UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ; #*-«."•<* **: Yet. /7. Py^. 4 Down by the water, Away from the world, Away from its slaughter ; For hearts on its altar In sacrifice burn, And fond spirits falter, While wreathing their urn. Come, then, come away To the slope by the river, Where green leaves to music Of bird-song oft quiver ; Where the dash of the billow, With ludicrous mime, Baptizes the willow In merry spring-time. While bright naiads beneath Are playfully smiling, 14* 162 And Flora's fresh wreath, In frolic beguiling ; So lilies wide over Their silvery bed, Their broad leaves to cover, In loveliness spread. Here wood-nymphs have brought Rich tints of the forest, And for drapery sought Grave oaks, e'en the hoarest ; — Whether leafless or verdant, Here nature is fair, — To her votaries observant, Rich beauty will wear. The hushed spirit 't will charm, Like love to the weary, When harsh tones alarm, And sunlight looks dreary. Here sparkles the Pleiad,* Long lost from its home : To the Slope of the Naiad What heart would not come ? * The reflection of the constellations, as has ever been observed, in any body of water, is increased by its gentle motion, till one may thus count the original of the Pleiades. 163 Come hither with harp, With glad song, come ye hither ; With your offerings haste, Lest their loveliness wither. Here are charms of whose lustre We speak not beside ; Sure, the muses should cluster Where graces preside. Come away from the mart Where the worldling is toiling, While the spirit of gold His heart is despoiling ; Where dew-drops are glistening, And burden is not : Come, this is our christening ; Come all to the spot. 164 ODE FOR JULY 4, 1841. With banners fresh wreathed, and scroll in our hand, — Though the men who subscribed it the last is now numbered With the patriot host, the green laureled band, Who with buckler and shield on the battle-field slum- bered, — Salute we this day, And in Freedom's array, Raise the loud psean to Liberty's sway. CHORUS. Columbia, Columbia, undimmed is thy sheen ! Mid the nations of earth thou art sceptred a queen. But, alas ! mid our stars, on this glad, festal morn, A dimness is seen, a radius has vanished : The chieftain we raised up to glory, low-born, From that circlet this bright ray of splendor has ban- ished. He sleeps in the grave, With the gallant and brave, Whose memories to-day wake the rich mellow stave. Columbia, Columbia, &c. 165 On the land, on the sea, no invaders molest ; No tyrants oppress, and no streamlet is gory ; The "lion" and "dragon," and bird with twin crest, No more flap the wing and howl vengeance to glory : While the " shamrock " and " rose," And the " thistle " plant blows, Shall our nation's fair bosom this nosegay disclose ? Columbia, Columbia, &c. And the fresh " fleur-de-lis " in its beauty shall bloom, Its pure fragrance dispense in the pathway before us, As the " tricolored flag," and the " red cross " illume, And graceful their rich folds in friendship spread o'er us, No country so blest ; On her green banks at rest, Her daughters and sons to her bounty give zest. Columbia, Columbia, &c. Our fathers, where are they, — who fought and who bled To secure us these rights, and who gave to our keeping Our rich shrines and temples, from whence have outspread The hopes that sustain us while low they are sleeping ? As a charge from the hand Of that strong pilgrim band, The banner of Freedom we hold as our wand. Columbia, Columbia, &c. 166 Where are they to-day, — these warriors of old, Columbia's first heroes, the men of high daring, Whose footprints fade not from her strong mountain's hold, Or the rocks and the cliffs that her frontlet is wearing ? Like a pillar of cloud, Their spirits enshroud, And urge us to hallow the fanes where they bowed. Columbia, Columbia, &c. Then, as freemen, stand firm, hold their trust long secure ; Let no blood-spot e'er crimson the flag of our glory ; And thus to our children our freedom ensure, And our names as now bright on the pages of story. While our broad rivers flow, And our rich products grow, Be our trust in high Heaven to guard from each foe. Columbia, Columbia, undimned is thy sheen ! Mid the nations of earth thou art sceptred a queen. 167 THE STEAM-SHIP PRESIDENT.* 0, know ye aught of our gallant ship, With her fated, hapless crew ? Does her rudder still in the sea-foam dip, With the sign of hope on each pale pressed lip, As she fearfully ploughs it through ? The pirate's prize, Or on rock or reef, Sends she her cries, In vain for relief? Or went she down at her morning prayer, Or at midnight deep, mid wails of despair, Where jewels of loved ones the mermaids deck, — Went she down thus, O, our God, a wreck ? She bore on the ocean, not gems nor gold, That our anxious hearts so prize ; She bore not alone, in its silken fold, The babe, close wrapped from the sea-spray cold, At its mother's breast of sighs : * Written during the painful interval of anxiety and suspense relative to the fate of that noble ship, on her passage from New York to England, 1841. 168 Not childhood's truth, With its merriment ; Not fair-haired youth, With bright hopes unspent : Faint woman, with eye fixed on heaven above, Unheroic and fameless, her destiny, — love: Not these alone on the wide deep she bore, — Her priceless freight to a foreign shore. Yet these, ay, these, to a billowy grave Were well consigned, from earth's toils at rest, Could the reckless deep, the relentless wave, To a useful life nobler manhood save, With a chaplet of glory blest. For her sea- washed floor, And her cabin hall, This proud treasure bore, Who, at fond love's call, As it thrilled the heart with a sacred fire, Expanding it wide with a rich desire, At honor's bidding, or holier beck, With promise laden, strode her royal deck. And one * she bore on his homeward way, Whose noble and manly brow, * Lord Lennox, of noble history, a lieutenant attached to the 76th regiment of the British army, early known to the writer. Was familiar indeed in my girlhood's day ; Alas, how acquaintance of youth fades away ! But what are his dignities now ? Honors how vain ! Arid his knighthood's star, — Heeds it the main, As fond ones afar ? His garter and scarf, what now do they press, And what to-day his armorial dress ? For where is our gallant ship now, O, where ? God of the waters, her rich freight spare ! 15 170 THE EMIGRANT. " The only desire she had expressed was, that she might not breathe her last till the ship had arrived within sight of the land, in order that she might have assurance of the safety of those whom she loved better than herself. At length, one lovely morning, just as we were rising from breakfast in the cabin, the eager cry of a sailor, who had been purposely stationed on the upper yards, sent a thrill of pleasure through every breast in the ship, as it proclaimed that the blue outlines of the ' Highlands' were just breaking our monotonous horizon in the west : ' Land ho ! land ho ! ' Like a voice from heaven the sound fell upon the ear of the dying woman. 'Thank God! thank God!' she said; ' you are safe; our babes will have a home. And now my last request : — bury me in the sea. That,' pointing to the west, ' is but a land of strangers, if you bury me in it. The dust of our kindred is not there. Bury me in the sea. Promise — do not refuse.' The service for the dead was read over her remains in the after- noon, whilst not an eye in the ship was dry, and the sobs of one manly breast were audible from stem to stern. A slight bustle followed the closing of the Prayer-Book, which was succeeded by a plashing of the waves at the vessel's side. Then, for the space of a minute there was a deep silence, which was suddenly broken by a quick, heavy sound, as of a large body falling lifeless upon the deck. The nature of the sturdy emigrant, which had been strained to the utmost power of manly endurance, and had contended brave- ly against the effects of fatigue and watchfulness for many days and nights, unable to bear the last shock, had quite given way. Faintness and stupor had come to his relief." 171 " Buri" me deep, in the waters down, O bury me in the sea ; For my hand doth grasp an immortal crown, The pledge of eternity. " Bury me there, for my dead are far, And I may not rest with them ; But the dark, deep sea, the evening star Reflects as a heavenly gem. " There would I sink to my long repose, There would I wait his call, At whose voice the ocean depths shall unclose, And death's scales from each eyelid fall. " The land to which ye are journeying, For which we have dared the waves, Is a land of God's o'ershadowing, But a land of stranger graves. " As the land where ye whom I love may dwell, Alone is it hallowed to me ; Ye see it, ye see it, now fare thee well, And bury me in the sea." A holy pause 'neath the vessel's sail, While she proudly onward strode ; No sound save the mingling of mourner's wail, With the waves as they neared her road. 172 At length a plash, and a heavy sound ; In the parted waves the one, On deck the other, with frightful bound, — And that sad day's work was done. The emigrant mother — how deeply wept — Had gone to her ocean rest ; But he to a bitter wakening slept, — The widowed, the stranger, unblest. For far away is the emigrant's home, Yet his woes cling fast to his breast : To make his grave, perchance, he has come ; Give place for his form to rest. O, then, as through western forests drear He mournfully wanders on, Withhold not from him a kindly cheer, The tear by sympathy won. Remember him, Christian, at morn and at night, As he toils at the yielding sod, And send him thither the gospel light, The rich blessings of thy God. 173 WHO LOVES THE FLOWERS Who loves the wild flowers, In the still glen, On hillside or in wood, Far from haunts of men ? Who loves the violet ? Who loves the rose ? Who loves the heath flower, Fading where it blows ? Who loves the lily white, Down in the vale, Blossoming at noonday, Or at starlight pale ? Who loves the harebell, Deep in the wood, And the tall dragon-flower, With its mottled hood ? Who the mint gathers, Fast by the stream, As its blue tiny cup Drinks the sun's beam ? 15* 174 Who the gay primrose, Sown by the wind O'er the meadow where their sheaves The harvest-men bind ? Who threads the forest, Deep, dense, and green, For the yellow violet, Rarely to be seen ? Or hies where the partridge Rears her shy brood, For the white umbel flower Of the arrow-wood ? For the purple orchis, With its tall plume ? Or the speckled adder's tongue, In its golden bloom ? Who loves the kalmia's " Rich spotted cup," Lingering where the white flock On its poison sup ? Who climbs the willow At spring's first dawn, For its soft, furzy bud, Ere snowhills are gone ? 175 Who seeks the maple tall, In deep wood shade, And bends its spreading boughs For its glancing blade ? Or on the branches Of the tall birch, For its curious fingers sweet, Makes his fearful perch ? Ye are they, children, Who love all these ; And who follow where they bloom With instinct of bees. Pluck on, children ; Ye are as they ; Types of all that 's beautiful, And as brief your stay. Cull on, children ; Ye are as they ; So with your fragrant burdens Kneel ye down and pray. Lift the tiny hand, The meek heart lift, As ye gather from the earth The rich blossom gift. 176 Thus of ne'er drooping flowers, Ye your boquet In a better world shall bind, — Kneel ye down and pray. 177 THE OAK AND THE IVY. A youthful Oak, with an honest pride, Grew fast and firm by a green hillside ; While under its shadowy branches sprung The beautiful Ivy, and closely clung, With its climbing tendrils, around its form, Nor yielded its grasp for wind or storm. Year after year, entwined were they seen, That Oak and Ivy, each verdant and green ; And the traveler oft to the left or the right, As he passed, would pause to admire the sight. But the Oak grew strong, a flourishing tree, And haughty and proud and scornful grew he : He looked on the vine, as it fondly clung Round his spreading trunk, and its foliage flung O'er his umbellous arms, with a proud disdain ; And he shook his crest again and again In the strong west wind, to relax its hold, For he would no longer its form enfold. Still the poor vine clung, with an awkward grace, And often turned with a sense of disgrace ; It relinquished its grasp from many a spray, And withered with grief at the broad noonday ; — For neglect from a friend once firm and true, How to bear was more thon the Ivy knew. 178 At length, the Oak, all bloated with pride, In its glorious show, thus tauntingly cried : " Avaunt, thou worthless and baneful thing, Nor more to my branches so closely cling. Am I not worshiped the forest's chief? E'en sages admire my beautiful leaf, My noble trunk, and my spreading arms, My splendid form, — how rich are their charms ! My strength is unyielding, four centuries old My ancestors were, all hardy and bold ; And so may I, like an ancient sage, Most properly count on my own great age, And yet, by my fruit, around me spread A noble forest, when I am dead ; While the birds of the air, with their merry song, Their nestlings rear my branches among, And the beasts of the field, in my lordly state, Lie down 'neath my shade and ruminate. And say, shall I, in my glory, bend To a hanger-on, a quondam friend, And stand to the world like a heathen shrine, Encompassed about by a wandering vine ? Thou needest not think to climb by me, Or longer expect my courtesy. Avaunt, then ! thy tendrils at once unclasp, And release me now from thy poison grasp." The Ivy coiled like a smitten thing, At this proud harangue from the forest king, 179 And turned away in abandonment, That its hold from the tree was so cruelly rent ; While it seemed with grief its friend to view, And tear-drops wept of the morning dew : Its tendrils snapped ; yet, as if by a spell, A moment it hung, and then farewell, With a sorrowing word to the Oak, alas ! It gave, and fell, on the fresh, green grass. " My friend, shouldst thou heartlessly break thy vows, And thus rudely shake me from off thy boughs ? I know not why thou shouldst coldly spurn A well-tried friend ; I 've the cause to learn. That thou hast grown up to a noble tree, Shouldst thou look with pride and disdain on me ? When thou wast a sapling, I stood by thy side, And lent thee my foliage ; while oft thou relied On my verdure and beauty, when thou wast but wild, And feeble and shapeless, the forest child ; And I am the same that I was ere while, When thou couldst look upon me and smile. Thy gifts are all nature's ; no merit of thine, That thou art preferred to the lowly vine : There is nought on earth can be said against me, But my own too deep sensibility ; For amidst the tombs, where the proud are low, With no friend to bewail, I freshen and grow ; I cling to the shrine where no worshipers are, And none witnesseth but the midnight star ; 180 Wherever the lone and abandoned are left, I spring up in verdure, so they be not bereft. But I, too, am proud, and I would not cling To the skirts of the great, like a vulgar thing, Nor hang on the smiles of those who would scorn In fortune's reverse, though as lowly born As my humble self; and I never would ask In the patronage of such to bask ; My own true worth and beauty, the while, Shall gain for me attention and smile. In thy haughtiness, friend, I can but tell, I pity thee truly, — but fare thee well ; Still I '11 creep round thee, and constant attend, For the time may come when thou 'It need a friend.'" So, the poor Ivy wandered around, And clung to the rocks, and crept o'er the ground ; On a lowly shrub, or a stump, now and then, It lifted itself, with a cautious ken, The better to see how the Oak would fare, And if for aye its glory would wear. At length, in the west a black cloud spread, And faster it rose, till over its head It paused ; and fiercely the tempest broke, And its fury spent on the towering Oak ; While the thunder rolled, and the lightning came, And smote it there with a livid flame ! 181 The morning shone, and the old Oak tree Stood a calcined trunk, for the world to see ! Spring after spring, and no verdure there, Or fruit or foliage, did the Oak tree bear ; But the Ivy returned, with a dew-drop tear, And twined round its branches all leafless and sere ; And evermore that scathed tree was seen, Embowered with the Ivy, all verdant and green. I tell this story to children and youth ; And many a lesson is taught in its truth ; But one on the heart I would deeply impress, To guide them to earth's best happiness. Whatever your rank or your station here, Respect for the lowly you ever should bear ; And because the lofty may smile on you, Disdain not the friends you earliest knew ; And though fortune may bless, and its treasure lend, In haughtiness turn not from an old friend ; Nor ever grow proud in prosperity, For meekness is truest gentility. 16 182 HON. JOHN aUINCY ADAMS. Patriot I blessings on thee fall, Like the rain or summer's dew ; Snowflakes thickening round thee, all, Freshening as they melt from view. Patriot ! blessings on thee fall ; Age and youth revere thy name ; For to thy country's fainting call Thou didst answer — guard of flame. Thou hast dared, though 't were alone, To battle for her, — her defence ; For her honor, not thine own, Pouring forth thy eloquence. Statesman ! beauteous is thy robe ; Vestments, not a sparkling throne, On the bright terraqueous globe, Shadow fairer than thine own. Beauteous is thy robe, and white, Glittering in thy setting sun, Burnished by the gorgeous light Reflected from the deeds thou 'st done. For the drapery decking thee, Monarchs proudly might have striven ; 183 Freely offered by the free, — Noblest guerdon ever given. Hero ! armor bright as thine, Fresher wreath, no victor wears, — Gems — not from earth's sordid mine, Or drooping palm, thy forehead bears. Hero ! armor bright as thine No returning warrior bound, Marching in the battle line, With his conquests strewn around. His path is over fallen crests, Proudly trampling in the dust ; Measured thine by high behests, Raising the low to, holy trust. Philanthropist ! what joy is thine, Toiling for thy brother's weal, Bowing never at the shrine Where the base, false-hearted kneel ! Philanthropist ! what joy is thine, To thy soul, — nay, what reward ! Crown upon thy head divine, In the presence of thy Lord. Thou hast plead the sufferer's cause, When thick darkness hovered round, Girded by the holiest laws, And by ties the noblest bound. 184 Christian ! treasures in thy heart Thou may'st garner, scarce possessed ; Mom and eve thou hast a part In patriots' prayers, by freemen blessed. Christian ! treasures in thy heart Thou may'st bear to life's decline, — Holy passport to impart To the King the heavens enshrine. These shall onward to thy wane Bless thy life's fast fleeting day, And adulation, not in vain, From mingled voices cheer thy way. Patriot, Statesman, Hero bold, Philanthropist, and Christian meek, Often as thy name is told, Grateful tears shall bathe the cheek. The oppressed in fetters bound, The freed beneath the palm-tree's wave, Hallow in their hearts the sound, And shall bless thee to thy grave. And when upward to the skies Points the shaft above thine head, On the breezes shall arise Hallowed measures to the dead. 185 THE SONS OF ERIN. RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE " YOUNG CATHOLICS' FRIEND SOCIETY" OF BOSTON. Give place, give place, our green land o'er, To the sons of the " sorrowing isle ; " A kind and a tender welcome pour, And bestow a cheering smile. They come, — an oppressed, despairing host ; For " bread " is their children's cry ; " The tithe ! " " the tithe ! " rings along their coast, And to us for succor they fly. " We starve ! we famish ! our infants faint ! " O'er the sea comes the echo bold, Where firm stands the cross of the " patron saint," In the soil once rich with gold. Not such, indeed, was Erin's sad wail, When Crimthan his sceptre swayed, " Unconquered," who graved on her armor of mail, Her banner, her falchion's blade. As of bondaged men, not such was her cry, When in primal splendor arose " Proud Tara's temple," with fane on high, In grandeur startling her foes ; 16* 186 When Ollam's pure eloquence charmed the crowd Of assembled minstrels there, Philosophers and seneacha proud, With the Green Isle's lovely fair ; When Brian swept his colossal lyre — Not to Erin's mournful fate ; But forth at his touch flashed glory's fire, From its strings of a score and eight ; * Or when he, within Kinkora's halls, In royal recumbence sate ; Or when proudly towered GEmania's walls, The magnificence of the state : " Her banner of green and her helm of gold " Swells each heart, of Erin's clay ; And it bleeds when the history sad is told, That her greatness, has passed away. * It is well known, doubtless, that the original Irish harp pos- sessed but four strings; in the ninth century, it had ten or twelve; and in the thirteenth, it had seventeen. But the harp of Brian Borhoime, king of Ireland in 1014, (so says Vallancey,) "had twenty-eight keys, and as many string-holes, — consequently, as many strings." It is now, we believe, in the museum of Trinity College, Dublin. " The sounding-board is of oak, the arms of red sally; the extremity of the uppermost arm in front.is capped with silver. It contains a large crystal, set in silver; and under it was another stone, now lost. The buttons or ornamental knobs at the side of this arm are of silver. On the front arm are the arms of the O'Brian family, chased in silver," &c. &c. 187 When the noble bands of her elder time, In their holy robes of white, Went forth with their melody rich, sublime, — Then was Erin's day of might. Ye sacred, privileged minstrel band, What now does your mantle shade ? In vision, as erst, I behold ye stand, In your early pride arrayed. But on whom, alas, does the spirit fall Of Fingal, of Ossian, and Swift — Of Parnell, of Carolan, — greatest of all, — Or Barry, or Farquhar's gift ? With the rapturing notes of Goldsmith's lyre, Ceased Erin's rich minstrelsy ; Though linger the strains of one lovely wire Of her country's harp, — still free ; Yet the master hand has near ceased to move ; For feeble and hoar the bard, And the heart that could leap to Anacreon love, The master chord to guard. The echo sweet o'er that bondaged isle No longer resounds in pride, Of an eloquence rich, that could beguile ; For Hussey and Flood have died ! Yet a murmur still winds her raihs around, Of a rhetoric pure and proud, 188 Which, had it but power, her chains had unbound, And dispelled the blackening cloud. But her glory has passed, her splendor decayed ; Night hangs o'er that island afar ; Her sons and her daughters sit mourning in shade, And dim is her destiny's star ; Or they wander abroad, the free in heart, With a sad and burdened soul, That the spirit of gifts from their isle should depart, And the spirit of want control. Ground down by oppression, " The tithe ! " they cry ; " Bread, bread for our children give ; " O'er the sea, from their own loved land they fly, And as aliens choose to live. Extend them a welcome ! give place, give place ! The sons of the noble and brave ; Give kindly assurance from woe — disgrace ; The friendly beckoning wave. Mourn with them their lot, as ye honor the land Of the shield and the gorget of gold * — Of the silver lyre, of the white-robed band, — The land of the strong and bold. * Ireland formerly abounded with the precious metals, and with gold in particular. Relics of human armor and of horse furniture are frequently found in the bogs of that country, " wrought in the purest gold, and of the choicest workmanship." 189 Encourage them in their weary toil, For they are of kindly heart ; Ungrudgingly give the fruit of our soil — The rich products of our mart : And perchance they may yet, in adoption, win An honored and glorious name ; For riches of mind they possess within, To redeem their early fame. And a spirit* has roused mid that "gem of the sea,' And its pinions heavenward lifts, Her burthen to light, and the darkness free, And win back her spirit of gifts. * Father Mathew. 190 THE MENDI AFRICANS. Back to your homes, ye men of ebon hue ! Wrapt in the Christian's drapery, go ye back, And tell your brethren we would not imbue Our hand in Afric's blood — and yet of kindness have no lack. Go tell them, too, Columbia still protects The wronged of every race, whoe'er he be, Though her proud flag with hideous defects Stands out, proclaiming freedom loud to those she will not free. Tell them, though the cursed slaver steals along Her sunniest shores, with groans of fettered men, Bound for unholy traffic, yet the wrong, There are who shame and grieve to bear e'en on their secret ken. Tell them, though our bright 'scutcheon wears a stain Deep as the blood-spot by a brother spilt, Could prayers avail, were tears poured not in vain By millions here, her sin were washed, and she all cleansed from guilt. 191 Could prayers, could tears avail, her standard fold Should float no more in mockery on the air ; Nor yet again, where men are bought and sold, Her eagle, with spread pinions, its false emblem bear. And go thou back, thou prince of sable hue And jetty locks ! we give thee Christian guide To the long-cherished shade of thine own yew, — To childhood's verdant seat, thy palm and fruitful date beside. Take in thine hand the Christian's Bible, too, And in its holy light God speed thee there ; To thy benighted race, the promise new Of free salvation through a Saviour's dying love de- clare. Would that the gospel banner, o'er thee spread By hands still reeking with thy brother's blood, And heavenly passport given o'er ocean dread, Could but absolve from slavery's curse in sight of God. Go ! wrong us not, if wrong we did to thee ; Forgiveness cherish, and, in faith all sure, Believe thou still, what long believed have we, Our country soon will purge herself from what her holiest deem impure. 192 THE RETURN. Home of my youth, I have come to thee, To kneel once more by thy altar tree, — To stand yet again on thy mountain-top, And drink from thy fountains the cooling drop : I have come, thy forest haunts to tread, And breathe the balm of thy violet's bed, — To gather the flowers that bloom by the hedge, Or hide themselves in thy bending sedge, — To view the rock where, in childhood's day, I sported the noontide hours away, — To tread the hall and the nursery floor, Where my careless song I poured of yore ; Though they have departed who joined with me In that hour of innocent revelry, And their footprints have faded one by one, Till I must stand on the spot alone ! O, might I come with a spirit free, With the joyous heart of my infancy, And roam as then by thy mountain stream ! But, alas, alas for my childhood's dream ! My heart, — it is darkly changed since then : I have looked on the proud abodes of men, 193 And seen, with a sad and chastened soul, What sordid passions the mind control ; I have followed the hearse, the laden bier, Yet smothered the sigh, and forbid the tear ; Have stood on the brink of the vaulted grave, While near me rolled the unfathomed wave ; I have felt misfortune's withering hand, Yet laughed at her rude and stern command ; The smiles of the great, and the proud caress, — O, oft has my heart felt their weariness ! I have gazed on high at the wreath of fame, And grasped a flower to garland my name : The wreath of fame ! 't is the chain of the slave, The fretted gem of the ocean wave ; And gladly I M cast it far, far away, For the careless heart of my childhood's day. But yet, through all change, I bring thee here Tones that more than thine own are dear ; The lisping voice, in his infant joy, And the lovely smile of a prattling boy ; The dear, fond pledge of a cherished one, The imaged sire in his first-born son ; And, O, may never that smile depart, Or the cold world chasten his manhood's heart ! Vain, vain as the Hindoo maiden's dream, When she casts her lamp on the idol stream, 17 194 And watches it far in the distance burn, Fancying her lost may again return ! With the burdened soul with which I come, He yet may visit his childhood's home ; Of a gay, glad throng, he, too, the last, And the breath of the world o'er his spirit past ! Yes, home of my youth, I turn once again To thy haunted wells and thy shadowy plain, From the halls of pomp and heartless mirth, To pause a space in my toil o'er earth, And make my seat where thy green trees wave, Brief rest from care — and perchance a grave ! Yet my chastened heart, at a loftier throne, Bows low to its God — not a " God unknown ! " 195 THE KONZA'S VOW. The Konza warriors, on their departure on a war excursion, sometimes make vows, binding themselves never to return until they have performed some feat which they mention, such as killing an enemy, &c. An instance occurred, of a warrior who had been long absent under a vow of this sort, and, being in a starving con- dition, he returned to his own village, by night, with a determina- tion of accomplishing his vow by killing the first person he should meet. The person happened to be the warrior's own mother i but the darkness of the night prevented the discovery, until he had accomplished his bloody purpose. Long's Expedition. The war whistle sounded fearful and shrill, And swelled on the breeze o'er forest and hill ; In the pride of his ire the Konza arose, Gazing in wrath on the land of his foes ; Savage and wild was the flash of his eye, While his soul for conquest beat fierce and high ; A figure he traced on the feathery snow,* With his poisoned arrow and bended bow ; And his eagle plume flowed full on the wind, As he breathed a vow he could ne'er rescind ! *" When a man is killed in battle, the thunder is supposed to take him up. In going to battle, each one traces an imaginary figure of the thunder on the earth; and he who represents it in- correctly is killed by the thunder." 1% He paused, and his pride for a moment glowed, Then a sacred gush from his soul there flowed ; For his spirit must long and ceaseless burn. The vow was on him ; he may not return Till the trophy he brings, that still and low He has left on the field his veriest foe, And his own hand laved in the purple stream, As it chased from his soul the warrior's dream. He paused, for she who had borne him was there, Her long locks silvered with age and care ; Her weaiy form 'neath its burden bent, And her visions of mind, in her dotage, blent. Who now will hunt the wild boar for her meat, Or the deer-skin dress for her shriveled feet ? He paused ; it had passed, — that hallowed vow ; Was he but a dog, to revoke it now, And tarnish by weakness the Konza's fame, Or spurn as a bauble the warrior's name ? He wrapped him close in the bison fold, And silent, secured his limbs from the cold ; Then turned, and uttered a brief farewell ; But long did the sound in his cabin dwell. Time bore away, on his hasting wings, The days of the years as neglected things ; The lodge of the Konza was still and sad, And the heart it held no longer was glad ; 197 For its youthful chief was yet far away, His vow unfulfilled, a foe to slay. He roamed the forest in ceaseless toil, And his full heart yearned, as he trode the soil. For the flickering light of his cabin fire, And the hunting ground of his warrior sire : One fierce resolve in his weariness He made ; and will the Wahconda bless ? With a bounding heart his bow he sprung, His tomahawk in his girdle slung : A figure he sees — it approaches near ; 'Tis a female form, exempt from fear ; For woman in each, in every land, Is sacred, secure from the ruffian hand : E'en the savage may not with impunity Rashly insult the light of her eye. The Konza recks not ; his arrow is sure, Its poison deep, the victim secure. It flies — she falls — he kneels by her side, And bathes his hands in the crimson tide ; Then with tameless joy the scalp he tears, And fast in his girdle the trophy wears » With savage pride, and fleet as the fawn,. He reaches the cabin ere earliest dawn ; But the fire is low, and vacant the chair ; 'T is still, and dark, and companionless there ! The fagot he lights ; his spirit awakes ; The memorial quick from his cestus takes : 17* 198 Will the great Wahconda his children mock ? 'Tis his mother's. long, bright, silvery lock! For the deed thus rashly and fearlessly done, The Konza expires with the rising sun. 199 A POEM ADAPTED TO THE TIMES. WRITTEN ON READING SEVERAL PUBLICATIONS IN REFERENCE TO " woman's SPHERE." O woman, but for this, and this alone, Wast thou created first, and given to man, But to become the plaything of his idle hours, The merest toy he sports with ? to be tossed And dandled, chirped to as the child at eve, And then, amid the pageantry of earth, For scarfs, and garters, and its tinsel show, To be put off, neglected and forgot, The smallest gem in his ambition's crest ? — To nurse his babes, and by the sick ones watch, With tireless faculties and smiles of love, Through the dull, creeping, midnight hours, As thou wert chosen by disease and death To wait upon their footsteps, and to stand, In angel attitude, a witness true, Of all the matchless misery they create ? To " serve," " submit," and wait upon thy lord, — This, given to thee as all thy destiny ? To brush the dust beneath his feet, or off His toilet stand, to patch his wardrobe rents, And send him, sleek and trim, into the world 200 To buy thy bread, (thine only needful thing,) Or, it may be, some useless gaud, to deck Thy weary form, at which thine heart would spurn, If its high nature it do not belie ? And is this all thy lot, and all thou mayst Aspire to for thine honor and thy bliss ? Was it for this that thou wast woman born, And of thy heart's necessities, — a wife 1 For this was given to thee thy soul-lit depths Within, thy spirit paths, and fountains pure And fathomless of kindness, love, and trust ? For this was given to thee thy holy hopes, Garnered and hoarded from thy childhood up ? Thy many-chambered mind, thy wells of thought, Thy sorrow channels, thy perceptions keen, Thy quickening sensibilities that bleed, — And must, when tenderness is laid aside, Or kindness e'er forgot ? 'Tis true, I grant, Thy heart's effeminacy, or, in cant More popular and better understood, " Woman's weakness e'er is woman's glory ; " Her soul's dependence on her bosom's lord Her highest honor is, her loveliness ; Nay, more, — her being's veiy poetry. And I would not that she should legislate For him, or, with attempt though vain, instruct 201 Him e'er in what is politic in church Or state ; or in full combination form, For public deeds of charity ; to break E'en slavery's cursed bands, that foulest blot On our free Christian country's far-spread fame, As 't were for her all evils to remove In precedence of him. Her theatre Is home ; and, if affection dwell therein, Her whole existence will be there ; and, too, Axi influence benign she will exert Within that home, which will resistless spread Far through the land, till principles, her own, Of true benevolence, are so instilled In childhood hearts, that, hence, man's common acts Will be but deeds of charity and love ; And the forged bands of the dark slave fall off, Spontaneous and uninvoked. But yet, Has she, has woman of herself, and as her own, No social rights, no independent will, No privileges peculiar ? may she not Be competent to judge her own true sphere — Though some mistake her meek and silent path — And what may best become the mother — wife ? Ye prudent, wise dictators of her way, Ye beacon lights, and ye who sit on high In solemn council o'er her lot, — here pause. 202 SUMMER TWILIGHT. FRAGMENT. O, 't is a lovely twilight ! could the breeze, That fanned the weeping peri at the gate Of Paradise, have been luxurious more Than this so gentle zephyr ? softer e'en ? Full many such I 've seen, and loved them well, - Better, ah, better far, than now I do ; For then my heart was lighter for the care That did not press it, or its rejoicings Chasten ; — lighter, for the world's harsh spirit That had not within it passed, and swept Its secret chambers through ; ay, lighter, too, That then it had not mourned its dead, or e'en Its far off living, who were fond and true, Yet severed. I do remember me of one, Who loved an eve like this as well, whose soul Blent with the evening loveliness, until She wondered that the night should chill, or dew Should moisten, e'en the tender forest leaf. The story of her lot o'ershadows me Whene'er I upward gaze upon the stars. 203 I '11 tell it here, — though 't is of one unknown To those who read, — a gay and gentle girl Who had grown up to blooming womanhood, In the full tide of her heart's trustfulness : 'T was strange, indeed, that two and twenty, nay, One more summer still, had taught her not, Earth had not a blossom fadeless, or e'en A bud secure from blight, or, yet much more, A promise that it could in truth fuliil Up to the very spirit of its pledge. For thus Heaven wills, and wisely, too, else man Would build him walls and palaces, and rear Him pyramids, and castles wide, and fix Him here content, in glory of his might, His feet unsandaled for his pilgrim way, Nor staff in hand, till summoned forth, with loins Ungirt, and ear all unattuned to angel harps, To stand before the naked throne of God ! Strange that earth had not long e'er this engraved Upon her heart, in letters smarting with The burning brand, beware ! But so it had Not; and she was all love and truth, all faith, In whate'er promised love and joy to her. And, for the moment, oft believing earth A paradise, forgetting the true heaven Indeed, was a wide Jordan's pass beyond. One saw her thus, and in the secret of his soul, His better soul, he knelt, as man will kneel 204 Full oft ; but, rising from the bended joint, Forget the shrine where erst he bowed himself. The sequel is not yet ; he knelt, adored, And worshiped — not for what she looked, but what She was ; angel well nigh in truth, no word Of soothing flattery was that which oft His fondness uttered. The world looked on And envied ; and when he bore her on, Far to his home, how mingled were the tears On many a cheek, of joy and grief, — grief For their lot, and joy, much and deep, for hers ! And when the gladness of her spirit passed Away, they still looked on, and envied still, Divining not the cause. But when her eye Grew livid, and her cheek was sunk and pale, They marveled all, and marveled much, and wept, When the green sward was laid upon her grave. No marble tablet told, that he who should Have cherished er had been the dagger's point To the fond, trusting heart within her breast ; That he, indeed, who knelt and vowed before His God, had not performed unto the Lord His oath ; but had breathed forth cold words and harsh, That sped to the heart's core with bitterness And gall, and rankled there till every stream Of joy was dry, and the sick soul, thirsty 205 And parched, to everlasting fountains fled ! But thus it was in brief; and, frequent, man Forgets that what he holds is by a tenure Frail and feeble ; that bitter words outlive Their sound, and have for woman's doting heart A language that the letters do not spell ; And more prophetic oft, than on the wall The writing in the palace of the king Of Syria's realm ; that wrongs, though scarcely meant, May chase, far from his grasp as heaven from earth, What, in his better moments, he would hold, And kindly cherish. Alas, how present Scenes and past events commingle ! thus A summer twilight tells this simple tale, And the bright stars that light its firmament Are made the pauses in the history. 18 206 THE GOLDEN CROSS. They wonder why to thee I cling, And on my breast, thou simple thing, Through weal or woe, wear thee alway. Can gold have such a charm for one Whose scorn for gaud from youth was known, And all exterior show alone, E'er spurned as mockery, they say ? Thou art a beauteous thing, 't is true ; Thy workmanship I often view, Wondering what artist fashioned thee, — Thy golden knots, so curious tied, — Far in those eastern climes spread wide, His fabled Pactolus beside, Of nation rude, unlettered, he. Yet not for this I prize thee so, — Thy knops, or flowers, or fairer glow, From dross and all alloy so pure : I 've learned to scorn the yellow gold, In current coin, or choicer mould, Like him, the Athenian, Timon old, As ever to false friends a lure. 207 And then, to deck the human frame With golden toys, when forth it came In full perfection from God's hand ; As if by jewel or by gem, T' enhance its charms, or diadem, When its best charm seems marred by them, The mind, its heavenly, godlike wand, I cannot choose ; but yet with thee A link of human destiny Is deeply wrought, I may not tell : A sentiment round thee doth twine, A tale less earthly than divine ; Therefore, thou jewel cross of mine, I 've valued thee so long and well. Thou art an emblem choice, also, Of human life, — its care, its woe, Its ever toilsome, thorny mart : However lovely seem the path, With flowers bestrewn, a cross it hath ; Nay, is itself: in love, not wrath, Therefore, I wear thee near my heart. And holier emblem still art thou, Of him, who to all scorn did bow While here, — our Saviour, hope, and stay ; 208 For man, amid earth's mazes lost, Benighted, suffering, ocean-tossed ; Yet safe at length, life's desert crossed, Meek, leading on the heavenly way, Thus, then, thou toy, let those who may, Thine own specific value weigh, — However much, 't is small to me ; Or on thy choicer beauty dwell, — To me thy worth is in thy spell, Thy magic power ; then ever well As I have loved, I '11 treasure thee. 209 MY INFANT'S GRAVE. Thine is a lonely grave ; No snowy marble here, In sculptured architrave, With gilded line and stave, Up to thy name we rear. And far from kindred dust We hollowed out thy bed, And laid thee here in trust That only angels just Would watch about thy head. Nameless as thus thy tomb, Forever let it be ; Unmarked but by ihe bloom Of flowers in fresh perfume, Or verdant shrub or tree. For I would never here Unhallowed feet should stray ; Or eye should linger near, Unmoistened by a tear, To note the silent way ; 18* 210 Or lip unblest should read Thy name on sculptured stone, Reckless of bliss indeed Now thine, or hearts that bleed E'en yet for thee, lost one. I would the zephyr's sigh, And forest solitude, Where thy dear form doth lie, Should guard, that passers by Heedless may ne'er intrude. While sacred e'er as now To me the spot shall be, Dear babe ; and when I bow To death, nameless as thou, I '11 lay me down by thee. 211 GRAY HAIRS. I care not for the gray locks That peep amid my hair ; They do not now my wisdom tell, Nor e'en my age declare. I 've lived beyond my time, 't would seem ; But not so very long, That these uncourteous harbingers Should twine each tress among. Well, let them weave their net- work ; 'T is all the same, I 'm sure ; And dimples of my youth become But wrinkles premature. Old Time may turn his sand-glass, And faster swing his scythe, And in his baldness bustle round ; — I 'm not yet thirty-five. And he his hoary frost-work May scatter o'er my head ; In mimickry or mockery, I have not much to dread. Nay, nay, I 'm sure I 'd care not, Were 't not in very truth, 212 I never was a hypocrite, — Not even in my youth ; — And wish not here thus lavishly Old Time should falsify ; For " wisdom to gray hairs belongs ; " And here 't is sure a lie. I have not loved the world too well, Nor feared the " monster, death," But with an earthly, nervous fear Of life's last, anguished breath. For e'er I 've felt within me A longing to be free, — A spirit yearning for the sphere Of immortality ; And of the soul a sickening, As children o'er their toys, That tears and crying purchased them, But full possession cloys. Yes, of the soul a sickening, — A weary void within, That choicest bliss of earth ne'er filled, Where heavenly hopes begin. So let the white threads glisten Amid my tresses brown : Time mocks, and works uy proxy too ; For sickness showered them down. 213 ON THE DEATH OF MISS B. W. Daughter of the Hon. William Ward, the author's earliest and latest friend, to whom this poem is respectfully dedicated. All have their days of feast in life, And death has his : 'T is when youth falls, with beauty rife, The sacrifice. And great indeed his festal time, When this fair flower Was borne, in life and youth's glad prime, To his dark bower. We felt it such to be, who knew Her gentleness, — The love with which each day anew She sought to bless. They felt it such, — associates fond, Who bitterly Wept round her bier, the severed bond, The broken tie. 214 But who the parent grief may tell, When the loud call They heard to them, " Give ye, to swell Death's festival ? " Who tell of the long yearnings deep, The soul depths down, That there their sanctuary keep, Though Heaven should frown ? Or the fond clinging to the vase Where the loved flower, In bright luxuriance, had place, Fresh in life's hour ? And other hearts there were to grieve, Fond ties to break ; And memories their spells that weave, And ne'er forsake. Brother and sister of these know, And they have felt, How frail are earthly loves, while low Their souls have knelt. Yet, while this grief their spirit rends, Know they not all — Sister and brother, parents, friends — From whence the call ? 215 And trust they not, in their hearts' dearth, In God's kind care, And feel thus heaven is nearer earth, And thus more fair? 216 I'M EVER WITH THE DEAD. They crowd upon my midnight dreams, - Those early friends, who fled Like mist before the morning beams ; — I 'm ever with the dead. O, why are such associates given To one of earth ? they are of heaven. My waking visions daily teem With forms departed long ; In groups they stand, and do but seem As life's own, varying throng ; In childhood, age, and infancy, Their forms, as when on earth, I see. Ne'er do my thoughts revert to " home "- To youth's gay laugh and tread, But from the sepulchre they come ; — I 'm ever with the dead : Not with them in their world of bliss, All ill beyond ; but they in this. Whene'er the boon of sleep I take, They circle round my head ; 217 In close companionship I wake With these, — the lost, the dead: As last we met, no trace of years Upon their lineaments appears. Some were my girlhood's pleasant friends, Who left me by the way ; And ever with my spirit blends The memory of their stay : Some, in ripe hoariness they fled ; — And thus I'm e'er with them, — the dead. Some cheered me by their tender love, And, mentor like, they blest ; One, nestled like the tiny dove, Close folded to my breast : Their forms, in youth, in infancy, In age, as when on earth, I see. Why throng ye thus my vision's path, Ye of that heavenly land ? More than in life, your presence hath A spell, ye sainted band : Is it that e'er around my head Your kindly guardianship is spread ? Then hover round ; guide ye my way, Commissioned spirits all ; 19 218 Closely to watch me, lest I stray, And mark me ere I fall. The dream is sweet : ye 're here, though fled ; — 'm with mine own, — the loved, the dead. 219 THE STRANGER. The stranger's heart, — O, wound it not ; A yearning anguish is its lot. Mrs. Hemans. Who deals thus gently with the stranger's heart ? Who looks upon him as he passes by, And sighs for him, that ever he did part' From home, from friends, and yearns to offer sympathy. Who thinks that e'er for him bright flowers did bloom, ' Or birds awoke with song his vintage morn ? That the rich olive, in its wild perfume, Cast down for him its fruit, though now he seemeth lorn ? That God the forest reared to please his view, Or rolled the stream in frothy grandeur on, — Transcendent beauty — and its banks did strew With things of lovely hue for that lone, alien one ? Ah, who believes and feels, as on he goes, That he was once full mighty, mid a home Where fond smiles up from fonder hearts arose, And all was love and gladness in and round his dome ? 220. Who thinks him of the luxuries once his own, — The loud applause that cheered him to his rest, — That he 'mong other constellations shone Glorious and bright, with numerous satellites blest ? Who thus obsequious takes him by the hand, With bow obeisant and with courteous smile, Tenders the greatness of his soul, its fulness bland, And kindly cheers his weary, thirsting heart the while ? Who lifts up to his parching lips the draught, The spirit cheering draught, from stranger founts, Though rich and sparkling as his soul e'er quaffed In other days long gone, which his sad memory counts ? Stranger ! how often does this mark the man Shut out from all acquaintance with his kind ; Severed from friends, from kinsmen, and from clan, And from communion all, as mind with kindred mind. And ever does it tell of voids within, Of yearning hearts, of tender, broken ties ; Of lost familiar things, of what has been, To be no more on earth, of severed sympathies. Too oft does it reveal an anguished lot, A lone one mid the city's gathering throng : The crowd press on him, though they heed him not ; And whoso fears to wound of all he walks among ? 221 He passes on, unknowing and unknown ; Age, manhood, childhood, gaze into his face, Yet gird their loins, and he walks still alone ; None care for him that he is parted from his race. More grievous still, yet there on earth be those Who list not to his wants, and pour no balm Into his wounds, or heal his spirit's woes, Or in affliction wait, his stricken soul to calm. Turn thou from such ; touch not their garments' hem ! Up from my inmost soul rises a scorn, Not of what God created, but of them In degradation from the man in Eden born. All wrapt in inhumanity to man, Robed in the folds of selfishness despised, With skirts so narrow that bleared sight might scan The whole small figure they had great ever surmised. Heaven favor such : they are not of that clime ; They have not felt what renders man most great, Marks him as noble, stamps his heart sublime, An heir of Paradise, a being renovate. 19* 222 THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. Blessed infant, thou hast left me ; Baby daughter, fare thee well : Gift of Heaven, treasure fairest, Thy mother's woe what words may tell ? Lovely blossom, thou hast faded In the midst of prayer and hope ; My soul, o'erflowing with glad promise, — O, how bitter is the cup ! One smile of thine was compensation For each anxious, sleepless night ; And when careworn, sick, or wearied, Clasping thee, my toil was light. Not thus I pressed thy cheek, my daughter, When first I took thee to my heart ; With tears, but not as these, I bathed thee, Nor did I dream we thus should part. In thy loveliness and beauty, Must I tear thee from my breast ; 223 And on the death-chilled lap of strangers,* Lay thee, baby, to thy rest ! Yet, my dearest, naught can harm thee, For thy Saviour guards thy sleep ; And the lambs within his bosom Folded are ; — why do I weep ? Nightly watch around my pillow, In the spirit of his love ; And, commissioned by the Father, Near me always, heavenly dove. Seraph now on golden pinions, Holy minister of God, Teach me, in my midnight anguish, How to bow and kiss the rod. Oft, amid my earthly dreamings, Shall I meet thee as in life ; Oft in beatific vision, With heaven's bliss and glory rife. * The body was placed in the stranger's tomb, preparatory to interment. 224 Then, farewell, my baby daughter ; Deep yearnings oft my heart shall swell, Till, no more to part, I meet thee : Precious infant, fare thee well ! February 26, 1838. 225 GENERAL FRAZER'S BURIAL. He was asked, before he died, if he had any request to make; to which he replied, if General Burgoyne would permit it, he should like to be buried at six o'clock, P. M. on the top of a mountain, in a redoubt which had been built there. At six o'clock the coffin was brought, and all the generals attended it to the mountain. The chaplain performed the funeral service amid constant peals from the enemy's artillery. Baroness Reidsdale. No bugle note led on the way, Nor muffled drum was heard ; No murmur, e'en of victory, That soldier column stirred : With helmet lowly doffed, and sword undrawn, And arms reversed, they bore their brother on. Amid the cannon's fearful tone, The humble prayer was said ; Then backward turned, and one by one They left him with the dead : The sun departing, cast one lingering beam On that lone hill, as if to gild his dream. A burial meet for soldier's corse, Upon the battle-field ; No deaf 'ning shout of trumpet hoarse, From ordered phalanx steeled, 226 Went up o'er him in mockery to Heaven, By Christ aneled, anointed, and forgiven. A spirit silence mid a throng Of armed men of might, 'As God had hushed the battle song, And fought the warrior's fight : Silence amidst a helmed and plumed host, With meek and lowly prayer, were Christian boast. 227 THE GRAVE OF THE UNCASES. " The burying-ground of the Uncases is on an elevated bank north of Trading Cove, in Norwich, Connecticut, on the ground of Judge Goddard. There are stones marking the graves of numer- ous members of the royal family of the Mohegans, and a few of them bear English inscriptions. Uncas, the old friend of the white men, is buried here." They sleep unmarked, that royal race ; No monumental pile Spreads its proud shadow o'er the place Where, gone from war and native chase, Rest those brave ones the while. No willow droops around their bed ; No jasmine flowers the way ; Nor gentle one, with hallowed tread, Makes there her lingering stay ! Alone they rest, that kingly line, Silent, unknown, forgot ; The shadow of some ancient pine, A broken stone, or wandering vine, Are all that mark the spot. The plover builds her lowly nest, And hovers nightly there ; 228 And there the bittern seeks her rest, — A lonely traveler. No deeds of valor, or of praise, Their country's hand records, And seeks no storied urn to raise, Proudly to tell in future days, These were its noble lords. Fame, in her sounding, tinsel car, Passes the lowly brave, And e'en the curious traveler Scarce heeds the red man's grave. Wound in the beaded belt they lie, The warrior by his sire ; And he who with the flashing eye, Waked first to sound the wild war-cry, Chief of his race, is there. The eagle from her home afar There swoops her pinions fair, But glory's bright, long lingering star, Sheds not its lustre there. 229 THE OLD MAN'S SONG FOR DECEMBER 31. What waitest thou for, departing year ? Dost linger for blessings from mortals here ? Thou hadst better speed, for thy brow is cold, Thy head is hoary, and thou art old ; And few on earth thy errand may bless, For much hast thou wrought of weariness : Go, speed thee on, for thy breath is chilled, — But give back thy promises unfulfilled, The faded hope, and the broken vow, And the joy thou hast kept, — O, give them now ! Go, heal the spirit thou 'st stricken deep, And dry up the tears of those who weep ; Fill thou the void in the ruined heart, Bid its aching cease, ere thou depart : Close link it again, the flowery chain, Of love thou 'st severed ; the grief that 's vain, O, soothe it now, for that household band Can meet no more but in heaven's fair land ; Thou hast taken one from the happy few ; Thy winds well may wail, for the grave is new ! Go, quench the fire in the breast of guilt, For violence done, and the blood that 's spilt ; Nor take its innocence, and leave it there Unhouseled in woe ; go, teach it prayer, 20 230 And bring up the rich treasures from the deep, Thou hast thrown there, that pained want may sleep ; And break the chains from those thou hast bound ; Repeat to them freedom's long cherished sound. Dost ask a blessing, and linger still In thy last faint gasp and dying chill ? Go, then, to her with the jeweled ring, And the bridal hope, ere its withering : Her dreams are bright, and her joy is high ; Her heart, too, is proud — all thy gifts — fly. To the mother, go, while her new-born one Beside her is laid, her only son ; 'T was a perilous hour, but joy it brought, And she will bless for the work thou 'st wrought. And go thou to the full family board ; There, blessings thou 'It share for one restored, Who drank of the vintage in foreign lands, And sang the captive's lay in captive's bands, Whom they mourned as dead ; but thou didst bring The wanderer home, and blessings they sing : And others may bless for joy thou hast given, — Not the joy of earth, but the hope of heaven. Then hasten thee on, and look not to me, For my eye is dim, and I cannot see ; Thou hast cast a film o'er my fading sight, And shut out from my soul the pleasant light ; 231 Thou hast stolen the locks of my hoary hair, And left my head, o'er the temples, bare ; Hast passed thy hand o'er my withered brow ; Its furrows were deep — they 're many now : O'er my limbs thou hast thrown a weariness, And laid me low on the bed of distress ; My last fond hope thou hast taken away, The light of my youth, my strength and stay ; I am left alone of my household band, And my heart yearns deep for that " better land." Thou hadst better speed, for thy breath is chilled ; Thy locks with the frost of death are filled ; And look not to me, but hasten thee on, For thy hours are full, and thy errand done. 232 TO AN INFANT. "JHer lot is on you, — silent tears to weep." O, woman's lot is thine, fair one, Though joyous, glad, and free, And sporting till the day is done, In thoughtless infancy ; Yet woman's lot is on thee ! Thy smiles will meet a changing hour, Thy joys a chastening woe ; And there will come a blighting power, To check thy spirit's flow ; For woman's lot is on thee. 'Tis thine the midnight watch to keep, Fast by the bed of pain ; And by the glazing eye to weep, And wail thy dead, though vain ; For woman's lot is on thee. And thine to fix thy youthful hope On one bright earthly star ; Giving thy life, thy being up, An idol worshiper ; For woman's lot is on thee. 233 Thine, too, to hang in fondness there, Through wrong, and woe, and ill, And in thy silent heart to bear Griefs that no words may tell ; For woman's lot is on thee. It may be thine, mid earthly strife, To meet one fond and true ; A smile to gild thy path in life, And light thy journey through ; For woman's lot is on thee. A pillow for thine aching head, Assuager to thy woe, A watcher by thy restless bed, When life's weak stream is low ; For woman's lot is on thee. But, O, whate'er on earth thy part, Go bow at heaven's pure shrine r And early give to God thy heart ; For woman's lot is thine ; Ay, woman's lot is on thee. August 11, 1837. 20* 234 RECONCILIATION. Forgiveness, forgiveness, O, ask it of him, Thy spirit's accused, ere his eyehalls are dim ; In the darkness of death, and he pass to the dead, While thou art unhouseled, thy curse on his head. Forgiveness ! implore 't is thy brother, thine own ; Round the same parent knee, mingled childhood's glad tone, The songs of thy boyhood, the loves of thy youth, In concert rose up from the fountain of truth. From the death-bedewed lip, and the faltering tongue, Were the blessings of her on thy destinies flung, Whose peril and joy were alike at thy birth, And who sought for thee honors and glories on earth. By the things that are holy, remember that hour, When thy mother's last sigh, like the breeze o'er the flower, Was breathed forth for thee, her fond ones, her all : At the altar of peace, then, in unity fall. At morn, and at eve, were thy orisons given, In harmony pure to the Father in heaven : 235 O, let not thy wrath now his favor prevent ; For the bitterness held may thy spirit relent. Approach not the altar j till meek as a child, Thou art to thy brother in heart reconciled ; Come thou then with thy gift, and offer it there, And the God of thy fathers shall answer thy prayer. 236 THE FIGURE OF MEMNON. Where ancient Thebes now guards her silent throng, Who, long retired from battle, feast, and song, There cast the hero's wreath in anguish down, For fadeless glory's bright, untarnished crown, There stands, e'en yet, that long mysterious thing, That mighty figure of proud Ethiop's king, By whom old Nestor of his pride was shorn, And for a son in manhood left to mourn ; And as the sun first in the orient gleams, Casting athwart its pedestal his beams, Forth bursts a strain of music sweet and long, In cadence rich as fabled naiad's song, As harpstring to its closest tension wound, Thrills, ravishes, then bursts amid the sound. Then, as if rising from the marble seat, His morning rays in glory full to meet, The form seems strengthening, while the arms are thrown Beside to give support ; but not alone From earth can it arise ; fixed to the block, Its infant feet each effort seem to mock. Alas, not thou alone art figured there, Proud Memnon, king, chiseled in lines so fair ; 237 For well the sculptor's art has thus portrayed Mortality's vile clogs in light and shade ; Man, as from Eden's courts in woe he came, Driven thence in anger by a sword of flame, And by the fiery blade each avenue Guarded, by which he e'er a passage through Could force back to its bowers ; and now in vain, Like thee, mysterious pours the enraptured strain ; Like thee, from earth in vain attempts to rise, While pinioned here by its unnumbered ties ; And in himself his onward race to run, All helpless, feeble, till the glorious Sun Of righteousness, with bright and heavenly ray, Illumes his soul, and lights the eternal way. Forever stand, thou marble statue, there, A monument than palaces more fair ; Let ages gaze on thee, mysterious thing, Figure alike of subjects and their king ; A matchless specimen of human art, And matchless emblem of the human heart ! 238 REMINISCENCES. 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the past'ral house our own. Cowper. A change is o'er my childhood's home ; And, as I muse, what visions come Of the long past — its happy hours, And the gay things amid its bowers, — Of mirthful voices, silent now, And peopled halls, where strangers bow, And gathering forms around the hearth, With many an idle tale of mirth, Now severed wide, in varied hall, By mount, and stream, and forest tall, And differing each in hope and fear, Each holding different pleasures dear ! Far other tales and other lays, Than those that in their childhood's days Thrilled through the heart, and moved the soul* Give interest now, and hold control : Yet chastened and constrained the smile That plays around their lips the while ; Heartless and cold and stern the joy, And mingled with the world's alloy ; 239 Long passed the freedom of the child, The spirit hackneyed and beguiled. Still whistles in the marsh the thrush ; And even in the lilac bush, Fast by the oft-frequented door, When winter's dreary reign is o'er, Builds the old robin, year by year, And broods her young, without a fear ; And the gay-plumaged humming-bird, With fluttering wing, like music heard, Steals oft amid the silent bowers, And sips from aromatic flowers Her morning meal, nor passes by The guelder rose, and damask, high, Each by a hand transplanted there, And nurtured with the tenderest care, Now laid upon the silent breast, And to the earth consigned to rest ! Still the lean beggar, day by day, As unexpectant on his way, Which he has traveled o'er and o'er, From thirty years to full threescore, And scarce a pillow for his head, Or scanty meal of mouldy bread, Could e'er obtain by tear or sigh — So much misfortune told the lie — 240 There pauses, charity to win, As when the master bade him in, With generous heart, and open hand, And tear he well could understand, And gave him cheer, and hearth, and fire, Rich comfort, ere he should retire, To walk his wearied round again, An alien mid his fellow-men : As privileged, he takes his seat, But not the master's smile to meet ; For none list now his cheerful tread ; — That master worships with the dead ! Yet there his Bible closed, and laid, Careful, on shelf expressly made To place the holy volume, lest It join with books less sacred — blest ; And marked e'en yet the promise brief, By note, or pin, or folded leaf, That cheered him on his pilgrim way, And taught him erst to watch and pray ; Which well he heeded, faithful warred, And now he reaps the sure reward : While there is still the ancient chair, By which he knelt, in holy prayer, Each happy morn and silent even, Strengthening his hopes in God and heaven ; 241 Committing thus his children all To him who notes the sparrow's fall, — Who ever lends a listening ear, Each meek and humble cry to hear : Yet none bend o'er it ; all are past, Save one — most cherished — she the last ! And she, in dotage, sitteth there, With shriveled form, in elbow chair ; Fixed on the wall her filmy eye, As dreams of youth were passing by, Or listless sporting with the toys That made up childhood's tiny joys : Yet she, though widowed, is not lone ; For scarce she knoweth he is gone, Who was the solace of her youth, Who shielded her through wrong and ruth : Her children, from the world's wild strife, Or the unceasing toils of life, Oft turn, and pause beside her knee ; Yet dreams she not their infancy She nursed, and the soft pillow spread, Frequent, beneath their feverish head ; Or rocked and dandled, noteless hours, Their feeble forms, strengthening their powers ; Or many a time, in after years, Their absence mourned, with bitter tears ; 21 242 And wonders why such stranger men Aught relative to her should ken ! She recollects no mother, child, Sister, or aught by usage styled Relation ; e'en her own sad lot, A mystery comprehended not ! Ah, wretched fall from Eden's bowers, Degrading thus man's heavenly powers ; And joyful prospect, — the cold grave, Designed to renovate and save ; Dispel the mist ! freely unbind Earth's shackles from the human mind. Thus, when I meditate the change, And feel my home, my kindred strange, And e'en myself not what I was, But one among earth's mysteries, I look above, and, in the view, Believe the poet's language true : " It is a privilege to die," And check within the rising sigh. 243 THE CHEROKEE. An old man and his family were called upon, by a company of armed men, to march to the fort. They paused, looked wist- fully at the soldiers, and made one request; and what do you think it was ? Why, that he might be permitted to pray with his wife and children in the cabin once more, before they left forever. The request was granted: they knelt, and, with that fervor pecu- liar to an oppressed soul, they poured forth their sorrows before God, who hears the cry and vindicates the cause of injured and bleeding innocence. They arose from their knees bathed in tears, kindly shook hands with all the soldiers, affectionately embraced each other,, and turned their backs on all they held dear on earth, to see it no more forever ; and they wept ; the soldiers wept; and who, indeed, could have done otherwise?" " And must I leave my forest home ? " The humbled warrior said ; " My head is white, and I shall soon Pass to rejoin my dead. I have grown old amid these haunts, And reared my children here ; Here is my corn, and here my gourd, And here the fallow deer. " Here is my altar, where to kneel Ere toils of day begin : 244 Like thee, I had my household gods ; And they are here, within. It is to me a hallowed spot, Spread out with cherished things ; And more of wealth it hath for me, Than treasury of kings. " Birth hath it cheered and sanctified, And twined it to my heart ; And childhood's mirth and song endeared ; — How can I thus depart ? Each fastness, and each rock and cave, Are linked with boyhood's dream ; And these old, hoary sycamores As boon companions seem. " Their stooping top and bearded branch Grew perfect by my side ; While these deep, broad, and bridgeless streams My thirst have ever dried. These are the charms that to my heart Its solitude hath bound ; But firmer, holier ties it hath, — My dead repose around ! " O ! must I leave it ? " to his cheek The tear of anguish rushed ; And from his spirit's fountain forth, Grief, as in childhood, gushed. 245 He paused, — then gazed once more around, And wept without control ; Then one request he made, and quenched The sorrow of his soul : " Thy missionaries taught, in grief To bend to God and pray : For that, within my cabin yet One moment let me stay. I would with these my children kneel, And feel my spirit free Once more ; and then my treasured things, E'en all, I '11 yield to thee." Within that lowly forest hut, That sanctified recess, They bent as God's own children bend, — Were blest as he can bless. Was this the passport that he bore, My country, to his throne, — Thy faithless pledge, thy wresting hand ? Rescind the wrong thou 'st done ! He rose all girded with the strength That will through trial bear ; Then pressed each palm, and with farewell He blent forgiveness there. 21* 246 " Now I am filled with holy faith, And nerved to leave the spot : Take all ; but, oh, that sepulchre, — White man, profane it not ! " 247 THE GIFT OF THE DIVORCED. I 'll take it back, 'tis valueless ; I thought it would be prized, The talisman of happiness, Its trusts all realized ; And that it would a shelter find In every stormy blast, And e'er be shielded, when the wind Of deeper trial passed ; — And when the fount of life had grown A turbid, bitter spring, That this, upon the surface thrown, Would prove a charmed thing. I '11 take it back, a gift so poor, Worthless, and weak — nay, worse, Misery and woe it shadows o'er ; 'T is but a blight, a curse. Yet, in my untried morn of life, How priceless did it seem ! While many a one, with blessings rife, Did the poor guerdon deem. 248 'T was ill prepared to breast the wing Of tempest over earth ; I '11 take it back, mistaken thing, — It is of little worth. Yet, cherished as a tender flower, And soothed, its faults forgot, It might have been one little hour A blessing, — might it not ? I '11 take it back, 't is so alloyed ; Yet would I could restore The peace it lost and has destroyed, For none will prize it more. It was my all, and, when first given, A gem all perfect seemed : I '11 take it back ; receive it, Heaven, And make it what 't was deemed. 249 L. E. L. Quem Dei amant is moritum juvenis. Horace. They say that thou hast cast thy lyre Far in a foreign land, And fled to join a loftier choir, A holier, minstrel band ; That thou didst strike one plaintive note, Then sudden ceased the strain ; And that no more on earth will float Thy lovely song again. And all have wailed thee, and have passed Their requiem o'er the surge, To that sad stranger home, — thy last : Mine is thy latest dirge ! Yet none their harps more sadly took, Or sorrowing, swept its strings, Of all the poet train who brook A grief thy memory brings. Thy love, it seemed a passion lone, To which but tears belong, For plaintive grew thy lyre's sweet tone When this awoke the song : 250 And as congenial souls are knit, As feelings intertwine, So did thy words my thoughts befit, So clung my heart to thine. Thy lays a mournful melody, In richest cadence thrilled, As if thine own sad destiny Thy minstrel heart had filled ; Yet they like music touched the ear, And depths of soul e'er moved ; And much their melting notes to hear, Their spirit tones, I loved. Too soon thy young love spread its wings, Plumed for its heavenward flight ; Too soon it fled from cherished things, And quenched its bridal light ; Too soon the rose wreath cast away Which love and hope did twine, As all too poor to tempt the stay Of gifted souls like thine. And fame's bright garland round thy head, — Ah, what was that to thee, When fadeless flowers a circlet spread, Fresh through eternity ? 251 Well didst thou prove them all as given To chasten, not to bind ; Lifting thy pinions up to heaven, A changeless world to find. Ay, thou hadst felt the galling bands ; Prophetic words were thine, 7— " A fated doom is hers who stands The priestess of the shrine : The crowd, they only see the crown, They only hear the hymn ; They mark not that the cheek is pale, And that the eye is dim." " The heart is made too sensitive, Life's daily pains to bear ; It beats in music, but it beats Beneath a deep despair ! The meteor wreath the poet wears Must make a lonely lot ; It dazzles only to divide From those who wear it not." * But thou art gone, and we shall long, In sorrow's secret gush, Mourn for the silence of thy song, Thy harp's so sudden hush ; * Lines on the death of Mrs. Hemans, by L. E. L. 252 Yet joy for thee, that thou art where No shackles e'er can bind, No clog of earth, no grief nor care, Again oppress the mind. 253 THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK. Thou tireless monitor, still dost thou stand On the same spot where first my infant eye Thy glittering pendulum caught, and stealthy hand, That notes the moments as they hurry by. There hast thou stood, counting the seasons o'er, While nought thy upraised finger ever feared ; Till thou hast numbered up the years threescore, Since thy monition " tick " was earliest heard. Thou 'st many a scene recorded, faithful one, Of childhood mirth, and joy's more chastened flow, And ever kept thy solemn sentry lone, Through birth, and bridal, and funereal woe ! And thou hast noted bitter partings, too, At the dear parent threshold, oft with tears, While some who went and uttered there, adieu, No more returned to gladden after years. Yet never didst thou falter in thy round Save once ; 't was when the master laid him down 22 254 In the still midnight, while the cords that bound Him here quick burst, and showed a heavenly crown. Then didst thou pause, and from thine office shrink, Still pointing to the moment when he died ; As suddenly endued with power to think, And that occasion fitt'st of all beside. Oft as I think of thy enameled face, Scenes thou hast noted on my memory free Rise thick ; again in that familiar place I seem to stand, holding companionship with thee. Thou wast as one among the household band, And " fair befall " thee, whatsoe'er thy lot : Beneath the parent roof e'er didst thou stand ; Yet soon that place, like mine, may know thee not. But " fair befall " thee, long familiar one ; Hold fast the secrets thou hast ne'er revealed ; Servant of time^ when thou 'st thine errand done. 'Mong sacred relics may thy form be sealed. 255 THE LOCK OF HAIR. U, would ye know why thus I prize this little lock of hair, Why thus I press it to my heart, and treasure it with care ? Or why I sit and gaze upon 't, and moisten it with tears, And place it with the holy things left by departed years ? It is a tender tale, and sad, yet one I love to tell, For oft amid earth's gayest scenes my thoughts on it will dwell ; And from life's brightest visions, too, my heart away will turn, And, for the love it cherished then, in anguish deeply yearn. I had a little daughter once ; 'twas in the summer time, When birds within the nest were fledged, and flowers all in their prime, That first I pressed her downy cheek, and heard her in- fant tone, And felt, in richness of my heart, that she was all my own : Daughter of many prayers was she, and gift of many tears, The treasure of my choicest hope and of my tenderest fears ; And she was fair, nay, beautiful, while her bright, lovely smile Could ever from my o'erfond heart its weariness beguile ; 256 And yet the holy light of mind from out her eye that beamed, More charming far than all beside, ay, loveliest, I deemed. The wisdom, too, of years seemed hers, though years she numbered not, And few indeed the months she told, so brief her earthly lot: Yet she would sit upon my knee, and earnest prattle o'er, With thoughtful gaze her infant tale, as 't were a sage's lore ; And oft I thought, and pleased my heart with the vain cherished dream, That when to woman's form she grew, how dear would be the theme, How fraught with virtuous mind, and rife with ever filial love, And what a destiny of good her onward life would prove ! Fondly I clasped her to my heart, yet scarcely realized That God the blessed giver was, the gift so much I prized ; And as the spoiler came, his hand on the dear treasure laid, The poison spread — I saw the flower upon my bosom fade ; Yet to her gave the lily's bloom, and brightened up her eye, As if to add unto his work a deeper poignancy. Yet still she smiled, and patient looked, while warily she caught The gentle step, or waving hand, as 'twere relief it brought : 257 The body wasted day by day, while fast the mind matured, The soul, perfecting thus for heaven, that better land se- cured. One morn she early woke, and looked as earnest she would tell A tale of wonder, or of woe, — a tale she knew full well ; How eager was that tender gaze, what speaking fervency Dwelt on the features of her face and kindled up her eye ! It was a scene would melt the heart ; at length a feeble wail Was heard, — the agony was o'er, and thus was told the tale! 'Twas death, — indeed the tale was told, and there the ruins lay, While there were few to sympathize, for friends were far away : Yet, when we dressed the tiny form, and placed it on the bier, Nature, e'en from the stranger's heart, wrung forth the pious tear ; And in their sepulchre we laid, with bitter woe and pain, The precious guerdon God had given but to resume again ; Yet from her icy brow I took, with sigh, and tear, and prayer, Ere her dark coffin-lid we closed, this little lock of hair ; And more than gold I value it, or jewel e'er so fair. 22* 258 But now earth's beauty all seems marred ; the lovely starry night, And the more glorious sparkling morn, fail e'en to charm my sight : The song of birds and woodland flowers have lost their loveliness ; Far rather would I gaze upon this shining auburn tress ; But though the night more gloomy seems as falls a worshiped star, Yet, when to heaven its light ascends, that heaven is brighter far. 259 HEAVEN'S GIFT. Written on the birth of a second daughter, May 17, 1840- Come to my arms ; I feel the glow, A mother's burning love ; Come thou, the image of my lost, My seraph one above. Thus while I fold thee to my breast, What visions fill my head ! All fearfully I take the gift, Blest image of my dead. I dare not hope, I would not fear, The guerdon is God's own ; In gratitude, all mute I bend Before his lofty throne. Perhaps 't is joy, perhaps 't is woe, Along thy pathway spread ; — All fearfully I take the gift, Blest image of my dead. It may be mine again to feel The chastening of his rod, And lay thee, in thy infant bloom, Beneath the flowery sod. 260 Whate'er be thine, whate'er be mine, I would not know to dread ; — All fearfully I take the gift, Blest image of my dead. Nor dare I plead my choice desire, — Long be thou spared to me ; But I would trust, and acquiesce In what Heaven's will may be. Along earth's weary way are thorns, Where shodden feet have bled ; — All fearfully I take the gift, Blest image of my dead. But I would ask, and I may plead, Heaven's purity for thee ; Thy infant innocence prolonged, Whate'er thy lot may be. So may'st thou joy, and I can smile, So light in death be shed ; — Still fearfully I take the gift, Blest image of my dead. 261 TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF REV. E. L. BASCOM, WHO DIED AT FITZ WILLIAM, N. H. 1841. Hoary pilgrim, thou art gone ! Well hast thou thy labor done ; Well indeed the promise kept, And the crown hast fully won : Others thou didst bless on earth, — Thou art blest with heavenly birth. Thou, like corn within the shock Fully ripe, art garnered in ; And no mildew, hence, or blight, Come thy Father's house within. Cheerfully thou didst resign Staff and scrip, for faith was thine. Long and early didst thou toil In thy Father's vineyard, well, And hast gone to thy reward : Aged pilgrim, fare thee well ! Thou art far removed from strife, 111 and woe, and sin of life. 262 Shall we mourn thee, brother, now, Crowned on earth by righteousness ? * Richer crown doth press thy brow, Holier harp thy love express. Brother, shall we mourn for thee, Loved of Christ, now truly free ? Thou wast weary, and we joy Thou dost rest from toils of life ; Thou wast faint, and we rejoice, Crystal founts, with waters rife, Thou art beside : yet, friend beloved, We mourn the good from earth removed. * The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. — Proy. xv. 31. 263 MOUNT HOLYOKE SEMINARY. Thou jewel at the mountain base, Where curious travelers wend, Of woman's loveliness and grace The guardian and ihe friend ; A cherished, sacred, polished gem, Free from earth's miry stain, The landscape's lovely diadem, — E'er hallowed be thy fane ! 'T is beautiful to see thee stand In single greatness there, By breezes from the forest fanned, Mid fairest things, most fair. No transatlantic fossils speak In pediment or base ; Yet thy red walls and columns meek Have architectural grace : Beside, in blended contrast there, The mountain and the vale, Now hallowed by the voice of prayer, Where echoed savage wail ; Near, at one pleasure glance, springs forth, The river circling round, 264 The fairest hamlet * of our earth, By hill and forest bound. In sloping, paradisal green, The meadow's far extent, Edging the sparkling waters' sheen, With cultured gardens blent : O'ersweeping the long, bending grass, The feathery broom grows tall, Bordering the traveler's lovely pass, — A yielding, verdant wall ; While here and there, in patches wide, The richer maize appears, With rustling leaf, and silken guide To the bright golden ears. Here forest elm and tulip tree,t The river's colonnade, Yield fainting herd a canopy, Or weary man a shade ; With tokens scattered thick around, Of a past nation's might, — * Northampton. t The tulip tree (lyriodendron tulipefera) delights in a rich alluvial soil, as is found in marshes, or on the borders of rivers; and, though a native of the Middle and Western States, the writer recollects having seen it in its full splendor on the banks of the Connecticut. 265 Mementoes of the war-whoop sound, The tocsin of our night. With nature's works here ancient Art In age and splendor strives, Her head grown hoar, but green at heart ; And thus her work survives, In shingled wall and German roof, Moss-grown where tempests beat, In old Time's warp, the pleasant woof, Which makes the web complete ; — The fairest scenery God has spread, In all our lovely land ; The climax of perfection, shed From his uncopying hand. On such a spot may Science well Her sacred temple build, Throwing around the scene her spell, And Art the fabric gild. And well the fane may consecrate To woman's gentler mind ; For waxing is her star of fate ; Darkness no more shall blind. More noble than the Propyloea Of Athens' pride and grace, To Learning's inner temple here Pass mothers of the race. 23 266 Hallowed as her Lyceum shade, And lovely as its site, Upon Ilissus' borders laid — To woman, glory, light. 267 THE GIFT OF POESY. And do ye covet it, — the poet's gift ? Ye know not what ye ask ; else would ye lift Your eyes to Heaven, and in the spirit pray That from your hearts this cup might pass away. Ye know not what ye ask who build the fire : The heart consumes and rises from the pyre — The phosnix — but to be consumed again, In constant burnings and in constant reign. It is to bear the burthen of a mind With God's mark, as on Cain, lest any find And slay ; for slay they would, — the strong, So powerless hearts, so keenly touched by wrong, Were 't not that he, as on their frontal bone, Protecting seal hath set, — " Stand thou alone ! " Thus solitary does the poet stand, On earth proscribed, his good not in his hand, Of large possessions, and e'er bearing rule O'er kingdoms vast, and yet the monarch's " fool.' It is to bear the burthen of a soul With mark before it, yet ne'er reached its goal ; 268 No, never reached ; for further on the stake, At every stride its broad advances make : A soul too large for tenement so small, And constant grating 'gainst its narrow wall, Till, worn and torn by struggling all in vain, Quick bursts the cell, and it escapes its pain. As fetus bird, the eldest of the brood, Too early grown, and longing for its food And open air, where, through immensity, Its pinions it may spread, forever free, Impatient of its confines, struggling there For breath of heaven, it faints in its despair ; And, when the nestlings of the flock are felt Beneath the parent wing, and soft tones melt, In lovely music, through the forest heard, Joining the melody of mother bird, Lies stiff and cold, where erst its toils had striven, That one too early fledged, too early plumed for heaven. Ye know not what ye ask : the poet's crown To wear on earth, to share in his renown, Baptized in sorrow must the spirit be, — Immersed in fearful depths, where, as the sea Upheaveth wave on wave, for far beneath The jewel lies that sparkles in his wreath : White must his vesture be who bears the lyre ; His spirit like the gold that 's passed the fire, 269 Full seven times tried, ere he may swell the psalm, Or sit beneath the shadow of the palm.* Who sorrow for it, did ye never know It is a fiery fever, sure, though slow, To wear the soul out, and as constant burns As ever, evermore the spirit yearns For its cod genial clime, far, far away, Beyond its nether vision, marked by clay. Tne poet's gift, — if to you it belong, Then shall this be the burthen of your song : And will ye take it ? would ye wake the strain, — The plaintive music pour, with longings vain ? Pause, pause, ere ye pronounce the magic word, Or in your hearts the " sesame " be stirred. Shield me, shield me from the world, Shield me from its ill and wrong ; Its pirate banner is unfurled, — I am weak, but it is strong. Shield me, for my heart doth know It hath with it no fellowship ; It is secret as a foe, False the brow and false the lip. * It scarcely need be noted here, that the palm was sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 23* 270 It hath a merry soul within, And a merry smile without ; But to heartlessness akin Is its noisy, boisterous shout. And I fear it ; well I may, For it hath its archers strong, Standing sentry by the way, Where must pass the child of song. And it hath its altar fires Flaming high on every hill ; And for sacrifice requires Spotless lamb, its hearth to fill. It is full of avarice, And the sordid lust for gold ; The heart with it hath current price, And for base reward is sold. It is haughty, it is proud, And the diamond hath a charm For its gayly-fashioned crowd, All their sympathies to warm. It will rob, and beat, and bruise Feeble pilgrims on their way ; Where they walk are murderous crews My soul is faint and weak as clay. 271 Ah, I fear it ; well I may, For my heart is keenly strung ; And an unkind look will slay, A careless word e'en, on the tongue. And that seemeth wrong to me, Which its justice proudly shares ; Its kindness or its lenity, Harshness to my heart declares. And I cannot bear the press, The rude jostlings of the crowd ; Nor can I ever kneel and bless, Where to idols they have bowed. I am solitary, lone, And my heart within me dies ; Sighing for a kindred tone, Dirge-like anthems ever rise. My spirit longeth for its wings, To bear it onward, upward, high Far above terrestrial things ; Yearning thus, I sink, I die. Shield me, for my heart doth know It hath with earth no fellowship ; It feareth^as a very foe, Heart, and eye, and brow, and lip. 272 And will ye take it now ? or hath the word, The " shibboleth" upon the lip been heard Long since ? or the wan visage told The serpent's writhing in your mantle's fold ? Then do ye know it is a fearful gift, And finds its mark, as feathered arrow swift Sped from the archer's bow, in poison dipped, Not only pierces, but, with venom tipped, Spreads through the circling current, deadly bane, Which to extract all human power were vain. And this ye also know, and keenly feel, — No joy is deeper than the poet's weal ; And if to heaven he rise, no bliss like his, — Himself a mystery of mysteries, And well prepared to drink the largest draught That angels e'er from those pure fountains quaffed Or if to darkness of despair he go, In the black regions of the world below, Deeper, and darker, thousand times more fell, Than his, e'en Lucifer's, the poet's hell ! For he is fashioned not like other men, — For every bleeding fibre he hath ten ; And, like the fabled lion, toils of thread May bind him ever to a restless bed ; Though in the forest wilds, mid nature's charms, His own pure element, nought e'er alarms ; For he is lord within of sea and earth, The whole wide world of love his fireside hearth. 273 THE SABBATH. What means the chime of pealing bells, As on the still, high morn it swells ? Why is that stillness in the hall Of lordly prince, 'neath 'scutcheoned wall, Or in the cottage, e'er his scorn ? It is the holy Sabbath morn 'T is solemn stillness on the hill ; In grot and glen is music still ; The city still, no sound is there, Save the low, hallowed voice of prayer : E'en lingering beauty there has knelt ; For there the Sabbath hours are felt. The laden vessel, homeward bound, Alone awakes the stillness round, As 'twere the Sabbath's holy breeze Were surety on the threatening seas ! The hamlet, hushed in silence dead, Feels, too, its meek and holy dread. O'er the broad world is stillness spread, Where Christian footsteps ever tread ; 274 All nations, tongues, and people bend, And to the still, small voice attend ; The atheist, e'en, with reverent nod, Pauses as he believed a God. Proud Europe, o'er her kingdoms far, Proclaims deep silence ; while the czar Upon his gilded cushion kneels, And as a lowly subject feels ; And Moscow's walls around are still ; — 'T is Sabbath on the plain and hill. Dark, warring Greece, so long unblest, Now hails the day of holy rest ; And France, with all her splendor, feels A vassal ; her proud monarch kneels ; The Switzer shuts his cottage door, And owns the Sabbath's soothing power. Spain, with her dark Castilians, bows, While marks of blood are on their brows ; They dare not add black crime to crime, But pause in guilt, — 't is holy time ! The sister isles of Melita Have Sabbath in their tideless sea. Afric, long stretched in darkness dun, Feels, too, the Sabbath's cheering sun ; 275 On Asia, and her southern isles, This morning's sacred stillness smiles : 'T is silence all in every clime ; — Vast empires feel 't is holy time. 276 EPISTLE TO I owe thee much : thou wast by God designed The body's guardian, healer of the mind ! Thou stranger, friend, through Heaven, I owe to thee A life prolonged, the power, the will, to be, — A life, prolonged, endeared by thousand ties, By loves, by hopes, by visions that arise And sweep across my way, and onward press, Building high towers for human happiness, — A life, though weak, by others cherished here, For given, the pathway over earth to cheer Of one, another self; and to its care, Spirits in childhood, charged by faith and prayer, To train as virtue's bright examples here, And passed from earth to people heaven's high sphere : Prolonged, still brief, as by brief tenure held, Forbidden by disease the gates of Eld. Yet life in hoary age, — I ask it not, If spent the faculties that bless our lot : Outlive the powers within, outlive one's self ! No, I would perish with the mind's rich delf ; Ere fourscore years, thus who 'd not wish to die, Else dip from fount like fabled Bimini ? * * One of the Lucayo islands, which, in story, is represented as possessing a fount, from which all who drink may renew their youth and vigor. 277 Incited oft, meet tribute would I bring For offices like thine, and courteous fling Around my lyre the drapery that can lure And charm the mind, language both chaste and pure ; For deeds like thine, meet tribute, did I say ? It is not mine to pour it in my lay : I would it were ; then should my offering be Worthy my gratitude as worthy thee. To have prolonged a human life on earth, Tells high commission, deed of holy worth ; For weal or woe, a life, however small, By sacred unction held, is life to all : Some value it for fame, and some for gold, Some for their honor, though twice ten times sold ; Some cherish it as 't were their only heaven, And some — but few indeed — for what 'twas given. But what is life, I ask, held but for show, Unchecked by reason, chastened not by woe ? Nay, what is life, if, living, we but scan The outward portion of the outer man, — In heartless form, cold ceremony spent, Unmarked by kindly deeds, and all unblent With pure associations that arise, — Its thousand, thousand nameless sympathies ? As such it were an idle drudgery, Unblessing and unblest, its end, — to die ! 24 278 Groveling and low beneath what God designed, And yet beneath man's noble , godlike mind ; It is the spark within, the mind alone, To which I fealty pay ; the mighty throne Where I do homage next to his above, Guided by motives such as human love. " The man entire," ungartered and unstarred, As said by one whose mind was never marred Or hindered, it would seem, by forms of earth, But, onward, its proud watchword since its birth, — Untinseled, unbegemmed, u the heart within Is the whole man ; " to reverence more were sin, Were folly, such as thou nor I would not Upon our reputation were the blot. 'T is for its interchange of hallowed thought, Its sacred sympathies with minds high wrought, Its power to bless, be blest, its smile, its tear, I love my life, and wish to sojourn here. Such, then, the heart I hold, though frequent wronged, And such the life, through Heaven, thou hast prolonged. Accept my offering, then, though poor it be ; I would it were a tribute worthy thee. 279 I AM A MATRON NOW. O, I remember well the lawn, The haycock and the mow ; And, thinking on 't, a sigh I 've drawn ; For I 'm a matron now ; — The hill, too, reaching, like a tower, Upward to heaven's broad blue ; The rye-field, with its cockle flower, Far stretching in the view ; — The berry patch, beyond it spread, With here and there a slough, Where oft my romping limbs have bled ; — But I 'm a matron now. Ah, ever I remember these, And many a thing beside ; The oozing spring, 'neath groups of trees, That oft my thirst hath dried ; — The " hang-bird's " * nest, just in the wood, Slung from the maple bough, * The golden oriole. 280 I longed to reach, though ne'er I could ; - And I 'm a matron now ; — The martin, in her country dress, The windows peeping through ; The golden pippin in the press, The foaming cider new ; — The corn-crib in the granary, That oft I Ve tumbled o'er, When heaped with golden treasure high ; But I 'm a child no more ; — Of life, ah, precious mimicry, — My tiny table spread, And baby bidden not to cry, Until the guests were fed. Now has the real drama come ; This is no mimic scene, — No counter farce this whirl and hum, With care and woe between. Now I must speak and act by rule, And dignify the bow ; No " manners " of the country school ; For I 'm a matron now. 281 What though I have within my home Rich founts of happiness, — Fair flowers just in their childhood bloom, The cherished sire to bless ? Yet, as they fond my neck entwine, And kiss my pallid brow, I almost wish their childhood mine ; — For I 'm a matron now. I Ve schooled my heart, though hard, to bear The folly and the strife, And learned, in part, the mask to wear Of artificial life. I hate it all, and do but mock Whene'er I take its vow : But 'ts vain to sigh for kilts or frock ; For I 'm a matron now. 24* 282 THE PROCRASTINATOR. Old man, old man, why sittest thou here ? Dost know that the night of the dead gathers near ? Rise up, then, and finish thy work while 'tis day ; There 's no power on the earth can lengthen thy stay : With a passage resistless, we Ve hurrying on ; We wait on thy footsteps ; — rise up and begone ! We hasten, we hasten ; nought lingers around ; The wind rushes by us, and leaves but its sound ; The flowers scarcely bloom ere they fall to decay ; The seasons just greet us, then hasten away : Old man, in thy hoarness, why sittest thou here ? Complete now thy toil ; for thy change, too, is near! The tribes of the air tell the hurry of earth ; They blacken and fall in the midst of their mirth : Fix thy thoughts, then, old man ; their fate is thine own ; Ask to linger the wing and list to their tone ; There are others soon coming to sit on these boughs ; We haste, then, we hasten to warble our vows. The streams hurry onward and make no delay ; Ask of them in their progress one moment to stay, 283 And listen thou then, for their voice is the same, — On errand we 're sent, to the blue boundless main ; There are waters above us that wait for these sands ; We hasten, we stop not for mortal demands ! We 're passing, we 're passing ; nought lingers around ; To that unexplored country, with thee, we are bound ; We 're in haste, too, old man ; the wind and the wave, Birds, flowers, tell our haste to the dark voiceless grave With a passage resistless, we are hurrying on ; We wait on thy footsteps ; — rise up and begone ! 284 DIRGE FOR THE LATE WILLIAM HENRY HARRI- SON, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. Sad is the hour, and sad the wail, All mournful the array ; Our sighs float on the evening gale — Chief, 't is thy burial day : With solemn chime of tolling bell, Tearful we gather here ; And loud the dirge and requiem swell Around thy lowly bier. But muffled drum at evening heard, With trailing stripe and star, And drooping wing of emblem bird, Above thy funeral car ; Or sable badge and poet's dirge, To mournful stave, and slow, — Though we these sad insignia urge, But feebly speak our woe. Thou wast of patriot hearts the hoard, From east to farthest west ; The sullen savage, by his gourd, Smiled to his "father " blest, — 285 Nay, looked to thee to right the wrong Our wresting hand had wrought, And give him hack the prairied song Of bird his caVmet bought. While breath of youth and childhood fanned The flowers along thy road, And woman twined, with lithesome hand, The wreath her lord bestowed ; But now no more the patriot throng Shall joyous bend to thee ; Thy name no more shall youth's glad song, Or childhood's chorus, be. Nor woman, glowing with the fire, Weave garlands for thy brow ; Or loving minstrel sweep his lyre, To merry cadence now : Hushed is the song in bannered hall, That hymned our jubilee ; And quenched the lights on blazoned wall, That told our hope in thee. Mid dance, and feast, and mirth, and joy, The unseen finger wrote ; And he who comes but to destroy, Our country's idol smote : 286 The wreath we placed upon thy brow, Alas, was idly twined ; For deathless laurels bind it now, Worthy a heavenly mind. But plaint and wail are nought to thee, With golden crown and lyre ; Far more than freemen thou are free, And than our honors higher : Still with the chime of tolling bell, Ruler, we gather here, And loud the dirge and requiem swell Mournful around thy bier. 287 ODE FOR JULY FOURTH. Again this hallowed morn we greet, As children of the free, — An era for our gladness meet, Columbia's jubilee. Well may we raise our anthems high, And swell our notes of praise : Our altar fires ascend the sky, While Freedom lights the blaze. Our gallant fleets are fearless borne Far o'er the coral sea, Wafting upon the breath of morn The song of liberty : The fertile South, and prairied West, In peace and plenty meet ; While on New England's mountain crest The flocks by thousands bleat. Our starry banner waves untorn Above our patriot dead ; While, of our glory yet unshorn^ We worship where they bled : 288 Then never let us break the tie That gives us " Union " claim, Or, for a palsied dynasty, Barter our dear-bought fame. Forever hallowed be the soil Where erst our fathers stood ; Made precious by their tears and toil, And sacred by their blood ; And to the God who wreathed their brows, Low let us bend the knee ; And mingle with our solemn vows " The anthems of the free." 289 THE HARVEST MOON. Say, what dost thou look upon, lovely thing, Where so dimly falls thy shadowing On the still earth, or the waveless sea, When soft dews rest on the upland lea ? " I look on the ocean in quiet rest, Where the white sail she bears on her breast ; And I see, within that cabin low, A mourning mother in silent woe ; The babe, she has brought from climes afar, And nightly watched in that damp sea air, From her arms is laid, its errand done ; And the waves must fold her only son ! Deep, deep, is her anguish and despair, For her heart's fond one, — he is not there : She weeps alone ; they soothe not her woes ; For the mourner's anguish no stranger knows. " I look on earth in the lighted hall, Where gay dancers hold their festival ; 'Tis gladness there, while the merry song Flows pure from the lips of that bright throng ; And the sound of lute and harp rises high, In the melting tones of melody : 25 290 But there is there a veiled, voiceless one, Mid that mirth and splendor, sad, alone ! Rich cadences fall, but they wake not The heartfelt joy of her early lot ; And, yet, she laughs with those laughers there, While on her settles deep, dark despair ; And the bursting sigh, — she breathes it not, — For an hour like that must no sorrow blot : 'Tis her bridal eve, and maidens there, Have decked with flowers her braided hair, While the massy diamond's glittering Is like gentle dew on a withered thing : There are brighter gems, too, as richly set As sprinkled on kingly coronet And flowing robe, and the bridal ring, — But, ah, on her brow are gathering The pale hues of death — she sickens there, For her bursting heart no more can bear ; And that festal cheer, it passes now, — They have forced on her the bridal vow ! Those priceless gems she cannot wear, For the heart, the heart, it is not there ! " I look, too, on a vine-wreathed bower Where fond ones linger in lovers' hour ; They have met there now, but gathering tears Tell the tale, alas, of their future years : 'T is the parting hour, the last, last one That they must meet in that bower alone ! 291 The farewell is said ; they linger still ; A feeling, spell-like, is that wild thrill ; They turn again, and one fond caress, Ere the heart goes forth in loneliness ! " And I look afar on a brighter ' hall,' Where the woodbine climbs the trellised wall, And the honeysuckle hangs around 4 Its slender cups,' and the wind's low sound Comes in soft murmurings through the leaves Of the ' spreading larch,' and gently heaves The catalpa boughs, and persimmon, From the island gardens of the sun : There, too, the rich drooping willow spreads Its pendant leaves o'er the myrtle beds, And the rose-plant sheds its fragrance round, Bending with dew to the moistened ground ; And within 'tis bright, for luxury there Has spread her couch, and her costly fare, And it seemeth glad ; yet in that hall One sighing sits, and neglectful all Of the gentle hush the zephyrs fling O'er the sleeping flower, and humbler thing : He heedeth not the night bird's song, Though her dirge -like notes she poureth long, And all lovely things no longer bless, For to him 't is utter loneliness : 292 There is one on whom he dotes, afar, And he sighs her kind caress to share : He hath no hope but to her is given ; E'en linked with her are his dreams of heaven ; Yet the deep chill of absence settles there, With the weight of sickness and despair ! But what hand may trace the course of fate, Or picture the soul that is desolate ? Or who may tell where the gayest seem, How troubled and dark their gladdest dream ? " 293 THE DISAPPOINTED OF EARTH. One was an aged man, of hoary head, Who sate as one long prisoned for the tomb ; His bosom's early friend, its kindest, fled, His heart now cherished nought but woe and gloom. His children, one by one, had laid them down, In distant lands, to their unearthly sleep ; His joys, his hopes — all, all, long since were done, And on his brow sate disappointment deep ; — A wretched thing, yet could not, dare not, weep ! And by his side there sate, cursing his fame, One who had towered high on ambition's wing, Whose gold had been his god, whose love, a name — All else, a sordid, mean, unnumbered thing. But what of earth endures ? Not fame, or gold : His fled him, — all his heart had hoarded here, And now to grinding chains and black despair was sold Beyond this earth he knew no brighter sphere ; 'T was chaos, — darkness tenfold blacker there. And there was, too, a weary, hopeless youth, Just verging on to manhood's brighter day : To him, life's lightest visions, stamped with truth, Had crowded up, and peopled all his way. 25* 294 Ah, he had dreamed, how fondly dreamed, of bliss, As he had talked and toiled with ancient lore ; Had hoped renown, a nattering world's caress ; E'en more, — a fame like that great Csesar bore, And then a monument to tell it o'er. These were his early dreams, but dreams indeed ; That towering, lofty soul and searching mind Secured him nought but disappointment's meed, And deeper woe than spirits groveling find : An orphan's lot, in penury to toil, And drag along his little, weary way A sickly frame, consumption's early spoil, And rest him then in life's meridian day, Unknown, unhonored, where the weary lay. There, too, a maiden sate, with pallid cheek, Whose sickly, sunken eye scarce moved around ; The world, to her as Zarah's desert bleak, Bloomed not, nor budded, — a parched, barren ground. She had been of the beautiful and gay, Loving and loved, as all earth's gentle things ; But blight came o'er him, and from summer's day To where the autumn eve no dullness brings He passed, and left these deadly witherings. And this was disappointment most severe ; — A heart like hers, reft of its kindred heart, 295 And ever dark and lone and hopeless here, Has no companion tear, associate part : 'T is like the trusting plant on Iceland's hills, Alone amid the winter's beating blast, And lingering still, as though the withering chilis Of that long, polar night might soon be past, Or starlight wake a freshness o'er the waste. 296 THE BLIND POET. The light of the day, 't is gone, 't is gone, — The light of the pleasant day, And the glorious things I gazed upon Are passed from my sight away ; And the brightness of the summer beam, No longer it gilds my morning dream. The beauty, too, of the hill and plain, And the broad old woodland spot, With their cumbrous boughs and rustling grain, Is passed, and I see them not ; Or the gorgeous clouds, as they float along In their airy path of light and song. 'T is darkness, too, where the murmuring stream Comes trickling from rocks sublime, And stops in their caves to tell its dream Of the things of the olden time : O, that is a sight 't were joy to see ; Alas, my age, 't is no more for me ! 'Tis darkness around the ancient groves Where I swept my classic lyre To songs of youth, and my boyhood's loves, And burned with a poet's fire : 297 They stand there still in their loftiness, But their pride no more my sight will bless. The fair, bright world, it has passed away, With its beauty, strength, and power ; And the tender smile that inspired the lay Of my manhood's glorious hour : That cherished smile, — it was bliss to me, But no more it shadows my destiny. Loved harp of my youth, I cast thee down, For the magic of thy song Has passed from my soul ; thy spell has flown With the gay, and fair, and strong ; The beautiful and the bright are crushed, And well may thy lifting tones be hushed. 298 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. Lady, I would upon this page engrave, In burning characters, as bright as those That on the Chaldean's wall prophetic gleamed, One simple truth, — one record — only one ; One word contains it, — immortality. How fraught with meaning, — immortality ! The solitude of earth, its woe, its pain, Its quenchless longings, friendship, love, and joy, And promise of that bliss beyond the tomb, Which not the heart of man hath e'er conceived, ■ All pour at once their incense on the soul, And hush the spirit as the sound is heard ! Immortality ! what a blissful word ! Forever bear it in thy mind and heart ; So wilt thou hold a treasure pure and deep, An antidote for ill, and for thy woe, If woe e'er come, assuager uncontrolled. 299 FAREWELL, MY HARP. Farewell, my harp, — a long farewell ! Some lighter heart must wake thee, And gayer thoughts thy chords must swell, Than these with which I take thee. O, many an hour in life's rough way, Thy soft, wild notes have charmed me, And swelled to love, in tender lay, With bliss all pure have warmed me. I weep to lay thee by, sweet lyre, So well, so long, I 've loved thee, But youth's glad dreams, and fancy's fire, Are gone, by which I moved thee. Then fare thee well, my harp, farewell ! A lighter heart must wake thee, And gayer thoughts thy chords must swell, Than these with which I take thee. My heart and thee too well compare, As oft their lays have spoken ; Both injured by earth's chilling air, Their loveliest chords all broken. 300 What hand, alas, may e'er unite Their severed strings so tender ; Return and sweep them in their blight, — O, who such kindness render ? Here, on the willow's drooping arms, I hang thee, lyre, in sadness, As reft of all thine early charms, Thy tones of mirth and gladness. So fare thee well, my harp, farewell ! A lighter heart must wake thee, And gayer thoughts thy chords must swell. Than these with which I take thee. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEAOER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Tov. r : (724)779-2111