The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

Woodworth, Samuel (1784-1842)

Vol. I.

Vol. II.

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SENTIMENTAL.

TO MY WIFE.

Nay, my all of joy that's left,
Droop not thus in gloom, Lydia;
Though each flower of hope be cleft,
Other buds will bloom, Lydia;
Never of the future borrow—
Though another storm of sorrow
Rifle every leaf to-morrow
From the thorny stem, Lydia,
Let us with unshaken mind,
Yield such toys, and be resigned,
And, if nought but thorns we find,
Make a toy of them, Lydia.

Fortune must be blind indeed,
We mistake her powers, Lydia,
Else could love unheeded plead?
Faithful love, like ours, Lydia?
Let us, then, her gifts disdaining,
Without murmur, or complaining,
Or the will of Heaven arraigning,
Fix our hopes above, Lydia;
Though, while we are pilgrims here,
Poverty may press severe,
Yet we shall, through life, my dear,
Still be rich in love, Lydia.

Droop not, dearest—God is kind
When he seems severe, Lydia;
Blessings yet remain behind
Which we hold most dear, Lydia:
Innocence the soul's best treasure,
Mutual faith, disdaining measure,
Love, and its appendant pleasure,
What can these destroy, Lydia?
These are our—with these endued,
Nought should check our gratitude
To the source of every good
Mortals can enjoy, Lydia.

THE SIGH.

Softly stealing from her breast
Ere its lovely keeper knew,
Forth a sigh emerging flew:
I received the trembling guest,
Thrilling in my raptured ear,
Sinking on my heart to rest,
With ecstatic throbbings dear.
Ah! dear Mary, luckless fair,
You perceived its flight too late:
Guard such tell-tale rogues with care;
For the tidings which they bear
Cast the color of our fate.

Think you what it told my heart?
'T was the messenger of peace,
Bidding every doubt to cease,
Every sorrow to depart;
'T was the olive-bearing dove
Guiding hope into the ark;
'T was the harbinger of love,
Flitting from that warm recess
Where thy thoughts in secret dwell:

What thy lips would ne'er confess,
Though thy suppliant sure to bless,
This sweet fugitive will tell.

Hark! it whispers to my heart—
“Hope alone may revel here;
Doubt and cold distrust depart.
Hers as it responsive heaves,
Shall confess the urchin's dart
Rapture with the anguish leaves.”
Tell me not I dream of bliss,
If I do, still let me sleep,
Snatch me not from joy like this
The reality to miss;
Never make a wretch to weep.

A SMILE FROM THEE.

A smile from thee would banish pain,
And bid each doubt and sorrow flee,
I ask but this, once more to gain
A smile from thee.
I 've sought thee long, with fruitless sighs,
And were my bright reward to be
A tender glance from those soft eyes,
'Twere heaven to me.
A smile from thee would banish pain, &c.

But ah! if doomed no more to meet,
Whate'er my future fate may be.
This faithful heart will ever beat
With love for thee.
And when I close a life of pain,
The gloomy hour of death will be
An hour of bliss, if then I gain
A tear from thee.
A smile from thee would banish pain, &c.

THE WREATH OF LOVE.

Let Fame her wreath for others twine,
The fragrant wreath of love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,
Where havoc's blood-stained banners move;
Be mine to wake the softer notes
Where Acidalia's banner floats,
And weave the gentler wreath of love.

The balmy rose let stoics scorn,
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove;

I'll fearless bind it to my heart,
While every pang its thorns impart
The floweret's balsam shall remove;
For, sweetened by the nectared kiss,
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss,
And freshens still the wreath of love.

Give me contentment, peace, and health,
A moderate share of worldly wealth,
And friends such blessings to improve;
A heart to give when misery pleads,
To heal or bind each wound that bleeds,
And every mental pain remove;
But with these give—else all deny—
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh,
And wedlock be a wreath of love.

Connubial bliss, unknown to strife,
A faithful friend—a virtuous wife,
Be mine for many years to prove:
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till called to heaven; through ages there
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never-fading wreath of love.

THE PORTRAIT.

That tranquil brow, and pensive eye,
Those parted lips of ruby dye;
Each grace that life and reason give,
Is kindling here, and seems to live!
A playful smile illumes the cheek!
Those rubies move!—'t will speak!—'t will speak!

'T was fancy all!—That senseless bone
Could ne'er be taught her dulcet tone;
No art can teach that eye to move,
Those ruby lips are dead to love.
Illusive dream!—too soon it flies,
The vision fades!—it dies!—it dies!

LOVE'S LEGER.

I own myself your debtor, love,
For 't is to you my bliss I owe,
Then say if I'd not better, love,
Repay the balance kiss I owe?
In justice you'll receipt it, love,
And prove that you are true to me;
If I should then repeat it, love,
There'll be a balance due to me

That little urchin Cupid, love,
The only clerk we keep, you know,
Is either blind or stupid, love,
And apt to fall asleep, you know.
'T is best, then, thus to jog him, love,
And make him earn his pay, you know;
For, should we chide or slog him, love,
The boy might run away, you know.

The rogue possesses talents, love,
His pinions furnish quills, you know,
And when he strikes a balance, love,
He must inspect our bills, you know.
Then let us ne'er dispute, my love,
While Time enjoyment rifles so,
But take a kiss to boot, my love,
I can not stand on trifles so.

Short reck'nings make long friends, my love,
Accounts should ne'er be running so,
Then let us make amends, my love,
For 't is unpleasant dunning so.
Through life's allotted term, my love,
If thus we do n't forget we owe,
When death dissolves the firm, my love,
We'll pay the only debt we owe.

TO SOMEBODY.

Oh I shall ne'er forget the spot
Where smiles of joy were wont to greet me,
Where ardent hearts dissembled not,
But bounded with delight to meet me.
Though rugged winter held his sway,
And all without was cold and dreary,
Yet, warmed by beauty's melting ray,
I thought the season bright and cheery.

But doomed, alas! too soon to part,
And wander far from love and beauty,
I felt a winter in my heart,
And cheerless seemed the path of duty.
I dragged along the heavy way
A lengthened chain that make me weary,
While Hope refused one glimmering ray
To light a scene so dark and dreary.

But see! at length stern winter flies,
A brighter season glows before me,
The summer radiance of those eyes
Shall yet to life and joy restore me.

Till then, let retrospection feed
The flame which smiling hope should cherish,
For, oh! how this poor heart would bleed,
Should thine permit that flame to perish.

THE GARLAND.

I would a garland twine, my love,
But nature's flowers decay,
And ah! that brow of thine, my love,
Deserves a fadeless bay.
But song shall crown thee, listen!
And let those eyes of fire
With approbation glisten,
Thy minstrel to inspire.

'T is not exterior charms, my love,
That faultless shape and face,
Those pearly polished arms, my love,
That air of witching grace—
But 't is those mental treasures,
Which few, alas! can claim,
By which the poet measures
Thy beauty, wit, and fame.

Time dims the brightest eye, my love,
That form will lose its grace,

That cheek its vermeil dye, my love,
And age will mark the face;
But virtue, love, and duty,
Retain immortal bloom,
Survive the wreck of beauty,
And decorate her tomb.

TO A NOSEGAY.

Little pledge of fond remembrance,
Though thy tints so quickly flee,
Still the lovely donor's semblance
I can sweetly trace in thee.

Here the rose and lily, twining,
Her enchanting face bespeak;
For the fairest hues, combining,
Bloom upon her lovely cheek

In this blushing pink which decked her,
Glows an emblem of her lip,
Both distilling balmy nectar,
Both inviting mine to sip.

In this violet I discover
Her sweet eye's cerulean hue,

Like the brightest star, above her,
Sparkling in etherial blue.

When within my bounding bosom
Mary placed ye, thus entwined,
Sweetly whispering, “do not lose 'em,”
Then what rapture filled my mind!

But tyrannic Time is dooming
All your lovely tints to fade;
When you are no longer blooming,
Can I longer trace the maid?

Yes, when all your tints have faded,
Fragrance still you will retain;
Though your beauties be degraded,
Charms internal will remain.

Such is Mary—youth is passing—
All her beauties must decay,
But her mind is still amassing
Charms to live an endless day.

PEACEFUL HOME.

The heart sustained by hope alone,
The pains of absence may endure,
But, ah! when even hope is flown,
Its sorrow has no cure.
'T is then we sigh, where'er we roam,
For our maternal, peaceful home.

Though mourning like a mateless dove,
The languid heart be doomed to beat,
It can not, will not, cease to love,
It finds the pain so sweet;
Yet heaves a sigh, where'er we roam,
For our maternal, peaceful home.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

When infant Cupid ventured first
To spread his purple wing,
It chanced he stopped, to slake his thirst,
At the Pierian spring;

When, rising from the crystal stream,
A monster caught his eye,
Poor Cupid started with a scream,
But strove in vain to fly.

To slay the little winged boy
The demon vainly strove,
His fangs could wound, but not destroy,
The son of peerless Jove.
He follows still—(they never part)
But vainly vents his ire;
Though jealous tortures wring the heart,
Yet ne'er can love expire.

MUSIC THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

Yes, Love can discourse independent of eyes,
The pressure of hands, or the breathing of sighs;
Attend, then, its accents, and deign to approve,
For MUSIC, dear girl, is the language of love.

'T is true that the eyes and the lips may impart
A counterfeit sentiment, tutored by art;
But nought can the pulses of sympathy move
Like MUSIC, for that is the language of love.

The tone of affection is framed in the soul,
'T is spirit, unfettered by matter's control;
For what is the language of seraphs above,
But MUSIC?—and there 't is the language of love.

Then doubt, dearest maiden, professions and sighs,
The glow of the hand, the expression of eyes;
But doubt not the soul's aspirations, which prove,
That MUSIC is still the true language of love.

I LOVE ONLY THEE.

Believe not the slanders that envy may frame,
But confess, when the past you review,
That though malice my couple reproach with his name,
Dear Mary, thy Edwin is true.
I will own that my heart flutters gayly, awhile,
For every fair face that I see;
But though ever delighted with woman's sweet smile,
I love, dearly love, only thee.

Repine not that festival joys may detain
Thy lover awhile from thy arms;

For with each sparkling goblet he ventures to drain,
He whispers a toast to thy charms.
I will own that, when friendship and evening invite,
I join in such revels with glee;
But thy smile can alone give me perfect delight,
For I love, dearly love, only thee.

LOVE'S EYES.

Love's eyes are so enchanting,
Bright, smiling, soft, and granting,
Pulses play
At every ray,
And hearts at every glance are panting.
Before the beamy eye of morn,
We view the shades of night receding,
So tender glances banish scorn,
For who can frown while love is pleading?
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.

No bandage can those eyes conceal,
Though bards in fabled tales rehearse it;
For if he wore a mask of steel,
Affection's ardent gaze would pierce it.
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.

Beware, then, lest some artful elf
The infant's smiles and armor borrow,
To win a throb of joy for self,
And give his victim years of sorrow.
Love's eyes are so enchanting,
Bright, smiling, soft, and granting,
Pulses play
At every ray,
And hearts at every glance are panting.

LOVE AND VALOR.

Sounds of war were swelling wild,
Fearful notes the bugle blew;
Infant Love, a timid child,
Trembled at the rat-tat-too.
But inspired by Valor's breath,
Love with war familiar grew,
Fearless view the strife of death,
Smiled to hear the rat-tat-too.

Swift a shaft at Valor's heart
From the infant's bow-string flew;
Valor heeded not the dart,
List'ning to the rat-tat-too.

Yet that dart was tipped with red,
Ella's heart-blood lent the hue;
But in vain had Ella bled,
Valor loved the rat-tat-too.

Through the camp the infant strayed,
Hope receding now from view;
Secret griefs his sighs betrayed,
Mingling with the rat-tat-too.
Valor will not yield to Love,
Hope to Ella bids adieu;
Sad, desponding, widowed dove,
Listless to the rat-tat-too.

A KISS.

Does Eliza remember, ere fashion had taught her
To lend the heart's impulse hypocrisy's guise,
How oft, in our plays, to my bosom I caught her,
And wondered a touch could so brighten the eyes?

Familiar to me is the sweet recollection,
I well can remember the thrill and the glow,
The flush and the smile that illumed her complexion,
Like the first ray of morning reflected on snow.

And I asked what it was that the senses thus raptured,
And bade through my pulses such ecstacies roll,
The charm which reflection bewildered and captured—
A KISS was the answer—it melted my soul.

GIVING AND RECEIVING.

The suppliant departed, while gratitude's tear
In his joy-beaming eye was suspended;
My heart bounded light, for my Lydia was near,
Who thus the donation commended:

“The bosom which softens at Misery's wound,
And proffers the balsam to heal him,
With the glow of contentment must joyfully bound,
And such is the breast of my Selim.”

“But which,” I exclaimed, as the fair one I pressed,
While her eye with affection was brightened,
“Receiver, or donor, which think you most blest?
Whose joy by the action most heightened?”

“The being,” she answered, “you saved from despair,
Who tastes, by the sudden reversion,

Of exquisite bliss a porportionate share,
To the depth of his recent immersion.”

Her answer was sweetened with love's nectared kiss,
And my breast with the transport was heaving,
As I owned, with a sigh, that though giving was bliss,
It was faint to the joy of receiving.

TO MARIA.

Awake again thy witching lyre,
Its tones have slept too long;
But thy sweet touches, dear Maria,
Can call a spirit from the wire,
With eyes of light and lips of fire—
Oh wake him into song.

Why should the sweetest gift of Jove
In useless silence lie,
When thou canst make it speak and move,
To charm our grief, inspire our love,
And raise our thoughts to things above,
Why, sweet Maria—why?

Why brood o'er past affliction's smart,
With sad and tearful eye,
When thine is the bewitching art,
The sweetest rapture to impart,
And kindle joy in every heart,
Why, loved Maria—why?

AND DID I UPBRAID YOU?

And did I upbraid you, my love?
Oh pardon a fault I deplore;
For while you thus sweetly reprove,
I feel I can never doubt more.
No—no—no—I shall never doubt you more.

I own I suspected your truth,
And envied a rival's success;
For jealousy pictured a youth
Whom pity would prompt you to bless.
Whom pity—pity—pity would prompt you to bless.

And did I upbraid you, my love?
Oh pardon a fault I deplore;
For while you thus sweetly reprove,
I feel I can never doubt more.
No—no—no—I shall never doubt you more.

My doubts I now give to the wind,
For Mary is constant and fair,
Though lately I thought her unkind,
And gave myself up to despair.
Despair—despair—despair—and gave myself up to despair.

And did I upbraid you, my love?
Oh pardon a fault I deplore;
For while you thus sweetly reprove,
I feel I can never doubt more,
No—no—no—I shall never doubt you more.

NATURE AND THE PASSIONS.

The stranger awoke, and with wonder surveyed
The unexplored regions on which she was thrown:
Rude Chaos the scene—and the infantile maid
Was Nature, just risen from sources unknown.

Her form, the fair abstract of Infinite thought,
The unblemished model of harmony moved;
Her accents the spirit of melody taught,
Her smile was celestial—and Heaven approved.

But scarce could the infant existence admire,
When hosts of rude demons encountered the child,
Revenge and rough Anger, with optics of fire,
And frenzy-struck Terror, shrieked horribly wild.

Attended by Rapine, fell Murder appeared,
Led onward by Avarice, Malice, and Hate;
Their snaky crests Envy and Jealousy reared,
As blood-stained Ambition tore laurels from fate.

This phalanx of fiends, with Despair in their train,
With scourges of scorpions the infant assailed,
And pitiless heard the sweet stranger complain,
Deep deluged in sorrow which nothing availed.

Compassion beheld—and to regions above,
In the incense of sighs, her petition conveyed;
Infinity heard, and the answer was—LOVE,
Who came in the garb of an angel arrayed.

Her presence made cruel Ambition depart,
Hate, Murder, and Rapine, the goddess confessed;
Her touch palsied Malice, and blunted his dart,
And even lank Avarice opened his breast.

She spoke—and Revenge was subdued by the charm;
She smiled—and the scene was deserted by Fear;
She sighed—and pale Jealousy fled with alarm;
She wept—and rough Anger dissolved in the tear.

Her magic the vulture transformed to a dove,
And Nature again was delighted and blest—
Thus each ruder passion is subject to Love,
The genius that tempers and governs the rest.

I HAD A LYRE.

I had a lyre when hope was young,
But 'twas the plaything of a child;
Of LOVE I then delighted sung,
And swept its chords with transport wild.

But now its tones I can not swell,
Its spirit and its voice have fled,
That lyre is but a tuneless shell,
For I have sold its chords for BREAD.

THE MEETING.

I saw them meet—the pangs of absence o'er,
And Memory holds a picture of the place:
'T was at the threshold of her cottage door,
Eliza met her husband's warm embrace.

How animated shone her eager eye,
Where joy's delicious tear suspended hung!
Her bosom heaved—but pleasure raised the sigh
Her voice was mute—but bliss had sealed her tongue.

Pressed in his arms, the chaste connubial kiss
Her ruby lips by turns received and gave;
Then, as ashamed of the excessive bliss,
Affection's blush she bids his bosom save.

But recollection whispered yet a joy
'T was hers to give; and from the trance she starts,
Puts in his arms their little infant boy,
Love's precious pledge, that closer binds their hearts.

While round their sire the elder prattlers cling;
Beg for a kiss; their little tales recite;
Each emulous some trifling boon to bring,
And share their parents' unalloyed delight.

Forgotten now is separation's smart,
Or but remembered as the zest of joy;
Her smiles are sunshine to his gladdened heart,
Which love-created fears no more annoy.

So, wrapped in night, the lonely pilgrim views
Aurora, blushing, throw her veil aside;
And, filled with joy, his lighted path pursues,
Whence erst bewildered he had wandered wide.

And is it joy that fills my eye? I cried—
Ah, no!—regret, that such was not my lot;
But yet to envy 't was so near allied,
I blushed—and sighing, left the happy spot.

A DREAM.

Oh stay, sweet vision! lovely phantom, stay!
And longer bless me with thy mimic show:
Ah! fade not thus to empty air away,
And leave a wretch awake to real wo.

And did I dream? Oh! 't was a dream so sweet,
So full of bliss, that heaven had lost its charms;
And I embraced the dear delusive cheat,
Then woke, and found despair within my arms.

Joy's sparkling goblet seems to overflow,
Her banquet now with tempting sweets appears;
But, ah! I wake to quaff the cup of wo,
Drink deep of grief, and feast upon my tears.

THE SMILE OF LOVE.

Yes, there's a light whose effulgence can brighten
Grief's gloomy aspect with sparkles of joy,
Chase from the heart which its splendors enlighten
Each sombre care that presumes to annoy.
Pure are its rays, as the dawn's first reflection,
Grateful as sunbeams when tempests are o'er,
Oh 't is the smile of an artless affection,
Beaming from eyes and a heart we adore.
Dark fate may vainly lower,
O'er hope's enamelled bower,
The smile of affection each cloud will remove,
That warm celestial ray melts cloudy care away,
Earth has no charm like the sweet smile of love.

While through this life's dusky vale we are straying,
Pressed by misfortune, and harassed by fears,
Sighing o'er pictures of fancy, decaying—
Sprinkling our pathway with unheeded tears,
Be but the lustre of love's radiations
Shed o'er the scene, and its terrors will cease,
Sighs will be changed into joy's aspirations,
Tears be converted to dew-drops of peace.
Bright beam of heavenly bliss!
Earth has no charm like this,
'T is the reflection of light from above:
When first we feel the ray, how sweet the pulses play!
Earth has no charm like the sweet smile of love.

I HEARD A SWEET STRAIN.

I heard a sweet strain in the grove,
And listened with breathless delight:
“As pensive I thought on my love,
“The moon on the mountain shone bright.”
When torn from the arms of her swain,
In circles of splendor to move,
Sweet Fatima thus would complain,
As pensive she thought on her love.

A palace for her had no charms,
Unshared by the youth she adored;
But pressed in her loved Selim's arms,
A cottage true bliss could afford.
Then should fickle Fortune ordain,
Your Selim from hence to remove,
Will you, while you warble that strain,
Bestow a fond thought on your love?

Some seraph will waft me the sound,
And whisper the joy to my heart;
Though absence must cruelly wound,
I'll listen, forgetting its smart.
Then grant that such joy I may find,
Should fate ever tear me from thee;
For me let the strain be designed—
Be Fatima only to me.

HARRIET'S FAVORITE POEMS.

When I survey my Harriet's speaking face,
The smiles that light, the tears that fill her eyes,
The frown of anger, or the rose's grace,
I view the Seasons in succession rise.
When a glance of affection her optics impart,
The Pleasures of Hope are alive in my heart.

Lost in the theme, while bending o'er her lyre,
She wakes the tones which fascinate the soul,
I view the Minstrel that I most admire,
And list in rapture while her numbers roll.
When, absent, I yield to reflection's sweet power,
The Pleasures of Memory shorten the hour.

If she, with fondness, chide my ardent kiss,
And, with a soft'ning smile, forbearance ask,
Or bid me, with a frown, forego the bliss,
I bow submission, but neglect the Task.
For should she condemn me the bliss to forego,
In the Grave would I seek for an end of my wo.

When Fancy through her own creation strays,
To promised joy delighting still to cling,
From her alone, my glowing bosom says,
The Pleasures of Imagination spring.
But when Curiosity rises to vex,
Then Paradise Lost I impute to the sex.

I told her thus—when, in her snowy arms,
My yielding form the angel gently strained.
And I, bewildered with a maze of charms,
Sighed in her ear—'t is Paradise Regained!
Retired from elysium, the scene to retrace,
My Night Thoughts re-pictured the tender embrace.

MABELLA.

The world is no longer the desert I deemed it,
While clouds of affliction had veiled it in gloom,
For the promise of Hope—though I lightly esteemed it,
For once has been faithful, and dressed it in bloom.
The eye of pure friendship is lighted to bless me,
And Love—Oh the truest of hearts is my own;
E'en Fame grows propitious, and deigns to caress me,
All smile on the minstrel, but Fortune alone.

Pure friendship—it beams from the eye of Mabella,
The angel of mercy, and daughter of song;
It lights up a zenith so brilliantly stellar,
I spurn the dull planet to which I belong.
But, ah! should a cloud rise again to obscure it,
Exhaled in the malice of Calumny's breath,
The sensitive pulse of my heart would endure it
A moment—and then find a refuge in death.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

Embarked on the ocean of life,
I steered for the haven of bliss;
But through passion's tempestuous strife,
My reck'ning was ever A-MISS.
Near Pleasure's enchanted domain
I plunged in a whirlpool of care,
Encountered the breakers of pain,
And struck on the rocks of despair.

Afloat and refitted once more,
The chart of experience my guide,
Hope points to the far-distant shore,
Her smile bids the tempest subside.
No breakers or quicksands I fear,
While Honor stands firm at the helm;
By the compass of reason I'll steer
To Joy's delectable realm.

Stern Virtue the port may blockade,
Yet Hymen will sanction my right,
And his torch, like a pharos, shall aid
To moor in the stream of delight.

Then, then, may the genius of Love
An eternal embargo declare;
I'll never evade it, by Jove!
Nor traffic in contraband ware.

THE GAMUT.

The demon care constrained to smile,
When matchless Ida sings,
Repents that he my lyre should spoil,
And gives me back its strings;
So Orpheus' lay (as poets dreamed)
With like resistless spell,
Subdued the Fates, and thus redeemed
Eurydice from hell.

Once more I'll tune this shell so dear,
And stretch its wires again,
Till A awake with accents clear,
And breathing B complain.
The C shall sound serene and free,
The D with danger toy,
While fiery, wild, erratic E,
Shall light the torch of joy.

The F give love and feeling scope,
But G with grief shall wail,

For H, the aspirate of hope,
Comes not within the scale.
'Tis done!—my lyre shall wake again,
While lovely Ida sings,
For 't was her sweet resistless strain
Redeemed the minstrel's strings.

TO HARRIET.

I own I chid the plaintive strain,
Nor wished the muse to weep;
But I recall a thought so vain,
If Harriet's lyre must sleep.
What though its tones are sorrow's sighs,
'T is bliss those tones to hear;
And should they drown the listener's eyes,
They still would charm his ear.

Then, Harriet, tune thy “simple lyre,”
And sing of blessings fled,
While such ecstatic joys its wire
On other hearts can shed.
Yes, still with sorrow's lay alarm,
Be Penserosa still,
For if thy tones of grief thus charm,
Thy notes of joy would kill.

AND MAY I HOPE?

And may I hope? thou kind one, oh!
Can joy so great be mine?
I 'd pass a thousand years of wo,
Nor think the minutes travelled slow,
Might I, at last, be thine.

And may I hope?—What rapture waits
On that auspicious word!
Now do your worst, ye envious fates,
The sentence which my soul elates,
Attesting angels heard.

And may I hope?—Then I am blest,
That word expels despair,
Removes each sorrow from my breast,
With every doubt that dare molest,
And plants an Eden there.

And may I hope?—Then fancy may
Foretaste the nuptial kiss,
In promised rapture revel gay,
An antepast of that sweet day,
Which consummates my bliss.

TO CAROLINE.

Though thousand gems, of dazzling ray,
Will glow and sparkle through the day,
The diamond only has the power
To shine in midnight's darkest hour;
So hearts that bask in beauty's smile,
With borrowed ray may glow awhile,
But mine, dear girl, is warm and bright,
Though absence shroud the gem in night.

Yes, absence is affection's test,
I feel the truth within my breast;
For every hour and every mile,
That bars me from thy cheering smile,
Imparts new ardor to the flame,
That warms and animates my frame;
But ere it too intensely burn,
In pity, love, return!—return.

WE ARE ONE.

Oh, we are one, and who presumes
To sever hearts like ours,
Would scatter frosts where Eden blooms,
And wither all its flowers;
But should no bands unite our hands,
Till weary life be done,
The ties which join this heart to thine,
Will ever make us one.

Yes, pride and rank may sever hands,
But can not change the heart,
Nor polar snows, nor Afric's sands,
Congenial spirits part.
Our souls shall meet, in union sweet,
Though seas between us run,
Till pride relents, and fate consents,
To make us truly one.

RETURNING HOME.

No longer shall fortune be whelmed with invective,
If my journey the goddess but bless with her smile;
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil.

Ah! still on my vision the object increases!
The cottage of peace and affection I spy!
Hope smiles, as my bosom, unconscious, releases
The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh.

Now, now I am blest!—But, ah! language it fails me,
No pencil can paint love's ecstatic alarms:
'T is she that approaches—'t is Catharine hails me,
She gazes! she smiles!—I am pressed in her arms.

BANKRUPTCY OF THE HEART.

Let infamy cover the dastard, that meanly
Can sport with the peace of an innocent maid,
For there is no pang which the heart feels so keenly
As finding its confidence basely betrayed.
No power can retrive such a wide desolation,
As spreads o'er the face of the mental creation,
When once a sincere trusting heart's adoration
Has been with a cold-blooded treason repaid.

For woman, dear woman, ne'er traffics by measure,
But risks her whole heart, without counting the cost;
And if the dear youth whom she trusts with the treasure
Be shipwrecked, or faithless, her capital's lost.
For all she was worth, was her stock of affection,
And bankruptcy follows, with sad retrospection,
And nothing can ever remove the dejection
That preys on a bosom whose prospects are crossed.

A NUPTIAL SONG.

Oh blest is the festival hallowed by duty,
The banquet which Hymen and Cupid supply,
The goblet which borrows new lustre from beauty,
Its tints from her lip, and its light from her eye.
Then join in our revels, partake of our pleasures,
For Hymen and Love here in union preside,
While Music awakens her light-footed measures,
To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride.

While a spot in the desert of life is thus blooming,
And soft sighs of rapture are fanning its bowers,
While the sunbeams of mirth are its vistas illuming,
And bright tears of ecstacy water the flowers—
Oh join in our revels, partake of our pleasures,
For Hymen and Love here in union preside,
While Music awakens her light-footed measures,
To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride.

Long life to their pleasures, till raptures supernal,
Immortal as truth, in their bosoms shall rise,
For the bliss of true conjugal love is eternal,
It blossoms on earth but to bloom in the skies.

Then join in our revels, partake of our pleasures.
For Hymen and Love here in union preside,
While Music awakens her light-footed measures,
To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride.

THE WIDOWED IVY.

I marked of late, in verdant pride,
The ivy, fondly clinging
To the tall oak's majestic side,
On whose green branches, spreading wide,
A woodland choir was singing.
But soon was hushed the sylvan lay,
The lightning's bolt invaded;
The oak was shivered in the fray,
The widowed ivy lost its stay,
And all its verdure faded.

'T is thus the fond, confiding heart
On manly faith reposes,
While the sweet smiles of Hope impart
Such hues to life's prospective chart
As deck the scene in roses.
But, ah! such sweets too soon decay,
By sorrow's storm invaded;

If faithless man our hopes betray,
The widowed heart will lose its stay,
And all its joys be faded.

CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

Hail the season of joy and festivity,
Social pleasures and innocent mirth,
Consecrated by Mercy's Nativity,
Bliss angelical granted to earth!
Tempests of winter the forests may splinter,
But never can stint or embitter our cheer,
While love's soft wishes still sweeten our dishes,
On merry Christmas and happy New Year.

Hark! the merry bells, chiming from Trinity,
Charm the ear with their musical din,
Telling all, throughout the vicinity,
Holyday gambols are now to begin:
Friends and relations, with fond salutations,
And warm gratulations, together appear;
While lovers and misses, with holyday kisses,
Greet merry Christmas and happy New Year.

Gratitude, united with piety,
Bids each bosom with rapture to glow,

Pleasures, tempered with cheerful sobriety,
“Light up smiles in the aspect of wo:”
Sires and mothers, meet sisters and brothers,
And mingle with others, in festival cheer:
And friends, long parted, assemble, light-hearted,
On merry Christmas and happy New Year.

Now commences the infantile revelry,
Happy urchins the story believe,
That Santa Claus, since ages of chivalry,
Visits the nursery on holyday eve.
Socks, intended for gifts, are suspended,
And mystic rites blended, the fancy to cheer,
While sweet snap-dragon, exhausts the full flagon,
Each merry Christmas and happy New Year.

Then hail the season of joy and festivity,
Social pleasures, and innocent mirth!
Which smooths the path of age's declivity,
And gives to infancy Eden on earth;
When Plenty her treasure bestows without measure,
And innocent Pleasure pursues her career;
While Love's soft wishes still sweeten our dishes,
On merry Christmas and happy New Year.

LAND'S END.

The gale was propitious, all canvass was spread,
As swift through the water we glided,
The tear-drop yet glistened which friendship had shed,
Though the pang whence it sprang had subsided.
Fast faded in distance each object we knew,
As the shores which we loved were retiring,
And the last grateful object which lingered in view,
Was the beacon on land's end aspiring.

Ah! here, I exclaimed, is an emblem of life,
For 't is but a turbulent ocean,
Where passion with reason is ever at strife,
While our frail little barks are in motion.
The haven of infancy, calm and serene,
We leave in the distance retiring,
While memory lingers, to gaze on some scene,
Like the beacon on land's end aspiring.

Oh may I be careful to steer by that chart
Which Wisdom in mercy has given,

And true, like the needle, this tremulous heart
Be constantly pointing to heaven;
Thus safely with tempests and billows I'll cope,
And find (when at last they 're subsiding)
On the land's end of life is a beacon of hope,
To the harbor of happiness guiding.

THE TEAR OF GRATITUDE.

There is a gem more pearly bright,
More dear to Mercy's eye,
Than love's sweet star, whose mellow light
First cheers the evening sky;
A liquid pearl, that glitters where
No sorrows now intrude,
A richer gem than monarchs wear,
The tear of gratitude.

But ne'er shall narrow love of self,
Invite this tribute forth,
Nor can the sordid slave of pelf
Appreciate its worth;
But ye who sooth the widow's wo,
And give the orphan food,
For you this liquid pearl shall flow,
The tear of gratitude.

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Ye, who but slake an infant's thirst,
In Heavenly Mercy's name,
Or proffer penury a crust,
The sweet reward can claim.
Then as ye rove life's sunny banks,
With sweetest flowerets strewed,
Still may you claim the widow's thanks,
The orphan's gratitude.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

How pleasing, how lovely appears
Sweet infancy, sportive and gay;
Its prattle, its smiles, and its tears,
Like spring, or the dawning of day!

But manhood 's the season designed
For wisdom, for works, and for use;
To ripen the fruits of the mind,
Which the seeds sown in childhood produce.

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TO ADELAIDE FELICITY.

Before thy infant lips could frame,
With lisping tone, a parent's name;
When first a smile of playful grace
Was seen upon thy cherub face;
While dandled on thy mother's knee—
Think'st thou that smile was dear to me?
'T was, Adelaide—Felicity.

When thou, at last, couldst run alone,
And lisp our names with dulcet tone;
And like the lamb, in frolic play,
Didst wile the laughing hours away;
Thy father's bosom throbbed with glee,
While love maternal guarded thee,
'T was, Adelaide—Felicity.

But ah! how faint a joy was this,
Compared with our superior bliss,
When, budding in the spring of youth,
Replete with virtue, love, and truth,
And every grace we wished to see,
Thy doting parents gazed on thee—
'T was, Adelaide—Felicity.

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And when with cultivated mind,
By knowledge stored, by art refined,
Thy faithful heart, thy hand, thy will,
Were pledged to one who holds them still,
One who is worthy even thee,
What think you, owed the youth to me?
'T was, Adelaide—Felicity.

And now, thy lengthened absence o'er,
I hold thee in my arms once more,
And kiss the pearls of joy away,
And see the smiles of rapture play
About the lips from sorrow free,
What, thinkst thou, calls this tear from me?
'T is, Adelaide—Felicity.

TO MISS SARAH HOWARD.

I asked the muse to breathe a name
Which Mercy loved the dearest;
The brightest on the roll of fame,
To perfect worth the nearest;
Whose heart would bleed, but never shrink,
When gloom and danger lowered,
Who dared destruction's awful brink,
To save the wretch about to sink—
She smiled and whispered—“Howard.”

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I asked her then to name a fair,
Whose thousand traits of beauty,
Derive the sweetest grace they wear
From virtue, love, and duty:
Who, when her parents helpless lay,
By fell disease o'erpowered,
With tearless, sleepless eye, would stay
To watch their couches, night and day,
The pangs of sickness to allay—
The muse still whispered—“Howard.”

THE KALEIDOSCOPE.

Just like Hope, this magic toy
Shows a thousand forms of joy,
Of richest shape and sweetest hue,
For ever varying—ever new,
Just like Hope.

Innocence, a playful child,
Raised the tube, and looked, and smiled,
And still he gazed, with rapture wild,
For every change his heart beguiled,
Just like Hope.

Sage Experience chanced to pass,
Seized the toy, and broke the glass,

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And soon convinced the weeping boy
How false was his illusive joy,
Just like Hope.

Still the silly child believed
That his loss would be retrieved,
Another tried, and still he grieved,
For every flattering tube deceived,
Just like Hope.

Just like Hope, this magic toy
Shows a thousand forms of joy,
Of richest shape and sweetest hue,
For ever varying—ever new,
Just like Hope.

THE IMPRISONED DEBTOR.

The slave inhales the morning's healthful breeze,
And gambols gayly o'er the verdant plain;
But ah! the debtor tastes no joys like these,
But breathes the fetid atmosphere of pain.

The slave has friends—a wife and children dear,
Whose fond caresses every grief dispel;
But ah! no friend—no wife or child is near,
To bless the debtor's solitary cell.

105

Near the sad couch on which his Emma weeps,
Her sickly fancy paints his wasting frame;
And from the cradle where her infant sleeps,
Unconscious lips pronounce a father's name.

Alas, poor babe! thy father hears thee not;
In the cold jail his lonely lamp he trims,
To wake and muse upon our hapless lot,
The chains of avarice clanking on his limbs.

But though, my child, our eyes dissolve in showers,
Our cheeks are strangers to the blush of shame,
For oh! one boast, one legacy is ours—
His spotless honor and unblemished fame.

THE FLOWERS OF LIFE.

In the journey of life, let us scorn to complain of
The trifling impediments found in the road;
The worst I encounter I laugh at the pain of,
For sweet-smiling cheerfulness lightens the load.

If I find not a rose, I indulge not in sorrow,
But pluck with contentment a daisy to-day;
Nay, even a sprig will feed hope for to-morrow,
The humblest that nods to the zephyrs of May.

106

Let others dispute, I'll avoid their dissention,
Religious, political, moral, or such;
For the lily of peace thus escapes their attention,
The sweet bud of pleasure which blooms at my touch.

The blossoms of friendship, surviving mortality,
I'll carefully cherish and wear in my breast;
Though its picture may boast brighter hues than reality,
Its fragrance directs me, when doubtful the test.

The spirit of feeling, the soul of affection,
Wildly ardent in rapture, and melting in wo,
Whatever its image, attire, or complexion,
With mine shall commingle in sympathy's glow.

I ask not his birthplace, whatever the region,
Hot, temperate, frigid—despotic or free;
I ask not his politics, creed, or religion,
A Turk, Jew or Christian—he 's still dear to me.

But ah! there 's a flower, which, teeming with nectar,
Beneath its fair aspect screen's misery's dart,
So artfully veiled that it mocks a detecter,
Till, pressed to the bosom, it pierces the heart.

107

But still, to a bosom susceptibly placid,
The anguish of love will but heighten the joy;
As the bev'rage uniting a sweet with an acid,
Is grateful, when nectar untempered would cloy.

The bramble of avarice others may nourish,
Exhausting life's soil of its virtues and strength;
I'll stray where the plants of beneficence flourish,
And the generous vine winds its serpentine length.

Let misers pursue their mean sordid employment,
And hoard up their treasures for life's latest scenes;
I'll waste not the moments allowed for enjoyment,
Nor squander the season in gaining the means.

Our object is happiness—ne'er could we miss it,
In life's varied path, if the talent were ours
From all we encounter some good to elicit,
As bees gather sweets from the meanest of flowers.

Then pluck every blossom of happiness blooming;
Leave birds of contention, and play with the dove;
And our path, soon the flush of enchantment assuming,
Will glow, an elysium of pleasure and love.

108

EDWIN DELISLE.

The battle was ended, whose direful commotion
Gave tyrants the victims unclaimed by the wave,
And the last ray of Phœbus illumined the ocean,
As it shot o'er the land of the ill-fated brave.
The western breeze wafted the ship o'er the main,
Far, far from their country and liberty's smile;
Each captive enshackled with tyranny's chain,
The noblest of whom was young Edwin Delisle.

Apart from his comrades, his manly breast bleeding
With anguish too piercing for nature to bear,
Distracted he viewed his dear country receding,
And bade it adieu in a tone of despair:
“Oh region of happiness, freedom, and peace!
Columbia, adieu! not for Edwin you smile,
For soon, with his sorrows, existence must cease,
For rent is the heart of poor Edwin Delisle.

“Eliza! my angel! fate dooms us to sever,
Though brought to the climate that fosters thy charms;

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In sight of my country, I lose it for ever,
In view of my love, I am torn from her arms!
Three times have the seasons their circle fulfilled,
Since Edwin was blest with affection's sweet smile,
Since, pressed to his bosom, Eliza be held,
As she sighed a farewell to her Edwin Delisle.

“‘Three years shall restore me,’ I cried, as we parted;
The term has expired, and my eyes caught the shore;
Hope flatter'd, then left to despair, broken-hearted,
The wretch for whom freedom and joy are no more.
The shadows of eve shroud thy land from my view,
But ah! there 's another where joys ever smile!
God of mercy, forgive me!—Eliza, adieu!”
He plunged—and the waves covered Edwin Delisle.

FRIENDSHIP.

What power can prop a sinking soul,
Oppressed with woes and sick of grief,
Bid the warm tear forbear to roll,
Despair's heart-rending sigh control,
And whisper sweet relief?

110

Friendship! sweet balm for sorrow's smart,
In thee the soothing power is found,
To heal the lacerated heart,
Extract affliction's venomed dart,
And close the bleeding wound.

When pierced by grief's chill tempest through,
The tendril bends beneath its power,
Thou canst the broken plant renew:
Thy sacred tear, like heavenly dew,
Revives the drooping flower.

If fortune frown—if health depart,
Or death divide the tenderest tie,
Friendship can raise the sinking heart,
A glow of real joy impart,
And wipe the tearful eye.

If foes without attack our name,
Or foes within assault our peace,
Then friendship's pure celestial flame,
Can sooth the mind—defend our fame,
And bid assailants cease.

Come, then, sweet power, of source divine,
For ever glow within my breast;
My earliest friend be ever mine,
One link our hearts in union join,
To make each other blest.

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HIBERNIA'S TEARS.

Hibernia's tears for ever flow,
Her harp in silence slumbers;
Her bards the patriot song forego,
Nor dare to breathe its numbers.
No more they bid the swelling tone
In freedom's cause awaken;
Those happy days of bliss are flown,
And Erin weeps, forsaken!

But though her sons in exile roam,
They sleep on freedom's pillow;
And Erin's daughters find a home
Beyond the western billow.
There shall they breathe the glowing strain,
To joy's ecstatic numbers;
There Erin's harp shall wake again,
In rapture, from its slumbers.

112

CALUMNY.

Ah, what avails the shield of truth,
The charm of virtue, beauty, youth,
Against that fiend deformed, uncouth,
Whose wounds no lenient balm can close?
Assailed by Slander's venomed tooth,
The sensate mind must droop, forsooth,
And wither like a cankered rose.
Yes, they who ever felt the pang
Of Calumny's inveterate fang,
Must own that minstrel never sang,
Of all the woes from guilt that sprang,
Of deeper, dreader, deadlier foes.

Oh thou, who hast been thus betrayed
By secret foes, in ambush laid,
To plot and stab beneath the shade;
Whose viewless shafts have mocked the aid
Of Virtue's buckler to evade
The cruel, pointed, venomed barb—
Know, hapless wretch! whoe'er thou be,
There is between thyself and me
A sighing chord of sympathy;

113

For I have also felt, like thee,
The cureless wounds of Calumny,
Who kissed and stabbed—for he—for he
Had stolen honest Friendship's garb.

But what, alas, avails complaint?
Be man more holy than a saint,
Be lovely woman “chaste as snow
And pure as ice,” they still must know
The keenest pang of human wo,
The rankling wound of Calumny.
But hear a Saviour's accents mild,
“The persecuted and reviled
Are blessed,” saith the Lord.
Then still, in conscious virtue clad,
“Rejoice, and be exceeding glad,
For great is your reward.”

OH TRUST NOT HOPE.

Oh trust not faithless Hope too far,
Lest disappointment's venomed dart
Should all thy fairest prospects mar,
And lacerate thy constant heart;
For I have trusted in her smile,
Nor heard the distant thunder roll,

114

Nor saw the cloud approach the while,
Whose lightnings since have pierced my soul.

Oh trust not, then, the smile of hope,
A hurricane succeeds the calm,
E'en while we stroll some verdant slope
Where flow'rets freight the breeze with balm—
Ere we can say “the scene is sweet,”
'T is blasted by some demon's breath;
Then trust not, trust not, I entreat,
The treacherous smile that lures to death.

AN IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH.

All hues become a pretty face,
For beauty needs no foreign grace;
A flower, or anything, in truth,
Will ornament the brow of youth,
While sparkling gems may vainly shine
Where age and ugliness combine.

Oh then, be wise, ye gentle fair,
And all the ornaments you wear
From taste, instead of wealth, obtain,
Nor longer court your glass in vain.

115

The Prize of Beauty (once decreed,
To Paphian Venus, as we read)
Was not awarded to the fair
For any brilliants in her hair.

No, 't was her native charms acquired
The prize her rivals so desired;
Her face, her neck, her bosom, waist,
Her easy negligence and taste,
Her attitude, her hair, her eyes—
With these the goddess won the prize.

Oh then, ye fair, who seek to please,
Cherish simplicity and ease;
With modest taste, give no occasion
To quote Apelles' observation.
Remember, that a grace denied,
Was by a bauble ne'er supplied.

An ignorant painter having decorated the portrait of Helen with trinkets, Apelles observed, that the picture was “rich in ornaments, but poor in beauty,” and that the “artist had embellished her with jewels, because he had not abilities to paint her beautiful.”

116

THE DEAF AND DUMB.

The ills which call for pity's tear,
Were all in mercy given;
The fettered tongue, obstructed ear,
And every wo we suffer here,
Invite us back to Heaven.

But he who binds the bleeding heart
By sorrow's tempest riven,
Whose kindness dries the tears that start,
Performs a man's, an angel's part,
And aids the plan of Heaven.

Then see the tear from misery's cheek,
By love and genius driven!
Behold! they gain the end they seek!
The deaf can hear! the dumb can speak!
And praise approving Heaven.

And now a bright and glorious morn
Succeeds a dusky even;
The dazzled soul, but newly born,
In wonder lost, salutes the dawn,
And hails the sun of heaven.

117

BEAUTY, SWEET MYSTERIOUS POWER.

Beauty, sweet mysterious power,
Secret spring of all that moves,
Goddess of the Paphian bower,
Mother of the infant loves;

Which can make the wicked good,
Savage sentiments abolish,
Melt the hard, refine the rude,
Teach the clown a courtier's polish;

Which can make the simple wise,
Or deprive the wise of reason;
Bid the statesman sink or rise,
Urge to loyalty or treason:—

Now exciting modest fear,
Now with lawless rudeness firing;
Prompting to be faithless here,
There with constancy inspiring.

'T is the power that banes or blesses;
Where shall we its image find?
'T is the nymph whose eye expresses
Charms belonging to the mind.

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THE MINSTREL.

How happy is the minstrel's lot,
Whose song each care beguiles;
The frowns of fortune fright him not,
Nor does he court her smiles.
Contented with his tuneful lyre,
His art can yield the rest;
He pours his soul along the wire,
And rapture fires his breast.

He envies not the power of kings,
With all their glittering toys;
The tones that warble from his strings
Impart sublimer joys.
He builds a world of airy bliss,
Where love erects his throne;
And though his fancy frame the kiss,
Its sweets are all his own.

What though no wealth his song repays,
Nor laurels deck his lyre;
The glow he catches from its lays
Is bliss supremely higher.

119

What though his fairy pleasures seem
Illusion's shapeless toys—
He would not lose so sweet a dream
For all your waking joys.

A DUETT

BOTH.
Now the torch of rapture burns,
Sorrows fly, and joy returns;
Hope, in blushing garlands drest,
Comes again, a welcome guest.

SHE.
So the gloomy shades of night

HE.
Fade before the dawn of light;

SHE.
Till Aurora's blushing ray

BOTH.
Kindle darkness into day.

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CONFIDING WOMAN.

Confiding woman yields her heart
Without a reservation,
While man can only love by art,
And sordid calculation.

No earthly ill can him annoy,
But she would gladly bear it,
Nor has the world for her a joy,
Unless her lover share it.

HARLEM MARY.

They sing of blue-eyed Mary,
Who gathered flowers to sell,
But there 's a sweeter fairy,
In Harlem's flowery dell;
Whose violets, pinks, and roses,
Display a richer bloom,
'T were bliss to gain such posies,
And taste their rich perfume.

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The violet's softest azure
Is swimming in her eye;
The rose's vermeil treasure,
On either cheek we spy;
The fragrant pink's carnation,
Its nectar and perfume,
In sweetest combination,
Have dressed her lips in bloom.

And she has learned to cherish
A never-fading flower;
When pinks and roses perish
'T will still adorn her bower;
Its tints will never vary,
Its fragance ne'er depart,
'T will always bloom with Mary,
'T is planted in her heart.

THE BASHFUL LOVER.

When bashful Lubin sought my hand,
My heart his suit approved,
But, feigning not to understand,
I listened still unmoved.
For dim, I thought, must burn that flame,
Which such a check could smother,

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And sprightly girls are not to blame
To spurn a bashful lover.

Poor Lubin told a friend his case,
Who soon his fears allayed,
And bade him wear a bolder face—
He listened, and obeyed.
Returning soon, with altered mien,
He might at once discover,
That sprightly girls, of gay sixteen,
Ne'er spurn a saucy lover.

THE NEEDLE.

The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling
In waltz or cotillion—at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling,
Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill;
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle with exquisite art.
The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.

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If Love have a potent, a magical token,
A talisman, ever resistless and true—
A charm that is never evaded or broken,
A witchery certain the heart to subdue—
'T is this—and his armory never has furnished
So keen and unerring, or polished a dart;
Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished,
And oh! it is certain of touching the heart.

Be wise then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration
By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,
Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,
As gayly convened at a work-covered table,
Each cheerfully active and playing her part,
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,
And plying the needle with exquisite art.

WILLIAM'S GRAVE.

The death-bell tolled, and it fell on my ear,
Like the knell of departed bliss,
As I gazed in despair on William's bier,
With eyes that were burning without a tear,
To soften a pang like this.

124

For William was all that I valued below,
His bosom was honor's shrine,
His hand to the needy was prompt to bestow,
While he lighted up “smiles in the aspect of wo,”
And kindled new rapture in mine.

But death was relentless, and William bowed
To a sudden and early doom,
No longer the life of the listening crowd,
He lowly reclines in a coffin and shroud,
And sleeps in the narrow tomb.

They made him a bed in the cold, damp ground,
Where they laid my love to rest,
The sable-clad mourners stood silent around,
And sighed in response to the murmuring sound
Of the clods, as they fell on his breast.

My heart was so full that I could not weep,
With spasms I drew my breath,
My sobs were so low, and convulsively deep,
That I hoped soon to share in my William's sleep,
In the chilly embrace of death.

From these widowed arms, my love was torn,
When hope was revelling bright,
And his spirit has passed the eternal bourne,
While hapless Maria is left to mourn,
Through sorrow's starless night.

125

But morning will dawn, and I shall rise,
When life's brittle cord shall sever;
In regions far brighter I'll open my eyes,
And meet my dear William above the skies,
To part no more for ever.

THIS LIFE IS NOT THE VALE OF WO.

This life is not the vale of wo
Which stoics paint in declamation,
For countless blossoms round us glow
Which breathe the sweetest exhalation.
Then let 's enjoy our sunny hours,
Nor mourn anticipated gloom,
'T is folly to neglect the flowers,
Because they may not always bloom.

Let fools for rank and honor seek,
I envy not their elevation;
Ambition's path is wild and bleak,
Content is in an humbler station.
May sweet content, dear girl, be thine,
Health, friendship, and a faithful lover,
And never let the dove repine,
Because the eagle soars above her.

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A TRIO.

RONALD.
Adieu to love, 'tis glory calls,
I go to seek the post of danger,
'Mid clashing blades and whizzing balls,
My heart to peaceful thoughts a stranger.

LOUISA.
May heaven protect thee in the fight,
I breathe the wish with pious fervor,

ERNEST AND LOUISA.
And may its choicest blessings light
On thee, our generous, kind preserver.

LOUISA.
Whate'er thy future fate may be,

ERNEST AND LOUISA.
Whatever ills beset thee,

ALL.
Oh, deign sometimes to think of me,
Who never can forget thee.

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THE TOMB OF HENRY.

Where Hudson's murmuring billows
Kiss Jersey's verdant shore,
Beneath those spreading willows
Sleeps Henry of the moor.
The pride of all the plain
Was Anna's chosen swain:
But Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps
Beneath the weeping-willow tree.

They loved with pure affection,
Their artless souls were true;
The promising connection
Their friends with rapture view,
And name the morn of May
Their happy wedding day.
But Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps
Beneath the weeping-willow tree.

They hail the rising morrow,
Which dawns to see them blest;
But ah! ere eve, what sorrow
Fills Anna's lovely breast!

128

She sees the Hudson's wave
Become her Henry's grave;
And Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps
Beneath the weeping-willow tree.

She tears her flowing tresses,
Invokes his parted breath,
And with her wild caresses
Invites him back from death;
But ah! her lip's warm kiss
Imparts no glow to his!
And Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps
Beneath the weeping-willow tree.

She sees beneath the willow
Her lover laid to rest,
The earth his nuptial pillow,
And not her virgin breast.
Around his verdant tomb
The early daisies bloom;
There Anna weeps, there Henry sleeps
Beneath the weeping-willow tree.

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NO MORE SHALL HOPE'S ILLUSIVE DREAM.

No more shall hope's illusive dream,
Nor wild ambition's idle scheme,
With visions false distract my brain,
Of promised good I ne'er obtain.

But here in life's sequestered path,
I'll smile at fate, nor dread its wrath,
And calmly look without a moan,
On bliss that might have been my own.

YOU HESITATE—OH THEN 'TIS YOU.

You hesitate—Oh then 'tis you,
To whom my grateful thanks are due!
Confess it then, for you alone
So sensitively feeling,
Could nobly act as you have done,
The action still concealing.
Yes, yes—'t is plain—the truth I see,
Confess the artifice to me.

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You'll not confess, when I implore!
Then never seek to serve me more.
I blushed not to accept the boon,
So delicately tendered,
The favor which you are so soon,
Ashamed of having rendered.
Yes, yes—'t is plain—the truth I see,
Ashamed of having rendered me.

A REQUEST.

Though milder skies allure thee hence,
And smiling native scenes invite,
Where fancy to thy view presents
A glowing picture of delight.
No flowery vales, nor verdant scenes,
So sweet a fragrance can impart,
As friendship's tender evergreens,
Nourished by memory in the heart.

In ours those plants shall ever bloom,
Freshened by tear-drops of regret,
While one sweet hope will light the gloom,
The hope that thou wilt not forget.

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But should new friends and joys efface,
The forms of those thou leav'st behind,
Oh let the humble lines I trace,
Recall the picture to thy mind.

TO A LADY.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

Among the flowers of sentiment
Which form this bright boquet,
The humble tribute I present
May claim a place—for it is meant
My friendship to portray.
But be it not, I pray, united
With hyacinth or yew,
Emblems, alas! of friendship slighted,
Of pure affection unrequited,
And cold indifference too.

But let the offering bloom beside
The muse's eglantine—
Between the lalac's purple pride,
And one more delicately dyed,
The fragrant jessamine.

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For we, in these, the emblem trace,
Of poesy and youth,
And that inestimable grace
Which guards the heart, and lights the face
Of modesty and truth.

The constant myrtle may be near,
The timid violet too,
The amaranth, to virtue dear,
And the sweet rose, which all revere,
Of thee, an emblem true.
But let no cold narcissus bloom,
Dear maid, to blight the rest;
For, ah! self-love is sure to doom
Our virtues to an early tomb,
If cherish in the breast.

DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM.

And is my humble lyre to be
The first that wakes a lay,
To dedicate a book to thee,
Designed for wit and poesy?
Dear lady I obey.
For like this fair unsullied leaf,
Was once thy infant mind;

133

Save when alternate joy and grief
Flitted across, with stay so brief,
They left no trace behind.

But genius, wit, and taste refined,
With knowledge, science, art,
Saw the bright tablet of thy mind,
A spotless blank, and all combined
To fill so fair a chart.
And long, I trust, this volume will
Of thee an emblem prove;
While wit and taste its pages fill,
Be every precept they instil
Such as the virtuous love.

ANSWER TO A LADY,

WHO SENT HER ALBUM TO THE AUTHOR FOR A CONTRIBUTION.

And dost thou then request a lay
From one to thee unknown,
One, who, without that kindling ray
Which bright inspiring eyes convey,
Could never wake a tone?

134

Alas! the heartless lines I trace
Will have no charm for thee;
For if Peru's untutored race,
Had never seen their god's bright face,
How cold their prayers would be!

'T is true that Fame, in brightest dyes,
Her magic pencil dips,
To paint the mental charms I prize,
Reflected from thy sparkling eyes,
Or warbled from thy lips.

But ah! however bright we own
The portrait all admire,
The fair original alone
Could waken feeling's purest tone
From my neglected lyre.

When thou wouldst catch the dewdrops, shook
From Fancy's glittering wing,
Let thy own hand present the book,
And with thy own bewitching look,
Inspire the bard to sing.

135

OH WHAT IS VIRTUE?

TO A LADY.

Oh what is virtue?—'t is to keep
Each passion under strict control,
Nor let a wily tempter creep
Into the garden of the soul;
It is to conquer selfish pride,
And each inordinate desire,
To take the Scriptures for our guide,
And speak and act as they require.

Oh what is virtue;—'t is to love
Beyond all things in time and space,
Him who descended from above,
To save from death our rebel race;
It is to love the words he spake,
Which none on earth e'er spake before,
His burden and his yoke to take,
And bear them meekly as he bore.

Oh what is virtue?—'t is to prize
Another's interest as our own;

136

In joy or grief to sympathize,
For bliss received, or pleasures flown.
It is to keep the mind and heart,
From every selfish motive free;
To walk by Truth's unerring chart—
It is, in short, to be like thee.

RONDEAU.

Whatever fleeting pleasure,
In riches we discover,
Oh they 've a double measure,
Who share it with a lover.

The heart which worships sordid pelf,
True bliss can never prove,
Its wishes centre all in self,
The deadliest foe to love.
Whatever fleeting pleasure, &c.

A generous act itself repays,
One beam of joy impart,
And millions of reflected rays
Will light the giver's heart.
Whatever fleeting pleasure, &c.

137

TO MARY.

I fondly thought to call thee mine,
But we are doomed to sever;
Then may the purest joys be thine,
If thou art blest, I'll not repine,
Though lost to me for ever.

May he who holds thy plighted vow,
Screen thee from every sorrow;
May smiles of pleasure light thy brow,
And joy's gay wreath that decks it now,
Be fresher still to-morrow.

Whate'er my anguish, be thou blest,
With love and truth to guide thee,
Approved, adored, beloved, caressed,
No pang of sorrow in thy breast,
No earthly joy denied thee.

138

AWAY WITH CARE AND SORROW.

A DUETT.

HE.
Away with care and sorrow,
Let laughing hopes beguile,
For every coming morrow
May wear a brighter smile;
While Love, in playful measure,
With chords that never jar,
Awakes the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar.

SHE.
But hopes are quickly blighted,
For love is apt to fly;
And hearts to-day delighted,
To-morrow often sigh:
Then seize the fleeting treasure,
'T is like a shooting star,
And wakes the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar.

139

BOTH.
If hope is but a bubble,
'T is still a pleasing toy,
And every passing trouble,
But gives a zest to joy;
When Love, in playful measure,
And chords that never jar,
Awakes the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar.

HE.
What though a cloud of sadness
May flit across the mind,
A thousand beams of gladness
Are still concealed behind;
And Joy, in field of azure,
Again shall light his star,
And wakes the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar.

SHE.
But should a night of sorrow,
When dewy eyes are damp,
Before the coming morrow,
Extinguish Cupid's lamp;
Could aught return the treasure,
When peace is fled afar,
Or wake the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar?

140

BOTH.
Though showers of grief should dim it,
The torch of love will burn;
For tenderness shall trim it,
Till smiling Peace return;
When Love, in playful measure,
With chords that never jar,
Shall wake the notes of pleasure,
Along the sweet guitar.

HE.
A beamy smile of gladness,
Like that which greets me now,
Could chase the clouds of sadness:
From every manly brow.
It lights the eye of azure,
Like Love's delicious star,
And wakes the notes of pleasure,
Along the sweet guitar.

SHE.
When Music's notes are sounding,
'T is joy that lights the eye;
For hearts are gayly bounding,
So sweet the minutes fly;
While Hope, in playful measure,
With chords that never jar,
Awakes the notes of pleasure
Along the sweet guitar.

141

BOTH.
Then hence with care and sorrow,
Let laughing hopes beguile,
For every coming morrow,
May wear a brighter smile;
While Love, in playful measure,
With chords that never jar,
Awakes the notes of pleasure,
Along the sweet guitar.

WRITTEN IN MY NIECE'S ALBUM.

“Do write in my album, dear uncle!” you said;
“And what shall the subject be, niece?”
You answered, “Whatever may pop in your head,
I am sure it will be a good piece.”

Alas! how the blossoms of feeling decay!
When life's vernal morning was young,
If Beauty requested, I warbled a lay,
For love was the theme that I sung.

But age has extinguished the fire of my heart,
And clouded the light of my brain;
The joys we are seeking so swiftly depart,
We never can taste them again.

142

A TURKISH SONG.

The wretch of sordid mould, who poises love with gold,
And hugs the yellow store till passion's rage is o'er,
Can never hope to prove the sweets of mutual love.
But oh, the generous youth, inspired by love and truth,
Who deems no price too high, that wins affection's sigh,
'T is he alone can move a maiden's heart to love.

A maiden's heart is cold, till touched with dart of gold,
All feathered from the dove, and barbed by infant love;
Its polished point must be, the weapon of the bee.
Adorned and hid from view, by gems of honeydew;
It then so charms the eye, we deem no danger nigh,
Till deep within the heart is felt the nectared smart.

143

AWAKE, MY DEAR JANE.

Through curtains of crimson and azure, my Jane,
Infant day, in its cradle, is smiling again;
Its eyelids are gemed with the dewdrops of night,
Which glitter and sparkle like pearls in the light.
Jane! sweet Jane!—Awake, my dear Jane!

Oh list to the warblings that float on the air!
The gay-feathered songsters are calling my fair!
The blackbird and robin, the linnet and jay,
All join with thy Sandy to call thee away.
Jane! sweet Jane!—Awake, my dear Jane!

The lads and the lasses are all on the green,
The shepherds have chosen my Jane for their queen.
The Maypole is reared, and the garlands are twined,
And a balm-breathing wreath is for Jenny designed.
Jane! sweet Jane!—Awake, my dear Jane!

144

THE SICILIAN KNIGHT.

Gentle zephyrs of morning were stealing
'Mid the dew-spangled leaves of the grove,
Where a knight to his lady-love kneeling,
Breathed anew his professions of love.
While his war-steed impatiently neighing,
Chid the gallant young hero's delay,
And the loud bugle's clamorous braying,
Called the soldier to battle away.

Though she listened in silence, her blushes
Are confessing an answering flame,
And the sparkling tear tenderly gushes,
As he whispers of danger and fame.
One embrace—a farewell—and 't is over,
For his fiery steed bears him afar,
And she prays to the saints for her lover,
As he hies to the Palestine war.

Many months sighed the maid in seclusion,
And in dreams saw the chivalrous youth,
Plunge the Saracen host in confusion,
In supporting the banner of truth.

145

And that banner was guilded with glory,
As it gleamed like a comet afar,
And the deeds are recorded in story,
He achieved at the Palestine war.

Yet amid the rough battle's commotion,
Would his fancy retreat to the grove,
Where he last breathed the vows of devotion,
To the fair one who sanctioned his love.
But the rude din of war is now over,
And her champion returns from afar,
While she blesses the day that her lover,
Boldly hied to the Palestine war.

THE KISS OF LOVE.

Yes, e'en in parting there's a pleasure!
One balmy, sweet, redeeming treasure,
Long cherished in the lover's heart,
Else who, alas! could live to part?
It is the sweet, confessing tear,
It is the tell-tale sigh we hear,
It is the kiss of love sincere!

Thus lovers, too, in absence, borrow
From memory's store a balm for sorrow;

146

While Hope, with smile divinely sweet,
Still whispers of an hour to meet,
When eyes shall beam with pleasure's tear,
While rapture's sigh salutes the ear,
Breathed in the kiss of love sincere!

HOPE AND MEMORY.

Oh cease, busy Fancy, to conjure up pleasures,
That flit like bright phantoms o'er memory's glass,
And teach us to yearn for the forfeited treasures,
Which rise but to mock us, so swiftly they pass;
Which fade and dissolve into air, like a dream,
Or bubbles that glitter and break on the stream.

And yet it is sweet, in our moments of sadness,
To gaze on the picture of former delights,
Till bounding again to the measure of gladness,
The heart has forgotten the sorrow that blights,
And revels a moment in joys that are passed,
But wakes to a bitterer pang than the last.

Yet Hope shall illumine the gloom of our sorrow,
The cherub whose smile is a life-giving ray;

147

Whose flattering promise of brightness to-morrow,
With ruddiness tinges the clouds of to-day.
Though Memory's visions may heighten our pain,
Yet Hope's sunny smile can assuage it again.

THE HARP THAT I STRUNG.

The harp that I strung, when it woke at her touch,
How sweet were its chidings for broken repose!
The accent was plaintive, my feelings were such,
And a sigh would escape at each tremulous close.
It warbled like birds in a tropical grove,
Of scenes in the beauty of Eden arrayed;
It murmured of hope, and it whispered of love,
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.

The fingers of beauty were gracefully flung
O'er chords which they often had wakened to song,
And I knew by its tones 't was the harp that I strung,
So sadly, when struck, it complained of the wrong.

148

And such is the heart, when its slumbers have flown,
And anguish or rapture its fibres invade,
How much it resembles in feeling and tone
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MISS MARY G. T---N, OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I.

Hempstead, sweet, “lovely village of the plain,”
For thee the Muse would weave a grateful strain;
For erst around thy glowing scenes I strayed,
When summer's flowery garb thy form arrayed;
A stranger and an invalid I came,
For fell disease had paralyzed my frame;
But here, I met with friends whose hearts could feel
For wounded spirits that no art could heal;
Cherished by them, I snatched a short repose,
In calm forgetfulness of all my woes;
And almost felt, beneath one friendly dome,
The lost felicities and joys of home.

For one blessed mansion, Mary, still presents
An Eden of pure love and innocence,
The Happy Family,” par excellence.

149

Thy smile still lights it—Mary, 't is thy sire's,
Thy own paternal roof, which oft inspires
Such aspirations as my doubts beguile;
“Oh, that a home like this for me would smile!”
The very wish can chase the cloud of care,
And hope half mingles with the minstrel's prayer.

TO MISS HARRIET T---N,

OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I.

My left side suffers—yet I find
The heart retains its former station,
And warmly throbs, whene'er the mind
Reverts to one dear habitation.
The mind, too, suffers; for the power
Of memory is paralyzed;
And only dimly marks the hour
Which erst so tenderly I prized.

When in that habitation nursed,
By Friendship's warm and tender care,
I said that fate might do its worst—
Soothed by such friends, I 'd learn to bear!
When cheered by Harriet's laughing eyes,
I nearly lost the sense of pain;
But fettered memory hourly tries
To sketch that watching look, in vain.

150

Oh, yes, I know I have a heart,
For I can often feel it beat,
Just as in youth it used to start,
When beauty's glance I chanced to meet.
But youth and health, alas! are gone!
They were not prized enough when mine,
And I were now a wretch forlorn,
But for the loves that round me twine.

Wife, children, friends!—All-bounteous Heaven!
I humbly thank thee, from my heart,
For these blessed joys, which thou hast given,
Sweet solace for affliction's smart.
Oh, yes, for these I would endure,
Were it thy will, another life,
As painful as the past—as poor!
But grant me still my present wife.

TO MISS MARY JANE Y---G,

OF GREENSBURGH, PA.

Our earth is but a verdant isle,
That floats on the ethereal tide,
Basking in Sol's life-giving smile,
It can not leave its parent's side;
Their tie is love—alas! the pain
Of separation, Mary Jane!

151

And here I sometimes meet a form
That I have never seen before—
Some shipwrecked sylph, escaped the storm
That drove her on our sea-girt shore,
While crossing ether's trackless main,
From Eden's confines, Mary Jane.

I greet her as an angel, strayed
From the fair regions of the blessed,
And welcome the celestial maid,
Entreating her to be my guest.
If she consent—alas! the pain
Of parting with her, Mary Jane!

Thy form is such, and late thy smile—
That smile of witching innocence!—
Illumined my dwelling for awhile,
Till love and duty called thee hence.
My wife, a sister-sylph, in vain
Prayed thee to tarry, Mary Jane.

It could not be! and thus 't is ever
Our fate, from those we love, to sever.
But, ah! such pangs are wisely given,
Lest we forget to seek for heaven;
For there, in realms unknown to pain,
We yet shall meet thee, Mary Jane.

152

EPITHALAMIUM.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF M. M. MARTIN, ESQ., TO MISS JANE IRWIN.

The flame that burns on Hymen's shrine,
If fanned by Cupid's fragrant breath,
For ever glows a light divine,
That brightens at the touch of death.
For true connubial love for ever
Through kindred hearts incessant rolls,
And naught in heaven or earth can sever
The cord that joins congenial souls.

The nuptial couch is heaven on earth,
If truth and purity be there;
'T is not in words to speak its worth—
Angelic harps its bliss declare.
There heavenly love with wisdom meets,
There fond affection joins with truth,
To revel in ambrosial sweets,
An Eden of immortal youth.

Thrice happy pair! may fadeless verdure
The Martin's favorite Marsh adorn;
Thrice happy pair! for angels heard your
Pledge upon the nuptial morn.

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Be happy still, till joys supernal,
Immortal in your bosoms rise,
For Hymen's sweets will bloom eternal,
To bless your loves beyond the skies.

LOVES SHE LIKE ME?

Oh say, my fluttering heart,
Loves she like me?
Is her's thy counterpart—
Throbs it like thee?
Does she remember yet,
The spot where first we met,
Which I shall ne'er forget?
Loves she like me?

Soft echoes still repeat,
“Loves she like me?”
When on that mossy seat,
Beneath the tree,
I wake my amorous lay,
While lambkins round me play,
And whispering zephyrs say,
Loves she like me?

On her I think by day,
Loves she like me?

154

With her in dreams I stray,
O'er mead or lea.
My hopes of earthly bliss
Are all comprised in this,
To share her nuptial kiss?
Loves she like me?

Does absence give her pain?
Loves she like me?
And does she thus arraign
Fortune's decree?
Does she my name repeat?
Will she with rapture greet
The hour that sees us meet?
Loves she like me?

I SIGH NOT FOR GLORY.

I sigh not for glory to dazzle the crowd,
I ask not for fortune to strut with the proud,
I covet no title of any degree,
Except, my dear Rosa, a title to thee.
But yet if the fates have unkindly ordained,
That these must be mine ere thy hand is obtained,
Inspired by the smiling young hopes which I cherish,
I'll ask them, and win them, dear Rosa, or perish.

155

TO A LADY,

ON PARTING WITH A COPY OF THE “DEWDROPS.”

Adieu, gentle fair! and till fate shall decree
Again to restore thee to friendship and me,
Accept of this token of brotherly love,
The “Dewdrops” of mercy distilled from above.

And when the sad period of absence is past,
And those thou art leaving embrace thee at last,
No tears of regret shall their rapture annoy,
But Dewdrops shall sparkle in sunbeams of joy.

LADY, ACCEPT THIS LITTLE BOOK.

Lady, accept this little book,
A trifling token of regard,
And when upon these lines you look,
Bestow one thought upon the bard.
'T is friendship prompts the humble lay,
From flattery's heartless fictions free,
Which only simply means to say,
He dedicates the book to thee.

156

The morn of life is fair and bright,
And childhood's path is strewed with flowers,
While fragrant gems of sparkling light,
Are scattered from the light-winged hours.
Youth revels in the Eden scene,
Diversified with hills and slope,
And strays among the arbors green,
Led by the hand of smiling hope.

But disappointment's chilling blast,
On passion's wave destructive beat,
Ere mid-day comes, too often cast,
The blighted beauties at our feet.
Yet, still, dear girl, whate'er betide,
Though flowers may fade as soon as blown,
Let virtue be thy constant guide,
And happiness thy own.

YES, LOVE HAS ITS SORROWS.

Yes, love has its sorrows, but who would refuse 'em,
So mingled with rapture and joy?
What mortal the rose would discard from his bosom,
For fear that it's thorns might annoy?

157

THE LOCK OF HAIR.

Yes, it is mine—that ringlet token,
That raven lock of glossy shine,
What transport has the pledge awoken,
In this enraptured heart of mine;
And next my heart the gift I'll wear,
That heart with pure affection swelling,
And thus a lock of angel's hair,
Will then be near an angel's dwelling.

Oh tell me not that hopes delusive,
Or joys unreal my fancy mock,
When doubts require a proof conclusive,
I'll look upon this raven lock.
Or if it all illusion be,
My heart with joy is so elated,
I'd hug it still in ecstacy,
Nor wish the error dissipated.

158

MY CARD-RACK.

TO THE FAIR ARTIST IN SHELLWORK, WHO MADE THEM FOR FAIRS.

Oh! Fancy's pencil never traced,
Nor Art's inventive powers designed,
Such beauty, genius, wit, and taste,
In one sweet portraiture combined.
When at the fair you charmed our eyes,
Each candid heart acknowledged there,
That justice must award the prize
To you, the fairest of the fair.

That hour is past—but memory oft,
Pictures the glowing scene anew,
That speaking glance, so bright and soft,
And all the charms that circled you.
But when I gaze on those dear shells,
Which nought on earth could purchase back,
With hope and fear my bosom swells,
For doubts still keep me on the rack.

But I will hope, and persevere,
Dangers and obstacles despise,

159

As sportmen, who pursue the deer,
Hazard existence for the prize.
But had I one sharp-pointed dart,
With Cupid's skill and Cupid's bow,
I 'd pierce one little bounding hart,
And mine should be the timid Roe.

LOVE.

Love, gentle fair, can boast a source divine,
Whatever be its earthly form and feature,
It flows like Sol's life-giving beams benign,
From the Creator to the humblest creature.
It is the very life and soul,
Of all that live, and breathe, and move;
There 's not a pulse from pole to pole
But vibrates solely from the power of love.
The largest form, the smallest thing,
That Nature's boundless kingdom holds,
Whether it move by feet or wing,
Or finny oar, or sinuous folds;
All, all exist on this mysterious plan,
From viewless insects up to lordly man.

Love, in its essence, ever flows the same,
But when recipient vessels are defiled,

160

They change its nature, purity, and aim,
To earthly passions, selfish, fierce, and wild;
To envy, malice, covetous desire,
Revenge, ambition, pride, and jealous ire,
Till Love's benignant, pure, celestial flame,
Is thus converted to infernal fire!

Not so, in hearts like thine, my fair,
Guarded by knowledge, truth, and reason,
For vice can find no entrance there,
By open force, or subtle treason.
Such hearts, like mirrors, catch the rays
Of Love's benignant flame,
Reflecting back a milder blaze,
Of humble gratitude and praise,
To bless the giver's name.
They throw around inspiring gleams
Of bliss that angels taste above,
And these are but reflected beams
From the pure flame of love.
But if a true, congenial heart,
Of firmer texture, catch its light,
Into one focal point will dart
The rays of both, and there unite.
Resign the lens to Cupid's care,
While Hymen's torch shall blaze above:
Such be thy happy lot, my fair,
For this will be connubial love.

161

THE WHITE COTTAGE.

Thou peaceful cot beneath whose roof
The calmest, purest joys are mine;
Where sweetest smiles, affection's proof,
Their sunny rays, for my behoof,
With mildest, purest, lustre shine.
No pilgrim of the stormy main,
Enters his haven with such joy
As fills my bosom, when I gain
Thy evening shelter, and obtain
The kiss of welcome from my boy.

Thy snow-white walls—the lattice green,
Which veils each modest eye of thine;
The trees which throw their shade between,
On which the ripening fruit is seen,
The gay, rose melons, and the vine—
All—all delight me—but the door
Admits me to a heaven within;
No fretted ceiling, fitted floor,
Nor gorgeous trappings—but there 's more
Of real bliss than monarchs win.

162

Connubial joys and filial love
Await my evening welcome home—
Delights the virtuous prize above
The brightest chaplets ever wove
For demigods of Greece or Rome.
This is my empire—here enthroned,
I envy not the proudest king;
My sceptre ne'er can be disowned,
For hearts of love, the sweetest toned,
To me their joyful anthems sing.

Yes, dear loved cottage, while beneath
Thy humble roof true bliss is mine,
The votive chaplet I will wreath,
And here my grateful numbers breathe,
To thank the Giver's hand divine.
The charms of palace, tower, or dome,
With guilded pomp, I covet not;
Thou, dear “White Cottage,” art my home,
From hence I never wish to roam;
Content can gild the humblest lot.

163

AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS.

The season of flowers is fled,
The pride of the garden decayed,
The sweets of the meadow are dead,
And the blushing parterre disarrayed.

The blossom-decked garb of sweet May,
Enamelled with hues of delight,
Is exchanged for a mantle less gay,
And spangled with colors less bright.

For sober Pomona has won
The frolicsome Flora's domains,
And the work the gay goddess begun,
The height of maturity gains.

But though less delightful to view,
The charms of ripe Autumn appear,
Than Spring's richly varied hue,
That infantile age of the year.

Yet now, and now only, we prove
The uses by Nature designed;

164

The seasons were sanctioned to move,
To please less than profit mankind.

Regret the lost beauties of May,
But the fruits of those beauties enjoy;
The blushes that dawn with the day,
Noon's splendor will ever destroy.

How pleasing, how lovely appears
Sweet infancy, sportive and gay;
Its prattle, its smiles, and its tears,
Like spring, or the dawning of day!

But manhood's the season designed
For wisdom, for works, and for use;
To ripen the fruits of the mind,
Which the seeds sown in childhood produce.

Then infancy's pleasures regret,
But the fruits of those pleasures enjoy;
Does spring autumn's bounty beget?
Lo the Man is begun in the Boy.

165

MARY'S GRAVE.

Let those whose hearts have learned to glow
With love that ne'er can change or vary,
Permit one pitying tear to flow
O'er the cold grave of hapless Mary.

She loved, alas! a treacherous youth,
Who feigned to love the artless fairy;
Too late she proved him void of truth,
And death relieved the hapless Mary.

No more she shines the queen of May,
Nor graces more the rustic dairy,
For ah! the spoiler bore away
The rifled sweets of hapless Mary.

Oh then, ye artless nymphs, beware!
In trusting faithless man, be wary,
And thus escape the fiend Despair,
That dug the grave of hapless Mary.

166

THE ORPHAN MAID.

How hard the maiden orphan's fate,
Whose early joys and hopes are fled,
Who vainly asks the rich and great
For leave to earn her daily bread!
Exposed to frowns, rebukes, and sneers,
In humble menial garb arrayed,
While heartless fools deride her tears,
And spurn the hapless orphan maid.

There was a time—alas! 't is fled—
When fortune, friends, and kindred smiled,
When sunny rays of joy were shed
Around the gay and happy child;
When, shielded by parental care,
No pang of sorrow dared invade,
Save when she saw the meek despair
Of some poor hapless orphan maid.

But ah! her parents died, and left
Their darling, unprotected child,
Of fortune, friends, and joy bereft,
And then the maiden never smiled.

167

She only asked to toil for bread,
She sought no unrequited aid—
But asked in vain!—till hope was fled,
And death relieved the orphan maid!

TO MARY ANN.

Dear Mary Ann, the sparkling gems,
Which deck the brow of even,
Are rayless, to the diadems
And jewels on the garment hems
Of sainted maids in heaven.

The fleecy snow, so pure and white,
By winds of winter driven,
Is darker than the shades of night,
To those celestial robes of light
Which clothe the nymphs of heaven.

No banquet e'er by mortal spread,
No feast by monarch given,
Can match the living wine and bread,
With which the virgin train are fed,
Who crowd the courts of heaven.

The crown, the robe, the feast be thine;
To all who ask, they 're given;

168

The jewels, gems, the bread and wine,
Will fill thee with that flame divine,
Which lights the maids of heaven.

Thine be the pearl of nameless worth,
By Christ alone 't is given—
And though we never meet on earth,
If we obtain the second birth,
Thou'lt kiss the bard in heaven.

THE BOOK OF THE HEART.

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

Thy MIND is an ALBUM, unsullied and bright,
Just opened—for angels and spirits to write
Each thought and affection, intent and desire,
That wisdom may sanction—that love may inspire.

The book is immortal—Oh guard it with care,
Lest demons should sully its pages so fair;
Repulse such intruders, nor shrink from the strife,
And Jesus will smile on the “Book of thy life.”

169

FOR VIOLA'S ALBUM.

Yes, I would add one humble leaf,
To the bright chaplet thou art twining,
But ah! its verdure will be brief,
For time is such an errant thief,
He blights the sweetest buds with grief,
And leaves the fairest flower declining.

But there 's a wreath, that ne'er can fade,
Already for thy temples twined,
Such as in heaven the angels braid,
To deck the brows of every maid,
Who, like Viola, here displayed
The beauties of a cultured mind.

That wreath shall deck Viola's brow,
In realms unknown to time or grief,
And each young plant she cultures now,
Each infant mind her toils endow,
Will breathe to heaven a fragrant vow,
Brightening the tints of every leaf.

170

DUETT.

SHE.
When grief the heart benumbs,
How the pulses languish!

HE.
Hope, like a cherub, comes,
Then we lose the anguish.

SHE.
Here, late, were clouds of gloom,
All the scene surrounding;

HE.
Now all is dressed in bloom,
Hearts are gayly bounding.

BOTH.
Still, then, in pleasure's bower,
Let us rove delighted;
Joy is a transient flower,
Taste it ere 't is blighted.

SHE.
Should dark despair return
On the coming morrow,

171

HE.
Love's torch will brighter burn
'Mid the gloom of sorrow.

SHE.
Love may himself decamp,
In the hour of sadness;

HE.
Then feed the urchin's lamp
With the oil of gladness.

BOTH.
Thus, here, in pleasure's bower,
Let us rove delighted;
Joy is a transient flower,
Taste it, ere 't is blighted.

TO ELIZA.

And wilt thou think of him who traced
This tributary lay,
Or will his image be effaced,
As foot-prints in the dew are chased
By the next solar ray?
Can memory's light become so dim,
That thou wilt not remember him?

172

I will not libel thus a heart,
Where every grace resides,
Where modest nature, void of art,
Directed still by virtue's chart,
In peerless state presides:
She shall thy silent prompter be,
Sometimes, dear girl, to think of me.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Could any charm have broke the spell,
That long has chained my humble lyre,
Thy smile had waked the silent shell,
And taught its sweetest notes to swell
With pure poetic fire.

But, oh! its chords are sleeping still,
And e'en thy charms must plead in vain;
This heart has lost its wonted thrill,
Intruding cares its fervors chill,
And check its votive strain.

173

THE SILENT CONFESSION.

TO A LADY, WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR IF HE COULD INTERPRET A BLUSH THAT HE HAD NOTED.

Oh yes, 'twas a fervor of feeling,
That gushed like a stream from the heart,
And flew through the pulses, revealing
What language could never impart.
It gave to that frame an emotion,
Which sweetly the feeling confessed;
A zephyr might breathe on the ocean,
And wake such a swell on its breast.

The glow of thy visage expressed it,
'T was borne to my heart in a sigh;
An eloquent silence confessed it,
It spoke in the glance of thine eye.
In short, 't was the soul of my treasure,
Aroused in alarm from its sleep,
That flew to those windows of azure,
And lifted their curtains to peep.

174

OH SAY, CAN THIS BE LOVE?

Why does my heart so strangely start,
Each pulse so wildly play?
Why can not willing lips impart
What feeling bids them say;—
Cease, busy heart!—Can this be love?
Why do n't the trembler rest?
Why does it throb as if a dove
Were caged within my breast?
'T is not the throb of anguish—
It can not fatal prove—
And yet I sigh and languish!
Oh say, can this be love?

Cease, busy heart!—Why throbs it so,
With such an anxious thrill?
It seems to have a fever's glow,
And yet I am not ill!
Warm on my cheek I feel the flame,
Its light illumes my eye;
Still, if my lips attempt the name,
'T is whispered in a sigh.

175

'T is not the sigh of anguish—
So that can nothing prove,
And yet I daily languish—
Oh say, can this be love?

KATHLEEN O'MOORE.

She hung on my bosom, and vowed to be true,
As I kissed off a tear-drop, and murmured adieu;
Then, slow and sad-hearted,
From Kathleen I parted,
From Kathleen O'Moore.

I tore myself from her, and left her in tears,
With a pang at my heart yet remembered for years,
Though hope was repeating
A promise of meeting
With Kathleen O'Moore.

'Twas eve, and the moon brightly smiled on the spot,
As I lingered, to gaze yet again on the cot
That held the dear treasure
I loved without measure,
My Kathleen O'Moore.

176

And hope fondly whispered, with flattering tone,
That I shortly might call the dear treasure my own;
But hope has deceived me,
For fate has bereaved me
Of Kathleen O'Moore.

A richer swain wooed, and she smiled on his plea,
And she gave him the hand she had plighted to me,
And left me to languish,
With heart-rending anguish,
For Kathleen O'Moore.

TO A---.

When that soft, beaming eye reviews
This grateful tribute of the Muse,
Those coral lips must not refuse
One little word to frame;
And be the little word they choose,
The Poet's name.

Oh breathe but that, in one soft sigh,
Whene'er these couplets meet thine eye,
And Zephyr, as he flutters by,
Shall bear the sigh to me,
And whisper in thine ear, that I
Remember thee.

177

TO IANTHE.

Ianthe, could I touch the lyre,
With magic art like thine,
I 'd wake the spirit-breathing wire
To thoughts of light and tones of fire,
Like those which, breathed by thee, inspire
This raptured heart of mine.
And I would still the lay prolong,
And oft the strain repeat,
To tell how much I love thy song,
Its numbers are so sweet.

I 've marked thee—ere a dozen springs
Had bloomed upon thy cheek,
When, buoyant on her glittering wings,
Thy infant fancy warbled things
Such delicate imaginings,
As poesy can speak.
'T was genius, uncontrolled by art,
And reckless of defeat,
I heard the lay, it touched my heart,
'T was wild and simply sweet.

178

I marked the next, with cultured mind,
In all the charms of youth,
And knew thy lovely form enshrined
A heart which every grace combined,
By native taste and art refined,
The pure abode of truth.
Then, when I listened to thy lay,
Each pulse with rapture beat,
It seemed to bear the soul away,
'T was exquisitely sweet.

Another heard—the one alone
Whose worth inspired the strain;
Whose manly heart is honor's throne,
Who breathed a sigh for every tone,
And made his modest wishes known,
Nor did he plead in vain.
And when a wife—I heard thee still
The matchless strain repeat;
How must his heart with transport thrill!—
'T was ravishingly sweet.

And is there yet a tenderer tie
To twine Ianthe's heart?
Can warmer feelings light her eye,
And bid her pulses quicker fly?
Can any other's smile or sigh
Such ecstasies impart?

179

There can—an infant's smile inspire
A strain with joy replete;
A mother's love attunes the lyre—
'T is now divinely sweet!

SMILE OF AFFECTION.

Is there a light whose effulgence can dry
The tear of affliction, and rapture restore?
'T is the bright, sunny ray of a love-beam eye,
The smile of affection from one I adore.

I 'd sigh not for grandeur, for fame, or for wealth,
But, thankful for little, would wish for no more,
If blest with a cottage, with friendship, and health,
And the smile of affection from one I adore.

THE ADIEU.

Oh, green was the poplar, when, under its shade,
I exchanged the soft vow with my shepherdess maid;
But winter soon blighted its sweet summer hue,
So faded hope when I bade Lilla adieu.

180

Be constant, I sighed, till thy Damon return,
For still this fond bosom for Lilla will burn;
My heart, like the compass, to love shall be true,
She wept, as I murmured—dear Lilla, adieu!

But doomed was my Lilla another to bless,
And doomed is her Damon to pine in distress;
Like leaves of the poplar, which tempests then strew,
My hopes were all scattered—so, Lilla, adieu!

The spring soon returned, and the poplar was drest,
But peace had for ever forsaken my breast;
From the music of nature no comfort I drew,
For the birds and the streams murmured, Lilla, adieu!

When, torn by my sorrows, I bow to my doom,
Will a tear from my Lilla e'er fall on my tomb?
When the leaves on the poplar are blast and few,
They'll sigh in the breeze, dearest Lilla, adieu!

University of Virginia Library

SENTIMENTAL.

TO MY WIFE.

THE SIGH.

A SMILE FROM THEE.

THE WREATH OF LOVE.

THE PORTRAIT.

LOVE'S LEGER.

TO SOMEBODY.

THE GARLAND.

TO A NOSEGAY.

PEACEFUL HOME.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

MUSIC THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

I LOVE ONLY THEE.

LOVE'S EYES.

LOVE AND VALOR.

A KISS.

GIVING AND RECEIVING.

TO MARIA.

AND DID I UPBRAID YOU?

NATURE AND THE PASSIONS.

I HAD A LYRE.

THE MEETING.

A DREAM.

THE SMILE OF LOVE.

I HEARD A SWEET STRAIN.

HARRIET'S FAVORITE POEMS.

MABELLA.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

THE GAMUT.

TO HARRIET.

AND MAY I HOPE?

TO CAROLINE.

WE ARE ONE.

RETURNING HOME.

BANKRUPTCY OF THE HEART.

A NUPTIAL SONG.

THE WIDOWED IVY.

CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

LAND'S END.

THE TEAR OF GRATITUDE.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

TO ADELAIDE FELICITY.

TO MISS SARAH HOWARD.

THE KALEIDOSCOPE.

THE IMPRISONED DEBTOR.

THE FLOWERS OF LIFE.

EDWIN DELISLE.

FRIENDSHIP.

HIBERNIA'S TEARS.

CALUMNY.

OH TRUST NOT HOPE.

AN IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH.

THE DEAF AND DUMB.

BEAUTY, SWEET MYSTERIOUS POWER.

THE MINSTREL.

A DUETT

CONFIDING WOMAN.

HARLEM MARY.

THE BASHFUL LOVER.

THE NEEDLE.

WILLIAM'S GRAVE.

THIS LIFE IS NOT THE VALE OF WO.

A TRIO.

THE TOMB OF HENRY.

NO MORE SHALL HOPE'S ILLUSIVE DREAM.

YOU HESITATE—OH THEN 'TIS YOU.

A REQUEST.

TO A LADY.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM.

ANSWER TO A LADY,

WHO SENT HER ALBUM TO THE AUTHOR FOR A CONTRIBUTION.

OH WHAT IS VIRTUE?

TO A LADY.

RONDEAU.

TO MARY.

AWAY WITH CARE AND SORROW.

A DUETT.