POEMS. (continued 2)

Away, away to forest shades! Fly, fly with me the haunts of men! I would not give my sunlit glades, My talking stream, and silent glen, For all the pageantry of slaves, Their fettered lives and trampled graves. Away from wealth! our wampum strings Ask not the toil, the woes of them From whom the lash, the iron wrings The golden dross, the tear-soiled gem; Yet bind our hearts in the pure tie That gold or gems could never buy. And power! what is it ye who rule The hands without the souls? oh, ye Can tell how mean the tinselled fool, With all his hollow mockery! The slave of slaves who hate, yet bow, With serving lip but scorning brow. And love, dear love! how can they feel The wild desire, the burning flame, That thrills each pulse and bids us kneel— The power of the adored name; The glance that sins in the met eye, Yet loved for its idolatry! They never knew the perfect bliss, To clasp in the entwined bower Her trembling form, to steal the kiss She would deny but hath not power; To list that voice that charms the grove, And trembles when it tells of love. Nor have they felt the pride, the thrill, When bounding for the fated deer; O'er rock and sod, o'er vale and hill, The hunter flies, nor dreams of fear, And brings his maid the evening prey, To speak more love than words can say. Have they in death the sod, the stones, The silence of the shading tree; Where glory decks the storied bones Of him whose life, whose death, was free; And minstrel mourns his arm whose blow The foeman cowered and quailed below? No; they, confined and fettered, they The sons of sires to fame unknown, With nerveless hands and souls of clay, Half life, half death, loathe, but live on; And sink unsung, ignobly lie In dark oblivion's apathy. Poor fools! the wild and mountain chase Would rend their frail and sickly forms; But for their God, how would they face, Our bands of fire, our sons of storms; Breasts that have never recked of fears, And eyes that leave to women, tears. They tell us of their kings, who gave To them our wild, unfettered shore; To them! why let them chain the wave, And hush its everlasting roar! Then may we own their sway, but hark! Our warriors never miss their mark. Away, away from such as these! Free as the wild bird on the wing, I see my own, my loved green trees, I hear our black-haired maidens sing; I fly from such a world as this, To rove, to love, to live in bliss!

Fair orb! so peacefully sublime, In silence rolling high, Know'st thou of passion, or of crime, Or earthly vanity? In that bright world can lust abide, Or murder bare his arm? With thee are wars, and kings, and pride, And the loud trump's alarm? What beings, by what motives led, Inhale thy morning breeze? Doth man upon thy mountains tread, Or float upon thy seas? Say, whence are they? and what their fate? Whom whirls around thy ball? Their present and their future state, Their hopes and fears recall? Canst thou of a Redeemer tell, Or a Betrayer's kiss? Their's is a Heaven or a Hell? Eternal woe or bliss? Can infidelity exist, And gaze upon that sky? Here would I bid the Atheist God's finger to deny. What horrid sounds! what horrid sights! What wretched blood is spilt! While thou, and all the eternal lights, Shine conscious on the guilt? Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry; Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace; And Avarice hide his heap and sigh; And Rapine's reckless face. In thy pale light the Suicide, By some deep lonely lake, Or from the headlong torrent's side Doth the vain world forsake. And often, ere thy course is run, Thy cold, uncertain light Gleams where the culprit's skeleton Swings to the winds of night. A light cloud hangs upon thy brow, (What foul deed would it hide?) 'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now, Looks down on human pride. And now the midnight hour invites Th' accursed witch's vow, While to her thrice accursed rites Sole witness rollest thou! Lo! underneath yon falling tower The tottering beldame seeks Herbs, of some hidden evil power, While muttered charms she speaks. Or where some noisome cavern yawns, Where vipers get their food, Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawns Her pestilential brood: There—while the bubbling cauldron sings Beneath their eldritch glance— As wild their fiendish laughter rings, The haggard sisters dance. Can sin endure thy majesty, Nor thy pure presence fly? 'Tis like the sad severity Of a fond father's eye. There, where no mortal eye can see, No mortal voice can tell, Wisdom hath marked thy path to be Th' Almighty's sentinel.

There is a tree, whose boughs are clad With foliage that never dies; Whose fruits perennially thrive, And whose tall top salutes the skies. There is a flower of loveliest hues, No mildews blast its changeless bloom; It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath, And breathes a still more sweet perfume. There is a star, whose constant rays Beam brightest in the darkest hour, And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart, Though storms around his pathway lower. That tree, the Tree of Life is called, That flower blooms on Virtue's stem, That star, whose rays are never veiled, Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.

Old cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd, Her gallant wing and soar'd away; All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest! What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As wand'ring these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound. The wonders of an age combin'd In one short moment memory supplies, They throng upon my waken'd mind, As time's dark curtains rise. The volume of a hundred buried years, Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears. I hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little barque Scudding along the crested wave, Freighted like old Noah's ark, As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd, With the forefathers of another world. I see a train of exiles stand, Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The daring pioneers of fate, Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth, And gave a boundless empire birth. I see the gloomy Indian range His woodland empire, free as air; I see the gloomy forest change, The shadowy earth laid bare; And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer, The smiling labours of the white appear. I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, As the pale faces sweat to raise Their scanty fields of corn, While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food. A moment, and the pageant's gone; The red men are no more; The pale fac'd strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore; And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd, Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd. The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy woodman's axe; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields. Then growing hamlets rear their heads, And gathering crowds expand, Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land, Till what was once a world of savage strife, Teems with the richest gifts of social life. Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empire still another breeds, A giant progeny, To war upon the pigmy gods of earth, The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth. Then, as I turn, my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place, And find it, these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found. Their names have been forgotten long; The stone, but not a word, remains; They cannot live in deathless song, Nor breathe in pious strains. Yet this sublime obscurity, to me More touching is, than poet's rhapsody. They live in millions that now breathe; They live in millions yet unborn, And pious gratitude shall wreathe As bright a crown as e'er was worn, And hang it on the green leav'd bough, That whispers to the nameless dead below. No one that inspiration drinks; No one that loves his native land; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here. The mighty shade now hovers round— Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career, Is written on this sacred ground In letters that no time shall sere; Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, And founded Christian Empires in the new. And SHE! the glorious Indian maid, The tutelary of this land, The angel of the woodland shade, The miracle of God's own hand, Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race. Sister of charity and love, Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove. Flower of the Forest, nature's pride, He is no man who does not bend the knee, And she no woman who is not like thee! Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock, To me shall ever sacred be— I care not who my themes may mock, Or sneer at them and me. I envy not the brute who here can stand, Without a prayer for his own native land. And if the recreant crawl her earth, Or breathe Virginia's air, Or, in New-England claim his birth, From the old Pilgrim's there, He is a bastard, if he dare to mock, Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.

[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber."] In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail— If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart— "Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart— The wife of thy bosom—in sorrow depart, "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom." And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast, His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!

Father of Light! exhaustless source of good! Supreme, eternal, self-existent God! Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray, Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day; Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light Shone queen amid the silver host of night, High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord, By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored. With the celestial choir then let me join In cheerful praises to the power divine. To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire A mortal breast with more than mortal fire. In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned, With light encircled, and with glory crown'd: Through all infinitude extends thy reign, For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain; But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky Thy omnipresence fills immensity.

His faults were great, his virtues less, His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; His talents were bestowed to bless, But were as vainly lost as given. His was a harp of heavenly sound, The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; But ah! some demon, hovering round, Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. His was a mind of giant mould, Which grasped at all beneath the skies; And his, a heart, so icy cold, That virtue in its recess dies.

Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime, In worship to the rising sun; But Sorrow loves the calmer time, When the day-god his course hath run; When night is on her shadowy car, Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep; And guided by the evening star, She wanders forth to muse and weep. Joy loves to cull the summer flower, And wreath it round his happy brow; But when the dark autumnal hour Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; When the frail bud hath lost its worth, And Joy hath dashed it from his crest; Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her withered breast.

Thou brightly-glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven, Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee. How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost. There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys together share; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights; There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul. Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, How swiftly will I soar to thee When this imprisoned soul is free.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear. No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight, No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight; Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved. But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode, Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm; All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came, Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame, While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears, And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears: With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;— Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene. He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low; He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow; He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave, And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave. Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time— Cultivation has softened those features sublime; The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade, And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade. But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye, On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high; Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam, Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.

[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, which bears name signifying "Drink and Away," from the great danger of meeting with gues and assassins. —Dr. Shaw.] Up! pilgrim and rover, Redouble thy haste! Nor rest thee till over Life's wearisome waste. Ere the wild forest ranger Thy footsteps betray To trouble and danger,— Oh, drink and away! Here lurks the dark savage By night and by day, To rob and to ravage, Nor scruples to slay. He waits for the slaughter: The blood of his prey Shall stain the still water,— Then drink and away! With toil though thou languish, The mandate obey, Spur on, though in anguish, There's death in delay! No blood-hound, want-wasted, Is fiercer than they:— Pass by it untested— Or drink and away! Though sore be the trial, Thy God is thy stay, Though deep the denial, Yield not in dismay, But, wrapt in high vision, Look on to the day When the fountains Elysian Thy thirst shall allay. There shalt thou for ever Enjoy thy repose Where life's gentle river Eternally flows, Yea, there shalt thou rest thee For ever and aye, With none to molest thee— Then, drink and away.

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray; Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, And now through arching willows steal away: Now more majestic rolls the ample tide, Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, And many a stately dome, in ancient pride, And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head. There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand, The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view, Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland, The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue; The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, The long green valley where the white flocks rove, The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank; The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow, Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam; The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow. Low sunk between the Alleganian hills, For many a league the sullen waters glide, And the deep murmur of the crowded tide, With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. On the green summit of yon lofty clift A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, Tremendous falls in the white surge below. Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, Around it mountains vast their forests rear, And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car, The dews of night have shed their odours there. There hangs a loüring rock across the deep; Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around; Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, While Horror startles at the fearful sound. The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze, Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep: Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees, And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.

Ye hills, who have for ages stood Sublimely in your solitude, Listening the wild water's roar, As thundering down, from steep to steep, Along your wave-worn sides they sweep, Dashing their foam from shore to shore. Wild birds, that loved the deep recess, Fell beast that roved the wilderness, And savage men once hover'd round: But startled at your bellowing waves, Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves, Affrighted fled the enchanted ground. How changed the scene!—your lofty trees, Which bent but to the mountain breeze, Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade; New sun-light through your forest pours, Paths wind along your sides and shores, And footsteps all your haunts invade. Now boor, and beau, and lady fair, In gay costume each day repair, Where thy proud rocks exposed stand, While echo, from her old retreats, With babbling tongue strange words repeats, From babblers on your stony strand. And see—the torrent's rocky floor, With names and dates all scribbled o'er, Vile blurs on nature's heraldry; O bid your river in its race, These mean memorials soon efface, And keep your own proud album free. Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers, But soon Autumnus with his showers, Shall all thy wasted strength restore; Then will these ramblers down thy steep, With terror pale their distance keep, Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore. But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage, One name upon thy stony page; 'Tis hers—the fairest of the fair; And when she comes these scenes to scan, Then tell her, Echo, if you can, His humble name who wrote it there.

And am I doom'd to be denied for ever The blessings that to all around are given? And shall those links be re-united ever, That bound me to mankind till they were riven In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever From social intercourse, the doom of heaven Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain, That the decree may be recall'd again. Amid a throng in deep attention bound, To catch the accents that from others fall, The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound Breathed from the soul of melody, while all Instructed or delighted list around, Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall! I can but watch each animated face, And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace. Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me, To others that unfold some heaven-born art, And melody—Oh, dearest melody! How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart, Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy, Bidding the spirit at thy magic start! How had my heart responsive to the strain, Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain. In vain—alas, in vain! thy numbers roll— Within my heart no echo they inspire; Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control, To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire, Misfortune closed the portals of the soul; And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre, That can to animation kindle stone, To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

They say that afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers. There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd, All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east; There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers: 'Tis the land of the sunbeam,—the green isle of lovers! Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss; Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover On high with their shade the green isle of the lover. But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile; From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers. And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more; It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue; O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover, The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!

That silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth. How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, And superstition's senseless rite, And loud, licentious revelry, Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween, With sights like these, that virgin queen. But dear to her, in summer eve, By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile, in quiet loneliness, And hear each whisper'd vow and bless. Dispersed along the world's wide way, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought, And start the tear for those we love! Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon. How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn, The magic of that moonlight sky, To bring again the vanish'd scenes, The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon, On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: Oh! softly beams that gentle eye, On those who mourn, and those who die. But beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart— What power, the trembling tear to start! The dewy morn let others love, Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day:— But oh! be mine a fairer boon— That silent moon, that silent moon!

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife, Charm against discontent and wrinkled care. Who knows thy power can never know despair; Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life: When cares oppress, or when the busy day Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff Can drive even want and lassitude away, And give a mourner happiness enough. From thee when curling clouds of incense rise, They hide each evil that in prospect lies; But when in evanescence fades thy smoke, Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother? If thou evaporate, the charm is broke, Till I, departing taper, light another.

See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath, One little star benignant peep, To light along their trackless path The wanderers of the stormy deep. And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form In sorrow's gloomy night shall be The sun that looks through cloud and storm Upon a dark and moonless sea. When heaven is all serene and fair, Full many a brighter gem we meet; 'Tis when the tempest hovers there, Thy beam is most divinely sweet. The rainbow, when the sun declines, Like faithless friend will disappear; Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines When all is wail and weeping here. And though Aurora's stealing beam May wake a morning of delight, 'Tis only thy consoling gleam Will smile amid affliction's night.

Thy wave has ne'er by gondolier Been dash'd aside with flashing oar, Nor festive train to music's strain Performed the dance upon thy shore. But there, at night, beneath the light Of silent moon and twinkling ray, The Indian's boat is seen to float, And track its lonely way. The Indian maid, in forest glade, Of flowers that earliest grow, And fragrant leaves, a garland weaves To deck her warrior's brow. And when away, at break of day, She hies her to her shieling dear, She sings so gay a roundelay, That echo stops to hear. Would it were mine to join with thine, And dwell for ever here, In forest wild with nature's child, By the silent Cayostêa. My joy with thee would ever be Along these banks to roam; And fortune take beside the lake, Whose clime is freedom's home.

When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white, With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory! Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valour given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. For ever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke, And from the abyss where darkness rode The earliest dawn of nature broke, And light around creation flow'd. The glad earth smiled to see the day, The first-born day came blushing in; The young day smiled to shed its ray Upon a world untouched by sin. "Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth, The God who first the day-beam pour'd, Whispered again his fiat forth, And shed the Gospel's light abroad. And, like the dawn, its cheering rays On rich and poor were meant to fall, Inspiring their Redeemer's praise In lonely cot and lordly hall. Then come, when in the Orient first Flushes the signal light for prayer; Come with the earliest beams that burst From God's bright throne of glory there. Come kneel to Him who through the night Hath watched above thy sleeping soul, To Him whose mercies, like his light, Are shed abroad from pole to pole.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded. The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet: Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude? Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

The mist descended from the snow That whiten'd o'er the cliff; The clouds were gather'd round its brow, And solemn darkness reign'd below The peak of Teneriffe. For on that rocky peak and high, Magnificent and lone, The awful Storm-King of the sky, Beyond the reach of mortal eye, Had rear'd his cloudy throne. By him the raging winds unfurl'd, Swept o'er the prostrate land; And thence, above the affrighted world, The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'd Forth from his red right hand.— Uprising from his cave of jet, While mists obscured his form, With streaming locks and vesture wet, The Spirit of the ocean met The Spirit of the storm. "And why so madly dost thou dare, Proud Spirit of the sea, To tempt the monarch of the air, With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare? What seekest thou of me?" "I have risen afar from my coral caves, Where the pearls are sparkling bright, To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves; And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves, And I challenge thee here to the fight!" "Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'd From the midst of a cloud of fire; The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd, And the island forest his footsteps crush'd, In the burning of his ire. Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom, And the depths of the ocean uprend; Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam, And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom, Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend. But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall, And evades his fierce controul;— Away in his ice-clad crystal hall, He still reigns absolute monarch of all That surrounds his frozen pole. The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,— Again are the elements free; But many a vessel is still sinking fast, And many a mariner rests at last, In the bosom of the sea!

Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair— Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield; For no gallant can splinter—no charger can dare The lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured, And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,— What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare? They may talk of the land of the olive and vine— Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;— Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles, Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles; But what flower of far away clime can compare With the blossom of ours—bright Rosalie Clare? Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair? Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare! Let him list to her voice—let him gaze on her form— And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.

Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave! The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;— The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the spray That lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way. Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free, The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea! Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair, Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there! Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board, Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord; And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain, To welcome her long-absent lover again. Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine, Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine; And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait; For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate. Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar, And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star; The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct, And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect! Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash; And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;— Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high; Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by! Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past; Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast; Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn, And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!

How dear to love the moonlight hour, Beneath the calm transparent ether, It seems as if by magic power They breathe in unison together. When forest glen and fountain bright Are tinged with shades of mellow light, And every earthly sound is still Save murmur of the mountain rill; 'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion, And waken every soft emotion, To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears, And place the smiles of rapture there, "Celestial music of the spheres" Comes floating on the evening air. 'Tis then that fancy wings her flight Beyond the bounds to mortals given; To regions where the lamps of night Illume the path which leads to heaven. 'Tis then she holds communion sweet With seraphs round the eternal throne, Where long-departed spirits meet, To worship him who sits thereon. 'Tis then man dreams of Paradise, If aught he dreams of place like this, 'Tis then he breathes the crystal air, Which Peris breathe who wander there, And sips the fount of Native Love Found no where but in heaven above.

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye, Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye, Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair, Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare. Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream, The changing hues of an April sky; They fade like dew in the morning beam, Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh. 'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel, 'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel: 'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free, And the bosom that heaves alone for me. Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay From youth's gay morning to age's night; When beauty's rainbow tints decay, Love's torch still burns with a holy light. Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade, And love will droop in the cheerless shade, Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy, It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy. But oh! the light of the constant soul Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim; Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl, Love still shall hover around its brim.

What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day? Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer! It hither approaches in gloomy array, While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way, The soul overwhelming with terror! Those swart companions you view in the race,— Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase! What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade, From mountain to mountain deploying? They place themselves nightly in ambuscade, They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade, The French usurpers destroying! Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,— Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase! Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by, The tyrant securely is sleeping;— They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky; With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply; Soon safe on his island-shore leaping! Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace, Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase! Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar, Where swords in thick carnage are clashing? Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore; The spark of true freedom is kindled once more, From war's bloody altars out-flashing! Those horsemen swart who the combat face, Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase! Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun, 'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery? Death creeps o'er their visage,—their labours are done;— Their valiant hearts tremble not;—victory's won; Their father-land rescued from slavery! Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace, Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase! The wild German Yagers,—their glorious careers Dealt death to the tyrant oppressor! Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers, When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears; Since we alone died to redress her. Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;— Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

I know that thou art far away, Yet in my own despite My still expectant glances stray Inquiring for thy sight. Though all too sure that thy sweet face Can bless no glance of mine, At every turn, in every place, My eyes are seeking thine. I hope—how vain the hope, I know— That some propitious chance May bring thee here again to throw Thy sweetness on my glance. But, loveliest one, where'er thou art, Whate'er be my despair, Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heart Will love thee every where.

[ Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet standing among the ruins of Carthage. ] Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstood The silent lapse of many ages, The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood, Around whose base the ocean rages; Who reared thy walls that proudly brave The tempest, battle, and the wave? Was it beneath thy ample dome That Marius rested, and from thee, When he had lost imperial Rome, Learned high resolve and constancy? Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate, And well might'st teach the lesson great. Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung Of yore, with laughter's merry shout, While beauty round her glances flung To cheer some monarch's wassail rout; But mirth and beauty long have fled From this lone City of the Dead. Where busy thousands oft have trod Beneath thy mouldering marble brow, Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod, Around thee all is silence now. And thus the breath of foul decay Shall melt at last thy form away. Thou desolate, deserted pile, Lone vestage of departed glory, Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile, While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee, As if resolved the tale to tell Where Carthage stood, and how it fell. Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone, Around thee strewn may yet be seen The broken column, sculptured stone, And relics sad of what hath been. But thou alone survivest the fall, Defying Time, dread leveller of all.

Oh! for my bright and faded hours When life was like a summer stream, On whose gay banks the virgin flowers Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam; Or danced upon the breeze that bare Its store of rich perfume along, While the wood-robin pour'd on air The ravishing delights of song. The sun look'd from his lofty cloud, While flow'd its sparkling waters fair— And went upon his pathway proud, And threw a brighter lustre there; And smiled upon the golden heaven, And on the earth's sweet loveliness, Where light, and joy, and song were given, The glad and fairy scene to bless! Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers, While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to heaven above, While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love And made him, so supremely blest! That scene of love!—where hath it gone? Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone— Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years— And I am left on earth to mourn: And I am left to drop my tears O'er memory's lone and icy urn! Yet why pour forth the voice of wail O'er feeling's blighted coronal? Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail, I shall be gather'd in my pall; Oh, my dark hours on earth are few— My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;— And I shall soon bid life adieu, To seek enduring joys in heaven!

As the tears of the even, Illumined at day By the sweet light of heaven, Seem gems on each spray; So gladness to-morrow Shall shine on thy brow, The more bright for the sorrow That darkens it now. Yet if fortune, believe me, Have evil in store, Though each other deceive thee, I'll love thee the more. As ivy leaves cluster More greenly and fair, When winter winds bluster Round trees that are bare.

There is a voice, I shall hear no more— There are tones, whose music for me is o'er; Sweet as the odours of spring were they,— Precious and rich—but they died away; They came like peace to my heart and ear— Never again will they murmur here; They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne. There were eyes that late were lit up for me, Whose kindly glance was a joy to see; They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart, Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art; Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring When birds in the vernal branches sing; They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem. I remember a brow, whose serene repose Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose: And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile, As I mused on their eloquent power the while, Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain With raptures, that never may dawn again; Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed— Alas! for the doom of the early dead! Alas! for the clod that is resting now On those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow; Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom— For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb; Their melody broken, their fragrance gone, Their aspect cold as the Parian stone; Alas for the hopes that with thee have died— Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side! Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear; I hear thy voice in the twilight air; Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see When the visions of evening are borne to me; Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm— My arm embraceth thy graceful form; I wake in a world that is sad and drear, To feel in my bosom—thou art not here. Oh! once the summer with thee was bright; The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh, There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh; Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest— A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast; My heart was full of a sense of love, Likest of all things to heaven above. Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall Where my budding raptures have perished all; To that tranquil and solemn place of rest, Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast; Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid— Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;— All that was lovely to me is there, Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

As playful boys by ocean's side Upon its margin trace, Some frail memorial which the tide Returning must efface; Thus I upon this brittle glass These tuneless verses scrawl, That they, when I away shall pass, May thought of me recall. The waves that beat upon the strand Wash out the schoolboy's line, As soon some rude or careless hand May shiver those of mine. But though what I have written here In thousand fragments part, I trust my name will still be dear, And treasured in the heart.

"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the cities, both without and within his own kingdom: and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus, who had been king before him, had opened David's sepulchre, and taken out of it three thousand talents of silver, and that there was a greater number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice all his wants, he had a great while an intention to make the attempt; and at this time he opened that sepulchre by night and went into it, and endeavoured that it should not be at all known in the city, but he took only his most faithful friends with him. As for any money, he found none, as Hyrcanus had done, but that furniture of gold, and those precious goods that were laid up there, all which he took away. However, he had a great desire to make diligent search, and to go farther in, even as far as the very bodies of David and Solomon; where two of his guards were slain by a flame that burst out upon those that went in, as the report was. So he was severely affrighted, and went out and built a propitiatory monument of that fright he had been in, and this of white stone, at the mouth of the sepulchre, and that at a great expense also. —Josephus.— High on his throne of state, A form of noblest mould, The Hebrew monarch sate, All glorious to behold. With purest gold inwrought, Full many a sparkling gem, From distant India brought, Enriched his diadem. A crystal mirror bright, Beneath the canopy, Shot back in silvery light The monarch's panoply! All round the lofty halls, Rich tapestries of gold Hung from the glittering walls, In many an ample fold. And breathing sculptures there In living beauty stood, Borne by the monarch's care From o'er the Ægean flood. Dipt in the rainbow's dyes, Apelles's magic hand, To please the wondering eyes Of Judah's haughty land, In liquid colours bright, And traced with matchless care, Had left, in glorious light, Its richest beauties there! The silver lamps by day, Hung massive, rich, and bright; And from the galleries gay Shone brilliantly by night. And by the monarch's side, His guards, a noble band, Arrayed in regal pride, In burnished armour stand. Proud chiefs and ladies fair, Swept the broad courts along:— In pleasures mingled there,— A gay and gallant throng! Apollo's tuneful choir, And Korah's sons of song, With psaltery, harp, and lyre, Were mingled in the throng. [O] And from each trembling string, Sweet sounds of music stole; Gentle as Zephyr's wing, The tuneful numbers roll. Beyond the portals wide, Beneath the sylvan bower, Cool founts, in sparkling pride, Send forth their silvery shower. The flowerets gay and wild, In beauty bloomed not less, Than erst when Eden smiled, In pristine loveliness. And through the gorgeous halls Rich odours filled the air, Sweet as the dew that falls On Araby the fair! All that could foster pride, All that could banish care, Was gathered by his side, And richly lavished there. Lost to the splendid show, The monarch's restless mind Darkened an anxious brow, Which furrows deep had lined. He rose and left the hall, The night was drear and wild— Above the embattled wall Tempestuous clouds were piled. Deep in the deeper gloom, He held his sullen way— To David's hallowed tomb To where his ashes lay. The haughty monarch came,— Earth trembled at his tread— With sacrilegious aim To rob the royal dead. No treasures found he there, Nor precious gems, nor gold— The walls were damp and bare— The region drear and cold. He cast his anxious eye Where slept great David's son, Where Wisdom's ashes lie, The peerless Solomon! He raised his ruthless arm Against the low-arched wall— While wild and dread alarm Rang through the vaulted hall. Loud on the monarch's ear Broke the hoarse thunder's crash— And blazed around the bier The vivid lightning's flash. Death came upon the blast; As by the lurid light They saw that he had passed, And triumphed in his might: For on the chilly ground, Inanimate as clay, The troubled monarch found His favourite captains lay. Aghast and pale he fled,— And shook through every limb— Cold drops rolled down his head, Lest death should follow him! He raised a marble fane Upon the hallowed spot, But ne'er, O ne'er again Could that night be forgot! And oft in after years He woke in wild affright, And wailed, with scalding tears, The deed of that dread night!

No star in yonder sky that shines Can light like woman's eye impart, The earth holds not in all its mines A gem so rich as woman's heart. Her voice is like the music sweet Poured out from airy harp alone, Like that when storms more loudly beat, It yields a clearer—richer tone. And woman's love's a holy light That brighter burns for aye, Years cannot dim its radiance bright, Nor even falsehood quench its ray. But like the star of Bethlehem Of old, to Israel's shepherds given, It marshals with its steady flame The erring soul of man to heaven.

Two children, "once upon a time," In the summer season, Woke to life—the one was Rhyme, The other's name was Reason. Sweet Poesy enraptured prest The blooming infants to her breast. Reason's face and form to see Made her heart rejoice; Yet there was more of melody In Rhyme's delicious voice; But both were beautiful and fair, And pure as mountain stream and air. As the boys together grew, Happy fled their hours— Grief or care they never knew In the Paphian bowers. See them roaming, hand in hand, The pride of all the choral band. Music with harp of golden strings, Love with bow and quiver, Airy sprites on radiant wings, Nymphs of wood and river, Joined the Muses' constant song As Rhyme and Reason pass'd along. But the scene was changed—the boys Left their native soil— Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys, Reason's manly toil. Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch, While Reason grew exceeding rich. Since that dark and fatal hour When the brothers parted, Reason has had wealth and power— Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted. And now, on bright or stormy weather, They twain are seldom seen together.

In life, perhaps, thou hast only trod As yet in a path as soft and sweet As the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod, Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet. In the path thou hast only begun to tread, Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting; And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled, By innocence chased on her snow-white wing: For often a paradise seems to attend Our earliest steps in this world below; But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end? Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!" The tree with verdure adorns the shore While the laving spray at its foot is thrown; But the waves roll on to return no more, And the tree stands withering all alone. Each friend of our early years is a wave In the sea of joy we are flourishing by; But they roll away to the gulf of the grave, And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh. And such is the doom I must bear—for now, While yet in my boyhood I find it so— But never, dear cherub, may heaven allow Such doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!

Fill high the cup!—the young and gay Are met with bounding hearts to-night; And sunny smiles around us play, And eyes are sparkling bright: Let wit and song the hours beguile, But yet, amid this festal cheer, Oh, let us pause to think awhile Of him who is not here. Fill high the cup!—yet ere its brim One young and smiling lip has pressed, Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to him Now far o'er ocean's breast! The cordial wish each lip repeats, By every heart is echoed here; For none within this circle beats, To whom he is not dear. A sudden pause in festive glee— What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth, Hath checked each heart's hilarity, And given to sadness birth? O! read it in the shades that steal Across each animated brow; The wish none utters, yet all feel, "Would he were with us now!" Yet chase away each vain regret, And let each heart be gay; Trust me, the meeting hour shall yet Each anxious thought repay. Is not his spirit with us now? Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam, The wanderer's yearning heart can know No resting-place—but home! Then smile again, and let the song Pour forth its music sweet and clear— What magic to those notes belong Which thus chain every ear! Soft eyes are filled with tears—what spell So suddenly hath called them there? That strain—ah, yes! we know it well; It is his favourite air. With every note how forcibly Return the thoughts of other days! The shaded brow, the drooping eye, Are present to our gaze. With all around his looks are blent; His form, is it not gliding there? And was it not his voice which sent That echo on the air? One wish, with cordial feeling fraught, Breathe we for him ere yet we part, That for each high and generous thought That animates his heart, That Power which gives us happiness, A blessing on his head would pour! Oh! could affection wish him less? Yet, could we ask for more?

Almighty King, who reign'st above, Thou art the source of purest love; The splendid heavens thy glories show, Thy wisdom shines in all below; Seraphs before thee humbly fall, Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all; And, wrapt in high transporting joy, Thy attributes their thoughts employ. Shall mortals, then, refuse to join In works so heavenly and divine, Mortals who live and move in thee, And thy continual goodness see; Thou God of Grace, make it my choice In praising thee, to lend my voice; Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm, And make my troubled soul all calm; Teach me the duty of my life, Preserve me from unhappy strife, Conduct me safe through all my days, And keep me in thy peaceful ways. When time is done, and death draws nigh, Then leave me not alone to sigh; Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart, And, sure of heaven, let me depart.

Oh, who would flee the melody Of woodland, grove, and stream— The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky By morning's virgin beam; To wander 'mid the busy throng That threads each city's street, Where cank'ring care and folly's glare In unblest union meet? Emilia! o'er the fleeting hours Thy smile once bathed in light, Fond memory hovers pensively, And joins them in their flight; And lovelier far than sunset's glow, By rainbow beauties spann'd, Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole When first I press'd thy hand. The south wind, on its joyous way, Came fraught with balmier breath, And frolic life, in thousand forms, Laugh'd at the conqueror Death! Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves, Re-tuned the shepherd's song; And bird and bee, in reckless glee, Pour'd melody along. The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade Upon the streamlet's breast, The red bird, on the chesnut bough, Re-builds its fairy nest; But through the thicket's leafy screen Fancy alone can trace The sparkling eye—the vermeil dye That mantled o'er thy face. Though since that hour, upon my path Are graven hopes and fears, And transient smiles, like April beams, Have gilded sorrow's tears; From those flushed hopes and feverish joys, My soul with rapture flies To the sweet grove, where faith and love Beamed from Emilia's eyes! Then woo me not to sculptured halls, Where pride and beauty throng; Far lovelier is my mountain-home, The wild-wood paths among; And though the hopes by boyhood nursed Have vanish'd like the dew, In Memory's light they bless my sight With charms for ever new.

While you, my friend, with tearful eye, These soft elegiac lines read o'er, And while you heave the tender sigh For lov'd Amanda now no more. This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn, Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds, This lesson from Amanda learn,— That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds. That he alike his ruthless reign Does o'er each age, each sex, extend, That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain, Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend. But in the height of Beauty's bloom, Each dear connexion of the heart, He points them to the gloomy tomb, He bids them—and they must depart.

The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling— There are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale; A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling, As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale; The desolate reign of old winter is broken— The verdure is fresh upon every tree; Of Nature's revival the charm,—and a token Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee. The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning, And flushes the clouds that begirt his career; He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning To rest on the promise and hope of the year. He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers— He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave; He wakes into music the green forest-bowers, And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave. The young bird is out on his delicate pinion— He timidly sails in the infinite sky; A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion, He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh: Around, above, there are peace and pleasure— The woodlands are singing—the heaven is bright; The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure, And man's genial spirit is soaring in light. Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!— The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more; The song in the wild-wood—the sheen of the blossom— The fresh-welling fountain,—their magic is o'er! When I list to the streams—when I look on the flowers, They tell of the past with so mournful a tone, That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours, And sigh that their transports are over and gone. From the wide-spreading earth—from the limitless heaven, There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam; To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given, Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream: The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth— I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;— But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth, Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave. Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended— 'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow; But the newness and sweetness of Being are ended— I feel not their love-kindling witchery now: The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping— There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day; The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping, And on wings of remembrance my soul is away. It is shut to the glow of this present existence— It hears, from the past, a funereal strain; And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance, Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again; Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish— Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting; Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish, Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring. It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given, Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May; I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven— I drink the bland airs that enliven the day; And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping, Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;— O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping, For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.

Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by, Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye; Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn, And tears be wanting on Abella's urn? Like him, I lost my fair one in my flight From cruel foes, and in the dead of night. Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs, And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours? See York on fire—while, borne by winds, each flame Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main, The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze, From Allegany sees the rolling blaze. Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade I saw my aged parent safe conveyed; Then sadly followed to the friendly land With my surviving infant by the hand: No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed, To load my shoulders and my flight impede; Protection from such impotence who'd claim? My Gods took care of me—not I of them. The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his last When all domestic dangers he had passed; So my lov'd parent, after she had fled, Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed: —He held his way o'er the Cerulian main, But I returned to hostile fields again.

"O Domini Deus speravi in te, O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me: In dura catena, in misera pena, Desidera te— Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo, Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!" [P] It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glide Along the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide; When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen, When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men; And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye, A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky; For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set, And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet. Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole, As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul— When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her bursting tears, The phantasies of early hope—dreams of departed years; When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among— When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye, When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky. Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came, Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's mysterious flame; When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one, Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun; Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow— The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow: But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled, Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed. And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven, Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given; They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway, And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way; It was the last dim night of life—the sun had sunk to rest, And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast; And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong, Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song: "The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth, The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth; The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round On the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground; And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar, Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star; I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light, And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night. "Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring— While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing? Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?—the syren voice which flung The chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue? Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird, Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred? Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death, As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its chilling breath? "I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone, And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one! Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath been spoken, And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken, Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bend In humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend! Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee, Give me the eagle's fearless wing—the dove's to mount to thee! "I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears— How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years! I give my heart to earth no more—the grave may clasp me now— The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough; The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away, And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay; I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast, 'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"

They'll talk of him, and of his glory, The cottage hearth, at eve, around; Fifty years hence no other story Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound. Then shall the villagers repair To some gray ancient dame, And bid her long-past times declare, And tell his deeds, his fame. "Ah, though it cost us life and limb," They'll say, "our love is still the same, And still the people love his name; Good mother, tell of him!" My children, through this very region He journey'd with a train of kings, Followed by many a gallant legion! (How many thoughts to me it brings, That tell of days so long gone by!) He climbed on foot the very hill Where, seated on the bank, was I To see him pass. I see him still; The small, three-coloured hat he wore, And the surtout of gray. I trembled at his sight all o'er!— Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!" "Mother, he spoke to you, you say?" "Ay, said 'good day' once more." Next year at Paris, too, one morning, Myself, I saw him with his court, Princes and queens his suite adorning, To Notre Dame he did resort; And every body blest the day And prayed for him and his; How happily he took his way, And smiled in all a father's bliss, For heaven a son bestowed!" "A happy day for you was this, Good mother!" then they say: "When thus you saw him on the road, In Notre Dame to kneel and pray, A good heart sure it showed." "Alas! ere long, invading strangers Brought death and ruin in our land! (Alone he stood and braved all dangers, The sword in his unconquer'd hand.) One night, (it seems but yesterday,) I heard a knocking at the door— It was himself upon his way, A few true followers, no more, Stood worn and weary at his side. Where I am sitting now he sat— 'Oh what a war is this!' he cried. Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that? Did he, then, sit in that same chair?" "My children, yes!—he rested there!" "I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladly I brought him country wine and bread; The gray surtout was dripping sadly; He dried it by this fire. His head, He leaned against this wall, and slept— While, as for me, I sat and wept. He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer! I go to Paris, France to free, And better times, be sure, are near!' He went, and I have ever kept The cup he drank from—children, see! My greatest treasure!" "Show it me," "And me!"—"and me!" the listeners cry— "Good mother, keep it carefully!" "Ah, it is safe! but where is he? Crowned by the pope, our father good, In a lone island of the sea The hero died. Long time we stood Firm in belief he was not dead, And some by sea, and some by land— But all, that he was coming, said. And when, at length, all hope was o'er, Than I, were few that sorrowed more!" "Ah, mother, well we understand! Our blessings on you; we too weep, We will pray for you ere we sleep!"

Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain— Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain. The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee, Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be; And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng, Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song. This is thy birth-day, dearest—the fairest of the year— To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear; The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee, As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free. I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills. I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give, Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live— But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud, Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.

What though on foeman's land he fell, No stone the sacred spot to tell, Yet where the noble Hudson's waves Its shores of lofty granite laves, The loved associates of his youth, Who knew his worth—his spotless truth, Have bade the marble column rise, To bid the world that worth to prize; To teach the youth like him aspire, And never-fading fame acquire; Like him on Glory's wings to rise, To reach, to pierce the azure skies. And oft the Patriot there will sigh, And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye, Whene'er fond memory brings again The Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.

The youth whose bark is guided o'er A summer stream by zephyr's breath, With idle gaze delights to pore On imaged skies that glow beneath. But should a fleeting storm arise To shade awhile the watery way, Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes, And speeds to reach some sheltering bay. 'Tis thus down time's eventful tide, While prosperous breezes gently blow, In life's frail bark we gaily glide Our hopes, our thoughts all fixed below. But let one cloud the prospect dim, The wind its quiet stillness mar, At once we raise our prayer to Him Whose light is life's best guiding star.

Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams, That darken thus my waking hours? And whence this blighting cloud, that seems To wither all thy better powers? What is this cankering worm that clings Around my heart with deadly strain, That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings, And makes my life one age of pain? I find no joy in home or friends— E'en music's voice has lost its spell— To me the rose no perfume lends, And mirth and I have said farewell. I dare not think upon the past, Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain; Of youth's pure joys that could not last, And hopes I ne'er shall know again. I dare not ask the coming years What gifts their onward flight shall bring; For what but grief, and shame, and tears, From wasted time and powers can spring? Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles, And teach my heart to seem to glow, Though colder than those Northern isles Of ice and everlasting snow. Upon the frozen surface there, With tenfold light the sunbeams play— But false the dazzling gleam as fair— No verdure springs beneath the ray. And falser yet the laughing eye— The cheek that wears a seeming smile— The heart that hides its misery, And breaks beneath its load the while.

Bird of the gentle wing, Songster of air, Home, from thy wandering, Dost thou repair? Art thou deserted then, Wilder'd and lone? Come to my breast again, Beautiful one. Here in the rosy beds Hover anew; Eating the garden seeds, Sipping the dew: Then in my bower The fragrance inhale Of each lovely flower That waves in the gale. When the bright morning star, Rising on high, Day's early harbinger, Shines in the sky, Then shall thy numbers, So lively and gay, Rouse me from slumbers, To welcome the day. When the still evening comes, Tranquil and clear; When the dull beetle roams, Drumming the air; Then, on the willow-trees Shading the door, Sing me thy melodies Over once more. Thus shall the moments fly Sweetly along, Tuned to thy minstrelsy, Cheered by thy song; Till as the light declines Far in the west, Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines, Hush thee to rest.

She's bid adieu to the midnight ball, And cast the gems aside, Which glittered in the lighted hall: Her tears she cannot hide. She weeps not that the dance is o'er, The music and the song; She weeps not that her steps no more Are follow'd by the throng. Her memory seeks one form alone Within that crowded hall; Her truant thoughts but dwell on one At that gay midnight ball. And thence her tears unbidden flow— She's bid adieu to him; The light of love is darken'd now— All other lights are dim. She throws the worthless wreath away That deck'd her shining hair; She tears apart the bright bouquet Of flowrets rich and rare. The leaves lie scattered at her feet, She heeds not where they fall; She sees in them an emblem meet To mark the midnight-ball.

"Love me!—No—he never loved me!" Else he'd sooner die than stain One so fond as he has proved me With the hollow world's disdain. False one, go—my doom is spoken, And the spell that bound me broken! Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!— Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride?— No.—The struggle life may cost me! But he'll find that I have pride! Love is not an idle flower, Blooms and dies the self-same hour. Titles, lands, and broad dominion, With himself to me he gave; Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion, And became my willing slave! Knelt and pray'd until he won me— Looks he coldly now upon me? Ingrate!—Never sure was maiden Wronged so foul as I. With grief My true breast is overladen— Tears afford me no relief.— Every nerve is strained and aching, And my very heart is breaking! Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted— Thrown, like worthless weed, apart— Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted— Love him?—Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman— Constancy, "thy name is woman." Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion— Love?—Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires! Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron-woven. Deep the wo that fast is sending From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts, as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb. Without Clifford not a blessing In the world is worth possessing. Wealth!—a straw within the balance, Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: Kindred—friendship—beauty—talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, As solid gold against a feather. Hope is flown—away disguises— Nought but death relief can give— For the love he little prizes Cannot cease and Julia live! Soon my thread of life will sever— Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!

Loved, lost one, fare thee well—too harsh the doom That called thee thus in opening life away; Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb I come at each return of this blest day, When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom, The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay, For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone. But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings Thy form before me as in life it came; Affection conquers death, and fondly clings Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name; And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings, While sad discourses of thy loss I frame, With her the friend of thy most tranquil years, Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears. Sunday Evening.

A careless, simple bird, one day Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap, which lay All hid among the flowers, Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers. The spring was closed; poor, silly soul, He knew not what to do, Till, squeezing through a tiny hole, At length away he flew, Unhurt—at length away he flew. And now from every fond regret And idle anguish free, He, singing, says, "You need not set Another trap for me, False girl! another trap for me."

Blame not the Bowl—the fruitful Bowl! Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape Osiris gave Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? Illumines Memory's tearful wave, And teaches drowning Hope to swim? Did Ocean from his radiant arms To earth another Venus give, He ne'er could match the mellow charms That in the breathing beaker live. Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard In characters that mock the sight, Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured, Brings all their hidden warmth to light— Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till filled with glowing Bacchus up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife. The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it rolled, From earth again rose joyously; Bore not beneath the bitter brine, Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine, Our hearts will toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

If yon bright stars, which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits re-unite Whom death has torn asunder here, How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar, Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star. But oh, how dark, how drear and lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If wandering through each radiant one We failed to find the loved of this; If there no more the ties shall twine That death's cold hand alone could sever; Ah! then these stars in mockery shine, More hateful as they shine for ever. It cannot be each hope, each fear, That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again.

Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild, In later ages, the huge seas above? And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love? Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove, Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years, When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove, When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears, When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers? Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, Elysian solitudes, untrod by man, Silent and lonely, since, around the sun, Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began? Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan? With wasted perfume ever on them flung? And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span, When Alexander fought, when Homer sung, And the old populous world with thundering battle rung? Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth, No musty tomes are here to tell of thee; None know, if cast when nature first the earth Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree, Or, whether since, by changes, silently, Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; Or if, before man's little memory, Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now; Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian art Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, No broken temples, fain at length to bow, Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time. Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw; Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime. But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine own. Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown. No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise; Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies. I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams. Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast. Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun— Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run! And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky; And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven, So softly blending, that the cheated eye Forgets, or which is earth or which is heaven— Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Puts off the azure hues by distance given; And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight, Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright. Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day, this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold, Till earth receive him never can forget. Even when returned amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed. Scarce loftier, Jove—whom men and gods adore— On the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised. Blow, scented gale—the snowy canvass swell, And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, At every turn, the vision breaks upon, Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise, Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past, here broke its granite bound; Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole; While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground, And these gigantic hills for ever closed around. And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will, The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er. Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired. Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, The Briton youth, lamented and admired, His country's hope, her ornament and pride, A traitor's death, ingloriously died, On freedom's altar offered; in the sight Of God, by men who will their act abide, On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light. But see! the broadening river deeper flows, Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea, While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws Its softening hues on stream, and field and tree; All silent nature bathing, wondrously, In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires. May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween— And every where thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green— The panting steamer plying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow. And radiantly upon the glittering mass, The God of day his parting glances sends, As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends, Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, More bright and bright, as near their end they be. On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, Each land irradiate, and every sea— But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!

He came too late!—Neglect had tried Her constancy too long; Her love had yielded to her pride, And the deep sense of wrong. She scorned the offering of a heart Which, lingered on its way, Till it could no delight impart, Nor spread one cheering ray. He came too late!—At once he felt That all his power was o'er! Indifference in her calm smile dwelt, She thought of him no more. Anger and grief had passed away, Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gay, No spell had memory. He came too late!—The subtle chords Of love were all unbound, Not by offence of spoken words, But by the slights that wound. She knew that life held nothing now That could the past repay, Yet she disdained his tardy vow, And coldly turned away. He came too late!—Her countless dreams Of hope had long since flown; No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, Nor in his whispered tone. And when, with word and smile, he tried Affection still to prove, She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurned his fickle love.