Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

My friend, I gave a glad assent
To your request at noon,
But now I find I cannot leave
My little ones so soon.—
Early I came, and as my feet
First enter'd at the door,
“Remember!”—to myself I said,
“You must dismiss at four.”
But slates, and books, and maps appear,
And many a dear one cries,
“O tell us where that river runs,
And where these mountains rise,
And where that blind old monarch reign'd,
And who was king before,
And stay a little after five,
And tell us something more.”—
And then my little Alice comes,
And who unmoved can view,
The glance of that imploring eye,
“Pray, teach me something too.”

208

Yet who would think amid the toil,
(Though scarce a toil it be,)
That through the door the muses coy
Should deign to peep at me.—
Their brow is somewhat cold and stern,
As if it fain would say,
“We did not know you kept a school,
We must have lost our way.”
Their visit was but short indeed,
As these slight numbers show,
But ah! they bade me write with speed,
My friend,—I cannot go.

A child deprived of the powers of speech and hearing.

THE CORAL INSECT.

Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train,
Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on,—for the wisdom of man ye mock,
With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,
And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye 're a puny race, thus to boldly rear
A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,
And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There 's a poison-drop in man's purest cup,
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

209

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;—
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;—
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build,—ye build,—but ye enter not in,
Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;—
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid,
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid;
Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip;—he touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.—Forth from those blue eyes
There spoke a wishful tenderness,—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,—
Death gazed and left it there;—he dared not steal
The signet-ring of heaven.

210

WITH WILD FLOWERS TO A SICK FRIEND.

Rise from the dells where ye first were born,
From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn,
Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,
And haste away with your brows of light.—
—Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,
On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down,
Shrink not,—for His finger your heads hath bow'd,
Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.—
—The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,
Have meted your robes with a miser's eye,
And check'd the blush of your blossoms free,—
With a gentler friend your home shall be;
To a kinder ear you may tell your tale
Of the zephyr's kiss and the scented vale;—
Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh
Is health to the bosom on which ye die.

MISSOLONGHI.

Famine hath worn them pale, that noble band;—
Yet round the long beleaguer'd wall,
With wasted frame, and iron hand,
Like watching skeletons they stand,
To conquer or to fall.

Hark!—Hark! the war-cry. Swells the shout
From wild Arabia's wandering rout,
From turbid Nilus' swarthy brood,
From Ibrahim's host who thirst for blood,
'T is answer'd from the echoing skies,
Sons of Miltiades, arise!—

Aged men, with temples gray!—
Why do ye haste to the battle fray?—
Home to the couch of ease, and pray.—
But ah! I read on those brows of gloom,
That your sons have found a gory tomb,
And ye with despair and grief opprest,
Would strike ere ye share their clay-cold rest.—

211

With features pale, yet sternly wrought
To all the agony of thought,
Yon widow'd mothers mount the tower,
To guard the wall in danger's hour:—
Fast by their side in mute distress,
Their little sons unwavering press,
Taught from their cradle-bed to know
The bitter tutelage of wo,
No idle fears in their bosoms glow,
But pride and wrath in their dark eyes glance,
As they lift their martyr'd father's lance.

Yet more!—Yet more!—At beat of drum
With wildly flowing hair,
Helle's beauteous maidens come,
The iron strife to dare.—
Sadly sweet from those lips of rose,
The death-song of Bozzaris flows,
It is your dirge, ye turban'd foes!—
Rise, soul of Pindar! strike the shadowy lyre,
Start from your sculptured tombs, ye sons of fire!
Snatch, snatch those gentle forms from war's alarms,
And throw your adamantine shield around their shrinking charms.

Louder swells the battle-cry;
God of Christians! from the sky
Behold the Turk's accursed host
Come rushing in.—'T is lost! 'T is lost!—
Ye bold defenders, die!—
O thou, who sang'st of Ilion's walls the fate,
Unseal thy blinded orbs, thine own are desolate.

The stifled sob of mighty souls
Rises on the glowing air,
And the vow of vengeance rolls,
Mingled with the dying prayer:
“Now, by the spirits of the brave,
Sires, who rode on glory's wave,
By red Scio's wrongs and groans,
By Ipsara's unburied bones,
Our foes beneath these reeking stones,
Shall find a grave.”

Earth heaves, as if she gorged again
Usurping Korah's rebel train,

212

She heaves, with blast more wild and loud,
Than when with trump of thunders proud,
The electric flame subdues the cloud,
Torn and dismember'd frames are thrown on high,
And then the oppressor and oppress'd in equal silence lie.

Come, jewell'd Sultan, from thine hall of state!
Exult o'er Missolonghi's fall,
With flashing eye, and step elate
The blood-pools count around her ruin'd wall.—
Seek'st thou thus with glances vain
The remnant of thy Moslem train?—
Hither they came, with haughty brow,
They conquer'd here,—where are they now?
Ask the hoarse vulture with her new-flesh'd beak,
Bid the gaunt watch-dog speak,
Who bay'd so long around his murder'd master's door,—
They, with shriek and ban can tell
The burial-place of the infidel,
Go! bind thy turban round thy brow of shame,
And hurl the mutter'd curse at thy false prophet's name.

Ancient and beautiful!—who stand'st alone
In the dire crusade, while with hearts of stone
Thy sister nations close the leaden eye
Regardless of thine agony.
Such friends had He, who once with bursting pore,
On sad Gethsemane a lost world's burden bore.—
Leave, leave the sacred steep
Where thy lone muses weep,
Forth from thy sculptured halls,
Thy pilgrim-haunted walls,
Thy classic fountains' crystal flood,
Go!—angel-strengthen'd to the field of blood.
Raise thy white arm,—unbind thy wreathed hair,
And God's dread name upon thy breastplate wear,
Stand in His might, till the pure cross arise
O'er the proud minaret, and woo propitious skies.

BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.

There was an open grave,—and many an eye
Look'd down upon it. Slow the sable hearse

213

Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare
The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.
—There seem'd a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.—
—There was a train
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly,
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers,
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came
With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell:—
She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend,
And tears of those who at her side were nursed
By the same mother.
Ah! and one was there,
Who, ere the fading of the summer rose,
Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But death
Arose between them. The pale lover watch'd
So close her journey through the shadowy vale,
That almost to his heart, the ice of death
Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush
Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye
Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd
For that slight breath which held her from the tomb,
Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun
Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast,
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.
—Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch,
Came visions of that matron form which bent
With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless
Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand
In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved
The sainted mother, would redeem the child.
Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resign'd? that eloquence

214

So fondly urging those whose hearts were full
Of sublunary happiness to seek
A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,
Which from the marble lip in life's last strife
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?
—Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand
Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks
Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits
The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart
In praise to Him, who gave the victory.

TO THE MOON.

Hail beauteous and inconstant!—Thou who roll'st
Thy silver car around the realm of night,
Queen of soft hours! how fanciful art thou
In equipage and vesture.—Now thou com'st
With slender horn piercing the western cloud,
As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs
With trump and festival saluted thee;
Anon thy waxing crescent 'mid the host
Of constellations, like some fairy boat,
Glides o'er the waveless sea; then as a bride
Thou bow'st thy cheek behind a fleecy veil,
Timid and fair; or, bright in regal robes,
Dost bid thy full orb'd chariot proudly roll,
Sweeping with silent rein the starry path
Up to the highest node,—then plunging low
To seek dim Nadir in his misty cell.—
—Lov'st thou our earth, that thou dost hold thy lamp
To guide and cheer her, when the wearied sun
Forsakes her?—Sometimes, roving on, thou shedd'st
The eclipsing blot ungrateful, on that sire
Who feeds thy urn with light,—but sinking deep
'Neath the dark shadow of the earth dost mourn
And find thy retribution.
—Dost thou hold
Dalliance with ocean, that his mighty heart
Tosses at thine approach, and his mad tides,
Drinking thy favoring glance, more rudely lash
Their rocky bulwark?—Do thy children trace
Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb
Even as we gaze on thee?—With Euclid's art

215

Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they span,
Her sun-loved tropics—and her spreading seas
Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they mark
Where India's cliffs the trembling cloud invade,
Or Andes with his fiery banner flouts
The empyrean,—where old Atlas towers,—
Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage pour'd
Terrors on Rome.—Thou, too, perchance, hast nursed
Some bold Copernicus, or fondly call'd
A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls
Which shone in darkness, though our darkness fail'd
To comprehend them.—Canst thou boast, like earth,
A Kepler, skilful pioneer and wise?—
A sage to write his name among the stars
Like glorious Herschel?—or a dynasty
Like great Cassini's, which from sire to son
Transmitted science as a birthright seal'd?
—Rose there some lunar Horrox,—to whose glance
Resplendent Venus her adventurous course
Reveal'd, even in his boyhood?—some La Place
Luminous as the skies he sought to read?—
Thou deign'st no answer,—or I fain would ask
If since thy bright creation, thou hast seen
Ought like a Newton, whose admitted eye
The arcana of the universe explored?
Light's subtle ray its mechanism disclosed,
The impetuous comet his mysterious lore
Unfolded,—system after system rose,
Eternal wheeling through the immense of space,
And taught him of their laws.—Even angels stood
Amazed, as when in ancient times they saw
On Sinai's top, a mortal walk with God.—
—But he to whom the secrets of the skies
Were whisper'd—in humility adored,
Breathing with childlike reverence the prayer,
—“When on yon heavens, with all their orbs, I gaze,
Jehovah!—what is man?”

A VISION OF THE ALPS.

Italia's vales in verdure slept,
While spring her humid odors wept,

216

With wreaths the breathing statue bound,
The fallen dome with ivy crown'd,
And bade old Tiber's yellow wave
With fuller flow its margin lave.
Low at the base of Alps sublime,
Where the columbar cypress grows,
And falling streams with tuneful chime
To slumber lull the ear of time,
His cell a hermit chose.
Once at his peaceful door reclined,
While lonely musings soothed his mind,
Soft mists involved his favorite tree,
In fainter murmurs humm'd the bee,
And in bright tints gay fancy drew
A vision o'er his cheated view.
A lovely form, in robes of light,
Came gliding o'er his raptured sight;
Fresh garlands 'mid her tresses glow'd,
Around her steps strange beauty flow'd,
Attendant birds pour'd forth their lays,
And prank'd their plumage in her praise,
The fawn came bounding o'er the earth,
The tufted violets sprang to birth,
The olive donn'd its vesture pale,
And fragrance floated on the gale.
Then, bold o'er Alpine cliffs she sped,
The snow-wreath vanish'd at her tread,
The singing rills went leaping down,
The forest caught its graceful crown,
And warblers cheer'd with carols loud,
The cottage cradled on the cloud.
Still, by the hermit's anxious eye
Her form was traced ascending high,
Where the last tints of verdure die.
Even there, amid that dreary bound,
Some hardy, slumbering flowers she found,
Touch'd their chill lids, and kiss'd the tear
That dimm'd their eye of azure clear,
As leaning on their frosted bed,
Their petals to the storm they spread.
With graceful step, yet half afraid,
Toil'd onward the celestial maid,
And long and vainly strove with fate,
The imprison'd streams to liberate;

217

The blushing snows her wand confest,
Yet held the vassals to their breast,
And soften'd by her aspect sweet,
The ice threw diamonds at her feet.
Yet save the eagle-king, whose cry
Came hoarsely from the blacken'd sky,
Motion nor sound was lingering there,
Amid that realm of chill despair.
It seem'd throughout the drear domain
That Life, too fiercely tried,
Contending with the blast in vain,
Had like the taper died.
She paused—for towering bold and high,
A splendid fabric met her eye.
Of thick ribb'd ice, in arches pure,
With battlement and embrasure,
And cluster'd columns, tall and white:
And frost-work tracery, dazzling bright,
And turrets frowning at the cloud,
Gleam'd forth its architecture proud.
Here, age on age, with painful thought,
The troubled elements had wrought,
To stretch the rampart's massy line,
With wreaths the pillar'd halls to twine,
And 'neath the lash of tempests rude,
Had oft their bitter task pursued,
Arranging Winter's glittering spoil,
With slow and aggregated toil.
The admiring fair, with wonder fraught,
An entrance to the structure sought;
But a grim form her course withstood,
Whose frigid eye congeal'd her blood.
Aged, yet strong at heart he seem'd,
His reverend beard like silver stream'd,
Of polish'd ice, the sparkling gem
Adorn'd his kingly diadem,
And closer, as he spoke, he prest
His ermine mantle o'er his breast.
“Say! who art thou, intruder bold,
Who near this lofty throne,
Would with its monarch audience hold,
Unbidden and alone?
Why com'st thou thus with footstep free,
Unnamed, unheralded, to me?”

218

Recoiling from his brilliant cell,
Whose breath in freezing tide,
Congeal'd to sudden ice-drops fell,
The undaunted maid replied;
“I come, on Nature's mission kind,
Oppression's victims to unbind,
To bid the sceptred tyrant bow,
And wake a smile on Misery's brow.
The realm of bliss my care extends,
Man, beast and insect are my friends.
Each nursling of the nested grove,
Each plant, and flower, and leaf, I love.”
With kindling eye, and front of pride,
The scornful monarch stern replied;
“Nature and thou, are wise to give
Wild Freedom's boon to all who live!
The maddening flame promiscuous hurl'd,
Would wrap in anarchy the world.
Go! haste the hour when none shall view
The million meekly serve the few;
O'erturn the thrones which, fix'd as fate,
By Time's strong oath are consecrate,
Then lift your wonder-working rod,
And Earth enfranchised, war with God!
Bold and puissant must ye be,
To rend this guarded dome from me!”
His hand he raised in gestures strong,
And angry blasts shriek'd wild and long.
Vindictive Hail, with frozen eye,
Pour'd forth his keen artillery,
And Snow unlock'd, with threatening mien,
A bleak and boundless magazine.
With blanching lip and bloodless cheek
The stricken stranger strove to speak.
Though from her brow the garland fell
Scentless and pale, yet, strange to tell,
Reviving courage warm'd her breast,
And firmer tones the might confest
That may with woman dwell.
“If from thy cold, unenvied state,
Thy palace proud as desolate,
Where fetters bind the free,
One glance thy kingly eye would deign
To mark the blessings of my reign,
Disarm'd thy rage might be.

219

The chainless rill, the new-born flower,
The carol from the leafy bower,
The strains that from creation roll,
When on my harp she breathes her soul,
Are emblems of the joy that springs,
Deep, measureless, unspoken,
When the dark chain of despot kings
Is from the spirit broken.
Hear'st thou such music in thy hall
When warring blasts hold festival?”
“Thou, who t' annul the law dost seek
By which the strong control the weak,
Wouldst thou in frantic madness sweep
This glorious structure to the deep?
Whelm in the dust yon turrets proud
Which hurl their gauntlet 'gainst the cloud?
And make these gem-encrusted plains
A vulgar haunt for piping swains,
And brawling brooks, and baby bowers,
And nameless troops of vagrant flowers?
Usurper, hence!” he rudely said,
And trembling from his realm she fled;
For thundering o'er the rocky crown,
An avalanche rush'd fiercely down,
And in its wide and wrecking storm
Perchance had whelm'd her shrinking form.
But a bright cloud its tissued fold
Unclasp'd, of crimson blent with gold,
And soaring on its wing she rose
Homeward to heaven, to find repose
Upon her couch of fadeless rose.
The waking hermit, o'er whose head
The lustre of this pageant fled,
Retraced its scenes with wonder new,
And musing thus the moral drew.
“The genial gifts of Spring to earth,
Methinks, are types of Freedom's birth,
And the dark winter of my dream
Oppression's emblem well may seem;
For many a clime that meets our view,
Will prove these varying symbols true.”

220

CONNECTICUT RIVER.

Fair River! not unknown to classic song;—
Which still in varying beauty roll'st along,
Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen,
A line of silver 'mid a fringe of green;
Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide,
To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide;
Or where, in azure mantle, pure and free,
Thou giv'st thy cool hand to the waiting sea;—
Though broader streams our sister realms may boast,
Herculean cities, and a prouder coast,
Yet, from the bound where hoarse St Lawrence roars
To where La Plata rocks the sounding shores;
From where the urns of slimy Nilus shine,
To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine;
Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark,
Or sacred Ganges whelms its votaries dark,
No brighter skies the eye of day may see,
No soil more verdant, nor a race more free.
—See, where, amid their cultured vales, they stand,
The generous offspring of a simple land;
Too rough for flattery, and all fear above,
King, priest, and prophet, in the homes they love.
On equal laws their anchor'd hopes are stay'd,
By all interpreted, and all obey'd.
Alike the despot and the slave they hate,
And rise firm columns of a happy state.
To them content is bliss; and labor, health;
And knowledge, power; and true religion, wealth.

The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees
His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze,
His bleating flocks, the shearer's care who need,
His waving woods, the winter fire that feed,
His hardy steers, that break the yielding soil,
His patient sons, who aid their father's toil,
The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest,
And the white spire that points a world of rest.
—His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear
An equal burden in the yoke of care,
With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves,
Or from the press the golden cheese receives;
Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er,
With apron clean, to seek her neighbor's door,

221

Partake the friendly feast, with social glow,
Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow;
Then, hale and cheerful, to her home repair,
When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care,
Press the full udder for her children's meal,
Rock the tired babe, or wake the tuneful wheel.

See, toward yon dome, where village science dwells,
What time the warning clock its summons swells,
What tiny feet the well known path explore,
And gaily gather from each sylvan door.
The new wean'd child, with murmur'd tone proceeds,
Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads,
Transferr'd as burdens, that the house-wife's care
May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare.
Light-hearted group! who gambol wild and high,
The daisy pluck, or chase the butterfly,
Till by some traveller's wheels aroused from play,
The stiff salute, with face demure, they pay,
Bare the curl'd brow, or stretch the ready hand,
The untutor'd homage of an artless land.
The stranger marks, amid the joyous line,
The little baskets whence they hope to dine;
And larger books, as if their dexterous art
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part.
Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame
To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame!

Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride!
Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride;
From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung,
Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue;
Bold patriot souls, who ruled the willing throng,
Their powerful nerves by early labor strong;
Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought,
And white-hair'd sages, skill'd in studious thought
Chiefs, who the field of battle nobly trod,
And holy men, who fed the flock of God.

Here, 'mid the graves by time so sacred made,
The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade;
He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave,
In ancient days, yon pure, cerulean wave;
Son of that spirit, whom in storms he traced,
Through darkness follow'd, and in death embraced,—
He sleeps an outlaw, 'mid his forfeit land,
And grasps the arrow in his moulder'd hand.
Here too, those warrior sires with honor rest,

222

Who bared in freedom's cause the valiant breast,
Sprang from their half drawn furrow, as the cry
Of threaten'd liberty came thrilling by,
Look'd to their God, and rear'd in bulwark round
Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown'd,
And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield—
Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field;
Lo! here they rest, who every danger braved,
Unmark'd, untrophied, 'mid the soil they saved.
—Round scenes like these, doth warm remembrance glide,
Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide.
On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore,
Or ruder Erie's serpent-haunted shore,
Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crown'd,
Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound,
The exiled man, when midnight shades invade,
Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade,
Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear,
The boatman's song that pleased his boyish ear;
While the sad mother, 'mid her children's mirth,
Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth,
Or charms her rustic babes, with tender tales
Of thee, blest River! and thy velvet vales;
Her native cot, where ripening berries swell,
The village school, and sabbath's holy bell;
And smiles to see the infant soul expand
With proud devotion for that father land.

FLORA'S PARTY.

Lady Flora gave cards for a party at tea,
To flowers, buds, and blossoms of every degree;
So from town and from country they throng'd at the call,
And strove by their charms to embellish the hall.
First came the exotics, with ornaments rare,
The tall Miss Corcoris, and Cyclamen fair,
Auricula splendid, with jewels new-set,
And gay Polyanthus, the pretty coquette.
The Tulips came flaunting in gaudy array,
With the Hyacinths, bright as the eye of the day;
Dandy Coxcombs and Daffodils, rich and polite,
With their dazzling new vests, and their corsets laced light;

223

While the Soldiers in Green, cavalierly attired,
Were all by the ladies extremely admired.
But prudish Miss Lily, with bosom of snow,
Declared that “those gentlemen stared at her so,
It was horribly rude,”—so retired in a fright,
And scarce stay'd to bid lady Flora good night.
There were Myrtles and Roses from garden and plain,
And Venus's Fly-Trap they brought in their train,
So the beaux throng'd around them, they scarcely knew why,
At the smile of the lip, or the glance of the eye.
Madam Damask complain'd of her household and care,
That she seldom went out save to breathe the fresh air,
There were so many young ones and servants to stray,
And the thorns grew so fast, if her eye was away.
“Neighbor Moss-Rose,” said she, “you who live like a queen,
And ne'er wet your fingers, don't know what I mean.”
So the notable lady went on with her lay,
Till her auditors yawn'd, or stole softly away.
The sweet Misses Woodbine from country and town,
With their brother in law, the wild Trumpet, came down,
And Lupine, whose azure eye sparkled with dew,
On Amaranth lean'd, the unchanging and true;
While modest Clematis appear'd as a bride,
And her husband, the Lilac, ne'er moved from her side,
Though the belles giggled loudly, and said, “'T was a shame
For a young married chit such attention to claim;
They never attended a route in their life,
Where a city-bred man ever spoke to his wife.”
Miss Piony came in quite late, in a heat,
With the Ice-Plant, new spangled from forehead to feet;
Lobelia, attired like a queen in her pride,
And the Dalias, with trimmings new furnish'd and dyed,
And the Blue-bells and Hare-bells, in simple array,
With all their Scotch cousins from highland and braé.
Ragged Ladies and Marigolds cluster'd together,
And gossip'd of scandal, the news and the weather;
What dresses were worn at the wedding so fine
Of sharp Mr Thistle, and sweet Columbine;
Of the loves of Sweet-William and Lily the prude,
Till the clamors of Babel again seem'd renew'd.
In a snug little nook sate the Jessamine pale,
And that pure, fragrant Lily, the gem of the vale;
The meek Mountain-Daisy, with delicate crest,
And the Violet, whose eye told the heaven in her breast;
And allured to their group were the wise ones, who bow'd

224

To that virtue which seeks not the praise of the crowd.
But the proud Crown Imperial, who wept in her heart,
That their modesty gain'd of such homage a part,
Look'd haughtily down on their innocent mien,
And spread out her gown that they might not be seen.
The bright Lady-Slippers and Sweet-Briars agreed
With their slim cousin Aspens a measure to lead;
And sweet 't was to see their bright footsteps advance,
Like the wing of the breeze through the maze of the dance.
But the Monk's-Hood scowl'd dark, and, in utterance low,
Declared “'t was high time for good christians to go;
He 'd heard from his parson a sermon sublime,
Where he proved from the Vulgate, to dance was a crime.”
So, folding the cowl round his cynical head,
He took from the sideboard a bumper, and fled.
A song was desired, but each musical flower
Had “taken a cold, and 't was out of her power;”
Till sufficiently urged, they broke forth in a strain
Of quavers and trills that astonish'd the train.
Mimosa sat trembling, and said, with a sigh,
“'T was so fine, she was ready with rapture to die.”
And Cactus, the grammar-school tutor, declared
“It might be with the gamut of Orpheus compared;
Then moved himself round in a comical way,
To show how the trees once had frisk'd at the lay.
Yet Night-Shade, the metaphysician, complain'd,
That the nerves of his ears were excessively pain'd;
“'T was but seldom he crept from the college,” he said,
“And he wish'd himself safe in his study or bed.”
There were pictures, whose splendor illumined the place
Which Flora had finish'd with exquisite grace;
She had dipp'd her free pencil in Nature's pure dyes,
And Aurora retouch'd with fresh purple the skies.
So the grave connoisseurs hasted near them to draw,
Their knowledge to show, by detecting a flaw.
The Carnation took her eye-glass from her waist,
And pronounced they were “not in good keeping or taste;”
While prim Fleur de Lis, in her robe of French silk,
And magnificent Calla, with mantle like milk,
Of the Louvre recited a wonderful tale,
And said “Guido's rich tints made dame Nature turn pale.”
The Snow-Ball assented, and ventured to add
His opinion, that “all Nature's coloring was bad;”
He had thought so, e'er since a few days he had spent
To study the paintings of Rome, as he went

225

To visit his uncle Gentiana, who chose
His abode on the Alps, 'mid a palace of snows.
But he took on Mont Blanc such a terrible chill,
That ever since that he 'd been pallid and ill.”
Half wither'd Miss Hackmatack bought a new glass,
And thought with her nieces, the Spruces, to pass;
But bachelor Holly, who spy'd her out late,
Destroy'd all her plans by a hint at her date.
So she pursed up her mouth, and said tartly, with scorn,
“She could not remember before she was born.”
Old Jonquil, the crooked-back'd beau, had been told
That a tax would be laid upon bachelor's gold;
So he bought a new coat, and determined to try
The long disused armor of Cupid so sly;
Sought for half-open'd buds in their infantine years,
And ogled them all, till they blush'd to their ears.
Philosopher Sage on a sofa was prosing.
With dull Dr Chamomile quietly dozing;
Though the Laurel descanted, with eloquent breath,
Of heroes and battles, of victory and death,
Of the conquests of Greece, and Bozzaris the brave,
“He had trod in his steps, and had sigh'd o'er his grave.”
Farmer Sun-Flower was near, and decidedly spake
Of “the poultry he fed, and the oil he might make;”
For the true hearted soul deem'd a weather-stain'd face,
And a toil-harden'd hand were no marks of disgrace.
Then he beckon'd his nieces to rise from their seat,
The plump Dandelion, and Cowslip so neat,
And bade them to “pack up their duds and away,
For the cocks crow'd so loud 't was the break o' the day.”
—'T was indeed very late, and the coaches were brought,
For the grave matron flowers of their nurseries thought;
The lustre was dimm'd of each drapery rare,
And the lucid young brows look'd beclouded with care;
All save the bright Cereus, that belle so divine,
Who joy'd through the curtains of midnight to shine.
Now they curtsey'd and bow'd as they moved to the door,
But the Poppy snored loud ere the parting was o'er,
For Night her last candle was snuffing away,
And Flora grew tired though she begg'd them to stay;
Exclaim'd, “all the watches and clocks were too fast,
And old Time ran in spite, lest her pleasures should last.”
But when the last guest went, with daughter and wife,
She vow'd she “was never so glad in her life;”
Call'd out to her maids, who with weariness wept,

226

To “wash all the glasses and cups ere they slept;”
For “Aurora,” she said, “with her broad staring eye,
Would be pleased, in the house, some disorder to spy;”
Then sipp'd some pure honey-dew, fresh from the lawn,
And with Zephyrus hasted to sleep until dawn.

MUSING THOUGHTS.

I did not dream, and yet untiring thought
Rang such wild changes on the spirit's harp,
It seem'd that slumber ruled.
A structure rose
Deep founded and gigantic. Strangely blent
Its orders seem'd. The dusky Gothic tower
Ecclesiastical, the turret proud
In castellated pomp, the palace dome,
The grated dungeon, and the peasant's cot
Were grouped within its walls.
A throne was there,
A king with all his gay and courtly train
In robes of splendor, and a vassal throng
Eager to do his will, and pleased with chains
Of gilded servitude. The back-ground seem'd
Darken'd by Misery's pencil. Famine cast
A tinge of paleness o'er the brow of toil,
While Poverty, to soothe her naked babes,
Shriek'd forth a broken song.
Then came a groan—
A rush, as if of thunder; and the earth
From yawning clefts breathed forth volcanic flames,
While the huge fabric, rocking to its base,
A ruin seem'd. A miserable mass
Of tortured life roll'd through the burning gates,
And spread terrific o'er the parching soil,
Like blacken'd lava. Then there was a pause.
As if the dire convulsion mourned its wreck.
To the rent walls the sad survivors clung,
And, even 'mid smouldering fires, the artificers
Wrought to uprear the pile.
But all at once
A bugle blast was heard—a courser's tramp—
While a stern warrior waved his sword, and cried,

227

“Away! away!” Like dreams the pageant fled,
Monarch, and royal dame, and nobles proud.
So there he stood alone, array'd in power
Supreme and self-derived.
Where the rude Alps
Mock with their battlements the bowing cloud,
His eagle-banner stream'd. Pale Gallia pour'd
Incense as to an idol, mixed with blood
Of her young conscript hearts. Chain'd in wild wrath,
The Austrian lion couch'd; even Cæsar's realm
Cast down its crown pontifical, and bade
The Eternal city lay her lip in dust.
The Land of Pyramids bent darkly down,
And from the subject nations rose a voice
Of wretchedness that awed the trembling globe.
Earth, slowly rising from her thousand thrones,
Did homage to the Corsican, as he
The favor'd patriarch in his dream beheld
Heaven, with her sceptred blazonry of stars,
Bow to a reaper's sheaf. But fickle man,
Though like the sea he boast himself awhile,
Hath bounds to his supremacy. I saw
A listed field, where the embattled kings
Drew in deep wrath their armed legions on.
The self-crown'd warrior blench'd not, and his sword
Gleam'd like the flashing lightning, when it cleaves
The vaulted firmament. In vain, in vain!
The hour of fate had come. From a fair isle,
'Gainst whose bold rocks the foil'd Pacific roars,
I heard above the troubled surge, the moan
Of a chafed spirit warring with its lot;
And there, where every element conspired
To make Ambition's prison doubly sure,
The mighty warrior gnaw'd his chain, and died.