University of Virginia Library

MONODIES, Elegies, and Stanzas.

MONODY,

TO THE YOUNG HEROES WHO FOUGHT AND FELL UNDER GENERAL ST. CLAIR, IN A DESPERATE MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER, AT THE MIAMI OF THE LAKES.

EPITAPH,

ON DOCTOR ANDRE CARENTE.

This Soi-disant materialist, with an Infidel head, but a feeling heart; wasteful in prosperity, and discarded in distress, was finally suffered to perish, amid the bitterness of unremembered services and unregarded poverty; having experienced the contrasted extremes of prodigal affluence, and deserted indigence.

ELEGIAC LINES,

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. A. WIFE OF THE HONOURABLE JOHN C. J.

TO THE MEMORY

OF THE HONOURABLE MR. BOWDOIN, LATE GOVERNOR AND COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF THE STATE OF MASSACHUSETTS.

AUX MANES DE JULIE.

FROM THE GERMAN POETRY OF A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND, THUS RENDERED INTO FRENCH.

MEMENTO,

FOR MY INFANT, WHO LIVED BUT EIGHTEEN HOURS:

MONODY,

TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL HENRY KNOX, WHO DIED IN OCTOBER, 1806.

The year that deprived his family, his friends and his country of the society, the virtues, and the services of the heroic and amiable Knox; the three great Luminaries of the Elder World were likewise extinguished.

RECOLLECTIONS,

TO THE MEMORY OF THEOPHILUS PARSONS, LATE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE S. J. C. OF MASSACHUSETTS.

STANZAS,

UPON SEEING AN IMPERFECT SKETCH DESIGNED FROM MEMORY, FOR THE POWERFUL FEATURES OF THE LATE AND EVER LAMENTED PROFESSOR MC KEAN.

LAMENTATIONS

OF AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER, OVER THE TOMB OF HER ONLY SON.

Charles Ward Apthorp Morton expired of a Dropsy of the Brain, a disease always accompanied by premature but extraordinary capacity. Its fatal termination was accelerated by sedentary habits and intense study. In his very early childhood he appeared a prodigy of genius;—and entered the University at thirteen—where he gave the fairest promise of excellence in Science and the Fine Arts; for although endowed by nature with a taste for the Sister Powers of Music, Painting and Poetry; from his devotion to the more honourable pursuits of Science, he relinquished these but a short time previous to his last illness. His heart was noble and sincere; abounding with passions, and affections. His integrity unblemished and his death productive of self-despair to his unfortunate Mother.

At his early age having already made Improvements in Medical Electricity; for which he received a Certificate from the President and Professors of Harvard University. But his whole existence was that of suffering, owing to the original feebleness of his constitution and the energetic sensibility of his mind.

STANZAS,

INDUCED BY THE CIRCUMSTANCE OF A SINGLE DROP OF RAIN, HAVING FALLEN AS THE AUTHOR WAS ENTERING THE UNDER AISLE OF THE CHAPEL CONSECRATED TO THE DEAD.

STANZAS,

OCCASIONED BY THE QUESTION OF A FRIEND, “WHAT HAS PRESERVED YOU?”

LINES

ENCLOSING THE BEAUTIFUL RINGLETS OF MY SON.

APOSTROPHE,

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED DAGHTER CHARLOTTE.

FRAGMENT.

LINES,

TO THOSE WHO HAVE SAID “YOU ARE TRANQUIL.”

INVOCATION,

TO THE SHADES OF MY ANCESTORS, WENTWORTH AND APTHORP.

Shadows of Men, revered and great!
Or good! or crushed by adverse fate!
O'er your devoted offspring bend,
To her who seeks no earthly friend!
Mission'd of God, descend!
Let her imploring tear and sigh,
Yield to the thought that ye are nigh;
Guarding with blest paternal eye,
The action of her woes.
Your height, your fall, your wrongs declare,
And show how bless'd, how cursed ye were,
Prisoned in earth's domains;
Let Strafford,

Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, the Minister, and favourite of Charles the First, sacrificed by that Monarch to his own personal safety—was beheaded near the end of the reign. Charles, in his last moments, declared that he suffered justly for having given up the Earl of Strafford to popular fury.—See Hume's History.

The near Relations of this Nobleman were the founders of the American Family of Wentworth. This family being presumptive heirs to the now extinct Title of that Earldom of Strafford.

chosen of a king,
The features of his history bring,
Expressive, as when warm in life,
Ere the red block and severing knife,
His monarch's fearful faith bestows,
How bright in opening morn he rose,
How dark at fate's tremendous close,
Alternate joys and pains.
And ye, the blooming brothers,

These were Henry and Samuel Wentworth, the maternal uncles of the Author, both perished before they had attained the age of 20. The first, on a northern voyage of curiosity and improvement, was entangled amid floating masses of ice, and in that situation expired along with the whole ship's company, passengers and seamen.

His young brother, Samuel Wentworth, having been invited to England by his noble relatives, was under the patronage of those, admitted as student at the Temple; at which period he first met Miss Lane, the object of his honourable passion, and the cause of his fatal misfortunes, the daughter of a great commercial house of that period. Her large inheritance, by her father's will, made dependent on the pleasure of her mercantile brother, to the aristocracy of whose wealth, young Wentworth could only oppose nobility of birth, accomplishment of mind and beauty of person, possessions which the man of commerce held as nothing, compared with the superior treasures of monied interest.

Consequently the love was prohibited, and the lover banished from his mistress; who though closely imprisoned in her own apartment, found means to preserve an epistolary connection. The correspondence encreasing the enthusiasm of restricted passion, until every possible hope of their union being extinguished, a deadly vial was obtained, and the contents, equally divided, were at one desperate moment swallowed by both. Their last desire, of being buried in the same grave, was denied.

These frantic and too affectionate lovers, finished the short career of their miseries on the birth day of Wentworth, being that which completed the nineteeth year of his age. And it is not irrelevant to add, that the brother of the lady lived to lose his immense possessions, and died desolate and distressed; at which period, we trust, repentance came, and forgiveness was awarded.

come,
Victims of youth's untimely doom;
This to the elements a prey,
That flung the gem of life away,
With an unholy hand.
Ah! be his ills thy lesson made,
And though enclosed by misery's shade,
Await thy God's command.
Distant and dark—by graves divided—far
From her, who rose his morning's earliest star;
Her, whose sweet eyes of love, and polish'd mind,
Were to the young and graceful Wentworth kind,
Impious—in plighted faith of heart, to share
The unpermitted chalice of despair.
Not theirs the altar's consecrated flame,
Which soars to Heaven in honor, peace and fame,
Whose chasten'd light is seen on earth to glow,
Like moon-beams o'er a sculptur'd angels brow;
But theirs a meteor-plague which threatning shone,
Till every fluttering wing of fear had flown;
A meteor-plague, whose inauspicious ray
Bore all the blooming health of hope away.
[OMITTED]
That blessing which the dream of passion sought,
Waked to the frantic extasy of thought.
Opposed—in life with fated fondness grew,
Opposed—in dust no mingling union knew.
And thence, in ever parted tombs they lie,
Martyrs of morbid love's insanity.
Love, the betrayer! near whose breath of fire,
The calm affections tremble—or retire—
So in the Land of Ice, mid stainless snows,
His boiling strength the dangerous Geyser

The Great Geyser, or Boiling Fountain of Iceland, ejects a stream of boiling water, sometimes more than a hundred feet upward, wrapped in foam—and encircled by beautiful rainbows, burying itself beneath the rock, and ascending the skies in constant alternation—the effect of subterranean fires sometimes giving the appearance of deep red or green to parts of the Geyser.—See Sir G. S. Mackenzie. Also, I think; Dr. Henderson, the last Traveller who has published Observations on the Great Geyser.

show
Powerful in mischief—bold in beauty soars
From shuddering earth, to heaven's receding towers.
Pervading all; but not in all the same,
Here pale with frost, there blushing red with flame.
Chain'd to the rock, or lifted to the skies,
Round his white brow benignant rainbows rise;
Hope in their smiles—can hope that breast reveal,
Whose hidden fires a secret foe conceal?
Whose baneful deeds, like Geyser's fountain prove,
A heart that burns, or boils, with hate or love.
Destructive powers! if fiends on earth are known,
Their reign is passion—and its height their throne.
Apthorp! my proud paternal line,

John, the founder of the transatlantic race of Apthorp, was a man of taste and talent in the Fine Arts; particularly those of Painting and Architecture. A taste and talent, which has in some instance been transmitted to his descendants even of the fifth generation.

An ardent imagination, and an ambitious desire of mental improvement, led him from his native country of Wales. And in England, he saw, loved, and married, Miss Ward, a celebrated beauty, with a large fortune, whose Portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, yet remains with her descendant. This portrait is distinguished by the long dark eyes, which that artist preferred and made fashionable.

The qualities of both parents live, and are conspicuous in some of their descendants. A highly respectable individual of these, whose superiority of mind may possibly disdain such recollections, was, in his minority, so transcendantly handsome, that upon a Tour through the Southern States, he was generally designated “The Eastern Angel.” As he now is, the Genius of Canova, might design that form as a model for the sublime statue of melancholy, since his fortunes have fallen—like those of his race—a voluntary sacrifice to the best sentiments, and the noblest feelings of humanity, while domestic bereavements coming yet nearer to his gracious heart have left it the prey of sorrow.

Charles Bulfinch, Esq. of Washington, at this time, the National Architect, is one more evidence of the inestimable happiness of a good descent.

The homage of my soul is thine,
Where Cambria's minstrel-realm appears
A beauty—or in smiles—or tears.
In scenes, where rich the sun-beam glows,
And swift the sleepless torrent flows,
Beneath the mountain's weight of snows—
The fathers of my sires, had there
Birth—blessings—griefs, and sepulchre;
A favoured race, to fortune known,
Still on the rude armorial stone,
Mid the cold ivy's trembling green,
The annals of their deeds are seen.
By Lion-hearted Richard led,
How bold they fought, how fearless bled—
How erst the shield, whose CRESTED pride,
A royal gift—in crimson dyed,—
Had graced that Christian Warrior's side,
Whose sons, in youth's romantic day,
Tempting rude ocean's dangerous sway,
To the far land of promise came,
Not forced by want, nor driven by shame;
But to endearing fancy true,
Fancy, that loves and woos the distant and the new.
These, to the young and lovely shore,
The glories of their lineage bore,
Talent, and taste, and truth severe,
And honour, as existence dear;
With hurrying passions unconfined,
Was pity's oft relenting mind;
And bounty's glowing heart so warm,
And beauty of celestial form.
The wanderers reared God's dome of prayer,
And rest in sculptured memory there.

The present Stone Chapel—originally the King's Chapel— founded by Royalty, was finished by the generosity of individuals. Charles Apthorp, Esq. the son of John, gave 5000l. sterling, a very large sum for the Provinces at that period, about the middle of the eighteenth century.

His Marble Monument with a very fine Latin Inscription, by his Son, still remains in the Chapel, which Monument covers the Tomb of the truly noble-minded race of Apthorp.

How erst the shield, whose crested pride.

The Crest, if not the whole Armorial Bearing, is thought or said to have been conferred upon the Battle Field by Richard.

Soon to that honour sanctioned tomb,
The remnant of the race shall come,
Cold, slumbering by its relics lay,
Unconscious of the kindred clay.
Shades of my Fathers! great, or good,
This heart yet glorying in your blood,
Pleads for that peace which earth denies,
The living branch, whose foliage young,
Mid your deep-rooted virtues sprung;
With a good angel's guardian care,
Shield from the night-frost of despair,
Driven by life's storms, its torn leaf lies,
Immortal, full in bloom to rise.
Sires of a firm unbroken line,
Source of my life—YOUR HEAVEN IS MINE.

Apology.

In Apology for what may properly be termed a mere medley of mind, in Thoughts and Fragments; it seems honest to explain how written, and why published.

Far from having originally presumed to attempt regulating the capacities, or amending the hearts of others; the sole view of the author has been, to correct and console her own.

A series of disappointments, with distress, cruelly aggravated by the premature death of very dear children, having left that stagnation of heart, and that pulsation of brain, which sometimes seems to precede the most deplorable of human miseries; to avert the apprehended possibility of this, the aid of constant occupation, and continued self-examination, was resorted to; that self-examination inducing recollection, and impelling resolution, as to cause, effect, and remedy.

The early morning and the late evening, given to the question of her own faults, many mistakes, and continued afflictions, the result of such enquiry was committed to fragments of paper, with the single intent of being referred to, and acted upon

by the author's solitary self, who—not of the world, yet stood among them—and met the frowns, and passed the smiles of the many, and had Thoughts, and essayed to write of them also.

Finally, the accumulation of Fragments occasioning difficulty of selection, these were arranged by the author, and slowly transcribed into one manuscript—sufficient for a book—that is, sufficient in pages—but probably insufficient in every other requisite; this was her belief, and this belief virtually confirmed by the opinion of some to whom a very small portion of the work had been timidly communicated.

And yet, under every personal and particular discouragement, the author could think that those poor fragments, which had done so much for the dispositions of her own mind, might, under similar exigencies, effect something for the benefit of others; and with this impression stampt on her heart, she had the temerity to apply to one, who honours and hallows the cloth that he wears, and by the unerring genius of that one, was countenanced, favoured, and encouraged, and did venture—even amid existing fears, appalling predictions, and conscious inefficiency, to hope, and to ask for patronage —and that patronage was awarded by the gentle and the generous; and if ultimately supposed to have been lavished upon the dull, and the incompetent, will surely not be thrown away upon the assuming and the ungrateful.