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My Mind AND ITS THOUGHTS, IN SKETCHES, FRAGMENTS, AND ESSAYS;

BY SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON, OF DORCHESTER, MASS.
“I stood among them, but not of them—
“In a shroud of thoughts, which were not their thoughts.

xix

RUSTIC LINES,

UPON RETURNING TO THE BELOVED HAMLET OF DORCHESTER

Home of my heart! thy tranquil scene
Of plains—in early herbage green;
Thy near hills bordering bold and wild,
The temper of thy breezes mild—
Thine ocean blue as beauty's eye,
And calm as clouds bright hovering nigh,
Ere twilight breathes her parting sigh.
On—the brisk gale, when mid-day clear
Wakes the first floweret of the year,
Bending as if that gale to greet,
Like captive at her conqueror's feet!
While the tossed waves exulting seem
To love the sun's approaching beam.—
These all are mine—ere the young day
Warms in the bashful blush of May.
Thy vernal bird, with song of glee,
Recalls thy fugitive to thee;
The rustic tones of truth to find,
The smile, that speaks the welcome kind;
Or the quick eye, which seems to say,
The steps of labour must not stay;
To all I come—for all are dear
To her, whose whole of life rests here.
Sweet Hamlet! since no wrong invades
The quiet of thine elm-row shades,
xx

I come—beneath those shades to rest,
And in that quiet to be blest.
Sweet Hamlet! to thy breast of bloom
In singleness of soul I come!
The aching of my cares to hide,
And dead to all that breathe beside.
For in thy bounties thou art kind,
To the world-wearied nerve of mind;
And most to her who dares not own,
How much she feels in crowds alone.
12

ODE TO MERCY.

Bless'd Power! first attribute of heaven!
Whose melting eye,
And accent bland;
Whose gentle sigh,
And open hand,
Were to the best beloved of mortals given;—
Whither, ah whither, hast thou fled,
On what soft bosom rests thine angel head;
Or to what distant wilds are thy mild graces driven?
Thou art not in the courtly smile,
Which silken Gratio wears,
Whose softness flatters to beguile,
Whose kindness but in voice is known,
Round whose dark mind's degraded throne,
Falsehood her doubly forked sting with serpent venom bears.
Still further from the rough disdain,
Of rich Lorenzo's pride;
He who in trilling arts excels—
Critic in flies, in flowers, in shells;
Which o'er his hollow heart preside;—
And shut his marble breast to sorrow's moving strain.
Nor art thou with the vaunting tongue,
Which in misconduct's tortured ear,
Proclaims each pity-giving tear,
Which virtue's sorrowing heart bestows,
When folly leads her train of woes,
And scorpions lash the voluntary wrong.
Oh shade of Howard! still to thee,
13

Meek offspring of humility,
The living muses wake their grateful strain—
Howard, to sorrow self-resigned,
Whose firm, undaunted, sleepless mind,
Embraced the extended family of pain;
For that to heaven he raised the expiring eye,
With that he deigned to live,—for that he dared to die.
Does the hard earth no living spot disclose,
Where pity's weeping floweret blows,
Pouring her balm of blessedness around,
Scenes where the sick in heart, and lost of hope are found?
Philos, to thee unwearied mercy kneels,
Not for thy rank, nor wealth, thy deeds alone!
Deeds which the powerful heart of misery feels,
Deeds of thy secret soul she calls her own;
Deeds at whose touch the prison'd debtor smiles,
His dim eye lighted by his fervid prayer;
The blessing, which his agony beguiles,
Is poured on heaven FOR HIM whose great reward is there.
14

Angel of earth! whose steps in silence move,
While scattered bounty through their pathway blooms,
More grateful are the breathings of thy love,
Than all the generous summer's rich perfumes,
These to the sense luxurious sweets impart;
Those come like incense to the fainting heart.
Mercy Divine!—though grief severe
May rest her fang of misery here,
To me thy tearful smile will seem,
Like the young morning's dewy beam
Cheering the gloom with promise mild,
A foliage mid the desert wild,
A bark the desperate wretch to save,
Who struggles with the stronger wave;
A light like that the apostle knew,
When back his prison's portals flew,
And the soft touch of angels lay
On chains, that touch dissolved away.
A blessing sought, and sent and shed
On earth—when earthly hope is dead.
Beloved of Heaven! thy healing aid impart,
To charm and change the deeply venomed heart,
Give the fix'd bosom, cold as hardest steel,
To move, to warm, to soften, and to feel.
Rewarding each awaken'd sense
With the rich blessing of thy own Benevolence.
 

That this true philanthropist was among the most humble and self accusing of mankind, is evinced in his letter, written in positive rejection of the statue, that had been ordered for the purpose of commemorating his inestimamable services; in which letter, disclaiming all merit, he deprecates every tribute.

Howard was a man of sorrows, and thence devoted and sacrificed his life to the children of suffering.

Howard died of a fever, the infection of which was communicated by a dying individual, who requested to see him, and in complying with that request his own life was sacrificed.

William Phillips, Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts, at once modest and munificent, pre-eminent among the first in every deed of mercy. This true Samaritan some time since released all the debtors under close confinement within the walls of the County prison, by paying the amount of demands brought individually against them, by merciless or necessitous creditors.

Wherever the thin and stunted palm trees are visible amid the Arabian deserts, the blessing of a spring of sweet water is expected and obtained.

20

LINES TO POVERTY.

Oh Poverty! hard featured dame,
Whence grow the terrors of thy name?
'Tis said that from thy serious eye,
The laughing train of pleasures fly.
That deep within thy mansion rude,
Lurks the black fiend, ingratitude.
That toil, and want, and shame are known
To make thy heartless hours their own,
'Till guilt, his phrenzied eye on fire,
Bids the last famished hope expire.
Thus speaks the world,—to mammon true,
While wrongs thy pleading worth pursue;
To me—and I have seen thee near,
Though harsh thy withering look appear;
Though stern the teachers of the poor,
And hard the lesson, to endure,
Yet many a virtue born of thee,
Lives sundered from prosperity.
Religion, that on heaven relies,
The moral of thy mind supplies.
—Pity, with plaintive accent, kind,
And patience, to her fate resigned;
Are seen thy lowly cot to share,
While temperance dwells an inmate there.
Love joined by truth—no rival's eye
Wakes to the wish of poverty,
But all the blest affections twine
21

Round many a rustic home of thine.
Close circling with the nuptial tie,
Joys, which a monarch could not buy,
Though boonless, and to praise unknown.
Oft is the lustre'd life thy own:
To thee, the priests of God belong,
And thine the Poet's deathless song:
Thee, toiling science lives to claim,
Thou lead'st his thorny steps to fame.
Creative genius feels thy power,
Coeval with his natal hour;
On him the rays of glory shine
Too late—his parting breath is thine.
Let me thy simple glances meet,
Near the green hamlet's calm retreat;
Not where the city, throng'd with sin,
Bids all the monster crimes begin.
Thence will thy timid virtues fly,
Scared by seduction's serpent eye.
Their fate, each murdered hope to see,
While every suffering lives to thee.
Not that along the wintry shore,
The fisher plies the wearying oar,
Not that amid the sultry plain,
The peasant piles the laboured grain,
Wilt thou with frowning brow appear,
To wring the grief-extorted tear.
But when to wrongs thy sufferings lead,
While shame, and false reproach succeed;
When genius, doomed with thee to mourn,
Sees his unsheltered laurels torn.
While ignorant malice, rushing by,
Quick glances with insidious eye.
When all thy cultured virtues move,
Nor sense to feel, nor heart to love;
While treachery under friendship's guise,
22

Bids the pernicious rumour rise,
Still aiming with envenomed dart,
To reach the life-pulse of thy heart.
Then Poverty, hard featured dame,
We feel the miseries of thy claim,
Would from thy close embraces fly,
Or in their palsying pressure die.
25

SOUVENIR.

During the endemial ravages of the spotted malignant fever in the state of Maine, the active benevolence of one man was known to meliorate the distress, and to preserve the existence of hundreds of human victims.

To that man, the compassionate friend and beneficent physician of the poor, the following lines were inscribed by

ONE OF THE GRATEFUL.


For him, “The Man of Ross”—your boast prolong,
Who love the Poet and the Muses' song.
Lives there, whose deeds an equal homage claim.
Yet shuns the tributary breath of fame,
To pale disease, and paler misery flies,
His dread the question of enquiring eyes.
He, born to bless, with secret step draws near
Where the proud sufferer drops the silent tear.
26

Where hard and deep the frost of fortune lay;
Pours light and life, like heaven's restoring ray:
Or where the murmuring poor by wants oppress'd,
Claim the large bounty of his ample breast,
Is known to loiter—till the bursting prayer,
Tells his touched soul a pitying God is there;
That prayer the rescued innocent shall raise,
With eyes that speak unutterable praise.
Do hoards of wealth this bounteous stream supply?
Ah! when could gold the richer feelings buy.
See the vain Midas, grasping mid his store,
Wait till the prosperous gales have wafted more.
While he who breathes to shelter and to save,
Repays his heaven the portioned boon it gave.
Lives there—like him, by Britain's bard defined,
A man of melting heart and matchless mind;
Who flies the grateful fame that would pursue?
Thou, Vaughan wilt “blush” to find the semblance true.
 

“Did good by stealth, and BLUSHED to find it fame.”

Benjamin Vaughan, of Hallowell in the state of Maine, whose ample fortune is expended in deeds of mercy; and whose medical science is exerted for the preservation of those whose only remuneration can be by blessings and prayers to heaven, where his best treasure is, and his heart also!

27

TO GEORGE HENRY APTHORP.

My Brother! at youth's vernal hour,
Thine was beauty's transient flower;
My Brother! in life's summer day,
Thine is of mind, the enduring ray;
From blushing morn, to noon's decline,
Of soul and heart, the strength is thine,
Soul to sustain, and heart to cheer
The pilgrim's path of darkness here.
To me thy deeds of kindness seem
Expressive as the patriarch's dream,
When to his lightly slumbering eyes,
Angels from earth were seen to rise
On steps celestial—bright and fair,
As hope had brought her bounties there,
While on his sense the vision grew,
The golden gate of heaven he knew:
28

Thus to the mourner's musing eyes,
A passage brightening to the skies
Is seen from earth—an angel's care
Unfolds the portal's blessing there.
 

Steps, rather than ladders, according to the original Hebrew.

And Jacob said, Surely this is the gate of heaven. Holy Scriptures.

30

LINES

TO THE MANSION OF MY ANCESTORS,

This Mansion, as enlarged and embellished by its honoured proprietor, the late Charles Apthorp, Esq. was then, that is, about the middle of the Eighteenth Century, said to be the scene of every elegance, and the abode of every virtue. Now, its beautiful hall of entrance, arches, sculpture, and base-relief; the grand stair-case, and its highly finished saloon, have been removed, or partitioned off, to accommodate the bank and its dependencies.

ON SEEING IT OCCUPIED AS A BANKING ESTABLISHMENT.

Mansion! no more by beauty graced,
Thee have the spoiler's hands defaced.
Mansion of yore! thy stately dome,
Seem'd of a polish'd world the home.
The NOBLE

Lord Amherst, and Sir Peter Warren, commanders of the then army and navy, were not only received at the generous ball and banquet, but also to the continued hospitality of the Mansion, during their temporary residence in Boston; the honoured proprietor being pay-master to, and contractor for the royal army and navy.

there were nobly led,
And at the generous banquet fed;
While the Crusader's shield

The shield of the Apthorp arms, which bearing a mullet or spur, in heraldry, with truly Welsh prepossession, the family were fondly, perhaps foolishly, wont to trace back to the Crusades.

was seen,
To tell of deeds that once had been.
How art thou changed! and mammon's store
Proclaims the reign of soul is o'er!
The feast, the dance, the song of glee,
No longer of thy NAME nor thee.
Apthorp! most dear, most honoured name,
A parent's boast, his children's claim,
Thy halls to taste and talents known,
Where all the brilliant bounties shone:
Thy sons approved in arts or arms,
Thy daughters of transcendant charms
Are gone—and Plutus builds a throne,
Enriched by fortune's gifts alone.
Even where the curtaining velvet rose,
Round the calm midnight of repose;
Where my proud father's

In this Mansion, the father of the author, with seventeen other children, were born; sixteen of them at the particular request of the noble guests, were permitted to pass through the well peopled and well furnished apartments. Those children, all, and without exception, healthy and handsome, have perished, and for the most part, before the meridian of their days.

infant eyes,
First saw the beauteous morning rise,
Proud, with a Cambrian's boast to claim
The warrior's and the artist's fame;
Proud, in his matchless form to trace
31

The impress of an honoured race,
But prouder in his gifted mind,
The genius of that race to find.
All, all are lost—

Not one of their numerous descendants remains, who was in existence before the death of the venerated parent, and to tradition alone are we indebted for this memorial of true excellence and generous hospitality.

The beautiful mother, also of Welsh origin, was grand-daughter to Sir James Lloyd, a name which even to the present day, has preserved its pristine honours, unsullied, and undiminished.

Finally, the author presumes to hope that her Lines to the Mansion, will not be attributed to pride, or any self-sufficiency whatever, but rather to feelings of true filial piety, and grateful commemoration.

the bright, the fair
Are gone—and wealth is worshipped there
The children's children live to see
Nor memory of thy name nor thee,
No mansion by the grandsire trod,
Nor hill, nor vale, nor grassy sod,
Stay with the race—their only claim
The riches of his treasured name:
Not one of all survives to tell
How fond his glance of blessing fell:
Fame only lives in cold decay;
For time has borne the bloom away.
 

See the end of the volume.

32

LINES

TO THE BREATH OF KINDNESS.

The following lines being, as their style imports, a production of early youth, are here inserted, not surely for poetic merit, but rather for the grateful sentiment at that period felt, uttered, and inscribed

TO THE KINDEST OF THE KIND.

Truly these childish Lines were not then seen by the individual to whom they were inscribed in very early youth.


Sweet is the garden's breeze that flows,
With health and sweetness from the rose;
Charm'd was the strain Cecilia knew,
And with enrapturing finger drew;
So sweet the breath which kindness moves.
So charms the voice attention loves:
She, with the organ's lifted peal.
33

Could make a listening Angel feel,
With floating wing from heaven descend,
And o'er her fine attractions bend,
To thee a finer strain is given,
A strain that wins the heart to heaven.
What time the breath of kindness steals
O'er every pang that sorrow feels;
With all affection's hoarded stores,
How rich the balmy whisper pours,
Rich as the spring's first blossom blows,
Warm as the lip of summer glows;
Sweet as the morning's clovered vale,
And healthful as its zephyr'd gale,
More prized than wealth; than worlds more dear;
Still may that whisper loiter near;
Still to this trusting heart reveal,
What only thou—LOVED FRIEND! can'st feel.
 

In the legends of the saints, it is written that saint Cecilia, the inventress of the organ, drew an angel from heaven by the melody of that divine instrument.

49

LINES

INSCRIBED TO A CELEBRATED HISTORICAL PAINTER, UPON HIS RETURN FROM GREAT BRITAIN TO THE UNITED STATES.

Not Raphael—that these lowly lays,
Can reach the summit of thy praise,
That thou, the young Columbia's boast,
The pride of Britain's polished coast,
Can'st from the muses fragrant breath,
Receive a finer, fonder wreath;
Than that two rival worlds bestow,
To grace thy fame embellished brow.
But holier friendship bows the knee,
To virtue, genius, and to thee.
She, whose fair morn of life was new,
When on that voice instruction grew,
While every word a moral taught,
And kindness won the wandering thought.
She sees her early friend restored,
With every worth her youth adored,
Sees him, unlike the summer race,
Who shun affliction's altering face;
Still the benignant accent hears,
Still finds that worth her soul reveres.
Ah, Raphael! not the loud acclaim,
And far extending voice of fame;
Not all the joys THY ART can give,
Not through the lapse of time to live.
50

Not all thy patriot valour known,
The light with which thy Parent shone!
Can to thy bosom yield a good,
Like thine own conscious rectitude.
For me, by many a lesson taught,
Of patient hope, the enduring thought;
Oft have I met the insidious stare,
The mean neglect, the enquiring air.
Which shunning every kindlier part,
Still probed the lacerated heart.
While malice urged the shaft of pain,
Have bid the smile of pity reign;
And proud serenity controul
The anguish of the indignant soul.
Have seen the giddy careless throng,
Melt at the sorrows of a song;
While the mild stranger still supplied,
That tear, known arrogance denied.
In vain the searching mind has sought,
For worth, mid folly's rude resort,
And still with heart-exulting pride,
Found TRUTH with GENIUS close allied.
 

As a distinguished officer of high rank in the American Revolution.

The late Governor of a neighbouring state.

55

PRAYER TO PATIENCE.

Calm Goddess of the steadfast eye,
Thy coldest apathy impart,
Since from a world of woe I fly
To thee—O! take me to thy heart.
On me descend with healing power,
Assist me to suppress the groan,
Or give me while afflictions lower,
To turn, like Niobe, to stone.
Let me to pride's exulting sneer,
Oppose thy much enduring smile,
Serene—when angry storms appear,
Silent—if ruder words revile.
56

Subdue the tyrant of the mind,
Oppressive enemy of thee:
Ah! who can hope or solace find,
When racked by sensibility.
Release me from her wearing sway,
And shield me with thy firmer aid,
Secure, when I thy voice obey;
Gentle and peace-preserving maid.
If greater pangs this bosom rend,
Than ever bosom felt before;
Still further may thy sway extend,
And greater, deeper be thy power.
Be every wrong disarmed by thee,
Rob poor presumption of her pride,
Bid malice at thy presence flee,
Turn envy's venom'd shaft aside.
Let false reproach some mercy feel,
To mean neglect be kindness lent;
From passion wrest his lifted steel,
From dark revenge, his discontent.
Power of the meek and silent eye,
Surround me with thy placid charms;
To thy calm graces let me fly,
My only refuge is thine arms.
59

CHARACTER FROM LIFE.

IN REPLY TO THE QUESTION—“WHY DOES NO ONE LIKE WHOM EVERY ONE ADMIRES?”

VARRO.

With that commanding strength of brain,
Which right and wrong obey,
True to a voice whose forceful strain,
Impels the will away.
With beauty's blessing on his face,
Eyes that with genius shine;
Each well proportioned limb, a grace
Which flattery calls divine.
60

With wealth, whose still increasing store,
Ten thousand joys might claim,
Station, to taste the sweets of power,
In honours, wealth and fame.
Say, why does Varro live unblessed,
Why not one heart commend
Him? who of every gift possessed,
But kindness and a friend.
Not one to like, whom all admire,
All praise, but none approve?—
Though frost may wake the electric fire,
It cannot kindle love.
Cold is that dark and doubtful mind,
Gloomed by the clouds of care,
And colder to himself confined,
The good that labours there.
Thus winning to the dazzled sight,
The polish'd marble shows,
Fair as the pale moon's silver light,
But hard as trackless snows.
With warmth, the hard cold marble prove,
It owns the kind controul;
But what the stony heart can move,
Or thaw the frozen soul!
61

MAUDLA.

THE CARELESS SINNER TURNED PERSECUTING SAINT, PARTLY IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

When Maud was young, her deeds were bad,
Of aged Maud the ways are sad;
That sin which charmed her earlier eyes,
Now from her hideous figure flies,
And since that Satan tempts no more,
She to her God unlocks the door;
As if what tophet loathes and leaves,
Heaven and its angel host receives,
And ugliest sin were welcome there,
Where all is good, and all is fair;
Thus to the rancorous heart is given
The hope of blessedness and heaven,
Even as the cankering reptiles come,
To where the peach unfolds its bloom:
And from the veriest trash may rise,
The bright carnation's fragrant dyes.
 

The character from the French prose, and that which precedes it, were a task imposed on the author at the city of Washington, unappropriate, and certainly without the least intended personality.

62

LINES TO JOHN C. WARREN, M. D. OF BOSTON, MASS.

------ “Known,
“Less by his father's glories than his own.”

Warren! thy name to every patriot dear,
Seems an immortal charm to genius given,
In the bold annals of an empire famed,
In the firm records of her wisdom, prized;
—A star, whose path is glory—while on thee
The rays descend, reflected and reflective.
For thou hast nature's wealth—treasures of mind;
Enlarged by every high and great endowment.
Which culturing art, and lettered lore bestow,
Even mid thy bloom of years; fruits ripe as autumn,
And as the youthful summer's earliest ray,
63

Bounteous—were seen, in life's fair morn mature
As in the high and full meridian hour,
Of manhood's bright and proud pre-eminence.
Envied, admired, approved, but most beloved,
Since all the sacred charities that bless,
With every finer elegance, that lives
In look, or form, or accent, are thine own.
Behold the rescued victim of disease,
Him, whom thy stedfast eye and powerful hand,
Pitying, have pained, and saved through many a suffering.
He, mid the moan of anguish, murmurs blessings,
While ONE of mental malady the prey,
She whose hurt brain, and ever quivering nerve,
Invite THE GREAT DETROYER; she has hailed
Thee, gentlest of the gentle,—not more prized
For science, than for virtues, heaven awarded.
Go on, and in the path where peril dwells,
Meet happiness—that path by genius trod,
Is strewed with honours—thy true heritage,
But most enriched by thee—graceful and graced,
In all the high nobility of nature.
67

STANZAS

TO MY LATE LOVELY AND BELOVED DAUGHTER CHARLOTTE, AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN.

As round that pure unruffled stream,
Which loves the lonely vale to lave,
More rich the bordering flowrets seem,
Reflected by the lucid wave:
So, in the charms which deck thy form,
The graces of thy soul we find;
That blush, from nature's pencil warm,
Is but the bounty of thy mind.
68

That voice, which like the western breeze,
With balmy health and softness fraught,
Each animated sense to please,—
Was from thy heavenly temper caught.
And though thy bosom's sacred throne,
The whiteness of the dove impart,
Even that the critic stern must own,
Is not more faultless than thine heart.
The finished form—the speaking eyes,
To sense and diffidence are due,
While that their brilliant beam supplies,
From this the modest graces grew.
No longer then the lover train,
Shall boast that blooming charms alone
Can with despotic empire reign,
And make the conquered soul their own:
But gazing on thy perfect face,
To all thy beauteous self resigned,
Shall in that faithful mirror trace
Each finer feature of thy mind.
70

STANZAS TO DISAPPOINTMENT.

Offspring of earth! whose sullen eye,
Glooms with the still increasing care,
Why throw thy mad glance on the sky!
Why court the curse that hovers there.
Whether of luckless love thy claim,
To chill the warm heart's passion'd glow,
Or under friendship's treacherous name,
To strike the meditated blow.
Or when ambition upward springs,
Conscious of fortune's vernal ray,
To clip the young hope's soaring wings,
And snatch the tasted joy away:
Whether on lucre's toiling train
Thou turn thy hard and heavy form,
While scorn redoubles every pain,
That breaks the wearied spirit down:
Or on retarded justice wait,
Where slow Potomack's waters roll,
Assume the answering nod of state,
And reach the Georgian's harrowed soul:
71

Still dreaded, and still dreadful known,
Thine is the broad and phrenzied stare;
And thine the deep and deadly groan,
Which lead thy victim to despair.
Has not thy coldly grasping fold,
Strong as the serpent's venomed twine,
Known this quick nerve of life to hold,
Till every stagnant pulse was thine.
Though wide as earth thy crushing sway,
Child of the world! to that confined,
One heavenly hope shall charm away
Thy wrongs—and heal the suffering mind.
Hope, kind preserver! angel power,
Wilt thou the imprisoned spirit free!
In disappointment's palsying hour,
Turn thy electric glance on me.
 

The Georgian.—Intended to designate that company of unfortunate citizens, who had been induced to purchase a large tract of country in the state of Georgia; which purchase being disputed as illicit, or illegal, the supplicants were seen every season, returning from the GREAT CITY on the Potomack, to their desolate homes, unanswered, and unrequited—for the most part ruined, ere partial redress was awarded.

74

TO MR. STUART.

UPON SEEING THOSE PORTRAITS WHICH WERE PAINTED BY HIM AT PHILADELPHIA, IN THE BEGINNING OH THE PRESENT CENTURY.

Stuart, thy Portraits speak!—with skill divine
Round the light graces flows the waving line;
Expression in its finest utterance lives,
And a new language to creation gives.
75

Each varying trait the gifted artist shows,
Wisdom majestic in his bending brows;
The warrior's open front, his eye of fire—
As where the charms of bashful youth retire.
Or patient, plodding, and with wealth content,
The man of commerce counts his cent per cent.
'Tis character that breathes, 'tis soul that twines
Round the rich canvass, traced in living lines.
Speaks in the face, as in the form display'd,
Warms in the tint, and mellows in the shade.
Those touching graces, and that front sublime,
Thy hand shall rescue from the spoil of time.
Hence the fair victim scorns the threat'ning rage,
And stealing step, of slow advancing age.
Still on her cheek the bright carnation blows,
Her lip's deep blush its breathing sweetness shows.
For like the magic wand, thy pencil gives
Its potent charm, and every feature lives.
Even as the powerful eye's transcendant ray,
Bends its soft glance and bids the heart obey.
Thy fine perceptions flow, by heaven designed,
To reach the thought, and pierce the unfolded mind.
Through its swift course the rapid feeling trace,
And stamp the sovereign passion on the face.
Even one, by no enlivening grace arrayed,
One, born to linger in affliction's shade,
Hast thou, kind artist, with attraction dressed,
With all that nature in her soul expressed.
Go on, and may reward thy cares attend;
—The friend of genius must remain thy friend.
Though sordid minds with impious touch presume,
To blend thy laurel with the cypress gloom.
With tears of grief its shining leaves to fade;
Its fair hope withering in the cheerless shade,
76

The well-earned meed of liberal praise deny,
And on thy talents gaze with dubious eye.
Genius is sorrow's child—to want allied—
Consoled by glory, and sustained by pride,
To souls sublime her richest wreath she owes,
And loves that fame which kindred worth bestows.

INSCRIPTION,

FOR THE PORTRAIT OF FISHER AMES, PAINTED CON AMORE BY STUART.

Such is the man!—inspired the artist wrought,
And reached with soaring mind his flight of thought.
Then bid the brow's reflective calm declare,
Majestic honour dwells unquestioned there.
Mild from that eye the rays of kindness flow,
Warm on those lips the words of fervour glow,
Yet with persuasion's pensive charm appear,
To win the plaudit of a nation's tear.
Sublime of soul! in speaking features shine,
Feeling's fine flame, and eloquence divine.
Such is the man; beheld, approached, approved!
Born to excel—yet less admired than loved.
 

See his pathetic speech on the British Treaty, as published in his works.

77

SONG.

WRITTEN AT “THE WOODLANDS,” THE SEAT OF WILLIAM HAMILTON, ESQ. UPON THE SCHUYLKILL.

“How sweet through the woodlands,” in spring's jocund hour,
To catch the first breeze which unfolds the wild flower.
Adown the green slopes the rich landscape survey,
Where Schuylkill prolongs his meandering way.
More dear in that mansion's retreat from the plains,
While rapture in silent expression remains.
To rest where the arts and the virtues unite,
Without, all enchantment, within all delight.
Most welcome that face, so benignant in smiles,
That voice, which the care of the stranger beguiles.
Those graces, where genius combining the whole,
On the features of nature imprinted his soul.
All hail, ye fair scenes! and you, slow winding wave,
As unwilling to quit the fond banks that you lave.
Still heave your full bosom, where shining around,
The altar of taste is with tenderness crowned.
78

INSCRIPTIONS. Intended for a little Island upon the Schuylkill, belonging to the proprietor of the Woodlands; at whose request the following were hastily written.

FOR A SARCOPHAGUS, ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF SHENSTONE, BY WILLIAM HAMILTON, ESQ.

While curious art and careless nature smile,
Thy memory, Shenstone, claims this fairy isle;
Seen like a gem amid the clasping wave,
Where lavish'd wealth such emerald lustre gave,
Thy muse demands! and kindred taste bestows,
Haunts where the loves in shadowy calm repose.
Or in the living blush of beauty shine,
On scenes as graced, and hearts as charmed as thine.
Each woodland warbler seems his groves among,
To chaunt thy requiem in a richer song.
While thy enamoured spirit, hovering near,
Finds of thy life THE INSPIRING GENIUS here.

FOR AN ARBOUR, OR RUSTIC SEAT ON THE ISLAND.

Stranger, this green and graced retreat,
Spreads all its wealth for thee,
Be thine the richly pictured scene,
Hill, valley, walk, and tree.
79

Thine be yon smoothly winding stream,
Whose silent waters move,
Unruffled as a good man's breast,
Reflecting heaven above.
Or thine the tossing tide, so fond
Its golden curls to raise,
When touched by day's departing flame,
It sparkling, seems to blaze.
Thine, if by taste and nature won,
These to thy glance appear
In all the beauties genius gave,
To plant attraction here.
Hast thou a soul to feeling true,
Stay, Wanderer, nor depart,
A nobler gift meets thy regard,
Even his, the Patron's heart.

PHILADELPHIA.

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN AT THE MOST DESOLATING PERIOD OF THE FATAL PESTILENCE OF THE YELLOW FEVER.

Imperial daughter of the west,
Why thus in widowed weeds recline?
With every gift of nature blest,
The empire of a WORLD was thine.
Late, brighter than the star that gleams.
Ere the soft morning carol flows;
Now, mournful as the maniac's dreams,
When melancholy rules his woes.
80

What foe, with more than Gallic ire,
Has thinned thy city's thronging way,
Bid the sweet breath of youth expire,
And manhood's powerful pulse decay.
No Gallic foe's ferocious band,
Fearful as fate, as death severe,
But the destroying angel's hand,
With hotter rage, with fiercer fear.
I saw thee in thy pride of days,
In glory rich, in beauty fair,
When Morris partner of thy praise,
Sustained thee with a patron's care:
Have hailed that hospitable dome,
Where all the cultured virtues grew,
Fortune, and fashion's graceful home,
Warm hearted love, and friendship true.
Columbia's genius! veil thy brow,
Angel of mercy! hither bend,
The prayer of misery meets thee now,
With healing energy descend.
Chase the hot fiend whose SALLOW tread
Consumes the fairest flower that blows,
Fades the sweet lilly's bashful head,
And blights the blushes of the rose.
Even now his omen'd birds of prey,
Through the unpeopling mansions rove,
81

Have quenched the soft eye's heavenly ray,
And closed the breezy lip of love.
Yet guard THAT FRIEND, who wandering near
Haunts, which the loitering Schuylkill laves,
Bestows the tributary tear,
Or fans with sighs the drowsy waves.
And while his mercy-dealing hand,
Feeds many a famished child of care,
Wave round his brow thy saving wand,
And breathe new freshness through the air.
While borne on health's elastic wing,
Afar the rapid whirlwind flies,
The bracing gale of Zembla bring,
And bleach with frost the blackening skies
Where shelving to the heated coast,
With frowns the dusky piles ascend,
Bid some Alcides, freedom's boast,
His heaven-assisted arm extend.
Beneath his firm collected blow,
Wasteful the cumbrous ruin lies,
Till Dryads bring each breathing bough,
And bid the green plantation rise.
Thence the light poplar's tapering form,
The oak his building branches rears,
The elm, that braves the cleaving storm,
The fragrant pine's prolific tears.
82

While every leaf expands a shade,
Beneath whose breeze contagion dies,
Full many a youth and blushing maid,
Gaze, grateful, with enamoured eyes.
He, who the loved asylum gave,
Even thus the PARENT-FOUNDER said,—
Now whispered from the wakening grave,
Ah! heed the mandate of the dead.
And bid the Naiads bring their urns,
Haste!—and the marble fount unclose,
Through streets where Syrian summer burns,—
Till all the cool libation flows.
Cool as the brook that bathes the heath,
When noon unfolds his silent hours,
Refreshing as the morning's breath,
And genial as are vernal showers.
From waves the heavenly Venus grew,
Those waves to mortal beauty kind,
The flush of fragrant health renew,
And brace the nerve-enfeebled mind.
Imperial daughter of the west,
No rival wins thy wreath away,
In all the wealth of nature drest,
Again thy sovereign charms display.
See all thy setting glories rise,
Again thy thronging streets appear,
Thy mart an hundred ports supplies,
Thy harvest feeds the circling year.
 

This Elegy was first published during the extirpating reign of the tyrant Robespierre.

The Honourable R. Morris, who from the indiscretion of individuals, and by the disasters of commerce, was compelled to exchange the hospitality of his superb mansion for the dreariness of a prison.

Water street, which in the original plan of the city, by its illustrious founder, was to have been laid out in plantations of trees, with regular walks, equally conducive to health and recreation. This benevolent appropriation having been anticipated by the speculations of avarice, this spot, as if in divine vengeance, has become the most fatal location of the pestilence.

83

STANZAS.

TO THE HON. ROBERT LISTON, MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY FROM GREAT BRITAIN, UPON HEARING HIM AT HIS DEPARTURE, LAMENT THAT “AMERICA HAD NO POETS.”

Though on Columbia's bleak uncultured shore,
With languid step the ungenial muses rove,
'Tis her's, the bounds of ocean to explore,
And with the spirit of THINE Albion move.
Though not for her the stream of science flow,
'Tis her's the nobler virtues to command,
To seek the gems of genius WHERE they glow,
And deal her tribute with unsparing hand.
Liston, 'tis her's with truth's enamoured eye,
Like a near friend, whom fortune dooms to part,
Still at thy name to breathe affections sigh,
And wear thy graces graven on her heart.
For thou hast wisdom to attract the wise,
Temper, whose sun-shine with benignant ray
Commands the florid smile of joy to rise,
And bids the frowning storm of hate decay.
An empire's glory claims thy filial care,
While from thy dome the fiend of party flies,
For all the amities inhabit there,
And there the spirit of contention dies.
Still may Britannia on thy genius smile,
And still Columbia's kindred voice approve,
Rewards await thee from the GLORIOUS ISLE,
While younger nations crown them with their love.
84

BATAVIA,

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN UPON THE UNRESISTED SUBJUGATION OF THE UNITED PROVINCES TO THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONISTS.

Degenerate race, ye lost Batavians, say,
Where is the blood that warmed the patriot's veins?
When in your great first William's glorious day,
Invading armies fled the unconquered plains?
Where is that spirit of your hardy sires,
Which turned indignant from a foreign lord,
And where that hope, a country's cause inspires,
The stateman's virtue, and the warrior's sword?
The swarthy Gaul now claims the willow'd meads,
Where your famed fathers, patient, proud and poor.
Stampt their bold annals with triumphant deeds,
And learnt the trying lesson to endure.
85

Ye sons of traffic! lost Batavians, say,
Does the hard victor heed the captive's moan,
Can the fierce wolf resign his trembling prey,
Nor make the rich luxurious treat his own.
Who calls the shaggy monarch of the wood,
To yield the fleecy fold his fostering care!
No more to quench his burning lip in blood,
But learn with tasteless apathy to spare?
Thus shall ye thrive beneath the victor's sway,
And thus the fierce Exotic guard your coast,
Who flung with careless hand, a prize away,
Richer than all your conquer'd country's boast.
Transcendant Freedom, offspring of the soil,
Ne'er can an alien's hand that gem bestow,
Whose brilliant rays reward the patriot's toil,
Grace his bold front, and on his bosom glow.

ELEGY.

TO THE MEMORY OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, THE UNFORTUNATE QUEEN OF LOUIS THE 16TH, OF FRANCE.—WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY UPON HEARING OF THE EVENT OF HER DEATH.

'Tis past—the agonizing pang is o'er,
And THOU, fair faded shadow of a queen,
Shalt bend that supplicating eye no more,
While spurning insult rears his ruffian mien.
No more the sighing breeze of dawn shall bear,
The sentenced murder to thy harrowed soul,
No more the night, close curtained by despair,
Bid the deep whelming flood of anguish roll
86

No more remembrance to thy blasted view,
Recal the morning of thy troubled day,
When hope around the lovely landscape threw,
Spring's changeless robe, and summer's cloudless ray.
Set is thy star of life—the pausing storm,
Turns its black deluge from that wearied head,
The fiends of murder quit that bloodless form,
And the last animating hope is fled.
Blest is the hour of peace—though curs'd the hand,
That snaps the thread of life's disastrous loom,
Thrice blest, the great invincible command,
Which deals the solace of the slumbering tomb.
Let those whom long adopted sorrows own,
On whom the cruel strokes of fate descend,
On whom the happy race of mortals frown,
And stern affliction strips of many a friend:
Those who at Cynthia's melancholy hour,
While the slow night-clock knells its mournful sound—
Have waked to weep, with unavailing power,
The cureless pang of many a mental wound:
Let the wrapt mother, who, with phrenzied mind,
Saw her last cherub feed the hungry tomb—
Or her, whose heart its peerless lord resigned,
And gave to cankering grief her vernal bloom:
Let all who fondly clasp the form of woe,
And boast that every featured ill is theirs,
On Gallia's Queen one patient hour bestow,
And turn to heaven with penitence and prayers.
Did'st THOU, poor mourner, grace yon lilied throne,
Fair as the youthful poet's pictured dream,
While round thy days the light of fortune shone,
And warmed a nation with its dazzling beam?
87

Ah no—vain ingrate—nature's boundless page,
On the chilled sense no equal horror throws—
One dread example blots a lettered age,
That scene abhorred, a polished realm bestows.
What though affliction's petrifying sway,
Has bid thy heart its kindling pulse forego,
Has torn of life the vital hope away—
And left thee as a monument of woe:
Yet call the roses to thy faded cheek,
With the mind's lustre light the languid eye,
Cloathe the vex'd soul with resignation meek,
And bid the labouring, lingering murmur die.
Why should the wretch, upon whose visual orb,
The Lord of brightness never poured his ray.
Repine, when darkness folds her nightly robe,
At the swift transit of the changeful day?
Can the poor worm who clasps his speck of earth,
While on his head the crushing bolt is hurl'd,
Like yon bright offspring of celestial birth,
Command the plaudit of a pitying world?
Say, wert thou sent to fill this stormy scene,
Freed from the icy touch of withering care?—
Then think of loyal Gallia's worship'd Queen,
And learn thy little drop of woe to bear.
Ah then, thou selfish mourner, cease to grieve,
If to thine heart one orphan hope remain,
With grateful lip the precious boon receive,
As the sweet solace for a world of pain.
89

SONG OF THE RUNIC BARD.

THE POWER OF MUSIC IS THUS HYPERBOLICALLY COMMEMORATED BY ONE OF THE RUNIC BARDS.

“I know a Song—by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.”

90

“I know a Song—which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds; for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth in liberty.”

“I know a Song—useful to all mankind; for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it, they are appeased.”

“I know a Song—of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds, and render the air perfectly calm.”

 

See Godwin's life of Chaucer.

IMITATION,

IN ENGLISH VERSE, OF THE SONG OF THE RUNIC BARD.

[1st.]

“I know a Song”—the magic of whose power,
Can save the warrior in destruction's hour;
From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm,
And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.

2d.

I know a Song, which when in bonds I lay,
Broke from the grinding chain its links away,
While the sweet notes their swelling numbers roll'd,
Back fly the bolts, the trembling gates unfold,
Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance,
Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.

3d.

I know a Song, to mend the heart designed,
Quenching the fiery passions of mankind;
When lurking rage, and deadly hate combine,
To charm the serpent of revenge, is mine.
91

4th.

I know a Song, that when the wild winds blow,
To bend the monarchs of the forest low,
If to the lay my warbling voice incline,
Waking the varied tones with skill divine;
Hushed are the gales, the spirit of the storm
Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrowed form,
The day looks up, the moistened hills serene,
Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.
93

ODE

FOR THE ELEMENT OF FIRE.

COMPOSED AT THE REQUEST OF THE CHARITABLE FIRE SOCIETY, AND PERFORMED AT KING'S CHAPEL, BOSTON.

Kind is the gift of fire! whose power
Man, with restraining art, shall guide;
Friend of his dear domestic hour,
To all his bosom'd joys allied;
While round his heart, with sparkling ray,
It cheers the shivering stranger's dreary way
Nor to the social scene alone,
Does the bright element belong,
Hence science claims her radiant throne,
And bears her world of thought along:
And hence mechanic arts arise,
Inventive, useful, beautiful, and wise.
And as to man's imperial kind
Alone the charm of speech was given.
Alone the clear, perceptive mind,
An image of reflected heaven;
He dares with ruling hand aspire,
To wake and win the slumbering life of FIRE.
94

Yet should, with wild unlicensed sway,
The subject flame rebellious soar,
No more that ruling hand obey—
Friend of the social scene no more;
Wide breaking with disastrous light,
Portentous on the curtain'd calm of night:
Around the wealth embellished dome,
Bloodless the red destroyer flies;
Nor spares the poor man's wedded home,
Nor heeds the phrenzied parent's cries.
Though on her wakening senses steal,
All that a mother's suffering heart can feel.
To soothe—to save—still hovering near,
Rich Charity! thy cares extend,
With kind, consolatory tear,
And voice, like pitying heaven, descend
And help the helpless—and impart
Love that rewards—and hope that heals the heart.
105

ODES TO TIME.

ODE 1.

Power of the sweeping wing!
And wasting sand!
Lord of the healing breath!
And spoiling hand!
Whose lengthened fingers fling
The viewless shafts of death!
Beneath whose tread the crumbling marble lies,
From whose vast hoard unbounded empires rise:
Yet rise to fall!
While to thy sway and thee
The sometime victor bends his conquered knee,
And feels his palsied heart obey thy call;
Whose grasp can shake the tyrant from his throne,
And from his withering temples snatch the tarnished crown
Magician! whom all arts obey,
Now from thy wand is ruin hurled,
Now a rude outlaw gains imperial sway,
And a walled acre

Alluding to the well known origin of Rome.

awes the subject world.
Thy talisman could Egypt's pillars bow,
From their broad base her pyramids shall throw,
While all her faded laurels shade thy brow.
106

Egypt! from whom immortal hope

The Egyptians were the first who asserted the immortality of the soul; the belief of which was clearly indicated by the doctrine of the Metempsychosis.

arose,
Beneath whose orient ray,
Celestial science met the eye of day—
Where bursting wisdom dawned its earliest beam,
Ere on the margin of her worshipped stream
Like a new God the young Papyrus grew,
And taught instructed realms to lift the adoring view,
While all the arts on his smooth breast repose!
Egypt, where Alexander sleeps in dust,
Where great Sesotris

In all the countries subjugated by this extraordinary hero, he erected pillars or statues of himself with this inscription, “I Sesostris, King of Kings, and Lord of Lords, subdued this country by the power of my arms;” and probably no conqueror has ever displayed so many monuments of victorious greatness.

rears his trophied bust.
A mouldering pageant and an empty name;
While the barbarian Turk her meads deflowers,
And the wild Arab mocks her murdered powers;
Assisting thee to blast her fading fame:
No more Osiris

Osiris, the inventor of the plough, was worshipped under the form of an Ox, whom they denominated the God Apis

guards those wasted plains,
No pean'd Isis

“I Isis, wife of king Osiris, am she, who found corn for the use of man.”

strews the golden grains!
Proud Xerxes wept to find
That, ere one fleeting century sunned mankind,
His million heroes to thy power must bow:
Vain man! with all thy treasured radiance shine,
Nerved with majestic strength—and graced with charms divine.

None could be compared to Xerxes in Strength—In Beauty—and in Stature. Gillies' Greece.


For the rough sea thy bonds prepare—
Bid thy frail vassals lash the angry air—
While thy delusive moments flow—
And the great conqueror arrests thy care,
Nor will his lifted scythe those vaunted honors spare!
Where is Palmyra's boast!
Where tower'd Zenobia's dome!
Where the Chaldean, Syrian, Grecian host!
Or where thy glorious freedom, LAURELLED Rome?
Ask their great founder, Time—
Whose plastic hand,
Where ignorance led his vagrant band,
In some unlettered clime,
107

Now bids the marble of the palace rise,
With glittering turrets to the bending skies,
Adorned with infant arts aspiring to their prime.
Even thus Columbia, o'er whose growing plains,
Chief of her choice, her Great Civilian

This merely required the name of John Adams, and is now rendered superfluous, by the previous notice of the Odes having been written during his presidency.

reigns;
Of guiding genius, and controlling hand,
Firm to resolve, and gentle to command:
Decided Patriot! Time for thee prepares
A crown, uncankered by the rust of years;
Haloed by stars, whose varying rays entwine:
The gift is glory, but the grace is thine.
While withering millions on far Europe's shore
Gaze on thy rights, and all their wrongs deplore;
From thee shall time the lettered precept give,
Instruction flow—they drink the stream and live.
O Virtue! sovereign of the gifted mind,
Though erring mortals may reject thy sway,
Those loved of heaven, the noblest of their kind,
Are thine, and thine the light that leads their way,
Opening on life's drear shades a MORNING RAY,—
Thee shall all ruling Time himself obey!
 

These Odes, with trifling alterations, are reprinted from a former publication: being first written during the presidency of the now retired patriot, John Adams.

SECOND ODE TO TIME.

Sire of the silver locks! to whom
Creation's crowding myriads come!
With pleading eye, and pouring tear,
Besieging oft thy heedless ear;
With adulation bending low,
And smoothing o'er thy furrowed brow;
While senseless age, with bleachened hairs,
Demands a lengthened lease of years,
From thee, flushed hectic looks for health,
From thee, pale avarice grasps at wealth,
From thee ambition dreams of boundless power;
108

The prisoner waits thy aid to set him free,
The Chymist yields his crucible to thee;
And on thy wings the Poet hopes to soar.
Even I, my vain petition raise,
In all the melody of praise—
But not for wealth, nor power, nor fame,
Would invocate thy fearful name:
Let wealth his joyless nothings keep—
Ambition gain his world—and weep.—
And on the chymist may'st thou pour
Like fabled Jove, a golden shower:
Still may the pining prisoner find,
A Howard's cares have made thee kind.
Nor would the lowly muse implore,
Thy latest, best regard,
Since from her grief-consoling power,
Ascends each wished reward;
But ah! thy sharpest scythe display,
To sweep this shadowy form away,
Ere cold the narrowing mind appear,
And closed the portals of the ear:
Ere age shall every glance controul,
That speaks the language of the soul:
Or even one anguish'd sense depart,
Which rends the concave of the heart.
Which bids each suffering fibre glow,
To agony's excess,
Or gives this raptured breast to know
Reflected happiness.
Ah! yet the sweeping scythe display,
Ere these full locks have turned to grey,
Ere this slight form to thee shall bend,
O let me to the tomb descend!
Then memory shall delight to trace,
Some cherished worth, some fancied grace,
109

While bending o'er the slumbering clay,
Each conscious foible fades away.
There oft shall friendship's gentle form be found,
Heaving from breast of down the sacred sigh,
And fondly spelling out the piteous tale,
There shall chaste love his earliest woes bewail,
To the cold marble cling with burning eye,
Or wear with pilgrim-knee the insensate ground.
So may fresh laurels deck thy faded brow,
So may new realms thy ravaged fields adorn:
O'er the dead desert living streamlets flow,
And hope with carol'd hymn invite the morn:
So may thine age regain its golden prime,
When the charmed minstrel graced the monarch's board,
And with the lamb reclined the forest's lord,
While war's red triumphs from creation hurled,
Peace leans enamoured o'er the awakened world,
And not a tear-drop shames the eye of Time.
 

“The Lion shall lie down with the Lamb.”

117

DISINTERESTEDNESS,

A FABLE.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH PROSE.

Avaro to the Rector flies;
Why sleeps thy zeal, the usurer cries,
Extortions stalk around;
Their gripe the heir expectant drains,
Their's are the venturous merchant's gains,
By which the poor are ground!
It is thy trade, returned the priest;
The sharpest of thy kind:
Thou should'st be merciful—at least,
As thou would'st mercy find.
Ah pray! sir priest, thy task attend,
Nor let the growing tribe extend;
No more my coffer feels its hoards,
The exhausted field no grain affords,
The springs of wealth are dry—
Then with denouncing voice restrain,
The NUMBERS of extortion's train,
Numbers more rich than I.
Let hapless me those curses bear,
Which now an hundred usurers share,
With hearts more hard than stone!
We read, one sentenced he goat lost,
Redeemed the sin sequestered host;—
Thus heap the offender's crimes on me.
I would the SINGLE victim be—
Guilt, shame, and grasping profit—all my own!
119

LINES,

FOUND AT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, IN A LADY'S GLOVE. THE AUTHOR NOT AVOWED.

Sweet Glove! when snugly packed you lay
In dealers shop, and slept all day
Close to your partner's bosom prest;
—What new emotions fired your breast,
When leading on the laughing loves,
Philenia stopped, and asked for Gloves.
When the reluctant glove she drew
From off her hand, and tried on you.
What transport through your system thrilled,
When your distended form was filled,
With beauty never, known before;—
And touched with more than magic power;
And ah! what rapture through you flew,
When she replied—“Sir, these will do.”
Since daily you her hand have prest,
And nightly near her gone to rest—
120

But soon alas! your joys are past—
Extatic bliss can never last!
For quickly you are doomed to know,
That when you torn and worn shall grow,
You—hapless elf, will be thrown by
Neglected—in some corner lie,
And see some glove all white and new,
Obtain that hand so prized by you.
To meet neglect for all your love,
Is grief enough for hapless glove—
But when stern fate shall add to this,
That you must know your rival's bliss,
And hopeless meet his haughty scorn;
—What glove was ever so forlorn!—
At last, in plaister, or in string,
Or cleaning plate, your days may end;
Who then will think that such a thing,
Poor Glove! was e'er Philenia's friend!

SECOND ADDRESS

TO THE SAME GLOVE; INTENDED AS A RESPONSE TO THE UNAVOWED AUTHOR OF THE ABOVE.

No—not in string, nor plaister base,
But round some tall preserving jar,
This glove, the luckiest of his race,
Shall catch the Gourmand's glance afar!
And all his envious passions move,
The raspberry's luscious jam to greet,
The ruby of the peach to prove,
Or crab, as peach, or raspberry sweet.
Or gooseberry—with its blending tart,—
Or the plump cherry's scarlet heart,
Which more than maiden blushes move
The science of his taste to love.
121

The sugared fruit within thy care,
May more his tempted thought beguile,
Than bashful beauty's timid air,
Or balmy infant's gladdening smile;
If lovely bride, or babe of glee,
Were his, who wastes his verse on thee.
Then, lucky glove, exulting go,
And as in “sweets” thy day arose,
In sweets its latest hour shall close,
Sweets, that in kind succession flow.
Young beauty shall exulting see,
And bend her graceful neck to thee;
While her excelling fingers twine,
Around each parted arm of thine;
Unconscious of its fairer days,
Will boast the worth that AGE displays,
And give thy hoarded sweets her praise.
 

Namely.—“An old glove is good for something.”

TO LEWIS HERVEY, ESQ.

SECRETARY OF THE PRESIDENCY, WASHINGTON CITY.

WHO IN THE DEPTH OF WINTER, HAD, FROM DISAPPOINTMENT, THREATENED TO EMBARK FOR FRANCE.

Woulds't thou, desponding lover, fly
From the charm'd arrow of that eye,
Whose bow of opening heaven could dart
Electric madness to thine heart;
Or in its wizard circle bind
The passions of thy struggling mind?
Know, mid the ocean's ruffian roar,
122

While cold, and dark the tempests pour,
Still shall that look of bashful charm,
Thy young untravelled soul alarm;
And still that dimpling smile appear,
To show the prosperous rival near.
Even while some bright Parisian dame
Surrounds thee with a transient flame,
The steadier fire of truth will burn,
And with the kindling thought return.
Why then, ah hapless! would'st thou roam?
Why quit thy dear engaging home?
Even now when winter's surly frown,
Bears the white hovering tempest down;
And full his flaky pinions lower,
To scatter wide the flinty shower.
Ere thy first fluttering hope has flown,
While sense and virtue are thy own;
In thy warm youth's enamoured day,
Why tear thee from thy wish away?—
What miser quits his cherished store,
To trust the faithless seas for more!
Who would a peerless gem resign,
And tempt the dark and doubtful mine?
Seduced by dreams—with toil and care,
To find a lovelier treasure there?
If now the meek and timid maid,
Of thy too ardent prayer afraid,
With red averted cheek, decline
To meet one passion'd vow of thine;
Wilt thou, to fears and doubts resigned,
Fly from her half reluctant mind?
And from her wavering fancy free,
The captive thought, which pleads for thee.
123

INJUNCTION TO D. W. L.

WHEN SEPARATED FROM THE OBJECT OF HIS AFFECTION BY THE ERRORS OF HIS OWN CONDUCT.

Ingrate! to whom, at nature's happiest hour,
Was given of heart the prize, of mind the power:
Wit to delight, and virtue to improve,
Much to command, and more to sanction love!
Hence those dove eyes, which charmed thy soul away,
Glance through the transient tear their trembling ray,
Pensive, and sweet, the speaking wanderer's own,
How cold the hope that lives when love is gone.
Hear then that heart—its noblest precept hear—
With lip of fondness dry the impatient tear;
Let whispered passion every wrong remove,
And wake to honour! tenderness and love!
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