 Now it comes — what a sound ! 't is as cheerful and 
 As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child ; 
 Ah yes, they are here ! See, away to your left, 
 Where the sun has gone down, where the mountains 
 
 are cleft, 
 A troop of tall horsemen ! How fearless they ride ! 
 'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side ; 
 Careering they come, like a band of young knights ; 
 That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites ; 
 With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests ; 
 With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-cover'd 
 
 breasts ; 
 With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride 
 Of their high-mettled steeds, as they galloping ride. 
 In glitter and pomp ; with their housings of gold, 
 With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold 
 Flashing changeable light, like a banner unroll'd ! 
 Now they burst on the eye in their martial array 
 And now they have gone, like a vision of day. 
 In a streaming of splendour they came — but they 
 
 wheel'd ; 
 And instantly all the bright show was conceal'd — 
 As if 't were a tournament held in the sky, 
 Betray'dby some light passing suddenly by; 
 Some band by the flashing of torches reveal'd, 
 As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield, 
 Or banners and blades in the darkness conceal'd. 
 
 APPROACH OF EVENING. 
 
 A plow, like enchantment, is seen o'er the lake, 
 Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake 
 And o'er its dull bosom their soft plumage shake. 
 Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away — 
 Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day — 
 The richness and mist of the tints that were there 
 Are melting away like the bow of the air — 
 The blue-bosom' d water heaves darker and j^luer, 
 The cliffs and the trees are seen bolder and truer, 
 The landscape has less of enchantment and light : 
 But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight. 
 The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye, 
 Seem'd loosen'd and passing away in the sky, 
 And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue, 
 But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue. 
 
196 
 
 JOHN NEAL. 
 
 The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky ' 
 Grow fainter, and fainter : — The wonders all die ! 
 
 The visions have gone ! they have vanish'd away, 
 Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day. 
 The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight, 
 And fountains were gushing like wine in its light, 
 And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight — 
 A moment : and all was enveloped in night ! 
 'Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart : 
 They come but to blaze, and they blaze to depart — 
 Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide 
 The chilling of sorrow, or burning of pride — 
 They come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell, 
 Like bright birds over ocean — but never to dwell. 
 
 MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT. 
 
 Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim 
 So heavily hanging? — as if it had been [green 
 
 The tent of the Thunderer — the chariot of one 
 Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun 1 
 'T is d escending to earth ! and some horsemen are now, 
 In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow. 
 'T is a helmeted band — from the hills they descend, 
 Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend. 
 No scimitars swing as they gallop along; 
 No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong ; 
 No trumpet is fill'd, and no bugle is blown ; 
 No banners abroad on the wind are thrown ; 
 No shoutings are heard, and no cheerings are given ; 
 No waving of red flowing plumage to heaven ; 
 No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reins; 
 No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes ; 
 No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing, 
 Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing ; 
 But they speed, like coursers whose hoofs are shod 
 With a silent shoe, from the loosen'd sod ; 
 Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf, 
 Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf, [ing, 
 Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weep- 
 And young, gallant hearts are in sepulchres sleeping; 
 Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon, 
 While the night's muffledhorn plays a low windy tune, 
 Are seen to come down from the height of the sides, 
 By the warrior that on the red battle-field lies, 
 And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field, 
 And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheel d, 
 When the dying half-raise themselves up in a trance, 
 And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance, 
 And wonder to see the dread battle renew'd, [stood. 
 On the turf where themselves and their comrades had 
 Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they 
 
 ride, 
 O'er the thunder-reft mount — on its ruggedest side ; 
 From the precipice top, they circle and leap, 
 Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep ; 
 Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies, 
 TheirJieads muffled up to their white filmy eyes, 
 With gestures more threatening and fierce till he dies: 
 And away they have gone, with a motionless speed, 
 Like demons abroad on some terrible deed. 
 The last one has gone: they have all disappear'd; 
 Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard ; 
 For still, though theypass'd like no steeds of the earth, 
 'J 'he fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth; 
 
 Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last; 
 And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen 
 
 pass'd, 
 So swiftly, so mutely, so darkly they went, 
 Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent, [tent. 
 That ye felt their approach, and might guess their in- 
 
 Your hero's stern bosom will oftentimes quake, 
 Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake, 
 Before the cool marching that comes in the night, 
 Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light ; 
 Subduing the heart with a nameless affright, 
 When that would swell strongly, and this would ap- 
 If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear, [pear, 
 Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day, 
 When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her 
 
 prey. 
 For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven, 
 No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given, 
 No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife, 
 No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife, 
 Is half so terrific to full swelling hearts, 
 As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs, 
 With echoless armour, with motionless plume, 
 With ensigns all furl'd, in the trappings of gloom, 
 Parading, like those who came up from the tomb, 
 In silence and darkness — determined and slow, 
 And dreadfully calm, as the murderer's brow, 
 When his dagger is forth ! — and ye see not the blow, 
 Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow! 
 O, say what ye will ! the dull sound that awakes 
 When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit 
 
 aches 
 With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far, 
 Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war. 
 It is the cold summons that comes from the ground, 
 When a sepulchre answers your light youthful bound, 
 And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound, 
 Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear, 
 When the banners of death in their splendors appear, 
 And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear ! — 
 The low, sullen moans, that so feebly awake, 
 At midnight, when one is alone, on some lake, 
 Compared to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls 
 
 From the bosom of space to the uttermost poles ! 
 
 Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud, 
 The talking of those who go by in a cloud, 
 
 To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud ! 
 
 'Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave, 
 The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave, 
 To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red, 
 And farewells are discharged o'era young soldier's bed, 
 To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way, 
 When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray! 
 
 AN INDIAN APOLLO. 
 
 Not like the airy god of moulded light, 
 Just stepping from his chariot on the sight ; 
 Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, 
 With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud 
 And arrows singing as they pierce the air ; 
 With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair ; 
 As if he paused upon his bounding way, 
 And loosen'd his fierce arrows — all in play; 
 But like that angry god, in blazing light 
 
JOHN NEAL. 
 
 197 
 
 Bursting from space, and standing in his might — 
 
 Reveal'd in his omnipotent array, 
 
 Apollo of the skies, and deity of day, 
 
 In god-like wrath piercing his myriad-foe 
 
 With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go ! 
 
 — Not like that god, when up in air he springs, 
 
 With brightening mantle and with sunny wings, 
 
 When heavenly music murmurs from his strings — 
 
 A buoyant vision — an imbodied dream 
 
 Of dainty Poesy — and boyishly supreme ! 
 
 — Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire, 
 
 Gazing o'er heaven until her thoughts take fire, 
 
 Panting and breathless ; in her heart's wild trance, 
 
 Bright, shapeless forms, the godlings of Romance ! 
 
 — Not that Apollo — not resembling him 
 
 Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb — 
 
 But man — all man ! the monarch of the wild ! 
 
 — Not the faint spirit that corrupting smiled 
 
 On soft, lascivious Greece, but Nature's child, 
 
 Arrested in the chase, with piercing eye 
 
 Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky, 
 
 Where some red bird goes languid, eddying, drooping, 
 
 Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping. 
 
 Thus springing to the skies, a boy will stand 
 
 With arms uplifted and unconscious hand 
 
 Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight, 
 
 And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light 
 
 Of worlds unseen but by the Indian's sight — 
 
 His robe and hair upon the wind, at length — 
 
 A creature of the hills, all grace and strength, 
 
 All muscle and all flame — his eager eye 
 
 Fix'd on one spot, as if he could descry 
 
 His bleeding victim nestling in the sky ! 
 
 — Not that Apollo ! — not the heavenly one, 
 
 Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun — 
 
 But this, the offspring of young Solitude, 
 
 Child of the holy spot, where none intrude 
 
 But genii of the torrent, cliff, and wood — 
 
 Nurslings of cloud and storm, the desert's fiery brood. 
 
 MORNING AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 Who thinks of battle now 1 The stirring sounds 
 Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds 
 On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, 
 As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn 
 Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, 
 In gone-by hours, before the battle even 1 
 The very horses move with halting pace ; 
 No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, 
 With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; 
 No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling 
 Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, 
 And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye 
 Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy ; 
 No more their housings blaze, no more the gold 
 Or purple flashes from the opening fold ; 
 No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride 
 Of changing hues ; all, all, is crimson-dyed. 
 They move with slow, far step ; they hear the tread 
 That measures out the tombing of the dead ; 
 The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls 
 In heavy thunders to the answering poles ; 
 
 But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies, 
 
 At breathless intervals, along the skies, 
 
 As if some viewless sentinel were there 
 
 Whose challenge peals at midnight through the air 
 
 Each sullen steed goes on, nor heeds its roar, 
 
 Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more ; 
 
 But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head, 
 
 And slowly wheeling, with a cautious tread, 
 
 Shuns, as in reverence, the mighty dead ■ 
 
 Or, rearing suddenly, with flashing eye, 
 
 Where some young war-horse lies, he passes by ; 
 
 Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground, 
 
 Utters a startling neigh, and gazes round, 
 
 And wonders that he hears no answering sound. 
 
 This, while his rider can go by the bier 
 
 Of slaughter'd men, and never drop a tear ; 
 
 And only, when he meets a comrade there, 
 
 Stretch'd calmly out, with brow and bosom bare, 
 
 And stiffen'd hand uplifted in the air — 
 
 With lip still curl'd, and open, glassy eye, 
 
 Fix'd on the pageant that is passing by — 
 
 And only then — in decency will ride 
 
 Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride. 
 
 MUSIC OP THE NIGHT. 
 
 TamiEareharpsthatcomplain to the presenceof night, 
 To the presence of night alone — 
 In a near and unchangeable tone — 
 Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by, 
 As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky, 
 And breathed out a blessing — and flown ! 
 
 Yes ! harps that complain to the breezes of night, 
 
 To the breezes of night alone ; 
 Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright 
 The sun rolls aloft' in his drapery of light, 
 
 Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair 
 
 And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air ! 
 Burning crimson and gold 
 On the clouds that unfold, 
 Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides 
 On his right and his left — -So the Thunderer rides, 
 When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides, 
 
 Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne ! 
 
 Yes ! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, 
 
 That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. 
 There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play 
 When the evening is near, and the sun is away, 
 
 Breathing out the still hymn of delight. 
 These strings by invisible fingers are play'd — 
 
 By spirits, unseen, and unknown, 
 But thick as the stars, all this music is made; 
 And these flutes, alone, 
 
 In one sweet dreamy tone, 
 Are ever blown, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 The live-long night ye hear the sound, 
 Like distant waters flowing round 
 In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet 
 
 With crowding tunes, like halls 
 
 Where fountain-music falls, 
 And rival minstrels meet. 
 
198 
 
 JOHN NEAL. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night 
 Bows down superbly from her utmost height, 
 Stretches her starless plumes across the world, 
 And all the banners of the wind are furl'd. 
 How heavily we breathe amid such gloom, 
 As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb. 
 It is the noon of that tremendous hour 
 When life is helpless, and the dead have power ; 
 When solitudes are peopled ; when the sky 
 Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by, 
 Proclaim their watch is set ; when hidden rills 
 Are chirping on their course, and all the hills 
 Are bright with armour ; when the starry vests, 
 And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests 
 Of moon-light sentinels are sparkling round, 
 And all the air is one rich floating sound ; 
 When countless voices, in the day unheard, 
 Are piping from their haunts, and every bird 
 That loves the leafy wood and blooming bower 
 And echoing cave, is singing to her flower ; 
 When every lovely, every lonely place, 
 Is ringing to the light and sandal'd paee 
 Of twinkling feet ; and all about, the flow 
 Of new-born fountains, murmuring as they go ; 
 When watery tunes are richest, and the call 
 Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall 
 In foaming melody, is all around, 
 Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground — 
 Sweet, drowsy, distant music ! like the breath 
 Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death. 
 
 It is that hour when listening ones will weep 
 And know not why ; when we would gladly sleep 
 Our last, last sleep, and feel no touch of fear, 
 Unconscious where we are, or what is near, 
 Till we are startled by a falling tear, 
 That unexpected gather'd in our eye, 
 While we were panting for yon blessed sky ; 
 That hour of gratitude, of whispering prayer, 
 When we can hear a worship in the air ; 
 When we are lifted from the earth, and feel 
 Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel, 
 And o'er our fids and brow a blessing steal; 
 And then, as if our sins were all forgiven, 
 And all our tears were wiped, and we in heaven ! 
 
 ONTARIO. 
 
 No sound is on the ear, no boatman's oar 
 Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore ; 
 But all is listening, as it were to hear 
 Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere 
 And calling on the desert to express 
 Its sense of Silence in her loveliness. 
 What holy dreaming comes in nights like these, 
 When, like yon wave, unruffled by a breeze, 
 The mirrors of the memory all are spread 
 And fanning pinions sail around j our head ; 
 When all that man may love, alive or dead, 
 Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things, 
 And nestle on his heart with their young wings, 
 And all perchance may come, that he may fear, 
 And mutter doubtful curses in his ear ; 
 Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain 
 With indistinct forebodings, dim, and vain.... 
 
 The moon goes lightly up her thronging way, 
 And shadowy things are brightening into day ; 
 And cliff and shrub and bank and tree and stone 
 Now move upon the eye, and now are gone. 
 A dazzling tapestry is hung around, 
 A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground ; 
 The willows glitter in the passing beam 
 And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream ; 
 And all the full rich foliage of the shore 
 Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er, 
 And dances at the faintest breath of night, 
 And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light!... 
 
 This dark cool wave is bluer than the deep, 
 Where sailors, children of the tempest, sleep; 
 And dropp'd with lights as pure, as still, as those 
 The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose, 
 Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray, 
 That Ocean's flashing surges send astray.... 
 
 This is the mirror of dim Solitude, 
 On which unholy things may ne'er intrude ; 
 That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear, 
 Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear. 
 Ontario's deeps are spread to multiply 
 But sunshine, stars, the moon, and clear-blue sky. 
 
 No pirate barque was ever seen to ride, 
 With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide ; 
 Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang 
 With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang 
 Their clear, exulting, bold, triumphant strain, 
 Till all the mountain echoes laugh'd again ; 
 Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply, 
 And heaven's blue dome ring out the sprightly 
 melody. 
 
 TREES. 
 
 The heave, the wave and bend 
 Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves 
 Rustle their songs of praise, while Ruin weaves 
 A robe of verdure for their yielding bark — 
 While mossy garlands, full and rich and dark, 
 Creep slowly round them ! Monarchs of the wood, 
 Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood — 
 Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay, 
 Shelter the wing'd idolaters of Day — 
 Who, mid the desert wild, sublimely stand, 
 And grapple with the storm-god, hand to hand, 
 Then drop like weary pyramids away, 
 Stupendous monuments of calm decay ! 
 
 INVASION OF THE SETTLER. 
 
 Where now fresh streamlets answer to the hues 
 Of passing seraph-wings ; and fiery dews 
 Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes, 
 Like sprinkled flame ; and all the green-wood shakes 
 With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung 
 Upon her favourite tresses, while they swung 
 And wanton'd in the wind — henceforth will be 
 No lighted dimness, such as you see, 
 In yonder faint, mysterious scenery, 
 Where all the woods keep festival, and seem, 
 Beneath the midnight sky, and mellow beam 
 Of yonder breathing light, as if they were 
 Branches and leaves of unimbodied air. 
 
WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 
 
 [Born, 1794. Died, 1849.] 
 
 The late Rev. William B. Tappast, the most 
 industrious and voluminous of our religious poets, 
 was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, on the twen- 
 ty-ninth of October, 1794. His ancestors were 
 among the earliest of the settlers from England, 
 and for one hundred and fifty years had furnished 
 ministers of the gospel in nearly uninterrupted 
 succession. His father was a soldier during the 
 revolution, and afterwards many years a teacher. 
 Upon his death, at Portsmouth, in 1805, Wil- 
 liam, then in his twelfth year, was apprenticed to 
 a mecha ic in Boston. He had already acquired 
 an unusual fondness for reading, though the books 
 to which he had access were comparatively few. 
 "The Bible," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Ro- 
 binson Crusoe," and "The Surprising Adventures 
 of Philip Quarles," constituted his library, and of 
 these he was thoroughly master. At nine years 
 of age he commenced rhyming, and he occasion- 
 ally wrote verses during his apprenticeship, which 
 lasted, by agreement, till he was twenty. There 
 were then none of the lyceums, apprentices' libra- 
 ries, Lowell lectures, or other means of self-educa- 
 tion which are now so abundant in Boston, and he 
 had no resource for intellectual improvement or 
 amusement, except a neighbouring circulating li- 
 brary, the novels, romances, and poems of which 
 he was never weary of reading. What little he 
 had gained, at home, of the common elementary 
 branches of knowledge, he lost during these years ; 
 but, master of his business (which however he 
 never fully loved) and with high hopes, he proceed- 
 ed to Philadelphia, where there seemed to be an 
 opening for him, in 1815, and permanently esta- 
 blished himself in that city. He frequently indulged 
 his propensity to write, but was so diffident of his 
 powers, that until he was twenty-three years old he 
 never offered any thing for publication. He then 
 permitted a friend to give several of his pieces 
 
 to a newspaper, and was subsequently as much 
 surprised as delighted to find that they were widely 
 copied and much praised. Thus encouraged, he 
 began to look for a more congenial occupation, 
 and determining to become a teacher, entered 
 an academy at Somerville, New Jersey, in his 
 twenty-fourth year, to prosecute the necessary 
 preliminary studies. Unfaltering industry and a 
 strong will, with good natural abilities, enabled 
 him to make very rapid advancement, so that in 
 1821 he was fairly entered upon his new profes- 
 sion, in which he had prospects of abundant suc- 
 cess. In 1822 he was married, and four years 
 later he entered the service of the American Sun- 
 day School Union, with which society he was con- 
 nected the rest of his life, a period of more than 
 quarter of a century. For the prosecution of its 
 business, he resided four years in Cincinnati, and 
 in 1837 removed to Boston. He was ordained an 
 evangelist, according to the forms of the Congre- 
 gational churches, in 1841, and died at West Need- 
 ham, Massachusetts, on the eighteenth of June, 
 1849, greatly respected by all who knew him. 
 
 Mr. Tappan published his first volume of Poems 
 in Philadelphia, in 1819, encouraged to do so by 
 Mr. Robert Walsh, then editor of the " Ameri- 
 can Quarterly Review," and Mr. Joseph R. 
 Chandler, the accomplished editor for many 
 years of the " United States Gazette." He sub- 
 sequently gave to the public more than a dozen 
 volumes, the contents of which are for the most part 
 included in the five comprising his complete Poeti- 
 cal Works, with his final revisions — " The Poetry 
 of Life," " The Sunday-school and other Poems," 
 " The Poetry of the Heart," " Sacred and Miscel- 
 laneous Poems," and " Late and Early Poems," 
 which appeared in 1848 and 1849. He wrote 
 with great facility, and many of his pieces are 
 pleasing expressions of natural and pious emotion. 
 
 THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OE THE SAB- 
 BATH-SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TO- 
 GETHER THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1839. 
 
 O, sight sublime, O, sight of fear ! 
 
 The shadowing of infinity ! 
 Numbers, whose murmur rises here 
 
 Jjike whisperings of the mighty sea ! 
 
 Ye bring strange visions to my gaze ; 
 
 Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims ; 
 The sea of glass, the throne of days, 
 
 Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. 
 
 Ye rend the air with grateful songs 
 For freedom by old warriors won : 
 
 0, for the battle which your throngs 
 
 May wage and win through David's Son ! 
 
 Wealth of young beauty ! that now blooms 
 
 Before me like a world of flowers ; 
 High expectation ! that assumes 
 
 The hue of life's serenest hours ; 
 Are ye decaying 1 Must these forms, 
 
 So agile, fair, and brightly gay, 
 Hidden in dust, be given to worms 
 
 And everlasting night, the prey 1 
 Are ye immortal ] . Will this mass 
 
 Of life, be life, undying still, 
 When all these sentient thousands pass 
 
 To where corruption works its will 1 
 Thought ! that takes hold of heaven and hell, 
 
 Be in each teacher's heart to-day ! 
 So shall eternity be well 
 
 With these, when time has fled away. 
 199 
 
200 
 
 WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 
 
 SONG 
 
 OF THE THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND DRUNKARDS 
 IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 We come ! we come ! with sad array, 
 
 And in procession long, 
 To join the army of the lost, — 
 
 Three hundred thousand strong. 
 
 Our banners, beckoning on to death, 
 
 Abroad we have unrolled ; 
 And Famine, Care, and wan Despair 
 
 Are seen on every fold. 
 
 Ye heard what music cheers us on, — 
 
 The mother's cry, that rang 
 So wildly, and the babe's that wailed 
 
 Above the trumpet's clang. 
 
 We've taken spoil; and blighted joys 
 
 And ruined homes are here ; 
 We 've trampled on the throbbing heart, 
 
 And flouted sorrow's tear. 
 
 We come ! we come ! we've searched the land, 
 
 The rich and poor are ours — 
 Enlisted from the shrines of God, 
 
 From hovels and from towers. 
 
 And who or what shall balk the brave, 
 
 Who swear to drink and die 1 
 What boots to such man's muttered curse 
 
 Or His that spans the sky 1 
 
 Our leader! who of all the chiefs, 
 Who 've triumphed from the first, 
 
 Can blazon deeds like his"? such griefs, 
 Such wounds, such trophies curst. 
 
 We come ! Of the world's scourges, who 
 
 Like him have overthrown 1 
 What wo had ever earth, like wo 
 
 To his stern prowess known 1 
 
 Onward ! though ever on our march, 
 
 Hang Misery's countless train ; 
 Onward for hell ! — from rank to rank 
 
 Pass we the cup again ! 
 
 We come ! we come ! to fill our graves, 
 
 On which shall shine no star; 
 To glut the worm that never dies, — ■ 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! 
 
 There faith lifts up her cheerful eye, 
 
 To brighter prospects given, 
 And views the tempest passing by ; — ■ 
 The evening shadows quickly fly, 
 
 And all 's serene, in heaven. 
 
 There, fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 
 
 And joys supreme are given; 
 There, rays divine disperse the gloom, — ■ 
 Beyond the confines of the tomb 
 Appears the dawn of heaven. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 There is an hour of peaceful rest 
 To mourning wanderers given ■ 
 There is a joy for souls distrest, 
 A balm for every wounded breast 
 'T is found alone, in heaven. 
 
 There is a home for weary souls, 
 
 By sin and sorrow driven: 
 When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals, 
 Where storms arise, and ocean rolls, 
 
 And all is drear, but heaven. 
 
 TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENN- 
 SYLVANIA. 
 
 "Leap forth to the careering seas," 
 
 O ship of lofty name ! 
 And toss upon thy native breeze 
 
 The stars and stripes of fame ! 
 And bear thy thunders o'er the deep 
 
 Where vaunting navies ride ! 
 Thou hast a nation's gems to keep — 
 
 Her honour and her pride ! 
 Oh! holy is the covenant made 
 
 With thee and us to-day ; 
 None from the compact shrinks afraid, 
 
 No traitor utters Nay ! 
 We pledge our fervent love, and thou 
 
 Thy glorious ribs of oak, 
 Alive with men who cannot bow 
 
 To kings, nor kiss the yoke ! 
 
 Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea, 
 
 Which deeds of hell deform ; 
 And look ! her hands are spread to thee 
 
 Where Afric's robbers swarm. 
 Go ! lie upon the JEgean's breast, 
 
 Where sparkle emerald isles- 
 Go ! seek the lawless Suliote's nest, 
 
 And spoil his cruel wiles. 
 And keep, where sail the merchant ships, 
 
 Stern watch on their highway, 
 And promptly, through thine iron lips, 
 
 When urged, our tribute pay ; 
 Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power, 
 
 Wherever tyrants bind, 
 In pride of their own little hour, 
 
 A freeborn, noble mind. 
 
 Spread out those ample wings of thine ! — 
 
 While crime doth govern men, 
 'T is fit such bulwark of the brine 
 
 Should leave the shores of Penn ; 
 For hid within thy giant strength 
 
 Are germs of welcome peace, 
 And such as thou, shalt cause at length 
 
 Man's feverish strife to cease. 
 From every vale, from every crag, 
 
 Word of thy beauty's past, 
 And joy we that our country's flag 
 
 Streams from thy towering mast — ■ 
 Assured that in thy prowess, thou 
 
 For her wilt win renown, 
 Whose sons can die, but know not how 
 
 To strike that pennon down. 
 
EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 [Born 1791.] 
 
 This eminent scholar, orator, statesman, and 
 man of letters, was born in Dorchester, Massa- 
 chusetts, in 1794; graduated at Harvard College 
 in 1811; appointed professor of Greek litera- 
 ture in 1814; after five years of travel and resi- 
 dence at foreign universities entered upon the 
 duties of his office in 1819 ; became editor of the 
 North American Keview in 1820 ; was a member 
 of Congress from 1824 to 1834 ; governor of Mas- 
 sachusetts from 1835 to 1839; minister to England 
 from 1841 to, 1845; president of Harvard College 
 from 18^5 to 1849 ; a member of the Senate ; 
 Secretary of State ; again member of the Senate ; 
 and finally retired from public life, in consequence 
 of ill-health, in 1854. 
 
 I have given some account of Mr. Everett's 
 principal prose writings in " The Prose Writers 
 of America." In 1822 he contributed to the 
 North American Review an article on the works 
 of Dr. Percival, in the introductory pages of 
 which he presents an admirable sketch of the con- 
 dition and promise of our poetical literature at 
 that time. Referring to the great number of those 
 who in this country have published " occasional 
 verses," he remarks that "it happens to almost 
 all men of superior talents to have made an essay 
 at poetry in early life. Whatever direction be 
 
 finally forced upon them by strong circumstances 
 or strong inclinations, there is a period after the 
 imagination is awakened and the affections are 
 excited, and before the great duties and cares of 
 life begin, when all men of genius write a few 
 lines in the shape of a patriotic song, a sonnet by 
 Julio in a magazine, or stanzas to some fair object. 
 This is the natural outlet." 
 
 In these sentences Mr. Everett recalls his own 
 poetical effusions, which however are not so few 
 or so unimportant as to be justly described in this 
 manner. His first considerable poem was pro- 
 nounced before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at 
 Cambridge, in 1812. It is entitled "American 
 Poets," and comprises about four hundred lines, 
 in which some of the most striking themes of 
 American song are suggested, and several of our 
 earlier poets are referred to in phrases of kindly 
 but suitable characterization. 
 
 From time to time, in his maturer years, Mr. 
 Everett has written poems which evince un- 
 questionable taste and a genuine poetical inspira- 
 tion. Those which follow are contrasted examples 
 of his abilities in this line, and they are not un- 
 worthy the author of some of the noblest orations 
 in defence and illustration of liberty which have 
 appeared in our time. 
 
 SANTA CROCE. 
 
 Not chiefly for thy storied towers and halls, 
 For the bright wonders of thy pictured walls ; 
 Not for the olive's wealth, the vineyard's pride, 
 That crown thy hills, and teem on Arno's side, 
 Dost thou delight me, Florence ! I can meet 
 Elsewhere with halls as rich, and vales as sweet; 
 I prize thy charms of nature and of art, 
 But yield them not the homage of my heart. 
 
 Rather to Santa Croce I repair, 
 To breathe her peaceful monumental air ; 
 The age, the deeds, the honours to explore, 
 Of those who sleep beneath her marble floor; 
 The stern old tribunes of the early time, 
 The merchant lords of Freedom's stormy prime; 
 And each great name, in every after age, 
 The praised, the wise ; the artist, bard, and sage. 
 
 I feel their awful presence ; lo, thy bust, 
 Thy urn, Oh! Dante, not alas thy dust. 
 Florence, that drove thee living from her gate, 
 Waits for that dust, in vain, and long shall wait. 
 Ravenna ! keep the glorious exile's trust, 
 And teach remorseless factions to be just, 
 While the poor Cenotaph, which bears his name, 
 Proclaims at once his praise, — his country's shame. 
 
 Next, in an urn, not void, though cold as thine, 
 Moulders a godlike spirit's mortal shrine. 
 Oh ! Michael, look not down so still and hard, 
 
 Speak to me,* Painter, Builder, Sculptor, Bard! 
 And shall those cunning fingers, stiff and cold, 
 Crumble to meaner earth than they did mould 1 
 Art thou, who form and force to clay couldst give, 
 And teach the quarried adamant to live, 
 Bid, — in the vaultings of thy mighty dome, — 
 Pontifical, outvie imperial Rome, 
 Portray unshrinking, to the dazzled eye, 
 Creation, Judgment, Time, Eternity, 
 Art thou so low, and in this narrow cell 
 Doth that Titanic genius stoop to dwell ; 
 And, while thine arches brave the upper sky, 
 Art thou content in these dark caves to lie 1 
 
 And thou, illustrious sage ! thine eye is closed, 
 To which their secret paths new stars exposed. 
 Haply thy spirit, in some higher sphere, 
 Soars with the motions which it measured here. 
 Soft be thy slumbers, Seer, for thanks to thee, 
 The earth now turns, without a heresy. 
 Dost thou, whose keen perception pierced the cause 
 Which gives the pendulum its mystic laws, 
 Now trace each orb, with telescopic eyes, 
 And solve the eternal clock-work of the skies ; 
 While thy worn frame enjoys its long repose, 
 And Santa Croce heals Arcetri's woes If 
 
 * Michael Angelo, contemplating the statue of St. Mark, 
 by Donatello, used to say, " Marco, perche non mi parli 1" 
 
 f Galileo, toward the close of his life, was imprisoned at 
 Arcetri, near Florence, by order of the Inquisition. 
 
 201 
 
20S 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 Nor them alone: on her maternal breast 
 Here Machiavelli's tortured limbs have rest. 
 Oh, that the cloud upon his tortured fame 
 Might pass away, and leave an honest name ! 
 The power of princes o'er thy limbs is stayed, 
 But thine own "Prince;" that dark spot ne'er 
 
 shall fade. 
 Peace to thine ashes ; who can have the heart 
 Above thy grave to play the censor's part. 
 I read the statesman's fortune in thy doom, — 
 Toil, greatness, wo ; a late and lying tomb ;* 
 Aspiring aims, by grovelling arts pursued, 
 Faction and self, baptized the public good, 
 A life traduced, a statue crowned with bays, 
 And starving service paid with funeral praise. 
 
 Here too, at length the indomitable will 
 And fiery pulse of Asti's bardj" are still. 
 And she, — the Stuart's widow, — rears thy stone, 
 Seeks the next aisle, and drops beneath her own. 
 The great, the proud, the fair, — alike they fall ; 
 Thy sickle, Santa Croce, reapeth all ! 
 
 Yes, reapeth all, or else had spared the bloom 
 Of that fair bud, now clothed in yonder tomb. 
 Meek, gentle, pure; and yet to him allied, 
 Who smote the astonished nations in his pride: 
 " Worthy his name,"J so saith the sculptured line. 
 Waster of man, would he were worthy thine ! 
 
 Hosts yet unnamed — the obscure, the known — • 
 I leave ; 
 What throngs would rise, could each his marble 
 
 heave ! 
 But we who muse above the famous dead, 
 Shall soon be silent, as the dust we tread. 
 Yet not for me, when I shall fall asleep, 
 Shall Santa Croce's lamps their vigils keep. 
 Beyond the main, in Auburn's quiet shade, 
 With those I loved and love my couch be made ; 
 Spring's pendent branches o'er the hillock wave, 
 And morning's dew-drops glisten on my grave; 
 While heaven's great arch shall rise above my bed, 
 When Santa Croce's crumbles on her dead ; 
 Unknown to erring or to suffering fame, 
 So I may leave a pure though humble name. 
 
 TO A SISTER. 
 
 Yes, dear one, to the envied train 
 
 Of those around, thy homage pay ; 
 But wilt thou never kindly deign 
 
 To think of him that's far away ? 
 Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile, 
 
 For many years I may not see ; 
 But wilt thou not sometimes the while, 
 
 My sister dear, remember met 
 
 * The monument of Machiavelli in Santa Croce was 
 erected in the latter half of the last century, — The inscrip- 
 tion, " tanto homine nullum par elogium." 
 
 t Alfieri. 
 
 J " Ici repose Charlotte Napoleon Bonaparte, digne de 
 son nom, 1S39." The words are translated " worthy his 
 name," for an obvious reason. 
 
 Yet not in Fashion's brilliant hall, 
 
 Surrounded by the gay and fair, 
 And thou, the fairest of them all, — 
 
 Oh, think not, think not of me there ; 
 But when the thoughtless crowd is gone, 
 
 And hushed the voice of senseless glee, 
 And all is silent, still and lone, 
 
 And thou art sad, remember me. 
 in. 
 Remember me — but loveliest, ne'er, 
 
 When, in his orbit fair and high, 
 The morning's glowing charioteer 
 
 Rides proudly up the blushing sky ; 
 But when the waning moonbeam sleeps 
 
 At midnight on that lonely lea, 
 And nature's pensive spirit weeps 
 
 In all her dews, remember me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remember me, I pray — but not 
 
 In Flora's gay and blooming hour, 
 When every brake hath found its note, 
 
 And sunshine smiles in every flower : 
 But when the falling leaf is sear, 
 
 And withers sadly from the tree, 
 And o'er the ruins of the year 
 
 Cold Autumn weeps, remember me. 
 v. 
 Remember me — but choose not, dear, 
 
 The hour when, on the gentle lake, 
 The sportive wavelets, blue and clear, 
 
 Soft rippling to the margin break ; 
 But when the deafening billows foam 
 
 In madness o'er the pathless sea, 
 Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam 
 
 Across them, and remember me. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Remember me — but not to join 
 
 If haply some thy friends should praise ; 
 'T is far too dear, that voice of thine 
 
 To echo what the stranger says. 
 They know us not — but shouldst thou meet 
 
 Some faithful friend of me and thee, 
 Softly, sometimes, to him repeat 
 
 My name, and then remember me. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Remember me — not I entreat, 
 
 In scenes of festal week-day joy, 
 For then it were not kind or meet, 
 
 The thought thy pleasure should alloy ; 
 But on the sacred, solemn day, 
 
 And, dearest, on thy bended knee, 
 When thou, for those thou lov'st, dost pray, 
 
 Sweet spirit, then, remember me. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Remember me — but not as I 
 
 On thee forever, ever dwell, 
 With anxious heart and drooping eye, 
 
 And doubts 'twould grieve thee should I tell ; 
 But in thy calm, unclouded heart, 
 
 Whence dark and gloomy visions flee, 
 Oh, there, my sister, be my part, 
 
 And kindly there remember me. 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 [Bom, 1795. Died, 1820.] 
 
 The author of the " Culprit Fay" was born in the 
 city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 
 1795. His father died while he was very young, 
 and I believe left his family in possession of but 
 little property. Young Drake, therefore, expe- 
 rienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. 
 He entered Columbia College, however, at an early 
 period, and passed through that seminary with a 
 reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable so- 
 cial qualities. He soon after made choice of the 
 medical picfession, and became a student, first, with 
 Doctor Romaine, and subsequently with Doctor 
 Powell, both of whom were at that time popular 
 physicians in New York. 
 
 Soon after completing his professional studies he 
 was married to Miss Sarah Eckfori), a daughter 
 of the well-known marine architect, Henry Eck- 
 ford, through whom he inherited a moderate for- 
 tune. His health, about the same time, began to 
 decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New 
 Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married 
 a second husband, had previously removed with his 
 three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from 
 the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, 
 but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he 
 returned to New York. His disease — consump- 
 tion — was now too deeply seated for hope of resto- 
 ration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew 
 himself from society, and sought quiet among his 
 books, and in the companionship of his wife and 
 most intimate friends. He lingered through the 
 summer, and died near the close of September, in 
 the twenty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 He began to write verses when very young, and 
 was a contributor to several gazettes before he was 
 sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most 
 intimate friends to know his signatures, and some- 
 times kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to 
 himself. The first four of the once celebrated 
 series of humorous and satirical odes, known as 
 the " Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for 
 the New York " Evening Post," in which they 
 appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of 
 March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth 
 number, Drake made Halleck, then recently 
 arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder 
 of the pieces were signed " Croaker and Co." The 
 last one written by Drake was "The American 
 Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and 
 the last of the series, " Curtain Conversations," 
 was contributed by Halleck, on the twenty-fourth 
 of July. These pieces related to persons, events, 
 and scenes, with which most of the readers in New 
 York were familiar, and as they were distinguished 
 alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited 
 diction, they became very popular, and many efforts 
 were made to find out the authors. Both Drake 
 and Halleck were unknown as poets, and, as they 
 
 kept the secret from their friends, a considerable 
 period elapsed before they were discovered. 
 
 The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh 
 forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, 
 which Halleck has preserved in the collections 
 of his own and of his friend's writings ; and the 
 reputation of either author rests on more elaborate 
 and ingenious productions. The longest poem by 
 Drake is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting 
 the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, 
 which was not printed until several years after 
 his death. It was composed hastily among the 
 highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. 
 The author was walking with some friends, on a 
 warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party 
 remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a 
 fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of 
 human characters." When the friends were reas- 
 sembled, two or three days afterwards, " The Cul- 
 prit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed 
 in this volume. 
 
 Drake placed a very modest estimate on his 
 own productions, and it is believed that but a small 
 portion of them have been preserved. When on 
 his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what dis- 
 position he would have made with his poems'! 
 " 0, burn them," he replied, " they are quite value- 
 less." Written copies of a number of them were, 
 however, in circulation, and some had been in- 
 correctly printed in the periodicals ; and, for this 
 reason, Commodore Dekat, the husband of the 
 daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 
 1836 published the single collection of them which 
 has appeared. It includes, beside "The Culprit 
 Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are 
 very beautiful. 
 
 Drake was unassuming and benevolent in his 
 manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing 
 fountain of fine humour, which made him one of 
 the most pleasant of companions. Halleck closes 
 a tributary poem published soon after his death, 
 in the " New York Review," with the following 
 stanzas— 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 
 Like thine, are laid in earth, 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 
 To tell the world their worth. 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 
 Whose weal and wo were thine, — 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow ; 
 But I've in vain essay'd it, 
 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee. 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 The grief is fix'd too deeply 
 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 203 
 
204 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 THE CULPRIT FAY. 
 
 "My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lot 
 Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales 
 
 I see old fairy land's miraculous show ! 
 Her trees of tinsel kiss'd by freakish gales, 
 
 Her Ouphs that, cloak'd in leaf-gold, skim the breeze, 
 
 And fairies, swarming " 
 
 Tennant's Ansteb Fair. 
 
 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night — 
 
 The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; 
 
 Naught is seen in the vault on high 
 
 But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 
 
 And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 
 
 A river of light on the welkin blue. 
 
 The moon looks down on old Cronest, 
 
 She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, 
 
 And seems his huge gray form to throw 
 
 In a silver cone on the wave below ; 
 
 His sides are broken by spots of shade, 
 
 By the walnut bough and the cedar made, 
 
 And through their clustering branches dark 
 
 Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 
 
 Like starry twinkles that momently break 
 
 Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. 
 
 The stars are on the moving stream, 
 
 And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
 A burnish'd length of wavy beam 
 
 In an eel-like, spiral line below; 
 The winds are whist, and the owl is still, 
 
 The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. 
 And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
 But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 
 
 Of the gauze-winged katy-did; 
 And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, 
 
 Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, 
 Ever a note of wail and wo, 
 
 Till morning spreads her rosy wings, 
 And earth and sky in her glances glow. 
 
 in. 
 
 'T is the hour of fairy ban and spell : 
 The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
 He has counted them all with click and stroke 
 Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, 
 And he has awaken'd the sentry e.lve 
 
 "Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 
 To bid him ring the hour of twelve, 
 
 And call the fays to their revelry ; 
 Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 
 ('T was made of the white snail's pearly shell : — ) 
 " Midnight comes, and all is well ! 
 Hither, hither, wing your way ! 
 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." 
 
 They come from beds of lichen green, 
 They creep from the mullen's velvet screen ; 
 
 Some on the backs of beetles fly 
 From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 
 
 Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
 And rock'd about in the evening breeze; [high, 
 
 Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 
 They had driven him out by elfin power, 
 
 And, pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow breast, 
 Had slumber'd there till the charmed hour ; 
 
 Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, 
 With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 
 
 And some had open'd the four-o'clock, 
 And stole within its purple shade. 
 
 And now they throng the moonlight glade, 
 Above — below — on every side, 
 
 Their little minim forms array'd 
 In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! 
 
 They come not now to print the lea, 
 
 In freak and dance around the tree, 
 
 Or at the mushroom board to sup, 
 
 And drink the dew from the buttercup ; — 
 
 A scene of sorrow waits them now, 
 
 For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 
 
 He has loved an earthly maid, 
 
 And left for her his woodland shade ; 
 
 He has lain upon her lip of dew, 
 
 And sunn'd him in her eye of blue 
 
 Fann'd her cheek with his wing ot air, 
 
 Play'd in the ringlets of her hair, 
 
 And, nestling on her snowy breast, 
 
 Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
 
 For this the shadowy tribes of air 
 
 To the elfin court must haste away : — 
 And now they stand expectant there, 
 
 To hear the doom of the culprit Fay. 
 
 The throne was rear'd upon the grass, 
 Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 
 On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 
 
 Hung the burnished canopy — 
 And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 
 
 Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
 The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 
 
 On his brow the crown imperial shone, 
 The prisoner Fay was at his feet, 
 
 And his peers were ranged around the throne. 
 He waved his sceptre in the air, 
 
 He look'd around and calmly spoke ; 
 His brow was grave and his eye severe, 
 
 But his voice in a soften'd accent broke : 
 
 " Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark : 
 
 Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
 Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and dark, 
 
 And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain- 
 Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 
 
 In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye, 
 Thou hast scorn'd our dread decree, 
 
 And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, 
 But well I know her sinless mind 
 
 Is pure as the angel forms above, 
 Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, 
 
 Such as a spirit well might love ; 
 Fairy ! had she spot or taint, 
 Bitter had been thy punishment. 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 205 
 
 Tied to the hornet's shardy wings ; 
 
 Toss'd on the pricks of nettles' stings; 
 
 Or seven long ages doom'd to dwell 
 
 With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; 
 
 Or every night to writhe and bleed 
 
 Beneath the tread of the centipede; 
 
 Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, 
 
 Vour jailer a spider huge and grim, 
 
 Amid the carrion bodies to lie, 
 
 Of the worm, and the bug, and the murder'd fly: 
 
 These it had been your lot to bear, 
 
 Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 
 
 Now list, and mark our mild decree — 
 
 Fairy, this your doom must be : 
 
 "Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 
 
 Where the water bounds the elfin land ; 
 
 Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
 
 Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, 
 
 Then dart the glistening arch below, 
 
 And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
 
 The water-sprites will wield their arms 
 
 And dash around, with roar and rave, 
 And vain are the woodland spirits' charms, 
 
 They are the imps that rule the wave. 
 Yet trust thee in thy single might : 
 If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, 
 Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 
 
 "If the spray-bead gem be won, 
 
 The stain of thy wing is wash'd away : 
 
 But another errand must be done 
 Ere thy crime be lost for aye; 
 
 Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and dark, 
 
 Thou must reillume its spark. 
 
 Mount thy steed and spur him high 
 
 To the heaven's blue canopy ; 
 
 And when thou seest a shooting star, 
 
 Follow it fast, and follow it far — 
 
 The last faint spark of its burning train 
 
 Shall light the elfin lamp again. 
 
 Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay ; 
 
 Hence ! to the water-side, away !" 
 
 The goblin mark'd his monarch well ; 
 
 He spake not, but he bow'd him low, 
 Then pluck'd a crimson colen-bell, 
 
 And turn'd him round in act to go. 
 The way is long, he cannot fly, 
 
 His soiled wing has lost its power, 
 And he winds adown the mountain high, 
 
 For many a sore and weary hour. 
 Through dreary beds of tangled fern, 
 Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, 
 Over the grass and through the brake, 
 Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 
 
 Now o'er the violet's azure flush 
 He skips along in lightsome mood ; 
 
 And now he thrids the bramble-bush, 
 Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 
 He has leap'd the bog, he has pierced the brier, 
 He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, 
 
 Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, 
 And the red wax'd fainter in his cheek. 
 He had fallen to the ground outright, 
 
 For rugged and dim was his onward track, 
 But there came a spotted toad in sight, 
 
 And he laugh'd as he jump'd upon her back 
 He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, 
 
 He lash'd her sides with an osier thong ; 
 And now, through evening's dewy mist, 
 
 With leap and spring they bound along, 
 Till the mountain's magic verge is past, 
 And the beach of sand is reach'd at last. 
 
 Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
 Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
 The wave is clear, the beach is bright 
 
 With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
 The shore-surge comes in ripples light, 
 
 In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
 And ever afar in the silence deep 
 Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap, 
 And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — 
 A glittering arch of silver sheen, 
 Spanning the wave of burnish'd blue, 
 And dripping with gems of the river-dew. 
 
 The elfin cast a glance around, 
 
 As he lighted down from his courser toad, 
 Then round his breast his wings he wound, 
 
 And close to the river's brink he strode ; 
 He sprn ng on a rock, he breathed a prayer, 
 
 Above his head his arms he threw, 
 Then toss'd a tiny curve in air, 
 
 And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 
 
 Up sprung the spirits of the waves, 
 
 From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves, 
 
 With snail-plate armour snatch'd in haste, 
 
 They speed their way through the liquid waste ; 
 
 Some are rapidly borne along 
 
 On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, 
 
 Some on the blood-red leeches glide, 
 
 Some on the stony star-fish ride, 
 
 Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
 
 Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
 
 And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
 
 At once a thousand streamy stings ; 
 
 They cut the wave with the living oar, 
 
 And hurry on to the moonlight shore, 
 
 To guard their realms and chase away 
 
 The footsteps of the invading Fay. 
 
 XIT. 
 
 Fearlessly he skims along, 
 His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, 
 He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing. 
 And throws his feet with a frog-like fling , 
 His locks of gold on the waters shine 
 
 At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise, 
 His back gleams bright above the brine, 
 
 And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
 But the water-sprites are gathering near 
 
 To check his course along the tide ; 
 
206 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 Their warriors come in swift career 
 
 And hem him round on every side ; 
 On his thigh the leech has fix'd his hold, 
 The quart's long arms are round him roll'd, 
 The prickly prong has pierced his skin, 
 And the squab has thrown his javelin, 
 The gritty star has rubb'd him raw, 
 And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; 
 He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain, 
 He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
 Hopeless is the unequal fight, 
 Fairy ! naught is left but flight. 
 
 He turn'd him round, and fled amain 
 
 With hurry and dash to the beach again, 
 
 He twisted over from side to side, 
 
 And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 
 
 The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, 
 
 And with all his might he flings his feet, 
 
 But the water-sprites are round him still, 
 
 To cross his path and work him ill. 
 
 They bade the wave before him rise ; 
 
 They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, 
 
 And they stunn'd his ears with the scallop stroke, 
 
 With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. 
 
 ! but a weary wight was he 
 
 When he reach d the foot of the dogwood tree. 
 
 — Gash'd and wounded, and stiff and sore, 
 
 He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 
 
 He bless'd the force of the charmed line, 
 
 And he bann'd the water goblin's spite, 
 For he saw around in the sweet moonshine 
 Their little wee faces above the brine, 
 
 Giggling and laughing with all their might 
 At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. 
 
 Soon he gather'd the balsam dew 
 
 From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud ; 
 Over each wound the balm he drew, 
 
 And with cobweb lint he stanch'd the blood. 
 The mild west wind was soft and low, 
 It cool'd the heat of his burning brow, 
 And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, 
 As he drank the juice of the calamus root; 
 And now he treads the fatal shore, 
 As fresh and vigorous as before. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Wrapp'd in musing stands the sprite : 
 'T is the middle wane of night ; 
 
 His task is hard, his way is far, 
 But he must do his errand right 
 
 Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, 
 And rolls her chariot wheels of light ; 
 And vain are the spells of fairy-land; 
 He must work with a human hand. 
 
 He cast a sadden'd look around, 
 
 But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
 
 When, glittering on the shadow'd ground, 
 He saw a purple muscle-shell ; 
 
 Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
 He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, 
 And he pushed her over the yielding sand, 
 Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. 
 She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 
 
 As ever fairy had paddled in, 
 For she glow'd with purple paint without, 
 
 And shone with silvery pearl within ; 
 A sculler's notch in the stern he made, 
 An oar he shaped of the bootle blade ; 
 Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, 
 And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. 
 
 The imps of the river yell and rave ; 
 They had no power above the wave, 
 But they heaved the billow before the prow, 
 
 And they dash'd the surge against her side, 
 And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, 
 
 Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. 
 She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam, 
 Like a feather that floats on a wind-toss'd stream ; 
 And momently athwart her track 
 The quarl uprear'd his island back, 
 And the fluttering scallop behind would float, 
 And patter the water about the boat ; 
 But he bail'd her out with his colen-bell, 
 
 And he kept her trimm'd with a wary tread, 
 While on every side like lightning fell 
 
 The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 
 
 Onward still he held his way, 
 
 Till he came where the column of moonshine lay 
 
 And saw beneath the surface dim 
 
 The brown-back'd sturgeon slowly swim : 
 
 Around him were the goblin train — 
 
 But he scull'd with all his might and main, 
 
 And follow'd wherever the sturgeon led, 
 
 Till he saw him upward point his head ; 
 
 Then he dropp'd his paddle-blade, 
 
 And held his colen-goblet up 
 
 To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 
 
 With sweeping tail and quivering fin, 
 
 Through the wave the sturgeon flew, 
 And, like the heaven-shot javelin, 
 
 He sprung -above the waters blue. 
 Instant as the star-fall light, 
 
 He plunged him in the deep again, 
 But left an arch of silver bright, 
 
 The rainbow of the moony main. 
 It was a strange and lovely sight 
 
 To see the puny goblin there ; 
 He seem'd an angel form of light, 
 
 With azure wing and sunny hair, 
 
 Throned on a cloud of purple fair, 
 Circled with blue and edged with white, 
 And sitting at the fall of even 
 Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A moment, and its lustre fell ; 
 But ere it met the billow blue, 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 207 
 
 He caught within his crimson bell 
 
 A droplet of its sparkling dew — 
 
 Joy to thee, Fay ! thy task is done, 
 
 Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won— 
 
 Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, 
 
 And haste away to the elfin shore. 
 
 He turns, and, lo ! on either side 
 
 The ripples on his path divide ; 
 
 And the track o'er which his boat must pass 
 
 Is smooth as a sheet of polish'd glass. 
 
 Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, 
 
 With snowy arms half-swelling out, 
 While on the gloss'd and gleamy wave 
 
 Their sea-green ringlets loosely float; 
 They swim around with smile and song; 
 
 They press the bark with pearly hand, 
 And gently urge her course along, 
 
 Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 
 
 And, as he lightly leap'd to land, 
 They bade adieu with nod and bow, 
 
 Then gayly kiss'd each little hand, 
 And dropp'd in the crystal deep below. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A moment stay'd the fairy there ; 
 
 He kiss'd the beach and breathed a prayer ; 
 
 Then spread his wings of gilded blue, 
 
 And on to the elfin court he flew ; 
 
 As ever ye saw a bubble rise, 
 
 And shine with a thousand changing dyes, 
 
 Till, lessening far, through ether driven, 
 
 It mingles with the hues of* heaven ; 
 
 As, at the glimpse of morning pale, 
 
 The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, 
 
 And gleams with blendings soft and bright, 
 
 Till lost in the shades of fading night ; 
 
 So rose from earth the lovely Fay — 
 
 So vanish'd, far in heaven away ! 
 
 Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower, 
 The cricket has call'd the second hour, 
 Twice again, and the lark will rise 
 To kiss the streaking of the skies — 
 Up ! thy charmed armour don, 
 Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. 
 
 He put his acorn helmet on ; 
 
 It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down : 
 
 The corslet plate that guarded his breast 
 
 Was once the wild bee's golden vest ; 
 
 His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, 
 
 Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; 
 
 His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, 
 
 Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 
 
 And the quivering lance which he brandish'd bright, 
 
 Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. 
 
 Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; 
 
 He bared his blade of the bent grass blue ; 
 He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, 
 
 And away like a glance of thought he flew, 
 To skim the heavens, and follow far 
 The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 
 
 The moth-fly, as he shot in air, 
 
 Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; 
 
 The katy-did forgot its lay, 
 
 The prowling gnat fled fast away, 
 
 The fell mosqueto check'd his drone 
 
 And folded his wings till the Fay was gone, 
 
 And the wily beetle dropp'd his head, 
 
 And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 
 
 They crouch'd them close in the darksome shade, 
 
 They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, 
 For they had felt the blue-bent blade, 
 
 And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; 
 Many a time, on a summer's night, 
 When the sky was clear and the moon was 
 
 bright, 
 They had been roused from the haunted ground 
 By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound ; 
 
 They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, 
 They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string, 
 
 When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, 
 
 And the needle-shaft through air was borne, 
 Feather'd with down of the hum-bird's wing. 
 And now they deem'd the courier ouphe, 
 
 Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground ; 
 And they watch'd till they saw him mount the 
 roof 
 
 That canopies the world around ; 
 Then glad they left their covert lair, 
 And freak'd about in the midnight air. 
 
 Up to the vaulted firmament 
 
 His path the fire-fly courser bent, 
 
 And at every gallop on the wind, 
 
 He flung a glittering spark behind ; 
 
 He flies like a feather in the blast 
 
 Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. 
 
 But the shapes of air have begun their work, 
 And a drizzly mist is round him cast, 
 
 He cannot see through the mantle murk, 
 He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 
 
 Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, 
 He lashes his steed and spurs amain, 
 For shadowy hands have twitch'd the rein, 
 
 And flame-shot tongues around him play'd, 
 And near him many a fiendish eye 
 Glared with a fell malignity, 
 And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
 Came screaming on his startled ear. 
 
 His wings are wet around his breast, 
 The plume hangs dripping from his crest, 
 His eyes are blurr'd with the lightning's glare, 
 And his ears are stunn'd with the thunder's blare, 
 But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew, 
 
 He thrust before and he struck behind, 
 Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, 
 
 And gash'd their shadowy limbs of wind ; 
 Howling the misty spectres flew, 
 
 They rend the air with frightful cries, 
 For he has gain'd the welkin blue, 
 
 And the land of clouds beneath him lies, 
 
208 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Up to the cope careering swift, 
 
 In breathless motion fast, 
 Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, 
 
 Or the sea-roc rides the blast, 
 The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, 
 
 The sphered moon is past, 
 The earth but seems a tiny blot 
 
 On a sheet of azure cast. 
 O ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, 
 
 To tread the starry plain of even, 
 To meet the thousand eyes of night, 
 
 And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 
 But the Elfin made no stop or stay 
 Till he came to the bank of the milky-way, 
 Then he check'd his courser's foot, 
 And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Sudden along the snowy tide 
 
 That swell'd to meet their footsteps' fall, 
 The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, 
 
 Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; 
 Around the Fay they weave the dance, 
 
 They skip before him on the plain, 
 And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, 
 
 And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 
 With warblings wild they lead him on 
 
 To where, through clouds of amber seen, 
 Studded with stars, resplendent shone 
 
 The palace of the sylphid queen. 
 Its spiral columns, gleaming bright, 
 Were streamers of the northern light ; 
 Its curtain's light and lovely flush 
 Was of the morning's rosy blush, 
 And the ceiling fair that rose aboon 
 The white and feathery fleece of noon. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But, ! how fair the shape that lay 
 
 Beneath a rainbow bending bright; 
 She seem'd to the entranced Fay 
 
 The loveliest of the forms of light; 
 Her mantle was the purple roll'd 
 
 At twilight in the west afar ; 
 'T was tied with threads of dawning gold, 
 
 And button'd with a sparkling star. 
 Her face was like the lily roon 
 
 That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 
 Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, 
 
 Set floating in the welkin blue. 
 Her hair is like the sunny beam, 
 And the diamond gems which round it gleam 
 Are the pure drops of dewy even 
 That ne'er have left their native heaven. 
 
 She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite, 
 
 A nd they leap'd with smiles, for well I ween 
 Never before in the bowers of light 
 
 Had the form of an earthly Fay been seen. 
 Long she look'd in his tiny face; 
 
 Long with his butterfly cloak she play'd; 
 She smooth'd his wings of azure lace, 
 
 And handled the tassel of his blade ; 
 
 And as he told in accents low 
 
 The story of his love and wo, 
 
 She felt new pains in her bosom rise, 
 
 And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 
 
 And " O, sweet spirit of earth," she cried, 
 
 " Return no more to your woodland height, 
 But ever here with me abide 
 
 In the land of everlasting light ! 
 Within the fleecy drift we '11 lie, 
 
 We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim; 
 And all the jewels of the sky 
 
 Around thy brow shall brightly beam! 
 And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 
 
 That rolls its whitening foam aboon, 
 And ride upon the lightning's gleam, 
 
 And dance upon the orbed moon ! 
 We '11 sit within the Pleiad ring, 
 
 We '11 rest on Orion's starry belt, 
 And I will bid my sylphs to sing 
 
 The song that makes the dew-mist melt; 
 Their harps are of the umber shade, 
 
 That hides the blush of waking day, 
 And every gleamy string is made 
 
 Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray; 
 And thou shalt pillow on my breast, 
 
 While heavenly breathings float around, 
 And, with the sylphs of ether blest, 
 
 Forget the joys of fairy ground." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 She was lovely and fair to see 
 
 And the elfin's heart beat fitfully; 
 
 But lovelier far, and still more fair, 
 
 The earthly form imprinted there; 
 
 Naught he saw in the heavens above 
 
 Was half so dear as his mortal love, 
 
 For he thought upon her looks so meek, 
 
 And he thought of the light flush on her cheek; 
 
 Never again might he bask and lie 
 
 On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye, 
 
 But in his dreams her form to see, 
 
 To clasp her in his revery, 
 
 To think upon his virgin bride, 
 
 Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 
 
 "Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, 
 
 On the word of a fairy-knight, 
 
 To do my sentence-task aright; 
 
 My honour scarce is free from stain, 
 
 I may not soil its snows again ; 
 
 Betide me weal, betide me wo, 
 
 Its mandate must be answer'd now." 
 
 Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, 
 
 The tear was in her drooping eye ; 
 
 But she led him to the palace gate, 
 
 And call'd the sylphs who hover'd there, 
 And bade them fly and bring him straight 
 
 Of clouds condensed a sable car. 
 With charm and spell she bless'd it there, 
 From all the fiends of upper air; 
 Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, 
 And tied his steed behind the cloud ; 
 And press'd his hand as she bade him fly 
 Far to the verge of the northern sky, 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 209 
 
 For by its wane and wavering light 
 There was a star would fall to-night. 
 
 xxxr. 
 
 Borne afar on the wings of the blast, 
 Northward away, he speeds him fast, 
 And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
 Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. 
 The clouds roll backward as he flies, 
 Each flickering star behind him lies, 
 And he has reach'd the northern plain, 
 And back'd his fire-fly steed again, 
 Ready to follow in its flight 
 The streaming of the rocket-light. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The star is yet in the vault of heaven, 
 
 But it rocks in the summer gale; 
 And now 'tis fitful and uneven, 
 
 And now 'tis deadly pale; 
 And now 'tis wrapp'd in sulphur-smoke, 
 
 And quench' d is its rayless beam, 
 And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 
 
 It bursts in flash and flame. 
 As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 
 
 That the storm-spirit flings from high, 
 The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, 
 
 As it fell from the sheeted s,»y. 
 As swift as the wind in its trail behind 
 
 The Elfin gallops along, 
 The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, 
 
 But the sylphid charm is strong ; 
 He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, 
 
 While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze ; 
 He watches each flake till its sparks expire, 
 
 And rides in the light of its rays. 
 But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, 
 
 And caught a glimmering spark; 
 Then wheel' d around to the fairy ground, 
 
 And sped through the midnight dark. 
 
 Ouphe and Goblin! Imp and Sprite! 
 
 Elf of eve! and starry Fay! 
 Ye that love the moon's soft light, 
 
 Hither — hither wend your way ; 
 Twine ye in a jocund ring, 
 
 Sing and trip it merrily, 
 Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 
 
 Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 
 
 Hail the wanderer again 
 
 With dance and song, and lute and lyre, 
 Pure his wing and strong his chain, 
 
 And doubly bright his fairy fire. 
 Twine ye in an airy round, 
 
 Brush the dew and print the lea; 
 Skip and gambol, hop and bound, 
 
 Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 
 
 The beetle guards our holy ground, 
 
 He flies about the haunted place, 
 
 And if mortal there be found, 
 
 He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 
 U 
 
 The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, 
 The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; 
 
 Thus we sing, and dance, and play, 
 Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 
 
 But, hark ! from tower on tree-top high, 
 
 The sentry-elf his call has made : 
 A streak is in the eastern sky, 
 
 Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! 
 The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, 
 The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, 
 The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, 
 The cock has crow'd, and the Fays are gone. 
 
 BRONX. 
 
 I sat me down upon a green bank-side, 
 Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 
 
 Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide, 
 
 Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; 
 
 Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, 
 
 Backward they wind their way in many a wistful 
 eddy. 
 
 Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow 
 Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 
 
 Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, 
 Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes ; 
 
 When first his power in infant pastime trying, 
 
 Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches 
 lying. 
 
 From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, 
 And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, 
 
 Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling, 
 The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen 
 
 Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, 
 
 Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes 
 unheeded. 
 
 The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, 
 The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat ; 
 
 The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground 
 Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; 
 
 Through the transparent waves, the luddy minkle 
 
 Shot up in glimmering sparks his led fin's tiny 
 twinkle. 
 
 There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, 
 White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies 
 flaunting 
 Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, 
 
 Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting 
 A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 
 Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her 
 wedding. 
 
 The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, 
 
 Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, 
 The winding of the merry locust's horn, 
 
 The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare 
 bosom : 
 Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds 
 
 excelling, 
 ! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's 
 dwelling. 
 
210 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand 
 
 Again in the dull world of earthly blindness 1 
 Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
 
 Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness ! 
 Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, 
 To prison wandering thought and mar sweet soli- 
 tude? 
 Vet I will look upon thy face again, 
 
 My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 
 A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
 
 Thy waves are old companions, I shall see 
 A well-remember'd form in each old tree, 
 And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 Whes Freedom from her mountain height 
 Unfurl'd her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 And set the stars of glory there. 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 
 And striped its pure, celestial white, 
 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 
 She call'd her eagle bearer down, 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The svmbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, 
 Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle-stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
 
 Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn ; 
 And as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 
 Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ; 
 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
 And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendours fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 
 
 By angel hands to valour given ; 
 The stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were bom in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 
 
 TO SARAH. 
 
 Oite happy year has fled, Sail, 
 
 Since you were all my own ; 
 The leaves have felt the autumn blight, 
 
 The wintry storm has blown. 
 We heeded not the cold blast, 
 
 Nor the winter's icy air ; 
 For we found our climate in the heart, 
 
 And it was summer there. 
 
 The summer sun is bright, Sall, 
 
 The skies are pure in hue ; 
 But clouds will sometimes sadden them, 
 
 And dim their lovely blue ; 
 And clouds may come to us, Sall, 
 
 But sure they will not stay ; 
 For there 's a spell in fond hearts 
 
 To chase their gloom away. . 
 
 in. 
 
 In sickness and in sorrow 
 
 Thine eyes were on me still, 
 And there was comfort in each glance 
 
 To charm the sense of ill ; 
 And were they absent now, Sall, 
 
 I 'd seek my bed of pain, 
 And bless each pang that gave me back 
 
 Those looks of love as;am. 
 
 O, pleasant is the welcome kiss, 
 
 When day's dull round is o'er, 
 And sweet the music of the step 
 
 That meets me at the door. 
 Though worldly cares may visit us, 
 
 I reck not when they fall, 
 While I have thy kind lips, my Sall, 
 
 To smile away them all. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 [Bom, 1795.] 
 
 The author of "Red Jacket, and Peter Casta- 
 ly's " Epistle to Recorder Riker," is a son of Is- 
 rael Halleck, of Dutchess county, New York, 
 and Mary Elliot, his wife, of Guilford, Connecti- 
 cut, a descendant of John Eliot, the celebrated 
 "Apostle of the Indians." He was born at Guil- 
 ford, in August, 1795, and when about eighteen 
 years of age became a clerk in one of the princi- 
 pal banking-houses in New York. He evinced 
 a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early 
 period, but until he came to New York never pub- 
 lished any thing which in the maturity of his years 
 he has deemed worthy of preservation. The 
 " Evening Post," then edited by William Cole- 
 man, was the leading paper of the city, and the 
 only one in which much attention was given to 
 literature. It had a large number of contributors, 
 and youthful wits who gained admission to its 
 columns regarded themselves as fairly started in 
 a career of successful authorship. Halleck's 
 first offering to the " Evening Post" was that piece 
 of exquisite versification and refined sentiment 
 of which the first line is — 
 
 " There is an evening twilight of the heart." 
 Bryant, who was nearly a year older, about the 
 same time published in the " North American Re- 
 view" his noble poem of " Thanatopsis." Cole- 
 man gave Halleck's lines to the printer as soon 
 as he had read them, which was a great compli- 
 ment for so fastidious an editor. He did not as- 
 certain who wrote them for several months, and 
 the author in the mean while had become so much 
 of a literary lion that he then reprinted them with 
 a preface asserting their merits. 
 
 One evening in the spring of 1819, as Hal- 
 leck was on the way home from his place of 
 business, he stopped at a coffee-house then much 
 frequented by young men, in the vicinity of Co- 
 lumbia College. A shower has just fallen, and a 
 brilliant sunset was distinguished by a rainbow 
 of unusual magnificence. In the group about 
 the door, half a dozen had told what they would 
 wish could their wishes be realized, when Hal- 
 leck, said, looking at the glorious spectacle above 
 the horizon, "If I could have my wish, it should be 
 to lie in the lap of that rainbow, and read Tom 
 Campbell." A handsome young fellow, standing 
 near, suddenly turned to him and exclaimed, 
 "You and I must be acquainted: my name is 
 Drake ;" and from that hour till his death Jo- 
 seph Rodman Drake and Fitz-Greene Hal- 
 leck were united in a most fraternal intimacy. 
 
 Drake had already written the first four of the 
 once-celebrated series of humorous and satirical 
 odes known as the "Croaker Pieces," and they 
 had been published in the " Evening Post." He 
 
 now made Halleck a partner, and the remain- 
 ing numbers were signed " Croaker & Co." The 
 last one written by Drake was " The American 
 Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and 
 the last of the series, « Curtain Conversations," 
 was furnished by Halleck, on the twenty-fourth 
 of the following July. These pieces related to 
 scenes and events with which most readers in 
 New York were familiar ; they were written with 
 great spirit and good-humour, and the curiosity 
 of the town was excited to learn who were their 
 authors ; but the young poets kept their secret, 
 and were unsuspected, while their clever per- 
 formances were from time to time attributed to 
 various well-known literary men. Near the close 
 of the year Halleck wrote in the same vein his 
 longest poem, " Fanny," a playful satire of the 
 fashions, follies, and public characters of the day. 
 It contains from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, 
 and was completed and printed within threeweeks 
 from its commencement. 
 
 The next year Drake died, of consumption, and 
 Halleck mourned his loss in those beautiful tribu- 
 tary verses which appeared soon after in the " Scien- 
 tific Repository and Critical Review," beginning — 
 
 " Green he the turf ahove thee, 
 Friend of my hetter days ; 
 None knew thee hut to love thee, 
 None named thee but to praise." 
 
 In 1822 and 1823 our author visited Great Bri- 
 tain and the continent of Europe. Among the 
 souvenirs of his travels are two of his finest poems, 
 " Burns," and " Alnwick Castle," which, with a 
 few other pieces, he gave to the public in a small 
 volume in 1827. His fame was now established, 
 and he has ever since been regarded as one of the 
 truest of our poets, and in New York, where his 
 personal qualities, are best known, and his poems, 
 from their local allusions, are read by everybody, 
 he has enjoyed perpetual and almost unexampled 
 popularity. 
 
 He was once, as he informs us in one of his 
 witty and graceful epistles, "in the cotton trade 
 and sugar line," but for many years before the 
 death of the late John Jacob Astor, he was the 
 principal superintendent of the extensive affairs 
 of that great capitalist. Since then he has re- 
 sided chiefly in his native town, in Connecticut. 
 He frequently visits New York, however, and the 
 fondness and enthusiasm with which his name is 
 cherished by his old associates was happily illus- 
 trated in the beginning of 1854 by a compliment- 
 ary dinner which was then given him by mem- 
 bers of the Century Club. 
 
 It was Lord Byron's opinion that a poet is al- 
 ways to be ranked according to his execution, and 
 
 211 
 
212 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 not according to his branch of the art. " The poet 
 who executes best," said he, " is the highest, 
 whatever his department, and will be so rated in 
 the world's esteem. We have no doubt of the 
 justness of that remark; it is the only principle 
 from which sound criticism can proceed, and upon 
 this basis the reputations of the past have been 
 made up. Considered in this light, Mr. Halleck 
 must be pronounced not merely one of the chief 
 ornaments of a new literature, but one of the great 
 masters in a language classical and immortal for 
 the productions of genius which have illustrated 
 and enlarged its capacities. There is in his com- 
 positions an essential pervading grace, a natural 
 brilliancy of wit, a freedom yet refinement of sen- 
 timent, a sparkling flow of fancy, and a power of 
 personification, combined with such high and care- 
 ful finish, and such exquisite nicety of taste, that 
 the larger part of them must be regarded as models 
 almost faultless in the classes to which they be- 
 long. They appear to me to show a genuine in- 
 
 sight into the principles of art, and a fine use of 
 its resources ; and after all that has been written 
 about nature, strength, and originality, the true 
 secret of fame, the real magic of genius, is not 
 force, not passion, not novelty, but art. Look all 
 through Milton : look at the best passages of 
 Shakspeaee ; look at the monuments, " all Greek 
 and glorious," which have come down to us from 
 ancient times : what strikes us principally, and it 
 might almost be said only, is the wonderfully arti- 
 ficial character of the composition ; it is the prin- 
 ciple of their immortality, and without it no poem 
 can be long-lived. It may be easy to acquire popu- 
 larity, and easy to display art in writing, but he 
 who obtains popularity by the means and employ- 
 ment of careful and elaborate art, may be confi- 
 dent that his reputation is fixed upon a sure 
 basis. This — for his careless playing with the 
 muse by which he once kept the town alive, is 
 scarcely remembered now — 'this, it seems to me, 
 Mr. Halleck has done. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THE RECORDER." 
 
 PETER CASTALY COMPARETH THE RECORDER 
 WITH JULIUS C^SAR AND WITH HIMSELF. 
 
 My dear Recorder, you and I 
 
 Have floated down life's stream together, 
 And kept unharmed our friendship's tie 
 Through every change of Fortune's sky, 
 
 Her pleasant and her rainy weather. 
 Full sixty times since first we met, 
 Our birthday suns have risen and set, 
 And time has worn the baldness now 
 Of Julius C^sar on your brow, .... 
 Whose laurel harvests long have shown 
 
 As green and glorious as his own 
 
 Both eloquent and learned and brave, 
 
 Born to command and skilled to rule, 
 One made the citizen a slave, 
 
 The other makes him more — a fool. 
 The Caesar an imperial crown, 
 
 His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear, 
 The Riker put his fool's cap on, 
 
 And found it fitted to a hair 
 
 The Cesar passed the Rubicon 
 
 With helm, and shield, and breastplate on, 
 
 Dashing his warhorse through the waters; 
 The Riker would have built a barge 
 Or steamboat at the city's charge, 
 
 And passed it with his wife and daughters. 
 But let that pass. As I have said, 
 There's naught, save laurels, on your head, 
 And time has changed my clustering hair, 
 And showered snow-flakes thickly there ; 
 And though our lives have ever been, 
 As different as their different scene ; 
 Mine more renowned for rhymes than riches, 
 Yours less for scholarship than speeches; 
 Mine passed in low-roof'd leafy bower, 
 Yours in high halls of pomp and power, 
 Yet are we, be the moral told, 
 Alike in one thing — growing old. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "FANNY: 
 
 WEEHAWKEN. 
 
 Wehawken ! in thy mountain scenery yet, 
 All we adore of nature in her wild 
 
 And frolic hour of infancy is met; 
 
 And never has a summer's morning smiled 
 
 Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye 
 
 Of the enthusiast revels on — when high 
 
 Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs 
 
 O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, 
 And knows that sense of danger which sublimes 
 
 The breathless moment — when his daring step 
 Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear 
 The low dash of the wave, with startled ear, 
 
 Like the death music of his coming doom, 
 
 And clings to the green turf with desperate force, 
 
 As the heart clings to life ; and when resume 
 The currents in their veins their wonted course, 
 
 There lingers a deep feeling — like the moan 
 
 Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. 
 
 In such an hour he turns, and on his view, 
 Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him ; 
 
 Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue 
 Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him — 
 
 The city bright below ; and far away, 
 
 Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. 
 
 Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
 And banners floating in the sunny air; 
 
 And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, 
 Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there 
 
 In wild reality. When life is old, 
 
 And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold 
 
 Its memory of this ; nor lives there one [days 
 Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's 
 
 Of happiness were passed, beneath that sun, 
 That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze 
 
 Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, 
 
 Nor feel the prouder of his native land. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 213 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYR- 
 SHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. 
 
 Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks, 
 Thou mindst me of that autumn noon, 
 
 When first we met upon " the banks 
 And braes o' bonny Doon." 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough, 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief, 
 
 We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou 
 Art wither'd — flower and leaf. 
 
 And will not thy death-doom be mine— 
 The doom of all things wrought of clay— 
 
 And wither'd my life's leaf, like thine, 
 Wild rose of Alloway 1 
 
 Not so his memory, for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long, 
 
 His, who an humbler flower could make 
 Immortal as his song. 
 
 The memory of Burns — a name 
 
 That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, 
 
 A nation's glory, and her shame, 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 A nation's glory — be the rest 
 
 Forgot — she 's canonized his mind ; 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 I 've stood beside the cottage-bed 
 
 Where the bard-peasant first drew breath : 
 
 A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, 
 A straw-wrought couch beneath. 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile, 
 His monument — that tells to heaven 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle, 
 To that bard-peasant given. 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
 Boy -minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; 
 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A poet's pride and power. 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
 The power that gave a child of song 
 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
 The rich, the brave, the strong ; 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than his, 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
 
 And lays lit up with Poesy's 
 Purer and holier fires : 
 
 Yet read the names that know not death ; 
 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are there; 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 His is that language of the heart, 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak, 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music, to whose tone 
 
 The common pulse of man keeps time, 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 
 And listen'd, and believed, and felt 
 The poet's mastery. 
 
 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, 
 O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, 
 
 O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 
 
 On fields where brave men "die or do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, 
 
 Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
 From throne to cottage hearth ; 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
 
 When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 Or " Auld Lang Syne" is sung ! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 
 Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, 
 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
 With " Logan's" banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
 Imagination's world of air, 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
 And Burns — though brief the race he ran, 
 Though rough and dark the path he trod — 
 
 Lived — died — in form and soul a man, 
 The image of his God. 
 
 Though care, and pain, and want, and wo, 
 With wounds that only death could heal, 
 
 Tortures — the poor alone can know, 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth, 
 His independent tongue and pen, 
 
 And moved, in manhood and in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 
 Of coward, and of slave; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye, 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
214 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 
 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day, 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
 
 "With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallow'd home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories, 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined — 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, 
 Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power, 
 
 And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, 
 The mightiest of the hour ; 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble home 
 
 Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
 Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, 
 
 From countries near and far ; 
 
 Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the west, 
 My own green forest-land; 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth, 
 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His fields and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Doon's low trees, 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
 
 And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
 The poet's tomb is there. 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art, 
 
 His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ? 
 
 Wear they not graven on the heart 
 The name of Robert Burns'! 
 
 RED JACKET, 
 
 A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
 First in her files, her pioneer of mind, 
 
 A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
 His love for the young land he left behind ; 
 
 And throned her in the senate hall of nations, 
 Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought, 
 
 Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 
 And beautiful as its green world of thought. 
 
 And faithful to the act of Congress, quoted 
 As law-authority — it pass'd nem. con. — 
 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves ha~e voted, 
 The most enlighten'd people ever known. 
 
 That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 
 In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 
 
 And that, from Orleans to the bay of Fundy, 
 There 's not a bailiff nor an epitaph. 
 
 And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner, 
 We shall export our poetry and wine ; 
 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the line. 
 
 If he were with me, King of Tuscarora, 
 
 Gazing as I, upon thy portrait now, 
 In all its medall'd, fringed, and beaded glory, 
 
 Its eyes' dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow- 
 Its brow, half-martial and half-diplomatic, 
 
 Its eye, upsoaring, like an eagle's wings ; 
 Well might he boast that we, the democratic, 
 
 Outrival Europe — even in our kings ; 
 
 For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages 
 Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 
 
 But that the forest-tribes have bent for ages 
 To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 
 
 Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic 
 Could make Red Jacket grace an English 
 
 Unless he had a genius for the tragic, [rhyme, 
 And introduced it in a pantomime ; 
 
 Yet it is music in the language spoken 
 
 Of thine own land ; and on her herald-roll, 
 
 As nobly fought for, and as proud a token 
 As Cozur de Lion's, of a warrior's soul. 
 
 Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would 
 
 frighten 
 
 That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 
 
 And George the Fourth wore, in the dance at 
 
 Brighton, 
 
 A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 
 
 Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
 And fitted for thy couch on field and flood, 
 
 As Rob Rot's tartans for the highland heather, 
 Or forest-green for England's Robin Hood. 
 
 Is strength a monarch's merit 1 (like a whaler's) 
 Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
 
 As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors, 
 Heroes in history, and gods in song. 
 
 Is eloquence 1 Her spell is thine that reaches 
 The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport, 
 
 And there 's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
 The secret of their mastery — they are short. 
 
 Is beauty 1 Thine has with thy youth departed, 
 But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, 
 
 And she who perish'd, young and broken-hearted, 
 Are — but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears. 
 
 The monarch mind — the mystery of commanding, 
 The godlike power, the art Napoleon, 
 
 Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
 The hearts of millions till they move as one ; 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 215 
 
 Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 
 
 The road to death as to a festival ; 
 And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded 
 
 With banner-folds of glory their dark pall. 
 
 Who will believe — not I — for in deceiving 
 Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 
 
 I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
 
 That all things beautiful are what they seem. 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
 Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour ; 
 
 With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing 
 As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; 
 
 With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 
 
 With motions graceful as a bird's in air; 
 Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
 
 That e'er clinch'd fingers in a captive's hair? 
 
 That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, 
 Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree; 
 
 And in thy wrath, a nursing cat o' mountain 
 Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee 1 
 
 And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, 
 Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 
 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all, save fear. 
 
 Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, 
 Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 
 
 Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; 
 Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 
 
 Hope — that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit 
 Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone ; 
 
 Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 
 
 Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne. 
 
 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 And still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
 That murmurs at their feet, a conquer'd wave ; 
 
 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
 Where breathes no castled lord or cabin'd slave ; 
 
 Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold 
 and free, 
 And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; 
 
 And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they 
 
 Nor even then, unless in their own way. [pray, 
 
 Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
 A " fierce democracie," where all are true 
 
 To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 
 And to their laws, denominated blue ; 
 
 (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
 A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
 
 Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest, 
 
 Sacred — the San Marino of the west. 
 
 A justice of the peace, for the time being, 
 
 They bow to, but may turn him out next year : 
 
 They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing 
 In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; 
 
 They have a natural talent for foreseeing 
 
 And knowing all things ; and should Paiik appear 
 
 From his long tour in Africa, to show [know. 
 
 The Niger's source, they 'd meet him with — We 
 
 They love their land, because it is their own, 
 And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 
 
 Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, 
 And think it kindness to his majesty ; 
 
 A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
 Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 
 
 All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 
 
 With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and 
 peddling ; 
 
 Or, wandering through the southern countries, 
 teaching 
 
 The A B Cfrom Webster's spelling-book; 
 Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 
 
 And gaining, by what they call " hook and crook," 
 And what the moralists call overreaching, 
 
 A decent living. The Virginians look 
 Upon them with as favourable eyes 
 As Gabriei on the devil in Paradise. 
 
 But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
 At home, where all their worth and pride is 
 placed ; 
 
 And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
 
 And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced 
 
 With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
 
 Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, 
 
 In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 
 
 Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 
 
 And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 
 Is felt even in their nation's destiny; 
 
 Men who sway'd senates with a statesman's soul, 
 And look'd on armies with a leader's eye ; 
 
 Names that adorn and dignify the scroll 
 
 Whose leaves contain their country's history. 
 
 Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, 
 Nor the long summer of Cathay an vales, 
 
 The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
 Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 
 
 Of Florence and the Arno — yet the wing 
 Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales 
 
 Through sun and snow — and, in the autumn time, 
 
 Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 
 
 Her clear, warm heaven at noon, — the mist that 
 shrouds 
 
 Her twilight hills, — her cool and starry eves, 
 The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, 
 
 The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, 
 Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
 
 Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 
 And his mind's brightest vision but displays 
 The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 
 
 And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 
 
 Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; 
 The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove; 
 
 The mother, smiling in her infant's bower; 
 Forms, features, worshipp'd while we breathe or 
 move, 
 
 Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, 
 Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
 To the green land I sing, then wake ; you '11 find 
 them there. 
 
216 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race, 
 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial place, 
 
 Their cradle and.their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's Lion stands in state, 
 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners " flout the sky" 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines, 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 
 Through this romantic scene 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katharine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile : 
 
 Does not the succouring ivy, keeping 
 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping 1 
 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe, and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A Templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the Cross was damp'd with his dying 
 breath, 
 When blood ran free as festal wine, 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew-bell. 
 
 I wander'd through the lofty halls 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons ; 
 To him who, when a younger son, 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 * * # * * 
 
 That last half stanza — it has dash'd 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 The light that o'er my eyebeam flash'd, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its market day, 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
 From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
 Of knights, but not of the Round Table, 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, notTRob Roy: 
 'Tis what " our President," Monroe, 
 
 Has call'd " the era of good feeling :" 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave oft' cattle-stealing ; 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings: 
 And noble name and cultured land, 
 Palace, and park, and vassal band, 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turban'd Turk 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 
 
 Is Englandjs friend and fast ally ; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the Cross and altar stone, 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
 
 And sees the Christian father die : 
 And not a sabre blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 In the arm'd pomp of feudal state 1 
 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate," 
 
 Are some half-dozen serving men, 
 
 In the drab coat of William Penn : 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 217 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
 Who bow'd me through court, bower, and hall, 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
 MAGDALEN. 
 
 A sword, whose blade has ne'er been wet 
 
 With blood, except of freedom's foes ; 
 That hope which, though its sun be set, 
 
 Still with a starlight beauty glows ; 
 A heart that worshipp'd in Romance 
 
 The Spirit of the buried Time, 
 And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, 
 
 And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ; 
 These had been, and I deemed would be 
 My joy, whate'er my destiny. 
 
 Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright 
 
 Alone illumed my cradle-bed ; 
 And I had borne with wild delight 
 
 My banner where Bolivar led, 
 Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek, 
 
 Or manhood's pride was on my brow. 
 Its folds are furl'd — the war-bird's beak 
 
 Is thirsty on the Andes now ; 
 I long'd, like her, for other skies 
 Clouded by Glory's sacrifice. 
 
 In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, 
 
 Its soldier-song the bugle sings; 
 And I had buckled on my brand, 
 
 And waited but the sea wind's wings, 
 To bear me where, or lost or won 
 
 Her battle, in its frown or smile, 
 Men live with those of Marathon, 
 
 Or die with those of Scio's isle ; 
 And find in Valour's tent or tomb, 
 In life or death, a glorious home. 
 
 I could have left but yesterday 
 
 The scene of my boy-years behind, 
 And floated on my careless way 
 
 Wherever will'd the breathing wind. 
 I could have bade adieu to aught 
 
 I've sought, or met, or welcomed here, 
 Without an hour of shaded thought, 
 
 A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. 
 Such was I yesterday — but then 
 I had not known thee, Magdalen. 
 
 To-day there is a change within me, 
 
 There is a weight upon my brow, 
 And Fame, whose whispers once could win me 
 
 From all I loved, is powerless now. 
 There ever is a form, a face 
 
 Of maiden beauty in my dreams, 
 Speeding before me, like the race 
 
 To ocean of the mountain streams — 
 With dancing hair, and laughing eyes, 
 That seem to mock me as it flies. 
 
 My sword — it slumbers in its sheath ; 
 My hopes — their starry light is gone ; 
 
 My heart — the fabled clock of death, 
 
 Beats with the same low, lingering tone : 
 
 And this, the land of Magdalen, 
 Seems now the only spot on earth 
 
 Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; 
 And here I'd build my household hearth, 
 
 And breathe my song of joy, and twine 
 
 A lovely being's name with mine. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! the sail is spread ; 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! my task is there ; 
 But when among the unmourned dead 
 
 They lay me, and the ocean air 
 Brings tidings of my day of doom, 
 
 Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, 
 The load-star of a happy home ; 
 
 In smile and voice, in eye and heart 
 The same as thou hast ever been, 
 The loved, the lovely Magdalen. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to rest, 
 And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 
 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 
 
 But hope is round us with her angel lay, 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early 
 power. 
 
 In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow ; 
 
 Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
 Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo 
 
 Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
 Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; 
 
 We knew not, cared not, it was bom to die, 
 Flush'd with the eool breeze and the dews of morn, 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue, 
 Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too — on the eye, 
 
 Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 
 Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, 
 
 Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 
 And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 
 
 And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
 Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, 
 
 The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, [green. 
 Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer 
 
 But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 
 
 There's more of heaven's pure beam about her 
 That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, [now; 
 
 Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; 
 That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
 
 That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
 Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 
 
 And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart ; 
 The meteor bearer of our parting breath, 
 A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 
 
218 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS." 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent, 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power : 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet-ring : 
 Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden-bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzauis ranged his Suliote band, 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
 
 On old Plataea's day; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquer'd there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 He awoke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 "To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
 He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 
 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band: 
 " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ; 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 God — and your native land !" 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 
 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
 They conquer'd — but Bozzauis fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won : 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 
 
 Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her firstborn's breath ; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke, 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
 
 * He fell in an attack upon tlie Turkish camp at Laspi, 
 the site of the ancient Platsea, August 20, 1823, and expired 
 in the moment of victory. His last words were: "To 
 die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain." 
 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm, 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
 
 With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 
 And thou art terrible — the tear, 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the battle for the free, 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
 Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 
 
 Come in her crowning hour — and then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to pnson'd men : 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land ; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb: 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names, 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
.... ... . . 
 
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 
 
 [Born, 1795.J 
 
 Mr. Percitai, was born in Berlin, near Hart- 
 ford, in Connecticut, on the fifteenth of September, 
 1795. His father, an intelligent physician, died 
 in 1807, and he was committed to the care of a 
 guardian. His instruction continued to be care- 
 fully attended to, however, and when fifteen years 
 of age he entered Yale College. The condition 
 of his health, which had been impaired by too close 
 application to study, rendered necessary a tempo- 
 rary removal from New Haven, but after an ab- 
 sence of about a year he returned, and in 1815 
 graduated with the reputation of being the first 
 scholar of his class. He subsequently entered the 
 Yale Medical School, and in 1820 received the 
 degree of Doctor of Medicine. 
 
 He began to write verses at an early age, and 
 in his fourteenth year is said to have produced a 
 satire in aim and execution not unlike Mr. Bry- 
 ant's "Embargo." In the last year of his col- 
 lege life he composed a dramatic piece to be spoken 
 by some of the students at the annual commence- 
 ment, which was afterwards enlarged and printed 
 under the title of " Zamor, a Tragedy." He did 
 not appear as an author before the public, how- 
 ever, until 1821, when he published at New Haven, 
 with some minor poems, the first part of his " Pro- 
 metheus," which attracted considerable attention, 
 and was favourably noticed in an article by Mr. 
 Edward Everett, in the North American Re- 
 view. 
 
 In 1822 he published two volumes of miscella- 
 neous poems and prose writings under the title of 
 "Clio," the first at Charleston, South Carolina, 
 and the second at New Haven. They contain 
 "Consumption," "The Coral Grove," and other 
 pieces which have been regarded as among the finest 
 of his works. In the same year they were followed 
 by an oration, previously delivered before the Phi 
 Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, " On Some of 
 the Moral and Political truths Derivable from His- 
 tory," and the second part of " Prometheus." The 
 whole of this poem contains nearly four hundred 
 stanzas in the Spenserian measure. An edition of 
 his principal poetical writings, embracing a few 
 original pieces, appeared soon after in New York 
 and was reprinted in London. 
 
 In 1824 Dr. Percital was appointed an assist- 
 ant-surgeon in the army, and stationed at West 
 Point with orders to act as Professor of Chemistry 
 in the Military Academy. He had supposed that 
 the duties of the office were so light as to allow 
 him abundant leisure for the pursuit of his favourite 
 studies, and when undeceived by the experience of 
 a few months, he resigned his commission and went 
 to Boston, where he passed in various literary avo- 
 cations the greater portion of the year 1S25. In 
 this period he wrote his poem on the mind, in which 
 
 he intimates that its highest office is the creation 
 of beauty, and that there are certain unchanging 
 principles of taste, to which all works of art, all 
 " linked sounds of most elaborate music," must be 
 conformable, to give more than a feeble and tran- 
 sient pleasure. 
 
 Early in 1827 he published in New York the 
 third volume of " Clio," and was afterwards engaged 
 neatly two years in superintending the printing of 
 the first quarto edition of Dr. Webster's Ameri- 
 can Dictionary, a service for which he was emi- 
 nently qualified by an extensive and critical ac- 
 quaintance with ancient and modern languages. 
 His next work was a new translation of Malte- 
 Brttn's Geography, from the French, which was 
 not completed until 1843. 
 
 From his boyhood Dr. Percival has been an 
 earnest and constant student, and there are few 
 branches of learning with which he is not familiar. 
 Perhaps there is not in the country a man of more 
 thorough and comprehensive scholarship. In 1835 
 he was employed by the government of Connecti- 
 cut to make a geological survey of that state, which 
 he had already very carefully explored on his own 
 account. His Report on the subject, which is very 
 able and elaborate, Was printed in an octavo volume 
 of nearly five hundred pages, in 1842. While en- 
 gaged in these duties he published poetical trans- 
 lations from the Polish, Russian, Servian, Bohe- 
 mian, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Italian, 
 Spanish, and Portuguese languages, and wrote a con- 
 siderable portion of " The Dream of Day and other 
 Poems," which appeared at New Haven hi 1843. 
 This is his last volume; it embraces more than 
 one hundred and fifty varieties of measure, and 
 its contents generally show his familiar acquaint- 
 ance with the poetical art, which in his preface 
 he observes, " requires a mastery of the riches 
 and niceties of a language ; a full knowledge of 
 the science of versification, not only in its own pe- 
 culiar principles of rhythm and melody, but in its 
 relation to elocution and music, with that delicate 
 natural perception and that facile execution which 
 render the composition of verse hardly less easy 
 than that of prose ; a deep and quick insight into 
 the nature of man, in all his varied faculties, in- 
 tellectual and emotive; a clear and full perception 
 of the power and beauty of nature, and of all its 
 various harmonies with our own thoughts and feel- 
 ings ; and, to gain a high rank in the present age, 
 wide and exact attainments in literature and art in 
 general. Nor is the possession of such faculties 
 and attainments all that is necessary ; but such a 
 sustained and self-collected state of mind as gives 
 one the mastery of his genius, and at the same time 
 presents to him the ideal as an immediate reality, 
 
 not as a remote conception." 
 
 * 219 
 
220 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 There are few men who possess these high quali- 
 ties in a more eminent degree than Pehcival ; 
 but with the natural qualities of a great poet, and 
 his comprehensive and thorough learning, he 
 lacks the executive skill, or declines the labour, 
 without which few authors gain immortality. He 
 has considerable imagination, remarkable com- 
 mand of language, and writes with a facility rarely 
 equalled ; but when his thoughts are once committed 
 to the page, he shrinks from the labour of revising, 
 
 correcting, and condensing. He remarks in one 
 of his prefaces, that his verse is " very far from 
 bearing the marks of the file and the burnisher," 
 and that he likes to see " poetry in the full ebulli- 
 tion of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the 
 spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a 
 glad inspiration." If by this he means that a poet 
 should reject the slow and laborious process by 
 which a polished excellence is attained, very few who 
 have acquired good reputations will agree with him 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE DREAM OF A 
 DAY. 
 
 A spirit stood before me, half unseen, 
 Majestic and severe ; yet o'er him play'd 
 
 A genial light — subdued though high his mien, 
 As by a strong collected spirit sway'd — 
 
 In even balance justly poised between [stay'd — 
 Each wild extreme, proud strength by feeling 
 
 Dwelling in upper realms serenely bright, 
 
 Lifted above the shadowy sphere of night. 
 
 He stood before me, and I heard a tone, 
 Such as from mortal lips had never flow'd, 
 
 Soft yet commanding, gentle yet alone, 
 
 It bow'd the listener's heart — anon it glow'd 
 
 Intensely fervent, then like wood-notes thrown 
 On the chance winds, in airy lightness rode — 
 
 Now swell'd like ocean surge, now pausing fell 
 
 Like the last murmur of a muffled bell. 
 
 " Lone pilgrim through life's gloom," thus spake 
 the shade, 
 
 " Hold on with steady will along thy way : 
 Thou, by a kindly favouring hand wert made — 
 
 Hard though thy lot, yet thine what can repay 
 Long years of bitter toil — the holy aid 
 
 Of spirit aye is thine, be that thy stay : 
 Thine to behold the true, to feel the pure, 
 To know the good and lovely — these endure. 
 
 Hold on — thou hast in thee thy best reward ; 
 
 Poor are the largest stores of sordid gain, 
 If from the heaven of thought thy soul is barr'd, 
 
 If the high spirit's bliss is sought in vain : 
 Think not thy lonely lot is cold or hard, 
 
 The world has never bound thee with its chain ; 
 Free as the birds of heaven thy heart can soar, 
 Thou canst create new worlds — what wouldst thou 
 morel 
 
 The future age will know thee — yea, even now 
 Hearts beat and tremble at thy bidding, tears 
 
 Flow as thou movest thy wand, thy word can bow 
 Even ruder natures, the dull soul uprears 
 
 As thou thy trumpet blast attunest — thou 
 Speakest, and each remotest valley hears: 
 
 Thou hast the gift of song — a wealth is thine, 
 
 Richer than all the treasures of the mine. 
 
 Hold on, glad spirits company thy path — 
 
 They minister to thee, though all unseen : 
 Even when the tempest lifts its voice in wrath, 
 
 Thou joyest in its strength ; the orient sheen 
 Gladdens thee with its beauty ; winter hath 
 
 A holy charm that soothes thee, like the green 
 Of infant May — all nature is thy friend, 
 All seasons to thy life enchantment lend. 
 
 Man, too, thou know'st and feelest — all the springs 
 That wake his smile and tear, his joy and sorrow, 
 
 All that uplifts him on emotion's wings, 
 
 Each longing for a fair and blest to-morrow, 
 
 Each tone that soothes or saddens, all that rings 
 Joyously to him, thou canst fitly borrow 
 
 From thy own breast, and blend it in a strain, 
 
 To which each human heart beats back again. 
 
 Thine the unfetter'd thought, alone controll'd 
 By nature's truth ; thine the wide-seeing eye, 
 
 Catching the delicate shades, yet apt to hold 
 The whole in its embrace — before it lie 
 
 Pictured in fairest light, as chart unroll'd, 
 Fields of the present and of destiny : 
 
 The voice of truth amid the senseless throng 
 
 May now be lost; 'tis heard and felt ere long. 
 
 Hold on — live for the world — live for all time — 
 Rise in thy conscious power, but gently bear 
 
 Thy form among thy fellows ; sternly climb 
 The spirit's alpine peaks ; mid snow towers there 
 
 Nurse the pure thought, but yet accordant chime 
 With lowlier hearts in valleys green and fair, — 
 
 Sustain thyself — yield to no meaner hand, 
 
 Even though he rule awhile thy own dear land. 
 
 Brief is his power, oblivion waits the churl 
 Bound to his own poor self; his form decays, 
 
 But sooner fades his name. Thou shalt unfurl 
 Thy standard to the winds of future days — 
 
 Well mayest thou in thy soul defiance hurl 
 
 On such who would subdue thee ; thou shalt raise 
 
 Thy name, when they are dust, and nothing more ! 
 
 Hold on — in earnest hope still look before. 
 
 Nerved to a stern resolve, fulfil thy lot — 
 Reveal the secrets nature has unveil'd thee ; 
 
 All higher gifts by toil intense are bought — 
 Has thy firm will in action ever fail'd thee] 
 
 Only on distant summits fame is sought — 
 
 Sorrow and gloom thy nature has entail'd thee, 
 
 But bright thy present joys, and brighter far 
 
 The hope that draws thee like a heavenly star." 
 
 The voice was still — its tone in distance dying 
 Breathed in my ear, like harp faint heard at even, 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 221 
 
 Soft as the autumn wind through sere leaves s ighing 
 When flaky clouds athwart the moon are- driven 
 
 Far through the viewless gloom the spirit flying, 
 Wing'd his high passage to his native heaven, 
 
 But o'er me still he seem'd in kindness bending, 
 
 Fresh hope and firmer purpose to me lending. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river — 
 Its wave in liquid lapses glided by, 
 Nor watch'd, in crystal depth, his vacant eye 
 
 The willow's high o'er- arching foliage quiver. 
 
 From dream to shadowy dream returning ever, 
 He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge ; 
 His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge 
 
 Stream'd visionary onward, pausing never. 
 
 As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving 
 Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, 
 O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower 
 
 With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving — 
 So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove 
 A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Am I not all alone 1 — The world is still 
 In passionless slumber — not a tree but feels 
 The far-pervading hush, and softer steals 
 
 The misty river by. — Yon broad bare hill 
 Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars 
 Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound 
 By some unearthly spell — no other sound 
 But the owl's unfrequent moan. — Their airy cars 
 
 The winds have station'd on the mountain peaks. 
 
 Am I not all alone"! — A spirit speaks 
 
 From the abyss of night, « Not all alone — 
 
 Nature is round thee with her banded powers, 
 
 And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours — 
 Mind and its kingdom now are all thy own." 
 
 CHORIAMBIC MELODY. 
 
 Beak me afar o'er the wave, far to the sacred 
 
 islands, 
 Where ever bright blossoms the plain, where no 
 
 cloud hangs on the highlands — 
 There be my heart ever at rest, stirr'd by no wild 
 
 emotion : 
 There on the earth only repose, halcyon calm on the 
 
 ocean. 
 
 Lay me along, pillow'd on flowers, where steals in 
 
 > silence for ever 
 Over its sands, still as at noon, far the oblivious 
 
 river. 
 Scarce through the grass whispers it by ; deep in 
 
 its wave you may number 
 Pebble and shell, and image of flower, folded and 
 
 bent in slumber. 
 
 Spirit of life ! rather aloft, where on the crest of 
 
 the mountain, 
 Clear blow the winds, fresh from the north, sparkles 
 
 and dashes the fountain, 
 Lead me along, hot in the chase, still 'mid the storm 
 
 high glowing — 
 Only we live — only, when life, like the wild torrent, 
 
 is flowing. 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 She stands in act to fall — her garland torn, 
 Its wither'd rose-leaves round the rock are blowing; 
 Loose to the winds her locks dishevell'd flowing 
 
 Tell of the many sorrows she has borne. 
 
 Her eye, up-turn'd to heaven, has lost its fire — 
 One hand is press'd to feel her bosom's beating, 
 And mark her lingering pulses back retreating — 
 
 The other wanders o'er her silent lyre. 
 
 Clear rolls the midway sun — she knows it not ; 
 Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume ; 
 To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom — 
 
 She only feels the noon-beam burning hot. 
 
 What to the broken heart the dancing waves, 
 The air all kindling — what a sounding name 1 
 ! what a mockery, to dream of fame — 
 
 It only lures us on to make us slaves. 
 
 And Love — O ! what art thou with all thy light] 
 Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know, 
 
 Thou art but as a vision of the night — 
 And then the bursting heart, how deep its wo. 
 
 « They tell me I shall live — my name shall rise, 
 When nature falls — O ! blest illusion, stay — " 
 A moment hopes and joys around her play; 
 
 Then darkness hides her — faint she sinks and dies. 
 
 THE FESTIVE EVENING. 
 
 Cheekeul glows the festive chamber ; 
 
 In the circle pleasure smiles : 
 Mounts the flame, like wreaths of amber ; 
 
 Bright as love, its warmth beguiles. 
 Glad the heart with joy is lighted ; 
 Hand with hand, in faith, is plighted, 
 
 As around the goblet flows. 
 Fill — fill — fill, and quaff the liquid rose ! 
 Bright it glows — 
 
 ! how bright the bosom glows. 
 
 Pure as light, our social meeting : 
 
 Here no passion dares invade. 
 Joys we know, not light and fleeting : 
 
 Flowers we twine, that never fade. 
 Ours are links, not time can sever: 
 Brighter still they glow for ever — 
 
 Glow in yon eternal day. 
 No — no — no, ye will not pass away — 
 Ye will stay — 
 
 Social joys, for ever stay ! 
 
222 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 Centhe of light and energy ! thy way 
 
 Is through the unknown void ; thou hast thy 
 throne, 
 Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, 
 Far in the blue, untended and alone : 
 Ere the first-waken'd airs of earth had blown, 
 On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light ; 
 Then thou didst send thy glance, which still 
 hath flown 
 Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, 
 And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and 
 bright. 
 
 We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give 
 
 To earth the fire that animates her crust, 
 And wakens all the forms that move and live, 
 
 From the fine, viewless mould which lurks in 
 dust, 
 
 To hirn who looks to heaven, and on his bust 
 Bears stamp'd the seal of God, who gathers there 
 
 Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust 
 In his own center'd powers, who aims to share 
 In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair. 
 
 Thy path is high in heaven ; we cannot gaze 
 On the intense of light that girds thy car; 
 
 There is a crown of glory in thy rays, 
 Which bears thy pure divinity afar, 
 To mingle with the equal light of star,— 
 
 For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole 
 One of the sparks of night that fire the air, 
 
 And, as around thy centre planets roll, 
 
 So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul. 
 
 I am no fond idolater to thee, 
 
 One of the countless multitude, who burn, 
 As lamps, around the one Eternity, 
 
 In whose contending forces systems turn 
 
 Their circles round that seat of life, the um 
 Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies : 
 
 Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern 
 With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes, 
 Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies. 
 
 And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee 
 We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone, 
 And movest through the wide, aerial sea, 
 Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne 
 From a new victory, where he late had shown 
 Wider his power to nations ; so thy light 
 Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had 
 
 grown 
 With each revolving day, or thou, at night, 
 Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might. 
 
 Age o'er thee has no power: thou bring'st the same 
 Light to renew the morning, as when first, 
 
 If not eternal, thou, with front of flame, 
 On the dark face of earth in glory burst, 
 And warm'd the seas, and in their bosom nursed 
 
 The earliest things of life, the worm and shell ; 
 Till, through the sinking ocean, mountains 
 pierced, 
 
 And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, 
 
 Rear'd, like a magic fane, above the watery swell. 
 
 And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds 
 Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends 
 An energy to nature ; all that feeds 
 
 On the rich mould, and then, in bearing, bends 
 Its fruits again to earth, wherein it blends 
 The last and first of life ; of all who bear 
 
 Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends, 
 Instinctive, in their common good to share, 
 Which lies in things that breathe, or late were 
 living there. 
 
 They live in thee : without thee, all were dead 
 And dark ; no beam had lighted on the waste, 
 
 But one eternal night around had spread 
 Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced 
 This Eden, which thy fairy hand hath graced 
 
 With such uncounted beauty ; all that blows 
 In the fresh air of spring, and, growing, braced 
 
 Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows 
 
 In the full-temper'd beam, that gladdens as it goes. 
 
 Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles ; 
 
 . Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn ; 
 Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, 
 When through their heaven thy changing car is 
 
 borne ; 
 Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are 
 shorn 
 Of all their waving locks, and storms awake ; 
 
 All, that was once so beautiful, is torn 
 By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, 
 And, in their maddening rush, the crested moun- 
 tains shake. 
 
 The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow ; 
 
 Life lingers, and would die, but thy return 
 Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow 
 
 Of all the power that brooded in the urn 
 
 Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly 
 spurn 
 All bands that would confine, and give to air 
 
 Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, 
 When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there 
 Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the 
 fair. 
 
 The vales are thine ; and when the touch of spring 
 Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light 
 
 They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing 
 Dashes the water in his winding flight, 
 And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright, 
 
 And widens outward to the pebbled shore, — 
 The vales are thine ; and when they wake from 
 night, 
 
 The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er 
 
 Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore. 
 
 The hills are thine : they catch thy newest beam, 
 
 And gladden in thy parting, where the wood 
 Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream, 
 
 That flows from out thy fulness, as a floor! 
 
 Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food 
 Of nations in its waters : so thy rays 
 
 Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, 
 When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze 
 Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough 
 plays. 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 223 
 
 Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift 
 
 Snows that have never wasted, in a sky 
 Which hath no stain ; below, the storm may drift 
 
 Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ; 
 
 Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie, 
 Dazzling, but cold ; thy farewell glance looks there ; 
 
 And when below thy hues of beauty die, 
 Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear, 
 Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair. 
 
 The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues 
 Are pencill'd by thee ; when thou bendest low, 
 
 Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues 
 Their waving fold with such a perfect glow 
 Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw 
 
 Shame on the proudest art; the tender stain 
 Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow 
 
 Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain 
 
 All tints to the deep gold that flashes in thy train : 
 
 These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, 
 The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine, 
 
 Where the spent storrr is hasting on its march, 
 And there the glories of thy light combine, 
 And form with perfect curve a lifted line, 
 
 Striding the earth and air; man looks, and tells 
 How peace and mercy in its beauty shine, 
 
 And how the heavenly messenger impels 
 
 Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether 
 swells. 
 
 The ocean is thy vassal ; thou dost sway 
 
 His waves to thy dominion, and they go 
 Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their 
 
 . way ' 
 Rising and falling in eternal flow ; 
 
 Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow ; 
 
 They take them wings, and spring aloft in air, 
 
 And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, 
 
 throw 
 
 Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear 
 
 The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they 
 
 bear. 
 
 I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast, 
 Widest of waters ; I have seen thee lie 
 
 Calm, as an infant pillow'd in its rest 
 
 On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky, 
 Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye, 
 
 Till a new heaven was arch'd and glass'd below; 
 And then the clouds, that, gay in sunset, fly, 
 
 Cast on it such a stain, it kindled so, 
 
 As in the cheek of youth the living roses grow. 
 
 I, too, have seen thee on thy surging path, 
 
 When the night-tempest met thee: thou didst 
 dash 
 
 Thy white arms high in heaven, as if in wrath, 
 Threatening the angry sky ; thy waves did lash 
 The labouring vessel, and with deadening crash 
 
 Rush madly forth to scourge its groaning sides ; 
 Onward thy billows came, to meet and clash 
 
 In a wild warfare, till the lifted tides 
 
 Mingled their yesty tops, where the dark storm- 
 cloud rides. 
 
 In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, 
 When the quick winds uprear it in a swell, 
 
 That rolls, in glittering green, around the isles, 
 Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell; 
 O ! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell, 
 
 I hurry o'er the waters, when the sail 
 
 Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well 
 
 Over the curling billow, and the gale 
 
 Comes off the spicy groves to tell its winning tale. 
 
 The soul is thine : of old thou wert the power 
 
 Who gave the poet life ; and I in thee 
 Feel my heart gladden at the holy hour 
 
 When thou art sinking in the silent sea; 
 
 Or when I climb the height, and wander free 
 In thy meridian glory, for the air 
 
 Sparkles and burns in thy intensity, 
 I feel thy light within me, and I share 
 In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 There is a sweetness in woman's decay, 
 When the light of beauty is fading away, 
 When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, 
 And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone, 
 And darted around its glance of power, 
 And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower 
 That ever in Pactum's* garden blew, 
 Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew, 
 When all that was bright and fair is fled, 
 But the loveliness lingering round the dead. 
 
 ! there is a sweetness in beauty's close, 
 Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose ; 
 For a nameless charm around her plays, 
 And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays ; 
 And a veil of spotless purity 
 Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, 
 Like a cloud whereon the queen of night 
 Has pour'd her softest tint of light ; 
 And there is a blending of white and blue, 
 Where the purple blood is melting through 
 The snow of her pale and tender cheek ; 
 And there are tones that sweetly speak 
 Of a spirit who longs for a purer day, 
 And is ready to wing her flight away. 
 
 In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling, 
 When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing 
 Its silent steps through a flowery path, 
 And all the endearments that pleasure hath 
 Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn, 
 When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, 
 In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song 
 The maiden may trip in the dance along, 
 And think of the passing moment, that lies, 
 Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, 
 And yield to the present, that charms around 
 With all that is lovely in sight and sound ; 
 Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, 
 With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, 
 And the music that steals to the bosom's core, 
 And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er 
 With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd, 
 For short is the stay of grief in her breast : 
 
 * Biferique rosaria Paesti.— Virg. 
 
224 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 In this enliven'd and gladsome hour 
 
 The spirit may burn with a brighter power ; 
 
 But dearer the calm and quiet day, 
 
 When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away. 
 
 And when her sun is low declining, 
 And life wears out with no repining, 
 And the whisper, that tells of early death, 
 Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, 
 When it comes at the hour of still repose, 
 To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose : 
 And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow, 
 Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; 
 And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, — 
 But the hectic spot that flushes there 
 When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, 
 In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling. 
 And giving a tinge to her icy lips, 
 Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, 
 As richly red, and as transient too 
 As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue, 
 That seem like a host of glory, met 
 To honour the sun at his golden set ; 
 O ! then, when the spirit is taking wing, 
 How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, 
 As if she would blend her soul with his 
 In a deep and long-imprinted kiss ; 
 So fondly the panting camel flies, 
 Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes ; 
 And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, 
 And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. 
 And though her dying voice be mute, 
 Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, 
 And though the glow from her cheek be fled, 
 And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, 
 Her eye still beams unwonted fires, 
 With a woman's love, and a saint's desires, 
 And her last, fond, lingering look is given 
 To the love she leaves, and then to heaven, 
 As if she would bear that love away 
 To a purer world, and a brighter day. 
 
 TO THE EAGLE. 
 
 Binn of the broad and sweeping wing, 
 
 Thy home is high in heaven, 
 Where wide the storms their banners fling, 
 
 And the tempest clouds are driven. 
 Thy throne is on the mountain top; 
 
 Thy fields, the boundless air; 
 And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 
 
 The skies, thy dwellings are. 
 
 Thou sittest like a thing of light, 
 
 Amid the noontide blaze : 
 The midway sun is clear and bright; 
 
 It cannot dim thy gaze. 
 Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, 
 
 O'er the bursting billow, spread, 
 Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, 
 
 Like an angel of the dead. 
 
 Thou art perch'd aloft on the beetling crag, 
 And the waves are white below, 
 
 And on, with a haste that cannot lag, 
 They rush in an endless flow. 
 
 Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 
 
 To lands beyond the sea, 
 And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 
 
 Thou hurriest, wild and free. 
 
 Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, 
 
 And thou leavest them all behind ; 
 Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, 
 
 Fleet as the tempest wind. 
 When the night-storm gathers dim and dark 
 
 With a shrill and boding scream, 
 Thou rushest by the foundering bark, 
 
 Quick as a passing dream. 
 
 Lord of the boundless realm of air, 
 
 In thy imperial name, 
 The hearts of the bold and ardent dare 
 
 The dangerous path of fame. 
 Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, 
 
 The Roman legions bore, 
 From the river of Egypt's clovidy springs, 
 
 Their pride, to the polar shore. 
 
 For thee they fought, for thee they fell, 
 
 And their oath was on thee laid ; 
 To thee the clarions raised their swell, 
 
 And the dying warrior pray'd. 
 Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, 
 
 The image of pride and power, 
 Till the gather'd rage of a thousand years 
 
 Burst forth in one awful hour. 
 
 And then a deluge of wrath it came, 
 
 And the nations shook with dread ; 
 And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, 
 
 And piled with the mingled dead. 
 Kings were roll'd in the wasteful flood, 
 
 With the low and crouching slave ; 
 And together lay, in a shroud of blood, 
 
 The coward and the brave. 
 
 And where was then thy fearless flight? 
 
 "O'er the dark, mysterious sea, 
 To the lands that caught the setting light, 
 
 The cradle of Liberty. 
 There, on the silent and lonely shore, 
 
 For ages, I watch'd alone, 
 And the world, in its darkness, ask'd no more 
 
 Where the glorious bird had flown. 
 
 "But then came a bold and hardy few, 
 
 And they breasted the unknown wave; 
 I caught afar the wandering crew; 
 
 And I knew they were high and brave. 
 I wheel'd around the welcome bark, 
 
 As it sought the desolate shore, 
 And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, 
 
 My quivering pinions bore. 
 
 " And now that bold and hardy few 
 
 Are a nation wide and strong; 
 And danger and doubt I have led them through, 
 
 And they worship me in song; 
 And over their bright and glancing arms, 
 
 On field, and lake, and sea, 
 With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, 
 
 I guide them to victory." 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 225 
 
 PREVALENCE OF POETRY. 
 
 The world is full of poetry — the air 
 Is living with its spirit ; and the waves 
 Dance to the music of its melodies, 
 And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd, 
 And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls, 
 That close the universe with crystal in, 
 Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim 
 The unseen glories of immensity, 
 In harmonies, too perfect, and too high, 
 For aught but beings of celestial mould, 
 And speak to man in one eternal hymn, 
 Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 
 
 The year leads round the seasons, in a choir 
 Forever charming, and forever new, 
 Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay, 
 The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, 
 Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise 
 Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore 
 Of the wide ocean, resting after storms ; 
 Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof, 
 And pointed arches, and retiring aisles 
 Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand, 
 Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art, 
 Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft 
 The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls, 
 By mellow touches, from the softer tubes, 
 Voices of melting tenderness, that blend 
 With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, 
 Commingling with the melody, is borne, 
 Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to heaven. 
 
 'T is not the chime and flow of words, that move 
 In measured file, and metrical array; 
 'Tis not the union of returning sounds, 
 Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, 
 And quantity, and accent, that can give 
 This all-pervading spirit to the ear, 
 Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
 'T is a mysterious feeling, which combines 
 Man with the world around him, in a chain 
 Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till 
 He taste the high communion of his thoughts, 
 With all existence, in earth and heaven, 
 That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 
 'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays, 
 In studied phrase, and ornate epithet, 
 And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, 
 Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments 
 That overload their littleness. Its words 
 Are few, but deep and solemn ; and they break 
 Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 
 Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired 
 The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, 
 His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts 
 Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath, 
 Commission 'd to affright us, and destroy. 
 
 Passion, when deep, is still : the glaring eye 
 That reads its enemy with glance of fire, 
 The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness, 
 The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide 
 The keen, fix'd orbs, that burn and flash below, 
 The hand firm clench'd and quivering, and the 
 foot 15 
 
 Planted in attitude to spring, and dart 
 
 Its vengeance, are the language it employs. 
 
 So the poetic feeling needs no words 
 
 To give it utterance ; but it swells, and glows, 
 
 And revels in the ecstasies of soul, 
 
 And sits at banquet with celestial forms, 
 
 The beings of its own creation, fair 
 
 And lovely, as e'er haunted wood and wave, 
 
 When earth was peopled, in its solitudes, 
 
 With nymph and naiad — mighty, as the gods, 
 
 Whose palace was Olympus, and the clouds, 
 
 That hung, in gold and flame, around its brow ; 
 
 Who bore, upon their features, all that grand 
 
 And awful dignity of front, which bows 
 
 The eye that gazes on the marble Jove, 
 
 Who hurls, in wrath, his thunder, and the god, 
 
 The image of a beauty, so divine, 
 
 So masculine, so artless, that we seem 
 
 To share in his intensity of joy, 
 
 When, sure as fate, the bounding arrow sped, 
 
 And darted to the scaly monster's heart. 
 
 This spirit is the breath of Nature, blown 
 Over the sleeping forms of clay, who else 
 Doze on through life in blank stupidity, 
 Till by its blast, as by a touch of fire, 
 They rouse to lofty purpose, and send out, 
 In deeds of energy, the rage within. 
 Its seat is deeper in the savage breast, 
 Than in the man of cities ; in the child, 
 Than in the maturer bosoms. Art may prune 
 Its rank and wild luxuriance, and may train 
 Its strong out-breakings, and its vehement gusts 
 To soft refinement, and amenity ; 
 But all its energy has vanish'd, all 
 Its maddening, and commanding spirit gone, 
 And all its tender touches, and its tones 
 Of soul-dissolving pathos, lost and hid 
 Among the measured notes, that move as dead 
 And heartless, as the puppets in a show. 
 
 Well I remember, in my boyish days, 
 How deep the feeling, when my eye look'd forth 
 On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms ; 
 How my heart gladden'd, as the light of spring 
 Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with 
 
 showers, 
 Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods 
 To music, and the atmosphere to blow, 
 Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm. 
 O ! how I gazed upon the dazzling blue 
 Of summer's heaven of glory, and the waves, 
 That roll'd, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain ; 
 And on the tempest, when it issued forth, 
 In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, 
 And stood above the mountains, silent, dark, 
 Frowning, and terrible ; then sent abroad 
 The lightning, as its herald, and the peal, 
 That roll'd in deep, deep volleys, round the hills, 
 The warning of its coming, and the sound, 
 That usher'd in its elemental war. 
 And, ! I stood, in breathless longing fix'd, 
 Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds 
 Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds, 
 That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood, 
 A long, hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves, 
 That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore. 
 
226 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high 
 Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure 
 As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang 
 Fresh from the hand that wrought her ; where the eye 
 Caught not a speck upon the soft serene, 
 To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud, 
 That floated, like a lonely spirit, there, 
 White as the snow of Zemla, or the foam 
 That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, 
 In easy undulations, with a belt 
 Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair. 
 Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night, 
 Mantled in ebon darkness, strew'd with stars 
 Its canopy, that seem'd to swell, and swell 
 The higher, as I gazed upon it, till, 
 Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height 
 Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through, 
 In glory's effulgence, and a wave, 
 Intensely bright, roll'd, like a fountain, forth 
 Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and stream'd 
 Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow, 
 Bathing the heavens in light, the spring, that gush'd, 
 In overflowing richness, from the breast 
 Of all-maternal nature. These I saw, 
 And felt to madness'; but my full heart gave 
 No- utterance to the ineffable within. 
 Words were too weak ; they were unknown ; but still 
 The feeling was most poignant : it has gone ; 
 And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er 
 Pour'd, in a torrent fulness, from the tongue 
 Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored 
 With all the patriarchs of British song 
 Hallow'd and render'd glorious, cannot tell 
 Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 Ye Clouds, who are the ornament of heaven ; 
 Who give to it its gayest shadowings, 
 And its most awful glories ; ye who roll 
 In the dark tempest, or at dewy evening 
 Hang low in tenderest beauty ; ye who, ever 
 Changing your Protean aspects, now are gather' d, 
 Like fleecy piles, when the mid-sun is brightest, 
 Even in the height of heaven, and there repose, 
 Solemnly calm, without a visible motion, 
 Hour after hour, looking upon the earth 
 With a serenest smile : — or ye who rather 
 Heap'd in those sulphury masses, heavily 
 Jutting above their bases, like the smoke 
 Pour'd from a furnace or a roused volcano, 
 Stand on the dun horizon, threatening 
 Lightning and storm — who, lifted from the hills, 
 March onward to the zenith, ever darkening, 
 And heaving into more gigantic towers 
 And mountainous piles of blackness — who then roar 
 With the collected winds within your womb, 
 Or the far utter'd thunders — who ascend 
 Swifter and swifter, till wide overhead 
 Your vanguards curl and toss upon the tempest 
 Like the stirr'd ocean on a reef of rocks 
 Just topping o'er its waves, while deep below 
 The pregnant mass of vapour and of flame 
 
 Rolls with an awful pomp, and grimly lowers, 
 Seeming to the struck eye of fear the car 
 Of an offended spirit, whose swart features 
 Glare through the sooty darkness — fired with ven- 
 geance, 
 And ready with uplifted hand to smite 
 And scourge a guilty nation ; ye who lie, 
 After the storm is over, far away, 
 Crowning the dripping forests with the arch 
 Of beauty, such as lives alone in heaven, 
 Bright daughter of the sun, bending around 
 From mountain unto mountain, like the wreath 
 Of victory, or like a banner telling 
 Of joy and gladness ; ye who round the moon 
 Assemble when she sits in the mid-sky 
 In perfect brightness, and encircle her 
 With a fair wreath of all aerial dyes : 
 Ye who, thus hovering round her, shine like moun- 
 tains 
 Whose tops are never darken'd, but remain, 
 Centuries and countless ages, rear'd for temples 
 Of purity and light ; or ye who crowd 
 To hail the new-born day, and hang for him, 
 Above his ocean-couch, a canopy 
 Of all inimitable hues and colours, 
 Such as are only pencil'd by the hands 
 Of the unseen ministers of earth and air, 
 Seen only in the tinting of the clouds, 
 And the soft shadowing of plumes and flowers ; 
 Or ye who, following in his funeral train, 
 Light up your torches at his sepulchre, 
 And open on us through the clefted hills 
 Far glances into glittering worlds beyond 
 The twilight of the grave, where all is light, 
 Golden and glorious light, too full and high 
 For mortal eye to gaze on, stretching out 
 Brighter and ever brighter, till it spread, 
 Like one wide, radiant ocean, without bounds, 
 One infinite sea of glory: — Thus, ye clouds, 
 And in innumerable other shapes 
 Of greatness or of beauty, ye attend us, 
 To give to the wide arch above us, life 
 And all its changes. Thus it is to us 
 A volume full of wisdom, but without ye 
 One awful uniformity had ever 
 With too severe a majesty oppress'd us. 
 
 MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 A xight had pass'd away among the hills, 
 And now the first faint tokens of the dawn 
 Show'd in the east. The bright and dewy star, 
 Whose mission is to usher in the morn, 
 Look'd through the cool air, like a blessed thing 
 In a far purer world. Below there lay, 
 Wrapp'd round a woody mountain tranquilly, 
 A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light, 
 That now came up from out the unseen depth 
 Of the full fount of day, and they were laced 
 With colours ever brightening. I had waked 
 From a long sleep of many changing dreams, 
 And now in the fresh forest air I stood 
 Nerved to another day of wandering. 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 227 
 
 Before me rose a pinnacle of rock, 
 
 Lifted above the wood that hemm'd it in, 
 
 And now already glowing. There the beams 
 
 Came from the far horizon, and they wrapp'd it 
 
 [n light and glory. Round its vapoury cone 
 
 A. crown of far-diverging rays shot out, 
 
 And gave to it the semblance of an altar 
 
 Lit for the worship of the undying flame, 
 
 That center'd in the circle of the sun, 
 
 Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves, 
 
 Anon would stand in solitary pomp 
 
 Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them 
 
 With splendour as a garment. Thitherward 
 
 I bent my eager steps ; and through the grove, 
 
 Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung 
 
 With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems, 
 
 Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues 
 
 Shed from the starry fringes of its veil 
 
 On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown 
 
 [n infinite reflections, on I went, 
 
 Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging, 
 
 I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited 
 
 Silent the full appearing of the sun. 
 
 Below there lay a far-extended sea, 
 Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it, 
 And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks, 
 And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops, 
 Till, like an ocean waking into storm, 
 It heaved and welter'd. Gloriously the light 
 Crested its billows, and those craggy islands 
 Shone on it like to palaces of spar 
 Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead, 
 Thy sky, without a vapour or a stain, 
 Intensely blue, even deepen'd into purple, 
 When nearer the horizon it received 
 A tincture from the mist that there dissolved 
 Into the viewless air, — the sky bent round, 
 The awful dome of a most mighty temple, 
 Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less 
 Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence — 
 I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts 
 Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me, 
 Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, 
 So bright, so glorious ! Such a majesty 
 In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints 
 In yonder waste of waves, — so like the ocean 
 With its unnumber'd islands there encircled 
 By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle, 
 Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds 
 To bathe in purest sunbeams, seem'd an ospray 
 Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines, 
 Their tops half-mantled in a snowy veil, 
 A frigate with full canvass, bearing on 
 To conquest and to glory. But even these 
 Had round them something of the lofty air 
 In which tbey moved ; not like to things of earth, 
 But heighten'd, and made glorious, as became 
 Such pomp and splendour. 
 
 Who can tell the brightness, 
 That every moment caught a newer glow, 
 That circle, with its centre like the heart 
 Of elemental fire, and spreading out 
 In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky 
 And on the ophaline waves, crown'd with a rainbow 
 Bright as the arch that bent above the throne 
 
 Seen in a vision by the holy man 
 In Patmos ! who can tell how it ascended, 
 And flow'd more widely o'er that lifted ocean, 
 Till instantly the unobstructed sun 
 Roll'd up his sphere of fire, floating away — 
 Away in a pure ether, far from earth, 
 And all its clouds, — and pouring forth unbounded 
 His arrowy brightness ! From that burning centre 
 At once there ran along the level line 
 Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold — 
 Liquid and flowing gold, that seem'd to tremble 
 Even with a furnace heat, on to the point 
 Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour 
 Parted away, and melting into air, 
 Rose round me, and I stood involved in light, 
 As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapp'd me 
 In its innocuous blaze. Away it roll'd, 
 Wave after wave. They climb'd the highest rocks, 
 Pour'd over them in surges, and then rush'd 
 Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent 
 Dash'd instant to the plain. It seem'd a moment, 
 And they were gone, as if the touch of fire 
 At once dissolved them. Then I found myself 
 Midway in air ; ridge after ridge below, 
 Descended with their opulence of woods 
 Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake 
 Flash'd in the sun, and from it wound a line, 
 Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge 
 Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks 
 Was round me — but below how beautiful, 
 How rich the plain ! a wilderness of groves 
 And ripening harvests ; while the sky of June — 
 The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air, 
 That makes it then a luxury to live, 
 Only to breathe it, and the busy echo 
 Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks, 
 Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart, 
 That where I stood seem'd heaven. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 He comes not — I have watched the moon go 
 down, 
 But yet he comes not. — Once it was not so. 
 He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, 
 The while he holds his riot in that town. 
 Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep ; 
 And he will wake my infant from its sleep, 
 To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. 
 
 ! how I love a mother's watch to keep, 
 
 Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers 
 My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep. 
 
 1 had a husband once, who loved me — now 
 He ever wears a frown upon his brow, 
 And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, 
 As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip ; 
 But yet I cannot hate — ! there were hours, 
 When I could hang forever on his eye, 
 And time, who stole with silent swiftness by, 
 Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. 
 I loved him then — he loved me too. — My heart 
 Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile ; 
 
 The memory of our loves will ne'er depart ; 
 And though he often sting me with a dart, 
 
228 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 "Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile 
 Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ; 
 Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear 
 His madness, — and should sickness come and lay 
 Its paralyzing hand upon him, then 
 I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, 
 Until the penitent should weep, and say, 
 How injured, and how faithful I had been ! 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
 Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove ; 
 Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
 That never are wet with falling dew, 
 But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 
 Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
 And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
 From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; 
 The water is calm and still below, 
 For the winds and waves are absent there, 
 And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
 In the motionless fields of upper air : 
 There, with its waving blade of green, 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: 
 There, with a light and easy motion, 
 The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea; 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 Are bending like corn on the upland lea: 
 And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
 And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 
 Has made the top of the wave his own : 
 And when the ship from his fury flies, 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; 
 Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 
 The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
 Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
 
 DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Why have ye linger'd on your way so long, 
 
 Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call, 
 And with the harmony of dance and song 
 
 Keep round my dreaming couch a festival 1 
 Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light, 
 
 And where the flowery voice I loved to hear, 
 When, through the silent watches of the night, 
 
 Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear 1 
 ! fly not with the rapid wing of time, 
 
 But with your ancient votary kindly stay; 
 And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime 
 
 In years of higher hope, have flown away : 
 O ! with the colours of a softer clime, 
 
 Give your last touches to the dying day. 
 
 GENIUS SLUMBERING. 
 
 He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame ; 
 
 He has no feeling of the glory gone ; 
 He has no eye to catch the mounting flame, 
 
 That once in transport drew his spirit on ; 
 He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares 
 Who the wreathed laurel bears. 
 
 And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there ; 
 
 There are who still remember how he bore 
 Upward his daring pinions, till the air 
 
 Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore ; 
 There are who, now his early sun has set, 
 Nor can, nor will forget. 
 
 He sleeps, — and yet, around the sightless eye 
 And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays ; 
 
 Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie, 
 There hovers still the light of other days; 
 
 x)eep in that soul a spirit, not of earth, 
 
 Still struggles for its birth. 
 
 He will not sleep forever, but will rise 
 
 Fresh to more daring labours ; now, even now, 
 
 As the close shrouding mist of morning flies, 
 The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow ; 
 
 From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams, 
 
 His waken'd spirit streams. 
 
 Yes, he will break his sleep ; the spell is gone ; 
 
 The deadly charm departed ; see him fling 
 Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on, 
 
 Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing ; 
 The goal is still before him, and the prize 
 Still woos his eager eyes. 
 
 He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take — 
 They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, 
 
 When he forgot the contest — shall they take, 
 Now he renews the race, the victor's bay ! 
 
 Still let them strive — when he collects his might, 
 
 He will assert his right. 
 
 The spirit cannot always sleep in dust, 
 Whose essence is ethereal ; they may try 
 
 To darken and degrade it; it may rust 
 Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die ; 
 
 And, when it wakens, it will send its fire 
 
 Intenser forth and higher. 
 
 GENIUS WAKING. 
 
 Slumber's heavy chain hath bound thee- 
 
 Where is now thy fire 1 
 Feebler wings are gathering round thee— 
 
 Shall they hover higher 1 ? 
 Can no power, no spell, recall thee 
 
 From inglorious dreams ? 
 O, could glory so appal thee, 
 
 With his burning beams ! 
 
 Thine was once the highest pinion 
 
 In the midway air; 
 With a proud and sure dominion, 
 
 Thou didst upward bear, 
 Like the herald, wing'd with lightning, 
 
 From the Olympian throne, 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 229 
 
 Ever mounting, ever brightening, 
 Thou wert there alone. 
 
 Where the pillar'd props of heaven 
 
 Glitter with eternal snows, 
 Where no darkling clouds are driven, 
 
 Where no fountain flows — 
 Far above the rolling thunder, 
 
 When the surging storm 
 Rent its sulphury folds asunder, 
 
 We beheld thy form. 
 
 O, what rare and heavenly brightness 
 
 Flow'd around thy plumes, 
 As a cascade's foamy whiteness 
 
 Lights a cavern's glooms ! 
 Wheeling through the shadowy ocean, 
 
 Like a shape of light, 
 With serene and placid motion, 
 
 Thou wert dazzling bright. 
 
 From that cloudless region stooping, 
 
 Downward thou didst rush, 
 Not with pinion faint and drooping 
 
 But the tempest's gush. 
 Up again undaunted soaring, 
 
 Thou didst pierce the cloud, 
 When the warring winds were roaring 
 
 Fearfully and loud. 
 
 Where is now that restless longing 
 
 After higher things 1 
 Come they not, like visions, thronging 
 
 On their airy wings 1 
 Why should not their glow enchant thee 
 
 Upward to their bliss 1 
 Surely danger cannot daunt thee 
 
 From a heaven like this ] 
 
 But thou slumberest ; faint and quivering 
 
 Hangs thy ruffled wing ; 
 Like a dove in winter shivering, 
 
 Or a feebler thing. 
 Where is now thy might and motion, 
 
 Thy imperial flight 1 
 Where is now thy heart's devotion 1 
 
 Where thy spirit's light! 
 
 Hark ! his rustling plumage gathers 
 
 Closer to his side ; 
 Close, as when the storm-bird weathers 
 
 Ocean's hurrying tide. 
 Now his nodding beak is steady — 
 
 Wide his burning eye — 
 Now his open wings are ready, 
 
 And his aim — how high ! 
 
 Now he curves his neck, and proudly 
 
 Now is stretch'd for flight — 
 Hark! his wings — they thunder loudly, 
 
 And their flash — how bright ! 
 Onward — onward over mountains, 
 
 Through the rock and storm, 
 Now, like sunset over fountains, 
 
 Flits bis glancing form. 
 
 Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee — 
 Thou hast reach'd thy heaven — 
 
 Lingering slumber hath not reft thee 
 Of the glory given. 
 
 With a bold, a fearless pinion, 
 
 On thy starry road, 
 None, to fame's supreme dominion, 
 
 Mightier ever trode. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Hail to the land whereon we tread, 
 
 Our fondest boast; 
 The sepulchre of mighty dead, 
 The truest hearts that ever hied, 
 Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, 
 
 A fearless host: 
 No slave is here ; our unchain'd feet 
 Walk freely as the waves that beat 
 
 Our coast. 
 
 Our fathws cross'd the ocean's wave 
 
 To seek this shore; 
 They left behind the coward slave 
 To welter in his living grave ; 
 With hearts unbent, and spirits "brave, 
 
 They sternly bore 
 Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd ; 
 But souls like these, such toils impell'd 
 
 To soar. 
 
 Hail to the morn, when first they stood 
 
 On Bunker's height, 
 And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood, 
 And wrote our dearest rights in blood, 
 And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood, 
 
 In desperate fight! 
 O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, 
 For even our fallen fortunes lay 
 
 In light. 
 
 There is no other land like thee, 
 
 No dearer shore; 
 Thou art the shelter of the free ; 
 The home, the port of Liberty, 
 Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 
 
 Till time is o'er. 
 Ere I forget to think upon 
 My land, shall mother curse the son 
 
 She bore. 
 
 Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, 
 
 On which we rest; 
 And, rising from thy hardy stock, 
 Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, 
 And slavery's galling chains unlock, 
 
 And free the oppress'd : 
 All, who the wreath of Freedom twine 
 Beneath the shadow of their vine, 
 
 Are bless'd. 
 
 We love thy rude and rocky shore, 
 
 And here we stand — 
 Let foreign navies hasten o'er, 
 And on our heads their fury pour, 
 And peal their cannon's loudest roar, 
 
 And storm our land ; 
 They still shall find our lives are given 
 To die for home ; — and leant on Heaven 
 
 Our hand. 
 
230 JAMES G. 
 
 PERCIVAL. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 
 
 I feel a newer life in every gale ; 
 
 Now the growing year is over, 
 
 The winds, that fan the flowers, 
 
 And the shepherd's tinkling bell 
 
 And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
 
 Faintly from its winter cover 
 
 Tell of serener hours, — 
 
 Rings a low farewell : — 
 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 
 Now the birds of Autumn shiver, 
 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, 
 
 
 O'er the dark and lazy river, 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 
 
 In the rocky dell. 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 
 Now the mist is on the mountains, 
 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 
 Reddening in the rising sun ; 
 Now the flowers around the fountains 
 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 Perish one by one : — 
 Not a spire of grass is growing, 
 
 
 
 But the leaves that late were glowing, 
 Now its blighted green are strowing 
 With a mantle dun. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
 
 And the wide forest weaves, 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 
 A canopy of leaves; 
 
 Now the torrent brook is stealing 
 
 And from its darkening shadow floats 
 
 Faintly down the furrow'd glade — 
 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Not as when in winter pealing, 
 
 
 Such a din is made, 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; 
 
 That the sound of cataracts falling 
 
 The tresses of the woods 
 
 Gave no echo so appalling, 
 
 "With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
 
 As its hoarse and heavy brawling 
 
 And the full-brimming floods, 
 
 In the pine's black shade. 
 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 Darkly blue the mist is hovering 
 
 Round the clifted rock's bare height — 
 
 
 All the bordering mountains covering 
 
 
 With a dim, uncertain light : — 
 Now, a fresher wind prevailing, 
 
 
 TO SENECA LAKE. 
 
 Wide its heavy burden sailing, 
 
 
 Deepens as the day is failing, 
 
 Our thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 
 Fast the gloom of night. 
 
 The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 
 
 Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding 
 
 And round his breast the ripples break, 
 
 Through the still and hazy air, 
 
 As down he bears before the gale. 
 
 Like a sheeted spectre gliding 
 
 
 In a torch's glare : — 
 
 On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 
 
 Few the hours, her light is given — 
 
 The dipping paddle echoes far, 
 
 Mingling clouds of tempest driven 
 
 And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
 
 O'er the mourning face of heaven, 
 
 And bright reflects the polar star. 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
 
 All is blackness there. 
 
 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 And curl around the dashing oar, 
 
 
 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 Faintly flow, thou falling river, 
 
 
 Like a dream that dies away ; 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 
 Down to ocean gliding ever, 
 
 Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
 
 Keep thy calm unruffled way : 
 
 And see the mist of mantling blue 
 
 Time with such a silent motion, 
 
 Float round the distant mountain's side. 
 
 Floats along, on wings of air, 
 
 
 To eternity's dark ocean, 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
 
 Burying all its treasures there. 
 
 A sheet of silver spreads below, 
 
 Roses bloom, and then they wither ; 
 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 
 
 Cheeks are bright, then fade and die ; 
 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 Shapes of light are wafted hither — 
 
 
 Then, like visions hurry by : 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 
 Quick as clouds at evening driven 
 
 ! I could ever sweep the oar, 
 
 O'er the many-colour'd west, 
 
 When early birds at morning wake, 
 
 Years are bearing us to heaven, 
 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er. 
 
 Home of happiness and rest. 
 
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 231 
 
 IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY 
 TO DIE. 
 
 O ! it is great for our country to die, where ranks 
 are contending : 
 Bright is the wreath of our fame ; Glory awaits 
 us for aye — 
 Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light 
 never ending — 
 Glory that never shall fade, never, ! never 
 away. 
 
 ! it is sweet for our country to die — how softly 
 reposes 
 Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
 his love, 
 Wet by a mother's warm tears ; they crown him 
 with garlands of roses, 
 Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
 triumphs above. 
 
 Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who 
 for country hath perish'd : 
 Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him 
 there with her smile ; 
 There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
 cherish'd ; 
 Gods love the young, who ascend pure from 
 the funeral pile. 
 
 Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river ; 
 Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue,, 
 rolling sea ; 
 But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted 
 forever ; 
 There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
 valiant, and free. 
 
 ! then, how great for our country to die, in the 
 front rank to perish, 
 Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout 
 in our ear : 
 Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our 
 memory cherish ; 
 We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased 
 the sweet music to hear. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Ouit thoughts are boundless, though our frames 
 are frail, 
 
 Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; 
 Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil 
 
 Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play 
 
 In truth's eternal sunbeams ; on the way 
 To heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll ; 
 
 The temple of the Power whom all obey, 
 That is the mark we tend to, for the soul 
 Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. 
 
 I feel it — though the flesh is weak, I feel 
 The spirit has its energies untamed 
 
 By all its fatal wanderings ; time may heal 
 
 The wounds which it has suffer'd ; folly claim'd 
 Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed 
 
 Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, 
 And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed 
 
 Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by, 
 
 Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. 
 
 We are as barks afloat upon the sea, 
 
 Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, 
 The spirit, whose strong influence can free 
 
 The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead 
 
 Cold night of mortal darkness ; from the bed 
 Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call, 
 
 And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, 
 Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, 
 And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, 
 
 his all. 
 Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, 
 
 And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then, 
 The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap 
 
 To life, and energy, and light, again; 
 
 We cannot slumber always in the den 
 Of sense and selfishness ; the day will break, 
 
 Ere we forever leave the haunts of men ; 
 Even at the parting hour the soul will wake, 
 Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey 
 
 take. 
 How awful is that hour, when conscience stings 
 
 The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, 
 Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, 
 
 In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, 
 And, screaming like a vulture in his ears, 
 Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame , 
 
 How wild the fury of his soul careers ! 
 His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, 
 And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his 
 frame. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Mi place is in the quiet vale, 
 
 The chosen haunt of simple thought ; 
 I seek not Fortune's flattering gale, 
 
 I better love the peaceful lot. 
 
 I leave the world of noise and show, 
 To wander by my native brook ; 
 
 I ask, in life's unruffled flow, 
 
 No treasure but my friend and book. 
 
 These better suit the tranquil home, 
 Where the clear water murmurs by ; 
 
 And if I wish a while to roam, 
 I have an ocean in the sky. 
 
 Fancy can charm and feeling bless 
 
 With sweeter hours than fashion knows ; 
 
 There is no calmer quietness 
 
 Than home around the bosom throws. 
 
SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 
 
 [Born, 1796.] 
 
 Samuel Griswold Goodrich is a native of 
 Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, 
 and was born about the year 1796. His father 
 was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his 
 simplicity of character, strong common sense, and 
 eloquence. Our author was educated in the com- 
 mon schools of his native town, and soon after 
 he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the 
 business of publishing, in Hartford, where he 
 resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill 
 health, he visited Europe, and travelled over Eng- 
 land, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting 
 his attention particularly to the institutions for 
 education ; and on his return, having determined 
 to attempt an improvement in books for the young, 
 established himself in Boston, and commenced 
 the trade of authorship. Since that time he has 
 produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under 
 the signature of "Peter Parley," which have 
 passed through a great number of editions in this 
 country and in England, and been translated into 
 several foreign languages. Of some of these 
 works more than fifty thousand copies are circu- 
 lated annually. In 1824 Mr. Goodrich com- 
 menced " The Token," an annuary, of which he 
 was the editor for fourteen years. In this series 
 
 he published most of the poems of which he is 
 known to be the author. They were all written 
 while he was actively engaged in business. His 
 " Fireside Education" was composed in sixty 
 days, while he was discharging his duties as a 
 member of the Massachusetts Senate, and super- 
 intending his publishing establishment; and his 
 numerous other prose works were produced with 
 equal rapidity. In 1837 he published "The Out- 
 cast, and Other Poems;" in 1841 "Sketches from 
 a Student's Window," and in 1852 an edition of 
 his " Poems" with pictorial illustrations. 
 
 Under President Fillmore's administration Mr. 
 Goodrich was American consul for Paris, and he 
 continues his residence in that city. 
 
 Mr. Goodrich has been a liberal patron of 
 American authors and artists ; and it is question- 
 able whether any other person has done as much 
 to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to 
 promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that 
 he has put in circulation more than two millions 
 of volumes of his own productions ; all of which 
 inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. 
 His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of 
 his verse melodious; and his subjects generally 
 such as he is capable of treating most successfully. 
 
 BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. 
 
 I'll tell you a fairy tale that's new — 
 How the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, 
 From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, 
 As they were wont in the days of yore — 
 And play'd their pranks one moonlit night, 
 Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. 
 
 Ere the old world yet had found the new, 
 The fairies oft in their frolics flew, 
 To the fragrant isles of the Carribee — 
 Bright bosom-gems of a golden sea. 
 Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, 
 These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy, — 
 So they danced mid the spicy groves unseen, 
 And gay were their gambolings, I ween ; 
 For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, 
 Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. 
 No thought had they that in after time 
 The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme ; 
 So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, 
 They t.ripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. 
 I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales 
 Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales — 
 232 
 
 But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch — 
 And, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. 
 If they danced — be it known — 'twas not in the 
 
 clime 
 Of your Mathers and Hookers, where laughter 
 
 was crime ; 
 Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, 
 Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip ! 
 O, no ! 'twas the land of the fruit and the flower — 
 Where summer and spring both dwelt in one 
 
 bower — 
 Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the 
 
 bough, 
 And the other with blossoms encircled its brow, — 
 Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of 
 
 gold, 
 And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd. 
 It was there, where the seasons came only to bless, 
 And the fashions of Eden still linger'd, in dress, 
 That these gay little fairies were wont, as I say, 
 To steal in their merriest gambols away. 
 But, dropping the curtain o'er frolic and fun, 
 Too good to be told, or too bad to be done, 
 I give you a legend from Fancy's own sketch, 
 Though I warn you he's given to fibbing — the 
 
 wretch ! 
 But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, 
 'T is as true as the fairy tales told in the books. 
 
SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 
 
 233 
 
 One night when the moon shone fair on the main, 
 Choice spirits were gather'd 'twixt Derry and Spain, 
 And lightly embarking from Erin's bold cliffs, 
 They slid o'er the wave in their moonbeam skiffs. 
 A ray for a rudder — a thought for a sail, 
 Swift, swift was each bark as the wing of the gale. 
 Yet long were the tale, should I linger to say 
 What gambol and frolic enliven'd the way ; 
 How they flirted with bubbles that danced on the 
 
 wave, 
 Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave ; 
 Or slid with the moonbeams down deep to the grove 
 Of coral, " where mullet and gold-fish rove :" 
 How there, in long vistas of silence and sleep, 
 They waltzed, as if mocking the death of the deep: 
 How oft, where the wreck lay scatter'd and torn, 
 They peep'd in the skull — now ghastly and lorn ; 
 Or deep, mid wild rocks, quizzed the goggling shark, 
 And mouth'd at the sea-wolf — so solemn and 
 
 stark — 
 Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea 
 Were made but for fairies — for gambol and glee ! 
 Enough, that at last they came to the isle, 
 Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the 
 
 while. 
 Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, 
 To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear. 
 O, no ! still blissful and peaceful the land, 
 And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand. 
 Right happy and joyous seem'd now the bright crew, 
 As they tripp'd mid the orange groves flashing in 
 
 dew, 
 For they were to hold a revel that night, 
 A gay, fancy ball, and each to be dight 
 In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose 
 From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues. 
 
 Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, 
 To gather their gear for the revel bright. 
 To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, 
 In emulous speed some sportive flew — 
 And deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, 
 For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. 
 For diamonds rdre that gleam in the bed 
 Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, 
 While others for topaz and emerald stray, 
 Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. 
 As these are gathering the rarest of gems, 
 Others are plucking the rarest of stems. 
 They range wild dells where the zephyr alone 
 To the blushing blossoms before was known ; 
 Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung 
 By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strung — 
 Where temples of nature with arches of bloom, 
 Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. 
 They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, 
 Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine ; 
 Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, 
 And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. 
 O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, 
 Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, 
 And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, 
 Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower. 
 
 The hour is come, and the fairies are seen 
 In their plunder array 'd on the moonlit green. 
 The music is breathed — 'tis a soft tone of pleasure, 
 And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure. 
 'T was a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright, 
 Such as never were known till that famous night; 
 For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene, 
 O'ermatch'd the regalia of princess and queen. 
 No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow 
 Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now ; 
 But lighted with souls by the playful elves, 
 The brilliants and blossoms seem'd dancing them- 
 selves. 
 
 VI. 
 Of all that did chance, 'twere a long tale to tell, 
 Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle ; 
 But each were so happy, and all were so fair, 
 That night stole away and the dawn caught them 
 
 there ! 
 Such a scampering never before was seen 
 As the fairies' flight on that island green. 
 They rush'd to the bay with twinkling feet, 
 But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet 
 Had pass'd with the dawn, and never again 
 Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main,— 
 But mid the groves, when the sun was high, 
 The Indian marked with a worshipping eye 
 The humming-birds, all unknown before, 
 Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower, 
 And seeming as if earth's loveliest things, 
 The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings : — 
 And fancy hath whisper'd in numbers light, 
 That these are the fairies who danced that night, 
 And linger yet in the garb they wore, 
 Content in our clime, and more blest than before ! 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 O, text, me, pretty river ! 
 
 Whence do thy waters flowl 
 And whither art thou roaming, 
 
 So pensive and so slow 1 
 
 " My birthplace was the mountain, 
 My nurse, the April showers ; 
 
 My cradle was a fountain, 
 O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers. 
 
 " One morn I ran away, 
 A madcap, hoyden rill — 
 
 And many a prank that day 
 I play'd adown the hill ! 
 
 " And then, mid meadowy banks, 
 I flirted with the flowers, 
 
 That stoop'd, with glowing lips, 
 To woo me to their bowers. 
 
 "But these bright scenes are o'er, 
 And darkly flows my wave — 
 
 I hear the ocean's roar, 
 
 And there must be my grave !" 
 
234 
 
 SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 
 
 THE LEAF. 
 
 It came with spring's soft sun and showers, 
 Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers ; 
 It flourislvd on the same light stem, 
 It drank the same clear dews with them. 
 The crimson tints of summer morn, 
 That gilded one, did each adorn. 
 The breeze, that whisper'd light and brief 
 To bud or blossom, kiss'd the leaf; 
 When o'er the leaf the tempest flew, 
 The bud and blossom trembled too. 
 
 But its companions pass'd away, 
 And left the leaf to lone decay. 
 The gentle gales of spring went by, 
 The fruits and flowers of summer die. 
 The autumn winds swept o'er the hill, 
 And winter's breath came cold and chill. 
 The leaf now yielded to the blast, 
 And on the rushing stream was cast. 
 Far, far it glided to the sea, 
 And whirl'd and eddied wearily, 
 Till suddenly it sank to rest, 
 And slumber'd in the ocean's breast. 
 
 Thus life begins — its morning hours, 
 Bright as the birth-day of the flowers; 
 Thus passes like the leaves away, 
 As wither'd and as lost as they. 
 Beneath the parent roof we meet 
 In joyous groups, and gayly greet 
 The golden beams of love and light, 
 That kindle to the youthful sight. 
 But soon we part, and one by one, 
 Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone. 
 One gentle spirit seeks the tomb, 
 His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom. 
 Another treads the paths of fame, 
 And barters peace to win a name. 
 Another still tempts fortune's wave, 
 And seeking wealth, secures a grave. 
 The last grasps yet the brittle thread — 
 Though friends are gone and joy is dead, 
 Still dares the dark and fretful tide, 
 And clutches at its power and pride, 
 Till suddenly the waters sever, 
 And, like the leaf, he sinks forever. 
 
 LAKE SUPERIOR. 
 
 "Fathf.ii of Lakes !" thy waters bend 
 Beyond the eagle's utmost view, 
 
 When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send 
 Back to the sky its world of blue. 
 
 Boundless and deep, the forests weave 
 Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, 
 
 And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave 
 Their rugged forms along thy shore. 
 
 Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, 
 With listening ear, in sadness broods ; 
 
 Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, 
 
 Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. 
 
 Nor can the light canoes, that glide 
 Across thy breast like things of air, 
 
 Chase from thy lone and level tide 
 The spell of stillness reigning there. 
 
 Yet round this waste of wood and wave, 
 
 Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives, 
 That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, 
 
 To all a wild, strange aspect gives. 
 
 The thunder-riven oak, that flings 
 
 Its grisly arms athwart the sky, 
 A sudden, startling image brings 
 
 To the lone traveller's kindled eye. 
 
 The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show 
 Their dim forms in the forest shade, 
 
 Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw 
 Fantastic horrors through the glade. 
 
 The very echoes round this shore 
 
 Have caught a strange and gibbering tone ; 
 For they have told the war-whoop o'er, 
 
 Till the wild chorus is their own. 
 
 Wave of the wilderness, adieu ! 
 
 Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods ! 
 Roll on, thou element of blue, 
 
 And fill these awful solitudes ! 
 
 Thou hast no tale to tell of man — 
 
 God is thy theme, le sounding caves 
 
 Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan 
 Deems as a bubble all your waves ! 
 
 THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. 
 
 The sportive sylphs that course the air, 
 Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, 
 
 Around the opening rose repair, 
 
 And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. 
 
 With sparkling cups of bubbles made, 
 They catch the ruddy beams of day, 
 
 And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade, 
 Their blushing favourite to array. 
 
 They gather gems with sunbeams bright, 
 From floating clouds and falling showers ; 
 
 They rob Aurora's locks of light 
 
 To grace their own fair queen of flowers. 
 
 Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose 
 
 Becames a token fit to tell 
 Of things that words can ne'er disclose, 
 
 And naught but this reveal so well. 
 
 Then, take my flower, and let its leaves 
 Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, 
 
 While that confiding heart receives 
 The thought it whispers to thine ear. 
 
ISAAC CLASON. 
 
 [Born about 1796. Died, 1830.] 
 
 Isaac Clason wrote the Seventeenth and Eight- 
 eenth Cantos of Don Juan — a continuation of the 
 poem of Lord Byron — published in 1825. I have 
 not been able to learn many particulars of his bio- 
 graphy. He was born in the city of New York, 
 where his father was a distinguished merchant, 
 and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He 
 inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pur- 
 suit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, 
 received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay 
 roue in London and Paris, a writer for the public 
 journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private 
 
 tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. 
 It has been stated that he was found dead in an 
 obscure lodging-house in London, under circum- 
 stances that led to a belief that he committed sui- 
 cide, about the year 1830. 
 
 Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote 
 but little poetry. The two cantos which he left 
 under that title, have much of the spirit and feel- 
 ing, in thought and diction, which characterize the 
 work of B tron. He was a man of attractive man- 
 ners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an 
 unfavourable commentary on his character. 
 
 NAPOLEON.* 
 
 I love no land so well as that of France — 
 Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne, 
 
 Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance, 
 For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne, 
 
 Whose only word in battle was, Advance ; 
 While that grand genius, who seem'd born to reign, 
 
 Greater than Ammos's son, who boasted birth 
 
 From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth ; 
 
 Greater than he who wore his buskins high, 
 A Venus arm'd, impress'd upon his seal; 
 
 Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy, 
 Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; 
 
 Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh, 
 As Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel," 
 
 Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, Brute," 
 
 But Brutus thought he only did his duty ; 
 
 Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, 
 On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate ; 
 
 Who, with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, 
 With feelings no reverse could moderate, 
 
 With talents such as few would dare engage, 
 With hopes that no misfortune could abate, 
 
 Died like his rival, both with broken hearts, — 
 
 Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte ! thy name shall live 
 Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound ; 
 
 And if eternity's confines can give 
 
 To space reverberation, round and round 
 
 The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive 
 Napoleon !" in thunders shall rebound ; 
 
 The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, 
 
 Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky! 
 
 What though on St. Helena's rocky shore 
 
 Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, 
 
 Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, 
 Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd 
 
 * From the Seventeenth Canto of Bon Juan. 
 
 To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore 
 
 Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed ; 
 Perhaps may run the course thyself didst run, 
 And light the world, as comets light the sun. 
 
 'Tis better thou art gone: 'twere sad to see, 
 Beneath an "imbecile's impotent reign," 
 
 Thine own unvanquish'd legions doom'd to be 
 Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain, 
 
 That land, so glorious once in chivalry, 
 Now sunk in slavery and shame again ; 
 
 To see the imperial guard, thy dauntless band, 
 
 Made tools for such a wretch as Ferdinand. 
 
 Farewell, Napsleon ! thine hour is past ; 
 
 No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name ; 
 But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast 
 
 Thy deeds with those of worthless D'Angouleme. 
 Ye gods ! how long shall slavery's thraldom last! 
 
 Will France alone remain forever tame ! 
 Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington 
 Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon? 
 
 Is Freedom dead 1 Is Nero's reign restored ? 
 
 Frenchmen ! remember Jena, Austerlitz : 
 The first, which made thy emperor the lord 
 
 Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits 
 Great Frederick William ; he who, at the board, 
 
 Took all the Prussian uniform to bits ; 
 Frederick, the king of regimental tailors, 
 As Hudson Lowe, the very prince of jailors. 
 
 Farewell, Napoleon ! couldst thou have died 
 The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed 
 
 To meet adversity's advancing tide, 
 
 The weak had praised thee, but the wise had 
 blamed ; 
 
 But no! though torn from country, child, and bride 
 With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed. 
 
 Great in misfortune, as in glory high, 
 
 Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony. 
 
 Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry, 
 Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store ; 
 
 Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, 
 
 And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er ; 
 
 235 
 
236 
 
 ISAAC CLASON. 
 
 Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, 
 
 And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; 
 Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, 
 And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. 
 
 Farewell, Napoleon ! a long farewell, 
 
 A stranger's tongue, alas ! must hymn thy worth; 
 
 No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell, 
 
 Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. 
 
 No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, 
 Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, 
 
 Echoes around thy land ; 'tis past — at length 
 
 France sinks beneath the sway of Chaki.es the 
 Tenth. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 He who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash 
 From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, 
 
 And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash, 
 Bursting in peals, terrifically loud; 
 
 He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash 
 (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) 
 
 Its giant billows on the groaning shore, 
 
 While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar ; 
 
 He who has seen the wild tornado sweep 
 (Its path destruction, and its progress death) 
 
 The silent bosom of the smiling deep 
 
 With the black besom of its boisterc us breath, 
 
 Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap 
 In battling surges from their beds beneath, 
 
 Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, 
 
 Like buried giants from their restless graves : — 
 
 He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, 
 Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood ; 
 
 But nature's warfare passes by degrees, — 
 The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, 
 
 The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, 
 
 The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt 
 hood, 
 
 The infant lightnings to their cradles creep, 
 
 And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep. 
 
 But there are storms, whose lightnings never glare, 
 Tempests, whose thunders never cease to roll — 
 
 The storms of love, when madden'd to despair, 
 The furious tempests of the jealous soul. 
 
 That kamsin of the heart, which few can bear, 
 Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal, 
 
 Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, 
 
 Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck. 
 
 EARLY LOVE. 
 
 The fond caress of beauty, 0, that glow! 
 
 The first warm glow that mantles round the heart 
 Of boyhood ! when all 's new — the first dear vow 
 
 He ever breathed — the tear-drops that first start, 
 Pure from the unpractised eye — the overflow 
 
 Of waken'd passions, that but now impart 
 A hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt, 
 That mould to madness, or in mildness melt. 
 
 Ah ! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew 
 The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, 
 
 That burn forever bright, forever new, 
 As passion rises o'er and o'er again 1 
 
 That, like the phoenix, die but to renew — 
 Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brain — 
 
 Self-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame 
 
 That sports in Etna's base. But I 'm to blame 
 
 Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past ; 
 
 To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, 
 O'er which the deep funereal pall was cast — 
 
 Like brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds; 
 No matter, these, the latest and the last 
 
 That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; 
 The ebullitions of a heart not lost, 
 But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest- toss'd. 
 
 'T is vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys 
 Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; 
 
 Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys — 
 Billows that swell, to burst upon the shore — 
 
 Playthings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, 
 (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, 
 
 But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) 
 
 They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge. 
 
 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 I've compass'd every pleasure, 
 
 Caught every joy before its bead could pass ; 
 
 I 've loved without restriction, without measure — 
 I 've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glass — 
 
 I've known what 'tis, too, to "repent at leisure" — 
 I 've sat at meeting, and I 've served at mass : — 
 
 And having roved through half the world's insanities, 
 
 Cry, with the Preacher — Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here 1 
 What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow 1 
 
 Is 't wealth 1 Wealth can at last but gild his bier, 
 Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow. 
 
 Is 't love 1 Alas, love 's cradled in a tear ; 
 It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow ; 
 
 Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, 
 
 And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth. 
 
 Is 't glory 1 Pause beneath St. Helen's willow, 
 Whose weeping branches wave above the spot ; 
 
 Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, 
 Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. 
 
 Is't famel Ask her, who floats upon the billow, 
 Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance "forgot; 
 
 The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, 
 
 Victim of love, and emblem of despair. 
 
 Is 't honour'? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep 
 Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, 
 
 Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, 
 Far as his country's navies proudly roam; 
 
 Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep, 
 No Frank deplore the hour he found a home — 
 
 A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car 
 
 No more shall rouse the lord — of-Trafalgar. 
 
JOHN G. C BRAINARD. 
 
 [Born, 1796. Died, 1828.] 
 
 During the present century many persons in 
 this country, whose early productions gave promise 
 of brilliant achievements in maturity, have died 
 young. It has been said that the history of 
 American genius might be written in a series of 
 obituaries of youthful authors. Were Drake, 
 Sands, Griffin, Rockwell, Wilcox, Pink- 
 net, Clarke, the Davidsons, and Brainard 
 now alive, there would be no scarcity of American 
 writers, nor would any of them have passed the 
 ordinary meridian of existence. What they have 
 left us must be regarded as the first-fruits of minds 
 whose full powers were to the last undeveloped, 
 and which were never tasked to their full capacity. 
 
 John Gardner Calkins Brainard was a son 
 of the Honourable J. G. Brainard, one of the 
 Justices of the Supreme Court of Connecticut. 
 He was born at New London, in that State, on 
 the twenty-first day of October, 1796. After 
 finishing his preparatory studies, which were pur- 
 sued under the direction of an elder brother, he 
 entered Yale College, in 1811, being then in the 
 fifteenth year of his age. At this immature pe- 
 riod, before the mind is fully awake to the nature 
 and importance of moral and intellectual discipline, 
 severe application to study is unusual. Brain- 
 ard's books were neglected for communion with 
 his own thoughts and " thick-coming fancies," or 
 for the society of his fellows. His college career 
 was marked by nothing peculiar : he was distin- 
 guished for the fine powers he evinced whenever 
 he chose to exert them, for the uniform modesty 
 of his deportment, the kindness which character- 
 ized his intercourse with those about him, and a 
 remarkable degree of sensitiveness, which caused 
 him to shrink from every harsh collision, and to 
 court retirement. On leaving college, in 1815, he 
 commenced the study of law, in his native place, 
 and on his admission to the bar, he removed to 
 the city of Middletown, intending to practise there 
 his profession. His success was less than he an- 
 ticipated ; perhaps because of his too great mo- 
 desty — an unfortunate quality in lawyers — or, it 
 may be, in consequence of his indolence and 
 convivial propensities. One of his biographers re- 
 marks that his friends were always welcome, save 
 when they came as clients. 
 
 Wearied with the vexations and dry formalities 
 of his profession, he relinquished it in the winter 
 of 1822, to undertake the editorship of the Con- 
 necticut Mirror, a weekly political and literary 
 gazette, published in Hartford. But here he found 
 as little to please him as in the business he had 
 deserted. He was too indolent to prepare every 
 week articles of a serious, argumentative charac- 
 ter, and gave in their place, graceful or humorous 
 paragraphs, and the occasional pieces of verse on 
 which rests his reputation as a poet. These, at 
 the time, were republished in many periodicals, 
 
 and much praised. In the departments of poetry 
 and criticism, the Mirror acquired a high reputa- 
 tion ; but in others, while under his direction, it 
 hardly rose to mediocrity.* 
 
 His first volume of poetry ,-j- containing his con- 
 tributions to the Mirror, and some other pieces, 
 was published early in 1825. It was favourably 
 received by the public, and its success induced his 
 friends to urge him to undertake the composition 
 of a larger and more important work than he had 
 yet attempted. His constitutional lassitude and 
 aversion to high and continued effort deterred him 
 from beginning the task, until 1827, when his 
 health began to wane, and it was no longer in his 
 power. He then relinquished the editorship of 
 the Mirror, and sought for restoring quiet, and the 
 gentle ministrations of affection, the home of his 
 childhood. His illness soon assumed the charac- 
 ter of consumption, and he saw that he had but a 
 brief time to live. A few weeks were passed on 
 the eastern shore of Long Island, in the hope of 
 deriving benefit from a change of air ; but nothing 
 could arrest the progress of the fatal malady ; and 
 he returned to New London, to prepare for the 
 
 * The editor of the last edition of his works, of which 
 I have received a copy since the above was written, and 
 while this volume is passing through the press, speaks 
 as follows of his editorial career : — " We are assured by- 
 competent testimony, that laboured and able political arti- 
 cles were withheld from publication, owing to causes over 
 which he had little control. It is not, perhaps, necessary 
 to detail the facts, but they certainly go far to exculpate 
 him from the charge of levity, or weakness, in conduct- 
 ing the editorial department of his paper. Prudential 
 considerations were suffered to have sway, at the expense 
 of his reputation for political tact and foresight. The 
 only substitutes for the articles referred to, were such 
 brief and tame pieces as he could prepare, after the best 
 and almost only hours for composition had passed by. 
 This circumstance, together with the consciousness that 
 the paper was ill sustained in respect to its patronage, was 
 sufficiently discouraging to a person whose sensibilities 
 were as acute as those of Brainard. It accounts, 
 also, for the frequent turns of mental depression which 
 marked his latter years, — heightened, indeed, by that 
 frequent and mortifying concomitant of genius, — slen- 
 der pecuniary means." 
 
 t The volume was introduced by the following charac- 
 teristic address to the reader : — " The author of the fol- 
 lowing pieces has been induced to publish them in a 
 book, from considerations which cannot be interesting to 
 the public. Many of these little poems have been printed 
 in the Connecticut Mirror ; and others are just fit to keep 
 them company. No apologies are made, and no criti- 
 cisms deprecated. The commonplace story of the impor- 
 tunities of friends, though it had its share in the publica- 
 tion, is not insisted upon ; but the vanity of the author, 
 if others choose to call it such, is a natural motive, and 
 the hope of ' making a little something by it,' is an honest 
 acknowledgment, if it is a poor excuse." The motto of 
 the title-page was as quaint : — 
 
 " Some said, ' John, print it ;' others said ' Not so ;' 
 
 Some said 'It might do good;' others said, 'No.' " 
 Bunyan's Apology, 
 237 
 
238 
 
 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 spiritual . life upon which he was about to enter. 
 He had always regarded with reverence the Chris- 
 tian character and profession, and he was now 
 united to the visible church,* and received the 
 holiest of the sacraments. He lingered until the 
 twenty-sixth of September, 1828, when he passed 
 peacefully to the rest of those who " know that 
 their Redeemer lives." 
 
 The pathway of Brainard was aside from the 
 walks of ambition, and the haunts of worldliness. 
 He lived within himself, holding communion with 
 his own thoughts, and suffering from deep and 
 lasting melancholy. Like Wilcox, it is said, he 
 had met with one of those disappointments in early 
 life, which so frequently impress the soul with 
 sadness ; and though there was sometimes gayety 
 in his manner and conversation, it was generally 
 assumed, to conceal painful musings or to beguile 
 sorrow. 
 
 His person was small, and well formed; his 
 countenance mild, and indicative of the kindness 
 and gentleness of his nature; and in his eyes 
 there was a look of dreamy listlessness and ten- 
 derness. He was fond of society, and his pleasing 
 
 conversation and amiable character won for him 
 many ardent friends. He was peculiarly sensitive ; 
 and Mr. Whittier,* in a sketch of his life, re- 
 marks that in his gayest moments a coldly-spoken 
 word, or casual inattention, would check at once 
 the free flow of his thoughts, cause the jest to die 
 on his lips, and " the melancholy which had been 
 lifted from his heart, to fall again with increased 
 heaviness." 
 
 Brainard lacked the mental discipline and 
 strong self-command which alone confer true 
 power. He never could have produced a great 
 work. His poems were nearly all written during 
 the six years in which he edited the Mirror, and 
 they bear marks of haste and carelessness, though 
 some of them are very beautiful. He failed only in 
 his humorous pieces ; in all the rest his language is 
 appropriate and pure, his diction free and harmo- 
 nious, and his sentiments natural and sincere. 
 His serious poems are characterized by deep 
 feeling and delicate fancy ; and if we had no re- 
 cords of his history, they would show us that he 
 was a man of great gentleness, simplicity, and 
 purity. 
 
 JERUSALEM.t 
 
 Foun lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves — 
 Godfrey's and Baldwin's^ — Salem's Chris- 
 tian kings ; 
 
 And holy light glanced from Helena's naves, 
 Fed with the incense which the pilgrim brings, — 
 
 * On this occasion, says the Reverend Mr. M'Ewen, as 
 he was too feeble to go to the church and remain through 
 the customary services, he arrived at and entered the 
 sanctuary when these were nearly or quite through. 
 Every one present (literally, almost) knew him, — the 
 occasion of his coming was understood, — and when he 
 appeared, pale, feeble, emaciated, and trembling in con- 
 sequence of his extreme debility, the sensation it pro- 
 duced was at once apparent throughout the whole assem- 
 bly. There seemed to be an instinctive homage paid to 
 the grace of God in him ; or, perhaps, the fact shows 
 how readily a refined Christian community sympathizes 
 with genius and virtue destined to an early tomb. 
 
 tTlie following intelligence from Constantinople was 
 of the eleventh October, 1824: "A severe earthquake is 
 said to have taken place at Jerusalem, which has destroy- 
 ed great part of that city, shaken down the Mosque of 
 Omar, and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top 
 to bottom." 
 
 t Godfrey and Baldwin were the first Christian kings 
 at Jerusalem. The Empress Helena, mother of Con- 
 stantine the Great, built the church of the sepulchre on 
 Mount Calvary. The walls are of stone and the roof of 
 cedar. The four lamps which lit it, are very costly. It is 
 kept in repair by the offerings of pilgrims who resort to 
 it. The mosque was originally a Jewish temple. The 
 Emperor Julian undertook to rebuild the temple of Jeru- 
 salem at a very great expense, to disprove the prophecy 
 of our Saviour, as it was understood by the Jews; but 
 the work and the workmen were destroyed by an earth- 
 quake. The pools of Befhesda and Gihon — the tomb of 
 the Virgin Mary, and of King Jehosaphat — the pillar 
 of Absalom— the tomb of Zachakiah— and the campo 
 santo, or holy field, which is supposed to have been pur- 
 chased with the price of Judas's treason, are, or were 
 lately, the most interesting parts of Jerusalem. 
 
 "While through the panell'd roof the cedar flings 
 Its sainted arms o'er choir, and roof, and dome, 
 
 And every porphyry-pillar'd cloister rings 
 To every kneeler there its " welcome home," 
 As every lip breathes out, " O Lord, thy kingdom 
 come." 
 
 A mosque was gamish'd with its crescent moons, 
 
 And a clear voice call'd Mussulmans to prayer, 
 There were the splendours of Judea's thrones — 
 
 There were the trophies which its conquerors 
 wear — 
 
 All but the truth, the holy truth, was there : — 
 For there, with lip profane, the crier stood, 
 
 And him from the tall minaret you might hear, 
 Singing to all whose steps had thither trod, 
 That verse misunderstood, " There is no God but 
 God." 
 
 Hark ! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneel'd ? 
 
 And did the turban'd Turk his sins confess 1 
 Those mighty hands the elements that wield, 
 
 That mighty Power that knows to curse or bless, 
 
 Is over all ; and id whatever dress 
 His suppliants crowd around him, He can see 
 
 Their heart, in city or in wilderness, 
 And probe its core, and make its blindness flee, 
 Owning Him very God, the only Deity. 
 
 There was an earthquake once that rent thy fane, 
 Proud Juliah - ; when (against the prophecy 
 
 Of Him who lived, and died, and rose again, 
 " That one stone on another should not lie") 
 Thou wouldst rebuild that Jewish masonry 
 
 To mock the eternal Word. — The earth below 
 Gush'd out in fire ; and from the brazen sky, 
 
 * John G. Whittier was one of Brainard's inti- 
 mate friends, and, soon after his death, he wrote an in- 
 teresting account of his life, which was prefixed to an 
 edition of his poems, printed in 1832. 
 
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 239 
 
 And from the boiling seas such wrath did flow, 
 As saw not Shinar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow. 
 
 Another earthquake comes. Dome, roof, and wall 
 Tremble ; and headlong to the grassy bank, 
 
 And in the muddied stream the fragments fall, 
 While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank 
 At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank 
 
 In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power! 
 Thou whom we all should worship, praise, and 
 thank, 
 
 Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, 
 
 When hell moved from beneath, and thine own 
 heaven did lower] 
 
 Say, Pilate's palaces — proud Herod's towers — 
 Say, gate of Bethlehem, did your arches quake? 
 
 Thy pool, Bethesda, was it fill'd with showers 1 
 Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake 1 
 Tomb of thee, Mary — Virgin — did it shake '? 
 
 Glow'd thy bought field, Aceldama, with blood ? 
 Where were the shudderings Calvary might 
 
 Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood, [make ] 
 
 To wash away the spot where once a God had stood 1 
 
 Lost Salem of the Jews — great sepulchre 
 Of all profane and of all holy things — 
 
 Where Jew, and Turk, and Gentile yet concur 
 To make thee what thou art ! thy history brings 
 Thoughts mix'd of joy and wo. The whole 
 earth rings 
 
 With the sad truth which He has prophesied, 
 Who would have shelter'd with his holy wings 
 
 Thee and thy children. You his power defied : 
 
 You scourged him while he lived, and mock'd him 
 as he died ! 
 
 There is a star in the untroubled sky, [made — 
 
 That caught the first light which its Maker 
 It led the hymn of other orbs on high ; — 
 
 'T will shine when all the fires of heaven shall 
 fade. 
 
 Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid ! 
 For it has kept its watch on Palestine ! 
 
 Look to its holy light, nor be dismay'd, 
 Though broken is each consecrated shrine, 
 Though crush'd and ruin'd all — which men have 
 call'd divine. 
 
 ON CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Fnox that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain 
 That links the mountain to the mighty main, 
 Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree, 
 Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea — 
 Fair, noble, glorious river ! in thy wave 
 The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave ; 
 The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar, 
 Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore : — 
 The promontories love thee — and for this 
 Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss. 
 Stern, at thy source, thy northern guardians 
 Rude rulers of the solitary land, [stand, 
 
 Wild dwellers by thy cold, sequester'd springs, 
 Of earth the feathers and of air the wings ; 
 
 Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm 
 Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form— • 
 Yet, bless'd by all the elements that sweep 
 The clouds above, or the unfathom'd deep, 
 The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills, 
 The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills, 
 By the moss'd bank, and by the aged tree, 
 The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee. 
 
 The young oak greets thee at the water's edge, 
 Wet by the wave, though anchor'd in the ledge. 
 — 'T is there the otter dives, the beaver feeds, 
 Where pensive osiers dip their willowy weeds, 
 And there the wild-cat purs amid her brood, 
 And trains them in the sylvan solitude, 
 To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink 
 Paddling the water by the quiet brink ; — 
 Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark, 
 Or hear the young fox practising to bark. 
 
 Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strew'd the 
 ground, 
 The Indian hunter here his shelter found ; 
 Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, 
 Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe, 
 Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall, 
 And slew the deer without the rifle-ball ; [choose, 
 Here his young squaw her cradling tree would 
 Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose ; 
 Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude, 
 And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood. 
 — No more shall they thy welcome waters bless, 
 No more their forms thy moon-lit banks shall press, 
 No more be heard, from mountain or from grove, 
 His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love. 
 Thou didst not shake, thou didst not shrink 
 when, late, 
 The mountain-top shut down its ponderous gate, 
 Tumbling its tree-grown ruins to thy side, 
 An avalanche of acres at a slide. 
 Nor dost thou say, when winter's coldest breath 
 Howls through the woods and sweeps along the 
 
 heath — 
 One mighty sigh relieves thy icy breast, 
 And wakes thee from the calmness of thy rest. 
 
 Down sweeps the torrent ice — it may not stay 
 By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay — 
 Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes, 
 And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose. 
 — Yet as the unharm'd swallow skims his way, 
 And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray, 
 So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas, 
 And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze, 
 New paddles dip thy waters, and strange oars 
 Feather thy waves and touch thy noble shores. 
 
 Thy noble shores ! where the tall steeple shines, 
 At mid-day, higher than thy mountain pines ; 
 Where the white school-house with its daily drill 
 Of sunburn'd children, smiles upon the hill; 
 Where the neat village grows upon the eye, 
 Deck'd forth in nature's sweet simplicity — 
 Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth, 
 Gains merit, honour, and gives labour health ; 
 Where Goldsmith's self might send his exiled band 
 To find a new " Sweet Auburn" in our land. 
 
 What Art can execute, or Taste devise, 
 Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes. — 
 
240 
 
 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream, 
 To meet the southern sun's more constant beam. 
 Here cities rise, and sea-wash'd commerce hails 
 Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails, 
 From tropic isles, or from the torrid main — 
 Where grows the grape,or sprouts the sugar-cane — 
 Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play, 
 By each cold, northern bank and frozen bay. 
 Here, safe return'd from every stormy sea, 
 Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free, 
 — That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curl'd 
 Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world. 
 
 In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground 
 Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found, 
 More hospitable welcome, or more zeal 
 To make the curious " tarrying" stranger feel 
 That, next to home, here best may he abide, 
 To rest and cheer him by the chimney-side ; 
 Drink the hale farmer's cider, as he hears 
 From the gray dame the tales of other years. 
 Cracking his shag-barks, as the aged crone 
 — Mixing the true and doubtful into one — 
 Tells how the Indian scalp'd the helpless child, 
 And bore its shrieking mother to the wild, 
 Butcher'd the father hastening to his home, 
 Seeking his cottage — finding but his tomb. 
 How drums, and flags, and troops were seen on high, 
 Wheeling and charging in the northern sky, 
 And that she knew what these wild tokens meant, 
 When to the Old French War her husband went. 
 How, by the thunder-blasted tree, was hid 
 The golden spoils of far-famed Robert Kibti ; 
 And then the chubby grandchild wants to know 
 About the ghosts and witches long ago, 
 That haunted the old swamp. 
 
 The clock strikes ten — 
 The prayer is said, nor unforgotten then 
 The stranger in their gates. A decent rule 
 Of elders in thy puritanic school. [dream, 
 
 When the fresh morning wakes him from his 
 And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream, 
 Are there not glossy curls and sunny eyes, 
 As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies ; 
 Voices as gentle as an echo'd call, 
 And sweeter than the soften'd waterfall 
 That smiles and dimples in its whispering spray, 
 Leaping in sportive innocence away: — 
 And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay 
 As wild-brier, budding in an April day ! 
 — How like the leaves — the fragrant leaves it bears, 
 Their sinless purposes and simple cares. 
 
 Stream of my sleeping fathers ! when the sound 
 Of coming war echoed thy hills around, 
 How did thy sons start forth from every glade, 
 Snatching the musket where they left the spade. 
 How did their mothers urge them to the fight, 
 Their sisters tell them to defend the right ; — 
 How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, 
 The earth their coffin and the turf their pall; 
 How did the aged pastor light his eye, 
 When, to his flock, he read the purpose high 
 And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, 
 To pledge life, name, fame, all — for liberty. 
 — Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious page — 
 Still in the grave the body of that sage 
 
 Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal 
 Made patriots act and listening statesmen feel — 
 Brought thy green mountains down upon their foes, 
 And thy white summits melted of their snows, 
 While every vale to which his voice could come, 
 Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum. 
 
 Bold river ! better suited are thy waves 
 To nurse the laurels clustering round thy graves, 
 Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud 
 Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood, 
 And felt, beyond all other mortal pain, 
 They ne'er should see their happy home again. 
 
 Thou hadst a poet once, — and he could tell, 
 Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell ; 
 Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore — 
 But we shall hear his classic lays no more ! 
 He loved thee, but he took his aged way, 
 By Erie's shore, and Perry's glorious day, 
 To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood, 
 Remote beside the dreary solitude. 
 
 Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread, 
 Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head, 
 And our gnarl'd charter-oak put forth a bough, 
 Whose leaves shall grace thy Tkumbdli's ho- 
 nour'd brow. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD, 
 AT EDINBURGH. 
 
 "The spider's most attenuated thread 
 
 Is cord— is cable, to man's tender tie 
 
 On earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze." 
 
 Ax other ! 'tis a sad word to the heart, 
 That one by one has lost its hold on life, 
 
 From all it loved or valued, forced to part 
 In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife 
 That cuts at once and kills — its tortured strife 
 
 Is with distill'd affliction, drop by drop 
 Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife 
 
 With grief and sorrow ! all that we would prop, 
 
 Or would be propp'd with, falls — when shall the 
 ruin stop 1 
 
 The sea has one,* and Palestine has one, 
 
 And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid 
 
 Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, 
 And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid — 
 And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, 
 
 Turn to some other monument — ner know 
 
 Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read : 
 
 Whose loved and honour'd relics lie below; 
 
 Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo. 
 
 There is a world of bliss hereafter — else 
 Why are the bad above, the good beneath 
 
 The green grass of the grave 1 The mower fells 
 Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe 
 (When he his desolating blade shall sheathe 
 
 And rest him from his work) in a pure sky, 
 Above the smoke of burning worlds ; — and Death 
 
 On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, 
 
 When time, with all his years and centuries has 
 pass'd by. 
 
 * Professor Fisher, lost in the "Albion," and Rev. Levi 
 Parsons, missionary to Palestine, who died at Alexandria. 
 
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 241 
 
 ON A LATE LOSS.* 
 
 "He shall not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept." 
 
 The breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string, 
 
 Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; 
 The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring, 
 
 Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form ; 
 The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, 
 
 Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; 
 And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, 
 
 Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash 
 That wave and wind can muster, when the might 
 Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. 
 
 So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear, 
 
 And radiant learning beckon'd thee away. 
 The breeze was music to thee, and the clear 
 
 Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. 
 And they have wreck'd thee ! — But there is a shore 
 
 Where storms are hush'd — where tempests 
 never rage ; 
 Where angry skies and blackening seas no more 
 
 With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. 
 By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod — 
 
 Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is God. 
 
 SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT. 
 "Hugest that swims the ocean stream." 
 
 Welter upon the waters, mighty one — 
 
 And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine ; 
 Turn thy wet scales up to the wind and sun, 
 
 And toss the billow from thy flashing fin ; 
 
 Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din, 
 And bound upon its ridges in thy pride : 
 
 Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in 
 The caverns where its unknown monsters hide, 
 Measure thy length beneath the gulf-stream's tide — 
 
 Or rest thee on that navel of the sea 
 Where, floating on the Maelstrom, abide 
 
 The krakens sheltering under Norway's lee ; 
 But go not to Nahant, lest men should swear 
 You are a great deal bigger than you are. 
 
 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 
 
 "Labitur et labetur." 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 
 While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
 As if God pour'd thee from his " hollow hand," 
 And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 
 And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
 " The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. 
 
 * Professor Fisher, lost in the Albion, off the coast of 
 Kinsale, Ireland. -.« 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
 That hear the question of that voice sublime 1 
 O ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 Who drown'd a world, and heaped the waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains 1 — a light wave, 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Who shall weep when the righteous die 1 
 Who shall mourn when the good depart ] 
 
 When the soul of the godly away shall fly, 
 Who shall lay the loss to heart 1 
 
 He has gone into peace — he has laid him down, 
 To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day ; 
 
 And he shall wake on that holy morn, 
 When sorrow and sighing shall flee away. 
 
 But ye who worship in sin and shame 
 
 Your idol gods, whate'er they be : 
 Who scoff, in your pride, at your Maker's name, 
 
 By the pebbly stream and the shady tree, — 
 
 Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams, 
 Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray ; 
 
 Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams, 
 But the wind shall carry them all away. 
 
 There's one who drank at a purer fountain, 
 One who was wash'd in a purer flood : 
 
 He shall inherit a holier mountain, 
 He shall worship a holier God. 
 
 But the sinner shall utterly fail and die, 
 Whelm'd in the waves of a troubled sea ; 
 
 And God, from his throne of light on high, 
 Shall say, there is no peace for thee. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 I saw two clouds at morning, 
 
 Tinged by the rising sun, 
 And in the dawn they floated on, 
 
 And mingled into one ; 
 I thought that morning cloud was bless'd, 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
 
 And join their course, with silent force, 
 In peace each other greeting; 
 
 Calm was their course through banks of green, 
 
 While dimpling eddies play'd between. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion, 
 
 Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
 Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 
 
 Float on, in joy, to meet 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
242 
 
 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 TO THE DEAD. 
 
 How many now are dead to me 
 
 That live to others yet ! 
 How many are alive to me 
 Who crumble in their graves, nor see 
 That sickening, sinking look, which we 
 
 Till dead can ne'er forget. 
 
 Beyond the blue seas, far away, 
 
 Most wretchedly alone, 
 One died in prison, far away, 
 Where stone on stone shut out the day, 
 And never hope or comfort's ray 
 
 In his lone dungeon shone. 
 
 Dead to the world, alive to me, 
 
 Though months and years have pass'd ; 
 In a lone hour, his sigh to me 
 Comes like the hum of some wild bee, 
 And then his form and face I see, 
 
 As when I saw him last. 
 
 And one with a bright lip, and cheek, 
 
 And eye, is dead to me. 
 How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek ! 
 His lip was cold — it would not speak : 
 His heart was dead, for it did not break: 
 
 And his eye, for it did not see. 
 
 Then for the living be the tomb, 
 
 And for the dead the smile ; 
 ;Engrave oblivion on the tomb 
 s Of pulseless life and deadly bloom, — 
 rBim is such glare: but bright the gloom 
 
 Around the funeral pile. 
 
 THE DEEP. 
 
 There 's beauty in the deep : 
 ' The wave is bluer than the sky ; 
 And, though the lights shine bright on high, 
 More softly do the sea-gems glow, 
 That sparkle in the depths below; 
 The rainbow's tints are only made 
 When on the waters they are laid ; 
 And sun and moon most sweetly shine 
 Upon the ocean's level brine. 
 There's beauty in the deep. 
 
 There 's music in the deep : — 
 It is not in the surf's rough roar, 
 Nor in the whispering, shelly shore, — 
 They are but earthly sounds, that tell 
 How little of the sea-nymph's shell, 
 That sends its loud, clear note abroad, 
 Or winds its softness through the flood, 
 Echoes through groves, with coral gay, 
 And dies, on spongy banks, away. 
 
 There's music in the deep. 
 
 There's quiet in the deep: — 
 Above, let tides and tempests rave, 
 And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; 
 Above, let care and fear contend 
 With sin ,and sorrow, to the end : 
 
 Here, far beneath the tainted foam 
 That frets above our peaceful home ; 
 We dream in joy, and wake in love, 
 Nor know the rage that yells above. 
 There 's quiet in the deep. 
 
 MR. 
 
 : LONG 
 
 MERRY'S LAMENT FOR ' 
 TOM." 
 
 " Let us think of them that sleep, 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore." 
 
 Thy cruise is over now, 
 
 Thou art anchor'd by the shore, 
 And never more shalt thou 
 
 Hear the storm around thee roar ; 
 Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass. 
 Now around thee sports the whale, 
 And the porpoise snuffs the gale, 
 And the night-winds wake their wail, 
 As they pass. 
 
 Th3 sea-grass round thy bier 
 
 Shall bend beneath the tide, 
 Nor tell the breakers near 
 
 Where thy manly limbs abide ; 
 But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be. 
 Though the edges of thy grave 
 Are the combings of the wave — 
 Yet unheeded they shall rave 
 Over thee. 
 
 At the piping of all hands, 
 
 When the judgment signal 's spread — 
 When the islands, and the lands, 
 And the seas give up their dead, 
 And the south and the north shall come ; 
 When the sinner is dismay'd, 
 And the just man is afraid, 
 Then heaven be thy aid, 
 Poor Tom. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 What is there saddening in the autumn leaves? 
 Have they that " green and yellow melancholy" 
 That the sweet poet spake of? — Had he seen 
 Our variegated woods, when first the frost 
 Turns into beauty all October's charms — 
 When the dread fever quits us — when the storms 
 Of the wild equinox, with all its wet, 
 Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, 
 With a bright bow of many colours hung 
 Upon the forest tops — he had not sighed. 
 
 The moon stays longest for the hunter now : 
 The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe 
 And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : 
 While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along 
 The bright, blue sky above him, and that bonds 
 Magnificently all the forest's pride, 
 Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, 
 " What is there saddening in the autumn leaves'?" 
 
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 243 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 The dead leaves strew the forest walk, 
 
 And wither'd are the pale wild flowers ; 
 The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, 
 
 The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. 
 
 Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers, 
 Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, 
 
 And autumn, with her yellow hours, 
 On hill and plain no longer shines. 
 
 I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note, 
 
 That rose and swell'd from yonder tree — 
 A gay bird, with too sweet a throat, 
 
 There perch'd, and raised her song for me. 
 
 The winter comes, and where is she ] 
 Away — where summer wings will rove, 
 
 Where buds are fresh, and every tree 
 Is vocal with the notes of love. 
 
 Too mild the breath of southern sky, 
 
 Too fresh the flower that blushes there, 
 The northern breeze that rustles by 
 
 Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; 
 
 No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare, 
 No stream beneath the ice is dead, 
 
 No mountain top, with sleety hair, 
 Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. 
 
 Go there, with all the birds, and seek 
 
 A happier clime, with livelier flight, 
 Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, 
 
 And leave me lonely with the night. 
 
 I'll gaze upon the cold north light, 
 And mark where all its glories shone, — 
 
 See — that it all is fair and bright, 
 Feel — that it all is cold and. gone. 
 
 THE STORM OF WAR. 
 
 ! oistce was felt the storm of war ! 
 
 It had an earthquake's roar ; 
 It flash'd upon the mountain height, 
 
 And smoked along the shore. 
 It thunder'd in a dreaming ear, 
 
 And up the farmer sprang; 
 It mutter'd in a bold, true heart, 
 
 And a warrior's harness rang. 
 
 It rumbled by a widow's door,— 
 
 All but her hope did fail ; 
 It trembled through a leafy grove, 
 
 And a maiden's cheek was pale. 
 It steps upon the sleeping sea, 
 
 And waves around it howl ; 
 It strides from top to foaming top, 
 
 Out-frowning ocean's scowl. 
 
 And yonder sail'd the merchant ship, 
 
 There was peace upon her deck ; 
 Her friendly flag from the mast was torn, 
 
 And the waters whelm'd the wreck. 
 But the same blast that bore her down 
 
 Fill'd a gallant daring sail, 
 That loved the might of the blackening storm, 
 
 And laugh'd in the roaring gale. 
 
 The stream, that was a torrent once, 
 
 Is rippled to a brook, 
 The sword is broken, and the spear 
 
 Is but a pruning-hook. 
 The mother chides her truant boy, 
 
 And keeps him well from harm ; 
 While in the grove the happy maid 
 
 Hangs on her lover's arm. 
 
 Another breeze is on the sea, 
 
 Another wave is there, 
 And floats abroad triumphantly 
 
 A banner bright and fair. 
 And peaceful hands, and happy hearts, 
 
 And gallant spirits keep 
 Each star that decks it pure and bright, 
 
 Above the rolling deep. 
 
 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 Thotjgh friends are false, and leaders fail, 
 
 And rulers quake with fear; 
 Though tamed the shepherd in the vale, 
 
 Though slain the mountaineer; 
 Though Spanish beauty fill their arms, 
 
 And Spanish gold their purse — 
 Sterner than wealth's or war's alarms 
 
 Is the wild Guerilla's curse. 
 
 No trumpets range us to the fight: 
 
 No signal sound of drum 
 Tells to the foe, that, in their might, 
 
 The hostile squadrons come. 
 No sunbeam glitters on our spears, 
 
 No warlike tramp of steeds 
 Gives warning — for the first that hears 
 
 Shall be the first that bleeds. 
 
 The night-breeze calls us from our bed, 
 
 At dew-fall forms the line, 
 And darkness gives the signal dread 
 
 That makes our ranks combine : 
 Or should some straggling moonbeam lie 
 
 On copse or lurking hedge, 
 'T would flash but from a Spaniard's eye, 
 
 Or from a dagger's edge. 
 
 'T is clear in the sweet vale below, 
 
 And misty on the hill ; 
 The skies shine mildly on the foe, 
 
 But lour upon us still. 
 This gathering storm shall quickly burst, 
 
 And spread its terrors far, 
 And at its front we '11 be the first, 
 
 And with it go to war. 
 
 ! the mountain peak shall safe remain — 
 
 'T is the vale shall be despoil'd, 
 And the tame hamlets of the plain 
 
 With ruin shall run wild ; 
 But liberty shall breathe our air 
 
 Upon the mountain head, 
 And freedom's breezes wander here, 
 
 Here all their fragrance shed. 
 
244 
 
 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. 
 
 Ox the deep is the mariner's danger, 
 On the deep is the mariner's death, 
 Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger, 
 Sees the last bubble burst of his breath? 
 'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 
 Lone looker on despair, 
 The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 The only witness there. 
 
 Who watches their course, who so mildly 
 Careen to the kiss of the breeze 1 
 
 Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly 
 Are clasp'd in the arms of the seas I 
 'Tis the sea-bird, &c. 
 
 Who hovers on high o'er the lover, 
 And her who has clung to his neck 1 
 
 Whose wing is the wing that can cover, 
 With its shadow, the foundering wreck? 
 'Tis the sea-bird, &c. 
 
 My eye in the light of the billow, 
 My wing on the wake of the wave, 
 
 I shall take to my breast, for a pillow, 
 The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
 I 'm a sea-bird, &c. 
 
 My foot on the iceberg has lighted, 
 
 When hoarse the wild winds veer about, 
 My eye, when the bark is benighted, 
 Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. 
 I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 
 Lone looker on despair; 
 The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 The only witness there. 
 
 TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND. 
 
 I r-RAT thee, by thy mother's face, 
 
 And by her look, and by her eye, 
 By every decent matron grace 
 That hover'd round the resting-place 
 
 Where thy young head did lie ; 
 And by the voice that soothed thine ear, 
 The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear, 
 
 That match'd thy changeful mood; 
 By every prayer thy mother taught, 
 By every blessing that she sought, 
 
 I pray thee to be good. 
 
 Is not the nestling, when it wakes, 
 
 Its eye upon the wood around, 
 And on its new-fledged pinions takes 
 lb? taste of leaves, and boughs, and brakes — 
 
 Of motion, sight, and sound, — ■ 
 Is it not like the parent 1 Then 
 Be like thy mother, child, and when 
 
 Thy wing is bold and strong, — 
 As pure and steady be thy light, 
 As high and heavenly be thy flight, 
 
 As holy be thy song. 
 
 SALMON RIVER.* 
 
 Hie viridis tenera prcetexil arundine ripas 
 Mincius. — Virgil. 
 
 'Tis a sweet stream — and so, 'tis true, are all 
 That, undisturb'd, save by the harmless brawl 
 Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, 
 
 Pursue their way 
 By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, 
 By rock, that since the deluge fix'd has stood, 
 Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood 
 
 By night and day. 
 
 But yet there's something in its humble rank, 
 Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, 
 Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank 
 
 With unscared look ; 
 There 's much in its wild history, that teems 
 With all that's superstitious — and that seems 
 To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, 
 
 In that small brook. 
 
 Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, 
 
 And blood has dropp'd there, like the drops of rain ; 
 
 The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain — 
 
 And many a quiver, 
 Fill'd from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, 
 Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, 
 And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill 
 
 From Salmon river. 
 
 Here, say old men, the Indian magi made 
 Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade 
 That shrouds sequester'd rock, or darkening glade, 
 
 Or tangled dell. 
 Here Philip came, and Miaxtonijto, 
 And ask'd about their fortunes long ago, 
 As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show 
 
 Old Samuel. 
 
 And here the black fox roved, that howl'd and shook 
 His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook 
 Where they pursued their game, and him mistook 
 
 For earthly fox ; 
 Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, 
 And his soft peltry, stripp'd and dress' d, to wear, 
 Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair 
 
 Transfer him to a box. 
 
 Such are the tales they tell. 'T is hard to rhyme 
 About a little and unnoticed stream, 
 That few have heard of — but it is a theme 
 
 I chance to love ; 
 And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, 
 And whistle to the note of many a deed 
 Done on this river — which, if there be need, 
 
 I '11 try to prove. 
 
 * This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. 
 
WALTER COLTON. 
 
 [Born, 1797. Died, 1851.] 
 
 Walter Colton was born in Rutland county, 
 Vermont, on the ninth of May, 1797. When 
 about seventeen years of age he determined to 
 acquire a liberal education, and commenced with 
 industrious energy his preparatory studies. In 
 1818 he entered Yale College, where he received 
 the Berkleyan prize in Latin and Greek, and de- 
 livered the valedictory poem, when he graduated, 
 in 1822. He soon afterward went to the Theolo- 
 gical Seminary at Andover, where he remained 
 three years, giving much of his time to literature, 
 and writing, besides various moral and critical dis- 
 sertations, a " Sacred Drama," which was acted by 
 the students at one of their rhetorical exhibitions, 
 and an elaborate poem pronounced when his class 
 received their diplomas. On being ordained an 
 evangelist, according to the usage of the Congre- 
 gational church, he became Professor of Moral 
 Philosophy and Belles-Lettres in the Scientific and 
 Military Academy at Middletown, then under the 
 presidency of Captain Alden Partridge. While 
 occupying this position, he wrote a prize " Essay 
 on Duelling ;" a " Discussion of the Genius of 
 Coleridge ;" " The Moral Power of the Poet, 
 Painter, and Sculptor, contrasted," and many con- 
 tributions in verse and prose to the public journals, 
 under the signature of "Bertram." In 1828 he 
 resigned his professorship, and settled in Wash- 
 ington, as editor of the "American Spectator," a 
 weekly gazette, which he conducted with indus- 
 try, and such tact and temper as to preserve the 
 most intimate relations with the leaders of the 
 political party to which it was opposed. He was 
 especially a favourite with President Jackson, 
 who was accustomed to send for him two or three 
 times in a week to sit with him in his private 
 chamber; and when Mr. Colton's health declined, 
 so that a sea voyage was recommended by his 
 physicians, the President offered him, without soli- 
 citation, a consulship or a chaplaincy in the Navy. 
 The latter was accepted, and he held the office 
 from 1830 till the end of his life. 
 
 His first appointment was to the West India 
 squadron, in which he continued but seven or eight 
 months. He next sailed for the Mediterranean, 
 in the flag-ship Constellation, Commodore Read, 
 and in the three years of his connection with this 
 station he travelled through Spain, Italy, Greece, 
 and Asia Minor, visited Constantinople, and 
 made his way to Paris and London. The results 
 of his observations are partially given to the pub- 
 lic in volumes entitled " Ship and Shore," and 
 " A Visit to Constantinople and Athens." Soon 
 after the publication of these works, he was ap- 
 pointed historiographer to the South Sea Survey- 
 ing and Exploring Expedition; but the ultimate 
 reduction of the force designed for the Pacific 
 squadron, and the resignation of his associates, 
 
 induced him to forego the advantages of this office, 
 for which he had made very careful preparations 
 in ethnographical studies. 
 
 He was now stationed at Philadelphia, where 
 he was chaplain successively of the Navy Yard 
 and the Naval Asylum. In this city I became 
 acquainted with him, and for several years en- 
 joyed his frequent society and intimate friendship. 
 In 1841 and 1842, with the consent of the Gov- 
 ernment, he added to his official duties the editor- 
 ship of the Philadelphia " North American," and 
 in these and the following years he wrote much 
 on religious and literary subjects for other jour- 
 nals. In 1844 he delivered before the literary 
 societies of the University of Vermont a poem 
 entitled "The Sailor." In the summer of 1846 
 he was married, and in the following autumn was 
 ordered to the Congress, the flag-ship of the Pa- 
 cific squadron, in which he arrived off the western 
 coast of America soon after the commencement 
 of the war with Mexico. The incidents of the 
 voyage round Cape Horn are detailed with more 
 than his usual felicity in the book called " Deck 
 and Port," which he published in 1850. 
 
 Soon after the arrival of the squadron at Mon- 
 terey, he was appointed alcalde, or chief magis- 
 trate, of that city, an office demanding untiring 
 industry, zeal, and fortitude. He displayed in it 
 eminent faithfulness and ability, and won as much 
 the regard of the conquered inhabitants of the 
 country, as the respect of his more immediate 
 associates. Besides performing his ordinary du- 
 ties he established the first newspaper printed 
 in California, " The Californian ;" built the first 
 school-house in the territory; and also a large hall 
 for public meetings, which the citizens called 
 " Colton Hall," in honour of his public spirit and 
 enterprise. It was during his administration of 
 affairs at Monterey that the discovery of gold in 
 the Sacramento Valley was first made ; and the 
 honour of first making it publicly known in the 
 Atlantic states, whether by accident or otherwise, 
 belongs properly to him. It was first announced 
 in a letter bearing bis initials, in the Philadelphia 
 " North American," and the next day in a letter 
 also written by him, in the New York " Journal 
 of Commerce." 
 
 Mr. Colton returned to his home early in the 
 summer of 1850, anticipating years of undisturbed 
 happiness. With an attached family, a large circle 
 of friends, good reputation, and a fortune equal 
 to his desires, he applied himself leisurely to the 
 preparation of his manuscript journals for the 
 press, and the revision of his earlier publications. 
 He had completed, besides "Deck and Port," al- 
 ready mentioned, "Three Years in California," 
 and had nearly ready for the printer a much 
 enlarged and improved edition of "Ship and 
 
 245 
 
246 
 
 WALTER COLTON. 
 
 Shore," which was to he followed by " A Visit to 
 Constantinople, Athens, and the JEgean," a col- 
 lection of his " Poems," and a volume of " Mis- 
 cellanies of Literature and Religion." His health 
 however, began to decline, and a cold, induced by 
 exposure during a visit to Washington, ended in 
 disease which his physician soon discovered to be 
 incurable. Being in Philadelphia on the twenty- 
 second of January, I left my hotel to pay him an 
 early visit, and found the death signs upon his 
 door ; he had died at two o'clock that morning, 
 surrounded by his relations, and in the presence 
 of his friends the Rev. Albert Barnes and the 
 Rev. Dr. Herman Hooker — died very calmly, 
 without mortal enemies and at peace with God. 
 
 Mr. Colton was of an eminently genial na- 
 ture, fond of society, and with such qualities as 
 made him always a welcome associate. His ex- 
 tensive and various travel had left upon his mem- 
 ory a thousand delightful pictures, which were 
 reflected in his conversation so distinctly and with 
 such skilful preparation of the mind, that his com- 
 panions lived over his life with him as often as he 
 chose to summon its scenes before them. 
 
 It cannot be said that there are in the poems 
 of Mr. Colton indications of genius, but many 
 of his pieces display a quiet humour and refine- 
 ment of feeling, and they have generally the 
 merit of being apparently fruits of his own ex- 
 perience. 
 
 THE SAILOR. 
 
 A sailor ever loves to be in motion, 
 
 Roaming about he scarce knows where or why ; 
 He looks upon the dim and shadowy ocean 
 
 As home, abhors the land ; and e'en the sky, 
 Boundless and beautiful, has naught to please, 
 Except some clouds, which promise him a breeze. 
 
 He is a child of mere impulse and passion, 
 Loving his friends, and generous to his foes, 
 
 And fickle as the most ephemeral fashion, 
 Save in the cut and colour of his clothes, 
 
 And in a set of phrases which, on land, 
 
 The wisest head could never understand. 
 
 He thinks his dialect the very best 
 That ever flow'd from any human lip, 
 
 And whether in his prayers, or at a jest, 
 Uses the terms for managing a ship ; 
 
 And even in death would order up the helm, 
 
 In hope to clear the " undiscover'd realm." 
 
 He makes a friend where'er he meets a shore, 
 One whom he cherishes with some affection ; 
 
 But leaving port, he thinks of her no more, 
 Unless it be, perchance, in some reflection 
 
 Upon his wicked ways, then, with a sigh, 
 
 Resolves on reformation — ere he die. 
 
 In calms, he gazes at the sleeping sea, 
 
 Or seeks his lines, and sets himself to angling, 
 
 Or takes to politics, and, being free 
 
 Of facts and full of feeling, falls to wrangling : 
 
 Then recollects a distant eye and lip, 
 
 And rues the day on which he saw a ship : 
 
 Then looks up to the sky to watch each cloud, 
 As it displays its faint and fleeting form ; 
 
 Then o'er the calm begins to mutter loud, 
 
 And swears he would exchange it for a storm, 
 
 Tornado, any thing — to put a close 
 
 To this most dead, monotonous repose. 
 
 An order given, and he obeys, of course, 
 
 Though 'twere to run his ship upon the rocks — 
 
 Captuie a squadron with a boat's-crew force — 
 Or batter down the massive granite blocks 
 
 Of some huge fortress with a swivel, pike, 
 
 ristol, aught that will throw a ball, or strike. 
 
 He never shrinks, whatever may betide ; 
 
 His weapon may be shiver'd in his hand, 
 His last companion shot down at his side, 
 
 Still he maintains his firm and desperate stand — 
 Bleeding and battling — with his colours fast 
 As nail can bind them to his shatter'd mast. . . . 
 
 I love the sailor — his eventful life — 
 
 His generous spirit — his contempt of danger — 
 His firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife ; 
 
 And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger, 
 God grant he make that port, when life is o'er, 
 Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more. 
 
 MY FIRST LOVE, AND MY LAST. 
 
 Cathara, when the many silent tears 
 
 Of beauty, bending o'er thy bed, 
 Bespoke the change familiar to our fears, 
 
 I could not think thy spirit yet had fled — 
 So like to life the slumber death had cast 
 On thy sweet face, my first love and my last. 
 I watch'd to see those lids their light unfold, 
 
 For still thy forehead rose serene and fair, 
 As when those raven ringlets richly roll'd 
 
 O'er life, which dwelt in thought and beauty there 
 Thy cheek the while was rosy with the theme 
 That flush'd along the spirit's mystic dream. 
 
 Thy lips were circled with that silent smile 
 Which oft around their dewy freshness woke, 
 
 When some more happy thought or harmless wile 
 Upon thy warm and wandering fancy broke : 
 
 For thou wert Nature's child, and took the tone 
 
 Of every pulse, as if it were thine own. 
 
 I watch'd, and still believed that thou wouldst wake, 
 When others came to place thee in the shroud : 
 
 I thought to see this seeming slumber break, 
 As I have seen a light, transparent cloud 
 
 Disperse, which o'er a star's sweet face had thrown 
 
 A shadow like to that which veil'd thine own. 
 
 But, no: there was no token, look, or breath: 
 The tears of those around, the tolling bell 
 
 And hearse told us at last that this was death ! 
 I know not if I breathed a last farewell ; 
 
 But since that day my sweetest hours have pass'd 
 
 In thought of thee, my first love and my last. 
 
WILLIAM B. WALTER. 
 
 [Bom, about 1796. Died, 1823.] 
 
 The first American ancestor of William B. 
 Walter was "the good old puritan," as Whit- 
 field styles him, the Reverend Nehemiah Wal- 
 ter, who was graduated at Harvard College in 
 1784, and was soon after ordained as colleague of 
 the apostle Eliot. He was a great grandson of 
 the Reverend Increase Mather, one of the most 
 celebrated characters in the ecclesiastical and civil 
 history of New England ; a grandson of the Rev- 
 erend Nathaniel Walter, many years a dis- 
 
 tinguished minister of Roxbury; and a son of the 
 Reverend William Walter, D.D., sometime 
 rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was 
 educated at Bowdoin College, where he took his 
 bachelor's degree in 1818. In 1821 he published 
 in Boston two volumes, entitled "Sukey," and 
 " Poems." Of " Sukey" a third edition was print- 
 ed the same year in Baltimore. He confesses an 
 anxiety for fame, and informs us that these works 
 are the measure of his best abilities. 
 
 WHERE IS HE ! 
 
 His way was on the waters deep, 
 
 For lands, far distant and unknown ; 
 His heart could feel, his eye could weep, 
 
 For sufferings other than his own ; 
 And he could seem what others be, 
 Yet only seem : but where is he 1 
 I wander through this grove of love — ■ 
 
 The valley lone — and climb the hill, 
 Where he was wont in life to rove; 
 
 And all looks calm and pleasant still; 
 And there, his bower and cypress tree — ■ 
 That tree of gloom — but where is he? 
 The sun above shines now as bright 
 
 Through heaven's blue depths, as once it shone ; 
 The clouds roll beautiful in light, 
 
 Sweeping around the Eternal's throne ; 
 The singing birds are full of glee, 
 Their songs are sweet: but where is he'! 
 The mirror of the moon on high — 
 
 That bright lake — seems as softly calm; 
 The stars as richly throng the sky ; 
 
 The night winds breathe their fragrant balm ; 
 Rolls on as bright that deep blue sea 
 Its mighty waves: but where is he? 
 Here is the wreath he twined ; but now 
 
 This rosy wreath is twined in vain ; 
 Tears, nor the bosom's warmest glow, 
 
 Will ever give it life again ! — 
 All this is dark and strange to me, 
 And still I ask : oh, where is he"! 
 I touch his harp ; the magic strings, 
 
 The loveliest sounds of music pour — 
 But sadly wild, as if the wings 
 
 Of Death's dark angel swept them o'er ; 
 The chords are lulled ! It may not be ! 
 And spirits whisper : Where is he 1 
 His way was on the waters deep ; 
 
 His corse is on an unknown shore ; 
 He sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, 
 
 And we shall see his face no more. 
 'T is a sad tale ! he died for me ! 
 Oh, God ! enough! — but where is he ? 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A POEM «TO AN 
 INFANT." 
 
 Ah ! little deemest thou, my child, 
 The way of life is dark and wild — ■ 
 Its sunshine, but a light whose play 
 Serves but to dazzle and betray — 
 Weary and long; its end, the tomb, 
 Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom ; 
 That resting-place of things which live, 
 The goal of all that earth can give. 
 
 It may be that the dreams of fame, 
 Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name, 
 Shall lure thee to the field of blood, 
 Where, like a god, war's fiery flood 
 May bear thee on ; while, far above, 
 Thy crimson banners proudly move, 
 Like the red clouds which skirt the sun, 
 When the fierce tempest-day is done ! 
 
 Or lead thee to a cloister'd cell, 
 Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell — 
 The midnight lamp and brow of care, 
 The frozen heart that mocks despair, 
 Consumption's fires that burn the cheek, 
 The brain that throbs, but will not break, 
 The travail of the soul, to gain 
 A name, and die — alas ! in vain. 
 
 Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there, 
 Of this world's crimes ; of many a snare 
 To catch the soul ; of pleasures wild, 
 Friends false, foes dark, and hearts beguiled; 
 Of Passion's ministers who sway, 
 With iron sceptre, all who stray; 
 Of broken hearts still loving on, 
 When all is lost, and changed, and gone! 
 
 Thy tears will flow, and thou wilt weep 
 As he has wept who eyes thy sleep. 
 But weeps no more : His heart is cold, 
 Warp'd, sicken'd, sear'd, with woes untold. 
 And be it so ! the clouds which roll 
 Dark, heavy, o'er my troubled soul, 
 Bring with them lightnings, which illume, 
 To shroud the mind in deeper gloom ! 
 
 247 
 
JAMES WALLIS EASTBUKN. 
 
 [Born, 1797. Died, 1819.] 
 
 The literary career of James Wallis East- 
 btjrn was so intimately connected with that of 
 Robert C. Sands, that its most interesting fea- 
 tures will necessarily be stated in the biography 
 of that author. He was a son of James Eastbtjrn, 
 a well-known New York bookseller, and a brother 
 of Manton Eastbtjrn, now bishop of the Protest- 
 ant Episcopal Church in Massachusetts. He was 
 graduated at Columbia College, in New York, 
 studied theology under Bishop Griswold, at Bris- 
 tol, Rhode Island, and, being admitted to orders, 
 was settled in Virginia. Declining health soon 
 compelled him to relinquish his professional oc- 
 cupations, however, and on the twenty-eighth of 
 November, 1819, he sailed from New York for 
 Santa Cruz, as a last resource for recruiting his ex- 
 
 hausted constitution, and died at sea,four days after, 
 at the early age of twenty-two years. 
 
 " Yamoyden" was planned by young Eastbtjrn 
 during his residence amid the scenes of King Phi- 
 lip's wars, in Rhode Island, and he undoubtedly 
 wrote a considerable portion of the first and second 
 contos; but the genius of Sands is apparent in 
 the more remarkable passages of the poem, and he 
 must have been the author of much the greater 
 part of it, though he modestly withheld his name 
 from the title page, on its publication, after East- 
 btjrn's death. Besides an unfinished metrical 
 version of the Psalms, Eastbtjrn left a volume 
 of manuscript poems, from which a considerable 
 number of specimens were published in the 
 " United States Literary Gazette" for 1824. 
 
 TO PNEUMA. 
 
 Tempests their furious course may sweep 
 Swiftly o'er the troubled deep, 
 Darkness may lend her gloomy aid, 
 And wrap the groaning world in shade; 
 But man can show a darker hour, 
 And bend beneath a stronger power: 
 There is a tempest of the soul, 
 A glc m where wilder billows roll ! 
 
 The howling wilderness may spread 
 Its pathless deserts, parched and dread, 
 Where not a blade of herbage blooms, 
 , Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes; 
 Where silence, death, and horror reign, 
 Uncheck'd, across the wide domain: 
 There is a desert of the mind 
 More hopeless, dreary, undefined. 
 
 There sorrow, moody discontent, 
 And gnawing care are wildly blent; 
 There horror hangs her darkest clouds, 
 And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds; 
 A sickly ray is cast around, 
 Where naught but dreariness is found; 
 A feeling that may not be told, 
 Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold. 
 
 The wildest ills that darken life 
 
 Are rapture, to the bosom's strife; 
 
 The tempest, in its blackest form, 
 
 Is beauty, to the bosom's storm; 
 
 The ocean, lashed to fury loud, 
 
 Its high wave mingling with the cloud, 
 
 Is peaceful, sweet serenity, 
 
 To passion's dark and boundless sea. 
 
 There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, 
 When storms are warring in the breast; 
 
 9.48 
 
 There is no moment of repose 
 In bosoms lashed by hidden woes; 
 The scorpion stings, the fury rears 
 And every trembling fibre tears, 
 The vulture preys, with bloody beak, 
 Upon— the heart that can but break ! 
 
 SONG OF AN INDIAN MOTHER. 
 
 Sleep, child of my love ! be thy slumber as light 
 As the redbird's that nestles secure on the spray ; 
 
 Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright 
 As the dewdrops that sparkle around with the ray ! 
 
 Oh, soft flows the breath from thine innocent 
 
 breast ; 
 
 In the wild wood sjeep cradles, in roses, thy head ; 
 
 But her who protects thee, a wanderer unbless'd, 
 
 He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of 
 
 dread. 
 
 I fear for thy father ! why stays he so long 
 On the shores where the wife of the giant was 
 thrown, 
 
 And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song, 
 So sad o'er the wave, ere she hardened to stone ? 
 
 He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, 
 Where the foe in the moonbeams his path may 
 descry ; 
 
 The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, 
 And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry ! 
 
 The Power that is round us, whose presence is near, 
 In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul, 
 
 Protect that frail bark in its lonely career, 
 And shield thee when roughly life's billows shall 
 roll. 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 [Born, 1799. Died, 1832.] 
 
 The history of American literature, for the period 
 which has already passed, will contain the names 
 of few men of greater genius, or more general 
 learning, than Robert C. Sands. His life has 
 been written so well by his intimate friend, Gu- 
 lian C. Verpianck, LL. D., that I shall attempt 
 only to present an abstract of the narrative of that 
 accomplished scholar and critic. 
 
 Sands was born in the city of New York, (where 
 his father, who had been distinguished for his pa- 
 triotism during the revolutionary struggle, was an 
 eminent merchant,) on the eleventh of May, 1799. 
 At a very early age he was remarkable for great 
 quickness of apprehension, and facility of acquir- 
 ing knowledge. When seven years old, he began 
 to study the Latin language, and at thirteen he 
 was admitted to the sophomore class of Columbia 
 College. He had already, under Mr. Findlay, 
 of Newark, and the Reverend Mr. Whelpley, of 
 New York, made great progress in classical know- 
 ledge ; and while in the college, which had long 
 been distinguished for sound and accurate instruc- 
 tion in the dead languages, he excelled all his 
 classmates in ancient learning, and was equally 
 successful in the mathematics and other branches 
 of study. In his second collegiate year, in con- 
 junction with his friend Eastburn, and some 
 other students, he established a periodical entitled 
 "The Moralist," and afterward another, called 
 "Academic Recreations," of both of which he 
 wrote the principal contents. He was graduated 
 in 1815, and soon after became a student in the 
 law-office of David B. Ogden, one of the most 
 distinguished advocates of the time. He pursued 
 his legal studies with great ardour ; his course of 
 reading was very extensive ; and he became not 
 only familiar with the more practical part of pro- 
 fessional knowledge, but acquired a relish for the 
 abstruse doctrines and subtle reasonings of the 
 ancient common law. 
 
 Still he found time for the study of the classics ; 
 and, in company with two or three friends, read 
 several of the most difficult of the Greek authors, 
 exactly and critically. His love of composition 
 continued .to grow upon him. He wrote on all 
 subjects, and for all purposes ; and, in addition to 
 essays and verses, on topics of his own choice, 
 volunteered to write orations for the commence- 
 ment displays of young graduates, verses for young 
 lovers, and even sermons for young divines. Seve- 
 ral of the latter, written in an animated style, were 
 much admired, when delivered in the pulpit with 
 good emphasis and discretion, to congregations 
 who little suspected to whom they were indebted 
 for their edification. One of them, at least, has 
 been printed under the name of the clergyman by 
 whom it was delivered. In 1817 he published a 
 
 poem, which he had begun and in great part writ- 
 ten four years before. It was called " The Bridal 
 of Vaumond," and was a metrical romance, founded 
 on the same legend of the transformation of a de- 
 crepit and miserable wretch into a youthful hero, 
 by compact with the infernal powers, which forms 
 the groundwork of Byron's "Deformed Trans- 
 formed." 
 
 It was during the period of these studies, that 
 he and three of his friends, of as many different 
 professions, formed an association, of a somewhat 
 remarkable character, under the name of the Lite- 
 rary Confederacy. The number was limited to 
 four; and they bound themselves to preserve a 
 friendly communication in all the vicissitudes of 
 life, and to endeavour, by all proper means, to ad- 
 vance their mutual and individual interest, to advise 
 each other on every subject, and to receive with 
 good temper the rebuke or admonition which might 
 thus be given. They proposed to unite, from time 
 to time, in literary publications, covenanting so- 
 lemnly that no matter hostile to the great principles 
 of religion or morals should be published by any 
 member. This compact was most faithfully kept 
 to the time of Sands's death, though the primary 
 objects of it were gradually given up, as other duties 
 engrossed the attention of its members. In the 
 first year of its existence, the confederacy contri- 
 buted largely to several literary and critical ga- 
 zettes, besides publishing in one of the daily papers 
 of the city a series of essays, under the title of the 
 " Amphilogist," and a second under that of the 
 " Neologist," which attracted much attention, and 
 were very widely circulated and republished in 
 the newspapers of the day. Sands wrote a large 
 portion of these, both in prose and verse. 
 
 His friend Eastburn had now removed to 
 Bristol, Rhode Island, where, after studying divi- 
 nity for some time under the direction of Bishop 
 Griswold, he took orders, and soon after settled 
 in Virginia. A regular correspondence was kept 
 up between the friends ; and the letters that have 
 been preserved are filled with the evidence of their 
 literary industry. Eastburn had undertaken a 
 new metrical version of the Psalms, which the 
 pressure of his clerical duties and his untimely 
 death prevented him from ever completing. Sands 
 was led by curiosity, as well as by his intimacy 
 with Eastburn, to acquire some knowledge of 
 the Hebrew. It was not very profound, but it 
 enabled him to try his skill at the same transla- 
 tion ; and he from time to time sent his friend a 
 Psalm paraphrased in verse. 
 
 But amid their severer studies and their literary 
 amusements, they were engaged in a bolder poeti- 
 cal enterprise. This was a romantic poem, founded 
 on the history of Philip, the celebrated sachem 
 
 249 
 
250 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 of the Pequods, and leader of the great Indian wars 
 against the New England colonists in 1C65 and 
 1676. It was planned by Eastbuiin. during his 
 residence in the vicinity of Mount Hope, in Rhode 
 Island, the ancient capital of the Pequod race, 
 where the scene is laid. In the year following, 
 when he visited New York, the plan of the story 
 was drawn up in conjunction with his friend. "We 
 had then," said Sands, "read nothing on the sub- 
 ject; and our plot was formed from a hasty glance 
 into a few pages of Hubbard's Narrative. After 
 Eastburn's return to Bristol, the poem was writ- 
 ''. ten, according to the parts severally assigned, and 
 transmitted, reciprocally, in the course of corre- 
 spondence. It was commenced in November, 1817, 
 and finished before the summer of 1818, except the 
 concluding stanzas of the sixth canto, which were 
 added after Mr. Eastburn left Bristol. As the 
 fable was defective, from our ignorance of the sub- 
 ject, the execution was also, from the same cause, 
 and the hasty mode of composition, in every re- 
 spect imperfect. Mr. Eastburn was then pre- 
 paring to take orders ; and his studies, with that 
 view, engrossed his attention. He was ordained 
 in October, 1818. Between that time and the 
 period of his going to Accomack county, Virginia, 
 whence he had received an invitation to take charge 
 of a congregation, he transcribed the first two can- 
 tos of this poem, with but few material variations, 
 from the first collating copy. The labours of hk 
 ministry left him no time even for his most de- 
 lightful amusement. He had made no further 
 progress in the correction of the work when he 
 returned to New York, in July, 1819. His health 
 was then so much impaired, that writing of any 
 kind was too great a labour. He had packed up 
 the manuscripts, intending to finish his second 
 copy in Santa Cruz, whither it was recommended 
 to him to go, as the last resource to recruit his ex- 
 hausted constitution." He died on the fourth day 
 of his passage, on the second of December, 1819. 
 The work, thus left imperfect, was revised, ar- 
 ranged, and completed, with many additions, by 
 Sands. It was introduced by a proem, in which 
 the surviving poet mourned, in noble and touch- 
 ing strains, the accomplished friend of his youth. 
 The work was published under the title of " Ya- 
 moyden," at New York, in 1820. It unquestion- 
 ably shows some marks of the youth of its authors, 
 besides other imperfections arising from the mode 
 of its composition, which could not fail to prove a 
 serious impediment to a clear connection of the 
 plot, and a vivid and congruous conception of all 
 the characters. Yet it has high merit in various 
 ways. Its descriptions of natural scenery are alike 
 accurate and beautiful. Its style is flexible, flow- 
 ing, and poetical. It is rich throughout with histo- 
 rical and antiquarian knowledge of Indian history 
 and tradition; and every thing in the customs, man- 
 ners, superstitions, and story of the aborigines of 
 New England, that could be applied to poetical 
 purposes, is used with skill, judgment, and taste. 
 In 1820, Sands was admitted to the bar, and 
 opened an office in the city of New York. He 
 entered upon his professional career with high 
 
 hopes and an ardent love of the learning of the 
 law. His first attempt as an advocate was, how- 
 ever, unsuccessful, and he was disheartened by the 
 result. Though he continued the business of an 
 attorney, he made no second attempt of conse- 
 quence before a jury, and after a few years he 
 gradually withdrew himself from the profession. 
 During this period he persevered in his law read- 
 ing, and renewed and extended his acquaintance 
 with the Latin poets, and the "grave, lofty trage- 
 dians" of Greece ; acquiring an intimacy such as 
 professors might have envied, with the ancient 
 languages and learning. He had early learned 
 French, and was familiar with its copious and ele- 
 gant literature ; but he never much admired it, and 
 in his multifarious literary conversation and au- 
 thorship, rarely quoted or alluded to a French 
 author, except for facts. He now acquired the 
 Italian, and read carefully and with great admira- 
 tion all its great writers, from Dante to Alfieri. 
 His versions and imitations of Politian, Monti, 
 and Metastasio, attest how fully he entered into 
 their spirit. Some time after he acquired the Spa- 
 nish language very critically, and, after studying its 
 more celebrated writers, read very largely all the 
 Spanish historians and documents he could find 
 touching American history. In order to complete 
 his acquaintance with the cognate modern lan- 
 guages of Latin origin, he some years later ac- 
 quired the Portuguese, and read such of its authors 
 as he could procure. 
 
 In 1822 and 1823 he wrote many articles for 
 "The Literary Review," a monthly periodical then 
 published in New York, which received great in- 
 crease of reputation from his contributions. In 
 the winter of 1823-4, he and some friends pub- 
 lished seven numbers of a sort of mock-magazine, 
 entitled "The St. Tammany Magazine." Here he 
 gave the reins to his most extravagant and happi- 
 est humour, indulging in parody, burlesque, and 
 grotesque satire, thrown off in the gayest mood 
 and with the greatest rapidity, but as good-natured 
 as satire and parody could well be. In May, 1S24, 
 "The Atlantic Magazine" was established in New 
 York, and placed under his charge. At the end 
 of six months he gave up this work ; but when it 
 changed its name, and in part its character, and 
 became the New York Review, he was reengaged 
 as an editor, and assisted in conducting it until 
 1827. During this same period he assisted in 
 preparing and publishing a digest of equity cases, 
 and also in editing some other legal compilations, 
 enriching them with notes of the American deci- 
 sions. These publications were, it is true, not of 
 a high class of legal authorship ; but they show 
 professional reading and knowledge, as well as the 
 ready versatility of his mind. He had now become 
 an author by profession, and looked to his pen for 
 support, as heretofore for fame or for amusement. 
 When, therefore, an offer of a liberal salary was 
 made him as an assistant editor of the " New York 
 Commercial Advertiser," a long-established and 
 well-known daily evening paper, he accepted it, 
 and continued his connection with that journal 
 until his death. 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 251 
 
 His daily task of political or literary discussion 
 was far from giving him sufficient literary employ- 
 ment. His mind overflowed in all directions into 
 other journals, even some of different political 
 opinions from those which he supported. He had 
 a propensity for innocent and playful literary mis- 
 chief. It was his sport to excite public curiosity 
 by giving extracts, highly spiced with fashionable 
 allusions and satire, "from the forthcoming novel," 
 which novel, in truth, was, and is yet to be writ- 
 ten ; or else to entice some unhappy wight into a 
 literary or historical newspaper discussion, then to 
 combat him anonymously, or, under the mask of 
 a brother editor, to overwhelm him with history, 
 facts, quotations, and authorities, all, if necessary, 
 manufactured for the occasion ; in short, like 
 Shakspeare's "merry wanderer of the night," to 
 lead his unsuspecting victim around "through bog, 
 through bush, through brier." One instance of 
 this sportive propensity occurred in relation to a 
 controversy about the material of the Grecian crown 
 of victory, which arose during the excitement in 
 favour of Grecian liberty some years ago. Several 
 ingenious young men, fresh from their college 
 studies, had exhausted all the learning they could 
 procure on this grave question, either from their 
 own acquaintance with antiquity, or at second 
 hand from the writers upon Grecian antiquities, 
 Lexpriere, Potter, Barthelemi, or the more 
 erudite Paschalis de Corona,- till Sands grew 
 tired of seeing so much scholarship wasted, and 
 ended the controversy by an essay filled with ex- 
 cellent learning, chiefly fabricated by himself for 
 the occasion, and resting mainly on a passage of 
 Pausanius, quoted in the original Greek, for which 
 it is in vain to look in any edition of that author, 
 ancient or modern. He had also other and graver 
 employments. In 1828, some enterprising print- 
 ers proposed to supply South America with Spa- 
 nish books suited to that market, and printed in 
 New York. Among the works selected for this 
 purpose were the original letters of Cortes, the 
 conqueror of Mexico. No good life of Cortes 
 then existing in the English or Spanish language, 
 Sands was employed by the publishers to prepare 
 one, which was to be translated into Spanish, and 
 prefixed to the edition. He was fortunately re- 
 lieved from any difficulty arising from the want of 
 materials, by finding in the library of the New 
 York Historical Society a choice collection of ori- 
 ginal Spanish authorities, which afforded him all 
 that, he desired. His manuscript was translated 
 into Spanish, and prefixed to the letters of the Con- 
 quistador, of which a large edition was printed, 
 while the original remained in manuscript until 
 San-rs's writings were collected, after his death, 
 by Mr. Verplanck. Thus his work had the sin- 
 gular fortune of being read throughout Spanish 
 America, in another language, while it was totally 
 unknown in its own country and native tongue. 
 Soon after completing this piece of literary labour, 
 he became accidentally engaged in another under- 
 taking which afforded him much amusement and 
 gratification. The fashion of decorated literary 
 annuals, which the English and French had bor- 
 
 rowed some years before from the literary alma- 
 nacs, so long the favourites of Germany, had 
 reached the United States, and the booksellers in 
 the principal cities were ambitiously vieing with 
 each other in the " Souvenirs," " Tokens," and 
 other annual volumes. Mr. Bliss, a bookseller 
 of New York, desirous to try his fortune in the 
 same way, pressed Mr. Sands to undertake the 
 editorship of a work of this sort. This he at first 
 declined ; but it happened that, in conversation 
 with his two friends, Mr. Verplanck and Mr. 
 Bryant, a regret was expressed that the old 
 fashion of Queen Anne's time, of publishing vo- 
 lumes of miscellanies by two or three authors 
 together, had gone out of date. They had the 
 advantage, it was said, over our ordinary maga- 
 zines, of being more select and distinctive in the 
 characters and subjects, and yet did not impose 
 upon the authors the toil or responsibility of a 
 regular and separate work. In this way Pope and 
 Swift had published their minor pieces, as had 
 other writers of that day, of no small merit and 
 fame. One of the party proposed to publish a 
 little volume of their own miscellanies, in humble 
 imitation of the English wits of the last century. 
 It occurred to Sands to combine this idea with 
 the form and decorations of the annual. The ma- 
 terials of a volume were hastily prepared, amid 
 other occupations of the several authors, without 
 any view to profit, and more for amusement than 
 reputation; the kindness of several artists, with 
 whom Sands was in habits of intimacy, furnished 
 some respectable embellishmencs ; and thus a mis- 
 cellany which, with the exception of two short poeti- 
 cal contributions, was who'ly written by Mr. Sands 
 and his two friends above named, was published 
 with the title of " The Talisman," and under the 
 name and character of an imaginary author, Fran- 
 cis Herbert, Esq. It was favourably received, 
 and, on the solicitation of the publisher, a second 
 volume was as hastily prepared in the following 
 year, by the same persons. Of this publication 
 about one-fourth was entirely from Sands's pen, 
 and about as much more was his joint work with 
 one or another of his friends. This, as the reader 
 must have remarked, was a favourite mode of au- 
 thorship with him. He composed with ease and 
 rapidity, and, delighting in the work of composi- 
 tion, it gave him additional pleasure to make it a 
 social enjoyment. He had this peculiarity, that 
 the presence of others, in which most authors find 
 a restraint upon the free course of their thoughts 
 and fancies, was to him a source of inspiration 
 and excitement. This was peculiarly visible in 
 gay or humorous writing. In social compositions 
 of this nature, his talent for ludicrous description 
 and character and incident rioted and revelled, so 
 that it generally became more the business of his 
 coadjutor to chasten and sober his thick-coming 
 fancies, than to furnish any thing like an equal 
 contingent of thought or invention. For the pur- 
 pose of such joint-stock authorship it is necessary 
 that one of the associates should possess Sands's 
 unhesitating and rapid fluency of written style, 
 and his singular power of seizing the ideas and 
 
25-; 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 images of his friends, and assimilating them per- 
 fectly to his own. 
 
 His " Dream of Papantzin,"* a poem, one of 
 the fruits of his researches into Mexican history, 
 
 * " Papantzin, a Mexican princess, sister of Moteuc- 
 zoma, anil widow of the governor of Tlatelolco, died, as 
 was supposed, in the palace of the latter, in 1509. Her 
 funeral rites were celebrated with the usual pomp; her 
 brother and all the nobility attending. She was buried 
 in a cave, or subterranean grotto, in the gardens of the 
 same palace, neara reservoir in which she usually bathed. 
 The entrance of the cave was closed with a stone of no 
 great size. On the day after the funeral, a little girl, five 
 or six years old, who lived in the palace, was going from 
 her mother's house to the residence of the princess's 
 major-domo, in a farther part of the garden; and passing 
 by, she heard the princess calling to her eoeoton, a phrase 
 used to call and coax children, &c. &x. The princess sent 
 the little girl to call her mother, and much alarm was of 
 course excited. At length the King of Tezcuco was noti- 
 fied of her resurrection ; and, on his representation, Mo- 
 teuczoma himself, full of terror, visited her with his chief 
 nobility. lie asked her if she was his sister. 'I am,' said 
 she, 'the same whom you buried yesterday. I am alive, 
 and desire to tell you what I have seen, as it imports to 
 know it.' Then the Icings sat down, and the others re- 
 mained standing, marvelling at what they heard. 
 
 "Then the princess, resuming her discourse, said: — 
 'After my life, or, if that is possible, after sense and the 
 power of motion departed, incontinently I found myself 
 in a vast plain, to which there was no bound in any direc- 
 tion. In the midst I discerned a road, which divided into 
 various paths, and on one side was a great river, whose 
 waters made a frightful rushing noise. Being minded to 
 leap into it to cross to the opposite side, a fair youth stood 
 before my eyes, of noble presence, clad in long robes, 
 white as snow, and resplendent as the sun. He had two 
 wings of beautiful plumage, and bore this sign on his fore- 
 head, (so saying, the princess made with her fingers the 
 sign of the cross;) and taking me by the hand, said, 'Stay, 
 it is not yet time to pass this river. God loves thee, al- 
 though thou dost not know it.' Thence he led me along 
 the shores of the river, where I saw many skulls and 
 human bones, and heard such doleful groans, that they 
 moved me to compassion. Then, turning my eyes to the 
 river, I saw in it divers great barks, and in them many 
 men, different from those of these regions in dress and 
 complexion. They were white and bearded, having 
 standards in their hands, and helmets on their heads. 
 Then the young man said to me, 'God wills that you 
 should live, that you may bear testimony of the revolu- 
 tions which are to occur in these countries. The cla- 
 mours thou hast heard on these banks are those of the 
 souls of thine ancestors, which are and ever will be tor- 
 mented in punishment of their sins. The men whom 
 thou seest passing in the barks, are those who with arms 
 will make themselves masters of this country; and with 
 them will come also an annunciation of the true God, 
 Creator of heaven and earth. When the war is finished, 
 and the ablution promulgated which washes away sin, 
 thou shalt be first to receive it, and guide by thine exam- 
 ple all the inhabitants of this land.' Thus having said, 
 the young man disappeared; and I found myself restored 
 to life— rose from the place on which I lay— lifted the 
 stone from the sepulchre, and issued forth from the gar- 
 den, where the servants found me.' 
 
 " Moteuczoma went to his house of mourning, full of 
 heavy thoughts, saying nothing to his sister, (whom he 
 would never see again,) nor to the King of Tezcuco, nor 
 to his courtiers, who tried to persuade him that it was a 
 feverish fantasy of the princess. She lived many years 
 afterward, and in 1521 was baptized." 
 
 This incident, says Clavigero, was universally known, 
 and made a great noise at the time. It is described in 
 several Mexican pictures, and affidavits of its truth were 
 sent to the court of Spain. — The Talisman. 
 
 is remarkable for the religious solemnity of the 
 thoughts, the magnificence of the imagery, and 
 the flow of the versification. It was first published 
 in "The Talisman," for the year 1839. 
 
 His next literary employment was the publi- 
 cation of a new "Life of Paul Jones," from ori- 
 ginal letters and printed and manuscript materials 
 furnished him by a niece of the commodore. He 
 at first meditated an entirely original work, as 
 attractive and discursive as he could make it ; but 
 various circumstances limited him in great part to 
 compilation and correction of the materials fur- 
 nished him, or, as he termed it in one of his letters, 
 in his accustomed quaintness of phrase, "upsetting 
 some English duodecimos, together with all the 
 manuscripts, into an American octavo, without 
 worrying his brains much about the matter." This 
 biography was printed in 1831, in a closely-printed 
 octavo, and is doubtless the best and most authen- 
 tic narrative of the life of this gallant, chivalrous, 
 and erratic father of the American navy. 
 
 In the close of the year 1832, a work, entitled 
 "Tales of the Glauber Spa," was published in New 
 York. This was a series of original tales by dif- 
 ferent authors — Bhiaut, Paulding, Leggett, 
 and Miss Sedgwick. To this collection Sands 
 contributed the introduction, which is tinged with 
 his peculiar humour, and two of the tales, both of 
 which are written in his happiest vein. 
 
 The last finished composition of Sands was a 
 little poem entitled "The Dead of 1832," which 
 appeared anonymously in "The Commercial Ad- 
 vertiser," about a week before his own death. He 
 was destined to join those whom he mourned 
 within the few remaining days of the same year. 
 Charles F. Hoffman had then just established 
 "The Knickerbocker Magazine," and Sands, on 
 the seventeenth of December, about four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, sat down to finish an article on 
 "Esquimaux Literature," which he had engaged 
 to furnish for that periodical. After writing with 
 a pencil the following line, suggested, probably, by 
 some topic in the Greenland mythology, 
 
 "O, think not my spirit among you abides," 
 he was suddenly struck with the disease which 
 removed his own spirit from its material dwelling. 
 Below this line, on the original manuscript, were 
 observed, after his death, several irregular pencil- 
 marks, extending nearly across the page, as if 
 traced by a hand that moved in darkness, or no 
 longer obeyed the impulse of the will. He rose, 
 opened the door, and attempted to pass out of the 
 room, but fell on the threshold. On being assisted 
 to his chamber, and placed on the bed, he was 
 observed to raise his powerless right arm with the 
 other, and looking at it, to shed tears. He shortly 
 after relapsed into a lethargy, from which he never 
 awoke, and in less than four hours from the attack, 
 expired without a struggle. He died in his thirty- 
 fourth year, when his talents, enriched by study 
 and the experience of life, and invigorated by con- 
 stant exercise, were fully matured for greater and 
 bolder literary enterprise than any he had yet 
 essayed. His death was deeply mourned by many 
 friends, and most deeply by those who knew him best. 
 
ROBEKT C. SANDS. 
 
 253 
 
 PROEM TO YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, 
 The last that either bard shall e'er essay ! 
 The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, 
 That first awoke them, in a happier day : 
 Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, 
 His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave ; 
 And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, 
 Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallow'd honours crave ; 
 His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave ! 
 
 Friend of my youth, with thee began the love 
 Of sacred song ; the wont, in golden dreams, 
 Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, 
 O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams ; 
 Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom, gleams 
 Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, 
 Forever lit by memory's twilight beams ; 
 Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, 
 Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. 
 
 There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear, 
 O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll ; 
 Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, 
 Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole ; 
 There would we mark, uncurb'd by all control, 
 In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight ; 
 Or hold communion with the musing soul 
 Of sage or bard, who sought, mid pagan night, 
 In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. 
 
 Homeward we turn'd, to that fair land, but late 
 Redeem'd from the strong spell that bound it fast, 
 Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate 
 And kept the key, till three millenniums pass'd ; 
 When, as creation's noblest work was last ; 
 Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see 
 Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, 
 And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be 
 An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. 
 
 And here, forerunners strange and meet were 
 
 found, 
 Of that bless'd freedom, only dream'd before ; — 
 Dark were the morning mists, that linger'd round 
 Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. 
 "Earth was their mother;" — or they knew no 
 
 more, 
 Or would not that their secret should be told ; 
 For they were grave and silent ; and such lore, 
 To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, 
 The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught 
 
 of old. 
 
 Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew 
 Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard ; 
 And him whom strength and wisdom crown'd 
 
 they knew, 
 But with no servile reverence, as their lord. 
 And on their mountain summits they adored 
 One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, 
 And thence their incense and orisons pour'd 
 To his pervading presence, that abroad 
 They felt through all his works, — their Father, 
 
 King, and God. 
 
 And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, 
 The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, 
 Soft-falling showers, or hues of orient day, 
 They imaged spirits beautiful and good ; 
 But when the tempest roar'd, with voices rude, 
 Or fierce red lightning fired the forest pine, 
 Or withering heats untimely sear'd the wood, 
 The angry forms they saw of powers malign ; 
 These they besought to spare, those bless'd for aid 
 divine. 
 
 As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, 
 With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, 
 Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, 
 And as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame ; 
 Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name ; 
 These simple truths went down from sire to son, — 
 To reverence age, — the sluggish hunter's shame 
 And craven warrior's infamy to shun, — [done. 
 And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred 
 
 From forest shades they peer'd, with awful dread, 
 When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, 
 The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, 
 Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. 
 Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride 
 From shores and hills has vanish'd, with the race, 
 Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, 
 Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, 
 In each green thicket's depths, and lone, seques- 
 ter'd place. 
 
 And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet 
 Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, 
 Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, 
 To people scenes where still their names remain ; 
 And so began our young, delighted strain, 
 That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, 
 And bid their martial hosts arise again, 
 Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, 
 And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the 
 wave. 
 
 Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song, 
 And o'er thy bier its latest accents die ; 
 Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long, — 
 Though not to me the muse adverse deny, 
 Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, 
 Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; 
 And he who loved with thee his notes to try, 
 But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, 
 And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. 
 
 But, no ! the freshness of the past shall still 
 Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; 
 When through the ideal fields of song, at will, 
 He roved and gather'd chaplets wild with thee ; 
 When, reckless of the world, alone and free, 
 Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, 
 That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea ; 
 Their white apparel and their streamers gay 
 Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly 
 ray;— 
 
 And downward, far, reflected in the clear 
 Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees; 
 So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, 
 And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; 
 
254 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, 
 They part for distant ports : the gales benign 
 Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, 
 To its own harbour sure, where each divine 
 And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. 
 
 Muses of Helicon ! melodious race 
 Of Jove and golden-hair d Mnemosyxe ; 
 Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, 
 And drives each scowling form of grief away ! 
 Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay 
 Once trod, and round the attar of great Jove ; 
 Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way 
 Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, 
 That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and fill'd his 
 courts above. 
 
 Bright choir ! with lips un tempted, and with zone 
 Sparkling, and unapproach'd by touch profane ; 
 Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known 
 The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ; 
 Rightly invoked, — if right the elected swain, 
 On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, 
 Whose honour'd hand took not your gift in vain, 
 Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore, — 
 Farewell ! a long farewell ! I worship you no more. 
 
 DREAM OF THE PRINCESS PAPANTZIN. 
 
 Mexitlis' power was at its topmost pride ; 
 The name was terrible from sea to sea ; 
 From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite 
 Maintain'd his savage freedom, to the shores 
 Of wild Higueras. Through the nations pass'd, 
 As stalks the angel of the pestilence, [young, 
 
 The great king's messengers. They marked the 
 The brave and beautiful, and bore them on 
 For their foul sacrifices. Terror went 
 Before the tyrant's heralds. Grief and wrath 
 Remain'd behind their steps ; but they were dumb. 
 
 He was as God. Yet in his capital 
 Sat Moteuczoma, second of that name, 
 Trembling with fear of dangers long foretold 
 In ancient prophecies, and now announced 
 By signs in heaven and portents upon earth ; 
 By the reluctant voices of pale priests ; 
 By the grave looks of solemn counsellors ; 
 But chief, by sickening heaviness of heart 
 That told of evil, dimly understood, 
 But evil which must come. With face obscured, 
 And robed in night, the giant phantom rose, 
 Of his great empire's ruin, and his own. 
 Happier, though guiltier, he, before whose glance 
 Of reckless triumph, moved the spectral hand 
 That traced the unearthly characters of fate. 
 
 'T was then, one eve, when o'er the imperial lake 
 And ail its cities, glittering in their pomp, 
 The lord of glory threw his parting smiles, 
 In Tlatelolco's palace, in her bower, 
 Papantzin lay reclined; sister of him 
 A t whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there 
 To musings various, o'er her senses crept 
 Or sleep, or kindred death. It seem'd she stood 
 In an illimitable plain, that stretch'd 
 
 Its desert continuity around, 
 Upon the o'erwearied sight ; in contrast strange 
 With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt, 
 Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it, 
 As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth ; 
 Their summits freezing, where the eagle tired, 
 But found no resting-place. Papantzix look'd 
 On endless barrenness, and walk'd perplex'd 
 Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath, 
 Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom 
 Debarred from light and glory. Wandering thus, 
 She came where a great sullen river pour'd 
 Its turbid waters with a rushing sound 
 Of painful moans ; as if the inky waves 
 Were hastening still on their complaining course 
 To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond 
 What seem'd a highway ran, with branching paths 
 Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge 
 Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew 
 To shun with agile limbs the current's force, 
 Nor fear'd the noise of waters. She had play'd 
 From infancy in her fair native lake, 
 Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round, 
 Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues 
 As fearless and as innocent as they. 
 
 A vision stay'd her purpose. By her side 
 Stood a bright youth ; and startling, as she gazed 
 On his effulgence, every sense was bound 
 In pleasing awe and in fond reverence. 
 For not Tezcatlipoca, as he shone 
 Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven 
 By filmy thread sustain'd he came to earth, 
 In his resplendent mail reflecting all 
 Its images, with dazzling portraiture, 
 Was, in his radiance and immortal youth, 
 A peer to this new god. — His stature was 
 Like that of men ; but match'd with his, the port 
 Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien 
 Of suppliants at their feet. Serene the light 
 That floated round him, as the lineaments 
 It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet 
 The impression of his features, which to scan 
 Their lofty loveliness forbade: His eyes 
 She felt, but saw not : only, on his brow — 
 From over which, encircled by what seem'd 
 A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light 
 Revolving ever, backward flow'd his locks 
 In buoyant, waving clusters — on his brow 
 She mark'd a cross described ; and lowly bent, 
 She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign. 
 From either shoulder mantled o'er his front 
 Wings dropping feathery silver ; and his robe, 
 Snow-white, in the still air was motionless, 
 As that of chisell'd god, or the pale shroud 
 Of some fear-conjured ghost. Her hand he took 
 And led her passive o'er the naked banks 
 Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily. 
 But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more ; 
 His voice seem'd sweeter than the hymnings raised 
 By brave and gentle souls in Paradise, 
 To celebrate the outgoing of the sun, 
 On his majestic progress over heaven. [yet 
 
 " Stay, princess," thus he spoke, " thou mayst not 
 O'erpass these waters. Though thou know'st it not, 
 Nor him, God loves thee." So he led her on, 
 
Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds : 
 For now, o'er scatter'd skulls and grisly bones 
 They walk'd ; while underneath, before, behind, 
 Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long, 
 Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony, 
 And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell 
 Of hopeless and intolerable pain. 
 
 Shuddering, as, in the gloomy whirlwind's pause, 
 Through the malign, distemper'd atmosphere, 
 The second circle's purple blackness, pass'd 
 The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades 
 Of poor Francesca and her paramour, — 
 The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepp'd, 
 Listening the frightful clamour ; till a gleam, 
 Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seem'd 
 Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up 
 The sable river. Then a pageant came 
 Over its obscure tides, of stately barks, 
 Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device, 
 Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high, 
 Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air. 
 Grim, bearded men, with stern and angry looks, 
 Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind 
 Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore 
 A broad sheet-pendant, where, inwrought with gold, 
 She mark'd the symbol that adorned the brow 
 Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream 
 Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light 
 Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose 
 The roar of voices from the accursed strand, 
 Until in tones, solemn and sweet, again 
 Her angel-leader spoke. " Princess, Gon wills 
 That thou shouldst live, to testify on earth 
 What changes are to come : and in the world 
 Where change comes never, live, when earth and all 
 Its changes shall have pass'd like earth away. 
 The cries that pierced thy soul and chill'd thy veins 
 Are those of thy tormented ancestors. 
 Nor shall their torment cease ; for God is just. 
 Foredoom' d, — since first from Aztlan led to rove, 
 Following, in quest of change, their kindred tribes — 
 Where'er they rested, with foul sacrifice 
 They stain'd the shuddering earth. Their monu- 
 By blood cemented, after ages pass'd, [ments, 
 
 With idle wonder of fantastic guess 
 The traveller shall behold. For, broken, then, 
 Like their own ugly idols, buried, burn'd, 
 Their fragments spurn'd for every servile use, 
 Trampled and scatter'd to the reckless winds, 
 The records of their origin shall be. 
 Still in their cruelty and untamed pride, 
 They lived and died condemn'd ; whether they 
 Outcasts, upon a soil that was not theirs, [dwelt 
 All sterile as it was, and won by stealth 
 Food from the slimy margent of the lake, 
 And digg'd the earth for roots and unclean worms ; 
 Or served in bondage to another race, 
 Who loved them not. Driven forth, they wander'd 
 In miserable want, until they came [then 
 
 Where from the thriftless rock the nopal grew, 
 On which the hungry eagle perch'd and scream'd, 
 And founded Tenochtitlan ; rearing first, 
 With impious care, a cabin for their god 
 Huitzilopochtli, and with murderous rites 
 Devoting to his guardianship themselves 
 
 And all their issue. Quick the nopal climb'd, 
 Its harsh and bristly growth towering o'er all 
 The vale of Anahuac. Far for his prey, 
 And farther still the ravenous eagle flew ; 
 And still with dripping beak, but thirst unslaked, 
 With savage cries wheel'd home. Nine kings have 
 
 reign'd, 
 Their records blotted and besmear'd with blood 
 So thick that none may read them. Down the stairs 
 And o'er the courts and winding corridors 
 Of their abominable piles, uprear'd 
 In the face of heaven, and naked to the sun, 
 More blood has flow'd than would have fill'd the lakes 
 O'er which, enthroned midst carnage, they have sat, 
 Heaping their treasures for the stranger's spoil. 
 Prodigious cruelty and waste of life, 
 Unnatural riot and blaspheming pride, — 
 All that God hates, — and all that tumbles down 
 Great kingdoms and luxurious commonwealths, 
 After long centuries waxing all corrupt, — 
 In their brief annals aggregated, forced, 
 And monstrous, are compress'd. And now the cup 
 Of wrath is full ; and now the hour has come. 
 Nor yet unwarn'd shall judgment overtake 
 The tribes of Aztlan, and in chief their lords, 
 Mexiths' blind adorers. As to one 
 Who feels his inward malady remain, 
 Howe'er health's seeming mocks his destiny, 
 In gay or serious mood the thought of death 
 Still comes obtrusive ; so old prophecy, 
 From age to age preserved,, has told thy race 
 How strangers, from beyond the rising sun, 
 Should come with thunder arm'd, to overturn 
 Their idols, to possess their lands, and hold 
 Them and their children in long servitude. 
 
 " Thou shalt bear record that the hour is nigh. 
 The white and bearded men whose grim array 
 Swept o'er thy sight, are those who are to come, 
 And with strong arms, and wisdom stronger far, 
 Strange beasts, obedient to their masters' touch, 
 And engines hurling death, with Fate to aid, 
 Shall wrest the sceptre from the Azteques' line, 
 And lay their temples flat. Horrible war, 
 Rapine, and murder, and destruction wild 
 Shall hurry like the whirlwind o'er the land. 
 Yet with the avengers come the word of peace ; 
 With the destroyers comes the bread of life ; 
 And, as the wind-god, in thine idle creed, 
 Opens a passage with his boisterous breath 
 Through which the genial waters over earth 
 Shed their reviving showers ; so, when the storm 
 Of war has pass'd, rich dews of heavenly grace 
 Shall fall on flinty hearts. And thou, the flower, — 
 Which, when huge cedars and most ancient pines, 
 Coeval with the mountains, are uptorn, 
 The hurricane shall leave unharm'd, — thou, then, 
 Shalt be the first to lift thy drooping head 
 Renew'd, and cleansed from every former stain. 
 " The fables of thy people teach, that when 
 The deluge drown'd mankind, and one sole pair 
 In fragile bark preserved, escaped and climb'd 
 The steeps of Colhuacan, daughters and sons 
 Were born to them, who knew not how to frame 
 Their simplest thoughts in speech ; till from the 
 A dove pour'd forth, in regulated sounds, [grove 
 
256 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 Each varied form of language. Then they spake, 
 Though neither by another understood. 
 But thou shalt then hear of that holiest Dove, 
 Which is the Spirit of the eternal Gon. 
 When all was void and dark, he moved above 
 Infinity; and from beneath his wings 
 Earth and the waters and the islands rose; 
 The air was quicken'd, and the world had life. 
 Tlien all the lamps of heaven began to shine, 
 And man was made to gaze upon their fires. 
 
 "Among thy fathers' visionary tales, 
 Thou 'st heard, how once near ancient Tula dwelt 
 A woman, holy and devout, who kept 
 The temple pure, and to its platform saw 
 A globe of emerald plumes descend from heaven. 
 Placing it in her bosom to adorn 
 Her idol's sanctuary, (so the tale 
 Runs,) she conceived, and bore Mexitli. He, 
 "When other children had assail'd her life, 
 Sprang into being, all equipp'd for war ; 
 His green plumes dancing in their circlet bright, 
 Like sheaf of sun-lit spray cresting the bed 
 Of angry torrents. Round, as Tonatiuh 
 Flames in mid-heaven, his golden buckler shone ; 
 Like nimble lightning flash'd his dreadful lance ; 
 And unrelenting vengeance in his eyes 
 Blazed with its swarthy lustre. He, they tell, 
 Led on their ancestors ; and him the god 
 Of wrath and terror, with the quivering hearts 
 And mangled limbs of myriads, and the stench 
 Of blood-wash'd shrines and altars they appease. 
 But then shall be reveal'd to thee the name 
 And vision of a virgin undefiled, 
 Embalm'd in holy beauty, in whose eyes, 
 Downcast and chaste, such sacred influence lived, 
 That none might gaze in their pure spheres and feel 
 One earth-born longing. Over her the Dove 
 Hung, and the Almighty power came down. She 
 In lowliness, and as a helpless babe, [bore 
 
 Heir to man's sorrows and calamities, 
 His great Deliverer, Conqueror of Death ; 
 A nd thou shalt learn, how when in years he grew 
 Perfect, and fairer than the sons of men, 
 And in that purifying rite partook 
 Which thou shalt share, as from his sacred locks 
 The glittering waters dropp'd, high over head 
 The azure vault was open'd, and that Dove 
 Swiftly, serenely floating downwards, stretch'd 
 His silvery pinions o'er the anointed Lord, 
 Sprinkling celestial dews. And thou shalt hear 
 How, when the sacrifice for man had gone 
 In glory home, as his chief messengers 
 Were met in council, on a mighty wind 
 The Dove was borne among them ; on each brow 
 A forked tongue of fire unquenchable lit ; 
 And, as the lambent points shot up and waved, 
 Strange speech came to them ; thence to every land, 
 In every tongue, they, with untiring steps. 
 Bore the glad tidings of a world redeem'd." 
 
 Much more, which now it suits not to rehearse, 
 The princess heard. The historic prophet told 
 Past, present, future, — things that since have been, 
 And things that are to come. And, as he ceased, 
 O'er the black river, and the desert plain, 
 As o'er the close of counterfeited scenes, 
 
 Shown by the buskin'd muse, a veil came down, 
 
 Impervious ; and his figure faded swift 
 
 In the dense gloom. But then, in starlike light, 
 
 That awful symbol which adorn'd his brow 
 
 In size dilating show'd : and up, still up, 
 
 In its clear splendour still the same, though still 
 
 Lessening, it mounted; and Papantzin woke. 
 
 She woke in darkness and in solitude. 
 Slow pass'd her lethargy away, and long 
 To her half-dreaming eye that brilliant sign 
 Distinct appear'd. Then damp and close she felt 
 The air around, and knew the poignant smell 
 Of spicy herbs collected and confined. 
 As those awakening from a troubled trance 
 Are wont, she would have learn'd by touch if yet 
 The spirit to the body was allied. 
 Strange hindrances prevented. O'er her face 
 A mask thick-plated lay : and round her swathed 
 Was many a costly and encumbering robe, 
 Such as she wore on some high festival, 
 O'erspread with precious gems, rayless and cold, 
 That now press'd hard and sharp against her touch 
 The cumbrous collar round her slender neck, 
 Of gold, thick studded with each valued stone 
 Earth and the sea-depths yield for human pride — ■ 
 The bracelets and the many twisted rings 
 That girt her taper limbs, coil upon coil — 
 What were they in this dungeon's solitude 7 
 The plumy coronal that would have sprung 
 Light from her fillet in the purer air, 
 Waving in mockery of the rainbow tints, 
 Now drooping low, and steep'd in clogging dews, 
 Oppressive hung. Groping in dubious search, 
 She found the household goods, the spindle, broom, 
 Gicalli quaintly sculptured, and the jar 
 That held the useless beverage for the dead. 
 By these, and by the jewel to her lip 
 Attach'd, the emerald symbol of the soul, 
 In its green life immortal, soon she knew 
 Her dwelling was a sepulchre. She loosed 
 The mask, and from her feathery bier uprose, 
 Casting away the robe, which like long alb 
 Wrapp'd her ; and with it many an aloe leaf, 
 Inscribed with Azteck characters and signs, 
 To guide the spirit where the serpent hiss'd, 
 Hills tower'd, and deserts spread, and keen winds 
 
 blew, 
 And many a "Flower of Death;" though their 
 
 frail leaves 
 Were yet unwither'd. For the living warmth 
 Which in her dwelt, their freshness had preserved; 
 Else, if corruption had begun its work, 
 The emblems of quick change would have survived 
 Her beauty's semblance. What is beauty worth, 
 If the cropp'd flower retains its tender bloom 
 When foul decay has stolen the latest lines 
 Of loveliness in death ? Yet even now 
 Papantzin knew that her exuberant locks — 
 Which, unconfined, had round her flow'd to earth, 
 Like a stream rushing uown some rocky steep, 
 Threading ten thousand channels — had been shorn 
 Of half their waving length, — and liked it not. 
 
 But through a crevice soon she mark'd a gleam 
 Of rays uncertain ; and, with staggering steps, 
 But strong in reckless dreaminess, while still 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 257 
 
 Presided o'er the chaos of her thoughts 
 
 The revelation that upon her soul 
 
 Dwelt with its power, she gain'd the cavern's throat, 
 
 And push'd the quarried stone aside, and stood 
 
 In the free air, and in her own domain. 
 
 But now, obscurely o'er her vision swam 
 The beauteous landscape, with its thousand tints 
 And changeful views ; long alleys of bright trees 
 Bending beneath their fruits ; espaliers gay 
 With tropic flowers and shrubs that fill'd the breeze 
 With odorous incense, basins vast, where birds 
 With shining plumage sported, smooth canals 
 Leading the glassy wave, or towering grove 
 Of forest veterans. On a rising bank, 
 Her seat accustom'd, near a well hewn out 
 From ancient rocks, into which waters gush'd 
 From living springs, where she was wont to bathe, 
 She threw herself to muse. Dim on her sight 
 The imperial city and its causeways rose, 
 With the broad lake and all its floating isles 
 And glancing shallops, and the gilded pomp 
 Of princely barges, canopied with plumes 
 Spread fanlike, or with tufted pageantry 
 Waving magnificent. Unmark'd around 
 The frequent huitzilin, with murmuring hum 
 Of ever-restless wing, and shrill, sweet note, 
 Shot twinkling, with the ruby star that glow'd 
 Over his tiny bosom, and all hues 
 That loveliest seem in heaven, with ceaseless change, 
 Flashing from his fine films. And all in vain 
 Untiring, from the rustling branches near, 
 Pour'd the centzontli all his hundred strains 
 Of imitative melody. Not now 
 She heeded them. Yet pleasant was the shade 
 Of palms and cedars ; and through twining boughs 
 And fluttering leaves, the subtle god of air, 
 The serpent arm'd with plumes, most welcome crept, 
 And fann'd her cheek with kindest ministry. 
 
 A dull and dismal sound came booming on ; 
 A solemn, wild, and melancholy noise, 
 Shaking the tranquil air ; and afterward 
 A clash and jangling, barbarously prolonged, 
 Torturing the unwilling ear, rang dissonant. 
 Again the unnatural thunder roll'd along, 
 Again the crash and clamour follow'd it. 
 Shuddering she heard, who knew that every peal 
 From the dread gong announced a victim's heart 
 Torn from his breast, and each triumphant clang, 
 A mangled corse, down the great temple's stairs 
 Hurl'd headlong ; and she knew, as lately taught, 
 How vengeance was ordain'd for cruelty ; 
 How pride would end ; and uncouth soldiers tread 
 Through bloody furrows o'er her pleasant groves 
 And gardens ; and would make themselves a road 
 Over the dead, choking the silver lake, 
 And cast the batter'd idols down the steps 
 That climb'd their execrable towers, and raze 
 Sheer from the ground Ahtjitzol's mighty pile. 
 
 There had been wail for her in Mexico, 
 And with due rites and royal obsequies, 
 Not without blood at devilish altars shed, 
 She had been number'd with her ancestry. 
 Here when beheld, revisiting the light, 
 Great marvel rose, and greater terror grew, 
 Until the kings came trembling, to receive 
 17 
 
 The foreshown tidings. To his house of wo 
 Silent and mournful, Motetjczoma went. 
 
 Few years had pass'd, when by the rabble hands 
 Of his own subjects, in ignoble bonds 
 He fell ; and on a hasty gibbet rear'd 
 By the road-side, with scorn and obloquy 
 The brave and gracious Guatemotzin hung; 
 While to Honduras, thirsting for revenge, 
 And gloomier after all his victories, 
 Stern Coxites stalked. Such was the will of God. 
 
 And then, with holier rites and sacred pomp, 
 Again committed to the peaceful grave, 
 Papantzik slept in consecrated earth. 
 
 MONODY ON SAMUEL PATCH.* 
 
 By water shall he die, and take his end.— Shakspeare. 
 
 Toll for Sam Patch ! Sam Patch, who jumps 
 no more, 
 
 This or the world to come. Sam Patch is dead ! 
 The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore 
 
 Of dark futurity, he would not tread. 
 
 No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed ; 
 Nor with decorous wo, sedately stepp'd 
 
 Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed ; — 
 The mighty river, as it onward swept, 
 In one great, wholesale sob, his body drown'd and 
 kept. 
 
 Toll for Sam Patch ! he scorn'd the common way 
 That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent, 
 
 And having heard Pope and Lostgintjs say, 
 That some great men had risen to falls, he went 
 And jump'd, where wild Passaic's waves had rent 
 
 The antique rocks ; — the air free passage gave, — 
 And graciously the liquid element 
 
 Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave ; 
 
 And all the people said that Sam was very brave. 
 
 Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise, 
 
 Led Sam to dive into what Bxhow calls 
 The hell of waters. For the sake of praise, 
 
 He woo'd the bathos down great waterfalls ; 
 
 The dizzy precipice, which the eye appals 
 Of travellers for pleasure, Samuel found 
 
 Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls, 
 Cramm'd full of fools and fiddles ; to the sound 
 Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound. 
 
 Sam was a fool. But the large world of such 
 Has thousands — better taught, alike absurd, 
 
 And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much, 
 Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard. 
 
 * Samuel Patch was a boatman on the Erie Canal, in 
 New York. lie made himself notorious by leaping from 
 the masts of ships, from the Falls of Niagara, and from 
 the Falls in the Genesee River, at Rochester. His last 
 feat was in the summer of 1831, when, in the presence 
 of many thousands, he jumped from above the highest 
 rock over which the water falls in the Genesee, and was 
 lost. He had become intoxicated, before going upon the 
 scaffold, and lost his balance in descending. The above 
 verses were written a few days after this event. 
 
258 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 Alas for Sam ! Had he aright preferr'd 
 The kindly element, to which he gave 
 
 Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard 
 That it was now his winding-sheet and grave, 
 Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for 
 the brave. 
 
 He soon got drunk, with rum and with renown, 
 As many others in high places do ; — 
 
 Whose fall is like Sam's last — for down and down, 
 By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through 
 The gulf that keeps the future from our view, 
 
 And then are found not. May they rest in peace ! 
 We heave the sigh to human frailty due — 
 
 And shall not Sam have his ! The muse shall cease 
 
 To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece — 
 
 With demigods, who went to the Black Sea 
 For wool, (and, if the best accounts be straight, 
 
 Came back, in negro phraseology, 
 
 With the same wool each upon his pate,) 
 In which she chronicled the deathless fate 
 
 Of him who jump'd into the perilous ditch 
 Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state 
 
 Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which 
 
 'He made himself renown'd, and the contractors 
 rich — 
 
 1 say, the muse shall quite forget to sound 
 The chord whose music is undying, if 
 
 She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drown'd. 
 Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff 
 The Lesbian Sappho leap'd from in a miff, 
 
 To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead, 
 Because the wax did not continue stiff; 
 
 And, had he minded what his father said, 
 
 He had not given a name unto his watery bed. 
 
 And Helle's case was all an accident, 
 
 As everybody knows. Why sing of these 1 
 
 Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went 
 Down into ^Etna's womb — Empedocles, 
 I think he calfd himself. Themselves to please, 
 
 Or else unwillingly, they made their springs ; 
 For glory in the abstract, Sam made his, 
 
 To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings, 
 
 That " some things may be done, as well as other 
 things." 
 
 I will not be fatigued, by citing more 
 
 Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design, 
 
 Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore, 
 Vulcan, Apollo, Phaeton — in fine, 
 All Tooke's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine 
 
 By their long tumbles ; and if we can match 
 Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine 
 
 One wreath 1 Who ever came " up to the scratch," 
 
 And, for so little, jump'd so bravely as Sam Patch 1 
 
 To long conclusions many men have jump'd 
 
 In logic, and the safer course they took ; 
 By any other, they would have been stump'd, 
 
 Unable to argue, or to quote a book, [brook ; 
 
 And quite dumb-founded, which they cannot 
 They break no bones, and suffer no contusion, 
 
 Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook, 
 In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion ; 
 But that was not the way Sam came to his conclusion. 
 
 He jump'd in person. Death or Victory 
 
 Was his device, " and there was no mistake," 
 Except his last ; and then he did but die, 
 
 A blunder which the wisest men will make. 
 
 Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break, 
 To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes, 
 
 And down into the coil and water-quake 
 To leap, like Maia's offspring, from the skies — 
 For this, all vulgar flights he ventured to despise. 
 
 And while Niagara prolongs its thunder, 
 
 Though still the rock primeval disappears, 
 And nations change their bounds — the theme of 
 wonder 
 
 Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years ; 
 
 And if there be sublimity in tears, 
 Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed 
 
 When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears 
 Lest by the ungenerous crowd it might be said, 
 That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled. 
 
 Who would compare the maudlin Alexander, 
 Blubbering, because he had no job in hand, 
 
 Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander, 
 
 With Sam, whose grief we all can understand 1 
 His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd 
 
 For exhibition ; but his heart o'erswell'd 
 With its own agony, when he the grand 
 
 Natural arrangements for a jump beheld, 
 
 And, measuring the cascade, found not his courage 
 quell'd. 
 
 His last great failure set the final seal 
 Unto the record Time shall never tear, 
 
 While bravery has its honour, — while men feel 
 The holy, natural sympathies which are 
 First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where 
 
 The tortured tides of Genessee descend, 
 He came — his only intimate a bear, — 
 
 (We know not that he had another friend,) 
 
 The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end. 
 
 The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole 
 
 Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him ; 
 With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul, 
 
 He stood upon the salient current's brim ; 
 
 His head was giddy, and his sight was dim ; 
 And then he knew this leap would be his last, — 
 
 Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim, 
 With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast, 
 That stared in mockery ; none a look of kindness 
 cast. 
 
 Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre 
 
 " I see before me the gladiator lie," 
 And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there 
 
 The bow of grace, without one pitying eye — 
 
 He was a slave — a captive hired to die ; — 
 Sam was born free as Cesar ; and he might 
 
 The hopeless issue have refused to try ; 
 No ! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight, — 
 "Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless 
 night." 
 
 But, ere he leap'd, he begg'd of those who made 
 Money by his dread venture, that if he 
 
 Should perish, such collection should be paid 
 As might be pick'd up from the " company" 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 259 
 
 To his mother. This, his last request, shall be, — 
 Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should 
 
 An iris, glittering o'er his memory, [know — 
 When all the streams have worn their barriers low, 
 And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow. 
 
 On him who chooses to jump down cataracts, 
 
 Why should the sternest moralist be severe ] 
 Judge not the dead by prejudice — but facts, 
 
 Such as in strictest evidence appear ; 
 
 Else were the laurels of all ages sere. 
 Give to the brave, who have pass'd the final goal, — 
 
 The gates that ope not back, — the generous tear ; 
 And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll, [roll. 
 In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment- 
 
 Therefore it is consider'd, that Sam Patch 
 Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme ; 
 
 His name shall be a portion in the batch 
 Of the heroic dough, which baking Time 
 Kneads for consuming ages — and the chime 
 
 Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring, 
 Shall tell of him ; he dived for the sublime, 
 
 And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing, 
 
 Being a goose, wouldst fly, — dream not of such a 
 thing! 
 
 EVENING.* 
 
 Hah ! sober evening ! thee the harass'd brain 
 And aching heart with fond orisons greet ; 
 The respite thou of toil ; the balm of pain ; 
 To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet : 
 'Tis then the sage, from forth his lone retreat, 
 The rolling universe around espies ; 
 'Tis then the bard may hold communion sweet 
 With lovely shapes, unkenn'd by grosser eyes, 
 And quick perception comes of finer mysteries. 
 
 The silent hour of bliss ! when in the west 
 Her argent cresset lights the star of love : — 
 The spiritual hour ! when creatures bless'd 
 Unseen return o'er former haunts to rove ; 
 While sleep his shadowy mantle spreads above, 
 Sleep, brother of forgetfulness and death, 
 Round well-known couch, with noiseless tread 
 
 they rove, 
 In tones of heavenly music comfort breathe, 
 And tell what weal or bale shall chance the moon 
 
 beneath. 
 
 Hour of devotion ! like a distant sea, 
 The world's loud voices faintly murmuring die ; 
 Responsive to the spheral harmony, 
 While grateful hymns are bornefrom earth on high. 
 O ! who can gaze on yon unsullied sky, 
 And not grow purer from the heavenward view! 
 As those, the Virgin Mother's meek, full eye, 
 Who met, if uninspired lore be true, 
 Felt a new birth within, and sin no longer knew. 
 
 Let others hail the oriflamme of morn, 
 O'er kindling hills unfurl'd with gorgeous dyes ! 
 O, mild, blue Evening ! still to thee I turn, 
 With holier thought, and with undazzled eyes ; — 
 
 * From " Yamovden." 
 
 Where wealth and power with glare and splen- 
 dour rise, 
 Let fools and slaves disgustful incense burn ! 
 Still Memory's moonlight lustre let me prize ; 
 The great, the good, whose course is o'er, discern, 
 And, from their glories past, time's mighty lessons 
 learn ! 
 
 WEEHAWKEN. 
 
 Eve o'er our path is stealing fast ; 
 Yon quivering splendours are the last 
 The sun will fling, to tremble o'er 
 The waves that kiss the opposing shore ; 
 His latest glories fringe the height 
 Behind us, with their golden light. 
 
 The mountain's mirror'd outline fades 
 Amid the fast-extending shades ; 
 Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, 
 Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; 
 For the great stream a bulwark meet 
 That leaves its rock-encumber'd feet. 
 
 River and mountain ! though to song 
 Not yet, perchance, your names belong ; 
 Those who have loved your evening hues 
 Will ask not the recording muse 
 What antique tales she can relate, 
 Your banks and steeps to consecrate. 
 
 Yet, should the stranger ask, what lore 
 Of by-gone days, this winding shore, 
 Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, 
 If vocal made by Fancy's spell, — 
 The varying legend might rehearse 
 Fit themes for high, romantic verse. 
 
 O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod 
 Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod ; 
 Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark 
 The progress of the glancing bark. 
 Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, 
 Have lurk'd in yon obstructed caves. 
 
 When the great strife for Freedom rose, 
 Here scouted oft her friends and foes, 
 Alternate, through the changeful war, 
 And beacon-fires flash'd bright and far ; 
 And here, when Freedom's strife was won, 
 Fell, in sad feud, her favour'd son ; — 
 
 Her son, — the second of the band, 
 The Romans of the rescued land. 
 Where round yon capes the banks ascend, 
 Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend ; 
 There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, 
 There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye. 
 
 There last he stood. Before his sight 
 Flow'd the fair river, free and bright ; 
 The rising mart, and isles, and bay, 
 Before him in their glory lay, — 
 Scenes of his love and of his fame, — 
 The instant ere the death-shot came. 
 
260 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS. 
 
 Thf.t say that, afar in the land of the west, 
 Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 
 Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, 
 A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread ; 
 Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, 
 In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of Lovers. 
 
 There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, 
 Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume ; 
 And low bends the branch with rich fruitage de- 
 
 press'd, 
 All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east ; 
 There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers : 
 'Tis the land of the sunbeam, — the green Isle of 
 
 Lovers ! 
 
 Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss 
 The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss 
 Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair 
 
 choirs 
 Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires 
 The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover 
 On high with their shade the green Isle of the Lover. 
 
 But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, 
 When his scales are all brilliant and glowingwith ire, 
 Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, 
 Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile ; 
 From beauty there valour and strength are not 
 
 rovers, 
 And peace reigns supreme in the green Isle of 
 
 Lovers. 
 
 And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, 
 
 In mazes perplcx'd, has beheld it no more; 
 
 It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, 
 
 Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue ; 
 
 O ! who in this vain world of wo shall discover 
 
 The home undisturb'd, the green Isle of the Lover ! 
 
 THE DEAD OF 1832. 
 
 0, Time and Death ! with certain pace, 
 Though still unequal, hurrying on, 
 
 O erturning, in your awful race, 
 The cot, the palace, and the throne ! 
 
 Not always in the storm of war, 
 Nor by the pestilence that sweeps 
 
 From the plague-smitten realms afar, 
 Beyond the old and solemn deeps : 
 
 In crowds the good and mighty go, 
 And to those vast, dim chambers hie : 
 
 Where, mingled with the high and low, 
 Dead Cjesars and dead Shakspeares lie ! 
 
 Dread ministers of Gor> ! sometimes 
 
 Ye smite at once to do his will, 
 In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes, 
 
 Those — whose renown ye cannot lull! 
 
 When all the brightest stars that burn 
 At once are banish'd from their spheres, 
 
 Men sadly ask, when shall return 
 Such lustre to the coming years ! 
 
 For where is he* — who lived so long — 
 Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, 
 
 And show'd his fate in powerful song, 
 Whose soul for learning's sake was lost 1 
 
 Where he — who backward to the birth 
 Of Time itself, adventurous trod, 
 
 And in the mingled mass of earth 
 Found out the handiwork of God ?+ 
 
 Where he — who in the mortal head,}: 
 Ordain'd to gaze on heaven, could trace 
 
 The soul's vast features, that shall tread 
 The stars, when earth is nothingness 1 
 
 Where he — who struck old Albyn's lyre,§ 
 Till round the world its echoes roll, 
 
 Affld swept, with all a prophet's fire, 
 The diapason of the soul 1 
 
 Where he — who read the mystic loreH 
 Buried where buried Pharaohs sleep ; 
 
 And dared presumptuous to explore 
 
 Secrets four thousand years could keep ? 
 
 Where he — who, with a poet's eye^f 
 Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, 
 
 And made even sordid Poverty 
 
 Classic, when in his numbers glazed ? 
 
 Where — that old sage so hale and staid,** 
 The " greatest good" who sought to find ; 
 
 Who in his garden mused, and made 
 All forms of rule for all mankind 1 
 
 And thou — whom millions far removed|+ 
 Revered — the hierarch meek and wise, 
 
 Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, 
 
 Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies. 
 
 He, too — the heir of glory — whereat 
 Hath great Napoleon's scion fled 1 
 
 Ah ! glory goes not to an heir ! 
 Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead ! 
 
 But hark ! a nation sighs ! for he,§§ 
 Last of the brave who perill'd all 
 
 To make an infant empire free, 
 Obeys the inevitable call ! 
 
 They go — and with them is a crowd, 
 For human rights who thought and did : 
 
 We rear to them no temples proud, 
 Each hath his mental pyramid. 
 
 All earth is now their sepulchre, 
 
 The mind, their monument sublime — 
 
 Young in eternal fame they are — 
 
 Such are your triumphs, Death and Time. 
 
 * Goetlie and his Faust. 
 
 + Spurzheim. 
 
 || Champollion. 
 
 ** Jeremy Bentham. 
 
 tt The Duke of Reichstadt. 
 
 + Cuvier. 
 
 $ Scott. 
 
 Tf Crabbe. 
 
 If Adam Clarke. 
 
 $} Charles Carroll. 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 261 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 Sat, when afar from mine thy home shall be, 
 Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me 1 
 When other scenes in beauty round thee lie, 
 Will these be present to thy mental eye * 
 Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise, 
 Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays 1 
 Ah me ! what is there, in earth's various range, 
 That time and absence may not sadly change ! 
 And can the heart, that still demands new ties, 
 New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies — 
 The waxen heart, where every seal may set, 
 In turn, its stamp — remain unalter'd yet, 
 While nature changes with each fleeting day, 
 And seasons dance their varying course away 1 ? 
 Ah ! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must 
 
 part, 
 That yet can feed with life this wither'd heart ! 
 Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be, 
 'T were, even in madness, faithful still to thee ; 
 And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain, 
 The golden bowl no other links sustain ; 
 Crush' d in the dust, its fragments then must sink, 
 And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink. 
 Blame not, if oft, in melancholy mood, 
 This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued ; 
 And if the soul, which high with hope should beat, 
 Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat. 
 
 Majestic nature ! since thy course began, 
 Thy features wear no sympathy for man ; 
 The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours ; 
 O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers, 
 And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound, 
 Heeds not the melancholy ruin round. 
 The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze 
 That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees. 
 One only heart, still true in joy or wo, 
 Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow. 
 If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give, 
 O, who would ask the ungracious boon — to live ] 
 Then better 'twere, if longer doom'd to prove 
 The listless load of life, unbless'd with love, 
 To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair, — 
 And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there ; — 
 Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore 
 No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar, 
 Hath echoed ever ; in whose central woods, 
 With the quick spirit of its solitudes, 
 In converse deep, strange sympathies untried, 
 The soul might find, which this vain world denied. 
 
 But I will trust that heart, where truth alone, 
 In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne ; 
 And thus believing, fear not all the power 
 Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour. 
 If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame, 
 And write on memory's scroll a deathless name, 
 'T is but thy loved, approving smile to meet, 
 And lay the budding laurels at thy feet. 
 If e'er for worldly wealth I heave a sigh, 
 And glittering visions float on fancy's eye, 
 'T is but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread, 
 And place the diadem on beauty's head. 
 Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway, 
 Thy ruling presence lives but to obey ; 
 
 And shouldst thou e'er their bless' d allegiance slight, 
 The mind must wander, lost in endless night. 
 Farewell ! forget me not, when others gaze 
 Enamour'd on thee, with the looks of praise ; 
 When weary leagues before my view are cast, 
 And each dull hour seems heavier than the last, 
 Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend, 
 And mayst thou find in every form a friend ; 
 With care unsullied be thy every thought ; 
 And in thy dreams of home, forget me not ! 
 
 CONCLUSION TO YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Sad was the theme, which yet to try we chose, 
 In pleasant moments of communion sweet : 
 When least we thought of earth's unvarnish'd 
 
 woes, 
 And least we dream'd, in fancy's fond deceit, 
 That either the cold grasp of death should meet, 
 Till after many years, in ripe old age ; 
 Three little summers flew on pinions fleet, 
 And thou art living but in memory's page, 
 And earth seems all to me a worthless pilgrimage. 
 
 Sad was our theme ; but well the wise man sung, 
 " Better than festal halls, the house of wo ;" 
 'Tis good to stand destruction's spoils among, 
 And muse on that sad bourne to which we go. 
 The heart grows better when tears freely flow ; 
 And, in the many-colour'd dream of earth, 
 One stolen hour, wherein ourselves we know, 
 Our weakness and our vanity, — is worth 
 
 Years of unmeaning smiles, and lewd, obstrepe- 
 rous mirth. 
 'Tis good to muse on nations pass'd away, 
 Forever, from the land we call our own ; 
 Nations, as proud and mighty in their day, 
 Who deem'd that everlasting was their throne. 
 An age went by, and they no more were known 
 Sublimer sadness will the mind control, 
 Listening time's deep and melancholy moan ; 
 And meaner griefs will less disturb the soul ; 
 
 And human pride falls low, at human grandeur's 
 goal. 
 Philip ! farewell! thee King, in idle jest, 
 Thy persecutors named ; and if indeed, 
 The jewell'd diadem thy front had press'd, 
 It had become thee better, than the breed 
 Of palaces, to sceptres that succeed, 
 To be of courtier or of priest the tool, 
 Satiate dull sense, or count the frequent bead, 
 Or pamper gormand hunger ; thou wouldst rule 
 
 Better than the worn rake, the glutton, or the fool ! 
 
 I would not wrong thy warrior shade, could I 
 A ught in my verse or make or mar thy fame ; 
 As the light carol of a bird flown by [name : 
 Will pass the youthful strain that breathed thy 
 But in that land whence thy destroyers came, 
 A sacred bard thy champion shall be found ; 
 He of the laureate wreath Tor thee shall claim 
 The hero's honours, to earth's farthest bound. 
 Where Albion's tongue is heard, or Albion's songs 
 resound. 
 
262 
 
 ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 On quick for me the goblet fill, 
 From bright Castalia's sparkling rill ; 
 Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough, 
 And let its foliage wreathe my brow ; 
 And bring the lyre with sounding shell, 
 The four-string'd lyre I loved so well ! 
 
 Lo ! as I gaze, the picture flies 
 
 Of weary life's realities ; 
 
 Behold the shade, the wild wood shade, 
 
 The mountain steeps, the checker'd glade; 
 
 And hoary rocks and bubbling rills, 
 
 And painted waves and distant hills. 
 
 Oh ! for an hour, let me forget 
 How much of life is left me yet ; 
 Recall the visions of the past, 
 Fair as these tints that cannot last, 
 That all the heavens and waters o'er 
 Their gorgeous, transient glories pour. 
 
 Ye pastoral scenes, by fancy wrought ! 
 Ye pageants of the loftier thought ! 
 Creations proud ! majestic things ! 
 Heroes, and demigods, and kings ! 
 Return, with all of shepherds' lore, 
 Or old romance that pleased before ! 
 Ye forms that are not of the earth, 
 Of grace, of valour, and of worth ! 
 Ye bright abstractions, by the thought 
 Like the great master's pictures, wrought 
 To the ideal's shadowy mien, 
 From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen ! 
 
 Ye speaking sounds, that poet's ear 
 Alone in nature's voice can hear ! 
 Thou full conception, vast and wide, 
 Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride, 
 As when projection gave of old 
 Alchymy's visionary gold ! 
 
 Return ! return ! oblivion bring 
 
 Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting ! 
 
 The hour of gloom is o'er my soul ; 
 
 Disperse the shades, the fiends control, 
 
 As David's harp had power to do, 
 
 If sacred chronicles be true. 
 
 Oh come ! by every classic spell, 
 
 By old Pieria's haunted well ; 
 
 By revels on the Olmeian height 
 
 Held in the moon's religious light ; 
 
 By virgin fonns that wont to lave, 
 
 Permessus ! in thy lucid wave ! 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! the strain has pass'd ; 
 The laurel leaves upon the blast 
 Float, wither'd, ne'er again to bloom, 
 The cup is drain'd — the song is dumb — 
 And spell and rhyme alike in vain 
 Would woo the genial muse again. 
 
 J> 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Good night to all the world ! there's none, 
 Beneath the "over-going" sun, 
 To whom I feel or hate or spite, 
 And so to all a fair good-night. 
 
 Would I could say good night to pain, 
 Good night to conscience and her train, 
 To cheerless poverty, and shame 
 That I am yet unknown to fame ! 
 
 Would I could say good night to dreams 
 That haunt me with delusive gleams, 
 That through the sable future's veil 
 Like meteors glimmer, but to fail. 
 
 Would I could say a long good-night 
 To halting between wrong and right, 
 And, like a giant with new force, 
 Awake prepared to run my course ! 
 
 But time o'er good and ill sweeps on, 
 And when few years have come and gone, 
 The past will be to me as naught, 
 Whether remember'd or forgot. 
 
 Yet let me hope one faithful friend, 
 O'er my Hist couch shall tearful bend ; 
 And, though no day for me was bright. 
 Shall bid me then a long good-night. 
 
 FROM A MONODY ON J. W. EASTBURN. 
 
 But now, that cherish'd voice was near ; 
 
 And all around yet breathes of him ; — 
 We look, and we can only hear 
 
 The parting wings of cherubim ! 
 Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught 
 
 To share the bard's communion high ; 
 To scan the ideal world of thought, 
 
 That floats before the poet's eye ; — 
 Ye, who with ears o'ersated long, 
 
 From native bards disgusted fly, 
 Expecting only, in their song, 
 
 The ribald strains of calumny ; — 
 Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet, 
 
 Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire, 
 But chose immortal themes as meet 
 
 Alone for an immortal lyre. 
 silent shell ! thy chords are riven ! 
 
 That heart lies cold before its prime ! 
 Mute are those lips, that might have given 
 
 One deathless descant to our clime ! 
 No laurel chaplet twines he now ; 
 
 He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone, 
 And plucks the amaranth for his brow 
 
 That springs beside the eternal throne. 
 Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain 
 
 Link'd with his soul in bonds refined ; 
 That earth had striven to burst in vain, — 
 
 The sacred sympathy of mind. 
 Still long that sympathy shall last : 
 
 Still shall each object, like a spell, 
 Recall from fate the buried past, 
 
 Present the mind beloved so well. 
 That pure intelligence — Oh where 
 
 Now is its onward progress won 1 
 Through what new regions does it dare 
 
 Push the bold quest on earth begun 1 
 In realms with boundless glory fraught, 
 
 Where fancy can no trophies raise — 
 In blissful vision, where the thought 
 
 Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise! 
 
ROBERT C. SANDS. 
 
 263 
 
 Till life's last pulse, O triply dear, 
 A loftier strain is due to thee ; 
 
 But constant memory's votive tear 
 Thy sacred epitaph must be. 
 
 TO THE MANITTO OF DREAMS. 
 
 Spirit ! thou Spirit of subtlest air, 
 
 Whose power is upon the brain, 
 When wondrous shapes, and dread and fair, 
 
 As the film from the eyes 
 
 At thy bidding flies, 
 To sight and sense are plain ! 
 
 Thy whisper creeps where leaves are stirr'd ; 
 
 Thou sighest in woodland gale; 
 Where waters are gushing thy voice is heard ; 
 
 And when stars are bright, 
 
 At still midnight, 
 Thy symphonies prevail ! 
 
 Where the forest ocean, in quick commotion, 
 
 Is waving to and fro, 
 Thy form is seen, in the masses green, 
 
 Dimly to come and go. 
 From thy covert peeping, where thou layest sleeping 
 
 Beside the brawling brook, 
 Thou art seen to wake, and thy flight to take 
 
 Fleet from thy lonely nook. 
 
 Where the moonbeam has kiss'd 
 
 The sparkling tide, 
 
 In thy mantle of mist 
 
 Thou art seen to glide. 
 
 Far o'er the blue waters 
 
 Melting away, 
 
 On the distant billow, 
 
 As on a pillow, 
 
 Thy form to lay. 
 
 Where the small clouds of even 
 
 Are wreathing in heaven 
 
 Their garland of roses, 
 
 O'er the purple and gold, 
 
 Whose hangings enfold 
 
 The hall that encloses 
 
 The couch of the sun, 
 
 Whose empire is done, — 
 
 There thou art smiling, 
 
 For thy sway is begun; 
 
 Thy shadowy sway, 
 
 The senses beguiling, 
 
 When the light fades away, 
 And thy vapour of mystery o'er nature ascending, 
 
 The heaven and the earth, 
 
 The things that have birth, 
 And the embryos that float in the future are blending. 
 
 From the land, on whose shores the billows break 
 The sounding waves of the mighty lake ; 
 From the land where boundless meadows be, 
 Where the buffalo ranges wild and free ; 
 With silvery coat in his little isle, 
 Where the beaver plies his ceaseless toil ; 
 The land where pigmy forms abide, 
 Thou leadest thy train at the eventide ; 
 
 And the wings of the wind are left behind, 
 So swift through the pathless air they glide. 
 
 Then to the chief who has fasted long, 
 When the chains of his slumber are heavy and strong 
 Spirit ! thou comest ; he lies as dead, 
 His weary lids are with heaviness weigh'd ; 
 But his soul is abroad on the hurricane's pinion, 
 Where foes are met in the rush of fight, 
 In the shadowy world of thy dominion 
 Conquering and slaying, till morning light! 
 
 Then shall the hunter who waits for thee, 
 The land of the game rejoicing see ; 
 Through the leafless wood, 
 O'er the frozen flood, 
 And the trackless snows his spirit goes, 
 Along the sheeted plain, 
 Where the hermit bear, in his sullen lair, 
 Keeps his long fast, till the winter hath pass'd 
 And the boughs have budded again. 
 Spirit of dreams ! all thy visions are true, 
 Who the shadow hath seen, he the substance shall 
 view ! 
 
 Thine the riddle, strange and dark, 
 Woven in the dreamy brain : — 
 Thine to yield the power to mark 
 Wandering by, the dusky train; 
 Warrior ghosts for vengeance crying, 
 Scalped on the lost battle's plain, 
 Or who died their foes defying, 
 Slow by fingering tortures slain. 
 
 Thou, the war-chief hovering near, 
 Breathest language on his ear ; 
 When his winged words depart, 
 Swift as arrows to the heart ; 
 When his eye the lightning leaves; 
 When each valiant bosom heaves ; 
 Through the veins when hot and glowing 
 Rage like liquid fire is flowing; 
 Round and round the war pole whirling, 
 Furious when the dancers grow ; 
 When the maces swift are hurling 
 Promised vengeance on the foe ' 
 Thine assurance, Spirit true ! 
 Glorious victory gives to view ! 
 
 When of thought and strength despoil' d, 
 
 Lies the brave man like a child; 
 
 When discolour'd visions fly, 
 
 Painful o'er his glazing eye, 
 
 And wishes wild through his darkness rove, 
 
 Like flitting wings through the tangled grove, — 
 
 Thine is the wish ; the vision thine, 
 
 And thy visits, Spirit ! are all divine ! 
 
 When the dizzy senses spin, 
 
 And the brain is madly reeling, 
 
 Like the P6w-wah, when first within 
 
 The present spirit feeling ; 
 
 When rays are flashing athwart the gloom, 
 
 Like the dancing lights of the northern heaven, 
 
 When voices strange of tumult come 
 
 On the ear, like the roar of battle driven, — 
 
 The Initiate then shall thy wonders see, 
 
 And thy priest, O Spirit *. is full of thee ! 
 
WILLIAM B. 
 
 0. PEABODY. 
 
 [Born, 1709. 
 
 Died, 1847] 
 
 William B. 0. Peabody was born at Exeter, 
 
 Massachusetts, where he resided until his death, 
 
 New Hampshire, on the ninth of July, 1799; was 
 
 on the twenty-eighth of May, 1847. He was a 
 
 graduated at Cambridge in 1816 ; and in 1820 be- 
 
 voluminous and elegant writer in theology, natural 
 
 came pastor of a Unitarian Society in Springfield, 
 
 history, literary and historical criticism, and poetry. 
 
 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 For every fire that fronts the sun, 
 
 
 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 
 God of the earth's extended plains ! 
 
 Around the utmost verge of heaven, 
 
 The dark, green fields contented lie ; 
 
 Were kindled at thy burning throne. 
 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 
 
 Where man might commune with the sky ; 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come, 
 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 
 And nature's self to dust return; 
 
 That lowers upon the vale below, 
 
 Her crumbling altars must decay ; 
 
 Where shaded fountains send their streams, 
 
 Her incense fires shall cease to burn; 
 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 
 
 Have made man's warmest praises flow; 
 
 God of the dark and heavy deep ! 
 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 
 The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
 
 The beauty of the world, below. 
 
 Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 
 
 
 Hath summon'd up their thundering bands ; 
 Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, 
 
 
 
 Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
 
 TO WILLIAM. 
 
 Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale 
 
 
 Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. 
 
 WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER. 
 
 God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
 
 It seems but yesterday, my love, 
 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
 
 Thy little heart beat high ; 
 
 That wrestles singly with the gale, 
 
 And I had almost scorn'd the voice 
 
 Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
 
 That told me thou must die. 
 
 But more majestic far they stand, 
 
 I saw thee move with active bound, 
 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
 
 With spirits wild and free ; 
 
 To wave on high their plumes of green, 
 
 And infant grace and beauty gave 
 
 And fight their battles with the storm. 
 
 Their glorious charm to thee. 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 
 Far on the sunny plains, I saw 
 
 Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
 
 Thy sparkling footsteps fly, 
 
 Or, gathering in their angry might, 
 
 Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird 
 
 The fierce and wintry tempests blow; 
 
 That cleaves the morning sky; 
 
 All — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 
 
 And often, as the playful breeze 
 
 That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
 
 Waved back thy shining hair, 
 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, 
 
 Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint 
 
 Breathe forth the language of thy power. 
 
 That health had painted there. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 
 And then, in all my thoughtfulness, 
 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 
 I could not but rejoice 
 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 
 
 To hear, upon the morning wind, 
 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
 
 The music of thy voice, — 
 
 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, 
 
 Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh, 
 
 Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 
 Now sad, almost to tears, 
 
 In evening's purple radiance, gives 
 
 'T was like the sounds I used to hear, 
 
 The beauty of its praise to thee. 
 
 In old and happier years. 
 
 God of the rolling orbs above ! 
 
 Thanks for that memory to thee, 
 
 Thy name is written clearly bright 
 
 My little, lovely boy, — 
 
 In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 
 
 That memory of my youthful bliss, 
 
 Or evening's golden shower of light. 
 264 
 
 Which time would fain destroy. 
 
W. B. 0. PEABODY. 
 
 265 
 
 I listen'd, as the mariner 
 Suspends the out-bound oar, 
 
 To taste the farewell gale that breathes 
 From off his native shore. 
 
 So gentle in thy loveliness ! — 
 
 Alas ! how could it be, 
 That death would not forbear to lay 
 
 His icy hand on thee ; 
 Nor spare thee yet a little while, 
 
 In childhood's opening bloom, 
 While many a sad and weary soul 
 
 Was longing for the tomb ! 
 
 Was mine a happiness too pure 
 
 For erring man to knowl 
 Or why did Heaven so soon destroy 
 
 My paradise below ? 
 Enchanting as the vision was, 
 
 It sunk away as soon 
 As when, in quick and cold eclipse, 
 
 The sun grows dark at noon. 
 
 I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd ; 
 
 But, ere the day was spent, 
 I saw thy light and graceful form 
 
 In drooping i!lness bent, 
 And shudder'd as I cast a look 
 
 Upon thy fainting head ; 
 The mournful cloud was gathering there, 
 
 And life was almost fled. 
 
 Days pass'd ; and soon the seal of death 
 
 Made known that hope was vain ; 
 I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp 
 
 Would never burn again ; 
 The cheek was pale ; the snowy lips 
 
 Were gently thrown apart; 
 And life, in every passing breath, 
 
 Seem'd gushing from the heart. 
 
 I knew those marble lips to mine 
 
 Should never more be press'd, 
 And floods of feeling, undefined, 
 
 Roll'd wildly o'er my breast ; 
 Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms 
 
 Seem'd moving in the gloom, 
 As if death's dark array were come, 
 
 To bear thee to the tomb. 
 
 And when I could not keep the tear 
 
 From gathering in my eye, 
 Thy little hand press'd gently mine, 
 
 In token of reply ; 
 To ask one more exchange of love, 
 
 Thy look was upward cast, 
 And in that long and burning kiss 
 
 Thy happy spirit pass'd. 
 
 I never trusted to have, lived 
 
 To bid farewell to thee, 
 And almost said, in agony, 
 
 It ought not so to be ; 
 I hoped that thou within the grave 
 
 My weary head shouldst lay, 
 And live, beloved, when I was gone, 
 
 For many a happy day. 
 
 With trembling hand, I vainly tried 
 
 Thy dying eyes to close ; 
 And almost envied, in that hour, 
 
 Thy calm and deep repose ; 
 For I was left in loneliness, 
 
 With pain and grief oppress'd, 
 And thou wast with the sainted, 
 
 Where the weary are at rest. 
 
 Yes, I am sad and weary now ; 
 
 But let me not repine, 
 Because a spirit, loved so well, 
 
 Is earlier bless'd than mine ; 
 My faith may darken as it will, 
 
 I shall not much deplore, 
 Since thou art where the ills of life 
 
 Can never reach thee more. 
 
 MO NAD NOCK. 
 
 Upon the far-off mountain's brow 
 
 The angry storm has ceased to beat ; 
 And broken clouds are gathering now 
 
 In sullen reverence round his feet ; 
 I saw their dark and crowded bands 
 
 In thunder on his breast descending; 
 But there once more redeem'd he stands, 
 
 And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending, 
 
 I've seen him when the morning sun 
 
 Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; 
 I 've seen him when the day was done, 
 
 Bathed in the evening's crimson light. 
 I 've seen him at the midnight hour, 
 
 When all the world were calmly sleeping, 
 Like some stern sentry in his tower, 
 
 His weary watch in silence keeping. 
 
 And there, forever firm and clear, 
 
 His lofty turret upward springs ; 
 He owns no rival summit near, 
 
 No sovereign but the King of kings. 
 Thousands of nations have pass'd by, 
 
 Thousands of years unknown to story, 
 And still his aged walls on high 
 
 He rears, in melancholy glory. 
 
 The proudest works of human hands 
 
 Live but an age before they fall ; 
 While that severe and hoary tower 
 
 Outlasts the mightiest of them all. 
 And man himself, more frail, by far. 
 
 Than even the works his hand is raising, 
 Sinks downward, like the falling star 
 
 That flashes, and expires in blazing. 
 
 And all the treasures of the heart, 
 
 Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, 
 Its hopes and memories, must depart 
 
 To sleep with unremember'd years. 
 But still that ancient rampart stands 
 
 Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him ; 
 And time withdraws his powerless hands, 
 
 While ages melt away before him. 
 
266 
 
 W. B. O. PEABODY. 
 
 So should it be — for no heart beats 
 
 Within his cold and silent breast ; 
 To him no gentle voice repeats 
 
 The soothing words that make us blest. 
 And more than this — his deep repose 
 
 Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow ; 
 He hath no weary eyes to close, 
 
 No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. 
 
 Farewell ! I go my distant way ; 
 
 Perchance, in some succeeding years, 
 The eyes that know no cloud to-day, 
 
 May gaze upon thee dim with tears. 
 Then may thy calm, unaltering form 
 
 Inspire in me the firm endeavour — 
 Like thee, to meet each lowering storm, 
 
 Till life and sorrow end forever. 
 
 THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 'T is the high festival of night ! 
 The earth is radiant with delight ; 
 And, fast as weary day retires, 
 The heaven unfolds its secret fires, 
 Bright, as when first the firmament 
 Around the new-made world was bent, 
 And infant seraphs pierced the blue, 
 Till rays of heaven came shining through. 
 
 And mark the heaven's reflected glow 
 
 On many an icy plain below ; 
 
 And where the streams, with tinkling clash, 
 
 Against their frozen barriers dash, 
 
 Like fairy lances fleetly cast, 
 
 The glittering ripples hurry past ; 
 
 And floating sparkles glance afar, 
 
 Like rivals of some upper star. 
 
 And see, beyond, how sweetly still 
 The snowy moonlight wraps the hill, 
 And many an aged pine receives 
 The steady brightness on its leaves, 
 Contrasting with those giant forms, 
 Which, rifled by the winter storms, 
 With naked branches, broad and high, 
 Are darkly painted on the sky. 
 
 From every mountain's towering head 
 A white and glistening robe is spread, 
 As if a melted silver tide 
 Were gushing down its lofty side ; 
 The clear, cold lustre of the moon 
 Is purer than the burning noon ; 
 And day hath never known the charm 
 That dwells amid this evening calm. 
 
 The idler, on his silken bed, 
 
 May talk of nature, cold and dead ; 
 
 But we will gaze upon this scene, 
 
 Where some transcendent power hath been, 
 
 And made these streams of beauty flow 
 
 In gladness on the world below, 
 
 Till nature breathes from every part 
 
 The rapture of her mighty heart. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Lift high the curtain's drooping fold. 
 
 And let the evening sunlight in; 
 I would not that my heart grew cold 
 
 Before its better years begin. 
 'T is well ; at such an early hour, 
 
 So calm and pure, a sinking ray 
 Should shine into the heart, with power 
 
 To drive its darker thoughts away. 
 
 The bright, young thoughts of early days 
 
 Shall gather in my memory now, 
 And not the later cares, whose trace 
 
 Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow. 
 What though those days return no more? 
 
 The sweet remembrance is not vain, 
 For Heaven is waiting to restore 
 
 The childhood of my soul again. 
 
 Let no impatient mourner stand 
 
 In hollow sadness near my bed, 
 But let me rest upon the hand, 
 
 And let me hear that gentle tread 
 Of her, whose kindness long ago, 
 
 And still, unworn away by years, 
 Has made my weary eyelids flow 
 
 With grateful and admiring tears. 
 
 I go, but let no plaintive tone 
 
 The moment's grief of friendship tell ; 
 And let no proud and graven stone 
 
 Say where the weary slumbers well. 
 A few short hours, and then for heaven ! 
 
 Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; 
 For who would mourn the warning given 
 
 Which calls us from a world like this ? 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 .Behold the western evening light ! 
 
 It melts in deepening gloom; 
 So calmly Christians sink away, 
 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The wind breathes low ; the withering leaf 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 
 So gently flows the parting breath, 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills 
 
 The crimson light is shed ! 
 'T is like the peace the Christian gives 
 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering cloud 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 'T is like the memory left behind 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
 And now, above the dews of night, 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore; 
 And eyelids that are seal'd in death 
 
 Shall wake, to close no more. 
 
GRENVILLE MELLEN. 
 
 [Born, 1799. Died, 1841.] 
 
 Gretttilxe Meileu - was the third son of the 
 late Chief Justice Prentiss Melxen, LL. D., of 
 Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in 
 that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. 
 He was educated at Harvard College, and after 
 leaving that seminary became a law-student in the 
 office of his father, who had before that time re- 
 moved to Portland. Soon after being admitted to 
 the bar, he was married, and commenced the prac- 
 tice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a plea- 
 sant village near his native town. Within three 
 years — in October, 1828 — his wife, to whom he was 
 devotedly attached, died, and his only child fol- 
 lowed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. 
 From this time his character was changed. He 
 had before been an ambitious and a happy man. 
 The remainder of his life was clouded with melan- 
 choly. 
 
 I believe Mr. Meleen did not become known 
 as a writer until he was about twenty-five years 
 old. He was then one of the contributors to the 
 Cambridge " United States Literary Gazette." In 
 the early part of 1827, he published a satire en- 
 titled " Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two 
 years afterward, "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a 
 collection of prose sketches, which had previously 
 been printed in the periodicals. "The Martyr's 
 Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," ap- 
 peared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume 
 is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first 
 Christian martyr in England, ft is in the measure 
 of the " Faery Queene," and has some creditable 
 passages ; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above 
 mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes 
 the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the 
 White Mountains, by which the Willey family 
 were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem enti- 
 tled "The Rest of Empires," in the same collection, 
 he laments the custom of the elder bards to immor- 
 talize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts 
 their prostitution of the influence of poetry with 
 the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, 
 in the following lines, which are characteristic of 
 his best manner : — 
 
 "We have been taught, in oracles of old, 
 Of the enskied divinity of song; 
 That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, 
 Came in the light of inspiration forth, 
 And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. 
 And were those peerless bards, whose strains have come 
 In an undying echo to the world, 
 Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, 
 And made melodious all the hills of Rome, — 
 Were they inspired 1 ? — Alas, for Poetry! 
 That her great ministers, in early time, 
 Sung for the brave alone — and bade the soul 
 Battle for heaven in the ranks of war! 
 It was the treason of the godlike art 
 That pointed glory to the sword and spear, 
 And left the heart to moulder in its mail! 
 
 It was the menial service of the bard — 
 It was the basest bondage of his powers, 
 In later times to consecrate a feast, 
 And sing of gallantry in hall and bower, 
 
 To courtly knights and ladies 
 
 "But other times have strung new lyres again, 
 And other music greets us. Poetry 
 Comes robed in smiles, and, in low breathing sounds, 
 Takes counsel, like a friend, in our still hours, 
 And points us to the stars — the waneless stars — 
 That whisper an hereafter to our souls. 
 It breathes upon our spirits a rich balm, 
 And, with its tender tones and melody, 
 Draws mercy from the warrior — and proclaims 
 A morn of bright and universal love 
 To those who journey with us through the vale; 
 It points to moral greatness — deeds of mind, 
 And the high struggles, worthy of a man. 
 Have we no minstrels in our echoing halls, 
 No wild Cadwallon, with his wilder strain, 
 Pouring his war-songs upon helmed ears'? 
 We have sounds stealing from the far retreats 
 Of the bright company of gifted men, 
 Who pour their mellow music round our age, 
 And point us to our duties and our hearts; 
 The poet's constellation beams around — 
 A pensive Cowpek lives in all his lines, 
 And Milton hymns us on to hope and heaven !" 
 After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. 
 Melees' removed to New York, where he resided 
 nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote 
 much for the literary magazines, and edited seve- 
 ral works for his friend, Mr. Colman, the pub- 
 lisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Mis- 
 cellany, but it was abandoned after the publication 
 of a few numbers. His health had been declining 
 for several years ; his disease finally assumed the 
 form of consumption, and he made a voyage to 
 Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he 
 would derive advantage from a change of climate, 
 and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learn- 
 ing of the death of his father, in the following 
 spring, he returned to New York, where he died, 
 on the fifth of September, 1841. 
 
 Mr. Meelest was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, » 
 social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in 
 the long period of physical suffering which pre- 
 ceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher 
 reputation in his lifetime than his works will pre- 
 serve. They are without vigour of thought or 
 language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and un- 
 intelligible. In his writings there is no evidence 
 of creative genius ; no original, clear, and manly 
 thought ; no spirited and natural descriptions of 
 life or nature ; no humour, no pathos, no passion ; 
 nothing that appeals to the common sympathies 
 of mankind. The little poem entitled " The Bu- 
 gle," although " it whispers whence it stole its 
 spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he 
 wrote. It is free from the affectations and un- 
 meaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his 
 works. 267 
 
268 
 
 GRENVILLE MELLEN. 
 
 ENGLISH SCENERY. 
 
 The woods and vales of England ! — is there not 
 A magic and a marvel in their names ! 
 Is there not music in the memory 
 Of their old glory 1 — is there not a sound, 
 As of some watchword, .that recalls at night 
 All that gave light arid wonder to the day ] 
 In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness, 
 And summon to the spirit scenes that rose 
 Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye 
 Hung like a tranced thing above the page 
 That genius had made golden with its glow— 
 The page of noble story — of high towers, 
 And castled halls, envista'd like the line 
 Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries 
 Had led before their hearths in dim array — 
 Of lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree, 
 That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm 
 Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves, 
 Rustling in gather'd music to the winds, 
 Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas ! 
 
 The woods and vales of England ! 0, the founts, 
 The living founts of memory ! how they break 
 And gush upon my stirr'd heart as I gaze ! 
 I hear the shout of reapers, the far low 
 Of herds upon the banks, the distant bark 
 Of the tired dog, stretch'd at some cottage door, 
 The echo of the axe, mid forest swung, 
 And the loud laugh, drowning the faint halloo. 
 
 Land of our fathers ! though 'tis ours to roam 
 A land upon whose bosom thou mightst lie, 
 Like infant on its mother's — though 'tis ours 
 To gaze upon a nobler heritage 
 Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons, — 
 Though ours to linger upon fount and sky, 
 Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who 
 Walk with a deeper majesty than thine, — 
 Yet, as our father-land, O, who shall tell 
 The lone, mysterious energy which calls 
 Upon our sinking spirits to walk forth 
 Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill 
 Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale 
 And song of centuries, the cloudless years 
 When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf 
 Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers 
 Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod — 
 When all the landscape murmur'd to its rills, 
 And joy with hope slept in its leafy bowers ! 
 
 MOUNT WASHINGTON. 
 
 Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian height 
 The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, 
 And spirits from the skies come down at night, 
 To chant immortal songs to Freedom there ! 
 Thine is the rock of other regions, where 
 The world of life, which blooms so far below, 
 Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, 
 Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow 
 B eneath the far-ofi'mountain, distant, calm, and slow. 
 
 Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, 
 Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne; 
 
 When Tempest mounts his rushingcar, and throws 
 His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! 
 Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, 
 And bow the forests as they sweep along; 
 While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, 
 The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, 
 Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong ! 
 
 And when the tumult of the air is fled, 
 And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, 
 There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, 
 Around the steep which bears the hero's name: 
 The stars look down upon them ; and the same 
 Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave 
 Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, 
 And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, 
 The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave ! 
 
 Mount of the clouds ! when winter round thee 
 The hoary mantle of the dying year, [throws 
 Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, 
 Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 
 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, 
 Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue ; 
 ■ When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, 
 Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, 
 To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded 
 
 THE BUGLE. 
 
 ! wiib, enchanting horn ! 
 Whose music up the deep and dewy air 
 Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, 
 
 Till a new melody is born — 
 
 Wake, wake again, the night 
 Is bending from her throne of beauty down, 
 With still stars burning on her azure crown, 
 
 Intense and eloquently bright. 
 
 Night, at its pulseless noon ! 
 When the far voice of waters mourns in song, 
 And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long 
 
 Barks at the melancholy moon. 
 
 Hark ! how it sweeps away, 
 Soaring and dying on the silent sky, 
 As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, 
 
 With lone halloo and roundelay ! 
 
 Swell, swell in glory out ! 
 Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, 
 And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start 
 
 As boyhood's old remember'd shout. 
 
 ! have ye heard that peal, 
 From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, 
 Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, 
 
 Like some near breath around you steal 1 
 
 Or have ye in the roar 
 Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, 
 Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies, 
 
 Where wings and tempests never soar 1 
 
 Go, go — no other sound, 
 No music that of air or earth is born, 
 Can match the mighty music of that horn, 
 
 On midnight's fathomless profound ! 
 
GKENVILLE MELLEN. 
 
 269 
 
 ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME 
 IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. 
 
 Satl on, thou lone, imperial bird, 
 
 Of quenchless eye and tireless wing ; 
 How is thy distant coming heard, 
 
 As the night's breezes round thee ring ! 
 Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun 
 
 In his extremest glory. How ! 
 Is thy unequall'd daring done, 
 
 Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now? 
 
 Or hast thou left thy rocking dome, 
 
 Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine, 
 To find some secret, meaner home, 
 
 Less stormy and unsafe than thine 1 
 Else why thy dusky pinions bend 
 
 So closely to this shadowy world, 
 And round thy searching glances send, 
 
 As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd 1 
 
 Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest, 
 
 Thy eyry desolate, though high ; 
 And lonely thou, alike at rest, 
 
 Or soaring in the upper sky. 
 The golden light that bathes thy plumes 
 
 On thine interminable flight, 
 Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs, 
 
 And makes the north's ice-mountains bright. 
 
 So come the eagle-hearted down, 
 
 So come the high and proud to earth, 
 When life's night-gathering tempests frown 
 
 Over their glory and their mirth: 
 So quails the mind's undying eye, 
 
 That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun; 
 So man seeks solitude, to die, 
 
 His high place left, his triumphs done. 
 
 So, round the residence of power, 
 
 A cold and joyless lustre shines, 
 And on life's pinnacles will lower 
 
 Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. 
 But, O, the mellow light that pours 
 
 From God's pure throne — the light that saves! 
 It warms the spirit as it soars, 
 
 And sheds deep radiance round our graves. 
 
 THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Itatlia's vales and fountains, 
 
 Though beautiful ye be, 
 I love my soaring mountains 
 
 And forests more than ye ; 
 And though a dreamy greatness rise 
 
 From out your cloudy years, 
 Like hills on distant stormy skies, 
 
 Seem dim through Nature's tears, 
 Still, tell me not of years of old, 
 
 Oi ancient heart and clime ; 
 Ours is the land and age of gold, 
 
 And ours the hallow'd time ! 
 
 The jewell'd crown and sceptre 
 
 Of Greece have pass'd away ; 
 And none, of all who wept her, 
 
 Could bid her splendour stay. 
 The world has shaken with the tread 
 
 Of iron-sandall'd crime — 
 And, lo ! o'ershadowing all the dead, 
 
 The conqueror stalks sublime ! 
 Then ask I not for crown and plume 
 
 To nod above my land ; 
 The victor's footsteps point to doom, 
 
 Graves open round his hand ! 
 
 Rome ! with thy pillar'd palaces, 
 
 And sculptured heroes all, 
 Snatch'd, in their warm, triumphal days, 
 
 To Art's high festival ; 
 Rome ! with thy giant sons of power, 
 
 Whose pathway was on thrones, 
 Who built their kingdoms of an hour 
 
 On yet unburied bones, — 
 I would not have my land like thee, 
 
 So lofty — yet so cold ! 
 Be hers a lowlier majesty, 
 
 In yet a nobler mould. 
 
 Thy marbles — works of wonder ! 
 
 In thy victorious days, 
 Whose lips did seem to sunder 
 
 Before the astonish'd gaze ; 
 When statue glared on statue there, 
 
 The living on the dead, — 
 And men as silent pilgrims were 
 
 Before some sainted head ! 
 O, not for faultless marbles yet 
 
 Would I the light forego 
 That beams when other lights have set, 
 
 And Art herself lies low ! 
 
 O, ours a holier hope shall be 
 
 Than consecrated bust, 
 Some loftier mean of memory 
 
 To snatch us from the dust. 
 And ours a sterner art than this, 
 
 Shall fix our image here, — 
 The spirit's mould of loveliness— 
 
 A nobler Belyidere ! 
 
 Then let them bind with bloomless flowers 
 
 The busts and urns of old, — 
 A fairer heritage be ours, 
 
 A sacrifice less cold ! 
 Give honour to the great and good, 
 
 And wreathe the living brow, 
 Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood, 
 
 And pay the tribute now ! 
 
 So, when the good and great go down, 
 
 Their statues shall arise, 
 To crowd those temples of our own, 
 
 Our fadeless memories ! 
 And when the sculptured marble falls, 
 
 And Art goes in to die, 
 Our forms shall live in holier halls, 
 
 The Pantheon of the sky ! 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 
 
 The Right Reverend Geokge W.Doane,D.D., 
 LL.D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in 
 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Sche- 
 nectady, when nineteen years of age, and imme- 
 diately after commenced the study of theology. He 
 was ordained deacon by Bishop Hobart, in 1821, 
 and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He offi- 
 ciated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, 
 and, in 1824, was appointed professor of belles let- 
 tres and Oratory in Washington College, Connec- 
 ticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon 
 after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Bos- 
 ton. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of 
 New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. 
 
 Bishop Doane's " Songs by the Way," a collec- 
 tion of poems, chiefly devotional, were published 
 in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced 
 during his college life. He has since, from time to 
 time, written poetry for festival-days and other oc- 
 casions, but has published no second volume. His 
 published sermons, charges, conventional address- 
 es, literary and historical discourses, and other pub- 
 lications in prose, amount to more than one hun- 
 dred, and fill more than three thousand octavo 
 pages. His writings generally are marked by re- 
 finement and elegance, and evince a profound 
 devotion to the interests of the Protestant Episco- 
 pal Church. 
 
 ON A VERY OLD WEDDING-RING. 
 
 The Device— Two hearts united. 
 The Motto—" Dear love of mine, my heart is thine." 
 
 I iike that ring — that ancient ring, 
 
 Of massive form, and virgin gold, 
 As firm, as free from base alloy, 
 
 As were the sterling hearts of old. 
 I like it — for it wafts me back, 
 
 Far, far along the stream of time, 
 To other men, and other days, 
 
 The men and days of deeds sublime. 
 
 But most I like it, as it tells 
 
 The tale of well-requited love ; 
 How youthful fondness persevered, 
 
 And youthful faith disdain'd to rove- 
 How warmly he his suit preferr'd, 
 
 Though she, unpitying, long denied, 
 Till, soften'd and subdued, at last, 
 
 He won his "fair and blooming bride." — 
 
 How, till the appointed day arrived, 
 
 They blamed the lazy-footed hours — 
 How, then, the white-robed maiden train 
 
 Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers— 
 And how, before the holy man, 
 
 They stood, in all their youthful pride, 
 And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows, 
 
 Which bind the husband to his bride : 
 
 All this it tells ; the plighted troth — 
 
 The gift of every earthly thing — 
 The hand in hand — the heart in heart — 
 
 For this I like that ancient ring. 
 I like its old and quaint device ; 
 
 " Two blended hearts" — though time may wear 
 them, 
 No mortal change, no mortal chance, 
 
 " Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them. 
 270 
 
 Year after year, 'neath sun and storm, 
 
 Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God, 
 In changeless, heartfelt, holy love, 
 
 These two the world's rough pathway trod. 
 Age might impair their youthful fires, 
 
 Their strength might fail, mid life's bleak weather, 
 Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on — 
 
 Kind souls ! they slumber now together. 
 
 I like its simple poesy too : 
 
 " Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" 
 Thine, when the dark storm howls along, 
 
 As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. 
 " This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" 
 
 Thine, and thine only, and forever ; 
 Thine, till the springs of life shall fail, 
 
 Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. 
 
 Remnant of days departed long, 
 
 Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, 
 
 Pledge of devoted faithfulness, 
 Of heartfelt, holy love the token : 
 
 What varied feelings round it cling ! — 
 
 For these I like that ancient ring. 
 
 MALLEUS DOMINI. 
 
 JEREMIAH xxiii. 29. 
 
 Sledge of the Lord, beneath whose stroke 
 
 The rocks are rent — the heart is broke — 
 
 I hear thy pond'rous echoes ring, 
 
 And fall, a crushed and crumbled thing. 
 
 Meekly, these mercies I implore, 
 
 Through Him whose cross our sorrow bore : 
 
 On earth, thy new-creating grace; 
 
 In heaven, the very lowest place. 
 
 Oh, might I be a living stone, 
 
 Set in the pavement of thy throne ! 
 
 For sinner saved, what place so meet, 
 
 As at the Saviour's bleeding feet! 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 
 
 271 
 
 "STAND AS AN ANVIL, WHEN IT IS 
 BEATEN UPON." 
 
 " Stand, like an anvil," when the stroke 
 
 Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast: 
 Storms but more deeply root the oak, 
 
 Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. 
 " Stand like an anvil," when the sparks 
 
 Fly, far and wide a fiery shower; 
 Virtue and truth must still be marks, 
 
 Where malice proves its want of power. 
 *' Stand, like an anvil," when the bar 
 
 Lies, red and glowing, on its breast : 
 Duty shall be life's leading star, 
 
 And conscious innocence its rest. 
 " Stand like an anvil," when the sound 
 
 Of ponderous hammers pains the ear : 
 Thine, but the still and stern rebound 
 
 Of the great heart that cannot fear. 
 "Stand, like an anvil;" noise and heat 
 
 Are born of earth, and die with time : 
 The soul, like God, its source and seat, 
 
 Is solemn, still, serene, sublime. 
 
 THAT SILENT MOON. 
 
 That silent moon, that silent moon, 
 Careering now through cloudless sky, 
 
 ! who shall tell what varied scenes 
 Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, 
 
 Since first, to light this wayward earth, 
 
 She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth ! 
 
 How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, 
 And superstition's senseless rite, 
 
 And loud, licentious revelry 
 
 Profaned her pure and holy light : 
 
 Small sympathy is hers, I ween, 
 
 With sights like these, that virgin queen ! 
 
 But dear to her, in summer eve, 
 By rippling wave, or tufted grove, 
 
 When hand in hand is purely clasp'd. 
 And heart meets heart in holy love, 
 
 To smile in quiet loneliness, 
 
 And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless. 
 
 Dispersed along the world's wide way, 
 When friends are far, and fond ones rove, 
 
 How powerful she to wake the thought, 
 And start the tear for those we love, 
 
 Who watch with us at night's pale noon, 
 
 And gaze upon that silent moon. 
 
 How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn, 
 The magic of that moonlight sky, 
 
 To bring again the vanish'd scenes — 
 The happy eves of days gone by ; 
 
 Again to bring, mid bursting tears, 
 
 The loved, the lost of other years. 
 
 And oft she looks, that silent moon, 
 On lonely eyes that wake to weep 
 
 In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, 
 
 Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep : 
 
 O ! softly beams her gentle eye 
 
 On those who mourn, and those who die ! 
 
 But, beam on whomsoe'er she will, 
 And fall where'er her splendours may, 
 
 There's pureness in her chasten'd light, 
 There's comfort in her tranquil ray : 
 
 What power is hers to soothe the heart — ■ 
 
 What power, the trembling tear to start ! 
 
 The dewy morn let others love, 
 Or bask them in the noontide ray ; 
 
 There's not an hour but has its charm, 
 From dawning light to dying day : — 
 
 But, O ! be mine a fairer boon — 
 
 That silent moon, that silent moon ! 
 
 THERMOPYLAE. 
 
 'T was an hour of fearful issues, 
 
 When the bold three hundred stood, 
 For their love of holy freedom, 
 By that old Thessalian flood ; 
 When, lifting high each sword of flame, 
 They call'd on every sacred name, 
 And swore, beside those dashing waves, 
 They never, never would be slaves ! 
 
 And, O ! that oath was nobly kept : 
 
 From morn to setting sun 
 Did desperation urge the fight 
 
 Which valour had begun ; 
 Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood 
 Ran down and mingled with the flood, 
 And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, 
 Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. 
 
 O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, 
 Which nobly had been sworn, 
 And proudly did each gallant heart 
 
 The foeman's fetters spurn ; 
 And firmly was the fight maintain'd, 
 And amply was the triumph gain'd ; 
 They fought, fair Liberty, for thee : 
 They fell — to die is to be free. 
 
 ROBIN REDBREAST.* 
 
 Sweet Robin, I have heard them say, 
 That thou werf there, upon the day, 
 The Christ was crown'd in cruel scorn ; 
 And bore away one bleeding thorn, 
 That, so, the blush upon thy breast, 
 In shameful sorrow, was impressed ; 
 And thence thy genial sympathy, 
 With our redeemed humanity. 
 Sweet Robin, would that I might be, 
 Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; 
 Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, 
 The bleeding blazon of the cross ; 
 Live, ever, with thy loving mind, 
 In fellowship with human kind; 
 And take my pattern still from thee, 
 In gentleness and constancy. 
 
 * I have somewhere met with an old legend, that a robin 
 hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our deal 
 Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood ; and 
 that from that time robins have been the friends of man. 
 
272 
 
 GEORGE W. DOANE. 
 
 " WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?" 
 
 What is that, Mother! — The lark, my child ! — 
 The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled, 
 When he starts from his humble grassy nest, 
 And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
 To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
 
 Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 
 Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 
 
 What is that, Mother? — The dove, my son! — 
 And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
 Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
 Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, 
 As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn, 
 For her distant dear one's quick return: 
 Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 
 
 What is that, Mother'? — The eagle, boy! — 
 Proudly careering his course of joy ; 
 Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, 
 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, 
 His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, 
 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, 
 Onward, and upward, and true to the line. 
 
 What is that, Mother? — The swan, my love! — 
 He is floating down from his native grove, 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh, 
 He is floating down, by himself to die ; 
 Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 
 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
 Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. 
 
 A CHERUB. 
 
 "Dear Sir, I am in. some little disorder by reason of the 
 death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us 
 very elad ; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while 
 we thinlce, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." — 
 Jeremy Taylor to Evelyn, 1656. 
 
 Beautiful thing, with thine eye of light, 
 And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright, 
 Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne 
 Of Him who dwelleth in light alone — 
 Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing, 
 With the burning seraph choir to sing] 
 Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness, 
 Our darkling path to cheer and bless 1 
 
 Beautiful thing! thou art come in love, 
 With gentle gales from the world above, 
 Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss, 
 Bearing our spirits away from this, 
 To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, 
 Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies ; 
 Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile, 
 With that infant look and angel smile. 
 
 Beautiful thing ! thou art come in joy, 
 
 With the look and the voice of our darling boy — 
 
 Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts 
 
 He had twined about with his infant arts, 
 
 To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, 
 
 In the golden orb of his little star: 
 
 There he rejoiceth in light, while we 
 
 Long to be happy and safe as he. 
 
 Beautiful thing ! thou art come in peace, 
 Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease ; 
 Wiping the tears which unbidden start 
 From that bitter fount in the broken heart, 
 Cheering us still on our lonely way, 
 Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, 
 Till, risen with Christ, we come to be, 
 Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. 
 
 LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE. 
 
 This placid lake, my gentle girl, 
 
 Be emblem of thy life, 
 As full of peace and purity, 
 
 As free from care and strife ; 
 No ripple on its tranquil breast 
 
 That dies not with the day, 
 No pebble in its darkest depths, 
 
 But quivers in its ray. 
 
 And see, how every glorious form 
 
 And pageant of the skies, 
 Reflected from its glassy face, 
 
 A mirror'd image lies ; 
 So be thy spirit ever pure, 
 
 To God and virtue given, 
 And thought, and word, and action bear 
 
 The imagery of heaven. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. 
 
 Lift not thou the wailing voice, 
 Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth, — 
 
 Up, where blessed saints rejoice, 
 Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth ; 
 
 High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, 
 
 Full the song of triumph swelleth; 
 
 Freed from earth, and earthly failing, 
 
 Lift for her no voice of wailing ! 
 
 Pour not thou the bitter tear; 
 
 Heaven its book of comfort opeth; 
 Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, 
 
 But, as one who alway hopeth, 
 Humbly here in faith relying, 
 Peacefully in Jesus dying, 
 Heavenly joy her eye is flushing, — 
 Why should thine with tears be gushing! 
 
 They who die in Christ are bless'd, — 
 Ours be, then, no thought of grieving! 
 
 Sweetly with their God they rest, 
 All their toils and troubles leaving: 
 
 So be ours the faith that saveth, 
 
 Hope that every trial braveth, 
 
 Love that to the end endureth, 
 
 And, through Christ, the crown secureth ! 
 
GEORGE BANCROFT. 
 
 [Born, 1800.] 
 
 Mr. Bancroft is more distinguished as a poli- 
 tician and a historian than as a poet ; but his ear- 
 liest aspirations were for the wreath of the bard ; 
 the first flowerings of his genius were in a volume 
 of poems ; and whatever the ambitions of his later 
 years, he has continued to find in the divinest of 
 the arts a recreation for himself and a means of 
 conferring happiness on others. He was born in 
 Worcester, Massachusetts, where his father was 
 many years honourably distinguished as a pious 
 and learned clergyman, and at the early age of 
 seventeen was graduated bachelor of arts at Har- 
 vard College. The next year he went to Europe, 
 and for four years studied at Gottingen and Ber- 
 lin, and travelled in Germany, Italy, Switzerland, 
 and England. On his return, in 1823, he pub- 
 lished a volume of " Poems," most of which were 
 written while he was abroad. He soon after es- 
 tablished the academy of Round Hill, at North- 
 ampton, but in a few years became too deeply 
 interested in politics for a teacher, and about the 
 same period began the composition of that great 
 
 work on the history of this country, which is 
 destined to be the best measure of his literary 
 abilities. In 1838 he was appointed collector of 
 Boston; in 1844 was the candidate of the demo- 
 cratic party for the office of Governor of Massa- 
 chusetts ; in 1845 was made secretary of the 
 Navy; in 1846 was sent as minister-plenipoten- 
 tiary to England; and on his return, in 1849, be- 
 came a resident of New York, where he has since 
 devoted himself principally to the composition of 
 his " History of the United States," of which the 
 fifth volume appeared in 1854. He has recent- 
 ly published a volume of "Literary and Historical 
 Miscellanies," embracing essays; studies in Ger- 
 man literature, including poetical translations from 
 Goethe, Schiller, Rtjeckert, and othres ; stu- 
 dies in history ; and occasional addresses. Of his 
 History I have printed some observations in " The 
 Prose Writers of America." To what rank he 
 might have attained as a poet, the judicious reader 
 may see from the specimens of his verse which 
 are here quoted. 
 
 MIDNIGHT, AT MEYRINGEN. 
 
 Is there no slumber for the hearts that mourn 7 
 Vainly I long my weary eyes to close ; 
 
 Sleep does but mock me with unfeeling scorn, 
 And only to the careless sends repose. 
 
 Nor night, nor silence lends my bosom rest; 
 
 My visionary spirit wanders far ; 
 With heart and hopes I follow to the West 
 
 In its calm motion Hesper's flaming star. 
 
 Ah ! there the fates spin sorrow's blackest thread, 
 And restless weave misfortune's broadest woof; 
 
 There Destiny, with threatening wings outspread, 
 Broods instill darkness o'er my home's dear roof. 
 
 I dread his power ; and still my heart must sigh 
 In anguish ; down the midnight stars are gone ; 
 
 The moon has set; the hours are hurrying by ; 
 And I am wakeful, sorrowing, and alone. 
 
 THE SIMPLON. 
 
 FAREWELL TO SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Land of the brave ! land of the free ! farewell! 
 
 Thee nature moulded in her wildest mood, 
 Scoop'd the deep glen and bade the mountains swell 
 
 O'er the dark belt of arrowy tannen wood. 
 
 The hills I roamed in gladness ; pure and white 
 Beams their broad mantle of eternal snows 
 18 
 
 In sparkling splendour; and with crimson light 
 Tinged are its curling folds when sunset glows. 
 
 With my own hands 't was sweet to climb the crag, 
 Upborne and nourished by the mountain air ; 
 
 While the lean mules would far behind me lag, 
 The fainting sons of indolence that bear.. 
 
 'T was sweet at noonday, stretched in idle ease, 
 To watch the stream, that hurries o'er the steep : 
 
 At one bold bound the precipice he frees, 
 Pours from the rocks, and hastes through vales 
 to sweep ; 
 
 There in still nook he forms the smiling lake 
 Of glassy clearness, where the boatman glides; 
 
 And thence a gentler course his torrents take, 
 And white-walled towns like lillies deck his sides.. 
 
 And as I lay in Nature's soothing arms, 
 On Memory's leaf she drew in colours bright 
 
 The mountain landscape's ever varying charms, 
 And bade Remembrance guard each haughty 
 height, 
 
 I dared to tread, each vale I wander'd through, 
 And every tree that cooled me with its shade, 
 
 Each glacier whence- the air refreshing blew, 
 Each limpid fountain that my thirst allayed. 
 
 Earth ! I cried, thou kindest nurse, still turns 
 To thee the heart, that withered like the leaf 
 
 In autumn's blast, and bruised by anguish, mourns 
 Departed happiness. There is relief 
 
 273 
 
274 
 
 GEORGE BANCROFT. 
 
 Upon thy bosom; from the fountains gush 
 To cool the heated brow with purest wave ; 
 
 And when distress the struggling soul would crush, 
 Thy tranquil mien hath power to heal, and save 
 
 From wasting grief. My spirit too was sear, 
 As is the last gray leaf, that lingers yet 
 
 On oaken branch, although my twentieth year 
 Upon my youthful head no mark had set. 
 
 To thee in hope and confidence I came, 
 And thou didst lend thine air a soothing balm; 
 
 Didst teach me sorrow's fearful power to tame, 
 And be, though pensive, cheerful, pleased, and 
 calm. 
 
 My heart was chilled ; age stole upon my mind, 
 In hour untimely, Spring from life to wrest; 
 
 I wandered far, my long-lost youth to find, 
 And I regain it, Nature, on thy breast ! 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 AT KANDERSTEG. 
 
 Father in heaven ! while friendless and alone 
 I gaze on nature's face in Alpine wild, 
 I would approach thee nearer. Wilt thou own 
 The solitary pilgrim for thy child ! 
 
 When on the hill's majestic height I trod, 
 And thy creation smiling round me lay, 
 The soul reclaimed its likeness unto God, 
 And spurned its union with the baser clay. 
 
 The stream of thought flowed purely, like the air 
 That from untrodden snows passed coolly by; 
 Base passion died within me ; low-born care 
 Fled, and reflection raised my soul on high. 
 
 Then wast thou with me, and didst sweetly pour 
 Serene delight into my wounded breast; 
 The mantle of thy love hung gently o'er 
 The lonely wanderer, and my heart had rest. 
 
 I gazed on thy creation. O ! 't is fair; 
 
 The vales are clothed in beauty, and the hills 
 
 In their deep bosom icy oceans bear, 
 
 To feed the mighty floods and bubbling rills. 
 
 I marvel not at nature. She is thine ; 
 Thy cherished daughter, whom thou lov'st to bless ; 
 Through thee herhillsin glistening whiteness shine; 
 Through thee her valleys laugh in loveliness. 
 
 'T is thou, when o'er my path beams cheerful day, 
 That smiling guid'st me through the stranger's 
 
 land.; 
 And when mild winds around my temples play, 
 On my hot brow I feel thy lenient hand. 
 
 And shall I fear thee ? — wherefore fear thy wrath, 
 When lifeand hope and youth from thee descend"? 
 O ! be my guide in life's uncertain path, 
 The pilgrim 1 s guardian, counsellor, and friend. 
 
 MY GODDESS. 
 
 A FREE VERSION FROM GOETHE. 
 
 Who, of heaven's immortal train. 
 Shall the highest prize obtain 1 
 Strife I would with all give o'er, 
 But there's one I'll aye adore, 
 Ever new and ever changing, 
 Through the paths of marvel raging, 
 Dearest in her father's eye, 
 Jove's own darling, Fantasy. 
 
 For to her, and her alone, 
 All his secret whims are known; 
 And in all her faults' despite 
 Is the maid her sire's delight. 
 
 Oft, with aspect mild, she goes, 
 Decked with lilies and the rose, 
 Walks among the flowery bands, 
 Summer's insect swarm commands, 
 And for food with honeyed lips 
 Dew-drops from the blossom sips; — • 
 
 Or, with darker mein, and hair 
 Streaming loose in murky air, 
 With the storm she rushes by, 
 Whistling where the crags are high, 
 And, with hues of thousand dyes, 
 Like the late and early skies, 
 Changes and is changed again, 
 Fast as moons that wax and wane. 
 
 Him, the ancient sire, we'll praise, 
 Who, as partner of our days, 
 Hath to mortal man allied 
 Such a fair, unfading bride. 
 
 For to us alone she's given, 
 And is bound by bonds of heaven 
 Still to be our faithful bride, 
 And, though joy or wo betide, 
 Ne'er to wander from our side. 
 
 Other tribes, that have their birth 
 In the fruitful teeming earth, 
 All, through narrow life, remain 
 In dark, pleasures, gloomy pain. 
 Live their being's narrow round, 
 To the passing moment bound, 
 And, unconscious, roam and feed, 
 Bent beneath the yoke of need. 
 
 But to us, with kind intent, 
 He his frolic daughter sent, 
 Nursed with fondest tenderness. 
 Welcome her with love's caress, 
 And take heed, that none but she 
 Mistress of the mansion be. 
 And of wisdom's power beware. 
 Lest the old step-mother dare 
 Rudely harm the tender fair. 
 
 Yet I know Jove's elder child, 
 Graver and serenely mild, 
 My beloved, my tranquil friend. 
 From me never may she wend, — 
 She, that knows with ill to cope, 
 And to action urges — Hope. 
 
GEORGE HILL. 
 
 [Born, 1800.] 
 
 Geouge Hiil is a native of Guilford, on Long 
 Island Sound, near New Haven. He was ad- 
 mitted to Yale College in his fifteenth year, and, 
 when he graduated, took the Berkeleian prize, as 
 the best classic. He was subsequently attached 
 to the navy, as Professor of Mathematics ; and 
 visited in this capacity the Mediterranean, its storied 
 islands, and classic shores. After his return, he 
 was appointed librarian to the State Department, 
 at Washington: a situation which he at length 
 resigned on account of ill health, and was ap- 
 pointed Consul of the United States for the south- 
 western portion of Asia Minor. The climate disa- 
 
 greeing with him, he returned to Washington; 
 and he is now attached again to one of the bureaus 
 in the Department of State. 
 
 The style of Mr. Hill's poetry is severe, and some- 
 times so elliptical as to embarrass his meaning ; this 
 is especially true of his more elaborate production, 
 " The Ruins of Athens," written in the Spenserian 
 stanza. He is most successful in his lyrics, where 
 he has more freedom, without a loss of energy. 
 His "Titania," a dramatic piece, is perhaps the 
 most original of his productions. It is wild and 
 fanciful, and graced with images of much beauty 
 and freshness. 
 
 FROM "THE RUINS OF ATHENS." 
 
 The daylight fades o'er old Cyllene's hill, 
 And broad and dun the mountain shadows fall; 
 The stars are up and sparkling, as if still 
 Smiling upon their altars ; but the tall, 
 Dark cypress, gently, as a mourner, bends — 
 Wet with the drops of evening as with tears- 
 Alike o'er shrine and worshipper, and blends, 
 All dim and lonely, with the wrecks of years, 
 As of a world gone by no coming morning cheers. 
 
 There sits the queen of temples — gray and lone. 
 She, like the last of an imperial line, 
 Has seen her sister structures, one by one, 
 To Time their gods and worshippers resign ; 
 And the stars twinkle through the weeds that twine 
 Their roofless capitals ; and, through the night, 
 Heard the hoarse drum and the exploding mine, 
 The clash of arms and hymns of uncouth rite, 
 From their dismantled shrines the guardian powers 
 affright. 
 
 Go ! thou from whose forsaken heart are reft 
 The ties of home ; and, where a dwelling-place 
 Not Jove himself the elements have left, 
 The grass-grown, undefined arena pace ! [hear 
 Look on its rent, though tower-like shafts, and 
 The loud winds thunder in their aged face ; 
 Then slowly turn thine eye, where moulders near 
 A Cesar's arch, and the blue depth of space 
 Vaults like a sepulchre the wrecks of a past race. 
 
 Is it not better with the Eremite, 
 
 Where the weeds rustle o'er his airy cave, 
 
 Perch'd on their summit, through the long, still 
 
 night 
 To sit and watch their shadows slowly wave — 
 
 While oft some fragment, sapp'd by dull decay, 
 In thunder breaks the silence, and the fowl 
 Of Ruin hoots — and turn in scorn away 
 Of all man builds, time levels, and the cowl 
 Awards her moping sage in common with the owl 1 
 
 Or, where the palm, at twilight's holy hour, 
 By Theseus' fane her lonely vigil keeps : 
 Gone are her sisters of the leaf and flower, 
 With them the living crop earth sows and reaps, 
 But these revive not : the weed with them sleeps, 
 But clothes herself in beauty from their clay, 
 And leaves them to their slumber; o'er them 
 
 weeps 
 Vainly the Spring her quickening dews away, 
 
 And Love as vainly mourns, and mourns, alas ! 
 for aye. 
 Or, more remote, on Nature's haunts intrude, 
 Where, since creation, she has slept on flowers, 
 Wet with the noonday forest-dew, and woo'd 
 By untamed choristers in unpruned bowers : 
 By pathless thicket, rock that time-worn towers 
 O'er dells untrodden by the hunter, piled 
 Ere by its shadow measured were the hours 
 To human eye, the rampart of the wild, 
 
 Whose banner is the cloud, by carnage undefiled. 
 
 The weary spirit that forsaken plods 
 The. world's wide wilderness, a home may find 
 Here, mid the dwellings of long-banish'd gods, 
 And thoughts they bring, the mourners of the 
 
 mind; 
 The spectres that no spell has power to bind, 
 The loved, but lost, whose soul's life is in ours, 
 As incense in sepulchral urns, enshrined, 
 The sense of blighted or of wasted powers, 
 The hopes whose promised fruits have perish'd 
 
 with their flowers. _„, 
 
276 
 
 GEORGE HILL. 
 
 There is a small, low cape — there, where the moon 
 Breaks o'er the shatter'd and now shapeless stone ; 
 The waters, as a rude but fitting boon, 
 Weeds and small shells have, like a garland, 
 
 thrown 
 Upon it, and the wind's and wave's low moan, 
 And sighing grass, and cricket's plaint, are heard 
 To steal upon the stillness, like a tone 
 Remember'd. Here, by human foot unstirr'd, 
 Its seed the thistle sheds, and builds the ocean-bird. 
 
 Lurks the foul toad, the lizard basks secure 
 Within the sepulchre of him whose name 
 Had scatter'd navies like the whirlwind. Sure, 
 If aught ambition's fiery wing may tame, 
 'Tis here ; the web the spider weaves where Fame 
 Planted her proud but sunken shaft, should be 
 To it a fetter, still it springs the same, 
 Glory's fool-worshipper! here bend thy knee! 
 The tomb thine altar-stone, thine idol Mockery: 
 
 A small, gray elf, all sprinkled o'er with dust 
 Of crumbling catacomb, and mouldering shred 
 Of banner and embroider'd pall, and rust 
 Of arms, time-worn monuments, that shed 
 A canker'd gleam on dim escutcheons, where 
 The groping antiquary pores to spy — 
 A what? a name — perchance ne'er graven there; 
 At whom the urchin, with his mimic eye, 
 Sits peering through a skull, and laughs continually. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-GIRL. 
 
 The clouds, that upward curling from 
 
 Nevada's summit fly, 
 Melt into air : gone are the showers, 
 And, deck'd, as 'twere with bridal flowers, 
 
 Earth seems to wed the sky. 
 
 All hearts are by the spirit that 
 
 Breathes in the sunshine stirr'd ; 
 And there 's a girl that, up and down, 
 A merry vagrant, through the town, 
 Goes singing like a bird. 
 
 A thing all lightness, life, and glee ; 
 
 One of the shapes we seem 
 To meet in visions of the night ; 
 And, should they greet our waking sight, 
 
 Imagine that we dream. 
 
 With glossy ringlet, brow that is 
 
 As falling snow-flake white, 
 Half-hidden by its jetty braid, 
 And eye like dewdrop in the shade, 
 
 At once both dark and bright ; 
 
 And cheek whereon the sunny clime 
 
 Its orown tint gently throws, 
 Gently, as it reluctant were 
 To leave its print on thing so fair — 
 
 A shadow on a rosr 
 
 She stops, looks up — what does she see 1 
 
 A flower of crimson dye, 
 Whose vase, the work of Moorish hands, 
 A lady sprinkles, as it stands 
 
 Upon a balcony : 
 
 High, leaning from a window forth, 
 
 From curtains that half-shroud 
 Her maiden form with tress of gold, 
 And brow that mocks their snow-white fold, 
 Like Diast from a cloud. 
 
 Nor flower, nor lady fair she sees — 
 
 That mountain-girl — but dumb 
 And motionless she stands, with eye 
 That seems communing with the sky : 
 Her visions are of home. 
 
 That flower to her is as a tone 
 
 Of some forgotten song, 
 One of a slumbering thousand, struck 
 From an old harp-string ; but, once woke, 
 
 It brings the rest along. 
 
 She sees beside the mountain-brook, 
 
 Beneath the old cork tree 
 And toppling crag, a vine-thatch'd shed, 
 Perch'd, like the eagle, high o'erhead, 
 
 The home of liberty; 
 
 The rivulet, the olive shade, 
 
 The grassy plot, the flock ; 
 Nor does her simple thought forget, 
 Haply, the little violet, 
 
 That springs beneath the rock. 
 
 Sister and mate, they may not from 
 
 Her dreaming eye depart ; 
 And one, the source of gentler fears, 
 More dear than all, for whom she wears 
 
 The token at her heart. 
 
 And hence her eye is dim, her cheek 
 
 Has lost its livelier glow ; 
 Her song has ceased, and motionless 
 She stands, an image of distress : — 
 
 Strange, what a flowei can do ! 
 
 THE MIGHT OF GREECE.* 
 
 The might of Greece ! whose story has gone forth, 
 
 Like the eternal echo of a lyre 
 
 Struck by an angel, to the bounds of earth, 
 
 A marvel and a melody ; a fire 
 
 Unquench'd, unquenchable. Castalia's choir 
 
 Mourn o'er their altars worshipless or gone ; 
 
 But the free mountain-air they did respire 
 
 Has borne their music onward, with a tone 
 
 Shaking earth's tyrant race through every distar.t 
 zone ! 
 A never-dying music, borne along [fraught 
 
 The stream of years, that else were mute, and 
 — A boundless echo, thunder peal'd in song — 
 With the unconquerable might of thought : 
 The Titan that shall rive the fetters wrought 
 By the world's god, Opinion, and set free 
 The powers of mind, giants from darkness brought; 
 The trophies of whose triumph-march shall be 
 
 Thrones, dungeons swept away, as rampires by the 
 sea. 
 
 * From " The Ruins of Athens." 
 
GEORGE HILL. 
 
 277 
 
 THE FALL OF THE OAK. 
 
 A glorious tree is the old gray oak : 
 He has stood for a thousand years. 
 Has stood and frown'd 
 On the trees around, 
 Like a king among his peers ; 
 As round their king they stand, so now, 
 
 When the flowers their pale leaves fold, . 
 The tall trees round him stand, array'd 
 In their robes of purple and gold. 
 
 He has stood like a tower 
 
 Through sun and shower, 
 And dared the winds to tattle ; 
 
 He has heard the hail, 
 
 As from plates of mail, 
 From his own limbs shaken, rattle ; 
 He has toss'd them about, and shorn the tops 
 
 (When the storm had roused his might) 
 Of the forest trees, as a strong man doth 
 The heads of his foes in fight. 
 
 The autumn sun looks kindly down, 
 But the frost is on the lea, 
 • And sprinkles the horn 
 
 Of the owl at morn, 
 As she hies to the old oak tree. 
 
 Not a leaf is stirr'd ; 
 
 Not a sound is heard 
 But the thump of the thresher's flail, 
 
 The low wind's sigh, 
 
 Or the distant cry 
 Of the hound on the fox's trail. 
 
 The forester he has whistling plunged 
 With his axe, in the deep wood's gloom, 
 That shrouds the hill, 
 Where few and chill 
 The sunbeams struggling come : 
 His brawny arm he has bared, and laid 
 His axe at the root of the tree, 
 The gray old oak, 
 And, with lusty stroke, 
 He wields it merrily : — 
 
 With lusty stroke, — 
 And the old gray oak, 
 Through the folds of his gorgeous vest 
 You may see him shake, 
 And the night-owl break 
 From her perch in his leafy crest. 
 She will come but to find him gone from where 
 
 He stood at the break of day; 
 Like a cloud that peals as it melts to air, 
 He has pass'd, with a crash, away. 
 
 Though the spring in the bloom and the frost in gold 
 No more his limbs attire, 
 
 On the stormy wave 
 He shall' float, and brave 
 The blast and the battle-fire ! 
 Shall spread his white wings to the wind,' 
 And thunder on the deep, 
 
 As he thunder'd when 
 His bough was green, 
 On the high and stormy steep. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Theee is a spirit working in the world, 
 
 Like to a silent subterranean fire ; 
 Yet, ever and anon, some monarch hurl'd 
 
 Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire. 
 
 The dungeon'd nations now once more respire 
 The keen and stirring air of Liberty. 
 The struggling giant wakes, and feels he's free. 
 
 By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir 
 Resume their song ; the Greek astonish'd hears, 
 And the old altar of his worship rears. 
 
 Sound on, fair sisters ! sound your boldest lyre,— 
 Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres. 
 
 Unto strange gods too long we 've bent the knee, 
 
 The trembling mind, too long and patiently. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 What things of thee may yield a semblance meet, 
 
 And him, thy fairy portraiture 1 a flower 
 And bud, moon and attending star, a sweet 
 
 Voice and its sweeter echo. Time has small power 
 O'er features the mind moulds ; and such are thine, 
 
 Imperishably lovely. Roses, where 
 They once have bloom'd, a fragrance leave behind ; 
 And harmony will linger on the wind ; 
 
 And suns continue to light up the air, 
 When set ; and music from the broken shrine 
 
 Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone 
 His flower the votary has ceased to twine : — 
 
 Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, 
 Beams from the soul whose brightness mocks 
 decline. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Now Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye, 
 And Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside, 
 And with a blush awakes as does a bride ; 
 
 And Nature speaks, like thee, in melody. 
 
 The forest, sunward, glistens, green and high ; 
 The ground each moment, as some blossom 
 springs, 
 
 Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye, 
 And each new morning some new songster brings. 
 
 And, hark ! the brooks their rocky prisons break, 
 
 And echo calls on echo to awake, 
 
 Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings, 
 
 Rustling through wood or dripping over lake. 
 Herb, bud, and bird return — but not to me 
 With song or beauty, since they bring not thee. 
 
 NOBILITY. 
 
 Go, then, to heroes, sages if allied, 
 Go ! trace the scroll, but not with eye of pride, 
 Where Truth depicts their glories as they shone, 
 And leaves a blank where should have been your 
 own. 
 
 Mark the pure beam on yon dark wave impress'd ; 
 So shines the star on that degenerate breast — ■ 
 Each twinkling orb,that burns with borrow'd fires, — 
 So ye reflect the glory of your sires. 
 
JAMES G. BROOKS. 
 
 [Born, 1801. Died, 1841.] 
 
 The late James Gordon Brooks was born at 
 Red Hook, near the city of New York, on the 
 third day of September, 1801. His father was 
 an officer in the revolutionary army, and, after the 
 achievement of our independence, a member of 
 the national House of Representatives. Our 
 author was educated at Union College, in Sche- 
 nectady, and was graduated in 1819. In the fol- 
 lowing year he commenced studying the law with 
 Mr. Justice Em ott, of Poughkeepsie ; but, though 
 he devoted six or seven years to the acquisition 
 of legal knowledge, he never sought admission to 
 the bar. In 1823, he removed to New York, 
 where he was for several years an editor of the 
 Morning Courier, one of the most able and influ- 
 ential journals in this country. 
 
 Mr. Brooks began to write for the press in 
 1817. Two years afterward he adopted the sig- 
 nature of "Florio," by which his contributions 
 to the periodicals were from that time known. In 
 1828, he was married. His wife, under the signa- 
 ture of "Noma," had been for several years a 
 
 writer for the literary journals, and, in 1829, a 
 collection of the poetry of both was published, 
 entitled " The Rivals of Este, and other Poems, 
 by James G. and Mary E. Brooks." The poem 
 which gave its title to the volume was by Mrs. 
 Brooks. The longest of the pieces by her hus- 
 band was one entitled " Genius," which he had 
 delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of 
 Yale College, in 1827. He wrote but little po- 
 etry after the appearance of this work. 
 
 In 1830 or 1831, he removed to Winchester, 
 in Virginia, where, for four or five years, he edited 
 a political and literary gazette. He returned to the 
 state of New York, in 1838, and established him- 
 self in Albany, where he remained until the 20th 
 day of February, 1841, when he died. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Brooks are spirited and 
 smoothly versified, but diffuse and carelessly writ- 
 ten. He was imaginative, and composed with 
 remarkable ease and rapidity ; but was too indif- 
 ferent in regard to his reputation ever to rewrite 
 or revise his productions. 
 
 GREECE— 1832. 
 
 Land of the brave ! where lie inurn'd 
 
 The shrouded forms of mortal clay, 
 In whom the fire of valour burn'd, 
 
 And blazed upon the battle's fray : 
 Land, where the gallant Spartan few 
 
 Bled at Thermopylae of yore, 
 When death his purple garment threw 
 
 On Helle's consecrated shore ! 
 
 Land of the Muse ! within thy bowers 
 
 Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, 
 While on their course the rapid hours 
 
 Paused at the melody she sung — 
 Till every grove and every hill, 
 
 And every stream that flow'd along, 
 From morn to night repeated still 
 
 The winning harmony of song. 
 
 Land of dead heroes ! living slaves ! 
 
 Shall glory gild thy clime no more 1 
 Her banner float above thy waves 
 
 Where proudly it hath swept before ] 
 Hath 7iot remembrance then a charm 
 
 To break the fetters and the chain, 
 To bid thy children nerve the arm, 
 
 And strike for freedom once again 1 
 
 No ! coward souls, the light which shone 
 On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, 
 
 The light which beam'd on Marathon 
 Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play ; 
 278 
 
 And thou art but a shadow now, 
 
 With helmet shatter'd — spear in rust — 
 
 Thy honour but a dream — and thou 
 Despised — degraded in the dust ! 
 
 Where sleeps the spirit, that of old 
 
 Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume, 
 When the loud chant of triumph told 
 
 How fatal was the despot's doom 1 — 
 The bold three hundred — where are they, 
 
 Who died on battle's gory breast 1 
 Tyrants have trampled on the clay 
 
 Where death hath hush'd them into rest. 
 
 Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill 
 
 A glory shines of ages fled ; 
 And fame her light is pouring still, 
 
 Not on the living, but the dead ! 
 But 'tis the dim, sepulchral light, 
 
 Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, 
 As moonbeams on the brow of night, 
 
 When tempests sweep upon their way. 
 
 Greece ! yet awake thee from thy trance, 
 
 Behold, thy banner waves afar ; 
 Behold, the glittering weapons glance 
 
 Along the gleaming front of war! 
 A gallant chief, of high emprize, 
 
 Is urging foremost in the field, 
 Who calls upon thee to arise 
 
 In might — in majesty reveal'd. 
 
JAMES G. BROOKS. 
 
 279 
 
 In vain, in vain the hero calls — 
 
 In vain he sounds the trumpet loud ! 
 His banner totters — see ! it falls 
 
 In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud : 
 Thy children have no soul to dare 
 
 Such deeds as glorified their sires ; 
 Their valour's but a meteor's glare, 
 
 Which gleams a moment, and expires. 
 
 Lost land ! where Genius made his reign, 
 
 And rear'd his golden arch on high ; 
 Where Science raised her sacred fane, 
 
 Its summits peering to the sky ; 
 Upon thy clime the midnight deep 
 
 Of ignorance hath brooded long, 
 And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep 
 
 The sons of science and of song. 
 
 Thy sun hath set — the evening storm 
 
 Hath pass'd in giant fury by, 
 To blast the beauty of thy form, 
 
 And spread its pall upon the sky ! 
 Gone is thy glory's diadem, 
 
 And freedom never more shall cease 
 To pour her mournful requiem 
 
 O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! 
 
 TO THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 Emblem of transitory man, 
 Whose wearisome and wild career, 
 
 Like thine, is bounded to a span ; 
 It seems but as a little day 
 
 Since nature smiled upon thy birth, 
 And Spring came forth in fair array, 
 
 To dance upon the joyous earth. 
 
 Sad alteration ! now how lone, 
 
 How verdureless is nature's breast, 
 Where ruin makes his empire known, 
 
 In autumn's yellow vesture dress'd ; 
 The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet 
 
 Broke on the breath of early day, 
 The summer flowers she loved to greet ; 
 
 The bird, the flowers, ! where are they 1 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 Yet lovely in thy lifelessness 
 As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, 
 
 In death's clay-cold and dark caress ; 
 There's loveliness in thy decay, 
 
 Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, 
 Like memory's mild and cheering ray 
 
 Beaming upon the night of ill. 
 
 Yet, yet the radiance is not gone, 
 
 Which shed a richness o'er the scene, 
 Which smiled upon the golden dawn, 
 
 When skies were brilliant and serene; 
 ! still a melancholy smile 
 
 (fleams upon Nature's aspect fair, 
 To charm the eye a little while, 
 
 Ere ruin spreads his mantle there ! 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, 
 How often love hath shed the tear, 
 
 And knelt beside the bed of death ; 
 How many hearts, that lightly sprung 
 
 When joy was blooming but to die, 
 Their finest chords by death unstrung, 
 
 Have yielded life's expiring sigh, 
 
 And, pillow'd low beneath the clay, 
 
 Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn ; 
 The proud, the gentle, and the gay, 
 
 Gather'd unto the mouldering urn ; 
 While freshly flow'd the frequent tear 
 
 For love bereft, affection fled ; 
 For all that were our blessings here, 
 
 The loved, the lost, the sainted dead! 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 The musing spirit finds in thee 
 Lessons, impressive and serene, 
 
 Of deep and stern morality ; 
 Thou teachest how the germ of youth, 
 
 Which blooms in being's dawning day, 
 Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, 
 
 Withers, like thee, in dark decay. 
 
 Promise of youth ' fair as the form 
 
 Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, 
 Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, 
 
 And sheds a light on every wo; 
 Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue 
 
 A tone of melody is given, 
 As if her magic voice were strung 
 
 With the empyreal fire of heaven. 
 
 And love which never can expire, 
 
 Whose origin is from on high, 
 Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire, 
 
 From the pure fountains of the sky; 
 That ray which glows and brightens still 
 
 Unchanged, eternal and divine ; 
 Where seraphs own its holy thrill, 
 
 And bow before its gleaming shrine. 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 Prophetic of our final fall ; 
 Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear ; 
 
 Thy beauties shrouded in the pall ; 
 And all the garniture that shed 
 
 A brilliancy upon thy prime, 
 Hath like a morning vision fled 
 
 Unto the expanded grave of time. 
 
 Time ! Time ! in thy triumphal flight, 
 
 How all life's phantoms fleet away ; 
 Thy smile of hope, and young delight, 
 
 Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray : 
 They fade ; and on the heaving tide, 
 
 Rolling its stormy waves afar, 
 Are borne the wreck of human pride, 
 
 The broken wreck of Fortune's war. 
 
 There, in disorder, dark and wild, 
 Are seen the fabrics once so high ; 
 
 Which mortal vanity had piled 
 As emblems of eternity ! 
 
280 
 
 JAMES G. BROOKS. 
 
 And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms 
 Frovvn'd in their majesty sublime, 
 
 Would stand unshaken by the storms 
 That gather'd round the brow of Time. 
 
 Thou desolate and dying year ! 
 
 Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine ; 
 Like evening shadows disappear, 
 
 And leave the spirit to repine. 
 The stream of life, that used to pour 
 
 Its fresh and sparkling waters on, 
 While Fate stood watching on the shore, 
 
 And number'd all the moments gone— 
 
 Where hath the morning splendour flown, 
 
 Which danced upon the crystal stream 'i 
 Where are the joys to childhood known, 
 
 When life was an enchanted dream ] 
 Enveloped in the starless night 
 
 Which destiny hath overspread ; 
 Enroll'd upon that trackless flight 
 
 Where the death-wing of time hath sped ! 
 
 O ! thus hath life its even-tide 
 
 Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; 
 And thus, divested of its pride, 
 
 It withers like the yellow leaf: 
 O ! such is life's autumnal bower, 
 
 When plunder'd of its summer bloom ; 
 And such is life's autumnal hour, 
 
 Which heralds man unto the tomb ! 
 
 TO THE AUTUMN LEAF. 
 
 Thou faded leaf! it seems to be 
 
 But as of yesterday, 
 When thou didst flourish on the tree 
 
 In all the pride of May : 
 Then t 'was the merry hour of spring, 
 Of nature's fairest blossoming, 
 
 On field, on flower, and spray ; 
 It promised fair ; how changed the scene 
 To what is now, from what hath been ! 
 
 So fares it with life's early spring ; 
 
 Hope gilds each coming day. 
 And sweetly doth the syren sing 
 
 Her fond, delusive lay : 
 Then the young, fervent heart beats high, 
 While passion kindles in the eye, 
 
 With bright, unceasing play ; 
 Fair are thy tints, thou genial hour, 
 Yet transient as the autumn flower. 
 
 Thou faded leaf ! how like to thee 
 
 Is beauty in her morning pride, 
 When life is but a summer sea, 
 
 And hope illumes its placid tide : 
 Alas ! for beauty's autumn hour, 
 Alas ! for beauty's blighted flower, 
 
 When hope and bliss have died ! 
 Her pallid brow, her cheek of grief, 
 Have thy sad hue, thou faded leaf! 
 
 Autumnal leaf! thus honour's plume, 
 
 And valour's laurel wreath must fade ; 
 
 Must lose the freshness, and the bloom 
 
 On which the beam of glory play'd ; 
 
 The banner waving o'er the crowd, 
 Far streaming like a silver cloud, 
 
 Must sink within the shade, 
 Where dark oblivion's waters flow 
 O'er human weal and human wo. 
 
 Autumnal leaf! there is a stern 
 
 And warning tone in thy decay ; 
 Like thee must man to death return 
 
 With his frail tenement of clay : 
 Thy warning is of death and doom, 
 Of genius blighted in its bloom, 
 
 Of joy's beclouded ray ; 
 Life, rapture, hope, ye are as brief 
 And fleeting as the autumn leaf ! 
 
 THE LAST SONG. 
 
 Stuike the wild harp yet once again ! 
 
 Again its lonely numbers pour ; 
 Then let the melancholy strain 
 
 Be hush'd in death for evermore. 
 For evermore, for evermore, 
 
 Creative fancy, be thou still ; 
 And let oblivious Lethe pour 
 
 Upon my lyre its waters chill. 
 
 Strike the wild harp yet once again ! 
 
 Then be its fitful chords unstrung, 
 Silent as is the grave's domain, 
 
 And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue ; 
 Let not a thought of memory dwell 
 One moment on its former song; 
 Forgotten, too, be this farewell, 
 
 Which plays its pensive strings along ! 
 
 Strike the wild harp yet once again ! 
 
 The saddest and the latest lay ; 
 Then break at once its strings in twain, 
 
 And they shall sound no more for aye : 
 And hang it on the cypress tree : 
 
 The hours of youth and song have pass'd, 
 Have gone, with all their witchery ; 
 
 Lost lyre ! these numbers are thy last. 
 
 JOY AND SORROW. 
 
 Jot kneels, at morning's rosy prime, 
 
 In worship to the rising sun ; 
 But Sorrow loves the calmer time, 
 
 When the day-god his course hath run: 
 When Night is on her shadowy car, 
 
 Pale sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep ; 
 And, guided by the evening star, 
 
 She wanders forth to muse and weep. 
 
 Joy loves to cull the summer-flower, 
 
 And wreathe it round his happy brow ; 
 But when the dark autumnal hour 
 
 Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low ; 
 When the frail bud hath lost its worth, 
 
 And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest, 
 Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, 
 
 To wither on her wither'd breast. 
 
GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 [Born, 1801.] 
 
 This popular song- writer is a native of Phila- 
 delphia. In common with many prominent au- 
 thors of the present time, he commenced his lite- 
 rary career by contributions to the journals. When 
 about fifteen years of age he wrote verses for the 
 " New York Gazette," and -he subsequently filled 
 occasionally " the poet's corner" in the "x\merican," 
 at that time under the direction of Mr. Johnson 
 Verplanck. In 1823, with the late Mr. Wood- 
 worth, he established the "New York Mirror," a 
 weekly miscellany which for nearly nineteen years 
 was conducted with much taste and ability. In 
 1827 his play, in five acts, entitled "Brier Cliff, 
 a tale of the American Revolution," was brought 
 out at the Chatham Theatre by Mr. Wallack, 
 and acted forty nights successively. I have been 
 informed that its popularity was so great that it 
 was played at four theatres in New York, to full 
 houses, on the same evening, and that it yielded 
 the author a profit of three thousand .five hundred 
 dollars, a larger sum, probably, than was ever paid 
 for any other dramatic composition in the United 
 States. 
 
 In 1836 General Morris published a volume 
 of amusing prose writings under the title of 
 "The Little Frenchman and his Water Lots;" 
 in 1838 "The Deserted Bride and other Poems," 
 of which an enlarged edition, illustrated by Wier 
 and Chapman, appeared in 1843; and in 1852 
 a complete collection of his " Poetical Works." 
 The composition which is understood to rank 
 highest in his own estimation is the poetry of 
 "The Maid of Saxony," an opera with music by 
 Mr. Charles Horn, produced at the Park Thea- 
 tre in 1842. In 1843, in conjunction with Mr. 
 Willis, he reestablished " The Mirror," and he is 
 now associated with that popular author in con- 
 ducting " The Home Journal." 
 
 If there is any literary work which calls for a 
 special gift of nature, perhaps it is the song. In 
 terms of a sounder theory, I may say, that its suc- 
 cessful accomplishment, beyond almost any other 
 composition, demands an intelligent insight into 
 the principles upon which its effect depends, and a 
 capacity, if not to combine with imposing strength, 
 yet to select with the nicest judgment. Other 
 productions often gratify long and highly, in spite 
 of considerable defects, while the song, to suc- 
 ceed at all, must be nearly perfect. It implies a 
 taste delicately skilled in the fine influences of lan- 
 guage. It has often shunned the diligence of men 
 who have done greater things. Starting from some 
 common perception, by almost a crystalline pro- 
 cess of accretion, it should grow up into a poem. 
 Its first note should find the hearer in sympathy 
 with it, and its last should leave him moved and 
 wondering. Throughout, it must have an affi- 
 
 nity to some one fixed idea. Its propriety is, not 
 so much to give expression to a feeling existing 
 in the bosom of the author, as to reproduce that 
 feeling in the heart of the listener. The tone of 
 the composition ought therefore to be, as much as 
 is possible, below the force of the feeling which it 
 would inspire. It should be simple, entire, and 
 glowing. 
 
 The distinction and difficulty of the song are 
 illustrated by the genius of Jonson, Marlowe, 
 and Dryden; by the fame of Moore, and the 
 failure of Byron. Several of the songs of 
 Morris, whether judged of by their success, or 
 by the application of any rules of criticism, are 
 nearly faultless. They are in a very chaste style 
 of art. They have the simplicity which is the 
 characteristic of the classic models, and the purity 
 which was once deemed an indispensable quality 
 in the lyric poet. They are marked by neatness of 
 language, free from every thing affected or finical ; 
 a natural elegance of sentiment, and a correct 
 moral purpose. His best effusions have few marks 
 of imitation; they are like each other, but no 
 English song can be named from which, in cha- 
 racter and tone, they are not different. "The 
 Chieftain's Daughter" is an example of the narra- 
 tive song, in which the whole story is told, in a few 
 lines, without omission and without redundancy ; 
 " When other friends are round thee," is a beauti- 
 ful expression of affection; "Land, Ho!" is an 
 exceedingly spirited and joyous nautical piece; 
 and in " Near the Lake," the very delicate effect 
 which the author has contemplated is attained 
 with remarkable precision. In sentiment, as in 
 sound, there are certain natural melodies, which 
 seem to be discovered rather than contrived, and 
 which, as they are evolved from time to time by 
 the felidity or skill of successive artists, are sure 
 to be received with unbounded popularity. The 
 higher and more elaborate productions of genius 
 are best appreciated by the thoughtful analysis of 
 a single critic; but the appropriate test of the 
 merit of these simple, apparently almost sponta- 
 neous effusions, is the response which they meet 
 with from the common heart of man. The me- 
 lodies of Mozart and Auber, doubtless, en- 
 chanted their ears who first heard them played by 
 the composers, but we know them to be founded 
 in the enduring truth of art, only because they 
 have made themselves a home in. the streets of 
 every city of Europe and America, and after long 
 experience have been found to be among the na- 
 tural formulas by which gaiety and melancholy 
 express themselves in every rank and in every 
 land. The song of " Woodman, spare that Tree," 
 has touched one of those cords of pervading nature 
 which fraternize multitudes of different nations. 
 
 281 
 
282 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 Mr. N. P. Willis, who has heen for twenty 
 years associated with General Morris in various 
 literary labors, in one of his letters gives character- 
 istically the following estimate of his literary and 
 personal character: 
 
 " Morris is the best-known poet of the country, by accla- 
 mation, not by criticism. II» is just what poets would be 
 if they sans, like birds, without criticism ; and it is a pecu- 
 liarity of his fame, that it seems as regardless of criticism 
 as a bird in the air. Nothing can stop a song of his. It is 
 very easy to say that they are easy to do. They have a mo- 
 mentum, somehow, that it is difficult for others to give, and 
 th:it speeds them to the far goal of popularity— the best 
 proof consisting in the fact that he can, at any moment, get 
 fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder 
 of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same 
 buyer for a shilling. It may, or may not, be one secret of 
 his popularity, but it is the truth— that Morris's heart is 
 at the level of most other people's, and his poetry flows out 
 by that door. lie stands breast-high in the common stream 
 of sympathy, and the fine oil of his poetic feeling goes from 
 
 him upon an element it is its nature to float upon, and 
 which carries it safe to other bosoms, with little need of 
 deep-diving or high-flyiug. His sentiments are simple, 
 honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and 
 eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry 
 of everyday feeling. These are days when poets try ex- 
 periments ; and while others succeed by taking the world's 
 breath away with flights and plunges, Morris uses his feet 
 to walk quietly with nature. Niuety-nine people in a hun- 
 dred, taken as they come in the census, would find more 
 to admire in Morris's songs, than in the writings of any 
 other American poet; and that is a parish in the poetical 
 episcopate, well worthy a wise man's nurture and prizing. 
 " As to the man — Morris, my friend — I can hardly ven- 
 ture to ' burn incense on his moustache,' as the French 
 say — write his praises under his very nose — but as far off 
 as Philadelphia, you may pay the proper tribute to his loyal 
 nature and manly excellencies. His personal qualities have 
 made him universally popular, but this overflow upon the 
 world does not impoverish him for his friends. I have out- 
 lined a true poet, and a fine fellow — fill up the picture to 
 your liking." 
 
 I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE. 
 
 I never have been false to thee ! 
 
 The heart I gave thee still is thine ; 
 Though thou hast been untrue to me, 
 
 And I no more may call thee mine! 
 I've loved as woman ever loves, 
 
 With constant soul in good or ill; 
 Thou 'st proved, as man too often proves, 
 
 A rover — but I love thee still ! 
 
 Yet think not that my spirit stoops 
 
 To bind thee captive in my train ! 
 Love's not a flower, at sunset droops, 
 
 But smiles when comes her god again ! 
 Thy words, which fall unheeded now, 
 
 Could once my heart-strings madly thrill! 
 Love's golden chain and burning vow 
 
 Are broken — but I love thee still. 
 
 Once what a heaven of bliss was ours, 
 
 When love dispelled the clouds of care, 
 And time went by with birds and flowers, 
 
 While song and incense filled the air! 
 The past is mine — the present thine — 
 
 Should thoughts of me thy future fill, 
 Think what a destiny is mine, 
 
 To lose — but love thee, false one, still. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Ah, woman ! in this world of ours, 
 What boon can be compared to thee 1 ? 
 
 How slow would drag life's weary hours, 
 
 Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, 
 And his the wealth of land and sea, 
 
 If destined to exist alone, 
 
 And ne'er call woman's heart his own! 
 
 My mother! at that holy name 
 
 Within my bosom there's a gush 
 Of feeling, which no time can tame — ■ 
 A feeling, which, for years of fame, 
 
 I would not, could not, crush; 
 And sisters! ye are dear as life; 
 But when I look upon my wife, 
 
 My heart blood gives a sudden rush, 
 And all my fond affections blend 
 In mother, sister, wife, and friend. 
 
 Yes, woman's love is free from guile, 
 
 And pure as bright Aurora's ray; 
 The heart will melt before her smile, 
 
 And base-born passions fade away; 
 Were I the monarch of the earth, 
 
 Or master of the swelling sea, 
 I would not estimate their worth, 
 
 Dear woman ! half the price of thee ! 
 
 WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER. 
 
 We were boys together, 
 
 And never can forget 
 The school-house near the heather, 
 
 In childhood where we met; 
 The humble home to memory dear, 
 
 Its sorrows and its joys; 
 Where woke the transient smile or tear, 
 When you and I were boys. 
 
 We were youths together, 
 
 And castles built in air, 
 Your heart was like a feather, 
 
 And mine weighed down with care; 
 To you came wealth with manhood's prime, 
 
 To me it brought alloys — 
 Foreshadowed in the primrose time, 
 
 When you and I were boys. 
 
 We're old men together — 
 
 The friends we loved of yore, 
 With leaves of autumn weather, 
 
 Are gone for evermore. 
 How blest to age the impulse given, 
 
 The hope time ne'er destroys — 
 Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven, 
 
 When you and I were boys. 
 
GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 283 
 
 THE WEST. 
 
 Ho ! brothers — come hither and list to my story — 
 
 Merry and brief will the narrative be : 
 Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory — 
 
 Master am I, boys, of all that I see. 
 Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling — 
 
 The meadow and moorland are marshes no 
 more; 
 And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling 
 
 The children who cluster like grapes at the door, 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; 
 The land of the heart is the land of the west. 
 Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! 
 
 Talk not of the town, boys, — give me the broad 
 prairie, 
 
 Where man like the wind roams impulsive and 
 Behold how its beautiful colours all vary, [free; 
 
 Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. 
 A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing ; 
 
 With proud independence we season our cheer, 
 And those who the world are for happiness ranging, 
 
 Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; 
 I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west. 
 Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! 
 
 Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, 
 
 We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; 
 We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, 
 
 And care not a fig for the king on his throne; 
 We never know want, for we live by our labour, 
 
 And in it contentment and happiness find; 
 We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour, 
 
 And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; 
 You know how we live, boys, and die in the west ! 
 Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! 
 
 « LAND-HO !" 
 
 Up, up, with the signal ! The land is in sight ! 
 We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 
 The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd, 
 And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last. 
 In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, 
 To soothe us in absence of those left behind. 
 Land ! — land-ho ! All hearts glow with joy at the 
 
 sight ! 
 We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 
 
 The signal is waving ! Till morn we'll remain, 
 Then part in the hope to meet one day again 
 Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our 
 
 birth, 
 The holiest spot on the face of the earth ! 
 Duar country ! our thoughts are as constant to thee, 
 A s the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea. 
 Ho ! — land-ho ! We near it — we bound at the 
 
 sight ! 
 Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 
 
 The signal is answer d ! The foam-sparkles rise 
 Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes ! 
 
 May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of 
 
 care, 
 Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair ! 
 One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells, 
 To woman — God bless her ! — wherever she dwells ! 
 The pilot's osr board ! — and, thank Heaven, 
 
 all's right ! 
 So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 
 
 THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Upon the barren sand 
 
 A single captive stood, 
 Around him came, with bow and brand, 
 
 The red men of the wood. 
 Like him of old, his doom he hears, 
 
 Rock-bound on ocean's rim : — 
 The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, 
 
 And breathed a prayer for him. 
 
 Above his head in air, 
 
 The savage war-club swung, 
 The frantic girl, in wild despair, 
 
 Her arms about him flung. 
 Then shook the warriors of the shade, 
 
 Like leaves on aspen limb, 
 Subdued by that heroic maid 
 
 Who breathed a prayer for him. 
 
 "Unbind him?" gasp'd the chief, 
 
 " Obey your king's decree !" 
 He kiss'd away her tears of grief, 
 
 And set the captive free. 
 'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm, 
 
 Hope's star to man grows dim, 
 An angel kneels in woman's form, 
 
 And breathes a prayer for him. 
 
 NEAR THE LAKE. 
 
 Near the lake where droop'd the willow, 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 Where the rock threw back the billow, 
 
 Brighter than snow ; 
 Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherish'd, 
 
 By high and low ; 
 But with autumn's leaf she perished, 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 
 Rock and tree and flowing water, 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 Bee and bird and blossom taught her 
 
 Love's spell to know ! 
 While to my fond words she listened, 
 
 Murmuring low, 
 Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 
 Mingled were our hearts for ever ! 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 Can I now forget her 1 — Never ' 
 
 No, lost one, no ! 
 To her grave these tears are given, 
 
 Ever to flow; 
 She's the star I miss'd from heaven, 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 
284 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 « WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND 
 THEE." 
 
 When other friends are round thee, 
 
 And other hearts are thine, 
 When other bays have crown'd thee, 
 
 More fresh and green than mine, 
 Then think how sad and lonely 
 
 This doating heart will be, 
 Which, while it throbs, throbs only, 
 
 Beloved one, for thee ! 
 
 Yet do not think I doubt thee, 
 
 I know thy truth remains ; 
 I would not live without thee, 
 
 For all the world contains. 
 Thou art the star that guides me 
 
 Along life's changing sea ; 
 And whate'er fate betides me, 
 
 This heart still turns to thee. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.* 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youth it shelter'd me, 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea, 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down 1 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 Oh spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters play'd. 
 My mother kiss'd me here ; 
 
 My father press'd my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand ! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
 While I've a hand to save, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. 
 
 ♦After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare 
 that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr. Henry Russell, the vo- 
 calist, an old gentleman, among the audience, who was 
 greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of ihe 
 words, rose and said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, 
 but was the tree really spared'?" " It was," said I. "I 
 am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat 
 amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. 
 I nover saw such excitement in a concert-room. 
 
 « WHERE HUDSON'S WAVE." 
 
 Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands 
 
 Winds through the hills afar, 
 Old Cronest like a monarch stands, 
 
 Crown'd with a single star ! 
 And there, amid the billowy swells 
 
 Of rock-ribb'd, cloud-capp'd earth, 
 My fair and gentle Ida dwells, 
 
 A nymph of mountain birth. 
 
 The snow-flake that the cliff receives, 
 
 The diamonds of the showers, 
 Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, 
 
 The sisterhood of flowers, 
 Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, 
 
 ' Her purity define ; 
 But Ida's dearer far than these 
 
 To this fond breast of mine. 
 
 My heart is on the hills. The shades 
 
 Of night are on my brow : 
 Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, 
 
 My soul is with you now ! 
 I bless the steir-crown'd highlands where 
 
 My Ida's footsteps roam — 
 Oh ! for a falcon's wing to bear 
 
 Me onward to my home. 
 
 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Aw ivy-mantled cottage smiled, 
 
 Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, 
 
 Where dwelt the village pastor's child, 
 In all her maiden bloom and pride. 
 
 Proud suitors paid their court and duty 
 
 To this romantic sylvan beauty : 
 
 Yet none of all the swains who sought her, 
 
 Was worthy of the pastor's daughter. 
 
 The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain, 
 
 To seek the groves of her retreat, 
 And many follow'd in her train, 
 To lay their riches at her feet. 
 But still, for all their arts so wary, 
 From home they could not lure the fairy. 
 A maid without a heart, they thought her, 
 And so they left the pastor's daughter. 
 
 One balmy eve in dewy spring 
 
 A bard became her father's guest ; 
 He struck his harp, and every string 
 
 To love vibrated in her breast. 
 With that true faith which cannot falter, 
 Her hand was given at the altar, 
 And faithful was the heart he brought her 
 To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. 
 
 How seldom learn the worldly gay, 
 With all their sophistry and art, 
 
 The sweet and gentle primrose-way 
 To woman's fond, devoted heart : 
 
 They seek, but never find the treasure, 
 
 Although reveal'd in jet and azure. 
 
 To them, like truth in wells of water, 
 
 A fable is the pastor's daughter. 
 
WILLIAM LEGGETT. 
 
 [Born, 1802. Died, 1840.] 
 
 This distinguished political and miscellaneous 
 writer was bora in the city of New York, in the 
 summer of 1802, and was educated at the George- 
 town College, in the District of Columbia. In 
 1822 he entered the navy of the United States as 
 a midshipman; but in consequence of the arbitrary 
 conduct of his commander, Captain John Orde 
 Creighton, he retired from the service in 1826, 
 after which time he devoted himself mainly to litera- 
 ry pursuits. His first publication was entitled " Lei- 
 sure Hours at Sea," and was composed of various 
 short poems written while he was in the navy. In 
 1828 he established, in New York, "The Critic," 
 a weekly literary gazette, which he conducted with 
 much ability for seven or eight months, at the end 
 of which time it was united with the " Mirror," to 
 which he became a regular contributor. In " The 
 Critic" and "The Mirror," he first published "The 
 Rifle," " The Main Truck, or the Leap for Life," 
 " White Hands, or Not Quite in Character," and 
 other stories, afterward embraced in the volumes 
 entitled " Tales by a Country Schoolmaster," and 
 " Sketches of the Sea." These tales and sketches 
 are probably the most spirited and ingenious pro- 
 ductions of their kind ever written in this country. 
 
 In 1829 Mr. Leggett became associated with 
 Mr. Bryant, in the editorship of the "Evening 
 Post," and on the departure of that gentleman for 
 Europe, in 1834, the entire direction of that able 
 journal was devolved to him. A severe illness, 
 which commenced near the close of the succeed- 
 ing year, induced him to relinquish his connexion 
 with the "Post;", and on his recovery, in 1836, he 
 commenced " The Plaindealer," a weekly periodi- 
 cal devoted to politics and literature, for which he 
 obtained great reputation by his independent and 
 fearless assertion of doctrines, and the vigorous 
 eloquence and powerful reasoning by which he 
 maintained them. It was discontinued, in conse- 
 quence of the failure of his publisher, before the 
 close of the year ; and his health, after that period, 
 prevented his connexion with any other journal. 
 In 1828 he had been married to "Miss Elmira 
 Waring, daughter of Mr. Jona.Waring, of New 
 Rochelle ; and to that pleasant village he now re- 
 tired, with his family. He occasionally visited his 
 friends in the city, and a large portion of the 
 democratic party there proposed to nominate him 
 for a seat in Congress ; but as he had acted inde- 
 pendently of a majority of the party in regard to 
 certain important political questions, his formal 
 nomination was prevented. In April, 1840, he 
 was appointed by Mr. Van Buren, then President 
 of the United States, a diplomatic agent* from our 
 
 * Soon after the death of Mr. Leggett, Mr. John L. 
 Stephens, whose " Travels in Central America" have 
 been since published, was appointed his successor as 
 diplomatic agent to that country. 
 
 government to the Republic of Guatemala. He 
 was preparing to depart for that country, when he 
 suddenly expired, on the twenty-ninth day of fol- 
 lowing month, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. 
 
 A few months after his death, a collection of his 
 political writings, in two large duodecimo volumes, 
 was published, under the direction of his friend, 
 Mr. Theodore Sedgwick. Besides the works 
 already mentioned, he wrote much in various peri- 
 odicals, and was one of the authors of " The Tales 
 of Glauber Spa," published in 1832. In the ma- 
 turity of his powers, his time and energies were 
 devoted to political writing. His poems are the 
 poorest of his productions, and were written while 
 he was in the naval service, or during his editor- 
 ship of " The Critic." In addition to his Melodies — 
 which are generally ingenious and well versified — 
 he wrote one or two prize addresses for the thea- 
 tres, and some other pieces, which have considera- 
 ble merit. 
 
 His death was deeply and generally deplored, 
 especially by the members of the democratic party, 
 who regarded him as one of the ablest champions 
 of their principles. Mr. Bryant, with whom he 
 was for several years intimately associated, pub- 
 lished in the " Democratic Review" the following 
 tribute to his character : — 
 
 "The earth may ring from shore to shore, 
 With echoes of a glorious name ; 
 But he whose loss our hearts deplore 
 Has left behind him more than fame. 
 
 "For when the death-frost came to lie 
 Upon that warm and mighty heart, 
 And quench that bold and friendly eye, 
 His spirit did not all depart. 
 
 " The words of lire that from his pen 
 Were flung upon the lucid page, 
 Still move, still shake the hearts of men, 
 Amid a cold and coward age. 
 
 " His love of Truth, too warm — too strong 
 For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, 
 His hate of Tyranny and Wrong, 
 Burn in the breasts he kindled still." 
 
 Mr. Sedgwick, in the preface to his political 
 writings, remarks that " every year was softening 
 his prejudices, and calming his passions; enlarging 
 his charities, and widening the bounds of his libe- 
 rality. Had a more genial clime invigorated his 
 constitution, and enabled him to return to his 
 labours, a brilliant and honourable future might 
 have been predicted of him. It is not the sugges- 
 tion of a too fond affection, but the voice of a calm 
 judgment, which declares that, whatever public 
 career he had pursued, he must have raised to his 
 memory an imperishable monument, and that as 
 no name is now dearer to his friends, so few could 
 have been more honourably associated with the 
 history of his country, than that of William 
 
 Leggett." ' „ 
 
 285 
 
286 
 
 WILLIAM LEGGETT. 
 
 A SACRED MELODY. 
 
 If yon bright stars which gem the night 
 
 Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, 
 Where kindred spirits reunite, 
 
 Whom death has torn asunder here ; 
 How sweet it were at once to die, 
 
 And leave this blighted orb afar — 
 Mixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky, 
 
 And soar away from star to star. 
 
 But, O ! how dark, how drear, how lone 
 
 Would seem the brightest world of bliss, 
 If, wandering through each radiant one, 
 
 We fail'd to find the loved of this ! 
 If there no more the ties should twine, 
 
 Which death's cold hand alone can sever, 
 Ah ! then these stars in mockery shine, 
 
 More hateful, as they shine forever. 
 
 It cannot be ! each hope and fear 
 
 That lights the eye or clouds the brow, 
 Proclaims there is a happier sphere 
 
 Than this bleak world that holds us now ! 
 There is a voice which sorrow hears, 
 
 When heaviest weighs life's galling chain ; 
 'Tis heaven that whispers, " Dry thy tears : 
 
 The pure in heart shall meet again I" 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The birds, when winter shades the sky, 
 
 Fly o'er the seas away, 
 Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, 
 
 And summer breezes play ; 
 
 And thus the friends that flutter near 
 
 While fortune's sun is warm, 
 Are startled if a cloud appear, 
 
 And fly before the storm. 
 
 But when from winter's howling plains 
 
 Each other warbler 's past, 
 The little snow-bird still remains, 
 
 And chirrups midst the blast. 
 
 Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng 
 
 With fortune's sun depart, 
 Still lingers with its cheerful song, 
 
 And nestles on the heart. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1 trust the frown thy features wear 
 
 Ere long into a smile will turn ; 
 1 would not that a face so fair 
 
 As thine, beloved, should look so stern. 
 The chain of ice that winter twines, 
 
 Holds not for aye the sparkling rill, 
 [t melts away when summer shines, 
 
 And leave the waters sparkling still. 
 Thus let thy cheek resume the smile 
 
 That shed such sunny light before ; 
 And though I left thee for a while, 
 
 I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more. 
 
 As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam, 
 
 Or wander on a foreign strand, 
 Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home, 
 
 And better love his native land ; 
 So I, though lured a time away, 
 
 Like bees by varied sweets, to rove, 
 Return, like bees, by close of day, 
 
 And leave them all for thee, my love. 
 Then let thy cheek resume the smile 
 
 That shed such sunny light before, 
 And though I left thee for a while, 
 
 I swear to leave thee, love, no more. 
 
 LIFE'S GUIDING STAR. 
 
 The youth whose bark is guided o'er 
 
 A summer stream by zephyr's breath, 
 With idle gaze delights to pore 
 
 On imaged skies that glow beneath. 
 But should a fleeting storm arise 
 
 To shade a while the watery way, 
 Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes, 
 
 And speeds to reach some sheltering bay, 
 
 'Tis thus, down time's eventful tide, 
 
 While prosperous breezes gently blow, 
 In life's frail bark we gayly glide, 
 
 Our hopes, our thoughts all fix'd below. 
 But let one cloud the prospect dim, 
 
 The wind its quiet stillness mar, 
 At once we raise our prayer to Him 
 
 Whose light is life's best guiding star. 
 
 TO ELMIRA. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH FRENCH CHALK* ON A PANE OF GLASS 
 IN THE HOUSE OF A FRIEND. 
 
 On this frail glass, to others' view, 
 
 No written words appear ; 
 They see the prospect smiling through, 
 
 Nor deem what secret 's here. 
 But shouldst thou on the tablet bright 
 
 A single breath bestow, 
 At once*the record starts to sight 
 
 Which only thou must know. 
 
 Thus, like this glass, to strangers' gaze 
 
 My heart seemed unimpress'd ; 
 In vain did beauty round me blaze, 
 
 It could not warm my breast. 
 But as one breath of thine can make 
 
 These letters plain to see, 
 So in my heart did love awake 
 
 When breathed upon by thee. 
 
 * The substance usually called French chalk has this 
 singular property, that what is written on glass, though 
 easily rubbed out again, so that no trace remains visible, 
 by being breathed on becomes immediately distinctly 
 legible. 
 
EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 [Born 1802. Died 1828.] 
 
 Edward Coate Pinkney was born in London, 
 in October, 1802, while his father, the Honourable 
 William Pinkstey, was the American Minister 
 at the court of St. James'. Soon after the return of 
 his family to Baltimore, in 1811, he entered St. 
 Mary's College, in that city, and remained there 
 until he was fourteen years old, when he was ap- 
 pointed a midshipman in the navy. He con- 
 tinued in the service nine years, and in that period 
 visited the Mediterranean and several other foreign 
 stations, and acquired much general knowledge 
 and acquaintance with mankind. 
 
 The death of his father, and other circumstances, 
 induced him, in 1824, to resign his place in the 
 navy ; and in the same year he was married, and 
 admitted to the Maryland bar. His career as a 
 lawyer was brief and unfortunate. He opened an 
 office in Baltimore, and applied himself earnestly 
 to his profession ; but though his legal acquire- 
 ments and forensic abilities were respectable, his 
 rooms were seldom visited by a client; and after 
 two years had passed, disheartened by neglect, and 
 with a prospect of poverty before him, he suddenly 
 determined to enter the naval service of Mexico, 
 in which a number of our officers had already won 
 distinction and fortune. When, however, he pre- 
 sented himself before Commodore Pouter, then 
 commanding the sea-forces of that country, the 
 situation he solicited was refused,* and he was 
 compelled reluctantly to return to the United 
 States. 
 
 He reappeared in Baltimore, poor and dejected. 
 He turned his attention again to the law, but in 
 his vigorous days he had been unable to support 
 himself by his profession ; and now, when he was 
 suffering from disease and a settled melancholy, 
 it was not reasonable to anticipate success. The 
 erroneous idea that a man of a poetical mind 
 cannot transact business requiring patience and 
 habits of careful investigation, was undoubtedly 
 one of the principal causes of his failure as a 
 lawyer; for that he was respected, and that his 
 fellow-citizens were willing to confer upon him 
 honours, is evident from the fact that, in 1826, he 
 was appointed one of the professors in the Uni- 
 versity of Maryland. This office, however, was 
 one of honour only : it yielded no profit. 
 
 Pistkney now became sensible that his consti- 
 tution was broken, and that he could not long 
 
 * It has been said that Commodore Porter refused 
 to give Pinkney a commission, because he was known 
 to be a warm adherent of an administration to which he 
 was himself opposed ; but it is more reasonable to be- 
 lieve, as was alleged at the time, that the navy of Mexico 
 was full, and that the citizens of that republic had begun 
 to regard with jealousy the too frequent admission of 
 foreigners into the service. 
 
 survive ; but he had no wish to live. His feelings 
 at this period are described in one of his poems : — 
 
 "A sense it was, that I could see 
 
 The angel leave my side — 
 That thenceforth my prosperity 
 
 Must be a falling tide ; 
 A strange and ominous belief, 
 That in spring-time the yellow leaf 
 
 Had fallen on my hours ; 
 And lhat all hope must be most vain, 
 Of finding on my path again 
 
 Its former vanish'd flowers." 
 
 Near the close of the year 1827, a political 
 gazette, entitled "The Marylander," was esta- 
 blished in Baltimore, and, in compliance with the 
 general wish of the proprietors, Mr. Pinkney 
 undertook to conduct it. He displayed much 
 sagacity and candour, and in a few weeks won 
 a high reputation in his new vocation ; but his 
 increasing illness compelled him to leave it, and he 
 died on the eleventh of April, 1828, at the early 
 age of twenty-five years and six months. He 
 was a man of genius, and had all the qualities of 
 mind and heart that win regard and usually lead 
 to greatness, except hope and energy. 
 
 A small volume containing "Rodolph," and 
 other poems, was published by Pinkney in 1825. 
 " Rodolph" is his longest work. It was first pub- 
 lished, anonymously, soon after he left the navy, 
 and was probably written while he was in the 
 Mediterranean. It is in two cantos. The first 
 begins, — 
 
 "The summer's heir on land and sea 
 
 Had thrown his parting glance. 
 And winter taken angrily 
 
 His waste inheritance. 
 The winds in stormy revelry 
 Sported beneath a frowning sky; 
 The chafing waves, with hollow roar, 
 Tumbled upon the shaken shore, 
 And sent their spray in upward showers 
 To Rodolph's proud ancestral towers, 
 Whose bastion, from its mural crown, 
 A regal look cast sternly down." 
 
 There is no novelty in the story, and not much 
 can be said for its morality. The hero, in the 
 season described in the above lines, arrives at his 
 own domain, after many years of wandering in fo- 
 reign lands, during which he had "^grown old in 
 heart, and infirm of frame." In his youth he had 
 loved — the wife of another — and his passion had 
 been returned. "At an untimely tide," he had met 
 the husband, and, in encounter, slain him. The 
 wife goes into a convent, and her paramour seeks 
 refuge from remorse in distant countries. In the 
 beginning of the second canto, he is once more in 
 his own castle ; but, feeling some dark presenti- 
 ment, he wanders to a cemetery, where, in the 
 morning, he is found by his vassals, "senseless 
 
 287 
 
288 
 
 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 beside his lady's um." In the delirium which 
 follows, he raves of many crimes, but most 
 
 . . . "Of one too dearly loved, 
 
 And one untimely slain, 
 Of an affection hardly proved 
 
 By murder done in vain." 
 
 He dies in madness, and the story ends abruptly 
 and coldly. It has more faults than Pinknet's 
 other works ; in many passages it is obscure ; its 
 beauty is marred by the use of obsolete words ; and 
 the author seems to delight in drawing his com- 
 parisons from the least known portions of ancient 
 literature. 
 
 Some of his lighter pieces are very beautiful. 
 «A Health," "The Picture-Song," and "A Se- 
 renade," have not often been equalled; and 
 
 "Italy," — an imitation of Goethe's Kcnnst du 
 das Land — has some noble lines. Where is there 
 a finer passage than this : 
 
 " The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ; 
 The air seems never to have borne a cloud, 
 Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curl'd 
 And solemn smokes, like altars of the world !" 
 
 Pinknet's is the first instance in this country 
 in which we have to lament the prostitution of 
 true poetical genius to unworthy purposes. Per- 
 vading much that he wrote there is a selfish me- 
 lancholy and sullen pride ; dissatisfaction with the 
 present, and doubts in regard to the future life. 
 The great distinguishing characteristic of Ameri- 
 can poetry is its pure and high morality. May it 
 ever be so ! 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 THE INDIAN'S BRIDE. 
 
 Kyow'sTthou the land vvhichlovers ought tochoosel 
 Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews ; 
 In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run, 
 The purple vintage clusters in the sun ; 
 Odours of flowers haunt the balmy breeze, 
 Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees ; 
 And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves, 
 Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless 
 
 loves. 
 Beloved ! — speed we from this sullen strand, 
 Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow 
 
 sand. 
 
 Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine 
 But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky; [eye 
 And, flying fast and free before the gale, 
 The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail ; 
 And waters glittering in the glare of noon, 
 Or touch'd with silver by the stars and moon, 
 Or fleck'd with broken lines of crimson light, 
 When the far fisher's fire affronts the night. 
 Lovely as loved ! toward that smiling shore 
 Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more. 
 
 It looks a dimple on the face of earth, 
 
 The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth ; 
 
 Nature is delicate and graceful there, 
 
 The place's genius, feminine and fair; 
 
 The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ; 
 
 The air seems never to have borne a cloud, 
 
 Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curl'd 
 
 And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. 
 
 Thrice beautiful ! — to that delightful spot 
 
 Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot. 
 
 There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls, 
 Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls ; 
 And there are forms in which they both conspire 
 To whisper themes that know not how to tire ; 
 The speaking ruins in that gentle clime 
 Have out been hallow'd by the hand of Time, 
 And each cnn mutely prompt some thought of flame: 
 The meanest stone is not without a name. 
 Then come, beloved ! — hasten o'er the sea, 
 To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy. 
 
 Why is that graceful female here 
 With yon red hunter of the deer 7 
 Of gentle mien and shape, she seems 
 
 For civil halls design'd, 
 Yet with the stately savage walks, 
 
 As she were of his kind. 
 Look on her leafy diadem, 
 Enrich'd with many a floral gem: 
 Those simple ornaments about 
 
 Her candid brow, disclose 
 The loitering spring's last violet, 
 
 And summer's earliest rose ; 
 But not a flower lies breathing there 
 Sweet as herself, or half so fair. 
 Exchanging lustre with the sun, 
 
 A part of day she strays — 
 A glancing, living, human smile 
 
 On Nature's face she plays. 
 Can none instruct me what are these 
 Companions of the lofty trees 1 
 
 Intent to blend her with his lot, 
 Fate form'd her all that he was not ; 
 And, as by mere unlikeness, thoughts 
 
 Associate we see, 
 Their hearts, from very difference, caught 
 
 A perfect sympathy. 
 The household goddess here to be 
 Of that one dusky votary, 
 She left her pallid countrymen, 
 
 An earthling most divine, 
 And sought in this sequester'd wood 
 
 A solitary shrine. 
 Behold them roaming hand in hand, 
 Like night and sleep, along the land ; 
 Observe their movements : — he for her 
 
 Restrains his active stride, 
 While she assumes a bolder gait 
 
 To ramble at his side ; 
 Thus, even as the steps they frame, 
 Their souls fast alter to the same. 
 
EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 289 
 
 The one forsakes ferocity, 1 
 And momently grows mild ; 
 
 The other tempers more and more 
 The artful with the wild. 
 
 She humanizes him, and he 
 
 Educates him to liberty. 
 
 O, say not they must soon be old, — 
 
 Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold ! 
 
 Yet envy I that sylvan pair 
 
 More than my words express, — 
 The singular beauty of their lot, , 
 
 And seeming happiness. 
 They have not been reduced to share % 
 The painful pleasures of despair ; 
 Their sun declines not in the sky, 
 
 Nor are their wishes cast, 
 Like shadows of the afternoon, 
 
 Repining towards the past : 
 With nought to dread or to repent, 
 The present yields them full content. 
 In solitude there is no crime ; 
 
 Their actions all are free, 
 And passion lends their way of life 
 
 The only dignity ; 
 And how can they have any cares '? — 
 Whose interest contends with theirs 1 
 
 The world, for all they know of it, 
 Is theirs : — for them the stars are lit ; 
 For them the earth beneath is green, 
 
 The heavens above are bright ; 
 For them the moon doth wax and wane, 
 
 And decorate the night ; 
 For them the branches of those trees 
 Wave music in the vernal breeze ; 
 For them, upon that dancing spray, 
 
 The free bird sits and sings, 
 And glittering insects flit about 
 
 Upon delighted wings ; 
 For them that brook, the brakes among, 
 Murmurs its small and drowsy song; 
 For them the many-colour'd clouds 
 
 Their shapes diversify, 
 And change at once, like smiles and frowns, 
 
 The expression of the sky. 
 For them, and by them, all is gay, 
 And fresh and beautiful as they : 
 The images their minds receive, 
 
 Their minds assimilate 
 To outward forms, imparting thus 
 
 The glory of their state. 
 
 Could aught be painted otherwise 
 
 Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes 1 
 
 He, too, because she fills his sight, 
 
 Each object falsely sees ; 
 The pleasure that he has in her 
 
 Makes all things seem to please. 
 And this is love ; — and it is life 
 
 They lead, — that Indian and his wife. 
 
 J 19 
 
 SONG. 
 
 We break the glass, whose sacred wine, 
 
 To some beloved health we drain. 
 Lest future pledges, less divine, 
 
 Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane ; 
 And thus I broke a heart that pour'd 
 
 Its tide of feelings out for thee, 
 In draughts, by after-times deplored, 
 
 Yet dear to memory. 
 
 But still the old, impassion'd ways 
 
 And habits of my mind remain, 
 And still unhappy light displays 
 
 Thine image chamber'd in my brain, 
 And still it looks as when the hours 
 
 Went by like flights of singing birds, 
 Or that soft chain of spoken flowers, 
 
 And airy gems — thy words. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I fixi this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A -form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds, 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burden'd bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns,-— 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill'd this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon — 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood, 
 
 Some more of such a frame, 
 That life might be all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
290 
 
 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 THE VOYAGER'S SONG.* 
 
 Sound trumpets, ho! — weigh anchor — loosen sail — 
 The seaward flying banners chide delay ; 
 As if 'twere heaven that breathes this kindly gale, 
 Our life-like bark beneath it speeds away. 
 Flit we, a gliding dream, with troublous motion, 
 Across the slumbers of uneasy ocean ; 
 And furl our canvass by a happier land, 
 So fraught with emanations from the sun, 
 That potable gold streams through the sand 
 Where element should run. 
 
 Onward, my friends, to that bright, florid isle, 
 The jewel of a smoothe and silver sea, 
 With springs on which perennial summers smile 
 A power of causing immortality. 
 For Bimini ; — in its enchanted ground, 
 The hallow'd fountains we would seek, are found ; 
 Bathed in the waters of those mystic wells, 
 The frame starts up in renovated truth, 
 And, freed from Time's deforming spells, 
 Resumes its proper youth. 
 
 Hail, bitter birth ! — once more my feelings all 
 A graven image to themselves shall make, 
 And, placed upon my heart for pedestal, 
 That glorious idol long will keep awake 
 Their natural religion, nor be cast 
 To earth by Age, the great Iconoclast. 
 As from Gadara's founts they once could come, 
 Charm-call'd, from these Love's genii shall arise, 
 And build their perdurable home, 
 Mikakda, in thine eyes. 
 
 By Nature wisely gifted, not destroy'd 
 With golden presents, like the Roman maid, — 
 A sublunary paradise enjoy'd, 
 Shall teach thee bliss incapable of shade ; — ; 
 An Eden ours, nor angry gods, nor men, 
 Nor star-clad Fates, can take from us again. 
 Superior to animal decay, 
 Sun of that perfect heaven, thou 'It calmly see 
 Stag, raven, phenix, drop away 
 With human transiency. 
 
 Thus rich in being, — beautiful, — adored, 
 Fear not exhausting pleasure's precious mine ; 
 The wondrous waters we approach, when pour'd 
 On passion's lees, supply the wasted wine : 
 Then be thy bosom's tenant prodigal, 
 And confident of termless carnival. 
 Like idle yellow leaves afloat on time, 
 Let others lapse to death's pacific sea, — 
 We '11 fade nor fall, but sport sublime 
 In green eternity. 
 
 * "A tradition prevailed among the natives of Puerto 
 Itico, that in the Isle of Bimini, one of the Lucayos, 
 ttiere was a fountain,^ such wonderful virtue, as to re- 
 new the youth and recall the vigour of every person who 
 bathed in its salutary waters. In hopes of finding this 
 grand restorative, Ponce de Leon and his followers, 
 ranged through the islands, searching with fruitless soli- 
 citude for the fountain, which was the chief object of 
 the expedition."— Robebtson's America. 
 
 The envious years, which steal our pleasures, thou 
 Mayst call at once, like magic memory, back, 
 And, as they pass o'er thine unwithering brow, 
 Eflace their footsteps ere they form a track. 
 Thy bloom with wilful weeping never stain, 
 Perpetual life must not belong to pain. 
 For me, — this world has not yet been a place 
 Conscious of joys so great as will be mine, 
 Because the light has kiss'd no face 
 Forever fair as thine. 
 
 A PICTURE-SONG. 
 
 How may this little tablet feign 
 
 The features of a face, 
 Which o'er informs with loveliness, 
 
 Its proper share of space ; 
 Or human hands on ivory, 
 
 Enable us to see 
 The charms, that all must wonder at, 
 
 Thou work of gods in thee ! 
 
 But yet, methinks, that sunny smile 
 
 Familiar stories tells, 
 And I should know those placid eyes, 
 
 Two shaded crystal wells ; 
 Nor can my soul, the limner's art 
 
 Attesting with a sigh, 
 Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek, 
 
 As rosy clouds the sky. 
 
 They could not semble what thou art, 
 
 More excellent than fair, 
 As soft as sleep or pity is, 
 
 And pure as mountain-air ; 
 But here are common, earthly hues, 
 
 To such an aspect wrought, 
 That none, save thine, can seem so like 
 
 The beautiful of thought. 
 
 The song I sing, thy likeness like, i 
 
 Is painful mimicry 
 Of something better, which is now 
 
 A memory to me, 
 Who have upon life's frozen sea 
 
 Arrived the icy spot, 
 Where man's magnetic feelings show 
 
 Their guiding task forgot. 
 
 The sportive hopes, that used to chase 
 
 Their shifting shadows on, 
 Like children playing in the sun, 
 
 Are gone — forever gone ; 
 And on a careless, sullen peace, 
 
 My double-fronted mind, - 
 Like Janus when his gales were shut, 
 
 Looks forward and behind. 
 
 Apolio placed his harp, of old, 
 
 A while upon a stone, 
 Which has resounded since, when struck, 
 
 A breaking harp-string's tone ; 
 And thus my heart, though wholly now, 
 
 From early softness free, 
 If touch'd, will yield the music yet, 
 
 It first received of thee. 
 
EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 291 
 
 THE OLD TREE. 
 
 And is it gone, that venerable tree, 
 
 The old spectator of my infancy? — 
 
 It used to stand upon this very spot, 
 
 And now almost its absence is forgot. 
 
 I knew its mighty strength had known decay, 
 
 Its heart, like every old one, shrunk away, 
 
 But dreamt not that its frame would fall, ere mine 
 
 At all partook my weary soul's decline. 
 
 The great reformist, that each day removes 
 The old, yet never on the old improves, 
 The dotard, Time, that like a child destroys, 
 As sport or spleen may prompt, his ancient toys, 
 And shapes their ruins into something new — 
 Has planted other playthings where it grew. 
 The wind pursues an unobstructed course, 
 Which once among its leaves delay'd perforce ; 
 The harmless Hamadryad, that of yore 
 Inhabited its bole, subsists no more ; 
 Its roots have long since felt the ruthless plough — 
 There is no vestige of its glories now ! 
 But in my mind, which doth not soon forget, 
 That venerable tree is growing yet ; 
 Nourish'd, like those wild plants that feed on air, 
 By thoughts of years unconversant with care, 
 And visions such as pass ere man grows wholly 
 A fiendish thing, or mischief adds to folly. 
 I still behold it with my fancy's eye, 
 A vernant record of the days gone by : 
 I see not the sweet form and face more plain, 
 Whose memory was a weight upon my brain. 
 — Dear to my song, and dearer to my soul, 
 Who knew but half my heart, yet had the whole 
 Sun of my life, whose presence and whose flight 
 Its brief day caused, and never-ending night ! 
 Must this delightless verse, which is indeed 
 The mere wild product of a worthless weed, 
 (But which, like sunflowers, turns a loving face 
 Towards the lost light, and scornsits birth and place,) 
 End with such cold allusion unto you, 
 To whom, in youth, my very dreams were true 1 
 It must; I have no more of that soft kind, 
 My age is not the same, nor is my mind. 
 
 TO 
 
 'Twas eve; the broadly shining sun 
 
 Its long, celestial course had run ; 
 
 The twilight heaven, so soft and blue, 
 
 Met earth in tender interview, 
 
 E'en as the angel met of yore 
 
 His gifted mortal paramour, 
 
 Woman, a child of morning then, — 
 
 A spirit still, — compared with men. 
 
 Like happy islands of the sky, 
 
 The gleaming clouds reposed on high, 
 
 Each fix'd sublime, deprived of motion, 
 
 A Delos to the airy ocean. 
 
 Upon the stirless shore no breeze 
 
 Shook the green drapery of the trees, 
 
 Or, rebel to tranquillity, 
 
 Awoke a ripple on the sea. 
 
 Nor, in a more tumultuous sound, 
 
 Were the world's audible breathings drown'd ; 
 
 The low, strange hum of herbage growing, 
 
 The voice of hidden waters flowing, 
 
 Made songs of nature, which the ear 
 
 Could scarcely be pronounced to hear ; 
 
 But noise had furl'd its subtle wings, 
 
 And moved not through material things, 
 
 All which lay calm as they had been 
 
 Parts of the painter's mimic scene. 
 
 'T was eve ; my thoughts belong to thee, 
 
 Thou shape of separate memory ! 
 
 When, like a stream to lands of flame, 
 
 Unto my mind a vision came. 
 
 Methought, from human haunts and strife 
 
 Remote, we lived a loving life ; 
 
 Our wedded spirits seem'd to blend 
 
 In harmony too sweet to end, 
 
 Such concord as the echoes cherish 
 
 Fondly, but leave at length to perish. 
 
 Wet rain-stars are thy lucid eyes, 
 
 The Hyades of earthly skies, 
 
 But then upon my heart they shone, 
 
 As shines on snow the fervid sun. 
 
 And fast went by those moments bright, 
 
 Like meteors shooting through the night ; 
 
 But faster fleeted the wild dream 
 
 That clothed them with their transient beam. 
 
 Yet love can years to days condense, 
 
 And long appear'd that life intense ; 
 
 It was, — to give a better measure 
 
 Than time, — a century of pleasure. 
 
 ELYSIUM. 
 
 She dwelleth in Elysium ; there, 
 Like Echo, floating in the air ; 
 Feeding on light as feed the flowers, 
 She fleets away uncounted hours, 
 Where halcyon Peace, among the bless'd, 
 Sits brooding o'er her tranquil nest. 
 
 She needs no impulse ; one she is, 
 Whom thought supplies with ample bliss : 
 The fancies fashion'd in her mind 
 By Heaven, are after its own kind; 
 Like sky-reflections in a lake, 
 Whose calm no winds occur to break. 
 
 Her memory is purified, 
 
 And she seems never to have sigh'd : 
 
 She hath forgot the way to weep ; 
 
 Her being is a joyous sleep ; 
 
 The mere imagining of pain, 
 
 Hath pass'd, and cannot come again. 
 
 Except of pleasure most intense 
 
 And constant, she hath lost all sense ; 
 
 Her life is day without a night, 
 
 An endless, innocent delight ; 
 
 No chance her happiness new mars, 
 
 Howe'er Fate twine her wreaths of stars, 
 
 And palpable and pure, the part 
 Which pleasure playeth with her hfart ; 
 For every joy that seeks the maid, 
 Foregoes its common painful shade 
 Like shapes that issue from the grove 
 Arcadian, dedicate to Jove 
 
292 
 
 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 
 
 TO H- 
 
 The firstlings of my simple song 
 
 Were ofTer'd to thy name ; 
 Again the altar, idle long, 
 
 In worship rears its flame. 
 My sacrifice of sullen years, 
 My many hecatombs of tears, 
 
 No happier hours recall — 
 Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore 
 To one who ever loved thee more 
 
 Than fickle Fortune's all. 
 
 And now, farewell ! — and although here 
 
 Men hate the source of pain, 
 I hold thee and thy follies dear, 
 
 Nor of thy faults complain. 
 For my misused and blighted powers, 
 My waste of miserable hours, 
 
 I will accuse thee not : — 
 The fool who could from self depart, 
 And take for fate one human heart, 
 
 Deserved no better lot. 
 
 I reck of mine the less, because 
 
 In wiser moods I feel 
 A doubtful question of its cause 
 
 And nature, on me steal — 
 An ancient notion, that time flings 
 Our pains and pleasures from his wings 
 
 With much equality — 
 And that, in reason, happiness 
 Both of accession and decrease 
 
 Incapable must be. 
 
 Unwise, or most unfortunate, 
 
 My way was ; let the sign, 
 The proof of it, be simply this — 
 
 Thou art not, wert not mine ! 
 For 'tis the wont of chance to bless 
 Pursuit, if patient, with success ; 
 
 And envy may repine, 
 That, commonly, some triumph must 
 Be won by every lasting lust. 
 
 How I have lived imports not now; 
 
 I am about to die, 
 Else I might chide thee that my life 
 
 Has been a stifled sigh ; 
 Yes, life ; for times beyond the line 
 Our parting traced, appear not mine, 
 
 Or of a world gone by ; 
 And often almost would evince, 
 My soul had transmigrated since. 
 
 Pass wasted flowers ; alike the grave, 
 
 To which I fast go down, 
 Will give the joy of nothingness 
 
 To me, and to renown : 
 Unto its careless tenants, fame 
 Is idle as that gilded name, 
 
 Of vanity the crown, 
 Helvetian hands inscribe upon 
 The forehead of a skeleton. 
 
 List the last cadence of a lay, 
 
 That, closing as begun, 
 Is govern'd by a note of pain, 
 
 O, lost and worshipp'd one ! 
 
 None shall attend a sadder strain, 
 Till Memson's statue stand again 
 
 To mourn the setting sun, — 
 Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem 
 To share the nature of their theme. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 Look out upon the stars, my love, 
 
 And shame them with thine eyes, 
 On which, than on the lights above, 
 
 There hang more destinies. 
 Night's beauty is the harmony 
 
 Of blending shades and light ; 
 Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 
 
 A sister to the night ! — 
 
 Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye 
 
 Within my watching breast : 
 Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 
 
 Who robs all hearts of rest. 
 Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, 
 
 And make this darkness gay 
 With looks, whose brightness well might make 
 
 Of darker nights a day. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S SONG. 
 
 I burs' no incense, hang no wreath 
 
 O'er this, thine early tomb : 
 Such cannot cheer the place of death, 
 
 But only mock its gloom. 
 Here odorous smoke and breathing flower 
 
 No grateful influence shed ; 
 They lose their perfume and their power, 
 
 When offer'd to the dead. 
 
 And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, 
 
 The spirit may return, 
 A disembodied sense, to feed 
 
 On fragrance, near its urn — 
 It is enough, that she, whom thou 
 
 Didst love in living years, 
 Sits desolate beside it now, 
 
 And falls these heavy tears. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I need not name thy thrilling name, 
 
 Though now I drink to thee, my dear, 
 Since all sounds shape that magic word, 
 
 That fall upon my ear, — Mart ; 
 And silence, with a wakeful voice, 
 
 Speaks it in accents loudly free, 
 As darkness hath a light that shows 
 
 Thy gentle face to me, — Marx. 
 
 I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul, 
 
 With scarce one hope, and many fears, 
 Mix'd, were I of a melting mood, 
 
 With many bitter tears, — Mart — 
 I pledge thee, and the empty cup 
 
 Emblems this hollow life of mine, 
 To which, a gone enchantment, thou 
 
 No more wilt be the wine, — Mart. 
 
FORTUNATUS COSBY. 
 
 [Born 1802.] 
 
 Fobtttnatus Cosbt, a son of Mr. Justice Cos- 
 by, for many years one of the most eminent law- 
 yers of Louisville, Kentucky, was born at Harrod's 
 Creek, Jefferson county, in that state, on the 
 second of May, 1802; graduated at Yale College 
 in 1819 ; married a young lady of New England 
 in 1825 ; and has since been known as a lover of 
 literature, and a poet, though too careless of his 
 fame as an author to collect the many waifs he 
 has from time to time contributed to the periodi- 
 cals, some of which have been widely published 
 under the names of other writers. In his later 
 years he has resided in Washington. 
 
 Mr. Cosby has sung with natural grace and 
 genuine feeling of domestic life, and of the charms 
 of nature, as seen in the luxuriant west, where, in 
 his own time, forests of a thousand years have dis- 
 appeared before the axe of the settler, and cities, 
 with all the institutions of cultivated society, have 
 taken the places of wigwams and hunting-camps. 
 Among the longer effusions which he has printed 
 anonymously, besides the following fine ode " To 
 the Mocking Bird," (written about the year 1826,) 
 may be mentioned " The Traveler in the Desert," 
 " A Dream of Long Ago," " Fireside Fancies," and 
 » The Solitary Fountain." 
 
 TO THE MOCKING BIKD.* 
 
 Bibd of the wild and wondrous song, 
 
 I hear thy rich and varied voice 
 Swelling the greenwood depths among, 
 
 Till hill and vale the while rejoice. 
 Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, 
 I list to that inspiring strain ; 
 I thread the forest's tangled maze 
 
 The thousand choristers to see, 
 Who, mingled thus, their voices raise 
 
 In that delicious minstrelsy ; 
 I search in vain each pause between — ■ 
 The choral band is still unseen. 
 
 'T is but the music of a dream, 
 
 An airy sound that mocks the ear; 
 But hark again ! the eagle's scream — 
 
 It rose and fell, distinct and clear! 
 And list ! in yonder hawthorn bush, 
 The red-bird, robin, and the thrush ! 
 Lost in amaze I look around, 
 
 Nor thrush nor eagle there behold : 
 But still that rich aerial sound, 
 
 Like some forgotten song of old 
 That o'er the heart has held control, 
 Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. 
 
 And yet the woods are vocal still, 
 
 The air is musical with song ; 
 O'er the near stream, above the hill, 
 
 The wildering notes are borne along; 
 But whence that gush of rare delight? 
 And what art thou, or bird, or sprite'? — 
 Perched on yon maple's topmost bough, 
 
 With glancing wings and restless feet, 
 Bird of untiring throat, art thou 
 
 Sole songster in this concert sweet ! 
 
 * In earlier editions of this volume erroneously attri- 
 buted to Mr. Alfred B. Meek. 
 
 So perfect, full, and rich, each part, 
 It mocks the highest reach of art. 
 
 Once more, once more, that thrilling strain !- 
 
 Ill-omened owl, be mute, be mute! — 
 Thy native tones I hear again, 
 
 More sweet than harp or lover's lute; 
 Compared with thy impassioned tale, 
 How cold, how tame the nightingale. 
 Alas ! capricious in thy power, 
 
 Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled : 
 The mimic rules the changeful hour, 
 
 And all the "soul of song" is dead ! 
 But no — to every borrowed tone 
 He lends a sweetness all his own ! 
 
 On glittering wing, erect and bright, 
 
 With arrowy speed be darts aloft, 
 As though his soul had ta'en its flight, 
 
 In that last strain, so sad and soft, 
 And he would call it back to life, 
 To mingle in the mimic strife ! 
 And ever, to each fitful lay, 
 
 His frame in restless motion wheels, 
 As though he would indeed essay 
 
 To act the ecstacy he feels — 
 As though his very feet kept time 
 To that inimitable chime ! 
 
 And ever, as the rising moon 
 
 Climbs with full orb the trees above, 
 He sings his most enchanting tune, 
 
 While echo wakes through all the grove ; 
 His descant soothes, in care's despite, 
 The weary watches of the night ; 
 The sleeper from his couch starts up, 
 
 To listen to that lay forlorn ; 
 And he who quaffs the midnight cup 
 
 Looks out to see the purple morn ! 
 Oh, ever in the merry spring, 
 Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing ! 
 
 293 
 
JAMES WILLIAM MILLER. 
 
 [Born about 1802. Died 1829.] 
 
 James William Miller was a young man of 
 singular refinement, and most honorable character, 
 " with the single defect of indecision," which, ac- 
 cording to his biographer, " attended almost every 
 action in his chequered existence," so that, young 
 as he was when he died, " he had been engaged 
 in as many as eight different pursuits, none of 
 which was prosecuted with sufficient perseverance 
 to command success." In 1828, after having 
 passed some time in the desultory study of the 
 law, at Middleborough, near Boston, he suddenly 
 determined to make a desperate effort* to acquire 
 fortune, or at least a competence, in the West In- 
 dies ; and after visiting several of the islands, 
 finally settled upon one of those which are subject 
 to Spain, and though his health was feeble and 
 precarious, was prosecuting his plans with great 
 energy, and prospects of abundant success, when 
 
 he died — his brain and heart and body overtasked 
 — in 1829, at the age of twenty-seven years. Mr. 
 N. P. Willis describes him, in his "American 
 Monthly Magazine," for October, 1830, as having 
 been " a man of exceeding sensitiveness, and great 
 delicacy, both of native disposition and culture;" 
 and " of that kind of genius which is out of place 
 in common life, and which, at the same time that 
 it interests and attracts you, excites your fear and 
 pity." 
 
 Mr. Milleii was for a short time associated 
 with John Neal in the editorship of " The 
 Yankee," and he wrote for this and other period- 
 icals, many poems, simple and touching in senti- 
 ment, for the most part, but with indications of his 
 constitutional carelessness, which after his death 
 were collected and published, with a graceful and 
 appreciative memoir. 
 
 A SHOWER. 
 
 The pleasant rain ! — the pleasant rain ! 
 
 By fits it plashing falls 
 On twangling leaf and dimpling pool — 
 
 How sweet its warning calls ! 
 They know it — all the bosomy vales, 
 
 High slopes, and verdant meads ; 
 The queenly elms and princely oaks 
 
 Bow down their grateful heads. 
 
 The withering grass, and fading flowers, 
 
 And drooping shrubs look gay ; 
 The bubbly brook, with gladlier song, 
 
 Hies on its endless way ! 
 All things of earth, all grateful things ! 
 
 Put on their robes of cheer ; 
 They hear the sound of the warning burst, 
 
 And know the rain is near. 
 
 It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain ! 
 
 I drink its cooler breath ; 
 It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers, 
 
 And roses' fragrant death ; 
 It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lilly pale, 
 
 The beds where violets die, 
 And it bears its life on its living wings — 
 
 I feel it wandering by. 
 
 * "He left this country abruptly, to run a wild hazard 
 of life for which his delicate habits unfitted him — for a re- 
 ward most distant and visionary. . . . The country he was 
 going to was rude and sickly ; the pursuits he was to engage 
 in were coarse and repulsive ; the language, the people, 
 new to him; the prospects of success too distant for any- 
 thing hut desperation." — Notice by N, P. Willis. 
 294 
 
 And yet it comes ! the lightning's flash 
 
 Hath torn the lowering cloud; 
 With a distant roar, and a nearer crash, 
 
 Out bursts the thunder loud; 
 It comes with the rush of a god's descent 
 
 On the hush'd and trembling earth, 
 To visit the shrines of the hallow'd groves 
 
 Where a poet's soul had birth. 
 
 With a rush as of a thousand steeds, 
 
 Is the mighty god's descent; 
 Beneath the weight of his passing tread, 
 
 The conscious groves are bent. 
 His heavy tread — it is lighter now — 
 
 And yet it passeth on ; 
 And now it is up, with a sudden lift — ■ 
 
 The pleasant rain hath gone. 
 
 The pleasant rain ! — the pleasant rain ! 
 
 It hath passed above the earth, 
 I see the smile of the opening cloud, 
 
 Like the parted lips of mirth. 
 The golden joy is spreading wide 
 
 Along the blushing west, 
 And the happy earth gives back her smiles, 
 
 Like the glow of a grateful breast. 
 
 As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, 
 
 That knoweth all its need, 
 So came the good of the pleasant rain, 
 
 O'er hill and verdant mead. 
 It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, 
 
 In hall and cotter's home, 
 That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven, 
 
 The pleasant rain hath come. 
 
ALBERT G. GREENE. 
 
 [Born, 1S02.] 
 
 Mn. Greece was born in Providence, Rhode 
 Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He 
 was educated at Brown University, in that city, at 
 which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon 
 after admitted to the bar, and followed his profes- 
 sion until 1834, when he was elected to an office 
 under the city government, in which he has since 
 
 remained. One of his earliest metrical composi- 
 tions was the familiar piece entitled " Old Grimes," 
 which was written in the year in which he entered 
 the university. 
 
 His poems, except one delivered before a literary 
 society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, 
 and have never been published in a collected form. 
 
 THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 
 
 O'er a low couch the setting sun 
 
 Had thrown its latest ray, 
 Where in his last strong agony 
 
 A dying warrior lay, 
 The stern, old Baron Ruptger, 
 
 Whose fame had ne'er been bent 
 By wasting pain, till time and toil 
 
 Its iron strength had spent. 
 
 « They come around me here, and say 
 
 My days of life are o'er, 
 That I shall mount my noble steed 
 
 And lead my band no more ; 
 They come, and to my beard they dare 
 
 To tell me now, that I, 
 Their own liege lord and master born, — 
 
 That I — ha! ha! — must die. 
 
 " And what is death 1 I 've dared him oft 
 
 Before the Paynim spear, — 
 Think ye he's entered at my gate, 
 
 Has come to seek me here ? 
 I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him, 
 
 When the fight was raging hot, — 
 I'll try his might — I'll brave his power; 
 
 Defy, and fear him not. 
 
 " Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, — 
 
 And fire the culverin, — 
 Bid each retainer arm with speed, — 
 
 Call every vassal in ; 
 Up with my banner on the wall, — 
 
 The banquet board prepare, — 
 Throw wide the portal of my hall, 
 
 And bring my armour there !" 
 
 A hundred hands were busy then, — 
 
 The banquet forth was spread, — 
 And rung the heavy oaken floor 
 
 With many a martial tread, 
 While from the rich, dark tracery 
 
 Along the vaulted wall, 
 Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, 
 
 O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. 
 
 Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 
 
 The mail'd retainers pour'd, 
 On through the portal's frowning arch, 
 
 And throng'd around the board. 
 While at its head, within his dark, 
 
 Carved oaken chair of state, 
 Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 
 
 With girded falchion, sate. 
 
 " Fill every beaker up, my men, 
 
 Pour forth the cheering wine ; 
 There's life and strength in every drop, — 
 
 Thanksgiving to the vine ! 
 Are ye all there, my vassals true'' — 
 
 Mine eyes are waxing dim ; — 
 Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 
 
 Each goblet to the brim. 
 
 " Ye 're there, but yet I see ye not. 
 
 Draw forth each trusty sword, — 
 And let me hear your faithful steel 
 
 Clash once around my board : 
 I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — 
 
 What clogs my heavy breath 1 
 Up all, — and shout for Rudiger, 
 
 <■ Defiance unto Death !' " 
 
 Bowl rang to bowl, — steel clang'd to steel, 
 
 — And rose a deafening cry 
 That made the torches flare around, 
 
 And shook the flags on high : — 
 "Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him 1 — 
 
 Slaves, traitors ! have ye flown 1 
 Ho ! cowards, have ye left me 
 
 To meet him here alone ! 
 
 But 7 defy him : — let him come !" 
 
 Down rang the massy cup, 
 While from its sheath the ready blade 
 
 Came flashing halfway up ; 
 And, with the black and heavy plumes 
 
 Scarce trembling on h : s head, 
 There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, 
 
 Old Rudiger sat, dead. 
 
296 
 
 ALBERT G. GREENE. 
 
 TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR 
 STEEPLE. 
 
 The dawn has broke, the morn is up, 
 
 Another day begun ; 
 And there thy poised and gilded spear 
 
 Is flashing in the sun, 
 Upon that steep and lofty tower 
 
 Where thou thy watch hast kept, 
 A true and faithful sentinel, 
 
 While all around thee slept. 
 
 Tor years, upon thee, there has pour'd 
 
 The summer's noon-day heat, 
 And through the long, dark, starless night, 
 
 The winter storms have beat ; 
 Bat yet thy duty has been done, 
 
 By day and night the same, 
 Still thou hast met and faced the storm, 
 
 Whichever way it came. 
 
 No chilling blast in wrath has swept 
 
 Along the distant heaven, 
 But thou hastwatch'd its onward course, 
 
 And distant warning given ; 
 And when mid-summer's sultry beams 
 
 Oppress all living things, 
 Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes 
 
 With health upon its wings. 
 
 How oft I 've seen, at early dawn, 
 
 Or twilight's quiet hour, 
 The swallows, in their joyous glee, 
 
 Come darting round thy tower, 
 As if, with thee, to hail the sun 
 
 And catch his earliest light, 
 And offer ye the morn's salute, 
 
 Or bid ye both, — good-night. 
 
 And when, around thee or above, 
 
 No breath of air has stirr'd, 
 Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight 
 
 Of each free, happy bird, 
 Till, after twittering round thy head 
 
 In many a mazy track, 
 The whole delighted company 
 
 Have settled on thy back. 
 
 Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, 
 
 A gentle breeze has sprung, 
 And, prompt to mark its first approach, 
 
 Thy eager form hath swung, 
 I 've thought I almost heard thee say, 
 
 As far aloft they flew, — 
 " Now all away ! — here ends our play, 
 
 For I have work to do ! " 
 
 Men slander thee, my honest friend, 
 
 And call thee, in their pride, 
 An emblem of their fickleness, 
 
 Thou ever-faithful guide. 
 Each weak, unstable human mind 
 
 A "weathercock" they call; 
 And thus, unthinkingly, mankind 
 
 Abuse thee, one and all. 
 
 They have no right to make thy name 
 
 A by-word for their deeds : — 
 They change their friends, their principles, 
 
 Their fashions, and their creeds ; 
 Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known 
 
 Thus causelessly to range ; 
 But when thou changest sides, canst give 
 
 Good reason for the change. 
 
 Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course 
 
 The thoughtless oft condemn, 
 Art touch'd by many airs from heaven 
 
 Which never breathe on them, — 
 And moved by many impulses 
 
 Which they do never know, 
 Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod 
 
 The dusty paths below. 
 
 Through one more dark and cheerless night 
 
 Thou well hast kept thy trust, 
 And now in glory o'er thy head 
 
 The morning light has burst. 
 And unto earth's true watcher, thus, 
 
 When his dark hours have pass'd, 
 Will come "the day-spring from on high," 
 
 To cheer his path at last. 
 
 Bright symbol of fidelity, 
 
 Still may I think of thee : 
 And may the lesson thou dost teach 
 
 Be never lost on me ; — 
 But still, in sunshine or in storm, 
 
 Whatever task is mine, 
 May I be faithful to my trust, 
 
 As thou hast been to thine. 
 
 ADELHEID. 
 
 Why droop the sorrowing trees, 
 Swayed by the autumn breeze, 
 Heavy with rain 1 
 Drearily, wearily, 
 
 Move 
 
 as in pain ! 
 
 Weeping and sighing, 
 
 They ever seem crying, 
 " Adelheid ! Adelheid !" evening and morn : 
 •' Adelheid ! Adelheid ! where has she gone 1" 
 
 With their arms bending there, 
 In the cold winter air, 
 Icy and chill, 
 Trembling and glistening, 
 Watching and listening, 
 Awaiting her still, 
 With the snow round their feet, 
 Still they the name repeat — 
 " Adelheid ! Adelheid ! here is her home : 
 Adelheid ! Adelheid! when will she come?'' 
 
 With the warm breath of Spring 
 Now the foliage is stirr'd ; 
 
 On the pathway below them 
 A footstep is heard. 
 
ALBERT G. GREENE. 
 
 297 
 
 Now bent gently o'er her, 
 
 How joyous the greeting, 
 Now waving before her 
 
 Each sound seems repeating — 
 "Adelheid! Adelheid ! welcome again." 
 Their branches upspringing, 
 The breeze through them ringing, 
 The birds through them singing, 
 Unite in the strain — 
 " Adelheid ! Adelheid ! welcome again !" 
 
 OLD GRIMES. 
 
 OiT) Grimes is dead ; that good old man 
 
 We never shall see more : 
 He used to wear a long, black coat, 
 
 All button'd down before. 
 
 His heart was open as the day, 
 
 His feelings all were true; 
 His hair was some inclined to gray — 
 
 He wore it in a queue. 
 
 Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
 His breast with pity burn'd ; 
 
 The large, round head upon his cane 
 From ivory was turn'd. 
 
 Kind words he ever had for all ; 
 
 He knew no base design : 
 His eyes were dark and rather small, 
 
 His nose was aquiline. 
 
 He lived at peace with all mankind, 
 
 In friendship he was true : 
 His coat had pocket-holes behind, 
 
 His pantaloons were blue. 
 
 Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes 
 
 He pass'd securely o'er, 
 And never wore a pair of boots 
 
 For thirty years or more. 
 
 But good old Giumes is now at rest, 
 Nor fears misfortune's frown : 
 
 He wore a double-breasted vest — 
 The stripes ran up and down. 
 
 He modest merit sought to find, 
 
 And pay it its desert : 
 He had no malice in his mind, 
 
 No ruffles on his shirt. 
 
 His neighbours he did not abuse — 
 
 Was sociable and gay : 
 He wore large buckles on his shoes, 
 
 And changed them every day. 
 
 His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
 
 He did not bring to view, 
 Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, 
 
 As many people do. 
 His worldly goods he never threw 
 
 In trust to fortune's chances, 
 But lived (as all his brothers do) 
 
 In easy circumstances. 
 Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, 
 
 His peaceful moments ran ; 
 And everybody said he was 
 
 A fine old gentleman. 
 
 OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S 
 LIGHT. 
 
 Oh think not that the bosom's light 
 
 Must dimly shine, its fire be low, 
 Because it doth not all invite 
 
 To feel its warmth and share its glow. 
 The altar's strong and steady blaze 
 
 On all around may coldly shine, 
 But only genial warmth conveys 
 
 To those who gather near the shrine. 
 The lamp within the festal hall 
 
 Doth not more clear and brightly burn 
 Than that, which shrouded by the pall, 
 
 Lights but the cold funereal urn. 
 
 The fire which lives through one brief hour, 
 
 More sudden beat perchance reveals 
 Than that whose tenfold strength and power 
 
 Its own unmeasured depth conceals. 
 Brightly the summer cloud may glide 
 
 But bear no heat within its breast, 
 Though all its gorgeous folds are dyed 
 
 In the full glories of the west : 
 'Tis that which through the darken'd sky, 
 
 Surrounded by no radiance, sweeps — 
 In which, conceal'd from every eye, 
 
 The wild and vivid lightning sleeps. 
 
 Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, 
 
 Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, 
 Unto thy sight or touch reveal 
 
 The hidden power which they enfold 1 
 But take those cold, unyielding things, 
 
 And beat their edges till you tire, 
 And every atom forth that springs 
 
 Is a bright spark of living fire : 
 Each particle, so dull and cold 
 
 Until the blow that woke it came, 
 Did still within it slumbering hold 
 
 A power to wrap the world in flame. 
 
 What is there, when thy sight is turn'd 
 
 To the volcano's icy crest, 
 By which the fire can be discern'd 
 
 That rages in its silent breast ; 
 Which hidden deep, but quenchless still, 
 
 Is at its work of sure decay, 
 And will not cease to burn until 
 
 It wears its giant heart away. 
 The mouhtain's side upholds in pride 
 
 Its head amid the realms of snow, 
 And gives its bosom depth to hide 
 
 The burning mass which lies below. 
 
 While thus in things of sense alone 
 
 Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd, 
 How can the living heart be known, 
 
 Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd 1 
 Oh, many an overburden'd soul 
 
 Has been at last to madness wrought, 
 While proudly struggling to control . 
 
 Its burning and consuming thought — 
 When it had sought communion long, 
 
 And had been doom'd in vain to seek 
 For feelings far too deep and strong 
 
 For heart to bear or tongue to speak ! 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 [Born, about 1803.] 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, a son of the Reve- 
 rend William Emerson, one of the associates of 
 Chief Justice Parsons, Alexander H. Everett, 
 
 J. S. BUCKMINSTER, WlLLIAM TUDOR, JOHN T. 
 
 Kirkland, George Ticknor, and others, in the 
 "Anthology Society," was born in Boston about 
 the year 1803, and after taking his degree of ba- 
 chelor of arts at Harvard College, in 1821, studied 
 theology, and, in 1829, was ordained as the col- 
 league of the late Reverend Henry Ware, Jr., over 
 the second Unitarian church of his native city ; but 
 subsequent!}' abandoned the pulpit on account of 
 having adopted certain heterodox opinions in re- 
 gard to the supernatural character of Christianity, 
 and has since, except during two excursions in 
 Europe, lived in retirement at Concord, devoting 
 his attention to literature and philosophy. He has 
 been a contributor to " The North American Re- 
 view" and " The Christian Examiner," and was 
 two years editor of " The Dial," established in Bos- 
 ton by Mr. Ripley, in 1840. He published several 
 orations and addresses in 1837, 1838, 1839, and 
 1840, and in 1841 the first series of his " Essays," 
 in 1844 the second series of his " Essays," in 1846 
 a collection of his " Poems," in 1851 " Representa- 
 tive Men," and in 1852, in connection with W. 
 H. Channing and James Freeman Clarke, 
 " Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli." 
 
 In a notice of Mr. Emerson's essays and ora- 
 tions in " The Prose Writers of America," I have 
 attempted a speculation and characterization of his 
 genius ; but that genius, in whatever forms it may 
 be exhibited, is essentially poetical ; and though he 
 defies classification as a philosopher, few will doubt 
 that he is eminently a poet, even in his poetry. 
 As a thinker he disdains the trammels of systems 
 and methods; his utterances are the free develop- 
 ments of himself: all his thoughts appearing and 
 claiming record in the order of their suggestion 
 and growth, so that they have, if a more limited, 
 also a more just efficiency. In poetry he is as 
 impatient of the laws of verbal harmony, as in 
 discussion of the processes of logic ; and if his es- 
 sential ideas are made to appear, so as not to seem 
 altogether obscure to himself, he cares little whe- 
 ther they move to any music which was not made 
 for them. In his degree, he holds it to be his pre- 
 rogative to say, I am : let the herd who have no 
 individuality of their own, accommodate them- 
 selves to me, and those who are my peers have 
 respect for me. If you cannot sing his songs to 
 the melodies of Milton, or Spenser, or Pope, or 
 Tennyson, study till you discover the key and 
 scale of Emerson ; then all will be harmonious, 
 and no doubt you will find your compensation. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's sympathy with nature is evinced 
 298 
 
 in every thing he has written ; beauty, in external 
 objects, whether it be grandeur, sublimity, splen- 
 dor, or simple grace, is not with him an illustra- 
 tion merely ; it is an instructing presence, to be 
 questioned and heard as one of the forms or mani- 
 festations of divinity. The old prayer of Ajax is 
 translated in his verse : 
 
 " Give me of the true, — ■ 
 Whose ample leaves and tendrils, curled 
 Among the silver hills of heaven, 
 Draw everlasting dew ; 
 Wine of wine, 
 Blood of the world, 
 
 Form of forms, and mould of statures, 
 That I, intoxicated, 
 And by the draught assimilated, 
 May float at pleasure through all natures ; 
 The bird-language rightly spell, 
 And that which roses say so well." 
 
 What to others who have repeated the words 
 has been an unmeaning fable, has to him been a 
 truth : he has found 
 
 '•' Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing ;" 
 
 and this he says for himself, in a little poem called 
 
 " THE APOLOGY. 
 
 "Think me not unkind and rude 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 " Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook 
 Each cloud that floated in the sky 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 " Chide me not, laborious band, 
 For the idle flowers I brought; 
 Every aster in my hand 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 " There was never mystery 
 
 But 't is figured in the flowers; 
 Was never secret history 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
 " One harvest from thy field 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong; 
 A second crop thy acres yield, 
 Which I gather in a song." 
 
 Consistency is perhaps not to be expected of one 
 who defies all formula and method ; and the follow- 
 ing lines are here quoted from the poem entitled 
 " Woodnotes," not so much because they seem to 
 discredit this « Apology," therefore, as for their 
 exquisite beauty: 
 
 "As sunbeams stream through liberal space, 
 And nothing jostle or displace, 
 So waved the pine-tree through my thought, 
 And fanned the dreams it never brought." 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 299 
 
 The metaphysician laboriously educes an infer- 
 ence, which he announces more or less doubtfully; 
 the poet speaks face to face familiarly with the 
 sphinx, and sweetly or bravely 6ings his revela- 
 tion. Hence Emerson disclaims the title and 
 function of reasoner: it is more honorable to be 
 in the confidence of the gods. In a characteristic 
 letter to Henry Ware, in 1838, he says: 
 
 " It strikes me very oddly, that good and wise men at 
 Cambridge and Boston should think of raising me into an 
 object of criticism. I have always been, from my very in- 
 capacity of methodical writing, a ' chartered libertine,' free 
 to worship and free to rail — lucky when I could make my- 
 self understood, but never esteemed near enough to the 
 institutions and mind of society to deserve the notice of 
 the masters of literature and religion. I have appreciated 
 fully the advantages of my position; for well I know that 
 there is no scholar less willing or less able to be a polemic. 
 I could not give an account of myself, if challenged. I 
 could not possibly give you one of the ' arguments' on 
 which any doctrine of mine stands ; for I do not know what 
 
 arguments mean in reference to any'expression of a thought. 
 I delight in telling what I think ; but, if you ask me how 
 I dare say so, or why it is so, I am the most helpless of mor- 
 tal men. I do not even see that either of these questions 
 admits of an answer. ... I shall go on, just as before, see- 
 ing whatever I can, and telling what I see; and I sup- 
 pose, with the same fortune that has hitherto attended 
 me : the joy of finding that my older and better brothers, 
 who work with the sympathy of society, loving and be- 
 loved, do now and then unexpectedly confirm my percep- 
 tions, and find my nonsense is only their own thought in 
 motley." 
 
 For myself I am not of his school altogether ; 
 I doubt the correctness of his short-hand transla- 
 tions sometimes ; the poet may misunderstand na- 
 ture, or there may be lying sphinxes, as the fools 
 are apt to say of rapping spirits. Nevertheless 
 the higher class of intelligences have in the poeti- 
 cal faculty an inspiration which resembles, in a 
 degree, that purer influence or energy which in a 
 more strict sense is a special gift of heaven. 
 
 EACH IN ALL. 
 
 Littxe thinks in the field yon red-cloak'd clown 
 
 Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
 
 And the heifer that lows in the upland farm 
 
 Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 
 
 The sexton tolling his bell at noon 
 
 Dreams not that great Napoleon 
 
 Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 
 
 Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; 
 
 Nor knowest thou what argument 
 
 Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent, 
 
 All are needed by each one ; 
 
 Nothing is fair or good alone. 
 
 I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
 Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
 
 I brought him home in his nest at even, — 
 He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 
 
 For I did not bring home the river and sky, 
 
 He sang to my ear, these sang to my eye. • 
 
 The delicate shells lay on the shore — 
 
 The bubbles of the latest wave 
 
 Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 
 
 And the bellowing of the savage sea 
 
 Greeted their safe escape to me. 
 
 I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
 
 I fetch'd my sea-born treasures home, 
 
 But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
 
 Had left their beauty on the shore, 
 
 With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. 
 
 Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair, 
 
 Their concord is beyond compare. 
 
 The lover watch'd his graceful maid 
 
 As mid the virgin train she stray'd, 
 
 Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
 
 Was woven still by that snow-white quire. 
 
 At last, she c*tme to his hermitage, 
 
 Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage, — 
 
 The gay enchantment was undone, — 
 
 A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
 
 Then, I said, " I covet truth ; 
 
 Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 
 I leave it behind with the games of youth ;' 
 
 As I spoke, beneath my feet 
 
 The ground-pine curl'd its pretty wreath, 
 
 Running over the hair-cap burs ; 
 I inhaled the violet's breath : 
 
 Around me stood the oaks and firs : 
 Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. 
 Over me soar'd the eternal sky 
 Full of light and of deity; 
 Again I saw — again I heard, 
 The rolling river, the morning bird : 
 Beauty through my senses stole, — 
 I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 
 
 "GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!'' 
 
 Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home ; 
 
 Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine : 
 Too long through weary crowds I roam : — 
 
 A river ark on the ocean brine, 
 Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam ; 
 But now, proud world, I 'm going home. 
 
 Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; 
 
 To Grandeur with his wise grimace : 
 
 To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
 
 To supple office, low and high ; 
 
 To crowded halls, to court and street, 
 
 To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, 
 
 To those who go, and those who come, — 
 
 Good-bye, proud world, Im going home. 
 
 I go to seek my own hearth-stone 
 Bosom'd in yon green hills alone ; 
 A secret lodge in a pleasant land, 
 Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, 
 Where arches green, the livelong day 
 Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
 And evil men have never trod 
 A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 
 
300 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
 I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
 And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines 
 Where the evening star so holy shines, 
 I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 
 At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
 For what are they all in their high conceit, 
 When man in the bush with God may meet ? 
 
 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Fixe humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! 
 Where thou art is clime for me, 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek, — 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, 
 Let me chase thy waving lines, 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Flower-bells, 
 Honey'd cells, — 
 These the tents 
 Which he frequents. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 Sailor of the atmosphere, 
 Swimmer through the waves of air, 
 Voyager of light and noon, 
 Epicurean of June, 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum,— 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the south wind, in May days, 
 
 With a net of shining haze, 
 
 Silvers the horizon wall, 
 
 And with softness touching all, 
 
 Tints the human countenance 
 
 With a colour of romance, 
 
 And infusing subtle heats 
 
 Turns the sod to violets, — 
 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 
 Rover of the underwoods, 
 
 The green silence dost displace 
 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tune, 
 Telling o f countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers, 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 In Indian wildernesses found, 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavoury or unclean 
 Hath my insect never seen, 
 But violets, and bilberry bells, 
 Maple sap, and daffodels, 
 Clover, catchfly, adders-tongue, 
 And brier-roses dwelt among. 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All was picture as he pass'd. 
 
 Wiser far than human seer, 
 Yellow-breech'd philosopher, 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 
 Sipping only what is sweet 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
 
 Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
 When the fierce north-western blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 
 Thou already slumberest deep, 
 Wo and want thou canst outsleep ; 
 Want and wo which torture us, 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 THE RHODORA. 
 
 LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 
 
 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
 I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
 Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
 To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; 
 The purple petals fallen in the pool 
 
 Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; 
 Young Raphael might covet such a school ; 
 
 The lively show beguiled me from my way. 
 Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
 This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
 Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
 Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
 
 Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose ! 
 I never thought to ask, I never knew, 
 
 But in my simple ignorance suppose [you. 
 
 The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky 
 Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopp'd, the courier's feet 
 Delay'd, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
 Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come see the north-wind's masonry. 
 Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
 Furnish'd with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
 Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
 So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
 For number or proportion. Mockingly 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
 A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
 Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
 Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops the work. 
 And when his hours are number'd, and the world 
 Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
 Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish'd Art 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
 Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 30i 
 
 THE SPHINX. 
 
 « Who has drugg'd my boy's cup, 
 
 
 Who has mix'd my boy's bread 1 
 
 The Sphinx is drowsy, 
 
 Who, with sadness and madness, 
 
 Her wings are furl'd, 
 
 Has turn'd the manchild's head V " 
 
 Her ear is heavy, 
 
 
 She broods on the world. 
 
 I heard a poet answer 
 
 « Who'll tell me my secret 
 
 Aloud and cheerfully, 
 
 The ages have kept 1 
 
 " Say on, sweet Sphinx ! — thy dirges 
 
 I awaited the seer 
 
 Are pleasant songs to me. 
 
 While they slumber'd and slept. 
 
 Deep love lieth under 
 
 " The fate of the manchild, — 
 
 These pictures of time, 
 They fade in the light of 
 
 The meaning of man, — 
 
 Their meaning sublime. 
 
 Known fruit of the unknown, 
 
 
 Dffidalian plan. 
 
 " The fiend that man harries 
 
 Out of sleeping a waking, 
 
 Is love of the Best, 
 
 Out of waking a sleep, 
 
 Yawns the Pit of the Dragon 
 
 Life death overtaking, 
 
 Lit by rays from the Blest ; 
 
 Deep underneath deep. 
 
 The Lethe of Nature 
 
 " Erect as a sunbeam 
 
 Can't trance him again, 
 
 Upspringeth the palm; 
 
 Whose soul sees the Perfect 
 
 The elephant browses 
 
 Which his eyes seek in vain. 
 
 Undaunted and calm; 
 
 
 In beautiful motion 
 
 « Profounder, profounder 
 
 The thrush plies his wings, 
 
 Man's spirit must dive : 
 
 Kind leaves of his covert ! 
 
 To his aye-rolling orbit 
 
 Your silence he sings. 
 
 No goal will arrive. 
 The heavens that now draw him 
 
 "The waves unashamed 
 
 With sweetness untold, 
 
 In difference sweet, 
 
 Once found, — for new heavens 
 
 Play glad with the breezes, 
 
 He spurneth the old. 
 
 Old playfellows meet. 
 The journeying atoms, 
 Primordial wholes, 
 
 " Pride ruin'd the angels, 
 Their shame them restores : 
 
 Firmly draw, firmly drive, 
 
 And the joy that is sweetest 
 
 By their animate poles. 
 
 Lurks in stings of remorse. 
 Have I a lover 
 
 " Sea, earth, air, sound, silence, 
 
 Who is noble and free, — 
 
 Plant, quadruped, bird, 
 
 I would he were nobler 
 
 By one music enchanted, 
 
 Than to love me. 
 
 One deity stirr'd, 
 
 
 Each the other adorning, 
 
 "Eterne alternation 
 
 Accompany still, 
 
 Now follows, now flies, 
 
 Night veileth the morning, 
 
 And under pain, pleasure, — 
 
 The vapour the hill. 
 
 Under pleasure, pain lies. 
 
 
 Love works at the centre 
 
 "The babe, by its mother 
 
 Lies bathed in joy, 
 Glide its hours uncounted, 
 
 Heart heaving alway, 
 Forth speed the strong pulses 
 To the borders of day. 
 
 The sun is its toy ; 
 
 
 Shines the peace of all being 
 
 "Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits ! 
 
 Without cloud in its eyes, 
 
 Thy sight is growing blear ; 
 
 And the sum of the world 
 
 Hemlock and vitriol for the Sphinx 
 
 In soft miniature lies. 
 
 Her muddy eyes to clear." 
 
 " But man crouches and blushes, 
 
 The old Sphinx bit her thick lip, — 
 
 Absconds and conceals ; 
 
 Said, " Who taught thee me to name ? 
 
 He creepeth and peepcth, 
 
 Manchild ! I am thy spirit ; 
 
 He palters and steals ; 
 
 Of thine eye I am eyebeam. 
 
 Infirm, melancholy, 
 
 Jealous glancing around, 
 An oaf, an accomplice, 
 
 He poisons the ground. 
 
 " Thou art the unanswer'd question : — 
 Couldst see thy proper eye, 
 
 Alway it asketh, asketh, 
 And each answer is a lie. 
 
 « Outspoke the great mother 
 
 So take thy quest through nature, 
 
 Beholding his fear ; — 
 
 It through thousand natures ply, 
 
 At the sound of her accents 
 
 Ask on, thou clothed eternity, 
 
 Cold shudder'd the sphere ; — 
 
 Time is the false reply." 
 
3C2 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Uprose the merry Sphinx, 
 
 And crouch'd no more in stone, 
 She hopp'd into the baby's eyes, 
 
 She hopp'd into the moon, 
 She spired into a yellow flame, 
 
 She flower'd in blossoms red, 
 She flow'd into a foaming wave, 
 
 She stood Monadnoc's head. 
 
 Thorough a thousand voices 
 Spoke the universal dame, 
 
 "Who tellcth one of my meanings 
 Is master of all I am." 
 
 THE PROBLEM. 
 
 I like a church, I like a cowl, 
 I love a prophet of the soul, 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 Would I that cowled churchman be. 
 
 Why should the vest on him allure, 
 Which I could not on me endure 1 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 
 Never from lips of cunning fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
 Out from the heart of nature roll'd 
 The burdens of the Bible old ; 
 The litanies of nations came, 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 
 Up from the burning core below, — 
 The canticles of love and wo. 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 
 And groin'd the aisles of Christian Rome, 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity. 
 Himself from God he could not free ; 
 He builded better than he knew, 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
 
 Know'st thou what wove yon wood-bird's nest 
 Of leaves, and feathers from her breast; 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
 Painting with morn each annual cell ; 
 Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
 To her old leaves new myriads 1 
 Such and so grew these holy piles, 
 Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
 Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
 As the best gem upon her zone ; 
 And morning opes with haste her lids 
 To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
 O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky- 
 As on its friends with kindred eye ; 
 For, out of Thought's interior sphere 
 These wonders rose to upper air, 
 And nature gladly gave them place, 
 Adopted them into her race, 
 And granted them an equal date 
 With Andes and with Ararat. 
 
 These temples grew as grows the grass, 
 Art might obey but not surpass. 
 The passive Master lent his hand 
 To the vast Soul that o'er him plann'd, 
 And the same power that rear'd the shrine, 
 
 Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
 Ever the fiery Pentacost 
 Girds with one flame the countless host, 
 Trances the heart through chanting quires, 
 And through the priest the mind inspires. 
 
 The word unto the prophet spoken, 
 Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
 The word by seers or sybils told 
 In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
 Still floats upon the morning wind, 
 Still whispers to the willing mind. 
 One accent of the Holy Ghost 
 The heedless world hath never lost. 
 I know what say the Fathers wise, — 
 The book itself before me lies, — 
 Old Chrysoslom, best Augustine, 
 And he who blent both in his line, 
 The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
 Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines ; 
 His words are music in my ear, 
 I see his cowled portrait dear, 
 And yet, for all his faith could see, 
 I would not the good bishop be. 
 
 THE FORE-RUNNERS. 
 
 Long I follow'd happy guides : 
 I could never reach their sides. 
 Their step is forth and, ere the day, 
 Breaks up their leaguer and away. 
 Keen my sense, my heart was young, 
 Right good will my sinews strung. 
 But no speed of mine avails 
 To hunt upon their shining trails. 
 On and away, their hasting feet 
 Make the morning proud and sweet. 
 Flowers they strew, I catch the scent, 
 Or tone of silver instrument 
 Leaves on the wind melodious trace, 
 Yet I could never see their face. 
 On eastern hills I see their smokes 
 Mix'd with mist by distant lochs. 
 I met many travellers 
 Who the road had surely kept, 
 They saw not my fine revellers, 
 These had cross'd them while they slept. 
 Some had heard their fair report, 
 In the country or the court. 
 Fleetest couriers alive 
 Never yet could once arrive, 
 As they went or they return'd, 
 At the house where these sojourn'd. 
 Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, 
 Though they are not overtaken : 
 In sleep their jubilant troop is near, 
 I tuneful voices overhear, 
 It may be in wood or waste, — 
 At unawares 'tis come and pass'd. 
 Their near camp my spirit knows 
 By signs gracious as rainbows 
 I thenceforward, and long after, 
 Listen for their harp-like laughter, 
 And carry in my heart for days 
 Peace that hallows rudest ways. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 303 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 For this present, hard 
 Is the fortune of the bard 
 
 Born out of time ; 
 All his accomplishment 
 From nature's utmost treasure spent 
 
 Booteth not him. 
 When the pine tosses its cones 
 To the song of its waterfall tones, 
 He speeds to the woodland walks, 
 To birds and trees he talks : 
 Csesar of Iris leafy Rome, 
 There the poet is at home. 
 He goes to the river side, — 
 
 Not hook nor line hath he : 
 He stands in the meadows wide, — 
 
 Nor gun nor scythe to see ; 
 With none has he to do, 
 And none to seek him, 
 Nor men below, 
 
 Nor spirits dim. 
 What he knows nobody wants ; 
 What he knows, he hides, not vaunts. 
 Knowledge this man prizes best 
 Seems fantastic to the rest ; 
 Pondering shadows, colours, clouds, 
 Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds, 
 Boughs on which the wild bees settle, 
 Tints that spot the violets' petal, 
 Why nature loves the number five, 
 
 And why the star-form she repeats ;— 
 Lover of all things alive, 
 
 Wonderer at all he meets, 
 Wcnderer chiefly at himself, — 
 
 Who can tell him what he is ; 
 Or how meet in human elf 
 
 Coming and past eternities 1 . . . . 
 And such I knew, a forest seer, 
 A minstrel of the natural year, 
 Foreteller of the vernal ides, 
 Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, 
 A lover true, who knew by heart 
 Each joy the mountain dales impart; 
 It seem'd that nature could not raise 
 A plant in any secret place, 
 In quaking bog, on snowy hill, 
 Beneath the grass that shades the rill, 
 Under the snow, between the rocks, 
 In damp fields known to bird and fox, 
 But he would come in the very hour 
 It open'd in its virgin bower, 
 As if a sunbeam show'd the place, 
 And tell its long descended race. 
 It seem'd as if the breezes brought him, 
 It seem'd as if the sparrows taught him, 
 As if by secret sight he knew 
 Where in far fields the orchis grew. 
 There are many events in the field, 
 
 Which are not shown to common eyes, 
 But all her shows did nature yield 
 
 To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
 He saw the partridge drum in the woods, 
 
 He heard the woodcock's evening hymn, 
 He found the tawny thrush's broods, 
 And the shy hawk did wait for him. 
 
 What others did at distance hear, 
 
 And gucss'd within the thicket's gloom, 
 
 Was show'd to this philosopher, 
 And at his bidding seem'd to come. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Knows he who tills this lonely field 
 
 To reap its scanty corn, 
 What mystic fruit his acres yield 
 
 At midnight and at morn "? 
 
 In the long sunny afternoon 
 
 The plain was full of ghosts, 
 I wander'd up, I wander'd down, 
 
 Beset by pensive hosts. 
 
 The winding Concord gleam'd below, 
 
 Pouring as wide a flood 
 As when my brothers, long ago, 
 
 Came with me to the wood. 
 
 But they are gone — the holy ones 
 Who trod with me this lonely vale, 
 
 The strong, star-bright companions 
 Are silent, low, and pale. 
 
 My good, my noble, in their prime, 
 Who made this world the feast it was, 
 
 Who learn'd with me the lore of Time, 
 Who loved this dwelling-place ; 
 
 They took this valley for their toy, 
 They play'd with it in every mood, 
 
 A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, 
 
 They treated Nature as they would. 
 
 They colour'd the whole horizon round, 
 Stars flamed and faded as they bade, 
 
 All echoes hearken'd for their sound, 
 They made the woodlands glad or mad. 
 
 I touch this flower of silken leaf 
 Which once our childhood knew, 
 
 Its soft leaves wound me with a grief 
 Whose balsam never grew. 
 
 Hearken to yon pine warbler, 
 
 Singing aloft in the tree ; 
 Hearest thou, O traveller ! 
 
 What he singeth to me 1 
 
 Not unless God made sharp thine ear 
 
 With sorrow such as mine, 
 Out of that delicate lay couldst thou 
 
 Its heavy tale divine. 
 
 "Go, lonely man," it saith, 
 
 " They loved thee from their birth, 
 
 Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, 
 There are no such hearts on earth, 
 
 " Ye. drew one mother's milk, 
 
 One chamber held ye all, 
 A very tender history 
 
 Did in your childhood fall. 
 
 " Ye cannot unlock your heart. 
 
 The key is gone vith them ; 
 The silent organ loudest chants 
 
 The master's requiem." 
 
304 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 TO RHEA. 
 
 Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes, 
 
 Not with flatteries, but truths, 
 
 Which tarnish not, but purify 
 
 To light which dims the morning's eye. 
 
 I have come from the spring-woods, 
 
 From the fragrant solitudes : 
 
 Listen what the poplar tree 
 
 And murmuring waters counsell'd me. 
 
 If with love thy heart has burn'd, 
 If thy love is unreturn'd, 
 Hide thy grief within thy breast, 
 Though it tear thee unexpress'd; 
 For when love has once departed 
 From the eyes of the false-hearted, 
 And one by one has torn off quite 
 The bandages of purple light, 
 Though thou wert the loveliest 
 Form the soul had ever dress'd, 
 Thou shalt seem, in each reply, 
 A vixen to his altered eye ; 
 Thy softest pleadings seem too bold, 
 Thy praying lute will seem to scold ; 
 Though thou kept the straightest road, 
 Yet thou errest far and broad. 
 
 But thou shalt do as do the gods 
 In their cloudless periods ; 
 For of this lore be thou sure — 
 Though thou forget, the gods, secure, 
 Forget never their command, 
 But make the statute of this land. 
 
 As they lead, so follow all, 
 Ever have done, ever shall. 
 Warning to the blind and deaf, 
 'T is written on the iron leaf — 
 Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup, 
 Loveth downward, and not up;. 
 Therefore, who loves, of gods or men, 
 Shall not by the same be loved again ; 
 His sweetheart's idolatry 
 Falls, in turn, a new degree. 
 When a god is once beguiled 
 By beauty of a mortal child, 
 And by her radiant youth delighted, 
 He is not fool'd, but warily knoweth 
 His love shall never be requited. 
 And thus the wise Immortal doeth. — 
 'Tis his study and delight 
 To bless that creature day and night — 
 From all evils to defend her, 
 In her lap to pour all splendour, 
 To ransack earth for riches rare, 
 And fetch her stars to deck her hair ; 
 He mixes music with her thoughts, 
 And saddens her with heavenly doubts: 
 All grace, all good, his great heart knows, 
 Profuse in love, the king bestows : 
 Saying, " Hearken ! earth, sea, air ! 
 This monument of my despair 
 Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair. 
 Not for a private good, 
 But I, from my beatitude, 
 Albeit scorn'd as none was scorn'd, 
 
 Adorn her as was none adorn'd. 
 
 I make this maiden an ensample 
 
 To Nature, through her kingdoms ample, 
 
 Whereby to model newer races, 
 
 Statelier forms, and fairer faces ; 
 
 To carry man to new degrees 
 
 Of power and of comeliness. 
 
 These presents be the hostages 
 
 Which I pawn for my release. 
 
 See to thyself, O Universe ! 
 
 Thou art better, and not worse." — 
 
 And the god, having given all, 
 
 Is freed forever from his thrall. 
 
 TO EVA. 
 
 Oh fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
 Were kindled in the upper skies 
 
 At the same torch that lighted mine ; 
 For so I must interpret still 
 Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 
 A sympathy divine. 
 
 Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
 Features that seem at heart my own ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 
 Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
 Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels. 
 
 THE AMULET. 
 
 Your picture smiles as first it smiled ; 
 
 The ring you gave is still the same ; 
 Your letter tells, oh changing child ! 
 
 No tidings since it came. 
 
 Give me an amulet 
 
 That keeps intelligence with you — 
 Red when you love, and rosier red, 
 
 And when you love not, pale and blue. 
 
 Alas ! that neither bonds nor vows 
 
 Can certify possession : 
 Torments me still the fear that love 
 
 Died in its last expression. 
 
 THINE EYES STILL SHINED. 
 
 Thine eyes still shined for me, though far 
 I lonely roved the land or sea: 
 
 As I behold yon evening star, 
 Which yet beholds not me. 
 
 This morn I climb'd the misty hill, 
 And roamed the pastures through ; 
 
 How danced thy form before my path, 
 Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! 
 
 When the red-bird spread his sable wing, 
 And show'd his side of flame — 
 
 When the rosebud ripen'd to the rose — 
 In both I read thy name. 
 
SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 
 
 [Bom 1803. Died 1814.] 
 
 The author of « The Last Night of Pompeii" 
 was born in Warwick, near the western border of 
 Massachusetts, in the autumn of 1803. His father, 
 a respectable physician, died in 1806, and his mo- 
 ther, on becoming a widow, returned with two 
 children to her paternal home in Worcester. 
 
 Mr. Fairfield entered Harvard College when 
 thirteen years of age ; but, after spending two 
 years in that seminary, was compelled to leave it, 
 to aid his mother in teaching a school in a neigh- 
 bouring village. He subsequently passed two or 
 three years in Georgia and South Carolina, and in 
 1824 went to Europe. He returned in 1826, was 
 soon afterwards married, and from that period re- 
 sided in Philadelphia, where for several years he 
 conducted the "North American Magazine," a 
 monthly miscellany in which appeared most of bis 
 prose writings and poems. 
 
 He commenced the business of authorship at a 
 very early period, and perhaps produced more in 
 the form of poetry than any of his American con- 
 temporaries. " The Cities of the Plain," one of 
 his earliest poems, was originally published in 
 England. It was founded on the history of the 
 destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, in the eigh- 
 teenth and nineteenth chapters of Genesis. The 
 "Heir of the World," which followed in 1828, is 
 a poetical version of the life of Abraham. It is 
 in the Spenserian measure, and contains some fine 
 passages, descriptive of scenery and feeling. His 
 next considerable work, " The Spirit of Destruc- 
 tion," appeared in 1830. Its subject is the deluge. 
 Like the " Cities of the Plain," it is in the heroic 
 verse, in which he wrote with great facility. His 
 "Last Night of Pompeii"* was published in 1832. 
 It is the result of two years' industrious labour, and 
 was written amid the cares and vexations of poverty. 
 The destruction of the cities of Herculaneum, Pom- 
 peii, Retina and Stabia?, by an eruption of Vesuvius, 
 in the summer of the year seventy-nine, is perhaps 
 one of the finest subjects for poetry in modern his- 
 tory. Mr. Fairfield in this poem exhibits a fa- 
 miliar acquaintance with the manners and events 
 of the period, and his style is stately and sustained. 
 His shorter pieces, though in some cases turgid and 
 unpolished, are generally distinguished for vigour 
 of thought and depth of feeling. An edition of his 
 principal writings was published in a closely-printed 
 octavo volume, in Philadelphia, in 1841. 
 
 The first and last time I ever saw Fairfield 
 was in the summer of 1842, when he called at 
 my hotel to thank me for some kind notice of him 
 in one of the journals, of which he supposed me 
 
 * Mr. Fairfield accused Sir Edward Bulwer Lyt- 
 ton of founding on this poem his romance of the " Last 
 
 Days of Pompeii." 
 
 20 
 
 to be the author. In a note sent to my apartment 
 he described himself as " an outcast from all hu- 
 man affections" except those of his mother and his 
 children, with whom he should remain but a little 
 while, for he " felt the weight of the arm of Death." 
 He complained that every man's hand had been 
 against him, that exaggerated accounts had been 
 published of his infirmities, and uncharitable views 
 given of his misfortunes. He said his mother, 
 who had " been abused as an annoying old crone," 
 in the newspapers, for endeavouring to obtain sub- 
 scribers for his works, was attending him from his 
 birth to his burial, and would never grow weary 
 till the end. This prediction was verified. About 
 a year afterwards I read in a published letter from 
 New Orleans that Fairfield had wandered to 
 that city, lived there a few months in solitude and 
 destitution, and after a painful illness died. While 
 he lingered on his pallet, between the angel of 
 death and bis mother, she counted the hours of 
 day and night, never slumbering by his side, nor 
 leaving him, until as his only mourner she had fol- 
 lowed him to a grave. 
 
 Not wishing to enter into any particular exami- 
 nation of his claims to personal respect, I must still 
 express an opinion that Fairfield was harshly 
 treated, and that even if the specific charges against 
 him were true, it was wrong to permit the private 
 character of the author to have any influence upon 
 critical judgments of his works. He wrote much, 
 and generally with commendable aims. His know- 
 ledge of books was extensive and accurate. He had 
 considerable fancy, which at one period was under the 
 dominion of cultivated taste and chastened feeling; 
 but troubles, mostly resulting from a want of skill 
 in pecuniary affairs, induced recklessness, misan- 
 thropy, intemperance, and a general derangement 
 and decay of his intellectual and moral nature. I 
 see not much to admire in his poems, but they are 
 by no means contemptible ; and " the poet Fair- 
 field" had during a long period too much notoriety 
 not to deserve some notice in a work of this sort, 
 even though his verses had been still less poetical. 
 
 Persons of an ardent temperament and refined 
 sensibilities have too frequently an aversion to the 
 practical and necessary duties of common life, to 
 the indulgence of which they owe their chief mis- 
 fortunes and unhappiness. The mind of the true 
 poet, however, is well ordered and comprehensive, 
 and shrinks not from the humblest of duties. 
 Fairfield had the weakness or madness, absurdly 
 thought to belong to the poetical character, which 
 unfitted him for an honourable and distinguished 
 life. He needed, besides his " some learning and 
 more feeling," a strong will and good sense, to be 
 either great or useful. „„_ 
 
306 
 
 SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.* 
 
 A roaii, as if a myriad thunders burst, 
 Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth 
 Shuddcr'd, and a thick storm of lava hail 
 Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. 
 And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans 
 And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd 
 The gory sand instinctively in fear. 
 The very soul of silence died, and breath 
 Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, 
 Stole from the stricken bosoms ; and there stood, 
 With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, 
 (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) 
 The Christian — waiting the high will of Heaven. 
 
 A wandering sound of wailing agony, 
 A cry of coming horror, o'er the street 
 Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air 
 Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. 
 
 "Hear ye not now?" said Pans a. Death is 
 Ye saw the 'avalanche of fire descend [here ! 
 
 Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength 
 Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried, 
 'It threats not us: why should we lose the sport? 
 Though thousands perish, why should we refrain V 
 Your sister city — the most beautiful — 
 Gasps in the burning ocean — from her domes 
 Fly the survivors of her people, driven 
 Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, 
 With desolation red — and o'er her grave 
 Unearthly voices raise the heart's last cries — 
 'Fly, fly! 0, horror! 0, my son! my sire !' . 
 The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount 
 Are agony and death — within, such rage 
 Of fossil fire as man may not behold ! 
 Hark ! the destroyer slumbers not — and now, 
 Be your theologies but true, your Jove, 
 Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, 
 Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. 
 The lion trembles ; will ye have my blood, 
 Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?" 
 
 Vesuvius answer'd : from its pinnacles 
 Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, 
 And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, 
 To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, 
 Like midnight mountains, wrapp'dinlightnings,fell. 
 O, then, the love of life ! the struggling rush, 
 The crushing conflict of escape ! few, brief, 
 And dire the words delirious fear spake now, — 
 One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. 
 All through the vomitories madly sprung, 
 And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, 
 Gasping and goading, with the savageness 
 That is the child of danger, like the waves 
 Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, 
 Mingled in madness — warring in their wrath. 
 Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; 
 Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods ; 
 Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost ; 
 And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells 
 Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens ; 
 
 * From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene 
 follows the destruction of Herculaneum. Pansa, a 
 Christian, condemned by Diomede, is brought into the 
 gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius 
 causes a suspension of the proceedings. 
 
 And some were still in utterness of wo. 
 
 Yet all toil'd on in trembling waves of life 
 
 Along the subterranean corridors. 
 
 Moments were centuries of doubt and dread ; 
 
 Each breathing obstacle a hated thing; 
 
 Each trampled wretch a footstool to o'erlook 
 
 The foremost multitudes; and terror, now, 
 
 Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness, — 
 
 For, in the madness of their agonies, 
 
 Strong men cast down the feeble, who delay 'd 
 
 Their flight; and maidens on the stones were crush'd, 
 
 And mothers madden'd when the warrior's heel 
 
 Pass'd o'er the faces of their sons ! The throng 
 
 Press'd on, and in the ampler arcades now 
 
 Beheld, as floods of human life roll'd by, 
 
 The uttermost terrors of the destined hour. 
 
 In gory vapours the great sun went down ; 
 
 The broad, dark sea heaved like the dying heart, 
 
 'Tween earth and heaven hovering o'er the grave. 
 
 And moan'd through all its waters ; every dome 
 
 And temple, charr'd and choked with ceaseless 
 
 Of suffocating cinders, seem'd the home [showers 
 
 Of the triumphant desolator, Death. 
 
 One dreadful glance sufficed, — and to the sea, 
 
 Like Lybian winds, breathing despair, they fled. 
 
 Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, 
 Prophesies danger ere man's thought awakes, 
 And shrinks in fear from common savageness, 
 Made gentle by its terror ; thus, o'erawed, 
 E'en in his famine's fury, by a Power 
 Brute beings more than human oft adore, 
 The lion lay, his quivering paws outspread, 
 His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs 
 Had pass'd the corridors ; then, glaring up, 
 His eyes imbued with samiel light, he saw 
 The crags and forests of the Apennines 
 Gleaming far off, and, with the exulting sense 
 Of home and lone dominion, at a bound 
 He leap'd the lofty palisades, and sprung 
 Along the spiral passages, with howls 
 Of horror, through the flying multitudes, 
 Flying to seek his lonely mountain-lair. 
 
 From every cell shrieks burst ; hyenas cried, 
 Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, 
 That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice 
 With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls ; 
 The giant elephant, with matchless strength, 
 Struggled against the portal of his tomb, 
 And groan'd and panted ; and the leopard's yell, 
 And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries 
 Of human horror mingled ; and in air, 
 Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, 
 The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, 
 As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. 
 All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now ; 
 Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, 
 Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires 
 Lifted the folds, to glare on agony ; 
 And, when a moment's terrible repose 
 Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear 
 The toppling cliffs explode and crash below, — 
 While multitudinous waters from the sea 
 In whirlpools through the channel'd mountain rocks 
 Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, 
 Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. 
 
SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 
 
 307 
 
 VISIONS OF ROMANCE. 
 
 Whest dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering 
 
 world 
 Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws, 
 And the tired wings of human thought are furl'd, 
 And sleep descends, like dew upon the rose, — 
 How full of bliss the poet's vigil hour, 
 When o'er him elder time hath magic power ! 
 
 Before his eye past ages stand reveal'd, 
 When feudal chiefs held lordly banquettings, 
 In the spoils revelling of flood and field, 
 Among their vassals proud, unquestion'd kings : 
 While honour' d minstrels round the ample board 
 The lays of love or songs of battle pour'd. 
 
 The dinted helmet, with its broken crest, 
 The serried sabre, and the shatter'd shield 
 Hung round the wainscot, dark, and well express'd 
 That wild, fierce pride, which scorn' d, unscathed, to 
 The pictures there, with dusky glory rife, [yield ; 
 From age to age bore down stern characters of strife. 
 
 Amid long lines of glorious ancestry, [walls, 
 
 Whose eyes flash'd o'er them from the gray, old 
 What craven quails at Danger's lightning eye 1 
 What warrior blenches when his brother falls 1 
 Bear witness Cressy and red Agincourt ! 
 Bosworth, and Bannockburn, and Marston Moor! 
 
 The long, lone corridors, the antler'd hall, 
 The massive walls, the all-commanding towers — 
 Where revel reign'd, and masquerading ball, 
 And beauty won stern warriors to her bowers — 
 In ancient grandeur o'er the spirit move, 
 With all their forms of chivalry and love. 
 
 The voice of centuries bursts upon the soul ; 
 Long-buried ages wake and live again; 
 Past feats of fame and deeds of glory roll, 
 Achieved for ladye-love in knighthood's reign; 
 And all the simple state of olden time 
 Assumes a garb majestic and sublime. 
 
 The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed, 
 The mitred primate, and the Norman lord, 
 The peerless maid, awarding valour's meed, 
 And the meek vestal, who her God adored— 
 The pride, the pomp, the power and charm of earth 
 From fancy's dome of living thought come forth. 
 
 The feast is o'er, the huntsman's course is done, 
 The trump of war, the shrill horn sounds no more ; 
 The heroic revellers from the hall have gone, 
 The lone blast moans the ruin'd castle o'er ! 
 The spell of beauty, and the pride of power 
 Have pass'd forever from the feudal tower. 
 
 No more the drawbridge echoes to the tread 
 Of visor' d knights, o'ercanopied with gold ; 
 O'er mouldering gates and crumbling archways 
 Dark ivy waves in many a mazy fold, [spread, 
 Where chiefs flash'd vengeance from their lightning 
 glance, [lance. 
 
 And grasp'd the brand, and couch'd the conquering 
 
 The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by, 
 The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall, 
 Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye, 
 And fancy's bright and gay creations — all 
 
 Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance 
 Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance. 
 
 Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies, 
 Their glories flash along the gloom of years ; 
 The beacon-lights of time, to wisdom's eyes, 
 O'er the deep-rolling stream of human tears. 
 Fade ! fade ! ye visions of antique romance ! 
 Tower, casque, and mace, and helm, and banner'd 
 lance ! 
 
 AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT. 
 
 Aye Maria ! 't is the midnight hour, 
 The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven, 
 When music breathes its perfume from the flower, 
 And high revealings to the heart are given ; 
 Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy air- 
 Like dreams of bliss ; the deep-blue ether glows, 
 And the stream murmurs round its islets fair 
 The tender night-song of a charm'd repose. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love, 
 The kiss of rapture, and the link'd embrace, 
 The hallow'd converse in the dim, still grove, 
 The elysium of a heart-revealing face, 
 When all is beautiful — for we are bless'd, 
 When all is lovely — for we are beloved, 
 When all is silent — for our passions rest, 
 When all is faithful — for our hopes are proved. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer, 
 Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, 
 When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts 
 
 declare, 
 High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even ; 
 When hope becomes fruition, and we feel 
 The holy earnest of eternal peace, 
 That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel, 
 That bids our wild and warring passions cease. 
 
 Ave Maria ! soft the vesper hymn 
 Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile, 
 And, mid the stillness of the night-watch dim, 
 Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile ! 
 Hark ! hath it ceased 1 The vestal seeks her cell, 
 And reads her heart — a melancholy tale ! 
 A song of happier years, whose echoes swell 
 O'er her lost love, like pale bereavement's wail. 
 
 Ave Maria ! let our prayers ascend 
 From them whose holy offices afford 
 No joy in heaven — on earth without a friend- 
 That true, though faded image of the Lord ! 
 For them in vain the face of nature glows, 
 For them in vain the sun in glory burns, 
 The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes, 
 And meets despair and death where'er it turns. 
 
 Ave Maria ! in the deep pine wood, 
 On the clear stream, and o'er the azure sky 
 Bland midnight smiles, and starry solitude 
 Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by. 
 Ave Maria ! may our last hour come 
 As bright, as pure, as gentle, Heaven ! as this ! 
 Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb, 
 And life and death are both the heirs of bliss ! 
 
RUFUS DAWES. 
 
 [Born, 1S03.] 
 
 The family of the author of " Geraldine" is one 
 of the most ancient and respectable in Massachu- 
 setts. His ancestors were among the earliest set- 
 tlers of Boston ; and his grandfather, as president 
 of the Council, was for a time acting governor of 
 the state, on the death of the elected chief magis- 
 trate. His father, Thomas Dawes, was for ten 
 years one of the associate judges of the Supreme 
 Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished 
 among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, 
 in the state convention called for its consideration. 
 He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independ- 
 ence of character, and was distinguished for the 
 brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.* 
 
 Rufus Dawes was born in Boston, on the 
 twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the 
 youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered 
 Harvard College in 1820 ; but in consequence of 
 class disturbances, and insubordination, of which 
 it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he 
 was compelled to leave that institution without a 
 degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe 
 satire on the most prominent members of the 
 faculty — the first poem he ever published. He 
 then entered the office of General William Sue- 
 livax, as a law-student, and was subsequently 
 admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. 
 He has howewr never pursued the practice of the 
 legal profession, having been attracted by other 
 pursuits more congenial with his feelings. 
 
 In 1S29 he was married to the third daughter 
 
 of Chief Justice Cranch, of Washington. In 
 1830 he published " The Valley of the Nashaway, 
 and other Poems," some of which had appeared 
 originally in the Cambridge " United States Lite- 
 rary Gazette;" and in 1839, "Athenia of Damas- 
 cus," "Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical 
 writings. His last work, " Nix's Mate," an histo- 
 rical romance, appeared in the following year. 
 
 With Mr. Dawes poetry seems to have been a 
 passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place 
 to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be 
 a disciple of Coleridge, but in reality is a de- 
 voted follower of Swedenborg; and to this influ- 
 ence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which 
 pervades his later productions. He has from time 
 to time edited several legal, literary, and political 
 works, and in the last has shown himself to be an 
 adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. 
 As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there 
 being a wide difference of opinion respecting his 
 writings. His versification is generally easy and 
 correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considera- 
 ble imagination. 
 
 In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course 
 of lectures in the city of New York, before the 
 American Institute, in which he combated the 
 principles of the French eclectics and the Tran- 
 scendentalists, contending that their philosophy is 
 only a sublimated natural one, and very far re- 
 moved from the true system of causes, and genu- 
 ine spirituality. 
 
 LANCASTER. 
 
 The Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, 
 And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough ; 
 The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, 
 Whispers the coming of delighted hours, 
 While birds within the heaping foliage, sing 
 Their music-welcome to returning Spring. 
 
 O, Nature ! loveliest in thy green attire — 
 Dear mother of the passion-kindling lyre ; 
 Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where 
 The mountains freeze above the summer air ; 
 Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, 
 To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, 
 Lead me again thy flowery paths among, 
 To sing of native scenes as yet unsung ! 
 
 Dear Lancaster ! thy fond remembrance brings 
 Thoughts, like the music of iEolian strings, 
 
 * He is classed by Mr. Kettell among the American 
 poets; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by 
 him are given some passages of his "Law given on 
 Sinai," published in Boston in 1777. 
 308 
 
 When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps, 
 While tearful Love his anxious vigil keeps : — 
 When press'd with grief, or sated with the show 
 That Pleasure's pageant offers here below, 
 Midst scenes of heartless mirth or joyless glee, 
 How oft my aching heart has turn'd to thee, 
 And lived again, in memory's sweet recess, 
 The innocence of youthful happiness! 
 
 In lite s dull dream, when want of sordid gain 
 Clings to our being with its cankering chain, 
 When lofty thoughts are cramp'd to stoop below 
 The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow, 
 Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene, 
 To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene ; 
 And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours, 
 When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers 1 
 
 Now, while the music of the feather'd choir 
 Rings where the sheltering blossoms wake desire, 
 When dew-eyed Love looks tenderness, and speaks 
 A silent language with his mantling cheeks ; 
 I think of those delicious moments past, 
 Which joyless age shall dream of to the last ; 
 
RUFUS DAWES. 
 
 3C9 
 
 As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell, 
 Though few may listen, what she loved so well. 
 
 Dear hours of childhood,youfli's propitious spring, 
 When Time fann'd only roses with his wing, 
 When dreams, that mock reality, could move 
 To yield an endless holiday to Love, 
 How do ye crowd upon my fever'd brain, 
 And, in imagination, live again ! 
 
 Lo ! I am with you now, the sloping green, 
 Of many a sunny hill is freshly seen ; 
 Once more the purple clover bends to meet, 
 And shower their dew-drops on the pilgrim's feet ; 
 Once more he breathes the fragrance of your fields, 
 Once more the orchard tree its harvest yields, 
 Again he hails the morning from your hills, 
 And drinks the cooling water of your rills, 
 While, with a heart subdued, he feels the power 
 Of every humble shrub and modest flower. 
 
 O thou who journeyest through that Eden-clime, 
 Winding thy devious way to cheat the time, 
 Delightful Nashaway ! beside thy stream, 
 Fain would I paint thy beauties as they gleam. 
 Eccentric river ! poet of the woods ! 
 Where, in thy far secluded solitudes, 
 The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave, 
 With charms more sweet than ever Fancy gave ; 
 How oft with Mantua's bard, from school let free, 
 I've conn'd the silver lines that flow like thee, 
 Couch'd on thy emerald banks, at full length laid, 
 Where classic elms grew lavish of their shade, 
 Or indolently listen'd, while the throng 
 Of idler beings woke their summer song ; 
 Or, with rude angling gear, outwatched the sun, 
 Comparing mine to deeds by Walton done, 
 
 Far down the silent stream, where arching trees 
 Bend their green boughs so gently to the breeze, 
 One live, broad mass of molten crystal lies, 
 Clasping the mirror'd beauties of the skies ! 
 Look, how the sunshine breaks upon the plains ! 
 So the deep blush their flatter'd glory stains. 
 
 Romantic river ! on thy quiet breast, 
 While flash'd the salmon with his lightning crest, 
 Not long ago, the Indian's thin canoe 
 Skimm'd lightly as the shadow which it threw; 
 Not long ago, beside thy banks of green, 
 The night-fire blazed and spread its dismal sheen. 
 
 Thou peaceful valley ! when I think how fair 
 Thy various beauty shines, beyond compare, 
 I cannot choose but own the Power that gave 
 Amidst thy woes a helping hand to save, 
 When o'er thy hills the savage war-whoop came, 
 And desolation raised its funeral flame ! 
 
 'T is night ! the stars are kindled in the sky, 
 And hunger wakes the famished she-wolf's cry, 
 While, o'er the crusted snow, the careful tread 
 Betrays the heart whose pulses throb with dread ; 
 Yon nickering light, kind beacon of repose ! 
 The weary wanderer's homely dwelling shows, 
 Where, by the blazing fire, his bosom's joy 
 Holds to her heart a slumbering infant boy ; 
 While every sound her anxious bosom moves, 
 She starts and listens for the one she loves ; — 
 Hark! was't the night-bird's cry that met her 
 
 ear, 
 Curdling: the blood that thickens with cold fear! — 
 
 "Again, God ! that voice, — 'tis his ! 'tis his !" 
 She hears the death-shriek and the arrow's whiz, 
 When, as she turns, she sees the bursting door 
 Roll her dead husband bleeding on the floor. 
 
 Loud as the burst of sudden thunder, rose 
 The maddening war-cry of the ambush'd foes ; 
 Startling in sleep, the dreamless infant wakes, 
 Like morning's smile when daylight's slumber 
 
 breaks ; 
 " For mercy ! spare my child, forbear the blow !" 
 In vain ; — the warm blood crimsons on the snow. 
 
 O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, 
 Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries ; 
 She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, 
 Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved ; 
 Lo ! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, 
 Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, 
 When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, 
 The frenzied woman rose the deed to do ; — 
 Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, 
 With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood ; 
 She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, 
 Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, 
 She sees her infant dashed against the tree, — 
 'T is done ! — the red men sleep eternally. [now, 
 
 Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster ! but 
 No spot so peaceful and serene as thou ; 
 Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, 
 The glory and the beauty of the land. 
 
 From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, 
 And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, 
 Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, 
 What joy was mine to drink the morning air ! 
 Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, 
 When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd 
 
 wing, — 
 Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove, 
 Nor less than that which springs from mutual love, 
 Could challenge mine, when to the ravish'd sense 
 The sunrise painted God's magnificence ! 
 George-hill, thou pride of Nashaway, for thee, — 
 Thyself the garden of fertility, — 
 Nature has hung a picture to the eye, 
 Where Beauty smiles at sombre Majesty. 
 The river winding in its course below, [grow, 
 Through fertile fields where yellowing harvests 
 The bowering elms that so majestic grew, 
 A green arcade for waves to wander through ; 
 The deep, broad valley, where the new-mown hay 
 Loads the fresh breezes of the rising day, 
 And, distant far, Wachusett's towering height, 
 Blue in the lingering shadows of the night, 
 Have power to move the sternest heart to love, 
 That Nature's loveliness could ever move. 
 
 Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, 
 And clouds break purpling through the eastern 
 
 shades, 
 Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn, 
 To lead your buoyant footsteps o'er the lawn, 
 Can never know what joy the ravish'd sense 
 Feels in that moment's sacred influence. 
 I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile, 
 The flatterer's praise, that masks his heart of guile, 
 So I can walk beneath the ample sky, 
 And hear the birds' discordant melody, 
 
310 
 
 RUFUS DAWES. 
 
 And see reviving Spring, and Summer's gloom, 
 And Autumn bending o'er his icy tomb, 
 And hoary Winter pile his snowy drifts ; 
 For these to me are Fortune's highest gifts ; 
 And I have found in poor, neglected flowers, 
 Companionship for many weary hours ; 
 And high above the mountain's crest of snow, 
 Communed with storm-clouds in their wrath below ; 
 And where the vault of heaven, from some vast 
 
 height 
 Grew black, as fell the shadows of the night, 
 Where the stars seem to come to you, I've woo'd 
 The grandeur of the fearful solitude. 
 From such communion, feelings often rise, 
 To guard the heart midst life's perplexities, 
 Lighting a heaven within, whose deep-felt joy 
 Compensates well for Sorrow's dark alloy. 
 Then, though the worldly chide, and wealth deny, 
 And passion conquer where it fain would fly, 
 Though friends you love betray, while these are left, 
 The heart can never wholly be bereft. 
 
 Hard by yon giant elm, whose branches spread 
 A rustling robe of leaves above your head ; 
 Where weary travellers, from noonday heat, 
 Beneath the hospitable shade retreat, 
 The school-house met the stranger's busy eye, 
 Who turned to gaze again, he knew not why. 
 Thrice lovely spot ! where, in the classic spring, 
 My young ambition dipp'd her fever'd wing, 
 And drank unseen the vision and the fire 
 That break with quenchless glory from the lyre ! 
 Amidst thy wealth of art, fair Italy ! 
 While Genius warms beneath thy cloudless sky, 
 As o'er the waking marble's polished mould 
 The sculptor breathes Pygmalion's prayer of old, 
 His heart shall send a frequent sigh to rove, 
 A pilgrim to the birth-place of his love ! 
 
 And can I e'er forget that hallowed spot, 
 Whence springs a charm that may not be forgot ; 
 Where, in a grove of elm and s3 T camore, 
 The pastor show'd his hospitable door, 
 And kindness shone so constantly to bless 
 That sweet abode of peace and happiness 1 
 
 The oaken bucket — where I stoop'd to drink 
 The crystal water, trembling at the brink, 
 Which through the solid rock in coldness flow'd, 
 While creaked the ponderous lever with its load ; 
 The dairy — where so many moments flew, 
 With half the dainties of the soil in view ; [care, 
 Where the broad pans spread out the milkmaid's 
 To feed the busy churn that labour'd there ; 
 The garden — where such neatness met the eye, 
 A stranger could not pass unheeding by ; 
 The orchard — and the yellow-mantled fields, 
 Each in its turn some dear remembrance yields. 
 
 Ye who can mingle with the glittering crowd, 
 Where Mammon struts in rival splendour proud ; 
 Who pass your days in heartless fashion's round, 
 And bow with hatred, where ye fear to wound ; 
 Away ! no flatterer's voice, nor coward's sneer, 
 Can find a welcome, or an altar here. 
 But ye who look beyond the common ken, 
 Self-unexalted when ye judge of men, 
 Who, conscious of defects, can hurry by 
 Faults that lay claim upon your charity ; 
 
 Who feel that thrilling vision of the soul 
 Which looks through faith beyond an earthly goal, 
 And will not yet refuse the homely care 
 Which every being shares, or ought to share ; 
 Approach ! the home of Goodness is your own, 
 And such as ye arc worthy, such alone. 
 
 When silence hung upon the Sabbath's smile, 
 And noiseless footsteps paced the sacred aisle, 
 When hearts united woke the suppliant lay, 
 And happy faces bless'd the holy clay ; 
 O, Nature ! could thy worshipper have own'd 
 Such joy, as then upon his bosom throned ; 
 When feelings, even as the printless snow, 
 Were harmless, guileless as a child can know ; 
 Or, if they swerved from right, were pliant still, 
 To follow Virtue from the path of ill ? 
 No ! when the morning 's old, the mist will rise 
 To cloud the fairest vision of our eyes ; 
 As hopes too brightly formed in rainbow dyes, 
 A moment charm — then vanish in the skies ! 
 
 Sweet hour of holy rest, to mortals given, 
 To paint with love the fairest way to heaven ; 
 When from the sacred book instruction came 
 With fervid eloquence and kindling flame. 
 No mystic rites were there ; to Gor> alone 
 Went up the grateful heart before his throne, 
 While solemn anthems from the organ pour'd 
 Thanksgiving to the high and only Lord. 
 
 Lo ! where yon cottage whitens through the 
 green, 
 The loveliest feature of a matchless scene ; 
 Beneath its shading elm, with pious fear, 
 An aged mother draws her children near ; 
 While from the Holy Word, with earnest air, 
 She teaches them the privilege of prayer. 
 Look ! how their infant eyes with rapture speak ; 
 Mark the flush'd lily on the dimpled cheek ; 
 Their hearts are filled with gratitude and love, 
 Their hopes are center'd in a world above, 
 Where, in a choir of angels, faith portrays 
 The loved, departed father of their days. 
 
 Beside yon grassless mound, a mourner kneels, 
 There gush no tears to soothe the pang he feels ; 
 His loved, his lost, lies coffin'd in the sod, 
 Whose soul has found a dwelling-place with God ! 
 Though press'd with anguish, mild religion shows 
 His aching heart a balm for all its woes ; 
 And hope smiles upward, where his love shall find 
 A union in eternity of mind ! 
 
 Turn there your eyes, ye cold, malignant crew, 
 Whose vile ambition dims your reason's view, 
 Ye faithless ones, who preach religion vain, 
 And, childlike, chase the phantoms of your brain ; 
 Think not to crush the heart whose truth has 
 Its confidence in heavenly love reveal' d. [seal'd 
 Let not the atheist deem that Fate decrees 
 The lot of man to misery or ease, 
 While to the contrite spirit faith is given, 
 To find a hope on earth, a rest in heaven. 
 
 Unrivall'd Nashaway ! where the willows throw 
 Their frosted beauty on thy path below, 
 Beneath the verdant drapery of the trees, 
 Luxuriant Fancy woos the sighing breeze. 
 The redbreast singing where the fruit-tree weaves 
 Its silken canopy of mulb'ry leaves ; 
 
RUFUS DAWES. 
 
 311 
 
 Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine 
 Crop the wet grass, or in the shade recline; 
 The tapping woodbird, and the minstrel bee, 
 The squirrel racing on his moss-grown tree, 
 With clouds of pleasant dreams, demand in vain 
 Creative thought to give them life again. 
 
 I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys 
 Art building up the wreck of other days ; 
 For graves of silent tribes upheave the sod, 
 And Science smiles where savage Philip trod ; 
 Where wing'd the poison'd shaft along the skies, 
 The hammer rings, the noisy shuttle flies ; 
 Impervious forests bow before the blade, 
 And fields rise up in yellow robes array'd. 
 No lordly palace nor imperial seat 
 Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their 
 
 feet; 
 No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves, 
 To make us blush for ancestry of slaves ; 
 B ut, lo ! unnumber'd dwellings meet the eye, 
 Where men lie down in native majesty : 
 The morning birds spring from their leafy bed, 
 As the stern ploughman quits his happy shed ; 
 His arm is steel'd to toil — his heart to bear 
 The robe of pain, that mortals always wear ; 
 Though wealth may never come, a plenteous board 
 Smiles at the pamper'd rich man's joyless hoard; 
 True, when among his sires, no gilded heir 
 Shall play the fool, and damn himself to care, 
 But Industry and Knowledge lead the way, 
 Where Independence braves the roughest day. 
 
 Nurse of my country's infancy, her stay 
 In youthful trials and in danger's day ; 
 Diffusive Education ! 'tis to thee 
 She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty ; 
 To thee she looks, through time's illusive gloom, 
 To light her path, and shield her from the tomb ; 
 Beneath thine iEgis tyranny shall fail, 
 Before thy frown the traitor's heart shall quail; 
 Ambitious foes to liberty may wear 
 A patriot mask, to compass what they dare, 
 And sting the thoughtless nation, while they smile 
 Benignantly and modestly the while; 
 But thou shalt rend the virtuous-seeming guise, 
 And guard her from the worst of enemies. 
 Eternal Power ! whose tempted thunder sleeps, 
 While heaven-eyed Mercy turns away and weeps ; 
 Thou who didst lead our fathers where to send 
 Their free devotions to their God and friend ; 
 Thou who hast swept a wilderness away, 
 That men may walk in freedom's cloudless day ; 
 Guard well their trust, lest impious faction dare 
 Unlock the chain that binds our birthright fair ; 
 That private views to public good may yield, 
 And honest men stand fearless in the field ! 
 
 Once more I turn to thee, fair Nashaway ! 
 The farewell tribute of my humble lay ; 
 The time may come, when lofty notes shall bear 
 Thy peerless beauty to the gladden'd air ; 
 Now to the lyre no daring hand aspires, 
 And rust grows cankering on its tuneless wires. 
 
 Our lays are like the fitful streams that flow 
 From careless birds, that carol as they go ; 
 Content, beneath the mountain-top to sing, 
 And only touch Castalia with a wins;. 
 
 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 I weep while gazing on thy modest face, 
 Thou pictured history of woman's love ! 
 Joy spreads his burning pinions on thy cheek, 
 Shaming its whiteness ; and thine eyes are full 
 Of conscious beauty, as they undulate. 
 Yet all thy beauty, poor, deluded girl ! 
 Served but to light thy ruin. — Is there not, 
 Kind Heaven ! some secret talisman of hearts, 
 Whereby to find a resting-place for love '! 
 Unhappy maiden ! let thy story teach 
 The beautiful and young, that while their path 
 Softens with roses, — danger may be there ; 
 That Love may watch the bubbles of the stream, 
 But never trust his image on the wave. 
 
 SUNRISE, 
 
 FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON. 
 
 The laughing hours have chased away the night, 
 Plucking the stars out from her diadem : — 
 And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, 
 Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, 
 Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. 
 And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain 
 Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, 
 And, pale with envy, steals herself away ! 
 The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, 
 Attendant on the day — the mountain-tops 
 Have lit their beacons, and the vales below 
 Send up a welcoming ; — no song of birds, 
 Warbling to charm the air with melody, 
 Floats on the frosty breeze ; yet Nature hath 
 The very soul of music in her looks ! 
 The sunshine and the shade of poetry. 
 
 I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, 
 Temple of Nature ! and look down with awe 
 On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen ; 
 Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, 
 Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued ; 
 Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise 
 Unrifted to the Thunderer — now they seem 
 A family of mountains, clustering round 
 Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching 
 To meet the partial glances of the day. 
 Far in the glowing east the flickering light, 
 Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending, 
 Questions the eye with ever-varying forms. 
 
 The sun comes up ! away the shadows fling 
 From the broad hills — and, hurrying to the west 
 Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. 
 The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down. 
 Out- welling from the clouds, and sparkling light 
 Dances along with their perennial flow. 
 And there is beauty in yon river's path, 
 The glad Connecticut ! I know her well, 
 By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms : 
 At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills, 
 Sportfully hiding — then again with glee 
 Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. 
 Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves, 
 And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods, 
 And all that hold the faculty entranced. 
 
312 
 
 RUFUS DAWES. 
 
 Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air, 
 And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. 
 
 There is an awful stillness in this place, 
 A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, 
 Till the heart pour its agony in tears. 
 But I must drink the vision while it lasts; 
 For even now the curling vapours rise, 
 Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace 
 These towering summits — bidding me away ; — 
 But often shall my heart turn back again, 
 Thou glorious eminence ! and when oppress'd, 
 And aching with the coldness of the world, 
 Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. 
 
 SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 
 
 The Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, 
 And wheels her course in a joyous flight ; 
 I know her track through the balmy air, 
 By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there ; 
 She leaves the tops of the mountains green, 
 And gems the valley with crystal sheen. 
 
 At morn, I know where she rested at night, 
 For the roses are gushing with dewy delight ; 
 Then she mounts again, and round her flings 
 A shower of light from her crimson wings ; 
 Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high, 
 That silently fills it with ecstasy. 
 
 At noon she hies to a cool retreat, 
 
 Where bowering elms over waters meet ; 
 
 She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip, 
 
 As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip, 
 
 When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain, 
 
 From her lover, the hope that she loves again. 
 
 At eve she hangs o'er the western sky 
 Dark clouds for a glorious canopy, 
 And round the skirts of their deepen'd fold 
 She paints a border of purple and gold, 
 Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay, 
 When their god in his glory has passed away. 
 
 She hovers around us at twilight hour, 
 
 When her presence is felt with the deepest power; 
 
 She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream 
 
 With shadows that flit like a fairy dream ; 
 
 Then wheeling her flight through the gladden'd air, 
 
 The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere 
 
 LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. 
 
 Yr.s ! still I love thee : — Time, who sets 
 
 His signet on my brow, 
 And dims my sunken eye, forgets 
 
 The heart he could not bow ; — 
 Where love, that cannot perish, grows 
 For one, alas ! that little knows 
 
 How love may sometimes last ; 
 Like sunshine wasting in the skies, 
 
 When clouds are overcast. 
 
 The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose, 
 Within its robe of light, 
 
 Can never touch a leaf that blows, 
 Though teeming to the sight; 
 
 And yet it still will linger there, 
 
 Like hopeless love without despair, — 
 A snow-drop in the sun ! 
 
 A moment finely exquisite, 
 Alas ! but only one. 
 
 I would not have thy married heart 
 
 Think momently of me, — 
 Nor would I tear the cords apart, 
 
 That bind me so to thee ; 
 No ! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, 
 Like dew upon the roses wild, 
 
 I would not have thee know, 
 The stream that seems to thee so still, 
 
 Has such a tide below ! 
 
 Enough ! that in delicious dreams 
 
 I see thee and forget — 
 Enough, that when the morning beams, 
 
 I feel my eyelids wet ! 
 Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall 
 The darkness, for creation's pall, 
 
 To meet thee, — and to love, — 
 I would not shrink from aught below, 
 
 Nor ask for more above. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM " GERALDINE." 
 
 I know a spot where poets fain would dwell, 
 To gather flowers and food for afterthought, 
 
 As bees draw honey from the rose's cell, 
 
 To hive among the treasures they have wrought; 
 
 And there a cottage from a sylvan screen 
 
 Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green. 
 
 Around that hermit-home of quietude, 
 
 The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air, 
 
 And nothing ever ventui - ed to intrude, 
 
 But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there, 
 
 Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew 
 
 Humming away to drink the morning dew. 
 
 Around the door the honeysuckle climbed, 
 And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, 
 
 And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed 
 Romantic scene where happiness reposes, 
 
 Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, 
 
 Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell 
 
 Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, 
 Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed 
 
 Was skirted by the drapery of a wood, 
 That hung its festoon foliage over head, 
 
 Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, 
 
 While moonlight threw their shadows from the 
 brink. 
 
 The green earth heaved her giant waves around, 
 Where through the mountain vista one vast 
 height [bound 
 
 Tower'd heavenward without peer, his forehead 
 With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light, 
 
 While far below, the lake, in bridal rest, 
 
 Slept with his glorious picture on her breast. 
 
EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. 
 
 [Bom, 1S01. Died, 1830.] 
 
 Edmund Dorr Griffin was born in the cele- 
 brated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on 
 the tenth day of September, 1804. During his 
 infancy his parents removed to New York, but on 
 account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was 
 educated, until he was twelve years old, at various 
 schools in the country. He entered Columbia 
 College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was 
 graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the 
 highest rank in the successive classes. During 
 this period most of his Latin and English poems 
 were composed. He was admitted to deacon's 
 orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and 
 
 after spending two years in the active discharge of 
 the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. 
 He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, Eng- 
 land, and Scotland, and returned to New York in 
 the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an 
 associate professor in Columbia College, but re- 
 signed the office after a few months, in consequence 
 of ill health, and closed a life of successful devo- 
 tion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on 
 the first day of September, in the same year. His 
 travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous 
 writings were published in two large octavo vo- 
 lumes, in 1831. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY. 
 " Deh ! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte." — Filicaia. 
 
 Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 
 
 Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower ! 
 To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air, 
 
 Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power ; 
 To look upon whose mountains in the hour 
 
 When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil 
 Of purple flows around them, would restore 
 
 The sense of beauty when all else might fail. 
 
 Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 
 
 Parent of fruits, alas ! no more of men ! 
 Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, 
 
 The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. 
 Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon 
 
 From tree to tree depending, and the flowers 
 Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading 
 soon, 
 
 E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. 
 
 Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 
 
 Home of the beautiful, but not the brave ! 
 Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, 
 
 Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: 
 Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, 
 
 Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, 
 Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, 
 
 By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. 
 
 Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 
 
 Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, 
 The art of self-defence ! Thy fostering care 
 
 Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, 
 And bids e'en canvass speak ; thy magic tone, 
 
 Infused in music, now constrains the soul 
 With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. 
 
 And now with passionate throbs that spurn con- 
 Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, 
 
 Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean ! 
 
 Can nothing rouse ye both 1 no tyrant's wrong, 
 No memory of the brave, of what has been 1 
 
 Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then 
 That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence : 
 
 Shades of departed heroes, rise again ! 
 
 Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence ! 
 
 0, Italy ! my country, fare thee well ! 
 
 For art thou not my country, at whose breast 
 Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me 
 dwell, 
 
 The fathers of my mind 1 whose fame impress'd 
 E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest 
 
 With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, 
 E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, 
 
 Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams 1 
 
 Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost : 
 
 Too early lost, alas ! when once so dear ; 
 I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, 
 
 And urge the feet forbid to linger here. 
 But must I rove by Arno's current clear. 
 
 And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, 
 And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, 
 
 Where Cesar's palace in its glory stood ; 
 
 And see again Parthenope's loved bay, 
 
 And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, 
 And mount the bark, and listen to the lay 
 
 That floats by night through Venice — never 
 Far off I seem to hear the Ajflantic roar — [more ] 
 
 It washes not thy feet, tnaVenvious sea, 
 But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er 
 
 To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. 
 
 Fare — fare thee well once more. I love thee not 
 
 As other things inanimate. Thou art 
 The cherish'd mistress of my youth ; forgot 
 
 Thou never canst be while I have a heart. 
 Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind, 
 
 I know not, ask not, what may be my lot ; 
 For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind. 
 
 Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought. 
 
 313 
 
114 
 
 EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS. 
 
 Though old in cunning, as in years, 
 
 He is so small, that like a child 
 In face and form, the god appears, 
 
 A nd sportive like a boy, and wild ; 
 Lightly he moves from place to place, 
 
 In none at rest, in none content ; 
 Delighted some new toy to chase — 
 
 On childish purpose ever bent. 
 Beware ! to childhood's spirit gay 
 
 Is added more than childhood's power; 
 
 And you perchance may rue the hour 
 That saw you join his seeming play. 
 
 He quick is anger'd, and as quick 
 His short-lived passion's over past, 
 
 Like summer lightnings, flashing thick, 
 But flying ere a bolt is cast. 
 
 I've seen, myself, as 'twere together, 
 Now joy, now grief assume its place, 
 
 Shedding a sort of April weather, 
 Sunshine and rain upon his face. 
 
 His curling hair floats on the wind, 
 Like Fortune's, long and thick before, 
 And rich and bright as golden ore : 
 
 Like hers, his head is bald behind. 
 
 His ruddy face is strangely bright, 
 
 It is the very hue of fire, 
 The inward spirit's quenchless light, 
 
 The glow of many a soft desire. 
 He hides his eye that keenly flashes, 
 
 But sometimes steals a thrilling glance 
 From 'neath his drooping silken lashes, 
 
 And sometimes looks with eye askance ; 
 But seldom ventures he to gaze 
 
 With looks direct and open eye ; 
 
 For well he knows — the urchin sly — 
 But one such look his guile betrays. 
 
 His tongue, that seems to have left just then 
 His mother's breast, discourses sweet, 
 
 And forms his lisping infant strain 
 
 In words scarce utter'd, half-complete ; 
 
 Yet, wafted on a winged sigh, 
 
 And led by Flattery, gentle guide, 
 
 Unseen into the heart they fly, 
 
 Its coldness melt, and tame its pride. 
 
 In smiles that hide intended wo, 
 His ruddy lips are always dress'd, 
 As flowers conceal the listening crest 
 
 Of the coil'd snake that lurks below. 
 
 In carriage courteous, meek, and mild, 
 Humble in speech, and soft in look, 
 
 lie seems a wandering orphan child, 
 And asks a shelter in some nook 
 
 Or corner left unoccupied : 
 
 But, once admitted as a guest, 
 
 By slow degrees he lays aside 
 
 That lowly port and look distress' d — 
 
 Then insolent assumes his reign, 
 
 Displays his captious, high-bred airs, 
 His causeless pets and jealous fears, 
 
 His fickle fancy and unquiet brain. 
 
 EMBLEMS. 
 
 Yox rose, that bows her graceful head to hail 
 The welcome visitant that brings the morn, 
 
 And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale 
 The coolness on its early pinions borne, 
 
 Listing the music of its whisper'd tale, 
 And giving stores of perfume in return — 
 
 Though fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide ; 
 
 Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. 
 
 Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, 
 Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, 
 
 And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky, 
 Daring the thunder that its height provokes, 
 
 And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, 
 From noonday heats to guard the weary flocks — ■ 
 
 Though strong he seem, must dread the bursting 
 
 And e'en the malice of the feeble worm, [storm, 
 
 The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, 
 Gliding majestic on her silent way, 
 
 And sends her silvery beam serenely down, 
 
 'Mong waving boughs and frolic leaves to play, 
 
 To sleep upon the bank with moss o'ergrown, 
 Or on the clear waves, clearer far than they — 
 
 Seems purity itself; but if again 
 
 We look, and closely, we perceive a stain. 
 
 Fit emblems all, of those unworthy joys 
 
 On which our passions and our hopes dilate: 
 
 We wound ourselves to seize on Pleasure's toys, 
 Nor see their worthlessness until too late ; 
 
 And Power, with all its pomp and all its noise, 
 Meets oft a sudden and a hapless fate ; 
 
 And Fame of gentle deeds and daring high, 
 
 Is often stain'd by blots of foulest dye. 
 
 Where then shall man, by his Creator's hand 
 Gifted with feelings that must have an aim, 
 
 Aspiring thoughts and hopes, a countless band ; 
 Affections glowing with a quenchless flame, 
 
 And passions, too, in dread array that stand, 
 To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame : 
 
 Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and given 1 
 
 Fix it on God, and it shall rise to Heaven. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Like target for the arrow's aim, 
 Like snow beneath the sunny heats, 
 
 Like wax before the glowing flame, 
 Like cloud before the wind that fleets, 
 
 I am — 'tis love that made me so, 
 
 And, lady, still thou sayst me no. 
 
 The wound's inflicted by thine eyes, 
 The mortal wound to hope and me, 
 
 Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, 
 Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. 
 
 Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind, 
 
 That make me such ; ah, then be kind ! 
 
 My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite ; 
 
 Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, 
 My wishes — ne'er did passion light 
 
 A flame more pure or more intense. 
 Love all these arms at once employs, 
 And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys. 
 
J. H. BRIGHT. 
 
 [Born, 1804. Died, 1837.] 
 
 Jonathan Huntington Bkight was born in 
 Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age 
 he went to New York, where he resided several 
 years, after which he removed to Albany, and sub- 
 sequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was 
 married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for 
 New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that 
 
 city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take 
 part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where 
 he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of 
 his age. He was for several years a writer for the 
 public journals and literary magazines, under the 
 signature of " Viator." His poetry has never been 
 published collectively. 
 
 THE VISION OF DEATH. 
 
 The moon was high in the autumn sky, 
 
 The stars waned cold and dim, 
 Where hoarsely the mighty Oregon 
 
 Peals his eternal hymn ; 
 And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads 
 
 Far over the river's brim. 
 
 An impulse I might not defy, 
 
 Constrain'd my footsteps there, 
 When through the gloom a red eye burn'd 
 
 With fix'd and steady glare ; 
 And a huge, misshapen form of mist 
 
 Loom'd in the midnight air. 
 
 Then out it spake : " My name is Heath !" 
 Thick grew my blood, and chill — 
 
 A sense of fear weigh'd down my breath, 
 And held my pulses still ; 
 
 And a voice from that unnatural shade 
 Compell'd me to its will. 
 
 " Dig me a grave ! dig me a grave !" 
 
 The gloomy monster said, 
 " And make it deep, and long, and wide, 
 
 And bury me my dead." 
 A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, 
 
 And rusted mattock laid. 
 
 With trembling hand the tool I spann'd, 
 'T was wet with blood, and cold, 
 
 And from its slimy handle hung 
 The gray and ropy mould ; 
 
 And I sought to detach my stiffen'd grasp, 
 But could not loose my hold. 
 
 " Now cautiously turn up the sod ; 
 
 Gor's image once it bore, 
 And time shall be when each small blade 
 
 To life He will restore, 
 And the separate particles shall take 
 
 The shape which first they wore." 
 
 Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced, 
 
 It touch'd the festering dead; 
 Tier above tier the corpses lay, 
 
 As leaves in autumn shed ; 
 The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings, 
 
 And scream' d, above my head. 
 
 0, then I sought to rest my brow, 
 
 The spade I held, its prop ; 
 " Toil on ! toil on !" scream'd the ugly fiend, 
 
 " My servants never stop ! 
 Toil on ! toil on ! at the judgment-day 
 
 Ye '11 have a glorious crop !" 
 
 Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes, 
 
 'T was horrible to see 
 How the grave made bare her secret work, 
 
 And disclosed her depths to me ; 
 While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd 
 
 Like the billows of the sea. 
 
 The spectre skinn'd his 3'ellow teeth — 
 
 " Ye like not this, I trow : 
 Six thousand years your fellow-man 
 
 Has counted me his foe, 
 And ever when he cursed I laugh'd, 
 
 And drew my fatal bow. 
 
 " And generations all untold 
 
 In this dark spot I've laid — 
 The forest ruler and the young 
 
 And tender Indian maid ; 
 And moulders with their carcasses 
 
 Behemoth of the glade. 
 
 " Yet here they may no more remain ; 
 
 I fain would have this room : 
 And they must seek another rest, 
 
 Of deeper, lonelier gloom ; 
 Long ages since I mark'd this spot 
 
 To be the white man's tomb. 
 
 "Already his coming steps I hear, 
 
 From the east's remotest line, 
 While over his advancing hosts 
 
 The forward banners shine : 
 And where he builds his cities and towns, 
 
 I ever must build mine." 
 
 Anon a pale and silvery mist 
 
 Was girdled round the moon : 
 Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes, 
 
 On midnight's solemn noon. 
 "Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, "I fear 
 
 We 've waken'd them too soon ! 
 
 « Now marshal all the numerous host 
 In one concentred band, 
 
 315 
 
316 
 
 J. H. BRIGHT. 
 
 And hurry them to the west," said he, 
 
 " Where ocean meets the land : 
 They shall regard thy bidding voice, 
 
 And move at thy command." 
 
 Then first I spake — the sullen corpse 
 
 Stood on the gloomy sod, 
 Like the dry bones the prophet raised, 
 
 When bidden by his God ; 
 A might company, so vast, 
 
 Each on the other trod. 
 
 They stalk'd erect as if alive, 
 
 Yet not to life allied, 
 But like the pestilence that walks, 
 
 And wasteth at noontide, 
 Corruption animated, or 
 
 The grave personified. 
 
 The earth-worm drew his slimy trail 
 
 Across the bloodless cheek, 
 And the carrion bird in hot haste came 
 
 To gorge his thirsty beak ; 
 But, scared by the living banquet, fled, 
 
 Another prey to seek. 
 
 While ever as on their way they moved, 
 
 No voice they gave, nor sound, 
 And before and behind, and about their sides, 
 
 Their wither'd arms they bound ; 
 As the beggar clasps his skinny hands 
 
 His tatter'd garments round. 
 
 On, on we went through the livelong night, 
 
 Death and his troop, and I ; 
 We turn'd not aside for forest or stream 
 
 Or mountain towering high, 
 But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps 
 
 Athwart the stormy sky. 
 
 Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd, 
 
 With a bright and star-like ray, 
 And I stoop'd to take the diamond up 
 
 From the grass in which it lay ; 
 'T was an eye that from its socket fell, 
 
 As some wretch toil'd on his way. 
 
 At length our army reach'd the verge 
 
 Of the far-off western shore ; 
 Death drove them into the sea, and said, 
 
 " Ye shall remove no more." 
 The ocean hymn'd their solemn dirge, 
 
 And his waters swept them o'er. 
 
 The stars went out, the morning smiled 
 
 With rosy tints of light, 
 The bird began his early hymn, 
 
 And plumed his wings for flight : 
 And the vision of death was broken with 
 
 The breaking up of night. 
 
 HE WEDDED AGAIN. 
 
 Ebe death had quite stricken the bloom from her 
 cheek, 
 Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, 
 When our quivering lips her dear name could not 
 speak, 
 And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment 
 to bow, 
 
 He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then 
 Sought out a new object, and wedded again. 
 
 The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre, 
 And its soft,melting tones still held captive the ear, 
 
 While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire, 
 And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear ; 
 
 He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, 
 
 Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. 
 
 The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, 
 Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, 
 
 The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave ; 
 Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first 
 
 He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, 
 
 Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again. 
 
 His dwelling to us, 0, how lonely and sad ! 
 
 When we thought of the light death had stolen 
 away, 
 Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had, 
 
 And that one was now widow'd and both in decay; 
 But its deep desolation had fled even then — 
 He sought a new idol, and wedded again. 
 
 But can she be quite blest who presides at his board 1 
 Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade, 
 
 Of a future love luring and charming her lord, 
 When she with our lost one forgotten is laid 1 
 
 She must know he will worship some other star then, 
 
 Seek out a new love, and be wedded again. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Should sorrow o'er thy brow 
 
 Its darken'd shadows fling, 
 And hopes that cheer thee now, 
 
 Die in their early spring ; 
 Should pleasure at its birth 
 
 Fade like the hues of even, 
 Turn thou away from earth, — 
 
 There 's rest for thee in heaven ! 
 
 If ever life shall seem 
 
 To thee a toilsome way, 
 And gladness cease to beam 
 
 Upon its clouded day ; 
 If, like the wearied dove, 
 
 O'er shoreless ocean driven, 
 Raise thou thine eye above, — 
 
 There 's rest for thee in heaven ! 
 
 But, O ! if always flowers 
 
 Throughout thy pathway bloom, 
 And gayly pass the hours, 
 
 Undimn'd by earthly gloom ; 
 Still let not every thought 
 
 To this poor world be given, 
 Not always be forgot 
 
 Thy better rest in heaven ! 
 
 When sickness pales thy cheek, 
 
 And dims thy lustrous eye, 
 And pulses low and weak 
 
 Tell of a time to die — 
 Sweet hope shall whisper then, 
 
 " Though thou from earth be riven, 
 There's bliss beyond thy ken, — 
 
 There 's rest for thee in heaven !" 
 
OTWAY CURRY. 
 
 [Born 1604. Died 1855.] 
 
 Colonel James Curry of Virginia served in 
 the continental army during the greater part of 
 the revolutionary war, and was taken prisoner 
 with the forces surrendered by General Lin- 
 coln at Charleston in 1780. After the peace 
 he emigrated to Ohio, distinguished himself in 
 civil affairs, rose to be a judge, and was one of the 
 electors of President who gave the vote of that 
 state for James Monroe. His son, Otway 
 Curry, was born in what is now Greenfield, 
 Highland county, on the twenty-sixth of March, 
 1804, and having received such instruction as was 
 offered in the common school, and declining an 
 opportunity to study the law, he proceeded to 
 Chilicothe, and there worked several years as a 
 carpenter, improving his mind meanwhile by in- 
 dustrious but discursive reading during his leisure 
 hours, so that at the end of his apprenticeship he 
 had a familiar knowledge of the most popular 
 contemporary literature, and a capacity for writing 
 which was creditably illustrated from time to time 
 in essays for the press. 
 
 He now removed to Cincinnati, where he found 
 more profitable employment, and in 1827 pub- 
 lished in the journals of that city, under the sig- 
 nature of "Abdallah," several poems which at- 
 tracted considerable attention, and led to his 
 acquaintance with William D. Gallagher and 
 other young men of congenial tastes. At this 
 period he was a frequent player on the flute ; his 
 music, as well as his poetry, was pensive and 
 dreamy; and his personal manners were singu- 
 larly modest and engaging. On the seventeenth 
 of December, 1828, the young carpenter was 
 married, and setting out on his travels, he worked 
 at various places in the lower part of the valley 
 of the Mississippi, sending back occasional lite- 
 rary performances to his friends in Cincinnati, 
 
 which kept alive their friendly interest, and greatly 
 increased his good reputation. 
 
 Dissatisfied with his experiences in the South, 
 he returned to Ohio, and for some time turned his 
 attention to farming, in his native town. In 1836 
 and 1837 he was elected to the legislature, and 
 while attending to his duties at Columbus en- 
 gaged with Mr. Gallagher in the publication of 
 " The Hesperian," a monthly magazine, of which 
 the first number was issued in May, 1838. In 
 1839 he removed to Maysville, the seat of justice 
 for Union county, where he was admitted to the 
 bar. In 1842 he was again elected to the legis- 
 lature, and during the session of the following 
 winter, "The Hesperian" having been discon- 
 tinued, purchased the "Torch Light," a news- 
 paper printed at Xenia, Green county, which he 
 edited two years, on the expiration of which he 
 retired to Maysville, and entered upon the prac- 
 tice of the law. In 1850 he was chosen a mem- 
 ber of the State Convention for forming a new 
 Constitution; in 1851 he bought the "Scioto 
 Gazette," a journal published at Chilicothe; and 
 in the spring of 1854 returned again to Mays- 
 ville, was made District Attorney, and in what 
 seemed to be an opening career of success, died 
 suddenly, on the fifteenth of February, 1855. 
 
 Mr. Curry wrote much, in prose as well as in 
 verse, and always with apparent sincerity and 
 earnestness. He was many years an active mem- 
 ber of the Methodist church, and his poems are 
 frequently marked by a fine religious enthusiasm, 
 which appears to have been as characteristic of 
 his temper as their more strictly poetical quali- 
 ties were of his intellect. In dying he remarked 
 to a friend that one of his earliest compositions, 
 entitled " Kingdom Come," embodied the belief 
 and hope of his life and death. 
 
 THE GREAT HEREAFTER.* 
 
 'T is sweet to think when struggling 
 
 The goal of life to win, 
 That just beyond the shores of time 
 
 The better years begin. 
 
 When through the nameless ages 
 
 I cast my longing eyes, 
 Before me, like a boundless sea, 
 
 The Great Hereafter lies. 
 
 Along its brimming bosom 
 
 Perpetual summer smiles ; 
 And gathers, like a golden robe, 
 
 Around the emerald isles. 
 
 * "In the great hereafter I see the fulfilment of my de- 
 sires. Yea, amid all this turmoil and humiliation I -enter 
 already upon its rest and glory." — The Huguenot. 
 
 There in the blue long distance, 
 By lulling breezes fanned, 
 
 I seem to see the flowering groves 
 Of old Beulah's land. 
 
 And far beyond the islands 
 That gem the wave serene, 
 
 The image of the cloudless shore 
 Of holy Heaven is seen. 
 
 Unto the Great Hereafter — 
 Aforetime dim and dark — ■ 
 
 I freely now and gladly give 
 Of life the wandering bark. 
 
 And in the far-off haven, 
 
 When shadowy seas are passed, 
 
 By angel hands its quivering sails 
 
 Shall all be furled at last! 
 
 317 
 
318 
 
 OTWAY CURRY. 
 
 KINGDOM COME. 
 
 I DO not believe the sad story 
 
 Of ages of sleep in the tomb ; 
 I shall pass far away to the glory 
 
 And grandeur of Kingdom Come. 
 The paleness of death, and its stillness, 
 
 May rest on my brow for awhile; 
 And my spirit may lose in its chillness 
 
 The splendour of hope's happy smile; 
 
 But the gloom of the grave will be transient, 
 
 And light as the slumbers of worth; 
 And then I shall blend with the ancient 
 
 And beautiful forms of the earth. 
 Through the climes of the sky, and the bowers 
 
 Of bliss, evermore I shall roam, 
 Wearing crowns of the stars and the flowers 
 
 That glitter in Kingdom Come. 
 
 The friends who have parted before me 
 
 From life's gloomy passion and pain, 
 When the shadow of death passes o'er me 
 
 Will smile on me fondly again. 
 Their voices are lost in the soundless 
 
 Retreats of their endless home, 
 But soon we shall meet in the boundless 
 
 Effulgence of Kingdom Come. 
 
 THE ARMIES OF THE EVE. 
 
 Not in the golden morning 
 
 Shall faded forms return, 
 For languidly and dimly then 
 
 The lights of memory burn: 
 
 Nor when the noon unfoldeth 
 
 Its sunny light and smile, 
 For these unto their bright repose 
 
 The wondering spirit wile: 
 
 But when the stars are wending 
 
 Their radiant way on high, 
 And gentle winds are whispering back 
 
 The music of the sky ; 
 
 0, then those starry millions 
 Their streaming banners weave, 
 
 To marshal on their wildering way 
 The Armies of the Eve: 
 
 The dim and shadowy armies 
 
 Of our unquiet dreams, 
 Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern 
 
 And print the sleeping streams. 
 
 We meet them in the calmness 
 
 Of high and holier climes; 
 We greet them with the blessed names 
 
 Of old and happier times. 
 
 And, marching in the starlight 
 
 Above the sleeping dust, 
 Thej- freshen all the fountain-springs 
 
 Of our undying trust. 
 
 Around our every pathway 
 In beauteous ranks they roam, 
 
 To guide us to the dreamy rest 
 Of our eternal home. 
 
 TO A MIDNIGHT PHANTOM. 
 
 Pale, melancholy one ! 
 
 Why art thou lingering here? 
 Memorial of dark ages gone, 
 
 Herald of darkness near: 
 Thou stand'st immortal, undefiled — 
 Even thou, the unknown, the strange, the 
 wild, 
 
 Spell-word of mortal fear. 
 
 Thou art a shadowy form, 
 
 A dreamlike thing of air; 
 My very sighs thy robes deform, 
 
 So frail, so passing fair — 
 Thy crown is of the fabled gems, 
 The bright ephemeral diadems 
 
 That unseen spirits wear. 
 
 Thou hast revealed to me 
 
 The lore of phantom song, 
 With thy wild, fearful melody, 
 
 Chiming the whole night long 
 Forebodings of untimely doom, 
 Of sorrowing years and dying gloom, 
 
 And unrequited wrong. 
 
 Through all the dreary night, 
 
 Thine icy hands, that now 
 Send to the brain their maddening blight, 
 
 Have pressed upon my brow — 
 My phrenzied thoughts all wildly blend 
 With spell-wrought shapes that round me 
 wend, 
 
 Or down in mockery bow. 
 
 Away, pale form, away — 
 
 The break of morn is nigh, 
 And far and dim, beyond the day 
 
 The eternal night-glooms lie: 
 Art thou a dweller in the dread 
 Assembly of the mouldering dead, 
 
 Or in the worlds on high? 
 
 Art thou of the blue waves, 
 
 Or of yon starry clime — 
 An inmate of the ocean graves, 
 
 Or of the heavens sublime"? 
 Is thy mysterious place of rest 
 The eternal mansions of the blest, 
 
 Or the dim shores of time? 
 
 Hast thou forever won 
 
 A high and glorious name, 
 And proudly grasped and girdled on 
 
 The panoply of fame — 
 Or wanderest thou on weary wing 
 A lonely and a nameless thing, 
 
 Unchangingly the same? 
 
 Thou answerest not. The sealed 
 
 And hidden things that lie 
 Beyond the grave, are unrevealed, 
 
 Unseen by mortal eye — 
 Thy dreamy home is all unknown, 
 For spirits freed by death alone 
 
 May win the viewless sky. 
 
WILLIAM CROSWELL. 
 
 [Born, 1804. Died, 1851.] 
 
 William Croswell was born at Hudson, in 
 New York, on the seventh of November, 1804. 
 His father, then editor of a literary and political 
 journal, in a few years became a clergyman of 
 the Episcopal church, and removed to New Ha- 
 ven, Connecticut, where the son was prepared for 
 college by Mr. Joel Jones, since well known as 
 one of the justices of the Superior Court of Penn- 
 sylvania. He was graduated at New Haven, in 
 1822, and, with his brother Sherman, soon after 
 opened a select school in that city, which was sur- 
 rendered at the end of the second quarter, after 
 which he passed nearly four years in desultory 
 reading in the house of his father. An invitation to 
 study medicine, with an uncle, was declined, part- 
 ly from an unconquerable aversion to surgical ex- 
 hibitions ; and a short experience of the editorial 
 profession, in the office of his cousin, Mr. Edwin 
 Croswell, of the Albany Argus, discouraged all 
 thoughts of devotion to the press and to politics. 
 In the summer before his twentieth birth-day, his 
 reputation for talents was such that the public 
 authorities of Hartford requested him to deliver 
 an oration on the anniversary of the declaration 
 of independence, and he accepted the invitation, 
 substituting a poem of several hundred lines for 
 a discourse in prose. In 1826, after much hesi- 
 tation, arising from the modesty of his nature, 
 and his sense of the dignity of the priestly office, 
 he entered the General Theological Seminary of 
 the Episcopal Church, in New York, and there, 
 and subsequently under Bishop Brownell, in 
 Hartford, pursued the usual course of professional 
 studies, conducting meanwhile for two years, with 
 Mr. Doane, now Bishop of the Episcopal Church 
 in New Jersey, a religious newspaper called " The 
 Episcopal Watchman." An intimate friendship 
 thus commenced between Mr. Croswell and Mr. 
 Doane, ended only with Mr. Cro swell's life. 
 "Man has never been in closer bonds with man," 
 says the Bishop, in a discourse on his death, " than 
 he with me, for five and twenty years." 
 
 Mr. Doane having resigned his professorship in 
 Washington College, Hartford, to become rector 
 of Trinity church, in Boston, the editorship of the 
 " Episcopal Watchman" was relinquished ; and 
 soon after Mr. Croswell received priest's orders, 
 in 1829, he too went to Boston, where for eleven 
 years he was settled as minister of Christ church. 
 In this period he was a bachelor, and passing most 
 of his time in "the cloister," a room fitted up in 
 the rear of the church for his study, and at the 
 Athenaeum, attended with singular faithfulness 
 to the duties of his calling, while he kept up a 
 loving acquaintance with literature and art, and 
 with a few men of congenial tastes and pursuits. 
 
 When Mr. Doane became bishop of the Epis- 
 copal church in New Jersey, Boston no longer 
 possessed its most agreeable charm for his friend, 
 and he wrote : 
 
 "TO G. W. D. 
 
 " I miss thee at the morning tide, 
 
 The glorious hour of prime ; 
 I miss thee more, when day has died, 
 
 At "blessed evening time. 
 As slide the aching hours away, 
 
 Still art thou unforgot ; 
 Sleeping or waking, night and day, 
 
 When do I miss thee not 1 
 
 " How can I pass that gladsome door, 
 
 "Where every favorite room 
 Thy presence made so bright before 
 
 Is loneliness and gloom ? — 
 Each place where most thou lov'dst to be, 
 
 Thy home, thy house of prayer. 
 Seem yearning for thy company : 
 
 I miss thee everywhere." 
 
 He also addressed the youthful bishop the follow- 
 ing sonnet, which seems now to have had a sort 
 of prophetic significance. 
 
 "AD AMICUM. 
 " Let no gainsaying lips despise thy youth; 
 
 Like his, the great Apostle's favorite son, 
 
 "Whose early rule at Ephuses begun : 
 Thy Urim and thy Thummim — Light and Truth — 
 
 Be thy protection from the Holy One : 
 
 And for thy fiery trials, be there shed 
 A sevenfold grace on thine anointed head, 
 
 Till thy ' right onward' course shall all be run. 
 And when thy earthly championship is through, 
 
 Thy warfare fought, thy battle won, 
 And heaven's own palms of triumph bright in view, 
 
 May this thy thrilling welcome be : ' Well done! 
 Because thou hast been faithful over few, i 
 A mightier rule be thine, servant good and true.'" 
 
 In 1840 Mr. Croswell resigned the rectorship 
 of Christ church in Boston, to accept that of St. 
 Peter's, in Auburn, New York, where heremained 
 four years, during which period he was married 
 to an estimable woman of Boston; and this last 
 circumstance was perhaps one of the causes of his 
 return to that city, in 1844, though the chief cause 
 was doubtless his sympathy with several of his old 
 friends there as to those views which are known 
 in the Episcopal church as " Tractarian." A new 
 parish was organized, the church of the Advent 
 was erected, and he became its rector, with a con- 
 gregation in which were the venerable poet Da- 
 na, his son, the author of " Two Years before the 
 Mast," and other persons of social and intellectual 
 eminence. Of the unhappy controversy which 
 ensued between the rector of the Advent and his 
 bishop this is not the place to speak; nor, were 
 it otherwise, am I sufficiently familiar with its 
 
 ol9 
 
320 
 
 WILLIAM CROSWELL. 
 
 merits to attempt to do justice to either party in 
 a statement of it. This controversy was a con- 
 tinual pain to Dr. Croswell, and his more inti- 
 mate friends, until his death, which occurred un- 
 der the most impressive circumstances, on Sunday, 
 the ninth of November, 1851, just seven years 
 after his return to Boston. He had preached 
 in the morning and during the afternoon service, 
 which was appointed for the children of the con- 
 gregation, his strength suddenly failed, he gave 
 out a hymn, repeated with touching pathos a 
 prayer, and in a feeble voice, while still kneeling, 
 pronounced the apostolic benediction, and in a 
 little while was dead. 
 
 Since the death of Dr. Croswell, his aged fa- 
 ther, who had previously been occupied with the 
 
 arrangement of materials for his own memoirs 
 that they might be written by his son, has pub- 
 lished a most interesting biography of that son ; 
 and in this is the only collection of his poems 
 which has appeared, except a small one which 
 Bishop Doane many years ago added to an edi- 
 tion of Keble's " Christian Year." 
 
 Dr. Croswell had a fine taste in literature, and 
 among his poems are many of remarkable grace 
 and sweetness. They are for the most part souve- 
 nirs of his friendships, or of the vicissitudes of his 
 religious life, and seem to have been natural and 
 unstudied expressions of his feelings. Bishop 
 Doane well describes him by saying "he had 
 more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he 
 ever knew. 
 
 THE SYNAGOGUE. 
 
 " But oven unto this day. when Moses is read, the veil 
 is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to 
 the Lord, the veil shall be taken away." — St. Paul. 
 
 I saw them in their synagogue, 
 
 As in their ancient day, 
 And never from my memory 
 
 The scene will fade away, 
 For, dazzling on my vision, still 
 
 The latticed galleries shine 
 With Israel's loveliest daughters, 
 
 In their beauty half-divine ! 
 
 It is the holy Sabbath eve, — 
 
 The solitary light 
 Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, 
 
 A lustre nothing bright ; 
 On swarthy brow and piercing glance 
 
 It falls with saddening tinge, 
 And dimly gilds the Pharisee's 
 
 Phylacteries and fringe. 
 The two-leaved doors slide slow apart 
 
 Before the eastern screen, 
 As rise the Hebrew harmonies, 
 
 With chanted prayers between, 
 And mid the tissued vails disclosed, 
 
 Of many a gorgeous dye, 
 Enveloped in their jewell'd scarfs, 
 
 The sacred records lie. 
 
 Robed in his sacerdotal vest, 
 
 A silvery-headed man 
 With voice of solemn cadence o'er 
 
 The backward letters ran, 
 And often yet methinks I see 
 
 The glow and power that sate 
 Upon his face, as forth he spread 
 
 The roll immaculate. 
 
 And fervently that hour I pray'd, 
 
 That from the mighty scroll 
 Its light, in burning characters, 
 
 Might break on every soul, 
 That on their harden'd hearts the veil 
 
 Might be no longer dark, 
 But be forever rent in twain 
 
 Like that before the ark. 
 
 For yet the tenfold film shall fall, 
 
 0, Judah ! from thy sight, 
 And every eye be purged to read 
 
 Thy testimonies right, 
 When thou, with all Messiah's signs 
 
 In Christ distinctly seen, 
 Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name, 
 
 Invoke the Nazarene. 
 
 THE CLOUDS. 
 " Cloud land ! Gorgeous land !" — Coleridge. 
 
 I cannot look above and see 
 
 Yon high-piled, pillowy mass 
 Of evening clouds, so swimmingly 
 
 In gold and purple pass, 
 And think not, Lord, how thou wast seen 
 
 On Israel's desert way, 
 Before them, in thy shadowy screen, 
 
 Pavilion'd all the day ! 
 
 Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue 
 
 Which the Redeemer wore, 
 When, ravish'd from his followers' view, 
 
 Aloft his flight he bore, 
 When lifted, as on mighty wing, 
 
 He curtained his ascent, 
 And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing 
 
 Above the firmament. 
 
 Is it a trail of that same pall 
 
 Of man)'--colour'd dyes, 
 That high above, o'ermantling all, 
 
 Hangs midway down the skies — 
 Or borders of those sweeping folds 
 
 Which shall be all unfurl'd 
 About the Saviour, when he holds 
 
 His judgment on the world ? 
 
 For in like manner as he went, — 
 
 My soul, hast thou forgot 1 — 
 Shall be his terrible descent, 
 
 When man expecteth not! 
 Strength, Son of man, against that hour. 
 
 Be to our spirits given, 
 When thou shalt come again with power, 
 
 Upon the clouds of heaven ' 
 
WILLIAM CROSWELL. 
 
 321 
 
 THE ORDINAL. 
 
 Alas for me if I forget 
 
 The memory of that day 
 Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet 
 
 E'en sleep can take away ! 
 In dreams I still renew the rites 
 
 Whose strong but mystic chain 
 The spirit to its God unites, 
 
 And none can part again. 
 
 How oft the bishop's form I see, 
 
 And hear that thrilling tone 
 Demanding with authority 
 
 The heart for God alone ; 
 Again I kneel as then I knelt, 
 
 While he above me stands, 
 And seem to feel, as then I felt, 
 
 The pressure of his hands. 
 
 Again the priests in meet array, 
 
 As my weak spirit fails, 
 Beside me bend them down to pray 
 
 Before the chancel-rails ; 
 As then, the sacramental host 
 
 Of God's elect are by, 
 When many a voice its utterance lost, 
 
 And tears dimm'd many an eye. 
 
 As then they on my vision rose, 
 
 The vaulted aisles I see, 
 And desk and cushion'd book repose 
 
 In solemn sanctity, — 
 The mitre o'er the marble niche, 
 
 The broken crook and key, 
 That from a bishop's tomb shone rich 
 
 With polished tracery ; 
 
 The hangings, the baptismal font, 
 
 All, all, save me unchanged, 
 The holy table, as was wont, 
 
 With decency arranged ; 
 The linen cloth, the plate, the cup, 
 
 Beneath their covering shine, 
 Ere priestly hands are lifted up 
 
 To bless the bread and wine. 
 
 The solemn ceremonial past, 
 
 And I am set apart 
 To serve the Loud, from first to last, 
 
 With undivided heart ; 
 And I have sworn, with pledges dire, 
 
 Which God and man have heard, 
 To speak the holy truth entire, 
 
 In action and in word. 
 
 Thou, who in thy holy place 
 
 Hast set thine orders three, 
 Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace 
 
 To win a good degree ; 
 That so, replenished from above, 
 
 And in ray office tried, 
 Thou mayst be honoured, and in love 
 
 Thy church be edified ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 The thickly-woven boughs they wreathe 
 
 Through every hallow'd fane 
 A soft, reviving odour breathe 
 
 Of summer's gentle reign ; 
 And rich the ray of mild green light 
 
 Which, like an emerald's glow, 
 Comes struggling through the latticed height 
 
 Upon the crowds below. 
 
 0, let the streams of solemn thought 
 
 Which in those temples rise, 
 From deeper sources spring than aught 
 
 Dependent on the skies : 
 Then, though the summer's pride departs, 
 
 And winter's withering chill 
 Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts 
 
 Shall be unchanging still. 
 
 THE DEATH OF STEPHEN. 
 
 With awful dread his murderers shook, 
 
 As, radiant and serene, 
 The lustre of his dying look 
 
 Was like an angel's seen ; 
 Or Moses' face of paly light, 
 
 When down the mount he trod, 
 All glowing from the glorious sight 
 
 And presence of his God. 
 
 To us, with all his constancy, 
 
 Be his rapt vision given, 
 To look above by faith, and see 
 
 Revealments bright of heaven. 
 And power to speak our triumphs out, 
 
 As our last hour draws near, 
 While neither clouds of fear nor doubt 
 
 Before our view appear. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING. 
 
 We come not with a costly store, 
 
 O Lord, like them of old, 
 The masters of the starry lore, 
 
 From Ophir's shore of gold : 
 No weepings of the incense tree 
 
 Are with the gifts we bring, 
 No odorous myrrh of Araby 
 
 Blends with our offering. 
 
 But still our love would bring its best, 
 
 A spirit keenly tried 
 By fierce affliction's fiery test, 
 
 And seven times purified : 
 The fragrant graces of the mind, 
 
 The virtues that delight 
 To give their perfume out, will find 
 
 Acceptance in thy sight. 
 
 21 
 
GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 
 [Born, 1804. J 
 
 Mr. Prentice is a native of Preston, in Con- 
 necticut, and was educated at Brown University, 
 in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. 
 He edited for several years, at Hartford, " The 
 New England Weekly Review," in connection, I 
 believe, with John G. Whittier; and in 1831 
 
 he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has 
 since conducted the "Journal," of that city, one 
 of the most popular gazettes ever published in this 
 country. Nearly all his poems were written while 
 he was in the university. They have never been 
 published collectively. 
 
 THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 'T is midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
 Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 
 The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell 
 Of the departed year. No funeral train 
 Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, 
 With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
 Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirr'd, 
 As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud, 
 That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, [form, 
 'Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn 
 And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe 
 In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
 Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
 A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
 Gone from the earth forever. 'T is a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
 Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
 And solemn finger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have pass'd away, 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 
 The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale 
 Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
 O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year 
 Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
 Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, 
 It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd 
 The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 
 Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 
 And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er 
 The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield 
 Flash'd in the light of midday — and the strength 
 Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
 The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came 
 And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
 Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 322 
 
 In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time — 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe — what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity 1 On, still on 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
 The fury of the northern hurricane, 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 
 Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain-crag, — but Time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
 And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
 His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink, 
 Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles 
 Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
 To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear 
 To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow 
 Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
 Startling the nations ; and the very stars, 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
 Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 
 And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, 
 To darkle in the trackless void : — yet Time — 
 Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
 Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
 To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 
 LINES TO A LADY. 
 
 Lady, I love, at eventide, 
 
 When stars, as now, are on the wave, 
 To stray in loneliness, and muse 
 
 Upon the one dear form that gave 
 Its sunlight to my boyhood ; oft 
 That same sweet look sinks, still and soft, 
 Upon my spirit, and appears 
 As lovely as in by-gone years. 
 
 Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now, 
 With deep and soul-like murmuring, 
 
 Through the dark pines ; and thy sweet words 
 Seem borne on its mysterious wing ; 
 
GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 
 323 
 
 And oft, mid musings sad and lone, 
 At night's deep noon, that thrilling tone 
 Swells in the wind, low, wild, and clear, 
 Like music in the dreaming air. 
 
 When sleep's calm wing is on my brow, 
 
 And dreams of peace my spirit lull, 
 Before me, like a misty star, 
 
 That form floats dim and beautiful ; 
 And, when the gentle moonbeam smiles 
 On the blue streams and dark-green isles, 
 In every ray pour'd down the sky, 
 That same light form seems stealing by. 
 
 It is a blessed picture, shrined 
 
 In memory's urn ; the wing of years 
 
 Can change it not, for there it glows, 
 Undimm'd by " weaknesses and tears ;" 
 
 Deep-hidden in its still recess, 
 
 It beams with love and holiness, 
 
 O'er hours of being, dark and dull, 
 
 Till life seems almost beautiful. 
 
 The vision cannot fade away ; 
 
 'Tis in the stillness of my heart, 
 And o'er its brightness I have mused 
 
 In solitude ; it is a part 
 Of my existence ; a dear flower 
 Breathed on by Heaven : morn's earliest hour 
 That flower bedews, and its blue eye 
 At eve still rests upon the sky. 
 
 Lady, like thine, my visions cling 
 
 To the dear shrine of buried years ; 
 The past, the past ! it is too bright, 
 
 Too deeply beautiful for tears ; 
 We have been bless'd ; though life is made 
 A tear, a silence, and a shade, 
 And years have left the vacant breast 
 To loneliness — we have been bless'd ! 
 
 Those still, those soft, those summer eyes, 
 
 When by our favourite stream we stood, 
 And watch'd our mingling shadows there, 
 
 Soft-pictured in the deep-blue flood, 
 Seem'd one enchantment. O ! we felt, 
 As there, at love's pure shrine, we knelt, 
 That life was sweet, and all its hours 
 A glorious dream of love and flowers. 
 
 And still 'tis sweet. Our hopes went by 
 
 Like sounds upon the unbroken sea; 
 Yet memory wings the spirit back 
 
 To deep, undying melody ; 
 And still, around her early shrine, 
 Fresh flowers their dewy chaplets twine, 
 Young Love his brightest garland wreathes, 
 And Eden's richest incense breathes. 
 
 Our hopes are flown — yet parted hours 
 Stili in the depths of memory lie, 
 
 Like night-gems in the silent blue 
 Of summer's deep and brilliant sky ; 
 
 And Love's bright flashes seem again 
 
 To fall upon the glowing chain 
 
 Of our existence. Can it be 
 
 That all is but a mockery ? 
 
 Lady, adieu ! to other climes 
 
 I go, from joy, and hope, and thee ; 
 A weed on Time's dark waters thrown, 
 
 A wreck on life's wild-heaving sea; 
 I go ; but O, the past, the past ! 
 Its spell is o'er my being cast, — 
 And still, to Love's remember'd eves, 
 With all but hope, my spirit cleaves. 
 
 Adieu ! adieu ! My farewell words 
 
 Are on my lyre, and their wild flow 
 Is faintly dying on the chords, 
 
 Broken and tuneless. Be it so ! 
 Thy name — O, may it never swell 
 My strain again — yet long 'twill dwell 
 Shrined in my heart, unbreathed, unspoken- 
 A treasured word — a chcrish'd token. 
 
 THE DEAD MARINER. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! above thy corse 
 
 The winds their Sabbath keep ; 
 The waves are round thee, and thy breast 
 
 Heaves with the heaving deep. 
 O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings, 
 And there the white gull lifts her wings, 
 And the blue halcyon loves to lave 
 Her plumage in the deep blue wave. 
 
 Sleep on ; no willow o'er thee bends 
 
 With melancholy air, 
 No violet springs, nor dewy rose 
 
 Its soul of love lays bare ; 
 But there the sea-flower, bright and young, 
 Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung, 
 And, like a weeping mourner fair, 
 The pale flag hangs its tresses there. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ; the glittering depths 
 
 Of ocean's coral caves 
 Are thy bright urn — thy requiem 
 
 The music of its waves ; 
 The purple gems forever burn 
 In fadeless beauty round thy urn, 
 And, pure and deep as infant love, 
 The blue sea rolls its waves above. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ; the fearful wrath 
 
 Of mingling cloud and deep 
 May leave its wild and stormy track 
 
 Above thy place of sleep ; 
 But, when the wave has sunk to rest, 
 As now, 'twill murmur o'er thy breast, 
 And the bright victims of the sea 
 Perchance will make their home with thee. 
 
 Sleep on ; thy corse is far away, 
 
 But love bewails thee yet ; 
 For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed, 
 
 And lovely eyes are wet : 
 And she, thy young and beauteous bride, 
 Her thoughts are hovering by thy side, 
 As oft she turns to view, with tears, 
 The Eden of departed years, 
 
324 
 
 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 
 SABBATH EVENING. 
 
 How calmly sinks the parting sun ! 
 
 Yet twilight lingers still ; 
 And beautiful as dream of Heaven 
 
 It slumbers on the hill ; 
 Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, 
 Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings, 
 And, rendering back the hues above, 
 Seems resting in a trance of love. 
 
 Round yonder rocks the forest-trees 
 
 In shadowy groups recline, 
 Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer 
 
 Around their holy shrine ; 
 And through their leaves the night-winds blow 
 So calm and still, their music low 
 Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, 
 Soft echo'd on the evening air. 
 
 And yonder western throng of clouds, 
 
 Retiring from the sky, 
 So calmly move, so softly glow, 
 
 They seem to fancy's eye 
 Bright creatures of a better sphere, 
 Come down at noon to worship here, 
 And, from their sacrifice of love, 
 Returning to their home above. 
 
 The blue isles of the golden sea, 
 
 The night-arch floating by, 
 The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, 
 
 The bright streams leaping by, 
 Are living with religion — deep 
 On earth and sea its glories sleep, 
 And mingle with the starlight rays, 
 Like the soft light of parted days. 
 
 The spirit of the holy eve 
 
 Comes through the silent air 
 To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes 
 
 A gush of music there ! 
 And the far depths of ether beam 
 So passing fair, we almost dream 
 That we can rise, and wander through 
 Their open paths of trackless blue. 
 
 Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams, 
 
 Each pulse is beating wild ; 
 And thought is soaring to the shrine 
 
 Of glory undefiled ! 
 And holy aspirations start, 
 Like blessed angels, from the heart, 
 And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven— 
 Our spirits to the gates of heaven. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 I tjunk of thee when morning springs 
 From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, 
 
 And, like a young bird, lifts her wings 
 Of gladness on the welkin blue. 
 
 And when, at noon, the breath of love 
 O'er flower and stream is wandering free, 
 
 And sent in music from the grove, 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee, when, soft and wide, 
 The evening spreads her robes of light, 
 
 And, like a young and timid bride, 
 Sits blushing in the arms of night. 
 
 And when the moon's sweet crescent springs 
 In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, 
 
 And stars are forth, like blessed things, 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee ; — that eye of flame, 
 Those tresses, falling bright and free, 
 
 That brow, where "Beauty writes her name,'' 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
 WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 The trembling dew-drops fall 
 TJpon the shutting flowers ; like souls at rest 
 The stars shine gloriously : and all 
 Save me, are blest. 
 
 Mother, I love thy grave ! 
 The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 
 Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave 
 Above thy child 1 
 
 'T is a sweet flower, yet must 
 Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow; 
 Dear mother, 't is thine emblem ; dust 
 Is on thy brow. 
 
 And I could love to die : 
 To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams — 
 By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, 
 
 And share thy dreams. 
 
 And I must linger here, 
 To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 
 And mourn the hopes to childhood dear 
 With bitter tears. 
 
 Ay, I must linger here, 
 A lonely branch upon a wither'd tree, 
 Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, 
 
 Went down with thee ! 
 
 Oft, from life's wither'd bower, 
 In still communion with the past, I turn, 
 And muse on thee, the only flower 
 In memory's urn. 
 
 And, when the evening pale 
 Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave, 
 I stray to hear the night-winds wail 
 Around thy grave. 
 
 Where is thy spirit flown 1 
 I gaze above — thy look is imaged there; 
 I listen — and thy gentle tone 
 Is on the air. 
 
 0, come, while here I press 
 My brow upon thy grave ; and, in those mild 
 And thrilling tones of tenderness. 
 
 Bless, bless thy child ! 
 
 Yes, bless your weeping child ; 
 And o'er thine urn — religion's holiest shrine — 
 O, give his spirit, undefiled, 
 
 To blend with thine. 
 
WILLIAM PITT PALMER. 
 
 [Born, 1805.] 
 
 Mr. Palmer is descended from a Puritan an- 
 cestor who came to America in the next ship after 
 the May Flower. His father was a youthful sol- 
 dier in the Revolution, and one of the latest, if 
 not the last, of the survivors of the Jersey prison 
 ship. Having acquired a competency as the cap- 
 tain of a New York merchantman, he retired from 
 the sea early in the present century, to Stock- 
 bridge, Berkshire county, Massachusetts, where he 
 spent the remainder of his days, in that sunshine 
 of love and respect which has gilded the declining 
 years of so many men of our heroic age. There, 
 on the twenty-second of February, 1805, our poet 
 was born, and named in honour of the great orator 
 whose claims to gratitude are recognised among us 
 in a thousand living monuments which bear the 
 name of William Pitt. 
 
 In his native county, Mr. Palmer has told me, the 
 first and happiest half of his life was spent on the 
 farm, in the desultory acquisition of such know- 
 ledge as could then be obtained from a New Eng- 
 land common school, and a " college" with a single 
 professor. The other half has been chiefly passed 
 in New York, as a medical student, teacher, writer 
 for the gazettes, and, for several years, clerk in a 
 public office. 
 
 Mr. Palmer is a man of warm affections, who 
 finds a heaven in a quiet home. He is a lover 
 of nature, too, and like most inhabitants of the 
 pent-up city, whose early days have been passed 
 in the country, he delights in recollections of rural 
 life. Some of his poems have much tenderness 
 and delicacy, and they are generally very complete 
 and polished. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 From the quicken'd womb of the primal gloom 
 
 The sun roll'd black and bare, 
 Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast, 
 
 Of the threads of my golden hair ; 
 And when the broad tent of the firmament 
 
 Arose on its airy spars, 
 I -pencill'd the hue of its matchless blue, 
 
 And spangled it round with stars. 
 
 I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, 
 
 And their leaves of living green, 
 And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes 
 
 Of Eden's virgin queen ; 
 And when the fiend's art, on her trustful heart, 
 
 Had fasten'd its mortal spell, 
 In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear 
 
 To the trembling earth I fell. 
 
 When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed 
 
 Their work of wrath hath sped, 
 And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, 
 
 Came forth among the dead ; 
 With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams 
 
 I bade their terrors cease ; 
 As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll 
 
 God's covenant of peace. 
 
 Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast, 
 
 Night's funeral shadow slept, 
 Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains 
 
 Their lonely vigils kept ; 
 When I flash'd on their sight the heralds bright 
 
 Of heaven's redeeming plan, 
 As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born — 
 
 Joy, joy to the outcast man ! 
 
 Equal favour I show to the lofty and low, 
 
 On the just and unjust I descend ; 
 E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness 
 and tears, 
 
 Feel my smile the best smile of a friend : 
 Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, 
 
 As the rose in the garden of kings ; 
 As the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, 
 
 And lo ! the gay butterfly's wings ! 
 
 The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, 
 
 Conceals all the pride of her charms, 
 Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from 
 her bowers, 
 
 And lead the young Day to her arms ; 
 And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover, 
 
 And sinks to her balmy repose, 
 I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fann'd west, 
 
 In curtains of amber and rose. 
 
 From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, 
 
 I gaze with unslumbering eye, 
 When the cynosure star of the mariner 
 
 Is blotted from the sky; 
 And guided by me through the merciless sea, 
 
 Though sped by the hurricane's wings, 
 His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, 
 
 To the haven-home safely he brings. 
 
 I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, 
 
 The birds in their chambers of green, 
 And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, 
 
 As they bask in my matinal sheen. 
 0, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth 
 
 Though fitful and fleeting the while, 
 What glories must rest on the home of the bless'd, 
 
 Ever bright with the Deity's smile ! 
 
 325 
 
326 
 
 WILLIAM PITT PALMER. 
 
 LINES TO A CHRYSALIS. 
 
 Musino long I asked me this, 
 
 Chrysalis, 
 Lying helpless in my path, 
 Obvious to mortal scath 
 From a careless passer by, 
 What thy life may signify 1 
 Why, from hope and joy apart, 
 
 Thus thou art 1 
 
 Nature surely did amiss, ' 
 
 Chrysalis, 
 When she lavish'd fins and wings 
 Nerved with nicest moving-springs, 
 On the mote and madripore, 
 Wherewithal to swim or soar ; 
 And dispensed so niggardly 
 
 Unto thee. 
 
 E'en the very worm may kiss, 
 
 Chrysalis, 
 Roses on their topmost stems 
 Blazon'd with their dewy gems, 
 And may rock him to and fro 
 As the zephyrs softly blow ; 
 Whilst thou lyest dark and cold 
 
 On the mould. 
 
 Quoth the Chrysalis, Sir Bard, 
 
 Not so hard 
 Is my rounded destiny 
 In the great Economy : 
 Nay, by humble reason view'd, 
 There is much for gratitude 
 In the shaping and upshot 
 Of my lot. 
 
 Though I seem of all things born 
 
 Most forlorn, 
 Most obtuse of soul and sense, 
 Next of kin to Impotence, 
 Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'er 
 Priest or prophet, sage or seer, 
 May sublimer wisdom teach 
 Than I preach. 
 
 From my pulpit of the sod, 
 
 Like a god, 
 I proclaim this wondrous truth, 
 Farthest age is nearest youth, 
 Nearest glory's natal porch, 
 Where with pale, inverted torch, 
 Death lights downward to the rest 
 
 Of the blest. 
 
 Mark yon airy butterfly's 
 
 Rainbow-dyes ! 
 
 Yesterday that shape divine 
 
 Was as darkly hearsed as mine ; 
 
 But to-morrow I shall be 
 
 Free and beautiful as she, 
 
 And sweep forth on wings of light, 
 Like a sprite. 
 
 Soul of man in crypt of clay ! 
 
 Bide the day 
 When thy latent wings shall be 
 Plumed for immortality, 
 And with transport marvellous 
 Cleave their dark sarcophagus, 
 O'er Elysian fields to soar 
 
 Evermore ! 
 
 THE HOME VALENTINE. 
 
 Still fond and true, though wedded long, 
 
 The bard, at eve retired, 
 Sat smiling o'er the annual song 
 
 His home's dear Muse inspired : 
 And as he traced her virtues now 
 
 With all love's vernal glow, 
 A gray hair from his bended brow, 
 Like faded leaf from autumn bough, 
 
 Fell to the page below. 
 
 He paused, and with a mournful mien 
 
 The sad memento raised, 
 And long upon its silvery sheen 
 
 In pensive silence gazed : 
 And if a sigh escaped him then, 
 
 It were not strange to say ; 
 For fancy's favourites are but men ; 
 And who e'er felt the stoic when 
 
 First conscious of decay 1 
 
 Just then a soft cheek press'd his own 
 
 With beauty's fondest tear, 
 And sweet words breathed in sweeter tone 
 
 Thus murmur'd in his ear : 
 Ah, sigh not, love to mark the trace 
 
 Of time's unsparing wand ! 
 It was not manhood's outward grace, 
 No charm of faultless form or face, 
 
 That won my heart and hand. 
 
 Lo ! dearest, mid these matron locks, 
 
 Twin-fated with thine own, 
 A dawn of silvery lustre mocks 
 
 The midnight they have known : 
 But time to blighted cheek and tress 
 
 May all his snows impart ; 
 Yet shalt thou feel in my caress 
 No chill of waning tenderness, 
 
 No winter of the heart ! 
 
 Forgive me, dearest Beatrice ! 
 
 The grateful bard replied, 
 As nearer and with tenderer kiss 
 
 He pressed her to his side : 
 Forgive the momentary tear 
 
 To manhood's faded prime ; 
 I should have felt, hadst thou been near, 
 Our hearts indeed have nought to fear 
 
 From all the frosts of time ! 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 
 
 [Born, 1S05.] 
 
 The Reverend George W. Bethtjxe, D.D. is 
 a native of New York. When twenty one years of 
 age he entered the ministry of the Presbyterian 
 church, from which, in tlie following year, he passed 
 to that of the Dutch Reformed church. After 
 residing at Rhineheck, and Utica, in New York, 
 he in 1S34 removed to Philadelphia, where he re- 
 
 mained until 1849, in which year he became pas- 
 tor of a church in Brooklyn. There are in the 
 American pulpit few better scholars or more elo- 
 quent preachers. He has published several vo- 
 lumes of literary and religious discourses, and in 
 1847 gave to the public a volume of graceful and 
 elegant poems, entitled "Lays of Love and Faith." 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 My mother ! — Manhood's anxious brow 
 And sterner cares have long been mine ; 
 
 Yet turn" I to thee fondly now, 
 
 As when upon thy bosom's shrine 
 
 My infant griefs were gently hush'd to rest, 
 
 And thy low-whisper'd prayers my slumber bless'd. 
 
 I never call that gentle name, 
 
 My mother ! but I am again 
 E'en as a child ; the very same 
 
 That prattled at thy knee; and fain 
 Would I forget, in momentary joy, 
 That I no more can be thy happy boy ; — 
 
 The artless boy, to whom thy smile 
 
 Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night, 
 
 (Though rare that frown, and brief the while 
 It veil'd from me thy loving light ;) 
 
 For well-conn'd task, ambition's highest bliss, 
 
 To win from thine approving lips a kiss. 
 
 I've loved through foreign lands to roam, 
 And gazed o'er many a classic scene ; 
 
 Yet would the thought of that dear home, 
 Which once was ours, oft intervene, 
 
 And bid me close again my weary eye 
 
 To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by. 
 
 That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, 
 Where, by the Hudson's verdant side 
 
 My sisters wove their jasmine bowers, 
 And he, we loved, at eventide 
 
 Would hastening come from distant toil to bless 
 
 Thine, and his children's radiant happiness. 
 
 Alas, the change ! the rattling car 
 
 On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, 
 
 Where o'er the sod, we sow'd the Star 
 Of Bethlehem, and Forget-me-not. 
 
 Oh, wo to Mammon's desolating reign ! 
 
 We ne'er shall find on earth a home again ! 
 
 I've pored o'er many a yellow page 
 Of ancient wisdom, and have won, 
 
 Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage 
 Or bard have never taught thy son 
 
 Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, 
 
 As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. 
 
 If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, 
 My God will own my life and love, 
 
 Methinks, when singing at His feet, 
 Amid the ransom'd throng above, 
 Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, 
 And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee. 
 
 For thee and heaven ; for thou didst tread 
 The way that leads me heavenward, and 
 
 My often wayward footsteps led 
 
 In the same path with patient hand ; 
 
 And when I wander'd far, thy earnest call 
 
 Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall. 
 
 I have been bless'd with other ties, 
 Fond ties and true, yet never deem 
 
 That I the less thy fondness prize ; 
 No, mother ! in my warmest dream 
 
 Of answer'd passion, through this heart of mine 
 
 One chord will vibrate to no name but thine. 
 
 Mother ! thy name is widow — well 
 
 I know no love of mine can fill 
 The waste place of thy heart, or dwell 
 
 Within one sacred recess : still 
 Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son, 
 My parent, thou art mine, my only one ! 
 
 NIGHT STUDY. 
 
 I am alone ; and yet 
 In the still solitude there is a rush 
 
 Around me, as were met 
 A crowd of viewless wings ; I hear a gush 
 Of utter'd harmonies — heaven meeting earth, 
 Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. 
 
 Ye winged Mysteries, 
 Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, 
 
 Beckoning me to arise, 
 And go forth from my very self, and fly 
 With you far in the unknown, unseen immense 
 Of worlds beyond our sphere — What are ye! 
 Whence ] 
 
 Ye eloquent voices, 
 Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, 
 
 Now strong as when rejoices, 
 The trumpet in the victory and pursuit; 
 Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call 
 My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall 
 
 I know you now — I see 
 With more than natural light — ye are the good 
 The wise depa?-ted — ye 
 
328 
 
 GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 
 
 Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood 
 With mortal brother, struggling in the strife 
 And chains, which once were yours in this sad life. 
 
 Ye hover o'er the page 
 Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought 
 
 For many a distant age ; 
 Ye love to watch the inspiration caught, 
 From your sublime examples, and so cheer 
 The fainting student to your high career. 
 
 Ye come to nerve the soul 
 Like him who near the Atone a stood, when He, 
 
 Trembling, saw round him roll 
 The wrathful potents of Gethsemane, 
 With courage strong : the promise ye have known 
 And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne. 
 
 Still keep ! O, keep me near you, 
 Compass me round with your immortal wings : 
 
 Still let my glad soul hear you 
 Striking your triumphs from your golden strings, 
 Until with you I mount, and join the song, 
 An angel, like you, 'mid the white-robed throng. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON SEEING THORWALDSEN'S BAS-RELIEF 
 REPRESENTING NIGHT. 
 
 Yes ! bear them to their rest ; 
 The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, 
 The prattler fallen asleep e'en in his play, 
 
 Clasp them to thy soft breast, 
 Night, 
 Bless them in dreams with a deep hush'd delight. 
 
 Yet must they wake again, 
 Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, 
 The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife, 
 
 Aye, to the conscience-pain — 
 O Night, 
 Canst thou not take with them a longer flight 1 
 
 Canst thou not bear them far — 
 E'en now all innocent — before they know 
 The taint of sin, its consequence of wo, 
 
 The world's distracting jar, 
 O Night, 
 To some ethereal, holier, happier height 1 
 
 Canst thou not bear them up 
 Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim 
 And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him 
 
 Who drank for us the cup, 
 O Night, 
 The cup of wrath for hearts in faith contrite 1 
 
 To Him, for them who slept 
 A babe all lowly on His mother's knee, 
 And from that hour to cross-crown'd Calvary, 
 
 In all our sorrows wept, 
 
 O Night, [light. 
 
 That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering 
 
 So. lay their little heads 
 Close to that human breast, with love divine 
 Deep beating, while his arms immortal twine 
 
 Around them as he sheds, 
 
 O Night, [might. 
 
 On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless 
 
 Let them immortal wake 
 Among the breathless flowers of Paradise, 
 Where angel-songs of welcome with surprise 
 
 This their last sleep may break, 
 O Night, 
 And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. 
 
 There can come no sorrow, 
 The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, 
 For ever young through heaven's eternal years, 
 
 In one unfading morrow, 
 O Night, 
 Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight. 
 
 Would we could sleep as they, 
 So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee, 
 And only wake in immortality ! 
 
 Bear us with them away, 
 O Night, 
 To that ethereal, holier, happier height. 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Atar from thee ! the morning breaks, 
 
 But morning brings no joy to me ; 
 Alas ! my spirit only wakes 
 
 To know I am afar from thee. 
 In dreams I saw thy blessed face, 
 
 And thou wert nestled on my breast ; 
 In dreams I felt thy fond embrace, 
 
 And to mine own thy heart was press'd. 
 
 Afar from thee ! 'tis solitude ! 
 
 Though smiling crowds around me be, 
 The kind, the beautiful, the good, 
 
 For I can only think of thee ; 
 Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best, 
 
 My earliest and my only one ! 
 Without thee I am all unbless'd, 
 
 And wholly bless'd with thee alone. 
 
 Afar from thee ! the words of praise 
 
 My listless ear unheeded greet; 
 What sweetest seem'd, in better days, 
 
 Without thee seems no longer sweet. 
 The dearest joy fame can bestow 
 
 Is in thy moisten'd eye to see, 
 And in thy cheek's unusual glow, 
 
 Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee. 
 
 Afar from thee ! the night is come, 
 
 But slumbers from my pillow flee ; 
 Oh, who can rest so far from home 1 
 
 And my heart's home is, love, with thee. 
 I kneel me down in silent prayer, 
 
 And then I know that thou art nigh : 
 For Gon, who seeth everywhere, 
 
 Bends on us both his watchful eye. 
 
 Together, in his loved embrace, 
 
 No distance can our hearts divide ; 
 Forgotten quite the mediate space, 
 
 I kneel thy kneeling form beside. 
 My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep, 
 
 But soars the spirit far and free ; 
 Oh, welcome be night's slumbers deep, 
 
 For then, sweet love, I am with thee. 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 [Bora, 1S06.] 
 
 The author of « Greyslaer," " Wild Scenes in 
 the Forest and the Prairie," etc., is a brother of 
 the Honourable Ogden Hoffman, and a son of 
 the late eminent lawyer of the same name.* He 
 is the child of a second marriage. His maternal 
 grandfather was John Fenno, of Philadelphia, 
 one of the ablest political writers of the old Fede- 
 ral party, during the administration of Washing- 
 ton. The family, which is a numerous one in 
 the state of New York, planted themselves, at an 
 early day, in the valley of the Hudson, as appears 
 from the Dutch records of Peter Stuyvesant's 
 storied reign. 
 
 Mr. Hoffman was born in New York, in the 
 year 1806. He was sent to a Latin grammar- 
 school in that city, when six years old, from which, 
 at the age of nine, he was transferred to the 
 Poughkeepsie academy, a seminary upon the 
 Hudson, about eighty miles from New York, which 
 at that time enjoyed great reputation. The harsh 
 treatment he received here induced him to run 
 away, and his father, finding that he had not im- 
 proved under a course of severity, did not insist 
 upon his return, but placed him under the care of 
 an accomplished Scottish gentleman in one of 
 the rural villages of New Jersey. During a visit 
 home from this place, and when about twelve 
 years of age, he met with an injury which in- 
 volved the necessity of the immediate amputa- 
 tion of the right leg, above the knee. The pain- 
 ful circumstances are minutely detailed in the 
 New York " Evening Post," of the twenty-fifth 
 of October, 1817, from which it appears, that 
 while, with other lads, attempting the dangerous 
 feat of leaping aboard a steamer as she passed a pier, 
 under full way, he was caught between the vessel 
 and the wharf. The steamer swept by, and left 
 him clinging by his hands to the pier, crushed in 
 a manner too frightful for description. This de- 
 privation, instead of acting as a disqualification 
 for the manly sports of youth, and thus turning 
 the subject of it into a retired student, seems rather 
 to have given young Hoffman an especial ambi- 
 tion to excel in swimming, riding, etc., to the still 
 further neglect of perhaps more useful acquire- 
 ments. 
 
 When fifteen years old, he entered Columbia 
 College, and here, as at preparatory schools, was 
 noted rather for success in gymnastic exercises 
 
 * Judge Hoffman was, in early life, one of the most 
 distinguished advocates at the American bar. He won 
 his first cause in New Jersey at the age of seventeen ; the 
 illness of counsel or the indulgence of the court giving 
 him the opportunity to speak. At twenty-one he suc- 
 ceeded his father as representative, from New York, in 
 the state legislature. At twenty-six he filled the office 
 of attorney-general ; and thenceforth the still youthful 
 pleader was often the successful competitor of Hamil- 
 ton, Burr, Pinkney, and other professional giants, for 
 the highest honours of the legal forum. 
 
 than in those of a more intellectual character. 
 His reputation, judging from his low position in 
 his class, contrasted with the honours that were 
 awarded him by the college-societies at their anni- 
 versary exhibitions, was greater with the students 
 than with the faculty, though the honorary degree 
 of Master of Arts, conferred upon him under pe- 
 culiarly gratifying circumstances, after leaving the 
 institution in his third or junior year, without 
 having graduated, clearly implies that he was still 
 a favourite with his alma mater* 
 
 Immediately after leaving college — being then 
 eighteen years old — he commenced the study of the 
 law with the Honourable Hahmahus Bleecker, 
 of Albany, now Charge d' 'Affaires of the United 
 States at the Hague. When twenty-one, he was 
 admitted to the bar, and in the succeeding three 
 years he practised in the courts of the city of New 
 York. During this period he wrote anonymously 
 for the New York American — having made his 
 first essay as a writer for the gazettes while in Al- 
 bany — and I believe finally became associated with 
 Mr. Charles King in the editorship of that 
 paper. Certainly he gave up the legal profession, 
 for the successful prosecution of which he appears 
 to have been unfitted by his love of books, society, 
 and the rod and gun. His feelings at this period 
 are described in some rhymes, entitled "Forest 
 Musings," from which the following stanzas are 
 quoted, to show the fine relish for forest-life and 
 scenery which has thrown a peculiar charm around 
 every production from his pen : — 
 The hunt is up — 
 The merry woodland shout, 
 That rung these echoing glades about 
 
 An hour agone, 
 Hath swept beyond the eastern hills, 
 
 Where, pale and lone, 
 The moon her mystic circle fills ; 
 A while across the setting sun's broad disc 
 The dusky larch, 
 
 As if to pierce the blue o'erhanging arch, 
 Lifts its tall obelisk. 
 And now from thicket dark, 
 
 Where, by the mist-wreathed river, 
 The fire-fly's spark 
 Will fitful quiver, 
 And bubbles round the lily's cup 
 From lurking trout come coursing up, 
 The doe hath led her fawn to drink ; 
 
 While, scared by step so near, 
 Uprising from the sedgy brink 
 The lonely bittern's cry will sink 
 
 Upon the startled ear. 
 And thus upon my dreaming youth, 
 
 When boyhood's gambols pleased no more, 
 And young Romance, in guise of Truth, 
 Usurp'd the heart all theirs before ; 
 
 * At the first semi-centennial anniversary of the in- 
 corporation of Columbia College, the honorary degree 
 Master of Arts was conferred upon Fitz-Greene Hal- 
 leck, William Cullen Bryant, and Charles Fenno 
 Hoffman. 
 
330 
 
 CHARLE8 FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 Thus broke ambition's trumpet-note 
 
 On Visions wild, 
 Yet blithesome as this river 
 On which the smiling moon-beams float, 
 That thus have there for ages smiled, 
 And will thus smile forever. 
 And now no more the fresh green-wood, 
 
 The forest's fretted aisles 
 And leafy domes above them bent, 
 And solitude 
 So eloquent ! 
 Mocking the varied skill that's blent 
 
 In art's most gorgeous piles — 
 No more can soothe my soul to sleep 
 Than they can awe the sounds that sweep 
 To hunter's horn and merriment 
 Their verdant passes through, 
 When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent 
 
 Upon the morning dew. 
 The game's afoot! — and let the chase 
 
 Lead on, whate'er my destiny — 
 Though fate her funeral drum may brace 
 
 Full soon for me ! 
 And wave death's pageant o'er me— 
 Yet now the new and untried world 
 Like maiden banner first unfurl'd, 
 
 Is glancing bright before me! 
 The quarry soars! and mine is now the sky, 
 Where, " at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly !" 
 Yet something whispers through the wood 
 
 A voice like that perchance 
 Which taught the haunter of Egehia's grove 
 To tame the Roman's dominating mood 
 
 And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance 
 Before the images of Law and Love — 
 Some mystic voice that ever since hath dwelt 
 
 Along with Echo in her dim retreat, 
 A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt 
 By wood, or glen, or where on silver strand 
 The clasping waves of Ocean's belt 
 Do clashing meet 
 Around the land: 
 It whispers me that soon — too soon 
 
 The pulses which now beat so high 
 Impatient with the world to cope 
 Will, like the hues of autumn sky, 
 Be changed and fallen ere life's noon 
 Should tame its morning hope. 
 It tells me not of heart betray'd 
 Of health impair'd, 
 Of fruitless toil, 
 And ills alike by thousands shared, 
 Of which each year some link is made 
 To add to " mortal coil :" 
 And yet its strange prophetic tone 
 So faintly murmurs to my soul 
 The fate to be my own, 
 That all of these may be 
 Reserved for me 
 Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll. 
 
 Yet why, 
 While Hope so jocund singeth 
 And with her plumes the gray-beard's arrow wingeth, 
 
 Should I 
 Think on!" of the barb itbringeth? 
 Though every dream deceive 
 
 That to my youth is dearest, 
 Until my heart they leave 
 
 Like forest leaf when searest — 
 Yet still, mid forest leaves, 
 
 Where now 
 Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves, 
 Still with heart new-blossoming 
 While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring, 
 
 At Nature's shrine I '11 bow; 
 Nor seek in vain that truth in her 
 She keeps for her idolater. 
 
 From that period Mr. Hoffman devoted his 
 attention almost constantly to literature. "While 
 connected with the " American," he published a 
 series of brilliant articles in that paper, under the 
 signature of a star (*), which attracted much at- 
 tention. In 1833, for the benefit of his health, 
 he left New York on a travelling tour for the "far 
 west," and his letters, written during his absence, 
 were also first published in that popular journal. 
 They were afterward included in his " Winter in 
 the West," of which the first impression appeared 
 in New York, in 1834, and the second, soon after, 
 in London. This work has passed through many 
 editions, and it will continue to be popular so long 
 as graphic descriptions of scenery and character, 
 and richness and purity of style, are admired. His 
 next work, entitled " Wild Scenes in the Forest 
 and the Prairie," was first printed in 1837, and, 
 like its predecessor, it contains many admirable 
 pictures of scenery, inwoven with legends of the 
 western country, and descriptive poetry. This 
 was followed by a romance, entitled " Greyslaer," 
 founded upon the famous criminal trial of Beau- 
 champ, for the murder of Colonel Sharpe, the So- 
 licitor-General of Kentucky, — the particulars of 
 which, softened away in the novel, are minutely 
 detailed in the appendix to his "Winter in the 
 West." " Greyslaer" was a successful novel — 
 two editions having appeared in the author's native 
 city, one in Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, 
 in the same year. It placed him in the front rank 
 of American novelists. He describes in it, with 
 remarkable felicity, American forest-life, and sa- 
 vage warfare, and gives a truer idea of the border 
 contests of the Revolution than any formal his- 
 tory of the period that has been published. 
 
 The Knickerbocker magazine was first issued 
 under the editorial auspices of Mr. Hoffman. 
 He subsequently became the proprietor of the 
 American Monthly Magazine, (one of the ablest 
 literary periodicals ever published in this country,) 
 and during the long term of which he was the 
 chief editor of this journal, he also, for one year, 
 conducted the New York Mirror, for its proprietor, 
 and wrote a series of zealous papers in favour of 
 international copyright, for the New Yorker, the 
 Corsair, and other journals. 
 
 Mr. Hoffman published in 1843 " The Vigil of 
 Faith, a Legend of the Andirondack Mountains, and 
 other Poems ;" in 1844, " The Echo, or Borrowed 
 Notes for Home Circulation ;" and in 1848, a more 
 complete collection of his various lyrical compo- 
 sitions, under the title of "Love's Calendar." 
 
 When the first edition of "The Poets and Po- 
 etry of America" appeared there had been printed 
 no volume of Mr. Hoffman's songs, and few ex- 
 cept his intimate friends knew what he had writ- 
 ten. He was more largely quoted by me because 
 it was not then probable that his pieces would be 
 accessible in another form. In a reviewal of my 
 book in the London " Foreign Quarterly Review" 
 it was remarked that " American poetry is little 
 better than afar off echo of the father-land," and 
 Mr. Hoffman was particularly attacked as a pla- 
 giarist, much stress being laid upon " the magni- 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 331 
 
 tude of his obligations to Mr. Moore." This led 
 to the publication of " The Echo, or Borrowed 
 Notes," which was addressed to me in the fol- 
 lowing letter : 
 
 TO RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. 
 
 " My Dear Sir : — You may remember some three or four 
 years since having asked me for a list of the various sig- 
 natures under which my anonymous verses had appeared 
 in different American periodicals during the last twenty 
 years. You are perhaps aware, also, of the disparaging re- 
 marks which your free and flattering use, in ' The Poetry 
 of America,' of the verses thus patiently collected by you, 
 has called out in some quarters. I have often regretted 
 that I permitted those effusions (most of which had long 
 since answered the casual purpose for which they were 
 written) to be thus exhumed : regretted it, not from any 
 particular sensibility to the critical dicta by which they 
 have been assailed ; but simply because, like many a san- 
 guine yet indolent person originally conscious of rather 
 vivid poetic aspirations, I had, from my boyhood upward, 
 from early manhood onward, ' lived along in hope of do- 
 ing something or other' iu the way of a poem that my 
 countrymen would not unwillingly let live : and because 
 (while thus probably much overrating poetic powers in 
 reserve) I was unwilling that these fugitive pieces should 
 fix a character upon my writings it might be difficult to 
 supersede by any subsequent effort in a higher order of com- 
 position. That fanciful regret, if not abated, has, with the 
 considerations from which it sprung, been swallowed up 
 lately by a reality which I deem of more imperious moment 
 than any thing affecting mere literary reputation. 
 
 " One of those British reviews, which, in the absence of 
 an international copyright, do the thinking of this coun- 
 try upon literary matters, and which, you know, are cir- 
 culated so widely and are of such authority here that it is 
 idle for an American author to refuse to plead to any in- 
 dictment they may prefer, has recently done me the honor, 
 amid a confused mass of indiscriminate accusations against 
 my countrymen at large, to select me specially and indivi- 
 dually for the odious charge of gross and hitherto unheard- 
 of literary dishonesty.* 
 
 " Now, Lay dear sir. while it is due to you to relieve you 
 from all responsibility as god-father of these questionable 
 
 * " It is reserved for Charles Fenno Hoffman to distance all pla- 
 giarists of ancient and modern times in the enormity and magnitude 
 of his thefts. ' No American,' says Mr. Griswold, Ms comparable to 
 him as a song-writer.' We are not surprised at the fact, considering 
 the magnitude of his obligations to Moore. Hoffman is Moore hocused 
 for the American market. His songs are rifaciamentos. The turns 
 of the melody, the flooding of the images, the scintillating conceits — 
 all are Moore. Sometimes he steals the very -words. One song he- 
 gins, ' Blame not the bowl'— a hint taken from ' Blame not the bard:' 
 another, ' One bumper yet, gallants, at parting.' Hoffman is like a 
 hand-organ— a single touch sets him off— he wants only the key-note, 
 aud he plays away as long as his wind lasts. The resemblance, when 
 it runs into whole lines and verses, is more like a parody than a sim- 
 ple plagiarism. One specimen will be ample : — 
 
 ' 'Tis in moments like this, when each bosom 
 
 With its highest-toned feeling is warm, 
 Like the music that's said from the ocean 
 
 To rise in the gathering storm, 
 That her image around us should hover, 
 
 Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, 
 We may breathe through the foam of a bumper, 
 
 As we drink to the myrtle and steel.' 
 " He had Moore's measure ringing in his ear, and demanding a 
 simile in the middle of the first quatrain— hence the music from the 
 ocean. The third and fourth lines are an echo of a sound, without 
 the smallest particle of meaning or application in them. They con- 
 stitute the means, nevertheless, by which Hoffman hocuses the Ame- 
 ricans. Drop them out altogether, and, so far as the sense is con- 
 cerned, the song would be materially improved." — Foreign Quarterly 
 Ecoieiu, for January, 18«. 
 
 [" The examples given by the reviewer to prove his charge, perhaps 
 shake his position, and possibly they do not. He is certainly mis- 
 taken about the similarity of 'measure,' as any one may verify by 
 counting the feet in the different songs mentioned. As for their 
 identity of thought with those delicious things of Moore's upon which 
 the iugenious reviewer insists they are modelled, any 'American' 
 who feels a curiosity to ascertain how far he has been ' hocused,' may 
 determine for himself by referring to ' Moore's Melodies'— a work 
 not wholly unknown in this country.— H."] 
 
 effusions, by publishing them under my own name, — this 
 is likewise the only way by which so sweeping and damna- 
 tory a charge can be fully met, without involving myself 
 in egotistical explanations far worse than those I am fur- 
 nishing here, because they would be endless. I have, 
 therefore, as the question is one of character, and not of 
 mere literary taste, collected all the pieces by which I have 
 attempted ' to hocus the Americans,' that I could lay my 
 hands upon : and though the unconscious imposition has 
 been running on so long that many may have escaped me, 
 yet there are enough of all kinds for the present purpose ; 
 which is to give that portion of the abused public who feel 
 any interest in the matter, an opportunity of deciding (not 
 whether it is good poetry, for that is not the question — but) 
 whether they have really been taken in so much after all : 
 whether or not the affecting predicament of the amiable 
 Parisian who spoke prose for so many years without know- 
 ing it, has found a whimsical counterpart in the uncon- 
 scious use of the poetry of others by the writer of these effu- 
 sion s: or whether, finally, they do sometimes — however 
 rarely — (to borrow the language of my friendly reviewer) 
 'possess the property described in the mocking birds — a 
 solitary note of their own.' I am, dear sir, your friend and 
 servant, C. F. HOFFMAN." 
 
 New York, February 22d, 1844. 
 
 Mr. Hoffman had already published « The 
 Vigil of Faith," the longest of his poems, and 
 perhaps the best long poem in our literature up- 
 on a subject connected with the Indians. Two 
 chiefs are rivals in love, and the accepted lover 
 is about to be made happy, when his betrothed is 
 murdered by the chief who has been discarded. 
 Revenge is sought in the careful preservation of 
 the life of the assassin, lest he should be the first 
 to meet the maiden in the other world. 
 
 On the first of May, 1847, Mr. Hoffman be- 
 came connected with the " Literary World," 
 which had then reached only its seventh number, 
 and he conducted this periodical until the begin- 
 ning of Octobe*, 1848, when he resigned it to the 
 brothers Dtjyckinck, the eldest of whom had 
 been its first editor. In this paper he wrote 
 much and well ; in his relations with the authors 
 of the country he was always courteous, and 
 though invariably disposed to kindness, was in 
 the main candid and just. After retiring from 
 its management he contributed to it a series of 
 essays on American society, which are among 
 the happiest and most characteristic of his pro 
 ductions, though written after the commence- 
 ment of that sad malady which since 1850 has 
 quite withdrawn him from the public. 
 
 In what I have written of General Morris, I 
 have endeavored to define the sphere and dignity 
 of the song : but whatever may be thought of it 
 as an order of writing, I am satisfied that Mr. 
 Hoffman has come as near to the highest stand- 
 ard or idea of excellence which belongs to this 
 species of composition, as any American poet has 
 done in his own department, whatever that de- 
 partment may be. Many of his productions have 
 received whatever testimony of merit is afforded 
 by great and continued popular favor; and though 
 there are undoubtedly some sorts of composition 
 respecting which the applause or silence of the 
 multitude is right or wrong only by accident, yet, 
 as regards a song, popularity appears to me to be 
 the only test, and lasting popularity to be an in- 
 fallible test of excellence. 
 
332 
 
 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON. 
 
 WRITTEN AT WEST POINT. 
 
 I 'm not romantic, but, upon my word, 
 
 There are some moments when one can't help 
 feeling 
 
 As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd 
 By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing 
 
 A little music in his soul still lingers, 
 
 Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers : 
 
 And even here, upon this settee lying, 
 
 With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, 
 Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom 
 
 flying, 
 Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: 
 For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, 
 Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever ! 
 
 Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon 
 Azure fields — thou who, once earthward bending, 
 
 Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Esdymion 
 On dewy Latmos to his arms descending — 
 
 Thou whom the world of old on every shore, 
 
 Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore : 
 
 Tell me — where'er thy silver bark be steering, 
 By bright Italian or soft Persian lands, 
 
 Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, 
 
 Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral 
 strands ; 
 
 Teft if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, 
 
 A lovelier stream than this the wide world over ] 
 
 Doth Achelous or Araxes, flowing 
 
 Twin-born from Pindus, but b ne'er-meeting 
 brothers — 
 Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, 
 Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of 
 mothers, 
 The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver — 
 Match they in beauty my own glorious river ] 
 
 What though no cloister gray nor ivied column 
 Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear ! 
 
 What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn 
 Of despots tell and superstition here — 
 
 What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling 
 walls 
 
 Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls — 
 
 Its sinking arches once gave back as proud 
 An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal — 
 
 As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd 
 As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, 
 
 When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest 
 day 
 
 Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray: 
 
 For here amid these woods did he keep court, 
 Before whose mighty soul the common crowd 
 
 Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, 
 
 Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's 
 chosen bow'd — 
 
 He who his country's eagle taught to soar, 
 
 A nd fired those stars which shine o'er every shore. 
 
 And sights and sounds at which the world have 
 wonder'd 
 Within these wild ravines have had their birth ; 
 Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have 
 thunder'd, 
 And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth ; 
 And not a verJlant glade nor mountain hoary 
 But treasures up within the glorious story. 
 
 And yet not rich in high-soul'd memories only, 
 Is every moon-kiss'd headland round me 
 gleaming, 
 
 Each cavern'd glen and leafy valley lonely, 
 
 And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming : 
 
 But such soft fancies here may breathe around, 
 
 As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. 
 
 Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night — 
 Thou that to love so oft has lent its soul, 
 
 Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, 
 Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole — 
 
 Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth 
 
 To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth 1 
 
 O, loiter not upon that fairy shore, 
 
 To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, 
 
 When sunset brightens on their sails no more, 
 And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tide — 
 
 Loiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, 
 
 What time the bird of night proclaims love's power. 
 
 Even as I gaze upon my memory's track, 
 Bright as that coil of light along the deep, 
 
 A scene of early youth comes dream-like back, 
 Where two stand gazing from yon tide-wash' d 
 steep — 
 
 A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing, 
 
 A girl scarce yet in ripen'd beauty blushing. 
 
 The hour is his — and, while his hopes are soaring, 
 Doubts he that maiden will become his bride ] 
 
 Can she resist that gush of wild adoring, 
 Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide 1 
 
 Tremulous, but radiant is that peerless daughter 
 
 Of loveliness — as is the star-paved water ! 
 
 The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd then — 
 Alas ! how oft have they been since renew'd ! 
 
 How oft the whip-poor-will from yonder glen 
 Each year has whistled to her callow brood ! 
 
 How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam 
 
 Dream'd here of bliss — and waken'd from their 
 dream ! 
 
 But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending, 
 Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, 
 
 And Night, more nearly now each step attending, 
 As if to hide thy envied place of rest, 
 
 Closes at last thy very couch beside, 
 
 A matron curtaining a virgin bride. 
 
 Farewell ! Though tears on every leaf are starting : 
 While through the shadowy boughs thy glances 
 quiver, 
 
 As of the good when heavenward hence departing, 
 Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. 
 
 So — could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray — 
 
 Would I too steal from this dark world away. 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 333 
 
 THE FOREST CEMETERY. 
 
 Wild Tawasentha !* in thy brook-laced glen 
 
 The doe no longer lists her lost fawn's bleating, 
 As panting there, escaped from hunter's ken, 
 
 She hears the chase o'er distant hills retreating ; 
 No more, uprising from the fern around her, 
 
 The Indian archer, from his " still-hunt" lair, 
 Wings the death-shaft which hath that moment 
 found her 
 
 When Fate seem'd foil'd upon her footsteps there : 
 
 Wild Tawasentha ! on thy cone-strew'd sod, 
 
 O'er which yon Pine his giant arm is bending, 
 No more the Mohawk marks its dark crown nod 
 
 Against the sun's broad disk toward night de- 
 scending, 
 Then crouching down beside the brands that redden 
 
 The column'd trunks which rear thy leafy dome, 
 Forgets his toils in hunter's slumbers leaden, 
 
 Or visions of the red man's spirit home : 
 
 But where his calumet by that lone fire, 
 At night beneath these cloister'd boughs was 
 lighted, 
 The Christian orphan will in prayer aspire, 
 The Christian parent mourn his proud hope 
 blighted ; 
 And in thy shade the mother's heart will listen 
 
 The spirit-cry of babe she clasps no more, 
 And where thy rills through hemlock-branches 
 glisten, 
 There many a maid her lover will deplore. 
 
 Here children link'd in love and sport together, 
 Who check their mirth as creaks the slow hearse 
 
 by, 
 
 Will totter lonely in life's autumn weather, 
 To ponder where life's spring-time blossoms lie ; 
 
 And where the virgin soil was never dinted 
 By the rude ploughshare since creation's birth, 
 
 Year after year fresh furrows will be printed 
 Upon the sad cheek of the grieving Earth. 
 
 Yon sun returning in unwearied stages, 
 
 Will gild the cenotaph's ascending spire, 
 O'er names on history's yet unwritten pages 
 
 That unborn crowds will, worshipping, admire ; 
 Names that shall brighten through my country's 
 story 
 
 Like meteor hues that fire her autumn woods, 
 Encircling high her onward course of glory 
 
 Like the bright bow which spans her mountain- 
 floods. 
 
 Here where the flowers have bloom'd and died for 
 ages — 
 Bloom'd all unseen and perish'd all unsung — 
 On vouth's green grave, traced out beside the 
 sage's, 
 Will garlands now by votive hearts be flung ; 
 And sculptur'd marble and funereal urn, 
 O'er which gray birches to the night air wave, 
 
 * Tawasentha — meaning, in Mohawk, " The place of the 
 many dead" — is the finely-appropriate name of the new 
 Forest Cemetery on the banks of the Hudson, between 
 Albany and Troy. 
 
 Will whiten through thy glades at every turn, 
 And woo the moonbeam to some poet's grave ! 
 
 Thus back to Nature, faithful, do we come, 
 
 When Art hath taught us all her best beguiling ; 
 Thus blend their ministry aiound the tomb 
 
 Where, pointing upward, still sits Nature smiling ! 
 And never, Nature's hallow'd spots adorning, 
 
 Hath Art, with her a sombre garden dress'd, 
 Wild Tawasentha ! in this vale of mourning 
 
 With more to consecrate their children's rest. 
 
 And still that stream will hold its winsome way, 
 
 Sparkling as now upon the frosty air, 
 When all in turn sha : l troop in pale array 
 
 To that dim land for which so few prepare. 
 Still will yon oak, which now a sapling waves, 
 
 Each year renew'd, with hardy vigour grow, 
 Expanding still to shade the nameless graves 
 
 Of nameless men that haply sleep below. 
 
 Nameless as they — in one dear memory blest, 
 
 How tranquil in these phantom-peopled bowers 
 Could I here wait the partner of my rest 
 
 In some green nook that should be only ours ; 
 Under old boughs, where moist the livelong sum- 
 mer 
 
 The moss is green and springy to the tread, 
 When thou, my friend, shouldst be an often comer 
 
 To pierce the thicket, seeking for my bed : 
 
 For thickets heavy all around should screen it 
 
 From careless gazer that might wander near ; 
 Nor e'en to him who by some chance had seen it, 
 
 Would I have aught to catch his eye, appear : 
 One lonely stem — a trunk those old boughs lifting, 
 
 Should mark the spot ; and, haply, new thrift owe 
 To that which upwaid through its sap was drifting 
 
 From what lay mouldering round its roots below. 
 
 The wood-duck there her glossy-throated brood 
 
 Should unmolested gather to her wings ; 
 The schoolboy, awed, as near that mound he stood, 
 
 Should spare the redstart's nest that o'er it swings, 
 And thrill when there, to hear the cadenced wind- 
 ing 
 
 Of boatman's horn upon the distant river, 
 Dell unto dell in long-link'd echoes binding — 
 
 Like far-off requiem, floating on for ever. 
 
 There my freed spirit with the dawn's first beaming 
 
 Would come to revel round the dancing spray ; 
 There would it linger with the day's last gleaming, 
 
 To watch thy footsteps thither track their way. 
 The quivering leaf should whisper in that hour 
 
 Things that for thee alone would have a sound, 
 And parting boughs my spirit-glances shower 
 
 In gleams of light upon the mossy ground. 
 
 There, when long years and all thy joumeyings 
 over — 
 
 Loosed from this world thyself to join the free, 
 Thou too wouldst come to rest beside thy lover 
 
 In that sweet cell beneath our trysting-tree ; 
 Where earliest birds above our narrow dwelling 
 
 Should pipe their matins as the morning rose, 
 And woodland symphonies majestic swelling, 
 
 In midnight anthem, hallow our repose. 
 
334 
 
 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 THE BOB-O-LINKUM. 
 
 Thou vocal sprite — thou feather' J troubadour! 
 
 In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, 
 Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more, 
 
 And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger 1 
 Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature, 
 
 But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, 
 The school-boy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature, 
 
 And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O-Linkum. 
 
 Say ! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, 
 
 So glad to skim our laughing meadows over — 
 With our gay orchards here so much delighted, 
 
 It makes thee musical, thou airy rover 1 
 Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure 
 
 Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish 
 Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, 
 
 And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish 1 
 
 They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks 
 
 Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; 
 And even in a brace of wandering weeks, 
 
 They say, alike thy song and plumage changes ; 
 Here both are- gay ; and when the buds put forth, 
 
 And leafy June is shading rock and river, 
 Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the North, 
 
 While through the balmy air thy clear notes 
 quiver. 
 
 Joyous, yet tender — was that gush of song 
 
 C aught from the brooks, where mid its wild flowers 
 The silent prairie listens all day long, [smiling 
 
 The only captive to such sweet beguiling; 
 Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls 
 
 And column'd isles of western groves symphoni- 
 Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals, [ous, 
 
 To make our flowering pastures here harmonious"? 
 
 Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid, [ing, 
 
 Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plash- 
 Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade, 
 
 Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing ? 
 Or did the reeds of some savannah South, 
 
 Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, 
 To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, 
 
 The spice-fed winds had taught them in their 
 wooing 1 
 
 Unthrifty prodigal ! — is no thought of ill 
 
 Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever ? 
 Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still 
 
 Throb on in music till at rest for ever 1 
 Yet now in wilder'd maze of concord floating, 
 
 'T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong, 
 Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doating 
 
 And pause to listen to thy rapturous song ! 
 
 THE REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 You give up the world ! why, as well might the sun, 
 
 When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers, 
 
 While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one 
 
 by one, 
 
 Die away with the muezzin's last note from the 
 
 towers, 
 
 Declare that he never would gladden again, 
 
 With one rosy smile, the young morn in its birth ; 
 
 B ut leave weeping Day, with her sorrowful train 
 Of hours, to grope o'er a pall-cover'd earth. 
 
 The light of that soul once so brilliant and steady, 
 
 So far can the incense of flattery smother, 
 That, at thought of the world of hearts conquer'd 
 already, 
 
 Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another 1 
 O ! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried, 
 
 And fresh as was ours, when first we began it, 
 Let me know but the sphere where you next will 
 abide, 
 
 And that instant, for one, I am off for that planet. 
 
 PRIMEVAL WOODS. 
 
 Yes ! even here, not less than in the crowd, 
 Here, where yon vault in formal sweep seems piled 
 Upon the pines, monotonously proud, 
 Fit dome for fane, within whose hoary veil 
 No ribald voice an echo hath defiled — 
 Where Silence seems articulate ; up-stealing 
 Like a low anthem's heavenward wail : — 
 Oppressive on my bosom weighs the feeling 
 Of thoughts that language cannot shape aloud; 
 For song too solemn, and for prayer too wild, — 
 Thoughts, which beneath no human power could 
 
 quail, 
 For lack of utterance, in abasement bow'd, — 
 The cavern'd waves that struggle for revealing. 
 Upon whose idle foam alone God's light hath smiled. 
 
 Ere long thine every stream shall find a tongue, 
 Land of the Many Waters ! But the sound 
 Of human music, these wild hills among, 
 Hath no one save the Indian mother flung 
 Its spell of tenderness 1 Oh, o'er this ground 
 So redolent of Beauty, hath there play'd no breath 
 Of human poesy — none beside the word 
 Of Love, as, murmur'd these old boughs beneath, 
 Some fierce and savage suitor it hath stirr'd 
 To gentle issues — none but these been heard 1 
 No mind, no soul here kindled but my own 1 
 Doth not one hollow trunk about resound 
 With the faint echoes of a song long flown, 
 By shadows like itself now haply heard alone 1 
 
 And Ye, with all this primal growth must go ! 
 And loiterers beneath some lowly spreading shade, 
 Where pasture-kissing breezes shall, ere then, have 
 
 play'd, 
 A century hence, will doubt that there could grow 
 From that meek land such Titans of the glade ! 
 Yet wherefore primal? when beneath my tread 
 Are roots whose thrifty growth, perchance, hath 
 
 arm'd 
 The Anak spearman when his trump alarm'd! 
 Roots that the Deluge wave hath plunged below ; 
 Seeds that the Deluge wind hath scattered ; 
 Berries that Eden's warblers may have fed , 
 Safe in the slime of earlier worlds embalm'd : 
 Again to quicken, germinate and blow, [charm'd. 
 Again to charm the land as erst the land they 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 335 
 
 RIO BRAVO. 
 
 A MEXICAN LAMENT.— ^ir— Roncesvalles. 
 
 Rio Bravo ' Rio Bravo ! — saw men ever such a 
 
 sight 
 Since the field of Roncesvalles seal'd the fate of 
 
 many a knight ! 
 Dark is Palo Alto's story — sad Resaca Palma's 
 
 rout — 
 Ah me ! upon those fields so gory how many a 
 
 gallant life went out. 
 There our best and bravest lances shiver'd 'gainst 
 
 the Northern steel, 
 Left the valiant hearts that couch'd them 'neath 
 
 the Northern charger's heel. 
 Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! brave hearts ne'er mourn'd 
 
 such a sight, 
 Since the noblest lost their life-blood in the Ron- 
 cesvalles fight. 
 
 There Arista, best and bravest — there Raguen a, 
 tried and true, 
 
 On the fatal field thou lavest, nobly did all men 
 could do ; 
 
 Vainly there those heroes rally, Castile on Mon- 
 tezuma's shore, 
 
 Vainly there shone Aztec valour brightly as it 
 shone of yore. 
 
 Rio Bravo ! Rio Bravo I saw men ever such a 
 sight, 
 
 Since the dews of Roncesvalles wept for paladin 
 and knight 1 
 
 Heard ye not the wounded coursers shrieking on 
 
 yon trampled banks, 
 As the Northern wing'd artillery thunder'd on our 
 
 shatter'd ranks 1 
 On they came — those Northern horsemen — on 
 
 like eagles toward the sun ; 
 Follow'd then the Northern bayonet, and the field 
 
 was lost and won. 
 Rio Bravo ! Rio Bravo ! minstrel ne'er sung such 
 
 a fight, 
 Since the lay of Roncesvalles sang the fame of 
 
 martyr'd knight. 
 
 Rio Bravo ! fatal river ! saw ye not, while red 
 
 with gore, 
 One cavalier all headless quiver, a nameless trunk 
 
 upon thy shore 1 
 Other champions not less noted sleep beneath thy 
 
 sullen wave : 
 Sullen water, thou hast floated armies to an ocean 
 
 grave. 
 Rio Bravo ! Rio Bravo ! lady ne'er wept such a 
 
 sight, 
 Since the moon of Roncesvalles kiss'd in death 
 
 her own loved knight. 
 
 Weepest thou, lorn Lady Inez, for thy lover mid 
 
 the slain 1 
 Brave La Vega's trenchant sabre cleft his slayer 
 
 to the brain — 
 Brave La Vega, who, all lonely, by a host of foes 
 
 beset, 
 Yielded up his falchion only when his equal there 
 
 he met. 
 
 Oh, for Roland's horn to rally his paladins by that 
 sad shore ! 
 
 Rio Bravo, Roncesvalles, ye are names link'd ever- 
 more. 
 
 Sullen river ! sullen river ! vultures drink thy gory 
 wave, 
 
 But they blur not those loved features, which not 
 Love himself could save. 
 
 Rio Bravo, thou wilt name not that lone corse 
 upon thy shore, 
 
 But in prayer sad Inez names him — names him 
 praying evermore. 
 
 Rio Rravo ! Rio Bravo ! lady ne'er mourn'd such 
 a knight, 
 
 Since the fondest hearts were broken by the Ron- 
 cesvalles fight. 
 
 LOVE'S MEMORIES. 
 
 To-night ! to-night ! what memories to-night 
 Came thronging o'er me as I stood near thee 1 
 Thy form of loveliness, thy brow of light, 
 
 Thy voice's thrilling flow — 
 All, all were there ; to me — to me as bright 
 As when they claim'd my soul's idolatry 
 Years, long years ago. 
 
 That gulf of years! Oh,God! hadst thou been mine, 
 Would all that's precious have been swallow'd 
 there 1 
 Youth's meteor hope, and manhood's high design, 
 
 Lost, lost, forever lost — 
 Lost with the love that with them all would twine, 
 The love that left no harvest but despair — 
 Unwon at such a cost. 
 
 Was it ideal, that wild, wild love I bore thee ? 
 
 Or thou thyself — didst thou my soul enthrall 1 
 Such as thou art to-night did I adore thee, 
 
 Ay, idolize — in vain! 
 Such as thou art to-night — could time restore me 
 That wealth of loving — shouldst thou have it all, 
 To waste perchance again 1 
 
 No ! Thou didst break the coffers of my heart, 
 
 And set so lightly by the hoard within, 
 That I too learn'd at last the squanderer's art — 
 
 Went idly here and there, 
 Filing my soul, and lavishing a part 
 On each, less cold than thou, who cared to win 
 And seem'd to prize a share. 
 
 No ! Thou didst wither up my flowering youth. 
 
 If blameless, still the bearer of a blight; 
 The unconscious agent of the deadliest ruth 
 
 That human heart hath riven ; 
 Teaching me scorn of my own spirit's truth ; 
 Holding, not me, but that fond worship light 
 Which link'd my soul to Heaven. 
 
 No, no ! — 'For me the weakest heart before 
 One so untouch'd by tenderness as thine ; 
 Angels have enter'd through the frail tent door 
 
 That pass the palace now — 
 And He who spake the words, " Go, sin no more," 
 Mid human passions saw the spark divine, 
 But not in such as thou ! 
 
ROSALIE CLARE. 
 
 Who owns not she 's peerless, who calls her not fair, 
 Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare 1 
 Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, 
 And, though harness'd in proof, he must perish or 
 
 yield ; 
 For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare 
 The lance that is couch'd for youngRosALiE Clahe. 
 
 When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board 
 Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is 
 
 pour'd, 
 And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up 
 From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup, 
 What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, 
 Or is whisper'd more warmly, than Rosalie Cl abe ! 
 
 They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, 
 Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arao, or Rhine ; 
 Of the houris that gladden the East with their 
 smiles, [isles ; 
 
 Where the sea's studded over with green summer 
 But what flower of far-away clime can compare 
 With the blossom of ours — brightRosALiE ClabeI 
 
 Who owns not she 's peerless, who calls her not fair? 
 Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clabe ! 
 Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form, 
 And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, 
 Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air 
 Than that which isbless'd by sweet RosalieClare. 
 
 THINK OF ME, DEAREST. 
 
 Think of me, dearest, when day is breaking 
 
 Away from the sable chains of night, 
 When the sun, his ocean-couch forsaking, 
 Like a giant first in his strength awaking, 
 
 Is flinging abroad his limbs of light ; 
 As the breeze that first travels with morning forth, 
 Giving life to her steps o'er the quickening earth — 
 As the dream that has cheated my soul through the 
 
 night, 
 Let me in thy thoughts come fresh with the light. 
 
 Think of me, dearest, when day is sinking 
 
 In the soft embrace of twilight gray, 
 When the starry eyes of heaven are winking, 
 And the weary flowers their tears are drinking, 
 
 As they start like gems on the moon-touch'd spray. 
 Let me come warm in thy thoughts at eve, 
 As the glowing track which the sunbeams leave, 
 When they, blushing, tremble along the deep, 
 While stealing away to their place of sleep. 
 
 Think of me, dearest, when round thee smiling 
 Are eyes that melt while they gaze on thee ; 
 
 When words are winning and looks are wiling, 
 
 And those words and looks, of others, beguiling 
 Thy fluttering heart from love and me. 
 
 Let me come true in thy thoughts in that hour ; 
 
 Let my trust and my faith — my devotion — have 
 power, 
 
 When all that can lure to thy young soul is nearest, 
 
 To summon each truant thought back to me, dearest. 
 
 WE PARTED IN SADNESS. 
 
 We parted in sadness, but spoke not of parting ; 
 
 We talk'd not of hopes that we both must resign, 
 I saw not her eyes, and but one tear-drop starting, 
 
 Fell down on her hand as it trembled in mine : 
 Each felt that the past we could never recover, 
 
 Each felt that the future no hope could restore; 
 She shudder'd at wringing the heart of her lover, 
 
 I dared not to say I must meet her no more. 
 
 Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles 
 ever 
 
 As o'er our young loves itfirst smiled in their birth. 
 Long years have gone by, yet that parting, ! never 
 
 Can it be forgotten by either on earth. [ven, 
 The note of each wild bird that carols toward hea- 
 
 Must tell herof swift-winged hopes thatweremine, 
 And the dew that steals over each blossom at even, 
 
 Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their decline. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. 
 
 And first behold this cordial Julep here, 
 That flames and dances in its crystal bounds, 
 With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed; 
 Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thome 
 In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 
 Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, 
 To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
 
 Milton— Comus. 
 
 'T is said that the gods, on Olympus of old, 
 (And who the bright legend profanes with a 
 doubt 1 ?) 
 
 One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus were told 
 That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out ! 
 
 But, determined to send round the goblet once more, 
 They sued to the fairer immortals for aid [o'er, 
 
 In composing a draught, which, till drinking were 
 Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade. 
 
 Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn, 
 And the spirit that lives in each amber hued grain, 
 
 And which first had its birth from the dews of the 
 morn, 
 Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. 
 
 Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board 
 Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, 
 
 When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard, 
 Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach. 
 
 The liquids were mingled, while Venus looked on, 
 
 With glances so fraught with sweet magical 
 
 power, 
 
 That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, 
 
 Has never been missed in the draught from that 
 
 hour. 
 
 Fxoba then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook, 
 And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl, 
 
 All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook, 
 The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole. 
 
 The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim, 
 Though something yet wanting they all did be- 
 But juleps the drink of immortals became, [wail ; 
 When Jote himself added a handful of hail. 
 
.CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 337 
 
 LE FAINEANT. 
 
 ■' Now arouse thee, Sir Knight, from thine indolent 
 
 ease, 
 Fling boldly thy banner abroad in the breeze, 
 Strike home for thy lady — strive hard for the prize, 
 And thy guerdon shall beam from her love-lighted 
 
 eyes !" 
 
 "I shrink not the trial," that bluff knight replied — 
 "But I battle — not I — for an unwilling bride; 
 Where the boldest may venture to do and to dare, 
 My pennon shall flutter — my bugle peal there ! 
 
 " I quail not at aught in the struggle of life, 
 I'm not all unproved even now in the strife, 
 But the wreath that I win, all unaided — alone, 
 Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown !" 
 
 " Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin 
 That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win ; 
 Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more ; 
 Up ! Sir Knight, for thy lady — and do thy devoir !" 
 
 " She hath shrunk from my side, she hath fail'd in 
 
 her trust, 
 Not relied on my blade, but remember'd its rust ; 
 It shall brighten once moi-e in the field of its fame, 
 But it is n it for her I would now win a name." 
 
 The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh'd, 
 When he featly as ever his steed would bestride, 
 While the mould from the banner he shook to the 
 
 wind 
 Seem'd to fall on the breast he left aching behind. 
 
 But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart 
 Had corroded too long and too deep to depart, 
 And the brand only brighten'd in honour once more, 
 When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled 
 shore. 
 
 TO AN AUTUMN ROSE. 
 
 Tkll her I love her — love her for those eyes 
 Now soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth 
 Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies, 
 Reveal two heavens here to us on Earth — ■ 
 The one in which their soulful beauty lies, 
 And that wherein such soulfulness has birth : 
 Go to my lady ere the season flies, 
 And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast — 
 Go ! and with all of eloquence thou hast, 
 The burning story of my love discover, 
 And if the theme should fail, alas ! to move her, 
 Tell her when youth's gay budding-time is past, 
 And summer's gaudy flowering is over, 
 Like thee, my love will blossom to the last ! 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Well ! call it Friendship ! have I ask'd for more, 
 Even in those moments, when I gave thee most 1 
 'Twas but for thee, I look'd so far before ! 
 I saw our bark was hurrying blindly on, 
 A guideless thing upon a dangerous coast — 
 22 
 
 With thee — with thee, where would I not have gone 1 
 But could I see thee drift upon the shore, 
 Unknowing drift upon a shore, unknown] 
 Yes, call it Friendship, and let no revealing 
 If love be there, e'er make love's wild name heard, 
 It will not die, if it be worth concealing ! 
 Call it then Friendship — but oh, let that word 
 Speak but for me — for me, a deeper feeling 
 Than ever yet a lover's bosom stirr'd ! 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Not hers the charms which Laura's lover drew, 
 Or Titian's pencil on the canvas threw ; 
 No soul enkindled beneath southern skies 
 Glow'd on her cheek and sparkled in her eyes ; 
 No prurient charms set off her slender form 
 With swell voluptuous and with contour warm ; 
 While each proportion was by Nature told 
 In maiden beauty's most bewitching mould. 
 High on her peerless brow — a radiant throne 
 Unmix' d with aught of earth — pale genius sat alone. 
 And yet, at times, within her eye there dwelt 
 Softness that would the sternest bosom melt ; 
 A depth of tenderness which show'd, when woke, 
 That woman there as well as angel spoke. 
 Yet well that eye could flash resentment's rays, 
 Or, proudly scornful, check the boldest gaze ; 
 Chill burning passion with a calm disdain, 
 Or with one glance rekindle it again. 
 Her mouth — Oh ! never fascination met 
 Near woman's lips half so alluring yet : 
 For round her mouth there play 'd, at times, a smiie, 
 Such as did man from Paradise beguile ; 
 Such, could it light him through this world of pain, 
 As he'd not barter Eden to regain. 
 What though that smile might beam alike on all ; 
 What though that glance on each as kindly fall ; 
 What though you knew, while worshipping theii 
 
 power. 
 Your homage but the pastime of the hour, 
 Still they, however guarded were the heart, 
 Could every feeling from its fastness start — 
 Deceive one still, howe'er deceived before, 
 And make him wish thus to be cheated more, 
 Till, grown at last in such illusions gray, 
 Faith follow'd Hope and stole with Love away. 
 Such was Alinda ; such in her combined 
 Those charms which round our very nature wind ; 
 Which, when together they in one conspire, 
 He who admires must love — who sees, admire. 
 Variably perilous ; upon the sight 
 Now beam'd her beauty in resistless light, 
 And subtly now into the heart it stole, 
 And, ere it startled, occupied the whole. 
 'Twas well for her, that lovely mischief, well 
 That she could not the pangs it waken'd tell; 
 That, like the princess in the fairy tale, 
 No soft emotions could her soul assail ; 
 For Nature, — that Alinda should not feel 
 For wounds her eyes might make, but never heal,— 
 In mercy, while she did each gift impart 
 Of rarest excellence, withheld a heart! 
 
328 
 
 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER, 1S28. 
 
 Light as love's smiles, the silvery mist at mom 
 Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river ; 
 The blue bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, 
 As high in air he carols, faintly quiver ; 
 The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, 
 Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; 
 Beaded with dew, the witch-elm's tassels shiver ; 
 The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, 
 And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly 
 leaping. 
 
 I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere 
 The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes 
 That richly deck the slow-declining year ; 
 I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, 
 The. gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, 
 Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, 
 I love the note of each wild bird that flies, [brief; 
 As on the wind he pours his parting lay, 
 And wings his loitering flight to summer climes 
 away. 
 
 O, Nature ! still I fondly turn to thee, 
 With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were ; — 
 Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be, 
 Toward thee I still the same devotion bear ; 
 To thee — to thee — though health and hope no more 
 Life's wasted verdure may to me restore — 
 I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer 
 I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee, 
 And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity. 
 
 TOWN REPININGS. 
 
 River! O, river! thou rovest free, 
 
 From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea ! 
 
 Free thyself, but with silver chain, 
 
 Linking each charm of land and main, 
 
 From the splinter'd crag thou leap'st below, 
 
 Through leaf}' glades at will to flow — 
 
 Lingering now, by the steep's moss'd edge — 
 
 Loitering now mid the dallying sedge : 
 
 And pausing ever, to call thy waves 
 
 From grassy meadows and fern-clad caves — 
 
 And then, with a prouder tide to break 
 
 From wooded valley, to breezy lake : 
 
 Yet all of these scenes, though fair they be, 
 
 River ! O, river ! are bann'd to me. 
 
 River! 0, river! upon thy tide 
 Full many a freighted bark doth glide ; 
 Would that thou thus couldst bear away 
 The thoughts that burthen my weary day ! 
 Or that I, from all save them made free, 
 Though laden still, might rove with thee ! 
 True that thy waves biief lifetime find, 
 And live at the will of the wanton wind — 
 True that thou seekest the ocean's flow, 
 To be lost therein for evermoe. 
 Yet the slave who worships at Glory's shrine, 
 But toils for a bubble as frail as thine : 
 But loses his freedom here, to be 
 Forgotten as soon as in death set free. 
 
 THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS 
 MISTRESS. 
 
 Wesd, love, with me, to the deep woods, wend. 
 
 Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, 
 Where no watching eye shall over us bend, 
 
 Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. 
 Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, 
 
 Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, 
 From the saffron orchis and lupin blue, 
 
 And those like the foam on my courser's bit. 
 
 One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, 
 
 One hand of each on the bridle meet ; 
 And beneath the wrist that entwines me there, 
 
 An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. 
 I will sing thee many a joyous lay, 
 
 As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, 
 While the winds that over the prairie play 
 
 Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. 
 
 Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams, 
 
 Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, 
 And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm 
 gleams [meet. 
 
 Through the branches around our lodge that 
 Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, 
 
 Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, 
 Where no watching eye shall over us bend, 
 
 Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. 
 
 THY NAME. 
 
 It comes to me when healths go v ound, 
 
 And o'er the wine their garlands wreathing 
 
 The flowers of wit, with music wound, 
 Are freshly from the goblet breathing ; 
 
 From sparkling song and sally gay 
 
 It comes to steal my heart away, 
 
 And fill my soul, mid festal glee, 
 
 With sad, sweet, silent thoughts of thee. 
 
 It comes to me upon the mart, 
 
 Where care in jostling crowds is rife : 
 Where Avarice goads the sordid heart, 
 
 Or cold Ambition prompts the strife ; 
 It comes to whisper, if I 'm there, 
 'T is but with thee each prize to share, 
 For Fame were not success to me, 
 Nor riches wealth unshared with thee. 
 
 It comes to me when smiles are bright 
 On gentle lips that murmur round me, 
 
 And kindling glances flash delight 
 
 In eyes whose spell would once have bound me. 
 
 It comes — but comes to bring alone 
 
 Remembrance of some look or tone, 
 
 Dearer than aught I hear or see, 
 
 Because 'twas born or breathed by thee. 
 
 It comes to me where cloister'd boughs 
 
 Their shadows cast upon the sod ; 
 A while in Nature's fane my vows 
 
 Are lifted from her shrine to Gon ; 
 It comes to tell that all of worth 
 I dream in heaven or know on earth, 
 However bright or dear it be, 
 Is blended with my thought of thee. 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 339 
 
 THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. 
 
 One bumper yet, gallants, at parting, 
 
 One toast ere we arm for the fight ; 
 Fill round, each to her he loves dearest — 
 
 'T is the last he may pledge her, to-night. 
 Think of those who of old at the banquet 
 
 Did their weapons in garlands conceal, 
 The patriot heroes who hallowed 
 
 The entwining of myrtle and steel ! 
 
 Then hey for the myrtle and steel, 
 
 Then ho for the myrtle and steel, 
 Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, 
 
 Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! 
 
 'T is in moments like this, when each bosom 
 
 With its highest-toned feeling is warm, 
 Like the music that's said from the ocean 
 
 To rise ere the gathering storm, 
 That her image around us should hover, 
 
 Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, 
 We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper, 
 
 As we drink to the myrtle and steel. 
 
 Then hey for the myrtle and steel, 
 
 Then ho for the myrtle and steel, 
 Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, 
 
 Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! 
 
 Now mount, for our bugle is ringing 
 
 To marshal the host for the fray, 
 Where proudly our banner is flinging 
 
 Its folds o'er the battle-array ; 
 Yet gallants — one moment — remember, 
 
 When your sabres the death-blow would deal, 
 That Mercy wears her shape who's cherish'd 
 
 By lads of the myrtle and steel. 
 
 Then hey for the myrtle and steel, 
 
 Then ho for the myrtle and steel, 
 Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, 
 
 Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! 
 
 Alas ! my friend, of all of worth 
 
 That years have stolen or years yet leave mo, 
 I've never known so much on earth, 
 
 But that the loss of thine must grieve me. 
 
 EPITAPH UPON A DOG. 
 
 An ear that caught my slightest tone, 
 
 In kindness or in anger spoken ; 
 An eye that ever watch'd my own, 
 
 In vigils death alone has broken ; 
 Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought 
 
 Affection to the last revealing ; 
 Beaming almost with human thought, 
 
 And more — far more than human feeling ! 
 
 Can such in endless sleep be chill'd, 
 
 And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, 
 Because the pulse that here was still' d 
 
 May wake to no immortal morrow 1 
 Can faith, devotedness, and love, 
 
 That seem to humbler creatures given 
 To tell us what we owe above, — 
 
 The types of what is due to Heaven, — 
 
 Can these be with the things that were, 
 Things cherish'd — but no more returning, 
 
 And leave behind no trace of care, 
 
 No shade that speaks a moment's mourning'? 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Biame not the bowl — the fruitful bowl, 
 
 Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, 
 And amber drops elysian roll, 
 
 To bathe young Love's delighted wing. 
 What like the grape Osiris gave 
 
 Makes rigid age so lithe of limb 1 
 Illumines memory's tearful wave, 
 
 And teaches drowning hope to swim! 
 Did ocean from his radiant arms 
 
 To earth another Venus give, 
 He ne'er could match the mellow charms 
 
 That in the breathing beaker live. 
 
 Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, 
 
 In characters that mock the sight, 
 Till some kind liquid, o'er them pour'd, 
 
 Brings all their hidden warmth to light — 
 Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, 
 
 Though graven deep, appear but dim, 
 Till, fill'd with glowing Bacchus up, 
 
 They sparkle on the foaming brim. 
 Each drop upon the first you pour 
 
 Brings some new tender thought to life, 
 And, as you fill it more and more, 
 
 The last with fervid soul is rife. 
 
 The island fount, that kept of old 
 
 Its fabled path beneath the sea, 
 And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd, 
 
 From earth again rose joyously : 
 Bore not beneath the bitter brine 
 
 Each flower upon its limpid tide, 
 More faithfully than in the wine 
 
 Our hearts toward each other glide 
 Then drain the cup, and let thy soul 
 
 Learn, as the draught delicious flies, 
 Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, 
 
 Truth beaming at the bottom lies. 
 
 A HUNTER'S MATIN. 
 
 Up, comrades, up! the morn's awake 
 
 Upon the mountain side, 
 The curlew's wing hath swept the lake, 
 And the deer has left the tangled brake, 
 
 To drink from the limpid tide- 
 Up, comrades, up ! the mead-lark's note 
 And the plover's cry o'er the prairie float ; 
 The squirrel, he springs from his covert now, 
 To prank it away on the chestnut bough, 
 Where the oriole's pendant nest, high up, 
 
 Is rock'd on the swaying trees, 
 While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup, 
 
 As it bends to the morning breeze. 
 Up, comrades, up ! our shallops grate 
 
 Upon the pebbly strand, 
 And our stalwart hounds impatient wait 
 
 To spring from the huntsman's hand. 
 
340 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 
 
 ASK NOT WHY I SHOULD LOVE HER. 
 
 Sparkling and bright in liquid light 
 
 Ask me not why I should love her : 
 
 Does the wine our goblets gleam in, 
 
 Look upon those soul-full eyes ! 
 
 With hue as red as the rosy bed 
 
 Look while mirth or feeling move her, 
 
 Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
 
 And see there how sweetly rise 
 
 Then fill to-night with hearts as light, 
 
 Thoughts gay and gentle from a breast, 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 
 Which is of innocence the nest — 
 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
 
 Which, though each joy were from it shred, 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting. 
 
 By truth would still be tenanted ! 
 
 ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
 
 See, from those sweet windows peeping, 
 
 Of Time through Life's dominions, 
 
 Emotions tender, bright, and pure, 
 
 We here a while would now beguile 
 
 And wonder not the faith I'm keeping 
 
 The graybeard of his pinions, 
 
 Every trial can endure ! 
 
 To drink to-night with hearts as light, 
 
 Wonder not that looks so winning 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 
 Still for me new ties are spinning ; 
 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
 
 Wonder not that heart so true 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting. 
 
 Keeps mine from ever changing too. 
 
 But since delight can't tempt the wight, 
 
 
 Nor fond regret delay him, 
 
 
 IN or Love himself can hold the elf, 
 
 SHE LOVES, BUT 'TIS NOT ME. 
 
 Nor sober Friendship stay him, 
 
 
 
 We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, 
 
 She loves, but 't is not me she loves : 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 
 Not me on whom she ponders, 
 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
 
 When, in some dream of tenderness, 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting. 
 
 Her truant fancy wanders. 
 
 
 The forms that flit her visions through 
 Are like the shapes of old, 
 
 
 SEEK NOT TO UNDERSTAND HER. 
 
 Where tales of prince and paladin 
 
 
 
 On tapestry are told. 
 
 Why seek her heart to understand, 
 
 Man may not hope her heart to win, 
 
 If but enough thou knowest 
 
 Be his of common mould. 
 
 To prove that all thy love, like sand, 
 
 
 Upon the wind thou throwest 1 
 
 But I — though spurs are won no more 
 
 The ill thou makest out at last 
 
 V/here herald's trump is pealing, 
 
 Doth but reflect the bitter past, 
 
 Nor thrones carved out for lady fair 
 
 While all the good thou learnest yet, 
 
 Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling — 
 
 But makes her harder to forget. 
 
 I loose the falcon of my hopes 
 
 
 Upon as proud a flight 
 
 What matters all the nobleness 
 
 As those who hawk'd at high renown, 
 
 Which in her breast resideth, 
 
 In song-ennobled fight. 
 
 And what the warmth and tenderness 
 
 If daring, then, true love may crown, 
 
 Her mien of coldness hideth, 
 
 My love she must requite. 
 
 If but ungenerous thoughts prevail 
 
 
 When thou her bosom wouldst assail, 
 While tenderness and warmth doth ne'er, 
 
 
 
 By any chance, toward thee appear. 
 
 TRY SMILES. 
 
 Sum up each token thou hast won 
 
 'T is hard to share her smiles with many ! 
 
 Of kindred feeling there — 
 
 And while she is so clear to me, 
 
 How few for Hope, to build upon, 
 
 To fear that I, far less than any, 
 
 How many for Despair ! 
 
 Call out her spirit's witchery ! 
 
 And if e'er word or look declareth 
 
 To find my inmost heart when near her 
 
 Love or aversion, which she beareth, 
 
 Trembling at every glance and tone, 
 
 While of the first, no proof thou hast, 
 
 And feel the while each charm grow dearer 
 
 How many are there of the last ! 
 
 That will not beam for me alone. 
 
 Then strive no more to understand 
 
 How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander 
 
 Her heart, of whom thou knowest 
 
 The treasures one alone can prize ! 
 
 Enough to prove thy love like sand 
 
 How can her eyes to all thus wander, 
 
 Upon the wind thou throwest: 
 
 When I but live in those sweet eyes ! 
 
 The ill thou makest out at last 
 
 Those syren tones so lightly spoken 
 
 Doth but reflect the bitter past, 
 
 Cause many a heart I know to thrill ; 
 
 While all the good thou learnest yet 
 
 But mine, and only mine, till broken, 
 
 But makes her harder to forget. 
 
 In every pulse must answer still. 
 
 1 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 341 
 
 LOVE AND POLITICS. 
 
 A BIRTH-DAY MEDITATION. 
 
 Another year ! alas, how swift, 
 Alinda, do these years flit by, 
 Like shadows thrown by clouds that drift 
 
 In flakes along a wintry sky. 
 Another year ! another leaf 
 Is turn'd within life's volume brief, 
 And yet not one bright page appears 
 Of mine within that book of years. 
 
 There are some moments when I feel 
 
 As if it should not yet be so ; 
 As if the years that from me steal 
 
 Had not a right alike to go, 
 And lose themselves in Time's dark sea, 
 Unbuoy'd up by aught from me ; 
 Aught that the future yet might claim 
 To rescue from their wreck a name. 
 
 But it was love that taught me rhyme, 
 
 And it was thou that taught me love ; 
 And if I in th's idle chime 
 
 Of words a useless sluggard prove, 
 It was thine eyes the habit nurs'd, 
 And in their light I iearn'd it first. 
 It is thine eyes which, day by day, 
 Consume my time and heart away. 
 
 And often bitter thoughts arise 
 
 Of what I 've lost in loving thee, 
 And in my breast my spirit dies, 
 
 The gloomy cloud around to see, 
 Of baffled hopes and ruined powers 
 Of mind, and miserable hours — 
 Of self-upbraiding, and despair — 
 Of heart, too strong and fierce to hear. 
 
 " Why, what a peasant slave am I," 
 
 To bow my mind and bend my knee 
 To woman in idolatry, 
 
 Who takes no thought of mine or me. 
 0, God ! that I could breathe my life 
 On battle-plain in charging strife — 
 In one mad impulse pour my soul 
 Far beyond passion's base control. 
 
 Thus do my jarring thoughts revolve 
 
 Their gather'd causes of offence, 
 Until I in my heart resolve 
 
 To dash thine angel image thence ; 
 When some blight look, some accent kind, 
 Comes freshly in my heated mind, 
 And scares, like newly-flushing day, 
 These brooding thoughts like owls away. 
 
 And then for hours and hours I muse 
 
 On things that might, yet will not be, 
 Till, one by one, my feelings lose 
 
 Their passionate intensity, 
 And steal away in visions soft, 
 Which on wild wing those feelings waft 
 Far, far beyond the drear domain 
 Of Reason and her freezing reign. 
 
 And now again from their gay track 
 
 I call, as I despondent sit, 
 Once more these truant fancies back, 
 
 Which round my brain so idly flit ; 
 And some I treasure, some I blush 
 To own — and these I try to crush — 
 And some, too wild for reason's reign, 
 I loose in idle rhyme again. 
 
 And even thus my moments fly, 
 
 And even thus my hours decay, 
 And even thus my years slip by, 
 
 My life itself is wiled away ; 
 But distant still the mounting hope, 
 The burning wish with men to cope 
 In aught that minds of iron mould 
 May do or dare for fame or gold. 
 
 Another year ! another year, 
 
 Alinda, it shall not be so ; 
 Both love and lays forswear I here, 
 
 As I've forsworn thee long ago. 
 That name, which thou wouldst never share, 
 Proudly shall Fame emblazon where 
 On pumps and corners posters stick it. 
 The highest on the Jackson ticket. 
 
 WHAT IS SOLITUDE? 
 
 Not in the shadowy wood, 
 
 Not in the crag-hung glen, 
 Not where the echoes brood 
 
 In caves untrod by men ; 
 Not by the bleak sea-shore, 
 
 Where loitering surges break, 
 Not on the mountain hoar, 
 
 Not by the breezeless lake, 
 Not on the desert plain, 
 
 Where man hath never stood, 
 Whether on isle or main — 
 
 Not there is solitude ! 
 
 Birds are in woodland bowers, 
 
 Voices in lonely dells, 
 Streams to the listening hours 
 
 Talk in earth's secret cells ; 
 Over the gray-ribb'd sand 
 
 Breathe ocean's frothing lips, 
 Over the still lake's strand 
 
 The flower toward it dips ; 
 Pluming the mountain's crest, 
 
 Life tosses in its pines ; 
 Coursing the desert's breast, 
 
 Life in the steed's mane shines. 
 
 Leave — if thou wouldst be lonely- 
 Leave Nature for the crowd ; 
 
 Seek there for one — one only — 
 With kindred mind endow'd ! 
 
 There — as with Nature erst 
 
 Closely thou wouldst commune- 
 
 The deep soul-music, nursed 
 In either heart, attune ! 
 
 Heart-wearied, thou wilt own. 
 Vainly that phantom woo'd, 
 
 That thou at last hast known 
 What is true solitude ! 
 
JAMES NACK. 
 
 [Born, about 18070 
 
 There are few more interesting characters in 
 our literary annals than James Nack. He is a 
 native of New York, and when between nine and 
 ten years of age, by a fall, while descending a 
 flight of stairs with a little playmate in his arms, 
 received such injury in his head as deprived him 
 irrecoverably of the sense of hearing, and, gradu- 
 ally, in consequence, of the faculty of speech. 
 He was placed in the Institution for the Education 
 of the Deaf and Dumb, where he acquired know- 
 ledge in all departments with singular exactness 
 and rapidity. He was subsequently for many 
 years an assistant in the office of the Clerk of the 
 City and County, and in 1838 was married. 
 
 In 1827 Mr. Nack published "The Legend of 
 the Eocks, and other Poems;" in 1839, "Earl 
 
 Rupert, and other Tales and Poems," with an in- 
 teresting memoir of his life, by General Wet- 
 more; and in 1852 a third volume of "Poems," 
 with an introduction by his friend General Mor- 
 ris. What is most remarkable in these works is 
 their excellent versification. In other respects 
 they deserve a great deal of praise; but that a per- 
 son deaf and dumb from so early a period of child- 
 hood should possess such a mastery of the. harmo- 
 nies of language is marvellous. The various pro- 
 ductions of Mr. Nack illustrate a genial temper, 
 and a refined and richly cultivated taste. The 
 range and completeness of his accomplishments 
 as a linguist is illustrated in spirited and elegant 
 translations from Dutch, German, French, and 
 other literatures. 
 
 MIGNONNE. 
 
 She calls me "father!" though my ear 
 
 That thrilling name shall never hear, 
 
 Yet to my heart affection brings 
 
 The sound in sweet imaginings; 
 
 I feel its gushing music roll 
 
 The stream of rapture on my soul ; 
 
 And when she starts to welcome me, 
 
 And when she totters to my knee, 
 
 And when she climbs it, to embrace 
 
 My bosom for her hiding-place, 
 
 And when she nestling there reclines, 
 
 And with her arms my neck entwines, 
 
 And when her lips of roses seek 
 
 To press their sweetness on my cheek, 
 
 And when upon my careful breast 
 
 I lull her to her cherub rest, 
 
 I whisper o'er the sinless dove — 
 
 "I love thee with a father's love!" 
 
 SPRING IS COMING. 
 
 Spring is coming! spring is coming! 
 Birds are chirping, insects humming, 
 Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, 
 Streams escaped from winter's keeping, 
 In delighted freedom rushing, 
 Dance along in music gushing; 
 Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd 
 Smile in animation gladden'd: 
 All is beauty, all is mirth, 
 All is glory upon earth. 
 Shout we then, with Nature's voice — 
 Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! 
 
 Spring is coming ! come, my brother, 
 Let us rove with one another, 
 342 
 
 To our well-remember'd wild-wood, 
 Flourishing in nature's childhood, 
 Where a thousand flowers are springing, 
 And a thousand birds are singing; 
 Where the golden sunbeams quiver 
 On the verdure-bordered river; 
 Let our youth of feeling out 
 To the youth of nature shout, 
 While the waves repeat our voice — 
 Welcome Spring ! rejoice! rejoice! 
 
 MARY'S BEE. 
 
 As Mart with her lip of roses 
 Is tripping o'er the flowery mead, 
 
 A foolish little bee supposes 
 The rosy lip a rose indeed, 
 
 And so, astonish'd at his bliss, 
 
 He steals the honey of her kiss. 
 
 A moment there he wantons; lightly 
 
 He sports away on careless wing; 
 But ah! why swells that wound unsightly? 
 
 The rascal ! he has left a sting! * 
 She runs to me with weeping eyes, 
 Sweet images of April skies. 
 "Be this," said I, "to heedless misses, 
 
 A warning they should bear in mind; 
 Too oft a lover steals their kisses, 
 
 Then flies, and leaves a sting behind." 
 " This may be wisdom to be sure," 
 Said Mary, " but I want a cure." 
 What could I dol To ease the swelling 
 
 My lips with hers impassion'd meet — 
 And trust me, from so sweet a dwelling, 
 
 I found the very poison sweet! 
 Fond boy! unconscious of the smart, 
 I sucked the poison to my heart! 
 
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 [Born, 1S36.] 
 
 The author of " Guy Rivers," " Southern Pas- 
 sages and Pictures," etc., was born in Charleston, 
 South Carolina, in the spring of 1806. His mother 
 died during his infancy, and his father soon after 
 emigrated to one of the western territories, leaving 
 him under the guardianship of a grandmother, 
 who superintended his early education. When 
 not more than nine or ten years old, he began to 
 write verses ; at fifteen he was a contributor to the 
 poetical department of the gazettes printed near 
 his home ; and at eighteen he published his first 
 volume, entitled " Lyrical and other Poems," 
 which was followed in the next two years by 
 "Early Lays," and "The Vision of Cortez and 
 other Pieces," and in 1830, by "The Tricolor, or 
 Three Days of Blood in Paris." In each of these 
 four volumes there were poetical ideas, and occa- 
 sionally well-finished verses ; but they are worthy 
 of little regard, except as indications of the early 
 tendency of the author's mind. 
 
 When twenty-one years old, Mr. Simms was 
 admitted to the bar, and began to practise his pro- 
 fession in his native district ; but feeling a deep in- 
 terest in the political questions which then agitated 
 the country, he soon abandoned the courts, and 
 purchased a daily gazette at Charleston, which he 
 edited for several years, with industry, integrity, 
 and ability.* It was, however, unsuccessful, and 
 he lost by it all his property, as well as the pros- 
 pective earnings of several years. His ardour was 
 not lessened by this failure, and, confident of suc- 
 cess, he determined to retrieve his fortune by author- 
 ship. He had been married at an early age ; his 
 wife, as well as his father, was now dead ; and no 
 domestic ties binding him to Charleston, he in the 
 spring of 1832 visited for the first time the northern 
 states. After travelling over the most interesting 
 portions of the country, he paused at the rural vil- 
 lage of Hingham, in Massachusetts, and there pre- 
 pared for the press his principal poetical work, 
 " Atalantis, a Story of the Sea," which was pub- 
 lished at New York in the following winter. This 
 is an imaginative story, in the dramatic form ; its 
 plot is exceedingly simple, but effectively managed, 
 and it contains much beautiful imagery, and fine 
 description. While a vessel glides over a summer 
 sea, Leox, one of the principal characters, and his 
 sister Isabel, hear a benevolent spirit of the air 
 warning them of the designs of a sea-god to lure 
 them into peril. 
 
 Leo. Didst hear the strain it utter'd, Isabel? 
 
 Isa. A!!, all ! It spoke, methought, of peril near, 
 From rocks and wiles of the ocean : did it not 1 
 
 Leon. It did, but idly ! Here can lurk no rocks; 
 For, by the chart which now before me lies, 
 
 * The Charleston City Gazette, conducted by Mr. Simms, 
 was, I believe, the first journal in South Carolina that 
 took ground against the principle of nullification. 
 
 Thy own unpractised eye may well discern 
 The wide extent of the ocean — shoreless all. 
 The land, for many a league, to the eastward hangs, 
 And not a point beside it. 
 
 Isa. Wherefore, then, 
 Should come this voice of warning'? 
 
 Leon. From the deep : 
 It hath its demons as the earth and air, 
 All tributaries to the master-fiend 
 That sets their springs in motion. This is one, 
 That, doubting to mislead us, plants this wile, 
 So to divert our course, that we may strike 
 The very rocks he fain would warn us from. 
 
 Isa. A subtle sprite : and, now I think of it, 
 Dost thou remember the old story told 
 By Diaz Oetis, the lame mariner, 
 Of an adventure in the Indian Seas, 
 Where he made one with John of Portugal, 
 Touching a woman of the ocean wave, 
 That swam beside the barque, and sang strange songs 
 Of riches in the waters ; with a speech 
 So winning on the senses, that the crew 
 Grew all infected with the melody ; 
 And, but for a good father of the church, 
 Who made the sign of the cross, and otfer'd up 
 Befitting prayers, which drove the fiend away, 
 They had been tempted by her cunning voice 
 To leap into the ocean. 
 
 Leon. I do, I do ! 
 And, at the time, I do remember me, 
 I made much mirth of the extravagant tale, 
 As a deceit of the reason : the old man 
 Being in his second childhood, and at fits 
 Wild, as you know, on other themes than this. 
 
 Isa. I never more shall mock at marvellous things. 
 Such strange conceits hath after-time found true, 
 That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile 
 At the most monstrous legend. 
 
 Leon. Nor will I: 
 To any tale of mighty wonderment 
 I shall bestow my ear, nor wonder more; 
 And every fancy that my childhood bred, 
 In vagrant dreams of frolic, I shall look 
 To have, without rebuke, my sense approve. 
 Thus, like a little island in the sea, 
 Girt in by perilous waters, and unknown 
 To all adventure, may be yon same cloud, 
 Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky, 
 Lit by the rising moon. There we may dream, 
 And find no censure in an after day — 
 Throng the assembled fairies, perched on beams, 
 And riding on their way triumphantly. 
 There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay, 
 Roving the silver sands of that same isle, 
 Floating in azure ether, plumes her wing 
 Of ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues — 
 While myriads, like herself, do watch the chase- 
 Some truant sylph, through the infinitude 
 Of their uncircumscribed and rich domain. 
 There sport they through the night, with mimicry 
 Of strife and battle ; striking their tiny shields 
 And gathering into combat; meeting fierce, 
 With lip compress'd and spear aloft, and eye 
 Glaring with fight and desperate circumstance ; 
 Then sudden — in a moment all their wrath 
 Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy — 
 Throwing aside the dread array, and link'd 
 Each in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance, 
 The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp, 
 
 343 
 
344 
 
 WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 
 
 The long procession o'er fantastic realms 
 
 Of cloud and moonbeam, through the enamour'd night, 
 
 Making it all one revel. Thus the eye, 
 
 Breathed on by fancy, with enlarged scope, 
 
 Through the protracted and deep hush of night 
 
 M.iy note the fairies, coursing the lazy hours 
 
 In various changes, and without fatigue. 
 
 A tickle race, who tell their time by flowers, 
 
 And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps, 
 
 And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams, 
 
 Speeding through space, even with the scattering light 
 
 On which they feed and frolic. 
 ha. A sweet dream : 
 
 And yet, since this same tale we laugh'd at once, 
 
 The story of old Obtis, is made sootli — 
 
 Perchance not all a dream. I would not doubt. 
 Leon. And yet there may be, dress'd in subtle guise 
 
 Of unsuspected art, some gay deceit 
 
 Of human conjuration mix'd with this. 
 
 Some cunning seaman having natural skill — 
 
 As, from the books, we learn may yet he done — 
 
 Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitch'd his voice, 
 
 Leading us wantonly. 
 Isa. It is not so, 
 
 Or does my sense deceive? Look there: the wave 
 
 A perch beyond our barque. What dost thou see 7 
 Leon. A marvellous shape, that with the billow curls, 
 
 In gambols of the deep, and yet is not 
 
 Its wonted burden ; for beneath the waves 
 
 I mark a gracious form, though nothing clear 
 
 Of visage I discern. Again it speaks. 
 
 The ship is wrecked, and Atalantis, a fairy, 
 
 wandering along the beach with an attendant, Nea, 
 
 discovers the inanimate form of Leon clinging to 
 
 a spar. 
 
 But what is here, 
 
 Grasping a shaft, and lifelessly stretch'd out? 
 
 JVea. One of the creatures of that goodly barque— 
 Perchance the only one of many men, 
 
 That, from their distant homes, went forth in her, 
 
 And here have, perish'd. 
 Ji'al. There is life in him — 
 
 And his heart swells beneath my hand, with pulse 
 
 Fitful and faint, returning now, now gone, 
 
 That much I fear it may not come again. 
 
 How very young he is — how beautiful ! 
 
 Made, with a matchless sense of what is true, 
 In manly grace and chisell'd elegance ; 
 
 And features, rounded in as nice a mould 
 As our own, Nea. There, his eye unfolds— 
 Stand away, girl, and let me look on him! 
 It cannot be, that such a form as this, 
 So lovely and compelling, ranks below 
 The creatures of our kingdom. He is one, 
 That, 'mongst them all, might well defy compare — 
 Outshining all that shine ! 
 Nea. He looks as well, 
 In outward seeming, as our own, methinks — 
 And yet, he may be but a shaped thing, 
 Wanting in every show of that high sense 
 Which makes the standard of true excellence. 
 Mai. O, I am sure there is no want in him — 
 The spirit must be true, the sense be high, 
 The soul as far ascending, strong and bright, 
 As is the form he wears, and Ihey should be 
 Pleased to inhabit — 'twere a fitting home ! 
 Breathe on him, Nea.. Fan him with thy wing, 
 And so arouse him. I would have him speak, 
 And satisfy my doubt. Stay, yet. a while — 
 Now, while his senses sleep, I'll place my lip 
 Upon his own — it is so beautiful ! 
 Such lips should give forth music — such a sweet 
 Should have been got in heaven — the produce there 
 (if never-blighted gardens. [Kisses him. 
 
 Leon, [starts.'] Cling to me — 
 Am I not with thee now, my Isabel? [Swoons agcin. 
 Jltal. O, gentle sounds— how sweetly did they fall 
 
 In broken murmurs, like a melody, 
 From lips that waiting long on loving hearts, 
 Had learned to murmur like them. Wake again, 
 Sweet stranger! If my lips have wrought this spell, 
 And won thee back to life, though but to sigh, 
 And sleep again in death, they shall, onco more, 
 "Wake and restore thee. 
 
 Mr. Simms now commenced that career of in- 
 tellectual activity of which the remits are as volu- 
 minous and as various, perhaps, as can be exhibited 
 by any author of his age. His first romance was 
 " Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal," published 
 in New York in 1833. The most important of his 
 subsequent productions in this department, as clas- 
 sified in the edition lately issued by Mr. Redfield, 
 are, the revolutionary series, "The Partisan," "Mel- 
 lichampe," "Katherine Walton," "The Scout," 
 "Woodcraft," "The Foragers," and "Eutaw;" bor- 
 der tales, " Guy Rivers," " Richard Hurdis," " Bor- 
 der Beagles," " Charlemont," « Beauchampe," and 
 "Confession ;" historical, "The Yemassee," "Vas- 
 concellos," "The Lily and the Totem," " Pelayo," 
 and "Count Julian." Besides his more extended 
 romantic fictions, he has produced a great number 
 of shorter stories, some of which may be ranked as 
 the best exhibitions of his powers. He has also 
 given to the public a " History of South Carolina," 
 a " Life of Captain John Smith, the Founder of 
 Virginia," a " Life of Nathaniel Greene," a 
 "Life of Francis Marion," a "Life of the Cheva- 
 lier Bayard," "Views and Reviews of American 
 History, Literature, and Art," and other perform- 
 ances in biography, description, and speculation. 
 
 In poetry, since the appearance of " Atalantis," 
 he has published "Southern Passages and Pic- 
 tures," 1839; "Donna Florida, in Five Cantos," 
 1843 ; " Grouped Thoughts and Scattered Fan- 
 cies, a collection of Sonnets," 1845; "Areytos, or 
 Songs of the South," 1846 ; " Lays of the Pal- 
 metto, a Tribute to the South Carolina Regiment, 
 in the War with Mexico," 1846; "The Cacique 
 of Accube, and other Poems," 1848 ; " Norman 
 Maurice," 1850 ; and a collection of his principal 
 poetical works, under the title of " Poems, De- 
 scriptive, Legendary, and Contemplative," in two 
 volumes, 1854. 
 
 A more particular account of the novels of Dr. 
 Simjis, (he has received the degree of LL.D. from 
 the University of Alabama,) is given in "The Prose 
 Writers of America." His poems, like his other 
 productions, are noticeable for warmth of feeling 
 and coloring, and vivid and just displays of the 
 temper and sentiments of the southern people, 
 the characteristics of southern life, and the rivers, 
 forests, savannas, and all else that is peculiar in 
 southern nature. He has sung the physical and 
 moral aspects and the traditions of the south, with 
 the appreciation of a poet, and the feeling of a son. 
 His verse is free and musical, his language copious 
 and well-selected, and his fancy fertile and appo- 
 site. The best of his dramatic pieces is " Norman 
 Maurice," a play of singular originality in design 
 and execution, which strikes me as the best com- 
 position of its kind on an American subject. 
 
 He resides at " Woodlands," a pleasant planta- 
 tion in the vicinity of Charleston. 
 
WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 
 
 315 
 
 THE SLAIN EAGLE. 
 
 The eye that mark'd thy flight with deadly aim. 
 Had less of warmth and splendour than thine own ; 
 The form that did thee wrong could never claim 
 The matchless vigour which thy wing hath shown ; 
 Yet art thou in thy pride of flight o'erthrown ; 
 And the far hills that echoed back thy scream, 
 As from storm-gathering clouds thou sent'st it 
 
 down, 
 Shall see no more thy red-eyed glances stream 
 For their far summits round, with strong and ter- 
 rible gleam. 
 
 Lone and majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 No more I see thee on the tall cliff's brow, 
 When tempests meet, and from their watery shroud 
 Pour their wild torrents on the plains below, 
 Lifting thy fearless wing, still free to go, 
 True in thy aim, undaunted in thy flight, 
 As seeking still, yet scorning, every foe — 
 Shrieking the while in consciousness of might, 
 To thy own realm of high and undisputed light. 
 
 Thy thought was not of danger then — thy pride 
 Left thee no fear. Thou hadst gone forth in storms, 
 And thy strong pinions had been bravely tried 
 Against their rush. Vainly their gathering forms 
 Had striven against thy wing. Such conflict warms 
 The nobler spirit ; and thy joyful shriek 
 Gave token that the strife itself had charms 
 For the born warrior of the mountain peak, 
 He of the giant brood, sharp fang, and bloody beak. 
 
 How didst thou then, in very mirth, spread far 
 Thy pinions' strength ! — with freedom that became 
 Audacious license, with the winds at war, 
 Striding the yielding clouds that girt thy frame, 
 And, with a fearless rush that naught could tame, 
 Defying earth — defying all that mars 
 The flight of other wings of humbler name ; 
 For thee, the storm had impulse, but no bars 
 To stop thy upward flight, thou pilgrim of the stars ! 
 
 Morning above the hills, and from the ocean, 
 Ne'er leap'd abroad into the fetterless blue 
 With such a free and unrestrained motion, 
 Nor shook from her ethereal wing the dew 
 That else had clogg'd her flight and dimm'd her 
 
 view, 
 With such calm effort as 'twas thine to wear — 
 Bending with sunward course erect and true, 
 When winds were piping high and lightnings near, 
 hy day-guide all withdrawn, through fathomless 
 fields of air. 
 
 The moral of a chosen race wert thou, 
 In such proud fight. From out the ranks of men — 
 The million moilers, with earth-cumber'd brow, 
 That slink, like coward tigers to their den, 
 Each to his hiding-place and corner then — 
 One mighty spirit watch'd thee in that hour, 
 Nor turn'd his lifted heart to earth again ; 
 Within his soul there sprang a holy power, 
 And he grew strong to sway, whom tempests made 
 not cower. 
 
 Watching, he saw thy rising wing. In vain, 
 From his superior dwelling, the fierce sun 
 Shot forth his brazen arrows, to restrain 
 The audacious pilgrim, who would gaze upon 
 The secret splendours of his central throne; 
 Proudly, he saw thee to that presence fly, 
 And, Eblis-like, unaided and alone, 
 His dazzling glories seek, his power defy, 
 Raised to thy god's own face, meanwhile, thy 
 rebel eye. 
 
 And thence he drew a hope, a hope to soar, 
 Even with a wing like thine. His daring glance 
 Sought, with as bold a vision, to explore 
 The secret of his own deliverance — 
 The secret of his wing — and to advance 
 To sovereign sway like thine — to rule, to rise 
 Above his race, and nobly to enhance 
 Their empire as his own — to make the skies, 
 The extended earth, far seas, and solemn stars, his 
 prize. 
 
 He triumphs — and he perishes like thee ! 
 Scales the sun's heights, and mounts above the 
 
 winds, 
 Breaks down the gloomy barrier, and is free ! 
 The worm receives his winglet : he unbinds 
 The captive thought, and in its centre finds 
 New barriers, and a glory in his gaze; 
 He mocks, as thou, the sun ! — but scaly blinds 
 Grow o'er his vision, till, beneath the daze, 
 From his proud height he falls, amid the world's 
 amaze. 
 
 And thou, brave bird ! thy wing hath pierced the 
 
 cloud, 
 The storm had not a battlement for thee ; 
 But, with a spirit fetterless and proud, 
 Thou hast soar'd on, majestically free, 
 To worlds, perchance, which men shall never see ! 
 Where is thy spirit now? the wing that bore? 
 Thou hast lost wing and all, save liberty ! 
 Death only could subdue — and that is o'er : 
 Alas ! the very form that slew thee should deplore ! 
 
 A proud exemplar hath been lost the proud, 
 And he who struck thee from thy fearless flight — 
 Thy noble loneliness, that left the crowd, 
 To seek, uncurb'd, that singleness of height 
 Which glory aims at with unswerving sight — 
 Had learn'd a nobler toil. No longer base 
 With lowliest comrades, he had given his might, 
 His life — that had been cast in vilest place — 
 To raise his hopes and homes — to teach and lift 
 his race. 
 
 'T is he should mourn thy fate, for he hath lost 
 The model of dominion. Not for him 
 The mighty eminence, the gathering host 
 That worships, the high glittering pomps that dim. 
 The bursting homage and the hailing hymn : 
 He dies — he hath no life, that, to a star, 
 Rises from dust and sheds a holy gleam 
 To light the struggling nations from afar, 
 And show, to kindred souls, where fruits of glory 
 
34 G 
 
 WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 
 
 Exulting now, he clamours o'er his prey; 
 His secret shaft hath not been idly sped ; 
 He lurk'd within the rocky cleft all day, 
 Till the proud bird rose sweeping o'er his head, 
 And thus he slew him! He should weep him dead, 
 Whom, living, he could love not — weep that he, 
 The noble lesson taught him, never read — 
 Exulting o'er the victim much more free 
 Than, in his lowly soul, he e'er can hope to be. 
 
 'T is triumph for the base to overthrow 
 That which they reach not — the ignoble mind 
 Loves ever to assail with secret blow 
 The loftier, purer beings of their kind : 
 In this their petty villany is blind ; 
 They hate their benefactors — men who keep 
 Their names from degradation — men design'd 
 Their guides and guardians : well, if late they weep 
 The cruel shaft that struck such noble hearts so deep. 
 
 Around thy mountain dwelling the winds lie — 
 Thy wing is gone, thy eyry desolate ; 
 O, who shall teach thy young ones when to fly, — 
 Who fill the absence of thy watchful mate 1 
 Thou type of genius ! bitter is thy fate, 
 A boor has sent the shaft that leaves them lone, 
 Thy clustering fellows, guardians of thy state — 
 Shaft from the reedy fen whence thou hast flown, 
 A.nd feather from the bird thy own wing hath struck 
 down ! 
 
 THE BROOKLET. 
 
 A little farther on, there is a brook 
 
 Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees 
 
 Have roof 'd it with their crowding limbs and leaves, 
 
 So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount, 
 
 And the shade cools it. You may hear it now, 
 
 A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves 
 
 That lie beneath its rapids, it descends 
 
 In a fine, showery rain, that keeps one tune, 
 
 And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy. 
 
 Beside its banks, through the whole livelong day, 
 Ere yet I noted much the speed of time, 
 And knew him but in songs and ballad-books, 
 Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ; 
 With thought unchid by harsher din than came 
 From the thick thrush, l hat, gliding through the 
 
 copse, 
 Hurried above me ; or the timid fawn 
 That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink, 
 And saunter'd through its shade, cropping the 
 
 grass, 
 Even where I lay, — having a quiet mood, 
 And not disturbing, while surveying mine. 
 
 Thou smilest — and on thy lip a straying thought 
 Says I have trifled — calls my hours misspent, 
 And looks a solemn warning! A true thought, — 
 And so my errant mood were well rebuked ! — 
 Vet there was pleasant sadness that became 
 Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense, 
 In that same idlesse — gazing on that brook 
 So pebbly and so clear, — prattling away, 
 Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes 
 From shadow into sunlight, and is lost. 
 
 THE SHADED WATER. 
 
 When that my mood is sad, and in the noise 
 And bustle of the crowd, I feel rebuke, 
 
 I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys, 
 And sit me down beside this little brook : 
 
 The waters have a music to mine ear 
 
 It glads me much to hear. 
 
 It is a quiet glen as you may see, 
 
 Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, 
 
 That spread their giant branches, broad and free, 
 The silent growth of many centuries ; 
 
 And make a hallow'd time for hapless moods, 
 
 A Sabbath of the woods. 
 
 Few know its quiet shelter, — none, like me, 
 Do seek it out with such a fond desire, 
 
 Poring, in idlesse mood, on flower and tree, 
 
 And listening, as the voiceless leaves respire, — ■ 
 
 When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, 
 
 Rests here his weary wing. 
 
 And all the day, with fancies ever new, 
 
 And sweet companions from their boundless 
 
 Of merry elves, bespangled all with dew, [store 
 Fantastic creatures of the old time lore, — 
 
 Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 
 
 I fling the hours away. 
 
 A gracious couch, — the root of an old oak, 
 Whose branches yield it moss and canopy, — 
 
 Is mine — and so it be from woodman's stroke 
 Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; 
 
 It hangs above the stream that idly plies, 
 
 Heedless of any eyes. 
 
 There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, 
 
 Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, 
 While every sense, on earnest mission sent, [er; 
 Returns,thought-laden,back with bloom and flow- 
 Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, 
 A profitable toil. 
 
 And still the waters, trickling at my feet, 
 Wind on their way with gentlest melody, 
 
 Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, 
 Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, — 
 
 Yet not so rudely as to send one sound 
 
 Through the thick copse around. 
 
 Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
 Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, 
 
 Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press'd 
 On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — 
 
 And, with awaken'd vision upward bent, 
 
 I watch the firmament. 
 
 How like — its sure and undisturb'd retreat, 
 Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm — 
 
 To the pure waters trickling at my feet, 
 The bending trees that overshade my form ; 
 
 So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
 
 Like those of which we dream. 
 
 Thus, to my mind, is the philosophy 
 
 The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, 
 Sails far into the blue that spreads on high, 
 
 Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 
 With a most lofty discontent, to fly 
 Upward, from earth to sky. 
 
WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 
 
 317 
 
 TO THE BREEZE: 
 
 AFTER A PKOTKACTED CALM AT SEA. 
 
 Thou hast been slow to bless us, gentle breeze ; 
 Where hast thou been a lingerer, welcome friend 1 
 
 Where, when the midnight gather'd to her brow 
 
 Her pale and crescent minister, wert thou ] 
 On what far, sullen, solitary seas, 
 Piping the mariner's requiem, didst thou tend 
 The home-returning bark, 
 
 Curling the white foam o'er her lifted prow, [dark? 
 
 White, when the rolling waves around her all were 
 
 Gently, and with a breath 
 Of spicy odour from Sabsean vales, 
 Where subtle life defies and conquers death, 
 Fill'dst thou her yellow sails ! 
 
 On, like some pleasant bird, 
 With glittering plumage and light-loving eye, 
 While the long pennant lay aloft unstirr'd, 
 
 And sails hung droopingly, 
 Camest thou with tidings of the land to cheer 
 
 The weary mariner. 
 
 How, when the ocean slept, 
 
 Making no sign ; 
 And his dumb waters, of all life bereft, 
 
 Lay 'neath the sun-girt line ; 
 His drapery of storm-clouds lifted high 
 
 In some far, foreign sky, 
 While a faint moaning o'er his bosom crept, 
 
 As the deep breathings of eternity, 
 Above the grave of the unburied time, 
 Claiming its clime — 
 
 How did the weary tar, 
 His form reclined along the burning deck, 
 
 Stretch his dim eye afar, 
 To hail the finger, and delusive speck, 
 Thy bending shadow, from some rocky steep, 
 
 Down-darting o'er the deep ! 
 
 Born in the solemn night, 
 
 When the deep skies were bright, 
 With all their thousand watchers on the sight— 
 Thine was the music through the firmament 
 By the fond nature sent, 
 
 To hail the blessed birth, 
 
 To guide to lowly earth 
 The glorious glance, the holy wing of light ! 
 
 Music to us no less, 
 
 Thou comest in our distress, 
 To cheer our pathway. It is clear, through thee, 
 
 O'er the broad wastes of sea. 
 How soothing to the heart that glides alone, 
 Unwatch'd and unremember'd, on the wave, 
 
 Perchance his grave ! — 
 Should he there perish, to thy deeper moan 
 
 What lip shall add one tone 1 
 
 I bless thee, gentle breeze J 
 Sweet minister to many a fond desire, 
 Thou bear'st me to my sire, 
 Thou, and these rolling seas ! 
 What — 0, thou God of this strong element ! — 
 
 Are we, that it is sent, 
 Obedient to our fond and fervent hope 1 
 
 But that its pinion on our path is bent, 
 We had been doorn'd beyond desire to grope, 
 
 Where plummet's cast is vain, and human art, 
 Lacking all chart. 
 
 THE LOST PLEIAD. 
 
 Not in the sky, 
 
 Where it was seen, 
 
 Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, 
 
 Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep, — 
 
 Though green, 
 
 And beautiful, its caves of mystery, — 
 
 Shall the bright watcher have 
 
 A place — and, as of old, high station keep. 
 
 Gone, gone ! 
 
 0, never more to cheer 
 
 The mariner who holds his course alone 
 
 On the Atlantic, through the weary night, 
 
 When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep, 
 
 Shall it appear, 
 
 With the sweet fixedness of certain light, 
 
 Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep. 
 
 Vain, vain ! 
 
 Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth, 
 
 That mariner from his bark — 
 
 Howe'er the north 
 
 Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower — 
 
 He sees no more that perish'd light again ! 
 
 And gloomier grows the hour [dark, 
 
 Which may not, through the thick and crowding 
 
 Restore that lost and loved one to her tower. 
 
 He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills, 
 
 Tending his flocks, — 
 
 And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze, 
 
 Gladdening his gaze ; 
 
 And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, 
 
 Guiding him safely home through perilous ways ! 
 
 How stands he in amaze, 
 
 Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills 
 
 The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils 
 
 Its leaden dews — how chafes he at the night, 
 
 Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light, 
 
 So natural to his sight ! 
 
 And lone, 
 
 Where its first splendours shone, 
 
 Shall be that pleasant company of stars : 
 
 How should they know that death 
 
 Such perfect beauty mars ; 
 
 And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, 
 
 Fallen from on high, 
 
 Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die — 
 
 AH their concerted springs of harmony, 
 
 Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone. 
 
 A strain — a mellow strain — 
 Of wailing sweetness, fill'd the earth and sky; 
 The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain 
 That one of the selectest ones must die ; 
 Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest ! 
 Alas! 'tis ever more the destiny, 
 The hope, heart-cherish'd, is the soonest lost; 
 The flower first budded soonest feels the frost: 
 Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest 1 
 And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, 
 Look they not ever brightest when they fly 
 The desolate home they bless'd 1 
 
M8 
 
 WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 
 
 THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. 
 
 'Tis a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look; 
 The bird sings never merrily in the trees, 
 And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth 
 Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint 
 With blisteringdews the thoughtless hand that dares 
 To penetrate the covert. Cypresses [length, 
 
 Crowd on the dank, wet earth ; and, stretch'd at 
 The cayman — a fit dweller in such home — 
 Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass. 
 Beside the green ooze where he shelters him, 
 A whooping crane erects his skeleton form, 
 And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused 
 To apprehension, as they hear his cry, 
 Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste, 
 Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these, 
 And startled at our rapid, near approach, 
 The steel-jaw'd monster, from his grassy bed, 
 Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode, 
 Which straight receives him. You behold him now, 
 His ridgy back uprising as he speeds, 
 In silence, to the centre of the stream, 
 Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly, 
 That, travelling all the day, has counted climes 
 Only by flowers, to rest himself a while, 
 Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute 
 Straightway goes down, so suddenly, that he, 
 The dandy of the summer flowers and woods, 
 Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat, 
 With the rank water of that turbid pond. 
 Wondering and vex'd, the plumed citizen . 
 
 Flies, with a hurried effort, to the shore, 
 Seeking his kindred flowers : — but seeks in vain — 
 Nothing of genial growth may there be seen, 
 Nothing of beautiful ! Wild, ragged trees, 
 That look like felon spectres — fetid shrubs, 
 That taint the gloomy atmosphere — dusk shades, 
 That gather, half a cloud, and half a fiend 
 In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge, — 
 Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns 
 The general prospect. The sad butterfly, 
 Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on, 
 And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed 
 For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet, 
 Than these drear borders offer us to-night. 
 
 CHANGES OF HOME. 
 
 Well may we sing her beauties, 
 
 This pleasant land of ours, 
 Her sunny smiles, her golden fruits, 
 
 And all her world of flowers ; 
 The young birds of her forest-groves, 
 
 The blue folds of her sky, 
 And all those airs of gentleness, 
 
 That never seem to fly ; 
 They wind about our forms at noon, 
 
 They woo us in the shade, 
 When panting, from the summer's heats, 
 
 The woodman seeks the glade ; 
 They win us with a song of love, 
 
 They cheer us with a dream, 
 That gilds our passing thoughts of life, 
 
 As sunlight does the stream ; 
 
 And well would they persuade us now, 
 
 In moments all too dear, 
 That, sinful though our hearts may be, 
 
 We have our Eden here. 
 
 Ah, well has lavish nature, 
 
 From out her boundless store, 
 Spread wealth and loveliness around, 
 
 On river, rock, and shore : 
 No sweeter stream than Ashley glides— 
 
 And, what of southern France 1 — 
 She boasts no brighter fields than ours, 
 
 Within her matron glance ; 
 Our skies look down in tenderness 
 
 From out their realms of blue, 
 The fairest of Italian climes 
 
 May claim no softer hue ; 
 And let them sing of fruits of Spain, 
 
 And let them boast the flowers, 
 The Moors' own culture they may claim, 
 
 No dearer sweet than ours — 
 Perchance the dark-hair'd maiden 
 
 Is a glory in your eye, 
 But the blue-eyed Carolinian rules, 
 
 When all the rest are nigh. 
 
 And none may say, it is not true, 
 
 The burden of my lay, 
 'T is written, in the sight of all, 
 
 In flower and fruit and ray ; 
 Look on the scene around us now, 
 
 And say if sung amiss, 
 The song that pictures to your eye 
 
 A spot so fair as this : 
 Gay springs the merry mocking-bird 
 
 Around the cottage pale, — 
 And, scarcely taught by hunter's aim, 
 
 The rabbit down the vale ; 
 Each boon of kindly nature, 
 
 Her buds, her blooms, her flowers, 
 And, more than all, the maidens fair 
 
 That fill this land of ours, 
 Are still in rich perfection, 
 
 As our fathers found them first, 
 But our sons are gentle now no more, 
 
 And all the land is cursed. 
 
 Wild thoughts are in our bosoms 
 
 And a savage discontent; 
 We love no more the life we led, 
 
 The music, nor the scent ; 
 The merry dance delights us not, 
 
 As in that better time, 
 When, glad, in happy bands we met, 
 
 With spirits like our clime. 
 And all the social loveliness, 
 
 And all the smile is gone, 
 That link'd the spirits of our youth, 
 
 And made our people one. 
 They smile no more together, 
 
 As in that earlier day, 
 Our maidens sigh in loneliness, 
 
 Who once were always gay ; 
 And though our skies are bright, 
 
 And our sun looks down as then — 
 Ah. me ! the thought is sad I feel, 
 
 We shall never smile again. 
 
JONATHAN LAWRENCE. 
 
 [Born, 1807. Died, 1833.] 
 
 Few persons in private life, who have died so 
 young, have been mourned by so many warm 
 friends as was Jonathan Lawrence. Devoted 
 to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, 
 and regardless of literary distinction, his produc- 
 tions would have been known only to his asso- 
 ciates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits 
 withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his 
 own low estimate had consigned them. 
 
 He was born in New York, in November, 1807, 
 and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered 
 Columbia College, at which he was graduated 
 before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after 
 became a student in the office of Mr. W. Slosson, 
 an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard 
 by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his 
 studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, 
 and the undeviating purity and honourableness of 
 his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered 
 into a partnership with Mr. Siossosr, and daily 
 added confirmation to the promise of his proba- 
 tional career, until he was suddenly called to a 
 better life, in April, 1833. 
 
 The industry with which he attended to his 
 professional duties did not prevent him from giving 
 considerable attention to general literature ; and in 
 moments — to use his own language — 
 
 "Stolen from hours I should have tied 
 To musty volumes at my side, 
 Given to hours that sweetly woo'd 
 My heart from study's solitude," — 
 
 he produced many poems and prose sketches of 
 considerable merit. These, with one or two ex- 
 ceptions, were intended not for publication, but 
 as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions 
 to the exercises of a literary society — still in exist- 
 ence — of which he was for several years an activo 
 member. After his death, in compliance with a 
 request by this society, his brother made a collec- 
 tion of his writings, of which a very small edition 
 was printed, for private circulation. Their cha- 
 racter is essentially meditative. Many of them 
 are devotional, and all are distinguished for the 
 purity of thought which guided the life of the 
 man. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT. 
 
 Many a sad, sweet thought have I, 
 
 Many a passing, sunny gleam, 
 Many a bright tear in mine eye, 
 
 Many a wild and wandering dream, 
 Stolen from hours I should have tied 
 To musty volumes by my side, 
 Given to hours that sweetly woo'd 
 My heart from study's solitude. 
 
 Oft, when the south wind 's dancing free 
 
 Over the earth and in the sky, 
 And the flowers peep softly out to see 
 
 The frolic Spring as she wantons by; 
 When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, 
 To steal me away, I deem it sin 
 To slight their voice, and away I 'm straying 
 Over the hills and vales a-Maying. 
 
 Then can I hear the earth rejoice, 
 
 Happier than man may ever be ; 
 Every fountain hath then a voice, 
 That sings of its glad festivity; 
 For it hath burst the chains that bound 
 Its currents dead in the frozen ground, 
 And, flashing away in the sun, has gone 
 Singing, and singing, and singing on. 
 
 Autumn hath sunset hours, and then 
 Many a musing mood I cherish ; 
 
 Many a hue of fancy, when 
 
 The hues of earth are about to perish ; 
 Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween, 
 Hath real sunset never seen, 
 Sad as the faces of friends that die, 
 And beautiful as their memory. 
 
 Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, 
 
 Visions the mind may not control, 
 Waking, as fancy does in sleep, 
 
 The secret transports of the soul ; 
 Faces and forms are strangely mingled, 
 Till one by one they 're slowly singled, 
 To the voice, and lip, and eye of her 
 I worship like an idolater. 
 
 Many a big, proud tear have I, 
 
 When from my sweet and roaming track, 
 From the green earth and misty sky, 
 
 And spring, and love, I hurry back ; 
 Then what a dismal, dreary gloom 
 Settles upon my loathed room, 
 Darker to every thought and sense 
 Than if they had never travell'd thence. 
 Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer 
 
 The toilsome day and lonely night, 
 And many a scene and hope appear, 
 
 And almost make me gay and bright. 
 Honour and fame that I would win, 
 Though every toil that yet hath been 
 Were doubly borne, and not an hour 
 Were brightly hued by Fancy's power. 
 
 349 
 
350 
 
 JONATHAN LAWRENCE. 
 
 And, though I sometimes sigh to think 
 
 Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, 
 And know that the cup which others drink 
 
 Shall never be brimm'd by me ; 
 That many a joy must be untasted, 
 And many a glorious breeze be wasted, 
 Yet would not, if I dared, repine, 
 That toil, and study, and care are mine. 
 
 SEA-SONG. 
 
 Over the far blue ocean-wave, 
 
 On the wild winds I flee, 
 Yet every thought of my constant heart 
 
 Is winging, love, to thee ; 
 For each foaming leap of our gallant ship 
 
 Had barb'd a pang for me, 
 Had not thy form, through sun and storm, 
 
 Been my only memory. 
 
 (), the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast, 
 
 As he dips in the dancing spray ; 
 But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween, 
 
 Of dear ones far away ! 
 And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue, 
 
 As it lights the tinted sea, 
 Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams 
 
 Of the heart that throbs for thee. 
 
 And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves, 
 
 Their dancing tops among, 
 And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour 
 
 By the music of his song; 
 When our sail is white in the dark midnight, 
 
 And its shadow is on the sea, 
 0, never knew hall such festival 
 
 As my fond heart holds with thee ! 
 
 LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 1st the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, 
 If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, 
 " Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 
 If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo, 
 Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are 
 
 array'd, 
 "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall 
 
 fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to 
 
 thine eye, 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
 Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, 
 "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. 
 
 Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, 
 The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, 
 "Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb, 
 To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom." 
 
 And, O ! when death comes in his terrors, to cast 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
 And a smile in thine eye, " look aloft," and depart ! 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Come, gentle May ! 
 Come with thy robe of flowers, 
 Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; 
 
 Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, 
 From their imprisoning and mysterious night, 
 The buds of many hues, the children of thy light. 
 
 Come, wondrous May ! 
 For, at the bidding of thy magic wand, 
 Quick from the caverns of the breathing land, 
 
 In all their green and glorious array 
 They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail 
 Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale. 
 
 Come, vocal May ! 
 Come with thy train, that high 
 On some fresh branch pour out their melody ; 
 
 Or, carolling thy praise the livelong day, 
 Sit perch'd in some lone glen, on echo calling, 
 Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling. 
 
 Come, sunny May ! 
 Come with thy laughing beam, 
 What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, 
 
 Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, 
 Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower 
 Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power. 
 
 Come, holy May ! 
 When, sunk behind the cold and western hill, 
 His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, 
 
 And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay ; 
 Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be 
 Like a pure temple consecrate to thee. 
 
 Come, beautiful May ! 
 Like youth and loveliness, 
 Like her I love; 0, come in thy full dress, 
 
 The drapery of dark winter cast away ; 
 To the bright eye and the glad heart appear 
 Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year. 
 
 Yet, lovely May ! 
 Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme 
 To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, 
 
 The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, 
 And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, 
 Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. 
 
 And let me too, sweet May ! 
 Let thy fond votary see, 
 As fade thy beauties, all the vanity 
 
 Of this world's pomp ; then teach, that though 
 decay 
 In his short winter bury beauty's frame, 
 
 In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, 
 Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same. 
 
J. 0. ROCKWELL. 
 
 [Born, 1S07. Died, 1831.] 
 
 James Otis Rock-well was born in Lebanon, 
 an agricultural town in Connecticut, in 1807. At 
 an early age he was apprenticed to a printer, in 
 Utica, and in his sixteenth year he began to write 
 verses for the newspapers. Two years afterward 
 he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, 
 in each of which cities he laboured as a journey- 
 man compositor. He had now acquired considera- 
 ble reputation by his poetical writings, and was 
 engaged as associate editor of the " Statesman," 
 an old and influential journal published in Boston, 
 with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, 
 when he became tbe conductor of the Providence 
 " Patriot," with which he was connected at the 
 time of his death. 
 
 He was poor, and in his youth he had been left 
 nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn 
 the business of printing, because he thought it 
 would afford him opportunities to improve his 
 mind ; and his education was acquired by diligent 
 study during the leisure hours of his apprentice- 
 ship. When he removed to Providence, it became 
 necessary for him to take an active part in the dis- 
 cussion of political questions. He felt but little 
 interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively 
 from the strife of partisanship ; but it seemed the 
 only avenue to competence and reputation, and he 
 embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, 
 in the hands of able and honourable men, is the 
 noblest of callings ; in the hands of the ignorant 
 and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There 
 are at all times connected with the press, persons 
 of the baser sort, who derive their support and 
 chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst pas- 
 sions ; and by some of this class Rockwell's pri- 
 vate character was assailed, and he was taunted 
 with his obscure parentage, defective education, 
 and former vocation, as if to have elevated his po- 
 sition in society, by perseverance and the force of 
 mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too 
 little energy in his nature to regard such assaults 
 with the indifference they merited ; and complained 
 in some of his letters that they "robbed him of rest 
 and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing 
 reputation, however, he continued his editorial la- 
 bours until the summer of 1831, when, at the early 
 age of twenty-four years, he was suddenly called 
 to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, 
 and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the appa- 
 rent neglect of his gazette. The next number 
 of it wore the signs of mourning for his death. 
 A friend of Rockwell's,* in a notice of him 
 published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," 
 mentions as the immediate cause of his death, that 
 he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga- 
 
 * Reverend Charles W. Everest, of Meriden, Con- 
 necticut. 
 
 tion which, from not receiving money then due to 
 him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the 
 prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in 
 some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, 
 was generally believed among his friends at the 
 time. Whittier, who was then editor of the 
 "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote 
 the following lines to his memory : 
 
 "The turf is smooth above him ! and this rain 
 Will moisten the rent roots, and summon back 
 The perishing life of its green-bladed grass, 
 And the crush'd flower will lift its head again 
 Smilingly unto heaven, as if it kept 
 No vigil with the dead. Well — it is meet 
 That the green grass should tremble, and the flowers 
 Blow wild about his resting-place. His mind 
 Was in itself a flower but half-disclosed — 
 A bud of blessed promise which the storm 
 Visited rudely, and the passer by 
 Smote down in wantonness. But we may trust 
 That it hath found a dwelling, where the sun 
 Of a more holy clime will visit it, 
 And the pure dews of mercy will descend, 
 Through Heaven's own atmosphere, upon its head. 
 
 " His form is now before me, with no trace 
 Of death in its fine lineaments, and there 
 Is a faint crimson on his youthful cheek, 
 And his free lip is softening with the smile 
 Which in his eye is kindling. I can feel 
 The parting pressure of his hand, and hear 
 His last 'God bless you!' Strange — that he is thero 
 Distinct before me like a breathing thing, 
 Even when I know that he is with the dead, 
 And that the damp earth hides him. I would not 
 Think of him otherwise — his image lives 
 Within my memory as he seem'd befoie 
 The curse of blighted feeling, and the toil 
 And fever of an uncongenial strife, had left 
 Their traces on his aspect. Peace to him ! 
 He wrestled nobly with the weariness 
 And trials of our being — smiling on, 
 While poison mingled with his springs of life, 
 And wearing a calm brow, while on his heart 
 Anguish was resting like a hand of fire — 
 Until at last the agony of thought 
 Grew insupportable, and madness came 
 Darkly upon him, — and the sufferer died ! 
 
 " Nor died he unlamented ! To his grave 
 The beautiful and gifted shall go up, 
 And muse upon the sleeper. And yonng lips 
 Shall murmur in the broken tones of grief— 
 His own sweet melodies — and if the ear 
 Of the freed spirit heedeth aught beneath 
 The brightness of its new inheritance, 
 It may be joyful to the parted one 
 To feel that earth remembers him in love!" 
 The specimens of Rockwell's poetry which 
 have fallen under my notice show him to have 
 possessed considerable fancy and deep feeling 
 His imagery is not always well chosen, and his ver- 
 sification is sometimes defective ; but his thoughts 
 are often original, and the general effect of his 
 pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, 
 and probably he would have produced works of 
 much merit had he lived to a maturer as:e. 
 
 351 
 
352 
 
 J. 0. ROCKWELL. 
 
 THE SUM OF LIFE. 
 
 Searcher of gold, whose days and nights 
 All waste away in anxious care, 
 
 Estranged from all of life's delights, 
 Unlearn'd in all that is most fair — 
 
 Who sailest not with easy glide, 
 
 But delvcst in the depths of tide, 
 And strugglest in the foam ; 
 
 ! come and view this land of graves, 
 
 Death's northern sea of frozen waves, 
 And mark thee out thy home. 
 
 Lover of woman, whose sad heart 
 
 Wastes like a fountain in the sun, 
 Clings most, where most its pain does start, 
 
 Dies by the light it lives upon ; 
 Come to the land of graves ; for here 
 Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear, 
 
 Gather'd in holy trust ; 
 Here slumber forms as fair as those 
 Whose cheeks, now living, shame the rose, 
 
 Their glory turn'd to dust. 
 
 Lover of fame, whose foolish thought 
 Steals onward o'er the wave of time, 
 
 Tell me, what goodness hath it brought, 
 Atoning for that restless crime ! 
 
 The spirit-mansion desolate, 
 
 And open to the storms of fate, 
 The absent soul in fear ; 
 
 Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, 
 
 And see where all thy pride must be : 
 Searcher of fame, look here ! 
 
 And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, 
 
 That goest to the bugle's call, 
 Come and look down ; this lonely tomb 
 
 Shall hold thee and thy glories all : 
 The haughty brow, the manly frame, 
 The daring deeds, the sounding fame, 
 
 Are trophies but for death ! 
 And millions who have toil'd like thee, 
 Are stay'd, and here they sleep ; and see, 
 Does glory lend them breath 1 
 
 TO ANN. 
 
 Thou wert as a lake that lieth 
 
 In a bright and sunny way ; 
 I was as a bird that flieth 
 
 O'er it on a pleasant day ; 
 When I look'd upon thy features 
 
 Presence then some feeling lent ; 
 But thou knowest, most false of creatures, 
 
 With thy form thy image went. 
 
 With a kiss my vow was greeted, 
 
 As I knelt before thy shrine ; 
 But I saw that kiss repeated 
 
 On another lip than mine ; 
 And a solemn vow was spoken 
 
 That thy heart should not be changed ; 
 But that binding vow was broken, 
 
 And thy spirit was estranged. 
 
 I could blame thee for awaking 
 
 Thoughts the world will but deride ; 
 Calling out, and then forsaking 
 
 Flower? the winter wind will chide ; 
 Guiling to the midway ocean 
 
 Barks that tremble by the shore ; 
 But I hush the sad emotion, 
 
 And will punish thee no more. 
 
 THE LOST AT SEA. 
 
 Wife, who in thy deep devotion 
 
 Puttest up a prayer for one 
 Sailing on the stormy ocean, 
 
 Hope no more — his course is done. 
 Dream not, when upon thy pillow, 
 
 That he slumbers by thy side ; 
 For his corse beneath the billow 
 
 Heaveth with the restless tide. 
 
 Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, 
 
 Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, 
 Know ye many clouds are throwing 
 
 Shadows on your sire's remains 1 
 Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling 
 
 With a mountain's motion on, 
 Dream ye that its voice is tolling 
 
 For your father lost and gone ! 
 
 When the sun look'd on the water, 
 
 As a hero on his grave, 
 Tinging with the hue of slaughter 
 
 Every blue and leaping wave, 
 Under the majestic ocean, 
 
 Where the giant current roll'd, 
 Slept thy sire, without emotion, 
 
 Sweetly by a beam of gold ; 
 
 And the silent sunbeams slanted, 
 
 Wavering through the crystal deep, 
 Till their wonted splendours haunted 
 
 Those shut eyelids in their sleep. 
 Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, 
 
 Sparkled through his raven hair ; 
 But the sleep that knows no dreaming 
 
 Bound him in its silence there. 
 
 So we left him ; and to tell thee 
 
 Of our sorrow and thine own, 
 Of the wo that then befell thee, 
 
 Come we weary and alone. 
 That thine eye is quickly shaded, 
 
 That thy heart-blood wildly flows, 
 That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, 
 
 Are the fruits of these new woes. 
 
 Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring 
 
 Linger on your mother's face — 
 Know ye that she is expiring, 
 
 That ye are an orphan race 1 
 God be with you on the morrow, 
 
 Father, mother, — both no more ; 
 One within a grave of sorrow, 
 
 One upon the ocean's floor ! 
 
J. O. ROCKWELL. 
 
 353 
 
 THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. 
 
 She sleeps in beaisty, like the dying rose 
 
 By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken; 
 Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes 
 
 To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken : 
 Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow 
 
 It smiles with angel meekness — or like sorrow 
 When it is soothed by resignation's glow, 
 
 Or like herself, — she will be dead to-morrow. 
 
 How still she sleeps ! The young and sinless girl ! 
 
 And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles ! 
 Waving, almost in death, the raven curl 
 
 That floats around her ; and she most resembles 
 The fall of night upon the ocean foam, 
 
 Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed ; 
 And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, 
 
 Unsullied girl ! an angel broken-hearted ! 
 
 0, bitter world ! that hadst so cold an eye 
 
 To look upon so fair a type of heaven ; 
 She could not dwell beneath a winter sky, 
 
 And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, 
 And now she lies in ruins — look and weep! 
 
 How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow ! 
 And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep 
 
 Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. 
 
 TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Gratis of waters gone to rest ! 
 
 Jewel, dazzling all the main ! 
 Father of the silver crest ! 
 
 Wandering on the trackless plain, 
 Sleeping mid the wavy roar, 
 
 Sailing mid the angry storm, 
 Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, 
 
 Piling to the clouds thy form ! 
 
 Wandering monument of rain, 
 
 Prison'd by the sullen north ! 
 But to melt thy hated chain, 
 
 Is it that thou comest forth 1 
 Wend thee to the sunny south, 
 
 To the glassy summer sea, 
 And the breathings of her mouth 
 
 Shall unchain and gladden thee ! 
 
 Roamer in the hidden path, 
 
 'Neath the green and clouded wave ! 
 Trampling in thy reckless wrath, 
 
 On the lost, but cherish'd brave ; 
 Parting love's death-link'd embrace — 
 
 Crushing beauty's skeleton — 
 Tell us what the hidden race 
 
 With our mourned lost have done ! 
 
 Floating isle, which in the sun 
 
 Art an icy coronal ; 
 And beneath the viewless dun, 
 
 Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall ; 
 Shining death upon the sea! 
 
 Wend thee to the southern main ; 
 Warm skies wait to welcome thee ! 
 
 Mingle with the wave again ! 
 23 
 
 THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 
 
 When the summer sun was in the west, 
 
 Its crimson radiance fell, 
 Some on the blue and changeful sea, 
 
 And some in the prisoner's cell. 
 And then his eye with a smile would beam, 
 
 And the blood would leave his brain, 
 And the verdure of his soul return, 
 
 Like sere grass after rain ! 
 
 But when the tempest wreathed and spread 
 
 A mantle o'er the sun, 
 He gather'd back his woes again, 
 
 And brooded thereupon ; 
 And thus he lived, till Time one day 
 
 Led Death to break his chain : 
 And then the prisoner went away, 
 
 And he was free again ! 
 
 TO A WAVE. 
 
 List ! thou child of wind and sea, 
 
 Tell me of the far-off deep, 
 Where the tempest's breath is free, 
 
 And the waters never sleep ! 
 Thou perchance the storm hast aided, 
 
 In its work of stern despair, 
 Or perchance thy hand hath braided, 
 
 In deep caves, the mermaid's hair. 
 
 Wave ! now on the golden sands, 
 
 Silent as thou art, and broken, 
 Bear'st thou not from distant strands 
 
 To my heart some pleasant token ? 
 Tales of mountains of the south, 
 
 Spangles of the ore of silver ; 
 Which, with playful singing mouth, 
 
 Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer 1 
 
 Mournful wave ! I deem'd thy song 
 
 Was telling of a floating prison, 
 Which, when tempests swept along, 
 
 And the mighty winds were risen, 
 Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. 
 
 While the brave and fair were dying, 
 Wave ! didst mark a white hand clasp 
 
 In thy folds, as thou wert flying 1 
 
 Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock 
 
 Where the pride of kings reposes, 
 Crown'd with many a misty lock, 
 
 Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses? 
 Or with joyous, playful leap, 
 
 Hast thou been a tribute flinging, 
 Up that bold and jutty steep, 
 
 Pearls upon the south wind stringing'! 
 
 Faded Wave ! a joy to thee, 
 
 Now thy flight and toil are over ! 
 O, may my departure be 
 
 Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover ! 
 Wnen this soul's last pain or mirth 
 
 On the shore of time is driven, 
 Be its lot like thine on earth, 
 
 To be lost away in heaven ! 
 
MICAH P. FLINT. 
 
 [Born about 1807. Died 1830.] 
 
 Micah P. Flint, a son of the Reverend Timo- 
 thy Flint, the well-known author of "Francis 
 Berrian," was born in Lunenburg, Massachusetts ; 
 at an early age accompanied his father to the val- 
 ley of the Mississippi ; studied the law, and was 
 admitted to the bar at Alexandria ; and had hopes 
 of a successful professional career, when arrested 
 by the illness which ended in his early death. He 
 published in Boston, in 1826, "The Hunter, and 
 other Poems," which are described in the preface 
 as the productions of a very young man, and 
 results of lonely meditations in the southwestern 
 
 forests, during intervals of professional studies. 
 "The Hunter" is a narrative, in three cantos, of 
 " adventures in the pathless woods." The situa- 
 tions and incidents are poetical, but the work is, 
 upon the whole, feebly executed. " Sorotaphian," 
 an argument for urn-burial, subsequently re- 
 printed with some improvements in "The West- 
 ern Monthly Magazine," lines "On Passing the 
 Grave of My Sister," and several other poems, 
 illustrated the growth of the author's mind, and 
 justified the sanguine hopes of his father that he 
 would " become the pride of his family." 
 
 ■OTS PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. 
 
 ■0*1 yonder shore, on yonder shore, 
 
 M©w verdant with the depths of shade, 
 
 Beneath the white-arm'd sycamore, 
 There is a little infant laid. 
 
 Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. — 
 
 'T is (there the faded floweret sleeps. 
 
 ;£>he sleeps .alone, she sleeps alone, 
 
 And summer's forests o'er her wave; 
 
 And sighing winds at autumn moan 
 Around the Utile stranger's grave, 
 
 As though they murmur'd at the fate 
 
 Of one so lose and desolate. 
 
 In sounds that seems like sorrow's own, 
 
 Their funeral dirges faintly creep; 
 Then deepening to an organ tone, 
 
 In all their solemn cadence sweep, 
 And pour, unheard, along the wild, 
 Their desert anthem o'er a child. 
 She came, and pass'd. Can I forget, 
 
 How we whose hearts had hailed her birth, 
 Ere three autumnal suns had set, 
 
 Consign'd her to her mother earth ! 
 Joys and their memories pass away; 
 But griefs are deeper plough'd than they. 
 We laid her in her narrow cell, 
 
 We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; 
 And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell 
 
 Upon her lonely plaGe of rest. 
 May angels guard it; may they bless 
 Her slumbers in the wilderness. 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; 
 
 For all unheard, on yonder shore, 
 The sweeping flood, with torrent moan, 
 
 At evening lifts its solemn roar, 
 As in one broad, eternal tide, 
 The rolling waters onward glide. 
 
 There is no marble monument, 
 There is no stone with graven lie, 
 354 
 
 To tell of love and virtue blent 
 
 In one almost too good to die. 
 We needed no such useless trace 
 To point us to her resting-place. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone; 
 
 But midst the tears of April showers, 
 The genius of the wild hath strown 
 
 His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, 
 And cast his robes of vernal bloom 
 In guardian fondness o'er her tomb. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; 
 
 Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd, 
 And still the summer vines are thrown, 
 
 In annual wreaths across her breast, 
 And still the sighing autumn grieves, 
 And strews the hallow'd spot with leaves. 
 
 AFTER A STORM. 
 
 There was a milder azure spread 
 Around the distant mountain's head ; 
 And every hue of that fair bow, 
 
 Whose beauteous arch had risen there, 
 Now sank beneath a brighter glow, 
 
 And melted into ambient air. 
 The tempest which had just gone bv, 
 Still hung along the eastern sky, 
 And threatened, as it rolled away. 
 The birds, from every dripping spray, 
 Were .pouring forth their joyous mirth; 
 The torrent, with its waters brown, 
 From rock to rock came rushing down, 
 While, from among the smoky hills, 
 The voices of a thousand rills 
 
 W T ere heard exulting at its birth. 
 A breeze came whispering through the wood, 
 
 And, from its thousand tresses, shook 
 The big round drops that trembling stood, 
 
 Like pearls, in every leafy nook. 
 
(Li^_, W. ^/cr^.c^iiSL^^j 
 
 \7 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 Mr. Longfellow was born in the city of Port- 
 land, in Maine, on the twenty-seventh of Febru- 
 ary, 1807. When fourteen years of age he en- 
 tered Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 
 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the 
 law, but being appointed Professor of Modern Lan- 
 guages in the college in which he was educated, 
 he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for 
 the duties of his office, and passed three years and a 
 half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Ger- 
 many, Holland and England. When he returned 
 he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 
 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern 
 Languages and Literatures in Harvard College 
 was made vacant, in 1835, by the resignation of 
 Mr. Ticknor. Mr. Longfellow, being elected 
 his successor, resigned his place in Brunswick, and 
 went a second time to Europe to make himself 
 more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of 
 his studies in the northern nations. He passed the 
 summer in Denmark and Sweden ; the autumn and 
 winter in Germany — losing in that period his wife, 
 who died suddenly at Heidelberg — and the follow- 
 ing spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzer- 
 land. He returned to the United States in Octo- 
 ber, 1836, and immediately entered upon his duties 
 at Cambridge, where he has resided ever since, 
 except during a visit to Europe for the restoration 
 of his health, in 1843. 
 
 The earliest of Longfellow's metrical compo- 
 sitions were written for " The United States Lit- 
 erary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was 
 an under-graduate ; and from that period he has 
 been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving 
 as each year added to his scholarship and taste, 
 have been extensively read and admired. During 
 his subsequent residence in Brunswick he wrote 
 several of the most elegant and judicious papers 
 that have appeared in the " North American Re- 
 view ;" made a translation of Capias de Manrique; 
 and published " Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond 
 the Sea," a collection of agreeable tales and sketches, 
 chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 
 1839 appeared his "Hyperion," a romance, and in 
 1848 "Kavanagh," his last work in prose. 
 
 The first collection of his poems was published 
 in 1839, under the title of "Voices of the Night." 
 His "Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841 ; 
 "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems 
 on Slavery," in 1844; "The Belfry of Bruges, 
 and other Poems," in 1845; "Evangeline, a Tale 
 of Acadie," in 1847; "The Seaside and the Fire- 
 side," in 1849; and "The Golden Legend," in 
 1851. Complete editions of his poetical works 
 appeared in 1845, 1848, and subsequent years. 
 
 One of his largest and most elaborate poems is the 
 " Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the 
 Swedish of Esaias Tegner, a venerable bishop of 
 
 the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet 
 of northern Europe. The genius of Tegner had 
 already been made known in this country by a 
 learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by trans- 
 lated passages of great beauty, from his " Frithiof's 
 Saga," contributed by Longfellow to the " North 
 American Review," soon after he returned from his 
 second visit to Europe. The « Children of the 
 Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the 
 author's great epic, and the English version is a 
 singularly exact reproduction of it, in form and 
 spirit. No translations from the continental lan- 
 guages into the English surpass those of Long- 
 fellow, and it is questionable whether some of 
 his versions from the Spanish, German and Swe- 
 dish, have been equalled. The rendition of the 
 « Children of the Lord's Supper" was among the 
 most difficult tasks to be undertaken, as spondaic 
 words, necessary in the construction of hexameters, 
 and common in the Greek, Latin and Swedish, are 
 so rare in the English language. " The Skeleton 
 in Armour" is the longest and most unique of his 
 original poems. The Copenhagen antiquaries attri- 
 bute the erection of a round tower at Newport, in 
 Rhode Island, to the Scandinavians of the twelfth 
 century. A few years ago a skeleton in complete 
 armour was exhumed in the vicinity of the tower. 
 These facts are the groundwork of the story. 
 
 Soon after the appearance of the first edition of 
 this work, I suggested to the late Mr. Caret, the 
 publisher, widely known for his taste in art and 
 literature, that a series of such volumes, embracing 
 surveys and specimens of the poetry and prose of 
 different countries, would be valuable and popu- 
 lar; and among the results of various conversa- 
 tions on the subject, was a request to Mr. Long- 
 fellow to prepare "The Poets and Poetry of 
 Europe." He acceded, and in the summer of 1845 
 finished and gave to the press the most compre- 
 hensive, complete, and accurate review of the poetry 
 of the continental nations that has ever appeared 
 in any language. 
 
 Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the 
 title of artist He has studied the principles of verbal 
 melody, and rendered himself master of the mys- 
 terious affinities which exist between sound and 
 sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. 
 This tact in the use of language is probably the 
 chief cause of his success. There is an aptitude, 
 a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his 
 stanzas, which at once impress the memory and 
 win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of 
 his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. 
 It is not so much the power of the instrument, as 
 the skill with which it is managed, that excites our 
 sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign litera- 
 ture has been of great advantage, by rendering 
 him familiar with all the delicate capacities of lan- 
 
 355 
 
356 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 guage, from the grand symphonic roll of Northern 
 tongue to the "soft, bastard Latin" of the South. 
 His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and 
 poetical; but there is no affluence of imagery, or 
 wonderful glow of emotion, such as take us captive 
 in BrnoN or Shelley : the claim of Longfellow 
 consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his 
 materials than in their richness or originality. He 
 has done much for the Art of Poetry in this country 
 
 by his example, and in this respect may claim the 
 praise which all good critics of English Poetry have 
 bestowed on Gray and Collins. The spirit of 
 Longfellow's muse is altogether unexceptionable 
 in a moral point of view. He illustrates the gentler 
 themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, 
 and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep 
 conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinc- 
 tive recognition of the man. 
 
 NUREMBERG. 
 
 In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 
 
 meadow-lands 
 Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, 
 
 the ancient, stands. 
 
 Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town 
 
 of art and song, 
 Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks 
 
 that round them throng ; 
 
 Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, 
 rough and bold, 
 
 Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, cen- 
 turies old ; 
 
 And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their 
 
 uncouth rhyme, 
 That their great imperial city stretch'd its hand 
 
 through every clime. 
 
 In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many 
 
 an iron band, 
 Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cusri- 
 
 gunde's hand; 
 
 On the square the oriel window, where in old 
 heroic days 
 
 Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximi- 
 lian's praise. 
 
 Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous 
 
 world of Art, — 
 Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing 
 
 in the common mart ; 
 
 And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 
 
 carved in stone, 
 By a former age commission'd as apostles to our own. 
 
 In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined 
 
 his holy dust, 
 And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age 
 
 to age their trust ; 
 
 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix 
 
 of sculpture rare, 
 Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through 
 
 the painted air. 
 
 Here, when art was still religion, with a simple, 
 reverent heart, 
 
 Iiived and labour'd Albrecht Durer, the Evan- 
 gelist of Art ; 
 
 Hence in. silence and in sorrow, toiling still with 
 busy hand, 
 
 Like an emigrant he wander 'd, seeking for the Bet- 
 ter Land. 
 
 Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where 
 
 he lies ; 
 Dead he is not, — but departed, — for the artist never 
 
 dies. 
 
 Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 
 
 seems more fair, 
 That he once has trod its pavement, that he once 
 
 has breathed its air ! 
 
 Through these streets so broad and stately, these 
 
 obscure and dismal lanes, 
 Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude 
 
 poetic strains. 
 
 From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the 
 
 friendly guild, 
 Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts 
 
 the swallows build. 
 
 As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the 
 
 mystic rhyme, 
 And the smith his iron measures hammer'd to the 
 
 anvil's chime ; 
 
 Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the 
 
 flowers of poesy bloom 
 In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the 
 
 loom. 
 
 Here Han s Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 
 
 gentle craft, 
 Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios 
 
 sang and laugh'd. 
 
 But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 
 
 sanded floor, 
 And a garland in the window, and his face above 
 
 the door ; 
 
 Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- 
 
 man's song, 
 As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great 
 
 beard white and long. 
 
 And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown 
 
 his cark and care, 
 Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's 
 
 antique chair. 
 
 Vanish'd is the ancient splendour, and before my 
 
 dreamy eye 
 Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a 
 
 faded tapestry. 
 
 Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the 
 
 world's regard ; 
 But thy painter, Albiiecht Durer, and Hans 
 
 Sachs, thy cobbler-bard. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 357 
 
 Thus, Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far 
 
 away, 
 As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in 
 
 thought his careless lay : 
 
 Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret 
 
 of the soil, 
 The nobility of labour, — the long pedigree of toil. 
 
 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 
 
 This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
 Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'd arms ; 
 
 But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing, 
 Startles the villages with strange alarms. 
 
 Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
 When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 
 
 What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
 Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 
 
 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
 The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
 
 Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
 In long reverberations reach our own. 
 
 On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 
 Through Cimbric forest roars the Norsemen's 
 
 And loud, amid the universal clamor, [ s °ng, 
 
 O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 
 
 I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
 Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, 
 
 And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
 
 Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 
 
 The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 
 
 The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
 The soldiers revels in the midst of pillage ; 
 
 The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 
 
 The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder, 
 The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 
 
 And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
 The diapason of the cannonade. 
 
 Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
 With such accursed instruments as these, 
 
 Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
 And jarrest the celestial harmonies ] 
 
 Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 
 Were half the wealth, bestow'd on camps and 
 courts, 
 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
 There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 
 
 The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 
 
 And every nation, that should lift again 
 Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
 
 Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 
 
 Down the dark future, through long generations, 
 The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 
 
 And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
 I hear once more the voice of Christ say " Peace !" 
 
 Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
 The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies! 
 
 But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
 The holy melodies of love arise. 
 
 THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 
 
 "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
 Who, with thy hollow breast 
 Still in rude armour drest, 
 
 Comest to daunt me ! 
 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
 But with thy fleshless palms 
 Stretch'd, as if asking alms, 
 Why dost thou haunt me?" 
 
 Then, from those cavernous eyes 
 Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
 As when the Northern skies 
 
 Gleam in December ; 
 And, like the water's flow 
 Under December's snow, 
 Came a dull voice of wo 
 
 From the heart's chamber. 
 
 " I was a Viking old ! 
 My deeds, though manifold, 
 No Skald in song has told, 
 
 No Saga taught thee ! 
 
 Take heed, that in thy verse 
 
 Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
 
 Else dread a dead man's curse ! 
 
 For this I sought thee. 
 
 « Far in the Northern Land, 
 By the wild Baltic's strand, 
 I, with my childish hand, 
 
 Tamed the ger-falcon ; 
 And, with my skates fast-bound, 
 Skimm'd the half-frozen Sound, 
 That the poor whimpering hound 
 
 Trembled to walk on. 
 
 « Oft to his frozen lair 
 Track'd I the gxizzly bear, 
 While from my path the hare 
 
 Fled like a shadow ; 
 Oft through the forest dark 
 Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
 Until the soaring lark 
 Sang from the meadow. 
 
 " But when I older grew, 
 Joining a corsair's crew, 
 O'er the dark sea I flew 
 
 With the marauders. 
 Wild was the life we led ; 
 Many the souls that sped, 
 Many the hearts that bled, 
 
 By our stern orders. 
 
 " Many a wassail-bout 
 Wore the long winter out ; 
 Often our midnight shout 
 Set the cocks crowing, 
 As we the Berserk's tale 
 Measured in cups of ale, 
 Draining the oaken pail, 
 FiU'd to o'erflowing. 
 
 " Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea, 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
 Burning out tender ; 
 
358 
 
 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And as the white stars shine 
 On the dark Norway pine, 
 On that dark heart of mine 
 Fell their soft splendour. 
 
 " I woo'd the blue-eyed maid, 
 Yielding, yet half afraid, 
 And in the forest's shade 
 
 Our vows were plighted. 
 Under its loosen'd vest 
 Flutter'd her little breast, 
 Like birds within their nest 
 
 By the hawk frighted. 
 
 " Bright in her father's hall 
 Shields gleam'd upon the wall, 
 Loud sang the minstrels all, 
 
 Chanting his glory ; 
 When of old Hildebrand 
 I ask'd his daughter's hand, 
 Mute did the minstrel stand 
 
 To hear my story. 
 
 " While the brown ale he quaff d 
 Loud then the champion laugh'd, 
 And as the wind-gusts waft 
 
 The sea-foam brightly, 
 
 So the loud laugh of scorn, 
 
 Out of those lips unshorn, 
 
 From the deep drinking-horn 
 
 Blew the foam lightly. 
 
 " She was a Prince's child, 
 I but a Viking wild, 
 And though she blush'd and smiled, 
 
 I was discarded ! 
 Should not the dove so white 
 Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
 Why did they leave that night 
 
 Her nest unguarded ! 
 
 " Scarce had I put to sea, 
 Bearing the maid with me, — 
 Fairest of all was she 
 
 Among the Norsemen! — 
 When on the white sea-strand, 
 Waving his armed hand, 
 Saw we old Hildebrand, 
 
 With twenty horsemen. 
 
 « Then launch'd they to the blast, 
 Bent like a reed each mast, 
 Yet we were gaining fast, 
 
 When the wind fail'd us ; 
 And with a sudden flaw 
 Came round the gusty Skaw, 
 So that our foe we saw 
 
 Laugh as he hail'd us. 
 
 " And as to catch the gale 
 Round veer'd the napping sail, 
 Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 
 
 Death without quarter ! 
 Mid-ships with iron keel 
 Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
 Down her black hulk did reel 
 
 Through the black water. 
 
 '< As with his wings aslant, 
 Sails the fierce cormorant, 
 
 Seeking some rocky haunt, 
 
 With his prey laden, 
 So toward the open main, 
 Beating to sea again, 
 Through the wild hurricane, 
 
 Bore I the maiden. 
 
 " Three weeks we westward bore, 
 And when the storm was o'er, 
 Cloud-like we saw the shore 
 
 Stretching to lee-ward ; 
 There for my lady's bower 
 Built I the lofty tower, 
 Which, to this very hour, 
 
 Stands looking sea-ward. 
 
 " There lived we many years ; 
 Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
 She had forgot her fears, 
 
 She was a mother ; 
 Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
 Under that tower she lies : 
 Ne'er shall the sun arise 
 
 On such another ! 
 
 " Still grew my bosom then, 
 Still as a stagnant fen ! 
 Hateful to me were men, 
 
 The sun-light hateful ! 
 In the vast forest here, 
 Clad in my warlike gear, 
 Fell I upon my spear, 
 
 O, death was grateful ! 
 
 « Thus, seam'd with many scars 
 Bursting these prison bars, 
 Up to its native stars 
 
 My soul ascended! 
 There from the flowing bowl 
 Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
 Skoal.' to the Northland! skoal.'"* 
 
 — Thus the tale ended. 
 
 * In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation 
 when drinking a health. The orthography of the word 
 is slightly changed, to preserve the correct pronunciation. 
 Note. — This poem was suggested by the Round 
 Tower at Newport, now claimed by the Danes, as a 
 work of their ancestors. Mr. Longfellow remarks, 
 On this ancient structure, there are no ornaments re- 
 maining which might, possibly have served to guide us 
 in assigning the probable date of its erection. That 
 no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor 
 any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather 
 than of a later period. From such characteristics as 
 remain, however, we can scarcely form any other in- 
 ference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who 
 are familiar with Old-Northrm architecture, will concur, 
 
 THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY 
 NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This re- 
 mark applies, of course, to the original building only, 
 and not to the alterations that it subsequently received ; 
 for there are several such alterations in the upper part 
 of the building, which cannot be mistaken, and which 
 were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in 
 modern times to various uses, for example as the sub 
 structure of a wind-mill, and latterly, as a hay magazine. 
 To the same times may be referred the windows, the 
 fire-place, and the apertures made above the columns. 
 That this building could not have been erected for a 
 wind-mill, is what an architect will easily discern. — Pro- 
 fessor Rafn, in the Mimoires de la Societe Royale des 
 Jlntiquaires du JVord, for 1838-1839. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 359 
 
 1 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE 
 PSALMIST. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 ^ Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 > Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living Present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF STARS. 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently, 
 All silently, the little moon 
 
 Drops down behind the sky. 
 
 There is no light in earth or heaven, 
 But the cold light of stars; 
 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 Is it the tender star of love 1 
 The star of love and dreams 1 
 
 no ! from that blue tent above 
 A hero's armour gleams. 
 
 And earnest thoughts within me rise, 
 
 When I behold afar, 
 Suspended in the evening skies, 
 
 The shield of that red star. 
 
 star of strength ! I see thee stand 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 
 Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 Within my breast there is no light, 
 But the cold light of stars : 
 
 1 give the first watch of the night 
 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 The star of the unconquer'd will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 
 And calm, and self-possess'd. 
 
 And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
 That readest this brief psalm, 
 
 As one by one thy hopes depart, 
 Be resolute and calm. 
 
 O fear not in a world like this, 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong. 
 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 The rising moon has hid the stars, 
 
 Her level rays, like golden bars, 
 Lie on the landscape green, 
 With shadows brown between. 
 
 And silver white the river gleams, 
 As if Diana, in her dreams, 
 
 Had dropt her silver bow 
 
 Upon the meadows low. 
 
 On such a tranquil night as this, 
 She woke Endtmion with a kiss, 
 
 When, sleeping in the grove, 
 
 He dream'd not of her love. 
 
 Like Dian's kiss, unask'd, unsought, 
 Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
 
 Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
 
 Its deep, impassion'd gaze. 
 
 It comes — the beautiful, the free, 
 The crown of all humanity — 
 
 In silence and alone 
 
 To seek the elected one. 
 
 It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep 
 Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
 And kisses the closed eyes 
 Of him, who slumbering lies. 
 
 O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 
 O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain, 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 No one is so accursed by fate, 
 No one so utterly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Responds unto its own. 
 
 Responds — as if, with unseen wings, 
 A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings ; 
 And whispers, in its sorig, 
 "Where hast thou stay'd so long]" 
 
360 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 
 
 But, when the old cathedral boll 
 
 
 
 Proclaim'd the morning prayer, 
 
 When the hours of day are number'd, 
 
 The white pavilions rose and fell 
 
 And the voices of the Night 
 
 On the alarmed air. 
 
 Wake the better soul that slumber'd 
 
 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 
 Down the broad valley fast and far 
 
 The troubled army fled ; 
 Up rose the glorious morning star, 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 The ghastly host was dead. 
 
 Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
 
 Dance upon the parlour-wall ; 
 
 I have read in the marvellous heart of man, 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 
 
 That strange and mystic scroll, 
 
 That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
 Beleaguer the human soul. 
 
 Come to visit me once more ; 
 
 Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream, 
 
 He, the young and strong, who cherish'd 
 
 In Fancy's misty light, 
 
 Noble longings for the strife, — 
 
 Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 
 
 By the road-side fell and perish'd, 
 
 Portentous through the night. 
 
 Weary with the march of life ! 
 
 Upon its midnight battle-ground 
 
 They, the holy ones and weakly, 
 
 The spectral camp is seen,' 
 
 Who the cross of suffering bore, — 
 
 And with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly, — 
 
 Flows the River of Life between. 
 
 Spake with us on earth no more ! 
 
 No other voice, nor sound is there, 
 
 And with them the Being Beauteous, 
 
 In the army of the grave ; 
 
 Who unto my youth was given, 
 
 No other challenge breaks the air, 
 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 
 But the rushing of Life's wave. 
 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep, 
 
 Entreats the soul to pray, 
 
 Comes that messenger divine, 
 
 The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 
 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 
 The shadows sweep away. 
 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me, 
 
 The spectral camp is fled ; 
 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 
 Faith shineth as a morning star, 
 
 Like the stars, so still and saintlike, 
 
 Our ghastly fears are dead. 
 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
 Utter'd not, yet comprehended, 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 
 
 
 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
 
 The sun is bright, the air is clear, 
 
 Breathing from her lips of air. 
 
 The darting swallows soar and sing, 
 
 0, though oft depress'd and lonely, 
 
 And from the stately elms I hear 
 
 All my fears are laid aside, 
 
 The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 
 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as these have lived and died ! 
 
 So blue yon winding river flows, 
 
 It seems an outlet from the sky, 
 Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 
 
 
 THE BELEAGURED CITY. 
 
 The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 
 
 I have read in some old marvellous tale 
 
 All things are new — the buds, the leaves, 
 
 Some legend strange and vague, 
 
 That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 
 
 That a midnight host of spectres pale 
 
 And even the nest beneath the eaves — 
 
 Beleagured the walls of Prague. 
 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
 
 All things rejoice in youth and love, 
 
 With the wan moon overhead, 
 
 The fulness of their first delight, 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream, 
 
 And learn from the soft heavens above 
 
 The army of the dead. 
 
 The melting tenderness of night. 
 
 White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
 
 Maiden ! that read'st this simple rhyme, 
 
 The spectral camp was seen, 
 
 Enjoy thy youth — it will not stay ; 
 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
 
 Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
 
 The river flow'd between. 
 
 For, ! it is not always May ! 
 
 No other voice nor sound was there, 
 
 Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth, 
 
 No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
 
 To some good angel leave the rest, 
 
 The mist-like banners clasp'd the air, 
 
 For Time will teach thee soon the truth — 
 
 As clouds with clouds embrace. 
 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 361 
 
 MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING 
 YEAR. 
 
 Yes, the year is growing old, 
 And his eye is pale and blear'd ! 
 
 Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
 Plucks the old man by the beard, 
 Sorely, — sorely ! 
 
 The leaves are falling, falling, 
 
 Solemnly and slow ; 
 Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 
 
 It is a sound of wo, 
 A sound of wo ! 
 
 Through woods and mountain-passes 
 The winds, like anthems, roll ; 
 
 They are chanting solemn masses, 
 Singing ; Pray for this poor soul, 
 Pray,— -pray ! 
 
 The hooded clouds, like friars, 
 Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
 
 And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
 But their prayers are all in vain, 
 All in vain ! 
 
 There he stands, in the foul weather, 
 
 The foolish, fond Old Year, 
 Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather, 
 
 Like weak, despised Lear, 
 A king, — a king ! 
 
 Then comes the summer-like day, 
 
 Bids the old man rejoice ! 
 His joy! his last! 0, the old man gray 
 
 Loveth her ever-soft voice, 
 Gentle and low. 
 
 To the crimson woods he saith, 
 And the voice gentle and low 
 
 Of the soft air, like a daughter's hreath, 
 Pray do not mock me so ! 
 Do not laugh at me ! 
 
 And now the sweet day is dead ; 
 
 Cold in his arms it lies, 
 No stain from its breath is spread 
 
 Over the glassy skies, 
 No mist nor stain ! 
 
 Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
 And the forests utter a moan, 
 
 Like the voice of one who crieth 
 In the wilderness alone, 
 Vex not his ghost ! 
 
 Then comes, with an awful roar, 
 
 Gathering and sounding on, 
 The storm-wind from Labrador, 
 
 The wind Euroclydon, 
 The storm-wind ! 
 
 Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
 
 Sweep the red leaves away ! 
 Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 
 
 O soul ! could thus decay, 
 And be swept away ! 
 
 For there shall come a mightier blast, 
 
 There shall be a darker day ; 
 And the stars, from heaven down-cast, 
 Like red leaves be swept away ! 
 Kyrie Eleyson ! 
 Christe Eleyson ! 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Uxdek a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat ; 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow ; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 
 Onward through life he goes : 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something attempted — something done, 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought, 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 
362 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 » 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast, 
 As through an Alpine village pass'd 
 A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
 Flash'd like a faulchion from its sheath, 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright: 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
 And from his lips escaped a groan, 
 Excelsior! 
 
 " Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 And loud that clarion voice replied, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 « O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still he answer'd, with a sigh, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche !" 
 This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
 A voice replied, far up the height, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 Utter' d the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
 Half-buried in the snow was found, 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 That banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star ! 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 THE RAINY DAY. 
 
 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary. 
 
 Be still, sad heart, and cease repining ; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all : 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies, 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 Thou, whose locks outshine the sun, 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet ! 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance, 
 On the brooklet's swift advance, 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem, 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then, why pause with indecision, 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ] 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly 1 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
 That our ears perceive no more, 
 Deafen'd by the cataract's roar 1 
 
 0, thou child of many prayers ! 
 
 Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Childhood is the bough where slumber'd 
 Birds and blossoms many-number'd ; — 
 Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
 When the young heart overflows, 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
 Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart. 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
 
GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 [Bom about 1807.] 
 
 Mn. Ltjn-t is a native of the pleasant village 
 of Newburyport, near Boston, from which, for a 
 long period, his ancestors and relatives " followed 
 the sea." He was educated at Cambridge, and 
 soon after leaving the university entered as a 
 student the law-office of the present Chief Justice 
 of Massachusetts. From the time of his admis- 
 sion to the bar he has pursued the practice of his 
 profession in Newburyport. He has for several 
 years represented the people of that town in the 
 State Senate and House of Assembly, and has held 
 various other honourable offices. 
 
 When he was about nineteen years of age, he 
 
 wrote "The Grave of Byron," a poem in the 
 Spenserian measure, which has considerable merit ; 
 and, in 1839, appeared a collection of his later 
 productions, of which the largest is a metrical 
 essay entitled " Life," in which he has attempted 
 to show, by reference to the condition of society in 
 different ages, that Christianity is necessary to the 
 development of man's moral nature. More recent- 
 ly he has published " The Age of Gold and other 
 Poems;" "Lyric Poems, Sonnets, and Miscellanies;" 
 and two or three other small volumes, besides " Ju- 
 lia," a satire, and a novel in prose, entitled "East- 
 ford," under the pseudonym of Wesley Brooke. 
 
 AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 
 Come thou with me ! If thou hast worn away 
 All this most glorious summer in the crowd, 
 Amid the dust of cities, and the din, 
 While birds were carolling on every spray ; 
 If, from gray dawn to solemn night's approach, 
 Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts, 
 Toiling and panting for a little gold; 
 Drudging amid the very lees of life 
 For this accursed slave that makes men slaves; 
 Come thou with me into the pleasant fields: 
 Let Nature breathe on us and make us free ! 
 
 For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high, 
 With the great Spirit of the Universe ; 
 It shall pervade thy soul ; it shall renew 
 The fancies of thy boyhood ; thou shalt know 
 Tears, most unwonted tears dimming thine eyes ; 
 Thou shalt forget, under the old brown oak, 
 That the'good south wind and the liberal west 
 Have other tidings than the songs of birds, 
 Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers. 
 Look out on Nature's face, and what hath she 
 In common with thy feelings 7 That brown hill, 
 Upon whose sides, from the gray mountain-ash, 
 We gather'd crimson berries, look'd as brown 
 When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago ; 
 This pleasant stream, with the well-shaded verge, 
 On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs 
 So often play'd, caressing and caress'd ; 
 Its verdant banks are green as then they were ; 
 So went its bubbling murmur down the tide. 
 Yes, and the very trees, those ancient oaks, 
 The crimson-crested maple, feathery elm, 
 And fair, smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold, 
 Look like familiar faces of old friends. 
 From their broad branches drop the wither'd leaves, 
 Drop, one by one, without a single breath, 
 Save when some eddying curl round the old roots 
 Twirls them about in merry sport a while. 
 They are not changed ; their office is not done ; 
 
 The first soft breeze of spring shall see them fresh 
 With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch, 
 As should Sresh feelings from our wither'd hearts. 
 Scorn not the moral; for, while these have warm'd 
 To annual beauty, gladdening the fields 
 With new and ever-glorious garniture, 
 Thou hast grown worn and wasted, almost gray 
 Even in thy very summer. 'Tis for this 
 We have neglected nature ! Wearing out 
 Our hearts and all our life's dearest charities 
 In the perpetual turmoil, when we need 
 To strengthen and to purify our minds 
 Amid the venerable woods ; to hold 
 Chaste converse with the fountains and the winds ! 
 So should we elevate our souls ; so be 
 Ready to stand and act a nobler part 
 In the hard, heartless struggles of the world. 
 Day wanes ; 't is autumn eventide again ; 
 And, sinking on the blue hills' breast, the sun 
 Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze, 
 Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees, 
 And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheet 
 Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide 
 Waver the bank-shrub and the graceful elm, 
 As the gay branches and their trembling leaves 
 Catch the soft whisper of the coming air : 
 So doth it mirror every passing cloud, 
 And those which fill the chambers of the west 
 With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones, 
 Blazon'd with orient gems and barbarous gold. 
 I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes ; 
 I see those eyes swelling with precious tears ; 
 But, if thou couldst have look'd upon this scene 
 With a cold brow, and then turn'd back to thoughts 
 Of traffic in thy fellow's wretchedness, 
 Thou wert not fit to gaze \ipon the face 
 Of Nature's naked beauty ; most unfit 
 To look on fairer things, the loveliness 
 Of earth's most lovely daughters, whose glad forma 
 And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls 
 Of better men to emulate pure thoughts, 
 And, in high action, all ennobling deeds. 
 
 363 
 
364 
 
 GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 But lo ! the harvest moon ! She climbs as fair 
 Among the cluster'd jewels of the sky, 
 As, mid the rosy bowers of paradise, 
 Her soft light, trembling upon leaf and flower, 
 Smiled o'er the slumbers of the first-born man. 
 And, while her beauty is upon our hearts, 
 Now let us seek our quiet home, that sleep 
 May come without bad dreams ; may come as light 
 As to that yellow-headed cottage-boy, 
 Whose serious musings, as he homeward drives 
 His sober herd, are of the frosty dawn, 
 And the ripe nuts which his own hand shall pluck. 
 Then, when the bird, high-courier of the morn, 
 Looks from his airy vantage over the world, 
 And, by the music of his mounting flight, 
 Tells many blessed things of gushing gold, 
 Coming in floods o'er the eastern wave, 
 Will we arise, and our pure orisons 
 Shall keep us in the trials of the day. 
 
 JEWISH BATTLE-SONG. 
 
 Ho ! Princes of Jacob ! the strength and the stay 
 Of the daughter of Zion, — now up, and array ; 
 Lo, the hunters have struck her, and bleeding alone 
 Like a pard in the desert she maketh her moan: 
 Up, with war-horse and banner, with spear and 
 
 with sword, 
 On the spoiler go down in the might of the Lord ! 
 
 She lay sleeping in beauty, more fair than the moon, 
 With her children about her, like stars in night's 
 
 noon, 
 When they came to her covert, these spoilers of 
 
 Rome, 
 And are trampling her children and rifling her home: 
 O, up, noble chiefs ! would you leave her forlorn, 
 To be crush'd by the Gentile, a mock and a scorn? 
 
 Their legions and cohorts are fair to behold, 
 With their iron-clad bosoms, and helmets of gold ; 
 But, gorgeous and glorious in pride though they be, 
 Their avarice is broad as the grasp of the sea ; 
 They talk not of pity ; the mercies they feel 
 Are cruel and fierce as their death-doing steel. 
 
 Will they laugh at the hind they have struck to 
 
 the earth, 
 When the bold stag of Naphtali bursts on their 
 
 mirth 1 
 Will they dare to deride and insult, when in wrath 
 The lion of Judah glares wild in their path ! 
 O, say, will they mock us, when down on the plain 
 The hoofs of our steeds thunder over their slain ! 
 
 They come with their plumes tossing haughty and 
 
 free, 
 And white as the crest of the old hoary sea; 
 Yet they float not so fierce as the wild lion's mane, 
 To whose lair ye have track'd him, whose whelps 
 
 ye have slain ; 
 But, dark mountain-archer ! your sinews to-day 
 Must be strong as the spear-shaft to drive in the prey. 
 
 And the tribes are all gathering ; the valleys ring out 
 To the peal of the crumpet — the timbrel — the shout : 
 
 Lo, Zebulon comes ; he remembers the day 
 When they perill'd their lives to the death in the fray; 
 And the riders of Naphtali burst from the hills 
 Like a mountain-swollen stream in the pride of 
 
 its rills. 
 Like Sisera's rolls the foe's chariot-wheel, 
 And he comes, like the Philistine, girded in steel ; 
 Like both shall he perish, if ye are but men, 
 If your javelins and hearts are as mighty as then ; 
 He trusts in his buckler, his spear, and his sword ; 
 His strength is but weakness ; — we trust in the 
 
 Lord ! 
 
 "PASS ON, RELENTLESS WORLD." 
 
 Swiftek and swifter, day by day, 
 
 Down Time's unquiet current hurl'd, 
 Thou passest on thy restless way, 
 
 Tumultuous and unstable world ! 
 Thou passest on ! Time hath not seen 
 
 Delay upon thy hurried path ; 
 And prayers and tears alike have been 
 
 In vain to stay thy course of wrath ! 
 
 Thou passest on, and with thee go 
 
 The loves of youth, the cares of age ; 
 And smiles and tears, and joy and wo, 
 
 Are on thy history's troubled page ! 
 There, every day, like yesterday, 
 
 Writes hopes that end in mockery ; 
 But who shall tear the veil away 
 
 Before the abyss of things to be 1 
 
 Thou passest on, and at thy side, 
 
 Even as a shade, Oblivion treads, 
 And o'er the dreams of human pride 
 
 His misty shroud forever spreads ; 
 Where all thine iron hand hath traced 
 
 Upon that gloomy scroll to-day, 
 With records ages since effaced, — 
 
 Like them shall live, like them decay. 
 
 Thou passest on, with thee the vain, 
 
 Who sport upon thy flaunting blaze, 
 Pride, framed of dust and folly's train, 
 
 Who court thy love, and run thy ways : 
 But thou and I, — and be it so, — 
 
 Press onward to eternity ; 
 Yet not together let us gq 
 
 To that deep-voiced but shoreless sea. 
 
 Thou hast thy friends, — I would have mine ; 
 
 Thou hast thy thoughts, — leave me my own ; 
 I kneel not at thy gilded shrine, 
 
 I bow not at thy slavish throne ; 
 I see them pass without a sigh, — 
 
 They wake no swelling raptures now, 
 The fierce delights that fire thine eye, 
 
 The triumphs of thy haughty brow. 
 
 Pass on, relentless world ! I grieve 
 
 No more for all that thou hast riven , 
 Pass on, in God's name, — only leave 
 
 The things thou never yet hast given — 
 A heart at ease, a mind at home, 
 
 Affections fixed above thy sway, 
 Faith set upon a world to come, 
 
 And patience through life's little day. 
 
GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 365 
 
 HAMPTON BEACH. 
 
 Again upon the sounding shore, 
 And, O how bless'd, again alone ! 
 I could not bear to hear thy roar, 
 Thy deep, thy long, majestic tone ; 
 I could not bear to think that one 
 Could view with me thy swelling might, 
 And, like a very stock or stone, 
 Turn coldly from the glorious sight, 
 And seek the idle world, to hate and fear and fight. 
 
 Thou art the same, eternal sea ! 
 The earth hath many shapes and forms, 
 Of hill and valley, flower and tree ; 
 Fields that the fervid noontide warms, 
 Or winter's rugged grasp deforms, 
 Or bright with autumn's golden store ; 
 Thou coverest up thy face with storms, 
 Or smilest serene, — but still thy roar 
 And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore. 
 
 I see thy heaving waters roll, 
 I hear thy stern, uplifted voice, 
 And trumpet-like upon my soul 
 Falls the deep music of that noise 
 Wherewith thou dost thyself rejoice ; 
 The ships, that on thy bosom play, 
 Thou dashest them about like toys, 
 And stranded navies are thy prey, 
 Strown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the 
 whirling spray. 
 
 As summer twilight, soft and calm, 
 Or when in stormy grandeur drest, 
 Peals up to heaven the eternal psalm, 
 That swells within thy boundless breast ; 
 Thy curling waters have no rest ; 
 But day and night the ceaseless throng 
 Of waves that wait thy high behest, 
 Speak out in utterance deep and strong, 
 
 And loud the craggy beach howls back their 
 savage song. 
 Terrible art thou in thy wrath, — 
 Terrible in thine hour of glee, 
 When the strong winds, upon their path, 
 Bound o'er thy breast tumultuously, 
 And shout their chorus loud and free 
 To the sad sea-bird's mournful wail, 
 As, heaving with the heaving sea, 
 The broken mast and shatter'd sail 
 
 Tell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale. 
 
 Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight 
 To gaze upon thine ample face ; 
 An awful joy, — a deep delight ! 
 I see thy laughing waves embrace 
 Each other in their frolic race ; 
 I sit above the flashing spray, 
 That foams around this rocky base, 
 And, as the bright blue waters play, [as they. 
 Feel that my thoughts, my life, perchance, are vain 
 
 This is thy lesson, mighty sea ! 
 Man calls the dimpled earth his own, 
 The flowery vale, the golden lea ; 
 And on the wild, gray mountain-stone 
 Claims nature's temple for his throne ! 
 
 But where thy many voices sing 
 Their endless song, the deep, deep tone 
 Calls back his spirit's airy wing, 
 He shrinks into himself, where God alone is king ! 
 
 PILGRIM SONG. 
 
 Over the mountain wave, see where they come ; 
 Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome them home ; 
 Yet, where the sounding gale howls to the sea, 
 There their song peals along, deep-toned and free : 
 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
 
 Where the free dare to be — this is our home !" 
 England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom ; 
 Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume : 
 Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, 
 Native land, native land — home far away ! 
 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
 
 Where the- free dare to be — this is our home !" 
 Dim grew the forest-path : onward they trod ; 
 Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in Gob ! 
 Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song ; 
 Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along : 
 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
 
 Where the free dare to be — this is our home !" 
 
 Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the blast ; 
 Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they past! 
 Green be their mossy graves ! ours be their fame, 
 While their song peals along, ever the same : 
 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
 
 Where the free dare to be — this is our home !" 
 
 THE LYRE AND SWORD. 
 
 The freeman's glittering sword be blest, — 
 
 Forever blest the freeman's lyre, — 
 That rings upon the tyrant's crest ; 
 
 This stirs the heart like living fire : 
 Well can he wield the shining brand, 
 Who battles for his native land ; 
 
 But when his fingers sweep the chords, 
 That summon heroes to the fray, 
 
 They gather at the feast of swords, 
 Like mountain-eagles to their prey ! 
 And mid the vales and swelling hills, 
 
 That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land, 
 A living spirit breathes and fills 
 
 The freeman's heart and nerves his hand ; 
 For the bright soil that gave him birth, 
 The home of all he loves on earth,- — 
 
 For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls, 
 He waves on high his sword of fire, — 
 
 For this, amidst his country's halls 
 Forever strikes the freeman's lyre ! 
 His burning heart he may not lend 
 
 To serve a doting despot's sway, — 
 A suppliant knee he will not bend, 
 
 Before these things of "brass and clay :" 
 When wrong and ruin call to war, 
 He knows the summons from afar ; 
 
 On high his glittering sword he waves, 
 And myriads feel the freeman's fire, 
 
 While he, around their fathers' graves, 
 Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre! 
 
ROBERT H. MESSINGER. 
 
 [Born about 1807.] 
 
 Our cleverest writers of verse, in many cases, 
 have never collected the waifs they have given to 
 magazines and newspapers, and some of the best 
 fugitive pieces thus published have a periodical 
 currency without the endorsement of a name, or 
 their authors, having written for the love of writ- 
 ing, rather than for reputation, have permitted who- 
 ever would to run away with the literary honors 
 to which they were entitled. Mr. Me s singer is 
 an example of this class. 
 
 Robert Hinckley Messinger is a native of 
 Boston, and comes from an old puritan and pil- 
 grim stock, being a descendant in the seventh 
 generation from Henry Messinger, who was 
 made a freeman of Boston in the year 1630, and a 
 great grandson of the Reverend Henry Messin- 
 ger, who was graduated at Harvard College in 
 1719, and elected the first minister of Wrentham, 
 Massachusetts, in 1720. 
 
 With a view to his education at Cambridge he 
 
 was placed at the Boston Latin School, then under 
 the administration of Benjamin A. Gould ; but 
 after three years' attendance there, preferring mer- 
 cantile pursuits, he left for the city of New York, 
 where he resided many years. The poems we have 
 from his pen were mostly written at about the age 
 of twenty to twenty-five years, and appeared in 
 the New York "American." The lines, "Give 
 me the Old," suggested by a famous saying of 
 Alphonso of Castile, were first published in that 
 paper for the twenty-sixth of April, 1838, and were 
 reprinted in an early edition of the " Poets and 
 Poetry of America," under an impression that they 
 were from the hand of the ingenious and elegant 
 essayist, Mr. Henry Cary ; out that gentleman, 
 on discovering my error, took the first opportunity 
 to deny their authorship to me. 
 
 Mr. Messinger's residence at present (1855) 
 is in New London, one of the mountain villages 
 of New Hampshire. 
 
 GIVE ME THE OLD. 
 
 OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO 
 READ, AND OLD FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH. 
 
 Old wine to drink ! — 
 Ay, give the slippery juice, 
 That drippeth from the grape thrown loose, 
 
 Within the tun ; 
 Pluck'd from beneath the cliff 
 Of sunny-sided Tenerifle, 
 
 And ripened 'neath the blink 
 
 Of India's sun ! 
 
 Peat whiskey hot, 
 Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
 These make the long night shorter,' — 
 
 Forgetting not 
 Good stout old English porter. 
 
 Old wood to burn ! — 
 Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
 From where the owlets meet and screech, 
 
 And ravens croak ; 
 The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 
 Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 
 Dug 'neath the fern ; 
 
 The knotted oak, 
 
 A faggot too, perhap, 
 Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 
 Shall light us at our drinking; 
 
 While the oozing sap 
 Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 
 
 366 
 
 Old books to read ! — 
 Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
 The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum writ, 
 
 Time-honour'd tomes! 
 The same my sire scanned before, 
 The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
 The same his sire from college bore, 
 The well-earn'd meed 
 
 Of Oxford's domes : 
 
 Old Homer blind, 
 Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
 Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie; 
 Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 
 Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay, 
 And Gervase Markham's venerie — ' 
 
 Nor leave behind 
 The Holye Book by which we live and die. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Old friends to talk !— 
 Ay, bring those chosen few, 
 The wise, the courtly and the true, 
 
 So rarely found ; 
 Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
 Him for my easel, distich, bud 
 In mountain walk! 
 
 Bring Walter good : 
 With soulful Fred ; and learned Will, 
 And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still 
 
 For every mood.)* 
 
 * " It is rather a sad commentary on the last verse, tq 
 know that the ' Waiter good,' the ' soulful Feed,' and the 
 ' learned Will,' are in their graves." — Note from the au- 
 thor, dated March 9, 1S55, in the "Some Journal." 
 
JOHN H. BRYANT. 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 John Howard Bryant was born in Cumming- 
 ton, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of 
 July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in 
 rural occupations, and in attending the district and 
 other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, 
 when he began to study the Latin language, with 
 a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, 
 he wrote the first poem of which he retained any 
 copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and 
 first appeared in the "United States Eeview and 
 Literary Gazette," a periodical published simulta- 
 neously at New York and Boston, of which his 
 brother, William Cullen Bryant, was one of 
 the editors. It is included in the present collec- 
 tion. After this he gave up the idea of a univer- 
 sity education, and placed himself for a while at 
 the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superin- 
 tendance of Professor Eaton. He subsequently 
 applied himself to the study of the mathematical 
 and natural sciences, under different instructors, 
 and in his intervals of leisure produced several 
 poems, which were published in the gazettes. 
 
 In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illi- 
 nois ; and in September of the next year went to 
 Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself 
 down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public 
 lands not yet ordered to be sold by the govern- 
 ment. When the lands came into the market, he 
 purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine 
 groves of that country. He was married in 1833. 
 He accepted soon afterward two or three public 
 offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bu- 
 reau county; but afterward resigned them, and 
 devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his 
 poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and 
 part in Illinois. They have the same general 
 characteristics as those of his brother. He is a 
 lover of nature, and describes minutely and effect- 
 ively. To him the wind and the streams are ever 
 musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed 
 in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, 
 and his writings show him to be a man of refined 
 taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind 
 stored with the best learning. 
 
 THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S 
 FUNERAL. 
 
 It was a wintry scene, 
 The hills were whiten'd o'er, 
 And the chill north winds were blowing keen 
 Along the rocky shore. 
 
 Gone was the wood-bird's lay, 
 That the summer forest fills, 
 And the voice of the stream has pass'd away 
 From its path among the hills. 
 
 And the low sun coldly smiled 
 Through the boughs of the ancient wood, 
 Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child, 
 Around a coffin stood. 
 
 They raised it gently up, 
 And, through the untrodden snow, 
 They bore it away, with a solemn step, 
 To a woody vale below. 
 
 And grief was in each eye, 
 As they moved towards the spot. 
 And brief, low speech, and tear and sigh 
 Told that a friend was not. 
 
 When they laid his cold corpse low 
 In its dark and narrow cell, 
 Heavy the mingled earth and snow 
 Upon his coffin fell. 
 
 Weeping, they pass'd away, 
 And left him there alone, 
 
 With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, 
 But the mossy forest-stone. 
 
 When the winter storms were gone 
 And the strange birds sung around, 
 Green grass and violets sprung upon 
 That spot of holy ground. 
 
 And o'er him giant trees 
 Their proud arms toss'd on high, 
 And rustled music in the breeze 
 That wander'd through the sky. 
 
 When these were overspread 
 With the hues that Autumn gave, 
 They bow'd them in the wind, and shed 
 Their leaves upon his grave. 
 
 These woods are perish'd now, 
 And that humble grave forgot, 
 And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough 
 O'er that once sacred spot. 
 
 Two centuries are flown 
 Since they laid his cold corpse low, 
 And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown 
 To the breezes long ago. 
 
 And they who laid him there, 
 That sad and suffering train, 
 Now sleep in dust, — to tell us where 
 No letter'd stones remain. 
 
 Their memory remains, 
 And ever shall remain, 
 More lasting than the aged fanes 
 Of Egypt's storied plain. 
 
368 
 
 JOHN H. BRYANT. 
 
 A RECOLLECTION. 
 
 Here tread aside, where the descending brook 
 Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, 
 And all the summer long, on silver feet, 
 Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out 
 A mellow murmur on the quiet air. 
 Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade 
 Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, 
 Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, 
 Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, 
 Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, 
 A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, 
 Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. 
 Her step was tremulous ; slight was her frame, 
 And bow'd with time and toil ; the lines of care 
 Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day 
 I 've met her by the skirt of this old wood, 
 Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, 
 Haply, the history of her better days. 
 I knew that history once, from youth to age : — 
 It was a sad one ; he who wedded her 
 Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death 
 Had fallen among her children and her friends. 
 One solace for her age remained, — a fair 
 And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes, 
 And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs 
 Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods, 
 And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve, 
 Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts 
 Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers 
 In lone and desolate places, where the foot 
 Of other wanderers but seldom trod. 
 Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps 
 Had led me forth among the pleasant hills, 
 I met her in a shaded path, that winds [low, 
 
 Far through the spreading groves. The sun was 
 The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale, 
 And the still waters of the river lay 
 Black in the early twilight. As we met, 
 She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine, 
 And, though I then was but a simple child, 
 Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power, 
 I wonder' d at her beauty. Soon a sound 
 Of thunder, muttering low, along the west, 
 Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path 
 Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth. 
 A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go, 
 Which she observing, kindly led the way, 
 And left me when my dwelling was in sight. 
 I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate, 
 The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around 
 Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash. 
 But where was now Eliza? When the morn 
 Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead, 
 Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt. 
 Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft 
 Had pierced hersnow- white brow. And here she lies, 
 Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky. 
 'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here; 
 The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone; 
 Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth, 
 And this rude stone, that simply bears her name, 
 Is mouldering fast ; and soon this quiet spot, 
 Held sacred now, will be like common ground. 
 
 Fit place is this for so much loveliness 
 To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, 
 Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring 
 Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave; 
 The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, 
 Sigh to the winds ; the robin takes his perch 
 Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate ; 
 The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, 
 And hangs above her in the winter days 
 Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; 
 The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he 
 Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, 
 Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, 
 Around the head-stone carefully entwined, 
 Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. 
 For two years past I 've miss'd them ; doubtless one 
 Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, 
 And, sorrowing in secret many a year, 
 At last hath left the earth to be with her. 
 
 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 
 
 Theke lies a village in a peaceful vale, 
 
 With sloping hills and waving woods around, 
 
 Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale 
 Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground ; 
 
 And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, 
 
 And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers. 
 
 'Twas there my young existence was begun, 
 My earliest sports were on its flowery green, 
 
 And often, when my schoolboy task was done, 
 I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene, 
 
 And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray 
 
 Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day. 
 
 There, when that hour of mellow light was come, 
 And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, 
 
 I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home, 
 In the lone path that winds across the plain, 
 
 To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play, 
 
 And tell him o'er the labours of the day 
 
 And when the woods put on their autumn glow, 
 And the bright sun came in among the trees, 
 
 And leaves were gathering in the glen below, 
 Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze, 
 
 I wander'd till the starlight on the stream 
 
 At length awoke me from my fairy dream. 
 
 Ah ! happy days, too happy to return, 
 
 Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, 
 
 A bitter lesson has been mine to learn, 
 
 The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears ; 
 
 Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay, 
 
 A twilight of the brightness pass'd away. 
 
 My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still, 
 Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise; 
 
 The play-place, and the prospect from the hill, 
 Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes ; 
 
 The present brings its storms ; but, while they last, 
 
 I shelter me in the delightful past. 
 
JOHN H. BRYANT. 
 
 369 
 
 FROM A POEM ENTITLED "A DAY IN 
 AUTUMN." 
 
 One ramble through the woods with me, 
 Thou dear companion of my days, — ■ 
 
 These mighty woods! how quietly 
 They sleep in Autumn's golden haze 
 
 The gay leaves, twinkling in the breeze, 
 Still to the forest branches cling ; 
 
 They lie like blossoms on the trees — 
 The brightest blossoms of the spring. 
 
 Flowers linger in each sheltered nook, 
 And still the cheerful song of bird, 
 
 And murmur of the bee and brook, 
 
 Through all the quiet groves are heard. 
 
 And bell of kine, that, sauntering, browse, 
 And squirrel chirping as he hides 
 
 Where gorgeously, with crimson boughs, 
 The creeper clothes the oak's gray sides. 
 
 How mild the light in all the skies ! 
 
 How balmily the south wind blows! 
 The smile of God around us lies, 
 
 His rest is in this deep repose. 
 
 These whispers of the flowing air, 
 These waters that in music fall, 
 
 These sounds of peaceful life declare 
 The Love that keeps and hushes all. 
 
 ON FINDING A FOUNTAIN IN A SE- 
 CLUDED PART OF A FOREST. 
 
 Three hundred years are scarcely gone 
 Since, to the New World's virgin shore, 
 
 Crowds of rude men were pressing on 
 To range its boundless regions o'er. 
 
 Some bore the sword in bloody hands, 
 And sacked its helpless towns for spoil ; 
 
 Some searched for gold the rivers' sands, 
 Or trenched the mountains' stubborn soil. 
 
 And some with higher purpose sought 
 
 Through forests wild and wastes uncouth — 
 
 Sought with long toil, yet found it not — 
 The fountain of eternal youth. 
 
 They said in some green valley, where 
 The foot of man had never trod, 
 
 There gushed a fountain bright and fair, 
 Up from the ever-verdant sod. 
 
 They there who drank should never know 
 Age with its weakness, pain, and gloom ; 
 
 And from its brink the old should go 
 
 With youth's light step and radiant bloom. 
 
 Is not this fount so pure and sweet 
 Whose stainless current ripples o'er 
 
 The fringe of blossoms at my feet 
 
 The same those pilgrims sought of yore? 
 
 How brightly leap mid glittering sands 
 
 The living waters from below ; 
 Oh, let me dip these lean brown hands, 
 
 Drink deep, and bathe my wrinkled brow ; 
 24 
 
 And feel through every shrunken vein 
 
 The warm red blood flow swift and free, 
 Feel waking in my heart again 
 
 Youth's brightest hopes, youth's wildest glee. 
 'T is vain, for still the life-blood plays 
 
 W T ith sluggish course through all my frame ; 
 The mirror of the pool betrays 
 
 My wrinkled visage still the same. 
 And the sad spirit questions still — 
 
 Must this warm frame, these limbs that yield 
 To each light motion of the will, 
 
 Lie with the dull clods of the field'? 
 Has nature no renewing power 
 
 To drive the frost of age away ] 
 Has earth no fount, or herb, or flower, 
 
 Which man may taste and live for aye 1 
 Alas! for that unchanging state 
 
 Of youth and strength in vain we yearn ; 
 And only after death's dark gate 
 
 Is reached and passed, can youth return. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. 
 
 It was the glorious summer-time, 
 
 As on a hill I stood, 
 Amid a group of towering trees, 
 
 The patriarchs of the wood ; 
 A lovely vale before me lay, 
 
 And on the golden air, 
 Crept the blue smoke in quiet trains 
 
 From roofs that clustered there. 
 I saw where, in my early years, 
 
 I passed the pleasant hours, 
 Beside the winding brook that still 
 
 Went prattling to its flowers; 
 And still, around my parent's home, 
 
 The slender poplars grew, 
 Whose glossy leaves were swayed and turned 
 
 By every wind that blew. 
 
 The clover, with its heavy bloom 
 
 Was tossing in the gale, 
 And the tall crowfoot's golden stars 
 
 Still sprinkled all the vale ; 
 Young orchards on the sunny slope, 
 
 Tall woodlands on the height, 
 All in their freshest beauty rose 
 
 To my delighted sight. 
 
 The wild vine in the woody glen, 
 
 Swung o'er the sounding brook ; 
 The clear-voiced wood-thrush sang all unseen 
 
 Within his leafy nook : 
 And as the evening sunlight fell, 
 
 Where beechen forests lie ; 
 I watched the clouds on crimson wings, 
 
 Float softly through the sky. 
 
 All these are what they were when first 
 
 These pleasant hills I ranged ; 
 But the faces that I knew before, 
 
 By time and toil are changed : 
 Where youth and bloom were on the cheek 
 
 And gladness on the brow, 
 I only meet the marks of care, 
 
 And pain, and sorrow now. 
 
370 
 
 JOHN H. BRYANT. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 That soft autumnal time 
 Is come, that sheds, upon the naked scene, 
 Charms only known in this our northern clime — 
 
 Bright seasons, far between. 
 
 The woodland foliage now 
 Is gather'd by the wild November blast ; 
 E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough 
 
 Are fallen, to the last. 
 
 The mighty vines, that round 
 The forest trunks their slender branches bind, 
 Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground, 
 
 Swing naked in the wind. 
 
 Some living green remains 
 By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ; 
 But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains, 
 
 And the bright flowers are gone. 
 
 But these, these are thy charms — 
 Mild airs and temper'd light upon the lea; 
 And the year holds no time within its arms 
 
 That doth resemble thee. 
 
 The sunny noon is thine, 
 Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night ; 
 And hues that in the fiush'd horizon shine 
 
 At eve and early light. 
 
 The year's last, loveliest smile, 
 Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, 
 And strengthen it to bear the storms a while, 
 
 Till winter days depart. 
 
 O'er the wide plains, that lie 
 A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread, 
 And nightly on the dark walls of the sky 
 
 A ruddy brightness shed. 
 
 Far in a shelter'd nook 
 I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, 
 A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, 
 
 At the quiet noontides' hour : 
 
 And something told my mind, 
 That, should old age to childhood call me back, 
 Some sunny days and flowers I still might find 
 
 Along life's weary track. 
 
 THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT. 
 
 "And I went and washed, and I received sight."- 
 John ix. 11. 
 
 When the great Master spoke, 
 
 He touch'd his wither'd eyes, 
 And at one gleam upon him broke 
 
 The glad earth and the skies. 
 
 And he saw the city's walls, 
 And kings' and prophets' tomb, 
 
 And mighty arches, and vaulted halls, 
 And the temple's lofty dome. 
 
 He look'd on the river's flood, 
 And the flash of mountain rills, 
 
 And the gentle wave of the palms that stood 
 Upon Judea's hills. 
 
 He saw on heights and. plains 
 
 Creatures of every race : 
 But a mighty thrill ran through his veins 
 
 When he met the human face ; 
 
 And his virgin sight beheld 
 
 The ruddy glow of even. 
 And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd 
 
 The azure depths of heaven. 
 
 And woman's voice before 
 
 Had cheer'd his gloomy night, 
 But to see the angel form she wore 
 
 Made deeper the delight. 
 
 And his heart, at daylight's close, 
 For the bright world where he trod, 
 
 And when the yellow morning rose, 
 Gave speechless thanks to God. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thetie is a magic in the moon's mild ray, — 
 What time she softly climbs the evening sky, 
 And sitteth with the silent stars on high, — 
 That charms the pang of earth-born grief away 
 I raise my eye to the blue depths above, 
 
 And worship Him whose power, pervading space, 
 Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace, 
 Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. 
 Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, 
 I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, 
 When time with graver lines has mark'd my 
 Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, 
 O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, 
 Shine on my eve of life — shine soft, and long abide. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far 
 To a wild hill, that overlooks a land 
 
 Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star 
 
 Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand 
 
 The streamlet slides with mellow tones away ; 
 
 The west is crimson with retiring day ; 
 
 And the north gleams with its own native light. 
 Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie, 
 And through green banks the river wanders by, 
 
 And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright: 
 
 Bright — but of fading brightness ! — soon is past 
 That dream-like glory of the painted wood ; 
 
 And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast, 
 
 The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good. 
 
N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 [Bom, 1807.] 
 
 Nathaniel P. Willis was born at Portland, 
 in Maine, on the twentieth day of January, 1807. 
 During his childhood his parents removed to Bos- 
 ton ; and at the Latin school in that city, and at 
 the Philips Academy in Andover, he pursued his 
 studies until he entered Yale College, in 1823. 
 While he resided at New Haven, as a student, he 
 won a high reputation, for so young an author, by 
 a series of " Scripture Sketches," and a few other 
 brief poems ; and it is supposed that the warm and 
 too indiscriminate praises bestowed upon these pro- 
 ductions, influenced unfavourably his subsequent 
 progress in the poetic art. He was graduated in 
 1827, and in the following year he published a 
 "Poem delivered before the Society of United 
 Brothers of Brown University," which, as well as 
 his " Sketches," issued soon after he left college, 
 was very favourably noticed in the best periodicals 
 of the time. He also edited "The Token," a well- 
 known annuary, for 1828; and about the same 
 period published, in several volumes, "The Le- 
 gendary," and established "The American Month- 
 ly Magazine." To this periodical several young 
 writers, who afterward became distinguished, were 
 contributors ; but the articles by its editor, consti- 
 tuting a large portion of each number, gave to 
 the work its character, and were of all its contents 
 the most popular. In 1830 it was united to the 
 "New York Mirror," of which Mr. Willis be- 
 came one of the conductors ; and he soon after 
 sailed for Europe, to be absent several years. 
 
 He travelled over Great Britain, and the most 
 interesting portions of the continent, mixing largely 
 in society, and visiting every thing worthy of his 
 regard as a man of taste, or as an American ; and 
 his " First Impressions" were given in his letters to 
 the " Mirror," in which he described, with remark- 
 able spirit and fidelity, and in a style peculiarly 
 graceful and elegant, scenery and incidents, and 
 social life among the polite classes in Europe. His 
 letters were collected and republished in London, 
 under the title of " Pencillings by the Way," and 
 violently attacked in several of the leading periodi- 
 cals, ostensibly on account of their too great free- 
 dom of personal detail. Captain Marryat, who 
 was at the time editing a monthly magazine, wrote 
 an article, characteristically gross and malignant, 
 which led to a hostile meeting at Chatham, and Mr. 
 Lockhart, in the "Quarterly Review," published 
 a " criticism" alike illiberal and unfair. Mr. 
 Willis perhaps erred in giving to the public 
 dinner-table conversations, and some of his de- 
 scriptions of manners ; but Captain Marryat 
 himself is not undeserving of censure on account 
 of the " personalities" in his writings ; and for 
 other reasons he could not have been the most 
 suitable person in England to avenge the wrong 
 it was alleged Mr. Willis had offered to soci- 
 ety. That the author of " Peter's Letters to 
 
 his Kinsfolk," a work which is filled with far 
 more reprehensible personal allusions than are 
 to be found in the " Pencillings," should have 
 ventured to attack the work on this ground, may 
 excite surprise among those who have not ob- 
 served that the " Quarterly Review" is spoken of 
 with little reverence in the letters of the American 
 traveller. 
 
 In 1835 Mr. Willis was married in England. 
 He soon after published his " Inklings of Adven- 
 ture," a collection of tales and sketches originally 
 written for a London magazine, under the signature 
 of "Philip Slingsby;" and in 1837 he returned 
 to the United States, and retired to his beautiful 
 estate on the Susquehanna, named "Glenmary," 
 in compliment to one of the most admirable wives 
 that ever gladdened a poet's solitude. In the early 
 part of 1839, he became one of the editors of " The 
 Corsair," a literary gazette, and in the autumn of 
 that year went again to London, where, in the 
 following winter, he published his " Loiterings of 
 Travel," in three volumes, and "Two Ways of 
 Dying for a Husband," comprising the plays " Bi- 
 anca Visconti," and "Tortesa the Usurer." In 
 1840 appeared the illustrated edition of his poems, 
 and his " Letters from Under a Bridge," and he 
 retired a second time to his seat in western New 
 York. The deathof Mrs. Willis, in 1843, caused 
 him to revisit England, where he published a col- 
 lection of his magazine papers, under the title of 
 " Dashes at Life, with a Free Pencil." In October, 
 1846, he married a daughter of Mr. Grinnell, a 
 distinguished citizen of Massachusetts, and has 
 since resided at Idlewild, near Newburgh, on the 
 Hudson, a romantic place, which he has cultivated 
 and embellished until it is one of the most charming 
 homes which illustrate the rural life of our country. 
 Here, except during a " Health Trip to the Tropics," 
 in the winter of 1851 and 1852, he has passed his 
 time, in the preparation of new editions of his ear- 
 lier works, and in writing every week more or less 
 for the "Home Journal," in which he is again 
 successfully engaged with his old friend General 
 Morris as an editor. 
 
 Although Mr. Willis is one of the most popular 
 of our poets, the fame he has acquired in other 
 works has so eclipsed that won by his poems that 
 the most appropriate place for a consideration of his 
 genius seemed to be in "The Prose Writers of 
 America," and in that volume I have therefore at- 
 tempted his proper characterization. A man of wit, 
 kindly temper, and elegant tastes — somewhat arti- 
 ficial in their more striking displays — with a voca- 
 bulary of unusual richness in all the elements which 
 are most essential for the picturesque and dramatic 
 treatment of a peculiar vein of sentiment, and a 
 corresponding observation of society and nature, it 
 must be admitted that he is a word-painter of extra- 
 ordinary skill and marked individuality. 
 
 371 
 
372 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 MELANIE. 
 
 I stood on yonder rocky brow,* 
 And marvell'd at the Sybil's fane, 
 
 When I was not what I am now. 
 My life was then untouch'd of pain ; 
 
 And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair, 
 My spirit freshen'd in the sky, 
 
 And all things that were true and fan- 
 Lay closely to my loving eye, ' 
 
 With nothing shadowy between — 
 
 I was a boy of seventeen. 
 
 Yon wondrous temple crests the rock, 
 As light upon its giddy base, 
 
 As stirless with the torrent's shock, 
 As pure in its proportion'd grace, 
 
 And seems a thing of air, as then, 
 
 Afloat above this fairy glen ; 
 
 But though mine eye will kindle still 
 
 In looking on the shapes of art, 
 The link is lost that sent the thrill, 
 
 Like lightning, instant to my heart. 
 
 And thus may break, before we die, 
 
 The electric chain 'twixt soul and eye ! 
 
 Ten years — like yon bright valley, sown 
 
 Alternately with weeds and flowers — 
 Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown, 
 
 And still I loved the rosy hours ; 
 And if there lurk'd within my breast 
 
 Some nerve that had been overstrung 
 And quiver'd in my hours of rest, 
 
 Like bells by their own echo rung, 
 I was with Hope a masker yet, 
 
 And well could hide the look of sadness, 
 And, if my heart would not forget, 
 
 I knew, at least, the trick of gladness, 
 And when another sang the strain, 
 I mingled in the old refrain. 
 
 'Twere idle to remember now, 
 
 Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. 
 I bear beneath this alter'd brow 
 
 The ashes of a thousand dreams : 
 Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers, 
 
 Some colour'd of Love's pencil well, 
 But none of which a shadow lingers, 
 
 And none whose story I could tell. 
 Enough, that when I climb'd again 
 
 To Tivoli's romantic steep, 
 Life had no joy, and scarce a pain, 
 
 Whose wells I had not tasted deep ; 
 And from my lips the thirst had pass'd 
 For every fount save one — the sweetest — and the 
 last. 
 The last — the last ! My friends were dead, 
 
 Or false ; my mother in her grave ; 
 Above my father's honour'd head 
 
 The sea had lock'd its hiding wave ; 
 Ambition had but foil'd my grasp, 
 And Love had perish'd in my clasp ; 
 
 * The story is told during a walk around the Casca- 
 telles of Tivoli. 
 
 And still, I say, I did not slack 
 My love of life, and hope of pleasure, 
 
 But gather' d my affections back ; 
 And, as the miser hugs his treasure, 
 
 When plague and ruin bid him flee, 
 I closer clung to mine — my loved, lost Meiaktie ! 
 
 The last of the De Brevebh race, 
 
 My sister claim'd no kinsman's care ; 
 And, looking from each other's face, 
 
 The eye stole upward unaware — 
 For there was naught whereon to lean 
 Each other's heart and heaven between — 
 
 Yet that was world enough for me, 
 And, for a brief, but blessed while, 
 
 There seem'd no care for Melanie, 
 If she could see her brother smile ; 
 
 But life, with her, was at the flow, 
 And every wave went sparkling higher, 
 
 While mine was ebbing, fast and low, 
 From the same shore of vain desire, 
 
 And knew I, with prophetic heart, 
 That we were wearing aye insensibly apart. 
 
 We came to Italy. I felt 
 
 A yearning for its sunny sky; 
 My very spirit seem'd to melt 
 
 As swept its first warm breezes by. 
 From lip and cheek a chilling mist, 
 
 From life and soul a frozen rime 
 By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd : 
 
 God's blessing on its radiant clime ! 
 It was an endless joy to me 
 
 To see my sister's new delight ; 
 From Venice, in its golden sea, 
 
 To Pactum, in its purple light, 
 By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills, 
 
 In Vallombrosa's convent gloom, 
 Mid Terni's vale of singing rills, 
 
 By deathless lairs in solemn Rome, 
 In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell," 
 At Arethusa's hidden well, 
 
 We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun, 
 That slept so lovingly on all, 
 
 And made a home of every one — 
 Ruin, and fane, and waterfall — 
 
 And crown'd the dying day with glory, 
 If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of 
 story. 
 
 We came, with spring, to Tivoli. 
 
 My sister loved its laughing air 
 And merry waters, though, for me, 
 My heart was in another key ; 
 
 And sometimes I could scarcely bear 
 The mirth of their eternal play, 
 
 And, like a child that longs for home, 
 When weary of its holiday, 
 
 I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. 
 Perhaps — the fancy haunts me still — 
 'Twas but a boding sense of ill. 
 
 It was a morn, of such a day 
 
 As might have dawn'd on Eden first, 
 
 Early in the Italian May. 
 
 Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, 
 
N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 373 
 
 And, on the burden of the air, 
 
 The breath of buds came faint and rare ; 
 
 And, far in the transparent sky, 
 The small, earth-keeping birds were seen, 
 
 Soaring deliriously high ; 
 And through the clefts of newer green 
 
 Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ; 
 And, with a gayer smile and bow, 
 
 Troop'd on the merry village-girls ; 
 And, from the Contadina's brow, 
 
 The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown, 
 
 With air that scarcely seem'd his own ; 
 And Melanie, with lips apart, 
 
 And clasped hands upon my arm, 
 Flung open her impassion'd heart, 
 
 And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, 
 And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, 
 And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling 
 hours. 
 
 In happiness and idleness 
 
 We wander'd down yon sunny vale, — 
 O, mocking eyes ! a golden tress 
 
 Floats back upon this summer gale ! 
 A foot is tripping on the grass ! 
 
 A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! 
 I see a bounding shadow pass ! — 
 
 O, God ! my sister once was here ! 
 Come with me, friend; — we rested yon; 
 
 There grew a flower she pluck' d and wore ; 
 She sat upon this mossy stone ! 
 
 That broken fountain, running o'er 
 With the same ring, like silver bells ; 
 
 She listen'd to its babbling flow, 
 And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells 
 
 Some fountain nymph's love-story now!" 
 And, as her laugh rang clear and wild, 
 A youth — a painter — pass'd and smiled. 
 
 He gave the greeting of the morn 
 
 With voice that linger'd in mine ear. 
 I knew him sad and gentle born 
 
 By those two words, so calm and clear. 
 His frame was slight, his forehead high, 
 
 And swept by threads of raven hair ; 
 The fire of thought was in his eye, 
 
 And he was pale and marble fair; 
 And Grecian chisel never caught 
 The soul in those slight features wrought. 
 
 I watch'd his graceful step of pride, 
 Till hidden by yon leaning tree, 
 
 And loved him e'er the echo died : 
 And so, alas ! did Melanie ! 
 
 We sat and watch'd the fount a while 
 In silence, but our thoughts were one ; 
 
 And then arose, and, with a smile 
 Of sympathy, we saunter'd on ; 
 
 And she by sudden fits was gay, 
 
 And then her laughter died away; 
 And, in this changefulness of mood, 
 
 Forgotten now those May-day spells, 
 We turn'd where Varro's villa stood, 
 
 And, gazing on the Cascatelles, 
 
 (Whose hurrying waters, wild and white, 
 Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,) 
 
 I chanced to turn my eyes away, 
 
 And, lo ! upon a bank alone, 
 The youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! 
 
 His pencils on the grass were thrown, 
 And by his side a sketch was flung, 
 
 And near him as I lightly crept, 
 
 To see the picture as he slept, 
 Upon his feet he lightly sprung ; 
 
 And, gazing with a wild surprise 
 Upon the face of Melanie, 
 
 He said — and dropp'd his earnest eyes — 
 "Forgive me ! but I dream'd of thee !" 
 
 His sketch, the while, was in my hand, 
 And, for the lines I look'd to trace — 
 
 A torrent by a palace spann'd, 
 
 Half-classic and half-fairy-land — 
 I only found — my sister's face ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Our life was changed. Another love 
 
 In its lone woof began to twine ; 
 But, ah ! the golden thread was wove 
 
 Between my sister's heart and mine ! 
 She who had lived for me before — 
 
 She who had smiled for me alone — 
 Would live and smile for me no more ! 
 
 The echo to my heart was gone ! 
 It seem'd to me the very skies 
 Had shone through those averted eyes ; 
 
 The air had breathed of balm — the flower 
 Of radiant beauty seem'd to be 
 
 But as she loved them, hour by hour, 
 And murmur'd of that love to me ! 
 O, though it be so heavenly high 
 The selfishness of earth above, 
 That, of the watchers in the sky, 
 
 He sleeps who guards a brother's love — 
 Though to a sister's present weal — 
 The deep devotion far transcends 
 The utmost that the soul can feel 
 For even its own higher ends — 
 Though next to God, and more than heaven 
 For his own sake, he loves her, even — 
 
 'T is difficult to see another, 
 A passing stranger of a day, 
 
 Who never hath been friend or brother, 
 Pluck with a look her heart away, — 
 
 To see the fair, unsullied brow, 
 Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, 
 
 Upon a stranger's bosom now, 
 Who for the boon took little care, 
 
 Who is enrich'd, he knows not why ; 
 Who suddenly hath found a treasure 
 
 Golconda were too poor to buy ; 
 And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, 
 (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, 
 The unconscious idol happier seem,) 
 
 'T is difficult at once to crush 
 The rebel mourner in the breast, 
 
 To press the heart to earth, and hush 
 Its bitter jealousy to rest, — 
 
 And difficult — the eye gets dim — 
 The lip wants power to smile on him ! 
 
 I thank sweet Mart Mother now, 
 
 Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, 
 
374 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow 
 With sunshine that my heart belied. 
 
 I never spoke of wealth or race, 
 
 To one who ask'd so much of me, — 
 
 I look'd but in my sister's face, 
 
 And mused if she would happier be ; 
 
 And, hour by hour, and day by day, 
 I loved the gentle painter more, 
 And in the same soft measure wore 
 
 My selfish jealousy away ; 
 
 And I began to watch his mood, 
 
 And feel, with her, love's trembling care, 
 And bade God bless him as he woo'd 
 
 That loving girl, so fond and fair, 
 
 And on my mind would sometimes press 
 A fear that she might love him less. 
 
 But Meiaitie — I little dream'd 
 
 What spells the stirring heart may move — 
 Pygmalion's statue never seem'd 
 
 More changed with life, than she with love. 
 The pearl-tint of the early dawn 
 
 Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue ; 
 The meek, moss-folded bud of morn 
 
 Flung open to the light and dew; 
 The first and half-seen star of even 
 Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven — 
 
 Similitudes perchance may be ; 
 But these are changes oftener seen, 
 
 And do not image half to me 
 My sister's change of face and mien. 
 
 'Twas written in her very air, 
 
 That love had pass'd and enter'd there. 
 
 A calm and lovely paradise 
 
 Is Italy, for minds at ease. 
 The sadness of its sunny skies 
 
 Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
 The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, 
 
 The broken column, vast and prone- 
 It may be joy, it may be pain, 
 
 Amid such wrecks to walk alone ; 
 The saddest man will sadder be, 
 
 The gentlest lover gentler there, 
 As if, whate'er the spirit's key, 
 
 It strengthen'd in that solemn air. 
 
 The heart soon grows to mournful things ; 
 
 And Italy has not a breeze 
 But comes on melancholy wings ; 
 
 And even her majestic trees 
 Stand ghost-like in the Cjesaii's home, 
 
 As if their conscious roots were set 
 In the old graves of giant Rome, 
 
 And drew their sap all kingly yet ! 
 And every stone your feet beneath 
 
 Is broken from some mighty thought, 
 And sculptures m the dust still breathe 
 
 The fire with which their lines were wrought, 
 And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb 
 Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!" 
 
 Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount 
 
 The ivy flings its emerald veil. 
 And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, 
 
 And light-sprung arches span the dale, 
 
 And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, 
 
 The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, 
 While climb his goats the giddy paths 
 
 To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; 
 And gracefully Albano's hill 
 
 Curves into the horizon's line, 
 And sweetly sings that classic rill, 
 
 And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; 
 And here, O, many a sultry noon 
 And starry eve, that happy June, 
 
 Came Angelo and Melanie, 
 And earth for us was all in tune — 
 For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd 
 apart with me ! 
 
 v. 
 
 I shrink from the embitter'd close 
 
 Of my own melancholy tale. 
 'T is long since I have waked my woes — 
 
 And nerve and voice together fail ! 
 The throb beats faster at my brow, 
 
 My brain feels warm with starting tears, 
 And I shall weep — but heed not thou ! 
 
 'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years. 
 The heart transfix'd — worn out with grief — 
 Will turn the arrow for relief. 
 The painter was a child of shame ! 
 
 It stirr'd my pride to know it first, 
 For I had question'd but his name, 
 
 And thought, alas ! I knew the worst, 
 Believing him unknown and poor. 
 His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; 
 
 A high-born Conti was his mother, 
 But, though he knew one parent's face, 
 
 He never had beheld the other, 
 Nor knew his country or his race. 
 
 The Roman hid his daughter's shame 
 Within St. Mona's convent wall, 
 
 And gave the boy a painter's name — 
 And little else to live withal ! 
 
 And, with a noble's high desires 
 Forever mounting in his heart, 
 
 The boy consumed with hidden fires, 
 But wrought in silence at his art ; 
 
 And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, 
 Worn thin with penance harsh and long, 
 
 He saw his mother's form divine, 
 And loved her for their mutual wrong. 
 I said my pride was stirr'd — but no ! 
 
 The voice that told its bitter tale 
 Was touch'd so mournfully with wo, 
 
 And, as he ceased, all deathly pale, 
 He loosed the hand of Melanie, 
 And gazed so gaspingly on me — 
 
 The demon in my bosom died ! 
 « Not thine," I said, " another's guilt ; 
 
 I break no hearts for silly pride ; 
 So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 St. Mona's morning mass was done ; 
 
 The shrine-lamps struggled with the day ; 
 And, rising slowly, one by one, 
 
 Stole the last worshippers away. 
 The organist play'd out the hymn, 
 
 The incense, to St. Mauy swung. 
 
N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 375 
 
 Had mounted to the cherubim, 
 
 Or to the pillars thinly clung ; 
 And boyish chorister replaced 
 
 The missal that was read no more, 
 And closed, with half-irreverent haste, 
 
 Confessional and chancel-door ; 
 And as, through aisle and oriel pane, 
 
 The sun wore round his slanting beam, 
 The dying martyr stirr'd again, 
 
 And warriors battled in its gleam ; 
 And costly tomb and sculptured knight 
 Show'd warm and wondrous in the light. 
 
 I have not said that Melange 
 Was radiantly fair — 
 
 This earth again may never see 
 A loveliness so rare ! 
 
 She glided up St. Mona's aisle 
 That morning as a bride, 
 
 And, full as was my heart the while, 
 I bless'd her in my pride ! 
 The fountain may not fail the less 
 
 Whose sands are golden ore, 
 And a sister for her loveliness 
 
 May not be loved the more ; 
 But as, the fount's full heart beneath, 
 
 Those golden sparkles shine, 
 My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe 
 
 Its brightness over mine ! 
 St. Mona has a chapel dim 
 
 Within the altar's fretted pale, 
 Where faintly comes the swelling hymn, 
 
 And dies, half-lost, the anthem's wail. 
 And here, in twilight meet for prayer, 
 
 A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine, 
 And Raphael's Mart, soft and fair, 
 
 Looks down with sweetness half-divine, 
 And here St. Mona's nuns alway 
 Through latticed bars are seen to pray. 
 
 Ave and sacrament were o'er, 
 
 And Ajtgelo and Melastie 
 Still knelt the holy shrine before ; 
 
 But prayer, that morn, was not for me ! 
 My heart was lock'd ! The lip might stir, 
 
 The frame might agonize — and yet, 
 
 Gob ! I could not pray for her ! 
 A seal upon my soul was set — 
 
 My brow was hot — my brain opprest — 
 And fiends seem'd muttering round, "Your bridal 
 is unblest !" 
 With forehead to the lattice laid, 
 
 And thin, white fingers straining through, 
 A nun the while had softly pray'd. 
 
 O, e'en in prayer that voice I knew! 
 Each faltering word, each mournful tone, 
 
 Each pleading cadence, half-suppress'd— 
 Such music had its like alone 
 
 On lips that stole it at her breast ! 
 And ere the orison was done 
 
 1 loved the mother as the son ! 
 
 And now, the marriage-vow to hear, 
 
 The nun unveil'd her brow ; 
 When, sudden, to my startled ear, 
 There crept a whisper, hoarse, like fear, 
 
 "De Brevern! is it thou!" 
 
 The priest let fall the golden ring, 
 
 The bridegroom stood aghast ; 
 While, like some wierd and frantic thing, 
 
 The nun was muttering fast ; 
 And as, in dread, I nearer drew, 
 She thrust her arms the lattice through, 
 And held me to her straining view; 
 
 But suddenly begun 
 To steal upon her brain a light, 
 That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight, 
 And, with a mouth all ashy white, 
 
 She shriek'd, " It is his son ! 
 The bridegroom is thy blood — thy brother! 
 Rodolph de Breyern ivrong'd Ms mother!" 
 
 And, as that doom of love was heard, 
 My sister sunk, and died, without a sign or word ! 
 
 I shed no tear for her. She died 
 
 With her last sunshine in her eyes. 
 Earth held for her no joy beside 
 
 The hope just shatter'd, -and she lies 
 In a green nook of yonder dell ; 
 
 And near her, in a newer bed, 
 Her lover — brother — sleeps as well ! 
 
 Peace to the broken-hearted dead ! 
 
 THE CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 On ocean many a weary night, 
 When heaved the long and sullen sea, 
 
 With only waves and stars in sight. 
 We stole along by isles of balm, 
 
 We furl'd before the coming gale, 
 We slept amid the breathless calm, 
 
 We flew beneath the straining sail, — 
 But thou wert lost for years to me, 
 And day and night I thought of thee ! 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In France, amid the gay saloon, 
 Where eyes as dark as eyes may be 
 
 Are many as the leaves in June : 
 Where life is love, and e'en the air 
 
 Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, 
 And song, and dance, and music are 
 
 With one warm meaning only fraught, 
 My half-snared heart broke lightly free, 
 And, with a blush, I thought of thee ! 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Florence, where the fiery hearts 
 Of Italy are breathed away 
 
 In wonders of the deathless arts ; 
 Where strays the Contadina, down 
 
 Val d' Arno, with song of old ; 
 Where clime and women seldom frown, 
 
 And life runs over sands of gold ; 
 I stray'd to lonely Fiesole, 
 On many an eve, and thought of thee- 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 In Rome, when, on the Palatine, 
 
 Night left the Cesar's palace free 
 To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; 
 
376 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 Or, on the Coliseum's wall, 
 
 When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, 
 Keclining, with a thought of all 
 
 That o'er this scene hath come and gone, 
 The shades of Rome would start and flee 
 Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Vallombrosa's holy shade, 
 Where nobles born the friars be, 
 
 By life's rude changes humbler made. 
 Here Milton framed his Paradise ; 
 
 I slept within his very cell ; 
 And, as I closed my weary eyes, 
 
 I thought the cowl would fit me well ; 
 The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, 
 Of heart's-ease — but I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Venice, on a night in June; 
 When, through the city of the sea, 
 
 Like dust of silver, slept the moon. 
 Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier, 
 
 And, as the black barks glided by, 
 The water, to my leaning ear, 
 
 Bore back the lover's passing sigh ; 
 It was no place alone to be, 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In the Ionian isles, when straying 
 With wise Ulysses by the sea, 
 
 Old Homee's songs around me playing; 
 Or, watching the bewitch'd caique, 
 
 That o'er the star-lit waters flew, 
 I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, 
 
 Who sung the song that Sappho knew: 
 The poet's spell, the bark, the sea, 
 All vanish'd as I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Greece, when rose the Parthenon 
 Majestic o'er the Egean sea, 
 
 And heroes with it, one by one ; 
 When, in the grove of Academe, 
 
 Where Lais and Leontium stray'd 
 Discussing Plato's mystic theme, 
 
 I lay at noontide in the shade — 
 The Egean wind, the whispering tree 
 Had voices — and I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Asia, on the Dardanelles, 
 Where, swiftly as the waters flee, 
 
 Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
 And, seated by the marble tank 
 
 Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, 
 (The fount where peerless Helen drank, 
 
 And Venus laved her locks of gold,) 
 I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, 
 Yet oven here I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, 
 
 All palace-lined from sea to sea: 
 
 And ever on its shores the daughters 
 
 Of the delicious east are seen, 
 
 Prinling the brink with slipper'd feet, 
 
 And, O, the snowy folds between, 
 
 What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! 
 Peris of light no fairer be, 
 Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee. 
 
 I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee, 
 
 Through change that teaches to forget ; 
 Thy face looks up from every sea, 
 
 In every star thine eyes are set. 
 Though roving beneath orient skies, 
 
 Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, 
 I envy every bird that flies 
 
 Into the far and clouded west ; 
 I think of thee — I think of thee ! 
 O, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ! 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 Bright flag at yonder tapering mast, 
 Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
 And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! 
 
 Strain home ! lithe and quivering spars ! 
 
 Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 
 
 The wind blows fair, the vessel feels 
 
 The pressure of the rising breeze, 
 And, swiftest of a thousand keels, 
 
 She leaps to the careering seas ! 
 O, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, 
 
 In whose white breast I seem to lie, 
 How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 
 
 I've seen your semblance in the sky, 
 And long'd, with breaking heart, to flee 
 On such white pinions o'er the sea ! 
 
 Adieu, lands of fame and eld ! 
 
 I turn to watch our foamy track, 
 And thoughts with which I first beheld 
 
 Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; 
 My lips are dry with vague desire, 
 
 My cheek once more is hot with joy ; 
 My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! 
 
 O, what has changed that traveller-boy ! 
 As leaves the ship this dying foam, [home ! 
 His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds 
 
 Adieu, soft and southern shore, 
 
 Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven ; 
 Those forms of beauty, seen no more, 
 
 Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! 
 O, still the enamour'd sun delays, 
 
 And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
 To win to his adoring gaze 
 
 Those children of the sky again ! 
 Irradiate beauty, such as never 
 
 That light on other earth hath shone, 
 Hath made this land her home forever ; 
 
 And, could I live for this alone, 
 Were not my birthright brighter far 
 
 Than such voluptuous slave's can be ; 
 Held not the west one glorious star, 
 
 New-born and blazing for the free, 
 Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet, 
 Rome, with her helot sons, should teach me to forget ! 
 
N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 377 
 
 Adieu, O, fatherland ! I see 
 
 Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, 
 And, though to freer skies I flee, 
 
 My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! 
 As knows the dove the task you give her, 
 
 When loosed upon a foreign shore ; 
 As spreads the rain-drop in the river 
 
 In which it may have flow'd before— 
 To England, over vale and mountain, 
 
 My fancy flew from climes more fair, 
 My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 
 
 Ran warm and fast in England's air. 
 
 My mother ! in thy prayer to-night 
 
 There come new words and warmer tears ! 
 On long, long darkness breaks the light, 
 
 Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
 Sleep safe, wave-worn mariner, 
 
 Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
 The ear of Heaven bends low to her ! 
 
 He comes to shore who sails with me ! 
 The wind-toss'd spider needs no token 
 
 How stands the tree when lightnings blaze: 
 And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 
 
 I know my mother lives and prays ! 
 
 Dear mother ! when our lips can speak, 
 
 When first our tears will let us see, 
 When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 
 
 And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 
 'T will be a pastime little sad 
 
 To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
 Upon each other's forms have had ; 
 
 For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! 
 But there's a change, beloved mother, 
 
 To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
 I come — but with me comes another, 
 
 To share the heart once only mine ! 
 Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 
 
 One star arose in memory's heaven ; 
 Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only, 
 
 Water'd one flower with tears at even : 
 Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 
 
 Is darken'd to make light to ours ! 
 There are bright flowers of care bereft, 
 
 And hearts that languish more than flowers ; 
 She was their light, their very air — [prayer! 
 Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The Spring is here, the delicate-footed May, 
 With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers ; 
 
 And with it comes a thirst to be away, 
 
 Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours ; 
 
 A feeling that is like a sense of wings, 
 
 Restless to soar above these perishing things. 
 
 We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
 To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 
 
 And nature, that is beautiful and dutub, 
 Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods ; 
 
 Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, 
 
 To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 
 
 Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, 
 The waters tripping with their silver feet, 
 
 The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
 And the light whisper as their edges meet: 
 
 Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 
 
 The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 
 
 There's no contentment in a world like this, 
 Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 
 
 We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
 
 That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; 
 
 Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye 
 
 And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 
 
 TO ERMENGARDE. 
 
 I K?row not if the sunshine waste, 
 
 The world is dark since thou art gone ! 
 The hours are, O ! so leaden-paced ! 
 
 The birds sing, and the stars float on, 
 But sing not well, and look not fair; 
 A weight is in the summer air, 
 
 And sadness in the sight of flowers ; 
 And if I go where others smile, 
 
 Their love but makes me think of ours, 
 And Heaven gets my heart the while. 
 Like one upon a desert isle, 
 
 I languish of the dreary hours ; 
 I never thought a life could be 
 So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! 
 
 I sit and watch the summer sky : 
 
 There comes a cloud through heaven alone; 
 A thousand stars are shining nigh, 
 
 It feels no light, but darkles on ! 
 Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, 
 
 And, flashing through its fringe of snow, 
 There steals a rosier dye, and soon 
 
 Its bosom is one fiery glow ! 
 The queen of life within it lies, 
 
 Yet mark how lovers meet to part: 
 The cloud already onward flies, 
 
 And shadows sink into its heart ; 
 And (dost thou see them where thou art?) 
 
 Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
 Its light, like mine, is seen no more, 
 And, like my own, its heart seems darker than 
 before. 
 
 Where press, this hour, those fairy feet ? 
 
 Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue ? 
 What music in thine ear is sweet ? 
 
 What odour breathes thy lattice through? 
 What word is on thy lip ? What tone, 
 What look, replying to thine own ? 
 Thy steps along the Danube stray, 
 
 Alas, it seeks an orient sea ! 
 Thou wouldst not seem so far away, 
 
 Flow'd but its waters back to me ! 
 I bless the slowly-coming moon, 
 
 Because its eye look'd late in thine ; 
 I envy the west wind of June, 
 
 Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine; 
 The flower I press upon my brow 
 Were sweeter if its like perfume I thy chambernow. 
 
875 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
 And every thing that bendeth to the. dew, 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow; and the light, 
 And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad 
 To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, 
 And the young birds were singing, as if life 
 Were a new thing to them ; but, ! it came 
 Upon her heart like discord, and she felt 
 How cruelly it tries a broken heart, 
 To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
 She stood at Abraham's tent Her lips were press'd 
 Till the 1)1 ood started ; and the wandering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, 
 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
 Which made its language legible, shot back 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
 Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
 Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, 
 Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up 
 Into his mother's face, until he caught 
 The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
 Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form 
 Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
 As if his light proportions would have swell'd, 
 Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his staff so wearily 1 His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and on his high brow, 
 So written with the converse of his God, 
 Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
 His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
 Of vigour is not there ; and, though the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 O, man may bear with suffering: his heart 
 Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp 
 Of pain, that wrings mortality; but tear 
 One chord affection clings to, part one tie 
 That binds him to a woman's delicate love, 
 And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. 
 
 He gave to her the water and the bread, 
 But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
 To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
 In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, 
 And left her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, 
 And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
 Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? 
 O, no ! by all her loveliness, by all 
 That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
 By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness, — yet give 
 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 
 An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
 
 But, ! estrange her once — it boots not how — 
 
 By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
 
 A change has come upon your tenderness — 
 
 And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
 
 Her pride o'ermastereth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step and slow ; 
 Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, 
 As it had been a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd 
 His hand till it was pain'd : for he had caught, 
 As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
 The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
 She kept her weary way, until the boy 
 Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips 
 For water; but she could not give it him. 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue e} T es 
 Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know 
 Why God denied him water in the wild. 
 She sat a little longer, and he grew 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
 And bore him further on, and laid his head 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub; 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd : 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy brow to look, 
 And see death settle on my cradle-joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 " I did not dream of this when thou wert straying, 
 Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 
 
 Or wearing rosy hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 
 So beautiful and deep. 
 
 « 0, no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
 How pray'd I that my father's land might be 
 
 An heritage for thee ! 
 
 "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, 
 And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; 
 
 And, O ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair!" 
 
N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 879 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laugh'd 
 In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd 
 His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
 Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 WHILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A FIRST CHILD, BORN DEAD. 
 
 Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven! 
 Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, 
 0, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
 But, lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
 Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
 From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
 Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
 The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
 Held as a welcome to her. Weep, 0, mother ! 
 But not that from this cup of bitterness 
 A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 
 
 One look upon her face ere she depart ! 
 My daughter ! it is soon to let thee go ! 
 My daughter ! with thy birth has gush'd a spring 
 I knew not of: filling my heart with tears, 
 And turning with strange tenderness to thee ! 
 A love — O, God, it seems so — which must flow 
 Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me, 
 Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain, 
 Drawing me after thee ! And so farewell ! 
 'T is a harsh world in which affection knows 
 No place to treasure up its loved and lost 
 But the lone grave ! Thou, who so late was sleeping 
 Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, 
 Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving, 
 But it was sent thee with some tender thought — 
 How can I leave thee here ! Alas, for man ! 
 The herb in its humility may fall, 
 And waste into the bright and genial air, 
 While we, by hands that minister'd in life 
 Nothing but love to us, are thrust away, 
 The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms, 
 And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 
 
 Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
 A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
 And thought how little it would seem like death 
 To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook 
 Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
 That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on, 
 Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
 The birds are never silent that build here, 
 Trying to sing down the more vocal waters ; 
 The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers ; 
 And, far below, seen under arching leaves, 
 Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
 Pointing the living after thee. And this 
 Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now 
 The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
 To whisper the same peace to her who lies 
 Robb'd of her child, and lonely. 'T is the work 
 Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
 To bring the heart back from an infant gone ! 
 Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
 Its imajres from all the silent rooms, 
 
 And every sight and sound familiar to her 
 
 Undo its sweetest link ; and so, at last, 
 
 The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever, 
 
 Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
 
 Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
 
 Wakens its buds above thee, we will come, 
 
 And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
 
 Look on each other cheerfully, and say, 
 
 A child that we have loved is gone to heaven, 
 
 And hy this gate of flowers she pass'd away ! 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there, 
 Out and in with the morning air ; 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, 
 And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 
 'T is a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There 's a human look in its swelling breast, 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 
 Chime of the hour, or funeral knell — 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, 
 When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
 When the child is waked with " nine at night," 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
 He takes the time to smoothe his breast, 
 Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
 With winsrs to fly to wood and glen ! 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
 Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar, 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
 Canst smoothe thy feathers on thy breast, 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that, in such wings of gold, 
 I could my weary heart upfold ; 
 I would I could look down unmoved, 
 (Unloving as I am unloved,) 
 And, while the world throngs on beneath, 
 Smoothe down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
 And never sad with others' sadness, 
 And never glad with others' gladness, 
 Listen, unstirr'd, to knell or chime, 
 And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time, 
 
380 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 "A vinlet by a mossy stone, 
 H:ilf-hid(ien from the eye, 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 I hate found violets. April hath come on, 
 And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain 
 Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. 
 You may hear birds at morning, and at eve 
 The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, 
 Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in 
 His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills, 
 A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea, 
 Tells the release of waters, and the earth 
 Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves 
 Are lifted by the grass ; and so I know 
 That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard 
 The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. 
 Take of my violets ! I found them where 
 The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank 
 That lean'd to running water. There's to me 
 A daintiness about these early flowers, 
 That touches me like poetry. They blow 
 With such a simple loveliness among 
 The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out 
 Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 
 Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. 
 I love to go in the capricious days 
 Of April and hunt violets, when the rain 
 Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod 
 So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. 
 It may be deem'd too idle, but the young 
 Eead nature like the manuscript of Heaven, 
 And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! 
 Ye spirits of habitual unrest, 
 And read it, when the " fever of the world" 
 Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life 
 Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be 
 Like a beguiling music to its flow, 
 And you will no more wonder that I love 
 To hunt for violets in the April-time. 
 
 THE ANNOYER. 
 
 Love knoweth every form of air, 
 
 And every shape of earth, 
 And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 
 
 Like thought's mysterious birth. 
 The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 
 
 Are written with Love's words, 
 And you hear his voice unceasingly, 
 
 Like song, in the time of birds. 
 
 He peeps into the warrior's heart 
 
 From the tip of a stooping plume, 
 And the serried spears, and the many men, 
 
 May not deny him room. 
 He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 
 
 And be busy in his dream, 
 And he'll float to his eye in morning light, 
 
 Iiike a fay on a silver beam. 
 
 He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 
 
 And rides on the echo back, 
 And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, 
 
 And flits in his woodland track. 
 The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 
 
 The cloud, and the open sky, — 
 He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 
 
 Like the light of your very eye. 
 
 The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 
 
 And ponders the silver sea, 
 For Love is under the surface hid, 
 
 And a spell of thought has he ; 
 He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 
 
 And speaks in the ripple low, 
 Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 
 
 And the hook hangs bare below. 
 
 He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 
 
 And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
 And profanes the cell of the holy man 
 
 In the shape of a lady fair. 
 In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, 
 
 In earth, and sea, and sky, 
 In every home of human thought 
 
 Will Love be lurking nigh. 
 
 TO A FACE BELOVED. 
 
 The music of the waken'd lyre 
 
 Dies not upon the quivering strings, 
 Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire 
 
 Upon the lip that trembling sings ; 
 Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, 
 
 Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, 
 Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween, 
 
 Forever in its sparry wells ; 
 The spells of the enchanter lie [ e y e - 
 
 Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and 
 
 I look upon a face as fair 
 
 As ever made a lip of heaven 
 Falter amid its music-prayer ! 
 
 The first-lit star of summer even 
 Springs not so softly on the eye, 
 
 Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, 
 Nor, mid its sisters of the sky, 
 
 So seems of heaven the dearest light ; 
 Men murmur where that face is seen — 
 My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien. 
 
 Yet, though we deem the stars are blest, 
 
 And envy, in our grief, the flower 
 That bears but sweetness in its breast, 
 
 And fear'd the enchanter for his power, 
 And love the minstrel for his spell 
 He winds out of his lyre so well ; 
 The stars are almoners of light, 
 
 The lyrist of melodious air, 
 The fountain of its waters bright, 
 
 And every thing most sweet and fair 
 Of that by which it charms the ear, 
 The eye of him that passes near ; 
 A lamp is lit in woman's eye 
 That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by. 
 
THEODORE S. FAY. 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 The author of " Dreams and Reveries," " Nor- 
 man Leslie," and " The Countess Ida," was born 
 in the city of New York on the tenth of Febru- 
 ary, 1S07. His father was a lawyer of unusual 
 professional and literary abilities, which were 
 honorably displayed in an earnest and persistent 
 advocacy of the abolition of imprisonment for 
 debt, in numerous contributions to the public jour- 
 nals under the signature of "Howard." After 
 his death, in 1825, Mr. Fat continued the study 
 of the law with Mr. Sylvanus Miller, and was 
 admitted to the bar in 1829. He acquired his 
 earliest distinction as a writer by completing a se- 
 ries of papers entitled " The Little Genius," com- 
 menced by his father, in the " New York Mirror," 
 of which he became one of the editors. In 1833 
 he was married, and soon after went to Europe, 
 where he has nearly ever since resided. He was 
 appointed secretary of the United States legation 
 at the court of Berlin in 1837, and in 1853 became 
 
 the first resident minister from this country in 
 Switzerland. An account of his essays and no- 
 vels may be found in " The Prose Writers of 
 America." In poetry he has published, besides 
 a considerable number of fugitive pieces, " Ulric, 
 or the Voices," of which nineteen cantos appear- 
 ed in one volume in 1851, and an additional can- 
 to in "The Knickerbocker Gallery," in 1855. 
 The scene of the poem is laid in Germany during 
 the great reformation in the fifteenth century. 
 The hero, Ulric Von Rosenberg, a young rittmas- 
 ter, or captain of cavalry, is converted to the doc- 
 trines of Luther, and makes a public profession 
 of his faith, after which he is exposed to extraor- 
 dinary temptations, to struggles between con- 
 science and inclination, which Mr. Fat describes 
 as " supernatural solicitings," and " voices," from 
 heaven and hell. The work has not been very 
 popular. Mr. Fat is more successful in prose 
 fiction. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Columbia, was thy continent stretch'd wild, 
 In later ages, the huge seas above 1 
 And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, 
 Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love 1 
 Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove, 
 Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanished years, 
 When through the Red Sea Pharaoh's thousands 
 
 drove, 
 When struggling Joseph dropp'd fraternal tears, 
 When God came down from heaven, and mortal 
 
 men were seers 1 
 
 Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, 
 Elysian solitudes, untrod by man, 
 Silent and lonely, since, around the sun, 
 Her ever-wheeling circle earth began 1 
 Thy unseen flowers did here the breezes fan, 
 With wasted perfume ever on them flung 1 
 And o'er thy showers neglected rainbows span, 
 When Alexander fought, when Homer sung, 
 And the old populous world with thundering battle 
 rung 1 
 
 Yet, what to me, or when, or how thy birth, — 
 No musty tomes are here to tell of thee ; 
 None know, if cast when nature first the earth 
 Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, 
 
 and tree, 
 Or whether since, by changes, silently, 
 Of sand, and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew ; 
 Or if, before man's little memory, 
 Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, 
 And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. 
 
 I know but that I love thee. On my heart, 
 Like a dear friend's are stamp'd thy features now ; 
 Though there the Roman or the Grecian art 
 Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, 
 No broken temples, fain at length to bow, 
 Moss-grown and crumbling, with the weight of 
 
 time. 
 Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw, 
 Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, 
 As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts 
 sublime, 
 
 But thou art sternly artless, wildly free : 
 We worship thee for beauties all thine own : 
 Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be 
 Admired, but only for herself alone. 
 With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown, 
 No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise, 
 Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, 
 Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, 
 Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly 
 skies. 
 
 I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams, 
 Sweet Hudson ! Float we on thy summer 
 
 breast: 
 Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems 
 Thy banks, of mortal shores the loveliest ! 
 Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, 
 Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon ; 
 Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd ; 
 Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun — 
 Would through such peaceful scenes, my life might 
 gently run ! 
 
 381 
 
382 
 
 THEODORE S. FAY. 
 
 And, lo ! the Catskills print the distant sky, 
 And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven, 
 So softly blending, that the cheated eye 
 Forgets or which is earth, or which is heaven, — 
 Sometimes, like thunder-clouds, they shade the 
 
 even, 
 Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height 
 Puts off the azure hues by distance given : 
 And slowly break upon the enamour'd sight, 
 Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colours true and 
 
 bright. 
 
 Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below 
 Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea. 
 Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, 
 Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously ; 
 Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, 
 Stealing by town and mountain 1 Who beholds, 
 At break of day this scene, when, silently, 
 Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unrolled, 
 While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of 
 gold, 
 
 Till earth receive him never can forget. 
 Even when returned amid the city's roar, 
 The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, 
 As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. 
 Imagination cons the moment o'er, 
 When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed, 
 Scarce loftier Jove — whom men and gods adore — 
 On the extended earth beneath him gazed, 
 Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect 
 raised. 
 
 Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell, 
 And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. 
 Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, 
 That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. 
 By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, 
 By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, 
 At every turn the vision breaks upon ; 
 Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes 
 The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur 
 rise. 
 
 Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, 
 More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, 
 Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, 
 Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul ! 
 The pent-up flood, impatient of control, 
 In ages past here broke its granite bound, 
 Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, 
 While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, 
 And these gigantic hills forever closed around. 
 
 And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, 
 The nymph of sportive mockery, that still 
 Hides behind every rock, in every dell, 
 And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. 
 No sound doth rise but mimic it she will, — • 
 The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, 
 Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, 
 The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, 
 Always she watches there, each murmur telling 
 o'er. 
 
 Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired, 
 Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, 
 The Briton youth, lamented and admired, 
 His country's hope, her ornament and pride, 
 A traitor's death ingloriously died — 
 On freedom's altar offered, in the sight 
 Of God, by men who will their act abide, 
 On the great day, and hold their deed aright — ■ 
 To stop the breath would quench young freedom's 
 holy light. 
 
 But see ! the broadening river deeper flows, 
 Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea. 
 While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws 
 Its softening hues on stream, and field, and tree ; 
 All silent nature bathing, wondrously, 
 In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, 
 And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, 
 Till lo ! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, 
 Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying 
 fires, 
 
 May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, 
 Proud Venice of the west ! no lovelier scene. 
 Of thy vast throngs now faintly comes the roar, 
 Though late like beating ocean surf I ween, — ■ 
 And everywhere thy various barks are seen, 
 Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, 
 Encircled by thy banks of sunny green, — 
 The panting steamer plying to and fro, 
 Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of 
 snow. 
 
 And radiantly upon the glittering mass 
 The god of day his parting glances sends, 
 As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, 
 Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends 
 Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, 
 More bright and bright, as near their end they be. 
 On, on, great orb ! to earth's remotest ends, 
 Each land irradiate, and every sea — 
 But oh, my native land, not one, not one like 
 thee! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A careless, simple .bird, one day 
 
 Fluttering in Flora's bowers, 
 Fell in a cruel trap which lay 
 
 All hid among the flowers, 
 
 Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers 
 
 The spring was closed ; poor, silly soul, 
 
 He knew not what to do, 
 Till, pressing through a tiny hole, 
 
 At length away he flew, 
 
 Unhurt — at length away he flew. 
 
 And now from every fond regret 
 
 And idle anguish free, 
 He, singing, says, " You need not set 
 
 Another trap for me, 
 
 False girl ! another trap for me." 
 
EDWARD SANFORD. 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 Ed-ware Sattford, a son of the late Chancellor 
 Saneord, is a native of the city of New York. 
 He was graduated at the Union College in 1824, 
 and in the following year became a law student 
 in the office of Bexjamist F. Butler, afterward 
 Attorney-General of the United States. He sub- 
 sequently practised several years in the courts of 
 
 New York, but finally abandoned his profession 
 to conduct the " Standard," an able democratic 
 journal, with which he was connected during the 
 political contest which resulted in the election of 
 Mr. Vast Buren to the Presidency, after which he 
 was for a time one of the editors of " The Globe," 
 at Washington. He now resides in New York. 
 
 ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. 
 
 There 's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high 
 
 And manly beauty of the Roman mould, 
 And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye 
 
 Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold ; 
 Of passions scathed not by the blight of time ; 
 
 Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. 
 The man within thee scorns to play the mime 
 
 To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. 
 Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, 
 Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. 
 
 Chief of a hundred warriors ! dost thou yet — 
 
 Vanquish' d and captive — dost thou deem that here 
 The glowing day-star of thy glory set — 
 
 Dull night has closed upon thy bright career 1 
 Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, 
 
 Dost pant to roam again thy native wild 1 
 To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast 
 
 Of thy crush'd victims ; and to slay the child, 
 To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers ? 
 And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced bro- 
 
 For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter 
 
 The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, 
 To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter 
 
 Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. 
 Though thine be old, hereditary hate, 
 
 Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until 
 It had become a madness, 'tis too late [will 
 
 To crush the hordes who have the power and 
 To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, 
 And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. 
 
 Spits of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; 
 
 There 's much thou 'st seen that must excite thy 
 Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense 
 
 The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder ? 
 Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, 
 
 That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; 
 Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things 
 
 Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by 1 
 Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, 
 What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion 1 
 
 Thou 'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies 
 That grin in darkness in their coffin cases ; 
 
 What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, 
 So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? 
 
 Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage 
 Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour ; 
 
 Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, 
 Seen their eyes glisten,and their dark brows lower. 
 
 Anon, thou 'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd 
 down, 
 
 Pass in a moment from a king — to clown. 
 
 Thou seest these things unmoved ! sayst so, old 
 fellow 1 
 Then tell us, have the white man's glowing 
 daughters 
 Set thy cold blood in motion 1 ITas't been mellow 
 
 By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters 1 
 They are thy people's deadliest poison. They 
 First make them cowards, and then white men's 
 slaves ; 
 And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, 
 
 And lives of misery, and early graves. 
 For, by their power, believe me, not a day goes 
 But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes. 
 
 Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away, 
 
 To the deep bosom of thy forest-home 1 
 The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play, 
 
 And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come 1 
 Come not the waitings of thy gentle squaws 
 
 For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear, 
 Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, 
 
 That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here 1 
 The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, 
 Thy rugged heart must think of her — and melt. 
 
 Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast 
 
 Of the caged bird against his prison-bars, 
 That thou, the crowned warrior of the West, 
 
 The victor of a hundred forest-wars, 
 Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show, 
 
 Led, like a walking bear, about the town, 
 A new-caught monster, who is all the go, 
 
 And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown ? 
 Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about. 
 The sport and mockery of the rabble rout 1 
 
 Whence came thy cold philosophy 1 whence came, 
 Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, 
 
 The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame 
 Of thy fierce passions 1 Thou despisest fun, 
 
 383 
 
384 
 
 EDWARD SANFORD. 
 
 And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, 
 Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral-pile 
 
 Of a bound warrior in his agony, 
 
 Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. 
 
 Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's ; 
 
 Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's. 
 
 Proud scion of a noble stem ! thy tree 
 
 Is blanch'd, and bare, and sear'd, and leafless 
 I '11 not insult its fallen majesty, [now. 
 
 Nor drive, with careless hand, the ruthless plough 
 Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, 
 
 Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, 
 No second verdure quickens in our cold, 
 
 New, barren earth ; no life sustains it there, 
 But, even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, 
 Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king." 
 
 Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, 
 
 Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; 
 The best of blood glows in thy every feature, 
 
 And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy. 
 Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow ; 
 
 Let him who doubts them meet thine eagle-eye, 
 He '11 quail beneath its glance, and disavow 
 
 All question of thy noble family ; 
 For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, 
 A leader in our city good society. 
 
 TO A MUSQUITO. 
 
 His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low. — King Lear. 
 
 Thou sweet musician, that around my bed 
 
 Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, 
 By what unseen and secret influence led, 
 
 Feed'st thou my ear with music till 't is morn ] 
 The wind-harp's tones are not more soft than thine, 
 
 The hum of falling waters not more sweet: 
 I own, indeed, I own thy song divine, [meet, 
 
 And when next year's warm summer nights we 
 (Till then, farewell !) I promise thee to be 
 A patient listener to thy minstrelsy. 
 
 Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse 
 
 Such eloquent music] was't thy tuneful sire] 
 Some old musician 1 or didst take a course 
 
 Of lessons from some master of the lyre 1 
 Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump ? 
 
 Did Nohtox form thy notes so clear and full ] 
 Art a phrenologist, and is the bump 
 
 Of song developed in thy little skull ] 
 AtNiBLo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute, 
 Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute] 
 
 Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song. 
 
 Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, 
 Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long, 
 
 Still night ] With song dost drive away dull care? 
 Art thou a vieux garcon, a gay deceiver, 
 
 A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, 
 Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, 
 
 Who thy advance with halfway shyness meets ] 
 Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, 
 "In maiden meditation, fancy free ]" 
 
 Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore 
 
 Charm'd with their songs till men forgot to dine, 
 And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, 
 
 Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine. 
 They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing 
 
 As if to lull our senses to repose, 
 That thou mayst use, unharm'd, thy little sting, 
 
 The very moment we begin to doze ; 
 Thou worse than siren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, 
 Thou living vampire, and thou gallinipper ! 
 
 Nature is full of music, sweetly sings 
 
 The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) 
 Through the wide circuit of created things, 
 
 Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. 
 Nature is full of thee ; on every shore, 
 
 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, 
 From warm Peru to icy Labrador, 
 
 The world's free citizen, thou roamest wild. 
 Wherever " mountains rise or oceans roll," 
 Thy voice is heard, from " Indus to the Pole." 
 
 The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou, 
 
 " The fairies' midwife ;" — thou dost nightly sip, 
 With amorous proboscis bending low, 
 
 The honey-dew from many a lady's lip — 
 (Though that they " straight on kisses dream," I 
 doubts — ) 
 
 On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, 
 Thou lightest, and oft with " sympathetic snout" 
 
 " Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep ; 
 And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, 
 " On the forefinger of an alderman." 
 
 Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth. 
 
 As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave, 
 So didst thou rise to life ; the teeming earth, 
 
 The living water and the fresh air gave 
 A portion of their elements to create 
 
 Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. 
 So lean and gaunt, that economic fate 
 
 Meant thee to feed on music or on air. 
 Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, 
 Thou living, singing, stinging atomy. 
 
 The hues of dying sunset are most fair, 
 
 And twilight's tints just fading into night, 
 Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are 
 
 By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight. 
 The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; 
 
 Sweet are the wind-harp's tones at distance heard; 
 'Tis sweet at distance, at the day's decline, 
 
 To hear the opening song of evening's bird. 
 But notes of harp or bird at distance float 
 Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note. 
 
 The autumn-winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; 
 
 Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. 
 Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge 
 
 Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb • 
 Then soar, and sing thy little life away ! 
 
 Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 
 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, 
 
 Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou : 
 For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, 
 And pass away with autumn's dying flowers. 
 
THOMAS WARD. 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 Doctor Ward was born at Newark, in New 
 Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, 
 General Thomas Ward, is one of the oldest, 
 wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that 
 town ; and has held various offices of public trust 
 in his native state, and represented his district in 
 the national Congress. 
 
 Doctor Ward received his classical education 
 at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and 
 the college at Princeton. He chose the profession 
 of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained 
 his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 
 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New 
 York. In the autumn of the same year he went 
 to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded 
 in that capital for the prosecution of every branch 
 of medical inquiry ; and, after two years' absence, 
 during which he accomplished the usual tour 
 through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great 
 Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced 
 the practice of medicine in that city. In the course 
 
 of two or three years, however, he gradually with- 
 drew from business, his circumstances permitting 
 him to exchange devotion to his profession for 
 the more congenial pursuits of literature and gene- 
 ral knowledge. He is married, and still resides in 
 New York; spending his summers, however, in 
 his native city, and among the more romantic and 
 beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary 
 efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and 
 prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 
 1826. It was not until after his return from Eu- 
 rope, when he adopted the signature of "Flacctjs," 
 and began to write for the "New York American," 
 that he attracted much attention. His principal 
 work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that 
 River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine 
 descriptive passages, and its versification is gene- 
 rally correct and musical. "The Monomania of 
 Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor 
 pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and spright- 
 liness, than for mere poetical qualities. 
 
 MUSINGS ON RIVERS. 
 
 Beautifut. rivers ! that adown the vale 
 With graceful passage journey to the deep, 
 Let me along your grassy marge recline 
 At ease, and musing, meditate the strange 
 Bright history of your life ; yes, from your birth, 
 Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; 
 The blue sea was your mother, and the sun 
 Your glorious sire : clouds your voluptuous cradle, 
 Roof 'd with o'erarching rainbows ; and your fall 
 To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, 
 With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers 
 And meadows, while the sympathising west 
 Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. 
 From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs 
 Break bubbling into beauty ; where they lie 
 In infant helplessness a while, but soon 
 Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down 
 The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, 
 Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn 
 Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks ; 
 Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, 
 Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood 
 Rings with the boisterous glee; while o'er their heads, 
 Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, 
 The frolic children of the wanton sun. 
 
 Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, 
 Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, 
 Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by 
 To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, 
 And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge 
 To greet their faces in your flattering glass ; 
 The thirsty herd are following at your side ; 
 And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy 
 25 
 
 Your sea-bound tides ; and jaded man, released 
 
 From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants, 
 
 Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood, 
 
 Sure of repose along your tranquil shores. 
 
 And when your end approaches, and ye blend 
 
 With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade 
 
 As placidly as when an infant dies ; 
 
 And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw 
 
 Gently as twilight takes the parting day, 
 
 And, with a soft and gradual decline 
 
 That cheats the senses, lets it down to night. 
 
 Bountiful rivers ! not upon the earth 
 Is record traced of God's exuberant grace 
 So deeply graven as the channels worn 
 By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth, 
 That, widely branching, circulate its blood : 
 Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides. 
 The whole vast enginery of Nature, all 
 The roused and labouring elements combine 
 In their production ; for the mighty end 
 Is growth, is life to every living thing. 
 The sun himself is charter'd for the work: 
 His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile 
 The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven, 
 Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings ; 
 Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove 
 The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet, 
 Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, 
 Floats waiting for the breeze ; loosed on the sky 
 Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping 
 Impel the vast flotilla to its port ; [breath, 
 
 Where, overhanging wide the arid plain, 
 Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer 
 Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds 
 Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze. 
 
 385 
 
386 
 
 THOMAS WARD. 
 
 New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, 
 Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts 
 And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along. 
 
 As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth 
 And all her race shed grateful smiles ! — not here 
 The bounty ceases : when the drenching streams 
 Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst 
 Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand 
 In bright, perennial springs draws up again 
 For needy man and beast ; and, as the brooks 
 Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man, 
 The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave, 
 The stubborn metal forge ; and, when advanced 
 To sober age at last, ye seek the sea, 
 Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, 
 Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky 
 Vouchsafed to earth for burden ; and your host 
 Of shining branches, linking land to land, 
 Seem bands of friendship— silver chains of love, 
 To bind the world in brotherhood and peace. 
 
 Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps 
 To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth 
 Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh, 
 Girdled with mists; while saurian reptiles, strange, 
 Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain 
 Paddled and flounder'd ; and the Almig v ty voice, 
 Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens 
 Summon'd the central and resistless fires, 
 That with a groan from pole to pole upheave 
 The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent, 
 Fracture the rocky crust ; then Andes rose, 
 And Alps their granite pyramids shot up, 
 Barren of soil ; but gathering vapours round 
 Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops 
 To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out 
 Over that rugged and untravell'd land, 
 The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea. 
 Tedious their route, precipitous and vague, 
 Seeking with humbleness the lowliest paths: 
 Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn 
 And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes, 
 Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge 
 Headlong, and hurry to the level main, 
 Rejoicing: misty ages did they run, 
 And, with unceasing friction, all the while 
 Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock, 
 And ground it into soil— then dropp'd (O ! sure 
 Fromheaven) the precious seed: first mosses,hchens 
 Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust _ 
 Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening 
 
 mould 
 Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, 
 And earth was fitted for her coming lord. 
 
 TO THE MAGNOLIA. 
 
 When roaming o'er the marshy field, 
 
 Through tangled brake and treacherous slough, 
 
 We start, that spot so foul should yield, 
 Chaste blossom ! such a balm as thou. 
 
 Such lavish fragrance there we meet, 
 
 That all the dismal waste is sweet. 
 
 So, in the dreary path of life, 
 
 Through clogging toil and thorny care, 
 Love rears his blossom o'er the strife, 
 
 Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there : 
 Which pours such incense round the spot, 
 His pains, his cares, are all forgot. 
 
 TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou bright and star-like spirit ! 
 
 That, in my visions wild, 
 I see mid heaven's seraphic host — 
 
 O ! canst thou be my child 1 
 
 My grief is quench'd in wonder, 
 
 And pride arrests my sighs ; 
 A branch from this unworthy stock 
 
 Now blossoms in the skies. 
 
 Our hopes of thee were lofty, 
 But have we cause to grieve t 
 
 O ! could our fondest, proudest wish 
 A nobler fate conceive 1 
 
 The little weeper, tearless, 
 
 The sinner, snatch'd from sin ; 
 
 The babe, to more than manhood grown, 
 Ere childhood did begin. 
 
 x\nd I, thy earthly teacher, 
 
 Would blush thy powers to see ; 
 
 Thou art to me a parent now, 
 And I, a child to thee ! 
 
 Thy brain, so uninstructed 
 
 While in this lowly state, 
 Now threads the mazy track of spheres, 
 
 Or reads the book of fate. 
 
 Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, 
 Now range the realms of space — 
 
 Look down upon the rolling stars, 
 Look up to God's own face. 
 
 Thy little hand, so helpless, 
 That scarce its toys could hold, 
 
 Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, 
 Or twangs a harp of gold. 
 
 Thy feeble feet, unsteady, 
 
 That totter'd as they trod, 
 With angels walk the heavenly paths, 
 
 Or stand before their God. 
 
 Nor is thy tongue less skilful, 
 
 Before the throne divine 
 'T is pleading for a mother's weal, 
 
 As once she pray'd for thine. 
 
 What bliss is born of sorrow ! 
 
 'T is never sent in vain — 
 The heavenly surgeon maims to save, 
 
 He gives no useless pain. 
 
 Our God, to call us homeward, 
 
 His only Son sent down,: 
 And now, still more to tempt our hearts, 
 
 Has taken up our own. 
 
EPHRAIM PEABODY 
 
 [Born, 1807.] 
 
 The year in which Ephraim Peabodt was 
 born, is remarkable in our annals for having pro- 
 duced an extraordinary number of literary charac- 
 ters. Henrt W. Longfellow, Nathaniel P. 
 Willis,Theodore S. Fat, George B. Cheever, 
 George Lunt, Thomas Ward, Edward Sand- 
 ford, and some dozen other makers of American 
 books, were born in that year. The native place 
 of Mr. Peabodt is Wilton, in New Hampshire, 
 where he passed his boyhood. He entered Bow- 
 doin College, in Maine, when about sixteen years 
 of age, and was graduated bachelor of arts in 1827. 
 He studied theology at Cambridge, and in 1831 
 became pastor of a Unitarian church in Cincinnati ; 
 whence he removed in 1838 to New Bedford, Mas- 
 sachusetts, where he remained until 1846, since 
 
 which time he has been minister of King's Chapel, 
 in Boston. 
 
 Mr. Peabodt's writings, in prose and verse, 
 are marked by a charming freshness, and some 
 of his descriptions have a truthfulness and pic- 
 turesqueness which can have been derived only 
 from a loving study of nature. Several of his 
 best poems were produced while he was in col- 
 lege, and others, as their subjects indicate, while 
 he was residing or travelling in the valley of the 
 Mississippi. Mr. Gallagher, in his " Selections 
 from the Poetical Literature of the West," publish- 
 ed in Cincinnati in 1841, claims him as a western 
 writer, and quotes him largely. Few western 
 poets have written so frequently or so well of west- 
 ern themes. 
 
 THE SKATER'S SONG. 
 
 Awat ! away ! our fires stream bright 
 
 Along the frozen river ; 
 And their arrowy sparkles of frosty light, 
 
 On the forest branches quiver. 
 Away ! away ! for the stars are forth, 
 
 And on the pure snows of the valley, 
 In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance — 
 
 Come, let us our comrades rally ! 
 
 Away ! away ! o'er the sheeted ice, 
 
 Away, away we go ; 
 On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet 
 
 As deer o'er the Lapland snow. 
 What though the sharp north winds are out, 
 
 The skater heeds them not — ■ 
 Midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout, 
 
 Gray winter is forgot. 
 
 'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng, 
 
 In the light of the reddening flame, 
 While with many a wheel on the ringing steel, 
 
 They wage their riotous game ; 
 And though the night-air cutteth keen, 
 
 And the white moon shineth coldly, 
 Their homes, I ween, on the hills have been — 
 
 They should breast the strong blast boldly. 
 
 Let others choose more gentle sports, 
 
 By the side of the winter hearth; 
 Or 'neath the lamps of the festal hall, 
 
 Seek for their share of mirth ; 
 But as for me, away ! away ! 
 
 Where the merry skaters be — « 
 Where the fresh wind blows and the smooth 
 ice glows, 
 
 There is the place for me ! 
 
 LAKE ERIE. 
 
 These lovely shores! how lone and still, 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 The unbroken forest stood above, 
 
 The waters dash'd below — 
 The waters of a lonely sea, 
 
 Where never sail was furl'd, 
 Embosom'd in a wilderness, 
 
 Which was itself a world. 
 
 A hundred years ! go back, and lo ! 
 
 Where, closing in the view, 
 Juts out the shore, with rapid oar 
 
 Darts round a frail canoe — 
 'T is a white voyager, and see, 
 
 His prow is westward set 
 O'er the calm wave : Hail to thy bold, 
 
 World-seeking barque, Marquette ! 
 
 The lonely bird, that picks his food 
 
 Where rise the waves and sink, 
 At their strange coming, with shrill 
 scream, 
 
 Starts from the sandy brink ; 
 The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, 
 
 Floats o'er on level wing, 
 And the savage from his covert looks, 
 
 With arrow on the string. 
 
 A hundred years are past and gone, 
 
 And all the rocky coast 
 Is turreted with shining towns, 
 
 An empire's noble boast ; 
 And the old wilderness is changed 
 
 To cultured vale and hill ; 
 And the circuit of its mountains 
 
 An empire's numbers fill ! „- 
 
EPHRAIM PEABODY. 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 Thk silent wilderness for me ! 
 
 Where never sound is heard, 
 Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot, 
 
 And the flitting wing of bird, 
 Or its low and interrupted note, 
 
 And the deer's quick, crackling tread, 
 And the swaying of the forest boughs, 
 
 As the wind moves overhead. 
 
 Alone, (how glorious to be free !) 
 
 My good dog at my side, 
 My rifle hanging in my arm, 
 
 I range the forest wide. 
 And now the regal buffalo 
 
 Across the plains I chase ; 
 Now track the mountain stream to find 
 
 The beaver's lurking-place 
 
 I stand upon the mountain's top, 
 
 And (solitude profound !) 
 Not even a woodman's smoke curls up 
 
 Within the horizon's bound. 
 Below, as o'er its ocean breadth 
 
 The air's light currents run, 
 The wilderness of moving leaves 
 
 Is glancing in the sun. 
 
 I look around to where the sky 
 
 Meets the far forest line, 
 And this imperial domain — 
 
 This kingdom — 'all is mine. 
 This bending heaven, these floating clouds, 
 
 Waters that ever roll, 
 And wilderness of glory, bring 
 
 Their offerings to my soul. 
 
 My palace, built by God's own hand, 
 
 The world's fresh prime hath seen; 
 Wide stretch its living halls away, 
 
 Pillar'd and roof'd with green. 
 My music is the wind that now 
 
 Pours loud its swelling bars, 
 Now lulls in dying cadences, 
 
 My festal lamps are stars. 
 
 Though when in this my lonely home, 
 
 My star-watch'd couch I press, 
 I hear no fond " good-night" — think not 
 
 I am companionless. 
 O, no ! I see my father's house, 
 
 The hill, the tree, the stream, 
 And the looks and voices of my home 
 
 Come gently to my dream. 
 
 And in these solitary haunts, 
 
 While slumbers every tree 
 In night and silence, God himself 
 
 Seems nearer unto me. 
 I feel His presence in these shades, 
 
 Like the embracing air; 
 And as my eyelids close in sleep, 
 
 My heart is hush'd in prayer. 
 
 RAFTING. 
 
 An August night was shutting down, 
 
 The first stars faintly glowed, 
 And deep and wide the river's tide, 
 
 Through the mountain gorges flowed 
 The woods swelled up from either side, 
 
 The clear night-sky bent o'er, 
 And the gliding waters darkly gleamed, 
 
 In the shadows of the shore. 
 
 A moving mass swept round the hills, 
 
 In the midst a broad, bright flame ; 
 And flitting forms passed to and fro 
 
 Around it, as it came. 
 The raft-fire with its flying light, 
 
 Fill'd the thin river haze ; 
 And rock and tree and darkling cliff, 
 
 Stooped forward in the blaze. 
 
 And while it floated down the stream, 
 
 Yet nearer and more near, 
 A bugle blast on the still night air, 
 
 Rose loftily and clear. 
 From cliff to cliff, from hill to hill, 
 
 Through the ancient woods and wide, 
 The sound swelled on, and far away 
 
 In their silent arches died. 
 
 And ever and anon they sung, 
 
 Yo, heave ho ! 
 And loud and long the echo rung, 
 
 Yo, heave ho ! 
 
 And now the tones burst sharp and fast, 
 
 As if the heavens to climb ; 
 Now their soft fall made musical, 
 
 The waters ceaseless chime. 
 Then all was hushed, till might be heard 
 
 The plashing of the oar; 
 Or the speech and laugh, half audible, 
 
 Upnn the silent shore. 
 
 We flung to them some words of cheer, 
 
 And loud jests flung they back ; 
 Good night! they cried, and drifted on, 
 
 Upon their lonely track. 
 We watched them till a sudden bend 
 
 Received them from our sight ; 
 Yet still we heard the bugle blast 
 
 In the stillness of the night. 
 
 But soon its loud notes on the ear, 
 
 Fell faint and low ; 
 And we ceased to hear the hearty cheer, 
 
 Of Yo, heave ho ! 
 
 Thus quickly did the river pass, 
 
 Forth issuing from the dark — 
 A moment, lighting up the scene 
 
 Drifted the phantom ark. 
 And thus our life. From the unknown, 
 
 To the unknown, we sweep ; 
 Like mariners who cross and hail 
 
 Each other o'er the deep. 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 [Born, 1S0S.] 
 
 The ancestors of Mr. Whittier settled at an 
 early period in the town of Haverhill, on the 
 banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. 
 They were Quakers, and some of them suffered 
 from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independ- 
 ents enacted against those " devil-driven heretics," 
 as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of Cotton- 
 Mather. The poet was born in the year 1808, 
 on a spot inhabited by his family during four or 
 five generations ; and until he was eighteen years 
 of age, his time was chiefly passed in the district 
 schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His 
 nineteenth year was spent in a Latin school, and 
 in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The 
 American Manufacturer," a gazette established to 
 advocate a protective tariff. He had previously 
 won. some reputation as a writer by various con- 
 tributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers 
 printed in his native town and in Newburyport, 
 and the ability with which he managed the "Ma- 
 nufacturer," now made his name familiar through- 
 out the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, 
 in Connecticut, to take charge of the " New Eng- 
 land Weekly Review." He remained here about 
 two years, during which he was an ardent politi- 
 cian, of what was then called the National Re- 
 publican party, and devoted but little attention to 
 literature. He published, however, in this period 
 his "Legends of New England," a collection of 
 poems and prose sketches, founded on events in 
 the early history of the country ; wrote the memoir 
 of his friend Brainard, prefixed to the collection 
 of that author's works printed in 1830; and several 
 poems which appeared in the " Weekly Review." 
 
 In 1831 Mr. Whittier returned to Haverhill, 
 where he was five or six 3 r ears engaged in agri- 
 cultural pursuits. He represented that town in the 
 legislature, in its sessions for 1835 and 1836, and 
 declined a reelection in 1 837. His longest poem, 
 " Mogg Megone," was first published in 1836. He 
 regarded the story of the hero only as a framework 
 for sketches of the sceneiy and of the primitive 
 settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. 
 In portraying the Indian character, he followed as 
 closely as was practicable the rough but natural 
 delineations of Church, Mathew, Charlevotx, 
 and Roger Williams, discarding much of the 
 romance which more modern writers have thrown 
 around the red-man's life. In this, as in the fine 
 Dallad of " Cassandra Southwick," and in some 
 of his prose writings, he has exhibited in a very 
 striking manner the intolerant spirit of the Puri- 
 tans. It can excite no surprise that a New Eng- 
 land Quaker refuses to join in the applause which 
 it is the custom to bestow upon the persecutors of 
 his ancestors. But our poet, by a very natural 
 
 exaggeration, may have done them even less than 
 justice. 
 
 Impelled by that hatred of every species of op- 
 pression which perhaps is the most marked of his 
 characteristics, Mr. Whittier entered at an early 
 period upon the discussion of the abolition ques- 
 tion, and since the year 1836, when he was elected 
 one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Sla- 
 very Society, he has been among the most promi- 
 nent and influential advocates of immediate eman- 
 cipation. His poems on this subject are full of 
 indignant and nervous remonstrance, invective 
 and denunciation. Very few in this country ex- 
 press themselves with uniform freedom and sin- 
 cerity. Nowhere else is there so common and 
 degrading a servility. We have therefore com- 
 paratively little individuality, and of course less 
 than we otherwise should have that is original. 
 Mr. Whittier rates this tyranny of public opi- 
 nion at its true value. . Whatever maybe its power 
 he despises it. He gives to his mind and heart 
 their true voice. His simple, direct and earnest 
 appeals have produced deep and lasting impres- 
 sions. Their reception has happily shown that 
 plain and unprejudiced speech is not less likely 
 to be heard than the vapid self-praise and weari- 
 some iteration of inoffensive commonplaces with 
 which the great mass of those who address the 
 public ply the drowsy ears of the hydra. 
 
 Mr. Whittier published a volume of " Ballads" 
 in 1838 ; " Lays of my Home, and other Poems," 
 in 1845; a full collection of his " Poems" in 1849 ; 
 "Songs of Labor," in 1851; and "The Chapel of 
 the Hermits, and other Poems," in 1852. His 
 prose works, besides "Legends of New England," 
 before-mentioned, are " The Stranger in Lowell," 
 a collection of prose essays, 1845; "Supernatu- 
 ralism in New England," 1847 ; "Leaves from 
 Margaret Smith's Journal," illustrating the age 
 of the Puritans, 1849; "Old Portraits and Modern 
 Sketches," 1850; and "Literary Recreations and 
 Miscellanies," in 1854. 
 
 Although boldness and energy are Whittier's 
 leading characteristics, his works are not without 
 passages scarcely less distinguished for tenderness 
 and grace. He may reasonably be styled a na- 
 tional poet. His works breathe affection for and 
 faith in our republican polity and unshackled re- 
 ligion, but an affection and a faith that do not blind 
 him to our weakness or wickedness. He is of 
 that class of authors whom we most need in Ame- 
 rica to build up a literature that shall elevate with 
 itself the national feeling and character. 
 
 He resides at Haverhill, and has been for seve- 
 ral years a " corresponding editor of the " Nation- 
 al Era," published in Washington. 
 
 389 
 
390 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA 
 SOUTHWICK.* 
 
 To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise 
 to-day, 
 
 From the scoffer and the cruel he hath pluck'd the 
 spoil away, — 
 
 Yea, He who cool'd the furnace around the faith- 
 ful three, 
 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his hand- 
 maid free ! 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my pri- 
 son bars, 
 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale 
 gleam of stars; 
 
 In the coldness and the darkness all through the 
 long night time, 
 
 My grated casement whitened with Autumn's 
 early rime. 
 
 Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
 
 Star after star looked palely in and sank adown 
 the sky ; 
 
 No sound amid night's stillness, save that which 
 seem'd to be 
 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; 
 
 All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the 
 
 morrow 
 The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in 
 
 my sorrow, 
 Dragg'd to their place of market, and bargain'd 
 
 for and sold, 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from 
 
 the fold! 
 
 Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there — the 
 
 shrinking and the shame ; 
 And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers 
 
 to me came : 
 "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly 1 ?" the wicked 
 
 murmur said, 
 " Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy 
 
 maiden bed 1 
 « Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and 
 
 sweet, 
 Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the plea- 
 sant street'? 
 Where be the youths, whose glances the summer 
 
 Sabbath through 
 Turn'd tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew 1 
 
 *This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat re- 
 markable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. 
 Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence 
 Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned 
 and deprived of all his property for having entertained 
 two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each 
 for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to 
 pay. The case being represented to the General Court, 
 at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be 
 seen on the court records, bearing the signature of 
 Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of 
 the County was " fully empowered to sell the said per- 
 sons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barba- 
 dues, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to 
 carry this barbarous order into execution, but no ship- 
 master was found willing to convey them to the West 
 Indies. Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225-6, G. Bishop. 
 
 « Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra? — Bethink thee 
 
 with what mirth 
 Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm 
 
 bright hearth ; 
 How the crimson shadows tremble, on foreheads 
 
 white and fair, 
 On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 
 
 " Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee 
 kind words are spoken, 
 
 Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laugh- 
 ing boys are broken ; 
 
 No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are 
 laid, 
 
 For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunt- 
 ers braid. 
 
 " Oh ! weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led, 
 With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; 
 To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure 
 
 and sound ; 
 And mate with maniac women, loose-hair'd and 
 
 sackcloth-bound. 
 
 "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at 
 
 things divine, 
 Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and 
 
 wine; 
 Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the 
 
 pillory lame, 
 Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in 
 
 their shame. 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ! — a sadly toihng 
 slave, 
 
 Dragging the slowly length'ning chain of bondage 
 to the grave ! 
 
 Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hope- 
 less thrall, 
 
 The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all !" 
 
 Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Na- 
 ture's fears 
 
 Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavail- 
 ing tears, 
 
 I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in 
 silent prayer 
 
 To feel, oh, Helper of the weak ! — that Thou in- 
 deed wert there ! 
 
 I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, 
 
 And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison- 
 shackles fell, 
 
 Till I seem'd to hear the trailing of an angel's robe 
 of white, 
 
 And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 
 
 Bless the Lord for all His mercies ! — for the peace 
 and love I felt, 
 
 Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit 
 melt ; 
 
 When, " Get behind me, Satan !" was the lan- 
 guage of my heart, 
 
 And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. 
 
 Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sun- 
 shine fell, 
 
 Fleck'd with the shade of bar and grate within my 
 lonely cell ; * 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 391 
 
 The hoarfrost melted on the wall, and upward 
 
 from the street 
 Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of 
 
 passing feet. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was 
 
 open cast, 
 And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street 
 
 I pass'd ; 
 I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared 
 
 not see, 
 How, from every door and window, the people 
 
 gazed on me. 
 
 And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burn'd upon 
 my cheek, 
 
 Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling 
 limbs grew weak ; 
 
 « Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her 
 soul cast out 
 
 The fear of man, which brings a snare — the weak- 
 ness and the doubt." 
 
 Then the dreary shadows scatter'd like a cloud in 
 morning's breeze, 
 
 And a low deep voice within me seem'd whisper- 
 ing words like these : 
 
 " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven 
 a brazen wall, 
 
 Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is 
 over all." 
 
 We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit 
 
 waters broke 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly 
 
 wall of rock; 
 The merchants-ships lay idly there, in hard clear 
 
 lines on high, 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their net-work 
 
 on the sky. 
 
 And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapp'd 
 
 and grave and cold, 
 And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed 
 
 and old, 
 And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, 
 Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. 
 
 And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready 
 ear, 
 
 The priest lean'd o'er his saddle, with laugh aad 
 scoff and jeer; 
 
 It stirr'd my soul, and from my lips the seal of si- 
 lence broke, 
 
 As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit 
 spoke. 
 
 I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the 
 
 meek, 
 Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the 
 
 weak! 
 Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones — go turn the 
 
 prison lock 
 Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf 
 
 amid the flock !" 
 
 Dark lower'd the brows of Endicott, and with a 
 
 deeper red 
 O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of 
 
 anger spread ; 
 
 " Good people," quoth the white-lipp'd priest, « heed 
 
 not her words so wild, 
 Her master speaks within her — the Devil owns his 
 
 child !" 
 
 But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the 
 
 while the sheriff read 
 That law the wicked rulers against the poor have 
 
 made, 
 Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood 
 
 bring 
 No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning 
 said: 
 
 " Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Qua- 
 ker maid 1 
 
 In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, 
 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian 
 girl or Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains; and when 
 
 again he cried, 
 " Speak out, my worthy seamen !" — no voice or 
 
 sign replied; 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind 
 
 words met my ear : 
 " God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl 
 
 and dear !" 
 
 A weight seem'd lifted from my heart, — a pitying 
 
 friend was nigh, 
 I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his 
 
 eye ; 
 And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so 
 
 kind to me, 
 GrowFd back its stormy answer like the roaring of 
 
 the sea : 
 
 " Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with 
 
 coins of Spanish gold, 
 From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of 
 
 her hold, 
 By the living God who made me ! — I would sooner 
 
 in your bay 
 Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child 
 
 away !" 
 
 " Well answer'd, worthy captain, shame on their 
 cruel laws !" 
 
 Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the peo- 
 ple's just applause. 
 
 " Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for sil- 
 ver sold"!" 
 
 I look'd on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half 
 way drawn, 
 
 Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate 
 and scorn ; 
 
 Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turn'd in si- 
 lence back, 
 
 And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode mur- 
 muring in his track. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff look'd in bitterness of 
 
 soul; 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crush'd 
 
 his parchment roll. 
 
392 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 « Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the 
 
 ruler and the priest, 
 Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well 
 
 released." 
 
 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept 
 
 round the silent bay, 
 As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me 
 
 go my way ; 
 For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of 
 
 the glen, 
 And the river of great waters, had turn'd the 
 
 hearts of men. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seem'd changed 
 
 beneath my eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of 
 
 the sky, 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and 
 
 woodland lay, 
 And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of 
 
 the bay. 
 
 Thanksgiving to the Lord of life!— to Him all 
 
 praises be, 
 Who from the hands of evil men hath set his 
 
 handmaid free ; 
 All praise to Him before whose power the mighty 
 
 are afraid, 
 Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the 
 
 poor is laid ! 
 
 Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly ; on evening's twi- 
 light calm 
 
 Uplift the loud thanksgiving— pour forth the grate- 
 ful psalm; 
 
 Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the 
 saints of old, 
 
 When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter 
 told. 
 
 And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men 
 
 of wrong, 
 The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand 
 
 upon the strong. 
 Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour ! 
 Wo to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and 
 
 devour : 
 
 But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart 
 
 be glad, 
 And let the mourning ones again with robes of 
 
 praise be clad, 
 For He who cool'd the furnace, and smoothed the 
 
 stormy wave, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Lawd of the forest and the rock — 
 
 Of dark-blue lake and mighty river — 
 Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock 
 The storm's career, the lightning's shock — 
 
 My own green land for ever ! 
 Land of the beautiful and brave — 
 The freeman's home — the martyr's grave — 
 
 The nursery of giant men, 
 
 Whose deeds have link'd with every glen, 
 
 And every hill, and every stream, 
 
 The romance of some warrior-dream ! 
 
 Oh ! never may a son of thine, 
 
 Where'er his wandering steps incline, 
 
 Forget the sky which bent above 
 
 His childhood like a dream of love, 
 
 The stream beneath the green hill flowing, 
 
 The broad-arm'd trees above it growing, 
 
 The clear breeze through the foliage blowing ; 
 
 Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn 
 
 Breathed o'er the brave New England born; 
 
 Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand 
 
 Disturb the ashes of thy dead, 
 The buried glory of a land 
 
 Whose soil with noble blood is red, 
 And sanctified in every part, — 
 
 Nor feel resentment, like a brand, 
 Unsheathing from Iris fiery heart ! 
 
 Oh ! greener hills may catch the sun 
 
 Beneath the glorious heaven of France ; 
 And streams, rejoicing as they run 
 
 Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, 
 May wander where the orange-bough 
 With golden fruit is bending low ; 
 And there may bend a brighter sky 
 O'er green and classic Italy — 
 And pillar'd fane and ancient grave 
 
 Bear record of another time, 
 And over shaft and architrave 
 
 The green, luxuriant ivy climb; 
 And far toward the rising sun 
 
 The palm may shake its leaves on high, 
 Where flowers are opening, one by one, 
 
 Like stars upon the twilight sky ; 
 And breezes soft as sighs of love 
 
 Above the broad banana stray, 
 And through the Brahmin's sacred grove 
 
 A thousand bright-hued pinions play ! 
 Yet unto thee, New England, still 
 
 Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms, 
 And thy rude chart of rock and hill 
 
 Seem dearer than the land of palms; 
 Thy massy oak and mountain-pine 
 
 More welcome than the banyan's shade 
 And every free, blue stream of thine 
 
 Seem richer than the golden bed 
 Of oriental waves, which glow 
 And sparkle with the wealth below ! 
 
 TO JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 Not to the poet, but the man, I bring 
 In friendship's fearless trust my offering: 
 How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, 
 Yet well I know that thou hast deem'ed with me 
 Life all too earnest, and its time too short, 
 For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport; 
 
 And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, 
 Like Nehemiah, fighting while he wrought 
 
 The broken walls of Zion, even thy song 
 Hath a rude martial tone, a blow ill every thought! 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 393 
 
 PALESTINE. 
 
 Blest land of Judea! thrice hallow'd of song, 
 Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng ; 
 In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, 
 On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. 
 
 With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, 
 Where pilgrim and prophet have linger'd before ; 
 With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod 
 Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. 
 
 Blue sea of the hills ! — in my spirit I hear 
 Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear ; 
 Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, 
 And thy spray on the dust of Hi s sandals was thrown. 
 
 Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, 
 And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene; 
 And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see 
 The gleam of thy waters, O, dark Galilee ! 
 
 Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and 
 Thy river, 0, Kishon, is sweeping along; [strong, 
 Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, 
 And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. 
 
 There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon 
 
 came, 
 And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, 
 And the chariots of Jabin roll'd harmlessly on, 
 For the arm of the Lord was Abisoam's son ! 
 
 There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which 
 
 rang 
 To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, 
 When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, 
 And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. 
 
 Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, 
 With the mountainsaround and the valleys between; 
 There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there 
 The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. 
 
 And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw 
 Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; 
 But where are the sisters who hasten'd to greet 
 The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet 1 
 
 I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod ; 
 I stand where they stood with the chosen of God — 
 Where His blessings was heard and his lessons 
 
 were taught, 
 Where the blind were restored and the healing 
 
 was wrought. 
 
 O, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came — 
 These hills He toil'd over in grief, are the same — 
 The founts where He drank by the way-side still 
 
 flow, 
 And the same airs are blowing which breath'd on 
 
 his brow ! 
 
 And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, [feet; 
 But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her 
 For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, 
 And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. 
 
 But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode 
 Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God 1 
 
 Were my spirit but tuned from the outward and dim, 
 It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him ! 
 
 Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, 
 In love and in meekness, He moved among men ; 
 And the voice which breathed peace to the waves 
 
 of the sea, 
 In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me ! 
 
 And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, 
 Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, 
 Nor my eyes see the cross which he bow'd him to 
 
 bear, 
 Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer. 
 
 Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near 
 To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here ; 
 And the voice of thy love is the same even now, 
 As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow. 
 
 O, the outward hath gone ! — but, in glory and power, 
 The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour ; 
 Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame 
 On the heart's secret altar is burning the same ! 
 
 PENTUCKET.* 
 
 How sweetly on the wood-girt town 
 The mellow light of sunset shone ! 
 Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
 Mirror the forest and the hill, 
 Reflected from its waveless breast 
 The beauty of a cloudless west, 
 Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
 Within the western gates of Heaven, 
 Left, by the spirit of the star 
 Of sunset's holy hour, ajar ! 
 
 Beside the river's tranquil flood 
 The dark and low-wall'd dwellings stood, 
 Where many a rood of open land 
 Stretch'd up and down on either hand, 
 With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
 The thick and blacken'd stumps between ; 
 Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, 
 The wild, untravell'd forest spread, 
 Back to those mountains, white and cold, 
 Of which the Indian trapper told, 
 Upon whose summits never yet 
 Was mortal foot in safety set. 
 
 Quiet and calm, without a fear 
 Of danger darkly lurking near, 
 The weary labourer left his plough — 
 The milk-maid caroll'd by her cow — 
 
 * The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimack, called by 
 the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventy years a 
 frontier town, and during thirty years endured all the 
 horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined 
 body of French and Indians, under the command of De 
 Challions, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous and 
 bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the vil- 
 lage, which, at that time, contained only thirty houses. 
 Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still 
 larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy 
 also fell, and among them Hertel de Rouville. The 
 minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a 
 shot through his own door 
 
394 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 From cottage door and household hearth 
 Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. 
 At length the murmur died away, 
 And silence on that village lay. — 
 So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, 
 Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all, 
 Undreaming of the fiery fate 
 Which made its dwellings desolate ! 
 
 Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped 
 The Merrimack along his bed. 
 Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
 Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, 
 Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
 As the hush'd grouping of a dream. 
 Yet on the still air crept a sound — 
 No bark of fox — no rabbit's bound — 
 No stir of wings — nor waters flowing — 
 Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. 
 
 Was that the tread of many feet, 
 Which downward from the hill-side beat? 
 What forms were those which darkly stood 
 Just on the margin of the wood 1 — 
 Charr'd tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 
 Or paling rude, or leafless limb 1 
 No — through the trees fierce eyeballs glow'd, 
 Dark human forms in moonshine show'd, 
 Wild from their native wilderness, 
 With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 
 
 A yell, the dead might wake to hear, 
 Swell'd on the night air, far and clear — 
 Then smote the Indian tomahawk 
 On crashing door and shattering lock — 
 Then rang the rifle-shot — and then 
 The shrill death-scream of stricken men — 
 Sunk the red axe in woman's brain, 
 And childhood's cry arose in vain — 
 Bursting through roof and window came, 
 Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame; 
 And blended five and moonlight glared 
 Over dead corse and weapons bared. 
 
 The morning sun look'd brightly through 
 The river-willows, wet with dew. 
 No sound of combat fill'd the air, 
 No shout was heard, — nor gun-shot there : 
 Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
 From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; 
 And on the green sward many a stain, 
 And, here and there, the mangled slain, 
 Told how that midnight bolt had sped, 
 Pentucket, on thy fated head ! 
 
 E'en now, the villager can tell 
 Where Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell, 
 Still show the door of wasting oak 
 Through which the fatal death-shot broke, 
 And point the curious stranger where 
 De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare — 
 Whose hideous head, in death still fear'd, 
 Bore not a trace of hair or beard — 
 And still, within the churchyard ground, 
 Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
 Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
 The victims of that sacrifice. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER 
 TORREY, OF BOSTON. 
 
 Gone before us, O, our brother, 
 
 To the spirit-land ! 
 Vainly look we for another 
 
 In thy place to stand. 
 Who shall offer youth and beauty 
 
 On the wasting shrine 
 Of a stern and lofty duty, 
 
 With a faith like thine 1 
 
 ! thy gentle smile of greeting 
 
 Who again shall see 1 
 Who, amidst the solemn meeting, 
 
 Gaze again on thee 1 — 
 Who, when peril gathers o'er us, 
 
 Wear so calm a brow 1 
 Who, with evil men before us, 
 
 So serene as thou 1 
 
 Early hath the spoiler found thee, 
 
 Brother of our love ! 
 Autumn's faded earth around thee, 
 
 And its storms above ! 
 Evermore that turf lie lightly, 
 
 And, with future showers, 
 O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly 
 
 Blow the summer-flowers ! 
 
 In the locks thy forehead gracing, 
 
 Not a silvery streak ; 
 Nor a line of sorrow's tracing 
 
 On thy fair, young cheek ; 
 Eyes of light and lips of roses, 
 
 Such as Htlas wore — 
 Over all that curtain closes, 
 
 Which shall rise no more ! 
 
 Will the vigil Love is keeping 
 
 Round that grave of thine, 
 Mournfully, like Jazer weeping 
 
 Over Sibmah's vine* — 
 Will the pleasant memories, swelling 
 
 Gentle hearts, of thee, 
 In the spirit's distant dwelling 
 
 All unheeded be 1 
 
 If the spirit ever gazes, 
 
 From its journeyings, back ; 
 If the immortal ever traces 
 
 O'er its mortal track ; 
 Wilt thou not, brother, meet us 
 
 Sometimes on our way, 
 And, in hours of sadness, greet us 
 
 As a spirit may ] 
 
 Peace be with thee, our brother, 
 
 In the spirit-land ! 
 Vainly look we for another 
 
 In thy place to stand. 
 Unto Truth and Freedom giving 
 
 All thy early powers, 
 Be thy virtues with the living, 
 
 And thy spirit ours ! 
 
 * " O, vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee with the 
 weeping of Jazer !" — Jeremiah xlviii. 32. 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 395 
 
 RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 
 
 On, Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 
 
 Thy weary ones receiving, 
 And o'er them, silent as a dream, 
 
 Thy grassy mantle weaving — 
 Fold softly in thy long embrace 
 
 That heart so worn and broken, 
 And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
 
 Thy shadows old and oaken. 
 
 Shut out from him the bitter word 
 
 And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
 Nor let the storms of yesterday 
 
 Disturb his quiet morning. 
 Breathe over him forgetfulrress 
 
 Of all save deeds of kindness, 
 And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, 
 
 Press down his lids in blindness. 
 There, where with living ear and eye 
 
 He heard Potomac's flowing, 
 And, through his tall ancestral trees 
 
 Saw Autumn's sunset glowing, 
 He sleeps — still looking to the west, 
 
 Beneath the dark wood shadow, 
 As if he still would see the sun 
 
 Sink down on wave and meadow. 
 
 Bard, sage, and tribune ! — in himself 
 
 All moods of mind contrasting — 
 The tenderest wail of human wo, 
 
 The scorn like lightning blasting ; 
 The pathos which from rival eyes 
 
 Unwilling tears could summon, 
 The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
 
 Of hatred scarcely human ! 
 
 Mirth, sparkling like a diamond-shower, 
 
 From lips of life-long sadness ; 
 Clear picturings of majestic thought 
 
 Upon a ground of madness ; 
 And over all, romance and song 
 
 A classic beauty throwing, 
 And laurell'd Clio at his side 
 
 Her storied pages showing. 
 
 All parties fear'd him : each in turn 
 
 Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
 As right or left his fatal glance 
 
 And spectral finger pointed. 
 Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 
 
 With trenchant wit unsparing, 
 And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 
 
 The robe Pretence was wearing. 
 
 Too honest or too proud to feign 
 
 A love he never cherish'd, 
 Beyond Virginia's border line 
 
 His patriotism perish'd. 
 While others hail'd in distant skies 
 
 Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
 He only saw the mountain bird 
 
 Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 
 Still through each change of fortune strange, 
 
 Rack'd nerve, and brain all burning, 
 His loving faith in mother-land 
 
 Knew never shade of turning : 
 
 By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, 
 
 Whatever sky was o'er him, 
 He heard her rivers' rushing sound, 
 
 Her blue peaks rose before him. 
 
 He held his slaves, yet made withal 
 
 No false and vain pretences, 
 Nor paid a lying priest to seek 
 
 For scriptural defences. 
 His harshest words of proud rebuke, 
 
 His bitterest taunt and scorning, 
 Fell firelike on the northern brow 
 
 That bent to him in fawning. 
 
 He held his slaves : yet kept the while 
 
 His reverence for the human ; 
 In the dark vassals of his will 
 
 He saw but man and woman ! 
 No hunter of God's outraged poor 
 
 His Roanoke valley enter'd ; 
 No trader in the souls of men 
 
 Across his threshold ventured. 
 
 And when the old and wearied man 
 
 Laid down for his last sleeping, 
 And at his side, a slave no more, 
 
 His brother man stood weeping, 
 His latest thought, his latest breath, 
 
 To freedom's duty giving, 
 With failing tongue and trembling hand 
 
 The dying bless'd the living. 
 
 Oh ! never bore his ancient state 
 
 A truer son or braver ; 
 None trampling with a calmer scorn 
 
 On foreign hate or favor. 
 He knew her faults, yet never stoop'd 
 
 His proud and manly feeling 
 To poor excuses of the wrong, 
 
 Or meanness of concealing. 
 
 But none beheld with clearer eye 
 
 The plague-spot o'er her spreading, 
 None heard more sure the steps of Doom 
 
 Along her future treading. 
 For her as for himself he spake, 
 
 When, his gaunt frame upbracing, 
 He traced with dying hand, " Remorse !"* 
 
 And perished in the tracing. 
 
 As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 
 
 From Vernon's weeping willow, 
 And from the grassy pall which hides 
 
 The sage of Monticello, 
 So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 
 
 Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, 
 Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves 
 
 A warning voice is swelling. 
 
 And hark ! from thy deserted fields 
 
 Are sadder warnings spoken, 
 From quench'd hearths, where thine exiled sons 
 
 Their household gods have broken. 
 The curse is on thee — wolves for men, 
 
 And briers for corn-sheaves giving ! 
 Oh ! more than all thy dead renown 
 
 Were now one hero living ! 
 
 * See the remai-kable statement of Dr. Parrish, his medi- 
 cal attendant. 
 
396 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 And every thing with breath agree 
 To praise " our glorious liberty !" 
 
 And when the patriot cannon jars 
 That prison's cold and gloomy wall, 
 
 And through its grates the stripes and stars 
 Rise on the wind, and fall — 
 
 Think ye that prisoner's aged ear 
 
 Rejoices in the general cheer? 
 
 Think ye his dim and failing eye 
 
 Is kindled at your pageantry 1 
 
 Sorrowing of soul, and chain'd of limb, 
 
 What is your carnival to him 1 
 
 Down with the law that binds him thus ! 
 
 Unworthy freemen, let it find 
 No refuge from the withering curse 
 
 Of God and human kind ! 
 Open the prisoner's living tomb, 
 And usher from its brooding gloom 
 The victims of your savage code, 
 To the free sun and air of God ! 
 No longer dare as crime to brand 
 The chastening of the Almighty's hand ! 
 
 THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 
 
 Look on him — through his dungeon-grate, 
 
 Feebly and cold, the morning light 
 Comes stealing round him, dim and late, 
 
 As if it loathed the sight. 
 Reclining on his strawy bed, 
 His hand upholds his drooping head — 
 His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard, 
 Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 
 And o'er his bony fingers flow 
 His long, dishevell'd locks of snow. 
 
 No grateful fire before him glows, — 
 
 And yet the winter's breath is chill: 
 And o'er his half-clad person goes 
 
 The frequent ague-thrill ! 
 Silent — save ever and anon, 
 A sound, half-murmur and half-groan, 
 Forces apart the painful grip 
 Of the old sufferer's bearded lip: 
 O, sad and crushing is the fate 
 Of old age chain'd and desolate ! 
 
 Just God ! why lies that old man there? 
 
 A murderer shares his prison-bed, 
 Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, 
 
 Gleam on him fierce and red ; 
 And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
 Fall ever on his loathing ear, 
 And, or in wakefulness or sleep, 
 Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep, 
 Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, 
 Crimson'd with murder, touches him ! 
 
 What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done 1 
 Has murder stain'd his hands with gore 1 
 
 Not so : his crime 's a fouler one : 
 God made the old man poor ! 
 
 For this he shares a felon's cell — 
 
 The fittest earthly type of hell ! 
 
 For this — the boon for which he pour'd 
 
 His young blood on the invader's sword, 
 
 And counted light the fearful cost — 
 
 His blood-gain'd liberty is lost ! 
 
 And so, for such a place of rest, 
 
 Old prisoner, pour'd thy blood as rain 
 On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, 
 
 And Saratoga's plain 1 
 Look forth, thou man of many scars, 
 Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars ! 
 It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
 Yon monument* uprear'd to thee— 
 Piled granite and a prison-cell — 
 The land repays thy service well ! 
 
 Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 
 And fling the starry banner out ; 
 
 Shout « Freedom!" till your lisping ones 
 Give back their cradle-shout : 
 
 Let boasted eloquence declaim 
 
 Of honour, liberty, and fame ; 
 
 Still let the poet's strain be heard, 
 
 With " glory" for each second word, 
 
 * Bunker Hill Monument. 
 
 THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 Stream of my fathers ! sweetly still 
 The sunset rays thy valley fill ; 
 Pour'd slantwise down the long defile, 
 Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. 
 I see the winding Powow fold 
 The green hill in its belt of gold, 
 And, following down its wavy line, 
 Its sparkling waters blend with thine. 
 There 's not a tree upon thy side, 
 Nor rock, which thy returning tide 
 As yet hath left abrupt and stark 
 Above thy evening water-mark ; 
 No calm cove with its rocky hem, 
 No isle whose emerald swells begem 
 Thy broad, smooth current ; not a sail 
 Bow'd to the freshening ocean-gale ; 
 No small boat with its busy oars, 
 Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; 
 Nor farm-house with its maple shade, 
 Or rigid poplar colonnade, 
 But lies distinct and full in sight, 
 Beneath this gush of sunset light. 
 Centuries ago, that harbour-bar, 
 Stretching its length of foam afar, 
 And Salisbury's beach of shining sand, 
 And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, 
 Saw the adventurer's tiny sail 
 Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; 
 And o'er these woods and waters broke 
 The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, 
 As brightly on the voyager's eye, 
 Weary of forest, sea, and sky, 
 Breaking the dull, continuous wood, 
 The Merrimack roll'd down his flood ; 
 Mingling that clear, pellucid brook 
 Which channels vast Agioochook — 
 When spring-time's sun and shower unlock 
 The frozen fountains of the rock, 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 291 
 
 And more abundant waters given 
 From that pure lake, < The Smile of Heaven,' 
 Tributes from vale and mountain side — 
 With ocean's dark, eternal tide ! 
 
 On yonder rocky cape which braves 
 The stormy challenge of the waves, 
 Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, 
 The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, 
 Planting upon the topmost crag 
 The staff of England's battle-flag ; 
 And, while from out its heavy fold 
 St. George's crimson cross unroll'd. 
 Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, 
 And weapons brandishing in air, 
 He gave to that lone promontory 
 The sweetest name in all his story ; 
 Of her — the flower of Islam's daughters, 
 Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters— 
 Who, when the chance of war had bound 
 The Moslem chain his limbs around, 
 Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, 
 Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, 
 And fondly to her youthful slave 
 A dearer gift than freedom gave. 
 
 But look ! the yellow light no more 
 Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; 
 And clearly on the calm air swells 
 The distant voice of twilight bells. 
 From ocean's bosom, white and thin 
 The mist comes slowly rolling in ; 
 Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, 
 Amidst the sea-like vapour swim, 
 While yonder lonely coast-light set 
 Within, its wave-wash'd minaret, 
 Half-quench'd, a beamless star and pale, 
 Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! 
 Vale of my fathers ! — I have stood 
 Where Hudson roll'd his lordly flood ; 
 Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade 
 Along his frowning palisade ; 
 Look'd down the Appalachian peak 
 On Juniata's silver streak ; 
 Have seen along his valley gleam 
 The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; 
 The setting sun, his axle red 
 Quench darkly in Potomac's bed ; 
 The autumn's rainbow-tinted banner 
 Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; 
 Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be, 
 Thy wandering child look'd back to thee! 
 Heard in his dreams thy river's sound 
 Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, 
 The unforgotten swell and roar 
 Of waves on thy familiar shore ; 
 And seen amidst the curtain'd gloom 
 And quiet of my lonely room, 
 Thy sunset scenes before me pass ; 
 As, in Agrippa's magic glass, 
 The loved and lost arose to view, 
 Remember'd groves in greenness grew ; 
 And while the gazer lean'd to trace, 
 More near, some old familiar face, 
 He wept to find the vision flown — 
 A phantom and a dream alone ! 
 
 GONE. 
 
 Another hand is beckoning us, 
 
 Another call is given ; 
 And glows once more with angel-steps 
 
 The path which reaches Heaven. 
 
 Our young and gentle friend whose smile 
 
 Made brighter summer hours, 
 Amid the frosts of autumn time 
 
 Has left us, with the flowers. 
 
 No paling of the cheek of bloom 
 
 Forewarned us of decay, 
 No shadow from the silent land 
 
 Fell around our sister's way. 
 
 The light of her young life went down, 
 
 As sinks behind the hill 
 The glory of a setting star — 
 
 Clear, suddenly, and still. 
 As pure and sweet her fair brow seemed — 
 
 Eternal as the sky ; 
 And like the brook's low song, her voice — 
 
 A sound which could not die. 
 And half we deemed she needed not 
 
 The changing of her sphere, 
 To give to heaven a shining one, 
 
 Who walked an angel here. 
 The blessing of her quiet life 
 
 Fell on us like the dew ; 
 And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressd, 
 
 Like fairy blossoms grew. 
 Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 
 
 Were in her very look ; 
 We read her face, as one who reads 
 
 A true and holy book : 
 The measure of a blessed hymn, 
 
 To which our hearts could move ; 
 The breathing of an inward psalm — 
 
 A canticle of love. 
 We miss her in the place of prayer, 
 
 And by the hearth-fire's light ; 
 We pause beside her door to hear 
 
 Once more her sweet " Good night! " 
 There seems a shadow on the day, 
 
 Her smile no longer cheers ; 
 A dimness on the stars of night, 
 
 Like eyes that look through tears. 
 Alone unto our Father's will 
 
 One thought hath reconciled — 
 That He whose love exceedeth ours 
 
 Hath taken home his child. 
 Fold her, oh Father ! in thine arms, 
 
 And let her henceforth be 
 A messenger of love between 
 
 Our human hearts and thee. 
 Still let her mild rebuking stand 
 
 Between us and the wrong, 
 And her dear memory serve to make 
 
 Our faith in goodness strong. 
 
 And grant that she who, trembling, here 
 
 Distrusted all her powers, 
 May welcome to her holier home 
 
 The well belov'd of ours. 
 
398 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 
 
 On page of thine I cannot trace 
 
 The cold and heartless commonplace — 
 
 A statue's fix'd and marble grace. 
 
 For ever as these lines are penn'd, 
 Still with the thought of thee will blend 
 That of some loved and common friend, 
 
 Who, in life's desert track has made 
 His pilgrim tent with mine, or laid 
 Beneath the same remember'd shade. 
 
 And hence my pen unfetter'd moves 
 In freedom which the heart approves — 
 The negligence which friendship loves. 
 
 And wilt thou prize my poor gift less 
 
 For simple air and rustic dress, 
 
 And sign of haste and carelessness 1 — 
 
 ! more than specious counterfeit 
 
 Of sentiment, or studied wit, 
 
 A heart like thine should value it. 
 
 Yet half I fear my gift will be 
 Unto thy book, if not to thee, 
 Of more than doubtful courtesy. 
 
 A banish'd name from fashion's sphere — 
 A lay unheard of Beauty's ear, 
 Forbid, disown'd, — what do they here 1 
 
 Upon my ear not all in vain 
 
 Came the sad captive's clanking chain — 
 
 The groaning from his bed of pain. 
 
 And sadder still, I saw the wo 
 Which only wounded spirits know 
 When pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. 
 
 Spurn'd not alone in walks abroad, 
 But in the " temples of the Lord," 
 Thrust out apart like things abhorr'd. 
 
 Deep as I felt, and stern and strong 
 
 In words which prudence smother'd long 
 
 My soul spoke out against the wrong. 
 
 Not mine alone the task to speak 
 Of comfort to the poor and weak, 
 And dry the tear on sorrow's cheek ; 
 
 But, mingled in the conflict warm, 
 To pour the fiery breath of storm 
 Through the harsh trumpet of reform ; 
 
 To brave opinion's settled frown, 
 From ermined robe and saintly gown, 
 While wrestling hoary error down. 
 
 Founts gush'd beside my pilgrim way, 
 Cool shadows on the green sward lay, 
 Flowers swung upon the bending spray, 
 
 And, broad and bright on either hand 
 Stretch'd the green slopes of fairy land, 
 With hope's eternal sunbow spann'd ; 
 
 Whence voices call'd me like the flow, 
 Which on the listener's ear will grow, 
 Of forest streamlets soft and low. 
 
 And gentle eyes, which still retain 
 Their picture on the heart and brain, 
 Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. 
 
 In vain ! — nor dream, nor rest, nor pause, 
 Remain for him who round him draws 
 The batter'd mail of freedom's cause. 
 
 From youthful hopes — from each green spot 
 Of young romance, and gentle thought, 
 Where storm and tumult enter not. 
 
 From each fair altar, where belong 
 The offerings love requires of song 
 In homage to her bright-eyed throng, 
 
 With soul and strength, with heart and hand, 
 I turn'd to freedom's struggling band — 
 To the sad helots of our land. 
 
 What marvel then that Fame should turn 
 Her notes of praise to those of scorn — 
 Her gifts reclaim'd — her smiles withdrawn. 
 
 What matters it ! — a few years more, 
 Life's surge so restless heretofore 
 Shall break upon the unknown shore ! 
 
 In that far land shall disappear 
 
 The shadows which we follow here — 
 
 The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere ! 
 
 Before no work of mortal hand 
 Of human will or strength expand 
 The pearl gates of the " better land ;" 
 
 Alone in that pure love which gave 
 Life to the sleeper of the grave, 
 Resteth the power to " seek and save." 
 
 Yet, if the spirit gazing through 
 
 The vista of the past can view 
 
 One deed to heaven and virtue true ; 
 
 If through the wreck of wasted powers, 
 Of garlands wreathed from folly's bowers, 
 Of idle aims and misspent hours, 
 
 The eye can note one sacred spot 
 By pride and self profaned not — 
 A green place in the waste of thought, 
 
 Where deed or word hath render'd less 
 "The sum of human wretchedness," 
 And gratitude looks forth to bless — 
 
 The simple burst of tenderest feeling 
 From sad hearts won by evil-dealing, 
 For blessing on the hand of healing, — 
 
 Better than glory's pomp will be 
 That green and blessed spot to me — 
 A landmark in eternity ! — 
 
 Something of time which may invite 
 The purified and spiritual sight 
 To rest on with a calm delight. 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 399 
 
 And when the summer winds shall sweep 
 With their light wings my place of sleep, 
 And mosses round my head-stone creep, 
 
 If still, as freedom's rallying sign, 
 Upon the young heart's altars shine 
 The very fires they caught from mine, 
 
 If words my lips once utter'd still 
 In the calm faith and steadfast will 
 Of other hearts, their work fulfil, 
 
 Perchance with joy the soul may learn 
 
 These tokens, and its eye discern 
 
 The fires which on those altars burn, — 
 
 A marvellous joy that even then 
 
 The spirit hath its life again, 
 
 In the strong hearts of mortal men. 
 
 Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, 
 
 No gay and graceful offering — 
 
 No flower-smile of the laughing spring. 
 
 Midst the green buds of youth's fresh May, 
 With fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, 
 My sad and sombre gift I lay. 
 
 And if it deepens in thy mind 
 
 A sense of suffering human kind — 
 
 The outcast and the spirit-blind : 
 
 Oppress'd and spoil'd on every side, 
 By prejudice, and scorn, and pride ; 
 Life's common courtesies denied : 
 
 Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, 
 Children by want and misery nursed, 
 Tasting life's bitter cup at first. 
 
 If to their strong appeals which come 
 From fireless hearth, and crowded room, 
 And the dark alley's noisome gloom, — 
 
 Though dark the hands upraised to thee 
 
 In mute, beseeching agony, 
 
 Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy, 
 
 Not vainly on thy gentle shrine 
 
 Where love, and mirth, and friendship twine 
 
 Their varied gifts, I offer mine. 
 
 DEMOCRACY. 
 
 Oh, fairest born of love and light, 
 Yet bending brow and eye severe 
 
 On all which pains the holy sight 
 Or wounds the pure and perfect ear ! 
 
 Beautiful yet thy temples rise, 
 
 Though there profaning gifts are thrown; 
 And fires unkindled of the skies 
 
 Are glaring round thy altar-stone 
 
 Still sacred — though thy name be breathed 
 By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 
 
 And garlands, pluck'd from thee, are wreathed 
 Around the haughty brows of pride. 
 
 O, ideal of my boyhood's time ! 
 
 The faith in which my father stood, 
 
 Even when the sons of lust and crime 
 Had stain'd thy peaceful courts with blood ! 
 
 Still to those courts my footsteps turn, 
 For, through the mists that darken there, 
 
 I see the flame of freedom- burn — 
 The Kebla of the patriot's prayer ! 
 
 The generous feeling, pure and warm, 
 Which owns the right of all divine — 
 
 The pitying heart — the helping arm — 
 The prompt self-sacrifice — are thine. 
 
 Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, 
 
 How fade the lines of caste and birth! 
 
 How equal in their suffering lie 
 The groaning multitudes of earth ! 
 
 Still to a stricken brother true, 
 
 Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 
 
 As stoop'd to heal the wounded Jew 
 The worshipper of Gerizim. 
 
 By misery unrepell'd, unawed 
 
 By pomp or power, thou see'st a Mas - 
 
 In prince or peasant — slave or lord — 
 Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 
 
 Through all disguise, form, place or name, 
 Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, 
 
 Through poverty and squalid shame, 
 Thou lookest on the man within. 
 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 Howe'er debased, and soil'd, and dim, 
 
 The crown upon his forehead set — 
 The immortal gift of God to him. 
 
 And there is reverence in thy look ; 
 
 For that frail form which mortals wear 
 The Spirit of the Holiest took, 
 
 And veil'd His perfect brightness there. 
 
 Not from the cold and shallow fount 
 
 Of vain philosophy thou art, 
 He who of old on Syria's mount 
 
 Thrill'd, warm'd by turns the listener's heart. 
 
 In holy words which cannot die, 
 
 In thoughts which angels lean'd to know, 
 Proclaim'd thy message from on high — 
 
 Thy mission to a world of wo. 
 
 That voice's echo hath not died ! 
 
 From the blue lake of Galilee, 
 And Tabor's lonely mountain side, 
 
 It calls a struggling world to thee. 
 
 Thy name and watchword o'er this land 
 
 I hear in every breeze that stirs, 
 And round a thousand altars stand 
 
 Thy banded party worshippers. 
 
 Not to these altars of a day, 
 
 At party's call, my gift I bring; 
 But on thy olden shrine I lay 
 
 A freeman's dearest offering: 
 
 The voiceless utterance of his will — 
 His pledge to freedom and to truth, 
 
 That manhood's heart remembers still 
 The homage of its generous youth. 
 
400 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON.* 
 
 Tket sat in silent watchfulness 
 
 The sacred cypress tree about, 
 And from the wrinkled brows of age 
 
 Their failing eyes look'd out. 
 
 Gray age and sickness waiting there, 
 Through weary night and lingering day, 
 
 Grim as the idols at their side, 
 And motionless as thej\ 
 
 Unheeded, in the boughs above, 
 
 The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ; 
 Unseen of them the island's flowers 
 
 Bloom'd brightly at their feet. 
 O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, 
 
 The thunder crash'd on rock and hill, 
 The lightning wrapp'd them like a cloud, — 
 
 Yet there they waited still ! 
 
 What was the world without to them 1 
 
 The Moslem's sunset call — the dance 
 Of Ceylon's maids — the passing gleam 
 
 Of battle-flag and lance 1 
 They waited for that falling leaf 
 
 Of which the wandering Jogees sing, 
 Which lends once more to wintry age 
 
 The greenness of its spring. 
 ! if these poor and blinded ones 
 
 In trustful patience wait to feel 
 O'er torpid pulse and failing limb 
 
 A youthful freshness steal : 
 
 Shall we, who sit beneath that tree 
 Whose healing leaves of life are shed 
 
 In answer to the breath of prayer, 
 Upon the waiting head : 
 
 Not to restore our failing forms, 
 Nor build the spirit's broken shrine, 
 
 But on the fainting soul to shed 
 A light and life divine : 
 
 Shall we grow weary at our watch, 
 And murmur at the long delay, — 
 
 Impatient of our Father's time, 
 And his appointed way 1 
 
 Or shall the stir of outward things 
 Allure and claim the Christian's eye, 
 
 When on the heathen watcher's ear 
 Their powerless murmurs die 1 
 
 Alas ! a deeper test of faith 
 
 Than prison-cell or martyr's stake, 
 
 The self-abasing watchfulness 
 Of silent prayer may make. 
 
 We gird us bravely to rebuke 
 Our erring brother in the wrong; 
 
 And in the ear of pride and power 
 Our warning voice is strong. 
 
 * Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of 
 the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress tree in Cey- 
 lon, universally held sacred by the inhabitants, the leaves 
 of which were said to fall only at long and uncertain pe- 
 riods; and he who had the happiness to find and eat one 
 of them was restored at once to youth and vigour. The 
 traveller saw several venerable "Jogees, or saints, sitting 
 silent under the tree, patiently waiting the fall of a leaf. 
 
 Easier to smite with Peteii's sword, 
 
 Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer; 
 
 Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, 
 Our souls can do and dare. 
 
 But, 0, we shrink from Jordan's side, 
 From waters which alone can save ; 
 
 And murmur for Abana's banks, 
 And Pharpar's brighter wave. 
 
 ! Thou who in the garden's shade 
 Didst wake thy weary ones again, 
 
 Who slumber'd in that fearful hour, 
 Forgetful of thy pain: 
 
 Bend o'er us now, as over them, 
 And set our sleep-bound spirits free, 
 
 Nor leave us slumbering in the watch 
 Our souls should keep with thee ! 
 
 THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.* 
 
 The ocean looketh up to heaven, 
 
 As 't were a living thing ; 
 The homage of its waves is given 
 
 In ceaseless worshipping. 
 
 They kneel upon the sloping sand, 
 
 As bends the human knee, 
 A beautiful and tireless band, 
 
 The priesthood of the sea ! 
 
 They pour the glittering treasures out 
 Which in the deep have birth, 
 
 And chant their awful hymns about 
 The watching hills of earth. 
 
 The green earth sends its incense up 
 
 From every mountain-shrine, 
 From every flower and dewy cup 
 
 That greeteth the sunshine. 
 
 The mists are lifted from the rills, 
 Like the white wing of prayer ; 
 
 They lean above the ancient hills, 
 As doing homage there. 
 
 The forest-tops are lowly cast 
 
 O'er breezy hill and glen, 
 As if a prayerful spirit pass'd 
 
 On nature as on men. 
 
 The clouds weep o'er the fallen world, 
 
 E'en as repentant love ; 
 Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd, 
 
 They fade in light above. 
 
 The sky is as a temple's arch, 
 
 The blue and wavy air 
 Is glorious with the spirit-march 
 
 Of messengers at prayer. 
 
 The gentle moon, the kindling sun, 
 
 The many stars are given, 
 As shrines to burn earth's incense on, 
 
 The altar-fires of Heaven ! 
 
 * "Ithathbeeneas it were especially rendered nntomee, 
 and made plaine and legible to my understandynge, that 
 a great worshipp is going on among the thyngs of God."— 
 Gealt. 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 401 
 
 THE FUNERAL TREE OF THE 
 SOKOKIS.* 
 
 Around Sebago's lonely lake 
 There lingers not a breeze to break 
 The mirror which its waters make. 
 
 The solemn pines along its shore, 
 The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, 
 Are painted on its glassy floor. 
 
 The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, 
 The snowy mountain-tops which lie 
 Piled coldly up against the sky. 
 
 Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak, 
 Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
 Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. 
 
 Yet green are Saco's banks below, 
 And belts of spruce and cedar show, 
 Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 
 
 The earth hath felt the breath of spring, 
 Though yet upon her tardy wing 
 The lingering frosts of winter cling. 
 
 Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, 
 And mildly from its sunny nooks 
 The blue eye of the violet looks. 
 And odours from the springing grass, 
 The sweet birch, and the sassafras, 
 Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 
 
 Her tokens of renewing care 
 Hath Nature scatter'd everywhere, 
 In bud and flower, and warmer air. 
 But in their hour of bitterness, 
 What reck the broken Sokokis, 
 Beside their slaughter'd chief, of this ? 
 
 The turf's red stain is yet undried — 
 Scarce have the death-shot echoes died 
 Along Sebago's wooded side : 
 And silent now the hunters stand, 
 Group'd darkly, where a swell of land 
 Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. 
 Fire and the axe have swept it bare, 
 Save one lone beech, unclosing there 
 Its light leaves in the April air. 
 With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, 
 They break the damp turf at its foot, 
 And bare its coil'd and twisted root. 
 They heave the stubborn trunk aside, 
 The firm roots from the earth divide — 
 The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. 
 And there the fallen chief is laid, 
 In tassell'd garb of skins array'd, 
 And girdled with his wampum-braid. 
 
 * Polan, a chief of the Sokokis Indians, the original 
 inhabitants of the country lying between Agamenticus 
 and Casco bay, was killed in a skirmish at Windham, on 
 the Sebago lake, in the spring of 1756. He claimed all 
 the lands on both sides of the Presumpscot river to its 
 mouth at Casco, as his own. He was shrewd, subtle, 
 and brave. After the white men had retired, the sur- 
 viving Indians "swayed" or bent down a young tree 
 until its roots were turned up, placed the body of their 
 chief beneath them, and then released the tree to spring 
 back to its former position. ■ _ fi 
 
 The silver cross he loved is press'd 
 Beneath the heavy arms, which rest 
 Upon his scarr'd and naked breast.* 
 
 'T is done : the roots are backward sent, 
 The beechen tree stands up unbent — 
 The Indian's fitting monument ! 
 
 When of that sleeper's broken race 
 Their green and pleasant dwelling-place 
 Which knew them once, retains no trace : 
 
 O ! long may sunset's light be shed 
 As now upon that beech's head — 
 A green memorial of the dead ! 
 
 There shall his fitting requiem be, 
 In northern winds, that, cold and free, 
 Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 
 
 To their wild wail the waves which break 
 Forever round that lonely lake 
 A solemn under-tone shall make ! 
 
 And who shall deem the spot unblest, 
 Where Nature's younger children rest, 
 Lull'd on their sorrowing mother's breast ? 
 
 Deem ye that mother loveth less 
 These bronzed forms of the wilderness 
 She foldeth in her long caress 1 
 
 As sweet o'er them her wild flowers flow, 
 As if with fairer hair and brow 
 The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 
 
 What though the places of their rest 
 No priestly knee hath ever press'd — 
 No funeral rite nor prayer hath bless'd 1 
 What though the bigot's ban be there, 
 And thoughts of wailing and despair, 
 And cursing in the place of prayer If 
 Yet Heaven hath angels watching round 
 The Indian's lowliest forest -mound — 
 And they have made it holy ground. 
 There ceases man's frail judgment; all 
 His powerless bolts of cursing fall 
 Unheeded on that grassy pall. 
 
 O, peel'd, and hunted, and reviled ! 
 Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild ! 
 Great Nature owns her simple child ! 
 And Nature's God, to whom alone 
 The secret of the heart is known — 
 The hidden language traced thereon ; 
 Who, from its many cumberings 
 Of form and creed, and outward things, 
 To light the naked spirit brings ; 
 Not with our partial eye shall scan — 
 Not with our pride and scorn shall ban 
 The spirit of our brother man ! 
 
 * The Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic 
 faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed 
 to the French settlements on the St. Francois. 
 
 | The brutal and unchristian spirit of the early settlers 
 of New England toward the red man is strikingly illus- 
 trated in the conduct of the man who shot down the So- 
 kokis chief. He used to say he always noticed the anni- 
 versary of that exploit, as " the day on which he sent 
 the devil a present."— Williamson's History oj Maine. 
 
402 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 I shall not soon forget that sight: 
 The glow of autumn's westering day, 
 
 A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, 
 On Raphael's picture lay. 
 
 It was a simple print I saw, 
 
 The fair face of a musing boy ; 
 Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
 
 Seem' d blending with my joy. 
 
 A simple print : — the graceful flow 
 Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, 
 
 And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
 Unmark'd and clear, were there. 
 
 Yet through its sweet and calm repose 
 
 I saw the inward spirit shine ; 
 It was as if before me rose 
 
 The white veil of a shrine. 
 
 As if, as Gothland's sage has told, 
 The hidden life, the man within, 
 
 Dissever'd from its frame and mould, 
 By mortal eye were seen. 
 
 Was it the lifting of that eye, 
 
 The waving of that pictured hand 1 
 
 Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky 
 I saw the walls expand. 
 
 The narrow room had vanish'd — space 
 Broad, luminous, remain'd alone, 
 
 Through which all hues and shapes of grace 
 And beauty look'd or shone. 
 
 Around the mighty master came 
 
 The marvels which his pencil wrought, 
 
 Those miracles of power whose fame 
 Is wide as human thought. 
 
 There droop'd thy more than mortal face, 
 
 O Mother, beautiful and mild ! 
 Enfolding in one dear embrace 
 
 Thy Saviour and thy child ! 
 
 The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 
 
 The awful glory of that day 
 When all the Father's brightness shone 
 
 Through manhood's veil of clay. 
 
 And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild 
 Dark visions of the days of old, 
 
 How sweetly woman's beauty smiled 
 Through locks of brown and gold ! 
 
 There Fornarina's fair young face 
 Once more upon her lover shone, 
 
 Whose model of an angel's grace 
 He borrow'd from her own. 
 
 Slow pass'd that vision from my view, 
 But not the lesson which it taught ; 
 
 The soft, calm shadows which it threw 
 Still rested on my thought : 
 
 The truth, that painter, bard and sage, 
 Even in earth's cold and changeful clime, 
 
 Plant for their deathless heritage 
 The fruits and flowers of time. 
 
 We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
 Of which the coming life is made, 
 
 And fill our future's atmosphere 
 With sunshine or with shade. 
 
 The tissue of the life to be 
 
 We weave with colours all our own, 
 And in the field of destiny 
 
 We reap as we have sown. 
 
 Still shall the soul around it call 
 The shadows which it gather'd here, 
 
 And painted on the eternal wall 
 The past shall reappear. 
 
 Think ye the notes of holy song 
 On Milton's tuneful ear have died 1 
 
 Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 
 Has vanish'd from his side '? 
 
 Oh no ! — we live our life again : 
 Or warmly touch'd or coldly dim 
 
 The pictures of the past remain. — 
 Man's works shall follow him ! 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 A beautiful and happy girl 
 
 With step as soft as summer air, 
 And fresh young lip and brow of pearl 
 Shadow'd by many a careless curl 
 
 Of unconfined and flowing hair: 
 A seeming child in every thing 
 
 Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, 
 As nature wears the smile of spring 
 
 When sinking into summer's arms. 
 
 A mind rejoicing in the light 
 
 Which melted through its graceful bower, 
 Leaf after leaf serenely bright 
 And stainless in its holy white 
 
 Unfolding like a morning flower: 
 A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute 
 
 With every breath of feeling woke, 
 And, even when the tongue was mute, 
 
 From eye and lip in music spoke. 
 
 How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
 
 Of memory at the thought of thee ! — 
 Old hopes which long in dust have lain, 
 Old dreams come thronging back again, 
 
 And boyhood lives again in me ; 
 I feel its glow upon my cheek, 
 
 Its fulness of the heart is mine, 
 As when I lean'd to hear thee speak, 
 
 Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 
 
 I hear again thy low replies, 
 
 I feel thy arm within my own, 
 And timidly again uprise 
 The fringed lids of hazel eyes 
 
 With soft brown tresses overblown. 
 Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, 
 
 Of moonlit wave and willowy way, 
 Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves, 
 
 And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 403 
 
 Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled 
 
 My picture of thy youth to see, 
 When half a woman, half a child, 
 Thy very artlessness beguiled, 
 
 And folly's self seem'd wise in thee. 
 I too can smile, when o'er that hour 
 
 The lights of memory backward stream, 
 Yet feel the while that manhood's power 
 
 Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 
 
 Years have pass'd on, and left their trace 
 
 Of graver care and deeper thought ; 
 And unto me the calm, cold face 
 Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
 
 Of woman's pensive beauty brought, 
 On life's rough blasts for blame or praise 
 
 The schoolboy's name has widely flown; 
 Thine in the green and quiet ways 
 
 Of unobtrusive goodness known. 
 
 And wider yet in thought and deed 
 
 Our still diverging thoughts incline, 
 Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
 While answers to my spirit's need 
 
 The Yorkshire peasant's simple line. 
 For thee the priestly rite and prayer, 
 
 And holy day and solemn psalm, 
 For me the silent reverence where 
 
 My brethren gather, slow and calm. 
 
 Yet hath thy spirit left on me 
 
 An impress time has not worn out, 
 And something of myself in thee, 
 A shadow from the past, I see 
 
 Lingering even yet thy way about ; 
 Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
 
 That lesson of its better hours, 
 Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 
 
 To common dust that path of flowers. 
 
 Thus, while at times before our eye 
 
 The clouds about the present part, 
 And, smiling through them, round us lie 
 Soft hues of memory's morning sky — 
 
 The Indian summer of the heart, 
 In secret sympathies of mind, 
 
 In founts of feeling which retain 
 Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 
 
 Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 
 
 How smiled the land of France 
 Under thy blue eye's glance, 
 
 Light-hearted rover! 
 Old walls of chateaux gray, 
 Towers of an early day 
 Which the three colours play 
 
 Flauntingly over. 
 
 Now midst the brilliant train 
 Thronging the banks of Seine : 
 Now midst the splendour 
 
 Of the wild Alpine range, 
 Waking with change on change 
 Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 
 Lovely and tender. 
 
 Vales, soft, Elysian, 
 Like those in the vision 
 
 Of Mirza, when, dreaming 
 He saw the long hollow dell 
 Touch'd by the prophet's spell 
 Into an ocean's swell 
 
 With its isles teeming. 
 
 Cliffs wrapt in snows of years, 
 Splintering with icy spears 
 
 Autumn's blue heaven : 
 Loose rock and frozen slide, 
 Hung on the mountain side, 
 Waiting their hour to glide 
 
 Downward, storm-driven ! 
 
 Rhine stream, by castle old 
 Baron's and robber's hold, 
 
 Peacefully flowing; 
 Sweeping through vineyards green, 
 Or where the cliffs are seen 
 O'er the broad wave between 
 
 Grim shadows throwing. 
 
 Or, where St. Peter's dome 
 Swells o'er eternal Rome 
 
 Vast, dim, and solemn, — 
 Hymns ever chanting low — 
 Censers swung to and fro — 
 Sable stoles sweeping slow 
 
 Cornice and column ! 
 
 Oh, as from each and all 
 Will there not voices call 
 
 Evermore back again? 
 In the mind's gallery 
 Wilt thou not ever see 
 Dim phantoms beckon thee 
 
 O'er that old track again ? 
 
 New forms thy presence haunt — 
 New voices softly chant — 
 
 New faces greet thee ! — 
 Pilgrims from many a shrine 
 Hallow'd by poet's line 
 At memory's magic sign 
 
 Rising to meet thee. 
 
 And when such visions come 
 Unto thy olden home, 
 
 Will they not waken 
 Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
 Led thee o'er sea and land 
 Back to the household band 
 
 Whence thou wast taken? 
 
 While at the sunset time, 
 Swells the cathedral's chime, 
 
 Yet, in thy dreaming, 
 While to thy spirit's eye 
 Yet the vast mountain's lie 
 Piled in the Switzer's sky, 
 
 Icy and gleaming • 
 
404 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 Prompter of silent prayer, 
 Be the wild picture there 
 
 In the mind's chamber, 
 And, through each coming day 
 Him, who, as staff and stay, 
 Watch'd o'er thy wandering way, 
 
 Freshly remember. 
 
 So, when the call shall be 
 Soon or late unto thee, 
 
 As to all given, 
 Still may that picture live, 
 And its fair forms survive, 
 And to thy spirit give 
 
 Gladness in heaven ! 
 
 THE REFORMER. 
 
 All grim, and soil'd, and brown with tan, 
 
 I saw a strong one, in his wrath, 
 Smiting the godless shrines of man 
 Along his path. 
 
 The Church beneath her trembling dome 
 
 Essay'd in vain her ghostly charm : 
 Wealth shook within his gilded home 
 With strange alarm. 
 
 Fraud from his secret chambers fled 
 
 Before the sunlight bursting in : 
 Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head 
 To drown the din. 
 
 " Spare," Art implored, " yon holy pile ; 
 
 That grand, old, time-worn turret spare !" 
 Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, 
 Cried out, " Forbear !" 
 
 Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, 
 Groped for his old, accustom'd stone, 
 Lean'd on his staff, and wept, to find 
 His seat o'erthrown. 
 
 Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, 
 
 O'erhung with paly locks of gold : 
 
 " Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, 
 
 "The fair, the oldl" 
 
 Yet louder rang the strong one's stroke, 
 
 Yet nearer flash'd his axe's gleam ! 
 Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, 
 As from a dream. 
 
 I look'd : aside the dust-cloud roll'd — 
 The waster seem'd the builder too; 
 Upspringing from the ruin'd old, 
 I saw the new. 
 
 'T was but the ruin of the bad — 
 
 The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
 Whate'er of good the old time had, 
 Was living still. 
 
 Calm grew the brows of him I fear'd ; 
 
 The frown which awed me pass'd away, 
 And left behind a smile which cheer'd 
 Like breaking day. 
 
 The grain grew green on battle-plains, 
 
 O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; 
 The slave stood forging from his chains 
 The spade and plough. 
 
 Where frown'd the fort, pavilions gay 
 
 And cottage windows, flower-entwined, 
 Look'd out upon the peaceful bay 
 And hills behind. 
 
 Through vine-wreath'd cups with wine once red, 
 
 The lights on brimming crystal fell, 
 Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head 
 And mossy well. 
 
 Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope, 
 
 Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams stray'd, 
 And with the idle gallows-rope 
 
 The young child play'd. 
 
 Where the doom'd victim in his cell 
 
 Had counted o'er the weary hours, 
 Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, 
 Came crown'd with flowers. 
 
 Grown wiser for the lesson given, 
 
 I fear no longer, for I know 
 That, where the share is deepest driven, 
 The best fruits grow. 
 
 The outworn rite, the old abuse, 
 
 The pious fraud transparent grown, 
 The good held captive in the use 
 Of wrong alone — 
 
 These wait their doom, from that great law 
 Which makes the past time serve to-day , 
 And fresher life the world shall draw 
 From their decay. 
 
 Oh ! backward-looking son of Time ! — 
 
 The new is old, the old is new — 
 The cycle of a change sublime 
 Still sweeping through. 
 
 So wisely taught the Indian seer ; 
 
 Destroying Seva, forming Bbahm, 
 Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, 
 Are one, the same. 
 
 As idly as, in that old day, 
 
 Thou mournest, did thy sires repine : 
 So, in his time, thy child grown gray, 
 Shall sigh for thine. 
 
 Yet, not the less for them or thou 
 
 The eternal step of Progress beats 
 To that great anthem, calm and slow, 
 Which God repeats ! 
 
 Take heart ! — the waster builds again — 
 
 A charmed life old Goodness hath ; 
 The tares may perish — but the grain 
 Is not for death. 
 
 God works in all things ; all obey 
 
 His first propulsion from the night : 
 
 Ho, wake and watch ! — the world is gray 
 
 With morning light ! 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 405 
 
 MY SOUL AND I. 
 
 Stand still, my soul : in the silent dark 
 
 I would question thee, 
 Alone in the shadow drear and stark 
 
 With God and me ! 
 
 What, my soul, was thine errand here 1 
 
 Was it mirth or ease, 
 Or heaping up dust from year to year] 
 
 " Nay, none of these." 
 
 Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight 
 
 Whose eye looks still 
 And steadily on thee through the night : 
 
 " To do his will !" 
 
 What hast thou done, oh, soul of mine, 
 
 That thou tremblest so 1 — 
 Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the line 
 
 He bade thee go 1 
 
 What, si!ent all ! — art sad of cheer! 
 
 Art fearful now 1 
 When God seem'd far, and men were near, 
 
 How brave wert thou ! 
 
 Aha ! thou tremblest ! — well I see 
 
 Thou'rt craven grown. 
 Is it so hard with God and me 
 
 To stand alone 1 
 
 Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 
 
 Oh, wretched sprite ! 
 Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black 
 
 Abysmal night. 
 What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, 
 
 For God and man, 
 From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth 
 
 To life's mid span 1 
 
 Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, 
 
 But weak and low; 
 Like far, sad murmurs on my ear 
 
 They come and go. 
 
 " I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, 
 
 And borne the Right 
 From beneath the footfall of the throng 
 
 To life and light. 
 
 " Wherever Freedom shiver'd a chain, 
 
 < God speed,' quoth I ; 
 To Error amidst her shouting train 
 
 I gave the lie.'" 
 
 Ah, soul of mine ! ah, soul of mine ! 
 
 Thy deeds are well : 
 Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine 1 
 
 My soul, pray tell. 
 
 " Of all the work my hand hath wrought 
 
 Beneath the sky, 
 Save a place in kindly human thought, 
 
 No gain have I." 
 Go to, go to ! — for thy very self 
 
 Thy deeds were done: 
 Thou for fame, the miser for pelf, 
 
 Your end is one. 
 And where art thou going, soul of mine 1 
 
 Canst see the end ! 
 
 And whither this troubled life of thine 
 
 Evermore doth tend 1 
 What daunts thee now 1 — what shakes thee so 1 
 
 My sad soul, say. 
 " I see a cloud like a curtain low 
 
 Hang o'er my way. 
 
 " Whither I go I cannot tell : 
 
 That cloud hangs black, 
 High as the heaven and deep as hell, 
 
 Across my track. 
 
 " I see its shadow coldly enwrap 
 
 The souls before. 
 Sadly they enter it, step by step, 
 
 To return no more ! 
 
 " They shrink, they shudder, dear God ! they kneel 
 
 To thee in prayer. 
 They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel 
 
 That it still is there. 
 
 " In vain they turn from the dread Before 
 
 To the Known and Gone ; 
 For while gazing behind them evermore, 
 
 Their feet glide on. 
 " Yet, at times, I see upon sweet, pale faces 
 
 A light begin 
 To tremble, as if from holy places 
 
 And shrines within. 
 " And at times methinks their cold lips move 
 
 With hymn and prayer, 
 As if somewhat of awe, but more of love 
 
 And hope were there. 
 " I call on the souls who have left the light, 
 
 To reveal their lot ; 
 I bend mine ear to that wall of night, 
 
 And they answer not. 
 
 " But I hear around me sighs of pain 
 
 And the cry of fear, 
 And a sound like the slow, sad dropping of rain, 
 
 Each drop a tear ! 
 
 " Ah, the cloud is dark, and, day by day, 
 
 I am moving thither : 
 I must pass beneath it on my way — 
 
 God pity me ! — whither 1" 
 
 Ah, soul of mine, so brave and wise 
 
 In the life-storm loud, 
 Fronting so calmly all human eyes 
 
 In the sunlit crowd ! 
 Now standing apart with God and me, 
 
 Thou art weakness all, 
 Gazing vainly after the things to be 
 
 Through Death's dread wall. 
 
 But never for this, never for this 
 
 Was thy being lent ; 
 For the craven's fear is but selfishness, 
 
 Like his merriment. 
 
 Folly and Fear are sisters twain : 
 
 One closing her eyes, 
 The other peopling the dark inane 
 
 With spectral lies. 
 Know well, my soul, God's hand controls 
 
 Whate'er thou fearest ; 
 
406 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 Round him in calmest music rolls 
 Whate'er thou hearest. 
 
 What to thee is shadow, to him is day, 
 
 And the end he knoweth, 
 And not on a blind and aimless way 
 
 The spirit goeth. 
 
 Man sees no future — a phantom show 
 
 Is alone before him ; 
 Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, 
 
 And flowers bloom o'er him. 
 
 Nothing before, nothing behind : 
 
 The steps of Faith 
 Fall on the seeming void, and find 
 
 The rock beneath. 
 The Present, the Present is all thou hast 
 
 For thy sure possessing ; 
 Like the patriarch's angel, hold it fast 
 
 Till it gives its blessing. 
 Why fear the night 1 why shrink from Death, 
 
 That phantom wan 1 
 There is nothing in heaven, or earth beneath, 
 
 Save God and man. 
 
 Peopling the shadows, we turn from Him 
 
 And from one another ; 
 All is spectral, and vague, and dim, 
 
 Save God and our brother ! 
 
 Like warp and woof, all destinies 
 
 Are woven fast, 
 Linked in sympathy like the keys 
 
 Of an organ vast. 
 
 Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar; 
 
 Break but one 
 Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar 
 
 Through all will run. 
 
 Oh, restless spirit ! wherefore strain 
 
 Beyond thy sphere ? — 
 Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, 
 
 Are now and here. 
 
 Back to thyself is measured well 
 
 All thou hast given ; 
 Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell, 
 
 His bliss thy heaven. 
 
 And in life, in death, in dark and light, 
 
 All are in God's care ; 
 Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, 
 
 And he is there ! 
 
 All which id real now remaineth, 
 
 And fadeth never : 
 The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth 
 
 The soul for ever. 
 
 Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness 
 
 His own thy will, 
 And with strength from him shall thy utter weakness 
 
 Life's task fulfil : 
 
 And that cloud itself, which now before thee 
 
 Lies dark in view, 
 Shall with beams of light from the inner glory 
 
 Be stricken through. 
 
 And like meadow-mist through Autumn's dawn 
 
 Uprolling thin, 
 Its thickest folds when about thee drawn 
 
 Let sunlight in. 
 
 Then of what is to be, and of what is done, 
 
 Why queriest thou 1 — 
 The past and the time to be are one, 
 
 And both are now ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND, ON THE DEATH OF 
 HIS SISTER. 
 
 Thine is a grief, the depth of which another 
 
 May never know ; 
 Yet, o'er the waters, oh, my stricken brother ! 
 
 To thee I go. 
 
 I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding 
 
 Thy hand in mine ; 
 With even the weakness of my soul upholding 
 
 The strength of thine. 
 
 I never knew, like thee, the dear departed , 
 
 I stood not by 
 When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted 
 
 Lay down to die. 
 
 And on thine ears my words of weak condoling 
 
 Must vainly fall : 
 The funeral-bell which in thy heart is tolling, 
 
 Sounds over all ! 
 
 I will not mock thee with the poor world's common 
 
 And heartless phrase, 
 Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman 
 
 With idle praise. 
 
 With silence only as their benediction, 
 
 God's angels come 
 Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, 
 
 The soul sits dumb ! 
 
 Yet, would I say what thine own heart approveth : 
 
 Our Father's will, 
 Calling to him the dear one whom he loveth, 
 
 Is mercy still. 
 
 Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel 
 
 Hath evil wrought : 
 Her funeral-anthem is a glad evangel — 
 
 The good die not ! 
 
 God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly 
 
 What he hath given ; 
 They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly 
 
 As in his heaven. 
 
 And she is with thee : in thy path of trial 
 
 She walketh yet ; 
 Still with the baptism of thy self-denial 
 
 Her locks are wet. 
 
 Up, then, my brother ! Lo, the fields of harvest 
 
 Lie white in view ! 
 She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest 
 
 To both is true. 
 
 Thrust in thy sickle ! England's toil-worn peasants 
 
 Thy call abide ; 
 And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, 
 
 Shall glean beside ! 
 
GEORGE W. PATTEN. 
 
 [Born, 1808.] 
 
 Major Patten was born in Newport, Ehode 
 Island, on the twenty-sixth of December, 1808. 
 He was the third son of William Patten, D.D., 
 who was minister of the second Congregational 
 church in that city for half a century. When 
 only twelve years of age he entered Brown Uni- 
 versity, where he was distinguished rather for abi- 
 lities than for application, being naturally averse to 
 systematic study, and addicted to poetry and music. 
 He was, however, preeminent in chemistry, as sub- 
 sequently at West Point in mathematics. At four- 
 teen he wrote a class poem, entitled " Logan," and 
 when he was graduated, in 1825, recited a lyrical 
 story called " The Maid of Scio." Both these 
 pieces were warmly praised, as illustrations of an 
 unfolding genius of a very high order. After leav- 
 ing the university he remained ayear in his father's 
 house, at Newport, before deciding on the choice 
 of a profession. Dr. Patten hoped this son at 
 least would follow in the long line of his ances- 
 tors, who, since the landing of the Mayflower, 
 had furnished an almost uninterrupted succession 
 of pastors; but the young man felt no predilec- 
 tion for the pulpit, and rejected the profession of 
 the law because his two elder brothers had al- 
 ready chosen it, and for want of nerve, that of 
 medicine, to become a soldier. When he disclosed 
 his wishes on this subject, Dr. Patten expressed 
 regret that the son of a minister should think 
 ef a career so incompatible with the principles of 
 the gospel, and declined aiding him to a cadet's 
 appointment. To his inquiry, however, whether 
 he would consent to his entering the Military 
 Academy if he could himself obtain one, he an- 
 
 swered in the affirmative, willing that his son 
 should learn by experience the futility of such an 
 attempt; and he was as much surprised as pain- 
 ed when, after a few weeks, the credentials of a 
 cadet were exhibited to him. John C. Calhoun, 
 Asher FiObbins, William Hunter, and other 
 powerful friends, had willingly and successfully 
 exerted their influence with the President in be- 
 half of a member of the family of Dr. Patten. The 
 excellent clergyman could not help saying now, 
 " I give you my consent, my son, because I pro- 
 mised it : my approbation I cannot give." Young 
 Patten, nevertheless, proceeded to West Point, 
 and soon acquired there the same brilliant repu- 
 tation for talents which he had enjoyed at the 
 university. He received his commission as lieu- 
 tenant in the second regiment of infantry in 1830, 
 was made a captain in 1846, and in 1848 was 
 brevetted major, for his gallantry in the action of 
 Cerro Gordo, where he lost his left hand. His 
 reputation as an officer has always been very 
 high ; he is one of the best disciplinarians and 
 bravest soldiers in the army. 
 
 Major Patten writes in verse with a rarely 
 equalled fluency, and has probably been one of the 
 most prolific of American poets. Led by the exi- 
 gencies of the service into almost every part of our 
 vast empire, his singularly impressible faculties have 
 been kindled by the various charms of its scenery, 
 by never-ending diversities of character, and by 
 the always fresh and frequently romantic experi- 
 ences of his profession. His writings display a fine 
 vein of sentiment, and considerable fancy, but have 
 the faults of evident haste and carelessness. 
 
 TO S. T. P. 
 
 Shadows and clouds are o'er me ; 
 
 Thou art not here, my bride ! 
 The billows dash before me 
 
 Which bear me from thy side ; 
 On lowering waves benighted, 
 
 Dim sets the weary day ; 
 Thou art not here, my plighted, 
 
 To smile the storm away. 
 
 When nymphs of ocean slumber, 
 
 I strike the measured stave 
 With wild and mournful number, 
 
 To charm the wandering wave. 
 Hark to the words of sorrow 
 
 Along the fading main ! 
 " 'Tis night — but will the morrow 
 
 Restore that smile again 1" 
 
 Mid curtain'd dreams descending, 
 
 Thy gentle form I trace ; 
 Dimly with shadows blending, 
 
 I gaze upon thy face ; 
 Thy voice comes o'er me gladly, 
 
 Thy hand is on my brow ; 
 I wake — the wave rolls madly 
 
 Beneath the ploughing prow ! 
 
 Speed on, thou surging billow ! 
 
 O'er ocean speed away ! 
 And bear unto her pillow 
 
 The burden of my lay: 
 Invest her visions brightly 
 
 With passion's murmur'd word, 
 And bid her bless him nightly — 
 
 Him of the lute and sword. 
 
 And her, of dreams unclouded, 
 
 With tongue of lisping tale, 
 Whose eye I left soft shrouded 
 
 'Neath slumber's misty veil, — 
 When morn at length discloses 
 
 The smile I may not see, 
 Bear to her cheek of roses 
 
 A father's kiss for me. 
 
 407 
 
FREDERICK W. THOMAS. 
 
 The family of the author of " Clinton Brad- 
 shaw," by the father's side, were among the early 
 settlers of New England. Isaiah Thomas, founder 
 of the American Antiquarian Society, of Worces- 
 ter, Massachusetts, and author of the " History of 
 Printing," was his father's uncle. During the 
 revolutionary war Mr. Isaiah Thomas conducted 
 the " Massachusetts Spy," and was a warm and 
 sagacious whig. With him Mr. E. S. Thomas, 
 the father of Frederick William, learned the 
 printing business, and he afterward emigrated to 
 Charleston, South Carolina, where he established 
 himself as a bookseller. Here he met and mar- 
 ried Miss Ann Fornerden, of Baltimore, who was 
 then on a visit to the South. Shortly after this 
 marriage Mr. Thomas removed to Providence, 
 where our author was born, on the twenty-fifth 
 of October, 1808. He considers himself a South- 
 erner, however, as he left Rhode Island for Charles- 
 ton when a child in the nurse's arms, and never 
 returned. When about four years of age he 
 slipped from a furniture box on which he was 
 playing, and injured his left leg. Little notice was 
 taken of the accident at the time, and in a few 
 weeks the limb became very painful, his health 
 gradually declined, and it was thought advisable 
 to send him to a more bracing climate. He was 
 accordingly placed in charge of an aunt in Balti- 
 more, where he grew robust, and had recovered 
 from his lameness, with the exception of an occa- 
 sional weakness in the limb, when a second fall, 
 in his eighth or ninth year, had such an effect 
 upon it that he was confined to the house for 
 many months, and was compelled to resort to 
 crutches, which he used until he grew up to man- 
 hood, when they were superseded by a more con- 
 
 venient support. In consequence of these acci- 
 dents, and his general debility, he went to school 
 but seldom, and never long at a time ; but his ardent 
 mind busied itself in study at home, and he was 
 noted for his contemplative habits. At seventeen 
 he commenced reading in the law, and about the 
 same period began his literary career by inditing 
 a poetical satire on some fops about town, the re- 
 sult of which was that the office of the paper in 
 which it was printed was mobbed and demolished. 
 
 Soon after he was admitted to the bar, the family 
 removed to Cincinnati, where, in the winter of 
 1834-5, Mr. Thomas wrote his first novel, "Clin- 
 ton Bradshaw," which was published in Phila- 
 delphia in the following autumn. It was followed 
 in 1836 by "East and West," and in 1840 by 
 " Howard Pinckney." His last work was " Sketches 
 of John Randolph, and other Public Characters," 
 which appeared in Philadelphia in 1853. 
 
 Mr. Thomas has published two volumes of 
 poems: "The Emigrant," descriptive of a wan- 
 derer's feelings while descending the Ohio, in Cin- 
 cinnati, in 1833, and " The Beechen Tree, and 
 other Poems," in New York, in 1844. He has 
 also written largely in verse as well as in prose 
 for the periodicals. 
 
 He has a nice discrimination of the peculiarities 
 of character which give light and shade to the 
 surface of society, and a hearty relish for that 
 peculiar humor which abounds in that portion of 
 our country which undoubtedly embraces most 
 that is original and striking in manners and un- 
 restrained in conduct. He must rank with the 
 first illustrators of manners in the valley of the 
 Mississippi, and deserves praise for many excel- 
 lencies in general authorship. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 'T is said that absence conquers love ! 
 
 But, 0! believe it not; 
 I 've tried, alas! its power to prove, 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 Lady, though fate has bid us part, 
 
 Yet still thou art as dear, 
 As fix'd in this devoted heart 
 
 As when I clasp'd thee here. 
 
 I plunge into the busy crowd, 
 
 And smile to hear thy name ; 
 And yet, as if I thought aloud, 
 
 They know me still the same. 
 And when the wine-cup passes round, 
 
 I toast some other fair, — 
 But when I ask my heart the sound, 
 
 Thy name is echoed there. 
 
 408 
 
 And when some other name I learn, 
 
 And try to whisper love, 
 Still will my heart to thee return, 
 
 Like the returning dove. 
 In vain! I never can forget, 
 
 And would not be forgot; 
 For I must bear the same regret, 
 
 Whate'er may be my lot. 
 
 E'en as the wounded bird will seek 
 
 Its favorite bower to die, 
 So, lady, I would hear thee speak, 
 
 And yield my parting sigh. 
 'T is said that absence conquers love ! 
 
 But, O! believe it not; 
 I've tried, alas! its power to prove, 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 
 Cincinnati, 1833. 
 
blishmenl fxoni. aD a.o- 
 
 ^^^^^^€^c^^lw. 
 
WILLLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 [Born, 180S.] 
 
 William D. Gallagher, the third of four sons 
 of an Irishman who came to this country soon af- 
 ter the rebellion, near the close of the last century, 
 and married a native of New Jersey, was born in 
 Philadelphia, in 1808, and in 1816 migrated with 
 his widowed mother to Cincinnati, which was then 
 a filthy and unhealthy village. For three years 
 he lived with a farmer in the neighborhood, attend- 
 ing a district school in the winters, and in 1825 
 was apprenticed to the printer of one of the Cin- 
 cinnati newspapers. From the beginning of his 
 life in the printing office he wrote occasionally for 
 the press, but preserved the secret of his literary 
 habits until 1828, when the late Mr. Benjamin 
 Deake made it known that he was the author of 
 a series of letters from Kentucky and Missouri, 
 which were attracting considerable attention in 
 his "Saturday Evening Chronicle." This led in 
 1830 to Mr. Gallagher's connection with " The 
 Backwoodsman," a political journal published at 
 Xenia, where he resided about a year. In 1831 
 he was married, and became editor of "The Cin- 
 cinnati Mirror," the first literary gazette conducted 
 with much tact or taste in the western states. At 
 the end of two years, the late Mr. Thomas H. 
 Shreve joined him in its management, and it 
 remained under their direction, through varying 
 fortunes, until 1836. In that year Mr. Galla- 
 gher edited " The Western Literary Journal and 
 Monthly Review," of which but one volume was 
 published, and in 183? "The Western Monthly 
 Magazine and Literary Journal," which had a sim- 
 ilarly brief existence. In 1838 he was associated 
 with a younger brother in a political newspaper at 
 Columbus, the capital of the state, and there esta- 
 blished " The Hesperian, a Monthly Miscellany 
 of General Literature," in which, during its first 
 half year, he was assisted by the late Mr. Otway 
 Curry. " The Hesperian ; ' shared the fate of all 
 previous literary magazines in the west,* and 
 
 * " The Western Review and Miscellaneous Magazine," 
 by William Gibbes Hunt, was commenced in Lexington, 
 Kentucky, in 1829, and published two years. " The West- 
 ern Monthly Review," by the Rev. Timothy Flint, was com- 
 menced in Cincinnati, in 1S27, and published three years. 
 "The Illinois Monthly Magazine," was commenced by 
 Judge James Hall, at Tandalia, Illinois, in 1829, and hav- 
 ing been published there two years, was removed to Cin- 
 cinnati, where it appeared under the title of " The Western 
 Monthly Magazine," until 1836, when it was discontinued. 
 " The Western Quarterly Review," from which the facts in 
 this article are mainly derived, was another illustration of 
 the indifference with which the western people regard 
 western literature. The first number appeared in January, 
 1849, and the second and last in the following April. The 
 only successful literary periodical yet published in the val- 
 ley of the Mississippi has been " The Ladies' Repository," 
 a monthly magazine issued under the patronage of the 
 
 was discontinued on the completion of the third 
 semi-annual volume. 
 
 Mr. Gallagher had now been for ten years 
 the most industrious literary man in the valley 
 of the Mississippi, and had done much for the ex- 
 tension and refinement of literary culture, but his 
 labors were neither justly appreciated nor ade- 
 quately rewarded, and he therefore gladly accept- 
 ed, near the close of 1839, an offer by the late 
 Mr. Charles Hammond, to share with him the 
 editorship of the " Cincinnati Gazette." With 
 this important journal he retained his connection 
 until the whigs came into power in 1849, when 
 his friend Mr. Corwin, on being appointed Secre- 
 tary of the Treasury, conferred on him the post 
 of confidential clerk in that department, and he 
 took up his residence in Washington. On the 
 breaking up of the whig administration, in 1853, 
 he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he 
 was for several months one of the editors of the 
 " Daily Courier ;" but the manly earnestness with 
 which he denounced the crime of the jurors who ac- 
 quitted the notorious murderer, Matthew Ward, 
 led to some disagreement between him and his 
 partner, and he has since resided on a plantation 
 a few miles from that city. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Gallagher are numerous, 
 various, and of very unequal merit. Some are 
 exquisitely modulated and in every respect finish- 
 ed with excellent judgment, while others are in- 
 harmonious, inelegant, and betray unmistakeable 
 signs of carelessness. His most unstudied per- 
 formances, however, are apt to be forcible and pic- 
 turesque, fragrant with the freshness of western 
 woods and fields, and instinct with the aspiring 
 and determined life of the race of western men. 
 The poet of a new country is naturally of the 
 party of progress; his noblest theme is man, and 
 his highest law liberty. The key-note of Mr. 
 Gallagher's social speculation is in his poem of 
 " The Laborer." Ohio is without a past and with- 
 out traditions; populous and rich as are her broad 
 domains, in her villages still walk the actors in 
 her earliest civilized history ; and our author never 
 strikes a more popular chord than when he cele- 
 brates 
 
 " The mothers of our forest land," 
 
 or sings of 
 
 " The free and manly lives we led, 
 Mid verdure or mid snow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 Fifty years ago." 
 
 But his best pieces, of which "August" is a spe- 
 
 Methodist Episcopal Church, for a considerable number of 
 years, and edited with much taste and knowledge, by gen- 
 tlemen appointed by the Conferences of that denomination. 
 
 409 
 
410 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 cimen, are descriptive of external nature. He de- 
 lights in painting the phenomena of the changing 
 seasons, the sights and sounds of the forest, and 
 the more poetical aspects of rural and humble life, 
 and in all his pictures there is, with a happy free- 
 dom of outline and coloring, the utmost fidelity in 
 detail and general effect. 
 
 Mr. Gallagher published many years ago 
 three small volumes of poems under the title of 
 " Errato ;" they contained his juvenile pieces, his 
 songs and romances of love, and other exhibitions 
 of youthful enthusiasm; and in 1846 a collection 
 
 of the pieces he had then written which met 
 the approval of his maturer judgment, under the 
 simple title of " Poems." Two or three of his 
 longer productions have since appeared in pam- 
 phlets ; and a few of his best poems are quoted 
 in " Selections from the Poetical Literature of the 
 West." which appeared in Cincinnati, under his 
 editorial supervision, in 1841 ; but there has not 
 been published any complete or satisfactory col- 
 lection of his works. 
 
 In prose he has written orations and addresses 
 and numerous and various magazine papers. 
 
 CONSERVATISM. 
 
 The owl, he fareth well 
 
 In the shadows of the night, 
 
 And it puzzleth him to tell 
 
 Why the eagle loves the light. 
 
 Away he floats — away, 
 
 From the forest dim and old, 
 
 Where he pass'd the garish day — 
 The night doth make him bold ! 
 
 The wave of his downy wing, 
 As he courses round about, 
 
 Disturbs no sleeping thing, 
 That he findeth in his route. 
 
 The moon looks o'er the hill, 
 And the vale grows softly light ; 
 
 And the cock, with greeting shrill, 
 Wakes the echoes of the night. 
 
 But the moon — he knoweth well 
 
 Its old familiar face ; 
 And the cock — it doth but tell, 
 
 Poor fool ! its resting-place. 
 
 And as still as the spirit of Death 
 On the air his pinions play ; 
 
 There 's not the noise of a breath 
 As he grapples with his prey. 
 
 Oh, the shadowy night for him ! 
 
 It bringeth him fare and glee : 
 And what cares he how dim 
 
 For the eagle it may be 1 
 
 It clothes him from the cold, 
 
 It keeps his larders full ; 
 And he loves the darkness old, 
 
 To the eagle all so dull. 
 
 But the dawn is in the east, 
 And the shadows disappear ; 
 
 And at once his timid breast 
 Feels the presence of a fear. 
 
 He resists — but all in vain ! 
 
 The clear light is not for him ; 
 So he hastens back again 
 
 To the forest old and dim. 
 
 Through his head strange fancies run 
 For he cannot comprehend 
 
 Why the moon, and then the sun, 
 Up the heavens should ascend — 
 
 When the old and quiet night, 
 With its shadows dark and deep, 
 
 And the half-revealing light 
 Of its stars, he 'd ever keep. 
 
 And he hooteth loud and long : 
 But the eagle greets the day — 
 
 And on pinions bold and strong, 
 
 Like a roused thought, sweeps away ! 
 
 THE INVALID. 
 
 She came in Spring, when leaves were green, 
 And birds sang blithe in bower and tree — 
 
 A stranger, but her gentle mien 
 It was a calm delight to see. 
 
 In every motion, grace was hers ; 
 
 On every feature, sweetness dwelt ; 
 Thoughts soon became her worshippers — 
 
 Affections soon before her knelt. 
 
 She bloom'd through all the summer days 
 As sweetly as the fairest flowers, 
 
 And till October's softening haze 
 
 Came with its still and dreamy hours. 
 
 So calm the current of her life, 
 
 So lovely and serene its flow, 
 We hardly mark'd the deadly strife 
 
 Disease forever kept below. 
 
 But autumn winds grew wild and chill, 
 And pierced her with their icy breath ; 
 
 And when the snow on plain and hill 
 Lay white, she pass'd, and slept in death. 
 
 Tones only of immortal birth 
 
 Our memory of her voice can stir ; 
 
 With things too beautiful for earth 
 Alone do we remember her. 
 
 She came in Spring, when leaves were green, 
 And birds sang blithe in bower and tree, 
 
 And flowers sprang up and bloom'd between 
 Low branches and the quickening lea. 
 
 The greenness of the leaf is gone, 
 The beauty of the flower is riven, 
 
 The birds to other climes have flown, 
 And there 's an angel more in heaven ! 
 
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 411 
 
 THE EARLY LOST. 
 
 When the soft airs and quickening showers 
 
 Of spring-time make the meadows green, 
 And clothe the sunny hills with flowers, 
 
 And the cool hollows scoop'd between — 
 Ye go, and fondly bending where 
 
 The bloom is brighter than the day, 
 Ye pluck the loveliest blossom there 
 
 Of all that gem the rich array. 
 The stem, thus robb'd and rudely press'd, 
 
 Stands desolate in the purple even ; 
 The flower has wither'd on your breast, 
 
 But given its perfume up to heaven. 
 When, mid our hopes that waken fears, 
 
 And mid our joys that end in gloom, 
 The children of our earthly years 
 
 Around us spring, and bud, and bloom — 
 An angel from the blest above 
 
 Comes down among them at their play, 
 And takes the one that most we love, 
 
 And bears it silently away. 
 Bereft, we feel the spirit's strife ; 
 
 But while the inmost soul is riven, 
 Our dear and beauteous bud of life 
 
 Receives immortal bloom in heaven. 
 
 FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 A soxr, for the early times out west, 
 
 And our green old forest-home, 
 Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 
 
 Across the bosom come : 
 A song for the free and gladsome life 
 
 In those early days we led, 
 With a teeming soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And a smiling heaven o'erhead ! 
 Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 
 
 And had a joyous flow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase, 
 
 The captured elk or deer ; 
 The camp, the big, bright fire, and then 
 
 The rich and wholesome cheer ; 
 The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, 
 
 By our camp-fire blazing high — 
 Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 
 
 And the panther springing by. 
 Oh, merrily pass'd the time, despite 
 
 Our wily Indian foe, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 We shunn'd Hot labour; when 'twas due 
 
 We wrought with right good will ; 
 And for the home we won for them, 
 
 Our children bless us still. 
 We lived not hermit lives, but oft 
 
 In social converse met ; 
 And fires of love were kindled then, 
 
 That burn on warmly yet. 
 Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 
 
 Pursued its constant flow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fitly years ago ! 
 
 We felt that we were fellow-men ; 
 
 We fell we were a band 
 Sustain'd here in the wilderness 
 
 By Heaven's upholding hand. 
 And when the solemn sabbath came, 
 
 We gather'd in the wood, 
 And lifted up our hearts in prayer 
 
 To God, the only good. 
 Our temples then were earth and sky ; 
 
 None others did we know 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 Our forest life was rough and rude, 
 
 And dangers closed us round, 
 But here, amid the green old trees, 
 
 Freedom we sought and found. 
 Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts 
 
 Would rush with shriek and moan ; 
 We cared not — though they were but frail, 
 
 We felt they were our own ! 
 Oh, free and manly lives we led, 
 
 Mid verdure or mid snow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 But now our course of life is short; 
 
 And as, from day to day, 
 We 're walking on with halting step, 
 
 And fainting by the way, 
 Another land, more bright than this, 
 
 To our dim sight appears, 
 And on our way to it we'll soon 
 
 Again be pioneers ! 
 Yet while we linger, we may all 
 
 A backward glance still throw 
 To the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 TRUTH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 On the page that is immortal, 
 We the brilliant promise see : 
 
 " Ye shall know the truth, my people, 
 And its might shall make you free !" 
 
 For the truth, then, let us battle, 
 
 Whatsoever fate betide ; 
 Long the boast that we are freemen, 
 
 We have made and publish'd wide. 
 
 He who has the truth, and keeps it, 
 Keeps what not to him belongs — 
 
 But performs a selfish action, 
 That his fellow-mortal wrongs. 
 
 He who seeks the truth, and trembles 
 At the dangers he must brave, 
 
 Is not fit to be a freeman — 
 He at best is but a slave. 
 
 He who hears the truth, and places 
 Its high promptings under ban, 
 
 Loud may boast of all that's manly, 
 But can never be a man ! 
 
 Friend, this simple lay who readest, 
 Be not thou like either them — 
 
 But to truth give utmost freedom, 
 And the tide it raises stem. 
 
412 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 Bold in speech and bold in action 
 Be forever! — Time will test, 
 
 Of the free-soul'd and the slavish, 
 Which fulfils life's mission best. 
 
 Be thou like the noble ancient — 
 Scorn the threat that bids thee fear : 
 
 Speak ! — no matter what betide thee ; 
 Let them strike, but make them hear ! 
 
 Be thou like the first apostles — 
 
 Be thou like heroic Paul : 
 If a free thought seek expression, 
 
 Speak it boldly — speak it all ! 
 
 Face thine enemies — accusers ; 
 
 Scorn the prison, rack, or rod ; 
 And, if thou hast truth to utter, 
 
 Speak, and leave the rest to God ! 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 Dust on thy mantle ! dust, 
 Bright Summer, on thy livery of green ! 
 
 A tarnish, as of rust, 
 
 Dims thy late-brilliant sheen: 
 And thy young glories — leaf, and bud, and flower — 
 Change cometh over them with every hour. 
 
 Thee hath the August sun 
 Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face ; 
 And still and lazily run, 
 Scarce whispering in their pace, 
 The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 
 A shout of gladness up, as on they went. 
 
 Flame-like, the long midday, 
 With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd 
 
 The down upon the spray, 
 
 Where rests the panting bird, 
 Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, 
 With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune. 
 
 Seeds in the sultry air, 
 And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; 
 E'en the tall pines, that rear 
 Their plumes to catch the breeze, 
 The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, 
 Partake the general languor, and deep rest. 
 
 Happy, as man may be, 
 Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, 
 
 While the voluptuous bee 
 
 Robs each surrounding flower, 
 And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, 
 The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest. 
 
 Against the hazy sky 
 The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. 
 
 Beneath them far, yet high 
 
 In the dim, distant west, 
 The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, 
 Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air. 
 
 Soberly, in the shade, 
 Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox ; 
 Or in the shoal stream wade, 
 Shelter'd by jutting rocks : 
 
 The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush 
 Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. 
 
 Tediously pass the hours, 
 And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root, 
 And droop the thirsting flowers, 
 Where the slant sunbeams shoot : 
 But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, 
 Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline. 
 
 Faster, along the plain, 
 Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: 
 
 The kine are forth again, 
 
 The bird flits in the hedge. 
 Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. 
 Welcome, mild eve ! — the sultry day is done. 
 — £-»~<£ 
 
 Pleasantly comest thou, 
 Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass ; 
 
 And the curl'd corn-blades bow, 
 
 As the light breezes pass, 
 That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, 
 Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land. 
 
 So, to the thirsting soul, 
 Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love;' 
 
 And the scathed heart, made whole, 
 
 Turneth in joy above, 
 To where the spirit freely may expand, 
 And rove, untrammel'd, in that " better land." 
 
 SPRING VERSES. 
 
 How with the song of every bird, 
 And with the scent of every flower, 
 
 Some recollection dear is stirr'd 
 Of many a long-departed hour, 
 
 Whose course, though shrouded now in night, 
 
 Was traced in lines of golden light ! 
 
 I know not if, when years have cast 
 Their shadows on life's early dreams, 
 
 'Tis wise to touch the hope that's past, 
 And re-illume its fading beams : 
 
 But, though the future hath its star, 
 
 That olden hope is dearer far. 
 
 Of all the present, much is bright ; 
 
 And in the coming years, I see 
 A brilliant and a cheering light, 
 
 Which burns before me constantly; 
 Guiding my steps, through haze and gloom, 
 To where Fame's turrets proudly loom. 
 
 Yet coldly shines it on my brow ; 
 
 And in my breast it wakes to life 
 None of the holy feelings now, 
 
 With which my boyhood's heart was rife : 
 It cannot touch that secret spring 
 Which erst made life so bless'd a thing. 
 
 Give me, then give me birds and flowers, 
 Which are the voice and breath of Spring ! 
 
 For those the songs of life's young hours 
 With thrilling touch recall and sing: 
 
 And these, with their sweet breath, impart 
 
 Old tales, whose memory warms the heart. 
 
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 413 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye, 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May ! 
 
 Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, 
 
 Bursting buds, and breathing flowers; 
 
 Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled with the eglantine, 
 
 Festoon'd with the dewy vine : 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye ! 
 
 Out beneath thy morning sky 
 Dian's bow still hangs on high ; 
 And in the blue depths afar 
 Glimmers, here and there, a star. 
 Diamonds robe the bending grass, 
 
 Glistening, early flowers among — 
 Monad's world, and fairy's glass, — 
 Bathing-fount for wandering sprite — 
 
 By mysterious fingers hung, 
 In the lone and quiet night. 
 Now the freshening breezes pass — 
 Gathering, as they steal along, 
 Rich perfume, and matin-song ; 
 And quickly to destruction hurl'd 
 Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew-drop 
 Lo! yon cloud, which hung but now [world. 
 
 Black upon the mountain's brow, 
 Threatening the green earth with storm ; 
 See ! it heaves its giant form, 
 And, ever changing shape and hue, 
 Each time presenting something new, 
 Moves slowly up, and spreading rolls away 
 Towards the rich purple streaks that usher in the 
 Brightening, as it onward goes, [day ; 
 
 Until its very centre glows 
 
 With the warm, cheering light, the coming sun 
 As the passing Christian's soul, [bestows : 
 
 Nearing the celestial goal, 
 
 Brighter and brighter grows, till God illumes the 
 whole. 
 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky, 
 On a shady slope I lie, 
 
 Giving fancy ample play; 
 Arid there 's not more blest than I, 
 
 One of Adam's race to-day. 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky ! 
 Earth, how beautiful ! how clear 
 Of cloud or mist the atmosphere ! 
 What z glory greets the eye ! 
 What a calm, or quiet stir, 
 Steals' o'er Nature's worshipper — 
 Silent, yet so eloquent, 
 That we feel 'tis heaven-sent ! 
 Waking thoughts, that long have slumber'd, 
 Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber' d — 
 Bearing soul and sense away, 
 To revel in the perfect day 
 
 Which 'waits us, when we shall for aye [clay! 
 Discard this darksome dust — this prison-house of 
 
 Out beneath thy evening sky, 
 Not a breeze that wanders by 
 
 But hath swept the green earth's bosom ; 
 Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom, 
 Dallying with the simplest flower 
 In mossy nook and rosy bower ; 
 To the perfumed green-house straying, 
 And with rich exotics playing ; 
 Then, unsated, sweeping over 
 Banks of thyme, and fields of clover ! 
 Out beneath thy evening sky, 
 Groups of children caper by, 
 Crown'd with flowers, and rush along 
 With joyous laugh, and shout, and song. 
 Flashing eye, and radiant cheek, 
 Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak. 
 They are in life's May-month hours, 
 And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but 
 life's flowers '.' 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye, 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May ! 
 
 Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, 
 
 Bursting buds, and breathing flowers ; 
 
 Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled with the eglantine, 
 
 Festoon'd with the dewy vine : 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye ! 
 
 OUR EARLY DAYS. 
 
 Our early days ! — How often back 
 We turn on life's bewildering track, 
 To where, o'er hill and valley, plays 
 The sunlight of our early days ! 
 
 A boy — my truant steps were seen 
 
 Where streams were bright, and meadows green 
 
 Where flowers, in beauty and perfume, 
 
 Breathed ever of the Eden-bloom; 
 
 And birds, abroad in the free wind, 
 
 Sang, as they left the earth behind 
 
 And wing'd their joyous way above, 
 
 Of Eden-peace, and Eden-love. 
 
 That life was of the soul, as well 
 
 As of the outward visible ; 
 
 And now, its streams are dry ; and sere 
 
 And brown its meadows all appear ; 
 
 Gone are its flowers ; its bird's glad voice 
 
 But seldom bids my heart rejoice ; 
 
 And, like the mist as comes the day, 
 
 Its Eden-glories roll away. 
 
 A youth — the mountain-torrent made 
 The music which my soul obey'd. 
 To shun the crowded ways of men, 
 And seek the old tradition'd glen, 
 Where, through the dim, uncertain light, 
 Moved many an ever-changing sprite, 
 Alone the splinter'd crag to dare, 
 While trooping shadows fill'd the air, 
 And quicken'd fancy many a form 
 Traced vaguely in the gathering storm, 
 To tread the forest's lone arcades, 
 And dream of Sherwood's peopled shades. 
 
414 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 And Windsor's haunted " alleys green" 
 " Dingle" and " bosky bourn" between, 
 Till burst upon my raptured glance 
 The whole wide realm of Old Romance : 
 Such was the life I lived — a youth ! 
 But vanish'd, at the touch of Truth, 
 And never to be known agen, 
 Is all that made my being then. 
 
 A man — the thirst for fame was mine, 
 
 And bow'd me at Ambition's shrine, 
 
 Among the votaries who have given 
 
 Time, health, hope, peace — and madly striven, 
 
 Ay, madly ! for that which, when found, 
 
 Is oftenest but an empty sound. 
 
 And I have worshipp'd ! — even yet 
 
 Mine eye is on the idol set ; 
 
 But it hath found so much to be 
 
 But hollowness and mockery, 
 
 That from its worship oft it turns 
 
 To where a light intenser burns, 
 
 Before whose radiance, pure and warm, 
 
 Ambition's star must cease to charm. 
 
 Our early days ! — They haunt us ever — 
 Bright star-gleams on life's silent river, 
 Which pierce the shadows, deep and dun, 
 That bar e'en manhood's noonday sun. 
 
 THE LABOURER. 
 
 Stand up — erect ! Thou hast the form, 
 And likeness of thy God ! — who more ] 
 
 A soul as dauntless mid the storm 
 
 Of daily life, a heart as warm 
 
 And pure, as breast e'er wore. 
 
 What then ] — Thou art as true a man 
 As moves the human mass among; 
 
 As much a part of the great plan 
 
 That with Creation's dawn began, 
 As any of the throng. 
 
 Who is thine enemy 1 the high 
 
 In station, or in wealth the chief] 
 
 The great, who coldly pass thee by, 
 
 With proud step and averted eye] 
 Nay ! nurse not such belief. 
 
 If true unto thyself thou wast, 
 
 What were the proud one's scorn to thee ] 
 A feather, which thou mightest cast 
 Aside, as idly as the blast 
 
 The light leaf from the tree. 
 
 No : — uncurb'd passions, low desires, 
 
 Absence of noble self-respect, 
 Death, in the breast's consuming fires, 
 To that high nature which aspires 
 
 Forever, till thus check'd ; 
 
 These are thine enemies — thy worst ; 
 
 They chain thee to thy lowly lot : 
 Thy labour and thy life accursed. 
 O, stand erect ! and from them burst ! 
 
 And longer suffer not ! 
 
 Thou art thyself thine" enemy! 
 
 The great ! — what better they than thou ] 
 As theirs, is not thy will as free ] 
 Has God with equal favours thee 
 
 Neglected to endow ] 
 
 True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but dust! 
 
 Nor place — uncertain as the wind ! 
 But that thou hast, which, with thy crust 
 And water, may despise the last 
 
 Of both — a noble mind. 
 
 With this, and passions under ban, 
 
 True faith, and holy trust in God, 
 
 Thou art the peer of any man. 
 
 Look up, then : that thy little span 
 Of life may be well trod ! 
 
 
 THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. 
 
 The mothers of our forest-land ! 
 
 Stout-hearted dames were they ; 
 With nerve to wield the battle-brand, 
 
 And join the border-fray. 
 Our rough land had no braver, 
 
 In its days of blood and strife- 
 Aye ready for severest toil, 
 
 Aye free to peril life. 
 
 The mothers of our forest-land ! 
 
 On old Kentucky's soil 
 How shared they, with each dauntless band, 
 
 War's tempest and life's toil ! 
 They shrank not from the foeman — 
 
 They quail'd not in the fight — 
 But cheer'd their husbands through the day. 
 
 And soothed them through the night. 
 
 The mothers of our forest-land ! 
 
 Their bosoms pillow'd men ! 
 And proud were they by such to stand, 
 
 In hammock, fort, or glen, 
 To load the sure, old rifle — 
 
 To run the leaden ball — 
 To watch a battling husband's place, 
 
 And fill it, should he fall : 
 
 The mothers of our forest-land ! 
 
 Such were their daily deeds. 
 Their monument ! — where does it stand ] 
 
 Their epitaph ! — who reads ] 
 No braver dames had Sparta, 
 
 No nobler matrons Rome — 
 Yet who or lauds or honours them, 
 
 E'en in their own green home ] 
 
 The mothers of our forest-land ! 
 
 They sleep in unknown graves : 
 And had they borne and nursed a band 
 
 Of ingrates, or of slaves, 
 They had not been more neglected ! 
 
 But their graves shall yet be found, 
 And their monuments dot here and there 
 
 "The Dark and Bloody Ground." 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 [Born, 1809.] 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes is a son of the late 
 Abiel Holmes, D.D., and was born at Cam- 
 bridge, Massachusetts, on the twenty-ninth day of 
 August, 1809. He received his early education 
 at the Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Har- 
 vard University in 1825. On being graduated he 
 commenced the study of the law, but relinquished 
 it, after one year's appplication, for the more con- 
 genial pursuit of medicine, to which he devoted 
 himself with ardour and industry. For the more 
 successful prosecution of his studies, he visited 
 Europe in the spring of 1833, passing the princi- 
 pal portion of his residence abroad at Paris, where 
 he attended the hospitals, acquired an intimate 
 knowledge of the language, and became personally 
 acquainted with many of the most eminent physi- 
 cians of France. 
 
 He returned to Boston near the close of 1835, 
 and in the following spring commenced the prac- 
 tice of medicine in that city. In the autumn of 
 the same year he delivered a poem before the Phi 
 Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, which 
 was received with extraordinary and merited ap- 
 plause. In 1838 he was elected Professor of Anat- 
 omy and Physiology in the medical institution con- 
 nected with Dartmouth College, but resigned the 
 place on his marriage, two years afterward. De- 
 voting all his attention to his profession, he soon 
 acquired a large and lucrative practice, and in 1847 
 he succeeded Dr. Warren as Professor of Anato- 
 my in the medical department of Harvard Universi- 
 ty. His principal medical writings are comprised in 
 his " Boy lston Prize Essays," " Lectures on Popular 
 Delusions in Medicine," and the " Theory and Prac- 
 tice," by himself and Dr. Bigelow. Hisothercom- 
 positions in prose consist of occasional addresses, 
 and papers in the North American Review. 
 
 The earlier poems of Dr. Holmes appeared in 
 " The Collegian."* They were little less distin- 
 guished for correct and melodious versification than 
 his more recent and most elaborate productions. 
 They attracted attention by their humour and ori- 
 ginality, and were widely republished in the peri- 
 odical*. But a small portion of them have been 
 printed under his proper signature. 
 
 In 1 831 a small volume appeared in Boston, en- 
 titled " Illustrations of the Athenaeum Gallery of 
 Paintings," and composed of metrical pieces, chiefly 
 satirical, written by Dr. Holmes and Epes Sar- 
 gent. It embraced many of our author's best hu- 
 morous verses, afterward printed among his ac- 
 
 * " The Collegian" was a monthly miscellany published 
 in 1830, by the undergraduates at Cambridge. Among the 
 editors were Holmes, the late William H. Simmons, who 
 will be remembered for his admirable lectures on the poets 
 and orators of England, and John O. Sargent, who has 
 distinguished himself as a lawyer and as a political writer. 
 
 knowledged works. His " Poetry, a Metrical Es- 
 say," was delivered before a literary society at 
 Cambridge. It is in the heroic measure, and in 
 its versification it is not surpassed by any poem 
 written in this country. It relates to the nature 
 and offices of poetiy, and is itself a series of bril- 
 liant illustrations of the ideas of which it is an ex- 
 pression. Of the universality of the poetical feel- 
 ing he says : — ■ 
 
 There breathes no being but has some pretence 
 To that fine instinct call'd poetic sense ; 
 The rudest savage, roaming through the wild, 
 The simplest rustic, bending o'er his child, 
 The infant, listening to the warbling bird, 
 The mother, smiling at its half-formed word ; 
 The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand 
 The vote that shakes the turrets of the land ; 
 The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain, 
 Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning plain ; 
 The hot-cheek'd reveller, tossing down the wine, 
 To join the chorus pealing " Auld lang syne ;" 
 The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim, 
 "While Heaven is listening to her evening hymn ; 
 The jewell'd beauty, when her steps draw near 
 The circling dance and dazzling chandelier; 
 E'en trembling age, when spring's renewing air 
 Waves the thin ringlets of his silver'd hair — 
 All, all are glowing with the inward flame, 
 Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's name, 
 While, unembalm'd, the silent dreamer dies, 
 His memory passing with his smiles and sighs ! 
 
 The poet, he contends, is 
 
 He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but dress, 
 What others feel, more fitly can express. 
 
 In another part of the essay is the following 
 fine description of the different English measures : 
 
 Poets, like painters, their machinery claim. 
 And verse bestows the varnish and the frame ; 
 Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar 
 Shakes the rack'd axle of Art's rattling car, 
 Fits like Mosaic in the lines that gird 
 Fast in its place each many-angled word ; 
 From Saxon lips Anachreon's numbers glide, 
 As once they melted on the Teian tide, 
 And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills again 
 From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's plain ; 
 The proud heroic, with its pulse-like beat, 
 Rings like the cymbals, clashing as they meet ; 
 The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows, 
 Sweeps gently onward to its dying close, 
 Where waves on waves in long succession pour, 
 Till the ninth billow melts along the shore ; 
 The lonely spirit of the mournful lay, 
 Which lives immortal in the verse of Gray, 
 In sable plumage slowly drifts along, 
 On eagle pinion, through the air of song : 
 The glittering lyric bounds elastic by, 
 With flashiug ringlets and exulting eye, 
 While every image, in her airy whirl, 
 Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl ! 
 In 1843 Dr. Holmes published " Terpsichore," 
 a poem read at the annual dinner of the Phi Beta 
 Kappa Society in that year; and in 1846, " Ura- 
 nia, a Rhymed Lesson," pronounced before the 
 
416 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Mercantile Library Association. The last is a 
 collection of brilliant thoughts, with many local 
 allusions, in compact but flowing and harmonious 
 versification, and is the longest poem Dr. Holmes 
 has published since the appearance of his "Metri- 
 cal Essay" in 1835. 
 
 Dr. Holmes is a poet of art and humour and 
 genial sentiment, with a style remarkable for its 
 purity, terseness, and point, and for an exquisite 
 
 finish and grace. His lyrics ring and sparkle like 
 cataracts of silver, and his serious pieces — as suc- 
 cessful in their way as those mirthful frolics of 
 his muse for which he is best known — arrest the 
 attention by touches of the most genuine pathos 
 and tenderness. All his poems illustrate a manly 
 feeling, and have in them a current of good sense, 
 the more charming because somewhat out of fash- 
 ion now in works of imagination and fancj r . 
 
 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 
 
 This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good 
 
 old times — 
 Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christ- 
 mas chimes ; 
 They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, 
 
 and true, 
 That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old 
 
 bowl was new. 
 A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the 
 
 ancient tale ; 
 'T was hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm 
 
 was like a flail ; 
 And now and then between the strokes, for fear 
 
 his strength should fail, 
 He wiped his brow, and quaff'd a cup of good old 
 
 Flemish ale. 
 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please 
 
 his loving dame, 
 Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for 
 
 the same ; 
 And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was 
 
 found, 
 'T was fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed 
 
 smoking round. 
 But, changing hands, it reach'd at length a Puritan 
 
 divine, 
 Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, 
 But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, per- 
 haps, 
 He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles 
 
 and schnaps. 
 And then, of course, you know what's next : it left 
 
 the Dutchman's shore 
 With those that in the May-Flower came — a hun- 
 dred souls and more — 
 Along with all the furniture, to fill their new 
 
 abodes — 
 To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hun- 
 dred loads. 
 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was 
 
 closing dim, 
 When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and 
 
 fill'd it to the brim ; 
 The little captain stood and stirr'd the posset with 
 
 his sword, 
 And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about 
 
 the board. 
 He pour'd the fiery Hollands in — the man that 
 
 never fear'd — 
 He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped 
 
 his yellow beard : 
 
 And one by one the musketeers — the men that 
 
 fought and pray'd — 
 All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not 
 
 a man afraid. 
 That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming 
 
 eagle flew : 
 He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's 
 
 wild halloo ; 
 And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught 
 
 to kith and kin : 
 " Eun from the white man when you find he smells 
 
 of Hollands gin !" 
 
 A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their 
 
 leaves and snows, 
 A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little 
 
 cherub's nose ; 
 When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in 
 
 mirth or joy — 
 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her 
 
 parting boy. 
 
 " Drink, Jonx," she said, " 't will do you good ; poor 
 child, you'll never bear 
 
 This working in the dismal trench, out in the mid- 
 night air ; 
 
 And if — God bless me — you were hurt, 'twould 
 keep away the chill." 
 
 So John did drink — and well he wrought that 
 night at Bunker's hill ! 
 
 I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old 
 
 English cheer; 
 I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to drink its 
 
 symbol here. 
 'Tis but the fool that loves excess: hast thou a 
 
 drunken soul] 
 Thy bane is in thy shallow skull — not in my silver 
 
 bowl ! 
 
 I love the memory of the past — its press'd yet fra- 
 grant flowers — 
 
 The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on 
 its towers — 
 
 Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd : my eyes 
 grow moist and dim, 
 
 To think of all the vanish'd joys that danced 
 around its brim. 
 
 Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight 
 
 to me ; 
 The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'erthe liquid be; 
 And may the cherubs on its face protect me from 
 
 the sin 
 That dooms one to those dreadful words — " My 
 
 dear, where have you been V 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 417 
 
 LEXINGTON. 
 
 Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 
 
 Bright on the dewy buds glisten'd the sun, 
 When from his couch — while his children were 
 sleeping — 
 Rose the bold rebel and shoulder'd his gun. 
 Waving her golden veil 
 Over the silent dale, 
 Blithe look'd the morning on cottage and spire ; 
 Hush'd was his parting sigh, 
 While from his noble eye 
 Flash'd the last sparkle of Liberty's fire. 
 
 On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is spring- 
 Calmly the first-born of giory have met : [ing 
 Hark ! the death-volley around them is ringing — 
 Look ! with their life-blood the young grass is wet. 
 
 Faint is the feeble breath, 
 
 Murmuring low in death — 
 " Tell to our sons how their lathers have died ;" 
 
 Nerveless the iron hand, 
 
 Raised for its native land, 
 Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 
 
 Over the hillsides the wiid knell is tolling, 
 From their far hamlets the yeomanry come ; 
 
 As thro' the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, 
 Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
 Fast on the soldier's path 
 Darken the waves of wrath ; 
 
 Long have they gather'd, and loud shall they fall: 
 Red glares the musket's flash, 
 Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
 
 Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 
 
 Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, 
 
 Never to shadow his cold brow again; 
 Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, 
 Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; 
 
 Pale is the lip of scorn, 
 
 Voiceless the trumpet-horn 
 Torn is the silken-fring'd red cross on high ; 
 
 Many a belted breast 
 
 Low on the turf shail rest, 
 Ere the dark hunters the herd have pass'd by. 
 
 Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, 
 Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, 
 Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, 
 Reel'd with the echoes that rode on the gale ; 
 Far as the tempest thrills 
 Over the darken'd hills, 
 Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 
 Roused by the tyrant band, 
 Woke all the mighty land, 
 Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 
 
 Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! 
 Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest ; 
 While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying, 
 Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 
 Borne on her northern pine, 
 Long o'er the foaming brine 
 Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ; 
 Heaven keep her ever free 
 Wide as u or land and sea 
 Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 
 27 
 
 A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet 
 
 Breathes soft the Alpine rose, 
 So, through life's desert springing sweet, 
 
 The flower of friendship grows ; 
 And as, where'er the roses grow, 
 
 Some rain or dew descends, 
 'T is Nature's law that wine should flow 
 
 To wet the lips of friends. 
 
 Then once again, before we part, 
 My empty glass shall ring; 
 
 And he that has the warmest heart 
 Shall loudest laugh and sing. 
 
 They say we were not born to eat ; 
 
 But gray-haired sages think 
 It means — " Be moderate in your meat, 
 
 And partly live to drink." 
 For baser tribes the rivers flow 
 
 That know not wine or song ; 
 Man wants but little drink below, 
 
 But wants that little strong. 
 Then once again, &c. 
 
 If one bright drop is like the gem 
 
 That decks a monarch's crown, 
 One goblet holds a diadem 
 
 Of rubies melted down ! 
 A fig for Cesar's blazing brow, 
 
 But, like the Egyptian queen, 
 Bid each dissolving jewel glow 
 
 My thirsty lips between. 
 Then once again, &c. 
 
 The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn, 
 
 Are silent when we call, 
 Yet still the purple grapes return 
 
 To cluster on the wall ; 
 It was a bright Immortal's head 
 
 They circled with the vine, 
 And o'er their best and bravest dead 
 
 They pour'd the dark-red wine. 
 Then once again, &c. 
 
 Methinks o'er every sparkling glass 
 
 Young Eros waves his wings, 
 And echoes o'er its dimples pass 
 
 From dead Anacreon's strings ; 
 And, tossing round its beaded brim 
 
 Their locks of floating gold, 
 With bacchant dance and choral hymn 
 
 Return the nymphs of old. 
 Then once again, &c. 
 
 A welcome, then, to joy and mirth, 
 
 From hearts as fresh as ours, 
 To scatter o'er the dust of earth 
 
 Their sweetly mingled flowers ; 
 'T is Wisdom self the cup that fills, 
 
 In spite of Folly's frown ; 
 And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, 
 
 That rains her life-blood down ! 
 
 Then once again, before we part, 
 My empty glass shall ring; 
 
 And he that has the warmest heart 
 Shall loudest laugh and sing. 
 
418 
 
 OLIVER W. HOLMES. 
 
 THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Oun ancient church ! its lowly tower, 
 
 Beneath the loftier spire, 
 Is shadow'd when the sunset hour 
 
 Clothes the tall shaft in fire ; 
 It sinks beyond the distant eye, 
 
 Long ere the glittering vane, 
 High wheeling in the western sky, 
 
 Has faded o'er the plain. 
 
 Like sentinel and nun, they keep 
 
 Their vigil on the green ; 
 One seems to guard, and one to weep, 
 
 The dead that lie between ; 
 And both roll out, so full and near, 
 
 Their music's mingling waves, 
 They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear 
 
 Leans on the narrow graves. 
 
 The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, 
 
 Whose seeds the winds have strown 
 So thick beneath the line he reads, 
 
 They shade the sculptured stone ; 
 The child unveils his cluster'd brow, 
 
 And ponders for a while 
 The graven willow's pendent bough, 
 
 Or rudest cherub's smile. 
 
 But what to them the dirge, the knell % 
 
 These were the mourner's share ; 
 The sullen flang, whose heavy swell 
 
 Thrr.bo'd through the beating air; 
 The rattling cord, — the rolling stone, — 
 
 The shelving sand that slid, 
 And, far beneath, with hollow tone 
 
 Rung on the coffin's lid. 
 
 The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green, 
 
 Then slowly disappears ; 
 The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, 
 
 Earth hides his date and years ; 
 But, long before the once-loved name 
 
 Is sunk or worn away, 
 No lip f he silent dust may claim, 
 
 That press'd the breathing clay. 
 
 Go where the ancient pathway guides, 
 
 See where our sires laid down 
 Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides, 
 
 The patriarchs of the town ; 
 Hast thou a tear for buried love ~< 
 
 A sigh for transient power 1 
 All that a century left above, 
 
 Go, read it in an nour ! 
 
 The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, 
 
 The sabre's thirsting edge, 
 The hot shell, shattering in its fall, 
 
 The bayonet's rending wedge, — 
 Here scatter'd death ; yet seek the spot, 
 
 No trace thine eye can see, 
 No altar, — and they need it not 
 
 Who leave their children free ! 
 
 Look where the turbid rain-drops stand 
 In many a chisell'd square, 
 
 The knightly crest, the shield, the brand 
 Of honour'd names were there ; 
 
 Alas ! for every tear is dried 
 
 Those blazon'd tablets knew, 
 
 Save when the icy marble's side 
 Drips with the evening dew. 
 
 Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,* 
 
 The empty urn of pride ; 
 There stands the goblet and the sun, — 
 
 What need of more beside 1 
 Where lives the memory of the dead 1 
 
 Who made their tomb a toy 1 
 Whose ashes press that nameless bed 1 
 
 Go, ask the village boy ! 
 
 Lean o'er the slender western wall, 
 
 Ye ever-roaming girls ; 
 The breath that bids the blossom fall 
 
 May lift your floating curls, 
 To sweep the simple lines that tell 
 
 An exile' s\ date and doom ; 
 And sigh, for where his daughters dwell, 
 
 They wreathe the stranger's tomb. 
 
 And one amid these shades was born, 
 
 Beneath this turf who lies, 
 Once beaming as the summer's morn, 
 
 That closed her gentle eyes ; 
 If sinless angels love as we, 
 
 Who stood thy grave beside, 
 Three seraph welcomes waited thee, 
 
 The daughter, sister, bride ! 
 
 I wander'd to thy buried mound, 
 
 When earth was hid, below 
 The level of the glaring ground, 
 
 Choked to its gates with snow, 
 And when with summer's flowery waves 
 
 The lake of verdure roll'd, 
 As if a sultan's white-robed slaves 
 
 Had scatter'd pearls and gold. 
 
 Nay, the soft pinions of the air, 
 
 That lifts this trembling tone, 
 Its breath of love may almost bear, 
 
 To kiss thy funeral-stone ; 
 And, now thy smiles have pass'd away, 
 
 For all the joy they gave, 
 May sweetest dews and warmest ray 
 
 Lie on thine early grave ! 
 
 When damps beneath, and storms above. 
 
 Have bow'd these fragile towers, 
 Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove 
 
 Shall swing its orient flowers ; 
 And I would ask no mouldering bust, 
 
 If o'er this humble line, 
 Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust, 
 
 Might call a tear on mine. 
 
 * The tomb of the Vassall family is marked by a free- 
 stone tablet, supported byfive pillars, and bearingnothing 
 but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,— Vas- 
 Sol— which designated a powerful family, now almost 
 forgotten. 
 
 t The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of 
 Honfleur, in Normandy. 
 
OLIVER W 
 
 . HOLMES. 419 
 
 AN EVENING THOUGHT. 
 
 And when the morning sun was bright, 
 
 WRITTEN AT SEA. 
 
 When wind and wave were calm, 
 
 
 
 And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, 
 
 If sometimes in the dark-blue eye, 
 
 The rose* of Notre Dame, 
 
 Or in the deep-red wine, 
 
 I wander'd through the haunts of men, 
 
 Or soothed by gentlest melody, 
 
 From Boulevard to Quai, 
 
 Still warms this heart of mine, 
 
 Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 
 
 Yet something colder in the blood, 
 
 The Pantheon's shadow lay. 
 
 And calmer in the brain, 
 
 In vain, in vain ; we meet no more, 
 Nor dream what fates befall ; 
 
 Have whisper'd that my youth's bright flood 
 
 Ebbs, not to flow again. 
 
 And long upon the stranger's shore 
 
 If by Helvetia's azure lake, 
 
 My voice on thee may call, 
 
 Or Arno's yellow stream, 
 
 When years have clothed the line in moss 
 
 Each star of memory could awake, 
 
 That tells thy name and days, 
 
 As in my first young dream, 
 
 And wither'd, on thy simple cross, 
 
 I know that when mine eye shall greet 
 
 The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise ! 
 
 The hill-sides bleak and bare, 
 
 
 That gird my home, it will not meet 
 
 
 My childhood's sunsets there. 
 
 THE TREADMILL SONG. 
 
 0, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss 
 
 
 
 Burn'd on my boyish brow, 
 
 The stars are rolling in the sky, 
 
 Was that young forehead worn as this 1 
 
 The earth rolls on below, 
 
 Was that flush'd cheek as now 1 
 
 And we can feel the rattling wheel 
 
 Where that wild pulse and throbbing heart 
 
 Revolving as we go. 
 
 Like these, which vainly strive, 
 
 Then tread away, my gallant boys, 
 
 In thankless strains of soulless art, 
 
 And make the axle fly ; 
 
 To dream themselves alive 1 
 
 Why should not wheels go round about 
 
 Alas ! the morning dew is gone, 
 
 Like planets in the sky 1 
 
 Gone ere the full of day ; 
 
 Wake up, wake up, my duck-legg'd man, 
 
 Life's iron fetter still is on, 
 
 And stir your solid pegs ; 
 
 Its wreaths all torn away; 
 
 Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, 
 
 Happy if still some casual hour 
 
 And shake your spider-legs ; 
 
 Can warm the fading shrine, 
 
 What though you're awkward at the trade? 
 
 Too soon to chill beyond the power 
 
 There's time enough to learn, — 
 
 Of love, or song, or wine ! 
 
 So lean upon the rail, my lad, 
 
 
 And take another turn. 
 They 've built us up a noble wall, 
 
 LA GRISETTE. 
 
 
 To keep the vulgar out ; 
 
 Ah, Clemenxe ! when I saw thee last 
 
 We 've nothing in the world to do, 
 
 Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
 
 But just to walk about; 
 
 And turning, when thy form had pass'd, 
 
 So faster, now, you middle men, 
 
 I said, " We meet again," — 
 
 And try to beat the ends : — 
 
 I dream'd not in that idle glance 
 
 It's pleasant work to ramble round 
 
 Thy latest image came, 
 
 Among one's honest friends. 
 
 And only left to memory's trance 
 
 Here, tread upon the long man's toes, 
 
 A shadow and a name. 
 
 He sha'n't be lazy here ; 
 
 The few strange words my lips had taught 
 
 And punch the little fellow's ribs, 
 
 Thy timid voice to speak ; 
 
 And tweak that lubber's ear ; 
 
 Their gentler sighs, which often brought 
 
 He's lost them both ; don't pull his hair, 
 
 Fresh roses to thy cheek ; 
 
 Because he wears a scratch, 
 
 The trailing of thy long, loose hair 
 
 But poke him in the farther eye, 
 
 Bent o'er my couch of pain, 
 
 That is n't in the patch. 
 
 All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair ; 
 
 Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, 
 And so our work is done ; 
 
 0, had we met again ! 
 
 I walk'd where saint and virgin keep 
 
 It's pretty sport, — suppose we take 
 
 The vigil lights of Heaven, 
 
 A round or two for fun ! 
 
 I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, 
 
 If ever they should turn me out, 
 
 And sins to be forgiven ; 
 
 When I have better grown, 
 
 I watch'd where Gejtevieye was laid, 
 
 Now, hang me, but I mean to have 
 
 I knelt by Mabt's shrine, 
 Beside me low, soft voices pray'd ; 
 Alas ! but where was thine 1 
 
 A treadmill of my own ! 
 
 * Circular-stained windows are called roses. 
 
420 
 
 OLIVER W. HOLMES. 
 
 DEPARTED DAYS. 
 
 Yes, dear, departed, cherish'd days, 
 
 Could Memory's hand restore 
 Your morning light, your evening rays, 
 
 From Time's gray urn once more, — 
 Then might this restless heart be still, 
 
 This straining eye might close, 
 And Hope her fainting pinions fold, 
 
 While the fair phantoms rose. 
 
 But, like a child in ocean's arms, 
 
 We strive against the stream, 
 Each moment farther from the shore, 
 
 Where life's young fountains gleam- 
 Each moment fainter wave the fields, 
 
 And wilder rolls the sea ; 
 The mist grows dark — the sun goes down- 
 Day breaks — and where are we '{ 
 
 THE DILEMMA. 
 
 Now, by the bless'd Paphian queen, 
 Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen; 
 By every name I cut on bark 
 Before my morning-star grew dark ; 
 By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart, 
 By all that thrills the beating heart ; 
 The bright, black eye, the melting blue,— 
 I cannot choose between the two. 
 
 I had a vision in my dreams ; 
 I saw a row of twenty beams ; 
 From every beam a rope was hung, 
 In every rope a lover swung. 
 I ask'd the hue of every eye 
 That bade each luckless lover die ; 
 Ten livid lips said, heavenly blue, 
 And ten accused the darker hue. 
 
 I ask'd a matron, which she deem'd 
 With fairest light of beauty beam'd ; 
 She answer'd, some thought both were fair- 
 Give her blue eyes and golden hair. 
 I might have liked her judgment well, 
 But as she spoke, she rung the bell, 
 And all her girls, nor small nor few, 
 Came marching in — their eyes were blue. 
 
 I ask'd a maiden ; back she flung 
 
 The locks that round her forehead hung, 
 
 And turn'd her eye, a glorious one, 
 
 Bright as a diamond in the sun, 
 
 On me, until, beneath its rays, 
 
 I felt as if my hair would blaze ; 
 
 She liked all eyes but eyes of green ; 
 
 She look'd at me ; what could she mean 1 
 
 Ah ! many lids Love lurks between, 
 Nor heeds the colouring of his screen ; 
 And when his random arrows fly, 
 The victim falls, but knows not why. 
 Gaze not upon his shield of jet, 
 The shaft upon the string is set ; 
 Look not beneath his azure veil, 
 T'hough every limb were cased in mail. 
 
 Well, both might make a martyr break 
 The chain that bound him to the stake, 
 And both, with but a single ray, 
 Can melt our very hearts away ; 
 And both, when balanced, hardly seem 
 To stir the scales, or rock the beam ; 
 But that is dearest, all the while, 
 That wears for us the sweetest smile. 
 
 THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 The Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne, 
 
 And lay in the silent sea, 
 And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, 
 
 For a sleepy thing was she ; 
 What is the Lily dreaming of? 
 
 Why crisp the waters blue 1 
 See, see, she is lifting her varnish'd lid ! 
 
 Her white leaves are glistening through ! 
 
 The Rose is cooling his burning cheek 
 
 In the lap of the breathless tide ; 
 The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, 
 
 That would lie by the Rose's side ; 
 He would love her better than all the rest, 
 
 And he would be fond and true ; 
 But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, 
 
 And look'd at the sky so blue. 
 
 Remember, remember, thou silly one, 
 
 How fast will thy summer glide, 
 And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, 
 
 Or flourish a blooming bride 1 
 " 0, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, 
 
 And he lives on earth," said she ; 
 " But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, 
 
 And he shall my bridegroom be." 
 
 But what if the stormy cloud should come, 
 
 And ruffle the silver sea 1 
 Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, 
 
 To smile on a thing like thee 1 
 O, no ! fair Lily, he will not send 
 
 One ray from his far-off throne; 
 The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, 
 
 And thou wilt be left alone. 
 
 There is not a leaf on the mountain-top, 
 
 Nor a drop of evening dew, 
 Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, 
 
 Nor a pearl in the waters blue, 
 That he has not cheer'd with his fickle smile, 
 
 And warm'd with his faithless beam, — 
 And will he be true to a pallid flower, 
 
 That floats on the quiet stream ] 
 
 Alas, for the Lily ! she would not heed, 
 
 But turn'd to the skies afar, 
 And bared her breast to the trembling ray 
 
 That shot from the rising star ; 
 The cloud came over the darken'd sky, 
 
 And over the waters wide ; 
 She look'd in vain through the beating rain. 
 
 And sank in the stormy tide. 
 
OLIVER W. HOLMES. 
 
 421 
 
 THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 
 
 There are three ways in which men take 
 
 One's money from his purse, 
 And very hard it is to tell 
 
 Which of the three is worse ; 
 But all of them are bad enough 
 
 To make a body curse. 
 
 STou're riding out some pleasant day, 
 
 And counting up your gains ; 
 A fellow jumps from out a bush 
 
 And takes your horse's reins, 
 Another hints some words about 
 
 A bullet in your brains. 
 
 It's hard to meet such pressing friends 
 
 In such a lonely spot ; 
 It's very hard to lose your cash, 
 
 But harder to be shot ; 
 And so you take your wallet out, 
 
 Though you would rather not. 
 
 Perhaps you 're going out to dine, — 
 
 Some filthy creature begs 
 You'll hear about the cannon-ball 
 
 That carried off his pegs, 
 And says it is a dreadful thing 
 
 For men to lose their legs. 
 
 He tells you of his starving wife, 
 
 His children to be fed, 
 Poor, little, lovely innocents, 
 
 All clamorous for bread, — 
 And so you kindly help to put 
 
 A bachelor to bed. 
 
 You 're sitting on your window-seat 
 
 Beneath a cloudless moon ; 
 You hear a sound, that seems to wear 
 
 The semblance of a tune, 
 As if a broken fife should strive 
 
 To drown a crack'd bassoon. 
 
 And nearer, nearer still, the tide 
 
 Of music seems to come, 
 There's something like a human voice, 
 
 And something like a drum ; 
 You sit, in speechless agony, 
 
 Until your ear is numb. 
 
 Poor " Home, sweet home" should seem to be 
 
 A very dismal place ; 
 Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once, 
 
 Is alter'd in the face ; 
 Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, 
 
 Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace. 
 
 You think they are crusaders, sent 
 
 From some infernal clime, 
 To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 
 
 And dock the tail of Rhyme, 
 To crack the voice of Melody, 
 
 And break the legs of Time. 
 
 But, hark ! the air again is still, 
 
 The music all is ground, 
 And silence, like a poultice, comes 
 
 To heal the blows of sound ; 
 
 It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 
 A hat is going round ! 
 
 No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 
 
 A fracture in your jaw, 
 And pay the owner of the bear, 
 
 That stunn'd you with his paw, 
 And buy the lobster, that has had 
 
 Your knuckles in his claw ; 
 
 But if you are a portly man, 
 Put on your fiercest frown, 
 
 And talk about a constable 
 
 To turn them out of town ; 
 
 Then close your sentence with an oath, 
 And shut the window down ! 
 
 And if you are a slender man, 
 
 Not big enough for that, 
 Or, if you cannot make a speech, 
 
 Because you are a fiat, 
 Go very quietly and drop 
 
 A button in the hat ! 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Dearest, a look is but a ray 
 Reflected in a certain way ; 
 A word, whatever tone it wear, 
 Is but a trembling wave of air ; 
 A touch, obedience to a clause 
 In nature's pure material laws. 
 
 The very flowers that bend and meet, 
 In sweetening others, grow more sweet; 
 The clouds by day, the stars by night, 
 Inweave their floating locks of light ; 
 The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, 
 Is but the embrace of sun and shade. 
 
 How few that love us have we found ! 
 How wide the world that girds them round ! 
 Like mountain-streams we meet and part, 
 Each living in the other's heart, 
 Our course unknown, our hope to be 
 Yet mingled in the distant sea. 
 
 But ocean coils and heaves in vain, 
 Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain ; 
 And love and hope do but obey 
 Some cold, capricious planet's ray, 
 Which lights and leads the tide it charms, 
 To Death's dark caves and icy arms. 
 
 Alas ! one narrow line is drawn, 
 That links our sunset with our dawn ; 
 In mist and shade life's morning rose, 
 And clouds are round it at its close ; 
 But, ah ! no twilight beam ascends 
 To whisper where that evening ends. 
 
 O ! in the hour when I shall feel 
 Those shadows round my senses steal, 
 When gentle eyes are weeping o'er 
 The clay that feels their tears no more, 
 Then let thy spirit with me be, 
 Or some sweet angel, likest thee ! 
 
422 
 
 OLIVER W. HOLMES. 
 
 L'INCONNUE. 
 
 Is thy name Mart, maiden fair 1 
 
 Such should, methinks, its music be ; 
 
 The sweetest name that mortals bear, 
 Were best befitting thee ; 
 
 And she to whom it once was given, 
 
 Was half of earth and half of heaven. 
 
 I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
 I look upon thy folded hair ; 
 
 Ah ! while we dream not they beguile, 
 Our hearts are in the snare ; 
 
 And she, who chains a wild bird's wing, 
 
 Must start not if her captive sing. 
 
 So, lady, take the leaf that falls, 
 To all but thee unseen, unknown ; 
 
 When evening shades thy silent walls, 
 Then read it all alone ; 
 
 In stillness read, in darkness seal, 
 
 Forget, despise, but not reveal ! 
 
 THE LAST READER. 
 
 I sometimes sit beneath a tree, 
 And read my own sweet songs ; 
 
 Though naught they may to others be, 
 Each humble line prolongs 
 
 A tone that might have pass'd away, 
 
 But for that scarce-remember'd lay. 
 
 I keep them like a lock or leaf, 
 That some dear girl has given ; 
 
 Frail record of an hour, as brief 
 As sunset clouds in heaven, 
 
 But spreading purple twilight still 
 
 High over memory's shadow'd hill. 
 
 They lie upon my pathway bleak, 
 Those flowers that once ran wild, 
 
 As on a father's care-worn cheek 
 The ringlets of his child ; 
 
 The golden mingling with the gray, 
 
 And stealing half its snows away. 
 
 What care I though the dust is spread 
 
 Around these yellow leaves, 
 Or o'er them his sarcastic thread 
 
 Oblivion's insect weaves ; 
 Though weeds are tangled on the stream, 
 It still reflects my morning's beam. 
 
 And therefore love I such as smile 
 
 On these neglected songs, 
 Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 
 
 My opening bosom wrongs ; 
 For who would trample, at my side, 
 A few pale buds, my garden's pride 1 
 
 It may be that my scanty ore 
 Long years have wash'd away, 
 
 And where were golden sands before. 
 Is naught but common clay ; 
 
 Still something sparkles in the sun, 
 
 For Memory to look back upon. 
 
 And when my name no more is heard, 
 My lyre no more is known, 
 
 Still let me, like a winter's bird, 
 
 In silence and alone, 
 Fold over them the weary wing 
 Once flashing through the dews of spring. 
 
 Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap 
 
 My youth in its decline, 
 And riot in the rosy lap 
 
 Of thoughts that once were mine, 
 And give the worm my little store, 
 When the last reader reads no more ! 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 I saw him once before, 
 As he pass'd by the door, 
 
 And again 
 The pavement-stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime, 
 Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
 
 Cut him down, 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets, 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 So forlorn ; 
 And he shakes his feeble head, 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 
 "They are gone." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he has press'd 
 
 In their bloom, 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady ! she is dead 
 
 Long ago — 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 
 In the snow. 
 
 And now his nose is thin, 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff, 
 And a crook is in his back, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here, 
 But the old three-corner'd hat, 
 And the breeches — and all that, 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring — 
 Let them smile as I do now 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
OLIVER W. HOLMES. 
 
 423 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES.* 
 
 At, tear her tatter'd ensign down ! 
 
 Long has it waved on high, 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky ; 
 Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar ; 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 
 
 Where knelt the vanquish' d foe, 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
 
 And waves were white below, 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquer'd knee ; 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 
 The eagle of the sea ! 
 
 0, better that her shatter'd hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave ; 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave ; 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms, — 
 
 The lightning and the gale ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Strange ! that one lightly-whisper'd tone 
 
 Is far, far sweeter unto me, 
 Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, 
 
 Or breathe along the sea ; 
 But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 
 Not heavenly music seems so sweet. 
 
 I look upon the fair, blue skies, 
 
 And naught but empty air I see ; 
 
 But when I turn me to thine eyes, 
 It seemeth unto me 
 
 Ten thousand angels spread their wings 
 
 Within those little azure rings. 
 
 The lily hath the softest leaf 
 
 That ever western breeze hath fann'd, 
 But thou shalt have the tender flower, 
 
 So I may take thy hand ; 
 That little hand to me doth yield 
 More joy than all the broider'd field. 
 
 0, lady ! there be many things 
 
 That seem right fair, below, above ; 
 
 But sure not one among them all 
 Is half so sweet as love ; — 
 
 Let us not pay our vows alone, 
 
 But join two altars both in one. 
 
 * Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate 
 Constitution, as unfit for service. 
 
 THE STEAMBOAT. 
 
 See how yon flaming herald treads 
 
 The ridged and rolling waves, 
 As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 
 
 She bows her surly slaves ! 
 With foam before and lire behind, 
 
 She rends the clinging sea, 
 That flies before the roaring wind, 
 
 Beneath her hissing lee. 
 
 The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, 
 
 With heap'd and glistening bells, 
 Falls round her fast in ringing showers, 
 
 With every wave that swells ; 
 And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 
 
 In lurid fringes thrown, 
 The living gems of ocean sweep 
 
 Along her flashing zone. 
 
 With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 
 
 And smoking torch on high, 
 When winds are loud, and billows reel, 
 
 She thunders foaming by ! 
 When seas are silent and serene, 
 
 With even beam she glides, 
 The sunshine glimmering through the green 
 
 That skirts her gleaming sides. 
 
 Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 
 
 She veils her shadowy form, 
 The beating of her restless heart 
 
 Still sounding through the storm ; 
 Now answers, like a courtly dame, 
 
 The reddening surges o'er, 
 With flying scarf of spangled flame, 
 
 The Pharos of the shore. 
 
 To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 
 
 Who trims his narrow'd sail; 
 To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 
 
 Her broad breast to the gale ; 
 And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd, 
 
 Shall break from yard and stay, 
 Before this smoky wreath has stain'd 
 
 The rising mist of day. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 
 
 I see yon quivering mast ; 
 The black throat of the hunted cloud 
 
 Is panting forth the blast ! 
 An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff, 
 
 The giant surge shall fling 
 His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff, 
 
 White as the sea-bird's wing ! 
 
 Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ; 
 
 Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
 Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 
 
 With floods of living fire ; 
 Sleep on — and when the morning light 
 
 Streams o'er the shining bay, 
 O, think of those for whom the night 
 
 Shall never wake in day ! 
 
B. B. THATCHER. 
 
 [Born, 1809. Died, 1840.] 
 
 Benjamin Busset Thatcher was born in 
 Warren, Maine, on the eighth of October, 1809; 
 entered Bowdoin College, two years in advance, 
 at the age of fifteen, and was graduated bachelor 
 of arts, in 1826. He afterward studied the law, 
 but on being admitted to the bar, finding the duties 
 of the profession too arduous for his delicate con- 
 stitution, devoted himself to literature, and besides 
 writing much and ably for several periodicals, 
 produced two works on the aborigines of this coun- 
 try, "Indian Biography," and "Indian Traits," 
 which had a wide and well-deserved popularity. In 
 1836 he went to England, where he remained 
 
 about two years, writing industriously meanwhile 
 for British and American reviews, and for two or 
 three journals in Boston and New York as a cor- 
 respondent. He returned in 1838, still struggling 
 with disease, but with a spirit unbroken, and la- 
 bored with unfaltering assiduity until near the 
 time of his death, which occurred on the four- 
 teenth of July, 1840, when he was in the thirty- 
 first year of his age. He left an account of his 
 residence abroad, which has not been published ; 
 nor has there been any collection of his numerous 
 reviews, essays, and poems, many of which are 
 creditable to his abilities, taste, and character. 
 
 THE BIRD OF THE BASTILE* 
 
 Come to my breast, thou lone 
 
 And weary bird ! — one tone, 
 Of the rare music of my childhood ! Dear 
 
 Is that strange sound to me ; 
 
 Dear is the memory 
 It brings my soul of many a parted year ! 
 
 Again, yet once again, 
 
 O minstrel of the main ! 
 Lo ! festal face, and form familiar, throng 
 
 Unto my waking eye ; 
 
 And voices of the sky 
 Sing, from these walls of death, unwonted song. 
 
 Nay, cease not: I would call 
 
 Thus, from the silent hall 
 Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old : 
 
 Beam on me yet once more, 
 
 Ye blessed eyes of yore, 
 Starting life blood through all my being cold. 
 
 Ah ! cease not ; phantoms fair 
 
 Fill thick the dungeon's air ; 
 They wave me from its gloom ; I fly — I stand 
 
 Again upon that spot, 
 
 Which ne'er hath been forgot 
 In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land ! 
 
 There, on each noon-bright hill, 
 
 By fount and flashing rill, 
 Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade ; 
 
 There gleamed the sunset's fire, 
 
 On the tall tapering spire, 
 And windows low, along the upland glade. 
 
 Sing, sing ! — I do not dream — 
 
 It is my own blue stream, 
 
 * One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned 
 from his youth, and was said to he occasionally insane in 
 consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper 
 told me) hut that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what 
 name or clime it was, I know not — only that he called it 
 fondly, Ms dove, and seemed never happy but when it sang 
 to him. — MS. of a Tour through France. 
 424 
 
 I see far down where white walls fleck the vale ; — 
 
 I know it by the hedge 
 
 Of rose-trees at its edge, 
 Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale : 
 
 There, there, 'mid clustering leaves, 
 
 Glimmer my father's eaves, 
 And the worn threshold of my youth beneath ; — 
 
 I know them by the moss, 
 
 And the old elms that toss [wreath. 
 
 Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray 
 
 Sing, sing ! — I am not mad — 
 
 Sing ! that the visions glad 
 May smile that smiled, and speak thatspake but now; 
 
 Sing, sing ! — I might have knelt 
 
 And prayed ; I might have felt 
 Their breath upon my bosom and my brow. 
 
 I might have pressed to this 
 
 Cold bosom, in my bliss, 
 Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside ; 
 
 O heaven ! I might have heard, 
 
 From living lips, one word, 
 Thou mother of my childhood ! and have died. 
 
 Nay, nay, 't is sweet to weep, 
 
 Ere yet in death I sleep; 
 It minds me I have been, and am again, — ■ 
 
 And the world wakes around 
 
 It breaks the madness, bound, 
 While I have dreamed, these ages on my brain. 
 
 And sweet it is to love 
 
 Even this gentle dove, 
 This breathing thing from all life else apart : — 
 
 Ah ! leave me not the gloom 
 
 Of my eternal tomb 
 To bear alone — alone ! Come to my heart, 
 
 My bird ! — Thou shalt go free 
 
 And come, oh come to me 
 Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows ; 
 
 So shall. I learn, at least, 
 
 One other year hath ceased — 
 That the long wo throbs lingering to its close. 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 [Cora, 1809.] 
 
 Albert Pike was born in Boston, on the twen- 
 ty-ninth day of December, 1 809. When he was 
 about four years old, his parents removed to New- 
 bury port. His father, he informs me, "was a jour- 
 neyman shoemaker, who worked hard, paid his 
 taxes, and gave all his children the benefit of an 
 education." The youth of the poet was passed 
 principally in attending the district-schools at New- 
 buryport, and an academy at Framingham, until 
 he was sixteen years of age, when, after a rigid 
 and triumphant examination, he was admitted to 
 Harvard College. Not being able to pay the ex- 
 penses of a residence at Cambridge, however, he 
 soon after became an assistant teacher in the 
 grammar-school at Newburyport, and, at the end 
 of a year, its principal. He was induced to resign 
 this office after a short time, and in the winter 
 which followed was the preceptor of an academy at 
 Fairhaven. He returned to Newburyport in the 
 spring, on foot, and for one year taught there a 
 private school. During all this time he had been 
 a diligent student, intending to enter the uni- 
 versity, in advance; but in the spring of 1831 he 
 changed his plans, and started on his travels to the 
 west and south. 
 
 He went first to Niagara, and then, through 
 Cleveland, Cincinnati, Nashville, and Paducah, 
 much of the way on foot, to Saint Louis. He left 
 that city in August, with a company of forty per- 
 sons, among whom were two young men besides 
 himself from Newburyport, for Mexico ; and after 
 much fatigue and privation, arrived at Santa Fe 
 on the twenty-eighth of November. Here he re- 
 mained nearly a year, passing a part of the time 
 as a clerk in a store, and the residue in selling 
 merchandise through the country. Near the close 
 of September, 1832, he left Taos, with a trapping- 
 party ; travelled around the sources of Red River 
 to the head waters of the Brazos ; separated from 
 the company, with four others, and came into Ar- 
 kansas, — travelling the last five hundred miles on 
 foot, and reaching Fort Smith, in November, " with- 
 out a rag of clothing, a dollar in money, or know- 
 ing a person in the territory." 
 
 Near this place he spent the winter in teaching 
 a few children, and in the following July he went 
 further down the country, and opened a school 
 under more favourable auspices ; but after a few 
 weeks, being attacked by a fever, was compelled to 
 abandon it. He had in the mean time written seve- 
 ral poems for a newspaper printed at Little Rock, 
 which pleased the editor so much that he sent for 
 him to go there and become his partner. The 
 proposition was gladly accepted, and in October he 
 crossed the Arkansas and landed at Little Rock, 
 paying his last cent for the ferriage of a poor old 
 soldier, who had known his father in New England. 
 
 Here commenced a new era in the life of Pike. 
 
 From this time his efforts appear to have been 
 crowned with success. The "Arkansas Advo- 
 cate" was edited by him until the autumn of 1834, 
 when it became his property. Soon after his ar- 
 rival at his new home he began to devote his leisure 
 to the study of the law, and he was now admitted 
 to the bar. He continued both to write for his 
 paper and to practise in the courts, until the sum- 
 mer of 1836, when he sold his printing establish- 
 ment; and since then he has successfully pursued 
 his profession. He was married at Little Rock, in 
 November, 1834. 
 
 About this time he published at Boston a volume 
 of prose sketches and poems, among which are an 
 interesting account of his journeys over the prai- 
 ries, and some fine poetry, written at Santa Fe and 
 among the mountains and forests of Mexico. In 
 the preface to it, he says : " What I have written 
 has been a transcript of my own feelings — too much 
 so, perhaps, for the purposes of fame. Writing 
 has always been to me a communion with my own 
 soul. These poems were composed in desertion 
 and loneliness, and sometimes in places of fear 
 and danger. My only sources of thought and 
 imagery have been my own mind, and Nature, 
 who has appeared to me generally in desolate 
 guise and utter dreariness, and not unfrequently 
 in sublimity." 
 
 His " Hymns to the Gods," published afterward, 
 were composed at an early age, in Fairhaven, and 
 principally while he was surrounded by pupils, 
 in the school-room. They are bold, spirited, 
 scholarly and imaginative, and their diction is ap- 
 propriate and poetical, though in some instances 
 marred by imperfect and double rhymes. Of his 
 minor pieces, "Spring" and "To the Mocking- 
 bird," are the best. I have heard praise bestowed 
 on " Ariel," a poem much longer than these, pub- 
 lished in 1835, but as it appeared in a periodical 
 which had but a brief existence, I have not been 
 able to obtain a copy of it. In "Fantasma," in 
 which, I suppose, he intended to shadow forth his 
 own "eventful history," he speaks of one who 
 
 " Was young, 
 And had not known the bent of his own mind, 
 Until the mighty spell of Coleridge woke 
 Its hidden powers," 
 
 and in some of his poems there is a cast of thought 
 similar to that which pervades many of the works 
 of this poet, though nothing that amounts to 
 imitation. His early struggles, and subsequent 
 wanderings and observations furnished him with 
 the subjects, thoughts, and imagery of many of his 
 pieces, and they therefore leave on the mind an 
 impression of nature and truth. 
 
 In 1854 Mr. Pike printed in Philadelphia a 
 collection of his poems, under the title of "Nuga," 
 for his friends. It was not published. 
 
 425 
 
426 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 HYMNS TO THE GODS. 
 
 NO. I. TO NEPTUNE. 
 
 God of the mighty deep ! wherever now 
 The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow — 
 Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-wing'd 
 
 and wild, 
 Trample the storm-vex'd waters round them piled, 
 Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal 
 The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel ; 
 While round and under thee, with hideous roar, 
 The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore, 
 Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms, 
 In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms, 
 Fluctuates endlessly ; while, through the gloom, 
 Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam, 
 Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee 
 In fierce response to the tumultuous sea, — 
 Whether thy coursers now career below, 
 Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea-plants grow, 
 Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion 
 The pale, cold tenants of the abysmal ocean — 
 0, come ! our altars waiting for thee stand, 
 Smoking with incense on the level strand ! 
 
 Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam 
 Upon some quiet plain ; no wind-toss'd foam 
 Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely 
 They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea, 
 Fanning the waves with slowly-floating manes, 
 Like mist in sunlight; haply, silver strains 
 From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring, 
 And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king, 
 Chant, loud in praise : Apollo now doth gaze 
 With loving looks upon thee, and his rays 
 Light up thy steeds' wild eyes : a pleasant warmth 
 Is felt upon the sea, where fierce, cold storm 
 Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds, 
 That iEoLus now within their prison binds, 
 Flying with misty wings : perhaps, below 
 Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow 
 With myriad colours — many a monster cumbers 
 The sand a-near thee, while old Triton slumbers 
 As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep 
 Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep. 
 
 Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle, 
 Under a waving tree, where many a mile 
 Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands 
 Heap'd up in many shapes by naiads' hands, 
 And, blushing as the waves come rippling on, 
 Shaking the sunlight from them as they run 
 And curl upon the beach — like molten gold 
 Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old — 
 And sea-nymphs sit, and, with small, delicate shells, 
 Make thee sweet melody : as in deep dells 
 We hear, of summer nights, by fairies made, 
 The while they dance within some quiet shade, 
 Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet, 
 In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet 
 May dance upon the bright and misty dew 
 In better time: all wanton airs that blew 
 But lately over spice trees, now are here, 
 Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near 
 The bright and laughing sea. 0, wilt thou rise, 
 And come with them to our new sacrifice ! 
 
 NO. II. TO APOLLO. 
 
 Bright-hair'd Apollo ! — thou who ever art 
 A blessing to the world — whose mighty heart 
 Forever pours out love, and light, and life : 
 Thou, at whose glance all things of earth are rife 
 With happiness ; to whom, in early spring, 
 Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they 
 On the steep mountain-side, or in the vale [cling 
 Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale 
 And weary earth looks up, when winter flees, 
 Withpatient gaze: thouforwhomwind-stripp'd trees 
 Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light 
 That glitters in thine eye : thou in whose bright 
 And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye 
 With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high 
 Screams out his joy to thee : by all the names 
 That thou dost bear — whether thy godhead claims 
 Phoeeus, or Sol, or golden-hair'd Apollo, 
 Cynthian or Pythian — if thou dost follow 
 
 The fleeing night, 0, hear 
 Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near! 
 
 O, most high poet ! thou whose great heart's swell 
 Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell : 
 Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet, 
 And make them for a poet's theme most meet: 
 Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive 
 Great beauty everywhere — in the slow heave 
 Of the unquiet sea, or in the war 
 Of its unnumber'd waters ; on the shore 
 Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged clifT 
 Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift 
 Full of strange lightning ; or upon the brow 
 Of silent night, that solemnly and slow 
 Comes on the earth; O, thou ! whose influence 
 Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense 
 Double delight, tinges with thine own heart 
 Each thing thou meetest ; thou who ever art 
 Living in beauty — nay, who art, in truth, 
 Beauty imbodied — hear, while all our youth 
 
 With earnest calling cry ! 
 Answer our hymn, and come to us, most high ! 
 
 0, thou ! who strikest oft thy golden lyre 
 In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire 
 Sweepest its strings upon the sunny glade, 
 While dances to thee many a village maid, 
 Decking her hair with wild flowers, or a wreath 
 Of thine own laurel, while, reclined beneath 
 Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart, 
 A s though thou wert of this our world a part, 
 Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood, 
 While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude 
 Flit round among the trees with merry leap, 
 Like their god, Pan ; and from fir thickets deep 
 Come up the satyrs, joining the wild crew, 
 And capering for thy pleasure : from each yew, 
 And oak, and beech, the wood-nymphs oft peep out 
 To see the revelry, while merry shout 
 And noisy laughter rings about the wood, 
 And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude — 
 
 O, come ! while we do sound 
 Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around ! 
 
 O, most high prophet ! — thou that showest men 
 Deep-hidden knowledge: thou that from its den 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 427 
 
 Bringest futurity, that it comes by 
 In visible shape, passing before the eye 
 Shrouded in visions : thou in whose high power 
 Are health and sickness : thou who oft dost shower 
 Great plagues upon the nations, with hot breath 
 Scorching away their souls, and sending death 
 Like fiery mist amid them ; or again, 
 Like the sweet breeze that comes with summer rain, 
 Touching the soul with joy, thou sendest out 
 Bright health among the people, who about 
 With dewy feet and fanning wings doth step, 
 And touch each poor, pale cheek with startling lip, 
 Filling it with rich blood, that leaps anew 
 Out from the shrivell'd heart, and courses through 
 The long-forsaken veins ! — O, thou, whose name 
 Is sung by all, let us, too, dare to claim 
 
 Thy holy presence here ! 
 Hear us, bright god, and come in beauty near ! 
 
 O, thou, the lover of the springing bow ! 
 Who ever in the gloomy woods dost throw 
 Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight 
 Of those thine arrows that with midday light 
 Thou proudly pointest ; thou from whom grim bears 
 And lordly lions flee, with strange, wild fears, 
 And hide among the mountains : thou whose cry 
 Sounds often in the woods, where whirl and fly 
 The time-worn leaves — when, with a merry train, 
 Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain 
 The full-arm'd Cekes — when upon the sea 
 The brine-gods sound their horns, and merrily 
 The whole earth rings with pleasure : then thy voice 
 Stills into silence every stirring noise, 
 With utmost sweetness pealing on the hills, 
 And in the echo of the dancing rills, 
 And o'er the sea, and on the busy plain, 
 And on the air, until all voices wane 
 
 Before its influence — 
 0, come, great god, be ever our defence ! 
 
 By that most gloomy day, when with a cry 
 Young Hyacinth fell down, and his dark eye 
 Was fill'd with dimming blood — when on a bed 
 Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head, 
 Breathing deep sighs ; by those heart-cherish'd eyes 
 Of long-loved Hyacinth — by all the sighs 
 That thou, O, young Apollo, then didst pour 
 On every gloomy hill and desolate shore, 
 Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull 
 Thy ever-quenchless eye, till men were full 
 Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimm'd, 
 And many a chant in many a fane was hymn'd 
 Unto the pale-eyed sun ; the satyrs stay'd 
 Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade 
 They came and look'd for thee ; and all in vain 
 Poor Dian sought thy love, and did complain 
 For want of light and life ; — by all thy grief, 
 O, bright Apollo ! hear, and give relief 
 
 To us who cry to thee — 
 0, come, and let us- now thy glory see ! 
 
 NO. III. TO VENUS. 
 
 0, thou, most lovely and most beautiful ! 
 Whether thy doves now lovingly do lull 
 
 Thy bright eyes to soft slumbering upon 
 Some dreamy south wind : whether thou hast gone 
 Upon the heaven now, or if thou art 
 Within some floating cloud, and on its heart 
 Pourest rich-tinted joy ; whether thy wheels 
 Are touching on the sun-forsaken fields, 
 And brushing off the dew from bending grass, 
 Leaving the poor green blades to look, alas ! 
 With dim eyes at the moon — (ah! so dost thou 
 Full oftquench brightness!) — Venus, whether now 
 Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing 
 Of thy fair doves is wet, while sea-maids bring 
 Sweet odours for thee — (ah! how foolish they! 
 
 They have not felt thy smart!) — 
 They know not, while in ocean-caves they play, 
 
 How strong thou art. 
 
 Where'er thou art, 0, Venus ! hear our song — 
 Kind goddess, hear ! for unto thee belong 
 All pleasant offerings : bright doves coo to thee, 
 The while they twine their necks with quiet glee 
 Among the morning leaves ; thine are all sounds 
 Of pleasure on the earth ; and where abounds 
 Most happiness, for thee we ever look ; 
 Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook, 
 Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave 
 Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave 
 Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings 
 Of thy tired doves; and where his love-song sings, 
 With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird, 
 With notes that never but by thee are heard — 
 0, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now 
 
 And, with half-open eye, 
 Drinkest in beauty — O, most fair, that thou 
 
 Wouldst hear our cry ! 
 
 0, thou, through whom all things upon the earth 
 Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing mirth 
 Lengthens his note; thou whom the joyous bird 
 Singeth continuously ; whose name is heard 
 In every pleasant sound : at whose warm glance 
 All things look brighter: for whom wine doth dance 
 More merrily within the brimming vase, 
 To meet thy lip : thou, at whose quiet pace 
 Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh, 
 And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff, 
 And pushes back the hair from his dim eyes, 
 To look again upon forgotten skies ; 
 While Avarice forgets to count his gold, 
 Yea, unto thee his wither'd hand doth hold, 
 Fill'd with that heart-blood : thou, to whose high 
 
 All things are made to bow, [might 
 
 Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light 
 
 Upon us now ! 
 
 0, hear, great goddess ! thou whom all obey; 
 At whose desire rough satyrs leave their play, 
 And gather wild-flowers, decking the bright hair 
 Of her they love, and oft blackberries bear 
 To shame them at her eyes : 0, thou ! to whom 
 They leap in awkward mood, within the gloom 
 Of darkening oak trees, or at lightsome noon 
 Sing unto thee, upon their pipes, a tune [power 
 Of wondrous languish ment : thou whose great 
 Brings up the sea-maids from each ocean-bower, 
 With many an idle song, to sing to thee, 
 And bright locks flowing half above the sea, 
 
428 
 
 ALBERT PIEE. 
 
 And gleaming eyes, as if in distant caves 
 They spied their lovers — (so among the waves 
 Small bubbles flit, mocking the kindly sun, 
 
 With little, laughing brightness) — 
 O, come, and ere our festival be done, 
 
 Our new loves bless ! 
 
 0, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tears 
 Bedew the pitying woods ! — by those great fears 
 That haunted thee when thy beloved lay 
 With dark eyes drown'd in death — by that dull day 
 When poor Adonis fell, with many a moan, 
 Among the leaves, and sadly and alone 
 Breathed out his spirit — O, do thou look on 
 All maidens who, for too great love, grow wan, 
 And pity them : come to us when night brings 
 Her first faint stars, and let us hear the wings 
 Of thy most beauteous and bright-eyed doves 
 Stirring the breathless air; let all thy loves 
 Be flying round thy car, with pleasant songs 
 Moving upon their lips : come ! each maid longs 
 For thy fair presence — goddess of rich love ! 
 
 Come on the odorous air; 
 And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove 
 
 All love-sick care ! 
 
 Lo, we have many kinds of incense here 
 
 To offer thee, and sunny wine and clear, 
 
 Fit for young Bacchus : flowers we have here too, 
 
 That we have gather'd when the morning dew 
 
 Was moist upon them ; myrtle-wreaths we bear, 
 
 To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair, 
 
 And shade thy temples too; 'tis now the time 
 
 Of all fair beauty : thou who lovest the clime 
 
 Of our dear Cyprus, where sweet flowers blow 
 
 With honey in their cups, and with a glow 
 
 Like thine own cheek, raising their modest heads 
 
 To be refresh' d with the transparent beads 
 
 Of silver dew : behold, this April night, 
 
 Our altars burn for thee ; lo, on the light 
 
 We pour out incense from each golden vase ; 
 
 O, goddess, hear our words ! 
 And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace, 
 
 Thy white-wing'd birds. 
 
 NO. IV. TO DIANA. 
 
 Most graceful goddess ! — whether now thou art 
 Hunting the dun deer in the silent heart 
 Of some old, quiet wood, or on the side 
 Of some high mountain, and, most eager-eyed, 
 Dashing upon the chase, with bended bow 
 And arrow at the string, and with a glow 
 Of wondrous beauty on thy cheek, and feet 
 Like thine own silver moon — yea, and as fleet 
 As her best beams — and quiver at the back, 
 Rattling to all thy steppings ; if some track 
 In distant Thessaly thou followest up, 
 Brushing the dews from many a flower-cup 
 And quiet leaf, and listening to the bay 
 Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they, 
 Strong-limb'd and swift, leap on with eager bounds, 
 And with their long, deep note each hill resounds, 
 Making thee music : — goddess, hear our cry, 
 And let us worship thee, while far and high 
 Goes up thy brother — while his light is full 
 Upon the earth; for, when the night- winds lull 
 
 The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky 
 Dian must go, with silver robes of dew, 
 And sunward eye. 
 
 Perhaps thou liest on some shady spot 
 Among the trees, while frighten'd beasts hear not 
 The deep bay of thy hounds; but, dropping down 
 Upon green grass, and leaves all sere and brown, 
 Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon 
 Some ancient mossy root, where wood-winds run 
 Wildly about thee, and thy fair nymphs point 
 Thy death- wing'd arrows, or thy hair anoint 
 With Lydian odours, and thy strong hounds lie 
 Lazily on the earth, and watch thine eye, 
 And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream. 
 Perchance, in some deep-bosom'd, shaded stream 
 Thou battiest now, where even thy brother sun 
 Cannot look on thee — where dark shades and dun 
 Fall on the water, making it most cool, 
 Like winds from the broad sea, or like some pool 
 In deep, dark cavern: hanging branches dip 
 Their locks into the stream, or slowly drip 
 With tear-drops of rich dew : before no eyes 
 But those of flitting wind-gods, each nymph hies 
 
 Into the deep, cool, running stream, and there 
 Thou pillowest thyself upon its breast, 
 
 O queen, most fair ! 
 
 By all thine hours of pleasure — when thou wast 
 Upon tall Latmos, moveless, still, and lost 
 In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on 
 Thy bright-eyed youth, whether the unseen sun 
 Was lighting the deep sea, or at mid-noon 
 Careering through the sky — by every tune 
 And voice of joy that thrill'd about the chords 
 Of thy deep heart, when thou didst hear his words 
 In that cool, shady grot, where thou hadst brought 
 And placedENDTMion'; where fairhandshad taught 
 All beauty to shine forth ; where thy fair maids 
 Had brought up shells for thee, and from the glades 
 All sunny flowers, with precious stones and gems 
 Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems 
 Of many sea-gods ; birds were there, that sang 
 Ever most sweetly; living waters rang 
 Their changes to all time, to soothe the soul 
 Of thy Endymion; pleasant breezes stole 
 With light feet through the cave, that they might 
 His dewy lips ; — 0, by those hours of bliss [kiss 
 
 That thou didst then enjoy, come to us, fair 
 And beautiful Diana — take us now 
 
 Under thy care ! 
 
 NO. IT. TO MEKCUHY. 
 
 0, winged messenger ! if thy light feet 
 
 Are in the star-paved halls where high gods meet, 
 
 Where the rich nectar thou dost take and sip 
 
 At idly-pleasant leisure, while thy lip 
 
 Utters rich eloquence, until thy foe, 
 
 Juno herself, doth her long hate forego, 
 
 And hangs upon thine accents ; Venus smiles, 
 
 And aims her looks at thee with winning wiles ; 
 
 And wise Minerva's cup stands idly by 
 
 The while thou speakest Whether up on high 
 
 Thou wing'st thy way — or dost but now unfurl 
 
 Thy pinions like the eagle, while a whirl 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 429 
 
 Of air takes place about thee — if thy wings 
 
 Are over the broad sea, where Afric flings 
 
 His hot breath on the waters ; by the shore 
 
 Of Araby the blest, or in the roar 
 
 Of crashing northern ice — O, turn, and urge 
 
 Thy winged course to us ! Leave the rough surge, 
 
 Or icy mountain-height, or city proud, 
 
 Or haughty temple, or dim wood down bow'd 
 
 With weaken'd age, 
 And come to us, thou young and mighty sage ! 
 
 Thou who invisibly dost ever stand 
 Nea. dach high orator; and, hand in hand 
 With the gold-robed Apollo, touch the tongue 
 Of every poet ; on whom men have hung 
 With strange enchantment, when in dark disguise 
 Thou hast descended from cloud-curtain'd skies, 
 And lifted up thy voice, to teach bold men 
 Thy world-arousing art : O, thou ! that, when 
 The ocean was untrack'd, didst teach them send 
 Great ships upon it : thou who dost extend 
 In storm a calm protection to the hopes 
 Of the fair merchant : thou who on the slopes 
 Of Mount Cyllene first madest sound the lyre 
 And many-toned harp with childish fj;e, 
 And thine own beauty sounding in the caves 
 A strange, new tune, unlike the ruder staves 
 That Pan had utter'd — while each wondering 
 
 nymph 
 Came out from tree and mountain, and pure lymph 
 Of mountain-stream, to drink each rolling note 
 That o'er the listening woods did run and float 
 
 With fine, clear tone, 
 Like silver trumpets o'er still waters blown : 
 
 O, matchless artist ! thou of wondrous skill, 
 Who didst in ages past the wide earth fill 
 With every usefulness : thou who dost teach 
 Quick-witted thieves the miser's gold to reach, 
 And rob him of his sleep for many a night, 
 Getting thee curses : O, mischievous sprite ! 
 Thou Rogue-god Mercuhy ! ever glad to cheat 
 All gods and men ; with mute and noiseless feet 
 Going in search of mischief; now to steal 
 The fiery spear of Mahs, now clog the wheel 
 Of bright Apolio's car, that it may crawl 
 Most slowly upward : thou whom wrestlers call, 
 Whether they strive upon the level green 
 At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen 
 Of ancient oak, or at the sacred games 
 In fierce contest : thou whom each then names 
 In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is 
 
 drawn 
 For the last struggle : thou whom on the lawn 
 The victor praises, making unto thee 
 Offering for his proud honours — let us be 
 
 Under thy care : 
 0, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer ! 
 
 NO. VI. TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Where art thou, B a c c hu s 1 On the vine-spread hills 
 Of some rich country, where the red wine fills 
 The cluster'd grapes — staining thy lips all red 
 With generous liquor — pouring on thy head 
 The odorous wine, and ever holding up 
 Unto the smiling sun thy brimming cup, 
 
 And filling it with light 1 Or doth thy car, 
 Under the blaze of the far northern star, 
 Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around 
 Are shouting Bacchanals, and every sound 
 Of merry revelry, while distant men 
 Start at thy noisings 1 Or in shady glen 
 Reclinest thou, beneath green ivy leaves, 
 And idlest off the day, while each Faun weaves 
 Green garlands for thee, sipping the rich bowl 
 That thou hast given him — while the loud roll 
 Of thy all-conquering wheels is heard no more, 
 And thy strong tigers have lain down before 
 
 Thy grape-stain'd feet '! 
 
 O, Bacchus ! come and meet 
 Thy worshippers, the while, with merry lore 
 
 Of ancient song, thy godhead they do greet ! 
 
 O, thou who lovest pleasure ! at whose heart 
 Rich wine is always felt ; who hast a part 
 In all air-swelling mirth ; who in the dance 
 Of merry maidens join'st, where the glance 
 Of bright black eyes, or white and twinkling feet 
 Of joyous fair ones, doth thy quick eyes greet 
 Upon some summer-green : Maker of joy 
 To all care-troubled men ! who dost destroy 
 The piercing pangs of grief; for whom the maids 
 Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades 
 Hang up thy image, and with beaming looks 
 Go dancing round, while shepherds with their crooks 
 Join the glad company, and pass about, 
 With merry laugh and many a gleesome shmit, 
 Staining with rich, dark grapes each little cheek 
 They most do love ; and then, with sudden freak, 
 Taking the willing hand, and dancing on 
 About the green mound : O, thou merry son 
 
 Of lofty Jove ! 
 
 Where thou dost rove 
 Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done, 
 
 And let us too thy sunny influence prove ! 
 
 Where art thou, conqueror 1 before whom fell 
 The jewell'd kings of Ind, when the strong swell 
 Of thy great multitudes came on them, and 
 Thou hadst thy thyrsus in thy red, right hand, 
 Shaking it over them, till every soul 
 Grew faint as with wild lightning ; when the roll 
 Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck 
 Of many a conqueror , when thou didst check 
 Thy tigers and thy lynxes at the shore 
 Of the broad ocean, and didst still the roar, 
 Pouring a sparkling and most pleasant wine 
 Into its waters ; when the dashing brine 
 Toss'd up new odours, and a pleasant scent 
 Upon its breath, and many who were spent 
 With weary sickness, breathed of life anew, 
 When wine-inspired breezes on them blew ; — 
 Bacchus ! who bringest all men to thy feet ! 
 Wine-god ! with brow of light, and smiles most 
 
 Make this our earth [sweet ! 
 
 A sharer in thy mirth — 
 Let us rejoice thy wine-dew'd hair to greet, 
 
 And chant to thee, who gavest young Joy his 
 birth. 
 
 Come to our ceremony ! lo, we rear 
 An altar of bright turf unto thee here, 
 
430 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 And crown it with the -vine and pleasant leaf 
 
 Of clinging ivy : Come, and drive sad Grief 
 
 Far from us ! lo, we pour thy turf upon 
 
 Full cups of wine, bidding the westering sun 
 
 Fill the good air with odour ; see, a mist 
 
 Is rising from the sun-touch'd wine ! — (ah ! hist ! — 
 
 Alas ! 'twas not his cry !) — with all thy train 
 
 Of laughing Satyrs, pouring out a strain 
 
 Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe — 
 
 O, come ! — with eye and lip of beauty, ripe 
 
 And wondrous rare — ! let us hear thy wheels 
 
 Coming upon the hills, while twilight steals 
 
 Upon us quietly — while the dark night 
 
 Is hinder'd from her course by the fierce light 
 
 Of thy wild tigers' eyes ; — O ! let us see 
 
 The revelry of thy wild company, 
 
 With all thy train ; 
 
 And, ere night, comes again, 
 We '11 pass o'er many a hill and vale with thee, 
 
 Raising to thee a loudly-joyous strain. 
 
 NO. VII. TO S0MNI7S. 
 
 0, thou, the leaden-eyed ! with drooping lid 
 Hanging upon thy sight, and eye half-hid 
 By matted hair : that, with a constant train 
 Of empty dreams, all shadowless and vain 
 As the dim wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave 
 With poppies at the mouth,which night-winds wave, 
 Sending their breathings downward — on thy bed, 
 Thine only throne, with darkness overspread, 
 And curtains black as are the eyes of night : 
 Thou, who dost come at time of waning light 
 And sleep among the woods, where night doth hide 
 And tremble at the sun, and shadows glide 
 Among the waving tree-tops ; if now there 
 Thou sleepest in a current of cool air, 
 Within some nook, amid thick flowers and moss, 
 Gray-colour'd as thine eyes, while thy dreams toss 
 
 Their fantasies about the silent earth, 
 
 In waywardness of mirth — 
 O, come ! and hear the hymn that we are chanting 
 Amid the star-light through the thick leaves slanting. 
 
 Thou lover of the banks of idle streams 
 O'ershaded by broad oaks, with scatter'd gleams 
 From the few stars upon them ; of the shore 
 Of the broad sea, with silence hovering o'er; 
 The great moon hanging out her lamps to gild 
 The murmuring waves with hues all pure and mild, 
 Where thou dost lie upon the sounding sands, 
 While winds come dancing on from southern lands 
 With dreams upon their backs, and unseen waves 
 Of odours in their hands : thou, in the caves 
 Of the star-lighted clouds, on summer eves 
 Reclining lazily, while Silence leaves 
 Her influence about thee: in the sea 
 That liest, hearing the monotony 
 Of waves far-off above thee, like the wings 
 Of passing dreams, while the great ocean swings 
 
 His bulk above thy sand-supported head — 
 
 (As chain' d upon his bed 
 Some giant, with an idleness of motion 
 So swings the still and sleep-enthrall'd ocean.) 
 
 Thou who dost bless the weary with thy touch, 
 And makest Agony relax his clutch 
 
 Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart ; 
 Pale Disappointment lose her constant smart, 
 And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep 
 Her life away, and gain new cheer in sleep: 
 Thou who dost bless the birds, in every place 
 Where they have sung their songs with wondrous 
 
 grace 
 Throughout the day, and now, with drooping wing, 
 Amid the leaves receive thy welcoming: — 
 Come with thy crowd of dreams, O, thou ! to whom 
 All noise is most abhorr'd, and in this gloom, 
 Beneath the shaded brightness of the sky, 
 Where are no sounds but as the winds go by, — 
 Here touch our eyes, great Somntts ! with thy wand ; 
 Ah ! here thou art, with touch most mild and bland, 
 
 And we forget our hymn, and sink away; 
 
 And here, until broad day 
 Come up into the sky, with fire-steeds leaping, 
 Will we recline, beneath the vine-leaves sleeping. 
 
 NO. VIII. TO CERES. 
 
 Goddess of bounty ! at whose spring-time call, 
 When on the dewy earth thy first tones fall, 
 Pierces the ground each young and tender blade, 
 And wonders at the sun ; each dull, gray glade 
 Is shining with new grass ; from each chill hole, 
 Where they had lain enchain'd and dull of soul, 
 The birds come forth, and sing for joy to thee 
 Among the springing leaves ; and, fast and free, 
 The rivers toss their chains up to the sun, 
 And through their grassy banks leapingly run, 
 When thou hast touch'd them : thou who ever art 
 The goddess of all beauty : thou whose heart 
 Is ever in the sunny meads and fields ; 
 To whom the laughing earth looks up and yields 
 Her waving treasuies : thou that in thy car, 
 With winged dragons, when the morning star 
 Sheds his cold light., touchest the morning trees 
 Until they spread their blossoms to the breeze ; — 
 
 O, pour thy light 
 
 Of truth and joy upon our souls this night, 
 And grant to us all plenty and good ease ! 
 
 0, thou, the goddess of the rustling corn ! 
 Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn 
 Pile up their baskets with the full-ear'd wheat ; 
 While maidens come, with little dancing feet, 
 And bring thee poppies, weaving thee a crown 
 Of simple beauty, bending their heads down 
 To garland thy full baskets : at whose side, 
 Among the sheaves of wheat, doth Bacchus ride 
 With bright and sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth 
 All wine-stain'd from the warm and sunny south : 
 Perhaps one arm about thy neck he twines, 
 While in his car ye ride among the vines, 
 And with the other hand he gathers up 
 The rich, full grapes, and holds the glowing cup 
 Unto thy lips — and then he throws it by, 
 And crowns thee with bright leaves to shade thine 
 So it may gaze with richer love and light [eye, 
 Upon his beaming brow : If thy swift flight 
 
 Be on some hill 
 
 Of vine-hung Thrace — 0, come, while night is 
 still, 
 And greet with heaping arms our gladden'd sight! 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 431 
 
 Lo ! the small stars, above the silver wave, 
 Come wandering up the sky, and kindly lave 
 The thin clouds with their light, like floating sparks 
 Of diamonds in the air ; or spirit barks, 
 With unseen riders, wheeling in the sky. 
 Lo ! a soft mist of light is rising high, 
 Like silver shining through a tint of red, 
 And soon the queened moon her love will shed, 
 Like pearl-mist, on the earth and on the sea, 
 Where thou shalt cross to view our mystery. 
 Lo ! we have torches here for thee, and urns, 
 Where incense with a floating odour burns, 
 And altars piled with various fruits and flowers, 
 And ears of corn, gather'd at early hours, 
 And odours fresh from India, with a heap 
 Of many-colour'd poppies : — Lo ! we keep 
 Our silent watch for thee, sitting before 
 Thy ready altars, till to our lone shore 
 
 Thy chariot wheels 
 Shall come, while ocean to the burden reels, 
 And utters to the sky a stifled roar. 
 
 TO THE PLANET JUPITER. 
 
 Thou art, in truth, a fair and kingly star, 
 Planet ! whose silver crest now gleams afar 
 Upon the edge of yonder eastern hill, 
 That, night-like, seems a third of heaven to fill. 
 Thou art most worthy of a poet's lore, 
 His worship — as a thing to bend before ; 
 And yet thou smilest as if I might sing, 
 Weak as I am — my lyre unused to ring 
 Among the thousand harps which fill the world. 
 The sun's last fire upon the sky has curl'd, 
 And on the clouds, and now thou hast arisen, 
 And in the east thine eye of love doth glisten — 
 Thou, whom the ancients took to be a king, 
 And that of gods ; and, as thou wert a spring 
 Of inspiration, I would soar and drink, 
 While yet thou art upon the mountain's brink. 
 Who bid men say that thou, O silver peer, 
 Wast to the moon a servitor, anear 
 To sit, and watch her eye for messages, 
 Like to the other fair and silver bees . 
 That swarm around her when she sits her throne 1 ? 
 What of the moon? .She bringeth storm alone, 
 At new, and full, and every other time ; [rhyme, 
 She turns men's brains, and so she makes them 
 And rave, and sigh away their weary life ; 
 And shall she be of young adorers rife, 
 And thou have none 1 Nay, one will sing to thee, 
 And turn his eye to thee, and bend the knee. 
 Lo ! on the marge of the dim western plain, 
 The star of love doth even yet remain — 
 She of the ocean-foam — and watch thy look, 
 As one might gaze upon an antique book, 
 When he doth sit and read, at deep, dead night, 
 Stealing from Time his hours. Ah, sweet delay ! 
 And now she sinks to follow fleeting day, 
 Contented with thy glance of answering love : 
 And where she worships can I thoughtless prove 1 
 Now as thou risest higher into sight, 
 Marking the water with a line of light, 
 On wave and ripple quietly aslant, 
 
 Thy influences steal upon the heart, 
 
 With a sweet force and unresisted art, 
 
 Like the still growth of some unceasing plant. 
 
 The mother, watching by her sleeping child, 
 
 Blesses thee, when thy light, so still and mild, 
 
 Falls through the casement on her babe's pale face. 
 
 And tinges it with a benignant grace, 
 
 Like the white shadow of an angel's wing. 
 
 The sick man, who has lain for many a day, 
 
 And wasted like a lightless flower away, 
 
 He blesses thee, O Jove ! when thou dost shine 
 
 Upon his face, with influence divine, 
 
 Soothing his thin, blue eyelids into sleep. 
 
 The child its constant murmuring will keep, 
 
 Within the nurse's arms, till thou dost glad 
 
 His eyes, and then he sleeps. The thin, and sad, 
 
 And patient student closes up his books 
 
 A space or so, to gain from thy kind looks 
 
 Refreshment. Men, in dungeons pent, 
 
 Climb to the window, and, with head upbent, 
 
 Gaze they at thee. The timid deer awake, 
 
 And, 'neath thine eye, their nightly rambles make, 
 
 Whistling their joy to thee. The speckled trout 
 
 From underneath his rock comes shooting out, 
 
 And turns his eye to thee, and loves thy light, 
 
 And sleeps within it. The gray water plant 
 
 Looks up to thee beseechingly aslant, 
 
 And thou dost feed it there, beneath the wave. 
 
 Even the tortoise crawls from out his cave, 
 
 And feeds wherever, on the dewy grass, 
 
 Thy light hath linger'd. Thou canst even pass 
 
 To water-depths, and make the coral-fly 
 
 Work happier, when flatter'd by thine eye. 
 
 Thou touchest not the roughest heart in vain ; 
 
 Even the sturdy sailor, and the swain, 
 
 Bless thee, whene'er they see thy lustrous eye 
 
 Open amid the clouds, stilling the sky. 
 
 The lover praises thee, and to thy light 
 
 Compares his love, thus tender and thus bright ; 
 
 And tells his mistress thou dost kindly mock 
 
 Her gentle eye. Thou dost the heart unlock 
 
 Which Care and Wo have render'd comfortless, 
 
 And teachcst it thy influence to bless, 
 
 And even for a time its grief to brave. 
 
 The madman, that beneath the moon doth rave, 
 
 Looks to thy orb, and is again himself. 
 
 The miser stops from counting out his pelf, 
 
 When through the barred windows comes thy lull — 
 
 And even he, he thinks thee beautiful. 
 
 ! while thy silver arrows pierce the air, 
 And while beneath thee, the dim forests, where 
 The wind sleeps, and the snowy mountains tall 
 Are still as death — ! bring me back again 
 The bold and happy heart that bless'd me, when 
 My youth was green ; ere home and hope were veil'd 
 In desolation ! Then my cheek was paled, 
 
 But not with care. For, late at night, and long, 
 
 1 toil'd, that I might gain myself among 
 Old tomes, a knowledge ; and in truth I did : 
 I studied long, and things the wise had hid 
 
 In their quaint books, I learn'd ; and then I thought 
 The poet's art was mine ; and so I wrought 
 My boyish feelings into words, and spread 
 Them out before the world — and I was fed 
 With praise, and with a name. Alas ! to him, 
 
432 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 Whose eye and heart must soon or late grow dim, 
 Toiling with poverty, or evils worse, 
 This gift of poetry is but a curse, 
 Unfitting it amid the world to brood, 
 And toil and jostle for a livelihood. 
 The feverish passion of the soul hath been 
 My bane. O Jove ! couldst thou but wean 
 Pile back to boyhood for a space, it were 
 Indeed a gift. There was a sudden stir, 
 Thousands of years ago, upon the sea ; 
 The waters foam'd, and parted hastily, 
 As though a giant left his azure home, 
 And Delos woke, and did to light up come 
 Within that Grecian sea. Latona had, 
 Till then, been wandering, listlessly and sad, 
 About the earth, and through the hollow vast 
 Of water, follow'd by the angry haste 
 Of furious Juno. Many a weary day, 
 Above the shaggy hills where, groaning, lay 
 Exceladus and Typhon, she had roam'd, 
 And over volcanoes, where fire upfoam'd ; 
 And sometimes in the forests she had lurk'd, 
 Where thefierce serpent through the herbage work'd, 
 Over gray weeds, and tiger- trampled flowers, 
 And where the lion hid in tangled bowers, 
 And where the panther, with his dappled skin, 
 Made day like night with his deep moaning din : 
 All things were there to fright the gentle soul — 
 The hedgehog, that across the path did roll, 
 Gray eagles, fang'd like cats, old vultures, bald, 
 Wild hawks and restless owls, whose cry appall'd, 
 Black bats and speckled tortoises, that snap, 
 And scorpions, hiding underneath gray stones, 
 With here and there old piles of human bones 
 Of the first men that found out what was war, 
 Brass heads of arrows, rusted scimetar, 
 Old crescent, shield, and edgeless battle-axe, 
 And near them skulls, with wide and gaping cracks, 
 Too old and dry for worms to dwell within ; 
 Only the restless spider there did spin, 
 And made his house. And then she down would lay 
 Her restless head, among dry leaves, and faint, 
 And close her eyes till thou wouldst come and paint 
 Her visage with thy light ; and then the blood 
 Would stir again about her heart, endued, 
 By thy kind look, with life again, and speed ; 
 And then wouldst thou her gentle spirit feed 
 With new-wing'd hopes, and sunny fantasies, 
 And, looking piercingly amid the trees, 
 Drive from her path all those unwelcome sights. 
 Then would she rise, and o'er the flower-blights, 
 And through the tiger-peopled solitudes, 
 And odorous brakes, and panther-guarded woods, 
 Would keep her way until she reach'd the edge 
 Of the blue sea, and then, on some high ledge 
 Of thunder-blacken'd rocks, would sit and look 
 Into thine eye, nor fear lest from some nook 
 Should rise the hideous shapes that Juno ruled, 
 And persecute her. Once her feet she cool'd 
 Upon a long and narrow beach. The brine 
 Had mark'd, as with an endless serpent-spine, 
 The sanded shore with a long line of shells, 
 Like those the Nereids weave, within the cells 
 Of their queen Thetis — such they pile around 
 The feet of cross old Nereus, having found 
 
 That this will gain his grace, and such they bring 
 
 To the quaint Proteus, as an offering, 
 
 When they would have him tell their fate, and who 
 
 Shall first embrace them with a lover's glow. 
 
 And there Latona stepp'd along the marge 
 
 Of the slow waves, and when one came more large, 
 
 And wet her feet, she tingled, as when Jove 
 
 Gave her the first, all-burning kiss of love. 
 
 Still on she kept, pacing along the sand, 
 
 And on the shells, and now and then would stand, 
 
 And let her long and golden hair outfloat 
 
 Upon the waves — when, lo ! the sudden note 
 
 Of the fierce, hissing dragon met her ear. 
 
 She shudder'd then, and, all-possess'd with fear, 
 
 Rush'd wildly through the hollow-sounding vast 
 
 Into the deep, deep sea; and then she pass'd 
 
 Through many wonders — coral-rafter'd caves, 
 
 Deep, far below the noise of upper waves — 
 
 Sea-flowers, that floated into golden hair, 
 
 Like misty silk — fishes, whose eyes did glare, 
 
 And some surpassing lovely — flcshless spine 
 
 Of old behemoths — flasks of hoarded wine 
 
 Among the timbers of old, shatter'd ships — 
 
 Goblets of gold, that had not touch'd the lips 
 
 Of men a thousand years. And then she lay 
 
 Her down, amid the ever-changing spray, 
 
 And wish'd, and begg'd to die ; and then it was 
 
 That voice of thine the deities that awes, 
 
 Lifted to light beneath the Grecian skies 
 
 That rich and lustrous Delian paradise, 
 
 And placed Latona there, while yet asleep, 
 
 With parted lip, and respiration deep, 
 
 And open palm; and when at length she woke, 
 
 She found herself beneath a shadowy oak, 
 
 Huge, and majestic ; from its boughs look'd out 
 
 All birds, whose timid nature 'tis to doubt 
 
 And fear mankind. The dove, with patient eyes 
 
 Earnestly did his artful nest devise, 
 
 And was most busy under sheltering leaves ; 
 
 The thrush, that loves to sit upon gray eaves 
 
 Amid old ivy, she, too, sang and built ; [spilt 
 
 And mock-bird songs rang out like hail-showers 
 
 Among the leaves, or on the velvet grass ; 
 
 The bees did all around their store amass, 
 
 Or down depended from a swinging bough, 
 
 In tangled swarms. Above her dazzling brow 
 
 The lustrous humming-bird was whirling ; ai.d, 
 
 So near, that she might reach it with her hand, 
 
 Lay a gray lizard — such do notice give 
 
 When a foul serpent comes, and they do live 
 
 By the permission of the roughest hind ; 
 
 Just at her feet, with mild eyes up-inclined, 
 
 A snowy antelope v.ropp'd off the buds 
 
 From hanging limbs; and in the solitudes 
 
 No noise disturh'd the birds, except the di?n 
 
 Voice of a fount, that, from the grassy brim, 
 
 Rain'd upon violets its liquid light, 
 
 And visible love ; also, the murmur slight 
 
 Of waves, that softly sang their anthem, and 
 
 Trode gently on the soft and noiseless sand, 
 
 As gentle children in sick-chambers grieve, 
 
 And go on tiptoe. Here, at call of eve, 
 
 When thou didst rise above the barred cast, 
 
 Touching with light Latona's snowy breast 
 
 And gentler eyes, and when the happy earth 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 Sent up its dews to thee — then she gave birth 
 Unto Apollo and the lustrous Diast ; 
 And when the wings of morn commenced to fan 
 The darkness from the east, afar there rose, 
 Within the thick and odour-dropping forests, [est, 
 Where moss was grayest and dim caves were hoar- 
 Afar there rose the known and dreadful hiss 
 Of the pursuing dragon. Agonies 
 Grew on Latona's soul ; and she had fled, 
 And tried again the ocean's pervious bed, 
 Had not Apollo, young and bright Apollo, 
 Restrained from the dim and perilous hollow, 
 And ask'd what meant the noise. "It is, child! 
 The hideous dragon that hath aye defiled 
 My peace and quiet, sent by heaven's queen 
 To slay her rival, me." Upon the green 
 And mossy grass there lay a nervous bow, 
 And heavy arrows, eagle-wing'd, which thou, 
 
 Jove ! hadst placed within Apollo's reach. 
 These grasping, the young god stood in the breach 
 Of circling trees, with eye that fiercely glanced, 
 Nostril expanded, lip press'd, foot advanced, 
 And aiTOw at the string ; when, lo ! the coil 
 
 Of the fierce snake came on with winding toil, 
 And vast gyrations, crushing down the branches, 
 With noise as when a hungry tiger cranches 
 Huge bones : and then Apollo drew his bow- 
 Full at the eye — nor ended with one blow: 
 Dart after dart he hurl'd from off the string — 
 All at the eye — until a lifeless thing 
 The dragon lay. Thus the young sun-god slew 
 Old Juno's scaly snake : and then he threw 
 (So strong was he) the monster in the sea ; 
 And sharks came round and ate voraciously, 
 Lashing the waters into bloody foam, 
 By their fierce fights. Latona, then, might roam 
 In earth, air, sea, or heaven, void of dread ; 
 For even Juno badly might have sped 
 With her bright children, whom thou soon didst set 
 To rule the sun and moon, as they do yet. 
 Thou ! who didst then their destiny control, 
 
 1 here would woo thee, till into my soul 
 
 Thy light might sink. Jove ! I am full sure 
 None bear unto thy star a love more pure - 
 Than I ; thou hast been, everywhere, to me 
 A source of inspiration. I should be 
 Sleepless, could I not first behold thine orb 
 Rise in the west ; then doth my heart absorb, 
 Like other withering flowers, thy light and life ; 
 For that neglect, which cutteth like a knife, 
 I never have from thee, unless the lake 
 Of heaven be clouded. Planet! thou wouldst make 
 Me, as thou didst thine ancient worshippers, 
 A poet ; but, alas ! whatever stirs 
 My tongue and pen, they both are faint and weak : 
 Apollo hath not, in some gracious freak, 
 Given to me the spirit of his lyre, 
 Or touch'd my heart with his ethereal fire 
 And glorious essence : thus, whate'er I sing 
 Is weak and poor, and may but humbly ring 
 Above the waves of Time's far-booming sea. 
 All I can give is small ; thou wilt not scorn 
 A heart : I give no golden sheaves of corn ; 
 I burn to thee no rich and odorous gums ; 
 I offer up to thee no hecatombs, 
 28 
 
 And build no altars : 't is a heart alone ; 
 Such as it is, I give it — 't is thy own. 
 
 TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 Thou glorious mocker of the world ! I hear 
 Thy many voices ringing through the glooms 
 Of these green solitudes — and all the clear, 
 Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear 
 And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs 
 Of vanish'd nations rolls thy music tide. 
 No light from history's starlike page illumes 
 The memory of those nations — they have died. 
 None cares for them but thou, and thou may st sing, 
 Perhaps, o'er me — as now thy song doth ring 
 Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. 
 
 Thou scorner of all cities ! Thou dost leave 
 The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din, 
 Where one from others no existence weaves, 
 Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and 
 
 grieves, 
 Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within : 
 And thou dost flee into the broad, green woods, 
 And with thy soul of music thou dost win 
 Their heart to harmony — no jar intrudes 
 Upon thy sounding melody. 0, where, 
 Amid the sweet musicians of the air, 
 Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes 1 
 
 Ha ! what a burst was that ! the ^Eolian strain 
 Goes floating through the tangled passages 
 Of the lone woods — and now it comes again — 
 A multitudinous melody — like a rain 
 Of glossy music under echoing trees, 
 Over a ringing lake ; it wraps the soul 
 With a bright harmony of happiness — 
 Even as a gem is wrapt, when round it roll 
 Their waves of brilliant flame — till we become, 
 E'en with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb, 
 And pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal. 
 
 I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, 
 
 Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades, 
 
 Alone with nature — but it may not be ; 
 
 I have to struggle with the tumbling sea 
 
 Of human life, until existence fades 
 
 Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar 
 
 Through the thick woods and shadow-checker'd 
 
 glades, 
 
 While naught of sorrow casts a dimness o'er 
 
 The brilliance of thy heart — but I must wear 
 
 As now, my garmenting of pain and care — 
 
 As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. 
 
 Yet why complain 1 — What though fond hopes 
 deferr'd [gloom ! 
 
 Have overshadow'd Youth's green paths with 
 Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard, — 
 There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, 
 To welcome me, within my humble home ; — 
 There is an eye with love's devotion bright, 
 The darkness of existence to illume ! [blight 
 Then why complain? — When death shall cast his 
 Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest 
 Beneath these trees — and from thy swelling breast, 
 O'er them thy song shall pour like arich flood of light. 
 
434 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 O thou delicious Spring ! 
 Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, 
 
 Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing 
 From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers, 
 And from enmassed bowers, 
 That over grassy walks their greenness fling, 
 Come, gentle Spring! 
 
 Thou lover of young wind, 
 That cometh from the invisible upper sea [bind, 
 Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, 
 And, settling in the trees deliciously, 
 
 Makes young leaves dance with glee, 
 Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind, 
 Winter unkind, 
 
 Come to us ; for thou art 
 Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring ! 
 
 Touching the sacred feeling of the heart, 
 Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming ; 
 And thou dost ever bring 
 A tide of gentle but resistless art 
 Upon the heart. 
 
 Red Autumn from the south 
 Contends with thee ; alas ! what may he show ? 
 
 What are his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth, 
 And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, 
 And timid, pleasant glow, 
 G i ving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, 
 And greenest youth 7 
 
 Gay Summer conquers thee; 
 And yet he has no beauty such as thine ; 
 
 What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea, 
 To the pure glory that with thee doth shine] 
 Thou season most divine, 
 What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy 
 Compare with thee'! 
 
 Come, sit upon the hills, 
 And bid the waking streams leap down their side, 
 And green the vales with their slight-sounding 
 And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, [rills ; 
 And crescent Dian ride, 
 I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills, 
 On grassy hills. 
 
 Alas ! bright Spring, not long 
 Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence ; 
 
 For thou shalt die the summer heat among, 
 Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense, 
 And, gone forever hence, 
 Exist no more : no more to earth belong, 
 Except in song. 
 
 So I who sing shall die : 
 Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow ; 
 
 And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, 
 Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow, 
 
 Which now sometimes I borrow, 
 And breathe of joyance keener and more high, 
 Ceasing to sigh ! 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE ROCKY 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The deep, transparent sky is full 
 
 Of many thousand glittering lights — 
 Unnumber'd stars that calmly rule 
 
 The dark dominions of the night. 
 The mild, bright moon has upward risen, 
 
 Out of the gray and boundless plain, 
 And all around the white snows glisten, 
 
 Where frost, and ice, and silence reign, — 
 While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain. 
 
 These mountains, piercing the blue sky 
 
 With their eternal cones of ice ; 
 The torrents dashing from on high, 
 
 O'er rock and crag and precipice ; 
 Change not, but still remain as ever, 
 
 Unwasting, deathless, and sublime, 
 And will remain while lightnings quiver, 
 
 Or stars the hoary summits climb, 
 Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time. 
 
 It is not so with all — I change, 
 
 And waste as with a living death, 
 Like one that hath become a strange, 
 
 Unwelcome guest, and lingereth 
 Among the memories of the past, 
 
 Where he is a forgotten name ; 
 For Time hath greater power to blast 
 
 The hopes, the feelings, and the fame, 
 To make the passions fierce, or their first strength 
 to tame. 
 
 The wind comes rushing swift by me, 
 
 Pouring its coolness on my brow ; 
 Such was I once — as proudly free, 
 
 And yet, alas ! how alter'd now! 
 Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain, 
 
 These mountains, this eternal sky, 
 The scenes of boyhood come again, 
 
 And pass before the vacant eye, 
 Still wearing something of their ancient brilliancy. 
 
 Yet why complain'? — for what is wrong, 
 
 False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit, 
 And life already made too long, 
 
 To one who walks with bleeding feet 
 Over its paths 1 — it will but make 
 
 Death sweeter when it comes at last — 
 And though the trampled heart may ache, 
 
 Its agony of pain is past, 
 And calmness gathers there, while life is ebbing 
 fast. 
 
 Perhaps, when I have pass'd away, 
 
 Like the sad echo of a dream, 
 There may be some one found to say 
 
 A word that might like sorrow seem. 
 That I would have — one sadden'd tear, 
 
 One kindly and regretting thought — 
 Grant me but that ! — and even here, 
 
 Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot, 
 To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur not. 
 
PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 [Born, IS09.] 
 
 The paternal ancestors of Mr. Benjamin - came 
 to New England at an early period from Wales. 
 His father, who was a merchant, resided many 
 years at Demerara, in British Guiana, where he 
 acquired a large fortune. There the subject of 
 this notice was born in the year 1809. When he 
 was about three years old, in consequence of a 
 severe illness he was brought to this country, 
 under the care of a faithful female guardian, and 
 here, except during a few brief periods, he has 
 since resided. The improper medical treatment to 
 which he had been subjected in Demerara pre- 
 vented his complete restoration under the more 
 skilful physicians of New England, and he has 
 been lame from his childhood ; but I believe his 
 general health has been uniformly good for many 
 years. 
 
 While a boy he was sent to an excellent school 
 in the rural village of Colchester, in Connecticut. 
 At twelve he was removed to New Haven, where 
 he resided three years in his father's family, after 
 which he was sent to a private boarding school 
 near Boston, in which he remained until he en- 
 tered Harvard College, in 1825. He left this 
 venerable institution before the close of his second 
 academic year, in consequence of a protracted and 
 painful illness, and on his recovery entered Wash- 
 ington College, at Hartford, then under the presi- 
 dency of the Right Reverend Thomas C. Brown- 
 ell, now Bishop of Connecticut. He was gradu- 
 ated in 1829, with the highest honours of his 
 class. 
 
 In 1830, Mr. Benjamin' entered the Law 
 School at Cambridge, at that time conducted by 
 Mr. Justice Story and Professor Ashmun. He 
 pursued his legal studies with much industry for 
 a considerable period at this seminary, but finished 
 the acquirement of his profession at New Haven, 
 under Chief Justice Daggett and Professor 
 Hitchcock. He was admitted to the Connecti- 
 cut bar in 1833, and removing soon after to Bos- 
 ton, the residence of his relatives and friends, he 
 was admitted to the courts of Massachusetts, as 
 attorney and counsellor at law and solicitor in 
 chancery. 
 
 His disposition to devote his time to literature 
 prevented his entering upon the practice of his 
 profession, and on the death of Edwin Bucking- 
 ham, one of its original editors, I believe he be- 
 came connected with the " New England Maga- 
 zine." In 1836 that periodical was joined to the 
 "American Monthly Magazine," published in 
 New York, and edited by Charles F. Hoffman, 
 and Mr. Benjamin was soon after induced to go 
 to reside permanently in that city. By unfortu- 
 nate investments, and the calamities in which so 
 many were involved in that period, he had lost 
 most of his patrimonial property, and the remainder 
 
 of it he now invested in a publishing establish- 
 ment ; but the commercial distress of the time, by 
 which many of the wealthiest houses were over- 
 thrown, prevented the realization of his expecta- 
 tions, and the business was abandoned. He pur- 
 chased, I believe, near the close of the year 1837, 
 the "American Monthly Magazine," and for 
 about two years conducted it with much ability ; 
 but by giving to some of the later numbers of it 
 a political character, its prosperity was destroyed, 
 and he relinquished it to become associated with 
 Mr. Horace Greeley in the editorship of the 
 " New Yorker," a popular weekly periodical, de- 
 voted to literature and politics. In 1840 several 
 weekly gazettes of unprecedented size were esta- 
 blished in New York, and rapidly attained a great 
 circulation. With the most prominent of these he 
 was connected, and his writings contributed largely 
 to its success. 
 
 In both prose and verse Mr. Benjamin has 
 been a very prolific author. His rhythmical com- 
 positions would fill many volumes. They are 
 generally short. " A Poem on the Contemplation 
 of Nature," read before the classes of Washington 
 College, on the day of his graduation ; " Poetry, a 
 Satire," published in 1843, and "Infatuation, a 
 Satire," published in 1845, are the longest of his 
 printed works. He has written several dramatic 
 pieces, of which only fragments have been given 
 to the public. 
 
 There have not been many successful American 
 satires. Trumbull's " Progress of Dulness" and 
 " McFingal," are the best that had been produced 
 at the close of the Revolution. Freneau, Hop- 
 kins, Dwight, Alsop, Cliffton, and others, 
 attempted this kind of writing with various suc- 
 cess, but none of them equalled Trumbull. More 
 recently Fessenden, Verplanck, Piehpont, 
 Halleck, Holmes, Ward, Osbohn, and Ben- 
 jamin, have essayed it. Halleck's "Fanny" 
 and "Epistles" are witty, spirited and playful, 
 but local in their application. The "Vision of 
 Rubeta" has felicitous passages, and shows that 
 its author is a scholar, but it is cumbrous and oc- 
 casionally coarse. Mr. Benjamin's satires are 
 lively, pointed, and free from malignity or licen- 
 tiousness. 
 
 In some of his shorter poems, Mr. Benjamin 
 has shown a quick perception of the ridiculous; 
 in others, warm affections and a meditative spirit ; 
 and in more, gayety. His poems are adorned with 
 apposite and pretty fancies, and seem generally to 
 be expressive of actual feelings. Some of his hu- 
 mourous pieces, as the sonnet entitled " Sport," 
 which is quoted in the following pages, are happily 
 expressed, but his style is generally more like that 
 of an improvisator than an artist. He rarely 
 
 makes use of the burnisher. 
 
 435 
 
436 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 " Gold is, in its last analysis, the sweat of the poor and 
 the blood of the brave." — Joseph Napoleon. 
 
 Waste treasure like water, ye noble and great ! 
 Spend the wealth of the world to increase your es- 
 Pile up your temples of marble, and raise [tate ; 
 Columns and domes, that the people may gaze 
 And wonder at beauty, so gorgeously shown 
 By subjects more rich than the king on his throne. 
 Lavish and squander — for why should ye save 
 " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave 1" 
 
 Pour wine into goblets, all crusted with gems — 
 
 Wear pearls on your collars and pearls on your 
 
 Let diamonds in splendid profusion outvie [hems ; 
 
 The myriad stars of a tropical sky ! 
 
 Though from the night of the fathomless mine 
 
 These may be dug at your banquet to shine, 
 
 Little care ye for the chains of the slave, 
 
 " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." 
 
 Behold, at your gates stand the feeble and old, 
 Let them burn in the sunshine and freeze in the cold ; 
 Let them starve : though a morsel, a drop will impart 
 New vigour and warmth to the limb and the heart : 
 You taste not their anguish, you feel not their pain, 
 Your heads are not bare to the wind and the rain — 
 Must wretches like these of your charity crave 
 " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave 1" 
 
 An army goes out in' the morn's early light, 
 Ten thousand gay soldiers equipp'd for the fight ; 
 An army comes home at the closing of day; 
 O, where are their banners, their goodly array] 
 Ye widows and orphans, bewail not so loud — 
 Your groans may imbitter the feast of the proud ; 
 To win for their store, did the wild battle rave, 
 " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." 
 
 Gold ! gold ! in all ages the curse of mankind, 
 Thy fetters are forged for the soul and the mind: 
 The limbs may be free as the wings of a bird, 
 And the mind be the slave of a look and a word. 
 To gam thee, men barter eternity's crown, 
 Yield honour, affection, and lasting renown, 
 And mingle like foam with life's swift-rushing wave 
 " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." 
 
 UPON SEEING A PORTRAIT 
 
 OF A LADY, PAINTED BY GIOVANNI C. THOMPSON. 
 
 There is a sweetness in those upturn'd eyes, 
 A tearful lustre — such as fancy lends 
 To the Madonna — and a soft surprise, 
 
 As if they saw strange beauty in the air ; 
 Perchance a bird, whose little pinion bends 
 
 To the same breeze that lifts that flowing hair. 
 
 And, 0, that lip, and cheek, and forehead fair, 
 Reposing on the canvass ! — that bright smile, 
 
 Casting a mellow radiance over all ! 
 Say, didst thou strive, young artist, to beguile 
 
 The gazer of his reason, and to thrall 
 His every sense in meshes of delight — 
 When thou,unconscious,mad'st this phantom bright? 
 Sure nothing real lives, which thus can charm the 
 sight! 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 This is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea — 
 
 Fearless and rapid and strong is he ; 
 
 He never forsakes the billowy roar, 
 
 To dwell in calm on the tranquil shore, 
 
 Save when his mate from the tempest's shocks 
 
 Protects her young in the splinter'd rocks. 
 
 Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms ; 
 On the top of the wave you may see their forms 
 They run and dive, and they whirl and fly, 
 Where the glittering foam spray breaks on high ; 
 And against the force of the strongest gale, 
 Like phantom ships they soar and sail. 
 
 All over the ocean, far from land, 
 When the storm-king rises dark and grand, 
 The mariner sees the petrel meet 
 The fathomless waves with steady feet, 
 And a tireless wing and a dauntless breast, 
 Without a home or a hope of rest. 
 
 So, mid the contest and toil of life, 
 My soul ! when the billows of rage and strife 
 Are tossing high, and the heavenly blue 
 Is shrouded by vapours of sombre hue — 
 Like the petrel wheeling o'er foam and spray, 
 Onward and upward pursue thy way ! 
 
 THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 The Nautilus ever loves to glide 
 
 Upon the crest of the radiant tide. 
 
 When the sky is clear and the wave is bright, 
 
 Look over the sea for a lovely sight ! 
 
 You may watch, and watch for many a mile, 
 
 And never see Nautilus all the while, 
 
 Till, just as your patience is nearly lost, 
 
 Lo ! there is a bark in the sunlight toss'd ! 
 
 " Sail ho ! and whither away so fast V 
 
 What a curious thing she has rigg'd for a mast ! 
 
 " Ahoy ! ahoy '. don't you hear our hail V 
 
 How the breeze is swelling her gossamer sail ! 
 
 The good ship Nautilus — yes, 't is she ! 
 
 Sailing over the gold of the placid sea ; 
 
 And though she will never deign reply, 
 
 I could tell her hull with the glance of an eye. 
 
 Now, I wonder where Nautilus can be bound ; 
 Or does she always sail round and round, 
 With the fairy queen and her court on board, 
 And mariner-sprites, a glittering horde 1 
 Does she roam and roam till the evening light ] 
 And where does she go in the deep midnight 1 
 So crazy a vessel could hardly sail, 
 Or weather the blow of " a fine, stiff gale." 
 
 O, the selfsame hand that holds the chain 
 Which the ocean binds to the rocky main — 
 Which guards from the wreck when the tempest 
 
 raves, 
 And the stout ship reels on the surging waves — 
 Directs the course of thy little bark, 
 And in the light or the shadow dark, 
 And near the shore or far at sea, 
 Makes safe a billowy path for thee ! 
 
PARK BENJAMIN. 437 
 
 TO ONE BELOVED. 
 
 And when the moon, of fairy stars the queen, 
 
 1. 
 
 Waves her transparent wand o'er all the scene ; 
 
 Years, years have pass'd, 
 
 I seek the vale, 
 
 My sweetest, since I heard thy voice's tone, 
 
 And, while inhaling the moss-rose's breath, — 
 
 Saying thou wouldst be mine and mine alone ; 
 
 (Less sweet than thine, unmatch'd Elizabeth!) 
 
 Dark years have cast 
 
 A vision, pale 
 
 Their shadows on me, and my brow no more 
 
 As the far robes of seraphs in the night, 
 
 Smiles with the happy light that once it wore. 
 
 Rises before me with supernal light. 
 
 My heart is sere, 
 
 I seek the mount, 
 
 As a leaf toss'd upon the autumnal gale ; 
 
 And there, in closest commune with the blue, 
 
 The early rose-hues of my life are pale, 
 
 Thy spiritual glances meet my view. 
 
 Its garden drear, 
 
 I seek the fount : 
 
 Its bower deserted, for my singing bird 
 
 And thou art my Egeria, and the glade 
 
 Among its dim retreats no more is heard. 
 
 Encircling it around is holier made. 
 
 0, trust them not 
 
 I seek the brook : 
 
 Who say that I have long forgotten thee, 
 
 And, in the silver shout of waters, hear 
 
 Or even now thou art not dear to me ! 
 
 Thy merry, melting tones salute mine ear : 
 
 Though far my lot 
 
 And, in the look 
 
 From thine, and though Time's onward rolling tide 
 
 Of lilies floating from the flowery land, 
 
 May never bear me, dearest, to thy side. 
 
 See something soft and stainless as thy hand. 
 
 I would forget, 
 
 All things convey 
 
 Alas ! I strive in vain — in dreams, in dreams 
 
 A likeness of my early, only love — 
 
 The radiance of thy glance upon me beams : — 
 
 All fairest things around, below, above : 
 
 No star has met 
 
 The foamy spray 
 
 My gaze for years whose beauty doth not shine, 
 
 Over the billow, and the bedded pearls, 
 
 Whose look of speechless love is not like thine ! 
 
 And the light flag the lighter breeze unfurls. 
 
 The evening air — 
 
 For, in the grace 
 
 Soft witness of the floweret's fragrant death — 
 
 As well as in the beauty of the sea, 
 
 Strays not so sweetly to me as thy breath ; 
 
 I find a true similitude to thee ; 
 
 The moonlight fair 
 
 And I can trace 
 
 On snowy waste sleeps not with sweeter ray, 
 
 Thine image in the loveliness that dwells 
 
 Than thy clear memory on my heart's decay. 
 
 Mid inland forests and sequester'd dells. 
 
 I love thee still — 
 
 I am thine own, 
 
 And I shall love thee ever, and above 
 
 My dearest, though thou never mayst be mine ; 
 
 All earthly objects with undying love. 
 
 I would not if I could the band untwine 
 
 The mountain-rill 
 
 Around me thrown — 
 
 Seeks, with no surer flow, the far, bright sea, 
 
 Since first I breathed to thee that word of fire — 
 
 Than my unchanged affection flows to thee. 
 
 Re-echo'd now, how feebly ! by my lyre. 
 
 11. 
 
 Love, constant love ! 
 
 A year has flown, 
 
 Age cannot quench it — like the primal ray 
 
 My heart's best angel, since to thee I strung 
 
 From the vast fountain that supplies the day, 
 
 My frail, poetic lyre — since last I sung, 
 
 Far, far above 
 
 In faltering tone, 
 
 Our cloud-encircled region, it will flow 
 
 My love undying: though in all my dreams 
 
 As pure and as eternal in its glow. 
 
 Thy smiles have linger'd, like the stars in streams. 
 
 0, when I die 
 
 On ruffled wing, 
 
 (If until then thou mayst not drop a tear) 
 
 Like storm-toss'd bird, that year has sped away 
 
 Weep then for one to whom thou wert most dear; 
 
 Into the shadow'd past, and not a day 
 
 To whom thy sigh, 
 
 To me could bring 
 
 Denied in life, in death, if fondly given, 
 
 Familiar joys like those I knew of yore, 
 
 Will seem the sweetest incense-air of heaven ! 
 
 But morn, and noon, and night, a sorrow bore. 
 
 in. 
 
 Alas, for Time ! 
 
 Dost thou not turn, 
 
 For me his sickle reaps the harvest fair 
 
 Fairest and sweetest, from the flowery way 
 
 Of hopes that blossom'd in the summer air 
 
 On which thy feet are treading every day, 
 
 Of youth's sweet clime ; 
 
 And seek to learn 
 
 But leaves to bloom the deeply-rooted tree 
 
 Tidings, sometimes, of him who loved thee well — 
 
 Which thou hast planted, deathless Memory ! 
 
 More than his pen can write or tongue can tell ] 
 
 Beneath its shade 
 
 Gaze not thine eyes 
 
 I muse, and muse alone — while daylight dies, 
 
 (0, wild and lustrous eyes, ye were my fate !) 
 
 Changing its dolphin hues in western skies, 
 
 Upon the lines he fashion'd not of late, 
 
 And when they fade. 
 
 But when the skies 
 
438 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 Of joy were over him, and he was bless'd 
 That he could sing of treasures he possess'd 1 
 
 Treasures more dear 
 Than gold in ingots, or barbaric piles 
 Of pearls and diamonds, thy most precious smiles ! 
 
 Bring, bring me here, 
 0, ruthless Time, some of those treasures now, 
 And print a hundred wrinkles on my brow. 
 
 Make me grow old 
 Before my years are many — take away 
 Health, youth, ambition — let my strength decay, 
 
 My mind be sold 
 To be the slave of some strange, barren lore — 
 Only those treasures to my heart restore ! 
 
 Ah ! I implore 
 A boon that cannot be, a blessing flown, 
 Unto a realm so distant from my own, 
 
 That, could I soar 
 On eagle's wings, it still would be afar, 
 As if I strove by flight to reach a star ! 
 
 The future vast 
 Before me lifts majestic steeps on high, 
 Which I must stand upon before I die ! 
 
 For, in the past 
 Love buried lies ; and nothing lives but fame 
 To speak unto the coming age my race and name. 
 
 THE TIRED HUNTER. 
 
 Rest thee, old hunter ! the evening cool 
 
 Will sweetly breathe on thy heated brow, 
 Thy dogs will lap of the shady pool ; 
 
 Thou art very weary — 0, rest thee now ! 
 Thou hast wander'd far through mazy woods, 
 
 Thou hast trodden thebright-plumed birds' retreat, 
 Thou hast broken in on their solitudes, — 
 
 O, give some rest to thy tired feet ! 
 
 There's not a nook in the forest wide 
 
 Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee ; 
 Thy step has been where no sounds, beside 
 
 The rustle of wings in the sheltering tree, 
 The sharp, clear cry of the startled game, 
 
 The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar, 
 The bay that follow'd thy gun's sure aim, 
 
 Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. 
 
 Then rest thee ! — thy wife in her cottage-door, 
 
 Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray, 
 Peers into the forest beyond the moor, 
 
 To hail thy coming ere fall of day; — 
 But thou art a score of miles from home, 
 
 And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves 
 Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, 
 
 And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. 
 
 Thou must even rest ! for thou canst not tread 
 
 Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, 
 And a sapphire light over earth is spread, 
 
 The place where thy wife and babes repose. 
 Rest thee a while — and then journey on 
 
 Through the wide forest, and over the moor: 
 Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun, 
 
 And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door ! 
 
 THE DEPARTED. 
 
 The departed ! the departed ! 
 
 They visit us in dreams, 
 And they glide above our memories 
 
 Like shadows over streams ; 
 But where the cheerful lights of home 
 
 In constant lustre burn, 
 The departed, the departed 
 
 Can never more return ! 
 
 The good, the brave, the beautiful, 
 
 How dreamless is their sleep, 
 Where rolls the dirge-like music 
 
 Of the ever-tossing deep ! 
 Or where the hurrying night-winds 
 
 Pale winter's robes have spread 
 Above their narrow palaces, 
 
 In the cities of the dead ! 
 
 I look around and feel the awe 
 
 Of one who walks alone 
 Among the wrecks of former days, 
 
 In mournful ruin strown ; 
 I start to hear the stirring sounds 
 
 Among the cypress trees, 
 For the voice of the departed 
 
 Is borne upon the breeze. 
 
 That solemn voice ! it mingles with 
 
 Each free and careless strain; 
 I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy 
 
 Will cheer my heart again. 
 The melody of summer waves, 
 
 The thrilling notes of birds, 
 Can never be so dear to me 
 
 As their remember'd words. 
 
 I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles 
 
 Still on me sweetly fall, 
 Their tones of love I faintly hear 
 
 My name in sadness call. 
 I know that they are happy, 
 
 With their angel-plumage on, 
 But my heart is very desolate 
 
 To think that they are gone. 
 
 I AM NOT OLD. 
 
 I am not old — though years have cast 
 
 Their shadows on my way ; 
 I am not old — though youth has pass'd 
 
 On rapid wings away. 
 For in my heart a fountain flows, 
 And round it pleasant thoughts repose ; 
 And sympathies and feelings high, 
 Spring like the stars on evening's sky. 
 
 I am not old — Time may have set 
 
 " His signet on my brow," 
 And some faint furrows there have met, 
 
 Which care may deepen now : 
 Yet love, fond love, a chaplet weaves 
 Of fresh, young buds and verdant leaves ; 
 And still in fancy I can twine 
 Thoughts, sweet as flowers, that once were mine. 
 
PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 439 
 
 THE DOVE'S ERRAND. 
 
 Under cover of the night, 
 Feather'd darling, take your night ! 
 Lest some cruel aicher fling 
 Arrow at your tender wing, 
 And your white, unspotted side 
 Be with crimson colour died : — 
 For with men who know not love 
 You and I are living, Dove. 
 
 Now I bind a perfumed letter 
 Round your neck with silken fetter; 
 Bear it safely, bear it well, 
 Over mountain, lake, and dell. 
 While the darkness is profound 
 You may fly along the ground, 
 But when morning's herald sings, 
 Mount ye on sublimer wings ; 
 High in heaven pursue your way 
 Till the fading light of day, 
 From the palace of the west, 
 Tints with fleckering gold your breast, 
 Shielded from the gaze of men, 
 You may stoop to earth again. 
 
 Stay, then, feather'd darling, stay, 
 Pause, and look along your way : 
 Well I know how fast you fly, 
 And the keenness of your eye. 
 By the time the second eve 
 Comes, your journey you'll achieve, 
 And above a gentle vale 
 Will on easy pinion sail. 
 In that vale, with dwellings strown, 
 One is standing all alone : 
 White it rises mid the leaves, 
 Woodbines clamber o'er its eaves, 
 And the honeysuckle falls 
 Pendant on its silent walls. 
 'T is a cottage, small and fair 
 As a cloud in summer air. 
 
 By a lattice, wreathed with flowers 
 Such as link the dancing hours, 
 Sitting in the twilight shade, 
 Envied dove, behold a maid ! 
 Locks escaped from sunny band, 
 Cheeks reclined on snowy hand, 
 Looking sadly to the sky, 
 She will meet your searching eye. 
 Fear not, doubt not, timid dove, 
 You have found the home of love ! 
 She will fold you to her breast — 
 Seraphs have not purer rest ; 
 She your weary plumes will kiss — 
 Seraphs have not sweeter bliss ! 
 Tremble not, my dove, nor start, 
 Should you feel her throbbing heart; 
 Joy has made her bright eye dim — 
 Well she knows you came from him, 
 Him she loves. O, luckless star ! 
 He from her must dwell afar. 
 
 From your neck her fingers fine 
 Will the silken string untwine ; 
 Reading then the words I trace, 
 Blushes will suffuse her face ; 
 
 To her lips the lines she '11 press, 
 And again my dove caress. 
 Mine, yes, mine — O, would that I 
 Could on rapid pinions fly ! 
 Then I should not send you, dove, 
 On an errand to my love : 
 For I'd brave the sharpest gale, 
 And along the tempest sail ; 
 Caring not for danger near, 
 Hurrying heedless, void of fear, 
 But to hear one tender word, 
 Breathed for me, my happy bird ! 
 
 At the early dawn of day, 
 She will send you on your way, 
 Twining with another fetter 
 Round your neck another letter. 
 Speed ye, then, O, swiftly speed, 
 Like a prisoner newly freed : 
 O'er the mountain, o'er the vale, 
 Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail ! 
 Never, never poise a plume, 
 Though beneath you Edens bloom : 
 Never, never think of rest, 
 Till night's shadow turns your breast 
 From pure white to mottled gray, 
 And the stars are round your way, — 
 Love's bright beacons, they will shine, 
 Dove, to show your home and mine ! 
 
 "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS !' 
 
 How cheery are the mariners — 
 
 Those lovers of the sea ! 
 Their hearts are like its yesty waves, 
 
 As bounding and as free. 
 They whistle when the storm-bird wheels 
 
 In circles round the mast ; 
 And sing when deep in foam the ship 
 
 Ploughs onward to the blast. 
 
 What care the mariners for gales "? 
 
 There 's music in their roar, 
 When wide the berth along the lee, 
 
 And leagues of room before. 
 Let billows toss to mountain heights, 
 
 Or sink to chasms low, 
 The vessel stout will ride it out, 
 
 Nor reel beneath the blow. 
 With streamers down and canvass furl'd, 
 
 The gallant hull will float 
 Securely, as on inland lake 
 
 A silken-tassell'd boat ; 
 And sound asleep some mariners, 
 
 And some with watchful eyes, 
 Will fearless be of dangers dark 
 
 That roll along the skies. 
 
 God keep those cheery mariners ! 
 
 And temper all the gales 
 That sweep against the rocky coast 
 
 To their storm-shatter'd sails ; 
 And men on shore will bless the ship 
 
 That could so guided be, 
 Safe in the hollow of His hand, 
 
 To brave the mightv sea ! 
 
440 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY. 
 
 The bird, that never tried his wing, 
 Can blithely hop and sweetly sing, 
 Though prison'd in a narrow cage, 
 Till his bright feathers droop with age. 
 So I, while never bless'd with sight, 
 Shut out from heaven's surrounding light, 
 Life's hours, and days, and years enjoy, — 
 Though blind, a merry-hearted boy. 
 
 That captive bird may never float 
 Through heaven, or pour his thrilling note 
 Mid shady groves, by pleasant streams 
 That sparkle in the soft moonbeams ; 
 Bat he may gayly nutter round 
 Within his prison's scanty bound, 
 And give his soul to song, for he 
 Ne'er longs to taste sweet liberty. 
 
 ! may I not as happy dwell 
 Within my unillumined cell ? 
 May I not leap, and sing, and play, 
 And turn my constant night to day 1 
 
 1 never saw the sky, the sea, 
 The earth was never green to me : 
 Then why, 0, why should I repine 
 For blessings that were never mine ! 
 
 Think not that blindness makes me sad, 
 My thoughts, like yours, are often glad. 
 Parents I have, who love me well, 
 Their different voices I can tell. 
 Though far away from them, I hear, 
 In dreams, their music meet my ear. 
 Is there a star so dear above 
 As the low voice of one you love 1 
 
 I never saw my father's face, 
 Yet on his forehead when I place 
 My hand, and feel the wrinkles there, 
 Left less by time than anxious care, 
 I fear the world has sights of wo, 
 To knit the brows of manhood so, — 
 I sit upon my father's knee : 
 He 'd love me less if I could see. 
 
 I never saw my mother smile : 
 Her gentle tones my heart beguile. 
 They fall like distant melody, 
 They are so mild and sweet to me. 
 She murmurs not — my mother dear ! 
 Though sometimes I have kiss'd the tear 
 From her soft cheek, to tell the joy 
 One smiling word would give her boy. 
 
 Right merry was I every day ! 
 
 Fearless to run about and play 
 
 With sisters, brothers, friends, and all,— 
 
 To answer to their sudden call, 
 
 To join the ring, to speed the chase, 
 
 To find each playmate's hiding-place, 
 
 And pass my hand across his brow, 
 
 To tell him I could do it now ! 
 
 Yet though delightful flew the hours, 
 So pass'd in childhood's peaceful bowers, 
 When all were gone to school but I, 
 I used to sit at home and sigh ; 
 
 And though I never long'd to view 
 The earth so green, the sky so blue, 
 I thought I'd give the world to look 
 Along the pages of a book. 
 
 Now, since I've learn'd to read and write, 
 
 My heart is fill'd with new delight ; 
 
 And music too, — can there be found 
 
 A sight so beautiful as sound ? 
 
 Tell me, kind friends, in one short word, 
 
 Am I not like a captive bird ] 
 
 I live in song, and peace, and joy, — 
 
 Though blind, a merry-hearted boy. 
 
 THE ELYSIAN ISLE. 
 
 " It arose before them, the most beautiful island in the 
 world." — Irving's Columbus. 
 
 It was a sweet and pleasant isle — 
 
 As fair as isle could be ; 
 And the wave that kiss'd its sandy shore 
 
 Was the wave of the Indian sea. 
 
 It seem'd an emerald set by Heaven 
 On the ocean's dazzling brow — 
 
 And where it glow'd long ages past, 
 It glows as greenly now. 
 
 I've wander'd oft in its valleys bright, 
 Through the gloom of its leafy bowers, 
 
 And breathed the breath of its spicy gales 
 And the scent of its countless flowers. 
 
 I 've seen its bird with the crimson wing 
 Float under the clear, blue sky ; 
 
 I 've heard the notes of its mocking-bird 
 On the evening waters die. 
 
 In the starry noon of its brilliant night, 
 When the world was hush'd in sleep — 
 
 I dream'd of the shipwreck'd gems that lie 
 On the floor of the soundless deep. 
 
 And I gather'd the shells that buried were 
 
 In the heart of its silver sands, 
 And toss'd them back on the running wave, 
 
 To be caught by viewless hands. 
 
 There are sister-spirits that dwell in the sea, 
 Of the spirits that dwell in the air ; 
 
 And they never visit our northern clime, 
 Where the coast is bleak and bare : 
 
 But around the shores of the Indian isles 
 
 They revel and sing alone — 
 Though I saw them not, I heard by night 
 
 Their low, mysterious tone. 
 
 Elysian isle ! I may never view 
 
 Thy birds and roses more, 
 Nor meet the kiss of thy loving breeze 
 
 As it seeks thy jewell'd shore. 
 
 Yet thou art treasured in my heart 
 
 As in thine own deep sea ; 
 And, in all my dreams of the spirits' home, 
 
 Dear isle, I picture thee ! 
 
PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 441 
 
 A GREAT NAME. 
 
 Time ! thou destroyest the relics of the past, 
 And hidest all the footprints of thy march 
 On shatter'd column and on crumbled arch, 
 
 By moss and ivy growing green and fast. 
 
 Hurl'd into fragments by the tempest-blast, 
 The Rhodian monster lies ; the obelisk, 
 That with sharp line divided the broad disc 
 
 Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast: 
 
 And where these stood, no remnant-trophy stands, 
 And even the art is lost by which they rose : 
 
 Thus, with the monuments of other lands, 
 
 The place that knew them now no longer knows. 
 
 Yet triumph not, O, Time ; strong towers decay, 
 
 But a great name shall never pass away ! 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 There is no type of indolence like this : — 
 
 A ship in harbour, not a signal flying, 
 
 The wave unstirr'd about her huge sides lying, 
 
 No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss, 
 
 Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft : 
 
 Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around 
 Upon the polish'd deck or canvass — soft 
 
 To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found 
 A bed more tender, since his mother's knee 
 The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea. 
 Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing, 
 Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail, 
 Some ' damn' the calm and wish it was a gale ; 
 But every lubber there is lazy as a king. 
 
 SPORT. 
 
 To see a fellow of a summer's morning, 
 With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye 
 And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by, 
 
 About to give the feather'd bipeds warning, 
 That probably they may be shot hereafter, 
 Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter; 
 
 For, though I am no lover of the sport 
 Of harmless murder, yet it is to me 
 Almost the funniest thing on earth to see 
 
 A corpulent person, breathing with a snort, 
 
 Go on a shooting frolic all alone ; 
 
 For well I know that when he 's out of town, 
 He and his dog and gun will all lie down, 
 
 And undestructive sleep till gameand light areflown. 
 
 M.I. 
 
 Borx in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands : 
 
 Her mind has all the vigour of a tree, 
 
 Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea, 
 And all the sweetness of a rose that stands 
 
 In the soft sunshine on some shelter'd lea. 
 
 She seems all life, and light, and love to me ! 
 No winter lingers in her glowing smile, 
 
 No coldness in her deep, melodious words, 
 But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle, 
 
 And all the music of its tuneful birds. 
 With her conversing of my native bowers, 
 
 In the far south, I feel the genial air 
 Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers, 
 
 Which, like herself, are bright above compare. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Sister ! dear sister, I am getting old : 
 My hair is thinner, and the cheerful light 
 That glisten'd in mine eyes is not as bright, 
 
 Though while on thee I look, 'tis never cold. 
 
 My hand is not so steady while I pen 
 
 These simple words to tell how warm and clear 
 Flows my heart's fountain toward thee,sister dear! 
 
 For years I 've lived among my fellow-men, [joys, 
 Shared their deep passions, known their griefs and 
 And found Pride, Power, and Fame but gilded 
 
 And, sailing far upon Ambition's waves, [toys; 
 Beheld brave mariners on a troubled sea, [graves. 
 
 Meet, what they fear'd not — shipwreck and their 
 My spirit seeks its haven, dear, with thee ! 
 
 TO 
 
 'T is Winter now — but Spring will blossom soon, 
 And flowers will lean to the embracing air — 
 And the young buds will vie with them to share 
 
 Each zephyr's soft caress ; and when the Moon 
 Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling 
 Her arrowy lustre through some vapour's wing, 
 
 The streamlets will return the glance of night 
 From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by Spring 
 
 Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, 
 
 Instead of Winter's crumbled sparks of white. 
 So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now 
 
 By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, 
 Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow 
 
 Tells of a Spring, whose sweets shall all be ours ! 
 
 TO 
 
 Lady, farewell ! my heart no more to thee 
 Bends like the Parsee to the dawning sun; 
 
 No more thy beauty lights the world for me, 
 Or tints with gold the moments as they run. 
 
 A cloud is on the landscape, and the beams 
 That made the valleys so divinely fair, 
 
 And scatter'd diamonds on the gliding streams, 
 And crown'd the mountains in their azure air — 
 
 Are veil'd forever ! — Lady, fare thee well ! 
 Sadly as one who longeth for a sound 
 To break the stillness of a deep profound, 
 
 I turn and strike my frail, poetic shell : — 
 Listen ! it is the last ; for thee alone 
 My heart no more shall wake its sorrowing tone. 
 
 TO A LADY WITH A BOUQUET. 
 
 Flowers are love's truest language ; they betray, 
 Like the divining rods of Magi old, 
 Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, 
 
 But love — strong love, that never can decay ! 
 
 I send thee flowers, dearest ! and I deem 
 
 That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, 
 Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, 
 
 When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem 
 All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd. 
 
 0, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair ! 
 
 Let them repose upon thy forehead fair, 
 
 And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd ! 
 
 Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal 
 
 The love that maiden coyness would conceal ! 
 
RALPH HOYT. 
 
 [Bora about 1810.J 
 
 Ret. Ralph Hott was born in the city of 
 New York, of which he is a resident, in the se- 
 cond lustrum of the present century. After pass- 
 ing several years as a teacher, and as a writer for 
 the gazettes, he studied theology, and was ordained 
 a presbyter of the Protestant Episcopal church in 
 1842. Verse is but an episode, though a natural 
 one, in the life of a clergyman devoted to the active 
 pursuit of good. Mr. Hott may have written 
 much, but he has acknowledged little. He is 
 known chiefly by " The Chaunt of Life and other 
 Poems," published in 1844, and by the second 
 portion of "The Chaunt of Life," etc., which 
 
 appeared in the summer of 1845. The " Chaunt 
 of Life" is chiefly occupied with passages of per- 
 sonal sentiment and reflection. The pieces entitled 
 « Snow" and " The World for Sale," in his first 
 volume, attracted more attention, and the author 
 was led to pursue the vein, in " New" and « Old," 
 which were subsequently written. A simple, na- 
 tural current of feeling runs through them; the 
 versification grows out of the subject, and the whole 
 clings to us as something written from the heart 
 of the author. A few such pieces have often 
 prolonged a reputation, while writers of greater 
 effort have been forgotten. 
 
 OLD. 
 
 Bt the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 
 
 Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
 All the landscape like a page perusing ; 
 Poor, unknown — 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat, 
 Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, 
 
 Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat, 
 Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding, 
 There he sat ! 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat. 
 
 Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there, 
 No one sympathising, no one heeding, 
 
 None to love him for his thin gray hair, 
 And the furrows all so mutely pleading, 
 Age, and care : 
 
 Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there. 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school, 
 Dapper country lads, and little maidens. 
 
 Taught the motto of the " Dunce's Stool," 
 Its grave import still my fancy ladens, 
 "Here's a fool !" 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school. 
 
 When the stranger seem'd to mark our play, 
 Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, 
 
 1 remember well, — too well, that day ! 
 Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
 Would not stay ! 
 
 When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spellj 
 
 Ah ! to me her name was always heaven ! 
 She besought him all his grief to tell, 
 (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) 
 Isabel ! 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 
 442 
 
 Angel, said he sadly, I am old ; 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, 
 Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told, 
 
 Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow, 
 Down it roll'd ! 
 Angel, said he sadly, I am old ! 
 
 I have totter'd here to look once more 
 On the pleasant scene where I delighted 
 
 In the careless, happy days of yore, 
 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core ! 
 
 I have totter'd here to look once more ! 
 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 E'en this gray old rock where I am seated, 
 Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
 
 Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
 With a tear ! 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ! 
 
 There's the very step I so oft' mounted ; 
 There's the window creaking in its frame, 
 
 And the notches that I cut and counted 
 
 For the game ; 
 
 Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ! 
 
 In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 
 
 Long my happy home — that humble dwelling ; 
 There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, 
 
 There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling ; 
 Ah, forlorn ! 
 In the cottage, yonder, I was born. 
 
 Those two gate-way sycamores you see, 
 Then were planted, just so far asunder 
 
 That long well-pole from the path to free, 
 
 And the wagon to pass safely under ; 
 
 Ninety-three ! 
 
 Those two gate-way sycamores you see ! 
 
RALPH HOYT. 
 
 443 
 
 There's the orchard where we used to climb 
 When my mates and I were boys together, 
 
 Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
 
 Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ; 
 Past its prime ! 
 
 There's the orchard where we used to climb ! 
 
 There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails, 
 Round the pasture where the flocks were graz- 
 ing, 
 Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
 In the crops of buckwheat we were raising, 
 Traps and trails, — 
 There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails. 
 
 There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ; 
 
 Pond, and river still serenely flowing ; 
 Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, 
 
 Where the lily of my heart was blowing, 
 Mart Jane ! 
 There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ! 
 
 There's the gate on which I used to swing, 
 
 Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable ; 
 
 But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
 That dear group around my father's table ; 
 Taken wing! 
 
 There's the gate on which I used to swing ! 
 
 I am fleeing ! — all I loved are fled ! 
 
 Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; 
 That old tree can tell of sweet things said, 
 
 When around it Jane and I were straying: 
 She is dead ! 
 I am fleeing ! — all I loved are fled ! 
 
 Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
 Tracing silently life's changeful story, 
 
 So familiar to my dim old eye, 
 
 Points me to seven that are now in glory 
 There on high ! 
 
 Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 
 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
 Guided thither by an angel mother ; 
 
 Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod, 
 Sire and sisters, and my little brother ; 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod ! 
 
 There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways, 
 Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah, never 
 
 Shall I hear again those songs of praise, 
 Those sweet voices, — silent now for ever ! 
 Peaceful days ! 
 
 There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways ! 
 
 There my Mary blest me with her hand, 
 
 When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, 
 
 Ere she hasten'd to the spirit-land ; 
 
 Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 
 Broken band ! 
 
 There my Mary blest me with her hand ! 
 
 I have come to see that grave once more, 
 
 And the sacred place where we delighted, 
 Where we worshipp'd in the days of yore, 
 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core ! 
 I have come to see that grave once more. 
 
 Angel, said he sadly, I am old ! 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; 
 Now, why I sit here thou hast been told : 
 
 In his eye another pearl of sorrow, 
 Down it rolled ! 
 Angel, said he sadly, I am old ! 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 
 
 Still I marked him, sitting there alone, 
 All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
 Poor, unknown, 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone ! 
 
 NEW. 
 
 Still sighs the world for something new, 
 
 For something new ; 
 Imploring me, imploring you, 
 
 Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue ; 
 Ah, hapless world, what will it do ! 
 Imploring me, imploring you, 
 For something new ! 
 
 Each pleasure, tasted, fades away, 
 
 It fades away ; 
 Nor you, nor I can bid it stay, 
 
 A dew-drop trembling on a spray ; 
 A rainbow at the close of day ; 
 Nor you, nor I can bid it stay ; 
 It fades away. 
 
 Fill up life's chalice to the brim ; 
 
 Up to the brim ; 
 'Tis only a capricious whim ; 
 
 A dreamy phantom, flitting dim, 
 Inconstant still for Her, or Him; 
 'Tis only a capricious whim, 
 Up to the brim ! 
 
 She, young and fair, expects delight ; 
 
 Expects delight ; 
 Forsooth, because the morn is bright, 
 
 She deems it never will be night, 
 That youth hath not a wing for flight, 
 Forsooth, because the morn is bright, 
 Expects delight ! 
 
 The rose, once gather'd, cannot please, 
 
 It cannot please ; 
 Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize, 
 
 That only blooms to tempt and tease : 
 With thorns to rob the heart of ease ; 
 Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize ; 
 It cannot please ! 
 
 'Tis winter, but she pines for spring ; 
 
 She pines for spring ; 
 No bliss its frost and follies bring ; 
 A bird of passage on the wing ; 
 
444 
 
 RALPH HOYT. 
 
 Unhappy, discontented thing ; 
 
 No bliss its frost and follies bring ; 
 She pines for spring ! 
 
 Delicious May, and azure skies ; 
 
 And azure skies ; 
 With flowers of paradisial dyes ; 
 
 Now, maiden, happy be and wise: 
 Ah, June can only charm her eyes 
 With flowers of paradisial dyes, 
 And azure skies ! 
 
 The glowing, tranquil summertime ; 
 
 The summertime ; 
 Too listless in a maiden's prime, 
 Dull, melancholy pantomime ; 
 Oh, for a gay autumnal clime : 
 Too listless in a maiden's prime, 
 The summertime ! 
 
 October ! with earth's richest store ; 
 
 Earth's richest store ; 
 Alas ! insipid as before ; 
 
 Days, months, and seasons, o'er and o'er, 
 Remotest lands their treasures pour ; 
 Alas, insipid as before, 
 Earth's richest store ! 
 
 Love nestles in that gentle breast ; 
 
 That gentle breast ; 
 Ah, love will never let it rest ; 
 
 The cruel, sly, ungrateful guest ; 
 A viper in a linnet's nost, 
 
 Ah, love will never let it rest ; 
 That gentle breast ! 
 
 Could she embark on Fashion's tide ; 
 
 On fashion's tide ; 
 How gaily might a maiden glide ; — 
 
 Contentment, innocence, and pride, 
 All stranded upon either side ; — 
 How gaily might a maiden glide, 
 On fashion's tide ! 
 
 Ah, maiden, time will make thee smart : 
 
 Will make thee smart ; 
 Some new, and keen, and poison'd dart, 
 Will pierce at last that restless heart ; 
 Youth, friends, and beauty will depart; 
 Some new, and keen, and poisoned dart, 
 Will make thee smart! 
 
 So pants for change the fickle fair ; 
 
 The fickle fair; 
 A feather, floating in the air, 
 
 Still wafted here, and wafted there, 
 ]N o charm, no hazard worth her care ; 
 A feather floating in the air, 
 The fickle fair' 
 
 How sad his lot, the hapless swain ; 
 
 The hapless swain ; 
 With care, and toil, in heat and rain, 
 To speed the plough or harvest-wain; 
 
 Still reaping only fields of grain, 
 
 With care, and toil, in heat and rain ; 
 The hapless swain ! 
 
 Youth, weary youth, 'twill soon be past ; 
 
 'Twill soon be past ; 
 His manhood's happiness shall last; 
 
 Renown, and riches, far and fast, 
 Their potent charms shall round him cast, 
 
 His Manhood's happiness shall last : — 
 'Twill soon be past! 
 
 Now toiling up ambition's steep ; 
 
 Ambition's steep; 
 The rugged path is hard to keep ; 
 
 The spring how far ! the well how deep ! 
 Ah me ! in folly's bower asleep ! 
 The rugged path is hard to keep ; 
 Ambition's steep ! 
 
 The dream fulfilled ! rank, fortune, fame ; 
 
 Rank, fortune, fame ; 
 Vain fuel for celestial flame ! 
 
 He wins and wears a glittering name, 
 Yet sighs his longing soul the same ; 
 Vain fuel for celestial flame, 
 Rank, fortune, fame ! 
 
 Sweet beauty aims wnh Cupid's bow ; 
 
 With Cupid's bow ; 
 Can she transfix him now 1 — ah, no ! 
 
 Amid the fairest flowers that blow, 
 The torment but alights — to go : 
 
 Can she transfix him now 1 — ah, no, 
 With Cupid's bow ! 
 
 Indulgent heav'n, grant but this, 
 
 O grant but this, 
 The boon shall be enough of bliss, 
 
 A home, with true affection's kiss, 
 To mend whate'er may hap amiss, 
 O grant but this ! 
 
 The Eden won : — insatiate still; 
 
 Insatiate still; — 
 A wider, fairer range, he will ; 
 
 Some mountain higher than his hill ; 
 Some prospect fancy's map to fill ; 
 A wider, fairer range, he will; 
 Insatiate still ! 
 
 From maid to matron, son to sire : 
 
 From son to sire, 
 Each bosom bums with quenchless fire, 
 
 Where life's vain phantasies expire 
 In some new phoenix of desire ; 
 
 Each bosom burns with quenchless fire, 
 From son to sire ! 
 
 Still sighs the world for something new ; 
 
 For something new ; 
 Imploring me, imploring you 
 
 Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue ; 
 Ah hapless world, what will it do ; 
 Imploring me, imploring you, 
 Fob. somethingt new! 
 
RALPH HOYT. 
 
 445 
 
 SALE. 
 
 The womi fou sai/e ! — Hang out the sign ; 
 
 Call every traveller here to me ; 
 Who'll buy this brave estate of mine, 
 
 And set me from earth's bondage free : — 
 'Tis going ! — Yes, I mean to fling 
 
 The bauble from my soul away ; 
 I'll sell it, whatsoe'r it bring ; — 
 
 The World at Auction here to-day ! 
 
 It is a glorious tiring to see, — 
 
 Ah, it has cheated me so sore ! 
 It is not what it seems to be : 
 
 For sale ! It shall be mine no more. 
 Come, turn it o'er and view it well ; — 
 
 I would not have you purchase dear ; 
 'Tis going — going ! — I must sell ! 
 
 Who bids 1— Who'll buy the Splendid Tear 1 
 
 Here's Wealth in glittering heaps of gold, — 
 
 Who bids 1 — But let me tell you fair, 
 A baser lot was never sold ; — 
 
 Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care 1 
 And here, spread out in broad domain, 
 
 A goodly landscape all may trace ; 
 Hall — cottage — tree — field — hill and plain ; 
 
 Who'll buy himself a burial place ! 
 
 Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell 
 
 That beauty flings around the heart ; 
 I know its power, alas ! too well ; — 
 
 'Tis going — Love and I must part ! 
 Must part ! — What can I more with Love ! 
 
 All over the enchanter's reign ; 
 Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove, — 
 
 An hour of bliss, — an age of pain ! 
 
 And Friendship, — rarest gem of earth, — 
 
 (Who e'er hath found the jewel his'?) 
 Frail, fickle, false and little worth, — 
 
 Who bids for Friendship — as it is ! 
 'Tis going — going ! — Hear the call : 
 
 Once, twice, and thrice ! — 'Tis very low ! 
 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, — 
 
 But now the broken staff must go ! 
 
 Fame ! hold the brilliant meteor high ; 
 
 How dazzling every gilded name ! 
 Ye millions, now's the time to buy ! — 
 
 How much for Fame ! How much for Fame ! 
 Hear how it thunders ! — Would you stand 
 
 On high Olympus, far renown'd, — 
 Now purchase, and a world command ! — 
 
 And be with a world's curses crown'd ! 
 
 Sweet star of Hope ! with ray to shine 
 
 In every sad foreboding breast, 
 Save this desponding one of mine, — 
 
 Who bids for man's last friend and best \ 
 Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, 
 
 This treasure should my soul sustain ; 
 But Hope and I are now at strife, 
 
 Nor ever may unite again. 
 
 And Song ! — For sale my timeless lute ; 
 
 Sweet solace, mine no more to hold ; 
 The chords that charmed my soul are mute, 
 
 I cannot wake the notes of old ! 
 
 Or e'en were mine a wizard shell, 
 
 Could chain a world in raptures high ; 
 
 Yet now a sad farewell ! — farewell ! — 
 Must on its last faint echoes die. 
 
 Ambition, fashion, show, and pride, — 
 
 I part from all for ever now; 
 Grief, in an overwhelming tide, 
 
 Has taught my haughty heart to bow. 
 Poor heart ! distracted, ah, so long, — 
 
 And still its aching throb to bear ; — 
 How broken, that was once so strong ; 
 
 How heavy, once so free from care. 
 
 No more for me life's fitful dream ; — 
 
 Bright vision, vanishing away ! 
 My bark requires a deeper stream ; 
 
 My sinking soul a surer stay. 
 By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, 
 
 I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod , 
 The best of all I still have left, — 
 
 My Faith, my Bible, and my God. 
 
 SNOW 
 
 The blessed mom is come again ; 
 
 The early gray 
 Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, 
 
 And seems to say 
 « Break, break from the enchanter's chain, 
 
 Away, — away !" 
 
 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound . 
 
 Along the air, 
 Of winds upon their battle-ground, 
 
 But gently there, 
 The snow is falling, — all around 
 
 How fair — how fair ! 
 
 The jocund fields would masquerade ; 
 
 Fantastic scene ! 
 Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade 
 
 Have cast their green, 
 And join'd the revel, all array'd 
 
 So white and clean. 
 
 E'en the old posts, that hold the bars 
 
 And the old gate, 
 Forgetful of their wintry wars 
 
 And age sedate, 
 High-capp'd, and plumed, like white hussars, 
 
 Stand there in state. 
 
 The drifts are hanging by the sill, 
 
 The eaves, the door ; 
 The hay-stack has become a hill ; 
 
 All cover'd o'er 
 The wagon, loaded for the mill 
 
 The eve before. 
 
 Maria brings the water-pail, — 
 
 But where's the well ! 
 Like magic of a fairy tale, 
 
 Most strange to tell, 
 All vanish'd, — curb, and crank, and rail ; — 
 
 How deep it fell ! 
 
446 
 
 RALPH HOYT. 
 
 The wood-pile too is playing hide ; 
 
 The axe — the log — 
 The kennel of that friend so tried — 
 
 (The old watch-dog,) 
 The grindstone standing by its side, 
 
 All now incog. 
 
 The hustling cock looks out aghast 
 
 From his high shed ; 
 No spot to scratch him a repast, 
 
 Up curves his head, 
 Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, 
 
 And back to bed. 
 
 The bam-yard gentry, musing, chime 
 
 Their morning moan ; 
 Like Memnon's music of old time — 
 
 That voice of stone ! 
 So marbled they — and so sublime 
 
 Their solemn tone. 
 
 Good Ruth has called the younker folk 
 
 To dress below ; 
 Full welcome was the word she spoke, 
 
 Down, down they go, 
 The cottage quietude is broke, — 
 
 The snow ! — the snow ! 
 
 Now rises from around the fire 
 
 A pleasant strain ; 
 Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire ! 
 
 And ye profane ! — 
 A hymn to the Eternal Sire 
 
 Goes up again. 
 
 The patriarchal Book divine, 
 
 Upon the knee, 
 Opes where the gems of Judah shine, — 
 
 (Sweet minstrelsie !) 
 How soars each heart with each fair line, 
 
 God! to Thee! 
 
 Around the altar low they bend, 
 
 Devout in prayer ; 
 As snows upon the roof descend, 
 
 So angels there 
 Guard o'er that household, to defend 
 
 With gentle care. 
 
 Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze ; 
 
 The buckwheat heaps ; 
 Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise, 
 
 Sweet Susan steeps ; 
 The old round stand her nod obeys, 
 
 And out it leaps. 
 
 Unerring presages declare 
 
 The banquet near ; 
 Soon, busy appetites are there ; 
 
 And disappear 
 The glories of the ample fare, 
 
 With thanks sincere. 
 
 Now let the busy day begin : — 
 
 Out rolls the churn ; 
 Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in 
 
 The brush to burn ; — 
 Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, 
 
 Till nicrht's return. 
 
 To delve his threshing John must hie ; 
 
 His sturdy shoe 
 Can all the subtle damp defy : 
 
 How wades he through 1 
 While dainty milkmaids, slow and shy, 
 
 His track pursue. 
 
 Each to the hour's allotted care : 
 
 To shell the corn ; 
 The broken harness to repair ; 
 
 The sleigh t' adorn : 
 So cheerful — tranquil — snowy — fair 
 
 The Winter Morn. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THE BLACKSMITH'S 
 NIGHT." 
 
 Primeval Night ! infinitude of gloom ! 
 
 My prayer fulfilled, yet brings it no release: 
 O for the deeper shadow of the tomb, 
 
 Its dreamless peace, 
 Where the last throb of my sad heart may cease ! 
 
 Yet thrills that voice again the murky air, 
 
 Never a midnight but there came a morn! 
 Up from the dungeon now of thy despair, 
 
 For thou wert born 
 To conquer sorrow, and all fear to scorn ! 
 
 To thee is granted to behold how Truth 
 
 Links the strong worker with the happy skies, 
 In Care's deep furrows plants immortal youth, 
 
 And gives the prize 
 Of endless glory to the bravely wise ! 
 
 Centre thou art and Soul of a domain 
 
 Vast as thy utmost wish could e'er desire ; 
 Struggle! the Spirit never strives in vain ; 
 
 Can ne'er expire ; 
 Up for thy sceptre, take thy throne of fire ! 
 
 For man is regal when his strength is tried; 
 When spirit wills, all matter must obey ; 
 Sweeps the resistless mandate like a tide 
 
 Away, away, 
 Till earth and heaven feel the potent sway ! 
 
 Now as this rayless gloom aside I fling, 
 
 Thy realm of action spreading on the view, 
 Calls to the sooty Blacksmith — be a king! 
 
 Thy reign renew; 
 Grasping thy mace again, arise and do ! 
 
 And as the massive hammer thunders down, 
 
 Shaping the stubborn iron to the plan, 
 Know that each stroke adds lustre to the crown, 
 
 And yon wide span 
 Of gazing planets shout — behold a Man ! 
 
 A glorious Man ! and thy renown shall be 
 
 Borne by the winds and waters through all time; 
 While there's a keel to carve it on the sea 
 
 From clime to clime, 
 Or God ordains that idleness is crime ! 
 
WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. 
 
 [Born, 1810. Died, 1841.] 
 
 Willis Gaylord Clark was born at Otisco, 
 an agricultural town in central New York, in the 
 year J 810. His father had been a soldier in the 
 revolutionary army, and his services had won for 
 him tributes of acknowledgment from the govern- 
 ment. He had read much, and was fond of philo- 
 sophical speculations ; and in his son he found an 
 earnest and ready pupil. The teachings of the 
 father, and the classical inculcations of the Re- 
 verend George Colton, a maternal relative, laid 
 a firm foundation for the acquirements which after- 
 ward gave grace and vigour to his writings. 
 
 At an early age, stimulated by the splendid scenery 
 outspread on every side around him, Clark began 
 to feel the poetic impulse. He painted the beauties 
 of Nature with singular fidelity, and in numbers 
 most musical ; and as he grew older, a solemnity 
 and gentle sadness of thought pervaded his verse, 
 and evidenced his desire to gather from the scenes 
 and images it reflected, lessons of morality. 
 
 When he was about twenty years of age he 
 repaired to Philadelphia, where his reputation as 
 a poet had already preceded him, and under the 
 auspices of his friend, the Reverend Doctor Ely, 
 commenced a weekly miscellany similar in design 
 to the " Mirror," then and now published in New 
 York. This work was abandoned after a brief 
 period, and Clark assumed, with the Reverend 
 Doctor Brantley, an eminent Baptist clergyman, 
 now President of the College of South Carolina, 
 the charge of the " Columbian Star," a religious 
 and literary periodical, of high character, in which 
 he printed many brief poems of considerable merit, 
 a few of which were afterward included in a small 
 volume with a more elaborate work entitled " The 
 Spirit of Life," originally prepared as an exercise 
 at a collegiate exhibition, and distinguished for the 
 melody of its versification and the rare felicity of 
 its illustrations. 
 
 After a long association with the reverend editor 
 of the "Columbian Star," Clark was solicited to 
 take charge of the " Philadelphia Gazette," one of 
 the oldest and most respectable journals in Penn- 
 sylvania. He ultimately became its proprietor, and 
 from that time until his death continued to conduct 
 it. In 1836 he was married to Anne Poysttell 
 Caldcleugh, the daughter of one of the wealthiest 
 citizens of Philadelphia, and a woman of great per- 
 sonal beauty, rare accomplishments, and an affec- 
 tionate disposition, who fell a victim to that most 
 terrible disease of our climate, consumption, in 
 the meridian of her youth and happiness, leaving 
 her husband a prey to the deepest melancholy. 
 In the following verses, written soon after this 
 bereavement; his emotions are depicted with unaf- 
 fected feeling: 
 
 'T is an autumnal eve— the low winds, sighing 
 To wet leaves, rustling as they hasten by ; 
 
 The eddying gusts to tossing boughs replying, 
 
 And ebon darkness filling all the sky, — 
 The moon, pale mistress, pall'd in solemn vapour, 
 
 The rack, swift-wandering through the void above, 
 As I, a mourner by my lonely taper, 
 
 Send back to faded hours the plaint of love. 
 
 Blossoms of peace, once in my pathway springing, 
 
 Where have your brightness and your splendour gone 1 ? 
 And thou, whose voice to me came sweet as singing, 
 
 What region holds thee, in the vast unknown 1 
 What star far brighter than the rest contains thee, 
 
 Beloved, departed — empress of my heart f 
 What bond of full beatitude enchains thee, — 
 
 In realms unveil'd by pen, or prophet's art ? 
 
 Ah ! loved and lost ! in these autumnal hours, 
 
 When fairy colours deck the painted tree, 
 When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers, 
 
 O! then my soul, exulting, bounds to thee! 
 Springs, as to clasp thee yet in this existence, 
 
 Yet to behold thee at my lonely side ; 
 But the fond vision melts at once to distance, 
 
 And my sad heart gives echo — she has died ! 
 
 Yes ! when the morning of her years was brightest, 
 
 That angel-presence into dust went down, — 
 While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest, 
 
 Death for the olive wove the cypress-crown, — 
 Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom, 
 
 O'ercame her large, bright, spiritual eyes ; 
 Spared in her bower connubial one fair blossom — 
 
 Then bore her spirit to the upper skies. 
 
 There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over, 
 
 The pure in love and thought their faith renew, — 
 Where man's forgiving and redeeming Lover 
 
 Spreads out his paradise to every view. 
 Let the dim Autumn, with its leaves descending, 
 
 Howl on the winter's verge ! — yet spring will come : 
 So my freed soul, no more 'gainst fate contending, 
 
 With all it loveth shall regain its home ! 
 
 From this time his health gradually declined, 
 and his friends perceived that the same disease 
 which had robbed him of the " light of his exist- 
 ence," would soon deprive them also of his fellow- 
 ship. Though his illness was of long duration, he 
 was himself unaware of its character, and when I 
 last saw him, a few weeks before his death, he was 
 rejoicing at the return of spring, and confident that 
 he would soon be well enough to walk about the 
 town or to go into the country. He continued to 
 write for his paper until the last day of his life, 
 the twelfth of June, 1841. 
 
 His metrical writings are all distinguished for a 
 graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally 
 and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropri- 
 ate imagery. The sadness which pervades them 
 is not the gloom of misanthropy, but a gentle re- 
 ligious melancholy; and while they portray the 
 changes of life and nature, they point to another 
 and a purer world, for which our affections are 
 chastened, and our desires made perfect by suffer- 
 ing in this. 
 
 The qualities of his prose are essentially dif- 
 ferent from those of his poetry. Occasionally he 
 
 447 
 
448 
 
 WILLIS G. CLARK. 
 
 poured forth grave thoughts in eloquent and fervent 
 language, but far more often delighted his readers 
 by passages of irresistible humour and wit. His 
 perception of the ludicrous was acute, and his jests 
 and " cranks and wanton wiles" evinced the fulness 
 of his powers and the benevolence of his feelings. 
 The tales and essays which he found leisure to write 
 for the New York " Knickerbocker Magazine," — a 
 monthly miscellany of high reputation edited by 
 his only and twin brother, Mr. Lewis Gaylord 
 Clark — and especially a series of amusing papers 
 
 under the quaint title of " Ollapodiana," will long 
 be remembered as affording abundant evidence of 
 the qualities I have enumerated. 
 
 In person Mr. Clark was of the middle height, 
 his form was erect and manly, and his counte- 
 nance pleasing and expressive. In ordinary in- 
 tercourse he was cheerful and animated, and he 
 was studious to conform to the conventional usages 
 of society. Warm-hearted, confiding, and gene- 
 rous, he was a true friend, and by those who knew 
 him intimately he was much loved. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 There is a voice I shall hear no more — 
 There are tones whose music for me is o'er, 
 Sweet as the odours of spring were they, — 
 Precious and rich — but they died away ; 
 They came like peace to my heart and ear — 
 Never again will they murmur here ; 
 They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, 
 Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne. 
 
 There were eyes, that late were lit up for me, 
 Whose kindly glance was a joy to see ; 
 They reveal'd the thoughts of a trusting heart, 
 Untouch'd by sorrow, untaught by art ; 
 Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring, 
 When birds in the vernal branches sing ; 
 They were fill'd with love that hath pass'd with them, 
 And my lyre is breathing their requiem. 
 
 I remember a brow, whose serene repose 
 Seem'd to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose ; 
 And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile, 
 As I mused on their eloquent power the while, 
 Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain 
 With raptures that never may dawn again ; 
 Amidst musical accents, those smiles were shed — 
 Alas ! for the doom of the early dead ! 
 
 Alas ! for the clod that is resting now 
 
 On those slumbering eyes — on that fated brow, 
 
 Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom — 
 
 For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb ; 
 
 Their melody broken, their fragrance gone, 
 
 Their aspect cold as the Parian stone ; 
 
 Alas, for the hopes that with thee have died — 
 
 O, loved one ! — would I were by thy side ! 
 
 Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear ; 
 I hear thy voice in the twilight air ; 
 Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see 
 When the visions of evening are borne to me ; 
 Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm — 
 My arm embraceth thy graceful form ; 
 I wake in a world that is sad and drear, 
 To feel in my bosom — thou art not here. 
 
 ! once the summer with thee was bright ; 
 The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. 
 There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh, 
 There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh ; 
 Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest — 
 A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast ; 
 My heart was full of a sense of love, 
 Likest of all things to heaven above. 
 
 Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall, 
 Where my budding raptures have perish'd all ; 
 To that tranquil and solemn place of rest, 
 Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast : 
 Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid — 
 Thy brow is conceal'd by the coffin lid ; — 
 All that was lovely to me is there — 
 Mournful is life, and a load to bear ! 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 'T is sweet to remember ! I would not forego 
 The charm which the past o'er the present can throw, 
 For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave 
 In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive. 
 We know not the future — the past we have felt — 
 Its cherish'd enjoyments the bosom can melt ; 
 Its raptures anew o'er our pulses may roll, 
 When thoughts of the morrow fall cold on the soul. 
 
 'T is sweet to remember ! when storms are abroad, 
 To see in the rainbow the promise of God : 
 The day may be darken'd, but far in the west, 
 In vermilion and gold, sinks the sun to his rest ; 
 With smiles like the morning he passeth away : 
 Thus the beams of delight on the spirit can play, 
 When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers 
 Which love scatter'd round us in happier hours. 
 
 'T is sweet to remember ! When friends are unkind, 
 When their coldness and carelessness shadow the 
 
 mind : 
 Then, to draw back the veil which envelopes a land 
 Where delectable prospects in beauty expand ; 
 To smell the green fields, the fresh waters to hear 
 Whose once fairy music enchanted the ear; 
 To drink in the smiles that delighted us then, 
 To list the fond voices of childhood again, — 
 O, this the sad heart, like a reed that is bruised, 
 Binds up, when the banquet of hope is refused. 
 
 'T is sweet to remember ! And naught can destroy 
 The balm-breathing comfort, the glory, the joy, 
 Which spring from that fountain, to gladden our 
 
 way, 
 When the changeful and faithless desert or betray. 
 I would not forget ! — though my thoughts should 
 
 be dark, 
 O'er the ocean of life I look back from my bark, 
 And I see the lost Eden, where once I was blest, 
 A type and a promise of heavenly rest. 
 
WILLIS G. CLARK. 
 
 449 
 
 SONG OF MAY. 
 
 The spring's scented buds all around me are swell- 
 ing: 
 There are songs in the stream — there is health 
 in the gale ; 
 A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling, 
 As float the pure day beams o'er mountain and 
 vale ; 
 The desolate reign of old winter is broken — 
 
 The verdure is fresh upon every tree ; 
 Of Nature's revival the charm, and a token 
 Of love, O thou Spirit of Beauty, to thee ! 
 
 The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning, 
 
 And flushes the clouds that begirt his career ; 
 He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning 
 
 To rest on the promise and hope of the year : 
 He (ills with delight all the balm-breathing flowers ; 
 
 He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave ; 
 He wakes into music the green forest-bowers, 
 
 And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers 
 lave. 
 
 The young bird is out on his delicate pinion — 
 
 He timidly sails in the infinite sky ; 
 A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion, 
 
 He pours on the west-winds that fragrantly sigh ; 
 Around and above, there are quiet and pleasure — 
 
 The woodlands are singing, the heaven is bright; 
 The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure, 
 
 And man's genial spirit is soaring in light. 
 
 Alas ! for my weary and care-haunted bosom ! 
 
 The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more ; 
 The song in the wildwood, the sheen in the blossom, 
 
 The fresh-swelling fountain — their magic is o'er ! 
 When I list to the stream, when I look on the flowers, 
 
 They tell of the Past with so mournful a tone, 
 That I call up the throngs of my long vanish'd hours, 
 
 And sigh that their transports are over and gone. 
 
 From thefar-spreading earthandthelimitlessheaven 
 
 There have vanish'd an eloquent glory and gleam ; 
 To my sad mind no more is the influence given, 
 
 Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream ; 
 The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth; 
 
 I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave ; 
 But the eye of my spirit in weariness sleepeth, 
 
 Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave. 
 
 Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended — 
 
 'T is not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow ; 
 
 But the newness and sweetness of being are ended : 
 
 I feel not their love-kindling witchery now; 
 The shadows of death o'er my path have been 
 sweeping — 
 There are those who have loved me debarr'd 
 from the day ; 
 The green turf is bright where in peace they are 
 sleeping, 
 And on wings of remembrance my soul is away. 
 
 It is shut to the glow of this present existence — 
 It hears, from the Past, a funereal strain ; 
 
 And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance, 
 Where the last blooms of earth will be garner'd 
 again: 29 
 
 Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall 
 nourish, 
 
 Where grief bears no longer the poisonous sting ; 
 Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish, 
 
 Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring. 
 
 It is thus that the hopes which to others are given 
 
 Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May ; 
 I hear the clear anthems that ring through the 
 heaven — 
 
 I drink the bland airs that enliven the day ; 
 And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping, 
 
 Delights not my bosom, ah ! do not condemn ; 
 O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping, 
 
 For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with 
 them. 
 
 DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. 
 
 Young mother, he is gone ! 
 His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast; 
 
 No more the music-tone 
 Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd : 
 His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee: 
 Earth must his mother and his pillow be. 
 
 His was the morning hour, 
 And he hath pass'd in beauty from the day, 
 
 A bud, not yet a flower, 
 Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray ; 
 The death-wind swept him to his soft repose, 
 As frost, in spring-time, blights the early rose. 
 
 Never on earth again 
 Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, 
 
 Like some ^Eolian strain, 
 Breathing at eventide serene and clear; 
 His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes 
 The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies. 
 
 And from thy yearning heart, 
 Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, 
 
 A gladness must depart, 
 And those kind eyes with many tears be dim ; 
 While lonely memories, an unceasing train, 
 Will turn the raptures of the past to pain. 
 
 Yet, mourner, while the day 
 Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, 
 
 And hope forbids one ray 
 To stream athwart the grief-discolour'd sky ; 
 There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom 
 A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb. 
 
 'T is from the better land ! 
 There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, 
 
 Thy loved one's wings expand ; 
 As with the choiring cherubim he sings, 
 And all the glory of that God can see, 
 Who said, on earth, to children, " Come to me.'' 
 
 Mother, thy child is bless'd : 
 And though his presence may be lost to thee, 
 
 And vacant leave thy breast, 
 And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee ; 
 Though tones familiar from thine ear have pass'd, 
 Thou 'It meet thy first-born with his Lord at last. 
 
450 
 
 WILLIS G. CLARK. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The Spring's gay promise melted into thee, 
 Fair Summer ! and thy gentle reign is here ; 
 
 The emerald robes are on each leafy tree ; 
 In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear; 
 
 And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign — 
 
 They leap in music midst thy bright domain. 
 
 The gales, that wander from the unclouded west, 
 Are burden' d with the breath of countless fields ; 
 
 They teem with incense from the green earth's breast 
 That up to heaven its grateful odour yields ; 
 
 Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird, 
 
 By nature's aspect into rapture stirr'd. 
 
 In such a scene the sun-illumined heart 
 Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell, 
 
 When through its bars the morning glories dart, 
 And forest-anthems in his hearing swell — 
 
 And, like the heaving of the voiceful sea, 
 
 His panting bosom labours to be free. 
 
 Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky, 
 0, Summer! in my inmost soul arise 
 
 .Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply, 
 And the bland air with its soft melodies ; — 
 
 Till basking in some vision's glorious ray, 
 
 "I long for eagle's plumes to flee away. 
 
 J long to cast this cumbrous clay aside, 
 
 And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling 
 ' To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride : 
 I would soar upward, on unfetter'd wing, 
 Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies, 
 Where the high fount of Summer's brightness lies ! 
 
 But should with rapture gaze upon the sky, [reers? 
 Through whose far depths the spirit's wing ca- 
 There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung, 
 Who fade from earth while yet their years are young ! 
 
 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 If it be sad to mark the bow'd with age 
 Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb, 
 
 Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage 
 
 In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom : 
 
 O ! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung, 
 
 When peals the requiem of the loved and young ! 
 
 They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring 
 To the unfolding bud and scented rose, 
 
 Comes the pure freshness age can never bring, 
 And fills the spirit with a rich repose, 
 
 How shall we lay them in their final rest, 
 
 How pile the clods upon their wasting breast! 
 
 Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze ; 
 
 A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky ; 
 O'er the broad world hope's smile incessant plays, 
 
 And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye : 
 How sad to break the vision, and to fold 
 Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould ! 
 
 Yet this is life! To mark from day to day, 
 Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime, 
 
 Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away, 
 
 Sinking in waves of death ere chill'd by time ! 
 
 Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed 
 
 Autumnal mildew o'er the rose-like red! 
 
 And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye 
 Be dimly thoughtful , in its burning tears, 
 
 THE SIGNS OF GOD. 
 
 I makk'b the Spring as she pass'd along, 
 With her eye of light, and her lip of song; 
 While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast, 
 While the streams sprang out from their icy rest. 
 The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh, 
 And their breath went forth in the scented sky ; 
 When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose, 
 And the young dews slept on the new-born rose. 
 The scene was changed. It was Autumn's hour: 
 A frost had discolour'd the summer bower; 
 The blast wail'd sad mid the wither'd leaves, 
 The reaper stood musing by gather'd sheaves ; 
 The mellow pomp of the rainbow woods 
 Was stirr'd by the sound of the rising floods ; 
 And I knew by the cloud — by the wild wind's strain 
 That Winter drew near with his storms again ! 
 I stood by the ocean ; its waters roll'd 
 In their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold ; 
 And day look'd down with its radiant smiles, 
 Where the blue waves danced round a thousand 
 The ships went forth on the trackless seas, [isles : 
 Their white wings play'd in the joyous breeze ; 
 Their prows rushed on mid the parted foam, 
 While the wanderer was wrapp'd in a dream of home ! 
 The mountain arose with its lofty brow, 
 While its shadow was sleeping in vales below; 
 The mist like a garland of glory lay, 
 Where its proud heights soar'd in the air away ; 
 The eagle was there on his tireless wing, 
 And his shriek went up like an offering : 
 And he seem'd, in his sunward flight, to raise 
 A chant of thanksgiving — a hymn of praise ! 
 I look'd on the arch of the midnight skies, 
 With its deep and unsearchable mysteries: 
 The moon, mid an eloquent multitude 
 Of unnumber'd stars, her career pursued : 
 A charm of sleep on the city fell, 
 All sounds lay hush'd in that brooding spell ; 
 By babbling brooks were the buds at rest, 
 And the wild-bird dream'd on his downy nest. 
 I stood where the deepening tempest pass'd, 
 The strong trees groan'd in the sounding blast 
 The murmuring deep with its wrecks roll'd on ; 
 The clouds o'ershadow'd the mighty sun; 
 The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side, 
 And hills to the thunder-peal replied ; 
 The lightning burst forth on its fearful way, 
 While the heavens were lit in its red array ! 
 And hath man the power, with his pride and his skill, 
 To arouse all nature with storms at will 1 
 Hath he power to colour the summer-cloud — 
 To allay the tempest when the hills are bow'd 1 
 Can he waken the spring with her festal wreath ' 
 Can the sun grow dim by his lightest breath? 
 Will he come again when death's vale is trod 1 
 Who then shall dare murmur "There is no God!" 
 
WILLIS G. CLARK. 
 
 451 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Methinks, when on the languid eye 
 
 Life's autumn scenes grow dim; 
 When evening's shadows veil the sky, 
 
 And Pleasure's syren hymn 
 Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, 
 Like echoes from another sphere, 
 
 Or dream of seraphim, 
 It were not sad to cast away 
 This dull and cumbrous load of clay. 
 
 It were not sad to feel the heart 
 
 Grow passionless and cold ; 
 To feel those longings to depart 
 
 That cheer'd the good of old ; 
 To clasp the faith which looks on high, 
 Which fires the Christian's dying eye, 
 
 And makes the curtain-fold 
 That falls upon his wasting breast 
 The door that leads to endless rest. 
 It were not lonely thus to lie 
 
 On that triumphant bed, 
 Till the pure spirit mounts on high, 
 
 By white-wing'd seraphs led : 
 Where glories earth may never know 
 O'er "many mansions" lingering glow, 
 
 In peerless lustre shed ; 
 It were not lonely thus to soar, 
 Where sin and grief can sting no more. 
 
 And, though the way to such a goal 
 
 Lies through the clouded tomb, 
 If on the free, unfetter'd soul 
 
 There rest no stains of gloom, 
 How should its aspirations rise 
 Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies, 
 
 Up, to its final home ! 
 Beyond the journeyings of the sun, 
 Where streams of livinsr waters run. 
 
 AN INVITATION. 
 "They that seek me early shall find me." 
 
 Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, 
 Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze, 
 
 Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, 
 And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways ; 
 
 Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds un- 
 folding, 
 Waken rich feelings in the careless breast, 
 
 While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is hold- 
 Come — and secure interminable rest ! [ing, 
 
 Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, 
 
 And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; 
 Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover 
 
 Will to the embraces of the worm have gone ; 
 Those who now love thee will have pass'd forever, 
 
 Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee ; 
 Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever, 
 
 As thy sick heart broods over years to be ! 
 
 Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, 
 Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die ; 
 
 Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throw- 
 Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky ; [ing 
 
 Life hath but shadows, save a promise given, 
 Which lights the future with a fadeless ray ; 
 
 0, touch the sceptre ! — win a hope in Heaven ■ 
 Come, turn thy spirit from the world away !, 
 
 Then will the crosses of this brief existence 
 
 Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul ; — 
 And, shining brightly in the forward distance, 
 
 Will of thy patient race appear the goal : 
 Home of the weary ! — where, in peace reposing, 
 
 The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, 
 Though o'er its dust the curtain'd grave is closing, 
 
 Who would not, early, choose a lot like this 1 
 
 THE BURIAL-PLACE AT LAUREL HILL* 
 
 Heiie the lamented dead in dust shall lie, 
 
 Life's lingering languors o'er, its labours done, 
 
 Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, 
 Admit the farewell radiance of the sun. 
 
 Here the long concourse from the murmuring town, 
 With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in, 
 
 To lay the loved in tranquil silence down, 
 No more to suffer, and no more to sin. 
 
 And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers 
 Her summer smiles from fair and stainless skies, 
 
 Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers, 
 Whose fragrant incense from the grave shall rise. 
 
 And here the. impressive stone, engraved with words 
 Which grief sententious gives to marble pale, 
 
 Shall teach the heart; while waters, leaves, and birds 
 Make cheerful music in the passing gale. 
 
 Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour 
 On scented airs the unavailing sigh — 
 
 While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore, 
 And landscapes blooming — that the loved must 
 die? 
 
 There is an emblem in this peaceful scene; 
 
 Soon rainbow colours on the woods will fall, 
 And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green, 
 
 As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall. 
 
 Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round, 
 Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand. 
 
 While the chain'd streams are silent as the ground, 
 As Death had numb'd them with his icy hand. 
 
 Yet, when the warm, soft winds shall rise in spring, 
 Like struggling daybeams o'er a blasted heath, 
 
 The bird return'd shall poise her golden wing, 
 And liberal Nature break the spell of Death. 
 
 So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end, 
 The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise, 
 
 And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend 
 Its tone with anthems from the upper skies. 
 
 There shall the good of earth be found at last, 
 Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand, 
 
 Where Love her crown attains — her trials past — 
 And, fill'd with rapture, hails the "better land!" 
 
 * Near the city of Philadelphia. 
 
452 
 
 WILLIS G. CLARK. 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 It was the morning of a day in spring ; 
 The sun look'd gladness from the eastern sky; 
 Birds were upon the trees and on the wing, 
 And all the air was rich with melody ; [high ; 
 The heaven — the calm, pure heaven, was bright on 
 Earth laugh'd beneath in all its freshening green, 
 The free blue streams sang as they wandered by, 
 And many a sunny glade and flowery scene 
 Gleam'd ouc, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled 
 years between. 
 
 The rose's breath upon the south wind came, 
 Oft as its whisperings the young branches stirr'd, 
 And flowers for which the poet hath no name ; 
 While, mid the blossoms of the grove, were heard 
 The restless murmurs of the humming-bird ; 
 Waters were dancing in the mellow light ; 
 And joyous notes and many a cheerful word 
 Stole on the charmed ear with such delight 
 As waits on soft, sweet tones of music heard at night. 
 
 The night-dews lay in the half-open'd flower, 
 Like hopes that nestle in the youthful breast ; 
 And ruffled by the light airs of the hour, 
 Awoke the pure lake from its glassy rest : 
 Slow blending with the blue and distant west, 
 Lay the dim woodlands, and the quiet gleam 
 Of amber-clouds, like islands of the blest — 
 Glorious and bright, and changing like a dream, 
 And lessening fast away beneath the intenser beam. 
 
 Songs were amid the valleys far and wide, 
 And on the green slopes and the mountains high : 
 While, from the springing flowers on every side, 
 Upon his painted wings, the butterfly 
 Roam'd, a gay blossom of the sunny sky ; 
 The visible smile of joy was on the scene ; 
 'T was a bright vision, but too soon to die ! 
 Spring may not linger in her robes of green — 
 Autumn, in storm and shade shall quench the sum- 
 mer sheen. 
 
 I came again. 'Twas Autumn's stormy hour: 
 The voice of winds was in the faded wood ; 
 The sere leaves, rustling in deserted bower, 
 Were hurl'd in eddies to the moaning flood : 
 Dark clouds were in the west — and red as blood, 
 The sun shone through the hazy atmosphere ; 
 While torrent voices broke the solitude, 
 Where, straying lonely, as with steps of fear, 
 I mark'd the deepening gloom which shrouds the 
 dying year. 
 
 The ruffled lake heaved wildly ; near the shore 
 It bore the red leaves of the shaken tree, 
 Shed in the violent north wind's restless roar, 
 Emblems of man upon life's stormy sea ! 
 Pale autumn leaves ! once to the breezes free 
 They waved in spring and summer's golden prime ; 
 Now, even as clouds or dew how fast they flee ; 
 Weak, changing like the flowers in autumn's clime, 
 As man sinks down in death, chill'd by the touch 
 of time ! 
 
 I mark'd the picture — 'twas the changeful scene 
 Which life holds up to the observant eye : 
 
 Its spring, and summer, and its bowers of green, 
 The streaming sunlight of its morning sky, 
 And the dark clouds of death, which linger by ; 
 For oft, when life is fresh and hope is strong, 
 Shall early sorrow breathe the unbidden sigh, 
 While age to death moves peacefully along, 
 As on the singer's lip expires the finish'd song 
 
 THE FADED ONE. 
 
 Gone to the slumber which may know no waking 
 
 Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell ; 
 Gone ! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, 
 
 In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; 
 Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom 
 
 Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath : 
 A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, 
 
 A bond of loneliness — a spell of death ! 
 
 Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee 
 
 Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; 
 Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, 
 
 And thy light feet impress'd but vernal flowers. 
 The restless spirit charm'd thy sweet existence, 
 
 Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, 
 While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, 
 
 And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. 
 
 How have the garlands of thy childhood wither'd, 
 
 And hope's false anthem died upon the air ! 
 Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gather'd, 
 
 And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. 
 On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, 
 
 Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled 
 Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, [dust, 
 
 Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and 
 trust. 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 I set. thee still ! thou art not dead, 
 
 Though dust is mingling with thy form ; 
 The broken sunbeam hath not shed 
 
 The final rainbow on the storm : 
 In visions of the midnight deep, 
 
 Thine accents through my bosom thrill, 
 Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep, — 
 
 For, wrapt in thought I see thee still ! 
 
 I see thee still, — that cheek of rose, — 
 
 Those lips, with dewy fragrance wet, 
 That forehead in serene repose, — 
 
 Those soul-lit eyes — I see them yet ! 
 Sweet seraph ! Sure thou art not dead, — 
 
 Thou gracest still this earthly sphere, 
 An influence still is round me shed, 
 
 Like thine, — and yet thou art not here ! 
 
 Farewell, beloved ! To mortal sight, 
 
 Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom ; 
 No more thy smiles inspire delight, 
 
 For thou art garner'd in the tomb. 
 Rich harvest for that ruthless power 
 
 Which hath no bound to mar his will :— 
 Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour, 
 
 Throned in my heart, I see thee still. 
 
JAMES ALDRICH. 
 
 [Born, 1810.] 
 
 James Aldrick was born near the Hudson, in 
 the county of Suffolk, on the tenth of July, 1810 
 He received his education partly in Orange county, 
 and partly in the city of New York, where, early 
 in life, he becan>e actively engaged in mercantile 
 business. In 18<?6 he was married to Matilda, 
 
 daughter of Mr. John B. Lyon, of Newport, Rhode 
 Island, and in the same year relinquished the oc- 
 cupation of a merchant. He forsome time gavehis 
 attention to literature, edited two or three periodi- 
 cals, and contributed toothers, but has not recently 
 published any thing. He resides in New York. 
 
 MORN AT SEA. 
 
 Clearly, with mental eye, 
 Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs, 
 I see the morn with golden-fringed wings 
 
 Up-pointed to the sky. 
 
 In youth's divinest glow, 
 She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew, 
 Whose skirts are sun-illumed with every hue 
 
 Worn by God's covenant bow ! 
 
 The child of light and air ! 
 O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move, 
 The shapes of earth are clothed in hues of love 
 
 And truth, divinely fair. 
 
 Athwart this wide abyss, 
 On homeward way impatiently I drift ; 
 0, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift 
 
 Their eyelids to her kiss ! 
 
 Her smile hath overspread 
 The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore 
 Is tolling solemn knells from shore to shore 
 
 For its uncoffm'd dead. 
 
 Most like an angel-friend, 
 With noiseless footsteps, which no impress leave, 
 She comes in gentleness to those who grieve, 
 
 Bidding the long night end. 
 
 How joyfully will hail, 
 With reenliven'd hearts, her presence fair, 
 The hapless shipwreck'd, patient in despair, 
 
 Watching a far-off sail. 
 
 Vain all affection's arts 
 To cheer the sick man through the night have been: 
 She to his casement goes, and, looking in, 
 
 Death's shadow thence departs. 
 
 How many, far from home, 
 Wearied, like me, beneath unfriendly skies, 
 And mourning o'er affection's broken ties, 
 
 Have pray'd for her to come. 
 
 Lone voyager on time's sea ! 
 When my dull night of being shall be past, 
 0, may I waken to a morn, at last, 
 
 Welcome as this to me ! 
 
 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 Her suffering ended with the day, 
 
 Yet lived she at its close, 
 And breathed the long, long night away, 
 
 In statue-like repose. 
 
 But when the sun, in all his state, 
 
 Illumed the eastern skies, 
 She pass'd through Glory's morning-gate, 
 
 And walk'd in Paradise ! 
 
 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 In beauty lingers on the hills 
 
 The death-smile of the dying day ; 
 And twilight in my heart instils 
 
 The softness of its rosy ray. 
 I watch the river's peaceful flow, 
 
 Here, standing by my mother's grave, 
 And feel my dreams of glory go, 
 
 Like weeds upon its sluggish wave. 
 
 God gives us ministers of love, 
 
 Which we regard not, being near ; 
 Death takes them from us — then we feel 
 
 That angels have been with us here ! 
 As mother, sister, friend, or wife, 
 
 They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain ; 
 And when the grave has closed between 
 
 Our hearts and theirs, we love — in vain ! 
 
 Would, mother ! thou couldst hear me tell 
 
 How oft, amid my brief career, 
 For sins and follies loved too well, 
 
 Hath fallen the free, repentant tear. 
 And, in the waywardness of youth, 
 
 How better thoughts have given to me 
 Contempt for error, love for truth, 
 
 Mid sweet remembrances of thee. 
 
 The harvest of my youth is done, 
 
 And manhood, come with all its cares, 
 Finds, garner'd up within my heart, 
 
 For every flower a thousand tares. 
 Dear mother! couldst thou know my thoughts, 
 
 Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, 
 The depth of feeling in my breast, 
 
 Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine ! 
 
 453 
 
454 
 
 JAMES ALDRICH. 
 
 A SPRING-DAY WALK. 
 
 Adieu, the city's ceaseless hum, 
 
 The haunts of sensual life, adieu ! 
 Green fields, and silent glens ! we come, 
 
 To spend this bright spring-day with you. 
 Whether the hills and vales shall gleam 
 
 With beauty, is for us to choose ; 
 For leaf and blossom, rock and stream, 
 
 Are colour'd with the spirit's hues. 
 Here, to the seeking soul, is brought 
 
 A nobler view of human fate, 
 And higher feeling, higher thought, 
 
 And glimpses of a higher state. 
 Through change of time, on sea and shore, 
 
 Serenely nature smiles away ; 
 Yon infinite blue sky bends o'er 
 
 Our world, as at the primal day. 
 
 The self-renewing earth is moved 
 
 With youthful life each circling year ; 
 And flowers that Cehes' daughter loved 
 
 At Enna, now are blooming here. 
 Glad nature will this truth reveal, 
 
 That God is ours and we are His ; 
 0, friends, my friends ! what joy to feel 
 
 That He our loving father is ! 
 
 TO ONE FAR AWAY. 
 
 Swifter far than swallow's flight, 
 
 Homeward o'er the twilight lea; 
 Swifter than the morning light, 
 
 Flashing o'er the pathless sea, 
 Dearest ! in the lonely night 
 
 Memory flies away to thee ! 
 Stronger far than is desire ; 
 
 Firm as truth itself can be ; 
 Deeper than earth's central fire ; 
 
 Boundless as the circling sea ; 
 Yet as mute as broken lyre, 
 
 Is my love, dear wife, for thee ! 
 Sweeter far than miser's gain, 
 
 Or than note of fame can be 
 Unto one who long in vain 
 
 Treads the paths of chivalry- 
 Are my dreams, in which again 
 
 My fond arms encircle thee ! 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Untouch'd by mortal passion, 
 
 Thou seem'st of heavenly birth, 
 Pure as the effluence of a star 
 
 Just reach'd our distant earth ! 
 Gave Fancy's pencil never 
 
 To an ideal fair 
 Such spiritual expression 
 
 As thy sweet features wear. 
 An inward light to guide thee 
 
 Unto thy soul is given, 
 Pure and serene as its divine 
 
 Original in heaven. 
 Type of the ransom'd Psyche ! 
 
 How gladly, hand in hand, 
 To some new world I'd fly with thee 
 
 From off this mortal strand. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Underneath this marble cold, 
 
 Lies a fair girl turn'd to mould ; 
 
 One whose life was like a star, 
 
 Without toil or rest to mar 
 
 Its divinest harmony, 
 
 Its GoD-given serenity. 
 
 One, whose form of youthful grace, 
 
 One, whose eloquence of face 
 
 Match'd the rarest gem of thought 
 
 By the antique sculptors wrought : 
 
 Yet her outward charms were less 
 
 Than her winning gentleness, 
 
 Her maiden purity of heart, 
 
 Which, without the aid of art, 
 
 Did in coldest hearts inspire 
 
 Love, that was not all desire. 
 
 Spirit forms with starry eyes, 
 
 That seem to come from Paradise, 
 
 Beings of ethereal birth, 
 
 Near us glide sometimes on earth, 
 
 Like glimmering moonbeams dimly seen 
 
 Glancing down through alleys green ; 
 
 Of such was she who lies beneath 
 
 This silent effigy of grief. 
 
 Wo is me ! when I recall 
 
 One sweet word by her let fall — 
 
 One sweet word but half-express' d — 
 
 Downcast eyes told all the rest, 
 
 To think beneath this marble cold, 
 
 Lies that fair girl turn'd to mould. 
 
 THE DREAMING GIRL. 
 
 She floats upon a sea of mist, 
 
 In fancy's boat of amethyst ! 
 
 A dreaming girl, with her fair cheek 
 
 Supported by a snow-white arm, 
 In the calm joy of innocence, 
 
 Subdued by some unearthly charm. 
 The clusters of her dusky hair 
 Are floating on her bosom fair, 
 Like early darkness stealing o'er 
 
 The amber tints that daylight gave, 
 Or, like the shadow of a cloud 
 
 Upon a fainting summer-wave. 
 Is it a spirit of joy or pain 
 Sails on the river of her brain 1 
 For, lo ! the crimson on her cheek 
 
 Faints and glows like a dying flame; 
 Her heart is beating loud and quick— 
 
 Is not love that spirit's name 1 
 Up-waking from her blissful sleep, 
 She starts with fear too wild to weep; 
 Through the trailing honeysuckle, 
 
 All night breathing odorous sighs, 
 Which her lattice dimly curtains, 
 
 The morn peeps in with his bright eyes. 
 Perfume loved when it is vanish'd, 
 Pleasure hardly felt ere banish'd, 
 Is the happy maiden's vision, 
 
 That doth on her memory gleam, 
 And her heart leaps up with gladness— 
 That bliss was nothing but a dream ! 
 
ISAAC McLELLAN, JR. 
 
 [Born about 1810.] 
 
 Mr. McLellan is a native of the city of Port- 
 land. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in 
 Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He 
 subsequently studied the law, and for a few years 
 practised his profession in Boston. He has re- 
 cently resided in the country, and devoted his 
 
 attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In 
 the spring of 1830 he published « The Fall of the 
 Indian ;" in 1832, " The Year, and other Poems ;" 
 and in 1844 a third volume, comprising his later 
 miscellaneous pieces in verse. His best composi- 
 tions are lyrical. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. 
 
 New England's dead ! New England's dead! 
 
 On every hill they lie ; 
 On every field of strife, made red 
 
 By bloody victory. 
 Each valley, where the battle pour'd 
 
 Its red and awful tide, 
 Beheld the brave New England sword 
 
 With slaughter deeply dyed. 
 Their bones are on the northern bill, 
 
 And on the southern plain, 
 By brook and river, lake and rill, 
 
 And by the roaring main. 
 The land is holy where they fought, 
 
 And holy where they fell ; 
 For by their blood that land was bought, 
 
 The land they loved so well. 
 Then glory to that valiant band, 
 The honour'd saviours of the land ! 
 0, few and weak their numbers were— 
 
 A handful of brave men ; 
 But to their God they gave their prayer, 
 
 And rush'd to battle then. 
 The God of battles heard their cry, 
 And sent to them the victory. 
 They left the ploughshare in the mould, 
 Their flocks and herds without a fold, 
 The sickle in the unshorn grain, 
 The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain, 
 And muster'd, in their simple dress, 
 For wrongs to seek a stern redress, 
 To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo, 
 To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 
 And where are ye, O fearless men 1 
 
 And where are ye to-day 1 
 I call : — the hills reply again 
 
 That ye have pass'd away ; 
 That on old Bunker's lonely height, 
 
 In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, 
 The grass grows green, the harvest bright 
 
 Above each soldier's mound. 
 The bugle's wild and warlike blast 
 
 Shall muster them no more ; 
 An army now might thunder past, 
 
 And they heed not its roar. 
 The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 
 
 In many a bloody day, 
 From their old graves shall rouse them not, 
 For they have pass'd away. 
 
 THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.* 
 
 Wild was the night ; yet a wilder night 
 
 Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
 In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 
 
 Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 
 
 A few fond mourners were kneeling by, 
 The few that his stern heart cherish'd ; 
 
 They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, 
 That life had nearly perish'd. 
 
 They knew by his awful and kingly look, 
 
 By the order hastily spoken, 
 That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, 
 
 And the nations' hosts were broken. 
 
 He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew. 
 And triumph'd the Frenchman's " eagle ;" 
 
 And the struggling Austrian fled anew, 
 Like the hare before the beagle. 
 
 The bearded Russian he scourged again, 
 
 The Prussian's camp was routed, 
 And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, 
 
 His mighty armies shouted. 
 
 Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, 
 
 At the pyramids, at the mountain, 
 Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
 
 And by the Italian fountain, 
 
 On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams 
 
 Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 
 He led again, in his dying dreams, 
 
 His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 
 
 Again Marengo's field was won, 
 
 And Jena's bloody battle ; 
 Again the world was overrun, 
 
 Made pale at his cannons' rattle. 
 
 He died at the close of that darksome day, 
 
 A day that shall live in story : 
 In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
 
 "And left him alone with his glory." 
 
 * " The 5th of May came amid wind and rain. Na- 
 poleon's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a 
 strife more terrible than the elements around. The 
 words i t&te d'armee,' (head of the army,) the last which 
 escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were 
 watching the current of a heady fight. About eleven 
 minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired." 
 — Scott's Life of Napoleon. 
 
 455 
 
456 
 
 ISAAC McLELLAN, JK. 
 
 THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. 
 
 Well do I love those various harmonies 
 That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, 
 And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, 
 And lonely copses of the summer-time, 
 And in red autumn's ancient solitudes. 
 
 If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, 
 Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down 
 With any of the ills of human life; 
 If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss 
 Of brethren gone to that far distant land 
 To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, 
 The gayest and the gravest, all alike ; — 
 Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear 
 The thrilling music of the forest-birds. 
 
 How rich the varied choir ! The unquiet finch 
 Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
 Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, 
 And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs 
 Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid 
 Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers, 
 And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree, 
 And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
 With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. 
 
 With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes ; 
 And in her simple song there seems to gush 
 A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 
 Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom 
 Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch 
 Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, 
 That overhangs the brook, and suits her song 
 To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. 
 
 In the last days of autumn, when the corn 
 Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, 
 And the gay company of reapers bind 
 The bearded wheat in sheaves, — then peals abroad 
 The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, 
 Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song 
 Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree 
 Close at the corn-field edge. 
 
 Lone whip-poor-will, 
 There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, 
 Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. 
 Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, 
 And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant 
 Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes 
 His lodging in the wilderness of woods, 
 And lifts his anthem when the world is still : 
 And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man 
 And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews 
 To the red roses and the herbs, doth find 
 No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. 
 I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush 
 And the green, roving linnet are at rest, 
 And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased 
 Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. 
 Far up some brook's still course, whose current 
 mines 
 The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green 
 
 marge 
 Is seldom visited by human foot, 
 The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks 
 The Sabbath-silence of the wilderness : 
 And you may find her by some reedy pool, 
 
 Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock, 
 Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. 
 
 Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, 
 Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king 
 Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind 
 Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. 
 How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down 
 And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; 
 And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak 
 Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. 
 Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist, 
 Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear 
 Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream 
 Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. 
 
 And now, wouldst thou, man, delight the ear 
 With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye 
 With beautiful creations ] Then pass forth, 
 And find them midst those many-colour'd birds 
 That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues 
 Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones 
 Are sweeter than the music of the lute, 
 Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush 
 So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 The tender Twilight with a crimson cheek 
 Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind 
 Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down 
 To slumber by the darken'd woods — the herds 
 Have left their pastures, where the sward grows 
 
 green 
 And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, 
 And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar 
 Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade 
 And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound ; 
 While answering Echo, from the distant hill, 
 Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn. 
 How tenderly the trembling light yet plays 
 O'er the far-waving foliage ! Day's last blush 
 Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves, 
 With a strange beauty — like the yellow flush 
 That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by. 
 Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass 
 Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind, 
 'Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad, 
 With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast 
 And happy palaces, and lead a life 
 Of peace in some green paradise like this. 
 
 The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum 
 Ne'er startled these green woods: — the raging 
 
 sword 
 Hath never gather'd its red harvest here ! 
 The peaceful summer-day hath never closed 
 Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam 
 Of War's rude pomp : — the humble dweller here 
 Hath never left his sickle in the field, 
 To slay his fellow with unholy hand ; 
 The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan, 
 The thrilling murmuring of the dying man, 
 And the shrill shriek of mortal agony, 
 Have never broke its Sabbath-solitude. 
 
JONES VERY. 
 
 [Bora about 1810.] 
 
 Jones Veut is a native of the city of Salem. 
 In his youth he accompanied his father, who was 
 a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and 
 he wrote his " Essay on Hamlet" with the more 
 interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After 
 his father's death, he prepared himself to enter 
 college, and in 1832 became a student at Cam- 
 bridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the 
 same year was appointed Greek tutor in the uni- 
 versity. While he held this office, a religious en- 
 thusiasm took possession of his mind, which gra- 
 dually produced so great a change in him, that his 
 
 friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he 
 returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the 
 poems in the small collection of his writings pub- 
 lished in 1839. His essays entitled "Epic Poet- 
 ry," " Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine spe- 
 cimens of learned and sympathetic criticism ; and 
 his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, 
 simple, and poetical, though they have little range 
 of subjects and illustration. They are religious, 
 and some of them are mystical, but they will be 
 recognised by the true poet as the overflowings 
 of a brother's soul. 
 
 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. 
 
 Bright image of the early years 
 
 When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, 
 And life's dark throng of cares and fears 
 Were swift-wing' d shadows o'er my sunny brow ! 
 
 Thou blushest from the painter's page, 
 
 Robed in the mimic tints of art ; 
 But Nature's hand in youth's green age 
 With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. 
 
 The morning's blush, she made it thine, 
 
 The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee ; 
 And in thy look, my Columbine ! 
 Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see. 
 
 I see the hill's far-gazing head, 
 
 Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 
 I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 
 The grassy path that winds along the vale. 
 
 I hear the voice of woodland song 
 
 Break from each bush and well-known tree, 
 And, on light pinions borne along, 
 Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. 
 
 O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, 
 
 With look of anger, leaps again, 
 And, hastening to each flowery nook, 
 Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. 
 
 Fair child of art ! thy charms decay, 
 
 Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time ; 
 And hush'd the music of that day, 
 When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime ; 
 
 But on my heart thy cheek of bloom 
 
 Shall live when Nature's smile has fled ; 
 And, rich with memory's sweet perfume, 
 Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. 
 
 There shalt thou live and wake the glee 
 
 That echoed on thy native hill ; 
 And when, loved flower ! I think of thee, 
 My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. 
 
 LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN 
 ON A POET'S TABLE. 
 
 Poet's hand has placed thee there, 
 Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll ! 
 Though to outward eye not fair, 
 Thou hast beauty for the soul ; 
 
 Though no human pen has traced 
 On that leaf its learned lore, 
 Love divine the page has graced, — 
 What can words discover more ] 
 
 Not alone dim autumn's blast 
 Echoes from yon tablet sear, — 
 Distant music of the past 
 Steals upon the poet's ear. 
 
 Voices sweet of summer-hours, 
 Spring's soft whispers murmur by ; 
 Feather'd songs from leafy bowers 
 Draw his listening soul on high. 
 
 THE HEART. 
 
 There is a cup of sweet or bitter drink, 
 Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well, 
 Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels 
 
 think, 
 Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell ; 
 That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward 
 
 stains 
 While from within the tide forever flows ; 
 And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains 
 The treacherous hand on such a task bestows ; 
 But ever bright its crystal sides appear, 
 While runs the current from its outlet pure ; 
 And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, 
 And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, 
 And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul 
 While through this parching waste they seek their 
 
 heavenly goal. 
 
458 
 
 JONES VERY. 
 
 TO THE CANARY-BIRD. 
 
 I cannot hear thy voice with others' ears, 
 Who make of thy lost liberty a gain ; 
 And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears 
 Feel not that every note is born with pain. 
 Alas ! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng, 
 Past days of joy should through thy memory 
 And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, 
 While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song. 
 The heart that on the past and future feeds, 
 And pours in human words its thoughts divine, 
 Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, 
 Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, 
 And men with gilded cage and praise will try 
 To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky. 
 
 THY BEAUTY FADES. 
 
 Thy beauty fades, and with it too my love, 
 For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower; 
 Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above 
 The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour ; 
 And I had thought forever by thy side 
 With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell; 
 But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide, 
 And every hope's wan look a grief can tell : 
 For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, 
 Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, 
 Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, 
 With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall, 
 And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies. 
 From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death 
 
 THE WIND-FLOWER. 
 
 Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye 
 Upon the clouded smile of April's face, 
 Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by, 
 Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. 
 Thou trustest wisely ! in thy faith array'd, 
 More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king ; 
 Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd, 
 As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring, 
 While other flowers still hide them from her call 
 Along the river's brink and meadow bare. 
 .Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, 
 And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, 
 O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find 
 A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind. 
 
 ENOCH. 
 
 I iook'd to find a man who walk'd with God, 
 Like the translated patriarch of old ; — 
 Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod, 
 Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold ; 
 I heard the wind in low complaint go by, 
 That none its melodies like him could hear ; 
 Day unto day ppoke wisdom from on high, 
 Yec none like Davib turn'd a willing ear ; 
 God walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth; 
 Foi him no heart-built temple open stood, 
 The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth, 
 Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood, 
 And left unfinish'd and in ruins still 
 The only temple he delights to fill. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The light will never open sightless eyes, 
 It comes to those who willingly would see ; 
 And every object, — hill, and stream, and slues, 
 Rejoice within the encircling line to be ; 
 'T is day, — the field is fill'd with busy hands, 
 The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, 
 The traveller with his staff already stands 
 His yet unmeasured journey to begin ; 
 The light breaks gently too within the breast, — 
 Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, 
 The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, 
 Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, 
 Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, — it is no day 
 To those who find on earth their place to stay. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 I thank thee, Father, that the night is near 
 When I this conscious being may resign ; 
 Whose only task thy words of love to hear, 
 And in thy acts to find each act of mine ; 
 A task too great to give a child like me, 
 The myriad-handed labours of the day, 
 Too many for my closing eyes to see, 
 Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say ; 
 Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, 
 Each other gift more lovely then appears, 
 For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, 
 And all thine other gifts to me endears ; 
 And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, 
 Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 THE SPIRIT-LAND. 
 
 Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand, 
 Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 
 In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd ; 
 In finding thee are all things round us found ; 
 In losing thee are all things lost beside ; 
 Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 
 We wander in the country far remote, 
 Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell ; 
 Or on the records of past greatness dote, 
 And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
 While on our path bewilder'd falls the night 
 That ne'er returns us to the fields of lijrht. 
 
 THE TREES OF LIFE. 
 
 For those who worship Thee there is no death, 
 For all they do is but with Thee to dwell ; 
 Now, while I take from Thee this passing breath, 
 It is but of Thy glorious name to tell ; 
 Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, 
 But in them both my soul doth ever flow; 
 They come as viewless as the unseen wind, 
 And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go ; 
 The trees that grow along thy living stream, 
 And from its springs refreshment ever drink, 
 Forever glittering in thy morning beam, 
 They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink ; 
 And as more high and wide their branches grow, 
 They look more fair within the depths below. 
 
JONES VERY. 
 
 459 
 
 THE ARK. 
 
 There is no change of time and place with Thee ; 
 Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same ; 
 Within thy presence I rejoice to be, 
 And always hallow thy most holy name ; 
 The world doth ever change ; there is no peace 
 Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast ; 
 With every breath the frothy waves increase, 
 They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest ; 
 I thank Thee that within thy strong-built ark 
 My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, 
 And, though the night of death be long and dark, 
 My hopes in Christ shall reach within the veil; 
 And to the promised haven steady steer, 
 Whose rest to those who love is ever near. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 
 Because my feet find measure with its call ; 
 The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
 For I am known to them, both great and small ; 
 The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows 
 Expects me there when spring its bloom has given ; 
 And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, 
 And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; 
 For he who with his Maker walks aright, 
 Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 
 His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 
 Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 
 And he, as when erect in soul he stood, 
 Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 
 
 THE TREE. 
 
 I eove thee when thy swelling buds appear, 
 And one by one their tender leaves unfold, 
 As if they knew that warmer suns were near, 
 Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold ; 
 And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen 
 To veil from view the early robin's nest, 
 I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, 
 With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd ; 
 And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare, 
 And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, 
 When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, 
 I love to watch thy shadowy form below, 
 And through thy leafless arms to look above 
 On stars that brighter beam when most we need 
 their love. 
 
 THE SON. 
 
 Father, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand 
 Beneath the mingling line of night and day, 
 A listening servant, waiting thy command 
 To roll rejoicing on its silent way ; 
 The tongue of time abides the appointed hour, 
 Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall ; 
 
 The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, 
 Then every drop speeds onward at thy call ; 
 The bird reposes on the yielding bough, 
 With breast unswollen by the tide of song; 
 So does my spirit wait thy presence now 
 To pour thy praise in quickening life along, 
 Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep, 
 While round the unutter'd word and love their 
 vigils keep. 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 Thou need'st not flatter from thy half-built nest, 
 Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, 
 Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, 
 Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy ; 
 All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, 
 Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, 
 Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, 
 For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; 
 All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, 
 That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, 
 For over-anxious cares their souls employ, 
 That else upon thy music borne along 
 And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer 
 Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys 
 to share. 
 
 THE RAIL-ROAD. 
 
 Thou great proclaimer to the outward eye 
 Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, 
 Onward thou goest, appointed from on high 
 The other warnings of the Lord to swell ; 
 Thou art the voice of one that through the world 
 Proclaims in startling tones, "Prepare the way ;" 
 The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, 
 The flinty rocks thine onward march obey ; 
 The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, 
 O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, 
 Thou passest where the living seldom tread, 
 Through forests dark,where tides beneath thee roar, 
 And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, 
 And would with warning voice his crooked paths 
 reprove. 
 
 THE LATTER RAIN. 
 
 The latter rain, — it falls in anxious haste 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 
 Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, 
 As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
 But not a blade grows green as in the spring, 
 No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves ; 
 The robins only mid the harvests sing, 
 Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ; 
 The rain falls still, — the fruit all ripen'd drops, 
 It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell. 
 The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, 
 Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, 
 And all that once received the early rain 
 Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 
 
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 
 
 [Born, 1810.] 
 
 The Rev. James Freeman Clarke, whose 
 ancestors, on the mother's side, have lived in New- 
 ton, near Boston, since the first settlement of the 
 country, was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, 
 on the fourth of April, 1810. He was prepared 
 for college by his grandfather, the Rev. James 
 Freeman, D.D., and in the Boston Latin school, 
 and graduated at Cambridge, in 1829. Becom- 
 ing a Unitarian minister, he went to Louisville, 
 Kentucky, in 1833, and there edited for several 
 years "The Western Messenger," a monthly mag- 
 azine of religion and literature. In 1839 he mar- 
 ried Anna, daughter of H. J. Heidekoper, of 
 Meadville, Pennsylvania. In 1840 he returned 
 to Boston, and established a church, on the prin- 
 ciples of free seats, congregational worship, and 
 social intercourse, called the Church of the Disci- 
 ples, of which he is still the pastor. In 1849, and 
 again in 1852, he visited Europe. He published 
 a very entertaining and instructive account of his 
 first visit, under the title of " Eleven Weeks in 
 Europe." He has also published two small books 
 on " Forgiveness," and " Prayer ;" some anti-slave- 
 ry tracts, and articles in periodicals, besides taking 
 part in a "Memoir of General William Hull," 
 and with Mr. Emerson and Mr. Channing, in 
 the " Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli." 
 
 In poetry, his longest production is "A Poem 
 
 delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, of 
 Harvard College," in 1846. It is a spirited satire 
 of the social phenomena of the day, in heroic coup- 
 lets. A characteristic paragraph is the following, 
 of our intellectual condition : 
 
 " And if our land's heroic day is fled, 
 Have we romance, art, poetry, instead ? 
 There have been ages when the soul of Art 
 Was poured ahroad upon a nation's heart; 
 When genius filled the waters, woods, and skies, 
 With forms of life and fair divinities, 
 There, through the leaves which shade the haunted stream, 
 The naiad's limbs in pearly lustre gleam ; 
 And in green forest-depths the Grecian ear 
 The dryad's gentle voice was used to hear. 
 But modern bards expect no rights like these, 
 Nor watch for meanings in the streams and trees. 
 Our only dryads now are lumberers stout, 
 Our naiads, gentlemen loho fish for trout. 
 We in our studies build the lofty verse, 
 Nor find our books in brooks — but the reverse ; 
 Copy each other's copies in our songs, 
 Each stealing what to nobody belongs — 
 As in the story to our childhood taught, 
 Thieves came to rob a man — and he had nought." 
 
 He has contributed to volumes edited by his 
 friends some fine translations from the German 
 poets, and has printed in magazines occasional 
 poems, some of which have much sweetness, di- 
 rectness, and force. 
 
 TRIFORMIS DIANA. 
 
 So pure her forehead's dazzling white, 
 
 So swift and clear her radiant eyes, 
 Within the treasure of whose light 
 
 Lay undeveloped destinies, — 
 Of thoughts repressed such hidden store 
 
 Was hinted by each flitting smile, 
 I could but wonder and adore, 
 
 Far off, in awe, I gazed the while. 
 
 I gazed at her, as at the moon, 
 
 Hanging in lustrous twilight skies, 
 
 Whose virgin crescent, sinking soon, 
 Peeps through the leaves before it flies : 
 
 Untouched Diana, flitting dim, 
 
 While sings the wood its evening hymn. 
 
 ii. 
 Again we met. 0, joyful meeting ! 
 
 Her radiance now was all for me, 
 Like kindly airs her kindly greeting, 
 
 So full, so musical, so free ; 
 Within Kentucky forest aisles, 
 
 Within romantic paths, we walked, 
 I bathed me in her sister smiles, 
 
 I breathed her beauty as we talked. 
 460 
 
 So full-orbed Cynthia walks the skies, 
 Filling the earth with melodies ; 
 Even so she condescends to kiss 
 
 Drowsy Endymion, coarse and dull, 
 Or fills our waking souls with bliss, 
 
 Making long nights too beautiful. 
 
 O fair, but fickle, lady-moon, 
 
 Why must thy full form ever wane? 
 
 love ! friendship! why so soon 
 Must your sweet light recede again 1 
 
 1 wake me in the dead of night, 
 
 And start — for through the misty gloom 
 Red Hecate stares — a boding sight ! — 
 Looks in — but never fills my room. 
 
 Thou music of my boyhood's hour ! 
 
 Thou shining light on manhood's way ! 
 No more dost thou fair influence shower, 
 
 To move my soul by night or day. 
 
 strange ! that while in hall and street 
 Thy hand I touch, thy grace I meet, 
 
 Such miles of polar ice should part 
 
 The slightest touch of mind and heart !— 
 But all thy love has waned, and so, 
 
 1 gladly let thy beauty go. 
 
JAMES F. CLARKE. 
 
 481 
 
 CANA. 
 
 Dear Friend ! whose presence in the house, 
 
 Whose gracious word benign 
 Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, 
 
 Change water into wine; 
 
 Come, visit us ! and when dull work 
 
 Grows weary, line on line, 
 Revive our souls, and let us see 
 
 Life's water turned to wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy, 
 
 Earth's hopes grow half divine, 
 When Jesus visits us, to make 
 
 Life's water glow as wine. 
 
 The social talk, the evening fire, 
 
 The homely household shrine, 
 Grow bright with angel visits, when 
 
 The Loed pours out the wine. ' 
 
 For when self-seeking turns to love, 
 
 Not knowing mine nor thine, 
 The miracle again is wrought, 
 
 And water turned to wine. 
 
 THE GENUINE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Ask you why this portrait bears not 
 
 The romance of those lips and lashes 1 
 Why that bosom's blush it shares not, 
 
 Mirrors not her eyes' quick flashes] 
 Is it false in not revealing 
 
 Her girlish consciousness of beauty — 
 The graceful, half-developed feeling, 
 
 Desire — opposing fancied duty? 
 
 For on the canvas, shadowy hair 
 
 Floats backward from an earnest face; 
 The features one expression bear, 
 
 The various lines one story trace. 
 And what is their expression 1 Love. 
 
 Not wildfire passion — bright but damp, — ■ 
 A purer flame, which points above, 
 
 Though kindled at an earthly lamp. 
 
 Call it devotion — call it joy ; 
 
 'Tis the true love of woman's heart, 
 Emotion, pure from alloy, 
 
 Action, complete in every part. 
 Blame not the artist, then, who leaves 
 
 The circumstances of the hour — 
 Within the husk the fruit perceives, 
 
 Within the husk the future flower. 
 
 He took the one pervading grace 
 
 Which charms in all, and fixed it there, 
 The deepest secret of her face — 
 
 The key to her locked character — 
 The spirit of her life, which beats 
 
 In every pulse of thought and feeling — 
 The central fire which lights and heats, 
 
 Explaining earth, and heaven revealing. 
 
 WHITE-CAPT WAVES. 
 
 White-capt waves far round the Ocean, 
 Leaping in thanks or leaping in play, 
 
 All your bright faces, in happy commotion, 
 Make glad matins this summer day. 
 
 The rosy light through the morning's portals 
 Tinges your crest with an August hue; 
 
 Calling on us, thought-prisoned mortals, 
 Thus to live in the moment too. 
 
 For, graceful creatures, you live by dying, 
 Save your life when you fling it away, 
 
 Flow through all forms, all form defying, 
 And in wildest freedom strict rule obey. 
 
 Show us your art, O genial daughters 
 Of solemn Ocean, thus to combine 
 
 Freedom and force of rolling waters 
 With sharp observance of law divine. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 He touch'd the earth, a soul of flame, 
 
 His bearing proud, his spirit high ; 
 Fill'd with the heavens whence he came, 
 
 He smiled upon man's destiny ; 
 Yet smiled as one who knows no fear, 
 
 And felt a secret strength within ; 
 Who wonder'd at the pitying tear 
 
 Shed over human loss and sin. 
 Lit by an inward, brighter light, 
 
 Than aught that round about him shone, 
 He walk'd erect through shades of night ; 
 
 Clear was his pathway — but how lone! 
 
 Men gaze in wonder and in awe 
 
 Upon a form so like to theirs, 
 Worship the presence, yet withdraw 
 
 And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. 
 
 Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, 
 
 Forgetting once his strange estate, 
 Unloosed the lyre from off his breast, 
 
 And strung its chords to human fate ; 
 And, gayly snatching some rude air, 
 
 Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue, 
 Gave back the notes that linger'd there, 
 
 And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung; 
 Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought 
 
 To thank him with a brother's soul, 
 And when the generous wine was brought, 
 
 Shared in the feast, and quaff d the bowl; 
 Men laid their hearts low at his feet, 
 
 And sunn'd their being in his light, 
 Press'd on his way his steps to greet, 
 
 And in his love forgot his might. 
 
 And when, a wanderer long on earth, 
 
 On him its shadow also fell, 
 And dimm'd the lustre of a birth 
 
 Whose day-spring was from Heaven's own well; 
 They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed, 
 
 Their woes were hallow'd by his wo, 
 Humanity, half cold and dead, 
 
 Had been revived in genius' glow. 
 
462 
 
 JAMES F. CLARKE. 
 
 JACOB'S WELL.* 
 
 Here, after Jacob parted from his brother, 
 His daughters linger'd round thiswell, new-made; 
 
 Here, seventeen centuries after, came another, 
 And talk'd with Jesus, wondering and afraid. 
 
 Here, other centuries past, the emperor's mother 
 Shelter'd its waters with a temple's shade. 
 
 Here, mid the fallen fragments, as of old, 
 
 The girl her pitcher dips within its waters cold. 
 
 And Jacob's race grew strong for many an hour, 
 Then torn beneath the Roman eagle lay ; 
 
 The Roman's vast and earth-controlling power 
 Has crumbled like these shafts and stones away ; 
 
 But still the waters, fed by dew and shower, 
 Come up, as ever, to the light of day, 
 
 And still the maid bends downward with her urn, 
 
 Well pleased to see its glass her lovely face return. 
 
 And those few words of truth, first utter'd here, 
 Have sunk into the human soul and heart ; 
 
 A spiritual faith dawns bright and clear, 
 Dark creeds and ancient mysteries depart ; 
 
 The hour for God's true worshippers draws near ; 
 Then mourn not o'er the wrecks of earthly art: 
 
 Kingdoms may fall, and human works decay, 
 
 Nature moves on unchanged — Truths never pass 
 away. 
 
 THE VIOLET.t 
 
 When April's warmth unlocks the clod, 
 
 Soften'd by gentle showers, 
 The violet pierces through the sod, 
 
 And blossoms, first of flowers ; 
 So may I give my heart to God 
 
 In childhood's early hours. 
 
 Some plants, in gardens only found, 
 
 Are raised with pains and care : 
 God scatters violets all around, 
 
 They blossom everywhere ; 
 Thus may my love to all abound, 
 
 And all my fragrance share. 
 
 Some scentless flowers stand straight and high, 
 
 With pride and haughtiness : 
 But violets perfume land and sky, 
 
 Although they promise less. 
 Let me, with all humility, 
 
 Do more than I profess. 
 
 Sweet flower, be thou a type to me 
 
 Of blameless joy and mirth, 
 Of widely-scatter'd sympathy, 
 
 Embracing all God's earth — 
 Of early-blooming piety. 
 
 And unpretending worth. 
 
 * Suggested by a sketch of Jacob's Well, and Mount 
 Gferizim. 
 
 T Written for a little girl to speak on May-day, in the 
 character of the Violet. 
 
 TO A BUNCH OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Little firstlings of the year ! 
 
 Have you come my room to cheer 1 
 
 You are dry and parch' d, I think ; 
 
 Stand within this glass and drink ; 
 
 Stand beside me on the table, 
 
 'Mong my books — if I am able, 
 
 I will find a vacant space 
 
 For your bashfulness and grace ; 
 
 Learned tasks and serious duty 
 
 Shall be lighten'd by your beauty. 
 
 Pure affection's sweetest token, 
 
 Choicest hint of love unspoken, 
 
 Friendship in your help rejoices, 
 
 Uttering her mysterious voices. 
 
 You are gifts the poor may offer — 
 
 Wealth can find no better proffer: 
 
 For you tell of tastes refined, 
 
 Thoughtful heart and spirit kind. 
 
 Gift of gold or jewel-dresses 
 
 Ostentatious thought confesses ; 
 
 Simplest mind this boon may give, 
 
 Modesty herself receive. 
 
 For lovely woman you were meant 
 
 The just and natural ornament, 
 
 Sleeping on her bosom fair, 
 
 Hiding in her raven hair, 
 
 Or, peeping out mid golden curls, 
 
 You outshine barbaric pearls ; 
 
 Yet you lead no thought astray, 
 
 Feed not pride nor vain display, 
 
 Nor disturb her sisters' rest, 
 
 Waking envy in their breast. 
 
 Let the rich, with heart elate, 
 
 Pile their board with costly plate ; 
 
 Richer ornaments are ours, 
 
 We will dress our homes with flowers , 
 
 Yet no terror need we feel 
 
 Lest the thief break through to steal. 
 
 Ye are playthings for the child, 
 
 Gifts of love for maiden mild, 
 
 Comfort for the aged eye, 
 
 For the poor, cheap luxury. 
 
 Though your life is but a day, 
 
 Precious things, dear flowers, you say, 
 
 Telling that the Being good 
 
 Who supplies our daily food, 
 
 Deems it needful to supply 
 
 Daily food for heart and eye. 
 
 So, though your life is but a day, 
 
 We grieve not at your swift decay ; 
 
 He, who smiles in your bright faces, 
 
 Sends us more to take your places ; 
 
 'T is for this ye fade so soon, 
 
 That He may renew the boon ; 
 
 That kindness often may repeat 
 
 These mute messages so sweet : 
 
 That Love to plainer speech may get, 
 
 Conning oft his alphabet ; 
 
 That beauty may be rain'd from heaven, 
 
 New with every morn and even, 
 
 With freshest fragrance sunrise greeting: 
 
 Therefore are ye, flowers, so fleeting. 
 
GEORGE W. CUTTER 
 
 [Born, 18—.] 
 
 Mr. Cutter published at Cincinnati, in 1848, 
 a volume entitled " Buena Vista, and other Po- 
 ems," in the preface of which he says to the " gen- 
 tle reader," " I desire that you will not for a mo- 
 ment suppose me insensible to their many and 
 great imperfections, or deem me so vain as to ex- 
 pect that you will be startled by any sudden dis- 
 play of genius, or charmed by any imposing array 
 of erudition. They were written, for the most part, 
 amid the turmoil and excitement incident to the 
 discharge of the duties of an arduous profession, 
 in hours that were clouded by no ordinary toils, 
 
 with no other object or end in view but to lighten 
 the burden of existence, to dissipate the gloom of 
 the moment." 
 
 In the previous year, Mr- Cutter had joined 
 the army for the invasion of Mexico, as a captain 
 of volunteers, and he participated in the victory of 
 Buena Vista, and wrote upon the field his poem 
 descriptive of that battle. The finest of his compo- 
 sitions is " The Song of Steam," which is worthy 
 of the praise it has received, of being one of the best 
 lyrics of the century. " The Song of Lightning," 
 written more recently, is perhaps next to it in merit 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands ; 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein : 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain ! 
 How I laugh' d, as I lay conceal'd from sight, 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boast of human might, 
 
 And the pride of human power ! 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas, 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band, 
 
 Or waiting the wayward breeze ; 
 When I mark'd the peasant fairly reel 
 
 With the toil which he faintly bore, 
 As he feebly turn'd the tardy wheel, 
 
 Or tugg'd at the weary oar : 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's speed, 
 
 The flight of the courier-dove, 
 As they bore the law a king decreed, 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love — 
 I could not but think how the world would feel, 
 
 As these were outstripp'd afar, 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 
 
 Or chain'd to the flying car ! 
 Ha, ha, ha ! they found me at last ; 
 
 They invited me forth at length, 
 And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast, 
 
 And laugh'd in my iron strength ! 
 Oh ! then ye saw a wondrous change 
 
 On the earth and ocean wide, 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 Nor wait for wind and tide. 
 Hurrah! hurrah! the water's o'er, 
 
 The mountains steep decline ; 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power ; 
 
 The world — the world is mine ! 
 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, 
 Or those where his beams decline ; 
 
 The giant streams of the queenly West, 
 And the Orient floods divine. 
 
 The ocean pales where'er I sweep, 
 
 To hear my strength rejoice, 
 And the monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower, trembling at my voice. 
 I cany the wealth and the lord of earth, 
 
 The thoughts of his godlike mind ; 
 The wind lags after my flying forth, 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 
 
 My tireless arm doth play, 
 Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day. 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden cave below, 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made. 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint — ■ 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
 And all my doings I put into print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay, 
 
 No bones to be " laid on the shelf," 
 And soon I intend you may " go and play," 
 
 While I manage this world myself. 
 But harness me down with your iron bands; 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein : 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain ! 
 
 463 
 
464 
 
 GEORGE W. CUTTER. 
 
 THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 
 
 Awat, away through the sightless air — 
 
 Stretch forth your iron thread ; 
 For I would not dim my sandals fair 
 
 With the dust ye tamely tread; 
 Ay, rear it up on its million piers — 
 
 Let it reach the world around, 
 And the journey ye make in a hundred years 
 
 I '11 clear at a single bound ! 
 
 Though I cannot toil like the groaning slave 
 
 Ye have fetter'd with iron skill, 
 To ferry you over the boundless wave, 
 
 Or grind in the noisy mill ; 
 Let him sing his giant strength and speed : 
 
 Why, a single shaft of mine 
 Would give that monster a flight, indeed, 
 
 To the depths of the ocean brine. 
 No, no ! I'm the spirit of light and love : 
 
 To my unseen hand 'tis given 
 To pencil the ambient clouds above, 
 
 And polish the stars of heaven. 
 I scatter the golden rays of fire 
 
 On the horizon far below, 
 And deck the skies where storms expire 
 
 With my red and dazzling glow. 
 
 The deepest recesses of earth are mine — 
 
 I traverse its silent core ; 
 Around me the starry diamonds shine, 
 
 And the sparkling fields of ore ; 
 And oft I leap from my throne on high 
 
 To the depths of the ocean's caves, 
 Where the fadeless forests of coral lie, 
 
 Far under the world of waves. 
 
 My being is like a lovely thought 
 
 That dwells in a sinless breast ; 
 A tone of music that ne'er was caught — 
 
 A word that was ne'er expressed. 
 I burn in the bright and burnish'd halls, 
 
 Where the fountains of sunlight play — 
 Where the curtain of gold and opal falls 
 
 O'er the scenes of the dying day. 
 
 With a glance I cleave the sky in twain, 
 
 I light it with a glare, 
 When fall the boding drops of rain 
 
 Through the darkly-curtain'd air ; 
 The rock-built towers, the turrets gray, 
 
 The piles of a thousand years, 
 Have not the strength of potters' clay 
 
 Before my glittering spears. 
 
 From the Alps' or the highest Andes' crag, 
 
 From the peaks of eternal snow, 
 The dazzling folds of my fiery flag 
 
 Gleam o'er the world below ; 
 The earthquake heralds my coming power, 
 
 The avalanche bounds away, 
 And howling storms at midnight hour 
 
 Proclaim my kingly sway. 
 
 Ye tremble when my legions come — 
 When my quivering sword leaps out 
 
 O'er the hills that echo my thunder-drum, 
 And rend with my joyous shout : 
 
 Ye quail on the land or upon the seas, 
 
 Ye stand in your fear aghast, 
 To see me burn the stalwart trees, 
 
 Or shiver the stately mast. 
 
 The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall, 
 
 The letters of high command, 
 Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall, 
 
 Were traced with my burning hand ; 
 And oft in fire have I wrote since then, 
 
 What angry Heaven decreed — 
 But the sealed eyes of sinful men 
 
 Were all too blind to read. 
 
 At last the hour of light is here, 
 
 And kings no more shall blind, 
 Nor the bigots crush with craven fear 
 
 The forward march of mind ; 
 The words of Truth, and Freedom's rays, 
 
 Are from my pinions hurl'd, 
 And soon the sun of belter days 
 
 Shall rise upon the world. 
 But away, away, through the sightless air — ■ 
 
 Stretch forth your iron thread ; 
 For I would not soil my sandals fair 
 
 With the dust ye tamely tread. 
 Ay, rear it upon its million piers — 
 
 Let it circle the world around, 
 And the journey ye make in a hundred years 
 
 I '11 clear at a single bound ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WORTH. 
 
 Now let the solemn minute gun 
 
 Arouse the morning ray, 
 And only with the setting sun 
 
 In echoes die away 
 
 The muffled drum, the wailing fife, 
 
 Ah ! let them murmur low, 
 O'er him who was their breath of life, 
 
 The solemn notes of wo ! 
 
 At Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, 
 
 On Polaklaba's field, 
 Around him fell the crimson rain, 
 
 The battle-thunder peal'd; 
 But proudly did the soldier gaze 
 
 Upon his daring form, 
 Vv T hen charging o'er the cannon's blaze 
 
 Amid the sulphur storm. 
 Upon the heights of Monterey 
 
 Again his flag unroll'd, 
 And when the grape-shot rent away 
 
 Its latest starry fold, 
 His plumed cap above his head 
 
 He waved upon the air, 
 And cheer'd the gallant troops he led 
 
 To glorious victory there. 
 But ah ! the dreadful seal is broke — 
 
 In darkness walks abroad 
 The pestilence, whose silent stroke 
 
 Is like the doom of God ! 
 And the hero by its fell decree 
 
 In death is sleeping now, 
 With the laurel wreath of victory 
 
 Still green upon his brow ! 
 
ROBERT T. CONRAD. 
 
 Robert T. Conrad was born in Philadelphia 
 on the tenth of June, 1810. His first American 
 ancestor was Dennis Conrad, an enlightened 
 German pastor, who withdrew his flock from the 
 religious intolerance of the father-land and settled 
 with them in the neighborhood of Philadelphia dur- 
 ing the residence of William Penn in the colony. 
 The family remained in the vicinity, and has fur- 
 nished a succession of good citizens. The grand- 
 father of our author, Mr. Michael Conrad, an 
 eminent teacher of mathematics, discharged his 
 class, on the breaking out of the revolution, and 
 with his musket joined the army of Washington. 
 His father, John Conrad, was from 1798 for many 
 years the most extensive publisher and bookseller 
 in this country, his main establishment being in 
 Philadelphia, with branches in the principal cities 
 of the South and West. He represented the city 
 in the legislature, filled other offices of trust and 
 honor here, and for several years before his death 
 was mayor of the Northern Liberties, next to the 
 city proper the most important of those munici- 
 palities which now constitute the consolidated 
 town. He possessed a vigorous and finely culti- 
 vated understanding, gentle affections, and in all 
 respects a perfect integrity of character. Mr. Con- 
 rad's poems are in his best sonnet dedicated to his 
 father. His maternal grandfather, John Wilkes 
 Kittera, was a learned lawyer, long at the head 
 of the bar of Lancaster, which county he repre- 
 sented in Congress, and an intimate friend of the 
 elder President Adams, who appointed him the 
 federal attorney-general for the state. 
 
 Mr. Conrad studied law with his uncle, Mr. 
 Thomas Kittera, a distinguished jurist who 
 represented Philadelphia several years in the na- 
 tional legislature, and was admitted to practice in 
 1830. While a student he wrote his first tragedy, 
 "Conrad of Naples," which was successfully pro- 
 duced in the principal theatres of the country, and 
 has been regarded by his friends as the best of his 
 poems. He withdrew it from the stage, and with 
 characteristic carelessness as to his literary pro- 
 ductions, has suffered it to be lost. About the 
 time of his early admission to the bar, being mar- 
 ried, he connected himself with the press, and 
 after having shared in the editorial duties of seve- 
 ral journals, commenced in 1832 the publication 
 of the ''Daily Intelligencer," some years after- 
 wards united with the ancient " Philadelphia Ga- 
 zette," in the management of which he was asso- 
 ciated with Condt Ragtjet, the able oeconomist, 
 subsequently well known as our chivalric minis- 
 ter, during a stormy crisis, at Rio Janeiro. The 
 arduous labors of the editor's room enfeebled his 
 health, and in 1834 he resumed the practice of 
 his profession, and in the following year was called 
 30 
 
 to the bench. He was the youngest man, with, 
 perhaps, the exception of Judge Wilson, ever 
 dignified with the ermine in Pennsylvania. In 
 March, 1838, he was elected to a court of higher 
 and more extended jurisdiction, and in 1840, by 
 an executive of conflicting politics, and against the 
 protests of the administration party, on the unan- 
 imous recommendation of the bar was appointed 
 to a still more elevated judicial position. It be- 
 came his duty to try many of the most important 
 cases ever adjudicated in the commonwealth, aris- 
 ing from those mercantile convulsions which a few 
 years ago crushed the most powerful corporations 
 and threw their officers and dependants before the 
 bar of justice. A change occurred in the judicial 
 system of which he had been a minister, and de- 
 clining a place in the newly constituted court, he 
 resumed the place of a counsellor and advocate. 
 
 His interest in public affairs soon led him to un- 
 dertake the leading articles of the " North Ameri- 
 can," and the editorial charge of" Graham's Maga- 
 zine." More recently he has been president of 
 one of the more important western railroad com- 
 panies, and on the union of the various municipa- 
 lities of Philadelphia into one great city, was elect- 
 ed by an extraordinary majority its first chief ma- 
 gistrate. To the duties of this office, involving the 
 establishment of a new and complicated system of 
 administration, he has since devoted himself. 
 
 The literary labors of Judge Conrad have for 
 the most part been but relaxations from more ardu- 
 ous and less congenial pursuits; yet in a career 
 singularly various, and always laborious, he has 
 probably written as much for the press as any 
 man so young. Most of his productions, in prose 
 or verse, have been occasional, and have not di- 
 verted him from what he may have conceived to 
 be the paramount obligations of practical life. His 
 " Aylmere" was written in intervals of leisure dur- 
 ing a period in which he was not absent for a day 
 from the bench. It was intended for Mr. Forrest, 
 and has proved the most successful American 
 drama yet written. After deriving a large amount 
 of money from its popularity on the American 
 stage, Mr. Forrest presented it with equal good 
 fortune in the theatres of Great Britain and Ire- 
 land. Mr. Davenport also played in it nearly 
 every night for an entire season in London. At 
 the request of Mr. Forrest the author wrote ano- 
 ther tragedy for him; it is entitled "The Heretic," 
 and is founded on the massacre of St. Bartholo- 
 mew; but though accepted by the actor, and paid 
 for with his usual liberality, it has not been pro- 
 duced on the stage. 
 
 In 1852 Judge Conrad published in one vol- 
 ume " Aylmere or the Bondman of Kent, and other 
 Poems," and he has prepared for the press a work 
 
 465 
 
466 
 
 ROBERT T. CONRAD. 
 
 under the title of "Bible Breathings," some por- 
 tions of which have appeared in the periodicals. 
 " Aylmere" is his principal production, and its 
 merits as a poem are not less remarkable than 
 those it possesses as an acting play. The hero, 
 known in history as Jack Cade, Aylmere, Men- 
 pall, or Mortimer, leader of the English pea- 
 santry in the insurrection of 1450, is a noble sub- 
 ject for a republican dramatist, and Judge Con- 
 rad has presented him in the splendid colors of 
 a patriot, sharing the extremest sufferings of the 
 oppressed masses, knowing their rights, and brav- 
 ing all dangers for their vindication. The influ- 
 ence of institutions upon literature is strikingly 
 illustrated in the different treatment which " Mr. 
 John Aylmere, physician," as he is styled in 
 contemporary records — a man of talents and dis- 
 cretion, according to the best authorities — receives 
 from Shakspeare, who pleases a court by con- 
 temptuous portrayal of his own peer in social ele- 
 vation, and from Judge Conrad, who, "in the 
 audience of the people," delineates a man of the 
 people as possessed of that respectability which 
 
 justifies his eminence. The vehement, daring, 
 and aspiring character of Aylmere, softened and 
 harmonized by a fine enthusiasm, is happily con- 
 trasted with the gentle nature of his wife, which 
 is delineated with much delicacy, and presents 
 frequent occasions for the author to show that 
 conspicuous as are his powers as a rhetorician, 
 displayed appropriately in the passionate declama- 
 tion of the master in the play's movement, he is not 
 less at home in passages of repose and tender grace. 
 The other principal poems of Judge Conrad, 
 are "The Sons of the Wilderness," and a series 
 of " Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer," marked alike 
 by earnestness, vigor, and pathos; and in his vol- 
 ume are a considerable number of shorter pieces, 
 of which some of the most characteristic are here 
 copied. The finest examples of his imagination, 
 passion, and skill in the details of art, are undoubt- 
 edly to be found in his dramatic poems, but from 
 these it is extremely difficult to make satisfactory 
 extracts, so dependent for its effect is every sentence 
 upon the lines to which it is in relation, or the cha- 
 racter or situation of the person speaking. 
 
 ON A BLIND BOY, 
 
 SOLICITING CHARITY BY PLAYING ON HIS FLUTE. 
 
 " Had not God, for some wise purpose, steeled 
 The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, 
 And barbarism itself have pitied him." 
 
 ' T is vain ! They heed thee not ! Thy flute's meek 
 
 tone 
 Thrills thine own breast alone. As streams that 
 
 Over the desert rock, whose sterile frown 
 Melts not beneath the soft and crystal tide, 
 So passes thy sweet strain o'er hearts of stone. 
 Thine outstretched hands, thy lips unuttered moan, 
 Thine orbs upturning to the darkened sky, 
 (Darkened, alas ! poor boy, to thee alone !) 
 Are all unheeded here. The)' pass thee by : — 
 Away! Those tears unmarked, fall from thy 
 
 sightless eye! 
 Ay, get thee gone, benighted one ! Away ! 
 This is no place for thee. The buzzing mart 
 Of selfish trade, the glad and garish day, 
 Are not for strains like thine. There is no heart 
 To echo to their soft appeal : — depart ! 
 Go seek the noiseless glen, where shadows reign, 
 Spreading a kindred gloom; and there, apart 
 From the cold world, breathe out thy pensive strain; 
 Better to trees and rocks, than heartless man, 
 
 complain ! 
 I pity thee! thy life a live-long night; 
 No friend to greet thee, and no voice to cheer; 
 No hand to guide thy darkling steps aright, 
 Or from thy pale face wipe th' unbidden tear. 
 I pity thee ! thus dark and lone and drear ! 
 Yet haply it is well. The world from thee 
 Hath veiled its wintry frown, its withering sneer, 
 Th' oppressor's triumph, and the mocker's glee: 
 Why, then, rejoice, poor boy — rejoice thou can'st 
 
 not see ! 
 
 THE STRICKEN* 
 
 Heavy ! heavy ! Oh, my heart 
 
 Seems a cavern deep and drear, 
 From whose dark recesses start, 
 
 Flutteringly, like birds of night, 
 Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, 
 
 Screaming in their flight; 
 Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep, 
 Spreading a horror dim — a woe that cannot weep ! 
 Weary ! weary ! What is life 
 
 But a spectre-crowded tomb? 
 Startled with unearthly strife — 
 
 Spirits fierce in conflict met, 
 In the lightning and the gloom, 
 
 The agony and sweat ; 
 Passions wild and powers insane, 
 And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Pro- 
 methean pain ! 
 Gloomy — gloomy is the day ; 
 
 Tortured, tempest-tost the night ; 
 Fevers that no founts allay — 
 
 Wild and wildering unrest — 
 Blessings festering into blight — • 
 
 A gored and gasping breast ! 
 
 From their lairs what terrors start, 
 
 At that deep earthquake voice— the earthquake 
 
 of the heart ! 
 Hopeless ! hopeless ! Every path 
 
 Is with ruins thick bestrown ; 
 Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe 
 
 All the greenness of my heart 
 And I now am Misery's own — 
 
 We never more shall part ! 
 My spirit's deepest, darkest wave 
 Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep ! sleep ! 
 
 the grave ! the grave ! 
 
 * " Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me ; for I 
 am desolate and in misery." — Psalms. 
 
ROBERT T. CONRAD. 
 
 467 
 
 MY BROTHER.* 
 
 Forever gone ! I am alone — alone ! 
 
 Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet: 
 Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown, 
 
 E'en when the orb that lent that light is set. 
 Thou minglest with my hopes — does Hope forget? 
 
 I think of thee, as thou wert at my side ; 
 
 I grieve, a whisper — "he too will regret;" 
 I doubt and ponder — "how will he decide"!" 
 I strive, but ' tis to win thy praises and thy pride. 
 
 For I thy praise could win — thy praise sincere. 
 
 How lovedst thou me — with more than woman's 
 love ! 
 And thou to me wert e'en as honor dear ! 
 
 Nature in one fond woof our spirits wove: 
 
 Like wedded vines enclasping in the grove, 
 We grew. Ah ! withered now the fairer vine ! 
 
 But from the living who the dead can move ? 
 Blending their sere and green leaves, there they 
 
 twine, 
 And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with 
 
 thine. 
 The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink 
 
 How we were wont to beat the briery wood; 
 Or clamber, boastful, up the craggy brink, 
 
 Where the rent mountain frowns upon the flood 
 
 That thrids that vale of beauty and of blood, 
 Sad Wyoming! The whispering past will tell, 
 
 How by the silver-browed cascade we stood, 
 And watched the sunlit waters as they fell 
 (So youth drops in the grave) down in the shadowy 
 
 dell. 
 And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave; 
 
 The wild-fowl startled, when to echo gay, 
 In that hushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave. 
 
 Or on the shaded hill-side how we lay, 
 
 And watched the bright rack on its beamy way, 
 Dreaming high dreams of glory and of pride; 
 
 What heroes we, in freedom's deadliest fray ! 
 How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide, 
 Looked to our skyey flag, and shouted, smiled, and 
 died! 
 
 Bright dreams — forever past ! I dream no more ! 
 
 Memory is now my being: her sweet tone 
 Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore — [one! 
 
 My tried, my true, my brave, bright-thoughted 
 
 Few have a friend — and such a friend ! But none 
 Have, in this bleak world, more than one; and he, 
 
 Ever mine own, mine only — he is gone ? 
 He fell — as hope had promised — for the free: 
 Our early dream, — alas ! it was no dream to thee ! 
 
 We were not near thee ! Oh ! I would have given, 
 To pillow in my arms thy aching head. 
 
 All that I love of earth or hope of heaven ! 
 But strangers laid thee in thy prairie-bed; 
 And though the drum was rolled, and tears were 
 shed, 
 
 * " He was asked whom he loved most, and he answered, 
 ' His brother ;' the person who put the question then asked 
 him, whom he loved next, and again he said ' his brother.' 
 'Whom in the third place?' and still it was 'My brother ;' 
 and so on till he put no more questions to him about it." 
 — Plutarch's Cato. 
 
 'T was not by those who loved thee first and best. 
 
 Now waves the billowy grass above the dead; 
 The prairie-herd tread on thy throbless breast; 
 Woe 'smell may not weep above thy place of rest. 
 
 Now must I turn to stone! Fair virtue, truth, 
 Faith, love, were living things when thou wert 
 here; 
 We shared a world, bright with the dew of youth, 
 And spanned by rainbow thoughts. Our souls 
 
 sincere 
 Knew, in their love, nor selfish taint, nor fear : 
 We would have smiled, and for each other died ! 
 
 All this to us how real and how dear! 
 But now my bosom's welling founts are dried, 
 Or pour, like ice-bound streams, a chilled and 
 voiceless tide. 
 
 Must it be ever thus? The festive hour 
 Is festive now no more; for dimpling joy 
 
 Smiles with thy smile; and music's melting power 
 Speaks to my soul of thee! The struggling sigh 
 Chokes the faint laugh; and from my swimming 
 eye, 
 
 The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall; 
 E'en as the hour that bade thee, brother, die, 
 
 Mingles with all my days and poisons all, 
 
 Mantling my life with gloom, as with a dead man's 
 pall. 
 
 Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone, 
 
 Mingle their spirits, and hereafter be 
 One in their nature, in their being one? 
 
 And may I not be blended thus with thee? 
 
 Parted in body, brother, bore not we 
 The self-same soul ! Ah me ! with restless pain, 
 
 My halved spirit yearneth to be free, 
 And clasp its other self: for I would fain, 
 Brother, be with the dead, to be with thee again ! 
 
 THE PRIDE OF WORTH. 
 
 There is a joy in worth, 
 A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm; 
 Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm, 
 
 Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth ; 
 Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm. 
 
 It asks, it needs no aid; 
 It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne: 
 There, in its self-created heaven, alone, 
 
 No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, 
 It sits a lesser God ; — life, life is all its own ! 
 
 The stoic was not wrong: 
 There is no evil to the virtuous brave; 
 Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave, 
 
 Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng, 
 He is himself— a man ! not life's nor fortune's slave. 
 
 Power and wealth and fame 
 Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide: 
 Give me but these, a spirit tempest-tried, 
 
 A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, 
 The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its 
 pride ! 
 
HENRY R. JACKSON. 
 
 [Born 1810.] 
 
 Henry R. Jackson is a native of Savannah, 
 Georgia, and was educated at the Franklin Col- 
 lege, in Athens. He was several years one of the 
 editors of the " Savannah Georgian," but on the 
 invasion of Mexico, in 1846, joined the Georgia 
 volunteers, as a colonel, and continued in the ar- 
 my until the close of the war. In 1849 he was 
 elected by the legislature one of the judges of the 
 Georgia eastern circuit, for four years, and in 1853 
 received the appointment of Minister Resident of 
 
 the United States at the court of Austria. Mr. 
 Jackson is the author of "Tallulah and other 
 Poems," published in Savannah in 1850. In this 
 volume are several pieces of uncommon merit. 
 That entitled " My Father," and one addressed 
 from the battle-field of Camargo, "To My Wife 
 and Child," are marked by simplicity and genu- 
 ine feeling, as others are by an enthusiastic affec- 
 tion for his native state, her scenery, traditions, 
 and institutions. 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 As die the embers on the hearth, 
 
 And o'er the floor the shadows fall, 
 And creeps the chirping cricket forth, 
 
 And ticks the deathwatch in the wall, 
 I see a form in yonder chair, 
 
 That grows beneath the waning light ; 
 There are the wan, sad features — there 
 
 The pallid brow, and locks of white ! 
 
 My father ! when they laid thee down, 
 
 And heap'd the clay upon thy breast, 
 And left thee sleeping all alone 
 
 Upon thy narrow couch of rest — ■ 
 I know not why, I could not weep, 
 
 The soothing drops refused to roll — 
 And oh, that grief is wild and deep 
 
 Which settles tearless on the soul ! 
 
 But when I saw thy vacant chair — 
 
 Thine idle hat upon the wall — 
 Thy book — the pencilled passage where 
 
 Thine eye had rested last of all — 
 The tree beneath whose friendly shade 
 
 Thy trembling feet had wandered forth- 
 The very prints those feet had made, 
 
 When last they feebly trod the earth — 
 
 And thought, while countless ages fled, 
 
 Thy vacant seat would vacant stand, 
 Unworn thy hat, thy book unread, 
 
 Effaced thy footsteps from the sand — 
 And widowed in this cheerless world, 
 
 The heart that gave its love to thee — ■ 
 Torn, like a vine whose tendrils curled 
 
 More closely round the fallen tree ! — 
 
 Oh, father ! then for her and thee 
 
 Gushed madly forth the scorching tears; 
 And oft, and long, and bitterly, 
 
 Those tears have gush'd in later years ; 
 For as the world grows cold around, 
 
 And things take on their real hue, 
 'T is sad to learn that love is found 
 
 Alone above the stars, with you ! 
 468 
 
 MY WIFE AND CHILD, 
 
 The tattoo beats ; the lights are gone ; 
 
 The camp around in slumber lies ; 
 The night with solemn pace moves on ; 
 
 The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; 
 But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, 
 
 And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 
 I think of thee, oh, dearest one ! 
 
 Whose love mine early life hath blest ; 
 Of thee and him — our baby son — 
 
 Who slumbers on thy gentle breast : — 
 God of the tender, frail and lone, 
 
 Oh, guard that little sleeper's rest ! 
 And hover, gently hover near 
 
 To her, whose watchful eye is wet — ■ 
 The mother, wife — the doubly dear, 
 
 In whose young heart have freshly met 
 Two streams of love, so deep and clear — 
 
 And cheer her drooping spirit yet ! 
 Now, as she kneels before thy throne, 
 
 Oh, teach her, Ruler of the skies ! 
 That while by thy behest alone 
 
 Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
 No tear is wept to thee unknown, 
 
 Nor hair is lost, nor sparrow dies ; 
 That thou canst stay the ruthless hand 
 
 Of dark disease, and soothe its pain — 
 That only by thy stern command 
 
 The battle's lost, the soldier slain ; 
 That from the distant sea or land 
 
 Thou bring'st the wanderer home again! 
 And when, upon her pillow lone, 
 
 Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 
 May happier visions beam upon 
 
 The brightening currents of her breast, — ■ 
 Nor frowning look, nor angry tone 
 
 Disturb the sabbath of her rest ! 
 Wherever fate those forms may throw, 
 
 Loved with a passion almost wild — 
 By day, by night — in joy or wo — 
 
 By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled — 
 From every danger, every foe, 
 
 Oh, God ! protect my wife and child ! 
 

 : ')s:-M 
 
 - ■ A W Graham fr,m a PamttnJ by S S Osgood. 
 
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EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 [Born, 1811. Died, 1849.] 
 
 The family of Mr. Poe is one of the oldest and 
 most respectable in Baltimore. David Poe, his 
 paternal grandfather, was a quartermaster-general 
 in the Maryland line during the Revolution, and 
 the intimate friend of Lafayette, who, during his 
 last visit to the United States, called personally 
 upon the general's widow, and tendered her his 
 acknowledgments for the services rendered to him 
 by her husband. His great-grandfather, John Poe, 
 married, in England, Jane, a daughter of Admiral 
 James McBride, noted in British naval history, 
 and claiming kindred with some of the most illus- 
 trious English families. His father and mother 
 died within a few weeks of each other, of consump- 
 tion, leaving him an orphan, at two years of age. 
 Mr. John Allan, a wealthy gentleman of Rich- 
 mond, Virginia, took a fancy to him, and persua- 
 ded General Poe, his grandfather, to suffer him to 
 adopt him. He was brought up in Mr. Allan's 
 family ; and as that gentleman had no other chil- 
 dren, he was regarded as his son and heir. In 
 1816 he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to 
 Great Britain, visited every portion of it, and af- 
 terward passed four or five years in a school kept 
 at Stoke Newington, near London, by the Rever- 
 end Doctor Brans bt. He returned to America 
 in 1822, and in 1825 went to the Jefferson Uni- 
 versity, at Charlottesville, in Virginia, where he 
 led a very dissipated life, the manners of the col- 
 lege being at that time extremely dissolute. He 
 took the first honours, however, and went home 
 greatly in debt. Mr. Allan refused to pay some 
 of his debts of honour, and he hastily quitted the 
 country on a Quixotic expedition to join the Greeks, 
 then struggling for liberty. He did not reach his 
 original destination, however, but made his way to 
 St. Petersburg, in Russia, where he became involved 
 in difficulties, from which he was extricated by the 
 late Mr. Henry Middleton, the American min- 
 ister at that capital. He returned home in 1829, 
 and immediately afterward entered the military 
 academy at West Point. In about eighteen months 
 from that time, Mr. Allan, who had lost his first 
 wife while Mr. Poe was in Russia, married again. 
 He was sixty-five years of age, and the lady was 
 young ; Poe quarrelled with her, and the veteran 
 husband, taking the part of his wife, addressed him 
 an angry letter, which was answered in the same 
 spirit. He died soon after, leaving an infant son 
 the heir to his property, and bequeathed Poe noth- 
 ing. 
 
 The army, in the opinion of the young cadet, 
 was not a place for a poor man ; so he left West 
 Point abruptly, and determined to maintain him- 
 self by authorship. He had printed, while in 
 the military academy, a small volume of poems, 
 
 most of which were written in early youth. They 
 illustrated the character of his abilities, and justi- 
 fied his anticipations of success. For a consider- 
 able time, however, his writings attracted but little 
 attention. At length, in 1831, the proprietor of 
 a weekly literary gazette in Baltimore offered two 
 premiums, one for the best story in prose, and the 
 other for the best poem. In due time our author 
 sent in two articles, both of which were successful 
 with the examining committee, and popular upon 
 their appearance before the public. The late Mr. 
 Thomas W. White had then recently established 
 " The Southern Literary Messenger," at Richmond, 
 and upon the warm recommendation of Mr. John 
 P. Kennedy, who was a member of the commit- 
 tee that has been referred to, Mr. Poe was engaged 
 by him to be its editor. He continued in this sit- 
 uation about a year and a half, in which he wrote 
 many brilliant articles, and raised the " Messen- 
 ger" to the first rank of literary periodicals. 
 
 He next removed to Philadelphia, to assist Mr. 
 W. E. Burton in the editorship of the " Gentle- 
 man's Magazine," a miscellany that in 1840 was 
 merged in " Graham's Magazine," of which Mr. 
 Poe became one of the principal writers, particu- 
 larly in criticism, in which his papers attracted 
 much attention, by their careful and skilful analy- 
 sis, and generally caustic severity. At this period, 
 however, he appears to have been more ambitious 
 of securing distinction in romantic fiction, and a 
 collection of his compositions in this department, 
 published in 1841, under the title of "Tales of 
 the Grotesque and the Arabesque," established his 
 reputation for ingenuity, imagination, and extraor- 
 dinary power in tragical narration. 
 
 Near the end of 1844 Mr. Poe removed to New 
 York, where he conducted for several months a lit- 
 erary miscellany called. " The Broadway Journal." 
 In 1845 he published a volume of " Tales," and a 
 collection of his " Poems;" in 1846 wrote a series 
 of literary and personal sketches entitled " The Lit- 
 erati of New York City," which commanded much 
 attention; in 1848 gave to the public, first as a 
 lecture, and afterwards in print, "Eureka, a Prose 
 Poem;" and in the summer of 1849 delivered seve- 
 ral lectures, in Richmond and other cities, and on 
 the seventh of October, while on his way to New 
 York, died, suddenly, at Baltimore. 
 
 After his death a collection of his works, in three 
 volumes, was published in New York, edited by 
 me, in fulfilment of wishes he had expressed on 
 the subject. It embraced nearly all his writings, 
 except " Arthur Gordon Pym," a nautical romance, 
 originally printed in the "Southern Literary Mes- 
 senger," and a few pieces of humorous prose, in 
 which he was less successful than in other kinds of 
 
 469 
 
literature. In a m emoir which is contain ed in these 
 volumes I have endeavored to present, with as much 
 kindly reserve in regard to his life as was consistent 
 with justice, a view of his extraordinary intellectual 
 and moral character. Unquestionably he was a 
 man of genius, and those who are familiar with his 
 melancholy history will not doubt that his genius 
 was in a singular degree wasted or misapplied. 
 
 In poetry, as in prose, he was most successful in 
 the metaphysical treatment of the passions. His 
 
 poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, 
 and finished with consummate art. They illustrate 
 a morbid sensitiveness of feeling, a shadowy and 
 gloomy imagination, and a taste almost faultless in 
 the apprehension of that sort of beauty most agree- 
 able to his temper. His rank as a poet is with the 
 first class of his times. " The Raven," " Ulalume," 
 " The Bells," and several of his other pieces, will be 
 remembered as among the finest monuments of 
 the capacities of the English language." 
 
 THE CITY IN THE SEA. 
 
 Lo ! Death has rear'd himself a throne 
 In a strange city lying alone 
 Far down within the dim west, 
 Where the good and the bad and the worst and 
 
 the best 
 Have gone to their eternal rest. 
 There shrines, and palaces, and towers, 
 (Time-eaten towers that tremble not !) 
 Resemble nothing that is ours. 
 Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
 Resignedly beneath the sky 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
 No rays from the holy heaven come down 
 On the long night-time of that town ; 
 But light from out the lurid sea 
 Streams up the turrets silently — 
 Gleams up the pinnacles far and free — 
 Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls — 
 Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls — 
 Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers 
 Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers — 
 Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
 Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
 The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
 Resignedly beneath the sky 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 So blend the turrets and shadows there 
 That all seem pendulous in air, 
 While from a proud tower in the town 
 Death looks gigantically down. 
 
 There open fanes and gaping graves 
 Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 
 But not the riches there that lie 
 In each idol's diamond eye — 
 Not the gayly-jewell'd dead 
 Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
 For no ripples curl, alas ! 
 Along that wilderness of glass — 
 No swellings tell that winds may be 
 Upon some far-off happier sea — 
 No heavings hint that winds have been 
 On seas less hideously serene. 
 
 But lo, a stir is in the air ! 
 The wave — there is a movement there ! 
 As if the towers had thrust aside, 
 In slightly sinking, the dull tide — 
 As if their tops had feebly given 
 A void within the filmy heaven. 
 The waves have now a redder glow — 
 The hours are breathing faint and low — 
 
 And when, amid no earthly moans, 
 Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
 Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
 Shall do it reverence. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Amabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea ; 
 B ut we loved with a love that was more than love— 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 So that her highborn kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea), 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me 
 dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea — 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 471 
 
 ULALUME : A BALLAD. 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober ; 
 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere — ■ 
 
 The leaves they were withering and sere ; 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 
 Of my most immemorial year ; 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 
 In the misty mid region of Weir — 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
 Of cypress, I roamed with my soul — 
 Of cypress, with Psyche, my soul. 
 
 These were days when my heart was volcanic 
 As the scoriae rivers that roll — 
 As the lavas that restlessly roll 
 
 Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
 In the ultimate climes of the pole — 
 
 That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
 In the realms of the boreal pole. 
 
 Our talk had been serious and sober, 
 
 But our thoughts they were palsied and sere- 
 Our memories were treacherous and sere — 
 
 For we knew not the month was October, 
 And we marked not the night of the year — 
 (Ah, night of all nights in the year !) 
 
 We noted not the dim lake of Auber, 
 
 (Though once we had journeyed down here)- 
 
 Rememberd not the dank tarn of Auber, 
 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 And now, as the night was senescent, 
 
 And star-dials pointed to morn — 
 
 As the star-dials hinted of morn — 
 At the end of our path a liquescent 
 
 And nebulous lustre was born, 
 Out of which a miraculous crescent 
 
 Arose with a duplicate horn — 
 Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
 
 Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
 
 And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 
 
 She rolls through an ether of sighs — 
 
 She revels in a region of sighs : 
 She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
 
 These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
 And has come past the stars of the Lion 
 
 To point us the path to the skies — 
 
 To the Lethean peace of the skies — ■ 
 Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
 
 To shine on us with her bright eyes — ■ 
 Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
 
 With love in her luminous eyes." 
 
 But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
 
 Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust — ■ 
 Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 
 
 Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 
 Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must." 
 
 In terror she spoke, lelting sink her 
 Wings till they trailed in the dust — 
 
 In agony sobbed letting sink her 
 
 Plumes till they (railed in the dust — 
 Till they sorrowfully tra'led in the dust. 
 
 I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 
 Let us on by this tremulous light — 
 Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
 
 Its sybilic splendor is beaming 
 
 With hope and in beauty to-night : 
 
 See, it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
 
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
 And be sure it will lead us aright — 
 
 We safely may trust to a gleaming 
 That cannot but guide us aright, 
 Since it flickers up to heaven through the night." 
 
 Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
 And tempted her out of her gloom — 
 And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 
 
 And we passed to the end of the vista, 
 
 But were stopped by the door of a tomb — 
 By the door of a legended tomb ; 
 
 And I said, " What is written, sweet sister, 
 On the door of this legended tomb?" 
 
 She replied, " Ulalume — Ulalume — 
 
 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume !" 
 
 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
 As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
 As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
 And I cried, " It was surely October 
 On this very night of last year, 
 That I journeyed — I journeyed down here — 
 That I brought a dread burden down here — 
 On this night of all nights in the year 
 Oh, what demon has tempted me here 1 
 Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
 
 This misty mid region of Weir- 
 Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
 Said we then — the two, then — " Ah, can it 
 Have been that the woodlandish ghouls — 
 The pitiful, the merciful ghouls — 
 
 To bar up our way and to ban it 
 
 From the secret that lies in these wolds — 
 From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds — 
 
 Have drawn up the spectre of a planet 
 From the limbo of lunary souls — 
 
 This sinfully scintillant planet 
 
 From the hell of the planetary souls V 
 
 TO ZANTE. 
 
 Fath isle, that from the fairest of all flowers 
 
 Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! 
 How many memories of what radiant hours 
 
 At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! 
 How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 
 
 How many thoughts of what entombed hopes ! 
 Hew many visions of a maiden that is 
 
 No more — no more upon thy verdant slopes ! 
 No more ! alas, that magical sad sound 
 Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no 
 
 more — - 
 Thy memory no more ! Accursed ground 
 Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 
 O hyacinthine isle ! purple Zante ! 
 
 " Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante !" 
 
472 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 TO 
 
 I saw thee once — once only — years ago: 
 I must not say how many — but not many. 
 It was a July midnight; and from out 
 A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring, 
 Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, 
 There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 
 With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 
 Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 
 Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
 Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
 Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
 By thee and by the poetry of thy presence. 
 
 Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 
 I saw thee half reclining; while the moon 
 Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, 
 And on thine own, upturned — alas ! in sorrow. 
 
 Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight — 
 Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 
 That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
 To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? 
 No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept. 
 Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 
 And in an instant all things disappeared. 
 (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 
 The pearly lustre of the moon went out : 
 The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 
 The happy flowers and the repining trees, 
 Were seen no more : the very roses' odors 
 Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 
 All, all expired save thee — save less than thou : 
 Save only the divine light in thine eyes — 
 Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 
 I saw but them — they were the world to me. 
 I saw but them — saw only them for hours — 
 Saw only them until the moon went down. 
 What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwrilten 
 Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! 
 How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope ! 
 How silently serene a sea of pride ! 
 How daring an ambition ! yet how deep — 
 How fathomless a capacity for love ! 
 
 But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight 
 Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, 
 And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
 Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
 They would not go — they never yet have gone. 
 Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
 They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
 They follow me, they lead me through the years; 
 They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
 Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
 My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
 And purified in their electric fire — 
 And sanctified in their elysian fire. 
 They fill my soul witii beauty (which is hope), 
 And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to 
 In the sad, silent watches of my night ; 
 
 While even in the meridian glare of day 
 I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
 Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 Br a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have reached these lands but newly 
 From an ultimate dim Thul? — 
 From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime, 
 Out of space — out of time. 
 
 Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
 And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, 
 With forms that no man can discover 
 For the dews that drip all over ; 
 Mountains toppling evermore 
 Into seas without a shore ; 
 Seas that restlessly aspire, 
 Surging, unto skies of fire ; 
 Lakes that endlessly outspread 
 Their lone waters — lone and dead — 
 Their still waters — still and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily. 
 
 By the lakes that thus outspread 
 Their lone waters, lone and dead — 
 Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily — 
 By the mountains, near the river 
 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever — 
 By the gray woods — by the swamp 
 Where the toad and the newt encamp — 
 By the dismal tarns and pools 
 Where dwell the ghouls — 
 By each spot the most unholy, 
 In each nook most melancholy — 
 There the traveller meets aghast 
 Sheeted memories of the past ; 
 Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
 As they pass the wanderer by ; 
 White-robed forms of friends long given, 
 In agony, to earth — and heaven ! 
 
 For the heart whose woes are legion 
 'T is a peaceful, soothing region ; 
 For the spirit that walks in shadow 
 'Tis — oh, 'tis an Eldorado! 
 But the traveller, travelling through it, 
 May not, dare not openly view it ; 
 Never its mysteries are exposed 
 To the weak human eye unclosed ; 
 So wills its King, who hath forbid 
 The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 
 And thus the sad soul that here passes 
 Beholds it but through darken'd glasses. 
 
 By a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have wander'd home but newly 
 From this ultimate dim Thule. 
 
EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 473 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 Ah, broken is the golden bowl, 
 
 The spirit flown forever ! 
 Let the bell toll ! 
 A saintly soul 
 
 Floats on the Stygian river ; 
 And, Gusr de Vere, 
 Hast thou no tear 1 
 
 Weep now or never more ! 
 See, on yon drear 
 And rigid bier 
 
 Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 
 Come, let the burial-rite be read — 
 
 The funeral-song be sung ! — 
 An anthem for the queenliest dead 
 
 That ever died so young — 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead, 
 
 In that she died so young ! 
 
 " Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth, 
 
 And hated her for her pride ; 
 And when she fell in feeble health, 
 
 Ye bless' d her — that she died ! 
 How shall the ritual, then, be read 1 
 
 The requiem how be sung 
 By you — by yours, the evil eye — 
 
 By yours, the slanderous tongue 
 That did to death the innocence 
 
 That died, and died so young 1" 
 
 Peccavimus ; 
 
 But rave not thus ! 
 
 And let a sabbath song 
 
 Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may 
 feel no wrong ! 
 The sweet Lenore 
 Hath " gone before," 
 
 With Hope, that flew beside, 
 Leaving thee wild 
 For the dear child 
 
 That should have been thy bride — 
 For her, the fair 
 And debonair, 
 
 That now so lowly lies, 
 The life upon her yellow hair 
 
 But not within her eyes — 
 The life still there, 
 Upon her hair — 
 
 The death upon her eyes. 
 
 " Avaunt ! to-night 
 My heart is light. 
 
 No dirge will I upraise, 
 But waft the angel on her flight 
 
 With a psean of old days ! 
 Let no bell toll ! — 
 Lest her sweet soul, 
 
 Amid its hallow'd mirth, 
 Should catch the note, 
 As it doth float — 
 
 Up from the damned earth. 
 To friends above, from fiends below, 
 
 The indignant ghost is riven — 
 From hell unto a high estate 
 
 Far up within the heaven — 
 
 From grief and groan, 
 To a golden throne, 
 
 Beside the King of Heaven." 
 
 ISRAFEL.* 
 
 Its heaven a spirit doth dwell 
 
 " Whose heart-strings are a lute ;" 
 
 None sing so wildly well 
 
 As the angel Israfel, 
 
 And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
 
 Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
 Of his voice, all mute. 
 
 Tottering above 
 
 In her highest noon, 
 
 The enamour'd moon 
 Blushes with love, 
 
 While, to listen, the red levin 
 
 (With the rapid Pleiads, even, 
 
 Which were seven) 
 
 Pauses in heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choir 
 And the other listening things) 
 
 That Israfeli's fire 
 
 Is owing to that lyre 
 
 By which he sits and sings — 
 
 The trembling living wire 
 Of those unusual strings. 
 
 But the skies that angel trod, 
 
 Where deep thoughts are a duty — 
 
 Where Love's a grown-up god — ■ 
 Where the Houri glances are 
 
 Imbued with ail the beauty 
 Which we worship in a star. 
 
 Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
 
 Israfeli, who despisest 
 An unimpassion'd song; 
 To thee the laurels belong, 
 
 Best bard, because the wisest ! 
 Merrily live, and long ! 
 
 The ecstasies above 
 
 With thy burning measures suit — 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
 
 With the fervour of thy lute — 
 
 Well may the stars be mute ! 
 Yes, heaven is thine ; but this 
 
 Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
 
 Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 Where Israfel 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody, 
 While a bolder note than this might swell 
 
 From my lyre within the sky. 
 
 * ''And the angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a Into 
 and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." 
 
 Korax. 
 
474 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells — 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the titinabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 II. 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 in. 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In amad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavour 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
 Of the bells— [bells— 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 In the clamour and the clangour of the bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody 
 In the silence of the night, [compels ! 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone, 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls, 
 A psean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the psean of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the psean of the bells — ■ 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 TO F. S. O. 
 
 Thou wouldst be loved 1 — then let thy heart 
 
 From its present pathway part not ! 
 Being every thing which now thou art, 
 
 Be nothing which thou art not. 
 So with the world thy gentle ways, 
 
 Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
 Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
 
 And love — a simple duty. 
 
EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 475 
 
 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the crisis — 
 
 The danger, is past, 
 And the lingering illness 
 
 Is over at last — 
 And the fever called "Living" 
 
 Is conquer'd at last. 
 
 Sadly, I know 
 
 I am shorn of my strength, 
 And no muscle I move 
 
 As I lie at full length ; 
 But no matter ! — I feel 
 
 I am hetter at length. 
 
 And I rest so composedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead — 
 Might start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 
 The moaning and groaning, 
 The sighing and sobbing, 
 
 Are quieted now, 
 
 With that horrible throbbing 
 
 At heart : — ah that horrible, 
 Horrible throbbing ! 
 
 The sickness — the nausea — 
 
 The pitiless pain — 
 Have ceased, with the fever 
 
 That madden'd my brain — 
 With the fever called " Living" 
 
 That burn'd in my brain. 
 And oh ! of all tortures, 
 
 That torture the worst 
 Has abated — the terrible 
 
 Torture of thirst 
 For the napth aline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst : 
 I have drank of a water 
 
 That quenches all thirst : — 
 
 Of a water that flows, 
 With a lullaby sound, 
 
 From a spring but a very few 
 Feet under ground — 
 
 From a cavern not very far 
 Down under ground. 
 
 And ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy 
 
 And narrow my bed ; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a different bed — 
 And, to sleep, you must slumber 
 
 In just such a bed. 
 My tantalized spirit 
 
 Here blandly reposes, 
 Forgetting, or never 
 
 Regretting, its roses — 
 Its old agitations 
 
 Of myrtles and roses : 
 For now, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 
 A holier odour 
 
 About it, of pansies — 
 A rosemary odour, 
 
 Commingled with pansies — 
 With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 And so it lies happily, 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the truth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie — 
 Drown'd in a bath 
 
 Of the tresses of Annie. 
 She tenderly kiss'd me, 
 
 She fondly caress'd, 
 And then I fell gently 
 
 To sleep on her breast — 
 Deeply to sleep 
 
 From the heaven of her breast. 
 W r hen the light was extinguish'd, 
 
 She cover'd me warm, 
 And she pray'd to the angels 
 
 To keep me. from harm — 
 To the queen of the angels 
 
 To shield me from harm. 
 And I lie so composedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 (Knowing her love,) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 And I rest so contentedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 (With her love at my breast.) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 That you shudder to look at me, 
 
 Thinking me dead : — 
 But my heart it is brighter 
 
 Than all of the many 
 Stars of the sky, 
 
 For it sparkles with Annie — 
 It glows with the light 
 
 Of the love of my Annie — 
 With the thought of the light 
 
 Of the eyes of my Annie. 
 
 TO ONE IN PARADISE. 
 
 Thou wast all that to me, love, 
 For which my soul did pine — 
 
 A green isle in the sea, love, 
 A fountain and a shrine, 
 
 All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers, 
 And all the flowers were mine. 
 
 Ah, dream too bright to last ! 
 
 Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise 
 But to be overcast ! 
 
 A voice from out the Future cries, 
 " On ! on !"— but o'er the Past 
 
 (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies 
 Mute, motionless, aghast ! 
 
 For, alas ! alas ! with me 
 The light of life is o'er I 
 No more — no more — no more — 
 
 (Such language holds the solemn sea 
 To the sands upon the shore) 
 
476 
 
 EDGAR A, POE. 
 
 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 
 Or the stricken eagle soar ! 
 
 And all my days are trances, 
 And all my nightly dreams 
 
 Are where thy dark eye glances, 
 And where thy footstep gleams — 
 
 In what ethereal dances, 
 By what eternal streams. 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 Ojtce upon a midnight dreary, 
 While I ponder'd, weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 
 Volume of forgotten loi-e, 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, 
 Suddenly there came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, 
 
 Rapping at my chamber door. 
 « 'Tis some visiter," I mutter'd, 
 
 " Tapping at my chamber door — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, 
 It was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember 
 
 Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
 Eagerly I wish'd the morrow ; 
 Vainly I had tried to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — 
 
 Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden 
 
 Whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain 
 Rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrill'd me — fill'd me with fantastic 
 
 Terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating 
 Of my heart, I stood repeating 
 « 'Tis some visiter entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door — 
 Some late visiter entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door ; — 
 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger ; 
 
 Hesitating then no longer, 
 
 « Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly 
 
 Your forgiveness I implore ; 
 But the fact is I was napping, 
 And so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, 
 
 Tapping at my chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you," — 
 
 Here I open'd wide the door : 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more ! 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, 
 Long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
 
 Ever dared to dream before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, 
 
 And the darkness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken 
 
 Was the whisper'd word, " Lenore !" 
 This I whisper'd, and an echo 
 
 Murmur'd back the word, " Lenore !" 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Then into the chamber turning, 
 All my soul within me burning, 
 Soon I heard again a tapping 
 
 Somewhat louder than before. 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is 
 Something at my window lattice ; 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, 
 
 And this mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, 
 
 And this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more !" 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, 
 When, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepp'd a stately raven 
 
 Of the saintly days of yore ; 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; 
 Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, 
 
 Perch'd above my chamber door — 
 Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door — 
 
 Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling 
 
 My sad fancy into smiling, 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum 
 
 Of the countenance it wore, 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
 Thou," I said, " art sure no craven, 
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven, 
 
 Wandering from the Nightly shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is 
 
 On the Night's Plutonian shore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvell'd this ungainly 
 Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — 
 
 Little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing 
 That no living human being 
 Ever yet was bless'd with seeing 
 
 Bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
 
 Bust above his chamber door, 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the raven sitting lonely 
 On the placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in 
 
 That one word he did outpour. 
 Nothing farther then he utter'd — ■ 
 Not a feather then he flutter' d — 
 Till I scarcely more than mutter'd 
 
 " Other friends have flown before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, 
 
 As my hopes have flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said " Nevermore." 
 
EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 477 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken 
 
 By reply so aptly spoken, 
 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters 
 
 Is its only stock and store 
 Caught from some unhappy master 
 Whom unmerciful Disaster 
 Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, 
 
 Till his songs one burden bore — 
 Till the dirges of his Hope the 
 
 Melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of ' Nevermore,' — of ' Nevermore.' " 
 
 But the raven still beguiling 
 All my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight! wheel'd a cushion'd seat in 
 
 Front of bird, and bust and door ; 
 Then upon the velvet sinking, 
 I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking 
 
 What this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
 
 Gaunt and ominous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, 
 
 But no syllable expressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now 
 
 Burn'd into my bosom's core ; 
 This and more I sat divining, 
 With my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining 
 
 That the lamplight gloated o'er; 
 But whose velvet violet lining 
 
 With the lamplight gloating o'er, 
 
 She shall press, ah, never more ! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
 Perfum'd from an unseen censer, 
 Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls 
 
 Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 "Wretch," I cried, « thy God hath lent thee 
 By these angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe 
 
 From thy memories of Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, 
 
 And forget this lost Lenore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether 
 
 Tempest toss'd thee here ashore, 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, 
 On this desert land enchanted — 
 On this home by Horror haunted — 
 
 Tell me truly, I implore — 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead 1 
 
 Tell me — tell me, I implore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil — 
 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 
 By that heaven that bends above us — 
 
 By that God we both adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
 If, within the distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden 
 
 Wliom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
 Whom the angels name Lenore." 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 "Be that word our sign of parting, 
 Bird or fiend !" I shriek'd, upstarting — 
 « Get thee back into the tempest 
 
 And the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token 
 Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — ■ 
 
 Quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, 
 
 And take thy form from off my door !" 
 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, 
 Still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 Of a demon that is dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming 
 
 Throws his shadow on the floor; 
 And my soul from out that shadow 
 
 That lies floating on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 THE CONQUEROR WORM. 
 
 Lo ! 'tis a gala night 
 
 Within the lonesome latter years ! 
 An angel throng, bewing'd, bedight 
 
 In veils, and drown 'd in tears, 
 Sit in a theatre, to see 
 
 A play of hopes and fears, 
 While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
 Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
 
 Mutter and mumble low, 
 And hither and thither fly — 
 
 Mere puppets they, who come and go 
 At bidding of vast formless things 
 
 That shift the scenery to and fro, 
 Flapping from out their Condor wings 
 
 Invisible Wo ! 
 
 That motley drama ! — oh, be sure 
 
 It shall not be forgot ! 
 With its Phantom chased for evermore, 
 
 By a crowd that seize it not, 
 Through a circle that ever returneth in 
 
 To the self-same spot, 
 And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 
 
 And Horror the soul of the plot. 
 
 But see, amid the mimic rout, 
 
 A crawling shape intrude ! 
 A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
 
 The scenic solitude! 
 It writhes ! — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs, 
 
 The mimes become its food, 
 And the angels sob at vermin fangs 
 
 In human gore imbued. 
 
478 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 Out — out are the lights — out all ! 
 
 And, over each quivering form, 
 The curtain, a funeral pall, 
 
 Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
 And the angels, all pallid and wan, 
 
 Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
 That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 
 
 Its hero the Conqueror Worm. 
 
 THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys, 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace 
 
 (Snow-white palace) rear'd its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion 
 
 It stood there ! 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair. 
 
 Banners, yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow ; 
 (This, all this, was in the olden 
 
 Time, long ago.) 
 And every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odour went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley 
 
 Through two luminous windows saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law ; 
 Round about a throne, where, sitting 
 
 (Porphyrogene !) 
 In state his glory well-befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace-door, 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
 
 Assail'd the monarch's high estate ; 
 (Ah ! let us mourn, for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) 
 And round about his home the glory 
 
 That blush'd and bloom'd, 
 Is but a dim-remember'd story 
 
 Of the old time entomb'd. 
 
 And travellers now within that valley, 
 Through the red-litten windows see 
 
 Vast forms, that move fantastically 
 To a discordant melody ; 
 
 While, like a rapid, ghastly river, 
 
 ■ Through the pale door, 
 
 A hideous throng rush out for ever, 
 And laugh — but smile no more. 
 
 THE SLEEPER. 
 
 At midnight, in the month of June, 
 I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
 An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, 
 Exhales from out her golden rim, 
 And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
 Upon the quiet mountain-top, 
 Steals drowsily and musically 
 Into the universal valley. 
 The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 
 The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
 Wrapping the mist about its breast, 
 The ruin moulders into rest ; 
 Looking like Lethe, see, the lake 
 A conscious slumber seems to take, 
 And would not for the world awake. 
 All beauty sleeps ! — and, lo ! where lies, 
 With casement open to the skies, 
 Irene and her destinies ! 
 
 O, lady bright, can it be right, 
 
 This lattice open to the night 1 
 
 The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 
 
 Flit through thy chamber, in and out, 
 
 And wave the curtain-canopy 
 
 So fitfully, so fearfully, 
 
 Above the closed and fringed lid 
 
 'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid, 
 
 That o'er the floor and down the wall, 
 
 Like ghosts, the shadows rise and fall. 
 
 O, lady dear, hast thou no fearl 
 
 Why and what art thou dreaming here 1 
 
 Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 
 
 A wonder to our garden-trees ! 
 
 Strange is thy pallor — strange thy dress — 
 
 Stranger thy glorious length of tress, 
 
 And this all-solemn silentness ! 
 
 The lady sleeps. 0, may her sleep, 
 Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
 Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
 This bed, being changed for one more holy, 
 This room for one more melancholy, 
 I pray to God that she may lie 
 Forever with unclosed eye ! 
 My love she sleeps. 0, may her sleep, 
 As it is lasting, so be deep ! 
 Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
 Far in the forest, dim and old, 
 For her may some tall tomb unfold — 
 Some tomb that oft hath flung its black 
 And wing-like pannels, fluttering back, 
 Triumphant o'er the crested palls 
 Of her grand family funerals, — 
 Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 
 Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
 In childhood, many an idle stone, — 
 Some vault from out whose sounding door 
 She ne'er shall force an echo more, 
 Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin, 
 It was the dead who groan' d within. 
 
ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 [Born, 1811.] 
 
 Ms. Street was born in Poughkeepsie, one 
 of tne most beautiful of the many large towns 
 upon the Hudson, on the eighteenth of December, 
 1811. General Randall S. Street, his father, 
 was an officer in active service during our second 
 war with England, and subsequently several years 
 a representative in Congress; and his paternal 
 grandfather was a direct and lineal descendant of 
 the Reverend Nicholas Street, who came to 
 this country soon after the landing of John Car- 
 ver, and was ordained minister of the first church 
 in New Haven, in 1659. His mother's father 
 was Major Andrew Billings, of the revolution- 
 ary army, who was connected by marriage with 
 the influential and wealthy family of the Liv- 
 ingstons, which has furnished for some two 
 centuries so many eminent citizens of the State 
 of New York. 
 
 When the poet was about fourteen years of age 
 his father removed to Monticello, in the county of 
 Sullivan. Up to this period he had been in an 
 academy at Poughkeepsie, and had already writ- 
 ten verses in which is exhibited some of that pe- 
 culiar taste, and talent for description, for which 
 his later works are so much distinguished. Sulli- 
 van is what is called a " wild county," though it is 
 extremely fertile where well cultivated. Its scenery 
 is magnificent, and its deep forests, streams as clear 
 as dew-drops, gorges of piled rock and black shade, 
 mountains and valleys, could hardly fail to waken 
 into life all the faculties that slumbered in the brain 
 of a youthful poet. 
 
 Mr. Street studied law in the office of his 
 father, and, in the first years after his admission 
 to the bar, attended the courts of Sullivan county ; 
 but in the winter of 1839 he removed to Albany, 
 and has since successfully practised his profession 
 in that city. 
 
 His " Nature," a poem read before the literary 
 societies of the college at Geneva, appeared in 
 1 840 ; " The Burning of Schenectady and other 
 Poems," in 1843, and "Drawings and Tintings," 
 a collection of pieces chiefly descriptive, in 1844. 
 The last and most complete edition of his poems 
 was published by Clark and Austin, of New York, 
 in 1845. 
 
 Mr. Street, as has been intimated above, is a 
 descriptive poet, and in his particular department 
 he has, perhaps, no superior in this country. He 
 has a hearty love of rural sports and pastimes, a 
 quick perception of the grand and beautiful, and 
 he writes with apparent ease and freedom, from 
 the impulses of his own heart, and from actual 
 observations of life and nature. 
 
 The greatest merits of any style of writing are 
 clearness, directness and condensation. Diffuse- 
 
 ness is even more objectionable in verse than in 
 prose, and in either is avoided by men of taste. A 
 needless word is worse than one ill chosen, and 
 scarcely any thing is more offensive than a line, 
 though never was other one so musical, which 
 could be omitted without affecting the transpa- 
 rency or force of the attempted expression. The 
 heauty of Mr. Street's poems would sometimes 
 be greater but for the use of epithets which serve 
 no other purpose than to fill his lines, and his sin- 
 gular minuteness, though the most extreme par- 
 ticularity is a fault in description only when it 
 lessens the distinctness and fidelity of the general 
 impression. Occasionally his pictures of still na- 
 ture remind us of the daguerreotype, and quite as 
 often of the masterly landscapes of our Cole and 
 Doughty. Some of his exhibitions of the ordi- 
 nary phenomena of the seasons have rarely been 
 equalled. What, for example, could be finer than 
 these lines on a rain in June? — 
 
 Wafted up, 
 The stealing cloud with soft gray blinds the sky, 
 And, in its vapoury mantle, onward steps 
 The summer shower ; over the shivering grass 
 It merrily dances, rings its tinkling bells 
 Upon the dimpling stream, and moving on, 
 It treads upon the leaves with pattering feet 
 And softly nuirmur'd music. Off it glides, 
 And as its misty robe lifts up, and melts, 
 The sunshine, darting, with a sudden burst, 
 Strikes o'er the scene a magic brilliancy. 
 
 His works are full of passages not less picturesque 
 and truthful. The remarkable fidelity of Mr. 
 Street's description and narrative is best appre- 
 ciated by persons who are familiar with new set- 
 tlements in our northern latitudes. To others he 
 may seem always lashing himself into excitement, 
 to be extravagant, and to exaggerate beyond the 
 requirements of art. But within a rifle-shot of the 
 little village where nearly all his life has been 
 passed, are centurial woods, from which the howl- 
 ings of wolves have disturbed his sleep, and in 
 which he has tracked the bear and the deer, and 
 roused from their nests their winged inhabitants. 
 In the spring time he has looked from his window 
 upon fallow fires, and in the summer upon fields 
 of waving grain, spotted by undecayed stumps of 
 forest giants, and on trees that stand, charred and 
 black, in mournful observation of the settler's inva- 
 sion. Scenes and incidents which the inhabitant 
 of the city might regard as extraordinary have been 
 to him common and familiar, and his writings are 
 valuable as the fruits of a genuine American ex- 
 perience, to which the repose, of which it is com- 
 plained that they are deficient, does not belong. 
 They are on some accounts among the most pecu- 
 liarly national works in our literature. 
 
 479 
 
480 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 THE GRAY FOREST-EAGLE. 
 
 With storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye, 
 The gray forest-eagle is king of the sky ! 
 O, little he loves the green 'valley of flowers, 
 Where sunshine and song cheer the bright sum- 
 mer hours, 
 For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees 
 Only rippling of waters and waving of trees ; 4 
 There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums, 
 The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums ; 
 And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along, 
 There 's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song ; 
 The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss, 
 And there's naught but his shadow black gliding 
 
 across ; 
 But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges 
 
 the foam 
 Of the fierce, rock-lash'd torrent, he claims as his 
 
 home : 
 There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of 
 
 the flood, 
 And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten 
 
 wood ; 
 From the crag-grasping fir-top, where morn hangs 
 
 its wreath, 
 He views the mad waters white writhing beneath : 
 On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down, 
 With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown, 
 The kingfisher watches, where o'er him his foe, 
 The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more 
 
 low: 
 Now poised are those pinions and pointed that beak, 
 His dread swoop is ready, when, hark ! with a shriek, 
 His eye-balls red-blazing, high bristling his crest, 
 His snake-like neck arch'd, talons drawn to his 
 
 breast, 
 With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light, 
 The gray forest-eagle shoots down in his flight ; 
 One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck, 
 The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping 
 
 wreck ; 
 And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high 
 With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky. 
 
 A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar, 
 Proclaim the storm demon yet raging afar : [red, 
 The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more 
 And the roll of the thunder more deep and more 
 A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air, [dread; 
 And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair : 
 The lightning darts zig-zag and fork'd through the 
 
 gloom, 
 And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and 
 
 boom ; 
 The gray forest-eagle, where, where has he sped 1 
 Does he shrink to his eyrie, and shiver with dread 1 
 Does the glare blind his eye 1 Has the terrible blast 
 On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast? 
 JN r o, no, the brave eagle! he thinks not of fright; 
 The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight; 
 To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam, 
 To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream, 
 And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray, 
 And a clapping of pinions, he 's up and away ! 
 
 Away, O, away, soars the fearless and free ! 
 What recks he the sky's strife 1 — its monarch is he ! 
 The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight; 
 The blast sweeps against him, unwaver'd his flight; 
 High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form 
 Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm. 
 
 The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train, 
 And the splendour of sunshine is glowing again ; 
 Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky, 
 Waked bird-voices warble, fann'd leaf-voices sigh ; 
 On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle 
 
 and run, 
 The breeze bears the odour its flower-kiss has won, 
 And full on the form of the demon in flight 
 The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight ! 
 The gray forest-eagle ! 0, where is he now, 
 While the sky wears the smile of its God on its 
 
 brow! 
 There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's 
 
 pearly wreath, 
 With the speed of the arrow 't is shooting beneath ! 
 Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze, 
 Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze, 
 To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air, 
 A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there ; 
 'Tis the eagle — the gray forest-eagle — once more 
 He sweeps to his eyrie : his journey is o'er ! 
 
 Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away, 
 But the gray forest-eagle minds little his sway ; 
 The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hid- 
 den bloom, 
 Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and 
 
 a tomb ; 
 But the eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! 
 The green, tiny pine-shrub points up from the moss, 
 The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across ; 
 The beech-nut down dropping would crush it be- 
 neath, 
 But 'tis warm'd with heaven's sunshine, and 
 
 fann'd by its breath ; 
 The seasons fly past it, its head is on high, 
 Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky ; 
 On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates, 
 And the deer from his antlers the velvet-down grates ; 
 Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air 
 A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagg'd and bare, 
 Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth, 
 Its blown fragments strewing the place of its birth. 
 The eagle has seen it up-struggling to sight, 
 He has seen it defying the storm in its might, 
 Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting 
 But the gray forest-eagle is still as of yore, [o'er, 
 His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! 
 He has seen from his eyrie the forest below 
 In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and snow. 
 The thickets,deep wolf-lairs,the high crag his throne, 
 And the shriek of the panther has answer'd his own. 
 He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades, 
 And the smoke of his wigwams curl thick in the 
 
 glades ; 
 He has seen the proud forest melt breath-like away, 
 And the breast of the earth lying bare tn the day ; 
 
ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 481 
 
 He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair, 
 And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air ; 
 And his shriek is now answer'd, while sweeping 
 
 along, 
 By the low of the herd and the husbandman's song ; 
 He has seen the wild red man off-swept by his foes, 
 And he sees dome and roof where those smokes 
 
 once arose ; 
 But his naming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud! 
 
 An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high, 
 Is the gray forest-eagle, that king of the sky ! 
 It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth — 
 By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth ; 
 There rock'd by the wild wind, baptized in the foam, 
 It is guarded and cherish'd, and there is its home ! 
 When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of 
 
 kings, 
 Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings ; 
 Where wicked Oppression is arm'd for the weak, 
 Then rustles its pinion, then echoes its shriek ; 
 Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way, 
 And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey. 
 O, that eagle of Freedom ! when cloud upon cloud 
 Swathed the sky of my own native land with a 
 
 shroud, 
 When lightnings gleam'd fiercely, and thunder- 
 bolts rung, 
 How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung! 
 Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce 
 
 through the air 
 With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there ; 
 Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on, 
 Till the rainbow of Peace crown'd the victory won. 
 O, that eagle of Freedom! age dims not his eye, 
 He has seen Earth's mortality spring, bloom,and die! 
 He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall, 
 He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all : 
 He has seen our own land with wild forests o'er- 
 
 spread, 
 He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head ; 
 And his presence will bless this, his own, chosen 
 Till the archangel's fiat is set upon time, [clime, 
 
 FOWLING. 
 
 A iionif in September, the east is yet gray ; 
 Come, Carlo! come, Jupe! we '11 try fowling to-day: 
 The fresh sky is bright as the bright face of one, 
 A sweeter than whom the sun shines not upon ; 
 And those wreathed clouds that melt to the breath 
 
 of the south, 
 Are white as the pearls of her beautiful mouth: 
 My hunting-piece glitters, and quick is my task 
 In slinging around me my pouch and my flask ; 
 Cease, dogs, your loud yelpings, you '11 deafen my 
 
 brain ! 
 Desist from your rambles, and follow my train. 
 
 Here, leave the geese, Carlo, to nibble their grass, 
 Though they do stretch their long necks, and hiss 
 
 as we pass ■ 
 A nd the fierce little bantam, that flies your attack, 
 Then struts, flaps, and crows, with such airs, at 
 
 your back ; „, 
 
 And the turkey, too, smoothing his plumes in your 
 
 face, 
 Then ruffling so proud, as you bound from the place ; 
 Ha ! ha ! that old hen, bristling up mid her brood, 
 Has taught you a lesson, I hope, for your good ; 
 By the wink of your eye, and the droop of your crest, 
 I see your maraudings are now put at rest. 
 
 The rail-fence is leap'd, and the wood-boughs are 
 
 round, 
 And a moss-couch is spreadfor my footon the ground: 
 A shadow has dimm'd the leaves' amethyst glow, 
 The first glance of Autumn, his presence to show : 
 The beech-nut is ripening above in its sheath, 
 Which will burst with the black frost, and drop it 
 
 beneath. 
 The hickory hardens, snow-white, in its burr, [fir ; 
 And the cones are full grown on the hemlock and 
 The hopple's red berries are tinging with brown, 
 And the tips of the sumach have darken'd their down; 
 The white, brittle Indian-pipe lifts up its bowl, 
 And the wild turnip's leaf curls out broad like a 
 
 scroll ; 
 The cohosh displays its white balls and red stems, 
 And the braid of the mullen is yellow with gems ; 
 While its rich, spangled plumage the golden-rod 
 
 shows, 
 And the thistle yields stars to each air-breath that 
 
 blows. 
 
 A quick, startling whirr now bursts loud on my ear, 
 The partridge ! the partridge! swiftpinion'dbyfear, 
 Low onward he whizzes, Jupe yelps as he sees, 
 And we dash through the brushwood, to note 
 
 where he trees ; 
 I see him ! his brown, speckled breast is display'd 
 On the branch of yon maple, that edges the glade ; 
 My fowling-piece rings, Jupe darts forward so fleet, 
 While loading, he drops the dead bird at my feet: 
 I pass by the scaurberries' drops of deep red, 
 In their green, creeping leaves, where he daintily fed, 
 And his couch near the root, in the warm forest- 
 mould, 
 Where he wallow'd, till sounds his close danger 
 foretold. 
 
 On yon spray, the bright oriole dances and sings, 
 With his rich, crimson bosom, and glossy black 
 
 wings ; 
 And the robin comes warbling, then flutters away, 
 For I harm not God's creatures so tiny as they ; 
 But the quail, whose quick whistle has lured me 
 
 along, 
 No more will recall his stray'd mate with his song, 
 And the hawk that is circling so proud in the blue, 
 Let him keep a. look-out, or he '11 tumble down too ! 
 He stoops — the gun echoes — he flutters beneath, 
 His yellow claws curl'd, and fierce eyes glazed in 
 
 death : 
 Lie there, cruel Arab ! the mocking-bird now 
 Can rear her young brood, without fear of thy blow; 
 And the brown wren can warble his sweet little lay, 
 Nor dread more thy talons to rend and to slay ; 
 And, with luck, an example I '11 make of that crow, 
 For my green,sprouting wheat kne wno hungrier foe; 
 But the rascal seems down from his summit to scoff, 
 And as I creep near him, he croaks, and is off. 
 
482 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 The woods shrink away, and wide spreads the 
 
 morass, 
 With junipers cluster'd, and matted with grass ; 
 Trees, standing like ghosts, their arms jagged and 
 
 bare, 
 And hung with gray lichens, like age-whiten'd hair. 
 The tamarack here and there rising between, 
 Its boughs clothed with rich, star-like fringes of 
 
 green, 
 And clumps of dense laurels, and brown-headed 
 
 flags, 
 And thick, slimy basins, black dotted with snags : 
 Tread softly now, Carlo ! the woodcock is here, 
 He rises — his long bill thrust out like a spear ; 
 The gun ranges on him — his journey is sped ; 
 Quick scamper, my spaniel ! and bring in the dead ! 
 
 We plunge in the swamp — the tough laurels are 
 
 round ; 
 No matter ; our shy prey not lightly is found ; 
 Another up-darts, but unharm'd is his flight; 
 Confound it ! the sunshine then dazzled my sight; 
 But the other my shot overtakes as he flies : 
 Come, Carlo ! come, Carlo ! I wait for my prize ; 
 One more — still another — till, proofs of my sway, 
 •From my pouch dangle heads, in a ghastly array. 
 
 'From this scene of exploits, now made birdless, I 
 
 pass ; 
 'Pleasant Pond gleams before me, a mirror of glass : 
 The boat's by the marge, with green branches 
 
 supplied, 
 ,From the keen-sighted duck my approaches to 
 
 hide; 
 A flock spots the lake ; now crouch, Carlo, below ! 
 And I move with light paddle, on softly and slow, 
 By that wide lily-island, its meshes that weaves 
 Of rich yellow globules, and green oval leaves. 
 I watch them ; how bright and superb is the sheen 
 Of their plumage, gold blended with purple and 
 
 green ; 
 How graceful their dipping — how gliding their 
 
 way! 
 Are they not all too lovely to mark as a prey 1 
 One flutters, enchain' d, in those brown, speckled 
 
 stems, 
 His yellow foot striking up bubbles, like gems, 
 While another, with stretch'd neck, darts swiftly 
 
 across 
 To the grass, whose green points dot the mirror- 
 like gloss. 
 But I pause in my toil ; their wise leader, the drake, 
 Eyes keen the queer thicket afloat on the lake ; 
 Now they group close together — both barrels ! — 
 
 O, dear ! 
 What a diving, and screaming, and splashing are 
 
 here ! 
 The smoke-curls melt off, as the echoes rebound, 
 Hurrah ! five dead victims are floating around ! 
 
 But "cloud-land" is tinged now with sunset, and 
 
 bright 
 On the water's smooth polish stretch long lines 
 
 of light; 
 The headlands their masses of shade, too, have 
 
 lain, 
 And I pull with my spoil to the margin again. 
 
 A FOREST WALK. 
 
 A ioteit sky, a cloudless sur., 
 
 A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers 
 O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won, 
 
 To the cool forest's shadowy bowers ; 
 One of the paths all round that wind, 
 
 Traced by the browsing herds, I choose, 
 And sights and sounds of human kind 
 
 In nature's lone recesses lose ; 
 The beech displays its marbled bark, 
 
 The spruce its green tent stretches wide, 
 While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark, 
 
 The maple's scallop'd dome beside : 
 All weave on high a verdant roof, 
 That keeps the very sun aloof, 
 Making a twilight soft and green, 
 Within the column'd, vaulted scene. 
 
 Sweet forest-odours have their birth 
 
 From the clothed boughs and teeming earth : 
 
 Where pine-cones dropp'd, leaves piled ana dead, 
 Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern, 
 With many a wild flower's fairy urn, 
 
 A thick, elastic carpet spread ; 
 Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, 
 Resolving into soil, is sunk ; 
 There, wrench'd but lately from its throne, 
 
 By some fierce whirlwind circling past, 
 Its huge roots mass'd with earth and stone, 
 
 One of the woodland kings is cast. 
 
 Above, the forest-tops are bright 
 With the broad blaze of sunny light : 
 But now a fitful air-gust parts 
 
 The screening branches, and a glow 
 Of dazzling, startling radiance darts 
 
 Down the dark stems, and breaks below: 
 The mingled shadows off are roll'd, 
 The sylvan floor is bathed in gold : 
 Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, 
 Display their shades of brown and green : 
 Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, 
 Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss ; 
 The robin, brooding in her nest, 
 Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast ; 
 And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
 I see the rabbit upward bound, 
 With pointed ears an instant look, 
 Then scamper to the darkest nook, 
 Where, with crouch'd limb, and staring eye, 
 He watches while I saunter by. 
 
 A narrow vista, carpeted 
 
 With rich green grass, invites my tread ; 
 
 Here showers the light in golden dots, 
 
 There sleeps the shade in ebon spots, 
 
 So blended, that the very air 
 
 Seems network as I enter there. 
 
 The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum 
 
 Afar has sounded on my eai, 
 Ceasing his beatings as I come, 
 
 Whirrs to the sheltering branches near ; 
 The little milk-snake glides away, 
 The brindled marmot dives from day ; 
 \nd now, between the boughs, a space 
 Of the blue, laughing sky I trace : 
 
ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 483 
 
 On each side shrinks the bowery shade ; 
 Before me spreads an emerald glade ; 
 The sunshine steeps its grass and moss, 
 That couch my footsteps as I cross ; 
 Merrily hums the tawny bee, 
 The glittering humming-bird I see ; 
 Floats the bright butterfly along, 
 The insect choir is loud in song: 
 A spot of light and life, it seems 
 A fairy haunt for fancy dreams. 
 
 Here stretch'd, the pleasant turf I press, 
 In luxury of idleness ; 
 Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky, 
 Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye; 
 While murmuring grass, and waving trees, 
 Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze, 
 And water-tones that tinkle near, 
 Blend their sweet music to my ear ; 
 And by the changing shades alone 
 The passage of the hours is known. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 A sable pall of sky — the billowy hills, 
 
 Swathed in the snowy robe that winter throws 
 
 So kindly over nature — skeleton trees, 
 
 Fringed with rich silver drapery, and the stream 
 
 Numb in its frosty chains. Yon rustic bridge 
 
 Bristles with icicles; beneath it stand 
 
 The cattle-group, long pausing while they drink 
 
 From the ice-hollow'd pools, that skim in sheets 
 
 Of delicate glass, and shivering as the air [trunks, 
 
 Cuts with keen, stinging edge ; and those gaunt 
 
 Bending with ragged branches o'er the bank, 
 
 Seem, with their mocking scarfs of chilling white, 
 
 Mourning for the green grass and fragrant flowers, 
 
 That summer mirrors in the rippling flow 
 
 Of the bright stream beneath them. Shrub and rock 
 
 Are carved in pearl, and the dense thicket shows 
 
 Clusters of purest ivory. Comfortless 
 
 The frozen scene, yet not all desolate. 
 
 Where slopes, by tree and bush, the beaten track, 
 
 The sleigh glides merrily with prancing steeds, 
 
 And the low homestead, nestling by its grove, 
 
 Clings to the leaning hill. The drenching rain 
 
 Had fallen, and then the large, loose flakes had 
 
 shower' d, 
 Quick freezing where they lit; and thus the scene, 
 By winter's alchymy, from gleaming steel 
 Was changed to sparkling silver. Yet, though bright 
 And rich, the landscape smiles with lovelier look 
 When summer gladdens it. The fresh, blue sky 
 Bends like God's blessing o'er; the scented air 
 Echoes with bird-songs, and the emerald grass 
 Is dappled with quick shadows ; the light wing 
 Of the soft west makes music in the leaves ; 
 The ripples murmur as they dance along ; 
 The thicket by the road-side casts its cool 
 Black breadth of shade across the heated dust. 
 The cattle seek the pools beneath the banks, 
 Where sport the gnat-swarms, glancing in the sun, 
 Gray, whirling specks, and darts the dragon-fly, 
 A gold-green arrow ; and the wandering flock 
 Nibble the short, thick sward that clothes the brink, 
 Down sloping to the waters. Kindly tones 
 
 And happy faces make the homestead walls 
 
 A paradise. Upon the mossy roof 
 
 The tame dove coos and bows ; beneath the eaves 
 
 The swallow frames her nest ; the social wren 
 
 Lights on the flower-lined paling, and trills through 
 
 Its noisy gamut ; the humming-bird 
 
 Shoots, with that flying harp, the honey-bee, 
 
 Mid the trail'd honeysuckle's trumpet-bloom ; 
 
 Sunset wreathes gorgeous shapes within the west, 
 
 To eyes that love the splendour ; morning wakes 
 
 Light hearts to joyous tasks ; and when deep night 
 
 Breathes o'er the earth a solemn solitude, 
 
 With stars for watchers, or the holy moon, 
 
 A sentinel upon the steeps of heaven, 
 
 Smooth pillows yield their balm to prayer and trust, 
 
 And slumber, that sweet medicine of toil, 
 
 Sheds her soft dews and weaves her golden dreams. 
 
 THE SETTLER. 
 
 His echoing axe the settler swung 
 
 Amid the sea-like solitude, 
 And, rushing, thundering, down were flung 
 
 The Titans of the wood ; 
 Loud shriek'd the eagle, as he dash'd 
 From out his mossy nest, which crash'd 
 
 With its supporting bough, 
 And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd 
 
 On the wolf's haunt below. 
 Rude was the garb, and strong the frame 
 
 Of him who plied his ceaseless toil : 
 To form that garb the wild-wood game 
 
 Contributed their spoil ; 
 The soul that warm'd that frame disdain'd 
 The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd 
 
 Where men their crowds collect ; 
 The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd, 
 
 This forest-tamer deck'd. 
 The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees, 
 
 The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers, 
 The winds that swell'd their harmonies 
 
 Through those sun-hiding bowers, 
 The temple vast, the green arcade, 
 The nestling vale, the grassy glade, 
 
 Dark cave, and swampy lair : 
 These scenes and sounds majestic, made 
 
 His world, his pleasures, there. 
 His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot, 
 
 Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain, 
 And herbs and plants the woods knew not, 
 
 Throve in the sun and rain. 
 The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, 
 The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell, 
 
 All made a landscape strange, 
 Which was the living chronicle 
 
 Of deeds that wrought the change. 
 The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, 
 
 The rose of summer spread its glow, 
 The maize hung out its autumn fringe, 
 
 Rude winter brought his snow ; 
 And still the lone one labour'd there, 
 His shout and whistle broke the air, 
 
 As cheerily he plied 
 His garden-spade, or drove his share 
 Along the hillock's side. 
 
484 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood 
 
 Roaring and crackling on its path, 
 And scorching earth, and melting wood, 
 
 Beneath its greedy wrath ; 
 He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, 
 Trampling the pine tree with its foot, 
 
 And darkening thick the day 
 With streaming bough and sever'd root, 
 
 Hurl'd whizzing on its way. 
 His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, 
 
 The grim bear hush'd his savage growl ; 
 In blood and foam the panther gnash'd 
 
 His fangs, with dying howl ; 
 The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, 
 Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, 
 
 And, with its moaning cry, 
 The beaver sank beneath the wound 
 
 Its pond-built Venice by. 
 Humble the lot, yet his the race, 
 
 When Liberty sent forth her cry, 
 ''-, Who throng'd in conflict's deadliest place, 
 
 To fight — to bleed — to die ! 
 Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, 
 By hope through weary years were led, 
 
 And witness'd York Town's sun 
 Blaze on a nation's banner spread, 
 
 A nation's freedom won. 
 
 AN AMERICAN FOREST IN SPRING. 
 
 Now fluttering breeze, now stormy blast, 
 
 Mild rain, then blustering snow: 
 Winter's stern, fettering cold is past, 
 
 But, sweet Spring ! where art thou 1 
 The white cloud floats mid smiling blue, 
 The broad, bright sunshine's golden hue 
 
 Bathes the still frozen earth : 
 'T is changed ! above, black vapours roll : 
 We turn from our expected stroll, 
 
 And seek the blazing hearth. 
 Hark ! that sweet carol ! with delight 
 
 We leave the stifling room ! 
 The little blue-bird greets our sight, 
 
 Spring, glorious Spring, has come ! 
 The south wind's balm is in the air, 
 The melting snow-wreaths everywhere 
 
 Are leaping off in showers ; 
 And Nature, in her brightening looks, 
 Tells that her flowers, and leaves, and brooks, 
 
 And birds, will soon be ours. 
 A few soft, sunny days have shone, 
 
 The air has lost its chill, 
 A bright-green tinge succeeds the brown, 
 
 Upon the southern hill. 
 Off to the woods ! a pleasant scene ! 
 Here sprouts the fresh young wintergreen, 
 
 There swells a mossy mound ; 
 Though in the hollows drifts are piled, 
 The wandering wind is sweet and mild, 
 
 And buds are bursting round. 
 Where its long rings uncurls the fern, 
 
 The violet, nestling low, 
 Casts back the white lid of its urn, 
 
 Its purple streaks to show: 
 
 Beautiful blossom ! first to rise 
 
 And smile beneath Spring's wakening skies ; 
 
 The courier of the band 
 Of coming flowers, what feelings sweet 
 Gush, as the silvery gem we meet 
 
 Upon its slender wand. 
 
 A sudden roar — a shade is cast — 
 
 We look up with a start, 
 And, sounding like a transient blast, 
 
 O'erhead the pigeons dart ; 
 Scarce their blue glancing shapes the eye 
 Can trace, ere dotted on the sky, 
 
 They wheel in distant flight. 
 A chirp ! and swift the squirrel scours 
 Along the prostrate trunk, and cowers 
 
 Within its clefts from sight. 
 
 Amid the creeping pine, which spreads 
 
 Its thick and verdant wreath, 
 The scaurberry's downy spangle sheds 
 
 Its rich, delicious breath. 
 The bee-swarm murmurs by, and now 
 It clusters black on yonder bough : 
 
 The robin's mottled breast 
 Glances that sunny spot across, 
 As round it seeks the twig and moss 
 
 To frame its summer nest. 
 
 Warmer is each successive sky, 
 
 More soft the breezes pass, 
 The maple's gems of crimson lie 
 
 Upon the thick, green grass. 
 The dogwood sheds its clusters white, 
 The birch has dropp'd its tassels slight, 
 
 Cowslips are by the rill ; 
 The thresher whistles in the glen, 
 Flutters around the warbling wren, 
 
 And swamps have voices shrill. 
 
 A simultaneous burst of leaves 
 
 Has clothed the forest now, 
 A single day's bright sunshine weaves 
 
 This vivid, gorgeous show. 
 Masses of shade are cast beneath, 
 The flowers are spread in varied wreath. 
 
 Night brings her soft, sweet moon ; 
 Morn wakes in mist, and twilight gray 
 Weeps its bright dew, and smiling May 
 
 Melts blooming into June ! 
 
 THE LOST HUNTER. 
 
 Numb'd by the piercing, freezing air, 
 
 And burden'd by his game, 
 The hunter, struggling with despair, 
 
 Dragg'd on his shivering frame ; 
 The rifle he had shoulder'd late 
 Was trail' d along, a weary weight ; 
 
 His pouch was void of food ; 
 The hours were speeding in their flight, 
 And soon the long, keen, winter night 
 
 Would wrap the solitude. 
 
 Oft did he stoop a listening ear, 
 Sweep round an anxious eye, — 
 
 No bark or axe-blow could he hear. 
 No human trace descry. 
 
ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 485 
 
 His sinuous path, by blazes, wound 
 Among trunks group'd in myriads round ; 
 
 Through naked boughs, between 
 Whose,, tangled architecture, fraught 
 With many a shape grotesquely wrought, 
 
 The hemlock's spire was seen. 
 
 An antler'd dweller of the wild 
 
 Had met his eager gaze, 
 And far his wandering steps beguiled 
 
 Within an unknown maze ; 
 Stream, rock, and run-way he had cross'd, 
 Unheeding, till the marks were lost 
 
 By which he used to roam ; 
 And now, deep swamp and wild ravine 
 And rugged mountain were between 
 
 The hunter and his home. 
 
 A dusky haze, which slow had crept 
 
 On high, now darken'd there, 
 And a few snow-flakes fluttering swept 
 
 Athwart the thick, gray air, 
 Faster and faster, till between 
 The trunks and boughs, a mottled screen 
 
 Of glimmering motes was spread, 
 That tick'd against each object round 
 With gentle and continuous sound, 
 
 Like brook o'er pebbled bed. 
 
 The laurel tufts, that drooping hung 
 
 Close roll'd around their stems, 
 And the sear beech-leaves still that clung, 
 
 Were white with powdering gems. 
 But, hark ! afar a sullen moan 
 Swell'd out to louder, deeper tone, 
 
 As surging near it pass'd, 
 And, bursting with a roar, and shock 
 That made the groaning forest rock, 
 
 On rush'd the winter blast. 
 
 As o'er it whistled, shriek'd, and hiss'd, 
 
 Caught by its swooping wings, 
 The snow was whirl'd to eddying mist, 
 
 Barb'd, as it seem'd, with stings ; 
 And now 'twas swept with lightning flight 
 Above the loftiest hemlock's height, 
 
 Like drifting smoke, and now 
 It hid the air with shooting clouds, 
 And robed the trees with circling shrouds, 
 
 Then dash'd in heaps below. 
 
 Here, plunging in a billowy wreath, 
 
 There, clinging to a limb, 
 The suffering hunter gasp'd for breath, 
 
 Brain reel'd, and eye grew dim ; 
 As though to whelm him in despair, 
 Rapidly changed the blackening air 
 
 To murkiest gloom of night, 
 Till naught was seen around, below, 
 But falling flakes and mantled snow, 
 
 That gleam'd in ghastly white. 
 At every blast an icy dart 
 
 Seem'd through his nerves to fly, 
 The blood was freezing to his heart- 
 Thought whisper'd he must die. 
 The thundering tempest echo'd death, 
 He felt it in his tighten'd breath ; 
 
 Spoil, rifle dropp'd, and slow 
 
 As the dread torpor crawling came 
 Along his staggering, stiffening frame, 
 He sunk upon the snow. 
 
 Reason forsook her shatter'd throne, — 
 
 He deem'd that summer-hours 
 Again around him brightly shone 
 
 In sunshine, leaves, and flowers ; 
 Again the fresh, green, forest-sod, 
 Rifle in hand, he lightly trod, — 
 
 He heard the deer's low bleat; 
 Or, couch'd within the shadowy nook, 
 He drank the crystal of the brook 
 
 That murmur'd at his feet. 
 
 It changed ; — his cabin roof o'erspread, 
 
 Rafter, and wall, and chair, 
 Gleam'd in the crackling fire, that shed 
 
 Its warmth, and he was there ; 
 His wife had clasp'd his hand, and now 
 Her gentle kiss was on his brow, 
 
 His child was prattling by, 
 The hound crouch'd, dozing, near the blaze, 
 And through the pane's frost-pictured haze 
 
 He saw the white drifts fly. 
 
 That pass'd ; — before his swimming sight 
 
 Does not a figure bound, 
 And a soft voice, with wild delight, 
 
 Proclaim the lost is found 1 
 No, hunter, no ! 'tis but the streak 
 Of whirling snow — the tempest's shriek — 
 
 No human aid is near ! 
 Never again that form will meet 
 Thy clasp'd embrace — those accents sweet 
 
 Speak music to thine ear. 
 
 Morn broke ; — away the clouds were chased, 
 
 The sky was pure and bright, 
 And on its blue the branches traced 
 
 Their webs of glittering white. 
 Its ivory roof the hemlock stoop'd, 
 The pine its silvery tassel droop'd, 
 
 Down bent the burden'd wood, 
 And, scatter'd round, low points of green, 
 Peering above the snowy scene, 
 
 Told where the thickets stood. 
 
 In a deep hollow, drifted high, 
 
 A wave-like heap was thrown, 
 Dazzlingly in the sunny sky 
 
 A diamond blaze it shone ; 
 The little snow-bird, chirping sweet, 
 Dotted it o'er with tripping feet ; 
 
 Unsullied, smooth, and fair, 
 It seem'd, like other mounds, where trunk 
 And rock amid the wreaths were sunk, 
 
 But, ! the dead was there. 
 Spring came with wakening breezes bland, 
 
 Soft suns and melting rains, 
 And, touch'd by her Ithuriel wand, 
 
 Earth bursts its winter-chains. 
 In a deep nook, where moss and grass 
 And fern-leaves wove a verdant mass, 
 
 Some scatter'd bones beside, 
 A mother, kneeling with her child, 
 Told by her tears and wailings wild 
 
 That there the lost had died. 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 IBorn, 1312.] 
 
 William H. Burleigh was born in the town 
 of Woodstock, in Connecticut, on the second day 
 of February, 1812. His paternal ancestors came 
 to this country from Wales ; and on both sides he 
 is descended from the stern old Puritan stock, 
 being on the mother's a lineal descendant of Go- 
 vernor Bradford, whose name appears conspicu- 
 ously and honourably in the early annals of Mas- 
 sachusetts. An intermediate descendant, the grand- 
 father of Mr. Burleigh, served with credit under 
 Washington, in the war of the Revolution. Such 
 ancestral recollections are treasured, with just 
 pride, in many an humble but happy home in 
 New England. 
 
 In his infancy, Mr. Burleigh's parents removed 
 to Plainfield, in his native state, where his father 
 was for many years the principal of a popular 
 academy, until the loss of sight induced him to 
 abandon his charge, before his son had attained an 
 age to derive much benefit from his instructions. 
 He retired to a farm, and the boy's time was mainly 
 devoted to its culture, varied by the customary at- 
 tendance in a district-school through the winter- 
 months, until he was sixteen, when he proposed to 
 become an apprentice to a neighbouring clothier, but 
 abandoned the idea after two weeks' trial, from an 
 inveterate loathing of the coarseness and brutality 
 of those among whom he was set to labour. Here, 
 however, while engaged in the repulsive cares of 
 his employment, he composed his first sonnet, 
 which was published in a gazette printed in the vi- 
 cinity. Returning to his father's house, he in the 
 following summer became an apprentice to a 
 
 village printer, whom he left after eight months' 
 tedious endurance, leaving in his "stick" a fare- 
 well couplet to his master, which is probably re- 
 membered unforgivingly to this day. He did not, 
 however, desert the business, of which he had 
 thus obtained some slight knowledge, but con- 
 tinued to labour as half-apprentice, journeyman, 
 sub-editor, etc., through the next seven years, 
 during which he assisted in the conduct of per- 
 haps as many periodicals, deriving thereby little 
 fame and less profit. In December, 1834, while 
 editor of "The Literary Journal," in the city of 
 Schenectady, he married an estimable woman, 
 who has since "divided his sorrows and doubled 
 his joys." In July, 1836, abandoning the printing 
 business for a season, he commenced a new career 
 as a public lecturer, under the auspices of a phi- 
 lanthropic society, and in his new employment he 
 continued for two years. At the close of that period 
 he assumed the editorship of "The Christian Wit- 
 ness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which he held 
 two years and a half, when he resigned it, to take 
 charge of "The Washington Banner," a gazette 
 published at Allegheny, on the opposite side of the 
 Ohio. Between this duty, and the study of the 
 law, his time is now divided. 
 
 His contributions to the periodical literature of 
 the country commenced at an early age, and have 
 been continued at intervals to the present day. 
 "The New Yorker" was for years his favourite 
 medium of communication with the public. A 
 collection of his poems appeared in Philadelphia, 
 early in 1840. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 She hath gone in the spring-time of life, 
 
 Ere her sky had been dimm'd by a cloud, 
 While her heart with the rapture of love was yet rife, 
 
 And the hopes of her youth were unbow'd — 
 From the lovely, who loved her too well ; 
 
 From the heart that had grown to her own ; 
 From the sorrow which late o'er her young spirit fell, 
 
 Like a dream of the night she hath flown ; 
 And the earth hath received to its bosom its trust — 
 Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust. 
 
 The spring, in its loveliness dress'd, 
 
 Will return with its music-wing'd hours, 
 And, kiss'd by the breath of ihe sweet south-west, 
 
 The Duds shall burst out in flowers ; 
 And the flowers her grave-sod above, 
 
 Though the sleeper beneath recks it not, 
 Shall thickly be strown by the hand of Love, 
 
 To cover with beauty the spot — 
 Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright, 
 Who faded and fell with so early a blight. 
 486 
 
 Ay, the spring will return — but the blossom 
 
 That bloom'd in our presence the sweetest, 
 By the spoiler is borne from the cherishing bosom, 
 
 The loveliest of all and the fleetest ! 
 The music of stream and of bird 
 
 Shall come back when the winter is o'er ; 
 But the voice that was dearest to us shall be heard 
 
 In our desolate chambers no more ! 
 The sunlight of May on the waters shall quiver — 
 The light of her eye hath departed forever ! 
 
 As the bird to its sheltering nest, 
 
 When the storm on the hills is abroad, 
 So her spirit hath flown from this world of unrest 
 
 To repose on the bosom of God ! 
 Where the sorrows of earth never more 
 
 May fling o'er its brightness a stain ; 
 Where, in rapture and love, it shall ever adore, 
 
 With a gladness unmingled with pain ; 
 And its thirst shall be slaked by the waters which 
 
 spring, 
 Like a river of light, from the throne of the King ! 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 487 
 
 There is weeping on earth for the lost ! 
 
 There is bowing in grief to the ground ! 
 But rejoicing and praise mid the sanctified host, 
 
 For a spirit in Paradise found ! 
 Though brightness hath pass'd from the earth, 
 
 Yet a star is new-born in the sky, 
 And a soul hath gone home to the land of its birth, 
 
 Where are pleasures and fulness of joy ! 
 And a new harp is strung, and a new song is given 
 To the breezes that float o'er the gardens of heaven ! 
 
 "LET THERE BE LIGHT." 
 
 Night, stern, eternal, and alone, 
 
 Girded with solemn silence round, 
 Majestic on his starless throne, 
 
 Sat brooding o'er the vast profound — 
 And there unbroken darkness lay, 
 
 Deeper than that which veils the tomb, 
 While circling ages wheel'd away 
 
 Unnoted mid the voiceless gloom. 
 
 Then moved upon the waveless deep 
 
 The quickening Spirit of the Loud, 
 And broken was its pulseless sleep 
 
 Before the Everlasting Word ! 
 " Let there be light !" and listening earth, 
 
 With tree, and plant, and flowery sod, 
 " In the beginning" sprang to birth, 
 
 Obedient to the voice of God. 
 
 Then, in his burning track, the sun 
 
 Trod onward to his joyous noon, 
 And in the heavens, one by one, 
 
 Cluster'd the stars around the moon — 
 In glory bathed, the radiant day 
 
 Wore like a king his crown of light — 
 And, girdled by the " Milky Way," 
 
 How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night ! 
 
 Bursting from choirs celestial, rang 
 
 Triumphantly the notes of song ; 
 The morning-stars together sang 
 
 In concert with the heavenly throng ; 
 And earth, enraptured, caught the strain 
 
 That thrill'd along her fields of air, 
 Till every mountain-top and plain 
 
 Flung back an answering echo there ! 
 
 Creator ! let thy Spirit shine 
 
 The darkness of our souls within, 
 And lead us by thy grace divine 
 
 From the forbidden paths of sin ; 
 And may that voice which bade the earth 
 
 From Chaos and the realms of Night, 
 From doubt and darkness call us forth 
 
 To God's own liberty and light ! 
 
 Thus, made partakers of Thy love, 
 
 The baptism of the Spirit ours, 
 Our grateful hearts shall rise above, 
 
 Renew'd in purposes and powers ; 
 And songs of joy again shall ring 
 
 Triumphant through the arch of heaven — 
 The glorious songs which angels sing, 
 
 Exulting over souls forgiven ! 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Juste, with its roses — June ! 
 The gladdest month of our capricious year, 
 With its thick foliage and its sunlight clear; 
 
 And with the drowsy tune 
 Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass 
 Laughingly on amid the springing grass ! 
 
 Earth, at her joyous coming, 
 Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ; 
 And Nature greets her with a benison ; 
 
 While myriad voices, humming 
 Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round, 
 Till seems the air an element of sound. 
 
 The overarching sky 
 Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue, 
 As if the light of heaven were melting through 
 
 Its sapphire home on high ; 
 Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast, 
 The clouds float on like spirits to their rest. 
 
 A deeper melody, 
 Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young 
 Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flung — 
 
 Gladsome, yet not of glee — 
 Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing 
 Above their cradled infants slumbering. 
 
 On the warm hill-side, where 
 The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass 
 Peepeth the luscious strawberry! As they pass, 
 
 Young children gambol there, 
 Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood, 
 And staining their bright faces with its blood. 
 
 A deeper blush is given 
 To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun 
 Day after day pours warmth the trees upon, 
 
 Till the rich pulp is riven ; 
 The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes, 
 And perils limb and neck to win the prize. 
 
 The farmer, in his field, 
 Draws the rich mould around the tender maize ; 
 While Hope, bright-pinion'd, points to coming days, 
 
 When all his toil shall yield 
 An ample harvest, and around his hearth 
 There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth. 
 
 Poised on his rainbow-wing. 
 The butterfly, whose life is but an hour, 
 Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower, 
 
 A gay and happy thing ; 
 Born for the sunshine and the summer-day, 
 Soon passing, like the beautiful, away ! 
 
 These are thy pictures, June ! [ers ! 
 
 Brightest of summer-months — thou month of flow- 
 First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours 
 
 Dance to the merry tune 
 Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout 
 Of childhood on the sunny hills peal'd out. 
 
 I feel it were not wrong 
 To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime, 
 Only that there the clouds and storms of time 
 
 Sweep not the sky along ; 
 The flowers — air — beauty — music — all are thine, 
 But brighter — purer — lovelier — more divine ! 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The sweet south wind, so long 
 Sleeping in other climes, on sunny seas, 
 Or dallying gayly with the orange-trees 
 
 In the bright land of song, 
 Wakes unto us, and laughingly sweeps by, 
 Like a glad spirit of the sunlit sky. 
 
 The labourer at his toil 
 Feels on his cheek its dewy kiss, and lifts 
 His open brow to catch its fragrant gifts — 
 
 The aromatic spoil 
 Borne from the blossoming gardens of the south — 
 While its faint sweetness lingers round his mouth. 
 
 The bursting buds look up 
 To greet the sunlight, while it lingers yet 
 On the warm hill-side, — and the violet 
 
 Opens its azure cup 
 Meekly, and countless wild flowers wake to fling 
 Their earliest incense on the gales of spring. 
 
 The reptile that hath lain 
 Torpid so long within his wintry tomb, 
 Pierces the mould, ascending from its gloom 
 
 Up to the light again — 
 And the lithe snake crawls forth from caverns chill, 
 To bask as erst upon the sunny hill. 
 
 Continual songs arise 
 From universal nature — birds and streams 
 Mingle their voices, and the glad earth seems 
 
 A second Paradise ! 
 Thrice blessed Spring! — thou bearest gifts divine! 
 Sunshine, and song, and fragrance — all are thine. 
 
 Nor unto earth alone — 
 Thou hast a blessing for the human heart, 
 Balm for its wounds and healing for its smart, 
 
 Telling of Winter flown, 
 And bringing hope upon thy rainbow wing, 
 Type of eternal life — thrice-blessed Spring ! 
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 The strife is o'er — Death's seal is set 
 
 On ashy lip and marble brow ; 
 'Tis o'er, though faintly lingers yet 
 
 Upon the cheek a life-like glow : 
 The feeble pulse hath throbb'd its last, 
 
 The aching head is laid at rest — 
 Another from our ranks hath pass'd, 
 
 The dearest and the loveliest ! 
 
 Press down the eyelids — for the light, 
 
 Erewhile so radiant underneath, 
 Is gone forever from our sight, 
 
 And davken'd by the spoiler, Death : 
 Press down the eyelids — who can bear 
 
 To look beneath their fringed fold ] 
 And softly part the silken hair 
 
 Upon the brow so deathly cold. 
 
 The strife is o'er ! The loved of years, 
 To whom our yearning hearts had grown, 
 
 Hath left us, with life's gathering fears 
 To struggle darkly and alone ; 
 
 Gone, with the wealth of love which dwelt, 
 Heart-kept, with holy thoughts and high- 
 Gone, as the clouds of evening melt 
 Beyond the dark and solemn sky. 
 
 Yet mourn her not — the voice of wo 
 
 Befits not this, her triumph-hour ; 
 Let Sorrow's tears no longer flow, 
 
 For life eternal is her dower ! 
 Freed from the earth's corrupt control, 
 
 The trials of a world like this, 
 Joy ! for her disembodied soul 
 
 Drinks at the fount of perfect bliss ! 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN ON VISITING- MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 We are scatter' d — we are scatter'd — 
 
 . Though a jolly band were we ! 
 Some sleep beneath the grave-sod, 
 
 And some are o'er the sea; 
 And Time hath wrought his changes 
 
 On the few who yet remain ; 
 The joyous band that once we were 
 
 Wc cannot be again ! 
 
 We are scatter'd — we are scatter'd! — 
 
 Upon the village-green, 
 Where we play'd in boyish recklessness, 
 
 How few of us are seen ! 
 And the hearts that beat so lightly 
 
 In the joyousness of youth — 
 Some are crumbled in the sepulchre, 
 
 And some have lost their truth. 
 
 The beautiful — the beautiful 
 
 Are faded from our track ! 
 We miss them and we mourn them, 
 
 But we cannot lure them back ; 
 For an iron sleep hath bound them 
 
 In its passionless embrace — 
 We may weep — but cannot win them 
 
 From their dreary resting-place. 
 
 How mournfully — how mournfully 
 
 The memory doth come 
 Of the thousand scenes of happiness 
 
 Around our childhood's home ! 
 A salutary sadness 
 
 Is brooding o'er the heart, 
 As it dwells upon remembrances 
 
 From which it will not part. 
 
 In memory — in memory — 
 
 How fondly do we gaze 
 Upon the magic loveliness 
 
 Of childhood's fleeting days ! 
 The sparkling eye — the thrilling tone — 
 
 The smile upon its lips : 
 They all have gone ! — but left a light 
 
 Which time cannot eclipse. 
 
 The happiness — the happiness 
 Of boyhood must depart; 
 
 Then comes the sense of loneliness 
 Upon the stricken heart ! 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 489 
 
 We will not, or we cannot fling 
 Its sadness from our breast, 
 
 We cling to it instinctively, 
 We pant for its unrest ! 
 
 We are scatter'd — we are scatter'd ! 
 
 Yet may we meet again 
 In a brighter and a purer sphere, 
 
 Beyond the reach of pain ! 
 Where the shadows of this lower world 
 
 Can never cloud the eye — 
 When the mortal hath put brightly on 
 
 Its immortality! 
 
 TO H. A. B. 
 
 Deem not, beloved, that the glow 
 
 Of love with youth will know decay ; 
 For, though the wing of Time may throw 
 
 A shadow o'er our way ; 
 The sunshine of a cloudless faith, 
 
 The calmness of a holy trust, 
 Shall linger in our hearts till death 
 
 Consigns our "dust to dust!" 
 
 The fervid passions of our youth — 
 
 The fervour of affection's kiss — 
 Love, born of purity and truth — 
 
 All memories of bliss — 
 These still are ours, while looking back 
 
 Upon the past with dewy eyes ; 
 0, dearest ! on life's vanish'd track 
 
 How much of sunshine lies ! 
 
 Men call us poor — it may be true 
 
 Amid the gay and glittering crowd ; 
 We feel it, though our wants are few, 
 
 Yet envy not the proud. 
 The freshness of love's early flowers, 
 
 Heart-shelter'd through long years of want, 
 Pure hopes and quiet joys are ours, 
 
 That wealth could never grant. 
 
 Something of beauty from thy brow, 
 
 Something of lightness from thy tread, 
 Hath pass'd — yet thou art dearer now 
 
 Than when our vows were said : 
 A softer beauty round thee gleams, 
 
 Chasten'd by time, yet calmly bright ; 
 And from thine eye of hazel beams 
 
 A deeper, tenderer light : 
 
 An emblem of the love which lives 
 
 Through every change, as time departs ; 
 Which binds our souls in one, and gives 
 
 New gladness to our hearts ! 
 Flinging a halo over life 
 
 Like that which gilds the life beyond ! 
 Ah ! well I know thy thoughts, dear wife ! 
 
 To thoughts like these respond. 
 
 The mother, with her dewy eye, 
 Is dearer than the blushing bride 
 
 Who stood, three happy years gone by, 
 In beauty by my side! 
 
 Our Father, throned in light above, 
 Hath bless'd us with a fairy child — 
 
 A bright link in the chain of love — 
 The pure and un defiled : 
 
 Rich in the heart's best treasure, still 
 
 With a calm trust we '11 journey on, 
 Link'd heart with heart, dear wife ! until 
 
 Life's pilgrimage be done ! 
 Youth — beauty — passion— these will pass 
 
 Like every thing of earth away — 
 The breath-stains on the polish'd glass 
 
 Less transient are than they. 
 
 But love dies not — the child of God — 
 
 The soother of life's many woes- 
 She scatters fragrance round the sod 
 
 Where buried hopes repose ! 
 She leads us with her radiant hand 
 
 Earth's pleasant streams and pasture by, 
 Still pointing to a better land 
 
 Of bliss beyond the sky ! 
 
 TO 
 
 Hope, strewing with a liberal hand 
 
 Thy pathway with her choicest flowers, 
 Making the earth an Eden-land, 
 
 And gilding time's departing hours ; 
 Lifting the clouds from life's blue sky, 
 
 And pointing to that sphere divine 
 Where joy's immortal blossoms lie 
 
 In the rich light of heaven — be thine ! 
 
 Love, with its voice of silvery tone, 
 
 Whose music melts upon the heart 
 Like whispers from the world unknown, 
 
 When shadows from the soul depart — 
 Love, with its sunlight melting through 
 
 The mists that over earth are driven, 
 And giving earth itself the hue 
 
 And brightness of the upper-heaven — 
 
 Peace, hymning with her seraph-tones 
 
 Amid the stillness of thy soul, 
 Till every human passion owns 
 
 Her mighty but her mild control — 
 Devotion, with her lifted eye, 
 
 All radiant with the tears of bliss, 
 Looking beyond the bending sky 
 
 To worlds more glorious than this — 
 
 Duty, untiring in her toil 
 
 Earth's parch'd and sterile wastes among- 
 Zeal, delving in the rocky soil, 
 
 With words of cheer upon her tongue — 
 Faith, with a strong and daring hand 
 
 Rending aside the veil of heaven, 
 And claiming as her own the land 
 
 Whose glories to her view are given — 
 
 These, with the many lights that shine 
 
 Brightly life's pilgrim-path upon, — 
 These, with the bliss they bring, be thine, 
 
 Till purer bliss in heaven be won ; 
 Till, gather'd with the loved of time, 
 
 Whose feet the "narrow way" have trod, 
 Thy soul shall drink of joys sublime, 
 
 And linger in the smile of God ! 
 
490 
 
 WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Believe not the slander, my dearest Katrine ! 
 
 For the ice of the world hath not frozen my heart ; 
 In my innermost spirit there still is a shrine 
 
 Where thou art remember'd, all pure as thou art: 
 The dark tide of years, as it bears us along, 
 
 Though it sweep away hope in its turbulent flow, 
 Cannot drown the low voice of Love's eloquent song, 
 
 Nor chill with its waters my faith's early glow. 
 
 True, the world hath its snares, and the soul may 
 grow faint 
 
 In its strifes with the follies and falsehoods of 
 earth ; 
 And amidst the dark whirl of corruption, a taint 
 
 May poison the thoughts that are purest at birth. 
 Temptations and trials, without and within, 
 
 From the pathway of virtue the spirit may lure ; 
 But the soul shall grow strong in its triumphs o'er sin, 
 
 And the heart shall preserve its integrity pure. 
 
 The finger of Love, on my innermost heart, 
 
 Wrote thy name, adored ! when my feelings 
 were young ; 
 And the record shall 'bide till my soul shall depart, 
 
 And the darkness of death o'er my being be flung. 
 Then believe not the slander that says I forget, 
 
 In the whirl of excitement, the love that was thine ; 
 Thou wert dear in my boyhood, art dear to me yet: 
 
 For my sunlight of life is the smile of Katrine ! 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 " Like thee, O stream ! to glide in solitude 
 Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star, 
 Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar 
 
 Kept evermore aloof: methinks 'twere good 
 
 To live thus lonely through the silent lapse 
 Of my appointed time." Not wisely said, 
 Unthinking Quietist ! The brook hath sped 
 
 Its course for ages through the narrow gaps 
 Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain, 
 Or mid the eternal forests, not in vain ; 
 
 The grass more greenly groweth on its brink, 
 And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there, 
 
 And of its crystal waters myriads drink, 
 That else would faint beneath the torrid air. 
 
 THE TIMES. 
 
 Inaction now is crime. The old earth reels 
 Inebriate with guilt ; and Vice, grown bold, 
 Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold 
 
 Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels 
 
 The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels 
 In worship foul to Mammon, is contemn'd. 
 lie who hath kept his purer faith, and stemm'd 
 
 Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels 
 
 Of impious tramplers rescued peril'd right, 
 Is call'd fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers 
 Maliciously assail'd. The poor man's tears 
 
 Are unregarded ; the oppressor's might 
 
 Revered as law ; and he whose righteous way 
 Departs from evil, makes himself a prey. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 The ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, 
 Crowded with multitudinous life ; the din 
 Of toil and traffic, and the wo and sin, 
 The dweller in the populous city meets : 
 These have I left to seek the cool retreats 
 Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers 
 Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers, 
 And roof'd with ivy, on the mossy seats 
 Reclining, I can while away the hours 
 In sweetest converse with old books, or give 
 My thoughts to God; or fancies fugitive 
 
 Indulge, while over me their radiant showers 
 Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down, 
 And thanks to Him my meditations crown ! 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane, 
 And making mournful music for the mind, 
 While plays his interlude the wizard wind, 
 
 I hear the ringing of the frequent rain : 
 How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull, 
 
 Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain, 
 
 While busy thought calls up the past again, 
 And lingers mid the pure and beautiful 
 
 Visions of early childhood ! Sunny faces 
 Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans 
 Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, 
 
 And tread again in old familiar places ! 
 
 Such is thy power, Rain ! the heart to bless, 
 
 Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness! 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 Bold men were they, and true, that pilgrim-band, 
 Who plough'd with venturous prow the stormy 
 Seeking a home for hunted Liberty [sea, 
 
 Amid the ancient forests of a land 
 
 Wild, gloomy, vast, magnificently grand ! 
 
 Friends, country, hallow'd homes they left, to be 
 
 Pilgrims for Christ's sake, to a foreign strand — 
 Beset by peril, worn with toil, jet fret.' 
 
 Tireless in zeal, devotion, labour, hope ; 
 Constant in faith ; in justice how severe ! 
 Though fools deride and bigot-skeptics sneer, 
 
 Praise to their names ! If call'd like tnem to cope, 
 In evil times, with dark and evil powers, 
 O, be their faith, their zeal, their courage ours ! 
 
LOUIS LEGRAND NOBLE. 
 
 [Born, 1S12.] 
 
 The Reverend Lours Legrawd Noble was 
 born in the valley of the Butternut Creek, in Otsego 
 county, in New York. While he was a youth his 
 father removed to the banks of the Wacamutquiock, 
 now called the Huron, a small river in Michigan, and 
 there, among scenes of remarkable wildness and 
 beauty, he passed most of his time until the com- 
 mencement of his college-life. In a letter to me, 
 he says : " I was ever under a strong impulse to 
 imbody in language my thoughts, feelings, fancies, 
 as they sprung up in the presence of the rude but 
 
 beautiful things around me : the prairies on fire, 
 the sparkling lakes, the park-like forests, Indians 
 on the hunt, guiding their frail canoes amid the 
 rapids, or standing at night in the red light of their 
 festival fires. I breathed the air of poetry." 
 
 Mr. Noble was admitted to orders in the Pro- 
 testant Episcopal Church, in 1840. His principal 
 poetical work is « Ne-mah-min," an Indian story, 
 in three cantos, in which he has made good use 
 of his experience of forest life. In 1853 he published 
 in one volume, a Memoir of Mr. Cole, the painter. 
 
 THE CRIPPLE-BOY. 
 
 Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread 
 Where burr-oak boughs a coolness shed, 
 Alone he sat, a cripple-child, 
 With eyes so large, so dark and wild, 
 And fingers, thin and pale to see, 
 Locked upon his trembling knee. 
 A-gathering nuts so blithe and gay, 
 The children early tripp'd away; 
 And he his mother had besought 
 Under the oak to have him brought ; — 
 It was ever his seat when blackbirds sung 
 The wavy, rustling tops among ; — 
 They calm'd his pain,— they cheer'd his loneliness- 
 The gales, — the music of the wilderness. 
 
 Upon a prairie wide and wild 
 Look'd off that suffering cripple-child : 
 The hour was breezy, the hour was bright ;- 
 0, 'twas a lively, a lovely sight! 
 An eagle sailing to and fro 
 Around a flitting cloud so white — 
 Across the billowy grass below 
 Darting swift their shadows' light : — 
 And mingled noises sweet and clear, 
 Noises out of the ringing wood, 
 Were pleasing trouble in his ear, 
 A shock how pleasant to his blood : 
 O, happy world ! — Beauty and Blessing slept 
 On everything but him — he felt, and wept. 
 
 Humming a lightsome tune of yore, 
 
 Beside the open log-house door, 
 
 Tears upon his sickly cheek 
 
 Saw his mother, and so did speak ; — 
 
 " What makes his mother's Henri weep 1 
 
 You and I the cottage keep ; 
 
 They hunt the nuts and clusters blue, 
 
 Weary lads for me and you ; 
 
 And yonder see the quiet sheep ; — 
 
 Why, now — I wonder why you weep !" — 
 
 " Mother, I wish that I could be 
 
 A sailor on the breezy sea !" 
 " A sailor on the stormy sea, my son ! — 
 What ails the boy! — what have the breezes done !" 
 
 IT. 
 
 " I do ! — I wish that I could be 
 
 A sailor on the rolling sea : 
 
 In the shadow of the sails 
 
 I would ride and rock all day, 
 
 Going whither blow the gales, 
 
 As I have heard a seaman say : 
 
 I would, I guess, come back again 
 
 For my mother now and then ; 
 
 And the curling fire so bright, 
 
 When the prairie burns at night ; 
 
 And tell the wonders I had seen 
 
 Away upon the ocean green ;" — 
 " Hush ! hush ! talk not about the ocean so ; 
 Better at home a hunter hale to go." 
 
 Between a tear and sigh he smiled ; 
 And thus spake on the cripple-child : — 
 " I would I were a hunter hale, 
 Nimbler than the nimble doe, 
 Bounding lightly down the dale, 
 But that will never be, I know ! 
 Behind the house the woodlands lie ; 
 A prairie wide and green before ; 
 And I have seen them with my eye 
 A thousand times or more ; 
 Yet in the woods I never stray'd, 
 Or on the prairie-border play'd ; — 
 O, mother dear, that I could only be 
 A sailor-boy upon the rocking sea !" 
 
 TI. 
 
 You would have turned with a tear, 
 
 A tear upon your cheek ; 
 
 She wept aloud, the woman dear, 
 
 And further could not speak : 
 
 ^ 491 
 
The boy's it was a bitter lot 
 
 She always felt, I trow ; 
 
 Yet never till then its bitterness 
 
 At heart had grieved her so. 
 
 Nature had waked the eternal wish ; 
 
 — Liberty, far and wide ! — 
 
 And now, to win him health, with joy, 
 
 She would that morn have died. 
 Till noon, she kept the shady door-way chair, 
 But never a measure of that ancient air. 
 
 Piped the March-wind ; pinch'd and slow 
 The deer were trooping in the snow ; 
 He saw them out of the cottage-door, 
 The lame boy sitting upon the floor : 
 " Mother, mother, how long will it be 
 Till the prairie go like a waving sea 1 
 Will the baTe woods ever be green, and when 1 
 O, will it ever be summer again 1" — 
 She look'd in silence on her child : 
 That large eye, ever so dark and wild, 
 me, how bright ! — it may have been 
 That he was grown so pale and thin. 
 It came, the emerald month, and sweetly shed 
 Beauty for grief, and garlands for the dead. 
 
 TO A SWAN" 
 
 FLYING AT MIDNI&HT, IN THE VALE OF THE HUEON.* 
 
 Oh, what a still, bright night ! It is the sleep 
 Of beauteous Nature in her bridal hall. 
 See, while the groves shadow the shining lake, 
 How the full-moon does bathe their melting green ! — 
 I hear the dew-drop twang upon the pool. 
 Hark, hark, what music ! from the rampart hills, 
 How like a far-off bugle, sweet and clear, 
 It searches through the list'ning wilderness ! — 
 A Swan — I know it by the trumpet-tone : 
 Winging her pathless way in the cool heavens, 
 Piping her midnight melody, she comes. 
 
 Beautiful bird ! upon the dusk, still world 
 Thou fallest like an angel — like a lone 
 Sweet angel from some sphere of harmony. 
 Where art thou, where ] — no speck upon the blue 
 My vision marks from whence thy music ranges. 
 And why this hour — this voiceless hour — is thine, 
 And thine alone, I cannot tell. Perchance, 
 While all is hush and silent but the heart, 
 E'en thou hast human sympathies for heaven, 
 And singest yonder in the holy deep 
 Because thou hast a pinion. If it be, 
 Oh, for a wing, upon the aerial tide 
 To sail with thee a minstrel mariner ! 
 
 When to a rarer height thou wheelest up, 
 Hast thou that awful thrill of an ascension — 
 
 * The river Huron rises in the interior of Michigan, 
 and flows into Lake Erie. Its clear waters gave it the 
 name of its more mighty kinsman, Lake Huron. 
 
 The lone, lost feeling in the vasty vault 1 
 Oh, for thine ear, to hear the ascending tones 
 Range the ethereal chambers ! — then to feel 
 A harmony, while from the eternal depth 
 Steals nought but the pure star-light evermore ! 
 And then to list the echoes, faint and mellow, 
 Far, far below, breathe from the hollow earth, 
 For thee, soft, sweet petition, to return. 
 
 And hither, haply, thou wilt shape thy neck ; 
 And settle, like a silvery cloud, to rest, 
 If thy wild image, flaring in the abyss, 
 Startle thee not aloft. Lone aeronaut, 
 That catchest, on thine airy looking-out, 
 Glassing the hollow darkness, many a lake, 
 Lay, for the night, thy lily bosom here. 
 There is the deep unsounded for thy bath, 
 The shallow for the shaking of thy quills, 
 The dreamy cove, or cedar-wooded isle, 
 With galaxy of water-lilies, where, 
 Like mild Diana 'mong the quiet stars, 
 'Neath over-bending branches thou wilt move, 
 Till early warblers shake the crystal shower, 
 And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage. 
 
 But where art thou 1 — lost, — spirited away 
 To bowers of light by thy own dying whispers 1 
 Or does some billow of the ocean-air, 
 In its still roll around from zone to zone, 
 All breathless to the empyrean heave thee ? — 
 
 There is a panting in the zenith — hush! — 
 The Swan — how strong her great wing times the 
 She passes over high and quietly. [silence ! — 
 
 Now peals the living clarion anew ; 
 One vocal shower falls in and fills the vale. 
 What witchery in the wilderness it plays ! — 
 Shrill snort the affrighted deer ; across the lake 
 The loon, sole sentinel, screams loud alarm; — 
 The shy fox barks ; — tingling in every vein 
 I feel the wild enchantment ; — hark ! they come, 
 The dulcet echoes from the distant hills, 
 Like fainter horns responsive ; all the while, 
 From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies. 
 
 Thou bright, swift river of the bark canoe, 
 Threading the prairie-ponds of Washtenung, 
 The day of romance wanes. Few summers more, 
 And the long night will pass away unwaked, 
 Save by the house-dog, or the village bell ; 
 And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dip 
 In lonelier waters. 
 
 Ah ! thou wilt not stoop : 
 Old Huron, haply, glistens on thy sky. 
 The chasing moon-beams, glancing on thy plumes, 
 Eeveal thee now, a little beating blot, 
 Into the pale Aurora fading. 
 
 There ! 
 
 Sinks gently back upon her flowery couch 
 The startled Night ; — tinkle the damp wood-vaults 
 While slip the dew-pearls from her leafy curtains. 
 That last soft whispering note, how spirit-like ! 
 While vainly yet mine ear another waits, 
 A sad, sweet longing lingers in my heart. 
 
THOMAS MACKELLAR. 
 
 [Born, 1812.] 
 
 This amiable poet is the son of a Scottish gen- 
 tleman who, resigning a commission in the British 
 navy, emigrated to New York, where he was mar- 
 ried, and resided till his death. He was born in that 
 city on the twelfth of August, 1812; in 1826 began 
 to learn the printing business ; in 1833 took charge 
 of Mr. L.Johnson's extensive stereotype foundry, 
 in Philadelphia, in which he is now a partner; and 
 
 in 1844 published "Droppings from the Heart," in 
 1847 " Tam's Fortnight Ramble and other Poems," 
 and in 1853 "Lines for the Gentle and Loving," 
 in which works he has illustrated in a natural and 
 pleasing manner strong domestic and religious af- 
 fections and a love of nature, and frequently dis- 
 played much pathos and quiet humor. His favorite 
 verse is the sonnet, which he manages very deftly. 
 
 LIFE'S EVENING. 
 
 The world to me is growing gray and old; 
 
 My friends are dropping one by one away; 
 
 Some live in far-off lands — some in the clay 
 Rest quietly, their mortal moments told. 
 
 My sire departed ere his locks were gray; 
 
 My mother wept, and soon beside him lay; 
 My elder kin have long since gone — and I 
 
 Am left — a leaf upon an autumn tree, 
 
 Among whose branches chilling breezes steal, 
 The sure precursors of the winter nigh; 
 
 And when my offspring at our altar kneel 
 To worship God, and sing our morning psalm, 
 
 Their rising stature whispers unto me 
 My life is gently waning to its evening calm. 
 
 THE SLEEPING WIFE. 
 
 My wife ! how calmly sleepest thou ! 
 
 A perfect peace is on thy brow : 
 
 Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid, 
 
 Like stars behind a cloud, are hid; 
 
 Thy voice is mute, and not a sound 
 
 Disturbs the tranquil air around; 
 
 I'll watch, and mark each line of grace 
 
 That God has drawn upon thy face. 
 
 My wife ! my wife ! thy bosom fair, 
 
 That heaves with breath more pure than air 
 
 Which dwells within the scented rose, 
 
 Is wrapped in deep and still repose; — 
 
 So deep, that I erewhile did start, 
 
 And lay my hand upon thy heart, 
 
 In sudden fear that stealthy death 
 
 Had slyly robbed thee of thy breath. 
 
 My wife ! my wife ! thy face now seems 
 
 To show the tenor of thy dreams ; 
 
 Methinks thy gentle spirit plays 
 
 Amid the scenes of earlier days; 
 
 Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him 
 
 Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim 
 
 And shadowy future strive to pry, 
 
 With woman's curious, earnest eye. 
 
 Sleep on! sleep on! my dreaming wife! 
 
 Thou livest now another life, 
 
 With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth; — 
 I will not call thee back to earth : 
 Sleep on, until the car of morn 
 Above the eastern hills is borne; 
 Then thou wilt wake again, and bless 
 My sight with living loveliness 
 
 REMEMBER THE POOR. 
 
 Remember the Poor! 
 
 It fearfully snoweth, 
 
 And bitterly bloweth ; 
 Thou couldst not endure 
 
 The tempest's wild power 
 
 Through night's dreary hour, 
 Then pity the poor ! 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 The father is lying 
 
 In that hovel, dying 
 With sickness of heart. 
 
 No voice cheers his dwelling, 
 
 A Saviour's love telling, 
 Ere life shall depart. 
 
 Remember the poor! 
 
 The widow is sighing, 
 
 The orphans are crying, 
 Half starving for bread ; 
 
 In mercy be speedy 
 
 To succor the needy, — 
 Their helper is dead ! 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 The baby is sleeping, 
 
 Its cheeks wet with weeping, 
 
 On its mother's fond breast ; 
 
 Whose cough, deep and hollow, 
 Foretells she'll soon follow 
 
 Her husband to rest ! 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 To him who aid lendeth, 
 
 Whatever he spendeth 
 The Lord will repay ; 
 
 And sweet thoughts shall cheer him, 
 
 And God's love be near him, 
 In his dying day ! 
 
 493 
 
MATTHEW C. FIELD. 
 
 [Born, 1812. Died, 1844.] 
 
 The author of the numerous compositions, in 
 prose and verse, which appeared in the journals 
 of the southern states under the signature of 
 " Phazma," between the years 1834 and 1844, 
 was horn of Irish parentage, in London, in 1812, 
 and when but four years of age was brought to 
 this country, which was his home from that pe- 
 riod until he died. He was of a feeble consti- 
 tution, and in his later years a painful disease 
 interrupted his occupations and induced a melan- 
 choly which is illustrated in the humorous sad- 
 ness of many of his verses. In the hope of relief 
 
 he made a journey from New Orleans to Santa 
 F^, and another, soon after, to the Rocky Moun- 
 tains ; and failing of any advantage from these, 
 set out to visit some friends in Boston, trust- 
 ing to the good influences of a voyage by sea ; 
 but died in the ship, before reaching Mobile, on 
 the fifteenth of November, 1844, in the thirty- 
 third year of his age. He was several years 
 one of the editors of the New Orleans "Pica- 
 yune," and was a brother of Mr. J. M. Field, of 
 St. Louis, who is as nearly related in genius as 
 by birth. 
 
 TO MY SHADOW. 
 
 Shadow, just like the thin regard of men, 
 
 Constant and close to friends,whilefortune's bright, 
 You leave me in the dark, but come again 
 
 And stick to me as long as there is light! 
 Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done, 
 You 've never stepped between me and the sun ; 
 
 But ready still to back me I have found you — 
 Although, indeed, you 're fond of changing sides ; 
 
 And, while I never yet could get around you, 
 Where'er I walk, my Shadow with me glides ! 
 
 That you should leave me in the dark, is meet 
 Enough, there being one thing to remark — 
 
 Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet, 
 I 'm keeping you forever in the dark ! 
 
 POOR TOM. 
 
 There's a new stone now in the old churchyard, 
 
 And a few withered flowers enwreath it ; 
 Alas ! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd, 
 
 Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it : 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 In his early day to be pluck'd away, 
 
 While the sunshine of life was o'er him, 
 And naught but the light of a gladdening ray 
 
 Beamed out on the road before him. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
 All the joy that love and affection sheds, 
 
 Seemed to fling golden hope around him, 
 And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads 
 Alike to their wishes found him. 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough, 
 
 Where the low-toned winds are creeping, 
 As if to bewail, so sad a tale, 
 
 While the eyes of the night are weeping. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 494 
 
 Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone, 
 
 Now I love, though I used to fear it ; 
 And I linger oft mid its tombs alone, 
 
 For a strange charm draws me near it. 
 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 
 We were early friends — oh, time still tends 
 
 All the links of our love to sever ! 
 And alas ! time breaks, but never mends, 
 
 The chain that it snaps forever ! 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 
 In the old churchyard we have wandered oft, 
 
 Lost in gentle and friendly musing; 
 And his eye was light, and his words were soft, 
 
 Soul with soul, as we roved, infusing. 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 And we wonder'd then, if, when we were men, 
 
 Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother ; 
 But alas ! again — we dreamed not when 
 
 Death should tear us from each other. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
 On the very spot where the stone now stands, 
 
 We have sat in the shade of the willow, 
 With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands, 
 
 And this breast has been his pillow. 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old, 
 
 And his place may be filled by others ; 
 But he still lives here with a firmer hold, 
 
 For our souls were twined like brothers. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
 There's a new stone now in the old churchyard, 
 
 And a few withered flowers enwreath it ; 
 Alas ! for the youth by the fates ill-starr'd, 
 
 Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it : 
 Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! 
 In his early day to be plucked away, 
 
 While the sunshine of life was o'er him, 
 And naught but the light of a gladdening ray 
 
 Beamed out on the road before him. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
CHARLES T. BROOKS, 
 
 [Born, 1813.] 
 
 The Eeverend Charles T. Brooks was born 
 in Salem, Massachusetts, on the twentieth of June, 
 1813; graduated at Harvard University in 1832; 
 completed his theological preparation in 1835; and 
 was settled over the Unitarian church in Newport, 
 Rhode Island, of which he has ever since been the 
 pastor, in the beginning of 1837. His first poetical 
 publication was a translation of Schiller's "Wil- 
 liam Tell," printed anonymously in Providence in 
 1838. Translations of " Mary Stuart" and "The 
 Maid of Orleans" were made in a year or two after, 
 but remain yet in manuscript. About the date of 
 these last, he commenced versions of Jean Paul 
 Richter's "Levana," " Jubel Senior," and "Ti- 
 tan," which have been since completed. In 1842 
 he published in Boston, in Mr. Ripley's series of 
 "Specimens of Foreign Literature,"* a volume of 
 "Songs and Ballads, from the German," of Uh- 
 land, Korner, Burger, and others. In 1845 he 
 
 published a " Poem delivered before the Phi Beta 
 Kappa Society of Harvard College;" in 1847, 
 " Homage of the Arts," from Schiller, with mis- 
 cellaneous gleanings from other German poets ; in 
 1848, " Aquidneck and other Poems," embracing 
 a " Poem on the hundreth Anniversary of the Red- 
 wood Library ;" in 1853 the small collection called 
 " Songs of Field and Flood," and in the same year 
 a volume of " German Lyrics," the principal piece 
 in which is that of Anastasius Grun, (count von 
 Attersperg,) entitled " The Ship Cincinnatus,"re- 
 presenting an American vessel with the figure-head 
 of the noble Roman, sailing home from Pompeii. 
 Mr. Brooks has made himself thoroughly fa- 
 miliar with the spirit of German literature, and 
 has been remarkably successful in most of his at- 
 tempts to reproduce it in English. His original 
 poems are chaste and elegant, equally modest in 
 design and successful in execution. 
 
 «ALABAMA."t 
 
 Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary, 
 
 Onward to the South and West, 
 Through dark woods and deserts dreary, 
 
 By relentless foemen pressed, 
 Came a tribe where evening, darkling, 
 
 Flushed a mighty river's breast; 
 And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling, 
 
 "Alabama! Here we rest!" 
 
 By the stern steam-demon hurried, 
 
 Far from home and scenes so blest; 
 Ey the gloomy care-dogs worried, 
 
 Sleepless, houseless, and distressed, 
 Days and nights beheld me hieing 
 
 Like a bird without a nest, 
 Till I hailed thy waters, crying, 
 
 " Alabama ! Here I rest !" 
 
 Oh ! when life's last sun is blinking 
 
 In the pale and darksome West, 
 And my weary frame is sinking, 
 
 With its cares and woes oppressed, 
 May I, as I drop the burden 
 
 From my sick and fainting breast, 
 Cry, beside the swelling Jordan, 
 
 "Alabama! Here I rest!" 
 
 * Another volume from the German poets in this excel- 
 lent series is by John S. Dwight, a translator of kindred 
 scholarship and genius. 
 
 f There is a tradition, that a tribe of Indians, defeated 
 and hard pressed by a more powerful foe, reached in their 
 flight a river, where their chief set up a staff and exclaimed, 
 " Alabama !" a word meaning, " Here we rest," which from 
 that time became the river's name. 
 
 TO THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 Majestic stream! along thy banks, 
 
 In silent, stately, solemn ranks, 
 
 The forests stand, and seem with pride 
 
 To gaze upon thy mighty tide ; 
 
 As when, in olden, classic time, 
 
 Beneath a soft, blue, Grecian clime, 
 
 Bent o'er the stage, in breathless awe, 
 
 Crowds thrilled and trembled, as they saw 
 
 Sweep by the pomp of human life, 
 
 The sounding flood of passion's strife, 
 
 And the great stream of history 
 
 Glide on before the musing eye. 
 
 There, row on row, the gazers rise; 
 
 Above, look down the arching skies; 
 
 O'er all those gathered multitudes 
 
 Such deep and voiceful silence broods, - 
 
 Methinks one mighty heart I hear 
 
 Beat high with hope, or quake with fear; — ■ 
 
 E'en so yon groves and forests seem 
 
 Spectators of this rushing stream. 
 
 In sweeping, circling ranks they rise, 
 
 Beneath the blue, o'erarching skies; 
 
 They crowd around and forward lean, 
 
 As eager to behold the scene — 
 
 To see, proud river! sparkling wide, 
 
 The long procession of thy tide, — 
 
 To stand and gaze, and feel with thee 
 
 All thy unuttered ecstasy. 
 
 It seems as if a heart did thrill 
 
 Within yon forests, deep and still, 
 
 So soft and ghost-like is the sound 
 
 That stirs their solitudes profound. 
 
 495 
 
496 
 
 CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
 
 «< OUR COUNTRY— RIGHT OR WRONG." 
 
 "Our country — right or wrong!" — 
 
 That were a traitor's song — 
 Let no true patriot's pen such words indite ! 
 
 Who loves his native land, 
 
 Let him, with heart, voice, hand, 
 Say, "Country or no country: speed the right!" 
 
 "Our country — right or wrong!" — 
 
 O Christian men! how long 
 Shall He who bled on Calvary plead in vain! 
 
 How long, unheeded, call 
 
 Where War's gash'd victims fall, 
 While sisters, widows, orphans, mourn the slain ! 
 
 "Our country — right or wrong!" — 
 
 O man of God be strong ! 
 Take God's whole armor for the holy fray; 
 
 Gird thee with truth ; make right 
 
 Thy breastplate ; in the might 
 Of God stand steadfast in the evil day! 
 
 "Our country — right or wrong !" 
 
 Each image of the throng 
 Of ghastly woes that rise upon thy sight, 
 
 O let it move thy heart, 
 
 Man ! man ! whoe'er thou art, 
 To say, " God guide our struggling country right !" 
 
 A SABBATH MORNING, AT PETTA- 
 QUAMSCUTT. 
 
 The Sabbath breaks — how heavenly clear! 
 
 Is it not always Sabbath here] 
 
 Such deep contentment seems to brood 
 
 O'er hill and meadow, field and flood. 
 
 No floating sound of Sabbath-bell 
 
 Comes mingling here with Ocean's swell; 
 
 No rattling wheels, no trampling feet, 
 
 Wend through the paved and narrow street 
 
 To the strange scene where sits vain pride 
 
 With meek devotion, side by side. 
 
 And surely here no temple-bell 
 
 Man needs, his quiet thoughts to tell 
 
 When he must rest from strife and care, 
 
 And own his God in praise and prayer. 
 
 For doth not nature's hymn arise, 
 
 Morn, noon, and evening, to the skies 1 
 
 Is not broad Ocean's face — the calm 
 
 Of inland woods — a silent psalm 1 ? 
 
 Ay, come there not from earth and sea 
 
 Voices of choral harmony, 
 
 That tell the peopled solitude 
 
 How great is God, — how wise, — how good'! 
 
 In Ocean's murmuring music swells 
 
 A chime as of celestial bells 
 
 The birds, at rest or on the wing, 
 
 With notes of angel-sweetness sing, 
 
 And insect-hum and breeze prolong 
 
 The bass of Nature's grateful song, 
 
 Is not each day a Sabbath then, 
 
 A day of rest for thoughtful men'? 
 
 No idle Sabbath Nature keeps, 
 
 The God of Nature never sleeps; 
 
 And in this noontide of the year, 
 
 This pensive pause, I seem to hear 
 
 God say: " O man ! would'st thou be blest, 
 
 Contented work is Sabbath rest." 
 
 SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST. 
 
 It was the holy hour of dawn: 
 By hands invisible withdrawn, 
 The curtain of the summer night 
 Had vanished; and the morning light, 
 Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw 
 Increasing glory up the blue. 
 Oh sacred balm of summer dawn, 
 When odors from the new-mown lawn 
 Blend with the breath of sky and sea; 
 And, like the prayers of sanctity, 
 Go up to Him who reigns above, 
 An incense-offering of love! 
 
 Alone upon a rock I stood, 
 Far out above the ocean-flood, 
 Whose vast expanse before me lay, 
 Now silver-white, now leaden-gray, 
 As o'er its face, alternate, threw 
 The rays and clouds their varying hue. 
 
 I felt a deep, expectant hush 
 Through nature, as the growing flush 
 Of the red Orient seemed to tell 
 The approach of some great spectacle, 
 O'er which the birds, in heaven's far height, 
 Hung, as entranced, in mute delight. 
 But when the Sun, in royal state, 
 Through his triumphal golden gate, 
 Came riding forth in majesty 
 Out from the flecked eastern sky, 
 As comes a conqueror to his tent ; 
 And, up and down the firmament, 
 The captive clouds of routed night, 
 Their garments fringed with golden light, 
 Bending around the azure arch, 
 Lent glory to the victor's march ; 
 And when he flung his blazing glance 
 Across the watery expanse, — 
 Methought, along that rocky coast, 
 The foaming waves, a crested host, 
 As on their snowy plumes the beams 
 Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams, 
 Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight, 
 And clapped their hands to hail the sight, 
 And sent a mighty shout on high 
 Of exultation to the sky. 
 
 Now all creation seemed to wake; 
 Each little leaf with joy did shake; 
 The trumpet-signal of the breeze 
 Stirred all the ripples of the seas - 
 Each in its gambols and its glee 
 A living creature seemed to be ; 
 Like wild young steeds with snowy mane, 
 The white waves skimmed the liquid plain ; 
 Glad Ocean, with ten thousand eyes, 
 Proclaimed its joy to earth and skies; 
 From earth and skies a countless throng 
 Of happy creatures swelled the song; 
 Praise to the Conquerer of night ! 
 Praise to the King of Life and Light ! 
 
C. P. CRANCH. 
 
 [Born, 1813.] 
 
 The grandfather of Mr. Cranch was Judge 
 Richard Cranch, of Quincy, Massachusetts, 
 and his grandmother Marx Smith, a sister of the 
 wife of the first President Adams. His father, 
 Chief Justice William Cranch, of Washington, 
 married a Miss Greenleaf, one of whose sisters 
 was the wife of Noah- Webster, the lexicogra- 
 pher, and another the wife of Judge Dawes, father 
 of the author of " Athenia of Damascus," &c. 
 Judge Cranch the younger removed to the District 
 of Columbia in 17*94, and Christopher Pease 
 Cranch was born in Alexandria, on the eighth of 
 March, 1813. His boyhood was passed on the 
 Virginia side of the Potomac, but in 1826 the 
 family settled in Washington, and two years after- 
 ward he entered Columbian College, where he 
 was graduated in 1831. Having decided to enter 
 the ministry of the Unitarian church, he now pro- 
 ceeded to Cambridge, where he passed three years 
 in the divinity school connected with Harvard Col- 
 lege, and in 1834 became a licentiate. He did not 
 settle anywhere as a pastor, but preached a consi- 
 derable time in Peoria, Illinois; Richmond, Virginia; 
 Bangor, Maine; Washington, and other places. 
 
 He gradually withdrew from the clerical pro- 
 fession, and finally, about the year 1842, deter- 
 mined to devote himself entirely to painting, for 
 v/hich he had shown an early predilection and 
 very decided talents. He was never a regular 
 pupil of any one artist, but received friendly assist- 
 ance from Mr. Durand and others, and always 
 studied with enthusiasm from nature. In Octo- 
 ber, 1843, he was married to Miss Elizabeth de 
 Windt, of Fishkill, on the Hudson, and from this 
 period until 1847 resided principally in New York, 
 in the assiduous practice of his art, in which he 
 made very rapid improvement. He now proceeded 
 to Italy, where for two or three years he was an 
 industrious and successful student in the galle- 
 ries, and produced many fine original landscape 
 studies. In 1853 he went a second time to Eu- 
 rope, and has since made his home in Paris. His 
 
 course as an artist has been marked by a strict 
 regard to truth and nature, and he ranks among 
 the first of our landscape painters. A taste for 
 music is also one of his strong characteristics, and 
 has been carefully cultivated. 
 
 Mr. Cranch was associated with George Rip- 
 ley, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Ful- 
 ler, and others of the school of "Boston transcend- 
 entalists," as a writer for "The Dial," and some 
 of his earliest and best lyrical effusions appeared in 
 that remarkable periodical. In 1854 he published 
 in Philadelphia a small volume of his ". Poems," 
 which was sharply reviewed by old-fashioned cri- 
 tics ; but it was not addressed to them : "Him we 
 will seek," the poet says, 
 
 " and none but him, 
 Whose inward sense hath not grown dim; 
 Whose soul is steeped in Nature's tinct, 
 And to the Universal linkt : 
 Who loves the beauteous Infinite 
 With deep and ever new delight, 
 And carrieth, where'er he goes, 
 The inborn sweetness of the rose, 
 The perfume as of Paradise — 
 The talisman above all price — 
 The optic glass that wins from far 
 The meaning of the utmost star — 
 The key that opes the golden doors 
 Where earth and heaven have piled their stores — 
 The magic ring, the enchanter's wand — 
 The title-deed to Wonder-land — 
 The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense, 
 The clairvoyant of Innocence." 
 
 And the class who saw themselves reflected in these 
 lines, and m any others too, discovered merits as de- 
 cided as they are peculiar in Mr. Cranch's poetry. 
 He has imagination as well as fancy, great poetic 
 sensibility, and a style that despite abundant con- 
 ceits is very striking and attractive. He has pub- 
 lished no second collection of his poems, but con- 
 tinues to be an occasional writer, and from time 
 to time gives the public specimens of his abilities 
 through the columns of "The Tribune," or some 
 favorite magazine. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 Sat, where does beauty dwell 1 
 I gazed upon the dance, where ladies bright 
 
 Were moving in the light [flowers, 
 
 Of mirrors and of lamps ; with music and with 
 Danced on the joyous hours ; 
 And fairest bosoms 
 Heaved happily beneath the winter-rose's blossoms; 
 And it is well : 
 Vouth hath its time — 
 Merry hearts will merrily chime. 
 The forms were fair to see, 
 32 
 
 The tones were sweet to the ear ; 
 But there 's beauty more rare to me — 
 That beauty was not here. 
 
 I stood in the open air, 
 
 And gazed on nature there. 
 
 The beautiful stars were over my head, 
 
 The crescent moon hung o'er the west; 
 Beauty o'er river and hill was spread, 
 
 Wooing the feverish soul to rest ; 
 Beauty breathed in the summer-breeze, 
 Beauty rock'd the whispering trees, 
 Was mirror'd in the sleeping billow, 
 Was bending in the swaying willow, 
 497 
 
498 
 
 C. P. C RANCH. 
 
 Flooding the skies, bathing the earth, 
 Giving all lovely things a birth: 
 All — all was fair to see — 
 
 All was sweet to the ear: 
 But there 's beauty more fair to me — 
 
 That beauty was not here. 
 
 I sat in my room alone. 
 
 My heart began a tone 
 
 Its soothing strains were such 
 
 As if a spirit's touch 
 
 Were visiting its chords. 
 
 Soon it gather'd words, 
 
 Pouring forth its feelings, 
 
 And its deep revealings : 
 
 Thoughts and fancies came 
 
 With their brightening flame. 
 
 Truths of deepest worth 
 
 Sprang embodied forth — 
 
 Deep and solemn mysteries, 
 
 Spiritual harmonies, 
 And the faith that conquers time 
 Strong, and lovely, and sublime. 
 
 Then the purposes of life 
 Stood apart from vulgar strife. 
 Labour in the path of duty 
 Gleam'd up like a thing of beauty. 
 Beauty shone in self-denial, 
 In the sternest hour of trial — 
 In a meek obedience 
 To the will of Providence — 
 In the lofty sympathies 
 That, forgetting selfish ease, 
 Prompted acts that sought the good 
 Of every spirit : — understood 
 The wants of every human heart, 
 Eager ever to impart 
 Blessings to the weary soul 
 That hath felt the better world's control. 
 
 Here is beauty such as ne'er 
 Met the eye or charm'd the ear. 
 In the soul's high duties then I felt 
 That the loftiest beauty ever dwelt. 
 
 MY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Many are the thoughts that come to me 
 
 In my lonely musing ; 
 And they drift so strange and swift, 
 
 There 's no time for choosing 
 Which to follow, for to leave 
 
 Any, seems a losing. 
 
 When they come, they come in flocks, 
 
 As, on glancing feather, 
 Startled birds rise one by one, 
 
 In autumnal weather, 
 Waking >one another up 
 
 From the sheltering heather. 
 
 Some so merry that I laugh, 
 Some are grave and serious, 
 
 Some so trite, their least approach 
 Is enough to weary us : 
 
 Others flit like midnight ghosts, 
 Shrouded and mysterious. 
 
 There are thoughts that o'er me steal, 
 Like the day when dawning ; 
 
 Great thoughts wing'd with melody, 
 Common utterance scorning, 
 
 Moving in an inward tune, 
 And an inward morning. 
 
 Some have dark and drooping wings, 
 
 Children all of sorrow ; 
 Some are as gay, as if to-day 
 
 Could see no cloudy morrow, 
 And yet like light and shade they each 
 
 Must from the other borrow. 
 
 One by one they come to me 
 
 On their destined mission ; 
 One by one I see them fade 
 
 With no hopeless vision ; 
 For they 've led me on a step 
 
 To their home Elysian. 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 The hours are viewless angels, 
 
 That still go gliding by, 
 And bear each minute's record up 
 
 To Him who sits on high ; 
 And we, who walk among them, 
 
 As one by one departs, 
 See not that they are hovering 
 
 Forever round our hearts. 
 
 Like summer-bees, that hover 
 
 Around the idle flowers, 
 They gather every act and thought, 
 
 Those viewless angel-hours; 
 The poison or the nectar 
 
 The heart's deep flower-cups yield, 
 A sample still they gather swift_ 
 
 And leave us in the field. 
 
 And some flit by on pinions 
 
 Of joyous gold and blue, 
 And some flag on with drooping wings 
 
 Of sorrow's darker hue ; 
 But still they steal the record, 
 
 And bear it far away ; 
 Their mission-flight by day or night, 
 
 No magic power can stay. 
 
 And as we spend each minute 
 
 That God to us hath given, 
 The deeds are known before His throne, 
 
 The tale is told in heaven. 
 These bee-like hours we see not, 
 
 Nor hear their noiseless wings ; 
 We only feel, too oft, when flown, 
 
 That they have left their stings. 
 
 So, teach me, Heavenly Father, 
 
 To meet each flying hour, 
 That as they go they may not show 
 
 My heart a poison flower ! 
 So, when death brings its shadows, 
 
 The hours that linger last 
 Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings, 
 
 Unfetter'd by the past. 
 
C. P. C RANCH. 
 
 499 
 
 ON HEARING TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 
 
 That joyous strain, 
 Wake — wake again! 
 O'er the dead stillness of my soul it lingers. 
 Ring out, ring out 
 The music-shout ! 
 I hear the sounding of thy flying fingers, 
 And to my soul the harmony 
 Comes like a freshening sea. 
 
 Again, again ! 
 
 Farewell, dull pain; [quiver ; 
 
 Thou heart-ache, rise not while those harp-strings 
 Sad feelings, hence ! 
 I feel a sense 
 Of a new life come like a rushing river 
 
 Freshening the fountains parch'd and dry 
 That in my spirit lie. 
 
 That glorious strain ! 
 Oh ! from my brain 
 I see the shadows flitting like scared ghosts ! 
 A light, a light 
 Shines in to-night 
 Round the good angels trooping to their posts — 
 And the black cloud is rent in twain 
 Before the ascending strain. 
 
 It dies away — 
 It will not stay — 
 So sweet — so fleeting. Yet to me it spake 
 Strange peace of mind 
 I could not find 
 Before that triumph-strain the silence brake. 
 So let it ever come to me 
 With an undying harmony. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech ; 
 
 Feeling deeper than all thought : 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 
 What unto themselves was taught. 
 
 We are spirits clad in veils : 
 Man by man was never seen : 
 
 All our deep communing fails 
 To remove the shadowy screen. 
 
 Heart to heart was never known : 
 Mind with mind did never meet : 
 
 We are columns left alone, 
 Of a temple once complete. 
 
 Like the stars that gem the sky, 
 Far apart, though seeming near, 
 
 In our light we scatter'd lie ; 
 All is thus but starlight here. 
 
 What is social company 
 
 But a babbling summer stream 1 
 What our wise philosophy 
 
 But the glancing of a dream 1 
 
 Only when the sun of love 
 
 Melts the scatter'd stars of thought, 
 Only when we live above 
 
 What the dim-eyed world hath taught, 
 
 Only when our souls are fed 
 
 By the fount which gave them birth, 
 And by inspiration led 
 
 Which they never drew from earth ; 
 
 We, like parted drops of rain, 
 Swelling till they meet and run, 
 
 Shall be all absorbed again, 
 Melting, flowing into one. 
 
 MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. 
 
 Oh, still sweet summer days! Oh, moonlight nights, 
 
 After so drear a storm how can ye shine ! 
 Oh, smiling world of many-hued delights, 
 
 How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine 
 The accustomed wreaths of pleasure! How, oh Day, 
 Wakest thou so full of beauty ! Twilight deep, 
 How diest thou so tranquilly away ! 
 
 And how,ohNight,bring'st thou the sphere of sleep. 
 For she is gone from us — gone, lost forever — 
 
 In the wild billows swallowed up and lost — 
 Gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor, 
 
 Just when we would have welcom'd her the most. 
 
 Was it for this — oh, woman, true and pure, 
 
 That life thro' shade and light had form'd thy mind 
 To feel, imagine, reason, and endure — 
 
 To soar for truth, to labour for mankind? 
 Was it for this sad end thou borest thy part 
 
 In deeds and words for struggling Italy, — • 
 Devoting thy large mind and larger heart 
 
 That Rome in later days might yet be free 1 
 And, from that home driven out by tyranny, 
 
 Didst turn to see thy fatherland once more, 
 Bearing affection's dearest ties with thee — 
 
 And as the vessel bore thee to our shore, 
 And hope rose to fulfilment — on the deck 
 
 When friends seem'd almost beckoning unto thee: 
 Oh, God ! the fearful storm — the splitting wreck — 
 
 The drowning billows of the dreary sea ! 
 
 Oh, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief , 
 
 We who had known thee here — had met thee there 
 Where Rome threw golden light on every leaf 
 
 Life's volume turned in that enchanted air — 
 Oh, friend ! how we recall the Italian days 
 
 Amid the Csesar's ruined palace halls — 
 The Coliseum and the frescoed blaze 
 
 Of proud St. Peter's dome — the Sistine walls — 
 The lone Campagna and the village green — ■ 
 
 The Vatican — the music and dim light 
 Of gorgeous temples — statues, pictures, seen 
 
 With thee : those sunny days return so bright, 
 Now thou art gone ! Thou hast a fairer world 
 
 Than that bright clime. The dreams that fill'd thee 
 Now find divine completion, and, unfurl'd, [here 
 
 Thy spirit wings, find out their own high sphere. 
 
 Farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one! 
 
 We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost ; 
 The star that set in storms still shines upon 
 
 The o'ershadowing cloud, and when we sorrow 
 In the blue spaces of God's firmament [most, 
 
 Beams out with purer light than we have known, 
 Above the tempest and the wild lament 
 
 Of those who weep the radiance that is flown. 
 
HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN 
 
 [Born, 1813.] 
 
 The Tfckehmau family is of German origin, 
 and the name is still common in the states of Ger- 
 many, where, however, it is spelled with a double ra- 
 in a history of the country of Braunselweig and 
 Luneberg, by William Hanemann, published 
 in Luneberg in 1827, allusion is made to one of 
 the kindred of the Tuckermans in America, Pe- 
 ter Tuckerman, who is mentioned as the last 
 abbot of the monastery of Riddagshausen. He 
 was chosen by the chapter in 1821, and at the 
 same time held the appointment of superintendent 
 or court preacher at Wolfenbuttill. By the moth- 
 er's side, Mr. Tuckerman is of Irish descent. 
 The name of his mother's family is Keating. In 
 Macaulay's recent history he thus speaks of one 
 of her ancestors, as opposing a military deputy 
 of James II., in his persecution of the Protestant 
 English in Ireland, in 1686: "On all questions 
 which arose in the privy council, Tyrconnel 
 showed similar violence and partiality. John 
 Keating, chief-justice of the common pleas, a 
 man distinguished for ability, integrity, and loyal- 
 ty, represented with great mildness that perfect 
 equality was all that the general could reasonably 
 ask for his own church." Mr. Tuckerman is a 
 nephew of the late Rev. Dr. Joseph Tuckerman, 
 a memoir of whom has recently appeared in Eng- 
 land, and who is generally known and honoured 
 as the originator of the " Ministry at Large," an 
 institution of Christian benevolence and eminent 
 utility. His mother was also related to and partly 
 educated with another distinguished Unitarian cler- 
 gyman, Joseph Stevens Buckminster, whose 
 memory is yet cherished in Boston by all lovers 
 of genius and character. 
 
 Mr. Tuckerman was born in Boston, on the 
 twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for col- 
 lege, the state of his health rendered it necessary 
 for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder 
 climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New 
 York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn in Paris, 
 proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the 
 ensuing summer. In the spring after his return 
 he gave the results of his observation to the pub- 
 lic, in a volume entitled "The Italian Sketch- 
 Book," of which a third and considerably augment- 
 ed edition appeared in New York in 1849. Mr. 
 Tuckerman resumed and for a time prosecuted 
 his academical studies, but again experiencing the 
 injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued 
 mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, 
 for the Mediterranean ; visited Gibraltar and Malta, 
 made the tour of Sicily, and after a winter's resi- 
 dence in Palermo, crossed over to the continent. 
 500 
 
 The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Florence, 
 and returned to the United States in' the course of 
 the ensuing summer. In 1839 he published " Isa- 
 bel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage," in which, under the 
 guise of a romance, he gives many interesting 
 descriptions and reflections incident to a tour in 
 Sicily. This work was reprinted in London, in 
 1846. In 1845 he finished his " Thoughts on the 
 Poets," in which he has discussed the characteris- 
 tics of the chief masters of modern song. This 
 work h as passed through several editions. In 1848 
 he gave to the press his " Artist Life, or Sketches 
 of eminent American Painters;" in 1849, "Cha- 
 racteristics of Literature, illustrated by the Genius 
 of Distinguished Men;" in 1850, "The Optimist," 
 and a "Life of Commodore Talbot;" in 1851, 
 a second series of " Characteristics of Literature ;" 
 in 1853 "The Diary of a Dreamer," "A Memo- 
 rial of Greenough," and "Mental Portraits;" and 
 in 1854, "A Month in England." A collection 
 of his " Poems" appeared in 1851, but it embraces 
 only a small proportion of those he had published 
 in the magazines and newspapers. 
 
 Mr. Ttjckerman's "poems are in a great variety 
 of measures ; they are, for the most part, expres- 
 sions of graceful and romantic sentiment, but are 
 often fruits of his reflection and illustrations of his 
 taste. The little piece called " Mary" is a delight- 
 ful echo of emotions as common as culture of mind 
 and refinement of feeling; and among his sonnets 
 are some very pleasing examples of this kind of 
 writing. In these works he has occasionally done 
 injustice to his own fine powers by the careless- 
 ness with which he has adopted familiar ideas, 
 images, and formsof expression, from other writers. 
 Considering the nature of the poetic principle, the 
 author of an Essay on American Poetry which ap- 
 peared in 1841, observes: 
 
 " He who looks on Lake George, and sees the sun rise on 
 Mackinaw, or listens to the grand music of a storm, is di- 
 vested, for a time, of a portion of the alloy of his nature." 
 The alteration Mr. Tuckerman makes in the 
 paraphrase of this in his highly-finished produc- 
 tion, " The Spirit of Poetry," published three years 
 afterwards, is unquestionably an improvement : 
 " Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide, 
 
 "When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide 
 
 And who Niagara's loveliness has known, 
 The rainbow diadem, the emerald zone, 
 Nor felt thy spell each haser thought control." 
 Hypercritical readers may fancy that the gram- 
 matical relations of the last word of the second 
 line here copied demand that it should be written 
 glidef/, but it will not be denied that the substitu- 
 tion of " Niagara" for "a storm" renders the pas- 
 
HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 501 
 
 sage far more national, since storms may occur 
 anywhere (except in Egypt), while the grand cata- 
 ract is an orchestrion of whose sonorous music we 
 have a fortunate monopoly. The change made 
 in a line from Johnson, which Mr. Tuckerman 
 introduces into the next page of this elegant poem, 
 cannot, perhaps, be so easily defended: 
 
 " To raise the genius and to mend the heart," 
 is made by him to read, 
 
 "Exalt the mind and renovate the heart." 
 "Exalt" is possibly a better word than "raise," 
 but the poet doubtless substituted " renovate" for 
 "mend" from an erroneous impression that it is 
 
 from the more immediate vocabulary of common 
 life, and hence to be preferred on the principles 
 announced by Mr. Wordsworth; but though 
 those useful industrials who attempt to obliterate 
 the evidences of age in our seedy habiliments, fre- 
 quently display in conspicuous letters the verb 
 "renovate" upon their signboards, it should not be 
 forgotten that they intend by it a larger promise 
 than that of simply " mending," as Mr. Tucker- 
 man seems to suppose. 
 
 Of Mr. Ttjckerman's character as an essayist, 
 some more particular observations may be found 
 in my " Prose Writers of America." He has re- 
 sided for several years in the city of New York. 
 
 GIOVANNI* 
 
 What shade has fallen this loved threshold o'er 
 Without glad presage never crossed before 1 
 Why through the past does startled memory range, 
 Then shrink to meet the desolating change ? 
 Hushed is the dwelling, cold the hearthstone now. 
 Whose glow plays not upon thy manly brow; 
 For cordial grasp of hands the pleading eye," 
 For lettered talk the faintly smothered sigh, 
 For looks intent to solve, respond, or cheer, 
 Thine wan from pain, ours agonized with fear; 
 For bland philosophy and genial wit, 
 Wont round this group instinctively to flit, 
 Half-uttered prayers, the stillness of dismay 
 In dread suspense exhaust the winter day. 
 The keenest pang humanity can feel 
 Came in that hour of nature's mute appeal, 
 As waned expression to its last eclipse, 
 And speech grew palsied on thy frigid lips ; 
 Yet thought and love before the parting sigh, 
 Converged and nickered in thy glazing eye. 
 The artist-friend, whose triumph thou believed 
 Ere fame ordained or genius had achieved, 
 Crouched by the form, now stilled in death's 
 
 embrace, 
 Strove with dim eyes thy lineaments to trace. 
 "Yet can it be?" our hearts bewildered cried, 
 " That he, the idol of this home, has died 1" 
 The leaf o'er which in calm delight he hung, 
 The plaintive rhyme that trembled from his tongue, 
 The honored effigies so fondly sought, 
 Of those who conquered in the realm of thought, 
 His elements of life — these all are here, 
 And more than these — the loved-ones round the 
 
 bier. 
 Two whose gray hair with daily joy he crowned, 
 Two who in him fraternal guidance found. 
 
 * John W. Francis, jr., eldest son of the eminent and 
 venerable John W. Erancis, M.D., LL. D. of New York, 
 died on the twentieth of January, 1S55, of typhus fever, 
 "brought on by extreme devotion to medical studies and 
 attendance upon the poor. He was a youth of rare pro- 
 mise and great accomplishments-; and perhaps there was 
 never another occasion when one so young received the 
 tribute of funeral honours from so large and distinguish- 
 ed an assemblage as that which accompanied his remains 
 to St. Thomas's Church, where appropriate services were 
 conducted in a very impressive manner by Dr. Hawks, an 
 old person?! friend of the family. 
 
 When up the aisle lamiliar to thy tread, 
 Moved the long train by white-robed pastors led, 
 And at the altar, where thou oft hast bowed, 
 We tearful knelt, and laid thee in thy shroud ; 
 When those deep tones on which with youthful 
 
 pride, 
 For wisdom's banquet thou so well relied, 
 Breathed the last prayer that mortal rites delay, 
 In faltering accents o'er thy senseless clay ; 
 The sternest wept, and even worldly men 
 Felt the poor refuge of ambition then. 
 The Christmas garlands still with verdure hung, 
 The temple where thy funeral hymn was sung, 
 And as it echoed, like a holy spell, 
 The blest assurance of a short farewell, 
 A flood of sunshine broke upon our sight, 
 And wreathed the mourners with supernal light; 
 In golden mists the peaceful cadence died, 
 And Nature hailed what Faith has prophesied ! 
 Ah ! might Grief nestle in this sacred air, 
 Shielded from view and unprofaned by care ! 
 How grates the discord of the teeming street, 
 The rush of steeds, and tramp of busy feef, 
 How vain the stir, how pitiless the glare, 
 To those who sorrow's aching badges wear ! 
 Yet even here our brother's worth appears, 
 To fill with honour his remembered years ; 
 In yonder pile* — the wretch's last retreat, 
 Where Charity and Science nobly meet, 
 With steadfast heart, with love-inspired brain, 
 And patient zeal, he ministered to pain. 
 Welcome the vistas of the hills and sea, 
 Whose pure enchantments ever solaced thee, 
 As from the city's strife our dark array, 
 Emerged to meet the forest and the bay : 
 There is a balm in Nature's open face 
 That over anguish casts a soothing grace ; 
 The winds mourn with us, and the fading day 
 Serenely whispers — all must pass away ; 
 Each herb and tree with promise are imbued, 
 Withered to bloom, despoiled to be renewed ; 
 From every knoll a boundless void we see, 
 So, love bereft, appears the world to thee : 
 Here where the portals of the East arise, 
 And falls the earliest greeting from the skies, 
 Our heavy burden in the earth we lay, 
 Far heavier that our hearts must bear away ! 
 
 * The New York Hospital. 
 
502 
 
 HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 THE HOLY LAND. 
 
 Through the warm noontide, I have roam'd 
 Where Cesar's palace-ruins lie, 
 
 And in the Forum's lonely waste 
 Oft listen'd to the night-wind's sigh. 
 
 1 've traced the moss-lines on the walls 
 That Venice conjured from the sea, 
 
 And seen the Colosseum's dust 
 Before the breeze of autumn flee. 
 
 Along Pompeii's lava-street, 
 
 With curious eye, I've wander'd lone, 
 And mark'd Segesta's temple-floor 
 
 With the rank weeds of ages grown. 
 
 I've clamber'd Etna's hoary brow, 
 
 And sought the wild Campagna's gloom ; 
 
 I've hail'd Geneva's azure tide, 
 
 And snatch'd a weed from Virgil's tomb. 
 
 Why all unsated j'earns my heart 
 To seek once more a pilgrim shrine'! 
 
 One other land I would explore — 
 The sacred fields of Palestine. 
 
 Oh, for a glance at those wild hills 
 
 That round Jerusalem arise ! 
 And one sweet evening by the lake 
 
 That gleams beneath Judea's skies ! 
 
 How anthem-like the wind must sound 
 In meadows of the Holy Land — 
 
 How musical the ripples break 
 Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand ! 
 
 Behold the dew, like angels' tears, 
 Upon each thorn is gleaming now, 
 
 Blest emblems of the crown of love 
 There woven for the Sufferer's brow. 
 
 Who does not sigh to enter Nain, 
 
 Or in Capernaum to dwell ; 
 Inhale the breeze from Galilee, 
 
 And rest beside Samaria's well 1 
 
 Who would not stand beneath the spot 
 Where Bethlehem's star its vigil kept 1 
 
 List to the plash of Siloa's pool, 
 
 And kiss the ground where Jesus wept! 
 
 Gethsemane who would not seek, 
 
 And pluck a lily by the way 1 
 Through Bethany devoutly walk, 
 
 And on the mount of Olives pray 1 
 
 How dear were one repentant night 
 
 Where Mart's tears of love were shed ! 
 
 How blest, beside the Saviour's tomb, 
 One hour's communion with the dead ! 
 
 What solemn joy to stand alone 
 
 On Calvary's celestial height .' 
 Or kneel upon the mountain-slope 
 
 Once radiant with supernal light ! 
 
 I cannot throw my staff' aside, 
 Nor wholly quell the hope divine 
 
 That one delight awaits me yet — 
 A pilgrimage to Palestine. 
 
 TO AN ELM. 
 
 Bravely thy old arms fling 
 Their countless pennons to the fields of air, 
 
 And, like a sylvan king, 
 Their panoply of green still proudly wear. 
 
 As some rude tower of old, 
 Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, 
 
 With limbs of giant mould, 
 To battle sternly with the winter storm. 
 
 In Nature's mighty fane, 
 Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky; 
 
 How long the pilgrim train 
 That with a benison have pass'd thee by ! 
 
 Lone patriarch of the wood ! 
 Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise, 
 
 Of fresh and dauntless mood, 
 Spreading thy branches to the open skies. 
 
 The locust knows thee well, 
 And when the summer-days his notes prolong, 
 
 Hid in some leafy cell, 
 Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. 
 
 Oft, on a morn in spring, 
 The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, 
 
 And there securely swing, 
 To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay. 
 
 How bursts thy monarch wail, 
 When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, 
 
 And, bared to meet the gale, 
 Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife ! 
 
 The sunset often weaves 
 Upon thy crer.t a wreath of splendour rare, 
 
 While the fresh-murmuring leaves 
 Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air. 
 
 Sacred thy roof of green 
 To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free : 
 
 Gay youth and age serene 
 Turn with familiar gladness unto thee. 
 
 0, hither should we roam, 
 To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade ; 
 
 Beneath thy emerald dome 
 Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. 
 
 With blessings at thy feet, 
 Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest; 
 
 Thy verdant, calm retreat 
 Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. 
 
 When, at the twilight hour, 
 Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam, 
 
 Under thy ancient bower 
 The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream. 
 
 And when the moonbeams fall 
 Through thy broad canopy upon the grass, 
 
 Making a fairy hall, 
 As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass — 
 
 Then lovers haste to thee, 
 With hearts that tremble like that shifting light : 
 
 To them, O brave old tree, 
 Thou art Joy's shrine — a temple of delight ! 
 
HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 503 
 
 MARY. 
 
 What though the name is old and oft repeated, 
 
 What though a thousand beings bear it now, 
 And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted — 
 
 What though 'tis hallo w'd by a poet's vow] 
 We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming 
 
 Is a familiar rapture to the eye ; 
 And yon bright star we hail, although its looming 
 
 Age after age has lit the northern sky. 
 
 As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing, 
 
 As garden odours to the desert blown, 
 In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing, 
 
 Like patriot music or affection's tone — 
 Thus, thus, for aye, the name of Mart spoken 
 
 By lips or text, with magic-like control, 
 The course of present thought has quickly broken, 
 
 And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul. 
 
 The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow, 
 
 The fairest trophies of the limner's fame, 
 To my fond fancy, Mart, seem to borrow 
 
 Celestial halos from thy gentle name : 
 The Grecian artist glean'd from many faces, 
 
 And in a perfect whole the parts combined, 
 So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces 
 
 To form the Mart of my ardent mind. 
 
 And marvel not I thus call my idea! — 
 
 We inly paint as we would have things be — 
 The fanciful springs ever from the real, 
 
 As Aphrodite rose from out the sea. 
 Who smiled upon me kindly day by day, 
 
 In a far land where I was sad and lone 1 
 Whose presence now is my delight away ] 
 
 Both angels must the same bless'd title own. 
 
 What spirits round my weary way are flying, 
 
 What fortunes on my future life await, 
 Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing, 
 
 Are all unknown — in trust I bide my fate ; 
 But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven, 
 
 'T would be that Mart should my being cheer, 
 Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, 
 
 Be my dear household word, and my last accent 
 here. 
 
 "YOU CALL US INCONSTANT." 
 
 You call us inconstant — you say that we cease 
 Our homage to pay, at the voice of caprice ; 
 That we dally with hearts till their treasures are ours, 
 As bees drink the sweets from a cluster of flowers ; 
 For a moment's refreshment at love's fountain stay, 
 Then turn, with a thankless impatience, away. 
 
 And think you, indeed, we so cheerfully part 
 With hopes that give wings to the o'erwearied heart, 
 And throw round the future a promise so bright 
 That life seems a glory, and time a delight] 
 From our pathway forlorn can we banish the dove, 
 And yield without pain the enchantments of love ] 
 
 You know not how chill and relentless a wave 
 Reflection will cast o'er the soul of the brave — ■ 
 How keenly the clear rays of duty will beam, 
 And startle the heart from its passionate dream, 
 
 To tear the fresh rose from the garland of youth, 
 And lay it with tears on the altar of truth ] 
 
 We pass from the presence of beauty, to think — 
 As the hunter will pause on the precipice brink — 
 " For me shall the bloom of the gladsome and fair 
 Be wasted away by the fetters of care ] 
 Shall the old, peaceful nest, for my sake be forgot, 
 And the gentle and free know a wearisome lot ] 
 
 " By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware 
 How you woo her thy desolate fortunes to share ! 
 O pluck not a lily so shelter'd and sweet, 
 And bear it not off from its genial retreat. 
 Enrich'd with the boon thy existence would be, 
 But hapless the fate that unites her to thee !" 
 
 Thus, dearest, the spell that thy graces entwined, 
 No fickle heart breaks, but a resolute mind ; 
 The pilgrim may turn from the shrine with a smile, 
 Yet, believe me, his bosom is wrung all the while, 
 And one thought alone lends a charm to the past — 
 That his love conquer'd selfishness nobly at last. 
 
 GREENOUGH'S WASHINGTON. 
 
 The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung 
 
 Has peopled earth with grace, 
 Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung, 
 
 A bright and peerless race ; 
 But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before 
 
 A shape of loftier name 
 Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore, 
 
 The noblest son of Fame. 
 Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stain'd ; 
 
 His gaze around is cast, 
 As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gain'd, 
 
 Before his vision pass'd ; 
 As if a nation's shout of love and pride 
 
 With music fill'd the air, 
 And his calm soul was lifted on the tide 
 
 Of deep and grateful prayer ; 
 As if the crystal mirror of his life 
 
 To fancy sweetly came, 
 With scenes of patient toil and noble strife, 
 
 . Undimm'd by doubt or shame ; 
 As if the lofty purpose of his soul 
 
 Expression would betray — 
 The high resolve Ambition to control, 
 
 And thrust her crown away ! 
 Oh, it was well in marble firm and white 
 
 To carve our hero's form, 
 Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight, 
 
 Our star amid the storm ! 
 Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, 
 
 And human freedom sure, 
 His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine, 
 
 While man and time endure ! 
 And it is well to place his image there, 
 
 Beneath the dome he blest ; 
 Let meaner spirits who its councils share. 
 
 Revere that silent guest ! 
 Let us go up with high and sacred love 
 
 To look on his pure brow, 
 And as, with solemn grace, he points above, 
 
 Renew the patriot's vow ! 
 
504 
 
 HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 ALONE ONCE MORE. 
 
 Alone once more ! — but with such deep emotion, 
 Waking to life a thousand hopes and fears, 
 
 Such wild distrust — such absolute devotion, 
 My bosom seems a dreary lake of tears : 
 
 Tears that stern manhood long restrain'd from gush- 
 As mountains keep a river from the sea, [ing, 
 
 Until Spring's floods, impetuously rushing, 
 Channel a bed, and set its waters free ! 
 
 What mockery to all true and earnest feeling, 
 This fatal union of the false and fair ! 
 
 Eyes, lips, and voice, unmeasured bliss revealing, 
 With hearts whose lightness fills us with despair ! 
 
 O God ! some sorrows of our wondrous being 
 A patient mind can partly clear away ; 
 
 Ambition cools when fortune's gifts are fleeing, 
 And men grow thoughtful round a brother's clay ; 
 
 But to what end this waste of noble passion? 
 This wearing of a truthful heart to dust — 
 
 Adoring slaves of humour, praise, or fashion, 
 The vain recipients of a boundless trust ? 
 
 Come home, fond heart, cease all instinctive plead- 
 As the dread fever of insane desire, [i n g> 
 
 To some dark gulf thy warm affections leading, 
 When love must longsurvive,though faith expire! 
 
 Though wonted glory from the earth will vanish, 
 And life seem desolate, and hope beguile, 
 
 Love's cherish'd dream learn steadfastly to banish, 
 Till death thy spirit's conflict reconcile ! 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 What though our dream is broken? Yet again 
 
 Like a familiar angel it shall bear 
 Consoling treasures for these days of pain, 
 
 Such as they only who have grieved can share ; 
 As unhived nectar for the bee to sip, [brings, 
 
 Lurks in each flower-ce!l which the spring-time 
 As music rests upon the quiet lip, 
 
 And power to soar yet lives in folded wings — 
 So let the love on which your spirits glide 
 
 Flow deep and strong beneath its bridge of sighs, 
 No shadow resting on the latent tide 
 
 Whose heavenward current baffles human eyes, 
 Until we stand upon the holy shore, 
 And realms it prophesied at length explore ! 
 
 IT. COURAGE AND PATIENCE. 
 
 Courage and patience ! elements whereby 
 
 My soul shall yet her citadel maintain, 
 Baffled, perplex'd, and struggling oft to fly, 
 
 Far, far above this realm of wasting pain — 
 Come with your still and banded vigour now, 
 
 Fill my sad breast with energy divine, 
 Stamp a firm thought upon my aching brow, 
 
 Make my impulsive visions wholly thine ! 
 Freeze my pent tears, chill all my tender dreams, 
 
 Brace my weak heart in panoply sublime, 
 Till dwelling only on thy martyr themes, 
 
 And turning from the richest lures of time, 
 Love, like an iceberg of the polar deep, 
 In adamantine rest is laid asleep ! 
 
 III. All HEARTS ARE WOT DISLOYAL. 
 
 All hearts are not disloyal : let thy trust 
 
 Be deep, and clear, and all-confiding still, 
 For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dustj 
 
 She ne'er betrays her child to lasting ill: 
 Through leagues of desert must the pilgrim go 
 
 Ere on his gaze the holy turrets rise ; 
 Through the long, sultry day the stream must flow 
 
 Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies. 
 Fall back unscathed from contact with the vain, 
 
 Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free, 
 And calmly launch Affection's bark again, 
 
 Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee ! 
 Though lone the way as that already trod, 
 Cling to thine own integrity and God ! 
 
 IV. LIKE A FAIR SEA. 
 
 Ltke the fair sea that laves Italia's strand, 
 
 Affection's flood is tideless in my breast ; 
 No-ebb withdraws it from the chosen land, 
 
 Haven'd too richly for enamour'd quest : 
 Thus am I faithful to the vanish'd grace 
 
 Embodied once in thy sweet form and name, 
 And though love's charm no more illumes thy face, 
 
 In Memory's realm her olden pledge I claim. 
 It is not constancy to haunt a shrine 
 
 From which devotion's lingering spark has fled ; 
 Insensate homage only wreaths can twine 
 
 Around the pulseless temples of the dead : 
 Thou from thy better self hast madly flown, 
 While to that self allegiance still I own. 
 
 V. FREEDOM. 
 
 Freedom ! beneath thy banner I was born — 
 
 Oh let me share thy full and peifect life ! 
 Teach me opinion's slavery to scorn, 
 
 And to be free from passion's bitter strife ; 
 Free of the world, a self-dependent soul 
 
 Nourish'd by lofty aims and genial truth, 
 And made more free by Love's serene control, 
 
 The spell of beauty and the hopes of youth. 
 The liberty of Nature let me know, 
 
 Caught from her mountains, groves, and crystal 
 streams, 
 Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow, 
 
 That woo the spirit with celestial dreams, 
 On Fancy's wing exultingly to soar, 
 Till life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more ! 
 
 VI. DESOLATION. 
 
 Think ye the desolate must live apart, 
 
 By solemn vows to convent-walls confined ? 
 Ah ! no ; with men may dwell the cloister'd heart, 
 
 And in a crowd the isolated mind ; 
 Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate, 
 
 The world sees not how sorrowful they stand, 
 Gazing so fondly through the iron grate, 
 
 Upon the promised, yet forbidden land ; 
 Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet, 
 
 Day after day, in voiceless penance turn; 
 Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat 
 
 In which unseen their meek devotions burn; 
 Life is to them a vigil that none share, 
 Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer. 
 
HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 505 
 
 LUNA: AN ODE. 
 
 The south wind hath its balm, the sea its cheer, 
 And autumn woods their bright and myriad hues ; 
 Thine is a joy that love and faith endear, 
 And awe subdues : 
 The wave-toss'd seamen and the harvest crew, 
 When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew 
 Hangs like pure tears — all fear beguile, 
 In glancing from their task to thy maternal smile ! 
 The mist of hilltops undulating wreathes, 
 At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof, 
 And curling incense fainter odour breathes, 
 And in transparent clouds hangs round the vaulted 
 Huge icebergs, with their crystal spires [roof. 
 
 Slow heaving from the northern main, 
 Like frozen monuments of high desires 
 Destin'd to melt in nothingness again — 
 Float in thy mystic beams, 
 As piles aerial down the tide of dreams ! 
 
 A sacred greeting falls 
 "With thy mild presence on the ruin'd fane, 
 Columns time-stain'd, dim frieze, and ivied walls, 
 As if a fond delight thou didst attain 
 To mingle with the Past, 
 And o'er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast ! 
 Along the billow's snowy crest 
 Thy beams a moment rest, 
 And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away ; 
 Through forest boughs, amid the wither'd leaves, 
 Thy light a tracery weaves, 
 And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play. 
 With thee, ethereal guide, 
 What reverent joy to pace the temple floor, 
 And watch thy silver tide 
 O'er statue, tomb, and arch,its solemn radiance pour! 
 Like a celestial magnet thou dost sway 
 
 The untamed waters in their ebb and flow, 
 The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray, 
 And poet's visions glow. 
 Madonna of the stars ! through the cold prison-grate 
 Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent, 
 
 To cheer the desolate, [spent ! 
 
 And usher in Grief's tears when her mute pang is 
 I marvel not that once thy altars rose 
 Sacred to human woes, 
 And nations deem'd thee arbitress of Fate, 
 To whom enamor'd virgins made their prayer, 
 Or widows in their first despair, 
 And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state, 
 As, with a meek assurance, gliding by, 
 
 In might and beauty unelate, 
 Into the bridal chambers of the sky ! 
 And less I marvel that Endymion sigh'd 
 
 To yield his spirit unto thine, 
 And felt thee soul-allied, 
 Making his being thy receptive shrine ! 
 
 A lofty peace is thine ! — the tides of life 
 Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears, 
 And Passion's fever'd strife [spheres ! 
 
 From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the 
 O twilight glory ! that doth ne'er awake 
 Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond 
 Allays the immortal thirst it cannot slake, 
 And heals the chafing of the work-day bond ; 
 
 Give me thy patient spell ! — to bear 
 
 With an unclouded brow the secret pain 
 (That floods my soul as thy pale beams the air) 
 Of hopes that Reason quells, for Love to wake again! 
 
 TASSO TO LEONORA. 
 
 If to love solitude because my heart 
 
 May undisturbed upon thy image dwell, 
 And in the world to bear a cheerful part 
 
 To hide the fond thoughts that its pulses swell ; 
 If to recall with credulous delight 
 
 Affection's faintest semblances in thee, 
 To feel thy breath upon my cheek at night, 
 
 And start in anguish that it may not be ; 
 If in thy presence ceaselessly to know 
 
 Delicious peace, a feeling as of wings, 
 Content divine within my bosom glow, 
 
 A noble scorn of all unworthy things — i 
 The quiet bliss that fills one's natal air, 
 
 When once again it fans the wanderer's brow, 
 The conscious spirit of the good and fair — 
 
 The wish to be forever such as now ; 
 If in thy absence still to feel thee nigh, 
 
 Or with impatient longings waste the day, 
 If to be haunted by thy love-lit eye — 
 If for thy good devotedly to pray ; 
 
 And chiefly sorrow that but half reveal'd 
 Can be the tenderness that in me lies, 
 
 That holiest pleasure must be all conceal'd — ■ 
 Shrinking from heartless scoff or base surmise ; 
 If, as my being's crowning grace, to bless • . 
 
 The hour we recognised each other's truth, 
 And with calm joy unto my soul confess 
 
 That thou hast realized the dreams of youth — 
 My spirit's mate, long cherish'd, though unknown, 
 
 Friend of my heart bestow'd on me by God, 
 At whose approach all visions else have flown 
 
 From the vain path which I so long have trod ; 
 If from thy sweet caress to bear new life 
 
 As one possess'd by a celestial spell, 
 That armeth me against all outward strife, 
 
 And ever breathes the watchword — all is well ; 
 If with glad firmness, casting doubt aside, 
 
 To bare my heart to thee without disguise, 
 And yield it up as to my chosen bride. 
 
 Feeling that life vouchsafes no dearer prize ; 
 If thus to blend my very soul with thine 
 
 By mutual consecration, watching o'er 
 The hallow'd bond with loyalty divine — ■ 
 
 If this be love, — I love forevermore ! 
 
 FROM THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 THE LAW OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Read the great law in Beauty's cheering reign, 
 Blent with all ends through matter's wide domain ; 
 She breathes Hope's language, and with boundless 
 range [change, 
 
 Sublimes all forms, smiles through each subtle 
 And with insensate elements combined 
 Ordains their constant ministry to mind. 
 The breeze awoke to waft the feather'd seed, 
 And the cloud-fountains with their dew to feed. 
 
506 
 
 HENRY T. TUGKERMAN. 
 
 Upon its many errands might have flown, 
 Nor woke one river song or forest moan, 
 Stirr'd not the grass, nor the tall grain have bent, 
 Like shoreless billows tremulously spent ; 
 Frost could the bosom of the lake have glass'd, 
 Nor paused to paint the woodlands as it pass'd ; 
 The glossy seabird and the brooding dove 
 Might coyly peck with twinkling eye of love, 
 Nor catch upon their downy necks the dyes, 
 So like the mottled hues of summer skies : 
 Mists in the west could float, nor glory wear, 
 As if an angel's robes were streaming there ; 
 The moon might sway the tides, nor yet impart 
 A solemn light to tranquillize the heart, 
 And leagues of sand could bar the ocean's swell, 
 Nor yield one crystal gleam or pearly shell. 
 The very sedge lends music to the blast, 
 And the thorn glistens when the storm is past; 
 Wild flowers nestle in the rocky cleft, 
 Moss decks the bough of leaf and life bereft, 
 O'er darkest clouds the moonbeams brightly steal, 
 The rainbow's herald is the thunder's peal ; 
 Gay are the weeds that strew the barren shore, 
 And anthem-like the breaker's gloomy roar. 
 As love o'er sorrow spreads her genial wings 
 The ivy round a fallen column clings, 
 While on the sinking walls, where owlets cry, 
 The weather stains in tints of beauty lie. 
 The wasting elements adorn their prey 
 And throw a pensive charm around decay; 
 Thus ancient limners bade their canvas glow, 
 And group'd sweet cherubs o'er a martyr's wo. 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 Heroic guide ! whose wings are never furl'd, 
 By thee Spain's voyager sought another world ; 
 What but poetic impulse could sustain 
 That dauntless pilgrim on the dreary main! 
 Day after day his mariners protest, 
 And gaze with dread along the pathless west ; 
 Beyond that realm of waves, untrack'd before, 
 Thy fairy pencil traced the promised shore, 
 Through weary storms and faction's fiercer rage, 
 The scoffs of ingrates and the chills of age, 
 Thy voice renewed his earnestness of aim, 
 And whisper'd pledges of eternal fame ; 
 Thy cheering smile atoned for fortune's frown, 
 And made his fetters garlands of renown. 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 Princes, when softened in thy sweet embrace, 
 Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace, 
 And thus redeemed, Lorenzo's fair domain 
 Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign. 
 Delightful Florence ! though the northern gale 
 Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale, 
 Can I forget how softly Autumn threw 
 Beneath thy skies her robes of ruddy hue, 
 Through what long days of balminess and peace, 
 From wintry bonds spring won thy mild release] 
 Along the Arno then I loved to pass, 
 And watch the violets peeping from the grass, 
 Mark the gray kine each chestnut grove between, 
 Startle the pheasants on the lawny green, 
 
 Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow, 
 Like lofty shrines the purple clouds below. 
 Within thy halls, when veil'd the sunny rays, 
 Marvels of art await the ardent gaze, 
 And liquid words from lips of beauty start, 
 With social joy to warm the stranger's heart. 
 How beautiful at moonlight's hallow'd hour, 
 Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower ! 
 The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang 
 Round the fair scene whence modern genius sprang; 
 O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls 
 The silver beam on dome and cornice falls ; 
 The statues cluster'd in thy ancient square, 
 Like mighty spirits print the solemn air ; 
 Silence meets beauty with unbroken reign, 
 Save when invaded by a choral strain, 
 Whose distant cadence falls upon the ear, 
 To fill the bosom with poetic cheer ! 
 
 POETRY IMMORTAL. 
 
 For fame life's meaner records vainly strive, 
 While, in fresh beauty, thy high dreams survive. 
 Still Vesta's temple throws its classic shade 
 O'er the bright foam of Tivoli's cascade, 
 And to one Venus still we bow the knee, 
 Divine as if just issued from the sea; 
 In fancy's trance, yet deem on nights serene 
 We hear the revels of the fairy queen, 
 That Dian's smile illumes the marble fane, 
 And Ceres whispers in the rustling grain, 
 That Ariel's music has not died away, 
 And in his shell still floats the Culprit Fay. 
 The sacred beings of poetic birth 
 Immortal live to consecrate the earth. 
 San Marco's pavement boasts no doge's tread, 
 And all its ancient pageantry has fled ; 
 Yet, as we muse beneath some dim arcade, 
 The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade; 
 In every passing eye that sternly beams 
 We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams ; 
 Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen, 
 Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien ; 
 While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore, 
 Yields us the smile that once entranced the Moor. 
 How Scotland's vales are peopled to the heart 
 By her bold minstrel's necromantic art ! 
 Along this fern moved Jeannie's patient feet, 
 Where hangs yon mist rose Ellangowan's seat, 
 Here the sad bride first gave her love a tongue, 
 And there the chief's last shout of triumph rung; 
 Beside each stream, down every glen they throng, 
 The cherish'd offspring of creative song! 
 Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore, 
 The bard of Avon hallow'd Elsinore: 
 Perchance when moor'd the fleet, awaiting day, 
 To fix the battle's terrible array, 
 Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep, 
 So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep, 
 Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone 
 Blend with the water's melancholy moan, 
 Recall'd, with prayer and awe-suspended breath, 
 His wild and solemn questionings of death, 
 Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song, 
 Swept by the night-breeze plaintively along ! 
 
W. H. C. HOSMER. 
 
 [Born, 1814.] 
 
 One of the most truly American of our poets, 
 that is, one of those whose characteristics are most 
 directly and obviously results of a lifelong familiar- 
 ity with the scenery, traditions, and institutions 
 of our own country, is William Henry Cuyerl 
 Hosmer, of Avon, in western New York. His 
 father, a distinguished lawyer, descended from a 
 New England family which had furnished many 
 eminent names to the bench and bar, emigrated at 
 an early period from Connecticut; and his mater- 
 nal ancestors were the first settlers among the Sene- 
 cas, whose language he learned in infancy from his 
 mother's lips, and whose mythology and public and 
 private life he has understood as familiarly as if 
 they were his natural inheritance. He was born 
 at Avon, on the fifth of May, 1814, and was edu- 
 cated at the Temple Hill Academy, Geneseo, of 
 which the learned Professor C. C. Felton, now 
 of Harvard University, was the principal, and at 
 Geneva College. For his literary productions he 
 had already received the honorary degree of mas- 
 ter of arts, from Hamilton College and the Uni- 
 versity of Vermont, before it was conferred in 
 course by his alma mater. He subsequently stu- 
 died the law, in the office of his father, and on 
 being admitted to practice became his partner. 
 The rank he has held in his profession is indicated 
 by the fact that he succeeded the late Honorable 
 John Young as master in chancery. 
 
 In 1836, while Wisconsin was still in almost 
 undisturbed possession of the Indians, he spent 
 some time in that territory, and for several months 
 during the southern border war of 1838 and 1839, 
 accompanied by his wife, to whom he had just 
 been married, he was an invalid among the ever- 
 glades of Florida. In these excursions he had 
 ample opportunity of studying the Indian charac- 
 ter as it is displayed in those regions, and of com- 
 paring it with that of the Iroquois. 
 
 Mr. Hosmer began to write verses at a very 
 early age, and has been an industrious and a pro- 
 lific author. In 1830 he composed a drama en- 
 titled " The Fall of Tecumseh." His first publica- 
 tion, except contributions to the journals and maga- 
 zines, was "The Themes of Song," containing about 
 six hundred and fifty lines; this appeared in 1834, 
 and was followed by " The Pioneers of Western 
 New York," in 1838; "The Prospects of the 
 Age," in 1841; "Yonnondio, or the Warriors of 
 the Genesee," in 1844; "The Months," in 1847; 
 " Bird Notes," " Legends of the Senecas," and 
 "Indian Traditions and Songs," in 1850; and a 
 complete collection of his " Poetical Works," in 
 two volumes, in 1853. 
 
 The longest if not the most important of these 
 productions of Mr. Hosmer is " Yonnondio," a 
 tale of the French domination in America in the 
 
 seventeenth century. It is in octo-syllabic verse, 
 occasionally varied to suit the requirements of 
 his subject; the narrative is spirited and inter- 
 esting; and all the details of Indian customs, cos- 
 tumes, superstitions, and character, as well as the 
 delineations of external nature, studiously correct. 
 It is a defect in the construction of the story, that no 
 sufficient cause is presented for the conduct of one 
 of the principal actors, De Grai : a quarrel on an 
 unjust imputation affording no proper ground for 
 his leaving France ; generally, however, the dra- 
 matic proprieties of the piece are as well preserved 
 as the descriptive ; and it abounds with picturesque 
 touches which betray a very careful observation, 
 and unusual felicity in coloring. In the account 
 of an Indian march, we are told : 
 
 " The red-breast, perch'd in arbour green, 
 Sad minstrel of the quiet scene, 
 While singing, for the dying sun, 
 As sings a broken-hearted one, 
 Raised not her mottled wing to fly, 
 As swept those silent warriors by ; 
 The woodcock in his moist retreat, 
 Heard not the falling of their feet ; 
 On his dark roost the gray owl slept ; 
 Time with his drum the partridge kept ; 
 Nor left the deer his watering-place — 
 So hushed, so noiseless was their pace." 
 
 In a similar vein is the following finely finished 
 passage describing the passage of an Indian maid- 
 en through the valley of the Genesee : 
 
 " Treading upon tbe grassy sod 
 As if her feet with moss were shod, 
 Fled on her errand, Wan-nut-hay ; 
 Nor paused to list or look behind, 
 While groves, of outline undefined, 
 
 Before her darkly lay : 
 Boldly she plunged their depth's within 
 Though thorns pierced through her moccasin, 
 And the black clouds, unseal'd at last, 
 Discharged their contents thick and fast, 
 Drenching her locks and vesture slight, 
 And blinding with large drops her sight. 
 
 " The grizzly wolf was on the tramp 
 
 To gain the covert of his lair; 
 Fierce eyes glared on her from the swamp, 
 
 As if they asked her errand there; 
 The feathered hermit of the dell 
 Flew, hooting, to his oaken cell ; 
 And grape-vines, tied in leafy coil 
 To gray-arm'd giants of the soil, 
 Swung, like a vessel's loosen' d shrouds, 
 Drifting beneath a bank of clouds. 
 From the pines' huge and quaking cones 
 Came sobbing and unearthly tones, 
 While trunks decayed, of measure vast, 
 Fought for the last time with the blast, 
 And near her fell with crushing roar, 
 That shook the cumbered forest floor." 
 
 There are scattered through the poem passages 
 of reflection in their way not less creditable to the 
 
 507 
 
508 
 
 W. H. C. HOSMER. 
 
 author. These lines, from the seventh canto, are 
 excellent: 
 
 " Thou phantom, military fame ! 
 How long will Genius laud thy name, 
 And curtain features from the sight, 
 
 More foul than those Khorassen's seer 
 Hid behind veil of silver bright, 
 
 Tempting his victim to draw near ? 
 How long will thy misleading lamp 
 
 Through regions wrapped in smoke and fire, 
 To Slaughter's cavern, red and damp, 
 
 Guide beardless boy and gray-haired sire? 
 Up, fearless battlers for the right, 
 And flood old groaning earth with light! 
 Bid nations ponder well and pause, 
 When blade corrupt Ambition draws — 
 Oh ! .teach the world that Conquest wears 
 A darker brand than felon bears ; 
 Prolific fount, from earliest time, 
 Of murder, orphanage, and crime !" 
 
 In a preface to his poems relating to the Indians, 
 Mr. Hosmer reminds us of the extrordinary ad- 
 vantages he has enjoyed, "by their campfires, and 
 
 in their councils," for becoming acquainted with 
 their characteristics and traditions, and discusses 
 eloquently the suitableness of his theme for poet- 
 ical treatment. 
 
 To such poems, however, most readers will be 
 apt to prefer the simpler effusions in which he 
 has echoed the "Notes of the Birds," or paint- 
 ed the varying phenomena of "The Months." In 
 these, too, he has faithfully subjected his muse 
 to the- requirements of truth. He accomplishes 
 his task of description by felicities in selection and 
 combination from nature. An Audubon or a Mi- 
 Chaux would search in vain for an error in his 
 plumage or foliage, and a Cole might give the 
 finishing touches to the lights and shadows of 
 his landscapes from the poet's observation of at- 
 mospheric effects or the changing influence of the 
 seasons. 
 
 In 1854 Mr. Hosmek removed to the city of 
 New York, where he occupies a place in the cus- 
 tom-house. 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS* 
 
 Language provides poor symbols of expression 
 When roused Imagination, holding rein, 
 
 Sends airy forms of grace in vast procession 
 Across the poet's brain. 
 
 An Orphic tongue would be too weak an agent 
 To tell the tale of inspiration's hour ; 
 
 To paint an outline of the gorgeous pageant, 
 A Titian have no power. 
 
 The meagre written record of the closet [more 
 Saves but a few, pale glimmering pearls — no 
 
 When the lashed waves roll inland to deposit 
 Their wealth along the shore 
 
 The queen of Beauty and her blushing daughters 
 In Crathis bathed — that old poetic stream — ■ 
 
 And each dark ringlet from the sparkling waters 
 Imbibed an' amber gleam. 
 
 Thus thoughts that send and will send on forever, 
 From the dim plains of long ago, a light, 
 
 Caught from Imagination's golden river 
 Their glow divinely bright. 
 
 When done with life, its fever, din, and jostle, 
 
 How scant and poor a portion after all 
 Of Nature's priest, and Art's renowned apostle 
 
 Lies hid beneath the pall. 
 Though grazingherd and hosts with clanging sabres 
 
 Their graves forgotten trample rudely o'er, 
 To tribes and nations, through their crowning la- 
 
 They speak for evermore. [bors, 
 
 Oh, Genius ! dowered with privilege immortal, 
 
 Thus from the wastes of time to stretch thy hand, 
 And, with a touch unfold the glittering portal 
 
 Of an enchanted land! 
 Death knows thee not,tho' long ago were blended 
 
 Thy visible forms with undistinguished clay ; 
 The dead are they whose mission here is ended — 
 
 Thy voice is heard to-day. 
 
 * From a poem on " The Utility of Imagination." 
 
 Heard on the honeyed lip of Juliet melting — ■ 
 In dreaming Richard's cry of guilty fear — 
 
 In shouts that rise above the night-storm pelting 
 From old distracted Leak, : 
 
 Heard in the organ-swell of Milton pealing — < 
 In Gray's elegaic sorrow for the past — ■ 
 
 In flute-notes from the muse of Spenser stealing, 
 In Dryden's bugle's blast : 
 
 Heard in the matchless works of thy creation, 
 Spreaking from canvas, scroll, and marble lips, 
 
 In those deep awful tones of inspiration 
 That baffle death's eclipse. 
 
 THE SOLDIER OF THE CLOSET* 
 
 Not they alone work faithfully who labor 
 On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life ; 
 
 The clerkly pen can vanquish, when the sabre 
 Is useless in the strife. 
 
 In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters 
 Launching his thoughts, like arrows from the 
 
 Oft strikes the traitor and his base abettors, [bow, 
 Bringing their grandeur low. 
 
 Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen, 
 That curse a country, he can scare away, 
 
 Or, in the wake of error, marshal foemen 
 Impatient for the fray. 
 
 Scorn not the sons of Song ! nor deem them only 
 Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of time; 
 
 Although they move in walks retired and lonely, 
 They have their tasks sublime. 
 
 When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley, 
 Calling the birthright of the brave their own, 
 
 Around the tomb of Liberty they rally, 
 And roll away the stone ! 
 
 * From " The Ideal." 
 
W. H. C. HOSMER. 
 
 509 
 
 BATTLE-GROUND OF DENONVILLE. 
 
 Oh! what secrets are revealed 
 In this ancient battle-field ! 
 Round are scattered skull and bone, 
 Into light by workmen thrown 
 Who across this valley fair 
 For the train a way prepare. 
 Pictures brighten thick and fast 
 On the mirror of the past; 
 To poetic vision plain 
 Plume and banner float again; 
 Round are mangled bodies lying, 
 Some at rest, and others dying — 
 Thus the Swan-ne-ho-ont greet 
 Those who plant invading feet 
 On the chase-ground where their sires 
 Long have kindled council-fires. 
 
 Fragments of the deadly brand, 
 Lying in the yellow sand, 
 With the fleur-de-lis to tell 
 Of the Frank who clenched it well, 
 When his race encountered here 
 Tameless chasers of the deer — 
 Arrow-head and hatchet-blade, 
 War-club broken and decayed, 
 Belts in part resolved to dust, 
 Gun-locks red with gnawing rust. 
 
 Other sounds than pick and spade, 
 When this valley lay in shade, 
 Ringing on the summer air 
 Scared the panther from his lair; 
 Other sounds than axe and bar, 
 Pathway building for the car, 
 Buzzing saw, or hammer-stroke, 
 Echo wild from slumber woke, 
 When New France her lilies pale 
 Here unfolded to the gale — 
 Rifle-crack and musket-peal, 
 Whiz of shaft and clash of steel — 
 Painted forms from cover leaping, 
 Crimson swaths through foemen reaping, 
 While replied each savage throat, 
 To the rallying bugle-note, 
 With a wolf-howl long and loud, 
 That the stoutest veteran cowed, 
 Mingled in one fearful din 
 Where these graves are crumbling in. 
 
 Busy actors in the fray 
 Were their tenants on that day; 
 But each name, forgotten long, 
 Cannot now be wove in song. 
 They had wives, perchance, who kept 
 Weary watch for them, and wept 
 Bitter tears at last to learn 
 They would never more return; 
 And in hut as well as hall 
 Childless mothers mourned their fall. 
 In a vain attempt they died 
 To bring low Na-do-wa pride, 
 And extend the Bourbon's reign 
 O'er this broad and bright domain. 
 When the whirlwind of the fight 
 Sunk into a whisper light, 
 Rudely opened was the mould 
 For their bodies stiff and cold: 
 
 Brush and leaves were loosely piled 
 On their grave-couch in the wild, 
 That their place of rest the foe, 
 Drunk with blood, might never know. 
 
 When the settler for his hearth, 
 Cleared a spot of virgin earth ; 
 And its smoke-thread on the breeze, 
 Curled above the forest trees, 
 Nor memorial sign, nor mound 
 Told that this was burial ground. 
 Since this bank received its dead, 
 Now unroofed to startled sight, 
 With its skeleton's all white, 
 More than eightscore years have fled. 
 Gather them with pious care, — 
 Let them not lie mouldering there. 
 Crushed beneath the grinding wheel, 
 And the laborer's heavy heel. 
 Ah! this fractured skull of man 
 Nursed a brain once quick to plan, 
 And these ribs that round me lie 
 Hearts enclosed that once beat high. 
 Here they fought, and here they fell, 
 Battle's roar their only knell, 
 And the soil that drank their gore 
 Should embrace the brave once more. 
 
 MENOMINEE DIRGE. 
 
 We bear the dead, we bear the dead, 
 
 In robes of otter habited, 
 
 From the quiet depths of the greenwood shade, 
 
 To her lonely couch on the hill-top made. 
 
 There, there the sun when dies the day 
 
 Flings mournfully his parting ray — 
 
 In vain the winds lift her tresses black — 
 
 Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac !* 
 
 When ploughs tear up the forest floor, 
 
 And hunters follow the deer no more, 
 
 When the red man's council-hearth is cold 
 
 His glory, like a tale that 's told, 
 
 Spare, white man ! spare an oak to wave. 
 
 Its bough above the maiden's grave, 
 
 And the dead will send a blessing back — 
 
 Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac ! 
 
 Another race are building fires 
 
 Above the bones of our buried sires — 
 
 Soon will the homes of our people be 
 
 Far from the bright Menominee ; 
 
 But yearly to yon burial-place 
 
 Some mourning band of our luckless race 
 
 To smooth the turf will wander back — 
 
 Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac! 
 
 On the wafting wings of yesternight, 
 The soul of our peerless one took flight ; 
 She heard a voice from the clime of souls, 
 Sweeter than lays of orioles, 
 Say, " Come to that bright and blissful land 
 Where Death waves not his skeleton hand, 
 Where the sky with storm is never black" — 
 Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te nac ! 
 
 ■ Flower, farewell! 
 
510 
 
 W. H. C. HOSMER. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 "La Rondinella, sopra il nido allegra, 
 Cantando salutava il nuovo giorno." 
 "The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of 
 the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as the 
 other does my sense of hearing." — Sir H. Davy. 
 
 Warm, cloudless days have brought a blithe new- 
 comer, 
 
 Beloved by young and old, 
 That twitters out a welcome unto summer, 
 
 Arrayed in green and gold. 
 
 With sunlight on his plume, the happy swallow 
 
 Is darting swiftly by, 
 As if, with shaft dismissed by bright Apollo, 
 
 His speed he fain would try. 
 
 Now high above yon steeple wheels the rover, 
 
 In many a sportive ring; 
 Anon, the glassy lakelet skimming over, 
 
 He dips his dusky wing. 
 
 Old nests yet hang, though marred by winter's 
 traces, 
 
 To rafter, beam and wall, 
 And his fond mate, to ancient breeding-places, 
 
 Comes at his amorous call. 
 
 Those mud-built domes were dear to me in child- 
 hood, 
 With feathers soft inlaid; 
 Bearer than the nests whose builders in the wild- 
 wood 
 "Were birds of man afraid. 
 
 To seedy floors of barns in thought I wander, 
 
 When swallows glads my sight, 
 And play with comrades in the church-yard yonder, 
 
 Shut out from air and light. 
 
 The "guests of summer" in and out are flying, 
 
 Their mansions to repair, 
 While on the fragrant hay together lying, 
 
 We bid adieu to care. 
 
 Barns that they haunt no thunderbolt can shatter, 
 
 Full many a hind believes; 
 No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter 
 
 Upon the golden sheaves. 
 
 Taught were our fathers that a curse would follow, 
 
 Beyond expression dread, 
 The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow 
 
 That builded in his shed. 
 
 Oh ! how I envied, in the school-house dreary, 
 
 The swallow's freedom wild, 
 Cutting the wind on pinion never weary, 
 
 Cleaving the clouds up-piled. 
 
 And when the bird and his blithe mate beholding 
 
 Abroad in airy race, 
 Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding 
 
 With images of grace. 
 
 And, oh ! what rapture, after wintry chidings, 
 
 And April's smile and tear, 
 Thrilled to the core, my bosom at the tidings, 
 
 "The swallow, boy, is here!" 
 
 Announcement of an angel on some mission 
 
 Of love without alloy, 
 Could not have sooner wakened a transition 
 
 From gloom to heart-felt joy. 
 
 For summer to the dreaming youth a heaven 
 
 Of bliss and beauty seems, 
 And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven 
 
 Clings to our thoughts and dreams. 
 
 In honor of the bird, with vain endeavor, 
 
 Why lengthen out my lay? 
 By Shakspeare's art he is embalmed forever, 
 
 Enshrined in song by Gray. 
 
 LAY OF A WANDERER. 
 
 A FLORIDIAN SCENE. 
 
 Where Pablo to the broad St. John 
 
 His dark and briny tribute pays, 
 The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, 
 
 Of graceful limb and timid gaze ; 
 Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, 
 
 The gull is screaming overhead, 
 And on a beach 'of whiten'd sand 
 
 Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. 
 
 The jessamine hangs golden flowers 
 
 On ancient oaks in moss array'd, 
 And proudly the palmetto towers, 
 
 While mock-birds warble in the shade; 
 Mounds, built by mortal hands are near, 
 
 Green from the summit to the base, 
 Where, buried with the bow and spear, 
 
 Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase. 
 
 Cassada,* nigh the ocean shore, 
 
 Is now a ruin, wild and lone, 
 And on her battlements no more 
 
 Is banner waved or trumpet blown; 
 Those doughty cavaliers are gone 
 
 Who hurled defiance there to France, 
 While the bright waters of St. John 
 
 Reflected flash of sword and lance. 
 
 But when the light of dying day 
 
 Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time, 
 And the wan features of decay 
 
 Wear softened beauty like the clime, 
 My fancy summons from the shroud 
 
 The knights of old Castile again, 
 And charging thousands shout aloud — 
 
 "St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!" 
 
 When mystic voices, on the breeze 
 
 That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, 
 The spirits of the Yemassees, 
 
 Who ruled the land of yore, seemed nigh; 
 For mournful marks, around where stood 
 
 Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, 
 And in the shadows of the wood 
 
 Their monumental mounds are green. 
 
 * An old Spanish fort. 
 
JEDIDIAH V. HUNTINGTON. 
 
 [Boru, 1815.J 
 
 The author of " Alice, or the New Una," is of 
 the eminent families of Huntington and Trum- 
 bull, in Connecticut, and is a brother of Mr. Hun- 
 tington the painter. He was born in 1S15, and 
 was educated for the profession of physic, which 
 he practised for several ) 7 ears ; but turning his at- 
 tention to theology, he became in 1839 a candidate 
 for orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church, and 
 soon after was appointed one of the professors in 
 St. Paul's College, Long Island. He was subse- 
 quently, during a short period, rector of a church 
 in Middlebury, Vermont ; but his health failing, he 
 went to Europe, and passed several years in Italy. 
 
 In 1843 he published, in New York, a volume 
 of Poems, comprising " The Trysting-Place," a 
 romantic story ; " Fragments and Inscriptions from 
 the Greek ;" " Inscriptions and Fragments from the 
 
 Female Poets of Greece ;" " Sacred Pieces,'" con- 
 sisting chiefly of translations from ancient Latin 
 hymns ; " The Northern Dawn," " Sketches in the 
 Open Air," and miscellaneous sonnets and other 
 short pieces, all of which are in a style of schol- 
 arly elegance. 
 
 In 1849 Mr. Huntington published, in Lon- 
 don, " Alice, or the New Una," a romance which 
 attracted much attention for its literary and spec- 
 ulative characteristics. Its ingeniously dramatic 
 though frequently improbable incidents, its highly- 
 finished and poetical diction, and the skill with 
 which the views of the author — those of the ex- 
 treme " Tractarians" — are maintained and illus- 
 trated, secured for it at once the favourable consid- 
 eration of clitics in art, and the applause of a reli- 
 gious party. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE CORONATION OF QUEEN 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 AUGUST 4, 1838. 
 I. THE ABBEY. 
 
 Within the minster's venerable pile 
 
 What pomps unwonted flash upon our eyes ! 
 
 What galleries, in gold and crimson, rise 
 Between the antique pillars of the aisle, 
 Crowded with England's gayest life ; the while 
 
 Beneath, her dead, unconscious glory lies; 
 
 Above, her ancient faith still seeks the skies ; 
 And with apparent life doth well beguile 
 Our senses in that ever-growing roof; 
 
 Whence on the soul return those recollections 
 Of her great annals — built to be time-proof, 
 
 Which chiefly make this spot the fittest scene 
 Wherein to consecrate those new affections 
 
 We plight this day to Britain's virgin queen. 
 
 II. THE Q.UEEN. 
 
 How strange to see a creature young and fair 
 
 Assume the sceptre of these widespread lands ! — 
 
 How in her femininely feeble hands 
 The orb of empire shall she ever bear ! — 
 And crowns, they say, not more with gems than care 
 
 Are weighty : yet with calmest mien she stands ; 
 
 August in innocence herself commands, 
 And will that stately burden lightly wear. 
 Claims surely inoffensive ! — What is she 1 
 
 Of ancient sovereignty a living shoot ; 
 The latest blossom on a royal tree 
 
 Deep in the past extends whose famous root ; 
 And realms from age to age securely free, 
 
 Gather of social peace its yet unfailing fruit. 
 
 III. THE CBOWNING. 
 
 How dazzling flash the streams of colour'd light, 
 
 When on her sacred brow the crown is placed ! 
 
 And straight her peers and dames with haughty 
 haste 
 Their coronets assume, as is their right, 
 With sudden blaze making the temple bright. 
 
 Does man's enthusiasm run to waste, 
 
 By which a queen's investiture is graced 
 With deafening demonstrations of delight, 
 That from the cannon's roar protect the ear 1 
 
 We may not dare to think so, for His sake 
 Whose word has link'd king's honour and God's 
 fear. 
 
 Nor is it servile clamour that we make, 
 Who, born ourselves to reign, in her revere 
 
 The kingly nature that ourselves partake. 
 
 ON READING BRYANT'S POEM OF 
 "THE WINDS." 
 
 Ye Winds, whose various voices in his lay 
 That bard interpreted — your utterance mild, 
 Nor less your ministration fierce and wild, 
 
 Of those resistless laws which ye obey 
 
 In your apparent lawlessness — oh say ! 
 Is not your will-less agency reviled 
 When it is liken'd unto what is styled 
 
 By such unwise the Spirit of the Day 1 
 
 Not all the islands by tornadoes swept, 
 E'er knew such ruin as befalls a state 
 
 When not the winds of God, but mortal breath, 
 With threatening sweetness of melodious hate, 
 Assaults the fabrics reverent ages kept 
 
 To shelter ancient loyalty and faith. 
 
512 
 
 JEDIDIAH V. HUNTINGTON. 
 
 TO EMMELINE : A THRENODIA. 
 
 Sister ! for as such I loved thee, 
 May I not the privilege claim 
 
 As thy brother to lament thee, 
 
 Though not mine that sacred name 1 
 
 For though not indeed thy brother, 
 
 Yet fraternal is the grief, 
 That in tears no solace meeting, 
 
 Now in words would find relief. 
 
 Who did watch thy final conflict ? 
 
 Who did weep when it was o'er 1 ? 
 Whose the voice which then consoled 
 
 One by thee beloved more ? 
 Lips that kiss'd thy cold white forehead, 
 
 Sure may sing thy requiem ; 
 Hands that closed thy stiffening eyelids, 
 
 Should it not be writ by them ? 
 
 To perform those death-bed honours 
 Soften'd much my deep regret ; 
 
 But to celebrate thy virtues 
 Is a task more soothing yet. 
 
 O'er thy features death-composed, 
 As the life-like smile that play'd, 
 
 By its beauty so familiar 
 
 Tears drew forth which soon it stay'd. 
 
 So the memory of thy goodness 
 
 Calms the grief that from it springs : 
 That which makes our loss the greatest, 
 
 Sweetest consolation brings. 
 n. 
 When the Christian maiden findeth 
 
 In the grave a maiden's rest, 
 We mourn not as did the heathen 
 
 Over beauty unpossess'd. 
 
 As the tender Meleageh, 
 
 In that sweetly mournful strain, 
 
 Sung the fate of Cleahista 
 Borne to nuptial couch in vain : 
 
 How her virgin zone unloosed, 
 She in Death's embraces slept ; 
 
 As for vainly-woo'd Antibia 
 Pure Ahite hopeless wept. 
 
 For the soul to Christ united 
 Need regret no human bliss, 
 
 And there yet remains a marriage 
 Better than the earthly is. 
 
 Wedded love is but the symbol 
 
 Of a holier mystery, 
 Which unto the stainless only 
 
 Ever shall unfolded be. 
 
 Life and Hope, when they embracing 
 Seem like one, are Love on earth; 
 
 Death and Hope, so reuniting, 
 Are the Love of heavenly birth. 
 
 Was it haply this foreknowing 
 That thou so wouldst ever be? — 
 
 From pursuing ardours shrinking 
 In thy saintly chastity. 
 
 In thy fairy-like proportions 
 
 Woman's dignity was yet, 
 And in all thy winning actions 
 
 With the grace of childhood met. 
 
 With what light and airy motion 
 Wert thou wont to glide or spring 1 
 
 As if were that shape elastic 
 Lifted by an unseen wing. 
 
 In what sweet and lively accents 
 Flow'd or gush'd thy talk or song ! 
 
 What pure thoughts and gentle feelings 
 Did that current bear along ! 
 
 But affliction prematurely 
 
 On thy tender graces breathed, 
 
 And in sweet decay about thee 
 
 Were the faded flowerets wreathed. 
 
 Blasts that smite with death the flower, 
 Cull for use the ripen'd fruit; 
 
 Suns the plant that overpower, 
 Cannot kill the buried root : 
 
 So the grief that dimm'd thy beauty 
 Shower'd gifts of higher worth, 
 
 And the germ of both is hidden 
 Safely now within the earth. 
 
 Nature, eldest, truest sybil, 
 
 Writes upon her wither'd leaves, 
 
 Words of joy restored prophetic 
 To the heart her law bereaves. 
 
 Greenly swell the clustering mountains 
 Whence thy passing spirit went ; 
 
 Clear the waters they embosom ; 
 Blue the skies above them bent. 
 
 Pass'd away the spirit wholly 
 From the haunts to us so dear? 
 
 Or at will their forms assuming, 
 In them doth it reappear ? 
 
 For there is a new expression 
 Now pervading all the place ; 
 
 Rock and stream do look with meanings 
 Such as wore thy living face. 
 
 Nor alone the face of Nature ; 
 
 Human features show it too ; 
 Chiefly those by love illumin'd 
 
 Of the heart-united few. 
 
 We upon each other gazing, 
 Mystic shadows come and go, 
 
 Over each loved visage flitting, 
 
 Why and whence we do not know. 
 
 In the old familiar dances 
 Mingle thy accustom'd feet ; 
 
 Blending with the song familiar 
 Still are heard thy concords sweet. 
 
 Hence we know the world of spirits 
 
 Is not far from each of us ; 
 Scarce that veil forbids our entrance 
 
 Which thou hast half lifted us. 
 
CORNELIUS MATHEWS 
 
 [Born, 1815.] 
 
 Mn. Mathews was born in New York in 1815; 
 was graduated at Columbia College, in that city, 
 in 1835 ; was admitted an attorney and counsel- 
 lor in 1837; and has since devoted his attention 
 chiefly to literature. A notice of his novels and 
 essays may be found in " The Prose Writers of 
 America," pages 543—554. His principal poeti- 
 cal compositions are, " Wakondah, the Master of 
 Life," founded upon an Indian tradition, and " Man 
 in the Republic, a series of Poems." Each of these 
 works has appeared in several editions. There 
 is a diversity of opinions as to the merits of Mr. 
 Mathews. He has been warmly praised, and 
 ridiculed with unsparing severity. The " North 
 American Review," which indeed does not profess 
 any consistency, has spoken of his " Man in the 
 Republic" with both derision and respect, and for 
 
 whatever condemnation others have expressed, his 
 friends can perhaps cite as high authorities in 
 approval. This may doubtless be said, both of his 
 prose and verse, that it illustrates truly, to the ex- 
 tent of the author's abilities, directed by much and 
 honest observation, the present, in our own country ; 
 or perhaps it may be said with more justice, in 
 New York. The poems on " Man in the Repub- 
 lic" are entitled, "The Child," "The Father," 
 " The Teacher," " The Statesman," " The Reform- 
 er," " The Masses," &c. 
 
 In the last edition, the author, referring to some 
 friendly criticisms, observes : " I have carefully con- 
 sidered whatever has been objected to them, and 
 where I could, in good conscience, and according 
 to the motions of my own taste, have made amend- 
 ment." 
 
 THE JOURNALIST. 
 
 As shakes the canvass of a thousand ships, 
 Struck by a heavy land-breeze far at sea — 
 
 Ruffle the thousand broad-sheets of the land, 
 Filled with the people's breath of potency. 
 
 A thousand images the hour will take, [sings ; 
 
 From him who strikes, who rules, who speaks, who 
 Many within the hour their grave to make — 
 
 Many to live far in the heart of things. 
 
 A dark-eyed spirit, he who coins the time, 
 To virtue's wrong, in base disloyal lies — 
 
 Who makes the morning's breath,the evening's tide, 
 The utterer of his blighting forgeries. 
 
 How beautiful who scatters, wide and free, 
 The gold-bright seeds of loved and loving truth ! 
 
 By whose perpetual hand each day supplied, 
 Leaps to new life the nation's heart of youth. 
 
 To know the instant, and to speak it true, 
 Its pasing lights of joy, its dark, sad cloud — 
 
 To fix upon the unnumber'd gazers' view, 
 Is to thy ready hand's broad strength allowed. 
 
 There is an inwrought life in every hour, 
 Fit to be chronicled at large and told — 
 
 'T is thine to pluck to light its secret power, 
 And on the air its many-coloured heart unfold. 
 
 The angel that in sand-dropp'd minutes lives, 
 Demands a message cautious as the ages — 
 
 Who stuns, with whirling words of hate, his ear, 
 That mighty power to boundless wrath enrages. 
 
 Shake not the quiet of a chosen land, 
 Thou grimy man over thine engine bending ; 
 
 The spirit pent that breathes the life into its limbs, 
 Docile for love is tyrannous in rending. 
 33 
 
 Obey, rhinoceros ! an infant's hand — 
 Leviathan ! obey the fisher mild and young ! 
 
 Vex'd ocean ! smile, for on thy broad-beat sand 
 The little curlew pipes his shrilly song. 
 
 THE CITIZEN. 
 
 With plainness in thy daily pathway walk, 
 And disencumber'd of excess : no other 
 
 Jostling, servile to none, none overstalk, 
 For, right and left, who passes is thy brother. 
 
 Let him who in thy upward countenance looks, 
 Find there in meek and soften'd majesty 
 
 Thy Country writ, thy Brother, and thy God ; 
 And be each motion onward, calm, and free. 
 
 Feel well with the poised ballot in thy hand, 
 Thine unmatch'd sovereignty of right and wrong, 
 
 'Tis thine to bless or blast the waiting land, 
 To shorten up its life or make it long. 
 
 Who looks on thee, with gladness should behold 
 A self-delivered, self-supported Man — 
 
 True to his being's mighty purpose — true 
 To this heaven-bless'd and God-imparted plan. 
 
 Nowhere within the great globe's skyey round 
 Canst thou escape thy duty, grand and high — 
 
 A man unbadged, unbonneted, unbound — 
 Walk to the tropic, to the desert fly. 
 
 A full-fraught hope upon thy shoulder leans, 
 And beats with thine, the heart of half the world ; 
 
 Ever behind thee walks the shining past, 
 Before thee burns the star-stripe, far unfurl'd. 
 
 513 
 
514 
 
 CORNELIUS MATHEWS. 
 
 THE REFORMER. 
 
 Matv of the future ! on the eager headland standing, 
 
 Gazing far off into the outer sea, 
 Thine eye, the darkness and the billows rough com- 
 manding, 
 
 Beholds a shore, bright as the heaven itself may be ; 
 "Where temples, cities, homes, and haunts of men, 
 
 Orchards and fields spread out in orderly array, 
 Invite the yearning soul to thither flee, 
 
 And there to spend in boundless peace its happier 
 day. 
 By passion and the force of earnest thought, 
 
 Borne up and platformed at a height, 
 Where,'gainst thy feet the force of earth and heaven 
 
 are brought, 
 Yet, so into the frame of empire wrought, 
 
 Thou, stout man, canst not thence be sever'd, 
 Till ruled and rulers, fiends or men, are taught 
 
 And feel the truths by thee delivered. 
 
 Seize by its horns the shaggy Past, 
 Full of uncleanness ; heave with mountain-cast 
 Its carcase down the black and wide abyss — 
 That opens day and night its gulfy precipice, 
 By faded empires, projects old and dead 
 Forever in its noisy hunger fed : 
 But rush not, therefore, with a brutish blindness, 
 Against the 'stablished bulwarks of the world ; 
 Kind be thyself, although unkindness 
 
 Thy race to ruin dark and suffering long has hurl'd. 
 For many days of light, and smooth repose, 
 
 'Twist storms and weathery sadness intervene ; 
 Thy course is nature's : on thy triumph flows, 
 Assured, like hers, though noiseless and serene. 
 
 "Wake not at midnight and proclaim it day, 
 When lightning only flashes o'er the way ; 
 Pauses and starts, and strivings towards an end, 
 Are not a birth, although a god's birth they portend. 
 Be patient, therefore, like the old broad earth 
 That bears the guilty up, and through the night 
 Conducts them gently to the dawning light — 
 Thy silent hours shall have as great a birth. 
 
 THE MASSES. 
 
 Whett, wild and high, the uproar swells 
 From crowds that gather at the set of day, 
 When square and market roar in stormy play, 
 And fields of men, like lions, shake their fells 
 Of savage hair ; when, quick and deep call out the 
 Through all the lower heaven ringing, [bells 
 As if an earthquake's shock 
 The city's base should rock, 
 And set its troubled turrets singing : 
 Remember, men ! on massy strength relying, 
 There is a heart of right 
 Not always open to the light, 
 Secret and still, and force-defying. 
 In vast assemblies calm let order rule, 
 And every shout a cadence owning, 
 Make musical the vex'd wind's moaning, 
 And be as little children at singing-school. 
 
 But, when thick as night the sky is crusted o'er, 
 Stifling life's pulse, and making heaven an idle 
 dream, 
 Arise ! and cry, up through the dark, to God's own 
 throne : 
 Your faces in a furnace-glow, 
 Your arms uplifted for the deathward blow — 
 Fiery and prompt as angry angels show ; 
 Then draw the brand and fire the thunder gun ! 
 Be nothing said and all things done, 
 Till every cobweb'd corner of the common weal 
 Is shaken free, and, creeping to its scabbard back, 
 the steel, 
 Lets shine again God's rightful sun. 
 
 THE MECHANIC. 
 
 Oh, when thou walkest by the river's side, 
 Thy bulky figure outlined in the wave, 
 
 Or, on thine adze-staff resting, 'neath the ship 
 Thy strokes have shaped, or hearest loud and brave 
 
 The clangour of the boastful forge, think not 
 To strength of limb, to sinews large and tough, 
 Are given rights masterless and vantage-proof, 
 Which the pale scholar and his puny hand 
 Writing his thoughts upon the idle sand, 
 
 May not possess as full : oh, maddened, drink not 
 
 With greedy ear what selfish Passion pours ! 
 
 His a sway peculiar is, no less than yours. 
 
 The inner world is his, the outer thine — 
 (And both are God's) — a world, maiden and new, 
 
 To shape and finish forth, of rock and wood, 
 Iron and brass, to fashion, mould, and hew — 
 
 In countless cunning forms to recreate, 
 Till the great God of order shall proclaim it 
 « Good !" 
 
 Proportioned fair, as in its first estate. 
 
 It consecrates whate'er it strikes — each blow, 
 From the small whisper of the tinkling smith, 
 
 Up to the big-voiced sledge that heaving slow 
 Roars 'gainst the massy bar, and tears 
 Its entrail, glowing, as with angry teeth — 
 
 Anchors that hold a world should thus-wise grow. 
 
 In the First Builder's gracious spirit-work — 
 Through hall, through enginery, and temples 
 
 meek, 
 In grandeur towered, or lapsing, beauty-sleek, 
 
 Let order and creative fitness shine : 
 Though mountains are no more to rear, 
 Though woods may rise again no more, 
 
 The noble task to reproduce is thine ! 
 
 The spreading branch, the firm-set peak, may live 
 
 With thee, and in thy well-sped labours thrive. 
 
 The untried forces of the air, the earth, the sea, 
 
 Wait at thy bidding: oh, compel their powers 
 To uses holy ! Let them ever be 
 
 Servants to tend and bless these new-found bow- 
 ers, 
 And make them household-workers, free and swift, 
 
 On daily use — on daily service bent : 
 Her face again old Eden may uplift, 
 
 And God look down the open firmament. 
 
WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIE. 
 
 [Bom about 1815.] 
 
 Mr. Pabodie is a native of Providence, in 
 Rhode Island. He was admitted to the bar in the 
 spring of 1837, and has since, I believe, practised 
 his profession in his native city. His principal 
 work is " Calidore, a Legendary Poem," published 
 
 in 1839. It possesses considerable merit, but is 
 not so carefully finished as some of his minor 
 pieces, nor is there any thing strikingly original in 
 its fable or sentiments. His writings are more 
 distinguished for elegance than for vigour. 
 
 GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. 
 
 Go forth into the fields, 
 Ye denizens of the pent city's mart ! 
 Go forth and know the gladness nature yields 
 
 To the care-wearied heart. 
 
 Leave ye the feverish strife, 
 The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng ; — 
 Ten thousand voices, waked anew to life, 
 
 Call you with sweetest song. 
 
 Hark ! from each fresh-clad bough, 
 Or blissful soaring in the golden air, 
 Bright birds with joyous music bid you now 
 
 To spring's loved haunts repair. 
 
 The silvery gleaming rills 
 Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea, 
 Or gayly dancing down the sunny hills, 
 
 Call loudly in their glee ! 
 
 And the young, wanton breeze, 
 With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, 
 In voice low whispering 'mong th' embowering trees, 
 
 Woos you to her embrace. 
 
 Go — breathe the air of heaven, 
 "Where violets meekly smile upon your way ; 
 Or on some pine-crown'd summit, tempest riven, 
 
 Your wandering footsteps stay. 
 
 Seek ye the solemn wood, 
 Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, 
 And listen, while the roar of some far flood 
 
 Thrills the young leaves with fear ! 
 
 Stand by the tranquil lake, 
 Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, 
 Save when the wild bird's wing its surface break, 
 
 Checkering the mirror'd sky — 
 
 And if within your breast, 
 Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ; 
 If aught save worldly honours find you blest, 
 
 Or hope of sordid gain, — 
 
 A strange delight shall thrill, 
 A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove ; 
 Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill, 
 
 Stirring its depths with love. 
 
 O, in the calm, still hours, 
 The holy Sabbath-hours, when sleeps the air, 
 And heaven, and earth deck'd with her beauteous 
 
 Lie hush'd in breathless prayer, — [flowers, 
 
 Pass ye the proud fane by, 
 The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, 
 And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky, 
 
 Go forth and worship God ! 
 
 TO THE AUTUMN FOREST. 
 
 Resplendent hues are thine ! 
 Triumphant beauty — glorious as brief! 
 Burdening with holy love the heart's pure shrine, 
 
 Till tears afford relief. 
 
 What though thy depths be hush'd ! 
 More eloquent in breathless silence thou, 
 Than when the music of glad songsters gush'd 
 
 From every green-robed bough. 
 
 Gone from thy walks the flowers ! 
 Thou askest not their forms thy paths to fleck ; — 
 The dazzling radiance of these sunlit bowers 
 
 Their hues could not bedeck. 
 
 I love thee in the spring, 
 Earth-crowning forest ! when amid thy shades 
 The gentle south first waves her odorous wing, 
 
 And joy fills all thy glades. 
 
 In the hot summer-time, 
 With deep delight thy sombre aisles I roam, 
 Or, soothed by some cool brook's melodious chime, 
 
 Rest on thy verdant loam. 
 
 But, 0, when autumn's hand 
 Hath mark'd thy beauteous foliage for the grave, 
 How doth thy splendour, as entranced I stand, 
 
 My willing heart enslave ! 
 
 I linger then with thee, 
 Like some fond lover o'er his stricken bride ; 
 Whose bright, unearthly beauty tells that she 
 
 Here may not long abide. 
 
 When my last hours are come, 
 Great God ! ere yet life's span shall all be fill'd, 
 And these warm lips in death be ever dumb, 
 
 This beating heart be still'd, — 
 
 Bathe thou in hues as blest — 
 Let gleams of Heaven about my spirit play ! 
 So shall my soul to its eternal rest 
 
 In glory pass away ! 
 
516 
 
 WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIE. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Goxe in the flush of youth ! 
 Gone ere thy heart had felt earth's withering care ; 
 Ere the stern world had soil'd thy spirit's truth, 
 
 Or sown dark sorrow there. 
 
 Fled like a dream away ! 
 But yesterday mid life's auroral bloom — 
 To-day, sad winter, desolate and gray, 
 
 Sighs round thy lonely tomb. 
 
 Fond hearts were beating high, 
 Fond eyes were watching for the loved one gone, 
 And gentle voices, deeming thou wert nigh, 
 
 Talk'd of thy glad return. 
 
 They watch'd — not all in vain — 
 Thy form once more the wonted threshold pass'd ; 
 But choking sobs, and tears like summer-rain, 
 
 Welcom'd thee home at last. 
 
 Friend of my youth, farewell ! 
 To thee, we trust, a happier life is given ; 
 One tie to earth for us hath loosed its spell, 
 
 Another form'd for heaven. 
 
 OUR COUNTRY. 
 
 Our country ! — 'tis a glorious land! 
 
 With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore, 
 The proud Pacific chafes her strand, 
 
 She hears the dark Atlantic roar; 
 And, nurtured on her ample breast, 
 
 How many a goodly prospect lies 
 In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, 
 
 Enamell'd with her loveliest dyes. 
 
 Rich prairies, deck'd with flowers of gold, 
 
 Like sunlit oceans roll afar ; 
 Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, 
 
 Reflecting clear each trembling star, 
 And mighty rivers, mountain-born, 
 
 Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, 
 Through forests where the bounding fawn 
 
 Beneath their sheltering branches leap. 
 
 And, cradled mid her clustering hills, 
 
 Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide, 
 Where love the air with music fills ; 
 
 And calm content and peace abide ; 
 For plenty here her fulness pours 
 
 In rich profusion o'er the land, 
 And, sent to seize her generous store, 
 
 There prowls no tyrant's hireling band. 
 
 Great Gon ! we thank thee for this home — 
 
 This bounteous birthland of the free ; 
 Where wanderers from afar may come, 
 
 And breathe the air of liberty ! — 
 Still may her flowers untrampled spring, 
 
 Her harvests wave, her cities rise ; 
 And yet, till Time shall fold his wing, 
 
 Remain Earth's loveliest paradise ! 
 
 I HEAR THY VOICE, SPRING! 
 
 I hear thy voice, O Spring ! 
 Its flute-like tones are floating through the air, 
 Winning my soul with their wild ravishing, 
 
 From earth's heart-wearying care. 
 
 Divinely sweet thy song — 
 But yet, methinks, as near the groves I pass, 
 Low sighs on viewless wings are borne along, 
 
 Tears gem the springing grass. 
 
 For where are they, the young, 
 The loved, the beautiful, who, when thy voice, 
 A year agone, along these valleys rung, 
 
 Did hear thee and rejoice ! 
 
 Thou seek'st for them in vain — 
 No more they '11 greet thee in thy joyous round ; 
 Calmly they sleep beneath the murmuring main, 
 
 Or moulder in the ground. 
 
 Yet peace, my heart — be still ! 
 Look upward to yon azure sky and know, 
 To heavenlier music now their bosoms thrill, 
 
 Where balmier breezes blow. 
 
 For them hath bloom'd a spring, 
 Whose flowers perennial deck a holier sod, 
 Whose music is the song that seraphs sing, 
 
 Whose light, the smile of God ! 
 
 I STOOD BESIDE HIS GRAVE. 
 
 I stood beside the grave of him, 
 
 Whose heart with mine had fondly beat, 
 
 While memories, from their chambers dim, 
 Throng'd mournful, yet how sadly sweet ! 
 
 It was a calm September eve, 
 
 The stars stole trembling into sight, 
 
 Save where the day, as loth to leave, 
 Still flush'd the heavens with rosy light 
 
 The crickets in the grass were heard, 
 
 The city's murmur softly fell, 
 And scarce the dewy air was stirr'd, 
 
 As faintly toll'd the evening-bell. 
 
 O Death ! had then thy summons come, 
 To bid me from this world away, — 
 
 How gladly had I hail'd the doom 
 
 That stretch'd me by his mouldering clay ! 
 
 And twilight deepen'd into night, 
 
 And night itself grew wild and drear, — 
 
 For clouds rose darkly on the sight, 
 
 And winds sigh'd mournful on the ear : — 
 
 And yet I linger'd mid the fern, 
 
 Though gleam'd no star the eye to bless — 
 For, O, 'twas agony to turn 
 
 And leave him to his loneliness ! 
 
EPES SARGENT. 
 
 [Born, 1816.] 
 
 The author of "Velasco" is a native of Glou- 
 cester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, 
 and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 
 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the 
 same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. 
 The subject of this sketch was educated in the 
 schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where 
 he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. 
 His earliest metrical compositions were printed in 
 "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by 
 several of the students of Harvard College, of the 
 junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his 
 contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight 
 Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of ver- 
 sification, and variety of description, which are 
 characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was 
 a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Peters- 
 burg, and was written during a visit to that capi- 
 tal in the spring of 1828. 
 
 Mr. Sargent's reputation rests principally on 
 his dramas, which bear a greater value in the 
 closet than on the stage. His first appearance 
 as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, 
 when his " Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the 
 Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act 
 play, founded on incidents in the career of Antonio 
 Montaldo, a plebeian, who at the age of twenty- 
 two, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and 
 who is described in the history of the times as a 
 man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambi- 
 tious, with a genius adequate to the accomplish- 
 ment of vast designs. In the delineation of his 
 hero, the author has followed the historical record, 
 though the other characters and incidents of the 
 drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully 
 
 performed in Boston, and since in many of the 
 first theatres of the'country. His next production 
 was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of 
 dramatic art, has received warm commendation 
 from the most competent j udges. It was the tragedy 
 of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in No- 
 vember, 1837, Miss Ellen Tree in the character 
 of Izidora, and subsequently at the principal 
 theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, 
 and New Orleans. It was published in New York 
 in 1 839. "The general action of the piece," says 
 the author in his preface, " is derived from incidents 
 in the career of Rodrigo Diaz, the Cid, whose 
 achievements constitute so considerable a portion 
 of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." 
 The subject had been Variously treated by French 
 and Spanish dramatists, among others, by Cor- 
 neille, but Mr. Sargent was the first to intro- 
 duce it successfully upon the English stage. It is 
 a chaste and elegant performance, and probably 
 has not been surpassed by any similar work by 
 so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. 
 Sargent was twenty-one years of age. 
 
 In the beginning of 1847 Mr. Sab gent pub- 
 lished in Boston a volume entitled " Songs of the 
 Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his 
 plays. The quatorzains written during a voyage 
 to Cuba, in the spring of 1 835, appear to be among 
 the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of 
 his nautical lyrics are more spirited. 
 
 Mr. Sargent has edited "The Modern Acting 
 Drama," and several modern British poets ; and 
 recently has done the public an important service 
 by preparing the best series of reading books, for 
 schools, ever published in this country. 
 
 RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO 
 CUBA. 
 
 I. THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Again thy winds are pealing in mine ear ! 
 Again thy waves are flashing in my sight ! 
 Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, 
 As through the spray our vessel wings her flight ! 
 On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, 
 Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast ! 
 Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by, 
 Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last, 
 The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet 
 An old companion ; on my naked brow 
 The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now 
 Flows through my hair the freshening breeze — and 
 The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand 
 Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father- 
 land! 
 
 II. THE GALE. 
 
 The night came down in terror. Through the 
 
 air 
 Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, roll'd ; 
 The lightning kindling with its vivid glare 
 Their outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold, 
 The wind, in fitful sughs, swept o'er the sea ; 
 And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep, 
 Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be 
 Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. 
 But, false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd 
 
 gale 
 Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, 
 Drowning the thunder's voice ! With every sail 
 Close-reef 'd, our groaning ship heel'd on her side; 
 The torn waves comb'd the deck ; while o'er the 
 
 mast 
 The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast! 
 
 517 
 
518 
 
 EPES SARGENT. 
 
 III. MOIiSISG AFTER THE GALE. 
 
 Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; 
 And, when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave, 
 How broke the day-star on the gazer's view ! 
 How flush'd the orient every crested wave ! 
 The sun threw down his shield of golden light 
 In fierce defiance on the ocean's bed ; 
 Whereat, the clouds betook themselves to flight, 
 Like routed hosts, with banners soil'd and red. 
 The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west ; 
 All traces of the gale had pass'd away — 
 The chiming billows, by the breeze caress'd, 
 Toss'd lightly from their heads the feathery spray. 
 Ah! thus may Hope's auspicious star again 
 Rise o'er the troubled soul where gloom and grief 
 have been ! 
 
 IT. TO A LAND-BIRD. 
 
 Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks ! 
 Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee; 
 Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, 
 And woods and hills are very fair to see — 
 Why hast thou left thy native bough to roam, 
 With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow"! 
 Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam, 
 Nor, like the petrel, make the wave, thy pillow. 
 Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, 
 Which, from some better land, to this rude life 
 Seem borne — they struggle, mid the common herd, 
 With powers unfitted for the selfish strife ! 
 Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back 
 To their own home of peace, across the world's 
 dull track. 
 
 T. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. 
 
 I woke from slumber at the dead of night, 
 Stirr'd by a dream which was too sweet to last — 
 A dream of boyhood's season of delight ; 
 It flash'd along the dim shapes of the past ! 
 And, as I mused upon its strange appeal, 
 Thrilling my heart with feelings undefined, 
 Old memories, bursting from time's icy seal, 
 Rush'd, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind. 
 Scenes, among which was cast my early home, 
 My favourite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods, 
 Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to roam, 
 Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes — 
 All rose before me, till, by thought beguiled, 
 Freely I could have wept, as if once more a child. 
 
 TI. TROPICAL WEATHER. 
 
 We are afloat upon the tropic sea ! 
 Here summer holdeth a perpetual reign : 
 How flash the waters in their bounding glee ! 
 The sky's soft purple is without a stain ! [Mowing, 
 Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds 
 To their unvarying goal still faithful run ; 
 And as we steer, with sails I efore them flowing, 
 Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun. 
 The startled flying-fish around us skim, 
 Gloss'd, like the hummingbird, with rainbow dyes ; 
 And, as thev dip into the water's brim, 
 Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies. 
 All, all is fair; and, gazing round, we feel 
 The south's soft languor gently o'er our senses steal. 
 
 ! for one draught of cooling northern air ! 
 That it might pour its freshness on me now; 
 That it might kiss my cheek and cleave my hair, 
 And part its currents round my fever'd brow! 
 Ocean, and sky, and earth ! a blistering calm 
 Spread over all ! how weary wears the day ! 
 O, lift the wave, and bend the distant palm, 
 Breeze ! wheresoe'er thy lagging pinions stray, 
 Triumphant burst upon the level deep, 
 Rock the fix'd hull and swell the clinging sail ! 
 Arouse the opal clouds that o'er us sleep, 
 Sound thy shrill whistle ! we will bid thee hail ! 
 Though wrapt in all the storm-clouds of the north, 
 Yet from thy home of ice, come forth, 0, breeze, 
 come forth ! 
 
 Till. A WISH. 
 
 That I were in some forest's green retreat, 
 Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms ; 
 Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feet — 
 Its wavelets glittering in their tiny helms ! 
 Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, 
 From the high, rustling branches should depend ; 
 Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon 
 Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. 
 There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, 
 Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, 
 Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride 
 Athwart the sky — and dream the hours away ; 
 While through the alleys of the sunless wood 
 The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' 
 breath imbued. 
 
 IX. TROPICAL NIGHT. 
 
 But, O! the night! — the cool, luxurious night, 
 Which closes round us when the day grows dim, 
 And the sun sinks from his meridian height 
 Behind the ocean's occidental rim ! 
 Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red, 
 Lattice his parting glory, and absorb 
 The last bright emanations that are shed 
 In wide profusion, from his failing orb. 
 And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns 
 To smile serenely on the charmed sea, 
 That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains, 
 From which it hardly struggled to be free. 
 Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, 
 Touch'd by the downy breeze, and favour'd by the tide. 
 
 X. THE PLANET JUPITER. 
 
 Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, 
 O'er all thy astral sisterhood supreme ! 
 Ever, at night, have I look'd up to see 
 The diamond lustre of thy quivering beam ; 
 Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene. 
 As they part from thee, like a loosen'd scroll ; 
 Sometimes unveil'd, in all thy native sheen, 
 When no pale vapours underneath thee roll. 
 Bright planet! that art but a single ray 
 From our Creator's throne, illume my soul ! 
 Thy influence shed upon my doubtful way 
 Through life's dark vista to the immortal goal — 
 Gleam but as now upon my dying eyes [shall rise. 
 And hope, from earth to thee, from thee to heaven, 
 
EPES SARGENT. 
 
 619 
 
 XI. TO EGERIA. 
 
 Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread ; 
 And I cannot behold thee save in dreams ! 
 I may not hear thy voice, nor list thy tread, 
 Nor see the light that ever round thee gleams. 
 Fairest and best ! mid summer joys, ah, say, 
 Dost thou e'er think of one who thinks of thee — 
 The Atlantic-wanderer, who, day by day, 
 Looks for thine image in the deep, deep sea 1 
 Long months, and years, perchance,will pass away, 
 Ere he shall gaze into thy face again; 
 He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may 
 Await him, on the future's shipless main ; 
 B ut, thank'd be memory ! there are treasures still, 
 Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will. 
 
 XII. CUBA. 
 
 What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? 
 " Land ho ! all hands ahoy .'" — I 'm on the deck. 
 'Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. 
 A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. 
 And lo ! along the horizon, bold and high, 
 The purple hills of Cuba ! hail, all hail ! 
 Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky 
 Of purest azure ! Welcome, odorous gale ! 
 O ! scene of life and joy ! thou art array'd 
 In hues of unimagined loveliness — 
 Sing louder, brave old mariner ! and aid 
 My swelling heart its rapture to express ; 
 For from enchanted memory never more [shore ! 
 Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial 
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST. 
 
 We will not deplore them, the days that are past ; 
 The gloom of misfortune is over them cast ; 
 They are lengthen'd by sorrow and sullied by care; 
 Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare ; 
 Yet, now that their shadows are on us no more, 
 Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before! 
 
 We have cherish'd fair hopes, we have plotted 
 
 brave schemes, 
 We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams ; 
 Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the 
 
 hand, 
 And the steps we have climb'd have departed like 
 
 sand ; 
 Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft, 
 And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left? 
 
 O ! shall we despond, while the pages of time 
 Yet open before us their records sublime ! [gold, 
 While, ennobled by treasures more precious than 
 We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old; 
 While humanity whispers such truths in the ear, 
 As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear 1 
 
 O ! shall we despond while, with visions still free, 
 We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea; 
 While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight, 
 And the stars are a joy and a glory by night: 
 While each harmony, running through nature, can 
 
 raise 
 In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise ] 
 
 O ! let us no longer then vainly lament 
 
 Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent : 
 
 But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, 
 On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; 
 And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, 
 Let us look to the future and not to the past ! 
 
 THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 
 
 Honour'd be the hero evermore, 
 
 Who at mercy's call has nobly died ! 
 Echoed be his name from shore to shore, 
 
 With immortal chronicles allied ! 
 Verdant be the turf upon his dust, 
 
 Bright the sky above, and soft the air ! 
 In the grove set up his marble bust, 
 
 And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair. 
 In melodious numbers, that shall live 
 
 With the music of the rolling spheres, 
 Let the minstrel's inspiration give 
 
 His eulogium to the future years ! 
 Not the victor in his country's cause, 
 
 Not the chief who leaves a people free, 
 Not the framer of a nation's laws 
 
 Shall deserve a greater fame than he ! 
 Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day, 
 
 How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd, 
 Swept the sanguinary games away, 
 
 Which the Coliseum once beheld 1 
 Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, 
 
 With the city's chivalry and pride, 
 When two gladiators, with their spears, 
 
 Forward sprang from the arena's side. 
 Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, 
 
 As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood — 
 Was there no one in that eager throng 
 
 To denounce the spectacle of blood 1 
 Aye, Telemachus, with swelling frame, 
 
 Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more : 
 Few among the crowd could tell his name — 
 
 For a cross was all the badge he wore ! 
 Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien, 
 
 Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand ; 
 And, while all were wondering at the scene, 
 
 Check'd the encounter with a daring hand. 
 "Romans!" cried he — "Let this reeking sod 
 
 Never more with human blood be stain'd! 
 Let no image of the living God 
 
 In unhallow'd combat be profaned ! 
 Ah ! too long has this colossal dome 
 
 Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows ! 
 Here I call upon assembled Rome 
 
 Now to swear, they shall forever close !" 
 Parted thus, the combatants, with joy, 
 
 Mid the tumult, found the means to fly ; 
 In the arena stood the undaunted boy, 
 
 And, with looks adoring, gazed on high. 
 Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side ; 
 
 E very hand was eager to assail ! 
 " Slay him ! slay !" a hundred voices cried, 
 
 Wild with fury — but he did not quail ! 
 Hears he, as entranced he looks above, 
 
 Strains celestial, that the menace drown 1 
 Sees he angels, with their eyes of love, 
 
 Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown ? 
 Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout ! 
 
 Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain! 
 
520 
 
 EPES SARGENT. 
 
 Death and terror circled him about — 
 
 But he stood and perish'd — not in vain ! 
 Not in vain the youthful martyr fell ! 
 
 Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed ! 
 And his high example shall impel 
 
 Future heroes to as great a deed ! 
 Stony answers yet remain for those 
 
 Who would question and precede the time ! 
 In their season, may they meet their foes, 
 
 Like Telemachus, with front sublime ! 
 
 SUMMER IN THE HEART. 
 
 The cold blast at the casement beats, 
 The window-panes are white, 
 
 The snow whirls through the empty streets- 
 It is a dreary night ! 
 
 Sit down, old friend ! the wine-cups wait ; 
 Fill to o'erflowing ! fill ! 
 
 Though Winter howleth at the gate, 
 In our hearts 'tis summer still ! 
 
 For we full many summer joys 
 
 And greenwood sports have shared, 
 When, free and ever-roving boys, 
 
 The rocks, the streams we dared ! 
 And, as I look upon thy face — 
 
 Back, back o'er years of ill, 
 My heart flies to that happy place, 
 
 Where it is summer still ! 
 
 Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground, 
 
 Our early hopes are strown, 
 And cherish'd flowers lie dead around, 
 
 And singing birds are flown, — 
 The verdure is not faded quite, 
 
 Not mute all tones that thrill; 
 For, seeing, hearing thee to-night, 
 
 In my heart 't is summer still ! 
 
 Fill up ! the olden times come back! 
 
 With light and life once more 
 We scan the future's sunny track, 
 
 From youth's enchanted shore ! 
 The lost return. Through fields of bloom 
 
 We wander at our will ; 
 Gone is the winter's angry gloom — 
 
 In our hearts 'tis summer still ! 
 
 THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE. 
 
 I? there but a single theme 
 For the youthful poet's dream 1 
 Is there but a single wire 
 To the youthful poet's lyre ] 
 Earth below and heaven above — 
 Can he sing of naugnt but love ? 
 
 Nay ! the battle's dust I see ! 
 God of war ! I follow thee ! 
 And, in martial numbers, raise 
 Worthy paeans to thy praise. 
 Ah ! she meets me on the field — 
 If I fly not, I must yield. 
 
 Jolly patron ot the grape ! 
 To thy arms I will escape! 
 
 Quick, the rosy nectar bring ; 
 " Io Bacche" I will sing. 
 Ha ! Confusion ! every sip 
 But reminds me of her lip. 
 
 Palt,as ! give me wisdom's page, 
 
 And awake my lyric rage ; 
 
 Love is fleeting ; love is vain ; 
 
 I will try a nobler strain. 
 
 0, perplexity ! my books 
 
 But reflect her haunting looks ! 
 
 JuriTER ! on thee I cry ! 
 Take me and my lyre on high ! 
 Lo ! the stars beneath me gleam ! 
 Here, O, poet ! is a theme. 
 Madness ! She has come above ! 
 Every chord is whispering " Love !' 
 
 THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA 
 
 'T is a dreary thing to be 
 
 Tossing on the wide, wide sea, 
 
 When the sun has set in clouds, 
 
 And the wind sighs through the shrouds, 
 
 With a voice and with a tone 
 
 Like a living creature's moan ! 
 
 Look ! how wildly swells the surge 
 Round the black horizon's verge ! 
 See the giant billows rise 
 From the ocean to the skies ! 
 While the sea-bird wheels his flight 
 O'er their streaming crests of white. 
 
 List ! the wind is wakening fast ! 
 All the sky is overcast ! 
 Lurid vapours, hurrying, trail 
 In the pathway of the gale, 
 As it strikes us with a shock 
 That might rend the deep-set rock ! 
 
 Falls the strain'd and shiver'd mast ! 
 'Spars are scatter'd by the blast ! 
 And the sails are split asunder, 
 As a cloud is rent by thunder ; 
 And the struggling vessel shakes, 
 As the wild sea o'er her breaks. 
 
 Ah ! what sudden light is this, 
 Blazing o'er the dark abyss ? 
 Lo ! the full moon rears her form 
 Mid the cloud-rifts of the storm, 
 And, athwart the troubled air, 
 Shines, like hope upon despair ! 
 
 Every leaping billow gleams 
 With the lustre of her beams, 
 And lifts high itj fiery plume 
 Through the midnight's parting- gloom 
 While its scatter'd flakes of gold 
 O'er the sinking deck are roll'd. 
 
 Father ! low on bended knee, 
 Humbled, weak, we turn to thee ! 
 Spare us, mid the fearful fight 
 Of the raging winds to-night! 
 Guide us o'er the threatening wave: 
 Save us ! — thou alone canst save ! 
 
cn/7i 
 
 Co 
 
PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 
 
 [Born 18X6. Died 1850.] 
 
 Philip Pendleton Cooke was bom in Mar- 
 tinsburg, Berkeley county, Virginia, on the twenty- 
 sixth of October, 1816. His father, Mr. John 
 R. Cooke, was honourably distinguished at the 
 bar, and his mother was of that family of Pen- 
 dletons which has furnished so many eminent 
 names to that part of the Union. 
 
 At fifteen he entered Princeton College, where 
 he had a reputation for parts, though he did not 
 distinguish himself, or take an honour, and could 
 never tell how it happened that he obtained a de- 
 gree, as he was not examined with his class. He 
 liked fishing and hunting better than the books, 
 and Chaucer and Spenser- much more than the 
 dull volumes in the "course of study." He had 
 already made rhymes before he became a fresh- 
 man, and the appearance of the early numbers 
 of the " Knickerbocker Magazine" prompted him 
 to new efforts in this way ; he wrote for the 
 "Knickerbocker," in his seventeenth year, "The 
 Song of the Sioux Lover," and " The Consump- 
 tive," and in a village paper, about the same time, 
 other humourous and sentimental verses. 
 
 When he left college his father was living at 
 Winchester, and there he himself pursued the 
 study of the law. H e wrote pieces in verse and 
 prose for the "Virginian," and "The Southern 
 Literary Messenger," (then just started,) and pro- 
 jected novels and an extensive work in literary 
 criticism. Before he was twenty-one he was mar- 
 ried, admitted to the bar, and had a fair prospect 
 of practice in Frederick, Jefferson, and Berkeley 
 counties. " I am blessed by my fireside," he wrote, 
 " here on the banks of the Shenandoah, in view 
 and within a mile of the Blue Ridge; I go to 
 county towns at the sessions of the courts, and 
 hunt and fish, and make myself as happy with 
 my companions as I can." " So," he writes to 
 me in 1846, " have passed five, six, seven, eight 
 years, and now I am striving, after long disuse 
 of my literary veins, to get the rubbish of idle 
 habits away, and work them again. My fruit- 
 trees, rose-bushes, poultry, guns, fishing-tackle, 
 good, hard-riding friends, a long-necked bottle on 
 my sideboard, an occasional client, &c. &c, make 
 it a little difficult to get from the real into the 
 clouds again. It requires a resolute habit of self- 
 concentration to enable a man to shut out these 
 and all such real concerns, and give himself warm- 
 ly to the nobler or more tender sort of writing — 
 and I am slowly acquiring it." 
 
 The atmosphere in which he lived was not, it 
 seems, altogether congenial — so far as literature 
 was concerned — and I find in one of his letters : 
 "What do you think of a good friend of mine, 
 a most valuable and worthy and hard-riding one, 
 saying gravely to me a short time ago, 'I would n't 
 waste time on a damned thing like poetry ; you 
 
 might make yourself, with all your sense and judg- 
 ment, a useful man in settling neighbourhood dis- 
 putes and difficulties.' You have as much chance 
 with such people, as a dolphin would have if in 
 one of his darts he pitched in amongst the ma- 
 chinery of a mill. ' Philosophy would clip an 
 angel's wings,' Keats says, and pompous dulness 
 would do the same. But these very persons I 
 have been talking about are always ready, when 
 the world generally has awarded the honours of 
 successful authorship to any of our mad tribe, to 
 come in and confirm the award, and buy, if not 
 read, the popular book. And so they are not 
 wholly without their uses in this world. But wo 
 to him who seeks to climb amongst them ! An 
 author must avoid them until he is already mounted 
 on the platform, and can look down on them, and 
 make them ashamed to show their dulness by keep- 
 ing their hands in their breeches pockets, while 
 the rest of the world are taking theirs out to give 
 money or to applaud with. I am wasting my let- 
 ter with these people, but for fear you may think 
 I am chagrined or cut by what I abuse them for, 
 I must say that they suit one-half of my charac- 
 ter, moods, and pursuits, in being good, kindly men, 
 rare table companions, many of them great in 
 field sports, and most of them rather deficient in 
 letters than mind ; and that, in an every-day sense 
 of the words, I love and am beloved by them." 
 
 Soon afterwards he wrote: "Mr. Kennedy's 
 assurance that you would find a publisher for my 
 poems leaves me without any further excuse for 
 not collecting them. If not the most devoted, 
 truly you are the most serviceable, of my friends, 
 but it is because Mr. Kennedy has overpraised 
 me to you. Your letter makes me feel as if I had 
 always known you intimately, and I have a pre- 
 sentiment that you will counteract my idleness 
 and good-for-nothingness, and that, hoisted on 
 your shoulders I shall not be lost under the feet 
 of the crowd, nor left behind in a fence corner. I 
 am profoundly grateful for the kindness which 
 dictated what you have done, and to show you 
 that I will avail myself of it, I enclose a proem 
 to the pieces of which I wrote you in my last." 
 
 The proem referred to was so beautiful that I 
 asked and obtained permission to print it in a 
 magazine of which I was at that time editor. The 
 author's name was not given, and it excited much 
 curiosity, as but two or three of our poets were 
 thought capable of such a performance, and there 
 was no reason why one of them should print any 
 thing anonymously. It was most commonly, 
 however, attributed to Mr. Willis, at which Mr. 
 Cooke was highly gratified. The piece, which 
 was entitled " Emily," contained about three hun- 
 dred lines, and was a feigned history of the com- 
 position of tales designed to follow it, exquisitely 
 
 521 
 
522 
 
 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 
 
 told, and sprinkled all along with gems that could 
 have come from only a mine of surpassing rich- 
 ness. It was a good while before the promised 
 contents of the book were sent to me, and Cooke 
 wrote of the delay to a friend : " Procrastination 
 is a poison of my very marrow. Moreover, since 
 'the first wisping of the leaf,' my whole heart 
 has been in the woods and on the waters — every 
 rising sun that could be seen, I have seen, and 
 I never came in from my sport until too much 
 used up to do more than adopt this epitaph of 
 Sardanapalus: < Eat, drink,' &c. Moreover, (se- 
 cond,) Mr. Kennedy and others were poking me 
 in the ribs eternally about my poems; and I 
 was driven to the labour of finishing them. I 
 groaned and did it, and sent them to Griswold, 
 and have left the task of carrying them through 
 the press to him ; and only lie passive, saying 
 with Don Juan, (in the slave-market of Adriano- 
 ple, or some other place,) ' Would to God some- 
 body would buy me.' " 
 
 At length through his cousin and friend, John 
 P. Kennedy, (a name that makes one in charity 
 with all mankind,) the MS. of all the poems was 
 sent to me. It makes a book about the size of the 
 printed volume, written with a regular elegance 
 to„ match that of the old copyists. In an accom- 
 panying letter he says, "They are certainly not 
 in the high key of a man warm with his subject, 
 and doing the thing finely ; I wrote them with the 
 reluctance of a turkey-hunter kept from his sport, 
 — only Mr. Kennedy's urgent entreaty and re- 
 monstrance whipped me up to the labour. You 
 will hardly perceive how they should be called 
 ' Ballads.' You are somewhat responsible for 
 the name. I designed (originally) to make them 
 short poems of the old understood ballad cast. I 
 sent you the proem, which you published as a pre- 
 face to the 'Froissart Ballads.' Words in print 
 bore a look of perpetuity (or rather of fixedness) 
 about thein, and what I would have changed if 
 only my pen and portfolio had been concerned, 
 your type deterred me from changing. The term 
 < Froissart Ballads,' however, is, after all, correct, 
 even with the poems as they are. ' The Master 
 of Bolton' is as much a song as the ' Lay of the 
 Last Minstrel,' although I have no prologue, in- 
 terludes, &c, to show how it was sung; and as 
 for ' Orthone,' &c, Sir John Froissart may as 
 easily be imagined chanting them as talking 
 them." 
 
 In reply to some comments of mine upon these 
 productions he remarks : " You will find them be- 
 neath your sanguine prognostic. They are mere 
 narrative poems, designed for the crowd. Poetic 
 speculation, bold inroads upon the debatable land, 
 ' the wild weird clime, out of space, out of time,' I 
 have not here attempted. I will hereafter merge 
 myself in the nobler atmosphere ; in the mean 
 time I have stuck to the ordinary level, and endea- 
 voured to write interesting stories in verse, with 
 grace and spirit. I repeat my fear that in writing 
 for the cold, I have failed to touch the quick and 
 warm : that in writing for a dozen hunting com- 
 rades, who have been in the habit of making my 
 
 verse a post prandium entertainment, and never 
 endured an audacity of thought or word, I have 
 tamed myself out of your approbation." 
 
 The book was finally published, but though 
 reveiwed very favourably by the late Judge Bev- 
 erly Tucker, in the " Southern Literary Mes- 
 senger," and by Mr. Poe, in the "American Re- 
 view," and much quoted and praised elsewhere, 
 it was, on the whole, not received according to its 
 merits or my expectations. Yet the result aroused 
 the author's ambition, and after a few weeks he 
 remarked in a letter to me : " My literary life opens 
 now. If the world manifest any disposition to hear 
 my 'utterances,' it will be abundantly gratified. 
 I am thirty : until forty literature shall be my call- 
 ing — avoiding however to rely upon it pecuniarily, 
 ■ — 'then (after forty) politics will be a sequitur. It 
 has occurred to me to turn my passion for hunt- 
 ing, and ' my crowding experiences' (gathered in 
 fifteen or sixteen years of life in the merriest Vir- 
 ginia country society) of hunting, fishing, coun- 
 try races, character and want of character, woods, 
 mountains, fields, waters, and the devil knows 
 what, into a rambling book. Years ago I used to 
 devour the 'Spirit of the Times.' Indeed, much 
 of my passion for sports of all kinds grew out of 
 reading the ' Spirit.' Like Albert Pike's poet, in 
 ' Fantasms,' I 
 
 'Had not known the tent of my own mind, 
 Until the mighty spell of " Porter" woke 
 Its hidden passions :' 
 
 only Albert Pike, says ' Coleridge' and ' powers' 
 for ' Porter' and ' passions.' Then I have a half- 
 written novel in my MS. piles, with poems, tales, 
 sketches, histories, commenced or arranged in my 
 mind ready to be put in writing, to order. In a 
 word, I am cocked and primed for authorship. 
 My life here invites me urgently to literary em- 
 ployments. My house, servants, &c. &c, — all 
 that a country gentleman really wants of the 
 goods of life, — 'are in sure possession to me and 
 mine. I want honours, and some little more mo- 
 ney. Be good enough, my dear sir, to let me 
 know how I am to go about acquiring them." 
 
 I wrote with frankness what I thought was 
 true, of possible pecuniary advantages from the 
 course he proposed, and was answered : " What 
 you say about the returns in money for an author's 
 labours is dispiriting enough, and I at once give 
 over an earnest purpose which I had formed of 
 writing books. Thank God, I am not dependent 
 on the booksellers, but have a moderate and sure 
 support for my family, apart from the crowding 
 hopes and fears which dependence on them would 
 no doubt generate. But I must add (or forego 
 some gratifications) two or three hundred dollars 
 per annum to my ordinary means. I might easily 
 make this by my profession, which I have deserted 
 and neglected, but it would be as bad as the tread- 
 mill to me : I detest the law. On the other hand, 
 I love the fever-fits of composition. The music of 
 rhythm, coming from God knows where, like the 
 airy melody in the Tempest, tingles pleasantly in 
 my veins and fingers ; I like to build the verse, 
 cautiously, but with the excitement of a rapid 
 
PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 
 
 523 
 
 writer, which I rein in and check; and then, we 
 both know how glorious it is to make the gallant 
 dash, and round off the stanza with the sonorous 
 couplet, or with some rhyme as natural to its 
 place as a leaf on a tree, but separated from its 
 mate that peeps down to it over the inky ends of 
 
 many intervening lines That unepistolary 
 
 sentence has considerably fatigued me. I was say- 
 ing, or about to say, that I would be obliged to you 
 for information as to the profitableness of writing 
 for periodicals." 
 
 From this time Mr. Cooke wrote much, but 
 in a desultory way, and seemed in a growing 
 devotion to a few friends and in the happiness 
 that was in his home to forget almost the dreams 
 of ambition. Of this home he dwelt with a ten- 
 der enthusiasm in his correspondence, and we 
 have glimpses of it in some beautiful verses 
 to his daughter, in which he has written with 
 charming simplicity an interesting portion of his 
 biography : 
 
 " TO MY DAUGHTER LILT. 
 " Six changeful years are gone, Lu,Y, 
 Since you were born to be 
 A darling to your mother good, 
 
 A happiness to me ; 
 A little, shivering, feeble thing 
 You were to touch and view, 
 But we could see a promise in 
 Your baby eyes of blue. 
 
 " You fastened on our hearts, Lilt, 
 
 As day by day wore by, 
 And beauty grew upon your cheeks, 
 
 And deepened in your eye ; 
 A year made dimples in your hands, 
 
 And plumped your little feet. 
 And you had learned some merry ways 
 
 Which we thought very sweet. 
 
 ■' And when the first sweet word, Lilt, 
 
 Your wee mouth learned to say, 
 Your mother kissed it fifty times, 
 
 And marked the famous day. 
 I know not even now, my dear, 
 
 If it were quite a word, 
 But your proud mother surely knew, 
 
 For she the sound had heard. 
 
 " When you were four years old, Lilt, 
 
 You were my little friend, 
 And we had walks and nightly plays, 
 
 And talks without an end. 
 You little ones are sometimes wise, 
 
 For you are undefiled ; 
 A grave grown man will start to hear 
 
 The strange words of a child. 
 
 "When care pressed on our house, Lily, — 
 
 Pressed with an iron hand — 
 I hated mankind for the wrong 
 
 Which festered in the land ; 
 But when I read your young frank face, — 
 
 Its meanings, sweet and good, 
 My charities grew clear again, 
 
 I felt my brotherhood. 
 
 " And sometimes it would be, Lilt, 
 
 My feith in God grew cold, 
 For I saw virtue go in rags, 
 
 And vice in cloth of gold ; 
 But in your innocence, my child, 
 
 And in your mother's love, 
 I learned those lessons of the heart 
 
 Which fasten it above. 
 
 " At last our cares are gone, Lilt, 
 
 And peace is back again, 
 As you have seen the sun shine out 
 
 After the gloomy rain ; 
 In the good land where we were born, 
 
 We may be happy still, 
 A life of love will bless our home— 
 
 The house upon the hill. 
 
 " Thanks to your gentle face, Lilt! 
 
 Its innocence was strong 
 To keep me constant to the right, 
 
 When tempted by the wrong. 
 The litle ones were dear to Him 
 
 Who died upon the rood — 
 I ask his gentle care for you, 
 
 And for your mother good. 
 
 He commenced a historical novel to be called 
 "Maurice Weterbern," in which the great battle 
 of Lutzen was to end the adventures of his hero. 
 "What it is you will some time or other see," 
 he wrote to me ; and, as if doubtful whether this 
 were a safe prediction, added, " I am bestowing 
 great care, but little labor, upon it." This he 
 threw aside, and his love for that age appeared in 
 "The Chevalier Merlin," suggested by the beau- 
 tiful story of Charles the Twelfth, as given by 
 Voltaire, several chapters of which appeared in 
 the " Southern Literary Messenger." In the same 
 magazine he printed "John Carpe," "The Two 
 Country Houses," and other tales : parts of a se- 
 ries in which he intended to dramatize the life 
 and manners of Virginia. He also contributed to 
 the "Literary Messenger" a few pieces of criticism, 
 one of which was a reviewal of the poems of the 
 late Edgar A. Poe. As for any applause these 
 might win for him, he wrote to his friend John 
 R. Thompson: "I look upon these matters se- 
 renely, and will treat renown as Sir Thomas 
 More advises concerning guests : welcome its 
 coming when it cometh, hinder not with oppres- 
 sive eagerness its going, when it goeth. Fur- 
 thermore I am of the temper to look placidly 
 upon the profile of this same renown, if, instead 
 of stopping, it went by to take up with another ; 
 therefore it would not ruffle me to see you win 
 the honours of southern letters away from me." 
 
 Renewing his devotion to poetry, near the close 
 of the year 1849, he wrote fragments of "The 
 Women of Shakspeare," " The Chariot Race," 
 and a political and literary satire. He projected 
 works enough, in prose and verse, to occupy an 
 industrious life of twenty years. In one of his 
 letters he remarked, " I have lately spurred my- 
 self again into continuous composition, and mean 
 to finish books." But in the midst of his reawaken- 
 ed activity and ambition, he suddenly died, on the 
 twentieth of January, 1850, at the age of thirty- 
 three. 
 
 Undoubtedly Philip Pendleton Cooke was 
 one of the truest poets of our country, and what 
 he has left us was full of promise that he would 
 vindicate, in other works, the rank with which he 
 was accredited, by those admiring friends who esti- 
 mated his abilities from his conversation more than 
 from anything he had printed. His mind bloom- 
 ed early, though it was late in maturing. Many 
 of his most pleasing poems were written at col- 
 
524 
 
 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 
 
 lege, or soon after his return, between his fifteenth 
 and eighteenth years ; but they had not the most 
 noticeable characteristics of his later productions. 
 The chivalric poetry occupied his attention early 
 and long, and he was only banishing it for the more 
 independent and beautiful growth of his own na- 
 ture, when his untimely death destroyed the hopes 
 of fruits which his youth foretold in such prodi- 
 gality and perfection. Of his love poems, the lit- 
 tle song entitled " Florence Vane," written when 
 he was scarcely more than twenty, is perhaps the 
 finest. In the lines " To my Daughter Lily," may 
 be discovered the tenderness and warmth of his 
 affections ; in his " Ballads," the fiery and chival- 
 rous phase of his intelligence ; in " Ugolino," his 
 pathos; and in "Life in the Autumn Woods," his 
 love of nature. " Ugolino," was in his own opin- 
 ion the best of all his poems, but it fell far short 
 of his estimate of the capacities of the subject. 
 " I have merely tried my hand in it," he said, 
 "and can only praise what I have done as true to 
 Feoissart. I shall do much better than this." 
 
 As a boy and as a young man, I understand, 
 his life was always poetical — apart, original, and 
 commanding affectionate respect. As he grew 
 older, and married, he became practical in his 
 views, reaching that point in the life of genius in 
 which its beautiful ideals take the forms of duty 
 or become the strength of wise resolves. To- 
 ward his family, including his father, mother, bro- 
 thers, and sisters, he cherished a deep and unfal- 
 tering devotion. A short time before his last 
 illness he introduced into his household morning 
 and evening prayers. He died, as he had lived, 
 a pure-minded gentleman, and humble Chris- 
 tian. 
 
 His voice has been described to me as musically 
 joyous, sometimes varying to a sad sweetness, 
 sometimes wild. His carriage was graceful and 
 upright ; his frame vigorous and elastic, trained 
 as he was by constant hunting in the Blue Ridge ; 
 his hair was black and curling; his eye dark and 
 bright; his expression calm and thoughtful; his 
 manner impressed with dignity. 
 
 EMILY: 
 PROEM TO THE " FROISSART BALLADS." 
 
 Youxg Emily has temples fair, 
 Caress'd by locks of dark brown hair. 
 
 A thousand sweet humanities 
 Speak wisely from her hazel eyes. 
 
 Her speech is ignorant of command, 
 And yet can lead you like a hand. 
 
 Her white teeth sparkle, when the eclipse 
 Is laughter-moved, of her red lips. 
 
 She moves, all grace, with gliding limbs 
 As a white-breasted cygnet swims. 
 
 In her sweet childhood, Emily 
 Was wild with natural gayety, 
 A little creature, full of laughter, 
 Who cast no thought before or after, 
 And knew not custom or its chains. 
 The dappled fawns upon the plains, 
 The birds that love the upper sky, 
 Lived not in lovelier liberty. 
 
 But with this natural merriment, 
 Mind, and the ripening years have blent 
 A thoughtfulness — not melancholy — 
 Which wins her life away from folly ; 
 Checking somewhat the natural gladness, 
 But saved, by that it checks, from sadness — 
 Like clouds athwart a May-morn sailing, 
 Which take the golden light they are veiling. 
 
 She loves her kind, and shuns no duty, 
 Her virtues sanctify her beauty, 
 And all who know her say that she 
 Was born for man's felicity — 
 I know that she was born for mine. 
 Dearer than any joy of wine, 
 Or pomp, or gold, or man's loud praise, 
 Or purple power, art thou to me — 
 Kind cheerer of my clouded ways — 
 Young vine upon a rugged tree. 
 
 Maidens who love are full of hope, 
 And crowds hedge in its golden scope ; 
 Wherefore they love green solitudes 
 And silence for their better moods. 
 I know some wilds, where tulip trees, 
 Full of the singing toil of bees, 
 Depend their loving branches over 
 Great rocks, which honeysuckles cover 
 In rich and liberal overflow. 
 In the dear time of long ago 
 When I had woo'd young Emily, 
 And she had told her love to me, 
 I often found her in these bowers, 
 Quite rapt away in meditation, 
 Or giving earnest contemplation 
 To leaf, or bird, or wild wood flowers ; 
 And once I heard the maiden singing, 
 Until the very woods were ringing — 
 Singing an old song to the Hours ! 
 I well remember that rare song, 
 It charged the Hours with cruel wrong — 
 Wrong to the verdure of the boughs — ■ 
 Wrong to the lustre of fair brows, 
 Its music had a wondrous sound, 
 And made the greenwood haunted ground. 
 
 But I delay : one jocund morn — 
 A morn of that blithe time of spring, 
 When milky blossoms load the thorn, 
 And birds so prate, and soar, and sing, 
 That melody is everywhere, 
 On the glad earth, and in the air, — 
 On such a morn I went to seek 
 In our wild haunts for Emily. 
 I found her where a flowering tree 
 Gave odours and cool shade. Hei cheek 
 A little rested on her hand ; 
 Her rustic skill had made a band 
 Of rare device which garlanded 
 The beauty of her bending head ; 
 
PHILIP P. COOKE. 525 
 
 Some maiden thoughts most kind and wise 
 
 From the sad violet's eye of blue, 
 
 Were dimly burning in her eyes. 
 
 Or chase the honey-making thieves 
 
 When I beheld her — form and face 
 
 From off the rose, and shut its leaves 
 
 So lithe, so fair — the spirit race, 
 
 Against the cold of April eves. 
 
 Of whom the better poets dream'd, 
 
 Perhaps its dainty, pink-tipt hands 
 
 Came to my thought, and I half deem'd 
 
 Have plied such tasks in far off lands 
 
 My earth-born mistress, pure and good, 
 
 And now, perchance, some grim foe follows 
 
 Was some such lady of the wood, 
 
 The little wight to these green hollows." 
 
 As she who work'd at spell, and snare, 
 
 Such gentle words had Emily 
 
 With Huon of the dusky hair, 
 
 For the south wind in the tulip tree. 
 
 And fled, in likeness of a doe, 
 
 A runnel, hidden by the trees, 
 
 Before the fleet youth Angelo. 
 
 Gave out some natural melodies. 
 
 But these infirm imaginings 
 
 She said, " The brook, among the stones, 
 
 Flew quite away on instant wings. 
 
 Is solemn in its undertones ; 
 
 I call'd her name. A swift surprise 
 
 How like a hymn ! the singing creature 
 
 Came whitely to her face, but soon 
 
 Is worshipping the God of nature." 
 
 It fled before some daintier dj'es, 
 
 But I replied, "My dear — not so ; 
 
 And, laughing like a brook in June, 
 
 Thy solemn eyes, thy brow of snow, 
 
 With sweet accost she welcomed me, 
 
 And, more than these, thy maiden merit 
 
 And I sat there with Emily. 
 
 Have won Undine, that gentle spirit, 
 
 The gods were veiy good to bless 
 
 To sing her songs of love to thee." 
 
 My life with so much happiness. 
 
 Swift answer'd merry Emily — 
 
 The maiden on that lowly seat — 
 
 " Undine is but a girl, you know, 
 
 I sitting at her little feet ! 
 
 And would not pine for love of me ; 
 
 Two happier lovers never met, 
 
 She has been peering from the brook, 
 
 In dear and talk-charrn'd privacy. 
 
 And glimpsed at you." She said and shook 
 
 It was a golden day to me, 
 
 With a rare fit of silvery laughter. 
 
 And its great bliss is with me yet, 
 
 I was more circumspect thereafter, 
 
 Warming like wine my inmost heart — 
 
 And dealt in homelier talk. A man 
 
 For memories of happy hours 
 
 May call a white-brow'd girl « Dian," 
 
 Are like the cordials press'd from flowers, 
 
 But likes not to be turn'd upon, 
 
 And madden sweetly. I impart 
 
 And nick-named "Young Endymion." 
 
 Naught of the love-talk I remember, 
 
 My Emily loved very well, 
 
 For May's young pleasures are best hid 
 
 At times, those ancient lays which tell 
 
 From the cold prudence of December, 
 
 Rude natural tales ; she had no lore 
 
 Which clips and chills all vernal wings ; 
 
 Of trouvere, or of troubadour, 
 
 And Love's own sanctities forbid, 
 
 Nor knew what difference there might be 
 
 Now as of old, such gossipings 
 
 Between the tongues of oc and oui: 
 
 In Hall, of what befalls in Bower, 
 
 But hearing old tales, loved them all 
 
 But other matters of the hour, 
 
 If truth but made them natural. 
 
 Of which it breaks no faith to tell, 
 
 In our good talks, we oft went o'er 
 
 My homely rhyme shall chronicle. 
 
 The little horde of my quaint lore, 
 
 As silently we sat alone — 
 
 Cull'd out of old melodious fable. 
 
 Our love-talk spent — two mated birds 
 
 She little cared for Arthur's table, 
 
 Began to prate in loving tone; 
 
 For tales of doughty Launcelot, 
 
 Quoth Emily, " They sure have words ! 
 
 Or Tristram, or of him who smote 
 
 Didst hear them say ' My siveet,' ' My dear 1 ?" 
 
 The giant, Angoulafre hight, 
 
 And as they chirp'd we laugh'd to he 
 
 And moan'd for love by day and night. 
 
 Soon after this a southern wind 
 
 She little cared for such as these, 
 
 Came sobbing like a hunted hind 
 
 But if I cross'd the Pyrenees, 
 
 Into the quiet of the glen : 
 
 With the great peers of Charlemagne, 
 
 The maiden mused awhile, and then 
 
 Descending toward the Spanish plain, 
 
 Worded her thought right playfully. 
 
 Her eye would lighten at the strain ; 
 
 " The winds," she said, " of land and sea, 
 
 And it would moisten with a tear 
 
 My friend, are surely living things 
 
 The sad end of that tale to hear — 
 
 That come and go on unseen wings. 
 
 How all aweary, worn and white, 
 
 The teeming air and prodigal, 
 
 And urging his failing steed amain, 
 
 Which droops its azure over all, 
 
 A courier from the south, one night, 
 
 Is full of immortalities 
 
 Reach'd the great city of the Seine ; 
 
 That look on us with unseen eyes. 
 
 And how at that same time and hour, 
 
 This sudden wind that hath come here, 
 
 The bride of Roland lay in Bower 
 
 With its hard sobs of pain or fear, 
 
 Wakeful, and quick of ear to win 
 
 It may be, is a spirit kind, 
 
 Some rumour of her Paladin — 
 
 Thai loves the bruised flowers to bind, 
 
 And how it came in sudden cries, 
 
 Whose task it is to shake the dew 
 
 That shook the earth and rent the skies ; 
 
526 
 
 PHILIP P. COOKE. 
 
 And how the messenger of fate — 
 That courier who rode so late — 
 Was dragg'd on to her palace gate ; 
 And how the lady sat in hall, 
 Moaning among her damsels all, 
 At the wild tale of Ronceval. 
 That story sounds like solemn truth, 
 And she would hear it with such ruth 
 As sympathetic hearts will pay 
 To real griefs of yesterday. 
 
 Pity look'd lovely in the maiden; 
 Her eyes were softer, when so laden 
 With the bright dew of tears unshed. 
 But I was somewhat envious 
 That other bards should move her thus, 
 And oft within myself had said, 
 " Yea — I will strive to touch her heart 
 With some' fair songs of mine own art" — 
 And many days before the day 
 Whereof I speak, I made assay 
 At this bold labour. In the wells 
 Of Froissart's life-like chronicles 
 I dipp'd for moving truths of old. 
 A thousand stories, soft and bold, 
 Of stately dames, and gentlemen, 
 Which good Lord Berners, with a pen 
 Pompous in its simplicity, 
 Yet tipt with charming courtesy, 
 Had put in English words, I learn'd ; 
 And some of these I deftly turn'd 
 Into the forms of minstrel verse. 
 I know the good tales are the worse — 
 But, sooth to say, it seems to me 
 My verse has sense and melody — 
 Even that its measure sometimes flows 
 With the brave pomp of that old prose. 
 
 Beneath our try sting tree, that day, 
 With dubious face, I read one lay ; 
 Young Emily quite understood 
 My fears, and gave me guerdon good 
 In well-timed praise, and cheer'd me on, 
 Into full flow of heart and tone. 
 And when, in days of pleasant weather, 
 Thereafter, we were me* aether, 
 As our strong love oft n^_^ us meet, 
 I always took my cosy seat, 
 Just at the damsel's little feet, 
 And read my tales. It was no friend 
 To me — that day that heard their end. 
 It had become a play of love, 
 To watch the swift expression rove 
 Over the bright sky of her face — 
 To steal those upward looks, and trace 
 In every change of cheek and eye, 
 The influence of my poesy. 
 
 I made my verse for Emily — ■ 
 I give it, reader, now to thee. 
 The tales which I have toil'd to tell 
 Of Dame in hall and knight in Selle, 
 Of faithful love, and courage high — 
 Sweet flower, strong staff of chivalry— 
 These tales indeed are old of date ; 
 But why should time their force abate] 
 Shall we look back with vision dull 
 On the old brave and beautiful, 
 
 And, for they lived so long ago, 
 
 Be careless of their mirth or wo 1 
 
 If sympathy knows but to-day — 
 
 If time quite wears its nerve away — 
 
 If deeds majestically bold, 
 
 In words of ancient music told, 
 
 Are only food for studious minds 
 
 And touch no hearts — if man but finds 
 
 An abstract virtue in the faith, 
 
 That clung to truth, and courted death, — 
 
 If he can lift the dusky pall 
 
 With dainty hand artistical 
 
 And smile at woes, because some years 
 
 Have swept between them and his tears — 
 
 I say, my friend, if this may be, 
 
 Then burn old books ; antiquity 
 
 Is no more than a skeleton 
 
 Of painted vein and polish'd bone. 
 
 Reader ! the minstrel brotherhood, 
 Earnest to soothe thy listening mood, 
 Were wont to style thee Gentle, Good, 
 Noble or Gracious: — they could bow 
 With loyal knee, yet open brow — 
 They knew to temper thy decision 
 With graces of a proud submission. 
 That wont is changed. Yet I, a man 
 Of this new land republican, 
 Where insolence wins upward better 
 Than courtesy — that old dead letter — 
 And toil claims pay with utterance sharp, 
 Follow the good Lords of the Harp, 
 And dub thee with each courtly phrase, 
 And ask indulgence for my lays. 
 
 LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 
 
 Summer has gone, 
 And fruitful autumn has advanced so far 
 That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun, 
 And you may look, with naked eye, upon 
 
 The ardours of his car ; ■ 
 The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden, 
 
 Are making the green leaves golden. 
 
 What a brave splendour 
 Is In the October air ! How rich, and clear, 
 And bracing, and all-joyous ! we must render 
 Love to the spring-time, with its sproutings tender, 
 
 As to a child quite dear; 
 But autumn is a thing of perfect glory, 
 
 A manhood not yet hoary. 
 
 I love the woods, 
 In this good season of the liberal year ; 
 I love to seek their leafy solitudes, 
 And give myself to melancholy moods, 
 
 With no intruder near, 
 And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder, 
 
 In every natural wonder. 
 
 But not alone, 
 As Shakspeare's melancholy courtier loved Ar- 
 dennes, 
 Love I the browning forest ; and I own 
 I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown 
 
 To hunt with Amiens — 
 
PHILIP P. COOKE. 
 
 527 
 
 And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded, 
 Of the sad creature wounded. 
 
 A brave and good, 
 B ut world-worn knight* — soul wearied with his part 
 In this vext life — gave man for solitude, 
 And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood, 
 
 To hear the belling-f- Hart. 
 It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness 
 
 Yields to the Hunter's madness. 
 
 What passionate 
 And keen delight is in the proud swift chase ! 
 Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate 
 Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate 
 
 With the high pride of his place ; 
 What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning 
 
 In its first bright adorning. 
 
 Hark ! the quick horn — 
 As sweet to hear as any clarion — 
 Piercing with silver, call the ear of mom ; 
 And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne 
 
 And Greysteil and the Don — 
 Each one of them his fiery mood displaying 
 
 With pawing and with neighing. 
 
 Urge your swift horse, 
 After the crying hounds in this fresh hour, 
 Vanquish high hills — stem perilous streams perforce, 
 On the free plain give free wings to your course, 
 
 And you will know the power 
 Of the brave chase — and how of griefs the sorest 
 
 A cure is in the forest. 
 
 Or stalk the deer; 
 The same red lip of dawn has kiss'd the hills, 
 The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear, 
 There is a life in all the atmosphere : — 
 
 Your very nature fills 
 With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring 
 
 You climb with limbs untiring. 
 
 It is a fair 
 And goodly sight to see the antler'd stag, 
 With the long sweep of his swift walk repair 
 To join his brothers ; or the plethoric Bear 
 
 Lying on some high crag, 
 With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, 
 
 As gad-flies keep him waking. 
 
 And these you see, 
 And seeing them, you travel to their death 
 With a slow stealthy step, from tree to tree, 
 Noting the wind however faint it be. 
 
 The hunter draws a breath 
 
 * Sir Thomas Wortley. 
 
 f Belling is an old word for the peculiar cry of the Hart. 
 Bee a letter, written by George Ellis, in Lockhart's 
 Life of Scott, giving an account of Sir Thomas Wort- 
 ley and his reason for building his lodge. 
 
 In times like these, which, he will say, repays him 
 For all care that waylays him. 
 
 A strong joy fills 
 (A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) 
 My heart in autumn weather — fills and thrills ! 
 And I would rather stalk the breezy hills, 
 
 Descending to my bower 
 Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended, 
 
 Than pine where life is splendid. 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 I loved thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane; 
 My life's bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew, in my fond vision, 
 
 My heart's dear pain, 
 My hopes, and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary, 
 
 The ruin old 
 Where thou didst hark my story, 
 
 At even told, — 
 That spot — the hues Elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain — ■ 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excell'd the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main. 
 Would 1 had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But, fairest, coldest, wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under — 
 
 Alas, the day ! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain — 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep ; 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
CHARLES G. EASTMAN. 
 
 [Born, 
 
 Mr. Eastman was educated at the University 
 of Vermont, and has been for several years en- 
 gaged as a journalist, at Burlington, Woodstock, 
 and Montpelier. He now resides in the latter 
 town, where he is editor of " The Vermont Pa- 
 triot," the leading gazette of the democratic party 
 in the state. In 1848 he published a collection 
 of " Poems," nearly all of which had previously 
 appeared in various literary miscellanies. They 
 are chiefly lyrical, and the author displays in them 
 
 -] 
 
 a fondness for the French construction, with re- 
 frains and choruses, which he introduces naturally 
 and effectively. 
 
 Some of his pieces in the manner of Phaed, 
 and other contemporary poets, are successful as 
 imitations, but are scarcely equal in the qualities 
 of poetry to his more independent compositions, 
 in which he has reflected with equal truth and 
 felicity the living features of the rural life of New 
 England. 
 
 THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR. 
 
 The farmer sat in his easy chair, 
 
 Smoking his pipe of clay, 
 While his hale old wife with busy care 
 Was clearing the dinner away ; 
 A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes 
 On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head, 
 
 With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
 He thought how often her mother, dead, 
 Had sat in the self-same place : 
 As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye — 
 "Don't smoke," said the child; "how it makes 
 you cry !" 
 
 The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor 
 Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
 The busy old wife by the open door 
 Was turning the spinning-wheel ; 
 And the old brass clock on the manteltree 
 Had plodded along to almost three : 
 
 Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, 
 While close to his heaving breast 
 The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair 
 Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; 
 His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay — 
 Fast asleep were they both, that summer day. 
 
 MILL MAY. 
 
 The strawberries grow in the mowing, Mill Mat, 
 
 And the bob-o'-link sings on the tree ; 
 On the knolls the red clover is growing, Mill Mat, 
 
 Then come to the meadow with me ! 
 We '11 pick the ripe clusters among the deep grass, 
 
 On the knolls in the mowing, Mill Mat, 
 And the long afternoon together we'll pass, 
 
 Where the clover is growing, Mill Mat. 
 
 Come ! come, ere the season is over, Mill Mat, 
 To the fields where the strawberries grow, 
 
 While the thick-growingstems and the clover, Mill 
 Shall meet us wherever we go ; [Mat, 
 
 528 
 
 We '11 pick the ripe clusters among the deep grass, 
 On the knolls in the mowing, Mill Mat, 
 
 And the long afternoon together we'll pass, 
 Where the clover is growing Mill Mat. 
 
 The sun, stealing under your bonnet, Mill Mat, 
 
 Shall kiss a soft glow to your face, 
 And your lip the strawberry leave on it, Mill Mat, 
 
 A tint that the sea-shell would grace ; 
 Then come ? the ripe clusters among the deep grass 
 
 We '11 pick in the mowing, Mill Mat, 
 And the long afternoon together we'll pass, 
 
 Where the clover is growing, Mill Mat. 
 
 HER GRAVE IS BY HER MOTHER'S. 
 
 Her grave is by her mother's, 
 
 Where the strawberries grow wild, 
 
 And there they 've slept for many a year, 
 The mother and the child. 
 
 She was the frailest of us all, 
 And, from her mother's breast, 
 
 We hoped, and pray'd, and trembled, more 
 For her, than all the rest. 
 
 So frail, alas ! she could not bear 
 
 The gentle breath of Spring, 
 That scarce the yellow butterfly 
 
 Felt underneath its wing. 
 
 How hard we strove to save her, love 
 
 Like ours alone can tell ; 
 And only those know what we lost, 
 
 Who 've loved the lost as well. 
 
 Some thirteen summers from her birth, 
 When th' reaper cuts the grain, 
 
 We laid her in the silent earth, 
 A flower without a stain. 
 
 We laid her by her mother, 
 
 Where the strawberries grow wild, 
 
 And there they sleep together well, 
 The mother and the child ! 
 
JOHN G. SAXE 
 
 [Bora, 1816.] 
 
 John G. Saxe, of Highgate, Franklin county, 
 Vermont, was born in that town on the second 
 day of June, 1816. His youth was passed in ru- 
 ral occupations, until he was seventeen years of 
 age, when he determined to study one of the lib- 
 eral professions, and with this view entered the 
 grammar school at St. Albans, and after the usual 
 preliminary course, the college at Middlebury, 
 where he graduated bachelor of arts in the sum- 
 mer of 1839. He subsequently read law, at Lock- 
 port in New York and at St. Albans, and was ad- 
 mitted to the bar at the latter place, in September, 
 1843, since which time he has been practising in 
 the courts, with more than the average success of 
 young attorneys. 
 
 I remember that when Mr. Saxe was in college 
 he was well known for his manly character, good 
 sense, genial humour, and, for an undergraduate, 
 large acquaintance with literature. He preserves, 
 with fitting increase, his good reputation. "Be- 
 sides writing with such delightful point and facil- 
 ity," observes a friend of his, " he is one of the 
 best of conversationists, and wastes more wit in a 
 day than would set up a Yankee ' Punch' or a 
 score of ' Yankee Doodles.' He is a good general 
 scholar, well read in' the best English authors, and 
 besides his comical compositions, has produced 
 many pieces of grace and tenderness that evince 
 a genuine poetical feeling and ability." 
 
 Mr. Saxe excels most in fun, burlesque, and 
 satire, fields upon the confines of the domain of 
 poetry, in which we have many of the finest spe- 
 cimens of lyrical expression, and which have fur- 
 nished, from the times of Juvenal, a fair propor- 
 tion of the noblest illustrations of creative energy. 
 His verse is nervous, and generally highly finished ; 
 and in almost all cases it is admirably calculated 
 for the production of the desired effects. One of 
 the happiest exhibitions of his skill in language is 
 in the piece printed in the Knickerbocker Maga- 
 zine, commencing — ■ 
 
 Singing through the forests, 
 
 Rattling over ridges, 
 Shooting under arches, 
 
 Rumbling over bridges ; 
 Whizzing through the mountains, 
 
 Buzzing o'er the vale — 
 Bless me ! this is pleasant, 
 
 Riding on a rail ! 
 
 The whole composition is an echo and reflection 
 of the crowded railroad car. 
 
 The longest of his productions is "Progress, a 
 Satire," which has passed through two editions, 
 and been largely quoted for its felicitous charac- 
 terization of popular foibles. His " New Rape of 
 the Lock," written in 1847, and "Proud Miss 
 MacBride," written in 1848, are in the vein of 
 Hood, but are full of verbal felicities and humour, 
 and are fruits of original observation of manners. 
 
 THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF GOTHAM. 
 
 O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, 
 The very personification of pride, 
 As she minced along in fashion's tide, 
 Adown Broadway — on the proper side — 
 
 When the golden sun was setting ; 
 There was pride in the head she carried so high, 
 Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, 
 And a world of pride in the very sigh 
 
 That her stately bosom was fretting : 
 
 A sigh that a pair of elegant feet, 
 Sandal'd in satin, should kiss the street — 
 The very same that the vulgar greet 
 In common leather not over " neat" — 
 
 For such is the common booting ; 
 (And Christian tears may well be shed, 
 That even among our gentlemen-bred, 
 The glorious Day of Morocco is dead, 
 And Day and Martin are raigning instead, 
 
 On a much inferior footing !) 
 34 
 
 O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, 
 Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, 
 And proud of fifty matters beside — 
 
 That would n't have borne dissection ; 
 Proud of her wit, and proud of her waik, 
 Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, 
 Proud of " knowing cheese from chalk," 
 
 On a very slight inspection ! — 
 
 Proud abroad, and proud at home, 
 Proud wherever she chanced to come — 
 When she was glad, and when she was glum 
 
 Proud as the head of a Saracen 
 Over the door of a tippling-shop ! — 
 Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, 
 " Proud as a boy with a bran-new top," 
 
 Proud beyond comparison ! 
 
 It seems a singular thing to say, 
 But her very senses led her astray 
 
 Respecting all humility ; 
 In sooth, her dull, auricular drum 
 Could find in humble only a " hum," 
 And heard no sound of " gentle" come, 
 
 In talking about gentility. 
 
530 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 What lowly meant she did n't know, 
 For she always avoided " everything low," 
 
 With care the most punctilious ; 
 And, queerer still, the audible sound 
 Of " super-silly" she never had found 
 
 In the adjective supercilious ! 
 
 The meaning of mtzk she never knew, 
 But imagined the phrase had something to do 
 With " Moses," a peddling German Jew, 
 Who, like all hawkers, the country through, 
 
 Was " a person of no position ;" 
 And it scem'd to her exceedingly plain, 
 If the word was really known to pertain 
 To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane 
 
 To a lady of high condition ! 
 
 Even her graces — not her grace — 
 For that was in the " vocative case" — 
 Chill'd with the touch of her icy face, 
 
 Sat very stiffly upon her ! 
 She never confess'd a favour aloud, 
 Like one of the simple, common crowd — 
 But coldly smiled, and faintly bow'd, 
 As who should say, " You do me proud, 
 
 And do yourself an honour !" 
 
 And yet the pride of Miss MacBribe, 
 Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, 
 
 Had really no foundation ; 
 But iike the fabrics that gossips devise — 
 Those single stories that often arise 
 And grow till they reach a four-story size — 
 
 Was merely a fancy creation ! 
 
 'Tis a -curious fact as ever was known. 
 In human nature, but often shown 
 
 Alike in castle and cottage, 
 That pride, like pigs of a certain breed, 
 Will manage to live and thrive on " feed" 
 
 As poor as a pauper's pottage ! 
 
 That her wit should never have made her vain, 
 Was — like her face — sufficiently plain ; 
 
 And, as to her musical powers, 
 Although she sang until she was hoarse, 
 And issued notes with a banker's force, 
 They were just such notes as we never endorse 
 
 For any acquaintance of ours ! 
 
 Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high — 
 For Miss MacBribe first opened her eye 
 Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky ; 
 
 But pride is a curious passion — 
 And in talking about her wealth and worth, 
 She always forgot to mention her birth 
 
 To people of rank and fashion ! 
 
 >Of all the notable things on earth, 
 The queerest one is pride of birth, 
 
 Among our "fierce democracie !" 
 A bridge across a hundred years, 
 Without a prop to save it from sneers — 
 Not even a couple of rotten peers — 
 A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, 
 
 Is American aristocracy ! 
 
 English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
 German, Italian, Dutch and Danish, 
 Crossing their veins until they .vanish 
 
 In one conglomeration ; 
 So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, 
 No heraldry-HARTET will ever succeed 
 
 In finding the circulation ! 
 
 Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
 Your family thread you can't ascend, 
 Without good reason to apprehend 
 You may find it wax'd at the farther end, 
 
 By some plebeian vocation ; 
 Or, worse than that, your boasted line 
 May end in a Ioup of stronger twine, 
 
 That plagued some worthy relation ! 
 
 But Miss MacBribe had something beside 
 Her lofty birth to nourish her pride — 
 For rich was the old paternal MacBribe, 
 
 According to public rumour ; 
 And he lived " up town," in a splendid square, 
 And kept his daughter on dainty fare, 
 And gave her gems that were rich and rare, 
 And the finest rings and things to wear, 
 
 And feathers enough to plume her. 
 
 An honest mechanic was John MacBribe, 
 As ever an honest calling plied, 
 
 Or graced an honest ditty ; 
 For John had work'd in his early day, 
 In "pots and pearls," the legends say — 
 And kept a shop with a rich array 
 Of things in the soap and candle way, 
 
 In the lower part of the city ! 
 
 No "rara avis" was honest John — 
 (That's the Latin for "sable-swan") — 
 
 Though in one of his fancy flashes, 
 A wicked wag, who meant to deride, 
 Call'd honest John " Old Phoenix MacBribe," 
 
 " Because he rose from his ashes !" 
 
 Little by little he grew to be rich, 
 By saving of candle-ends and " sich," 
 Till he reach'd at last an opulent niche — 
 
 No very uncommon affair ; 
 For history quite confirms the law 
 Express'd in the ancient Scottish saw — 
 
 A Micelle may come to be may'r'* 
 
 Alack for many ambitious beaux ! 
 She hung their hopes upon her nose — 
 
 (The figure is quite Horatian !) 
 Until, from habit, the member grew 
 As very a hook as ever eye knew, 
 
 To the commonest observation. 
 
 A thriving tailor begg'd her hand, 
 
 But she gave " the fellow" to understand 
 
 By a violent manual action, 
 She perfectly scorn'd the best of his clan, 
 And reckon'd the ninth of any man 
 
 An exceedingly vulgar fraction ! 
 
 Another, whose sign was a golden boot, 
 Was mortified with a bootless suit, 
 
 In a way that was quite appalling ; 
 For, though a regular sutor by trade, 
 He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, 
 
 * " Mickle, wi' thrift, may chance to be mair." — Scotch 
 Proverb. 
 
JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 531 
 
 Who cut him off with a saw — and bade 
 " The cobbler keep to his calling !' 
 
 (The muse must let a secret out : 
 There isn't the faintest shadow of doubt 
 That folks who oftenest sneer and flout 
 
 At " the dirty, low mechanicals," 
 Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees, 
 Or coiling their legs, or trades like these — 
 Contrived to win their children ease 
 
 From poverty's galling manacles.) 
 
 A rich tobacconist comes and sues, 
 And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse 
 A man of his wealth and liberal views, 
 Began, at once, with " If you choose — 
 
 And could you really love him — " 
 But the lady spoil'd his speech in a huff, 
 With an answer rough and ready enough, 
 To let him know she was up to snuff, 
 
 And altogether above him ! 
 
 A young attorney, of winning grace, 
 Was scarce allow'd to " open his face," 
 Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case 
 
 With true judicial celerity ; 
 For the lawyer was poor, and " seedy" to boot, 
 And to say the lady discarded his suit, 
 
 Is merely a double verity ! 
 
 The last of those who came to court, 
 Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort, 
 " Without any visible means of support," 
 
 A crime by no means flagrant 
 In one who wears an elegant coat, 
 But the very point on which they vote 
 
 A ragged fellow " a vagrant !" 
 
 A courtly fellow was dapper Jim, 
 Sleek and supple, and tall and trim, 
 And smooth of tongue as neat of limb ; 
 
 And maugre his meagre pocket, 
 You'd say from the glittering tales he told, 
 That Jim had slept in a cradle of gold, 
 
 With Fortujvatus to rock it ! 
 
 Now dapper Jim his courtship plied 
 
 (I wish the fact could be denied) 
 
 With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride, 
 
 And really " nothing shorter !" 
 For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, 
 " Whenever he dies — as die he must — 
 And yields to Heaven his vital trust, 
 He's very sure to ' come down with his dust,' 
 
 In behalf of his only daughter." 
 
 And the very magnificent Miss MacBride, 
 Half in love, and half in pride, 
 
 Quite graciously relented; 
 And, tossing her head, and turning her back, 
 No token of proper pride to lack — 
 To be a Bride, without the " Mac," 
 
 With much disdain, consented ! 
 
 Alas ! that people who've got their box 
 Of cash beneath the best of locks, 
 Secure from all financial shocks, 
 Should stock their fancy with fancy stocks, 
 And madly rush upon Wall-street rocks, 
 Without the least apology ! 
 
 Alas ! that people whose money-affairs 
 Are sound, beyond all need of repairs, 
 Should ever tempt the bulls and bears 
 Of Mammon's fierce zoology ! 
 
 Old John MacBuihe, one fatal day, 
 Became the unresisting prey 
 
 Of Fortune's undertakers ; 
 And staking all on a single die, 
 His founder'd bark went high and dry 
 
 Among the brokers and breakers ! 
 
 At his trade again, in the very shop 
 Where, years before, he let it drop, 
 
 He follows his ancient calling — 
 Cheerily, too, in poverty's spite, 
 And sleeping quite as sound at night, 
 As when, at fortune's giddy height, 
 He used to wake with a dizzy fright 
 
 From a dismal dream of falling. 
 
 But alas for the haughty Miss MacBribe, 
 'T was such a shock to her precious pride ! 
 She could n't recover, although she tried 
 
 Her jaded spirits to rally ; 
 'Twas a dreadful change in human affairs, 
 From a Place " up town," to a nook " up stairs," 
 
 From an avenue down to an alley ! — 
 
 'Twas little condolence she had, God wot — 
 From her " troops of friends," who had n't forgot 
 
 The airs she used to borrow ; 
 They had civil phrases enough, but yet 
 'T was plain to see that their " deepest regret" 
 
 Was a different thing from sorrow ! 
 
 They own'd it could n't have well been worse 
 
 To go from a full to an empty purse : 
 
 To expect a " reversion," and get a reverse, 
 
 Was truly a dismal feature ; 
 But it wasn't strange — -they whisper'd — at all! 
 That the summer of pride should have its fall 
 
 Was quite according to Nature ! 
 
 And one of those chaps who make a pun, 
 As if it were quite legitimate fun 
 To be blazing away at every one 
 With a regular, double-loaded gun — 
 
 Remark'd that moral transgression 
 Always brings retributive stings 
 To candle-makers as well as kings : 
 For " making light of cereous things" 
 
 Was a very wick-ed profession ! 
 
 And vulgar people — the saucy churls — 
 Inquired about " the price of pearls," 
 
 And mock'd at her situation : 
 " She wasn't ruin'd — they ventured to hope — 
 Because she was poor, she need n't mope ; 
 Few people were better off for soap, 
 
 And that was a consolation !" 
 
 And to make her cup of wo run over, 
 Her elegant, ardent plighted lover 
 
 Was the very first to forsake her ; 
 "He quite regretted the step, 'twas true — 
 The lady had pride enough ; for two,' 
 But that alone would never do 
 
 To quiet the butcher and baker !" 
 
532 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 And now the unhappy Miss MacBride — 
 The merest ghost of her early pride — 
 
 Bewails her lonely position ; 
 Cramp'd in the very narrowest niche, 
 Above the poor, and below the rich — 
 
 Was ever a worse condition 1 
 
 MOEAI. 
 
 Because you flourish in worldly affairs, 
 Don't be haughty, and put on airs, 
 
 With insolent pride of station ! 
 Don't be proud, and turn up your nose 
 At poorer people in plainer clo'es, 
 But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, 
 That wealth 's a bubble that comes — and goes ! 
 And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, 
 
 Is subject to irritation ! 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "PROGRESS." 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 What impious mockery, when with soulless art 
 Fashion, intrusive, seeks to rule the heart; 
 Directs how grief may tastefully be borne ; 
 Instructs Bereavement just how long to mourn; 
 Shows Sorrow how by nice degrees to fade, 
 And marks its measure in a riband's shade ! 
 More impious still, when through her wanton laws 
 She desecrates Religion's sacred cause ; 
 Shows how " the narrow road" is easiest trod, 
 And how genteelest, worms may worship God ; 
 How sacred rites may bear a worldly grace, 
 And self-abasement wear a haughty face ; 
 How sinners, long in Folly's mazes whirl'd, 
 With pomp and splendour may " renounce the 
 
 world ;" 
 How " with all saints hereafter to appear," 
 Yet quite escape the vulgar portion here ! 
 
 "the press. 
 O might the muse prolong her flowing rhyme, 
 (Too closely cramp'd by unrelenting Time, 
 Whose dreadful scythe swings heedlessly along, 
 And, missing speeches, clips the thread of song), 
 How would she strive in fitting verse to sing 
 The wondrous progress of the printing king ! 
 Bibles and novels, treatises and songs, 
 Lectures on " rights," and strictures upon wrongs ; 
 Verse in all metres, travels in all climes, 
 Rhymes without reason, sonnets without rhymes ; 
 " Translations from the French," so vilely done, 
 The wheat escaping, leaves the chaff alone ; 
 Memoirs, where dunces sturdily essay 
 To cheat Oblivion of her certain prey ; 
 Critiques, where pedants vauntingly expose 
 Unlicensed verses in unlawful prose ; 
 Lampoons, whose authors strive in vain to throw 
 Their headless arrows from a nerveless bow ; 
 Poems by youths, who, crossing Nature's will, 
 Harangue the landscape they were born to till ; 
 Huge tomes of law, that lead by rugged routes 
 Through ancient dogmas down to modern doubts, 
 Where judges oft, with well-affected ease, 
 Give learned reasons for absurd decrees, 
 
 Or, more ingenious still, contrive to found 
 
 Some just decision on fallacious ground — 
 
 Or blink the point, and haply, in its place, 
 
 Moot and decide some hypothetic case ; 
 
 Smart epigrams, all sadly out of joint, 
 
 And pointless, save the " exclamation point," 
 
 Which stands in state, with vacant wonder fraught, 
 
 The pompous tombstone of some pauper thought ; 
 
 Ingenious systems based on doubtful facts, 
 
 " Tracts for the times," and most untimely tracts ; 
 
 Polemic pamphlets, literary toys, 
 
 And " easy lessons" for uneasy boys ; 
 
 Hebdomadal gazettes and daily news, 
 
 Gay magazines and quarterly reviews : 
 
 Small portion these of all the vast array 
 
 Of darken'd leaves that cloud each passing day, 
 
 And pour their tide unceasingly along, 
 
 A gathering, swelling, overwhelming throng ! 
 
 "ASSOCIATION. 
 
 Haie, social progress ! each new moon is rife 
 With some new theory of social life, 
 Some matchless scheme ingeniously design'd 
 From half their miseries to free mankind ; 
 On human wrongs triumphant war to wage, 
 And bring anew the glorious golden age. 
 " Association" is the magic word 
 From many a social " priest and prophet" heard ; 
 " Attractive labour" is the angel given, 
 To render earth a sublunary heaven ! 
 " Attractive labour !" ring the changes round, 
 And labour grows attractive in the sound ; 
 And many a youthful mind, where haply lurk 
 Unwelcome fancies at the name of "work," 
 Sees pleasant pastime in its longing view 
 Of " toil made easy" and " attractive" too — 
 And, fancy-rapt, with joyful ardour, turns 
 
 Delightful grindstones and seductive churns! 
 
 Inventive France ! what wonder-working schemes 
 Astound the world whene'er a Frenchman dreams ! 
 What fine-spun theories — ingenious, new, 
 Sublime, stupendous, everything but true ! 
 One little favour, O " imperial France :" 
 Still teach the world to cook, to dress, to dance ; 
 Let, if thou wilt, thy boots and barbers roam, 
 But keep thy morals and thy creeds at home ! 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 Nat, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead, 
 He lives again in heaven's unclouded life, 
 
 With other angels that have early fled 
 
 From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife ; 
 
 Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love 
 Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers, 
 
 And e'en deny to brighter realms above 
 
 The few that deck this dreary world of ours : 
 
 Though much it seems a wonder and a wo 
 That one so loved should be so early lost — 
 
 And hallow'd tears may unforbidden flow, 
 
 To mourn the blossom that we cherish'd most — 
 Yet all is well : God's good design I see, 
 That where our treasure is, our hearts may be ! 
 
HENRY B. HIRST. 
 
 [Born, 1817.] 
 
 Mr. Hirst was born in Philadelphia, on the 
 twenty-third day of August, 1817. His father, 
 Thomas Hirst, was a reputable merchant of 
 that city, and held in high respect. When only 
 eight years old be entered the law office of his 
 brother, William L. Hirst, Esq., and at the age 
 of eighteen he was registered as a student. His 
 professional studies were now interrupted for a 
 long period, and he engaged in mercantile pur- 
 suits, but at the age of twenty-five he made his 
 application for admission, and graduated with 
 the highest honors in the early part of 1843, and 
 is now in successful practice at the Philadelphia 
 Bar. 
 
 Mr. Hirst's first attempts at poetry, he informs 
 me, were in his twenty-first or twenty-second 
 year, about which time he became a contributor 
 to Graham's Magazine. His poems were very 
 successful and extensively copied. In 1S45 he 
 published in Boston his first volume, " The Com- 
 ing of the Mammoth, the Funeral of Time, and 
 other Poems," a book which certainly received all 
 the praises to which it was entitled. It was not 
 without graceful fancies, but its most striking char- 
 acteristics were a clumsy extravagance of inven- 
 tion, and a vein of sentiment neither healthful nor 
 poetical. It had the merit, however, of musical 
 though somewhat mechanical versification, and its 
 reception was such as to encourage the author to 
 new and more ambitious efforts. 
 
 In the summer of ] 848 he published " Endym- 
 ion, a Tale of Greece," an epic poem, in four can- 
 tos. It was a long-meditated and carefully elabo- 
 rated production, some parts of which had been 
 kept the full Horatian period. It may be regard- 
 ed, therefore, as an exhibition of his best abilities. 
 He evinced a certain boldness in subjecting him- 
 self to a comparison with Keats, whose fine fan- 
 cies, woven about it, will share the immortality of 
 the Grecian fable. In the finish and musical flow 
 of his rhythm, and in the distinctness and just pro- 
 portion with which he has told his story, he has 
 equalled Keats : but in nothing else. With pas- 
 sages of graphic and beautiful description, and a 
 happy clearness in narrative, the best praise of 
 Mr. Hirst's performance is, that it is a fine piece 
 of poetical rhetoric. There is not much thought 
 in the poem, and where there is any that arrests 
 attention, it whispers of familiar readings. 
 
 The fault of the book is the want of a poetical del- 
 icacy of feeling ; it is not classical ; it is not beauti- 
 ful ; it is merely sensual ; there is none of the diviner 
 odour of poetry about it. Mr. Hirst's " chaste Di- 
 ana" is a strumpet. The metre, though inappropri- 
 ate, to such a poem, is unusual, and is managed by 
 Mr. Hirst with singular skill. To illustrate his 
 mastery of versification, and at the same time to 
 
 present one of the most attractive passages of the 
 poem, the following lines are quoted from the 
 first canto : 
 
 Through a deep dell with mossy hemlocks girded — 
 A dell by many a sylvan Dryad prest, — 
 Which Latmos' lofty crest 
 Flung half in shadow — where the red deer herded — 
 While mellow murmurs shook the forests gray— 
 Endymion took his -way 
 
 Mount Latmos lay before him. Gently gleaming, 
 A roseate halo from the twilight dim 
 Hung round its crown. To him 
 The rough ascent was light ; for, far off, beaming, 
 Orion rose — and Sirius, like a shield, 
 Shone on the azure field 
 
 At last he gain'd the top, and, crown'd with splendour, 
 The moon, arising from the Latmian sea, 
 Stepp'd o'er the heavenly lea, 
 Flinging her misty glances, meek and tender 
 As a young virgin's, o'er his marble brow 
 That glisten'd with their glow. 
 
 Beside him gush'd a spring that in a hollow 
 
 Had made a crystal lake, by which he stood 
 
 To cool his heated blood — 
 
 His blood yet fever'd, for the fierce Apollo 
 
 Throughout the long, the hot, the tropic day, 
 
 Embraced him with his ray. 
 
 Beside the lake whose waves were glassily gleaming, 
 A willow stood in Dian's rising rays, 
 And from the woodland ways 
 Its feather'd, lance-like leaves were gently streaming 
 Along the water, with their lucent tips 
 Kissing its silver lips. 
 
 And still the moon arose, serenely hovering, 
 Dove-like, above the horizon. Like a queen 
 She walk'd in light between 
 The stars — her lovely handmaids — softly covering 
 Valley and wold, and mountain-side and plain. 
 With streams of lucid rain. 
 
 Endymion watch'd her rise, his bosom burning 
 
 With princely thoughts ; for though a shepherd's son. 
 He felt that fame is won 
 By high aspirings ; and a lofty yearning, 
 
 From the bright blossoming of his boyish days, 
 Made his deeds those of praise. 
 
 Like her's, his track was tranquil : he had gather'd 
 By slow degrees the glorious, golden lore, 
 Hallowing his native shore ; 
 And when at silent eve his flock was tether'd, 
 
 He read the stars, and drank, as from a stream, 
 Great knowledge from their gleam. 
 
 And so he grew a dreamer— one who, panting 
 For shadowy objects, languish'd like a bird 
 That, striving to be heard 
 Above its fellows, fails, the struggle haunting 
 Its memory ever, for ever the strife pursuing 
 To its own dark undoing. 
 
 In the summer of 1849 Mr. Hirst published 
 in Boston a third volume, entitled " The Penance 
 of Roland, a Romance of the Peine Forte et Dure, 
 and other Poems," from which the extracts in the 
 next pages are copied. Its contents are all well 
 versified, and their rhetoric is generally poetical. 
 
 533 
 
534 
 
 HENRY B. HIRST. 
 
 THE LAST TILT. 
 
 At twilight, through the shadow, fled 
 
 An ancient, war-worn knight, 
 Array'd in steel, from head to heel, 
 And on a steed of white ; 
 And, in the knight's despite, 
 The horse pursued his flight : 
 For the old man's cheek was pale, 
 And his hands strove at the rein, 
 With the clutch of phrensied pain ; 
 And his courser's streaming mane 
 Swept, dishevell'd, on the gale. 
 " Dong — dong !" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing awav over meadow and mere — 
 " Seven !" 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 
 
 The old knight heard the mystic clock ; 
 
 And the sound, like a funeral-bell, 
 Rang in his ears till their caverns were full 
 Of the knoll of the desolate knell. 
 And the steed, as aroused by a spell, 
 Sprang away with a withering yell, 
 While the old man strove again, 
 But each time with feebler force, 
 To arrest the spectral horse 
 In its mad, remorseless course, 
 But, alas ! he strove in vain. 
 "Dong — dong !" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing away over meadow and mere — 
 " Eight !" 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 
 
 The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim, 
 
 With lidless, leaden eyes, 
 That burn'd with the lurid, livid glare 
 Of the stars of Stygian skies ; 
 And the wind, behind, with sighs, 
 Mimick'd his maniac cries, 
 While through the ebony gloom, alone, 
 Wan-visaged Saturn gazed 
 On the warrior — unamazed — 
 On the steed whose eyeballs blazed 
 With a lustre like his own. 
 "Dong — dong!" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing away over meadow and mere — 
 "Nine!" 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 
 
 Athwart a swart and shadowy moor 
 The struggling knight was borne, 
 
 And far away, before him, gleam'd 
 A light like the gray of morn ; 
 
 While the old man, weak, forlorn, 
 And wan, and travel-worn, 
 
 Gazed, mad with deathly fear : 
 For he dream'd it was the day, 
 Though the dawn was far away, 
 And he trembled with dismay 
 
 In the desert, dark and drear ! 
 
 '' Dong — dong !" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing away over meadow and mere— 
 "Ten!" 
 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 
 As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 
 
 In casque and cuirass, white as snow, 
 Came, merrily, over the wold, 
 
 A maiden knight, with lance and shield, 
 And a form of manly mould, 
 And a beard of woven gold : 
 When, suddenly, behold ! — 
 
 With a loud, defiant cry, 
 
 And a tone of stern command, 
 
 The ancient knight, with lance in hand, 
 
 Rush'd, thundering, over the frozen land, 
 
 And bade him " Stand, or die !" 
 
 " Dong — dong !" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing away over meadow and mere— <- 
 "Eleven!" 
 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 
 As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 
 
 With his ashen lance in rest, 
 
 Career'd the youthful knight, 
 With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye, 
 
 And a visage burning bright — 
 
 For he loved the tilted fight — 
 
 And, under Saturn's light, 
 With a shock that shook the world, 
 
 The rude old warrior fell — and lay 
 
 A corpse — along the frozen clay ! 
 
 As with a crash the gates of day 
 Their brazen valves unfurl'd. 
 
 " Dong — dong !" And the sound of a bell 
 Went wailing away over meadow and mere— 
 " Twelve !" 
 
 Counted aloud by the sentinel clock 
 
 On the turret of Time ; and the regular beat 
 Of his echoing feet 
 
 Fell, like lead, on the ear — 
 
 As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier ! 
 
 BERENICE. 
 
 I wouid that I could lay me at thy feet, 
 And with a bosom, warm with rapture, greet 
 
 The rose-like fragrance of thy odorous sighs, 
 
 Drinking, with dazzled eyes, 
 The radiant glory of a face 
 
HENRY B. HIRST. 
 
 535 
 
 Which, even in dreams, adorns the Italian skies 
 Of passionate love — the Astarte of their space ! 
 
 This, in some quiet, column'd chamber, where 
 The glare of sunlight dies, yet all is light; 
 With all around us ruddy, rich, and rare — 
 
 Books red with gold, and mirrors diamond-bright, 
 And choicest paintings, and rich flowers which bear 
 Their beauty,bloom, and fragrance, day and night, 
 And stately statues, white as gods, between 
 The scarlet blossoms and the leaves of green, 
 With all that Art creates, and Fancy rears, 
 And Genius snatches from supernal spheres. 
 
 All day, all day, dear love, would I lie there, 
 With elbow sunk in some soft ottoman, 
 Feeling far more than man, 
 Breathing the fragrance of the enchanted air 
 Swimming around thee ; while, with book in hand, 
 I would unfold to thee the ancient sages — 
 Poet's, like Chauceb's, quaint, delicious pages, 
 And wander thoughtfully through the poet's land — 
 Through it by night — a calm, unclouded night, 
 Full of sweet dreams. 
 
 By murmurous streams, 
 Sparkling with starry gleams, 
 
 We'd pause, entranced by Dian's amber light, 
 And watch the Nereid rising from the wave, 
 Or see the Oread lave 
 
 Her faultless feet in lucid ripples, white 
 As Indian ivory with the milky ray, 
 Trembling around their forms in liquid play. 
 
 Then to some tall old wood, beneath old trees, 
 
 Which, in the primal hours, 
 
 Gave birth to flowers 
 Fairer than those which jewell'd Grecian leas 
 What time the Dryads woo'd the summer breeze. 
 We'd seek some mossy bank, and sit, and scan 
 The stars, forgetting earth and man, 
 And all that is of earth, and watch the spheres, 
 And dream we heard their music ; and, with tears 
 Born of our bliss, arise, and walk again, 
 Languid with passion's epicurean pain. 
 
 Treading the feather'd grasses, 
 
 Through misty, moonlit passes, 
 On, on, along some vernal, verdant plain 
 Our steps should falter, while the linnet's strain 
 Made music for our feet, and, keeping time, 
 Our hearts replied with gentle chime, 
 As our souls throbb'd responsive to the rhyme 
 Of perfect love, which Nature murmur'd round, 
 Making earth holy ground, 
 And as the gods who ruled all things we saw. 
 
 Then giving way to mad imaginings 
 Born of the time and place — 
 The perfume which pervaded space, 
 The natural emotions of our race — 
 We'd vow that love should be the only law 
 
 Henceforth for earth ; that even the rudest things 
 Should love and be beloved : while we, 
 The Adam and Eve, should sit enthroned, and see 
 All earth an Eden, and with thankful eyes 
 Reverence God in our new paradise. 
 
 THE LOST PLEIAD. 
 
 Beautiful sisters ! tell me, do you ever 
 
 Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell 
 And faded in Love's turbid, crimson river 1 
 
 The sacred secret tell. 
 Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her, 
 
 As, chanting harmonies, she danced along : 
 Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her, 
 Her being pass'd in song. 
 
 Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber ; 
 Beside her slept her golden-tongued lyre ; 
 And radiant visions — fancies without number — 
 
 Fill'd breast and brain with fire. 
 She dream'd ; and in her dreams saw bending o'er 
 her 
 A form her fervid fancy deified ; 
 And, waking, view'd the noble one before her, 
 Who woo'd her as his bride. 
 
 What words, what passionate words he breathed, 
 beseeching, 
 Have long been lost in the descending years ; 
 Nevertheless, she listen'd to his teaching, 
 
 Smiling between her tears. 
 And ever since that hour the happy maiden 
 Wanders unknown of any one but Jove ; 
 Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn 
 In the Elysium — Love ! 
 
 NO MORE. 
 
 No Mohe — no more ! What vague, mysterious, 
 
 Inexplicable terrors in the sound ! 
 
 What soul-disturbing secrecies abound 
 In those sad syllables ! and what delirious, 
 Wild phantasies, what sorrowful and what serious 
 
 Mysteries lie hid in them ! No More — No More ! 
 
 Where is the silent and the solemn shore, 
 Wash'd by what soundless seas, where all imperious 
 He reigns 1 And over what his awful reign 1 
 
 Who questions, maddens ! what is veil'd in shade, 
 
 Let sleep in shadow. When No More was made, 
 Eternity felt his deity on the wane, 
 And Zeus rose shrieking, Saturn-like and hoar, 
 Before that dread Prometheus — No More ! 
 
 ASTARTE. 
 
 Thy lustre, heavenly star ! shines ever on me. 
 I, trembling like Endymion over-bent 
 By dazzling Dian, when with wonderment 
 He saw her crescent light the Latmian lea : 
 And like a Naiad's sailing on the sea, 
 
 Floats thy fair form before me : the azure air 
 Is all ambrosial with thy hyacinth hair : 
 While round thy lips the moth in airy glee 
 Hovers, and hums in dim and dizzy dreams, 
 
 Drunken with odorous breath : thy argent eyes 
 (Twin planets swimming through Love's lustrous 
 
 skies) 
 Are mirror'd in my heart's serenest streams — 
 Such eyes saw Sh akspeue, flashing bold and bright. 
 When queenly Egypt rode the Nile at night. 
 
AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE. 
 
 [Born about 1817.] 
 
 The largest work by Mr. Dtjganne which I 
 have seen is a yellow-covered octavo called, "The 
 Mysteries of Three Cities! Boston, New York, 
 and Philadelphia! a True, History of Men's 
 Hearts and Habits !" and on the title-page, which 
 is here faithfully copied, he is described as the 
 author of " The Illegitimate," " Emily Harper," 
 "The Pastor," "The Two Clerks," "Secret 
 Guilt," " Fortunes of Pertinax," " etc. etc." He 
 is therefore undoubtedly a voluminous writer in 
 prose, for it may be inferred that all these pro- 
 ductions are in that form ; and he has published 
 in verse "The Iron Harp," "Parnassus in Pil- 
 lory," and "The Mission of Intellect," besides a 
 great number of short pieces, in the newspapers, 
 which are collected with the rest in a hand- 
 some octavo edition of his "Poetical Works." 
 The argument of "Parnassus in Pillory" is thus 
 announced: 
 
 " As in some butcher's barricaded stall, 
 A thousand prisoned rats gnaw, squeak, and crawl, 
 While at the entrance, held by stalwart hands, 
 A panting terrier strives to burst his bands; — 
 With eyes inflamed and glittering teeth displayed, 
 Half turns to bite the hand by which he's stayed; — 
 So writhes and pants my terrier muse to chase 
 The rats of letters from creation's face." 
 
 Satires of American poets have been sufficient- 
 ly numerous. The best, in all respects, it need 
 
 hardly be stated, is Mr. Lowell's "Fable for 
 Critics." "American Bards," by Mr. Goeham 
 A. Woeth," "Truth, a New Year's Gift for 
 Scribblers," by Mr. William J. Snelling, and 
 " The Quacks of Helicon," by Mr. L. A. Wilmee, 
 are superior to any others of the second class. 
 Mr. Duganne's "Parnassus in Pillory," cannot 
 be regarded as equal to either of these, but it has 
 some epigrammatic turns of expression, with 
 occasional critical suggestions, neatly delivered, 
 which render it very readable. If the works here 
 referred to be compared with that amazing exhi- 
 bition of satiric rage, "The Dunciad," of which 
 most of our attempts in this class are imitations, 
 in a greater or less degree, according to the abili- 
 ties of their respective authors, no surprise will be 
 felt that they have commanded so little attention. 
 Several of them evince as much malice, but all 
 together, except Mr. Lowell's ingenious perform- 
 ance, do not display as much poetry or wit, as 
 the meanest page of Pope's ill-natured but in- 
 comparably polished and pointed attack on his 
 contemporaries. 
 
 From his "Iron Harp," Mr. Duganne seems to 
 belong to "the party of progress," and his favorite 
 poet, it may be guessed, is Ebenezee Elliott. 
 The most creditable illustration of his abilities is , 
 probably the following ode on Mr. Powees's statue 
 of the Greek Slave. 
 
 ODE TO THE GREEK SLAVE. 
 
 Geeek! by more than Moslem fetters thrall'd! 
 
 marble prison of a radiant thought, 
 Where life is half recall'd, 
 
 And beauty dwells, created, not enwrought — ■ 
 Why hauntest thou my dreams, enrobed in light, 
 
 And atmosphered with purity, wherein 
 Mine own soul is transfigured, and grows bright, 
 
 As though an angel smiled away its sin 1 
 
 O chastity of Art ! 
 Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude 
 Of all the busy mart: 
 Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe, 
 
 All sensuous vision lies subdued, 
 And from her veiled eyes the flow 
 Of tears, is inward turned upon her heart; 
 While on the prisoning lips 
 
 Her eloquent spirit swoons, 
 And from the lustrous brow's eclipse 
 Falls patient glory, as from clouded moons! 
 Severe in vestal grace, yet warm 
 And flexile with the delicate glow of youth, 
 536 
 
 She stands, the sweet embodiment of Truth ; 
 Her pure thoughts clustering around her form, 
 Like seraph garments, whiter than the snows 
 Which the wild sea upthrows. 
 
 Genius ! thou canst chain 
 Not marble only, but the human soul, 
 And melt the heart with soft control, 
 
 And wake such reverence in the brain, 
 That man may be forgiven, 
 If in the ancient days he dwelt 
 Idolatrous with sculptured life, and knelt 
 
 To' Beauty more than Heaven! 
 
 Genius is worship! for its works adore 
 The Infinite Source of all their glorious thought, 
 So blessed Art, like Nature, is o'erfraught 
 
 With such a wondrous store 
 Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze' 
 Aright on her creations, haply pray and praise! 
 
 Go, then, fair Slave ! and in thy fetters teach 
 What Heaven inspired and Genius hath de- 
 signed — 
 
 Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach 
 The freedom of the mind ! 
 
E. SPENCER MILLER. 
 
 [Born, 1817.] 
 
 Mr. E. Spencer Miller is a son of the late 
 eminent theologian, the Reverend Samuel Mil- 
 ler, D.D., of Princeton, New Jersey, where he 
 was born on the third day of September, 1817. 
 When nineteen years of age he was graduated at 
 Nassau Hall, in his native town, and having stu- 
 died the law, and been admitted to the bar, in 
 Philadelphia, chose that city for his residence, and 
 has attained to a distinguished position there in 
 his profession. 
 
 Mr. Miller has not hitherto been known to the 
 public as a poet. The only book upon the title- 
 page of which he has placed his name, is a stout 
 octavo called "A Treatise on the Law of Parti- 
 
 tion, by Writ, in Pennsylvania," published in 1847; 
 but while engaged in researches concerning this 
 most unpoetical subject, in leisure hours his mind 
 was teeming with those beautiful productions which 
 were given to the world in 1849, in a modest anony- 
 mous volume entitled " Caprices." Among these 
 poems are some that evince an imagination of un- 
 usual sensibility and activity, and in all are dis- 
 played culture and wise reflection. No one of our 
 poets has made a first appearance in a book of 
 greater promise, and it will be justly regretted if 
 devotion to the law or to any other pursuit pre- 
 vents its accomplished author from keeping that 
 promise to the lovers of literature. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 Ho, Spirit ! I am with thee now ; 
 My stride is by the rushing brow, 
 The mist is round me while I bow. 
 
 By summer streams, by land and sea, 
 
 Niagara, I have yearned to thee, 
 
 And dreamed what thou wouldst say to me. 
 
 In spells of vision I have stood, 
 And with the turmoil of thy flood 
 Have struggled into brotherhood. 
 
 The hour is mine; the dream is gone; 
 The sleep of Summer streams is done ; 
 And I am by thy side alone. 
 
 The hour is mine; I feel thy spray; 
 I press along thy rainbow way ; 
 God help my throbbing heart to-day. 
 
 The hour is mine; my feet are near; 
 I falter not, but wrestle here; 
 Eternal words are in mine ear. 
 
 I falter not ; I feel the whole ; 
 The mysteries of thy presence roll 
 In waves of tumult o'er my soul. 
 
 I merge myself, my race, my clime, 
 And as I tread thy paths sublime, 
 I seem to stand alone with Time ; 
 
 To stand, all lost, with Time alone; 
 He makes thy sullen roar his own, 
 An infinite sad monotone: 
 
 Majestic dirge of strifes and sighs ; 
 The voices of the year that rise 
 Between the two eternities: 
 
 Forever new, forever old, 
 Forever one, yet manifold, 
 Forever what all time hath told. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 I stir the pulses of the mind, 
 
 And, with my passive cheek inclined, 
 
 I lay my ear along the wind. 
 
 It fans my face, it fans the tree, 
 It goes away and comes to me, 
 I feel it, but I cannot see. 
 
 Upon my chilly brow it plays, 
 It whispers of forgotten days, 
 It says whatever fancy says. 
 
 Away, away — by wood and plain, 
 About the park, and through the lane 
 It goes and comes to me again. 
 
 Away, — again away, it roams, 
 
 By fields of flocks and human homes, 
 
 And laden with their voices comes : 
 
 It comes and whispers in my ear, 
 So close I cannot choose but hear; 
 It speaks, and yet I do not fear ; 
 
 Then, sweeping where the shadows lie, 
 Its murmur softens to a sigh 
 That pains me as it passes by, 
 
 And, in its sorrow, and reproof, 
 Goes wailing round the wall and roof, 
 So sad the swallow soars aloof. 
 
 Away, — the old cathedral bell 
 Is swinging over hill and dell ; 
 Devoted men are praying well. 
 
 Away, — with every breath there come 
 The tones of toil's eternal hum, — ■ 
 Man, legion-voiced, yet ever dumb 
 
 Away, away, — by lake and lea, — 
 It cometh ever back to me, 
 
 I feel it, but I cannot see 
 
 537 
 
538 
 
 E. SPENCER MILLER. 
 
 "THE BLUE-BE ARD CHAMBERS OF 
 THE HEART." 
 
 Mould upon the ceiling, 
 
 Mould upon the floor, 
 Windows barred and double barred, 
 
 Opening nevermore; 
 Spiders in the corners, 
 
 Spiders on the shelves, 
 Weaving frail and endless webs 
 
 Back upon themselves; 
 Weaving, ever weaving, 
 
 Weaving in the gloom, 
 Till the drooping drapery 
 
 Trails about the room. 
 
 Waken not the echo, 
 
 Nor the bat, that clings 
 In the curious crevices 
 
 Of the pannelings. 
 
 Waken not the echo, 
 
 It will haunt your ear 
 Wall and ceiling whispering 
 
 Words you would not hear. 
 Hist ! the spectres gather, 
 
 Gather in the dark, 
 Where a breath has brushed away 
 
 Dust from off a mark; 
 
 Dust of weary winters, 
 
 Dust of solemn years, 
 Dust that deepens in the silence, 
 
 As the minute wears. 
 
 On the shelf and wainscot, 
 
 Window-bars and wall, 
 Covering infinite devices, 
 
 With its stealthy fall. 
 
 Hist! the spectres gather, 
 
 Break, and group again. 
 Wreathing, writhing, gibbering 
 
 Round that fearful stain; — 
 Blood upon the panels, 
 
 Blood upon the floor, 
 Blood that baffles wear and washing, 
 
 Red for evermore. 
 
 See, — they pause and listen, 
 Where the bat that clings, 
 
 Stirs within the crevices 
 Of the pannelings. 
 
 See, — they pause and listen, 
 
 Listen through the air; 
 How the eager life has struggled, 
 
 That was taken there; 
 
 See, — they pause and listen, 
 
 Listen in the gloom ; 
 For a startled breath is sighing, 
 
 Sighing through the room. 
 
 Sighing in the corners, 
 
 Sighing on the floor, 
 Sighing through the window-bars, 
 
 That open nevermore. 
 
 Waken not those whispers ; 
 They will pain your ears; 
 
 Waken not the dust that deepens 
 Through the solemn years,— 
 
 Deepens in the silence, 
 Deepens in the dark; 
 
 Covering closer, as it gathers, 
 Many a fearful mark. 
 
 Hist ! the spectres gather, 
 
 Break and group again, 
 Wreathing, writhing, gibbering, 
 
 Round that fearful stain: 
 
 Blood upon the panels, 
 
 Blood upon the floor, 
 Blood that baffles wear and washing, 
 
 Red for evermore. 
 
 THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 Deep within the night, 
 Toiling on its way, 
 
 With its feeble lamp 
 Giving out a ray. 
 
 Close about its path 
 Sombre shadows meet, 
 
 And the light is cast 
 Only at its feet. 
 
 Castle- top and grange 
 Off within the dark; 
 
 What are they to it, 
 Groping by its spark! 
 
 Castle-top and grange, 
 
 Orchard, lane, and wood, 
 Human homes asleep, 
 
 Precipice and flood, 
 What are they to it, 
 
 Groping by its ray; 
 God hath given light, 
 
 Light for all its way ; 
 
 Light to know each step 
 Of the toilsome ground; 
 
 Wherefore should it pry, 
 Questioning, around! .... 
 
 In the night of time, 
 
 Toiling through the dark, 
 Reason's feeble lamp 
 
 Giveth out its spark. 
 
 Close about my path 
 Hidden wonders lie, 
 
 Mysteries unseen, 
 Shapes of destiny, 
 
 Beings of the air, 
 
 Shadowless and weird, 
 Looking upon me, 
 
 Uttering unheard, — 
 
 Sad and warning eyes 
 
 Pleading from the past, 
 From the years to come 
 
 Mournful glances cast, — 
 What are they to me, 
 
 Toiling towards the day; 
 God hath given light, 
 
 Light for all ray way. 
 
E. SPENCER MILLER. 
 
 539 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "ABEL." 
 
 From these pure and happy places, 
 
 Outcast, striding forth alone ; 
 Mournful eyes of all the ages 
 
 Turning backward to his own. 
 Striding forth alone, for ever, — 
 
 Burning brow, convulsive breath, 
 And the mark of God upon him, 
 
 Strange, mysterious mark of death. 
 Death, — relentless, stern intruder; 
 
 Never, in the years before, 
 Had its chill and pallid presence 
 
 Passed within life's iron door. 
 Death, — from out the pregnant future 
 
 Rise its tones of fear and pain, 
 Voices from the grave of Abel, 
 
 Echoes of the curse of Cain. 
 
 REST. 
 
 Rest] — there is no such thing; 
 
 A coward's baseless dream. 
 Time is a rushing flood, 
 
 And thou art in the stream. 
 Thou mayest fret and weep, 
 And turn upon thy side : 
 Remorseless currents hold 
 Thy being in their tide. 
 Rest] — Up and be a man; 
 
 Look out upon the night; 
 No star stands still in heaven, 
 
 •In all thine aching sight 
 
 Thy mind, a restless pool, 
 
 Where whirling eddies sweep 
 Hope's dreams and fancies round, 
 
 For ever, in its deep; 
 Thy frame, a battle-field, 
 
 Where every pulse and breath 
 Bring tidings from the ground, 
 Where life is meeting death. 
 Rest] — chafe no more in vain; 
 
 On, lest thy peers go by ; 
 Thou wouldst not if thou couldst, 
 
 Evade thy destiny. 
 Insatiate nature craves 
 
 Some fuel for its fire, 
 Food for the appetite 
 
 Of unappeased desire. 
 Think what a helpless clog 
 
 These limbs of thine would be, 
 If motion never stirred 
 
 Their passive lethargy. 
 Think what a weary world, 
 
 Were all life's duties done, 
 And knowledge but a goal, 
 
 That was already won; 
 If this unquiet thought 
 
 Had roamed its region through, 
 And paused beyond the bourne, 
 
 With nothing else to do 
 
 Around thee and above, 
 Within thee and apart, 
 
 Are countless goads and spurs 
 
 To rouse thy flagging heart 
 
 Ambition, fear and love, 
 
 Pride, envy, discontents, 
 Those ministers of change, 
 
 Life's countless stimulants. 
 Ferment for evermore, 
 
 Within this passive form, 
 Unwearying as the wave, 
 
 That rolls in calm and ^torm. ... 
 
 Resistance, — pregnant law, 
 That all thy life attends, 
 And, in a hostile guise, 
 
 Leads action to its ends; .... 
 In thought's thin atmosphere, 
 Unhood thy fluttering soul ; 
 Resistance bears it up, 
 
 And speeds it to its goal. 
 As thou hast seen a torch 
 
 Burn with a clearer glow, 
 When flung far up aloft, 
 
 Where fresher breezes blow ; 
 So does my spirit burn, 
 
 Brighter, and yet more bright, 
 As higher currents meet, 
 And fan it in its flight. 
 Then onward in thy course; 
 
 When doubt obscures the way, 
 Trim better lamps, to light 
 
 Thy spirit to its day 
 
 Want, sickness, danger, fear, 
 
 Are ever at thy hand, 
 To bring new forces out, 
 
 And train them to command. 
 Thou art not all a man, 
 
 Till thou hast known them all, 
 Till thou hast stood and faced 
 
 Whatever may appal. 
 Cut bono? — faithless words; 
 
 It is enough for thee, 
 To know that toil expands 
 Thy weak capacity 
 
 Live one step further on, 
 
 And know that thou art, here, 
 A chrysalis, whose wings 
 
 Grow for another sphere; 
 That knowledge, being, power, 
 
 Are onward, infinite, 
 And every effort, now, 
 
 A progress in thy flight ; 
 And see if thou, but one 
 
 Of all this race of men, 
 Can'st look around and ask 
 
 That faithless question then. 
 No! onward, — ever on; 
 
 Time's earnest moments roll ; 
 Leave rest to sickly dreams, 
 
 Cui bono? to the fool. 
 Know this, for thee, the whole, 
 
 If thou canst comprehend; 
 Toil and Development 
 
 Are way, reward, and end. 
 
FREDERIC S. COZZENS. 
 
 [Born, 1818.] 
 
 The writer of the pleasant magazine papers 
 under the signature of "Richard Haywarde" 
 was born in New York in the year 1818. Richard 
 Haywarde was the name of his father's maternal 
 grandfather. He was born in Hampshire in Eng- 
 land in 1693, and was one of the earlier Moravian 
 missionaries to America. In 1740 he entertained 
 some of the Brethren, who had come from the old 
 world, at his house in Newport. In a little pam- 
 phlet published in 1808, giving an account of the 
 Moravian settlements in this country, he is referred 
 to familiarly as " Old father Haywarde." Leon- 
 ard Cozzens, his great grandfather in another 
 line, came from Wiltshire, in England, and settled 
 in Newport in 1743. His grandfather, immedi- 
 ately afterthe battle of Lexington, joined the New- 
 port volunteers, commanded by Captain Sears, 
 and fought at Bunker Hill. He was himself edu- 
 cated in the city of New York, and has always 
 resided there. He has been a curious student of 
 
 American literature, and in the winter of 1854 de- 
 livered a lecture upon this subject. His volume 
 entitled " Prismatics," printed in 1853, consists 
 mainly of articles previously published in the 
 " Knickerbocker Magazine," to which he has been 
 a frequent contributor for several years. His more 
 recent work, the " Sparrowgrass Papers," appear- 
 ed originally in "The Knickerbocker" and "Put- 
 nam's Monthly." He is an importer and dealer 
 in wines, of which he has written some admirable 
 essays, both in "Putnam's Monthly," and in a 
 little periodical which he publishes himself, under 
 the title of " The Wine Press." In a certain fresh 
 and whimsical humor, and a refined and agreeable 
 sentiment, expressed in prose or verse, Mr. Cozzens 
 always pleases. He is indeed, a delightful essay- 
 ist, in a domain quite his own, and his poetry has an 
 easy flow, and a natural vein of wit and pathos, 
 which renderhis signature one of the most welcome 
 that can meet the eye of the desultory reader. 
 
 A BABYLONISH DITTY. 
 
 More than several years have faded 
 Since my heart was first invaded 
 By a brown-skinned, gray-eyed siren 
 
 On the merry old "South-side;" 
 Where the mill-flume cataracts glisten, 
 And the agile blue fish listen 
 To the fleet of phantom schooners, 
 
 Floating on the weedy tide 
 
 There, amid the sandy reaches, 
 In among the pines and beeches, 
 Oaks, and various other kinds of 
 
 Old primeval forest trees, 
 Did we wander in the noon-light 
 Or beneath the silver moon-light, 
 While in ledges sighed the sedges, 
 
 To the salt salubrious breeze. 
 
 Oh, I loved her as a sister, 
 Often, oftentimes, I kissed her, 
 Holding prest against my vest 
 
 Her slender, soft, seductive hand ; 
 Often by my midnight taper, 
 Filled at least a quire of paper 
 With some graphic ode or sapphic 
 
 "To the nymph of Baby Land." 
 
 Oft we saw the dim blue highlands, 
 Coney, Oak, and other islands, 
 (Motes that dot the dimpled bosom 
 
 Of the sunny summer sea,) 
 Or, mid polished leaves of lotus, 
 Wheresoe'er our skiff would float us, 
 Anywhere, where none could note us, 
 
 There we sought alone to be. 
 540 
 
 Thus, till summer was senescent, 
 And the woods were iridescent, 
 Dolphin tints and hectic tints 
 
 Of what was shortly coming on, 
 Did I worship Amy Milton; 
 Fragile was the faith I built on ! — 
 Then we parted, broken hearted 
 
 I, when she left Babylon. 
 
 As upon the moveless water, 
 Lies the motionless frigata, — 
 Flings her spars and spidery outlines, 
 
 Lightly on the lucid plain, — 
 But whene'er the fresh breeze bloweth 
 To more distant oceans goeth, 
 Never more the old haunt knoweth, 
 
 Never more returns again, — 
 
 So is woman, evanescent, 
 Shifting with the shifting present, 
 Changing like the changing tide, 
 
 And faithless as the fickle sea ; 
 Lighter than the wind-blown thistle, 
 Falser than the fowler's whistle, 
 Was that coaxing piece of hoaxing — 
 
 Amy Milton's love for me. 
 
 Yes, thou transitory bubble! 
 Floating on this sea of trouble, 
 Though the sky be bright above thee, 
 
 Soon will sunny days be gone; 
 Then, when thou 'rt by all forsaken, 
 Will thy bankrupt heart awaken 
 To these golden days of olden 
 
 Times in happy Babylon! 
 
GEORGE H. COLTON. 
 
 [Born, 1818. Died, 1847.] 
 
 Geokge H. Colton, the fifth of nine children 
 of a Congregational clergyman who had emigrated 
 to that place from Connecticut, was born in West- 
 ford, about twelve miles north of Cooperstown, 
 among the mountains of Otsego county, in New 
 York, on the twenty-fifth of October, 1818. When 
 about three years of age he was removed with his 
 father's family to Koyalton, near Lockport, where 
 he remained three years, and then was carried to 
 a new home in Elba, in the county of Essex. In 
 this early period he attended indifferent district 
 schools, but his chief means of education was the 
 library of his father, in which he lingered, with 
 an insatiable love of reading, so that before the 
 close of his twelfth year he had made himself 
 familiar with a large portion of English classical 
 literature. 
 
 In 1830 he was sent to New Haven to pursue 
 his studies under an elder brother, the Rev. John 
 O. Colton, then a tutor in Yale College, which 
 he himself entered in 1836, and left, with the de- 
 gree of bachelor of arts, and next the highest 
 honors of his class, in the summer of 1840. He 
 soon after opened a grammar school in Hartford, 
 but found teaching a disagreeable occupation, and 
 gave it up. He had indeed determined already 
 to devote himself entirely to literature. While 
 an undergraduate he had been a frequent contri- 
 butor to the college magazine, and in his senior 
 year had written the first canto of a long poem 
 entitled " Tecumseh, or the West Thirty Years 
 Since." This work he now resumed, and com- 
 pleted, with great rapidity, that it might possess 
 on its publication all the advantages which could 
 arise from the political eminence of one of its 
 principal characters, General Harrison, who was 
 at that time a candidate for the presidency. It was 
 brought out in New York in the spring of 1842. 
 
 " Tecumseh" is a narrative poem, founded on 
 the nistory of the celebrated chief whose name is 
 chosen for its title, and whose efforts to unite the 
 various divisions of the red race into one grand con- 
 federacy, to regain their lost inheritance, though 
 unsuccessful, constitute the most striking and sub- 
 lime episode in the aboriginal history of this coun- 
 try. The measure of the main part of the poem, 
 which extends through nine long cantos, and 
 nearly fourteen thousand lines, is octo-syllabic. 
 The versification is free, and generally correct, 
 though in some cases marred by inexcusable care- 
 lessness, and phraseology more tame and unmean- 
 ing than, had he kept his manuscript the Hora- 
 tian period, the author would have permitted to 
 go before the critics. There are scattered through 
 the work many passages of minute and skilful 
 description of external nature, and interwoven 
 
 with the main story is one of love, resulting, like 
 most tales of the kind, in the perfect felicity of 
 the parties. Considered as the production of an 
 author but twenty-three years of age, commenced 
 while he was still in college, and finished soon 
 after, under circumstances most unfavorable for 
 poetical composition, it was generally praised, 
 but it was not successful ; it was read by few, 
 and the first and only American edition was sold 
 very slowly. 
 
 In the autumn of 1844 Mr. Colton issued in 
 New York the first number of " The American 
 Review, a Whig Journal of Politics, Literature, 
 Art, and Science," and of this work, which was 
 issued monthly from the commencement of the 
 following year, he remained editor and proprietor 
 until his death, which occurred after a long and 
 painful illness, induced by too severe mental and 
 physical labor, on the evening of the first of De- 
 cember, 1847. 
 
 Mr. Colton was an accurate scholar, and a 
 very rapid and industrious writer. Besides nu- 
 merous papers, in prose and verse, printed in his 
 own magazine, he contributed frequently to other 
 periodicals, and a few weeks before his death 
 wrote to me that his poems had accumulated so 
 fast that he should print a new volume, nearly as 
 large as " Tecumseh," in which the leading and 
 title-giving piece would be "The Forsaken" — the 
 story of a young girl, nurtured in the forest, and 
 abandoned by a stranger, from the city, who had 
 won her heart — which he had published in the 
 eleventh volume of the "Democratic Review." 
 Nearly all his poems are diffuse, and they all need- 
 ed the file ; but though he saw their defects, he had 
 no patience for revision, and probably they would 
 never have been improved. A severer style, how- 
 ever, might have been attained by him if he had 
 lived, and the harassing cares of his profession had 
 permitted him in new compositions to attempt 
 those excellences of execution which no one more 
 readily appreciated or confessed to be of higher 
 importance. 
 
 The distinguishing and most poetical element 
 in Mr. Colton's character was an intense love of 
 nature. This is evident from his poems, and was 
 much more so from his demeanor and conversation. 
 Beautiful scenery and the more remarkable phe- 
 nomena of the seasons, produced in him fre- 
 quently a species of intoxication. " I shall never 
 do myself justice," he said, referring to a dis- 
 course which he had delivered on the Eloquence 
 of the Indians/ "until I can write in the woods, 
 and by the untrodden shores of the lakes. Let 
 me become rich enough for this, and you shall 
 see what I was made for." 
 
 541 
 
542 GEORGE H 
 
 COLTON. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "TECUMSEH." 
 
 As if were open to their view 
 
 The stars' sun-flooded homes of blue ; 
 
 Or gazed, with mournful sternness, o'er 
 
 TECUMSEH AND THE PROPHET. 
 
 
 The rolling prairie stretched before — 
 
 
 Never did eye a form behold 
 
 While round them, fluttering on the breeze, 
 
 At once more finished, firm, and bold. 
 
 The sere leaves fell from faded trees. 
 
 Of larger mould and loftier mien 
 Than oft in hall or bower is seen, 
 
 
 
 And with a browner hue than seems 
 
 THE DEATH OE TECUMSEH. 
 
 To pale maid fail - , or lights her dreams, 
 
 Forth at the peal each charger sped, 
 
 He yet revealed a symmetry 
 
 The hard earth shook beneath their tread 
 
 Had charmed the Grecian sculptor's eye, — 
 
 The dim woods, all around them spread, 
 
 A massive brow, a kindled face, 
 
 Shone with their armor's light : 
 
 Limbs chiseled to a faultless grace, 
 
 Yet in those stern, still lines, assailed, 
 
 Beauty and strength in every feature, 
 
 No eye-ball shrunk, no bosom quailed, 
 
 While in his eyes there lived the light 
 
 No foot was turned for flight ; 
 
 Of a great soul's transcendant might — ■ 
 
 But, thundering as their foemen came, 
 
 Hereditary lord by nature ! 
 
 Each rifle flashed its deadly flame. 
 
 As stood he there, the stern, unmoved, 
 
 A moment, then recoil and rout, 
 
 Except his eagle glance that roved, 
 
 With reeling horse and struggling shout, 
 
 And darkly limned against the sky 
 
 Confused that onset fair ; 
 
 Upon that mound so lone and high, 
 
 But, rallying each dark steed once more, 
 
 He looked the sculptured god of wars, 
 
 Like billows borne the low reefs o'er, 
 
 Great Odin, or Egyptian Mars, 
 
 With foamy crests in air, 
 
 By crafty hand, from dusky stone, 
 
 Right on and over them they bore, 
 
 Immortal wrought in ages gone, 
 
 With gun and bayonet thrust before, 
 
 And on some silent desert cast, 
 
 And swift swords brandish'd bare. 
 
 Memorial of the mighty Past. 
 
 Then madly was the conflict waged, 
 
 And yet, though firm, though proud his glance, 
 
 Then terribly red Slaughter raged ! 
 
 There was upon his countenance 
 
 How still is yet yon dense morass 
 
 That settled shade which, oft in life, 
 
 The bloody sun below ! 
 
 Mounts upward from the spirit's strife, 
 
 Where'er yon chosen horsemen pass 
 
 As if upon his soul there lay 
 
 There stirs no bough nor blade of grass, 
 
 Some grief which would not pass away. 
 
 There moves no secret foe ! . . . 
 
 The other's lineaments and air 
 
 Sudden from tree and thicket green, 
 
 Revealed him plainly brother born 
 
 From trunk and mound and bushy screen, 
 
 Of him, who on that summit bare 
 
 Sharp lightning flashed with instant sheen, 
 
 So sad, yet proudly, met the morn: 
 
 A thousand death-bolts sung ! 
 
 But, lighter built, his slender frame 
 
 Like ripened fruit before the blast, 
 
 Far less of grace, as strength, could claim ; 
 
 Rider and horse to earth were cast, 
 
 And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce, 
 
 Its miry roots among ; 
 
 Would seem the gazer's breast to pierce, 
 
 Then wild — >as if that earth were riven, 
 
 And lowering visage, all the while 
 
 And, pour'd beneath the cope of heaven, 
 
 Inwrought of subtlety and guile, 
 
 All hell to upper air were given — ■ 
 
 Whose every glance, that darkly stole, 
 
 One fearful whoop was rung. . . . 
 
 Bespoke the crafty cruel soul. 
 
 Then loud the crash of arms arose, 
 
 There was from all his presence shed 
 
 As when two forest whirlwinds close ; 
 
 A power — a chill mysterious dread — 
 
 Then filled all heaven their shout and yell, 
 
 Which made him of those beings seem, 
 
 As if the forests on them fell ! 
 
 That shake us in the midnight dream. 
 
 I see, where swells the thickest fight, 
 
 Yet were his features, too, o'ercast 
 
 With sword and hatchet brandish'd bright, 
 
 With mournfulness, as if the past 
 
 And rifles flashing sulphurous light 
 
 Had been one vigil, painful, deep and long 
 
 Through green leaves gleaming red — 
 
 Of hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong. 
 
 I see a plume, now near, now far, 
 
 No word was said : but long they stood, 
 
 Now high, now low, like falling star 
 
 And side by side, in thoughtful mood, 
 
 Wide waving o'er the tide of war, 
 
 Watched the great curtains of the mist 
 
 Where'er the onslaught's led. . .. 
 
 Up from the mighty landscape move ; 
 
 Above the struggling storm I hear 
 
 'T was surely spirit-hands, they wist, 
 
 A lofty voice the war-bands cheer — 
 
 Did lift them from above. 
 
 Still, as they quail with doubt or fear, 
 
 And when, unveiled to them alone 
 
 Yet loud and louder given — 
 
 The solitary world was shown, 
 
 And, rallying to the clarion cry, 
 
 And dew from all the mound's green sod 
 
 With club and red axe raging high, 
 
 Rose, like an incense, up to God, 
 
 And sharp knives sheathing low, 
 
 Reclined, yet silent still, they bent 
 
 Fast back again, confusedly, 
 
 Their eyes on heaven's deep firmament- 
 
 They drive the staggering foe. 
 
GEORGE H. COL TON. 
 
 543 
 
 A FOREST SCENE. 
 
 Within a wood extending wide 
 
 By Thames's steeply winding side, 
 
 There sat upon a fallen tree, 
 
 Grown green through ages silently, 
 
 An Indian girl. The gradual change 
 
 Making all things most sweetly strange, 
 
 Had come again. The autumn sun, 
 
 Half up his morning journey, shone 
 
 With conscious lustre, calm and still ; 
 
 By dell, and plain, and sloping hill 
 
 Stood mute the faded trees, in grief, 
 
 As various as their clouded leaf. 
 
 With all the hues of sunset skies 
 
 Were stampd the maple's mourning dyes ; 
 
 In meeker sorrow in the vale 
 
 The gentle ash was drooping pale 
 
 Brown-seared the walnut raised its head 
 
 The oak displayed a lifeless red ; 
 
 And grouping bass and white-wood hoar 
 
 Sadly their yellow honors bore ; 
 
 And silvered birch and poplar rose 
 
 With foliage gray and weeping boughs ; 
 
 But elm and stubborn beach retained 
 
 Some verdant lines, though crossed and stained, 
 
 And by the river's side were seen 
 
 Hazel and willow, palely green, 
 
 While in the woods, by bank and stream 
 
 And hollows shut from daylight gleam, 
 
 Where tall trees wept their freshening dews, 
 
 Each shrub preserved its summer hues. 
 
 Nor this alone. From branch and trunk 
 
 The withered wild-vines coldly shrunk, 
 
 The woodland fruits hung ripe or dry, 
 
 The leaf-strewn brook flowed voiceless by ; 
 
 And all throughout, nor dim nor bright, 
 
 There lived a rare and wondrous light, 
 
 Wherein the colored leaves around 
 
 Fell noiselessly; nor any sound, 
 
 Save chattering squirrels on the trees, 
 
 Or dropping nuts, when stirred the breeze, 
 
 Might there be heard; and, floating high, 
 
 Were light clouds borne alone the sky, 
 
 And, scarcely seen, in heaven's deep blue 
 
 One solitary eagle flew. 
 
 TO THE NIGHT- WIND IN AUTUMN. 
 
 Whence art thou, spirit wind — 
 Soothing with thy low voice the ear of Night, 
 And breathing o'er the wakeful, pensive mind 
 An influence of pleased yet sad delight 1 
 
 Thou tell'st not of thy birth, 
 viewless wanderer from land to land : 
 
 But, gathering all the secrets of the earth, 
 Where'er, unseen, thy airy wings expand, 
 
 At this hushed, holy hour, 
 When time seems part of vast eternity, 
 
 Thou dost reveal them with a magic power, 
 Saddening the soul with thy weird minstrelsy. 
 
 All nature seems to hear — 
 The woods, the waters, and each silent star; 
 
 What, that can thus enchain their earnest ear, 
 Bring'st thou of untold tidings from afar 1 ? 
 
 Is it of new, fair lands, 
 Of fresh-lit worlds that in the welkin burn 1 
 
 Do new oases gem Zahara's sands, 
 Or the lost Pleiads to the skies return 1 
 
 Nay ! 't is a voice of grief, 
 Of grief subdued, but deepened through long years, 
 
 The soul of Sorrow, seeking not relief — 
 Still gathering bitter knowledge without tears. 
 
 For thou, since earth was young, 
 And rose green Eden, purpled with the morn, 
 Its solemn wastes, and homes of men among, 
 Circling all zones, thy mourning flight hast borne. 
 
 Empires have risen, in might, 
 And peopled cities through the outspread earth, 
 And thou hast passed them at the hour of night, 
 Hearing their sounds of revelry and mirth. 
 
 Again thou hast gone by — 
 City and empire were alike o'ertlrrown, 
 Temple and palace, fallen confusedly, 
 In marble ruin on the desert strown. 
 
 In time-long solitudes, 
 Grand gray old mountains pierced the silent air, 
 
 Fair rivers roll' d, and stretch'd untravers'd woods: 
 'T was joy to hope that they were changeless there. 
 
 Lo ! as the ages passed, 
 Thou found'st them struck with alteration dire, 
 
 The streams new channel'd, forests headlong cast, 
 The crumbling mountains scathed with storm and 
 fire. 
 
 Gone but a few short hours, — 
 Beauty and bloom beguiled thy wanderings, 
 
 And thou mad'st love unto the virgin flowers, 
 Sighing through green trees and by mossy springs. 
 
 Now, on the earth's cold bed, 
 Fallen and faded, waste their forms away, 
 
 And all around the withered leaves are shed, 
 Mementos mute of Nature's wide decay. 
 
 Vain is the breath of morn ; 
 Vainly the night-dews on their couches weep ; 
 In vain thou call'st them at thy soft return — 
 No more awaking from their gloomy sleep. . . . 
 
 Oh, hush ! oh, hush ! sweet wind ! 
 Thou melancholy soul, be still, I pray, 
 
 Nor pierce this heart, so long to grief resigned, 
 With plainings for the loved but lifeless clay ! 
 
 Ah ! now by thee I hear 
 The earnest, gentle voices, as of old ; 
 
 They speak in accents tremulously clear — 
 The young, the beautiful, the noble souled. 
 
 The beautiful, the young, 
 The form of light, the wise, the honored head — 
 Thou bring'st the music of a lyre unstrung ! — 
 Oh cease ! with tears I ask it — they are dead. . . . 
 
 While mortal joys depart, 
 While loved ones lie beneath the grave's green sod, 
 
 May we not fail to hear, with trembling heart, 
 In thy low tone the « still small voice of God." 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 [Born, 1818.] 
 
 Mr. Coxe is the eldest son of the Reverend 
 Samuel H. Coxe, D. D., of Brooklyn. He was 
 born in Mendham, in New Jersey, on the tenth 
 day of May, 1818. At ten years of age he was 
 sent to a gymnasium at Pittsfield, in Massachu- 
 setts, and he completed his studies preparatory to 
 entering the University of New York, under the 
 private charge of Doctor Bush, author of "The 
 Life of Mohammed," etc. While in the univer- 
 sity he distinguished himself by his devotion to 
 classic learning, and particularly by his acquaint- 
 ance with the Greek poets. In his freshman year 
 he delivered a poem before one of the undergra- 
 duates' societies, on " The Progress of Ambition," 
 and in the same period produced many spirited 
 metrical pieces, some of which appeared in the 
 periodicals* of the time. In the autumn of 1837 
 he published his first volume, " Advent, a Mys- 
 tery," a poem in the dramatic form, to which was 
 prefixed the following dedication : 
 
 Father, as he of old who reap'd the field, 
 The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate 
 
 Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield, 
 Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create — 
 So I to thee these numbers consecrate, 
 
 Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring; 
 And if of hours well saved from revels iate 
 
 And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring, 
 
 Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing. 
 
 This work was followed in the spring of 1838 by 
 "Athwold, a Romaunt;" and in the summer of 
 the same year were printed the first and second 
 cantos of " Saint Jonathan, the Lay of a Scald." 
 These were intended as introductory to a novel 
 in the stanza of " Don Juan," and four other can- 
 tos were afterward written, but wisely destroyed 
 by the author on his becoming a candidate "for 
 holy orders, an event not contemplated in his 
 previous studies. He was graduated in July, and 
 on the occasion delivered an eloquent valedictory 
 oration. 
 
 From this period his poems assumed a devo- 
 tional cast, and were usually published in the 
 periodicals of the church. His « Athanasion" was 
 pronounced before the alumni of Washington 
 College, in Connecticut, in the summer of 1840. 
 It is an irregular ode, and contains passages of 
 considerable merit, but its sectarian character will 
 prevent its receiving general applause. The fol- 
 lowing allusion to Bishop Berkeley is from this 
 poem : 
 
 Oft when the eve-star, sinking into day, 
 Seems empire's planet on its westward way, 
 Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin, 
 Thy pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne ! 
 
 * Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse," 
 in "The American Monthly Magazine." 
 544 
 
 Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee 
 Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie, 
 Nigh did I leap, on Clio's calmer line, 
 To see thy story with our own entwine. 
 On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me 
 Like Berkeley's seein'd, in priestly dignity, 
 Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year, 
 In our behoof, dull prince and cavalier; 
 And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese ; 
 Such as he wander'd o'er the Indy seas 
 To vex'd Bermoothes, witless that he went 
 Mid isles that beckon'd to a continent. 
 Such there he seem'd, the pure, the nndefiled! 
 And meet the record! Though, perchance, I smiled 
 That those, in him, themselves will glorify, 
 Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die, 
 Yet, let him stand: the world will note it well, 
 And Time shall thank them for the chronicle 
 By such confess'd, Columbus of new homes 
 For song, and Science with her thousand tomes. 
 Yes— pure apostle of our western lore, 
 Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more. 
 Still in those halls, where none without a sneer 
 Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear, 
 Stand up, bold bishop— in thy priestly vest; 
 Proof that the Church bore letters to the West ! 
 In the autumn of the same year appeared Mr. 
 Coxe's " Christian Ballads," a collection of reli- 
 gious poems, of which the greater number had 
 previously been given to the public through the 
 columns of « The Churchman." They are ele- 
 gant, yet fervent expressions of the author's love 
 for the impressive and venerable customs, cere- 
 monies, and rites of the Protestant Episcopal 
 Church. 
 
 While in the university, Mr. Coxe had, besides 
 acquiring the customary intimacy with ancient 
 literature, learned the Italian language; and he 
 now, under Professor Nordheimer, devoted two 
 years to the study of the Hebrew and the Ger- 
 man. After passing some time in the Divinity 
 School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's 
 orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twen- 
 ty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on 
 receiving the degree of Master of Arts from the 
 University, he pronounced the closing oration, by 
 appointment of the faculty; and in August he 
 accepted a call to the rectorship of Saint Anne's 
 church, then recently erected by Mr. Gouyerneur 
 Morris, onhisdomain of Morrisiana. Hewasmar- 
 ried the same year to his third cousin, Miss Cathe- 
 rine Cleveland, daughter of Mr. Simeon Hyde 
 Mr. Coxe was several years rector of St. John's 
 Church, in Hartford; in 1851 he visited Europe, and 
 in 1854became minister of Grace Church, in Balti- 
 more. He has published, besides the works already 
 mentioned, in verse, "Saul, a Mystery," "Advent, 
 a Mystery," and " Halloween ;" and in prose, " Sym- 
 pathies of the Continent," "Impressions of Eng- 
 land," " Sermons," and, from the French of the 
 Abbe Laborde, « The New Dogma of Rome." 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 545 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 Boyhood hath gone, or ever I was 'ware : 
 Gone like the birds that have sung out their season, 
 And fly away, but never to return : 
 Gone — like the memory of a fairy vision ; 
 Gone — like the stars that have burnt out in heaven : 
 Like flowers that open once a hundred years, 
 And have just folded up their golden petals : 
 Like maidenhood, to one no more a virgin ; 
 Like all that's bright, and beautiful, and transient, 
 And yet, in its surpassing loveliness, 
 And quick dispersion into empty nothing, 
 Like its dear self alone, like life, like Boyhood. 
 Now, on the traversed scene I leave for ever, 
 Doth memory cast already her pale look, 
 And through the mellow light of by-gone summers, 
 Gaze, like the bride, that leaveth her home-valley, 
 And like the Patriarch, goes she knows not where. 
 She, with faint heart, upon the bounding hill-top 
 Turns her fair neck, one moment, unbeheld, 
 And through the sun-set, and her tearful eye, 
 Far as her father's dwelling, strains her sight, 
 To bless the roof-tree, and the lawn, and gardens, 
 Where romp her younger sisters, still at home. 
 
 I have just waken'd from a darling dream, 
 And fain would sleep once more. I have been roving 
 In a sweet isle, and thither would return. 
 I have just come, methinks, from Fairyland, 
 And yearn to see Mab's kingdom once again, 
 And roam its landscapes with her ! Ah, my soul, 
 Thy holiday is over — play-time gone, 
 And a stern Master bids thee to thy task. 
 
 How shall I ever go through this rough world ! 
 How find me older every setting sun ; 
 How merge my boyish heart in manliness ; 
 How take my part upon the tricksy stage, 
 And wear a mask to seem what I am not ! 
 Ah me — but I forgot ; the mimicry 
 Will not be long, ere all that I had feign'd, 
 Will be so real, that my mask will fall, 
 And Age act Self, uncostumed for the play. 
 Now my first step I take, adown the valley, 
 But ere I reach the foot, my pace must change ; 
 And I toil on, as man has ever done, 
 Treading the causeway, smooth with endless travel, 
 Since first the giants of old Time descended, 
 And Adam leading down our mother Eve, 
 In ages elder than Antiquity. 
 This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung, 
 Like harps, that chord by chord grow musicless ; 
 These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff, 
 That late could whirl the ball-club vigorously: 
 This eye grow glassy, that can sparkle now, 
 And on the dear Earth's hues look doatingly : 
 And these brown locks, which tender hands have 
 In loving curls about their taper-fingers, [twined 
 Must silver soon, and bear about such snows, 
 As freeze away all touch of tenderness. 
 And then, the end of every human story 
 Is ever this, whatever its beginning, 
 To wear the robes of being — in their rags ; 
 To bear, like the old Tuscan's prisoners, 
 A corpse still with us, insupportable ; 
 And then to sink in Earth, like dust to dust, 
 35 
 
 And hearse for ever from the gaze of men, [relics! 
 What long they thought — now dare to call — our 
 Glory to him who doth subject the same, 
 
 In hope of Immortality ! 
 
 I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy; 
 From being unto being ! I will snatch 
 This germ of comfort from departing youth ; 
 And when the pictured primer's thrown aside, 
 I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart. 
 I shall go on through all Eternity ; 
 Thank God ! I only arn an embryo still ; 
 The small beginning of a glorious soul ; 
 An atom that shall fill Immensity ; 
 
 The bell hath toll'd ! my birth-hour is upon me ! 
 The hour that made me child, has made me man, 
 And bids me put all childish things away. 
 Keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me ! 
 And grant me, Lord, with this, the Psalmist's prayer, 
 Remember not the follies of my youth, 
 But in thy mercy, think upon me, Lord ! 
 
 OLD CHURCHES. 
 
 Hast been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blow- 
 
 With odours like Eden's around'] [ing 
 
 Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is grow- 
 
 And wild vines are fringing the ground 1 [ing, 
 Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon, 
 
 And ate the cool gourds of their clime ; 
 Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, 
 
 And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme] 
 
 And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping 
 
 Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, [eve, 
 
 With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave 
 
 A mantle for turrets so gray 1 
 Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind 
 
 Lived there, when the country was young 1 ? 
 And burn'd not the blood of a Christian, to find 
 
 How there the old prayer-bell had rung 1 
 
 And did ye not glow, when they told ye — the Lord 
 
 Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile ; 
 And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, 
 
 That once had knelt down in its aisle 1 
 And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep 
 
 When ye thought — o'er your country so broad, 
 The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, 
 
 Save only these churches of God ! 
 
 ye that shall pass by those ruins agen, 
 
 Go kneel in their alleys and pray, 
 And not till their arches have echoed amen, 
 
 Rise up, and fare on in your way ; [more, 
 Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once 
 
 Those altars surrounded and spread, 
 While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore, 
 
 As they take of the wine-cup and bread. 
 
 Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane 
 
 They have left to the bat and the mole, 
 May sound with the loud-pealing organ again, 
 
 And the full swelling voice of the soul, [by, 
 Perad venture, when next thou shalt journey there- 
 
 Even-bells shall ring out on the air, 
 And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye 
 
 The snowy-robed pastor at prayer. 
 
546 
 
 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 THE HEART'S SONG. 
 
 Ijt the silent midnight watches, 
 
 List — thy bosom-door ! 
 How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 
 
 Knocketh evermore ! 
 Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; 
 
 'T is thy heart of sin : 
 'T is thy Saviour knocks, and crieth 
 
 Rise, and let me in ! 
 
 Death comes down with reckless footstep 
 
 To the hall and hut : 
 Think you Death will stand a-knocking 
 
 Where the door is shut 1 
 Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 
 
 But thy door is fast ! 
 Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth : 
 
 Death breaks in at last. 
 
 Then 'tis thine to stand — entreating 
 
 Christ to let thee in : 
 At the gate of heaven beating, 
 
 Wailing for thy sin. 
 Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, 
 
 Hast thou then forgot, 
 Jesus waited long to know thee, 
 
 But he knows thee not ! 
 
 THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Of England green and old, 
 That out from fane and ivied tower 
 
 A thousand years have toll'd ; 
 How glorious must their music be 
 
 As breaks the hallow'd day, 
 And calleth with a seraph's voice 
 
 A nation up to pray ! 
 
 Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, 
 
 Sweet tales of olden time ! 
 And ring a thousand memories 
 
 At vesper, and at prime ; 
 At bridal and at burial, 
 
 For cottager and king — 
 Those chimes — those glorious Christian chimes, 
 
 How blessedly they ring ! 
 
 Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Upon a Christinas morn, 
 Outbreaking, as the angels did, 
 
 For a Redeemer born ; 
 How merrily they call afar, 
 
 To cot and baron's hall, 
 With holly deck'd and mistletoe, 
 
 To keep the festival ! 
 
 The chimes of England, how they peal 
 
 From tower and gothic pile, 
 Where hymn and swelling anthem fill 
 
 The dim cathedral aisle ; 
 Where windows bathe the holy light 
 
 On priestly heads that falls, 
 And stain the florid tracery 
 
 And banner-dighted walls ! 
 
 And then, those Easter bells, in spring ! 
 
 Those glorious Easter chimes ; 
 How loyally they hail thee round, 
 
 Old queen of holy times ! 
 From hill to hill, like sentinels, 
 
 Responsively they cry, 
 And sing the rising of the Lord, 
 
 From vale to mountain high. 
 
 I love ye — chimes of Motherland, 
 
 With all this soul of mine, 
 And bless the Lord that I am sprung 
 
 Of good old English line ! 
 And like a son I sing the lay 
 
 That England's glory tells ; 
 For she is lovely to the Loud, 
 
 For you, ye Christian bells ! 
 
 And heir of her ancestral fame, 
 
 And happy in my birth, 
 Thee, too, I love, my forest-land, 
 
 The joy of all the earth ; 
 For thine thy mother's voice shall be, 
 
 And here — where God is king, 
 With English chimes, from Christian spires 
 
 The wilderness shall rinar. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Making sounds as they tread, 
 Ho-ho ! how they step, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 Every stride, every tramp, 
 
 Every footfall is nearer ; 
 And dimmer each lamp, 
 
 As darkness gi - ows drearer; 
 But ho ! how they march, 
 
 Making sounds as they tread ; 
 Ho-ho ! how they step, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Making sounds as they tread, 
 Ho-ho, how they laugh, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 How they whirl — how they trip, 
 
 How they smile, how they dally, 
 How blithesome they skip, 
 
 Going down to the valley ; 
 Oh-ho, how they march, 
 
 Making sounds as they tread ; 
 Ho-ho, how they skip, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Earth groans as they tread ! 
 Each carries a skull ; 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 Every stride — every stamp, 
 
 Every footfall is bolder ; 
 'Tis a skeleton's tramp, 
 
 With a skull on his shoulder ! 
 But ho, how he steps 
 
 With a high-tossing head, 
 That clay-cover'd bone, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
WILLIAM W. LORD. 
 
 [Born about 1818.] 
 
 Mb. Lord is a native of Western New York, 
 and is descended through both his parents from the 
 New England Puritans. His father was a Pres- 
 byterian clergyman, and his mother, who now re- 
 sides with her eldest son, the Rev. Dr. Lord of 
 Buffalo, is a woman of refinement and cultiva- 
 tion. He had therefore the advantages of a good 
 domestic training. He exhibited at a very early 
 age a love of letters, and soon became familiar 
 with Shakspeare and the other great writers of 
 the Elizabethan age, and probably few men are 
 now more familiar with English literature in all 
 its departments. During his college life his health 
 failed, and his friends, yielding to a desire for a sea 
 voyage, committed him to the care of the master of 
 a whale ship, owned by a family friend at New 
 London. After being a few weeks at sea he grew 
 weary of the monotony of a cabin passage, and, 
 against the remonstrances of the captain, forced 
 his way into the forecastle, where he soon became 
 a sturdy seaman, and, during four years of service 
 in the Pacific, endured all the hardships, priva- 
 tions and perils of that adventurous life, exhibiting 
 on every occasion the boldest traits of character. 
 On returning home he resolved to devote his time 
 to the study of moral science, and with this view, 
 hi 1841, entered the theological school at Auburn ; 
 
 but the death of the Rev. Dr. Richards, president 
 of that institution, occurring in 1843, he joined 
 the senior class of the Princeton Theological Semi- 
 nary, in which he completed his course of study, 
 with much credit, early in the following year. He 
 subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episco- 
 pal Church, and is now (1855) rector of an Epis- 
 copal Church in Vicksburg, Mississippi. 
 
 In 1845, Mr. Lord published his first volume 
 of poems. They were all written the preceding 
 year, and have marks of haste and carelessness, 
 but such proofs of poetical taste and power as won 
 praise from judicious critics. In 1851 appeared 
 his " Christ in Hades," a poem of eight books, in 
 blank verse, written with finished elegance, sus- 
 tained elevation, and much original force. Its 
 express character is indicated by its title. The 
 pervading tone of his poetry is that of reverent me- 
 ditation, but some of his shorter pieces are in a vein 
 of graceful playfulness. He has been a laborious 
 and successful student; is familiar with the an- 
 cient languages and literatures; has been a dili- 
 gent reader of the best German writers ; and has 
 cultivated an acquaintance with the arts of de- 
 sign. Philosophy is his favourite study, however, 
 and Coleridge and Wordsworth are his most 
 familiar authors. 
 
 KEATS.* 
 
 Oh gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro, 
 
 Ill-fated ! from thine orb'd fire struck back 
 Just as the parting clouds began to glow, 
 
 And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy track ! 
 Alas ! throw down, throw down, ye mighty dead, 
 
 The leaves of oak and asphodel 
 That ye were weaving for that honour'd head, — 
 
 In vain, in vain, your lips would seek a spell 
 In the few charmed words the poet sung, 
 
 To lure him upward in your seats to dwell, — 
 As vain your grief! ! why should one so young 
 
 Sit crown'd midst hoary heads with wreaths di- 
 vine 1 
 Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had clung, 
 
 His lips shall never taste the immortal wine, 
 Who sought to drain the glowing cup too soon, 
 For he hath perish'd, and the moon 
 Hath lost Endymion — but too well 
 
 The shaft that pierced him in her arms was sped : — 
 
 Into that gulf of dark and nameless dread, 
 
 Star-like he fell, but a wide splendour shed 
 Through its deep night, that kindled as he fell. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 And shall we meet in heaven, and know and love 1 
 Do human feelings in that world above 
 Unchanged survive 1 blest thought ! but ah, I fear 
 That thou, dear sister, in some other sphere, 
 Distant from mine, will find a brighter home, 
 Where I, unworthy found, may never come ; — 
 Or be so high above me glorified, 
 That I, a meaner angel, undescried, 
 Seeking thine eyes, such love alone shall see 
 As angels give to all bestowed on me ; 
 And when my voice upon thy ear shall fall, 
 Hear only such reply as angels give to all. 
 
 Forgive me, sister, O forgive the love 
 Whose selfishness would reach the life above, 
 And even in heaven do its object wrong — 
 But should I see thee in the heavenly throng, 
 Bright as the star I love — the night's first star, 
 If, like that star, thou still must shine afar, 
 And in thy glory I must never see 
 A woman's, sister's look of love from thee, 
 Must never call thee by a sister's name, 
 I could but wish thee less, if thus, the same, 
 My sister still, dear Sarah ! thou might'st be, 
 And I thy brother still, in that blest company. 
 
 547 
 
548 
 
 WILLIAM W. LORD. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 A iittle blind girl wandering, 
 
 While daylight pales beneath the moon, 
 
 And with a brook meandering, 
 To hear its gentle tune. 
 
 The little blind girl by the brook, 
 
 It told her something — you might guess, 
 
 To see her smile, to see her look 
 Of listening eagerness. 
 
 Though blind, a never silent guide 
 Flow'd with her timid feet along; 
 
 And down she wander'd by its side 
 To hear the running song. 
 
 And sometimes it was soft and low, 
 A creeping music in the ground ; 
 
 And then, if something check'd its flow, 
 A gurgling swell of sound. 
 
 And now, upon the other side, 
 
 She seeks her mother's cot ; 
 And still the noise shall be her guide, 
 
 And lead her to the spot. 
 
 For to the blind, so little free 
 To move about beneath the sun, 
 
 Small things like this seem liberty — 
 Something from darkness won. 
 
 But soon she heard a meeting stream, 
 And on the bank she follow'd still, 
 
 It murmur'd on, nor could she tell 
 It was another rill. 
 
 Ah ! whither, whither, my little maid 1 
 And wherefore dost thou wander here ] 
 
 I seek my mother's cot, she said, 
 And surely it is near. 
 
 There is no cot upon this brook, 
 
 In yonder mountains dark and drear, 
 
 Where sinks the sun, its source it took, 
 Ah, wherefore art thou here 1 
 
 Oh ! sir, thou art not true nor kind, 
 It is the brook, I know its sound ; 
 
 Ah ! why would you deceive the blind ] 
 I hear it in the ground. 
 
 And on she stepp'd, but grew more sad, 
 And weary were her tender feet, 
 
 The brook's small voice seem'd not so glad, 
 Its song was not so sweet. 
 
 Ah ! whither, whither, my little maid 1 
 And wherefore dost thou wander here ? 
 
 I seek my mother's cot she said, 
 And surely it is near. 
 
 There is no cot upon this brook ; 
 
 I hear its sound, the maid replied, 
 With dreamlike and bewilder'd look — 
 
 I have not left its side. 
 
 O go with me, the darkness nears, 
 The first pale star begins to gleam ; 
 
 The maid replied with bursting tears, 
 It is the stream ! It is the stream ! 
 
 A RIME, 
 
 WHICH IS YET SEASON, AND TEACHETH, IN A LIGHT 
 
 MANNEB, A GRAVE MATTES, IN THE 
 
 1EBE OF LOVE. 
 
 As Love sat idling beneath a tree, 
 
 A Knight rode by on his charger free, 
 
 Stalwart and fair and tall was he, 
 
 With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see 
 
 And proud of his scars, right loftily, 
 
 He cried, Young boy, will you go with me 1 
 But Love he pouted and shook his head, 
 And along fared the Warrior, ill-bested : 
 
 Love is not won by chivalry. 
 
 Then came a Minstrel bright of blee, 
 
 Blue were his eyes as the heavens be, 
 
 And sweet as a song-bird's throat sung he, 
 
 Of smiles and tears and Iadie's ee, 
 
 Soft love and glorious chivalry, 
 
 Then cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me ? 
 Love wept and smiled, but shook his head, 
 And along fared the Minstrel ill-bested : 
 
 Love is not won by minstrelsy. 
 
 Then came a Bookman, wise as three, 
 
 Darker a scholar you shall not see 
 
 In Jewrie, Rome, or Araby. 
 
 But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye, 
 
 In love's sweet lere untaught was he, 
 
 For when he cried, Come, love, with me, 
 Tired of the parle he was nodding his head, 
 And along fared the Scholar ill-bested: 
 
 Love is not won by pedantry. 
 
 Then came a Courtier wearing the key 
 
 Of council and chambers high privity ; 
 
 He could dispute yet seem to agree, 
 
 And soft as dew was his flatterie. 
 
 And with honied voice and low congee 
 
 Fair youth, he said, will you honour me 1 
 In courteous wise Love shook his head, 
 And along fared the Courtier ill-bested : 
 
 Love is not won by courtesy. 
 
 Then came a Miser blinking his ee, 
 To view the bright boy beneath the tree ; 
 His purse, which hung to his cringing knee, 
 The ransom held of a king's countree ; 
 And a handful of jewels and gold showed he, 
 And cried, Sweet child, will you go with me 1 
 /Then loud laugh'd Love as he shook his head, 
 And along fared the Monger ill-bested : 
 Love is not won by merchandry. 
 
 then to young Love beneath the tree, 
 Came one as young and as fair as he, 
 And as like to him as like can be, 
 And clapping his little wings for glee, 
 With nods and smiles and kisses tree, 
 He whisper'd, Come, Oh come with me : 
 
 Love pouted and flouted and shook his head, 
 But along with that winsome youth he sped, 
 And love wins love, loud shouted he ! 
 
GEORGE W. DEWEY. 
 
 [Bora, 1818.] 
 
 Mr. Dewjsi (whose father was a painter, from 
 Westfield, in Massachusetts) was born in Balti- 
 more, in 1818, and from an early age has resided 
 in Philadelphia, to the journals and literary mis- 
 cellanies of which city he has been a frequent con- 
 tributor for several years. His numerous poems 
 
 have a natural grace and tenderness which be- 
 long to the most genuine expressions of social 
 feeling. 
 
 There is no published collection of Mr. Dewey's 
 poems, or of his prose writings, which consist of 
 moral essays, reviews, etc. 
 
 THE RUSTIC SHRINE. 
 
 "Their names were found cut upon a rural bench, over- 
 grown with vines, "which proved to be at once Love's shrine 
 and cenotaph."— Legends of the Rhine. 
 
 A shadow of the cypress-bough 
 
 Lies on my path to-day ; 
 A melancholy — which in vain 
 
 I strive to chase away. 
 
 The angel Memory hath flown 
 
 To old and cherish'd things, 
 To bring the light of early years 
 
 Around me on her wings : 
 
 And where the lovelorn birds complain 
 
 Within their green abode, 
 Between two elms, a rustic seat 
 
 Invites her from the road. 
 
 There shall she sit, as oft before, 
 
 And sigh as oft again, 
 O'er names engraved, which long have braved 
 
 The sunshine and the rain. 
 
 And one — it is the dearest name 
 On Love's unnumber'd shrines — ■ 
 
 So dear, that even envious Time 
 Hath guarded it with vines ; 
 
 And wreathed it with his choicest flowers, 
 
 As if the bridal claim, 
 Which Fate denied unto her brow, 
 
 Should still adorn her name ! 
 
 Ah, well do I remember yet 
 
 The day I carved that name ! 
 The rattle of the locusts' drum 
 
 Thrills o'er me now the same : 
 
 Adown the lane the wayward breeze 
 
 Comes with a stealthy pace, 
 And brings the perfume of the fields 
 
 To this deserted place. 
 
 Unto her blushing cheek again 
 
 It comes — the blessed air ! 
 Caressing, like a lover's hand, 
 
 The tresses of her hair. 
 
 The brook runs laughing at her feet, 
 
 O'erhead the wild-bird sings ; 
 The air is fill'd with butterflies, 
 
 As though the flowers had wings. 
 
 But this is Fancy's pilgrimage, 
 
 And lures me back in vain ! 
 The brook, the bench, the flowers, and vines, 
 
 I ne'er may see again : 
 
 For this is but an idle dream, 
 
 That mocks me evermore — 
 And memory only fills the place 
 
 The loved one fill'd of yore ! 
 
 BLIND LOUISE. 
 
 She knew that she was growing blind- 
 Foresaw the dreary night 
 
 That soon would fall, without a star, 
 Upon her fading sight : 
 
 Yet never did she make complaint, 
 But pray'd each day might bring 
 
 A beauty to her waning eyes — 
 The loveliness of Spring ! 
 
 She dreaded that eclipse which might 
 
 Perpetually enclose 
 Sad memories of a leafless world — - 
 
 A spectral realm of snows. 
 
 She 'd rather that the verdure left 
 
 An evergreen to shine 
 Within her heart, as summer leaves 
 
 Its memory on the pine. 
 
 She had her wish : for when the sun 
 O'erhung his eastern towers, 
 
 And shed his benediction on 
 A world of May-time flowers — 
 
 We found her seated, as of old, 
 
 In her accustom'd place, 
 A midnight in her sightless eyes, 
 
 And morn upon her face ! 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 It was a bright October day — 
 
 Ah, well do I remember ! 
 One rose yet bore the bloom of May, 
 
 Down toward the dark December. 
 
 One rose that near the lattice grew, 
 
 With fragrance floating round it ; 
 
 Incarnardined, it blooms anew 
 
 In dreams of her who found it. 
 
 549 
 
550 
 
 GEORGE W. DEWEY. 
 
 Pale, wither' d rose, bereft and shorn 
 
 Of all thy primal glory, 
 All leafless now, thy piercing thorn 
 
 Reveals a sadder story. 
 
 It was a dreary winter day, 
 
 Too well do I remember! 
 They bore her frozen form away, 
 
 And gave her to December ! 
 
 There were no perfumes on the air, 
 No bridal blossoms round her, 
 
 Save one pale lily in her hair 
 
 To tell how pure Death found her. 
 
 The thistle on the summer air 
 
 Hath shed its iris glory, 
 And thrice the willows weeping there 
 
 Have told the seasons' story, 
 
 Since she, who bore the Wush of May, 
 Down toward the dark December 
 
 Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away, 
 A pale, reluctant ember. 
 
 A BLIGHTED MAY. 
 
 Caxc not this the month of roses — 
 There are none to bud and bloom ; 
 
 Morning light, alas ! discloses 
 . But the winter of the tomb. 
 
 All that should have deck'd a bridal 
 
 Rest upon the bier — how idle ! 
 Dying in their own perfume. 
 
 Every bower is now forsaken — 
 There 's no bird to charm the air ! 
 
 From the bough of youth is shaken 
 Every hope that blossom'd there ; 
 
 And my soul doth now enrobe her 
 
 In the leaves of sere October 
 Under branches swaying bare. 
 
 When the midnight falls beside me, 
 Like the gloom which in me lies, 
 
 To the stars my feelings guide me, 
 Seeking there thy sainted eyes ; 
 
 Stars whose rays seem ever bringing 
 
 Down the soothing air, the singing 
 Of thy soul in paradise. 
 
 Oh that I might stand and listen 
 To that music ending never, 
 
 While those tranquil stars should glisten 
 On my life's o'erfrozen river, 
 
 Standing thus, forever seeming 
 
 Lost in what the world calls dreaming, 
 Dreaming, love, of thee, forever! 
 
 TO AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Oh say, does the cottage yet peer from the shadow 
 Of incestral elms on the side of the hill 1 — 
 
 Its doorway of woodbine, that look'd to the meadow, 
 And welcomed the sun as a guest on the sill ; 
 
 The April-winged martin, with garrulous laughter, 
 Is he there where the mosses were thatching the 
 
 And the dear little wren that crept under the rafter, 
 
 The earliest to come, and the latest to leave ! 
 Oh say, is the hawthorn the hedgerow perfuming 
 
 Adown the old lane? are the willows still there, 
 Where briery thickets in springtime were blooming, 
 
 And breathing their life on the odorous air] 
 And runs yet the brook where the violets were weep- 
 ing, 
 
 Where the white lily sat like a swan of the stream, 
 While under the laurel the shepherd-boy sleeping, 
 
 Saw only the glory of life in his dream ! 
 Hath the reaper been there with his sickle relentless, 
 
 The stern reaper Death in the harvest of life ! 
 Hath his foot crush'd the blossoms, till wither'd and 
 scentless 
 
 They lay ere the frosts of the autumn were rife ? 
 Ah yes, I can hear the sad villagers hymning 
 
 A requiem that swells from my heart on my ear, 
 And a gathering shadow of sorrow is dimming 
 
 Those scenes that must ever arise with a tear. 
 
 THE SHADY SIDE. 
 
 I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose, 
 
 Across the pebbled way, 
 And thought the very wealth of mirth 
 
 Was thine that winter day ; 
 For, while I saw the truant rays 
 
 Within thy window glide, 
 Remember'd beams reflected came 
 
 Upon the shady side. 
 I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose, 
 
 And thought the transient beams 
 Were leaving on thy braided brow 
 
 The trace of golden dreams ; 
 Those dreams, which like the ferry-barge 
 
 On youth's beguiling tide, 
 Will leave us when we reach old age, 
 
 Upon the shady side. 
 Ah ! yes, methought while thus I gazed 
 
 Across the noisy way, 
 The stream of life between us flow'd 
 
 That cheerful winter day ; 
 And that the bark whereon I cross'd 
 
 The river's rapid tide, 
 Had left me in the quietness 
 
 Upon the shady side. 
 Then somewhat of a sorrow, Rose, 
 
 Came crowding on my heart, 
 Revealing how that current sweeps 
 
 The fondest ones apart ; 
 But while you stood to bless me there, 
 
 In beauty, like a bride, 
 I felt my own contentedness, 
 
 Though on the shady side. 
 The crowd and noise divide us, Rose, 
 
 But there will come a day 
 When you, with light and timid feet, 
 
 Must cross the busy way ; 
 And when you sit, as I do now, 
 
 To happy thoughts allied, 
 May some bright angel shed her light 
 
 Upon the shady side ! 
 
WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 [Born. 1819/ 
 
 Mr. Wallace, the son of an eminent Presby- 
 terian clergyman, who died during his childhood, 
 was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1819. He 
 received his general education at the Bloomington 
 and South Hanover colleges in Indiana, and after- 
 ward studied the law, in his native city. When 
 about twenty-two years of age, having already ac- 
 quired considerable reputation in literature, by va- 
 rious contributions to western and southern jour- 
 nals, he came to the Atlantic states, and with the 
 exception of a few months passed in Philadelphia, 
 and a year and a half in Europe, he has since re- 
 sided in New York, occupied in the practice of his 
 profession and in the pursuits of literature. 
 
 The poetical compositions of Mr. Wallace are 
 numerous, and they are for the most part distin- 
 guished for a sensuous richness of style, earnest- 
 ness of temper, and much freedom of speculation. 
 The longest of them is " Alban," a romance of 
 New York, published in ] 848, and intended to il- 
 lustrate the influence of certain prejudices of soci- 
 ety and principles of law upon individual character 
 and destiny. This was followed in 1851 by the col- 
 lection of his writings entitled "Meditations in 
 America, and other Poems." The author is most 
 at home in the serious and stately rhythm and 
 solemn fancies of such pieces as " To the Hud- 
 son," which are the best measures of his powers. 
 
 REST. 
 
 The nation hath gone mad with action now. 
 Oh, many-troubled giant, with a heated brow, 
 And sultry heart, within whose wide 
 And lofty chambers stalketh Pride, 
 And hungry, pale Ambition, scenting power, 
 Wilt thou not let the wearied river steal 
 Through quiet hills for one short hour, 
 And dream, unvexed by the eager keel, 
 Of that sweet peace he knew in times of old, 
 When only Nature sat near him and roll'd 
 Her simple songs amid her flowery fold 1 
 And let the forest lift some unshorn plumes 
 Amid the ancient glooms: 
 For this it pleads with trembling hands, 
 Appealing to far Heaven from all the invading hands! 
 And leave the mountains for a time untrod — 
 And thou shalt see 
 
 Their dumb, gray lips yet struggling to be free, 
 So that they may shout backward to the sea — 
 " We also know and reverence our Gon." 
 Oh, Titan, of the eagle-eye and growing pain ! 
 Wilt thou not rest on Alabama's plain 1 
 O'er Huron lean and let his mirror show, 
 Unruffled by thy fiery feet, 
 That harmonies of light yet fall below— 
 That Heaven and Earth may meet : 
 Sleep, sleep, thou wide-brow'd power, 
 In Florida's magnolian bower, 
 And where New England's pilgrim-feet were prest, 
 Or by Ohio's softly wandering wave ; 
 Or in the dusk halls of Kentucky's cave, 
 Or on the flowery and broad prairies rest 
 Of Illinois and Indiana, — slumber, in the west ! 
 
 Your eagles took their lordly ease 
 On folded wing, 
 
 After disporting with the braggart Breeze, 
 And Thunder, watching by his cloudy spring 
 Whose cool stream tumbled to the thirsty seas. 
 The birds went all asleep on their high rocks, 
 Nor ruffled a feather in the rude fire-shocks. 
 
 Millions, a lesson ye can learn from these. 
 
 And see, the great woods slumber, and the lake 
 
 No longer is awake 
 
 Beneath the stars, that nod and start with sleep 
 
 In their white-clou'ded deep : 
 
 Fitfully the moon goes nodding through 
 
 The valleys of the vapory blue, 
 
 And dreams, forgetting all her queenly ills, 
 
 Of angels sleeping on Elysian hills: 
 
 The drowsy lake, 
 
 So sweet is slumber, would not yet awake ; 
 
 But — like an infant two years old, 
 
 Before whose closed eyes 
 
 Dreamily move the boys of paradise, 
 
 Singing their little psalms 
 
 Under the stately palms — 
 
 It stirreth softly lest rough motion might 
 
 Put out the moon's delicious light. 
 
 So rest ! and Rest shall slay your many woes. 
 Is motion godlike ] godlike is repose — 
 A mountain-stillness, of majestic might, 
 Whose peaks are glorious with the quiet light 
 Of suns, when Day is at his close. 
 Nor deem that quiet must ignoble be. 
 Jove laboured lustily once in airy fields ; 
 And over the cloudy lea 
 He planted many a budding shoot 
 Whose liberal nature daily, nightly, yields 
 A store of starry fruit : 
 His labour done, the weary god went back 
 Up the broad mountain-track 
 To his great house ; there he did wile away 
 With lightest thought a well-won holyday , 
 And all the powers croon'd softly an old tune, 
 Wishing their sire might sleep 
 Through all the sultry noon 
 And cold blue night ; and very soon 
 They heard the awful thunderer breathing low and 
 
 deep. 
 And in the hush that dropp'd adown the spheres, 
 And in the quiet of the awe-struck space, 
 The worlds learn'd worship at the birth of years : 
 
 551 
 
552 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 They look'd upon their Lord's calm, kingly face, 
 And bade Religion come and kiss each starry place. 
 
 At least, I must have peace, afar from strife — 
 No motion save enough to leave me life. 
 And I shall lay me gently in a nook 
 Where a small bay the sluggish tide receives, 
 And, reading, hear some bland old poet's book 
 Shake delicate music from its mystic leaves, 
 While under drowsy clouds the dull waves go, 
 And echo softly back the melody in their flow. 
 
 Will ye not also lend your souls to Song] 
 Ye ! of the land where Nature's noblest rhyme, 
 Niagara, sounds the myth of Time ; 
 And where the Mississippi darkly goes 
 Amid the trembling woods, 
 Gloomily murmuring legends of the floods 
 That troubled space before the worlds arose 
 
 Or sleep. Why lose its wondrous world 1 
 Look on its valleys, on its mountains look, 
 And cloudy streams ; 
 Behold the arabesque land of dreams ! 
 The golden mists are lazily curl'd ; 
 And see in yonder glen, 
 Beside a little brook 
 Mid sleeping flocks, some sleeping men : 
 And one, who tries to watch, for danger's sake, 
 Nods and winks, 
 
 And vainly hums a tune to keep awake, 
 And now beside his brethren slowly sinks. 
 
 Ah, sleep like him ! why lose its world '? 
 Now when the banners of the day are furl'd 
 And safely put away : 
 Now when a languid glory binds 
 The long dim chambers of the darkling west, 
 While far below yon azure river winds 
 Like a blue vein on sleeping Beauty's breast 
 
 Then, millions, rest or dream with me : 
 Let not the struggle thus forever be. 
 Not from the gold that wounded Earth reveals; 
 Not from your iron wheels 
 That vex the valleys with their thunder-peals; 
 Not from the oceans pallid with your wings ; 
 Not from the power that labour brings — 
 The enduring grandeur of a nation springs. 
 The wealth may perish as a fleeting breath — 
 The banner'd armament may find a death 
 Deep in the hungry waters — and the crown 
 Of empire from your tall brows topple down : 
 But that which rains true glory o'er 
 The low or lofty, and the rich or poor, 
 Shall never die — 
 Daughter of Truth and Ideality, 
 Large Virtue towering on the throne of will ! 
 The nations drink the heroic from her eye, 
 And march triumphing over every ill. 
 Therefore with Silence sometimes sit apart 
 From rude Turmoil, and dignify the heart : 
 And in that noble hour 
 All hates shall be forgotten, and sweet Love 
 Shall gently win us like a mild-eyed dove 
 That shames the storm to silence ; and a power, 
 Unknown before, shall lap us in delight, 
 As troubled waves are soothed by starry night. 
 Then manhood shall forget the vengeful thought 
 In action's fierce volcano wrought ; 
 
 The poor old man shall bow his snow-white head 
 
 To bless the past, forgiving all his wrongs ; 
 
 And feel the breathing of his childhood's songs 
 
 Once more around him shed. 
 
 The weary slave shall rest upon the chain, 
 
 And woo to his shut eyes 
 
 The ardent aspect of his native skies — 
 
 The forms of wife and children once again 
 
 Watching for his return along the palmy plain 
 
 Nor in repose a tentless desert fear — 
 The gardenless wide waste of a blank heart : 
 Full many a rich oasis there shall start 
 Between horizons to illume and cheer: 
 Time's misty Nile shall slowly wander through 
 The slumberous plain that never knowefh storms ; 
 Eternity's calm pyramidal forms 
 Shall meet our dreamy view, 
 Duskily towering mid the hazy blue, 
 And freezing contemplation in the giddy air. 
 Then all the weary myriads resting there — 
 Quiet beneath the hollow sky 
 As shapes that in a pictured landscape lie — 
 Shall know that bliss, that perfect, heavenly bliss 
 Which falls as moonlight music on a scene like this. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Sustset is on the dial : and I know 
 My hands are feeble and my head is white 
 With many snows, and in my dim old eyes 
 Light plays the miser with a frugal care, 
 And soon the curtain drops. But still I know, 
 The soul in sceptred majesty of will 
 Leaves not the Iroyal dais. 
 
 The ancient winds 
 Still chant around me all the solemn themes 
 I Iearn'd when young ; and in the hollow flower 
 I hear the murmur left there by the bee ; 
 And jubilant rivers laugh and clap their hands 
 Amid the leaning hills that nurse them there ; 
 And far away I see the mountains lift 
 Their silent tops to heaven, like thoughts 
 Too vast for speech ; and over all, the sun 
 Stands by his flaming altar, and beholds, 
 As he beheld through many centuries gone, 
 The holocausts of light roll up to Heaven ; 
 And when the evening calls her starry flock, 
 I know that Mazzaroth will sit and sing 
 Within his azure house ; and I shall hear 
 The inmost melody of every star, 
 And know the meaning of the mystic sea : 
 And in the deep delight their presence gives 
 I shall be calm, and nevermore complain 
 That still the play — a venerable play, 
 World-wide — of this humanity goes on, 
 Still dark the plot, the issues unperceived. 
 So, with all things thus filling every sense, 
 The soul in sceptred majesty of will, 
 Sits on her royal dais. 
 
 Then why should I 
 My office yield, and let the general hymn 
 Unheeded harmonize the jangling space! 
 By action only doth Creation hold 
 Her charter — and, that gone, the worlds are dead : 
 
WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 553 
 
 Nor is't in souls which would the noblest find, 
 
 To rest contentedly upon old wreaths. 
 
 I will not rest and unmelodious die ; 
 
 But with my full wreath round these thin, white 
 
 hairs, 
 And rhythmic lips, and vision kindling up, 
 March through the silent halls, and bravely pass 
 Right on into the land that lies beyond, 
 Where he, my brother-bard,* whose spirit seem'd 
 A mystical bright moon, whose influence wrought 
 The dull earth's ocean of dim sleep to life 
 And spectral motion — that majestic bard, 
 Who went before, choiring his lofty hymn, 
 Watches my coming on the Aiden hills. 
 
 But what the burden of that latest song 
 Will be, as yet I know not — nor the rhythm 
 That shall go beating with her silver feet 
 The sounding aisles of thought: but this I hope — 
 A listening world will hear that latest lay, 
 And seat it near the fireside of its heart 
 Forevermore, and by the embers' light 
 IiOok fondly on its face, as men of old 
 Look'd on the faces of the angel guests 
 Who tarried sometimes in their pastoral homes — 
 As this last hymn, befitting well the time 
 And circumstance, shall wear a holiest smile, 
 And show the might, the loveliness of song, 
 For Poetry is enthroned by his own right. 
 I hear his cadences in every breeze ; 
 I see his presence fill the dark-blue lake, 
 Like an old melody ; and I know 
 He is a living and immortal power. 
 No matter where he lifts his natural voice, 
 All men shall crown him as a gentle god 
 Who, wandering through his heritage of earth, 
 Makes pleasant music in the lowly huts 
 Where poor men ply their rugged toil ; who smiles 
 Within the mellow sunbeams, when they pain; 
 The swelling upland, where October sits, 
 Holding her hands to catch the dropping fruit ; 
 Who stands upon the hazy mountain-top, 
 Beautiful as the light; who, solemn, chants 
 Full many a rune in every sunless hall 
 Down in the deep, deep sea, and sways all things, 
 The angel of the world ; who soars at will 
 Into the ample air, and walks the storm ; 
 Or waves his wand upon the solemn stars, 
 Orion and the Pleiades, and rules 
 Their people by a gentle law ; or stands 
 Imperial in the large red sun, and charms 
 The sky until its glorious passion finds 
 A language in the thunder and the cloud, 
 And in the rainbow, chorusing all hues, 
 And in the splendour of the broad, bright moon 
 That builds her Venice in a sea of air. 
 
 Most haply I shall sing some simple words, 
 Rich with the wealth experience gives to Time — 
 An antique tale of beauty and of tears : 
 Or I may wander in my thought afar 
 Where men have built their homes in forests vast, 
 And see the Atlantic rest his weary feet 
 And lift his large blue eyes on other stars : 
 Or hear the sire of many watersf hoarse 
 
 : Coleridge. 
 
 t The Mississippi. 
 
 With counting centuries, and rolling through 
 
 The dim magnificence of stately woods, 
 
 Whose huge trunks sentinel a thousand leagues 
 
 His deep libation to the waiting sea ; 
 
 Then would I join the choral preludes swelling 
 
 Between the wondrous acts of that great play 
 
 Which Time is prompting in another sphere: 
 
 Or I may wander in my thought after 
 
 To ruins gray of columns overthrown, 
 
 And then lift up a song of tender grief 
 
 Amid the glorious temples crumbling there — ■ 
 
 The beautiful records of a world which was, 
 
 Majestic types of what a world must be : 
 
 Or I may turn to themes that have no touch 
 
 Of sorrow in them, piloted by Joy, 
 
 And raise the burial-stone from shrouded years, 
 
 And hear the laugh of youth clear ringing out, 
 
 Or feel once more a sweet religious awe, 
 
 Such as I felt when floated holy chimes 
 
 In boyhood's ear, and such as stern men feel 
 
 When, passing by cathedral doors, they hear 
 
 A dim-remembered psalm roll softly out 
 
 And fill their eyes with tears, they know not why : 
 
 Then shall I sing of children blooming o'er 
 
 The desolate wide heath of life, like flowers 
 
 Which daring men had stolen from paradise, 
 
 When near its gate the wearied cherub slept 
 
 And dream'd of heaven. Or to some pastoral vale 
 
 Shall pass my trembling feet 1 There shall I pour 
 
 To Nature, loved in all her many moods, 
 
 A chant sublimely earnest. I shall tell 
 
 To all the tribes with what a stately step 
 
 She walks the silent wilderness of air, 
 
 Which always puts its starry foliage on 
 
 At her serene approach, or in her lap 
 
 Scatters its harvest-wealth of golden suns : 
 
 And many a brook shall murmur in my verse ; 
 
 And many an ocean join his cloudy bass ; 
 
 And many a mountain tower aloft, whereon 
 
 The black storm crouches, with his deep-red eyes 
 
 Glaring upon the valleys stretch'd below : 
 
 And many a green wood rock the small, bright birds 
 
 To musical sleep beneath the large, full moon ; 
 
 And many a star shall lift on high her cup 
 
 Of luminous cold chrysolite — set hi gold 
 
 Chased subtily over by angelic art — 
 
 To catch the odorous dews which seraphs drink 
 
 In their wide wanderings; and many a sun 
 
 Shall press the pale lips of the timorous morn 
 
 Couch'd in the bridal east : and over all 
 
 Will brood the visible presence of the One 
 
 To whom my life has been a solemn chant. 
 
 Then let the sunset fall and flush Life's dial ! 
 No matter how the years may smite my frame, 
 And cast a piteous blank upon my eyes 
 That seek in vain the old accustomed stars 
 Which skies hold over blue Winandermere ; 
 Be sure that T, a crowned bard, will sing 
 Until within the murmuring bark of verse 
 My spirit bears majestically away, 
 Charming to golden hues the gulf of death — 
 Well knowing that upon my honour'd grave, 
 Beside the widow'd lakes that wail for me, 
 Haply the dust of four great worlds will fall 
 And mingle — thither brought by pilgrims' feet. 
 
554 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 THE MOUNDS OF AMERICA.* 
 
 Come to the mounds of death with me. They 
 stretch 
 From deep to deep, sad, venerable, vast, 
 Graves of gone empires — gone without a sigh, 
 Like clouds from heaven. They stretch'd from 
 
 deep to deep 
 Before the Roman smote his mailed hand 
 On the gold portals of the dreaming East; 
 Before the pleiad, in white trance of song, 
 Beyond her choir of stars went wandering. 
 
 The great old trees, rank'd on these hills of death, 
 Have melancholy hymns about all this; 
 And when the moon walks her inheritance 
 With slow, imperial pace, the trees look up 
 And chant in solemn cadence. Come and hear. 
 
 " patient Moon ! go not behind a cloud, 
 But listen to our words. We, too, are. old, 
 Though not so old as thou. The ancient towns, 
 The cities throned far apart like queens, 
 The shadowy domes, fae realms majestical, 
 Slept in thy younger beams. In every leaf 
 We hold their dust, a king in every trunk. 
 We, too, are very old : the wind that wails 
 In our broad branches, from swart Ethiop come 
 But now, wail'd in our branches long ago, 
 Then come from darken'd Calvary. The hills 
 Lean'd ghastly at the tale that wan wind told ; 
 The streams crept shuddering through the dark; 
 The torrent of the North, from morn till eve, 
 On his steep ledge hung pausing ; and o'er all 
 Such silence fell, we heard the conscious rills 
 Drip slowly in the caves of central earth. 
 So were the continents by His crowned grief 
 And glory bound together, ere the hand 
 Of Albion tamed the far Atlantic: so 
 Have we, whose aspect faced that time, the right 
 Of language unto all, while memory holds. 
 
 " patient Moon ! go not behind a cloud, 
 But hear our words. We know that thou didst see 
 The whole that we would utter — thou that werl 
 A worship unto realms beyond the flood — 
 But we are very lonesome on these mounds, 
 And speech doth make the burden of sad thought 
 Endurable ; while these, the people new, 
 That take our land, may haply learn from us 
 What wonder went before them ; for no word 
 E'er came from thee, so beautiful, so lone, 
 Throned in thy still domain, superbly calm 
 And silent as a god. 
 
 Here empires rose and died ; 
 Their very dust, beyond the Atlantic borne 
 In the pale navies of the charter'd wind, 
 Stains the white Alp. Here the proud city ranged 
 Spire after spire, like star ranged after star, 
 
 * "The mounds" are scattered over the whole of North 
 Amorica. Some of them are of vast size. They are full 
 of skeletons (crumbling at the touch), that evidently were 
 deposited there many centuries since. The Indians cannot 
 give us any account of the origin of the mounds, and they 
 must have been erected by a people that lived in America 
 at a verj' ancient period — a people (as the ruins of large 
 cities, still faintly visible in the forests, naturally suggest) 
 far advanced in civilization. 
 
 Along the dim empyrean, till the air 
 
 Went mad with splendour, and the dwellers cried, 
 
 ' Our walls have married Time !' — Gone are the 
 
 marts, 
 The insolent citadels, the fearful gates, 
 The glorious domes that rose like summer clouds; 
 Gone are their very names ! The royal ghost 
 Cannot discern the old imperial haunts, 
 But goes about perplexed like a mist 
 Between a ruin and the awful stars. 
 Nations are laid beneath our feet. The bard 
 Who stood in Song's prevailing light, as stands 
 The apocalyptic angel in the sun, 
 And rain'd melodious fire on all the realms ; 
 The prophet pale, who shudder'd in his gloom, 
 As the white cataract shudders in its mist ; 
 The hero shattering an old kingdom down 
 With one clear trumpet's peal ; the boy, the sage, 
 Subject and lord, the beautiful, the wise — 
 Gone, gone to nothingness. 
 
 " The years glide on, 
 The pitiless years; and all alike shall fail, 
 State after state rear'd by the solemn sea, 
 Or where the Hudson goes unchallenged past 
 The ancient warder of the Palisades, 
 Or where, rejoicing o'er the enormous cloud, 
 Beam the blue Alleganies — all shall fail : 
 The Ages chant their dirges on the peaks ; 
 The palls are ready in the peopled vales; 
 And nations fiil one common sepulchre. 
 Nor goes the Earth on her dark way alone. 
 Each star in yonder vault doth hold the dead 
 In its funereal deeps : Arcturus broods 
 Over vast sepulchres that had grown old 
 Before the Earth was made : the universe 
 Is but one mighty cemetery, 
 Rolling around its central, solemn sun. 
 
 " patient Moon ! go not behind a cloud, 
 But listen to our words. We, too, must die — 
 And thou ! — the vassal stars shall fail to hear 
 Thy queenly voice over the azure fields 
 Calling at sunset. They shall facie. The Earth 
 Shall look, and miss their sweet, familiar eyes, 
 And crouching die beneath the feet of God. 
 Then come the glories, then the nobler times, 
 For which the Orbs travail'd in sorrow ; then 
 The mystery shall be clear, the burden gone ; 
 And surely men shall know why nations came 
 Transfigured for the pangs ; why not a spot 
 Of this wide world but hath a tale of wo; 
 Why all this glorious universe is Death's. 
 
 " Go, Moon ! and tell the stars, and tell the suns, 
 Impatient of the wo, the strength of Hoi 
 Who doth consent to death ; and tell the climes 
 That meet thy mournful eyes, one after one, 
 Through all the lapses of the lonesome night, 
 The pathos of repose, the might of Death !" 
 
 The voice, is hush'd ; the great old wood is still : 
 The moon, like one in meditation, walks 
 Behind a cloud. We, too, have theme for thought, 
 While, as a sun, God takes the west of Time 
 And smites the pyramid of Eternity. 
 The shadow lengthens over many worlds 
 Doom'd to the dark mausoleum and mound. 
 
WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 555 
 
 GREENWOOD CEMETERY. 
 
 Hebe are the houses of the dead. Here youth 
 And age and manhood, stricken in his strength, 
 Hold solemn state and awful silence keep, 
 While Earth goes murmuring in her ancient path, 
 And troubled Ocean tosses to and fro 
 Upon his mountainous bed impatiently, 
 And many stars make worship musical 
 In the dim-aisled abyss, and over all 
 The Lord of Life, in meditation sits 
 Changeless, alone, beneath the large white dome 
 Of Immortality. 
 
 I pause and think 
 Among these walks lined by the frequent tombs; 
 For it is very wonderful. Afar 
 The populous city lifts its tall, bright spires, 
 And snowy sails are glancing on the bay, 
 As if in merriment — but here all sleep ; 
 They sleep, these calm, pale people of the past: 
 Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes — 
 They sleep 1 — Sweet Summer comes and calls, and 
 With all her passionate poetry of flowers [calls 
 Wed to the music of the soft south wind — 
 They sleep ! — The lonely Autumn sits and sobs 
 Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart 
 Would break — they sleep ! — Wild Winter comes 
 
 and chants 
 Majestical the mournful sagas learn'd 
 Far in the melancholy North, where God 
 Walks forth alone upon the desolate seas — 
 They slumber still ! — Sleep on, passionless dead ! 
 Ye make our world sublime : ye have a power 
 And majesty the living never hold. 
 Here Avarice shall forget his den of gold ! 
 Here Lust his beautiful victim, and hot Hate 
 His crouching foe. Ambition here shall lean 
 Against Death's shaft, veiling the stern, bright eye 
 That, over-bold, would take the height of gods, 
 AndknowFame'snothingness. Thesire shallcome, 
 The matron and the child, through many years, 
 To this fair spot, whether the plumed hearse 
 Moves slowly through the winding walks, or Death 
 For a brief moment pauses: all shall come 
 To feel the touching eloquence of graves: 
 And therefore it was well for us to clothe 
 The place with beauty. No dark terror here 
 Shall chill the generous tropic of the soul, 
 But Poetry and her starred comrade Art 
 Shall make the sacred country of the dead 
 Magnificent. The fragrant flowers shall smile 
 Over the low, green graves ; the trees shall shake 
 Their soul-like cadences upon the tombs ; 
 The little lake, set in a paradise 
 Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon 
 What time she looks from her imperial tent 
 In long delight at all below ; the sea 
 Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe 
 Over dead nations, while calm sculptures stand 
 On every hill, and look like spirits there 
 That drink the harmony. Oh, it is well ! 
 Why should a darkness scowl on any spot 
 Where man grasps immortality 1 Light, light, 
 And art, and poetry, and eloquence, 
 And all that we call glorious, are its dower. 
 
 Oh, ye whose mouldering frames were brought 
 and placed 
 By pious hands within these flowery slopes 
 And gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now 1 
 For man is more than element. The soul 
 Lives in the body as the sunbeam lives 
 In trees or flowers that were but clay without. 
 Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the mind 1 
 Are ye where great Orion towers and holds 
 Eternity on his stupendous front? 
 Or where pale Neptune in the distant space 
 Shows us how far, in His creative mood, 
 With pomp of silence and concentred brows, 
 Walk'd forth the Almighty ] Haply ye have gone 
 Where other matter roundeth into shapes 
 Of bright beatitude : or do ye know 
 Aught of dull space or time, and its dark load 
 Of aching weariness 1 
 
 They answer not. 
 But He whose love created them of old, 
 To cheer his solitary realm and reign, 
 With love will still remember them. 
 
 HYMN TO THE HUDSON RIVER. 
 
 Lose not a memory of the glorious scenes, 
 Mountains, and palisades, and leaning rocks, 
 Steep white-wall'd towns and ships that lie beneath, 
 By which, like some serene, heroic soul 
 Revolving noble thoughts, thou calmly cam'st, 
 O mighty river of the North ! Thy lip 
 Meets Ocean here, and in deep joy he lifts 
 His great white brow, and gives his stormy voice 
 A milder tone, and murmurs pleasantly 
 To every shore, and bids the insolent blast 
 To touch thee very gently ; for thy banks 
 Held empires broad and populous as the leaves 
 That rustle o'er their grave — republics gone 
 Long, long ago, before the pale men came, 
 Like clouds into the dim and dusty past : 
 But there is dearer reason ; for the rills 
 That feed thee, rise among the storied rocks 
 Where Freedom built her battle-tower ; and blow 
 Their flutes of silver by the poor man's door; 
 And innocent childhood in the ripple dips 
 Its rosy feet ; and from the round blue sky 
 That circles all, smiles out a certain Godhead. 
 
 Oh, lordly river ! thou shalt henceforth be 
 A wanderer of the deep ; and thou shalt hear 
 The sad, wild voices of the solemn North 
 Utter uncertain words in cloudy rhythm, 
 But full of terrible meaning, to the wave 
 That moans by Labrador ; and thou shalt pause 
 To pay thy worship in the coral temples, 
 The ancient Meccas of the reverent sea ; 
 And thou shalt start again on thy blue path 
 To kiss the southern isles ; and thou shalt know 
 What beauty thrones the blue Symplegades, 
 What glory the long Dardanelles ; and France 
 Shall listen to thy calm, deep voice, and learn 
 That Freedom must be calm if she would fix 
 Her mountain moveless in a heaving world ; 
 And Greece shall hear thee chant by Marathon, 
 
 [== 
 
556 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 And Italy shall feel thy breathing on her shores, 
 Where Liberty once more takes up her lance ; 
 And when thou hurriest back, full of high themes, 
 Great Albion shall joy through every cliff, 
 And lordly hall, and peasant-home, and old 
 Cathedral where earth's emperors sleep — whose 
 
 crowns 
 Were laurel and whose sceptres pen and harp — 
 The mother of our race shall joy to hear 
 Thy low, sweet murmuring: her sonorous tongue 
 Is thine, her glory thine ; for thou dost bear 
 On thy rejoicing tide, rejoicing at the task, 
 The manly Saxon sprung from her own loins 
 In far America. 
 
 Roll on ! roll on, 
 Thou river of the North ! Tell thou to all 
 The isles, tell thou to all the continents 
 The grandeur of my land. Speak of its vales 
 Where Independence wears a pastoral wreath 
 Amid the holy quiet of his flock ; 
 And of its mountains with their cloudy beards 
 Toss'd by the breath of centuries ; and speak 
 Of its tall cataracts that roll their bass 
 Among the choral of its midnight storms, 
 And of its rivers lingering through the plains, 
 So long, that they seem made to measure Time ; 
 And of its lakes that mock the haughty sea; 
 And of its caves where banish'd gods might find 
 Night large enough to hide their crownless heads ; 
 And of its sunsets, glorious and broad 
 Above the prairies spread like oceans on 
 And on, and on over the far dim leagues, 
 Till vision shudders o'er immensity.* 
 Roll on ! roll on, thou river of the North ! 
 Bear on thy wave the music of the crash 
 That tells a forest's fall, wide woods that hold 
 Beneath their cloister'd bark a registry 
 Where Time may almost find how old he is.")" 
 Keep in thy memory the frequent homes, 
 That from the ruin rise, the triumphs these 
 Of real kings whose conquering march shines up 
 Into the wondering Oregon. 
 
 * Oh, tell, 
 Thou glorious stream! to Europe's stately song, 
 Whose large white brows are fullest of the god — 
 To Asia's mighty hordes, whose dark eyes gaze 
 With wonder and unchangeable belief 
 On mountains where Jehovah sat, when Earth 
 Was fit to hold Jehovah on her thrones — 
 To A fric, with her huge, rough brain on fire, 
 And Titan energy gone mad — tell thou to all, 
 That Freedom hath a home ; that man arose 
 Even as a mountain rises when its heart 
 Of flame is stirr'd, and its indignant breast 
 Hea% r es, and hurls off the enormous chain of ice 
 That marr'd its majesty. Say to the tribes, 
 " There is a hope, a love, a home for all ; 
 The rivers woo them to their lucent lengths ; 
 The woods to their green haunts ; the prairies sigh 
 Throughout their broad and flowery solitudes 
 
 * A reference to American geography will show that 
 there is no extravagance in these lines. Witness Niagara, 
 the Mississippi river, Lake Superior, the Mammoth Cave 
 in Kentucky, the Grand Prairie of Illinois. 
 
 f The concentric circles of trees designate their age. 
 
 For some companionship. True, there are chains 
 On certain swarthy limbs. It shall not be 
 Forever. Yes ! the fetter'd shall be loosed, 
 And liberty beam ample as the land !" 
 
 And, fearless river ! tell to all the tribes 
 The might that lives in every human soul, 
 And what a feeble thing a tyrant is ! 
 So speaking, that their hearts will bow 
 Before the beautiful, which holds the true, 
 As heaven in its sweet azure holds the sun ; 
 So speaking, that they see the universe 
 Was made for Beauty's sake, and like a robe 
 It undulates around the inner soul, 
 A feeling and a harmony, a thought 
 That shows a deeper thought, until the soul 
 Trembles before the vision, and the voice, 
 Made musical by worship, whispers, " Joy !" 
 But utter all most calmly, with thy voice 
 Low as a seraph's near the eternal throne, 
 For mighty truths are always very calm. 
 
 CHANT OF A SOUL. 
 
 Mr youth has gone — the glory, the delight 
 
 That gave new moons unto the night, 
 
 And put in every wind a tone 
 
 And presence that was not its own. 
 
 I can no more create, 
 
 What time the Autumn blows her solemn tromp, 
 
 And goes with golden pomp 
 
 Through our unmeasurable woods : 
 
 I can no more create, sitting in youthful state 
 
 Above the mighty floods, 
 
 And peopling glen, and wave, and air, 
 
 With shapes that are immortal. Then 
 
 The earth and heaven were fair, 
 
 While only less than gods seem'd all my fellow-men. 
 
 Oh! the delight, the gladness, 
 The sense yet love of madness, 
 The glorious choral exultations, 
 The far-off sounding of the banded nations, 
 The wings of angels at melodious sweeps 
 Upon the mountain's hazy steeps — 
 The very dead astir within their coffin'd deeps ; 
 The dreamy veil that wrapp'd the star and sod — 
 A swathe of purple, gold, and amethyst ; 
 And, luminous behind the billowy mist, 
 Something that look'd to my young eyes like God. 
 
 Too late I learn I have not lived aright, 
 And hence the loss of that delight 
 Which put a moon into the moonless night. 
 I mingled in the human maze ; 
 I sought their horrid shrine ; 
 I knelt before the impure blaze ; 
 I made their idols mine. 
 I lost mine early love — that land of balms 
 Most musical with solemn psalms 
 Sounding beneath the tall and graceful palms. 
 
 Who lives aright ? 
 Answer me, all ye pyramids and piles 
 That look like calmest power in your still might. 
 Ye also do I ask, continents and isles ! 
 
WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 557 
 
 Blind though with blood ye be, 
 
 Your tongues, though torn with pain, I know are 
 
 free. 
 Then speak, all ancient masses ! speak 
 From patient obelisk to idle peak ! 
 There is a heaving of the plains, 
 A trailing of a shroud, 
 A clash of bolts and chains — 
 A low, sad voice, that comes upon me like a cloud, 
 
 " Oh, misery ! oh, misery !" — 
 Thou poor old Earth ! no more, no more 
 Shall I draw speech from thee, 
 Nor dare thy crypts of legendary lore : [shore. 
 Let silence learn no tongue ; let night fold every 
 
 Yet I have something left — the will, 
 That Mont Blanc of the soul, is towering still. 
 And I can bear the pain, 
 The storm, the old heroic chain ; 
 And with a smile 
 
 Pluck wisdom from my torture, and give back 
 A love to Fate from this my mountain-rack. 
 I do believe the sad alone are wise ; 
 I do believe the wrong'd alone can know 
 Why lives the world, why spread the burden'd skies, 
 And so from torture into godship grow. 
 Plainer and plainer beams this truth, the more 
 I hear the slow, dull dripping of my gore ; 
 And now, arising from yon deep, 
 'Tis plain as a white statue on a tall, dark steep. 
 
 Oh, suffering bards ! oh, spirits black 
 With storm on many a mountain-rack ! 
 Our early splendour's gone, 
 Like stars into a cloud withdrawn — 
 Like music laid asleep 
 
 In dried-up fountains — like a stricken dawn 
 Where sudden tempests sweep. 
 I hear the bolts around us falling, 
 And cloud to cloud forever calling : 
 Yet we must nor despair nor weep. 
 Did we this evil bring"? 
 Or from our fellows did the torture spring 1 
 Titans ! forgive, forgive ! 
 Oh, know ye not 'tis victory but to live'? 
 Therefore I say, rejoice with harp and voice ! 
 We are the prophets of the beautiful. 
 And thou, Earth ! rejoice 
 With many waters rising like a voice. 
 Thou, too, art full of beauty : thou ! 
 Though thorns are piercing thy pale brow, 
 And thy deep, awful eyes look dull. 
 Wherever beauty is, is hope ; 
 And thou for His great sake hadst being: 
 From central deep to starry cope 
 Beauty is the all-seeing. 
 Oh, yet thou shalt be a majestic creature, 
 Redeem'd in form and every feature ; 
 New moons on high, thy plains continuous bowers, 
 And in thy snow-white hand another Eden's flowers. 
 
 " Earth shall rejoice : we do rejoice, 
 Each with his harp and thorny crown ; 
 And reverent hear, from dreary year to year, 
 Without a frown amid our patient fold 
 
 Upon the rocks beside the frozen fountains, 
 
 The avalanches of Gon's judgments roll'd 
 
 With stately motion and far thunder down 
 
 Eternity's old mountains : 
 
 We hear, and calmly smile 
 
 Amid the mist on this our rocky pile." 
 
 Oh, suffering but heroic souls ! 
 Your voices come to me like muffled rolls 
 Of brave but mournful thunders at their goals : 
 And, gaining strength, once more I cry aloud 
 From mine own stormy peak and clinging shroud, 
 " Still, still rejoice, with harp and voice ! 
 I know not what our fate may be : 
 I only know that he who hath a time 
 Must also have eternity : 
 
 One billow proves and gives a whole wide sea. 
 On this I build my trust, 
 And not on mountain-dust, 
 Or murmuring woods, or starlit clime, 
 Or ocean with melodious chime, 
 Or sunset glories in the western sky : 
 Enough, I am, and shall not choose to die. 
 No matter what our future fate may be : 
 To live is in itself a majesty ! 
 Oh ! there we may again create 
 Fair worlds as in our youthful state ; 
 Or Wo may build for us a fiery tomb 
 Like Fahiwata's in the nether gloom : 
 Even then we will not lose the name of man 
 By idle moan or coward groan, 
 But say, < It was so written in the mighty plan !' " 
 
 THE GODS OF OLD: AN ODE. 
 
 Not realmless sit the ancient gods 
 
 Upon their misty thrones. 
 
 In that old glorious Grecian heaven 
 
 Of regal zones 
 
 A languor on their awful forms may lie, 
 
 And a deep grief on their large white brows, 
 
 King-dwellers of the sky ! 
 
 But still they show the might of god, 
 
 In rustless panoply. 
 
 They cannot fade, though other creeds 
 
 Came burden'd with their curse, 
 
 And ose's apotheosis was 
 
 A darken'd universe : 
 
 No tempest heralded the orient light ; 
 
 No fiery portent walk'd the solemn night ; 
 
 No conqueror's blood-red banner was unfurl'd ; 
 
 No vol can shook its warning torch on high ; 
 
 No earthquake tore the pulses of the world ; 
 
 No pale suns wander'd through the swarthy sky ; 
 
 Only the silent Spheres 
 
 Amid the darkness shed some joyous tears ; 
 
 And then, as rainbows come, it came 
 
 With morning's lambent flame. 
 
 The Stars look'd from their palaces, whose spires 
 
 And windows caught afar the prophet-glow. 
 
 And bade their choirs sing to the sweetest lyres, 
 
 " Peace and good will unto the orb below !" 
 
 The monarchs shudder'd and turn'd sick at heart ; 
 
 And from their bright hands fell 
 
558 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 Gemm'd sceptres with a thunderous sound 
 
 Before the miracle : 
 
 Ah ! sick at soul — but they, the bards, 
 
 Song's calm immortals in the eclipse, 
 
 Throng'd up and held the nectar-cup 
 
 To their pale lips ; 
 
 And each, with an eager, fond look, stirr'd 
 
 Certain melodious strings, 
 
 While the startled tempest-bearing bird, 
 
 Poised tremblingly his wings : 
 
 Then loftier still their harps resounded, 
 
 And louder yet their voices roll'd 
 
 Between the arches, and rebounded 
 
 Dreamily from the roof of gold : 
 
 " Ye cannot leave your throned spheres, 
 Though faith is o'er, 
 And a mightier One than Jove appears 
 On Earth's expectant shore !" 
 Slowly the daring words went trampling through 
 
 the halls — 
 " Not in the earth, nor hell, nor sky, 
 The ideal, O ye gods! can ever die, 
 But to the soul of man immortal calls. 
 
 " Still, Jove, sublime, shall wrap 
 His awful forehead in Olympian shrouds, 
 Or take along the heavens' dark wilderness 
 His thunder-chase behind the hunted clouds : 
 And mortal eyes upturned shall behold 
 Apollo's rustling robe of gold 
 Sweep through the corridors of the ancient sky 
 That kindling speaks its Deity : 
 And he the ruler of the sunless land 
 Of restless ghosts shall fitfully illume 
 With smouldering fires that stir in cavern'd eyes 
 Hell's house of shuddering gloom : 
 Still the ethereal huntress, as of old, 
 Shall roam amid the sacred Latmos mountains, 
 And lave her virgin limbs in waters cold 
 That, earth holds up for her in marble fountains : 
 And in his august dreams along the Italian* streams, 
 The poor old throneless god, with angry frown, 
 Will feebly grasp the air for his lost crown — 
 Then murmur sadly low of his great overthrow. 
 And wrapp'd in sounding mail shall he appear, 
 War's giant charioteer ! — 
 And where the conflict reels, 
 Urge through the swaying lines his crashing wheels; 
 Or pausS to list amid the horrent shades, 
 The deep, hoarse cry of battle's thirsty blades, 
 Led by the hungry spear — 
 Till at the weary combat's close, 
 They gave their passionate thanks, 
 Amid the panting ranks of conquer'd foes ; 
 Then, drunken with their king's red wine, 
 Go swooning to repose around his purple shrine. 
 
 " And he the trident-wielder still shall see 
 The adoring billows kneel around his feet, 
 While, at his call, the winds in ministry 
 Before their altar of the tempest meet : 
 () r — leaning gently o'er the Paphian isles, 
 Cheer'd by the music of some Triton's horn — 
 Lift up the shadowy curtains of the night 
 
 * Saturn was banished to Italy. 
 
 To their hid window-tops above, 
 
 And bathe thy drowsy eyelids with the light, 
 
 Voluptuous queen of love ! 
 
 And thou, ah, thou, 
 
 Born of the white sea-foam 
 
 That dreams a-troubled still around thy home — 
 
 Awaking from thy slumbers, thou shalt press 
 
 Thy passionate lips on his resplendent brow 
 
 In some sweet, lone recess, 
 
 Where waters murmur and the dim leaves bow : 
 
 And young Endtmios 
 
 At midnight's pallid noon 
 
 Shall still be charm'd from his dewy sleep 
 
 By the foolish, lovesick Moon, 
 
 Who thrills to find him in some lovely vale 
 
 Before her silver lamp may fail : 
 
 And Pan shall play his pleasant reed 
 
 Down in the hush'd arcades, 
 
 And fauns shall prank the sward amid 
 
 Thessalia's sunny shades. 
 
 " Nor absent she whose eyes of azure throw* 
 Truth's sunburst on the world below : 
 Still shall she calmly watch the choral years 
 Circling fast the beamy spheres 
 That tremble as she marches through their plains, 
 While momently rolls out a sullen sound 
 From Error's hoary mountains tumbling round — 
 Heard by the Titan, who from his high rock, 
 Fill'd with immortal pains 
 That his immortal spirit still can mock, 
 Exultant sees — despite the oppressor's ire, 
 The frost, the heat, the vulture, and the storm — 
 Earth's ancient vales rejoicing in his fire, 
 The homes, the loves of men — those beings wrought 
 To many a beauteous formf 
 In the grand quiet of his own great thought : 
 And over all, bright, beautiful, serene, 
 And changeless in thy prime, 
 Thou, Psyche, glory-cinctured shalt be seen, 
 Whispering forever that one word sublime, 
 Down through the peopled gallery of Time — ■ 
 'Eternity !' — in whose dread cycles stand 
 Men and their deities, alike on common land." 
 
 Like far-off st-irs that glimmer in a cloud, 
 Deathless, gods! shall ye illume the past; 
 To ye the poet-voice will cry aloud, 
 Faithful among the faithless to the last — 
 " Ye must not die !" 
 Long as the dim robes of the ages trail 
 O'er Delphi's steep or Tempe's flowery vale — 
 Ye shall not die ! 
 
 Though time and storm your calm old temples rend, 
 And, rightly, men to our " One only" bend — 
 Ye were the things in which the ancient mind 
 Its darkling sense of Deity enshrined. 
 To Sinai still Olympus reverent calls, 
 And Ida leans to hear Mount Zion's voice : 
 Gods of the past ! your shapes are in our halls ; 
 Upon our clime your mighty presence falls, 
 And Christian hearts with Grecian souls rejoice. 
 
 * " Thou, Pallas. Wisdom's blue-eyed queen !" 
 t According to the Greek mythology, Prometheus stole 
 fire from heaven and created man, for which Jove pun- 
 ished him. 
 
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 
 
 [Born, 1819.] 
 
 Thomas William Parsons, son of Dr. T. W. 
 Parsons, was born in Boston on the eighteenth 
 of August, 1819, and at nine years of age entered 
 the Latin School in that city, where he remained 
 during six years. After a brief interval of study 
 at home, he travelled abroad, having sailed in com- 
 pany with his father for Malta and Messina, in 
 the autumn of 1836. Prevented by the cholera, 
 which was then raging in southern Italy, from 
 visiting either of the Sicilies, he went from Malta 
 in an Italian brig to Leghorn, having a tempestu- 
 ous passage of fourteen days, during which the 
 little vessel escaped wreck by putting into the is- 
 land of Elba. He spent the winter partly in Pisa, 
 but principally in Florence and Rome, proceeded 
 to Paris, and thence to London; and near the 
 close of 1837 returned home, where he commenced 
 ,the study of medicine, which circumstances after- 
 wards led him to relinquish. 
 
 In Florence Mr. Parsons had accidentally be- 
 came acquainted with a lady, Signora Gtjiseppa 
 Danti, in whose house he dwelt during the whole 
 period of his stay in that city. Whether from a 
 coincidence of name, or from the delight, natural 
 to a boy, of acquiring some insight into the " Di- 
 vina Commedia" amid the gentle influences of 
 the Etrurian Athens, Mr. Parsons seems to have 
 learned a passionate admiration for the poet in 
 whose native city he was a resident. That the 
 lady's instruction was not without its charm may 
 be inferred from the following dedication to a trans- 
 lation of " The First Ten Cantos of the Inferno," 
 which he published in Boston in 1843 : 
 
 " TO GTJISEPPA DANTI, 
 
 Under whose roof, in Florence, 
 
 The language of her immortal namesake 
 
 First grew familiar to her Grateful Guest." 
 
 In 1847 Mr. Parsons made a second voyage 
 to Europe in company with his friend, Professor 
 Daniel Treadwell, and passed a year abroad. 
 
 His poems, written in the various intervals of 
 business, have mostly appeared in periodicals. A 
 few of them, collected in a volume, were published 
 in Boston in 1855. His translation of the "In- 
 ferno" has been completed several years, but has 
 not yet been given to the press. 
 
 That portion of his version of Dante which 
 Mr. Parsons has published, is executed in a very 
 masterly manner. The best critics have pronounced 
 it the most successful reproduction of the spirit and 
 power of the " Divina Commedia" in the English 
 language. His original poems are variously admi- 
 rable. They have the careful finish to which 
 poets endeavoured to attain when it was deemed 
 of importance not only that poetry should have 
 meaning, but that both its writers and its readers 
 should understand it. His verses are clear alike 
 
 to the ear and the brain, and their old-fashioned 
 music is in keeping with their vigorous sense, fine 
 humour, sharp, but not ungenialwit, and delicate 
 though always manly sentiment. His volume 
 opens with a series of "Letters" supposed to have 
 been written by a British traveller in this country 
 to some of his friends in London. They are full 
 of brilliant sarcasm and just reflection. In one 
 of them, addressed to Walter Savage Landor, 
 he has some lines which may have been intended 
 as an apology for his love of Italian art, and pre- 
 ference of Italian before American subjects for 
 poetical illustration. " Here," he says — 
 
 " Here, hy the ploughman, as with daily tread 
 He tracks the furrows of his fertile ground, 
 Dark locks of hair, and thigh-hones of the dead, 
 Spear-heads, and skulls, and arrows oft are found. 
 "On such memorials unconcerned we gaze; 
 No trace returning of the glow divine, 
 Wherewith, dear Walter! in our Eton days 
 We eped a fragment from the Palentine. 
 
 " It fired us then to trace upon the map 
 
 The forum's line — proud empire's church-yard paths, 
 Ay, or to finger but a marble scrap 
 Or stucco piece from Diocletian's baths. 
 
 " Cellini's workmanship could nothing add 
 Nor any casket rich with gems and gold, 
 To the strange value every pebble had 
 O'er which perhaps the Tiber's wave had rolled. 
 
 " A like enchantment all thy land pervades, 
 
 Mellows the sunshine — softens every breeze — 
 O'erhangs the mouldering town, and chestnut shades, 
 And glows and sparkles in her storied seas. . . 
 
 " Art's rude beginnings, wheresoever found, 
 The same dull chord of feeling faintly strike; 
 The Druid's pillar, and the Indian mound, 
 And TJxmal's monuments, are mute alike. 
 " Nor here, although the gorgeous year hath brought 
 Crimson October's beautiful decay, 
 Can all this loveliness inspire a thought 
 Beyond the marvels of the fleeting day. 
 
 " For here the Present overpowers the Past ; 
 No recollections to these woods belong, 
 (O'er which no minstrelsy its veil hath cast,) 
 To rouse our worship, or supply my song." 
 
 He has not however been altogether neglectful 
 of American themes. His " Hudson River" is 
 the noblest tribute any stream on this continent 
 has received from a poet ; and his lines " On the 
 Death of Daniel Webster," are a display of ge- 
 nius suitable for their impressive occasion : far bet- 
 ter than any thing else ever written in verse on 
 the death of an American statesman. 
 
 Although not a graduate of any university, 
 Mr. Parsons was, at the instance of the late Rev. 
 Andrews Norton, elected a member of the Phi 
 Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College, and in 
 1853 received the honorary degree of master of 
 arts from that venerable institution. 
 
 559 
 
560 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 CAMPANILE DE PISA. 
 
 Snow was glistening on the mountains, but the 
 
 air was that of June, 
 Leaves were falling, but the runnels playing still 
 
 their summer tune, 
 And the dial's lazy shadow hovered nigh the 
 
 brink of noon. 
 On the benches in the market, rows of languid 
 
 idlers lay, 
 When to Pisa's nodding belfry, with a friend, I 
 
 took my way. 
 
 From the top we looked around us, and as far as 
 eye might strain, 
 
 Saw no sign of life or motion in the town, or on 
 the plain, 
 
 Hardly seemed the river moving, through the wil- 
 lows to the main; 
 
 Nor was any noise disturbing Pisa from her 
 drowsy hour, 
 
 Save the doves that fluttered 'neath us, in and out 
 and round the tower. 
 
 Not a shout from gladsome children, or the clatter 
 of a wheel, 
 
 Nor the spinner of the suburb, winding his dis- 
 cordant reel, 
 
 Nor the stroke upon the pavement of a hoof or 
 of a heel. 
 
 Even the slumberers, in the church-yard of the 
 Campo Santo seemed 
 
 Scarce more quiet than the living world that un- 
 derneath us dreamed. 
 
 Dozing at the city's portal, heedless guard the sen- 
 try kept, 
 
 More than oriental dulness o'er the sunny farms 
 had crept, 
 
 Near the walls the ducal herdsman by the dusty 
 road-side slept; 
 
 While his camels, resting round him, half alarmed 
 the sullen ox, 
 
 Seeing those Arabian monsters pasturing with 
 Etruria's flocks. 
 
 Then it was, like one who wandered, lately, sing- 
 ing by the Rhine, 
 
 Strains* perchance to maiden's hearing sweeter 
 than this verse of mine, 
 
 That we bade Imagination lift us on her wing 
 divine. 
 
 And the days of Pisa's greatness rose from the 
 sepulchral past, 
 
 When a thousand conquering galleys bore her 
 standard at the mast. 
 
 Memory for a moment crowned her sovereign 
 
 mistress of the seas, 
 When she braved, upon the billows, Venice and 
 
 the Genoese, 
 Daring to deride the Pontiff, though he shook his 
 
 angry keys. 
 When her admirals triumphant, riding o'er the 
 
 Soldan's waves, 
 
 * "The Belfry of Bruges." 
 
 Brought from Calvary's holy mountain fitting soil 
 for knightly graves. 
 
 When the Saracen surrendered, one by one, his 
 pirate isles, 
 
 And Ionia's marbled trophies decked Lungarno's 
 Gothic piles, 
 
 Where the festal music floated in the light of 
 ladies' smiles; 
 
 Soldiers in the busy court-yard, nobles in the halls 
 above, 
 
 O, those days of arms are over — arms and cour- 
 tesy and love ! 
 
 Down in yonder square at sunrise, lo! the Tuscan 
 
 troops arrayed, 
 Every man in Milan armor, forged in Brescia 
 
 every blade: 
 Sigismondi is their captain — Florence ! art thou 
 
 not dismayed 1 
 There 's Lanfranchi ! there the bravest of Ghe- 
 
 rardesca stem, 
 Hugolino — with the bishop — but enough — enough 
 
 of them. 
 
 Now, as on Achilles' buckler, next a peaceful 
 
 scene succeeds; 
 Pious crowds in the cathedral duly tell their blessed 
 
 beads; 
 Students walk the learned cloister — Ariosto wakes 
 
 the reeds — 
 Science dawns — and Galileo opens to the Italian 
 
 youth, 
 As he were a new Columbus, new discovered 
 
 realms of truth. 
 
 Hark! what murmurs from the million in the 
 
 bustling market rise ! 
 All the lanes are loud with voices, all the windows 
 
 dark with eyes; 
 Black with men the marble bridges, heaped the 
 
 shores with merchandise; 
 Turks and Greeks and Libyan merchants in the 
 
 square their councils hold, 
 And the Christian altars glitter gorgeous with 
 
 Byzantine gold. 
 
 Look ! anon the masqueraders don their holiday 
 attire ; 
 
 Every palace is illumined — all the town seems 
 built of fire — 
 
 Rainbow-coloured lanterns dangle from the top 
 of every spire. 
 
 Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to himself the 
 joyful day, 
 
 Never on the thronged Rialto showed the Carni- 
 val more gay. 
 
 Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the vision with 
 
 its chime ; 
 " Signors," quoth our gray attendant,- " it is almost 
 
 vesper time;" 
 Vulgar life resumed its empire — down we dropt 
 
 from the sublime. 
 Here and there a friar passed us, as we paced the 
 
 silent streets, 
 And a cardinal's rumbling carriage roused the 
 
 sleepers from the seats. 
 
THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 561 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE OBELISK. 
 
 Home returning from the music which had so en- 
 tranced my brain, 
 
 That the way I scarce remember'd to the Pincian 
 Hill again, 
 
 Nay, was willing to forget it underneath a moon 
 so fair, 
 
 In a solitude so sacred, and so summer-like in air — ■ 
 
 Came I to the side of Tiber, hardly conscious 
 where I stood, 
 
 Till I marked the sullen murmur of the venerable 
 flood. 
 
 Rome lay doubly dead around me, sunk in silence 
 
 calm and deep ; 
 'T was the death of desolation — and the nightly 
 
 one of sleep. 
 Dreams alone, and recollections peopled now the 
 
 solemn hour ; 
 Such a spot and such a season well might wake 
 
 the Fancy's power ; 
 Yet no monumental fragment, storied arch or 
 
 temple vast, 
 Mid the mean, plebeian buildings loudly whisper'd 
 
 of the Past. 
 
 Tether'd by the shore, some barges hid the wave's 
 august repose; 
 
 Petty sheds of humble merchants, nigh the Cam- 
 pus Martius rose ; 
 
 Hardly could the dingy Thamis, when his tide is 
 ebbing low, 
 
 Life's dull scene in colder colours to the homesick 
 exile show. 
 
 Winding from the vulgar prospect, through a 
 labyrinth of lanes, 
 
 Forth I stepp'd upon the Corso, where its great- 
 ness Rome retains. 
 
 Yet it was not ancient glory, though the midnight 
 radiance fell 
 
 Soft on many a princely mansion, many a dome's 
 majestic swell ; 
 
 Though, from some hush'd corner gushing, oft a 
 modern fountain gleam'd, 
 
 Where the marble and the waters in their fresh- 
 ness equal seem'd : 
 
 What though open courts unfolded columns of 
 Corinthian mould 1 
 
 Beautiful it was — but alter'd! naught bespake the 
 Rome of old. 
 
 So, regardless of the grandeur, pass'd I tow'rds the 
 Northern Gate ; 
 
 All around were shining gardens — churches glit- 
 tering, yet sedate, — 
 
 Heavenly bright the broad enclosure! but the 
 o'erwhelming silence brought 
 
 Stillness to mine own heart's beating, with a mo- 
 ment's truce of thought, 
 
 And I started as I found me walking ere I was aware, 
 
 O'er the Obelisk's tall shadow, on the pavement 
 of the Square. 
 
 Ghost-like seem'd it to address me, and convey'd 
 me for a while, 
 
 Backward, through a thousand ages, to the bor- 
 ders of the Nile ; gg 
 
 Where for centuries every morning saw it creep- 
 ing, long and dun, 
 
 O'er the stones perchance of Memphis, or the City 
 of the Sun. 
 
 Kingly turrets look'd upon it — pyramids and sculp- 
 tured fanes : 
 
 Towers and palaces have moulder'd — but the 
 shadow still remains. 
 
 Tired of that lone tomb of Egypt, o'er the seas 
 
 the trophy flew ; 
 Here the eternal apparition met the millions' daily 
 
 view. 
 Virgil's foot has touch'd it often — it has kiss'd 
 
 Octavia's face — 
 Royal chariots have rolled o'er it, in the frenzy of 
 
 the race, 
 When the strong, the swift, the valiant, mid the 
 
 throng'd arena strove, 
 In the days of good Augustus, and the dynasty 
 
 of Jove. 
 
 Herds are feeding in the Forum, as in old Evan- 
 
 der's time : 
 Tumbled from the steep Tarpeian all the towers 
 
 that sprang sublime. 
 Strange ! that what seem'd most inconstant should 
 
 the most abiding prove ; 
 Strange ! that what is hourly moving no mutation 
 
 can remove: 
 Ruin'd lies the cirque! the chariots, long ago, 
 
 have ceased to roll — 
 Even the Obelisk is broken — but the shadow still 
 
 is whole. 
 
 What is Fame ! if mightiest empires leave so little 
 
 mark behind, 
 How much less must heroes hope for, in the wreck 
 
 of human kind ! 
 Less than even this darksome picture, which I 
 
 tread beneath my feet, 
 Copied by a lifeless moonbeam on the pebbles of 
 
 the street; 
 Since if Caesar's best ambition, living, was to be 
 
 renown'd, 
 What shall Caesar leave behind him, save the 
 
 shadow of a sound 1 
 
 ON A LADY SINGING. 
 
 Oft as my lady sang for me 
 That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea, 
 Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress-tree, 
 Strange was the pleasure that over me stole, 
 For 't was made of old sadness that lives in my soul. 
 
 So still grew my heart at each tender word, 
 That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred, 
 And I hardly breathed, but only heard: 
 Where was I] — not in the world of men, 
 Until she awoke me with silence again. 
 
 Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom 
 Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume, 
 Such a delicate fragrance filled the room : 
 
562 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 Whether it came from the vine without, 
 
 Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt. 
 
 Light shadows played on the pictured wall 
 From the maples that fluttered outside the hall, 
 And hindered the daylight — yet ah! not all; 
 Too little for that all the forest would be, — ■ 
 Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me ! 
 
 When my sense returned, as the song was o'er, 
 I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once more," 
 But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore: 
 
 Music enough in her look I found, 
 
 And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound. 
 
 HUDSON RIVER. 
 
 Rivers that roll most musical in song 
 Are often lovely to the mind alone; 
 
 The wanderer muses, as he moves along 
 
 Their barren banks, on glories not their own. 
 
 When to give substance to his boyish dreams, 
 He leaves his own, far countries to survey, 
 
 Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, 
 "Their names alone are beautiful, not they." 
 
 If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour 
 A tide more meagre than his native Charles ; 
 
 Or views the Rhone when summer's heat is o'er, 
 Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Aries ; 
 
 Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling 
 His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome, 
 
 Oft to his thought must partial memory bring 
 More noble waves, without renown, at home ; 
 
 Now let him climb the Catskill, to behold 
 The lordly Hudson, marching to the main, 
 
 And say what bard, in any land of old, 
 Had such a river to inspire his strain. 
 
 Along the Rhine, gray battlements and towers 
 Declare what robbers once the realm possessed ; 
 
 But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours, 
 And man has hardly more than built his nest. 
 
 No storied castle overawes these heights, 
 
 Nor antique arches check the current's play, 
 
 Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites 
 To dream of deities long passed away. 
 
 No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft 
 
 Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years, 
 
 Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, 
 
 A summer-cloud! that comes and disappears: 
 
 But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form, 
 Since the subsiding of the deluge rise, 
 
 And hold their savins to the upper storm, 
 While far below the skiff securely plies. 
 
 Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men 
 Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, 
 
 Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, 
 Boeotian plenty on a Spartan soil. 
 
 Then, where the reign of cultivation ends, 
 Again the charming wilderness begins; 
 
 From steep to steep one solemn wood extends, 
 Till some new hamlet's rise the boscage thins. 
 
 And these deep groves forever have remained 
 Touched by no axe — by no proud owner nursed: 
 
 Asnow theystand theystood when Pharaoh reign'd, 
 Lineal descendants of creation's first. 
 
 Thou Scottish Tweed,* a sacred streamlet now 
 Since thy last minstrel laid him down to die, 
 
 Where through the casement of his chamber thou 
 Didst mix thy moan with his departing sigh; 
 
 A few of Hudson's more majestic hills 
 
 Might furnish forests for the whole of thine, 
 
 Hide in thick shade all Humber's feeding rills, 
 And darken all the fountains of the Tyne. 
 
 Name all the floods that pour from Albion's heart, 
 To float her citadels that crowd the sea, 
 
 In what, except the meaner pomp of Art, 
 Sublimer Hudson! can they rival thee: 
 
 Could boastful Thames with all his riches buy, 
 
 To deck the strand which London loads with gold, 
 Sunshine so bright — such purity of sky — 
 As bless thy sultry season and thy cold 1 
 
 No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee 
 
 In ancient scrolls ; no deeds of doubtful claim 
 
 Have hung a history on every tree, 
 
 And given each rock its fable and a fame. 
 
 But neither here hath any conqueror trod, 
 Nor grim invader from barbarian climes; 
 
 No horrors feigned of giant or of god 
 
 Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. 
 
 Here never yet have Jiappy fields, laid waste, 
 The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, 
 
 The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced, 
 Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. 
 
 "Yet, 0, Antiquity !" the stranger sighs, 
 
 " Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view ; 
 
 The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes, 
 Where all is fair indeed — but all is new." 
 
 False thought ! is age to crumbling walls confined, 
 To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones 1 
 
 Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, 
 More than old fortresses and sculptured stones 1 
 
 Call not this new which is the only land 
 
 That wears unchanged the same primeval face 
 
 Which, when just dawning from its Maker's hand, 
 Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. 
 
 Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth [south, 
 Glide past green Eden towards the unknown 
 
 Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth, 
 And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth. 
 
 Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile ! 
 
 Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young ; 
 ! had thy waters burst from Britain's isle, 
 
 Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung. 
 
 * " It was a beautiful day,— so warm that every window 
 was wide open, and so still that the sound of all others 
 most delicious to his ear— the gentle ripple of the Tweed 
 over its pebbles,— was distinctly audible as we knelt around 
 the bed ; and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.''— 
 Lockhaei's Life of Sir Walter Scott. 
 
THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 563 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DANIEL WEBSTER, 
 
 TWENTY-FOURTH OF OCTOBER, 1852. 
 
 Comes there a frigate home? what mighty bark 
 Returns with torn, but still triumphant sails 1 
 
 Such peals awake the wondering Sabbath — hark ! 
 How the dread echoes die among the vales ! 
 
 What ails the morning, that the misty sun 
 Looks wan and troubled in the autumn air ? 
 
 Dark over Marshfield ! — 't was the minute gun : 
 God ! has it come that we foreboded there ? 
 
 The woods at midnight heard an angel's tread ; 
 
 The sere leaves rustled in his withering breath ; 
 The night was beautiful with stars ; we said 
 
 "This is the harvest moon,"' — 't was thine, oh, 
 Death ! 
 Gone, then, the splendour of October's day ! 
 
 A single night, without the aid of frost, 
 Has turned the gold and crimson into gray, 
 
 And the world's glory, with our own, is lost. 
 
 A little while, and we rode forth to greet 
 His coming with glad music, and his eye 
 
 Drew many captives, as along the street 
 
 His peaceful triumph passed, unquestioned, by. 
 
 Now there are moanings, by the desolate shore, 
 
 That are not ocean's ; by the patriot's bed, 
 Hearts throb for him whose noble heart no more — 
 
 Break off the rhyme — for sorrow cannot stop 
 To trim itself with phrases for the ear, — 
 
 Too fast the tears upon the paper drop : 
 
 Fast as the leaves are falling on his bier, 
 Thick as the hopes that cluster' d round his name, 
 
 While yet he walked with us, a pilgrim here. 
 
 He was our prophet, our majestic oak, 
 That, like Dodona's, in Thesprotian land, 
 
 Whose leaves were oracles, divinely spoke. 
 
 We called him giant, for in every part 
 
 He seemed colossal ; in his port and speech, 
 In his large brain, and in his larger heart. 
 
 And when his name upon the roll we saw 
 Of those who govern, then we felt secure, 
 
 Because we knew his reverence for the law. 
 
 So the young master* of the Roman realm 
 Discreetly thought, we cannot wander far 
 
 From the true course, with Ulpian at the helm. 
 
 But slowly to this loss our sense awakes ; 
 
 To know what space it in the forum filled, 
 See what a gap the temple's ruin makes ! 
 Kings have their dynasties, but not the mind ; 
 
 Caesar leaves other Cssars to succeed, 
 But Wisdom, dying, leaves no heir behind. 
 Who now shall stand the regent at the wheel ? 
 
 Who knows the dread machinery'? who hath skill 
 Our course through oceans unsurveyed to feel? 
 Her mournful tidings Albion lately sent, 
 
 How he, the victor in so many fields, 
 Fell, but not fighting, in the fields of Kent; 
 The chief whose conduct in the lofty scene 
 
 Where England stood up for the world in arms, 
 Gave her victorious name to England's queen. 
 
 * Alexander Severus. 
 
 But peaceful Britain knows, amid her grief, 
 
 She could spare now the soldier and his sword 
 What can our councils do without our chief? 
 
 Blest are the peace-makers ! — and he was ours, — 
 
 Winning, by force of argument, the right 
 Between two kindred, more than rival powers. 
 
 The richest stones require the gentlest hand 
 
 Of a wise workman — be our brother's faults, 
 For all have faults, by wisdom gently scanned. 
 
 Resume the rhyme, and end the funeral strain ; 
 
 Dying, he asked for song, — he did not slight 
 The harmony of numbers, — let the main [night. 
 
 Sing round his grave, great anthems day and 
 
 The autumn rains are falling on his head, 
 
 The snows of winter soon will shroud the shore, 
 
 The spring with violets will adorn his bed, 
 And summer shall return, — but he no more ! 
 
 We have no high cathedral for his rest, 
 
 Dim with proud banners and the dust of years ; 
 
 All we can give him is New England's breast 
 To lay his head on, — and his country's tears. 
 
 ON A MAGDALEN BY GUIDO. 
 
 Mary, when thou wert a virgin, 
 
 Ere the first, the fatal sin, 
 Stole into thy bosom's chamber, 
 
 Leading six companions in ; 
 Ere those eyes had wept an error, 
 
 What thy beauty must have been ! 
 
 Ere those lips had paled their crimson, 
 
 Quivering with the soul's despair, 
 Ere with pain they oft had parted 
 
 In thine agony of prayer, 
 Or, instead of pearls, the tear-drops 
 
 Glistened in thy streaming hair. 
 While in ignorance of sorrow 
 
 Still thy heart serenely dreamed, 
 And the morning light of girlhood 
 
 On thy cheek's young garden beam'd, 
 Where th' abundant rose was blushing, 
 
 Not of earth couldst thou have seem'd. 
 
 When thy frailty fell upon thee, 
 Lovely wert thou, even then; 
 
 Shame itself could not disarm thee 
 Of the charms that vanquished men ; 
 
 Which of Salem's purest daughters 
 Match'd the sullied Magdalen ? 
 
 But thy Master's eye beheld thee 
 Foul and all unworthy heaven : 
 
 Pitied, pardon'd, purged thy spirit 
 Of its black, pernicious leaven ; 
 
 Drove the devils from out the temple — 
 All the dark and guilty seven. 
 
 Oh the beauty of repentance ! 
 
 Mary, tenfold fairer now 
 Art thou with those dewy eyelids, 
 
 And that anquish on thy brow: 
 Ah, might every sinful sister 
 
 Grow in beauty ev'n as thou ! 
 
f>S4 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 
 
 IN RETURN FOR A TALBOTYPE PICTURE OF YENICE. 
 
 Poet and friend ! if any gift could bring 
 A joy like that of listening while you sing, 
 'T were such as this, — memories of the days 
 When Tuscan airs inspired more tender lays : 
 When the gray Appennine, or Lombard plain, 
 Sunburnt, or spongy with autumnal rain, 
 Mingled perchance, as first they met your sight, 
 Some drops of disappointment with delight; 
 When, rudely wakened from the dream of years, 
 You heard Velino thundering in your ears, 
 And fancy drooped, — until Romagna's wine 
 Brought you new visions, thousand-fold more fine ; 
 When first in Florence, hearkening to the flow 
 Of Arno's midnight music, hoarse below, 
 You thought of home, and recollected those 
 Who loved yourverse,buthungered foryourprose, 
 And more than all the sonnets that you made, 
 Longed for the letters — ah, too poorly paid ! 
 
 Thanks for thy boon ! I look, and I am there ; 
 The soaring belfry guides me to the square ; 
 The punctual doves, that wait the stroke of one, 
 Flutter above me and becloud the sun ; 
 'T is Venice ! Venice ! and with joy I put 
 In Adria's wave, incredulous, my foot; 
 I smell the sea-weed, and again I hear 
 The click of oars, the screaming gondolier. 
 Ha ! the Rialto — Dominic ! a boat ; 
 Now in a gondola to dream and float: 
 Pull the slight cord and draw the silk aside, 
 And read the city's history as we glide; 
 For strangely here, where all is strange, indeed, 
 Not he who runs, but he who swims, may read. 
 Mark now, albeit the moral make thee sad, 
 What stately palaces these merchants had ! 
 Proud houses once ! — Grimani and Pisani, 
 Spinelli, Foscari, Giustiniani ; 
 Behold their homes and monuments in one ! 
 They writ their names in water, and are gone. 
 My voyage is ended, all the round is past, — 
 See! the twin columns and the bannered mast, 
 The domes, the steeds, the lion's winged sign, 
 " Peace to thee, Mark ! Evangelist of mine !"* 
 
 Poetic art! reserved for prosy times 
 Of great inventions and of little rhymes; 
 For us, to whom a wisely-ordering heaven 
 Ether for Lethe, wires for wings, has given ; 
 Whom vapor work for, yet who scorn a ghost, 
 Amid enchantments, disenchanted most; 
 Whose light, whose fire, whose telegraph had been 
 In blessed Urban's liberal days a sin. 
 Sure, in Damascus, any reasoning Turk 
 Would count your Talbotype a sorcerer's work. 
 Strange power ! that thus to actual presence brings 
 The shades of distant or departed things, 
 And calls dead Thebes or Athens up, or Aries, 
 To show like spectres on the banks of Charles ! 
 But we receive this marvel with the rest ; 
 Nothing is new or wondrous in the West ; 
 Life 's all a miracle, and every age 
 To the great wonder-book but adds a page. 
 
 * The legend of the winged Lion of St. Mark, seen every- 
 where at Venice — "Paxtibi, Marce! Evangelista mens." 
 
 ON A BUST OF DANTE. 
 
 See, from this counterfeit of him 
 
 Whom Arno shall remember long, 
 How stern of lineament, how grim 
 
 The father was of Tuscan song. 
 There but the burning sense of wrong, 
 
 Perpetual care and scorn abide; 
 Small friendship for the lordly throng; 
 
 Distrust of all the world beside. 
 
 Faithful if this wan image be, 
 
 No dream his life was — but a fight; 
 Could any Beatrice see 
 
 A lover in that anchorite'? 
 To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy'sight 
 
 Who could have guess'd the visions came 
 Of beauty, veil'd with heavenly light, 
 
 In circles of eternal flame] 
 
 The lips, as Cumse's cavern close, 
 
 The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, 
 The rigid front, almost morose, 
 
 But for the patient hope within, 
 Declare a life whose course hath been 
 
 Unsullied still, though still severe, 
 Which, through the wavering days of sin, 
 
 Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. 
 
 Not wholly such his haggard look 
 
 When wandering once, forlorn he stray 'd, 
 With no companion save his book, 
 
 To Corvo's hush'd monastic shade; 
 Where, as the Benedictine laid 
 
 His palm upon the pilgrim-guest, 
 The single boon for which he prayed 
 
 The convent's charity was rest.* 
 
 Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 
 
 Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
 The sullen warrior sole we trace, 
 
 The marble man of many woes. 
 Such was his mien when first arose 
 
 The thought of that strange tale divine, 
 When hell he peopled with his foes, 
 
 The scourge of many a guilty line. 
 
 War to the last he waged with all 
 
 The tyrant canker-worms of earth; 
 Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 
 
 Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 
 He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
 
 Pluck'd bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
 But valiant souls of knightly worth 
 
 Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 
 
 O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 
 
 The only righteous judge art thou; 
 That poor old exile, sad and lone, 
 
 Is Latium's other Virgil now: 
 Before his name the nations bow : 
 
 His words are parcel of mankind, 
 Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 
 
 The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 
 
 * It is told of Dante that when he was roaming over Italy, 
 he came to a certain monastery, where he was met by one of 
 the friars, who blessed him, and asked hird what was his de- 
 sire — to which the weary stranger simply answered, "Pace." 
 
Englaareikt J MBhjfleii estaMisl ■ 
 
 (HahJX^ 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 [Burn, 1819.] 
 
 Mr. Lowell is a native of Boston, where his 
 father is an eminent Congregational clergyman. 
 He completed his education at Harvard College 
 when about twenty years of age, and subsequently 
 studied the law, but I believe with no intention of 
 entering the courts. His first appearance as an 
 author was in 1839, when he printed a class poem 
 recited at Cambridge. It was a composition in 
 heroic verse, which, though it betrayed marks of 
 haste, contained many strokes of vigorous satire, 
 much sharp wit, and occasional bursts of feeling. 
 Two years afterward he published a volume of 
 miscellaneous poems, under the title of " A Year's 
 Life." This bore no relationship to his first pro- 
 duction. It illustrated entirely different thoughts, 
 feelings, and habits. It not only evinced a change 
 of heart, but so entire a revolution in his mode of 
 thinking as to seem the production of a different 
 mind. The staple of one forms the satire of the 
 other. Not more unlike are Carlyle's " Life of 
 Schiller" and his "Sartor Resartus." Though 
 "A Year's Life" was by no means deficient in 
 merit, it had so many weak points as to be easily 
 accessible to satirical criticism. The author's lan- 
 guage was not pure. When he would "wreak 
 his thoughts upon expression," in the absence of 
 allowable words, he corrupted such as came near- 
 est his meaning into terms which had an intelli- 
 gible sound, but would not bear a close scrutiny. 
 With all its faults, however, the book had gleams 
 and flashes of genius, which justified warm praises 
 and sanguine expectations. The new poet, it was 
 evident, had an observing eye, and a suggestive 
 imagination ; he had caught the tone and spirit 
 of the new and mystical philosophy ; he had a 
 large heart ; and he aimed, not altogether unsuc- 
 cessfully, to make Nature the representative and 
 minister of his feelings and desires. If he failed 
 in attempts to put thin abstractions and ever-fleet- 
 ing shades of thought and emotion into palpable 
 forms, the signs, in " A Year's Life," of the strug- 
 gling of a larger nature than appeared in defined 
 outlines, made for the author a watchful and hope- 
 ful audience. 
 
 In 1844 Mr. Lowell published a new volume, 
 evincing very decided advancement in thought, and 
 feeling, and execution. The longest of its contents, 
 " A Legend of Brittany," is without any of the stri- 
 king faults of his previous compositions, and in 
 imagination and artistic finish is the best poem he 
 has yet printed. A knight loves and betrays a 
 maiden, and, to conceal his crime, murders her, 
 and places her corpse for temporary concealment 
 behind the altar of his church, whence he is pre- 
 vented by a mysterious awe from removing it. 
 Meanwhile a festival is held there, and when the 
 
 people are all assembled, and the organ sounds, 
 the templar hears the voice of the wronged spirit, 
 complaining that she has no rest in heaven be- 
 cause of the state of the unbaptized infant in her 
 womb, for which she implores the sacrament. Her 
 prayer is granted, and the repentant lover dies of 
 remorse. The illustration of this story gives oc- 
 casion for the finest of Mr. Lowell's exhibitions 
 of love, and the poem is in all respects beautiful 
 and complete. In the same volume appeared the 
 author's " Prometheus," " Rhcecus," and some of 
 his most admired shorter pieces. He put forth in 
 it his best powers, and though it embraced occa- 
 sional redundancies, and he was sometimes so ill- 
 satisfied with his poem as to give in its conclusion 
 a versified exposition of its meaning in the form 
 of a moral, it secured the general consent to his 
 admission into the company of men of genius. 
 
 In 1845 appeared his " Conversations on some 
 of the Old Poets," consisting of a series of criticisms 
 and relevant discussions which evince careful study, 
 delicate perception, and a generous catholicity of 
 taste ; but the book does not contain the best spe- 
 cimens of his criticism or of his prose diction. 
 
 He gave to the public a third collection of his 
 poems in 1848. In this there is no improvement 
 of versification, no finer fancy, or braver imagina- 
 tion, than in the preceding volume ; but it illus- 
 trates a deeper interest in affairs, and a warm par- 
 tisanship for the philanthropists and progressists 
 of all classes. Among his subjects are " The Pres- 
 ent Crisis," "Anti-Texas," "The Capture of Fu- 
 gitive Slaves," " Hunger and Cold," " The Land- 
 lord," &c. - He gives here the first examples of a 
 peculiar humour, which he has since cultivated 
 with success, and many passages of finished decla- 
 mation and powerful invective. He had been mar- 
 ried, in 1844, to Miss Maria White, whose abili- 
 ties are shown in a graceful composition included 
 in this volume, and by others which I have quoted 
 in the " Female Poets of America." 
 
 In the same year Mr. Lowell published " A 
 Fable for Critics, or a Glance at a Few of our 
 Literary Progenies," a rhymed essay, critical and 
 satirical, upon the principal living writers of the 
 country. It abounds in ingenious turns of ex- 
 pression, and felicitous sketches of character ; it 
 is witty and humorous, and for the most part in a 
 spirit of genial appreciation ; but in a few instan- 
 ces the judgments indicate too narrow a range of 
 sympathies, and the caustic severity of others has 
 been attributed to desires of retaliation. 
 
 The " Fable for Critics" was soon followed by 
 " The Biglow Papers," a collection of veises in 
 the dialect of New England, with an introduction 
 and notes, written hi the character of a pedantic 
 
 565 
 
566 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 but sharp-witted and patriotic country parson. 
 The book is a satire upon the defences of our re- 
 cent war against Mexico, and it exhibits in various 
 forms of indigenous and homely humour the in- 
 dignation with which the contest was regarded by 
 the hest sort of people in the eastern states. The 
 sectional peculiarities of idiom are perhaps exag- 
 gerated, but the entire work has an appearance 
 of genuineness. 
 
 About the same time appeared Mr. Lowell's 
 " Vision of Sir Launfal," a poem founded upon 
 the legend of the search for the Holy Grail, (the 
 cup out of which our Lord drank with his disci- 
 
 ples at the last supper.) In the winter of 1854-5 
 he delivered a course of lectures before the Lowell 
 Institute in Boston, on the British poets, which 
 greatly increased his reputation ; and on the retire- 
 ment of Mr. Longfellow from the professorship 
 of modern languages in the Harvard College, the 
 following spring, was chosen to the vacant chair, 
 and soon after sailed for Europe to spend there 
 one or two years in preparation for its duties. 
 
 The growth of Mr. Lowell's fame has been 
 steady and rapid from the beginning of his literary 
 career, and no one of our younger authors has a 
 prospect of greater eminence. 
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 De ah common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 'T is the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offer'd wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my trophies and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time ; 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee 
 Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
 In the white lily's breezy tint, 
 His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows on the grass — 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways — 
 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 Or whiten in the wind — of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap — and of a sky above, [move. 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd with 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, [thee ; 
 
 Who, from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listen'd as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he did bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Another star 'neath Time's horizon dropp'd, 
 To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas ! 
 
 Another heart that beat for freedom stopp'd : 
 What mournful words are these ! 
 
 Oh ! Love divine, thou claspest our tired earth, 
 
 And lullest it upon thy heart, 
 Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth, 
 To teach men what thou art. 
 
 His was a spirit that to all thy poor 
 
 Was kind as slumber after pain : 
 Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door 
 
 And call him home again 1 
 
 Freedom needs all her poets : it is they 
 
 Who give her aspirations wings, 
 And to the wiser law of music sway 
 
 Her wild imaginings. 
 
 Yet thou hast call'd him, nor art thou unkind, 
 
 Oh ! Love divine, for 'tis thy will 
 That gracious natures leave their love behind 
 
 To work for Freedom still. 
 
 Let laurell'd marbles weigh on other tombs, 
 
 Let anthems peal for other dead, 
 Rustling the banner'd depth of minster-glooms 
 
 With their exulting spread : 
 
 His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, 
 
 No lichen shall its lines efface ; 
 He needs these few and simple lines alone 
 
 To mark his resting-place : — 
 
 " Here lies a poet : stranger, if to thee 
 
 His claim to memory be obscure, 
 If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, 
 
 Go, ask it of the poor." 
 
JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 567 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Through suffering and sorrow thou hast pass'd 
 To show us what a woman true may be : 
 They have not taken sympathy from thee, 
 Nor made thee any other than thou wast ; 
 Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast, 
 Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown, 
 Upon the air, but keepeth every one 
 Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last ; 
 So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety, 
 But never one of steadfast cheerfulness; 
 Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity 
 Robb'd thee of any faith in happiness, 
 But rather clear'd thine inner eyes to see 
 How many simple ways there are to bless. 
 
 II. THE FIERY TRIAL. 
 
 The hungry flame hath never yet been hot 
 
 To him who won his name and crown of fire ; 
 
 But it doth ask a stronger soul and higher 
 
 To bear, not longing for a prouder lot, 
 
 Those martyrdoms whereof the world knows not, — 
 
 Hope sneaped with frosty scorn, the faith of youth 
 
 Wasted in seeming vain defence of Truth, 
 
 Greatness o'ertopp'd with baseness, and fame got 
 
 Too late : — Yet this most bitter task was meant 
 
 For those right worthy in such cause to plead, 
 
 And therefore God sent poets, men content 
 
 To live in humbleness and body's need, 
 
 If they may tread the path where Jesus went, 
 
 And sow one grain of Love's eternal seed. 
 
 I ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap 
 From being's sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken, 
 With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken 
 And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep ; 
 Give me that growth which some perchance deem 
 Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, [sleep, 
 Which, by the toil of gathering energies, 
 Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, 
 Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences, 
 Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green 
 Into a pleasant island in the seas, 
 Where, mid tall palms, the cane-roof 'd home is seen, 
 And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour, 
 Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power. 
 
 IV. TO , ON HER BIRTH-DAT. 
 
 Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born, 
 The morning-stars their ancient music make, 
 And, joyful, once again their song awake, 
 Long silent now with melancholy scorn ; 
 And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, 
 By no least deed its harmony shalt break, 
 But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, 
 Through life's most darksome passes, unforlorn; 
 Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, 
 Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, 
 And, in thine every motion, musical 
 As summer air, majestic as the sea, 
 A mystery to those who creep and crawl 
 Through Time, and part it from Eternity. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die ; 
 
 Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, 
 
 Whose numberimj-clock is still thy gentle kiss. 
 
 While Time and Peace with hands enlocked fly, — • 
 
 Yet care I not where in Eternity 
 
 We live and love, well knowing that there is 
 
 No backward step for those who feel the bliss 
 
 Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high : 
 
 Love hath so purified my heart's strong core, 
 
 Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, 
 
 To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before ; 
 
 Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given, 
 
 Which each calm day doth strengthen more and 
 
 more, 
 That they who love are but one step from Heaven. 
 
 IV. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. 
 
 Great soul thou sittest with me in my room, 
 Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, 
 On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies 
 The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom : 
 Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom 
 Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, 
 Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, 
 Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom ; 
 Yes ! the few words which, like great thunder-drops, 
 Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully, 
 Thrill'd by the inward lightning of its might, 
 Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, 
 Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny, 
 After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops. 
 
 Our love is not a fading, earthly flower ; 
 
 Its wing'd seed dropp'd down from Paradise, 
 
 And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower, 
 
 Doth momently to fresher beauty rise : 
 
 To us the leafless autumn is not bare, 
 
 Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green, 
 
 Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, whero 
 
 No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen : 
 
 For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, 
 
 Love, — whose forgetfulness is beauty's death, 
 
 Whose mystic keys these cells of Thou and I 
 
 Into the infinite freedom openeth, 
 
 And makes the body's dark and narrow grate 
 
 The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. 
 
 VIII. IN ABSENCE. 
 
 These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, 
 Did I not know, that, in the early spring, 
 When wild March winds upon their errands sing, 
 Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air, 
 Like those same winds, when, startled from their 
 They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks [lair, 
 From icy cares, even as thy clear looks 
 Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care : 
 When drops with welcome rain the April day. 
 My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes, 
 Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay, 
 As loath to fall out of those happy skies ; 
 Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May, 
 That comes with steady sun when April dies. 
 
568 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Lsr the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, 
 
 The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife ; 
 He saw the mysteries which circle under 
 
 The outward shell and skin of daily life. 
 Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, 
 
 His soul was led by the eternal law ; 
 There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, 
 
 But with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw. 
 He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, 
 
 Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, 
 Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried 
 
 Alone were fitting themes of epic verse : 
 He could believe the promise of to-morrow, 
 
 And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day ; 
 He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow 
 
 Than the world's seeming loss could take away. 
 To know the heart of all things was his duty, 
 
 All things did sing to him to make him wise, 
 And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, 
 The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. 
 He gazed on all within him and without him, 
 
 He watch'd the flowing of Time's steady tide, 
 And shapes of glory floated all about him 
 
 And whisper'd to him, and he prophesied. 
 Than all men he more fearless was and freer, 
 
 And all his brethren cried with one accord, — 
 " Behold the holy man ! Behold the Seer ! 
 
 Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord !" 
 He to his heart with large embrace had taken 
 
 The universal sorrow of mankind, 
 And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, 
 
 The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. 
 He could interpret well the wondrous voices 
 Which to the calm and silent spirit come ; 
 He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices 
 In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. 
 He in his heart was ever meek and humble, 
 
 And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, 
 As he foresaw how all things false should crumble 
 
 Before the free, uplifted soul of man : 
 And, when he was made full to overflowing 
 
 With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, 
 Out rush'd his song, like molten iron glowing, 
 
 To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. 
 With calmest courage he was ever ready 
 
 To teach that action was the truth of thought, 
 And, with strong arm and purpose firm and 
 steady, 
 The anchor of the drifting world he wrought, 
 So did he make the meanest man partaker 
 Of all his brother-gods unto him gave ; 
 All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, 
 And when he died heaped temples on his grave. 
 And still his deathless words of light are swimming 
 
 Serene throughout the great, deep infinite 
 Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, 
 To cheer and guide the mariner at night. 
 But now the Poet is an empty rhymer 
 
 Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, 
 And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, 
 
 To all mer's prides and fancies as they pass. 
 Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, 
 Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, 
 
 Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, 
 
 And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. 
 Maker no more, — O, no ! unmaker rather, 
 
 For he unmakes who doth not all put forth 
 The power given by our loving Father 
 
 To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. 
 Awake ! great spirit of the ages olden ! 
 
 Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 
 And let man's soul be yet again beholden 
 
 To thee for wings to soar to her desire. 
 0, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, 
 
 Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, 
 Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, 
 
 The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth ! 
 0, prophesy no more the Maker's coining, 
 
 Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear 
 In the dim void, like to the awful humming 
 
 Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere ! 
 O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet ! 
 
 This longing was but granted unto thee 
 That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, 
 
 That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. 
 0, thou who moanest, tost with sealike longings, 
 
 Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, 
 Whose soul is overfill'd with mighty throngings 
 
 Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, 
 Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews 
 
 And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 
 In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, 
 
 The old free nature is not chain'd or dead, 
 Arouse ! let thy soul break in music-thunder, 
 
 Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, 
 Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, 
 
 And tell the age what all its signs have meant. 
 Where'er thy wilder'd crowd of brethren jostles, 
 
 Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong, 
 There still is need of martyrs and apostles, 
 
 There still are texts for never-dying song : 
 From age to age man's still aspiring spirit 
 
 Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, 
 And thou in larger measure dost inherit 
 
 What made thy great forerunners free and wise. 
 Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain 
 
 Above he thunder lifts its silent peak, 
 And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, 
 That all may drink and find the rest they seek. 
 Sing ! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, 
 
 A silence of deep awe and wondering ; 
 For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, 
 To hear a mortal like an angel sing. 
 
 Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking 
 
 For one to bring the Maker's name to light, 
 To be the voice of that almighty speaking 
 
 Which every age demands to. do it right. 
 Proprieties our silken bards environ ; 
 
 He who would be the tongue of this wide land 
 Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron 
 
 And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand ; 
 One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended. 
 
 Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, 
 Whose soul with all her countless fives hath blended, 
 
 So that all beauty awes us in his looks ; 
 Who not with body's waste his soul hath pamper'd, 
 
 Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 569 
 
 Who walks with Form's observances unhamper'd, 
 
 And follows the One Will obediently ; 
 Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, 
 
 Control a lovely prospect every way ; 
 Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet, 
 
 And find a bottom still of worthless clay; 
 Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, 
 
 Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, 
 And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, 
 
 One God-built shrine of reverence and love; 
 Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches 
 
 Around the centre fix'd of Destiny, 
 Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches 
 
 The moving globe of being, like a sky ; [nearer 
 Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are 
 
 Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, 
 Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer 
 
 Than that of all his brethren, low or high ; 
 Who to the right can feel himself the truer 
 
 For being gently patient with the wrong, 
 Who sees a brother in the evildoer, 
 
 And finds in Love the heart's blood of his song; — 
 This, this is he for whom the world is waiting 
 
 To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 
 Too long hath it been patient with the grating 
 
 Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. 
 To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, 
 
 Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, 
 And once again in every eye shall glisten 
 
 The glory of a nature satisfied. 
 His verse shall have a great, commanding motion, 
 
 Heaving and swelling with a melody 
 Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, 
 
 And all the pure, majestic things that be. 
 Awake, then, thou ! we pine for thy great presence 
 
 To make us feel the soul once more sublime, 
 We are of far too infinite an essence 
 
 To rest contented with the lies of Time. 
 Speak out ! and, lo ! a hush of deepest wonder 
 
 Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, 
 As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder 
 
 Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A LEGEND OF BRIT- 
 TANY. 
 
 Thett swell'd the organ : up through choir and nave 
 The music trembled with an inward thrill 
 
 Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave 
 Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until 
 
 The hush'd air shiver'd with the throb it gave, 
 Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, 
 
 And sank and rose again, to burst in spray 
 
 That wander'd into silence far away. 
 
 Like to a mighty heart the music seem'd, 
 That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, 
 
 Until, in grand despair of what it dream'd, 
 In the agony of effort it doth break, 
 
 Yet triumphs breaking ; on it rush'd and stream'd 
 And wanton'd in its might, as when a lake, 
 
 Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls 
 
 And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls. 
 
 Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, 
 As the huge bass kept gathering heavily, 
 
 Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, 
 
 And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung 
 
 It grew up like a darkness everywhere, [sky : 
 
 Filling the vast cathedral ; — suddenly, 
 
 From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke 
 
 Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke. 
 
 Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, 
 Brimming the church with gold and purple mist, 
 
 Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, 
 Where fifty voices in one strand did twist 
 
 Their varicolour'd tones, and left no want 
 To the delighted soul, which sank abyss'd 
 
 In the warm music-cloud, while, far below, 
 
 The organ heaved its surges to and fro. 
 
 As if a lark should suddenly drop dead 
 
 While the blue air yet trembled with its song, 
 
 So snapped at once that music's golden thread, 
 Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along 
 
 From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread 
 With instantaneous shiver through the throng, 
 
 So that some glanced behind, as half aware 
 
 A hideous shape of dread were standing there. 
 
 (As, when a crowd of pale men gather round, 
 Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, 
 
 From which they deem'd the body of one drown'd 
 Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep 
 
 An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound, 
 Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, 
 
 Starts up, its dead blue arms stretch'd aimlessly. 
 
 Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea, — 
 
 So in the faces of all these there grew, 
 As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, 
 
 Which with a fearful fascination drew 
 All eyes toward the altar ; damp and raw 
 
 The air grew suddenly, and no man knew 
 Whether perchance his silent neighbour saw 
 
 The dreadful thing, which all were sure would rise 
 
 To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. 7 
 
 The incense trembled as it upward sent 
 
 Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, 
 
 As 't were the only living element 
 
 In all the church, so deep the stillness grew ; 
 
 It seem'd one might have heard it, as it went, 
 Give out an audible rustle, curling through 
 
 The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, 
 
 More hush'd than death, though so much life was 
 there. 
 
 THE SYRENS. 
 
 The sea is lonely, the sea is dreaiy, 
 The sea is restless and uneasy ; 
 Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, 
 Wandering thou knowest not whither ;— 
 Our little isle is green and breezy, 
 Come and rest thee ! come hither ! 
 Come to this peaceful home of ours, 
 
 Where evermore 
 The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore 
 To be at rest among the flowers : 
 
570 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 
 As the dark waves of the sea 
 Draw in and out of rocky rifts, 
 
 Calling solemnly to thee 
 With voices deep and hollow, — 
 " To the shore 
 Follow ! O follow ! 
 To be at rest for evermore ! 
 For evermore! 
 
 Look how the gray, old Ocean 
 From the depth of his heart rejoices, 
 Heaving with a gentle motion, 
 When he hears our restful voices ; 
 List how he sings in an undertone, 
 Chiming with our melody ; 
 And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
 Melt into one low voice alone, 
 That murmurs over the weary sea, — 
 And seems to sing from everywhere, — 
 " Here mayest thou harbour peacefully, 
 Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar ; 
 
 Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
 And in our green isle rest for evermore ! 
 
 For evermore !" 
 And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, 
 And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
 Murmurs over in her sleep, 
 Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 
 "Evermore !" 
 
 Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 Ever singing low and clear, 
 Ever singing longingly. 
 
 Is it not better here to be, 
 Than to be toiling late and soonl 
 In the dreary night to see 
 Nothing but the blood-red moon 
 Go up and down into the sea; 
 Or, in the loneliness of day, 
 
 To see the still seals only 
 Solemnly lift their faces gray, 
 
 Making it yet more lonely 1 
 Is it not better, than to hear 
 Only the sliding cf the wave 
 Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
 A cold and lonely grave, 
 A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
 Even in death unquietly 1 
 Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, 
 
 Lean over the side and see 
 The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
 
 Upturned patiently, 
 Ever waiting there for thee : 
 Look down and see those shapeless forms, 
 
 Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 
 
 Far down within the gloomy deep, 
 And only stir themselves in storms, 
 Rising like islands from beneath, 
 And snorting through the angry spray, 
 As the frail vessel perisheth 
 In the whirls of their unwieldy play ; 
 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, 
 
 That waves its arms so lank and brown, 
 
 Beckoning for thee ! 
 Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
 Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 
 Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sad, from far and near, 
 Ever singing full of fear, 
 Ever singing drearfully. 
 
 Here all is pleasant as a dream; 
 The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, 
 The green grass floweth like a stream 
 Into the ocean's blue : 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 Here is a gush of many streams, 
 
 A song of many birds, 
 And every wish and longing seems 
 Lull'd to a number'd flow of words, — 
 
 Listen' ! O listen ! 
 Here ever hum the golden bees 
 Underneath full-blossom'd trees, 
 At once with glowing fruit and flowers crown'd ; — 
 The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, 
 That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ; 
 All around, with a slumberous sound, 
 The singing waves slide up the strand, 
 And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, 
 The waters gurgle longingly, 
 As if they fain would seek the shore, 
 To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
 To be at rest for evermore, — 
 For evermore. 
 
 Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
 
 Heareth the marinere 
 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 
 Ever singing in his ear, 
 
 " Here is rest and peace for thee !" 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 
 
 He spoke of Bums : men rude and rough 
 Press'd round to hear the praise of one 
 Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, 
 As homespun as their own. 
 
 And, when he read, they forward leaned, 
 Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, 
 His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned 
 From humble smiles and tears. 
 
 Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
 Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, 
 As if in him who read they felt and saw 
 Some presence of the bard. 
 
 It was a sight for sin and wrong 
 And slavish tyranny to see, 
 A sight to make our faith more pure and strong 
 In high humanity. 
 
 I thought, these men will carry hence 
 Promptings their former life above, 
 And something of a finer reverence 
 For beauty, truth, and love. 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 571 
 
 God scatters love on every side, 
 Freely among his children all, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide, 
 Wherein some grains may fall. 
 
 There is no wind but soweth seeds 
 Of a more true and open life, 
 Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds 
 With wayside beauty rife. 
 
 We find within these souls of ours 
 Some wild germs of a higher birth, 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 These promises of wider bliss, 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 
 In sunny hours like this. 
 
 All that hath been majestical 
 In life or death, since time began, 
 Is native in the simple heart of all, 
 The angel heart of man. 
 
 And thus, among the untaught poor, 
 Great deeds and feelings find a home, 
 That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
 Of classic Greece and Rome. 
 
 mighty brother-soul of man, 
 Where'er thou art, in low or high, 
 Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
 O'er-roof infinity ! 
 
 All thoughts that mould the age begin 
 Deep down within the primitive soul, 
 And from the many slowly upward win 
 To one who grasps the whole : 
 
 In his broad breast the feeling deep 
 That struggled on the many's tongue, 
 Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap 
 O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 
 
 All thought begins in feeling, — wide 
 In the great mass its base is hid, 
 And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, 
 A moveless pyramid. 
 
 Nor is he far astray who deems 
 That every hope, which rises and grows broad 
 In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams 
 From the great heart of God. 
 
 God wills, man hopes : in common souls 
 Hope is but vague and undefined, 
 Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls 
 A blessing to his kind. 
 
 Never did Poesy appear 
 So full of heaven to me, as when 
 I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear 
 To the fives of coarsest men. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in sight 
 Once in a century ; — 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 One simple word, which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line, 
 Which, seeking not the praise of art, 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the untutor'd heart. 
 
 He who doth this, in verse or prose, 
 May be forgotten in his day, 
 But surely shall be crown'd at last with those 
 Who five and speak for aye. 
 
 THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
 
 And he inherits soft, white hands, 
 And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
 And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants. 
 His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears the pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
 And wearies in his easy chair ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in lee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In every useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ! 
 Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things, 
 
 A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 
 
 Content that from employment springs, 
 A heart that in his labour sings ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit % 
 A patience learn'd by being poor, 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
572 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 0, rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 
 But only whiten, soft, white hands, — 
 This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state ; 
 There is worse weariness than thine, 
 
 In merely being rich and great ; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 Are equal in the earth at last ; 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By record of a well-fill'd past ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 TO THE FUTURE. 
 
 0, Laxd of Promise ! from what Pisgah's height 
 Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers'? 
 Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, 
 
 Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers 1 
 Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold, 
 
 Its crags of opal and of crysolite, 
 Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 
 Still brightening abysses, 
 And blazing precipices, 
 Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, 
 Sometimes a glimpse is given, 
 Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted 
 blisses. 
 
 O, Land of Quiet ! to thy shore the surf 
 
 Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps ; 
 Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf 
 
 And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom leaps, 
 As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart, 
 Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, 
 
 The hurrying feet, the curses without numoer, 
 And, circled with the glow Elysian, 
 Of thine exulting vision, 
 Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and 
 slumber. 
 
 To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands 
 And cries for vengeance ; with a pitying smile 
 Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, 
 And her old wo-worn face a little while 
 Grows young and noble ; unto thee the Oppressor 
 Looks, and is dumb with awe; 
 The eternal law 
 Wliich makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, 
 Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, 
 
 And he can see the grim-eyed Doom 
 From out the trembling gloom 
 Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. 
 
 What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes, 
 
 Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong ! 
 To all their hopes what overjoy'd replies ! 
 
 What undream'd ecstasies for blissful song ! 
 Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawling clangor 
 Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor ; 
 The humble glares not on the high with anger; 
 
 Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more ; 
 In vain strives self the godlike sense to smother ; 
 From the soul's deeps 
 It throbs and leaps ; 
 The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long lost 
 brother. 
 
 To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 
 
 Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free ; 
 
 To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 
 
 And grief and hunger climb about his knee 
 
 Welcome as children : thou upholdest 
 
 The lone Inventor by his demon haunted ; 
 
 The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest, 
 And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, 
 Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, 
 And stretch its happy arms and leap up disen- 
 chanted. 
 
 Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly 
 
 The guilty thinks it pity ; taught by thee 
 Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly 
 Their own souls they were scarring; con- 
 querors see 
 With horror in their hands the accursed spear 
 That tore the meek One's side on Calvary, 
 And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear ; 
 Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
 The beauty of man's soul to man revealing ; 
 The arrows from thy quiver 
 Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for 
 healing. 
 
 0, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, 
 
 From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye 
 bear me 1 
 Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, 
 This agony of hopeless contrast spare me ! 
 Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night ! 
 He is a coward who would borrow 
 A charm against the present sorrow 
 From the vague Future's promise of delight : 
 As life's alarums nearer roll, 
 The ancestral buckler calls, 
 Self-clanging, from the walls 
 In the high temple of the soul; 
 Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, 
 To feed the soul with patience, 
 To heal its desolations 
 With words of unshorn truth, with love that never 
 wearies. 
 
JAMES T. FIELDS 
 
 [Born, 1820.] 
 
 Mr. Fields is a native of Portsmouth, New 
 Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He 
 is a partner in a well-known publishing and book- 
 selling house in that city. His principal poems 
 are " Commerce," read before the Boston Mercan- 
 tile Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, 
 when he was associated as poet with Edward Ev- 
 erett, who delivered on the occasion one of his 
 most brilliant orations ; and " The Post of Honour," 
 read before the same society in ] 848, when Dan- 
 iel Webster preceded him as orator. For several 
 years he has been an occasional contributor to the 
 magazines, and a few of his poems, as " The Fair 
 Wind," " Yankee Ships," and " Dirge for a Young 
 Girl," have been copied from them into the news- 
 papers of all parts of the Union. The general 
 style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thought- 
 ful, and harmonious ; and though evidently unla- 
 bored, they are characterized by much refinement of 
 taste and an intuitive perception of metrical propri- 
 eties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in 
 expression, and dashing in movement, and have 
 that charm which comes from a " polished want of 
 polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied 
 with instinctive taste. The " Sleighing Song" has 
 
 a clear, cold, merry sparkle, and a rapidity of met- 
 rical motion (the very verse seeming to go on run- 
 ners), which bring the quick jingle of bells and the 
 moon making diamonds out of snow-flakes, vividly 
 home to the fancy. Perhaps his most character- 
 istic poem, in respect to subtlety of sentiment and 
 delicacy of illustration, is " A Bridal Melody." 
 There is a mystical beauty in it which eludes a 
 careless eye and untuned ear. 
 
 Besides his serious poems, he has produced some 
 very original mirthful pieces, in which are adroit 
 touches of wit, felicitous hits at current follies, and 
 instances of quaint humour, laughing through prim 
 and decorous lines, which evince a genius for vers 
 de societie. 
 
 The poems Mr. Fields has given us are evident- 
 ly the careless products of a singularly sensitive 
 and fertile mind — indications rather than expo- 
 nents of its powers — furnishing evidence of a ca- 
 pacity which it is to be hoped the engagements of 
 business will not wholly absorb. 
 
 In 1847 and the following year Mr. Fields vi- 
 sited Europe, and soon after his return a collection 
 of his poems was published by Ticknor and Com- 
 pany, of Boston. 
 
 ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS, 
 
 BROUGHT FROM GERMANY. 
 
 Gift, from the land of song and wine — 
 Can I forget the enchanted day, 
 
 When first along the glorious Rhine 
 I heard the huntsman's bugle play, 
 
 And mark'd the early star that dwells 
 
 Among the cliffs of Drachenfels ! 
 
 Again the isles of beauty rise ; 
 
 Again the crumbling tower appears, 
 That stands, defying stormy skies, 
 
 With memories of a thousand years ; 
 And dark old forests wave again, 
 And shadows crowd the dusky plain. 
 
 They brought the gift, that I might hear 
 The music of the roaring pine — 
 
 To fill again my charmed ear 
 
 With echoes of the Rodenstein — 
 
 With echoes of the silver horn, 
 
 Across the wailing waters borne. 
 
 Trophies of spoil ! henceforth your place 
 
 Is in this quiet home of mine; 
 Farewell the busy, bloody chase, 
 
 Mute emblems now of " auld lang syne," 
 When Youth and Hope went hand in hand 
 To roam the dear old German land. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. 
 
 We were crowded in the cabin, 
 Not a soul would dare to sleep — 
 
 It was midnight on the waters, 
 And a storm was on the deep. 
 
 'T is a fearful thing in winter 
 To be shatter'd in the blast, 
 
 And to hear the rattling trumpet 
 Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" 
 
 So we shudder'd there in silence — 
 For the stoutest held his breath, 
 
 While the hungry sea was roaring, 
 And the breakers talked with Death. 
 
 As thus we sat in darkness, 
 
 Each one busy in his prayers — 
 
 " We are lost !" the captain shouted, 
 As he stagger'd down the stairs. 
 
 But his little daughter whisper'd, 
 
 As she took his icy hand, 
 "Isn't God upon the ocean, 
 
 Just the same as on the land ]" 
 
 Then we kiss'd the little maiden. 
 And we spoke in better cheer, 
 
 And we anchor'd safe in harbor 
 When the morn was shining clear. 
 573 
 
574 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 She that is fair, though never vain or proud, 
 More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; 
 Whose taste refined even female friends admire, 
 Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire ; 
 She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, 
 To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd ; 
 True to herself, yet willing to submit, 
 More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit : 
 Though young, discreet — though ready, ne'er un- 
 Blest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind : [kind, 
 She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts in- 
 So at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline, 
 
 ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES, 
 
 SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET. 
 
 To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd 
 How wealth and glory cluster'd in her streets, 
 And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill, 
 We send these tributes, plunder'd from the sea. 
 These many-colour'd, variegated forms, 
 Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall 
 To the deep music of the Atlantic wave. 
 Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop, 
 Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange, 
 Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair, 
 And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf: 
 From narrow cells, scoop'd in the rocks, we take 
 These fairy textures, lightly moor'd at morn. 
 Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep, 
 We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these. 
 Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles, 
 Festoon'd and spangled in sea-caves, and say 
 What hues of land can rival tints like those, 
 Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings 
 Who dwell beneath the waters ! Such our gift, 
 Cull'd from a margin of the western world, 
 And offer'd unto genius in the old. 
 
 FROM "THE POST OF HONOUR." 
 
 GLORY. 
 UsrcHAUfiisTG Power! thy genius still presides 
 O'er vanquished fields, and ocean's purpled tides ; 
 Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, 
 Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword ; 
 For thee and thine combining squadrons form 
 To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm ; 
 The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, 
 And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame ; 
 For him the bell shall wake its loudest song, 
 For him the cannon's thunder echo long, 
 For him a nation weave the unfading crown, 
 And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. 
 So Nelson- watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, 
 Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze — 
 Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, 
 And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. 
 So the young hero, with expiring breath, 
 Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, 
 Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast, 
 And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; 
 Then dies, like Lawrence, trembling on his lip 
 That cry of Honour, " Don't give up the ship !" 
 
 TRUE HONOUR. 
 
 The painter's skill life's lineaments may trace, 
 And stamp the impress of a speaking face ; 
 The chisel's touch may make that marble warm 
 Which glows with all but breathing manhood's 
 But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [form — 
 Are those which write their impress on the heart. 
 On Taefourd's page what bright memorials glow 
 Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below ! 
 Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd, 
 Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd, 
 Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here, 
 The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere. 
 Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust, 
 And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust, 
 To Elia's grave the pilgrim shall repair, 
 And hang with love perennial garlands there. 
 
 And thou, great bard of never-dying name, 
 Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame ; 
 For who, that wanders by the dust of Ghat 
 While memory tolls the knell of parting day, 
 But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb, 
 That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom, 
 To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear, 
 So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier ! 
 Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave, 
 " Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave." 
 Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea, 
 The countless shrines of woman's charity 1 
 In thy gay capital, bewildering France, [dartee, 
 Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling 
 Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome, 
 Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home, 
 Methinks I see that sainted sister now 
 Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow ; 
 Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace, 
 With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face 1 
 Ah ! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, 
 We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears. 
 
 WEBSTER. 
 Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, 
 Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed ; 
 Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, 
 And all their country's honest fame deride. 
 All are not such : some glowing blood remains 
 To warm the icy current of our veins — 
 Some from the watch-towers still descry afar 
 The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. 
 When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, 
 Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale ! 
 On some great point where Honour takes her stand, 
 The Ehrenbreitstein of our native land — 
 See, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, 
 The mail'd defender of her rights and laws ! 
 On his great arm behold a nation lean, 
 And parcel empire with the island queen ; 
 Great in the council, peerless in debate, 
 Who follows Webster takes the field too late. 
 Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, 
 From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore ; 
 See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, 
 See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, 
 Roam through the world, but find no brighter names 
 Than those true honour for Columbia claims. 
 
JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 575 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 The white dawn glimmered and he said" 'tisday !" 
 The east was reddening and he sighed "Farewell" — 
 The herald Sun came forth and he was dead. 
 
 Life was in all his veins but yester-morn, 
 
 And ruddy health seemed laughing on his lips; — 
 
 Now he is dust and will not breathe again ! 
 
 Give him a place to lay his regal head, 
 Give him a tomb beside his brothers gone, 
 Give him a tablet for his deeds and name. 
 
 Hear the new voice that claims the vacant throne, 
 Take the new hand outstretched to meet thy kiss, — 
 But give the Past — 'tis all thou canst — thy tears! 
 
 SLEIGHING-SONG. 
 
 Oh swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow, 
 When moonbeams sparkle round ; 
 
 When hoofs keep time to music's chime. 
 As merrily on we bound. 
 
 On a winter's night, when hearts are light, 
 
 And health is on the wind, 
 We loose the rein and sweep the plain, 
 
 And leave our cares behind. 
 
 With a laugh and song, we glide along 
 
 Across the fleeting snow ; 
 W T ith friends beside, how swift we ride 
 
 On the beautiful track below ! 
 
 Oh, the raging sea has joy for me, 
 When gale and tempests roar ; 
 
 But give me the speed of a foaming steed, 
 And I '11 ask for the waves no more. 
 
 FAIR WIND. 
 
 Oh, who can tell, that never sail'd 
 
 Among the glassy seas, 
 How fresh and welcome breaks the mom 
 
 That ushers in a breeze ! 
 " Fair wind ! fair wind !" alow, aloft, 
 
 All hands delight to cry, 
 As, leaping through the parted waves, 
 
 The good ship makes reply. 
 
 While fore and aft, all staunch and tight, 
 
 She spreads her canvass wide, 
 The captain walks his realm, the deck, 
 
 With more than monarch's pride ; 
 For well he knows the sea-bird's wings, 
 
 So swift and sure to-day, 
 Will waft him many a league to-night 
 
 In triumph on his way. 
 
 Then welcome to the rushing blast 
 
 That stirs the waters now — 
 Ye white-plumed heralds of the deep, 
 
 Make music round her prow ! 
 Good sea-room in the roaring gale, 
 
 Let stormy trumpets blow ; 
 But chain ten thousand fathoms down 
 
 The sluggish calm below ! 
 
 DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 Undeiiin-eath the sod, low lying, 
 
 Dark and drear, 
 Sleepeth one who left, in dying, 
 
 Sorrow here. 
 Yes, they're ever bending o'er her, 
 
 Eyes that weep ; 
 Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, 
 
 Vigils keep. 
 When the summer moon is shining 
 
 Soft and fair, 
 Friends she loved in tears are twining 
 
 Chaplets there. 
 Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 
 
 Throned above ; 
 Souls like thine with God inherit 
 
 Life and love ! 
 
 LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. 
 
 " Aix the hedges are in bloom, 
 
 And the warm west wind is blowing , 
 Let me leave this stifled room — 
 Let me go where flowers are growing. 
 
 " Look ! my cheek is thin and pale, 
 And my pulse is very low ; 
 Ere my sight begins to fail, 
 Take my hand and let us go ; 
 
 " Was not that the robin's song 
 
 Piping through the casement wide 1 
 I shall not be listening long — 
 Take me to the meadow-side ! 
 
 " Bear me to the willow-brook — 
 
 Let me hear the merry mill — 
 On the orchard I must look, 
 
 Ere my beating heart is still. 
 " Faint and fainter grows my breath — 
 
 Bear me quickly down the lane ; 
 Mother dear, this chill is death — 
 
 I shall never speak again !" 
 Still the hedges are in bloom, 
 
 And the warm west wind is blowing; 
 Still we sit in silent gloom — 
 
 O'er her grave the grass is growing. 
 
 A BRIDAL MELODY. 
 
 She stood, like an angel just wander'd from heaven, 
 A pilgrim benighted away from the skies, 
 
 And little we deem'd that to mortals were given 
 Such visions of beauty as came from her eyes. 
 
 She look'd up and smiled on the many glad faces, 
 The friends of her childhood, who stood by her side ; 
 
 But she shone o'er them all, like a queen of the 
 Graces, 
 When blushing she whisper'd the vow of a bride. 
 
 We sang an old song, as with garlands we crown'd 
 
 her, 
 And each left a kiss on her delicate brow ; [her, 
 And we pray'd that a blessing might ever surround 
 And the future of life be unclouded as now. 
 
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 [Born, 1819.] 
 
 Thomas Dunn English was born in Phila- 
 delphia on the twenty-ninth of June, 1819 ; re- 
 ceived the degree of Doctor of Medicine, from the 
 University of Pennsylvania, in 1839; and after- 
 wards studying the law, was admitted to the bar in 
 1842. He wrote "Walter Woolfe, or the Doom 
 of the Drinker," a novel, in 1842 ; "Mdcccxlii. 
 or the Power of the S. F.," a political romance, in 
 1846 ; and, with G. G. Foster, an octavo volume 
 on the then recent European revolutions, in 1848. 
 He has edited " The Aristidean," a monthly maga- 
 zine ; "The John Donkey," a comic weekly; "The 
 Philadelphia Lancet," " The New York Aurora," 
 and a few other journals, besides writing largely 
 for "De Bow's Review," the "American Review," 
 and "Sartain's Magazine." Since 1852 he has 
 resided in south-western Virginia. 
 
 Dr. English published a collection of his 
 "Poems," in New York, in 1855. Several of 
 them are written in a style of vigorous declama- 
 tion, upon subjects to which such a style is suit- 
 able. The stirring lyric of " The Gallows Goers," 
 is the best of his productions, and there are few 
 more effective examples of partisan verse. It was 
 much quoted during the agitation of the death- 
 punishment question in several of the states be- 
 tween 1845 and 1850. Of a more poetical char- 
 acter are various love songs, written carelessly, 
 
 but with freshness and apparent earnestness. Of 
 one of these, entitled "Dora Lee," the concluding 
 verses display in a creditable manner his abilities 
 for description : 
 
 " Oh, cabin brown ! low-roofed and fast decaying ! 
 
 No kin of mine now dwell within your walls ; 
 Around your ruins now the gray fox straying 
 
 His step arrests, and to his fellow calls. 
 The mountain, o'er whose top the winds are blowing, 
 
 Still rears its form as loftily to the gaze ; 
 The waterfall yet roars ; the stream is flowing 
 
 As wildly as it flowed in other days : 
 The eagle soars as he was wont; his screaming 
 
 Is heard o'erhead, as loudly as when I, 
 Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming, 
 
 Looked up to note his dark form on the sky. 
 Yet I shall see him not ; nor hill nor valley, 
 
 Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on ; 
 Although they rise around continually, 
 
 'T is that they are in constant memory drawn. 
 There are they figured, deeply as an etching 
 
 Worked on soft metal by strong hand could be; 
 And in the foreground of that life-like sketching 
 
 She stands most life-like — long lost Doka Lee." 
 
 Dr. English is of that large and busy class 
 known as " reformers," and seldom writes without 
 some other purpose than the making of verses. 
 His poems commonly refer to the experiences of 
 humble life, which they reflect with distinctness 
 and fidelity. 
 
 BEN BOLT. 
 
 Do n't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
 
 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, 
 
 And trembled with fear. at your frown 1 
 In the old churchyard'in the valley, Ben Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone, 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 
 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Which stood at the foot of the hill, 
 Together we 've lain in the noonday shade, 
 
 And listened to Appleton's mill : 
 The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in, 
 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you 
 gaze, 
 
 Has followed the olden din. 
 
 * In the preface to his poems, Dr. English notices quite 
 unnecessarily an unfounded charge of plagiarism in con- 
 nection with this popular song. No such charge ever de- 
 serves or receives attention unless accompanied by specifi- 
 cations and citations, such as were quite impossible in this 
 case. 
 
 576 
 
 Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 
 At the edge of the pathless wood, 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 
 
 Which nigh by the door-step stood ? 
 The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The tree you would seek in vain ; 
 And where once the lords of the forest waved, 
 
 Grows grass and the golden grain. 
 
 And do n't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and'grim, 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook, 
 
 Where the children went to swim 1 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is dry, 
 And of all the boys who were schoolmates then, 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 
 
 They have changed from the old to the new; 
 But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, 
 
 There never was change in you. 
 Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
 Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, 
 
 Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. 
 
J. M. LEGARE 
 
 (Born, 18—.] 
 
 Mr. Legaue is of Charleston, South Carolina, 
 and is of the family of the late eminent scholar 
 and orator Hugh S. Legare. He published, in 
 Boston, in 1848, " Orta Undis, and other Poems," 
 in Latin and English, and he has since contribu- 
 ted to the literary miscellanies many compositions 
 
 of various but progressive excellence. His favour- 
 ite themes are of love and nature, and his writings 
 are often pervaded by a religious feeling. His taste 
 is elegant, and his tone chivalrous and manly. 
 His verse is occasionally abrupt and harsh — per- 
 haps from attempted condensation. 
 
 THANATOKALLOS. 
 
 I think we faint and weep more than is manly ; 
 I think we more mistrust than Christians should. 
 Because the earth we cling to interposes 
 And hides the lower orbit of the sun, 
 We have no faith to know the circle perfect, 
 And that a day will follow on the night: 
 Nay, more, that when the sun we see, is setting, 
 He is but rising on another people, 
 And not his face but ours veil'd in darkness. 
 We are less wise than were the ancient heathen 
 Who temper'd feasting with a grisly moral. 
 
 "With higher hope, we shrink from thoughts of 
 dying, 
 And dare not read, while yet of death unbidden, 
 As gipsies in the palm, those seams, and circles, 
 And time-worn lineaments, which kings in purple 
 Have trembled to behold, but holy men, 
 Interpreting aright, like martyr' d Stephen - , 
 In singleness of heart have sunk to sleep ; 
 Gob's children weary with an evening ramble. 
 Unthinking custom from our very cradle 
 Makes us most cowards where we should be bold. 
 The house is closed and hush'd ; a gloom funereal 
 Pervades the rooms once cheerful with the light ; 
 Sobs and outcries from those we love infect us 
 With strange disquiet, making play unsought 
 Before they take us on the knee and tell us 
 We must no more be joyful, for a dread 
 And terrible calamity has smitten one. 
 
 And then, poor innocents, with frighted hearts 
 Within the awful chamber are we led 
 To look on death ; the hard, impassive face, 
 The formal shroud, which the stiff feet erect 
 Into the semblance of a second forehead, 
 Swathed and conceal'd ; the tumbler whence he 
 
 drank 
 Who ne'er shall drink again ; the various adjuncts 
 Of a sick room ; the useless vials 
 Half emptied only, on the hearth the lamp, 
 Even the fly that buzzes round and settles 
 Upon the dead man's mouth, and walking thence 
 Into his nostril, starts him not from slumber. 
 All portions of the dreary, changeless scene 
 37 
 
 In the last drama, with unwholesome stillness 
 Succeeding to the weepings and complaints 
 Of Heaven's own justice, and loud cries for succour 
 That fill the dying ear not wholly dead, 
 Distract the fluttering spirit, and invest 
 A death-bed with a horror not its own. 
 I thought of these things sadly, and I wonder'd 
 If in this thanatopsis, soul as clay 
 Took part and sorrow'd. While I this debated, 
 I knew my soul was loosing from my hold, 
 And that the pines around, assuming shape 
 Of mournful draperies, shut out the day. 
 Then I lost sight and memory for a moment, 
 Then stood erect beside my usual couch, 
 And saw my longwhile tenement, a pallid 
 And helpless symbol of my former self. 
 The hands laid heavily across the breast, 
 The eyelids down, the mouth with final courage 
 That aim'd a smile for sake of her who watch'd, 
 But lapsed into a pang and so congeal'd, 
 Half sweet, half suffering : Aria to Caecinna. 
 Poor sinful clod, erewhile the spirit's mastei 
 Not less than servant, with desire keen 
 Alloying love, and oft with wants and achings 
 Leading the mind astray from noblest deeds 
 To sell its birthright for an Esau's portion. 
 I all forgave, for I was all forgiven. 
 Phosphor had brought a day too broad for twilight 
 Or mist upon its confines. All the old 
 Sad mysteries that raise gigantic shadows 
 Betwixt our mortal faces and God's throne, 
 Had fainted in its splendour ; pride and sin, 
 Sorrow and pain, and every mortal ill, 
 In the deserted tenement remain'd, 
 A palace outwardly, a vault within. 
 And so, because she thought it still a palace 
 And not a prison with the prisoner fled, 
 She stood before the gates accustom'd. Weeping, 
 Laid her moist cheek upon its breast, and cried, 
 " My lord ! my life !" to what had ceased from living, 
 And could no more command with word or eyes. 
 It moved my pity sorely, for these fingers, 
 Now lock'd in agonizing prayer, once turn'd 
 Gently the pages of his life who slumber'd ; 
 And this brave mouth, with words of faith and cheer 
 
 577 
 
578 
 
 J. M. LEG ARE. 
 
 Strew'd flowers in the path he needs must tread ; 
 That as a conqueror and not a captive, 
 Dragg'd at the heavy chariot-wheels of Time, 
 And through an arch triumphal, where for others 
 A narrow portal opens in the sod, 
 Silent, and sad, and void of outlet, he 
 The kingdom of his Loud might enter in. 
 Thus she made dying sweet and full of beauty 
 As life itself. There was no harsh transition ; 
 He that slept twofold, woke a single nature 
 Beatified and glad. But she who stay'd, 
 Poor little Roman heart, no longer brave 
 Now that the eyes were shut forevermore, 
 Which made all virtues sweeter for their praise, 
 Saw not the joy and greatness of the change. 
 And I drew near her, as a spirit may 
 Not to the mortal ear, but that the words 
 Seem'd teachings of her bruised and lowly soul : 
 "Is this the poet of thy summer days, 
 The thoughtful husband of maturer years 1 
 Are these the lips whose kindly words could reach 
 The deepness of thy nature 1 If they be, 
 Let them resume their own, nor tarry. Nay, 
 Thou knowest all that thou didst ever love 
 Is lifted out, and all that thou didst hate 
 Lived in the flesh, and with the flesh remains. 
 What matters it to thee if this decays, 
 And mingling with the sod, is trampled on 
 Of clownish feet, by gleaming share upturn'd, 
 Or feeds a rose, or roots a noisome weed ? 
 How canst thou halve thy heart, half to the grave, 
 Half to high Heaven yield 1 Thank God instead, 
 That he who was so dear to thee, released 
 From sin and care, at length has found great peace." 
 While she thus mused, her silent tears were stay'd, 
 And kneeling down, with her sweet, patient face 
 Lifted toward heaven, itself sufficient prayer — 
 -" Loud God !" she cried, " thou kuowest best how 
 
 weak 
 And frail I am, and faithless; give me strength 
 To take the rod thou sendest for a staff, 
 And falter never more in this lone journey !" 
 Then she went forth and gather'd freshest flowers, 
 And strew'd them on the dead : young violets 
 Upon the breast, verbena round the temples, 
 Loose rose-leaves o'er the mouth, to hide the pang, 
 And in his hand a lily newly open'd, 
 In token of her faith and his transition. 
 And in her eyes there reign'd such quietude, 
 That those who saw her, said, " An angel surely 
 Has spoken with her, or her reason's moved 
 By sufferings prolong'd." But none might say 
 She loved but lightly, or with levity 
 Look'd forward to the common lot of all. 
 
 MAIZE IN TASSEL. 
 
 The blades of maize are broad and green, 
 The farm-roof scarcely shows between 
 The long and softly-rustling rows 
 Through which the farmer homeward goes. 
 The blue smoke curling through the trees, 
 The children round their mother's knees, 
 He sees, and .thanks God while he sees. 
 
 He holds one in his sturdy hands 
 
 Aloft, when at the threshold stands 
 
 (None noticed whence) a stranger. " Dame," 
 
 The stranger said, as half with shame 
 
 He made request ; " astray and poor, 
 
 By hunger guided to your door, 
 
 I" — " Hush," she answer'd, " say no more !" 
 
 The farmer set the prattler down — 
 
 (Soft heart, although his hands were brown !) 
 
 With words of welcome brought and pour'd 
 
 Cool water from the spring : the board 
 
 The wife set out. What mellow light 
 
 Made the mean hovel's walls as white 
 
 As snow ! how sweet their bread that night ! 
 
 Long while their humble lot had been 
 
 To dwell with poverty : between 
 
 Them all one pallet and a bed 
 
 Were shared. But to the latter led, 
 
 The guest in peaceful slumber lay, 
 
 While, with what broken sleep they may, 
 
 The dame and host await the day. 
 
 So pass'd the night. At length the dawn 
 
 Arrived, and show'd the stranger gone. 
 
 To none had e'er been closed their door 
 
 Who ask'd for alms ; yet none before 
 
 Had so much lack'd in courtesy. 
 
 So spoke the wife. Her husband, he 
 
 Sat musing by most anxiously — 
 
 Of sterner need. A drought that year 
 
 Prevail'd, and though the corn in ear 
 
 Began to swell, must perish all 
 
 Unless a kindly rain should fall. 
 
 God send it straight ! — or toil from morn 
 
 To eve, the hoard of buried corn, 
 
 Ay, food itself, were lost and gone. 
 
 Such thoughts now bring him to the door : 
 
 Perchance some cloud sails up before 
 
 The morning breeze. None — none ; in vain 
 
 His eyes explore the blue again : 
 
 With sighs to earth returns his gaze. 
 
 Ha ! what is here 1 — to God be praise ! 
 
 See, see the glad drops on the maize ! 
 
 No mist had dimm'd the night, and yet 
 
 The furrows all lay soft and wet, 
 
 As if with frequent showers ; nay, 
 
 More — all bloom that shuns the day, 
 
 And tassel tall, and ear and blade, 
 
 With heavy drops were downward weighed, 
 
 And a swift stream the pathway fray'd. 
 
 Long while might I prolong this strain, 
 Relating thence how great his gain ; 
 How he who held not from the poor, 
 Now saw his corncribs running o'er ; 
 And how his riches grew amain, 
 And on his hillside ripen'd grain 
 When parch'd was that within the plain. 
 
 But who the guest was of that night 
 Conjecture thou — I dare not write. 
 We know that angels, with the mien 
 Of men, of men the guests have been ; 
 That he who giveth to the poor, 
 Lends to the Lord. (I am not sure — ) 
 The promise here deep meaning bore. 
 
EKASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 
 
 Erasttts W. Ellsworth was born in East 
 Windsor, Connecticut, in November, 1822. His 
 father was at that time a merchant, doing business 
 in New York, in which city our author passed his 
 boyhood until 1833, when the family retired to a 
 farm, in his native town, where they have ever 
 since resided, He was graduated at Amherst Col- 
 lege, in 1844, and soon after commenced the study 
 of 'the law, but a predilection for natural philoso- 
 phy induced the devotion of much of his time to 
 experimental studies, chiefly relating to machinery 
 and mechanical inventions, and in 1845 he took 
 out two patents, one for a drawing or copying in- 
 strument, and the other for a device for making a 
 syphon discharge a portion of its contents at the 
 highest point, or curve, thus making it available 
 for elevating water or other fluids. Both these in- 
 ventions are now in practical though not exten- 
 sive use; and their reception led him to abandon 
 his legal studies, and to enter an extensive foun- 
 dry and machine shop, where he remained, among 
 tools and machinery, until he acquired a competent 
 knowledge of the art and mystery of making 
 steam-engines. If his profession is now demanded, 
 he calls himself a machinist, but he has never 
 since the completion of his novitiate given the 
 trade much attention. 
 
 His first published poem, entitled "The Yan 
 kee," appeared in 1849, and he has since been an 
 occasional contributorto the literary journals. His 
 best and longest poem, the finest structure in Eng- 
 lish verse from the suggestive materials furnished 
 by the classical legend, is "Ariadne," originally 
 printed in the "International Magazine" for 1852. 
 It reminds us, in some passages, of " Comus," but 
 its peculiar merits as a specimen of poetical art 
 are decided and conspicuous. In the spring of 
 1855 he published his first volume, containing not 
 a complete collection, nor perhaps the best selec- 
 tion that might have been offered of his fugitive 
 pieces, but such as exhibited in the most striking 
 manner the variety of his tastes and talents. The 
 leading poem is entitled " The Chimes," the main 
 idea of which is, that poets derive a portion of 
 their inspiration from each others' songs, and for 
 its illustration he pays Mr. Longfellow a delicate 
 compliment by imitating the melody of one of his 
 beautiful productions. His success led to a ridi- 
 culous but offensively-stated charge of plagiarism 
 in one of the monthly magazines. 
 
 Of Mr. Ellsworth's shorter poems one of the 
 most thoughtful and impressive is, " What is the 
 Use ]" It might be abridged without injury, but it 
 is a performance to be pondered and remembered. 
 
 WHAT IS THE USE] 
 
 I saw a man, by some accounted wise, 
 
 For some things said and done before their eyes, 
 
 Quite overcast, and in a restless muse, 
 
 Pacing a path about, 
 
 And often giving out : 
 "What is the use!" 
 Then I, with true respect : What meanest thou 
 By those strange words, and that unsettled brow ] 
 Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample views, 
 
 To these things thou art born. 
 
 But he as one forlorn : 
 " What is the use]" 
 " I have surveyed the sages and their books, 
 Man, and the natural world of woods and brooks, 
 Seeking that perfect good that I would choose ; 
 
 But find no perfect good, 
 
 Settled and understood. 
 What is the use ] 
 " Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the beam, 
 Even in a breath bounding to each extreme 
 Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse 
 
 All beaten ways of bliss, 
 
 And only answer this : 
 What is the use ] 
 
 " The hoodwinked world is seeking happiness. 
 'Which way!' they cry, 'here]' 'no!' ' there V 
 
 'who can guess]' 
 And so they grope, and grope, and grope, and cruise 
 On, on, till life is lost, 
 At blindman's with a ghost. 
 What is the use] 
 
 "Love first,with most,then wealth, distinction, fame, 
 Quicken the blood and spirit on the game. 
 Some try them all, and all alike accuse — ■ 
 
 'I have been all,' said one, 
 
 • And find that all is none.' 
 What is the use ] 
 
 " In woman's love we sweetly are undone ; 
 Willing to attract, but harder to be won, 
 Harder to keep is she whose love we choose. 
 Loves are like flowers that grow 
 In soils on fire below. 
 What is the use] 
 " Some pray for wealth, and seem to pray aright ; 
 They heap until themselves are out of sight ; 
 Yet stand, in charities, not over shoes, 
 And ask of their old age 
 As an old ledger page, 
 What is the use ] . . . . 
 
 579 
 
580 
 
 ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 
 
 " The strife for fame and the high praise of power, 
 
 Is as a man, who, panting up a tower, 
 
 Bears a great stone, then, straining all his thews, 
 
 Heaves it, and sees it make 
 
 A splashing in a lake. 
 What is the use ? . . . . 
 
 " Should some new star, in the fair evening sky 
 Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye 
 Of flamings eminent, athwart the dews, 
 
 Our thoughts would say ; No doubt 
 
 That star will soon burn out. 
 What is the use? 
 
 " Who'll care for me, when I am dead and gone 1 
 Not many now, and surely, soon, not one ; 
 And should I sing like an immortal Muse, 
 
 Men, if they read the line, 
 
 Read for their good, not mine ; 
 What is the use? .... 
 
 " Spirit of Beauty ! Breath of golden lyres ! 
 Perpetual tremble of immortal wires ! 
 Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse ! 
 
 Conspicuous wretchedness ! 
 
 Thou starry, sole success ! — 
 What is the use! 
 
 " Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow, 
 
 That he who makes it is not easy now, 
 
 But hopes to be ? Vain hope that dost abuse ! 
 
 Coquetting with thine eyes, 
 
 And fooling him who sighs. 
 What is the use ? 
 
 " Go pry the lintels of the pyramids ; 
 Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin lids — 
 This dust was theirs whose names these stones con- 
 fuse, 
 These mighty monuments 
 Of mighty discontents. 
 What is the use ? 
 
 "Did not he sum it all, whose Gate of Pearls 
 Blazed royal Ophir, Tyre, and Syrian girls — 
 The great, wise, famous monarch of the Jews ? 
 
 Though rolled in grandeur vast, 
 
 He said of all, at last : 
 What is the use ? 
 
 ". O ! but to take, of life, the natural good, 
 Even as a hermit caverned in a wood, 
 More sweetly fills my sober-suited views, 
 
 Than sweating to attain 
 
 Any luxurious pain. 
 What is the use? 
 
 "Give me a hermit's life, without his beads — ■ 
 His lantern-jawed, and moral-mouthing creeds; 
 Systems and creeds the natural heart abuse. 
 
 What need of any book, 
 
 Or spiritual crook? 
 What is the use ? 
 
 " I love, and God is love ; and I behold 
 Man, Nature, God, one triple chain of gold — 
 Nature in all sole oracle and muse. 
 
 What should I seek, at all, 
 
 More than is natural ? 
 What is the use?" 
 
 Seeing this man so heathenly inclined — 
 So wilted in the mood of a good mind, 
 I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought ; 
 
 And studying in reply, 
 
 Answered him, eye to eye : 
 
 Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mistake 
 The wandering rivers for the fountain lake. 
 What is the end of living ? — happiness ? 
 
 An end that none attain, 
 
 Argues a purpose vain. 
 
 Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss, 
 But duty. Yet we see not all that is, 
 Or may be, some day, if we love the light. 
 
 What man is, in desires, 
 
 Whispers where man aspires. 
 
 But what and where are we ? what now — to-day ? 
 Souls on a globe that spins our lives away — • 
 A multitudinous world, where Heaven and Hell, 
 
 Strangely in battle met, 
 
 Their gonfalons have set. 
 
 Dust though we are, and shall return to dust, 
 Yet being born to battles, fight we must ; 
 Under which ensign is our only choice. 
 
 We know to wage our best, 
 
 God only knows the rest. 
 
 Then since we see about us sin and dole, 
 
 And some things good, why not, with hand and soul, 
 
 Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sorrow — , 
 
 Grasping the swords of strife, 
 
 Making the most of life ? 
 
 Yea, all that we can wield is worth the end, 
 If sought as God's and man's most loyal friend. 
 Naked we come into the world, and take 
 
 Weapons of various skill — 
 
 Let us not use them ill. 
 
 As for the creeds, Nature is dark at best; 
 And darker still is the deep human breast. 
 Therefore consider well of creeds and books, 
 
 Lest thou mayst somewhat fail 
 
 Of things beyond the vail. 
 
 Nature was dark to the dim starry age 
 Of wistful Job; and that Athenian sage, 
 Pensive in piteous thought of Faith's distress; 
 For still she cried, with tears: 
 "More light, ye crystal spheres!" 
 
 Butrouse thee, man! Shakeoff this hideousdeath! 
 Be man ! Stand up ! Draw in a mighty breath ! 
 This world has quite enough emasculate hands, 
 
 Dallying with doubt and sin. 
 
 Come — here is work — begin ! 
 Come, here is work — and a rank field — begin. 
 Put thou thine edge to the great weeds of sin; 
 So shalt thou find the use of life, and see 
 
 Thy Lord, at set of sun, 
 
 Approach and say: "Well done!" 
 
 This at the last : They clutch the sapless fruit, 
 Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who suit 
 Their course of life to compass happiness ; 
 
 But be it understood 
 
 That, to be greatly good, 
 All is the use. 
 
THOMAS BUCHANAN EEAD. 
 
 Mr. Eead was born in Chester county, Penn- 
 sylvania, on the twelfth of March, 1822. His 
 family having separated, in consequence of the 
 death of his father, he in 1839 went to Cincin- 
 nati, where he was employed in the studio of 
 Clevenger the sculptor, and here his attention 
 was first directed to painting, which he chose for 
 his profession, and soon practised with such skill 
 as to arrest the favourable notice of some of the 
 most eminent persons of the city and adjoining 
 country, several of whom, including the late Presi- 
 dent Harrison, sat to him for portraits, which he 
 carried as specimens of his abilities to New York, 
 when he settled in that city in 1841, while still 
 under twenty years of age. After a few months he 
 removed to Boston, where he remained until 1846, 
 when he went to Philadelphia, and there practised 
 his profession, occasionally writing for the periodi- 
 cals, until 1850, in which year he made his first visit 
 toEurope. After spending a few months in Great 
 Britain and on the continent, he returned, in 1852, 
 passed the following winter in Cincinnati, and in 
 the summer of 1853 went abroad a second time, 
 accompanied by his family, and settled in Flo- 
 rence, where he has since resided, in friendly inter- 
 course with an agreeable society of artists and 
 men of letters. Here, in July, 1855, his wife and 
 daughter died suddenly of a prevailing epidemic. 
 
 Mr. Read's earliest literary performances were 
 a series of lyrics published in the "Boston Courier" 
 in 1843 and 1844. In 1847 he printed in Boston 
 the first collection of his "Poems;" in 1848, in 
 Philadelphia, " Lays and Ballads;" in 1849, in the 
 same city, " The Pilgrims of the Great Saint Ber- 
 nard," a prose romance, in the successive num- 
 bers of a magazine ; in 1853 an illustrated edition 
 of his " Poems," comprising, with some new pieces, 
 all he wished to preserve of his other volumes; 
 and in 1855 the longest of his works, "The New 
 Pastoral," in thirty-seven books. 
 
 Familiar experiences enable him to invest his 
 descriptions with a peculiar freshness. His recollec- 
 tions are of the country, and of the habits of the 
 primitive Pennsylvania farmers, in many respects 
 the most picturesque and truly pastoral to be found 
 in these active and practical times. A school of 
 American pastoral poetry is yet to be established. 
 The fresh and luxuriant beauty of our inland 
 scenery has been sung in noble verse by Bryant 
 and Whittier, and with less power in the sweet 
 and plaintive strains of Carlos Wilcox, and the 
 striking productions of Street and Gallagher; 
 but the life of an American farmer has not yet 
 received a just degree of attention from our poets. 
 Mr. Read has made it the subject of a work in every 
 way creditable to his talents and taste. He had 
 
 already touched on this ground very successfully 
 in his " Stranger on the Sill," " The Deserted 
 Road," and other illustrations of country life, the 
 graphic and healthful sentiment of which was ge- 
 nerally recognised. In the " New Pastoral" he 
 has still further and even more happily displayed 
 his capacities for this kind of writing. Its princi- 
 pal theatre is a neighborhood in one of the most 
 beautiful regions of Pennsylvania, beside the Sus- 
 quehanna. "I have seen," he says : 
 
 " In lands less free, less fair, but far more known, 
 
 The streams which flow through history and yet 
 
 Nor Rhine, like Bacchus crowned, and reeling through 
 His hills, nor Danube, marred with tyranny, 
 His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores; 
 Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring 
 Athwart the fairest, fruitfullest, and worst 
 Enslaved of European lands ; nor Seine, 
 Winding uncertain through inconstant France, 
 Are half so fair as thy broad stream, whose breast 
 Is t vmmed with many isles, and whose proud name 
 Shall yet become among the names of rivers, 
 A synonym for beauty." 
 
 The poem consists of a series of sketches of 
 rustic and domestic life, mostly of primitive sim- 
 plicity, and so truthful as to be not less valuable 
 as history than attractive as poetry. 
 
 Mr. Read's distinguishing characteristic is a de- 
 licate and varied play of fancy. His more ambi- 
 tious productions display its higher exercise, rather 
 than that of a distinct and creative imagination; 
 he is a lark, flickering aloft in the pure air of song, 
 not an eagle, courting its storms and undazzled by 
 its meridian splendour. And, to extend the com- 
 parison, his muse most delights in common and 
 humble subjects. The flowers that spring by the 
 dusty wayside, the cheerful murmur of the mead- 
 ow brook, the village tavern, and rustic mill, and 
 all quiet and tender impulses and affections, are 
 his favourite sources of inspiration. He excels in 
 homely description, marked frequently by quaint- 
 ness of epithet and quiet and natural pathos. 
 
 His verse, though sometimes irregular, is al- 
 ways musical. Indeed, in the easy flow of his 
 stanzas and in the melody of their cadences, he 
 seems to follow some chime of sound within his 
 brain. This is the pervading expression of his 
 poems, many of which might more properly be 
 called songs. Though he has written in the dra- 
 matic form with freedom and unaffected feeling, 
 and extremely well in didactic and descriptive blank 
 verse, his province is evidently the lyrical. 
 
 Like most of our poets, in his earlier poems, Mr 
 Read wrote from the inspiration of foreign song 
 and story, and he seems but lately to have per 
 ceived that the most appropriate field for the exer 
 cise of his powers is to be found at home. 
 
 5S1 
 
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 THE BRICKMAKER. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground, 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded. 
 
 In no stately structures skill'd, 
 What the temple we would build ! 
 Now the massive kiln is risen — 
 Call it palace — call it prison ; 
 View it well : from end to end 
 Narrow corridors extend — 
 Long, and dark, and smother'd aisles : 
 Choke its earthy vaults with piles 
 
 Of the resinous yellow pine; 
 Now thrust in the fetter'd Fire — 
 Hearken ! how he stamps with ire, 
 
 Treading out the pitchy wine ; 
 Wrought anon to wilder spells, 
 
 Hear him shout his loud alarms; 
 
 See him thrust his glowing arms 
 Through the windows of his cells. 
 
 But his chains at last shall sever ; 
 Slavery lives not forever ; 
 And the thickest prison wall I 
 Into ruin yet must fall. 
 Whatsoever falls away 
 Springeth up again, they say ; 
 Then, when this shall break asunder, 
 And the fire be freed from under, 
 Tell us what imperial thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring 1 
 
 There shall grow a stately building — 
 Airy dome and column'd walls; 
 
 Mottoes writ in richest gilding 
 Blazing through its pillar' d halls. 
 
 In those chambers, stern and dreaded, 
 They, the mighty ones, shall stand ; 
 
 There shall sit the hoary-headed 
 Old defenders of the land. 
 
 There shall mighty words be spoken, 
 Which shall thrill a wondering world ; 
 
 Then shall ancient bonds be broken, 
 And new banners be unfurl'd. 
 
 But anon those glorious uses 
 In these chambers shall lie dead, 
 
 And the world's antique abuses, 
 Hydra-headed, rise instead. 
 
 But this wrong not long shall linger — 
 
 The old capitol must fall ; 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 
 Flames along the fated wall. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground, 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
 Till the heavy walls be risen, 
 And the fire is in his prison : 
 
 But when break the walls asunder, 
 And the fire is freed from under, 
 Say again what stately thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring] 
 
 There shall grow a church whose steeple 
 
 To the heavens shall aspire ; 
 And shall come the mighty people 
 
 To the music of the choir. 
 
 On the infant, robed in whiteness, 
 
 Shall baptismal waters fall, 
 While the child's angelic brightness 
 
 Sheds a halo over all. 
 
 There shall stand enwreathed in marriage 
 Forms that tremble — hearts that thrill — 
 
 To the door Death's sable carriage 
 
 Shall bring forms and hearts grown still ! 
 
 Deck'd in garments richly glistening, 
 Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle ; 
 
 And the poor without stand listening, 
 Praying in their hearts the while. 
 
 There the veteran shall come weekly 
 With his cane, oppress'd and poor, 
 
 Mid the horses standing meekly, 
 Gazing through the open door. 
 
 But these wrongs not long shall linger — 
 The presumptuous pile must fall ; 
 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 Flames along the fated wall. 
 
 in. 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground ; 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded : 
 Say again what stately thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring 1 
 
 Not the hall with column'd chambers, 
 
 Starr'd with words of liberty, 
 Where the freedom-canting members 
 
 Feel no impulse of the free : 
 
 Not the pile where souls in error 
 
 Hear the words, " Go, sin no more !" 
 
 But a dusky thing of terror, 
 With its cells and grated door. 
 
 To its inmates each to-morrow 
 
 Shall bring in no tide of joy. 
 Born in darkness and in sorrow, 
 
 There shall stand the fated boy. 
 
 With a grief too loud to smother, 
 With a throbbing, burning head, 
 
 There shall groan some desperate mother, 
 Nor deny the stolen bread ! 
 
 There the veteran, a poor debtor, 
 
 Mark'd with honourable scais, 
 Listening to some clanking fetter, 
 
 Shall gaze idly through the bars : 
 
 Shall gaze idly, not demurring, 
 
 Though with thick oppression bow'd , 
 While the many, doubly erring, 
 
 Shall walk honour'd through the crowd. 
 
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 583 
 
 Yet these wrongs not long shall linger- 
 The benighted pile must fall ; 
 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 Flames along the fated wall ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground ; 
 And no weary arms bo folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
 Tdl the heavy walls be risen 
 And the fire is in his prison. 
 Capitol, and church, and jail, 
 Like our kiln at last shall fail ; 
 Every shape of earth shall fade; 
 But the heavenly temple, made 
 For the sorely tried and pure, 
 With its Builder shall endure ! 
 
 THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 
 
 Between broad fields of wheat and corn 
 Is the lowly home where I was born ; 
 The peach-tree leans against the wall, 
 And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
 There is the shaded doorway still, 
 
 But a stranger's foot has cross'd the sill. 
 
 I 
 There is the barn — and, as of yore, 
 I can smell the hay from the open door, 
 And see the busy swallow's throng, 
 And hear the peewee's mournful song ; 
 But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof — 
 His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 
 
 There is the orchard — the very trees 
 Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 
 And watch'd the shadowy moments run 
 Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ; 
 The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
 But the stranger's children are swinging there. 
 
 There bubbles the shady spring below, 
 With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow ; 
 'T was there I found the calamus-root, 
 And watch'd the minnows poise and shoot, 
 And heard the robin lave his wing, 
 But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. 
 
 Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, 
 
 Step lightly, for I love it still ; 
 
 And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
 
 Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
 
 Have pass'd within that scented door 
 
 To gladden eyes that are no more ! 
 
 Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 
 And when your children crowd their knees, 
 Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 
 As if old memories stirr'd their heart : 
 To youthful sport still leave the swing, 
 And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 
 
 The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, 
 The meadows with their lowing herds, 
 The woodbine on the cottage wall — 
 My heart still lingers with them all. 
 Ye strangers on my native sill, 
 Step lightly, for I love it still ! 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Butstg me the juice of the honey fruit, 
 The large translucent, amber-hued, 
 
 Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit 
 The luxury that fills my mood. 
 
 And bring me only such as grew 
 
 Where rarest maidens tend the bowers, 
 
 And only fed by rain and dew 
 
 Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. 
 
 They must have hung on spicy trees 
 
 In airs of far, enchanted vales, 
 And all night heard the ecstasies 
 
 Of noble-throated nightingales : 
 
 So that the virtues which belong 
 To flowers may therein tasted be, 
 
 And that which hath been thrill'd with song 
 May give a thrill of song to me. 
 
 For I wou'd wake that string for thee 
 Which hath too long in silence hung, 
 
 And sweeter than all else should be 
 The song which in thy praise is sung. 
 
 THE DESERTED ROAD. 
 
 Ancient road, that wind'st deserted 
 Through the level of the vale, 
 
 Sweeping toward the crowded market 
 Like a stream without a sail ; 
 
 Standing by thee, I look backward, 
 And, as in the light of dreams, 
 
 See the years descend and vanish 
 Like thy whitely-tented teams. 
 
 Here I stroll along the village 
 As in youth's departed morn ; 
 
 But I miss the crowded coaches, 
 And the driver's bugle-horn — 
 
 Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters 
 Filling buckets at the wells, 
 
 With their wains from Conestoga, 
 And their orchestras of bells. 
 
 To the mossy wayside tavern 
 
 Comes the noisy throng no more ; 
 
 And the faded sign, complaining, 
 Swings unnoticed at the door ; 
 
 While the old, decrepit tollman, 
 Waiting for the few who pass, 
 
 Reads the melancholy story 
 In the thickly-springing grass. 
 
 Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd; 
 
 The usurper of the vale 
 Rolls in fiery, iron rattle, 
 
 Exultations on the gale. 
 
 Thou art vanquish'd and neglected ; 
 
 But the good which thou hast done, 
 Though by man it be forgotten, 
 
 Shall be deathless as the sun. 
 Though neglected, gray, and grassy, 
 
 Still I pray that my decline 
 Mav be through as vernal valleys 
 
 And as blest a calm as thine. 
 
THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Within his sober realm of leafless trees 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 
 
 Like some tann'd reaper in his hour of ease, 
 When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 
 
 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 All sights were mellow'd and all sounds subdued, 
 
 The hills seem'd farther and the streams sang low; 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, ere while armed in gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight ; 
 
 The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; 
 And like a star slow drowning in the light, 
 
 The village church-vane seem'd to pale and faint. 
 
 The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew — 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, — 
 
 Silent till some replying warder blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
 Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 
 Made garruious trouble round her unfledg'd young, 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
 By every light wind like a censer swung : — > 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
 The busy swallows circling ever near, 
 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year ; — 
 
 Where every bird which charm'd the vernal feast, 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 
 
 To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
 All now was songless, empty and forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
 And croak'd the crow thro' all the dreamy gloom ; 
 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 
 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
 
 Sailed slowly by, pass'd noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
 And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 
 The white-haired matron with monotonous tread, 
 
 Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, 
 Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow, — he had walk'd with her, 
 Oft supp'd and broke the bitter ashen crust ; 
 
 And in the dead leaves still he heard the stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
 Her country summon'd and she gave her all ; 
 
 And twice War bow'd to her his sable plume, — ■ 
 Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Regave the swords, — but not the hand that drew 
 And struck for Liberty its dying blow, 
 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 Breath'd thro' her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 
 
 At last the thread was snapp'd: her head was bow'd; 
 
 Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene ; 
 And loving neighbours smooth'd her careful shroud, 
 
 W hile death and winter closed the autumn scene. 
 
 AN INVITATION. 
 
 TO GEOEGE HAMMEESLET. 
 
 Come thou, my friend ; — the cool autumnal eves 
 About the hearth have drawn their magic rings ; 
 
 There, while his song of peace the cricket weaves, 
 The simmering hickory sings. 
 
 The winds unkennell'd round the casements whine, 
 The shelter'd hound makes answer in his dream, 
 
 And in the hayloft, hark, the cock at nine, 
 Crows from the dusty beam. 
 
 The leafless branches chafe the roof all night, 
 And through the house the troubled noises go, 
 
 While, like a ghostly presence, thin and white, 
 The frost foretells the snow. 
 
 The muffled owl within the swaying elm 
 Thrills all the air with sadness as he swings, 
 
 Till sorrow seems to spread her shadowy realm 
 About all outward things. 
 
 Come, then, my friend, and this shall seem no more, 
 Come when October walks his red domain, 
 
 Or when November from his windy floor 
 Winnows the hail and rain : 
 
 And when old Winter through his fingers numb 
 Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam ; 
 
 And when the mill-wheel spiked with ice is dumb 
 Within the neighboring stream : 
 
 Then come, for nights like these have power to wake 
 The calm delight no others may impart, 
 
 When round the fire true souls communing make 
 A summer in the heart. 
 
 And I will weave athwart the mystic gloom, 
 With hand grown weird in strange romance for 
 thee 
 
 Bright webs of fancy from the golden loom 
 Of charmed Poesy. 
 
 And let no censure in thy looks be shown, 
 That I, with hands adventurous and bold, 
 
 Should grasp the enchanted shuttle which was 
 thrown 
 Through mightier warps of old. 
 
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 585 
 
 MY HERMITAGE. 
 
 Within a wood, one summer's day, 
 
 And in a hollow, ancient trunk, 
 I shut me from the world away, 
 
 To live as lives a hermit monk. 
 
 My cell was a ghostly sycamore, 
 
 The roots and limbs were dead with age ; 
 Decay had carved the gothic door 
 
 Which looked into my hermitage. 
 
 My library was large and full, 
 
 Where, ever as a hermit plods, 
 I read until my eyes are dull 
 
 With tears ; for all those tomes were God's. 
 
 The vine that at my doorway swung 
 
 Had verses writ on every leaf, 
 The very songs the bright bees sung 
 
 In honey-seeking visits brief — 
 
 Not brief — though each stayed never long — 
 
 So rapidly they came and went 
 No pause was left in all their song, 
 
 For while they borrowed still they lent. 
 
 All day the woodland minstrels sang — ■ 
 Small feet were in the leaves astir — 
 
 And often o'er my doorway rang 
 The tap of a blue-winged visiter. 
 
 Afar the stately river swayed, 
 
 And poured itself in giant swells, 
 
 While here the brooklet danced and played, 
 And gayly rung its liquid bells. 
 
 The springs gave me their crystal flood, 
 And my contentment made it wine — 
 
 And oft I found what kingly food 
 Grew on the world-forgotten vine. 
 
 The moss, or weed, or running flower, 
 Too humble in their hope to climb, 
 
 Had in themselves the lovely power 
 To make me happier for the time. 
 
 And when the starry night came by, 
 And stooping looked into my cell, 
 
 Then all between the earth and sky 
 Was circled in a holier spell. 
 
 A height and depth, and breadth sublime 
 O'erspread the scene, and reached the stars, 
 
 Until Eternity and Time 
 
 Seemed drowning their dividing bars. 
 
 And voices which the day ne'er hears, 
 And visions which the sun ne'er sees, 
 
 From earth and from the distant spheres, 
 Came on the moonlight and the breeze. 
 
 Thus day and night my spirit grew 
 
 In love with that which round me shone, 
 
 Until my calm heart fully knew 
 The joy it is to be alone. 
 
 The time went by — till one fair dawn 
 
 I saw against the eastern fires 
 A visionary city drawn, 
 
 With dusky lines of domes and spires. 
 
 The wind in sad and fitful spells 
 Blew o'er it from the gates of morn, 
 
 Till I could clearly hear the bells 
 That rung above a world forlorn. 
 
 And well I listened to their voice, 
 
 And deeply pondered what they said — 
 
 Till I arose — there was no choice — 
 I went while yet the east was red. 
 
 My wakened heart for utterance yearned — 
 The clamorous wind had broke the spell- 
 
 I heeds must teach what I had learned 
 Within my simple woodland cell. 
 
 PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 
 
 A fearless shape of brave device, 
 
 Our vessel drives through mist and rain, 
 Between the floating fleets of ice — 
 
 The navies of the northern main. 
 These arctic ventures, blindly hurled 
 
 The proofs of Nature's olden force, — 
 Like fragments of a crystal world 
 
 Long shattered from its skiey course. 
 
 These are the buccaneers that fright 
 The middle sea with dream of wrecks, 
 
 And freeze the south winds in their flight, 
 And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. 
 
 At every dragon prow and helm 
 
 There stands some Viking as of yore ; 
 
 Grim heroes from the boreal realm 
 Where Odin rules the spectral shore. 
 
 And oft beneath the sun or moon 
 
 Their swift and eager falchions glow — ■ 
 
 While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune 
 Comes chafing through some beard of snow. 
 
 And when the far north flashes up 
 With fires of mingled red and gold, 
 
 They know that many a blazing cup 
 Is brimming to the absent bold. 
 
 Up signal there, and let us hail 
 Yon looming phantom as we pass ! 
 
 Note all her fashion, hull, and sail, 
 Within the compass of your glass. 
 
 See at her mast the steadfast glow 
 Of that one star of Odin's throne ; 
 
 Up with our flag, and let us show 
 The Constellation on our own. 
 
 And speak her well ; for she might say, 
 
 If from her heart the words could thaw, 
 Great news from some far frozen bay, 
 
 Or the remotest Esquimaux. 
 Might tell of channels yet untold, 
 
 That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; 
 Of lands which God designs to hold 
 
 A mighty people yet to be : — 
 
 Of wonders which alone prevail 
 
 Where day and darkness dimly meet ; — 
 
 Of all which spreads the arctic sail ; 
 Of Franklin and his venturous fleet : 
 
5S6 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 How, haply, at some glorious goal 
 
 His anchor holds — his sails are furled ; 
 
 That Fame has named him on her scroll, 
 " Columbus of the Polar World." 
 
 Or how his ploughing barques wedge on 
 Thro' splintering fields, with battered shares, 
 
 Lit only by that spectral dawn, 
 
 The mask that mocking darkness wears ; — 
 
 Or how, o'er embers black and few, 
 The last of shivered masts and spars, 
 
 He sits amid his frozen crew 
 
 In council with the norland stars. 
 
 No answer but the sullen flow 
 
 Of ocean heaving long and vast ; — 
 
 An argosy of ice and snow, 
 
 The voiceless North swings proudly past. 
 
 A DIRGE FOR A DEAD BIRD. 
 
 The cage hangs at the window, 
 There 's the sunshine on the sill ; 
 
 But where the form and where the voice 
 That never till now were still 1 
 
 The sweet voice hath departed 
 From its feathery home of gold, 
 
 The little form of yellow dust 
 Lies motionless and cold ! 
 
 Oh, where amid the azure 
 
 Hath thy sweet spirit fled 1 
 I hold my breath and think I hear 
 
 Its music overhead. 
 
 Death has not hushed thy spirit, 
 
 Its joy shall vanish never ; 
 The slightest thrill of pleasure born 
 
 Lives on and lives forever ! 
 
 Throughout the gloomy winter 
 
 Thy soul shed joy in ours, 
 As it told us of the summer-time 
 
 Amid the land of flowers. 
 
 But now thy songs are silent, 
 Except what memory brings ; 
 
 For thou hast folded death within 
 The glory of thy wings ! 
 
 And here thy resting-place shall be 
 
 Beneath the garden bower ; 
 A bush shall be thy monument, 
 
 Thy epitaph a flower ! 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The moon looks down on a world of snow, 
 And the midnight lamp is burning low, 
 And the fading embers mildly glow 
 
 In their bed of ashes soft and deep ; 
 All, all is still as the hour of death ; 
 I only hear what the old clock saith, 
 And the mother and infant's easy breath, 
 
 That flows from the holy land of Sleep. 
 
 Say on, old clock — I love you well, 
 
 For your silver chime, and the truths you tell, 
 
 Your every stroke is but the knell 
 
 Of hope, or sorrow, buried deep ; 
 Say on — but only let me hear 
 The sound most sweet to my listening ear, 
 The child and the mother breathing clear 
 
 Within the harvest-fields of Sleep. 
 
 Thou watchman, on thy lonely round, 
 I thank thee for that warning sound ; 
 The clarion cock and the baying hound 
 
 Not less their dreary vigils keep ; 
 Still hearkening, I will love you all, 
 While in each silent interval 
 I hear those dear breasts rise and fall 
 
 Upon the airy tide of Sleep. 
 
 Old world, on time's benighted stream 
 Sweep down till the stars of morning beam 
 From orient shores — nor break the dream 
 
 That calms my love to pleasure deep ; 
 Roll on, and give my Bud and Rose 
 The fulness of thy best repose, 
 The blessedness which only flows 
 
 Along the silent realms of Sleep. 
 
 THE NAMELESS. 
 
 Come fill, my merry friends, to-night, 
 
 And let the winds unheeded blow, 
 And we will wake the deep delight 
 
 Which true hearts only know. 
 And ere the passing wine be done, 
 
 Come drink to those most fair and dear, 
 And I will pledge a cup to one 
 
 Who shall be nameless here. 
 
 Come fill, nor let the flagon stand, 
 
 Till pleasure's voice shall drown the wind, 
 Nor heed old Winter's stormy hand 
 
 Which shakes the window-blind. 
 And down the midnight hour shall run 
 
 The brightest moments of the year; 
 While I will fill, my friends, to one 
 
 Who shall be nameless here. 
 
 Pledge you to lips that smile in sleep, 
 
 Whose dreams have strewed your path with 
 And to those sacred eyes that weep [flowers, 
 
 Whene'er your fortune lowers ; 
 And charm the night, ere it be done, 
 
 With names that are forever dear, 
 While I must pour and quaff to one 
 
 Who shall be nameless here. 
 
 To her I proudly poured the first 
 
 Inspiring beaker of the Rhine, 
 And still it floods my veins as erst 
 
 It filled the German vine. 
 And when her memory, like the sun, 
 
 Shall widen down my dying year, 
 My latest cup will be to one 
 
 Who shall be nameless here. 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER 
 
 [Born, 1823.] 
 
 George Heset Borer was born in Philadel- 
 phia in 1823, and was graduated bachelor of arts 
 at Nassau Hall, Princeton, when nineteen years 
 of age. After travelling same time in Europe, and 
 making himself familiar with contemporaneous lit- 
 eratures among their creators, he settled in his na- 
 tive city, to devote a life of opulent leisure to the 
 cultivation of letters and to the enjoyment of the 
 liberal arts and of society. 
 
 His first appearance as an author was in a small 
 volume published in 1847, under the title of " The 
 Lesson of Life, and other Poems." In this were 
 indications of a manly temper and a cultivated 
 taste, but it had the customary faults of youthful 
 compositions in occasional feebleness of epithet, in- 
 distinctness, diffuseness, and a certain kind of ro- 
 manticism that betrays a want of experience of the 
 world. Its reception however by judicious critics, 
 who saw amid its faults the signs of a fine under- 
 standing, justified new efforts; and turning his 
 attention to the drama, he produced in the follow- 
 ing year " Calaynos, a Tragedy," which gave him 
 large increase of reputation in the best audience 
 of this country. The plot of this play illustrates 
 the hatred of the Moors by the Castilians. Ca- 
 laynos, a nobleman of a sincere and generous 
 nature, whose youth has been passed in the study 
 of philosophy and in acts of kindness, and whose 
 Saracen taint of blood is concealed from his wife, 
 Donna Alda, until made known in the progress of 
 the history, proposes to leave his retirement for a 
 journey to Seville. There is a superstition among 
 the neighbouring peasants that a visit to Seville is 
 dangerous to the race of Calaynos, and Oliver, 
 his secretary, whose practical sagacity alone is ne- 
 cessary to the perfection of the master's character, 
 has also a presentiment of evil on this occasion, 
 and endeavours to dissuade him from his purpose ; 
 upon which Calaynos discloses that the principal 
 object of his journey is to see an early friend, Don 
 Luis, who has become involved in difficulties and 
 whose estates will be sacrificed unless he receives 
 by a certain day considerable assistance in money. 
 Arriving in Seville with Oliver, Calaynos dis- 
 charges the obligations of Don Luis, who so wins 
 upon his affection that he persuades him to become 
 his guest. The party in the next act are at the 
 castle of Calaynos, where Don Luis discovers 
 that Calaynos is of Moorish origin, and having 
 fallen in love with the wife of his benefactor, in a 
 secret interview he informs her of her disgrace. 
 It is difficult to appreciate the intensity of the pre- 
 judice which made this revelation so important ; 
 and it is an objection to the play for acting pur- 
 poses, that out of Spain and Portugal few audi- 
 ences could sympathize with it, though the histori- 
 cal student will perceive that Mr. Boker has not 
 
 at all exaggerated it. Donna Alda, struggling 
 between love and pride, calls upon her husband, 
 faints, and is borne from the scene in the arms of 
 Don Luis; and the act closes with Calaynos's 
 discovery of his friend's ingratitude and his wife's 
 perfidy. In the month which passes before the 
 opening of the last act, Calaynos has become 
 old through grief. His secretary, returned from 
 a pursuit of the fugitives, informs him that Donna 
 Alda had fled from the residence of her seducer ; 
 she is discovered, seeking shelter from a storm un- 
 der the walls of the castle, brought in, recognised, 
 and dies, referring to a written exposure of the vil- 
 lany of Don Luis. Calaynos, convinced of her 
 innocence, hastens to Seville, and slays the de- 
 stroyer of his happiness in the midst of his de- 
 baucheries. This simple story is managed with 
 much skill, and so as to produce a cumulative in- 
 terest to its close. The characters, besides those 
 already referred to, are some half dozen gentlemen 
 to make side speeches and care about the details 
 of the plot. They are distinctly drawn, in most 
 cases with finely contrasted idiosyncracies (though 
 the hero and heroine converse somewhat too much 
 in the same style), and they are all excellently sus- 
 tained. The action is less dramatic than the dia- 
 logue, which in some parts evinces great power, 
 and, more frequently, those happy turns of expres- 
 sion which disclose a chief element of the dramatic 
 faculty. 
 
 " Calaynos" was first enacted at the Saddlers' 
 Wells Theatre in London, in May, 1849, with very 
 decided success, and its merits, both as a play 
 and as a poem, were generally recognised by the 
 English critics. 
 
 The next production of Mr. Boker was " Anne 
 Boleyn, a Tragedy," which in many respects sur- 
 passes " Calaynos," evincing more skill in the use 
 of language, more force in the display of passion, 
 and a finer vein of poetical feeling, with the same 
 admirable contrasts of character, and unity and di- 
 rectness of conduct. 
 
 Mr. Boker has been an occasional writer for 
 the periodical miscellanies, and in " The Song of 
 the Earth" and in " The Spirit of Poetry," which 
 are quoted in the following pages, he has dis- 
 played a richness of invention, a copiousness of 
 illustration, and a vigour and finish of style, that 
 amply vindicate his right to be classed among the 
 small number of our writers of verses who are po- 
 ets. The attraction of these pieces, like that of 
 his more ambitious performances, consists more in 
 their general cast than in the strength or grace of 
 particular ideas, or a fit elegance of .phrase. It is 
 a fault indeed, less conspicuous in his minor poems 
 than in his tragedies, that modelling himself after 
 some of the older masters of English verse, there 
 
 587 
 
588 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 is an occasional want of ease in the structure of his 
 sentences, and in his selection of words an insen- 
 sibility to the more delicate charms of language : 
 a fault that is not likely to outlast the full devel- 
 opment of his genius. It would be easy to point 
 out in " Calaynos" many passages which are spoiled 
 
 by inversions altogether unnecessary to the perfec- 
 tion of the rhythm, or by other departures from 
 the rule of nature, which are results of no care- 
 lessness, but evidently of an erroneous and it is to 
 be hoped very transient fancy in regard to the ef- 
 fect of a colloquial simplicity in poetical writing. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE EARTH. 
 
 PRELUDE— CHORUS OF PLANETS. 
 
 Hark to our voices, O mother of nations ! 
 Why art thou dim when thy sisters are radiant 1 
 Why veil'st thy face in a mantle of vapour, 
 Gliding obscure through the depths of the night 1 
 Wake from thy lethargy. Hear'st thou our music, 
 Harmonious, that reaches the confines of space 1 
 Join in our chorus, join in our jubilee, 
 Make the day pine with thy far-piercing melody — 
 Pine that his kingdom of blue sky and sunshine 
 Never re-echoes such marvellous tones. 
 No, thou art silent, O mystical sister, 
 Silent and proud that thou bear'st on thy bosom 
 The wonderful freight of the God-lighted soul. 
 We hear thee, we hear thee, beneath thy thick 
 
 mantle, 
 The war of the winds through thy leaf-laden forests, 
 And round aisles of thy pillar'd and hill-piercing 
 Caverns sonorous ; hear the dread avalanche 
 Torn from its quivering mountainous summit, 
 Ribbed with massy rocks, crested with pine-trees, 
 Thundering enormous upon thy fair valleys; 
 Hear the dull roar of thy mist-spouting cataracts; 
 Hear the faint plash of thy salt, seething billows, 
 Lifting their heads multitudinous, or shoreward 
 Climbing the cliffs that overhang them with trem- 
 bling, 
 And tossing their spray in exultant defiance 
 Over the weed-bearded guardians of ocean. 
 Sister, we listen ; thy strains are enlinking, 
 Melodiously blending to ravishing harmony ; 
 Clouds are departing, we see thee, we yearn to thee, 
 Noblest of planets, creation's full glory ! 
 Bending we hearken, thou mother of nations, 
 Hark to the sky-rending voice of humanity. 
 
 SONG OF THE EARTH. 
 
 Oh vex me not, ye ever-burning planets ; 
 Nor sister call me, ye who me afflict. 
 I am unlike ye : ye may revelling sing, 
 Careless and joyful, roaming sunlit ether, 
 Urged with but one emotion, chanting still 
 Through lapsing time the purpose of your birth, 
 Each with a several passion ; but to me 
 Are mix'd emotions, vast extremes of feeling — 
 Now verdant in the fruitful smile of Heaven, 
 Now waste and blacken'd in the scowl of Hell. 
 Ye know me not, nor can ye sympathize 
 With one like me, for wisdom is not yours 
 Ye sing for joy ; but wisdom slowly comes 
 From the close whispers of o'erburden'd pain. 
 I am alone in all the universe ! 
 To me is pain ; I can distinguish sin ; 
 But ye with constant though unweeting glance 
 
 Rain good or ill, and smile alike at both, 
 Nor understand the mystery of your natures. 
 To me is wisdom — wisdom bought with wo, 
 Ages on ages past, when first I stray'd, 
 With haughty scorn and self-reliant pride, 
 From purity and God. For once, like you, 
 God spoke me face to face, me soulless led 
 From joy to joy ; yet he was mystical — 
 Too obvious for thought — I knew him not : 
 But now, through sin, I understand like him 
 The heart of things — the steep descents of guilt, 
 And the high pinnacles of heaven-lit virtue. 
 Bend down, ye stars, bend from your silver thrones, 
 Ye joyful wanderers of ether bright ; 
 For I, soul-bearer of the universe, 
 Would teach your ignorance with the lips of song ! 
 
 O Mercury, hot planet, burying deep 
 Thy forehead in the sunlight, list to me ! 
 I groan beneath thy influence. Thou dost urge 
 The myriad hands of Labour, and with toil 
 Host mar my features ; day by day dost work 
 Thy steady changes on mine ancient face, 
 Till all the host of heaven blank wonder look, 
 Nor know the fresh, primeval-moulded form 
 That like the Aphrodite, rose from chaos, 
 Smiling through dews upon the first morn's sun. 
 The leaf-crown'd mountain's brows thou hurlest 
 
 down 
 Into the dusty valley, and dost still 
 The free, wild singing of the cleaving streams 
 To murmurs dying lazily within 
 The knotted roots of pool-engender'd lilies, 
 That sluggish nod above the slimy dams. 
 All day the axe I hear rending through trunks, 
 Moss-grown and reverend, of cluster'd oaks. 
 All day the circling scythe sweeps off 
 The ruddy bloom of vain-aspiring fields, 
 Clipping to stubbles grim the vernal flowers. 
 Thou portionest my meadows, and dost make 
 Each fruitful slope a spot for sweaty toil. 
 Thou tearest up my bosom ; far within 
 My golden veins the grimed miner's pick 
 Startles the babbling echoes. Ancient rocks, 
 My hardy bones, are rent with nitrous fire, 
 To rear thy marts, to bridge the leaping streams, 
 Or to usurp the ocean's olden right, 
 That selfish trade may dry-shod walk to power. 
 The very ocean, grim, implacable, 
 Thou loadest with the white-wing'd fleets of com- 
 merce, 
 Crossing, like wheeling birds, each other's tracks ; 
 Until the burden'd giant, restless grown, 
 Bounds from his sleep, and in the stooping clouds 
 Nods his white head, while splinter'd navies melt 
 To scatter'd fragments in his sullen froth ! 
 Malignant star, I feel thy wicked power : 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 589 
 
 My children's busy thoughts are full of thee : 
 Thou 'st chill'd the loving spirit in their hearts, 
 And on their lips hast placed the selfish finger — 
 They dare not know each other. All that is, 
 All that God bless'd my teeming bosom with, 
 Is priced and barter'd ; ay, the very worth 
 Of man himself is weigh'd with senseless gold — 
 Therefore I hate thee, bright-brow'd wanderer ! 
 Daughter of the sober twilight, 
 Lustrous planet, ever hanging 
 In the mottled mists that welcome 
 Coming morning, or at evening 
 Peeping through the ruddy banners 
 Of the clouds that wave a parting, 
 From their high aerial summits, 
 To the blazing god of day — 
 'T is for thee I raise my paean, 
 Steady-beaming Venus ! kindler, 
 In the stubborn hearts of mortals, 
 Of the sole surviving passion 
 That enlinks a lost existence 
 With the dull and ruthless present. 
 Far adown the brightening future, 
 Prophetess, I see thee glancing — 
 See thee still amid the twilight 
 Of the ages rolling onward, 
 Promising to heart-sick mortals 
 Triumph of thy gracious kingdom ; 
 When the hand of power shall weaken, 
 And the wronger right the wronged, 
 And the pure, primeval Eden 
 Shall again o'erspread with blossoms 
 Sunny hill and shady, valley. 
 'Tis to thee my piny mountains 
 Wave aloft their rustling branches, 
 'Tis to thee my opening flowerets 
 Send on high their luscious odours, 
 'T is to thee my leaping fountains 
 Prattle through their misty breathings, 
 And the bass of solemn ocean 
 Chimes accordant in the chorus. 
 Every fireside is thy altar, 
 Streaming up its holy incense ; 
 Every mated pair oi mortals, 
 Happily link'd, are priest and priestess, 
 Pouring to thee full libations 
 From their overbrimming spirits. 
 Clash the loud-Tesounding cymbals, 
 Light the rosy torch of Hymen; 
 Bands of white-robed youths and maidens 
 Whirl aloft the votive myrtle ! 
 Raise the choral hymn to Venus — 
 Young-eyed Venus, ever youthful, 
 Ever on true hearts bestowing 
 Pleasures new that never pall ! 
 Brightest link 'tween man and Heaven, 
 Soul of virtue, life of goodness, 
 Cheering light in pain and sorrow, 
 Pole-star to the struggling voyager 
 Wreck' d on life's relentless billows, 
 Fair reward of trampled sainthood, 
 Beaming from the throne Eternal 
 Lonely hope to sinful mankind — 
 Still among the mists of morning, 
 Still among the clouds of evening, 
 
 While the years drive ever onward, 
 Hang thy crescent lamp of promise, 
 Venus, blazing star of Love! 
 
 Mars, wide heaven is shuddering 'neath the stride 
 Of thy mail'd foot, most terrible of planets ; 
 
 1 see thee struggling with thy brazen front 
 To look a glory from amid the crust 
 
 Of guilty blood that dims thy haughty face : 
 The curse of crime is on thee. — Look, behold ! 
 
 See where thy frenzied votaries march ; 
 Hark to the brazen blare of the bugle, 
 Hark to the rattling clatter of the drums, 
 The measured tread of the steel-clad footmen! 
 Hark to the labouring horses' breath, 
 Painfully tugging the harness'd cannon ; 
 The shrill, sharp clank of the warriors' swords, 
 As their chargers bound when the trumpets sound 
 Their alarums through the echoing mountains ! 
 See the flashing of pennons and scarfs, 
 Shaming the gorgeous blazon of evening, 
 Rising and falling mid snowy plumes 
 That dance like foam on the crested billows ! 
 Bright is the glitter of burnish'd steel, 
 Stirring the clamour of martial music ; 
 The clank of arms has a witchery 
 That wakes the blood in a youthful bosom ; 
 And who could tell from this pleasant show, 
 That flaunts in the sun like a May-day festal, 
 For what horrid rites are the silken flags, • 
 For what horrid use are the gleaming sabres, 
 What change shall mar, when the battles join, 
 This marshall'd pageant of shallow glory? 
 For then the gilded flags shall be rent, 
 The sabres rust with the blood of foemen, 
 And the courteous knight shall howl like a wolf, 
 When he scents the gory steam of battle. 
 
 The orphan's curse is on thee, and the tears 
 Of widow'd matrons plead a fearful cause. 
 Each thing my bosom bears, that thou hast touch'd, 
 Is loud against thee. Flowers and trampled grass, 
 And the long line of waste and barren fields, 
 Erewhile o'erflowing with a sea of sweets, 
 Look up all helpless to the pitying heavens, 
 Showing thy bloody footprints in their wounds, 
 And shrieking through their gaunt and leafless trees, 
 That stand with imprecating arms outspread — 
 They fiercely curse thee with their desolation ; 
 Each cheerless hearthstone in the home of man, 
 Where Ruin grins, and rubs his bony palms, 
 Demands its lost possessor. Thou hast hurl'd 
 Man's placid reason from its rightful throne, 
 And in its place rear'd savage force, to clip 
 Debate and doubt with murder. Therefore, Mars, 
 I sicken in thy angry glance, and loathe 
 The dull red glitter of thy bloody spear ! 
 
 I know thy look, majestic Jupiter ! 
 I see thee moving mid the stars of heaven, 
 Girt with thy train of ministering satellites. 
 Proud planet, I confess thy influence : 
 My heart grows big with gazing in thy face ; 
 Unwonted power pervades my eager frame ; 
 My bulk aspiring towers above itself, 
 And restless pants to rush on acts sublime, 
 At which the wondering stars might stand agaze, 
 
590 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 And the whole universe from end to end, 
 
 Conscious of me, should tremble to its core ! 
 
 Spirit heroical, imperious passion, 
 
 That sharply sets the pliant face of youth, 
 
 That blinds the shrinking eyes of pallid fear, 
 
 And plants the lion's heart in modest breasts — 
 
 I know that thou hast led, with regal port, 
 
 The potent spirits of humanity 
 
 Before the van of niggard Time, and borne, 
 
 With strides gigantic, man's advancing race 
 
 From power to power ; till, like a host of gods, 
 
 They mock my elements, and drag the secrets 
 
 Of my mysterious forces up to light, 
 
 Giving them bounds determinate and strait, 
 
 And of their natures, multiform and huge, 
 
 Talking to children in familiar way. 
 
 The hero's sword, the poet's golden string, 
 
 The tome-illuming taper of the sage, 
 
 Flash 'neath thy influence ; from thee alone, 
 
 Ambitious planet, comes the marvellous power 
 
 That in a cherub's glowing form can veil 
 
 A heart as cold as Iceland, and exalt 
 
 To deity the demon Selfishness. 
 
 planet, mingle with thy chilling rays, 
 That stream inspiring to the hero's soul, 
 One beam of love for vast humanity, 
 And thou art godlike. Must it ever be, 
 That brightest flowers of action and idea 
 Spring from the same dark soil of selfish lust 1 
 Must man receive the calculated gifts 
 
 Of shrewd Ambition's self-exalting hand, 
 And blindly glorify an act at which 
 The host of heaven grow red with thoughtful shame 1 
 Shall Knowledge hasten with her sunny face, 
 A nd weeping Virtue lag upon the path 1 
 Shall man exultant boast advance of power, 
 Nor see arise, at every onward stride, 
 New forms of sin to shadow every truth 1 
 Roll on, roll on, in self-supported pride, 
 Prodigious influence of the hero's soul ; 
 
 1 feel thy strength, and tremble in thy glare ! 
 
 O many-ringed Saturn, turn away 
 The chilling terrors of thy baleful glance ! 
 Thy gloomy look is piercing to my heart — 
 I wither 'neath thy power ! My springs dry up, 
 And shrink in horror to their rocky beds ; 
 The brooks that whisper'd to the lily-bells 
 All day the glory of their mountain homes, 
 And kiss'd the dimples of the wanton rose, 
 At the deed blushing to their pebbly strands, 
 Cease their sweet merriment, and glide afraid 
 Beneath the shelter of the twisted sedge. 
 The opening bud shrinks back upon its shell, 
 As if the North had puff'd his frozen breath 
 Full in its face. The billowing grain and grass, 
 Rippling with windy furrows, stand becalm'd ; 
 Nor 'mong their roots, nor in their tiny veins, 
 Bestirs the fruitful sap. The very trees, 
 Broad, hardy sons of crags and sterile plains, 
 That roar'd defiance to the Winter's shout, 
 A nd battled sternly through his cutting sleet, 
 Droop in their myriad leaves ; while nightly birds, 
 That piped their shrilling treble to the moon, 
 Hang silent from the boughs, and peer around, 
 
 Awed by mysterious sympathy. From thee, 
 
 From thee, dull planet, comes this lethargy 
 
 That numbs in mid career meek Nature's power, 
 
 And stills the prattle of her plumed train. 
 
 icy Saturn, proud in ignorance, 
 
 Father of sloth, dark, deadening influence, 
 
 That dims the eye to all that's beautiful, 
 
 And twists the haughty lip with killing scorn 
 
 For love and holiness — from thee alone 
 
 Springs the cold, crushing power that presses down 
 
 The infinite in man. From thee, dull star, 
 
 The cautious fear that checks the glowing heart, 
 
 With sympathetic love world-wide o'erfreighted, 
 
 And sends it panting back upon itself, 
 
 To murmur in its narrow hermitage. 
 
 The boldest hero staggers in thy frown, 
 
 And drops his half-form'd projects all aghast : 
 
 The poet shrinks before thy phantom glare, 
 
 Ere the first echo greets his timid song ; 
 
 The startled sage amid the embers hurls 
 
 The gather'd wisdom of a fruitful life. — 
 
 Oh, who may know from what bright pinnacles 
 
 The mounting soul might look on coming time, 
 
 Had all the marvellous thoughts of genius — 
 
 Blasted to nothingness by thy cold sneer — 
 
 Burst through the bud and blossom'd into fruit 1 
 
 Benumbing planet, on our system's skirt, 
 
 Whirl from thy sphere, and round some lonely sun, 
 
 Within whose light no souls their ordeals pass, 
 
 Circle and frown amid thy frozen belts ; 
 
 For I am sick of thee, and stately man 
 
 Shrinks to a pigmy in thy fearful stare ! 
 
 FINALE— CHORUS OF STARS. 
 
 Heir of Eternity, mother of souls, 
 Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly ! 
 Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone, 
 Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness. 
 Thine is the learning that mankind may win, 
 Glean'd in the pathway between joy and sorrow ; 
 Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child, 
 Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator, 
 Dropp'd, like a star, on thy shadowy realm, 
 Falling in splendour, but falling to darken. 
 Ours is the simple religion of faith, 
 The wisdom of trust in God who o'errules us — 
 Thine is the complex misgivings of thought, 
 Wrested to form by imperious Reason. 
 We are forever pursuing the light — 
 Thou art forever astray in the darkness. 
 Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad — 
 Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful. 
 Chide not the planets that rule o'er thy ways ; 
 They are Gob's creatures ; nor, proud in thy reason, 
 Vaunt that thou knowest his counsels and him : 
 Boaster, though sitting in midst of the glory, 
 Thou couldst not fathom the least of his thoughts. 
 Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead, 
 Circle thy form in a mantle of clouds, 
 Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening 
 Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus ; 
 Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains, 
 Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean, 
 Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests, 
 Lost star of paradise, straying alone ! 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 591 
 
 A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 
 
 " The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 The ice was all around." — Coleridge. 
 
 O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin 1 ? 
 
 Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
 To know if between the land and the pole 
 
 I may find a broad sea-way. 
 I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, 
 
 As you would live and thrive; 
 For between the land and the frozen pole 
 
 No man may sail alive. 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 
 And spoke unto his men : 
 Half England is wrong, if he is right; 
 
 Bear off to westward then. 
 0, whither sail you, brave Englishman'? 
 
 Cried the little Esquimaux. 
 Between your land and the polar star 
 
 My goodly vessels go. 
 Come down, if you would journey there, 
 
 The little Indian said; 
 And change your cloth for fur clothing, 
 
 Your vessel for a sled. 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And the crew laughed with him too: — 
 
 A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
 I ween, were something new! 
 
 All through the long, long polar day, 
 
 The vessels westward sped; 
 And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 
 
 The ice gave way and fled. 
 Gave way with many a hollow groan, 
 
 And with many a surly roar, 
 But it murmured and threatened on every side; 
 
 And closed where he sailed before. 
 
 Ho ! see ye not, my merry men, 
 
 The broad and open sea 1 
 Bethink ye what the whaler said, 
 Think of the little Indian's sled ! 
 
 The crew laughed out in glee. 
 
 Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, 
 
 The scud drives on the breeze, 
 The ice comes looming from the north, 
 
 The very sunbeams freeze. 
 
 Bright summer goes, dark winter comes — 
 
 We cannot rule the year; 
 But long e'er summer's sun goes down, 
 
 On yonder sea we '11 steer. 
 
 The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 
 
 And floundered down the gale; 
 The ships were staid, the yards were manned, 
 
 And furled the useless sail. 
 The summer 's gone, the winter's come, 
 
 We sail not on yonder sea : 
 Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin 1 
 
 A silent man was he. 
 
 The summer goes, the winter comes — ■ 
 
 We cannot rule the year : 
 I ween, we cannot rule the ways, 
 
 Sir John, wherein we'd steer. 
 
 The cruel ice came floating on, 
 
 And closed beneath the lee, 
 Till the thickening waters dashed no more; 
 'T was ice around, behind, before — 
 
 My God ! there is no sea ! 
 
 What think you of the whaler now? 
 
 What of the Esquimaux 1 
 A sled were better than a ship, 
 
 To cruise through ice and snow. 
 
 Down sank the baleful crimson sun, 
 
 The northern light came out, 
 And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 
 
 And shook its spears about. 
 
 The snow came down, storm breeding storm. 
 
 And on the decks was laid: 
 Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, 
 
 Sank down beside his spade. 
 
 Sir John, the night is black and long, 
 
 The hissing wind is bleak, 
 The hard, green ice is strong as death : — 
 
 I prithee, Captain, speak! 
 
 The night is neither bright nor short, 
 
 The singing breeze is cold, 
 The ice is not so strong as hope — 
 
 The heart of man is bold ! 
 
 What hope can scale this icy wall, 
 
 High o'er the main flag-staff] 
 Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
 Look down with a patient, settled stare, 
 
 Look down on us and laugh. 
 
 The summer went, the winter came — 
 
 We could not rule the year; 
 But summer will melt the ice again, 
 And open a path to the sunny main, 
 
 Whereon our ships shall steer. 
 
 The winter went, the summer went, 
 
 The winter came around: 
 But the hard green ice was strong as death, 
 And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 
 
 Yet caught at every sound. 
 
 Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns'? 
 
 And there, and there, again 1 
 'T is some uneasy iceberg's roar, 
 
 As he turns in the frozen main. 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux 
 
 Across the ice-fields steal : 
 God give them grace for their charity ! 
 
 Ye pray for the silly seal. 
 Sir John, where are the English fields, 
 
 And where are the English trees, 
 And where are the little English flowers 
 
 That open in the breeze 1 ? 
 
 Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 
 You shall see the fields again, 
 And smell the scent of the opening flowers. 
 
 The grass and the waving grain. 
 
 Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ! 
 
 My Mary waits for me. 
 Oh ! when shall I see my old mother, 
 
 And pray at her trembling knee 1 
 
592 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 
 Think not such thoughts again. 
 But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; 
 
 He thought of Lady Jane. 
 
 Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, 
 The ice grows more and more ; 
 
 More settled stare the wolf and bear, 
 More patient than before. 
 
 Oh ! think you, good Sir John Franklin, 
 
 We'll ever see the land? 
 'T was cruel to send us here to starve, 
 
 Without a helping hand. 
 
 'T was cruel, Sir John, to send us here, 
 
 So far from help or home, 
 To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: 
 I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty 
 
 Would rather send than come. 
 
 Oh! whether we starve to death alone, 
 
 Or sail to our own country, 
 We have done what man has never done — 
 The truth is founded, the secret won — • 
 
 We passed the Northern Sea ! 
 
 ODE TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh, days of shame ! oh, days of wo ! 
 Of helpless shame, of helpless wo ! 
 
 The times reveal thy nakedness, 
 
 Thy utter weakness, deep distress. 
 
 There is no help in all the land ; 
 
 Thy eyes may wander to and fro, 
 
 Yet find no succour. Every hand 
 
 Has weighed the guinea, poised the gold, 
 Chaffered and bargained, bought and sold, 
 Until the sinews, framed for war, 
 Can grasp the sword and shield no more. 
 
 Their trembling palms are stretched to thee; 
 Purses are offered, heaping hoards — 
 
 The plunder of the land and sea — 
 
 Are proffered, all too eagerly, 
 
 But thou must look abroad for swords. 
 
 These are the gods ye trusted in ; 
 For these ye crept from sin to sin; 
 
 Made honor cheap, made station dear, 
 Made wealth a lord, made truth a drudge, 
 Made venal interest the sole judge 
 
 Of principles as high and clear 
 As heaven itself. 
 With glittering pelf 
 Ye gilt the coward, knave, and fool, 
 Meted the earth out with a rule 
 Of gold, weighed nations in your golden scales, 
 
 And surely this law never fails — 
 What else may change, this law stands fast — 
 
 "The golden standard is the thing 
 
 To which the beggar, lord and king, 
 And all that's earthly, come at last." 
 O mighty gods ! O noble trust ! 
 
 They are your all ; ye cannot look 
 
 Back to the faith ye once forsook; 
 The past is dry and worthless dust; 
 
 Gold, gold is all ! Ye cannot fill 
 
 Your brains with legends vague and thin; 
 Hang up your arms amidst their rust: 
 These are the gods ye trusted in; 
 They can deliver you and will ! 
 
 Oh, bitter waking ! mocking dream ! 
 
 The gilt has worn away, 
 
 The idols are but clay, 
 Their pride is overthrown, their glories only seem ! 
 
 The land is full of fear, 
 
 Men pale at what they hear, 
 The widowed matrons sob, the orphan'd child- 
 ren cry, 
 There 's desolation every where, there 's not one 
 comfort nigh ! 
 
 The nations stands agaze, 
 
 In dubious amaze, 
 To see Britannia's threatening form, 
 That loomed gigantic 'mid the splendid haze 
 
 Through which they saw her tower — 
 
 As, at the morning hour, 
 The spectral figure strides across her misty hills — 
 Shrink to a pigmy when the storm 
 
 Rends the delusive cloud, 
 
 And shows her weak and bowed, 
 A feeble crone that hides for shelter from her ills. 
 
 mother of our race ! can nothing break 
 This leaden apathy of thine? 
 Think of the long and glorious line 
 Of heroes, who beside the Stygian lake 
 Hearken for news from thee ! 
 Apart their forms I see, 
 With muffled heads and tristful faces bowed — 
 Heads once so high, faces so calm and proud ! 
 The Norman fire burns low 
 In William's haughty heart; 
 The mirth has passed away 
 From Cceur de Lion's ample brow; 
 In sorrowful dismay 
 The warlike Edwards and the Henries stand, 
 
 Stung with a shameful smart; 
 While the eighth Haery, with his close-clutched 
 
 hand, 
 Smothers the passion in his ireful soul ; 
 
 Or his fierce eye-balls roll 
 Where his bold daughter beats her sharp foot-tip, 
 
 And gnaws her quivering lip. 
 While the stern, crownless king who strode be- 
 tween 
 Father and son, and put them both aside, 
 With straight terrific glare, 
 As a lion from his lair, 
 Asks with his eyes such questions keen 
 As his crowned brothers neither dare 
 To answer or abide. 
 How shall he make reply, 
 The shadow that draws nigh, 
 The latest comer, the great Duke, 
 
 Whose patient valour, blow by blow, 
 Wrought at a Titan's overthrow, 
 And gave his pride its first and last rebuke? 
 What shall he say when this heroic band 
 Catch at his welcome hand, 
 And trembling, half in fear, 
 Half in their eagerness to hear, 
 " What of our England?" ask 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 593 
 
 Ah! shameful, shameful task! 
 To tell to souls like these 
 Of her languid golden ease, 
 
 Of her tame dull history! 
 
 How she frowns upon the free, 
 
 How she ogles tyranny ; 
 
 How with despots she coquets; 
 
 How she swears and then forgets : 
 
 How she plays at fast and loose 
 
 With right and gross abuse ; 
 
 How she fawns upon her foes; 
 
 And lowers upon her friends ; 
 
 Growing weaker, day by day, 
 
 In her mean and crooked way, 
 
 Piling woes upon her woes, 
 
 As tottering she goes 
 
 Down the path where falsehood ends. 
 Methinks I see the awful brow 
 
 Of Cromwell wrinkle at the tale forlorn, 
 See the hot flushes on his forehead glow, 
 
 Hear his low growl of scorn ! 
 Is this the realm these souls bequeathed to you, 
 
 That with all its many faults, 
 
 Its hasty strides and tardy halts, 
 To the truth was ever true? 
 
 Oh! shame not the noble dead, 
 
 Who through storm and slaughter led, 
 
 With toil and care and pain, 
 
 Winning glory, grain by grain, 
 
 Till no land that history knows 
 With such unutterable splendor glows ! 
 
 Awake ! the spirit yet survives 
 
 To baffle fate and conquer foes ! 
 If not among your lords it lives, 
 Your chartered governors, if they 
 Have not the power to lead, away, 
 
 Away with lords ! and give the men 
 Whom nature gives the right to sway, 
 Who love their country with a fire 
 Tfiat, for her darkness burns the higher — 
 
 Give these the rule ! Abase your ken, 
 Look downward to your heart for those 
 In whom your ancient life-blood flows, 
 
 And let their souls aspire! 
 Somewhere, I trust in God, remain, 
 Untainted by the golden stain, 
 
 Men worthy of an English sire; 
 Bold men who dare, in wrong's despite, 
 Speak truth, and strike a blow for right ; 
 Men who have ever but their trust, 
 Neither in rank nor gold, 
 Nor aught that's bought and sold, 
 But in high aims, and God the just! 
 Seek through the land, 
 On every hand, 
 Rear up the strong, the feeble lop ; 
 Laugh at the star and civic fur, 
 
 The blazoned shield and gartered knee- 
 The gewgaws of man's infancy; 
 
 And if the search be vain, 
 Give it not o'er too suddenly — ■ 
 I swear the soul still lives in thee ! — ■ 
 Down to the lowest atoms drop, 
 Down to the very dregs, and stir 
 1855. The People to the top! 
 
 38 
 
 LID A. 
 
 Lida, lady of the land, 
 
 Called by men "the blue-eyed wonder," 
 Hath a lily forehead fanned 
 
 By locks the sunlight glitters under. 
 She hath all that's scattered round, 
 
 Through a race of winning creatures, 
 All — except the beauty found 
 
 By Johnny Gordon in my features. 
 
 Lida, lady of the land, 
 
 Hath full many goodly houses ; 
 Fields and parks, on every hand, 
 
 Where your foot the roebuck rouses ; 
 She hath orchards, garden-plots, 
 
 Valleys deep and mountains swelling, 
 All — except yon nest of cots, 
 
 Johnny Gordon's humble dwelling. 
 
 Lida, lady of the land, 
 
 Hath treasures, more than she remembers, 
 Heaps of dusty gems that stand 
 
 Like living coals among the embers : 
 She hath gold whose touch would bring 
 
 A lordship to a lowly peasant ; 
 All — except this little ring, 
 
 Johnny Gordon's humble present. 
 
 Lida, lady of the land, 
 
 Hath a crowd of gallant suitors ; 
 Squires who fly at her command, 
 
 Knights her slightest motion tutors: 
 She hath barons kneeling mute, 
 
 To hear the fortune of their proffers ; 
 All — except the honest suit 
 
 Johnny Gordon humbly offers. 
 
 Lida, lady of the land, 
 
 Keep your wondrous charms untroubled, 
 May your wide domain expand, 
 
 May your gems and gold be doubled ! 
 Keep your lords on bended knee ! 
 
 Take all earth, and leave us lonely, 
 All — except you take from me 
 
 Humble Johnny Gordon only ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Not when the buxom form which nature wears 
 Is pregnant with the lusty warmth of spring; 
 
 Nor when hot summer, sunk with what she 
 bears, 
 Lies panting in her flowery offering; 
 
 Nor yet when dusty Autumn sadly fares 
 
 In tattered garb, through which the shrewd 
 winds sing, 
 
 To bear her treasures to the griping snares 
 Hard Winter set for the poor bankrupt thing' 
 
 Not even when winter, heir of all the year, 
 Deals, like a miser, round his niggard board 
 The brimming plenty of his luscious hoard ; 
 
 No, not in nature, change she howsoe'er, 
 Can I find perfect type or worthy peer 
 Of the fair maid in whom my heart is stored. 
 
JOHN K. THOMPSON. 
 
 John R. Thompson was born in Richmond, 
 Virginia, on the twenty-third of October, 1823. 
 He was graduated at the University of Virginia, 
 near Charlottesville ; studied law in the office of 
 Mr. James A. Seddon ; returned to the Univer- 
 sity law school, and took the degree of bachelor of 
 laws under Judge Henry St. George Tucker; 
 and in 1845 came to the bar. A strong predilec- 
 tion for literature induced him near the close of the 
 year 1847 to take charge of "The Southern Lite- 
 
 rary Messenger" magazine, which he has since 
 conducted, in a manner eminently creditable to 
 his abilities, taste, and temper. Besides his large 
 and various contributions to this periodical, he has 
 made frequent public addresses at colleges, deliver- 
 ed several ingenious and highly finished lectures, 
 and written occasional papers for the literary jour- 
 nals of the north and south. He is one of the 
 most accomplished and most useful writers of the 
 southern states. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THE GREEK SLAVE. 
 
 It is not that the sculptor's patient toil 
 -Gives sweet expression to the poet's dream — 
 It is not that the cold and rigid stone 
 Js taught to mock the human face divine — 
 That silently we stand before her form 
 And feel as in a holy presence there. 
 Rut in those fair, calm lineaments of hers, 
 All pure and passionless, we catch the glow 
 The bright intelligence of soul infused, 
 And tender memories of gentle things, 
 And sorrowing innocence and hopeful trust 
 
 In some secluded vale of Arcady, 
 In playful gambols o'er its sunny slopes, 
 Had nature led her childish feet to stray; 
 Or she had watched the blue Egean wave 
 Dash on the sands of " sea-born Salamis ;" 
 Or, in her infant sports, had sank to sleep, 
 Beneath the wasting shadow of that porch, 
 Whose sculptured gods, upon its crumbling front, 
 Reveal the glories of a bygone age. 
 There, watered by affection's richest dews 
 This lovely floweret, day by day grew up 
 
 In beauty and in fragrance 
 
 Now, a slave, 
 Fettered and friendless in the market-place 
 Of that imperial city of the east, 
 Whose thousand minarets at eve resound 
 With the muezzin's sunset call to prayer, 
 She stands exposed to the unhallowed gaze 
 And the rude jests of every passer-by. 
 There in her loveliness, disrobed, for sale, 
 Girt with no vesture save her purity, 
 A ray of placid resignation beams 
 In every line of her sweet countenance, 
 And on the lip a half-disdainful curl 
 Proclaims the helpless victim in her chains 
 Victorious in a maiden's modesty ! 
 There does the poor dejected slave display 
 A mien the fabled goddess could not wear, 
 A look and gesture that might well beseem 
 Some seraph from that bright meridian shore, 
 
 Where walk the angels of the Christian's creed 
 
 59=t 
 
 Sweet visions cheer'dthe sculptor's lonely hours, 
 And glorious images of heavenly mould 
 Came trooping at his call, as blow by blow, 
 The marble yielded to his constant toil, 
 And when he gave his last informing touch 
 And raised the chisel from that radiant brow, 
 And gazed upon the work of his own hands, 
 So cunningly struck out from shapeless stone, 
 His eye dilated with a conscious joy, 
 That patient effort with enduring life 
 Had clothed his beauteous and majestic child. 
 Such are thy triumphs, genius! such rewards 
 As far outweigh all perishable gifts, 
 Ingots of silver and barbaric gold 
 And all the trophies of tiaraed pride. 
 
 TO MISS AMELIE LOUISE RIVES, 
 
 ON HER DEPARTURE POR FRANCE. 
 
 Lady! that bark will be more richly freighted, 
 
 That bears thee proudly on to foreign shores, 
 Than argosies of which old poets prated, 
 
 With Colchian fleece or with Peruvian ores; 
 Andshould the prayers of friendship prove availing, 
 
 That trusting hearts now offer up for thee, 
 'T will ride the crested wave with braver sailing 
 
 Than ever pinnace on the Pontic sea. 
 The sunny land thou seekest o'er the billow 
 
 May boast indeed the honors of thy birth, 
 And they may keep a vigil round thy pillow 
 
 Whom thou dost love most dearly upon earth, 
 Yet, shall there not remain with thee a vision — ■ 
 
 Some lingering thought of happy faces here — 
 Fonder and fairer than the dreams elysian 
 
 Wherein thy future's radiant hues appear? 
 The high and great shall render thee obeisance, 
 
 In halls bedecked with tapestries of gold, 
 And mansions shall be brighter for thy presence, 
 
 Where swept the stately Medicis of old; 
 Still amid the pomp of all this courtly lustre 
 
 I cannot think that thou wilt all forget 
 The pleasing fantasies that thickly cluster 
 
 Around the walls of the old homestead yet! 
 
CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 [Born, 1824.] 
 
 The author of « Meister Karl's Sketch Book" 
 was born in Philadelphia on the fifteenth of Au- 
 gust, 1824. He is descended, according to the 
 " Genseological Register," from the same family 
 as the English antiquary, John Leland, who 
 lived in the time of the eighth Henry, and his 
 first American ancestor was Henry Leland, who 
 died in Sherburne, Massachusetts, in 1580. He 
 was graduated at Princeton College, in 1846, and 
 soon after went to Europe, and studied some time at 
 the universities of Heidelberg, Munich, and Paris, 
 devoting special attention to modern languages, 
 aesthetics, history, and philosophy, under Gervi- 
 nus, Thiersch, Schlosser, and other teachers. 
 
 Mr. Leland in 1845 became a contributor to 
 the "Knickerbocker" magazine, in which he has 
 since published a great number of articles; and he 
 has written much for other periodicals, chiefly on 
 subjects of foreign literature and art. His " Sketch 
 Book of Me Meister Karl," first given to the 
 public through the pages of the "Knickerbocker," 
 is an extraordinary production, full of natural sen- 
 timent, wit, amiable humor, incidents of foreign 
 travel, description, moralizing, original poetry, odd 
 extracts, and curious learning, all combined so as to 
 display effectively the author's information, viva- 
 city, and independence, and to illustrate the life of 
 a student of the most catholic temper and ambi- 
 tion, who thinks it worth his while occasionally to 
 indulge in studies from nature as well as from 
 
 books, and enjoys a life of action quite as well as 
 one of speculation. 
 
 His "Poetry and mystery of Dreams" is the 
 only work in English in which are collected the 
 displays of feeling and opinion that the ingenious 
 and learned in various ages have made respecting 
 the activity of the mind during sleep. In its pre- 
 paration he carefully examined the writings of 
 Artimidorus, Astrampsychius, Nicephorus 
 of Constantinople, and Achmet, the Arabian, as 
 well as the authors of modern Europe who have 
 treated systematically or incidentally of oneirology 
 or the related mental phenomena. His last book, 
 " Pictures of Travel," translated from the German 
 of Henry Heine, is an admirable rendering of 
 that great wit's " Reisebilder," in which the spirit 
 of the original is given with a point and elegance 
 rarely equalled in English versions of German poe- 
 try, while the whole is singularly literal and exact. 
 
 Mr. Leland's poems are for the most part in a 
 peculiar view of satirical humor. He has an in- 
 vincible dislike of the sickly extravagances of small 
 sentimentalists, and the absurd assumptions of 
 small philanthropists. He is not altogether in- 
 credulous of progress, but does not look for it from 
 that boastful independence, characterizing the new 
 generation, which rejects the authority and derides 
 the wisdom of the past. He is of that healthy in- 
 tellectual constitution which promises in every de- 
 partment the best fruits to his industry. 
 
 THELEME.* 
 
 I sat one night on a palace step, 
 
 Wrapped up in a mantle thin; 
 And I gazed with a smile on the world without, 
 
 With a growl at my world within, 
 Till I heard the merry voices ring 
 
 Of a lordly companie, 
 And straight to myself I began to sing 
 
 " It is there that I ought to be." 
 
 And long I gazed through a lattice raised 
 
 Which smiled from the old gray wall, 
 And my glance went in, with the evening breeze, 
 
 And ran o'er the revellers all ; [mirth, 
 
 And I said, "If they saw me, 't would cool their 
 
 Far more than this wild breeze free, 
 But a merrier party was ne'er on earth, 
 
 And among them I fain would be." 
 
 * " ' If you think,' said the monk, ' that I have done you 
 any service, give me leave to found an abbey after my own 
 fancy.' The notion pleased Gargantua very well, who 
 thereupon offered him all the country of Theleme." — Ra- 
 belais, Book I. c. lvii. 
 
 And oh! but they all were beautiful, 
 
 Fairer than fairy-dreams, 
 And their words were sweet as the wind harp's tone 
 
 When it rings o'er summer streams ; 
 And they pledged each other with noble mien, 
 
 "True heart with my life to thee !" 
 "Alack!" quoth I, "but my soul is dry, 
 
 And among them I fain would be !" 
 And the gentlemen were noble souls, 
 
 Good fellows both sain and sound, 
 I had not deemed that a band like this 
 
 Could over the world be found ; 
 And they spoke of brave and beautiful things, 
 
 Of all that was dear to me; 
 And I thought, "Perhaps they would like me well, 
 
 If among them I once might be !" 
 And lovely were the ladies too, 
 
 Who sat in the light-bright hall, 
 And one there was, oh, dream of life! 
 
 The loveliest 'mid them all ; 
 She sat alone by an empty chair, 
 
 The queen of the feast was she, 
 And I said to myself, "By that lady fair 
 
 I certainly ought to be." 
 
 595 
 
596 
 
 CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 And aloud she spoke, "We^have waited long 
 
 For one who in fear and doubt 
 Looks wistfully into our hall of song 
 
 As he sits on the steps without; 
 I have sung to him long in silent dreams, 
 
 I have led him o'er land and sea, 
 Go welcome him in as his rank beseems, 
 
 And give him a place by me!" 
 They opened the door, yet I shrunk with shame? 
 
 As I sat in my mantle thin, 
 But they haled me out with a joyous shout, 
 
 And merrily led me in — 
 And gave me a place by my bright-haired love, 
 
 As she wept with joy and glee, 
 And I said to myself, " By the stars above . 
 
 I am just where I ought to be!" 
 Farewell to thee, life of joy and grief! 
 
 Farewell to ye, care, and pain ! 
 Farewell, thou vulgar and selfish world ! 
 
 For I never will know thee again. 
 I live in a land where good fellows abound, 
 
 In Thelem6, by the sea ; 
 They may long for a "happier life" that will, — 
 
 I am just where I ought to be! 
 
 A DREAM OF LOVE. 
 
 I dreamed I lay beside the dark blue Rhine, 
 
 In that old tower where once Sir Roland dwelt; 
 Methought his gentle lady-love was mine, 
 
 And mine the cares and pain which once he felt. 
 Dim, cloudy centuries had rolled away, 
 
 E'en to that minstrel age — the olden time, 
 When Roland's lady bid him woo no more, 
 
 And he, aweary, sought the eastern clime. 
 Methought that I, like him, had wandered long, 
 
 In those strange lands of which old legends tell ; 
 Then home I turned to my own glancing Rhine, 
 
 And found my lady in a convent cell ; 
 And I, like him, had watched through weary years, 
 
 And dwelt unseen hard by her convent's bound, 
 In that old tower, which yet stands pitying 
 
 The cloister-isle, enclosed by water round. 
 I long had watched — for in the early morn, 
 
 To ope her lattice, came that lady oft; 
 And earnestly I gazed, yet naught I saw, [soft. 
 
 Save one small hand and arm, white, fair, and 
 And when, at eve, the long, dark shadows fell 
 
 O'er rock and valley, vineyard, town, and tower, 
 Again she came — 'again that small white hand 
 
 Would close her lattice for the vesper hour. 
 I lingered still, e'en when the silent night 
 
 Had cast its sable mantle o'er the shrine, 
 To see her lonely taper's softened light 
 
 Gleam, far reflected, o'er the quiet Rhine ; 
 But most I loved to see her form, at times, [fall, 
 
 Obscure those beams — for then her shade would 
 And I beheld it, evenly portrayed — 
 
 A living profile, on that window small. 
 And thus I lived in love — though not in hope — 
 
 And thus I watched that maiden many a year, 
 When, lo! I saw, one morn, a funeral train — 
 
 Alas ! they bore my lady to her bier ! 
 
 And she was dead — yet grieved I not therefore, 
 For now in Heaven she knew the love I felt, 
 
 Death could not kill affection, nor destroy 
 The holy peace wherein I long had dwelt. 
 
 Oh, gentle lady ! this was but a dream! 
 
 And in a dream I bore all this for thee. 
 If thus in sleep love's pangs assail my soul, 
 
 Think, lady, what my waking hours must be T 
 
 MANES. 
 
 There's a time to be jolly, a time to repent, 
 A season for folly, a season for Lent. 
 The first as the worst we too often regard, 
 The rest as the best, but our judgment is hard. 
 There are snows in December and roses in June, 
 There's darkness at midnight and sunshine at noon: 
 But were there no sorrow, no storm-cloud or rain, 
 Who 'd care for the morrow with beauty again] 
 The world is a picture both gloomy and bright, 
 And grief is the shadow, and pleasure the light, 
 And neither should smother the general tone; 
 For where were the other if either were gone 1 
 The valley is lovely, the mountain is drear, 
 Its summit is hidden in mist all the year; 
 But gaze from the heaven, high over all weather, 
 And mountain and valley are lovely together. 
 
 I have learned to love Lucy, though faded she be, 
 If my next love be lovely, the better for me; 
 By the end of next summer, I' 11 give you my oath, 
 It was best, after all, to have flirted with both. 
 
 In London or Munich, Vienna, or Rome, 
 The sage is contented, and finds him a home, 
 He learns all that is bad, and does all that is good, 
 And will bite at the apple, by field or by flood. 
 
 THE THREE FRIENDS. 
 
 I hate three friends, three glorious friends, three 
 
 dearer could not be; 
 And every night, when midnight tolls, they meet 
 
 to laugh with me. 
 The first was shot by Carlist thieves, three years 
 
 ago, in Spain; 
 The second drowned, near Alicante, and I alive 
 
 remain. 
 I love to see their thin white forms come stealing 
 
 through the night, 
 And grieve to see them fade away in the early 
 
 morning light. 
 The first with gnomes in the Under-land is leading 
 
 a lordly life, 
 The second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful 
 
 water-wife. 
 And since I have friends in the earth and sea — with 
 
 a few, I trust, on high, 
 'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way 
 
 that I may die. 
 For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing 
 
 on the triple tree, 
 Or die in my grave as a Christian should, is much 
 
 the same to me. 
 

 ai^f L^C^y/^-L 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 [Born, 1525.] 
 
 Bayard Taylor was born on the eleventh of 
 January, 1825, at Kennet Square, near the Bran- 
 dy wine, in Pennsylvania, and in that rural and clas- 
 sical region he lived until his departure for Europe 
 in the summer of 1 844. Having passed two years 
 in Great Britain, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and 
 France, he returned to the United States, and after 
 publishing an account of his travels, under the title 
 of " Views a-Foot," he settled in New York, where 
 except while absent on his travels he has since 
 been occupied as one of the editors of " The Tri- 
 bune," in which journal the greater part of his 
 recent productions have been first printed. 
 
 Though not egotistical, there is scarcely an au- 
 thor more easily detected in his works. And this 
 is not from any of those tricks of style in which 
 alone consists the individuality of so many ; but 
 his sincere, frank, and enthusiastic spirit, grateful 
 while aspiring, calm while struggling, and humble 
 while attaining ; and his life, which moves in order 
 in the crowd and jar of society, in the solitude where 
 Nature is seen with reverence, "up heights of 
 rough ascent," and over streams and chasms, by 
 shapely ways constructed by his will and knowl- 
 edge. We do not remember any book of travels 
 in which an author appears altogether so amiable 
 and interesting as he in his" Views a-Foot." He 
 always lingers in the background, or steps forward 
 modestly but to solicit more earnestly our admira- 
 tion for what has kindled his own : but undesign- 
 edly, or against his design even, he continually 
 engrosses our interest, as if he were the hero of a 
 novel ; and as we pass from scene to scene with 
 him, we think of the truth and poetry of each only 
 to sympathize in his surprise, and joy, and wonder. 
 
 Bayard Taylor's first move in literature was 
 a small volume of poems, of which the longest, and 
 the longest he has yet published, was upon an in- 
 cident in Spanish history. This was written when 
 he was about eighteen years of age, and my ac- 
 quaintance with him commenced when he arrived 
 in the city with his manuscripts. We read " Xi- 
 mena" together ; and, while negotiations were in 
 progress for its publication, discussed the subject 
 of Americanism in letters. I urged upon his con- 
 sideration the themes I thought best adapted to 
 the development and illustration of his genius. 
 
 Here was a young author, born and nurtured in 
 one of the most characteristic and beautiful of our 
 rural districts, so removed from the associations 
 that vitiate the national feeling- and manner, and 
 altogether of a growth so indigenous, that he was 
 one of the fittest types of our people, selecting the 
 materials for his first production from scenes and 
 actions which are more picturesque, more roman- 
 tic, or in any way more suitable for the purposes 
 of art, only as they have been made so by art, and 
 
 are seen through the media of art, in preference to 
 the fresh valleys and mountains and forests, and 
 lakes and rivers and cataracts, and high resolve, 
 and bold adventure, and brave endurance, which 
 have more distinctly marked, and varied, and en- 
 nobled our history than all other histories, in events 
 crowding so fast upon each other, that our annals 
 seem but a rehearsal of all that had been before, 
 with years for centuries — divided by the Declara- 
 tion of Independence, which is our gospel — beyond 
 which the colonies are ancient nations, and this 
 side of which our states have swept, with steam- 
 boats, and railroads, and telegraphs, the whole 
 breadth of Time ; and ere the startled empires are 
 aware, are standing before them all, beckoning 
 them to the last and best condition, which is the 
 fulfilment of farthest-reaching prophecy. In such 
 a choice, he had not only to enter into a competi- 
 tion with the greatest geniuses of the countries 
 and ages he invaded, but, worse than this, to be a 
 parasite of their inspiration, or to animate old forms, 
 disciplined to a mere routine, with the new life to 
 which he was born — sacrificing altogether his na- 
 tive strength, or attempting its exhibition in fetters. 
 Genius creates, but not like the Divine energy, 
 from nothing. Genius creates from knowledge ; 
 and the fullness of knowledge necessary to its uses 
 can be acquired, not from any second-hand glimpses 
 through books, or pictures, or discourse, but from 
 experience in the midst of its subjects, the respira- 
 tion of their atmosphere, a daily contact with their 
 forms, and a constant sympathy with their nature. 
 This pervading intelligence gives no transient tone 
 to the feelings, but enters into the essence of char- 
 acter, and becomes a part of life. He who would 
 set aside the spirit of his age and country, to take 
 upon himself another being, must approach his 
 task with extraordinary powers and an indomita- 
 ble will, or he will fail utterly. It is undoubtedly 
 true that, to be American, it is not needful in all 
 cases to select subjects which are so geographically ; 
 but this admission does not justify an indiscrimi- 
 nate use of foreign life, or a reckless invasion or 
 assumption of foreign sentiment. There must be 
 some relationship of condition and aspiration. Of 
 all writers who have yet written, Milton was the 
 most American. All the works of Changing 
 embrace less that is national to us than a page 
 of the " Defence of the People of England ;" and 
 a library larger than that which was at Alexan- 
 dria, of such books as Irving's, would not con- 
 tain as much Americanism as a paragraph of the 
 " Areopagitica." But the Genius of America was 
 born in England, and his strength was put forth in 
 those conflicts of the commonwealth which ended 
 in the exile of the young Hercules. During the 
 Cromwellian era, England offers almost as ap- 
 
 597 
 
598 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 propriate a field for illustration by the American 
 as Massachusetts under Hutchinson, except in 
 the accessories of nature, which should enter into 
 the compositions of art. Not so Spain or Russia, 
 at the extremes of Europe, without affinities with 
 each other or with us. There is very little in the 
 life or nature, or past or present or future, of either 
 of these nations, with which the American can 
 have any real sympathy ; and for an American au- 
 thor, whose heart keeps time with his country's, 
 to attempt the illustration of any character from 
 either, while his own domain, far more rich in sug- 
 gestion and material, lies waste, is a thing scarcely 
 possible to the apprehension of a common under- 
 standing. In a remote and shadowy antiquity, like 
 that of Egypt, or in such a darkness as envelops 
 Mexico or Peru, or our own continent before its last 
 discovery, the case is different: we are at liberty, 
 with conditions, to make these the scenes of our 
 conventionalities, because there is scarcely a record 
 to contradict the suggestions of the imagination. 
 
 Mr. Taylor happily went abroad just after the 
 publication of his story of the Sierra Morena, and 
 though he had then travelled but little in his na- 
 tive country, and Europe, "seen with a staff and 
 knapsack," opened all her gates before him with 
 circumstances to produce the most vivid and pro- 
 found impressions, his love of home grew stronger, 
 and he felt at length the truth which might never 
 have come to him if he had remained here, that 
 for him the holiest land for the intellect, as well 
 as the affections, was that in which he was born. 
 The fables of genius and the records of history 
 may kindle the fancy and give activity to the im- 
 agination, but they cannot rouse the passions, 
 which must best dispose the illustrations of fancy, 
 and can alone give vitality and attractive beauty 
 to the fruits of a creative energy. In all his later 
 writings the influence of the inspirations which 
 belong to his country and his age are more and 
 more apparent, and in his volume entitled " Rhymes 
 of Travel, Ballads, and other Poems," published in 
 New York in 1848, the most spirited, natural, and 
 altogether successful compositions, are those which 
 were suggested by the popular impulses and the 
 peculiar adventure which had distinguished the 
 recent life of the republic. " El Canalo," " The 
 Bison Track," and "The fight of Paso del Mar," 
 belong entirely to the years in which they were 
 written, but the inspiration of which they are fruits 
 was not more genuine than that from which we 
 have " The Continents," " In Italy," or " The Re- 
 quiem in the North." 
 
 The discovery, soon after Mr. Taylor became 
 connected with the " Tribune," that California 
 was underlaid with gold, turned all eyes in that 
 direction, and he was among the first to leave 
 New York for San Francisco. Starting in June, 
 1849, he sailed for Chagres, crossed the Isthmus 
 to Panama, arrived in the Pacific territory, visited 
 the gold placers, explored the forests and moun- 
 tains of the interior, went to Mazatlan, travelled 
 by land to Mexico, and returned home by way of 
 Vera Cruz and Mobile, having been absent between 
 eight and nine months, and met with a variety of 
 
 stirring and romantic adventures such as is seldom 
 crowded within so short a space of time in the 
 experience of one individual. He published, soon 
 after, his " Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path 
 of Empire." 
 
 In 1851 appeared his "Book of Romances, 
 Lyrics and Songs," which greatly increased his 
 reputation as a poet. It contained " The Metemp- 
 sychosis of the Pine," and "Kubleh," two of his 
 finest poems. 
 
 There is a little episode in his life which has 
 already been referred to in print, and may there- 
 fore be repeated, however sacred is its nature, since 
 it would be difficult to convey by different means 
 as just an impression of his character. The 
 readers of poetry, which more than any other kind 
 of literature is apt to be an emanation from the 
 heart as well as the brain, wish always to know 
 something of the interior life of an author, more 
 than his books disclose, and the appreciation of his 
 works is deeper as they may be connected with his 
 peculiar temper or vicissitudes. In his boyhood, 
 Bayard Taylok discovered in a fair young angel 
 of the place where he was born, that portion of 
 himself which, according to the old mystery, should 
 crown each nature with perfection and happiness, 
 When he aspired, she was at the far-away end of 
 the high-reaching vista, holding in her hand the 
 hoped-for crown. In a letter which he sent from 
 Rome, we see what substance his dreams were of, 
 while a hundred ages hovered about his bed to 
 bind his soul : 
 
 IN ITALY. 
 Dear Lillian, all I wished is won ! 
 I sit beneath Italia's sun, 
 Where olive orchards gleam and quiver 
 Along the hanks of Arno's river. 
 
 Through laurel leaves, the dim green light 
 Tails on my forehead as I write, 
 And the sweet chimes of vespers, ringing, 
 Blend with the contadina's singing. 
 
 Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold; 
 The stirring memories of old 
 Rise thronging in my haunted vision, 
 And wake my spirit's young ambition. 
 
 Bat, as the radiant sunsets close 
 Above Val'd Arno's bowers of rose, 
 My soul forgets the olden glory 
 And deems our love a dearer story. 
 
 Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime 
 The music of the Tuscan rhyme ; 
 Thou standest here — the gentle-hearted — 
 Amid the shades of bards departed! 
 
 Their garlands of immortal bay, 
 
 I see before thee fade away, 
 
 And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances 
 
 To my own dearer heart-romances ! 
 
 Sad is the opal glow that fires 
 The midnight of the cypress spires, 
 And cold the scented wind that closes 
 The hearts of bright Etruscan roses. 
 
 The fair Italian dream I chased, 
 A single thought of thee effaced ; 
 For the true clime of song and sun 
 Lies in the heart which mine hath won! 
 
 There are a thousand evil things that mar each 
 plan of joy; the marriage was deferred, perhaps 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 599 
 
 for the poet to make his way in the world ; and 
 when he came back from California there was per- 
 ceived another cause for deferring it ; she was in 
 ill health, and all that could be done for her was 
 of no avail; and the suggestion came, the doubt 
 and finally the terrible conviction, that she had the 
 consumption, and was dying. He watched her 
 suffering day by day, and when hope was quite 
 dead, that he might make little journeys with her, 
 and minister to her gently as none could but one 
 whose light came from her eyes, he married her; 
 while her sun was setting placed his hand in her's, 
 that he might go with her down into the night. 
 There are not many such marriages ; there were 
 never any holier since the father of mankind looked 
 up into the face of our mother. She lived a few 
 days, a few weeks perhaps, and then he came back 
 to his occupations, and it was never mentioned 
 that there had been any such events in his life. 
 
 In the summer of 1851, his health had become 
 so much impaired that he felt the need of relaxa- 
 tion from labor, and change of scene, and started 
 on his journey round the world. He sailed from 
 Philadelphia on the twenty-eighth of August, and 
 after a short stay in London proceeded to Egypt 
 by way of the Rhine, Vienna, Trieste, and Smyrna. 
 He reached Alexandria on the fourth of Novem- 
 ber, and immediately left for Cairo, in order to 
 make preparations for the tour into Central Africa. 
 He started from Cairo on the seventeenth of the 
 month, in company with a German gentleman, 
 bound for the first cataract, and aftervisiting all the 
 Egyptian temples on the Nile, on the fifteenth of 
 December reached Assouan, where the German left 
 him to return. Accompanied by a faithful drago- 
 man, and an Arab servant, he followed the Nile 
 to Korosko, in Nubia, where he took camels to 
 cross the great Nubian desert, and after a journey 
 of nine days, through a waste of sand, and por- 
 phyry mountains, reached the Nile again at Abou 
 Hammed, on the Ethiopian frontier, and continued 
 his journey with camels to El Mekheyref, the capi- 
 tal of Dar Berber, where he arrived on the third 
 of January, 1852. Here he took a boat for Khar- 
 toum, visiting on the way the ruins of ancient 
 Meroe, and the town of Shendy, formerly the 
 capital of a powerful Ethiopian kingdom. He 
 arrived at Khartoum, the capital of Egyptian Sou- 
 dan, at the juncture of the Blue with the White 
 Nile, on the twelfth of January. The chiefs of 
 all the Arab tribes between the Nile and the Red 
 Sea, as far south as Abyssinia, were then in that 
 city, and he was enabled to make their acquaint- 
 ance, and to learn much of the unknown coun- 
 tries they inhabit. After remaining there ten days, 
 he took a boat and ascended the White Nile as 
 far as the islands of the Shilook negroes, between 
 the twelfth and thirteenth degrees of north latitude, 
 where, on account of the lateness of the season, 
 and the fears of his boatmen, who refused to pro- 
 ceed, he was obliged to commence his return. He 
 penetrated a greater distance in that direction, how- 
 ever, than any other traveller except D'Arnaud, 
 Werne, and Dr. Knoblecher, and carried the 
 American flag a thousand miles farther into Africa 
 
 than any one had done before him. He left Khar- 
 toum again on the fifth of February, and in fifteen 
 days crossed the Beyooda Desert, west of the Nile, 
 to the ruins of Napata, the ancient capital of 
 Ethiopia, whence he went to Dongola, and pass- 
 ing through the countries of Mahass and Sakkot, 
 reached the second cataract on the ninth of March; 
 made a rapid descent of the Nile, and was again 
 in Cairo on the first of April, having travelled 
 about four thousand miles. 
 
 He went from Alexandria to Beyrout, and made 
 the circuit of Palestine and Syria, visiting Jeru- 
 salem, the Dead Sea, Damascus, and the cedars 
 of Lebanon. Leaving Beyrout again on the 
 twenty-eighth of May, he sailed northward along 
 the coast to the mouth of the Orontes : and thence 
 penetrated inland to Antioch and Aleppo, after a 
 stay of six days in which city he proceeded to the 
 Plain of Issus, and Tarsus in Cilicia, and cross- 
 ing the range of the Taurus into Cappadocia, visit- 
 ed Konieh, the ancient Iconium, passed through the 
 forests of Phrygia to Kiutahya, by the old Greek 
 city of CEzani and the Bithynian Olympus to 
 Broussa, and on the thirteenth of July entered Con- 
 stantinople, where he continued until the sixth of 
 August, witnessing in that period the great Moham- 
 medan festival of the Bairam. 
 
 He took a ship from Constantinople for Malta and 
 Sicily, and was at the foot of Mount Etna when the 
 eruption of 1852 broke out. From Sicily he passed 
 through Italy, the Tyrol, and Germany, renewing 
 his acquaintance with scenes and persons described 
 in his " Views a-Foot," and reached London by 
 the middle of October. He next sailed from South- 
 ampton for Gibraltar, and spent a month in the 
 south of Spain, visiting Seville, Cordova, and Gra- 
 nada, and returning to Gibraltar took the overland 
 route to Alexandria, crossed to Suez, and proceeded 
 to Bombay, where he arrived on the twenty-seventh 
 of December. A journey of seven hundred and 
 eighty miles brought him to Agra, whence he went 
 to Delhi, and thence to the range of the Hima- 
 layas. Having visited Lucknow, the capital of the 
 kingdom of Oude, Allahabad, and Benares, the 
 holy city of the Ganges, he travelled to Calcutta, 
 and there embarked for Hong Kong, by way of 
 Penang and Singapore, and shortly after his arri- 
 val in China, was attached to the American lega- 
 tion, and accompanied the minister, Mr. Humphrey 
 Marshall, to Shanghai, where he remained nearly 
 two months. 
 
 When the American expedition under Commo- 
 dore Perry reached Shanghai, he was allowed 
 to enter the naval service, with the rank of mas- 
 ter's mate, for the purpose of accompanying it; 
 and sailed on the seventeenth of May, 1853, for 
 Loo Choo, where he was attached to a party which 
 explored the interior of the island, never before 
 visited by white men. In June, he proceeded to 
 the Bonin Islands, in the Pacific, eight hundred 
 miles east of Loo Choo, and explored them, and 
 returning, sailed for Japan, and came to anchor in 
 the bay of Yeddo on the eighth of July. After 
 witnessing all the negotiations which took place, 
 and participating in the landing, he returned with 
 
600 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 the squadron to Loo Choo and China, and re- 
 mained a month at Macao. He then, with the 
 permission of Commodore Perry, resigned his 
 place in the navy, passed a short time at Canton, 
 and on the fifth of September took passage for 
 New York; and after a voyage of one hundred 
 and one days, during which he stopped at Java 
 and St. Helena, arrived home on the twentieth of 
 December, having been absent two years and four 
 months and travelled more than fifty thousand m iles. 
 His spirited, graphic and entertaining history of 
 this journey is given in three works entitled " The 
 Lands of the Saracen," "A Journey to Central 
 Africa," and "India, Loo Choo, and Japan." 
 
 Mr. Taylor has probably travelled more ex- 
 tensively than any man of his years in the world, 
 and the records of his adventures have the best 
 charms of works in their class; but eminent as he 
 is as a writer of travels, his highest and most endu- 
 ring distinction will be from his poetry. As a 
 picturesque, passionate and imaginative poet his 
 excellence has been more and more conspicuous 
 every year since he printed his little volume of 
 juvenile effusions containing "Ximena, a Story of 
 the Sierra Morena." The fame he has won among 
 the masses as a tourist has undoubtedly been in 
 the way of his proper reputation in literary art ; 
 but his travels will hereafter be to his poems no 
 more than those of Smollet are to his extraor- 
 dinary novels. 
 
 Besides hisworks already mentioned hehaspub- 
 lished " The American Legend," a poem delivered 
 before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard Uni- 
 versity,in 1850; and "Poems of the Orient," which 
 appeared in 1854, and embrace only such pieces as 
 were written while he was on his passage round 
 the world, and present the more poetical phases 
 of that portion of his experiences. They are glow- 
 ing with the warm light of the east, and pas- 
 sages rich, sensuous and impetuous as the Arab 
 sings in dreams, with others gentle and tender and 
 exquisitely modulated as ever were murmured by 
 the meditative and sentimental Persian. The pro- 
 found influence of oriental life, nature, and remi- 
 niscence, upon his imagination, are vindicated in 
 a sonnet of 
 
 NUBIA. 
 
 "A land of Dreams and Sleep — a poppied land, 
 With skies of endless calm above her head, 
 The drowsy warmth of Summer noonday shed 
 Upon her hills, and silence stern and grand 
 Throughout her Desert's temple-burying sand. 
 
 Before her threshold, in their ancient place, 
 With closed lips, and fixed, majestic face, 
 Noteless of time, her dumb colossi stand. 
 0, pass them not with light irreverent tread; 
 Respect the dream that builds her fallen throne ; 
 And soothes her to oblivion of her woes. 
 Hush ! for she does but sleep; she is not dead : 
 Action and Toil have made the world their own, 
 But she hath built an altar to Repose." 
 
 The whole book exhibits an advance in general 
 cultivation, an increased mastery of the difficulties 
 and resources of rhythm, a deeper sympathy with 
 nature, and no deficiency of that genuineness, that 
 fidelity to his own character, which is among the 
 most eminent attractions of his previous perform- 
 ances. In a proem, addressed to his friend R. H. 
 Stoddard, he describes the growth and tenden- 
 cies of his intellectual passion: 
 
 " I pitch my tent upon the naked sands, 
 And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands, 
 
 Can with its beauty satisfy my heart. 
 You, in your starry trances, breathe the air 
 
 Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells 
 
 Of lotus and Olympian asphodels, 
 And bid us their diviner odors share. 
 I at the threshold of that world have lain, 
 
 Gazed on its glory, heard the grand acclaim 
 
 Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame, 
 And striven its speech to master — but in vain. 
 And now I turn, to find a late content 
 
 In Nature, making mine her myriad shows; 
 
 Better contented with one living rose 
 Than all the gods' ambrosia; sternly bent 
 On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow 
 
 The flavors of her ruddiest life — the change 
 
 Of climes and races — the unshackled range 
 Of all experience ; — that my songs may show 
 The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men, 
 And those who read them in the festering den 
 
 Of cities, may behold the open sky, 
 And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow, 
 
 Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that I 
 Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy 
 Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy, 
 And leave the heavens, where you are wandering still 
 
 With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan." 
 
 Here is his poetical creed, which is in perfect 
 correspondence with his organization, and admi- 
 rably adapted for the development of his finest 
 powers. 
 
 In the following pages are examples of his emo- 
 tion and art in different periods. I reluctantly 
 omit "The Romance of the Maize," in which he has 
 embodied afine Indian superstition, his noble " Ode 
 to Shelley," and several others, exhibiting a still 
 wider range of feeling and invention. 
 
 METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE. 
 
 As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes 
 Familiar fields a land of mystery, [wakes 
 
 Where all is changed, and some new presence 
 In flower, and bush, and tree, — ■ 
 
 Another life the life of Day o'erwhelms ; 
 
 The Past from present consciousness takes hue, 
 And we remember vast and cloudy realms 
 Our feet have wandered through: 
 
 So, oft, some moonlight of the mind makes dumb 
 
 The stir of outer thought: wide open seems 
 The gate where through strange sympathies have 
 come, 
 The secret of our dreams; 
 
 The source of fine impressions, shooting deep 
 
 Below the failing plummet of the sense; 
 Which strike beyond all Time, and backward 
 sweep 
 Through all intelligence. 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 601 
 
 We touch the lower life of beast and clod, 
 
 And the long process of the ages see 
 From blind old Chaos, ere the breath of God 
 Moved it to harmony. 
 
 All outward wisdom yields to that within, 
 
 Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key; 
 We only feel that we have ever been 
 And evermore shall be ; 
 
 And thus I know, by memories unfurled 
 
 In rarer moods, and many a nameless sign, 
 That once in Time, and somewhere in the world, 
 I was a towering Pine, 
 
 Rooted upon a cape that overhung 
 
 The entrance to a mountain gorge; whereon 
 The wintry shadow of a peak was flung, 
 Long after rise of sun. 
 
 Behind, the silent snows; and wide below, 
 
 The rounded hills made level, lessening down 
 To where a river washed with sluggish flow 
 A many-templed town. 
 
 There did I clutch the granite with firm feet, 
 
 There shake my boughs above the roaring gulf, 
 When mountain whirlwinds through the passes 
 beat, 
 
 And howled the mountain wolf. 
 
 There did I louder sing than all the floods 
 
 Whirled in white foam adown the precipice, 
 And the sharp sleet that stung the naked woods 
 Answer with sullen hiss: 
 
 But when the peaceful clouds rose white and high 
 
 On blandest airs that April skies could bring, 
 
 Through all my fibres thrilled the tender sigh, 
 
 The sweet unrest of Spring. 
 
 She, with warm fingers laced in mine, did melt 
 
 In fragrant balsam my reluctant blood; 
 And with a smart of keen delight I felt 
 The sap in every bud, 
 
 And tingled through my rough old bark, and fast 
 Pushed out the younger green, that smoothed 
 my tones, 
 When last year's needles to the wind I cast, 
 And shed my scaly cones. 
 
 I held the eagle, till the mountain mist 
 
 Rolled from the azure paths he came to soar, 
 And like a hunter, on my gnarled wrist 
 The dappled falcon bore. 
 
 Poised o'er the blue abyss, the morning lark 
 Sang, wheeling near in rapturous carouse, 
 And hart and hind, soft-pacing through the dark, 
 Slept underneath my boughs. 
 
 Down on the pasture-slopes the herdsman lay, 
 
 And for the flock his birchen trumpet blew; 
 There ruddy children tumbled in their play, 
 And lovers came to woo. 
 
 And once an army, crowned with triumph came 
 
 Out of the hollow bosom of the gorge, 
 With mighty banners in the wind aflame, 
 Borne on a glittering surge 
 
 Of tossing spears, a flood that homeward rolled, 
 
 While cymbals timed their steps of victory, 
 And horn and clarion from their throats, of gold 
 Sang with a savage glee. 
 
 I felt the mountain-walls below me shake, 
 Vibrant with sound, and through my branches 
 poured 
 The glorious gust : my song thereto did make 
 Magnificent accord. 
 
 Some blind harmonic instinct pierced the rind 
 
 Of that slow life which made me straight and high, 
 And I became a harp for every wind, 
 A voice for every sky; 
 
 When fierce autumnal gales began to blow, 
 
 Roaring all day in concert, hoarse and deep; 
 And then made silent with my weight of snow, — 
 A spectre on the steep ; 
 
 Filled with a whispering gush, like that which flows 
 Through organ-stops, when sank the sun's red disk 
 Beyond the city, and in blackness rose 
 Temple and obelisk; 
 
 Or breathing soft, as one who sighs in prayer, 
 
 Mysterious sounds of portent and of might, 
 What time I felt the wandering waves of air 
 Pulsating through the night. 
 
 And thus for centuries my rhythmic chant 
 
 Rolled down the gorge or surged about the hill : 
 Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant, 
 At every season's will. 
 
 No longer Memory whispers whence arose 
 
 The doom that tore me from my place of pride: 
 
 Whether the storms that load the peak with snows, 
 
 And start the mountain-slide, 
 
 Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my top, 
 
 Upwrenched my roots, and o'er the precipice 
 Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong to drop 
 Into the wild abyss; 
 
 Or whether hands of men, with scornful strength 
 
 And force from Nature's rugged armory lent, 
 Sawed through my heart and rolled my tumbling 
 length 
 
 Sheer down the steep descent. 
 
 All sense departed, with the boughs I wore; 
 
 And though I moved with mighty gales at strife, 
 A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, 
 And music was my life. 
 
 Yet still that life awakens, brings again 
 Its airy anthems, resonant and long, 
 Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill my brain 
 With rhythmic sweeps of song. 
 
 Thence am I made a poet: thence are sprung 
 
 Those motions of the soul, that sometimes reach 
 Beyond all grasp of Art, — for which the tongue 
 Is ignorant of speech. 
 
 And if some wild, full-gathered harmony 
 
 Roll its unbroken music through my line, 
 Believe there murmurs, faintly though it be, 
 The Spirit of the Pine. 
 
602 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 EL CANALO.* 
 
 Now saddle El Canalo ! — the freshening wind of 
 
 morn 
 Down in the flowery vega is stirring through the 
 
 corn ; 
 The thin smoke of the ranches grows red with 
 
 coming day, 
 And the steed's impatient stamping is eager for the 
 
 way ! 
 My glossy-limb'd Canalo, thy neck is curved in 
 
 pride, 
 Thy slender ears prick'd forward, thy nostril strain- 
 ing wide , 
 And as thy quick neigh greets me, and I catch 
 
 thee by the mane, 
 I 'm off with the winds of morning — the chieftain 
 
 of the plain ! 
 I feel the swift air whirring, and see along our 
 
 track, 
 From the flinty-paved sierra, the sparks go stream- 
 ing back ; 
 And I clutch my rifle closer, as we sweep the dark 
 
 defile, 
 Where the red guerilla watches for many a lonely 
 
 mile. 
 They reach not El Canalo ; with the swiftness of 
 
 a dream 
 We've pass'd the bleak Nevada, and Tule's icy 
 
 stream ; 
 But where, on sweeping gallop, my bullet back- 
 ward sped, 
 The keen-eyed mountain vultures will circle o'er 
 
 the dead ! 
 On ! on, my brave Canalo ! we 've dash'd the sand 
 
 and snow 
 From peaks upholding heaven, from deserts far 
 
 below — 
 We 've thunder'd through the forest, while the 
 
 crackling branches rang, 
 And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair and covert 
 
 sprang ! 
 
 We 've swum the swollen torrent, we 've distanced 
 in the race 
 
 The baying wolves of Pinos, that panted with the 
 chase ; 
 
 And still thy mane streams backward, at every 
 thrilling bound, 
 
 And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats with its 
 morning sound ! 
 
 The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Bar- 
 bara's pines, 
 
 And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines ; 
 
 Hold to thy speed, my arrow ! — at nightfall thou 
 shalt lave 
 
 Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath his silver 
 wave ! 
 
 My head upon thy shoulder, along the sloping 
 sand 
 
 We '11 sleep as trusty brothers, from out the mount- 
 ain land ; 
 
 * El Canalo, or the cinnamon-coloured, is the name of 
 the choicest breed of the Californian horse. 
 
 The pines will sound in answer to the surges on 
 the shore, 
 
 And in our dreams, Canalo, we'll make the jour- 
 ney o'er ! 
 
 THE BISON-TRACK. 
 
 Stbiee the tent ! the sun has risen ; not a cloud 
 
 has ribb'd the dawn, 
 And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, 
 
 far and wan : 
 Prime afresh the trusty rifle — sharpen well the 
 
 hunting-spear — 
 For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of 
 
 hoofs I hear ! 
 
 Fiercely stamp the tether'd horses, as they snuff 
 the morning's fire, 
 
 And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh 
 of keen desire ; 
 
 Strike the tent — the saddles wait us ! let the bridle- 
 reins be slack, 
 
 For the prairie's distant thunder has betray'd the 
 bison's track! 
 
 See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward- 
 surging roar, 
 
 Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall 
 of shore ! 
 
 Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the 
 foremost of the van, 
 
 And the stubborn horns are striking, through the 
 crowded caravan. 
 
 Now the storm is down upon us — let the mad- 
 den'd horses go ! 
 
 We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hun- 
 dred leagues it blow ! 
 
 Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the 
 red eyes' angry glare 
 
 Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand 
 and rushing air ! 
 
 Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, re- 
 sistless race, 
 
 And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down 
 the desert space : 
 
 Yet the rein may not be tighten'd, nor the rider's 
 eye look back — • 
 
 Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the 
 madden'd bison's track ! 
 
 Now the trampling herds arc threaded, and the 
 chase is close and warm 
 
 For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the 
 storm : 
 
 Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless — swing your 
 rifles as we run ! 
 
 Ha ! the dust is red behind him : shout, my broth- 
 ers, he is won ! 
 
 Look not on him as he staggers — 'tis the last shot 
 he will need; 
 
 More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the 
 bold stampede — 
 
 Ere we stem the swarthy breakers — while the 
 wolves, a hungry pack, 
 
 Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody 
 bison-track ! 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 603 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee 
 
 On a stallion shod with fire; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee, 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ; 
 I lie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven, 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart, 
 
 And open thy chamber door, 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold! 
 
 THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 
 
 Next to thee, fair gazelle, 
 
 O Beddowee girl, beloved so well; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Tree 
 
 Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 
 With love, and silence, and mystery ! 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 With any under the Arab sky; 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance 
 As the Almehs lift their arms in dance — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
 That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm south-winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs — 
 
 Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 
 The sun may flame and the sands may stir, 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sun, 
 Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a King, O stately Tree, 
 A likeness, glorious as might be, 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee ! 
 
 With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite ■ 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase: 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise, 
 
 Should night and morning frame new lays — ■ 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine; 
 But none, Palm, should equal mine ! 
 
 KUBLEH; 
 
 A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. 
 
 The black eyed children of the Desert drove 
 Their flocks together at the set of sun. 
 The tents were pitched; the weary camels bent 
 Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand; 
 The hunters quartered by the kindled fires 
 The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain 
 And all the stir and sound of evening ran 
 Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air 
 Bore its full burden of confused delight 
 Across the flowery plain, and while afar, 
 The snows of Koordish Mountains in the ray 
 Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud's ancient mound 
 Rose broad and black against the burning West. 
 The shadows deepened and the stars came out, 
 Sparkling in violet ether; one by one 
 Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain, 
 And shapes of steed and horseman moved among 
 The dusky tents with shout and jostling cry, 
 And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran 
 To hold the thongs while every rider drove 
 His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door 
 Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all 
 Stood Shammeriyah,whom they dared not touch, — 
 The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik 
 A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls. 
 But when their meal was o'er, — when the red fires 
 Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed, — 
 When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down 
 To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar, 
 The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love 
 Are sweeter than Bassora's nightingales, — 
 Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood 
 
604 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Like war itself: who knows not Alimar 1 
 Then ask'd the men : " poet, sing of Kubleh !" 
 And boys laid down the knives half burnish'd, say- 
 ing: 
 " Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw — 
 Of wondrous Kubleh !" Closer flock'd the group 
 With eager eyes about the flickering fire, 
 While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars, 
 Sang to the listening Arabs : 
 
 " Gob is great ! 
 O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode 
 The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca's gate 
 The winged steed bestrode, whose mane of fire 
 Blazed up the zenith, when, by Aliah call'd, 
 He bore the prophet to the walls of heaven, 
 Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous mare : 
 Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dash'd 
 
 flame 
 In Bagdad's stables, from the marble floor — 
 Who, swath'd in purple housings, pranced in state 
 The gay bazaars, by great Al-Raschid back'd : 
 Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed 
 That went o'er half the world with Tamerlane : 
 Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago 
 From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms 
 To Persia's kings — the foals of sacred mares, 
 Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea ! 
 
 " Who ever told, in all the Desert Land. 
 The many deeds of Kubleh 1 Who can tell 
 Whence came she, whence her like shall come 
 
 again 1 
 Arabs, like a tale of Scherezade 
 Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried 
 On the hot eve of battle, is her story. 
 
 " Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say, 
 Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm. 
 The well had dried ; her fierce, impatient eye 
 Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs 
 Were lean with thirst. He check'd his camel's pace, 
 And while it knelt, untied the water-skin, 
 And when the wild mare drank, she follow'd him. 
 Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird 
 Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear 
 About her shining head, that brook'd no curb 
 From even him ; for she, alike, was royal. 
 
 " Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace, 
 Than some impassion'd Almee's, when the dance 
 Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam 
 Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air. 
 Her light, free head was ever held aloft ; 
 Between her slender and transparent ears 
 The silken forelock toss'd ; her nostril's arch, 
 Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread, 
 Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck 
 Curved to the shoulder like an eagle's wing, 
 And all her matchless lines of flank and limb 
 Seem'd fashion'd from the flying shapes of air 
 By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rang 
 From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye 
 Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh 
 Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears. 
 
 " The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her : 
 Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore 
 To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not 
 To bid her welcome ; and the savage Koord, 
 
 Chased from his bold irruption on the plain, 
 Has seen her hoofprints in his mountain snow. 
 Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle, 
 O'er ledge and chasm and barren steep, amid 
 The Sindjar hills, she ran the wild ass down. 
 Through many a battle's thickest brunt she storm'd, 
 Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock-deep 
 In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze 
 Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before 
 The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane 
 Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay 
 Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste. 
 
 " The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her: 
 The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet-neigh 
 Before the walls of Teflis. Pines that grow 
 On ancient Caucasus, have harbour'd her, 
 Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom. 
 The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks, 
 When from the shore she saw the white-sail'd bark 
 That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet, 
 O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh ! 
 
 " And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him 
 Than all his snowy-bosom'd odalisques. 
 For many years, beside his tent she stood, 
 The glory of the tribe. 
 
 " At last she died : 
 Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs — 
 Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved. 
 The base Jebours — on whom be Allah's curse ! — 
 Came on his path, when far from any camp, 
 And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang 
 Against the javelin-points and bore them down, 
 And gain'd the open desert. Wounded sore, 
 She urged her light limbs into maddening speed 
 And made the wind a laggard. On and on 
 The red sand slid beneath her, and behind 
 Whirl'd in a swift and cloudy turbulence, 
 As when some star of Eblis, downward hurl'd 
 By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burning hair 
 The waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak, 
 Bare ridges rose before her, came and pass'd ; 
 And every flying leap with fresher blood 
 Her nostril stain'd, lill Sofuk's brow and breast 
 Were fleck'd with crimson foam. He would have 
 
 turn'd 
 To save his treasure, though himself were lost, 
 But Kubleh fiercely snapp'd the brazen rein. 
 At last, when through her spent and quivering frame 
 The sharp throes ran, our distant tents arose, 
 And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy 
 O'ercame its agony, she stopp'd and fell. 
 The Shammar men came round her as she lay, 
 And Sofuk raised her head and held it close 
 Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye 
 Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died. 
 Then like a child his bursting grief made way 
 In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe 
 Wept for the faithful mare. 
 
 " They dug her grave 
 Amid Al-Hather's marbles, where she lies 
 Buried with ancient kings ; and since that time 
 Was never seen, and will not be again, 
 O Arabs, though the world be doom'd to live 
 As many moons as count the desert sands, 
 The like of wondrous Kubleh. Gon is great !" 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 605 
 
 OHARMIAN. 
 
 O daughter of the Sun ! 
 
 Who gave the keys of passion unto thee 1 
 Who taught the powerful sorcery 
 
 Wherein my soul, too willing to be won, 
 Still feebly struggles to be free, 
 
 But more than half undone] 
 Within the mirror of thine eyes, 
 Full of the sleep of warm Egyptian skies — 
 The sleep of lightning, bound in airy spell, 
 And deadlier, because invisible, — 
 
 I see the reflex of a feeling 
 Which was not, till I looked on thee: 
 
 A power, involved in mystery, 
 That shrinks, affrighted, from its own revealing. 
 
 Thou sitt'st in stately indolence, 
 
 Too calm to feel a breath of passion start 
 The listless fibres of thy sense, 
 
 The fiery slumber of thy heart. 
 Thine eyes are wells of darkness, by the vail 
 
 Of languid lids half-sealed: the pale 
 And bloodless olive of thy face, 
 
 And the full, silent lips that wear 
 A ripe serenity of grace, 
 
 Are dark beneath the shadow of thy hair. 
 Not from the brow of templed Athor beams 
 Such tropic warmth along the path of dreams; 
 Not from the lips of horned Isis flows 
 Such sweetness of repose! 
 For thou art Passion's self, a goddess too, 
 And aught but worship never knew; 
 
 And thus thy glances, calm and sure, 
 Look for accustomed homage, and betray 
 
 No effort to assert thy sway : 
 Thou deem'st my fealty secure. 
 
 Sorceress! those looks unseal 
 
 The undisturbed mysteries that press 
 Too deep in nature for the heart to feel 
 
 Their terror and their loveliness. 
 Thine eyes are torches that illume 
 
 On secret shrines their unforeboded fires, 
 And fill the vaults of silence and of gloom 
 
 With the unresting life of new desires. 
 
 1 follow where their arrowy ray 
 Pierces the vail I would not tear away, 
 And with a dread, delicious awe behold 
 Another gate of life unfold, 
 
 Like the rapt neophyte who sees 
 
 Some march of grand Osirian mysteries. 
 
 The startled chambers I explore, 
 
 And every entrance open lies, 
 Forced by the magic thrill that runs before 
 
 Thy slowly-lifted eyes. 
 I tremble to the centre of my being 
 
 Thus to confess the spirit's poise o'erthrown, 
 And all its guiding virtues blown 
 
 Like leaves before the whildwind's fury fleeing. 
 
 But see! one memory rises in my soul, 
 
 And, beaming steadily and clear, 
 Scatters the lurid thunder-clouds that roll 
 
 Through Passion's sultry atmosphere. 
 An alchemy more potent borrow 
 
 From thy dark eyes, enticing Sorceress ! 
 
 For on the casket of a sacred Sorrow 
 
 Their shafts fell powerless. 
 Nay, frown not, Athor, from thy mystic shrine : 
 
 Strong Goddess of Desire, I will not be 
 One of the myriad slaves thou callest thine, 
 
 To cast my manhood's crown of royalty 
 
 Before thy dangerous beauty: I am free! 
 
 THE POET IN THE EAST. 
 
 The poet came to the land of the East, 
 
 When Spring was in the air: 
 The earth was dressed for a wedding feast, 
 
 So young she seemed, and fair; 
 And the poet knew the land of the East — ■ 
 
 His soul was native there. 
 
 All things to him were the visible forms 
 Of early and precious dreams — 
 
 Familiar visions that mocked his quest 
 Beside the western streams, 
 
 Or gleamed in the gold of the cloud unrolled 
 In the sunset's dying beams. 
 
 He looked above in the cloudless calm, 
 
 And the Sun sat on his throne; 
 The breath of gardens deep in balm, 
 
 Was all about him blown, 
 And a brother to him was the princely Palm, 
 
 For he cannot live alone. 
 
 His feet went forth on the myrtled hills, 
 And the flowers their welcome shed ; 
 
 The meads of milk-white asphodel 
 They knew the Poet's tread, 
 
 And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, 
 The poppy's bonfire spread. 
 
 And, half in shade and half in sun, 
 
 The Rose sat in her bower, 
 With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart ■ 
 
 She had waited for the hour! 
 And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed 
 
 The lips of the glorious flower. 
 
 Then the Nightingale who sat above 
 In the boughs of the citron-tree, 
 
 Sang : We are no rivals, brother mine, 
 Except in minstrelsy ; 
 
 For the rose you kissed with the kiss of love, 
 Is faithful still to me. 
 
 And further sang the Nightingale : 
 
 Your bower not distant lies. 
 I heard the sound of a Persian lute 
 
 From the jasmined window rise, 
 And like two stars, through the lattice-bars, 
 
 I saw the Sultana's eyes. 
 
 The Poet said ; I will here abide, 
 
 In the Sun's unclouded door; 
 Here are the wells of all delight 
 
 On the lost Arcadian shore : 
 Here is the light on sea and land, 
 
 And the dream deceives no more. 
 
606 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 KILIMANDJARO. 
 
 Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 
 Remote, inaccessible, silent, and lone — 
 Who, from the heart of the tropical fervors, 
 Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
 Feeding' forever the fountains that make thee 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 
 
 The years of the world are engraved on thy forehead; 
 Time's morning blushed red on thy first-fallen 
 
 snows ; 
 Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted, 
 Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till now. 
 Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, 
 Giving a soul to her manifold features, 
 Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness 
 The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. 
 Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, 
 And long-baffled Time at thy baptism rejoices. 
 Take, then, a name, and be filled with existence, 
 Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 
 "While from the hand of the wandering poet 
 Drops the first garland of song at thy feet. 
 
 Floating alone, on the flood of thy making, 
 Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire, 
 Lo ! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter, 
 I dip from the waters a magical mirror, 
 And thou art revealed to my purified vision. 
 I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy co-mates, 
 Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the Heavens, 
 Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn. 
 Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of granite, 
 The climates of Earth are displayed, as an index, 
 Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. 
 There, in the gorges that widen, descending 
 From cloud and from cold into summer eternal, 
 Gather the threads of the ice-gendered fountains — ■ 
 Gather to riotous torrents of crystal, 
 And, giving each shelvy recess where they dally 
 The blooms of the North and its evergreen turfage, 
 Leap to the land of the lion and lotus ! 
 There, in the wondering airs of the Tropics 
 Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold: 
 There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest ledges, 
 His arms to the far-away lands of his brothers, 
 And the Pine-tree looks down on his rival the Palm. 
 
 Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance, 
 
 Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air, 
 
 Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the 
 
 Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether, [forests, 
 
 Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 
 
 Above them, like folds of imperial ermine, 
 
 Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy forehead — 
 
 Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent, 
 
 Chasms and caverns where Day is a stranger, 
 
 Garners where storeth his treasures the Thunder, 
 
 The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail ! 
 
 Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give welcome: 
 They, the baptized and the crowned of ages, 
 Watch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth, 
 Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly. 
 Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad avalanches, 
 Hails thy accession ; superb Orizaba, 
 Belted with beech and ensandalled with palm ; 
 
 Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of noonday, — 
 Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus 
 With greeting august from the Pillars of Heaven, 
 Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges, 
 Filter the snows of their sacred dominions, 
 Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but of God. 
 
 Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lordship, 
 
 Nor questioned the right that his majesty giveth: 
 
 Each in his awful supremacy forces 
 
 Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 
 
 Absolute all, yet in dignity varied, 
 
 None has a claim to the honors of story, 
 
 Or the superior splendors of song, 
 
 Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled — 
 
 Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains, 
 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt! 
 
 AN ORIENTAL IDYL. 
 
 A silver javelin which the hills 
 Have hurled upon the plain below, 
 
 The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, 
 Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 
 
 I hear the never-ending laugh 
 
 Of jostling waves that come and go, 
 
 And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff 
 The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. 
 
 The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars 
 Beneath the canopy of shade; 
 
 And in the distant, dim bazaars 
 I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 
 
 No evil fear, no dream forlorn, 
 
 Darkens my heaven of perfect blue; 
 
 My blood is tempered to the morn — 
 My very heart is steeped in dew. 
 
 What Evil is I cannot tell; 
 
 But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
 And, as a pearl within its shell, 
 
 The happy spirit sleeps in me. 
 
 I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
 The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, — 
 
 But live the sweet, unconscious life 
 
 That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree. 
 
 Upon the glittering pageantries 
 Of gay Damascus streets I look 
 
 As idly as a babe that sees 
 
 The painted pictures of a book. 
 
 Forgotten now are name and race; 
 
 The Past is blotted from my brain ; 
 For Memory sleeps, and will not trace 
 
 The weary pages o'er again. 
 
 I only know the morning shines, 
 And sweet the dewy morning air; 
 
 But does it play with tendrilled vines'! 
 Or does it lightly lift my hair 1 
 
 Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, 
 This ignorance is bliss extreme: 
 
 And whether I be Man, or Rose, 
 
 0, pluck me not from out my dream ! 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 6C7 
 
 HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 
 
 Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling! 
 
 On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! 
 Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, 
 
 Here 's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. 
 
 Thou shall have thy share of dates, my beauty ! 
 
 And thou know'st my water-skin is free: 
 Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 
 
 And my strength and safety lie in thee. 
 
 Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! 
 
 Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: 
 Thou art glad wIimi Hassan mounts the saddle — 
 
 Thou art proud he owns thee : so am I. 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, 
 
 Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; 
 
 They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
 When they course with thee the desert-plains ! 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, 
 Let him bring his golden swords to me — 
 
 Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem ; 
 He would offer them in vain for thee. 
 
 We have seen Damascus, my beauty ! 
 
 And the splendor of the Pashas there ; 
 What's their pomp and riches'! Why, I would not 
 
 Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 
 
 Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
 And, because I've none he pities me: 
 
 What care I if he should have a thousand, 
 Fairer than the morning 1 I have thee. 
 
 He will find his passion growing cooler 
 Should her glance on other suitors fall : 
 
 Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling, 
 Fail to answer at thy master's call. 
 
 By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion 
 Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring; 
 
 And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
 
 To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. 
 
 Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, 
 I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine; 
 
 Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, 
 With thy glossy neck laid close to mine. 
 
 THE PHANTOM. 
 
 Again I sit within the mansion, 
 
 In the old, familiar seat; 
 And shade and sunshine chase each other 
 
 O'er the carpet at my feet. 
 
 But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards 
 
 In the summers that are past, 
 And the willow trails its branches lower 
 
 Than when I saw them last. 
 
 They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
 
 From out the haunted room ; 
 To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
 
 With silence and with gloom. 
 
 And many kind, remembered faces 
 
 Within the doorway come — 
 Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
 
 Of one that now is dumb. 
 
 They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
 
 The songs she loved to hear; 
 They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
 
 Whose flowers to her were dear. 
 
 And still, her footsteps in the passage, 
 
 Her blushes at the door, 
 Her timid words of maiden welcome, 
 
 Come back to me once more. 
 
 And all forgetful of my sorrow, 
 
 Unmindful of my pain, 
 I think she has but newly left me, 
 
 And soon will come again. 
 
 She stays without, perchance, a moment, 
 
 To dress her dark-brown hair; 
 I hear the rustle of her garments — 
 
 Her light step on the stair ! 
 
 0, fluttering heart ! control thy tumult, 
 
 Lest eyes profane should see 
 My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
 
 Her coming brings to me! 
 
 She tarries long: but lo, a whisper 
 
 Beyond the open door 
 And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 
 
 A shadow on the floor ! 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 
 The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
 
 And my patient heart must still await her, 
 Nor chide her long delays. 
 
 But m}' heart grows sick with weary waiting, 
 
 As many a time before : 
 Her foot is ever at the threshold, 
 
 Yet never passes o'er. 
 
 "MOAN YE WILD WINDS." 
 
 Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane, 
 And fall, thou drear December rain ! 
 Fill with your gusts the sullen day, 
 Tear the last clinging leaves away ! 
 Reckless as yonder naked tree, 
 No blast of yours can trouble me. 
 
 Give me your chill and wild embrace, 
 And pour your baptism on my face; 
 Sound in mine ears the airy moan 
 That sweeps in desolate monotone, 
 Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat 
 The marches of your homeless feet ! 
 
 Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain! 
 Your stormy sobs and tears are vain, 
 If shed for her, whose fading eyes 
 Will open soon on Paradise : 
 The eye of Heaven shall blinded be, 
 Or ere ye cease, if shed for me. 
 
RICHARD COE. 
 
 Richard Coe is of a Quaker family, and was 
 born in Philadelphia, on the thirteenth of Febru- 
 ary, 1821. He was educated for the mercantile 
 business, and has been for many years engaged 
 in trade in his native city. In 1851 he published 
 a volume of " Poems," which attracted favorable 
 attention by their simplicity and grace, as much 
 
 as by their fine religious spirit, and in 1853, " The 
 Old Farm Gate," a book of prose and verse, de- 
 signed for youthful readers ; and he writes occa- 
 sionally for the Philadelphia literary magazines. 
 His pieces are marked by refinement of feel- 
 ing, and have frequently a quaintness reminding 
 us of some of the older religious poets. 
 
 SMILES AND TEARS. 
 
 " Art thou happy, little child, 
 
 On this clear bright summer's day — 
 In the garden sporting wild, 
 
 Art thou happy ! tell me, pray." 
 " If I had that pretty thing, 
 
 That has flown to yonder tree, 
 I would laugh, and dance, and sing — 
 
 Oh ! how happy I should be !" 
 Then I caught the butterfly, 
 
 Placed it in his hands securely — 
 Now, methought, his pretty eye 
 
 Never more will look demurely. 
 " Art thou happy, now V said I; 
 Tears were sparkling in his eye : 
 Lo ! the butterfly was dead — 
 In his hands its life had sped ! 
 
 " Art thou happy, maiden fair, 
 
 On this pleasant summer's day, 
 Culling flowerets so rare, 
 
 Art thou happy 1 tell me, pray." 
 "If my Henry were but here, 
 
 To enjoy the scene with me — < 
 He whose love is so sincere — ■ 
 
 Oh ! how happy I should be !" 
 Soon I heard her lover's feet, 
 
 Sounding on the gravel lightly, 
 To his loving words so sweet, 
 
 Tender glances answer brightly ! 
 " Art thou happy, now ?" I said ; 
 Down she hung her lovely head: 
 "Henry leaves for foreign skies" — ■ 
 Tears were in the maiden's eyes. 
 
 " Art thou happy, mother mild, 
 
 On this balmy summer's day, 
 Gazing on thy cherub child — 
 
 Art thou happy ? tell me, pray." 
 "If my baby-boy were well," 
 
 Thus the mother spake to me, 
 " Gratitude my heart would swell — 
 
 Oh ! how happy I should be !" 
 Then the cordial I supplied, 
 
 Soon the babe restored completely ; 
 Cherub-faced and angel-eyed, 
 
 On his mother smiled he sweetly. 
 
 608 
 
 " Art thou happy, now?" I said ; 
 " Would his father were not dead !" — 
 Thus she answered me with sighs, 
 Scalding tear-drops in her eyes. 
 
 " Art thou happy, aged man, 
 
 On this glorious summer's day, 
 With a cheek all pale and wan, 
 
 Art thou happy ? tell me, pray." 
 " If I were but safe above," 
 
 Spake the old man unto me, 
 " To enjoy my Saviour's love — 
 
 Oh ! how happy I should be !" 
 Then the angel Death came down, 
 
 And he welcomed him with gladness^ 
 On his brow so pale and wan, 
 
 Not a trace was seen of sadness: 
 "Art thou happy, now?" I cried; 
 " Yes !" he answered, as he died : 
 Tears of joy were in his eyes, 
 Dew-drops from the upper skies ! 
 
 EMBLEMS. 
 
 Falieth now from off a tree, 
 
 A wither'd leaf: 
 This the lesson taught to me — 
 
 Life is brief! 
 
 Hear it say, 
 " Mortal, soon thou'lt follow me 
 
 To decay !" 
 Droppeth now from ofT my head, 
 
 A silver hair : 
 Plainer preacher never said, 
 
 '' For death prepare ! " 
 
 Fill'd with gloom, 
 We follow Time with solemn tread, 
 
 To the tomb. 
 Mounteth now on wings of air, 
 
 To the sky, 
 A little dewdrop, pure and clear : 
 
 Far up on high, 
 
 Hear it say — 
 " All above the earth is fair ; 
 
 Watch and pray ! 
 Night or sorrow come not here — 
 
 'Tis perfect day !" 
 
R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 [Born, 1825.] 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, although young, 
 stands in a foremost rank among American poets. 
 His place he has himself won. With no command- 
 ing antecedents to support him, he has, step by 
 step, fought his way to a position which is alike 
 creditable to his indomitable energy and his ge- 
 nius. He was born in the month of July, 1825, in 
 Hingham, Massachusetts. His father was a sea- 
 captain, who, while the poet was yet in his early 
 youth, sailed for Sweden: his last voyage, for 
 tidings of his fate were never after heard. Idle- 
 ness not being the fashion in our country, Mr. 
 Stoddard was, as soon as his age permitted, 
 placed in an iron foundry, for the purpose of learn- 
 ing the trade. Here he worked for some years, 
 dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even 
 then moulding his thoughts into the symmetry of 
 verse, while he moulded the molten metal into 
 shapes of grace. In 1847, the earliest blossoms 
 of his genius appeared, and some verses in the 
 " Union Magazine" gave evidence that his mind 
 as well as his body was toiling. The first was, 
 however, the stronger of the two, for in 1848, after 
 publishing a small volume entitled "Footprints," 
 which contained some pieces of merit, his health 
 gave way, and he surrendered his mechanical oc- 
 cupation. 
 
 His career as a literary man now commenced. 
 He wrote for the magazines and newspapers, and 
 supported himself by his pen. In the autumn of 
 1851 he published his second collection of poems: 
 second, as regards date, and first as far as the re- 
 quisites of art are concerned. In 1852 he gave 
 to the public a little book of poetic prose, under 
 the name of "Adventures in Fairy Land," and 
 in the autumn of the same year married Miss Eli- 
 zabeth D. Barstow, of Mattapoisett, Massachu- 
 setts, a poetess whose recent occasional contribu- 
 tions to the periodicals have marked individuality, 
 and justify predictions of remarkable and peculiar 
 excellence should she continue to cultivate her ca- 
 pacities for literature* Mr. Stoddard was about 
 that time appointed to a place in the New York 
 custom-house, which he continues to fill. Since 
 the completion of his second volume of poems he 
 has furnished a considerable number to "Putnam's 
 Monthly," and "Graham's Magazine," and to the 
 last two of greater length than any of his other 
 productions, called "The Burden ofUnrest," and 
 " The Squire of Low Degree." 
 
 The poems he has published since the appear- 
 ance of his last book are more numerous and 
 generally in a better style of art than his previ- 
 ous performances; and- it is understood that he 
 has in manuscript one upon a classical subject in 
 
 * See " Female Poets of America," fifth edition, 1S55. 
 39 
 
 the composition of which he has exercised with 
 suitable care his best abilities. His prose compo- 
 sitions, except the volume of fairy stories before 
 mentioned, consist of a few clever magazine tales, 
 a series of literary biographies, and occasional 
 criticisms of books in one of the prominent New 
 York journals. 
 
 Mr. Stoddard's mind is essentially poetical. 
 All his works are stamped with earnestness, and 
 whether he fails or not in realizing his ideal, we 
 can see that he does nothing lightly. His style 
 is characterized by purity and grace of expression. 
 He is a master of rhythmical melody, and his mode 
 of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. 
 In his poems there is no rude writing, no course 
 sketching the power of which makes us forget 
 the carelessness of the outline. All is finished 
 and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the 
 costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. 
 He paints cabinet pictures, and spares no pains 
 in the manipulation. 
 
 Independent of what may be called the external 
 features of his poetry, it almost always possesses 
 a spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in 
 nature is to him a symbol which represents some 
 phase of internal experience, or at least strikes 
 some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his 
 window, the moon that silvers his roof, are not 
 to him swaying trees and a white moon merely, 
 but things that play an intimate part in his ex- 
 istence. Thus, in all his poems, will be found 
 the echo of an internal to an external nature, 
 and a harmony resulting from the intimate union 
 of both. 
 
 The danger to which Mr. Stoddard is most 
 exposed is that of occasional but unquestionably 
 altogether unconscious imitation, sometimes merely 
 in his cadences, and sometimes in the main con- 
 ception and purpose of his pieces. Different as 
 is his beautiful poem of " A Household Dirge," 
 from Mr. Pierpont's touching lamentation, "I 
 cannot make him Dead," the careful reader will 
 not fail to perceive that it is a continuation of the 
 same sad song, set to a different air. In another 
 piece, he makes use of Miss Alice Carey's ex- 
 quisite " Pictures of Memory," and in that very 
 remarkable effusion, "The Burden ofUnrest," will 
 be found not a few reflections from Mr. Tenny- 
 son's "Locksley Hall." The indisputable genius 
 of Mr. Stoddard is so apparent in many strikingly 
 original poems, that these careless immoralities of 
 his muse scarcely deserve an allusion, and they 
 are referred to only lest in arresting the attention 
 of casual readers of his poems injustice should 
 now and then be done to his singular merits in 
 lyrics which are in every respect and entirely of 
 his own creation. 
 
 609 
 
610 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 My heart is full of tenderness and tears, 
 
 And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; 
 With all my grief, content to live for years, 
 
 Or even this hour to die. 
 My youth is gone, but that I heed not now ; 
 
 My love is dead, or worse than dead can be ; 
 My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough, 
 But nothing troubles me, 
 Only the golden flush of sunset lies 
 Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes ! 
 Spirit of Beauty ! whatsoe'er thou art, 
 I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power; 
 It is thy presence fills this charmed hour, 
 And fills my charmed heart ; 
 Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now, 
 That know not what they feel, nor why they bow ; 
 Thou canst not be forgot, 
 For all men worship thee, and know it not ; 
 Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes, 
 New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the 
 
 skies ! 
 We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands, 
 The gift and heirloom of a former state, 
 And lie in infancy at Heaven's gate, [lands ! 
 Transfigured in the light that streams along the 
 Around our pillows golden ladders rise, 
 And up and down the skies, 
 With winged sandals shod, 
 The angels come, and go, the messengers of God ! 
 Nor do they, fading from us, e'er depart, — 
 It is the childish heart ; 
 We walk as heretofore, [more ! 
 
 Adown their shining ranks, but see them never- 
 Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears, 
 Groping our way along the downward slope of 
 years ! 
 From earliest infancy my heart was thine ; 
 With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles ; 
 Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, 
 Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine ! 
 By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air, — ■ 
 
 I saw thee everywhere ! 
 A voice of greeting from the wind was sent ; 
 
 The mists enfolded me with soft white arms ; 
 The birds did sing to lap me in content, 
 The rivers wove their charms, 
 And every little daisy in the grass 
 Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass ! 
 Not long can Nature satisfy the mind, 
 Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame ; 
 We feel a growing want we cannot name, 
 And long for something sweet, but undefined ; 
 The wants of Beauty other wants create, 
 Which overflow on others soon or late ; 
 For all that worship thee must ease the heart, 
 
 By Love, or Song, or Art : 
 Divinest Melancholy walks with thee, 
 
 Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine ; 
 And Music leads her sister Poesy, 
 
 In exultation shouting songs divine ! 
 But on thy breast Love lies, — immortal child ! — 
 Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild : 
 
 The more we worship him, the more we grow 
 Into thy perfect image here below ; 
 For here below, as in the spheres above, 
 All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love ! 
 
 Not from the things around us do we draw 
 Thy light within ; within the light is born ; 
 The growing rays of some forgotten morn, 
 And added canons of eternal law. 
 The painter's picture, the rapt poet's song, 
 The sculptor's statue, never saw the Day ; 
 Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, 
 Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong ; 
 Hue after hue divinest pictures grow, 
 
 Line after line immortal songs arise, 
 And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, 
 The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes ! 
 And in the master's mind 
 Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, 
 That echoes through a range of ocean caves, 
 And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the 
 waves ! 
 The mystery is thine, 
 For thine the more mysterious human heart, 
 The temple of all wisdom, Beauty's shrine, 
 The oracle of Art ! 
 
 Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath; 
 Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth ? 
 Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth, — 
 But all the keys of Death ; 
 And all the worlds, with all that they contain 
 
 Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; 
 The universe is girdled with a chain, 
 
 And hung below the throne 
 Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless, — 
 Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness ! 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The trumpet winds have sounded a retreat, 
 Blowing o'er land and sea a sullen strain ; 
 Usurping March, defeated, flies again, 
 
 And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet ! 
 
 And lo ! — where April, coming in his turn, 
 In changeful motleys, half of light and shade, 
 Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid, 
 A nymph with dripping urn. 
 
 Hail! hail! thricehail! — thou fairest child of Time, 
 
 With all thy retinue of laughing hours, 
 Thou paragon from some diviner clime, 
 
 And ministrant of its benignest powers, 
 Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing, 
 And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring ] 
 Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morns 
 Of lingering March, with wreathed crook of gold, 
 Leading the Ram from out his starry fold, 
 A leash of light around his jagged horns! 
 Sometimes in April, goading up the skies 
 The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies 
 Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarm; 
 And when May-days are warm, 
 And drawing to a close, 
 And Flora goes 
 
R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 611 
 
 With Zephyr from his palace in the west, 
 Thou dost upsnatch the Twins from cradled rest, 
 
 And strain them to thy breast, 
 And haste to meet the expectant, bright new comer, 
 The opulent queen of Earth, the gay, voluptuous 
 
 Summer! 
 Unmuffled now, shorn of thy veil of showers, 
 Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair 
 Blown back, and scarf out-fluttering on the air, 
 White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with 
 
 flowers ! 
 The green hills lift their foreheads far away ; 
 
 But where thy pathway runs the sod is pressed 
 By fleecy lambs, behind the budding spray ; 
 And troops of butterflies are hovering round, 
 And the small swallow drops upon the ground 
 
 Beside his mate and nest ! 
 A little month ago, the sky was gray ; 
 Snow tents were pitched along the mountain-side, 
 Where March encamped his stormy legions wide, 
 And shook his standard o'er the fields of Day ! 
 But now the sky is blue, the snow is flown, 
 And every mountain is an emerald throne, 
 And every cloud a dais fringed with light, 
 And all below is beautiful and bright! 
 The forest waves its plumes, — the hedges blow, — 
 The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea 
 Thick-flecked with daisied foam, — and violets grow 
 
 Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea : 
 The skylark floods the scene with pleasant rhyme ; 
 
 The ousel twitters in the swaying pine ; 
 And wild bees hum about the beds of thyme, 
 
 And bend the clover-bells and eglantine ; 
 The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks ; 
 
 The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play ; 
 The dormouse wakes ; and see ! the noisy rooks 
 Sly foraging, about the stacks of hay ! 
 
 What sights ! what sounds ! what rustic life and 
 mirth ! 
 
 Housed all the winter long from bitter cold, 
 
 Huddling in chimney-corners, young and old 
 Come forth and share the gladness of the Earth. 
 The ploughmen whistle as the furrows trail 
 
 Behind their glittering shares, a billowy row ; 
 The milkmaid sings a ditty while her pail 
 
 Grows full and frothy ; and the cattle low ; 
 The hounds are yelping in the misty wood, 
 
 Starting the fox : the jolly huntsmen cheer ; 
 
 And winding horns delight the listening ear, 
 And startle Echo in her solitude; 
 The teamster drives his wagon down the lane, 
 
 Flattening a broader rut in weeds and sand; 
 The angler fishes in the shady pool ; 
 
 And loitering down the road with cap in hand, 
 The truant chases butterflies, — in vain, 
 Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school! 
 
 Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore, 
 
 More fresh, and fine, and more exceeding fair ; 
 There is a presence never felt before, 
 
 The soul of inspiration everywhere ; 
 Incarnate Youth in every idle limb, 
 
 My vernal days, my prime, return anew; 
 My tranced spirit breathes a silent hymn, 
 
 My heart is full of dew ! 
 
 THE WITCH'S WHELP. 
 
 Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, 
 Covered with thick green scum ; the billows rise, 
 And fill them to the brim with clouded foam, 
 And then subside, and leave the scum again ; 
 The ribbed sand is full of hollow gulfs, 
 Where monsters from the waters come and lie : 
 Great serpents bask at noon among the rocks, 
 To me no terror ; coil on coil they roll 
 Back to their holes, before my flying feet ; 
 The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god, 
 Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep ; 
 Him I molest not ; when he flaps his wing 
 A whirlwind rises, when he swims the deep 
 It threatens to engulf the trembling isle. 
 
 Sometimes when winds do blow, and clouds are 
 dark, 
 I seek the blasted wood, whose barkless trunks 
 Are bleached with summer suns ; the creaking trees 
 Stoop down to me, and swing me right and left 
 Through crashing limbs, but not a jot care I : 
 The thunder breaks o'erhead, and in their lairs 
 The panthers roar ; from out the stormy clouds 
 With hearts of fire, sharp lightnings rain around 
 And split the oaks ; not faster lizards run 
 Before the snake up the slant trunks than I; 
 Not faster down, sliding with hands and feet. 
 I stamp upon the ground, and adders rouse 
 Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs ; beneath the 
 
 leaves 
 They couch, or under rocks, and roots of trees 
 Felled by the winds ; through briery undergrowth 
 They slide with hissing tongues, beneath my feet 
 To writhe, or in my fingers squeezed to death. 
 
 There is a wild and solitary pine, 
 Deep in the meadows ; all the island birds 
 From far and near fly there, and learn new songs ; 
 Something imprisoned in its wrinkled bark 
 Wails for its freedom ; when the bigger light 
 Burns in mid-heaven, and dew elsewhere is dried, 
 There it still falls ; the quivering leaves are tongues, 
 And load the air with syllables of wo. 
 One day I thrust my spear within a cleft 
 No wider than its point, and something shrieked, 
 And falling cones did pelt me sharp as hail : 
 I picked the seeds that grew between their plates, 
 And strung them round my neck, with sea-mew 
 eggs. 
 Hard by are swamps and marshes, reedy fens 
 Knee-deep in water ; monsters wade therein 
 Thick-set with plated scales ; sometimes in troops 
 They crawl on slippery banks ; sometimes they lash 
 The sluggish waves, among themselves at war; 
 Often I heave great rocks from off the crags, 
 And crush their bones ; often I push my spear 
 Deep in their drowsy eyes, at which they howl 
 And chase me inland; then I mount their humps 
 And prick them back again, unwieldy, slow : 
 At night the wolves are howling round the place, 
 And bats sail there athwart the silver light, 
 Flapping their wings ; by day in hollow trees 
 They hide, and slink into the gloom of dens. 
 
 We live, my mother Sycorax and I, 
 In caves with bloated toads and crested snakes; 
 
612 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 She can make charms, and philters, and brew 
 
 storms, 
 And call the great Sea Dragon from his deeps : 
 Nothing of this know I, nor care to know; 
 Give me the milk of goats in gourds or shells, 
 The flesh of birds and fish, berries, and fruit, 
 Nor want I more, save all day long to lie, 
 And hear, as now, the voices of the sea. 
 
 A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE. 
 
 " A six years' loss to Paradise, — 
 
 And ne'er on earth the child grew older." 
 
 T. B. Read. 
 
 I've lost my little May at last ! 
 
 She perished in the spring, 
 When earliest flowers began to bud, 
 
 And earliest birds to sing; 
 I laid her in a country grave, 
 
 A green and soft retreat, 
 A marble tablet o'er her head, 
 And violets at her feet. 
 
 I would that she were back again, 
 
 In all her childish bloom; 
 My joy and hope have followed her, 
 
 My heart is in her tomb ! 
 I know that she is gone away, 
 
 I know that she is fled, 
 I miss her everywhere, and yet 
 
 I cannot think her dead ! 
 
 I wake the children up at dawn, 
 
 And say a single prayer, 
 And draw them round the morning meal, 
 
 But one is wanting there ! 
 I see a little chair apart, 
 
 A little pinafore, 
 And Memory fills the vacancy, 
 
 As Time will — nevermore ! 
 
 I sit within my quiet room, 
 
 Alone, and write for hours, 
 And miss the little maid again 
 
 Among the window flowers, 
 And miss her with her toys beside 
 
 My desk in silent play; 
 And then I turn and look for her, 
 
 But she has flown away ! 
 
 I drop my idle pen, and hark, 
 
 And catch the faintest sound; 
 She must be playing hide-and-seek 
 
 In shady nooks around ; 
 She '11 come and climb my chair again, 
 
 And peep my shoulders o'er ; 
 I hear a stifled laugh, — but no, 
 
 She cometh nevermore ! 
 
 I waited only yester-night 
 
 The evening service read, 
 And lingered for my idol's kiss 
 
 Before she went to bed; 
 Forgetting she had gone before, 
 
 In slumbers soft and sweet, 
 A monument above her head, 
 
 And violets at her feet. 
 
 LEONATUS. 
 
 The fair boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 It was his duty evermore 
 
 To tend the Lady Imogen ; 
 
 By peep of day he might be seen 
 Tapping against her chamber door, 
 
 To wake the sleepy waiting-maid ; 
 
 She woke, and when she had arrayed 
 
 The Princess, and the twain had prayed, 
 (They prayed with rosaries of yore,) 
 
 They called him, pacing to and fro ; 
 
 And cap in hand, and bowing low, 
 
 He entered, and began to feed 
 
 The singing birds with fruit and seed. 
 
 The brave boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 He tripped along the kingly hall, 
 
 From room to room, with messages ; 
 
 He stopped the butler, clutched his keys, 
 (Albeit he was broad and tall,) 
 
 And dragged him down the vaults, where wine 
 
 In bins lay beaded and divine, 
 
 To pick a flask of vintage fine ; 
 Came up, and clomb the garden wall, 
 
 And plucked from out the sunny spots 
 
 Peaches, and luscious apricots, 
 
 And filled his golden salver there, 
 
 And hurried to his Lady fair. 
 
 The gallant Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 He had a steed from Arab ground, 
 And when the lords and ladies gay 
 Went hawking in the dews of May, 
 
 And hunting in the country round, 
 And Imogen did join the band, 
 He rode him like a hunter grand, 
 A hooded hawk upon his hand, 
 
 And by his side a slender hound : 
 But when they saw the deer go by 
 He slipped the leash, and let him fly, 
 And gave his fiery barb the rein, 
 And scoured beside her o'er the plain. 
 
 The strange boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 Sometimes he used to stand for hours 
 Within her room, behind her chair; 
 The soft wind blew his golden hair 
 
 Across his eyes, and bees from flowers 
 Hummed round him, but he did not stir: 
 He fixed his earnest eyes on her, 
 A pure and reverent worshipper, 
 
 A dreamer building airy towers : 
 
 But when she spoke he gave a start, 
 That sent the warm blood from his heart 
 To flush his cheeks, and every word 
 The fountain of his feelings stirred. 
 
 The sad boy Leonatus, 
 
 The page of Imogen : 
 He lost all relish and delight, 
 
 For all things that did please before ; 
 By day he wished the day was o'er, 
 
R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 613 
 
 By night he wished the same of night: 
 He could not mingle in the crowd, 
 He loved to be alone, and shroud 
 His tender thoughts, and sigh aloud, 
 
 And cherish in his heart its blight. 
 At last his health began to fail, 
 His fresh and glowing cheeks to pale; 
 And in his eyes the tears unshed 
 Did hang like dew in violets dead. 
 
 The timid Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 "What ails the boy !" said Imogen : 
 He stammer'd,sigh'd, and answer'd "Naught.' 
 She shook her head, and then she thought 
 What all his malady could mean ; 
 It might be love ; her maid was fair, 
 And Leon had a loving air; 
 She watched them with a jealous care, 
 And played the spy, but naught was seen: 
 And then she was aware at first, 
 That she, not knowing it, had nursed 
 His memory till it grew a part — ■ 
 A heart within her very heart ! 
 
 The dear boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 She loved, but owned it not as yet ; 
 When he was absent she was lone, 
 She felt a void before unknown, 
 
 And Leon filled it when they met; 
 She called him twenty times a day, 
 She knew not. why, she could not say; 
 
 She fretted when he went away, 
 
 And lived in sorrow and regret ; 
 
 Sometimes she frowned with stately mien, 
 And chid him like a little queen ; 
 And then she soothed him meek and mild, 
 And grew as trustful as a child. 
 
 The neat scribe Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 She wondered that he did not speak, 
 And own his love, if love indeed 
 It was that made his spirit bleed; 
 
 And she bethought her of a freak 
 To test the lad ; she bade him write 
 A letter that a maiden might, 
 A billet to her heart's delight; 
 
 He took the pen with fingers weak, 
 Unknowing what he did, and wrote, 
 And folded up and sealed the note : 
 She wrote the superscription sage, 
 "For Leonatus, Lady's Page!" 
 
 The happy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 The page of Imogen no more, 
 
 But now her love, her lord, her life, 
 For she became his wedded wife, 
 
 As both had hoped and dreamed before. 
 He used to sit beside her feet, 
 And read romances rare and sweet, 
 And, when she touched her lute, repeat 
 
 Impassioned madrigals of yore, 
 Uplooking in her face the while, 
 Until she stooped with loving smile, 
 And pressed her melting mouth to his, 
 
 That answered in a dreamy bliss- 
 The joyful Leonatus, 
 The lord of Imogen! 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 A tew frail summers had touched thee, 
 
 As they touch the fruit ; 
 Not so bright as thy hair, the sunshine, 
 
 Not so sweet as thy voice the lute. 
 Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over : 
 
 An urn of white ashes remains ; 
 Nothing else save the tears in our eyes, 
 
 And our bitterest, bitterest pains ! 
 
 We garland the urn with white roses, 
 Burn incense and gums on the shrine, 
 
 Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, 
 Dear tunes that were thine ! 
 
 But in vain, all in vain ; 
 
 Thou art gone — we remain ! 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. 
 
 You were very charming, Madam, 
 
 In your silks and satins fine ; 
 And you made your lovers drunken, 
 
 But it was not with your wine ! 
 There were court gallants in dozens, 
 
 There were princes of the land, 
 And they would have perished for you 
 
 As they knelt and kissed your hand — 
 For they saw no stain upon it, 
 It was such a snowy hand! 
 
 But for me — I knew you better, 
 
 And, while you were flaunting there, 
 I remembered some one lying, 
 
 With the blood on his white hair ! 
 He was pleading for you, Madam, 
 
 Where the shriven spirits stand ; 
 But the Book of Life was darkened, 
 
 By the Shadow of a Hand ! 
 It was tracing your perdition, 
 For the blood upon your hand ! 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 The moon is muffled in a cloud, 
 That folds the lover's star, 
 
 But still beneath thy balcony 
 I touch my soft guitar. 
 
 If thou art waking, Lady dear, 
 
 The fairest in the land, 
 Unbar thy wreathed lattice now, 
 
 And wave thy snowy hand. 
 
 She hears me not ; her spirit lies 
 In trances mute and deep ; — 
 
 But Music turns the golden key 
 Within the gate of Sleep ! 
 
 Then let her sleep, and if I fail 
 
 To set her spirit free! 
 My song shall mingle in her dream, 
 
 And she will dream of me ! 
 
614 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 THE YELLOW MOON. 
 
 The yellow moon looks slantly down, 
 Through seaward mists, upon the town; 
 And like a dream the moonshine falls 
 Between the dim and shadowy walls. 
 
 I see a crowd in every street, 
 
 But cannot hear their falling feet ; 
 
 They float like clouds through shade and light, 
 
 And seem a portion of the night. 
 
 The ships have lain, for ages fled, 
 Along the waters, dark and dead ; 
 The dying waters wash no more 
 The long black line of spectral shore. 
 
 There is no life on land or sea, 
 Save in the quiet moon and me ; 
 Nor ours is true, but only seems, 
 Within some dead old world of dreams ! 
 
 INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 
 
 Draw the curtains round your bed, 
 And I '11 shade the wakeful light ; 
 'T will be hard for you to sleep, 
 
 If you have me still in sight : — 
 But you must though, and without me, 
 For I have a song to write : 
 Then sleep, love, sleep ! 
 The flowers have gone to rest, 
 And the birds are in the nest : 
 'T is time for you to join them beneath the wings 
 of Sleep ! 
 
 Wave thy poppies round her, Sleep ! 
 
 Touch her eye-lids, flood her brain ; 
 Banish Memory, Thought, and Strife, 
 Bar the portals of her life, 
 
 Till the morning comes again ! 
 Let no enemy intrude 
 On her helpless solitude : 
 
 Fear and Pain, and all their train — 
 Keep the evil hounds at bay, 
 And all evil dreams away ! 
 Thou, thyself, keep thou the key, 
 Or intrust it unto me, 
 
 Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! 
 
 A lover's eyes are bright 
 
 In the darkest night ; 
 And jealous even of dreams, almost of thee, dear 
 Sleep ! 
 
 I must sit, and think, and think, 
 Till the stars begin to wink : 
 (For the web of Song is wrought 
 Only in the looms of Thought !) 
 She must lie, and sleep, and sleep, 
 (Be her slumbers calm and deep !) 
 Till the dews of morning weep ; 
 Therefore bind your sweetest sprite 
 To her service and delight, 
 
 All the night, 
 
 Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! 
 And I '11 whisper in her ear, 
 
 (Even in dreams it will be dear !) 
 What she loveth so to hear, 
 Tiding sweeter than the flowers, 
 All about this love of ours, 
 
 And its rare increase : 
 Singing in the starry peace, 
 Ditties delicate, and free, 
 Dedicate to her, and thee, 
 
 Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! 
 For I owe ye both a boon, 
 And I mean to grant it soon, 
 In my golden numbers that breathe of Love and 
 
 Sleep ! 
 
 AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 Beneath the heavy curtains, 
 My face against the pane, 
 
 I peer into the darkness, 
 And scan the night in vain. 
 
 The vine o'erruns the lattice, 
 And lies along its roof, 
 
 So thick with leaves and clusters, 
 It keeps the moon aloof. 
 
 By yonder pear-tree splintered, 
 The ghostly radiance falls, 
 
 But fails to pierce the branches, 
 Or touch the sombre walls. 
 
 No moon, no starlight gleaming, 
 The dark encircles me; 
 
 And what is more annoying, 
 My neighbor cannot see. 
 
 She stands beneath her curtains, 
 Her face against the pane, 
 
 Nor knows that I am watching 
 For her to-night again ! 
 
 AT REST. 
 
 With folded hands the lady lies 
 
 In flowing robes of white, 
 A globed lamp beside her couch, 
 
 A round of tender light. 
 
 With such a light above her head, 
 
 A little year ago, 
 She walked adown the shadowy vale, 
 
 Where the blood-red roses grow ! 
 
 A shape or shadow joined her there, 
 
 To pluck the royal flower, 
 But from her breast the lily stole, 
 
 Which was her only dower. 
 
 That gone, all went: her false love first, 
 And then her peace of heart ; 
 
 The hard world frowned, her friends grew 
 cold, 
 She hid in tears apart : 
 
 And now she lies upon her couch, 
 
 Amid the dying light : 
 Nor wakes to hear the little voice 
 
 That moans throughout the night! 
 
WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER 
 
 [Boru, 1625.] 
 
 Mr. Butler is a son of Benjamin F.Buti/er, 
 
 recently Attorney-General of the United States, 
 and long conspicuous in public affairs. He was 
 born in Albany, in 1825, and was educated at the 
 New York University, where he graduated in 1843. 
 From July, 1846, to December, 1848, he travelled 
 in Europe, and he has since been associated with 
 his father in the practice of the law, in the city of 
 New York. 
 
 The principal literary compositions of Mr. But- 
 ler are a class-poem entitled " The Future," pub- 
 lished in 1846; occasional contribution to the 
 "Democratic Review" and "Literary World," and 
 a small volume of the character of "Rejected Ad- 
 dresses," entitled " Barnum's Parnassus." He has 
 wit and humor, and a natural and flexible style, 
 abounding in felicities of expression. In general 
 he writes hastily, and finishes a piece at a sitting. 
 
 THE NEW ARGONAUTS. 
 
 To-day the good ship sails, 
 
 Across the sparkling sea — 
 To-day the northern gales 
 
 Are blowing swifl and free ; 
 Speed, speed her distant way, 
 
 To that far land of gold : 
 A richer prize we seek than they, 
 
 The Argonauts of old ! 
 
 Who goes with us 1 who quits the tiresome shore, 
 
 And sails where Fortune beckons him away ; 
 Where in that marvellous land, in virgin ore, 
 
 The wealth of years is gather'd in a day 1 
 Here, toil and trouble are our portion still, 
 
 And still with want our weary work is paid ; 
 Slowly the shillings drop into the till, 
 
 Small are the profits of our tedious trade ; 
 There, Nature proffers with unstinted hands, 
 
 The countless wealth the wide domain confines, 
 Sprinkles the mountain-streams with golden sands, 
 
 And calls the adventurer to exhaustless mines. 
 Come, then, with us! what are the charms of home, 
 
 What are the ties of friends or kindred worth ? 
 Thither, oh thither, let our footsteps roam — 
 
 There is the Eden of our fallen earth ! 
 
 Well do we hold the fee of those broad lands 
 Wrested from feebler hands, 
 
 By our own sword and spear ; 
 Well may the weeping widow be consoled, 
 And orphan'd hearts their ceaseless grief withhold ; 
 Well have our brothers shed their life-blood here. 
 Say, could we purchase at a price too dear, 
 These boundless acres of uncounted gold 1 
 Come, then ! it is to-day, 
 
 To-day the good ship sails, 
 And swift upon her way 
 
 Blow out the northern gales. 
 A twelvemonth more, and we 
 
 Our homeward course shall hold, 
 With richer freight within than theirs, 
 The Argonauts of old ! 
 
 Alas ! for honest labour from honest ends averted ; 
 Alas ! for firesides left, and happy homes deserted 
 
 Brightly the bubble glitters ; bright in the distance 
 
 The land of promise gleams ; 
 But ah, the phantom fortunes of existence 
 Live but in dreams ! 
 Behold the end afar : 
 
 Beyond the bright, deceptive cloud, 
 Beneath what dim, malignant star, 
 
 Sails on the eager crowd ! 
 Some in mid-ocean lie — 
 
 Some gain the wish'd-for shore, 
 And grasp the golden ore, [die ! 
 
 But sicken as they grasp, and where they sicken, 
 There have they found beside the mountain streams. 
 On desolate crags where the wild eagle screams, 
 In dark ravines where western forests wave — 
 
 Gold, and a grave ! 
 Some for the spendthrift's eager touch, 
 
 Some for the miser's hoarded store, 
 Some for the robber's grasp, the murderer's clutch, 
 Heap up the precious ore, [wither'd core ! 
 Dear bought with life's lost strength, and the heart's 
 
 Oh, cursed love of gold ! 
 
 Age follows age, 
 And still the world's slow records are unroll'd, 
 
 Page after page ; 
 And the same tale is told — 
 The same unholy deeds, the same sad scenes unfold ! 
 Where the assassin's knife is sharpen'd, 
 
 In the dark ; 
 Where lies the murder'd man in the midnight, 
 
 Cold and stark ; 
 Where the slave groans and quivers under 
 
 The driver's lash ; 
 Where the keen-eyed son of trade is bartering 
 
 Honour for cash ; 
 Where the sons wish the fathers dead, of their wealth 
 
 To be partakers ; 
 Where the maiden of sixteen weds the old man 
 
 For his acres ; 
 Where the gambler stakes his all on the last throw 
 
 Of the dice ; 
 Where the statesman for his country and its glory 
 
 Sets a price ! 
 There are thy altars rear d, thy trophies told. 
 Oh, cursed love of gold ! 
 
 615 
 
616 
 
 WILLIAM A. BUTLER. 
 
 THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL.* 
 
 Loxg has the summer sunlight shone 
 On the fair form, the quaint costume; 
 
 Yet nameless still, she sits unknown, 
 A lady in her youthful bloom. 
 
 Fairer for this! no shadows cast 
 Their blight upon her perfect lot ; 
 
 Whate'er her future, or her past, 
 In this bright moment matters not. 
 
 No record of her high descent 
 
 There needs, nor memory of her name : 
 
 Enough that Raphael's colours blent 
 To give her features deathless fame ! 
 
 'Twas his anointing hand that set 
 The crown of beauty on her brow ; 
 
 Still lives its earlier radiance yet, 
 As at the earliest, even now. 
 
 'Tis not the ecstasy that glows 
 
 In all the rapt Cecilia's grace; 
 Nor yet the holy, calm repose, 
 
 He painted on the Virgin's face. 
 
 Less of the heavens, and more of earth, 
 There lurk within these earnest eyes, 
 
 The passions that have had their birth, 
 And grown beneath Italian skies. 
 
 What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams, 
 What hopes, and fears, and longings rest, 
 
 Where falls the folded veil, or gleams 
 The golden necklace on her breast. 
 
 What mockery of the painted glow 
 May shade the secret soul within ; 
 
 What griefs from passion's overflow, 
 What shame that follows after sin ! 
 
 Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps 
 
 Are those pure eyes, those glances pure ; 
 
 And queenly is the state she keeps, 
 In beauty's lofty trust secure. 
 
 And who has stray'd, by happy chance, 
 Through ail those grand and pictured halls, 
 
 Nor felt the magic of her glance, 
 As when a voice of music calls 1 
 
 Not soon shall I forget the day — 
 
 Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time, 
 
 While on the glowing canvass lay 
 The light of that delicious clime — 
 
 I mark' J the matchless colours wreathed 
 On the fair brow, the peerless cheek, 
 
 The lips, I fancied, almost breathed 
 
 The blessings that they could not speak. 
 
 fair were the eyes with mine that bent 
 Upon the picture their mild gaze, 
 
 And dear the voice that gave consent 
 To all the utterance of my praise. 
 
 ' The portrait to which these verses refer is in the Pitti 
 Palace at Florence. It is one of the gems of that admirable 
 collection. 
 
 Oh, fit companionship of thought ; 
 
 Oh, happy memories, shrined apart; 
 The rapture that the painter wrought, 
 
 The kindred rapture of the heart ! 
 
 UHLAND. 
 
 It is the poet Uhlatti), from whose wreathings 
 Of rarest harmony I here have drawn, 
 
 To lower tones and less melodious breathings, 
 Some simple strains, of youth and passion born. 
 
 His is the poetry of sweet expression, 
 Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong ; 
 
 Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft pro- 
 cession, 
 Move to the even measures of his song. 
 
 Delighting ever in his own calm fancies. 
 He sees much beauty where most men see naught, 
 
 Looking at Nature with familiar glances, 
 And weaving garlands in the groves of thought. 
 
 He sings of youth, and hope, and high endeavour, 
 He sings of love — O crown of poesy ! — 
 
 Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave, forever 
 The end of strife, the goal of destiny. 
 
 He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory, 
 High theme of memory and hope divine, 
 
 Twining its fame with gems of antique story, 
 In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine ; 
 
 In ballads breathing many a dim tradition, 
 Nourish'd in long belief or minstrel rhymes, 
 
 Fruit of the old Romance, whose gentle mission 
 Pass'd from the earth before our wiser times. 
 
 Well do they know his name among the mountains, 
 And plains, and valleys, of his native land ; 
 
 Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains 
 Of his clear, thought, with rainbow fancies 
 spann'd. 
 
 His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful 
 Beside the cradle in the dim twilight; 
 
 His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful 
 With tender murmurs in the ear of night. 
 
 The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows, 
 Carol his ditties through the toilsome day ; 
 
 And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows 
 Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray. 
 
 precious gift ! wondrous inspiration ! 
 
 Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things, 
 To be the oracle, while a whole nation 
 
 Catches the echo from the sounding strings. 
 
 Out of the depths of feeling and emotion 
 Rises the orb of song, serenely bright, 
 
 As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean, 
 The golden sunrise bursting into light. 
 
 Wide is its magic world — divided neither 
 By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone : 
 
 Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither 
 In fancied fortunes to forget his own 1 
 
HENRY W. PARKER. 
 
 The Reverend Henry W. Parker is a native 
 of Danby, New York, and was born in 1825. His 
 mother is a niece of the late Noah Webster, and 
 his father, the Reverend Samuel Parker, of Itha- 
 ca, travelled in Oregon, and published in 1837 an 
 account of his tour, a very interesting book, in 
 which the practicability of a railroad through the 
 Rocky Mountains was first suggested. 
 
 Mr. Parker passed his early years in Ithaca, a 
 place of singular beauty, at the head of Cayuga 
 Lake, and was graduated at Amherst College in 
 1843. He subsequently studied divinity, and is now 
 pastor of a Presbyterian church in Brooklyn. 
 
 His wife, to whom he was married in 1852, is (he 
 author of a work entitled "Stars of the Western 
 World," and he has himself written much in 
 "The North American Review'' and other period- 
 icals, besides a volume of "Poems," published at 
 Auburn, in 1850, and "The Story of a Soul," a 
 poem read before the literary societies of Hamilton 
 College, in 1851. 
 
 Mr. Parker has a luxuriant fancy, a ready 
 apprehension of the picturesque in nature, a me- 
 ditative tenderness, and uncommon facility of ver- 
 sification. In some of his pieces there is humor, 
 but this is a quality he does not seem to cherish. 
 
 VISION OF SHELLEY'S DEATH. 
 
 The wind had darkly touched the outer bay, 
 A looming storm shut out the sultry day, 
 And whiter grew the distant billows' play. 
 
 The nearer calm a single sail beguiled, 
 And at the helm, with features fair and mild, 
 Sat one whom men have called the Eternal Child. 
 A breath — a breeze — 'the tempest strikes the sail ; 
 It fills, it stoops, and, swift and free as frail, 
 It flies a broad-winged arrow from the gale. 
 A precious boat! may angels speed it right! 
 The world, in shell so thin and form so slight, 
 Hath all its hold upon a mind of might. 
 He lay reclined in noonday dreams no more, 
 He gazed no longer at the purple shore, 
 Nor mused on roofing skies, and ocean's floor. 
 The wizard storm invoked a truer dream — 
 Had kindled in his eye its proudest gleam, 
 And given his eagle soul a grander theme. 
 No sign of craven fear his lips reveal; 
 He only feels the joy that heroes feel, 
 When lightnings flash and jarring thunders peal. 
 The boat dipt low ; his foot was on the helm ; 
 The deck a throne, the storm his genial realm, 
 He dared the powers that nature's king o'erwhelm. 
 The gentle eye that turned from man away, 
 Now flashed in answer to the flashing spray, 
 And glanced in triumph o'er the foaming bay. 
 And as aloft the boat a moment hung, 
 Then down the plunging wave was forward flung, 
 His own wild song, "The Fugitives," he sung : 
 Said he, "And seest thou, and hearest thou ]" 
 Cried he, "And fearest thou, and fearest thou] 
 A pilot bold, I trow, should follow now." .... 
 The sail was torn and trailing in the sea, 
 The water flooded o'er the dipping lee, 
 And clomb the mast in maddest revelry. 
 It righted, with the liquid load, and fast 
 Went down ; the mariners afloat were cast, 
 And louder roared and laughed the mocking blast. 
 
 A moment, and no trace of man or spar 
 Is left to strew the path that, near and far, 
 
 Is whirled in foam beneath the tempest's car 
 
 A moment more, and one pale form appeared, 
 And faintly looked the eyes; no storm careered, 
 And all the place with mystic light was sphered. 
 Around him slept a circling space of wave; 
 It seemed the crystal pavement of a cave, 
 And all about he heard the waters rave. 
 He saw them waving like a silken tent — 
 Beheld them fall, as rocks of beryl rent, 
 And rage like lions from a martyr pent. 
 A sudden life began to thrill his veins; 
 A strange new force his sinking weight sustains, 
 Until he seemed released from mortal chains. 
 He looked above — a glory floating down — 
 A dazzling face and form — a kingly crown — 
 With blinding beauty all his senses drown. 
 As tearful eyes may see the light they shun, 
 As veiling mists reveal the clear-shaped sun, 
 He knew the crucified, transfigured One. 
 In that still pause of trembling, blissful sight, 
 He woke as from a wild and life-long night, 
 And through his soul there crept a holy light. 
 A blot seemed fading from his troubled brain, 
 A doubt of God — a madness and a pain- 
 Till upward welled his trustful youth again; 
 Till upward every feeling pure was drawn, 
 As nightly dews are claimed again at daivn, 
 And whence they gently come are gently gone. 
 He gazed upon those mercy-beaming eyes, 
 Till recognition chased away surprise, 
 And he had faith from heaven to slowly rise — 
 To rise and kneel upon the glassy tide, 
 While down the Vision floated to his side, 
 And stooped to hear what less he said than sighed : 
 "Oh Truth, Love, Gentleness! I wooed and won 
 Your essences, nor knew that ye are One ; 
 Oh crowned Truth, receive thine erring son !" .... 
 The gentle one, whose thought alone was wrong — ■ 
 The Eternal Child amidst a cherub throng, 
 Was wafted to the Home of Love and Song. 
 
 617 
 
618 
 
 HENRY W. PARKER. 
 
 THE DEAD-WATCH. 
 
 Each saddened face is gone, and tearful eye 
 Of mother, brother, and of sisters fair ; 
 
 With ghostly sound their distant footfalls die 
 Thro' whispering hall, and up the rustling stair. 
 
 In yonder room the newly dead doth sleep; 
 
 Begin we thus, my friend, our watch to keep. 
 
 And now both feed the fire and trim the lamp; 
 
 Pass cheerly, if we can, the slow-paced hours; 
 For, all without is cold, and drear, and damp, 
 
 And the wide air with storm and darkness lowers ; 
 Pass cheerly, if we may, the live-long night, 
 And chase pale phantoms, paler fear, to flight. 
 
 We will not talk of death, of pall and knell — 
 Leave that, the mirth of brighter hours to check ; 
 
 But tales of life, love, beauty, let us tell, 
 Or of stern battle, sea, and stormy wreck ; 
 
 Call up the visions gay of other days — 
 
 Our boyhood's sports and merry youthful ways. 
 
 Hark to the distant bell! — an hour is gone! 
 
 Enter yon silent room with footsteps light ; 
 Our brief, appointed duty must be done — 
 
 To bathe the face, and stay death's rapid blight : 
 To bare the rigid face, and dip the cloth 
 That hides a mortal, "crushed before the moth." 
 
 The bathing liquid scents the chilly room ; 
 
 How spectral white are shroud and vailing lace 
 On yonder side-board, in the fearful gloom! 
 
 Take off the muffler from the sleeper's face — 
 You spoke, my friend, of sunken cheek and eye — • 
 Ah, what a form of beauty here doth lie! 
 
 Never hath Art, from purest wax or stone, 
 
 So fair an image, and so lustrous, wrought; 
 It is as if a beam from heaven had shown 
 
 A weary angel in sweet slumber caught! — 
 The smiling lip, the warmly tinted cheek, 
 And all so calm, so saint-like, and so meek! 
 She softly sleeps, and yet how unlike sleep; 
 
 No fairy dreams flit o'er that marble face, 
 As ripples play along the breezy deep, 
 
 As shadows o'er the field each other chase; 
 The spirit dreams no more, but wakes in light, 
 And freely wings its flashing seraph flight. 
 
 She sweetly sleeps, her lips and eyelids sealed; 
 
 No ruby jewel heaves upon her breast, 
 With her quick breath now hidden, now revealed, 
 
 As setting stars long tremble in the west; 
 But white and still as drifts of moonlit snow, 
 Her folded cerements and her flushless brow. 
 
 Oh, there is beauty in the winter moon, 
 And beauty in the brilliant summer flower, 
 
 And in the liquid eye and luring tone 
 
 Of radiant Love's and rosy Laughter's hour; 
 
 But where is beauty, in this blooming world, 
 
 Like Death upon a maiden's lip impearled ! 
 
 Vail we the dead, and close the open door ; 
 
 Perhaps the spirit, ere it soar above, 
 Would watch its clay alone, and hover o'er 
 
 The face it once had kindled into love ; 
 Commune we hence, oh friend, this wakeful night, 
 Of death made lovely by so blest a sight. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SUMMER LIGHTS. 
 
 No moee the tulips hold their torches up, 
 And chestnuts silver candelabra bear. 
 
 The spring, dethroned, has left her festive cup 
 Of honey-dew, and other blossoms flare 
 To light another feast with tinted glare. 
 
 Summer has ta'en the sceptre, and the trees, 
 In low obeisance bow their weight of green ; 
 
 The locusts bloom with swarms of snowy bees 
 That make the fragrant branches downward lean; 
 
 Each snow-ball bush with full-blown moons is hung, 
 And all around, like red suns setting low, 
 Large peonies shed a burning crimson glow, 
 
 While, worlds of foliage on the shoulders swung 
 Of Atlantean trunks, the orchards darkly grow. 
 
 SUMMER S ESSENCE. 
 
 A tide of song and leaf, of bloom and feather — 
 A sea of summer's freshest, fullest splendor, 
 
 Has come with June's serenely crystal weather. 
 Whate'er of beauty, mornings clear and tender, 
 And golden eves and dewy nights, engender, 
 
 Has met in one bewildering bliss together — 
 Delicious fragrance, foliage deep and massy, 
 
 Unfolding roses, silver locust flowers, 
 And darkling silences of waters glassy, 
 
 Soft crescents, loving stars and nightly showers, 
 Rich shades and lemon lights in vistas grassy, 
 
 And sweetest twitterings through all the hours, 
 And opal clouds that float in slumber bland, 
 And distances that soften into fairy-land. 
 
 A STREET. 
 
 By day, soft clouded in a twilight gloom, 
 
 And letting sunlight through its arches pour, 
 
 The street is like a lofty banquet room, 
 
 And every sunny leaf a golden bloom, 
 And sunny spots upon the level floor, 
 As if with tiger-robes 't were covered o'er. 
 
 By night, the gas-lights half in foliage hid, 
 Seem birds of flame that flutter silver wings 
 
 And shake in concert with the katydid. 
 It is a leafy palace made for kings 
 
 To meet their thousand lords in festivals — 
 
 A temple with its wreathed and pillared walls — 
 A street that slowly grew a Mammoth Cave 
 Stalagmited with trunks through all the nave. 
 
 SNOW IN THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Not thus on street and garden, roof and spire, 
 
 The snow, for ages, here was yearly spread; 
 
 It tipt the Indian's plume of bloody red, 
 And melted, hissing, in his council-fire; 
 
 It gave an impress to the panther's tread, 
 And all the monster feet that filled the wood. 
 
 But now the snow of whiter towns and faces 
 Has drifted o'er the glorious solitude ; 
 And death and silence, like a winter, brood 
 
 Upon the vanished brute and human races. 
 
 So let oblivion come, till it effaces, 
 Oh weary soul, thy summer's maddest mood, 
 
 Thus o'er thy woes let silence softly fall, 
 
 And Winter, with a holy beauty, vail them all. 
 
JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 [Born, 1830.] 
 
 JohnEsten Cooke, son of John Rogers and 
 Maria Pendleton Cooke, and brother of the 
 author of "Froissart Ballads," was born in Win- 
 chester, Frederic county, Virginia, on the third of 
 November, 1830; was taken to Glengary, his fa- 
 ther's estate, near that town, and lived there until 
 the destruction of the house by fire, in 1839, when 
 the family removed to Richmond, which has ever 
 since been his home. Having studied the law, in 
 the office of his father, he was admitted to the bar, 
 and continues in the practice of the profession. 
 
 Mr. Cooke's first work was "Leather Stocking 
 and Silk," which appeared in 1853. It is a story 
 of provincial life in Virginia, as it is represented 
 in the traditions which cluster around Martins- 
 burg. It is remarkable for picturesque grouping 
 and dramatic situations, for simple touches of na- 
 ture, and gentle pathos. This was followed in 
 1854 by "The Virginia Comedians, or the Old 
 Days of the Old Dominion," in which is presented 
 a carefully studied and finely colored picture of 
 
 Virginia society just before the revolution. The 
 book is thoroughly democratic and American, and 
 abounds with natural delineations of character, 
 brilliant dialogue, and graphic description. In the 
 same year he produced "The Youth of Jefferson," 
 in all respects, perhaps, his best novel. It is found- 
 ed on some of the statesman's early letters, and is 
 a graceful and romantic drama, the personages 
 of which are distinctly drawn, and in their differ- 
 ent ways all interesting. In 1855 he published 
 " Ellie, or the Human Comedy." 
 
 Mr. Cooke's poems have appeared in the "Lite- 
 rary Messenger" and other southern periodicals. 
 The longest and most remarkable of them has but 
 the unexpressive title of " Stanzas," and its subject 
 and style will remind the reader of a noble work of 
 the most popular living poet of England. It is, how- 
 ever, an original performance, simple, natural, and 
 touching, and every verse vindicates its genuineness 
 as an expression of feeling. His minor pieces are 
 cabinet pictures, executed with taste and skill. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "STANZAS.' 
 
 For long I thought the dreadful day 
 Which robbed me of my joy and peace, 
 Had palsied me with such disease. 
 
 As never more could pass away: 
 
 But Nature whispered low and sweet: 
 
 "Oh heart! struck down with deep despair, 
 The goal is near, these trials are 
 
 But beckoning's to the Saviour's feet." 
 
 And then, "Even put your grief in words, 
 The soul expends itself, as tears 
 Flow after storms; the hopes of years 
 
 Rise stronger than the binding cords. 
 
 "Oh Soul! these are the trials meet 
 To fit thee for the nobler strife 
 With Evil through the bounds of Life: 
 
 Pure steel is from the furnace-heat. 
 
 " Shrink not! a nobler self is wrought 
 
 From out the shock, more grand and fair: 
 March on, oh Heart! through toil and care — 
 
 The grand result is cheaply bought!" 
 
 I hear around me echoing feet — 
 The din of cities, never still — 
 The clinking purse we toil to fill — 
 
 The quick accost when merchants meet — 
 
 The wagons rattling: o'er the way — 
 The drayman calling to his horse — 
 The auctioneer, with utterance hoarse 
 
 Cry in yon house of dusky gray — 
 
 The clash of armed minds, aloof, 
 Resound through legislative halls — 
 The indignant echo of the walls — 
 
 The nothingness that shakes the roof; 
 
 And, near the bustle of the courts 
 Where law's condottieri wage 
 The fight, with passion, well-paid rage- 
 
 Below, the ships draw toward the ports. 
 
 From all I turn with weary heart 
 
 To that green mountain land of thine, 
 Where tranquil suns unclouded shine, 
 
 And to the abode where now thou art. 
 
 iir. 
 
 The deep alarum of the drum 
 Resounds in yonder busy street, 
 The horses move on restless feet, 
 
 And every urchin cries, "They come!" 
 
 With which the trumpet blares aloud 
 And brazen-throated horns reply: 
 The incense of the melody 
 
 Floats upward like a golden cloud. 
 
 And like the boy's my soul is fired, 
 And half I grasp. the empty air, 
 With dreams of lists and ladies fair, 
 
 As in the days when I aspired. 
 
 619 
 
620 
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 The trumpet dies, a distant roar, 
 
 The drum becomes a murmuring voice — 
 No more in battle I rejoice, 
 
 But fall to dreaming as before — 
 
 Of other skies and greener trees, 
 And mountain peaks of purple gloom — 
 And of the dim and shadowy tomb, 
 
 Where that great spirit rests in peace. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The sunset died that tender day, 
 
 Across the mountains bright and pure, 
 And bathed with golden waves the shore 
 
 Of evening, and the fringed spray, 
 
 And stately ships which glided by, 
 With whitest sails toward the dim 
 Untravelled seas beyond the rim 
 
 Of peaks that melted in the sky. 
 
 He sat upon the trellised porch, 
 And still the conversation ranged 
 From olden things all gone or changed, 
 
 To grand, eternal Truth — a torch 
 
 That spread around a steady light, 
 
 And mocked the strength of hostile hands, 
 And pointed man to other lands 
 
 Of hope beyond Thought's farthest flight. 
 
 That noble forehead, broad and calm, 
 Was flushed with evening's holy ray, 
 His eye gave back the light of day — 
 
 His words poured out a soothing balm; 
 
 His low sweet tones fell on the ear 
 Like music in the quiet watch 
 Of midnight, when the spirits catch 
 
 At golden memories, ever dear. 
 
 And now recalling that dim eve, 
 
 And him who spake those noble words, 
 Though trembling still in all its chords, 
 
 My heart is calmed, and I believe. 
 
 V. 
 
 I thought to pass away from earth 
 And join thee, with that other heart 
 Loved even more than thee, a part 
 
 Of other worlds, through heavenlier birth — 
 
 Of whom I do not speak my thought 
 So dear she is, because the eye 
 O'erflows with wo, and with a cry 
 
 I tear the symbols I have wrought. 
 
 No word shall be of that one grief, 
 Because it lies too deep for words, 
 And this sad trifling which affords 
 
 . Some respite, could be no relief. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Come from the fields, thy dwelling place, 
 Oh spirit of the Past! and steep 
 My wounded soul in dreamy sleep, 
 
 And fit its sandals for the race 
 
 Of flashing, hurrying life; and spread 
 A soft oblivion o'er the ills 
 With which the fainting bosom fills, 
 
 And calm the throbbing heart and head: 
 
 So shall I gather strength again 
 To stem the tide of worldly strife, 
 To bear the weariness of life, 
 
 And feel that all things are not vain. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 I know not whither past the crimson zone 
 
 Of evening sail those ships of snow and gold — • 
 The beauteous clouds that seem to hover and fold 
 
 Their wings — like birds that having all day flown 
 
 Against the blue sky, now at set of sun 
 Play for a moment gayly on their soft 
 And burnished pinions wide: then from aloft 
 
 Sink down below the horizon and are gone ! 
 
 I know not where they fold their shining wings 
 In very truth; nor what far happy land 
 They come together in — a radiant band, 
 
 The brightest, purest, of all earthly things ! 
 
 But well I know that land lies broad and fair 
 
 Beyond the evening: Oh ! that I were there ! 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Has the old glory passed 
 
 From tender May — 
 That never the echoing blast 
 Of bugle horns merry, and fast 
 Dying away like the past, 
 
 Welcomes the day 1 ? 
 
 Has the old Beauty gone 
 
 From golden May — ■ 
 That not any more at dawn 
 Over the flowery lawn, 
 Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, 
 
 Maids are at play 1 
 
 Is the old freshness dead 
 
 Of the fairy May ?— 
 Ah ! the sad tear-drops unshed ! 
 Ah ! the young maidens unwed ! 
 Golden locks — ■ cheeks rosy red! 
 
 Ah! where are they? 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 The flush of sunset dies 
 Far on ancestral trees : 
 On the bright-booted bees: 
 On cattle-dotting leas ! 
 
 And a mist is in my eyes — 
 For in a stranger land 
 Halts the quick-running sand, 
 Shaken by no dear hand ! 
 
 How plain is the flowering gi 
 The sunset-flooded door; 
 I hear the river's roar 
 Say clearly "Nevermore." 
 
 I see the cloud-shadows pass 
 Over my mountain meres; 
 Gone are the rose-bright years: 
 Drowned in a sea of tears. 
 
WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE. 
 
 [Born, 1832.] 
 
 The Reverend William C. Doane, A.M., se- 
 cond son of the Right Reverend George W. 
 Doane, D.D., LL. D., was born in Boston, in 
 March, 1832; graduated at Burlington College, 
 in 1830; ordained deacon, by his father, in March, 
 1853 ; and is now assistant minister of St. Mary's 
 Church, Burlington, of which his father is the 
 
 rector, and adjunct professor of English literature, 
 and instructor in Anglo-Saxon, in Burlington 
 College. His poetical productions have been pub- 
 lished in "The Missionary," of which he was the 
 editor, and in other newspapers. They are medi- 
 tative, graceful, and fanciful, and promise a great 
 excellence. 
 
 GREY CLIFF, NEWPORT.* 
 
 What strivest thou for, oh thou most mighty ocean, 
 
 Rolling thy ceaseless sweeping surfs ashore 1 
 Canst thou not stay that restless wild commotion] 
 
 Must that low murmur moan for evermore 1 
 Yet thou art better than our hearts, though yearning 
 
 Still for some unattain^d, unknown land; 
 Thou still art constant, evermore returning, 
 
 With each fresh wind, to kiss our waiting strand. 
 Oh, heart! if restless, like the yearning ocean, 
 Like it be all thy waves, of one emotion ! 
 
 Whither, with canvas wings, oh ship, art sailing — 
 
 Homeward or outward-bound, to shore or seal 
 What thought within thy strong sidesis prevailing, 
 
 Hope or despair, sorrow or careless glee 1 
 Thou, too, art like our hearts, which gayly seeming, 
 
 With hope sails set, to catch each fresh'ning breeze, 
 In truth art sad, with tears and trials teeming — ■ 
 
 Perhaps to sail no more on life's wild seas. 
 Oh, heart! while sailing, like a ship, remember, 
 Thou, too, may'st founder, in a rough December! 
 
 Why, your white arms, ye windmills, are ye crossing 
 
 In sad succession to the evening breeze, 
 As though within your gray old heads were tossing 
 
 Thoughts of fatigue, and longings after ease'? — 
 But ye are better than our hearts, for grieving, 
 
 Over your cares, ye work your destined way, 
 While they, their solemn duties weakly leaving, 
 
 In helpless sorrow weep their lives away. 
 Oh, heart! if like those hoary giants mourning, 
 Why not be taught, by their instructive warning ! 
 
 MY FATHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 A tear of stir, and storm, and strife, 
 
 Has mixed the snows of time 
 With the sharp hail of thickening cares 
 
 Upon thy brow sublime. 
 But yet the firm undaunted step 
 
 That marks the might of truth — 
 The eye undimmed, the fearless heart, 
 
 Are thine, as in thy youth. 
 
 * My sister's home. 
 
 And as the tree that feels the gale 
 
 The fiercest and the first, 
 Glistens the soonest in the sun, 
 
 Through scattered storm-clouds burst,' — 
 
 So, when the false world's strife is done 
 
 And time has passed away, 
 The brightest beam of heaven's own light 
 
 About thy head shall play! 
 
 SHELLS. 
 
 Far out at sea a tiny boat 
 
 Has set its tiny sail, 
 And, swiftly, see it onward float, 
 
 As freshens still the gale. 
 A rainbow in it must have slept 
 
 To lend it tints so fair, 
 Or loveliest angel o'er it wept — ■ 
 
 A pearl in every tear. 
 Fairer than pen of mine can tell 
 Sails on that fearless tiny shell. 
 
 Deep in the chambers of the sea, 
 
 Where storied mermaids dwell, 
 A palace stood: and seemed to me, 
 
 Its every stone a shell ; 
 And oh, what glorious hues were they 
 
 That sparkled on my eyes, 
 Of blue and gold, and red and gray, 
 
 Like tints of western skies ! 
 As violets sweet in loveliest dells, 
 So blushed unseen those beauteous shells. 
 
 Thus, on the sea, and 'neath its waves 
 
 Those tinctured sea-gems lie, 
 Like tombstones set to mark the graves 
 
 Of low-born men and high ; 
 And, when they rest upon the shore, 
 
 In wealth's luxuriant ease, 
 They sound to us the solemn roar 
 
 They learned beneath the seas, — 
 As exiles, though afar they roam, 
 Still sing the songs they learned at home.* 
 
 ; " Pleased they remember their august abodes, 
 And murmur, as the ocean murmurs there." 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 621 
 
|itte of ftamflj 
 
 ADAMS. JOHN QTJINCY page 68 
 
 ALDRICH, JAMES 453 
 
 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON 86 
 
 ALSOP, RICHARD 64 
 
 BANCROFT, GEORGE 273 
 
 BARLOW, JOEL 57 
 
 BENJAMIN, PARK 435 
 
 BETHUNE, GEORGE W 327 
 
 BOKER, GEORGE H 587 
 
 BRAINARD, J. G. C 237 
 
 BRIGHT, J. H 315 
 
 BROOKS, CHARLES T 495 
 
 BROOKS, JAMES G 278 
 
 BRYANT, JOHN H 367 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CTJLLEN, {Portrait.) 169 
 
 BURLEIGH, WILLIAM H 486 
 
 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN 615 
 
 CLARK, WILLIS GAYLORD 447 
 
 CLARKE, JAMES FREEMAN 460 
 
 CLASON, ISAAC 265 
 
 CLIFFTON, WILLIAM 73 
 
 COE, RICHARD 608 
 
 COLTON, GEORGE H 541 
 
 COLTON , WALTER 445 
 
 CONRAD, ROBERT T 465 
 
 COOKE, JOHN ESTEN 619 
 
 COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON, (Portrait.) 521 
 
 COSBY, FORTUNATUS 293 
 
 COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND 544 
 
 COZZENS, FREDERICK S 540 
 
 ORANCH, CHRISTOPHER P 497 
 
 CROSWELL, WILLIAM 319 
 
 CURRY, OTWAY 317 
 
 CUTTER, GEORGE W 463 
 
 DANA, RICHARD H. (Portrait.) 112 
 
 DAWES, EUFUS 308 
 
 DEWEY, GEORGE W 349 
 
 DOANE, GEORGE W 270 
 
 DOANE, WILLIAM C 621 
 
 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN 203 
 
 DUGANNE, AUGUSTINE J. H 536 
 
 D WIGHT, TIMOTHY 48 
 
 EASTBURN, JAMES WALLIS 248 
 
 EASTMAN. CHARLES G 528 
 
 ELLSWORTH, ERASTUS W 579 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 298 
 
 ENGLISH, THOMAS DUNN 576 
 
 EVERETT, ALEXANDER H 143 
 
 EVERETT, EDWARD 201 
 
 FAIRFIELD, SUMNER LINCOLN ' 305 
 
 FAY, THEODORE S 381 
 
 FIELD! MATTHEW C 494 
 
 FIELDS, JAMES T 573 
 
 FLINT, MICAH P 354 
 
 FRENEAU, PHILIP 31 
 
 FRISBIE, LEVI 95 
 
 FROTHINGHAM, NATHANIEL L 465 
 
 GALLAGHER, WILLIAM D. (Portrait.) 409 
 
 GILMAN, SAMUEL 146 
 
 GOODRICH, SAMUEL G 232 
 
 GREENE, ALBERT G 295 
 
 GRIEFIN, EDMUND D 313 
 
 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE 211 
 
 HARNEY, JOHN M 140 
 
 HILL, GEORGE 275 
 
 HILLHOUSE, JAMES A 129 
 
 HIRST. HENRY B 533 
 
 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO 329 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 415 
 
 HONEYWOOD, ST. JOHN 65 
 
 HOPKINSON, JOSEPH 72 
 
 HOSMER, WILLIAM H. C 507 
 
 HOYT, RALPH 442 
 
 HUMPHRIES, DAVID 55 
 
 622 
 
 HUNTINGTON, JEDEDIAH VINCENT page 511 
 
 JACKSON, HENRY R 468 
 
 KEY, FRANCIS S 123 
 
 LAWRENCE, JONATHAN 349 
 
 LEGARE, J. M =77 
 
 LEGGETT, WILLIAM 285 
 
 LELAND, CHARLES G 595 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. (Portrait.) 355 
 
 LORD, WILLIAM W 547 
 
 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, (Portrait.) 565 
 
 LUNT, GEORGE 363 
 
 MACKELLAR, THOMAS 493 
 
 McLELLAN, ISAAC 455 
 
 MATTHEWS, CORNELIUS 513 
 
 MELLEN, GRENVILLE 267 
 
 MESSENGER, ROBERT H 366 
 
 MILLER, E. SPENCER 537 
 
 MILLER, JAMES W 294 
 
 MOORE, CLEMENT C 81 
 
 MORRIS, GEORGE P 281 
 
 MUNFORD, WILLIAM 78 
 
 NACK, JAMES 342 
 
 NEAL, JOHN 194 
 
 NOBLE, LOUIS L 491 
 
 NORTON, ANDREWS 106 
 
 PABODIE, WILLIAM J 515 
 
 PAINE, ROBERT TREAT 75 
 
 PALMER, WILLIAM PITT 3^5 
 
 PARKER, HENRY W 617 
 
 PARSONS, THOMAS W 559 
 
 PATTEN, GEORGE W 407 
 
 PAULDING, JAMES K 83 
 
 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD 128 
 
 PEABODY, EPHRAIM 387 
 
 PEABODY, WILLIAM B. 264 
 
 PERCIVAL, JAMES G. (Portrait.) 219 
 
 PIERPONT, JOHN 97 
 
 PIKE, ALBERT 425 
 
 PINKNEY, EDWARD C 287 
 
 POE, EDGAR A. (Portrait.) 4G9 
 
 PRENTICE, GEORGE D 322 
 
 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN 581 
 
 ROCKWELL, JAMES OTIS 351 
 
 SANDS, ROBERT C 249 
 
 SANFORD, EDWARD 383 
 
 SARGENT, EPES 517 
 
 S AXE, JOHN G 529 
 
 SCHOOLCRAFT, HENRY R 167 
 
 SHAW, JOHN 80 
 
 SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE 343 
 
 SMITH, SEBA 164 
 
 SPRAGUE, CHARLES 147 
 
 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY 609 
 
 STREET, ALFRED B 479 
 
 TAPPAN, WILLIAM B 199 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD, (Portrait.) 597 
 
 THATCHER, BENJAMIN B 424 
 
 THOMAS, FREDERICK W 408 
 
 THOMPSON, JOHN E 594 
 
 TRUMBULL, JOHN 41 
 
 TUCKER, ST. GEORGE 40 
 
 TUCKERMAN, HENRY T 500 
 
 VERT, JONES 457 
 
 WALLACE, WILLIAM ROSS 551 
 
 WALTER, WILLIAM B , 247 
 
 WARD, THOMAS 355 
 
 WARE, HENRY 191 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN G • 389 
 
 WILCOX, CARLOS 184 
 
 WILDE, RICHARD HENRY 123 
 
 WILLIS, NATHANIEL P 371 
 
 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL 105 
 
 Lb !.■ 
 


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