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THE 
 
 PATAPSCO 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 CHARLES SORAN. 
 
 I am naepoet, in a spnse, 
 
 But just a rhymer, liK.e, by chance, 
 An' hae to learning nae pretence, 
 
 Y.et, what the matier? 
 "Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
 
 I jingle at \xQr.— Burns. 
 
 %\u^ (Bbitian, (uitlj g^bijitions. 
 
 <* * < ^%^ 
 
 BALTIMORE: 
 PRINTED BY SHERWOOD &C0 
 
 K, W OORNBR BALTIMORE A>fD OAY STliESTS. 
 1858. 
 
.S2. 
 
 By Transfer 
 Dept. of State 
 
 DEC 1 1935 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FIR ST EDITION 
 
 The verses herein presented to the public, are the 
 effusions of one who 
 
 " h:^s to learning nae pretence," 
 
 and whose opportunities for the cultivation of poetic 
 
 grace have been .extremely limited. Manj- of the 
 
 articles in the volume were composed whilst in the 
 
 actual performance of mechanical labor, and written 
 
 out in moments of relaxation ; and all of them are the 
 
 fruits of time stolen from more important employments. 
 
 Believing, however, that such statements, if they 
 
 have any force, argue as much against publishing, as 
 
 in extenuation of faults, he merely mentions the facts 
 
 for what they are worth, and, relying upon the merit 
 
 of his productions, presents them to the public, hoping 
 
 that his readers will, if nothing more, accord to him 
 
 the merit of the attempt, in the pieces which he values 
 
 the most, to celebrate in song some of the glories of 
 
 his native city, and the virtues and patriotism of its 
 
 citizens. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION 
 
 The first edition of this book having been exhausted 
 
 soon after its publication, I thought of republishing it 
 
 to supply repeated demands for the work ; but deferred 
 
 its republication for a time, with the view of making 
 
 some corrections and additions that would render it 
 
 more acceptable to the public. Owing, however, to 
 
 the kind interference of two literary gentlemen, my 
 
 personal friends, who were anxious to serve me on 
 
 account of my recent loss by fire, this purpose has 
 
 been brought about earlier than I expected ; and I 
 
 fear without such improvements as might have been 
 
 made under less distracting circumstances. With a 
 
 just appreciation, however, of the favor shown to the 
 
 first edition, I submit the present issue to the public, 
 
 desiring whatever kindness may be manifested to me 
 
 by my friends, that the work will be judged by its 
 
 merits alone. 
 
 CHARLES SORAN. 
 
BRIEF SKETCH 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 BY ELLEN C. SORAN. 
 
 Charles Soran, the author of this work, was a native 
 of Baltimore. He was born in 1809, and died May 
 2d, 1857. He resided in the "city of monuments" 
 during his boyhood, and when just entering man's 
 estate, he removed to Philadelphia; but the love of 
 home was " strong within his soul," and he could not 
 remain away from his native city. His "Address to 
 Baltimore " can more fully portray his true feelings 
 than my feeble pen. His thoughts turned ever upon 
 the home of his childhood, and even when life's sands 
 had nearly ceased to run, his mind turned to the shores 
 of the bright Patapsco, to the city of his love, his 
 native Baltimore. Ever loving and beloved, he had 
 many friends, and none can say that his heart ever was 
 steeled against them in days of adversity and trial 
 His ever ready ear hearkened to the call for sympathy, 
 for succor — especially if that call were made by one of 
 the gentler sex. He was ever their protector. He 
 loved the very name of "woman," and, regarding 
 neither name nor station, he was always willing and 
 
VI SKETCH OF THE 
 
 ready to lend himself to her aid and defence. His 
 genius was versatile. His ever ready pen turned with 
 the rapidity of thought from grave to gay, and from 
 gay to grave, without a perceptible effort. His pencil 
 was constantly between his busy fingers in readiness for 
 any opportunity, and brilliant thoughts flashed quick and 
 fast, replete with purity and beauty. In gentle, quiet 
 and pleasant themes, he was most at home. He was 
 also a satirist, although his kind heart permitted him 
 very rarely to display the gift, and then only to his 
 family and intimate friends. He had a remarkable 
 talent for drawing, and a fine ear for music. His 
 poems are full of melody and sweetness, and the reader 
 cannot but see that they are the fervent outpourings of 
 his heart. We loved him well, and were ever ready 
 to minister to his happiness ; yet God called him, and 
 he has gone. No burst of applause can now cause a 
 thrill of pleasure to swell his manly bosom. The 
 bright glow of genius is quenched, and his body has 
 returned to the earth. Quietly he sleeps; his gentle 
 voice is for ever hushed, his quiet smile has passed 
 away. Gone ! gone ! But, kind reader, his devoted 
 wife, his partner in all his hours of joy and sadness, 
 of happiness or adversity — the children of his love, his 
 treasures, still live to look eagerly and anxiously for 
 the applause due to their father. Last Christmas day 
 he was with them ; his voice joined with theirs in the 
 hymns of the Holy Jesus. Their joy was his. He 
 sat with them at the Christmas dinner, his look of love 
 was beaming brightly upon them ; but now his chair 
 is vacant. There is a void never, never to be filled, 
 
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. Vli 
 
 and their aching hearts turn smiles to tears, and cause 
 words of cheerfulness that tremble on their lips to pass 
 away unuttered. He has gone! the father, guide and 
 friend. The sunny May that brought joy to so many 
 hearts, brought sorrow and desolation to his once happy 
 family. The first link in the chain is sundered, and 
 the thought is prompted, who will follow next? Kind 
 friends ! readers of these poems, with true sympathy 
 for the sorrowing, grant the only consolation in your 
 power — read these pages, the outpourings of as true 
 and pure a mind as ever was created, and pray for a 
 blessing upon those that mourn his loss. We ask no 
 long encomium upon his genius and his labors, but 
 only desire that he may be appreciated as he deserved . 
 
 The foregoing sketch was written by the daughter 
 of the author of these poems. She has briefly glanced 
 at his history and character, and the effort proclaims 
 the fact that the loss of the father and friend so dearly 
 loved, was more deeply felt than the desire either to 
 eulogize his name or to extend the narrative of his life. 
 Nor is either necessary. It is but a short period since 
 he was with his friends, both in Baltimore and Wash- 
 ington city, and his memorial is fresh in their minds 
 and hearts. They remember him as the companion of 
 yesterday, and the scenes in which they sat and com- 
 muned together, may not readily be forgotten. 
 
 Mr. Soran was well known in Baltimore, in which 
 the greater portion of his life was passed. His active 
 habits, as reporter and editor of literary and com- 
 
Vlll SKETCH OF THE 
 
 mercial journals, introduced him to the notice of, and 
 to intercourse with a large proportion of his fellow 
 citizens. By most of them he was esteemed as a man 
 of quiet and unobtrusive character, and ever ready to 
 perform any service in his power for those who needed 
 it. His intimate friends were greatly attached to him, 
 and numerous instances of a mutual interchange of 
 services between them might be narrated. As a 
 member of several associations, his talents were fre- 
 quently brought into requisition at their yearly festi- 
 vals in the preparation of sentiments or other compo- 
 sitions, both in prose and verse. With some of them, 
 scarcely a year passed that did not call forth one or 
 more efforts of his pen. A number of poems delivered 
 on those occasions are not contained in the present 
 collection. They have not come to hand, and there- 
 fore are omitted. He most frequently expressed his 
 sentiments in poetry, although there are many of his 
 prose productions in the hands of his friends. 
 
 The services of Mr. Soran were at one time required 
 by his fellow citizens in the First Branch of the City 
 Council of Baltimore. In connection with that body 
 he labored on several important committees, and was 
 ever prompt and faithful in the discharge of official 
 duty. 
 
 During the last few years of his life, Mr. Soran 
 resided in Washington City, where he died after a 
 brief illness, quite unexpected to his family, by whom 
 his loss will be long felt and deplored. The character 
 of Mr. Soran is readily expressed. He was of the 
 most generous and affable nature — kind, even to a 
 
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. ix 
 
 fault, in the exhibition of his friendship. Notwith- 
 standing the urbanity of his disposition, he was firm to 
 his purpose in the discharge of duty, which he re- 
 garded as of higher position and more imperative in its 
 requirements than the demands of either friendship or 
 affection. He has left a large family and numerous 
 friends who will long cherish his memory with affec- 
 tionate regard. 
 
 The following lines were written by the daughter of 
 3Ir. Soran, the authoress of the sketch of his life : 
 
 IN MEMORY OF FATHER. 
 
 Tread lightly, speak softly, disturb not the rest 
 Of him who has gone to the home of the blest. 
 Where the soul, freed from sin, naught but purity brings 
 To th^ realms of our Saviour, the King of the kings. 
 
 Ye beautiful stars, whose bright rays are shed 
 O'er the grave of our father who sleeps with the dead. 
 Dim, dim your bright light, awake not his sleep. 
 But watchful and wakeful the night vigil keep. 
 
 Ye little bright flowers that bloom o'er his head, 
 Droop not your leaves to mourn for the dead. 
 But waft to His throne the Saviour's blest word. 
 Thy will be it done, not mine, mighty Lord. 
 
 Je hearts that are sad and mourn o'er his tomb. 
 Your friend that was taken from darkness and gloom. 
 E'er lives with the angels where sorrows ne'er come, ' 
 The beautiful Paradise — ever his home. 
 
 NeujIe. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 page 
 
 The Patapsco 9 
 
 Address to Baltimore 16 
 
 To the Wyalusing 21 
 
 That Glorious Day 26 
 
 Our Madison's Dead 29 
 
 Texan Battle Song 32 
 
 My Father 34 
 
 The Afflicted 31 
 
 The Cottage Door .- 40 
 
 To my Wife 43 
 
 Mary 46 
 
 To a Sister of Charity 48 
 
 To Stanch 50 
 
 She cannot Disobey 51 
 
 Beauteous Woman 53 
 
 To a Lady 54 
 
 Medora 55 
 
 Erin 57 
 
 ToEmeline 59 
 
 Byron 60 
 
 Stanzas ; Gl 
 
 Emily 62 
 
 Little Mary 63 
 
 Address for the Willis Benefit 65 
 
 A Thought 67 
 
 She Conquers but to Love 68 
 
 Introduction to an Album 69 
 
 Sonnet 70 
 
 The Album's Petition 71 
 
 Sonnet 72 
 
Xll INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Origin of the Forget-me-not ITS 
 
 I have Roved — I have Roved 78 
 
 Lines *r9 
 
 We maybe Happy yet 80 
 
 The Bard of Ayr 81 
 
 Religion < 83 
 
 The Whippoorwill 84 
 
 Bring Flowers 86 
 
 Love Stanzas 8^7 
 
 What I Love thee for 90 
 
 Epigram 92 
 
 To my Mother , 93 
 
 New Year's Song 95 
 
 On the Death of a Friend 91 
 
 On the Death of my Aunt 98 
 
 To my Sister 99 
 
 Elegiac Ode .• 100 
 
 There's nothing safe but Cash 101 
 
 The Sleigher's Serenade 102 
 
 Stanzas to Miss L 104 
 
 To an Old Friend 105 
 
 We've Wandered oft Together 106 
 
 Bolivar 107 
 
 Serenade 110 
 
 Farewell Ill 
 
 Zachary Taylor 112 
 
 The ''Friendship's" Song 113 
 
 On the Death of an Infant 115 
 
 America's Battle Song 116 
 
 To Howard's Park Ill 
 
 To the Future 118 
 
 To Elizabeth 119 
 
 A Battle Song of Erin 120 
 
 Repeal Song 122 
 
 The Cherubs 125 
 
 Lines in Memory of ''Our Father" 128 
 
INDEX. Xlll 
 
 Page 
 
 The Grave of Greenwood 130 
 
 I am a Red-haired Man 132 
 
 Christmas Hymn 138 
 
 Lines to a Beautiful Child 140 
 
 Address to the Firemen. 142 
 
 Cover him o'er 145 
 
 The Lament 14*7 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers 149 
 
 Margaret 152 
 
 To Henry Anna 155 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 15*7 
 
 Bachelors' Ball 160 
 
 Lines 161 
 
 Impromptu ,,... 162 
 
 Inscription 163 
 
 Lament of the Broken-hearted.... 164 
 
 On the Death of an Infant leT 
 
 Parody 168 
 
 Stanzas 170 
 
 no, I never mention it 172 
 
 A Few Stanzas 173 
 
 To Two Sisters 174 
 
 The Soothing Song of the Dream Spirit 175 
 
 To the Misses W «••* *- 176 
 
 Tale of Medora's Maidens 177 
 
 The Angry Lover to his Mistress 180 
 
 Friendship 181 
 
 Lines on Sadness 182 
 
 To my Friend 183 
 
 The Maiden's Farewell 185 
 
 Woman 186 
 
 A night Visit to my Father's Grave 188 
 
 Stanzas 190 
 
 Song of the Wind 191 
 
 Stanzas 194 
 
$^tt'% ^i 
 
 THE PATAPSCO. 
 
 My own — my native river, 
 
 Thou flashest to the day — 
 And gatherest up thy waters 
 
 In glittering array ; 
 The spirits of thy bosom 
 
 Are waking from their rest, 
 And ! their shouts are banishing 
 
 Sad feelings from my breast. 
 
 Away — away thou boundest ; 
 
 Away in glorious pride ^ 
 To yon fair city's bosom, 
 
 Like a bridegroom to his bride ; 
 While she holds out her arms, thy glad 
 
 Embraces to receive. 
 And echoeth to yon blue sky 
 
 The songs thy waters weave. 
 2 
 
10 THEPATAPSCO. 
 
 dulcet are tliose choral waves 
 
 The melodies they sing, 
 Their music from the waterfall, 
 
 And from the bubbling spring ; 
 The soft tones of the embowered brook 
 
 Into my senses steal, 
 And the big waves from ocean • 
 
 Koll up their organ peal. 
 
 They come, those lovely choristers, 
 
 From many a crystal home ; 
 Bright pearls from Oman's waters 
 
 Are glittering in their foam : 
 And proudly heaves thy emerald breast 
 
 Before the sparkling train. 
 For gems they bring from every clime, 
 
 Those travelers of the main. 
 
 How many, many images. 
 
 Thy brilliant waters yield ; 
 Thy waves ride up like crested knights, 
 
 Ee turned from battle field ; — 
 Ten thousand gallant knights with spoils. 
 
 Brought from the conquered plain, 
 To lay them at their ladies' feet. 
 
 Then gallop back again. 
 
THE PATAPSCO. 11 
 
 The prancing of tliy sun-lit waves 
 
 Beneath the feather}^ spray, — 
 How beautiful to witness them 
 
 In revelry and play ! 
 But see ! some secret signal now 
 
 Invites them to the main, 
 And, calm behind, before the wind 
 
 They gallop out again. 
 
 Away — away to their bright homes 
 
 Exultingly they leap, 
 Their joyous glances lingering 
 
 On tower, tree, and steep : 
 A bright look to their Southern Queen- 
 
 A parting melody — 
 A shout to yonder banner. 
 
 Guardian angel of the free. 
 
 A farewell to the barks they bore 
 
 Back to their native home, — 
 A glance at the declining sun. 
 
 Which gilds their parting foam, — 
 A song to yon " historic ground," 
 
 "Where freedom's martyrs sleep ; — 
 And now those lovely wanderers 
 
 Are out upon the deep. 
 
12 THEPATAPSCO. 
 
 For stories of tLe ocean, whicli 
 
 To beauty's queen they gave, 
 They bear away her lovely smiles. 
 
 The blessings of her brave ; 
 Who love them that they ne'er have bowed 
 
 Before the oppressor's rod : 
 And own like them no ruler, 
 
 No master but their God. 
 
 I stand upon my native hill, 
 
 And see my native river 
 Koll proudly 'neath the- brightest sky 
 
 That blessed my vision ever. 
 I have felt the poet-hallowed scenes, 
 
 Where distant waters roam, 
 But ah ! earth has no heaven like that 
 
 Which circles thee, my home ! 
 
 Here did I launch my fearless bark, 
 
 A plank with 'kerchief sail. 
 An infant navigator 
 
 Yon distant shores to hail ; 
 And many a glad discovery 
 
 My boyish vision blest, 
 With joy akin to that which thrilled 
 
 The great world-finder's breast. 
 
THE PATAPSCO/ 13 
 
 And there rolls up thy channel. 
 
 The same as when it bore 
 My father from a tyrant land 
 
 To freedom's happy shore ; 
 When danced thy waves, and his freed heart 
 
 Up with thy spirits sprung — 
 But now thou singest his requiem, 
 
 Who then his welcome sung. 
 
 Bold river, — noble river ! 
 
 How many tales thou hast ! — 
 Though of all the savage legends 
 
 Which lie within thy breast, 
 Alas ! there is no trace that can 
 
 Their annals e'er proclaim. 
 Save one which is thy history 
 
 And monument — thv name. 
 
 But yet thou art not storyless. 
 
 For on thy open page, 
 The tale of freedom's triumph 
 
 Thou wilt bear from age to age ; 
 The terrors of that fiery night 
 
 Upon thy bosom flamed. 
 And the joyous shout of victory 
 
 Thy morning voice proclaimed. 
 
 2* 
 
14 THE PAT AP SCO. 
 
 For ever thus^ proud river ! 
 
 Thy glorious memories be ; 
 Thou minstrelj mirror, record 
 
 Of the glories of the free ; 
 A joy to freedom's eye, a grave 
 
 To freedom's foes thy waters, 
 Thy spirit like our fearless sons — 
 
 Thy calm our peerless daughters. 
 
 So soft, so clear, so beautiful, 
 
 That even the clouds we see. 
 So lovely in their native blue. 
 
 More lovely are in thee ; 
 For with affection's holiest smile 
 
 The heavens illume thy tide. 
 Thou glory of thy happy sons. 
 
 Their blessing and their pride ! 
 
 Farewell ! thy bright companion 
 
 Purples the glowing west. 
 And evening with her fairy train 
 
 Comes out upon thy breast. 
 Thy beauties rise as he declines. 
 
 Gilding with heavenly ray 
 More lovely thy expiring hour. 
 
 Than was thy glorious day. 
 
TH E PATAPSCO . 15 
 
 For ! as sinks behind tlie hills 
 
 The sun which gilt thy charms, 
 The evening sky in glory fills 
 
 Thy breast with brighter forms, — 
 Then while the glorious things of heaven 
 
 Within thy heart do dwell. 
 My loved, my bright, my native stream, 
 
 In rapture's tears — farewell. 
 
 Thus, when my day of life declines, 
 
 And earth's surrounding charms 
 Fade from my view, may heaven light up 
 
 My passage to its arms ; 
 And love in memory's mirror see 
 
 Something of heaven appear. 
 And friendship, with more joy than grief. 
 
 Burst with the parting tear. 
 
ADDRESS TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 Home of my childhood's happy May ! 
 
 Whence charmless visions mock mine eyeSj 
 I lift my thoughlS on memory's ray 
 
 Back to my native skies ; 
 And pouring out my heart's full cup 
 
 Of love^ to whom that love is due, 
 I call thy scenes of beauty up, 
 
 Which warm to memory's view. 
 
 The hill — the school — the Sabbath bell 
 
 That turned my opening heart above — 
 Surely our soaring minds may swell 
 
 O'er scenes which all may love ! 
 Scenes which so bind the raptured breast 
 
 In memory's strong, but flowery fold, 
 They may be seen, be felt, be blest, — 
 
 They never can be told. 
 
 In thought by many a path I tread. 
 
 Where youth has roved with raptured eye. 
 
 But thou whose daily wanderings lead 
 Beside, pass idly by ; 
 
ADDRESS TO BALTIMORE. 17 
 
 Thou knowest not all tlie charms that bloom 
 
 Around thee, until other skies 
 Teach thee that beauties dwell at home. 
 
 Absence alone can prize. 
 
 Yon stream that flows in mu|ic by, 
 
 Whose tones the rocks and hills prolong,, 
 Is worshiped by as bright a sky, 
 
 Tree, flower, and wild bird's song, 
 As these the traveler's eye beholds. 
 
 And breathes a charm not found away. 
 Which kindles in your bosom-folds 
 
 Joys of a holier ray. 
 
 ! childhood's haunts, still brightly glow! 
 
 Neglected Falls^ your voices raise. 
 And still like some lone beauty go 
 
 Unnoticed, without praise. 
 Flow on ! your charms may yet command 
 
 Some worthier lyre's enkindled flame. 
 Whose strain thy minstrelsy will hand 
 
 Aloft to classic fame. 
 
 Go tread yon green and glorious hill. 
 And cast thine eye adown the bay ! 
 
 ! who could gaze nor feel a thrill 
 Through the glad pulses play? 
 
18 ADDRESS TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 Before tliee sproacls Patapsco's tide. 
 
 The rival of the dazzling sky, 
 And on its waves, in swan-like pride, 
 
 The barks move stately by. 
 
 An emerald ring surrounds the space, 
 
 Where the clear waters lie within, 
 Holding to heaven their mirror face 
 
 For sun and cloud to worship in. 
 And far below, where distance blends^ 
 
 Like love, the sky and hsij together, 
 Gleams many a swelling sail that bends 
 
 Its bosom to the joyous weather. 
 
 Where yesterday the swift canoe 
 
 Glided upon the crystal tide, 
 And rung the Indian's wild halloo, 
 
 A thousand proud ships ride, 
 Freighted with wealth from every land 
 
 That blooms beneath the outspread skies, — 
 The magic work of freedom's hand_, 
 
 And freemen's enterprise. 
 
 And see that banner of our sires 
 Above McHenry's bulwarks wave, 
 
 Where once it lit with holy fires 
 To victory, freedom's brave. 
 
ADDRESS TO BALTIMORE. 19 
 
 In adamant that standard's fixred, 
 
 Till light to darkness shall be hurled — 
 
 Its stars with those of heaven be mixed, 
 The beacon of the world. 
 
 Armistead! nursed by freedom's dame 
 To lead her sons to glory's shrine, 
 
 Why speak thy much loved banner's name 
 
 Without a thought of thine ? 
 Long as Patapsco's waves shall roll 
 
 Around the walls thy valor manned, 
 Or floats aloft yon eagle scroll, 
 
 Thy hallowed name shall stand. 
 
 1 turn me to the city's space. 
 
 And dwell upon her sun-lit domes, 
 Her architectural charms, and trace 
 
 Her halls and happy homes ; 
 Her links of usefulness and gain. 
 
 Her commerce, spreading with the sun. 
 And arts ! — a never-ending chain, 
 
 Bind field, mart, wave, in one. 
 
 Science there moles her devious way. 
 
 While light succeeds the enriching toil ; 
 
 There learning gives, with smiling ray. 
 Thy sons a priceless spoil, 
 
20 ADDRESS TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 ! land of honor — beauty — health, 
 
 And hospitality's abode, 
 Still be thy noble march to wealth, 
 
 Through glory's cloudless road ! 
 
 And may those cenotaphs which claim 
 
 A memory of thy gratitude, 
 Direct as lights to virtuous fame, 
 
 Thy people, brave and good ; 
 And teach them as those piles were reared 
 
 To mark the patriot's deathless name. 
 Skyward, as ^.ey, our thoughts be steered, 
 
 Partakers of their fame. 
 
 Home of my childhood's happy May ! 
 
 While 'mid strange scenes that mock mine 
 eyes, 
 I lift my lingering thoughts away 
 
 Back to my native skies ; 
 And pouring out my heart's full cup 
 
 Of love, to whom that love is due, 
 I call thy scenes of beauty up, 
 
 Which warm to memory's view. 
 
 Philadelphia,, September 12, 1833. 
 
TO THE WYALUSINa. 
 
 ONE OF THE THOUSAND SOURCES OF THE SUSQUEHANNAH. 
 
 Let virtuous Cowper sing liis Ouse, 
 
 And Burns his flowery winding Ajre, 
 Bright mountain stream, my humble muse 
 
 Shall he thy poet — thou- its care ; 
 And though my strain may fleet away, 
 
 Like leaves npon thy passing tide. 
 And sink unnoticed in that sea 
 
 Where nobler songs alone may ride : 
 Thy strains will flow rejoicingly — 
 No Lethean power can smother thee. 
 
 'Tis winter, but his icy chain 
 
 Is loosened from the rock ; the tree. 
 Though shorn, in smiles revives again. 
 
 And spreads its arms imploringly ; — 
 It seems that summer has looked down 
 
 Upon the earth, to see if all 
 It left had 'scaped the reckless frown 
 
 Of Winter and destroying Fall, — 
 Thou, Wyalusing, boundest gay. 
 Exulting in the joyous day. 
 3 
 
22 TO THE WYALUSING. 
 
 The crusts that lately marred thy course 
 
 Like sin upon the human soul, 
 Now touched by heaven's effective force_, 
 
 Melt, and thou movest to thy goal, — 
 Ay ! with the joy the freed soul knows, 
 
 Thou from thy glittering chains dost bound, 
 And gladly as thy spirit flows, 
 
 Shed'st life and hope on all around — 
 And from thy breast a holy prayer 
 Eises upon the balmy air. 
 
 Now o'er yon hills in " sylvan war," 
 
 The chopper's echoing axe I hear, 
 The restless saw-mill, from afar. 
 
 Unceasing plays upon my ear ; 
 The blue-jay chirps upon the tree, 
 
 And there the agile squirrel leaps," 
 And skimming proud, the " grey goose " see, 
 
 Tumbling and diving in thy deeps, — 
 There's life ! there's life ! tho' summer's gone ; 
 Bright stream, we are not quite alone. 
 
 And hark ! — the hunter and his hounds — 
 "What stirs yon thicket ? — 'tis a fawn : 
 
 She leaps in thy dividing bounds. 
 Escapes, fear-driven leaves the lawn. 
 
TO THE WYALUSING. 23 
 
 And safety seeks in yon beacli shade — 
 The scent is lost — the huntsmen rave. 
 
 And rave they shall, ere bard shall aid 
 Or guide them. Noble creek, to save 
 
 From murderous sport and tyrant blow, 
 
 Thou wouldst have all as free as thou. 
 
 While glory wreathes the mountain's ridge, 
 
 Day's tireless traveler sinks behind — 
 I stand upon a rustic bridge, 
 
 And gaze below with pensive mind ; 
 The sun-gilt clouds clear on thy bed 
 
 Eeflected from their heavenly dome, 
 Those distant objects near me spread, 
 
 Eemind me of my distant home ; 
 And fancy^ of affection born. 
 Transforms the clouds to those I mourn. 
 
 I feel my heart is as thy stream. 
 
 Far friends those clouds reflecting there, 
 Which^ while bound to thy bed they seem, 
 
 Dwell over thee in the midway air, — 
 The mirror of my bosom, bright 
 
 Acknowledges the glowing gaze 
 Of friends bent o'er me, as the light 
 
 And dark clouds o'er thy glassy face ; 
 Whose looks more beauteous on me come, 
 Keflected from that heaven — home. 
 
24 TO THE WYALUSINa. 
 
 Pure stream ! tliy source is 'mong the hills 
 
 And mountainSj clasping rock and tree, 
 Where fleet deer roves, and wild bird fills 
 
 Thy stalwart sides with nature's glee ; 
 ! as thou boundest by my side, 
 
 With eagle speed and majesty, 
 I feel, proud stream, thou didst imbibe 
 
 Thy spirit song of liberty 
 From 'mong those heights where thou didst 
 
 roam ; 
 Fair freedom's cradle and her home. 
 
 Flow on, for ever flow thy tides ! 
 
 Thy smiles are cheering herb and tree; 
 The dying grass upon thy sides 
 
 Lifts its bowed head and blesses thee, — 
 Bright be thy course ! the ocean wide 
 
 May clasp thy cbarms, — there spread, diffuse 
 Thy spirit and thy mountain pride. 
 
 Through distant lands where slavery sues 
 In tyrant chains, and bid him drink 
 Thy waters free, and rive each link. 
 
 Heart of the mountains, fare thee well ! 
 
 Fate drives me from thy lovely scene ; 
 And long ere spring's enchanting spell 
 
 Gives thee thy glorious garb of green, 
 
TO THE WYALUSING. 25 
 
 On other hills, by other streams, 
 
 My wandering feet with grief may press ; 
 
 But love will turn on thought's bright beams, 
 And trace thy blooming loveliness ; 
 
 My heart, through life, twin streams shall 
 share. 
 
 And thine will make sweet music there. 
 
 3* 
 
THAT aLOKIOUS DAY. 
 
 ! why peal yon bells from the temple's "bright dome, 
 
 That wake the glad morn with their pgeans on high ; 
 And why the wild roar of the cannon and drum, 
 
 And shout of the multitude rending the sky? 
 'Tis Liberty's shout ! — 'tis freemen's glad greeting. 
 
 Again to the day that gave birth to a world ; 
 That all-hallowed day, when the tyrant, retreating, 
 
 Shrunk back from the light of , our young flag unfurl'd 
 The cannon, the shout, and the music's glad play. 
 But echo the voice of that- glorious day ! 
 
 O ! why do your orators' bosoms to-day 
 
 Grlow brighter and purer with eloquent fire ; 
 And why do your people more fervently pray. 
 
 And why do the breasts of your soldiers beat higher ? 
 ! know you 'tis gratitude's throb that engages, 
 
 For libei:ty's blessings, encircling us here — 
 'Tis a voice from the past, of our warriors and sages ; 
 
 Our prayers to that God who has ever been near. 
 And our souls, as they blend in their heavenward way, 
 But echo the voice of that glorious day ! 
 
THAT GLORIOUS DAY. . 27 
 
 And sefe you yon fairy thing folding the storm, 
 
 Her brow lit with stars of the beautiful night ; 
 The rainbow has mirrored itself in her form, 
 
 And pure as the sun is her bosom of light. 
 Yon flag with the eagle-eye over her glancing, 
 
 ! that is the terror of liberty's foe ; 
 'And every free heart in her glory advancing, 
 
 Proclaims her the patriot's heaven below ; ' 
 The scream of her eagle, and bosom's free play. 
 But tell of the deeds of that glorious day. 
 
 My soul's wrapped in awe! See yon patriarch sage — 
 
 He bears in his hand a rich, charactered scroll ; 
 And hear you the accents that flow from its page ? 
 
 An angel is singing the sound in my soul ! 
 It tells of a people who freedom adored, 
 
 Who sufi'ered and sued in the lowliest plea, 
 But, met by the frown of a tyrant abhorred, 
 
 They rose in their might and resolved to be free. 
 Ah ! well may your soul from its bounds burst away, 
 For that is the voice of that glorious day. 
 
 The voice of that day! does it thrill in your veins, 
 Enrapture your soul with a hallowed delight ? 
 
 God ! in all lands where dark tyranny reigns 
 May it peal and dispel the soul's heavenless night ; 
 
 Like a blessing from thee, may it breathe o'er the world ; 
 As a precept of thine, may it move like thy will; 
 
28 THAT GLORIOUS DAY. 
 
 Be sceptres and kings from their " higli places" hurled, 
 
 -Unwearied its spirit and power, until 
 Every heart on Grod's footstool acknowledge its sway, 
 And echoes the voice of that glorious day ! 
 
OUR MADISON'S DEAD. 
 
 Written on occasion of the funeral honors given to the memory of 
 Madison by the mechanics of Baltimore, Aug. 25, 1836. 
 
 Proclaim it, ye brave,, 
 
 From the east to tlie west; 
 We have borne to his sluraber 
 
 Our wisest and best.. 
 A light has departed, 
 
 Our beacon for years. 
 And left us, a nation. 
 
 In darkness and tears. 
 
 But that gloom o'er our bosoms 
 
 Will not linger long, 
 And the tear will give place 
 
 To the patriot song ; 
 For Madison's name. 
 
 Like our banner unfurled, 
 Will now fling its glories 
 
 Abroad to the world. . 
 
 A name to the scroll 
 
 Of the names that we love ; 
 
 A soul to the circle 
 Of sages above ; 
 
30 ouE Madison's dead. 
 
 A star in that banner 
 The breeze never bore, 
 
 Which floats in the temple 
 Where freemen adore. 
 
 1 bright was his morning, 
 
 His noon and his close ; 
 His life knew no nighty 
 
 But the night of our foes ! 
 In the day of our troubles, 
 
 The hope of each breast ; 
 Our pilot in storms, 
 
 And our haven of rest. 
 
 Our eagle mourns over 
 The patriot's grave, 
 
 And emblems the grief 
 • Of the free and the brave ; 
 
 And the couch of the sleeper 
 Is holy with prayer, 
 
 For the hearts of the people 
 Are gathering there. 
 
 Sad, slow was the march 
 Of the funeral train, 
 
 And gloomy the banners. 
 And mournful the strain ; 
 
OUR Madison's dead. 31 
 
 And silent and solemn 
 
 That multitude moved — 
 The homage of freemen 
 
 To one whom they loved ! 
 
 ! thus be for ever 
 
 Our feelings outpoured 
 To him who is worthy 
 
 The patriot's reward ; 
 In that nation which rises 
 
 Such men to revere, 
 ! who can disunion 
 
 Or slavery fear ? 
 
TEXAN BATTLE SONa. 
 
 Arm for the Texan battle, 
 
 Sons of tlie brave and free ! 
 Away, and win a soldier's grave. 
 
 Or a glorious victory ; 
 Cries of your murdered brothers, 
 
 On the red Alamo slain, 
 Are pealing in your hearts for aid. 
 
 And shall they call in vain ? 
 
 Then arm for the Texan battle, &c. 
 
 In the ranks of freedom's fight 
 
 The soldier's post should be, 
 Where men who burst oppression's chains 
 
 Are battling to be free ; 
 His bright plume waving high, 
 
 In the midst of the conflict's strife ; 
 His frown should quell the tyrant's rage. 
 
 And his sabre drink his life. 
 
 Then arm for the Texan battle, &c. 
 
 Bay, how should the soldier die — 
 
 On the pillow's soft repose ? 
 ! no — with his bright shield 'neath his head 
 
 In the battle's glorious close ; 
 
TEXAN BATTLE SONG. 33 
 
 The tyrant's flag at his feet^ — 
 
 The skies with " victory " riven — 
 He smiles adieu to his comrades brave, 
 And his spirit soars to heaven. 
 Then arm for the Texan battle^ 
 
 Sons of the brave and free, 
 Away ! and win a soldier's grave 
 Or a glorious victory ! 
 
MY F A.THE R. 
 
 I REMEMBER, Well remember 
 
 When my father died — 
 When my mother called me from my play 
 
 And laid me at his side ; 
 His face was pale, as pale could be, 
 
 And calm that wrinkled brow ; 
 Those eyes that late looked bright on me, 
 
 Glared dimly on me now. 
 
 He took me in his feeble arms 
 
 And pressed me to his cheek, 
 And then he moved his trembling lips 
 
 And thrice essayed to speak ; 
 He could not speak ! — then came the sigh. 
 
 And on my cheek the tear, 
 For death had drunk that blessing up 
 
 Before it reached mine ear. 
 
 But oh ! that smile — I see it yet ! — 
 
 The kindly look he gave. 
 And that last kiss and fond embrace— 
 
 They hide not in the grave, 
 
MY FATHER. 35 
 
 For they are now as bright to me 
 
 As ere his spirit fled — 
 They've shaped my thoughts to saddest 
 things, 
 
 They die not with the dead ! 
 
 And then my mother looked so pale, 
 
 I thought she too would die, 
 And leave me here — a lonely one, 
 
 Bereft of every joy ; 
 For God is good to little ones, — 
 
 For by his mighty will 
 My mother lived — with precepts pure. 
 
 My bosom to instil ; 
 ! may my heart those lessons keep, 
 
 A mother's love has taught. 
 And live within its inmost core 
 
 And dwell in every thought. 
 
 They laid him in the cold deep grave, 
 
 I heard the holy prayer. 
 Which woke my heart's affection fresh, 
 
 And mingled sadly there ; 
 But recollection knows naught else. 
 
 For by some hidden power. 
 My grief did wash from memory's rock 
 
 The doings of that hour. 
 
36 MY FATHER. 
 
 His grave is humble as lie was, 
 
 O'ergrown with grass and weeds. 
 No sculptured marble blazons forth 
 
 His virtues or his deeds — 
 But memor J in my heart has built 
 
 A monument of love, 
 Which time itself shall not destroy, 
 
 Nor earthly power move. 
 
» 
 
 THE AFFLICTED. 
 
 The sad forms of the afflicted, 
 
 They gather in my breast, 
 The lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb, 
 
 The sick and the opprest : 
 A thousand broken voices ring 
 
 Their sorrows in my ears. 
 And feeling's fount is opening 
 
 A gushing flood of tears. 
 
 Yon crippled brother's helplessness 
 
 Pleads with the voiceless there. 
 The slave whom sounds of joy ne'er blest, 
 
 Joins in the deaf one's prayer ; 
 The sightless mortal pines for light, 
 
 And faint the sick voice steals, — 
 Kuins of poor mortality. 
 
 How piteous your appeals I 
 
 The maniac's wild ravings tell 
 
 Of terrible distress. 
 While breaks Ophelia's plaintive voice 
 
 In tones of wretchedness. 
 4* 
 
38 THEAFFLICTED. 
 
 Lone wrecks upon life's ocean they, 
 
 Tossed by the fretful wave, 
 No helm to guide, no star to lead, 
 
 No haven but the grave. 
 
 Spring bursts from her green world, her 
 streams 
 
 Flow musically by, 
 And voices from her hills and vales 
 
 Hymn to the happy sky. 
 Birds sing their bosom notes, and beasts 
 
 Leap, by the bright sun warmed, 
 But nature has no melody 
 
 For those she has deformed. 
 
 Their haunt is by the wintry hill. 
 
 Or by the herbless field ; 
 Or where the unkind garden fails 
 
 Its bosom's wealth to yield. 
 The limbless tree — the tuneless bird, 
 
 (Breathing its broken tones) 
 Companions are in loneliness 
 
 For earth's afflicted ones. 
 
 Yon sun in glory rises, shines 
 
 And sets on human woe. 
 And 'neath the melancholy moon 
 
 Affliction's wailings flow ; 
 
THE AFFLICTED. 39 
 
 CJp from the hovel and the hall 
 
 Kises the sorrowing prayer, — 
 The afflicted, the afflicted ! 
 
 Oh — they are every where. 
 
 Poor sufferers of a selfish world, 
 
 Where shall ye look for rest? 
 Oh ! seek ye not for fellowship 
 
 In man's unfeeling breast, 
 Where interest is the helm and hope, 
 
 And brotherhood a name 
 For ostentation's lips to breathe, 
 
 Without the sacred flame ! 
 
 Then, God ! be theirs the glorious gift 
 
 Of thy unbounded love; 
 Though maimed and broken-hearted here, 
 
 Eeceive them whole above ! 
 And let our hearts be pained henceforth 
 
 Only by others' woe. 
 Our sighs burst for our brotber's griefs. 
 
 Tears for the afflicted flow. 
 
LINES, 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF A COTTAGE DOOR, 
 
 BY GAINSBOROUGH, R. A. 
 
 Thou of the art supreme. 
 
 Didst ever think, didst ever dream, 
 
 The " Cottage Door," whilst painting, 
 That I would touch with thought of mine, 
 The offspring of a mind like thine ? 
 
 Perhaps its beauties tainting. 
 
 Forgive the brain-presumptuous wight — 
 I claim the bard's acknowledged right. 
 
 And rhyme to what I choose ; 
 The world's my music-book, and I 
 May word its tunes, or pass them by. 
 
 Just as inclines my muse. 
 
 Picture of joy, sweet Cottage Door ! 
 Of my first home, bright miniature ! 
 
 With sweetly-tempting ray. 
 Back to the innocence of yore, 
 Back to the spot I'll see no more. 
 
 Thou winnest me away. 
 
THE COTTAGE DOOR. 41 
 
 Fve gazed upon thee till the tears, 
 Thawed by the suns of other years 
 Warm shining through the past, 
 Have broken their care-bound streams and 
 
 sprung 
 •To my eyelids up, reviving the young 
 Pleasures by time o'ercast. 
 
 That group of children on the green, 
 . The mother with the look serene, 
 
 Un wrinkled yet her brow- 
 Ay ! thus I've ta'en my evening meal. 
 My prayers to say, beside her kneel— 
 
 I cannot pray so now. 
 
 And when our little offerings said. 
 The kiss gone round, we'd haste to bed 
 
 And sleep as angels do ; 
 Then rise with the sun and over play 
 The same young joys of yesterday, 
 
 Joys that were ever new. 
 
 But this was bliss too pure to last ; 
 Such joy the portions small we taste, 
 
 God's wisdom here we spy ; 
 For if we'd so much heaven at home. 
 We would not long for heaven to come. 
 
 And then — how hard to die ! 
 
42 THE COTTAGE DOOR. 
 
 I bid my heart go back, retrace 
 The joj-spots time can ne'er efface, 
 
 Which star its inmost core ; 
 I ask its answer to my call, 
 "Which of the joys among them all 
 
 Does memory love the more ? 
 
 My infant home, my early joys, 
 And Cottage Door, my heart replies, 
 
 Glow brighter, faster cling. 
 Than all the other joys that gleam 
 Around their hearth-illumined beam, 
 
 Or from their memories spring. 
 
 Then thou, my youth's fair counterpart, 
 Pure transfer from the Eaphael heart. 
 
 That woke thy glowing truth, 
 Whene'er I think of childhood's hours. 
 Thou shalt be linked with those sweet flowers 
 
 That age entwines with youth. 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 D EAR, loved and loving Emme, 
 
 On tliy fine, though care-naarked face 
 Dwells that heart look of affection, 
 
 Which young love joyed to trace ; 
 For time has blent no sorrow in 
 
 Thy countenance's ray, 
 Which love dare not endear above 
 
 All charms it took awav. 
 
 ! what were heartless beauty. 
 
 But a sky without a heaven ; 
 A fading, fairy veil, where hearts 
 
 That trust are chilled or riven? 
 But such was not thy fickle charm ; 
 
 That winning grace of thine 
 Was but the light thy pure heart gave, 
 
 Its almost perfect shrine. 
 
 ! wife, come wander back with me 
 
 To courtship's budding bowers. 
 Ere altar-pledge had linked our loves 
 
 To wedlock's thorns and flowers, — 
 Again thy hand's in mine, thine eyes 
 
 Sweet confidence impart, 
 Thy lips, a cupid's bow, in smiles 
 
 Twang arrows through my heart. 
 
44 TOMYWIFE. 
 
 My arm is circling round thee, 
 
 My lips approach their bliss, 
 While crimsoned cheeks and moistened eyes 
 
 Tell youth's first heart-born kiss. 
 ! Love^ tho' weak, and blind, and dumb, 
 
 Thou rapturest every sense, — 
 We cannot hear, nor speak, but feel 
 
 This moment's eloquence. 
 
 But what is this upon my knee ? 
 
 Its fingers on me prest, 
 Sweet voices thrill my soul, that none 
 
 But wedded hearts are blest ; 
 While ^^ Father r parts those little lips. 
 
 Fond eyes exert their power — 
 ! who would give those wedded joys, 
 
 For courtship's rosiest hour ! 
 
 My Emme ! do heart waters fill 
 
 The channels of thy cheek ? 
 Why droops thy head upon my breast ? 
 
 Art powerless to speak ? 
 Then weep, and mingled with mine own, 
 
 One bosom's stream shall flow, 
 And teach us that such moments, dear, 
 
 Are happiest below. 
 
TO MY WIFE. 45 
 
 But little knows the lonely heart 
 
 The bliss of wedded love, 
 For even serpent ills it robs 
 
 Of power to sting or move; 
 The sorrows that invade us here 
 
 Unitedly we stem ; 
 But ah ! when griefs the lonely dare, 
 
 What breast shall comfort them ? 
 
 Like a poem in two volumes, love, 
 
 A ^' Paradise regained/' 
 Our hearts are blended in one song. 
 
 And shall be to the end. 
 ! may no discord ever mar 
 
 Their melody below, 
 And like the poet's sweetest strains 
 
 May theirs for ever flow. 
 
MARY. 
 
 Poets have sung of music's power, 
 
 And boast its reign o'er every creature ; 
 Soft soother of the lonely hour, 
 
 The charm of life, of love, of nature : 
 The savage eye it gently floats. 
 
 The mild breast melts of babe or fairy, 
 But music's power, though dear its notes, 
 
 Ne'er cha.rm me like the name of Mary. 
 
 Soft birds sing sweetly in the trees, 
 
 The trees make music melancholy, 
 And flowers a language have that please, 
 
 A laughing language, sweet and holy ; 
 The winds sigh softly 'mid the bowers, 
 
 Where mock-birds' tones so sweetly vary ; 
 But song of birds, of winds or flowers, 
 
 Ne'er charm me like the name of Mary. 
 
 I gaze upon the bright blue sky, 
 
 The bright blue sky, a heavenly blossom, 
 But though its splendor charms the eye. 
 
 And wakes the gladness of the bosom, 
 We know its beauties fickle are, 
 
 Beneath the storm of cloudsthat vary — , 
 But Where's the storm or cloud that dare 
 
 Invade^my bosom's love of Mary ! 
 
MARY. 47 
 
 The earth's sounds various are and sweet, 
 
 The sky and air breathe music o'er us^ 
 Old ocean's mighty minstrels greet 
 
 The sky and air in mingled chorus ; 
 I bend me to the deep control 
 
 Of nature's songs, which never weary, 
 But ah ! they never reach the soul. 
 
 As does the lovely name of Mary. 
 
 The gentle name, the soft sweet name, 
 
 A Saviour's parent owned no other I — 
 He loved in youth and age to claim 
 
 That gentle name, and call it — Mother ! 
 Mother of Him ! — Oh where's the soul. 
 
 All worldly music would not weary, 
 When taught the sweet, the soft control. 
 
 Which reigns in the sweet name of Mary. 
 
LINES TO A SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 WRITTEN ON ST. AGNES' DAY. 
 
 Spirit of the sainted maid, 
 
 Hover 'round the path of her 
 Who, in thy pure name arrayed, 
 
 Is thy virtues' worshiper ; 
 Keep her in the holy yvslj 
 
 She hath taken here helow — 
 As an angel guarded thee, 
 
 Guard her, thou, from every woe. 
 
 Lover of that spouse divine. 
 
 By thee alone on earth adored. 
 May those heauties in her shine. 
 
 Which helow were thy reward. 
 In the Saviour's blessed wounds 
 
 Let her find a dwelling pure. 
 Build a temple in his heart, 
 
 Temple holy and secure. 
 
 From her childhood she hath loved 
 
 Jesus with a holy love ; 
 May her constancy, approved. 
 
 Win a bright reward above. 
 
TO A SISTEROF CHARITY. 49 
 
 She is poor, but rich in faith ; 
 - Weak, but strong in love to thee ; 
 Humble, but in virtue proud, 
 Triumphing in charity. 
 
 Leading here a life of love, 
 
 In the path the saints have trod. 
 She hath given up her all 
 
 To the service of her God. 
 Many, by her counsel led. 
 
 Kneel before the Saviour's throne ; 
 Many bless her in this world 
 
 For the good that she has done. 
 
 Then, sweet Agnes, hear my prayer ! 
 
 As the angel guarded thee. 
 Dwell thy spirit ever near, 
 
 And her guardian angel be; 
 Lead her through life's troubled sea, 
 
 Triumphing o'er every sin. 
 That her bright reward may be 
 
 Thy blessed company to win. 
 
 5* 
 
TO STANCH. 
 
 Maiden ! thou of gentle form. 
 
 In thine eye a mischief dwells, 
 Slyly blending with the warm 
 
 Soul, which from thy bosom swells ; 
 Darting from the dimpled cells, 
 
 About thy lips of many wiles ; 
 Enchanting like the magic spells 
 
 Love weaves in her sweetest smiles. 
 And though thy heart the virtues prize, 
 
 And love and gentleness are given, 
 And angel thoughts gaze on thine eyes, 
 
 As saints look up to heaven ; 
 Yet still ! oh still that witching look, 
 
 Word and action, tell the strain, 
 Lady, thou art mischiefs book. 
 
 Men and girls may read it plain. 
 But in thine eye though mischief's lore 
 
 Shineth, still its loveliness 
 Only makes us love thee more, — 
 
 Maiden of the gentle form. 
 Mischief-eyed, and bosom warm, 
 
 Who could love thee less ? 
 
SHE CANNOT DISOBEY, 
 
 She ne'er can be my wife I know, 
 
 Though love in mutual flame 
 Unite us, and our feelings flow 
 
 Gur bosoms through the same; 
 For ah I a mother's powerful right 
 
 Directs another way, 
 And he's the mother's favorite — 
 
 She cannot disobey ! 
 
 She cannot disobey, oh no ! 
 
 That mother's cold desire, 
 She cannot stay affection's flow 
 
 Though happiness expire. 
 Mistaken, though that mother's love 
 
 Her gentler feelings sway. 
 For joy below like that above, 
 
 She could not disobey! 
 
 I cannot ask that she were less 
 
 Obedient to that one, 
 I cannot ask that she would bless 
 
 Me, selfish thought, alone. 
 A daughter to her mother's rule 
 
 Assent must give alway, 
 And she, my love, is dutiful — 
 
 She cannot disobey ! 
 
52 SHE CANNOT DISOBEY. 
 
 Then what is left for this lone breast — 
 
 Self shall not rule its throne ; 
 Then shall my crippled spirit rest, 
 
 She shall be his alone ! 
 His ! and oh ! when in holy hour 
 
 Her pure thoughts backward stray, 
 May she not blame that mother's power 
 
 She€t)uld not disobey. 
 
BEAUTEOUS WOMAN. 
 
 I LOVE to see the deep "blue sky 
 
 At summer eve with, white clouds rolled, 
 When through the trees the soft winds sigh, 
 
 And trees and clouds are tinged with gold; 
 When day gives night his parting kiss, 
 
 And hirds their sheltered coverts seek : 
 But dearer far for me to gaze, 
 
 On beauteous woman's cheek ! 
 
 I love to see the moon-lit sky, 
 
 When the sun's golden wings are furled, 
 And watch the twinkling stars upon 
 
 That spangled banner of the world. 
 yes! I dearly love that sight, 
 
 My country's emblems there I trace. 
 But dearer still to me the light 
 
 That shines in beauteous woman's face. 
 
 The sea may boast its treasures rare. 
 
 The earth its gems in many a mine, 
 But naught with woman can compare. 
 
 When graced with beauty's charms divine ; 
 And if the heart's with virtue fraught. 
 
 And pure affection there we trace, 
 ! who would wish to gaze on aught 
 
 More beautiful than woman's face ? 
 
TO A LADY. 
 
 There's music sweeter far tlian that 
 Produced by harp or light guitar, 
 
 Or warhlings of that aerial tribe, 
 
 . Whose songs like angels' soft notes are ; 
 
 'Tis the sweet music of the soul, 
 
 That's tuned to love's enrapturing strains. 
 
 Where virtue wakes its dulcet tones, 
 And innocence supremely reigns. 
 
 There are brighter gems than those that shine 
 
 Upon a princely diadem, 
 Or treasures in Peruvian mine, 
 
 Or glitterings on the sparry stem ; 
 'Tis the rich jewel of the heart, 
 
 That's set within affection's ring. 
 With amiability conjoined, 
 
 And pity, tear-eyed, sorrowing. 
 
 The gems — the music's thine, fair girl, 
 
 Which nature, kind to thee, hath brought ; 
 I need not bid thee cherish them. 
 
 They live within thy every thought. 
 may the gems for ever shine 
 
 Within thy pur€ and spotless breast ; 
 Thy heart still wake its songs divine. 
 
 And cheer thee till thy final rest. 
 
M ED OR A. 
 
 Suggested whilst in the chamber of the statue of Medora, the 
 beautiful creation of Bj^ron.and Greenough, in possession of 
 Robert Gilmor, Esq. of Baltimore. 
 
 Oh ! gently, my harp, let thy melody flow, 
 Where the form of the fairest of earth is laid low ; 
 As the sigh that escaped when her soul fled away, 
 Be the spirit that moans in thy murmuring lay. 
 
 She had watched for his coming, but fate had denied, 
 And hope in her bosom fell, fluttered and died ; 
 And smilingly, softly, her pure spirit fled, 
 *' For with nothing to love, she had nothing to dread." 
 
 The beatings have ceased in that bosom so meek, 
 But the sorrowing smile lingers still on her cheek ; 
 And life seems to stir those sweet lips with its breath, 
 While the living look on with the quiet of death. 
 
 Medora ! Medora ! awake from thy sleep, 
 The barque of thy lover bounds over the deep ; 
 He has breasted the surges, he leaps on the shore, 
 He will fly to those arms that can clasp him no more. 
 
 The heart that ne'er shrunk from the enemy's spear, 
 Now beats 'gainst his breast with a throbbing, like fear. 
 For he marks not the signal that gladdened his sight, 
 Ere death over thine had *' exerted its might." 
 
56 M E D K A . 
 
 In a moment he'll bound to thy hallowed retreat, 
 But the tortures of years in that moment will meet ; 
 He will knock at the portal and tremblingly start, 
 For fear shall reply to the voice of his heart. 
 
 He will rush to the couch, but that shock can he bear? 
 The bride of the Corsair lies withering there I 
 Torn away from his arms the lone thing he could love, 
 And hopeless his future, below and above. 
 
 Oh ! his poor shattered heart a gloom will hang o'er. 
 Like the curse which the exiled of heaven endure ! 
 In his bosom will writhe the dark serpent of care, 
 And memory will link every thought with despair ! 
 
 But, gently, my harp, let thy melody flow, 
 Where the form of the fairest of earth is laid low ; 
 As the sigh that escaped when her soul fled away. 
 Be the spirit that moans in thy murmuring lay. 
 
ERIN. 
 
 I LOVE the land of Erin ! 
 
 It is ocean's emerald throne — 
 Oft in my dreams appearing 
 
 More lovely than my own ; 
 Its green and lofty mountains, 
 
 Its blushing valleys through, 
 Its streams, pellucid fountains, 
 
 And sky of clearest blue : 
 For I that Isle of Beauty, 
 
 It gave my father birth ; 
 And I love it as a duty. 
 
 As the fairest of the earth. 
 
 I love the sons of Erin ! 
 
 The noble and the brave; 
 Their bosoms only fearing 
 
 To fill a coward's grave ; 
 Their hearts to each vibration 
 
 Of honor's chords attuned ; 
 Quick to repel invasion, 
 
 And slow a friend to wound : 
 Their intellectual glory 
 
 A joy to me imparts ; 
 ! I love them and their story, 
 
 In my very heart of hearts. 
 6 
 
58 ERIN. 
 
 I love the maids of Erin ; 
 
 The rose is not more fair — 
 The dove not more endearing 
 
 Than the maids of Erin are ; 
 I love them that their bosoms 
 
 With virtue are imbued — 
 The lily as it blossoms, 
 
 Is their heart's similitude : 
 My voice in transport falters 
 
 'Neath a heavenly control. 
 For the thought of Erin's daughters 
 
 Wakes to love my raptured soul. 
 
 Long may the land of Erin 
 
 Blend its emerald with her skies, 
 Her hills and valleys cheering 
 
 All bosoms and all eyes : 
 Her sons their lofty station 
 
 Still keep before the world ; 
 And the oppressors of their nation 
 
 Down from their thrones be hurled 
 Her daughters so endearing, 
 
 Then rise her sons to bless, 
 And make the land of Erin 
 
 A land of happiness. 
 
TO EMELINE. 
 
 TEXT FROM MOORE 
 
 Has sorrow thy young heart clouded ? — 
 
 Dost weep o'er the past, and dost find 
 That the hopes thou hast nourished are shrouded 
 
 In grief's darkened grave of the mind ? 
 Oh ! if by that plague thou art haunted, 
 
 And sympathy, warm and sincere, 
 Thou find'st in thy woes there is wanted, 
 
 I'll weep with thee — tear for tear. 
 
 Does pleasure her loveliest flowers 
 
 Strew over thy pathway of green ? 
 And look'st thou through memory's bowers 
 
 With hopes realized, on the scene ? 
 ! if from joy's cup thou art drinking 
 
 Its nectarine draughts, and the while 
 My company ask, I am thinking 
 
 I'd smile with thee — smile for smile. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 We sat down and wept for thy sorrow, 
 Oh Byron, and thought of the grief 
 
 High hearts of a thoughtless world borrow, 
 Touch-pained like the sensitive leaf — 
 
 That thy span of to-day and to-morrow 
 Was darkened, though brilliant and brief 
 
 We would think that thy life, like a river, 
 Had mirrored the sun of thy mind_, 
 
 And, not like that stream, give for ever 
 Its spirit to each idle wind, — 
 
 That a passion thy calm could not sever. 
 But mind be the king, not the hind. 
 
 But we know e'en the sun is oft shaded, 
 The mighty oak, breeze-stirred, is curled ; 
 
 The high mountain-top, granite-bedded. 
 Is lost when the clouds are unfurled ; 
 
 And thus thy great mind was invaded 
 By the clouds and the winds of the world. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Away ! I cannot love thee now, 
 
 My "heart could never twine 
 Round one whose every homage bow 
 
 Is made at beauty's shrine. 
 
 I cannot love the thoughtless heart 
 That's locked to feeling's sigh, 
 
 Unless it breaks through beauty's lips, 
 Or speaks in beauty's eye. 
 
 The silken cords that bound my love 
 
 Are broken — I am free ! 
 And now I wonder that my heart 
 
 E'er dreamed of loving thee. 
 
 Give thy young love to him with brow' 
 
 And form in beauty drest ; 
 Thou'lt find the heart less faithful there 
 
 Than that within my breast. 
 
 But go thy way — I care not where ! 
 
 I ask not love like thine ; 
 The heart alone to beauty turned, 
 
 Can wake no thought of mine. 
 
 6* 
 
EMILY. 
 
 Oh ! melancholy, death's pale da-ughter, 
 
 Fell blighter of life's flowery grove, 
 I pray thee, pour not thy dark water 
 
 Upon the joys of her I love ; 
 I know and feel thy power, sadness. 
 
 And from thy realms I cannot flee, — 
 But tho' Fm doomed, touch not the gladness 
 
 Of the young heart of Emily. 
 
 'Tis said the heart that feels thy breaker, 
 
 Is schooled for endless joys above; 
 ! she's as pure as tears could make her. 
 
 School not the heart of her I love ; 
 She is a flower sweetly blooming, 
 
 A rose of love on life's dark tree; 
 Though roses bloom but for consuming, 
 
 Spare my young flower, Emily. 
 
 And speed away to thy gloomy dwelling 
 
 Down where thy sorrowing spirits rove, — 
 Hie to thy caverns, come not swelling 
 
 With grief the heart of her I love. 
 Preserving powers, hover around her, 
 
 Shield her from pangs that torture me ; 
 Kind, guardians, keep her as ye found her. 
 
 The pure, the gentle Emily. 
 
LITTLE MARY. 
 
 Little Mary, let me borrow 
 
 Smiles from thee to cure my sorrow : 
 
 When Fm pained, perplexed or weary, 
 
 Then I turn to little Mary. 
 
 See her laughing o'er the place, 
 
 Beauty gladdening o'er her face; 
 
 Peeping here and there away. 
 
 Like a meteor at play. 
 
 Who could hear that gleeful roar, 
 
 Mark thee bounding o'er the floor — 
 
 Drink thine innocence and see 
 
 Thee happy, yet not happy be ? 
 
 Antidote to bosom weary 
 
 Is my bright-eyed little Mar3\ 
 
 The poetess, whose knell yet rings 
 O'er our bosom's broken strings, 
 In her " dream of all things free," 
 Little Mary, dreamed of thee, 
 Flashing in her vision's ray, 
 " Amidst the fawns and flowers at play." 
 Bright her sky of fame doth shine, 
 Peopled by such forms, as thine ; 
 Lovelier they than poet's wand 
 Charmeth from his fairy-land ; 
 
64 LITTLEMARY. 
 
 For the sky of liappy youth 
 Is a living heaven of truth — 
 Bright with many an angel-fairy, 
 Like thyself, my little Mary. 
 
 Statesman ! who in party's storm, 
 Seeks for freedom's simple form — 
 Here's the infant Liberty, 
 Kneel to her and like her be. 
 Man ! who happiness doth crave. 
 Toils for a deluded slave — 
 Turn thee from thy hopeless track, 
 To truth and innocence go hack ; 
 For as farther thou dost stray 
 From thine innocence away, 
 Wanderest thou from happiness. 
 And from the quiet joys that bless 
 The simple heart that never toils 
 For that which, sought for, always foils. 
 
ADDRESS FOR THE WILLIS BENEFIT. 
 
 Written at the request of the Committee, and spoken by Mrs. 
 Willis, at the American Theatre, Front st., on the occasion of 
 her benefit, November 11, 1835. 
 
 Friends I I have heard, — so a sage poet says, 
 In times gone by, not in these generous days, — 
 Of one who asked his master's leave to spend 
 A social hour of comfort with a friend. 
 '' Friend r quoth the master, starting in affright; 
 "Yes, John, and I myself will^ee that sight, — 
 Get me my hat — saddle my fleetest gray ; 
 Hasten, good John, or it may fly away ; 
 Let but that rarest thing on earth appear, 
 And bless my eyes, and it shall be my heir !" 
 
 Look, ye who like that soulless cynic deems 
 Friendship a fancy of our waking dreams ; 
 Behold ! deluded doubters, and here trace 
 That angel smiling in each generous face ; 
 The rich man willed his wealth one friend to see ; 
 How am I blest, when thousands circle me? 
 A woman suffers, sues, and toiling, grieves, 
 You bless her with your friendship, and she lives. 
 
 Humble, unworthy, why am I thus blest, 
 Loved by the virtuous, and by them caressed ? 
 Is it because mine's the poor player's part, 
 To gild the face when gloom is on the heart ; 
 
66 ADDRESS. 
 
 Chase from your breasts the serpents which there coil, 
 
 And wear himself away, that ye may smile ? 
 
 Feel ye the mother's tender task is mine, 
 
 To rear my young in virtue's light to shine ; 
 
 My girls in the bright paths which ye pursue, 
 
 And my bright boys to be brave men like you ? 
 
 Or does the friendship that ye bore my sire , 
 
 Kindle your bosoms with this generous fire, 
 
 And Warren's memories in your free hearts piled, 
 
 Waken your sympathies for Warren's child ? 
 
 Yes ! in my heart, I feel the truth, sincere ; 
 These are the memories that bring ye here ; 
 But still, not these alone ; I feel and see 
 That 'tis your generous natures to be free ; 
 Yon monumental pile the truth attests. 
 The emblem of your brave and generous breasts ; 
 Breasts ! free as the impulses of each hand, 
 Free as the eagle of our happy land I 
 Free as the glorious banner that she holds. 
 Which sheds its heaven on all beneath its folds. 
 
 Ne'er can I meet the claims this night endears, 
 For gratitude has naught but words and tears ; 
 These to the lip and eye spontaneous start, 
 But stifled there, they sink into the heart. 
 Prayers only can my grateful heart relieve, 
 That gifts be yours whose glory is to give. 
 
A THOUGHT. 67 
 
 That jour free, generous breasts may never feel 
 The actor's woe, but share the actor's weal; 
 That your loved country to the world may rise, 
 The loveliest light that glads fair Freedom's eyes ; 
 And her brave banner with its stars enshrined, 
 Captain the march of Liberty and Mind. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 Could my fond heart be cut in four, 
 
 And thrown upon the different winds, 
 And by a fairy, magic power. 
 
 Be borne apart to earth's confines, — 
 Then give them wings and bid them fly. 
 
 Where love and feeling prompts them roam. 
 True as the needle to the pole. 
 
 They'd safely all unite at Home 
 
SHE CONQUERS BUT TO LOVE. 
 
 'Tis said that beauteous woman is 
 
 But vanity and art, 
 That war and wind doth share with her 
 
 Their empire o'er the heart ; — 
 Alike their power and their pride, 
 
 Their universal reign, 
 Their glory over man in thrall, 
 
 And triumph in his pain. 
 
 But I have never found her thus, 
 
 And yet Fve dwelt beneath 
 The influence of her angel heart, 
 
 Since my first hour of breath ; 
 If vanity and art were there, 
 
 'Twas when to please she strove ; 
 Ah ! ye who slander woman thus. 
 
 Have never felt her love. 
 
 Eed war and wine are powers that 
 
 The fiends below employ, 
 And loose o'er earth with murderous strength 
 
 To conquer and destroy ; 
 But woman, gentle woman ! hath 
 
 Her power from above ; 
 And though she prides in conquering, 
 
 8he conquers but to love. 
 
INTKODUCTION TO AN ALBUM. 
 
 Go forth, go forth, my little book ; 
 
 Call on the young, the old. 
 And hid them on thy virgin page 
 
 Their thoughts, their tastes unfold. 
 
 Go bid the words that friendship prompts 
 
 Glitter upon thy face, 
 But whisper gently, '' write not here 
 
 What thou wouldst e'er erase." 
 
 Call on the virtuous and pure, 
 
 A tribute ask sincere ; 
 But say to the honeyed flatterer. 
 
 Show not your baseness here. 
 
 And oh ! with an ardor pure and warm, 
 
 Invite the pious thought. 
 For, like the heart to religion locked, 
 
 Thy worth would be but naught. 
 
 And here let fancy's impress glow, 
 
 The heart to cheer or move, 
 And moral fiction twine a wreath 
 
 That virtue may approve. 
 
 7 
 
70 SONNET. 
 
 then return with the offerings 
 By love and friendship wrought ; 
 
 They'll weave on thy page and in my heart 
 A bright forget-me-not. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO LOUISA. 
 
 I TURN me from yon glittering ether, where 
 
 My fancy fashioned every star a heart 
 Of pure one wafted from this nether air, 
 
 To be a shining pattern, and a chart 
 To mortal stars,— I turn me, nothing loth, 
 
 To swap the star-light for thy lovelier eyes, 
 And see what move my gazers more than both — 
 
 That fairy mourner o'er thy cap's demise. 
 Thy beau-net, neat in pennant, shape and stuff, 
 
 Thy top -most charm, but yet, with all due dread, 
 I think thine upper point is sharp enough. 
 
 Without that devil's-needle on thy head : 
 And now, young lady, I've immortalized your bonnet, 
 And this line makes fourteen, and that's a sonnet. 
 
THE ALBUM'S PETITION. 
 
 Dear lady or gentleman , ere you proceed 
 My page to inscribe or my contents to read, 
 I pray you give ear, a petition I bear, 
 O handle me lightly, with tenderest care ; 
 send me not back to my mistress dear. 
 With a blot on my face, nor a curl on my ear; 
 With my leaves disordered, or soiled by the mope, 
 Whose hand is a stranger to water and soap ; — 
 Forgive the expression, 'tis scarcely too rude — 
 For only just think, if with dirt I'm imbued, 
 I'll no more be beloved by the pure and the good ; 
 And sure, if there's aught in this world we should love, 
 'Tis the smile of the virtuous — the cherished above. 
 Then send me not back with a speck on my cheeky . 
 My mistress would scold and be vexed for a week ; 
 O yes ! you might see in her sorrowful look. 
 She'd be angry so long at her innocent book ; 
 And perhaps if I came with too dirty a face 
 She'd discard me and throw me to shame and disgrace, 
 No more to be praised by the beau with bright eye. 
 And never to list to the maiden's soft sigh. • 
 Then think you how sad and distressing my lot, 
 To be thrown in a corner, neglected, forgot, — 
 Forgot by those hearts whose bright thoughts I embrace, 
 Forgot by my mistress — worse than disgrace, — 
 And the thoughts that T cherished with pride and with 
 
 joy* 
 
72 SON NET. 
 
 The worm and the moth would untimely destroy. 
 Then lady and gentleman, list to my prayer, 
 handle me lightly, with tenderest care ; 
 save me from exile, from shame and decay, 
 And T your petitioner ever will pray. 
 
 Yomi Devoted Album. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO FRANCES. 
 
 The bird has left the bower, 
 The stem which bore the short-lived flower 
 Droops mournfully ; the ice-king's power 
 Pervades our earth's domain, 
 And earth's ones crouch below the despot's reign. 
 The day-god's smile gives no reviving glow ; [ing, 
 While the wild winds from northern chambers bbw- 
 Marshal their chilly piles of mimic snow ; 
 
 And the cold orb of night is colder growing — 
 The stars shine palely in their world of blue. 
 Like beauty's eyes when death has dimmed their hue, 
 The waters are no more a star-flowered grove — 
 Winter invades the glittering shores above, 
 And naught terrestrial is warm — but love. 
 
ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT . 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 The liglit foot tripped to the soft-toned lute, 
 'Mid the feast and cheerful song, 
 
 When Albert stole out with his lady-love, 
 To rove the woods among. 
 
 They wandered down to the river's brink, 
 
 The sky in part was blue 
 With many a variegated cloud. 
 
 The moon just peeping through. 
 
 The blithesome lambs came down to drink ; 
 
 Their day of frolic done, 
 Each living thing on flower and tree. 
 
 Had ceased its varied tune. 
 
 The blue in the sky had deeper sunk, 
 And the colored cloud was not there, 
 
 And the moon-light leaped on the silvery waves 
 As they danced in the young night air. 
 
 When the maiden looked across the lake. 
 Where she dimly saw, as it grew, 
 
 A simple flower, sleeping in light, 
 Wh ich the moon seemed proud to woo. 
 7* 
 
74 ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 All womankind, be they proud or meek, 
 
 In their young or later hoar^ 
 Are ever pleased with their emblemed self, 
 
 The soft, the beauteous flower. 
 
 Fair Alice gazed on the unchristened leaf, 
 Then turned to the loved one by, — - 
 
 One look sufficed, for quick he read 
 Her heart's wish in her eve. 
 
 A kiss fell on the maiden's cheek, 
 
 A short adieu was pressed^ 
 When the bright wave sparkled, proud to bear 
 
 That rich form on its breast. 
 
 He parted the wave with a manly arm, 
 While the moon-light o'er him gleamed. 
 
 And he moved along as a line of light ; 
 Like a thing of the deep he seemed. 
 
 The shore before him soon drew near, 
 He sprung on the green bank-side, 
 
 And plucked the flower from the moon's em- 
 brace. 
 Then plunged again in the tide. 
 
ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. if 6 
 
 Oh ! then as though a mortal, weak, 
 
 The moon-light trembled there, 
 Came and went in fitful change, 
 
 Then melted into air. 
 
 And the jealous thing called in her light, 
 
 The dark cloud gathered o'er ; 
 The thunder wakened in the skies, 
 
 And the shells were washed from the shore. 
 
 The water-spirit shrieked on the wave. 
 Awoke from its pearl-bed deep ; 
 
 And a voice came up as from the grave, 
 As the maiden joined in the shriek. 
 
 That voice was Albert's, and his form 
 The lightning flash displayed. 
 
 Struggling amid the fearful storm, 
 Yet he craved not mortal aid. 
 
 For he felt within the lady's heart. 
 
 Alone her love he shared. 
 And he knew that if his peril was great, 
 
 The greater would be his reward. 
 
76 ORIGIN OF THE .FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Impelled by that absorbing thought, 
 He strove, but vain the strife, 
 
 For the waves came clashing mightily, 
 And with destruction rife. 
 
 Then the maiden prayed a soul-fraught prayer. 
 
 Pure as the Jove-stirred wave, 
 To Him who rules the calm and storm, 
 
 For He alone could save. 
 
 But prayer, and strength, and courage failed. 
 And hope, which clings to the last. 
 
 Fast ebbed away from his noble heart, 
 And he felt that the die was cast. 
 
 But again he sees the maiden's form. 
 
 And hears her piercing cry, — 
 Like the electric spark from the surcharged 
 cloud, 
 
 New strength through his weak nerves fly. 
 
 And now he struggles near the shore. 
 
 But there new dangers face. 
 For at each advance, the receding waves 
 
 Bear him back to his former place. 
 
ORIGIN OP THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 77 
 
 He grasped at the bank, bat strength was gone, 
 For the waves came, fury wrought. 
 
 Then wildly he dashed the flower ashore, 
 As he cried, " Forget me not! " 
 
 The maiden rushed as a maniac wild, 
 And gazed, but sight grew dim ; 
 
 Oh ! the waves rolled fearful as before. 
 But bore no trace of Mm. 
 
 They bore her home with heavy hearts, 
 And her grief— ah ! who could say ? 
 
 She told her tale — death kissed her cheek, 
 And she slowly drooped away. 
 
 Thus sadly named, that simple flower, 
 
 Sweet token of the departed. 
 It still can awaken many a sigh 
 
 In the lone and the broken-hearted. 
 
I HAVE ROVED— I HAVE ROVED. 
 
 I HAVE roved — I have roved, as the butterfly roves, 
 
 From flower to flower more fair ; 
 I have loved — I have loved, or I thought it was love, 
 But I never was sure 
 That I felt the thing pure, 
 Till now I am wounded beyond hope of cure, 
 By charms that might drive to despair, 
 
 To despair. 
 By charms that might drive to despair. 
 
 When I gaze — when I gaze on that loved form of thine, 
 
 My vision in rapture replies ; 
 But amaze — sweet amaze fills my soul when I look 
 On thy lips in repose. 
 On thy bosom of snows, 
 Whence love its enrapturing energy throws, 
 In the conquering glance of thine eyes, 
 Of thine eyes. 
 In the conquering glance of thine eyes. 
 
 If the face — if the face, and the beautiful form 
 
 Of a heavenly angel appear, 
 I might trace —I might trace in that seraphic one 
 
 Much more than is seen 
 
 In thine eye or thy mien ; 
 
LINES. 79 
 
 But believe me I'd rather than angel, I ween, 
 Have thee/o?' a wife, my sweet dear. 
 
 My sweet dear, 
 Have thee for a wife, my sweet dear. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Written in an Album whose leaves were of various colors. 
 
 Those many-tinted leaves are like 
 
 The rainbov7's varied glow ; 
 The seal of friendship from above 
 
 With suffering man below ; 
 O may the heart's warm offerings 
 
 Traced here, like Eiis^ prove true, 
 And be a covenant of love 
 
 Between thy friends and you. 
 
WE MAY BE HAPPY YET. 
 
 Ah ! dearest^ dry those tears away, 
 
 Which stain thy fading cheek ; 
 Free thy sweet lips from sorrow's sway, 
 
 And words of comfort speak : 
 Banish the past, and with me vow 
 
 Our sorrows to forget ; 
 And be hope's star our pilot now — 
 
 We may be happy yet. 
 
 The care, believe me, that enshrouds 
 
 Thy cheek's once cheerful ray, 
 Grives me more pain than all the clouds 
 
 That darken o'er our way : 
 Then let thy dear lips smile again. 
 
 Smile as when first we met, — 
 Sunshine must always follow rain — 
 
 We may be happy yet. 
 
 These clouds that o'er our bosoms lower 
 
 To-morrow may depart; 
 Why should we then, 'neath sorrow's power. 
 
 Wear out the buoyant heart ? 
 Sun of my earthly heaven, then. 
 
 Shine as when first we met — 
 Ah ! dearest, dry thy tears again, 
 
 We will be happy yet. 
 
THE BARD OF AYR. 
 
 BUNG AT THE LATE ANNIVERSARY OP THE BURNS CLUB. 
 
 Tune — " Of a) the airts the wind can hlaw^ 
 
 Of a' the bards that ever sang 
 
 0' Eobbie I loe best ! 
 His notes ne'er tak the feelin wrang, 
 
 An' thrill in every breast; 
 For Nature's strain doth ever reign 
 
 In a' its sweetness there ; 
 Let who will choose anither muse, 
 
 Gie me the Bard of Ayr. 
 
 0, he's the sweetest bard that e'er 
 
 Frae Nature learnt her arts, 
 The very mention o' his name 
 
 Makes music in our hearts ; 
 If a' the sangs but his were lost^ 
 
 A groat I wadna care ; 
 For every beauty's in the sang 
 
 0' the bonnie Bard of Ayr. 
 
 Or if he sing the sang of love, 
 
 Or patriotic tale, 
 Or humor wake his rustic lyre, 
 
 It ever is the real ; 
 8 
 
82 THBBARDOFAYR. 
 
 Aj, every thought his bosom wrought, 
 Came frae auld Nature fair ; 
 
 'Twas nae by Greek the muse did speak 
 0' the bonnie Bard of Ayr. 
 
 The breeze that blaws amaug the shaws. 
 
 Or on the hill sae high, 
 The birdy's note, where'er it float, 
 
 Frae flower, tree or sky ; 
 The river's rush, or tiny gush 
 
 Frae out the spring sae clear, 
 Hae b! inspired the sang admired, 
 
 0' the bonnie Bard of Ayr. 
 
 Oh, man, whoever thou may est be ! 
 
 Dear Kobbie thou will find. 
 The niest best friend to cheer thy heart. 
 
 An' elevate thy mind ; 
 His varied strain will start thy tear^ 
 
 Or banish every care. 
 For nane can touch the heart like he, 
 
 The bonnie Bard of Ayr. 
 
 Then may the bard wha suffered sae 
 In this bleak world of ours. 
 
 Enjoy above^ in bowers of love, 
 Eternity's sweet hours ! 
 
RELIGION. 
 
 83 
 
 An' may we a' escape the wae 
 That made his heart sae sair, 
 
 And a' a tear shed on the hier 
 0' the honnie Bard of Ayr. 
 
 RELiaiON . 
 
 See yon moon in the heavens, how stately her pace, 
 And see the dark clouds that encompass her round, 
 
 While some in her pathway their dark bodies place, 
 Like an army of spirits to crush or confound. 
 
 But still with a progress majestic and bright, 
 She fearlessly keeps on her luminous path, 
 
 And though for a moment they shadow her light 
 And seemingly bind her, she smiles through their 
 wrath. 
 
 Oh ! thus beams the heart that with virtue is crowned, 
 By religion supported, heaven-lit and arrayed, 
 
 'Twill move on serenely, though troubles surround. 
 And smile, like the moon, through the clouds that 
 invade. 
 
THE WHIPPOORWILL. 
 
 The Whippoorwill is whooping round 
 
 The old oak tree beside the gate, 
 Pouring a melancholy sound 
 
 Over his fallen mate ; 
 And night after night he mournful sings 
 
 The same long song of grief; 
 Breathing his heart out through the strings, 
 
 But bringing no relief. 
 
 And weaker and weaker breaks the strain, 
 
 But sweet as he seems to say — 
 " Ah ! poor wife ! — ah ! poor wife I 
 
 My heart is wearing away : 
 It is wearing away, my bird, for thee, — 
 
 I whoop with a feeble breath — 
 I droop alone 'neath our own sweet tree, 
 
 Singing myself to death. 
 
 " Oh ! I did not know what 'twas to be 
 
 Left in the world alone ; 
 I pray, I sing to follow thee, 
 
 With a weak and funeral tone : 
 Ere the great bright sun is up in the east, 
 
 And the kiss of night remains 
 On the sleeping flowers in sadness drest, 
 
 And o'er the gloomy plains. 
 
THEWHIPPOOKWILL. 85 
 
 '^ I lay on the old gray fence, and dream 
 
 Of the past — of bliss with thee ; 
 But I cannot sleep, and I long for night, 
 
 To whoop 'neath our singing tree : 
 And here, to-night, Tve hasted away, 
 
 To chant one more sad tune — 
 The dew springs up from the ea-rth as it did, 
 
 And o'er me rides the moon. 
 
 "The whispering winds wake the sleeping 
 
 And ruffle the glassy stream ; [flowers 
 
 And the stars look down from their airy bowers, 
 
 With their old familiar gleam; 
 Ah ! each gay thing is here as it was. 
 
 By its sameness mocking my grief — 
 But thou art not, nor thy cheering voice, 
 
 Nor thy answering song of relief 
 
 ^^ And yet methinks I hear thee call 
 
 From above, my seraph bird. 
 Bidding me soar to a new found home. 
 
 Where naught but joy is heard: 
 But 'tis only the mocking echo speaks 
 
 To my melancholy lay — 
 Ah ! poor wife ! — ah ! poor wife ! 
 
 Where wanderest thou away ?" 
 
 ******* 
 8* 
 
86 THE WHIPPOORWILL. 
 
 One eve I listened for the song 
 
 And I sought where the mourner lay, 
 But song was not heard, nor found the bird, 
 
 And I gloomliy turned away ; 
 And now I sit as I used to sit, 
 
 At the cottage window-sill. 
 But I am not soothed, as I used to be. 
 
 With the song of the Whippoorwill. 
 
 BEING FLOWERS. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING MRS. HEMANS' BEAUTIFUL VERSES. 
 
 Bring flowers ! bring ye drooping flowers! 
 Let their lids be wet from the cypress bowers. 
 For the beautiful form they spirited, 
 Has withered away 'neath the blighter's tread — 
 Be they wreathed o'er her tomb "where we 
 
 kneel in prayer ; 
 They are nature's offering, their place is there." 
 
LOVE STANZAS. 
 
 I HAVE brooded o'er thy mandate — 
 
 Thy wish has filled my heart ; 
 Tve checked my feelings, hid the past 
 
 My hosom to depart ; 
 But the draught of deep forgetfulness 
 
 In vain I've striven to drink — 
 Ah ! who could love as I have loved, 
 
 And ever cease to think ! 
 
 Tis worse than folly, years have passed 
 
 And years will pass again, 
 Ere those bright hours of halcyon bliss 
 
 Are darkened in my brain, — 
 The cherub hope you reared within 
 
 My bosom's budding spring. 
 Will, like a bird in loneliness, 
 
 O'er my heart's ruin sing. 
 
 I cannot chase the phantoms off 
 
 That haunt my anguished breast. 
 Their lights still glimmer round me^ 
 
 Though realities are at rest ; 
 Joy passed before my vision, like 
 
 The glittering meteor's blaze, 
 A moment in my sight, and then 
 
 It quit my raptured gaze. 
 
88 LOVE STANZAS. 
 
 The lone and solemn musings 
 
 That now my vigils keep, 
 The sleepless nights and leaden hours 
 
 Of day that o'er me creep, 
 Are so unlike those days of peace 
 
 And nights of love gone by, 
 'Tis locking in a dungeon dark 
 
 The heart that loves the sky. 
 
 And dearest, hast thou felt like me 
 
 How hard it is to part — 
 Our vows, are they not written on 
 
 Thy kind and gentle heart ? 
 Or am I driven from your thoughts ? — 
 
 If thus my fate's decreed, 
 You then deceived, or now you must 
 
 Be cruelty indeed. 
 
 And falsehood is cold woman's name, 
 
 She's heartless as she's fair. 
 Her bosom cold, her charms but bright 
 
 To lure us to despair ; 
 And thou, the worst of womankind. 
 
 If all thou canst forget ! 
 But ah ! thou art not thus, I feel 
 
 Thou own'st thou lovest me yet. 
 
LOVESTANZAS. 89 
 
 Then why should distance, coldness, time, 
 
 Still keep us in despair? 
 Why pining separate, breathe alone 
 
 Our feelings to the air ? 
 Then smile and ope thy bosom, bid 
 
 Me come to its calm rest. 
 And, like the wearied bird. Til fly 
 
 To my long-lost loved nest. 
 
 But do I dream ? — hast thou cast off 
 
 My love, and am I wrong? 
 Or does another hold my place 
 
 Thy memories among? 
 Then tell me not, but let me live, 
 
 Self-cheated though I be, 
 And death, come when it will, Til die, 
 
 My dearest, blessing thee ! 
 
WHAT I LOVE THEE FOR. 
 
 I LOVE thee for thy modest cheek. 
 
 Thy soft love-telling eye. 
 Those long gold lashes, curtaining 
 
 A deep cerulean sky, 
 Where angels smile serenely, 
 
 And cupids skip about. 
 At every witching glance I fear 
 The rogues will sure leap out. 
 
 I love thee for thy "cherrie mou,'' 
 
 Love's dimples nestling there, 
 That brow o'erlined with veins of blue. 
 
 And brown overshadowing hair. 
 Those ivories so straight and white, 
 
 That waist so neat and clean. 
 And those sweet petite feet below. 
 
 The like I've never seen. 
 
 That form " sae fair and faultless," 
 
 So fresh from beauty's mould, 
 Thy bright array of charms might warm 
 
 A heart that's seared and cold ; 
 In mine they've reared a quenchless fire, 
 
 That naught can e'er destroy. 
 They've lighted many a gloomy hour, 
 
 And darkened many a joy. 
 
WHAT I LOVE THEE FOR. 91 
 
 But though tliy heauty woke the blaze 
 
 Which now consumes my heart, 
 ^ Thy charm of mmc^will feed the flame 
 
 When heauty does depart ; 
 For heauty soon may fade away, 
 
 But never learning's page ; 
 And heart with love and wisdom warmed, 
 
 Gets warmer still with age. 
 
 But though thy sense and heauty keep 
 
 Love's throhbings in my breast, 
 There is another charm thou hast, 
 
 More bright than all the rest; 
 In golden dreams it circles round 
 
 My slumbers — haunts my brain. 
 And when I wake in silvered scenes, 
 
 I dream it o'er again. 
 
 'Tis pleasant e'en to think on it — 
 
 'Tis magic to possess. 
 The homely maid is lovely with it. 
 
 Beyond all loveliness ; 
 And dearest, wert thou stripped of it — 
 
 A change I'd weep to see — 
 Thy other charms would charmless be — 
 
 I mean, dear girl, to me. 
 
92 EPIGRAM. 
 
 The eastern bard, while soaring high 
 
 On inspiration's wing, 
 Ne'er decked his princess with a charm 
 
 Like that which now I sing ; 
 Twould buy the king of Afric's dress, 
 
 His beads and precious collars, 
 And 'tis what I most love thee for — 
 
 Thy fifty tJiousand dollars. 
 
 EPiaRAM. 
 
 Quoth Tom to Bet, " I've thumped my brain 
 
 An hour and above, 
 And for my life I cannot find 
 
 A simile for love." 
 
 " La ! what a dolt ! sir, love is like 
 The measles, or being hung ; 
 
 Folks never have it twice, you know, 
 And always catch it young." 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 ''Pray, my son, that God may bless us all." — Mother's Letter. 
 
 AN EARLY LAY. 
 
 Yes, Motlier, I will kneel and pray 
 
 That God may bless us all ; 
 And God is good, all good men say, 
 
 He will not slight my call. 
 God will not slight the simple prayer 
 
 My humble heart shall breathe, 
 For He has said in His good book, 
 
 "Ask and thou shalt receive." 
 
 I'll pray, — all happiness be thine. 
 
 All joy and bliss betide 
 Thy noon of life, and thy decline 
 
 In ease and comfort glide. 
 Thy loved ones, all a Mother's fond 
 
 Solicitude could sue. 
 Thy hopes fulfilled, thine age prolonged. 
 
 Thy wants supplied and few. 
 
 May health her blissful mantle fling 
 
 Around thy waning years, 
 Thy blue bright eye be never dimmed 
 
 By grief's corroding tears. 
 
 9 " 
 
94 TOMTMOTHER. 
 
 And may the winter-blossomed rose 
 
 Sit on thy brow so meek, 
 Fit emblems of the youth that glows 
 
 On age's unwrinkled cheek. 
 
 A Mother's love will own no scope 
 
 To its unfathomed sea; 
 Misfortune's barque, the wreck of hope, 
 
 A haven finds in thee. 
 Thy Son reciprocates that flame, 
 
 (A mother's soul-felt joy) 
 And all thy heart for me could name 
 
 Be thine ,without alloy. 
 
 Yes, Mother, I will kneel and pray 
 
 That Grod may bless us all ; — 
 And God is good, all good men say. 
 
 He will not slight my call. 
 My heart shall frame that fervent prayer, 
 
 My tongue my heart express, 
 Affection's tear shall mingle there, 
 
 And love my suit shall press. 
 
NEW YEAR'S SONG. 
 
 Tune — ' ' Auld Lang Syne. ' ' 
 
 ! HERE we've met, a. blytlie-souled set, 
 
 The Old Year weathered through, 
 To wail a strain o'er blessings gone, 
 And welcome in the New. 
 
 To welcome in the New Year, boys, 
 
 To welcome in the New ; 
 Our hearts give voice to sing aloud 
 A welcome to the New. 
 
 And Where's the man whose grateful heart 
 The Old Year's blessings cheer, 
 
 Would not bound high in hopes they'd be 
 Kepeated in New Year. 
 
 Then welcome, &c. 
 
 ! if Time's ta'en away some friends, 
 
 Whose smiles a radiance cast 
 Around us, still we've joys in store. 
 
 Though tears bedew the past. 
 Then welcome, &c. 
 
 The smiles and tears, the sweet, the sad. 
 
 To memory's volume true, 
 Wake feelings which can never mar 
 
 Our welcome to the New. 
 Then welcome, &c. 
 
96 NEW year's SONG. 
 
 The sky, the sea, the earth and flowers^ 
 
 When started Time's career. 
 Together sang their glorious song, 
 
 To greet the first born Year. 
 Then welcome, &c. 
 
 - And shall Time's children slight the plan 
 Their father's wisdom penned ? ' 
 ! no — the bright example set 
 Shall last till Time shall end. 
 Then welcome, &c. 
 
 Then "gie us a hand, my trusty frien," 
 
 And here's a hand as dear. 
 And may we hapjDy meet again. 
 To welcome tlie New Year: 
 
 Then welcome in the New Year, boys. 
 
 Then welcome in the New- — 
 Let hand, and heart, and voice unite 
 To welcome in the New. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 ASK me not why the warm tear starts 
 From an eye now bleared by weeping, 
 
 But gaze on the newly sodded bed 
 
 Where the friend of my youth lies sleeping. 
 
 ask me not why my cheek is pale, 
 And dimmed the eye of gladness ; 
 
 Why the joyous burst of mirth has fled, 
 And left the gloom of sadness. 
 
 For a friend has sunk to an early tomb. 
 Like a tree cut down while blooming ; 
 
 And a heart of honor and manly form 
 In the deep cold grave's consuming. 
 
 Oh ! a pang has struck to my inmost heart, 
 And naught but grief is left me ; 
 
 For death, with a cold, unerring hand^ 
 Of my only friend hath bereft me. 
 
 9* 
 
ON THE DEATH OF MY AUNT. 
 
 And is she dead ? my mother's love. 
 
 Companion of her youth ; 
 Ah ! we have long, long felt her so, 
 
 But now she's gone in truth. 
 
 The arms that nursed me when a child 
 
 NTow moulder in the grave ; 
 But love goes back to other years 
 
 To meet the smile she gave. 
 
 And now it comes before me bright, 
 
 As when it dried my tears ; 
 Undying relic of the past, 
 
 To cheer my coming years. 
 
 Oh ! when the friend lies cold in death, 
 How many thoughts will rise ; 
 
 Their faults forgot, their deeds, their looks 
 Shine bright through memory's eyes. 
 
 Their home is in the mourner's breast, 
 Gem-thoughts that there will cling, 
 
 Which seem love's legacies to cheer 
 The lone heart's sorrowing. 
 
TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Dear Sis, I am glad thou art blooming again — 
 May health ever sit on thy brow ; 
 
 May thy bosom escape all terrestrial pain, 
 And thy heart be as happy as now. 
 
 ! dear was thy love-beaming features to me. 
 When we rambled together at home, 
 
 Ere the spirit of enterprise bore me from thee, 
 Away from my kindred to roam. 
 
 And still does thy spirit give light to my heart. 
 
 Its ray is a beacon light, given 
 To guide me below and a blessing impart. 
 
 And lead me at last into heaven. 
 
 Eaca soul has an angel to guard it below, 
 
 And lead it to blessings divine ! 
 To hover around it, and shield it from woe — 
 
 0, thou art that angel of mine ! 
 
 0! then to those dear ones my bosom adores, 
 
 I feel thou an angel wilt be ; 
 And the prayer that my heart to my Maker 
 outpours 
 
 Shall be freighted with blessings to thee. 
 
ELEaiAC ODE. 
 
 I've been to my father's grave, 
 Knelt and with tears did lave, 
 Spring's offerings as they wave, 
 
 Mournfully there. 
 Bitter though the joy may be^ 
 Woke by the thought of thee, 
 Welcome such pangs to me ; 
 
 Sweet's the despair. 
 
 There up from memory's night, 
 Thine image broke to light. 
 Fresh on my visioned sight. 
 
 Loved looks appear : 
 Looks that approval spoke, 
 Frowns by my follies woke, 
 All, all before me broke, 
 
 Sun-like and clear. 
 
 Thy form on the death -bed lain, 
 
 The smile that tried to break through pain- 
 
 The agony, the dying strain — 
 
 Heart, heart be still ! 
 Nay, come grief, my soul I'll steep 
 In memory's tears from memory's sleep, 
 Oh ! let me feel the past and weep. 
 
 Though weeping kill. 
 
there's nothing saeb but cash. 101 
 
 God guide tlioii my life-path on, 
 In peace here by virtue won, 
 As the sire be the son. 
 
 Till death shall come. 
 Then joy the holiest , - 
 Shall glow within my sinking breast, 
 And wing my soul with thee to rest. 
 
 In thy bright home. 
 
 THERE'S NOTHINa SAFE BUT CASH. 
 
 The banks are all a cheating crew, 
 
 Created but to fleece ye, 
 Their promises are bnt a ruse, 
 As fleeting as the morning dew. 
 
 There's nothing true but specie. 
 
 And false the gHtter of their purse^ — 
 
 As present times unfold, 
 Their "loans'* and " shaves," and doings worse, 
 Are capers which the people curse, 
 
 There's nothing bright but gold. 
 
 Poor wanderers ! — those spectral things — 
 
 They're pictured paper trash ; 
 For whilst my muse this ditty sings^ 
 They from your pocket may " take wings" — 
 There's nothing safe but cash. 
 
THE SLEiaHBR'S SERENADE. 
 
 Tune—'' The Bonny Boat:' 
 
 Hold on, my merry driver Loy, 
 
 Rein in thy bright steeds four, 
 Strike up your pipes, ye minstrels gay, 
 We're at my Mary's door. 
 
 We'll wake my dove with strains of love, 
 
 With music strong and sweet, 
 As might be sung in choirs above, 
 When stranger angels meet. 
 
 Wake ! wake, my love, the moon above 
 
 And stars are shining bright; 
 The little snow-birds chirp, my love, 
 Deceived by Cynthia's light. 
 
 Then rise, my lady snow-bird, rise. 
 
 Thy friends impatient wait. 
 The sleigh-bells jingle, old Time flies, 
 And love knocks at thy gate. 
 
 The icicle is glistening, love, 
 
 Beneath thy window-sill, 
 The frost has nipped the flower, love. 
 
 And sealed the pebbled rill ; 
 
THE SLEIGHER'S SERENADE. 103 
 
 But thou'lt not feel the cold, my love, 
 
 As o'er the snow we glide, 
 For in my cloak 111 fold my love, 
 
 And j)ress thee to my side. 
 
 The moon shines on the frozen lake. 
 
 Clear, beautiful and bright ; 
 And see ! the cloud-capped mountain tops 
 Are silvered o'er with white ; 
 
 Then, lady, wake, put on thy cloak. 
 
 And sit thee by my side. 
 And o'er the pure white sparkling snow 
 Eight merrily we'll glide. 
 
 Without my Mary all our sport 
 
 Would gloomy be and poor. 
 But hark ! I hear her light footstep, 
 And now she's at the door. 
 
 Behold ! she comes, my snow-drop comes. 
 
 Her seat is the " off side," 
 Now whistling Jehu, crack your whip, 
 And o'er the snow we'll glide. 
 
STANZAS TO MISS L. 
 * ' The good must merit God's peculiar care." — Pope. 
 
 Thou art placed within a fairy boat, 
 
 And launched on life's tempestuous tide ; 
 Two nymphs are kneeling at thy feet^ 
 
 Who beg thy little bark to guide : 
 One seems an angel bright and fair, 
 Her dark eye laughing, silken shaded, 
 And in her jetty hair 
 Bright gems are braided. 
 
 She points to Pleasure's bowers, 
 
 And with a winning look she craves, 
 
 To guide thy bark along the pearly waves, 
 
 To her bright land of flowers : 
 
 Turn from her tempting look and warm! 
 'Tis Vice ! — Kemember ! 
 
 All are not angels that bear an angel's form. 
 
 And see the other nymph so fair. 
 
 Her blue eye smiling, with love shaded, 
 
 And in her golden hair 
 
 The myrtle and violet are braided : 
 8he points above. 
 
 And with the sweetest look she craves, 
 
TO AN OLD FRIEND. 105 
 
 To guide thy bark along tlie stormy waves 
 
 To bowers of love : 
 Give her the helm, and keep her precepts given; 
 
 'Tis Virtue ! — 0, Eemember ! 
 Her ways are pleasant, and lead up to heaven. 
 
 TO AN OLD FRIEND 
 
 Who spent a few hours with me on her way through Baltimore 
 to the West. 
 
 How charmed at the meteors I gazed when a boy, 
 As they pass'd thro' the heavens in brilliance and truth; 
 
 And now in my years I behold them with joy, 
 Those fleeting familiars of age and of youth. 
 
 It is thus with thee, Anna! in youth did T gaze, 
 With my boyish heart blest, on thy figure of Hght ; 
 
 And now, like the meteors, thou givest thy rays 
 To cheer me a moment, then fade from my sight. 
 
 10 
 
WE'VE WANDERED OFT TOGETHER. 
 
 We've wandered oft together. 
 
 In sunshine and in shade, 
 O'er flowery plain and heather 
 
 In boyhood's clime we've strayed ; 
 Through years of joy and sorrow 
 
 We've kept the silent vow 
 That sealed our young affections — 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We've bound our hearts together 
 
 With friendship's golden cord ; 
 Shall that fond tie be severed, 
 
 Be broken by a word f 
 Shall all our bright rememberings 
 
 Be crushed by Anger's plough ? 
 We've long been friends together, 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We've glided oft together 
 
 Down Poesy's smooth stream. 
 We've hugged the phantom pleasure, 
 
 And found it but a dream ; 
 We've shared each other's happiness. 
 
 We' Ye felt each other's woe. 
 We've long been friends together. 
 
 Shall a light word part us ? — No ! 
 
BOLIVAR. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF HIS DEATH. 
 
 The Moro-walls are singing 
 
 Their death-song o'er the brave, 
 And kindred hearts are wringing 
 
 In sorrow o'er his grave ; 
 The tear of grief is stealing 
 
 Through patriot hearts and free — 
 The dirge of woe is pealing 
 
 Over land and over sea. 
 
 O'er valley and o'er mountain, 
 
 Ke-echoed to the skies, 
 A soul-felt tribute to the brave, 
 
 A requiem of sighs ; 
 And well may that lament go up 
 
 Of anguish and of woe. 
 For who shall lead to freedom now. 
 
 Or battle with its foe ? 
 
 What mighty hand, with heart to back, 
 
 And country in that heart, 
 Will follow in the fearful track. 
 
 And take the glorious part 
 
108 BOLIVAR. 
 
 That Liberty demands of him 
 Who leads her sons to war ; 
 
 A patriot like him we weep, 
 The noble Bolivar. 
 
 Methinks I hear the sound arise 
 
 From city, town and plain, 
 That none will touch the half-drained cup 
 
 That he alone would drain ; 
 That none will seize the fire-brand 
 
 That is flickering in the vase, 
 And rid a nation of a band 
 
 Of tyrants — cowards base. 
 
 Then mourn for a land o'ershrouded, 
 
 Herself that wove the pall — 
 Her destinies o'erclouded. 
 
 And tottering to the fall : 
 Mourn for a nation wedded 
 
 To anarchy and woe — 
 Mourn for a land beheaded, 
 
 Herself that struck the blow. 
 
 Mourn for the much- wronged Bolivar, 
 Your tears flow fast and free ; 
 
 Ye may have wept o'er heroes fallen, 
 But none more brave than he. 
 
BOLIVAE. 109 
 
 The hero at whose stirring breath 
 
 A slumbering nation woke, 
 And sought amid the sweep of death 
 
 Their fetters to unyoke. 
 
 But to him who led your warriors, 
 
 Your hundred battles won, 
 The deed that foiled the foeman's skill, 
 
 A baser power has done ; 
 Your conqueror lies conquered, 
 
 Your victor is subdued— 
 Oh, not beneath the foeman's sword. 
 
 But by ingratitude. 
 
 10* 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 Oh come to thy window, dear lonely one^ come ! 
 
 The moon has departed the blue sky above, 
 Not a star twinkles there, and the city's low hum 
 
 Is silence propitious to song and to love ; 
 I will tell thee my heart in my song, and my lute 
 
 Shall waken a spirit to soothe thy heart's pain. 
 While hope, like bright morning dispelling dark night. 
 
 Will soften thy bosom to pleasure again. 
 
 I know thy stern father is prouder of thee 
 
 Than the light to his eyes from the day sky above, 
 He knows thou art peerless as woman can be, 
 
 That the pride of our land would be blest with thy 
 love; 
 And thence he has shut thee from him who adores, 
 
 Who feels every beat of thy lonely heart's pain, — 
 Too happy, if true, the night-song that he pours, 
 
 Will waken thy bosom to pleasure again. 
 
 Once more let me hear that sweet voice, tho' in grief — ■ 
 
 I have loved thee in smiles and still love thee in tears ; 
 From thy lips let me drink to my bosom's relief, 
 
 'Twill cheer thy lone minstrel and quiet his fears — 
 The bosom is faint that would vainly cheer thine. 
 
 For sorrow upon thee has darkened its light : 
 Ah ! tell me thy griefs, let them mingle with mine. 
 
 Then, love, from thy window one look and good-night. 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell ! — we part, and thou hast left us lonely — 
 No smiles like thine to cheer our fireside ; 
 
 The circle bright is broken, and we only 
 Behold thy form in memory's visions glide. 
 
 Farewell ! — we part, as parts the sun with flowers 
 Which it had cherished 'neath its kindling ray, 
 
 To live a long, lone night of lengthened hours, 
 Then wake again to bright and perfect day. 
 
 Farewell! — we part, and every breast is burning 
 With wishes kind and prayers of good to thee — 
 
 That joys, like sioging birds, which cheer thy morning, 
 May aye attend thee with their melody. 
 
 Farewell ! — we part, and tears betray the swelling 
 Of thy pure bosom with the parting pain ; 
 
 We part — but ! with hope our lone hearts telling, 
 In tears we part — to meet in smiles again. 
 
ZACHARY TAYLOR. 
 
 From humblest shed, from highest hall, 
 Will Truth and Courage ever soar ! 
 
 The impelling power which knows no thrall- 
 Its name, Excelsior ; 
 
 Ambition is not of it born, 
 It seeketh not that fever-cup, 
 
 But, like the sun that gilds the morn, 
 By its own nature riseth up : 
 
 Kiseth alway to brighter day, — 
 To destiny by birth-right given. 
 
 Until it blendeth high away. 
 In its own essence — Heaven. 
 
 Thus with the hero of my verse, 
 
 From germ-time to his ripeness grown. 
 Doing what History must rehearse, 
 
 And Glory call her own ; 
 In Youth to noble deeds impelled. 
 
 In Manhood borne to higher fame. 
 In Age admiring worlds beheld, 
 
 His name the loftiest name ; 
 And now from highest, proudest place. 
 
 Still upward hath his footsteps trod, 
 Till, in perfection's full embrace^ 
 
 He dwelleth near his God. 
 
THE -FRIENDSHIP'S" SONG. 
 
 Sung oti the recent visit of the Friendship Fire Company 
 of Baltimore to New York. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE NEW YORK FIRE DEPARTMENT. 
 
 Air — ^^ Dearest May . " 
 
 Ye brotlier firemen, we come 
 
 From homes that we hold dear, 
 To greet you all, with heart and hand, 
 
 And meet your welcome cheer ; 
 We know that every fireman's heart 
 
 Is kindled by one flame, 
 Whether it burns in bosoms here, 
 
 Or glows from whence we came : 
 Brother firemen, we come with '^Friendship's' 
 
 cheer, 
 With heart and voice, with "hand in hand," 
 To greet our brothers here. 
 
 From the Monumental City, where 
 
 Her gratitude's displayed 
 To those who fought her battles. 
 
 Or preserved what she has made. 
 To yours, where beats the patriot heart 
 
 Alike with that's at home. 
 We come to view your Empire mart — 
 
 As friends and firemen come : 
 Brother firemen, &c. 
 
114 THE friendship's SONG. 
 
 We bring to you a fireman's love, 
 
 A fireman's honor, bright, 
 A fireman's pride, a fireman's wish 
 
 In all things to unite, 
 And come not with an " empty name " 
 
 Inscribed upon our scrolls, 
 For ours is borne in truth aloft, 
 
 And glows within our souls : 
 Brother firemen, &c. 
 
 Our love and honor, true as steel. 
 
 Are yours, in keeping sure ; 
 Our pride is in the fireman's name. 
 
 Preserved unstained and pure ; 
 The love we bear, the pride we feel 
 
 (No firemen could more claim) 
 For our Excelsior " new machine," 
 
 To you we breathe the same : 
 Brother firemen, &c. 
 
 Then hail, our brothers of New York, 
 Hail, firemen, heroes brave. 
 
 Whose noble emulation is. 
 Not to destroy, but save. 
 
 We ofier you, with all our hearts. 
 Our greeting, ^^ hand in hand," 
 
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 115 
 
 And hope we may return your love 
 
 In our own Maryland : 
 Brother firemen, we come with ^'Friendship's" 
 
 cheer, 
 With heart and voice, with "hand in hand," 
 To greet our brothers here. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 I SAW him in his playful pride, 
 
 His azure eyes in gladness beaming ; 
 
 His lips, like cherries, side by side. 
 
 His golden locks in ringlets streaming ; 
 
 His cheeks tinged with their healthful glee, 
 
 Like roses on their mountain tree. 
 
 Fair as the Summer's morning dawn, 
 When first it wakes on rosy light. 
 
 Illuming hill, and lake, and lawn. 
 And making all Creation bright. 
 
 Was that fair child, upon whose brow 
 
 The shade of death is dwelling now. 
 
AMERICA'S BATTLE SONa. 
 
 Arm for the mighty battle, 
 
 Whatever boys ye be ! 
 Wherever born, ye're brothers now, 
 
 And lo ! your Mother's Me ! 
 The tyrant rules too many lands — 
 
 We'll break his rod and chain ! 
 The world is crying out for help — 
 
 And shall she cry in vain ? 
 
 Then arm for the mighty battle ! 
 
 In our destiny is writ : 
 
 " Ye shall possess the world 1" 
 From shore to shore our stars and stripes 
 
 Unconquered be unfurled ! 
 The eagle bears our flag, 
 
 The eagle, bird of Jove : 
 Let's on, wherever earth is green, 
 
 And blue the skies above! 
 
 Then arm for the mighty battle ! 
 
 Shout "Yankee Doodle! March!" 
 
 And imitate your sires ! 
 Subdue creation, open schools, 
 
 Light Independence fires ; 
 
TO Howard's park. IIY 
 
 Set all the heavens ablaze 
 
 With rockets, as ye run, 
 And pile a monument of thrones 
 
 To honor Washington ! 
 
 Then arm for the mighty battle! 
 
 4k 
 
 TO HOWARD'S PARK. 
 
 Brightest of all the past ! 
 
 My youth's own paradise ! 
 I see the city traveling out 
 
 To thee, in stately guise; 
 I see it move thy emerald hills. 
 
 Away thy green swards sweep. 
 Topple thine ancient, glorious trees — 
 
 I gaze on these and weep. 
 
 Weep that the loveliest things 
 
 Should thus be swept away 
 Before thy march, ! City proud, 
 
 Rising to brighter day ; 
 But still I feel_, though these depart, 
 
 Joys to my bosom steal. 
 Which none but rovers of thy woods. 
 
 Oh ! childhood's haunts, could feel- 
 Joys that the city of my birth 
 Is rising 'midst the first on earth. 
 
 n 
 
TO THE FUTUEE. 
 
 Welcome, thou undiscovered realm — 
 
 Away, thou haunting Past 1 
 Firmly I seize the doubtful helm, 
 
 And bend me to the blast ; 
 If wrecked upon thy unknown shore, 
 
 No pang shall rend my heart — 
 For it cannot be tortured moite 
 
 Than 'tis ere I depart. 
 
 Ye Wrongs, which send the heated blood 
 
 In fire through my frame ; 
 Ye Follies, a soul-sickening brood, 
 
 That blanch my cheeks with shame; 
 Ye vain Regrets, which held me down 
 
 To nothing do or dare — 
 I cast ye off, and now I frown 
 
 Your offspring down^ Despair. 
 
 Thou Ocean, that with changeless strife 
 
 Exhibiteth thy Will ! 
 Thou art the emblem of the life 
 
 My coming hour may fill ; 
 Like wrecks upon thy wasting beach. 
 
 My griefs away I throw- 
 All that I ask is Heaven to teach, 
 
 Nor care what winds may blow. 
 
TO ELIZABETH, 
 
 ON HER APPROACHING DEPARTURE FOR THE WEST. 
 
 Time's restless pinions swifter fly- 
 As cometli on the day. 
 
 When from the hearts endeared to thee 
 Thou'lt wander far away ; 
 
 Hopes, prayers, and tears^ and wishes kind, 
 In each fond breast doth swell, 
 
 And every heart is practicing 
 That saddest word — Farewell ! 
 
 For, ah ! it is the hardest task 
 
 That life to us accords^ 
 To look the last on those we love, 
 
 To hear their parting words ; 
 To feel that each endearing tie 
 
 May now be broke in twain. 
 And fear the form we love the most 
 
 We ne'er may meet again. 
 
 And thus we feel for thee, dear girl — 
 
 We'll part with many a tear — 
 Thy beauty won our eyes to thee. 
 
 Thy worth our hearts endear — 
 Ah ! when thou hast departed far, 
 
 Thy form will haunt each breast, 
 Like a long-loved and lovely star 
 
 That fadeth in the west. 
 
A BATTLE SONG OF ERIN. 
 
 Aem for Erin's battle, 
 
 Sods of the brave and free ! 
 Away, and win a soldier's grave. 
 
 Or a glorious victory. 
 The call of your great O'Connell 
 
 Is rolling o'er the main, 
 And pealing in your hearts for aid, 
 
 ! shall he call in vain ? 
 Then arm for Erin's battle, &c. 
 
 In the ranks of freedom's fight. 
 
 The soldier's post should be. 
 Where men who burst oppression's chains 
 
 Are battling to be free ; 
 His bright plume vfaving high. 
 
 In the midst of the conflict's strife ; 
 His frown should quell the tyrant's rage 
 
 And his sabre drink his life. 
 Then arm for Erin's battle, &c. 
 
 Say, how should the soldier die — 
 
 On the pillow's soft repose ? 
 ! no— with his bright shield 'neath his head, 
 
 In the battle's glorious close ; 
 
A BATTLE 80NG OF ERIN. I2l 
 
 The tyrant's flag at his feet, — 
 
 The skies with " victory " riven — 
 He smiles adieu to his comrades hrave. 
 
 And his spirit soars to heaven. 
 Then arm for Erin's battle, 
 
 Sons of the brave and free, 
 Away ! and win a soldier's grave, 
 
 Or a glorious victory ! 
 
 11* 
 
REPEAL SONa, 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE FRIENDS OP IRELAND. 
 
 Arise, arise, Hibernia's Sons, arise 
 
 And strike for your altars, for freedom and your 
 homes ! 
 The cries, the cries of Bondsmen rend the skies, 
 Then resolve ye for Kepeal or for your tombs. 
 Too long has Britannia misruled your noble nation, 
 Arise, and no longer submit to degradation ; 
 With O'Connell for your Chief, 
 Up ! and make the Battle brief; 
 Lift your banner from the ground, 
 Every Paddy rally round, 
 And Freedom, Erin's Freedom o'er the Nation shall 
 resound ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Repeal, Repeal, Repeal your chorus be, boys ! 
 
 Shout till John Bull shall acknowledge the decree. 
 Till Peel shall feel he must yield to Repeal, 
 
 And Erin take her place among the Free ! 
 
 Behold, behold, on Erin's page behold. 
 
 The deeds of your fathers shine out in glory's flame, 
 For bold, for bold, those Heroes were of old ; 
 
 Then rouse ye and emulate their fame ! 
 The noble Saint Patrick shines first upon her story ; 
 Then Brian the Brave adds a chaplet to her glory ; 
 
REPEAL SONG. 123 
 
 Her great Chiefs, her Mac's and O's, 
 All who lathered Erin's foes, 
 While in works of Art and Mind 
 Unsurpassed by all mankind, 
 ! why should a Tyrant then her gallant children bind. 
 
 Repeal, &c. 
 
 And there, and there. Oh ! see emblazoned there — 
 
 The names of those Martyrs, the men of Ninty-eight; 
 Their care, their care, your freedom was their care — 
 
 Their murder soon shall Britain expiate ; 
 And now for more blood the tyrants they are thirsting, 
 O'Connell he must die, and they whose chains he's 
 bursting ; 
 But their black designs shall fail, 
 Though your Chief should rot in jail, 
 For the Cause, the Cause is just ; 
 Then triumph, boys, it must. 
 And the bloody flag of England shall be .ampled in 
 the dust. 
 Repeal, &c. 
 
 Repeal ! Repeal ! All join for the Repeal, 
 On Patriotism's altar let every feud be laid, 
 
 Let Shiel join Steel, and all go for Repeal, 
 An unconquerable phalanx be arrayed ; 
 
 The Freemen of America for Erin's rights will rally ; 
 
 The land of La Fayette will be her gallant ally ; 
 
124 REPEAL SONG. 
 
 And all nations will unite 
 With Old Ireland in her fight ; 
 Then with Freedom's flag unfurled, 
 Down oppression shall be hurled, 
 And Liberty for ever wave her banner o'er the World. 
 Repeal, &c. 
 
THE CHERUBS. 
 
 In the happy home, in the gay parterre, 
 There are beautiful things the soul to cheer. 
 But who would seek for beauty rare 
 Tn the place of death, 'mid the mourning there? 
 
 And yet the eye has never seen 
 Such loveliness as this, I ween. 
 Where side by side in death's chill arms. 
 An infant pair the gazer charms. 
 
 Were roses babes, they would look like them. 
 White roses torn from the parent stem, 
 G-entle, and pure, and mild as the breeze — 
 Could angels die, they would be like these. 
 
 Their hair of the same sunlight was made. 
 Their cheeks in the same bright hue arrayed — 
 The forms seemed worked of the same clear pearl 
 Of that beautiful boy and beautiful girl. 
 
 They were like each other as twins could be, 
 Though they were not buds of a kindred tree ; 
 Ah ! a sorrowful tale of their lives is told, ^ 
 Brief as they were in this valley cold. 
 
126 THE CHERUBS. 
 
 'Mid armed men that boy was born, 
 In tlie odorous clime of the South, forlorn, 
 Where the father wept, and the mother died 
 With a breaking heart for the babe by her side. 
 
 The bird, bereft of its parent nest, 
 Was borne away to a stranger-breast, 
 Where it found a mother's love and care, 
 And a nestling mate in the girl so fair. 
 
 From the baby girl, in its early day, 
 A doting sire was torn away — 
 And thus began with sad alloy 
 The lives of the orphan girl and boy. 
 
 They grew together — in beauty grew, — 
 They loved each other as cherubs do, 
 With a singular strength ye will not find 
 To be so ripe in the budding mind. 
 
 But a frost fell on these flowers bright, 
 Through their opening breasts crept a fatal blight, 
 And the joyous shouts of these little ones 
 Were changed to sounds of the saddest tones. 
 
 They sickened together, they struggled with death, 
 And their sighs arose in a mingled breath : 
 And the sick boy plead to be laid beside 
 His playmate fair — where he smiled, and died. 
 
THE CHERUBS. 12*7 
 
 On the day that gave the Saviour birth, 
 His spirit soared from the dark, bleak earth ; 
 By another sun the girl was blest — 
 The Shepherd had folded her to his breast. 
 
 Side by side, in the coffins there, 
 Are laid the boy and the girl so fair ; 
 Side by side, where the wild winds rave, 
 They sleep in peace in the same sweet grave. 
 
 Methinks, with a power angel-given, 
 I can see those beautiful ones in heaven. 
 And can hear the hymns of the choirs above, 
 Keceiving them in the courts of love ; 
 
 Where the voice of Jesus sweetly blends, 
 In the seraphic song which there ascends, 
 Saying : " Welcome here, in your rohes arrayed, 
 For of such as ye is my Kingdom made.^' 
 
LINES, 
 
 IN MEMORY OF '^OUR FATHER." 
 
 He's sleeping now : life's cares are o'er, 
 
 And we, alas ! can only mourn ; 
 No prayers, no tears, can bring again 
 
 Our father ; though to God they're borne 
 By angels bright, who quick return. 
 
 And with the power He has given, 
 Give back to us for prayers and tears 
 
 The peace that only comes from heaven. 
 
 Tread lightly, for beneath this earth, 
 
 This dark brown earth^, he calmly lies ; 
 Yet his immortal soul has gone. 
 
 Trembling with joy, to paradise, 
 ^Fhere weary hearts will surely rest, 
 
 Where sorrow's shadow cannot come — 
 Oh, that with him I too mi2:ht dwell 
 
 In that eternal, joyful home. 
 
 Yes, " angels, take him to your care ;" 
 We loved him, yet we ne'er again 
 
 Will welcome his dear voice of love ; 
 Will sigh and look for him in vain. 
 
LINES. 129 
 
 How could we, father, give thee up ? 
 
 How could we feel that all was o'er, 
 And know each fond and gentle word 
 
 Had passed away for evermore ? 
 
 And he has gone and dreams no more : 
 
 His poet soul has passed away, 
 And earth has lost a radiant gem, 
 
 'Tis buried from the light of day. 
 The world its busy hum keeps on, 
 
 Nor minds that he has gone to rest; 
 Yet will his memory always live 
 
 With those who knew and loved him best. 
 
 12 
 
THE GEAVE OE GMIEENWOOD. 
 
 The forest trees were tipped with the light " 
 
 Erom Aurora's sheaf of rays, 
 And the gentle breeze breathed a peaceful sound 
 
 As it crept through the greenwood maze — 
 A sound that whispered of fountains bright, 
 
 Whose waters from flowery beds are taken — 
 A sound as from seraphic voices clear_, 
 
 That from pleasant dreams our senses waken. 
 
 A graceful willow bent its frail leaves 
 
 O'er a stream that tripped gently o'er moss and stone, 
 Where the grass was more green and the flowers more 
 rare, 
 
 Where the heart would fain rest when its last hope 
 had flown ; 
 A silvery voice from the stream seemed to rise, 
 
 As in playfulness onward it flew, 
 Keflecting the azure of heaven's bright dome 
 
 In its waters so clear and so true. 
 
 The sun's bright rays shed a holy light 
 
 On the calm, unruffled face 
 Of a mother whose soul from this earth had flown 
 
 To a heavenly resting-place ; 
 
THE GRAVE OP GREENWOOD. 131 
 
 And they carried her forth to her last sweet home, 
 'Neath the willow they laid her to rest, 
 
 And the gladdened earth mingled tears with its smiles, 
 As she gently reposed on its breast. 
 
 'Twas the only grave in the greenwood wild— 
 
 The grave of that mother dear — 
 The first of many that soon will sleep 
 
 The deep sleep that dreams not of fear. 
 In years to come will G-reenwood's tall trees 
 
 Bend their branches' o'er many a loved one's grave, 
 And youth, age and beauty will follow the path 
 
 Of the mother who rests where the willow's leaves 
 wave. --- 
 
I AM A RED-HAIRED MAN. 
 
 Some verses wherein the Red-haired man complains to Dame 
 Nature of the bad treatment he receiyed, especially from the fair 
 sex, showing how Dame Nature consoled him, and how in the 
 end he became proud of his carrot locks, and triumphed oyer his 
 persecutors. 
 
 Oh dear, hey dear, good gentle folks may it be said, 
 
 I've come here to learn, if any poor hairn 
 Has been troubled like me with his head. Old Song, 
 
 I SAT me down beside a nook, 
 
 And talked the other day 
 Unto myself, how folks will bow 
 
 At beauty's magic sway ; 
 The old, the young, the fair and proud, 
 
 All kneel at her gay throne. 
 And leave such ugly ones as me 
 
 Neglected and alone. 
 
 And while I musing sat me there, 
 
 My heart got right down mad 
 To think that those I never harmed 
 
 Would use a chap so bad ; 
 And thus to Nature I complained — 
 
 Much better kill me dead, 
 Than for to send me hither, with 
 
 This blaze upon my head. 
 
 A mark youVe placed upon my brow 
 And there have plainly writ— 
 
 A subject here for merriment^ 
 A hut for every wit ! 
 
r AM A RED-HAIRED MAN. 133 
 
 Now, Mother Nature, ere Fm done, 
 
 ril tell you, if T can, 
 Some of the miseries that await 
 
 Upon the Bed-haired man. 
 
 The girls turn up their nose at me, 
 
 The old, the young and fair, 
 The wits call me a ready man, 
 
 And quiz my coral hair ; 
 An-d then they say that I am one 
 
 Of Rob Roy's brawny clan — 
 I dance and sing ungracefully — 
 
 I am a Red-haired man. 
 
 They know that I write poetry. 
 
 Yet 'pon my soul, by gum ! 
 They will not let thej9oe;^ try 
 
 One scratch in their Album ; 
 They me ?m55-use and m^ss-abuse, 
 
 In every thing they can ; 
 A miserable dog am I — 
 
 I am a Red-haired man. 
 
 I strive to please the world, but it 
 
 Gives no returning smile ; 
 I try to please the girls, but they 
 
 Laugh at me all the while ; 
 12* 
 
134 I AM A EED-HAIRED MAN. 
 
 They scarce can treat me civilly, 
 
 Or do not if tliey can, 
 The reason why, who can deny — 
 
 I am a Ked-haired man. 
 
 The other night I ventured in 
 
 To Charley Spies's ball, 
 And as we kick'd the Mazurka, 
 
 A lady chanced to fall ; 
 I helped her up before the beau^ - 
 
 And handed her her fan. 
 She didn't even smile a thank — 
 
 I am a Eed-haired man. 
 
 If I make free — " He's impudent ! " 
 
 Kespectful— '' He is dull ! " 
 Say " witty things " and " pretty things," 
 
 '^ 'Tis not original ! " 
 And tho' I draw and paint as well 
 
 As any gentleman can. 
 They say that I am an ugly daub — 
 
 I am a Ked-haired man. 
 
 The other night I courage took, 
 And begg'd a kiss from Moll — 
 
 I got it too, but such a smack 
 As made me kiss the wall — 
 
I AM A RED-HAIIIED MAN. 135 
 
 I could not Moll-ify ber rage, 
 
 So raving home I ran— 
 ^Tis plain why Tm Moll-treated thus — 
 
 I am a Red-haired man. 
 
 There is very little that I love 
 
 In country or in town^ 
 And fewer love me^^ just because 
 
 Fve got a golden crown ; - 
 I love to go to Quaker church, 
 
 I dearly love their plan. 
 The girls can't see through my white hat, 
 
 That I'm a Red-haired man. 
 
 It would wear my very tongue away. 
 
 And scare vou, madam, most. 
 To tell the torturing miseries 
 
 My carrot looks have cost, 
 And this Til swear, by all the gods_, 
 
 I've suffered since my birth, 
 The jeers and taunts of blockhead wits, 
 
 A limbo, ma'am, on earth ! 
 
 I worse had raved, but Nature caught 
 
 My hair, and with a twang, 
 Holding me aloft, spoke out 
 
 This eloquent liair-angue — 
 
136 I AM A RED-HAIRED MAN. 
 
 "Ho ! why this wail about the tint 
 
 That decks your pericran- 
 ium, you fool, 'tis not the hair, 
 
 But heart that makes the man ; 
 The man or woman clothed with sense, 
 
 Heeds not the head's attire ; 
 The honest heart that knows no guile, 
 
 The jewel they admire; 
 They how not low at beauty's throne, 
 
 Nor crouch at her behest — 
 Merit alone their smiles receive, 
 
 Unmindful of the rest. 
 And more gaze on that glorious page. 
 
 Your country's boasted scroll. 
 And know that the heart that gave it birth. 
 
 Beat 'neath a carrot pole — * 
 And then with all admiring eye 
 
 Turn, turn to him who met 
 The foe, who dared its wisdom scorn, 
 
 The ,noble Lafayette, — "^ 
 And learn whilst gazing on the brow 
 
 Of him who fought and bled, 
 A fire-brand was in his heart — 
 
 Another on his head! 
 I here might name an hundred more ^ 
 
 With Cato-locks who've bled, 
 And hold a place in fame's proud niche ; 
 
 But, 'gad, enough's been said, — 
 
I AM A RED-HAIRED MAN. 137 
 
 Then cease this wail ridiculous, 
 
 Mind not the fair ones' scoff, 
 Heed not their empty-headed grins. 
 
 On them you have the laugh : 
 And courage take, nay, feel a pride, 
 
 Demand a patriot's fare. 
 For tho' you may be brainless quite, 
 
 You boast a patriot's hair." 
 Thus said. Dame Nature shut her mouth. 
 
 Shut up and vanished quite — 
 When reasoning to myself, I thought 
 
 Her reasoning must be right. 
 
 Then come, ye dark and midnight locks, 
 
 Ye auburn-haired so fair. 
 Ye hairy (nothing in them) blocks, 
 
 Ye heads unknown to hair ; — 
 Ye chesnut-crowned beauties, ye. 
 
 Ye graceful, tall and short_, 
 Ye wicked wits, ye engineers 
 
 Of love-destroying sport — 
 Come ! one and all — let slip your wits, 
 
 Quiz, taunt me if jou can ; 
 For know I glory now to say, 
 
 I AM A KeD-HAIRED MAN. 
 - Jefferson and Lafayette were red-haired men. 
 
CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 'Now centuries on centuries 
 
 Have floated down the tide of Time, 
 Since He, the Star of Bethlehem, 
 
 Descended on the world, sublime ; 
 Darkness enshrouded land and sea, 
 
 Mankind in error blindly groped, 
 When that bright Star of freedom shone 
 
 And man was bless'd and loved and hoped. 
 
 Througli the long lapse of brightening years, 
 
 The light of that blest Star has spread, 
 Until no spot on earth remains 
 
 Where it hath not its radiance shed : 
 Up in the East it first appeared. 
 
 Then poured its glory on the West, 
 The North and South its blessing shared, 
 
 And joy it gave to every breast. 
 
 Shedding on darkest mind a light 
 
 Which led it on from clime to clime, 
 Through the illimitable worlds of God, 
 
 And on the extended page of time, 
 Which taught it more than seers could dream, 
 
 More than keen science e'er could see, 
 And led it to that knowledge high, 
 
 Which gave it immortality. 
 
CHRISTMAS HYMN. 139 
 
 ! what were such a world as this, 
 
 Had not that Infant come to save ? 
 fjike the dull hrute to know no bliss 
 
 Beyond the confines of the grave ? 
 To pass away and be no more, 
 
 A cold, unmeaning clod of earth ; 
 A blank, a wave upon the shore, 
 
 To die, and know no second birth ! 
 
 No hope — no joy — no meeting bright 
 
 Hereafter, of those loved below ; 
 All sunk in never ending night. 
 
 Were He not born to end our woe ; 
 Our hearts to-day should then give out 
 
 The gratitude that's due above, 
 And all in hymns of joyance shout 
 
 Their praises to the God of love. 
 
 He taught us the bright path to tread, 
 
 Comprising all that could be given, 
 And died that we should be redeemed. 
 
 And live the glorious heirs of heaven. 
 Then all be happy, all give praise. 
 
 On this God-made Thanksgiving day, 
 And all their grateful voices raise 
 
 Together in one glorious lay. 
 
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD* 
 
 (CATHARINE BERNARDINE.) 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO FRANCIS m'nERHANT, ESQ., AND HIS 
 AMIABLE WIFE. 
 
 LAUGHma clierub, fairy flower, 
 
 Budding in the human bower, 
 
 Comest thou from Paradise 
 
 To glad thy parents' hearts and eyes ? 
 
 No, thou art thyself, fair sprite, 
 
 A sweet Eden in their sight, > 
 
 Cheering, brightening life's dark way 
 
 With a heavenly, holy ray. 
 
 Winning the fond ones who love thee 
 
 To adore the power above thee 
 
 For the blessing he has given 
 
 In thee, infant germ of heaven. 
 
 Cast upon their path's wayside. 
 
 An unconscious guard and guide ; 
 
 For those a little child shall lead 
 
 Who the sacred words doth heed — 
 
 Lead them to a counterpart 
 
 Of the bliss of thy pure heart, 
 
 With a power naught can sever 
 
 In this wrestling world for ever. 
 
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD. 141 
 
 Go into the fight, oli man ! 
 Meet thy compeers in the van, — 
 Gifted be as mightiest men, 
 Eloquent with tongue and pen ; 
 Mix in the mazes of life's juggle, 
 In the intellectual struggle 
 Of the gladiatorial ring. 
 Where high minds are battling ; 
 Win the prize or conquered be^ 
 Eight or wrong encompass thee — 
 Still, this beacon on thy track 
 To true joys will win thee back. 
 Woman_, 'mid thy household cares. 
 Know, an angel, unawares. 
 Ever by thy side is moving. 
 Charming thee, beloved and loving, 
 Child of beauty ! child of power ! 
 Still be here a living flower. 
 And when called to heaven away. 
 Be thou there a guiding ray ! 
 
 13 
 
ADDRESS TO THE FIREMEN. 
 
 Written ''per order," and spoken bj Mrs. William Ward, 
 at the HoUidaj street Theatre, on the occasion of the Benefit of 
 her father, Mr. Thomas Ward, on the evening of Nov. 4, 1851. 
 
 At my kind father's bidding here I come ! 
 On such a call, could I^ his child, be dumb V 
 No ! I will speak, your leave I need not ask, 
 For ye will aid me in the pleasant task; 
 A generous public always will respond 
 To him whose just appeal is his best bond ; 
 And ye have met it by your presence here, 
 True friends to honor, foster, and to cheer. 
 As the old Manager of '' Old Drury's" fame 
 Foremost in modern times shines out his name, 
 And uppermost upon your heart's regard 
 Nestles the well-known name of Thomas Ward ; 
 Thus let my heart, at least, express its choice, 
 In the fond accents of a daughter's voice. 
 Artists and Actors, Stars of all degrees, 
 His enterprise provided, you to please — 
 An Ellen Tree, in beauty, trod this floor, 
 A Kean, the younger, walked these boards of yore, 
 Celeste and others of the aerial throng. 
 And Walton with his well remembered song ! 
 These, and our present Corps de Dramatique, 
 (A better corps in vain might critics seek,) 
 These are some triumphs of his catering skill, 
 Done for your wants, obedient to your will. 
 
ADDRESS TO THE FIREMEN. 143 
 
 Your thanks are then to him a guerdon bright, 
 Shown in your smiling presence here to-night, 
 And his full heart returns the throb sincere 
 Which ye have given in your welcome cheer. 
 
 But I am sent here to speak to Firemen ! 
 Let me regard you as such heroes, then. 
 Yea, all of ye, even the beauteous Fair, 
 For they for Union gather every where ; 
 'Tis an old saying, but is not the less true, 
 And thus my syllogism fixes you. 
 The Fireman is, then, my noble theme ; 
 Not the false glitter of an empty dream, 
 But a proud tale of those who generous give 
 Their lives away that those they aid may live ! 
 First in our minds their memory shall be 
 In Friendship's ever hallowed decree. 
 Mechanical although my verses flow 
 They're Independent, and — respect them so. 
 When Liberty her glorious flag unfurled, 
 Be Viofilant, she cried, and bless the world ; 
 Columbians, listening to the gallant strain. 
 Wakened her children upon the shore and main — 
 First Baltimore advanced with fearless soul, 
 Bold as thy waves, Patapsco, doth roll, 
 And said United shall we ever be, 
 Each one a Watchman on the tower-tree. 
 With Franklin's lightning grasped within his hand. 
 Sworn to protect, defend our Native Land ! 
 
144 ADDRESS TO THE FIREMEN. 
 
 Old Deptford Hundred was a host just then, 
 New Market multiplied her fighting men, 
 All, all combined, our Howard in the van. 
 With Lafayette from o'er the broad sea's span, 
 Grathering in power and pride each freeborn son 
 Around the standard of our Washington ! 
 
 In Monumental marble shall the fame 
 Shine out for ever, the brave Fireman's name, 
 As Firemen well known in Freedom's story, 
 As Firemen our never dying glory ! 
 
 Well, now, good friends, my little speech is done, 
 Say, have my words your kindly feelings won ? 
 If so, why I'm content, my duty's o'er, 
 And here's engraved thy name, loved Baltimore 
 
COYER HIM O'EE. 
 
 Lines -written on the death of George R, RichardsoNj Esq., 
 for a long period the distinguished Attorney General of Mary- 
 land, who died in this city, February 10, 1851. 
 
 Cover him o'er, cover him o'er, 
 With the clods of the valley cover him o'er; 
 And as the senseless sods ye heap 
 On the manly form in its coffin'd sleep_, 
 Ye will feel the spirit hovering round, 
 That could not bide in the common ground, 
 But soaring away in its proud ascent, 
 Finds rest in its own high element; 
 And your thoughts will follow that spirit brave, 
 There your tears fall fast o'er his honored grave. 
 Cover him o'er, &g. 
 
 Cover him o'er, cover him o'er. 
 With the mantle of charity cover him o'er ; 
 For he was one of the noble kind 
 Who gild the world with a god-like mind ; 
 Whose heart, like the burning crater, wears 
 Itself away on the ambient airs, 
 Eating its vitals, whilst it throws 
 A gleam abroad, that flits and glows^ 
 And tells of the living fires within — 
 A nature flashing in light and sin. 
 Cover him o'er, &c, 
 13* 
 
146 COVER himo'br. 
 
 Cover him o'er, cover him o'er, 
 
 With your wings, ye angels! cover him o'er; 
 
 And waft him away to that court ahove, 
 
 Where the Judge presides who is made of love, 
 
 Who gave to that mighty mind its power, 
 
 To rule helow for its little hour. 
 
 Then called it hack to he alway 
 
 A star in the everlasting day ; 
 
 Ah 1 if from that awful Judge a frown 
 
 On our brother's frailties he lowering down, 
 
 Oh ! cover him o'er, cover him o'er, 
 
 With your wings, ye angels, cover him o'er ! 
 
 % 
 
THE LAMENT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MR. M. DEMPSEYj ON THE DEATH OP HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 I KNOW the tears I shed for thee 
 
 Are sin-drops on my cheek, 
 And every prayer to win thee back 
 
 Is sinful, that I speak : 
 But yet I still must mourn thee dead. 
 
 Who living solaced me, 
 And pour the heart-woke prayer to have 
 
 Thee hack upon my knee. 
 
 To meet thy playful eyes with mine ; 
 
 To drink thy happy laugh. 
 And wearied by the toils of earth, 
 
 Hope gushing from thee ^uaiF: 
 And when I pray, to halve my prayer 
 
 Betwixt thee and the rest ; 
 Oh^ this were now the only joy 
 
 Of my woe-ridden breast. 
 
 But these, and more endearments that 
 
 I dare not speak of now, 
 Are lost for ever in thy grave, 
 
 Thou calmer of my brow : 
 
148 THE LAMENT. 
 
 Yet all my prayers and all my hopes 
 
 For tbem and thee are given, 
 That they and I may see the bud 
 
 We loved, yet bloom in heaven. 
 
 I would have thought, ere Death's hard test 
 
 Had taught my heart to prove. 
 That thy transmission to the skies, 
 
 A bliss were from above : 
 But ah ! that all destroying power 
 
 Kestrains my reasoning wild. 
 For tbough I bow to Heaven's decree, 
 
 I yet must mourn my child. 
 
HURRAH FOR THE PRINTERS ! 
 
 Am — ^ ' All on Hobbies .^ ' 
 
 SUNa AT AN ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE BALTIMORE TYPO- 
 GRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 
 
 You ask for a song that is not out of place, 
 Then I'll sing of hard cases that work at the case, 
 Like a song of dear woman or Fourth of July, 
 'Tis a glorious theme and will never be dry. 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers, Hurrah for the Printeiae. 
 Hurrah for the Printers, Hurra and Hurrah. 
 
 Old Faust was their father you very well know, 
 Who learnt from the devil the art long ago, 
 And all his successors, you see by their pri7its, 
 Have raised the Old Boy with the world ever since. 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
 From Kingdom they've knocked down most all of his 
 
 props. 
 Old Craftdom they've changed to the craft of the shops, 
 For labor now rules and mankind will be freed, 
 By the handmaid of Freedom, the Press, it's decreed. 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
150 HURRAH FOR THE PRINTERS. 
 
 Religion and Science and Art are its brothers, 
 For it is the art that preserves all the others ; 
 The Historian and Poet, O ! where'd be their fame. 
 Were it not for the Press their great deeds to proclaim ? 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
 The weapon of Truth and the champion of worth, 
 'Tis a light to mankind as the Sun is to earth, 
 It reflects, it produces, it nourishes, blesses ; 
 Then shout for the heroes that work at the Presses. 
 Hurrah for the Printers^ &c. 
 
 But though darkness they've banished, they're still in 
 
 the night, 
 l^f the secret that gives them their glory and might, 
 Which is,, though I own " Pat" can strike a good lick, 
 'Tis they are " the devils for handling the stick.'' 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
 It was that same stick did such wonderful things, 
 The setting up subjects and knocking down Kings, 
 By blessing and raising mankind every way ; 
 So Grod bless the Printers, hurrah and hurra. 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers, exclaimeth the preacher, 
 The soldier, the workman, the people, the teacher 
 While liberty, smiling benignantly o'er us, 
 From heaven looks down and joins in the chorus. 
 Hurrah for the Printers, &c. 
 
HURRAH FOR THE PRINTERS. 151 
 
 Then, since Old Faust's banner is brightly unfurled, 
 And waves with such glory, all over the world, 
 Say, shall the brave Printers be such modest elves 
 As not to be proud to hurrah for themselves ? 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers, Hurrah for the Printers, 
 Shout all for the Printers, Hurra and Hurrah ! 
 
 Now I've told you plain truth that you all knew before^ 
 But will quit, though the theme would afford many 
 
 more. 
 With a wish in a summary way, that no Winter 
 May ever congeal the fond hopes of the Printer. 
 
 Hurrah for the Printers, Hurrah for the Printers, 
 God bless the brave Printers, Hurra and Hurrah ! 
 
MARaARET. 
 
 I LOTED her — but 'twas not for aught of beauty I could 
 
 trace 
 In that light form, or in the mild expression of that 
 
 face, 
 Tho' other brighter blossoms oped inviting by my side, 
 My heart devotedly alone acknowledged her its bride. 
 
 We parted — but we made no vow — I breathed mine in 
 
 a sigh, 
 I felt our faithful hearts asked not that cold and formal 
 
 tie ; 
 I thought I read in her blue eyes that languished into 
 
 tears. 
 The vow of heart in heart enshrined, which quelled 
 
 unhallowed fears. 
 
 The earth put forth its greenest plumes — 'twas plumed 
 
 but once again. 
 When saddest sounds my ear e'er caught, or gave a 
 
 lover pain, 
 Came o'er my hopes — Oh ! she had wed — tears healed 
 
 not then the smart ; 
 The shock — the indignant feeling — checked the 
 
 promptings of my heart. 
 
MARGARET. 153 
 
 We met again — she sunk beneath the altered glance 
 
 that came 
 With my first gaze, and her pale cheek seemed mantled 
 
 o'er with shame; 
 I could not speak, I did not dare upbraid her — no, 
 
 my pride — 
 And her, I thought repentant, look stayed back my 
 
 feeling's tide. 
 
 I left her with a self-rebuke, I knew I'd given pain — 
 I would not for an angel's seat that bosom wound again ; 
 Away from home, and kindred dear — away to other 
 
 lands, 
 I sought a quiet to my mind, a Sabbath at Grod's hands. 
 
 But news soon came, ere many months had winged 
 
 their fleet career. 
 That she, poor Margaret, had died ! — then flowed the 
 
 long pent tear ; 
 Methought I heard Mm^ chiding death, that made his 
 
 joy so brief — 
 He wept a momentary pang — but /, whole years of 
 
 grief. 
 
 Oh ! she had been to me so dear in those briglit hours 
 
 I weep ; 
 Her image clung so round my heart, and haiij^tcd so 
 
 my sleep, 
 
 * Her Husband. 
 
 14 
 
154 MARGARET. 
 
 That sorrows by sweet memories made, whicli pride 
 
 had inward kept^ 
 Burst, when the tale of death was told, and like a child, 
 
 I wept. 
 
 She died, I'm told, lamenting that none mourned her 
 
 early doom. 
 Ah ! little did she think that one would weep above her 
 
 tomb — 
 But still I smile when on my heart the solemn truth 
 
 doth fall- 
 She long had been a corse to me ; she now is dead to 
 
 all! 
 
TO HENRY ANNA. 
 
 INFANT DAUGHTER OF LATE HENRY AND CHARLOTTE KEENB. 
 
 Thy life is o'er, and we are sad 
 
 To think the golden bow is bent; 
 'Twas like a bud that some rude hand 
 
 Breaks rudely ere its life is spent. 
 Still, still 'tis better that thou art 
 
 A bright-robed one, than child of earth, 
 For here each flower is filled with thorns, 
 
 And dark despair rests o'er each hearth. 
 
 For though some pleasant hours we have, 
 
 Thev are too like the autumn leaf. 
 That sports, ^till suddenly the wind 
 
 Wafts it away, then all is grief; 
 Or like the waters as they close, 
 
 As in their cold embrace is laid 
 Some noble sailor's hardy form, 
 
 A moment — and all trace will fade. 
 
 Yes, 'tis far better that thou art 
 A spotless, chosen child of Grod ; 
 
 For father, mother rest in peace 
 Beneath the flower-laden sod : 
 
156 " TO HENRY ANNA. 
 
 This world of curs would soon have heen 
 A place, indeed, of grief and care — 
 
 No father's smile to cheer thee on, 
 No mother's love thy grief to share. 
 
 Then we resign thee as we think, 
 
 Though few thy flowers, they were bright 
 As diamond-studded stars that gem 
 
 The firmament throughout the night ; 
 For sorrow o'er thy tender heart 
 
 Its with'ring power ne'er had flung, 
 And now in paradise thou'lt dwell, 
 
 Where strains of grief will ne'er be sung. 
 
ELEaiAC STANZAS. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OP MY FATHER. 
 " Cold and unhonored his relies are laid." 
 
 My Father's grave, my Father's grave— no tombstone 
 decks the spot ; 
 
 No graven tablet's flourish'd line tells ns " Forget-me- 
 not." 
 
 Oh, no, no monument is reared, no wicket guards the 
 
 bed; 
 But humbly now the sleeper rests, as when on earth 
 
 he sped: 
 No quoted line of filial love there speaks in his behalf, 
 The heart his virtues treasures up — his only epitaph. 
 
 I love to think upon the past, though mingling comes 
 
 the sigh ; 
 It tells of early hours of bliss, when brightly beamed 
 
 his eye. 
 I then was but a little boy, but I remember well 
 The looks, the words of kindness given, oh! sweet's 
 
 the pain to tell. 
 These many kind endearing ties hang round me like a 
 
 spell, 
 And bring the tear-drops in my eye to think how 
 
 things were then, 
 And make me feel in every thought a simple boy again. 
 
 14* 
 
158 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 In memory's deep and sad recess, the fount of many 
 tears, 
 
 The brightest, greenest relic-grief his dying hour ap- 
 pears ; 
 
 Kind fortune once had smiled, and he was happy in 
 heir smiles, 
 
 But now her darkest clouds hung o'er, and treachery's 
 hidden wiles. 
 
 Encompassed in fair friendship's form, had robbed him 
 of his peace, 
 
 O'erwhelm'd his home with poverty, with anguish, 
 and disease. 
 
 Oh ! I will ne'er forget that scene, the wild delirious 
 
 look 
 My mother gave when from his cheek our parting kiss 
 
 we took ; 
 And then in tears she bade me take the book of prayer — 
 
 all knelt — 
 The solemn litany arose, in each response 'twas felt; 
 The smile play'd sweetly on his lip which moved to 
 
 every word. 
 Till with the prayer his spirit pure went praying to the 
 
 Lord. 
 
 They heaped the sod upon his breast, and said the 
 
 parting prayer ; 
 My mother wept, and all did weep the tear of sorrow 
 
 there. 
 
ELEGIAC STANZAS. 159 
 
 I know naught else of that sad hour, from memory 'tis 
 
 fled; 
 The tear might wither, or perhaps my thoughts were 
 
 with the dead. 
 
 Sad thought doth now oft set me by his grave, though 
 parted far, 
 
 To sigh o'er things that once have been, and weep o'er 
 things that are. 
 
 Though years have fled and griefs increased, yet such 
 thoughts will intrude, 
 
 And on my heart is painted green that grave's simili- 
 tude. 
 
 O I will pray that when my heart has ceased its earthly 
 
 throb, 
 That I may yet enjoy that bliss that death did early rob, 
 That men may say when this poor form is coffined by 
 
 his side — 
 ' ' He lived as did his father live, and as his father died." 
 
BACHELORS' BALL. 
 
 The Bachelors' Ball ! 
 
 O ! joy will be there 
 In his rosiest smile, 
 
 Unattended by care ! — 
 To see the gay Bachelors 
 
 Cutting their shines, 
 Will tickle the old fellow 
 
 Up to the nines. 
 
 The Bachelors' Ball ! 
 
 ! brightly will glow 
 The smiles of the Fair, 
 
 To the eyes of each beau ! 
 The music and dancing. 
 
 Love, Beauty, and all, 
 Will make bachelors rare things — 
 
 After the Ball! 
 
 The Bachelors' Ball ! 
 
 ! who will decline 
 To join in its honors, 
 
 To loved Valentine ! 
 ,AI1 ladies and lovers 
 
 Will then haste away, 
 For when Bachelors court the saint,, 
 
 Who can say nay f 
 
LINES. 161 
 
 The Bachelors' Ball! 
 
 Success to it yet — 
 And may Baltimore Bachelors 
 
 Never forget 
 The "hearts to be won "there, — 
 
 Then Bachelors all 
 Haste ! hasten away 
 
 To the Bachelors' Ball 1 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Why is it that I ofttimes feel 
 
 A void within my heart, 
 Which e'en pleasure cannot fill, 
 
 Nor life one joy impart. 
 
 Why do I shed the burning tear, 
 And heave the trembling sigh ; 
 
 Why throbs my heart with anxious fear, 
 That bids peace from it fly. 
 
 Ah ! sure 'tis some wild or 
 Strange unconc[uerable spell ; 
 
 It is a feeling undefined 
 That doth my bosom swell. 
 
IMPROMPTU. 
 
 On seeing the remains of the daughter of Capt. Joseph Peck, 
 and wife of James A. King, ^' laid out " in the beautiful robes 
 for the grave. The birds were warbling in their cages, while 
 every eye was wet in the hall where the composed body lay. 
 The contrast was from nature. 
 
 The small birds sang most lively 
 
 Beside the solemn ball, 
 Wbere lay tlie loved and lovely, 
 
 Wrapped in ber funeral pall ; 
 They had showered roses o'er her, 
 
 White roses, as when grown, 
 But silent she reposed, 
 
 On her coffined bed alone. 
 
 She sleeps the last sleep sweetly — 
 
 It seems the angel breath. 
 Which left her frame so sadly, 
 
 Made beautiful her death ; 
 But what are birds and flowers, 
 
 And what are tears and grief.'' 
 She has found a better morrow 
 
 To a life most bright and brief 
 
 She had left her love so kindly. 
 
 To mother, husband, all ! 
 The father in his sufferings. 
 
 May not forget his thrall ; 
 
INSCRIPTION. 1 63 
 
 But on tliis opening morning, 
 The hearts before all riven, 
 
 Will feel the child's adorning, 
 The joyous halls of heaven. 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 "to the lady of president pierce, with the humble and 
 sincere respect of the author." 
 
 The foregoing inscription was written in a neatly bound 
 volume of poems, recently handed to President Pierce for his 
 wife, and appropriately accepted by him : 
 
 May, the merry month of May, 
 Keigneth now, a holiday ; 
 Sweets the Si)ring-born flowers yield, 
 Fragrance scents the emerald field ; 
 Eolleth by the joyous river, 
 Anthems singing to the Giver ; 
 'Neath the sky and all above, 
 Kindly beam the signs of love_, 
 Love which thrills the lonely heart. 
 Inward blessings to impart — 
 Nature thus her lesson frames, 
 Peace into the breast proclaims. 
 In thy bosom may her wing 
 Ever cheering music bring. 
 Round thee soothing angels sing. 
 Cheer thee, then, and happy be, 
 Even as Nature teacheth thee. 
 
LAMENT OF THE BUOKEN-HEARTED. 
 
 Ah ! woe is mine and dark my fate, 
 Sore grief and care my steps await, 
 All, all to me is desolate. 
 
 And bleak m}^ lonely heart ; 
 A voyager on life's dark sea, 
 My gloomy bark moves cheerlessly, 
 
 Without a compass or a chart; 
 I dream of bliss I once enjoy'd, 
 I wake and find my dreamings void. 
 
 Through retrospection's varied page, 
 My heart, my soul, I oft engage. 
 Seeking a gleam that will assuage 
 
 The burning fever here ; 
 I win a mournful pleasure when 
 I think of joys that once have been, 
 
 But soon, too soon 'twill disappear ; 
 I dream of boyhood's sunny beam, 
 I wake and find it but a dream. 
 
 Amid this world of care and strife, 
 I sought a maid to be my wife ; 
 I found her_, lov'd her as my life. 
 And thought my love return'd ; 
 
\ 
 
 LAMENT OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 165 
 
 But no ! she bless'd another's arms. 
 She gave for gold an angel's charms, 
 
 And me, poor me she spurn'd; 
 Then in my dark and wild despair, 
 I knelt, and curs'd her in my prayer. 
 
 And now this world no charms may bring, 
 No tendrils round my branches cling, 
 I stand alone, a nameless thing, 
 
 A blank on earth's dull scheme ; 
 No home, no resting place for me. 
 My life a life of misery, 
 
 Uncheer'd by hope's frail beam ; 
 In dreams my prospects dark I view, 
 I wake and feel my dreaming's true. 
 
 'Tis not for friendship unreturn'd, 
 'Tis not for dear lov'd ones inurn'd, 
 'Tis not that fortune me hath spurn'd. 
 
 That now alone I mourn ; 
 Though eacA their separate griefs instil, 
 'Twas she alone all hope could kill. 
 
 Alone my heart-strings burn ; 
 Strange that a faithless heart like thine 
 Could plant an endless sting in mine. 
 
 15 
 
166 LAMENT OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 
 
 In mine! alas! 'tis broken, torn, 
 
 My spirits fled, my weak frame, worn, 
 
 Sinks 'neath a weight it long hath borne, 
 
 And longs to fill the grave ; 
 Since joy and bliss to me are dead, 
 And earthly hope for ever fled, 
 
 ril kneel to Him who died to save, 
 And pray to join his fold above. 
 Where all is peace and all is love, 
 And therO;, where dreams may never be, 
 Fit wake to joy's reality. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 I LOOKED — the sigh came sadly sweet 
 Up from the young one's heart, 
 
 And pain and agony in its hreast 
 Seem'd struggling to depart. 
 
 I gaz'd again — the infant's cheek, 
 With young roses seem'd spread; 
 
 I for a moment look'd away, 
 
 Then turn'd — the flower had fled. 
 
 'Twas death that stole the rose away, 
 Ere it had reach'd its hloom ; 
 
 It liv'd hut for a little day, 
 Then sunk into the tomh. 
 
 And thus, thought I, is man's hrief life, 
 
 A little day we have 
 Of misery, — when death comes in, 
 
 And bears us to the grave. 
 
PARODY 
 
 ON araby's daughter. 
 
 GooD-BY, good-by to tlie Fish- woman's daughter^ — 
 Thus bawl'd out an oysterman down Market-space ; 
 
 No shad ever swam under Chesapeake's water 
 
 More red in its gills than was Winny's sweet face, 
 
 0, fat as an oyster within the shell dozing, 
 
 How soft was thy heart till gin's witchery came ; 
 
 Like the wave of the bay all thy virtues inclosing, 
 And crush'd all thy beauty and wither'd thy frame. 
 
 0, long through the streets, when our business loud 
 calling, 
 
 Shall oyster and fishmongers weep o'er the doom 
 Of her who lies deaf to our roaring and bawling. 
 
 With naught but a segar to light up our gloom. 
 
 And still when the "buy any shad" season's come in, 
 And call from their bed wake the young and the old ; 
 
 Then the fish-trading craft, ay, the lover and woman, 
 At sunrise shall scream when thy story is told. 
 
 The gin drinking maid, while her herring she dresses, 
 The food of the day her last penny paid for ; 
 
 When she thinks of thy fate will forget her distresses, 
 And mournfully turn to the bottle once more. 
 
PARODY. 169 
 
 Nor shall Jemmy, beloved of his hero, forget thee, 
 Though so blue by his hero he naught can discern ; 
 
 Close, close by the neck of that hero he'll set thee, 
 Or plunge head and heels in thy wave-girdled urn. 
 
 G-ood-by — be it ours to think what a hard pillow 
 Thy soft head is laid on — may'st thou find a shell 
 
 Large enough to protect thee from sharks of the billow, 
 Where thou'lt quietly sleep and enchantingly dwell. 
 
 Around thee will glisten the loveliest fishes 
 That ever were caught by the net or the line ; 
 
 With oceans of clams, winding through the sea meshes, 
 Thy chamber of rest most testaciously fine. 
 
 We'll dive our tongs down where our fortunes are 
 creeping. 
 
 Then keep in thy home and take care of thy head ; 
 We're loath to disturb thee, so sweetly thou'rt sleeping, 
 
 So roll away off with thy sweet oyster bed. 
 
 Good-by — good-by — until brandy's sweet fountain 
 Is lost to the taste of the beaux and the belle; 
 
 They'll long for the hero — the dew of the mountain, 
 They'll do as the maid did that sleeps in that shell. 
 15* 
 
STANZAS 
 
 All may be hnppy if they court smiles 
 
 Instead of tears. J. H. Heudtt. 
 
 " And what is life ? " the poet sings — 
 '^ A day of grief and sorrow, 
 
 An opening bud of yesterday, 
 A withered leaf to-morrow. 
 
 A something fleet, evanescent, 
 
 The ephemera of an hour, 
 A dream of dreams too quickly spent, 
 
 A shadow on a flower. 
 
 A vale of woe and misery, 
 
 With naught hut groans and sighing, 
 Ourselves a walking monument, 
 
 Our only pleasure dying." 
 
 Thus ! they with dark alchymy turn 
 
 All things to misery's token. 
 And grumble, growl, at this bright world. 
 
 Like frogs in mill-ponds croaking. 
 
STANZAS. I'll 
 
 I pity their distemper'd brains, 
 
 Who see naught here to cheer them, 
 
 Kind nature with her smiling plains, 
 Kich perfume seems to bleer them. 
 
 At griefs approach hang out her flag, 
 And grieve to cure their grieving ; 
 
 Dark spots upon this bright world daub, 
 Themselves deceived, deceiving. 
 
 Tho' much 's been said and much 's been sung, 
 
 And much by nature spoken, 
 Yet still they keep their senseless, dull 
 
 And unremitted croaking. 
 
 Well! let them croak until they burst; 
 
 I've heard, and will believe it, 
 That folks who rail at this " sad life," 
 
 Are very loath to leave it. 
 
O NO, I NEVER MENTION IT. 
 
 NOj I never mention it, 
 To tell ril never dare ; 
 
 1 drank, got boozy, fought, was dragged 
 Next morning 'fore the Mayor ; 
 
 From court to court they hurried me — 
 
 My eyes were black as jet ; 
 The people laughed, his honor stared, 
 
 That stare I'll ne'er forget ! 
 
 He took my change, and bade me change 
 
 The course that I pursue ; 
 Said he, " You seem a fine young man, 
 
 Quit sotting or you'll rue ; 
 I'll fine you hard and make you pay. 
 
 This spree you'll long regret — 
 You surely shall remember it." 
 
 I never can forget ! 
 
 He told me folks were happy who 
 
 Drank water, milk and tea ; 
 Said I — just let me through this bar, 
 
 That Bar I'll never see ; 
 I'll quit the bowl and drunk makers. — 
 
 I've kept my promise yet, 
 And though I never mention it, 
 
 I never can forget ! 
 
A FEW STANZAS. 
 
 TO MISS MARTHA R. 
 
 They tell me thou art young, the world 
 
 Unknown to thy light heart, 
 A dream, a joy-lit banner furl'd, 
 And in its glittering folds impearFd 
 
 Shines hope's gem-lighted mart. 
 
 They tell me thou art loved, the flowers 
 
 Of life thy path bestrew ; 
 And care-worn mortals bless the hours 
 Of dimpled joy in pleasure's bowers, 
 
 Lit up with smiles by you. 
 
 ever be those smiles the birth 
 
 Of innocence and love ; 
 May flowers of life still strew the earth, 
 Blessing and blessed be thy mirth. 
 
 Like the bright sky above. 
 
 Youth long will gild thy cheeks, for there 
 
 Good nature reigns supreme ; 
 And loved thou'lt be, but light may'st share 
 Keen disappointment's withering care 
 
 In thy young bosom's dream. 
 
174 TO TWO SISTERS. 
 
 And when this vforld to thee is known, 
 
 Its joy-starr'd banner wave, 
 Thy heart turns down to bright hours flown ; 
 Then be thy past a golden crown 
 
 To light thee to the grave. 
 
 TO TWO SISTERS, 
 
 ONE OF WHICH ARGUED 'tWAS IMPRUDNET TO KISS A GENTLEMAN 
 BEFORE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Say why that blush ? dost quit defence } 
 
 UnAvittingly I blush to find, 
 Susan, thy bosom's eloquence 
 
 Against thy unweigh'd words combined. 
 Now let thy heart give honest voice. 
 
 And tell me dost thou deem't amiss, 
 Near him thy bosom's holy choice. 
 
 Dearest, to grant one little kiss ^ 
 Sweet is the sigh that owns the truth, 
 And sweet the assent of Sarah's smile, 
 Kevealed by thoughts that know no guile — 
 Ah ! dare I say to both of you. 
 Hold up your cheeks, let's prove it true. 
 
THE SOOTHING SONG OF THE DKEAM 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Those wreaths of white roses, 
 
 How lovely they glow ! 
 Kound the top of thy dwelling, 
 
 Thy heavea below. 
 They wind o'er a bower, 
 
 An air-built alcove. 
 Where foliage and flower 
 
 Bloom beauteous above. 
 
 How bright to thy vision 
 
 That alcove appears ; 
 It wins thy thoughts upwards, 
 
 Thy bosom it cheers, 
 As it winds round thy dwelling, 
 
 A circle of love. 
 For 'twas made by the angels 
 
 That bower above. 
 
 Though the home of thy children 
 
 Was sad to thy sight, 
 This comes to thy dwelling 
 
 To make it all bright ; 
 To show that thy castle's 
 
 A bower of Love, 
 Which blends with and leads to 
 
 Yon bower above ! 
 
TO THE MISSES W***. 
 
 A TEIBUTE OF GRATITUDE. 
 
 * * I WAS a stranger and ye took me in ;" 
 
 Ye gave me friendship, though ye knew me not — 
 
 Upon my bosom's page your 'kindness wrote 
 
 Memories which time can never blot. 
 
 Sisters I have in that bright land I left ; 
 
 I wept when on the vessel's deck I stood, 
 
 And as my own loved home the distance clasped, 
 
 I felt that all the kind, the loved, the good, 
 
 Were in Old England. But I've found 
 
 The Stranger's home — the Eagle-land 
 
 Has daughters lovely as the British dames. 
 
 Whose kind words cheer him, and whose open hand 
 
 Leaps to the welcome of the Stranger, poor, 
 
 Whose heart is far away beyond the Atlantic's roar 
 
 ! could I give my pen the swelling thoughts 
 
 Your kind names wake within my bosom's cell, 
 
 I'd speak a lover's love, and this poor lay 
 
 Would of a more than sister's kindness tell. 
 
 Language is faint, song may not tell the feelings 
 
 That raise my bosom till the tear-drops start ; 
 
 Ye shall be treasured, tun'd to those deep pealings 
 
 Which sing the love-hallowed memories of the heart. 
 
TALE OF MEDORA'S MAIDENS. 
 
 . " The sun had sunk — and darker than the night, 
 
 Sinks with its beams upon the beacon's height, 
 
 Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone, 
 
 , With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! " 
 
 Three days upon the beacon tower 
 Watcliing for Mm she stood, 
 
 Wearied, and faint, and failing fast, 
 Yet tasted not of food. 
 
 Although her favorite Meda press'd 
 
 With wild imploring air. 
 Yet nothing passed those sweet lips, save 
 
 The unavailing prayer. 
 
 At midnight in our dreamy sleep 
 Was heard the matron's cry — 
 
 "Hasten, ye maidens, to the beach, 
 Or, Allah ! she will die ! 
 
 *•' Three lingering days I watch'd my child, 
 
 Wearied to-night I lay 
 Upon my couch, and while I slept, 
 
 My bird has flown away ! " 
 16 
 
1*78 TALE OF MEDORA's MAIDENS. 
 
 We paused not — heard no more — away 
 
 On wings of fear we hied, 
 Down to the shore, and soon we knelt 
 
 Her senseless form beside. 
 
 Wild was our gaze on that pale brow, 
 Cold form and quivering lips, — 
 
 The cloud upon her heavenly eyes 
 Foretold their near eclipse. 
 
 And quick to her couch we bore her. 
 Cordial and skill applying; 
 
 But her disease skill could not reach. 
 We saw that she was dying. 
 
 Ah ! who could count the tears that fell 
 
 Within that house of sorrow ; 
 The thousand prayers each sad heart pour'd — 
 
 The deep dread of to-morrow. 
 
 " We watch'd her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low ; 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
TALE OF MEDORA's MAIDENS. 179 
 
 " So silenth^, we seem'cl to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our power 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 " Our very hopes belied our fears ; 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 " For when the morn came dim and sad, 
 And chill'd with earthly showers. 
 
 Her quiet eye-lids closed — she had 
 Another morn than ours." 
 
THE ANaRY LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Away ! false girl ! thy treacherous smile 
 
 Shall never more betray— 
 The heart that lov'd thee without guile 
 
 Thou never more shalt sway. 
 
 Thy wheedling tongue shall ne'er ensnare, 
 
 Nor give my hosom pain ; 
 My heart would sooner hug despair 
 
 Than trust thy vows again. 
 
 Thy beauty ne'er shall wake my soul 
 
 To thoughts of love for thee ; 
 Thy tears shall ne'er my heart control, 
 
 For heart and soul are free. 
 
 rd sooner wear the galling chain, 
 
 With southern negroes toil, 
 Endure man's misery and pain. 
 
 Or with the serpents coil, 
 
 Than trust my heart to thee again, 
 
 Myself unto thy arms, 
 Or once again endure the bane 
 
 Of thy deceitful charms. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Oh ! Friendsliip ! soother of the troubled mind ! 
 Where does thy power cease ? to where confia'd ? 
 Earth has no chains for thee, soul of the soul, 
 But free thy spirit roves from pole to pole, 
 Pours its rich balm on Turk and Christian breast, 
 Bids hatred fly, dispels the soul's unrest ; 
 Thy bright, thy holy influence spreading round, 
 Child of the skies, in thee does heaven abound, 
 And gathering glory from the power that sent, 
 Inspir'd of Grod, becomes omnipotent. 
 
 Yes, born of heaven thou art, bright star of love, 
 A.nd all thy deeds thy heavenly virtues prove ; 
 Rich gift of God to cheer man's path below, 
 To smooth his joy and tranquillize his woe ! 
 In all our miseries a firm, staunch prop, 
 Faithful, unwavering, till life's curtain drop ; 
 Ay, like the love once woke in woman's breast, 
 Burns brightly in prosperity and distress, 
 And warmly clings, though worldly hopes are riven, 
 A soothing power, ethereal spark of heaven. 
 
 16* 
 
LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY THE INITIALS OF WHOSE NAME 
 WERE S. A. D. 
 
 Oh, Melancholy ! Death's pale daughter, 
 Fell spoiler of the heart's bright glee, 
 
 I pray thee pour not thy dark water 
 Upon the joy of S. A. D. 
 
 I feel and know thy power, Sadness, 
 And from thy sceptre cannot flee ; 
 
 But though Tm doomed, touch not the gladness 
 Of the young heart of S. A. D. . 
 
 0, she's a rose-bud freshly blooming — 
 Melt not its charms in thy dark sea ; 
 
 Though roses bloom but for consuming, 
 Spare the young flower, S. A. D. 
 
 They say the heart that feels thy breaker 
 Is schooled for joys in heaven that be : 
 
 0, she's as pure as tears can make her — 
 School not the heart of S. A. D. 
 
 Preserving spirits, hover round her, 
 Shield her from pangs that torture me ; 
 
 Kind guardians, keep her as you found her, 
 The pure and gentle S. A D. 
 
TO MY FRIEND. 
 
 Farewell ! one of the few who star 
 The clouded waters of my breast, 
 
 I send the dove-thoughts from the war 
 Of doubts and griefs that there infest. 
 
 I bid him seek if one green swell 
 Rises above that darken'd tide, 
 
 And bring the olive branch to tell 
 The mount does o'er its waves abide. 
 
 Back to my anxious soul doth flee 
 
 The thought and branch, there is a spot, 
 
 And thy firm love the branch shall be. 
 Those feio my mount of Ararat. 
 
 And never did a prouder mount 
 Repel the wave or cleave the skies ; 
 
 Sunk in my soul's extremest fount, 
 Its base the part that never dies. 
 
 And never did the hallow'd tree 
 
 Of Friendship grow a greener bough 
 
 Than that my love has emblem'd thee, 
 And spreads upon my bosom now. 
 
184 TO MY FRIEND. 
 
 Oh, Friendship is a mount of bliss, 
 
 Round which affliction well may cling ; 
 
 And what were such a world as this, 
 Was it indeed " a name — a thing !" 
 
 The world might then ask Lethe's hand 
 To hide, or Death all, all explode — 
 
 Away ! that mount will ever stand, -^ 
 Its origin, its base is God ! 
 
 My Friend ! I need not tell thee more ; 
 That word expresses all of prayer 
 
 That tongue could speak or heart could pour- 
 All wishes, blessings centre there. 
 
 Farewell 1 still wend thy even way 
 
 In peace througli shocks my feelings fell ; 
 
 And woman, seraph woman, may 
 Her love thy mount of blisses swell. 
 
 And may those darkened waves subside 
 -^ From round my Ararat, and be 
 For aye my Friendship opened wide 
 To all the world as 'tis to thee. 
 
THE MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. 
 
 GrOOD-BY to thee, lov'd of my youth, 
 
 Enraptured we met, but in sorrow we part; 
 
 deep as the undying spirit of truth 
 
 Remembrance of thee will remain in my heart. 
 
 Grood-by to that smile and that look which endears. 
 
 Even these will oft waken fond memory's tears. 
 
 When the youth of yon city love garlands shall twine, 
 And woo with soft smile, I will then think of thine; 
 Sweet memory's voice will exclaim in my breast, 
 How bright and more dear were the moments you blest ; 
 In the silence of night thy lov'd image shall be 
 Near my heart, and my dreams shall be ever of thee. 
 Grlad smiles which were thine to my vision will come, 
 To cheer the lone exile or beacon her home ; 
 O ! say from my dreams shall I waken with care — 
 No ! no, for I'll smile that I meet thee e'en there. 
 
 My own one, adieu ! while I breathe it again. 
 In thy heart say once more I shall ever remain ; 
 To our vows let me hear the fond accents from you, 
 Come sorrow or joy, I will ever be true. 
 How ! how could I doubt thee, thou dear one? but see, 
 Even now the bark's ready that bears me from thee ; 
 Like a summons to death comes that cold notice-bell, 
 Lov'd, treasur'd one, only one, farewell! farewell! 
 
WOMAN. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF A SYBIL IN ONE OF THE ANNUALS. 
 
 All women are sybils, and, oh, to unfold tliem 
 
 Would bother the wise and the learned ones' brains, 
 For when in their clutches they think that they hold 
 them. 
 They slip through their fingers, and that for their 
 pains. 
 
 How many, how many have boasted possession — 
 Have pedantly swore that deep woman they knew ; 
 
 They could see in her heart, like a book or confession — 
 None else but themselves though believes it was true. 
 
 For woman, strange woman, is all contradiction; 
 
 One moment you'll swear she's as perfect as sweet, 
 And next from your mind slips the sudden conviction, 
 
 And Lord ! she's the devil's one, drill'd and com- 
 plete. 
 
 She's witch, and she's angel — she's saint, and she's 
 sinner — 
 
 She's every thing bad, and she's all that is good ; 
 And when it seems plainly your gain is to win her, 
 
 The gain you'll find out is a loss understood. 
 
WOMAN. 18*7 
 
 In some things she's one thing, and first, in her youth, 
 She's innocent — age soon brings cunning instead ; 
 
 She's a trifler perfected— a lover of truth 
 In others; herself can lie bravely — in bed. 
 
 In short, she's a puzzle for any man's solving. 
 
 Though solve her, or search her, or know her, can 
 no man ; 
 
 For after your brain in all its corners revolving, 
 Your only conclusion is — woman — is woman. 
 
 But strange as she is, and a puzzle together, 
 
 With such a wild thing for my friend or my wife, 
 
 I could sail through the world, braving fair or foul 
 weather. 
 And swear, though she's j)epj3er, she's sugar of life. 
 
A NIGHT VISIT TO MY FATHER'S GRAVE 
 
 (written for a friend.) 
 
 The melanclioly mooii moves slowly on 
 
 Through hosts of stars that glitter rouud her path, 
 Wrapped in a sheet of white and clouds anon, 
 
 Like Eastern beauty's spangled shroud of death. 
 
 Or like the bruised heart whose cheerless task 
 
 It is to move through splendid thoughtless crowds, 
 
 And seem with them in joy's bright rays to bask, 
 But hide the anguish that the soul enshrouds 
 
 The earth is silent, naught but the busy breeze 
 
 Is heard, pouring its fitful moan o'er nature's gloom, 
 
 Stirring thy placid lake, Seneca, where one sees 
 Reflected in thy glass yon glittering dome. 
 
 And now and then breaks from the marsh below 
 The dreary croakings of the bass- voiced frog. 
 
 Joined with the cricket's plaintive song of woe. 
 And whiles the barking of the watchful dog. 
 
 The toil-worn cattle and the toil-worn man 
 Now rest their weary limbs in sweet repose, 
 
 But I, unblest by sleep, with visage wan, 
 And soul incumbered with elegiac woes, 
 
A NiaHT VISIT TO MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 189 
 
 Have wandered here the village graveyard to, 
 Where spirits soar congenial with mj mind ; 
 
 The ghost-like tombs, some crouch below. 
 Upon the dreary earth or graves behind. 
 
 Ye still, still sleepers all are many-voiced. 
 
 And speak but grief; but there has one long lain 
 
 Beside thee in his dwelling chill and moist, 
 
 Who's drawn me here to weep and think, though 
 thinking pain. 
 
 My father! three long years have passed in gloom 
 Since, weeping, sad, we laid thee 'neath the sod, 
 
 And turning, heart-broke, sought our gloomy home, 
 A home no more since thou hast gone— to God. 
 
 17 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 TO MRS. MARGARET A 
 
 Melodiously sweet yon beautiful stream 
 Glides calmly away 'neath the moon's bright beam ; 
 Spangled all o'er is its crystal face, 
 Embracing the heaven's dazzling space. 
 May thy life, as that stream, flow gently away, 
 Illum'd in its course by a heavenly ray ; 
 Zephyrs soft cheering thy life as it flies, 
 And thy heart, as the stream, reflect naught but the 
 skies. 
 
 And oh ! may the one thou hast blest with thy hand 
 Prove as true to thy love as thy virtues command ; 
 Those scenes of delight your fond hearts have enjoyed, 
 May they oft be repeated and ne'er be alloy'd. 
 G-rant, Heaven, that when my poor heart shall be blest, 
 And my cares meet the soothings of beauty's soft breast, 
 That the lips which will soothe and the charms which 
 
 entwine, 
 Oh! Margaret, my friend, be as pleasing as thine. 
 
SONG OF THE WIND. 
 
 PRIZE POEM. 
 
 Whence come ye with your odor-laden wings, 
 
 Fond, viewless wanderers of a summer night? 
 Why sportive kiss my lyre's trembling strings, 
 
 Fashioning wild music — which the light 
 Of listening orbs doth seem in joy to drink ? 
 
 Ye wanton round my form, and kiss my brow, 
 While I hold converse with the stars that wink, 
 
 And laugh upon the mirror-stream below. 
 
 "Oh, I have come fresh from the sun-beaten climes, 
 With the incense rich of a thousand sweet flowers, 
 
 I have frolicked in many a forest of limes. 
 
 And stolen the dew drops from jessamine bowers. 
 
 I have kiss'd the white crest of the moon-lit wave, 
 
 And bosom'd the sail of the reckless bark ; 
 I have sung my mad dirge o'er the sea-boy's grave, 
 • And fann'd up the blaze of the meteor spark. 
 
 I have wander'd along the sea's pebbly shore, 
 
 And wanton'd around the young sea-nymph's form ; 
 
 I have play'd with the surf when its frolic was o'er. 
 And murmured aloud with the coming storm. 
 
192 SONG OF THE WIND. 
 
 I have wildly careered through the shivering shrouds, 
 And rent the reef d sail of the corsair in twain; 
 
 I have scream'd at the burst of the thunder-clouds, 
 And laugh'd at the rage of the frothy main. 
 
 But erst, and I left on an ocean -girt rock; 
 
 That tower'd alone o'er the battering wave, 
 The wreck of a ship, which the tempest's wild shock 
 
 Had borne, with her wealth, to a watery grave. 
 
 And lonely and sad o'er her shivering form 
 
 The last of her bold crew, an aged man, stood; 
 
 He heard not the notes of the loud piping storm, 
 While he triumphed alone in his "^ild solitude. 
 
 I lifted the locks from his time-stricken brow, 
 
 And I kiss'd the hot tears from his care-furrowed 
 cheek ; 
 When he cried out — "My comrades — oh! where are 
 they now?" 
 I answered him loud — "To the billow, and seek !" 
 
 He spoke of his home and his own cherish'd ones — 
 But the muttering thunder alone made reply; 
 
 The lightnings flash'd bright like a myriad of suns. 
 And the waves vaulted up to the dark leaden sky 
 
SONG OF THE WIND. 193 
 
 Oh! that sorrowing man ! — how he smote on his breast", 
 How he wept for the world he was going to leave ; 
 
 He shrunk from the grave where his bold comrades 
 rest, 
 And he cried for life's joys, only made to deceive. 
 
 Then o'er his wan visage a holy light spread, 
 
 As he turned toward heaven a mild pleading eye ; 
 
 He mutter'd a prayer for the peace of the dead. 
 
 While I whispered him softly — ' ' the soul cannot dieT 
 
 A smile threw its light round his feverish lips, 
 As he laid on the rock his hoary old head — 
 
 The cold spirit came — 'twas a moment's eclipse, 
 A struggle — a sigh— and his spirit had fled ! 
 
 Where the citron tree pouts with its golden-hued fruit, 
 And the coffee-plant shakes to the fiery breath ; 
 
 I have waken'd the song of the Spanish girl's lute, 
 While I placed on her lip the cold signet of death. 
 
 For the death-plague had perched on my shadowless 
 wings. 
 And the form that I touched became lifeless and 
 cold ; 
 To the dirge I awaken'd the lute's steeping strings. 
 And it sung of the maiden whose days were all told. 
 
194 STANZAS. 
 
 I hurried me on — and the things of the earth 
 Fell stricken with death as I wander'd along ; 
 
 I blasted the smile of the board and the hearth, 
 And I leveled alike both the feeble and strong. 
 
 But, shrink not — I've gather'd the sweets of the flowers, 
 And, laden with perfume, I come to thee now, 
 
 To kiss the dew-lips of the rosy-wing'd hours, 
 
 And play with the dark locks that shadow thy brow. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 See yon moon in the heavens, how stately her pace, 
 And see those dark clouds that encompass her round, 
 
 While some in her pathway their black bodies place, 
 Like an army of spirits to crush or confound. 
 
 But still, with a progress majestic and calm, 
 She fearlessly keeps on her luminous path, 
 
 And even when successful her passage they dam, 
 Or seemingly clasp her, still smiles thro' their wrath. 
 
 Oh ! thus lives the heart that with virtue is crown'd. 
 By religion supported — heaven-lighted and led ; 
 
 'Twill move on serenely though troubles surround. 
 And smile, like the moon, through the clouds that 
 invade.