Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

Verses of a life time

Gilman, Caroline Howard (1794-1888)

[dedication]

BALLADS, DRAMATIC AND OTHER SKETCHES.

THOUGHTS IN JOURNEYING.

HYMNS.

TEMPERANCE SONGS, &c.

MISCELLANEOUS.

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BALLADS, DRAMATIC AND OTHER SKETCHES.

THE BETROTHED.

Scene—A Southern Plantation—Noon.
MOTHER.
Why linger near me, Emma, with that cheek
Which colors up in flushings like the sky
Lit by the sinking sun? Why from thine hand
Falls the small needle, as e'en that were weight
Too large? What mean these broken words and sighs,
Now passionate, then sinking down so low
That I must bend mine ear to catch the tone?
Hark, is that Edgar's step?

EMMA.
O, mother, dear—

MOTHER.
My child, my simple child, it needs not words
To tell me now—indeed, I've known it long.
Think'st thou, that I could see the lily's leaves
Floating like living things upon the wave,
And guess not that the tide did move them thus?
Think'st thou that when the rose's bloom is stirr'd,
I know not the breeze, with waving breath,
Is sweeping o'er its rich and blushing leaves?
Or when the wind-harp wakes with thrilling tones,
I know not the same breeze, kissing its strings,
Doth call its murmurs? Just as plain to me,
Is it, that love, my child, hath touch'd thy soul!
Nay, start not, Emma, 't is no sin to love.—
But come, and lay thy head upon my breast,
And tell me all. I will not seek thine eyes,
Nor pierce their sable fringe, but clasp thy hand,
Thy fair, soft hand, whose tender pressure shall
Speak half thy tale.

EMMA.

My gentle mother, how
Can I for any other love neglect

Thy love! Nor did I, nor did Edgar thus;
And when this morn he urg'd his eager suit,
Thy name was blent in fondness with my own.

Rememberest thou, O yes, thou never canst
Forget the day, when, but a thoughtless girl,
With springing step and floating hair, I sought
The river bank, whereon my brothers sat,
Throwing the line to lure their watery prey;
Eager to see their prisoner caught, I lean'd
On a young sapling with unconscious weight,
And fell—when Edgar saw—he sprang—impetuous,
Leap'd to the wave, and with sustaining strength
Upbore me till assistance came. How quick
Is thought! Though reeling, dizzy, just upon
The brink of dark futurity, this hope
Come lighting like a torch my youthful heart,
Edgar will be my friend! I knew not love,
Or then, perchance, I might have said, my love!

Ere long he left us for more classic bowers;
But tidings often came of one, who stood
Before his classmates with a laurell'd brow,
Winning with graceful ease the frequent prize.
Nor this alone; I heard of generous deeds,
Where the kind heart outshone the sparkling mind,
As yon white blossoms grace the laurel tree.

And tokens sometimes came rememberingly,
(Thou knowest them, mother, well)—a drawing once
Of a young girl just rescued from the waves,
With eyes seal'd up like blossoms in rude storms;
He had not sketch'd her young deliverer;
For modesty is nature in him, but
My vision fancied there the ardent boy,
His chestnut curls crush'd by the sweeping stream,
His panting chest, his opening lips, his eyes
Starting in fear, and doubt, and growing joy,
When I unfolded mine.—Sometimes a flower
Was sent, or leaf, gather'd perchance in some
Lone, musing hour; or color'd sea-shell, which,
In whispers to mine ear, told a soft tale
I whisper'd not again.
Time roll'd, and he,
That distant one, crown'd with collegiate fame,
Return'd. He sought me, mother, and this morn,
Where the clematis bower shuts out the sun,
And the fond birds pour forth their loving lays,
He ask'd me for my heart.—I answer'd not;
But, mother, it was his on that far morn,
When shuddering from the river's depth I woke
Within his arms.

MOTHER.

Thanks, love, for this fond trust.
O, never should a daughter's thoughts find rest
On kinder pillow than a mother's heart.
But Edgar comes.—Look up and meet his smile.

Yes, take her hand, and with it a young heart
Full of love's first devotion. 'T is a charge,
My son, most precious! When she errs, reprove,
Spare not deserv'd reproof; she has been train'd
In Christ's high school, and knows that she is frail,
And she can bear the probe when brought by love.
But of neglect beware! Cherish her well;
For should the breath of coldness fall on her,
Thou wouldst hear no complaint, but thou wouldst see
Her sink into the grave, as the green leaves
Shrivel and fade beneath autumnal winds.

It is a struggle hard to bear, my son,
When a fond mother's cherish'd flower is borne,
Gently transplanted, to a happy home;
But deeper far than death's the withering pang,
To see her sought a few short months of pride,
Her beauties cherish'd, and her odors priz'd,
And then thrown by as lightly as the weed,
The trampled weed along the traveller's path.

And, O, bethink thee, Edgar, of her soul,
And lead her in the heavenly road to God.
In that great day, when mortal hearts are bare,
Motives and deeds before the Eternal throne,
Beware lest I, with earnest pleadings, sue
To thee for this sweet child! Bring her to me
A blessed spirit, wrapt in robes of grace,
And if there's gratitude in heavenly bowers,
O, thou shalt hear its full and gushing tones
Rise in thanksgiving from a mother's soul!

Charleston, S. C. 1835

THE NEAPOLITAN BOYS.

[_]

[At the Revolution in Naples, in 1779, two brothers, one fifteen, the other twelve years old, were condemned to death, and upon the entreaties of their mother, the King's attorney told her that he could spare one of them, and bade her choose.]

I cannot tell—I dare not tell,
On which the fearful choice shall rest;
They both have frolick'd 'neath my gaze,
They both were nurtur'd at my breast.

O, Henry, Henry, look not thus
In silence on thy mother's face!
Speak, speak, my patient boy, and break
That spell of melancholy grace.

And yet thy shrill and startling cry,
My Edward, cuts thy mother's soul;
That pleading voice I cannot bear,—
Thy dreadful eloquence control.

Thy wooing smile, thine eye of blue,
How oft thy father call'd them mine!
Can I give up the look he prais'd?
Can I that eye of love resign?

My boy! my boy! I thought that thou
Shouldst smooth my pillow at its close;
I hoped thy kind and soothing hand,
Would rock life's cradle of repose.

And thou, my Henry, with thy brow
And eagle look of high emprize;
I dream'd that thou wouldst clear my path,
And guard the way where danger lies.

That brow, that look, thy father's look,
O no! I cannot bid thee die:
Would they had wrapt me in his shroud,
How tranquilly I there could lie!

Go, boys—away! I will not choose;
God must resume the lives he gave—
For me, I bear a breaking heart,
Which soon will lay me in the grave.

1835.

ISADORE.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

Scene 1st

—A Garden.
FATHER.

She comes, my Isadore, how large the claim,
The double claim, she lays upon my care
For her sweet self, and almost dearer still,
As her pure mother's dying gift of love!
How rich the rose is opening on her cheek!
Not the red rose's hue, but that soft dye
That slowly fades like morning clouds, which melt
In mottled softness on the whitening heav'n.
Her chestnut locks float in the sunshine free!
Her soft blue eyes, deep in their tenderness,
Reflect all beautiful and kindly things.
She would seem infantile, but that her brow
In lilied majesty uptowers, and tells
That lofty thought and chasten'd pride are there!

And must I break the calm of that young spirit?
Come o'er that peaceful lake with ruffling storms?

Wake up its billowy strife, and wreck perchance
The forms of hope that float above its depths?
[Isadore enters.
My child.—She knows what I would say, and reads
The thoughts which only yestermorn I breath'd
With sympathetic sighs and mournful tone
Into her startled ear.—List, Isadore.

ISADORE.
I may not listen, father. I have vow'd
On the high altar of a faithful heart
To be his bride, and I will keep the vow.

FATHER.
But thou didst vow to purity and truth,
At least its semblance, and thou wert deceiv'd.

ISADORE.

Deceiv'd, my father? Look upon his eyes
Where truth lies mirror'd; look upon his lips
That speak in wreathed smiles ingenuous,
And then thou canst not say I am deceiv'd.

Last eve, it was a calm and lovely one,
We stood upon this garden-mound, where flowers,
Sprang up like blessings 'neath our happy tread;

The moon look'd down with that still gentle eye
With which she greets young love;—courage I drew
From the pure beaming of her heavenly gaze,
And when my hand poor Julian took, I breathed
Our traitor fears—an angry flush, that spake
Of injur'd innocence, lit up his brow.
Unjust, ungenerous Isadore! he said,
Think'st thou the nectar-beverage of the gods
Could tempt me from thy love? No, Isadore;
Perchance I might, not knowing thee, have prized
A coarser joy—but now that thy young heart
In love's pulsation answers true to mine,
Now that thy lips, blushing and faltering,
Have seal'd thy vow, I never more can stray.

FATHER.
My Isadore, 'tis hard to break the wreath,
That buds and twines around a faithful heart.
But, dearest, love has blinded thee, nor canst
Thou see the incipient form of woe. His words,
Heartless to me, like oracles arrest
Thy listening ear; his eyes with revel glazed,
Seem but to thee bright orbs of hope and truth.
Arouse thyself, my child, awake, awake!
Thou'rt folding to thy heart a serpent's coil,

And thou wilt feel its sting; while I, alas,
Who took thee from thy dying mother's breast,
Her last sad gift, and nurs'd thy feeble frame;
Who watch'd thy gentle slumbers, and on whom
Thy first smile fell like dawning light from heaven,
When with the ray of young intelligence
It broke its infant chaos; I who saw
Thy little feet, and heard thy shout of joy,
When with a tottering step thou gain'dst my arms;
I, who perceiv'd thy rich and active mind
Ope to high culture; and to whom indeed
No longer child, thou hast become a friend,
Shall see thee chain'd for aye, (nay, I must speak,)
To one, who, caught by sensual, low desires,
Knows not the precious value of the pearl
Which melts within his coarse and turbid grasp.

ISADORE.
Father, 't is not that any girlish pride,
Low principle, or tendency to wrong
Enthrals me, that I cling to Julian thus:
I gave my heart to virtuous love—but if,
In any space of time thy will demands,
I find him aught that virtue shall condemn,
I pledge myself to cast him from my heart

As lightly as the vessel flings the spray
That gathers on its prow.—Think'st thou thy child,
Whom thou hast train'd with strong and upward hopes,
And clothed with faith as armor, and inspired
With trust that that high spark thou call'st her soul
Shall rise and mingle with th' eternal flame,
Will stoop to be the victim of unblest
Desires?—No, hear me, Heaven! and father, hear;
If it be true, (and O my God, if prayers
And groans, and tears, issuing in troubled strife
From out a bursting heart, are heard above,
It will not be,) if it indeed be true,
That Julian seeks the reveller's haunt, I vow
To thee, who, having fram'd the mind, dost claim
Its homage, that these lips shall proudly spurn
His cherish'd name. Spurn, did I say? Ah no;
For the close tendrils of a faithful love
Will cling around me still, but I will loose,
Gently and firmly from my fetter'd soul,
Their twining hold; yes, father—though I die.

Scene 2d

—the Garden Mound—Sunset.
ISADORE.
'T is done, and I am free—so is the oak
O'er which the storm with lightning wrath hath sped

And left a ghastly pile—so is the wave,
The cold and midnight wave, that tosses on
Beneath a stormy sky—so is the star
When clouds are drifting round its lonely path,
And other stars are gone! O, father, father,
Take me to your kind arms—they will not sear
Nor scorch me with the drunkard's burning touch,
Nor shall I hear thy unpolluted lips
Pour forth the babblings of a reeling brain.

[Throws herself into her father's arms.
FATHER.

Heroic child! thine was a high resolve,
And followed up in nobleness of soul!
I knew thou wouldst not compromise with sin,
Nor give soft names to foul intemperance.
She hears me not—my Isadore—look up;
Thy father's arms are round thee, and he knows
Thy deep, deep woe. Alas, poor stricken flower,
Thou wert not made for this unkindly storm!
Thy cheek is pale, beloved, pale with grief;
Distended on thy marble brow and lids
(Too sad for tears) arise the struggling veins,
And thou dost start as if some fearful task
Oppress'd thee still.

Almighty! thou who know'st
The anguish'd throes with which the youthful hand
Cuts its own hopes, look down upon my child,
Comfort and bless her in this bitter hour!

My prayer is heard; she rests, and to her lips
A smile, almost serene, has wing'd its way.

ISADORE
[in a low tone.]
Father, I've dream'd; and as my half-form'd thoughts
Came bruis'd and bleeding through my riven mind,
I seem'd to grope, where in the far gray depths
With waving robes, above a dark abyss,
I saw a shadowy form. It beckon'd me,
And eagerly I strove to reach its side,
Until I saw ‘Temptation’ on its brow
Inscribed. Then pray'd a voice, “Lead me not there!”
From my own heart it came distinct and calm.
Again I look'd, and there in golden hues,
While floated off the form in murky clouds,
Blazed the word Duty, and once more the voice
Stirr'd in my soften'd soul, “Those whom he loves
He chastens.”

Charleston, S. C. 1835.

JOSHUA'S COURTSHIP.

A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.

Stout Joshua was a farmer's son,
And a pondering he sat
One night, when the faggots crackling burn'd,
And purr'd the tabby cat.

Joshua was a well-grown youth,
As one might plainly see
By the sleeves that vainly tried to reach
His hands upon his knee.

His splay-feet stood all parrot-toed
In cow-hide shoes array'd,
And his hair seem'd cut across his brow
By rule and plummet laid.

And what was Joshua pondering on,
With his widely staring eyes,
And his nostrils opening sensibly
To ease his frequent sighs?

Not often will a lover's lips
The tender secret tell,
But out he spoke, before he thought,
“My gracious! Nancy Bell!”

His mother at her spinning-wheel
Good woman stood and spun,
“And what,” says she, “is come o'er you,
Is 't airnest or is't fun?”

Then Joshua gave a cunning look,
Half bashful and half sporting,
“Now what did father do,” says he,
“When first he came a courting?”

“Why Josh, the first thing that he did,”
With a knowing wink said she,
“He dress'd up of a Sunday night,
And cast sheep's eyes at me.”

Josh said no more, but straight went out
And sought a butcher's pen,
Where twelve fat sheep, for market bound,
Had lately slaughtered been.

He bargain'd with a lover's zeal,
Obtain'd the wish'd for prize,
And fill'd his pockets fore and aft
With twice twelve bloody eyes.

The next night was the happy time
When all New England sparks,
Drest in their best, go out to court
As spruce and gay as larks.

When floors are nicely sanded o'er,
When tins and pewter shine,
And milk-pans by the kitchen wall
Display their dainty line;

While the new ribbon decks the waist
Of many a waiting lass,
Who steals a conscious look of pride
Toward her answering glass.

In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;
Of Joshua thought not she,
But of a hearty sailor lad
Across the distant sea.

Her arm upon the table rests,
Her hand supports her head,
When Joshua enters with a scrape,
And somewhat bashful tread.

No word he spake, but down he sat
And heav'd a doleful sigh,
Then at the table took his aim
And roll'd a glassy eye.

Another and another flew
With quick and strong rebound,
They tumbled in poor Nancy's lap,
They fell upon the ground.

While Joshua smirk'd, and sigh'd, and smil'd
Between each tender aim,
And still the cold and bloody balls
In frightful quickness came.

Until poor Nancy flew with screams
To shun the amorous sport,
And Joshua found to cast sheeps' eyes
Was not the way to court.

1832.

Tender glances.

A BALLAD. THE TRAVELLER FROM NORTH CAROLINA.

A True Story.

The wintry blast was loud and cold,
And clouds flew wildly o'er the sky,
The hard earth crackled 'neath the feet,
And men look'd chill, and hurried by.

I heard a low rap at the door,
The sound that speaks a suppliant's call;
Strange contrast with bold fashion's note,
Or business' short and steady fall.

She enter'd then—a woman lone,
Bent o'er a crutch, and pale with age,
Not hers the beggar's studied plea,
Nor arts, that guileless hearts engage.

There was a gentle dignity,
A chasten'd patience in her strain;
A mien of grave propriety,
That practis'd vice can ne'er attain.

Her dim gray eye look'd up to mine,
“I came,” she said, “a distant road;
I'm very old, and very poor;
And have no friend—no friend but God.

“My son to Charleston bent his way,
With strength and vigor in his frame,
And left me to come after him,
When he should earn industrious fame.

“One year roll'd by—he wrote to me
Fresh from his heart, in tender joy,
‘Lay by your work and care,’ he said,
‘And come to meet your only boy.

“‘I've prosper'd well with daily toil,
And honest living now is mine;
Come live with me, and cheer my home,
And on my stronger arm recline.’

“I came. I sought my blessed child—
I thought my earthly wants had fled;
I came—O, lady, pity me!
My son, my only son, was dead.

“And very lonely is this place,
Tho' many faces crowd around,
A little pittance I would ask,
To reach my native burial-ground.”

At that she paus'd. O, cold the heart
That could refuse that simple tone;
I watch'd her on her parting road,—
New faces came,—and she was gone.

Charleston, S. C. 1834.

MARY ANNA GIBBES,

THE YOUNG HEROINE OF STONO, S. C.

Stono, on thy still banks
The roar of war is heard; its thunders swell
And shake yon mansion, where domestic love
Till now breathed simple kindness to the heart;
Where white-arm'd childhood twined the neck of age,
Where hospitable cares lit up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveller on his way.

A foe inhabits there,—and they depart,
The infirm old man, and his fair household charge,
Seeking another home.—Home! who can tell
The touching power of that most sacred word,
Save he, who feels and weeps that he has none?

Among that group of midnight exiles, fled
Young Mary Anna, on whose youthful cheek
But thirteen years had kindled up the rose.
A laughing creature, breathing heart and love,
Yet timid as the fawn in southern wilds.
E'en the night-reptile on the dewy grass
Startled the maiden, and the silent stars,
Looking so still from out their cloudy home,
Troubled her mind. No time was there for gauds
And toilette art, in this quick flight of fear;
Her glossy hair, damp'd by the midnight winds,
Lay on her neck dishevelled; gathered round
Her form in hurried folds clung her few garments;
Now a quick thrilling sob, half grief, half dread,
Came bursting from her heart—and now her eyes
Glar'd forth, as peal'd the cannon; then beneath
Their drooping lids, sad tears redundant flowed.

But sudden mid the group a cry arose,
“Fenwick! where is he?” None returned reply,
But a sharp piercing glance went out, around,
Keen as a mother's towards her infant child
When sudden danger lowers, and then a shriek
From one, from all burst forth—“He is not here!”

Poor boy, he slept! nor crash of hurrying guns,
Nor impious curses, nor the warrior's shout,

Awoke his balmy rest! He dreamt such dreams
As float round childhood's couch, of angel faces
Peering through clouds;—of sunny rivulets,
Where the fresh stream flows rippling on, to waft
A tiny sail;—and of his rabbits white,
With eyes of ruby, and his tender fawn's
Long delicate limbs, light tread, and graceful neck.
He slept unconscious.—Who shall wake that sleep?
All shrink, for now th' artillery louder roars;—
The frightened slaves crouch at their master's side,
And he, infirm and feeble, scarce sustains
His sinking weight.
There was a pause, a hush
So deep, that one could hear the forest leaves
Flutter and drop between the war-gun's peal.
Then forward stood that girl, young Mary Anna,
The tear dried up upon her cheek, the sob
Crushed down, and in that high and lofty tone
Which sometimes breathes of woman in the child,
She said, “He shall not die,”—and turned alone.

Alone? O gentle girlhood, not alone
Art thou, if One watching above will guard
Thee on thy way.
Clouds shrouded up the stars;—
On—on she sped, the gun's broad glare her beacon!

The wolf-growl sounded near,—on—onward still:
The forest trees like warning spirits moaned,—
She pressed her hands against her throbbing heart,
But faltered not. The whizzing shot went by,
Scarce heeded went.—Pass'd is a weary mile
With the light step a master-spirit gives
On duty's road, and she has reached her home.
Her home—is this her home, at whose fair gate
Stern foes in silence stand to bar her way?
That gate, which from her infant childhood leap'd
On its wide hinges, glad at her return?
Before the sentinels she trembling stood,
And with a voice, whose low and tender tones
Rose like the ring-dove's in midsummer storms,
She said,
“Please let me pass, and seek a child,
Who in my father's mansion has been left
Sleeping, unconscious of the danger near.”

While thus she spake, a smile incredulous
Stole o'er the face of one,—the other cursed
And barr'd her from the way.
“O, sirs,” she cried,
While from her upraised eyes the tears stream'd down,
And her small hands were clasp'd in agony,
“Drive me not hence, I pray. Until to-night

I dared not stray beyond my nurse's side
In the dim twilight; yet I now have come
Alone, unguarded, this far dreary mile,
By darkness unappall'd;—a simple worm
Would often fright my heart, and bid it flutter,
But now I've heard the wild wolf's hungry howl
With soul undaunted—till to-night, I've shrunk
From men;—and soldiers! scarcely dared I look
Upon their glittering arms;—but here I come
And sue to you, men, warriors;—drive me not
Away. He whom I seek is yet a child,
A prattling boy,—and must he, must he die?
O, if you love your children, let me pass.—
You will not? Then my strength and hope are gone,
And I shall perish, ere I reach my friends.”

And then she press'd her brow, as if those hands,
So soft and small, could still its throbbing pulse.
The sentinels looked calmly on, like men
Whose blades had toyed with sorrow, and made sport
Of woe. One step the maiden backward took,
Lingering in thought, then hope like a soft flush
Of struggling twilight kindled in her eyes.
She knelt before them and re-urged her plea.

“Perchance you have a sister, sir, or you,

A poor young thing like me; if she were here
Kneeling like me before my countrymen,
They would not spurn her thus!”
“Go, girl—pass on”—
The soften'd voice of one replied, nor was
She check'd, nor waited she to hear repulse,
But darted through the avenue, attained
The hall, and springing up the well known stairs,
With such a flight as the young eagle takes
To gain its nest, she reached the quiet couch,
Where in bright dreams th' unconscious sleeper lay
Slight covering o'er the rescued boy she threw,
And caught him in her arms. He knew that cheek,
Kiss'd it half-waking, then around her neck
His hands entwined, and dropp'd to sleep again.

She bore him onward, dreading now for him
The shot that whizz'd along, and tore the earth
In fragments by her side. She reached the guards,
Who silent oped the gate,—then hurried on,
But as she pass'd them, from her heart burst forth—
“God bless you, gentlemen!” then urged her way;
Those arms, whose heaviest load and task had been
To poise her doll, and wield her childhood's toys,
Bearing the boy along the dangerous road.

Voices at length she hears—her friends are near,
They meet, and yielding up her precious charge,
She sinks upon her father's breast, in doubt
'Twixt smiles and tears.

1837.

This authentic anecdote is related by Major Garden. It is poetry in itself, without the aid of measured language, but it is hoped its present form may extend the knowledge of this Carolina maiden among her countrymen. “The gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Fenwick, so much distinguished for his services in the war of 1812, was the person saved.”

THE MONARCH AT PRAYER.

[_]

“George the Third knelt by the bedside of his dying daughter, the Princess Amelia, and prayed.”

Proud Windsor's towers lay bathed in light,
And Nature look'd and smil'd
On that rich work of human art,
As on her own fair child.

The birds sent up their piping notes,
Or cut the yielding sky;
The garden'd plains and wooded hills
Look'd gladsome to the eye.

But sorrow deep and darkly fell
Beneath those lordly walls,
And wailings hush'd, but sorrowful,
Were whisper'd through the halls.

Ah, what avails it, that yon couch
And canopy are hung,
With trappings of more brilliant hue,
Than ancient poets sung?

She cares not for exotic flowers,
Nor fruits that clustering swell,
Nor all the pomp and gorgeousness
That luxury scarce may tell.

Forbear to tempt her faded lip,
With costly viands now;
Forbear to place the scented wreath,
Above that marble brow.

Ye need not tread with feathery step,
Her velvet cover'd floor;
Nor guard with silent sentinels,
The nicely balanc'd door:

She heeds not now the sounds of earth,
More than the autumn flower
Heeds the wild winds, that pass, and strew
Its leaves within her bower.

Yet hush—tread light—a sound goes up,
And o'er the heart-pulse rings!
A Monarch by his dying child
Prays to the King of Kings.

It is a sight most beautiful
For earthly pride, to see
The faith that lights her dying brow,
And shines so gloriously.

The Monarch clasps her blue-vein'd hands,
With gentle pressure given;
His filling eyes are fixed on hers,
And hers are rais'd to Heaven.

Seek thou the Sovereign on his throne,
The Conqueror in his power,
The Statesman, organ of a world,
In his successful hour;

But cold, O! cold the picture seems,
Of light and grace beguil'd,
When on the Monarch's form I gaze,
Kneeling beside his child.

1834.

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE SONG.

'T is fifty years, my Edith,
And more, since we were one,
And many a man, and many a babe,
Their mortal course have run.

Thou fanciest that thine eye is dim,
And that thy locks are gray,
O! Edith, dear are they to me,
As on our wedding day!

Thou wert proud of me, my Edith,
When first I sought thy side,
And I believ'd that naught on earth,
Was worthy of my bride.

Thou hast been true and tender,
In the sunny hours of life,
In sickness and in sorrow too,
A kind and faithful wife.

Our children's children circle
Around our aged knee,
And God has blest us still with sight
Their little ones to see.

Their silken hands, endearingly
My trembling fingers press,
But not less dear, my Edith, is
Thy matronly caress.

The world has dealt full kindly,
As we've trod our earthly way,
And many blessings from above,
Have crown'd each passing day.

And death has seem'd to linger,
As loth to bid us part,
Because we have, thro' weal and woe,
Kept ever but one heart.

O, well we know, my Edith,
Who has spar'd us on the road;
And night and morn our thoughts as one
Have risen to our God.

Yes, on the private altar,
We've laid our humble prayer,
And hand in hand have sought His courts,
To pay our worship there.

But the term of life is ending,
For eighty years have past,
Since you and I in infancy,
Upon the world were cast.

One prayer to God we offer,
As life draws near its close,
That we may still together rest,
And in one grave repose,—

That when his awful summons
Shall call us to the sky,
Still undivided to his throne,
Our faithful souls may fly.

1832.

ROSALIE.

'T is fearful to watch by a dying friend,
Though luxury glistens nigh;
Though the pillow of down be softly spread
Where the throbbing temples lie;—

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form,
Though the shadowy curtains flow,
Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread
As “lightly as snow on snow;”

Though the perfum'd air as a garden teems
With flowers of healthy bloom,
And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze
In the cool and guarded room;

Though the costly cup for the fever'd lip
With grateful cordial flows,
While the watching eye and warning hand
Preserve the snatch'd repose.

Yes, even with these appliances
From wealth's unmeasured store,
'T is fearful to watch the spirit's flight
To its dim and distant shore.

But O, when the form that we love is laid
On Poverty's chilly bed,
When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs
Through crevice and pane is sped;

When the noon-day sun comes streaming in
On the dim or burning eye,
And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread
Is heard from the passers by;

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught
To us in vain upturns,
And the aching head on a pillow hard
In restless fever burns;

When night rolls on, and we gaze in woe
On the candle's lessening ray,
And grope about in the midnight gloom,
And long for the breaking day;

Or bless the moon as her silver torch
Sheds light on our doubtful hand,
When pouring the drug which a moment wrests
The soul from the spirit-land;

When we know that sickness of soul and heart
Which sensitive bosoms feel—
When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze
On woes we cannot heal,—

This, this is the crown of bitterness;
And we pray as the lov'd one dies
That our breath may pass with their waning pulse,
And with theirs close our aching eyes.

My story tells of sweet Rosalie,
Once a maiden of joy and delight,
A ray of love from her girlish days,
To her parents' devoted sight.

The girl was free as the river wave
That dances to ocean's rest;
And life look'd down like a summer's sun
On her pure and gentle breast.

She saw young Arthur—their happy hearts
Like two young streamlets shone
That leap along on their mountain path,
Then mingle their waters as one.

They parted;—he roved to western wilds
To seek for his bird a nest;
And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls,
And folded her wings to rest.

But her father died, and a fearful plight
O'er his child and his widow fell—
They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss
Where sorrow and poverty dwell.

Consumption came, and he whisper'd low
To the widow of early death;
He hasten'd the beat of her constant pulse,
And baffled the coming breath.

He prey'd on the bloom of her still soft cheek,
And shrivell'd her hand of snow;
He check'd her step in its easy glide,
And her eye beamed a restless glow.

He choked her voice in its morning song,
And stifled its evening lay,
And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn
As she lay on her pillow to pray.

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light,
And sat by the midnight oil;
But the pittance was fearfully small that came
By her morning and evening toil.

'T was then in her lodging the night-wind came
Through crevice and broken pane,
'T was there that the early sun-beam burst
With its glaring and burning train.

When Rosalie sat by her mother's side,
She smothered her heart's affright,
And essay'd to smile, though the monster Want
Stood haggard and wan in her sight.

She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor,
And crushed her hands on her heart,
Or stood like a statue so still and pale,
Lest a tear or cry should start.

Her household goods went one by one
To purchase their scanty fare;
And even the little mirror was sold
Where she parted her glossy hair.

Then hunger glared in her full blue eye,
And was heard in her tremulous tone;
And she long'd for the crust that the beggar eats
As she sits by the way-side stone.

The neighbors gave of their scanty store,
But their jealous children scowl'd;
And the eager dog that guarded the street,
Look'd on the morsel and howl'd.

Then her mother died—'t was a blessed thing!
For the last faint embers had gone
On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out
As Rosalie watch'd for the dawn.

'T was a blessed exchange from this dark, cold earth
To those bright and blossoming bowers,
Where the spirit roves in its robes of light,
And gathers immortal flowers!

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast,
Thought its fluttering breath was o'er;
And eagerly press'd her passive hand,
Which return'd the pressure no more.

In darkness she closed the fixing eyes,
And saw not the deathly glare;
Then straiten'd the warm and flaccid limbs
With a wild and fearful care.

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke
On the night that her mother died,
Poor rosalie sank from her long, long watch,
In sleep by her mother's side.

'T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see,
(When they woke from their kindlier rest,)
The beautiful girl with her innocent face
Asleep on the corpse's breast.

Her hair flowed about her mother's side,
And her hand on the dead hand fell;
Yet her breathing was light as the lily's roll
When waved by the ripple's swell.

There was surely a vision of heaven's delight
Haunting her exquisite rest,
For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile
As could only beam out from the blest.

'T was fearful as beautiful; and as they gazed,
The neighbors stood whispering low,
Nor dared they remove her white arm from the dead,
Where it seemed in its fondness to grow.

Life is not always a darkling dream,
God loves our sad waking to bless,
More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade
That heralds our happiness.

A stranger stands by that humble door,
A youth in the flush of life,
And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance
Seems with sorrow and care at strife.

Manly beauty and soul-formed grace
Stand forth in each movement fair,
And speak in the turn of his well-timed step,
And shine in his wavy hair.

With travel and watchfulness worn was he,
Yet there beamed on his open brow
Traces of faith and integrity,
Where conscience had stamped her vow.

'Twas Arthur—he gazed on those two pale forms,
Soon one was clasped to his heart—
In piercing accents he called her name—
That voice bade the life-blood start.

Not on the dead doth she ope her eyes,
Life, love, spread their living wings;
And she rests on her lover's breast as a child
To its nursing mother clings.

A pure white tomb in the near grave-yard
Betokens the widow's rest,
But Arthur has gone to his forest home,
And shelters his dove in his nest.

1837.

THE MERCHANT'S BRIDE.

A BALLAD.

PART FIRST.

Before the priest young Julia stood
A bright and buoyant maid,
Scarce conscious of the winning charm
Each act and look betrayed.

Her pure white robe, with graceful fold,
And floating veil descend,
While costly flowers from distant climes
With costly jewels blend.

Pearls tremble on her lovely brow,
And clasp her swan-like neck,
And glittering diamonds, rich and rare,
Her slender fingers deck.

And he who gave this lavish store
Gazes upon his prize,
Forgetful of the diamond's blaze
While looking in her eyes.

For there, confiding tenderness
And maiden sweetness dwell,
Blent with a soft unconsciousness,
To man the fondest spell.

And freely now her hand in his
She lays—a wedded wife,
And cheerfully the promise gives
To be his own for life.

Oh sweetly hath he deck'd her bower,
And gorgeously her halls;
Here treads her foot on springing buds,
And there on velvet falls.

The massy curtain's graceful flow,
The vase—the painting warm,
Those household echoes—mirrors bright,
Revealing her light form,—

Exotics that perfume the air
With odors sweet and strange,
And shells that far in distant climes
Mid ocean-wonders range,—

With countless gifts of taste and art
In classic beauty rife,
Are laid upon affection's shrine
Before that youthful wife.

The ocean deep, the circling air,
The earth for her is sought,
And ere she breathes a prayer or wish,
Possession follows thought.

Nor scarcely on her silken cheek
May glance the summer ray;
And costly furs enfold her form
When winter holds his sway.

Why should he toil at early morn,
And freight the frequent sail,
While still, unsated, gathering night
Finds him with vigil pale?

Alas! each day subtracts some tint
From home's delicious bloom.
How soon neglect destroys that plant
Of delicate perfume!

And lonely walks she in her bower,
And lonely in her hall,
And thinks one day-caress from him
Were fairly worth them all.

She pauses at the mirror now,
Still speaks its flattering tone—
But with a sigh she droops her head,
And feels herself alone.

Her fingers on the ivory keys
Run on in listless play,—
“What care I for the foolish song?”
She asks, and turns away.

Yet still he labors.—When within
The whirlpool stream of gain,
Man strives to reach the table-land
Of calm content in vain.

Amid his leger's crowded leaves
Once thought he but of her,
Alas! for mammon now he toils,
His hourly worshipper.

The silent meal—the hurried walk,
The news conn'd o'er and o'er,
Betray a mind that beats to home's
Fresh sympathies no more.

And when he hears the fretful word,
Or sees the struggling tear,
He looks around his rich abode,
And asks, “What want is here?”

Who does not know that one kind tone
Is more to woman's heart,
Than all the gauds of wealth and power,
Mere riches can impart?

Yet often to some wild abyss
The coursing streamlet tends,
And mid the rays of gorgeous clouds
The lightning's flash descends.

One morn the Merchant told his gains—
In conscious wealth he trod;
The next he stood a beggar'd man,
Nor own'd his burial sod.

Dizzy he turn'd, and as a ship,
Its guiding rudder lost,
Drifts on the sea, so wandered he,
By rushing eddies tost.

And where is Julia, where the flower
So delicately bred,
When this rough storm of fortune's gale
Came bursting on her head?

Strangers were seen in those gay halls,
And idle loungers there
In careless wonder, curious gaz'd
On objects loved and rare.

The auctioneer rang out his jest,
The hammer's stroke was heard,
And laugh on laugh went grating round
As fell each idle word;

The mirrors which had multiplied
So oft her loveliness,
The vases which with clustering flowers
Her hands had joyed to dress,—

Books, which her jewelled fingers turned
With gay or studious eye,
Sofas where oft luxuriously
Her form was wont to lie,—

Sweet monuments of taste and love
All broke like ocean's foam—
She turned in sorrow from the spot
To seek another home.

PART SECOND.

Who sits beside yon cozy fire,
A babe upon her knee?
And who is clasping that sweet pair
Fondly and cheerfully?

The space is small, but there is room
For Rover at their feet,
The tea-urn gives its hissing sound,
The bread is white and sweet.

Methinks I've seen that full clear eye
Less brilliant in its beams,
And that elastic, graceful step,
Graver than now it seems.

List to that laugh of heartfelt mirth,
List to that tender word,
And see the frequent chaste caress
From sympathy new-stirr'd!

Oh, Julia, in misfortune's scale
Thy worth has well been tried,
And thou art happy, for thy lord
Is happy at thy side.

Awakened from his worldly dream,
Absorbing, selfish, vain,
He finds the path to happiness
Lies not in ceaseless gain.

In unaspiring competence
He seeks the golden mean,
Contented in life's calmer fields
His needful wants to glean.

And Julia walks in dignity,
A heaven-relying mind
Enkindling up a latent power,
Scarcely before defined.

More beautiful the Merchant's-bride
Thus school'd to self-control,
Than when light winds of pleasure flew
Across her passive soul.

O who shall call adversity
A dark and cheerless night,
When on her brow such stars appear
Of calm and lovely light?

1837.

THE GAMESTER.

They came before the altar in their love,
“And both were young, and one was beautiful”
He stood in strength, and she in trustingness.
The dark curls, flung from off his open brow,
Revealed its Jove-like fullness, while her hair
With free and floating tresses, veil'd the cheek
That blush'd and paled in beautiful surprise,
As the strong waves of hope and memory,
With struggling current, mov'd her depth of heart.
Firm was his step, like one whose soul is nerv'd
For combat with the world; a rock for life's
Rough waves to dash on; while her airy tread
“Scarce from the heath-flower dash'd the morning dew.”

They sought their fair and solitary home;—
Fit residence! The silent trees stood round,
Nor mock'd young love's first tenderness. Spring flowers
Look'd up and smil'd; and happy birds trill'd out
The epithalamium chaunt. It was the heart's
Fresh holiday.

A rolling year went by,
“When on their eyes a new existence smil'd,”
And Agnes clasp'd a babe, a living boy,
To her young throbbing breast, and Winton press'd
His lips, with thoughts that man but once can know,
Upon his first-born's brow. O was not this
Earth's Paradise? Alas, that in its path
A serpent should arise with specious wile!

A change come o'er that scene of quiet bliss,
And Agnes' soft caress and the boy's smile
Fell cold on Winton's heart; he stray'd from home;
His brow grew pale, abstracted, and dark words
Broke muttering through his sleep. Rumor awoke
Whispering of guilty haunts, and rumor grew
To dreadful certainty.
One night, among
The reckless band that seek the gamester's hall,
Frantic, young Winton stood, a ruin'd man.
With staggering step, clench'd hands and fiery eyes
He wildly raved; then, crush'd and impotent,
As thoughts of home and Agnes cross'd his mind,
Lean'd his hot, aching brow, upon his hand.
Ha! is it so? A mirror to his eye
Discloses signs and looks, from one in view,
That speak of fraud and trickery! Winton sprang,

And with a bound fierce as a tiger's leap,
Levell'd a blow with word opprobrious.

The morning light rose coldly on his eyes!
That eve must stamp him murderer, or must lay
His senseless form within a hurried grave.
He call'd on one who long had lov'd and warn'd,
(Alas, how fruitlessly he lov'd and warn'd!)
To aid him in the coming scene of blood.
The good physician went. Strange courtesies
Pass'd round; the studied bow, the measur'd step
And gravely busy air. Upon a mound
He sat, and mark'd the scene. There was the sky
Expanding its wide arms in love; the trees
Were whispering kindness; blossoms smilingly
Turn'd their soft leaves upon the passing breeze,
Which kiss'd them as it rov'd;—all, all but man
In harmony with heaven.
His heart was touch'd;
Thought with its busy tide came deep and strong;
Earth seem'd a speck,—eternity was all;
And on that mound arose his solemn vow,
That never, while the life-blood fill'd his veins,
And reason kept her throne, would he by thought,
Or word, or deed, or presence, sanction give
To the duello's dark and murderous rite.

Fierce was the cry for blood; the signal pass'd;
Life gush'd and Winton was a murderer.

Rapid his fate; the stone that from the height
Of some far mountain dashes to the earth,
Falls not more certainly than he, who seeks
The downward progress of the gamester's way.

Whose is that spectral form, that by the light
Of new-born day seeks the cold casement's air,
And strains her sight with yet a lingering hope
Her lov'd one may return? For he is lov'd,
As woman still will love through slight and shame.
'T is Agnes, sad and chill; the bright rose gone
That deck'd her cheek; the elastic step subdued,
Her soft eye dim with tears, that fall in showers
Upon her sleeping boy.
He comes, but how?
The intended victim of self-murder. Pale
And weak he lies, by menial arms upborne,
And Agnes kneels beside him, bathes his brow
With her soft hands, calls fondly on his name
In tones as soft as when, a blushing girl,
She dared to breathe it only to the winds.
She, the high-born, the beautiful, the good,
For him prays fondly. She is heard. He lives.

Lives? What is life? Is it to breathe earth's air,
To tread its soil, to eat, to drink, to sleep?
This is not life. The man that knows but this,
Had better sink in dust, in dark oblivion.
He only lives whose soul is blent with heaven,
Like dew that falls at night to rise at morn.

The Gamester liv'd; reviv'd, on Agnes' brow
To stamp deep furrows; sear her gentle heart
With unheal'd wounds, and fill his cup of sin
With the deep scandal of a felon's crime.

He died—a hiss of scorn and infamy
Went up upon his grave, his boy unlearn'd
The name of father, and his drooping wife,
With downcast eyes, went sorrowing to the tomb.

A BALLAD.

PART FIRST.
THE PLANTATION.

Farewell, awhile, the city's hum,
Where busy footsteps fall,
And welcome to my weary eye,
The Planter's friendly Hall.

Here let me rise at early dawn,
And list the mock-bird's lay,
That warbling near our lowland home,
Sits on the waving spray.

Then tread the shading avenue,
Beneath the cedar's gloom,
Or gum tree with its flicker'd shade,
Or chinquapen's perfume.

The myrtle tree, the orange wild,
The cypress' flexile bough,
The holly with its polished leaves,
Are all before me now.

There, towering with imperial pride,
The rich magnolia stands,
And here, in softer loveliness,
The white bloom'd bay expands.

The long gray moss hangs gracefully,
Idly I twine its wreaths,
Or stop to catch the fragrant air,
The frequent blossom breathes.

Life wakes around—the red bird darts
Like flame from tree to tree;
The whip-poor-will complains alone,
The robin whistles free.

The frighten'd hare scuds by my path,
And seeks the thicket nigh;
The squirrel climbs the hickory bough,
Thence peeps with careful eye.

The humming-bird with busy wing
In rainbow beauty moves,
Above the trumpet-blossom floats,
And sips the tube he loves.

Triumphant to yon wither'd pine,
The soaring eagle flies,
There builds her eyrie mid the clouds,
And man and heaven defies.

The hunter's bugle echoes near,
And see, his weary train
With mingled howlings scent the woods,
Or scour the open plain.

Yon skiff is darting from the cove,
And list the negro's song,
The theme, his owner and his boat,
While glide the crew along.

And when the leading voice is lost,
Receding from the shore,
His brother boatmen swell the strain,
In chorus with the oar.

There stands the dairy on the stream,
Within the broad oak's shade,
The white pails glitter in the sun,
In rustic pomp array'd.

And she stands smiling at the door,
Who “minds” that milky way,
She smoothes her apron as I pass,
And loves the praise I pay.

Welcome to me her sable hands,
When, in the noontide heat,
Within the polish'd calibash,
She pours the pearly treat.

The poulterer's feather'd, tender charge,
Feed on the grassy plain;
Her Afric brow lights up with smiles,
Proud of her noisy train.

Nor does the herdman view his flock,
With unadmiring gaze,
Significant are all their names,
Won by their varying ways.

Forth from the negroes' humble huts
The laborers now have gone;
But some remain, diseas'd and old—
Do they repine alone?

Ah, no. The nurse, with practis'd skill,
That sometimes shames the wise,
Prepares the herb of potent power,
And healing aid applies.

On sunny banks the children play,
Or wind the fisher's line,
Or, with the dext'rous fancy-braid,
The willow baskets twine.

Long ere the sloping sun departs,
The laborers quit the field,
And hous'd within their sheltering huts,
To careless quiet yield.

But see yon wild and lurid clouds,
That rush in contact strong,
And hear the thunder, peal on peal,
Reverberate along.

The cattle stand and mutely gaze,
The birds instinctive fly,
While forked flashes rend the air,
And light the troubled sky.

Behold yon sturdy forest pine,
Whose green top points to heaven,
A flash! its firm, encasing bark,
By that red shock is riven.

But we, the children of the South,
Shrink not with trembling fears;
The storm familiar to our youth,
Will spare our ripen'd years.

We know its fresh, reviving charm,
And, like the flower and bird,
Our looks and voices, in each pause,
With grateful joy are stirr'd.

And now the tender rice upshoots,
Fresh in its hue of green,
Spreading its emerald carpet far,
Beneath the sunny sheen;

Tho' when the softer ripen'd hue
Of autumn's changes rise,
The rustling spires instinctive lift
Their gold seeds to the skies.

There the young cotton plant unfolds
Its leaves of sickly hue,
But soon advancing to its growth,
Looks up with beauty too.

And, as midsummer suns prevail,
Upon its blossoms, glow
Commingling hues, like sunset rays—
Then bursts its sheeted snow.

How shall we fly this lovely spot,
Where rural joys prevail,
The social board, the eager chase,
Gay dance and merry tale?

Alas! our youth must leave their sports,
When spring-time ushers May;
Our maidens quit the planted flower,
Just blushing into day.

Or, all beneath yon rural mound,
Where rest th' ancestral dead,
By mourning friends, with sever'd hearts
Unconscious will be led.

O, Southern summer, false and fair!
Why, from thy loaded wing,
Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare,
The seeds of sorrow fling?

PART SECOND.
THE OVERSEER'S CHILDREN.

Three fleeting years have come and gone,
Since Ann Pomroy I met,
Returning from the district school,
Ere yet the sun was set.

With her, her brother Francis stray'd,
And, both in merry tone,
Were saying all the rambling things,
Youth loves when tasks are done.

The mountain tinge was on their cheeks;
From far Vermont they came,
For wandering habits led their sire
A southern home to claim.

Fresh with the airy spring of youth,
They tripp'd the woods along,
Now darting off to cull a flower,
Now bursting into song.

O, Ann Pomroy, thy sparkling eye
Methinks I often see,
When some young face, in loveliness,
Beams up in smiles to me.

And when light sounds of boyish mirth
Laugh out uncheck'd by fear,
It seems to me, that Francis' voice
Is floating on my ear.

I said the hue of health they bore,—
Her's was the nect'rine fair,
And his the deep pomegranate tinge,
That boys of beauty wear.

They walk'd at early morn and eve,
And as I yearly paid
My visit to the Planter's Hall,
I saw the youth and maid.

At first, by simple accident,
I came upon their walk;
But soon I lov'd to pause and seek
The privilege of talk—

Until my steps were daily turn'd,
But how I scarce can say,
When Ann and Francis came from school,
To meet them on the way.

They told me of New-England hills,
Of orchards in the sun,
Of sleigh-rides with the merry bells,
Of skating's stirring fun;

And sometimes of a grave they spake,
And then would sadder grow,
In which a gentle mother slept,
Beneath the wintry snow.

When April's changing face was seen,
Again from town I flew,
To where the sleep of nature wakes
To sights and odors new.

All things were fair—the plants of earth
Look'd upward to the sky,
And the blue heaven o'erarch'd them still
With clear and glittering eye.

I sought the walk I us'd to seek,
And took the little store
Of toys, that from the city's mart
For Ann and Frank I bore.

A rustling in the leaves I heard,
But Francis only came,
His eye was dim, his cheek was pale,
And agues shook his frame.

He saw me—to my open arms
With sudden gladness sprang;
Then raised a thrilling cry of grief
With which the forest rang.

Few words he spake, but led me on
To where a grave-like mound,
With young spring plants and evergreens,
In rural taste was crown'd.

And there he stood, while gushing tears
Like summer rain-drops came,
And heavings, as a troubled sea,
Went o'er his blighted frame.

I did not ask him who was there,
I felt that Ann was gone,
Around his drooping neck I hung,
And stood like him forlorn.

“I soon shall die,” the mourner said,
“Here will they make my grave,
And over me the cedar trees
And moaning pines will wave.

“None—then will come to tend the flowers,
That blossom o'er her bed;
None sing for her the twilight dirge
When I am with the dead.

“I cannot join the school-boy sports,
My head and heart are sad;
When Ann is in the silent grave,
O, how can I be glad?

“And when I say my studied tasks,
Or gained the once loved prize,
I weep and softly pray to Heaven,
To lay me where she lies.”

I kissed his pale and suffering brow,
By early sorrows riven;
I talk'd to him of her he lov'd,
And raised his thoughts to Heaven.

And when the call of duty came,
To take me from his side,
He told me with a sickly smile,
“'T was best that Ann had died.”

Another annual season roll'd
Its cares and joys along—
Again I sought the country's charms,
Deep woods, and caroll'd song.

And there I found two silent graves,
Amid the vernal bloom—
I ne'er shall see those forms again,
Till Heaven unseals the tomb.

O, Southern summer, false and fair,
Why, on thy loaded wing,
Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare,
The seeds of sorrow bring?

A NEW-ENGLAND BALLAD.

[_]

[An incident, as early in the settlement of New-England as 1630, has been faithfully followed in the subjoined verses, which are written with the hope of drawing the attention of juvenile readers to that interesting era in our national history.]

A boat was bound from Shawmut Bay
To Plymouth's stormy shore,
And on her rough and fragile hull
Five daring men she bore.

With them would Mary Guerard go
In cold December's time,
Though delicate and gently bred,
For such a rugged clime.

“Dear father, do not part from me,”
Entreatingly she cried,
“But when you seek the troubled sea,
Retain me by your side.

“My youthful spirits mount in joy
Upon my bosom's throne,
And I can brave the storms with you,
But I shall weep alone.”

They launch their shallop on the bay,
And give her to the breeze,
While Mary cheers her father's heart
Upon the sparkling seas.

How sweetly on that savage coast
Her maiden laughter rung!
How doatingly on that fair face
The busy oars-men hung!

But tempests rose, and mid the rocks
Their leaky boat was thrown;
A bed of ice form'd under them—
Their ocean path unknown.

Those five stout hearts with chasten'd looks
Await their mournful doom,
And Mary, Shawmut's gentle flower,
Expects a frozen tomb.

And now that group of pilgrim souls
“Dispose themselves to die;”
How bless'd were they in that dread hour
To put their trust on high.

But near a lone and surgy cape,
Land! land! an oarsman spied—
With effort strong they clear the skiff,
And catch the favoring tide;

And hoisting up their stiffen'd sail,
The dangerous way explore,
Till chill, and faint, with sinking hearts,
They reach the houseless shore.

Along the glaz'd and crackling ice
They move in agony,
When starting forward on their track,
The group two red men see,

Who, with the warmth of untaught hearts,
Their generous help prepare,
Cover, and feed, and nourish them,
With hospitable care.

But cold had struck the chill of death
On Guerard's manly frame;
Fainter and fainter grew the breath
Which sigh'd his Mary's name.

And she, that lone and lovely one,
Sank like a shooting star,
That springing out from all its kin,
Falls scatter'd from afar:

Yet gather'd strength o'er that rough bed
On which her father lay,
And on her fair breast laid his head,
And bent her own to pray;

And not until his failing sigh
Had bless'd her to the last,
Down by his side in anguish lay,
And clasp'd his body fast,

And shriek'd, in tones of piercing woe,
“Return, return to me,
Leave, leave me not in sorrow here,
Or let me die with thee!”

Solemn and stern the Indians stood,
While death was passing by,
But when his parting wing was flown,
Loud rose their funeral cry.

They laid the body carefully,
Like a brother whom they lov'd;
The sandy soil, a frozen mass,
A scanty covering prov'd.

The wolves came howling for their dead,
And then those Indians wild,
As if by tender instinct led
For his deserted child,

Rais'd o'er the grave a noble pile
Of trees securely bound,
Which kept the hungry fiends away
Mid solitude profound.

All died but one of that strong band
Who steer'd from Shawmut bay,
And her, the young and gentle maid,
The blossom on their way.

The Indians bore her to her home,
Where, like a stricken flower
When winter winds have passed away,
She grac'd her native bower.

But often in her after years,
She thought of that lone grave,
Where ocean's breezes moan'd and sigh'd,
And dash'd the gather'd wave;

And bless'd the red men of the soil,
Who gave her succor there,
And sought for them with deeds of love,
And ask'd for them in prayer.

1830.

Boston.

Massachusetts Colony Records.

Cape Cod.

FRANCISCO DE RIBALTA,

THE SPANISH ARTIST.

A BALLAD.

A gathering spot glowed burningly
On young Ribalta's brow,
As he stood on fair Valencia's plain,
And breathed a parting vow.

For neither fame nor wealth had he,
Yet sweetly on him smiled
The young and lovely Isabel,
His master's only child.

“Farewell, farewell! my Isabel,
Mine, though I wander far,—
My love shall still shine over thee,
Like yonder distant star.

“I feel within my restless soul
The power to toil and die,
Or fix upon the scroll of fame
My name in letters high.

“And, dearest, I will come again,
Though he may now deride,
And in thy father's presence claim
My own, my gentle bride.

“He spurned me; but the goading word
To thee alone I tell;—
He said, ‘a dauber’ ne'er should wed
His peerless Isabel.”

She spake not, but her beaming eye
Looked eloquently kind,
And her young fingers in his own
Were trustingly entwined.

One single, solitary tear,
Came trickling down the while;
He kissed the falling gem away,—
'T was followed by a smile.

And not until his waving plume
Had parted from her sight,
Seemed she to feel the cloudiness
Upon her hope's young light.

O, what a wild and piercing gaze
Is that we throw upon
The sacred spot where one has stood
Who loved us, and is gone!

And what a sigh upheaves the soul
When stranger forms pass by,
And with their dark, ungenial shade,
Unspell the memory!

Ribalta, 'neath Italia's skies,
Pursued the path to fame;
Untired, he followed where it led,
With thoughts and hopes of flame.

He watch'd the day-dawn's earliest ray,
To urge his pictured toil;
And bent with strained and doubtful eye
Beneath the midnight oil.

And when upon his growing work
His kindling glances fell,
A gush of joy came o'er his heart,
That spake of Isabel.

Three circling years his gentle love
Hushed up her widowed soul;
And if a sigh escaped her heart,
Hope through the current stole.

At length he came in manly truth;
He heard her whispered tone,
Her eyebeam sank into his soul,
And she was still his own.

Soon to her father's vacant room
They passed with stealthy tread;
There, on an easel temptingly,
A noble sketch was spread.

Eager, Ribalta seized the brush,
And wrought as life were there,
The picture grew, and every stroke
Stood out with colors rare.

And Isabel looked breathless on,
With eyes and hands upraised,
And large drops beaded on his brow,
As thus she stood and gazed.

'T is done;—and now a coming step,
Her father's step is heard;
Ribalta, shrinking from his sight,
Stifles the whispered word.

The Master starts—so beautiful
The new creation shone,—
The color, shade, expression too,
More lovely than his own.

“Why girl, there's magic in this touch,”
The enraptured painter cried,
“And only he who wrought this work,
Deserves thee for his bride.”

A moment—and Ribalta's arm
Encircled that fair maid;
While at her father's knee they knelt,
And for his blessing prayed.

1834.

MARY LEE.

I wander'd forth at closing day,
To breathe the evening air;
Not yet was dropp'd the curtain gray,
Which hides the flowerets fair.

They blush'd in beauty 'neath my tread,
And all their rich perfume
Around in generous fragrance shed,
Unwitting of their doom.

I could not choose but bid my eye,
In simple gladness, rest
Upon the gorgeous drapery,
That lined the lovely west.

And fain was I to hear the note
The black-bird gaily sung,
As on the air it seem'd to float,
And o'er my heart-strings rung.

I reach'd the brook and mossy stone,
Where, lingering still for me,
Was wont to sit till twilight lone,
My little Mary Lee.

Her knitting in her merry way,
Would Mary hold on high,
And all the progress of the day,
Upon my fingers try.

She was not there—not richly now
To me the sunset beam'd;
The black-bird caroll'd on the bough,
But not for me it seem'd.

More bright than these was Mary's look,
When yesterday it shone,
More sweet her voice, when o'er the brook,
She sent its joyous tone.

I hasten'd onward to the cot,
Where Mary's mother dwelt,—
Why seem'd it such a lonely spot?
I never thus had felt.

The woodbine now as gracefully
Around the porch was hung,
The little gate with motion free
As hospitably swung.

I paused a moment—and a groan
Fell deeply on my ear;
I enter'd, it was Mary's moan,
She knew not I was near.

She knelt beside her mother's bed,
Her head was resting there;
The mother's struggling breath had fled,
Her daughter knelt in prayer.

And tears came gushing on her cheek,
And sobs convuls'd her frame,
I heard the little sufferer speak,
It was her mother's name.

Come to my arms, poor child, I cried,
Come hither, Mary Lee,
God has been lavish to my pride,
I'll share his gifts with thee.

She lean'd her pale cheek on my breast,
I press'd her to my heart,
And from that sacred place of rest,
No more shall she depart.

1826.

THE CROW-MINDER OF THE SOUTH.

Alone, amid the far spread field he stands,
Heaven's arch above, an amphitheatre
Of woods around. Wide his domain, and fair;
But no companionship hath he, for he
Must scare the very birds away, whose notes
Are meet for company.
The mocking-bird,
Herald or partner of his walk must leave
Him here; nor shall he list again its cadence,
Till, warbling near his lowly hut, the bird
Pours forth orchestral tones ambitiously,
At midnight hour, upon his drowsy ear.

The lizard, creeping on the blighted tree,
The lazy worm, unearthing its slow volume,
The ant, which builds its sandy monument,
The butterfly, a passing traveller,
And e'en the snake, that shines in motlied hues,

Or frog, retreating from the burning sand,
Or shining beetle, will he welcome now.

Few are his cares, nor irksome his employ;
Just far enough remov'd to watch his prey,
His bird-trap tempting lies—the oriole there,
The goldfinch, waxbird, and like forms of grace,
He snares, to gain a trifle for the prize.
The prison of the finny race, he weaves;
Or, on his basket's growing plaits he toils,
Counts o'er his gains, and whistles out his joy.

The forest trees, that stand like sentinels,
Send out a murmur pleasant to the ear.
The turtle dove, that seems to mourn, but whose
Low tone is whisper'd tenderness, is there.
From thence the venturous ground-pigeon comes,
And with a little band of feathered friends,
Steals cautious to the rice-field's tempting range,
When, faithful to his charge, the “minder” shouts,
With arms uprais'd, and frighted they retire.

There the blue jay, the “feather'd harlequin,”
Trims his rich crest, and pipes his mimic song;
While, hidden mid damp brakes, the cuckoo's note
With harsh monotony assails the ear.
There the woodpecker, busy epicure,
Bores with his beak the insect's barky home,

Affrights them with his feign'd but startling cry,
Then coolly riots with his darting tongue,
And taps at intervals the hollow tree.

But the field-minder, idly busy, heeds
Nor knows the sounds sweet to the poet's ear;
Tho', when the crow's coarse note is nearer heard,
And his dark form wheels o'er the sunny field,
Or varied pilferers, glide with stealthy wing,
In softer guise, to rob the planter's toil,
Then lifts he high again his warning voice,
And waves his tawny arms, and beats the air,
While the foil'd plunderers turn in circling flight,
And seek the forest's screening shades again.

What are his thoughts, that lone one, as the sun
O'ertops the pines, and wakes the woods to joy?
What are his thoughts, when thro' the long, long blaze
Of summer's noon, he sits in solitude?
Right glad is he, when the dark laborer comes,
With hoe upon his arm—his task well done,
And gives a passing greeting to the boy.
Full glad to see the mastiff from the chase
Run with his whining welcome; and willingly,
With passing negro, or with truant dog,
Shares the plain food, cook'd near his blighted tree.

Think not the boy is vacant in his mood;

He muses on relationship, and friends;
He plans the evening game, the Sabbath prayer,
He learns from nature's volumes lessons true,
Foretells the storm, the harvest too—and things
That 'scape the world's philosophy, he knows.
There, more than in the city's jostling throng,
He feels a present Deity. The moon,
Flooding his homeward track with gentle rays,
Looks in his bosom on a sky-bound soul;
And the far stars, those light-houses of heaven,
Tell him of hopes, beyond their glittering sheen.

1830.

ANNIE IN THE GRAVE-YARD.

She bounded o'er the graves,
With a buoyant step of mirth;
She bounded o'er the graves,
Where the weeping willow waves,
Like a creature not of earth.

Her hair was blown aside,
And her eyes were glittering bright;
Her hair was blown aside,
And her little hands spread wide,
With an innocent delight.

She spelt the lettered word,
That registers the dead;
She spelt the lettered word,
And her busy thoughts were stirred,
With pleasure as she read.

She stopped and culled a leaf,
Left fluttering on a rose;
She stopped and culled a leaf,
Sweet monument of grief,
That in our church-yard grows.

She culled it with a smile,
'T was near her sister's mound;
She culled it with a smile,
And played with it awhile,
Then scattered it around.

I did not chill her heart,
Nor turn its gush to tears;
I did not chill her heart—
O, bitter drops will start,
Full soon in coming years.

1830.

THE WARRIOR.

O, welcome the Warrior, who proudly advances,
Victorious from battle, a lord o'er the foe!
As the sun o'er a darken'd creation he glances,
For the strong and the valiant his arm has laid low.

O! haste to the Warrior, with a bright laurel grace him,
For the mighty are vanquished—the timid have fled;
As a chief of the earth, as a saviour, address him,
And let halos of honor encircle his head.

He has braved as a rock the wild force of the battle,
And foes from his side fell like showery foam;
Around him has sounded war's deafening rattle,
But he stood in the storm like the sky threatening dome.

Men, raise your deep voices in praise of his glory!
And women, in reverence bow at his name;
Infants in lispings reëcho the story,
And matrons, swell loudly the trump of his fame!

His praise shall extend over land and wide ocean,
Where princes will listen in wonder and joy;
'T will float to far ages and kindle devotion,
And children—like men—seize the sword to destroy.

Already your shout heaven's concave is rending,
And the Hero's great name is repeated around;
But hark! as I listen, a wild shriek is blending!
Another, another, increases the sound.

Oh, Heaven! the moans of the wounded and dying
Are blent with the plaudits that swell in the air;
Wife, children, and friends, mid the tumult are crying,
“Death, death to the conqueror who gives us despair!”

I listen, and fancy assists the faint mourning,
Of an infant, whose parents are torn from the world;
Again, but now hoarser the sound is returning,
A sinner's dark soul from its mansion is hurl'd!

And is it for this, that the laurel is given,
When man turns a murderer and foe to his kind?
For this does the shout of applause assail Heaven
From creatures for rational virtue designed?

Blush, Warrior, blush! while thou fanciest before thee
The beings whose happiness thou hast o'erthrown;—
Who, frantic with want and affliction, implore thee
To soothe the crushèd hearts left to perish alone.

Hear fatherless infants with feeble wail crying,
While mothers stand shuddering and pale at thy name!
See groups from that red field in misery flying,
Who curse at thy praises, or weep at thy fame!

And what is the glory resplendent around thee?
A glittering meteor that fades in its blaze,—
Light perishing foam, whose bright sparkles surround thee,
Then dash on the shore, and disperse at thy gaze!

Cambridge, Mass. 1812.

THE YOUNGEST ONE.

I saw a mother with her child,
And each with each appeared beguiled;
So tenderly they spake and smiled,
I knew it was her youngest one.

She leaned upon her mother's knee,
With look half tender and half free,
And O, by that sweet liberty,
I knew it was her youngest one.

A whisper came with love o'erfraught;
Soon was returned the whispered thought,
As though in this wide world were nought
But she, and her dear youngest one.

“Mother,” she said, “you must not go,
And leave your little girl, you know,
Because no other loves you so,
Like me, your darling youngest one.

100

“Father is often called away,
And sisters with their playmates stray,
But I beside you always stay,—
You must not leave your youngest one.

I heard a promise and a kiss,
I saw a smile of trusting bliss,
O, nought can sever, after this,
The mother and her youngest one.

1829.

101

“BEYOND THE SABBATH.”

[_]

The Backwoodsmen of North America, when they throw off the forms of society, and retreat into the forests, say, they will “fly beyond Sabbath.”—

Flint's Valley of the Mississippi.

[_]

[The record-tree alluded to in the following stanzas, refers to the custom of some settlers, who preserve the date of time by marking the seventh day.]

THE BACKWOODSMAN.

He flies!
He seeks the moaning forest trees,
The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep,
The swelling river rushes to the seas,
The cataract, foaming 'neath the dizzy steep,
Or softer streams, that by the green banks sleep,
To these he flies.

102

He lists
The crackling of the springing deer,
The shrill cry of the soaring water-fowl,
The serpent hissing at his lone couch near,
The wild bear uttering loud her hungry howl,
The panther with his low expecting growl,
Unmov'd he lists.

Wanderer,
“Beyond the Sabbath,” tell me why,
With eager step you shun the haunts of men,
And from the music of the church bells fly,
That floating sweetly o'er your native glen,
Call you to worship by their chime again?
Say, wanderer, why?

You know,
You feel, beneath the woodland skies,
When comes the seventh day of sacred rest,
Deep wells of fond remembrance struggling rise,
Within the caverns of your rocky breast—
A gush of thought, like visions of the blest,
At times you know.

103

And you
Will turn, and mark the record-tree
In stealthy silence, and a gentle prayer
Unconsciously will struggle to get free,
And you will feel there is a purer air,
More holy stillness over nature fair,
Which softens you.

How sweet
The strain of skyey minstrelsy,
That floats above you in the wild bird's song!
Seems it to you, the hymn of infancy,
Borne on the breezes of remembrance long,
When you were foremost in the Sabbath throng!
Those strains were sweet!

Such tones
Are swelling yet in many a spot,
Sacredly twining out with praise and joy;
And there 's a group, Oh, they forget you not,
Who prayers and tears for you, for you employ,
And hopes, that even time cannot destroy,
Are in their tones.

104

They call,
They call you, rover, back again!
There is a mound beneath your village spire,
Where, touch'd by love, your tears would fall like rain
It shields a holy man, your aged sire,
Who sought in life to curb your youthful fire,
Hear his death call!

In vain;—
Alas, you heed not e'en that call;
Proudly you stand upon the red man's ground,
And woman's tears, that slow and silent fall,
Slighted, from your resolved breast rebound,
Your free words thro' the woodland depths resound,
“Her call is vain!”

Farewell,
Forever, roamer of the wild!
God, whom you can forget, his own will see;
His sun still shines upon his erring child,
His breezes fan you, with their current free,
And his green sod your burial place shall be.
Oh, fare you well!

1835.

105

THE SAILOR'S DAUGHTER.

A BALLAD.

Safe rolls the ship at anchor now,
The sailor clears his anxious brow,
And with a deep, but silent vow,
Blesses his little daughter!

His duty far has bid him roam,
Amid the dash of ocean's foam,
But welcome now the sailor's home,
And she, his little daughter!

Her velvet arm is o'er him thrown,
Her words breathe forth in gladsome tone,
He feels that she is all his own,
The seaman's little daughter!

106

“Father, you shall not quit your child,
And go upon the seas so wild,
For scarcely has my mother smil'd,
Upon her little daughter!

“I care not for the coral gay,
Nor costly shells, when you're away;
Dear father, with my mother stay,
And smile upon your daughter!

“We hear the fierce winds rushing by,
And then my mother heaves a sigh,
And when it storms, we sit and cry,
My mother and your daughter!”

Her head upon his shoulder lay,
He smooth'd her silken ringlets' play;
She fell asleep in that sweet way,
The seaman's little daughter.

1834.

107

ISAAC HAYNE, OR THE PATRIOT MARTYR OF CAROLINA.

AN HISTORICAL DRAMATIC SKETCH.

[_]

Time, August, 1781, while Charleston was in possession of the British.

[_]

[The incidents are gathered from Ramsay's History, Garden's Anecdotes, Lee's Memoirs, and the Southern Review.]

A STREET.
Enter an American citizen. Speaks.—
Terrific war! how heavy are thy chains.
Bright though thou art to infancy, which sees
In nodding plume and keenly burnish'd sword,
But gaudy toys;—bright to the daring youth,
Whose ear excited finds discourse most rare
In trumpet note, artillery's deaf'ning roar,
And measured foot-fall;—bright to maiden glance,

108

That in Love's eye, reads bravery, honor, fame;—
And bright to manhood, that forever pants
For deeds emblazoned on thy bloody page;
Still thou art dark to him, whose fettered arm
Makes impotent his will; and whose frail life
Hangs on the fiat of a mortal's word.
[Enter second Citizen.
Hast heard the fate of Hayne within this hour
Still doth the tyrant Commandant deny
The trial e'en to malefactors given?

SECOND CITIZEN.
He does: war's summary decree prevails:
He dies to-morrow.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Heaven! what savage haste!
Hayne! Hayne! for thee, America will weep
Stern tears, but soon shall Britain pay them back
In drops of blood!

SECOND CITIZEN.
Speak low, apart here. Hist!

[They retire.

109

A GARDEN. TWO AMERICAN LADIES.
FIRST LADY.
Hayne sentenced to an ignominious death?
Would that this arm could wield a warrior's blade!
America wants men, when such things are.

SECOND LADY.
Be calm, dear sister! this insensate war
Respects not woman's helplessness, nor leaves
Our shrinking sex from brutal wrong secure:
Oh! then, provoke it not, for even now
My soul doth shudder at the fate, o'er which
The future hangs its mantle.

FIRST LADY.
I could weep,
But my hot cheeks would drink the gushing tears;—
I'll not be still,—the echoes shall awake,
And answer “murder” to this deed!—I would
I were the night-mare on Lord Rawdon's breast,
To crouch in dreams and scream there, Murder! Murder!
What! Hayne, the soul of chivalry and truth,
Hayne, sentenced to the scaffold! while mean forms
Bask in life's sunshine, or go gliding down
To peaceful graves? It may not, shall not be!—

110

SECOND LADY.
Thy spirit frights me, Helen. Sure 't is not
For woman thus to judge of soldier-deeds.
Soft as these flowers, which silent ope around,
Yielding sweet perfume to the gentle breeze,
Woman should live, and distant from earth's strife,
Look ever to the sky in loveliness.

FIRST LADY.
Loveliness, Anna, is a word for peace.
Stern deeds are beauty now.—Our land is rous'd,
And claims from woman's hand a nobler task,
Than thus to sit in summer bowers, and tune
The fairy lute or list the wild bird's song.
See'st thou yon clustering vine, whose trumpet flowers
Toss in luxurious clusters on the wind?
'T is beautiful, I own, and so is woman:
But Anna, those bright blossoms hide a power
Called poison, and perchance, to our soft sex
God gives like art to injure when she 's crush'd,—
But time is lost; before the set of sun,
Hundreds of names clustered in full appeal,
Will show stern Balfour and the tory Lord,
That “rebel women” sometimes quit their bowers.

111

STREET. AMERICAN CITIZENS.
FIRST CITIZEN.
A mournful stir runs through the city streets;
Men speak with lowering brows, in whispered tones,
And now an oath impatient, or a hand
Clinch'd suddenly, shows public mood.—What news?

SECOND CITIZEN.
A respite for a few brief hours is given,
That Hayne may bless his children ere he dies.
All has been urged, that pity, love, respect,
Could urge, yet all in vain.—Our Governor,
Borne on a litter, faint and overtasked,
Humbly besought, in low but earnest speech,
Those callous men; but he appealed in vain!
Then came intrepid women from their homes,
Bearing petitions blotted with their tears;
I marked each faltering step and pleading gaze,
And graceful gesture, as they urg'd their suit:
Rawdon, with courtly air and polished phrase,
Received them, but denied their modest claim,
While Balfour mingled scorn with harsh repulse;
Till, blinded by their tears, they turned away,
Hope's slight raft lost amid grief's ocean-tide.

112

Scarce had they gone, when, clad in mourning robes,
With mourning hearts, still sadder suppliants came
The prisoner's children,—no fond parents near
To aid. The eldest boy, with anxious brow,
Too early marked by care, advanced the first.
Upon his arm, despondingly leaned one,
Whom the strong ties of sisterhood and love
Link'd to his injured sire; and when he saw
Her pallid lip, and felt her shrinking form
Start at the glitter of the foeman's arms,
He braced himself anew, and proudly stood,
As if his boyhood felt the nerve and power
To guard her from a host of coming ills.—
Then came the girl, a creature sylph-like bright,
Yet with soft, liquid eyes, that drooped beneath
The falling lids; while sorrow's frost had blanched
Her rose-cheek colored by eleven springs.
In close embrace she clasp'd the hand of one,
A younger blossom, on whom nursery cares
Were yet employed, but who, not versed in tears,
Stood by his father's foes to plead with smiles.
They knelt, that touching group! and would have spoke,
But stifling grief denied them utterance,
And all that they could cry was, “Save my father!”
Once from the eldest boy these words were wrung,

113

“My mother's dead! Two children share her grave,
Take not my father too!”—but 't was too low
To reach his ear, and if it had, his heart
Was closed and ice-bound to the thrilling cry.
But when the stern denial was returned,
Which sealed his father's fate, the elder son
Look'd round with desperate glance, and clenched his hands,
While a quick shriek of agony burst forth
From those young mourners, and in wild despair
Reeling, they fell into each other's arms,
And thus were borne, in agony, away.

[A pause.
FIRST CITIZEN.
A restless fever burns within my soul;
My daily tasks are hateful, and I turn
Instinctively to grasp my idle sword.

[They retire.
PROVOST PRISON.
Hayne alone, walking calmly as if in meditation—listens as the bell strikes twelve.
HAYNE
speaks.

St. Michael's chime! Oh what a throng of scenes
From day to day its signal ushers in.

114

The infant's welcome birth it heralds, or
The bridal hour,—while often floats its peal
In solemn requiems round the couch of death:
And like a requiem sounds it now to me,
For I am dying; death is felt by him
Who in the settled gloom of midnight, knows
To-morrow's shades must gather o'er his grave.
My wife, my buried one! on whose still couch
The planted flowers have scarcely oped in bloom;
And ye, fair buds of being, who did close
So soon your veined lids in death;—I come!
I come!—too thankful that this treacherous earth
O'er you has lost its power:—Ye rest secure!
Ye war not with the reveries, conjuring up
Dim, phantom forms, that in the midnight crowd
Too often round my pillow; nor the dreams
(Thank God! they are but dreams,) where faces peer
In madd'ning glee upon my spirit's eye:
Nor, worse than all, that looking for of death,
Untimely and degrading, where the soul
Leaves not the placid clay in quiet peace,
But all is struggling horror!—Blessed ones!
Your bed is green, and there, through flickering leaves
The sun slants downward on the springing stems,
And moonlight slumbers gently on the dew.

115

Not by your grave the mob's coarse shout is heard,
But summer birds trill their sweet lays of joy.
The executioner, with death-bronzed look,
Frowns not upon that spot, but gushing tears
Drop tenderly from loving eyes.—'T is well!
My children! would that I could thus be laid
Where, from the burnished oak, the hoary moss
Waves its grey banner to the passing breeze.—
Alas! my noble boys and orphan girl,
Who still contend with life's tumultuous waves,
My whole heart sickens and my head is faint
With thoughts of you,—left fatherless.
O God!
How tenderly would I have nursed their youth,
Rest of that blessed mother's fostering love,
Whose gentle eye is shrouded o'er by death,
Nor longer beams above their breathing sleep,
Shedding a constant sunlight over all.
Death had been soften'd, dear ones! could but I
Have lain my cheek to yours, and felt your hands
Press down my dying lids with filial care,
And borne a message of your love to her,
Who waits to greet her household in the skies.
And thou, my country! I had hoped to see
The star of conquest lighting up thy brow.

116

Yet 'neath the waves of woe upon my soul,
I feel an under-current of stern joy,
That I may die for thee.—Oh! many a hand
Now feeble, will be nerved with sudden strength
When the sad story of my wrongs is heard.—
Touch'd by my fate, the daughters of the South
Shall bend in mingled thought around my grave,
Aveng'd by brother-swords. New England's sons
Hearing the tale, and bracing up their souls
Shall rush upon the foe, fierce as the winds
Athwart their icy hills. Posterity
Will not unkindly dwell upon my name.

But, Heavenly Father! this is not the hour
To cling thus fervently to earthly things;—
Let these low clouds of thought, though colored up
With deathless hues of love and loyalty,
Roll off, and leave me with myself and Thee.

[Meditates.
EAST-BAY. TWO AMERICANS.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Noonday burns:
Bright sunshine, yet deep gloom is o'er the scene,
A shade like death. I could not join the crowd,
But wrapt in bitter musings, here remained.

117

And what a solemn hush! The zepyhr's breath
Scarce ruffles yonder vessel's snowy sail;
And the blue wave, with such a gentle plash
As summer rivers yield, kisses the bastion:
White clouds rest lightly on the upper deep,
The oars-man's stroke falls clearly, and behold!
The very winds disdain to lift on high
The British flag, on yonder distant tower.
Nature is still, but what a tempest wild
Rages in human hearts. I cannot breathe
This air, and the midsummer's sun is faint
To the hot fire that kindles up my soul.
O God! sustain him! 't is a fearful thing,
With perfect sense and strong corporeal power,
To quit this gladsome earth.

SECOND SOLDIER.
The town's quite alone,
A few t' exult, but oh! far more to weep
Have joined the funeral throng. I could not bear
The spectacle. The image haunts me now
Of that dark prison scene.

FIRST SOLDIER.
When wert thou there?

118

SECOND SOLDIER.

Last evening, and my inmost heart retains
The vision still. A messenger I went,
And saw them all—the children and their sire.
And through my future life, on memory's height
That scene will stand, like some lone, broken column,
Sad, but most beautiful! Beside the door
At which I entered, stood a Hessian guard.
Alas! my country! do I live to tell
Of foreign hirelings, who thus lord it o'er thee?
A coffin was at hand, shrouded above
With sable pall, save where an open space
Display'd the garniture of white within.
I little marked the prison; but we know
War decks not oft, with niceties of show,
The grated chamber, where the sentenced lie,
Though downy pillows willing slaves have spread,
And busy love, with an untiring zeal,
Has ministered through life to each slight wish.

A thoughtful quiet sat upon his brow,
Varied at moments by some sudden gush
Of anguish from his friends, as the smooth lake,
When from a passing cloud the rain drops fall,
Breaking its stillness, chafes, but silently,
And then reflects all heaven in calm again.

119

Upon his knee nestled the youngest boy,
Who conscious seem'd of grief he thought to soothe
With pretty toying.—Double love was his.—
His fair twin-blossom had been laid asleep
In early death, within his mother's arms,
And shared her grave; therefore the father's voice
Grew tremulous, when he addressed the boy,
And therefore did he hide his face at times,
When nature was too strong, 'mid the child's curls.
Claspt in his other arm, leaned a fair girl,
Glowing and fresh in childhood's ripening bloom.
I did not see her face, for on his breast
She hung like a cropt lily, while loud sobs
Came deep and shivering from her youthful frame.
But once (her head uprais'd to wipe the tears
She did not strive to check) her eager glance
Fell on the ready coffin;—a wild shriek
Of piteous woe still ringing on my ear,
Burst from her lips; then to her father's neck
She clung, claiming protection. E'en as one
Resolved to bear his part, the elder boy
Stood silent, though the gushing tears burst forth
And roll'd unheeded down.
The martyr spoke;
And in that listening group a footfall slight,

120

Such the intense excitement of the scene,
Would have seemed loud as thunder; for a voice
So near the grave sounds like an oracle.
“'T is not so dread a thing, my friends, to die,
If the firm mind rallies its better thoughts,
And looks without this shell of earth. 'T is but
The foretaste of some few short years, or days
Perchance, when stern disease, with tyrant touch,
Harsher than hangman's hand, would act its part.
Oh! weep not thus: a coward had I been,
Ye might have wept, for bitter are the tears
That fall upon a recreant traitor's grave.
I chiefly grieve that this my tragic fate
May rouse the unholy passion of revenge,
And war, with hydra-head be arm'd anew.”

There was a moment's pause, a lower tone,
In soften'd cadence, and I caught not all,
But solemn words fell broken on my ear,
“Children—religion—mother—grave—Almighty;”—
I heard no more, for gathering sobs arose
From every heart; the children to their sire
More closely clung, and I, with gushing tears,
Withdrew.

121

THE BARRACKS. BRITISH SOLDIERS.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Saw you the traitor meet his fate?
My duties called me here.

SECOND SOLDIER.
Oh! breathe it not
Again, my comrade, but this deed cries “murder!”

FIRST SOLDIER.
Speak not thus harshly. 'T is the chance of war.

SECOND SOLDIER.
“The chance of war!” to use thy worldly phrase,
Once made me prisoner to the foe. Wounded
And bowed with care, I lay, while thoughts of home,
Of Mary and my smiling babe, so play'd
Upon my heart-strings, I was moved to tears.
Hayne saw me, question'd of my health and state,
Soothed me with gentle words and Christian deeds,
And granted me soldierly exchange,
Yes, Britons whisper of his worthiness,
And his too short reprieve sprang from their claim
(Unask'd by him, but oh! how felt by me)
“Humanity to prisoners.”

122

FIRST SOLDIER.
What was
His bearing at the final scene?

SECOND SOLDIER.

Comrade,
Thou'st viewed a noble ship with sails all set,
Riding majestic on the ocean deep,
And when a vexing wind has crossed her path
Hast seen her yield a moment, then again
Righting herself press nobly on her way.—
'T was thus with him. When the base instrument
Of death first met his eye, he back recoil'd,
But soon regained his bearing calm on high.
There lingered, it is said, within his breast
A hope, that like a soldier he might die;
It was his last request, and was refused.
But, brother, there are men and moods can throw
A dignity o'er basest offices
I felt this truth imprest by him.
A crowd
Gathering and swelling from the Eastern Bay,
To where the woods upon the city's bound,
Northward arise, followed the soldier's steps.
His stripling son was there, and hardened hearts

123

Melted to sympathy with his young grief.
His father paused, and bade the weeping boy
Bear his remains to his ancestral tomb:
Then with the calm farewell man gives to man,
When slumber's couch is sought, addressed his friends,
And folding round his soul faith's radiant robe,
Arose to Heaven. Methought the earth grew dark;
Men walked as spectres, and my reason reel'd.—

Comrade, to me it is a soothing thought,
(Although a stranger, once alas! a foe,)
That in his kindred burial-place in peace
The soldier rests. I've seen the sacred spot.
There many a pilgrim rev'rently shall turn,
Foeman and friend, and sadly, deeply muse,
While dwelling on the Patriot-Martyr's wrongs,
Who, doom'd to die a traitor's cruel death,
Ask'd but a soldier's doom, and was denied.

And let me whisper my heart's prophecy.—
His high resolve will nerve Columbia's heart,
Brace freedom's arm anew, and teach her foes
“How nobly an American can die.”

Note 1.—Hayne's last promise to a friend previous to his execution, was, that he would show “how an American could die.”

Note 2.—Col. Hayne was interred in the family burial-ground in St. Bartholomew's Parish, four miles beyond Jacksonboro'.

South Carolina women gloried in this appellation.—

Garden's Anecdotes.

Now the Exchange.

124

JAIRUS' DAUGHTER.

LUKE, VIII.

[_]

[First published in the North American Review.]

They have watched her last and quivering breath,
And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapt her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.

But the mother casts a look behind,
And weeps for that fallen flower;
Nay, start not—'t was the passing wind,
Those limbs have lost their power.

And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
Over which the faint light plays;
'T is only the curtain's crimson glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.

125

Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
That bore her soul away?

She lies on her couch, all pale and hush'd,
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crush'd,
Which dies on its snowy bed.

Her mother has passed from that lonely room,
And the maid is still and pale,
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is the stiffen'd nail.

Her mother retires with folded arms,
And her head is bent in woe;
Her heart is shut to joys or harms,
No tear attempts to flow.

But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone—
“Jesus,” she cries, “has no power here,
My daughter's spirit has flown!”

126

He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er that senseless form;
She breathes! She breathes! at his hallow'd touch
The maiden's hand is warm.

And the fresh blood comes with its roseate hue,
And life spreads quick through her frame,
Her head is raised, and her step is true,
And she murmurs her mother's name.

Cambridge, Mass. 1812.

127

JEPHTHAH'S RASH VOW.

The battle had ceas'd, and the victory was won,
The wild cry of horror was o'er.—
Now arose in his glory the bright beaming sun,
And with him, his journey the war-chief begun,
With a soul breathing vengeance no more.

The foes of his country lay strew'd on the plain—
A tear stole its course to his eye,
But the warrior disdain'd every semblance of pain,
He thought of his child, of his country again,
And suppress'd, while 't was forming, a sigh.

“Oh, Father of light!” said the conquering chief,
“The vow which I made, I renew;
'T was thy powerful arm gave the welcome relief,
When I call'd on thy name in the fulness of grief,
And my hopes were but cheerless and few.

128

“An off'ring of love will I pay at thy fane,
An off'ring thou canst not despise:
The first being I meet, when I welcome again
The land of my fathers, I left not in vain,
With the flames on thy altar shall rise.”

Now hush'd were his words, thro' the far spreading bands,
Nought was heard but the foot-fall around—
Till his feet in glad tread press his own native lands,
And to heav'n are uplifted his conquering hands
Not a voice breaks the silence profound.

O, listen! at distance what harmonies sound,
And at distance, what maiden appears?
See, forward she comes with a light springing bound,
And casts her mild eye in fond ecstasy round
For a parent is seen through her tears!

Her harp's wildest chord gives a strain of delight;
A moment—she springs to his arms!
“My daughter, Oh God!”—Not the horrors of fight,
While legion on legion against him unite,
Could bring to his soul such alarms.

129

In horror he starts, as a fiend had appear'd,
His eyes in mute agony close;
His sword o'er his age-frosted forehead is rear'd,
Which with scars from his many fought battles is sear'd;
Nor country nor daughter he knows.

But sudden conviction in quick flashes told,
That that daughter was destined to die;
No longer could nature the hard struggle hold,
His grief issued forth unrestrain'd, uncontroll'd
And glaz'd was his time-sunken eye.

His daughter is kneeling, and clasping that form
She ne'er touch'd but with transport before;
His daughter is watching the thundering storm,
Whose quick flashing lightnings so madly deform
A face, beaming sunshine no more.

But how did that daughter, so gentle and fair,
Hear the sentence that doom'd her to die?
For a moment was heard a shrill cry of despair—
For a moment her eye gave a heart-moving glare—
For a moment her bosom heav'd high.

130

It was but a moment—the frenzy was past,
She trustingly rush'd to his arms,
And there, as a flower when chill'd by the blast,
Reclines on an oak while its fury may last,
On his bosom she hush'd her alarms.

Not an eye saw that scene but was moistened in woe,
Not a voice could a sentence command;
Down the soldier's rough cheek tears of agony flow,
The sobs of the maidens rose mournful and low,
Sad pity wept over the band.

But fled was the hope in the fair maiden's breast,
From her father's fond bosom she rose;
Stern virtue appear'd in her manner confest,
She look'd like a saint from the realms of the blest,
Not a mortal encircled with woes.

She turn'd from the group and can I declare
The hope and the fortitude given,
As she sunk on her knees with a soul breathing prayer,
That her father might flourish, of angels the care,
Till with glory he blossom'd in heaven?

131

“Oh, comfort him, heaven, when low in the dust
My limbs are inactively laid!
Oh, comfort him, heaven, and let him then trust,
That free and immortal the souls of the just
Are in beauty and glory array'd.”

The maiden arose,—oh! I cannot portray
The devotion that glow'd in her eye;
Religion's sweet self in its light seem'd to play
With the mildness of night, with the glory of day—
But 't was pity that prompted her sigh.

“My father!”—the chief rais'd his agoniz'd head
With a gesture of settled despair—
“My father!”—the words she would utter had fled,
But the sobs that she heav'd, and the tears that she shed,
Told more than those words could declare.

That weakness past o'er, and the maiden could say,
“My father, for thee I can die.”
The hands slowly mov'd on their sorrowful way,
But never again from that heart-breaking day,
Was a smile known to force its enlivening ray
On the old chieftain's grief-stricken eye.

Watertown, Mass. 1810.

132

THE MAIDEN AND THE MARINER.

The toilet's task was o'er
The satin slipper clasped the modelled foot,
The white glove rested on the snowy arm,
While Ella's heart beat lightly;—light her tread
As down the steps with airy grace she sprang
To greet the neighboring ball-room's fairy scene;
Then bounded towards her carriage, and her laugh
Went ringing like a happy waterfall
Bursting from summer hills.
She nears the blaze
Of the saloon where sylphlike movements wait
On music, as an echo on its sound;
Where eyes like midnight stars shine joyously
From out the firmament of heart and mind.

The carriage stops. Hark! a low plaintive voice!
“Pity,” it said, “the shipwreck'd mariner,
Who has no friend, no country, and no home.”

133

“Back, fellow!” one exclaimed, “away, away!”
The vagrant was thrust off. With flowing robes,
White as the garb a new-made spirit wears,
Fair Ella glided by. Again that voice!—
She paused. A shade came o'er her sunny brow
Soft as morn's vapor on a silver stream.
“That voice of woe will haunt my thoughts,” she said,
“Will mingle with the dance discordantly,
Should I still coldly turn mine ear away.
And our dear William is a sailor too!
What if he need a pitying stranger's aid,
Young rebel from our hearth? God bless the boy!”
And here she heaved a sister's natural sigh,
And turning to the mariner she ask'd,—
“Stranger, what would'st thou? Can I aid thy need?”
Bright fell the light upon the seaman's coarse
And tattered garments,—brightly too it shone
On Ella's flower-wreathed brow and graceful form.

He paused. Ripe for the witcheries of the dance,
E'en though her heart was touch'd with sympathy,
The maiden's slipper'd foot kept eager time
To the loud gush of harmony that filled
The near saloon, while her slight ivory fan
Tapped on her open palm impatiently.

134

Nearer the sea-worn veteran pressed, and crossed
His hands upon his threadbare coat, and bowed.

A moment—Back he throws the ragged robe;
And lo! a manly form, in youth's fresh glow,
And laughing eyes, beneath the clustering curls,
That hang in ripen'd fulness o'er his brow!
'T is William, the gay wanderer,—and he clasps
The youthful Ella to his brother heart!

1834.

University of Virginia Library

BALLADS, DRAMATIC AND OTHER SKETCHES.

THE BETROTHED.

THE NEAPOLITAN BOYS.

ISADORE.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

Scene 1st

Scene 2d

JOSHUA'S COURTSHIP.

A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.

A BALLAD. THE TRAVELLER FROM NORTH CAROLINA.

A True Story.

MARY ANNA GIBBES,

THE YOUNG HEROINE OF STONO, S. C.

THE MONARCH AT PRAYER.

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE SONG.

ROSALIE.

THE MERCHANT'S BRIDE.

A BALLAD.

PART FIRST.

PART SECOND.

THE GAMESTER.

A BALLAD.

PART FIRST. THE PLANTATION.

PART SECOND. THE OVERSEER'S CHILDREN.

A NEW-ENGLAND BALLAD.

FRANCISCO DE RIBALTA,

THE SPANISH ARTIST.

A BALLAD.

MARY LEE.

THE CROW-MINDER OF THE SOUTH.

ANNIE IN THE GRAVE-YARD.

THE WARRIOR.

THE YOUNGEST ONE.

“BEYOND THE SABBATH.”

THE SAILOR'S DAUGHTER.

A BALLAD.

ISAAC HAYNE, OR THE PATRIOT MARTYR OF CAROLINA.

AN HISTORICAL DRAMATIC SKETCH.

JAIRUS' DAUGHTER.

LUKE, VIII.

JEPHTHAH'S RASH VOW.

THE MAIDEN AND THE MARINER.

PART FIRST.
THE PLANTATION.

PART SECOND.
THE OVERSEER'S CHILDREN.