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 POEMS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 REV, JOHN W, CURTIS, M. A 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 EDWARD 0. JENKINS, 
 
 NO. 114 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 fa /&*> *fr, ££*^\^6 ^ sTL-I?^^ 
 
^ A 
 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 
 BY GEO. H. CURTIS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 
 New York. 
 
 
 V 
 
 v 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Memoir, 9 
 
 The Poesy or Religion, 17 
 
 The Scottish Character, 35 
 
 Lautaro, . 51 
 
 Translations and Imitations of Classic Authors: 
 
 I. — Virgil's Praise of Rural Life, 61 
 
 II. — The Pursuit of Happiness, 62 
 
 III.— Genius of Milton, 64 
 
 IV.— The Chief in the Battle of Shields, ... 66 
 
 V.-^A Visit by Night, 67 
 
 VI.— The Close of Life, 69 
 
 VII.— The Memory of Schoolboy Days, .... 70 
 
 VIII. — Aristaeus and his Bees, 71 
 
 IX.— First Scene in the Tragedy of Medea, ... 73 
 
 X. — First Chorus in Medea, . 75 
 
 XL— Stabat Mater, 77 
 
 XII.— Dies Irae, ... .... 80 
 
v i CONTENTS. 
 
 Songs : Pa § e 
 
 The Pilgrim, 85 
 
 Spring is coming, lovely Mary, 
 
 Evening, Welcome !...•••• 87 
 
 The " Marseillaise," 
 
 Heaven sends Religion's Charm, 9i 
 
 The Triumph of Virtue, 93 
 
 Elegies : 
 
 To the Memory of Bishop Hobart and Rev. E. D. Griffin, . 101 
 To the Memory of the Rev. Sutherland Douglas, . . 103 
 In Memory of James Lawrence Yvounett, . . - .104 
 Ode to the Memory of Eliakim Warren, Esq., . . 106 
 
 To the Memory of Esaias Warren, Esq., . • • . 10S 
 The Death of Mrs. Phoebe Warren, . . • • ll ° 
 
 Lines on the Death of Mrs. Mary Knox, . * • .112 
 Lines to the Memory of a Young Married Lady, . . 113 
 On the Death of an Aged Grandmother, .... 1*5 
 To the Memory of my Two Brothers, . . . • I 16 
 
 To the Memory of J s Eugene D x, . . . ■ U? 
 
 To the late George Lorillard, Esq., . . • • 119 
 To the Memory of the Rev. James Montgomery, D. D., . 121 
 
 The Fate of Grecian Liberty. i23 
 
 An Infant's Pain and Joy, 1 131 
 
 A. 
 To a Youthful Mother, Jf 13o 
 
 To Miss M. B m 
 
 138 
 Acrostic, 
 
 To Mrs. J. A. C., i39 
 
 The Consecration, - • 
 
CONTENTS. V1 i 
 
 Page 
 
 Hymn for the Sick, 142 
 
 The Aged Soldier and his Daughter, .... 143 
 Miscellaneous Pieces : 
 
 The Melancholy Hour, 151 
 
 There is Beauty, 154 
 
 To Miss E. P. B., 155 
 
 Our Home is not on Earth, 156 
 
 The Three Holy Days, 157 
 
 The Feast of Ancient Egypt, 158 
 
 The Trials of Virtue, 160 
 
 Enigma, 161 
 
 On receiving Counsel from an Aged Friend, . . . 162 
 
 The Word of God, 163 
 
 Hypocrisy, 164 
 
 Enigma, 165 
 
 Lines on the Stanzas of a Friend, 166 
 
 To the Muse Thalia, 16S 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 John W. Curtis, the eldest son of Zechari&h Curtis, was 
 born at Troy, in the State of New York, on the 7th Jan- 
 uary, 1804. His grandfather, on the mother's side, and his 
 father, were among the early settlers of this now large and 
 flourishing city. 
 
 To this grandfather, William Roberts, Sen. — who had 
 served in several engagements during the great Revolution- 
 ary struggle — he was indebted for many a thrilling tale 
 
 "Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach." 
 
 The grandsire received an attentive hearing, for the young 
 listener deemed it his most delightful recreation, during his 
 earlier studies, to watch the old man relating his stirring 
 stories and " fighting his battles o'er again." Both are now 
 gone ; but the Revolutionary soldier, with the iron consti- 
 tution of the men of those days and scenes, survived his 
 grandson for about two years. 
 
 Contemplative and retiring, from early childhood, the 
 young student was left, to a great extent, to read those 
 books and frequent those haunts which his own mind sug- 
 gested as in best accordance with his taste. The works of 
 the standard English poets had become familiar to him be- 
 2 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 fore he commenced the Latin, and a volume of a favorite 
 one of them was not infrequently his sole companion in his 
 wanderings along the banks of the Poesten-kill, or beneath 
 the shade of stately Ida. To those who have viewed the 
 falls of Poesten-kill, or the prospect from Mount Ida, in the 
 immediate vicinity of Troy, it will not appear strange that 
 the youthful poet should soon have searched them out, or 
 that what there met his eye, as he turned from his book, 
 should have seemed the work of sudden enchantment. 
 Like his own Lautaro, he 
 
 " raptured gazed, 
 
 "While these his purest transports raised." 
 
 The views are certainly among the finest in a country 
 abounding in fine scenery. 
 
 His education, preparatory to college, was entrusted to 
 the care of Dr. Stodart and Mr. M'Niece, both of whom 
 were good classical scholars. His advancement under the 
 latter was rapid ; so much so, that he was induced to study 
 a year longer than he had originally intended, before he 
 entered college. These years, immediately preceding his 
 college life, were devoted to a discriminating study of the 
 best Latin and Greek authors — his common-place book 
 abounds with choice extracts from them, together with his 
 own translations. Several of these translations will appear 
 in this volume ; but, out of many of them, the following is 
 selected as an evidence of his powers at the age of thirteen : 
 
 " Non possidentem multa vocaveris 
 Recte beatum : rectius occupat 
 Nomen beati, qui Deorum 
 Muneribus sapienter uti, 
 Duramque callet pauperiem pati, 
 Pejusque letho flagitium timet : 
 Non ille pro caris amicis 
 
 Aut patria timidus perire." 
 
 Horace, B. iv., O. 9, L. 45. 
 
MEMOIR. 1 1 
 
 1 Thou hast not rightly said, that he is happy 
 Whoe'er is rich ; he much more justly claims 
 The name of truly blessed and happy man, 
 Who knows to use with gratitude and wisdom 
 The advantages which Providence affords ; 
 And bear with patience poverty and woe ~, 
 Who baseness fears e'en more than death itself; 
 And when his friends or country dear demands 
 His hand and sword, ne'er shows himself a coward !" 
 
 Fully prepared to pass the examination in both the clas- 
 sical and mathematical departments, he joined the Sopho- 
 more class at Union College in September, 1821. By pre- 
 vious severe study, he secured much time, during his college 
 life, to devote to general reading, and his compositions, 
 while in the Sophomore class, evinced much rare research, 
 besides their usual pious tone of feeling. " Lautaro" was 
 written in the course of the first year, and the reader will 
 perceive that the holy patriotism which it breathes is only 
 excelled by its glowing sympathy with the youthful hero's 
 amiable and social qualities of heart. " Such were his 
 dreams" at seventeen ; and though " full soon to manhood's 
 dawning prime he grew," he did not cease to build up man- 
 sions of happiness for the future — imaginary, like Lautaro's, 
 alas ! and all alike destined to be destroyed by disease and 
 reverses. 
 
 Admitted a member of the Philomathean Society, when 
 in the Junior class, he soon vied with its most promising 
 writers, both in prose and verse. New studies brought 
 new vigor, and acquiring confidence from repeated suc- 
 cesses, he toiled on, encouraged by the earnest solicitude of 
 his instructors, and by the increasing respect of his class- 
 mates. To the former he had endeared himself by his dili- 
 gence and submissive spirit, and to the latter by his unob- 
 trusive deportment and freedom from all affectation. 
 
 It was at this time that the author of Waverley deservedly 
 stood at his greatest height, as the most popular romance 
 writer of the day, and the young collegian, in common with 
 
12 MEMOIR. 
 
 the youthful minds about him, read, admired and felt. 
 Joined to this feeling for Scott, was a full and hearty appre- 
 ciation of the best Scottish writers, and an enthusiastic ad- 
 miration of their country, and their virtues and manners as a 
 people. Accordingly, at the Junior exhibition of this year, 
 he delivered a poem upon " The Scottish Character," the. 
 second in this volume. Passages of peculiar force and fire 
 are to be found in it, and many of them elicited the warmest 
 admiration from a rare critic, his instructor, Prof. Potter, 
 now Bishop of Pennsylvania. The reader will see how far 
 the young author entered into his subject — how truthfully 
 he could say, 
 
 And standing on the grave of ages gone, 
 Their spirit gather from the sculptured stone.' 
 
 While in the Senior year, his mind was ceeply impressed 
 with the necessity of commencing a course of Biblical study, 
 preparatory to his entrance into the General Theological 
 Seminary, at New York, the following year. Neither un- 
 wearied attention to collegiate studies in all their variety, 
 nor larger and more intimate knowledge of men and things, 
 had diminished his reverence for the Sacred Volume, or 
 weakened his determination, formed in early youth, to con- 
 secrate " life, talent, effort," to the work of saving souls. 
 He had long participated in the holy Communion, adminis- 
 tered by his pastor, early friend and guide, the late Rev. 
 Dr. David Butler, of Troy, whose staunch and unwavering 
 Christian course had from youth been his theme of deep 
 regard, and time had only increased that regard for the holy 
 man and his sacred office. Excellent old Christian ! young 
 teacher and warm-hearted brother ! your spirits have met 
 in Paradise ! 
 
 The " Poesy of Religion" was delivered at the conclusion 
 of the Senior year, and the young author graduated with 
 
MEMOIR. 13 
 
 the highest honors, leaving the college walls with the most 
 flattering testimonials from both President and Professors. 
 
 Not less distinguished was his course at the Theological 
 Seminary, which he entered in the autumn of 1824. He 
 found time, while at this institution, to acquire a knowledge 
 of the German and Spanish languages, while the regular 
 recitations were rigidly attended to. French he had pre- 
 viously made himsef familiar with, and the Italian was added 
 at a period some three or four years later. Vocal and in- 
 strumental music likewise received a share of his attention ; 
 his piano-forte playing, in particular, was characterized by 
 intense feeling and a delicate touch. 
 
 But towards the end of his third and last year, while in- 
 dulging in the most sanguine expectations relating to his 
 future usefulness, his health failed. To a frame naturally 
 slight, and a temperament combining the extremes of the 
 nervous and the melancholic, was now added dyspepsia in 
 one of its most afflicting forms. He was encouraged, how- 
 ever, at the prospect of changing his course of life for one 
 of more active pursuits; and immediately after his ordina- 
 tion by Bishop Hobart, who earnestly requested him to ac- 
 cept of a call to Canandaigua, in this State, he consented, 
 and entered upon his duties towards the end of the summer 
 of 1827. But the excitement and fatigue w r ere too severe ; 
 his continued weak state obliged him to return home in the 
 fall of the same year, dejected, disappointed. He remained 
 at home during the following winter, dividing his time be- 
 tween taking much active exercise in the open air, and 
 acquiring a more intimate knowledge of the modern lan- 
 guages and polite literature. But though his health im- 
 proved, his mind still seemed depressed. The prospect of 
 an entire recovery appeared gloomy. His feelings will be 
 best discovered from the following lines, written about this 
 time : 
 
14 MEMOIR. 
 
 " I love the melancholy 
 
 That comes at pensive eve, 
 When, far from human folly, 
 
 Nor hope nor joy deceive. 
 I love the lonely feeling 
 
 Which comes at set of sun, 
 When memory backward stealing 
 
 Recalls what life has done. 
 
 I love by night to wander 
 
 In moonlight's silver scene, 
 And in that scene to ponder 
 
 On things that once have been. 
 For then, while fancy ranges 
 
 O'er visions of the past, 
 I muse upon the changes 
 
 Of life that ebbs so fast. 
 
 I muse upon the gladness 
 
 That lit the eye of youth ; 
 I muse upon the sadness 
 
 That comes with later truth. 
 I mourn the fading brightness 
 
 Of fancy's coloring, 
 And feel no more the lightness 
 
 Of spirits in their spring. 
 
 I mourn departed pleasure, 
 
 Its pure, its virtuous sense ; 
 I mourn the lost, lost treasure 
 
 Of early innocence. 
 I mourn— but yet my sorrow 
 
 Is welcome unto me, 
 While from it I may borrow 
 
 An immortality." 
 
 In the spring of the year 1828, his health being partially 
 recovered, he left home for Philadelphia, and shortly after 
 for Harrisburgh, where he accepted a temporary call, and 
 labored diligently for about six months. The congregation 
 at this place were unsettled as to their ultimate choice of a 
 pastor, and the church in which they then worshipped was 
 in an unfinished state. Having received, in the mean time, 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 15 
 
 an invitation to the church at White Plains, Westchester 
 County, N. Y., he accepted it, and there continued for more 
 than two years to perform the duties of his office, cheered 
 by many a delightful evidence of success. He felt happy. 
 Strong personal friends likewise drew around him, and amid 
 their heartfelt congratulations and tokens of kindness, joined 
 to the respect and esteem of a numerous and prosperous 
 congregation, everything seemed for a time to promise 
 many years of sweet intercourse with them. But his hopes 
 again were blasted — disease had been secretly at work. In 
 the spring of 1831, being quite feeble, he applied to the 
 Bishop for a change. He wished to have his father settle 
 in the city of New York, that he might there join him, and 
 live again beneath the paternal roof. Preparatory to this, 
 he succeeded in obtaining the charge of the English and 
 Classical department of the Public School sustained by 
 Trinity Church in that city. At the same time (March, 
 1831), he was induced by the Bishop and clergy to become 
 the editor of the Churchman, then first established. The 
 responsibilities which both these offices brought with them, 
 instead of securing for him more leisure for private intel- 
 lectual employments, and consequent serenity of mind, only 
 brought him more care and anxiety. The change from 
 country to city operated for the worse. He declined in 
 health rapidly. From the editorial labors of the Church- 
 man he was obliged to retire in August of the same year ; 
 and though he continued to take charge of the School for 
 about a year afterward, his former health was never more 
 regained. 
 
 Early in April, 1833, his father removed to New York, 
 expressly on his account, and it was a source of great hap- 
 piness to the sufferer, that in his last days he was sur- 
 rounded by his " own familiar friends." The writer of this 
 brief sketch feels, however, that the constant attendance 
 which was given to that afflicted brother, for more than two 
 long years, was but a poor reward for the lessons of wisdom 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 which were received in return. Though to the sufferer 
 they were, in his own words, 
 
 " Years rilled with pain — with patience, too — 
 "While thorns of care and sorrow grew 
 Around his pathway to the tomb — 
 A path where roses never bloom" — 
 
 yet, his mind was ever active, and while groaning with in- 
 tense pain, his heart never forgot the gratitude of friends in 
 former days. Tributes to the memory of some were dic- 
 tated but a few months previous to his own death, and amid 
 all, he could calmly say : 
 
 Child of pain, disease and wo, 
 To the great Physician go ; 
 On the bed of anguish laid, 
 Seek the great Physician's aid. 
 There is balm in Gilead — yes ! 
 Balm for fallen man's distress ; 
 Balm to heal thine every pain ; 
 Drink, the joy of health regain. 
 
 Lord ! I know thy mighty power 
 In the darkest human hour ! 
 Though I yield my dying breath, 
 I can meet the tyrant, Death ! 
 Jesus ! by thine agony, 
 Thou hast given me victory 
 O'er the world and o'er the grave 
 Mighty is thy power to save !" 
 
 A pure and living faith in the merits of a Divine Re- 
 deemer sustained him to the last. He died on Sunday 
 morning, June 7th, 1835. 
 
 His remains were taken to Troy, and deposited in the 
 ground that is shaded at sunset by the mount so hallowed by 
 him in his youth — his chosen resting-place in life and 
 death — serene and sacred Ida. G. H. C. 
 
THE 
 
 POESY OF RELIGION 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 Sxaizg ds \syuv, xxSsv n (foyxg 
 T^£ rfp6<f&e (3porxg, kx av a;x«:p<roj£, 
 OiVivsg 1 v^vxg sV< {Jiiv %a\icug, 
 Etfi <T siXarfivoug, xou tfctpa 8si<if voig y 
 Eupovro, (3ix <rsptfva£ axoag- 
 Srvyixg 8s /3porwv iSsig \vitag 
 Eupsro pxgji xal iroXv^opSoig 
 ClSais rfctvsiVj i% CJv Sdvaro/, 
 Asivai ts Tu-^ai tf^aXXstfj 86psg, 
 KaiVoj rads fjiiv xipSog dxsT(f&cni 
 MoktfaTtfi (3porxs »va <S' !;u$£j<7rvoj 
 AaTrsg, ri fxct<rr]v rsivstfj /3oav ; 
 To #apov yap s'^si <rs'p%J^v dip' aurS 
 Aairog -rXvjpwjxa fiporoicfiv. 
 
 Euripides. — Medea, 193, &c, 
 
 It is not improbable that some persons will consider the defence of 
 poetry contained in the following piece, as a work of entire superero- 
 gation : they may even regard the writer as running a tilt against the 
 giants of his own fancy, or, in more modern phrase, as firing at a mark 
 of his own setting up ; inasmuch, as the objections against poetry, to 
 which his defence offers a reply, are drawn altogether from the abuse 
 of that art. For his justification in this particular with the candid 
 
20 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 reader, we are willing to believe that the following extracts from the 
 admirable " Curiosities of Literature," by M. D'Israeli, will be found 
 amply sufficient: 
 
 " In all ages there has existed an anti-poetical party. This faction 
 consists of those frigid intellects incapable of that glowing expansion 
 so necessary to feel the charms of an art, which only addresses itself 
 to the imagination ; or of writers who, having proved unsuccessful in 
 their court to the Muses, revenge themselves by reviling them ; and 
 also of those religious minds who consider the ardent effusions of 
 poetry as dangerous to the morals and peace of society." 
 
 " Plato, amongst the ancients, is the model of those moderns who 
 profess themselves to be anti-poetical. This writer, in his ideal repub- 
 lic, characterizes a man who occupies himself with composing verses 
 as a very dangerous member of society, from the inflammatory ten- 
 dency of his writings. It is by arguing from its abuse, that he decries 
 this enchanting talent At the same time, it is to be recollected that 
 no head was more finely organized for the visions of the Muse than 
 Plato's : he was a true poet, and had addicted himself in his prime of 
 life to the cultivation of the art, but perceiving that he could not 
 surpass his inimitable original, Homer, he employed this insidious 
 manner of depreciating his works. In the Phcedrus he describes the 
 feelings of a genuine Poet." 
 
 " Men of taste are sometimes disgusted, in turning over the works 
 of the anti-poetical, by meeting with gross railleries and false judg- 
 ments concerning poetry and poets. Locke has expressed a marked 
 contempt of poets ; but we see what ideas he formed of poetry by his 
 warm panegyric of one of Blackmore's epics ! and besides he was 
 himself a most unhappy poet ! Selden, a scholar of profound erudi- 
 tion, has given us his opinion against poets." 
 
 " The great Pascal, whose extraordinary genius was discovered in 
 the sciences, knew little of the nature of poetical beauty. He said, 
 * poetry has no settled object.' This was the decision of a geometri- 
 cian. ' Why should he speak of what he did not understand V asked 
 the lively Voltaire. Poetry is not an object which comes under the 
 cognizance of philosophy or wit." 
 
 " Longuerue had profound erudition ; but he decided on poetry in 
 the same manner as those learned men. Nothing so strongly charac- 
 terizes such literary men as the following observations in the Lon- 
 gueruana," p. 170 : 
 
 " 'There are two books on Homer, which I prefer to Homer him- 
 self. The first is Antiquitates Homericce of Feithius, where he has 
 extracted everything relative to the usages and customs of the Greeks : 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 21 
 
 the other is Homeri Gnomologia per Duportum, printed at Cam- 
 bridge. In these two books is found everything valuable in Homer, 
 without being obliged to get through his Contes a dormir debout /' 
 Thus men of science decide on men of taste. There are who study- 
 Homer and Virgil as the blind travel through a fine country, merely to 
 get to the end of their journey. It was observed at the death of Lon- 
 guerue that in his immense library not a volume of poetry was to be 
 found. He had formerly read poetry, for indeed he had read every- 
 thing. Racine tells us, that when young he paid him a visit ; the 
 conversation turned on poets ; our erudit reviewed them all with the 
 most ineffable contempt of the poetical talent, from which he said we 
 learn nothing. He seemed a little charitable towards Ariosto : ' As 
 for that madman? said he, ' he has amused me sometimes.' Dacier, 
 a poetical pedant after all, was asked who was the greater poet, Homer 
 or Virgil ? He honestly answered, ' Homer, by a thousand years.' " 
 
 " But it is mortifying to find among the anti-poetical even poets 
 themselves ! Malherbe, the first poet in France in his day, appears 
 little to have understood the art. He used to say, that ' a good poet 
 was not more useful to the state than a skillful player of nine-pins !' 
 Malherbe wrote with costive labor. When a poem was shown to him 
 which had been highly commended, he sarcastically asked ' if it would 
 lower the price of bread ?' In these instances he maliciously con- 
 founded the useful with the agreeable arts. Be it remembered that 
 Malherbe had a cynical heart, cold and unfeeling. His character may 
 be traced in his poetry — labor and correctness, without one ray of 
 enthusiasm." 
 
 " Le Cierc was a scholar not entirely unworthy to be ranked amongst 
 the Lockes, the Seldens, and the Longuerues ; and his opinions are as 
 just concerning poets. In the Parrhasiana he has written a treatise on 
 poets in a very unpoetical manner. I shall notice his coarse railleries 
 relating to what he calls ' the personal defects of poets.' In vol. i., 
 p. 33, he says, ' In the Scaligerana we have Joseph Scaliger's opinion 
 concerning poets. " There never was a man who was a poet, or 
 addicted to the study of poetry, but his heart was puffed up with his 
 greatness." This is very true. The poetical persuades these gentle- 
 men that they have something in them superior to others, because they 
 employ a language peculiar to themselves. When the poetic furor 
 seizes them, its traces frequently remain on their faces, which make 
 connoisseurs say with Horace, 
 
 Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit, 
 
 There goes a madman, or a bard ! 
 Their thoughtful air and melancholy gait make them appear insane ; 
 
 3 
 
22 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 for, accustomed to versify while they walk, and to bite their nails in 
 apparent agonies, their steps are measured and slow, and they look as 
 if they were reflecting on something of consequence, although they 
 are only thinking, as the phrase runs, of nothing !' He proceeds in 
 the same elegant strain to enumerate their defects. I have only tran- 
 scribed the above description of our jocular scholar, with an intention 
 of describing those exterior marks of that fine enthusiasm, of which the 
 poet is peculiarly susceptible, and which have exposed many an ele- 
 vated genius to the ridicule of the vulgar." 
 
 " Amongst the anti-poetical may be placed the father of the great 
 monarch of Prussia. George the Second was not more the avowed 
 enemy of the Muses. Frederic would not suffer the Prince to read 
 verses ; and when he was desirous of study, or of the conversation of 
 literary men, he was obliged to do it secretly. Every poet was odious 
 to his majesty. One day, having observed some lines written on one 
 of the doors of the palace, he asked a courtier their signification. 
 They were explained to him. They were Latin verses composed by 
 Watcher, a man of letters, then resident at Berlin. The king imme- 
 diately sent for the bard, who came warm with the hope of receiving 
 a reward for his ingenuity. He was astonished, however, to hear the 
 king, in a violent passion, accost him, ' I order you immediately to 
 quit this city and my kingdom !' " 
 
 " Several pious persons have considered it as highly meritable to 
 abstain from the reading of poetry ! A good father, in his account of 
 the last hours of Madame Racine, the lady of the celebrated tragic 
 poet, pays high compliments to her religious disposition, which, he 
 says, was so austere that she would not allow herself to read poetry, 
 as she considered it to be a dangerous pleasure : and he highly com- 
 mends her for never having read the tragedies of her husband ! Ar- 
 nauld, though so intimately connected with Racine for many years, 
 had not read his compositions. When, at length, he was persuaded to 
 read Phaedra, he declared himself to be delighted, but complained that 
 the poet had set a dangerous example, in making the manly Hypolitus 
 dwindle to an effeminate lover. As a critic, Aruauld was right ; but 
 Racine had hte nation to please. Such persons entertain notions of 
 poetry similar to that of an ancient father, who calls poetry the wine 
 of Satan j or to that of the religious and austere Nichole, who was so 
 ably answered by Racine : he said, that dramatic poets were public 
 poisoners, not of bodies, but of souls." 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 23 
 
 There is a charm, dear to the human heart, 
 
 In Poesy ; it was believed the art 
 
 Of Gods, when Fancy framed the Grecian creed : 
 
 Then none but Heaven's favored tuned the reed, 
 
 Or touched the lyre. Whatever roused the mind 
 
 To noble daring, or the heart refined ; 
 
 Whate'er improved the arts of useful toil, 
 
 To sail the ocean or to plough the soil 5 — 
 
 Of old was fondly thought of heavenly birth, 
 
 The gift of Gods sent down to visit earth. 
 
 Hence, Ceres claimed the Eleusinian rites, 
 
 And Neptune's temple tower'd on sea-beat heights 5 
 
 Hence, all the world adored the Paphian queen, 
 
 And 'mid the glare of arms fierce Mars was seen. 
 
 What worlder then, if on that Sacred mount, 
 
 Where inspiration poured Castalia's fount, 
 
 The Muses sung by moonlight, or at dawn 
 
 Gay Phoebus led them tripping o'er the lawn ? 
 
 'Twas Poesy, that threw a splendor o'er 
 
 All ancient fable, and the self-same power 
 
 Holds now its empire over young and old. 
 
 How pleased the urchin, when some tale is told 
 
 In barbarous rhyme ! How pleased the maiden, too. 
 
 When Love invokes the grateful Muse to woo ! 
 
24 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 The warrior treads the battle-field again, 
 When the loud battle-song is heard, and when 
 To heaven th' exulting notes of choral pseans swell, 
 The gray-haired Christian longs to bid the world fare- 
 well. 
 
 II. 
 
 The stern Philosopher denies 
 
 His sanction to the poet's lays ; 
 An art so dangerous, he cries, 
 
 'Tis folly's wildest part to praise. 
 Go — seek the sons of Poesy, 
 Poor, hair-brained fools of fantasy, 
 In garrets seek, and gaols, and where 
 The madman makes his dungeon-lair, 
 And loss of aught but reason rues ; 
 'Tis there they dwell — 'tis there the dews 
 Of inspiration thickly fall. 
 How low ! How lost ! And yet not all 
 The dire effect is theirs alone ; 
 Their earthly woes will ne'er atone 
 The ruin of their fellow-men — 
 The fatal poison of the pen. 
 That very charm of Poesy, 
 Which lifts the soul to ecstacy, 
 Is often virtue's deadliest foe, 
 That gives a false, enchanting glow 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 25 
 
 To guilty joy ; the native fire 
 Of human passion flashes higher, 
 And burns with all the rage of hell ; 
 When that calls out its power to tell 
 The gloom of virtue's thorny path, 
 How vain the threat of heaven's wrath, 
 Nay — wake the impious laugh of scorn 
 At Him in Bethlehem's stable born. 
 The simple ballad, and the song, 
 Which captivate the humble throng, 
 With revel filled^ and wanton's praise, 
 Taint the pure glow of childhood's days. 
 That boast of Poesy — the Stage — 
 Mark its effect from age to age ; 
 From him in Athens famed of old, 
 Who aimed his satire, meanly bold, 
 At holy Socrates, to those 
 Polluters of the age, who rose 
 With Charles of England. It has been 
 The adamantine shield of sin. 
 Oh ! if there be on earth a deed, 
 Can make the generous bosom bleed, 
 'Tis his who stabs the noble mind, 
 E'en with that hand it thought to find 
 The guide to truth, content and love, 
 The harbinger of joys above. 
 'Tis his, who, mad with passion, learns 
 That siren art which ruined Burns, 
 3* 
 
26 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 Who twines with Moore Religion's name. 
 Round wanton Love's unhallowed flame, 
 Or courts the daemon Muse that reigns 
 In Byron's dark and impious strains. 
 
 III. 
 
 I venerate his pure intent, 
 
 E'en when the good man errs, — I would, 
 A zeal so warm were rightly hent, 
 
 The had to mend, to rouse the good, — 
 Not charge the Muse with crime of fallen man, 
 The Muse who first in heaven her strain began 
 
 Mark Reason's keen and glancing eye, 
 To guide the mortal pilgrim given : 
 
 Does that aye pass the tempter by 1 
 Say — Is that ever fixed on heaven 1 
 
 Nay tell — the faith of Jesus — has it fed 
 
 No baneful passion, and no life-blood shed ? 
 
 Then blame the art no more ; 'tis man, 
 'Tis man hath stained its holiness. 
 
 The page of inspiration scan, 
 
 And learn how God once deigned to bless 
 
 With high poetic thought and heavenly fire 
 
 The first of mortal race who strung the Lyre. 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 27 
 
 Bold was the strain of him who sung 
 
 The fall of Job. Around the scene 
 The robes of Tragedy are hung ; 
 
 And Elegy, with downcast mien, 
 Is weeping there ; and earth, and sea, and skies, 
 Moved by the bard, in Epic grandeur rise. 
 
 How sweet the harp of Jesse's son ! 
 
 When loud he pours the torrent ode ; 
 
 * 
 Or hymns at eve that Holy One 
 
 Who Sion chose, his loved abode. 
 
 Or bids the lordly trump and cymbal sound, 
 
 'Till the arched temple speak the echoes round. 
 
 Hark ! Heard ye not that note all wild ] 
 It came from yon lone mountain cave : 
 
 There rise, on wrecks of empires piled, 
 The awful ruins of the grave 
 
 To rapt Isaiah's eye, and on the. throne 
 
 Of final Judgment God's Almighty Son. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Thus pure was her theme, thus high was her end, 
 When Poesy walked with Religion her friend ; 
 Her office more dignified, holy, sublime, 
 Than to add a mere charm to the pleasures of time 
 
28 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 To soothe the afflicted, and strengthen weak hearts. 
 Which folly and vice have besieged with their arts ; 
 To fill with fresh hope and uprear the fallen mind 
 Of the poor, the distressed, the despairing, the blind ; 
 To " set their affections " on gladness above, 
 And light in their bosoms the lamp of pure love : — 
 Thus the bards of old time showered their blessings on 
 
 man, 
 And formed in the band of old worthies the van. 
 And as pure, and as bright, and as high are the 
 
 themes 
 Which now court the bard. Revelation now beams 
 A splendor o'er all that true Poesy loves ; — 
 E'en the streamlet is sweeter, and fairer the groves, 
 When seen by the eye of Religion ; but far, — 
 Oh ! far more enchanting those magic worlds are, 
 Where Fancy and Reason have blended their charms. 
 Are you fond of the fireside, where no rude alarms 
 Ever mar the dear joys of contentment's calm reign? 
 The genius of Cowper, remote from the train 
 Of court and of camp, from the green-wood returning, 
 When the soft evening clouds with the red sun are 
 
 burning, 
 To the cot of the mild village pastor repairs, 
 'Mid the kind Christian circle to soothe all his cares. 
 Or love you the eye with benevolence beaming, 
 And oft with the tear-drops of charity streaming? 
 The Muse of the Christian will catch the last breath 
 That floats from the lips cf the Martyr in dentil, 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 29 
 
 And rising to heaven bears upward the prayer, 
 
 " Oh, Father ! forgive them — my brethren they are. 3 ' 
 
 With hymns all simplicity, pathos, and fire, 
 The chaste Muse of Addison loves to inspire, 
 And bear up the soul to the "firmament high," 
 Where the armies of God fill the " blue ether sky." 
 And the poet who sings like the Psalmist of old, 
 The pure Muse of Watts, like the finest of gold, 
 Yields a treasure more rich than the richest of mines, 
 That treasure in heaven which time but refines. 
 The " Hermit " of Parnell abandons his cell, 
 To see life for a day, and return home to dwell ; 
 While life, with its glories, its u wishes all vain," 
 The stern verse of Johnson unmasks with disdain. 
 When the genius of Pope takes the prophet's bold lyre, 
 And shouts, a u God comes," with Isaiah's own fire ; 
 Or the universe proves under one mighty plan, 
 And that " man is the study most proper for man :" 
 When the genius of Klopstock advances still higher, 
 And " Messiah's " fate paints with a pencil of fire : — 
 We crown these great bards with the laurel of fame, 
 And from Paradise gather a wreath for each name. 
 
 When you bid to the dying a long farewell, 
 
 And list to the toll of the funeral bell, 
 
 The Muse of the Christian, the Muse of Kirk White 
 
 Will draw round the churchyard the curtain of night, 
 
30 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 And amid the deep gloom of the charnel-bed 
 
 Will salute the dry bones, and converse with the dead ; 
 
 While the spirit of Blair throws a light o'er the 
 
 "Grave;" 
 And the sad ghost of Young, gliding over the wave 
 Of the dark sea of death, with death's frown blackened 
 
 o'er, 
 
 Gathers deep Ci thoughts of night " on eternity's shore. 
 When Italy's bard, wondrous Dante, doth tell 
 The dread secrets of death, of high heaven, deep hell, 
 We list in rapt thoughtfulness ; or if some gleam 
 Of Jerusalem's glories, from Tasso's bright dream, 
 Should flash on our eye, we exult in the shout, 
 Which the Christian knights raise o'er the Paynim's 
 
 wild rout : — 
 Of Athalie then, or of Persia's fair queen, 
 We view the sad drama, and mourn with Racine 
 The sorrows of virtue, o'erpowered by her foe, 
 And feel the true pathos of deep tragic wo ; 
 Then up to the starred gate of heaven ascending, 
 Where spirits departed with angels are blending, 
 With the great bard of Eden, our Milton, divine, 
 View that " City of God," whose high battlements 
 
 shine 
 With a light far more brilliant, more beautiful far, 
 Than beams, rayed through rubies and diamonds are $ 
 Look in at the glory of Cherubin thrones, 
 And drink the full swell of the harp's golden tones. 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 31 
 
 V. 
 
 Mean then and false the aim of all who choose 
 Unholy theme, and scorn the Christian Muse. 
 They heed not how Golconda's caverns shine, 
 But dig for venom in earth's foulest mine ; 
 They fly the day-spring, fresh with orient beams, 
 But hail the lightning's lurid, withering gleams. 
 Of heavenly birth is Poesy ! Then worse 
 Its profanation ; worthy that dire curse, 
 Which erring virtue lays upon the art ; 
 Worthy that wringing torture of the heart, 
 Which Rochester repentant felt at last, 
 And bard like him will ever feel when past 
 His empty dream of fame, and round his couch 
 The frightful train of death impatient crouch, 
 While ruined maiden shrieks his parting knell, 
 And ruffian ghosts call him their guide to hell. 
 Such profanation ! Ah, how sad the gloom 
 It throws around unhappy Byron's tomb ! 
 Who leaves u a Poet's name to other times 
 Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes." 
 Oh ! never may our country mourn the fate 
 Of .native bard like these ; oh ! ne'er relate 
 To future time the story of that hour, 
 When all too late he wept his minstrel power. 
 
32 THE POESY OF RELIGION. 
 
 So darkly bent to work his country's wo, 
 
 Of vice the pander, and of God the foe. 
 
 And such a country ! Point me to the land 
 
 Where nature rears her form more rich, more grand : 
 
 The land more dear to minstrel's kindling eye, 
 
 When it doth glance from earth to vaulted sky ; 
 
 The land more famed for high heroic deed, 
 
 And all the boldest son of song could need 
 
 To fire his soul with high heroic rage, 
 
 And yield an epic fame from age to age. 
 
 Yet lives there one — I need not tell his name, 
 
 Prometheus and Clio speak his fame — 
 
 Yet lives there one, who highly favored woos 
 
 Th' exalted converse of our free-born Muse, 
 
 But robs her of her dearest, noblest charm, 
 
 When to her holy faith he gives alarm. 
 
 My country ! Bid thy gifted Poet leave 
 
 Childe Harold's path, who guides but to deceive, 
 
 And mount to Heaven ! Tell him how bright the 
 
 change, 
 From guilt to fly, with innocence to range. 
 Oh ! tell him that his nobler fame might be 
 Like thine, as now 'tis borne from sea to sea — 
 Thy name, high on thy eagle-flag unfurled, 
 Is hailed the friend and glory of the world. 
 Ah ! would our bards attune the holy lyre, 
 And sing their country with their country's fire, ' 
 Their office would it be, to fan the blaze 
 Of our loved liberty in future days, 
 
THE POESY OF RELIGION. 33 
 
 When the bold veteran soldier's lip no more 
 Should tell the Revolution o'er and o'er, — 
 Their glory would it be in that dire hour, 
 When o'er the land the storm of war should lower, 
 And round our freedom, like some towering- rock, 
 Rebellion's waves roll high with ocean's shock — 
 Their glory would it be, unmoved to stand 
 High on that rock, our banner in each hand, 
 And bid the storm abate, the waves retire 
 In Washington's dread name ; then shouting higher, 
 Peal to the trembling sky their country's name, 
 Their country's freedom, and their country's fame. 
 1S24. 
 
THE 
 
 SCOTTISH CHARACTER 
 
TO THE 
 
 HON. ALLAN MACDONALD, 
 
 The tried and faithful friend ; the judicious and just adviser under 
 difficulty ; the comforter in sorrow ; the companion in enjoyment ; as 
 the brightest example, within the circle of my acquaintance, of those 
 sterling virtues in the character of his countrymen and forefathers, 
 which I have attempted to delineate: 
 
 The following Poem, with the highest respect, and sincerest affec- 
 tion, 
 
 Is gratefully inscribed by 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER 
 
 Ille terrarum mihi prater omnes 
 Angulus ridet.— Horace. 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned . 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 
 * * * * 
 O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 
 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 
 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still as I view each well-known scene, 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 
 
 Seems, as to me, of all bereft, 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. — Sir W. Scott. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
 
 * * * * 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content 
 
40 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 
 
 And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Whoe'er hath viewed with e'en a careless eye, 
 The scenes of bustling life that round him lie, 
 Hath marked the shades of intellect and heart 
 That fit each actor for each various part. 
 If with extended view you trace around 
 The haunts of men in social compact bound, 
 Each city and each hamlet will unfold 
 Some leading trait, gay, generous, learned or bold, 
 Which, mounting on the airy wing of fame, 
 Bears through the country round some little name. 
 Thus Boston claims of wit and lore the prize, 
 New York of wealth, Orleans of enterprise. 
 Nor stop we here ; o'er the wide earth survey 
 Where nations differing character display. 
 Yon plain wide-opening to the dazzled sight, 
 By nature blest, with towering cities bright, 
 Is swayed by tyrants ; Art and Learning there 
 Entwine their kindred bays ; but never dare 
 To hang their wreath on Freedom's awful brow ; 
 Degraded race ! to lawless power they bow. 
 Far different they, who on yon mountain's side 
 Dwell mid the forest, where rough torrents glide — 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 41 
 
 Simple their life, yet blest with liberty, 
 Contented, brave, they glory to be free. 
 Thus nations differ — by what mighty cause 
 Of clime or morals, government or laws, 
 We sing not now ; but some fair region choose, 
 And paint its character in varied hues. 
 Say whither, wayward fancy, wilt thou rove, 
 What region seek, what theme of interest prove 1 
 Not Spain, ill-fated land ! where genius sleeps, 
 Where freedom grasps her sword and grasping weeps ! 
 Not France, unthinking, gay, romantic France, 
 Now fierce in war, now sportive in the dance — 
 Nor e'en the Swiss, who mid their mountains roam, 
 And in the cottage love the charms of home — 
 Not these delight the Muse ; far north she hies, 
 And toward the bounds of sea-girt Scotland flies. 
 
 Hail Caledonia ! land of poesy ; 
 Rich fancy decks thine earliest minstrelsy : 
 Thy pleasing fictions, by tradition told, 
 Filled with the mighty feats of chieftains bold ; 
 With fairies, elves, and demons of the deep, 
 Beings of night that revel while we sleep ; 
 With spirits dark, who on their clouds repose, 
 And cheer their friends, or terrify their foes : — 
 This wild mythology proclaims a race 
 Of heroes ; o'er its rude remains we trace 
 The step of daring genius — unrefined, 
 Yet for the sky of future fame designed. 
 
42 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 
 
 Is there who doubts 1 Survey that savage band 
 
 Of cannibals on yonder South-sea strand ; 
 
 Unpeopled to their eye are earth, sea, air — 
 
 No strain of Ariel's music wanders there : 
 
 And mark you aught of genius' kindling fire 1 
 
 Ah ! no ; like brutes they live, like brutes expire. 
 
 But where this world invisible you find, 
 
 There flourish all the nobler powers of mind. 
 
 With genius, let the ancient Scotsman claim 
 
 Another trait, which elevates his name ; 
 
 Which ne'er is found but with the virtues joined, 
 
 And holds a heavenly influence o'er the mind. 
 
 Unlike the savage, glorying to be brave, 
 
 But ranking Woman only as his slave, 
 
 The Highlander with rapture owned her power 
 
 To soothe the heart, when storms of sorrow lower, 
 
 And give the sweetest smile, the brightest glow 
 
 To gayety and happiness below ; 
 
 She fired his soul at war's harsh thundering sound, 
 
 The exulting brow of victory she crowned ; 
 
 She bade each mean and savage passion cease, 
 
 And joined with justice every charm of peace. 
 
 The Scottish music ! who that ever feels 
 Its melting force, when o'er the soul it steals, 
 And in imagination wanders round 
 Some ancient festive hall, rapt in the sound — 
 And seems to mingle with the martial train, 
 Who crowd around to catch the swelling strain, 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 43 
 
 Or thinks of cheerful rustics dancing near, 
 To the sweet pibroch's notes that meet his ear : 
 Who fancying this, but owns the high renown 
 Due to the taste, the feeling, that are shown 
 In Scotia's ancient music 1 Tell me where 
 The race whose melodies with hers compare 1 
 E'en boasting Italy, of polished days, 
 Airs of more art, but sweeter cannot raise. 
 
 Such Scotsmen were, and such they still remain, 
 These traits of mental eminence retain, 
 And, while more polished by the lapse of time, 
 Still bear the hardy features of their prime. 
 
 If Nature's form a bias can impart 
 To change the mind and work upon the heart ; 
 Then, Scotland, rank thyself among the best, 
 In Nature's rough and boldest grandeur drest. 
 The waves of ocean pierce thy rocky shore, 
 O'er breakers fiercely rush, and rushing roar ; 
 Thy hills o'er hills in endless prospect rise ; 
 Thy mountains rear their tops to brave the skies : 
 Wide-yawning' here descends the frightful glen, 
 Where deep the torrent winds, unseen by men ; 
 And here the valley, Solitude's retreat, 
 Contentment's palace and the Muse's seat. 
 O'er thy rude hills the storm careers in sport, 
 While on their tops gay fancy holds her court ; 
 There Contemplation has her favorite cell, 
 And there the soul of genius loves to dwell, 
 
44 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER . 
 
 Now bending low to hear the breezes sing, 
 Now soaring on the midnight tempest's wing. 
 
 But turn we now to scan the historic page, 
 And mark the events of each succeeding age ; 
 What sages counselled, and what heroes bled, 
 When freedom reigned, or when the goddess fled; 
 How Scotsmen bore them in their home alarms, 
 Or how repelled the approach of foreign arms ; 
 And standing on the grave of ages gone, 
 Their spirit gather from the sculptured stone. 
 When Rome her eagle wide o'er Greece unfurled, 
 And poets sung her Empress of the World ; 
 When through Arabia's wilds had spread her fame, 
 And e'en the Parthian trembled at her name ; 
 Toward England mad ambition led her host, 
 Her navy moored along the whitened coast — 
 The Britons fought, but ah ! they fought in vain, 
 Fierce legions bound them in the tyrant's chain. 
 At length an Emperor led his ruthless band, 
 To spoil and tame the Caledonian land ; 
 No suppliant is sent — no coward fears 
 Are heard — but onward march the mountaineers 
 To meet the foe — the Roman arms prevail ; 
 Yet the brave Scotsmen yield not, though they fail- 
 They waste their country, dare the bold attack, 
 Elude the victor, and pursue his track. 
 With shame, at last, he left the unconquered race, 
 But reared a wall, his own and Rome's disgrace ; 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 45 
 
 Poor, feeble barrier ! what could it oppose ? 
 
 The Scotsmen leaped and poured exulting on their foes. 
 
 But see ! where England hurries to the North, 
 And England's monarch leads her noblest forth ; 
 From shore to shore wide spreads the bright array, 
 And Death and Havoc point fierce Edward's way. 
 Scotland ! who now shall give thee victory 1 
 Ah ! who sustain thy sinking liberty 1 
 Turn thee, and mark that dim and distant light, 
 Far glimmering through the dusk of gathering night ; 
 There, mid thy loveliest hills, a safe retreat 
 Is found, and there thy bold defenders meet — 
 A sacred band. But, see ! that light is gone ! 
 Heardst thou that shout 1 The victory is won ! 
 Another shout ! and Wallace is the cry ! 
 Wallace ! the mountain and the glen reply — 
 The Bruce ! the Bruce ! — oh ! hail thy king's return ! 
 England's last hope expires at Bannockburn ! 
 
 A later period next attracts our view, 
 When pious zeal to direful warfare grew ; 
 When civil discord reared her horrid head, 
 And innocence with meek contentment fled ; 
 When Mary left her native hills behind, 
 A royal friend in foreign clime to find. 
 Unhappy Queen ! No home — no friend was there — 
 She sighed a lonely prisoner — chill despair 
 5 
 
46 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 
 
 Had lit upon her brow ; her hopeless eye 
 Met not a smile — but from the conscious sky. 
 "Why slumbered then the sword 1 why none to save 
 Their captive princess from a blood-stained gravel 
 Oh, blame them not ! for grief and frenzy bade 
 Their fury linger, and their vengeance stayed. 
 Yet where the Highland youth who sheds no tear, 
 When Mary's fate has caught his listening ear? 
 Nor dreams of rushing to the battle-flame 
 For Mary's sake, and shouting Mary's name 1 
 Her name ! 'Tis like the memory of our youth, 
 So cheerful once ! — so blest with love and truth ! 
 So altered now, with wo and grief oppressed, 
 Without one sign to tell it once was blessed ! 
 
 Now o'er the classic page the Muse would stray, 
 Where taste and genius all their charms display ; 
 Where. Scottish scenery brightening glows around, 
 And Scottish manners, simple, pure, are found. 
 In that sweet Paradise where poets dwell, 
 The " gentle" Ramsay sings of Highland swains, 
 And Maro drops his reed to list the strains ; 
 Then all intent the heaven-rapt pair regard, 
 While Ossian strikes the harp with Scio's bard ; 
 And, standing round, see many honored shades, 
 Of Scottish birth, and fame that never fades : 
 Led by four damsels, two on either side, 
 Of wondrous beauty but of contrast wide, 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 47 
 
 Lo ! Thompson comes, lord of the changing year ; 
 
 Home walks, with lonely step and tragic, near ; 
 
 Nor distant far the minstrel of the grave, 
 
 Who sang of death, and taught his power to brave ; 
 
 While, dancing to the notes of lute and lyre, 
 
 The lyric bards, of wild poetic fire, 
 
 Of hearts all feeling, passions deep and strong. 
 
 The shade of Burns in triumph bear along. 
 
 The Muse of history may boast her too 
 
 Of Scotia's sons, who seek her charms to woo ; 
 
 Hume, Robertson, Buchanan, nobly bear 
 
 That crown of merit genius loves to wear ; 
 
 While through the darkest labyrinths of mind, 
 
 With torch of truth, her Reid and Stewart wind, 
 
 And push the voyage of metaphysic lore 
 
 Beyond the depth of Aristotle's oar. 
 
 The living bard of Hope, too, holds thee dear, 
 
 His native Caledonia ; while the tear 
 
 Even from Virtue's eye is oft beguiled 
 
 At Byron's story, who is half thy child. 
 
 The modern bard of old romance is thine, 
 
 Round whom the glittering stars of knighthood shine ; 
 
 His minstrel sings to high-born dames the lay ; 
 
 His gentle James the wandering knight doth play ; 
 
 With thundering sound bold Bertram rushes on ; 
 
 Then hear we u The last words of Marmion !" 
 
 Where'er you wander o'er this fairy isle, 
 
 On lonely moor — where lakes of azure smile, 
 
48 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 
 
 Where ruined gothic abbey moulders round. 
 Or warriors marshaled once, at trumpet's sound — 
 The unknown son of genius hovers near 
 With magic wand — and airy shapes appear ! 
 Now Waverley or Roland Graeme flits by, 
 Now wild Rob Roy shouts loud Macgregor's cry ; 
 Here Old Mortality bends o'er some tomb ; 
 There dwarfs and gipsies stalk athwart the gloom. 
 
 And there are those Avho love the " light and shade " 
 Of Scottish life — who love the green-turf glade ; 
 The Highland cot — the home of Piety, 
 Where angels list her native melody. 
 The Ettrick Shepherd thus enchains the heart, 
 And shows " auld nature " " far abune " all art ; 
 He paints the humblest shepherd's lowly life, 
 His sheep, his dog, u his bairns and faithfu' wife ;" 
 And founds the glory of his native soil 
 Firm on her virtuous poor, her sons of toil. 
 And Burns, whate'er is false, was sometimes wise ; 
 tc From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeurs rise;" 
 Thus, in some holy patriot's strain he sings, 
 And proves his u Cotter " far more blest than kings. 
 The sacred influence of her village schools, 
 Where learning does but aid, religion rules ; 
 The village pastors of her ancient kirk, 
 Who yield their all to their all-holy work ; 
 
THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 49 
 
 Whose plain instruction, from the pulpit, draws 
 
 Results more sure, more practical than laws ; 
 
 These give to Caledonia that loud fame 
 
 Which sounds through every land her honored name. 
 
 No wonder then that her most gifted sons 
 
 Should love the fount from whence her glory runs ; 
 
 Her dear domestic scenes should love to sing, 
 
 Affection mounting on Devotion's wing ; 
 
 The rustic circle gathering round to hear 
 
 Their Saviour's wo, and drop the heart's warm tear. 
 
 The sire low-bending breathes the evening prayer, 
 
 Forgetting earth, its sorrow and its care ; 
 
 In distant view unnumbered ages roll, 
 
 And Heav'ns pure beams come bright'ning o'er his soul. 
 
 For those he loves he prays — his children dear ; 
 
 For all who to the father's heart are near ; 
 
 His friends, his neighbors — all that love the Lord ; 
 
 Nor least for them that wait upon his word. 
 
 He calls down blessings on his native land, 
 
 And fires with gratitude his little band : 
 
 He prays, that good example in the old 
 
 May guide the younger portion of the fold ; 
 
 Till all shall rise, past, present, and to come, 
 
 To join their hymns in their eternal home. 
 
 Such, Caledonia, are the prayer, the praise, 
 Which thy ten thousand fireside altars raise ; 
 Such joy, such hopes, as night and morn they kneel, 
 
 How many thousand of thy children feel ! 
 
 5* 
 
50 THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER. 
 
 Such are thy founts, perennial and pure, 
 Whose crystal streams the nation's health secure ; 
 Such art thou now ; and years on years ago 
 Such, Caledonia : be thou ever so. 
 Yes ! ever be thou piety's abode, 
 The land of altars, and the house of God ; 
 So shall each blessing ever still be thine, 
 So ever still, thy fame undying shine ; 
 Beloved by all the brave, the good, the free, 
 Till earth shall cease, and time no more shall be. 
 1823. 
 
LAUTARO 
 
LAUTARO 
 
 Elegies of Tyrt^tis. 
 
 Sternitur infelix * * * coelumque 
 
 Aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 " Happy are they who die in their youth, when their renown is heard ! 
 The feeble will not behold them in the hall, or smile at their trembling 
 hands. Their memory shall be honored in song ; the young tear of the 
 virgin will fall. But the aged wither away by degrees ; the fame of their 
 youth, while yet they live, is all forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh 
 of their son is not heard. Joy is around their tomb : the stone of their 
 fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in their youth, 
 when their renown is around them." — Ossian. 
 
 [The subject of the following poetical exercise was a chieftain of 
 the Araucanian nation, one of the most civilized, intelligent and en- 
 terprising of all the aboriginal nations inhabiting South America. 
 
 They maintained, with surprising bravery, a long and desperate 
 struggle for their independence against the Spaniards, who made re- 
 peated attempts, in successive wars, to reduce them to a state of 
 slavery: every attempt, however, proved vain, and they remain at the 
 present day an unconquered, free, and prosperous people, enjoying a 
 commercial, honorable, and mutually tolerant intercourse with the 
 Spaniards and other nations around them. 
 
 Lautaro was one of the youthful leaders of this heroic nation in 
 their various warlike enterprises, and after having acquired the high- 
 est renown among them by his bold and valiant exploits, he fell at 
 
54 LAUTARO. 
 
 last, at an early age, in a great and dreadful battle ; but not without 
 the glory and satisfaction of knowing that the liberties of his country 
 were permanently secured, by his last bloody and fatal conflict, from 
 all future Spanish corruption and invasion.] 
 
 Let others sing the hero's name, 
 
 Who seeks by conquest dangerous fame ; 
 
 Let others sing the murderous hand 
 
 That lifts the sword 'gainst foreign land. 
 
 I sing the youth who fought and died, 
 
 But dying tamed the invader's pride. 
 
 Come, plaintive Muse, and hover near, 
 
 And o'er his memory drop a tear. 
 
 Oh ! touch with gentle hand the string, — 
 
 Lautaro's fate, sweet seraph, sing. 
 
 The land that gave Lautaro birth, 
 The loveliest is of all the earth ; 
 Hers all that charms the roving eye, — 
 The Andes huge and towering high, 
 The vast Pacific's rolling waves, 
 Which up the shore the west wind heaves ; 
 The fruitful plain that lies between, 
 The gentle hill, the valley green, 
 A climate ever pure and mild, 
 No scorching heat, no winter wild : — 
 Chili ! sweet land, — in beauty drest, 
 Thine are these charms, thus art thou blest. 
 The fairy scenes that round him lay, 
 The rocky steep, the landscape gay ; — 
 
LAUTARO. 55 
 
 On these Lautaro raptured gazed, 
 While these his purest transports raised. 
 His was no mind of common mould; 
 Warm was his heart, his genius bold : 
 His was sweet fancy's magic heaven, 
 To him her loftiest flight was given. 
 Oft would he mount with agile step, 
 With nimble bound, and venturous leap, 
 Up the vast mountain's ponderous sides 
 To where some peak the storm abides, 
 And then would gaze in wonder down, 
 On rocks that o'er the valley frown 
 On verdant plains far, far below, 
 Where glassy streams meander slow. 
 Now upward raise his beaming eye 
 To the blue heights that pierce the sky ; 
 Now catch the distant ocean's roar, 
 Loud-thundering as it beats the shore. 
 Oft would he steal at early dawn. 
 Along the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
 To watch the brightening clouds of day, 
 And catch its first, its sweetest ray ; — 
 To breathe the fragrant air that plays 
 About Aurora's glimmering rays, 
 Contemplating, in rapture sweet, 
 The charms that wont that hour to greet. 
 
 Oft down some dark and lonely glen, 
 Mid rocks untrodden yet by men, 
 
56 LAUTARO. 
 
 The youth his dangerous steps would guide, 
 And in the lowest caverns hide, 
 To 'scape the lord of day, when high 
 Up the blue heaven his coursers fly ; 
 Where rocks high-piled on rocks o'ershade, 
 The brightest beams in twilight fade, 
 And trickling streamlets murmuring creep 
 Down the black hollows vast and deep — 
 There fancy sweet, at his command, 
 Would summon round her airy band 
 Of atomies, light-winged sprites 
 That perch upon the pearly lights 
 Hung high in heaven, the tell-tale stars ; 
 Or mounting, fly in dew-drop cars, 
 Now dancing on a moonlight beam, 
 Now sailing down the rainbow stream — 
 Then lo ! a palace, fair and bright 
 Gleams on the youthful hero's sight, 
 Upreared by fancy's mighty power, 
 O'er the rough steep high shoots the tower, 
 The battlements spread far and wide, 
 The ponderous columns downward glide, 
 And high-arched court, and spacious hall 
 Shine gayly through the glassy wall ; — 
 Then tripping lightly to the sound 
 Of merry notes that hover round, 
 Fancy's fairy train lead in 
 A jocund dance with lively din ; 
 
LAUTARO. 57 
 
 Maidens bright and chieftains bold 
 Winding through the mazy fold. 
 
 Such were his dreams — thus sweetly past 
 Lautaro's blushing youth. Full fast 
 That fleeting time of gladness flew, 
 Full soon to manhood's dawning prime he grew. 
 
 Lautaro loved to be alone, 
 He loved to think of ages gone ; 
 He loved to wander, musing deep, 
 Where Nature doth her revel keep. 
 Yet think not he disdained to share 
 In others' joy, in others' care ; 
 No — all that melting pity feels, 
 When o'er the heart she softly steals, 
 Glowed on his cheek, beamed in his eye, 
 When aught of human wo was nigh. 
 The mild respect of Friendship dear, 
 Love's deepest sigh, love's warmest tear 
 Were his. The old man loved to see 
 His witching smile, his sportive glee ; 
 The stripling darted o'er the green, 
 Oft as his angel -form was seen. 
 
 But, ah ! those cheerful hours are past, 
 So sweet, they could not, could not last. 
 What swelling murmur strikes the ear ? 
 'Tis War's wild clang, the knell of Fear ! 
 6 
 
58 LAUTARO. 
 
 The foeman comes from distant land, 
 The lightning's bolt glares in his hand, 
 The simple native trembling flies, 
 Or falling gasps, and groaning dies ; 
 His rural cot — 'tis there no more ! 
 The night-breeze sweeps its ruins o'er. 
 Lautaro, sad thy fate to tell, 
 Lautaro fought, Lautaro fell ! 
 A hollow, mournful murmur rung 
 Through Ancles' caves. The wild bird sung 
 Her strain so lone, so sadly soft, 
 That the young wanderer, pausing oft, 
 Would list her notes, then pensive sigh, 
 And as he turned, with tearful cheek would cry — 
 And dost thou mourn, sweet melancholy bird? 
 He loved thee once, and oft thy song he heard. 
 He fought — he conquered ! But he's cold in death- 
 Mourn on, sweet bird ! Lautaro's cold in death. 
 1822. 
 
TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 CLASSIC AUTHORS 
 
VIRGIL'S PRAISE OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 Georgic II. . L. 458. 
 
 happy swains ! too happy, if they knew 
 
 Their own blessed state ; round whom their labors strew 
 
 The fruits of earth, in rich profusion thrown, 
 
 Remote from war, where peace is all their own ; 
 
 What though they never see the lofty gate 
 
 Whence proudly march the flatterers of the great ? 
 
 Nor gape at columns that with tortoise shine, 
 
 Nor cloth of gold, nor brass from Corinth's mine ? 
 
 What though their fleece ne'er knew Assyrian dyes, 
 
 Nor cassia taint the oil their press supplies 1 
 
 Theirs is a life unknowing to deceive — 
 
 Theirs all that peace and smiling plenty give ; 
 
 Theirs is the grot remote from Phosbus' beam, 
 
 The cooling vale, the mead, and living stream ; 
 
 While lowing herds are grazing in the glade, 
 
 Soft slumbers find them 'neath some spreading shade. 
 
 Their hardy youth, inured to every toil, 
 
 Now scour the woods, now till the fertile soil ; 
 6* 
 
62 THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 Their parents clear, revered in hoary age, 
 In holy rites with pious love engage. 
 When Justice, long a wanderer on the earth, 
 Was forced to seek the heaven that gave her birth, 
 To them she bent her steps, then swiftly flew 
 To regions bright, beyond the aerial blue. 
 1820. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 Horace, B. II., Ode 16. 
 
 The mariner, when storms hang o'er the sea, 
 And when light from the eye, hope from the mind 
 Recedes — dark clouds obscure the moon, and stars 
 Give no sure guidance, prays the Gods for peace. 
 The Thracian bold, the Mede with quiver decked, 
 Entreat the same — a boon, my friend, ne'er bought 
 With gems, nor purple, nor with yellow gold. 
 For neither wealth, nor pride, nor pomp of state 
 Can take away the tumults of the mind, 
 And cares that haunt the residence of kings. 
 But he with health and comfort lives on little, 
 On whose plain table shines the paternal dish — 
 Whose sleep, nor fear, nor loose desires disturb. 
 
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 63 
 
 Wherefore should we, who soon shall pass away 
 And ne'er return to this frail world again, 
 Indulge a vain desire of many things 1 
 Why should we leave our native land behind, 
 And fly to climes warmed with another sun 1 
 Can he who flies his country, fly himself? 
 Corroding care climbs up the loftiest ship. 
 Nor does she leave the bands of mounted knights — 
 She speeds more swiftly than the stag pursued, 
 Than sweeps the rushing wind along the sky. 
 He that improves the present time cares not 
 What good or ill to-morrow hath, but seeks 
 Tranquillity where virtue points the way. 
 There's no such thing as happiness below, 
 But all is care, perplexity and wo. 
 1819. 
 
III. 
 
 GENIUS OF MILTON 
 
 An irregular piece on the genius of Milton, in imitation of his sonnet 
 to Shakspeare, beginning — 
 
 " What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones." 
 
 " His body was conveyed to St. Giles' Church by Cripplegate, where it 
 lies interred in the chancel, but neither has nor wants a monument to 
 perpetuate his memory." — Life of Milton. 
 
 What need hath Milton of the sculptured stone 
 
 To tell where sleep " his honored bones 1" 
 
 For them more fit, 
 
 Who dream away their idle life 
 
 In pleasure's sensual lap. 
 
 A monument more lasting his 
 
 Than all the pyramids of Egypt's kings ! 
 
 Vain-glorious fools, who fondly thought 
 
 Their names to make immortal there, 
 
 With toil immense 
 
 Upraising heaps of senseless stones. 
 
 In every breathing line 
 
 A living spirit glows. 
 
 Immortal genius ! 
 
GENIUS OF MILTON. 65 
 
 Who scorns the scythe of " envious time — "* 
 He rises on the rushing winds, 
 And courses from the arctic to the antarctic pole ; 
 Then flies o'er " that chrystalline sphere ' ? f 
 Whence motion springs : 
 Or on some planet's distant orb 
 Lighteth to view what beings habit there ; 
 Now sails o'er seas of liquid pearl 
 That at the foot of Heaven roll ! 
 Through Heaven's spacious courts he walketh now, 
 Then through the space 
 
 Where " wild uproar " and " ancient night " do 
 reign ; 
 
 * Vide an irregular piece, " written to be set on a clock-case.' 
 
 " Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, 
 
 Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, 
 Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace ; 
 
 And glut thyself with what thy womb devours. 
 Which is no more than what is false and vain, 
 
 And merely mortal dross ; 
 
 So little is our loss, 
 So little is thy gain," &c. — Milton's Works. 
 
 t A singular passage in Milton, alluding to the ancient astronomy. 
 
 " They pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed, 
 And that chrystalline sphere whose balance weighs 
 The trepidation talked, and that first moved ; 
 And now St. Peter at Heaven's wicket seems 
 To wait them with his keys, and now at foot 
 Of Heaven's ascent they lift their feet," &c. 
 
56 IMITATION OF OSSIAN. 
 
 To the utmost bound of hell he flies, 
 Far o'er the burning lake, and ice-bound hills, 
 And mounteth like a seraph on the wind, 
 Once more to realms of purity and heavenly light, 
 Rejoicing high in knowledge of God's wondrous works. 
 1820. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE CHIEF IN THE BATTLE OF SHIELDS- 
 
 IN IMITATION OF OSSIAN. 
 
 He came from his hill in the land of streamy Mor- 
 ven : the thunder of his shield echoed as he came, 
 from a thousand lofty rocks above, around, and under- 
 neath. He strode swiftly onward in his might. He 
 stood among his thousands, arrayed for the battle of 
 shields, like some tall tree among the rough forests of 
 the mountain. The bright armor of his lofty form 
 shone like a wave of the ocean : the warrior is sur- 
 rounded ; but they fall before him. Again they en- 
 close him round. Now louder sounds the clang of 
 arms. The weapons gleam in the air countless as the 
 hail-stones of the storm. He is lost in the gathering 
 hosts. But see ! again they sink ; again his mighty 
 
A VISIT BY NIGHT. ^7 
 
 arm reposes ; he leans on his glittering spear. Thus 
 have I seen a beaming star ascend from the peaks of 
 Calmar. The clouds assemble ; obscure is now that 
 beaming star. Yet oft it breaks forth in darkening 
 vapor, and walks in beauty. The whistling winds 
 arise ; through the deep vault of heaven they roar ; 
 swift fly the broken clouds ; and smoothly now sails 
 that glittering star through the blue ocean of heaven. 
 Such is the course of the hero amid the gathering 
 storms of war. 
 1821. 
 
 V. 
 A VISIT BY NIGHT 
 
 EI2 EPQTA. 
 
 Anacreon, Ode III. 
 
 PARAPHRASE IN THE FORM OF A BALLAD. 
 
 One blustering, cold and rainy night, 
 When all were sunk to sleep, 
 
 I heard a knocking at my gate — 
 An infant seemed to weep. 
 
68 A VISIT BY NIGHT. 
 
 Who's that, said, I disturbs my dreams 
 
 At this unwonted hour 1 
 Who, in this dark and moonless night, 
 
 Is knocking at my door 1 
 < ( Oh ! rise and let me in," it cried, 
 u I am wetted to the skin ; 
 I have no shelter from the storm ; 
 
 Oh ! rise and let me in ! 
 I am a little, little child, 
 
 And know not where to go ; 
 Have pity, then, upon my youth, 
 
 And some compassion show." 
 Moved by his artless tale of wo, 
 
 I rose and ope'd the door ; 
 I lit my fire, and dried his hands, 
 
 And pressed them o'er and o'er. 
 Then, as this little boy grew warm, 
 
 He cried, with sportive glee, 
 iC Here is my bow — let's see what harm 
 
 The rain has done — let's see." 
 And then he drew that tiny bow, 
 
 And aimed his little arrow, 
 That pierced my liver through and through, 
 
 And cut me to the marrow. 
 Up then he jumped, and laughed ontright, 
 
 " Kind host," he cried, " no more 
 Suspect my bow, 'tis strong enough — 
 
 But thy poor heart is sore." 
 1819. 
 
VI. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF LIFE 
 
 Sic cum transierint mei 
 Nullo cum strepitu dies, 
 Plebeius moriar senex — 
 Illi mors gravis incubat 
 Qui, notus nimis omnibu9 
 Ignotus moritur sibi. 
 
 Seneca: 
 
 IMPROMPTU IMITATION, 
 ADDRESSED TO MAJOR POPHAM, OF THE OLD ARMY. 
 
 Thus, when my days have passed away, 
 From tumult free and vain display, 
 Brief earthly fame content to fly, 
 Like thee, dear Major, may I die. 
 For death stalks grim and threatening on 
 Toward him who hath the laurel won, 
 And known to all the world beside, 
 To know himself hath too much pride. 
 
VII. 
 
 THE MEMORY 
 or 
 
 SCHOOLBOY DAYS 
 
 Memor 
 Actse non alio rege puertiae 
 Mutataeque simul togae. 
 
 Horace, B. I., Ode 36 
 
 PARODY OF THE ABOVE, 
 WRITTEN AT THE ORDINATION OF THE GEN. THEO. SEMINARY 
 
 We'll remember the time, 
 
 When, in youth's happy prime, 
 The same grave professor ruled us all ; 
 
 And when our deacon's gown, 
 
 The same day o'er the town, 
 Each wore, like his coffin's funeral pall. 
 
VIII. 
 AMST^EUS AND HIS BEES: 
 
 THE CONCLUSION OF THE GEORG-ICS. 
 Geo. IV., L. 52S. 
 
 Thus Proteus sung ; and forthwith, at one bound, 
 Plunged from the rock into the foaming wave. 
 
 Not so Cyrene : — thus she willing spoke, 
 And calmed the anxious feelings of her son. 
 " O son, now cease your cares ; this is the cause 
 Of all you suffer ; 'tis for this the Nymphs, 
 With whom she * led the dance in secret groves, 
 Your bees pursue with fell destructive rage. 
 Now offer gifts, as suppliants seeking peace, 
 And venerate the placid Nymphs. Your vows 
 Their pardon will obtain, and soothe their ire. 
 How you shall supplicate, I first will show : — 
 Four bulls of beauteous form, who, on the tops 
 Of green Lyceeus feed, shall claim thy search ; 
 And join with these as many cows, whose necks 
 Are yet untouched. Where lofty stand their groves, 
 The temples of these goddesses, there raise 
 
 * Eurvdice. 
 
72 arist^us and his bees. 
 
 Four altars for their victims, and then pour 
 The sacred blood ; and then returning straight, 
 Their bodies leave within the leafy grove. 
 When to the minstrel Orpheus thou shalt bring 
 An offering of letheean poppies, while 
 Eurydice propitious, thou shalt thank 
 With victim of the tender herd, and sheep 
 Of ebon hue : then seek the grove once more." 
 
 Without delay his mother's high command 
 Young Aristeeus piously obeyed ; 
 Approached the temples ; raised the altars four ; 
 Four bulls of beauteous form that on the tops 
 Of green Lycaeus fed ; then claimed his search ; 
 He joined with these as many cows, whose necks 
 Were yet untouched, as by Cyrene taught. 
 Waiting, until the ninth Aurora beamed, 
 Then to the minstrel Orpheus he brought 
 A sacrifice, and sought the grove once more. 
 But here a wondrous prodigy behold ! 
 Lo! swarming through the animal remains 
 Young bees were murmuring, and broke forth in clouds 
 To taste the fragrant air ; and on the top 
 Of neighboring tree they gathered soon their host, 
 And hung like clustering grapes upon the stem. 
 
 Thus, of the culture of the fields, of herds, 
 Of trees and plants, Caesar, have I sung, 
 While thou hast thundered o'er Euphrates' flood, 
 
TRAGEDY OF MEDEA. 73 
 
 The hero of the war, and conquering all, 
 Hast given thy laws to willing nations round, 
 And trod the path to high Olympian fame. 
 
 Meanwhile thy Virgil far retired, hath dwelt 
 In sweet Parthenope's retreat, and there 
 Hath passed his days in poetry and peace ; 
 Thy Virgil, who once tuned the shepherd's reed, 
 And bold in youth, dared sing thee with thy pipe, 
 O Tityrus, reclined in beachen shade. 
 
 1820, 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE FIRST SCENE 
 
 IN 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF MEDEA. 
 
 Enter the Nurse of Medea's Children. 
 
 Oh ! that the Argo swift had never sailed 
 To Colchos' coast, and the Symplegades! 
 Oh ! that the lofty pine had never fallen 
 In Pelion's grove ; nor heroes held the oar 
 Ploughing the deep, to seek the golden fleece ! 
 
74 TRAGEDY OF MEDEA. 
 
 Medea then had never seen thy towers 
 O Corinth, pierced with Jason's fatal love. 
 
 For Jason's love she gave up all she had, 
 And, by her care, secured him fortune's smile. 
 And then it is, that safest far and best 
 Man leads his life, when wife and husband joined 
 In love's blest union, know no jarring thought. 
 But now that happy amity is gone ; 
 My lady loathes what most she once did love. 
 For Jason basely hath abandoned her, 
 And his own offspring, for a royal spouse, 
 Wedding King Creon's daughter, Corinth's king. 
 Medea, therefore, thus dishonored, 
 O'erwhelmed with grief, calls on his plighted faith, 
 His solemn oath, by strongest pledge confirmed, 
 The pledge of his right hand, and to the Gods 
 With streaming eyes appeals for heaven's justice 
 Upon the base return her love hath met. 
 Upon the ground she lies, sunk down by sorrow, 
 And sheddeth day and night continued tears, 
 Since of her husband's treachery she heard : 
 She lifteth not her eye from off the earth, 
 But like a rock, or wave from ocean's deep, 
 Heareth the sympathies of weeping friends : 
 Save that she, now and then, her pallid brow 
 Doth raise, and with a bitter grief lament 
 Her sire beloved, her native land, sweet home, 
 
FIRST CHORUS IN MEDEA. 75 
 
 And all she left behind for that base man 
 
 Who leaves her now to shame in foreign land. 
 
 ****** 
 
 But lo ! here come her children from their sports, 
 Attended by their pedagogue, poor things ! 
 How little wot they of their mother's woe ! 
 For youthful hearts love not dark sorrow's gloom. 
 
 1822. 
 
 X. 
 
 OPENING OF THE 
 
 FIRST CHORUS IN MEDEA 
 
 ■\ 
 
 Chorus of Corinthian women. 
 Dramatis Persona. -I Medea's Nurse. 
 
 Medea is heard lamenting behind the scenes. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 I heard a sad voice, I heard a wild cry 
 
 Of the sorrowing Colchian queen : 
 Doth she rave? Ah ! tell, aged nurse, tell why 
 
 These sounds from her palace ; hast seen 
 
76 FIRST CHORUS IN MEDEA. 
 
 The dire cause of alarm 
 That her wild cry of fear doth betray 1 
 
 Grief may innocence harm, 
 While she treads dark adversity's way. 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 Her sweet comforts of home are all gone, 
 For allied is her spouse to the throne : 
 He hath married the daughter of kings ; 
 Who the rule of this fair land brings 
 To false Jason, sworn ever to be 
 Medea's, o'er land and o'er sea : 
 By this dark, treacherous deed driven wild, 
 Of all peace is our sweet queen despoiled. 
 
 MEDEA. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! through my brain let the lightning-flame 
 flash ! 
 For why wish to live any more ? 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! would that death might this instant 
 dash 
 My loathed life through the grave's dark door ! 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hearest thou, O Jove ! O Earth, and O Light ! 
 
 Her wailing o'er woes more gloomy than night, 
 
 And darkening around her 1 
 
STABAT MATER. 77 
 
 Oh ! do not let disappointment's sting 
 In what thou hast held a holy thing — 
 Wedded love — wretched lady, blindly lead 
 Thy mind to the thought of a desperate deed ! 
 
 Let not thy hopes founder 
 
 Upon that rock, nor pray 
 
 That death would end thy sad day ! 
 Though thy husband hath left thee in sorrow to sigh, 
 Yet remember that God, thine Avenger, is nigh : 
 
 Oh ! grieve not thy life away, 
 Nor deign, for a false, faithless spouse to die. 
 
 XI. 
 STABAT MATER; 
 
 A MUCH ADMIRED HYMN IN THE LATIN SERVICE, 
 
 Stabat mater dolorosa, 
 Juxta crucem lacrymosa. 
 
 Dum pendebat Alius ; 
 Cujus animam gementem, 
 Contristantem et dolentem, 
 
 Pertransivit gladius. 
 
 O, quam tristis et afflicta, 
 Fuit ilia benedicta 
 
 Mater Uni geniti ; 
 Quae maerebat et dolebat, 
 Et tremebat, cum videbat 
 
 Nati paenas inclytL 
 
78 STABAT MATER. 
 
 in. 
 
 Quis est homo qui non fleret, 
 Christi matrem si videret 
 
 In tanto supplicio 1 
 Quis posset non contristari, 
 Piam matrem contemplari 
 
 Dolentem cum fllio 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 Pro peccatis suae gentis, 
 Vidit Jesum in tormentis, 
 
 Et flagellis subditum ; 
 Vidit suum dulcem natum 
 Morientem, desolatum, 
 Dum emisit spiritum. 
 
 v. 
 
 Christe, cum sit hinc exire, 
 Da per mortem me venire, 
 
 Ad palmam victoria3 ; 
 Quando corpus morietur, 
 Fac ut animae donetur 
 
 Paradisi gloriae. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE, 
 Adapted to the Rhythm of the Original 
 
 Near the cross, in deep wo sighing, 
 Weeping, while her son was dying, 
 
 Stood the mother of our Lord ; 
 Through whose soul, oppressed and groaning, 
 Sinners' agony bemoaning, 
 
 Passed the sharp and cutting sword. 
 
STABAT MATER. 79 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! how sad and how afflicted, 
 Was that pure and heaven-predicted 
 
 Mother of God's only Son ! 
 Who, that dismal scene unfolding-, 
 Mourned, while thus the fate beholding 
 
 Of that high and holy One ! 
 
 ill. 
 Where the man could fail of feeling 
 Tear-drops o'er his cheek fast stealing, 
 
 Gazing on that mother mild ? 
 Whose the cold heart, undejected, 
 By no heart-felt grief affected, 
 
 For that mother's bleeding child ? 
 
 IV. 
 For God's chosen, fallen nation, 
 She beholds his condemnation, 
 
 Sees him scorned by all that passed ; 
 She beholds her loved one taken, 
 Crucified, by all forsaken, 
 
 Breathing forth his life at last ! 
 
 V. 
 To thy servant, Lord, departing, 
 From this world, thy grace imparting, 
 
 Grant through death the victory ; 
 When this body sinks, decaying, 
 Paradise her bowers displaying, 
 
 Call my spirit home to thee ! 
 
XII. 
 DIES IB.M 
 
 A HYMN OF THE LATIN SERVICE, SET TO MUSIC IN THE CELE- 
 
 BRATED REQUIEM OF MOZART. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dies irae, dies ilia, 
 Solvet sceclum in favilla 
 Teste David, et Sybilla. 
 
 Quantus tremor est futurus 
 Quando Judex est venturus 
 Cuncta stride discissurus. 
 
 Tuba mirum spargens sonum, 
 Per sepulchra regionum, 
 Coget omnes ante thronum ; 
 Mors stupebit et natura 
 Cum resurget creatura, 
 Judicanti responsura. 
 
 Rex tremendae majestatis, 
 Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
 Salva me, fons pietatis ; 
 Recordare Jesu pie, 
 Quod sum causa tuae viae 
 Ne me perdos ilia die. 
 
 Lacrymosa dies ilia 
 Qua resurget ex favillt 
 
DIES 1KJE. 
 
 Judicandus homo reus ! 
 
 Huic ergo parce Deus! 
 Pie Jesu Domine, 
 Dona nobis coelum. 
 
 81 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE, 
 Adapted to the llhythm of the Original. 
 
 I. 
 
 The day of wrath, red bolts of thunder, 
 Rending solid worlds asunder, 
 Make the mighty prophets wonder : 
 
 Oh ! how dread will be that morning, 
 Of whose scenes now giveth warning 
 God, the judge, to sinners scorning ! 
 
 II. 
 
 When the trumpet's note far soundeth, 
 And from tomb to tomb reboundeth, 
 Death's vast host God's throne surroundeth 
 Death shall tremble, and creation, 
 Through her each remotest station, 
 Fearful view her restoration. 
 
 III. 
 
 King, of majesty tremendous, 
 
 Saviour, by thy grace stupendous, 
 
 In that awful hour defend us ! 
 
 Jesus ! in that day all-trying, 
 
 By that mercy never-dying, 
 
 Save me on thy cross relying ! 
 8 
 
82 WES liUE. 
 
 IV. 
 Sad will be the awful vision 
 Of that day of dread decision ! 
 When the mouldering dust of ages, 
 From the heart-recording pages 
 Of the book of life, shall hear 
 Welcome sweet, or knell of fear ! 
 
SONGS 
 
THE PILGRIM. 
 
 A i r — " Rousseau's Dream." 
 
 Come to my heart, though ye come with sadness, 
 
 Thoughts of happy clays gone by, 
 Days that tell of youthful gladness, 
 
 Ere I yet had learned to sigh. 
 Years have flown, and long a stranger, 
 
 Far from home and love I stray ; 
 Braving every wo and danger 
 
 That beset a pilgrim's way. 
 
 Still, as years are onward rolling, 
 
 Come, my childhood's jocund hours, 
 Often come, this heart consoling, 
 
 When the storm of sorrow lowers j 
 Come, while now with fond emotion 
 
 On my early love I call — 
 Oh ! her name, on life's wild ocean, 
 
 Is my star — my hope — my all ! 
 
86 SPRING IS COMING, LOVELY MARY. * 
 
 III. 
 
 Grant, kind Heaven, this only blessing, 
 
 Take beside all earth can give ; 
 Through life's scene, howe'er distressing, 
 
 In her smile, O let me live. 
 Downward to the tomb descending, 
 
 Hand in hand, O may we go ; 
 From the tomb to heaven ascending, 
 
 Hand in hand, leave all below ! 
 1825. 
 
 SPRING IS COMING, LOVELY MARY. 
 
 A i r — " Comin' t h r o' t la e Rye, 
 
 Spring is coming, lovely Mary, 
 
 Fly the city now ; 
 In the greenwood, gentle Mary, 
 
 Let us wander now. 
 Chorus. Beauty o'er the sky is beaming, 
 
 Verdure paints the plain ; 
 Joy on every face is gleaming 
 
 O'er the rural train. 
 
EVENING WELCOME. $7 
 
 Nature bids thee welcome, Mary, 
 
 To her purest joy ; 
 Hark ! the birds are singing, Mary, 
 
 Nature's song of joy. 
 
 Chorus. Beauty o'er, &c. 
 
 Wandering through the greenwood, Mary, 
 
 We will spend the day, 
 And at evening, clearest Mary, 
 
 Dance the hours away. 
 Chorus. Beauty o'er the sky is beaming, 
 
 Verdure paints the plain ; 
 Joy on every face is gleaming 
 
 O'er the rural train. 
 
 WILLKOMMEN! SELIGER ABEND, 
 
 O EVENING, WELCOME ! 
 
 A FAVORITE GERMAN SONG. 
 
 Willkommen ! seliger Abend, 
 Dem Hurzen das froh dich geniest, 
 
 Du bist so erquickend, so labend, 
 
 Drum sey mir recht herzlick gegriist. 
 
88 EVENING WELCOME. 
 
 II. 
 
 Driickt mir eine reitzende Schbne 
 Im traulichen Dunkel, die Hand ; 
 
 Kein, Wieland ! beschreibet die Scene- 
 Sie ist mit den Himmel werrandt. 
 
 III. 
 
 Willkommen, O Abend voll milde ! 
 
 Du schenkst dem Eermudeten Ruh ; 
 Versetz'st uns in Edens-Gefilde, 
 
 Und lachelst uns Seligkeit zu ! 
 
 TRANSLATION, 
 ADAPTED TO THE RHYTHM OF THE ORIGINAL. 
 
 I. 
 
 O Evening ! how welcome thy holy, 
 Thy sweet j peaceful hour to my heart ! 
 
 So cheerful, yet pure, that e'en folly 
 Must feel the rich blessing thou art. 
 
 II. 
 
 While darkness is gathering round us, 
 The soft hand of love toucheth mine ; 
 
 No poet the bliss which hath bound us 
 May sing — 'tis of heaven, divine ! 
 
 III. 
 
 All welcome thy mildness, Even ! 
 
 For toil thou hast rose-balm of rest ; 
 Thy words breathe of Eden — of heaven — 
 
 Thy smiles make our home with the blest. 
 
THE' "MARSEILLAISE." 
 
 Allons, enfans de la patrie ; 
 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive ; 
 Contre nous de la tyrannie 
 
 L'etendard sanglant est leve. 
 Entendez vous les campagnes 
 
 Mugir ces feroces soldats ? 
 
 lis viennent jusque dans vos bras 
 
 Egorger vos fils, vos campagnes. 
 Aux armes, citoyens ! Formez vos batallions ! 
 Marchez ! marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve. 
 
 Chorus. Marcbons ! marchons ! &c 
 
 Amour sacre de la patrie, 
 
 Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs : 
 Liberte, Liberte cberie, 
 
 Combats avec tes defenseurs : — 
 Sous nos drapeaux que la victoire 
 
 Accoura a tes males accens ; 
 
 Dans tes ennemis expirans, 
 Vois ton triompbe et notre glcire. 
 Aux armes, citovens ! Formez vos batallions ! 
 Marchez ! marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve. 
 
 Chorus. Marchons ! marchons ! &c. 
 
 TRANSLATION, 
 
 [The following translation of the first and last stanzas of this inimit- 
 able hymn — which are those usually sung— is made with a view of 
 giving an idea of the exact meaning of the original, to which the 
 verses in ordinary use bear no resemblance. The movement of the 
 
90 "THE MARSEILLAISE!" 
 
 music is followed, as will be observed, rather than the exact succes- 
 sion of the metre.] 
 
 Arise, ye sons of France, defend her ! 
 
 The day of glorious fame behold ! 
 Bold tyrants, bidding us surrender, 
 
 Their bloody standard wide unfold. 
 Hark ! hear ye not those shouts around you 1 
 Those yells of ruffians — dire alarms ! 
 They come to tear, e'en from your arms, 
 The loved ones so dear that surround you. 
 To arms, O citizens ! 
 
 Form wide your battle-front ! 
 March on ! Let tyrants' blood 
 Flow where the dews are wont. 
 
 Chorus. March on ! &c. 
 
 O sacred love of France, befriend us ! 
 
 Point thou our path through fierce alarms ; 
 Oh, Liberty ! Liberty ! defend us ! 
 
 Our warriors guard with thine own arms : 
 Beneath our flag let fame's proud story 
 With shouts of victory be heard ; 
 Hark ! 'tis thy foe's last dying word ! 
 Behold thy triumph and our glory ! 
 To arms, citizens ! 
 
 Form wide your battle -front ! 
 March on ! Let tyrants' blood 
 Flow where the dews are wont. 
 
 Chorus. March on ! &c. 
 
HEAVEN SENDS RELIGION'S CHARM. 
 
 Air— "Oft in the stilly night." 
 
 I. 
 
 When life hath lost its charm, 
 
 And thoughts of gloom surround us ; 
 Where, from the heart's alarm, 
 Shall refuge then be found us 1 
 From cares and woes ; 
 From secret foes ; 
 From envy, strife and madness ; 
 With weary feet, 
 Oh ! where retreat, 
 To find a balm for sadness ! 
 Heaven sends religion's charm 
 
 When thoughts of gloom surround us ; 
 With her from each alarm 
 
 Shall refuge then be found us ! 
 
92 RELIGION'S CHARM. 
 
 II. 
 O leave the wild domain 
 
 Of gay and worldly pleasure ! 
 Her joys are false and vain ; 
 Be thine a heavenly treasure ! 
 Affliction's night 
 With visions bright, 
 Doth piety enlighten ; 
 And happy days, 
 With rosier rays 
 Beneath her glances brighten. 
 Heaven sends religion's charm 
 
 When thoughts of gloom surround us ; 
 With her from each alarm 
 
 Shall refuge then be found us ! 
 
TBIUMPH OF VIRTUE 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE. 
 
 " Religion, quel est ton empire ? Que de vertus te doirent les hu- 
 mains? Oh! qu'il est heureux le mortel qui penetre de tes verites 
 sublimes, trouve, sans cesse, dans ton sein un asile contre le vice, un 
 refuge contre le malheur !" 
 
 Florian. 
 
 'Twas night — and silence reigned o'er all around — 
 The twilight traveller skimmed the air no more, 
 But slept secure, deep in the chimney's flue. 
 The bat had sought his lonely cleft — the owl 
 Her hollow tree. E'en the fierce village dog 
 Had slunk into his covert ere that night, 
 So awful and appalling came it on ! 
 Robed were the heavens in majesty of darknes-, 
 And not one single ray from moon or star 
 Shot through the gloom to tell of their existence. 
 Said I, there was no sound '? There was a sound 
 That seemed to make e'en silence yet more lonely — 
 The fearful, hollow murmur of the wind 
 Low-creeping on the ear, ere yet the storm 
 
96 THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE. 
 
 Had gathered all the fury of its power 
 To shake the heavens. But hark ! Is that the breeze, 
 Which fitful sighs along 1 The breeze ? ah, no — 
 Within yon ancient, solitary pile, 
 Whose turrets glitter when the sun is up, 
 But now are wrapped in gloom, a thousand lights 
 Are flashing on the walls, and rising high 
 The voice of mirth and revelry is heard. 
 Some faint and wandering ray steals now and then 
 From out the heavy casement on the black 
 And fearful night without, and fitfully 
 A murmur of that light and merry hum 
 Strikes on the ear. But now the storm has burst ! 
 Thick torrents sweep along the midnight sky. 
 The forest roars through all its gloomiest wilds, 
 And castles towering on the mountain's height 
 Are rocking in the whirlwind's grasp. But hark ! 
 The young, the gay have met within yon pile, 
 And now I hear their mirthful, airy song — 
 Merrily, merrily, dance and sing 
 Around the queen of the festive ring ; 
 Sound the viol — sound the lute, 
 Let no joyous sound be mute. 
 Pour the red and sparkling wine, 
 Drink the bowls that richly shine. 
 Away with dull and gloomy care, 
 Hence ! thou fiend, nor ever dare 
 Pollute the breast of Pleasure's train. 
 Vain is learning — wisdom vain, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE. 97 
 
 Life's a dream — then pleasure, bail ! 
 
 Down thy stream we'll gaily sail, 
 
 And when our sportive voyage is o'er, 
 
 Sweetly sleep to wake no more. 
 Merrily, merrily, dance and sing 
 Around the queen of the festive ring. 
 
 That night had fled — long years had intervened, 
 
 And thrown the softening veil of memory 
 
 Around that scene. The full effulgent moon 
 
 Looked down in mild and peaceful majesty 
 
 Upon the vernal earth. I wandered out 
 
 To share the calmness of the silvery landscape, 
 
 And lift my soul to heavenly contemplation. 
 
 I wandered near a little cot that stood 
 
 Lonely and melancholy on the green. 
 
 The fairy beams of moonlight gently kissed 
 
 Its neat-thatched roof. Within, a taper gleamed — 
 
 I entered and beheld the couch of death ! 
 
 A female form, that once had sweetly bloomed 
 
 In health and beauty, sank upon that couch — 
 
 Twas she ! — the once gay queen of the festive ring- 
 
 Her flitting dream of pleasure soon was o'er. 
 
 Misfortune came — she wept — the bitter tears 
 
 Of deep repentance flowed — she was forgiven — 
 
 And then an humble, holy life she led, 
 
 With living faith, with beaming, burning hope, 
 
 With deeds of meek-eyed charity she lived, 
 9* 
 
98 THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE. 
 
 And now at last was summoned to her Father ! 
 I gazed — I saw a band of beauteous angels 
 Glide from the heavens to waft her spirit thither. 
 I heard — when mounting, thus they sweetly sung- 
 
 The earth is fading from our view, 
 The gate of heaven appears ; 
 
 Adieu, thou gloomy orb, adieu ! 
 Thy empty hopes and fears. 
 
 To the bright worlds on high we soar, 
 
 Where happy spirits dwell ; 
 Of death and sorrow now no more, 
 
 'Tis done — and all is well. 
 
 The ages of eternity 
 
 Shall onward, onward roll ; 
 While Heaven's high King unfolds to thee 
 
 The glories of the soul. 
 1823. 
 
ELEGIES 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 BISHOP HOBART AND THE REV. E. D. GRIFFIN. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus 
 Tarn cari capitis 1 
 
 Horace, B. L, O. 24. 
 
 There was a light, a beaming- light, 
 
 Within the temple's holiest bound, 
 Which threw to our enraptured sight 
 
 A splendor all the temple round. 
 Upon the golden candlestick 
 
 It beamed in brilliant purity, 
 And lit with heavenly ray the thick 
 
 Dark cloud of human misery. 
 
 There was an angel stationed high 
 Upon the watch-tower of the world : 
 
 He bore the banner of the sky, 
 And wide its star of life unfurled. 
 
 Above that dark and dreadful bound 
 Which severs life from death, he stood, 
 
102 BISHOP HOBART. 
 
 And pointed where e'en death is found, 
 A smiling- cherub born of God. 
 
 That light is gone — that angel fled — 
 
 Ah ! who shall tell the temple's gloom? 
 The watch-tower of that mitred head 
 
 Is now a sad and silent tomb. 
 Alas for Zion ! and alas 
 
 For all who hold her honor dear ! 
 Though time to other names may pass, 
 
 Thine, Hobart, still shall claim the tear. 
 
 Like Paul, he fought the noble fight — 
 
 He kept the faith, and wavered not ; 
 Await him, then — how pure ! how bright ! — 
 
 The robe, the crown, which bear no spot. 
 With angels, and with spirits just, 
 
 What joyous greeting hath been made ! 
 Life's early friends, long fled from dust, 
 
 The pure embrace of soul have paid. 
 
 Thou, too, young cherub of the skies, 
 
 Whose earthly form so early fell — 
 Thou, Griffin, into Paradise 
 
 Hast welcomed him who loved thee well. 
 Why weep we, then, on Zion's hill, 
 
 Around the tomb where Hobart sleeps ? 
 Alas! though heaven hath claimed him, still, 
 
 The Church, with all her children weeps. 
 1830. 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE REV. SUTHERLAND DOUGLAS, 
 
 WHO DIED IN LONDON, MAY G, ISil. 
 
 He was borne to the grave far away o'er the billow — 
 Nor father nor mother might weep o'er his pillow, 
 To the loved of his bosom no last look was given — 
 No last, parting look, full of hope and of heaven ; 
 Nor sister nor brother might close the young eye 
 Of the stranger, who died as the young flowers die. 
 But he was not alone ! One Friend had he there — 
 That Father in heaven, who heareth our prayer ; 
 And an angel bent o'er him, to wipe the last tear, 
 And the Comforter whispered of Paradise near. 
 Dear friend of my youth ! can I ever forget 
 Our sweet morn of life, when in gladness we met 1 
 When we wandered o'er hill, and o'er lawn, and by 
 
 stream, 
 And believed, while we talked of the future — youth's 
 
 dream ! — 
 
104 REV. JAMES LAWRENCE YVOUNET. 
 
 Oh, Sutherland! ne'er may the memory part] 
 
 Of those fleet, happy hours, from this wo-withered 
 
 heart ! 
 Thou hast gone to thy rest — and I dread not the hour 
 That shall yield me to earth and the grave's peaceful 
 
 power. 
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 THE REV. JAMES LAWRENCE YVOUNETT. 
 
 One beauteous day in June, in days gone by, 
 There stood above dark Poesten's rocky brow, 
 Upon the very verge of his wild whirlpool, 
 Three beauteous youths,* collegiate wanderers then, 
 From three far distant Alma Maters met — 
 What time the brief recess of summer chanced — 
 Columbia, Yale and Union, thy fair sons. 
 
 * The Rev. J. L. Yvounett, Rev. E. D. Griffin, and Rev. S. Douglas. 
 See some beautiful lines of the Rev. E. D. Griffin, on occasion of his 
 visiting the romantic waterfall here spoken of, in the first volume of his 
 "Remains." 
 
REV. J. L. YVOUNETT. 105 
 
 Three firm-united, ardent friends they were ; 
 Full of sweet hope, and generous intent, 
 And the rich glow of youth's imaginings : 
 A sacred trio, bound by early vows, 
 At God's high altar, soon to consecrate 
 Life, talent, effort, all to His high service. 
 They stood in beauty, side by side, and oh ! 
 What beaming visions crossed each youthful eye ! 
 Each moment there had in it years of life. 
 
 And are they with the dead ! 
 The whole of that fair trio gone 1 Even so ! 
 
 Earth ! Life ! is this thy golden promise 1 
 Thou first, dear Lawrence, through the gloomy vale 
 Of death, didst find the path of paradise. 
 
 1 saw the grave close o'er thee, where the roar 
 Of Poesten's wave I heard, deep thundering near. 
 I thought of thee, ah ! could I fail to think 
 
 Of that sweet morn in June — those beautoous three ! 
 
 10 
 
ODE TO THE MEMORY 
 
 ELIAKIM WARREN, ESQ., 
 
 FOUNDER OF THE WARREN SCHOLARSHIP IN THE GENERAL 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, NEW YORK. 
 
 Multis ille bonis flebilio occidit ; 
 Nulli flebilior quam tibi. 
 
 Horace. 
 
 The bell tolled out a solemn funeral peal, 
 
 The church was filled, and through the aisle there 
 came 
 
 A slow, sad, silent train, that seemed to feel 
 
 They mourned the fall of more than common name. 
 
 " I am the Resurrection and the Life" — * 
 Thus spake the aged friend of him who lay 
 
 Cold on that bier, and felt no more death's strife — 
 " The Lord that gave, hath taken him away." 
 
 * Allusion is here made to the text of the funeral discourse preached by 
 the Rev. David Butler, rector of St. Paul's Church, Troy. Of these two 
 venerable Christians— one the clerical, and the other the lay fownder of the 
 Church in that place— may it be justly and truly said, "They took sweet 
 counsel together, and walked in the house of God as friends." 
 
ELIAK1M WARREN, ESQ. 107 
 
 He was that " upright," and that " perfect man," 
 Of whom the Psalmist sung, and his decease ; 
 
 His Christian " race" with patient hope he ran ; 
 a Fought the good fight," and so his end was peace. 
 
 I seem to see his snowy locks adorn 
 
 The long-accustomed pew — and I recall 
 
 That reverence I felt in life's young morn 
 For him, so kind to me, so good to all. 
 
 " Thou art gone up on high," O holy man ! 
 
 One of that a cloud of witnesses" thou art, 
 That hover o'er this vale of tears, and scan 
 
 The path of friends who may not yet depart. 
 
 Grant me, God ! to tread that upward way 
 
 This father of our Israel daily trod ; 
 That to this early, aged friend I may 
 
 In heaven tell, of souls brought home to God. 
 
 1829. 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 ESAIAS WARREN, ESQ., 
 
 LATE MAYOR OF THE CITY OF TROY, AND WARDEN OF ST. PAUL' 
 CHURCH IN THAT PLACE. 
 
 Una salus ambobus erit. 
 
 Virg., JEn. II , 710. 
 
 I stood upon the burial-ground 
 
 That lies o'er Ida's hill ; 
 The sun was going calmly down, 
 
 And earth and heaven were still ; 
 No sound, save that of Poesten's fall, 
 
 Deep down his dark ravine ; 
 And shades began, o'er Ida's brow, 
 
 To lengthen o'er the scene. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beneath my feet lay many a friend 
 That I had loved full well, 
 
ESAIAS WARREN, ESQ.. 109 
 
 Now dwelling in that narrow house 
 Where all are doomed to dwell. 
 
 And I beheld a new-made grave, 
 That stood enclosed with one 
 
 Which I had often wet with tears — 
 Thine, Warren ! — sire and son ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Alas ! that I who sung so late 
 
 The patriarch sire's decease, 
 So soon should raise a requiem 
 
 For thee and thy release. 
 But there ye slumber side by side, 
 
 The sainted son and sire ; 
 Like yonder evening's sun ye set — 
 
 God's chosen thus expire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The tenor of your lives the same, 
 
 The same in death your peace ; 
 The same salvation winged each soul 
 
 To joys that may not cease ; 
 And now with saints of ages past 
 
 In paradise ye rest — 
 'Tis God's own word — the dead, who die 
 
 In Christ the Lord, are blest. 
 1829. 
 
 10* 
 
THE DEATH 
 
 OK 
 
 MRS. PHCEBE WARREN, 
 
 PRECEDED A SHORT TIME BY THAT OF NATHAN WARREN, ESQ., THE 
 
 ELDEST OF TWO SONS WHO HAD SURVIVED THEIR 
 
 FATHER AND ELDEST BROTHER. 
 
 She saw her eldest-born go down to dust : 
 
 She saw him laid beside his aged sire, 
 
 Whom, at brief interval, that son had followed 
 
 Down the dark valley of thy shadow, Death ! 
 
 A little while, and death once more returned, 
 
 To knock for entrance at her door : 
 
 The eldest of her two surviving sons 
 
 Received the awful mandate, and obeyed. 
 
 She closed his eyes '.—sweet act of piety ! 
 
 Which, from old time, through each succeeding age, 
 
 Hath come to us, still handed down the same, 
 
 From our first parents, in fair Eden placed. 
 
 Dear, pious duty ! which the parent fond, 
 
 When at the close of life his eye doth glance, 
 
 And run o'er all his final scene of death, 
 
 Still loves to view some pious child performing ! 
 
 It was thy trial, O thou aged saint ! 
 
MRS. rilCEBE WARREN. HI 
 
 To close the cold, the glassy, mindless orbs 
 
 Of him who should have done that holy deed 
 
 For thee. It seemed as if thy lot it were 
 
 That Nature should reverse her order — all 
 
 Preceding thee, none left to close thine eye ! 
 
 But Heaven, in whose high court thy prayers and alms 
 
 Had still gone up — a sweet memorial — closed 
 
 Thy Dorcas-life, and called thee home, 
 
 To some high mansion in thy Father's house, 
 
 While yet thy youngest might bend o'er thy pillow, 
 
 And wipe the tear and cool the fevered brow, 
 
 And bid farewell till Jesus come once more, 
 
 Then close the parent's eye with fiilial hand, 
 
 And lay thee with thy dear departed ones ! 
 
LINES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARY KNOX. 
 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest casts the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers." 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 I. 
 
 I will ask some gentle angel, 
 
 From the regions of the blest, 
 In some elegy unearthly 
 
 To sing thy Christian rest. 
 Oh ! Mary, when thy sun of life 
 
 Was beaming beauteously, 
 The messenger of Jesus came, 
 
 From earth to summon thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 As we gazed upon thy beauty, 
 The pure heaven of thy heart, 
 
 Lo ! the cloud of death came o'er thee ! 
 Ah ! sad — how sad — to part ! 
 
LINES. 113 
 
 But, Mary, for a little while, 
 
 To those who love thee here, 
 Was thy farewell — thy gentle voice 
 
 Shall soothe each dying ear. 
 
 LINES 
 
 To the memory of a young married lady, of whom I had" taken leave 
 a few days before, in blooming health, as she stood by the side of my 
 aged and infirm grandmother. 
 
 I saw thee standing at the door, 
 With her whose days seemed nearly o'er ; 
 Health on thy cheek — youth in tnine eye — 
 Thine all that might e'en death defy. 
 
 I looked upon that aged form, 
 
 Which long had weathered life's dark storm, 
 
 And, as I gazed, it seemed to me, 
 
 That I no more that form should see ; 
 
 For I had come to bid farewell, 
 
 And go where duty bade me dwell, 
 
 I told my tale, and bade adieu, 
 
 As if no more that form to view. 
 
 I looked upon that blooming bride, 
 Who stood in beauty at her side, 
 
114 LINES. 
 
 And fancy promised many a year 
 Of happiness — I could not fear 
 Disease upon her dewy breath — 
 Alas ! how could I think of death 1 
 
 The week twice fled — and I once more 
 
 Returned ; and in that very door 
 
 There stood the aged form I loved. 
 
 Where was that bride ? Gone ! gone ! removed 
 
 From earth, and him on earth most dear ! 
 
 The joy and grief, the hope and fear, 
 
 The care and wo, and empty strife 
 
 Of this vain world, had ceased with life. 
 
 Oh, Mary ! I will think of thee, 
 And thine untimely destiny ; 
 And while I muse on all thou wast, 
 And all thy loved companion lost, 
 And while the tear bedims mine eye, 
 Can I forget I too must die ? 
 1829. 
 
ON THE DEATH 
 
 OF AN AGED GRANDMOTHER 
 
 " There is no inquisition in the grave, whether thou have lived ten, or 
 hundred, or a thousand years." — Holy Scriptures. 
 
 That aged form* hath sunk to rest, 
 Her spirit dwelleth with the hlest ; 
 She fell asleep like infant child, 
 x\nd in the arms of death she smiled. 
 Disease had long", with trembling hands, 
 Seized on her life's slow wasting sands, 
 And shaken them with fearful grasp ; 
 As oft, his fatal hold unclasp 
 Was bidden by some higher power, 
 That meted life a few years more — 
 Years filled with pain — with patience too- 
 While thorns of care and sorrow grew 
 Around their pathway to the tomb — 
 A path where roses never bloom — 
 
 Referring to the nged person mentioned in the preceding linps 
 
116 MY TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 Till death at last came kindly down, 
 And welcomed her without a frown. 
 As youth and age, of years thus wide, 
 Thus joined in death, sleep side by side, 
 Why ask if our frail life we own 
 Was long or short, so heaven be won ? 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 MY TWO BROTHERS, 
 
 WHO DIED IN EARLY INFANCY. 
 
 Ye died in young life's early dawn, 
 
 My two sweet Williams dear ; 
 Ye budded in the field of life, 
 
 But found it cold and drear ; 
 Ye faded in the early spring, 
 
 And withered in the ground; 
 But ye have bloomed in fairer clime, 
 
 Where trees of life are found. 
 
J S EUGENE D X. 117 
 
 I will not weep for you, sweet boys, 
 
 But I will weep for those 
 Who still are doomed to drain the cup 
 
 Of life's increasing 1 woes. 
 And oh ! that I, and all who read 
 
 The lay that I have sung, 
 May seek that garb of innocence 
 
 Which clothes, in death, the young. 
 1829. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 S EUGENE D 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 And thou to heaven art gone, 
 
 Thou angel innocent ! 
 Returned in life's young dawn 
 
 To Him, thy life who lent! 
 Full soon this scene of earth 
 
 Hath closed upon thine eye, 
 And she that gave thee birth 
 
 Hath seen her loved one die ! 
 11 
 
118 J S EUGENE D X. 
 
 'Tis meet that tears should flow 
 
 For thee, dear pledge of love — 
 'Tis meet — and yet I know 
 
 Thou'rt happy now above. 
 But Jesus wept with them 
 
 That wept a brother dead ; 
 Ah ! who grief's flood may stem 
 
 That bows a mother's head ! 
 
 Thou'rt happy now, Eugene ! 
 
 And ours the truest wo, 
 That still we tread the scene 
 
 Of folly here below. 
 Sweet spirit ! be thou near 
 
 When Julia weeps — ah ! then 
 Breathe gently in her ear — 
 
 u We'll meet in heaven again." 
 1829. 
 
TO THE LATE 
 
 GEORGE LORILLARD, ESQ., 
 
 ON THE BEQUEST IN HIS WILL FOR THE ENDOWMENT OF A PRO- 
 FESSORSHIP IN THE GENERAL THEOLOGICAL 
 SEMINARY, NEW YORK. 
 
 Happy the man, whose long and active life, 
 By prudence, virtue and religion guided, 
 Slides into Autumn, bearing red-ripe fruits, 
 Wide-waving fields of yellow, golden grain, 
 Rich, sombre, chequered scenes, peaceful tho' pensive, 
 Or spread with ripe and swelling shocks full bound, 
 All ready for the garnering of Heaven ! 
 Thrice happy, whom the chariot of time 
 Bears slowly down the gentle hill of life 
 Into the vale of evening, whose bright sun 
 A lovely,* purple light pours through the sky, 
 And gives a glimpse of Heaven's glory, hid 
 Behind the enchanted curtain of the clouds 
 Lit up with ever-changing rainbow tints ! 
 
 * Purpureum lumen.— Virg. 
 
120 GEORGE LORILLARD, ESQ. 
 
 Such was thy journey, generous Lorillard, 
 
 O'er life's brief pilgrimage. We all had heard 
 
 Full many a time and oft, of thy good deeds ; 
 
 But most of all thy name was echoed round, 
 
 With grateful acclamation from each lip, 
 
 When our grieved citizens beheld a pastor,* 
 
 Resigned and humble as the priests of old, 
 
 Driven from those altars, and that temple dear 
 
 By his own labors reared ; and with his flock 
 
 Turned forth into the world, without a fold 
 
 Where they might gather round the weekly board 
 
 Of God, their Father, and partake his feast 
 
 With spiritual, heavenly dainties ever spread. 
 
 Houseless, without a temple, wandering on 
 
 Through sorrow's darkening gloom they silent wept ! 
 
 When lo ! a packet comes, greeting their pastor, 
 
 To him addressed, and from some friend unknown : 
 
 It told, in few, brief words, a joyous tale 
 
 Of a new temple, and new altars, given, 
 
 Bestowed in full perfection for their use 
 
 By some kind, unknown friend ! That friend all knew ! 
 
 Howe'er he wished, that neither hand might know 
 
 The other's deed ; — thy name was in the act ! 
 
 And spirits flitting heavenward whispered it ! 
 
 Thy last and solemn testament displayed 
 
 An act of like design. Unlike the man 
 
 Whose will forbade the Christian minister 
 
 Fact. 
 
REV. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 121 
 
 All entrance to his college* posthumous ; 
 
 Thy testament, more truly wise, endowed 
 
 For future ages the professor's chair, 
 
 From whence, to generations yet unborn, 
 
 Might march succeeding bands of well-trained youths, 
 
 Apostles, prophets, teachers, sons of God, 
 
 Sent forth to guide the sons of men to Heaven ! 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE REV. JAMES MONTGOMERY, D. D., 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA, FORMERLY PASTOR OF GRACE CHUCH, JJV 
 THE CITY OF NEW YORK. 
 
 INTEGER VITJE. 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world— This was a man." 
 
 I entered once, in days gone by, 
 
 A temple of the Deity, 
 Where silence deep, and deep-fixed eye 
 
 Told of that temple's sanctity ; 
 
 * Girard College. 
 11* 
 
122 REV. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 A reverend priest stood in his place, 
 And breathed the prayer of piety ; 
 
 His people gazed upon that face, 
 And thought of Heaven's eternity. 
 
 We met again in private life, 
 
 And oh ! I loved to meet him there — 
 His children dear — his angel wife — 
 
 His friends so joyed his love to share ! 
 Montgomery ! thou best of friends, 
 
 Warm-hearted, kind and all sincere ; 
 Thy soul disdained all selfish ends, 
 
 And held e'en foes as brethren dear. 
 
 But thou art gone ! and o'er thy grave 
 
 Thy loved ones weep — how bitterly ! 
 A mourner,* too, 'tis thine to have, 
 
 The loved of generations three ! 
 Yet not, as lost to hope, they mourn, 
 
 Too well thy sainted life they knew : 
 They saw thy spirit heavenward borne, 
 
 Where blooming all thy bright hopes grew. 
 
 Dr. White, the octogenarian Bishop of Pennsylvania. 
 
THE FATE 
 
 OF 
 
 GRECIAN LIBERTY 
 
THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY; 
 
 POEM FOR THE NEW YEAR 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon, 
 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dreamed that Greece might still be free — 
 For standing on the Persian's grave, 
 I could not deem myself a slave." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Exit the old year — like some post 
 That tells of kingdoms won or lost ; 
 Sea-serpents dire — odd marriages ; 
 Old bachelors' miscarriages ; 
 Of caucuses and dandies lean, 
 And some non mi ricordo queen — 
 Then hurries from the wondering scene. 
 
 The post-boy comes to usher in 
 A happy New- Year — gentles all, 
 
 Hope's brightest treasures may you win, 
 And aye this year a bright one call. 
 
126 THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY. 
 
 The nymphs that dance on "Richmond Hill," 
 And they by " Bonny Doon " that stray, 
 
 Ave lovely — but, O lovelier still, 
 The bright-eyed patrons of my lay. 
 
 Then, ladies, beam on me sweet smiles — 
 
 I'll make no other invocation ; 
 Even now the thought each fear beguiles, 
 
 And gives me rhyming inspiration. 
 
 The custom is, on this occasion, 
 To take a jaunt just o'er creation, 
 And make a sage epitome 
 Of all the wonders which you see. 
 O ghost of Aristotle ! rise, 
 And thunder forth thy unities ; 
 Protect the bard who fain would find 
 Some moral of thy favorite kind. 
 Ye fair approve — Greece is the theme 
 That bids your smiles of welcome beam ; 
 For Greece the soldier's tear is wrung ; 
 Greece — Brooks and Percival have sung, 
 
 In strains of free-born minstrelsy ; 
 And Byron, too, his hand once flung 
 O'er Virtue's harp, and boldly strung 
 
 Its notes to Grecian Liberty. 
 
 Greece was the dearest home of Fame, 
 There oft she loves to linger yet, 
 
THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY. J27 
 
 On mouldering domes to trace some name, 
 
 That bright in her own page is set. 
 I seem Arcadia's vales to tread, 
 "Where on their fragrant, flowery bed, 
 The downy zephyrs play — while near, 
 The shepherd's love-tuned reed I hear. 
 Sweet rural music ! 'twas thy power 
 That shed a mild refinement o'er 
 Arcadia ; at thy dulcet strain 
 The forest smiled a bleating plain. 
 Now burst Lycurgus' bands to view, 
 Men that would stand, an iron few, 
 Against the world ! For liberty 
 They died, but shouted u victory." 
 Now Athens breaks upon the sight, 
 With ships and towers and temples bright ; — 
 Hear Eloquence her thunder roll 
 Amid the pomp, while all the soul 
 Of Poesy is breathing round ; 
 And sweetly solemn, like the sound 
 Of evening psalm, Philosophy 
 Lifts high her voice in majesty. 
 
 'Tis gone — that airy scene — ah ! now 
 No scene like that does Greece unfold ; 
 
 Her Muses long have fled, and low 
 Her palaces in dust, and cold 
 
 Her heroes lie in Freedom's tomb, 
 
 And darker than the grave the gloom 
 
123 THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY. 
 
 That long has hung upon their race. 
 Oh ! mark that ship that cleaves the face 
 Of the green ocean, near yon isle, 
 Once fair, but now a burning pile 
 On blood-red waves ; mark on the deck 
 That angel-form, at whose wild beck 
 A band of maidens shriek — then leap 
 And sink beneath the closing deep ; 
 But she who urged them to the deed, 
 With lifted arms and eyes that bleed, 
 Looks toward that burning isle — the name 
 Of him she loved, with wild exclaim 
 She utters, and then finds a grave 
 Far, far below the rolling wave. 
 The shade of Homer mourned the while 
 That isle of wo — his native isle. 
 High on a rock he stood, and swept 
 The harp of bitter grief, and wept ; 
 But when that maiden found her grave 
 Deep, deep in ocean's gloomy cave, 
 He sang her requiem o'er the wave. 
 
 Oh ! shall that gloom forever lower 
 That clouds the Grecian destiny 1 
 
 And shall no native arm — no power 
 Of friends e'er burst her slavery 1 
 
 Christian — 'tis Christian Greece that prays 
 
 For Liberty ! Yes, Greece displays 
 
THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY. 129 
 
 That hill of Mars, where Paul, inflamed 
 
 With angel eloquence, proclaimed 
 
 " The Unknown God." ! you have felt, 
 
 When low before that God you've knelt, 
 
 And of your own loved country thought, 
 
 Her freedom by the red sword bought — 
 
 Her peaceful altar ; — then of those 
 
 Who from the fires of Julian rose 
 
 To Heaven. ! you have felt how blest 
 
 Your native land ; — and can you rest 
 
 Unmoved, when, driven from his home, 
 
 Compelled like hunted beast to roam 
 
 O'er lonely wild, or craggy shore, 
 
 The Greek there kneeling to adore 
 
 His God and yours, faint, wounded, sinks 
 
 On the cold heart of earth, and thinks 
 
 Of ancient Greece, and while he cries 
 
 u My country ! O my country !" — dies ! 
 
 O no ! — Columbia weeps for Greece — 
 She marks that lofty-minded band, 
 
 Who leave a clime that blooms in peace, 
 And leap upon the Moslem strand — 
 
 Men like those of Sparta's prime, 
 
 Heroes of the olden time ; 
 
 Never will that band return, 
 
 Till the tyrant's towers shall burn. 
 12 
 
130 THE FATE OF GRECIAN LIBERTY. 
 
 Hovering o'er the awful forms 
 Of our heroes, wrapt in storms, 
 Chant the hymn of Liberty, 
 My country, rise, bid Greece be free. 
 1823. 
 
AN INFANT'S PAIN AND JOY. 
 
LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO J EUGENE D , SOON AFTER HIS BIRTH, UPON HIS 
 
 BEING AFFLICTED WITH INFLAMED EYES. 
 
 Dear little one, 
 I seem to see thine infant eye 
 
 Look round upon 
 This world of life, where all doth lie 
 
 So fair to view — 
 Thou seemest in a raptured trance — 
 
 So strange, so new 
 The scene. Thy beaming eye doth glance 
 
 From heaven to earth, 
 And sparkling with a gay delight, 
 
 And infant mirth, 
 Seems blest in gazing at the light. 
 
 It is not so ! 
 They say thine eye doth often weep, 
 
 And that the glow 
 Of pain and suffering there lies deep. 
 
 Ah ! why is this 1 
 Say — dost thou weep for human wo 1 
 
 Dost think of bliss 
 In worlds above, and wish to go ? 
 
 12* 133 
 
134 LINES. 
 
 Yet, dear one, stay, 
 Although this world is dark and sad, — 
 
 And I will pray 
 For thee that peace I have not had. 
 
 Ah ! do not fear ! 
 Thy parents' love from ill shall guard, 
 
 And ever near, 
 Shall look on thee with fond regard. 
 
 Clear up thine eye — 
 I see it change — 'tis beaming now — 
 
 Thou wilt not die, 
 But live and learn thy mother's vow. 
 
 I thank thee, Heaven, 
 For this dear gift to those I love, 
 
 Though 'tis not given, 
 That I should see this infant dove. 
 
 And if indeed 
 I may not see thee, child, on earth — 
 
 Yet thou wilt read, 
 When grown, this tribute to thy birth ? 
 
 Then, think of me, 
 And bless my memory, little one, 
 
 And that shall be 
 A joy to him that's dead and gone. 
 182S. 
 
TO A YOUTHFUL MOTHER. 
 
 ON" HER RECEIVING THE RITE OF CONFIRMATION, 
 
 I saw a mother and her son — 
 It was her first, her only child, — 
 
 I saw her kiss that little one — 
 
 How sweetly then that mother smiled ! 
 
 It was a smile of love, I ween, 
 A. mother's fondest, deepest love, 
 
 A smile like those that oft are seen, 
 Where angels meet and smile above. 
 
 And then she bent with lowly knee, 
 
 And in her arms her infant son ; 
 And kneeling - , prayed that God would be 
 
 The guardian of her little one. 
 
 She bade her own Eugene protect 
 
 The innocence of his dear boy — 
 His youth in honor's path direct, 
 
 That he might be her future joy. 
 
 135 
 
136 TO A YOUTHFUL MOTHER. 
 
 She kneeled again where many knelt, 
 Around a holy, heavenly man ; 
 
 She breathed the solemn vow, and felt 
 That vow, as through her soul it ran. 
 
 And while she prayed that she might guide 
 Her future life by that high vow, 
 
 Hope whispered, that, as time should glide, 
 Her boy would kneel where she knelt now. 
 
 Blest Power Divine! that, in this rite, 
 The mother and her little one, 
 
 In love more lasting dost unite, 
 
 Than that which nature hath begun : 
 
 For stronger is a mother's love 
 
 Than life, or death, or aught below ; 
 
 But lit by Thee, O Heavenly Dove, 
 Its flame in worlds to come shall glow. 
 
TO MISS M. B., 
 
 ON HEARING HEAVY THUNDER, WHTL.E SINGING THE JUDGMENT 
 HYMN OF LUTHER. 
 
 It was the hour of evening prayer — we stood 
 Around the plaintive instrument, and sung 
 Our parting hymn — that solemn Judgment hymn, 
 Breathed from old Luther's hallowed lips of fire. 
 Deep was the impress, on each heart, of awe 
 At God's eternal grandeur, — high the throne 
 Of Judgment rose upon each fearful eye ; 
 The trumpet seemed to sound, the dead arise, 
 And all that awful day rush on the soul. — 
 
 But hark ! There comes a sound ! 
 
 Sudden the deep and dreadful thunder breaks 
 
 In one tremendous burst upon the ear ! 
 
 How startled, each and all, that hand of friends 
 
 Who sung the Judgment hymn ! — How wildly gazed 
 
 Upon each other's hurried, upward glance! 
 
 What meaning in that glance? It spoke of life, 
 
 Eternity of life, — with all its deep, 
 
 And dark, and unknown mystery! Oh, never! 
 
 Never — while thought and consciousness are mine, 
 
 137 
 
138 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Can I forget, Mary, that moment full 
 
 Of Judgment come, and Deity at hand ! 
 
 That glance so wild, so startling, so intense ! 
 
 That Judgment hymn, breathed from the inmost soul, 
 
 In tones not like to thine, dull, heartless earth ! 
 
 But oh ! so pure, so feeling, so devout ! 
 
 So full of truth ! So like another world ! 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 My mother ! Ah ! what deep, intense emotion 
 Yearns through my hosom with a wild commotion, 
 My every thought and pulse, with mighty power 
 O'ermastering ; while upon my cheek, the shower, 
 That flows warm from the heart, of love's true tears, 
 Hid long within my inmost soul, appears, 
 Entreating thy fond smile, my mother ! when, 
 Retreating to thine arms, I live again. 
 
TO MRS. J. A. C, 
 
 ON HEARING HER SING THE CLth HYMN. 
 
 Lady, raise those notes again ; 
 
 Pour that strain of melody : 
 Sure some angel's sun-lit pen 
 
 Graved that hymn of piety. 
 
 Music on thy voice hath set, 
 Deep impressed, her magic seal ; 
 
 Lady, pay to heaven the debt, 
 
 All for gifts like thine should feel. 
 
 Thou art linked with one, who stands 
 Between his people and their God ; 
 
 Strengthen thou his sacred hands, 
 And point the path his Saviour trod. 
 
 Sing of ruined souls to him ; 
 
 Of Jesus' love and mercy sing ; 
 Sing the love which fires the hymn 
 
 Thou'rt raising now to Heaven's King, 
 
 139 
 
THE CONSECRATION. 
 
 There was a sound of triumph and of joy, 
 Through all the City's* mingled multitude : 
 
 A mighty nation rising to destroy 
 
 Oppression's blood-stained throne ; the glorious feud 
 
 For liberty, without that dark alloy, 
 The elder Revolution's sea of blood — 
 
 Such was the tale of triumph fame had told ; 
 
 And shout on shout through mingled thousands rolled. 
 
 Earth reignecl without in all her pomp and pride — 
 Within God's temple was another scene : 
 
 There they that all ambition might deride, 
 Save that on which eternal hope doth lean, 
 
 Were gathered ; and at that pure altar's side 
 
 Met Faith, and Hope, and Love, and Joy serene : 
 
 Angels were there from round the sapphire throne ; 
 
 And He was there — the High and Holy One. 
 
 * The day on which the civil authorities of the City of New York ap- 
 pointed for a procession and celebration, in honor of " the Three days of 
 Paris" during which the late Revolution in the French Government was 
 achieved. 
 140 
 
THE CONSECRATION. 141 
 
 It was a solemn scene, and touched the heart — 
 That aged man ! That Bishop* of fourscore ! 
 
 And weeping o'er his unthought doom, to part 
 With one so loved — the onef whom all deplore ! 
 
 That solemn charge ! That brother% set apart 
 To God, robed in the lawn a brother^ wore ! 
 
 Oh ! How doth scene like this transcend in worth, 
 
 To angel's eye, all pride and pomp of earth ! 
 
 * Bishop White. * Bishop Hobart 
 
 % Bishop Onderdonk. of N. Y. § Bishop Onderdonk oi Penn. 
 
 13 
 
HYMN FOR THE SICK. 
 
 Is there no balm in Gilead 1 Is there no physician there 1" 
 
 A i r— " Pie y el's Hymn 
 
 Child of pain, disease and wo, 
 To the great Physician go ; 
 On the bed of anguish laid, 
 Seek the great Physician's aid. 
 There is balm in Gilead — yes ! 
 Balm for fallen man's distress ; 
 Balm to heal thine every pain ; 
 Drink, the joy of health regain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lord ! I know thy mighty power 
 In the darkest human hour ! 
 Though I yield my dying breath, 
 I can meet the tyrant Death ! 
 Jesus ! by thine agony, 
 Thou hast given me victory 
 O'er the world and o'er the grave ! 
 Mighty is thy power to save ! 
 142 
 
THE AGED SOLDIER 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 143 
 
144 
 
THE AGED SOLDIER AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The peaks of the Highlands were shrouded in blue, 
 The shadows were mounting their rough rocky side; 
 The red cloud of evening was bidding adieu, 
 And darkly was rolling the Hudson's deep tide. 
 
 Then Night spreads her wings — light fades away, 
 Save the glimmering blaze of the evening star ; 
 But bright from the East came the moon's gentle ray, 
 O'er the cot of a chief of the ancient war. 
 
 Silence was there, save the window oft beating, 
 
 As the breeze slowly passed — then a voice struck my 
 
 ear, 
 With the plaintive guitar in soft melody meeting — 
 The voice of some spirit seemed hovering near. 
 
 " The moon is up," it sweetly sung, 
 u The woodland hills are faintly seen ; 
 The curfew of the vale has rung, 
 The evening dew is on the green. 
 
 13* 145 
 
146 THE AGED SOLDIER 
 
 We go — and oh, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 Sweet blooming flowerets of the dale, 
 I saw when first in spring ye grew, 
 
 I reared you, sunk beneath the gale. 
 
 No more, thou little cot, no more 
 
 Thy simple trim shall own my hand ; 
 
 On the soft green-plot round thy door 
 Shall dance no more the maiden band. 
 
 We go — and o'er the world to rove 
 Without a friend — without a home — 
 
 Oh God ! look down from heaven above, 
 Our earthly wandering quickly end." 
 
 The strain had ceased. The door, slow-opening, 
 
 showed 
 An aged, reverend man, with weakness bowed ; 
 A slender maiden hung upon his arm — 
 Alas ! too weak to shelter her from harm. 
 So have I seen the sinking oak. hang o'er 
 The foaming torrent, trembling at its roar, 
 While from the trunk a blooming branch had sprung, 
 And round and round its little shoots had strung. 
 She led her parent slowly up the hill — 
 Her loved guitar she bore. They shopped not till 
 They reached the top, and then the old man paused, 
 
 and turned 
 To look his last. Deeply his heart then yearned 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 Over that sweet retreat. He wept — he cried, 
 With faltering, touching voice, " Would I had died 
 And low beneath the valley-turf were laid ! 
 But ah ! my child ! where — where would she have 
 
 strayed 1 
 Alone — unfriended ! — Oh ! my native land ! 
 Would I had never left thy sea-beat strand ! 
 Dear, lovely Erin ! thou art far away ! 
 In foreign land I linger out my earthly stay. 
 America — ungrateful land ! — I sought 
 Thy shore, and in thy noble struggle fought ; 
 But thou hast left me, failing fast with age, 
 Exposed to want, to feel the miser's rage." 
 
 The soldier ceased — I pitied him, I ran 
 To save a poor, distressed and honest man. 
 u I have a home," I cried, li where thou shalt dwell, 
 I have enough, and all may yet be well." 
 The soldier came — I loved him tenderly — 
 He lived content, and died all peacefully. 
 So toward the cataract's whirling edge is borne 
 The little boat from still, deep waters torn — 
 If then some friendly rope is thrown from shore, 
 Joy sparkles high — they weep — they shriek no more. 
 
 1823. 
 
148 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 149 
 
THE MELANCHOLY HOUR. 
 
 " Call it madness, call it folly, 
 Call it whatsoe'er you may ; 
 There's such a charm in melancholy, 
 I would not, if I could, be gay." 
 
 Kann nichts dich, Fliehende! verweilen, 
 O ! meines Lebens goldue Zeit % 
 
 Vergebens ! deine Wellen eilen 
 Hinab ins meer der Evigkeit!" 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 I love the melancholy 
 
 That comes at pensive eve, 
 When, far from human folly, 
 
 Nor hope nor joy deceive. 
 I love the lonely feeling 
 
 Which comes at set of sun, 
 When memory, backward stealing, 
 
 Recalls what life has done. 
 
 I love by night to wander 
 In moonlight's silver scene, 
 
 And in that scene to ponder 
 On things that once have been, 
 
 151 
 
152 THE MELANCHOLY HOUR. 
 
 For then, while fanc}^ ranges 
 O'er visions of the past, 
 
 I muse upon the changes 
 Of life that ebbs so fast. 
 
 I muse upon the gladness 
 
 That lit the eye of youth ; 
 I muse upon the sadness 
 
 That comes with later truth. 
 I mourn the fading brightness 
 
 Of fancy's coloring, 
 And feel no more the lightness 
 
 Of spirits in their spring. 
 
 I mourn departed pleasure, 
 
 Its pure, its virtuous sense ; 
 I mourn the lost, lost treasure 
 
 Of early innocence. 
 I mourn — but yet my sorrow 
 
 Is welcome unto me, 
 While from it I may borrow 
 
 An immortality ! 
 
 Oh ! then how dear a blessing 
 The melancholy hour ! 
 
 Each passion wild repressing, 
 It robs the world of power : 
 
1827. 
 
 THE MELANCHOLY HOUR. 153 
 
 The world is then forsaken, 
 
 Its pomp and vanity ; 
 And thoughts of heaven awaken 
 
 To prayer and piety. 
 
 I love the melancholy 
 
 That comes at pensive eve, 
 When, far from human folly, 
 
 Nor hope nor joy deceive. 
 I love the lonely feeling 
 
 Which comes at set of sun, 
 When memory, backward stealing, 
 
 Recalls what life has done. 
 
 14 
 
THERE IS BEAUTY 
 
 " Marvel not 
 That love leans sadly on his bended bow ; 
 He hath found out the loveliness of mind, 
 And he is spoilt for beauty." 
 
 Token. 
 
 There is beauty on earth, when it wears 
 
 The gay young green of the spring ; 
 Or the rich bloom of summer bears, 
 
 That poets have loved to sing. 
 There is beauty in heaven, when the sun 
 
 Throws a blush o'er the glorious blue \ 
 Or the stars in their nightly circles run, 
 
 Beaming out with their diamond hue. 
 
 There is beauty in man, when the face 
 
 Is lit up with the spirit's flame ; 
 Or when feeling joined with female grace 
 
 Forms the charm which hath no name. 
 But ! there is beauty, that naught 
 
 On earth or in man can express ; 
 Yet how seldom seen, and how little sought ! 
 
 'Tis " the beauty of holiness!" 
 154 1828. 
 
TO MISS E. P. B. 
 
 THE ALBUM — A GARDEN OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Behold gay fancy's garden of young flowers, 
 
 Which bud and blossom in life's sunny hours : 
 
 Its hedge is Poesy's rich evergreen ; 
 
 Affection's sky of blue is o'er the scene, 
 
 And friendship's tears enrich the softened ground, 
 
 While Love's warm sighs breathe fragrance all around. 
 
 Such is your album — oh, then let. each page 
 
 Unfold that lily of life's early age, 
 
 Sweet Innocence ! that purest ornament 
 
 By Heaven to Heaven's best gift, dear woman, lent ; 
 
 And with the lily let the blushing rose 
 
 Of modesty its mantling red disclose. 
 
 Be such the flowers which spring from these fair beds ; 
 
 Nor let Religion's walk, when here she treads, 
 
 E'er meet with poisonous herb, or loathsome weed, 
 
 Which from Corruption's deep, dark root proceed ; 
 
 But at each turn some blooming altar find 
 
 O'ertopped with flowers and fruits of purest kind, 
 
 The first-fruit offerings of the innocent mind. 
 
 155 
 
OUR HOME IS NOT ON EARTH 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY S ALBUM. 
 
 " In my Father's house are many mansions. * * * I go 
 
 to prepare a place for you. 
 
 " And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive 
 you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." 
 
 St. John, xiv., 2, 3. 
 
 Our home is not on earth, 
 Above yon sky 'tis given ; 
 
 Then, Mary, think how little worth 
 The world, compared with heaven, 
 
 Sorrow we meet below — 
 Sin is our common dower ; 
 
 But, Mary, toward our home we go, 
 And there they have no power. 
 
 A foe unseen is near, 
 
 While pilgrims here we roam ; 
 But, Mary, Jesus calms our fear, 
 
 And He will lead us home, 
 
 156 
 
THE THREE HOLY DAYS. 
 
 There are three clays of holy time ; 
 
 Three days of sanctity ; 
 Of all the circle of the year, 
 
 They are the wondrous three. 
 On one the heavens were robed in black, 
 
 The san his face did hide ; 
 And well might earth and sky be rent ; — 
 
 Their Maker, Jesus, died ! 
 And one beheld the sepulchre 
 
 Closed on the mighty dead ; 
 While to the realms of Paradise 
 
 The soul divine had fled. 
 Then came the day when life and light 
 
 Broke on the gloomy grave ; 
 And rose from death to heaven on high 
 
 The God who died to save ! 
 There are three days of holy time ; 
 
 Three days of sanctity ; 
 Of all the circle of the year, 
 
 They are the wondrous three. 
 
 157 
 
THE FEAST OF ANCIENT EGYPT. 
 
 " The Egyptians made themselves strangely familiar with death, living 
 in the midst of the mummies of their ancestors, which they preserved in 
 their houses, and causing them to be brought to their feasts." 
 
 Amer. Quart. Review. 
 
 The feast was spread, and the laugh went round, 
 The lights fell on beauty's splendor — 
 
 But there came a pause ! — The guests were bound 
 A welcome strange to render. 
 
 The music changed, and the cheerful song 
 Grew sad, to a death-song turning ; 
 
 And the iron portals, dark and strong, 
 Unclosed to the notes of mourning. 
 
 The dead stood around that dreadful room, 
 
 Awating their sons advancing ; 
 And the living thought of their own doom, 
 
 Their eyes on their kinsmen glancing. 
 
 Sad was the welcome — but wise were they 
 
 Who mingled their joys with sorrow : 
 A warning it was to the young and gay 
 
 Of what might be on the morrow. 
 
 158 
 
THE FEAST OF ANCIENT EGYPT. 159 
 
 The living and dead who feasted thus 
 
 In Egypt's ancient gloiy, 
 Have left but a glimmering trace to us 
 
 Of their wild and wondrous story. 
 
 The world that is, like the world that's gone, 
 
 Is rolling down Time's ocean ; 
 But there is a new and brighter dawn 
 
 To clear-eyed Faith's devotion. 
 
 1829. 
 
THE TRIALS OF VIRTUE. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A FEELING OF MELANCHOLY DEPRESSION. 
 
 Ah ! cruel fortune ! wilt thou always shower, 
 With blind profusion, undeserved gifts 
 On those who never felt for human kind, 
 Nor knew the softer feelings of our nature ? 
 Ah ! wilt thou leave in misery and want 
 One, formed with keenest relish to enjoy 
 Life's innocent pleasures ; one whose heart can bleed, 
 Whose eye can moisten at the tale of wo ; 
 Whose generous hand would give the needy help, 
 Though it should add to his own crying wants ! 
 Vain man 1 (some sage doth seem to say,) receive 
 The instruction wise Experience has given ; — 
 Canst thou believe a blind and fickle chance 
 Controls the affairs of men, without respect 
 Shown to the learned, the wise, the virtuous ? No ! 
 Cunning and avarice will oftenest lead 
 To wealth and honor. Virtue cannot stoop 
 To seek the note of men by such base means. 
 Survey life's fleeting stage, or past or present ; 
 160 
 
ENIGMA. 161 
 
 Behold the good and great ; mark with what toil 
 They tread " the narrow way ;" and then confess 
 That Heaven hath made this world the vestibule. 
 Leading by death's dark door to that bright scene, 
 Where vice and virtue meet their just reward. 
 1820. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 Take the name of sweetest flower 
 Growing in fair Eden's bower ; 
 Join with it the sweetest name 
 Kindling first love's purest flame ; 
 And the god, of power to heal, 
 Will a precious balm reveal. 
 1820. 
 
ON RECEIVING 
 
 COUNSEL FROM AN AGED FRIEND- 
 
 While youth smiles on Life's opening day, 
 Pursue with steady step the way 
 
 That sage instruction shows : 
 The entangling maze of pleasure leave, 
 Stern Reason's counsel aye receive, 
 Thy conscience ne'er of peace bereave — 
 
 Thus shalt thou find repose. 
 1820. 
 
 162 
 
THE WORD OF GOD- 
 
 IMPROMPTU, ON HEARING A SERMON UPON THIS SUBJECT. 
 
 Thy word can soothe the troubled heart 
 
 When other comforts fail ; 
 Thy word can soothe the troubled heart, 
 
 'Twill never — never fail. 
 
 When awful thunders shake the pole, 
 
 This is an anchor firm ; 
 When smooth the days of calmness roll, 
 
 This heighten 's every charm. 
 1820. 
 
 163 
 
HYPOCRISY. 
 
 Yon crafty monk, with pleasing grace. 
 Of Piety's assumed the face, 
 Pretending what he never knew, 
 Deceiving all with outward view. — 
 But Truth and stubborn Fact at length 
 Burst forth in all their native strength. 
 Hypocrisy — Oh, vain disguise ! — 
 Fled from the lightning of their eyes ; 
 And Fame, so long, so dearly loved, 
 From form so hideous soon removed. 
 1820. 
 
 164 
 
1820. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 Form an image in thy mind, 
 
 Of a being so refined ; 
 
 Of a beauty pure and high, 
 
 So like that above the sky ; 
 
 Of a purity so bright, 
 
 That in whom these charms unite 
 
 Dwelleth some strange gift divine, 
 
 Barred all other human shrine. 
 
 Where, but in that maiden mild, 
 
 Mother of God's only child, 
 
 May that wondrous gift be found 7 
 
 Blend her name with that one sound, 
 
 Which alone hath magic power, 
 
 All the earth and ocean o'er, 
 
 To control the human heart 
 
 As by some enchanter's art ; 
 
 Bidding each to other cling, 
 
 Flora formed a gem of spring. 
 
 165 
 
LINES, 
 
 READ AS AN OFFICIAL CRITICISM UPON THE STANZAS OF A FRIEND, 
 BEFORE A COLLEGIATE LITERARY SOCIETY. 
 
 T'other night, having taken the part 
 Of a critic — that terrible fellow ! — 
 
 I was sweating to say something smart, 
 When I heard just behind me a halloo ! 
 
 I started — a steed pranced before me, — 
 
 He had wings, and he spread them to fly ; — 
 
 I mounted with haste, and he bore me 
 Aloft, 'tween the earth and the sky. 
 
 Across the wide ocean he flew, 
 
 To a lone street in Edinburgh town, 
 
 Toward an iron-bound mansion he drew — 
 At a wicket of brass set me down. 
 
 The prince of the critics peeped out, 
 And seizing the strains ye have heard — 
 
 " Alas !" cried he, then, with a shout, 
 " My dear little fellow, a word." — 
 166 
 
LINES. 1G7 
 
 Take the poem— I'll give thee a pen 
 Dipped in opium, wormwood and gall ; 
 
 Find fault — write with spirit, and then 
 I'll admit thee to serve at my call. 
 
 He vanished, and lo ! on the top 
 
 Of a high, grassy hill I reclined ; 
 The Muses drew near the sweet spot, 
 
 With Rob Burns, their companion, behind. 
 
 To Clio I offered the strain — 
 
 She smiled as she glanced o'er the page — 
 " Burns, read it," she cried, u and again 
 
 Thy harp shall be strung in its age. 55 
 1823. 
 
TO THE MUSE THALIA. 
 
 Thalia ! thou sweet, smiling maid ! 
 How dare I hope without thy aid 
 
 To tune the larynx sweet ; 
 'Tis only thou canst give the fire 
 That did thy favorite son inspire 
 
 In Mantua's loved retreat. 
 
 Come, then, with all thy wonted glee, 
 And bring thy pipe along with thee, 
 
 To join the shepherd's song ; 
 So shall thy bard, in welcome strains, 
 Unfold the life of happy swains 
 
 Far from the world's proud throng. 
 
 1820. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 168 
 
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