 | The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems |  |
75
OCCASIONAL POEMS.
77
EPISTLE TO MISS T***** H***.
The stars o'er heaven are burning bright,
And from her urn of purest light,
The moon pours down, as with delight,
Such living streams,
That, T***** 'tis a glorious night
For poet's dreams.
And from her urn of purest light,
The moon pours down, as with delight,
Such living streams,
That, T***** 'tis a glorious night
For poet's dreams.
Ocean for Luna flows—my muse,
Should she her time too nicely choose,
And with fastidious scorn refuse
The chastened beam,
She might the golden moment lose,
And lose her theme.
Should she her time too nicely choose,
And with fastidious scorn refuse
The chastened beam,
She might the golden moment lose,
And lose her theme.
Luna! thou hast been deemed divine,
And now thy glances sweetly shine,
Yet tempt they not one wish of mine
Abroad to roam;
Fool must I be, could I repine
So rich at home!
And now thy glances sweetly shine,
Yet tempt they not one wish of mine
Abroad to roam;
Fool must I be, could I repine
So rich at home!
78
Yes, rich—but not from India's spoils;
Nor yet from slavery's bleeding toils—
Mine is the wealth that care beguiles;
Affection's tone,
And friendship's soft domestic smiles—
These are mine own.
Nor yet from slavery's bleeding toils—
Mine is the wealth that care beguiles;
Affection's tone,
And friendship's soft domestic smiles—
These are mine own.
Folly the happy home may spurn,
And from its kind endearments turn,
And fashion's glittering trophies earn,
And gaily shine;
But virtue there will lessons learn,
And truths divine.
And from its kind endearments turn,
And fashion's glittering trophies earn,
And gaily shine;
But virtue there will lessons learn,
And truths divine.
“Creation's Lord,” a lofty name!
Man rides the wave, and rules the flame;
The sage's gown, the hero's fame
Is his alone—
Woman may dearer empire claim,
The heart her throne.
Man rides the wave, and rules the flame;
The sage's gown, the hero's fame
Is his alone—
Woman may dearer empire claim,
The heart her throne.
Nor man, a rebel, will deny
Her sway, or from her sceptre fly;
When grief's tumultuous waves swell high
'Tis hers to smooth;
His earliest smile, his latest sigh
To share or soothe.
Her sway, or from her sceptre fly;
When grief's tumultuous waves swell high
'Tis hers to smooth;
His earliest smile, his latest sigh
To share or soothe.
79
While men the world's rough billows roam,
Some search for gold, for glory some;
But when disgust, or anguish come,
And hopes must cease,
Then Woman is the star of home
That guides to peace.
Some search for gold, for glory some;
But when disgust, or anguish come,
And hopes must cease,
Then Woman is the star of home
That guides to peace.
And in that Home their all of bliss,
That's worth the name of happiness,
Will dwell, if faith and friendship kiss
In holy mood!
But these are joys the bad must miss,
And oft the good:
That's worth the name of happiness,
Will dwell, if faith and friendship kiss
In holy mood!
But these are joys the bad must miss,
And oft the good:
Yes, oft the good—for nice the part,
To strike the chords that thrill the heart,
Yet let no jarring passion start
To mar the tone—
But listen, T*****, and the art
Shall be your own.
To strike the chords that thrill the heart,
Yet let no jarring passion start
To mar the tone—
But listen, T*****, and the art
Shall be your own.
Like gems of heaven's own current coin,
See beauty, as the morning, shine;
I feel its power, though never mine,
The soul to win,
And should our sex its want repine,
'Tis scarce a sin:
See beauty, as the morning, shine;
I feel its power, though never mine,
The soul to win,
And should our sex its want repine,
'Tis scarce a sin:
80
But still though this the husband gain,
Discretion must his heart retain;
Then meet not every trifle vain,
With lectures grave;
For still the less he feels his chain,
The more your slave.
Discretion must his heart retain;
Then meet not every trifle vain,
With lectures grave;
For still the less he feels his chain,
The more your slave.
To please his taste your dress prepare,
And costly as his state will bear—
Rich more than gay; but neatness there
Must still preside;
'Twill make each ornament more fair,—
'Tis Woman's pride.
And costly as his state will bear—
Rich more than gay; but neatness there
Must still preside;
'Twill make each ornament more fair,—
'Tis Woman's pride.
To greet each guest with welcome free,
To please in polish'd company,
Graces are these that all may see,
And all applaud;
Still let not your ambition be
To shine abroad.
To please in polish'd company,
Graces are these that all may see,
And all applaud;
Still let not your ambition be
To shine abroad.
Your husband! is he kind and true?
To him your sweetest smiles are due;
He studies, or he toils for you,
With anxious care;
His rougher path with flowers to strew,
Must be your share.
To him your sweetest smiles are due;
He studies, or he toils for you,
With anxious care;
His rougher path with flowers to strew,
Must be your share.
81
You wish his perfect confidence;
Good-breeding then unite with sense,
And let no frivolous pretence
Excuse neglect;
Nor dream affection may dispense
With all respect.
Good-breeding then unite with sense,
And let no frivolous pretence
Excuse neglect;
Nor dream affection may dispense
With all respect.
Should cares or grief your mind o'erspread—
Yet when is heard his welcome tread,
Then gaily be your greetings said,
The seat soon plac'd;
While the repast, so neatly spread,
Invites his taste.
Yet when is heard his welcome tread,
Then gaily be your greetings said,
The seat soon plac'd;
While the repast, so neatly spread,
Invites his taste.
But not the superficial mind
Can pure domestic pleasures find—
When studies as the hearts are join'd,
And calm as even,
Thought from each bosom flows refin'd—
Then Home is heaven!
Can pure domestic pleasures find—
When studies as the hearts are join'd,
And calm as even,
Thought from each bosom flows refin'd—
Then Home is heaven!
Yet nought so difficult to hit,
As the just mean of woman's wit—
If shining in proportion fit,
Of sense and grace,
From mind's eternal fountain lit,
The world to bless—
As the just mean of woman's wit—
If shining in proportion fit,
Of sense and grace,
From mind's eternal fountain lit,
The world to bless—
82
And fann'd by Virtue's light'ning wing,
'Tis the soul-breathing gales of Spring,
That life, and joy, and beauty bring,
And mould and warm;
While music wakes' and odors fling
Their angel charm!
'Tis the soul-breathing gales of Spring,
That life, and joy, and beauty bring,
And mould and warm;
While music wakes' and odors fling
Their angel charm!
But step not Nature o'er—the state,
That she assigned us, cultivate;
Nor “Rights of Women” vindicate,
With logic skill—
It is enough we captivate—
Why should we kill?
That she assigned us, cultivate;
Nor “Rights of Women” vindicate,
With logic skill—
It is enough we captivate—
Why should we kill?
Bewilder'd in the subtle schools,
Some master spirit's senseless tools,
And not more infidels than fools,
Men sometimes dare
To spurn religion's sacred rules,
With heaven to war.
Some master spirit's senseless tools,
And not more infidels than fools,
Men sometimes dare
To spurn religion's sacred rules,
With heaven to war.
But 'tis a hallowed plant, that we
Must cherish, guard assiduously;
A woman without piety
Who could approve?
What man of honor, should he see,
Would dare to love?
Must cherish, guard assiduously;
A woman without piety
Who could approve?
What man of honor, should he see,
Would dare to love?
83
Perhaps you are his angel, sent
To woo him kindly to repent!
Still use no doubty argument
To prove each fact;
But let him frankly yield assent
As his own act.
To woo him kindly to repent!
Still use no doubty argument
To prove each fact;
But let him frankly yield assent
As his own act.
Even should he slight your faith most dear,
Nor aught that's high and holy fear;
The mild reproof, the tender tear
May yet prevail;
A sigh will sometimes win the ear
When sermons fail.
Nor aught that's high and holy fear;
The mild reproof, the tender tear
May yet prevail;
A sigh will sometimes win the ear
When sermons fail.
Oh, knew our sex their moral power,
And would they use that heavenly dower,
How short were crime's triumphant hour,
Or boast of guilt!
The forfeiture of Eden's bower
Would scarce be felt.
And would they use that heavenly dower,
How short were crime's triumphant hour,
Or boast of guilt!
The forfeiture of Eden's bower
Would scarce be felt.
But Luna's beams no more descend,
And my dilated song must end,
Its burden this, the art to blend,
That charm of life,
The Mistress gay, th' improving friend,
The faithful Wife.
And my dilated song must end,
Its burden this, the art to blend,
That charm of life,
The Mistress gay, th' improving friend,
The faithful Wife.
84
WASHINGTON.
When morning trembles on her purple throne,
As Sol, in glory, claims it for his own;
And all above is light—pure, boundless, free,
And all around is life, and love, and glee,
What mind but brightens with that bright'ning sky
What heart but melts with softest sympathy!
And who, of soul refin'd, that gazes there,
But mingles with the hallowed scene a pray'r,
That brighter, lovelier still the day may shine,
Charm as it grows, and soothe in its decline!
But when the sable night her veil hath spread,
And that bright morn, and brighter day have fled—
Oh, still remembrance through the shades of night,
Recalls and revels in that glorious light!
The sounds that cheered, the scenes that charmed her rise,
But softened as in autumn, summer skies—
And still the thoughtful, pensive mind prefers
Her midnight musings—they are only her's—
The day she hath enjoyed no storms can blast,
Nor fate nor nature sway the mighty past!
As Sol, in glory, claims it for his own;
And all above is light—pure, boundless, free,
And all around is life, and love, and glee,
What mind but brightens with that bright'ning sky
What heart but melts with softest sympathy!
And who, of soul refin'd, that gazes there,
But mingles with the hallowed scene a pray'r,
That brighter, lovelier still the day may shine,
Charm as it grows, and soothe in its decline!
But when the sable night her veil hath spread,
And that bright morn, and brighter day have fled—
Oh, still remembrance through the shades of night,
Recalls and revels in that glorious light!
The sounds that cheered, the scenes that charmed her rise,
But softened as in autumn, summer skies—
And still the thoughtful, pensive mind prefers
Her midnight musings—they are only her's—
The day she hath enjoyed no storms can blast,
Nor fate nor nature sway the mighty past!
Thus, Washington, thy morn of being show'd,
And thus thy day's meridian glories glow'd—
We feel 'tis past—and yet it passed so fair,
We would not, if we might, recall it here—
The grave, that closed thy drama, stamp'd thy name,
In living blazon on the rolls of flame,
And it will glow, through each successive age,
Thy country's purest, proudest heritage!
And thus thy day's meridian glories glow'd—
85
We would not, if we might, recall it here—
The grave, that closed thy drama, stamp'd thy name,
In living blazon on the rolls of flame,
And it will glow, through each successive age,
Thy country's purest, proudest heritage!
Well may America record the scene,
Where Washington her guiding stay hath been—
Well may his deeds that sacred joy impart,
Which throbs with kindred thrill earth freeman's heart;
Their bond of union, that cements in one
All minds whose model is a Washington!
Where Washington her guiding stay hath been—
Well may his deeds that sacred joy impart,
Which throbs with kindred thrill earth freeman's heart;
Their bond of union, that cements in one
All minds whose model is a Washington!
While fair Aurora's pencil paints the skies,
What tints on tints, in bright succession, rise,
From her first touch till the last gorgeous dyes!
Can taste that ever-varying scene pursue,
And note each change, and name each diff'ring hue?
No, blended all is beauty, all is light;
But the nice shades elude the eager sight—
So is it vain each virtue to display,
When we our Hero's character portray:
'Twas excellence united, and the claim
Of Warrior, Statesman, Citizen the same.
Heaven taught, he rose—his youth might lesson age.
When his young wisdom sav'd from savage rage
The remnant of that proud, misguided host,
A Braddock's headlong rashness all but lost—
But when his countrymen his aid require,
How do their perils, wrongs, his bosom fire!
Life, fortune, sacred honor, plighted ALL,
To save his Country, or to share her fall.
And Warren, earliest martyr at the shrine
Of Freedom, holy nature stamps divine,
Though throned on high, in heaven's pure Liberty,
Yet might his sainted spirit bend to see,
How fled from Washington's uplifted brand,
The coward, cruel, desolating band!
What tints on tints, in bright succession, rise,
From her first touch till the last gorgeous dyes!
Can taste that ever-varying scene pursue,
And note each change, and name each diff'ring hue?
No, blended all is beauty, all is light;
But the nice shades elude the eager sight—
So is it vain each virtue to display,
When we our Hero's character portray:
'Twas excellence united, and the claim
Of Warrior, Statesman, Citizen the same.
86
When his young wisdom sav'd from savage rage
The remnant of that proud, misguided host,
A Braddock's headlong rashness all but lost—
But when his countrymen his aid require,
How do their perils, wrongs, his bosom fire!
Life, fortune, sacred honor, plighted ALL,
To save his Country, or to share her fall.
And Warren, earliest martyr at the shrine
Of Freedom, holy nature stamps divine,
Though throned on high, in heaven's pure Liberty,
Yet might his sainted spirit bend to see,
How fled from Washington's uplifted brand,
The coward, cruel, desolating band!
But Albion sends her thousands to the field,
To crush those Freemen who may die—not yield!
Then through the Jerseys lay their cold retreat,
The snow-path crimson 'neath their bleeding feet,
And firmest patriots trembled, or despaired,
And Washington, even thou their feelings shared.
It must be so,—couldst thou unmoved have seen
War's giant strides, Destruction in his train,
And chains, or death on his command attend,
Thou wouldst have been our angel, not our friend!
The human friend, whose sympathetic heart
Feels in each brother's pang, a brother's part!
Then was the trial of men's souls—the night
Of darkness deep as Egypt's!—Oh, how bright
Burst through that gloom, the gleam of vict'ry's sun,
As Trenton, Princeton, echoed Washington!
He conquer'd—more than crowns was his reward,
When to his country he resign'd his sword,
And felt that she was free—that all his pain,
His perils, sacrifices were not vain:
For her he'd fought and toil'd in dust and blood—
She gave him all he wished—her gratitude!
She thron'd him in her heart—forever there
He'll reign immortal as his virtues are.
To crush those Freemen who may die—not yield!
Then through the Jerseys lay their cold retreat,
The snow-path crimson 'neath their bleeding feet,
And firmest patriots trembled, or despaired,
And Washington, even thou their feelings shared.
It must be so,—couldst thou unmoved have seen
War's giant strides, Destruction in his train,
And chains, or death on his command attend,
Thou wouldst have been our angel, not our friend!
87
Feels in each brother's pang, a brother's part!
Then was the trial of men's souls—the night
Of darkness deep as Egypt's!—Oh, how bright
Burst through that gloom, the gleam of vict'ry's sun,
As Trenton, Princeton, echoed Washington!
He conquer'd—more than crowns was his reward,
When to his country he resign'd his sword,
And felt that she was free—that all his pain,
His perils, sacrifices were not vain:
For her he'd fought and toil'd in dust and blood—
She gave him all he wished—her gratitude!
She thron'd him in her heart—forever there
He'll reign immortal as his virtues are.
Greece had her conqu'rers—and her warriors, Rome—
And some proud column, or some sculptured dome
Each nation hallowed to her heroes' fame—
But Washington thy monument's thy Name!
Their brightest names some sickly vapors shroud;
Thine, the broad summer's sun without a cloud.
And some proud column, or some sculptured dome
Each nation hallowed to her heroes' fame—
But Washington thy monument's thy Name!
Their brightest names some sickly vapors shroud;
Thine, the broad summer's sun without a cloud.
88
IMPROMPTU.
TO MARY.
The gay morn of life, my dear Mary, may smile,Its fancies enchant us, its flatt'ries beguile,
Yet often the deep rolling vapors ascend,
Hope's sunshine is darkened, gay visions will end,
While sorrows and shadows our prospects o'ercast,
With fears for the future, regrets for the past—
Oh! then, while we languish, oppress'd with our grief,
What art can restore us, what aid bring relief?
Let Prudence, and Patience, and Piety join,
They'll form a specific both sure and divine—
Those evils which Prudence could never foresee,
With Patience endure them—the lighter they'll be—
And Piety, when this vain tumult shall cease,
Will fit us for heaven, and fix us in bliss.
89
THE WIFE.
ADDRESSED TO MR. ---, ON HIS MARRIAGE.
1.
When fortune on her favored son,Her golden gifts bestows;
When honor's highest goal is won;
When health with pleasure glows—
What gives its richest charm to wealth—
Rewards ambition's strife—
Gives pleasure zest, and hope to health?
The lov'd, endearing Wife.
2.
And when misfortune's storms assail;When friends and flatt'rers fly—
When fame shall fade, and health shall fail,
And dreams of pleasure die—
Who still, 'mid fortune's frown, will smile?
Who share the lowly life?
Who sorrow soothe, and pain beguile?
The lov'd, endearing Wife.
90
BATTLE OF NEW-ORLEANS.
1.
Like the rush of the tempest, the battle is heard,The echoing din sounds afar—
And firm is the heart of the Briton prepar'd,
And grasp'd is the sword that in Europe he bar'd,
And loud is his shout for the war!
2.
Spirit of Freedom, descend from the skies,And nerve thine own sons for the shock!
And nations shall learn, to their shame and surprise,
That slightest entrenchments, when freemen arise,
Are firmer than adamant rock.
3.
Like Sicily's verdure, this moment aroseBritannia's proud host on the sight—
War's wildest tornado is hurled from their foes—
They sink, as when Ætna its burning mass throws,
Involving destruction in night.
91
4.
Then Columbia's fair Genius, by Victory crown'd,Triumphant, ascended the sky;
The steel of her lightning the olive branch wound,
The ensign of freedom was floating around,
And clemency beamed from her eye.
WHAT'S LIFE?
What's life? the meteor's lurid glare,
That shoots athwart the sky—
We gaze—'tis gone, nor vestige there,
Nor gleam, can we espy—
'Tis transient as the morning dew;
'Tis fading as the rainbow's hue;
'Tis passing as the boreal light;
Just hails the day to sink in night.
That shoots athwart the sky—
We gaze—'tis gone, nor vestige there,
Nor gleam, can we espy—
'Tis transient as the morning dew;
'Tis fading as the rainbow's hue;
'Tis passing as the boreal light;
Just hails the day to sink in night.
92
What's life? a dream, delusion all,
The sport of passion's gale;
The morn's high hope e'er noon shall fall,
Its mirth be lost in wail—
It is a strife where vice prevails;
It is a field where woe assails;
Where ruin stalks his lordly round;
Where sorrow, sin, and sighs abound.
The sport of passion's gale;
The morn's high hope e'er noon shall fall,
Its mirth be lost in wail—
It is a strife where vice prevails;
It is a field where woe assails;
Where ruin stalks his lordly round;
Where sorrow, sin, and sighs abound.
What's life? the favored boon of heaven,
Rich gift—no price can buy—
Swift mercy's mirror kindly given
To dress for courts on high—
It is a flame survives the sun;
It is eternity begun;
'Twill rise, expatiate, love, adore,
When earth shall fade, when time's no more.
Rich gift—no price can buy—
Swift mercy's mirror kindly given
To dress for courts on high—
It is a flame survives the sun;
It is eternity begun;
'Twill rise, expatiate, love, adore,
When earth shall fade, when time's no more.
93
EPISTLE TO E--- H---
E---, I promised you some Rhyme,
When smiled my muse, and serv'd my time;
And this bright sun, like summer's prime,
So warms my fancy,
I could unfold a spell sublime
Of necromancy.
When smiled my muse, and serv'd my time;
And this bright sun, like summer's prime,
So warms my fancy,
I could unfold a spell sublime
Of necromancy.
I trust you feel its influence too,
So may you fairly keep in view
The track my light-wing'd genius flew,
Listening and peering;
Searching a subject, happy, new,
And worth your hearing.
So may you fairly keep in view
The track my light-wing'd genius flew,
Listening and peering;
Searching a subject, happy, new,
And worth your hearing.
Ah! now I've found one; list to me,
“Write, write, write, industriously,
“And Wrifford soon his tame will see
“In ebbing tide;
“And H---'s ascending star shall be
“The goose-quill's guide!”
“Write, write, write, industriously,
“And Wrifford soon his tame will see
“In ebbing tide;
“And H---'s ascending star shall be
“The goose-quill's guide!”
94
So sings my muse, and trust her word,
A Sybil true as Delphi heard,
When to Apollo was preferr'd
The doubt or prayer;
And noble, wise, you know, repair'd
For counsel there.
A Sybil true as Delphi heard,
When to Apollo was preferr'd
The doubt or prayer;
And noble, wise, you know, repair'd
For counsel there.
Latin and Greek you highly prize,
But, might I venture to advise,
I'd tell you, E---, men their eyes
Are using ever;
They see what plain before them lies,
Much farther, never.
But, might I venture to advise,
I'd tell you, E---, men their eyes
Are using ever;
They see what plain before them lies,
Much farther, never.
They'll see your penmanship—your Greek
And Latin; could you reason, speak
Like Socrates, that martyr meek,
Or Plato, Tully,
They'd stare, perhaps, but never seek
To know them fully.
And Latin; could you reason, speak
Like Socrates, that martyr meek,
Or Plato, Tully,
They'd stare, perhaps, but never seek
To know them fully.
Pray have you ever Hamlet read?
If not, I'll tell you how he sped;
He often thought the writing trade,
Scarce worth his ken,
Yet, finally, had lost his head,
But for his pen.
If not, I'll tell you how he sped;
He often thought the writing trade,
Scarce worth his ken,
Yet, finally, had lost his head,
But for his pen.
95
Then, E---, write, and write to me
A sheet of flowing poetry;
And should your spirits languid be,
Pegasus' wing
Will bear you, in a breath, to see
Pierian spring:
A sheet of flowing poetry;
And should your spirits languid be,
Pegasus' wing
Will bear you, in a breath, to see
Pierian spring:
And Pope, a doctor, very wise
In all a poet's maladies,
There bids you, as your health you prize,
Drink deep and long;
But, lest I need his remedies,
I'll end my song.
In all a poet's maladies,
There bids you, as your health you prize,
Drink deep and long;
But, lest I need his remedies,
I'll end my song.
96
THE CAPTIVE.
Around the blazing, festive fire,
The jest and laugh were high;
Gay, careless rapture flush'd each heart,
Mirth danc'd in every eye.
The jest and laugh were high;
Gay, careless rapture flush'd each heart,
Mirth danc'd in every eye.
All—no, not all, one grief-worn form
Lean'd sad and silent there,
On his wan brow, and withered cheek
Was character'd despair.
Lean'd sad and silent there,
On his wan brow, and withered cheek
Was character'd despair.
The merry tale and song went round,
The sadder still was he;
And every sprightly note but seem'd
To swell his misery.
The sadder still was he;
And every sprightly note but seem'd
To swell his misery.
With pity some, and some with awe
The gloomy stranger scann'd;
And some from 'midst the lively group
In turn his tale demand.
The gloomy stranger scann'd;
And some from 'midst the lively group
In turn his tale demand.
“Gay friends,” the man of woe began,
“Ill suits my soul with joy;
“And loth am I with tragic scenes
“Your pleasures to destroy:
“Ill suits my soul with joy;
“And loth am I with tragic scenes
“Your pleasures to destroy:
97
“But yet, methinks, 'tis wisdom's part
“Life's varied turns to hear;
“It forms the judgment, mans the heart,
“In destiny severe.
“Life's varied turns to hear;
“It forms the judgment, mans the heart,
“In destiny severe.
“Then list, and no ficticious woes
“Will claim a tear, a sigh;
“For whilst our bitter cup o'erflows,
“Fancy and fiction die.
“Will claim a tear, a sigh;
“For whilst our bitter cup o'erflows,
“Fancy and fiction die.
“Twelve times the sun, with heaven's own beam,
“Hath wheel'd his orbit round,
“Since on the fair Ohio's stream
“A residence I found.
“Hath wheel'd his orbit round,
“Since on the fair Ohio's stream
“A residence I found.
‘'Twas a sweet spot—the fertile earth
“My labor well repaid,
“And clustering roses had their birth
“In every sunny glade.
“My labor well repaid,
“And clustering roses had their birth
“In every sunny glade.
“Where the smooth stream disclosed a lawn,
“My little dwelling rose;
'Twas cheerful as the day's mild dawn;
“'Twas peaceful as its close.
“My little dwelling rose;
'Twas cheerful as the day's mild dawn;
“'Twas peaceful as its close.
98
“There calm Philosophy might rest,
“His golden age renew;
“And there, with health and plenty blest,
“Life's happiest joys I knew.
“His golden age renew;
“And there, with health and plenty blest,
“Life's happiest joys I knew.
“As merry as thine my evenings were,
“As bright my hearth did shine;
“In unison throbb'd each life-pulse there;
“Each smile replied to mine.
“As bright my hearth did shine;
“In unison throbb'd each life-pulse there;
“Each smile replied to mine.
“Oh, still my little ones, I see,
“All sporting about my chair
“They clung round my neck, and climb'd my knee,
“The willing kiss to share.
“All sporting about my chair
“They clung round my neck, and climb'd my knee,
“The willing kiss to share.
“Their mother then, with looks of love,
“Would watch our playful glee,
“And hold her cherub infant near,
“That smil'd in sympathy.”
“Would watch our playful glee,
“And hold her cherub infant near,
“That smil'd in sympathy.”
He paus'd—his cheek was pale as death,
His lab'ring bosom rose;
Around, with half suspended breath,
The anxious circle close:
His lab'ring bosom rose;
Around, with half suspended breath,
The anxious circle close:
99
His dark, wild eye he rais'd on high—
That prayer was heard in heaven,
His brow unbent, and to his soul
Was firm composure given.
That prayer was heard in heaven,
His brow unbent, and to his soul
Was firm composure given.
“On safety's breast, we sunk to rest,
“And sound was our repose;
“But e'er the morning streak'd the east,
“The terrible war-whoop rose!
“And sound was our repose;
“But e'er the morning streak'd the east,
“The terrible war-whoop rose!
“Like shrieks of hell, that maniac yell,
“E'en now its peal I hear,
“Convulsive checks life's quivering pulse,
“And kills with living fear.
“E'en now its peal I hear,
“Convulsive checks life's quivering pulse,
“And kills with living fear.
“Desp'rate the strife—I strove for life—
“Oh more! my life was naught—
“My wife, my babes—these nerv'd my arm,
“For them, for them I fought!
“Oh more! my life was naught—
“My wife, my babes—these nerv'd my arm,
“For them, for them I fought!
“But fruitless all—force, savage force
“Soon won the dreadful day;
“And mangled, butcher'd, dying, dead,
“My heart's sole treasure lay!
“Soon won the dreadful day;
“And mangled, butcher'd, dying, dead,
“My heart's sole treasure lay!
100
“'Twould rive your heart, your eyeballs start,
“Each bloody deed to hear;
“Nor words express the wretchedness,
“Which yet the soul can bear.
“Each bloody deed to hear;
“Nor words express the wretchedness,
“Which yet the soul can bear.
“I saw it all—I lived—oh, death!
“How welcome then thy dart;
“I could have bless'd the murd'rer's hand
“That still'd my bursting heart!
“How welcome then thy dart;
“I could have bless'd the murd'rer's hand
“That still'd my bursting heart!
“'Tis long to tell, and sad to hear
“My wanderings and my woe;
“Or by what artful subterfuge
“I 'scap'd the cruel foe.
“My wanderings and my woe;
“Or by what artful subterfuge
“I 'scap'd the cruel foe.
“And now my country's happy soil,
“And happy sons I see;
“But home, nor relative, nor friend,
“Have I to welcome me.
“And happy sons I see;
“But home, nor relative, nor friend,
“Have I to welcome me.
“Oh, then, though peace thy summer gild,
“And pleasure thy garland twine;
“Remember a cloud, the sun may shroud,
“And wither thy hopes like mine!”
“And pleasure thy garland twine;
“Remember a cloud, the sun may shroud,
“And wither thy hopes like mine!”
April, 1821.
101
STANZAS.
TO MRS.---, ON THE BIRTH OF HER SON.
1.
As kindles the morningO'er Spring's op'ning roses,
So,hope's ray adorning,
Affection reposes
On Infancy's blossom;
The spring time of being—
How throbs the fond bosom,
No dangers foreseeing!
2.
But mists hide the morning,And chill the sweet flower,
And fancy's fair structure
Oft falls in an hour;
Or pleasures may poison
Youth's promise the fairest,
As canker-worms crawl o'er
The rose that's the rarest.
102
3.
Vice, as the mildew,Blights virtues divinest—
And cold frosts of av'rice
Freeze feelings the finest;
Dew-drops of sorrow
On softest cheeks gather;
Nor dawns there a morrow,
But warm wishes wither.
4.
And life's fairy visionFloats gaily—to perish!
But still an Elysian,
Unfading, we'll cherish—
See Penitence triumph,
Her follies forgiven;
And Faith mounting upward
With wing plumed for heaven.
103
HAPPINESS.
1.
'Tis not when th' obsequious throngRaise their plaudits loud and long,
Golden showers each wish supply,
And surfeit even luxury;
'Tis not then we taste of bliss,
Or feel the glow of happiness.
2.
Rosy health the cheek may dye,Youth exult with jocund eye;
Pleasure spread her syren feast;
Parasites attend their guest;
'Tis not then we taste of bliss,
Or feel the glow of happiness.
3.
Haste, unlock the hoarded store;Feed the hungry, clothe the poor;
Aid the injured, nor the sigh
Of sorrow, pass unheeded by.
Then, yes, then we taste of bliss,
And feel the glow of happiness.
104
TO THE MEMORY OF THE HON. URIAH WILCOX, WHO DECEASED MARCH 18, 1822, æt. 72.
1.
Death reigns o'er all—the ghastly king,On his pale courser traversing,
Aims well his arrow, and the blow
Is sure to lay his victim low.
2.
Life weeps, hearts bleed; but fruitless all;Youth, beauty, health and virtue fall
An easy prey his power beneath;
Pride stoops, e'en valor yields to death.
3.
Age must be his—how weak to sigh,When nature cries, “'Tis gain to die”—
The faithful, pious, aged dead,
Are like the ripe shock harvested.
105
4.
Yet worth long known, and long belov'd,The friend oft tried, still friendly prov'd;
Whose heart could feel, whose hand bestow;
Whose counsels soothe and lighten woe:
5.
When such are call'd, though great their gain,Can we, to mourn our loss refrain?
Ah! no, the selfish heart is prone
The loans of heaven to deem its own.
6.
So weep we, Wilcox, o'er thy grave;Could tears, could prayers avail to save,
Thou still would'st be, for thou wert one
Men honored, loved and leaned upon.
7.
And well didst thou thy influence gain,And well didst thou thy part sustain;
The orphans, widow's, poor man's cheek,
Thy fairest eulogy will speak.
106
8.
Yet not in private life alone,Thy virtues or thy wisdom shone;
Parties discordant could agree
To trust in thine integrity.
9.
They mourn, but on thy dying even,Far dearer ties than these were riven;
Thy tenderest friend, thy children there;
They weep, but they may not despair:
10.
The husband and the father dies—The saint survives in yon bright skies,
From earth's low cares the spirit free,
Inhales pure immortality.
11.
When the last trump shall echo—“live!”And graves their mouldering tenants give
To that loud summons, whilst the sun,
In sackcloth, mourns his empire done:
107
12.
The moon is blood, the globe is fireStars fall, the shrinking heavens retire;
And ruin only reigns, where man
Had boasted o'er his little span:
13.
Then, whilst before the judgment seatThe assembled universe shall meet;
Christians, like thee, will hear the word,
“Come, dwell forever with the Lord.
March 28, 1822.
108
TO SPRING.
1.
How many lofty bards, sweet Spring,In praise of thee, have swept the string,
With all a poet's fire;
And many more, we must confess,
Have done thee any thing but grace,
On their “mad-jangling lyre.”
2.
Thy zephyrs soft, and purling streams,And showers, and shades, and sunny gleams,
Have all been sung, and sung;
And birds, and buds, and blossomed bowers;
'Till Sappho's art, or Homer's powers
Would fail to paint thee young:
3.
Original, I mean; 'tis therePoor modern poets chiefly err;
Nor their's the fault, but fate's;—
All themes have long been hackneyed o'er;
And nature ransack'd, till she's poor,
For metaphors and epithets.
109
4.
Yet who that sees with Thomson's ken,Or drinks thy beauties from his pen,
Would list a meaner strain;
So, Spring, thou'lt ne'er be sung by me;
I love thee, but I will not be
An echo in thy train.
May, 1822.
110
ADDRESS TO SUGAR RIVER.
I.
Let Avon roll with Shakspeare's deathless glory,And Thames as smooth as Pope or Thomson glide,
The Tiber, Hellespont, in ancient story
Reflect Mars' triumphs, or fair Venus' pride;
While Scotia's every stream can boast its poet,
Whose Patriotic muse would make us know it,
II.
Yet what to me are all these puffs and praises,Or streams of fame in foreign lands that lie;
But my soft-gliding, native river raises
A thousand images of home felt joy;
And though their names in lofty lays may shine,
In sweetness they can never equal thine.
111
III.
Oh, may my verse, thy strength and beauty stealing,Flow like thy waters, and thy fame extend!
Thou minglest with the tide of life's young feeling—
With thee my earliest recollections blend;
Thy bank my bower, nor Eden's loss was ponder'd,
Whilst there in infant innocence I wandered.
IV.
When strengthened reason 'woke imagination,My book, my Crœsus wealth, oft borne to thee,
In some lov'd nook was sought a fav'rite station,
The spreading hazle formed a canopy,
The red-breast, sweetest bird that charms our spring,
Joined his wild warble to thy murmuring.
112
V.
Oft from the page mine eye, with rapture glancing,Watched the light-springing trout at sportive play,
Or the bright sunbeams o'er thy dimples dancing,
Or the blue sky that in thy bosom lay—
Here, the broad boughs athwart the dark stream waving,
And there, the wild duck's brood their plumage laving.
VI.
Nor must be past, while thousand thoughts endear 'em,Thy falls, my school-day path so often cross'd,
The wonder-hunting traveller would sneer 'em;
Beside Niag'ra's, these, be sure, were lost.
Oh! might I see that Anakim of wonders,
And watch its rain-bow'd spray, and hear its thunders.
VII.
But then I deemed not there could be a vasterWhen anchor-ice (we called it so) had made
Thy pent up waters rage and roar, while faster
Whirl'd the white sheeted foam; though half afraid,
Yet many a time I've paus'd to gaze and listen,
Till on my breath congealed the frost would glisten.
113
VIII.
Those days are gone, and with them gone foreverAre many a lov'd companion, friend most dear;
As float the autumn leaves along yon river,
One moment seen, then eddying disappear—
So sink the race of men—thou, in thy prime,
Still roll'st unmark'd, unmanacled by time.
IX.
But farewell now sweet stream, in after ages,When o'er the world Columbia sits a queen;
Sung by her poets, honored by her sages,
(An Athens without anarchy,) then seen
And heard too, shall some bard, though nurs'd on mountains
Strike the loud harp that wakes thy triple fountains.
July, 1822.
114
THE RAINY DAY.
I.
When a robe of pure purple is thrown o'er Aurora,A rose tissued vesture, or mantle of gold,
And her smiles are soft sunbeams that promise Sol's glory—
What heart but will hail her, what eye but behold!
And yet, my poor muse, (may we venture to own it,)
Thou dost not delight in this gaudy display;
But the morn most propitious for hymn, song or sonnet,
A Niobe ushers the wan, rainy day.
II.
How soothing to hear, half aroused from our slumbers,The soft, patt'ring sound of the rain on the wall;
It steals on the senses like low, murmured numbers,
That seem of some genius the whispering call;
Nor joyless is nature, though gloomy the showers,
They brighten her beauties in purer array
They kiss the young buds and the half-opened flowers,
And fresher they'll smile for the long rainy day.
115
III.
Then the burstling of business, the lounging of leisureDisturb not the thought, and divert not the gaze;
And hushed are the gay flutt'ring insects of pleasure,
That sport but in sunshine, and bask but in blaze;
And the soul with herself may commune, while the stillness,
So solemn, yet softened, aids fancy's wild way;
And she soars o'er the storm, all undamn'd by the chillness.
In the newness of nature, the long rainy day.
IV.
And throbs there a heart that is cold to the muses,A pulse but their tone gives a livelier thrill;
Or a mind that the witching enchantment refuses,
When they touch the deep chords with their tenderest skill;
Then mourn! If the day from Parnassus be beaming,
Nor vapors, nor ennui venture to stay;
O'er the past, and the future its mellow light streaming,
Shews visions that cheat e'en the dull rainy day:
116
V.
Let them mourn who sit watching the clouds, while the treasuresOf wisdom and science unopened remain;
All blank as the skies are their plans and their pleasures,
Whose only resource is to talk of the rain;
Let fashion delight to her parties to rattle,
And sport a new shawl, or a bonnet display;
Oh, give me my muse, and my children to prattle—
My home then how happy the long rainy day!
August, 1822.
117
THE MOURNER.
In every varied posture, place and hour,
How widow'd every thought of every joy.
Young.
How widow'd every thought of every joy.
Young.
Oh! cease that plaint, my babe, no father's ear
Is open to thy wail, thy mother's tear,
Her helpless tears may bathe thy cheek, but she,
As sorrow's heir, can only welcome thee.
Well may'st thou weep, a mourner at thy birth:
The frost fell, e'er the flowret glinted forth,
That withered all thy hopes, and only gave,
For thine inheritance, a father's grave.
Oh, none, save those who feel, can ever know,
What the lone widow's heart must undergo!
The world a moment gazes, sighs, and then
Turns to its cares, or gayeties again;
And friends that pity, weep, perhaps; even they,
As dries the dew before the morning ray;
The occasion past, soon wipe their grief away.
Not thus, my husband, will my bosom heal—
Each day, each hour, afresh thy loss I feel:
Thy voice I hear, thy form I seem to see;
“Thy image steals between my God and me;”
The shadows flee the morn, but o'er my soul
Still deeper, deeper shades of sadness roll.
How busy mem'ry heightens my distress,
Recalling all thy care and tenderness!
Thy friendship ever kind, in joy or grief,
It shared my pleasures—watched for my relief—
Amusements, studies, all received their zest
From harmony of sentiment and taste—
Union of souls—where thought with thought agrees
Or fond affection blots the fault it sees.
Is open to thy wail, thy mother's tear,
Her helpless tears may bathe thy cheek, but she,
As sorrow's heir, can only welcome thee.
Well may'st thou weep, a mourner at thy birth:
The frost fell, e'er the flowret glinted forth,
That withered all thy hopes, and only gave,
For thine inheritance, a father's grave.
Oh, none, save those who feel, can ever know,
What the lone widow's heart must undergo!
The world a moment gazes, sighs, and then
Turns to its cares, or gayeties again;
And friends that pity, weep, perhaps; even they,
As dries the dew before the morning ray;
The occasion past, soon wipe their grief away.
Not thus, my husband, will my bosom heal—
Each day, each hour, afresh thy loss I feel:
118
“Thy image steals between my God and me;”
The shadows flee the morn, but o'er my soul
Still deeper, deeper shades of sadness roll.
How busy mem'ry heightens my distress,
Recalling all thy care and tenderness!
Thy friendship ever kind, in joy or grief,
It shared my pleasures—watched for my relief—
Amusements, studies, all received their zest
From harmony of sentiment and taste—
Union of souls—where thought with thought agrees
Or fond affection blots the fault it sees.
And then those children of our love, I trace
The father's features in each rosy face—
Their little hearts beat light, untamed by woe,
Too young their loss to feel, thy worth to know;
But while their infant sports I sad survey,
And fancy shudders o'er the future day,
They grieve to see me weep—with artless tear,
Repeat the name of “father,” once so dear—
That lov'd, lost name redoubles my distress,—
But still I teach them all thy tenderness;
Nor shall they e'er forget the love of thine,
While in their tender minds thy virtues shine.
The father's features in each rosy face—
Their little hearts beat light, untamed by woe,
Too young their loss to feel, thy worth to know;
But while their infant sports I sad survey,
And fancy shudders o'er the future day,
They grieve to see me weep—with artless tear,
Repeat the name of “father,” once so dear—
That lov'd, lost name redoubles my distress,—
But still I teach them all thy tenderness;
119
While in their tender minds thy virtues shine.
When midnight deepens, and when all around
Are hushed in slumbers tranquil and profound,
(Dull sleep, no mourner thou,) then darker far
Than midnight, will my friendless fate appear;
And to my throbbing heart thy babe I press,
Which thou wilt never see, and never bless;
And bitterest tears will fall, each wound unclos'd,
And stain that pillow where thy cheek repos'd,
Till gladly would I lay this aching head,
And sleep beside thy cold and narrow bed!
But when thy death-scene rises—when I see
Thy latest look, that mortal agony,
Dissolving nature must endure, when all
The ties that bind to this terrestrial ball
Are burst at once—and clasp that hand of thine,
Whose pressure now no more replies to mine—
Then reason reels—and through my chilling veins
Life's struggling current scarce its course retains—
The sick heart pauses!—But what mortal ear,
Could I the boundless sum compute, would bear
The height, and breadth, and depth of grief to hear!
Are hushed in slumbers tranquil and profound,
(Dull sleep, no mourner thou,) then darker far
Than midnight, will my friendless fate appear;
And to my throbbing heart thy babe I press,
Which thou wilt never see, and never bless;
And bitterest tears will fall, each wound unclos'd,
And stain that pillow where thy cheek repos'd,
Till gladly would I lay this aching head,
And sleep beside thy cold and narrow bed!
But when thy death-scene rises—when I see
Thy latest look, that mortal agony,
Dissolving nature must endure, when all
The ties that bind to this terrestrial ball
Are burst at once—and clasp that hand of thine,
Whose pressure now no more replies to mine—
Then reason reels—and through my chilling veins
Life's struggling current scarce its course retains—
The sick heart pauses!—But what mortal ear,
120
The height, and breadth, and depth of grief to hear!
My God, to thee alone must I impart
The bleeding sorrows of a broken heart!
Thy righteous hand the blow inflicted—Thou
Alone canst heal—before thy throne I bow—
Oh, save me from a murmuring word—and still
The wild and restless wanderings of my will!
Their heavenly Father's promises to share,
My little ones, to thy paternal care
Teach me, with faith unwavering, to consign,
Shield their unsheltered path, and smooth even mine—
Be Thou my Judge, injustice to pursue,
My guide and God life's painful journey through;
Oh, then, before thy throne, all sorrows o'er,
My husband, may we meet to part no more!
The bleeding sorrows of a broken heart!
Thy righteous hand the blow inflicted—Thou
Alone canst heal—before thy throne I bow—
Oh, save me from a murmuring word—and still
The wild and restless wanderings of my will!
Their heavenly Father's promises to share,
My little ones, to thy paternal care
Teach me, with faith unwavering, to consign,
Shield their unsheltered path, and smooth even mine—
Be Thou my Judge, injustice to pursue,
My guide and God life's painful journey through;
Oh, then, before thy throne, all sorrows o'er,
My husband, may we meet to part no more!
Nov. 1822.
121
ADDRESS TO THE NEW-YEAR....1823.
Why should I hail thee, New-Year I canst thou give
Crush'd hopes to flourish—bid the dead to live?
At thine approach, how many hearts beat high!
And thousands welcome thee, that low must lie
E'er thy short race be run: But vain, alas,
To muse on what I am—on what I was
When smil'd the last New-Year, and I, deceived,
The flattering, faithless promiser believed!
Oh, still I see that morning as it rose,
That happy day, but happiest in its close:
Then calm as evening all our cares retire,
The lamp well trimm'd, and brighter stirr'd the fire;
With him, the sharer and imparter too
Of all my happiness—nor slight, nor few,
The joys domestic converse doth impart;
The world may feed the mind, not fill the heart,—
I sat, time flew, nor heeded we how fast—
To judge the future we reviewed the past,
Its changes various, sudden turns of fate,
Where rise the little, or where sink the great,
As virtue's healthful blossoms life dispense,
Or vice exhales its noxious pestilence;—
We mark'd each nation's progress, and how far
She wav'd the wand of peace, the sword of war.
Then some bold drama we admired, but blamed;
Or private tragedies compassion claimed.—
Their woes we knew; but here the diff'rence lies,
Our own we feel—on their's philosophize:
I said, we feel—and yet that phrase how poor
To paint the anguish minds are formed t' endure!
Oh, there are feelings never can be told,
And there are thoughts no language could unfold,
And there are sorrows that the heart must bear,
Its sole complaint the agonizing tear!
Light griefs may court discussion, and the mind,
Unburthened of their weight, new pleasure find;
Not so the broken heart, it sits alone,
Unseen its rankling wound, unheard its groan.
And thus the brawling brook the sun soon dries;
The lake's deep bosom calm, but cold, still lies.
Crush'd hopes to flourish—bid the dead to live?
At thine approach, how many hearts beat high!
And thousands welcome thee, that low must lie
E'er thy short race be run: But vain, alas,
To muse on what I am—on what I was
When smil'd the last New-Year, and I, deceived,
The flattering, faithless promiser believed!
Oh, still I see that morning as it rose,
That happy day, but happiest in its close:
Then calm as evening all our cares retire,
The lamp well trimm'd, and brighter stirr'd the fire;
With him, the sharer and imparter too
Of all my happiness—nor slight, nor few,
The joys domestic converse doth impart;
The world may feed the mind, not fill the heart,—
I sat, time flew, nor heeded we how fast—
To judge the future we reviewed the past,
Its changes various, sudden turns of fate,
Where rise the little, or where sink the great,
122
Or vice exhales its noxious pestilence;—
We mark'd each nation's progress, and how far
She wav'd the wand of peace, the sword of war.
Then some bold drama we admired, but blamed;
Or private tragedies compassion claimed.—
Their woes we knew; but here the diff'rence lies,
Our own we feel—on their's philosophize:
I said, we feel—and yet that phrase how poor
To paint the anguish minds are formed t' endure!
Oh, there are feelings never can be told,
And there are thoughts no language could unfold,
And there are sorrows that the heart must bear,
Its sole complaint the agonizing tear!
Light griefs may court discussion, and the mind,
Unburthened of their weight, new pleasure find;
Not so the broken heart, it sits alone,
Unseen its rankling wound, unheard its groan.
And thus the brawling brook the sun soon dries;
The lake's deep bosom calm, but cold, still lies.
How rich are Time and Death with spoils of mine!
Nor, plaintive Young, were such complainings thine–
For more than “thrice” th' unerring shaft hath fled
And more than “thrice” we've watch'd the dying bed;
The King of Terrors seemed no passing guest,
And every age, alike, at his behest,
Was wrapp'd in darkness—till I scarce may fear
The whirling changes of the coming Year.
The past hath rendered all its threat'nings vain,
Nor are we rifled when there's nought to gain!
Nor, plaintive Young, were such complainings thine–
123
And more than “thrice” we've watch'd the dying bed;
The King of Terrors seemed no passing guest,
And every age, alike, at his behest,
Was wrapp'd in darkness—till I scarce may fear
The whirling changes of the coming Year.
The past hath rendered all its threat'nings vain,
Nor are we rifled when there's nought to gain!
And is there nothing? Oh! indulgent heaven,
Forgive my murmurings—yes, there's blessings given—
My babes, my hope, my joy, are left to share
The solitary home and frugal fare;
Their smiles, this heart still owns, can pleasure give,
For them I will be calm, for them will live;
And He, who stills the raven's clamorous brood,
He will protect, and He bestow their food.
Th' unfeeling world may pass nor whisper peace,
Yet will his tender mercies never cease:
He smiles—our icy sorrows melt away,
As winter softens at the breath of May—
And yet, O God of truth, my prayer to Thee
Is not for pleasure, but tranquillity.
When felt is poverty, neglect, or scorn,
Teach me to bear—my Saviour all hath borne!
But grant Thou this, when time's bleak storms are o'er,
In heaven, a family, we meet once more,
And spend the ever-new, eternal Year,
Nor pain, nor death, nor separation fear.
Forgive my murmurings—yes, there's blessings given—
My babes, my hope, my joy, are left to share
The solitary home and frugal fare;
Their smiles, this heart still owns, can pleasure give,
For them I will be calm, for them will live;
And He, who stills the raven's clamorous brood,
He will protect, and He bestow their food.
Th' unfeeling world may pass nor whisper peace,
Yet will his tender mercies never cease:
He smiles—our icy sorrows melt away,
As winter softens at the breath of May—
124
Is not for pleasure, but tranquillity.
When felt is poverty, neglect, or scorn,
Teach me to bear—my Saviour all hath borne!
But grant Thou this, when time's bleak storms are o'er,
In heaven, a family, we meet once more,
And spend the ever-new, eternal Year,
Nor pain, nor death, nor separation fear.
125
THE SAILOR'S RETURN.
November's clouds roll'd dark and drear,
And loud the blast was swelling,
As Ellen wip'd the gushing tear,
That all her hopes was quelling.
And loud the blast was swelling,
As Ellen wip'd the gushing tear,
That all her hopes was quelling.
And yet, since Henry's last embrace,
Hope often smiles beguiling;
A Sailor he, his home the sea,
And there for her he's toiling.
Hope often smiles beguiling;
A Sailor he, his home the sea,
And there for her he's toiling.
And there was one, her darling son,
And fond was her caressing,
To Henry's breast he ne'er was prest;
Nor shared a father's blessing.
And fond was her caressing,
To Henry's breast he ne'er was prest;
Nor shared a father's blessing.
126
How soft, yet sad the gaze she fix'd,
That father's features scanning;
While love in every thought was mix'd,
That his return was planning.
That father's features scanning;
While love in every thought was mix'd,
That his return was planning.
High throbb'd her heart with anxious joy,
When from the treach'rous water,
Her Henry'll clasp his blooming boy,
And kiss his lisping daughter.
When from the treach'rous water,
Her Henry'll clasp his blooming boy,
And kiss his lisping daughter.
With thousand tender tales the while,
She'll fill his recollection;
A mother's wile, to win a smile,
And raise a sire's affection.
She'll fill his recollection;
A mother's wile, to win a smile,
And raise a sire's affection.
Oh, nature! round the mother's heart
Thy holy ties how tender!
And life's last lingering sands must part,
E'er she those ties surrender.
Thy holy ties how tender!
And life's last lingering sands must part,
E'er she those ties surrender.
127
But wild and wilder rose the storm,
And fierce the tempest pelted—
Like promised pleasure's airy form,
Poor Ellen's visions melted.
And fierce the tempest pelted—
Like promised pleasure's airy form,
Poor Ellen's visions melted.
As ebbing waves' returning roar—
More strong her fears assail her,
With every breeze his wreck she sees,
Till strength and courage fail her.
More strong her fears assail her,
With every breeze his wreck she sees,
Till strength and courage fail her.
One refuge yet—the mighty God!
All nature bows before him—
Alike beneath his smile or rod,
His creatures should adore him.
All nature bows before him—
Alike beneath his smile or rod,
His creatures should adore him.
Her sleeping offspring's bed beside,
Her pray'r to Him ascended—
In feeling's soft and mingled tide
The wife and mother blended.
Her pray'r to Him ascended—
In feeling's soft and mingled tide
The wife and mother blended.
128
Her soul was calm, and hushed the storm,
When, lo, a step attended!
“'Tis Henry, Henry, safe from harm”—
And all her sorrow ended.
When, lo, a step attended!
“'Tis Henry, Henry, safe from harm”—
And all her sorrow ended.
129
Desolation; OR, THE THREE PILGRIMS.
A LEGEND.
Where Tamerlane and Bajazet,
Like tempest and tornado, met,
And battle rais'd her wildest yell,
As thousands yielded—thousands fell—
There silence now hath fixed her seat;
Save when some weary trav'lers meet
At yon lone Khan's deserted door—
And wary o'er the threshold bending,
Though night her thickest shades is blending,
Seem loth its loneness to explore.
Like tempest and tornado, met,
And battle rais'd her wildest yell,
As thousands yielded—thousands fell—
There silence now hath fixed her seat;
Save when some weary trav'lers meet
At yon lone Khan's deserted door—
And wary o'er the threshold bending,
Though night her thickest shades is blending,
Seem loth its loneness to explore.
130
But once, when loud the whirlwind rush'd,
And the rent clouds in cat'racts gush'd,
As vengeance had unlock'd his hoard,
Or heaven a second deluge pour'd,—
Some screen, if but that Khan's to share,
Three passing Pilgrims hurried there!
Blenches the first? His iron form
Might meet and combat with the storm—
His cheek, where mounting soul ne'er sought
To whisper feeling, stamp the thought,
Rough, tells of many a conflict met,
And boldly borne, unconquered yet—
While close-knit joints, and sinewy frame,
And eye that glanced like lightning's flame,
The daring, restless soul disclose,
Whose only languor is repose!
The second, with fatigue oppress'd,
Seemed forc'd to roam; yet seeking rest—
His sallow cheek, and sunken eye
Spoke suff'ring; but not energy—
His tangled hair, and matted beard,
And bending form oppress'd appear'd
With hardships that must pity melt;
Still something like contempt is felt,
And loathing, as that squalid face,
Unstamped by character we trace.
Not so the third—his lofty port
Might awe the senate—grace the court,
As his dark eye in spirit spoke,
E'er from his lips the accents broke;
Or bland expression's light and shade,
O'er features palid, not decay'd,
Threw the deep charm that wins at will—
And locks, that once were raven, still
(Though bleached by thought or sorrow now)
Shade graceful his commanding brow,
Where dignity a reverence gains,
That youth, nor beauty e'er attains.
His was the mind's meridian day,
When soul can triumph o'er its clay.
But closely scann'd his features, there
Were seen the workings of despair—
'Twas sorrow's sacred, pensive tone,
Griefs deeply felt, but felt alone,
When every human aid withdrawn,
Nor earthly stay to rest upon,
Alike extinguished hope and fear,
The soul collects itself to bear—
No wish, no thought save t'endure,
Since He who bruis'd alone can cure—
Nor murmurs to a mortal ear
Woes that a God alone should hear,
Nor seeks even sympathy to find;
Its only prayer—“to be resigned!”
He spoke not—and the other twain,
To gain attention strove in vain,
His look was calm, and fix'd as fate,
Though the rude shelter where they sate,
Beneath the shrieking storm's commotion,
Rock'd like a vessel on the ocean;
Till spent at length, the tempest's force,
Or farther driven its wasting course,
It sunk in sounds, that seemed to breathe
A requiem o'er its track of death—
Then mingling with the dying close,
The elder Pilgrim's song arose.
And the rent clouds in cat'racts gush'd,
As vengeance had unlock'd his hoard,
Or heaven a second deluge pour'd,—
Some screen, if but that Khan's to share,
Three passing Pilgrims hurried there!
Blenches the first? His iron form
Might meet and combat with the storm—
His cheek, where mounting soul ne'er sought
To whisper feeling, stamp the thought,
Rough, tells of many a conflict met,
And boldly borne, unconquered yet—
While close-knit joints, and sinewy frame,
And eye that glanced like lightning's flame,
The daring, restless soul disclose,
Whose only languor is repose!
The second, with fatigue oppress'd,
Seemed forc'd to roam; yet seeking rest—
His sallow cheek, and sunken eye
Spoke suff'ring; but not energy—
His tangled hair, and matted beard,
And bending form oppress'd appear'd
With hardships that must pity melt;
Still something like contempt is felt,
131
Unstamped by character we trace.
Not so the third—his lofty port
Might awe the senate—grace the court,
As his dark eye in spirit spoke,
E'er from his lips the accents broke;
Or bland expression's light and shade,
O'er features palid, not decay'd,
Threw the deep charm that wins at will—
And locks, that once were raven, still
(Though bleached by thought or sorrow now)
Shade graceful his commanding brow,
Where dignity a reverence gains,
That youth, nor beauty e'er attains.
His was the mind's meridian day,
When soul can triumph o'er its clay.
But closely scann'd his features, there
Were seen the workings of despair—
'Twas sorrow's sacred, pensive tone,
Griefs deeply felt, but felt alone,
When every human aid withdrawn,
Nor earthly stay to rest upon,
Alike extinguished hope and fear,
The soul collects itself to bear—
132
Since He who bruis'd alone can cure—
Nor murmurs to a mortal ear
Woes that a God alone should hear,
Nor seeks even sympathy to find;
Its only prayer—“to be resigned!”
He spoke not—and the other twain,
To gain attention strove in vain,
His look was calm, and fix'd as fate,
Though the rude shelter where they sate,
Beneath the shrieking storm's commotion,
Rock'd like a vessel on the ocean;
Till spent at length, the tempest's force,
Or farther driven its wasting course,
It sunk in sounds, that seemed to breathe
A requiem o'er its track of death—
Then mingling with the dying close,
The elder Pilgrim's song arose.
133
FIRST PILGRIM'S Song.
1.
The storm was highThe angry sky
And earth, contending, jar—
Nor yet I fear'd,
Though loud was heard
The elemental war.
2.
For I have pass'dWhere the frigid blast
Congeals the heaving breath;
Where winter throws,
Eternal snows,
And nature is but death.
134
3.
Nor aught mov'd there,The savage bear
Was dormant in his den;
And 'neath the ground
Were slumbering found
The scarce less savage men.
4.
Athwart my way,The ice-hills lay,
As magic cities high;
And palaces,
And towers arise,
Where glittering colors vie.
135
5.
But all was cold—Nor earth doth hold
A scene so dread, so long—
And I'll ne'er despair,
I pass'd e'en there,
O'er Desolation's throne.
He ceased—no cadence marked the pause,
Nor harmony had given him laws;
His rugged voice as harshly fell
As doth the clarion's battle-swell—
But e'er he could begin again,
Arose the second Pilgrim's strain:
Trembling it rose, and low the air,
As though his soul a captive were,
And feared to rouse a master's ear,
Lest he the tyrant's threats should hear.
Nor harmony had given him laws;
His rugged voice as harshly fell
As doth the clarion's battle-swell—
But e'er he could begin again,
Arose the second Pilgrim's strain:
Trembling it rose, and low the air,
As though his soul a captive were,
And feared to rouse a master's ear,
Lest he the tyrant's threats should hear.
136
SECOND PILGRIM'S Song.
1.
My days have been to suff'ring given,Unknown my sorrows, save to heaven,
Since wealth and freedom lost;
An exile from my native land,
A captive to the robber band,
I roam'd Arabia's coast.
2.
And I have trod where tigers sleep,Have seen the sand like billows sweep,
And breath'd the pois'nous air;
No fountains bubbled to the taste;
The shrunken stream had joined the waste;
Its gravelly bed was bare.
137
3.
There dangers on each step attend;There wretchedness ne'er hopes a friend
To wipe the bitterest tear—
'Twas Desolation's wide domain—
Nor beast, nor man divide his reign—
I 'scap'd, and shall I fear?
The murmur'd numbers died away;
Yet fix'd as listening to the lay
The pensive Pilgrim lean'd, his cheek
Emotion's varying feelings streak—
As gleams o'er autumn's landscape given,
E'er sinks the sun in shrouds of even,
Though every summer flower is dead,
And every summer sweet is fled,
Add softness, as a smile from heaven—
So on his mind lov'd images
Would o'er his ruined hopes arise,
While mem'ry with reflective rays,
Gave back the joys of other days;
And tender feelings thrilling came,
As each dear form and cherished name,
In beauty's light, or music's tone,
Responded, smil'd, again his own—
Oh, could such shapes embodied be,
Or thought were but reality!
'Tis past—the waking vision's o'er,
And fancy's meteors cheat no more—
Dark as the storm his fate appears,
Nor hopes a change with changing years;
The whirlwinds path may desert lie—
'Twill bloom beneath a milder sky—
But clos'd those eyes that with us gaz'd,
And mute the voice that with us prais'd,
And deaf, forever deaf, the ear
That turn'd each wish, each thought to hear;
And fled the fond approving smile
That could our dullest tasks beguile;
And the warm hand that ours would clasp,
Now cold within death's icy grasp—
Oh, then is felt our friend is gone—
And then we are—must be—alone!
Nor nature's images express
The spirit's deep, dark loneliness;
Nor spicy gale, nor smiling sky
Can desert hearts re-vivify—
And pity melted even the twain,
When flow'd the pensive Pilgrim's strain,
Breathing that hopelessness of grief,
That asks not, nor expects relief.
Yet fix'd as listening to the lay
The pensive Pilgrim lean'd, his cheek
Emotion's varying feelings streak—
As gleams o'er autumn's landscape given,
E'er sinks the sun in shrouds of even,
Though every summer flower is dead,
And every summer sweet is fled,
Add softness, as a smile from heaven—
So on his mind lov'd images
Would o'er his ruined hopes arise,
138
Gave back the joys of other days;
And tender feelings thrilling came,
As each dear form and cherished name,
In beauty's light, or music's tone,
Responded, smil'd, again his own—
Oh, could such shapes embodied be,
Or thought were but reality!
'Tis past—the waking vision's o'er,
And fancy's meteors cheat no more—
Dark as the storm his fate appears,
Nor hopes a change with changing years;
The whirlwinds path may desert lie—
'Twill bloom beneath a milder sky—
But clos'd those eyes that with us gaz'd,
And mute the voice that with us prais'd,
And deaf, forever deaf, the ear
That turn'd each wish, each thought to hear;
And fled the fond approving smile
That could our dullest tasks beguile;
And the warm hand that ours would clasp,
Now cold within death's icy grasp—
Oh, then is felt our friend is gone—
139
Nor nature's images express
The spirit's deep, dark loneliness;
Nor spicy gale, nor smiling sky
Can desert hearts re-vivify—
And pity melted even the twain,
When flow'd the pensive Pilgrim's strain,
Breathing that hopelessness of grief,
That asks not, nor expects relief.
THIRD PILGRIM'S Song.
1.
Where frost chokes the fountains,Where winter's the year,
And the snow swells to mountains,
I trod without fear—
The ice-blast swept o'er me,
With the chill of the tomb;
But warm on my fancy
Rose the hearth of my home.
140
2.
Where the sand whirl'd in billows,And death rode the wind,
And the robber and tiger
In the pathway reclin'd;
O'er the stream's desert channel
I fear'd not to roam,
The stream of affection
Still gush'd for my home.
3.
And hope's hallow'd feelingStill sav'd from despair,
Till I entered my dwelling—
No welcome was there!
My loved ones had perished,
E'er the wanderer could come—
I had seen desolation—
I felt it, at home!
141
A SONG,
Written for the Celebration of the Second Centennial Anniversary of the Settlement of New-Hampshire.
Two Hundred Years are numbered now,
Since, with the op'ning year,
The white man breathed his ardent vow,
And rais'd his altar here;
From Albion's haughty sea-girt land,
“Laconia's” Ancients come,
A patient, firm and dauntless band,
To seek a peaceful home.
Since, with the op'ning year,
The white man breathed his ardent vow,
And rais'd his altar here;
From Albion's haughty sea-girt land,
“Laconia's” Ancients come,
A patient, firm and dauntless band,
To seek a peaceful home.
And why should thus our Fathers spurn
Their native earth and sky?
With visions bold their fancies burn;
Their hopes and hearts beat high;
For 'mid these northern wilds they see
Perennial nature bloom,
And rivers roll in majesty,
To fertilize their home:
Their native earth and sky?
With visions bold their fancies burn;
Their hopes and hearts beat high;
For 'mid these northern wilds they see
Perennial nature bloom,
And rivers roll in majesty,
To fertilize their home:
142
And mighty Lakes are spreading there,
Where Eden Islands show;
And “Crystal Hills” are swelling fair,
Where mines of treasure glow.
Oh at those visions never smile,—
They gilded well the gloom;
They softened off the rugged toil
That raised our happy home.
Where Eden Islands show;
And “Crystal Hills” are swelling fair,
Where mines of treasure glow.
Oh at those visions never smile,—
They gilded well the gloom;
They softened off the rugged toil
That raised our happy home.
Nor think such dreams were fables vain;
The moral we may find:
Though Winter here in rigor reign,
No frosts can blight the Mind—
It glows as pure, it soars as light
As ocean's wintry foam;
It is the Freeman's Crystal bright—
The Gem that gilds his home.
The moral we may find:
Though Winter here in rigor reign,
No frosts can blight the Mind—
It glows as pure, it soars as light
As ocean's wintry foam;
It is the Freeman's Crystal bright—
The Gem that gilds his home.
143
Then polish high the living Mind!
'Twas Athens' proudest praise—
Be learning here with Labor join'd,
Our laurels with our lays;
And God, who saw with tender care
Our Pilgrim Fathers roam,
Will bless those sons and daughters fail,
That grace and guard their home.
'Twas Athens' proudest praise—
Be learning here with Labor join'd,
Our laurels with our lays;
And God, who saw with tender care
Our Pilgrim Fathers roam,
Will bless those sons and daughters fail,
That grace and guard their home.
144
THE ROSE.
How sweet is the soft op'ning day,
When nature is smiling through tears,
And blushing her charms to display,
The first Rose of summer appears!—
But on me all its beauties are lost,
I heed not how fragrant or fair,
Since mouldering in darkness and dust
Is the hand that first planted it there.
When nature is smiling through tears,
And blushing her charms to display,
The first Rose of summer appears!—
But on me all its beauties are lost,
I heed not how fragrant or fair,
Since mouldering in darkness and dust
Is the hand that first planted it there.
Ah, little I deemed at that hour,
When hope was like spring in its glow,
That e'er the shrub bloom'd in my bower,
My heart must be withered by woe!
Now spring with gay summer may dance,
And their chaplet of roses entwine;
'Tis winter to me, for no glance
Of feeling will brighten with mine.
When hope was like spring in its glow,
That e'er the shrub bloom'd in my bower,
My heart must be withered by woe!
Now spring with gay summer may dance,
And their chaplet of roses entwine;
'Tis winter to me, for no glance
Of feeling will brighten with mine.
145
How ample is Flora's fair page,
Array'd by the skill of the Swede—
'Tis the wisdom of youth or of age,
This volume of nature to read;
When my husband, with ardor, approv'd,
All rich did its beauties appear;—
I thought that the study I lov'd—
'Twas his accents I listened to hear.
Array'd by the skill of the Swede—
'Tis the wisdom of youth or of age,
This volume of nature to read;
When my husband, with ardor, approv'd,
All rich did its beauties appear;—
I thought that the study I lov'd—
'Twas his accents I listened to hear.
My books now neglected may lie,
Or opened, I gaze but to weep,
For mute is his voice, and his eye
Forever is shrouded in sleep—
Oh, death! why so stern in thy sway?
So eager frail mortals to call?
Like the rose, they may flourish to-day—
The morrow must witness their fall.
Or opened, I gaze but to weep,
For mute is his voice, and his eye
Forever is shrouded in sleep—
Oh, death! why so stern in thy sway?
So eager frail mortals to call?
Like the rose, they may flourish to-day—
The morrow must witness their fall.
146
They fall, are forgotten, the earth
Doth their names and their ashes receive—
But my husband, thy mem'ry and worth,
Embalmed in my bosom, shall live—
Nor death can the union destroy,
That's linked with the life of the mind;
We shall meet in those mansions of joy,
Where love is divinely refin'd:
Doth their names and their ashes receive—
But my husband, thy mem'ry and worth,
Embalmed in my bosom, shall live—
Nor death can the union destroy,
That's linked with the life of the mind;
We shall meet in those mansions of joy,
Where love is divinely refin'd:
And soon will that moment arrive,
For time never ceases his flight;
Yet who for existence would strive,
If life were but winter and night?
And it ne'er can be morning to me,
Nor will spring its warm radiance shed,
While the spot at each turning, I see,
Where he sleeps in his cold, narrow bed.
For time never ceases his flight;
Yet who for existence would strive,
If life were but winter and night?
And it ne'er can be morning to me,
Nor will spring its warm radiance shed,
While the spot at each turning, I see,
Where he sleeps in his cold, narrow bed.
June 14, 1823.
| The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems | |