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Henry S. Hagert 
 
 MEMORIAL. 
 
 POEMS AND VERSES, 
 
 WITH 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 PBIVATELT PRINTED FOR HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 PEBSS OF 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 1886. 
 
"PS IJ it 
 .H2 
 
 Co}>yright, 188(>, by J. 15. Lh'I'inoott Company. 
 
OOISTTEISTTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memoir 5 
 
 Poems : 
 
 Introduction 23 
 
 Columbus before the Queen 25 
 
 The Sleep of the Dead 33 
 
 Night 36 
 
 Song of the Wind 38 
 
 On a Kainy Day 41 
 
 The Dying Girl 44 
 
 To a Lake 46 
 
 Pleasure and Pain 48 
 
 Extract 50 
 
 The Last of the Sachems 52 
 
 Clouds at Sunset 54 
 
 The "Wreck 56 
 
 Tantallon Castle 58 
 
 Moonlight 60 
 
 The Unknown Beauty G2 
 
 Ruins .......... 65 
 
 The Eaid 67 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sunset among the Alps ..... .70 
 
 Greek War-Song .72 
 
 The Warrior of the Desert 74 
 
 The Boy and the Butterfly 75 
 
 The Lady of the Veil 78 
 
 Hours of Melancholy 80 
 
 The Lost Ladie 82 
 
 To Charles "West Thomson, accompanying Severiil Clus- 
 ters of Grapes 88 
 
 L'Arielle 90 
 
 A Fragment . . .92 
 
 Lines written in an Album to a Picture of " The Harle- 
 quin" .98 
 
 The Alpine Traveller 99 
 
 Song 101 
 
 A Eevery 103 
 
 To Mary 108 
 
 Lines to a Royal Mummj' . . . . . .110 
 
 Lines written in a Copy of the " American Gallery of 
 
 Art" ' 113 
 
 The Luckless Lover to his Ladie . . . . .115 
 " I Loved Thee in thy Spring-time's Blushing Hour" . 117 
 
 "Fear Not; it is 1" 119 
 
 Christmas Hymn ........ 120 
 
 List of Subscribers to the Memorial .... 123 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 Heney Schell Hagert, the son of Jacob E. 
 and Eliza Hagert, was born in Philadelphia, May 2, 
 1826. After graduating at the Central High School in 
 1842, he entered the office of the Hon. Charles Gilpin 
 as a law-student, and was admitted to the Bar May 8, 
 1847, a few days after attaining his majority. As a 
 student he exhibited the careful and conscientious thor- 
 oughness which characterized his after-life, and secured 
 for him such great and deserved success in hi's profes- 
 sion. He was a slow, methodical, and laborious reader, 
 and laid strong and deep the foundations of a solid 
 legal education. 
 
 Shortly after his admission to the Bar he was elected 
 Solicitor for the Board of Guardians of tlie Poor of 
 Philadelphia, an office at that time entirely under the 
 control of tEe Board, and unconnected with the Law 
 Department of the city. Whilst discharging the du- 
 ties of this office he attracted the attention of the Hon. 
 
 5 
 
6 MEMOIR. 
 
 William B. Reed, then District Attorney of Philadel- 
 phia, one of the recognized leaders of the Bar of that 
 day, and a gentleman distinguished no less for his keen 
 and accurate knowledge of men than for his profound 
 learning, ripe scholarship, and commanding ability, and 
 whose friendship secured Mr. Hagert's appointment as 
 one of the assistants of the Hon. Isaac Hazlehurst upon 
 that gentleman's election to the office of City Solicitor 
 in 1854. Here he displayed such marked ability as 
 to warrant the assignment to him, although the young- 
 est of the assistants, of some of the chief duties of the 
 office, and with Mr. Hazlehurst he draughted many 
 of the ordinances made necessary by the Act of 
 Consolidation. 
 
 The friendship of Mr. Reed, which ended only with 
 that gentleman's death, was again of value to him when 
 the political contest of 1856 resulted in the Hon. Lewis 
 C. Cassidy being returned as elected District Attorney 
 and the opening of the contested election case of Mann 
 versus Cassidy, which still holds its place among the 
 leading cases upon that branch of the law. At Mr. 
 Reed's suggestion, Mr. Cassidy appointed Mr. Hagert 
 his assistant, and he continued in this position until a 
 year later, when the contest was decided in favor of 
 Mr. Maun, discharging his duties with credit to him- 
 
MEMOIR. 7 
 
 self and to his chief, and the Judges of the Court and 
 senior members of the Bar speak with enthusiasm of the 
 ability displayed by him in the trial of several homi- 
 cide cases during that time. 
 
 Retiring with Mr. Cassidy from the District Attor- 
 ney's office, Mr. Hagert pursued his private practice for 
 the next eleven years, steadily gaining in professional 
 standing, and securing from the Bench and his breth- 
 ren of the Bar the reputation of a careful, skilful, 
 well-read, and thoroughly-equipped lawyer. His prac- 
 tice was almost exclusively confined to the Civil 
 Courts, and the eminently judicial qualities of his 
 mind secured him from the Bench, and with the 
 hearty approval of the Bar, frequent appointments as 
 master and referee in cases involving intricate ques- 
 tions of law and of fact. Successful in all branches 
 of his profession, he delighted most in nisi prius con- 
 tests, where his ability shone the brightest, and where 
 he won his greatest and most enduring fame. There 
 his marvellous powers of cross-examination and his 
 general management of a case made him a valuable 
 colleague and dangerous adversary. It may, however, 
 truthfully be said, without in any way detracting from 
 his natural abilities cultivated and sharpened by the 
 most careful study and observation, that the secret of 
 
3 MEMOIR. 
 
 his power was in his thoroiij;!! ami oxhaustivo prepara- 
 tion of a ease. Every faet was earefully investigated ; 
 he \vas familiar in advanee with all the testimony, 
 whieh, if possible, was ehronologieally arrano;e(l ; the 
 whole trial was nia|>pe<l out ; all sides of every ques- 
 (itni were consideretl ; the law studied and a])plied ; 
 and, when the case was opened, he was armed at every 
 point, and no adversary, however able or adroit, eonld 
 surprise him, and no emergency could arise for which 
 he was unprepareil. h^ver cool, quiet, self-possessed, 
 and passionless, nothing that was said or done, even 
 in the most exciting (\Mitests, could in the least disturb 
 his equanimity. In the examination and cross-exam- 
 ination of witnesses he hail few rivals and no superi- 
 or. He seemed to measure and read the thoughts of 
 a witness at sight, and his success was due as much 
 to his uniform courtesy and quiet, patient, and im- 
 perturbable manner, as to the keen, searching, and 
 insinuating questions with which he could draw facts 
 from the most unfriendly and obstinate witness, or to 
 the almost cruel skill with which he could exj^ose 
 falsehood ; and he showed as well his absolute mastery 
 of this great art by knowing when not to cross-examine. 
 He attached great importance to the opening of a 
 case, believing that it should so thoroughly prepare 
 
MEMOIR. 9 
 
 <li(,' iiiindH (»(■ llifi jiii'or.s lliut I Ik; icHliniony lo (oll(»w 
 would 1)0 ;it ()ii(;(! iiiKhd-Hlood iind ii|)|H('(;i;i(<id, :uid lli;i( 
 tlio irnproHHioriH I lien iii;id(! would Ix; lasliu^. \\\ I Ik; 
 :ir<j,iuncM( li(! vviis clcjii-, (orcIMc!, I(»<^i(:;d, uud jXTSUiiHivo, 
 iKiVcr atlemplirif^ to drive, Ixit ulwuyH (o Iciiid tli(! jury ; 
 never apjXMdiii^jj lo ilie |):iHHionH or |)r(!JudieeH, hul, lo 
 the reason of IiIh liearerH, I lis \;\\\^\vA\ry. vvaH plain, 
 Kimple, and well clioseu, and wiliioul, llie voiec, I lie 
 ])rc8cno(!, or IIk; maimer of an oralor, Ik; was a moKt 
 impreHsive and eir(;(;tiv(! Hpeaker. Jianily raiHiiif^ liiH 
 voice above a (toiiver.salional tone, wil.li ("ew {^eHlun-H, 
 and utterly ohiivious and mmiindCul of all |)r(!H<'ut 
 except th(! (Jom-t and jury, never lliinkiu^' (»!" liimseU', 
 l)uL always of liis ease, lie spoke willi I he eariK.'.stncHH 
 of conviction, HyHtetnutieally reviewing the tcHtiniony, 
 pointinj^ out or reeoncilinfjj ineonKisteneiciH, anaiy/iug 
 the motives of witnesH(!S, dovetailinjji; fartls and eireuiu- 
 stunces so completely and so plausibly that it recpiired 
 a rare advoeatc; to br(!ak the force of his ar<(iiiiienl or 
 wrcHt from liitu I Ik- verdict. 
 
 IFc waH ail ideal nisi prius lawyer, and as was said 
 of Chief .justice Marshull when at the Jiar, "lie was 
 persuaHive without eloquence, because lie always seemed 
 to b(! himself |)er8uade(l." 
 
 In December, 1868, Mr. Ifagert was a(^ain ealh.-d 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 to the District Attorney's office as first assistant for 
 the Hon. Fiirmau Sheppard, who had been elected 
 District Attorney at the October election of that year. 
 While justly recognized as learned, eloquent, and 
 scholarly, Mr. Sheppard was absolutely without ex- 
 perience in the Criminal Courts, and it was with so- 
 licitude that he souglit an assistant. The wisdom of 
 the choice was never questioned. Mr. Hagert's abil- 
 ity and worth commanded the respect and admiration 
 of the Bench and of all his professional brethren, 
 although to the community at large he was little 
 known. Within a few months, however, the trial of 
 the Eaton and Twitchell homicide cases, in which 
 he successfully met gentlemen of long experience and 
 well-tried and established ability, called forth his great 
 powers and at once secured for him a leading position 
 at the Criminal Bar. Both were cases in which the 
 public was deeply concerned, and the protracted trials 
 were watched Avith anxious interest. As was his cus- 
 tom as long as he remained in the District Attorney's 
 office, INIr. Hagert opened and summed up, examined 
 and cross-examined the witnesses, and with that same 
 method and thoroughness which had characterized him 
 in the Civil Courts, so presented his evidence that 
 "each link was perfectly forged and logically welded 
 
MEMOIR. 11 
 
 to its brothers in the chain/' and neither skill nor 
 eloquence could avail the defendants. As was said 
 by one of his most distinguished adversaries, he i)roved 
 each fact in a criminal trial with the same accuracy and 
 precision with which in the Civil Courts he would 
 prove the items of a book account. 
 
 Mr. Hagert remained as assistant for Mr. Sheppard 
 during the whole of his first term of office, as well as 
 during his subsequent term, extending from 1875 to 
 1878. To follow him through these years and speak 
 in detail of the many important cases tried is un- 
 necessary, and would be but mere repetition, for he 
 was the same in all. Brief notice should, however, 
 be made of one of the most celebrated homicide cases 
 ever tried in Philadelphia, and one which was always 
 considered the greatest triumph of Mr. Hagert's career 
 at the Criminal Bar. 
 
 In September, 1868, Mary Mohrman, a child of 
 five years, was murdered under circumstances so brutal 
 and repulsive as to arouse the indignation of the whole 
 city. All efforts to detect the murderer were unsuc- 
 cessful until nearly two years afterwards, when by 
 mere accident suspicion pointed to John Hanlon, and 
 he was indicted for the crime. The public interest was 
 at once re-awakened, and the trial in November, 1870, 
 
12 MEMOIR. 
 
 crowded the court-room daily with men from all the 
 walks of life. The prisoner was represented by gentle- 
 men of the highest distinction, and it was felt that 
 their profound learning, consummate skill, tried ex- 
 perience, and true eloquence would secure his acquittal, 
 especially as the Commonwealth was forced to rely 
 solely ujion circumstantial evidence and upon the con- 
 fession alleged to have been made to a fellow-convict, 
 named Dunn, whose career of crime on both sides of 
 the Atlantic precluded the possibility of his testimony 
 being believed unless every word was overwhelmingly 
 corroborated. The jury was composed of men who 
 were evidently slow to convict, and who would, if they 
 could conscientiously do so, give the prisoner the benefit 
 of the slightest doubt, the very atrocity of the crime 
 making them slow to believe that any rational being 
 could be guilty of such an offence. Every fact and 
 circumstance of the murder was brought out in detail, 
 and there was at last, after many days of patient labor, 
 a perfect chain of circumstantial evidence, but nothing 
 by which the prisoner was connected with the crime. 
 The convict Dunn, who up to this time had been ex- 
 cluded from the court-room, was then placed upon the 
 stand, and the fire of the defence drawn by not only 
 no eifort being made to protect him, but by boldly 
 
MEMOIR. 13 
 
 examining him in chief upon his past life and draw- 
 ing from him a full history of his career of crime. 
 The confession alleged to have been made to him was 
 then introduced, and the case of the Commonwealth 
 closed. For days following all that ingenuity and skill 
 could do was done to break down, explain away or 
 weaken the Commonwealth's case, or throw upon it 
 some doubt sufScient to acquit; all these efforts were 
 met by skill so extraordinary as to call forth the ad- 
 miration of every lawyer present, and no one appre- 
 ciated it more or spoke of it in higher terms than the 
 learned gentlemen representing the defendant. 
 
 At last the testimony closed, and it is no disparage- 
 ment to Mr. Sheppard, whose closing speech was one 
 of exceptional power, pathos, and eloquence, replete 
 with legal and classical learning, to say that the con- 
 viction of Hanlon would have been impossible but for 
 the masterly summing up of Mr. Hagert, who was 
 familiar with the case down to the minutest detail. In 
 a speech of nearly five hours, during which it some- 
 times seemed as if his frail physique must succumb to 
 the great and protracted labor of the case, with no 
 pretence at rhetoric or eloquence, without a single 
 appeal to passion or prejudice, and with perfect fair- 
 ness to the prisoner, he analyzed fact after fact, circura- 
 
14 MEMOIR. 
 
 stance after circumstance, explained away all seeming 
 doubts and inconsistencies, and fitted the confession 
 into the facts and corroborated it at every point, never 
 for a moment losing the attention of the jury, until 
 at last with almost mathematical accuracy he demon- 
 strated that the crime could have been committed by 
 no one but the prisoner. When he sat down all present 
 felt that the case of the defendant, Avhich had seemed 
 so hopeful, was now hopeless unto desperation. The 
 prisoner was found guilty of murder in the first degree, 
 and before his execution admitted the justice of his 
 conviction. 
 
 After serving six years as assistant, Mr. Hagert 
 was, in November, 1877, elected District Attorney, and 
 succeeded Mr. Sheppard in January, 1878, continuing 
 in the office until 1881, when he resumed his private 
 practice, which he pursued with unceasing industry 
 until his fatal illness. 
 
 Realizing the responsibilities of his position, every 
 duty was faithfully and conscientiously performed, but 
 the long hours in Court, the exacting labors and con- 
 stant worry and anxiety of the office, undermined a 
 constitution never strong and sowed the seeds of the 
 disease which ended his life. 
 
 As District Attorney he was in the highest sense of 
 
MEMOIR. 15 
 
 the word the Commonwealth's officer. He never re- 
 garded himself as a mere prosecutor, but recognized 
 the semi-judicial functions of the office, which required 
 him to be just to the prisoner as well as to the Com- 
 monwealth, and while those he believed guilty were 
 prosecuted with all his force and ability, yet if there 
 was in his judgment a well-founded doubt, he was 
 prompt to express it and to ask for an acquittal. 
 
 It is but just to Mr. Hagert's memory to state that 
 in the District Attorney's office he made enemies of 
 many who, presuming upon their power, political or 
 otherwise, sought to influence him In the discharge of 
 his duties. Those who made such efforts knew little 
 of his nature. Beneath his quiet and patient manner 
 was a will of iron, and his "No" was final. He rep- 
 resented the community whose protection had been con- 
 fided to his keeping, and was absolutely immovable, 
 knowing no party, no leaders, no class, doing his duty 
 fearlessly and without regard to consequences ; and 
 while he suffered cruel wrongs at the hands of those 
 who, by nature or education, were unable to appreciate 
 his devotion to duty, or to measure a public official by 
 his high standard, he left the office with a clear con- 
 science and a stainless record, having through all its 
 trials, temptations, labors, and vexations been 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Steady to liis trust ; 
 Inflexible to wrong and obstinately just." 
 
 Returning to his private practice, Mr. Hagert sought 
 the quieter and less exacting branches of his profession ; 
 but old and new clients came to him, and his life was 
 a busy one, until the summer of 1885, when his health 
 failed. After a month's illness he was able to go to 
 the mountains and subsequently to the sea-shore in the 
 vain hope of regaining his strength. But, alas, it was 
 too late. That terrible malady, Bright's disease, had 
 marked him as its victim and his life's work was done. 
 He was able to be at his office for only a few weeks 
 after his return to the city, and from the latter part 
 of November was unable to leave his bed. The 
 highest medical skill was powerless to save him, and 
 after days of agony the calm followed, and he gradually 
 grew weaker day by day, hour by hour, until Friday 
 morning, December 18, 1885, when he quietly, peace- 
 fully, and without a struggle passed from life. 
 
 " When sinks the righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes, 
 How gently heaves th' expiring breast!" 
 
 Mr. Hagert was married February 9, 1854, to Miss 
 Mary Mauley, of Philadelphia, who, with an only son, 
 
MEMOIR. 17 
 
 Charles H., survives him. An older son, Sidney, died 
 in the summer of 1876, in his twenty-first year. 
 
 In this brief memoir no effort has been made to 
 give a complete and detailed history of Mr. Hagert's 
 professional life. The cases he tried were many and 
 important, but only a few of those which were of a 
 public character have been mentioned, and no note has 
 been taken of the vast amount of quiet work done, of 
 which the public knew nothing. Sufficient, however, 
 has been said to show that he was a zealous and faithful 
 laborer in the profession he loved, honored, and adorned. 
 He was an eminently useful lawyer, his highest ambi- 
 tion was to serve his clients, public and private, to the 
 best of his ability, with honor and fidelity; always 
 equal to his work, whether it was great or small, im- 
 portant or unimportant. 
 
 There have been more eloquent speakers, more pro- 
 found lawyers, men whose abilities were more dazzling 
 and attractive, but take him all in all in every branch 
 of his profession, as counsellor or advocate, before the 
 Court in banc or before the jury, it will be difficult to 
 find his equal. 
 
 As an adversary he was fair and honorable, scorning 
 any success won by questionable methods. As a col- 
 league he was especially valuable, possessing in an 
 
18 MEMOIR. 
 
 eminent degree that best of qualities in a colleague, 
 unselfishness, being ever ready to take a leading or 
 subordinate position as the work before him might 
 demand, and always giving to his senior or junior the 
 benefit of his knowledge, study, and thought, fully 
 and without reserve, caring little who used it or who 
 reaped the glory, provided it aided the cause he had 
 at heart. 
 
 His practice extended over a period of thirty-eight 
 years, and he died in the midst of his work and in the 
 zenith of his powers, with the recollection of his con- 
 flicts, triumphs, and defeats fresh in the minds of all, 
 but he leaves no professional brother to recall a word 
 or act not in accord with the liighest standards of 
 moral and legal ethics, or which tended in the slightest 
 decree to cloud the fair fame of the Bar of Phila- 
 delphia. 
 
 By many Mr. Hagert will be remembered as a dis- 
 tinguished lawyer, a useful and honored citizen ; by a 
 chosen few his memory will be cherished in a nearer 
 and tenderer relation. All his life a student of gen- 
 eral literature, with a fondness for history, travels, 
 and poetry, books were his delight; when worn with 
 toil he turned to them for pleasure and recreation, and 
 the volumes of his well-selected library bore the marks 
 
MEMOIR. 19 
 
 of constant use. Fond of music, flowers, and pic- 
 tures, cultured, refined, and simple in his tastes, in- 
 structive and entertaining in his conversation, decided 
 in his opinions, but tolerant of the views of others, 
 warm-hearted, kind, earnest, and sincere, unostenta- 
 tious in his charities and loyal in his friendships, 
 Henry S. Hagert filled the measure of a perfect gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " To spoak his memory's grateful claim 
 
 On those who mourn him most unci bear his name, 
 O'ercomes the trembling hand, 
 O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, 
 O'ercomes expression of true friendship's grief. 
 Save placing this memorial o'er his dust." 
 
POEMS. 
 
IISTTEODUOTIOK 
 
 Mr. Hagert's youthful pen was often devoted to 
 poetic and dramatic composition, — and many of his 
 poems were printed in the leading literary journals of 
 the day, while others and some unfinished plays re- 
 mained in manuscript. From these verses a brief selec- 
 tion has been made to accompany the memoir of his 
 professional life, and thus give to his friends a per- 
 manent record of the man. His love of the drama 
 was constant, and almost to the end he was a frequent 
 visitor at the theatre, always selecting the best plays 
 and the best players, and always giving to his friends 
 sound criticism, the result of his matured and thought- 
 ful judgment, tempered by his sympathetic nature and 
 his delight in everything that added to the stock of 
 intellectual pleasure and the means of wholesome re- 
 laxation. For many years he had quite forsaken the 
 Muses, and often laughed at his old aspiration for 
 poetic fame, yet he did not dislike a reference to his 
 
 23 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 early compositions and to the goodly company of the 
 poets in whose ranks he had once stood. For this 
 reason it is thought that a selection of his verses would 
 make a suitable addition to this modest memorial. It 
 is submitted to the kindly notice of his friends and of 
 the public, not to establish any claim for him as a 
 poet, but to recall the pastime of his youth and leisure, 
 and to show how the sound lawyer and thorough 
 student had found pleasure in the composition of 
 poetry well worth preserving. 
 
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 
 
 Night over Spain — the moon is up, 
 
 And onward treads her radiant way; 
 
 While nobles fill the festal cup, 
 
 And quaff the wine 'till breaking day. 
 
 Forth from the royal halls a light 
 
 Streams out upon the summer night; 
 
 Darting its rays amid the trees, 
 
 That rock and rustle with the breeze. 
 
 But here no nobles drink and rail — 
 
 A continent is in the scale. 
 
 With form erect and folded hands. 
 
 Beside her throne the princess stands. 
 
 With flowing curls, and sparkling eye. 
 
 And noble form, and forehead high. 
 
 And listening in attentive mood 
 
 To one who now before her stood. 
 
 While at her side, with eager stare. 
 
 An aged man with silvery hair 
 
 25 
 
26 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 
 
 Leaned on his hand liis reverend head, 
 
 And noted all the speaker said. 
 
 And wondering girls, and knights of war. 
 
 Declared they ne'er had heard before 
 
 Such daring schemes, such hopes of gain, 
 
 Broached yet before the court of Spain. 
 
 And who is he ? and what the cause 
 
 Which thus their whole attention draws? 
 
 List to his words as 'fore the queen 
 
 He stands with firm yet modest mien. 
 
 And urges her by every tie 
 
 That binds on earth, that binds on high. 
 
 To grant him but his one request. 
 
 And hers the glory ! all the rest ! 
 
 "Princess, for near a score of years, 
 
 My bosom tossed with hopes and fears. 
 
 Has in its deep recesses nursed 
 
 This project, and had nearly burst. 
 
 When kings witli cold, indifferent air 
 
 Bade me seek patronage elsewhere. 
 
 I begged — I prayed — I bowed the knee — 
 
 They had no sympathy with me. 
 
 They called me mad, and said my schemes 
 
 Were foolishness, and idle dreams; 
 
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 27 
 
 That in the west there e'er should lie 
 
 A land unknown. I answered, 'Aye.' 
 
 * 'Twas strange/ they said, ' that not a sage 
 
 Who lived in that illustrious age, 
 
 And wore a monk's or leech's robe. 
 
 Had thought that on this spacious globe 
 
 There lay a world — unknown — unseen — 
 
 With mines of gold, and fields of green 
 
 And waving herbage, and that /, 
 
 The Genoese, who, passing by 
 
 A convent in a forest wild. 
 
 Had begged a crust for his starving child, 
 
 Should e'er pretend the sea to dare 
 
 In search of worlds they knew not where !^ 
 
 I waited not a word to say. 
 
 But bent toward Spain my lonely way. 
 
 And now within your presence stands 
 
 The fool, who dreams of unknown lands, 
 
 And urges you by all that's fair. 
 
 On earth, in heaven, in ocean, air. 
 
 By the wild blaze whose dazzling light, 
 
 On Glory's altar kindling bright. 
 
 Illumines sierra, woodland, glen, 
 
 Glist'ning on ranks of mail-clad men ; 
 
28 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 
 
 While the last remnants of a race, 
 Whose monumental piles yet grace 
 Your native land, are fled before 
 The standard of the Cross once more, 
 To raise its folds in rich Cathay, 
 And bear through ocean's untrod way, 
 Sped by the bounty of thy hand, 
 God's precious truth to heathen land. 
 And then from every heart shall flow. 
 Once taught with love divine to glow, 
 Praises and thanks to her who blest 
 Benighted heathen of the west 
 With cheering tidings of the lov^e 
 Of God, who reigns in heaven above, 
 And pray that He may ever shed 
 His kindliest blessings on thy head. 
 And lisping babes, in accents weak, 
 Who scarce their parent's name can speak, 
 Sliall in their night's prayers tutored be 
 To cry ' God bless thy throne and thee !' 
 The Indian mother as she leads 
 
 Her boy across the forest wild, 
 And sows within his breast the seeds 
 
 Of true religion, pure and mild, 
 
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 29 
 
 Shall bid him reverence — not in vain — 
 
 ' Our good Queen Isabel of Spain.' 
 
 And burning altars bathed in blood, 
 
 And priests drenched with the crimson flood, 
 
 Shall cease to offer on the shrine, 
 
 But teach their victim things divine ; 
 
 Fling to the waves their gore-stained knife, 
 
 And end the sacrifice of life ; 
 
 O'erturn their altars, wash each stain 
 
 That may upon their robes remain ; 
 
 And kneeling on the verdant sod. 
 
 Pray to the true and only God ; 
 
 While thousand voices joined in one 
 
 Shall praise the Father and the Son. 
 
 And then, when on the bed of death 
 
 They shall resign their fleeting breath, 
 
 The quivering lip, the faltering voice. 
 
 Shall with their latest gasp rejoice. 
 
 And bless — and praise — and pray for thee. 
 
 Who saved their souls eternally. 
 
 Nor is this all : our holy Church 
 
 Will have no need of further search 
 
 For sinners — amid polar snows. 
 
 Or where the hot sirocco blows. 
 
30 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 
 
 There, 'neatli your fostering guardian care, 
 A field lies ready for the share 
 To turn the rugged earth, and then 
 Sow wide the seed of love again, 
 And sow it Nvide, and sow it deep, 
 That naught may break its transient sleep, 
 Till it has risen, and shall be 
 Blooming for immortality. 
 Thus may the Church extend her power — 
 The issue hangs upon this hour. 
 Reject ray suit, and Portugal 
 Shall triumph in thy kingdom's fall. 
 Point at thy throne the lip of scorn. 
 And cry, ' Behold ! see how forlorn 
 Chivalrous Spain becomes of late! 
 Who is it guides her ship of state?' 
 And sea-washed Venice, regal Rome, 
 Flanders, the busy merchant's home, 
 France, Germany, and England too. 
 Shall rail triumphantly at you. 
 Spain shall regret it — and ere morn 
 Lights yon gray tower and I am gone, 
 You then shall ask in anxious plight, 
 ' AVhere is our guest of yesternight ?' 
 
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 3I 
 
 ^ The guest is gone — the hoped-for gain 
 
 Reserved for others ! lost to Spain !' 
 
 Sorrow shall rankle in your breast, 
 
 That ye would grant not my request. 
 
 Princes have wide dominion found, 
 
 Planted the Cross on foreign ground; 
 
 But all the wealth dominion brought, 
 
 By their jliscoveries, is as naught 
 
 Compared to that which must attend 
 
 On the fulfilment of this end. 
 
 Then, by the never-ending fame 
 
 Which must await you ; by the shame 
 
 And withering raillery of the great; 
 
 By all the gain to Church and State — 
 
 Glory and gold — but nobler still. 
 
 The Church, with converts new to fill; 
 
 Speak but the word — raise that fair hand, 
 
 And I will find the unknown land." 
 
 He ceased — and forth the mandate flew : 
 
 ^* Fly ! Launch the ships — call forth the crew — 
 
 Stay not a moment on this shore, 
 
 But go! those kingdoms to explore. 
 
 My jewels — crowns of weight and size — 
 
 I'll pledge to speed your enterprise. 
 
32 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 
 
 Bear but to heathen land the Cross, 
 
 How great the gain ! How small the loss!" 
 
 Columbus bowed before the queen, 
 
 Went forth — nor did return, I ween, 
 
 Till every promise was redeemed, 
 
 Which in that hour so brilliant seemed. 
 
 To Spain, a golden realm he gave; 
 
 To Isabel — beyond the grave — 
 
 What guerdon e'er more just could be? — 
 
 A golden immortality ! 
 
 June 24, 1842. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Sweet is the tomb — the all -forgetting tomb — 
 
 The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide 
 To harrow up the soul, or read a doom, 
 
 Of yore in their dread Sabbath prophesied. 
 Calm are its slumbers — never more shall pride. 
 
 Hatred, or malice wound the sleeping clay; 
 Wrong not the dead — they should be deified — 
 
 They lived and suffered, and have passed away ; 
 Here be all feuds forgot — ye, too, shall have your day. 
 
 Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief, 
 
 Full of its Marah-waters, must be drained 
 E'en to the dregs; when ye will need relief 
 
 From those upon whose head your lips have rained 
 Curses; when they who were by you disdained 
 
 Shall offer, in their mockery, to dry 
 The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained 
 
 Through the parched skin. Ah ! then, in grief to fly 
 For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny. 
 
 3 83 
 
34 THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Let the dead rest ; if ye must " snarl and bite," 
 
 Turn to the living — there your venom spill ; 
 Put on Deception's mask, then vent your spite, 
 
 Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill. 
 'Tis a sweet banquet — eat and drink your fill. 
 
 Ye can thrive well on malice, but forbear 
 To stir the ashes of the dead; your skill 
 
 Can never fan a glowing ember there. 
 At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair. 
 
 Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail 
 
 To think that ye shall be like them one day — 
 That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail, 
 
 Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play 
 Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray, 
 
 To feast upon your rottenness, your hair 
 Shall drip the sick'uing grave-damps, and the gray. 
 
 Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air, 
 Fill up your nostrils — then by the cold grave forbear ! 
 
 Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form, 
 Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set 
 
 A mystic seal upon you; when the storm 
 Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 35 
 
 Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met, 
 The walls of your lone chamber seem to close 
 
 Upon you crushed and bleeding, dying, yet 
 Never to die — from torments such as those. 
 
 Would you be free? Withhold— break not the dead's 
 repose. 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 "Night is the time for rest:" 
 To close iu balmy sleep 
 
 Tlie eyes with paiu opprest — 
 The time to pray and weep. 
 
 Night is the time for dreams: 
 To rove each fancied plain ; 
 
 To bathe in crystal streams, 
 Or walk among the slain. 
 
 Night is the time for prayer: 
 To lift the soul above, 
 
 While angels wait, to bear 
 The murmured words of love. 
 
 Night is the time for thought: 
 
 The busy world is still. 
 When each his couch has sought, 
 And dreams his slumbers fill. 
 36 
 
NIGHT. 37 
 
 Night 18 the tunc to die: 
 
 When all is hushed in sleep, 
 
 To close the weeping eye, 
 
 While friends their vigils keep. 
 
 Then as tiie fading sight 
 
 Grows more and still more dim. 
 
 To bid the world "Good-night," 
 And soar to rest with Him. 
 
 May 21, 1842. 
 
SONG OF THE WIND. 
 
 I COME — I come — 
 O'er the ocean fonin, 
 Among the woodlands 
 
 I roam — I roam. 
 
 My car is briglit 
 
 With the early lioht, 
 And with tints of the rainbow dye; 
 
 My coursers wait 
 
 The word of Fate, 
 And away — and away they'll fly. 
 
 I've been on the deep, 
 
 Where the Peris sleep 
 In tlieir sounding ocean caves; 
 
 Not a zephyr stirred, 
 
 And naught was licard 
 Save the nnn*niuring of the waves. 
 88 
 
SONG OF THE WIND. 39 
 
 I've been on the deep 
 
 When from their sleep 
 The tempest has roused them up, 
 
 And away they flew, 
 
 Like the morning dew 
 'Neath the sun from the flow'ret's cup. 
 
 I've been on the land. 
 
 Where armies stand 
 In battle's dread array; 
 
 I've hurried by 
 
 On a storm-cloud high. 
 And where ? oh ! where were they ? 
 
 The oaks have fallen 'neath my power — 
 I've made a desert in an hour 
 Of lands as smiling, fair and gay 
 As aught beneath the light of day. 
 
 I've listened to love in ladies' bowers — 
 I've kissed the cheeks of the early flowers 
 While their tiny cups, all dripping with dew, 
 Bent low at my car as it onward flew. 
 
40 SONG OF THE WIND. 
 
 I've heard the maiden her sorrows tell — 
 How she loved a youth and what befell ; 
 I've heard another breathe into my ear 
 Secrets I would not you should hear. 
 
 Confessor I've been to hidies and lords, 
 To love-lettered damsels and men of swords; 
 I've seen and I've heard both joy and grief 
 That I tell ye not for your unbelief. 
 
 Ivnin I've caused, and wreck, and death — 
 I've smitten the fairest with my breath ; 
 
 And now I come, I come to thee — 
 
 Beware ! lest I come as an enemy ! 
 
 With Terror and Famine behind my car! 
 
 To scatter destruction wide and I'ar ! 
 
ON A RAINY DAY. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — I love to hear, 
 When sheltered in some lonely spot, 
 
 Drop after drop, like widow's tear, 
 Weep on the moss-grown cot ; 
 
 And dripping to the ground again. 
 
 Seek on the earth its fellow-rain. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — I love to see 
 
 Each drop, like diamond glist'ning bright. 
 Sparkling on grass and leaf-clad tree, 
 
 With the refulgent light 
 Of sun just glancing from between 
 The clouds — yet scarcely to be seen. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — I love the sweet 
 
 And fragrant scent of new-mown hay. 
 
 And fresh-blown flowers, which always meet 
 
 On such a rainy day. 
 
 41 
 
42 ON A RAINY DAY. 
 
 Eising from garden, field, and hill, 
 The pure reviving air to fill. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — I love to feel, 
 When seated by the open pane, 
 
 Like urchins who from study steal, 
 The cool refreshing rain; 
 
 Borne by the wind, come peeping through, 
 
 And sprinkle me like morning dew. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — above them all 
 
 I love the rosy-tinted fruit, 
 Which with the rain begins to fall, 
 
 The choicest taste to suit. 
 And creeping vines on ladies' bower 
 Laugh 'neath the influence of the shower. 
 
 Rain on — rain on — I love — oh ! no — 
 
 I had forgotten in the joy 
 Which such a scene might well bestow, 
 
 The houseless orphan boy. 
 And widowed mother meanly clad. 
 Out in the rain, forlorn and sad. 
 
ON A RAINY DAY. 43 
 
 Then niin no more — oh, coase to liill ! 
 
 I will reHi'j^n my every joy : 
 Sight — hearing — Hmell — tante — feeling — all — 
 
 So that it rain no more. 
 I would not for a moment be 
 The oauHe of human minery. 
 
THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 Being flowers to deck her hair, 
 And weave bright garlands for her snowy brow; 
 'Twere fit that she should wear 
 Such emblems now. 
 
 For they are not more bright 
 Thau the pure spirit of that beauteous one, 
 Whose day fast sets in night — 
 Whose race is run. 
 
 Nor are they yet more sweet 
 Than the soft azure of her languid eyes, 
 Where love and beauty meet 
 To claim the prize. 
 
 Nor yet more gentle, they, 
 In their mysterious language, than her voice. 
 Which, like the breaking day. 
 Bade all rejoice. 
 
 44 
 
THE DYING GIRL. 45 
 
 Haste, then, and bring the flowers, 
 And place them gently in her golden hair; 
 For few will be the hours 
 They'll flourish there. 
 
 Haste ! with your chaplet ! haste ! 
 Alas ! too late ! the lovely one hath died ! 
 Your garland is but waste — 
 Cast it aside. 
 
TO A LAKE. 
 
 SwKET lake, upon tliy silver breast 
 I'd wear my weary life away, 
 
 And gently sink at eve to rest. 
 As fades the sun's receding ray. 
 
 While the fair moon, in virgin pride, 
 Ck)nu\s pcoj>ing up the niountuin-side, 
 And slanting shadows lightly steal 
 Ac'i'DSs thy bosom, and reveal 
 Each pebble sparkling with the light 
 Of star-paged Empress of the night; 
 And verdant banks, and mountain hoar, 
 And trees that spot thy green-clad shore. 
 Here 'mid this scene of beauty rare, 
 This silvery light — this balmy air — 
 These towering hills — this rustling wood- 
 Where the wild Indian hunter stood, 
 In feathered ])omp and fiuvs arrayed. 
 To greet his dark-browed ibrest maid. 
 46 
 
TO A LAKE. 47 
 
 Here could I live, and live alone, 
 And keep companionship with none. 
 
 Alone in this secluded spot? 
 
 Ah ! no. I'd have but one — but one, 
 Whose form and feature — every mien, 
 Would not unfit her for a queen ; 
 Whose raven curls and fragile form 
 Would need protection from the storm; 
 Whose mind, well stored with costly gems, 
 Richer than richest diadems, 
 Would be a dower — worth by far 
 More than the brightest midnight star. 
 With such a fairy, who would not 
 Dwell in the meanest herdsman's cot? 
 
 But when around your path are strewn 
 Such Eden beauties, who would give 
 
 This lovely spot for court or throne, 
 Or in a palace wish to live? 
 
 May 24, 1842. 
 
PLEASURE AND PAIN. 
 
 Hours there are when falls the bitter tear, 
 
 And from the bosom bursts the long-pent sigh — 
 When life seems but a desert, and the bier 
 
 A couch bedecked with flowers, where kings might 
 lie; 
 And there are hours when Mirth, with laughing eye. 
 
 Tosses her saffron wreath, or with her young 
 And rosy playmate. Pleasure, merrily 
 
 Dances a measure to some gay tune, sung 
 By Fancy, on whose harp a thousand dreams are hung. 
 
 To-day the goblet and the mazy dance, 
 
 Music and mirth, the laughter-loving lip. 
 And beauty beaming in the bright eye's glance. 
 
 While Youth and Joy to lute and timbrel trip; 
 Quick bounds the heart, and deeply we must dip 
 
 Into the cup of Pleasure. We forget 
 That he who would be happy should but sip 
 
 The bubbles from tlie brim — the chalice set 
 With many-colored gems, yet holds the draught regret. 
 
 48 
 
PLEASURE AND PAIN. 49 
 
 To-morrow brings a change — the eye is dull, 
 
 The voice sounds hollow, and the cheek hath 
 caught 
 A flush as of a fever — you might cull 
 
 A rose would match its crimson — hours have 
 wrought 
 Decay's dark work upon her, such as thought 
 
 Sickens to look upon ; then comes a thrill 
 And tremor of the limbs, with meaning fraught — 
 
 A pallor of the cheek — a creeping chill — 
 A clutching of the hands — a shriek, short, sharp, and 
 shrill. 
 
 Stand by the couch, but utter not a word. 
 
 Listen to that low muttering; it seems 
 Like the faint whispering of spirits heard, 
 
 At midnight, by the waters. Hark ! she dreams. 
 And tells us of her vision; of the streams 
 
 That wash her father's cottage by the hill; 
 Or is it frenzy? — for a wild light gleams 
 
 In her blue eyes, which love was wont to fill. 
 Oh ! leave me now — I'd be alone — 'tis very still ! 
 
EXTRACT. 
 
 So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst 
 Its leafy prison-house — perchance, 'tis best — 
 
 The flower may phie and perish with the thirst 
 For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest. 
 Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast 
 
 The modest violet at Spring will bloom. 
 And speak their noteless epitaph ; — the west 
 
 May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom. 
 But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb. 
 
 It clings to thee! 'Twas a most lovely creed, 
 
 That taught within a flower might dwell the 
 soul 
 Of a lost friend. Wronged one, does it not breed 
 
 Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll. 
 Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll 
 Be there to tell thy virtues ? Oh ! 'tis sweet 
 
 To know that when the dews from heaven have 
 stole 
 
 50 
 
EXTRACT. 
 
 51 
 
 Down to the earth, those pencilled lips shall meet, 
 The cold sod of thy grave, and love's long kiss repeat ! 
 
 Then gird thy loins with patience, from the crowd 
 Be thou a willing exile ; but if Fate 
 
 Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud 
 
 Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great 
 Laugh at thy misery, do thou await 
 
 The coming of that hour which shall decide 
 The issue of the game ; and then, with state, 
 
 Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide 
 Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride. 
 
THE LAST OF THE SACHEMS. 
 
 "Hark! heard ye not a footstep tread 
 On the fallen leaves of the oak that spread 
 The stony ground of the woodland dell? 
 Heard ye not such? I pray you tell/' 
 "'Twas naught but the rabbit, whose tiny feet 
 The leaves of the forest have gently beat." 
 
 "Hist! didst not hear a dismal yell, 
 
 Such as old beldames and legends tell 
 
 Is the Indians' war-cry and funeral song? 
 
 List how the hills the strains prolong." 
 
 " 'Tis the panther's yell, or the wild wolf's howl, 
 
 Or the scream of the dusky midnight owl." 
 
 " Look ! saw ye not a dagger gleam, 
 Like a sunlight ray, or a moonlight beam. 
 In the dim shade of the wild wood cast? 
 Saw ye it not ? 'Tis gone ! and past !" 
 52 
 
THE LAST OF THE SACHEMS. 53 
 
 "Twas naught but the lightning, whose storm-nursed 
 
 blaze 
 Ye can scarce perceive through yon tangled maze." 
 
 " 'Twas not the rabbit whose tramp I heard ; 
 
 'Twas not the scream of the midnight bird, 
 
 Or the wild wolf's howl, or the panther's yell, 
 
 Or the blaze of the lightning, as ye would tell. 
 
 For yonder's the last Mohican chief; 
 
 The race of his fathers was bright yet brief; 
 
 And he alone of the tribe is left ! 
 
 Homeless and friendless ! of all bereft ! 
 
 His was the tramp, and his the yell, 
 
 And the gleam of the dagger, I know full well. 
 
 He has fallen ! fallen ! and deep in his breast 
 
 The glittering blade has found a rest ! 
 
 The death-dew is starting on his brow ! 
 
 And where is the last of the Sachems now ?" 
 
 July 16, 1842. 
 
CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
 Of azure and purple and snow-white hue, 
 That skirt the sky at the fall of eve. 
 When the sunset is glimmering, too. 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds. 
 Like armies ye tread the heavenly plain ; 
 Now charging, now flying from the foe, 
 And then back to the combat again. 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
 I love ye because of the thoughts ye wake : 
 Dreams of the past; for the future, hope; 
 I adore ye alone for their S£^ke. 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds. 
 That sped on the wings of the wind, still roam 
 O'er distant climes — a cliangeable scene — 
 Tell me, oh! tell me, where is your home? 
 54 
 
CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 55 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
 Sweet rovers o'er infinitude of space, 
 Ye rest not in your wild wanderings; 
 Ye have no certain abiding-place. 
 
 Clouds, beautiful clouds; 
 Haste on — haste ye on — in your truant way, 
 With your airy forms in their garabollings; 
 Ye are too lovely to need my lay. 
 
 June 13, 1842. 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 Night on the sea — the ocean's beauteous breast, 
 Lashed by the tempest wind to sparkling foam, 
 Leaves not the mariner a hope of rest. 
 Shuts from his eye the distant sight of home; 
 Compelled along the stormy deep to roam, 
 Around — beneath — a waste of waters spread ! 
 Tumult, and an impenetrable gloom. 
 With thunder-clouds that lower o'er his head, 
 Revealed by the wild lightning's blaze, deep — quick — 
 and red. 
 
 Billow on billow dashed — immensely high — 
 And storm-fiends revelling in the midnight air — 
 High o'er the waves the vessels bounding fly — 
 Curses from those who even hell would dare — 
 From the affrighted shrieks perchance a prayer — 
 While the frail bark is driven headlong on. 
 And now, down ! down ! with all her freight of care; 
 And they Avho laughed the whirlwind into scorn. 
 Have found a weedy grave, and thither they have gone. 
 66 
 
THE WRECK. 57 
 
 Well, let them rest — 'twere just that they should lie, 
 Stricken by thunderbolts they could not fear; 
 Upon their tomb no sunbeams from the sky 
 Resplendent glitter, and no mother's tear 
 Shall e'er bedew them while they slumber here; 
 'Till by an earthquake's shock the ocean rent, 
 Shall hear their curses from its watery bier; 
 It cannot — for the coral worm has spent 
 Ages in building for the dead a monument! 
 
 1842. 
 
TANTALLON CASTLE. 
 
 Ye moss-grown towers and turrets gray, 
 
 Within whose ruined walls 
 The moping owl the livelong day 
 
 Screams in the silent halls;. 
 As though to wake the lordly line 
 
 Of Douglas from their rest; 
 All mail-clad men with arms that shine; 
 
 Of Scottish knights the best — 
 Can ye not tell of days long gone? 
 
 Of many a wond'rous feat? 
 When chiefs in tourney onward borne 
 
 Did one another meet? 
 The clashing swords — the broken lance — 
 
 The warrior disarmed — 
 The angry word — the fiery glance — 
 
 The " ladye-loves" alarmed? 
 Yes, and of sieges long sustained 
 
 Against the princely James; 
 Of fellowship with kings who reigned; 
 
 A list of honored names. 
 58 
 
TANTALLON CASTLE. 59 
 
 Tlien tread not rudely, stranger, tread 
 
 Lightly, within these walls; 
 For 'round each hallowed spot is shed 
 Remembrance of the noble dead, 
 Who fought the fight, then made their bed 
 
 In their ancestral halls. 
 
 May 25, 1842. 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 How lovely is this moonlight ! how the clew, 
 
 Bright nature's tear-drops, sparkles with its beams ! 
 While the pure bosom of the wood-girt streams 
 
 Back to the moon gives its effulgence too. 
 
 And murmuring rivulets, stealing gently through 
 Their rock-cut channels, sing the siren song, 
 That, like a sprite, wanders the hills along; 
 
 Lulling the scythe-armed peasant's weary soul. 
 Filling his spirit with a holy calm ; 
 
 While the wind-driven ripples refluent roll. 
 Waving the lily, waking from his rest 
 
 The bright-eyed lizard, the broad leaves embalm. 
 
 And more — The mild and mellow moonlight best 
 Lights the untended path of youthful love; 
 As arm in arm through flowery meads they rove. 
 Or on the fallen trunk of some old oak 
 Breathe such soft tales as Sappho sung and spoke : 
 Fearful lest there should be some list'ner near, 
 Their troth is plighted in each other's ear; 
 60 
 
MOONLIGHT. 61 
 
 Which ever and anon they chance to miss, 
 And then, love's language is a honeyed kiss. 
 
 Yet more — The moon's pale, silver-tinted light 
 
 Gleams upon other scenes more stern than these; 
 It oft hath viewed a melancholy sight, 
 
 And heard upon the still and gentle breeze 
 The dying warrior's groan — the victor's shout. 
 That hailed the battle won — the dreadful rout, 
 Carnage, and pillage reign triumphant then — 
 Success makes fiends of what before were men ! 
 On the dead chieftain's ghastly brow it shone, 
 Upon his form, cold as the marble stone; 
 While round his lip there lurked a sickly smile, 
 Which told that Vengeance struggled for a while 
 With Death, and longed a moment to be free. 
 To wreak upon his foe its enmity. 
 
 Yes, I do love you, moonlight. You have not 
 The dazzling radiance of the noonday sun, 
 Nor yet the timid beauty of the stars ; 
 
 You shed alike on tower and moss-roofed cot. 
 Where blushing innocence is wooed and won. 
 
 Your wild, bewitching beauty — lovelier far 
 
 Than either noonday sun or midnight star. 
 July 13, 1842. 
 
THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. 
 
 I SAW her but the once; the beautiful, 
 
 The loved, and all of gayety and life 
 
 Were there, and gathered round her. 
 
 With the rosy blusli of youthful beauty 
 
 Stamped upon their checks ; yet she of all 
 
 Was tiic most beautiful, and like the moon 
 
 Amid the glowing crowd of still, pale stars, 
 
 Was lovelier than them all. It might not be, 
 
 But still it seemed the scene had lent her more 
 
 Than earthly beauty, for the organ rolled 
 
 Wave upon wave of rapturous music. 
 
 Like the il^^olian harp — so low, so sweet. 
 
 It would have matched the melody of heaven ; 
 
 And then, as though a whirlwind swept the strings, 
 
 There rushed upon the ear the trumjiet tones ; 
 
 Fit contrast to the scene, for now men paid 
 
 Their homage at the bier of royalty, 
 
 And warring France had lost a noble son. 
 
 The pall was there — the crown — the sword — and all 
 
 C2 
 
THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. Q^ 
 
 Was slirouded in deep gloom ; tapers dim lit, 
 
 That cast a sickly shade on every face, 
 
 Were burning 'round the bier, and from the ceil. 
 
 High, arched, and Gothic, hung the flag of France, 
 
 Still as that vast wide multitude, while priests 
 
 Walked to and fro with light and cautious step. 
 
 Or swung the urn with burning incense filled. 
 
 Or chanted for the dead. . . . 
 
 I saw her there — alone amid that crowd 
 
 Of eager gazers, and she seemed too pure, 
 
 Too frail, to mingle in the throng of men 
 
 Whose only thought is self, whose God is Gold. 
 
 I saw her but the once, yet in her eye 
 There dwelt such depths of rapturous mystery 
 As chained my spirit down to Beauty's car, 
 And hailed me as its pris'ner. I adored, 
 And with a Pilgrim's ardor, at the shrine 
 Of Love knelt down to worship; for to me. 
 So lovely was the gaze of her blue eyes, 
 It might have won the eagle from his prey 
 And made of him a dove. . . . 
 
 I saw her but the once, and yet the grace 
 
 And beauty of her form were so divine. 
 
 That not 'till death has chained me in the tomb 
 
64 THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. 
 
 Shall I forget it, or forget to love 
 
 Her with the azure eyes and raven hair — 
 
 The form of matchless symmetry — the voice 
 
 Soft, sweet, and musical, like silver lute 
 
 That floated 'round me — she who stood alone 
 
 Amid that silent throng, an "Unknown Beauty." 
 
 August 25, 1842. 
 
RUINS. 
 
 Emblems of fallen greatness, grandeur, power, 
 What lessons ye can teach us ! Oh ! I love 
 To sit at midnight's lone and silent hour 
 And watch the small, pale stars that gleam above, 
 Or listen to the song of amorous dove, 
 That all night long among your arches gray 
 Sighs mournfully, as though it were to move 
 Your old possessors who have passed away, 
 And, 'neath the marble floor, now rest in grim array. 
 
 Ye have survived them yet, and they were naught 
 But what ye are, the senseless clods of earth. 
 That other hands have in strange figures wrought. 
 And made of much and far surpassing worth; 
 They too, like you, like everything, had birth, 
 And passed through infancy, and youth, and age. 
 They had their tears, their laughter, and their mirth ; 
 At times the wit, again the reverend sage. 
 Ready to treat for peace, or bloody wars to wage. 
 
 5 65 
 
6 (J RUINS. 
 
 But they have gone; and now the sculptured urn 
 Holds all that yet remains — their ashes ! all ! 
 Upon their hearths the fires no longer burn — 
 The flames expired upon their master's pall ; 
 The baying of the hounds — the bugle-call — 
 The evening revelry — have ceased and gone, 
 And all betokens a sad, dismal fall ; 
 Columns and figures from their places torn. 
 With ruin stalking round, wild, ruthless, and forlorn. 
 
 August 24, 1842. 
 
THE RAID. 
 
 There was no sound upon the dreamy air 
 To break the tomb-like stillness of that eve; 
 
 There was no moon in heaven, no stars were there 
 With their pale light the darkness to relieve; 
 
 The sky was black, and earth, too, seemed to wear 
 Weeds for a funeral, like men who grieve 
 
 For friends departed; and the sluggish mere 
 
 Dashed up its inky waters thick and drear. 
 
 A moment more — " Now listen ! did I hear 
 The bleating of the herds upon the hill?" 
 
 Thus spake a mother as, with anxious ear, 
 
 She kissed her babe and bade her boy be still ; 
 
 For it was dark, and greatly did she fear 
 
 The coming storm might work her husband ill, 
 
 Who had been out all day among the rocks 
 
 With crook and shepherd's pipe to watch his flocks. 
 
 One long, loud roll ! " At last the storm is come." 
 The cottage door flew open, and fierce men 
 
 G7 
 
68 THE RAID. 
 
 Rushed in amid the clang of trump and drum. 
 
 'Twas not the thunder-peal that echoed then, 
 But the black cannon ; with it came the hum 
 
 Of boisterous voices far down the glen, 
 And quick the red bombs hissing flew, and burst, 
 And licked the very dust as though athirst. 
 
 Through the deep darkness that o'erspread the earth 
 The gleaming sword and flashing torch were seen, 
 
 And the wild blaze went up from cot where mirth 
 And song and jovial dance had lately been. 
 
 Ah ! many a quiet home and smiling hearth 
 Were desolate on that dread night, I ween, 
 
 And many a mother wandered with her child, 
 
 Barefoot, across the rocks and thorny wild. 
 
 On every side the furious flames arose — 
 
 The walls grew hot, quivered and shook, and fell ; 
 
 While the fierce cries of the contending foes 
 Were mingled with the buried wretch's yell ; 
 
 And men rushed by, begrimed with smoke, to close 
 Their bloodshot eyes, yet with no passing bell 
 
 To sound their exit ; but instead the clash 
 
 Of breaking swords — the curse — the shout — the crash ! 
 
THE RAID. (59 
 
 The morrow dawned upon that battle plain 
 
 On smould'ring ruins, blackened forms, and spears 
 
 Half buried in the ground. The iron rain 
 Had made sad havoc, and the soldiers' jeers, 
 
 As with their booted feet they spurned the slain, 
 Seemed like the laugh of devils unto ears 
 
 Unused to such rude sounds ; but men will learn 
 
 Aught by companionship — they had their turn. 
 
 April 13, 1843. 
 
SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 Hunter, that all day long hath chased the deer 
 
 And the wild chamois by the mountain's crest, 
 When tired and faint dost ever linger here 
 
 To view the sunset fading in the west? 
 
 See, the proud eagle seeks his lofty nest. 
 But half-way up suspends the giddy flight, 
 
 And, poising on his wing in airy rest. 
 Strains his plumed neck to view the glorious sight, 
 Then with a scream of wonder and delight 
 
 Resumes the way to where his eyry hung 
 Among the pine-trees on the beetling height. 
 
 Is by the zephyr fanned and by the tempest swung. 
 
 See what a gorgeous stream of burning gold 
 Bathes yonder valley and the babbling brook 
 
 That dances o'er its rocky bed ! Behold ! 
 How every cloud grows redder as you look, 
 And each wild flower in its secret nook 
 70 
 
SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS. 71 
 
 Bends its fair head, as though it were to ask 
 The monarch's benison ere he forsook 
 
 The throne of day and bade Earth wear the mask 
 
 Of starless Night or in the moonlight bask, 
 While the rude peasant boy, devoid of care, 
 
 Whistling as he comes plodding from his task. 
 
 Kneels with the fading day and breathes his even- 
 ing prayer. 
 
 O Hunter, here within this rugged glen, 
 
 Where through the long rank grass the soft winds 
 play 
 
 A dirge-like music — where the feet of men 
 Have seldom trodden since that llited day 
 When the high Alps re-echoed to the bray 
 
 Of warlike trump and tramp of harnessed steed 
 As he, the World's Enslaver ! went his way 
 
 To win himself a name — perchance to bleed ! 
 
 Ambition, speak — is this thy paltry meed ! 
 Is it for this men fret their life away? 
 
 Hunter, 1 tell thee thou art blest indeed. 
 
 Here 'mid thy native crags and sunset glens to 
 stray. 
 
 May 25, 1843. 
 
GREEK WAR SONG. 
 
 Brothers, arise ! to arms ! the trump is sounding. 
 
 Shake off the devvdrops from your scented locks ; 
 With patriot zeal be every bosom bounding ; 
 
 Stand firm as your own rocks. 
 
 Seize the red sabre by your fathers wielded. 
 
 Strike, that the hireling's blood may stain the 
 blade ; 
 Strike, for to-day your altars must be shielded ; 
 
 Strike for each dark-eyed maid. 
 
 Fling out your banner to the dallying breeze; 
 
 Shout your wild war-cry through each rugged glen ; 
 Leap from your rosy couch of slavish ease, 
 
 And show them ye are men ! 
 
 They deem the spirit of our Spartan sires 
 Hath fled forever from its native land, 
 
 And that the embers of our faded fires 
 May light no battle-brand. 
 
 72 
 
GREEK WAR SONQ. 73 
 
 But up ! forsake your rest — your brethren call you ; 
 
 The tyrant's hordes are thronging ev'ry hill. 
 A glorious death is all that can befall you ; 
 
 Then die with those who will ! 
 
 Better to die upon the field of honor, 
 
 With brave men struggling for their country's 
 fame, 
 Than on your crimson couch — a slave's dishonor, 
 
 Unworthy e'en the name ! 
 
 Arise! and on with us! the trump is pealing. 
 
 Haste ! we are sworn ere night our land to save, 
 Or else, with blood our strong devotion sealing, 
 
 To fill a soldier's grave. 
 
 May 20, 1843. 
 
THE WARKIOR OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Fleet is ray barb as the wild simoon, 
 
 And bright my lance as the beam of day; 
 We lie 'neath the palm through the sultry noon, 
 And at even-tide we are far away ; 
 Away o'er the desert — away o'er the hill — 
 To the tents they have pitched by the shady rill. 
 
 Well knows my charger his rider's leap, 
 And snuffs the air with a regal pride. 
 While his mane o'er my breast the hot winds sweep, 
 And loud rings his neigh o'er the desert wide; 
 And he scatters the sand with his feet unshod, 
 That the foe may not know where my courser trod. 
 
 Tell not to me of your couch of down, 
 Boast not of wealth upon the billow, 
 Nor of your old halls in bower or town. 
 
 My steed is my home, my wealth, my pillow. 
 In the saddle by day, on his neck at night, 
 With my lance I'll defend him, or wrong or right. 
 
 June 13, 1843. 
 74 
 
THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I SAW a fair-haired boy, one summer morn, 
 
 Chasing a butterfly with eager feet. 
 Among the roses, by the hedge of thorn. 
 
 Nor cared he for the dangers he would meet. 
 Over the brook he went, upon the worn 
 
 And mossy stones o'er which the waters beat; 
 And he looked back when the rude ford was passed, 
 And held his sides and laughed, then bounded off as 
 fast. 
 
 Up the rough hill he tripped, his flaxen hair 
 Dancing around his neck ; at length, he fell — 
 
 The butterfly went floating high in air, 
 Then hid itself within a cowslip's bell. 
 
 The boy observed its soft retreat from where 
 He lay extended — scarcely could he quell 
 
 75 
 
76 THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 The tear that rose and glistened in his eye ; 
 
 At last, he laughed aloud — but yet 'twas half a cry. 
 
 Away he ran the insect to o'ertake, 
 And found it hidden in its leafy lair; 
 
 Another fall he had, which well might make 
 A stouter heart than his yield in despair. 
 
 Still he would not the flying thing forsake, 
 But for a warmer chase 'gan to prepare. 
 
 And o'er the hills and vales went following after. 
 
 With panting breath, and shout, and merry ringing 
 laughter. 
 
 It stopped again, to take a sip of dew, 
 And quite concealed itself within a rose; 
 
 The urchin saw his chance and forward flew, 
 
 And soon his hands both flower and moth enclose. 
 
 Pleased with his skill, then" forth his prey he drew, 
 But where were all its many-colored bows? 
 
 The pleasure did not equal half the cost. 
 
 And all his pain was vain, and all his labor lost. 
 
 So we, in life, chase many a 'fleeting thing, 
 
 Whose charms are fled the moment it is won; 
 
 Dash oif the stains from the moth's gaudy wing, 
 And 'tis a flying worm you look upon ! 
 
THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 77 
 
 Beauty is but the briglit imagining 
 
 Of the rich fancy of some gifted son; 
 To him the night is light — and all is fair — 
 The daisy decks the tomb, and hence must joy be 
 there ! 
 
 May 19, 1843. 
 
THE LADY OF THE VEIL. 
 
 Oh, her eye is like a southern star ! 
 
 And her cheek, as though a southern wind 
 Had brought of rose tints from afar 
 
 The richest it coukl find — 
 And kissed her clieeks, and bade them glow. 
 Types of her loveliness, I trow. 
 
 The raven of an Alpine cloud 
 
 Is in her long and flowing hair — 
 The whiteness of an Alpine shroud 
 
 On the fair brow that glimmers there. 
 'T would set your soul on fire to see 
 
 The dream-like beauty of her form ; 
 And cold as death the heart must be 
 
 Such peerless grace would fail to warm. 
 
 But he whose heart is framed for love, 
 Would gaze on her and think • of lands 
 
 78 
 
THE LADY OF THE VEIL. 79 
 
 Whose milder starlight gleams above — 
 The sea-washed isles where Venice stands ; 
 
 And of soft hands linked in the dance, 
 And burning vows from lips that broke — 
 
 For love was in her blue eye's glance, 
 And breathed in every word she spoke. 
 
 Oh, she is too fair for this cold clime ! 
 
 The gentle South should have seen her birth, 
 Where Pleasure doth chase old laggard Time 
 
 Away with song and mirth — 
 The fairy of an Eastern tale 
 Is the bright Lady of the Veil. 
 
 May 14, 1843. 
 
HOURS OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Oh, there are hours when Melancholy twines 
 
 Her strong arms round the heart, like pois'nous vines 
 
 That cling the oak ! — the while, her cold lips prest 
 Upon the burning cheek and fevered brow, 
 
 Her icy hand is laid upon the breast, 
 And chills the blood with which its channels flow; 
 And there are times when the full tide of woe 
 
 Comes sweeping o'er the senses, till we crave 
 Death as a boon and hail eternity ! 
 
 For not to be is not to be a slave. 
 And not to be a slave is to be free ! 
 
 Better to lie with charnel worms entombed 
 Than be the mark for envy's fatal aim ! 
 
 Better to revel with the doubly-doomed 
 Than live for foes to taunt and load with shame ! 
 
 O Solitude and Melancholy, ye 
 Are precious gifts, for from you we may learn 
 
 To dare the tempest of adversity. 
 Nor heed the fires of hate that round us burn ; 
 80 
 
HOURS OF MELANCHOLY. gl 
 
 But pressing forward through the gath'ring gloom 
 Of this, Earth's wilderness, with patience wait 
 The hour that bids us step into the tomb 
 And meet our fate. 
 
 May 29, 1843. 
 
THE LOST LADIE. 
 
 A LADIE of the north countrie 
 
 Rode o'er the moor on palfrey white; 
 
 She was a lovely clarae to see, 
 With plume and pearl bedight. 
 
 Beside her rode a Baron bold, 
 Behind her came a yeoman tall ; 
 
 Of the bold knight strange tales are told 
 I would not here recall — 
 
 Strange tales of sights that men have seen, 
 Of fearful sounds that men have heard; 
 
 'Twas but a heated brain, I ween. 
 And scream of midnight bird. 
 
 For sure so stout a knight as he 
 
 Could with a lance defend his fame, 
 
 And from the breath of calumny 
 Protect his ancient name. 
 
 82 
 
THE LOST LADIE. 33 
 
 Doth he uot boast an iron arm ? 
 
 And hath he not a sturdy glave? 
 Marry, the wight would meet with harm 
 
 Who should the Baron brave. 
 
 But still beside the blazing turf, 
 
 And in the hostel o'er the ale. 
 Those tales were told by clown and serf 
 
 With quivering lip and pale. 
 
 Anon the boor would stop and stare 
 
 Across his shoulder at the door, 
 Lest the dread Baron should be there 
 
 With all the wizard Four. 
 
 For one his castle passed at night, 
 And said that on the turrets gray 
 
 Four sisters danced i' the moonlight 
 Kound where Sir Hugo lay. 
 
 And that the Baron rose and drew 
 His falchion famed in many a raid, 
 
 And three times in the air it threw. 
 And three times kissed the blade. 
 
84 THE LOST LA DIE. 
 
 And this 'twas whispered was the spell — 
 That three times he should kiss the steel, 
 
 When all in Eildon's caves that dwell 
 Would clatter at his heel. 
 
 It was a fearful gift, I trow. 
 
 An' they who told it have not lied. 
 
 I wot the ladie did not know 
 A fiend was by her side ! 
 
 They reached a chapel as they rode ; 
 
 "Seek shelter here, Sir Hugh, I pray," 
 The ladie said, but on he yode, 
 
 "Why ride so fast, Earl Ray?" 
 
 The Baron knit his eyebrows black 
 And told the dame it was his will ; 
 
 St. Dunstan shield her ! Good alack ! 
 I fear he'll do her ill. 
 
 The ladie trembled so she dropped 
 Her crucifix and clung the mane ; 
 
 Her hand it shook, the palfrey stopped : 
 He thought she pulled the rein. 
 
THE LOST LAD IE. 85 
 
 Sir Hugo swore an oath, then drew 
 His sword and 'gau the steed to beat; 
 
 The jennet plunged and welhiigh threw 
 The ladie from her seat. 
 
 But she from infancy had learned 
 
 To check the curvet at her need, 
 And now the yeoman's aid she spurned, 
 
 Who sought to still her steed. 
 
 Eftsoons she soothed the palfrey's fright, 
 Then drew her wimple o'er her face. 
 
 That she might hide from that dark knight 
 Whate'er her thoughts should trace. 
 
 She kissed tlie cross the faithful boor 
 Had gently placed within her hand, 
 
 And they have passed the Bowden Moor 
 And stand on fairy land. 
 
 Swift up the Eildon hills they mount. 
 
 And now they've reached the Luckenhare ; 
 
 The Baron bade the dame dismount 
 And leave her palfrey there. 
 
86 THE LOST LADIE. 
 
 " Why, good Sir Hugh," the ladle cried, 
 " Certes, my lord, we've gone astray ; 
 
 The castle lies the other side, 
 Northward three leagues away." 
 
 " Get down ! Get down !" the Baron screamed, 
 Then swore the road right well he wist. 
 
 Saw she aright or has she dreamed ? 
 Three times the sword he kissed ! 
 
 Out from a cavern in the hill 
 
 A graybeard came in quaint attire; 
 
 Shrunken he was — his voice was shrill, 
 His dark eyes gleamed with fire. 
 
 He knelt before the scowling knight; 
 
 He seized the wizard Baron's rein ; 
 He helped him from his steed alight. 
 
 And welcomed him amain. 
 
 " Welcome ! thrice welcome, noble lord ! 
 
 For few there be of woman born 
 Who have, like you, unsheathed the sword 
 
 Before they blew the horn."* 
 
 * Vide The Shepherd's Tale— Scott. 
 
THE LOST LADIE. gy 
 
 The Baron gave a fiendish leer ; 
 
 His frown was terrible to view; 
 The ladie grasped the croup in fear — 
 
 The yeoman trembled too. 
 
 Then loud he blew a single note — 
 Such notes are blown in fairy land; 
 
 A dwarf leapt out fast as he mote 
 And waited his command. 
 
 "Take yonder churl — the horses three — 
 And lead them far across the wold ; 
 
 I wis he would not able be 
 To find us were he told." 
 
 They've gone — so has that ladie fair ; 
 
 The gray beard warlock and Sir Hugh 
 Entered the cavern bleak and bare, 
 
 Concealed from curious view. 
 
 Never again that dame was seen, 
 And never came the Baron back; 
 
 The yeoman guessed the truth, I ween. 
 But could not find the track. 
 
 July 25, 1843. 
 
TO CHARLES WEST THOMSON, 
 
 ACCOMPANYING SEVEKAL CLUSTEKS OF GRAPES. 
 
 Say ! which is the fairest for maiden's eye, 
 The black of the raven or blue of the sky? 
 And which is most meet for ray lady-love's hair, 
 The hue that the Saxons or Georgians wear? 
 
 Are the girls of the East, or the maids of the West, 
 
 In beauty the brightest, in virtue the best? 
 
 Are the knights of the South, who to battle ride 
 
 forth. 
 More valiant in fight than the knights of the North? 
 
 But tell me again, is the vintage of France, 
 That land of the goblet, the song, and the dance, 
 Half as sweet to your lip as the red wine of Spain, 
 That caught from the sunset its loveliest stain ? 
 
TO CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 89 
 
 Yet think you by Ebro, or Tagus, or Rhine, 
 There lie in the basket, or hang on the vine. 
 Such clusters as these, if not too closely scanned? 
 The purple round grapes of your own native land. 
 
 September,' 1843. 
 
L'AEIELLE. 
 
 L'arielle, I'arielle lightly 
 Bounding along so sprightly, 
 Like sylph of air, 
 Now here, now there, 
 And us poor devils nightly 
 Crazing, 
 Amazing, 
 Tell us where 
 We can prepare 
 A couch befitting one so fair. 
 
 Not where the moonlight reposes, 
 And on a bed of roses ; 
 The wanton plays 
 By her fond rays 
 Thy couch too much discloses, 
 Exciting, 
 Inviting 
 Stars to gaze 
 And whisper praise. 
 90 
 
L'ARIELLE. 91 
 
 Nor yet in the depths of ocean ; 
 The sea-weeds' gentle motion 
 Too rough would be 
 For one like thee, 
 Without some slumb'rous potion 
 To steep 
 In sleep 
 Thy airy 
 Sense. My fairy, 
 Rest thou, then, in my memory. 
 
 May, 1844. 
 
A FRAGMENT. ■ 
 
 Now gather one and gather all 
 
 A festive throng in a Baron's hall; 
 
 The wassail candle is burning bright, 
 
 Be merry o'er your wine to-night. 
 
 Such goodly cheer was ne'er beheld 
 
 Save in the glorious days of eld. 
 
 The wind without is blowing cold, 
 
 The fire withiu is blazing bold, 
 
 And pictured dames and warriors tall 
 
 Are smiling on you from the wall, 
 
 As though they willingly would be 
 
 Partakers in the revelry. 
 
 But well, I ween, they had their day, 
 
 And sang their song and played their play, 
 
 Or linked their fingers in the dance; 
 
 Now have they started from their trance, 
 
 And seem to wish they could with you 
 
 Again the song and mirth renew. 
 
 Fill up the cup, the guests are come; 
 
 Let joy be merry — sorrow dumb. 
 
 May 10, 1843. 
 92 
 
A FRAGMENT. 93 
 
 Pass round the jest, be merry all, 
 To-night the wine-cup, next the pall. 
 We cannot live forever, then 
 Quaff oif the wine and fill again. 
 Fast flowed the Rhenish and the mead, 
 Rhenish enough to crimson Tweed, 
 And quick the jest went round in glee, 
 And sped the hours right merrily. 
 The wind without blew colder still 
 And roared and whistled round the hill, 
 The fire within threw brighter gleams 
 Upon the guests and vintage streams. 
 When at the gate a knock was heard. 
 Hushed was the song, the jest deferred, 
 The goblet raised toward the lip 
 Not even honored with a sip. 
 But placed again upon the board. 
 The hand that held it grasped the sword. 
 For those were dangerous times, I trow. 
 When one knew neither friend nor foe. 
 He who partook your lordly fare 
 Might fire your castle, slay your heir. 
 Proffer one hand in friendly clasp, 
 A dagger with the other grasp. 
 September 15, morning. 
 
94 A FE AG ME NT. 
 
 Quick glances flew from eye to eye — 
 Perchance the Highland clans were nigh, 
 With dancing plumes and kirtled plaids, 
 And ringing slogan, bloody blades. 
 Or Border chiefs in bold foray 
 Had led their followers that way, 
 To plunder from the English fields 
 Whate'er the down of cattle yields. 
 Then drive their booty off with speed. 
 Nor spare the spur, nor spare the steed, 
 That they may be at dawn of day 
 Over the border, far away. 
 Small need was there for fear or fight, 
 Nor chief nor clansman met their sight, 
 For when was raised the portal stout, 
 A wandering harper stood without, 
 And begged for friendship's sake that he 
 Might share their liospitality. 
 " For I am faint and cold," he said, 
 "And know not where to lay my head." 
 September 16, morning. 
 
 In those old times it needed not 
 A doleful tale to move the heart. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 95 
 
 Neither from castle nor from cot 
 Was the poor wanderer bid depart, 
 But welcomed in, as though by birth 
 Peer to the noblest of the earth. 
 Few moments did the minstrel wait 
 For answer at the castle gate, 
 When came the vassal back with word 
 His master's pleasure he had heard, 
 Who bade him in the minstrel bring, 
 And give him hearty welcoming. 
 The harper entered, and the gate 
 Behind him fell with ponderous weight; 
 Then followed fast his menial guide, 
 Who led the way with hasty stride 
 Toward the hall, from which, when nigh, 
 They heard the laughter loud and high. 
 September 17, afternoon. 
 
 List, gentles all, to the song I sing, 
 
 A song of the olden time; 
 
 It hath pleased knight and pleased king. 
 
 Though rude the measure and rude the rhyme. 
 
 'Tis of a lady of high degree 
 
 And a valiant knight of the north countrie. 
 
96 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Long hath my harp neglected lain, 
 And much I aiarvel if my skill 
 Will e'en suffice to wake again 
 The echo of ray former strain, 
 That rang o'er glen and hall ; 
 For, gentles, I have sorrow seen. 
 I had a little laughing boy. 
 Whose hair was auburn, blue his e'eu ; 
 Graceful he was and coy. 
 September 13, morning. 
 
 Oft when I neared ray quiet horae, 
 That blessed child would smiling come 
 And grasp my hand, while his bright eye 
 Grew brighter still in ecstasy. 
 Then o'er my harp his fingers run. 
 Oh! I was proud to call him son! 
 And hoped that he one day would be 
 A follower of minstrelsy. 
 And tune for lords and ladies gay 
 His father's harp and sing his lay. 
 But one fair morn I raised his head, 
 And found my darling boy was dead I 
 Ah ! need I tell a father's grief. 
 How in my harp I sought relief. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 97 
 
 Then flung it carelessly away. 
 
 I could not sing ! I could not play ! 
 
 And thus for three long years it lay, 
 
 Till yestermorn I sang once more 
 
 The song that I had loved before ; 
 
 But ever and anew my grief 
 
 In broken sobs would find relief, 
 
 Which, mingling with my lofty strain. 
 
 Seemed half of pleasure, half of pain. 
 
 But why should I oppress your ear 
 
 With tales you may not love to hear? 
 
 Within my bosom I will try 
 
 To hide the woe and check the sigh, 
 
 Then, lords, list awhile 
 
 A tedious hour to beguile. 
 
 September 14, morning. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 
 
 TO A PICTUKE OF "THE HAELEQUIN." 
 
 The world's a stage, the poets say, 
 And all are players, or have been; 
 
 A blithesome part has he to play. 
 The merry-making harlequin. 
 
 Some sigh and weep, some laugh and sing. 
 But all must leave the scene at last. 
 
 For death will crack the fiddle-string 
 And stop the noisy trumpet's blast. 
 
 Since we must meet one common fate. 
 Let us, ere Time's dark curtain fall. 
 
 Give Care the slip — with heart elate 
 
 Dance on through life. A hall ! A hall ! 
 
 August, 1844. 
 
 98 
 
THE ALPINE TRAVELLER. 
 
 'Tis a dreary night, stranger, 
 
 Swift the snow-flake fleeteth by; 
 Numb with cold the mountain ranger 
 Seeks his home, secure from danger. 
 Guided by the taper light 
 Gleaming through the misty night, 
 Like a streak upon the sky. 
 From his cottage perched on high. 
 
 Wanderer, whither art thou tending? 
 List the sounds in yonder glen, 
 Like the shrieks of buried men, 
 Breathing still within the tomb. 
 Smothered with the clay and gloom. 
 There the insane winds descending, 
 Half the night in revels spending. 
 Scream out in their glee, 
 Mad as madmen e'er could be. 
 
 99 
 
100 ^^^ ALPINE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Draw thy mantle close about thee, 
 For, perchance, the fiends will flout thee, 
 Lay their cold hands on thy cheek. 
 Press thou forward — do not speak. 
 For amid these Alpine peaks 
 Death waits for him who speaks. 
 
 Winter fled, and in his stead 
 
 Came the hot-browed sun of Summer ; 
 To the plain, like running rain, 
 
 Sped the snow before the comer. 
 In the narrow glen they found him 
 With his mantle wrapt around him, 
 That poor wand'ring, foolish stranger, 
 Stout of heart and daring danger. 
 
 December 28, 1844. 
 
SONG. 
 
 I CANNOT join the festive throng, 
 
 My soul is far too sad to-night; 
 I could not bear to hear the song 
 
 Breaking from lips with beauty bright. 
 Soft eyes may glance their looks of love, 
 
 Gay hearts may beat on many a breast, 
 Light feet may to the music move, 
 
 But I am weary — let me rest. 
 
 Not worn with tire or vigil kept 
 
 Beside the couch or coffined clay, 
 Nor weary that I have not slept, 
 
 Though three long nights are passed away 
 Since on my eyelids, like the spell 
 
 Of Love's young finger gently prest. 
 The poppy leaves of slumber fell, 
 
 Yet, weary — weary — let me rest. 
 
 101 
 
102 SONG. 
 
 There is a burden on my heart, 
 
 There is a throbbing at my brow, 
 There is a pain will ne'er depart, 
 
 The memory of a broken vow 
 Nor song, nor dance, nor mirth can cheer. 
 
 Rest, rest is all the boon I crave — 
 A narrow bed, a narrow bier. 
 
 The last, long slumber of the grave. 
 
 September 20, 1844. 
 
A REVERY. 
 
 On a sultry afternoon 
 
 In the sultry month of June, 
 
 Feeling somewhat out of tune 
 
 And ajar, 
 Seated by the window-pane, 
 Wond'ring if the pleasant rain 
 Would ever come again, 
 
 My cigar 
 Burnt steadily and slow, 
 By degrees got very low. 
 And at length began to show 
 
 Signs of dying, 
 When my chin upon my breast 
 Settled gradually to rest. 
 And a nightmare on my chest 
 Was lying. 
 
 Horrid visions through my mind 
 Hurried like a frightened hind, 
 
 103 
 
104 A REVERT. 
 
 Or the chill December wind 
 
 O'er the snows, 
 While behind them in a group, 
 With a clatter and a swoop, 
 Like Banquo's ghostly troop, 
 Others rose. 
 
 Beasts with heads 
 Like feather-beds. 
 
 Beasts without. 
 Houses small, 
 Houses tall, 
 
 None about. 
 Here a bee 
 Out at sea 
 
 In a basket; 
 There a flea 
 Under key 
 
 In a casket. 
 Here a snake 
 Wide awake 
 
 At a meeting; 
 There a priest 
 At a feast 
 
 Drinking, eating.' 
 
A REVERY. 105 
 
 Churches burning, 
 Wintlraills turning, 
 Children learning 
 
 Naught at school. 
 Each thing seeming, 
 To my teeming, 
 Mental dreaming, 
 
 Out of rule. 
 Shapes fantastic, 
 Figures plastic, 
 Gum-elastic. 
 
 Men and boys 
 On their heads and on their heels, 
 Twisted up like strings of eels. 
 Screeching like a thousand de'ils, 
 
 Such a noise ! 
 Women true, 
 No one blue, 
 Something new 
 
 Beneath the sun. 
 A single day. 
 When folks that pray 
 Mean what they say, 
 
 "Thy will be done." 
 
106 ^ RE VERY 
 
 Politiciaus out of place 
 Deeming it a deep disgrace 
 To be wearing any face 
 
 But their own. 
 Men in office unconcerned 
 What candidate's returned, 
 Or whether they are spurned 
 
 From the throne. 
 
 Judges just, 
 Maiden's trust 
 
 Not deceived. 
 Traveller's tales, 
 Hamlet's whales, 
 
 Disbelieved. 
 
 Kings and cobblers strung together 
 Like onions on a tether. 
 Bleaching out in every weather. 
 
 Sun or rain. 
 In fine, all shapes of evil, 
 Machiavelli and the devil. 
 Keeping up a precious revel 
 
 In my brain. 
 
A REVERT. 107 
 
 Till a most unpleasant burning, 
 All my visions overturning, 
 
 Made me jump. 
 And I found to my surprise, 
 Upon opening my eyes, 
 
 But a stump. 
 
 December 6, 1848. 
 
TO MARY. 
 
 They say young hearts on summer eves 
 
 Will sit beneath the quiet moon, 
 And, turning Memory's faded leaves. 
 
 Ponder some old forgotten tune, 
 Some lay of love that long ago 
 
 Had cheered their youth's congenial hour; 
 Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 
 
 Of Thought with thee and me, Mary. 
 
 Then turning from the solemn Past, 
 They leave its dim and doubtful way. 
 
 And in the rosebeams round them cast 
 See visions of a coming day, 
 
 Gay peaks that in the early glow 
 
 Look like the fabled mount of flowers; 
 
 Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 
 
 Of Hope with thee and me, Mary. 
 
 108 
 
TO MARY. 109 
 
 Or by some still and placid stream, 
 
 When the calm eyes of Heaven unclose, 
 And, wakened from his early dream, 
 
 Warbles the bulbul to the rose, 
 They wander silently and slow. 
 
 Their mutual griefs to each confidiug; 
 Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 
 
 Of Trust with thee and me, Mary. 
 
 Whatever bids the red lips speak; 
 
 Whatever makes the heart-strings quiver, 
 Or sends the life-blood to the cheek 
 
 Like the quick current of a river; 
 Whatever joys on earth abound, 
 
 Remembrance, Hope, or Trusting Faith, 
 Are all in richest measure found 
 
 In Love by thee and me, Mary. 
 
 June, 1848. 
 
LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. 
 
 Dead relic of the Past! 
 
 That from the chambers vast 
 Of ponderous pyramid or rock-hewn tomb, 
 
 With cerements round thee rolled, 
 
 And visage pinched and cold. 
 Came forth to upper light out of the nether gloom. 
 
 Why, with thy parchment face 
 
 And ugly grim grimace, 
 And leathern eyeballs in a constant stare, 
 
 Propped up against the wall 
 
 Like pear-tree in the fall, 
 Dost thou upon us cast thy gruesome glare? 
 
 Who broke thy long repose 
 
 And led thee by the nose. 
 Willing or not, into the glare of day? 
 
 Not his adventurous hand . 
 
 Had ventured to withstand 
 Thy royal will when thou wert wrapt in living clay, 
 no 
 
LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. \\l 
 
 Belzoni and his crew, 
 
 With little else to do 
 Than ransack graves and rummage 'mid the dead, 
 
 Was his the daring soul 
 
 That feared not to unroll 
 The napkin that for years had bound thy withered 
 head ? 
 
 Thy greatness and thy race 
 
 Were written on thy face; 
 The blood of Princes coursed along thy veins. 
 
 If thou canst see, behold ! 
 
 The dynasties of old. 
 Empires and thrones, like baubles flung aside. 
 
 And men regenerate, free. 
 
 In proud equality. 
 Trampling the giant Wrong, that perished in its 
 pride ! 
 
 Thou hadst thy day, my friend, 
 
 And still doth evil tend 
 Toward good, and good to better yet doth run. 
 
 Where settles first the night 
 
 Thence comes the earliest light ; , 
 
 Shall not thy native East yet glow beneath the sun? 
 
112 LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. 
 
 Lo ! in thy palm a grain 
 
 For centuries hath lain. 
 And thus do I commit it to the earth ; 
 
 As it shall safely root 
 
 And forth its branches shoot, 
 So from dead kings and queens shall Liberty have 
 birth. 
 
 Belzoni take my thanks, 
 
 Thou with thy curious pranks 
 Exhumed dead lips to teach a living truth, 
 
 Which, if we rightly learn, 
 
 Ere long there shall return 
 To the world's crippled limbs the vigor of their 
 youth. 
 
 December 13, 1848. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE "AMERICAN 
 GALLERY OF ART." 
 
 (presented to a lady.) 
 
 Lady, no tawdry gift to thee I bring 
 
 Of polished cameo or jewelled ring; 
 
 No pretty annual bound in green and gold, 
 
 With fourteen plates at ten and fourpence sold, 
 
 That, having run for years the market through. 
 
 Appear once more hot-pressed and pass for new; 
 
 Nor card-case, scent-box, reticule, or fan — 
 
 These dazzle children, but displease the man. 
 
 Upon these simple pages you will find 
 
 The passing foot-prints of the master-mind; 
 
 All lovely forms and images of art. 
 
 Which while they charm the eye refine the heart, 
 
 And teach a lesson not in vain to know — 
 
 How much of Beauty lingers yet below, 
 
 8 113 
 
114 LINES. 
 
 What numerous blessings crowd our earthly lot, 
 Though we, poor moles ! dig on and heed them not, 
 While unto us a feeble glimpse is given 
 Of the transcendent light and loveliness of Heaven. 
 
 December 19, 1848. 
 
THE LUCKLESS LOVER TO HIS 
 LADIE. 
 
 Dear girl, in what have I offended 
 
 That you thus coldly look upon me? 
 Name but the fault, it shall be mended, 
 
 And you shall have no cause to shun me. 
 Do I too plainly speak my mind? 
 
 Have I my love too warmly told ? 
 Alas ! I see, Love is 7iot blind — 
 
 My suit is getting worn and old. 
 
 I know my coat is somewhat thin : 
 
 I feel it of a wintry day; 
 For though it buttons to the chin. 
 
 It does not keep the cold away : 
 My blood will freeze, my flesh will creep. 
 
 While every separate molar rattles. 
 But then you could your promise keep. 
 
 And wed a man and not his chattels. 
 
 115 
 
116 THE LUCKLESS LOVER. 
 
 What if my stock is frayed and worn, 
 
 Most stocks are in a ragged way ; 
 I shall be only more forlorn 
 
 If you discount my hopes to-day. 
 My hands are guiltless of a glove, 
 
 I'd know it by your angry brow, 
 But I beseech you, dearest love ! 
 
 Pray don't give me the mitten now ! 
 
 My hat is gray, but not with years, 
 
 Nor grew it white in a single night; 
 I purchased it with many fears, 
 
 And hoped that all would yet be right. 
 I felt its smooth and silken crown, 
 
 And asked the price — it haunts me still- 
 I never for a nap lie down 
 
 Without a nightmare of the bill. 
 
 My tailor threatens every day 
 To bring my credit to a close; 
 
 My seamstress swears I never pay. 
 
 And da7ms my eyes and not my hose; 
 
 My bootblack stands here at my side, 
 And shows his polish and his pride. 
 
 December 20, 1848. 
 
"I LOYED THEE IN THY SPRING- 
 TIME'S BLUSHING HOUR." 
 
 'Tis winter now, dear love ; can you forget 
 
 The vows we plighted in our earlier day, 
 When not a cloud obscured our Heaven as yet, 
 
 And April flowers were thick about our way ? 
 The birds were singing in the leafy hedge. 
 
 The stream made music by the slanting hill, 
 And down amid the cool and splashy sedge 
 
 The ripples came and went at their sweet will. 
 Blest time ! when no rude sounds the silence broke, 
 But all things to our hearts in kindliest accents spoke. 
 
 How changed the scene since then ! You best can say 
 To whom that change hath such misfortune wrought. 
 
 The flowers are dead, the birds have flown away. 
 The heavens are with impending fury fraught ; 
 
 Across Life's desolate heath the night wind sweeps, 
 Sighing and wailing like a broken heart, 
 
 117 
 
118 "/ LOVED THEE." 
 
 While memory o'er our shattered fortune weeps, 
 
 Mourning the joys we thought would ne'er depart, 
 And we, like children, closer cling together 
 When fiercest raves the storm or beats the wintry 
 weather. 
 
 March 14. 1849. 
 
"FEAR NOT; IT IS I." 
 
 When in the tempest of that Eastern night 
 The fragile bark that bore the chosen few 
 Trembled in every plank, when they who slept 
 Awoke with cries of terror on their lips, 
 And such a sinking of the heart as comes 
 In the dark hour of final agony, 
 Behold ! a luminous presence walked the deep, 
 And a calm voice above the roar of waves, 
 Distinct and audible as silver bells. 
 Said, "Fear not; it is I." 
 
 So, when the waves of sorrow compass thee. 
 And trouble like a tempest bows thee down. 
 When overhead is darkness, and around 
 The "pitiless peltings" of adversity. 
 Faint not, but listen to the still, small voice 
 That ever, through the varied ills of life, 
 Speaking with cheering accents to the heart, 
 Says, " Fear not ; it is I." 
 
 August 23, 1849. 
 
 119 
 
CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 Adapted to Rossini's Chorus, " Night's Shades no Longer" 
 (" Moses in Egypt"). 
 
 Hark ! the glad tidings, angels are singing — 
 
 " Lo ! in a manger, Jesus is born !" 
 Prophets and sages incense are bringing — 
 
 Join the loud chorus, stars of the morn! 
 Shepherds of Judah, tenderly keeping 
 
 Watch by the hill-side, echo the song ! 
 Daughters of Zion, cease from your weeping — 
 
 Hail the Redeemer! promised so long. 
 
 Robed not in purple, all unattended. 
 
 Comes the Messiah, Israel's King — 
 Born of a Virgin, Christ is descended, 
 
 Clothed with our nature, pardon to bring. 
 Break into shouting! sons of the stranger. 
 
 Lift up your voices ! valley and hill. 
 Greet your deliv'rer — kneel at the manger — 
 
 Welcome the message, " Peace and Good Will.'^ 
 120 
 
CHRISTMAS HYMN. 121 
 
 Chorus to last verse. 
 
 Greet vour deliv'rer — kneel at the manner — • 
 Welcome the message — " Peace and Good Will," 
 "Peace and Good Will"— "Peace and Good Will," 
 Welcome the message — "Peace and Good Will," 
 "Good Will"— "Good Will"— "Good Will" 
 
 December 6, 1854. 
 
THE FOLLOWING IS A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS AT WHOSE 
 REQUEST THIS MEMORIAL VOLUME IS PRINTED. 
 
 Archer, Pierce. 
 
 Ashman, Hon. Wm. N. 
 
 BiDDLE, Hon. Craig. 
 
 BisPHAM, George Tucker. 
 
 Brown, A. Eldridge. 
 
 Brown, Mrs. Matilda. 
 
 Brown, Wm. H. 
 
 Bullitt, John C. 
 Carson, Hampton L. 
 Cassiby, Lewis C. 
 Collins, John M. 
 Davis, Sussex D. 
 Dechert, Robert P. 
 Dickson, Samuel. 
 Douglass, A. P. 
 Fell, Hon. D. Newun. 
 Flanders, Henry. 
 Garsed, Henry E. 
 Gest, John B. 
 Hagert, Edwin. 
 Hannis, Wm. C. 
 Hirst, Anthony A. 
 JuNKiN, George. 
 Lagen, Charles A. 
 Manley, George. 
 McCaffrey, John J. 
 Miller, Charles F. 
 
 Mitchell, E. Coffee. 
 
 Nowell, Capt. Samuel. 
 
 Page, S. Davis. 
 
 Parrish, Joseph. 
 
 Penrose, Hon. Clement B. 
 
 Pile, Joseph M. 
 
 Price, J. Sergeant. 
 
 Read, John R. 
 
 Read, Wm. F. 
 
 Rosengarten, Joseph G. 
 
 Sanders, Dallas. 
 
 ScHELL, Joseph B, 
 
 Sellers, David W. 
 SouDER, Charles. 
 Souder, Frederick H. 
 Sharkey, John F. 
 Sheppard, Furman. 
 Tack, Augustus H. 
 Talmage, E. L. 
 Thomas, John M. 
 TowNSEND, Joseph B. 
 Wallace, J. M. Power. 
 Warwick, Charles F. 
 AVestcott, Thompson. 
 Wheeler, John H. 
 AVhite, Richard P. 
 Winship, Richard C. 
 
 123 
 
JT