Part 4 — FRAGMENTS. [BY A FREE-LOVER.] BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823

They were not married by a muttering priest, With superstitious rites, and senseless words, Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book, In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen) Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH! THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth— The starry empyrean their vast temple— Their book each other's eyes—and Love himself Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!— Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy The spirit of the universe.—In sooth There was a sort of drizzling rain that day, For I remember (having left at home My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA, Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter Under an entry not twelve paces off (It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop For half an hour or more, and there I mused (Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed, That hurried as a het'rogenous mass To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir), I mused upon the running stream of LIFE! But that's not much to the purpose—I was telling Of these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair! Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains About the yielding mind of credulous youth, Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies, Your unsophisticated impulses, Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch! With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit Held no communion.—'T was well done, fair creature! T' assert the independence of a mind Created-generated I would say— Free as "that chartered libertine, the air." Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange! Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew Your kindred souls by * * * * * * * * * * There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure, Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art, Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now Into and with the all-absorbing frame Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life, While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones, My thoughts and feelings like electric flame Shot through the solid mass, toward the source, And blended with the general elements, When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds (Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays— Dull joys of prejudice and superstition And vulgar decencies begirt thee round; And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.— But reason came-and firm philosophy, And mild philanthropy, and pointed out The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame, To curb within a little paltry pale The love that over all created things Should be diffusive as the atmosphere. Then did thy boundless tenderness expand Over all space—all animated things And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart, A ready tear for all.—The dying whale, Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber By Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pig Slain for his riot.—The down-trampled flower Crushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALL Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then— (SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE) Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim, As her just right, support and love from THEE— Then didst thou * * * * * * * * * * *

THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

There's somewhat on my breast father, There's somewhat on my breast! The live-long day I sigh, father, At night I can not rest; I can not take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so, A weary weight oppresseth me— The weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father Nor lack of worldly gear; My lands are broad and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear; My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief, But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast— Its that confounded cucumber I've ate, and can't digest.