Early lays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

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INVOCATION.

Dear Harp of my country! tho' lately I threw thee,
All carelessly by, in the passion of pain,
Yet, now, from the gloom of thy silence I woo thee,
To the bow'rs of music and song once again.
Again, tho' the heart of the minstrel be breaking,
Thy strings from the halls of neglect he'll remove,
And touch'd by his hand, once again proudly waking,
Thy notes shall be kindled to rapture and love.

There's a charm to the minstrel who lingers all lonely,
At the close of the evening to greet thee alone,
In the song that thou breathest, that's heard by him only,
Oh! more than enough to have made him thine own.
Too well from the toils of the study thou'st won him,
Unable to combat thy influence and will;
And alas! even now, tho' thy spell has undone him,
There's a charm and a sweetness that hangs round thee still.

It would seem as if Nature, to teach the affection,
That is taught to the child at a kind mother's knee,
Had decreed, that my infancy's early direction,
To restore that kind parent was given to thee.

For the lisp of the babe, and the prattle of childhood,
Partook of the sorrows that to thee belong—
And led me full oft to the depths of the wildwood,
To offer to sadness my first notes of song.

The gloom of the forest, the mountain and river,
How sweet at the mid-hour of noon to survey,
When the tall branches bend and the sunny leaves quiver,
As they woo the young Zephyr awhile to delay.
Far removed from the pomp and the mock'ry of gladness,
How fond did I roam to some favorite tree,
And the spirit that dwells in the mansions of sadness,
Came down to unite its lone anthems with thee.

And sweeter to me the pure breath of the mountain,
Where the Morning has slumber'd in gladsome repose;
The coolness and calm of the wandering fountain,
That steals half its way thro' the lips of the rose;
For there did it seem that my spirit was lighter,
And even in its sadness my bosom more gay—
And the face of the forest look'd greener and brighter,
Than the rest of the world thro' the whole of the day.

Then come to me now tho' the world may frown on thee,
And deem thee unmeet with the mighty to soar,
Thou still hast a spell on the heart that has won thee,
That the blight of neglect will but heighten thee more.
Even now, far away, in the forest deep hidden,
I forget all the joys that the world can bestow,
And listen enraptured, as Fancy unbidden,
Reveals some old legend of pleasure or wo.

And here, thro' the night, on some old mound reclining,
Where many moons buried, the Indian chief lay,
Shall the maid of his bosom, at midnight repining,
Renew the wild song of youth's happier day.
And proudly the deeds of her lover reciting,
Shall challenge the braves, of the hatchet and bow,
One battle displaying, where gallantly fighting,
They can vie with the chieftain, who slumbers below.

Then fly with me far to the cells of Tradition,
And bid the old wizard his wonders unfold,
While thou, as they flow, like a mighty magician,
Shalt turn all the ore of his bosom to gold!
The spell of the minstrel is circling around thee,
His fingers are trembling thy wild chords along,
Then break the dark chains with which Silence has bound thee,
And give all thy music to rapture and song.

LOVE AND GLORY.

Methought upon a sylvan bed,
My youthful form reclined;
The harebell glitter'd o'er my head,
And round my temples twined;
A fairy owned the mossy dell
Of stalwart air and mien;—
I saw her on the mountain fell,
And wonder'd to have seen.

Drawn by her magic arm, behold,
An aged dame appear:
“Now sit thee on this barren wold,
And note what thou dost hear.
Thou see'st yon streak of livid fire,
That lights the western sky;
Quick strike thy long neglected lyre,
And bid the stranger nigh.
Pinion the wings of giant Time,
And bid the monster, bear
This scroll upon those wings sublime,
To life's remotest year.

The lightning wings my steel;—I go,
Awake thy loudest strain,
Let every mountain echo know,
That Glory lives again.”

Sudden she paused:—the aged dame
Now, throw her garb away;
Youth seem'd to nerve the tottering frame,
Late sinking to decay.
A sudden fire now filled her eye,
A sudden might her hand,
She struck the wire, old Time drew nigh,
And paused at her command.
She sung the glories of the past,
The triumphs of the great;
And with her trumpet's rising blast,
I felt my soul elate.
The arch, the crown, the capitol,
Rose o'er my vision'd sight,
The splendors of past, present, all
At once, in dazzling light.
She sung the fields of former fame,
Old Leuctra, Marathon,
Then pointed to the glorious name
Of Grecian freedom gone.
The Turk with sword prepared to tear
The virgin from her hall,
And she, with wild dishevell'd hair,
Torn by alternate shame and fear—
Enkindling hope, and cold despair;
“Oh! hearken ye, her call.”

Meanwhile, had Glory reached the spot,
Where by some magic bound
I lay—I strove to leave the grot,
But sunk upon the ground—
Touch'd by her magic wand—I rose,
“Be mine, be mine,” she cried—
“I see, I see your bosom glows
With glory's living tide.
I'll lead the world beneath your arms,
The greybeard Time shall stay,
And pausing 'neath your mighty charms,
Shall each command obey.
Nations shall wonder at your name,
The world your glory own;
The everlasting lyre of fame
Shall deify your throne.”
She paused—around her form did seem
Some cloudless sun to shine—
I cried, while dazzled with the gleam,
“Oh! Glory! I am thine!”

A pale form pass'd my kindled eye—
“Thou wilt not go,” she cried—
“Thou canst not leave thy love to die—
Thy own betrothed bride.
Not thus, not thus, in bow'r or hall,
Estranged glanced thy brow—
Not thus, if Love remembers all,
Shall be our parting now.
Mine is alas! no magic pow'r—
With boundless sway to guide,

A woman's love is all my dow'r,
That scorn'd—I've nought beside.
I cannot promise that the world
Shall tremble at thy nod;
I cannot bid Time's wing be furl'd,
Nor have thee own'd a God.
But well thou know'st when sorrow came,
Less kind I did not prove;
What thou had'st wanted then in fame,
Thou know'st was found in love.
And even now should Glory plead
With more successful pow'r,
Love at some future day thou'lt need
To soothe thy waning hour.
What tho' the world thy prowess fear—
What tho' enrol'd in fame—
Will glory give thee tear for tear?—
Is feeling but a name?
Oh! go not, go not—fly not thus—
(Her lip was press'd to mine)
Love's humble star, must shine for us,
For others—Glory shine.”

With eye enkindled Glory stood,
“Thou wilt not heed her tale;
Thou wilt not for the woman's mood
Forget the warrior's mail—
See where the chieftains of the past,
On fame's broad scroll appear;
If thou would'st have thy memory last,
With me, and fix it there.”

And where is she, the anxious maid,
With mingling blush and sigh—
And lip, that could not well upbraid,
And fond appealing eye?
Whose virgin modesty, had ne'er
Allow'd her tongue to speak,
The progress of her bosom's fear
That paler left her cheek;—
But that the all controlling pow'r
Of true and innocent love,
Had made her throbbing young heart tow'r
All other fears above.
Her arm so gently bound me round,
Our forms so fondly press'd;
Such nectar on her lips I found,
Such heav'n upon her breast.
“Oh! Glory! not for me be spread
The future's world so fair
To light the memories of the dead—
Enough, if living Love will shed,
His present raptures here.”

THE GIPSY GIRL.

“Come, cross my hand with the silver white,
Fair youth, and I will bring
From the future's realm of secret night
The unknown, hidden thing.”

He cross'd her hand and her dark black eye
Was fix'd upon his own,
And in her face was a majesty,
And in every look a tone.

“Fond hopes,” she said, and her brow grew sad,
“Vain dreams now fill thine eye;
And thy breast is lit with many a glad
Rich thought of extacy.
I mark a changing streak of red
Upon thy cheek, that now,

Even as I speak the word has fled
To crimson o'er thy brow.
It is a mark of passion traced
So deep, that it will be
Some time, ere age has well effaced
That stamp of pain from thee;
Yet shall that mark if thou canst keep
It ever on thy brow,
Be still, and powerless, and sleep
As beautiful as now,
I mark the curling lip of pride,
I mark the eye of scorn;
I see hope's known to none beside,
All desolate, forlorn;
And in my spirit's prophecy,
I tell thee now beware—
For thy care shall bring no joy to thee,
Yet thy joy shall waken care.”
“Nay, tell me not of things so dark,
But from thy skill, pourtray
The hidden evil with a mark
From which my feet must stray.”

“'Twere all in vain—to tell thee when,
Thy passion's might will rise—
As well define the varying sheen
Of summer evening's skies.
But there's a light within a bow'r,
And there's a bark at sea,
From one thou'lt bear a blushing flow'r,
Which one will bear from thee.

And thou wilt wander sad and wild,
The light of reason gone;
More helpless than the outcast child,
More desolate and lone!
And thou wilt call, and none will hear,
Tho' oftentimes a sound,
Like voice that's fled, will fill thine ear,
And thou wilt gaze around;
Yet even thy wild abstracted eye,
That sees what cannot be,
Will fail, tho' much it may espy
That single thing to see.
Again—a bow'r is fair and bright—
But one more lovely still,
Within that bow'r shall trim her light,
'Till morning's wind grows chill—
A bark is waiting on the sea,
Its idly flapping sail
Seems for its stay, reproaching thee,
And tempts the freshening gale—
The morning dawns, and thou art gone,
The slave of passion then;
But thou'lt return, alone, alone—
And we—shall meet again”!

THE “FORGET ME NOT.”

TO ****.

“Forget me Not,” yet where the pow'r
Of glory, feeling, name, with me

That I should dare to send this flow'r,
Rememb'ring thought to claim from thee?
Thou, in thy morning's early splendor,
'Twere vain, but beautiful to name,
And thy young heart so rich, so tender—
A prouder title well might claim.
Thy virtues such, how could I cherish
One hope, that from that sacred spot,
Thy heart—thou would'st not let me perish?
Yet take this flow'r—“Forget me Not.”

“Forget me Not,” how sweet the token,
When early hours have faded long,
And hopes as well as hearts are broken—
To know they still exist in song.
Thus, may the exile fondly dream of
Many a dear and transient ray,
And watchful Memory catch a gleam of
Each colouring of a former day.
Truth, Fancy, Love, those joys recounting,
That blest life's morning still green spot,
And rapture's pulse more swiftly mounting,
As Hope repeats—“Forget me Not.”

“Forget me Not,” the fond reflection,
How dear—when youthful fancy dreams
That there is one, whose recollection
With its own image only, teems.
That Time, howe'er he fly, will shake not
That token on the heart, which Love
Has so impress'd, that if he break not—
Vain were all Time's endeavors to move.

What, tho' the waves with ceaseless motion,
Protract the union of our lot—
Our hope's—the rock that stems life's ocean,
Our love's the flow'r—“Forget me Not.”

OH! WHENCE COM'ST THOU.

Oh! whence com'st thou, thou sunny breeze?
From what far isle in the Indian seas,
With the light of the morning upon thy wing,
And a being that lives in perpetual spring;
With the breath of the roses but newly taken,
Now in thy flight from thy gay wing shaken,
Leaving as thro' the tall trees thou glidest
An incense of light, as thy path thou dividest;
Which will long remain, even when thou art fleeting,
Where the smiling West and the waves are meeting?

Oh! whence com'st thou, thou sunny wind,
What shores of wealth hast thou left behind?
What leagues of sky in the mazy distance,
Thy wing hath cleft with no resistance,
Save that which is offer'd by wooing flow'r,
Happy to perish beneath thy pow'r!
Or, by Indian Pilgrim on the sea,
As his incense flame he throws to thee,

When passing any dangerous reef, or point of land, in their frail canoes, the Indians invariably offer to the Spirit of the Place, (with the hope that it will afford them a safe passage beyond the evil,) the smoke of burnt tobacco or the weed itself, or such other article as may be convenient. It may be observed, however, that the article thus thrown, is esteemed of little value, as a broken pipe, an arrow head, or as before said, some little tobacco; this latter, most commonly, as answering a double purpose, by serving as a peace offering, and indulging the favorite inclination of the savages for smoking.

Glad, when it's grateful smoke is whirling
In thy arrowy path, and upward curling.

Com'st thou afar with tremulous motion,
From the spar-gem'd caves of the Southern ocean,
Tangling but late in the mermaid's hair—
Or wooing her harp 'mid the green shells there;
Startled and won as the airy notes,
Thro' the sea-conch's purple windings floats—
And bearing far on thy wings away,
The dying tones of the fairy lay;
'Till scatter'd at length in the fields of air,
Thou seek'st the lost melody every where.

When the sun looks down with sultry pow'r,
Thou bring'st the glad earth refreshing show'r,
And castest thy wing, 'neath his midday glow,
To divert his beam from thy shade below—
The trees smile green, and forward bend
With thee in thy shadowy path to blend,
And the cool'd wave dimples in grateful smiles,
And casts its shells on the ocean's isles;
Where the breath of thy wing as thou glidest by,
May fill them with song and melody.

Gaily in purple cloud ascending
Thro' the fields of grain thy wings are bending
From the melon its musky odour stealing,
From the peach its rosy garment pealing,
From the corn its tassely strands of silk,
Its grain of gold and heart of milk;
From the lips of toil the grateful pray'r,
As thou cool'st the strands of his dripping hair,
And laden thus, thou skim'st the seas
From the smiling South, thou sunny breeze!

APOSTROPHE TO OCEAN.

Waters, dark waters of the boundless sea,
Whose march by human effort is unstay'd,
Now could I bow a worshipper to thee,
As, with a living energy array'd,
Thou leap'st in mountains far above my head:
And I, in the frail bark, in which I ride,
Within thy undulating bosom's shade
Am scarcely seen, while, in thy might of pride,
Thou art the only life, in thy vast world beside.

The awe that is unbounded, fills my soul,
As I behold thee, limitless and lone,
Driving unwearied on, without control,
Thy restless toil that never can be done,
Till the dim distant speck which lately shone
On the fond eye that watch'd its fading hue,
And turn'd away in sorrow when 'twas gone,
Lost in the shadows of thy mountain's blue,
Is in thy breast absorbed, and buried far from view.

The thin plank only keeps me from thy grasp
Thou giant of the abyss, whose passions seem
Aroused, and leaping forward to enclasp
And gulph our trembling vessel in thy stream;
And foam in impotent rage, and madly gleam
Thy vengeful eyes of terror; and thy broad
Herculean shoulders 'gainst her thin ribs bear,
As if, defeated by some ruling God,
Thou would'st even him to deadly conflict dare,
By striving to destroy, what he himself would spare.

Still mighty, even when pow'rless, thou dost wake
No less my awe, tho' deeming that secure
From the dark billows that around me break,
I scan thy empire of dominion o'er,
Far as the limited vision can explore!
Stretching afar, beyond even fancy's eye,
Or minstrel's most imaginative lore,
The vales and mountains of thy kingdom lie
Farther and farther on, and mingling with the sky!

And strange emotions rush upon my soul
As I survey thee—mingling with my fear,
Mysterious feelings of affection roll
Over my heart, and make thee even dear:
Yet terror dwells not in affection's sphere—
The tear of grief and rapture's kindling eye
At the same moment never can appear.
Yet do I shudder as thy waves leap by,
And love and worship still, dark mirror of the sky.

Thou art the sov'reign of the angry mood!
And when the terrors of thy wrath appear,
Thy monster form breaks thro' the moaning flood,
And thy vast pyramids of storm are there!
The scaly multitude descend in fear,
And shudd'ring lie ten thousand fathoms down—
Fearless the lesser with the larger dare,
Trembling alike at their dark sov'reign's frown,
Who rides the angry waves, and spurs their fury on.

Thou art the unglutted Crœsus of mankind!
Within thy vaults what precious pearls abide:
Eyes, that have left some dear affection blind,
No longer streaming with affection's tide;
Robb'd by thy pitiless hand in tyrant pride!
While Memory still, lone watcher, oft will hie
To the lone verge of thy dominion, wide,—
And with drawn breath, full heart, and straining eye
Watch, thro' the long, long day, some object to descry.

No more, no more; the triumphs of thy breast,
The unglutted stomach which was ever thine,—
The hoards of wealth, which being has possess'd,
And in thy dark caves which have ceased to shine,
Are nought to that incalculable mine,
Which holds the virgin ore of innocent love:—
Long may its idol-miser hope and pine,
To the lone skirts of thy wide empire rove—
Her bosom's casket wealth, now fills the coral grove.

Roll on! roll on! my journey is afar,
Yet if my bones must whiten in the wave,
Beneath the influence of malignant star,
I would not ask from fate a kinder grave,
Nor offer up the homage that might save;
Since, I might thus receive a weightier wo,
And wage with joy illimitable war—
Might, safely render'd to my home below,
Find, young affection's tears had long since ceas'd to flow.

THE GREEN CORN DANCE.

[_]

On the first appearance of the Green Corn from the ground, there is a general assemblage of the Indians at the Council House, who testify their pleasure and gratitude by feasting and dancing. This festival is denominated the Green Corn Dance.

The eye of the eagle glows red in the sun,
And the mountain is clothed in its garment of dun;
Thin, light fleecy clouds have o'ershadow'd the blue
Of the sky, whose rich brightness is still struggling thro'.
The South-wind has been in the Autumn bow'r,
And left it all budding with bloom and flow'r;
Old Winter has given his parting glance,
And Summer now takes her inheritance.
“Eagle from the mountain
Quickly descend;
Dove from the fountain
Hitherward bend;
Light from the bow'r
From afar come;
Rose from the flow'r
Fly with your bloom.
Come, while beneath the gay Spring's sunny glance,
The young leaf peeps from earth, and join the Green Corn Dance.”

Borne from afar, on rainbow wing,
Comes the young form of the breathing Spring!
Thro' the glad earth's parting lips,
Peeps the rose's velvet tips—

Where her wing has pass'd,—the gale
Wakes to life, the slumb'ring vale;
Where her feet have press'd, the green
Of the bladed grass is seen,
And as her shadow skims the lake,
Her sunny smiles its ripples take.
“Brave, renown'd in battle,
Where are you now?
Child, with infant prattle,
Loosen from the bough,

When the child is born, it is taken to the river, if one be conveniently near, or if not, any body of water which may be sufficient, and plunged in—after that, it is carefully swathed in vestments as compact as the dressings of an Egyptian mummy; the head scarcely excepted, under which is placed, a soft roll or pillow of the same material—it is then bound on a smooth board and suspended to the branches of some tree, most exposed to the influence of the wind, which by continually keeping it in motion, takes the toil of cradle rocking from the mother, and in this situation, it is seldom known to cry. By this means, the form acquires that arrowy straightness and beautiful symmetry for which the North American Indian is so very remarkable.

Mother of the arrow,
Swiftest far in fight;
Spirit of the barrow,

It is now generally well known, that the numerous mounds and tumuli, or as they are more usually called, Barrows, abounding in the neighborhood of the old Indian towns, are the cemeteries of their dead. See Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.

Unsurpass'd in might,
Come, while beneath the gay Spring's sunny glance,
The young leaf peeps from earth, and join the Green Corn Dance.”

She comes afar, and the glad earth springs
To the music of her wings;
Calling from the bush, the flow'r,
From the cloud, the grateful show'r,
From the stream, the wintry frown
That left its banks of fringe all brown,
From the bosom of the brake,
Chameleon and Copper snake,
Mocking bird, young thrush and wren,
Savage beasts and savage men,
Blest alike beneath the wing
Of the flow'r-breathing-Spring.

“Prophet that has blest us,
Come and share the spoil,
Woman that caress'd us,
Mingle with the toil.
Fathers who have taught us
How to fight the foe,
Foeman who has fought us,
Giving blow for blow,
Come, while beneath the gay Spring's sunny glance,
The young leaf peeps from earth, and join the Green Corn Dance.”

[Has Fortune's sunbeam faded]

Has Fortune's sunbeam faded—
Have all thy prospects fled,
The flow'rs thy brow that shaded—
Are they too sear'd and dead?
Did Sorrow's hand unkindly
Those early flow'rs tear;
And scatter round thee blindly
The venom'd seeds of care?

The dreams that hover'd nightly,
Around thy brow, are they,
Dispersed as shadows, lightly,
Before the gaze of day—
When too thy heart has taken
Their blissful forms so well,
That even to life to waken
Will scarce untwine the spell.

Yet stay those tears of sorrow,
Tho' just perhaps they flow;
Hope pictures forth a morrow,
Where yet those dreams shall glow.
Tho' every charm be broken
That youthful bosoms prove,
Hope still retains a token
That yet may lead to love.

Or, if thy friends are shaken,
And scorn thy wo and shame,
One heart shall still awaken
Remembrance of thy name.

Come, when each eye is turning,
Thy sorrow not to see;
Here is a soul still burning—
A heart yet true to thee.

THESE ORBS OF LIGHT.

These orbs of light, these orbs of light,
If thus with glance presuming;
They dare again to take their flight,
Young, foolish hearts consuming,
We'll join and ban, we'll join and ban
Each roving eye and bosom,
And when they dare come near to man,
We'll all conspire to close 'em.
If one of us is but inclin'd
To give his heart in barter,
Two roguish eyes (if she's not blind)
Will soon permit his sense to find
That he has caught a Tartar.

Why should they rove, why should they rove,
When in our clime, a stranger,
Is thus exposed to fall in love,
And then exposed to danger.
None knows so well—none knows so well,
The tricks of Charleston ladies—
As he whose fate alone, can tell,
That victory their trade is.
This conquest of the eyes and heart,

This grapeshot, blue ey'd evil,
Ah! hapless, stranger if they dart
Their beams within that mailless part
Your breast, they'll play the devil.

These orbs of light, these orbs of light,
Since thus the City Council,
Will not transport them off at sight,
And tremble to pronounce ill—
We will, if still they dare to rove
In spite of law, which this is,
Proceed within the Courts of Love,
To seal them up with kisses.
In self defence alone 'tis done,
And in a dangerous season,
The man, who fain would evil shun,
Because there may be two to one,
Is guilty of high treason.
These orbs of light, &c. &c.

WISDOM, LOVE AND FOLLY.

'Tis said of Love when Love was young,
That Wisdom lectur'd him full often,
But all the terrors of her tongue,
By Folly's nectar he could soften.

Thus, would he fly, whole days and nights,
Uncaring for his musty preacher;
And left poor Wisdom in such frights,
For fear he would at last o'erreach her.

There would he lie in Folly's arms,
While Time unheeded flew on roses;
And all around so deeply charms—
Forgetful of his guide, he dozes.

At length the dame some inkling got,
Which made her fly to Folly's bow'r;
And searching, she soon found the spot,
And got the urchin in her pow'r.

“Excuse me,” said the sage, well bred,
If I've intruded, but the reason
Is plain, and as plainly said—
'Tis time this boy was stop't in season.

Else I should give a poor return
To those, whose liberal selection
Placed him with me that I might learn
His infant mind its true direction.”

“Most true,” says Folly, “pray sit down,
Here, boy, another glass and bottle,
And Wisdom, to remove your frown,
We'll drink the health of Aristotle.”

Love wink'd to Folly—while he pour'd,
The goblet full of ruby brightness;

Wisdom well bred, tho' sometimes sour'd,
Could not refuse it, thro' politeness.

But to such potent draughts unused,
To stand, was found no longer able,
No feeling found, ashamed, confused,
The beldame sunk beneath the table.

Love laughing, sprung to Folly's breast,
Poor Wisdom look'd quite melancholy!
Unfit to move, she soon confest
How foolish 'twas to fight with Folly.

I'LL WREATHE A BOW'R.

I'll wreathe a bow'r,
Of every flow'r,
That's brightest, sweetest, to the eye,
And thou, my Fair,
Shall deck it there,
With all thy lips sweet melody.

Some trembling rill
Shall thro' it steal,
Just ruffled by a gentle breeze,
And at thy feet,
The waves shall beat,
A mimic music of the seas.

And I will call,
The young loves all,
The fairest Venus can produce;
And they shall be,
The slaves of thee,
For thy and my eternal use.

The heather-bell,
From mountain dell,
A fairer home with thee shall greet,
And all that's bright
In Beauty's sight,
The fragrance of thy lip shall meet.

The Lily too,
With morning dew,
Shall kiss thy hand with velvet lip,
And shall the Bee
From it to thee
Rove on, a richer flow'r to sip.

The sunny South,
With rosy mouth,
Shall breathe her richest perfumes there,
And that each sweet
May be complete,
Pale Night shall weep her dewy tear.

Then come with me,
O'er land and sea—
And where thy airy feet shall press,
The flow'r shall bloom
With soft perfume,
And dress with smiles the wilderness.

THERE'S A LIGHT.

There's a light that is seen in our loneliest hours,
It awakens the soul from the sleep of despair;
And it comes o'er the heart like the dew upon flow'rs,
Imparting the freshness it met not with there.

It is seen, it is felt in the moment of anguish,
When sorrow comes down like a cloud on the breast,
And as it appears, does the heart cease to languish,
For it comes like the sunbeam of rapture and rest!

It sheds not a ray for the Tyrant, awaking
That peace in his soul that he knew not before;
It leads not the warrior from blandishments breaking,
To bathe to the hilt, his proud faulchion in gore!
But it comes where the smiles of young Joy has departed,
And it crimsons with light the dark mansions of pain;
'Till the past has returned, and the cold broken hearted
Have leapt to the prospect of rapture again.

It comes like the Moon shining thro' the dark hours,
And it tinges life's sky with its ruddiest glow;
Like the blushes of Morn that impart to the flow'rs
Those deep rainbow tints that embellish them so.
It comes, and the desolate heart long forsaken,
Relieved by its beam, with its fortunes can cope,
It comes with a magical pow'r, to awaken
Ev'ry dream of delight, every offering of Hope.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF SOUTH-CAROLINA,

APPROPRIATING TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS

For the Benefit of the Heirs of Thomas Jefferson.

Triumph! and shall men revere us
Carolinians, when they hear
How the first of civic heroes
In your memory, still was dear.
Nor shall shame reproach our nation,
That, forgetful of the brave,
We assign to lofty station
But a lone forgotten grave.

'Tis not in the field of slaughter
That the soul of worth is tried,
Blood is oft'times bought like water
To support the grasp of pride.
'Tis that self-impulsive merit
That 'gainst ignominious death,
Stakes the soul's immortal spirit
To the latest gasp of breath.

Nursed not in the field of danger,
When the cry of battle went
Like the volcan's deep voiced thunder,
Clanging thro' the firmament.
Franklin like, the Tyrant tamer,
'Twas for Jefferson to bring
Pow'rless, to Freedom's claymore
All the might of England's King.

'Twas for him, while undissembled
From his lips the accents came
To declare, while thousands trembled
To the centre of their frame—
That by Nature, thus created
To one great equality—
We should ne'er, by Tyrants fated,
Bow the neck or bend the knee.

Glorious words—Immortal Spirit!
Fitted well by him to stand,
Who thy robe could well inherit,
Samuel Chase, of Maryland.

This Patriot, worthy to be remembered with the Washingtons and Franklins of our proudest day, was the first man who dared to say in Congress—that “By the God of Heaven, he owed no allegiance to the King of England.” If we look at the weakness of the Colonies at that time, in comparison with the unlimited power of England, and the relative situation which they sustained in commerce, feeling, association, and consanguinity, we cannot but wonder at the boldness of the sentiment, nor deny the justice of the tribute here offered to his memory.

Down my weak, yet soaring pinion,
Blindness gaze not on the Sun—
Yet, stooping from thy high dominion,
Carroll bless, of Carrollton.

At this time, the last remaining survivor of the brave men who declared the freedom of our country. Comment on the unalloyed sublimity of his situation, would be vain; and I have but feebly expressed my own feelings at the survey.

He, the Patriarch, left all lonely,
By his fellow-proud compeers,
Stands, amid the desert only,
Prouder from the touch of years.
Stands he not while life's decaying,
Like a lofty beacon mark,
On his brow, heav'n's glories playing—
While beneath him all is dark.

Nor the least among the glorious,
Carolina's sons appear,
Sage in thought, in fight victorious,
To their children ever dear.

Child of the Virgin

Virginia, discovered by Sir Walter Raleigh, under the auspices of the Virgin Queen Elizabeth, from whose situation its name is derived. Thomas Jefferson was a native of this State. This information, I must apologize for bringing before the American Public, to whom it must be sufficiently well known; but as the vanity of the Bard would have him believe that his humble efforts to add to the literature of his native land, will be perused even beyond our own great country; and where this note would most probably be necessary, he trusts that his pardon will not be denied.

—sympathetic
Shall we shed the tear of grief,
For thy spirit energetic,
Monticello's sage, and chief.

Never shall his glory perish,
Long as freedom is our own—
Truth shall sing and memory cherish—
All the triumphs he has won.
Long as Life unfolds the Charter,
Freedom gave us thro' his hand,
It shall weep him as the martyr,
For our too forgetful land.

I SAW THEE SMILE.

I saw thee smile—a purer light
Ne'er linger'd round arising day,
When mists and clouds beneath his sight,
Fleet in the distance far away;
And then methought, from Heav'n to ask
One boon to bless Time's wintry stream,
For life's brief day to sweetly bask
Beneath that rich smile's rosy beam.

I saw thee weep—the cloud, the tear,
That comes with Summer's evening glow;
So tender, did the dews appear,
I could but wish 'twould ever flow.

Be mine—be mine—my Fancy cried,
That smile of bliss, which now I view—
Oh! no! give none, my heart replied,
Unless that tear of feeling too.

THE GREEK SONG OF TRIUMPH.

In the free mountain air our banner is streaming,
The valleys are echoing with many a sound;
Bright arms in the blue sky of heav'n are gleaming,
And the loud tongued tambourgi

Tambourgi. Turkish Drum.

is thund'ring around.
No longer the dark robe of silence and anguish
O'erspreads with its mildews the forms of the past,
But the hearts of the mighty long destined to languish,
Have kindled to Freedom and Vengeance at last!

Triumph! the slave wears his fetters no longer!
Vengeance! for murder, indignity, hate!
Glory! the triumph is not to the stronger—
Freedom has fought with the red arm of Fate!
By the blood we have lost, by the blood of our fathers,
The remembrance that lives beyond battles red breath,
Our triumphs we'll keep, till Eternity gathers,
His harvest of years to the gran'ry of death.

No longer in sorrow our maidens repining,
Shall sigh, the bright morning of being, away;
But with eyes of pure light, like their own blue sky shining,
Shall meet our return from the fight ever gay.
In their bow'rs at eve by a Tyrant oppress'd not,
Shall they weave the bright garland of song for the brave,
And tell how the heart that by freedom is bless'd not.
Tho' released from its fetters, is still but a slave.

TO FORTUNE,

On purchasing a Lottery Ticket.

Coy damsel, as they call thee, if in truth—
And if not damsel, kindly let us know
Whate'er you may be, whether age or youth
May ornament the graces of your brow,
For I would fain be gallant, and in sooth
I have good reason for my neatest bow—
Ten thousand dollars—to a Bard that's poor,
Ten thousand Muses, could not offer more.

I long have sung of beauties, but till now,
Ne'er saw the graces, that adorn'd my themes—
Eyes of rich light are kindling in thy brow,
Glorious as warm'd young Sappho in her dreams,
Lips of such budding freshness, opening glow—
As well could vie with ev'ning's purple gleams;
And as I've said before, ten thousand graces,
Are seen in your's to outshine all other faces.

I am your humble servant; scarce acquainted,
I am your friend, nor wonder that 'tis so;
By many have you been so brightly painted,
In colours of such rich and perfect glow,
I could not rest until I was presented;
And, for this pleasant introduction to
Your Goddesship's supremacy so great,
I've paid five dollars, money of this State.

Against this bargain, I will not inveigh—
I will not say, that it had been as well,
And far more generous to require no pay
From one, whose purse is not inclined to swell
With aught, save rhyming, antiquated lay,
That is not current, and that cannot sell;
So, see Ricardo, whose discussion nice,
Will prove it has no value, if no price.

I will not claim, exemption from the fate,
Of fellow Man, by striving to excite
The pity I despise, upon my state;
Nor bring from lofty self-opinion's height,
The doubtful d---d condolence of the great,
The taunt of consolation, and its blight—
Because the star of my existence, rose
Angry and red upon a world of woes.

But, willingly abide it, if from you
Whom Poverty must ever deem divine,
I can attain in kindness but a few
Of the “white stones”

“Lord have mercy upon us, what a vast treasure is here!”— “'Tis all our own, Strap (said I) take what is necessary, and redeem the sword immediately.” He advanced towards the table, stopt short by the way, looked at the money and me by turns, and with a wildness in his countenance produced from joy, and checked by distrust, cried—“I dare say it is honestly come by.”—To remove his scruples, I made him acquainted with the whole story of my success, which, when he heard, he danced about the room in an exstacy, crying—“God be praised! a white stone! God be praised! a white stone, a white stone.—

Roderick Random, vol. ii. p. 3.

not made alone to shine;

Nor will you find a worshipper more true
Than he, the humblest follower of the “Nine”—
The ten, Muses, and thousands, for the latter, I
Will with the former, lift you to the sky.

And be your Laureate, and at every year
Meet its return with birthday ode and lay,
And only ask ten thousand dollars clear
Of all demands, to pave my future way—
Which, will not on your income hardly bear—
And which you cannot well refuse to pay.
Seeing the sad condition of the Poet
Much better than his halting muse can shew it.

Think now, I made my honest calculations,
To pay my creditors when you should smile:
My tailor duns me, with increased impatience,
And in a louder, more important style:
Should you then fail me, Gods, their irritations—
How Honor's self would overflow with bile!
The jail is yawning,—zounds, will nothing tempt ye—
The Bailiff coming, and my pockets empty?

Call me not sordid, I am not like man,
The cringing slave, and votary of gold;
This you might learn, if you would only scan
The phiz of each, to whom you've favors sold.
How youth will age, age youth in turn trepan,
And labour delve, 'till time proclaims him old;
Seeking for that, which, tho' for aye in sight,
Fades like a fairy dream before the morning's light.

No! let me seek by one bold vigorous dash—
To gain thy favors, and receipt my bills:
And then what surplus, still exists of cash,
Shall flow around like Canaan's honey'd rills;
Relieving those, who, like myself were rash,
And killing Time, revenging those he kills;
So let me tempt thee, like a winning lover,
Sweet maid—thy treasure casket to uncover.

I SING NOT HER.

I sing not her, whose glowing charms,
Delight the many's view;
Who strives to fill, with fond alarms,
The heart whose love is true:
And smiles, with innate joy to find,
That ev'ry glance she deigns
To feed another's wand'ring mind,
Adds deeper to its pains.

Not her who roves from sweet to sweet,
Shall fill my wayward song;
But she—who still one heart can greet,
Thro' madness, guilt and wrong.
Who heeding not the general frown,
Can still most nobly dare,
Adventure, with her own bosom's own,
His destiny to share.

A star, whose ray undimn'd at birth,
By wandering planets driven,
Bears still in its descent to earth,
The purer flame of Heaven.
There's beauty in her eyes of light,—
Yet, not their light alone
That ravish'd first my youthful sight,
When over me they shone.

Tho' rich and proud, the ray appears,
Its beauty is, I ween,
Of far less pow'r, and less endears,
Than that which is not seen.
Her mind, of no importance proud,
Is gentle, modest, kind;
A more of heart, and less of cloud,
Than is received for mind.

Retiring goodness, own'd but not
In mock'ry, pomp displayed;
A more than may become her lot,
Yet all that suits a maid,
Possess'd of all that may allure,
Yet heedless of her spell,
She would not have the crowd adore,
When one can love so well.

'Twere vain to sing the grace and light,
That in her actions moves,
In her, perfection greets the sight—
And honest Truth approves.

So he my lay, which may not tell,
One half I would express;
As brief as is her bosom's swell,
When love would make it less.

I sing of one, whose kindly eye,
Will fill with no alarms,
Nor wanton bid the bosom die,
Which lives but on its charms:
Content, if one alone approve,
To lose the many's gaze;
And find within one smile of love,
Sufficiency of praise.

[Young Edwin raised the song]

Young Edwin raised the song,
For Emma's list'ning ear;
And often did the strain prolong,
When only she could hear.
Sweet Minstrel, who so well,
The bosom's pain could tell?

At ev'ning, Emma flew
To greet the am'rous boy,
Her soul to feeling true,
Was ne'er reserved or coy.
Sweet Minstrel, where was he,
Her bosom long'd to see?

She found the lyre, whose tone
So oft had charm'd her ear;
But where was he, the one
Whose touch had made it dear?
Sweet Minstrel fly, and chase
The tear from Emma's face.

She took the lyre, her hands
Bewilder'd, fell among
The little golden strands,
Which murmur'd forth the song,
Sweet Minstrel, which he sung—
Ere death had seal'd his tongue.

The song arises still,
But from a form unseen,
Young Emma's heart grew chill,
And paler wax'd her mien.—
Sweet Minstrel—still she cried,
I come to thee,—and died.

THE OCEAN SPIRIT.

Night sat upon the Ocean,—
Her sable bosom heaving
With a wild, tumultuous motion,
While the winds were cleaving
Thro' the long tresses of her raven hair;
Making a low mysterious tone,
Like harp-strings rudely brush'd upon,
Or, like the sullen moanings of Despair!

While to listen,
The mermaid left her coral bow'r,
Borne upwards by the strain of pow'r—
Shook from her form the briny drops that glisten
Like moonbeams thro' the forest foliage stealing,
Its long, green grass and silent flow'rs revealing;
And mingled with that music, till it made
The rainbow-cinctured dolphin leap,
From his cavern, in the deep,
Half enraptured, half afraid.

The ship is new, the ship is true,
She bounds like the billow along;
But when Ev'ning shall glide o'er the breast of the tide,
The Spirit of Ocean shall rise in his pride,
And the shriek of the drowning shall be his death song.
To slumber, ay, but not repose,
Three youths within that vessel lay,
And thoughtful still, they could not close
The watchful eye; but look'd for day.
And now their anxious bosoms teem,
With hopes that youth can always dream;
For the first time, in different lands,
With different views, they seek to fly;
And laid aside the early bands,
Of childhood, home, nativity.
But who, however lost, can lose
The memory of those early hours,
When Time appear'd, but to disclose
His sole existence, form'd of flow'rs?

What heart, however dead to all
Hope's sunbeam, or Affection's thrall,
The pride of place, of youth and home,
Can live, forgetful of the past;
Far in a distant country roam,
Nor one bright thought behind him cast?

From the green waves deep recess,
Came the Spirit of the Storm;
Ill can mortal tongue express,
Half the terrors of his form.
But, by Fancy's skill array'd,
Such as frights the dreamer's eye,
When his trembling heart, afraid,
Chafes and throbs convulsively.
When the beaded sweat is coursing,
O'er the cold and clammy brow,
And the living hair is forcing
From its chilly bed below.
Now the storm is raging higher,
And the ocean's swelling fast,
And that bark, can ye espy her
In that midnight world of waste?
Now upon a mount uprearing,
She ascends amid the cloud,
And the waves now disappearing,
Leave her in their bosom's shroud.
'Mid the tempest's wild commotion,
Hark! the Spirit of the Storm
Calls from out their beds in ocean
The attendants of his form.

“Go, while glows yon angry planet,
Haste, that rising bark survey,
With an eye inquiring, scan it—
And its inmates, who are they?
Gently mingle, if they slumber,
With their bosom's thoughts exprest;
Learn the character, and number
Of the hopes that fill their breast.

As he spoke—the wave
Swiftly onward bore them,
Horrors round them rave,
And Tempest's thunder o'er them.

FIRST SPIRIT.
I stole into the breast of one,
Who, in the wide world stood alone;
Thirsting for glory's doubtful claim,
He bent his bosom's pray'r to fame:
His dreaming heart was rich with store,
Of all, the antiquarian's lore—
Of classic times, and other days,
Still cherish'd in, forgotten lays—
I came in haste, for still he dreams
Of glory, and ambition's schemes.

SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN.
Vain dreamer! he shall wake to find
The Phantom ever in his mind,

A Phantom still; he shall not die,
But test his heart's idolatry;
Like other madmen, he will wake
To damn the object for its sake;
Were I to test life's every curse,
I sure could scarcely find a worse.

SECOND SPIRIT.
At your command,
The bark I scann'd,
And watch'd the bed of one, whose sleep,
Tho' troubled, still was deep.
His restless limbs, unconscious kept
Unflagging motion, as he slept.
His thoughts released from reason's yoke,
Upon his lips in murmurs broke.—
I heard him largely calculate,
Of wealth and splendor, gold and state;
Of hoards which, to himself reveal'd,
From all the rest of man conceal'd,
Should still delight his eager eye,
With large and still increased supply.

SPIRIT OF OCEAN.
No more—my bosom laughs to see
How more than anxious, studiously
Men struggle with unstay'd excess,
To quell their heart's sole happiness!
I give him all the life and pelf,
The Miser deigns to give himself.

THIRD SPIRIT.
As by your bidding sent, I sought
The curtain'd chambers of the thought
Of one, whose hopes were humbly placed,
Tho' by all Fortune's favors graced.
Destined by adverse fate to roam,
Long wand'ring from his native home,
His form in fancy just had press'd,
His native dwelling as a guest
In close, and careful studied guise
Conceal'd, Love's bosom to surprise—
That humble cottage then confin'd
The utmost graspings of his mind;
And there was one whose accents proved
The wanderer still was fondly loved:
I left him, as disclosed, they came
To bless him with affection's name.

SPIRIT OF OCEAN.
Back, and awake him! and no more
His feet shall press that native shore!
Awake him, that no longer blest,
With even the dream of joy and rest,
He feel the venom of the tooth,
Corroding Happiness with Truth.
Then let him die, how should he dare
Escape from Life's allotted care—
Pluck Joy from Eden's outcast tree,
And thus defraud his Destiny.

His fellow-sleepers, they may live,
And feel the pain that life can give;
Receive at Time's return, the death,
That does not wait for parting breath;
And wake again from pain and strife,
To more extreme convulsive life,
While he—the maiden still shall be,
A hopeless watcher by the sea;
Shall start, as on her sharper ear,
Falls some approaching footstep near,
And only dream that she is blest,—
Her lover is the Storm King's guest.

THE PYRAMID OF MIND.

Go, watch the mirror'd splendor
That steals o'er ocean's breast,
When deep, bright, shadowy, tender
Apollo sinks to rest.
What varied shades are stealing
Across the rippling deep,
Far distant skies revealing,
Reposing soft in sleep.

As far, yet fainter glowing,
The memory of the past;
When old Tradition's showing
The scenes that could not last.

Thus shall the matchless Glory,
That wreath'd a Cæsar's name,
Fly from the page of story—
And shrink from that of fame.
And like the temple splendid,
Upon the desert placed,
With no memorial blended,
Of ages long since past;
Built up to giant stature,
With many a Monarch's pelf,
Forgotten the Creator—
Memorial of—itself.

Yet, there's a fane which rises,
When all around is dark;
Which, tho' no bosom prizes
Its first ascending mark;
Yet, when the hand that frames it
Is palsied long in death—
Truth comes, and worth reclaims it
With late, but certain breath.
And 'mid the wreck of ages,
Tho' Goth and Vandal strive—
Firm, tho' the tempest rages,
That monument shall live.
While Nature's smouldering ashes
Proclaim her swift decay,
That fane shall shed bright flashes
Of never ending day.
A Charles' fame shall perish
Beneath a cloister's fane—
While worlds' shall Shakspeare cherish
In his undying strain.

Thus, living on thro' being,
And destined long to last,
When men and kings are fleeing—
Proud relic of the past.

Yon Pyramid is solemn,
And Admiration blind;—
Yet, there's a prouder column—
The Pyramid of Mind.

SONG—ROSALIE.

I fly from thy od'rous bow'r,
My gentle Rosalie;
To seek a richer flow'r,
And find that flow'r in thee.

No more, tho' Spring advances,
I seek her smiling train;
I only meet thy glances—
And my heart is young again.

Thou art the morn, fair creature,
That wakes the leaves and roses;
Thine, is the living feature,
Where light and life reposes.
All day young Joy pursuing,
I've found, when caught, that she
Was the maid I had been wooing,
My gentle Rosalie.

When morning's earliest lustre,
First lights the fleecy plain;
When stars begin to cluster,
And the moon is on the wane.
Come then, my morning flow'r,
Thy blushes shed for me;—
Come, to thy od'rous bow'r,
My gentle Rosalie.

THE LAST OF THE YEMASSEES.

This tribe originally occupied the lower part of South Carolina, extending to Beaufort on the sea coast, but were driven from that State, and almost exterminated by the Carolinians, during an insurrection, in which they had laid an extensive plan for the destruction of the whites.

He fought his nation's foe, 'till Night
Had cast her mantle round;
Nor in the dark, unequal fight,
Where freemen battled for their right,
Gave undisputed ground:—

His followers died before his face—
He stood—the last of all his race!

His brother—he that Pride had named,
The Eagle of his land—
In hunt, as well as battle famed,
The only one that e'er had tamed
The Panther with his hand;
The arrow in unerring flight,
The Tiger unassuaged in fight,

Before him fast expiring lay!—
And he—whose name had been
The signal, many a bloody day,
For long and well contested fray,
Known by his uncurb'd mien,
Were then a trophy, worth the toil,
Of young Ambition, mad for spoil.

Yet, who shall tread the thicket's brake,
And with undaunted heart,
Arouse the coil'd and glitt'ring snake,
With forked tongue and eye awake,
Nor back impulsive start?
Think'st thou he knows not he shall die?
Ay, ay! but yet not patiently.

“And thou,” he sung with earnest strain,
“Shalt seek the hunt no more!—
Nor whet the battle knife again,
Nor strike the living, scalp the slain,
Thy battle fields are o'er.

Yet hast thou not untended gone,
Among the Western hills alone.

“The spoilers of our land,—a host—
Thy journey shall partake,
Slain by thyself, shall many a ghost,
To waft thee to the happy coast,

The River St. Mary's has its source in a vast lake or marsh, called Ecfanoko, which lies between Flint and Oakmulgee Rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit; this vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high land: One of these, the present generation of Creeks represent as the most blissful spot of the earth; they say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful; they also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game, who being lost in inextricable swamps and bogs, and on the point of perishing, were unexpectedly relieved by a company of beautiful women, whom they call daughters of the sun, who kindly gave such provisions as they had with them, which were chiefly oranges, dates, and some corn cakes, and they enjoined them to fly for safety to their own country, for that their husbands were fierce men, cruel to strangers; they further say, that they had a view of their settlements on the elevated banks of an island or promontory, in a beautiful lake: but in their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved at length to leave the delusive pursuit and return, which, after inexpressible difficulties, they effected. When they reported their adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country, but all their attempts hitherto have proved abortive, never being able again to find that enchanting spot, nor even any pathway leading to it, yet they say they frequently meet with certain signs of its being inhabited, such as the building of canoes, footsteps of men, &c.—

Bartram's Travels, p. 25.

O'erstrew the ocean lake—
And the bright maiden, there for thee,
Shall make the sweet Sagamité.

Sagamité, according to Charlevoix, a mixture of parched corn and other ingredients. It is most generally prepared of corn or wheat flour, parched or browned at the fire, and mealed sugar. It is very nutritious; a small quantity serving an Indian for several days, without any thing else.

“Thy mother—when thou took'st the spear,
Her latest born, to fight,
With quiv'ring lip, and brow of care,
And eye, which scarce suppress'd the tear
That would have dimn'd its light,
Bade me with many a broken tone,
Remember, 'twas her latest one.

“And I have seen thee bend the bow,
And I have mark'd thee spring,
With gleaming knife, upon the foe,
And far and fell the hatchet throw;—
As swallow, swift on wing,
Pursue the triumph with a might
Unshaken, by the long day's fight.

“And as becomes the Indian brave,

Indian brave. Applied to their most distinguished warriors.

When, in the battle's strife,—
O'erpowr'd, he finds a bloody grave;
Thou did'st not vainly seek to save
The last remains of life!

Content, if Being could not give
Thy country's freedom, not to live!

“The Hunter, when the day is done,
Must bark and dress the pine;
And that the wolf his rest may shun,
When the dark night comes stealing on,
Must bid the fire-torch shine.
But he that's bravely slain in fight,
His foe shall trim for him the light.

This is one prominent article in the Indian creed of belief; accounting, in a measure, for that inordinate desire of revenge above all other men, predominant in their bosoms.

“Upon this bloody rock I stand,
And gaze with ling'ring eye,
Before me is my native land,
Around me, remnants of a band,
Who stood majestically grand,
My fellow warriors lie.—
The last lone lingerer—all are gone,
I stand amid their graves alone.

“One shaft is fitted to my bow—
One shade my soul demands,
From the proud ranks of yonder foe,
To cross with me the river's flow,
And seek the happy lands!”
The arrow to its head is drawn—
A plume is trembling—it is gone.

Then rose the cry of rage below,
And up the dizzy height,
Burning with vengeance, came the foe,
Tho' lately faint with fight—

Where he, the dauntless savage stood
Madden'd, but yet ungorged with blood.

And will he tamely fall or fly,
Survivor, last of all his land;—
Recreant, that did not dare to die,
When Country, Vengeance, Liberty,
Alike his death demand—
Or, will he from the mountain spring?—
They may not tame the Eagle's wing!

Where is the Indian warrior's grave—
By whom his trophy shown?—
Tho' unsurpass'd by all the brave,
He sleeps, forgot, unknown!
Not in the land he could not save,
But in the free untrammel'd wave.

[Come Rosa, stay no more my bliss]

“Come Rosa, stay no more my bliss,
But grant me what I ask, a kiss.”

“Nay, can you ask the fair return'd,
When late beneath yon alder tree,
You sought the favour ask'd of me,
From Cloe, and your pray'r was spurn'd:
Away to her, she yet may prove,
Not wholly careless to your love.”

“Ha! is it so,” I quick replied,
Well, Chloe, has not yet denied—

I'll seek the maid—and seem'd to go
With footstep's feigned swift, yet slow—
A sidelong glance, beheld the tear
Steal to her cheek and tremble there—
And as her head she fondly hung,
“You will not go,” stole from her tongue.
“Give me a kiss then, or I swear
This moment will I seek her bow'r.”
She raised her lip, and lisping “here,
“Too cruel boy, you know your pow'r.”

THE SPANISH CHIEF.

He stood, with broken brand, beside
His native Guadalquiver,
And bloody was the rushing tide,
Of that ensanguined river.
All day with bands of foreign men,
The warrior chief had striv'n,
Yet saw his country's efforts vain,
The shrines he fought for, riv'n.

The sound of mirth was in her halls,
And yet no-mirth was there;
For the echo of her crumbling walls,
Was that of cold despair;
And far above the trumpet's sound,
Rose the voice of anguish high,
And in its midnight shriek was drown'd,
The conqueror's revelry.

The tumult of that dreary night,
Upon the wind came flying;
Where, torn and wounded in the fight,
That gallant chief was dying.
And sad was the heart of that brave chief,
As by the stream reclining,
He heard the mournful voice of grief,
With the shout of triumph joining.

Oh, vain to tyrant ears the moan,
From the patriot bosom breaking;
Or, from Freedom's lips, the farewell groan,
Her young heart's home forsaking.

There's festive music in the hall,
Where late with love unfading,
He left his heart's pride, worship, all,
His own Castilian maiden.
Where she sigh'd upon his manly breast,
The farewell, that her lips,
In that sad moment ne'er exprest—
Her hope's and heart's eclipse.

And where is she, when in her bow'r,
Unholy feet are roaming;
There's a light within that lonely tow'r,
Where oft she watched his coming.
But where is she—oh! sacred heav'n,
His heart's unutter'd pray'r,
Grant, that the boon thy Love has given,
The loved one be not there.

The warrior turn'd his dim'd glazed eye,
Where, in the East appearing,
The cold pale Moon look'd proudly high,
On the field of strife uncaring.
Are those the sounds of grief that call
The echo's of the air—
Here should no sound of sorrow fall,
But revelry is here.

It is her voice, his own lov'd maid,
It is her step, her mien,
As flying o'er the happy glade,
She leaves the midnight scene.
Pursued by stern vindictive foe,
With winged feet she flies;
With her own breast averts the blow,
That would have laid her lover low,
And on his bosom, dies.

[The Rose, the rose, thou giv'st to-night]

The Rose, the rose, thou giv'st to-night,
To-morrow, love, will fade;
The star that sheds us now its light,
To-morrow's sun will shade;
The charm, the charm, must stronger be,
That binds my memory to thee.

The flow'rs that now such fragrance throw,
Possess their stings;
The bird, the bird, that carols now,
Will plume his wings;

For Time, who loves no beauty long,
Will steal both blandishment and song.

I'd ask of thee, my gentle Love,
A tie more dear
Than Time or Fortune can remove,
Or, Winter sear—
The vow, the vow, from lips of truth,
The heart that feels undying youth.

Then, tho' the star that brightly led,
May fade by day;
The rose, that such rich odour shed,
May find decay—
Thine eyes of light fear no eclipse,
And there are flow'rs on thy lips.

NEW-ORLEANS.

Oh! cold and dreary was the night,
When England's bands renown'd in might,
Orleans, came onward to thy fight,
In all the pomp of chivalry.

A heavy silence dwelt on all,
Save when the soldier's sullen call,
Or sentry's foot, with measur'd fall,
Disturb'd the stillness gloomily.

O'er Mississippi's parent lake,

Mississippi means, literally, “Father of waters.”

The curling mists of morning break,
And from their sleep the soldiers wake,
With bosoms throbbing anxiously.

Shot back from steel and armor gay,
How bright the beams of morning play,
As the full sun brings on the day,
In warm and glorious majesty.

Yet, ere that sun at eve shall close,
The armor now that brightly glows;
Dismantled in the strife of blows,
Shall strew the damp ground fearfully.

How many hearts that now beat high,
Elate with battle's revelry,
Shall join that battle but to die,
Without the pride of victory.

And now as morn unfolds the light,
The clanging trump and drum unite,
To warm, with notes of coming fight,
The bosoms of the soldiery.

Oh! short the line of space between
The rival actors of the scene;
And anxious glows the warrior's mien,
As his long breath comes heavily.

Each eye and lip is firmly set,
And thick, the bristling bayonet
Has hedged the field with warm blood wet,
Of those, who fell in agony.

More fearful still War's angry mien,
Impetuous rush'd the strife between,
Glad to anticipate the scene,
And leaping forward fearlessly.

The fight is o'er, the field is won,
The clouds ascend in columns dun,
And hush'd, the thunders of the gun,
No longer speak discordantly.

But stark and stiffening on the plain,
How many a gallant form lies slain,
That once beat high with lofty vein,
And bared his good sword gallantly.

The wolf shall from his prairie bend,
The cougar

Cougar. The American Tiger.

from his hill descend,
And he, the Parent, Husband, Friend—
Shall find a living sepulchre.

And hearts are beating high for him,
And eyes with silent tears shall swim,
And Time will never quite undim,
The cloud that shuts them wearily.

LOVE, DESIRE AND ENJOYMENT.

One morn, as Love
Inclined to rove,
Was just his route preparing,
In came Desire,
With eyes of fire,
And aspect wildly leering;
And with a voice,
That left no choice,
Said, “Love in this fine weather,
I'll leave my books,
And sour looks,
And we'll journey on together.

From study free,
With hearts of glee,
And no controlling pow'r,
The hills, the floods,
The streams and woods,
With heedless feet they scour;
Fatigued at length,
And wanting strength,
They gave up their employment;
And just at night,
Beheld the spright,
That mortals call—Enjoyment.

New ardor fill'd,
The two self-will'd,

And harem-scarem children,
And thro' the wood,
They swift pursued,
The will o' the wisp bewild'ring.
Fatigued and faint,
And almost spent,
By such hard labor worsted,
At length, with joy,
The flying boy,
Enjoyment, fell exhausted.

Again they spring,
On new nerved wing,
And both at once surround him,
And as he wept,
The boy-God crept,
And with Beauty's tresses bound him;
He strives in vain,
To break the chain,
Nor gordian knot is stronger;
Then wip'd his eyes,
To their surprise,
Smiled glad, and wept no longer.

Says Love, “with me,
No longer free,
To sport or dwell with rapture,
In Beauty's chain,
Thou shalt remain,
In close and endless capture.

“Forbear, dear Love,
Thus harsh to prove,
To one whose feeble pow'r,
Will scarcely stand,
That heavy band,
The term of one short hour.

“But give to me,
The stern decree,
And might I now advise you,
His wings I'd clip,
Then let him trip,
And catch him as he flies you.”
Thus spoke Desire—
But rising ire
Flash'd in Love's dark eye brightly,
And well for both,
His kindling wroth,
Was still'd by Prudence lightly.

Love wakes at dawn,
But where is gone,
The arm which late entwin'd him?—
Desire is fled,
But in his stead,
Enjoyment sleeps behind him.
In vain would Love,
The sleeper move,
He toils at the employment,
But all in vain,
Desire again,
He calls, to wake—Enjoyment.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM,

THAT HAD FOR ITS MOTTO, THE OPENING LINES THAT FOLLOW.

If the lady, for whom this article was originally written, should think that I had no right to it, after its application elsewhere, I am willing to make the amende honorable, by a further effort.

“The Bird hath sung by lady's bow'r,
To-morrow will she think of him?”

The beautiful lines from which these are taken, are from the pen of N. P. Willis, Esq. of Boston, and were, I think, published in one of our annuary souvenirs.

Morn's early tints have dress'd the flow'r,
And Ev'ning finds its gay leaf dim.

The osprey's wing hath brush'd the ocean,
Whose curling ripples slowly rose,—
The waves that broke in rude commotion,
Sleep in their wonted, calm repose.

Where is that Bird? each gaze defying,
The parting clouds his course declare;
His shadow on the stream is lying—
Behold it now—behold it where?

The rainbow spans the arch of heav'n,
The promise of a glorious day;
The tempest rides on wings of Ev'n—
Its early splendors, where are they?

The smile of joy, the blush of pleasure,
The placid glance of calm content,
By mortal will would'st thou admeasure?—
No eye has mark'd the course they went!

Yet Memory lives beyond Love's feeling,
A relic of the rapture fled—
To Passion, all the past revealing,
Th' unglutted Vampyre of the dead!

Self-Martyr! that would thus uncover
The form of every buried joy—
And like the lonely maniac Lover,
Live for the pang that must destroy.

“The Bird hath sung by lady's bow'r,”
Unwitting she hath heard the strain;
Her careless hand hath pluck'd the flow'r,
Whose petals cannot bloom again.

The Minstrel woke the praise of beauty,
The maiden hearken'd to the lay—
He sung of Love, she spoke of duty—
Vain Minstrel!—throw thy Lyre away.

CAROLINIANS! WHO INHERIT.

Carolinians! who inherit
All the freedom of your sires;
All that proud chivalrous spirit,
That a name like your's inspires.

Mind and Spirit, well attested,
In full many a gallant fight,
When the form of Freedom breasted
All the force of England's might.

First among the brave to waken,
Proud resistance to the cause,
That, with tyrant arm, had shaken
Equal rights and equal laws.

'Mid the glories of our nation,
Moultrie, Laurens, 'mong the brave,
Rise in proud, conspicuous station,
Eminently born to save.

Not alone, the high, the glorious
Marion, Rutledge, Sumter stand,
Jasper, Lincoln, still victorious,
Beacon turrets of the land.

One among the gallant many,
Whom we never can forget—
Highest, most beloved of any,
Is to be remember'd yet.

Speak it! with our country's story,
Shall his memory still remain;
First to perish for her glory—
Gallant Patriot-martyr Hayne.

Carolinians, while we cherish,
Trophies such as these on high,
Never shall our Freedom perish—
Never shall our Country die.

SONNET—THE PAUPER.

His eye was tearful, and his cheek was wan,
For there, Misfortune long had set her hand;
But yet his soul was noble, and a bland
And soft expression o'er his features ran.
He long had lived upon his work content,
And scrap'd the pittance that sustain'd his days;
But Sorrow came,—he sunk beneath her gaze,
And on the world, a Pauper he was sent.
Death, now with hasty strides, approaches near—
A welcome friend, who will not close his door,
But gives a home, alike, to rich and poor!—
He meets the giant's touch with more of hope than fear.
In life, no friend he knew, when sorrow came,
In death, no friend he seeks; on friendship has no claim.

THE CAROLANA MAID.

It was a Carolana maid that watch'd with tearful eye,
Where distant rose the sound of war upon the darken'd sky,
'Mid the long groves of lofty pines, that quite obscured her view,
Her piercing eye still strain'd afar, as if to struggle thro'—
And watch that fearful field of fight, whose deafning thunders came,
With startling sharpness on her ear, and on her eye in flame.

With every change of sound, her heart with fresher tremors fill'd—
And as each distant volley came, its glow and life was chill'd;
And, as the shout of triumph rose, the slowly gathering tear,
A moment trembled on her cheek, then fix'd as marble there.
Oh! better far, she said, to die, than anxious thus to moan,
And find in each increasing sound, a thousand deaths in one.

It was in Eutaw's covert shade, and on a hill side stood
The gentle Carolana maid, who watch'd the distant wood;

Where he, the loved one of her heart, in fearful battle then,
Had dared to flesh his maiden sword, with Albion's martial men;
Untaught in field, and all unused to join the strife of blows—
Oh! can there be a doubt with her, how the deadly battle goes?

There's a cry of conquest on the breeze—and the cannon's voice is still—
She dares not look, she does not weep, her trembling heart is chill—
The trampling of the victors comes in triumph thro' the glade—
She hears the loud notes of the drum, the clattering of the blade,
Perchance that very blade is red, with the blood of him, her love,—
The thought is death, and down she sinks within the woodland grove.

A tender arm entwines her form, a voice salutes her ear,
Which, even in death her gentle heart, it would revive to hear;
The dewy lids of her dark eyes, unfold once more to light,
She shrieks, 'tis he!—the well loved one, that meets her raptured sight!
Now happy is the Eutaw maid, her lover safe to see,
And happy is that gallant love, that Carolana's free.

SONG—O! SWEET GUITAR.

Oh! sweet Guitar! O! sweet Guitar,
That lead'st me thro' the livelong night,
While o'er my pathway, hangs no star,
To guide me with its lonely light.

Ah! yet more sweet to hear thy sound,
Thus streaming from her lattice high,
Than wander all the world around,
With moonlight ever in the sky.

Oh! sweet Guitar, O! sweet Guitar,
More sweet because thou'rt touch'd by one
Whose eye is brighter, dearer far
Than all I've ever gazed upon.
Oh! give me Heav'n in life's dull round,
Where Grief alone our hearts may prove,
That dear Guitar's enchanting sound,
That lip to murmur Songs of Love.

To ****

Anon, we'll hold sweet converse—
Thou shalt be the fount, the spring-tide of a bowl of bliss,
For thou shalt minister to my sweet revenge—
And giving thus Enjoyment's happiest draught,
Shalt add so much to my time-serving Pleasure.
Joy, like a gilded butterfly, grows sick of ranging,
With honey-cover'd wing, from flow'r to flow'r,
And learns one truth, anon.
Think'st thou, we will grow great too—we will be
Some very royal herdsman—who just saves his fame
By donning humbly,—old Contentment's garb!
------ and, but I know thee,
So well thou playest honest—I had trusted!
I know thee—anon, anon I'll mark thee—
Thou art he—whose, general loving soul
Would rob even wretchedness of his numerous cares
Didst thou believe they minister'd to his comforts—
Anon! anon shall be my motto—gentle one, anon.

Sun of a system, whose continued source
Is fraudful art, the coward's only force!

Ever intent on what concerns thee not,
Thou busy medler! Ever-near Marplot!
Prompt with a lie, when wanting subterfuge,
Quick with insidious flatt'ry, Folly's rouge;
Expert in vain deceit; as base as vain;
Too mean for hate, yet having pow'r to pain!
Nursed in Evasion's arms, that seldom lies,
But strikes a middle course, and truth defies:
Unworthy notice—not unnoticed still,
Thou child of Envy, first born spawn of Ill!

Accursing still, and still most deeply cursed,
Thy heart exults, for it has done its worst:
Enough to pall Revenge, and soften Hate—
Now give to Destiny the arm of Fate—
Lop the torn branch from which thy hand has reft
Each bud of Life—nor one poor flow'ret left.

Now is the cup of guilt and hate well fill'd
With poison, from thy blacker heart distill'd;—
Yet will the hope of early youth—the smile,
Of inward brief enjoyment, void of guile—
The foolish fondness of that early day,
When life with light was bless'd, a fleeting ray,
Thus, torn from that they solac'd once so well,
Will they then deign within thy heart to dwell?

Say, is not life, thus wayward, void and drear,
Pregnant already with efficient care,
But thou must rob from humbleness its cot,
Soil its pure whiteness with thy soul's deep blot,
Give to contentment all thy base alloy,

And what thou couldst not emulate, destroy:
Poison the peace, that never can be thine,
Steal like an adder to a guileless shrine,
Damn young belief with dreams, and lull to sleep
The heart, that when it wakes, must wake to weep!

Oh! if there be for guilt, exalted far
As Lucifer above each meaner star—
One, whose ambition wandered with his crime,
Felt, fear'd in Life, and feeling still, thro' time;
One more corrosive pang from Hell's extreme,
To goad the frenzied to a wilder dream;
A stern Gehenna, where undying death
Stays, yet prolongs in agony the breath,—
O! be that thine—and let the dark hours bring
Their ceaseless immortality of sting,
Till Eblis' self shall deem his suffering vain,
And mark thy equal endurance of pain.

I'D MOURN, IF IN THE COMING YEARS.

I'd mourn, if in the coming years,
The memory of the past—
Of all our early hopes and fears,
Thy heart could from thee cast!
For, tho' my heart can smile at pain,
Yet 'mid my grief must be
One hope to soothe my frenzied brain—
There is no change in thee.

It is not much I ask thee, Love,
To think of moments gone;
Tho' memory of the past must prove
A sad and lonely one.
And let one vision still uphold
My heart where'er I be—
And Hope return to find no cold
Nor absent change in thee.

I do not doubt the grateful vow
Thy bosom gives my heart;
But there's a sad foreboding now
That makes me fear to part.
For I would rather never dream
Of joys awaiting me—
Than come, to find they only seem,
And weep a change in thee.

SONNETS—TO GRIEF.

[1]

Sad Wanderer! thou who lov'st to stray alone
In Nature's deep repose, when the pale Moon
(A fellow watcher) walks her course on high;
Thy hair dishevelled, and thy sad deep moan
The echo of the pain that will not die,
But with thy being! on thy lowly bed
Of moss grown turf, I watch'd thy restless form,
As in the short repose, that from despair,
As tired itself of duty, Nature stole;
Lending vain solace to the form, which Care

From Health, had worn into a weary shade
That seem'd full well to know the wintry storm
That wound about the recesses of thy soul,
Revelling 'mid ruins that thou hast not made.

2

That last shall be thy solace—and howe'er
Grief's own particular care shall single thee
As worthiest of her hemlock, that shall be
A balm that well can nerve thy soul to bear
The numerous evils and perpetual strife,
That all of mortal mould, however fair
Their promise be, are doom'd alike to bear,
While moving on this dull parade of life.
And not alone thy solace, thou wilt feel
That when thy griefs can date no source with thee,
Thou didst not plunder from another's tree
The leaves of balm, the calm cool shade of peace,
And this shall bless thee, tho' th' alternate wheel
Of Fortune, bid each other blessing cease.

EPIGRAM,

On Reading a Fourth of July Address to Freedom.

Of Freedom, I would ask one favor,
Some future moment I'd requite her,
To use her greatest, best endeavor,
And free me from this Tyrant writer!

[I would I were yon Peasant Boy]

I would I were yon Peasant Boy,
Content in humble sphere to move;
Whose dreams are ever dreams of Joy,
And thoughts but teem with peaceful love.
Whom no exalted state impels,
To change the home from childhood dear,
And leave those early hills and dells,
He cannot find again, but there.
Whom not the gew-gaws of the gay,
The scenes where Fashion's form appears,
Can tempt from childhood's haunts to stray,
To taint the sweets of future years.
Who cannot find one changing friend
To tempt his head and wound his heart,
And knows not what it is to blend
Affection's hope, Affliction's dart.
Whose every morning sun still finds
The humble follower of his plough,
The cheerful mingler with the hinds,
Whose hands ne'er press Ambition's brow!

The rill that thro' the valley steals,
In mellow gurglings to its base,
Hears not the sighs of him that feels,
Reflects no scathed or tearful face!
He climbs the mountain's top at morn,
He views the fields in verdure clad,
He weeps not that he e'er was born,
His heart—his very heart is glad!

With him, no clouded brow is seen,
But cheerful still, and bless'd with health,
He views his fields and gardens green,
And scorns the outward charm of wealth.
I would I were—what I am not—
I would I know not—what I know—
I would I own'd—that Peasant's lot,
More dear than that I cherish now!

FRAGMENTS.

RODERICK, MARINA.
Mar.
Roderick—Why, from your face,
The red and white alternate disappear,
Like mildews stealing from the blighted bud,
Repell'd by lingering roses.

Rod.
Then my cheek's
A Traitor, and myself must doom myself,
To punishment. But, methinks, Marina,
There is a tell-tale also in your own,
A more imposing blight, for it has chased
Each rose away, and reigns unrivall'd there.

Mar.
They'll come once more, reflected from your own,
When your's are fix'd—but I have had ill slumbers,
And your's were more so—your sleep was troubled,
And much you spoke, but what, I could not hear,

To syllable distinctly. What bespoke your Thought
To link itself into your dreams, and make
Them parties to its cause?

Rod.
The last night's revel:—
Didst thou list the music?

Mar.
It was most sweet.

Rod.
There was one fair hair'd boy, whose rolling eye
Seem'd bright and changing, as the star that flies,
Filling the skies with light—now here, now there;
That touch'd with magical hands the gentle lute,
And sung in such a deep and thrilling voice—
As fix'd the note of our Castilian maids,
So firm—he may be careless of the charm.

Mar.
I mark'd him not, for you were by my side.

Rod.
Oh, flatt'rer! think not with beguiling eye,
And velvet tongue, and honied sentences,
From lips that seem by vengeful bees new stung,
To lull me with the thought, that I was seen,
Heard and remark'd, alone, when music's charm
And all the blandishments of beauty shone,
To tempt your wishes elsewhere—know you not,
You are a woman.

Mar.
And a wife too, Roderick,
Whose duty should, if her wild heart cannot,
Instruct her, that her Lord's most wandering look
Is no authority for her's to roam.

Rod.
Well, we'll no more discourse upon this theme,
But hie thee, hence, for hitherward comes Alva!
Why pause?

Mar.
Miser, not one kiss?

Rod.
Thou'dst have me give thee credit for that want—
I know thee better.

Mar.
Would'st thou know me well,
I were more happy.
Wilt thou grace my bower, when the task
Of being and conversing with that man is o'er?
I like him not.

Rod.
Thy love of flattery'd, say,
Because thou lovest me better.

Mar.
Not so.
Men's merits should be built upon themselves;
And he—

Rod.
Falls not by such criterion.

Mar.
He does—he does.

[A little frolic boy I roved]

A little frolic boy I roved,
My youthful heart had never loved,
But sportive fond, I trod the wild,
A wayward and unheeding child.
Young Rosa, on a Summer's day,
Reclining in a bower lay.
I caught the magic of her eye,
Instinctively, I drew more nigh.
I seiz'd one hand with amorous haste,
The other stole around her waist—
She spoke not, yet her bosom beat,
And mine throbb'd with consuming heat:
I backward shrunk, then press'd again,
The lip that gave such pleasing pain.

100

Her eye shot back accordant fire,
'Twas the first glance of young Desire;
A genial throb enkindled mine,
I drank—the nectar was divine!
We met oft after—crowds were there,
For me, she seem'd to feel no care;
Yet, when each eye to folly roved,
One stolen glance still said she loved.
The crowd is gone—the smiling glance
Of Truth, is Love's inheritance.
Oh! thro' the cares of life, could I
But taste the pleasures of that sigh—
That smile, which first could make me prove
The joys, the miseries of love;
Tho' from that moment pain I'd meet,
The bliss, with rapture would I taste;
And quaffing all its poison sweet,
The hope of years would madly waste.

[Oh! Lady, why with bosom heaving]

1.
Oh! Lady, why with bosom heaving,
Thou fly'st, thy home, thy cottage leaving?

2.
Warrior, I seek, while none discover,
To find the field, where fights my lover.

1.
And who is he, the youth so roving,
Who thus can fly from one so loving?

2.
Ah! couldst thou tell, if I pourtray'd him,
If still he lives, or where they've laid him?

1.
What if thou hear'st that 'midst the flying
He lives—?

2.
Say, rather, he were dying?

101

Disgrace to Freedom! could I cherish
The heart that did not dare to perish!

1.
No, lady! in the heat of battle
I heard his steel and armour rattle!

2.
Then he is safe, and I believe thee!

1.
Ah! lady, I must undeceive thee,
For borne along 'mid death and slaughter,
I saw his heart's blood, stream like water!

2.
Hold warrior! ere my heart is broken—
Sent he no word?—gave he no token?

1.
Yes, while his bosom's tide was gushing—
This dagger—see with blood 'tis blushing!

2.
Give me the steel—kind gift, since giving
Not Life, but with him, happier living!

1.
Hold, stay thine arm, each fear repelling
Your Edward, clasps his own dear Ellen.

[Ah! look not so cruel and chilling]

Ah! look not so cruel and chilling,
Tho' so well does that frown suit thy brow,
That, in spite of those glances so killing,
'Twould be well to retain it there now.
Yet, too much do I value thy kindness,
Too proudly thou rulest my heart,
To allow but a moment's unmindness,
To make thee less dear than thou art.

These eyes were created for smiling,
No frown should their beauty displace;
These lips, ah! so form'd for beguiling,
That they bring us, alas! face to face!

102

The beauty that curls in thy tresses,
Independent of thee is so bright,
That when Time on each golden lock presses,
My bosom must share in the blight.

The priestess of Venus but lately,
Assured me, that if I would dare,
Adventure the battle but greatly,
I could not, I should not despair.
Then, deem not the sentence so cruel,
Shall ever condemn me to fly,
That frown has but kindled the fuel,
And I must possess thee or die.

[Stay thee, my boy, now stay]

Stay thee, my boy, now stay,
For yonder beams the light
That beacons forth the way
Which I must tread to night.
Conceal thyself beneath
The spreading umbrage round;
And do not let thy roving breath
Give birth to any sound.
Than tongueless spirits be more still,
Than sylphs be more unseen,
While I shall span the hill,
My heart and hope between.
Love's labors are his pleasure,
Or why should Love partake
Such toil, withouten measure,
An' it were not for his sake.

103

When the hopes of the heart thou hast cherish'd,
As dear as if it were thine own,
'Neath the frowns of a nation have perish'd,
Their glory, their lustre all gone;
Thou wilt weep o'er the wreck as in earlier years,
Thou hast smiled with its sunshine, and sigh'd with its tears.

When the times shall return of our meeting,
In the hours, the moments gone by,
Will the joy of that former day, beating
In thy bosom, awaken the sigh?
Wilt thou weep that the heart once so loved and respected,
Should now be an outcast, forlorn and neglected?

And the Moon as it rises to heighten,
The sweets of that bower so dear,
The streamlets of Memory will brighten,
And roll back each swift faded year;—
Thou wilt smile, when its disk to thy vision shall rise,
And weep, when its pensive light fades from the skies.

[Nay, thriftless Wanton, ere we part]

Nay, thriftless Wanton, ere we part,
I fain would'st thou return to me,
As pure and young, the gentle heart,
That once I fondly gave to thee.

104

Yet Wanton, may'st thou not have play'd,
Too careless with the sacred gift,
Till now unfit for me 'tis made?—
'Twere better then be left.

Yet, 'midst the many things I gave,
In early fondness, when my heart
Acknowledged that it was your slave,
And dared not from its bondage part;
The kiss I now would have again—
Nay, trifler, 'tis in vain you weep;
Yet, wanton, stay, my lips 'twould stain—
The kiss you'd better keep.

What can I take away from thee?—
The heart is fire, the kiss is pain;
And yet I must those victims free,
Or, never hope for peace again.
The buzzing fly thus seeks the light,
Unmindful of his worldly pelf,
Loses his wings and stays his flight—
I will remain myself.

University of Virginia Library