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POEMS AID TALES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MAKY CAMPBELL, MARY MEL, 
 
 ETC. 
 
 V 
 
 Mms h f InmE nf M. €. %■ 
 
 y 
 
 ri 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 T. W. STRONG. 
 
 ANGELL, ENGEL & HEWITT, PRINTERS, TRIBUNE BUILDINGS. 
 
 1851. 
 
 'A 
 
\ 
 
 - ^.^^ 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 20, 3(i line from bottom, for strewed read sirew. 
 '' 30, 18 lines from top, for you read should. 
 " 32, 8tli and 9tli lines from top, for To Mary, &c. read To the 
 
 Betrothed. 
 *' 45, 9tli line from top, for Father, one read Father, one boon. 
 '' 49, I2tli line from bottom, for maids read minds. 
 '' 84, 5tli line from top, for To my Husband read To Fred. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 t O E M S . 
 
 Beauty not beautiful, 
 
 Lines on the death of a lame boy, 
 
 Night Musings, .... 
 
 Faith and Hope, . 
 
 Song, "Thou comest to me in dreams," 
 
 Lines, " Our Father, who art in Heaven," 
 
 Stanzas to * * *, 
 
 God sees thee alway, 
 
 Hope and Memory, . 
 
 To Edward, 
 
 Stanzas to Mrs. M. H., 
 
 Lines to , 
 
 Stanzas to , 
 
 Lines sent with a gold pen to the Doctor, 
 
 Lines to a Youth, 
 
 The Sculptor's Invocation, .... 
 
 ToM.E. S., 
 
 Lines sent with rose leaves at a parting, 
 
 Stanzas to the Hon. , elepted to the House 
 
 To the Betrothed, 
 
 Lines, " Yes, we are parted," 
 
 Song, " I'll break this charm," 
 
 Stanzas to one I '11 marry, 
 
 Stanzas written on the death of Geo. W. Sewall 
 
 We are parted, 
 
 Lines written at Greenwood, 
 "May we not meet again," 
 
 Stanzas to , ...... 
 
 Impromptu, ...... 
 
 To a loved one, ...... 
 
 Lament, " How sad is life," 
 
 The world is selfish, 
 
 Ho ! for the West, 
 
 A happy New Year, 
 
 To one highly esteemed, .... 
 
 of Reps. 
 
 M. D., 
 
 FAGE. 
 
 9 
 
 10 
 
 . 12 
 13 
 14 
 15 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 18 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 23 
 26 
 27 
 28 
 29 
 30 
 32 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 36 
 38 
 39 
 40 
 41 
 42 
 43 
 44 
 45 
 46 
 47 
 49 
 
IV 
 
 C ONTENTS, 
 
 The wife's remonstrance, 
 Yes, I will think of thee, 
 
 I love thee, 
 
 Wealth not happiness, 
 
 Why should I fear, . . . , 
 
 The death of the beautiful. 
 
 Lines to a Gentleman, . . . , 
 
 A glimpse of life, . . . 
 
 The Farewell, " Look not mournfully into the past," 
 
 Poetic letter to the absent lover, 
 
 The Miniature, 
 
 Impromptu, ..... 
 Mary de Leszesynski, .... 
 Love's Wanderings, 
 
 Lines inscribed to Dr. A. De L , 
 
 Morning happiness, .... 
 
 Song, " I cannot sing to night, dear friends," 
 
 To my husband, ....... 
 
 Lines written in the album of a young Miss, Feb., 1851 
 
 Stanzas to , .... 
 
 To my husband, . . . . . 
 Reflection, ..... 
 
 My Husband, 
 
 To D. R. R., 
 
 Serenade to Emmy May, 
 
 Impromptu, 
 
 Lines to a Race Horse, 
 
 Drinking Song, 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 60 
 
 61 
 
 63 
 
 64 
 
 66 
 
 67 
 
 63 
 
 65 
 
 66 
 
 67 
 
 69 
 
 70 
 
 71 
 
 75 
 
 77 
 
 79 
 
 80 
 
 81 
 
 82 
 
 83 
 
 84 
 
 149 
 
 153 
 
 154 
 
 156 
 
 157 
 
 158 
 
 160 
 
 T ALE S. 
 
 The Departure ; or. One of the Caxtons, 
 Rupert Ellsworth, .... 
 
 The Artist's Dream, ... 
 
 The History of Peter the Plasterer, 
 The Graveyard, . . . 
 Thoughts at Night, .... 
 All is Passing Away, 
 
 87 
 107 
 118 
 133 
 142 
 146 
 147 
 
NOTE. 
 
 The major number of these pieces liavc already 
 appeared as contributions to the newspapers and 
 serials of the day. They are now presented to the 
 public in a somewhat improved and corrected form. 
 Their author has no doubt that they will still ap- 
 l^ear to the critical mind as very crude and inferior 
 productions. She has been induced to re-publish 
 them in this form, not from any vanity, nor from 
 believing them to possess a high order of merit, but 
 because a large circle of kind friends have urged 
 her to do so, and because she is persuaded that 
 there are some to whose tastes they will be better 
 adapted, imperfect as they are, than like produc- 
 tions, intrinsically much superior. 
 
 M. K. B. 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 To those of my friends who have encouraged me 
 to the publication of these little pieces, imperfectly 
 expressive of such feelings and sentiments as have 
 visited me in my pilgrimage — ^to all whose relish for 
 the spirit of beauty, in however crude and imperfect 
 a form it may appear, is keener than their judg- 
 ment is critical, these pieces are presented as spe- 
 cimens of homely ilowers from the garden of poesy, 
 which a higher and more careful degree of culture 
 would have doubtless greatly improved. Whatever 
 of poetic worth they may possess, should be at- 
 tributed solely to the excellence and purity of the 
 feelings and sentiments they embody. Upon no 
 other ground does their writer commend them to 
 public favor and patronage ; and upon no other 
 ground does she venture to hope that they will meet 
 with a sufficient sale to enable her to accomplish a 
 long-cherished object. If they should afford to any 
 as much pleasure in their reading as she has de- 
 
Vm PREFACE. 
 
 rived from their composition, it will be a pleasant 
 and gratifying reflection to her to be thus assured 
 that even the humblest of efforts in the field of lite- 
 rature are not wholly vain and fruitless. 
 
 M. E. B. 
 
 VlLLEMOTT, N. Y. ) 
 
 February 10, 1851. ^ 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BEAUTY NOT BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 I MET a lady very fair, 
 
 Decked out in fashion gay, 
 All beautiful she seemed to be, 
 
 Light tripping through Broadway. 
 Her face, all radiant with smiles, 
 
 Won my enraptured gaze — 
 But very soon I was decharmed, 
 
 And stood as in amaze. 
 
 " Oh ! give me alms, sweet lady dear," 
 
 A wretched creature said — 
 " A stranger here, no friends, no home, 
 
 My parents both are dead." 
 She smiled, pretended not to hear ; 
 
 The poor one craved again — 
 " Pity, oh ! lady, pity me ! " 
 
 Then passed in proud disdain. 
 1 
 
10 POEMS. 
 
 And wlien her robe was gently pnlled. 
 
 She turned, looked coldly on ; 
 The suppliant fell upon her knees— 
 
 The proud one cried, " Begone ! " 
 The suffering creatui-e was deceived, 
 
 In ti'usting that sweet smile, 
 ISTot dreaming all was mockery 
 
 And hoUowness the while. 
 
 * 45- -Sf * 
 
 Oh ! could it be that one so fair, 
 
 So beautiful and young. 
 Had no kind feelings in her heart, 
 
 1^0 mildness on her tongue ? 
 With mingling pity and contemjDt, 
 
 I viewed her without fear ; 
 Then kindly took the poor one's hand. 
 
 And on it dropped a tear. 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO THE PARENTS OF A VERY INTERESTING LAME BOY AT HIS DEATH-BEO. 
 
 MouEis' not for him, the loved, 
 
 The innocent of Heaven ; 
 God often doth recall 
 
 The lambs which He hath given. 
 
POEMS. 11 
 
 And should his spirit flee, 
 
 To join the blest above, 
 Give, give him to his God — 
 
 To God's undying love. 
 
 Weep not ! 't is for the best . 
 
 That suifering thus he lies ; 
 Be reconciled to Heaven, 
 
 Though little Eobert dies. 
 I know he 's very dear ; 
 
 How could you love him less ? 
 The prattler's voice, and smile. 
 
 Was ever quick to bless. 
 
 Those mild and lovely eyes, 
 
 A face so full of light. 
 Beaming with childlike joy. 
 
 Gave every heart delight. 
 The youthful and the old. 
 
 All on him kindly smiled — 
 Ay, all, who on him looked. 
 
 Loved, dearly loved thy child. 
 
 He who was pure on earth. 
 
 Will be an angel bright ; 
 Think of thy suifering innocent, 
 
 Enwrapt in robes of light. 
 Around God's hallowed throne. 
 
 Wouldst rob a happy band 
 Of one so young, and fitly formed 
 
 For the bright spirit-land ? 
 
12 POEMS. 
 
 InTIGHT MUSIJN^GS. 
 
 Last night, in sadness and silence, I 
 Sat watching the clouds as they floated by ; 
 Now, dimming the star-gemmed, azure sky 
 And forming strange shapes to my raptured eye, 
 Till wandering from earth, my dreamy flight 
 Paused not, till Heaven dawned on my sight. 
 
 And then appeared to my spirit's gaze, 
 Each son and daughter of Adam's race, 
 All freed from sorrow and sin and care, 
 And pure as the sinless angels are ! 
 They were clad in garments of spotless white, 
 And smiling in sunshine of pure delight. 
 They welcomed e'en me with a look of love, 
 To that holy kingdom of bliss above.' 
 
 I wondered much, for but just agone, 
 I had felt so sad, so drear and lone. 
 So crushed in spirit with wrong and pain, 
 That hope I feared to trust again. 
 For oh ! I deemed all earthly joy, 
 ITot mixed — ^but only base alloy. 
 
 It proved not thus, for long ere dawn 
 Brought in this peaceful, beauteous morn ; 
 A lovely faith hushed sorrow's voice. 
 And e'en in pain did my heart rejoice ; 
 For I felt in that silent and changing night, 
 A trust that misery ne'er can blight. 
 
POEMS. 13 
 
 A trutli whose voice in whispers clear, 
 Forbade to murmiir or despair ; 
 Calmly it crept to mj weary soul. 
 And fixed there its truths, beyond control. 
 
 I am a God of love to all ; 
 
 ISTot a flower of mine will I leave to fall ; 
 
 However worthless, or frail it be, 
 
 'T is of my power, and speaks of me ; 
 
 Is 't not enough that I say to you. 
 
 Thy Father all things shall subdue ? 
 
 Learn, then, to kiss the chastening rod, 
 
 "Which brings thee, wanderer, home to God. 
 
 FAITH A]^D HOPE. 
 
 To thee I 've looked, Thou God above, 
 
 With mingled hope and fear ; 
 Yet ne'er, oh gracious source of love. 
 
 Have felt Thy presence near ! 
 But now which way soe'er I turn, 
 
 I feel with deep delight, 
 That easy is my Saviour's yoke — 
 
 His every burden light ! 
 
 From insult, misery, and sin. 
 Thy hand hath been my guide ; 
 
 Oh ! if thy voice but cheer me on, 
 I care not what betide. 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 'No sacrifice for Thee 's too great, 
 Take all that earth can give, 
 
 So I but have the love of Him, 
 Who died that all might live. 
 
 Come sickness ; pain and sorrow, come ! 
 
 If such be Heaven's will — 
 Perhaps protracted suffering 
 
 Will purify from ill. 
 And take me closer to mj God, 
 
 Fit me for joj and peace ; 
 Loose these vain ties that bind me here. 
 
 And bring a bright release ! 
 
 so:ng. 
 
 Thou com'st to me in dreams. 
 When slumbers weigh these lids ; 
 
 And all around me beams 
 The presence fancy bids ! 
 
 When night her mantle flings, 
 Athwart the ambient sky. 
 
 Thy spirit influence brings 
 Murmuring love-notes nigh. 
 
 And then in gentle sleep, 
 
 I lie upon thy breast ; 
 Joy, with a fondness deep, 
 
 Unto my heart is pressed ? 
 
POEMS. 15 
 
 Those calm, fond, noble eyes 
 
 Look lovingly on me, 
 And every glance supplies^ 
 
 The love I bear to thee ! 
 
 When light in beauty breaks, — 
 Oh, morning's hallowed time !- 
 
 And slowly then awakes 
 An atmosphere snblime : 
 
 Through thee is beauty known, 
 And happiness made clear, — 
 
 I am not, Love, alone — 
 For thou art always here. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 " OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN." 
 
 Fathee ! Blest truth, the beaming light, 
 
 "Whose brightness comes where'er I stray, 
 A star amid the clouds of night — 
 
 An ever-burning, quenchless ray ; 
 A fadeless flower, through good and ill — 
 
 How false soe'er all else may prove — 
 A ceaseless flowing, sparkling rill, 
 
 A fount of hope — such is Thy love. 
 
 Oh ! oft in dreams a Father's voice 
 Thrills with its deep and holy power, 
 
 Bidding my weary heart rejoice — 
 E'en after night's sweet spirit-hour 
 
16 POEMS. 
 
 Has fled, whispering when morn liath past^ 
 
 " Should all life's clouds be dark above, 
 I will be near thee to the last, 
 
 And bless thee with a Father's love ; 
 Giving affection's star control 
 O'er the wild current of the soul." 
 
 8TA]^ZAS — To^^*. 
 
 Faeewell ! I '11 laj aside the hope I bore, 
 And look not on thee as in days of yore : 
 Proudly I '11 throw the mantle from my breast — 
 Warm were its folds, so close, and fondly pressed ? 
 'Hound me. "When chill winds pierce my heart, 
 Or jealous feelings loose the venomed dart — 
 I '11 call to mind thy happiness, not mine — 
 And cheer my soul with prayers lor thee and thine. 
 
 Farewell I Be thou a brother ! I, thy friend. 
 Would cheer, and aid, and my best influence lend ; 
 Oh ! let me bless you. Should dark sorrow steal 
 O'er ye, in after years ; through wo or weal, 
 I could not change the robe of friendship, soon : 
 Prize it I must, as earth's most precious boon ! 
 And if strong hearts shall fail, and falsehood be 
 Thine, for thy priceless love — iiwrrh then to me ! 
 
POEMS. 17 
 
 GOD SEES THEE ALWAY. 
 
 God sees thee, sweet child ! 
 
 When thj spirit is free, 
 God sees thee and hears thee, 
 
 Where'er thou may'st be ; 
 He smooths thy yonng pillow, 
 
 Bids sorrow depart. 
 Sends angels to gladden 
 
 With pure thought thy heart. 
 
 And when kneeling in prayer. 
 
 With mild eyes of love 
 Turned pleadingly upward, 
 
 God looks from above ; 
 And blesses thee, child ! 
 
 With visions so bright. 
 As will live in thy memory 
 
 To give thee delight. 
 
 Then suffer not passion 
 
 To darken that brow. 
 Oh ! always be lovely 
 
 And loving as now. 
 Remember ! if wicked 
 
 Or angry at play, 
 God sees thee, dear child. 
 
 And hears thee alway. 
 
 1* 
 
18 POEMS. 
 
 HOPE AND MEMOEY. 
 
 Hope ! blessed hope, in every form and age, 
 Deep is thy fount, and bright thy sacred page ; 
 Heaven is thy birth-place, and thy home the heart- 
 An angel art thon, none would bid depart ; 
 A holy beacon light and quenchless star, 
 "Which guides the weary, storm-tossed mariner ; 
 Thou ever com'st to cheer the aching breast, 
 And bid thy solace in each bosom rest. 
 
 Memory, sweet memory, sister spirit thou, 
 Still on each brow and in each bosom glow. 
 Still bring the soldier home in visions dear, 
 And the lost son to stay the widow's tear ; 
 Eestored by thee the dead again arise, 
 And the long buried stand before our eyes ; 
 Thy smiles can cheer when we are sad and lone, 
 And visions fair still gladden heart and home. . 
 
 TO EDWAKD. 
 
 Dear Edward ! I 'm safe, and since I 've been here, 
 It has rained all the time, at least very near ; 
 And just at this, moment I know of naught better. 
 To please you and me, than to write you a letter ; 
 So if I find matter as easy as time. 
 And feelings, my dearest, that fitly may chime 
 With the folly of sports, and rambling sublime, 
 I '11 weave it poetically, or rather in rhyme ; 
 
POEMS. 19 
 
 If 't is only about the birds and the trees, 
 
 The beautiful flowers, the brook and the breeze, 
 
 Or the blue, rapid waters, impelling the mill, 
 
 Where all is quite busy, and nothing is still. 
 
 Except 't is the factory, standing in sight, 
 
 "With its many small windows, its buildings of white, 
 
 Peeping out of the trees, clad in mantles of green. 
 
 Just over the water-fall, close by the stream. 
 
 "Well ! I must go back and begin at the beginning — 
 The steamboatj you know, makes a wonderful dinning. 
 With noise, bustle, bandboxes, trunks and the like. 
 And its officers calling, here " Jack, Jep, or Mike," 
 Take this luggage for Danielsonville, (meaning mine,) 
 You may think I was glad to be there just in time. 
 
 The ringing bell ceased, and onward we went 
 From our home o'er the water, as though we were sent 
 By a whirlwind, so swift did our sailless boat glide 
 Along the East river, against wind and tide. 
 The cabin so warm, and on deck being cool, 
 I sent the good steward to bring me a stool, 
 And sat down to note each scene that so bright 
 Meets the eyes, charms the senses, the heart to delight ; 
 Until night darkened o'er, and all hastened away 
 From on deck to the cabin, from dew and from spray ; 
 I sought my own pillow, to sleep, no, to praise 
 With newness of feeling, God's wonderful ways. 
 
 But here now am I, with little to say. 
 Except, dearest Eddy that I 'm far away 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 From you, and papa, and Henry, sweet boy. 
 
 So be very good, and gambol and toy. 
 
 And be joyous and bappy, as if Emmy and I 
 
 Were bome witb our loved ones, your sports to enjoy ; 
 
 Emmy sends mucb of love, cousin Gene, Jody too, 
 
 To papa, and grandam, and Henry, and you. 
 
 Yet one tbing I '11 mention ere my letter I close, 
 I cannot return, and tbis is plain prose — 
 For I rode about, roamed about, spent all my casb. 
 Unmindful of storm — ^my clotbes, and sucb trasb — • 
 I 've been quite as pleased, as if suns bad been brigbt. 
 And moonshine and stars bad illumined tbe night. 
 For my thoughts are all full of star-lighted skies. 
 And spirits of love, with dear sunny eyes. 
 And sweet voices whispering come to the heart. 
 To swell the glad fountain, and murmurs depart. 
 As the dew and the mist before a warm sun — 
 How provoking ! to finish my rhyme, I '11 have done. 
 Tell papa I want money, I expect he '11 look blue. 
 So now one sweet kiss ! and I bid you adieu ! 
 
 STANZAS TO MES. M. H 
 
 Got) guide — ^be thine a happy lot ! 
 
 And strewed thy path with flowers ! 
 Blessed, ever blessed amid life's hopes 
 
 With pleasant, peaceful hours. 
 
POEMS. 21 
 
 God shelter thee from pain or harm, 
 
 And make yonr good his care ; 
 Exalt you with a loving heart 
 
 And teach you one sweet ^prayer : 
 
 " Oh, not to wrong the humblest breast 
 
 Whose pulses may beat true ; 
 And think with leniency on all, 
 
 "Whatever they may do 1 " 
 
 We know that clouds may often lower 
 
 Around this life's career ; 
 How much some hearts may need our smiles 
 
 And pleasant words of cheer ! 
 
 Though from the faCe of friendliness 
 
 You turn your glance away, 
 Still, you may need its cheering beams 
 
 To light the gloomy day ! 
 
 LINES TO 
 
 Again I 've met thee, and have felt that life 
 Has else than cold indifference and strife — 
 That kindred fires enkindle and remain 
 In lasting brightness on fond memory's fane ; 
 I know that friendship here may sweetly twine. 
 Garlands which bear the chilling hand of time. 
 Through summer's storm and winter's howling blast — 
 Her altar bright and fragrant to the last ! 
 
^'9' POEMS. 
 
 ^jzj 
 
 And thoiigli no more we meet ! and I again 
 Must dream, and dream and hope, alas ! in vain, 
 And only cherish visions bright and blest, 
 Close in the chamber of mj bosom pressed ; 
 And dark, sad fate with circumstance combine, 
 To make the futm^e what the past hath been, 
 I '11 dew these flowers with sweet, delicious tears, 
 To cheer and deck the coming vale of years. 
 
 Yes, I will wear the memory of these hours, 
 As evergreens bedecking autumn bowers ; 
 And 'neath their grateful shade, my raptured ear. 
 Shall drink thy poet strains, so deeply dear ! 
 And when this vessel falls, as potters' clay. 
 And Cometh Christ to bear the gem away, 
 I only ask such breathing prayer as thine. 
 To waft my spirit to its home divine. 
 
 STA]^ZAS TO 
 
 I 've heard the tale, thou 'rt wedded now, 
 And I have lived to wear this truth 
 Upon my heart, to scar my brow. 
 And feel it blight the hopes of youth ; 
 Tell her, who won and wedded thee, 
 To be a fond and daily love — 
 But, tell her not, thy heart must be 
 Mine in its union far above. 
 
POEMS. 23 
 
 Tell her I shall not envy her, 
 Though all of earth this heart holds dear 
 She claims — who deeply loveth her ! 
 While I am lonely, loveless here. 
 Tell her to pray for blighted hearts. 
 Whene'er she feels her own is glad — 
 And if the tear-drop ever starts, 
 Tell her there 's tearless eyes more sad. 
 
 Tell her I wish her happiness. 
 And every joy the heart can know ! 
 May thine be life-long, purest bliss, 
 Ecstatic as the gods bestow ! 
 But I shall claim thee, in those years 
 When endless pleasures brightly roll ; 
 For all these pangs, for all these tears, 
 ISTow freezing in upon my soul. 
 
 LIl^ES 
 
 SENT WITH A GOLD PEN TO THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Good morning ! dear doctor, with heart of good 
 
 cheer, 
 I wish you a soul-thrilling, " Happy ISTew Year ! " 
 And on this fine day — so beaming with joy — 
 Which invests with importance each trifle or toy — 
 St. Nicholas offered to carry my gift. 
 Though lie thinks, I presume, I have made a poor 
 
 shift ; 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 For one whoin tlie gods love, and ever must bless, 
 "With a soul of higli honor and deep tenderness ; 
 For mortals the friend, the Samaritan good — 
 "Who healeth the sick, gives the hungry their food ; 
 Who lighteth the taper of many a sad heart ; 
 And oft dries, of sorrow, the tear-drops that start ; 
 Awakens the weary to fresh trust in life. 
 Though the spirit contends with its toils and its 
 strife. 
 
 Though we suffer by falsehood — false friends we 
 
 must love. 
 Still, Friendship came down from the bright courts 
 
 above — 
 With its truthfulness, comfort, and that lovely voice, 
 Which will raise the desponding and bid us rejoice ; 
 Oh, it bears a sweet face, and will come in our grief 
 To aid us, and bless us, and bring us relief! 
 
 Such a friend you have been, dearest doctor to me ; 
 
 And ah ! you are valued, as such friend should be ; 
 
 1^0 present — no language — ^no offering of gold^ 
 
 Could convey my affection, nor truly unfold — 
 
 But some fairy will whisper just into your ear 
 
 That what I would give miglithe jpurchased too dear^ 
 
 Considering our singular, separate life — 
 
 That I have a husband, and you a sweet wife ! 
 
 May she live long to bless — be your pride and your 
 
 care — 
 Make you joyous and happy ! Oh, this is my prayer ; 
 
POEMS. 25 
 
 And may that dear smile from your face ne'er depart, 
 
 Nor that soul-lighted brow lose the charm of the 
 heart ; 
 
 May the angels who watch o'er your proud dwell- 
 ing's dome, 
 
 Make earth's home your heaven, and heaven your 
 home! 
 
 You will welcome this gift, and give it a place 
 Near you daily — and as with kind hand you trace 
 A recipe for a patient, or a line to a friend. 
 Though humble, its usefulness may you commend ; 
 You will prize it : Oh, dear to my heart is the thought, 
 And dearer the friendship no favor hath bought. 
 
 Nick will make no ado — put it into your stocking, 
 And so Tie '11 not trouble you late with Tiis knocking . 
 He '11 take to the chimney, the freedom excuse. 
 For you know Tie is harmless, and exists to amuse. 
 
 LINES TO A YOUTH. 
 
 Oh, Oscar ! I must look on thee, e'en though the rich 
 "Warm blood has mounted to thy very brow ! 
 "Why dost thou blush ? Sure 't is no flush of shame : 
 No ! in that pensive eye there is no guilt ; 
 Nor lurks it round the ever-dimpling mouth, 
 On rosy cheek or polished brow of youth ! 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 Pure is tlij smile as cliildisli innocence 
 Stamped on the face of manly beauty is ; 
 Perchance, because we gaze on thee so oft, 
 The crimson blush so mantles on thy cheek ! 
 Or the bold speech of flattery has tried 
 To snare a soul above its wily arts ; 
 Oh ! I were proud, had I a son like thee, 
 So lovely, yet of the world's stains so pure ! 
 I would that blush might ever mantle thus. 
 Yet never summoned at the voice of guilt. 
 Guilt, did I say ! Guilt has no glow like that ! 
 
 So sweet a face I ne'er have looked upon — 
 Has heaven's hand its impress there enstamped ? 
 Or do the angels lend their thoughts to give 
 Such seraph grace ? God keep thee pure as now 
 Thou art, fair youth ! and Heaven o'er thee watch 
 And guide in Virtue's path, the path of Peace, 
 Of Joy, and Love, and Faith, of smiling Hope 
 And sacred Memories. 
 
 Oh, youth, beware ! lest sin beset thy path. 
 And clad in tinselled robes. the tempter come — 
 In robes whose stains pure hearts may not detect I 
 Oh, Oscar ! wilt inviolate the trust 
 And precepts of thy widowed mother keep ? 
 Let the deep love of God — the fellowship 
 "With Christ's pure lessons CKjfcpass thee around 
 As with a living halo ! 
 
 Then shall the flowers in native sweetness bloom, 
 And loveliness, the heavenly concave blaze 
 
POEMS. 27 
 
 In starry splendor. "What thongli the voices then 
 Of earthly friends are silent, and all, all 
 Of earthly loves lie sleeping in the grave ! 
 The Spirit Love that knoweth not of change 
 Is still aronnd thee, and a parent's tones 
 Speak kindly in the storm as in the calm. 
 And friendship deep is ever whispering in 
 The glad or solemn voices of the earth ! 
 
 THE SCULPTOE'S INYOCATIOlSr 
 
 Pale loveliness, combined with grace. 
 How can I gaze npon that face ! 
 Those silent lips how oft I 've pressed. 
 Which fondness once for me expressed ; 
 Dearest, oh, loved one ! can it be. 
 That thon e'en now forgettest me ? 
 
 In dreams I nightly roam with thee. 
 Vision of light ! thy form I see. 
 Beaming in beauty, good, and fair, 
 Deserts might bloom if thon wert there — 
 And when I ask of thy sweet heart, 
 It whispers — " Thou shalt ne'er de23art." 
 
 Art still, beloved ! art silent yet ! 
 Canst thou our oft paid vows forget ; 
 So cold thy heart, so hushed thy gaze, 
 Canst thou forget those happy days. 
 When thou wert all the world to me. 
 And I was dear as joy to thee. 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 Say, loved remembrance ! thou, whose liglit 
 Is with me through the darksom.e night ; 
 Speak, marble smile, whose voiceless cheer, 
 Utters the spell that binds me here ; 
 The vision ! and the sculjDtured brow. 
 Oh ! are these all that thou givest now ? 
 
 Away, proud image, to thy cell — 
 I '11 seek the Painter's wondrous spell, 
 Closing the lip, with life's warm hue — 
 The eye, with love's own language true ; 
 Go, go ! thy soulless, sightless stare, 
 Fills thy lone lover with despair. 
 
 Ah ! now I see those liquid eyes, 
 
 Shaming the Poet's summer skies ; 
 
 The nectar of whose ruddy lip, 
 
 I dare not, sweet one, fondly sip : 
 
 No, no ! the painted, as the chiselled gaze, 
 
 Heflects alone the light of hopeful days. 
 
 TO M. E. S. 
 
 We met ! 't was not in halls of mirth, 
 "Not by the couch of sorrow ; 
 
 We met, not by the brooklet's side, 
 From nature's joy to borrow ; 
 
POEMS. 29 
 
 Not in the dell, nor the fairy grove, 
 
 !N^or by the limpid fountain. 
 l^or where the moon-beams' silvery light 
 
 Beams on the lofty mountain. 
 "We met, not where the sweet bird's song 
 
 The God of beauty praised, 
 ITot where the happy shepherd-boy 
 
 His morning anthem raised. 
 The rugged rock — the towering peak, 
 
 That frowns o'er wide creation — 
 The silent lake — the mighty deep. 
 
 Claimed not our admiration. 
 
 "We met, and oh ! no charm could add 
 
 To our love's congenial hours 
 In the home of youth — where a mother's prayer, 
 
 Went up as incense of flowers ; 
 Thus, thus we met ; oh ! who shall tell 
 
 The power of that warm greeting ; 
 Bleak days may come — earth's beauties fade — ■ 
 
 Can we forget that meeting ! 
 
 LINES. 
 
 SENT WITH ROSE-LEAVES AT PARTING. 
 
 Oh, take these fading leaves ! 
 
 And, though bereft 
 Of stem or kindred. 
 
 There is beauty left : 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 A grateful fragrance 
 That will ever tell 
 
 Of one who loved thee. 
 But, alas ! too well. 
 
 Should memory whisper 
 
 In an after year — 
 Like faded rose-leaves, 
 
 Scentless and sear — 
 Of that bright spring-time 
 
 When faith's flowers rare 
 Bloomed in love's sunshine, 
 
 Filled earth and air ! — 
 
 Ah ! pause awhile 
 
 And if your ear 
 The voice of truth and love 
 
 Again you hear, 
 Look on these leaves, 
 
 And shun the cruel blast 
 That scattered tJiem — 
 
 All fragrant to the last. 
 
 . STAISrZAS. 
 
 TO THE HON. , ELECTED TO THE HOUSE. 
 
 Long- pent within the recess of niy soul, 
 Yet leaping up beyond my own control. 
 Glows a fond passion welling in its might, 
 Diffusing fond affection's hallowed light, 
 
POEMS. 81 
 
 Lives, and is yearning for a course more free, 
 As boundless as the wandering sea. 
 
 But thou must go — for whom this passion burns, 
 Ere yet my reason or my peace returns, 
 Oh, thou must leave me in this dark, sad maze. 
 Where shall I turn, where 'Q.x my 'wildered gaze ? 
 Life hath no charm, earth not a boon to crave, 
 ISTor gentle spring my fevered soul to lave. 
 
 The flowers may wait for dews on petalled lip, 
 The bee thirst on for sweets 't was wont to sip, 
 And the warm sunshine holding back its rays, 
 Leave blight and mildew over beauties' ways, 
 These cannot know a need of love like mine. 
 The homage that I oifer at thy" shrine. 
 
 Yet, fare thee well ! strong be this heart to brave, 
 When thou'rt not near to shelter and to save ; 
 Yes, fare thee well ! though pride and absence break 
 All hold on life, I '11 live on for thy sake — 
 Live on to pray for thee — to hope — to know. 
 Earth's proudest blessings. Heaven will bestow. 
 
 Live on, to gaze on life with sadder eye. 
 To raise my lone affection toward the sky ; 
 Live on, to weary Heaven thy path to bless ! 
 See the great lavish on thee, proud caress. 
 To hear them praise thee, o'er and o'er again ; 
 'T will cheat my lonely heart of half its pain. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 Yes, sure thine own will be a prond career, 
 On, on ! tliy gallant bark thon 'It prondly steer, 
 Great is thy purpose, lofty be the goal — ■ 
 A nation's honor — go, her laws control, 
 And when full triumph places thee in power, 
 Forget not one, who cheered a passing hour. 
 
 TO MAEY. 
 
 THE WRITER OF THE STORIES IN THE NEW-YORK SUN. 
 
 Foe thee, beloved ! when I am thine, 
 Love's wreath of happiness I '11 twine, 
 
 And tune its life-long lay ; 
 I '11 guard with care each passing hour. 
 Our home shall be a perfumed bower, 
 
 Our life a pleasant stay. 
 
 For thee, when business cares are o'er, 
 I '11 wait me patient at our door 
 
 In pleasant summer-time. 
 Or in harsh winter's gloom I '11 wait 
 To hear thy footsteps at the gate, 
 
 And haste to feel thou 'rt mine. 
 
 For thee, the cheerful fire I '11 tend 
 And every happy influence lend 
 
 So thou 'It not wish to roam. 
 Heart shall devise and hand shall bring 
 Comfort with many a trivial thing 
 
 To make thee blest at home. 
 
POEMS. 23, 
 
 For thee ! at morning and at eve, 
 I '11 *praj for smiles and not to grieve 
 
 Thee, honored, loved and adored. 
 Lord ? of heart ! of soul and eye, 
 Por thee I 'd live— for thee I 'd die, 
 
 In thee mj love is stored. 
 
 For thee ! for thee— thou 'It not betraj, 
 I '11 give all else of life away. 
 
 All else of faith is riven. 
 Thou loved, thou honored of my soul, 
 I own thine influence, thy control 
 
 To make our home a heaven. 
 
 YES, WE AEE PARTED. 
 
 And have I ceased to look upon that face. 
 Those noble features, that adorning grace. 
 The smile that lit the glory of that brow. 
 They haunt my memory with their magic now- 
 And can I bid thee from my soul depart ? 
 Whose image clings around my faithful heart? 
 
 Yes, we are parted ! But that fond control, 
 Enshrined by intellect upon the soul ! 
 And thy pure spirit stealing o'er my sense, 
 O, how I loved the gentle influence ! 
 These have not parted from my spirit's gaze, 
 JSTay, they are lights— Star-lights of other days. 
 
 2 
 
34 POEMS. 
 
 Yes, we are parted ! and tlie gnlf is deep, 
 Life's way is drear, its paths are rude and steep. 
 How many years we loved 1 N'ow widely parted I 
 So lone, so cold, I, almost broken hearted — 
 £ut thou art with me in my spirifs flight, 
 Thy Ireathing halms my pillow through the night. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I 'll break this charm ! 
 
 I '11 break this charm ! 
 Although my hope it will disarm. 
 
 "Who wove the spell, 
 
 I cannot tell ; 
 I know, I know I love him well ! 
 Yet grief will dark my spirit, 
 Hush the music in my heart ; 
 Ah ! naught but pain I can inherit ; 
 We part, we must forever part 
 
 I cannot rest ! 
 
 I cannot rest ! 
 Although in sleep thy lips are pressed, 
 
 And beams thy face 
 
 In dreamland place. 
 Where oft and gently I 've been blessed ; 
 But all my thoughts distress me : 
 To soothe this breast in vain — 
 I want to claim — I want to bless thee — 
 We must — ^we must not meet again! 
 
POEMS. 35 
 
 STAilSrZAS TO Ol^E I 'LL MAEEY. 
 
 I LOVE thee ! O, I love thee ! 
 
 As the perfume loves the flowers ; 
 As the vine-tree loves to twine itself 
 
 Around Love's summer bowers. 
 I love thee ! as the smiling skies 
 
 Love to shed their holiest beams, 
 And as the winter stars at night 
 
 Emit their splendid gleams. 
 
 I love thee ! O, I love thee ! 
 
 As the gold-fish love their brooks ; 
 As the waters love to murmur on, 
 
 And curve in sunny nooks : 
 As the streamlets love to hurry on 
 
 Unto their Ocean mother ! 
 And as the birds in young spring time 
 
 Love ! worship one the other ! 
 
 I love thee ! as the roses love 
 
 The stem on which they bloom, 
 As feathered songsters of the grove. 
 
 Their warm and native plume ! 
 I love thee as the Eagle loves 
 
 His eyry near the sky, 
 And as his gaze upon the sun, 
 
 I -^x my raptured eye. 
 
 . I love thee ! O, I love thee ! 
 
 As the wild woods love the trees. 
 As drooping flowers, and thirsty earth, 
 Eefreshing rains and breeze. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 I love thee ! as the rose-bud loves 
 The mom — ^the gentle dew ; 
 
 And as it opes its petals fair, 
 So opes my heart to yon ! 
 
 I KNOW THAT THOU HAST PASSED AWAY. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE W. SEW ALL, M. D. 
 
 I KNOW that thou hast passed away 
 
 To the bright land of rest, 
 Where the weary-hearted smile again 
 
 And the yearning soul is blest ; 
 I know the light is on thy brow 
 
 That shone within thy sonl ; 
 And thy sweet peace and lofty joy • 
 
 Hath gained a starry goal. 
 
 I know that then hast passed away, 
 
 For thy place is vacant here ; 
 Thy charms no longer glad the heart — 
 
 Thy smiles no longer cheer ; 
 The beauty of thy beaming face 
 
 No longer thrills the heart — 
 But oh ! those spirit-corda of love 
 
 Defy death's chilling dart. 
 
 I know that thou hast passed away, 
 
 To brighter, happier days, 
 Where love is crowned with changeless truth — 
 
 Thy worth with lasting lays ; 
 
POEMS. 37 
 
 Oh ! nigh thy lovely home afar, 
 
 Wherever it may be. 
 Say, wilt thou place a beacon-star 
 
 To guide us o'er life's sea ? 
 
 I know that thou hast passed away. 
 
 Yet, ah ! thou lov'st us still ; 
 The lessons of thy clear, fond eye, 
 
 Come with their wonted thrill. 
 And when I lift my soul in prayer 
 
 And gaze toward the sky. 
 Answers in tones of thy loved voice 
 
 Are ever floating by. 
 
 I know that thou hast passed away, 
 
 Thou faithful Brother, Friend, 
 Whose love could fill all nature's haunts 
 
 With the music angels lend ; 
 Thy warm heart cannot now be chilled, 
 
 Or spirit joys made tame. 
 By the coldness of an idle throng. 
 
 Or Envy's jaundiced fame. 
 
 I know that thou hast passed away 
 
 To thy pleasant land on high : 
 Yet thine eyes still beam among the stars, 
 
 Thy beauty on the sky. 
 I know this heart will darken oft 
 
 Ere again thy face I see ; 
 But winged dreams will seek aloft 
 
 Thy dwelling place and thee. 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 WE AEE PAETED. 
 
 " that there should be 
 Things that we love with such deep tenderness, 
 But through that love to learn how much of wo, 
 Dwells in one houi* like this." 
 
 Yes, I have loved before — and a strong cliain 
 Still links my heart with, memories wild and vain ? 
 There are sweet visions stealing o'er my sense : 
 (I loved and owned the gentle influence,) 
 But none like this all-powerful control, 
 Absorbing every cmTent of the soul. 
 
 Yes, I have loved ere this, have felt a joy 
 In meeting — ^but their absence could not cloy 
 My haj)piness ! I have loved friends before, 
 Whose vii-tues have been counted o'er and o'er ; 
 But this dear ^resence^ this pervading power. 
 Gives tone to music, light to star and flower. 
 
 Yes, I have loved ! but never felt till now 
 That influence my wayward pride could bow. 
 I have seen genius, talent, at whose shrine 
 I Ve worshipped ; minds mightier than thine ; 
 But never have I known, in life's best hour. 
 Thy soft, thy thrilling, all-subduing power. 
 
 Yes, I have loved such nobleness before. 
 
 But never mused to love them more and more ; 
 
 Offers of splendor, places side by side 
 
 With wealth and beauty, never roused my pride ; 
 
POEMS. 39 
 
 But oh ! to be thine own, in hall or bower. 
 Would be a fame surpassing emperor's dower ! 
 
 Yes, I have loved before, and I have parted. 
 Even by death, with true and tender hearted ; 
 Eyes have grown cold that beamed on me with love, 
 And hearts enstranged that blessed me like the dove, 
 But never, never have I fully known, 
 Till torn from thee, — so separate — so alone 1 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AT GREENWOOD. 
 
 Thy spirit is about me, dear, dear Lizzy I 
 
 And I feel 
 "With a strange rapture my poor brain grow dizzy, 
 
 Till I reel 
 "With happiness ! My silent friend. 
 
 My heart is filled — 
 With joys I know the angels lend, 
 
 How deeply thrilled I 
 
 Thou art not there, my own dear Lizzy, 
 
 'JSTeath the sod : 
 With holy memories I am busy — 
 
 Thou with God ! 
 I stand above the place where thou wert laid 
 
 And smile ; 
 O, lovely art thou, Lizzy, tripping o'er the glade 
 
 The while. 
 
40 - POEMS. 
 
 I do not feel tliat thou art gone forever — 
 
 Is'ot all alone ! 
 Tbon 'rt even more to me than ever. 
 
 My Own ! 
 For we, in spirit—- In onr spirit meetings, 
 
 Clear as the past 
 We love ! And in high places, too — Greetings 
 
 Like these will last. 
 
 I came not here, dear Mend ! to this blest spot 
 
 The dead to weep ; 
 Or that I fear thou 'It ever be forgot 
 
 In thy long sleep, 
 I came to kneel and pray for strength to see 
 
 Thy lovely face, 
 Hope for-— whate'er my lot in life may be — 
 
 Thy Christian grace ! 
 
 "MAY WE NOT MEET AGAIK?'^ 
 
 "Mat we not meet again?" — High tones of feeling 
 Sacred and soft, are stealing o'er my sense. 
 
 And thy bright face its tenderness revealing 
 Smiles on me now with holy innocence. 
 
 When last we met. Oh ! in that happy hour, 
 
 A holy memory on my spirit fell — 
 A whispering voice, a deep mysterious power, 
 
 From that abode where we were wont to dwelL 
 
POEMS. 
 
 41 
 
 "We may not meet again !" not here — ^bnt yonder 1 
 In that blest Land, where soul communes with 
 soul, — 
 
 Where wide-spread beauties we willlove and ponder, 
 Till earthly grief has lost its dark control. 
 
 ""We may not meet again !" Clouds brood and thicken, 
 And sadness chains devoted spirits fast, — 
 
 ^0 joy apart, that can om- lone hearts quicken ; 
 We will be happy in the life-long past. 
 
 "We may not meet again." Zanome, why should we ? 
 
 Would not our meeting be, alas to part ? 
 The pain of parting chills Life's current in me. 
 
 And drives these yearnings back upon my heart. 
 
 STAKZAS TO 
 
 Thou 'rt gone. Farewell! Can cruel fate disarm me, 
 Of power to shape my future course through life ? 
 Has the mind aught sufficient to dechai-m me, 
 And give to pride a triumph o'er this strife — 
 Strife of the heart to still its wildest feeling, 
 And to expel its fondest, dearest di-eam ; 
 This voice of love that o'er my soul is stealing. 
 This form that shineth like a living beam ! 
 This spirit tenderness above, around me. 
 This song of gladness echoing in my heart. 
 This faith, this truth that still are beaming for thee — 
 Shall all — shall one of these dear things depart ? 
 
 2* 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 O, thou art gone ! Earth teeming with her beatities, 
 And perfumed with her thousand varied flowers ; 
 And all the voices of her pleasant duties. 
 Have lost the strength and magic of their powers ; 
 Since thou art gone, my sad soul loves to linger 
 O'er every memory of thy look and smile, 
 "While fancy points as with a fairy finger 
 To the sweet past — my lone heart to beguile, 
 I see thee thus, my soul expands to greet thee, 
 I seem transported to some better sphere ; 
 Forgetting but my happiness to meet thee — 
 Craving no blessing, but to feel thou 'rt near ! 
 
 Thou art afar ! ISTor word of thine, nor greeting 
 Tells that I 'm more to thee than others are — 
 And as with pride and love my brain is reeling, 
 I feel how weak and vain is this despair ; 
 And shrink, that I without one word of cheering 
 Unanswered, unsustained by smile of thine, 
 Possess for thee a passionate endearing, 
 And worship thee as though thou wert divine ; 
 My pride rebels, and hapless, hopeless reason, 
 Scoffs at my power to govern future years. 
 Love whispers — "to thy happiness 'tis treason!" 
 My heart replies with prayers for thee, and tears ! 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 FoEGET me not, when distance spreads her veil 
 
 Between us both, and I bewail 
 
 That we have fondly met — ■ 
 
 Forget me not I I cannot thee forget. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 43 
 
 Forget me not ! How few there are who keep 
 
 Pace with our tenderness — I weep 
 
 That we have met — to part ! 
 
 Forget me not ! I wear thee in my heart. 
 
 Forget me not ! The heart mnst speak its wo I 
 
 Forgive ! but oh forget not — no ! 
 
 The smile, the eye thine own, 
 
 Kindled a flame that burns for thee alone. 
 
 Forget me not ! and I for thee will cherish 
 That flame of love that will not perish — 
 And we may meet again, 
 Then I can tell, what now to tell were vain. 
 
 TO A LOYED OI^E. 
 
 I KNEW thee ! in the sunny morn of youth, 
 "When not a cloud had dimmed the sky of truth ! 
 There in the rosy bower of joy and mirth. 
 There in the temple of thy shining worth, 
 I knew thee ! gladness shone through every grace. 
 And smiles of kindness dimpled thy sweet face. 
 
 I knew thee ! stricken faith had wrung a tear 
 From the fond heart, whence all was light and cheer. 
 When hope was bright, and love refined as gold, 
 And friendship ne'er a flattering tale had told ; 
 I knew — nor dreamed the blight of grief and care, 
 Would leave its impress on a soul so fair. 
 
M POEMS. 
 
 I knew tliee — Ay ! I feel tliy sorrow now, 
 
 'Spite of thj pride 't is written on thy brow, 
 
 In every furrow of tliy pallid ciieek| 
 
 I read a tale of wo, thon durst not speak ; 
 
 I knew thee ! kere thy hope and faith are riven, 
 
 And thou art hastening to thy peace in heaven. 
 
 Thus treachery wounds, and falsehood darkly cloys 
 The sparkling current of earth's loftiest joys ; 
 Thus perish fairest flowers of earlier years — 
 The soul-lit brow o'er-dimmed with silent tears — 
 Thus faith receives a blight, hope a sad doom, 
 And speed their victims, heartless, to the tomb. 
 
 LAMEJSTT. 
 
 How sad is life — as lone as death : 
 
 The beautiful is fled ; 
 And one as dear as my own breath 
 
 Is numbered with the dead. 
 
 Dead ! Earth has not a single balm ; 
 
 Love could not, dare not save. 
 Dead ! though the mind soars clear and calm 
 
 My heart is in thy grave. 
 
 Thy grave ! Oh, loved and sacred spot. 
 
 Wherein thy ashes sleep ; 
 Thy grave ! Oh, better far thy lot 
 
 Than mine, to wait and weep. 
 
POEMS. 45 
 
 Dead ? lost to me ! forever gone ! 
 
 O God ! can this be so ! 
 And I not near at night or dawn, 
 
 To mitigate thy wo ! 
 
 Oh, grief and pain ! no power can chase 
 
 This anguish from my soul : 
 Dead ! What beauty could erase 
 
 This from love's shrivelled scroll ? 
 
 Father, one, it is the last, 
 
 'T is not to shield or save ; 
 But give me, if indeed 't is past. 
 
 The power to find that grave. 
 
 "THE WOELD IS SELFISH." 
 
 And is this world so wrapped in selfishness ? 
 So heartless to life's calls — its wretchedness ? 
 So dark with falsehood misery and wrong, 
 "We may not safely venture 'midst the throng. 
 
 Oh ! can it be that everj^thing is vain ? 
 
 That even Friendship has its bane ? 
 
 That its pure altar, wreathed with painted flowers, 
 
 Wins votaries but to lure the idle hours ! 
 
 That smiles of kindness — the heart's tenderness, 
 Sweet wards of fondness — tones that ever bless — 
 Are all these false, as that fond fading light 
 Which hung o'er friendship thro' her darkest night ? 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 And those I 've worshipped, like a devotee ! 
 The first in painful hours to turn from me ? 
 Yes, I have proved it, heaven only knows — 
 Proved my foes friends ! and friends my only foes 1 
 
 Life's frowns, alas ! are better than its smiles — 
 They caution, they are real — all else are wiles, 
 To lure us surely to that sad control, 
 "Which shuts hope's sunlight from the yearning soul. 
 
 "We shrink from contest ; and the world's rude strife, 
 Closing our hearts to love — or social life ! 
 Wedding the breast to sorrow's darkest call, 
 Wrapping the soul as in a funeral pall ! 
 
 Fortune, too, .plays us false, as well as friends ; 
 And what for all earth's changes makes amends ? 
 Secure a treasure and a hope above. 
 Lift up thy wounded spirit ; God is love I 
 
 HO! rOE THE WEST 
 
 Ho ! ho ! for the West ! from tame city life, 
 
 Its turmoil and din, its bustle and strife. 
 
 To build our " sweet home" of rough logs and clay, 
 
 For shelter, and keeping the wild leasts away. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! for the West ! to hew giant trees, 
 To hail her bright hills, and quaff her pure breeze ; 
 To roam her broad prairies, and till her fair lands. 
 With glowing, bold hearts, and willing, strong hands. 
 
POEMS. 47 
 
 ~:Io ! for the "West ! where the teart guides the hand, 
 iVhere mind and not wealth, forms a true social band, 
 Where the honest and brave, the good and the free 
 Are welcome, and dwell there in blest harmony. 
 
 ^lo ! for the "West ! with her rich far-spread soil, 
 Which will amply repay om^ ambition and toil. 
 And prove to the future — man moves in Ms mighty 
 The Freeman ! all nerve for Improvement and Right. 
 
 Then ho ! for the West ! there 's room for the brave, 
 There is industry's bread, there toileth no slave^ 
 Each one, as God made him, stands in his power 
 A king, whom 'neath naught but his own sin might 
 cower. 
 
 A HAPPY :N'EW YEAE 
 
 TO THEE. 
 
 Here 's health, here 's wealth and good cheer 
 
 To Thee ! 
 Long life and a Happy K"ew Year 
 
 To Thee ! 
 O cast off dull care 
 
 And never despair ? 
 Be happy as long as you 're dear 
 
 To Me! 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 For hope, joy, and peace I 'm in debt 
 
 To Thee ! 
 
 I gave all my heart, when we met 
 
 To Thee ! 
 Far off be the day 
 When thou 'It cast it away 
 
 Love's gem, in Truth's diadem set 
 
 For Thee ! 
 
 The clouds that have made life like night 
 
 To Thee. 
 
 "When all in the world should be bright 
 
 To Thee ! 
 The past and its tears, 
 
 Its misery and fears. 
 
 Forget and forgive, they 'U be light 
 
 To Thee ! 
 
 There is many a bright smile in store 
 
 For Thee ! 
 
 Brighter days — ^how I wish there were more 
 
 To Thee ! 
 "Wealth of heart and of mind. 
 Thought of self ne'er could bind, 
 
 O, I would it were mine to restore 
 
 And yet may my love be a joy 
 
 A happiness nothing can cloy 
 
 In sickness or grief, 
 Be thy help, thy relief, 
 A gold 'inine that hath no alloy 
 
 To Thee ! 
 
 To Thee ! 
 To Thee ! 
 
 To Thee ! 
 
POEMS. 4:^ 
 
 TO ONE HIGHLY ESTEEMED. 
 
 I CANNOT hope to pen a lay acceptable to thee ; 
 
 I know the depth of woman's love in loveliest poesy 
 
 Must follow thee in countless throngs, wander 
 
 where'er ye will, 
 And tones of beauty to thin ear and eye are seldom 
 
 still ; 
 I know thou 'rt cherished far and near, by fair and 
 
 noble sought. 
 That songs for thee of sweetest strain from many 
 
 isles are brought. 
 Fame, Eame has carried thee afar upon her spark- 
 ling wings. 
 And brightest wreaths for thee are twined of fair and 
 
 precious things ; 
 I know the glance of that deep eye where all thy 
 
 soul shines through, 
 Claimeth the homage of rich maids— warm hearts, 
 
 both fond and true ; 
 The smile of love upon thy lip, its magic on thy brow, 
 Many have sought, in days gone by, are yearning 
 
 for it now. 
 
 Amid this galaxy of stars^ can Friendship's taper 
 
 bum? — 
 The loftier beauty of this heart is in life's marble -^ 
 I proffer it to thee. Esteemed, not with one eai 
 
 stain. 
 But as a light that comes to us when other lights are 
 
 vain. 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 In the full tones tliat echo, when the voice of fame 
 
 is cold ; 
 "WTien love has not a luring page unblemished to 
 
 nnfold ; 
 When art and flattery are naught unto thy weary 
 
 heart. 
 And thou hast bade vain trifling joys from thy proud 
 
 soul depart : 
 Then, then I '11 tune my life-long lay, humble how- 
 
 e'er it be ; 
 "No wish, no purpose, but I ask unmeasured bliss for 
 
 thee. 
 
 THE WIFE'S EEMOJSrSTEAlSrCE. 
 
 IN'ay, smooth that ruffled brow, 't is not the generous 
 
 part, 
 Dearest ! to let such idle things distm'b thy heart : 
 Waste not, my own beloved those precious hours of 
 
 life 
 In which om^ souls commune, by bickerings and 
 
 strife. 
 
 Oh ! cast that shadow by, it ill becomes that brow, 
 Where noble thought is wont to sit, and where but 
 
 now 
 I saw thee smile, the pleasant smile I prize and love ; 
 Sent when all else of earth was dark, like !Noah's 
 
 dove. 
 
POEMB. 51 
 
 Naj, look not sad, I would not cause thee, dearest, 
 
 pain 
 For worlds : all other smiles are empty, cold, and 
 
 vain ; 
 If thou shouldst cease to smile on me, to bless, to 
 
 cheer 
 With those kind joyous words, unto my soul so dear 
 
 Ah ! be thyself, as when thy brave soul conquers all 
 
 The petty cares and fears which common minds en- 
 thrall : 
 
 Smile, smile again as thou canst smile, nor let that 
 eye ' .. 
 
 Lose its calm brightness, or my heart will die. 
 
 I could not find my way in this dark world, if thou 
 Shouldst wear that stormy cloud upon thy brow. 
 For thou art all to me in this lone life of wo — 
 Thy happiness my sunshine, wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 Come, tell me ! who has wi'onged thee ? Can it be I? 
 What has distm'bed thy peace, or caused thy heart 
 
 a sigh. 
 I 'd pom* my soul out in this gush of bitter tears. 
 Bather than dark a moment of thy vemant years. 
 
 YES, I WILL THI:NK OF THEE. 
 
 Yes, I will think of thee ! when all around is bright, 
 When faith is fair as is the day — at night 
 When dreams are on me stealing, 
 I '11 think of thee, with very happy feeling. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 I '11 think of thee ! when all the world is beaming, 
 When friends are near — and hearts are teeming 
 
 "With hope and pure delight ; 
 I '11 think of thee, at morning, noon, and night. 
 
 I '11 think of thee ! when the red wine is flowing, 
 And happ J lips and ejes are glowing 
 
 Of those my heart holds dear, 
 I '11 think of thee, and wish thou, too, wert here. 
 
 I '11 think of thee ! when fancy wreaths are twining 
 Fadeless and fair, — the heart inclining 
 
 To love, and pride, and duty — 
 I '11 think of thee, whene'er I gaze on beauty. 
 
 I '11 think of thee ! in quiet, happy hours, 
 
 In summer time, when earth is decked with 
 flowers, 
 
 'Mid winter's fireside glee, 
 I '11 gladly, kindly, fondly think of thee. 
 
 I'll think of thee ! perhaps, when grief is crushing 
 My spirit — and on air rushing 
 
 Tones like the funeral bell, 
 Of all I 've loyed and love so well. 
 
 Yes, I will think of thee ! in joy and sadness, 
 Memory to me is heartfelt gladness, 
 
 A living fount for thee! 
 O, dare I hope that thou wilt think of me ! 
 
POEMS. 53 
 
 I LOYE THEEI 
 
 ]N"oT tliat the sweetness of thy dewy kiss 
 Fills my fond bosom with ecstatic bliss, 
 Nor thy bright smile, that wakes within my soul 
 The joy I cannot, would not now control ; 
 
 ISTot that because my head has oft been pressed 
 Upon thy proud and manful throbbing breast ; 
 'Nov that I feel I live warm in thy heart, 
 Loved by thy soul, and of that soul a part ; 
 
 I love — ^because I honor thee as one, 
 "Who, true to nature, art her proudest son ! 
 The whilst he bears a lofty, conscious part. 
 Feels the blood gushing through his loving heart. 
 
 Who carries in his bosom's native bower 
 His sunshine — olive branch — and power 
 To stem the current, brave the surging tide, 
 And turn the darkest of life's wo aside. 
 
 I love — because thy tongue the truth defends, 
 And on thy mind thy course of life depends. 
 Because thou art the master of thyself! 
 And honorest worth, and not man for his pelf. 
 
 I love thee, ay ! with all the clinging trust 
 That worships — not the idol of the dust. 
 But intellect ! and honest, manly pride ! 
 The strength that makes thee woman's friend and 
 guide. 
 
64: POEMS. 
 
 WEALTH IS NOT HAPPII^ESS, 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, do not ask again, dearest ! . 
 
 The wealth, which gold can make, 
 !N"or let one earnest sigh escape 
 
 Thy broad breast for its sake. 
 
 n. 
 
 Ah ! never let a painful thonght 
 
 Flit o'er that manly brow, 
 For all the gold of Croesus^ 
 
 Though held up to thee now. 
 
 in. 
 
 For what is money to the mind , 
 And soul surcharged with care ? 
 
 And what the trappings it can buy. 
 If Discontent be there ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 You say it is for me, your own, 
 Who loves you, that you crave 
 
 "Wealth, but for our own happiness 
 The darkest lot you 'd brave. 
 
 V. 
 
 Provide for me a roof, a board. 
 With wooden dish and spoon ; 
 
 A couch of rushes, roughly wrought. 
 And one rush-lighted room. 
 
POEMS. 55 
 
 VI. 
 
 Cover me witli a common garb, 
 
 Bring me the coarsest fare ! 
 More I '11 not crave, if thou art strong. 
 
 If thou thyself art there. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Happy and joyous, fond and free, 
 
 Firm in thy self-control — 
 We 'd have our " feasts of reason," Love I 
 
 Our " jiowings of the soul 1 " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "We would possess our tenderness 1 
 
 Our gem of wedded love ! 
 Our bond of friendship writ and. sealed 
 
 By God's own hand above I 
 
 IX. 
 
 We would possess mind's storehouses — 
 
 Nature can furnish books ! 
 Lessons are in her rocks and trees — 
 
 Tongues in her babbling brooks. 
 
 X. 
 
 Home, light and love, and joy are ours, 
 
 And beauty everywhere ! 
 Toil waits on wealth : — ^We could not ask 
 
 A life-time free from care. 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then sigli for wealth, labor for wealth, 
 That doth enrich the mind ; 
 
 And I will share thy efforts, till 
 The magic stone we find. 
 
 WHY SHOULD I FEAE? 
 
 Why should I fear that pain at last 
 
 Forbids my heart to smile, 
 To rain its hoarded agony 
 
 From burning lids the while ? 
 Life's latter years, as well as youth's, 
 
 Have been a wretched dream, 
 "With scarce an arm to lean upon, • 
 
 A faithful breast to screen. 
 
 Why should I wildly quiver thus ? • 
 
 The ordeal now is past — 
 I still can hug the phantom-life ! 
 
 And bear on to the last ; 
 My hopes of bliss are withered — 
 
 My cherished joys depart — 
 And do I think that iron bands 
 
 Are fastening on my heart ? 
 
 "Why should I tremble ? fate has not 
 
 Another doom more sad, 
 Than this last sense of wretchedness — 
 
 Unless it drive me mad ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 57 
 
 Aje ! this it is, I feel its wo 
 
 Searing my heart and brain, 
 The gloom of Faith, Truth, Love, betrayed — ■ 
 
 Upon my sonl has lain. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 The eve was still and calm ; so bright, so pure, 
 That Genii of heaven, whose wings of light 
 Had borne them down to earth, would hardly dream 
 They had passed o'er the line whose circle bounds 
 Their home — Celestial Paradise. Man's heart, 
 Though steeped in deep depravity, would fear 
 To think of aught but good. O, evil thoughts 
 "Would vanish 'neath that eve's calm influence 
 As the white wreath that, with sad playfulness, 
 Old Winter flings upon the trembling trees. 
 Dissolves beneath the genial sun of Spring. 
 The very breeze had died, and tiny brooks 
 Danced with a silvery music 'mong the flowers 
 That kissed the dimpling wavelets as they passed ; 
 While through the air a holy influence 
 Distilled like dew ; and music — like the song 
 That ushered in with sweetest melody 
 Creation's cloudless morn — like the perfume 
 That revels free in Cashmere's sunny vale — 
 Stole soothingly upon the tranced soul. 
 From other worlds. 
 
 3 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 In one short hour like this 
 How much the longing soul may learn of happiness 
 How deeply may it drink of that pure stream 
 That freely flows forth from the spotless throne 
 Of Him who is The Life. How deej)ly, too, 
 May grief engulf the bleeding heart, 
 Though peace and deep, pure joy pervade the world, 
 Like a child's dream of bliss and innocence. 
 
 The beautiful but 'minds sad memory 
 Of loveliness departed ; and the sounds 
 That charm each sense bring to the aching soul 
 The voices of the loved and lost, whose forms 
 Have fled our sight forever. Eemembrance, 
 Pale and in tears, clothes the bright present hour 
 In sorrow's garb, and gazes sadly back. 
 With vision dimmed by grief, into the soft. 
 Sad, lingering twilight of the hallowed past. 
 
 O would the bursting heart but bid the eye 
 Turn from the west — dim with the shades of night — 
 From the dark past " that comes not back again," 
 To the bright orient, where rise, like holy stars, 
 I^ew hopes, in cloudless brightness lighting up 
 The vista of the future ; then how changed 
 "Would life in all its phases seem. Sorrow 
 Yf ould smile through tears ; grief's untold agony 
 Merge into chastened sadness, and the soul, 
 Free from the turbulence of passion's storm, 
 Float calmly on life's sea, until at last, 
 
POEMS. 59 
 
 With canvas furled, its golden anchor dropped 
 Within the veil of Heaven. * ^ -J^- * * ^ 
 
 The strife had ceased. Life's slender silver cord 
 
 Was tenderly unloosed, and her pure spirit, 
 
 Leaving its lovely tenement of clay, 
 
 Sought, like a weary bird, its tenement above, 
 
 And nestled in the bosom of its God. 
 
 But ere its wings were plumed for that bright world 
 
 Where all is purity and bliss, it stamped 
 
 Upon each marble feature the impress 
 
 Of its heavenly loveliness. 
 
 A friend. 
 One of the dearest of her sunny hours. 
 Had robed her in the habiliments of death. 
 And in her rich brown ringlets twined the buds 
 Of the sweet flowers which she had loved in life. 
 O, they were pure, sweet emblems of the flower 
 Just budding into perfect loveliness, 
 And charming with its beauty all who gazed. 
 Which the cold hand of death had plucked away ; 
 But not, like them, to wither in the grave. 
 Earth's chilling winds, her guardian angel saw, 
 Were all too cold for the exotic flower 
 Which God, a precious charge, had given him ; 
 And with a tender hand, he bore above 
 The pure white bud which he had watched so long. 
 To bloom in the bright atmosphere of Heaven. 
 
60 POEMS. 
 
 By the pale form — so beautiful in death, 
 Of her whose life had been a short, sweet dream 
 Of angel bliss, one lonely watcher stood. 
 Sorrow seemed speaking from each lineament 
 Of his sad countenance, but in his eye 
 ISTo tear-drop trembled, for his bleeding heart 
 Was far too deeply torn to be relieved 
 By tears. Long, long he stood, as if a power — 
 Some strange wild spell — ^had chained him to the 
 
 spot ; 
 But as he gazed, the overflowing tide 
 So long pent in his heart, burst forth in words. 
 And thus in burning language from his lips, 
 This invocation to his loved one fell : — 
 
 Pale loveliness, combined with grace, 
 How can I gaze upon that face ? 
 Those silent lips I oft have pressed, 
 "Which once for me fond love expressed. 
 Dearest ! loved one ! can it be 
 That thou e'en now forgettest me ? 
 
 ISTightly in dreams I roam with thee. 
 Vision of light ! thy form I see 
 Beaming in beauty good and fair ; 
 Deserts might bloom if thou wert there. 
 And when I ask of thy sweet heart. 
 It whispers " Thou shalt ne'er depart." 
 
 So silent, loved one ? silent yet ? 
 Tell me if thou our vows forget ? 
 
POEMS. 61 
 
 So cold thy heart, so still thy gaze, 
 Canst thou forget those happy days 
 "When thou wast all the world to me, 
 And I was dear as life to thee ? 
 
 Say, loved remembrance, thou whose light, 
 Is with me through the darksome night ! 
 Speak marble smile, whose voiceless cheer, 
 Utters the spell that binds me here ! 
 The vision, and the marble brow, 
 Oh ! are these all that 's left me now ? 
 
 Oh ! that I might thy sleep dispel. 
 And with the artist's wondrous spell 
 Clothe the pale lip in life's warm hue ; 
 The eye in love's own language true ; 
 Answer, O loved one ! this fond prayer, 
 And cheer thy lover in despair. 
 
 Aye ! now I see those liquid eyes, 
 
 Eivaling the past bright summer skies, 
 
 The nectar of that ruddy lip, 
 
 I dare not, sweet one, fondly sip. 
 
 Ah ! no, that pale, sweet, changeless gaze, 
 
 Eeilects the light of other days. 
 
 He ceased, and while the last low note of woe 
 Was dying on the ear, a distant sound 
 Came like the first soft beaming of a star 
 Upon the tranced sense — nearer it came. 
 And soon a pearly cloudlet, like the down 
 That flutters from an angel's wing, floated 
 
62 POEMS. 
 
 Towards earth. A moment more and in the room 
 
 "Where the lone lover watched, a spirit form, 
 
 Clothed in the spotless garb that angels wear, 
 
 And radiant with the fragrant light of heaven, 
 
 Stood silent. The same pure loveliness 
 
 Which that still, senseless form once wore in life. 
 
 Beamed still more sweetly from the countenance 
 
 Of the celestial visitant. The lips 
 
 "Wore the same bright, sweet smile, the deep blue eye 
 
 Shone with the same soft lustre, and the thought 
 
 Thrilled through that watcher's swelling heart. 
 
 It is — it is the s]?irit of my love I 
 
 ^olian fingers o'er her golden harp 
 
 A soft sweet prelude played, and to her love 
 
 In thrilling accents that bright spirit sang. 
 
 I have come from my bright, bright home on high, 
 
 To solace thy heart, my love, 
 To chase from thy agonized bosom the sigh, 
 
 And heal sorrow's wound, my love I 
 
 I have heard the plaint of thy bleeding heart, 
 I know, love, the depth of its anguish ; 
 
 When hearts that have loved like ours shall part, 
 The spirit bereaved will languish. 
 
 The dewdrop may grieve for its sister pearl. 
 
 Evanished at mom away. 
 And for its return to the changing world, 
 
 In sorrowing anguish pray. 
 
POEMS. 63 
 
 But at tlie approacli of a sumbeam, soon 
 
 From its petaled couch 't is riven ; 
 And the loving and loved, in a cloud at noon, 
 
 Both float in the azure heaven. 
 
 Then cease, cease to grieve, that far from thy sight 
 Thy idol was called to depart, love ! 
 
 When from the bleak world tliou shalt take thy flight, 
 "We '11 meet never more to part, love ! 
 
 Farewell ! my sisters are calling me home, 
 "Where sorrow ne'er enters, nor pain ; 
 
 When loving and loved o'er the bright fields roam. 
 Remember we meet, love, again. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 Where sorrow like thine seeks in vain, 
 Eemember we meet, love, again. 
 
 Fare-well. 
 
 LIISTES TO A GENTLEMAJSr. 
 
 Yes, I have met thee oft, 
 I know too, who thou art ; 
 I 've felt my heart expand, 
 I 've felt the tear-drops start. 
 And yet I cannot tell 
 Whether 't is joy, or pain, 
 With which I muse on thee, 
 And hope to meet again. 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 I 've been so near tliee, too, 
 I 've almost touched tliy side ; 
 I 'ye canglit thy qniet glance 
 And turned, its power to hide ; 
 Emotions strong, and deep, 
 Are kindling in my soul 
 Hopes, that are wild and vain, 
 O'er which I 've no control. 
 
 I dream of thee by night, 
 And not a day hath past 
 But to my mind thou art 
 In guise, I saw thee last ; 
 I 'm not unknown to thee. 
 Thy slight, though kindly bow, 
 "Will be a pleasure long. 
 Thrilling, and dear as now. 
 
 Oh ! do not think me bold, 
 Unwomanly, or vain — 
 I thought thee one I knew ! 
 And when we met again, 
 I would have given worlds 
 (O'er worlds, if I had power,) 
 Could I have told thee all^ 
 And forgiveness been my dower. 
 
 But we may never meet 
 As friends — nor if we by chance 
 Be where I could explain 
 The folly of that glance / 
 
POEMS. 
 
 65 
 
 O, sure thou will not tliink 
 It boldness on my part — 
 To have you deem me mean 
 "Would almost break my heart. 
 
 A GLIMPSE OE LIFE. 
 
 Iisr youth ! Life's rosy-footed hours, 
 
 Glides o'er earth's garden filled with flowers, 
 
 "With sunshine and with bliss, 
 Kose-tinted veils soften each view — 
 Her smile seems fond, her charm seems true. 
 
 Sweet as a maid's first kiss. 
 
 "We love ! and though Love wears a wing, 
 "We dream not of its flight, nor sting 
 
 ^ Concealed in every dart. 
 
 Then by love's side, in its own bower, 
 W^e learn that love has wondrous power 
 
 To woo, and win the heart. 
 
 We doat upon Love's beaming eye — 
 And feel its birth-place is the sky ! 
 
 Its robe, the sun's own light ! 
 But passion's arid, burning noon. 
 Comes pouring o'er us all too soon 
 
 To wither and to blight. 
 
 Then Time's rude form with care steals by. 
 But we forget that love will fly 
 
 To joy-tinge summer clouds ! 
 3* 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 And thoiigli our souls pursue its track, 
 TVe cannot win tlie coj one back 
 
 "Where winter weaves its sliroud. 
 
 A doom is presaged on the heart, 
 And ghosts of Sorrow, life-like, start. 
 
 Our peace of mind to clo j, 
 A sense of woe in hours of mirth 
 Creeps o'er us, and life's shades give birth 
 To fear, o'erwhelming joj. 
 
 THE FAEEWELL. 
 
 " Look not mournfully into the past — it comes not back again. Go 
 forward to meet tlie shadowy fixture without fear and. with unfaltering 
 heart.-' 
 
 Leave me ! jes, Leon leave me ; since 't is thy wish 
 
 to go. 
 And may all skies beam brightly on thy pleasant 
 
 paths below ; 
 0, mayst thou be happy as the flowers seem in 
 
 May, 
 It is my fondest wish, to know, that thou art glad 
 
 and gay. 
 
 Yes, go where fancy leads — though 't is hard ! 't is 
 
 hard to part 
 With the face that is like sunshine beaming warmly 
 
 on my heart ; 
 
POEMS. 67 
 
 Witli the voice that is so cheerj, and the hand that 
 
 is so kind. 
 The interchange of feeling, the communion of the 
 
 mind. 
 
 Dear Leon, though we love thee, there are better 
 
 days in store. 
 And hearts will hail thj coming and on thee their 
 
 fondness pour, 
 Minds of richer, deeper treasure, forms of brighter, 
 
 fairer mould. 
 Fame's wreath awaits thy pleasure, and for thy 
 
 labor — Gold. 
 
 Then go ! and Heaven bless thee, and bring thee rosy 
 
 health. 
 Fill to the brim thy coffers with a never-ending 
 
 wealth ; 
 'T is better for the generous heart, though sad and 
 
 desolate. 
 To feel, its highest, best beloved, enjoys a happier 
 
 fate. 
 
 POETIC LETTER TO THE ABSEJSTT LOYER. 
 
 Deae Fred I cannot fix my mind, 
 On anything of human kind 
 Beside yourself. I try to read. 
 The pages swim, and there indeed 
 
63 POEMS. 
 
 Your image stands with beaming smile, 
 
 Eefore my lone heart all the while ! 
 
 To other friends I try to write, 
 
 The sheets are spoiled, and I indite 
 
 To thee ! and should from morn 'till night, 
 
 I try to work, but cannot see — 
 
 My eyes are blind with tears for thee I 
 
 And then I kneel and for thee pray, 
 
 Eut still — Beloved ! thou art away ^ 
 
 I walk the streets, but in the masSy 
 
 I see no kindly faces pass — 
 
 Like thine — ^like thee ? how can I rest 
 
 "With all this yearning in my breast ? 
 
 This weight of absence from thee dear ! ' 
 
 Make light — the world seems dark and drear ; 
 
 And when the weary day is o'er 
 
 I cannot sleep— and miss thee more ! 
 
 Come back ! Come back ^! .Storm, night, and gloom, 
 
 To live from thee, would be my doom ! 
 
 * -Sf -Sf 4f -# -Jf 
 
 Thus far was writ, and in my lap 
 
 My head was bent— when, lo ! a rap— 
 
 And then I heard the postman's voice. 
 
 My heart throbbed loud ! — My eyes rejoice—- 
 
 A letter ! yes, a word from Fred, 
 
 "Would wake me if my heart were dead. 
 
 I read ! and then on bended knee, 
 
 I thanked God for the kind decree — 
 
 Oh sliaU we meet to part no more f 
 
POEMS. 69 
 
 And tears of happiness did pour 
 
 Like rain upon the precious sheet, 
 
 Which "whispered — " Dearest we will meet 
 
 Soon ! very soon no more to part !" 
 
 "Wild jo J is gushing at my heart, 
 
 I cannot write, but I will pray 
 
 For thee ! for thee both night and day — » 
 
 Oh ! may I, love, deserve your care 
 
 As you claim mine — ^with heartfelt prayer ! 
 
 THE .MIE"IATURE. 
 
 Through the mists of the past, 
 
 I gaze on those hours 
 So rife with affection. 
 
 So bright with hope's flowers t 
 One fond recollection. 
 
 That ne'er shall depart, 
 Awakens the long silent 
 
 Sound of my heart I 
 
 That kind face, O once 
 
 I could cherish its themd 
 And list to thine accents. 
 
 Still dear in each dream^ 
 I could smile in your eyes 
 
 As you kissed off my tears, 
 And rest on thy bosom 
 
 To hush all life's fears. 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 oil ! then I was blest ; 
 
 Sweet streams of delight. 
 Gushed over my spirit 
 
 Each day and each night ; 
 Eo sickness had power 
 
 Nor sorrow to harm, 
 My heart had its home. 
 
 And my home every charm. 
 
 How I wept when I. saw thee 
 To new lands depart, 
 
 And frantically clasped 
 This gift to my heart. 
 
 Oh ! wild with alarm 
 I awaited the day. 
 
 That shonld bear thee forever 
 My loved one away. 
 
 It has come ! it has come ! 
 
 And to Heaven thou 'rt gone- 
 Dost know how I love thee, 
 
 For thee sadly mourn ? 
 Like a fledgling alone 
 
 "Without feather or mate. 
 In a snow-covered nest 
 
 I am left desolate. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 I cast thee away ? Not I ! oh no, never ! 
 
 Thou, a worm of the dust ? Then who, pray, is not? 
 
POEMS. 71 
 
 I '11 not cast thee away, I will cherish thee ever, 
 And ne'er from my memory thy semblance will 
 blot. 
 
 I am happy ! I know, e'en when sadness is on thee ; 
 
 I am joyous, because in thy gloom I 'd be bright, 
 And Oh ! when the sun of thy presence is o'er me, 
 
 How could I have less than a heart warm and 
 light. 
 
 I cannot forget ! I will not forsake thee ! 
 
 Thou art more to me, far, than I 'm willing to own. 
 But come when all other attractions shall fail thee — 
 
 Be sure of a welcome — I wander alone ! 
 
 TO MAEY DE LESZES YISTSKI 
 
 I. 
 
 I WILL not say thine eyes are bright, 
 As stars that gem the sky ; 
 
 I will not tell thee that their light 
 Is its cerulean dye ; 
 
 n. 
 
 ITor that thy brow is lily-white. 
 Thy cheek the pale blush-rose ; 
 
 That o'er thy face a radiance plays, 
 An angel-like repose. 
 
72 P O E M s » 
 
 in. 
 
 I will not praise thy rosj lipSj 
 Thy voice whose magic swell 
 
 And cadenced sweetness 'verberates. 
 Like some clear silver bell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I will not call thine auburn hair 
 Like shredded golden waves, 
 
 Sparkling beneath the sun's warm power, 
 When the broad sea it laves. 
 
 V. 
 
 For, lady, you might blush to own 
 One friend, and deem it art, 
 
 Or flattery — my praise, not truth, 
 Pure welling from the heart. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Eut let me tell thee how thy smile, 
 
 And gentle tones of peace, 
 Have won a misanthropic heart, 
 
 And brought a soul release. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Let me exult that I have found 
 ITature, and heart, and mind, 
 
 With woman's gentleness and worth, 
 And grace and power combined. 
 
POEMS. 73 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And let me call thee — Lovely friend ? 
 
 I had a friend like thee — 
 She fell asleep — she passed away — 
 
 To immortality. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Her name was Mary, and her smile 
 
 I see again in thee ; 
 O, may I find the faithful friend, 
 
 That loved one was to me. 
 
 X. 
 
 I never saw a face like hers, 
 
 A dignity so bland ; 
 A step so graceful and so free, 
 
 In this, or any land. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I never met a heart so true, 
 
 A spirit so refined, 
 So self-reliant, yet so fond 
 
 And socially inclined. 
 
 xn. 
 
 I never listened to the tones - 
 
 That fell so softly sweet. 
 From lips where truth and purity 
 
 "Were ever wont to meet. 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Until I met thee — ^ladj dear — 
 
 Forgive, if this seems bold ; 
 My soul is tenderness to thee, 
 
 And words are weak and cold. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I 'd have thee lift my mind to thine 
 
 As its harmonious part, 
 I 'd have thee feel the quenchless flame. 
 
 That burns where heart meets heart. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh ! I will joy to know again 
 
 Another female friend ; 
 On whom, mid sorrow or in peace, 
 
 "We always can depend. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 As toiling on through earth's strange path, 
 
 Its oasis we find — 
 A kindred love, a sympathy, 
 
 A glowing heart and mind. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And so, good night ! may Heaven fold. 
 Its soft wings o'er thy breast ; 
 
 And shelter thee, amidst life's cares. 
 As now he does thy rest. 
 
POEMS. 75 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 oil ! may He bless thee with " that peace" — 
 
 As never ending joj ; 
 A love to love the beautiful , 
 
 'No worldly power may cloy. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Oh ! may he gnard, and shield, and save 
 
 From danger or from harm ! 
 We'll lean — all trustingly through life, 
 
 Upon God's strong right arm. 
 
 1 o'clock, a. M. 
 
 LOYE'S WAJS^DEKIitTaS. 
 
 When Love was but a tiny boy, 
 
 And nestled in my breast. 
 The very air was rife with joy, 
 
 The world to me was blest. 
 
 Each pathway teemed with life and light, 
 Beau.ty was where I strayed ; 
 
 A holy charm stole o'er the night. 
 With moon and stars arrayed. 
 
 I bounded o'er the sunny hills — 
 
 Tripped gaily through each valley — 
 
 Counted the ripples of the rills — 
 Would with all nature dally. 
 
76 POEMS. 
 
 Joy filled earth's caverns with her song, 
 Hope's music, too, was there ; 
 
 And Love would every strain prolong 
 O'er earth, and sea, and air ! 
 
 Love-light was resting on each cloud, 
 Its tints made all things fair, 
 
 Though many summers wove their shroud, 
 Summer was everywhere. 
 
 % ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 But one day, in a silly mood, 
 
 I quarreled with the lad ; 
 'No more his wing my heart would brood, 
 
 And it grew cold and sad. 
 
 I sought the bright things wont to charm, 
 "With pride in fond love's place ; 
 
 But storm, and contest, and alarm. 
 Distorted nature's face. 
 
 And "Winter came, and Summer fled ; 
 
 Bose-trees displayed their thorns. 
 And hope was sad, and joy nigh dead, 
 
 The heart's night had few dawns. 
 
 And then I wandered o'er life's sea, 
 With clouds and storm above ; 
 
 Some kindly faces beam'd on me 
 But I avoided love. 
 
 And year by year I shunned his way. 
 Deeming him a sad thief; 
 
POEMS. ^^ 
 
 For he had stol'n life's charm away 
 And would not bring relief. 
 
 * 4f -X- 4f 4f -5«- 
 
 And when, at last, I thought him lost, 
 
 And life was dark and lone ; 
 There came to me a proud, stern man, 
 
 One who had sorrow known ! 
 
 Gently I gazed in that wild eye 
 
 Parted that soft dark hair 
 His heart gave up a lengthened sigh 
 
 Mine answered with a prayer. 
 
 A prayer for love ! and nature smiled 
 
 Upon our chastened life. 
 And joy was welling deep, though mild. 
 
 When I became his "Wife. 
 
 And then I wove about our dome 
 
 The evergreen of love ! 
 Placed on the alter of our home 
 
 The Olive-lranch and Dove. 
 
 LIISTES 
 
 INSCRIBED TO DR. A. DE L . 
 
 Tnou say'st I 'm proud. It may be that I am. 
 
 What of? not beauty, I have no such balm 
 
 For wounded vanity, nor have I wealth, 
 
 JN'or fame— though I have strength and rosy health. 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 I proud ? I own no far possessions now, 
 'No title — ^nor a country ; Poland ! thou 
 Home of my fathers — ^place that gave me birth — 
 Proud ? I 'm an exile from my home and hearth. 
 
 But I am proud ! A man whose brave Sire 
 Fell in defence of home — and by the ire 
 Of savage foes ! the shaft of murd'rous war 
 Pierced him and Poland to the inmost core. 
 
 And yet I 'm proud ! for in this. breast of steel, 
 I bear a heart true to my country's weal ; 
 And a strong arm that yet may strike a blow 
 To free that land, and lay oppression low. 
 
 Aye, proud ! For now I tread on freedom's ground, 
 Land of adoption — Poland's sons have found 
 A home ! and for her exiles trust and peace, 
 And brave men's sympathy for her release. 
 
 You should be proud, Lastinsh% for you feel 
 The sympathies of manhood, and you deal 
 Justly ; a man whose learning doth appease 
 The pains of flesh — a master of disease. 
 
 Thou hast a mind with science well imbued — 
 Talent and genius — a similitude 
 Unto Hippocrates — that good and learned sage 
 Whose knowledge and success outstripped his age. 
 
POEMS. Y9 
 
 MORNIISrG HAPPINESS. 
 
 As light broke o'er my slumber, 
 
 With the rosy tints of day, 
 And dreams which sleep encnmber^ 
 
 Flitted mournfully away. 
 And o'er my pillow rested, 
 
 A bright and holy charm — 
 A breath with love invested, 
 
 Bathed lip and brow with balm, 
 
 A presence so resplendent, 
 
 Attuned my heart to joy, 
 Hope's star in the ascendant ! 
 
 What sorrow now can cloy ? 
 Though I dreamed you could not love me. 
 
 Though I feared I might not bless, 
 One so proud and so above me, 
 
 Yet I own thy fond caress. 
 
 And I know what thou hast spoken, 
 
 And writ so true and clear. 
 Will for aye remain unbroken 
 
 And unshaken by a fear. 
 And I bless thee for the story. 
 
 Of thy caution and thy pride, 
 Thy sternness is my glory, 
 
 I will be thy blest bride. 
 
80 POEMS. 
 
 SOE^G THE SEYEl^TII. 
 
 I cannot sing to niglit, dear friends, 
 
 My heart is far away, 
 'T is dreaming of my liappy home. 
 
 In childhood's cloudless day. 
 'T is wandering through the vales and meads, 
 
 And o'er my native hills, 
 I cannot sing to night, dear friends. 
 
 My soul to memory thrills. 
 
 Methinks I hear my father's voice, 
 
 I see my mother's smile. 
 And thronging at the magic spell. 
 
 Bright other hopes beguile. 
 The faces of my sportive friends 
 
 Are beaming on my sight. 
 Their tones are music in my ears, 
 
 I cannot sing to liight. 
 
 I cannot sing to night, dear friends, 
 
 While visions such as these. 
 Come crowding to the stranger's breast, 
 
 Nor dare I ho]3e to please. 
 But gratitude will long enshrine 
 
 Your welcome and your praise. 
 And yet I cannot sing, unless 
 
 I sing my childhood's lays. 
 
POEMS. 81 
 
 TO MY HUSBAIsTD. 
 
 I DWELL upon thy dewy lip, 
 Its humid sweetness all I 'd sip : 
 !N"or like the bee, sip for an hour, 
 Then fly to kiss some other flower. 
 
 I gaze into thy clear blue eye, 
 Nor do I wonder, dearest ! why 
 I love thee, with a love so deep 
 And thrilling that I cannot sleep. 
 
 I lie my head close to thy heart, 
 And feel the glowing life-blood start 
 Through every vein — and thy soft kiss 
 Is happiness — aye ! more than bliss. 
 
 You pat my cheek with gentle palm. 
 And even this exuberant balm 
 I 'd not exchange for wealth or power, 
 Love ! thy love is life's best dower. 
 
 I pass my fingers through thy hair. 
 And breathe for thee a heartfelt prayer ! 
 And rapture with endearment fraught, 
 Supplies each wish, and each dear thought. 
 
 And thus existence glides along. 
 Melting in fondness and in song ; 
 Forgetful of all — all save thee ! 
 And the strong love-chain binding me. 
 
 4: 
 
82 POEMS 
 
 LIE"ES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A GIRL TWELVE YEARS OLD, 
 FEBRUARY, 1851. 
 
 Maeiak ! my heart is well inclined. 
 
 To dedicate this book to thee, 
 Although the task to me assigned. 
 
 Is more than my ability. 
 
 More learned pens, far better minds 
 Rich stores of thought will here indite ; 
 
 And fruits and flowers of various kinds, 
 Will seem to bloom, to hail thy sight. 
 
 What, then, shall I attempt to form. 
 And scatter o'er thy path of life ? 
 
 I 'd build a light-house for the storm, 
 A life-boat for its wildest strife. 
 
 l^ow thou art blest, for o'er thy way 
 A mother flings her sheltering care ; 
 
 A father smiles — and all is gay. 
 Truthful — and bright — and passing fair. 
 
 Far be it, then, from mine, to show 
 A spot upon the sun of time / 
 
 May all of earth, sparkle and glow. 
 Be real, lovely, and sublime. 
 
 But I will breathe for thee a prayer — 
 Oh ! God, through life forsake her not, 
 
POEMS- 83 
 
 Thine is the one abiding ca/re^ 
 Let not one stain her pure soul blot. 
 
 Guide her young heart in time of need, 
 Alway — whate'er her lot may be, 
 
 Then will her hold be strong indeed, 
 For all h&c faith will rest on Thee. 
 
 STAISTZAS TO 
 
 " Faeewell ?" ah, yes ! All happiness is fleeting, 
 And I am schooled to part, and shed no tear ; 
 
 But O, I feel my proud heart wildly beating. 
 For none were ever held so deeply dear ! 
 
 " Farewell !" yes ! yes ! ah, now I read the story. 
 Of slight and coldness, thou hast long concealed. 
 
 Oh ! where is now the love, the truth, whose glory, 
 In darkest hours, high happiness revealed. 
 
 Like a dark-bird's, that farewell tone of sadness, 
 Falls on my spirit — with a solemn knell 
 
 It buries love and pride, and peace and gladness — 
 And where is hope ? when thou hast said Farewell ! 
 
 And is it so ? This parting causeth sorrow. 
 That cannot lie, like a light summer cloud ; 
 
 It must grow darker, heavier, than the morrow, 
 And wrap my soul as in a funeral shroud. 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 It must be ! And althoiigli my faitli is riven, 
 All gone — so bright ! so beautiful, witb thee ; 
 
 I cannot say ^^ Farewell P"^ thon art forgiven — - 
 "While life is mine, I shall remember thee 1 
 
 TO MY HUSBAND, 
 
 I LOVE thee ! and I know not why 
 These tears for thee are shed ; 
 
 To claim thee ! Nay, I would not try — 
 My blessed, blessed Fred. 
 
 For when my heart is peaceful, dear ! 
 
 'T is then I think of thee ! 
 And when I feel thy presence near, 
 
 I could not happier be. 
 
 I could not have thee all mine own — 
 (My charms to bind have fled :) 
 
 And thou would'st be the world alone 1 
 My blessed, blessed Fred ! 
 
 And I am independent, Fred, 
 
 E'en of the sunniest smile ; 
 For I, by love and fancy fed, 
 
 Am near thee all the while, 
 
 I ask not if ye think of me, 
 Others may claim your care — 
 
POEMS. 85 
 
 I dream of — think of — worship thee, 
 Thou spirit of mj prayer. 
 
 I wear thee in my Tieart of hearts I 
 
 I feel thy lip's caress ; 
 My love has not the barbed darts 
 
 Of passion's wild excess. 
 
 'T is deep and calm — 't is soul ! 't is mind I 
 
 That by thy power is led ; 
 With Heaven and earth and light combined, 
 
 I love thee, dearest Fred ! 
 
8T 
 
 THE DEPAETUEE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ONE OF THE CAXTONS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was February, 18 — , at about twelve o'clock me- 
 ridian, the heavy rain-drops were dashing the side- 
 walks and mingling rapidly together were rushing 
 helter-skelter down the kennels, and covering the 
 whole street like molten streams ; rain, rain, nothing 
 but rain ; the wind was scattering it in every direc- 
 tion, the iron railings were tossing it oif in fountains 
 of spray, the house-tops were reeking in sullen wrath 
 at its pelting fury, the awnings were slatting at loose 
 ends, or rent in sunder were flying about, and whirl- 
 ing in the flooded atmosphere, as though the order 
 of the elements had been left to the control of some 
 fury, some mad spirit whose delight was in the 
 whirlwind and storm. 
 
 The streets were deserted, save by the poor horses, 
 smoking and panting before the heavy stages, loaded 
 down with passengers, huddled together like prison- 
 ers, from whom the light and air of heaven had been 
 excluded, and the drivers cursing and cracking their 
 whips, added to the exciting scene of Broadway in a 
 heavy rain-storm. 
 
 The shopkeepers and clerks of the yard-stick were 
 peering from every window and door pane that lined 
 the thoroughfare ; some were twisting their mustaches 
 or stroking their smoothly combed heads, others were 
 pulling Up their starched shirt collars with a nervous 
 twitching as though the idea of getting wet reminded 
 them of their washerwoman's bills; while others 
 
88 TALES. 
 
 wore the woe-begone expressions of " no sales to- 
 day," " heigho ! this business won't pay the gas- 
 Jight!" 
 
 One human being only seemed not to heed the 
 discord of the elements, or to be affected by them in 
 any particular, he walked on as quietly and stepped as 
 firmly as though the sunshine was over him, and the 
 cool breeze of Summer fanned his fevered cheek. 
 On, on he went from square to square until he had 
 reached the upper part of the city. "Why did he 
 not ride : once or twice he hailed an omnibus, but 
 glancing with a pitying eye toward the jaded, strug- 
 gling horses, (and I suppose thinking of the atmo- 
 sphere inside) passed on ! 
 
 He was tall and graceful in his bearing, and al- 
 though he seemed to be somewhat attenuated by sick- 
 ness or suffering — looked like a man ; he wore a blue 
 military cloak whose ample folds were wrapped 
 carefully around him ; a large scarf was folded round 
 his neck completely covering his mouth ,and part of 
 his fine acquiline nose, his hat was slouched over his 
 eyes, large and blue, with heavy long lashes, which 
 gave them a gentle expression though they were 
 flashing with the fire of a fearless spirit, and sparkl- 
 ing with the ardor of a generous heart ! his hair 
 and whiskers were very fine, and black, indicating 
 an exquisite nervous temperament, and you could 
 see that he wore both much longer than was fashion- 
 able. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 "This is a terrific storm," said Mary Caxton, as she 
 moved from the table, at which she had been turn- 
 ing over the leaves of some old history and noting 
 passages and dates, an occupation which had enga- 
 ged her attention for more than an hour. " It is 
 grand," she said, half aloud, " it is almost exhilirating 
 to witness the majestic play of the elements, I always 
 
TALES 
 
 89 
 
 think of tlie poor sailors at sucli times, thongli, thank 
 God, I have none I love on the wild sea wave. And 
 the poor, too, the laboring poor, howl would delight 
 to brave even this storm, if I could carry plenty of 
 money in my pocket, and lots of good cheer in my 
 heart.'' 
 
 Mary Caxton (the speaker) was not very young, 
 perhaps twenty-eight — nor was she beautiful ! not, at 
 least, according to the judgment of the connoisseur, 
 but she had a kind, sweet face, illumined with intelli- 
 gence, and looked as though she might have attracted 
 the love and friendship of all who knew her well. Her 
 mother, a very pleasant looking old lady, who sat si- 
 lently darning a lot of clean, comfortable looking 
 woolen stockings, turned to the speaker and said 
 quietly, " 1 wish you were rich, Mary, the poor within 
 your reach would not suffer, but you would not ven- 
 ture out in this storm, you would wait for a clear day 
 to dispense comfort and happiness, w^ould you not ?" 
 "I don't know, mother," said Mary, in a low, sweet, 
 yet firm tone, " I don't know, but I think a warm 
 heart would not mind the cold, and a will to aid the 
 needy, would defy the fury of the storm. But, mother, 
 (and her eye kindled as with sudden and painful 
 thought) is it not strange, that Leon Herburt, who 
 was always so candid and friendly, is now so distant 
 and reserved, and his eyes have grown so large and 
 wild of late, that I am awed when I look at him, and 
 this note (she went on musingly,) I received last night 
 in answer to a line of mine — what does it mean ? 
 
 ' Maey, 
 
 I amj the most unfortunate man alive ^ and I have 
 wondered whether, for a few weeks past, you have not 
 penetrated my designs as to my future movements ; 
 I must lift myself out of this sloth in which my un- 
 grateful mercenary-miserable-infidel-perjured family 
 relations have sought to plunge me — I suppose you 
 
 4* 
 
90 T A L E S . 
 
 know my movements — at all events, you shall know 
 all ere another day rolls over onr heads. I will see 
 you to-morrow. ' Yours, 
 
 ' Leon.' " 
 
 Mary sighed and rested her cheek on her hand, 
 and sat for a long time in deep thought, and deaf 
 to her mother's reply, and forgetting that she had 
 asked her a question. 
 
 The little parlor, in which we have introduced 
 you to Mary Caxton, was neatly furnished with 
 bright pictures, book-cases filled with valuable books, 
 and comfortable seats of various styles, a rich rose- 
 wood piano, and appeared very cheerful and plea- 
 sant, save that a pale but very beautiful little girl 
 reclined feebly on a sofa in one corner ; she was about 
 twelve years old, though her face was full of thought 
 and gentleness. 
 
 The child's expression of face was sad as she press- 
 ed her white-rose cheek close to her crimson cushion, 
 and sighed deeply, regarding her mother with a 
 steady gaze, the grandame, too, gazed earnestly upon 
 her, while the w^arm color came and went from 
 Mary's cheek, and pleasant and painful thought, al- 
 ternating, lighted and dimmed her eye. " I feel very 
 sad and nervous to-day," she said very slowly, for 
 her breath was short and thick, I wish I could shake 
 off this terrible gloom ! surely some evil is hovering 
 near" — she shuddered and glanced steadily at the 
 child on the sofa, " you do not think Ada is worse, 
 mother, not seriously ill ? only some slight causes 
 that time and nature will soon set right, I suppose ?" 
 and she brushed a tear from her eye, and went and 
 kissed the child, and it was beautiful to see how 
 bright and well that fond kiss made the invalid look. 
 Hark ! a slow and measured step was heard in the 
 hall, a sound Mary knew too well, and as it struck 
 her ear she went into the next room, that she might 
 
TALES. 91 
 
 meet Leon Herbnrt without a witness, for she was 
 weak and trembling, and she knew not wherefore he 
 had come, though she had felt all day that he would 
 come, and she had dreamed, too, several nights in 
 succession, that he was going far away, never, never 
 to return again, and she had written farewell lines 
 to him under that impression, which she had placed 
 in his hat. And now he stood before her and es- 
 sayed to speak. 
 
 " What is the matter, Leon, you look pale and 
 care-worn — and weeping too — O, tell me what it is 
 that distresses you ?" and Mary would have led him 
 into the parlor, and have relieved him of his dripping 
 wet cloak, but he shook his head, and signified that 
 he wanted to be alone with her, and that he could 
 not stay, though he could not speak, and now stood 
 trembling with emotion, like a lordly tree moved by 
 the strong wind. 
 
 He took from his pocket a letter addressed to 
 Mary and wrote on it with tremulous hand " a kiss 
 and keepsake for dear little Ada," and laid upon it a 
 beautiful bracelet; he then turned to go, but Mary 
 held him fast and begged him to tell her what was 
 the matter, he pointed to the letter, and as she, pale 
 as marble, loosed her hold on him, attempted to break 
 the seal, he rushed out into the street more like a 
 maniac than the quiet and gentlemanly personage 
 we had only a short time before observed walking 
 through the storm, braving its fury like a stoic. 
 What had so soon robbed him of his manh6od? 
 Mary had stepped from his path proudly, as he 
 rushed forth ; she now tottered as if she would have 
 fallen, but Mary knew she had to prepare herself for 
 some great calamity — something that would try her 
 soul ; she had a strong will, and she collected her- 
 self, and went into the presence of her mother with- 
 out reading the letter, sat down and asked her mother 
 to read what Leon had left, " for he was indeed 
 gone !'* 
 
S2 TALES. 
 
 " ISTew Yoek, Feb., 1850. 
 
 " The wanderer had sisters — ^not forgot, 
 
 Though parting from those sisters he did shun, 
 A daughter whom he loved, but saw her not, 
 
 Before his weary pilgrimage begun ; 
 . One still more dear — but bade adieu to none. 
 
 Yet think not, then, his breast a breast of steel, 
 Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat upon 
 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal." 
 
 " It has come at last — I start to morrow for Califor- 
 nia, it is a long way from all I love and all I prize — 
 but fate has placed bis withering fingers on my 
 brow, and I cannot live where every tnrn only re- 
 minds me of my isolation and wretchedness. . God 
 only knows whether I shall ever return. The great 
 probability is — never — and that we, Mary, have seen 
 each other for the last time, till we meet at the bar 
 of God. Oh, how I feel the hot tears coursing rapid- 
 ly down my cheeks — I cannot say farewell — I can 
 only ash you to forget m^, and every night on my 
 bended knees I will pom' out my orisons before the 
 throne of the Eternal for your happiness and health, 
 and that of your dear child — that word to me is 
 agony — mine I never more shall see. I know not 
 what I write, I must write no more, or my brain will 
 be on fire ! 
 
 "The gleam was transient — ^it illuminated not earth 
 but Heaven, that brilliant — I had almost said — hal- 
 lucination, which can be imprinted on the memory 
 only once in life. I am buried from hope — not so 
 with you — you are free, and can be happy — make 
 others so, and be happy. Mary, good night ! and 
 may God hless you^ shall be the prayer of one I pray 
 you to forget and forgive. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "Leon Heebitet." 
 
TALES, 93 
 
 Mary Caxton moved not, wept not, but sat so 
 still that you would have thought her lifeless, but 
 for the burning spot kindling on either cheek, and 
 the large beads of cold perspiration, telling the wild 
 struggle going on in her soul ; neither of them spoke, 
 neither of them looked upon the other, and at last 
 Mary arose from her seat, and mechanically cover- 
 ing herself with bonnet and cloak, passed out un- 
 questioned ; she was so calm, so deliberate^ and yet 
 her face was so strangely excited, that her mother 
 was afraid to oppose her purpose, lest it should 
 drive her mad. 
 
 * * * 4f 
 
 Mary (though her mother was not dead) was an 
 orphan at an early age, and no one knew her in her 
 fond young life, but her too gentle and kind father, 
 and he had been borne away in his winding sheet, 
 stark and cold, when Mary was but ten years old ; 
 yet he had left his memory so fresh and pure upon 
 her heart, and diffused his tenderness through every 
 ramification of her sensitive organisation, that his 
 spirit never left her in after years, and often and 
 often had it lifted her up when suifering and contest 
 bore her almost crushed and heart-broken beneath 
 the incubus. Disappointment and utter loneness — ■ 
 such as these things are to youth — and the fond 
 dreaming girl ! 
 
 And when the sweet beauty of young womanhood 
 began to dawn, when the light of her loving heart 
 sparkled in her wide-open eyes, and tinged her 
 cheeks with the hue of the pale blush-rose! they 
 married her to an old man, because he was rich ! 
 She was fourteen, he forty — and she thought it was 
 all right then, for she knew not what marriage 
 meant, and her father had loved Mr. Caxton, her 
 husband, as a brother, for they were both of an age, 
 and had been boys together ; and was it strange that 
 
94 TALES. 
 
 he left Mary to his old friend's care, for his generous 
 nature caused him to die poor, and he believed he 
 was leaving her to better fortune, when, with his 
 dying breath, he charged Mr. Caxton to see to 
 Mary's happiness, above all things. 
 
 Mary loved Mr. Caxton as \i.&c father's friend^ she 
 could have loved a stone wall, if he had invested it 
 with his tenderness ; and now that that father had 
 become to her a vision, a spirit of vague and sha- 
 dowy beauty 1 she knew no other fervent affection, 
 no other confiding devotedness ; the impression of 
 all her ideal beauties came and rested upon him ; 
 her heroes had his traits of character, his features, 
 his voice, his form, his kindness to her, and he was 
 her world ! 
 
 She had no young companions, no children of 
 her own age, to make life real and active, so she 
 dreamed and dreamed ; and only when Mr. Caxton 
 came every afternoon to take her to ride, to look on 
 the face of nature, and to drink in her ever new 
 beauties, did she know anything of the world, and 
 she became an enthusiast, and knew no other exist- 
 ence ; the common discipline and duties of the social 
 world were sealed books to her, she moved among 
 them, but she never thought to open them ; nor did 
 they (whose duty it was) lift up the overshadowing 
 veil that shrouded them from her understanding. 
 
 But v/hen he became her husband, he was loath- 
 some to her, and in the simplicity of her heart she 
 told him so, and prayed him to release her; she 
 wept at his feet, promised to become his slave in all 
 things else, but to be his wife — that she could not 
 do / she prayed, wept, and implored him by all the 
 pity of his nature ; by the tenderness of her years ; 
 by the fear of WTong, the power of right, and his 
 hopes of Heaven, not to destroy her. But he ridi- 
 culed her silly sentimentality, as he termed it, and 
 taunted her with base suspicions ; spurned her from 
 
TALES. 
 
 M 
 
 him, when she clung to his knees in agony of soul ; 
 and in his selfishness manifested no sympathy for 
 her sorrow. 
 
 She was proud and no one knew of her sufferings. 
 She was very proud, and shut herself in her gilded 
 cage, and though she beat the bars with her impri- 
 soned wingfs, until her sons; was hushed and her 
 breast bleeding with its anguish, she recovered her 
 mind, and found therein some little resource, in the 
 long years she suffered afterwards, though not until 
 she had been roused to battle for and fearlessly win 
 the sacredness of mind and person her wrongs en- 
 titled her to. 
 
 But to return to Mary, in the evening on which 
 she braved the piercing storm. She soon returned, 
 though her garments were all wet with the rain, and 
 her eye wild and sad, and even thus she sat and 
 wrote to Leon Herburt : 
 
 " It cannot be that I must lose all I prize in life, 
 all, all I deem worth living for. * * * 
 
 " Delia de Grey was the first for whom I felt a 
 clinging tenderness, and when she died a dark cloud 
 hung over my social world ; I was nineteen then, 
 and I had been a recluse five years. 'Next came 
 George Woodville ; he was high souled and noble- 
 hearted, and I loved him as a brother ; he filled that 
 place in my heart, so when he passed away I was 
 brotherless, and when my heart was sore with grief 
 at his loss, and still yearning to cling to some kin- 
 dred spirit, Hilderbrand, the loving, faithful friend, 
 (for whom I felt afterwards a mother's love,) came 
 and laid his gentle confidence, his high-toned trust 
 before me, and asked me to be his sister and his 
 friend, with a more saddened, though more holy 
 faith in human love, and human goodness, I took 
 up the bright gift and folding it warmly in my 
 bosom, I keep it sacred there, though the giver 
 
96 TALES. 
 
 has departed, and I shall no more look upon his 
 heaven-inspired features. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " Then in a delirinm I flitted and^ floated on the 
 shallow waters of an indistinct idea of existence ; 
 automaton like, I moved on, and spite of some exact- 
 ing duties and relations in life, I dwelt in the regions 
 of fancy, and my only pleasant world was memory, 
 gentle, soothing memory, and I was grateful that I 
 was so blest as to possess that memory so clear, and 
 so unblemished ; so untainted with an impure thought 
 or selfish motive, as it was, and as it is ! 
 
 ■J^ * * -H- 
 
 " Pent and smouldering beneath the ruin of cir- 
 cumstance, lay another feeling — another principle of 
 my nature — a heart of hearts ; time and trial had 
 matured other sentiments ; I had been a mystery to 
 pride, a sacrifice to duty and my wretched lot. All 
 other relations were clear and comprehensive to me. 
 I had bent in devotion to the nobler principles of 
 humanity, and I knelt in fervent adoration to the 
 Master over matter, and the God over mind. 
 
 * * ^ cc ^^ 2^g|. J j^j^ away the cause 
 of my afflictions in the silent earth, and I thought 
 that there was nothing left but to submit to and en- 
 dure the trials of life, bending at last with humility 
 to the mandate of Death, with such a beautiful con- 
 ception of eternity as mine. 
 
 * -M- * * 
 
 " Yes, I had been all things ; felt all feelings ; 
 filled all capacities ; a daughter — a sister — a friend 
 — a mother — all, all but the holy charm of the be- 
 trothed ! all but the clinging tenderness, the de- 
 pendent and sacred feeling of wife ; and though I 
 was married, long married, I held not that object in 
 
TALES. 97 
 
 mj heart for whom I could say proudly before God 
 and man, for this one can I forsake all others, and 
 cleave only nnto thee my husband, through life and 
 in death, in good and evil report, bind my heart 
 unto thee, and sacrifice all pleasure for the one su- 
 preme happiness of leaning upon thy arm through 
 life, to tend thee in adversity, cheer thee in afflic- 
 tion, nurse thee in sickness, be thy joy in happiness, 
 thy pride in prosperity, and in defiance of the whole 
 world, and in equity with the laws of my country 
 and my God, exclaim — this is mine, here, on this 
 proud bosom, I have a shelter, a protection, and a 
 home ! 
 
 " But from this I shrunk, and shut myself from 
 all social intercourse. 
 
 ■3fr * * -K- 
 
 " And now I felt this too, all this, and there is no 
 vacuum, no empty place in my whole bosom, my 
 whole being is absorbed, my whole heart filled up 
 with my love for thee ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, we shall meet again, dearest 
 and best, if there is not a curse resting upon me by 
 some power, which my whole soul and mind cannot 
 cast oif ; indeed, I shall see you again, Leon Her- 
 bm't, thou idol of my heart and soul — next to God 
 and duty — I shall see you in this world, this bright 
 and beautiful world — and be thine, only thine, in 
 the next. 
 
 ' And thus I am absorbed, and this is life ; 
 
 I look upon the peopled desert past, 
 As on a place of agony and strife, 
 
 Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast. 
 To act, to suffer, but remount at last 
 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
 
98 TALES. 
 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on dehghted wing, 
 Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.* 
 
 Mary." 
 
 She read the letter aloud, though she knew her 
 mother could not comprehend it all, still some ex- 
 planation was due to her, and she could not talk to 
 any one but Leon. 
 
 Again she went out in the storm, but the vessel 
 had sailed, and she mailed her letter in the next 
 one ; and perhaps it was well, for it would have 
 been too much for Leon Herburt to bear her sorrow 
 with his own ; he knew not that Mar j loved him, 
 he could not marry her if he had, and perhaps it 
 was better they should part. 
 
 She was soon aroused from her lonely broken- 
 heartedness. Ada grew worse and worse, and then 
 the mother in her breast was awakened, her energy 
 and her fear returned. Alas ! her cup of sorrow was 
 not yet full. 
 
 Ada died ! she would not bear her mother's sor- 
 row now ! that poor quivering mother ! she would 
 never pass through the fires of afiiiction she had 
 borne ; her youth would not be bowed to " misery 
 overshadowed by the dark cloud o'ermantling its 
 fresh days," and there she lay, pure and beautiful in 
 death, not the living chained to the dead / but the 
 child of heaven sleeping in death's still arms who 
 was to bear it gently through the dark valley. 
 
 * * '^ Poor Mary Caxton ! let her 
 
 weep ! O, let the dark waters of her heart's bitter- 
 ness flow unchecked ! Let her lie there upon the 
 tomb of her cherished child ! let her sleep there when 
 nature exhausts itself, she will not heed the dews and 
 showers, and let her press to her bosom all that is 
 left to her, the sod that covers the ashes of her own 
 lovely Ada ! 
 
TALES. 99 
 
 When Mary Caxton came from tlie grave of her 
 child she was calm, a slight sickness followed her ex- 
 posure, but she was inured to suffering, and though 
 she became paler and thinner, she bore up nobly ; 
 she never went again to Ada's grave, and no one 
 knew that she had now no warm place to rest her 
 cold, cold heart upon. 
 
 Her friends persuaded her, and she took board at 
 a fashionable house in Broadway, she soon went 
 about her usual avocations, she laughed and chatted 
 with the throng that was ever about her, and they 
 knew not that she had not forgotten the loss of her 
 gentle child. They thought that she was deeply in- 
 terested in a young poet, in whose society she was 
 very often. He was her lover surely ; but then she 
 talked so lightly with him on serious subjects, laughed 
 when he was sad, and only sad when she thought 
 she was unobserved, that he said to her one day, " It 
 appears to me, Mary, that you never mean what you 
 say, or act as you feel, I do not know what to make 
 of you ; O, think of me, Mary ; you must know I love 
 you better than my own soul, and that I would give 
 my life for your happiness ; then tell me, Mary, what 
 place I occupy in your affections, for I cannot endure 
 this suspense, I can never persuade you to be serious. 
 O tell me if I am more to you than others are ?" 
 
 " I will answer you, William ; come to my own 
 room, and, added to what you already know, you 
 shall learn also the history of my heart." 
 
 CH APTES III. 
 
 A gallant vessel is slowly wending its pathless 
 way o'er the deep blue sea, the weather is fine for 
 the early part of March, and many persons are 
 lounging about her decks, her sails are scarcely filled 
 with the slight breeze blowing off the South Ameri- 
 can coast, and the small waves wander along like 
 
100 TALES. 
 
 pleasant companions of our common lot and destiny ; 
 no envy, no strife, but playing with, and chasing 
 each other, like happy children on the broad breast 
 of their ocean mother. 
 
 Apart from the other passengers, in the vessel's 
 bow sat Leon Herburt ; he had not for several weeks 
 dared to open the paper Mary had put in his hat, 
 and now he held it in his hand as though it would 
 be sacrilege to do so. But he was homesick, heart- 
 sick for Mary, and as it was her handwriting, no 
 matter what it contained, it would be to him medi- 
 cinal, so he cast his fear away and read. 
 
 "LINES TO L. H. 
 
 " Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again ! 
 go foward to meet the shadowy future without fear and with un- 
 faltering heart." 
 
 " Leave me ! yes, Leon, leave me ! 
 
 Since 'tis thy wish to go ; 
 And may all skies beam brightly 
 
 On thy pleasant paths below ; 
 Oh ! mayest thou be happy 
 
 As the flowers seem in May ; 
 It is my fondest wish to know 
 
 That thou art glad and gay. 
 
 " Yes, go where fancy leads, 
 
 Though 'tis hard, 'tis hard to part, 
 With the face that is like sunshine, 
 
 Beaming warmly on my heart ; 
 With the voice that is so cheery, 
 
 And the hand that is so kind, 
 The interchange of feeling. 
 
 The communion of the mind. 
 
 " Dearest Leon, though we love thee. 
 
 There are better days in store — 
 And hearts will hail thy coming. 
 
 And on thee their fondness pour ; 
 Minds of richer, deeper treasure. 
 
 Forms of brighter, fairer mould ; 
 Fame's wreath awaits thy pleasure, 
 
 And for thy labor— Gold. 
 
TALES. 101 
 
 " Then go, and heaven bless thee ! 
 
 And bring thee rosy health ; 
 Fill to the brim thy coffers 
 
 With a never-ending wealth ! 
 'Tis better for the generous heart, 
 
 Though sad and desolate, 
 To feel it's highest, best beloved 
 
 Enjoys a happier fate. 
 
 " Maey." 
 
 " Is this so," said Leon, " can it be ? There is 
 truth in these lines, soul and — . O, if I had but 
 known this, fool that I am ! she loves me, and I left 
 her, I possess what could make me proud and happy, 
 and yet I am more wretched than before I knew it, 
 I love her ! O God, how my whole soul goes out to 
 her, and what has hearts like ours to do with this 
 world ? why should we fear it ? it can give us nothing, 
 O, what can it take away ?" 
 
 " Alas ! Mary, thy good name, my own one ! my 
 too gentle, beloved ! I never wronged thee, never, 
 cast one reflection upon thy spotless fame, this shall 
 make me happy ! and oh ! may Heaven's choicest 
 blessings compass thee around as with a living 
 halo ! and once before I die, Mary, may I be blessed 
 with one sight of thee, only one word of love from 
 thy sweet lips ! one fond smile from thy soul- beam- 
 ing eye, and this will be all the happiness I can ask ; 
 I told her all ! Thank God, I never deceived her !" 
 And thus Leon Herbert, day after day, thought of 
 Mary, and mingled her name with his progress, and 
 blessed her for her pure love to him, with his every 
 breath. His voyage was prosperous, his health im- 
 proved, and he arrived at his destination in less than 
 six months after he left ISTew-York, and he was pros- 
 perous there too, and lived comfortably, and was ad- 
 mired and respected, as he could not fail to be, for 
 he was highly gifted, possessed a superior education, 
 and was generous to a fault. 
 
102 TALES, 
 
 We left Mary with William Grant in tlie parlor ; 
 it was a hard task to her kind heart, to dash his cup 
 with bitterness. She would have been proud to re- 
 tain his friendship, glad to have been his sister ; for 
 there was much in him to admire — much to esteem 
 in his mind and disposition ; but she saw how idle it 
 would be to hope otherwise ; he loved her, and to 
 tamper, with his feelings, such as she now knew them 
 to be, was beneath her generous nature, and her fu- 
 ture course was fully determined upon. 
 
 " E^o, no, I cannot talk to you now, "William, I 
 will write what I have to communicate, go to your 
 own room, and suffice it to say, that I respect and 
 esteem you as a friend, but I have no heart to give, 
 though the whole world should lay their homage at 
 my feet, as its price." 
 
 He started and stood gazing upon her with a wild 
 but vacant stare and quivering, pale lips ; she felt 
 for him from her soul's depth of sympathy, but she 
 dared not wait, and she passed like a sad s|)irit 
 from his presence, murmuring with the lowest tones 
 of her musical voice — " I knew, I knew it could not 
 last. 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past." 
 
 Mary went to her own room ; all the next day she 
 stayed there, and refused to see any one, upon the 
 plea that she was preparing to go into the country 
 for a few days, and the next day a carriage called 
 for her, and she went in it alone, with no luggage 
 save a carpet-bag. 
 
 "When William came home, sad and dispirited as 
 usual, he asked for Mary, and when they told him 
 she had gone to her mother's, he started out, saying 
 to himself, " I must see her this night, or I shall go 
 wild ;" he returned the next morning, and went to 
 his room without speaking ; he found there upon his 
 table the following letter : 
 
.TALES. 103 
 
 " "William : 
 
 " Mine is one of tlie slowest intellects ever given 
 to a human being ; and now from the changes and 
 crowds of events that have passed before me in such 
 rapid succession, all my existence seems like a 
 pantomime, or a diorama, with only here and there 
 a gleam of truth and beauty, I am a mystery to 
 myself, and to others I must seem idiotic or heart- 
 less. My singularly wretched fate almost over- 
 whelms me, so that I dare not contemplate the past, 
 nor suffer the present to develope itself fully to my 
 mind ; no, nor look into the dim future with hope, 
 for it cannot be other than the past hath been. 
 
 " Alas, I am a dreamer, by a rushing stream of 
 time ; a somnambulist upon the ocean of fate. 
 
 " ' But there are wanderers o'er eternity, whose 
 bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be !' 
 and yet I love the tangible, I worship what seems to 
 me real — the living, breathing truth ; and though, as 
 you say, I talk without a meaning, live without an 
 object, act without a motive, still I never had a 
 friend, or one I prized, but held a place in my 
 heart, and I could feel the orbit of their attraction ; 
 and when their music is hushed, and their lights 
 gone out, one takes not the place of the other, but 
 each hath an inscription and each a tomb upon the 
 Isle of Memory, consecrated and co-existent with 
 my mind, my heart, and soul. You will not, then, 
 think me heartless ? you will believe I can love, yes, 
 and I can live on the happiness of those I love ; but 
 there is no one from whom I can claim the constant 
 attention, the unmitigated tenderness requisite to 
 my immediate happiness ; selfish, 't is true and in- 
 dependent of any other than its individual influence. 
 I cannot claim this of you, William, and now I can- 
 not of any other ! I would contribute to your peace 
 and happiness if possible ; I love you as a brother ! 
 Your coming is like the gleam -that lights up the 
 
104 TALES.. 
 
 moving mass, called the world! Your kindness, 
 like the soothing, healthful atmosphere of a beautiful 
 morning ! your love, like the memory of the dream 
 my girlhood loved to cherish ! and sometimes, after 
 you have closed the door, and the place you have 
 occupied is still palpable with your presence, your 
 influence affects me like the pulsations that vibrate 
 my whole frame, when the consciousness of what I 
 might have been — had I not been cursed in the de- 
 velopment of my mental powers, gathered strength 
 to bear down the tide of wretched circumstances, 
 and battle successfully with a false education — strikes 
 me with chilling stroke. 
 
 " And yet I love another ; one the music of whose 
 voice has called me time after time from the dark 
 recesses of sorrow and grief ; whose hand has led 
 me gently from the isolation that was fast walling 
 me in from ' kith and kin,' and whose poetic taste 
 and fervent friendship has carried me away from 
 the abstract to revel in the cultivated flower gardens 
 of the mind and heart. 
 
 " But now I am a watcher by the midnight that 
 hath no morning ; and thought and memory — after 
 lifting me on eagle's wings :fel' above the figure of 
 Hope, (pointing, with uplifted face into the clouds, 
 signifying peace to the humble in spirit and joy to 
 the dependent creature upon earthly bounty,) rests 
 broodingly over me, but with no warmth in the soft 
 plumage, no healing in its o'ershadowing wings. 
 
 " Still, the eye that has gazed fearlessly and fondly 
 upon the sun, is dimmed and sightless to the bright- 
 est star, and when that sun goes out, hath no light, 
 save the pale lamp that keeps its vigil o'er the tomb 
 of hope and love ! "Farewell." 
 
 Mary was not at her mother's when William ar- 
 rived there, nor had they seen her ; week after week 
 passed away, and month after month departed, and 
 
TALES. 105 
 
 still she came not ; and now a year had gone bj, 
 and William Grant was in his grave, and Mary was' 
 nearly forgotten, save that now and then the society 
 in which she had been the ruling star would talk 
 over the mysterious occurrence, and wonder what had 
 become of her ; some believed that she had committed 
 suicide, others (more lenient in their judgment) that 
 she had gone alone to the grave of her child, which 
 was but a few miles from the city, and so had been 
 murdered; or in a state of frenzy wandered away, and 
 was now concealed ; perhaps a recluse from society ; 
 for they just then discovered that she had a singular 
 temperament; but whatever the circumstances of 
 the case might be, she was gone, and no one knew 
 whither, that was most certain. 
 
 Leon Hurbert was in his office, and had just taken 
 up a business letter from J^ew-York, in which he 
 read : 
 
 " Ey the way Mr. Hurbert, I believe Mary Caxton 
 was an acquaintance of yours. She has been miss- 
 ing for the last six months, and the rumors about 
 her mysterious disappearance are various, one is that 
 she has gone away with a young student with whom 
 she was very intimate, a Mr. Grant, who left soon 
 after she did, and has not since been seen. Are 
 they in California ? just let us know in your next 
 favor ; her family got up a story of her being out of 
 her mind — in some unfortunate love matter. A 
 widow in love, ha ! ha! ha! that 's comical, is it 
 not? But seriously, Mary Caxton was a specimen^ 
 a trum;p ; I saw her twice and was half in love with 
 her myself; she was one to interfere with a fellow's 
 better sense — " 
 
 Leon had no patience to read further. Mary lost ! 
 supposed to be dead ! the idea almost drove him to 
 frenzy ; and s-u^pected, too, of running away under « 
 
 5 
 
10^ TALES. 
 
 improper circnmstances. Yes, lie must go to Kew- 
 York and know the trnth, he would find her if she 
 was in the land of the living ; his mind was made 
 up to th^t, and he called his young man, a faithful 
 lad, and communicated his intention of leaving his 
 business in his charge, saying, " that though he had 
 "been in his employ only a few months, he had found 
 him so faithful, honest, and attentive to his every 
 want, that he should take him into business with 
 him on his return ; and if he never returned, why 
 here is a few hundred dollars for you, with my 
 best wishes." He was prevented saying more, for 
 the young man, who had been standing pale and 
 immovable at his side, fell senseless to the floor. 
 
 What could all this mean — Leon chafed his hands 
 brushed his soft hair from his temples, and tore open 
 his shirt bosom. " What is all this, a woman ? it is, 
 it is! great God, it is Mary Caxton !" He called 
 her by name ; her name, spoken by that potent 
 voice, had power to raise her from the dead, and 
 Mary opened her eyes, once more beanding with love 
 and happiness, for she forgot everything, but that 
 Leon Herburt held her in his arms, and was faithful 
 in his love for her. 
 
 And how had Leon been deceived for three long 
 months, for now he saw so plainly the sweet face of 
 his dear Mary, and was speechless with surprise. I 
 cannot describe Leon's rapture, when Mary quite 
 recovered from her swoon, explained how she had 
 come to live near him, because she could not live 
 separate ; how she had had the project in her mind, 
 when by the death of her dear Ada, she found her- 
 self free to do as she pleased ; the rest of humanity 
 had no claims upon her, no charm ; and she lan- 
 guished for the same air he breathed, to see the 
 same things he saw, to look in his kind face and 
 live ! O, bliss supreme — to be near him and to 
 serve him ! 
 
TALES. 107 
 
 And her courage had not failed her throughout her 
 long YOjage, and the hardships and mortifications 
 she endured through her disguise were all as nothing 
 to her, with such a hope and such a haven in view. 
 
 Eut when she was about to lose him again, she 
 was shaken by the lightning. How prostrated ! she 
 had borne all she could bear, she was again a woman, 
 and one, too, who loved with her whole soul. 
 
 •«• * * « 
 
 For some few months after, Mary was still his 
 clerk, and a more devoted servant and master could 
 not be found. But ere this reaches San Francisco, 
 that clerk will have been discharged, (perhaps sent 
 to the gold diggings, where the poor fellow will die, 
 or be lost in some way or other). And the steamer 
 that will bring divorce papers for Leon Herburt, will 
 most likely find him already the happy husband of 
 Mary Caxton. 
 
 EUPEKT ELLSWOETH. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 " Just twenty years ago this night," said the old 
 man to his wife, as she sat dozing in the corner of a 
 large old-fashioned fire-place, "just twenty years ago, 
 my Mena, Eupert left us, determined to acquire the 
 necessary means to support us comfortably in our 
 old age, and place our Ella in the position she 
 should occupy, which 'she is fitted to adorn, and of 
 which our misfortunes have robbed her. But our 
 only son has not yet come back to us ; we are poorer 
 than ever, with a deeper, weightier sorrow rankling 
 here, (and he laid his withered hand upon his heav- 
 
108 TALES. 
 
 ing breast) tlie certainty that he has been cut off in 
 the bloom of his young manhood — we know not how 
 or when !" and the full, round tears rolled slowly 
 down his furrowed cheeks, whilst the good Mena wept 
 and sobbed aloud. Thus they sat for a long time, and 
 thus we leave them with the mournful memory of all 
 their lost son had been and all he now was to them. 
 , Ella, their only daughter, of whom the old man 
 had spoken, was very beautiful, I mean by that that 
 she was gentle, intelligent and graceful ; she had al- 
 ways been gay and happy, for she loved nature and 
 her simple-hearted companions, and was too young 
 when her brother left their rural home, to feel 
 the reverses ol fortune, or to suffer, like her sorrow- 
 aged parents, the loss of his society. The younger 
 neighbors occasionally talked to her of the promising 
 young Rupert of former years, extolled over and 
 over again his amiable temper, his kindness to the 
 aged, the sick and the poor of their little village, 
 and the old " folk" seemed to love him as a son, the 
 young people as a brother, and all of them remem-, 
 bered his sparkling black eyes, his fine expressive 
 mouth, his lofty though effeminately white smooth 
 forehead, and everybody pronounced him handsome 
 and good, when at the age of sixteen he left his 
 humble home, determined to revive his father's fallen 
 fortunes, or make one less to be provided for from 
 their scanty store. 
 
 Of course Ella loved the picture, and often sighed 
 that it was not real to her. 
 
 Eupert Ellsworth's father, very soon after his mis- 
 fortunes, turned his pretty dwelling into an inn, hung 
 up a sign, with a peculiar device upon it — a device 
 not to be forgotten by any who lived twenty years 
 previously anywhere within fifty miles of the city of 
 JS'ew York — but I must not paint it over again, lest 
 one phrenzied eye should chance to glance over 
 these pages to engulph the mind and heart in a still 
 
TALES. 109 
 
 deeper angnisli, and my only object is to relate, as 
 nearly as I can recollect, the incidents of a transac- 
 tion that was so thrilling and so fearful in its effects, 
 and which so many of onr citizens remember is too 
 true. 
 
 The old man was not very successful in his new 
 vocation, for he was as proud and austere as he was 
 ambitious, and he conld not stoop to the mean cajo- 
 lery and impertinent obtrusiveness now practised in 
 our day to secure the " mighty dollar," and the con- 
 sequence was he remained very poor. The day had 
 been stormy, and the heavy black clouds hung in 
 dense masses close toufche earth, leaving only here 
 and there a streak of atmosphere which seemed 
 struggling in sullen pride to bear them upward to 
 their native element, there to dissolve themselves in 
 gentle dew, or rain, or beautiful, white, fleecy flakes 
 of snow, to be finally — like humanity — embosomed 
 in the all-receiving silent earth. 
 
 But I digress. Just as the old man spoke, a horse- 
 man broke through the narrow passage between 
 earth and clouds, immediately in front of a cottage 
 about a mile from our undescribed sign ; he was 
 very tall and slender, with a most luxuriant beard 
 and mustache, of rich brown, expressive hair, his 
 eyes were clear as stars, his skin of a singular pale- 
 ness for a man, with a face altogether as pleasing 
 and interesting as a young and beautiful girl's ; 
 though you could not guess his age, (he might have 
 been twenty-five or he might have been forty,) still 
 there was a fire lurking in his eye, and the spirit of 
 bravery and manliness written on his brow. You 
 could imagine that sorrow, and struggle, and contest 
 has been his lot, though every lineament bespoke a 
 heart at peace with the whole world. Our rider 
 seemed to be lost in thought, for his horse had halted 
 before the door of the cottage, whose owner was ga- 
 zing quietly upon him from his door-step, wondering, 
 I suppose, who he was or what he wanted. 
 
110 TALES. 
 
 Suddenly lie looked up from liis re very, and with 
 slight embarrasment, inquired if there was a public 
 house at hand. " By the way," said he, " is there not 
 a Mr. Ellsworth keeping an inn somewhere near here ? 
 he had a daughter named EUa,^ and once," and he 
 drew a long breath, " a son Rupert." " You know 
 him, then, sir," said Mr. Clayton, (the man of the 
 cottage, who was none other than the village pastor,) 
 " a relative perhaps ? " pursued he, like a man think- 
 ing aloud, for he had not awaited an answer to his 
 first interrogation. " And now I look at you more 
 closely, you do resemble the family ; — would you 
 like to see his daughter ? eWBvj one who ever saw 
 her sweet, gentle face feels an interest in her at once ; 
 she is here, paying a visit to my girls ;" and Mr. 
 Clayton, in his ardor of friendship for Ella, and his 
 hospitality toward the interesting stranger, absolute- 
 ly hurried the bewildered horseman from his saddle, 
 very unceremoniously into the presence of three 
 lovely girls, who were knitting and chatting away 
 before a cheerful hickory-fire. Knitting and a hick- 
 ory fire ! round which in merry mood are drawn our 
 truthful band of friends ! O, what glorious opportu- 
 nity for the culture of the flowers planted in our 
 youthtime in the sunny gardens of our hearts, to be 
 green and bright when the selfish, sordid world has 
 shut in all the joyousness, the music and the lights, 
 the love and trust, that once so fully made up a hap- 
 py existence — or when relentless death has driven 
 our fondest affections back upon the tablet of our 
 memory, a living page for the records of eternity. 
 
 But while I have been indulging in these desulto- 
 ry thoughts, the party in the little parlor are stand- 
 ing in agitation and surprise ; the stranger, often 
 glancing at the other two young ladies, stood for a 
 moment confronting the now trembling Ella. One 
 beam of joy shot from his eye as he cried out — " It 
 is, it is my sister ! " and clasped her in his arms. 
 
TALES 
 
 111 
 
 One look on his part, and one electric thrill on hers-, 
 had been enough to reunite the ties of consanguinity 
 which bound them, and the long-separated brother 
 and sister — even though Ella was a child when Eu- 
 pert left home — knew and loved each other in an 
 instant. 
 
 Ella was very happy, and too much absorbed in 
 her wonderment to ask her brother a single question ; 
 she was dreaming of her parent's transports of joy 
 when they should learn their long-lost son was living, 
 and planning in her mind some one more pleasing 
 stratagem than another by which she could make 
 known to them his return. Eupert divined her 
 thoughts, as she sat so silently, gazing fondly upon 
 him ; and immediately after he had ascertained that 
 his parents were alive and well, he glanced at his 
 history since his departure, reserving for their own 
 happy fireside the details of his self-sacrificing efforts 
 and exile for twenty years. Of course, after the first 
 salutations were over, the whole party at the cottage 
 were acquainted and familiar, and anxious to hear 
 his story. 
 
 Eupert had left his home with but one change of 
 apparel, and but one shilling in his pocket ; he had 
 worked his passage out West, and had travelled from 
 town to town and village to village, teaching here 
 and there, for one year in one place, and further on 
 another year in another, gaining instruction while 
 he- was imparting it, and thereby procuring the 
 means to carry him wherever he v/ished to go. 
 At length he read law and became eminent, lor 
 though but sixteen when he left home, he had been 
 a student and a graduate at college, as many of his 
 class-mates well remember, he was, even then, a 
 scholar and a gentleman; and though there was 
 many a reckless aud passionate boy at that college, 
 some few in his own class, there was not one so mean 
 and selfish as not to feel his ennobling influence, and 
 acknowledge his high-toned, honorable deportme nt 
 
112 ■ TALES, 
 
 For a short time after his departure, he wrote to his 
 parents regularly, but receiving no answers, he con- 
 cluded they must have moved from the old home- 
 stead, and as it was necessary to his high pui-pose, 
 and to carry out his plans for their final good, and 
 as it might interfere with the sacrifices he felt must 
 be made to train his mind to acquire by his profession 
 a fortune, he persuaded himself that they were all 
 well and happy ; and year by year he struggled on 
 to gain — what ? Gold ! with the vain expectation of 
 securing happiness thereby. But we will not moral- 
 ize here, for Eupert's had been a noble aim, and it 
 now promised a most happy result. 
 
 Old Mr. Ellsworth had never at any time received 
 a line from his son since he left home ; hj some 
 means his letters had miscarried, and Mr. and Mrs, 
 Ellsworth believed Eupert to be dead, and were still, 
 after twenty long years, mourning over his untimely 
 end ; they even found a luxury in their scrrrow, when- 
 ever they could indulge it in Ella's absence. They 
 loved the sweet girl too well to let her be a witness of 
 their grief ; it had turned inward, and was wearing 
 deeply upon their souls. Had Ella known of their 
 sorrow, she would have been very wretched, and I 
 am quite sure her brother would not have found her 
 visiting at the good pastor's cottage ; no, not even 
 the society of her dearest friends could have won 
 her from the pleasing duty of being a constant so- 
 lace and a joy to them. 
 
 "Dear brother," said Ella, "I thought you were 
 dead, I have cherished your memory and loved the 
 semblance our friends had drawn, who were older 
 than I when you left us ; but never, never dared I 
 hope for this joyful, happy meeting. I am so happy," 
 and she wept upon his bosom. " It is growing late, 
 Hupert," she said, drying the tears from her face ; 
 "let us plan a pleasant surprise for our parents. I 
 
TALES. 113 
 
 am to spend tlie night here. I will remain and be 
 home early in the morning to take breakfast with yon. 
 Go now, and pretend you are a stranger travelling 
 farther eastward ; engage a room for the night, and 
 plead fatigue for retiring so early to bed, and do not 
 come down until I come and break to our parents the 
 happy intelligence that Rupert, the long lamented 
 Rupert, is under their own roof-tree, never more to 
 leave it again. O, I shall see my mother's eyes 
 beam again with hope and joy, and my father grow 
 young again in the society of his cherished son. Oh ! 
 I shall be so happy ! " and she clasped her little 
 hands close over her throbbing bosom, as though she 
 was afraid her happy heart would leap in ecstacy 
 from thence. 
 
 " Yes, I will, my sister," and he said " my sister " 
 over again; the name was music in his ears. "Yes, 
 I will ; but first tell me all about yourself, my home, 
 how my mother bore my absence, how my father 
 has been situated, and if my dear little Ella is hap- 
 py?" and he pressed her again to his breast, for she 
 was all he had loved and imagined her — his ideal 
 sister ! 
 
 " Well, I have lived with our parents constantly, 
 requiring no greater happiness than to be a happi- 
 ness to them. I have seldom or never been from 
 home save when my parents send me to visit our 
 good friends here. We have no society and no visi- 
 tors, save a former class-mate of yours ; " and Ella 
 paused, for the warm blood was mantling her cheeks. 
 " Do you remember Clarence Fenton. He is always 
 at our house, and my father almost worships him, 
 and I do believe it is for nothing else in the world 
 only because he talks of you and praises you half the 
 time he is at our house, while my father is scarcely 
 civil to any body else. I do believe he loves him 
 only because he was your friend," and again she 
 blushed and hesitated. 
 
 5* 
 
114 TALES. 
 
 " Ho, lio, my little Ella, and is that tlie reason 
 you almost worship him too ?" and he gazed in her 
 soft, violet-colored eyes so fondly and gently that 
 she became reassured in a moment, and replied with 
 that ingenuousness so lovely in a young and truth- 
 ful girl — 
 
 " Yes, brother, I do believe it is." 
 
 " My blest sister and friend/' cried Eupert, " I 
 have at last found a fortune worth possessing — the 
 love and confiding tenderness of a true-hearted 
 sister ! Ella, you shall marry Clarence, and we 
 shall all be very happy ! Why do you look so sad, 
 Ella?" 
 
 " Alas, Rupert, Clarence is too poor ; he is ambi- 
 tious ; but, like ourselves, he has been unfortunate. 
 His father died a bankrupt nearly ten years ago ; 
 he settled here to practice medicine, but there is 
 little or no sickness in our village ; he does not like 
 the profession, it was his father's desire he should 
 follow it, and — and it is impossible !" and she raised 
 her eyes timidly to his kind face, and he saw that 
 they were brimful of tears. 
 
 E-upert started as though a new idea had struck 
 him. He went out to his horse, lifted the heavy 
 saddle-bags from its back, and returned in a minute 
 to his sister's side. 
 
 " Impossible !" said he, " behold the means to 
 make it possible, then," and he dropped them 
 with, a heavy chink at her feet. "There, Ella, is 
 fifty thousand dollars in gold ! all gold," said he, 
 with the generous warmth of his nature, " and here 
 is one portion which shall make 3^ou and my old 
 friend and school-fellow, Clarence, happy," and he 
 presented her with a package containing ten thou- 
 sand dollars, while his cheeks were glowing and his 
 eyes flashing with love and pride and happiness. 
 Just then another flashing eye and flushed face 
 peered in at the window. He saw Rupert kiss Ella, 
 
TALES. 115 
 
 in a transport of feelling, saw Mm place aronnd her 
 neck a miniature of himself, attached to a massive 
 gold chain, and he supposed he was a lover of Ella's 
 and a successful one too, for he had seen Kupert 
 carry the heavy saddle-bags in, and reached the 
 door just in time to hear his expression. He stag- 
 gered from the window ; he had seen enough ; for 
 an instant he seemed rooted to the spot, then he 
 rushed round to the back of the house into the kitch- 
 en, seized a large carving knife that was lying on 
 the table, and pressing the blade to his white lips, 
 he uttered a low, deep moan, as though relieved 
 of a weight of distress. He then pressed his 
 white teeth closely together, and again rushed out 
 into the open air. Just at this moment Rupert 
 placed his saddle-bags on his horse, stopped to say 
 some pleasant adieus to Ella, " Good night, dear 
 Ella, you will be there early ?" " Yes, yes !" and 
 he was gone. Like a wounded wild beast, the man 
 who had looked in at the window, sprang back, 
 darted down a by-path, across a field or two, on, on 
 he went towards the inn, and stopped behind a 
 clump of trees, crowded densely together. It was 
 late twilight, and as our horseman was absorbed 
 amid his pleasant thoughts, he did not see the man's 
 singular movements, or notice that he was watched 
 by him. 
 
 On came our horseman with a pleasant smile 
 lighting up his face, talking low to himself, seeming- 
 ly to add to his happiness : ^' Yes, yes, fifty thou- 
 sand will do ; it will make us all very comfortable, 
 and I shall resume my profession after a few months 
 of real transport of joy and gay revel, for I mean 
 to make the old folks happy, the old house like a pa- 
 lace, and dear, sweet, gentle Ella shall be the queen 
 of domestic bliss !" 
 
 Oh, if he had but said " sister," ^' dear, sweet, 
 gentle sister," — changed only one little word. But 
 
116 TALES. 
 
 ere tlie hissing sound of tlie " s" liacl died upon the 
 solemn stillness of evening, Rupert's head was near- 
 ly severed from his body, and his lifeless corpse 
 dragged into the thicket, which was situated about 
 three rods from the inn. 
 
 Clarence buried the body with his own blood- 
 stained hands ; and late, very late, in that dark and 
 horrid place, goaded the poor horse to madness, 
 and sent him adrift with all, save the gold. 
 
 The next morning the clear, bright sunlight had 
 scarcely tinted the tops of the gorgeous foliage of 
 Autumn, when Ella sj^rang with a light bound from 
 the door-step, bounded over the stile near the cot-- 
 tage gate, in such happy haste that her feet scarcely 
 seemed to touch the earth over which she glided ; the 
 naile seemed endless — she had never felt such ecstasy 
 before ; and well Clarence, who wa& watching for 
 her, marked the glowing cheek and bounding step 
 of the once quiet, dignihed Ella, and he attributed 
 it to a far different cause. These two people loved 
 each other. Eut how different the faces, how 
 different the hearts — one was dark and troubled, 
 the other like sunshine. She had not noticed him 
 before, but just as she laid her hand upon the door 
 of her own home he grasped it — she started. " O, 
 Clarence, good morning ; how is it that you are 
 here so early this morning ? I hope nothing wrong 
 has happened, for I am so happy ! You look sad ; 
 come in, conae in, you shall be happy with us — 
 you shall soon see why Ella's heart flutters like a 
 frighted bird's." And she, for the first time, passed 
 her hand lovingly through his arm. 
 
 Her parents met her at the door, glad that she 
 had returned,- though they could not understand 
 why she came so early. 
 
 " Well," said she, after looking anxiously about 
 the room, "well, father, who had you here last 
 night ?" and she smiled. 
 
TALES. 117 
 
 " 'No one, my child." 
 
 " Had jou not a man here last night, tall — " and 
 she went on describing Eupert so eloquently, that 
 her parents gazed in her excited face, in silent won- 
 der, trying to cypher out the cause of all this anima- 
 tion in one so usually mild and quiet. But the eyes 
 of Clarence glared like a demon when the old man 
 turned to him, shaking his hand warmly. 
 
 "Why, Ella is wild, I do think. JSTo, no, my 
 daughter ; no traveller was here last night." 
 
 " JSTot here ! not stop here !" and Ella, suddenly 
 thinking that they were playing a ruse off on her, 
 put out both her hands to Clarence, and turning 
 partly away from her parents, said, laughing, " Why, 
 that is my brother ! that is Eupert! Mother it is — 
 it is your long-lost son !" 
 
 " Great God !" screamed Clarence, throwing his 
 arms and hands upward. " Great God ! I have 
 murdered Eupert Ellsworth, my Ella's brother — 
 my first, best and kindest friend !" and he rushed out 
 toward the fatal clump of trees, followed by the now 
 wretched family. When they reached him, he had 
 already, in his frenzy dragged the body of Eupert 
 to the light, and was peering into his face. I can- 
 not picture this dreadful scene, so will hasten to a 
 close. 
 
 The poor death-stricken parents recognized their 
 son at once, for the eye of love is keen ; Clarence 
 feat weeping like a child over the corpse of his once 
 beloved friend ; and Ella, who had not spoken since 
 she gave that one low shriek of despair and anguish, 
 stood apart, gazing with a vacant stare, and with 
 cheeks paler than her dead brother's, was a hopeless 
 maniac ! 
 
 Clarence, after having given himself up freely to 
 the hands of justice, contrived to place the fatal cord 
 around his own neck, and thus avoided the ig- 
 nominy of a public execution. 
 
118 TALES. 
 
 The father and mother died broken-hearted. And 
 Ella, the once gay and lovely Ella, is confined at 
 this very moment in the Bloomingale Asylum, a 
 maniac for life. 
 
 Oh, who will not acknowledge that truth is 
 stranger than fiction ? 
 
 THE AETIST'S DEEAM; 
 
 OR, LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 
 
 A TALE OF EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
 
 •' Yes, Charley, I will tell yon why I sit here nfiop- 
 mg^ as you say, doing nothing, and caring for no- 
 thing under the sun, but to sit here and mope — ^nay, 
 nay, but dreaming of one bright vision that has flash- 
 ed across my sight, one beautiful picture which 
 haunts me day and night, and beams upon my 
 heart and lives within my enraptured soul !" 
 
 " Look," said he, and his face was pale and 
 earnest, " look at that dimly lighted garret — you 
 smile, Charley, but four weeks ago that room was 
 tenanted, I do believe, by an angel — " 
 
 " In shape of a woman, of course, Frank, so go 
 on — go on with your story." 
 
 " It was scantly furnished and bespoke poverty ; 
 yet there were several articles of faded grandeur in 
 it, and by a littered table, completely piled up with 
 books, papers and manuscripts, and on which stood 
 busts of great men. Poets and Philosophers, passed 
 from our midst, though not dead ! — not dead, thank 
 God, for genius never dies — sat a lady attired in a 
 rich neglige. She seemed scarcely twenty years old ; 
 I cannot tell you the color of her eyes ; I only 
 know that they were more clearer, deeper and 
 
TALES. 11# 
 
 more expressive than any others I ever saw or ima- 
 gined; and they, too, glistened with tears. Night 
 after night I saw them fall — full, round, glittering 
 tears — one by one ; and then she would brush them 
 away proudly and resume her writing, till after mid- 
 night. For two weeks she sat there pale, and seem- 
 ingly oppressed ; yet oh ! how beautiful in her pro- 
 portions ! how perfect in her silent loveliness ! Every 
 night I darkened my Studio, and from my window 
 sat watching her changing, interesting, soul-lit face, 
 until her lamp went out, and then have I sat and 
 dreamed of her till day-light, and thought and cared 
 for nothing else all the live-long day, save to make 
 a few fruitless attempts to sketch her with my feeble 
 pencil ; it was impossible — her's was a face I could 
 not portray ; there was in the rapid play of feature a 
 constant change of expression that never has been 
 transferred to canvass ; so I gazed and gazed npon 
 her speaking beauty, and though every lineament 
 is engraven on my memory, and I wear the sweet 
 semblance indelibly upon my heart, yet I cannot 
 paint her, and my soul whispers " since this hand 
 cannot do this, I am no artist — I will abandon my 
 profession, my palette is hateful to my sight, and 
 all these tame faces that are staring on me from 
 these walls, odious, worse than mockery ; I hate the 
 work of my own hands, and now that she has gone, 
 and that room has other occupants, I gaze upon her 
 image still — she is the dream of my whole lifetime, 
 the day.star of my future, and I am waiting for her 
 return !" 
 
 I had not dared to interrupt him, and he had gone 
 on like a man talking in his sleep — there was an 
 unnatural fire in his eye, and a deep fever burnt 
 upon his cheek. 
 
 " Why Frank," said I, after a pause of profound si- 
 lence, for my own soul had caught a spark of his 
 enthusiasm, and bent to the momentary influence of 
 
120 TALES. ' 
 
 his singular infatuation — "Why, Frank, have you 
 parted with yonr common sense — gone stark, staring 
 mad ? Why, man, yon don't even know her name, 
 who or what she — " What she is !" he interrupted 
 almost fiercely, " who or what she is !" he reiterated, 
 and again relapsed into a quiescent state, and smiled 
 with the simplicity of a happy child. " She — ^yes ! 
 she is my dream of fame ! my hope of heaven ! the 
 only tangible object between me and dreamland ; 
 without her I feel I shall be nobody ! I have no 
 present but her image, I shall have no future with- 
 out her — the world is one vast incomprehensible 
 blank ! Charley, it is in the lot of every man to 
 love once, and this is my body-and-soul love !" and 
 he dropped his head heavily between his hands upon 
 the table. Poor fellow, he was all too earnest, and 
 it had dispelled my disposition to ridicule him out 
 of his romantic notions. I remembered that once — 
 a long time ago — ere the world had taught me to be 
 a cold-blooded philosopher, I had felt something of 
 his enthusiasm, something of his dependence upon 
 beauty, and imagination, and love! and I went 
 out into the gay, flashing, dashing Broadway. I 
 know not why, but I could not forget him ; and how 
 I wished I might find this lady or do any service in 
 the world for him. 
 
 ' My friend Frank was a noble-hearted fellow, an 
 orphan of a good old family-tree ; he was generous 
 and confiding to a fault, though a little too dreamy, 
 too enthusiastic perhaps for this sordid age of dollars 
 and cents, yet he was a right clever painter, and a 
 perfect pet amongst the artists who furnish the "Art 
 Union" with its gems of imagery and art, and. I 
 could point you to many a work of his pencil which 
 do now or have decorated these walls, though he is 
 not twenty-five years old ; he will ere long place 
 upon them the brightest and best gems they will 
 possess, for he is not only a painter, but a painter- 
 
TALES. 121 
 
 poet, and his pictures breathe and live, their effect 
 upon the mind, is so magical. Yon have seen them 
 and admired them too, and have wondered how he 
 conld part with the beantiful companions of his soul 
 — how he could part with them even for bread ! but 
 I forget ; you never think of bread or labor, while 
 gazing, entranced, upon the creations of his genius ! 
 I wish I dare tell you who he really is ; but one of 
 these days I will, and you shall then see that I have 
 good reasons for prognosticating his success ; perhaps 
 you will have drawn some one or two of his pictures ; 
 then this little sketch will be revived in your memo- 
 ry, for there is no such thing as forgetting possible 
 to the mind, and you will feel a new interest 
 awakened in the ' Artist's Dream,' when his friend, 
 the writer of this, may be, peradventm^e, sleeping 
 over in pleasant Greenwood. 
 
 After I left Frank, I went around into the next 
 street — for the two houses were near the corner of 
 Broadway and Broome street, and the back windows 
 were not farther apart than twelve or fourteen feet 
 — to inquire who had occupied the third story room 
 two weeks before, and if they could tell me the lady's 
 name, or where she had moved. They said her 
 name was Melville, and this was all they knew of 
 her, she had resided there about two weeks, but 
 they had seldom or never seen her ; and if they did, 
 they merely exchanged a morning or evening salu- 
 tation with her ; no one, at any time, had inquired 
 for her, or paid her a visit, though she was evidently 
 a lady, they thought, in reduced circumstances ! 
 
 Melville ! Melville ! by heaven, it is none other 
 than the bewitching Kate Melville, thought I, as I 
 sauntered up Broadway, and if she is here in this 
 city — for she was, when I knew her, 'a resident of 
 Philadelphia — I will find her whereabouts, and see 
 what all this means. Just as I was planning in my 
 mind how to commence my search in a vast city like 
 
122 TALES. 
 
 "New York, for since I had been travelling through, 
 the provinces of Europe and the more southern parts 
 of this, my na^tive State, I had lost all knowledge as 
 well as sight of mj old friend Melville and his in- 
 teresting family for over six years, my attention was 
 attracted by a tall, magnificent looking woman, 
 attired in a dark dress, a j^lain black velvet cloak, a 
 bonnet of the same material, trimmed simply with 
 long narrow black shining feathers on either side ; 
 there was not a speck of color to relieve its sombre 
 cast, save her pure, pale, sweet face and brilliant 
 auburn hair ; her step was measured and perfectly 
 unbending in its stateliness and dignity, and as she 
 drew nearer and fixed her eyes upon me, a faint 
 warm color tinted her cheek and tinged her whole 
 expression as with some happy recollection. 
 
 Was it — could it be she — Kate Melville, grown 
 up such a splendid woman ? I saw she knew me, and 
 though I was silent as I took her proffered hand, my 
 heart throbbed with a strange delight,, considering I 
 am a grave bachelor of almost forty, and my friend 
 Kate scarcely twenty — ^her whole deportment was 
 courteous but cold. 
 
 " Tell me where you live K — Miss Melville, I 
 want to see you and have a long confab about old 
 times," said I, rallying — for she too had impressed 
 me most strangely — " or I will walk with you now 
 to your home, if you will permit me the very great 
 pleasure," and I bowed low in spite of my stiff old 
 bachelor notions. 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then said, '^yes, I will tell 
 you where I reside, yes," and after telling me her 
 number, she said, " you will be there this evening at 
 eight. Once you was a friend ! once, when that 
 word meant something ! has the world spoiled you 
 too, and made you cold and calculating ?" and she 
 looked into my very soul with her large and beau- 
 tiful eyes. " I think not ! but come at eight — good 
 
TALES. 123 
 
 bye. I am on business now, yon will please excuse 
 me !" and as she passed on in her lofty beauty and 
 pride of bearing, I felt that Kate Melville was the 
 queen of women, whatever her circumstances in life 
 might be. Yes, spite of the influence of dirty 
 Broadway, transformed as it was into a perfect 
 phalanx of panopled Fifth avenue gentry, and all the 
 " pomp and circumstance" of the monied aristocracy, 
 I bent my head to the pride of honor, and to the 
 supremacy of the immortal mind ! 
 
 I thought of her all that afternoon ; her clear, mu- 
 sical voice rang in my ears like the memory of the 
 chimes of " St. Paul's," and her presence carried me 
 back to the atmosphere of sunny Italy. I pondered 
 over and over again the features of her fate, called 
 to mind every incident of which I was acquainted 
 in her former history, and never in the whole space 
 of time that had elapsed since I met my charming 
 friend, until I left her that night at 11 o'clock, and 
 found myself in my own room, had I once thought 
 of Frank ! Poor Frank, how was he ? But I could 
 not go to him then, for my mind was too much per- 
 plexed ; so after tossing about in my bed until nigh 
 morning, I fell asleep, and dreamed of Kate Melville. 
 Yes, dreamed she was — no, not my wife — but 
 Frank's ? how strange ; but then there is no account- 
 ing for dreams. 
 
 As I suspected, as I feared — Kate was poor ; and 
 this was why the fashionable world had forgotten 
 her — why she walked alone — lived in a garret, where 
 her pleasant world was amid her own creations of 
 fancy, where her life was passed in, and communion 
 with the great minds, that will always speak and aid 
 such as her, and be her companions in the palace or 
 in a hovel. Yes, Kate was poor ; and no one would 
 imagine how poor, for she was proud ; she had seen 
 better days. She was not too proud to work ; but 
 she could not succumb to the position of the work- 
 
124 TALES. 
 
 ing classes, nor labor for the miserable pittance, that 
 is but an insult to woman's common sense, as it is 
 incompetent to her comfortable suj)port. And now 
 her little store was exhausted. One by one, she had 
 parted with articles of dress ; and one by one her 
 jewels had been sold, not without regret, for she re- 
 membered with what love and pride her father had 
 bought them for her, on her birth-days, years before, 
 when they were all well and happy. And now, she 
 was an orphan ! Her father had been a proud but 
 weak-minded man — careless of his own interests, too 
 generous for his limited fortmie ; he had died sud- 
 denly in 1844, leaving his affairs in an unsettled 
 state ; and his widow who was devoted to him, was 
 incapable, through her affliction, of defending her 
 rights, and followed him, in less than a year after, 
 to his grave ; leaving Kate, the proud, fond-hearted 
 Kate, an orphan at seventeen. And I thought as I 
 listened to her story — so high-souled, too — that she 
 will ever be alone in this wide-thronged city. 
 
 When Frank first saw Kate, she was penning a 
 letter to Kufus Ehrenstein. She had been thrown 
 into his society casually, and though she felt she 
 knew him well, and had known him ail her life-time, 
 still one year had scarcely rolled over their heads 
 since they had first met ; she had seen him every day 
 since the first hours of their acquaintance, until she 
 had moved to the room opposite to Frank's studio, 
 and then, for some reason not fully comprehensible 
 to me, he did not know where she resided. But 
 perhaps her letter to him will explain : 
 
 "Dear Friend. 
 
 " I have ever been candid with you. You are the 
 only being who fully understands my situation, and 
 to whom I have confided my hopes and fears ; and 
 now I will explain this last, unadvised, unpreme- 
 ditated movement of mine. I am where you cannot 
 
TALES. 125 
 
 find me, even if yon wish, and where yon cannot 
 come until, perchance, I bid yon come to hear my 
 dying breath proclaim how I have struggled to 
 school myself to the tasks and to the fate I cannot 
 alter, and am too proud to wish different now, even 
 if it could be so. Forgive me ! I suffer and must 
 continue to suffer if I continue to exist. Yet I choose 
 to suffer from my pride rather than from my humi- 
 liation. 
 
 "You, Eufus, are changed to me — wonderfully 
 changed ! I do not pretend to say why, nor do I 
 care — it is enough for me to feel that the heart that 
 has loved you better than anything on earth, would 
 rather die than accept and acknowledge only its in- 
 debtedness — obligation — no, no, never ! 
 
 " For the past, I thank you ; the present aid yon 
 proffer, I reject, in all kindness ; the trouble you 
 have had already on my account, your self-sacrifice, 
 the fear on my part of being misapprehended, the 
 deep sense of the obligation I am under to you — all 
 tend to cramp my mind and cripple my energies. 
 I might e'en beg, if need be ; but I cannot take, for 
 my individual tenderness, pity or favor. You, Rufus, 
 have lifted me up when I was nigh sinking ; you did 
 not know it then ; but it was the doubt of your love 
 that made me so wretched. You have given me 
 bread when I was hungry — when I could not eat ; 
 but the thought that the hand of love provided it, 
 was the reason why bread was more than satisfac- 
 tory for my wants ; you have placed in my power 
 the means to be independent, if I wish, to all save 
 you — you, to whom, under some circumstances, it 
 would be my happiness to acknowledge all superiori- 
 ty — but the conviction in my own mind, that it is 
 merely sharing with others your acts of benevolence, 
 causes me to sicken at the sight of your gold, and 
 renders the gift valueless to me. I enclose it to you. 
 I send it back. Would that I could send all back 
 
126 TALES. 
 
 to you that I ever received ; it were better for my 
 peace and happiness. I feel that I have befen idle 
 — have let myself run down to absolute want. It is 
 not that I am not conscious of my ability to support 
 myself without the assistance of a husband, as you 
 have more than once suggested, but it is that I have 
 been dreaming of happiness — of one heart in which 
 I lived supreme. My confidence, my hope, my va- 
 nity is gone ; the poetry of my existence, my dream 
 of bliss has departed. I am ready now for life's con- 
 tests — ready to labor now, and effort and solitude 
 will be sweet, for it will lift me above the position 
 of a beggar ! Look at me — how, in my weakness, I 
 have followed on, step by step, to this garret ; let 
 me anticipate — sickness, suffering, a dry, hard crust, 
 without the smile or love of one pure, true heart. 
 Did God ever make me — this proud, fond, glowing 
 heart — for such a lot ? Oh, no ! no ! by the con- 
 sistency of his providence, never ! 
 
 " Still I thank you for this last lesson. You 
 thought I would do this. You believed I could — to 
 restore the elegancies that have always clustered 
 around me — you thought that for pride, for my pride, 
 for my comfort, for possession, even for a home ! (my 
 home ! thank God, the orphan hath a home in 
 Heaven !) — you thought for this I would barter my 
 heart, my soul, my love of truth and honor ? You 
 are mistaken in me, E-ufus Ehrenstein. I am proud, 
 fearfully proud ! but not as you imagine ; my poverty 
 has not the power to make me odious in my own 
 esteem, though it has had to make me contemptible 
 in yours ! Yes, I have told you how I loved, though 
 I did not tell you whom until now, and yet you 
 urged me to marry for interest ! I relieve you, 
 E-ufus ; I leave you free as you were ere I saw you. 
 But O, I cannot do this ! Circumstances may crush 
 me, pride may kill me, poverty may drag me into 
 the dens of the loathsome and the vile, but, God 
 
TALES. 
 
 127 
 
 Almiglity, the soul thou hast given me cannot be 
 destroyed or sullied 1 
 
 "How then is it that I have received aid, accept- 
 ed assistance and sat in idleness ? how is it that I 
 have done this ? was it for gainsake ? or was it that 
 I was so happy to sit and dream you loved me, 
 and build airy castles, in which you were my hus- 
 band ? If you ever knew me, which I ask you, of 
 these two emotions — these two principles — controlled 
 me ? But it is over now, and now that I know you 
 love me not, now that I feel — not by your indifference 
 to my comfort, for you have done more than you 
 ought to have done — too much ! but by your con- 
 temptous opinion of me, God knows I could not ac- 
 cept a shilling of you if I were starving. I am no 
 beggar yet, no mean and grovelling idler. If I 
 should chance to want for the necessaries of life, 
 through sickness or inaction, never give me a 
 thought, for there are public institutions I have a 
 right to apply to, and, thank heaven, though I am 
 proud, I have courage to submit to what I cannot 
 control, and where it does not involve a principle. 
 Farewell ! and believe I am happier in this poor 
 garret, alone with my poverty and my pride, than I 
 could be now under any other circumstances. Fare- 
 well ! God bless you, and make you happy, with — 
 with one perhaps you love. Farewell !" 
 
 Kufus Ehrenstein was a splendid fellow. His 
 mind was an abundantly filled storehouse of wealth, 
 and beauty and memory. He had once been opu- 
 lent, and though his coffers were not brim full now, 
 and though he was somewhat broken in health, still 
 he was courted, and counted generous and witty. 
 'Tis true that many a poor wretch had been aided 
 by his hand, and many a domestic hearth had been 
 made brighter that Eufus Ehrenstein had been there, 
 and from many an humble roof in this city, many a 
 heartfelt prayer went up for him ; and even in the 
 
128 TALES. 
 
 still watclies of the night, where the sick and dying 
 lay upon their beds of pain, his hand smoothed the 
 pillow, and his voice was heard to cheer. He had 
 done much for Kate too. And yet he was soulless 
 —strange as it may seem, his eye was blinded by 
 the god of indulgence, and he could not fathom the 
 lofty spirit of Kate Melville. 
 
 For some time after their acquaintance, Kate had 
 avoided him ; there was in her breast an intuitive 
 feeling to shun more than an exchange of compli- 
 ments, but he, with his courtly air and gentlemanly 
 deportment, his refined sentiments, and his superior 
 taste for literature, the arts and sciences, and his 
 natural love of the poets, had won upon her imagi- 
 nation, and finally, when he was very kind to her, 
 flattered her intellect with a graceful humility, and 
 a courtly bending " to her superior ability," as he 
 said, she gave him her whole heart. She loved him 
 — as Kate Melville could love — with her undivided 
 soul. 
 
 Oh, how true it is that the very noblest of huma- 
 nity can be flattered. 
 
 Ehrenstein was flckle and fond of adventure- ; he 
 had seemed to worship Kate, and for a time I sup- 
 pose he did love her, though I fear he loved others 
 quite as well ; but Kate had penetrated his weak, 
 vain spirit, and when he little dreamed of it, had 
 gazed in his world-hardened soul, and though she 
 loved him better than her earthly comfort, she de- 
 sired to live on pride and memory. 
 
 " Oh ! that I had never met him ; then all man- 
 kind had not appeared so tame and silly to me — ^the 
 whole world had not become such a blank to me — 
 then there had been truth in something ;" and she 
 said this so mournfully, that I felt she was living 
 with a broken heart. 
 
 I dared not go near Frank ; I could not tell him 
 what I now knew, so I went to see Kate every day. 
 
TALES. 129 
 
 I called one morning as usual, after the sad convic- 
 tion of the night before, that Kate was rapidly 
 sacrificing health to her mental application and un- 
 fortunate love. But Ivat chad left her lodgings, and I 
 had no clue to her or her reasons for the unexpected 
 movement. At length I thought of Ehrenstein, 
 and went to his place of business ; but he had moved, 
 no one knew whither or for what ; so I pondered for 
 several days over the occurrences of the past few 
 weeks, and made up my mind to tell Frank all about 
 the matter, and if possible, laugh him out of his silly 
 infatuation. 
 
 I called on him early next morning for this pur- 
 pose, and found him gazing intently upon a full 
 length portrait of Kate Melville, the same I had 
 noticed in her room on my first visit. It was. a 
 splendid picture, and evidently the work of a master- 
 hand, and how the deuce Frank had got possession 
 of it, was a problem I could not solve. 
 
 Frank was strongly flushed and excited ; so I 
 dared not ask him any questions, and we remained 
 silent for over an hour. At last he told me, that the 
 day before, he had seen in a newspaper an adver- 
 tisement of the sale of a portrait of a lady, who, on - 
 account of pecuniary difficulty, was forced to dis- 
 pose of it. It was a magnificent picture, and could 
 he bought low. 
 
 " I know not why," said Frank ; " but I read it 
 over and over again, and then wrote a line to the 
 advertiser, and this morning," said he, " I purchased 
 that painting, and laid the one hundred dollars upon 
 tlie trembling hand of my ill and suffering — " 
 
 " Who ?" said I ; " for heaven and earth's sake, 
 speak ; who is ill and suffering ?" for he had paused^ 
 and was peering into my ftxce. 
 
 " Kate Melville !" said he ; and his brow was 
 slightly contracted. " Oh ! tell me wherQ she is ! 
 
130 TALES. 
 
 Tell me where I can find lier ; she is the daughter 
 of my old friend, Tom Melville." 
 
 Frank looked utterly confounded ; but in the gen- 
 erosity of his impulsive nature, he had instantly 
 thrown off his dressing-gown, and was ready, hat in 
 hand, to take me to her house, if, indeed, I was 
 her friend. 
 
 On our way, I told him all about Kate's love for 
 Ehrenstein, and how, though it was her death-doom, 
 she had determined never to see him again. We 
 soon reached her dwelling, in Fourth-street, and 
 were ushered in by a colored woman, who had for- 
 merly been a servant in Mr. Melville's family. 
 
 And was I surprised to find the beautiful pale 
 face of the talented Kate Melville pressing a scarcely 
 whiter pillow, where the Angel of Death was al- 
 ready hovering ? I w^as not 1 " For those whom the 
 gods love, die young !" 
 
 She was sleeping when we entered ; and on the 
 blank page of a book, written in pencil, with a ner- 
 vous hand, we read the following lines': 
 
 " What means this strange emotion, 
 
 These mad, tumultuous fears ! 
 This quivering — this commotion — 
 
 This gush of bitter tears ? 
 It is the wildest feeling 
 
 That e'er this breast hath known : 
 My heart and mind are reeling — 
 
 I am, I am alone ! 
 
 Oh, God ! is it a warning 
 
 Of danger, death, and pain ? 
 'T is night — Ah, will the dawning 
 
 Bring peace and hope again ? 
 My heart's glass now reflecting 
 
 The shadows of my fate — 
 Father ! protect the Orphan — 
 
 Leave her not desolate." 
 
TALES. 131 
 
 The tears were yet glistening in onr eyes, when 
 the invalid looked np with a gentle smile, and 
 putting out both her hands, said, faintly, " Ah ! you 
 have come — you have found me ; bat you will for- 
 give the wayv^^ard Kate, and forget her faults, when 
 she has passed to the silent walls of death, to mingle 
 with her kindred, and be happy." And her clear 
 spiritual eye wandered from me to Frank, and for a 
 moment rested there, with an expression that seemed 
 to say, " I will meet you in the spirit's realm !" and 
 again she fell into a gentle sleep. 
 
 " How very, very beautiful !" I wliispered. 
 
 " Hush !" said Frank. 
 
 " There, there, she has gone home !" he mur- 
 mured, with a quivering breath. My dream is 
 passed — my light of earth has passed to other 
 spheres !" 
 
 I looked upon the still and pleasant face ; I passed 
 my hand rapidly to the silent heart, and I felt in- 
 deed that Kate Melville was an inhabitant of another 
 and a better land. 
 
 "This is no place for you, Frank," said I, as 
 I watched his pallid, saddened features ; " go home, 
 and I will take care of the rest, Frank. But I could 
 not urge him from the spot, though his expression 
 was as calm as the face he looked upon ; so he staid 
 there for six hours, and painted to perfection the 
 marble image of her he idolized, and of whose his- 
 tory he had never asked a question. 
 
 He goes regularly to her grave on the side of a 
 beautiful hill in " Greenwood," overlooking the bay, 
 and he has now having completed a small marble 
 slab, with the simple inscription over the device of 
 a broken palette and brushes : " The bright one has 
 fled !" His love and his grief are unaccountable to 
 me, and yet I feel that there is something holy, 
 something sublime in it. 
 
 I know not if Kufus Ehrenstein ever received 
 
132 TALE S. 
 
 Kate's letter, or Low he takes her death, but I some- 
 times see him walking Broadway with rather a dash- 
 ing lady, and although she leans heavily upon his 
 arm, and looks up tenderly in his handsome face, I 
 do not believe she will break her heart about him, 
 when he casts her off for " something new," as he 
 did the high-souled, proud-iiearted Kate Melville — 
 the Artist's Beautiful Dream. 
 
133 
 
 THE HISTOEY OF PETEE THE PLASTEEEE, 
 A]^D THE BACHELOE OF OTAGAEA. 
 
 A TALE FEOM EEAL LIFE. 
 
 I WAS born in the city of ISTew-York in one of its 
 numerons and peculiar boarding bouses ; my mother 
 was the youthful, blooming daughter of an excellent 
 old French lady, who for many years presided 
 over one of those nurseries for young and old 
 bachelors, grass-widows and undivorced husbands. 
 My father I never knew, he was a Pole, and bore 
 about him the evidence of gentle blood, a gallant, 
 though broken spirit ; and from a desire, from some 
 cause, to conceal his real name, was modest enough 
 to be contented with the name of Smith. He, poor 
 fellow, was found dead one morning in one of the 
 docks on the east side of the Hudson river, and the 
 shock broke the heart of my youthful mother." The 
 hard fate of her only and lovely child hastened my 
 venerable grandmother to the grave beside her. 
 Thus, when less than a year old, I was cast upon 
 this blooming, beautiful world, without a relation or 
 friend known to me. My grandmother had seen 
 better days, she was one of those who had fled from 
 the horrors of a St. Domingo massacre, and, bereft 
 of fortune and friends, had opened a boarding 
 house in E'ew-York. A faithful slave, at the peril of 
 her life, had aided in her escape, and feeling that 
 she was under everlasting obligations for her fidelity 
 and affection, she determined never to abandon the 
 destiny of her mistress, be it what it might, or where 
 it might — besides Mammee^ as she was called, was 
 nurse of the infant child of Madame, and whether 
 in St. Domingo or the United States, there was in 
 her judgment no person capable of taking care of 
 young " Missis " but Mammee. 
 
134 TALES. 
 
 When the hearse which bore away the body of 
 her old mistress had departed, and the dull silence 
 which ever succeeds such an event hung heavily 
 on all the remaining inmates, Mammee for the first 
 time realized her position — a negress in a com- 
 paratively strange land, bending under years, 
 and with the infant of the child of her mistress 
 claiming her protection as the only being on earth 
 who knew its hard history or who cared for its 
 future destiny. 
 
 The next day came, when an official from the 
 public administrator of the city informed Mammee 
 that she must " turn out" and find a place, and that 
 the little orphan must be sent to the Alms House. 
 " ]^ot till Mammee is dead," said the faithful Afri- 
 can, as she resolved within herself what she would 
 do. Taking her charge with her she hastened to an 
 obscure part of the city, and there hired a miserable 
 apartment. A few gold pieces which her mistress 
 in the hour of death had placed in her hand, and a 
 small account of presents deposited in the savings 
 bank, was the sole resource of poor Mammee ; but 
 affection and fidelity are never baulked in their 
 holy designs. Like truth, they walk through the land 
 in triumph, although rarely in splendor. 
 
 In this lone and unfurnished apartment on an ob- 
 scure street was I for the first two years of my life 
 sustained by my doating Mammee. By this time, 
 however, with the greatest prudence and occasional 
 labor, the poor slave had exhausted her last dollar. 
 Labor, honest labor, she knew was a safe resource, 
 and the wash-tub and the smoothing iron soon be- 
 came the chief ornaments of our humble abode as 
 the means of support. 
 
 By this time I was a playful little fellow with 
 my curling black locks flooding my shoulders, and 
 my large blue eyes glancing back the endearing 
 looks of my dear old Mammee — from the ladies who. 
 
TALES. 135 
 
 on plaited ruffles and clear, starched cap expeditions, 
 occasionally visited my obscure home, I received 
 many caresses, attended with wonderment and suspi- 
 cion. Some suspected Mammee of having purloined 
 me — others treated me as a concealed illegitimate, 
 others shed on my orphan, although happy head, a 
 tear of real sympathy and pity and offered to adopt 
 me as their own ; but Mammee would part with life 
 sooner than with her little Peter. Amongst others, 
 however, who came to sacrifice at the shrine of the 
 sable goddess of clean linen, neat crimping, and equit- 
 able clear starching, was the blooming wife of the prin- 
 cipal of one of the public schools of the city. This 
 female Samaritan insisted that I, young as I was, 
 should be sent to the institution presided over by 
 her husband — indeed, one morning she proudly led 
 me there herself and the good man of grammar and 
 of hiTcli received me kindly. 
 
 I was before outside of the world — outside of it 
 alone, with my venerable nurse; — now, alas, I found 
 myself within the magic circle, and many were the 
 witches and the fiends, and the angels and the mon- 
 sters, whom I have since found capering around it 
 with me — my youthful playmates soon instructed 
 me that I was an object of contempt, for I had a 
 black mother — the clear white forehead, the luxuri- 
 ant blue eye, the rose-lit cheek, might have refuted 
 the libel ; but slander and traduction have no ac- 
 quaintance with truth, and never deal in vulgar 
 realities. 
 
 Thus, at the first step in life, seclusion from my 
 companions was my only escape from persecution — 
 and except with Mammee, I had little peace. My 
 studies, however, with the unceasing kindness of my 
 protectress, filled up my vacant time, and I was 
 happy. 
 
 Having attained the age of twelve years, and poor 
 Mammee th'at of seventy, a necessity seemed to 
 
136 TALES. 
 
 present itself of some course of life being marked out 
 for me. My good old foster-mother would not lis- 
 ten to the thought of separation, and my kind tutor 
 was equally urgent that I should at least acquire a 
 trade. The father of his wife being a rich mason 
 and bricklayer, it was finally determined that I 
 should be apprenticed to him until my majority. 
 This came with an ill relish to my proud-spirited old 
 nurse — her young master " was too good and too 
 beautiful for such a dog's life ; could they not see he 
 was a born gentleman ?" 
 
 She yielded, however, at last, to what they told her 
 was necessity ; but then only on the condition that I 
 should still live with her. I thus became a Plasterer, 
 as you found me. My gratitude to my faithful pro- 
 tectress caused me to spend every hour not devoted 
 to toil with the one who disinterestedly loved me. 
 When there, in a sphere so lowly, yet so purified 
 and sanctified by the holy breath of true devotion 
 and disinterestedness, my heart expanded to the 
 beautiful, the sublime and the intellectual. My ex- 
 cellent master had unlocked to me the treasure of the 
 Greek and Latin languages, and the little savings 
 of my guardian enabled me to glean from a book- 
 stand an occasional odd volume of some loved 
 author. 
 
 I was now a man. My apprenticeship being pass- 
 ed, I began to earn money enough to supply amply 
 our humble household. My old nurse had become 
 bent and decrepit, though her heart was still young 
 and her eye yet bright when it rested on me. I 
 was without vices, therefore without expenses ; and 
 my wages soon began to accumulate beyond my 
 wants, for poor Mammee, infirm as she was by age, 
 would allow of no assistance in her work of love, 
 and I had not a yearning to expend a single ray of 
 affection on any being in creation but " my faithful 
 slave" — the lures of beauty, the blandishments of 
 
TALES. 137 
 
 iissipation, false promises of vice, were alike power- 
 less to break the charm which bound me to inno- 
 cence and goodness. I worshipped at that shrine, 
 although its goddess was a decrepit old negress. 
 
 By her attention to my dress, and the cleanliness 
 of my toilet — part even of a religious duty — with her 
 iron spectacles and her crumpled up fingers, she 
 managed somehow to make me appear, whether in 
 my work-dress or in my holiday apparel, as some- 
 thing which had female love to adorn it, and proud- 
 er than the wedded bride of her future lord, more 
 doating than the young mother of her first boy, was 
 my venerable nurse, " of the manly figure, the 
 firm step, the open countenance, and the mild, deep 
 tones of her young master " 
 
 My fellow workmen were not my companions ; 
 there was nothing in common between them and I. 
 The better educated, with whom I sometimes tempo- 
 rarily came in contact, soon avoided me, when they 
 discovered I was nobody, the son of nobody — that I 
 knew nobody, and nobody knew me. I was thus a 
 stranger in the land of my nativity, an outcast whose 
 whole acquaintance was with the inhabitants of the 
 other world, and I failed not to turn my weary 
 search in that direction. Blessed be the hour when 
 I first heard the first whispers of comfort and confi- 
 dence to my orphan ears through the divine revela- 
 tions of a holy religion. My guardian was proud of 
 me, my qualities and my person. She had sense 
 enough to discover that her and my humble position 
 made me an object of suspicion and neglect. Her 
 honest nature spurned the ofiered insult, and she 
 often insisted that I was the proper companion of 
 " rail tip-top gentlemen and missusses." I began 
 to feel my circle was rather narrow and contracted, 
 but then the thought of deserting for a day my 
 benefactress was not to be admitted. She herself, 
 however, one day informed me that a few hundred 
 
138 TALES. 
 
 dollars had. been accumulated in the saving's bank 
 from her frugality and my earnings, and on a sultry 
 evening, when she perceived and thought she 
 detected lassitude and feebleness on my studious 
 brow, she implored me to use this money to go into 
 the world and taste its enjoyments. I consented, and 
 for five years past have I borne successfully and 
 honestly, the double and inconsistent characters in 
 which you have discovered me — the hard-laboring 
 mechanic and the gentleman of leisure — my adven- 
 tures, receptions, and my temptations have been 
 rich, varied and instructive. My mastered life has 
 even a pleasure and a happiness about it, and I 
 envy no man his superior wealth and fortune. 
 
 I inquired of the plasterer how it could be that a 
 man of his education, accomplishments and advanta- 
 ges of person, could brook the many debasing influen- 
 ces of mind and body which surrounded him, and 
 why he did not take his proper station in society, 
 and there carve out for himself fortune and emi- 
 nence. I hinted, too, that the season of his prime 
 was passing away, and that the golden hours of op- 
 portunity never return — that the river of fortune 
 never ebbed, but ever ran downward into the ocean 
 of eternity. True, said he, but my personal labor 
 and its toil has its blessings and its enjoyments — its 
 blessings in giving me robust health, strength and 
 appetite, without which the mind is almost a useless 
 incumbrance, and I tell you, stranger, he emphati- 
 cally added, that whilst my eye traces the smooth 
 and level surface left behind my plastering trowel, 
 my mind and my fancy and my imagination are 
 actively employed in the most delightful and bene- 
 ficial reflections, the readings of my temperate even- 
 ings furnish me with texts rich and rare from 
 the minds of the " great dead," which I elaborate 
 and muse upon during the day, and this com- 
 mune betwixt myself and the glorious intellects — 
 
TALES. 139 
 
 wliose legacy of. mental wealth is beqneathed to me 
 through the press — this furnishes me with better 
 society than I have yet fonnd amongst the present 
 race of men ; at least, now that life is fresh and ambi- 
 tion unknown to me, it is qnite sufficient to make 
 me content. Have you, said he, with wealth, and 
 fame, and honors, and family, arrived beyond this 
 point ? 
 
 Besides, what rank can I assume, which, as so- 
 ciety is now constituted, would not include the dese- 
 cration and desertion of that altar of fidelity and love 
 which shall burn for me whilst the life of my sable 
 guardian continues, nay, whilst my own life lasts. 
 Think you, that for the flitting, toying, dallying 
 bliss of woman's love, I would abstract one twining 
 tie of tenderness from the heart of the negress 
 which even yet winds about me in its withered 
 folds ? ISTo, never ; duty, gratitude, honor, point to 
 her as the sole object of my care and devotion ; she 
 has now seen ninety winters, many of them for my 
 sake, and almost all of them for the sake of the loved 
 departed to whom I owe my being: winters of 
 danger, of desolation, of toil and of misery. Through 
 the thorny paths of life she and I have passed on- 
 ward together to comparative if not as perfect happi- 
 ness as this world rarely gives — we together have con- 
 quered the world, and her enduring fidelity and love 
 have enabled me, too, to conquer even myself. Can 
 I shade one moment of the few years which yet be- 
 long to her with a single anxiety, a single care ? ISfot 
 I ! "When she leaves me, as soon she must, I would 
 fain go with her, for very fear ; but if I may not, 
 till I find a soul as pure, and a virtue as truthful, I 
 will live alone ! Meantime, the narrow resource 
 my labor afibrds compels me to calculate my re- 
 sources and my time to a day and to a dollar, and it 
 was because I had expended my devoted money to 
 the last dollar, and my more precious time to the 
 
140 TALES. 
 
 last hour, tliat I so abruptly disappeared from tlie 
 whirlpool. Besides, said he, you had remarked to 
 me on our ride thither, that from the first moment 
 you saw me at JSTiagara you were convinced you had 
 seen me somewhere before ; this alarmed me, fori did 
 not choose my yeil should be lifted and my incog- 
 nito detected, and but for this accident, the singu- 
 lar coincidence of the Plasterer's paper cap and 
 my pet work Zenophon, it would not have been ; 
 however, I know you well, and I know if I require 
 it, my secret is safe with you, and as a man of 
 honor I ask of you its inviolability, at least as 
 long as my old guardian survives. Promise me that 
 I shall remain a stranger to you, at least as long 
 as my grandmne lives, unhunted, unnoticed, forgot- 
 ten. Let our acquaintance for the present be end- 
 ed ! ISTo, replied I, you can command my confi- 
 dence, but on certain conditions. Yom- case furnishes 
 a chapter in the book of human events, which I 
 have not before met with ; I have seen false Princes 
 and foreign Counts, followed and fiattered and 
 worshipped by silly women and vain men, at our 
 several watering places, and in our New- York 
 Hotels even ; but never before met with two distinct 
 characters combined in one person. Pardon me, 
 therefore, if I pursue our acquaintance a little 
 farther. The price of my confidence and the evi- 
 dence of the truth of your history must be afforded 
 in my introduction to your benefactress. My visit 
 shall be confidential, and I will make it when and 
 where a fit occasion offers. 
 
 He shook his head impatiently, and I did not 
 pursue the subject farther. I saw that his mood was 
 becoming factious, so I rode on and left him. A 
 proud, high-souled fellow, thought I ; the tool, though 
 not the victim, of a perverse lot in life. A glorious 
 mind, a splendid organization, a big warm heart, 
 truly a Prince after all, though that paper cap and 
 
TALES. 141 
 
 trowel on one of my walls in 14tli-street5 still haunts 
 my imagination. STo wonder sncli women and silly 
 fashionable men worship him as some foreign Lord, 
 and no wonder that amongst his fellow workmen he 
 stands alone a being by himself, and of himself, 
 l^oble fellow ! truly do you show forth signs of a 
 fountain of proud Polish blood in your bosom. I 
 mused of Thaddeus of Warsaw, thought of Peter's 
 father, and then came up the vision of my own de- 
 ceased sire, who was a Polander and an exile, 
 though more fortunate in choosing another country 
 than this for his home, and who had attained wealth, 
 friends and appreciation. I was musing thus, when 
 something touched me on the shoulder and arrested 
 my attention ; it was my fellow horseman, who 
 handed me his card very politely and then drove 
 on with speed. 
 
 As soon as I reached l^ew-York city, I hunted up 
 my friend the plasterer and found him in his ob- 
 scure dwelling and in the deepest affliction. His faith- 
 ful old nurse had, in his absence, been suddenly 
 brought down to the bed of death by a stroke of 
 palsy, and was fast hastening to that land where 
 there is no respect of persons, no distinctions of 
 shade or color. 
 
 As soon as the woman's eyes rested on my face, 
 she exclaimed, " It is, it must be Albert, the brother 
 of my Peter's father. Quick, Peter, open that box in 
 "Mammee's" old chest and get the miniature of your 
 father and his brother. Thank God, thank God, I do 
 not leave him alone ; he can prove he's a gentleman," 
 and she was gone to a brighter and a better country 
 — the land of spirits ! 
 
 "Well, Emma, it proved as the old woman had said. 
 The papers and the miniatures proved it without 
 doubt, and need I tell you that your affianced husband 
 is none other than the plasterer with the paper cap, 
 whom I first saw finishing these very walls, and the 
 
 7* 
 
142 TALES. 
 
 dashing bachelor of !N^iagara, the foreign Count 
 whom all the ladies there — married or single — fell in 
 love with, and whom we often saw years ago walking 
 Broadway towering in his majesty of bearing above 
 the throng. 
 
 He has long wished me to tell you his history, and 
 the reason I have given yon it, and thus abruptly in 
 his own words, is because I know my wife's sister 
 possesses too true a nature to let this disturb her con- 
 fidence or her happiness. No other person in all the 
 vast crowd who court and flatter my Cousin and are 
 jealous of his lovely affianced bride is aware of his 
 secret. Thus does the world " look at the coat, and 
 not at the man !" 
 
 THE GEAYEYAED. 
 
 Oh ! what a place of sacred meditation ! Each 
 grassy mound tells a tale of thrilling inference, and 
 lightly do our feet press the cold clay which covers 
 the silent bosoms of our worst enemies. The lips 
 that slandered us are sealed, and the hearts which 
 betrayed are closed forever. If memory sets forth in 
 hated array the injuries they have unsparingly 
 heaped upon us, we feel a compunctious throb, they 
 err no more — they are dead ! and the Father has pu- 
 rified their spirits as He will our own. God loves 
 them, they are His creatures — our kindred. Oh ! 
 how I love thus to wander — thus to think ; it makes 
 me better — it makes me happier. 
 
 But far different are the feelings which come 
 thronging to the heart as we gaze on the conse- 
 crated spot which encloses the ashes of buried affec- 
 tion or respect. We enumerate their virtues, we 
 call to mind their cherished and intellectual society, 
 
TALES. 143 
 
 tlieir friendship and love, their counsel or sympa- 
 thy ; and the heart becomes so desolate, its emotions 
 sorrowful and selfish, that the burthen of existence 
 seems too heavy to be borne. The brightest beauties 
 of earth are rayless, the very flowers fade and are 
 scentless, e'en though they blossom on our loved 
 ones' graves — emblems of the spirit's bloom in Hea- 
 ven ; for the soul that could drink in beauty and 
 fragrance, the sense that could appreciate loveliness, 
 is concentrated in one hope — a speedy reunion in 
 the bright land above, or gazing through the vista of 
 months or years, to a home of confiding happiness — 
 congenial love and repose. 
 
 But O, when v/e read the most simple inscription 
 on that slab which bears the hallowed name of mo- 
 ther, what a world of emotion thrills to the deepest 
 recesses of our soul. It soars far upward, even as 
 the fond prayer for its flight and reunion, leaves its 
 tabernacle of clay and is borne on the sacred wings 
 of stilly night to the regions of eternity, its birth- 
 place — its home. But soon we leave those loved 
 ones on the bosom of that Father whose hand sus- 
 taineth, and whose love endureth forever, to think of 
 those children of hapless orphanage left in this bleak 
 world without natural protectors ; with no kindly 
 hand to counsel or guide in temptation's darkest 
 hours ; no voice of parental love to soothe when sor- 
 row's blight sinks deep into the heart and closes the 
 well-spring of joy ; no words of consolation to 
 smother the insinuating breath of slander, or chase 
 away its bitter influences, when the pure balm of 
 religion, with our blessed Saviour's teachings, are 
 wrenched from them by perversion or treachery ; no 
 unclouded beam on which the mind may rest ; no 
 anchor of faith to which the heart might cling when 
 all things earthly bear the stamp of mutability. 
 Oh ! then the bosom bleeds at every pore. Death 
 lias indeed robbed us of them ; their lamp of life has 
 
144 TALES. 
 
 gone out scarcely to be re-illumined in the splendor 
 of those nnperverted teachings of the blessed Gospel 
 of Jesns Christ — the Friend and the Saviour of the 
 human race — the Star of our brighter and better 
 home ; yes, even that of our Father and God. 
 
 I have seen an orphan seated on her parents' 
 grave, gazing with a cold heart and vacant stare on 
 the silent earth which embosomed them in the prison- 
 house of mouldering humanity. A home of magni- 
 ficence awaited her, and all the world calls lovely 
 was lavishly provided. But what to her were the 
 glittering toys of wealth ? Could a sense of external 
 beauty fill up a vacancy of heart or sustain the soul 
 as memory gazed back upon the past. Could it re- 
 store the fond mother, or the kind father, with his 
 affectionate blessing and approval? No, no. She 
 mourned without hope, and the very breeze mocked 
 her senseless murmurs of regret, and the grass wav- 
 ing on the mound was watered by the bitter tears of 
 hopeless sorrow. O how inadequate the language 
 of brightest oratory, how feeble the ^^ower of the 
 pencil, when engaged in portraying such grief — such 
 a loss. 'T is true that, as the eye wanders over the 
 glowing canvas, or rests on the mild face portrayed 
 by the artist — when our hearts pause breathlessly to 
 catch the flow of feeling eloquence, we needs must 
 value highly the skill of human attainment, and deem 
 science a great blessing. But oh ! if they tell us not 
 of a happy reunion far up in that universal home so 
 familiar to the contemplation of true Christian phi- 
 lanthropy ; if they j)aint not those attributes which 
 can belong only to the perfect Deity, whose bound- 
 less goodness enchains the worship of the human 
 heart — if they display not faithfully the character 
 and teachings of the Messiah "who came not to 
 destroy, but to save," inefficient and unsatisfying 
 is all their eloquence. 
 
 Oh, why throw aside the blessings of reason and 
 
TALES. 145 
 
 trutli? why make the earth a continual scene of wo, 
 and the heart a receptacle of the fearful teachings of 
 partialism? why tremblingly hope, when the sus- 
 taining arm of Omnipotence is under us, and the 
 spirit o± our Father's love is round about us ? " God 
 IS love.'' O let us trust Him, for He is a God of 
 truth without variableness or the shadow of change. 
 C^od IS love, and though he chastens us severely, we 
 need displays of justice, and it is in mercy He afflicts 
 us. Oh let us with humble gratitude, in seasons of 
 sorrow and chastisement, (untrammeled by the dog- 
 mas of man-made creeds and systems,) go to tlfe 
 tountam that never dries, and drink from the cup of 
 i.ove that never dregs, where the hand of our Al- 
 mighty father poureth in the living waters. 
 
 THOUGHTS AT l^IGHT. 
 
 Well, here am I yet, and still the moon beams 
 with silvery brightness, and night is calm and love- 
 ly, as I was wont to see and feel it, long, long time 
 ago ; and since I have sat here, where has my spirit 
 not wandered m the world of thought-what his been 
 the theme ol meditation ? The vastness of the Love 
 of God ! The Love of God ! who can comprehend 
 It, who can find it out ! Oh ! what does it not ex- 
 press ! For me it has opened the door of the dark 
 tomb, and I have followed the earthly dead to the 
 portal of heaven and gazed in on the tme glory of 
 God ! My father, once the sufferer of this world's 
 wrongs, heart-weary of its toils and trials, resting on 
 a Saviour's bosom; by him, those who had made 
 the widow's house desolate, and heard with still- 
 hearts the orphan's wail ; there shone a face, beau- 
 tiful, 1 18 true, in death, but in life ne'er lighted with 
 
146 TALES. 
 
 intelligence — whence glared the idiot's anger and 
 rung out his hollow langh; how beautiful, how 
 pure by that glory ! And there have gathered ge- 
 neration after generation, like leaves in a vast forest, 
 made radiant by the beams of an Autumn sun, far- 
 ther and farther reaches the glory of that sun of 
 Love — Goodness — Mercy — Omnipotent Perfection ! 
 I have knelt at the footstool of Jehovah, and as the 
 bright halo spread wider and more wide, until every 
 beauty, and every angel borrowed thence their lus- 
 tre ; it went out, out, until I was lost in following 
 the spires of splendor, and the eyes and brain reel- 
 ing and burning with intensity, fell to the earth. I 
 have been out amongst the stars, and wandering 
 through the heavens, and there gazing on space and 
 beauty — went up, up, up, until weary of magnifi- 
 cence. Oh ! where shall gratitude find bounds, 
 when or where shall adoration and praise cease ! 
 
 I have been back to the time ere the heart suf- 
 fered one bitter pang, and faith, earthly faith, was as 
 universal ; affection, deep and infusive, as the peace- 
 ful light of yon moon ; innocence hailing innocency, 
 truth meeting truthfulness. Sweet, hallowed youth- 
 time, I must drop one tear to thy memory as I pass, 
 though smiles and many bright, dear flowers have 
 strewn thy pathway, and a joyous heart throbbed 
 high in the light forms that gaily tripped in thy airy 
 bowers. And now as memory's page lies open, 
 without one spot to mar its loveliness, while the 
 scenes of my childhood cheer me, oh ! Great Spirit, 
 Father, God, can I tell thy love ? I^o, no, it carries 
 me back, back, and again I am lost in its vastness. 
 
 And even now, while the voice of contention and 
 slander is yet ringing in my ears, and the goaded 
 agony of resentment has scarcely ceased clutching 
 my heartstrings ; yes, yes, though falsehood and in- 
 sult write their epitaph on the tombstone of every 
 earthly affection and trust, I shall feel thy mercy 
 
TALES. 147 
 
 and love every where ; it shall be about me to keep 
 the dark veil of sin and folly from thy cell in my 
 bosom, and the gem of thy creation shall glow 
 brighter and brighter 'neath the chastening hand of 
 Its Maker. ^ 
 
 ALL IS PASSIE'G AWAY. 
 
 O, AuTum! from thy variegated fields, thy 
 placid rivers, thy mild sunshine and thy fast fading- 
 loveliness, comes forth the voice—" Ail is passini 
 away." As I wander over thy hills of many co- 
 lors, and gaze out upon the broad expanse of thy 
 unlimited beauty, an unspeakable freshness seems 
 bracing every nerve and exhilarating every faculty 
 ot body and soul. I heed not in my charmed soli- 
 tude the sins and cares of this lower world but 
 looking only with gratitude and affection, from 
 nature up to nature's God, how do thy lessons fall 
 with mingled gladness and gloom upon my heart 
 O, must this charm be broken— these endearing 
 pleasures pass away ? ° 
 
 Yes, soon, how soon, must nature receive her 
 wintry garb, and from yonder groves, whence the 
 birds carol forth their sweet songs, inviting the soul 
 to purer praise, alone will be heard the hollow 
 sound of the woodman's axe cleaving the strong 
 trunks of these lordly trees, whose lofty branches 
 are now waving in autumnal magnificence ! 
 
 And thou too, noble oak, on whose bark I have 
 graven the names of the dead, the loved who have 
 gone from the contaminating intercourse of the un- 
 just, the derision of the unfeeling ; thou too perhaps 
 must fall ; and from the dear spot where thou dost 
 stand with all thy memories, thy endearing associa- 
 
148 TALES. 
 
 tions, will come forth in sadder sounds, " All, all is 
 passing away." 
 
 Oh ! loved spirit of my sainted father, this tree, 
 on which I have carved thy cherished name, thus 
 making it bear the impress of my heart — near 
 which thy shade has hovered with a smile of conso- 
 lation, or a tear of pity — too soon, like thine own 
 dear form, will be borne away to mingle its ashes 
 with mother earth. 
 
 Loved tree ! how oft have thy wide spreading 
 branches sheltered me from the scorching heat, and 
 mellowed the glorious rays of the summer's sun, till 
 I could gaze undazzled on the deep blue vault of 
 heaven, when its perfect azure was unobscured by a 
 single cloud — how have the light breezes playing 
 through thy leaves led my soul to unwonted quietude 
 and joy. 
 
 But oh ! my father, too soon, like thee, must it 
 withdraw its kindly protection and influences, and 
 cease to gladden with its greenness and beauty this 
 sad and lonely heart. O, Autumn ! though I love 
 thee, with thy salutary lessons, when I think and 
 feel thus I turn away from the splendor of thy 
 scenes, and weep as one with whom grief alone has 
 companionship. 
 
U9 
 
 EEFLECTION. 
 
 Shadows have hung above my way. 
 For many a weary, restless day, 
 'As if some demon wove a spell, 
 Too fearful for his imps to tell ; 
 But by life's beauties half concealed. 
 An unjust doom their breaths revealed, 
 Which cast upon life's fondest ray, 
 A cold, unwholesome, cheerless spray. 
 
 And, thus, e'en from my very birth 
 I 've wandered o'er the beauteous earth, 
 Feet clogged, mind viewless of its goal, 
 "With incubus on heart and soul ; 
 Plodding and plodding in the track, 
 Trembling — ^yet gazing sadly back. 
 To mourn o'er rapid, wasted years, 
 And dew the wayside flowers with tears. 
 
 Oft have I prayed to find the power. 
 To claim one clear unfettered hour ; 
 And let my full soul wander free 
 To learn my being's destiny ; 
 The spirit hath its idoled throne. 
 And often wandereth there alone. 
 To worship with a wild caress 
 A spiritual tenderness ; 
 A wavering, indefinite love, 
 For all above — or seems above, — 
 
150 POEMS. 
 
 The compreliension of my gaze, 
 An ever varying, wondrous maze. 
 
 * * -JS- * 
 
 But a dull earth, a mole-like life, 
 Beset with contest, toil and strife, 
 Pain, sickness, misery and death, 
 And sin's most pestilential breath. 
 Distract me with their vivid glare, 
 And reason's faculties ensnare. 
 
 Such are my thoughts, that oft I find 
 Myself, regardless of my kind. 
 And kneeling to some shadowy form, 
 Forget the duties that adorn 
 The woman, and the sphere in life 
 Which calls her Mother, Friend and Wife ; 
 And sitting thus in listless trance. 
 Weave tissues of some wild romance. 
 And weep o'er many a fancied wo, 
 I trust my heart may never know. 
 
 I wander when the stars are bright. 
 
 To hear the voices of the night ; 
 
 And talk to silent, breathless things. 
 
 And bend beneath the fluttering wings 
 
 Of angels^ in the clear blue air. 
 
 And, Oh ! what breathless, formless prayer, 
 
 Enshrouds me, 'til my visions lie 
 
 Like clouds athwart the ambient sky. 
 
 Sweet Nature ! how I love to trace 
 The softest smiles upon thy face, 
 
POEMS. 151 
 
 And e'en the tempests wildest roar 
 Melts me to tremble and adore ; 
 
 * -X- * * 
 Then tell me, Guardian of my waj, 
 Why earth is dark in broad mid-day 
 Why, when the light illumes the air, 
 Does life seem cold and dense with care — 
 Why glooms creep on, and sorrow moans 
 O'er all the earth's mysterious tones ? 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Think not to pass from sorrow free 
 Thine is a dark, sad destiny ; 
 If there is sunshine on thy track 
 Black clonds will cast their glances back ; 
 And when thy heart with joy is bright 
 There 's gloom upon life's page to. blight. 
 
 * * * -Sf 
 
 Oh ! why is this ? since early youth 
 I 've sought the lovely, loved the truth, 
 Worshipped the bright — ^the meanest thing — 
 The wind, the bird upon the wing. 
 And on the green of nature's breast 
 I 've slept, and by her been caressed. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Mortal ! above the things that die. 
 
 The beauty of the earth and sky, 
 
 Above the darkness, or the light 
 
 Which palls thy bliss, and blurs thy sights 
 
 There is a spirit world more fair, 
 
 Seek ye a perfect entrance there. 
 
152 POEMS. 
 
 * 4f # 4f 
 
 E'en now I love without control 
 
 Another fond and kindred soul ; 
 
 I watch, I wait, I pray the time 
 
 When in a union so sublime 
 
 'I '11 wed me to a world of bliss, 
 
 That maj reach Heaven and dwell in this. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Yain mortal ! there are other cares 
 And other things deserve thy prayers ; 
 Go, seek the hovels of the poor, 
 The sick and suffering strive to cure ; 
 There 's wounds to heal and sores to bind, 
 And there are thousands of thy kind, 
 ■jf * * * 
 
 Wealth is not mine, else would I give. 
 To heal and comfort all that live ; 
 Freely I 'd take from my own store. 
 And cast it at the poor man's door ; 
 His sorrows add to mine, I know. 
 The larger portion of my wo. 
 
 •5f ^ * « 
 
 Ah ! why these dreams — this mental power ? 
 Mind seems life's best and grandest dower ; 
 It fathoms earth, and seeks above 
 To mimic God's unbounded love — 
 It feels 'tis mortal, yet can see 
 Its Father, God — the Deity ; 
 And yet of earth it fails to learn 
 Why life is short, and fate is stern ; 
 
POEMS. 153 
 
 Why change is writ on ev'rj place, 
 Humble or grand — the loveliest face 
 Is often loveless, at the heart — 
 The verj soul changes, and art 
 Assumes the place of truth ; why love 
 Grows cold and selfish, and the dove 
 Of peace beareth the olive branch afar ; 
 Why clouds obscure hope's brightest star ; 
 Why grief and gloom and care brood all 
 The race of Man since Adam's fall ; 
 Why graves are in the brightest spots, 
 And Death at last must be our lots ? 
 
 MY HUSBAI^D. 
 
 Be still ! dull care, and let me wake, 
 In lute-like sounds on silvery lake. 
 The thoughts that thrill my being's core, 
 Of him I cherish and adore, 
 
 My husband. 
 
 Avaunt ! ye fears, that all the day 
 Have kept thy soothing tones away ; 
 That thou art absent, conquers pain, 
 And gloom and loneliness again. 
 
 My husband. 
 
 'Now that soft evening veils the light 
 In drapery gemm'd with stars so bright, 
 O, Spirit of Existence ! wreathe 
 Thy chaplets— softly as I breathe. 
 
 My husband. 
 
154 POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! twine above thy brow and heart 
 Treasures that fade not, nor depart ; 
 May hope be of perennial bloom, 
 Nor fonl distrust become our doom : 
 That oiigJit-sTiade must not hover near — 
 'Tis dark with weeping, cold with fear. 
 
 My husband. 
 
 There is an emblematic flower, 
 "Which lives alone in nature's bower, 
 And poets call it " Constant Love." 
 Let that outvie and rest above 
 All other beauties that adorn 
 The crown that should not have a thorn, 
 
 My husband. 
 
 TO D. K. K. 
 
 ANTIQUARIAN ARTIST. 
 
 Welcome ! right welcome ! son of Art, 
 
 Of genius and of skill, 
 Thy mind, thy soul, thy noble heart, 
 
 To tones of science thrill ; 
 Thine eyes seek out the precious things 
 
 Of wealth and beauty rare. 
 And from remotest lands ye bring. 
 
 Treasures beyond compare. 
 
 Old masters, who long years ago 
 Have laid their pencils by, 
 
POEMS. 155 
 
 "Whose pictures, dim with age, bestow 
 
 Their talent to thine eye. 
 And thon from nooks and corners, still 
 
 Insatiate, drag to light. 
 Old gems of art, old works of skill 
 
 To charm the heart and sight. 
 
 Again old Gainsborough breathes and lives 
 
 In that dear " Sunset Scene !'' 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds surely gives 
 
 Soul to his lw6 " ]^ell Gwynne !" 
 Gruyze's St. Catherine on the wheel, 
 
 Murillo — Cuyp — Landseer, 
 Do these not live ? my senses reel, 
 
 The dogs ! the fox ! the deer ! 
 
 The " Gipsey Tents" by William Shayer ; 
 
 And Herring's " Farm Yard" sight ; 
 Collins — all, all beyond compare ! 
 
 Bannockburn by moonlight, 
 (A battle scene by McCuUock drawn ;) 
 
 Yan Der Hagen's Wilkie's store ; 
 And Wilson's lovely " Early Morn," 
 
 How can we but adore. 
 
 Spirit of Hogarth, hovering near 
 
 Thy perfect light and shade ! 
 Paul Potter — Morland, too, are here 
 
 To swell the grand parade, 
 Wouverman, Bateman, many more, 
 
 Are thy companions. Bead ! 
 Ye know their touches, and restore 
 
 Their works, to thine own meed. 
 
156 POEMS. 
 
 It is enongli for one like thee 
 
 TJnenvious in thine Art, 
 To know such spirits, and to be 
 
 Bound to them, soul and hearts 
 Blest as thou art with gifts so rare 
 
 And talents such as thine, 
 Thy world must be bright, true and fair, 
 
 Thy life almost divine. 
 
 Welcome ! right welcome ! to our shores. 
 
 The shores of liberty. 
 Bring, bring thy beauties and thy stores 
 
 Of wealth to bless the free ! 
 Surely in this proud land of worth. 
 
 Thou 'It meet with thy just due, 
 We love the plaoe that gave us hirth^ 
 
 The gifted, good, and true. 
 
 SEEEISTADE TO EMMA MAY 
 
 Come, come with me, my love ! 
 Far o'er the sea, my love ! 
 I'm happy, I'm happy. 
 Alone with thee, my love ! 
 Come, where the waters deep 
 A constant revel keep. 
 There will our fond hearts beat 
 Joyous and free. 
 
 Come, come away, my love ! 
 Ere peeps the day, my love ! 
 
POEMS.. 167 
 
 I 'm happy, I 'm happy ! 
 Always to stay, my love .! 
 Come ! my ancestral dome — 
 Italy's sunny home. 
 Waits with her flowery throne 
 America's " May," 
 
 Come with thy smile, my love ! 
 To that bright Isle, my love ! 
 I 'm happy, I 'm happy. 
 With thee the while, my love ! 
 Come, I will worship thee. 
 Queen of my destiny ; 
 Life and its cares to me 
 Love shall beguile. 
 
 IMPEOMTU 
 
 TO MRS. MARY. G. 
 
 An untold tale is written already there. 
 On that pale brow — is it of grief or care ? 
 Tender, serene thou art — faithful and kind, 
 With truth and intellect and grace combined — 
 What means this, lady ? what has been thy fate ? 
 Ah ! thou hast loved — and thou art desolate. 
 
 Thou art a Mother ! where is he who swore 
 To be thy shield, to love thee evermore ? 
 Where is his vow, before the altar given ? 
 
 8 
 
158 POEMS. 
 
 Has lie forgotten thee, or does he sleep 
 
 The sleej) that knows no waking, still and deep ? 
 
 Or is he now afar, steaming the ocean wave, 
 
 Seeking some strange land — another digging slave 
 
 Of gold ? forgetting friends and home. 
 
 The tender tie of children, wife ! to roam 
 
 Over the midulating sea of life. 
 
 Amidst its whirlpool, its disease, its strife ? 
 
 Well may 'st thou grieve, if either these may be 
 
 Thy watching, waiting, wearying destiny ; 
 
 Well may thy cheek grow pale, thine eyes look dim 
 
 Weeping and praying in thy love for him ! — 
 
 The father of thy children, far or near. 
 
 Faithful or faithless, must be ever dear ! 
 
 December, 1850, Albaxny. 
 
 LIKES 
 
 TO A RACE HORSE. 
 
 Speed, speed, dashing " Dolphin," ily over the plain, 
 Erect thy bold head, wave, wave thy proud mane I 
 So gentle, so passive — high mettled and gay, 
 IS^one can surpass thee, Dolphin, upon thy swift way. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! — lanky pony, mean, mean is thy race. 
 There is no competing with Dolph's dashing pace ; 
 Fly, fly, dancing Dolphin ! it humbles your pride, — 
 He is distanced— vain beast — by thy single stride. 
 
POEMS. 159 
 
 Ho, ho ! bonny Dolphin, thou hast flown as the wind, 
 And left the poor horse and his rider behind ; 
 Poor fellow ! he looks like a crow in a gale, 
 And the crest-fallen horse hangs his head and his 
 tail. 
 
 Whoa, ho ! let us gaze on each delicate limb, 
 Thy fine-shapen neck, thy sleek sorrel skin ; 
 I 'm no jockey, and yet I do love thy bold race, 
 So faithful, so noble, so fleet in thy j^ace. 
 
 There, there, take the rein, now thy action is free ! 
 Thou canst graze on the lawn 'neath the shade of this 
 
 tree; 
 Snuff up the pure breeze and prance in your ]3ride. 
 Whilst I shall partake like joys at your side. 
 
 And drink from this stream, it is bubbling and pure, 
 Man's wine cannot barter thy freedom, I'm sure ; 
 ISTor taste so refined. — Come, Dolphin, and drink, 
 Oh ! translucent spring with thy fresh mossy brink. 
 
 We are equal now. Dolphin ; the same liealtliful 
 
 breeze. 
 Thus pleasantly singing among the glad trees. 
 'T is for us ; and the Hand that upholds the bright 
 
 sky. 
 Made all to enjoy, as it hath you and I ! 
 
160 .POEMS. 
 
 DEIKXraG SONG. 
 
 CONTRIBUTED. 
 
 I drink to life ! wlio will not join 
 To scorn tlie reaper, Death ? 
 
 He is no man, wlio trembling fears 
 To liail his dying breath. 
 
 Drink ! Drink ! 
 
 I drink to love ! that glorious boon ! 
 
 And who will love destroy ? 
 Who loves not does not live, nor should. 
 
 For he is dead to joy. 
 
 Drink! Drink! 
 
 I drink to friendship's holy name, 
 
 Its mild forgiving eye ! 
 And he who never made a friend, 
 
 'Tis time for him to die ! 
 
 Drink! Drink! 
 
 Bright fillets soft and garlands fair, 
 About my brow with joy I'll twine — • 
 
 And kiss the cold pale lips of death ! 
 If, when he comes, I have no friend. 
 Drink ! Drink ! 
 
X.9 
 
 I 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY CAMPBELL, 
 
 MARY MEL, ETC. 
 
 Inms h %numt nf M. €. 1J 
 
 \y^ 
 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY T. W. STRONG, 
 
 98 NASSAU STREET. 
 
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