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 CHOCORUA, 
 
 OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 BY RH. S. S. 'ANDROS, 
 
 Nos hsec novimus esse nihil. — Mart. Ep. xiii, 2. 
 
 FALL RIVER: 
 WILLIAM CANFIELD &, COMPANY, 
 
 MDCCCXXXVIII. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress of the United States of America, by 
 
 WILLIAM CANFIELD & COMPANY, 
 
 In the Clerk's office of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 PATRIOT PRESS, 
 
 FALL RIVER. 
 
TO 
 
 THOMAS ANDROS, A.M., 
 
 LATE MINISTER TO THE CONGREGATIONAL SOCIETY, 
 BERKLEY, BIASS. 
 
 The endearing relation of parent and child has its foundation 
 in the very nature of human existence. Art can neither increase, 
 nor fashion diminish it. All mankind are entitled to our respect : 
 a parent to our highest gratitude — our warmest regards. The 
 guardian of my infancy; the conductor of my childhood, and the 
 adviser of my riper years has unequaled claims to my affection. 
 
 To the Parent and the Patriot, as a slight, but unaffected testimony 
 of regard, gratitude and affection, these pages are humbly inscribed 
 by his son, THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The author of the following pages is not, perhaps, the first who 
 has been dragged before the public against his own will. It is often 
 the misfortune of those least desirous of being known beyond the 
 circle of their immediate associates, to find some kind friends ready 
 to kick them into notoriety, without duly considering the consequences 
 of an act, which, while it affects themselves but remotely, not unfre- 
 quently does an irreparable injury to the unfortunate objects of their 
 solicitude. Whether such a fate awaits the author, in the present 
 instance, remains to be seen. 
 
 Several weeks ago it was announced by the publishers, Messrs. 
 Canfield, & Co., that a volume of my poetical effusions, scattered 
 through the columns of the periodical press, would be collected and 
 given to the public in the course of the present year. To this I 
 could only ofTer a respectful remonstrance, since such of my 
 productions as had been printed, became, by that act, public 
 property, and were at the service of any who might be unwise 
 enough to hazard their re-publication in a form more permanent and 
 expensive. The die, however, was cast ; the publishers were not to 
 be driven from their determination, and it became necessary on my 
 part, that the whole selection, originally hastily written, should be re- 
 examined and corrected before again claiming a portion of public 
 attention. In the execution of this task, if occasionally I have found 
 something to approve, I have certainly found much to condemn ; and 
 instead of always seeking to amend, I have not unfrequently indulged 
 in the bolder process of free expunction. This course necessarily 
 
VI 
 
 abridged not a little the mass of selected matter ; but to compensate 
 for this, several new articles have been written, which now appear, 
 for the first time, in the following pages. 
 
 The author does not pretend indifference as to the fate of these 
 poetical efforts ; such a pretension would be wholly at variance with 
 truth. Their faults, if glaring, may render censure dumb ; their 
 beauties, if any they have, an enlightened public will discover. 
 He has not the temerity either to invite or defy criticism. 
 
 RH. S. S. ANDROS. 
 
 Fall River, Sept. 8, 1838. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chocorxta, ...... 9 
 
 Genevia, - - - - - - - 16 
 
 I've Gathered a Garland, .... 20 
 
 Pile on the Wood, - 24 
 
 An Autumnal Fragment, .... 27 
 
 The Snovv-Spirit, - - - - - -30 
 
 The Setting Sun, .... - 32 
 
 The Cottage Girl, - - - - . - 35 
 
 Autumn, ....-- 38 
 
 Tlie Mysterious Bird, - - - - - 40 
 
 Deep, Deep in yon Valley, - ... 44 
 
 Stanzas, - - - - - - - 46 
 
 To an Absent Sister, .... - 48 
 
 To Mary, - - - - - ■ - ^1 
 
 The Swiss Exile, ..... 53 
 
 Death of Canonchet, • . . - - - 57 
 
 To the Aurora Borealis, . - - - - 60 
 
 Ode, 62 
 
 The Wanderer's Return, .... 65 
 
 When wilt thou Think of me, Love, - . - - 69 
 
 Monody, ..---- 71 
 
 The Lover's Refrain, - . - - - 75 
 
 The Suicide. — A Dream, .... 75 
 
 Notes, - . . - ■ - - S4 
 
CHOCORUA. 1 
 
 He stood alone. The Pestilence had swept 
 In fearful might across the land, and Death 
 Had laid the bravest of his warriors low. 
 The fertile vales, through which the Saco rolls 
 His glistening waters, and the forest glens, 
 Which border on the winding Ossipee, 
 Were now the resting-place of half his tribe. 
 He stood alone, like some tall oak, whose trunk 
 Has brav'd the storms of centuries, and seems 
 With every tempest coming down, yet clings, — 
 And clinging, leans, and leaning, looks more grand, — 
 Unto the earth in awful majesty. 
 — Not one of all his kindred lived. Not one, 
 Whose blood drew animation from the fount 
 Whence sprang his own , remained. With him expir'd 
 1 
 
10 
 
 The line. — His soul grew dark : His spirit sank 
 Within him; for the young", whom he had taug"ht 
 The arts of war, and tutor'd in the chase, 
 Shrank from him as he pass'd, or smil'd in scorn. 
 The sun-lig-ht of his heart wax'd dim and faint : 
 He stood alone ; all had forsaken him, 
 And Desolation threw around his breast 
 A night of g-loom. O, 'tis a dreadful fate 
 To be, when all we love are torn away ; 
 When none are left to cheer 'mid strife and toil, 
 To breathe one prayer, or call one blessing down 
 Upon our souls! It may be borne, but O! 
 It is not — ^is not Life ! 
 
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 Weary and sad, 
 For unsuccessfully the live-long day 
 Had he pursued the chase, his eagle eye 
 Beheld, not distant far, blue wreaths of smoke 
 Up-curling from a lonely cot. He knew 
 The white man dwelt within it, yet he turn'd 
 Not hence. Slowly he enter'd, and his limbs 
 Trembled with fear beneath him when he saw 
 A fair-hair'd girl, the only tenant there. 
 
11 
 
 Scorn'd, hated and derided by the young- 
 
 Of his own race, he scarcely durst to look * 
 
 Upon the maid before him. Falteringly 
 
 He told his wants. Widi that sweet sympathy, 
 
 Which dwells, and only dwells in woman's heart, 
 
 She ministered to his necessities ; 
 
 And ere he left that humble cot, to trace 
 
 Again his forest paths, he swore an oath 
 
 Of firm, eternal friendship to the whites. 
 
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 Time fled apace, and pale Consumption mark'd 
 
 That lovely maid as his own victim ; gave 
 
 A wild and g"lassy brightness to her eye. 
 
 And stamp'd upon her cheek his hectic seal. 
 
 Day after day the ag-ed Indian watch'd. 
 
 With anxious g-aze beside her couch; and brought 
 
 From field and mountain plants medicinal. 
 
 Which he had learned in youth, to soothe her pangs. 
 
 To mitigate her anguish, and restore 
 
 New energy to her exhausted frame. 
 
 But vain was all his kindness! vain his skill! 
 
 She died ! and, sick of grief, Chocorua 
 
 Beheld her form placed in the icy tomb ; 
 
12 
 
 Then fled to his deep forests. But as oft 
 As Autumn look'd upon the verdant fields, 
 And, with a mag-ic frown, chang-'d their fresh hues 
 To yellowness, a hoary man was seen 
 Weeping above her grave. 
 
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 At length dread war, 
 With all its horrors, burst upon his tribe. 
 Their wigwams blaz'd, their blood in rivers pour'd : 
 And every gale, which swept their woody hills, 
 Was laden with wild yells and dying groans. 
 Chocorua slept idle in his hut. 
 His bow and quiver hung upon the wall : 
 His knife and hatchet rusted in his belt : 
 He could not strike : He?' spirit stay'd his arm ! 
 — rMadden'd, his tribe, in angry council met, 
 Condemn'd him to the rocky mount which bears 
 His name. Among its lonely caves he hoped 
 To dwell in quietness. To him they spake 
 A kindred language, and his spirit grew 
 Familiar with their speech. 
 
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 He Stood alone — ay — all alone ! The tide 
 
13 
 
 Of war had buried in its crimson flood 
 
 The forest children — save a few; and they, 
 
 In g-rief and terror, turn'd their weary steps 
 
 To the dechning- sun. Unhappy race! 
 
 Ill-fated line ! all — all are gone ! — The hill 
 
 No more g"ives back an echo to their song's ! 
 
 No more the vale resounds to the quick tread 
 
 Of feet in warlike dance, or joyous round 
 
 Of festal merriment! And thou, brig-ht Bay,^ 
 
 Whose lig'ht, unfetter'd waves so oft have borne 
 
 Upon their burnish'd crests the swift canoe, 
 
 No long"er mirrorest the noble form 
 
 Of the proud red man in thy sleepless depths ! 
 
 Thou, too, famed Hope ! upon whose brow the glow 
 
 Of parting sun-light rests, with mellow beam, 
 
 As loth to leave thee, oh, how chang'd art thou! 
 
 The sky still bends above thee, beautiful 
 
 As ever, and the waters play around 
 
 Thy shadowy base with undimm'd joyousness; 
 
 But where is he, ^ whose name is hnk'd with thine 7 
 
 He of the deep, the firm, the noble soul. 
 
 Whose glory halloweth thy very sod ! 
 
 His sons — blush, children ! blush, for the vile deed 
 
14 
 
 Your fathers did ! — His sons, and where are they 1: 
 Pining", perchance, in slavery ! ^ My soul 
 Is sick! If ye have tears, oh, let them flow; 
 For there is not, beneath your feet, one grain 
 Of earth, which hath not drunk the Indian's blood ! 
 Ay, and where'er ye tread, your footsteps fall 
 Upon that dust, which once was full of life. 
 And love, and joy ! — Walk lig-htly, for the soil 
 On which ye stand is now an empire's g-rave ! 
 
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 It chanced that white men — whom the chase had led 
 Far from their homes, as o'er the mountain crag- 
 They leap'd, with expectation burning high, — 
 Beheld him standing 'mong his prison cliffs. 
 The Past came up before them; all the wrongs, 
 The red men had inflicted on their race ; 
 Their burning cots; their murder'd children, wives 
 And friends; each scene of desolation rush'd 
 Upon their minds, and fir'd their hearts with rage. 
 They swore revenge ! The aged chief must die ! 
 He heard his fate: He plead; he pray'd; but vain 
 Were pleas and prayers ! They bade him leap the cliff"! 
 — A dreadful doom ! — Calmly the warrior knelt, 
 
15 
 
 His hoary tresses streaming- in the wind, 
 And rais'd his hands to heaven : — 
 
 ' Great spirit, hear ! 
 If innocence can aug-ht avail with thee, 
 Let not my blood go down, without reveng-e, 
 To earth ! but may my curse rest on this spot 
 Forever! and each thing — each living thing, 
 Perish upon these hills ! and blight, and death. 
 And desolation wrap the scene ! ' 
 
 He paus'd, and roll'd his dark eye fearfully 
 Upon his murderers ; and, as they quail'd 
 Beneath his deepening frown, he threw his form 
 Adown the awful precipice ! Down — down 
 It plung'd — until a mass of mangled flesh 
 Stain'd the dark rocks below! — And from that day, 
 The mountain and the puny lake, which laves 
 Its base, have borne his name — Chocorua. 
 
IG 
 
 GENEVIA 
 
 A SWISS TALE. 
 
 They had grown up together, for their cots, 
 Their lowly cots stood in the same green vale — 
 Abodes of peace and happiness. Their lots 
 Were humble, yet their hearts did never fail 
 When Want, with bloodless cheek, appear'd, for 
 
 health, 
 And truth and innocence were theirs, — and Hope, 
 Her choicest caskets, gHstening with wealth, 
 Before their eyes, smiling and sweet, did ope.— 
 In light and joy went by their early days, 
 Pure, calm as sunshine, bright as vernal morning's rays^^ 
 
 Each fragrant vale, each green and breezy hill 
 Was joyous with their mirth ; and when their eyes. 
 Sunny and soft, were beaming on the rill. 
 It danc'd more gaily. Flowers of purest dyes 
 Were their companions — Birds of sweetest song 
 
17 
 
 Their g-entle play-mates, whom they lov'd. Each 
 
 thing- 
 Of Hfe with care they guarded, since to wrong- 
 The meanest, was, (in their pure sig-ht,) to fling 
 Contempt upon its Maker. — Thus they trod 
 Their quiet vales, communing- with the present God. 
 
 Supremely beautiful beyond compare, 
 Was the young- maid, Genevia. Joy and Love 
 Seem'd her sole elements. What, what are fair 
 And finely moulded forms, if from above 
 A fire hath not descended to illume 
 And shed its glory round them 1 'Tis the bright, 
 Pure soul that charmeth ! Many a flower doth bloom 
 Proud as the rose, as gorgeous to the sight, 
 Yet perisheth, scarce notic'd in the bower — ' 
 'Tis for its fragrance, not its hue, we prize the flower. 
 
 For years Life flew along, bright as a stream 
 Gliding in sunlight. Suddenly there came 
 A cloud of ills upon that happy dream, — 
 A dark and heavy cloud, we need not name ; 
 Enough to say that they were torn apart ; 
 2 
 
18 
 
 The boy was driven from his mountain home. 
 From all the idols of his tender heart, 
 'Mid unknown scenes in foreign lands to roam. 
 Yet he was not all joyless — ' Time is fleet, 
 So be not sad, Genevia, — we ere long shall meet ! ' 
 
 Months pass'd — but he return'd not. Pale became, 
 And faint the hapless maiden's cheek : — Her eye 
 Grew dim, and burn'd no longer with a flame 
 Of perfect joy, as wont in days gone by. — 
 Years pass'd — but he return'd not ; — yet her heart 
 Sank not within her, for she lean'd on Hope, 
 And smiling, saw the hours, the weeks depart, 
 Expectant for the happy morn to ope. 
 When he, the worshipp'd of her soul, should hail 
 Again his native land — his pleasant cot and vale. 
 
 Alas ! the truth she knew not — He had died ! 
 Sick of the tumult, bustle, strife and foaiu 
 Of martial life. — Vainly, for months, he sigh'd— 
 Then sunk — a martyr to the love of Home ! 
 'Twas long before she knew it — When, at last, 
 They told her that the gentle youth was dead, 
 
19 
 
 One look of agony to Heaven she cast, 
 One prayer she breathed, and then her reason fled ! 
 • — A few long- years of wretchedness and pam 
 Went by — their spirits met, never to part again. 
 
20 
 
 I'VE GATHER'D A GARLAND. 
 
 I've g-ather'd a garland 
 
 Of sweet-scented flowers, 
 The fairest that grow 
 
 In our wild forest bowers; 
 The soft dew still glistens 
 
 Within their bright cells, 
 And angels, good angels 
 
 Are couch'd in their bells. ^ 
 Ere they wake from their slumbers. 
 
 And hie them away, — 
 To whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet? 
 To whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet ? 
 
 Sweet Cara, dear Cara, 
 Who wickedly wove 
 Soft spells o'er my spirit, 
 
21 
 
 And taught me to love, 
 Was woo'd by another, 
 
 With silver and land, ^ 
 And — wo for my bosom ! — 
 
 She g^ave him her hand ! 
 Then, with smiles of contempt. 
 
 Bade me haste away ! 
 So whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet? 
 So whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet? 
 
 Next Anna, good Anna, 
 
 With deep beaming eye, 
 And lip of sweet carmine, 
 
 Awaken'd a sigh. 
 But ah ! her young bosom 
 
 Knew naught of Love's flame ; 
 ' She could never like me!' 
 
 And was she 'to blame?' 
 Vain, vain were my prayers — 
 
 She turn'd me away ! 
 So whom shall I offer 
 
22 
 
 My pretty boquet 7 
 So whom shall I offer 
 My pretty boquet 7 
 
 Then Lais, proud Lais 
 
 Ensnared me anew, 
 She sent me sweet flowers, 
 
 And notes seal'd with blue ; '^ 
 And wove me a chain 
 
 Of her bright raven hair ; 
 But quickly, ah ! quickly 
 
 Her love vanish'd in air ! 
 For she found I was poor, 
 
 And spurn'd me away ! 
 So whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet ? 
 So whom shall I offer 
 
 My pretty boquet 1 
 
 To Jeanie ! to Jeanie ! 
 
 The artless and mild, 
 Whose bosom is guileless 
 
 As that of a child ! 
 
Whose eye is a fountain, 
 
 Untroubled and deep, 
 Where thoughts, Uke bright jewels, 
 
 Now glisten, now sleep; 
 Whose spirit hath beauties, 
 
 That cannot decay, — 
 To her I will offer 
 
 My pretty boquet ; 
 To her I will offer 
 
 My pretty boquet. 
 
24 
 
 PILE ON THE WOOD. 
 
 Pile on the wood ! Pile on the wood ! 
 
 For furious is the storm, 
 And there is nothing- half so good 
 
 As fire, to keep folks warm ! 
 Besides — while one sits by the hearth, 
 
 Where Peace and Pleasure dwell, 
 And listens to the strains of mirth 
 
 And joy, that round him swell ; 
 Though rude his lot, his pathway drear. 
 
 Though sorrow o'er him lower, 
 He, from his eye, may dash the tear. 
 
 And own a happy hour, 
 
 O let them sing of sunny isles, 
 
 Of bright and laughing skies, 
 Where the earth is ever wreath'd in smiles, 
 
 And fair as Paradise ; 
 Where the vales are carpeted with flowers, 
 
 Whose odors fill the air: 
 
25 
 
 Where Love and Beauty build their bowers, 
 
 Pure, bright, beyond compare; 
 I ask them not — no, far more dear, — 
 
 Thoug-h frost-chains bind her rills, 
 And Winter triumphs half the year, — 
 
 Are my New-England's hills ! 
 
 Pile on the wood ! Pile on the wood ! 
 
 For furioifs is the storm. 
 And while ye feel how sweet, how good ' 
 
 It is to be thus warm, 
 Forget not those who friendless roam, 
 
 While^the fierce blast drives by. 
 And have no resting-place — no home — 
 
 No shelter but the sky ! 
 Alas! ye httle ken, I ween. 
 
 Who quaff the cup of bliss. 
 How deep their sorrows are, and keen, 
 
 * In such a night as this ! ' ^ 
 
 Think ye the beggar has no heart ? 
 
 Think ye he cannot feel ? 
 Think ye Misfortune's fiery dart 
 3 
 
26 
 
 Has chang-'d his breast to steel? 
 Then ye have never heard him sig-h 
 
 O'er unforgotten years; 
 Nor have ye seen his grateful eye 
 
 Beam through the starting tears !— 
 O turn not forth the child of woe, 
 
 Nor ask him lohy he pleads — 
 If Fate or Folkj brought him low, — 
 
 It is enough — he needs ! 
 
27 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL FRAGMENT. 
 
 Methinks it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. — Coleridge. 
 
 How wonderful, how glorious and g-rand 
 This world of ours ! How full of loveliness ! 
 Of majesty and beauty, O how full ! 
 In all its various changes, how sublime ! 
 — When Spring- unfolds the tender buds, and plains 
 And mountains, hills and vales, woodlands and meads 
 Are all clad in her bright and beauteous hues ; 
 When every g"rove is vocal with the songs 
 Of Nature's sweetest warblers, and each breeze 
 Bears soft and frag-rant odors on its wing, — 
 Who can go forth and view the glorious scene, 
 And murmur, ' Earth is one wide realm of wo 
 And misery — a prison-house, where Man 
 Was plac'd to sorrow for some crime ! ' — And who, — 
 When Summer's heavenly garniture is cast 
 O'er Nature's face, and every gale is laden 
 
28 
 
 With the delicious sweets of full blown flowers, 
 
 And every bower fiU'd with the soothing- hum 
 
 Of bees, inviting* softest slumbers, — who, 
 
 That has a heart for happiness, would ask, 
 
 Or wish a world more g"lorious than this 1 
 
 — In Autumn still our Earth is beautiful ! 
 
 And thoug-h it comes in sadder garb than Spring, 
 
 Or Summer, yet of all the Seasons, none, 
 
 Methinks, hath voice more eloquent, or speaks 
 
 In deeper language to the heart of man. 
 
 Go forth into the woods and mark the scene ! 
 
 The flowers are dead ; the leaves are brown and sere ; 
 
 And if a breeze pass by, they fall in showers 
 
 Upon thy head. The birds, to whose soft notes 
 
 It was a bliss to listen, — save the jay 
 
 And raven, whose lone cry sounds from the top 
 
 Of some bare oak, — have flown to sunnier climes. 
 
 — Go forth! and though sad thoughts, perchance, 
 
 may flit 
 Across thy mind, as thou dost gaze around. 
 And dark forebodings of thine own decay 
 Come o'er thee, they will pass away full soon ; 
 For Hope shall picture to thine eye the Earth 
 
29 
 
 Cover'd with brig"hter and with fresher flowers ; 
 The trees with g-reener fohage; and the fields 
 In garbs more beautiful and lovely clad. 
 So thou, — when the sere Autumn of thy days 
 Shall come, and Death seize on the crumbling clay. 
 Bidding thy spirit quit its tenement, — 
 Shalt rise to worlds of purer beauty, where 
 No tempests rage, no clouds obscure the sky. 
 But one unfading Summer decks the scene. 
 
30 
 
 THE SNOW-SPIRIT, 
 
 The Snow-Spirit came from her far Northern home, 
 
 Where hill, plain and valley forever are white ; 
 Where the ice-mountain rears its beautiful dome, 
 
 Than diamond more dazzling", than sapphire more 
 bright ; 
 Where the half-famish'd bear roams proudly around, 
 
 Fierce tyrant and lord of the desolate heath. 
 Where that g-iant bird ^ dwells, whose shriek, if it 
 sound 
 
 In the murderer's ear, is instantly death! 
 
 The Snow-Spirit came, and the swift pinion'd breeze 
 Announc'd her approach with a deep, fitful song", 
 
 Which swept o'er the mountain, and sigh'd through 
 the trees, 
 As it hastily flew on its errand along. 
 
 At length the loud wind, that so heavily rush'd, 
 Sunk down to a softer and lonelier hum, 
 
31 
 
 And the creak of the bhnds on their hing-es was 
 hush'd — 
 For in beauty and peace the Snow-Spirit come. 
 
 The Snow-Spirit came, and the hill which was brown, 
 
 By her powerful breath was soon chang-'d to white, 
 And valley and highland, and desert and down, 
 
 And forest, as far as could travel the sight, 
 Were wrapp'd in a robe so dazzling-ly pure. 
 
 So radiant with splendor, so glistening and bright, 
 The eye not a moment the scene could endure — 
 
 And all was the work of the gentle Snow-Sprite ! 
 
 The Snow-Spirit comes ! — -I must hie me away 
 
 To the land of the vine — for I love not her power, 
 Since her pathway forever is mark'd by decay, 
 
 And my men fate is told by the pale, blighted flower ! 
 I'll hie me away to some bright, sunny isle. 
 
 Where the forest and meadow forever are green, 
 Where the vineyard and garden unceasingly smile. 
 
 And the track of the Snow-Spirit never is seen. 
 
32 
 
 THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 
 In Summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? — Byron. 
 
 The setting" sun, the setting" sun ! 
 
 How sweet, how calm he sinks to rest; 
 What gorg-eous dyes he throws upon 
 
 The clouds that float along" the West. 
 And O how pensive is the hour ! 
 
 See, how his rays of g-olden hue 
 Ling-er on yon old ivied tower, 
 
 As loth to bid the scene adieu ! 
 
 The birds, that in his rising" beams 
 Carroll'd so blithely o'er the glade, 
 
 Are silent now ; the winding streams. 
 That joyous on their courses play'd, 
 
 Are murmuring, but with sadder noise ; 
 The flower is drooping on its stem, 
 
While with a melancholy voice, 
 The nig-ht-wind sing's its requiem ! 
 
 The setting- sun, the setting* sun ! 
 
 There's not a scene so sweet, so dear, 
 For Sorrow's child to g"aze upon, 
 
 As this spread out before me here ! 
 The dewy flower, the morning- brig-ht 
 
 May please the happy, charm the g-ay ; 
 To me they are a joyless sight — 
 
 They tell of pleasures past away ! 
 
 The wither'd leaf, the bhg-hted flower, 
 
 Are lovelier than the wreath of green ; 
 And dearer far is twilig-ht's hour. 
 
 Than morning's bright and ghttering sheen ; 
 And sweeter is the night-wind's tone, 
 
 Than all the swelling strains of art ; 
 For mournful sights and sounds alone 
 
 Can soothe the worn and blasted heart! 
 
 The setting sun, the setting sun ! 
 How sweet he sinks in yonder west! 
 
 4 
 
34 
 
 O when my toils on earth are done, 
 May I thus cahnly sink to rest ! 
 
 May no dark clouds around me lower, 
 No tempest rag-e within my heart, 
 
 But may my spirit in that hour, 
 Like yonder g-lorious sun, depart ! 
 
 And since a cloudless setting* sun ^^ 
 
 E'er bring-s a morning- fair and bright, 
 How sweet a day will dawn upon 
 
 The pure, unclouded spirit's sight ! 
 An endless day of endless joy 
 
 Shall to th' enfranchis'd soul be given, 
 Where care and sorrow ne'er annoy — 
 
 An endless day of bliss — in heaven ! 
 
35 
 
 THE COTTAGE GIRL. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL being she is, I ween, — 
 
 Her eye is the brightest that e'er was seen ; 
 
 Her brow is pure as the Parian stone ; 
 
 Her smile by an angel's was ne'er out-shone; 
 
 Her tresses are dark as the raven's plume. 
 
 And her lip is rich as the young rose's bloom. 
 
 Her cheek is fair as the blush of the sky; 
 
 Her breath is sweet as the summer wind's sigh ; 
 
 Her step, as a fairy's, is fleet and light 
 
 In the mazy throng of dancers bright, 
 
 And her voice steals mellow and rich along, 
 
 Like the first pure gush of the bulbul's song. 
 
 Sweet girl of the cottage ! How oft, how oft, 
 When the stars were bright and the gales were soft, 
 I've wander'd with her by the smooth sea-shore, 
 And caught the far dip of the boatman's oar ; 
 
36 
 
 Or the heavenly tones of the warbhng' flute, 
 And the distant sound of the lover's lute. 
 
 How oft, hovsT oft widi her I have stray'd 
 Through forest and glen, o'er hill-top and glade; 
 Or linger'd, at twilight holy and dim, 
 When wild birds were sing-ing- their vesper hymn, 
 'Neath the willow which shades yon crystal rill, 
 To list to the notes of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Sweet girl of the cottage ! I love her well ! 
 
 Yet my soul is not bound by Beauty's spell ; 
 
 For the blush of her cheek and the light of her eye 
 
 Must fade like the glow of the sun-set sky ; 
 
 Her tresses must part with their glossy hue, 
 
 And the bloom of her lip be blighted too. 
 
 Sweet girl of the cottage ! I love her well ! 
 For innocence, truth and gentleness dwell 
 Within her young bosom, and ever throw 
 A sweetness around where her foot-steps go ; 
 A sweetness, which steals on the soul like balm, 
 And bids the billows of passion be calm. 
 
37 
 
 Like that plant, that beautiful plant, i' whose bloom 
 Pours out on the night-air a sweet perfume, 
 Her eye flashes forth with mag-ical power, 
 To brig-hten and cheer the gloomiest hour, 
 And a smile wreaths her lip, so holy and mild, 
 She seems — that she is — Heaven's own blessed child 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Autumn is come ag-ain ! The chilling- blast, 
 That whistles rudely by — the meadows brown, 
 
 The yellow hue, o'er hill and forest cast^ 
 
 The leaves that come in rustling- showers down- 
 
 The brig-hter radiance the stars flash forth, 
 
 The lig-hts that play at eve along the North : 
 
 The wide extended fields of ripen'd grain — 
 The powerless rays of the declining sun — 
 
 The absence of the ' woodland wooer's ' strain, 
 Proclaim in solemn accents — Summer's gone ! — 
 
 Gone down to swell the torrents of the Past! 
 
 And who shall see another Summer cast 
 
 Its beauty o'er the Earth ? — Who shall behold. 
 
 These fading scenes again in glory dight? 
 Ere it return, this bosom may be cold, 
 
 These eyes be sealed in everlasting night ! 
 
39 
 
 This heart forg-et to beat — these lips be dumb, 
 And this form He in the deep, icy tomb ! 
 
 And shall no Spring- e'er break upon the g^rave? 
 
 Shall flesh and Spirit, there alike confin'd, 
 Perish tog-ether? Shall Oblivion wave 
 
 Her raven wing- o'er the hig-h soaring- mindl 
 It cannot be ! — Spring* shall dawn on the tomb, 
 And Man come forth to bright, unfading bloom ! 
 
40 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS BIRD. 
 
 Thou beautiful bird 
 
 Of the golden crest, 
 Of the shining- wing 
 
 And the glossy breast; 
 Who sittest from morn 
 
 Till the close of day, 
 On the thorn by my window, 
 
 And singest a lay 
 More holy and sweet 
 
 Than mortal hath heard — 
 Whence — whence comest thou, 
 
 O beautiful bird ! 
 
 Ere the bright, warm Sun 
 Mounts his Eastern tower ; 
 
 Ere the bee hies forth 
 To feast on the flower. 
 
 Thy soul-thrilling measures 
 
41 
 
 Of rapture and love 
 Are g"ently ascending. 
 
 Like incense, above ! 
 No eye yet hath seen 
 
 From whence thou dost come — 
 
 beautiful bird, 
 
 Where — where is thy home 7 
 
 1 have watch'd thee — when sunset 
 
 Threw over the hill 
 A mantle of glory — 
 
 All breathless and still, 
 And seen thee unfold 
 
 Thy ghstening wing, 
 And rise on the air, 
 
 Like a heavenly thing, 
 Till lost to the eye 
 
 Of the gazer below — 
 O beautiful bird, 
 
 Where — where dost thou go? 
 
 Art thou of the Earth 7 
 Or dost thou abide 
 5 
 
42 
 
 On some star that glitters 
 
 In beauty and pride 1 — 
 Hast learn'd that pure song- 
 
 Of sweetness and love, 
 From being's who dwell 
 
 In regions above ? 
 Dost visit the Earth 
 
 To cheer the lone breast? 
 
 beautiful bird, 
 
 Where — where is thy rest ? 
 
 1 know by thy notes 
 
 Pour'd out on the air, 
 Thou dream'st not of sorrow, 
 
 And kenn'st not of care ! 
 I would that my spirit 
 
 Were buoyant as thine ; 
 My bosom as guiltless, 
 
 My song as divine ; 
 My feelings as holy 
 
 As those of thy heart! 
 O beautiful bird, 
 
 Why must thou depart? 
 
43 
 
 Alas ! thou art gone ! 
 
 Far — far in yon blue 
 Thy delicate form 
 
 Recedes from my view ! 
 It hath vanish'd ! — But He, 
 
 Who form'd thee, will bear 
 Thy pinion unharm'd 
 
 Through the wide fields of air ! 
 Yes — He, at whose bidding 
 
 The dark tempests swell, 
 O beautiful bird. 
 
 Will protect thee well ! 
 
44 
 
 DEEP, DEEP IN YON VALLEY. 
 
 Deep, deep in yon valley, 
 
 Where wild roses bloom, 
 And shed on the zephyr 
 
 Their richest perfume ; 
 Where woodbine and ivy 
 
 And sweet eglantine 
 Unite their young tendrils 
 
 In amorous twine ; 
 Where song-birds at morning 
 
 Their purest strains pour; 
 There, maid of my bosom, 
 
 I've built me a bower ! 
 There, maid of my bosom, 
 
 I've built me a bower ! 
 
 Unknown is the spot 
 
 To Sorrow — to Care, 
 And Grief cannot breathe 
 
45 
 
 Its sweet scented air ! 
 For Love hath erected 
 
 His brig-ht rosy throne 
 In that beautiful vale, 
 
 And each thing- is his own. 
 On pinions of sun-lig-ht 
 
 The moments flit by — 
 Sweet maid of my bosom, 
 
 To that bower wilt thou fly ? 
 Sweet maid of my bosom, 
 
 To that bower wilt thou fly? 
 
46 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Among the gay and heartless crowd, 
 Where mirth is high and laughter loud, 
 
 O never think of me ! 
 I would not dim thy flashing eye, 
 I would not wake a sing-le siofh, 
 
 Or check thy buoyant glee ! 
 I would not give a moment's pain 
 For all a thousand worlds contain, 
 
 To one, beloved, like thee ! 
 In joyous crowd, or ghttering hall, 
 In bright and merry festival, 
 It were not meet to think of one, 
 So young, and yet, alas,, undone ! 
 
 When Morning in the Orient glows, 
 Dashing the dew-drop from the rose, 
 
 O think not of me then ! 
 IVor yet at noontide's brilliant hour, 
 
47 
 
 Nor yet in pensive Iwiliglit bow'r, 
 
 Nor in the moonlight g-len ! 
 But when thy pure and holy prayer 
 Steals sweetly throug-h the midnig-ht air, 
 
 Far from the haunts of men, 
 Then, think of me, and kindly pom- 
 One wish, that soon my woes be o'er 
 On Earth — my many sins forgiven — 
 And that we meet at last in Heaven. 
 
48 
 
 TO AN ABSENT SISTER, 
 
 Sister, dear sister, wilt thou never come 7 
 
 The hours hang- heavily, and home 
 
 Is, O, so desolate, when thou art g'one, 
 I sigh and pray for Nicfht 
 To shut my wearied sig-ht, 
 
 And when it comes, I sig-h again for dawn ! 
 
 O, I have watch'd for thee the whole day long*! 
 Each ratthng wheel I heard 
 My young heart's fountain stirr'd, 
 
 Expecting it would bring thee ! and a throng 
 Of pleasant things to tell thee rush'd 
 Upon my mind, and gladness flushed 
 
 My sickly cheek and lighted mine eye 
 
 To think thou wert so nigh ! 
 
 Sister, dear sister, wilt thou never come, 
 With thy sweet smile to cheer our home 7 
 
49 
 
 O much we miss thee, when young- Morning- throws 
 
 Her robe of g-olden dye 
 
 Along- the eastern sky ; 
 And much we miss thee till the day-beam's close ; 
 But most we miss thee at the twilig-ht hour, 
 
 When, borne on spirits' wings 
 
 Sweet thoug-hts of holy things 
 Sink deeply in the heart with magic power ; 
 And at the tranquil time, when prayer 
 Is wont to charm the silent air, 
 O it is saddening not to see thee stand 
 Amid the household band ! 
 
 Sister, dear sister, wilt thou never come, 
 
 To cheer our lone and humble home? 
 
 The pretty flowers, thy worshipp'd idols, pine. 
 
 And their bright leaflets seem 
 
 Less fresh and fair to beam, 
 Since on their cups thine eye hath ceas'd to shine. 
 Whene'er beside their fragrant beds I stray. 
 
 Each sweet and lovely one 
 
 I chance to gaze upon. 
 Lifts up its head, as it did wish to say, 
 6 
 
50 
 
 ' Ah ! whither hath she gone ? We yearn 
 For her ! when, when will she return 1 ' 
 
 O, in their name, I pray thee. Sister, come, 
 
 And g"o no more from home ! 
 
51 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 Beautiful one ! it is a bliss to g-aze 
 
 Upon thy brow, where smiles are ever glowing", 
 Sweet as the mellow lig-ht which sports and plays 
 
 Around the West when bright-eyed Day is going. 
 
 It is a bliss — and yet, alas ! there steals 
 
 A fearful thought upon the gazer's bosom — 
 
 Time, 'neath his wing, some cup, perchance, conceals, 
 Whose draught will blight thy hopes before the 
 blossom. 
 
 Young Love, enamored of thine angel lip, 
 Rich as the crimson sky of sun-set parted, 
 
 In thy heart's fountain his light plume may dip. 
 
 Wake strangest joy — but leave thee broken-hearted ! 
 
 Pale Care a shadow o'er thy path may cast, 
 And Sorrow steal from thee of joy each token. 
 
52 
 
 And Anguish wring- thy spirit, till, at last, 
 It be a sweet-toned harp, unstrung and broken 
 
 O may it not be thus ! But to thy way, 
 
 Bright creature ! be the richest raptures given. 
 
 Till, like the star, which heraldeth the day, 
 Thou melt'st away into the light of Heaven ! ^^ 
 
53 
 
 THE SWISS EXILE. 
 
 He was not old, and yet his locks were white, 
 Like silver ; and his eye had lost its fire, — 
 Speaking no more the mig-hty languag-e, which 
 It spake in youth. — He had been wandering- 
 For many years from clime to clime, and g"rief 
 Had dried the fountains of his heart, and quench'd 
 The lig"ht of joy, which had been wont to cast 
 A heavenly hue on every thing- around him. 
 
 It was but yester-eve he pass'd our door. 
 Weary and faint with travel — for the day 
 Had been a sultry one — he sat him down 
 By the road-side to rest his way-worn limbs. 
 It pleased me — and yet I pitied him — 
 To note how he did g-aze upon a hill, 
 Which rose near by, its sides wrapped in a mantle 
 Of the freshest green, with here and there a tree, 
 
54 
 
 And one small rill foaming adown it, — while 
 Its frowning" summit, stain'd by many a storm, 
 And riven by the fiery lightning's stroke, 
 Contrasted strangely with the scene below. — 
 Silent and sad he gaz'd — But as the Sun, 
 Sinking beneath the horizon, threw a glow 
 Of most etherial beauty on its top, 
 A sound of music from the neighboring dell, 
 Gentle as spirits' melodies, burst on 
 The air. A smile of wild despair wrinkled 
 His bloodless lip ; a tear stray'd down his cheek, 
 And these sad words fell faintly on my ear: — 
 
 ' Breathe not those notes again — 
 
 Those which in youth I heard; 
 There's witchery in each strain, 
 
 There's magic in each word ! 
 My vales and cloud-capt hills, 
 
 My native skies of blue, 
 My rocks and foaming rills. 
 
 Are bursting on my view f 
 Then hush, O hush those notes, 
 
 I cannot, must not hear ! 
 
i)0 
 
 Home — home before me floats, 
 Sweet sounds are in my ear! 
 
 ' With soul unmov'd I've stood 
 
 Upon the battle ground, 
 And seen the reeking- blood 
 
 Stream from each breast around; 
 But when that holy strain 
 
 Comes murmuring- softly by, 
 Despair darts through my brain, 
 
 My spirits faint and die ! 
 Then hush, O hush those notes, 
 
 I cannot, must not hear. 
 Home, home before me floats, 
 
 Sweet sounds are in my ear. 
 
 O Ranz des Vaches! what spell 
 Hath magic like thy charms 1 
 
 Let once thy soft notes swell, 
 The warrior quits his arms ; 
 
 The conqueror flies the field ^^ 
 In victory's glorious hour ; 
 
 The exile's spirits yield 
 
56 
 
 And sink beneath thy power ! 
 Then hush, O hush that strain, 
 
 It clouds, it fills my eye, 
 I must not hear again — 
 
 For home, for home I die ! ' 
 
&7 
 
 DEATH OF CANONCHET. i^ 
 
 On his conquerors he g-az'd 
 
 With a proud and haughty air, 
 And his eye with a flame of hatred blaz'd, 
 
 Which shook the boldest there ; 
 And a bitter smile of scorn 
 
 Around his dark lip play'd, 
 While his brow, like a cloud by thunder torn, 
 
 Wore a deep and fearful shade ! 
 
 ' Go, — bid your chief attend ! — 
 
 I have no words to spare, 
 No breath in idle talk to spend 
 
 With childreii — as ye are ; 
 Though captive and in chains, 
 
 Though fetter'd every limb, 
 While a drop of royal blood remains, 
 
 I speak with none save him ! ' 
 
58 
 
 ' Ye say my doom is death ! 
 
 Strike ! nor a moment spare ! — 
 I ask ye not for another breath — 
 
 I have no need o{ prayer! — 
 Death — death — I hke it well ! 
 
 Ere my heart be soft and tame — 
 Ere my breast with a thought or feeHng- swell, 
 
 Unworthy of my name ! 
 
 ' But mark ! revenge will come ! 
 
 The tomahawk and brand 
 Shall desolate each field, each home. 
 
 And sweep ye from our land ! 
 Soon may the dark cloud burst, 
 
 The tempest round ye break;. 
 For blood a thousand warriors thirst. 
 
 And yours that thirst shall slake ! ' 
 
 Old men in silence stood, 
 
 Young limbs with terror shook, 
 Bright eyes grew dim, and the curdling blood 
 
 Each ruddy lip forsook; 
 The bravest soldier paled. 
 
59 
 
 Though burning- for renown, 
 And the heart of sternest mettle quailed 
 Beneath his deepening frown ! 
 
 ' Why wait ye 7 I have done ! 
 
 Cravens ! why shrink ye so 1 
 Among ye all is there not one 
 
 Dares strike the deadly blow ? ' 
 A moment — through the air 
 
 The death-charg'd bullet sung ! 
 He fell — In his eye a hideous glare, 
 
 And a curse upon his tongue ! 
 
60 
 
 TO THE AURORA BOREALIS. 
 
 Ye beautiful Spirits, that flit o'er the North, ^^ 
 Whence come ye in g'lory and lovehness forth 7 
 Whence draw ye those rose-tinted flashes of Hght, 
 Which stream to the zenith, pure, dazzHng- and bright. 
 Then fade, when the brightest they seem, from the 
 
 eye. 
 Like the beings Hope brings to charm us, and — die ! 
 
 Say, are ye the souls of the happy and bless'd ? 
 No more by care, sorrow and suffering oppress'd ! 
 And sport ye around on your pinions of light. 
 In your robes of purity, lovely and bright. 
 That ye may catch the gaze of the wanderer's eye, 
 And beckon him up to your homes in the sky 7 
 
 Or are ye those guardian Angels who keep 
 Their vigils o'er Earth, while her myriads sleep? 
 Or wait ye to marshal through yon azure dome 
 
61 
 
 Some Spirit, that pants for its g-lorious home 7 
 Whence come ye"? why burn ye? O breathe in my 
 
 ear, 
 If language ye have, that Mortal may hear ! 
 
 A moment — then, — sweet as the strains that are sung- 
 By harp of the Zephyr,— the bright sky rung : — 
 ' Like the dazzling stars — like the soft-beaming moon. 
 For ages and ages we've ghtter'd and shone, 
 To publish, in unerring language, abroad. 
 The might of our Author — the glory of God ! ' 
 
62 
 
 ODE, 
 
 FOR THE FIRST OF AUGUST, 
 
 MDCCCXXXVIII. 
 
 A VOICE went forth — a voice of wail ! 
 
 From the Islands of the West ; 
 Where the bloom of the orange perfumes the gale, 
 
 And the palm-tree waves its crest. 
 Across the deep it swept, 
 
 On the wings of the rushing blast, — ■ 
 And the patriot sire, who long had slept, 
 And the matron old and maiden young, 
 And the youth, with heart to pleasure strung, 
 From their death-like slumbers awoke and wept, 
 
 Where'er its echoes pass'd ! 
 
 A voice went forth — a mighty tone ! 
 
 Yet no pealing cannon rang; 
 Not a flag to the fluttering breeze was thrown, 
 
63 
 
 Not a swelling" trumpet sang"! 
 It roll'd across the main, 
 
 And burst on the isles of the sea ! 
 'Twas the voice of Love — ' Rend every chain ! — 
 Will ye quench the spark of Heavenly birth '? 
 Will ye crush the deathless soul to earth 7 — 
 From the wave-wash'd strand to the vei'dant plain, 
 O let th' oppress' d g^o free ! ' 
 
 A voice comes forth — a voice of song" f 
 
 A burst of rapturous g"lee ! 
 ' Tis the shout, the g"lad shout of the ransom'd throng", 
 
 The loud anthem of the free ! 
 Wide— wide the paean rings, 
 
 O'er the land and the heaving- main. 
 And the crag-gy mount in thunder fling's 
 The chorus up, and a deep reply 
 Rolls back to earth from the joyous sky. 
 And the chainless ocean leaps and sings, 
 
 ' All hail, fair Freedom's reign ! ' 
 
 A voice — the voice of Echo — List ! — 
 ' Soon— soon will the morning break, 
 
64 
 
 When the isles by the waves of the South sea kiss'd, 
 
 And the ice-bound North shall wake ! 
 The captive, bow'd to earth, 
 
 Shall be loosed from his g-alling chain, 
 And the peasant, pining" by his hearth, 
 
 And the Slave, condemn'd to grief and toil, 
 On our own Columbia's hallow'd soil. 
 Shall leap from his fetters with shout of mirth, 
 And Right triumphant reign ! ' 
 
65 
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 He came, but O how chang-'d, how chang-'d the scene, 
 
 Where the sweet moments of his youth were pass'd ! 
 Which Fancy still rob'd in its hues of green, 
 
 As fair and bright as when he saw it last. 
 He knew stern Time spar'd not the things of Earth, 
 
 Yet thoug^ht he not that blight and dark decay 
 Would seize so soon the lov'd spot of his birth, 
 
 And dash its treasures and his hopes away ! 
 
 He came — The elms, that stood before the door, 
 
 And cast their shadows o'er the verdant lawn — 
 The knotted ivy, that crept wildly o'er 
 
 The mossy roof — the lilacs — all were gone ! 
 The weed and thistle grew upon the spot, 
 
 Where once the bright and glorious rose had g"rown, 
 And where had stood the pleasant g-arden g"rot. 
 
 The ruby g-rapes of Proserpine ^^ were strown. 
 
 He turn'd towards the cot — 'T was silent all ! 
 
 <»-> 
 
66 
 
 No sound was heard save the lone nig-ht-wind's 
 breath ; 
 No notes of pleasure echoed from the hall — 
 
 All — all was voiceless as the vale of death ! 
 With trembling- hand the rusted latch he rais'd — 
 
 He stood ag-ain upon his father's hearth ! 
 With sinking" heart and swelling" eye he gaz'd — 
 
 ' Can this — this be the lov'd spot of my birth 7 
 
 ' Alas ! alas ! sweet mother, where art thou ? 
 
 And ye, my sisters, why are ye not here? 
 Is the cold turf upon thy peerless brow 1 
 
 Have ye — O no ! — ye have not press'd the bier! 
 Father, canst thou not welcome home thy child? 
 Or hath the Archer pierc'd thy noble heart 7 
 My brother ! where art thou — once kind and mild 1 
 
 Are ye all gone ? — Then let me too depart ! ' 
 
 He turn'd him from the scene — and turning- wept — 
 Unto the church-yard, 'neath whose vesture rude 
 
 The worship'd idols of his spirit slept. 
 In calm repose — in breathless solitude. 
 
 On each dark stone some precious name he read ; 
 
67 
 
 Each grassy mound v/as rear'd some friend above ; 
 Here lay a mother's, here a sister's head, 
 And here the object of his first — last love ! 
 
 ' And art thou dead ! So beautiful, so young". 
 
 When last we parted ! Hast thou left me too 1 
 Is the cold clod upon thy bosom flung- 7 — 
 
 Strike yet ag"ain, O death ! — Life — Life, adieu ! 
 Here shall a couch be made for this lone breast! 
 
 Here is the g-oal — no more — no more I roam — 
 For where she sleeps, and where my kindred rest, 
 
 There is my best — there is my only home ! ' 
 
 Six Spring's had thrown their beauties o'er the Earth, 
 
 And six stern Winters buried it in g'loom. 
 Since he had join'd his kindred in their mirth, 
 
 And now he came to join them — in the tomb ! 
 How oft one moment casts the dye of years, 
 
 And makes those years with pain and sorrow rife ! 
 How oft one word will drown the heart in tears. 
 
 And make a dreary wilderness of Life ! 
 
 Triumphant Time ! no streng-th can stay thine arm ! 
 
68 
 
 The noblest pile falls like the tender flower ! 
 Man dieth, — but thy touch can never harm 
 
 The Soul : The Soul feels not thy fearful power ! 
 When the brig-ht Sun shall yield him to thy mig-ht^ 
 
 And Earth and Sea and Sky be wrapp'd in fire, 
 Free shall she rise upon her wing's of light, 
 
 And soar unscath'd above the funeral pyre ! 
 
69 
 
 WHEN WILT THOU THINK OF ME, L0VE1 
 
 When wilt thou think of me, love ? 
 
 When wilt thou think of me ? 
 When Morning- g-ilds the verdant hills, 
 
 And burnishes the sea ? 
 When wild birds sweetly warble, love, 
 
 On every forest tree. 
 And charm the air, with music rare, 
 
 Then wilt thou think of me 7 
 
 When wilt thou think of me, love ? 
 
 When wilt thou think of me ? 
 When stars shine brig-ht, and soft moon-lig-ht 
 
 Sleeps on the dewy lea 7 
 When Zephyr gently ling-ers, love. 
 
 Around the sweet rose-tree, 
 And perfume sips from flowery lips, 
 
 Then wilt thou think of me ? 
 
70 
 
 When wilt tiioii think of me, love 7 
 
 When wilt thou think of me 7 
 When rosy gleams flit o'er thy dreams, 
 
 Of hours from sorrow free ? 
 O say thou wilt forever, love, 
 
 In sadness or in glee, 
 At morning bright and dewy night, 
 
 Forever think of me ! 
 
71 
 
 MONODY. 
 
 He died in youth : Before the silken locks, 
 Which cluster' d round his noble brow, had lost 
 Their sunny tint ; before his glorious eye 
 Had ceased to speak its deep and touching language, 
 And the fresh carnation of his cheek chang'd 
 To the cold, loveless hue of Age— he died. 
 In his last hour the gentle gales of Spring, 
 And the soft breath of the serenest South 
 Play'd o'er his pallid brow. The turf, they plac'd 
 Above his form, was beautifully ting'd 
 With green, by the young grass, and here and there 
 Peep'd out an early flower. O it is meet 
 Such drapery should ever wrap the couch 
 On which love, gentleness and youth He down 
 To sleep the long, the tranquil sleep of Death! 
 
 He died in youth : While yet before him shone, 
 With beam ethereal, the star of Hope ; 
 
72 
 
 While yet young- Fame was speaking- on the ear 
 
 Of men the g-reatness of his mind, in tones 
 
 Which well mi^-ht fire the breast, and twininir round 
 
 His brow the laurel wreath ; while yet his soul 
 
 Was fill'd with lofty aspirations, thoughts 
 
 And proud desig-ns; while yet on him the love 
 
 Of all was thrown, like frag-rance sweet on winds 
 
 Which steal o'er isles of balm — he droop'd — he died. 
 
 He came — he pass'd like some frail exhalation, 
 
 That, for a moment, gilds the g-loom of nig-ht, 
 
 And cheers the eye of the faint traveller, 
 
 Then fades and vanisheth! He came — he pass'd 
 
 Like the wild strain of an ^Eolian lyre. 
 
 Which sinks upon the ear of pensiveness, 
 
 In twilight hour, and clings, once being" heard, 
 
 Forever round the soul with strangest spell ! 
 
 Ha ! is he dead 1 the beautiful, the young, 
 The child of Love and Genius — is he dead '? 
 Those lips, which breath'd such touching eloquence, 
 Are they forever hush'd? Those eyes which beam'd 
 With such deep meaning, and that glance, 
 Which struck the soul, as Evening's breath 
 
73 
 
 Moveth the silent harp-string, wakening" it 
 To strangest melody, shall they no more 
 Shed forth their glorious light upon the earth 7 
 — Alas ! sweet memories come thronging up ! 
 The spirits of past hours are flitting by ! 
 The voice of other days is in my ear, 
 And tears icill flow ! How oft have I, with him, 
 Whom now I mourn, along the margent stray'd, 
 Of yon blue bay, and watch'd the crested waves, 
 As on they came, with tiny shout, to cast 
 Their foam-bells at our feet ! How often stood 
 Upon yon frowning pinnacle of rocks, 
 (Which Nature, in some hour of agony. 
 Or, it may be, of mirth, cast forth, with throe 
 Convulsive, from Earth's burning breast,) and caught 
 Afar the gleam of village spires; and mark'd 
 The winding way of the bright rivulet; 
 And listen'd to the murmuring waterfall, 
 While from the forest rose, in concord sweet. 
 The wild-bird's matin song or vesper hymn. 
 
 Behold ! a long faint line of red still hngers 
 In the Occident : — So, even so it look'd, 
 9 
 
74 
 
 Methinks, when last I stood upon this shore 
 
 With him, in g-amesome mood ! But lie is not ! 
 
 The waters roll as brightly, and the stars 
 
 Beam down upon them with the same pure look 
 
 Of love and gentleness : But he is not ! 
 
 Hark! whence that soft, that wondrous voice! — ^ Is 
 
 not? — 
 He liveth still ! and hath become a part 
 Of that which he adored ! ' — Then let me hush 
 These strains, and like the Thracian, ^^ rather joy 
 That he is free from the cold bonds of clay. 
 Which chain the lofty spirit down to earth. 
 
75 
 
 THE LOVER'S REFRAIN. 
 
 O WHERE was I, where was I, 
 
 Twelve month's ago 1 
 Gazing- on the jewell'd sky, 
 
 Pining for wo 1 
 Wandering-, as now, alone, 
 
 Sadly and slow, 
 Listening to the night-bird's moan, 
 
 Twelve months ago 1 
 
 Sitting- in a lady's bower, 
 
 Twelve months ago. 
 Gazing on a human flower. 
 
 Stainless as snow ; 
 Mingling vows of endless love, 
 
 Thoughtless of wo. 
 Happier than saint above, 
 
 Twelve months ago ! 
 
76 
 
 Where is now the bHss I knew 
 
 Twelve months ago ? 
 Where the maid I deem'd so true 1 
 
 Gone — gone ! I trow. 
 I will heed no more Love's tone, 
 
 By my troth ! no ! — 
 Would that I had never known 
 
 Twelve months ajro ! 
 
77 
 
 THE SUICIDE— A DREAM. 
 
 And dreams in their development have brcatli ; — 
 
 * * » * « 
 
 And look like heralds of eternity, — 
 
 * * * they speak 
 Like sybils of the Future. — Byron. 
 
 Methought 'twas evening, and I stood within 
 A small green dell, through which a gentle stream 
 Wound slowly. Upon either bank, there stood 
 Cypresses, so overgrown with woodbine 
 And the green running ivy, that they form'd 
 A lovely bower. And here were seats, not made 
 By art, but by the plastic hand of Nature. 
 The earth, beneath my feet, was carpeted 
 With grass, so beautiful and fresh, it seem'd 
 A couch spread for the sleep of some fair Naiad, 
 Weary of sporting in the crystal stream. 
 Or tripping in the light, fantastic dance 
 With the fair Druids of the balmy grove. 
 
78 
 
 Around were scatter'd flowers of every hue. 
 
 The harebell, modest violet, and rose, 
 
 Sweet honeysuckle and the jessamine 
 
 Here g-rew in wild luxuriance, and breath'd 
 
 Ambrosial odors on the passing* g^ale. 
 
 The birds, that all day long had pour'd their songs 
 
 Of innocence, were silent now, save one. 
 
 The plaintive whip-poor-will, whose touching note 
 
 Anon rose from a neighboring hedge. 
 
 It was 
 
 A scene for thought and meditation form'd. 
 Through the small crevices above, the Moon, — 
 Now beaming, and now veil'd by some thin cloud — 
 Shed a wan lustre on the stream beneath, 
 As the pale rays of Hope fall on the heart — 
 The withering heart, a moment, and then all 
 Is dark again — ay, darker than before ! 
 
 Lo ! suddenly, before me stood a youth ! — 
 A youth, whose years were few; but thought and care. 
 And misery had cast upon his brow 
 Their bhght ; and these alone, in one short day. 
 
79 
 
 Will throw a deeper shade upon die brow, 
 Than years — long- years of mirdi and g-ladsomeness. 
 For 'tis not Time, that dims the eye, nor toil, 
 Wliich steals the flush of crimson from the cheek — 
 But strug-g-ling- passions, prison'd in the heart ! 
 
 What did he there, and at this solemn hour? — 
 For evening's shades had chang-'d to midniglit's 
 
 gloom- — 
 And why did sadness o'er his aspect brood ? 
 Anon, as by the margin of that stream 
 He slowly walk'd, he sat him down, and lean'd 
 His head upon his lean and fleshless hands. 
 And sighed and sobbed, and wept ! — Then he arose, 
 Like one bewilder'd, and his trembling lips 
 Gave utterance to these dark and boding words : — 
 
 ' 'T is done ! That long — that maddening dream 
 
 Of happiness is past ! 
 The star of Hope, whose lucid beam 
 
 Enchantment o'er me cast. 
 Is set !— O where shall light be found 1 
 'Tis dark within — 'tis dark around 
 
80 
 
 This wretched breast at last ! 
 Those dreams of bhss, so fondly cherish'd, 
 Are gone — and with them Hope has perish'd I 
 
 ' A weed upon mad Ocean's tide — 
 
 Chaff on the whirlwind's wing-, 
 Are emblems, lig"htly, faintly dyed, 
 
 Of me — that hopeless thing-! 
 Borne down on Passion's rag-ing- wave, 
 With none to raise an arm to save, 
 
 To what — what shall I cling-? 
 
 Death ! in mercy set me free — 
 There is no rest on earth for ine t 
 
 ' I sleep — but dreams of what is past, 
 Prey on me even then ! 
 
 1 wake — and in the midnig-ht blast, 
 
 Seek out some lonely g-len ! 
 And there, in silence dark and deep, 
 I sit me down to think — and weep ! 
 
 Amid the haunts of men 
 I woo forg-etfulness, and yet 
 ForgottC7i^ never can forget ! 
 
81 
 
 ' I once had friends — but where are they 7 
 
 Have lov'd — but it is o'er ! 
 The ties that bound my soul — away ! 
 
 And torture me no more, 
 Ye cruel thoug-hts ! — I cannot brook 
 To think on what I am — or look 
 
 On that I've been before ! — 
 Farewell ! sweet stream ! and thou, green dell ! 
 And you, ye starry heavens, farewell ! ' 
 
 He ceas'd — and from a precipice that rear'd 
 On high its crags, and beetled o'er a chasm — 
 A deep, unfathomable chasm, he threw 
 His form ! — One groan arose, and all was still ! 
 
 Amazement and wild horror seiz'd upon 
 My soul — a moment I was senseless, — then, 
 Methought, I hasten'd to the precipice 
 And look'd far down the chasm. — Nothing caught 
 My eye, but as from the abyss I turn'd 
 Away, a voice of wail burst on my ear ! 
 
 ' Fool, that I was, to rush to endless wo ! 
 10 
 
82 
 
 What pains on Earth, were mine compar'd with those 
 
 I hence am doom'd to bear 1 Here must I Hve, 
 
 And clank my cankering- chain in ag-ony ! 
 
 While Conscience — fierce and ' never dying- worm ' — 
 
 Like the Promethean vulture, preys upon 
 
 My heart, and Furies tear me in their sports ! 
 
 And this must be forever — without end ! 
 
 Would I had never been ! Would I could shrink 
 
 To nothingness ! — Must — must I live forever ! ' 
 
 I heard no more, for terror came upon 
 Me, and I strug-g-led long* in agony, 
 Such as no words can paint, and_then awoke. 
 
NOTES. 
 
84 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1. 
 
 Chocorua. Page 9. 
 The mount which bears this name, is the Northern limit of a line 
 extending through the Eastern part of the State of New Hampshire. It is 
 the highest South of the Notch, and stands almost alone. Its perpendicu- 
 lar elevation cannot be less than five thousand feet, and from its summit 
 is a most fearful precipice. It received its name from an Indian Chief, 
 who was killed upon it, by a party of hunters, in a time of peace. 
 
 2. 
 
 And thou, bright Bay ! 
 Whose light, unfettered waves, etc. Page 13. 
 
 This apostrophe to the doomed race was written on the shore of 
 Mount Hope Bay ; a place peculiarly suited to such a theme. 
 
 3. 
 
 But where is he, whose name is link'd with thine? Page 13. 
 Phillip, the bold and warlike king of the Wampanoags. 
 
 4. 
 
 Pining perchance in Slavery ! Page 14. 
 The wife and son of Phillip were basely sold, by the colonists, as slaves, 
 either in the island of Barbadoes or some one of the Bermudas. 
 
 And angels, good angels 
 
 Are couch'd in their bells. Page 20. 
 As delicate a form as thine, my love, 
 
85 
 
 And beauty like thine, have the angels above ; 
 
 Yet man cannot see them, though often they come 
 
 On visits to earth from their native home ; 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt behold them, but if thou would'st know 
 
 The houses, in which, (when they wander below,) 
 
 The angels are fondest of passing their hours, 
 
 I'll tell thee, Fair Lady, they dwell in the flowers : 
 
 From the German. By L. Bancroft. 
 
 6. 
 
 With silver and land. Page 21. 
 This line may be found, differing only in the orthography, in some one 
 of the Scotch Poets. The article in which it occurs, and its connection, 
 are forgotten ; I alone remember 
 
 • Wi' siller an' land.' 
 
 7. 
 She sent me sweet flowers, 
 And notes seal'd with blue. Page 22. 
 
 ' I have written on rose-scented paper, 
 With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux, 
 
 I have melted the wax in Love's taper, 
 'Tis the color of true hearts, sky-blue.' 
 
 8. 
 In such a night as this. Page 25. 
 In such a night as this, 
 When the sweet wind did kiss the trees, 
 And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 
 Troilus, raethinks, mounted the Trojan walls 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
 
86 
 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Merchant of Vknice. Act V, Scene I. 
 
 9. 
 
 Where that giant bird dwells, whose shriek, if it sound 
 In the murderer's ear, is instantly death. Page 30. 
 Or that giant Bird, 
 Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 
 Is Tempest, when the unutterable shape 
 Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 
 That shriek, which never Murderer heard and lived. 
 
 Coleridge. Destiny of Nations. 
 
 10. 
 
 And since a cloudless setting sun 
 
 E'er brings a morning fair and bright. Page 34. 
 It is a prevailing idea in some sections of the country, if the sun set 
 clear, the succeeding day will be pleasant. Though this is not universally 
 true, yet, perhaps, it is sufficiently so, to allow the comparison in the text. 
 
 11. 
 
 Like that plant, that beautiful plant, whose bloom 
 Pours out on the night-air a sweet perfume. Page 37. 
 The Night blooming Cereus, — a strangely beautiful flower, which opens 
 its petals only at midnight. 
 
 12. 
 
 Till, like the star, which heraldeth the day. 
 Thou raelt'st away into the light of Heaven. Page 52. 
 
 - They set, as sets the morning star, which goes 
 Not down behind the darkened West, or hides 
 Obscured among the tempests of the sky. 
 But melts away into the light of heaven. — Pollok. 
 
87 
 
 13. 
 
 The Conqueror flies the field, 
 In Victory's glorious hour. Page 55. 
 Get air (Ranz des Vaches) si cheri des Suisses qu'il defendu sous peine 
 de mort de la jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qu' il faisoit fondre en larmes, 
 deserter ou mourir ceux qui I'entendoient, tant il excitoit en eux 1' ardent 
 desir de revoir leur pays. — Rousseau. 
 
 14. 
 
 Death of Canonchet. Page 57. 
 
 April 9th, 1676, Canoncliet was found on the Pawtucket, or Blackstone 
 river, not far from the village of Pawtucket. The following is a part of 
 Hubbard's account' of his capture : — • 
 
 * One of the first English that came up with him, was Robert Stanton, 
 a young man that scarce had reached the twenty-second year of his age, 
 yet adventuring to ask him a question or two, to whom this manly sachem, 
 looking with a little neglect upon his youthful face, replied in broken 
 Eng]i,sh, ' You much child; no understand matters of war; let your brother 
 or your chief comey him I will answer;^ and was as good as his word ; 
 acting herein, as if, by a Pythagorean nietemphsychosis, some old Roman 
 ghost had possessed the body of this western pagan ; and, like Attilius 
 Regulus, he would not accept of his own life, when it was tendered him, 
 upon that (in his account) low condition of compliance with the English, 
 refusing to send an old counsellor of his to make any motion that way, 
 saying he knew the Indians would not yield ; but more probably he was 
 not willing they should, choosing rather to sacrifice his own, and his peo- 
 ple's lives to his private humour of revenge, than timely to provide for his 
 own, and their safety, by entertaining the counsels of a peace, so necessary 
 for the general good of all. — Hubbard, pp. 128, 129. 
 
 When told, his sentence was to die, he said 'he hked it well, that he 
 should die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy 
 of himself.' He was shot at Stonington, under the eye of Denison, and 
 the friendly Indians were his executioners. 
 
His carriage was strangely proud after he was taken ; being asked why 
 he did foment that war which would certainly be the destruction of him 
 and all the heathen Indians in the country, &c. He would make no other 
 reply to any interrogatories, but this ; that he was born a prince, and if 
 princes came to speak with him he would answer ; but none present being 
 such, he thought himself obliged, in honor, to hold his tongue, and not hold 
 discourse with such persons below him in birth and quality. He told them 
 he wished rather to die than to continue under confinement ; that all he 
 desired was not to be tormented, but presently put to death, which he 
 requested might be done by young Uncas that aided us, as acknowledg- 
 ing him his fellow prince ; yet, withal threatened, he had 2000 men would 
 revenge his death severely. — Letters to London, p. 9 
 
 15. 
 
 Ye beautiful spirits that flit o'er the North. Page 60. 
 It was formerly the behef of the Laplanders that the 'Northern Lights' 
 were the spirits of the Blessed. 
 
 16. 
 
 The ruby grapes of Proserpine were strown. Page 65. 
 No — no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
 
 Wolf's-bane, tight- footed, for its poisonous wine, 
 Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 
 By night-shade, ruby grape of Proserpine. — Keats. 
 
 17. 
 
 Then let me hush 
 These strains, and like the Thracian, rather joy, etc. Page 74. 
 The customs of Trausi are in every respect similar to those of the 
 other Thracians, except that they have an observance peculiar to them- 
 selves at their births and funerals. * * * When one dies, they bury him 
 with demonstrations of the greatest mirth and pleasure, as being now in 
 perfect happiness, and beyond all the ills of life, — which they enumerate. 
 
 Herodotus, Tervskhore, cap. 5. 
 
 C 32 89 <M 
 

 
 
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