1 
 
 

 Cf< 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 I ^^«# ^-C.S' 
 
 I* UNITED STATES OF AMSRICA. ^ 
 
STLYAN POEMS. 
 
 BY ISAAC COBB. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose 
 His bright perfections, at whose word they rose; 
 Next to that Power, who formed thee and sustains, 
 Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. — Cowper. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRESS OF DAMRELL & MOORE, 
 
 No. 10 Dev< 
 
 .\ 
 
 18 51. 
 
-fb 1 
 
 3^4 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 
 
 ISAAC COBB, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 DEDICATION 5 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF BIRDS, 7 
 
 AUTUMN, 10 
 
 THE SISTER'S GRAVE II 
 
 THE COTTAGER, 12 
 
 THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD, 15 
 
 THE SLAVE, 16 
 
 ERIN, 18 
 
 SUMMER 19 
 
 THE FLOWERS, 21 
 
 THE MUSE TO A MAIDEN 22 
 
 MOUNTAIN LIFE, 23 
 
 THE GRAVE, 25 
 
 THE WANDERER 26 
 
 THE ISLES OF CASCO BAY, 27 
 
 THE BIRDS, 29 
 
 IL POETA AD UN AMICO, 29 
 
 THE MIND 30 
 
 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS 32 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 OUR FATHER, 34 
 
 WINTER, 35 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 36 
 
 THE COMING OF SPRING, 37 
 
 SECRET SORROW, 38 
 
 WELCOME TO FLORA, 39 
 
 TO *** 40 
 
 THE ANGEL OF LOVE, 41 
 
 THE CHILD'S WISHES, 43 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE 45 
 
 ]<IIGHT, 46 
 
 SONNETS ADDRESSED TO MISS S. J. L*****, 48 
 
 THE POET'S DWELLING, 50 
 
 LINES, Etc., 53 
 
 THE RETURN OF PEACE 55 
 
 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO R. IL, Etc., 57 
 
 THE VISION OF URANIA, 58 
 
 WATER 66 
 
 REMINISCENCE, 66 
 
 POLYANTHUS, 67 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY, 68 
 
 THE LAST ROSE, 71 
 
 THE HARP AND THE ROSE 72 
 
 THE SCENES OF CHILDHOOD, 79 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SEYEN ANGELS 
 
 OP 
 
 MENTAL advancement: 
 
 FAITH, 
 
 HOPE. 
 LOVE, 
 
 VIRTUE, 
 
 WISDOM, 
 
 ASPIRATION, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, 
 THESE POEMS ARE DEDICATED. 
 
SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF BIRDS. 
 
 A COUNCIL assembled one beautiful day, 
 Remote from the dwellings and haunts of the gay, 
 In a little sweet valley beside a still wood, 
 Where aught that disturbeth might never intrude. 
 
 It was formed not of such as are frequently found 
 Where strife and destruction forever abound ; 
 Not of such as declaim in the chambers of State, 
 Nor of those that come forth from the halls of the great : 
 But of the blithe birds from the copse and the glen, 
 That cheer with their music the spirits of men. 
 
 The Robin, the Jay, and the Sparrow, were there. 
 The Blue-bird, the Thrush, and the Yellow-bird fair; 
 While the Lark soared aloft into regions on high. 
 And the Bobolink perched on a Maple tree nigh. 
 
8 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 "Good morn!" spoke the Lark in his usual strain; 
 "I see ye are coming together again, 
 To talk of the dangers we songsters are in, 
 Whenever we venture where sportsmen have been. 
 It is well that ye come, for 'tis grievous indeed 
 For aye to be hunted, and destined to bleed. 
 When existence to us is as pleasant and dear. 
 As ever existence to man may appear." 
 
 "It is true," said the Jay, "what our neighbor, the 
 
 Lark, 
 Has brought to our view in his touching remark ; 
 Yet much there remaineth which he has not shown, 
 Although to himself and his mate not unknown. 
 For proof, I inform you that yesterday davv^n, 
 I wandered in quest of some food on the lawn ; 
 And as I returned to my elegant bower. 
 On having been absent for only an hour, — 
 Imagine, a moment, my grief how intense : — 
 I found that my young had been taken from thence." 
 
 "Ah me!" sighed the Robin, " how oft is it so ! 
 For evil awaits us wherever we go ; 
 Like ours is the fate of a thousand besides, 
 And 'tis hard^to discover where Mercy abides." 
 
 " I know it, sir Robin," the Thrush made reply ; 
 " But is there no spirit beneath the blue sky, 
 
THE COUNCIL OF BIRDS. ^ 
 
 Acquainted with Pity, tliat seraph divine, 
 
 That smiles on the world with a look all benign ? " 
 
 " There is ! Oh there is ! " trilled the Bobolink, loud ; 
 I have seen him, afar from the mart and the crowd, 
 Communing with Nature beheld in the flowers. 
 Adorning the fair and Elysian bowers. 
 I have seen him asleep, near the streamlet that glows 
 With beauty and splendor as onward it flows ; 
 And oft in the morn, when my song hath begun, 
 His presence my fearless attention hath won." 
 
 " I know him, I know him ! " responded a voice 
 That made every one in the valley rejoice: 
 " He ever delighteth in searching for those 
 Whose bosoms are troubled with cares and with woes. 
 Oh ! let us appeal to his generous heart ; 
 He will not permit us unheard to depart." 
 
 They listened, well pleased with the words that were 
 
 said, 
 And then each one hastened, instinctively led. 
 To find where the Poet was wont to reside — 
 The being with tender compassion allied. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Lovely Autumn ! thee we hail 
 To the hill and verdant vale, 
 Though thou bringest blight and death 
 In thy cold and piercing breath. 
 
 Though the fairest of the flowers 
 At thy coming leave the bowers, 
 Yet we love thee full as well — 
 Love thee more than pen may tell. 
 
 We admire the crimson dyes 
 That adorn thy evening skies ; 
 And Aurora's rosy light, 
 Beautifying dale and height ; 
 
 And as well the changing shades 
 Of the woodlands and the glades ; 
 Though the view may oft impart 
 Pain and sadness to the heart. 
 
 Oh ! we love the mournful strain. 
 Floating from the distant plain ; 
 Though it be the farewell song 
 Of the meadow's happy throng. 
 
THE sister's grave. 11 
 
 While thou showest, every day, 
 All is subject to decay, 
 Thou remindest of the clime 
 Ear beyond the verge of time ; 
 
 Where seraphic beings roam, 
 In their own eternal home, — 
 Culling from the blissful bowers, 
 Bright and never-fading flowers. 
 
 THE SISTER'S GEAVE. 
 
 'TwAS eve: the sun had set, 
 And left his gorgeous dyes, 
 
 As though with magic hand, 
 Upon the western skies. 
 
 1 walked the lonely way 
 That to the graveyard led ; 
 
 The portal soon I passed. 
 And stood above the dead. 
 
 When, oh ! beside a mound 
 That had not long been made 
 
 Appeared a gentle boy, 
 In mourning garb arrayed. 
 
12 SYLVAN POEMS* 
 
 "Ah, tell me why," I said, 
 
 " Sweet child, thou earnest here ? " 
 " Kind sir," responded he, 
 " My sister's grave is near. 
 
 " Say, will she not return 
 
 And speak to me once more, 
 And take me far away 
 To yon celestial shore 1 " 
 
 " No, child ; thy sister dear 
 May not revisit earth ; 
 'T was in that blessed world 
 Her spirit had its birth. 
 
 " But if thou lovest Him 
 
 Who bade her heavenward stray^ 
 Thou may'st ascend the sky, 
 To live with her for aye." 
 
 THE COTTAGER. 
 
 In a beautiful vale, by the skirt of a wood. 
 Where the trees unmolested for ages had stood. 
 There once lived a man in a tenement lone. 
 By many forsaken, and nearly unknown ; — 
 
THE COTTAGEll. 13 
 
 A being possessing as noble a heart 
 As ever is found in the crowd or the mart. 
 It is true that he had not abundance in store, 
 Nor was he proficient in " classical lore ; " 
 For riches ne'er deigned to abide in his cot, 
 And learning profound never smiled on his lot. 
 Yet competence, comfort, content, and delight, 
 Were all his companions by day and by night ; 
 And his home was the dwelling of concord and love, 
 The purest of blessings that flow from above. 
 Though sorrow and sickness might sometimes appear. 
 Yet they came in a manner divested of fear : 
 For Religion, the angel, was ever his friend, 
 To soothe and encourage, to guard and attend. 
 
 He never contended in angry debate 
 
 With the high or the low, with the small or the great : 
 
 But Peace was his watchword, his motto Respect, 
 
 Regardless of party, of grade, or of sect ; 
 
 Inducing him ever to hate and avoid 
 
 The scenes where the spirit of strife was employed. 
 
 His pleasure it was, at the lovely day-close, 
 While Nature was sinking to quiet repose, 
 To saunter abroad o'er the lawn and the vale, 
 And listen, perchance, to the zephyr's low wail ; 
 Or hear the monotonous murmur of streams, 
 That stole on his ear like the music of dreams ; 
 
14 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Or view with emotion each glittering star, 
 
 As it shone from the chambers of ether afar; 
 
 Absorbed in adoring that Being alone, 
 
 Who ruleth supreme on immensity's throne : 
 
 Oh! then he would kneel on the mossy, green banks, 
 
 And render to Heaven his praises and thanks. 
 
 Thus lived he, remote from the tumult of trade, 
 A man in the garments of virtue arrayed ; 
 And though he held converse with few of the great, 
 And never arose to distinction of State, 
 There were many who saw his benevolent hand 
 Bestow of his goods to the poor of the land : 
 While hearts that were ready with sorrow to break, 
 Bore witness how joyous his presence could make. 
 
 To such as were wont to despond or repine, 
 He spoke in mild tones of a Savior divine, 
 Who came to enliven the souls of the sad, 
 And cause the forlorn and oppressed to be glad. 
 
 Years came and departed, — yet still he was there 
 At his own happy home by the wilderness fair. 
 Yet the tokens of age on his brow were impressed, 
 And changed were the feelings that rose in his breast ; 
 For his partner had gone to the mansion of joy, 
 And liis children had risen to manhood's employ. 
 
THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 15 
 
 All ! soon came the message for him to depart, 
 Which he heard not, as some, with a terrified heart, 
 But willingly soared with the messenger, Love, 
 To the realms of unrivalled fruition above. 
 
 Beneath a green willow they made him a grave. 
 Where the violets bloom, and the tall grasses wave ; 
 A plain marble monument marketh the spot. 
 Erected by those who partook of his lot ; 
 And this the inscription, with meaning all rife : — 
 His name is enrolled in the Lamb's hook of life. 
 
 THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The days of our Childhood, alas ! they have gone — 
 Those moments of innocence, pleasure, and glee. 
 
 When cheerful and happy we played on the lawn. 
 By pain unmolested, from care ever free. 
 
 The birds that then perched on the boughs of the 
 trees. 
 
 While sweetly they sung their symphonious lays, 
 No longer are here to enchant or to please. 
 
 Or make the fair forest a temple of praise. 
 
 The waters that flowed in their glittering sheen, 
 Or glided beneath the Elysian shades, 
 
16 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Appear not so sacred when now they are seen, 
 Although they still ripple through woods and 
 through glades. 
 
 The friends that we loved — for their presence we 
 weep, 
 
 For ours they are not, as in days that have fled ; 
 Their voices we hear not, awake or asleep:) ; 
 
 Alas ! they inhabit the home of the dead ! 
 
 Now often, assisted by Memory's eye, 
 
 Delighted we gaze on the scenes of the past ; 
 
 And, mounthig on Fancy's broad pinions, we fly 
 To where beauty and pleasure eternally last. 
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 'T WAS even : the breezes serenely were blowing. 
 The flowers were sending their fragrance afar. 
 
 Savannah's dark waters were silently flowing. 
 Their surface reflecting full many a star. 
 
 Then sat at the door of a comfortless dwelling. 
 Acquainted with care and tormented by fears, 
 
 A being whose breast with emotion w^as swelling, 
 His countenance marked by the furrows of years. 
 
THE SLAVE. 17 
 
 He thought of the cUme o'er the ocean's proud waters, 
 Where flourish the palm and the ebony tree, 
 
 Where Liberty smiles on her sons and her daughters, 
 No tyrant usurping the rights of the free. 
 
 He thought of the days when with sister and mother 
 He gathered the blossoms that spotted the glade, 
 
 When often, attended by father and brother. 
 
 Along near the edge of the streamlet he strayed. 
 
 And ah ! he remembered the friend of his childhood, 
 Whose voice he imagined he sometimes could hear, 
 
 With whom he had roamed in his favorite wild wood. 
 And whispered the language of passion sincere. 
 
 The moment, in fancy, came flitting before him, 
 When stealthily rose the iniquitous band. 
 
 That forced him away to the vessel which bore him 
 Far over the sea to the Georgian strand. 
 
 Alas! his reflections but heightened his sorrow, — 
 His body was weary, his spirit forlorn; 
 
 And had he sought rest in the scenes of the morrow, 
 Despair would have certainly come with the morn. 
 
 That night he retired to the pallet assigned him. 
 His heart more dejected, more sad than before ; 
 For he felt there was nothing to earth that could bind 
 him, 
 Except the remembrance of Africa's shore. 
 
ERIN. 
 
 Arise ! O Erin ! vindicate thy right, 
 
 And show the world thy valor and thy might ; 
 
 Let tyrants know that thou wilt soon awake, 
 
 The cause of freedom never to forsake : 
 
 Then may'st thou hear the eloquent and brave, 
 
 Implore the God of equity to save. 
 
 But should the aristocracy of earth 
 
 Be slow to own thy honorable birth, 
 
 Columbia will advocate for thee, 
 
 And pray that thou may'st speedily be free. 
 
 Though awful and portentous be the hour. 
 Use not the sword, — for it hath little power. 
 The laurels on the field of battle gained. 
 Denoting splendid victories obtained, — 
 The sight of cannon, and the flag unfurled, 
 Are fraught with no advantage to the world. 
 
 If thou desire thy country to protect. 
 
 Employ the potent arm of intellect ; 
 
 Call reason and entreat}/ to the work. 
 
 But never let revenge in ambush lurk ; 
 
 For when broke loose, it hath a direful sway, 
 
 Which often leaves destruction in its way. 
 
SUMMER. 19 
 
 Let all thy bards to freedom tune the lay, 
 And thou need'st fear no enemy's array ; 
 Then cherish them with kind, paternal care. 
 And monarchs of their deeds may well beware. 
 
 Thou hast a Star* whose influence sublime 
 Shall fail not to descend to latest time ; 
 Its rays shall light the dark, deluded mind. 
 And give discerning vision to the blind. 
 
 Arise ! O Erin ! gird thy armor on, 
 
 And soon a brighter day for thee shall dawn ; 
 
 Oppression shall forever hide her face, 
 
 And Slavery's throne shall tremble to its base. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Thine, O Summer ! are the bowers. 
 Thine the lawns and verdant leas. 
 
 Fragrant with the breath of flowers. 
 Floating on the gentle breeze ; 
 
 Thine the soul-enchanting numbers, 
 That with cadence pure and sweet. 
 
 *In allusion to Daniel O'ConneU — the poem having been written previous t 
 of that patriotic agitator, and defender of his country's rights. 
 
20 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Sometimes wake us from our slumbers. 
 In the still and cool retreat. 
 
 When Aurora, first appearing, 
 
 Cheers the woodland with her rays. 
 
 Then, with reverential fearing. 
 Nature's fond admirer strays. 
 
 Here the streamlets gently gliding, 
 Oft attract his wandering sight. 
 
 Now in dark recesses hiding, 
 Then emerging to the light ; 
 
 There he views the torrent foaming. 
 As it rushes down its way, 
 
 And he pauses in his roaming, 
 All its grandeur to survey. 
 
 Little hills and lofty mountains, 
 
 Crowned with graceful verdure rise,— 
 
 Reservoirs of living fountains, 
 
 Whence the brook that never dries. 
 
 Decked with Flora's fairest flowers. 
 
 Smiling valleys lie below, 
 When the vesper rules the hours. 
 
 Where the sighing zephyrs blow ; 
 
THE FLOWERS. 21 
 
 And the pearly dews descending, 
 
 Sparkle in the Lunar ray, 
 Their refreshing virtues lending 
 
 For the glad return of day. 
 
 But, sweet Summer ! thou wilt leave us 
 When thy happy reign is o'er ; 
 
 And the parting well may grieve us, 
 As we ne'er may meet thee more. 
 
 Time is passing ! life is fleeting ! 
 
 Ere thou wilt the crown resume. 
 Hearts that now are warmly beating. 
 
 May repose within the tomb. 
 
 THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Oh ! where are the flowers, the beautiful flowers. 
 That bloomed in the valleys, the woods, and the 
 
 bowers 1 
 No more we behold them, at even or morn, 
 Rejoicing the spirit when sad and forlorn. 
 
 Where are they ? Alas ! all their glory has fled : 
 Their fragrance around us no longer is shed ; 
 Of late we beheld them wherever we strayed. 
 But now is the landscape in sadness arrayed. 
 
22 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The Tulip, the Lilac, the Violet blue, 
 We search for in vain in the place where they grew ; 
 The Rose and the Lily, ah me ! are no more, — 
 They faded and died ere the Summer was o'er. 
 
 The Aster which chanced in September to blow, 
 With the Dahlia and Larkspur, in ruin lies low ; 
 While others of lovely and delicate form, 
 Survive but to fall by the rage of the storm. 
 
 The beautiful flowers will blossom no more. 
 Till Spring the dominion of beauty restore ; 
 For Winter is coming the sceptre to sway. 
 And nought he will favor as gentle as they. 
 
 But let us remember, in moments of sorrow, — 
 Instead of indulging in dreams of the morrow, — 
 The lessons their Maker designed they should give. 
 That contentment and joy may be ours while we live. 
 
 THE MUSE TO A MAIDEN. 
 
 I roamed abroad one morn in May, 
 Where Nature robed in beauty lay. 
 While softly, scented zephyrs blew, 
 Aurora's bright and steady light 
 Reflected in the crystal dew. 
 
MOUNTAIN LIFE. 
 
 The flowers were blooming here and there, 
 Their perfume floating every where, 
 As woodland minstrels, blithe and free, 
 
 Together sung their lays among 
 The foliage of the forest tree. 
 
 Though flowers abound in grove and dell, 
 Their beauty ne'er can thine excel ; 
 Though birds appear on many a bough. 
 Entrancing all through Nature's hall, 
 They cannot sing so sweet as thou. 
 
 Should grief becloud thy lover's heart. 
 That look shall bid the gloom depart ; 
 And Oh ! that ever tuneful voice. 
 
 Amid the reign of care and pain. 
 Shall quickly make the soul rejoice. 
 
 23 
 
 MOUNTAIN LIFE. 
 
 Oh ! a life among the mountains. 
 Where the zephyrs gently blow% 
 
 And the cool, pellucid fountains. 
 In romantic beauty flow ; 
 
 Yes, I long for such a life. 
 
 Free from sorrow, pain, and strife ; 
 
24 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 In seclusion from the crowd 
 Of the worldly and the proud : 
 
 Where, remote from habitation, 
 
 I might find a peaceful home, — 
 Not 'mid scenes of desolation, 
 
 Whither man may never roam ; 
 But where all is fresh and green, 
 Gentle Flora reigning queen, 
 Fair Pomona in the glade. 
 Hard by Sylvan's airy shade. 
 
 There, at twilight's pensive hour, 
 
 Or at dawn of rosy day, 
 I would seek the silent bower, 
 
 Far from human view to pray ; 
 Raising oft my feeble voice, 
 With the Dryads to rejoice ; 
 That each moment might be passed 
 Well improved until the last. 
 
 Oh ! a life among the mountains. 
 
 Where the zephyrs gently blow, 
 And the cool, pellucid fountains, 
 
 In romantic beauty flow, 
 Woman's presence ever near, 
 To encourage and to cheer, 
 Then would be a joyous life, 
 Free from sorrow, pain, and strife. 
 
THE GRAVE. 
 
 ** There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest."— Job iii, 17. 
 
 How pleasant the thought, that when life shall have 
 
 passed, 
 The shadows of sorrow no more shall be cast, 
 Surrounding the soul with the deepest of gloom, 
 More terrible far than the shades of the tomb ; 
 That care shall no longer o'erburden the breast, 
 Or hinder the weary from taking their rest ; 
 And never the voice of contention be heard, 
 By envy and anger incessantly stirred. 
 
 How sweet the reflection that Friendship sublime, 
 May find an asylum from hatred and crime. 
 And Virtue repose from the scoffs of the world, 
 Where the weapons of slander may never be hurled ; 
 Where slumber the lovely, the good, and the brave. 
 Afar from the tumult of life — in the grave ! 
 There death nor disease shall intimidate more. 
 Nor kindred the absence of dear ones deplore. 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 The wanderer would'st thou reclaim 
 From paths of error or of shame ^ 
 Speak thou to him in tender tone, 
 As though his faults were as thy own ; 
 But angry frowns in pity hide, 
 And neither threaten nor deride. 
 
 Nay ! term not him the friend of man, 
 Who scorns to follow Mercy's plan — 
 To light the brow with smiles of love, 
 From spirit gentle as the dove, 
 But rather acts the cruel part, 
 To wound and break a brother's heart. 
 
 Behold the traveller asleep 
 Upon the verge of yonder steep : 
 Hush ! sound not thou the dread alarm. 
 But take him softly by the arm ; 
 For should he suddenly awake. 
 His life, alas ! would be at stake. 
 
 Thus oft it is with him who strays 
 In error's dark and devious ways ; 
 Unconscious of the depth below, 
 
THE ISLES OF CASCO BAY. 27 
 
 He treads upon the brink of woe, 
 
 Unless the orb of Science rise, 
 
 Or Wisdom point him to the skies. 
 
 THE ISLES OF CASCO BAY. 
 
 The morning is fair, and propitious the breeze ; — 
 
 Oh Muse ! we will borrow a little light boat, 
 Afar from thy haunt and its valleys and leas, 
 
 O'er the waters of Casco in silence to float. 
 Our course for the beauteous Isles we will steer, 
 
 Where Nature is found in her own habitation, 
 The forest her temple, pervaded with fear, 
 
 Where dwelleth Jehovah, the God of creation. 
 
 Thou man who art fond of a rural retreat. 
 
 Come hither thy cottage with Sylvan to rear ; 
 For the lilies are fair and the roses are sweet, 
 
 That blossom where beauty and grandeur appear. 
 Thy zephyrs, oh Casco ! are balmy and mild ; 
 
 They steal o'er the cheeks of the loveliest daughters, 
 That visit the woodland for flowerets wild. 
 
 Or sail the pellucid, cerulean waters. 
 
 The elm and the maple, the beech and the pine. 
 Their verdure, in Summer, profusely display ; 
 
28 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Who knows but their presence may chance to incline 
 The goddess of health to make longer her stay ^ 
 
 The bard and the minstrel resort to their shades, 
 To waken the lyre to symphonious numbers ; 
 
 And ofttimes the artist, alone in the glades, 
 
 Transfers to his canvas the scene as it slumbers. 
 
 Here worshipped the Indian in years that have passed. 
 
 When none to molest or affright him arose ; 
 He bowed in devotion, and oiferings cast 
 
 Before the Great Spirit whose guidance he chose. 
 Where vessels now ride o'er the waves of the bay, 
 
 His birchen canoe in its lightsomeness bounded, 
 The noise of his paddle was heard all the day. 
 
 At night by the rocks and the forest resounded. 
 
 Where now is the Indian '? No trace we behold 
 
 Of aught which can show us he lived but in name ; 
 Where now is the chief with his followers bold. 
 
 And the prophet that promised the conqueror fame'? 
 Alas ! they have gone to the land of the dead, 
 
 Where never the foe o'er their downfall shall glory ; 
 Yet the tear for the fate of their tribe will be shed. 
 
 And their virtues be honored in ballad and story ! 
 
THE BIRDS. 
 
 Ye songsters that dwell in the Sylvan retreat, 
 How blithesome ye are, and your carols how sweet. 
 Your bosoms ne'er heaved by the sigh of desjoair, 
 Your plumage unfaded by sorrow or care. 
 
 How often when roaming the valleys and plains, 
 To listen awhile to your beautiful strains, — 
 How often I think of the minstrels on high. 
 Whose harps never rest, and whose notes never die. 
 
 I would that the world were as joyous as ye. 
 And from the dominion of evil as free : 
 I would that all hearts were as grateful and kind. 
 As far from the errors that darken the mind. 
 
 IL POETA AD UN AMICO. 
 
 And when retired from every eye, 
 
 You humbly bow the knee, 
 Imploring blessings from on high. 
 
 Oh then remember me ! R. H. 
 
 When zephyrs are wafting the fragrance of flowers. 
 And music is heard through the groves and the bowers. 
 
30 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Oh, then I'll remember the friend of my youth, 
 While lowly I bow at the altar of Truth, 
 Entreating the God of the humble in heart. 
 To grant thee a blessing wherever thou art. 
 
 When Nature is bringing the day to its close, 
 
 And mortals are hailing the time of repose, 
 
 Oh, then I'll repair to some lovely retreat, 
 
 And pray that thy rest through the night maybe sweet. 
 
 That Heaven may kindly give ear to thy prayer. 
 
 And angels afford thee their guardian care. 
 
 THE MIND. 
 
 Though the Poet siag of beauty. 
 And of symmetry divine. 
 
 Yet regardless of his duty,. 
 Fall before an empty shrine, — 
 
 Thou, oh youth ! a vain attraction 
 Never, never deign to seek. 
 
 For the principle of action 
 Lies in neither eye nor cheek. 
 
 Let the soul, the everlasting. 
 Be not satisfied with gold ; 
 
THE MIND. 
 
 u 
 
 Pomp and splendor, terror casting, 
 No fine qualities unfold. 
 
 Gay apparel, all excelling. 
 
 Is no raiment for the mind ; 
 Sumptuous fare and costly dwelling. 
 
 Learning may not hope to find. 
 
 Thou who hast a constant raving 
 
 For the food that tyrants use. 
 Wealth of nobles ever craving, 
 
 Learn a lesson of the Muse. 
 
 Would'st thou deck thy mind with beauty. 
 
 And be honored as a man ? 
 Then, oh ! hasten to thy duty. 
 
 By observing Nature's plan. 
 
 Love the high and awful mountain, 
 
 And admire the lowly vale, 
 Watch the playing of the fountain, 
 
 Listen to the sweeping gale. 
 
 At the silent, solemn hour, 
 
 When the gloomy night appears. 
 
 See thou reverence the Power 
 
 That upholds the glowing spheres. 
 
32 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Wake from slumber in the morning, 
 And rejoice among the herds, 
 
 Bless the Hand the earth adorning. 
 With the tribes of singing birds. 
 
 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 When Morning appears in her glory arrayed, 
 
 How pleasant to stray 
 
 From our dwellings away. 
 
 To gather the flowers 
 
 That bloom in the bowers ; 
 Or, roaming alone in the beautiful glade. 
 
 How grateful to hear. 
 
 From the wilderness near. 
 
 The notes of the birds. 
 
 More enchanting than words. 
 
 But Autumn ! thou comest to dampen our joy. 
 
 For thou teachest the maid 
 
 That her beauty must fade ; 
 
 Proclaimest aloud. 
 
 To the gay and the proud. 
 That vanity's tinsels are less than a toy ; 
 
 Admonishest all, 
 
 From the cot to the hall, 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 33 
 
 To look for the hour 
 When sorrow may lower. 
 
 Fair Flora no more in the garden we view ; 
 
 Her emblems of youth, 
 
 And her tokens of truth, 
 
 Have vanished from sight. 
 
 Like a meteor bright. 
 Thus man, when he hopeth his life to renew, 
 
 Discovers at last. 
 
 That his vigor has passed, 
 
 And he glideth away. 
 
 As declineth the day. 
 
 My God ! when thou callest me hence unto thee, 
 
 Afford me a place 
 
 Consecrated by grace, 
 
 Where pains and turmoils. 
 
 And afflictions and toils. 
 May be to my spirit as chains to the free. 
 
 At Liberty's birth. 
 
 Consigned to the earth. 
 
 Insufficient to bind 
 
 The victorious mind. 
 
OUR FATHER. 
 
 Oh God ! thou art our Father ! ever 
 
 May we adore thy holy name ! 
 Whate'er betides us, may we never 
 
 Forget that thou art still the same. 
 When pam disturbs the weary breast, 
 
 Already, through excess of care. 
 Deprived of half its needed rest, — 
 
 To thee, oh God ! ascends the prayer. 
 
 When sorrow like a shadow falling, 
 
 The gloom of night throws o'er the soul 
 When passion like a cloud appalling. 
 
 Forebodes a storm from pole to pole ; — 
 Our Father ! may we fly to thee. 
 
 Who only can'st remove our fears 1 
 At thy approach our troubles flee, 
 
 As nightly shades when Morn appears. 
 
 Thou art our Father ! May we love thee 
 
 As children should a parent kind. 
 No royal chieftain rules above thee. 
 
 So need we fear no foe to find. 
 Our lives, our health, to thee we owe. 
 
 And thou bestowest all our food : 
 Oh ! may our numbers ever flow 
 
 In praise to thee, eternal Good. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 Winter is a solemn time 
 
 For the lovers of the tlowers ; 
 All is desolate and drear 
 
 In the meadows and the bowers. 
 The beautiful songsters that chanted their lays 
 In the valley and grove on the Summer's fair days, 
 No longer are present to cheer with their strains, 
 The hearts of the maids and the souls of the swains. 
 
 Winter is a merry time 
 
 For the farmer's ruddy youth ; 
 See them on their way to school, 
 Full of innocence and truth. 
 The breezes may blow, and the snow fly about, 
 Yet echo the louder their laugh and their shout, 
 Their bosoms replete with the rapture of joy ; — 
 Ah ! never may mortal their pleasure destroy. 
 
 Winter is a gloomy time 
 
 For the widow lone and sad; 
 Many pass her cottage low. 
 Few to make her spirit glad. 
 The snow is descending ! Oh ! have ye no thought 
 For one who is starving 1 for food she has nought ! 
 Remember the widow, and enter her door, — 
 So Heaven will bless you, and add to your store ! 
 
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Affection's tears may well be shed 
 In ceaseless grief for one so dear ; 
 
 But tears can never reach the dead, 
 Nor draw the gentle spirit near. 
 
 No more shall care disturb her breast, 
 Nor sorrow cast the shades of gloom ; 
 
 In peaceful slumber she will rest. 
 Within the lone and silent tomb. 
 
 The winds may blow with plaintive sound 
 And softer zephyrs may deplore ; 
 
 Yet though the tempest beat around, 
 Its presence she will heed no more. 
 
 When Spring the sceptre shall resume, 
 The violet may deck the plain ; 
 
 How fair soever it may bloom, 
 She ne'er will view its form again. 
 
 In yonder world of love and joy. 
 With seraphim her spirit dwells ; 
 
 While songs of praise her harp employ, 
 With gratitude her bosom swells. 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
THE COMING OF SPRING. 37 
 
 Then why should tears so freely flow 
 For one so virtuous and good, 
 
 When sorrow she will never know 
 Where sorrow may not dare intrude ? 
 
 Alas ! 't is that her gentle voice 
 No more will vibrate on the ear, 
 
 No more her kindly look rejoice, 
 With smiles of sympathy and cheer. 
 
 THE COMING OF SPRING. 
 
 The tempest may rage, and the snow may descend. 
 Yet Winter! thou hast but a short time to reign; 
 
 For thy locks are too hoary, old monarch ! to blend 
 With the curls of the princess who comes o'er the 
 plain. 
 
 Her breath will demolish thy fortified towers, 
 Thy mountains and grand superstructures of snow. 
 
 She comes to arrange a parterre for the flowers. 
 And bid the bright streams from their prisons to 
 flow. 
 
 Oh come, lovely Spring ! for we fain would behold 
 The beautiful scenes that attend as thy train, 
 
38 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The time when the leaves of the trees will unfold, 
 And Sylvan rejoice in his glory again. 
 
 The sick and desponding thy coming will hail, 
 While Nature shall smile on the work of thy hand : 
 
 The carols of birds will resound through the vale, 
 " And the voice of the turtle be heard in our land ! ' 
 
 SECRET SORROW. 
 
 The heart knoweth his own bitterness.— Proverbs xlv, 10. 
 
 Whatever the stranger may think of my sorrow. 
 My sensitive heart its own bitterness knows, 
 
 Although I may wait till the dawn of the morrow, 
 And witness an end to my cares in repose. 
 
 My bosom its groanings and sighings may stifle. 
 While radiant smiles on my countenance glow ; 
 
 But can I conceal, as it w^ere but a trifle. 
 
 That rankling within — the foreboding of woe "? 
 
 Oh let me apply to that skilful Physician, 
 
 Who fain would remove the complaints of the soul; 
 
 So, whilst I am heeding his kind admonition. 
 My sorrows may lose their destructive control. 
 
WELCOME TO FLORA. 
 
 Welcome, Flora ! once again, 
 
 Thou accomplished queen of flowers ; 
 
 Welcome to the verdant plain, 
 And the green, romantic bowers. 
 
 Welcome, welcome ! lovely maid ! — 
 For the term thou wearest well, — 
 
 Welcome to the Sylvan glade, 
 And the meadow, and the dell. 
 
 We remember well the time, 
 
 When brown Autumn wore the crown, 
 Thou departedst from our clime. 
 
 To escape cold Winter's frown. 
 
 Ah ! how gloomy was the scene ; 
 
 Every flower doomed to fall. 
 From the Lily on the green. 
 
 To the Aster by the wall. 
 
 Spring awaits thy coming now ; 
 
 Lo ! she meets thee in the vale. 
 Wreaths of laurel on her brow, — 
 
 " Flora ! lovely Flora, hail ! " 
 
TO * * * 
 
 Blessings on thy gentle soul, 
 Best and dearest Friend of mine ; 
 
 Longer than the planets roll, 
 Be the bliss of heaven thine ! 
 
 When the vesper gilds the west. 
 And the sky is mild and fair. 
 
 Thoughts of thee shall free my breast 
 From its weight of pain and care. 
 
 Thou hast more than once appeared 
 In my dreams of fairy isles ; 
 
 And my spirit thou hast cheered 
 With thy soul-inspiring smiles. 
 
 Oh that thou would'st think of me, 
 While alone among thy flowers ! 
 
 Then might all my sorrows flee. 
 And serenely glide the hours. 
 
 Blessings on thy gentle soul, 
 
 Best and dearest Friend of mine ; 
 
 Longer than the planets roll. 
 Be the bliss of heaven thine ! 
 
THE ANGEL OF LOVE. 
 
 An angel whose home was afar in the sky, 
 
 Descended one night on the breeze's light pinions ; 
 For oft he had heard of the treasures that lie 
 
 Concealed from the vision of Vice and her minions. 
 He came to the couch of a slumbering youth, 
 
 Who dreamingly thought of Euphelia and love, 
 "Whose brow w^ore the token of virtue and truth, 
 
 His spirit as artless as those are above. 
 
 Then hastened the angel the fair one to find, 
 
 Whose dwellinghe knewby the perfume of flowers; 
 Herself he discerned by the beautiful mind, 
 
 Resembling a seraph's in heaven's bright bowers. 
 As gently as Zephyr he glideth along, 
 
 Arrayed in the vestments of glory and light ; 
 Behold him preparing his lute for a song ! 
 
 Sweet maid ! thou wilt dream of thy lover to-night. 
 
 " Sleep on, thou dearest, purest one. 
 Who art my life, my joy, my sun ! 
 And I will dream, my own ! of thee. 
 Whilst thou, perchance, wilt dream of me. 
 
 Oh ! meet me at Aurora's dawn, 
 And we will seek the dewy lawn, 
 
42 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The first to view the beauteous flowers 
 That bloom hi Nature's fragrant bowers : 
 
 While none may hear the tender words 
 That pass between us, save the birds, 
 "Whose dulcet numbers shall inspire 
 Our souls with Love's e'er-glowing fire!" 
 
 How quickly that cheek was suff'used with the rose ! 
 
 How glad was the creature by Venus enthralled, 
 As silent she lay in the arms of repose, 
 
 And fancied it must be her Damon who called. 
 
 The winds might have swept the ^olian lyre, 
 And magical notes have enchanted the ear, 
 
 So thrillingly lofty that holy desire 
 
 Would have warmed into rapture, or flowed in a 
 tear. 
 
 But music is charmless compared with the power 
 That visits at midnight the true and the good. 
 
 Or lives in the breath of some beautiful flower, 
 Afar in the silent recess of the wood. 
 
 Then Damon ! as soon as the shadows depart. 
 Go thou to the garden adorned by the Box, 
 
 And choose for Euphelia to press to her heart, 
 That darling of Flora — the eloquent Phlox. 
 
THE CHILD'S WISHES. 
 I. 
 
 I WISH I Avere a flower, Mother ! 
 
 To blossom in the vale ; 
 Then I would send my fragrance, Mother ! 
 
 To thee upon the gale. 
 My petals I would spread so wide, 
 
 And I would look so bright, 
 The Lily and the Hose would hide, 
 
 And leave me all the light. 
 
 Thou would'st not be a flower. Child ! 
 
 Though sought by Beauty's eye. 
 Too soon might come the hour, Child ! 
 
 When thou would'st fade and die. 
 
 11. 
 
 I wish I were a bird, dear Mother ! 
 
 To sing upon the tree ; 
 Then I would leave the grove, dear Mother ! 
 
 And sweetly sing to thee. 
 The Lark, the Eobin, and the Jay, 
 
 Should visit oft my nest, 
 
44 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 And we would be so blithe and gay. 
 That pain would ne'er molest. 
 
 Thou would'st not be a hird, my Child \ 
 With smooth and rounded form ; 
 
 The bird might lose his freedom, Child I 
 Or perish in the storm. 
 
 III. 
 
 I wish I were an angel, Mother ! 
 
 In Paradise to roam ; 
 Then I would ask permission. Mother I 
 
 To come and guard thy home. 
 Upon the zephyr I would float, 
 
 And whisper in the glen ; 
 I 'd borrow Philomela's note. 
 
 And cheer the souls of men.. 
 
 If thou would'st be an angel, Child \ 
 And tune thy tongue to praise, 
 
 Remember thy Creator, Child ! 
 And walk in Virtue's ways. 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 How oft I remember, while musing alone, 
 The moments of youth which were always so pleasant, 
 That thoughtless and careless of future or present, 
 
 I scarcely observed when those moments had flown. 
 
 Whenever I wander through valley or glade, 
 My memory paints in her characters glowing, 
 The ancient elm tree, and the rivulet flowing, 
 
 As erst they appeared when in childhood I strayed. 
 
 The house where a school-boy I measured the 
 hours, — 
 Respected, I ween, by the patrons of learning. 
 Though Time and Decay for its ruin are yearning, — 
 
 Was dearer to me than Elysian bowers. 
 
 The books that I studied, the map and the chart. 
 The Teacher, the Class-mates, seem ever before me ; 
 And as I reflect a sensation comes o'er me — 
 
 A feeling of sadness pervading my heart. 
 
 Ah ! those were my brightest, my happiest days ! 
 The moment be distant when I shall forget them : 
 The friends of my boyhood! oh longwilt thouletthem. 
 
 Illustrious Wisdom ! delight in thy ways. 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 The king of day has left his sapphire throne, 
 And cast his regal robes upon the clouds. 
 
 Now gloomy Night her ample curtain draws, 
 And shuts the fading glory from the scene ; 
 While Cynthia presides among the stars, 
 And sways her sceptre o'er the silent world. 
 
 Fain would I range, at this appropriate time. 
 
 The field of thought. But lest, without a guide, 
 
 I wander far in some forbidden path, 
 
 Oh Contemplation, thou mysterious power ! 
 
 Direct my wayward Muse. Alone I stand, 
 
 And look abroad upon the hills and groves, 
 
 Now wrapped in gloom. An awful stillness reigns, 
 
 For not a sound I hear, except the note 
 
 Of watchful bird, and cricket's merry chirp. 
 
 The zephyrs that composed the flowers to rest. 
 
 Scarce breathe among the trees. Oh sacred hour ! 
 
 I would that Nature ever were as calm, 
 
 As free from tumult and unhallowed strife ; 
 
 No deadly rifle aiming to disturb 
 
 The harmony of Sylvan's chosen tribes. 
 
NIGHT. 47 
 
 Ten thousand spirits from their haunts come forth, 
 To guard the lowly couch of weary man, 
 And shed the balmy influence around, 
 That brings repose. But Fancy, still awake. 
 Charmed by the touch of some angelic hand, 
 Soars far away to those enchanted realms. 
 Where wasting care and agonizing pain 
 Are never known. The Poet idly roams 
 Through vales Elysian, and through fadeless bowers. 
 And deems he finds at last the famed retreat. 
 Where Autumn's frost and melancholy winds. 
 The fairest flowers that bloom, may ne'er destroy. 
 
 Thus, rising on Imagination's wings, 
 Eemote from halls of Bacchanalian cheer, 
 And happily secure from threatening harm. 
 Age, Youth, and Childhood well may early seek 
 Their pillows, and exhilarating dreams. 
 
 Oh let man slumber on, ye heavenly powers ! 
 And lose in sweet unconsciousness his woes. 
 What though the splendid palaces of pride, 
 Thronged with the daughters and the sons of wealth, 
 Resound the noise of revelry and mirth ] 
 What though the drama draw the crowd away. 
 And tales of sorrow drown the eyes with tears ? 
 Let nought disturb the sleeper. Nature seeks, 
 In calm repose, a respite from her toils. 
 
48 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Retiring from the scene the Muse admires, 
 
 Now let me to my lonely couch repair, 
 
 That slumber may refresh my weary frame, 
 
 And tranquillize my o'er-excited brain ; 
 
 So that when Morn shall call me to my task, 
 
 Obedient to the summons I may rise, 
 
 My thoughts ascending to the great First Cause, 
 
 In gratitude for His preserving care. 
 
 SONNETS ADDRESSED TO MISS S. J. L*****. 
 
 On Lady ! were mine but a pen of pure gold. 
 
 Some Muse at my elbow my words to endite. 
 What scenes of enchantment thine eye would behold. 
 
 Surpassingly fair and ineffably bright ! 
 But pens of pure gold in these days are rare things, 
 
 And Muses are scarcer than poqts, 1 ween; 
 Yet he that in soaring on Fancy's light wings. 
 New beauties from heights of Elysium brings. 
 
 From the regions of Friendship kind wishes may 
 glean : 
 So let me, withdrawn to my studio, write. 
 From the thoughts of my heart still remaining untold, 
 By my flickering taper, a sonnet to thee. 
 Though artless and feeble its numbers may be. 
 
SONNETS, ETC. 
 
 49 
 
 I. 
 
 When the Planet of even serenely is shinmg, 
 
 Heflecting her form m the lake and the rill ; 
 When slowly the tints of the day are declining, 
 
 Beyond the dark wood and the towering hill ; 
 When gloomily gather the shadows of night, 
 And nature recedes, as it were, from the sight ; — 
 If thou to thy pillow thy head art resigning, 
 Some heavenly influence hallow the hours. 
 That thou, unmolested by noise or affright, 
 
 May'st peacefully slumber and pleasantly dream, 
 Whilst the angels of beauty are guarding the flowers. 
 
 From heaven descending on Cynthia's beam. 
 
 II. 
 
 Be angels thy guards on the ocean of life. 
 
 The heavens be cloudless, the waters be still ; 
 No shadow of sorrow, no tempest of strife. 
 
 Thy spirit to trouble with bodings of ill ; 
 No wind of adversity angrily blowing, 
 
 Thy skiff' to endanger Avhilst thou art reposing ; 
 No wave of affliction tumultuously flowing, 
 
 O'er the ruins of faith and of hope darkly closing ; 
 
 Oh, rather may Zephyr the sail gently fill. 
 And Bethlehem's Star be the beacon to guide thee 
 Afar from the places where storms might betide thee, 
 
 Till moored be thy bark in the haven of rest, — 
 
 The port of the happy, the home of the blest ! 
 
THE rOET'S DWELLING. 
 
 The soul-entrancing hour of twilight came, 
 The harbinger of night. Fair Nature saw. 
 And recognized the season for repose. 
 But wiser man, unsatisfied with toil. 
 Continued at his task. Yet there was one, 
 A studious youth, who wandered from the mart, 
 To seek a place appropriate to thought. 
 He paused before an arbor's ample seat, 
 Protected by the foliage of the vine, 
 From breezes damp, and cold, infectious dews. 
 Whilst there he sat in meditative mood, 
 Across his vision Sleep her curtain drew. 
 Still he perceived it not. His fancy roamed 
 Through realms of beauty all unknown to him, 
 Where eve already from the morn had fled. 
 The groves rejoicing at the day's return. 
 As he the bright, enchantmg scene surveyed, 
 A comely personage, of placid brow 
 And stately manner, unobserved approached ; 
 When thus the youthful rambler was addressed : 
 
 Listen ! listen ! pensive stranger ! 
 
 Let me take thy trembling hand ; 
 Thou shalt be with me a ranger 
 
 In this fair, romantic land. 
 
THE poet's dwelling. 51 
 
 Hast thou seen the Poet's dwelling, 
 
 Far in Sylvan's glad domain, 
 Where the breezes gently swelling, 
 
 Fan the brow and cool the brain ? 
 
 If thou hast not, I invite thee. 
 
 Thitherward with me to stray ; 
 And from bodings that affright thee, 
 
 Thou shalt be relieved for aye. 
 
 We will pass the flowing fountain 
 Where the sons of health regale ; 
 
 Then the pathway o'er the mountain, 
 Shall conduct us to the vale. 
 
 Seest thou yonder graceful willow. 
 Branching o'er an humble dome 1 
 
 There resides the good Florillo, 
 Happy in his cottage home. 
 
 Here a lake, and there a river, 
 
 Glitters in Aurora's ray ; 
 While the Poet to the Giver 
 
 Consecrates his earliest lay. 
 
 Lilies, asters, dahlias, roses. 
 
 Reared by Beauty's hand appear ; 
 
 And the pansy opes and closes, 
 Columbine and crocus near. 
 
52 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Tending upwards from the basement 
 Of the dwelling of the Muse, 
 
 Ivy clingeth to the casement, 
 Watered nightly by the dews. 
 
 Hath the voice of slander ever 
 Found within those walls a place, 
 
 Friendship's holy ties to sever, 
 And destroy the work of grace ] 
 
 Hath the demon of dissension 
 Gained a lodgement for a day 1 
 
 Ask the inmates ; bid them mention ; 
 They will surely answer — Nay. 
 
 Let us hasten, for to meet us, 
 
 Lo ! the Bard himself draws nigh. 
 
 Complaisantly he will greet us. 
 With a welcome-beaming eye. 
 
 'T is the hour when prayer they offer 
 To the Framer of the skies. 
 
 That a blessing He may proffer 
 From the heavenly supplies. 
 
 We will join them in devotion. 
 When we reach their rural seat, 
 
 Far from scenes of loud commotion. 
 Where the gay and thoughtless meet. 
 
LINES, ETC. 53 
 
 We will ramble through the bowers, 
 
 And inhale the balmy air, 
 Roam at will among the flowers, 
 
 And adore the Maker there. 
 
 Then the visit to yon mansion, 
 
 Long in memory shall float, 
 The refinement and expansion 
 
 Of thy spirit to promote. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Written on the death of Oscar Augustus, infant son 
 of Henri/ and Betsey Lowell. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! — Hemans. 
 
 Spirits ! breathe among the strings 
 Of the Muse's trembling lyre, 
 
 For the strains that now she sings. 
 Sad and solemn tones require. 
 
 From this world of grief and pain, 
 Hath Aff'ection's darling flown, — 
 
54 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Pure as any that attain 
 
 To a seat before the Throne ; 
 
 Lovely as the flower which graced 
 Once the spot by Zephyr fanned, 
 
 On that little bosom placed 
 By a sympathizing hand. 
 
 Parents ! weep ye not for him ; 
 
 He shall ever sweetly rest, 
 Guarded by the seraphim, 
 
 On the Savior's peaceful breast. 
 
 For yourselves your tears may flow, 
 That to you 't was not assigned. 
 
 In the nursery below. 
 
 To direct his deathless mind. 
 
 Weep that ye will never more 
 Your beloved one behold. 
 
 Till ye view the heavenly shore, 
 And the palaces of gold. 
 
 But your weeping ye may spare. 
 And your grief may have an end. 
 
 For your Father's love and care 
 To eternity extend. 
 
THE RETURN OF PEACE. 55 
 
 There no frost the bud may blight, 
 
 But the floweret will appear 
 In the full, effulgent light 
 
 That adorns the upper sphere. 
 
 THE RETURN OF PEACE. 
 
 Thou patron of friendship, thou sister of love, 
 Oh angel of Peace ! we await thy return ; 
 
 For thee when we view on the wings of the dove. 
 The fires in our dwellings more cheerily burn. 
 
 We knew thee of old, and enjoyed thy repose, 
 When Scandal was mute, and Contention at rest : 
 
 Then our lovers were many, and few were our foes, 
 The spoiler unroused at Ambition's behest. 
 
 But now thou appearest with smiles on thy cheek, 
 The waters of gladness our cups overflow ; 
 
 For our friends and our brothers their kindred will 
 seek. 
 Whose eyes when we meet with emotion shall glow. 
 
 The olive thou bearest the token shall be. 
 
 That the strife with its carnage and ruin is o'er : 
 
 Oh ! never again, in the thoughts of the free. 
 May prowess and might be connected with gore ! 
 
56 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Oh welcome ! thrice welcome ! companion of Joy ; 
 
 Our homes will be happier far than they were, 
 When the news from the field but arrived to destroy 
 
 The hopes we had cherished with fondness and care. 
 
 Alas ! there were some whom we loved as ourselves, 
 "Who left us ; but ah ! shall we see them again 1 
 
 Their gifts of affection still lie on our shelves, — 
 Those sacred remembrancers ! let them remain. 
 
 The youth who presented that locket of hair, 
 That Love might in wish to the absent recur, 
 
 Now rests from his troubles, — ask Sympathy where ; 
 Yet who will impart consolation to her ? 
 
 We utter a prayer to the God of the world, — 
 Oh may our petition be heard at the throne, — 
 
 That thy banner, oh Peace ! may be proudly unfurled, 
 That war may no more on our borders be known. 
 
 Ye sons of Columbia ! noble and brave. 
 Contend ye no longer for glory or gold ; 
 
 Leave this to corruption, and that to the grave. 
 As unworthy a sigh from the true and the bold. 
 
 Your armor bring forth, and prepare to engage. 
 With hands and with souls, in a holier cause. 
 
 By Wisdom directed, and counselled by Age, 
 And cheered with supj^ort from republican laws. 
 
STANZAS, ETC. 57 
 
 Assist ye the fallen, enlighten the blind. 
 
 And consecrate temples to Freedom and Truth : 
 
 Encourage all hearts in the progress of mind, 
 And seek ye the moral advancement of youth. 
 
 Anticipate then the illustrious day, 
 
 When war shall be learned by the nations no more, 
 The rifle and sword, if preserved from decay, 
 
 Augmenting some strange, antiquarian store. 
 
 All confident Hope shall your energies raise, 
 Forgiveness the seraph subduing your foes, 
 
 Till the waste and the valley shall echo with praise, 
 And the wilderness blossom and smile as the rose: 
 
 The happy dominion of Shiloh at hand, 
 The sera in verse and in prophecy sung, 
 
 When Peace shall prevail on the sea and the land, 
 Salvation the theme of the harp and the tongue. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Addressed to R. H., on his birthday. 
 
 Ingenuous brother, hail ! my spirit lyre 
 
 Would move the Muse to friendship's warm desire, 
 
58 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 That Joy may re-adorn her spacious bower, 
 And dedicate to thee her sweetest flower. 
 
 Did Time produce at each diurnal round, 
 One soul as true, then virtue might abound, 
 And our Columbia aspire to be 
 The alma mater of the wise and free. 
 
 THE VISION OF URANIA. 
 
 The smile of Phoebus rested on the hills. 
 While pensive Evening, stealing from the vale, 
 Bade Nature's children all their cares forget, 
 And seek the mossy mound by Sylvan reared. 
 In thankfulness and reverence of soul, 
 Before the great Creator's throne to bow. 
 
 Mysteriously attracted by the hour. 
 To hold communion with the solemn woods, 
 A son of genius from his dwelling strayed ; 
 When Poesy, the charmer of the mind, 
 Determined she would cross the grassy lea. 
 The wanderer to meet. These were the words 
 Which flowed between her sweet enchanting lips: 
 
 Florillo ! come with me to my retreat, 
 Where beauty reigns, and Philomela sings. 
 
THE VISION OF URANIA. 59 
 
 And I will deck with fair, immortal flowers, 
 
 Thy thoughtful brow, and calm thy throbbing brain. 
 
 Meanwhile, my minstrel, if thou choose to hear, 
 
 Shall touch the strings of his nocturnal harp. 
 
 And chant a lay from mythologic lore. 
 
 List ! he begins. Stay now thy restless feet, 
 
 With me recline upon this rosy bank. 
 
 That thou may'st, calling Fancy to thine aid, 
 
 The vision of Urania receive. 
 
 Remote from Athens roamed the Muse, 
 Nor sought she Sparta's festal halls ; 
 
 Her vesture brushed the twilight dews, 
 Near ruins old and crumbling walls. 
 
 But Somnus waved his mystic hand 
 Before those meditative eyes, 
 
 When speedily the hallowed land 
 Seemed canopied by clearer skies. 
 
 For though the orbs of wakeful sight. 
 Obscured in total darkness were. 
 
 Imagination, through the night. 
 
 Discovered wondrous things and rare. 
 
 O'er heaven's eternal, empyreal height. 
 
 Presided the deity, Jove ; 
 While ardent Apollo, dispenser of light. 
 
 To gladden immensity strove. 
 
60 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Then J^oliis rose from the earthly dominions, 
 
 With tidings that Rumor and Sophistry, flown, 
 Had compassed the spheres on impetuous pinions, 
 
 With comrades that few would be willing to own ; 
 Maliciously sounding in many an ear, 
 A thousand reports most unpleasant to hear, 
 Of crimes unsurpassed in the annals of sin, 
 Committed wherever the Passions had been. 
 
 Hence a messenger went from the palace on high, 
 
 Endowed with a keen, irresistible eye, 
 
 And vested with power to summon and draw 
 
 To Equity's bar of retributive law. 
 
 The alleged introducers of discord and w^oe, 
 
 With such as might aught of their treachery know. 
 
 Soon Calumny, boldest and fiercest of all 
 The hundred accusers that noted the call. 
 Advanced with his lip curled in haughty disdain. 
 But she who was queen of that numerous train, 
 Hypocrisy, known by her vehement sighs 
 And saintly demeanor, appeared in disguise. 
 
 Their evidence taken, recorded, and weighed, 
 By beings whom never partiality swayed. 
 Thus spake the dread Ruler, his countenance veiled, 
 At the noise of whose thunder the mightiest quailed : — 
 
 Fly hither ! ye spirits that influence man, 
 
THE VISION OF URANIA. 61 
 
 And tremble with awe while your motives I scan. 
 Your ways, it is said, are extremely perverse, 
 Your manners uncouth, your society worse. 
 If ye would reply to the charges preferred. 
 Ye must be, ye shall be, attentively heard ; 
 For those who my precepts audaciously slight, 
 I doom to the desolate caverns of night ! 
 
 First came the renowned, the angelical Jby, 
 In outline resembling a beautiful boy ; 
 When quickly, in tones represented by none. 
 Essayed he to answer the terrible one : — 
 
 Thou Prince of the glorious earth. 
 Whom Virtue and Wisdom revere! 
 
 I sport in the garden of mirth, 
 The patrons of Flora to cheer. 
 
 The soul of the mourner is glad, 
 
 As he heareth the notes of my voice ; 
 
 I traverse the paths of the sad, 
 
 And the lone when they meet me rejoice. 
 
 Sometimes o'er the waters in glee, 
 With Health, my beloved, I sail, 
 
 When still as the moon is the sea. 
 And silent the threatening gale. 
 
62 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Next ventured disconsolate Sorrow along, 
 Reluctantly joining the various throng : 
 Yet bound were her tresses and shaded her eyes, 
 For she seldom could look on the arc of the skies. 
 So feeble she seemed, and her thoughts so intense. 
 Emotion was chosen to frame the defence : — 
 
 My friends and associates fled 
 
 To seek a more genial clime, 
 I linger, ah me ! with the dead, 
 
 Ne'er mounting with Faith the sublime. 
 
 Let man but approach my abode. 
 And his temper I ruffle with care ; 
 
 His bosom with anguish I load. 
 And leave him the prey of Despair. 
 
 Permit me, ye gods ! to return 
 
 To my cypress, mine arbor, my nook ; 
 
 For yon tires that so glaringly burn, 
 Are more than I ever can brook. 
 
 The tremulous echo had not died away. 
 Ere Fear and her daughters were filled with dismay ; 
 For darkness and heaviness settled on all. 
 And creation was wrapped, as it were, in a pall ; 
 AVhile Misery wailed in her prison aloud. 
 Till Hope, the bright seraph, appeared through the 
 cloud. 
 
THE VISION OF URANIA. 63 
 
 Then followed a ray from the realm of Desire, 
 That shone for a moment like heavenly fire, 
 Dispelling the gloom that had gathered around, 
 So that Joy made the concave a psean resound. 
 
 But Hatred^ the monster, majestic in mien. 
 With his towering form mtercepted the sheen ! 
 Dire Anger came rushing, alas ! in his train. 
 Convulsive delirium racking her brain, — 
 Revenge close behind with a steel in his hand, 
 Sly Envy his partner and head of his band. 
 Ah ! this was the plea of the sapient sprite, 
 Who boldly confronted, with speech erudite. 
 That sacred tribunal of justice the guide, 
 For the wretches who gloried in menace and pride: — 
 
 O'er mountain, through valley, o'er main, 
 Destruction and terror we spread ; 
 
 Where'er unmolested we reign. 
 The nations discern us with dread ! 
 
 We delight in tormenting our foes, 
 And in hurling envenomed the dart ; 
 
 And if any our hands dare oppose, 
 
 A poignard we thrust through his heart. 
 
 Yea ! fain would we ruthlessly bear 
 
 Thee, Sovereign ! down from thy throne ; 
 
64 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The crown from its place we would tear, 
 Thy subjects to rule as our own. 
 
 Cease, horrible demon ! stern Equity cried. 
 Else thou shalt be drowned in the Stygian tide ! 
 But hark ! oh ye nobles and chiefs of the sky ; 
 Mine ear is enchanted, and charmed is mine eye ! 
 A spirit that seems of ethereal mould, 
 Approaching this motley assembly behold ! 
 Yet where are the fiends with the carriage so high. 
 Who durst even me and my servants defy ? 
 Nay ! where are the spectres that wandered abroad. 
 And the myriads ready to move at their nod ? 
 They are not as they were, or have vanished away. 
 As phantoms dissolve when the Genii pray. 
 
 Attend, oh ye multitudes ! hear what she saith, 
 Whose presence is life, but whose absence is death: — 
 
 My name, oh ye Powers ! is Love^ 
 Derived from our Father above : 
 The soul with malignity warm. 
 By waving my wand I transform. 
 
 The Olive I wear on my breast. 
 And the Myrtle I fondly esteem ; 
 
 For Peace is my aff'able guest. 
 And constant affection my theme. 
 
THE VISION OF URANIA. 65 
 
 Forgiveness had scarcely confirmed by a smile, 
 The words of her sister who never knew guile, 
 When suddenly Jupiter lifted his hand, — 
 The signal preceding his final command. 
 
 Then darted the lightnings so fearfully nigh, 
 That breathless all waited to catch the reply : — 
 Oh Rumor ! arch plotter of mischief and lies, 
 Whom oft I have seen from my seat in the skies ! 
 For this flagrant abuse of thy voluble tongue, 
 In classing the guiltless the guilty among, 
 I thought to confine thee in Lucifer's den, 
 Remote from the dwellings of angels and men ; 
 But Mercy implores me to bid thee retire, 
 And fools, if they will, may thy friendship desire. 
 
 Thou, Sophistry ! go, with Perversion thy ward, 
 And rest in the bosom of Pluto, thy lord. 
 
 But Calumny ! thou of the serpent-like crest. 
 Who gladly wouldst poison the veins of the best, — 
 Begone ! with thy aids and thy secret compeers, 
 No longer to torture ingenuous ears ; — 
 That the Passions their several ways may pursue. 
 By Principle guided, with Love to subdue. 
 
 Urania listened, while, searching afar. 
 She fancied she gazed on her favorite star 
 
66 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Enraptured she stood, yet she heard not the whole, 
 For Reverence came and o'erpowered her soul. 
 
 WATER. 
 
 Give me water from the fountain, 
 Richer far than choicest wine ; 
 
 With a dwelling by the mountain, 
 Sweetly hallowed by the Ni7ie. 
 
 Give me water cool and flowing. 
 When diseases bring me low ; 
 
 Then may Fever's arid glowing 
 Find a sure, subduing foe. 
 
 Give me water ! for I think it 
 Beverage that will prevail ! 
 
 From the vessel let me drink it. 
 Never used for foaming ale. 
 
 REMINISCENCE. 
 
 PSALM CXXXVII. 
 
 By Babylon's waters in silence reclining, 
 We wept when of Zion we thought, 
 
 And our harps on the willows we hung : 
 
POLYANTHUS. 
 
 67 
 
 For to deepen our sorrow our captors combining, 
 Demanded a song that we brought 
 
 From the land where in gladness we sung. 
 
 Alas ! so remote from the Sycamore bowers, 
 Affliction and weariness met, 
 How sadly would echo the lay ! 
 In the midst of adversity's languishing hours, 
 If Salem my home I forget, 
 
 Let my hand lose its cunning for aye ! 
 
 Unless I remember Jerusalem ever, 
 And sigh when I think of her woes, 
 Preferring her over my joy, 
 My tongue — let it cleave to my mouth so that never. 
 The glory that Babylon shows. 
 In singing my voice may employ. 
 
 POLYANTHUS. 
 
 MENTAL EXCELLENCE MANIFESTED BY A SMILE. 
 
 Sweetly the songsters of Nature may sing, 
 Fining with music the glen and the bower ; 
 
 Brightly in forest and meadow may spring 
 Many a fragrant and beauteous flower ; — 
 
68 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 But such have no charm that is half so divine, 
 
 So precious to me, 
 As the Smile of the being whose spirit benign 
 
 Abideth with thee ! 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY. 
 
 Oh Liberty ! effulgent as the day, 
 To thee we fain would dedicate the lay ; 
 For long ago, when Greece was in her prime, 
 Thy praise resounded from the Mount sublime. 
 The echo Rome's eternal temples caught, 
 And bade it fill the universe of thought. 
 Till proud Oppression, child of darkness, came, 
 To plant his empire and exalt his name. 
 
 Then didst thou seek on Britain's distant isle, 
 A spot unknown to domineering guile ; 
 Thence coming to the cold New England rock. 
 To guard with pastoral care the Pilgrim fiock. 
 
 Have iron rods and worse than iron chains. 
 Conspired to drive thee from thy native plains 1 
 Ah ! still we hope that thou may'st yet succeed 
 To crush the wrong, but not with tramping steed 
 For "Wisdom teaches, armies best prevail 
 With moral weapons, not with coats of mail. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY. 69 
 
 The time will be, 't is even at the door ! 
 When Tyranny shall rule the earth no more. 
 Nay ! did the braggart know his feeble age, 
 Then he might ne'er against his doom engage ! 
 But let him live ! yet may'st thou view his fall, 
 And likewise old Exclusion's crumbling wall. 
 
 The Arbiter who destinies decides. 
 
 Will bid the serpent sting his scaly sides, 
 
 Wlien he shall raise in agony his crest. 
 
 And cease to be the formidable guest 
 
 Of millions he would long ago have slain, 
 
 With horrid fangs inserted in the vein. 
 
 Then shall he die ! henceforth with loud acclaim. 
 
 Combine, ye free, to execrate his name ! 
 
 Oh blest deliverance ! it must be yours, 
 Ye nations whom the Despot now immures. 
 Italia ! thou shalt break, with mighty hand. 
 The thongs which bind the nobles of thy land ; 
 And Hungary ! thou in thy strength shalt rise, 
 While Kossuth shall be honored to the skies ! 
 
 Columbia will hail the first of all, 
 The great enfranchisement from Slavery's thrall ; 
 And France, methinks, in valor scarce surpassed. 
 Accomplished in the arts, with learning vast. 
 Will never think to lag behind the world. 
 
70 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 But gladly see fair Freedom's flag unfurled, 
 That patriot spirits may no more neglect 
 The people's cause, but gather to protect. ■ 
 
 Ye Leaders of the glorious march of truth, 
 Arouse ye speedily ! improve your youth ! 
 Progression for your changeless motto, choose. 
 Throughout the lump her leavening power diffuse, 
 Whose principles and holy doctrines are 
 As firmly fixed as is the centre star ; — 
 Not fixed to be immovable in space. 
 But e'er advancing, never out of place — 
 Herself the chief attracter of the whole, 
 " Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ! " 
 
 But ye whose wills control the reins of state, 
 
 Ye kings of Europe once renowned and great ! 
 
 Thou Russian autocrat ! thou Austrian lord ! 
 
 Beware ! lest soon ye feel your just reward ! 
 
 Not e en the dire artillery of hell 
 
 Can save you from the mass whose bosoms swell 
 
 With hatred to the long tyrannic sway, 
 
 That ye have exercised until this day. 
 
 One means ye have to still the moving throng — 
 
 That lies in striving to redress the wrong. 
 
 If ye will act, in sackcloth robes arrayed, 
 
 With Wisdom and Philosophy to aid ; 
 
 Nay ! though the right receive but your assent, 
 
 Ye for a moment's time may cause content. 
 
THE LAST ROSE. 71 
 
 Unless ye soon shall full concession make, 
 Terrific thunders o'er your heads will break, 
 "Whose echoes each Carpathian cliff shall hear, 
 Eeverberating " hymns of lofty cheer ! " 
 While Alpine heights shall catch the welcome strain, 
 And wake to rapture Poland's distant plain. 
 
 Then Liberty ! thou may'st for aye rejoice. 
 And chant a paean with thy matchless voice, 
 That will resound to heaven's eternal gate, 
 To bless thy Author for Oppression's fate. 
 Throughout immensity the news will speedily be borne, 
 And Pluto's fiery legions ne'er may condescend to 
 mourn. 
 
 THE LAST EOSE. 
 
 The last of the Eoses of Summer is blooming. 
 
 And I am forlorn ! — 
 The tints she is gayly and proudly assuming. 
 
 Must fade ere the morn. 
 
 Oh ! seek for the region where blossom the flowers. 
 
 Secure from decay ; 
 That ye may repose in the shade of the bowers, 
 
 Which pass not away. 
 
72 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The last of the Roses of Summer is blooming. 
 
 And I am forlorn ! — 
 The tints she is gayly and proudly assuming, 
 
 Must fade ere the morn. 
 
 THE HARP AND THE ROSE. 
 
 An humble youth who craved the gift of song, 
 That Equity might triumph over wrong, 
 Besought Minerva, Wisdom's goddess fair. 
 To lead the way to Poesy's parterre. 
 
 Although he might but pluck one magic flower. 
 And barely catch a glimpse of Honor's bower. 
 If Friendship could her patronage extend. 
 Content might follow to a happy end. 
 
 Alternately in joy and grief he wrote, — 
 
 A tone of melancholy in each note, — 
 
 Determined oft to lay aside the lyre, 
 
 Or with it to the solemn groves retire ; 
 
 When Beauty, warmed by Sympathy sometimes. 
 
 Pretended she admired his artless rhymes. 
 
 Yet still the Bard, as though it were the last, 
 Sang proudly on and deemed his subject vast ; 
 
THE HARP AND THE ROSE. 73 
 
 But lost his courage 'neath a shadow dark, 
 As fearful surges dashed against his bark, 
 And threatened in Oblivion's Lethian tide. 
 To whelm the soul, and all of worth beside ! 
 
 But fate ordained — or chance, if best it take, — 
 That Morpheus bid, ere Morning's influence wake, 
 Imagination's patron pass the gates 
 Of golden splendor where Euterpe waits, — 
 Who seized a matchless gem* of thought sublime, 
 And gladly bore it to the world of time. 
 
 Soon as the Muse the glorious Sapphire met. 
 She longed to have it elegantly set 
 Among the jewels of her scanty store, 
 Within a casket honored ne'er before. 
 
 Oh, Nature's daughters ! ye may view it there, 
 Arranged with studied and fastidious care, 
 As near the dimly-glowing Milky Way, 
 Is placed the star of most effulgent ray : — 
 
 Mouse, oh Harp ! and wake the Rose 
 From her siveet and dewy slumbers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose. 
 
 Dreaming of thy dulcet numbers. 
 
 * Embodied in the first line of the chorus. 
 10 
 
74 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 How delightful is the morning ! 
 
 And how clear the azure sky ! 
 AVhile the sunbeams are adorning 
 
 Meadows, glades and woodlands nigh. 
 
 Cool and balmy is the air, 
 From the garden to the glen ; 
 
 Haste to breathe it, oh ye fair ! 
 And Hygeia meet again. 
 
 Ever grateful to the Power 
 
 That sustains the earth and heaven, 
 
 Let us reverence the hour. 
 
 Praising Him by whom 't is given. 
 
 Let us ramble to the lawn, 
 
 Hand in hand, with spirits high. 
 
 Sorrow, care and pain withdrawn 
 From the heart and from the eye. 
 
 Rouse, oh Harp ! and wake the Rose 
 From her siveet and dewy slumbers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose. 
 
 Dreaming of thy dulcet nmnbsrs. 
 
 Let us seek a spot secluded 
 From the scenes of noisy life, 
 
 Where the feet have ne'er intruded, 
 That forever carry strife. 
 
THE HARP AND THE ROSE. 75 
 
 While we linger, we will kneel 
 
 On some little, mossy knoll, 
 All our troubles to reveal 
 
 To the Savior of the soul. 
 
 How without the kindly smile 
 
 Of the great, eternal God, 
 Shall the beings full of guile. 
 
 E'er escape the falling rod ^ 
 
 How without that helping Hand, 
 
 Shall the feeble, poor and frail, 
 Travelling on the burning sand, 
 
 Eeach the water-flooded vale I 
 
 Rouse, oh Harp I and wake the Rose 
 From her siveet and deivy slumhers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose, 
 
 Breaming of thy dulcet numbers. 
 
 To our Lord, the ever during. 
 
 The omnipotent, the kind, 
 Let us render thanks for curing 
 
 Maladies of heart and mind. 
 
 Health and vigor he will give 
 Unto those who ask aright, — 
 
 lliat, for virtuous deeds to live. 
 This, for works demanding might. 
 
76 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Now we hasten to our homes, 
 And begin our lives anew, 
 
 Well convinced that he who roams. 
 Better may the past review. 
 
 For he gazes on the lawn, 
 
 And beholds the verdant trees, 
 
 And reHects that seasons gone 
 
 Brought decay and blight to these. 
 
 Rouse, oh Harp ! and wake the Rose 
 From her sweet and dewy slumbers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose. 
 
 Dreaming of thy dulcet numbers. 
 
 Scholars to their Euclid go, 
 And the Poet to his lyre, — 
 
 They, eternal truths to know, 
 He, to borrow quenchless fire. 
 
 Sweetly trills the Thrush her lay. 
 Where the Sylvan brooklets run ; 
 
 And the Lark, in open day. 
 Chants an anthem to the sun. 
 
 Flora sends her zephyr down 
 
 From the mountain's fragrant brow, 
 
 So that neither cloud nor frown 
 Rests upon bright Nature now. 
 
THE HARP AND THE ROSE. 
 
 Oh how glorious ! how fair ! 
 
 Lovers, youths, and maids, rejoice ! 
 Ye may gather flow^erets rare. 
 
 And exulting raise the voice ! 
 
 Rouse, oh Harp ! and ivake the Rose 
 From her sweet and dewy slumbers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose. 
 
 Dreaming of thy dulcet numbers. 
 
 Lambkins frisk along the plain, 
 Glad to crop the blooming clover. 
 
 While their dams at rest remain, 
 Or go forth to seek a rover. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, sounds the bell. 
 
 Where the herds their pasture find 
 
 Now we catch the trembling swell 
 Of a strain far more refined. 
 
 Oh ! it is the shepherd's lay. 
 Swelling thus on all around ; 
 
 For wild Fancy fain would stray 
 Back to ancient pastoral ground. 
 
 Words mellifluous, notes divine, 
 Floatina: on the charmed breeze ! 
 
 Solitude might e'er be mine. 
 Could I listen aye to these. 
 
 77 
 
78 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 Mouse, oh Harp ! and wake the Rose 
 From her sweet and dewy slumbers ; 
 
 She hath had a calm repose. 
 
 Dreaming of thy dulcet numbers. 
 
 Let us take the days that pass, 
 And improve them as we can ; 
 
 For on fleetmg wmgs, alas ! 
 
 They depart from hoping man ! 
 
 Let us bless the human race, 
 And thereby secure the love 
 
 Of the Giver of all grace, 
 Who inhabits heaven above. 
 
 Soon the joys of life may cease, 
 And all bosoms heave with pain ; 
 
 Soon the seraphs, Love and Peace, 
 May their soothing balm restrain. 
 
 Then the humble hand that writes. 
 And the eyes, perchance, that read. 
 
 Shall have done with Fancy's flights, 
 And with Fame's uncertain meed. 
 
 Now, fond Harp ! thou may'st repose. 
 Mantled with a shroud of w>oe, 
 
 Till some fair, immortal Rose, 
 Bid thy strains again to flow. 
 
THE SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Think you there can be on the earth 
 
 A spot more dear than Childhood's home, 
 
 To those who seek the halls of mirth, 
 Or in a distant country roam 1 
 
 Especially if that sweet place 
 
 Be blessed with valley, lawn and wood, 
 Where oft at evening Luna's face 
 
 Hath wrapped the soul in pensive mood. 
 
 Shall ever Memory refuse 
 
 With magic hand to sweep the lyre, 
 And bring forth numbers that the Muse 
 
 May catch and tremblingly admire '? 
 
 Our native woods ! We freely strayed. 
 When Childhood smiled along our way, 
 
 Among their bowers, beneath their shade, 
 On many a pleasant Summer-day ! 
 
 The streamlets that so smoothly flow 
 The old gray mossy rocks beside, 
 
 Were dearer once to all, I trow. 
 Than now is Tiber's classic tide. 
 
80 SYLVAN POEMS. 
 
 The woods, the brooklets, and the bowers, 
 Where Youth so fondly loved to pray, 
 
 Alas ! resemble Autumn's flowers, 
 That gladden but to glide away. 
 
 Yet shall we e'er those scenes forget, 
 Though far remote our Imes be cast, 
 
 Till Phoebus cease to rise and set. 
 
 And Nature's glory shall have passed 1 
 
 No ! rather wealth and fame resign 
 To dire Oblivion's murky wave, 
 
 And wreaths of withering leaflets twine, 
 To decorate Ambition's grave ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
^2ZZ.<^*f^ l/^^^..,^.^r2G. /V '^^- J 
 
 SYLYAN POEMS. 
 
 BY ISAAC COBB 
 
 O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose 
 His bright perfections, at whose word they rose ; 
 Next to that I'ower, who formed thee and sustains, 
 Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.— Cowper. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRESS OF DAMRELL & MOORE, 
 
 No. Iti Devon sniEE Street. 
 
 1851. 
 
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