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FULFILMENT OF A PROMISE; 
 
 BY WHICH 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY EMMA WILLARD, 
 
 ARE PUBLISHED, AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO 
 HER PAST AND PRESENT PUPILS. 
 
 l^eto^Socfe : 
 
 WHITE, GALLAHER & WHITE. 
 
 Clayton & Van Ndrden, Printers. 
 
 1831. 
 
 e^..^ 
 
WsFe 
 
 ScuthtJ-n District of New-York, ss. 
 
 BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the eighth day of January, 
 A. D. 1831, in the fifty-fifth year of the Independence of the United States 
 of America, Emma Willard, of the said District, hath deposited in this 
 office the title of a Book, the right whereof she claims as Authoress, in the 
 words following, to wit : 
 
 " The Fulfilment of a Promise ; by which Poems, by Emma Willard, are 
 published, and aflfectionately inscribed to her past and present pupils." 
 
 In conformity to the act of Congress of the United States, entitled "An 
 Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, 
 Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during 
 the time therein mentioned." And also to an Act, entitled "An Act, 
 supplementary to an Act, entitled an Act for the encouragement of Learn- 
 ing, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the authors 
 and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and 
 extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and 
 etching historical and other prints. 
 
 FRED. J. BETTS, 
 Clerk of the Southern District of New-York. 
 
 /^T 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 About to cross an ocean for the first time, I 
 feel, no doubt, the possibility of never returning, 
 more fully than those to whom voyaging is familiar. 
 On this occasion, I have set myself to do, as far as 
 possible, every thing which in case of sudden death 
 it would be desirable that I had done ; and in particu- 
 lar to leave upon my conscience, as far as may 
 be, no obligation unfulfilled. Along with making 
 my will, I have gathered this little volume for the 
 press ; — all but the first article, which I have written 
 in two days and two nights, amidst the preparation 
 for my departure, which takes place to-morrow 
 morning, the bustle of a New- York boarding-house, 
 and the kind parting calls of affectionate friends. 
 
IV 
 
 More than five years since, I bound myself to the 
 young ladies then my pupils, to publish a few of my 
 poems. In a season of affliction, during wliich I 
 was obliged to suspend my accustomed duties to 
 them, they paid to me the most touching attentions. 
 I wished to do something for them ; they asked of 
 me this favour, and with solemnity I promised to 
 grant it. 
 
 Yet I have lingered and lingered over the per» 
 formance of my promise, unwilling to expose my 
 peace to the lash of that free spirit of criticism, which 
 every author who comes before the public with 
 poetry must expect, and which it is its right to 
 bestow. Yet I would now invoke the power of 
 criticism, much as Gray did that of Adversity : — 
 
 " Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 " Dread goddess ! lay thy chast'ning hand ; 
 " Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
 *' As by the scorners thou art seen. 
 
"Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, 
 
 *' Thy milder influence impart ; 
 
 "Thy philosophic train be there, 
 
 "To mend my style, not wound my heart." 
 
 New.YorJc, Sept. 30th, 1830. 
 
 A2 
 
POEMS 
 
 A 3 
 
POEMS. 
 
 PROPHETIC STRAINS, 
 
 A1>DIIKSSED TO MY PAST AND PRESENT PUPILS, ON THE 
 EVJB OF MY DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. 
 
 Sept. 30th, 1830. 
 
 My children! ye, whose minds are born of mine, 
 Whose hearts beat toward me with a filial pulse, 
 I leave you, so I deem God wills, and go, 
 A wanderer o'er the main, to foreign lands. 
 Ye weep as I depart. Your fancy swells 
 The dangers of the deep, and ye are griev'd ; — 
 Griev'd most of all, that ye on earth may see 
 My face no more. 
 
10 
 
 The world knows not how dear 
 Ye are to me, and I to you, my daughters ! 
 Yet who could look unmoved on innocence 
 In grief, or on young beauty in her tears. 
 Himself the cause ? All this I feel ; but yet 
 Beyond all this there lies a hidden spell, 
 That binds my soul to you. Ye are to me 
 The bodying forth of a long lov'd idea. 
 I see in you the representatives 
 Of future woman ; — of the cause I've served. 
 Even with a martyr's zeal, and still will serve : 
 And when my lingering eye doth fondly rest 
 On you, ye feel its warmth mysterious, 
 And from your unsophisticated hearts 
 Pay back to me its depth of tenderness. 
 Thus I to you, as you to me, become 
 Linked by a bond unto which fancy lends 
 Peculiar witchery. Yet when I look 
 On mine own self, a woman, weak to feel 
 Each human passion, O, I blush to think 
 Of what I am to you. But yet there is, 
 That makes me bold to arrogate even all 
 
11 
 
 The fond respect, wliich you, my daughters, give. 
 
 But, 'tis not of myself. The Lord — the Lord 
 
 Hath sometimes given unto me strange power ; — 
 
 Hath a seer mine eyes anointed, that I see 
 
 With lengthen'd ken, far into future years ? 
 
 And when the vision comes, wild throbbings seize 
 
 My breast, of joy, amazement, or of grief, 
 
 As my rapt spirit sees or good or ill. 
 
 And hath the dream prophetic cross'd my soul ? 
 
 Then look I on the future, as a book, 
 
 Perused already ; — on its coming scenes. 
 
 But as the re-enacting of a play, 
 
 Seen oft, and grown familiar. Read, and mark 
 
 Most thoughtfully the vast prophetic scene. 
 
 Greatest of God's revealings to my mind. 
 
 Next in this book, this gift of love to you. 
 
 Nine annual suns, — but nine short years have past, 
 
 And lo ! the prophecy doth haste to its 
 
 Fulfilment. In regenerate Europe, see 
 
 The grand congressive council in its germ, 
 
 Wrong in its ends, but making way for riglil . 
 
 America's first effort, not her last. 
 
IS 
 
 Panama wondering saw. * And noble France ; — 
 How hath she sped to its accomplishment, 
 The dream of Liberty, and man's release 
 From the dark pair, beleagured for his wo ! 
 
 For woman, too, the dream of prophecy 
 Hath moved within my spirit. Darkly, there, 
 In days gone by, I brooded o'er her wrongs ; 
 1 looked o'er earth, nor saw one single nook, 
 Where she had justice. Governments ne'er sought 
 To train her youth to knowledge, bring her forth 
 By art perfected upon nature's plan ; 
 And while the state her coffers open'd wide 
 Her sons to elevate, her daughters groped 
 Through Error's mazes ; — seeing not, so thick 
 The darkness, that they needed light : for fashion 
 They took for reason, show for worth. Such was 
 
 * The piece referred to, whidi I have entitled The Spirit of 
 Prophecy, was written and published, in another form, four years 
 before the Conj^ress of Panama. 
 
13 
 
 Woman's condition in earth's favour'tl climes. 
 
 But seek in barbarous lands for man's companion — 
 
 Companion ! no ! ah, no ! man's property I 
 
 See where she bears his game, a human beast 
 
 Of burden. Look again — a living doll, 
 
 Trick'd out for his amusement. See, there are 
 
 A hundred painted images, all for 
 
 One tyrant's sport. That blaze I what means it? Who 
 
 That shrieking fair ? alas, the Indian widow ! 
 
 Widow no more, for she is dead ! burnt ! burned 
 
 Alive ! and with a corpse, within a fiery grave ! 
 
 She was a woman — but a woman. Was't 
 
 For her to claim life longer than her lord ? 
 
 O God ! when thou hast visited with plagues. 
 Has it not been for injur'd woman's wrongs ? 
 I deemed it so, and upwards look'd to thee ; 
 The deep prophetic spirit was sent down. 
 And visions of that brighter day, when her 
 Oppressions cease, came thickly over me. 
 And then I saw, ere yet it was, that hall. 
 Whence ye so oft have listen'd to my voice ; 
 
14 
 
 Then, too, I saw your gath'ring groups, dear girls, 
 
 Of maidens best, most loving and belov'd ; 
 
 And ye, my sisters, elder daughters, too, 
 
 Who share my labours, and e'en now with smiles 
 
 Double your own, that I may be reliev'd ; — 
 
 Then were before me, too, the groups who, twice 
 
 Each annual sun, gather from distant states, 
 
 To mark with new delight the blossoming 
 
 Of female genius ; — This, and more, I saw, 
 
 In vision ; and I knew that I must do ; 
 
 And I arose and did : and scene by scene 
 
 The vision bodied forth, and was reality. 
 
 Nor is it o'er. Its full accomplishment 
 
 Is not yet come ; and it must have its course. 
 
 Thus much I know ; — thus far the vision's clear. 
 
 But whether, for myself, God needs me more 
 
 To work in this his will all merciful. 
 
 There hangs a dimness o'er the prospect still. 
 
 Yet I deem I have more to do ; and therefore 
 
 I set my foot, in faith I shall return. 
 
 On yonder bark that bears me o'er the deep. 
 
 Vital the cause of woman, in the grand 
 
15 
 
 Progressive scheme of man's advance to truth, 
 Foretold by earlier and by later bards. 
 Listen. The deep prophetic voice doth speak 
 Of woman. There shall be a council held 
 Of matrons, having powers to legislate 
 In woman's province, and to recommend 
 To man's prime rule, acknowledg'd first and best, 
 As wife to husband, whatsoe'er, to her 
 Maternal eye, seems for the general good. 
 
 Such council yet shall be ; but distant far the day. 
 And let no woman's rash, ambitious hand, 
 Attempt to urge it. Let it come, as it will, 
 By God's own providence. Seek we to do 
 What duty bids, and leave the rest to him. 
 
 The only natural government which God 
 Before man's eyes hath set, the family 
 Presents. The husband, father, there presides, 
 Nature's own sovereign, ruling for the good 
 Of his dear subjects. Yet holds woman there 
 A salutary rule, a station high. 
 
16 
 
 Altlio' subordinate to man's ; which place 
 
 When death makes void, the little kingdom mounib-, 
 
 Not less bereav'd than when the sovereign dies. 
 
 And mark that house where death hath vacant made 
 
 The wife's, the mother's place ; and you shall see 
 
 The miniature of ills which still without 
 
 The check of female power, vex and deform 
 
 Society. Disorders reign. The purse 
 
 Is cared for, and the revenue the same ; 
 
 The house is large, and its outside is fair, 
 
 But there are nooks within, where vice engenders ; 
 
 Manners grow loose ; and waste and luxury 
 
 Hold revel. Children are ill taught, the means 
 
 To teach them being ill applied. But chief 
 
 The daughters miss the wise maternal rule. 
 
 The father loves them well, but he knows not 
 
 What training they, to form them right, demand, 
 
 Nor what the means required. Thus they are left 
 
 To ignorance and folly. Fashion comes. 
 
 And takes them by the hand, and lo I a change. 
 
 Where is the shape which beauty's queen had graced ? 
 
 A thing divided in two parts, which scarce 
 
17 
 
 An isthmus of a waist connects ; and where 
 The rounded feature, and the roseate cheek. 
 The strawberry-tinted hp, and the full eye 
 In liquid gladness dancing ? They are gone ! 
 Fashion had bound them with her tightened cord, 
 And sent them gadding forth in thin prunelles. 
 Their tender feet all damp amidst the snows. 
 And see ! Consumption's bright unearthly eye 
 Peers in upon them, and her long, gaunt arms. 
 Are stretched to bear them to their early grave. 
 What ills were spared, if a wise mother's care 
 Had ever watch'd them in their foolish ways ! 
 And thus in the great family of man ; 
 And thus it must be, till a council, form'd 
 Of women, wise in years, in virtue strong. 
 Clears out disorders from the general house. 
 Corrects bad manners, waste and luxury 
 Discountenances, means effectual finds 
 To gather all the infants to the schools, — 
 That vice grow not for future times. Then too 
 Shall woman from her youth be trained aright. 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 Nor will the fathers of the state withhold 
 The means, when the united mothers shall 
 Advise, and recommend, and duteous plead. 
 Then Fashion, long the tyrant of our sex, . 
 Shall be our servant, and shall do us good. 
 Ere I this vision saw, that foolish pest 
 Of women troubled me ; nor could I see 
 Why God within the breast had placed that which 
 Led to such fantasy. Yet God, I knew, 
 Was wholly wise, and nothing made in vain. 
 And then I sifted it, and found its principle 
 Was uniformity. Let it be said, 
 •' Thus do the world ;" and thus will woman do, 
 At peril of her life, and of her soul's 
 Salvation. Let it not be ask'd, what power 
 Could women met in council wield, themselves. 
 Where civil law takes place, entirely ruled. 
 The mighty power of Fashion they can guide. 
 Let them but govern her, she rules for them. 
 They'd place the besom in her hand, and bid her 
 Sweep off the plagues she has scattered ; bid her go, 
 Handmaid of Health, and tend that rosy maid. 
 
19 
 
 Sister of Innocence, nor distress her more. 
 
 Nor shall she lay a mutilating hand 
 
 Again on Beauty ; that fair charm with which, 
 
 As with a glory,^ God invests the sex. 
 
 No longer shall she at her toilet rule. 
 
 But Taste and Fancy faithfully obey, 
 
 And Modesty. Then Beauty shall walk forth 
 
 In all her fair proportions, veiled, not hid ; 
 
 Her floating draperies in graceful folds. 
 
 And ringlets all untortured. Rosy Health, 
 
 And Innocence, are near ; and, hovering o'er, 
 
 With torches mild of soft empurpled light. 
 
 Spirits of love and joy, whose moving wings 
 
 Wave the light tresses of her snowy neck. 
 
 But when shall these things be, and what their sign ? 
 
 Far is the time, — in deep futurity : 
 
 And much must woman learn, and much reflect. 
 
 Ere she such council could with profit hold. 
 
 And let my warning voice again be heard. 
 
 Let not the day be urg'd ; wait God's full time. 
 
 No hot-house plants have health, nor bear the winds ; 
 
 And human institutions, forced in growth. 
 
20 
 
 Are sickly, and soon wither and decay. 
 Let woman wait, till men shall seek her aid. 
 A day will come, when legislative men, 
 Press'd by stupendous dangers to the state, 
 Will see how woman's power, wealth, influence, 
 And mind of quick invention, might be turn'd 
 By right machinery to great account. 
 Then woman, prompt to aid distress, and proud 
 To be found worthy, will the means invent. 
 Concentrating her power, heT aid to give ; 
 Then form such council as the vision shows. 
 
 Seek ye for signs that such a time draws on ? 
 When was it known till late, that women form'd 
 Societies, acted in companies. 
 And gave united and efficient aid 
 To piety and wide benevolence ? 
 Nor is man jealous of the rising power ; 
 He sees it healthful, and looks smiling on, 
 Or woos it to his aid ; himself relieved 
 From small vexatious cares, by her assumed. 
 Admire ye not the spirit of the age, 
 
21 
 
 Which seeks the widow and the orphan out, 
 
 With liberal hand of blessed charity, 
 
 And to the far-off islands of the main 
 
 Sends forth redemption ? These are happy fruits, 
 
 Borne by societies where female zeal 
 
 Hath found its genial sphere : and how much more 
 
 Might the whole habitable earth rejoice, 
 
 Were the whole sex in one vast union form'd. 
 
 With mind enlightened, and with purpose high. 
 
 'Tis well, dear pupils, to behold the form 
 Which future things must wear ; else why revealed ? 
 Shape then your course to haste, not hurry on, 
 That coming day of woman's better hopes. 
 For this ye need but be, and do, whate'er 
 Is pious, good, intelligent and lovely. 
 Seek the perfection of your nature, and 
 Your place ; that's all ; and for the rest, trust God, 
 And he, ever blessed be His holy name, 
 Will, in his own good way and perfect time, 
 Bring aU his own vast purposes to light. 
 
 B 2 
 
THE SPIRIT OF PROPHECY. 
 
 MOSTLY WRITTEN, AND PUBLISHED, BUT IN ANOTHER 
 FORM, JAN. 1st, 1821. 
 
 O SPIRIT of prophetic vision, come ! 
 To my wrapt eye reveal man's future doom. 
 Make me thy priestess — cast the circling spell, 
 Where charmed forms, and magic visions dwell. 
 Propitious power ! I feel the spell is cast — 
 I mark the coming phantoms gathering fast! 
 
 A splendid image rises to my view ; 
 Gorgeous his glittering robe of purple hue ; 
 Sceptred his hand. The diamond's streamy light 
 Breaks from his crown and throne, in halo bright. 
 Yet dark his look, and high and proud his air ; 
 No beam of truth or charity is there; 
 
23 
 
 No light of love or sympathy expressed. 
 
 But every selfish passion of the breast. 
 Near Despotism, a black robed form I see, 
 With mitred head more dark and dread than he, 
 Priestcraft his name ; and mark his frown and smile. 
 The monk's dark scowl, the Jesuit's devilish guile. 
 But from afar, what radiant phantoms roll ? 
 Hail, loveliest vision of the poet's soul ! 
 Dear Liberty ! whose brow in trace divine, 
 Bears every generous, noble virtue's sign. 
 Where hastes the maid ; and what the charming dream 
 That bids new smiles o'er all her visage gleam ? 
 She's passed, and lo ! a vision yet more bright ! 
 The virgin wears a robe of puresj white ; 
 O'er her glad face no transport revels wild ; 
 All is composed and holy, meek and mild. 
 'Tis Christianity ! best, heavenly friend ! 
 Low in thy presence let thy vot'ry bend. 
 I raise my head, the lovely vision's flown, 
 And yon dark phantom's darker seen to frown. 
 The flash of wrath, from each proud visage breaks, 
 While Despotism alarmed to Priestcraft speaks : 
 B3 
 
24 
 
 " Marked you our foes? round earth they wing theii 
 And teach her children to despise our sway, [way, 
 When was the time, since first our rule began. 
 They toiled thus earnest for their favorite, man J 
 See yonder western realms already rise, 
 Republics, hateful to my tortured eyes. 
 Why spared the storm — the tardy hurricane — 
 Genoa's pilot on the untrodden main ? 
 Cursed be the bark, the rash discoverer bore, 
 And cursed be Freedom's seat, the new-found shore I 
 There Freedom's sway began. There might it cease. 
 But lo ! her triumphs all around increase ! 
 Oh, shall I e'er regain the state I kept 
 Ere Corsic's frantic son my barriers leapt 1 
 Undrew my curtain, showed my rites to clowns, 
 Seized my first robes, and trifled with my crowns ?"' 
 Thus Priestcraft — "In your glory's early rise, 
 You duteous sought my aid, and fond advice. 
 Then deference due my sacred rites you paid, 
 And grateful I your strong foundation laid. 
 But, long oppressed by keen and powerful foes. 
 You calmly looked on all my gathering woes. 
 
25 
 
 Your sons have e'en my enemies caressed ; 
 
 And Christianity unveiled confessed ; 
 
 Bade science cry her mysteries aloud, 
 
 Nor e'en conceal them from the vulgar crowd. 
 
 And not alone do Europe's kings at home 
 
 Foster these foes, but aid o'er earth to roam. 
 
 And now where'er my honoured sons appear 
 
 As Brahmin, mufti, dervish, conjurer, • 
 
 There Christianity to fright them liies, 
 
 And all my altars fall, as hers arise. 
 
 Now thou rememberest that my foes are thine, 
 
 Nor aught our wedded interest can disjoin ; 
 
 Nor more, when man his strength and rights shall find. 
 
 His body bows to thee — to me his mind. 
 
 " Brother, deceived ! by what delusion strong 
 O'er ruin's shuddering brink could'st sleep so long ? 
 When Faustus first made science' dread machine, 
 My soul, foreboding, view'd what since hath been. 
 Without thy power, in vain my darkest spell 
 Named hun, devil-leagued, the servant soul of hell ; 
 
26 
 
 Then forth thy regal vengeance should have rushedr 
 
 And the bold Press, and its inventor, crushed. 
 
 Fatal that error ! sorrow's saddest source ! 
 
 For now that weapon, in its destined course. 
 
 Thy power and mine not only must annoy, 
 
 But undermine, and ^ill at length destroy. 
 
 Yet shall we, since no force can change our doom. 
 
 Sit calmly down, and bid the ruin come ! 
 
 No ! let us rouse ! leagues bid thy votaries frame, 
 
 Which I will sanction, and as holy name. 
 
 My sons shall preach thy birth and rule divine. 
 
 As impious foes of God denouncing thine. 
 
 Nor thou forget my interests to respect ; 
 
 Nor let thy sons my pontiffs more neglect. 
 
 Not unresisted shall my foes prevail ; — 
 
 Not unrevenged, my inquisition fail. 
 
 Yes ! though aspiring man our fetters break, 
 
 Dark, deadly vengeance, on his head we wreak. 
 
 See, at our bidding, War and Waste appear, 
 
 And Famine, Death, and Desolation near ! 
 
 Of man's bleached bones, our pyre o'er earth shall rise. 
 
 And our last struggles pierce the shuddering skies I'' 
 
27 
 
 Fade the grim shadows ; but to fill their plare, 
 Slow moves, witli dignity of matron grace, 
 The Muse of History. Her book is spread, 
 Huge grow its letters, as I wondering read. 
 And first, my honoured land ! the page relates, 
 The constitution of thy sister states. 
 The leaf she turns, and there, in sentence brief, 
 Lo, the vast plan of Gallia's dearest chief. 
 To banish war, where Europe's realms extend ; 
 In one great interest, all the nations blend ; 
 And one tribunal of her sons to form 
 From all her states, to guard her rights from harm. 
 The book profane, now shuts the historic dame, 
 And opes the sacred, on Isaiah's name. 
 Bright glow the words the sacred prophet speaks : 
 "The Lord the sceptre of the rulers breaks! 
 " O, captive daughter ! grieved and tempest tossed I 
 " To Zion come, with all thy wandering host : 
 "With songs of praise to Zion's courts repair, 
 "With every Gentile Nation gathering there." 
 Vanished the book — the magic vision's o'er, 
 And deep T search its meaning to explore. 
 
28 
 
 But most I ponder, what the strange design, 
 Such difFermg subjects of the book to join. 
 What spirit stirs my inmost soul within I 
 What explanation of the magic scene ! 
 Such mighty thoughts through all my soul I feel, 
 Some power constrains their import to reveal. 
 
 When God did first creative might extend, 
 He fixed an order to which all things tend ; 
 And there must be, — God's plan completed full, — 
 One grand united whole in human rule. 
 In each progressive science there must be, 
 Confusion first, and then simplicity. 
 From small beginnings circling wider round 
 At length the original principle is found. 
 
 Happy Columbia ! blest and honoured land ! 
 Wise were thy sures, who first thy charter planned ; 
 And wise, and strong, and valorous, were those, 
 Who wrenched thy rights from tyrannizing foes. 
 But wiser far and mightier is that mind, 
 Who made them means to work what He designed. 
 
29 
 
 And most, my country, hath he honour'd thee, 
 To make thy government, what all must be. 
 Mark how sublime extends the project wise. 
 Of his dread order's ever-growing rise. 
 First the small family, and then the town. 
 The county, state, then all the states in one ! 
 But here we pause; — thus far hath time expressed, 
 Of God's vast plan, and must mature the rest. 
 
 For as he taught Great Henry to design. 
 Nation with nation shall in council join.* 
 One congress first o'er Europe's rights shall guard. 
 And sheath, thro' all her realms, War's wasting sword. 
 
 *Les communications, says the Revue Encyclopedique for May, 
 1830, entre les peuples, ont un acheminementvers la plus utile de 
 toutes les institutions humaines, si jamais elie devient practicable, 
 institutions que I'Amerique a concue la premiere pour touts 
 I'etendre de ce continent, et qui, franchissant les mens, pourraient 
 reunir en un seul congres les delcgut's de tout le mond civilise. 
 
 It will be recollected that the Spirit of Prophecy was written 
 before the Congress of Panama wjis agitated. 
 
30 
 
 America ! not last, though latest found ! 
 From thy republics rising fair around, 
 Shall delegated sons with patriot zeal, 
 Hold one great council for thy general weal. 
 
 Asia ! sad prey to Europe's love of gold, 
 Can thy unlettered sons such counsel hold? 
 Ere this, must Science lend her plastic might, 
 And pure Religion her transforming light. 
 Yet first, tho' now they toil to haste the day, 
 Shall age on wearied age slow roll away. 
 
 Degraded Africa ! and can it be. 
 That light and order e'er shall dwell with thee ? 
 Yet in thy land did Learning keep her state, 
 And Hayti shows, that black men may be groat. 
 The Lord hath willed the injured to befriend. 
 And all his purposes must have their end. 
 
 The depth of future time stands now revealed, 
 When earth's four quarters, four great councils wield. 
 
31 
 
 A fifth perchance the eastern isles shall rule : — 
 One more advance — the mighty measure's full I — 
 Afric with Asia yet might madly jar, 
 Or Europe with America might war. 
 What then remains, to work war's final fall ? 
 One mighty council, formed to watch o'er all. 
 Of this vast rule, say where shall be the seat. 
 Where on earth's face, earth's delegates shall meet l 
 Is there a spot, o'er all her lands contain. 
 Where best can gather the congressive train ? 
 Where lengthened seas far inland wildly stray, 
 Nor stormy capes obstruct the needful way ? 
 Or is a spot, o'er all her precincts wide, 
 That God hath honoured more than all beside ? 
 Oh, Zion's prophet ! now we think on thee ! 
 And Zion's hill that chosen spot must be ! 
 Commodious most, honoured o'er all beside, 
 Where God the Saviour lived, and where he died. 
 
 Behold accomplished God's immense designs 
 And human rule in perfect order shines. 
 
32 
 
 And all its blest results amazed behold, 
 By ancient faithful prophecy foretold ! 
 No more oppressed, nor ignorant, nor vile, 
 Man's peaceful thoughts are bent on virtuous toU ; 
 Each rugged rock, of foulest birds the seat, 
 Each murky den, where clustering adders meet, 
 Each darksome wood, where roams the beast of prey> 
 All shall be swept by culture's hand away I 
 No harmful object, passion to annoy ; 
 Lovely those days of pure and holy joy; 
 While God on Salem's towers shall shed the ray 
 Of righteous rule, and Science' perfect day I 
 
 Shout, Zion's friends ! break forth, O earth, and sing ! 
 The Lord again doth his redeemed bring ! 
 Awake, O virgin daughter ! quickly wake ! 
 Thy neck unbind, thy dusty vestments shake ! 
 Arise and shine, for lo, thy light is come ! 
 And GATHERING NATIONS foudly bear thee home I 
 Nor war, nor waste, thy borders more shall see. 
 And the whole earth thy happy borders be ! 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 ABOUT TO LEAVE ME, TO TAKE CHARGE OF A FEMALE 
 ACADEMY. 
 
 And thou dost leave me, Julia, and thy course 
 Wend far SLwmy ? Go, in the name of God. 
 Prosper, and prove a pillar in the cause 
 Of woman. Lend thy aid to waken her 
 From the long trance of ages. Make her feel 
 She too hath God's own image, and the fount 
 (>f the mind's grand and beautiful, is her's. 
 She, too, should learn her Maker's works and will; 
 Her first, best homage and obedience, His. 
 
 For this I would that thou should leave me, Julia. 
 Yet the mist gathers in mine eye, and througli 
 My heart there comes the pang of lovo bereaved. 
 I shall not see thee more ! thy pleasing smile 
 C 
 
84 
 
 Will beam, but not for me ; thy fond, long glance 
 Of sympathy will soothe, but soothe not me. 
 Perchance thy griefs may be unsoothed too. 
 Yet I would comfort, not discourage thee. " 
 Trust God and pray to him, and I will pray ; 
 And He, remembering all his promises, 
 Will hear the Widow, and the Orphan bless. 
 
LINES ADDRESSED TO A GENTLEMAN, 
 
 On hearing that he had drawn my phiz, *^from 
 actual observation ;" which drawing is, for the sake of 
 the argument, here supposed a caricature; and on 
 seeing some lines generally complimentary, hut con- 
 taining this provoking expression, '■^her smiles she 
 
 ffivCS to ^ ^ ^ 4^ ^ ^ ^ ff: 7^^ " 
 
 The world, they say, is alia quiz, 
 And I begin to think it is. 
 When some great character appears, 
 We open wide our eyes and ears ; 
 Expectance wakes, and fancy soars. 
 To catch some glimpses of his powers ; 
 Thro' the mind's telescope, to scan, 
 At utmost size, the wondrous man. 
 But when we've through it had a squint, 
 And turned our hacks, the deuce is in't. 
 
m 
 
 His greatness makes a euddcn pass, 
 And we must shift tlie object glass ; 
 For see him more we cannot hope, 
 Until our mind's a microscope. 
 
 So, erst, in France, by stranger curious, 
 
 Harry the Fourth, in battle furious. 
 
 Was seen to ride, if truth it may be, 
 
 A scragged stick, to please his baby : 
 
 And in like sport, that noble freeman ; 
 
 Great De Witt Clinton, broke his knee pan. 
 
 Napoleon, too, to do a kind job, 
 
 Laid greatness by, while he played blind hob : 
 
 And on this spot, such was my fate, 
 
 I marked like change, which I relate. 
 
 Heroes were near, — still evening round,— 
 My feet on history's sacred ground ; — 
 Hark! the stern Highlands give again, 
 Rich music's deep and martial strain '. 
 I think on war, my country's war — 
 Of foreign foes, that came from far, — 
 
37 
 
 Invasion's sacrilegious hand, 
 Polluting freedom's hallowed strand. 
 Who stopped the current in its course, 
 And backward sent its mustering force, 
 I thought, — and could have kissed the hand 
 That for my country grasped the brand. 
 Constrained I spoke, all rules apart, 
 The feelings of a patriot heart. 
 
 From this its highest elevation, 
 My mind had fallen to lower station, — 
 Could I have known those hands, next war, 
 Were my poor countenance to mar ; 
 To tip my chin with graceless hook, 
 And give my nose a double crook ; 
 And would not spare, in kindred labours, 
 While hitting me, to knock my neighbours ! 
 
 Ladies, upon this martial station, 
 Should you be at the examination, 
 Mind who is there ; his eye is steady, 
 Pencil in hand, and paper ready ; 
 C2 
 
88 
 
 And I advise you all, forbear 
 To speak or bow to some one there ; 
 For if you should be such a noddy, 
 Heil take you off in mind and body. 
 
 West Point, June Uik, 1823. 
 
LAFAYETTE'S WELCOME. 
 
 And art thou, then, dear Hero, come ? 
 
 And do our eyes behold the man 
 Who nerved his arm and bared his breast 
 
 For us, ere yet our Hfe began ? 
 For us and for our native land. 
 
 Thy youthful valour dared the war ; 
 And now, in winter of thine age, 
 
 Thou'st come, and left thy loved ones far. 
 Then deep and dear thy welcome be, 
 Nor think thy daughters far from thee, 
 Colmnbia's daughters, lo ! we bend, 
 And claim to call thee Father, Friend ! 
 
 But was't our country's rights alone. 
 Impelled Fayette to Freedom's van ? 
 
 No! 'twas the love of human kind — 
 It was the sacred cause of man — 
 C3 
 
40 
 
 It was benevolence sublime, 
 
 Like that which sways the Eternal mind t 
 And, benefactor of the world, 
 
 He shed his blood for all mankind. 
 
 Then, deep and dear thy welcome be. 
 Nor think thy daughters far from thee. 
 Daughters of human kind we bend, 
 And claim to call thee, Father, Friend t 
 
Written /or the common-place book of my dear 
 pupilyM. A. M., on noticing that she had reserved the 
 three first leaves blank, and had written on the first, 
 my Fathers page, on the second, my Mother's page, 
 on the third, Mrs. Willard^s page. 
 
 And is't my page, endearing maid, 
 
 I, next thy parents, view ? 
 Would that my place within thy heart, 
 
 Were next thy parents', too. 
 
 And when thou'rt in their guardian arm?, 
 
 By sheltering love entwin'd, 
 A thought give her, who sought to be 
 
 A parent to thy mind. 
 
 But O, since to His child beloved, 
 God's chastening stroke is given, 
 
 Thou mayest be left, sweet maid, to mourn, 
 Thy parents gone to Heaven. 
 
42 
 
 And should such sorrowing hour arrive. 
 
 Then call me to thy mind ; 
 Think thou art not an orphan yet, 
 
 While I remain behind. 
 
A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF HANNAH BULL, OF HARTFORD, 
 
 Who died with the spotted fever . Her death was 
 followed by that of two of her sisters, who died with 
 the same disease, all within three days. * 
 
 How dark this midnight hour : Dark as the gloorn 
 
 That roigns in Hannah's grave — congenial 
 
 To my afflicted soul — congenial, too, 
 
 These winds, that rave, and sigh, and shriek, and moan 
 
 My saddened soul, awake to nought but forms 
 
 Of dreary wo, hears in their mingled sounds, 
 
 * Thifl and the piece:< following, nntil tho ad'Iress to Myrta, ara 
 of my early Poems- 
 
44 
 
 All the sad tragedy of grief and death. 
 
 And hark ! that hollow groaning of the blast, 
 
 Seem'd the last struggling of a parting soul ! 
 
 Now shrieks the wind, as 'twere the bitter cries? 
 
 Of those who weep some dear departed friend, 
 
 Dear as my Hannah was to me. O ! do 
 
 These winds of midnight howl around her grave I 
 
 And is she — is she gone I Shall we, no more, 
 
 In friendship's sister-counsels share ? No more, 
 
 At sheltered noonday, or at eventide. 
 
 Spend the quick hours, in reason's, feeling's feast ? 
 
 And never shall another morning speed, 
 
 To find sleep cheated, by our wakeful eyes ? 
 
 Alas, lost excellence ! my eyes shall wake ! 
 
 In tearful, meditative sorrow, wake ! 
 
 Shall wake, to think o'er all thy prizeless worth, 
 
 And meditate on all my countless loss ! 
 
 Real, to us, was all the poet's lay 
 Hath raptur'd sung, of friendship's purest joys. 
 For these thy gentle heart was form'd; how well, 
 Thy other virtues speak. So sisterly 
 
45 
 
 Thou wast — 80 tender in thy fihal love. 
 
 How late thy page, (o'er which, even now I weep,) 
 
 Pathetic speaking how thy soul was griev'd, 
 
 While o'er the bier that held a virtuous child, 
 
 Maternal anguish wept — bemoaned the plague, 
 
 Whose cruel arm relentless swung around 
 
 Death's quickest scithe, and soon, (prophetic thought,) 
 
 Feared that beneath thy roof, a sacrifice 
 
 He'd ask, and hoped, thy parents, sisters spared, 
 
 That sacrifice thyself might be. Too true 
 
 Thy hopes and fears. Nor thou, nor they, 
 
 were spared! 
 Nor could thy prayers, nor their own virtues save. 
 Yes — oft shall midnight see me wake, to muse 
 How eminent thou wast in sympathy. 
 How oft I've seen that eye, now fixed and cold. 
 Fast stream for others' woes ! How oft thy voice 
 Would Pity's tenderest accents softly breathe ! 
 How oft, with willing foot thou soughtest the place. 
 Where o'er the bed of mortal sickness sat 
 Brooding, deep wo — well skilled for either task, 
 To minister cordials to the body's pain, 
 
45 
 
 Or consolation to the mental pang. 
 
 Ah ! that insentient breast, which knows not now 
 
 That, cold and damp, the earth lies heavy on it, 
 
 Was oft a pillow for affliction's head. 
 
 Nor this thy highest praise ; for all thy own 
 
 Was pure benevolence — the ardent zeal 
 
 That all thy fellow men, to earth's last bounds, 
 
 Might taste of liberty, and peace, and joy. 
 
 How strong and clear thy powers of reason were ! 
 
 Is there a man thinks meanly of our sex ? 
 
 'Tis that he knew not thee — ^but thou art gone • 
 
 Thy friends have lost, society has lost thee! 
 
 Oh what a void is left, in all the plans. 
 
 Thy Mary's fancy form'd, for future bliss ! 
 
 And little matters if she should be sad, 
 
 For who, like thee, will grieve to see her wo ? 
 
 Ambition ! Where art thou ? Gone from my soul, 
 
 To rest within her grave. I want no wealth. 
 
 But earth enough, beside where she is laid, 
 
 To make my narrow house ! Enough for me, 
 
 That fame, which tells I was belov'd by h©r ! 
 
47 
 
 Hark ! how the winds their angry voices raisfe, 
 
 While, 'midst dread darkness, every other sound 
 
 Is hush'd as death. I start — What if this blast 
 
 Bear Hannah's chiding spirit, angry, at 
 
 This selfish grief, that sinks my thoughts so low ? 
 
 Now falls the breeze — perchance, in echo to 
 
 My wo she sighs — perhaps she comes to me, 
 
 Even as I have sung I would to her. 
 
 If God had first commanded me away, . • 
 
 And he permitted ? The dear thought I'll cherish ; 
 
 And when eve's blast in angry roughness swells, 
 
 I'll think, still anxious for my good, she comes 
 
 To chide me for my faults ; or when the breeze 
 
 More softly whispers, that 'tis her applause. 
 
 These thoughts shall raise my voice to nobler views ; 
 
 Shall nerve my hand, to do its little all ; 
 
 To gain, or wealth, or influence, or fame. 
 
 So should I be enabled to perform 
 
 The deeds she lov'd — to give the hungry food. 
 
 To the naked clothing, and from slander's fang 
 
 To snatch her destin'd prey — weak innocence 
 
 From lawless power's unjust aggressions save — 
 
48 
 
 Frown friglit to guilt, or smile delight to virtue, — 
 Then, sainted shade ! as lone I rause on thee, 
 Approving conscience smiling in my breast, 
 Then, while the gentlest breeze of summer's eve 
 Sighs soft around me, then, this dearest thought 
 Shall soothe my heart, and " turn my tears to rapture, 
 That thou the breeze hast borrow'd for a voice. 
 To whisper, Mary, we shall meet again. 
 
THE MALE COQUETTE. 
 
 O LET me weep ; she's dead ! Amanda's dead I 
 And yet 'tis weakness, that one tear I shed — 
 'Tis selfish grief. Pure friendship bids me joy : 
 She's gone, where torturing doubts no more destroy. 
 But thou, who madest her breast such tortures bear, 
 Scarce e'en to speak of thee, base man, I dare, 
 Lest that warm zeal, with which my bosom teems. 
 Vents in some curse, that female ill beseems. 
 Tell — dost thou smile exulting o'er her bier. 
 And say, behold my pow'r ! my work lies here ? 
 No — conscience points to that tremendous day, 
 When nought but virtue is the creature's stay ; 
 What tune, for power, most vilely gained and used, 
 At Heaven's tribunal thou wilt stand accused. 
 And now, thy fancy seeks some opiate charm, 
 Of her fell terrors conscience to disarm. 
 D 
 
60 
 
 *"Tis not my fault, does fascination's beam 
 "Dart from my eye, and round my person gleam; 
 "Why, if my fond regards another move, 
 "Should she complain? I never promised love." 
 Didst thou ne'er promise ? go, thou miscreant vile, 
 Go yoke thyself with Egypt's crocodile. 
 Thou, more than he, art honour'd by thy mate. 
 When he enticed the traveller to his fate, 
 When he, by floods of tears, and feigned distress, 
 Waked generous pity, in his victim's breast. 
 Then, while that victim goes his pains to ease, 
 'Tis right with jaw of bloody death he seize 
 His simple prey, and having caught him, kill ! 
 What promise was there, he did not fulfil ? 
 A subterfuge, even as its author meaij ! 
 Yet for this insult, conscience stings more keen. 
 'Tis true, in words (dull soundless language !) thou 
 To loved Amanda ne'er didst speak thy vow : 
 But oft, in nature's language soft and ^veet. 
 You called the maiden's soul with yours to meet. 
 That language dear, of tender glancing eye. 
 Of soothing accent, and of pleading sigh, 
 
51 
 
 These ofl have vowed, and words have oft implied, 
 You wished her love, you wished her for a bride. 
 Hast thou forgotten, how with eager pace, 
 Each morning saw thee seek Amanda's face ; 
 And how each eve, with lightsome step and gay, 
 Thou early would'st the attentive visit pay ? 
 When asked for routs, assemblies, to prepare, 
 You should not go, without Amanda there ? 
 Dost recollect, whene'er to her you spoke, 
 The tender names, that your soft silence broke, 
 Her every wish untold, was known to thee, 
 You, quick supplying, seemed more blest than she. 
 Ah ! how you'd sing, with tenderest look and tone, 
 Some sighing ditty, of the lover's moan ; 
 And if perchance, some doubly tender strain 
 Was in the song, you'd sing that o'er again. 
 You meant, your air, as if your heart were shown, 
 Should make her feel the soft complaint your own. 
 Rememberest thou, the frequent volume brought. 
 To tell some favourite poet's passioned thought ? 
 Where'er the raptured song for themes employs 
 Domestic happiness, connubial joys, 
 
52 
 
 Thou knowest well, how ardently thou'dst praise, 
 How soft thou'dst read, and how impassioned gaze 
 And oft, if pen or pencil, thou could'st find, 
 Some tender extract thou would'st leave behind. 
 
 Was this a farce, and acted thus by thee, 
 For the sole benefit of vanity ? 
 O, if it was, to thee that murderer's pure, 
 Whose steel and lead his victim's death procure. 
 His victim does not lingering stay to bear 
 Fierce inward torments, that his vitals tear. 
 Compared to thee, that wretch has not a stain. 
 Who for ambition kills, or love of gain. 
 As those who feel indifference or ire, 
 He points the knife, or aims the deadly fire ; 
 But think — ah think ! where didst thou aim the blow, 
 At that fond heart, whose purest blood would flow, 
 With gladness flow, one joy for thee to gain. 
 Or save thy breast from aught might give thee pain. 
 Who feels the assassin's knife, may loud complain, 
 And sympathy shall ease bis sharpest pain. 
 
53 
 
 Alas ! thy victim's proper pride forbade, 
 She e'er should tell the wound thy arts had made ; 
 For well, ah well, poor tortured maid ! she knew. 
 If she should let the world her anguish view, 
 And of thy cruelty aloud complain, 
 Its taunting jeers would be her bitter gain. 
 And, as the Spartan boy his fox concealed. 
 Lest to base eye his theft should be revealed, 
 Close to his heart the little fury prest. 
 His face unruffled, while within his breast 
 Deep forced the vengeful beast his deadly claws. 
 He died ; nor those around him knew the cause- 
 Even thus did she, from all, her passion hide, 
 And thus she suffered, agonized, and died. 
 Not to her bosom's friend would she impart 
 The mortal pang that preyed upon her heart. 
 Not I, who knew all else she thought or felt, 
 Knew why so soon stern Death his poison dealt ; 
 Till hope was gone, that aught of human aid 
 From timeless Death could keep the precious maid. 
 Then, faint and weak, on my instruction bent, 
 To my pained ear the wretched tale she lent, 
 D2 
 
54 
 
 When earnestly she warned me to bewaro 
 Insidious man's base, love-deluding snare. 
 
 Say, in that guilty farce, when was the hour 
 That vanity pronounced, "secure thy power ! 
 Now make it to her heart severely known, 
 By cold neglect, regard to others shown." 
 Was it when that glance thou oft wouldst send, with 
 
 sighs. 
 First met a tender answer from her eyes ? 
 Or was it that balmy hour of lovely May, 
 When thou hadst read her favourite Thomson's lay, 
 Mild evening came, and twihght round you stole. 
 All soft and placid, as Amanda's soul : 
 To fit the heart for feeling's dearest feast, 
 Rose pensive Dian, in the cloudless east. 
 She took the book, and stood the window near, 
 To give some^fevoured passage to your ear ; 
 You stole behind, your arm her shoulder rests, 
 Her other hand by yours is gently prest ; 
 Your breath disparts her wavy locks of grace. 
 And falls in warm dews, on her glowing face. 
 
55 
 
 At that warm breath, that pressure, and those sighs- 
 Quick o'er her cheek the live vermilion flies. 
 The faltering voice, tlie falling volume, tell 
 That tender tumults in her bosom swell ; 
 Then while the earliest kiss of love you stole, 
 Didst thou contrive such torture for her soul ? 
 
 Does thy recoiling, shudderi)ig heart, deny 
 A stain so foul — of such infernal dye ? 
 Dost say, tis nature's weakness in the soul ; 
 Our feelings change, without our own control ; 
 That once you loved her, but a fairer face 
 Enstamped new love, and did the first erase ? 
 If true, although thy guilt 'twill palliate, 
 Enough is left, to gain my bitter hate. 
 For well thou knewest her, generous and kind. 
 That sweet, forgiving candour, filled her mind. 
 Hadst thou to her ingenuously spoke, 
 How 'gainst thy will the magic spell was broke. 
 Which bound to her thy every softer thought. 
 And for a second maid, another wrought ; 
 
 D3 
 
5G 
 
 That still her virtues in thy heart should live ; 
 Still ^e should hold all high esteem could give ; 
 Hadst thou saidst this, Amanda had not died ; 
 My friend had lived, and lived thy friend beside : 
 And that thy bliss w^as dearer than her own. 
 Her friendly deeds thy favourite fair had known ; 
 And on her heart she nobly would have strove, 
 To paint thy image, decked in hues of love. 
 But, (for Amanda's was a human heart,) 
 'Twere hard constraint, not nature's easy part. 
 And when thou sawest, that burdened was her soul, 
 Thou shouldst have striven her sorrows to control ; 
 Of all her virtues then should flow thy praise, 
 And self-approval in her bosom raise ; 
 Thou shouldst, and friendship, conscience, had ap- 
 proved, 
 At all her woes have been severely moved ; 
 And when thou saAvest the tears restrained to flow. 
 Have blamed thyself, creator of her wo. 
 Thus sympathy, with conscience to approve, 
 Had stolen the pangs of disappointed love; 
 
57 
 
 And soon, that love to tender friendship grown, 
 Again her gentle breast sweet peace had known. 
 Instead of this, regardless of her smart, 
 You left that fond, that faithful, tender heart. 
 To feel, to death, the agony intense 
 Of doubt protracted, and accursed suspense. 
 Farewell, Amanda I Dearest, kindest maid ! 
 Farewell, bright hopes, beneath her tombstone laid ! 
 Yet, oh, thou selfish sorrow, leave my breast ; 
 I strive, my friend, to joy that thou dost rest ; 
 No more with anguished heart and fevered head. 
 To toss at midnight on thy sleepless bed ; 
 No more to taste the morning meal thou'lt turn, 
 Which thy parched tongue and fevered feeling spurn ; 
 While friends, thy burning cheek and forced smile, 
 With promise false of peace and health beguile. 
 No more from every eye wilt thou escape, 
 To walk thy lonely room with hurried step. 
 And while mad tortures all thy heart-strings strain, 
 Thy hands press hard thy agonizing brain. 
 And not, I trust, thou'rt only saved from wo. 
 But gone above, where endless pleasures flow. 
 
58 
 
 To be as good, may I my life employ, 
 Then fly to meet thee in the realms of joy. 
 Murderer ! where next shalt thou thy victim meet ? 
 Tremble I 'tis at Jehovah's judgment seat. 
 
MUSIC AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 I SAW the rose, torn from the parent tree, 
 Hang her sweet head, and mourning seem to saj', 
 No leaves to shelter me, my home away. 
 This burning noontide kills and withers me. 
 
 I marked the rose, when quick, a genial rain 
 Fell on earth's breast, — a*soft and gentle shower ; 
 With sudden freshness smiled the lovely flower. 
 And with its native tints it glowed again. 
 
 And thus, my soul, forced from its home to stray, 
 No parent stem, from which support to gain. 
 Nor friendship's leaves to shelter it from pain, 
 In withering despondence sinks away. 
 
 In this dejected moment, music's strain 
 
 Fell on my soul, more soft than softest showors, 
 
60 
 
 ReBtored the wonted tenor of her powers?, 
 And for a while called forth her smiles again. 
 
 O, heavenly strains ! can unharmonious words, 
 Express thy soothing, thy enchanting power ; 
 How thou the soul dost touch at midnight hour. 
 And draw responses from her sweetest chords ? 
 
 Yet, hapless rose, torn from thy parent tree, 
 Thy boasted freshness soon is gone again ; 
 Nor now must gentlest dews or softest rain, 
 For evermore, restore it back to thee. 
 
 My soul thus musing what affection gave, 
 Was roused awhile by music's wakening strain ; 
 Then cold, desponding now, it sinks again, 
 And feels the wish to sink into the grave. 
 
THE EYE. > 
 
 Mystic source of wond'rous meaning ! 
 
 Pleading herald of the heart, 
 Thou, with thousands intervening. 
 
 Keen sensations canst impart. 
 
 Whence hast tliou thy power so killing. 
 That when words would fail to move. 
 
 Thy potent glance, the hosom thrilling. 
 Melts it to tumultuous love ? 
 
PITY. 
 
 THE LITTLE GIRL'S REQUEST. 
 
 Poor little children ! Julia sighed, 
 Father, he told me how they cried 
 
 Around their Mother's bed. 
 He says, she's very sick indeed, 
 Yet that the hungry things don't heed, 
 
 But still they cry and ask for bread. 
 
 Poor little things ! she's got no bread ; 
 And must they to their ragged bed 
 
 Crying and hungry go ? 
 Father, you said this earthly place 
 Contained a hard and cruel race, 
 
 Pitiless of each others' wo. 
 
63 
 
 How dreary 'tis ; how cold and dark I 
 How hard it rains I and, do but hark ! 
 
 The winds how loud and high I 
 And will they go on such an eve, 
 That a poor woman may not grieve, 
 
 And little children need not cry ? 
 
 Then do, my Father, let me go ; 
 'Tvvould cheer the little creature so, 
 
 And glad their Mother's heart. 
 You said yourself, if bread we spare, 
 And let poor hungry children share, 
 
 God will much better things impart. 
 
SCENE, 
 
 INSERTED BETWEEN THE FIRST AND SECOND BCKNES OF 
 MOSES IN THE BULRUSH. 
 
 The infant Moses, elegantly attired, lies in a cradle. 
 Miriam approaches it hesitatingly. 
 
 Mir. Dear charming babe ! I fear to look at thee. 
 I fear the sight will rend her purpose from 
 Thy sister's soul. These decorations, which 
 Thy mother's hand has placed, to make more bright 
 Thy infant loveliness, and make it plead 
 To human pity in more forceful language — 
 This lovely garb, makes harder still my task. 
 But thou must go. 
 
 [ Takes him and kisses him ; carries him a little 
 way, and then returns him to the cradle.] 
 I cannot do it yet : 
 I'll let thee lie one little moment longer. 
 
65 
 
 And dost thou think, poor babe, unconiscious thing, 
 I've come, as I've been wont so oft to do. 
 To bear thee welcome to a mother's arms. 
 Where thou mayst hear the soothings of her voice, 
 And, nestled soft and warm upon her breast, 
 Draw thence thy sweet nutrition ? — No ! Alas I 
 Dear, loveliest boy ! thou goest not there again : 
 No, my sweet brother I for a mother's arms 
 No more enfold thee ! and no more thou feelest 
 Her ardent kisses on thy cheek — No more 
 Her bosom is thy pillow and thy banquet. 
 Instead of that, thou must go forth to lie. 
 All cold and hungry, on the dreary bank 
 Of the devouring flood — midst snakes and frogs. 
 Perhaps some hideous serpent may entwine him 
 About these lovely arms, this beauteous neck, 
 And when thou feelest his poisonous fang thou'lt cry 
 For help. Thy sister may at distance wait,: 
 And hear thy piercing shrieks ; but not relieve thee I 
 O, God of Israel ! can a sister do it ? 
 Mother, 'tis too severe, and reason fails me 
 While I think of it. Sweet infant innocence, 
 E 
 
G6 
 
 Thou hast not such a cruel sister. I'll 
 
 Take thee to thy mother. [ Takes him up.] 
 
 My poor mother ! 
 O her broken heart ! I'll lay thee down again. 
 
 [Lays Mm down.] 
 Alas ! my brain's so wild, I scarcely know 
 What it is I do ! O Pharaoh ! monster king ! 
 What shall I do to calm my maddening brain ? 
 I'll bend my knees and prostrate oiFer up 
 My silent orisons to Israel's God. 
 
 [She kneels and remains for a while silent.] 
 
 O, 1 have felt devotion's holy fire, 
 And all the boisterous passions are at peace. 
 Sure 'twas Jehovah's mighty breath, that turned 
 The wayward current of my soul. It is — 
 It must be so. 
 
 'Twas he inspired my mother to the thought ; 
 'Tis he that now hath given to my weak heart 
 The strength to execute her purposes. 
 Then, Great Jehovah! God of the faithful! let 
 
67 
 
 Thy will be done. [Riees.] I'll not allow myaelf 
 One single look- 
 
 [ Takes him from the cradle, and earries him 
 out, without looking at him,] 
 
It is said that the tcild hoy found in the icoods of 
 Averon, could utter but one word. That word was 
 ALONE. Whatever was said to him he hut reiterated, 
 alone! alone! 
 
 How sad, how doleful is the sighing tone 
 Of him that feels and speaks alone, alone ! 
 Ah, not the boy of Averon's dreary wood, 
 Nor he who dwells in dungeon's solitude, 
 
 May only make the moan ; 
 Nor Selkirk, on his desert isle. 
 No sympathetic face to weep or smile, 
 
 Exclusively may sigh, "alone, alone!" 
 
 The man who leaves his native land to roam, 
 And quits his wedded or parental home, 
 Though still he seeks each gay tiunultuous place, 
 Where revel riots with her numerous race, — 
 
69 
 
 But finds, alas ! no soft affections known 
 He, the poor wanderer, while of men 
 A thousand forms are in his ken, 
 
 Looks round and sadly sighs, " alone, alone !" 
 
 That man of feeling, who ne'er quits the place 
 Of those whose claims assert him of their race, 
 Or her who calls her perjured self his wife, 
 But spends his days with them in bitter strife. 
 
 His every purpose crossed as soon as known. 
 By parents' deeds, or wife's control. 
 With no sweet unisons of soul — 
 
 Ah ! well the wretch may sigh, "alone, alone" ! 
 
 The nation's good requires the monarch's thought ; 
 Perhaps that good demands, he wed the maid 
 Whom no sweet charms of body or of mind, 
 Can warm to love, or love's soft bands can bind. 
 
 Flies friendship where equality's unknown ; 
 Indifference comes to freeze domestic joys, 
 While dark suspicion friendship's form annoys. 
 
 Monarch ! thou well may'stsigh, " alone, alone !" 
 E2 
 
10 
 
 Nature ne'er made the female sex to roam ; 
 If woman's blest, she must be blest, at home. 
 Her frame is weaker, and more soft her mind ; 
 To soothe life's woes she's fitted and inclined. 
 
 But ah! she droops where she's unsoothed, 
 unknown, 
 Where no kind human being's near 
 To ask those woes, or give those woes a tear, 
 
 She most of all, may sigh, "alone, alone !" 
 
 Not hardier man, whom nature has allowed 
 From strife or solitude to seek the crowd, 
 (For 'tis a poor, though only poor relief,) 
 Nor even may the nation's lonely chief, 
 With such sad pathos make the moan, 
 As that poor maiden, fate has doomed to roam, 
 No husband, parent, friend, or home — 
 
 Who well may weep, and sigh, "alonR, alone." 
 
TO THE MEMOHY 07 
 
 SAMUEL HEART, 
 
 
 
 'Whi died August 2\st, 1813, the following is affec 
 tionately inscribed, by his daughter. 
 
 To show a virtuous Parent as he was, 
 I ask no muse poetic, to stand by 
 With phrase adorned. Thee, Truth, I woo to aid me ; 
 And O, wouldst thou write down his character, 
 And make mankind acknowledge thine impress, 
 Then would misanthropy, the while she read. 
 Lose all her hate, and be transformed to pity; 
 And weeping say, since man can be so good. 
 When uncorrupt by education's force, 
 And from the world unspotted, pity 'tis 
 So many are degenerate. Knavery, too, 
 And wily Policy, would hang their heads, 
 E3 
 
72 
 
 And blush ; losing their old excuse, that not 
 
 With man, dwells honesty by interest 
 
 Unswerved. The comprehensive honesty 
 
 Of noble souls was his ; not that alone, 
 
 Whose highest boast is punctuality 
 
 In traffic. This he owned. He ne'er withheld 
 
 Another's due ; though 'twere untold, unknown. 
 
 This of his honesty was the smaller part. 
 
 He felt respect was due to worth, to virtue ; 
 
 To these, though indigent, and meanly clad, 
 
 He rendered it ; but, little weight with hira 
 
 Had circumstance of elevated birth. 
 
 Of wealth, or popularity, or splendor. 
 
 He held, it was a right which free-born man 
 
 Possessed, to freely think, and freely speak ; 
 
 Nor deemed it good inquiry to repress. 
 
 And with authorities to silence reason ; 
 
 Nor e'er would he, dishonest to himself, 
 
 Permit his reason thus to be subdued. 
 
 He knew that fame was dearer far than gold, 
 
 And ne'er did he a reputation steal. 
 
 Thus was he honest to himself, thus to 
 
73 
 
 His fellow men : and far as finite man's 
 
 Conception can, was honest to his God. 
 
 The least, yet, not the less uncomprehended 
 
 Flowret, would often raise his thoughts to Him, 
 
 Who kindly hid it from the winter's rage. 
 
 And brought it smiling forth to grace the spring. 
 
 Thus even minutest things would lift his soul, 
 
 In holy reverence : much more when retired 
 
 Within himself, in contemplation deep, 
 
 God's nobler works he viewed. His boundless forests. 
 
 His cloud capt mountains, from whose secret springs 
 
 Vast rivers rush, impetuous to the main — 
 
 Immense expanse of w^aters ! what are these ? 
 
 His eye, who views the universe at once. 
 
 Counts them as nought — our globe — yea even our 
 
 system — 
 Our great sun, even the revolving world, 
 That round him rolls, are but a speck to Him^ 
 Who sees at once throughout immensity. 
 Sun after sun encentres circling worlds, 
 Himself their centre, greater than the whole. 
 Thus meditated he who sleeps in dust ; 
 
74 
 
 And then his natural thought would turn on man 
 
 And his soul tremble at his sinful state. 
 
 Yet then would rise the hope, God's word inspires— 
 
 With reverential rapture, there he read, 
 
 That e'en a God so great, was not of man 
 
 Unmindful — that he loved him and had sent 
 
 His Son to die — to die that man might live ! 
 
 These pious thoughts bore him above the world ; 
 
 And when old age, and its attendant ills, 
 
 And painful maladies, came hand in hand, 
 
 Serene he met them. When at last, the dread 
 
 Destroyer came, his spirit was unmoved ; 
 
 He viewed death as the messenger of bliss, 
 
 Smiled on our world, and laid him down in peace. 
 
 Oh, my Father ! I would that while I write, 
 
 Of thy meek resignation, my own soul 
 
 Might catch thy spirit, and no murmurs rise, . 
 
 To think thy loved and venerated form, 
 
 No more shall greet my sight ! 
 
 Oh, hallowed spot, my early much loved home ! 
 
 Thee I may visit, but within thy walls, 
 
 Vainly ray eyes would search for him who made 
 
75 
 
 Thee dear. Beneath the sod he lies. I know 
 The grave-yard well : " It bears an added stone.'* 
 There o'er a lowly mound, bending with years, 
 A lone widowed mourner goes to weep. 
 Oh, my Mother I would that thy daughter's breast, 
 Might bear thy griefs, so that the remnant of 
 Thy days might pass in peace. But no, afar 
 From thee, she may not even soothe thy woes. 
 Or mingle tears with thine. But let us not 
 Despair. Now we but wish to mourn together. 
 Yet let us rather look beyond this life, 
 When, reunited, we may all rejoice. 
 
ADDRESS TO EVENING. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF OTTER CREEK. 
 
 Mild Evening, hail ! with all thy pensive throng ! 
 Dear to my heart, and sacred in my song. 
 How sweet, in this thy softening hour, the roar 
 Of Otter's waves, as o'er yon rock they pour. 
 Why does the sound with nature's dusky hue 
 Recal each tender hour to memory's view ? 
 And why restrain imagination's glance, 
 From every scene where mirth and revel dance ; 
 From every scene where love of gain presides, 
 And every motive that ambition guides ; 
 And thus restraining, to my soul bring near 
 Each softer hour to love or friendship dear? 
 
 My Hannah ! thou art friendship's other name, 
 And wcrt thou not at glaring noon the sTmc ? 
 
Yet then, though then thy worth my heart approved, 
 Yet then no sigh thy Emma's bosom moved, 
 To think of thy abode, the distant place, 
 And yet too distant meeting hour to trace. 
 Nor did the tear soft from her eyelid roam. 
 To think that hour perhaps might never come. 
 Yet sweet this tear to Hannah's friendship due, 
 More sweet than smiles which greetthe morning's hue ; 
 Nor morning's hues, nor Phoebus' noontide fire, 
 Such sadly sweet sensations can inspire. 
 
 To thee I owe them, Evening ! pensive maid ! 
 And should my dust on Otter's banks be laid, 
 My shade, mild Power ! shall go along with thee 
 To soothe my Hannah while she thinks of me ; 
 While memory paints my friendship's ardent glow, 
 And by her native streams her sorrows flow, 
 Thy mildest breeze to be my voice thou'lt lend. 
 Again (I'll whisper) thou shalt meet thy friend. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 Spoken hy a girl of eleven, at a school exhibition, in 
 which she appeared in the character of a bride. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, just now you spied 
 I came within an ace of being a bride. 
 Not now in me that character appears 
 And may be won't again these dozen years. 
 But I am come to ask, and ask with fear, 
 If paid you feel for your attendance here. 
 Whate'er opinions you may have impressed, 
 You can't but own that we have done our best ; 
 And I entreat, and beg, and humbly pray, 
 That, bad's the best, your worships will not say. 
 
 Some one may say, I would not give a copper 
 To hear girls speak, 'tis monstrously improper — 
 
79 
 
 It may, be sure, tam to a good account, 
 
 For lads an exhibition stage to mount ; 
 
 They may perhaps a public station reach, 
 
 To Congress go, and have to make a speech ; 
 
 And certainly 'twould be a monstrous pester. 
 
 To not know how to make a single gesture. 
 
 But as for girls, I would not give a rush 
 
 For one that could not hang her head and blush. 
 
 There's nought so quick will stir my anger all up. 
 
 As a bold tongxied, and brazen faced trollop. 
 
 Tliis brazen-facedness it always teaches. 
 
 For girls on public stages to make speeches ; 
 
 This being the case, I see no kind of use on't, 
 
 And wish, for my part, we might have a truce on't." 
 
 Good sir, be patient ; I have heard them^say, 
 
 We female folks do love to have our way ; 
 
 And I'm not sure but this is partly true. 
 
 For I should hate to stop till I got through. 
 
 To judge by me, it were not quite a fiction ; 
 
 And women too are given to contradiction. 
 
 Of confidence, howe'er, it is but just 
 
 To own, of its extremes too much seems worst ; 
 
80 
 
 Too little pains us, too much will disgust. 
 
 I say it seems — now pray don't be elated, 
 
 As yet I haven't got my side fairly stated. 
 
 Say you've a daughter. She, Fate has decreed it ; 
 
 Must have much confidence, or much must need it, 
 
 And Fate has left it wholly to your pleasure, 
 
 Whether she wants, or has it without measure. 
 
 Let her be bashful then, you'll quickly say. 
 
 Well, very well, sir — ^you have got your way. 
 
 Now send your lady forth. She goes to meeting — 
 
 Somebody looked at her — her heart's a beating ; 
 
 Flushed is her cheek, and wild her frightened eye. 
 
 She sees her mother pale. She's sitting nigh ; 
 
 Whispers, you must go out with me I fear. 
 
 She can't ! she can't ! the folks will surely see her. 
 
 She keeps her seat, in anguish, stares about, 
 
 And sees her fainting mother totter out. 
 
 She goes to a party — say 'tis summer's heat ; 
 
 Right in the sun poor Susy gets a seat ; 
 
 And there she sits, and durst not move, I ween, 
 
 Because, poor soul, she fears she shall be seen. 
 
81 
 
 If to some place improper asked to go. 
 She answers, yes — because she daren't say no. 
 Now send her 'mongst the beaux — But I forbear ; 
 I am too young to tra(?e her progress there. 
 But confidence sufficient to say No, 
 I'm told girls need, and you must judge if it is so. 
 And now be good enough to tell me true, 
 If this same daughter's picture pleases you. 
 Not quite, you own — ^but more than one that's bold 
 There's yet, however, one thing to be told. 
 More than the bold one she might others please, 
 Herself unhappy, while so ill at ease. 
 Yet, after all, I vow, there's not in nature 
 Aught more disgusts, than a bold female creature. 
 I hope I shan't be forward when I'm grown, 
 But ease of manners much I wish to own ; 
 Softness enough always to smile on'merit, 
 To frown on impudence ne'er want the spirit. 
 And may my cheek of freshness like the rose 
 By varying tints its modesty disclose. 
 O, if I thought I could indeed impair 
 That purest gem that's given to woman's care, 
 F 
 
82 
 
 I'd elose rny lips, and keep them so a year, 
 Rather than speak one single sentence here. 
 But sure it can't, when only in the view 
 Of such sweet looking, charfhing folks as you. 
 
 Middlebury, Feb. 9, 1827. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Why Henry this ambiguous phraso 
 
 To Mary's friendly ear ? 
 Is't that you fear 'twould wound her peace 
 
 The simple truth to hear ? 
 
 Ah, Henry, oft in bitterest draught 
 
 The healing cordial flows ! 
 Nor till the probe has touched severe 
 
 The festering wound will close. 
 
 But is it that suspicion hints 
 
 Her mind is vile or weak ? 
 That, sway'd by passion's force, thy hnnd 
 
 She possibly might seek ? 
 
84 
 
 That envy, jealousy might prompt 
 
 The sly insidious art, 
 Against thy vow of love to seal 
 
 Her friend's, her Mary's heart ? 
 
 Henry, if this is truth, and truth 
 Thy friend should ever learn, 
 
 Her human kindness, sweetest milk, 
 To bitterest gall 'twould turn. 
 
 When souls that virtue, sense exalt, 
 
 A kindred spirit find ; 
 By nature's law, they ever must 
 
 Esteem that kindred mind. 
 
 And is that mind within a form. 
 Which memory sweetly shows, 
 
 Inspired by friendship to enhance 
 Thy joys, and soothe thy woes ; 
 
 Then thy affection's pulse beats high, 
 Her eyes fond radiance gain ; 
 
85 
 
 Then, too, even from the shghtest wound, 
 She feels the deepest pain. 
 
 And should this pain be given oft, 
 
 This torture oft annoy, 
 Till memory with that form had joined 
 
 More scenes of wo than joy; 
 
 Then would aversion take the place 
 
 Affection once possessed, 
 And we should most untender feel. 
 
 Where once we lov'd the best. 
 
 Thus, Henry, should I feel, could you 
 
 Act so unjust a part. 
 As borrow oft suspicion's sting, 
 
 To wound my faithful heart. 
 
 Hark ! what reproachful accents those ' 
 
 That Henry's voice must be — 
 Mary, you're now employed to do 
 
 The deed )'^ou fear from me. 
 F2 
 
86 
 
 I own it true, abash'd I own 
 
 That thy reproof is just, 
 I'll hush these doubts, nor more ray friend's 
 
 Sincerity distrust. 
 
 I'll trust, if Anna's heart's the prize 
 
 To lose would give thee pain, 
 Thou wilt not me unworthy deem 
 
 Thy confidence to gain. 
 
 Then will I use, with friendly zeal, 
 
 An undeceiving art. 
 To make her know thy various worth. 
 
 And plant thee in her heart. 
 
 Whene'er we meet in circle gay, 
 
 Where senseless fops we find, 
 I'll tell the difference between theirs 
 
 And Henry's manly mind. 
 
 And when we hear, or when we read, 
 Some mean or selfish fact. 
 
87 
 
 Not thus, I'll say, would Henry speak, 
 Not thus would Henry act. 
 
 And when, at pensive eve, her head 
 Sweet on my breast shall lie, 
 
 I'll whisper soft, how blest thou'dst be, 
 Could'st thou my place supply. 
 
 And soon with joy, to see you blest. 
 My heart should learn to swell ; 
 
 Nor small the bliss, the conscious pride 
 Of having acted well. 
 
 Then shall ye smile as I approach, 
 
 Or sigh as I retire 
 From joining at your social board, 
 
 Or your domestic fire. 
 
 Or if, by hand of mercy sent, 
 Death's easing shaft be sped, 
 
 To lay at peace this aching heart, 
 And visionary head ; 
 F3 
 
88 . 
 
 Then, arm in arm, at twilight's hour 
 
 Ye'll seek my humble sod, 
 And, bending pensively, ye'll sigh. 
 
 That the' not graceful,, she was good. 
 
 Middhhury, March 1, 1809. 
 
THE LOVER'S CASTLE. 
 
 The following was suggested by a gentleman^s 
 being enthusiastically pleased with this verse from 
 Klopstock's ode to his imaginary future Mistress :> — 
 
 "Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, 
 Thy virgin voice of melody, 
 
 Are ever present to my heart : 
 Thy murmured vows shall yet he mine, 
 My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, 
 
 And never, never part." 
 
 O, I DO love the soft yet sprightly maid I 
 
 How. has my soul this ardent fondness caughl I 
 How often in her presence have I thought, 
 O, that some form with heavenly power arrayed 
 Might now descend — declare 'twas Heaven's design 
 I should be her's, and Charlotte should be mine. 
 
 Estatic dream of wonderful delight I 
 
 Yet how, ah how 1 would Charlotte greet the sight ? 
 
90 
 
 What if those blue eyes, inild as evening sky, 
 Severe should grow and wild with horror all ; 
 
 What if that virgin voice of melody, 
 On some cursed, happy rival's name should call. 
 
 Yes — I would pray — sincerely would I pray 
 The doom reversed ; for I have pride. 
 And not e'en Charlotte e'er should be my bride. 
 
 If though her form is mine her heart is far away. 
 
 Vile picture, hence — O Fancy, paint not so ! 
 But how all pleased she met the tidings ; show 
 How her flushed cheek, and eyes that fondly roll, 
 And trembling frame, bespeak her love-sick soul ; 
 How as I caught her " thrilling hand," and pressed 
 Heaven's dearest blessing to ray throbbing breast, 
 And as I cried, we " never, never part," 
 An echo, soft and sweet, came warm from Charlotte's 
 heart. 
 
ON THE RECOVERY OF A SISTER FROM A MELANCHOLY 
 DERANGEMENT. 
 
 When blackest clouds o'erspread the summer sky, 
 And roaring winds bespeak destruction nigh ; 
 When thousand lightnings horrid lustre shed, 
 And thousand thunders make the scene more dread 
 
 Then it is joy to view the parting cloud 
 No more the sun's earth-cheering radiance shrond ; 
 And smiling nature show herself appeased, 
 Where late she seemed with maniac fury seized. 
 
 But ah ! this joy is grief, compared with mine : 
 
 I see, I see the light of reason shine 
 
 On Anna's face — welcome returning beams 
 
 That clear her mind of horrid, wo fraught dreams. 
 
92 
 
 How couldst thou, Reason, how desert her mind ? 
 Could nought detain thee ? not a mother blind 
 With bitter tears, and not a father's plain, 
 And not a sister's agony, detain ? 
 
 Yet had we never the keen anguish known, 
 To see her altered, see how, reason gone, 
 She'd rave at wrongs which only fancy felt, 
 Or, moved by fancied woes, to sorrow melt : 
 
 Had not such pangs been suffered to annoy, 
 Then never had we felt this thrilling joy, 
 And never had we known how sweet this scene, 
 When Anna's self in Anna's form is seen. 
 
TO MYRTA. 
 
 Who had addressed some lines to me, ending thus : 
 " May I not love thee ?" Wi-itten in the spring of 
 
 1824. 
 
 Mayst thou not love me ! why how canst thou love me ? 
 What have I done for thee ? I have noi watched 
 From day to day assiduous for thy good ; 
 I never bared my breast to catch the shaft 
 Which fate had aimed at thine. And those for whom 
 I have, they have not loved me — and how then 
 Canst thou ?* 
 
 But yet, perchance, thou deeply feelest 
 That thou art of that much neglected sex 
 
 * Among those who have been employee] to assist me in the 
 laborious duties of etlucaliou, I have generully found the utmost 
 aflfection and confidence. To this there have been some exoep- 
 tions. 
 
94 
 
 For whom I've labov^red — Yee for them I've laboured 
 
 With a single mind and a devoted will; 
 
 With solemn hand upon the heart God searches ; 
 
 With eye uplift to Him whose eye sees all, 
 
 I dare affirm, but He alone can know it. 
 
 Yes, He alone — thou canst not. They of mine 
 
 Own household, who from hour to hour have marked 
 
 The glowing zeal which ate me up, and led 
 
 Me to high effort ; they have seen how L 
 
 Have spent myself, and lavished out my life ; 
 
 They have found out, that 'tis ambition, ay 
 
 And avarice too, that sway my soul to action ; 
 
 And wer't not folly to expect from thee 
 
 A confidence, I cannot gain from them ? 
 
 Thus, Myrta, thus thou see'st in sad detail 
 
 What it is to grow old ; how the world's ways 
 
 Wither the heart, that it no more puts forth 
 
 The bud of hope. Time was, if such as thou, 
 
 By nature gifted, and by art improved. 
 
 Had said, may I not love thee ? the reply, 
 
 Ay, love me, Myrta, from my smiling lip 
 
 Had started, and my full heart's warmest store 
 
95 
 
 Had o'erflowed, and burdened thee with love. 
 Suspicion now in Reason's vesture makes 
 Unlovely as unloving what she guards. 
 'Tis not, it is no longer sweet to be 
 Beloved, but that we think we are not. We trust 
 Fairest outside no more, experience-warned. 
 And is there then no resting place, thou criest, 
 For the fond heart, that fain would love, and trust 
 In love returned ? Pleasant it is to love — 
 Sweet to be loved. And must we bid such pleasure 
 Adieu ? — No, let us love and trust in God. 
 That trust will never be betrayed ; that love, 
 Though sometimes chastened, never unreturned. 
 
TRANSLATION 
 
 OF 
 THE CELEBRATED CHORUS IN RACINE'S ATHALIE. 
 
 [ To amid some, repetitions, kc. part of the Chorus, 
 towards the close, is omitted.] 
 
 ALL, THE CHORUS. 
 
 Through earth and Heaven Jehovah's glories shine, 
 Let us invoke and ever bless his name. 
 
 He was ere time. Our voices let us join, 
 
 His praise attune, his bounteous grace proclaim. 
 
 A SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 Ill vain do power and pride essay, 
 
 To make thy sons suppress thy name ; 
 
 Thy name beloved has been our stay ; 
 
 In joy's bright hour, in sorrow's day, 
 
 Fearless we'll sing and all thy gifts proclaim. 
 
97 
 
 ALL THE CHOIlUg. 
 
 His glory fills the universe ; 
 
 His praise attune, his gifts rehearse, 
 
 A SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 He gives the lovely flowers their various hues, 
 He guards the budding fruit and ripening grain ; 
 
 Day's needful heat and night's refreshing dews 
 He lends the earth, which tenfold pays again. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE. 
 
 He bids the sun to fertilize and cheer, 
 Light is the gift of his creative grace ; 
 
 And dearer still than all these gifts so dear, 
 He gives his holy law to us his chosen race. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Mount Sinai, in remembrance keep, 
 
 That day when on thy flaming height 
 The Lord, with clouds around him dark and deep, 
 Man's eyes o'erpowered with rays of heaven's own 
 light. 
 
 G 
 
98 
 
 Why midst black smoke did fires and lightenings burn, 
 Trumpets tremendous sound and thunders break ? 
 
 Will his hot wrath the elements o'erturn, 
 
 And the old earth from her foundations shake ? 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 He came on wings of mercy from above, 
 Came to invite our everlasting love, 
 And to reveal to happy Israel's sight 
 His holy law's immortal light. 
 
 ALL THE CHORUS. 
 
 Divine and lovely law ! 
 
 Justice and grace adored ! 
 Goodness supreme, to draw 
 
 Our hearts to love the Lord ! 
 
 A SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 Ungrateful men, who know but servile fear. 
 Cannot such grace your hardened sorrows move ? 
 
 O can you all his loving kindness hear, 
 Nor your cold hearts be melted into love ? 
 
9» 
 
 The beaten slave may fear his tyrant's rod, 
 But we, his children, love our Father, God ! 
 
 ALL THE CHORLTg. 
 
 Divine and lovely law I 
 Justice and grace adored I 
 
 Goodness supreme, to draw 
 Our hearts to love the Lord ! 
 
FERNANDO. 
 
 Fernando, I would raise the mystic veil, 
 
 That, like dim shadows of futurity, 
 
 Curtains thy thought from me. 'Tis not alone, 
 
 My spirit that is dark. Thou too art sad ; 
 
 Thine eye, too, rayless, as if it could weep ; 
 
 Thy cheering smile plays not upon thy lip ; 
 
 And for the varied music of thy voice, 
 
 Forth from thy breast there comes, as mocking mine, 
 
 A hoarse and hollow-sounding monotone. 
 
 Why art thou sad ? 
 
 Yet, w^herefore should I seek to raise the veil 
 Whose folds impervious shroud Fernando's thoughts ? 
 Perchance to see, faint in the distance traced. 
 An image of myself, drawn by the hand 
 Of an ungenerous, woman-scorning world ; 
 
101 
 
 But 3'et enstamped by circumstance unkind. 
 
 O then raise not the veil, but let it hide, 
 
 In pity, like futurity's, what now 
 
 'Twere bitterness to know ! Yet thou art sad ! 
 
 Perchance within, some cause of suffering lies. 
 
 Which friendship's gentle hand, probing, might heal ; 
 
 Be then a little part removed, and that revealed. 
 
 G2 
 
NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 
 
 PUBLISHED 1817. 
 
 The news-boy's willing muse thus op'd her plan, 
 Told how addresses closed, and how began ; — 
 " See first that all in custom's form appear, 
 Farewell the past and hail the new-born year. 
 Then as you like, in grave or doggrel rhyme, 
 Solemn or gay, apostrophize *old Time.' 
 But should you use the moralizing vein, 
 First cast j^our eye o'er Young's or Cowper's strain. 
 
 "This introduction neat then done, 
 Glance o'er all lands beneath the sun ; 
 First visit fair Europa's shore, 
 And all its last year's news tell o'er ; 
 And as your politics may urge,^ 
 Curse Bonaparte, or king Ceorge. 
 
103 
 
 Then Asia's thick swarmed reahiis inspect, 
 Nor Afric's sable sons neglect. 
 Then homeward to Columbia speed, 
 And tell each hero's word and deed : 
 But this main point remember long, 
 No man's a hero for your song, 
 Whate'er his valour, worth or fame, 
 Unless your parties be the same. 
 And here tune forth the sweetest praise, 
 For all your party does or says ; 
 Its merits, acts, its all are best, 
 And most profoundly curse the rest. 
 But hast thou a descriptive turn, 
 This year for thee is most forlorn. 
 . No armies rage in Europe's clime 
 Whose spears might glitter o'er thy rhyme ; 
 No thundering cannons horrid play 
 To raise on high thy sounding lay ; 
 No battle death-groans to rehearse. 
 Mournful and plaintive in thy verso. 
 All war's poetic horrors cease, 
 And, .sad for thee, the world's at peace." 
 G3 
 
104 
 
 Avaunt, I cried, such sick'ning strains forbear ; 
 
 Mean tho' I am, I scorn what all may share. 
 
 But, O inspiring spirit, me inflame. 
 
 Slight not my call because unknown my name ; 
 
 Thy magic wand doth touch the poet's eye. 
 
 And straight around him mystic visions hie. 
 
 His soul is rapt, and to his lay declare 
 
 The things which are not, as the things which are. 
 
 The spirit comes, I feel that magic sway, 
 
 Those mystic visions all around displa3^ 
 
 What form divine now moves before my sight ? 
 
 Her mien is majesty, her path is light. 
 
 The friend of man, Philosophy is she 
 
 Of truth and science brightest progeny. 
 
 Why glooms her brow? why starts,whydropsthe tear? 
 
 The chains of France, the racks of Spain appear. 
 
 Listen — she speaks in plaintive accents low — 
 
 " Deluded man, for thee my sorrows floAv. 
 
 How have I laboured to improve thy state, 
 
 Thy mind enlarge, thy evils mitigate ; 
 
 How striven thy rights to learn thee to maintain, 
 
 And make thee scorn to wear a tyrant's chain : 
 
105 
 
 Nor vainly striven. When 1 the work began, 
 
 Columbia, loved Columbia led the van. 
 
 Next Gallia marched and trod on slavery's yoke, 
 
 And Superstition's racks Hispania broke. 
 
 Ah, then what lovely dreams to man were given, 
 
 Dreams that this earth would soon become a heaven. 
 
 Oh change of wo ! Deign, deign, oh Truth, to hear. 
 
 And grant response to thy sad daughter's prayer. 
 
 Shall Tyranny and Superstition reign ? 
 
 That fiend-like pair their former state regain ? 
 
 To retrograde, is this of man the doom, 
 
 And shall thy light be lost in ancient gloom ?" 
 
 Ha ! glorious rays are bursting from the sky ; 
 The sad one smiles, for Truth herself is nigh. 
 "Take heart," she says, "thou daughter of my love, 
 To clear thy doubts I left the realms above. 
 Nor Tyranny nor Superstition's train, 
 Though throned on high shall former state regain ; 
 y^o retrograde is not of man the doom, 
 For shall thy light be lost in ancient gloom ; 
 
106 
 
 For should barbaric hordes one land o'erflow, 
 See Navigation at thy beck, shall go, 
 To do thy errands o'er the extensive deep. 
 She spreads her sail to winds that never sleep. 
 This should'st thou need, not as in days of yore 
 Some Rome or Alexandria hoards thy store. 
 This Faustus' art to man as free hath made, 
 As if the winds of hearven the truth conveyed. 
 Still shalt thou gain, but not with equal pace. 
 And man shall oft run backward in thy race ; 
 But when thy onward course he shall explore, 
 At each advance go farther than before. 
 
 " And now farewell, but yet before we part, 
 My cautions take and keep them on thy henrt. 
 Ne'er let thy hands e'en to advance my reign, 
 Show violent revolution's sanguine stain. 
 Gradual distend man's mind, then may'st thou liope 
 Its chains will first attenuate, then drop. 
 But dost thou still for human misery feel, 
 No dark event must e'er abate thy zeal. 
 
107 
 
 No more let grief for Europe fill th}' breast ; 
 Turn to the rising empire of the west : 
 Inspire the sages of her patriot band, 
 And wake the embr3''o Franklins of the land. 
 O'er that fair land thy star shall ever blaze, 
 And distant nations own its cheering rays. 
 O'er Mexic's sons e'en how it shineth bright, 
 And Magdalena's shores have hailed its light. 
 
 " Once more I warn; by no false maxims say 
 What shall impede my nobler daughter's way. 
 Religion, Heaven's best offspring, cannot be 
 Thy foe or rival, for thy sister she. 
 Go hand in hand, and where you both abide, 
 Shall freedom, peace, and love, and hope, preside. 
 Soon may your empire over man arise. 
 Mend his state here, and fit him for the skies." 
 
TO SELLECK OSBORNE. 
 
 Hark ! heard'st thou not that voice severe, 
 Heard'st not Columbia sternl}'^ say — 
 
 Arise and strike thy lyre, before 
 Its chords with age decay ? 
 
 Haste, upward turn thy \v^ondering gazp, 
 Ere the resplendent phantoms flee ; 
 
 Thou hast the poet's mystic eye, 
 And canst the vision see. 
 
 Raptured I viewed it from the first ; 
 
 Sublime before me rose the scene ; 
 Columbia stood with pensive brow, 
 
 And disconcerted mien. 
 
 Her radiant Liberty bespoke, 
 
 And why, slie imid, tliat gloomy «ir, 
 
109 
 
 Have I not my best gifts bestowed, 
 Propitious to thy prayer ? 
 
 Benignant Goddess, thou hast made 
 My own, my happy land, thy home ; 
 
 But why with thee does not, as erst, 
 Thy loveliest daughter come ? 
 
 Why doth fair Poesy refuse 
 
 To grant my sons her heavenly fire, 
 But, wandering where thou may'st not go. 
 
 Give parasites her lyre ? 
 
 Sudden, O ecstacy ! I saw 
 
 The Muse, the enchanting Muse, appear ! 
 Where'er, she said, my mother dwells, 
 
 That land to me is dear. 
 
 But thy own sons, Columbia, blame ; 
 
 Some for mean praise to foreign lay. 
 And other's that they slight my gifts. 
 
 And throw my lyre away. 
 
110 
 
 To Osborne's hand the boon I gave, 
 To my own pathos tuned to rise ; 
 
 Well pleased he strung a few wild notes, 
 Then flung away the prize. 
 
 Columbia frowned — hark ! hark, again I 
 
 That voice thy muse from sleep must wake ; 
 
 Strike, Son of Genius, strike the lyre, 
 Ere age its chords shall break. 
 
FOR THE OPENING OF AN AMERICAN 
 THEATRE. 
 
 Welcome, oh welcome ! patrons of the scene I 
 Here Pleasure wears for you her gayest mien ; 
 For you, beneath this new created dome. 
 Spreads forth the stores of her enchanting home ; 
 And, decked in colours fancy knows to blend, 
 Her fairest daughters on her guests attend. 
 
 Her loveliest landscapes here shall Painting bring ; 
 Her softest song here Poetry shall sing ; 
 Rapt midst the scene, all smitten by the strain, 
 Sweet Music here shall warble it again. 
 
 Be not affrighted, if with Pleasure's throng, 
 Instruction sometimes timid steals along ; 
 Say would one frowning recreant be found. 
 Should patriotism here tread amusement's ground ? 
 
112 
 
 No, speaks each eye — we love Columbia's name, 
 Dearer than Pleasure's self our country's fame. 
 
 Columbia's genius ! then, oh then, to thee 
 These mimic scenes shall consecrated be. 
 Here shall the comic muse, thy gayer friend, 
 Show thee thy follies, and thy manners mend ; 
 Some western Goldsmith here his strain begin, 
 And make thy sportive maidens stoop to win ; 
 Or Shakspeare bid thy Merry Wives enfold, 
 In laugh's own caskets, Falstaffs of thy mould. 
 
 '^ 
 
 Here shall thy rising bards of future days 
 Crown thy dead patriots with immortal bays. 
 The tragic muse shall here, in garb of wo, 
 Each touching page of all thy story show. 
 Rapt by the thought, I see in fancy's glass, 
 The future scenes, that o'er this stage shall pass. 
 
 The curtain rises — savage woods are seen 
 That darkly frown ; and savage men between. 
 
113 
 
 Their victim bound they view with ireful eyes ; — 
 The war club rises ; — the white warrior dies. 
 Hark — from the woods that Indian maiden springs, 
 And round his neck her saving arm she flings. 
 
 Another bard, led by the tragic muse, 
 Shall Arnold's treason for his subject choose ; 
 Our highlands here in grandeur tower around, 
 And Hudson's pictured waves flow o'er the ground. 
 But mark, ere yet matured his direful plan, 
 The bosom-conflict of the dark great man. 
 Now patriot feeling, fame and honour plead, 
 Now deep revenge and gold demand the deed. 
 Shall his torn heart be for his country won ? 
 Shall honour's voice reclami her falling son ? 
 Behold his wife — in pride of matron charms, 
 She woos the troubled warrior to her arms. 
 Unhappy, guilty man ! Oh start away, 
 The kiss that melts thee soothes but to betray. 
 Yes, yet, ere yet you make the damned clioice, 
 List to your kneeling sister's pleading voice. 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 But O, our Washington I can he again 
 Live to our eyes throughout the mimic scene ? 
 Can ever poet speak that godhke worth, 
 Show all that hero, patriot, father forth ? 
 Can ever actor take that port divine. 
 Where every virtue sets its gracious sign ? 
 Yes — she shall give — the land that gave liim birth, 
 That peerless poet actor, to the earth ; 
 Then shall the shout resound along the shore, 
 Columbia sees her Washington once more ; 
 Then grandsires here shall bring their youthful band, 
 And embryo patriots learn to save the land. 
 Our country then her zenith splendour find ; 
 Her stage shall give the pattern of mankind. 
 
IMPROMPTU. 
 
 The halls of Mount Vernon echoed to our tread. 
 The solemn organ pealed amidst its loneliness and 
 silence. The deeds of other days were before us. 
 The spirit of the Hero was present to our souls, and 
 the song broke forth.* 
 
 Spirit of Washington ! art thou not near ! 
 
 These are the haunts, thou once fondly didst love ; 
 To us as our heart's blood thy memory's dear ; 
 
 Spirit of Washington I bend from above ! 
 
 * These lines were written on the author's first and only visit 
 to Mount Vernon. In the spacious hall across the north part of 
 the mansion was an organ ; I remarked to a gentleman that it 
 was the only instrument suitable to the place ; he replied that 
 there should be appropriate words; I took the hint, and they 
 embodied the feelings of the moment. 
 
116 
 
 Here is thy hearth, and here is thy race, 
 Spirit of Washington ! art thou not here ! 
 
 And the pilgrim of liberty weeps in this place, 
 Spirit of Washington ! spirit ! appear ! 
 
FRAGMENT FROM AN UNFINISHED 
 POEM. 
 
 Nor mortal tongue may say, nor pen may write, 
 The love, that warms the bosom of a wife. 
 When Israel's poet o'er his brother's grave 
 Wept sore, and mourned in hyperbolic strain, 
 O Jonathan, my brother, thus he cried — 
 Thy love for me was passing woman's love ! 
 Not inspiration's harp by passion touch'd, could more. 
 
 H 2 
 
HYMN, 
 
 SUNG BY THE YOUNG LADIES OF TROY FEMALE SEMINARY, 
 AT THE CLOSE OF THE EXAMINATION, 
 
 AUGUST 9th, 1826. 
 
 O Thou, the First, the Last, the Best! 
 
 To Thee the grateful song >/e raise, 
 Convinced that all our works should be 
 
 Begun and ended with thy praise. 
 
 Is it from Thee the thought arose 
 
 Where chants the nun or vestal train, 
 
 That praise is sweeter to thine ear 
 When virgin voices hymn the strain ? 
 
 Lord, bless to us this parting scene ; 
 
 Sister to sister bids farewell ; 
 They wait to bear us to our homes. 
 
 With tender parents there to dwell. 
 
119 
 
 O may we ever live to Thee ! 
 
 Then as we leave earth's care-worn road, 
 Angels shall wait to take our souls, 
 
 And bear them to our Father, God. 
 
HYMN, 
 
 Composed for a large family, made up of jJcrsons 
 from other families, among wJiom are the members of 
 churches of several different denominations. 
 
 Father, who in heaven art, 
 
 Low before thy throne we fall ; 
 Unto thee we lift our heart, 
 
 On thy holy name we call. 
 
 All are of thy forming hand. 
 
 All would prove thy pardoning grace, 
 
 All thy will would understand, 
 All would run the heavenly race. 
 
 Family of families. 
 
 Church of many churches we ; 
 One in soul, one voice shall rise, 
 
 Morn and eve, O God, to Thee. 
 
TO MY ADOPTED DAUGHTER, 
 
 ABOUT TO DEPART FOR GEORGIA, WRITTEN MAY 29tH, 
 
 1827, THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH 
 
 OF MY HUSBAND. 
 
 May this day's memory be sacred kept, 
 
 By thee and me, my daughter. Twice the sun 
 
 Hath annual visited the signs of Heaven, 
 
 Since on this day, within this mourning house. 
 
 Was seen death's awful footstep. Weeds of wo 
 
 I bore, and, darker than the sable garb, 
 
 The name of widow : darker too my soul — 
 
 No ray of earth born light was there. But withered 
 
 In heart and form, alone I sought the room, 
 
 Where lay his form, enslirouded for the grave. 
 
 But ah I not yet — not even yet, can I 
 
 Depict that parting scene, for tears flow fast, 
 
 And my hand trembles. Other years must roll, 
 
122 
 
 Ere I can tell the thoughts that darkened o'er me 
 
 The while I took my last long look, and spoke 
 
 Farewell until the resurrection morn. 
 
 Yet I have home such parting scene, and lived ; 
 
 Then let not that which for a little while 
 
 Divides thy friends from thee, too much distress 
 
 Thy gentle heart, my daughter. 
 
 Yes, we have lived, and IMercy's tender hand. 
 
 In unthought ways hath healed our many wounds. 
 
 And led us forth beside the peaceful streams 
 
 Of heavenly consolation. jMay that hand 
 
 Still guide thy ways ; safe guard thee o'er the deep, 
 
 Chase from thy path contagion's baleful breath, 
 
 Crown with success thy labours, and prepare 
 
 For thee on earth a home of peace and love — 
 
 For thee in Heaven a home of endless joy. 
 
 V_ 
 
FAREWELL HYMN, 
 
 SU.VG BY THE PUPILS OF TROY FEMALE SEMINARY, AUGUST 
 5, 1829, AT THE CLOSE OF EXAMINATION". 
 
 Music composed by Mr. H. M. T. Powell. 
 
 Farewell, a fond farewell to thee, 
 
 Who'st borne to us a mother's part ; 
 O, from our conduct may'st thou see, 
 
 We bear thy lessons in our heart. 
 And ye, who sought to guide our way 
 
 Where wisdom and where science dwell, 
 Dear honoured band I to you we say 
 Farewell ! a long, a fond farewell ! 
 
 Farewell I and if on earth we sever, 
 
 O, God of Heaven, hear our prayer ; 
 Let not our parting be for ever, 
 But may we meet in glory there I 
 
124 
 
 And you, ye walls, where oft we've met, 
 
 Bound in affection's sacred spell, 
 And can we sing with eyes unwet, 
 
 Farewell to you, a long farewell ! 
 And O, our dear companions too, 
 
 What parting pangs our bosoms swell, 
 To say, dear sisters ! friends ! to you. 
 Farewell, a long, a fond farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! and if on earth we sever, 
 
 O, God of Heaven, hear our prayer; 
 Let not our parting be for ever. 
 But may we meet in glory there I 
 
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