Book -Xl: 
 
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 SOLITARY MUSINGS 
 
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SOLITARY MUSINGS. 
 
 [N SIGHT OF MOUNT VEUNON. 
 
 Down the Potomac's broad and ample wave, 
 We float along in silence, for beliold! 
 The Home of one whose name hath filled the world: 
 Of Washington ! Who hath not heard of him ? 
 Embosom'd in the pomp of leafy woods 
 It stands ; a quiet home, yet draws all eyes 
 To gaze upon it, and with reverence. 
 Even the rude boatman ceases with his oar 
 To trouble the calm waters, and so break 
 That hallowed stillness ; and the restless winds 
 Are hush'd to sleep ; while the declining sun 
 Glides gently from our sight, its latest beams 
 Darting in splendour from behind the grove 
 Which overlooks his grave. -js^i^ 
 
 A simple mound of nature's purest green 
 
 Contains his sacred dust; yet pilgrim feet 
 
 " From the four corners of the earth still come'' 
 To pay their homage there. There late ^He stood, 
 
 1 Written August, 18i5, 
 
 2 Lafayette. 
 
The Strans^er Guest, whom with such loud acclaim 
 The nation welcom'd — there he stood and wept. 
 Oh ! may no hand profane disturb the dust 
 Of him who sleeps below; still miy he rest 
 Beneath his own hereditary trees ! 
 And there be shed the tributary tear, 
 And there the prayer he breath'd, and the warm wish 
 Be cherish'd, that the world had more like him. 
 
 But see those golden hues begin to fade, 
 And the wave shines less brightly ; let us take 
 The pencil, and preserve the lovely scene; 
 Ere the tints die in darkness Vain the thought, 
 So swift grey evenin:^ follows the sun's flight! 
 
 Yet one who gazes now on this fair scene ; 
 A stranger — and whose home is far away, 
 Shall keep remembrance of it in her breast 
 With all its natural beauties ; and the thoughts, 
 Which crowd themselves into her busy mind, 
 Shall oft return, as wandering on the banks 
 Of her own native river, she may stray 
 " Indulging all to thought." 
 
ON THE GRAVES OF TWO BROTHERS, Irtsk Emigrants. 
 
 Wanderers from Erin's Isle, beneath whose skies 
 They first drew breath, and o'er whose dewy meads 
 Their infant steps first p>ess'd the verdant turf, 
 Hither the^ came, in manhoods spring, to seek, 
 For what is dear to man — denied at home, 
 Fair competence, reward of Industry ; 
 And equal rie^hts, at no proud despot's will 
 Given, or withheld ; and free to seek their God 
 As their forefathers sought him. And, perhaps, 
 They sought to find a name which should not die 
 WJien they were dead. Such, some of Erin's sons 
 Have foimd in this young world of Liberty. 
 And on her history's broad and ample page 
 They stand conspicuous. Many a page 
 Hath she to fill, and many a leaf to turn, 
 Yet blank, ere her high destiny be fill'd! 
 A beacon, and example to the world 
 She stands ! The dread of Kins[s ; the hope of Men ! 
 If those, now laid in earth, had such a hope. 
 Behold its end, they came, and found the Grave ! 
 
 Perchance in their own land, they left a sire 
 Who urged them forth, to make themselves a home 
 
In this free clime. Seeking the benefit 
 Of generations to be born — his seed. 
 Himself too old to leave his parent land. 
 He, haply, seated by his custom 'd hearth, 
 Is thinking of his absent sons, and sighs, 
 And almost wishes they had not gone forth, 
 So much he feels their loss — Yet comforts him 
 With the fond hope that all is well with them ; 
 And dwelling on the years to come, his thoughts 
 Are busy, picturing them successful still 
 In all their projects. And, in fancy, sees 
 Them full of life and health, as last he saw, 
 When from his door they turn'd them silently, 
 After their last adieus, to seek the port 
 Where lay the stately ship, in readiness 
 To bear them onward to the chosen land. 
 Could he look here, upon these humble graves, 
 And know what's laid within, would he not tear 
 His aged locks, and cry " my sons ! my sons ! 
 Would I had died for ye ! " 
 
 But thou, who melancholy by their graves 
 Dost sit, indulging pensive thoughts ; canst thou, 
 Who numberest twice their years, canst thou believe 
 Death is an evil ? Death ! which comes to all 
 Or soon or late. 
 
 Alas! Alas! what is the happiest life 
 When man's awake ? But we have happy dreams 
 
In youth, ere we have tried the world, or felt 
 Our happiness blown from us by a breath ; 
 Or found that life is all a disappointment. — 
 This bitter knowledge, those in the cold graves 
 Beside thee, never, never now, can taste. 
 And quietness is theirs, and peace, and rest. 
 Have they not happiness ? — Ah ! who has more ? 
 
ON THE FUNERAL OP AN INFANT, January, 1826. 
 
 
 One tender blossom pure and pale, low in the earth 
 
 we laid, 
 And, bending o'er its span-long grave, with tearful 
 
 ejes we said, 
 " RCvSt little one, in quiet rest, beneath this foreign 
 
 soil, 
 The first of all thy race who here have ceased from 
 
 mortal coil." 
 
 " Far from the land where sleep thy sires, each in his 
 
 narrow cell, 
 And where thy kindred race at home continue still to 
 
 dwell. 
 In loneliness we leave thee here — unwilliiig so to 
 
 leave. 
 And as we bend our steps from thee, we turn again 
 
 to grieve." 
 
" Grieve for thy destiny fulfill'd within so short a 
 
 space, 
 And that thy transient sojourn here should leave so 
 
 slight a trace. 
 That thou wilt have no part with us, in all that shall 
 
 be done, 
 Around our hearths, or on the plain, beneath the 
 
 pleasant sun." 
 
 " For this we weep" — but sadder thoughts had those 
 
 who stood around 
 That little grave with heavy hearts, and eyes that 
 
 sought the ground ; 
 They thought upon the parent stem from which that 
 
 flower was rent. 
 And sure they deem'd her mortal share of life was 
 
 nearly spent. 
 
 And stretch'd upon a couch of pain that tender mo- 
 ther lay — 
 
 Else had she stood beside the grave of her young 
 babe that day. 
 
 And how to her, when they return, shall they of com- 
 fort tell. 
 
 And hope, when hope no longer in their own sad 
 hearts can dwell. 
 
10 
 
 Thy feRr that soon again their feet that dreary path 
 will tread, 
 
 And soon another open grave yawn ready for its 
 dead — 
 
 They fear that soon the tree will lie, where lies its 
 fallen bud, 
 
 Mother and infant, side by side, in one sad neigh- 
 bourhood ! 
 
11 
 
 " And there she dwells, 
 In her own native land she dwells, begirt 
 With growing infancy ; Daughters and Sons 
 Of Beauty " 
 
 O Susan, conldst thou hear thy Sister's voice I 
 But she is distant from thee; far away 
 O'er the blue ocean's waves ; and speech is vain, 
 Lost in the idle air. But could'st thou hear, 
 There scarce should visit thee an evening's breeze 
 But it should whisper thee. And it should tell 
 How one, a wanderer in the lonely woods, 
 Was thinkinjy of thee, and almost believed 
 She was conversing with thee ; as she wont 
 In her spring time of Life, when side by side 
 She rambled forth with thee, her plea>ures still 
 The same as thine, her wishes all the same. 
 To tread the flowery turf, to scent the breeze 
 Laden with perfume from the hawthorn hedge; 
 Or to soiiie distant field excursion make 
 To load our baskets with the Cowslip's bloom, 
 Then almost weep the ravage we had made. 
 Or on some holiday expected long. 
 When all our cares dismiss'd, our tasks fuliiU'd, 
 With buoyant steps and joyous looks we'd go 
 And gladly leave the town with all its toys 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
12 
 
 And all its noise and novelties behind. 
 
 Then when we leach'd some favourite spot would stay 
 
 Our steps, and an the verdant bank reclin'd, 
 
 Listen the distant hums, which from the Town 
 
 Would come, at intervals, upon the breeze, 
 
 Makino; our solitude still sweeter. And 
 
 The pealing bells, which still were heard o'er all, 
 
 Would come so mellow'd to us, that the lark. 
 
 When he uprose above our heads, and sung 
 
 His wonted lay, would so o'erpower their chime, 
 
 That they were heard no more, until his close. 
 
 Sure thou rememberest those our childhood's days ! 
 And seldom dost thou walk the well known paths, 
 So often trod by us, but thou dost think 
 Of thy young life's companion, far away ! 
 I know thou dost, and it is sweet to know, 
 There still is one, far distant though she be, 
 Whose thoughts are of me in the stilly night, 
 And in the rural walk : then best indulg'd. 
 Nor yet to j^outh was our companionship 
 Confin'd alone, we went together still 
 Long after we had left our Parents' roof, 
 And time had seen us wives 
 
 We drank together long 
 At the same spring, and scarcely did we deem. 
 It possible that time should e'er divide 
 Two bound together by so many ties. 
 
13 
 
 Sisters we were, our age almost tlie samcy 
 One mother bore us, and one father rear'd, 
 In the same house we dwelt, in the same bed 
 We slept; to£i:ether still — And when our hearts, 
 As nature will'd, had chosen other guides. 
 We still dwelt near each other, and could meet 
 For counsel : If perchance a cloud should rise 
 In our calm summer sky, our wonted love 
 Would draw us still together. Why we met 
 Not thought upon ; our only wish, to meet. 
 
 But now between us roll the Atlantic's waves, 
 And long, long years have pass'd since we have met ; 
 And time has brought no balsam to the wound, 
 Which, since we sunder'd, still remains with me. 
 The dearest hours I count, are those which pass 
 Distant from all, save memory of thee. 
 And in the woods I wander, till the day 
 Looks drowsily upon me ; with a sigh 
 
 I bid thee then farewell, and homeward turn ^ 
 
 ^Vith soften'd heart, and feelings sooth'd and calm'd. ''^4MP 
 
14 
 
 TO My FATHER, ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY, 2d February, 
 1824. 
 
 My Friend ! my Father ! as this day returns, 
 My sadden'd mind is fill'J whh thoughts of thee ; 
 Of thee, and home, and of thy jjathering years. 
 Long since have pass'd thy "threescore years and ten" 
 And still thou art, and long mayst thou remain, 
 Thy Children's Cynosure — though one remote, 
 Must think of thee with tears — in secret shed. 
 For never more may she thy accents hear; 
 And never more thy Sabbath walks attend ; 
 Receiving from thy lips the precept pure. 
 As love of man and nature prompted thee. 
 
 Far, far remov'd she weeps, and still must weep 
 As busy memory wakes within her breast : 
 For she may never aid thy feeble steps. 
 Now unsupported by a partner's care. 
 O ! she would cross the seas, and cross the lands 
 Which lie between her and her native home, 
 (Those pleasant fields where first she drew her breath) 
 But ties as strong, which may not be unloos'd, 
 Her heart acknowledges, have bound her here. 
 
15 
 
 And she has made a home — another home, — 
 With strangers all about — strange scenes around. 
 Not without beauty are those scenes so new ; 
 But in her heart they hold a lowly place, 
 And one small flower sent from her native plains, 
 Is dearer to her than the stately tree 
 Covered with blossoms of this foreign soil. 
 And dearer to her love and more esteem'd. 
 One sinjiie line trac'd by a Father's hand — 
 Than all the eloquence now pouring forth. 
 By the great free-born Statesmen of this land. 
 
 Can 1 forget thee ? — never ! — 1 may lose, 
 Nay — I have lost thee When my trembling feet 
 Last bore me from thy sight; I lost thee then. 
 And she who rests in peace fto the still grave. 
 Called somewhat ere her timej she too I lost; 
 The tender Mother, and the constant friend. 
 I lost her then — for since — what have I known 
 Of her ? save — " she is gone the way whence she 
 Shall not return" 
 
 But thou art still on earth — 
 I trust thou art — yet, ah ! we cannot meet. 
 And trace what time has done for each of us, 
 Since last we met. And many a year hath pass'd 
 Since we did meet, and deeper snows I know 
 Are scatter'd o'er thy head ; and upon mine 
 Already may be trac'd a hair or two 
 Chang'd to a silvery white. — But let this pass — 
 
16 
 
 The mortal part is chang'd, and still must change 
 We know, — and be it so ; but the regard, 
 And the deep-rooted love I bear to thee, 
 Can never change, let time do what it may. 
 And thine to me, thy last born Child, I know 
 Is still as warm, as in my sunny days 
 Of Childhood, when I frolick'd by thy side, 
 Or slept in peace beneath thy shelt'ring roof. 
 
 Did not thy age forbid it, I might hope 
 Once more to meet thee " in the flesh," and help 
 To cheer thee on thy way. And join'd with those 
 Whom " chance and change" have left about thee still, 
 My brethren, help to smooth what's left of life, 
 And guide thy footsteps gently to the grave. 
 
 Sad though my thoughts may be, yet think thou not 
 But there is pleasure in them, dearer far. 
 Than what the world deems gaiety. 
 
 Yet am I sometimes gay, and oftenest when 
 I lead my brother's little flock abroad, 
 In search of flowers or berries, through the woods. 
 Thy Children's Children, growing fresh and fair, 
 Young scions parted from their native stock ; 
 Some thou hast never seen and one fair boy, 
 Who bears thy name, I fondly think thy look, 
 He is most dear to me. — Though England's sun 
 Ne'er shone upon his cheeks, they shame the rose. 
 — And noiv I would be gay, but on this day. 
 
17 
 
 Thy natal day, sad thoughts will still arise ; 
 I cannot chase them from me. As I think 
 How long the time is since I heard of thee 
 And of thy welfare, Fancy will be busy, 
 Picturing what may have chanc'd, in that dear spot, 
 Where thou inhabitest. Since I have heard 
 Those words repeated, "all is viell at home," 
 " Three crabbed months have sour'd themselves to 
 death." 
 
 The winds and waves, I know, have adverse been 
 But the good ship in safety is arrived. 
 Which should have brought me tidings — and brought 
 none. 
 
 I once had hope, thou would'st have come and 
 dwelt 
 Here with me. And have left thy household Gods, 
 And thy forefathers' graves, and made a home 
 With me and mine. The hope was selfish, sure, 
 For thou hast others very dear to thee, 
 Around thy hearth, who would have mourn'd thy loss 
 As I do now. But thou hadst long desired 
 To see this land ; where man may stand erect 
 Before his fellows, and not be abash'dj 
 Although the crime of Poverty, be his. 
 And this thou would'st have seen ; and equal laws 
 Framed by all, for benefit of all 
 All did I say — Oh no ! not all, not they 
 
18 
 
 The sons of 4fiic, would I could forget 
 Their injur'd race ; and leave the picture free 
 From this foul stain — It maj not, must not be. 
 Ah, here thou would'st have seen, what would have 
 
 made 
 Thy heart to sink within thee — man led forth 
 For sale, barter'd for gold. — Wife, Children torn 
 From him for ever. And they too in turn, 
 As chance or whim directs, away are borne. 
 To toil for other masters, where their steps 
 Never before have trod. — But let us quit 
 This painful, fruitless theme. 
 
 Pd rather speak to thee of the rich stores 
 We should have found to please us, as we trod 
 The silent woods, or " great Potomac's" shores ; 
 Or trac'd some wand'ring rivulet to its source; 
 Or side by side have sat in yonder Mome 
 List'ning to Clay's or Randolph's silvery tones. 
 
 Of thee I learned to love the lonely scenes 
 Where Nature dwells — far from the din of men. 
 And in my wanderings I have found the spots 
 Where the first spring-flovv'ers blossom ; flowers 
 
 unknown 
 In thy familiar fields, and of strange forms, 
 Such as arrest the eye of traveller, from 
 The ' olden land." And in the secret nooks, 
 
 1 The Capitol, at Washington. 
 
19 
 
 We should have mark'd the lonely squirrel play. 
 And many a shrub, and many a spreading tree 
 Would stay our steps ; and darting through the shade, 
 Birds of gay plumage, like a flash of light, 
 Would startle us. All these I would have shown thee. 
 While Summer lasted. And when Winter's rage 
 Should stay our steps from wand'ring, we would sit 
 And speak of days long past ; or turn the page ; 
 Or in the daily Journals search for news, 
 " Latest from Europe" meeting first our eyes. 
 
 Those hopes I now abandon, and must leave 
 Communing with thee. Wishing thee, this day. 
 Health ! — Peace, I know thou hast- — " that peace of 
 
 heart 
 Passing all understanding" — Fare thee well ! 
 
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