My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | ||
MONODIES, Elegies, and Stanzas.
MONODY,
TO THE YOUNG HEROES WHO FOUGHT AND FELL UNDER GENERAL ST. CLAIR, IN A DESPERATE MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER, AT THE MIAMI OF THE LAKES.
Come, with thy moving plaint, and melting eye!
The muses court thee from thy blest abode;
Enthroned in light—embosomed in thy God!
With balmy voice the wayward tidings tell,
How the brave bled, and how lamented fell!
How in the earliest pride of opening bloom,
On houseless wilds demand a sheltering tomb!
Far from the social tie, the kindred tear,
Denied the relic'd urn and trophied bier.
In the first onset daring valour made;
Each youthful warrior wastes his wearied breath.
And woos stern honour in the grasp of death.
Scarce seen to charm, just rising to applause,
The blameless victim of a ruthless cause;
Torn like a plant beneath the early spring,
When shivering Eurus flaps his fateful wing.
What fond atonement soothe the hovering shade;
In vain from frozen age the warm tears flow,
In vain bright beauty droops in clouds of woe,
In vain the hero's laurelled wreathes decline,
In vain the minstrel swells the notes divine.
They, who afar, these bootless griefs deride,
And stain the fair Ohio's flowery tide,
The War, productive of these ever-lamented disasters, was said to have been instigated by the rapacious cruelty of the more Savage White Settlers, who encroaching upon the Indian Territory, carried Desolation and Death even to the Habitation of their Women—finally exasperating the Sufferers to Deeds of reciprocated Violence, which deeds were terminated by a War, as fatal to Honour as to Innocence.
Wrest his sole hope, and strip his subject soil;
Or like the rattling serpent of the heath,
On the lone sleeper pour the darts of death—
They must atone—from them the mourners claim,
Each loved associate, and each treasured name;
Their cruel hands these desolations spread,
Lost, in their cause, each martyr'd stripling bled;
Driven by their rage, the forest's children roam,
And the lorn female wants a pitying home!
As if that wild which bounteous heaven displays,
From orient Phoebus to his western rays—
Spread its broad breast in vain; to them denies,
The gifts which nature's liberal care supplies.
The labouring ploughshare and the culturing hand,
Why must that hand pollute the ravaged heath,
That forming ploughshare wage the deeds of death.
Though wakening reason join her forceful strain,
Still shall dejected mercy plead in vain;
Or shall Columbia hear the rude behest,
And clasp her murderers to her bleeding breast,
Shall she with impious hand, and ruffian knife,
From her first offspring snatch the claims of life,
To nature's sons with tyrant rage deny,
The woody mountain, and the covering sky!
Ah no—each sainted shade indignant bends,
Bares his deep wounds, his pallid arm extends;
Return, he cries, ere every hope is lost,
Ohio claims you on his ozier coast;
Return; though late, your treacherous wish disclaim,
Awake to justice, and arise to fame;
No more with blood the blushing soil deface,
And spare the patient, suffering, injured race,
To you our lacerated spirits turn,
From you demand a monumental Urn.
Meet the hard earth, and brave the drenching sky,
While the sick moon unveils her pensive brow,
And the drear night-bird swells the peal of woe.
Still the lorn shade its lurid vigil keeps,
And oe'r the unburied bones in hopeless horror weeps.
To the pale corse recall the quivering breath;
'Tis the mild power of seraph PEACE alone
Can charm each grief, and every wrong atone;
Her healing hand shall waft oblivion round,
Pouring her opiates through each gushing wound,
O'er the cold ghost a mantling Olive spread,
And shade the sod that laps THE GLORIOUS DEAD.
EPITAPH,
ON DOCTOR ANDRE CARENTE.
This Soi-disant materialist, with an Infidel head, but a feeling heart; wasteful in prosperity, and discarded in distress, was finally suffered to perish, amid the bitterness of unremembered services and unregarded poverty; having experienced the contrasted extremes of prodigal affluence, and deserted indigence.
This Soi-disant materialist, with an Infidel head, but a feeling heart; wasteful in prosperity, and discarded in distress, was finally suffered to perish, amid the bitterness of unremembered services and unregarded poverty; having experienced the contrasted extremes of prodigal affluence, and deserted indigence.
Carente, the doubting son of science lies;
In this cold cell is fixed that faultering mind,
Inflamed by wisdom, but yet never wise.
Averse he viewed the worldly art to save;
At last by fortune and her sons beguiled,
He lived to ask that bread he wasteful gave.
As no divinity but CHANCE he knew;
Seek not to draw the hiding veil away;
But own by chance full many a suffering grew.
Lonely, and lost, he heaved his trembling breath;
One friend he found—blest refuge of despair,—
One only kind remembering friend in death.
ELEGIAC LINES,
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. A. WIFE OF THE HONOURABLE JOHN C. J.
Transcendant beauty breathed its softened grace,
Or what avails the friend-surrounded bier,
Or e'en a matchless husband's hopeless tear!
That hand by which the finished portrait glows,
That touch, which taught the chorded notes to roll,
That voice whose warbling chained the captive soul,
Unconscious sleep! regardless of the care
That grieving tells in life, how prized they were.
The purer spirit wings its promised way—
While hovering seraphs guard the beauteous clay.
Fair as the gathered lily's polished form;
Lamented shade! for thee shall memory mourn,
And living praise thy early grave adorn.
Caress'd by fortune, happy in thy love;
Say, when did fate with equal lustre shine,
Or what blest husband knew a joy like thine!
Endeared by hope, with mutual fondness warmed;
Each opening morn increasing pleasure knew,
In scenes of bliss the closing day withdrew.
What impious mortal dare to question thee!
Why the blest Abba yields her valued breath,
While loathing wretches court the grasp of death?
While some whom hard affliction calls her own,
Beneath this tedious weight of being groan.
In silence breathe the unregarded sigh,
And cloud with secret tears the melting eye;
Or who the hidden springs of fate can find,
What ruling power instructs the searching mind,
Why merit droops, and prosperous vice beguiles,
Why pity grieves, and rude oppression smiles;
And while the living miscreant laughs at woe,
O'er Beauty's urn the tears of Virtue flow!
TO THE MEMORY
OF THE HONOURABLE MR. BOWDOIN, LATE GOVERNOR AND COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF THE STATE OF MASSACHUSETTS.
Still wander round the cheerless glade;
Or mid the rich and sparkling sky,
Can heed the muses plaintive sigh;
Can see a grateful country mourn,
See genius deck thy laurelled urn:
While those thy secret bounty fed—
The tear of hopeless sorrow shed;
Yet heed a faithful people's prayer:
Some kindred soul of heavenly fire,
With thy departed worth inspire;
Give him to scan the comet's way,
To watch the chaste moon's bashful ray,
To mark where milky myriads flow,
And see the distant planets glow;
O'er the blue arch undazzled gaze,
Searching the sun's meridian blaze;
And round the vast perfected whole,
Find ONE BRIGHT ORB OF GLORY roll.
Which formed the husband, father, friend.
The liberal praise, the cautious blame,
The charity concealed from fame,
Each worth, each lustre of thy faultless mind,
And with another Bowdoin grace mankind.
AUX MANES DE JULIE.
FROM THE GERMAN POETRY OF A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND, THUS RENDERED INTO FRENCH.
Wafts thy young graces through the glowing sky;
From what harmonious sphere, IMMORTAL FAIR,
Will that charmed voice the tones of comfort bear,
With sister seraphs chaunt the touching strain,
And give to hope thine angel-form again?
The tears that unavailing fondness pours,
Shall meet the spring and bathe its fairest flowers.
Emblems of thee—now withering in thy tomb—
So fresh in youth, so fragrant in thy bloom.
Till thou, and heaven, restore a mother's joy,
Yet—if thou canst—her sleepless cares controul,
Glance thy light vision on her clouded soul,
The veil of grief with holiest touch remove,
And point the path of REUNITED LOVE.
MEMENTO,
FOR MY INFANT, WHO LIVED BUT EIGHTEEN HOURS:
Shook by the rough wind's desolating breath—
Scarce o'er the chilly sod its low head rears,
And trembling dies upon the parent heath.
Just born to mourn—with premature decay
To the cold tyrant stretched his feeble arms,
And struggling sighed his little life away.
Though short its date, and hard the withering gale;
Since its pale bloom ethereal balm bestows,
And cheers with vernal hope the wasted vale.
Torn from this ruffian world, in yon bright sphere,
Joins with awakened voice the cherub train,
And pours his sweet breath on a mother's ear.
And floating tones of extasy impart,
Soft as when Seraphs strike the heavenly string
To charm the settled sorrow of the heart.
MONODY,
TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL HENRY KNOX, WHO DIED IN OCTOBER, 1806.
A soul of honour, and a life of fame;
A warrior-chief in victory's field renowned,
A statesman with the wreath of virtue crowned—
Such, Knox, wert thou! Shall truth's immortal strain,
Recall thy deeds, and plead their worth in vain!
Sacred and sainted mid yon radiant sky,
In vain shall friendship breathe her holiest sigh?
Softening the beams by glory blazoned there.
Lost like thy form, with that unconscious grown,
Of all thy fine affections called their own!
Ne'er shall that smile its speaking charm impart,
To win the angered passions from the heart:
No more that voice like melting music flow,
Sweet in its sadness o'er another's woe.
But round thy tomb despair will live to weep,
Cold as the cearments of thy marble sleep.
Quenched of the fervid mind its sacred ray—
Heaven called thee hence—nor nature's late decline,
Saw thy full lustred fame forbear to shine.
Called thee with patriot spirits earth-approved,
With heroes by the Queen of Ocean loved.
While on that world of waters, victory gave,
Immortal Nelson gained a glorious grave.
When Pitt, the soul of Albion, reached the skies,
And saw the RIVAL OF HIS GREATNESS rise.
Fox, loved of fame, an empire's guide and boast,
His voice sublime mid wondering plaudits lost.
These, like thyself—for God-like deeds admired,
In the ripe Autumn of their years expired.
Hence shall each kindred genius blend with thine,
And mingling in collected radiance shine.
Not hopeless falls the tributary tear.
For what is death, but life's beginning hour,
The poor man's glory, and the good man's power;
Replete with every bliss we taste below,
Source of the hope we feel, the truth we know.
Then not for thee, BLESSED SHADE! the grief be given;
For thee, beloved on earth—approved in heaven,
To soothe the lonely—bless the social hour,
And thy remembered virtues light the gloom
That death's deep night has gathered o'er thy tomb,
RECOLLECTIONS,
TO THE MEMORY OF THEOPHILUS PARSONS, LATE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE S. J. C. OF MASSACHUSETTS.
Seem'd an imparted light of Deity.
That mind which from the sordid earth could soar
To worlds where angels tremble and adore;
Is that extinguished?—As the sun's low ray,
By the cold twilight cloud is borne away—
Or like that sun, in heaven's congenial clime,
Again to wake, with energy sublime!
Hid, but not lost, the undying part shall rise,
More pure, more just, more hallowed, and more wise.
And as on earth unequalled, and alone,
With God's own light the immortal genius shone.
Restored to heaven, with saints and angel's there,
He breathes the blessing, lifts the guardian prayer.
Spoke the full feeling, beamed the unbounded thought,
That smile assuring, whose protective charm,
Fell on the timid heart, like pity's balm,
With temper kind as heaven, whose cheering glow,
Shed its warm beams on every shade of woe:
That wit spontaneous, whose attractive ease,
Careless of pleasing—never failed to please,
Which speechless wonder bent entranced to hear.
These shall the melancholy thought restore,
And weep to think, they live to charm no more.
But throned in heaven, beyond the seraph host,
Angel! or saint! ah deign our griefs to see,
Nor let the wanderer memory stray from thee.
STANZAS,
UPON SEEING AN IMPERFECT SKETCH DESIGNED FROM MEMORY, FOR THE POWERFUL FEATURES OF THE LATE AND EVER LAMENTED PROFESSOR MC KEAN.
To keep that clear, and glorious eye,
Whose rays from heaven's most hallowed flame,
Touched close on immortality.
Which warm in life's affections grew,
And poured of soul a speaking grace,
To every mental feeling true.
But thou Mc Kean, so kindly shone,
That loved by earth, and blessed by heaven,
Both claimed thy genius as their own.
These features to God's image near,
Like the winged Eagle, earth confined,
Were longer lent to languish here.
LAMENTATIONS
OF AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER, OVER THE TOMB OF HER ONLY SON.
Charles Ward Apthorp Morton expired of a Dropsy of the
Brain, a disease always accompanied by premature but extraordinary
capacity. Its fatal termination was accelerated
by sedentary habits and intense study. In his very early
childhood he appeared a prodigy of genius;—and entered the
University at thirteen—where he gave the fairest promise of
excellence in Science and the Fine Arts; for although endowed
by nature with a taste for the Sister Powers of Music,
Painting and Poetry; from his devotion to the more honourable
pursuits of Science, he relinquished these but a short
time previous to his last illness. His heart was noble and
sincere; abounding with passions, and affections. His integrity
unblemished and his death productive of self-despair to
his unfortunate Mother.
At his early age having already made Improvements in
Medical Electricity; for which he received a Certificate from
the President and Professors of Harvard University. But
his whole existence was that of suffering, owing to the original
feebleness of his constitution and the energetic sensibility
of his mind.
Charles Ward Apthorp Morton expired of a Dropsy of the Brain, a disease always accompanied by premature but extraordinary capacity. Its fatal termination was accelerated by sedentary habits and intense study. In his very early childhood he appeared a prodigy of genius;—and entered the University at thirteen—where he gave the fairest promise of excellence in Science and the Fine Arts; for although endowed by nature with a taste for the Sister Powers of Music, Painting and Poetry; from his devotion to the more honourable pursuits of Science, he relinquished these but a short time previous to his last illness. His heart was noble and sincere; abounding with passions, and affections. His integrity unblemished and his death productive of self-despair to his unfortunate Mother.
At his early age having already made Improvements in Medical Electricity; for which he received a Certificate from the President and Professors of Harvard University. But his whole existence was that of suffering, owing to the original feebleness of his constitution and the energetic sensibility of his mind.
No more shall see thy morn of hope arise,
No more for her its day resplendent shine,
But grief eternal rule like wrath divine,
Blotting from earth's drear scene each mental ray
That chased the phantom of despair away.
No murmur wakened, for thy love was mine;
Though hard her frown, and many a blow severe
Called to thy brilliant eye the clouding tear;
Yet poor the boon that waits on fortunes store,
Since the full pampered heart still pines for more.
To blight the laurel blooming round thy head;
Chilled by her grasp, but not to wrongs resigned,
For warm as summer glowed thine active mind;
No syren pleasure, potent to betray,
Ere lured thy lone and studious hours away.
For genius gave thee birth, and called thee child.
The painter's touch, the minstrel's art divine,
With many a charm of polished life were thine,
And thine the soul sublime, too ardent wrought,
The impetuous feeling, and the burst of thought;
Strong and resistless—to the few alone,
Was all the treasure of thy being known.
Young Genius rose—with rich and radiant beam,
While the fine eye, to that and nature true,
Spoke all that mind inspired, or sorrow knew.
And grieving yield me to the tomb's last sleep;
Nor, in thy dawn of years, when hope was gay,
Like heaven's bright arch of promise, melt away—
Lost, like a sun-beam in the spring's chill hours,
And transient as the garden's earliest flowers:
But dearer thou than rays that morn illume,
And lovelier far than nature's vernal bloom;
These, when the storm has past, again return,
But what shall wake thy deep death-slumbering urn?
What but the voice of heaven, that strain divine,
Which bids the trembling earth its trust resign.
Then the bold genius, and the feelings wild,
No more to wrongs and woes shall bear my child;
But that warm heart to generous pity known,
Which all the grieved affections made their own,
With the pure essence of that brain of fire,
Shall to a Seraph's fervid flame aspire;
And angels with arch-angels, pleased to find,
The blest expression of thy kindred mind;
Charming from memory's thought its earthly pain,
Will give thee to thy mother's soul again.
STANZAS,
INDUCED BY THE CIRCUMSTANCE OF A SINGLE DROP OF RAIN, HAVING FALLEN AS THE AUTHOR WAS ENTERING THE UNDER AISLE OF THE CHAPEL CONSECRATED TO THE DEAD.
From heaven—as if an angels eye,
Gazing upon this form of woe,
Had melted to its murmured sigh.
Where never hope, nor life, shall warm;
Since sepulchred those graces dwell—
Which gave to life and hope their charm!
No strains but grief has ever known,
Fearful it freezes nature's smile,
And looks on misery alone!
On thee—in many an accent wild?
Deaf is thy cold and clammy wall—
Dead as the passions of her child.
Lost to the world, she dwells with thee;
And gives from heaven an angel's tear,
To shed its pitying dew on me.
When will this bosom rest with thine!
No more thy living woes deplored,
Shalt thou and happiness be mine?
STANZAS,
OCCASIONED BY THE QUESTION OF A FRIEND, “WHAT HAS PRESERVED YOU?”
Life's first blessing yield his breath—
Did my breaking heart resign him,
To the mouldering caves of death?
With a mother's longing eye;
Gazing on each tranquil feature,
Till it seemed too dear to die.
This is no poetical fiction. When it was thought incumbent to perform the last pious obligation, resigning the dead to the sepulchre of his maternal Ancestors, under the desperate possibility that life was not wholly extinguished, his desolate Mother continued to visit the melancholy aisle, in which his remains were deposited, until even that last Hope was extinguished—and “Another and a better world” alone remains to console her incurable afflictions.
Morning saw my steps return;
And the glooms of evening found me,
Weeping o'er the unburied urn.
Were those features, resting mild—
But this dying heart felt colder,
Than the bosom of its child.
Heaven in pity saw its woes,
And on calm'd religion resting,
Bid the murmurer find repose.
When of life was lost the care—
She, the child of hope, sustained me,
She has saved me from despair.
LINES
ENCLOSING THE BEAUTIFUL RINGLETS OF MY SON.
So oft around my parting fingers twined,
Shorn from their brow of beauty, seem to say,
His praise shall live, bright and unchanged as they.
APOSTROPHE,
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED DAGHTER CHARLOTTE.
FRAGMENT.
That this melancholy Apostrophe, and in addition to this— the Stanzas in page 67—was and were correctly just, and free from the exaggeration of maternal enthusiasm, the Author appeals to the recollections of hundreds—perhaps thousands —of living individuals, who have seen Charlotte Morton in the dawn of fifteen, and these will surely admit, that a Beauty more brilliant—a Temper more celestial—and a Mind more enriched by Talents and by Virtues, had never met observation, nor inspired affection.
A complexion of the most delicate bloom, large dark eyes of enchanting blue, long ringlets of flaxen gold, in which no tint of the auburn nor approach to the red were seen, a smile seemingly of itself perfect beauty—an ivory neck and shoulders, in symmetry a model for sculpture—sweetness, softness, elegance—a musician, a painter, a poet.
This beautiful and highly gifted being was married early, and perished in the morning of her days, the victim of cares, and of climate—leaving her affectionate Mother the sole consolation of remembering that the two last happy years of her life were passed under the parental roof, until within three months of her decease, when at the request of her absent husband she voluntarily followed his fortunes, and became the affectionate victim of conjugal duty.
As the unsinning angels were!
No more the heaven that filled thine eyes,
Shall o'er a mother's sorrows rise,
Like the blue morning's soften'd ray,
To charm the clouds of grief away.
That mother lived—and lives—to see
The gift of God recall'd in thee:
Despair's deep voice appall'd to hear,
Slow whisp'ring that thou art not near.
Despair's chill glance on anguish borne,
To feel and know thy life is gone.
On deeds of filial love like thine;
A beauty lovelier than thine own:
Genius was thine, and taste refined,
And gentle temper's feeling mind;
Temper, whose fine unclouded mien
Shone constant, gracious, kind, serene.
Ah! what does earth's dim orb supply,
Like heavenly temper's angel eye!
Or the discordant world afford
Of music, like her answering word!
Thou wert an earthly deity!
Hope round thine infant pillow played,
Hope in thine early grave is laid;
A mother's hope, and lost despair,
Has led his haunting spectres there.
[OMITTED]
LINES,
TO THOSE WHO HAVE SAID “YOU ARE TRANQUIL.”
As peace with folded wing were there;
Nor tear betray the electric pain,
Which rushes on the trembling brain:
Nor does the speaking sigh impart
What dies within the closing heart;
As firm the unfaultering voice may seem,
And clear the cold eye's transient gleam:
Yet has the secret sufferer known
To dwell on hope forever flown.
While memory rose—to murder sleep.
Even thus the rainbow's arch of flame,
In token of deliverance came!
Though garb'd in nature's tranquil form,
Its home the cloud, its birth the storm;
While bruised, the drooping groves declare,
How hard the thunder's bolt struck there.
That selfish, solitary woe,
To one unwandering thought confined
A hermit on the desert mind,
A wreck, from life's full ocean toss'd,
In the hard storm of anguish lost,
Yet to the careless world appears,
Nor breathed in sighs, nor drown'd in tears:
Thus o'er the mansion—home of death,
The chapel curves the polish'd dome,
Where music pours his angel breath,
And beauty brings her mortal bloom,
With mingling praise, and melting prayer,
As heaven and earth were meeting there.
Mindless of RUIN'S rapid power,
Heed they, that near sepulchral gloom?
Where late his sceptred arm was laid
On glory's wreath and beauty's flower,
Causing their blended tints to fade,
In the long winter of the tomb,
Heed they, in youth's beginning year,
The threatening blast, cold-hovering near?
Heed they mid life's meridian glow
How fast the falling shadows flow,
Which evening's sullen hours bestow?
If sunk the earth's vain hope appear,
Again its ray may dawn, and rise
Smiles mingle with the grieving tear,
But cherish'd sorrow never dies.
INVOCATION,
TO THE SHADES OF MY ANCESTORS, WENTWORTH AND APTHORP.
In all their sufferings, all their fame.”
Montgomery.
Shadows of Men, revered and great!
Or good! or crushed by adverse fate!
O'er your devoted offspring bend,
To her who seeks no earthly friend!
Mission'd of God, descend!
Let her imploring tear and sigh,
Yield to the thought that ye are nigh;
Guarding with blest paternal eye,
The action of her woes.
Your height, your fall, your wrongs declare,
And show how bless'd, how cursed ye were,
Prisoned in earth's domains;
Let Strafford,
Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, the Minister, and favourite of Charles the First, sacrificed by that Monarch to his own personal safety—was beheaded near the end of the reign. Charles, in his last moments, declared that he suffered justly for having given up the Earl of Strafford to popular fury.—See Hume's History.
The near Relations of this Nobleman were the founders of the American Family of Wentworth. This family being presumptive heirs to the now extinct Title of that Earldom of Strafford.
The features of his history bring,
Expressive, as when warm in life,
Ere the red block and severing knife,
His monarch's fearful faith bestows,
How bright in opening morn he rose,
How dark at fate's tremendous close,
Alternate joys and pains.
And ye, the blooming brothers,
These were Henry and Samuel Wentworth, the maternal uncles of the Author, both perished before they had attained the age of 20. The first, on a northern voyage of curiosity and improvement, was entangled amid floating masses of ice, and in that situation expired along with the whole ship's company, passengers and seamen.
His young brother, Samuel Wentworth, having been invited to England by his noble relatives, was under the patronage of those, admitted as student at the Temple; at which period he first met Miss Lane, the object of his honourable passion, and the cause of his fatal misfortunes, the daughter of a great commercial house of that period. Her large inheritance, by her father's will, made dependent on the pleasure of her mercantile brother, to the aristocracy of whose wealth, young Wentworth could only oppose nobility of birth, accomplishment of mind and beauty of person, possessions which the man of commerce held as nothing, compared with the superior treasures of monied interest.
Consequently the love was prohibited, and the lover banished from his mistress; who though closely imprisoned in her own apartment, found means to preserve an epistolary connection. The correspondence encreasing the enthusiasm of restricted passion, until every possible hope of their union being extinguished, a deadly vial was obtained, and the contents, equally divided, were at one desperate moment swallowed by both. Their last desire, of being buried in the same grave, was denied.
These frantic and too affectionate lovers, finished the short career of their miseries on the birth day of Wentworth, being that which completed the nineteeth year of his age. And it is not irrelevant to add, that the brother of the lady lived to lose his immense possessions, and died desolate and distressed; at which period, we trust, repentance came, and forgiveness was awarded.
Victims of youth's untimely doom;
That flung the gem of life away,
With an unholy hand.
Ah! be his ills thy lesson made,
And though enclosed by misery's shade,
Await thy God's command.
Distant and dark—by graves divided—far
From her, who rose his morning's earliest star;
Her, whose sweet eyes of love, and polish'd mind,
Were to the young and graceful Wentworth kind,
Impious—in plighted faith of heart, to share
The unpermitted chalice of despair.
Not theirs the altar's consecrated flame,
Which soars to Heaven in honor, peace and fame,
Whose chasten'd light is seen on earth to glow,
Like moon-beams o'er a sculptur'd angels brow;
But theirs a meteor-plague which threatning shone,
Till every fluttering wing of fear had flown;
A meteor-plague, whose inauspicious ray
Bore all the blooming health of hope away.
[OMITTED]
That blessing which the dream of passion sought,
Waked to the frantic extasy of thought.
Opposed—in life with fated fondness grew,
Opposed—in dust no mingling union knew.
And thence, in ever parted tombs they lie,
Martyrs of morbid love's insanity.
Love, the betrayer! near whose breath of fire,
The calm affections tremble—or retire—
So in the Land of Ice, mid stainless snows,
His boiling strength the dangerous Geyser
The Great Geyser, or Boiling Fountain of Iceland, ejects a stream of boiling water, sometimes more than a hundred feet upward, wrapped in foam—and encircled by beautiful rainbows, burying itself beneath the rock, and ascending the skies in constant alternation—the effect of subterranean fires sometimes giving the appearance of deep red or green to parts of the Geyser.—See Sir G. S. Mackenzie. Also, I think; Dr. Henderson, the last Traveller who has published Observations on the Great Geyser.
Powerful in mischief—bold in beauty soars
From shuddering earth, to heaven's receding towers.
Pervading all; but not in all the same,
Here pale with frost, there blushing red with flame.
Round his white brow benignant rainbows rise;
Hope in their smiles—can hope that breast reveal,
Whose hidden fires a secret foe conceal?
Whose baneful deeds, like Geyser's fountain prove,
A heart that burns, or boils, with hate or love.
Destructive powers! if fiends on earth are known,
Their reign is passion—and its height their throne.
Apthorp! my proud paternal line,
John, the founder of the transatlantic race of Apthorp, was a man of taste and talent in the Fine Arts; particularly those of Painting and Architecture. A taste and talent, which has in some instance been transmitted to his descendants even of the fifth generation.
An ardent imagination, and an ambitious desire of mental improvement, led him from his native country of Wales. And in England, he saw, loved, and married, Miss Ward, a celebrated beauty, with a large fortune, whose Portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, yet remains with her descendant. This portrait is distinguished by the long dark eyes, which that artist preferred and made fashionable.
The qualities of both parents live, and are conspicuous in some of their descendants. A highly respectable individual of these, whose superiority of mind may possibly disdain such recollections, was, in his minority, so transcendantly handsome, that upon a Tour through the Southern States, he was generally designated “The Eastern Angel.” As he now is, the Genius of Canova, might design that form as a model for the sublime statue of melancholy, since his fortunes have fallen—like those of his race—a voluntary sacrifice to the best sentiments, and the noblest feelings of humanity, while domestic bereavements coming yet nearer to his gracious heart have left it the prey of sorrow.
Charles Bulfinch, Esq. of Washington, at this time, the National Architect, is one more evidence of the inestimable happiness of a good descent.
The homage of my soul is thine,
Where Cambria's minstrel-realm appears
A beauty—or in smiles—or tears.
In scenes, where rich the sun-beam glows,
And swift the sleepless torrent flows,
Beneath the mountain's weight of snows—
The fathers of my sires, had there
Birth—blessings—griefs, and sepulchre;
A favoured race, to fortune known,
Still on the rude armorial stone,
Mid the cold ivy's trembling green,
The annals of their deeds are seen.
By Lion-hearted Richard led,
How bold they fought, how fearless bled—
How erst the shield, whose CRESTED pride,
A royal gift—in crimson dyed,—
Had graced that Christian Warrior's side,
Whose sons, in youth's romantic day,
Tempting rude ocean's dangerous sway,
To the far land of promise came,
Not forced by want, nor driven by shame;
But to endearing fancy true,
Fancy, that loves and woos the distant and the new.
These, to the young and lovely shore,
The glories of their lineage bore,
Talent, and taste, and truth severe,
And honour, as existence dear;
Was pity's oft relenting mind;
And bounty's glowing heart so warm,
And beauty of celestial form.
The wanderers reared God's dome of prayer,
And rest in sculptured memory there.
The present Stone Chapel—originally the King's Chapel— founded by Royalty, was finished by the generosity of individuals. Charles Apthorp, Esq. the son of John, gave 5000l. sterling, a very large sum for the Provinces at that period, about the middle of the eighteenth century.
His Marble Monument with a very fine Latin Inscription, by his Son, still remains in the Chapel, which Monument covers the Tomb of the truly noble-minded race of Apthorp.
How erst the shield, whose crested pride.The Crest, if not the whole Armorial Bearing, is thought or said to have been conferred upon the Battle Field by Richard.
Soon to that honour sanctioned tomb,
The remnant of the race shall come,
Cold, slumbering by its relics lay,
Unconscious of the kindred clay.
Shades of my Fathers! great, or good,
This heart yet glorying in your blood,
Pleads for that peace which earth denies,
The living branch, whose foliage young,
Mid your deep-rooted virtues sprung;
With a good angel's guardian care,
Shield from the night-frost of despair,
Driven by life's storms, its torn leaf lies,
Immortal, full in bloom to rise.
Sires of a firm unbroken line,
Source of my life—YOUR HEAVEN IS MINE.
Apology.
In Apology for what may properly be termed a mere medley of mind, in Thoughts and Fragments; it seems honest to explain how written, and why published.
Far from having originally presumed to attempt regulating the capacities, or amending the hearts of others; the sole view of the author has been, to correct and console her own.
A series of disappointments, with distress, cruelly aggravated by the premature death of very dear children, having left that stagnation of heart, and that pulsation of brain, which sometimes seems to precede the most deplorable of human miseries; to avert the apprehended possibility of this, the aid of constant occupation, and continued self-examination, was resorted to; that self-examination inducing recollection, and impelling resolution, as to cause, effect, and remedy.
The early morning and the late evening, given to the question of her own faults, many mistakes, and continued afflictions, the result of such enquiry was committed to fragments of paper, with the single intent of being referred to, and acted upon
Finally, the accumulation of Fragments occasioning difficulty of selection, these were arranged by the author, and slowly transcribed into one manuscript—sufficient for a book—that is, sufficient in pages—but probably insufficient in every other requisite; this was her belief, and this belief virtually confirmed by the opinion of some to whom a very small portion of the work had been timidly communicated.
And yet, under every personal and particular discouragement, the author could think that those poor fragments, which had done so much for the dispositions of her own mind, might, under similar exigencies, effect something for the benefit of others; and with this impression stampt on her heart, she had the temerity to apply to one, who honours and hallows the cloth that he wears, and by the unerring genius of that one, was countenanced, favoured, and encouraged, and did venture—even amid existing fears, appalling predictions, and conscious inefficiency, to hope, and to ask for patronage —and that patronage was awarded by the gentle and the generous; and if ultimately supposed to have been lavished upon the dull, and the incompetent, will surely not be thrown away upon the assuming and the ungrateful.
The following Lines, having been omitted in their proper place, solely by the fault of the Author, are here inserted, as seemingly essential to illustrate the historical series of extreme events, compelled by the power and progress of Time.
These Lines the Reader will, if he please, supply, p. 106.
“Where great Sesostris rears his trophied bustA mouldering pageant and an empty name.”
Whose harness'd steeds—a mournful band!—
Were monarchs, conquered by his hand!
The trappings, which their shoulders bore,
Once royal robes, were stiff with gore
'Till Time, a friend to Misery true,
The victim,—or the victor, slew;
And held the car, or heav'd the chain,
Of this the triumph—that the pain—
The car—the chain—whose blended sway
The happy and the hurt obey.
Egypt, whose meads the barbarous Turk deflowers,
While the wild Arab mocks her murdered powers,
Assisting thee to blight her fading fame.
My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | ||