The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival :: :: University of Virginia Library

The following pieces were printed in the author's first volume, which appeared in 1821. The motto on the title-page of the original book was this verse from Southey:

“Go, little book, from this my solitude:
I cast thee on the waters,—go thy ways,
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world may find thee after certain days.”

389

AN ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

“The joy of grief.”—
Ossian.

Melancholy! blue-eyed maid,
Clad in simple russet stole,
Thou who lov'st the silent shade,
And weep'st where murmuring rivulets roll,
Calmer of the troubled breast,
Heaving wild with passion's throe,
Thou who lay'st the heart at rest,
And cool'st distraction's fevered glow!
When thou leanest o'er the rill,
And minglest with its wave thy tear,
O, what sounds the woodland fill,
And softly whisper in my ear!
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart!
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.

Melancholy! maid of Heaven!
Thine are pleasures known by few,—
Joys to favorites only given,—
Joys that soothe like summer dew;
Thine the harp, whose golden wire
Bids Heaven's sweetest music roll,
Kindling with a seraph's fire,
And calmly stealing to the soul.
When thou pour'st the dying strain,
Naiads smile along the wave,
Shepherds listen on the plain,
And hermits in the mountain cave.
Come then, &c.

390

Melancholy! Pity's child!
Turn on me thine eye of blue,
Soft as when affection smiled,
Or wept compassion's purest dew;
Wake thy voice that charms the grove,
Breathe thy calmest, sweetest lay,—
Strike thy silver chord of love,
And drive the cruel fiend away;
For thou sooth'st the tortured heart
To a holy, heavenly calm,
And gently heal'st affliction's smart
With thy music's softening balm.
Come then, &c.

Angel of the green-wood shade!
Let me lie on moss reclined,
When the hues of evening fade,
And calmly blows the fragrant wind,—
Let me lie beside thy rill,
And view the stream that ripples by,
Till my soul shall drink its fill
Of thy delightful melody.
O, how soft, how sweet, how mild,
All the sounds that kiss thy string!
How they echo from the wild,
And in the flowery valleys ring!
Come then, &c.

Melancholy! dearest maid,
Bending low thine eyes of blue!
Roam the gently opening glade,
And thickets gemmed with morning dew;
Seek the cool, sequestered cave,
When the noon is glowing bright;
Rest where forests slowly wave,
And floats a faintly trembling light.
Where'er thou rov'st at early dawn,
Or sit'st, when glows the noontide sky,

391

Dearer at night the quiet lawn
And winding rill that ripples by.
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart;
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO FANCY.

Let us in the early dawn,
Seek the mountain's awful brow,
When the shades of night are gone,
And calmly smiles the scene below;—
Let us wander carelessly
Through the silence-breathing wood,
And gaze where swiftly rushes by,
Whitened with foam, the troubled flood;—
Let us steal along the vale,
Where the bee is humming round,
And the velvet-pinioned gale
Whispers o'er the flowery ground.
Nymph of most enchanting power,
Let us roam the wild-wood through,
When at morn or evening's hour
Droop the leaves with pearly dew.

NAPOLEON.

His glance was fixed on power alone,
His breast was steeled to woe;
He cared not for the dying groan,
His tears could never flow:
Hard as the rock, his flinty soul
Sported with life and blood;
Impatient of the least control,
Above the world, he stood.

392

O'er Europe's plains he marched to slay;
He spoke—and empires fell;
Destruction's gory path his way;
His voice—a nation's knell:
Kings bent their necks beneath his rod,
And owned his iron sway;
On crowns and thrones he proudly trod,
Or threw the toys away.

“Be free,” the lying despot said,—
“Be free,”—and they were slaves;
Before him every virtue fled,—
He dug their dreary graves:
Madly he hoped to be obeyed
By realms in ruin hurled,
And 'neath his banner's awful shade
To gather in the world.

ODE ON DEATH.

Toll for the brave!
He whom we saw afar,
First in the ranks of war,
Sleeps in the grave;
No flags or pennons o'er the hero wave;
Ne'er shall the cannon's roar, the trumpet's breath
The drum's loud tumult, wake the sleep of death,
No shout of triumph animate the brave;
No burnished eagle glitters o'er his head,—
High from his tomb the bird has ta'en her flight,
While sable yews o'ershadow Honor's bed,
And coldly fall the chilling dews of night,
Steeping the wintry turf that hides the mighty dead.

Toll for the just!
That eye of tempered fire,
Which shunned each wrong desire,
Fades in the dust;

393

Hushed is that eloquence so nobly bold;
The heart that felt for suffering is cold;
Affliction mourns above his honored bust,—
Her tears, slow-stealing o'er its marble cheek,
Tell of his soul of majesty and love,
His eye, that ever glanced on things above,
At once in justice firm, in kind compassion meek:
Goodness must fade;—the equal hand of death
Quenches the villain's and the just man's breath.

Toll for the fair!
Go, seek the lonely tomb,
Go, wander through its gloom,
She slumbers there:
Her angel look, that melted every soul,
Her eye, that rolled its glance of tenderness,
Her form encircled round with every grace,
Now moulder 'neath corruption's sable stole;
The worm is cradled on her forehead fair,
And wantons 'mid the ringlets of her hair,—
Each tint of faded beauty charms no more;
The fragrance of her lip, its living rose,
No more in Heaven's own purest crimson glows,—
'Tis livid as the stream that laves th' Avernian shore.

A fleeting day
The cheek of beauty glows,
The voice of music flows,
Then melts away;
Fluttering amid the summer's transient ray,
The gaudy fop expands his shining wing;
In bounding step the merry dancers spring,
Like insects sportive, like the rainbow gay:
Soon o'er this smiling scene the wintry storm
Of dark affliction sheds its lurid gloom,
Wafting upon its blast Destruction's form,
Who calls, with voice of thunder, to the tomb;
Like lightning flashing o'er the sleeper's head,
He wakes them from their dream, then hides them with the dead.

394

We all must die!
Each form, that proudly soars
Where war's confusion roars,
Must lowly lie;
The bard must hush his voice, and close his eye;
His clay-cold hand must rest upon his lyre,
No more to wake its hallowed soul of fire,
No more to swell the heart or steal the sigh:
Low in the humid dust, the noisome grave,
We rest our wearied limbs, we end our toils;
There fade the short-lived laurels of the brave,
There melt away the statesman's causeless broils,
There wastes the corpse to dust,—'t is all we know
Of man, the tenant of a world of woe.

How dark the tomb!
Doubt shades that dreary cave,
And curtains round the grave
With formless gloom.
O, what a spectre issues from its womb!
How dark his swarthy eye, its lurid glare
Like flames that in the dreary midnight flare!
With what a hollow voice he speaks our doom!
Impervious darkness on its raven wing
Hangs o'er the bed of death; the sceptic eye
Sees no fair realm beyond this being lie,
While wan despair and ghastly terror fling
Their horrors o'er the couch, where helpless mortals die.

Is there a ray
Whose brightness can illume
The grave, and bid the gloom
Disperse away?
Is there a twinkling star amid this storm,
Where all is cold and cheerless, all despair?
Reveals it to the sight an angel form,
Whose pinions, floating on the murky air,

395

Scatter the tempest-clouds, and o'er the sky
Unveil a morning tint of rosy hue,
And clothe the noontide vault with lovely blue,
While through the vale light airs and balmy zephyrs fly?

There is a form,
Whose brightly beaming eye
Disperses from the sky
Life's gloomy storm:
Around her brow celestial radiance plays,
Her candid vestments shine with dazzling light,
A thousand twinkling gems, like stars of night,
In virtue's ægis, on her bosom blaze;
She speaks,—and tones of heavenly harmony
Flow through the air and tremble on the gale;
The mourner raises her desponding eye,
And the heart-broken maid remits her wail;—
'T is Hope, who, bending from her native skies,
Bids through Death's dreary vale delicious beauties rise.

ODE TO RELIGION.

Daughter of Heaven! whose tender eye
Bends from thy throne of light above,
And in the wounds of misery
Distils the healing tears of love;
Clad in the spotless robes of day,
Thou clear'st the moral night away,
And at thy touch dispersive roll
The dark, impervious clouds, that shroud the guilty soul.

Along the vale of death and pain,
In sable weeds, a band appears;
Around them fly a horrent train
Of sharp regrets and boding fears;

396

O'er flinty paths their way they wind,
And leave their track in blood behind;
Remembrance has no light to cheer,
And dim, through lowering clouds, the beams of hope appear.

They backward look on early flowers,
On buds of bliss and dews of joy:
How few, how fleeting, were those hours!
They flattered only to destroy:
Amid the woven blossoms rose
The gloomy forms of real woes,
And Disappointment backward threw,
With cold, repulsive hand, the eager-hastening crew.

With bounding heart and burning soul
With look elate, and eye of fire,
Youth hurried from the lifted goal,
Impelled by glory, love, desire:
Before him shone the dazzling prize,—
Hope flashed exulting from his eyes;
He stretched his hand,—Despair, with thrilling scream,
Repelled his grasp, and broke his gilded dream.

Celestial maid! thy mellow light
Can pierce the clouds that round us lower,
And pour upon the drooping sight
From Heaven the soul-enkindling shower;
And as the soft-distilling rain
Enlivens all the thirsty plain,
Thy drops of love awake the heart,
And heal the festering wounds of sorrow's venomed dart.

O come! and on me kindly lay
The mantle of thy loveliness,
And all my errors wash away
In the pure fountain of thy grace;

397

And when I weep o'er joys gone by,
And view the past with wishful eye,
Be thine to lift my sinking soul,
And guide my wearied steps to Heaven's eternal goal.

When our eyes are dimmed with tears,
This can light them up again,
Sweet as music to our ears
Faintly warbling o'er the plain.
Never shines a ray so bright
From the purest earthly gem;
O, there is no soothing light
Like the Star of Bethlehem!

Grief's dark clouds may round us roll,
Every heart may sink in woe,
Gloomy conscience rack the soul,
And sorrow's tears in torrents flow;
Still through all these clouds and storms
Shines this purest heavenly gem,
With a ray that kindly warms,—
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When we cross the roaring wave
That rolls on life's remotest shore,

398

When we look into the grave
And wander through this world no more,
This the lamp, whose genial ray,
Like some brightly glowing gem,
Points to man his darkling way,—
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

Let the world be sunk in sorrow,
Not an eye be charmed or blest;
We can see a fair to-morrow
Shining in the rosy west;
For this beacon Hope displays,
For in Mercy's diadem
Shines with Faith's serenest rays
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When this gloomy life is o'er,
When we smile in bliss above,
When on that delightful shore
We enjoy the heaven of love;
O, what dazzling light shall shine
Round salvation's purest gem!
O, what rays of love divine
Gild the Star of Bethlehem!

TRUMPET OF LIBERTY.

Trumpet of Liberty!
Trumpet of Freedom!
Call on thy sons,
And to victory lead them:
Youth whose bright tresses wave,
Age with locks hoary,
All who are good and brave,
Summon to glory.

399

Trumpet of Liberty!
Rend thou asunder
Slavery's chains
With a war-note of thunder.
Slaves, from your slumbers start,
Wake ye from slavery!
O, let the warrior's heart
Kindle in bravery!

Trumpet of Liberty!
Europe shall hear thee.
Blow Freedom's blast,
Every tyrant shall fear thee.
Call on the brave,
And to victory lead them,—
Tyrants to death,
And the slave to his freedom.

Nations arise!
In the might of your bravery;
Banish your kings,—
Live no longer in slavery;
Rise in your strength,—
They shall tremble and fear you;
Call for your rights,—
Every tyrant shall hear you.

Nations, be free!
'T is your good and your glory;
Then shall your deeds
Live and brighten in story.
Trumpet of Liberty!
On to fame lead them.
O, they shall conquer,
For sacred is freedom!

400

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF SPAIN.

From her slumber the Genius of Freedom is waking,
Where her flag through long ages of darkness lay furled;
From slavery's cloud all her bright beams are breaking,
Like the sun from a tempest that saddened the world.
At her touch, see her banner exultingly wave;
At her call, see the Spaniard to liberty springing,
Hear each voice the wild hymn of deliverance singing,
While the funeral knell of the tyrant is ringing,
That calls him to death and the gloom of the grave.

O'er those hills rich with vines, o'er those plains gay with roses,
Where Bigotry glared like a meteor of night,
Now the sunbeam of Liberty sweetly reposes,
And gently re-echoes the song of delight;
The fetters that clanked round the form of the slave
Melt away like the transient dew of the morning;
While bright as yon rainbow, the blue heavens adorning,
Of his doom of destruction base Tyranny warning,
Shines Freedom's starred wreath on the brow of the brave.

O, long have ye slept in the dungeon of woe,
And mourned o'er your fetters through lingering years,
Where the dirges of sorrow unceasingly flow,
And the eye of the mourner is melted in tears!
No sound but the death-knell was poured in your ear,

401

No sight, but Despair in his agony starting,
Distraction his glance like the thunderbolt darting,
The wretch 'neath the red scourge of Bigotry smarting,
The wild glare of madness, the shivering of fear.

But the lightning of Freedom has roused every soul
From the chill, icy slumber, the sleep of the grave;
With radiant fingers she points to the goal,
Where glitters the crown that encircles the brave:
Then burst into life like the beast from his lair,
When he stalks through the desert with hunger wild roaring,
Rush on like the flood through the mountain glen pouring,
Rise, rise like the hawk on his pinions high-soaring,
And show to the tyrant what freemen can dare.

[Day-star of Liberty! dawn on our sky]

Day-star of Liberty! dawn on our sky;
Day-star of Liberty! kindle thy light;
Dawn on the plains where the Polanders lie
Slumbering in slavery, buried in night.

Day-star of Liberty! bright are thy rays;
Day-star of Liberty! clear is thy beam:
Dawn on our hills with thy ruddiest blaze,
Shine through the forest and brighten the stream.

Wake from his slumber the high-hearted Pole,
Point him to freedom, and summon him on;
Spirit him up in his vengeance to roll
Backward the Russ and the Cossack of Don.

Shine on the tombs where our heroes are laid,—
Heroes, who died for their country, and hurled

402

Solyman's legions in crowds to the dead,—
Heroes, who rescued from Mahmoud the world.

Hark! Sobieski has called from his tomb:
“Think of our glory,—no longer be slaves;
Summon the merciless Russ to their doom,—
O let the fields they have robbed be their graves!”

Poles, will you sleep when your demigod calls?
Poles, will you bend to the yoke of the Czar?
Think of Suwarrow,—of Prague's mouldering walls;
Raise freedom's flag, sound the trumpet of war.

Vengeance! to arms! Sobieski! the word;
Vengeance! to arms! on, ye Polanders, on!
Hurl from your plains, with the might of your sword,
Backward the Russ and the Cossack of Don.

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF SOUTH AMERICA.

Star of the Southern pole,
That from the Atlantic deep
Rose, and on Andes' steep
Shone with a beacon-light,
And woke from moral night
The Spaniard's haughty soul!
They started from their sleep, and tore
The chains that bound them to their tyrant's throne:
Uncheered, unaided, they alone
Their banner reared on Plata's shore,
And in the dawning light of Liberty
Swore they would live and die united, firm, and free.

403

Where, rising o'er the silver tide,
That rolls its host of waters wide,
Resistless as a sea,
Fair shine their city's happy walls,
Convened within the sacred halls
Of infant Liberty,
They banded round their flag, and gave
Redemption to the fettered slave,
And o'er those plains like ocean spread,
And o'er their mountains' icy head,
And o'er their full, majestic river,
And through their halls, their fanes, their towers,
They lit a flame, shall burn for ever;
Nor Tyranny with all her powers,
Though battled in her holy league, shall dare
The statue they have reared from its high column tear.

Sister in freedom! o'er the main
We send our hearts to thee;
O, ne'er may kings and priests again
Stain with their steps thy flowery plain,
Nor vex the brave and free.
When earth beside was wrapped in night,
Here Freedom lit her quenchless light,
And hence its rays shall always beam,
And Europe yet shall hear the voice,
And wake from her inglorious dream,
And in her new-found strength rejoice.
In one fraternal band, let all
The nations, who would spurn the chains
That tyrants forge, would burst their thrall,
And wash away their servile stains,
And, proud of independent worth,
In honest dignity go forth,—
Let all who will not bow the knee,
Nor humbly kiss the trampling heel,
Who swear to perish or be free,
Unite, and draw their flashing steel,

404

And proud and daring in their second birth
Purge from its crowns and thrones the renovated earth.

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF GREECE.

Δευτε παιδες των Ελληνων.—
Greek War Song.

O'er Greece a dawn is rising;
The clouds that shroud her break away:
Again, behold! the immortal day,
When Persia's hosts chastising,
In Marathon's unequal fight,
The demigods of old arose,
And, mantled in the patriot's might,
Drove back in shame their myriad foes,
And crowned their brows with civic wreaths of light.

That day shall never perish!
The grass grows green above their graves;
But Liberty will cherish
The turf for ages trod by slaves.
She sounds her trumpet: “Greeks, arise!
Be men once more! O, let the hallowed stream
That flows to you from Lacedæmon, glow
With new-waked ardor; let the beam
Of independence purge your eyes,
And, waking from your long, long dream
Of prostrate thraldom, front the skies,
And bear, with onward breast, against your tyrant foe.”

She stands on mangled Parthenon,
And in her raised, commanding hand

405

She waves aloft her thirsty brand,
And points to fields your hardy parents won,
When not a foe dared touch their land,
Who fled not, clothed with blood and shame:
O, what a pure, unmingled flame
Of high, enduring, jealous freedom shone
In hearts of stern, but fine-wrought mould,—
Hearts that spurned at power and gold,
And scorned the proudest monarch on his throne!

Though few, they shrunk not when the prowlers came
In countless swarms, like locusts, to devour
Their harvests and destroy their name,
And o'er their much-loved country shower
Blood and havoc, tears and flame:
Yes, in that dark and awful hour,
When Xerxes, with his ravening host,
Hung, threatening vengeance, on their coast,
No eye was dim, no cheek was pale;
Their blood was up, their hearts were glowing,
And, like a storm-fed torrent flowing
With foam and fury through the echoing vale,
From their rude battlements of rocks they rushed,
And with their giant tread the awe-struck Persian crushed.

Greeks! arise, be free!
Arm for liberty!
Men of Sparta! hear the call,
Who could never bear the thrall
Of coward Frank or savage Turk!
From those mountains where you lurk,
Send the voice of Freedom forth,
Spread it through the fettered North,
And from Morea tear her funeral pall.
Now the nations are waking
From slavery's night;
Their manacles breaking,
They haste to the fight,

406

Where tyrants shall make their last stand for their thrones:
O, by your stripes, your tears, your groans,
Now gird your loins with vengeance! let the fire
Of high achievement heart and soul inspire;
Be nerved to die or conquer, fixed to fall,
Like Sparta's sacred band before the wall,
Which stood a bulwark to the invading swarm!
O, be your hearts thus bold, thus warm,
Devoted to your country's cause!
Be there no stay, no rest, no pause!
Once more the sun of Liberty shall pour
Its brightest glories on the Ægean shore.

SONNET TO ITALY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF VINCENZO DA FILICAIA.

Italia! O Italia! whom the hand
Of Heaven arrayed in beauty,—fatal dower,
For which unnumbered wrongs afflict thy land
And on thy furrowed brow the wasting power
Has stamped his burning characters of shame;
Less sweet and fair, but more robust and brave,
Thou hadst not been of lords the lovely slave,
Who seek thee with an all-devouring flame,
Pouring their blood in strife, and wasting thine.

407

O, wert thou braver and less fair, no more
Should I behold the armed torrents roar
Down those tall Alps, where snows eternal shine;
Nor see again those tireless hounds of war,
The French, their limbs with battle heated, lave
In Po or Lodi's gore-impurpled wave;
Nor see thee, chained to some proud nation's car,
And girt with foreign armor, idly brave,
Beneath the Gaul or Gothic despot's star,
For ever, conqueror or conquered, slave.

I acknowledge I have not given the fine image expressed in the seventh and eighth lines of the original. I have given them another turn. I refer to those struggles in which Italy has been the prize of contending nations. Since the downfall of the Roman Empire, she has never made an energetic resistance to her invaders. Her bloodiest wars have been those in which she has torn her own vitals, or in which other nations have fought together for her possession. In these conflicts she has stood like Virgil's heifer, and she has truly found the passion of her lovers selfish and inhuman. The work is not yet ended, and never will be, till the spirit of Brutus shall awake and enkindle her now degraded population.

AN ODE

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG AT NIAGARA FALLS, ON AN ANNIVERSARY OF OUR INDEPENDENCE.

O'er the blue, swelling sky, with a heavenly ray,
The sun shines serene on this glorious day;
And the flag of Columbia waves o'er the steep,
Where Niagara pours all its floods in the deep.

Let the roar of the cannon, the blast of the horn,
Usher in with their wild notes this glorious morn:
Let the toast of warm hearts be drank round to the brave,
Who defended our flag on Ontario's wave.

Let England exult in the fire of her tars:
We can boast braver souls 'neath the blaze of our stars,—
Hearts that glow when the cannon, resounding afar,
Gives the signal of battle, the larum of war.

On the billow of ocean to glory they sail,
While the stars proudly float on the wild-blowing gale;

408

And a halo encircles the brow of the brave,
When to triumph they march on Ontario's wave.

Let the cannon resound, let the trumpet be blown;
For the demon of War o'er the ocean has flown,
And Peace with her olive-leaf honors the brave,
Who fought for their homes on Ontario's wave.

Let the banner of blood on the wind be unfurled,
And the tempest of discord o'ershadow the world;
Let Peace, with her angel of Mercy, be fled,
And Murder exult in the groans of the dead:

When the trumpet and drum give the signal of war,
The Spirit of Freedom shall kindle her star,—
Shall clothe with her mantle of glory the brave,
Or rock them to rest on Ontario's wave.

They shall march to her foes by her beacon's red light,
And conquer or die in the glorious fight;
And Honor shall dig for the sailor a grave,
Or light him to fame, on Ontario's wave.

Then exult in the day when our nation was born:
Raise the shout of delight,—wind the blast of the horn,—
Peal the roll of the drum,—let the cannon's loud roar
Resound with the torrent that lashes the shore.

Should Britain insult us, our eagle shall fly,
Encircled with stars, on our flag through the sky;
From the mouth of the cannon, the free and the brave
Shall reply to our foes on Ontario's wave.

409

THE DEATH OF LAWRENCE.

Evening has closed o'er the wave of the ocean,
Peace has returned to the sailor again,
Hushed is the din of the battle's commotion,
Nothing is heard but the roar of the main:
Far as the eager eye through the dark shade can spy,
Nothing is seen but the foam of the wave;
While the loud tempests sweep wild o'er the heaving deep,
Ploughing the breast of bold Lawrence's grave.

What is that steals on my listening ear?
O, 't is the accent of mourning and woe!
Grief, for the loss of a leader so dear,—
Grief, for the death of a generous foe.
Now bleeds each sailor's heart,—wounded by sorrow's dart,
Tears flow in torrents for Lawrence the bold;
O, we shall ne'er, they cry, see his fire-flashing eye,
When on his country's foes fiercely it rolled!

O, what a sight, on that glorious morning,
Glanced our bold ship o'er the billowy wave!
Freedom and valor its banner adorning,
Victory cheering the hearts of the brave.
Glittered the sailor's eye, throbbed his rough bosom high,
While the starred flag floated wide on the wind;
Bright glowed the hero's soul,—proudly his glance did roll,—
Fixed were his features, and nobly resigned.

See, on the distant main swiftly advancing,
Albion's sons spread their banner afar;
Light on the crest of the foamy wave dancing,
See, they unfurl the red ensign of war.

410

Marked you the hero's eye,—bright as the noontide sky,
Stern as the frown that the roused lion wears,
When, like the whirlwind's rage, fiercely the foes engaged,—
Mingling in battle, the cross and the stars.

Loud swelled the cannon's roar o'er the wide ocean,
Lashed by the prow, heaved the crimson-dyed foam;
Wild was the din of the battle's commotion,
While many a soul sought its long, latest home;
Bright glared the fatal flame,—death-winged the bullet came,
Full on our leader it darted its blow;
Then each tar heaved a sigh,—tears gushed from every eye,—
Lawrence is wounded, our hero is low.

Mark, from his breast how his life-blood is streaming;
Mark, how his eyeballs in agony roll;
Still through that mist valor's spirit is beaming,
Still his last words speak the fire of his soul:
“Rear up the Eagle high! point it unto the sky,—
There let it soar while the bloody fight raves,
There let its wings outspread,—flap o'er the mighty dead,
Till it shall plunge in the fathomless waves.”

Long shall his spirit illumine our stars,
Long as our flag on the tempest shall fly;
Long as our Eagle the thunderbolt bears,
It shall soar on its pinions and flash in its eye:
When on the stormy main venture our ships again,
Then shall his valor our bosoms inspire;
When we the broadsides pour, and war's dread thunders roar,
Lawrence shall lead like a pillar of fire.

411

PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.

Bright was the morn,—the waveless bay
Shone like a mirror to the sun;
'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,
The matin birds their lays begun:
While swelling o'er the gloomy wood
Was heard the faintly-echoed roar,—
The dashing of the foamy flood,
That beat on Erie's distant shore.

The tawny wanderer of the wild
Paddled his painted birch canoe,
And, where the wave serenely smiled,
Swift as the darting falcon, flew;
He rowed along that peaceful bay,
And glanced its polished surface o'er,
Listening the billow far away,
That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.

What sounds awake my slumbering ear?
What echoes o'er the waters come?
It is the morning gun I hear,
The rolling of the distant drum.
Far o'er the bright illumined wave
I mark the flash,—I hear the roar,
That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,
To fight on Erie's lonely shore.

See how the starry banner floats,
And sparkles in the morning ray:
While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes
In echoes o'er the gleaming bay:
Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet
Columbia's cannons loudly roar,

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And valiant tars the battle greet,
That storms on Erie's echoing shore.

O, who can tell what deeds were done,
When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,
Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,
And met in Erie's flood its grave?
Who tell the triumphs of that day,
When, smiling at the cannon's roar,
Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray,
Conquered on Erie's echoing shore?

Though many a wounded bosom bleeds
For sire, for son, for lover dear,
Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,—
Affliction dries her tender tear;
Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,
With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,
My sire, my son, my lover died,
Conquering on Erie's bloody shore!

Long shall my country bless that day,
When soared our Eagle to the skies;
Long, long in triumph's bright array,
That victory shall proudly rise:
And when our country's lights are gone,
And all its proudest days are o'er,
How will her fading courage dawn,
To think on Erie's bloody shore!

[By the spirits of the dead]

By the spirits of the dead,
Who sunk to death in Erie's wave,—
By the hearts that nobly bled,—
By the free, unconquered brave,—

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We will draw the freeman's sword,
When the Briton threats our shore;
Mingle freedom's battle-word
Proudly with the cannon's roar.

We have faced, will face again,
Death and slaughter;—shall we fly?
Shall we leave the tented plain,—
Leave it, when the foe is nigh?

Come, invader! here we stand,
On the border of the wave;
Ere thou touch our native land,
Thou shalt lay us in the grave.

Here we stand, and here we die;
Bring thy ships, thy rockets bring;
Here our nation's flag shall fly,
Here shall wave our Eagle's wing.

Range in battle-line thy fleet,—
Ravage—burn—destroy; but know,
Though we perish, thou shalt meet—
Meet in every form a foe.

Sons of freedom! seize the gun,
Level well the marksman's eye,
Tell them how the deed is done,
Tell how sure our bullets fly.

Draw a sword, the brave may wield,
Draw it, when the Britons come,
“Hurry, hurry to the field,”
With the fife and rolling drum.

Point thy cannons on the foe,
Bid their lightnings flash afar,
Far and wide his thousands strow
With thy thunder-bolts of war.

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Mingle boldly in the fray,
Shrink not at the sight of blood,
Think how, on his fatal day,
Firm, undaunted, Lawrence stood.

See! his spirit strides the wave,
Calls you where he nobly fell,—
Victory's summons to the brave,
To the foe his funeral knell.

By that soul of ardent flame,
By that soul that could not yield,
Hurry to the field of fame,—
Hurry to the battle-field.

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF PERRY.

With brow serene a form advanced,
His lofty eye was fixed on heaven,
To him the strength of soul was given,
A frown on vice he sternly glanced;
His purpose firm, his bosom clear,
He could not stoop, he could not fear;
With giant step he trod the ground,
The living waves rolled back, and gave
An honorable space around;
Such soul-subduing power attends the virtuous brave.
Amid the deafening roar of War,
Or mad Sedition's thundering shock,
The senate's brawl, the forum's jar,
He stands, an intellectual rock:
In vain the storms of party rage
Against his moveless form engage,
In vain the torrent rushes by,—
He views the chafing flood with firm, undaunted eye.

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At once he rose in dazzling light,—
No deed of arms had graced his shield,
Nor proudly bore its argent field
The story of victorious fight:
He burst, a sun, upon the world.
He stood his country's brazen wall,
Her bolt with conquering arm he hurled,
And, springing at her sacred call,
Through death and danger fearless rushed:
His hand was nerved, his heart inspired,
By valor's fire his soul was flushed;
Nor stopped he till his foe retired,
Their rage subdued, their thunders hushed;—
Then in a youthful victor's might he trod,
And owned no sovereign but his land and God.

A nation's dawning light has fled:
Beyond the ocean's purple wave,
He coldly sleeps among the dead,
Without a stone to deck his grave:
Cut off in honor's early bloom,
When life was young and spirits high,
He sank in silence to the tomb,
Forbid in valor's field to die.
Pale sickness o'er him spread her gloom;
And he who, in the mortal strife,
Where nations toil for death or life,
Had better winged his heavenward flight,
Who should have slept on glory's bed,
In sorrow quenched his new-dawned light,
And feebly mingled with the dead.
O, had he met on Erie's wave
The glorious death he nobly sought,
That death by matchless valor bought,—
A hero generous as brave,—
We then had borne him to his tomb
With all the tenderness of grief,
And wept with honest pride his doom,
And hailed him as our darling chief.

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The sailor asks no sweeter grave
Than ocean's gore-impurpled wave;
His life is in his country's hand,
And where she calls he loves to fly,
In battle's shock unmoved to stand,
In battle's carnage fearless die:
He sees the light of fame aspire
And kindle, as the dun clouds roll,
Its quenchless pyramid of fire,—
He sees, and hurries to the goal;
And while the voice of conflict roars,
His ardent spirit springs and soars;
By glory's breath his soul is driven,
He walks on earth, but lives in heaven;
And, as the mounting arrow flew
Along the lofty fields of blue,
Ascending still, he onward flies,
And dies in flame amid the skies.
How few attain that envied height,
Where all is cloudless, pure, and bright!
How few the souls that never stoop,
How few the hearts that never droop,
Who always fix their eye on fame,
Their only wealth their mighty name,
Their only boast, to do the deed
That all may love, but none decry,—
In freedom's holy cause to bleed,
Where Glory calls, to rush and die!
Glory is not the blasting flame
That burns around a Cæsar's head;
Beneath the golden wreath of fame
None but the wise and good may tread:
The hand must toil, the foot must strive,
No selfish feeling stain the breast,
No passion wild-careering drive
The soul, that longs for Glory's rest.
Sweet after labor comes repose,
And he who toils through life can die,
His long career of honor close,
With brow unruffled, tearless eye:

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He knows, though envy blot his name,
When time has swept those clouds away
That o'er the purest light will stray,
No shade can dim his sun of fame.
How sweet the calm that fills his breast,
When after years of generous strife,
He sinks, by every bosom blest,
And bursts from pain to light and life!
Around his brow the beams of glory play,
And o'er him settles Heaven's eternal day.

DITHYRAMBIC.

I.

Balmy juice of rich Madeira,
How thy amber bubbles shine!
How thy fragrance charms the weary,
Soothing like a song divine!

When thy nectar gayly flushes,
And thy hues the goblet stain,
How the mounting spirit rushes
Lightly through the dancing brain!

Every scene of sadness brightens,
All is robed in vestment fair;
How the cloud of sorrow lightens,
As we sip, and banish care!

Now the patriot bosom throbbing
Swells to deeds of high renown;
And the lover ceases sobbing,
Though beneath his mistress' frown.

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Now, his eye with frenzy rolling,
How the poet sweeps his lyre,
While, no hand his fire controlling,
Madness thunders o'er his wire!

Fired by thee, he grasps the lightning,
Hurls it fiercely through the air;
And a wreath of glory bright'ning
Flames around his waving hair.

When my fancy, faintly drooping,
Loses all its fire divine,
Let me, o'er thy fountain stooping,
Quaff the richly mantling wine.

II.

They may tell me, the sages who soberly think,
That water was all that sire Adam would drink;
They may tell of the calm, philosophical brain
In those who from all that is kindling refrain,—
What serene, energetic, and straight-forward thought,
By living as Nature would have us, is bought;—
They may keep their cool reason who like it,—be mine
A fancy that glows in a bumper of wine.

Our life was not made to flow out like a stream
In the low lands of Holland; the soul's brightest beam
Will die without feeding, as lamps without oil,
And something reviving must water the soil.
The dew may enliven the flowers of the spring,
And a sprinkling of rain make the nightingale sing;
But the heart cannot glow, and the eye cannot shine,
Nor the tongue roll, unless in a bumper of wine.

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Bright nectar that foamed in the goblet of Jove!
Thou quickener of fancy and kindler of love!
By thee heroes rush without dread to the fight,
And cheer the long watch through a cold, frosty night:
When the orator seeks inspiration from thee,
His words how commanding, expressive, and free!
And ev'n the poor poet seems doubly divine,
When he fills from Castalia a bumper of wine.

Thy ruby-cheeked face is the idol for me;
But the tenderer vessels hold nothing but tea,
And that warm, cloudy spirit so weakens their prattle,
Their nonchalant flippancy flows tittle-tattle:
Though Hyson can call forth such lightness of heart,
Where the voluble tongue plays unshackled by art,
Yet their wit and their fancy are wondrously fine,
When by chance they have sipped a bumper of wine.

Then be mine in the storms and the winter of life,
And fill up the place of friends, children, and wife;
Be thou born on the orange-clad mountains of Spain,
Or nursed in the green, sparkling fields of Champagne,
In sea-girt Madeira, or sunny Tokay,
Or where Italy laughs, all enlivened and gay,—
May my last smile at parting complacently shine,
Like the sun on the waves, in a bumper of wine.

LOCH MAREE.

Wouldst thou a scene of quiet view,
When all is gemmed in evening dew,—
When the fair planet's silver blaze
On some lone water sweetly plays,—
When every twinkling star of night
Shines in the sky serenely bright,
And on the rock, the wave, the tower,
And on the lover's secret bower,

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Peace furls her pinions on her breast,
And calls the weary world to rest,—
When not a breath of wind is waking,
And not an aspen-leaf is shaking,—
When not a ripple beats the shore,
And faintly swells the torrent's roar
In yonder mountain vale,—
When on the cliff the wild duck broods,
And slumbers o'er the marble floods,
Rocked by the dying gale,—
When far around, in dewy bush
And quiet grove, the minstrel thrush
Reposes silently,—
Go, at the hour of evening pale,
Go, wander through the lonely vale,
And view by moonlight Loch Maree.

The western wind is gently blowing,
The rising tide is softly flowing,
Its billow heaves along the shore
With rippling dash and solemn roar;
The screaming gull has gone to rest,
The puffin seeks her caverned nest,
On curving wing the ospray soars,
Where on the rocks the breaker pours,
And, dashing 'mid the foamy brine,
His plumes with dewy lustre shine.
Descending on the ocean blue,
Trickles from melting clouds the dew;
The sun, that late with crimson vest
Glowed on the billow's golden breast,
No longer meets the gazing eye,
Nor stains the ruddy evening sky;
For sunk in Thetis' saffron bed,
Each gleam of parting day has fled.

The abbey bell is slowly ringing,
The nun her vesper hymn is singing,
The notes, resounding o'er the bay,
Now sweetly swell, now die away:

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Seems, as the winding shores prolong
The melody of sacred song,
An angel's harp had caught the strain,
And gave it to the distant main;
Such sounds in mellow echoes roll,
And wind their way into the soul.

'T is night, but o'er the peaceful bay
The rising moon's unsullied ray
Shines on its pure, unruffled breast,
Where every wave is smoothed to rest.
Beneath her light, the billows flow
With quiet dash and mellow glow,
And far around, the waveless main
Seems spreading like a glassy plain;
On distant rocks the mermaid weeps,
While round her form the sturgeon leaps,
And long she listens on the shore
The ocean's faintly echoed roar;
The sea-dogs, dashing through the foam,
In sportive gambols wildly roam,
And, rising lightly o'er the brine,
Their skins like polished marble shine.

Now up the brook, that gently flows,
The moon in beam of silver glows,
And through the vale, from lake to bay,
Winds like a stream of light away;
And where the brook, with ceaseless brawl,
Tumbles along the sloping fall,
With light all trembling and uneven
It twinkles like the stars of heaven:
But as you scale the mountain high,
What scene of beauty meets the eye!
Stretched through the vale a sheet of light,
It bursts upon the startling sight,
And back reflects the queen of night,
Whose silver image, far below,
Seems like a gliding orb of snow,

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So pure, so lovely o'er the billow—
It sleeps as on a watery pillow:
Around, above, below, in streams
Of mellow radiance flow the beams,
That silver o'er the sky, and shed
Their rays on ocean's sandy bed;
They shine on wood and lofty hall,
They glitter on the castle wall,
And tremble waveringly,
Where, sitting in her lonely bower,
In sorrow spends the moonlight hour
The maid of Loch Maree.

The glassy wave, the sandy shore,
The rock with lichen covered o'er,
The cliff that frowns, the wave that smiles,
The gloomy firs, the willowy isles,
The castle on the dizzy steep,
Whose lamps their lonely vigils keep,
In such repose are sunk, they seem
The fancy of a poet's dream,—
So fair, so peaceful, one might say
It was a paradise that lay
So far and deep below,—
Some sweet Utopian scene of pleasure,
Where angels dance in lightest measure,
And seraph-warblings flow,—
Or fairy-land, where sylphs might lave
Their forms of beauty in the wave,
And sport upon the balmy wind,
To love and happiness resigned.
Go, range the world from pole to pole,
Go where Arcadia's streamlets roll,
And Tempe's waters play,—
Go, scale Parnassus' flowery steep,
Go where Castalia's muses weep
The mournful hours away,—
Go, view each scene of loveliness,
And tell, if thou canst ever grace
A scene so fair and gay.

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[Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!]

“Perhaps there is scarcely a man who has once experienced the genuine delight of virtuous love, however great his intellectual pleasures may have been, that does not look back to the period as the sunny spot in his whole life, where his imagination loves most to bask, which he recollects and contemplates with the fondest regret, and which he would most wish to live over again.”—

Malthus.

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Fair rose of innocence, adieu!
The stifled sob, the burning tear,
The trembling voice, are all for you;
For I must cross the stormy main,—
Already comes the parting day;
But when on Plata's distant plain,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

Each scene of youthful joys gone by,
That now in memory's chamber sleep,
Shall often rise before my eye,
And bid me think of thee and weep:
And while reclining 'neath the palm,
That rocks before the breeze's sway,
O, to my spirit what a balm,
To think of thee, though far away.

The lonely vale, the quiet tower,
The maple waving on the hill,
Where oft at evening's balmy hour
We listened to the murmuring rill,—
Where oft we saw the glowing west,
Rich with the hues of parting day,—
Shall waken in my throbbing breast
Sweet thoughts of thee, though far away.

The pomp of wealth, the blaze of war,
Shall ever seem a trifling dream,
When, smiling o'er the main afar,
I mark thy star's benignant beam;

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When sickness sinks my drooping head,
This star shall shed a soothing ray,
And cheer the lonely dying-bed
With thoughts of thee, though far away.

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Charm of my heart, a fond adieu!
Forgive me if I shed a tear,
Forgive me if I weep for you:
The streamer wantons in the wind,
The sailor shouts with spirits gay:
O, bear my image in thy mind,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

HENRY AND MARY.

The sun was sinking in the west,
When Mary sought the birken grove;
In snowy lawen simply drest,
She came to meet her own true love.

To meet her own true love she came,
Just at the hour of gloamin' gray,
To light anew her virgin-flame,
And blend with his her softer ray.

The dewy breath of evening blew,
And rustled through the spangled brake;
On wings of down the west-wind flew,
And lightly curled the placid lake;

Around on ilka brier and bush,
The throstles sung their evening lay,
And hoarsely swelled the torrent's rush,
As down the glen it swept away.

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Through trembling boughs, that met the gale,
And danced in wanton sportiveness,
Light-waving streaks of lustre pale
Shone on her maiden loveliness.

As o'er her glowing cheek they played,
They tinged it with a heavenly hue,
And made the tear that down it strayed
Smile like a pearl of Eden's dew.

She rested on the mossy bank,
And leaned upon a birken tree,
Whose roots the crystal water drank,
And swept its pure translucency.

Why steals the tear along her cheek?
Why seeks her eye the parting ray?
She came her own true love to meet,
But ah! her love was far away.

The hand of death has closed his eye,
And laid him in the soldier's grave;
On honor's bed I saw him lie,
And sleep the slumber of the brave.

And ne'er shall Mary meet her love,
And press him to her heaving breast;
The dart of grief has pierced that dove,
And death has hushed her woes to rest.

She leant upon that birken tree,
And saw the sun's departing beam,
She saw the latest twilight flee,
That silvered o'er that mountain stream.

Her tears she mingled with the wave,
And “Henry” trembled on her tongue;
A voice cried, “Henry's in the grave,
His corpse is cold, his knell has rung.”

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She started from her sorrowing trance,
'T was Henry's spirit caught her eye;
He cast on her one pitying glance,
Then melted in the evening sky.

She shrieked,—an ashy hue o'erspread
Her cheek,—she plunged beneath the wave,
The waters circled o'er her head,
And gave her broken heart a grave.

How sweet to wander up the dell,
And trace the wildly-roving stream,
And, bending o'er the crystal well,
To read the moon's reflected beam,
The dancing light, the checkered glow,
That o'er the bubbling fountain play!
But sweeter are the beams that flow
From thy pure loveliness, though glimmering far away.

How sweet at sunset on the hill
To look upon the purple ocean,
When all that moves on earth is still,
But that for-ever heaving motion!
What hues of heaven around the throne
Of day's departing monarch glow!

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O, sweeter still to view alone
From thy blue melting eye love's hallowed lustre flow!

Than moonlight sleeping on the spring,
Than sunset purpling o'er the main,
Than morning's rosy welcoming,
Than night-dew sparkling on the plain,
More sweet thy beams in memory shine:
My last, last thoughts to thee are given;
My heart, my soul, my all are thine;
To think of thee is hope, to live with thee is heaven.

[Star of my heart! thy light has gone]

Star of my heart! thy light has gone,
A cloud has hid it from my view,
A night has come that has no dawn,
A storm I cannot struggle through;
For, like a boatman on the deep
Without a compass, or an oar,
Where wild winds howl, and tempests sweep,
My life must still drift on, and find no port, no shore.

Well,—I have toiled to reach a haven,
Where joy at length in peace might dwell,
And many a mountain billow braven,
Still drawn by thy bewitching spell:
It led me on through all that life
Had dark and cold and hard for me,
For still I hoped to end this strife,
And that my last, bright days might sweetly flow with thee.

Thou smil'dst, a beacon on that shore
Where Fancy builds her airy bowers,
And gems her grots with sparkling ore,
And weaves her shady arch of flowers;

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And I did hope thy light would shine
And charm with beam more warm and bright,
And still I hoped its rays were mine:—
A sullen cloud came o'er, and all was wrapped in night.

But though my course is lone and wild,
Through booming waves, and wreck and sorrow,
I would be firm as when day smiled;
Beyond the grave—there shines a morrow.
Awhile chilled, harassed, dashed, and tost,
Through raging seas I plough my way
To some dark, undiscovered coast,
Where hope holds out no flag, and mercy lights no ray.

[I thought I loved,—no form of earth]

I thought I loved,—no form of earth,
A soul, a visioned shape of air,
The teeming heart and fancy's birth,
The image of all good and fair;
It had a life, a place, a home,
Had smile and glance and voice and tone;
Like green fields in the ocean's foam,
'T was with me still when all alone.

There was a Heaven upon its brow,
An Eden in its happy eye;
It charmed,—the sage may tell me how;
It still has lived, it will not die,—
In pain and pleasure, weal and woe,
Has always been my heart's fond goal,
The centre where my feelings flow,
The point where all my wishes roll;

The harmony of heart and thought,
The smile that always answers smile,

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The peace that man disturbeth not,
The pure, free spirit's happy isle;
The words that glow, the eyes that sparkle,
The hand that melts and clings to mine,
The lips that smile when sorrows darkle,
As, when storms revel, beacons shine;

The flow, the mingled flow of mind,
Through science, fancy, art, and lore,
A feeling taste alike refined,
A blending of each other's store;
The perfect confidence, the thrill
When kindred spirits join their whole,
The joys unthought, untold, that fill,
When heart loves heart, and soul loves soul.

[Is there a tear that scalds the cheek?]

Is there a tear that scalds the cheek?
Is there a sigh the bosom rends?
Is there a grief we cannot speak?
'T is at the last adieu of friends.

The hearts that long have blent their cares
Are by a thousand fibres twined,
And cruel is the pang that tears
The links that fasten mind to mind.

But friends must part with those most dear,
The severing pang their hearts must swell;
Misfortune will extract the tear
That trickles when we bid farewell.

[To see a dear one close her eyes]

To see a dear one close her eyes,
With whom fond years have rolled away,

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When, mounting to her kindred skies,
Her dying features sweetly play,

This is no light nor transient woe;
But there is hope to meet again,
And those warm drops, that streaming flow,
Are tears of joy as well as pain.

Yes, hope will cheer the widowed heart,
When weeping o'er the dear one's urn;
But who can hope or joy impart
To him whose love has no return?

[There is an hour, a heavenly hour]

There is an hour, a heavenly hour,
When rapture swells my throbbing breast,
When joy exerts her siren power
To lull my cares and woes to rest:
It is the hour of evening pale,
Beside the maiden of my heart;
'T is when within the quiet vale
We meet and hope no more to part.

Let proud ambition boast his fame,
And point where burns his glory-star;
I envy not the hero's name,
I care not for the blaze of war:
Give me, when evening draws around
The silent dell its rosy veil,
To hear her harp's wild-warbling sound,
And listen to her soothing tale.

This is the star that charms my sight,
The mildly beaming star of love;
There is no star of purer light,
That sparkles in the heavens above.

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Lay me beneath the willow's shade,
Where softly sighs the evening gale,
Love's paradise can never fade
With Mary in the quiet vale.

['T is night,—but yet the moon is high]

'T is night,—but yet the moon is high,
And floating round her shadowy throne
The fleecy clouds in slumber lie,
And gird her with a golden zone.

The air is hushed, the leaves are still;
The lake its glassy mirror spreads;
The moonlight settles on the hill
And silvers o'er the mountain-heads.

There is a spirit in the wind,—
It whispers peace into the soul;
A balm that stills the ruffled mind,
The heaving bosom's sweet control.

Though passion sleeps, yet memory wakes,
And fancy calls her airy train;
A thousand blended hues she takes,
And lost enjoyments live again.

She summons up the raptured hour
When life was pure, and thought was free,
And, swayed alone by Nature's power,
I roamed in careless liberty.

My being's dawn, my days of feeling,
The sunny spring-time of my soul,
When the warm tide of life is swelling,
And all our pulses wildly roll,—

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The days of health and joy and love,
And glowing hopes and prospects high,—
I see them—and my heart's fond dove,
Her beck'ning smile, her speaking eye.

Ah, thou art here!—I feel thy breath;
It fans my pale and withered cheek,
It starts me from my dream of death;—
O, it is heaven to hear thee speak!

And then to hang upon thee so,
Those lips how sweet, how warm that kiss!
What words of honey o'er them flow!
Those liquid tones, how full of bliss!

And how our meeting bosoms beat,
And how our mutual feelings blend!
I call thee love and life and sweet,
And oh! thou say'st, my heart's sole friend.

Our thoughts, our hopes, our joys are one,
In one full tide our being rolls;
This is the bosom's unison,
The harmony of kindred souls.

Our spirits burst the bands of earth,
By love's o'erpowering influence driven;
This is indeed a second birth,
O, this it is to live in heaven!

Begone, fond dream! I stand alone,—
By night's chill dews my locks are wet,
Love's paradise for ever flown,
My sun in utter darkness set.

Slow through my veins the ice-drops creep,
My fancy's cherished vision fled,
My feelings wrapt in endless sleep;—
I live, but oh! my heart is dead.

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THE LAMP OF LOVE.

Light the lamp of love,—
Light it with a fire
Falling from above,
Sparkling with desire.
When the flame is bright,
Place it in the bower
Where true hearts delight
To pass the evening hour:
It will softly shine
Through the mantling leaves,
Which the Graces twine,
And affection weaves,—
Weaves into a chain,
With the smile of bliss,
Melting looks that banish pain,
And pure enjoyment's honeyed kiss.

See! how bright it gleams,
Like the evening star,—
How its mellow beams
Scatter wide and far,
Lighting on his way,
To the lonely bower,
Him who loves to stray
Round affection's modest flower,
Him who loves the blush that glows
On the cheek of innocence,
Brightening like the dewy rose,
And breathing like it to the sense.

But there is a ray
More delightful still,
Beams that softlier play,
Looks that sweetlier thrill;
'T is the eye whose light,
Sparkling from the heart,

434

Pours upon the night
Joys that ne'er depart;
'T is the look that tells
Love is living there,
And, like the fairy's witching spells,
Bids every scene enchantment wear.

Ah! the light has faded
In the darkened bower,
Jealousy has shaded
Every leaf and smiling flower.
Can the dying beams
Shine again as bright as ever?
No! the demon's inky streams,
When once they quench them, quench for ever.

THE GALLEY SLAVE.

How dark is the night! no planet is gleaming,
To light the lost mariner over the wave;
How dark is my fortune! no sunshine is beaming
From Hope, on the poor galley slave.
The mariner waits till the morning is breaking,
When daylight shall point him his path to the shore;
By night and by day the poor galley slave, waking,
Must sigh as he tugs at the oar.

Though cold be the storm on the wand'rer descending,
And chill be the tempests that over him blow,
Still Hope on this storm some few bright rays is blending,
And smiles on the dark cloud of woe.
But never shall Hope, to the poor galley slave,
His friends or the love of his bosom restore;
No, never, the wretch, till he sleeps in the grave,
Must sigh as he tugs at the oar.

435

And oft, as around him the billows were roaring,
He struggled to sweep his broad oar through the wave,
I've marked him in tears his lost freedom deploring,
I've marked the poor heart-broken slave.
“Ah! ne'er shall I meet my lost friends,” he was crying;
“O, ne'er shall my woes and my sorrows be o'er!”
Then faintly his voice on his pallid lips dying,
He sighed as he tugged at the oar.

When nature has sunk, and the poor galley slave,
In short broken slumbers, is resting from pain,
He dreams that he crosses the far distant wave,
And meets with his Mary again.
But soon from his slumber in anguish awaking,
His fond dream of love and pleasure is o'er,
And leaves him with naught, while his full heart is breaking,
But to sigh as he tugs at the oar.

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ---,

WHO WAS DROWNED WHILE BATHING AT ---.

The sun from his soft-swelling palace of blue
Looked down on the waves of the ocean:
O'er the breast of the billow the razor-bill flew,
All hushed was its stormy commotion.

The halcyon rocked on his wave-cradled bed,
And slept on the surge as a pillow;
The gulls flapped their wings o'er the mariner's head,
As his bark ploughed the foam of the billow.

436

Like the goddess of beauty, arrayed in her charms,
When from Ida in triumph descending,
Maria, unmindful of future alarms,
O'er the breaker that rippled was bending.

She saw in the wave, as it rolled on the shore,
Her charms, with triumphant emotion,
And little she thought, 'mid the billows' loud roar,
How soon she should sleep in the ocean.

Her maids stood around her, and scarce at her feet
Ascended the soft-kissing billow;
Ah! little they thought that an angel so sweet
Should repose on a watery pillow.

While securely they dipped in the scarce-heaving wave,
That softly around them was swelling,
The sea-nymphs were decking her coralline grave,
And her parting bell slowly was knelling.

A breaker arose, like the wave of the storm,
It foamed with a wild, heaving motion,
And dashed o'er the strand,—overwhelmed her fair form,
And buried her deep in the ocean.

A faint shriek was heard, and 't was silent again;
She has gone,—she has vanished for ever:
Long, long shall they seek for her corse in the main,
But when shall they find it?—ah! never.

On sea-weeds and corallines softly reclined,
Maria is calmly reposing:
Round her wave-polished bones the sea-mosses shall wind,
Till time o'er the ocean is closing.

437

And long shall the sea-boy, while wrapped in his dream,
At midnight awake from his pillow,
And wondering view, in the moon's silver beam,
Her fair spirit glide o'er the billow.

[Give me a lonely seat]

Give me a lonely seat,
Where she reposes,
Where the rude billows beat,
As the day closes,
Where the waves on the shore,
White with commotion,
Raise the loud-pealing roar
Over the ocean.

There I would sadly rest
On my cold pillow,
There seek to soothe my breast
Under the willow;
But, O my Mary dear!
Parted for ever,
Comfort I cannot hear,
Never, O, never!

Oft when the silver beam
Kisses the billow,
Oft shall my sorrow stream
Under the willow;
And though the midnight storm
Howls o'er the ocean,
Still I shall view thy form,
Rapt in emotion.

Billows are roaring,
And ocean is swelling,

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I am deploring,
My death-bell is knelling.
O, in the stormy main,
Loving for ever,
When can we part again?
Never, O, never!

Oft shall the mariner,
Ploughing the billow,
Start from his slumber
Of peace on his pillow;
Then, while the moonbeam
Is silvering the ocean,
And the wave tosses him
With its light motion,—

Then shall he view us glide,
Like a bright vision,
Over the heaving tide,
Sweetly Elysian.
O, can the stormy main
Hearts so fond sever?
O, can we part again?
Never, O, never!

THE VIOLET.

Among all the sweet-blooming flowers of the spring,
That deck every meadow, and scent every gale,
There is none to my heart such a transport can bring
As the violet that blossoms unseen in the vale.

The rose may delight with its odors and blushes,
We may hang on the lily's leaves tender and pale,
Hues of beauty may glow on the laurel's gay bushes,
But lovelier the violet that blooms in the vale.

439

Though the earliest dawn of the morning should find me
Inhaling the fragrance that breathes in the gale,
I would leave all the flowers of the garden behind me,
To view the sweet violet that blooms in the vale.

When the fields are one flower-bed, all blooming and gay,
And far-floating clouds of aroma exhale;
Still, no hues in the sunbeams so pleasingly play
As those on the violet that blooms in the vale.

I have seen many beauties in woman's soft form,—
In the cheek gay with hope, or with sorrow all pale;
But none could my heart so delightfully charm
As the maiden that bloomed in obscurity's vale.

At the accent of joy, O how bright was her eye!
How she wept when she listened to pity's soft tale!
From every gay beauty of fashion I'd fly,
To the maiden who bloomed in obscurity's vale.

[How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend]

How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend,
Where the joy of my heart, wrapt in slumber, reposes!
On the dew-spangled sod how the morning rays blend,
Like the bright, airy colors that evening discloses!

And bright be the rays,—for a soul that was bright
As the star of the morning here peacefully slumbers:
O where is the mortal so dear to my sight!
O what sounds are so sweet as his harp's lively numbers!

He tuned all the chords of his harp to a strain—
It seemed as if angels were waking their lyres:
There seemed every wild-warbling bird on the plain,
When his fingers swept gracefully over the wires.

440

But there always was heard in his liveliest notes
A slight strain of sorrow, that breathed in my ear,
As when on the west-wind the dirge sweetly floats,
And from the eye gently elicits the tear.

I have heard him, when sorrowful, pour on the gale
Such soft notes of sadness, I wept at the sound;
It seemed that the turtle-dove's heart-breathing wail
Was filling the pines that waved gloomily round.

He would sweep o'er the chords all the power of his arm,
And wake such a strain,—'t was alive to my soul,—
So sweet, 't would each pang of my bosom disarm,
And bid all my feelings in ecstasy roll.

But, minstrel of Nature! thy soul breathes no more,
Thine eye darts no longer enlivening fire;
O, ne'er shall thy harp its wild witchery pour,—
No descant of sorrow e'er flow from thy lyre.

Life's sea was too stormy for bosoms like thine,—
As well might the child front the tempest's loud wave;
But I'll often retire to weep over thy shrine,
And the turf shall for ever grow green on thy grave.

[Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow]

Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow
Is gone, and the spring-tide of pleasure return:
It may kindle its smile ere the dawn of to-morrow,
And shake the sweet dews of delight from its urn.
Then let thy strings, brushed by fancy's light wings,
Breathe the music of joy in the listener's ear:
Then let thy note, like the nightingale's, float,
Lighting rapture's gay smile, stealing pity's soft tear.

441

Though I should tune to the key-note of gladness
Thy chords, yet the blast of the winter's chill wind
Would wake them to naught but the moaning of sadness,
To an air that would sink, not enliven the mind.
Rest then, my lyre, awhile!—rest till with vernal smile
Spring decks the mead and enkindles the grove;
Then let the zephyr's wings brush gently o'er thy strings,
Waking them all to the music of love.

Now I am sorrowful,—tears give me pleasure:
Hush then thy music,—be silent my lyre!
For thy strings, tuned to grief's mournfullest measure,
Wake in my heart an enlivening fire;
When pleasure wreathes my head, and sorrow's tear has fled,
Then let the wind kiss thy chords as it flies,
Wafting a strain along, sweet as the robin's song,
Bidding joy sparkle in beauty's blue eyes.

Lyre of my soul! sorrow's dark clouds are breaking;
Smiles through their gloom the clear azure of bliss,
Every sweet warbler of rapture is waking,
Every vale listens to love's fondest kiss.
Now to the passing wind be all thy chords resigned,
Let each gay pinion, that shines in its wing,
Wake all thy melody, swell all thy wild notes high,
Till rock and wood with thy ecstasy ring.

[She's gone, the idol of my heart]

She's gone, the idol of my heart,—
She's gone, alas! for ever.
Could Heaven such tender lovers part,
Such links of fondness sever?

442

So strong we twined the chain of love,
We thought no force could break it;
Such flowers within its links we wove,
'T was sweet as bliss could make it.

It was a silken, flowery chain,
And soft as downy pinions;
So bright its links, night shows in vain
Heaven's glittering “starred dominions.”
And oh! I thought no power so strong,
This chain of love to sever;
But ah! her vows were but a song,—
She's gone, alas! for ever.

There is an angel in her eye,
So modest, sweet, and charming;
And when her sudden glances fly,
The bosom's peace alarming,
Reason cannot withstand her power,
Its light by passion shaded:
So falls the blooming April flower,
'T is plucked, rejected, faded.

O save me from a woman's eye!
There is a fiend within it.
O, guard me from a woman's sigh,
For death is breathing in it.
She smiles, enchants us, then betrays;
Her charms are man's undoing,
And in her flowery paths there strays
The harbinger of ruin.

You cannot tell when woman loves,
For all she does is smiling;
And when those charming lips she moves,
'T is all for man's beguiling;
And though her face like heaven is fair,
Each dart of Cupid wielding,
Her heart is still like gossamer,
As fluttering and as yielding.

443

Each idle glance can make her sigh
A moment, and 't is over.
There 's nothing like a woman's eye,
So wild, so light a rover.
She loves the coxcomb when he smiles,
And poets when they praise her;
But gold alone has those dear wiles
That can to rapture raise her.

Then go, thou false unmeaning thing,—
Go, and begone for ever!
Shalt thou again my bosom wring,
And steal my tears?—No, never!

[When the winter of sorrow's keen tempests are blowing]

When the winter of sorrow's keen tempests are blowing,
There is naught can the gloom of affliction beguile,
O, there 's nothing can set all my spirits a-flowing,
Like the playfulness sporting in woman's soft smile!
To me, 't is the sweet-beaming star of the morning,
When it shines o'er the fields all bespangled with dew;
Or the rose in its full bloom the valley adorning,
When the Spring spreads its flowers, and the sky is all blue.

You may lay my lorn head on the pillow of anguish,
You may draw round my couch the dark curtain of woe,
By night and by day I may painfully languish,
While the big drops of sorrow unceasingly flow:
But the sweet smile that breathes on the lips that are dear,
All my anguish can soothe, all my sorrow remove;

444

When woman looks kindly, I dry every tear;
O, there's nothing can charm like the smile of my love!

When the Spring blooms delightfully, clothing the scene
With sweet-breathing festoons of lilacs and roses,
And veils every meadow in Nature's pure green,
Where the eye as on pillows of softness reposes,—
Though this scene every thorn of affliction beguiles,
And smooths every passion to quiet repose,
There is nothing like beauty all beaming with smiles,
Like the play of her lips, and her cheek's blooming rose.

[When I roam o'er the fields at the opening of dawn]

When I roam o'er the fields at the opening of dawn,
On the flowers that bloom round how enchanted I dwell!
But sweeter the dew-drops that spangle the lawn,
And dearer the gem in the gay blossom's bell:
So when beauty is beaming and blooming around,
Though her bloom and her smile to my bosom are dear,
Yet dearer the eye that is bent on the ground,
And sweeter the ray of affliction's soft tear.

When the blossoms of Nature are spangled with dew,
Or wet with the drops of the Spring's gentle shower,
O, there's naught in creation more sweet to my view,
And that which droops most is the loveliest flower:

445

So when beauty is weeping, her charms are more dear,
Those tears all her blushes, like rainbows, illume;
And oh! the most charming and heavenly tear
A fair sister sheds on a loved brother's tomb.

[I was once happy and blest]

I was once happy and blest;
But pleasure has flown from me long.
I was once love and caressed;
But my loves only live now in song.

I was once cheerful and gay,
The rose on my cheek spread its bloom;
But the roses have faded away,
And left but the hue of the tomb.

Pleasure once beamed in my eye,—
O how blithely I laughed and I sung!
But those moments of bliss are gone by,
And my bower all with mourning is hung.

They called me an angel, and smiled,
And I smiled, and believed they spoke true;
O, how my weak heart was beguiled!
I was ruined,—then bidden adieu.

Ye who exult in your youth
And your beauty, be taught by my tear;
O, listen to nothing but truth,
And close on the flatterer your ear.

[Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains]

Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains,
And frankincense thickets that sweeten its gales;

446

I love my green meadows, and clear-flowing fountains,
My hills gently swelling, and soft-winding vales.

When morning is glowing, or evening is fading,
These scenes all the beauties that soften us wear;
For reclined on the seat, which the vine-leaves are shading,
I listen the music of Mary, my fair.

The blossoms that grow in Peruvian bowers
May sparkle with colors more vivid and bright;
But still the soft charms of our dew-breathing flowers
Are sweeter to sense and more dear to the sight:

So the maiden—whose smiles, like the ray of the morning,
Can soften the bosom and free it from care,
Whom roses and lilies and diamonds adorning
Have fashioned an angel—is Mary my fair.

[Dear little angel of my heart]

Dear little angel of my heart,
How full of life thy cheek is flushing!
But when I tell thee we must part,
How softly pure thy tears are gushing!

Though thou art but the opening bloom,
The promise of a richer treasure;
Thy breath is still love's sweet perfume,
Thy smile, the dearest smile of pleasure.

But love with thee is heavenly love,
And pleasure—O how pure, how holy!
The fondness of a cooing dove,
That toys and sports, nor dreams of folly.

447

Sweet innocent, O, I could dream
Of thy pure angel-charms for ever,
Could sun me in thine eye's warm beam,
And when thou smil'st, be sad—O, never!

I love thee as I love the child,
When on its mother's bosom smiling,
And low she sings her murmur wild,
The startled cherub's fears beguiling.

Thy flaxen locks, thine eyes of blue,
Thy ruby lips all sweetly blooming,
Thy smile, like roses wet with dew,
The murmuring breath of morn perfuming,—

Thy glance, that smiles when joy is nigh,
Now through the tear of pity stealing,
When faintly bursts the stifled sigh,
And sweetly breathes the voice of feeling,—

O, when I gaze on charms so bright,
So heavenly fair, so richly glowing,
I feel a thrilling, pure delight
Through every vein and fibre flowing:

As if my eyes beheld a form
Of cherub-light from Heaven descending,
With looks that speak affection warm,
O'er sorrow's couch in pity bending.

O, dearest! thou art happy now,
No pang thy bosom's peace alarming;
Contentment smiles upon thy brow,
And virtue—O how pure, how charming!

And let it not disturb thy rest,
That soon thou meet'st a world of sorrow;
But from the heaven within thy breast,
The aid to bear its evils borrow.

448

And O, my dear,—my only dear,—
Should fate the bands that twine us sever,
I still would shed the bitter tear,
And think of Mary—O, for ever!

[Come, come away, unto the silent grove]

Come, come away, unto the silent grove,
And in this solitude
Indulge thy melancholy mood,
And weep for fruitless love:
Come, come and seek the cedar's shade;
Beneath its gloomy shadow laid,
List to the turtle's mournful lay,
That fills the solemn hush around,
Broke by this soft-lamenting sound,
Until it dies away.

There lie and let thy tears unceasing flow;
Indulge thy swelling grief,
Until thou find'st a sweet relief,
A balm for all thy woe;
For tears can soothe the anxious breast,
Compose affliction's throb to rest,
Instil a holy calm of peace,
A calm that lights a placid smile
Upon our lips, and bids awhile
Our melancholy cease.

Then rise and seek the brightly flowering field.
And, as you careless stray,
Hear the brisk songsters warbling gay,
And taste the joy they yield:
Then think no more of cruel love;
But let thy thoughts unfettered rove,
And o'er the landscape wander free;
And while thou feel'st relief from pain,
O, never, never think again
That Mary 's deaf to thee.

449

[One evening, when the sky was blue]

One evening, when the sky was blue,
When Spring was clad in greenest hue,
When gently fell the cooling dew,
I saw sweet Mary.

The roses bloomed upon her cheek,
Her sparkling eye, though bright, was meek,
'T was music, when I heard her speak.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her forehead, white as drifted snow,
Was soft as downy plumes, that flow
Wide o'er the fields, when zephyrs blow.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her look, the picture of her mind,
By every charm and grace refined,
To calmest musing seemed resigned.
Ah! dearest Mary.

She sung,—her sweetly soothing strain
Floated along the flowery plain,
So sweet, the robin sings in vain.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her voice was still,—her hand she threw
Around her robe, and lightly flew,
Brushing the faintly glistening dew.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Entranced in bliss, I saw her fly,
Fair as the moon that gilds the sky,
Sailing enrobed in silver dye.
Ah! dearest Mary.

And when I laid me down to rest,
I saw her smile, in beauty drest,
And clasped her vision to my breast.
Ah! dearest Mary.

450

We roamed through cool and shady groves,
We told our pure, unsullied loves,
We kissed with hearts as true as doves'.
Ah! dearest Mary.

O may this vision ne'er depart,
But dwell for ever round my heart,
Untouched by disappointment's dart!
Ah! dearest Mary.

Then I, a cheerful, happy swain,
With her, a nymph, might rove the plain,
Nor ever, ever leave again
My dearest Mary.

[I love the ruddy cheek, that glows]

I love the ruddy cheek, that glows
Bright as the crimson-flowering rose,
That in the Spring most sweetly blows;
But yet I love to see,
More than this cheek that brightly glows,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the arm of fairest snow,
Round as the tapering trees that grow,
Where streams in purest currents flow;
But yet I love to see,
More than this arm of fairest snow,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the jetty, curling hair,
That floats around the bosom fair,
And waves in tresses on the air;
But yet I love to see,
More than this jetty, curling hair,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

451

I love the gently heaving breast,
In robe of milky softness drest,
By love and all the graces prest;
But yet I love to see,
More than this gently heaving breast,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the lips like ruby flowers,
That blow amid the sweetest bowers,
Smiling as wet with dewy showers;
But yet I love to see,
More than these lips like ruby flowers,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the tender hand, whose white
Seems melting to the enamored sight,
And calls to bowers of pure delight;
But yet I love to see,
More than this hand of melting white,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the artless, winning form,
Whose easy gracefulness can charm
And fill the heart with soft alarm;
But yet I love to see,
More than this artless, winning form,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The mind imbued with wisdom's lore,
And rich in learning's fairest store,
Than sparkling eye delights me more,—
Yes, I had rather see
The mind imbued with wisdom's lore,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The breast that feels another's woes,
With charity intensely glows,
And the kind heart of feeling shows,—

452

Yes, I had rather see
The breast that feels another's woes,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The life that flows in gentle love,
That would each passing hour improve,
And tread the path to worlds above,—
Yes, I had rather see
The life that flows in gentle love,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

May all these charms and graces blend,
And beauty, love, and wit attend
The feeling heart, the tender friend;
Oh! I would love to see
The form, the heart, the spirit, blend
With eye that sparkles brilliantly.

[Who is that mourner bending o'er yon grave]

Who is that mourner bending o'er yon grave,
Whose glistening tears flow down her pallid cheek,
Whose voice, like cooing dove's,
Is full of plaintive woe?

A mother, weeping for her infant dear,—
A smiling babe, who, like the early flower,
Just blossomed for a day,
And then was seen no more.

See how her tears bedew that verdant grave,
And on that slowly-waving blade of grass,
Mark how that crystal drop
Shines in the moon's pale beam.

Ah! listen to her softly uttered tale,
Which, touching all the chords of sympathy,
Bids the unsullied tear
Stand in the stranger's eye.

453

“Ah! lovely babe, sweet image of thy sire,
Who in the stormy bosom of the deep,
Ere thou hadst seen the light,
Found his cold, watery grave:

“I fondly hoped to rear thy angel form,
To make thee first and fairest of the fair,
In every virtuous grace,
In every mental charm.

“This cheering thought enlivened all my toil,
This sweetened all my anxious, watchful hours,
When through the wintry night
I hushed thy cries to rest.

“Oft I would look upon thy sleeping form,
And the calm smile that played upon thy lips,
And when I saw thee move,
Would sing my lullaby.

“But cruel death thy opening blossom nipped,
And laid thee low within the silent tomb,
And robbed me of my sole,
My sole surviving joy.

“Ah! can I tell the agony I feel,
The cruel pang that wrung my bleeding heart,
When hollow-sounding clods
Fell in thy narrow grave?

“How pleasing—to behold thy early bloom,
Like morning flowers; but ah! how mournful too—
So sweet to taste of bliss,
So soon to lose its balm!

“Soon I shall leave this tenement of clay,
Soon I shall meet thee and thy much-loved sire,
Above yon starry sky,
In one eternal Heaven.

454

“For o'er my cheek the lily's hue is spread,
And scarce the pulses beat within my heart,
While death, with awful voice,
Rings loudly in my ear.

“But I can leave this mournful world with joy,
Can view the last recess of parting life,
And feel the icy chill
Creep through my withered veins.”

[See, how the clear, unsullied streamlet strays]

See, how the clear, unsullied streamlet strays
Along the windings of the blossomed vale,
And o'er the gentle slope
Dashes its crystal flood:

With soothing sweetness slowly tinkles on,
Rippling around the verdant, mossy stone,
Or in the unruffled pool
A pearly mirror shows:

Now murmurs softly o'er its gravelly bed,
Now silent curls along a sandy shoal,
And now beneath a root
Its lucid current hides.

Emerging thence, it scarcely steals along,
Where bubbles tinged with rainbows lightly glide,
And, dancing on the wave,
Are broken by the gale.

Now, standing in a pool, the whispering breeze
Uprears the water, pure as new-fallen snow,
And throws it wildly round
In every lovely form.

455

It flows thus sweetly through the silent vale,
In youthful gentleness, until, increased
By rills and cool, clear springs,
It swells into a brook.

Louder the murmur rises on the gale,
And dashed along the rudely broken steep,
O'ertopped with whitest foam,
The billows tumble on.

Now sunk to peace, the unambitious stream
Floats in broad current o'er the smiling mead,
Reflecting as a glass
The lily's snowy bloom.

Again it darts with loud increasing roar
Along the rapid, pouring o'er the rocks,
And swelling on the breeze,
That waves the boughs above.

At last it plunges in a dark abyss,
And throws amid the cliffs, that rise around,
The gayly colored spray,
As sets the evening sun.

'T is lost,—for in a hoarse-resounding cave,
Retiring from the ken of mortal eye,
It hides its manly flood
Within the mountain's womb.

Thus the bright youth, whom genius raises high
Above the ignoble throng that grovel round,
Passes his boyish days
In playful innocence.

To him, the mellow flute's melodious lay,
The fair one's sweetly uttered song of love,
Are charming as the strains
That heavenly angels sing.

456

To him the cool, retired grotto's still
And gloomy solitude is sweeter far
Than all the pomp of wealth,
Than all the glare of pride.

Unnoticed and unknown he tunes his lyre,
And weaves the lovely hymn of melody,
Unheard but by the grove,
That shields him from the sun.

But when his genius forms the manly song,
And from his lips the patriot accents breathe,
He seeks the mountain's brow,
And dwells amid the storm.

Thus fair he rises, like the towering pine
That on Monadnock courts the cloudless sky,
And fondly hopes to gain
The highest seat of fame.

But stranger to the baser arts of life,
By disappointment sunk into the grave,
And crushed by power and pride,
He slumbers in the dust.

TO THE ROSE.

I.

Tender rose-bud! sweetly blooming,—
Drooping with the dews of morn,
Every sighing breeze perfuming,
As it flutters round thy thorn;—

Tender rose-bud! soon thy blossom,
Nursed by dews, and fed by light,
Will unfold its velvet bosom,
Spreading beauty to the sight.

457

Then, sweet bud, I'll softly pluck thee,
Drooping low with early dew;
Then to Mary will I give thee,
She whose cheek is thine own hue.

When the dew-drops, sweetly shining,
Gently to my lips are prest,
In the woodbine bower reclining,
I will lay thee on her breast.

Could I, like thee, flower of feeling,
Rest upon her bosom fair,
Like the bee its sweetness stealing,
I would dwell for ever there.

II.

Fairest Nymph of lovely Flora,
Brightest beauty of the Spring,
See, around thy kindling glory,
How the zephyr sports his wing.

When Aurora gayly flashes,
Rising from her saffron bed,
O, what richly crimson blushes
Wanton round thy drooping head!

When the morning-glory closes
In the sultry noontide air,
O, how soft the bee reposes,
Humming on thy bosom fair!

When the zephyrs, gently blowing,
All the sweets of nature bring,
Round thy virgin beauties glowing,
See, the hummer spreads his wing.

458

When the breezy breath of morning
Calls him to his airy flight,
How his hues, thy bloom adorning,
Glitter in the dawning light!

When the evening shades are blending
In the gay enamelled west,
See, the dews of night, descending,
Softly slumber on thy breast.

Blooming Nature's sweetest blossom!
Let me pluck, in morning's hour,
To adorn Maria's bosom,
Thy enchanting, dewy flower.

III.

See, the rose is freshly glowing
Through its veil of morning dew;
Round it perfumed gales are blowing,
Sweeter ne'er in Eden blew.

May has clad the tangled bower
In a robe of softest green,
Blended every early flower,—
But the rose is Flora's queen.

Showers of bloomy snow, descending
From the pear-tree, deck the mead;
Honeysuckles richly blending
Weave their many-tinctured brede.

When the first spring cloud is flying,
What the flower that freshest glows?
Sweet when blooming, sweet when dying,
O, the fair Idalian rose!

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See the sylph on emerald pinions
Lightly woo the floweret's smile,
Ranging Flora's bright dominions,
Sip at each and stay awhile:

When the rose's breathing blossom
By his ruby throat is prest,
Lights he on its yielding bosom,
Furls his wings and sinks to rest.

Though, the exotic bower adorning,
India's richest blossom glows,
Give me, wet with dews of morning,
Give, O, give the breathing rose!

[I saw a flower of softest hue]

I saw a flower of softest hue
Within a lonely vale,
Around its head serenely blew
The evening's dewy gale;
The gem was sparkling in its bell,
'T was like the mourner's tear,
And like the dirge of sorrow fell
The zephyr on my ear.

The scene that bloomed around was calm,
The sky was softly blue,
The zephyr breathed its sweetest balm,
And gently fell the dew;
At that mild hour, when lovers lie
Beneath the maple shade,
This modest floweret met my eye,
This beauty of the glade.

With careful, trembling hand, I raised
The floweret from its bed,

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And on its weeping beauties gazed,
And kissed its balmy head;
Then laid it gently on my heart,
And pressed the treasure there,
And whispered, “We will never part,
Thou fairest of the fair!

“Though pale the tints, that deck thy leaf
Upon its ground of snow,
Thy dew-drops like the tear of grief,
That gems the eye of woe,—
Though thou recall'st the dying bed,
Where mourners weep sincere,
The chamber where the pall is spread,
And dirges soothe the ear,—

“For this, sweet flower, I love thee more
Within the lonely vale,
When bending o'er the riv'let's shore,
I list the turtle's wail:
For round thy unobtrusive form
Soft-breathing odors dwell,
Beauties that like enchantment warm,
And calm the bosom's swell.”

TO THE GENTIANA CRINITA,

THE LAST FLOWER OF AUTUMN.

Sweet floweret of the waning year,
Last blossom of the fading plains,
The leaves are falling wan and sere,
And the lone, widowed bird complains:

Still thou art dearer to my heart,
Than all the sweets the Spring unveils;
Thy blooms a softer mood impart,
Than violets breathing in the vales.

461

There is a melancholy grace,
That spreads thy lonely petals o'er;
They tell that winter comes apace,
That soon will rise the tempest's roar.

The flowers decay, the fields are bare,
The humble violet fears to blow,
The woods no more their honors wear,
Light rustling fall the leaves below.

Still thou unfold'st thy lovely leaf,
And smil'st amid the fields alone,
Thou seem'st some weeping child of grief,
That mourns her every comfort flown,

Had I not roved the desert plain,
Where 'neath the hedge you sweetly blew,
Your petals had been spread in vain,
Your only guest the evening dew.

Or when amid the leafless wood
The blue-bird chirped with drooping wing,
He might have o'er thy beauty stood,
And sung his lay, and thought it Spring.

How richly purple is thy hue,
Thy fringe like beauty's ebon rays,
Where the eye's lustre glances through,
And meeker shines its living blaze.

In vain the pencil would essay
To give thy form its native grace;
How weaker still the feeble lay,
That would thy mellow features trace!

Where'er I meet thee on the plains,
Thy beauties to my soul how dear!
How worthy thou of higher strains,
Sweet floweret of the waning year!

462

[Can I touch my harp again?]

Can I touch my harp again?
Can I wake its mellow strain?
In the damp it long has hung,
Long its chords have been unstrung,
Moss around its frame has twined,
It has only felt the wind,
All its soothing tones have slept
In the shade where dews have wept,
Scarce a sigh the wind has breathed
Through its strings, by grasses wreathed:
Though it long unused has lain,
I will touch my harp again.

I will touch my harp again,
Wake it to a cheerful strain;
Like the whispering breeze, that flings
Sweetness from its waving wings,
It shall shed on all around
Notes that softly, sweetly sound.
Come, my harp, and let me try,
If my fingers now can fly
As they could when youth was high.
Age has numbed them,—cankering care
Chilled my heart, and planted there
('Stead of love and joy and pleasure,
Mirth that wakes the frolic measure)
Sorrow for a world of woe,
And grief, whose tears for ever flow:
Spite of this, a cheerful strain
Shall my harp awake again.

Autumn smiles, the sky is blue:
Let me for an hour or two
Draw thee from thy rest of years,
Brush away thy dewy tears,
Brighten up thy chords again,
And wake them to a cheerful strain.

463

They will bid my sorrows fly,
They will light my fading eye;
Only for a fleeting hour
Let me feel their soothing power;
Let me, while they breathe of love,
All my griefs, my woes remove;
Though the joy is short, 't is dear:—
Cease to flow, thou falling tear,
For I wake my harp again
To a sweetly soothing strain.

[Give me the lyre of harmony]

Give me the lyre of harmony
To calm the passions of my soul,
O, wake its choral symphony,
And bid it with my griefs condole.

Sweet are the echoes of its strings,
Sweet as the sylvan choir of May,
When on the rose the robin sings,
And hails with song the rising day.

And though the storm, that gathers round,
Be cold as winter's blasting wind,
Still can this lyre's bewitching sound
Beguile my lorn and widowed mind.

Though love is fled, and friends are gone,
This lyre, my solace, lingers nigh:—
O, leave me not to droop alone,
But be thy music whispering by!

And what shall ease my troubled heart?
Shall Roslin's voice of sorrow flow,
Or shall thy trembling chords impart
A deeper, darker strain of woe?

464

I hear it swell,—the death-march rings,
The muffled drum is rolling by,
The burning tear of sorrow springs
And trickles from the melting eye.

The bier, with slow and solemn tread,
Attired in sables, steals along,
And o'er the grave's cold, earthy bed
The minstrel pours his broken song.

The notes ascend,—the shriek and scream
Alternate mingle in the lay;
They fall,—like night's unreal dream,
The wail of anguish melts away.

Again it strikes the watchful ear,
Convulsed with sobs and choked with sighs;
What bursts of agony I hear,—
A groan as when a sinner dies!

How sweet, when sorrow clouds the soul,
To hear thy strains funereal flow,
To hear the burst of anguish roll,
And listen to the wail of woe!

And when my heart is flowing o'er,
Come, weave thy choral symphony,
Come, bid my bosom ache no more,
Thou witching lyre of harmony.

[My heart is sad, my harp is still]

My heart is sad, my harp is still,
It hangs upon the willow-tree;
No hand shall wake its lively trill,
No strain shall e'er enliven me.

The serpent care has stung my heart,
And left his venom in my soul;

465

No balm can heal the cruel smart,
No hand my bosom's pangs control.

No,—I must sit me down and die:
Far better, far—to die, than live;
For death is but a pang and sigh,
And what can life beside them give?

Far better, far—to close our eyes,
And slumber in the dust below;
In peace the toil-worn sufferer lies,
In death he found his kindest foe.

Then let me dry my tears, and wake
My harp to some funereal strain,
Then all its chords of sweetness break,
And seek the silent grave again.

BOAT SONG.

We rest at Peter's Point to-night,—
Blow light, ye winds! flow smooth, ye billows!
The promised headland heaves in sight,
Where we shall stay, till morning light,
And bind our bark beneath the willows.
Heave, boatmen! heave, and sweep the oar;
Soon we shall drown all care and sorrow.
Bend to the willow-bordered shore,
And there repose till early morrow.

We rest at Peter's Point to-night,—
And now we hear its billows breaking;
The golden sun is setting bright,
The wild swans take their homeward flight,
The owl her lonely hoot is waking.

466

Heave, boatman! heave, and sweep the oar,
And dash the white foam from the billows;
Bend to the soft and sandy shore,
And bind the bark beneath the willows.

And now the boat draws nigh to land,
The winds blow light and kiss the billows;
The boatmen leap upon the strand,
And draw their bark upon the sand,
And bind it fast beneath the willows.
Now, boatmen! rest upon the oar,—
The sun has set, your toils are over.
Eat, drink, and dream of care no more,
And sing, “How gay the Western rover!

[They say, that esteem is a diamond so bright]

They say, that esteem is a diamond so bright,
It enkindles the eye that by sorrow is shaded;
But glory to me is the sun's dazzling light,
That illumines a world, which in darkness had faded.

You may dwell on esteem's twinkling diamond who will,
And love the faint gleam of its scarce-living fire:
I gaze on the sun's dazzling brilliancy still,
And ask no esteem if the world but admire.

Esteem is the dew-drop that freshens the flower;
Admiration, the arched hues that splendidly shine.
The one is a sprinkle, the other a shower,—
Let mine be the rainbow, the dew may be thine.

Esteem is a maiden, whose blue, melting eye,
When she smiles or she weeps, all in languishment moves;
Admiration, a beauty, whose love-arrows fly,
Like the falcon-glance, killing wherever she roves.

467

One's cheek is a rose, that is shaded with dew;
The other's a russet, with vermeil tints brightening.
One's eye is an orb, softly, tearfully blue;
The other's jet-black, but it flashes like lightning.

One's air is so melting, so mournfully sweet,
You love, and you pity, but cannot admire;
In the other, such soul-killing blandishments meet,
That she wakes in the breast every wild-raging fire.

Then talk as they will of esteem's gentle form,
Of those eyes, that so tenderly, meltingly roll:
Let mine be the sun-burst, the bolt of the storm,
That dazzles, astounds, and subdues every soul.

['T is morning, and all is gay around]

'T is morning, and all is gay around;—
The sunbeam flames on the billow,
And sparkles along the dewy ground,
While I'm dreaming on my pillow;
The music that breathes cannot bid me wake,
Though like siren melody closing,
While slumber's soft wings all their opiates shake
O'er the couch, where I'm reposing.
But Nature wears her loveliest smile,
The smile of her maiden beauty,
And while she invites by the softest wile,
I hear the loud call of duty:
Then I'll sleep not beneath the morning's beam,
That smiles like affection upon me,
Nor longer lie wrapt in slumber's dream,
Though she shower all her roses on me.

It is sweeter to breathe the balmy breeze
Than to dream of the brightest vision;
And dearer to view the wide-waving trees
Than fancy's scenes Elysian:

468

Though the one every hue of loveliness wears,
Though like bloomy Eden charming,
Yet she leaves us too soon to think of our cares,
While her softness the heart is disarming:
O, who would be happy in fancy alone,
When reality's self can delight us,
Or be charmed with a smile, that is instantly flown,
When long-living beauties invite us?
Then I'll sleep not, &c.

How oft in my childhood's lovely days,
When I woke with the lark from my slumbers,
I loved the sun's first-brightening rays,
And the warbler's waking numbers;
And while each dewy bush and brake
Was vocal with sounds of gladness,
And while the sun glowed on the lake,
How could I be sunk in sadness!
O, in morning's earliest, brightest dawn,
There are charms more sweetly smiling,
Than in dearest scenes by Fancy drawn,
Though like beauty's self, beguiling!
Then I'll sleep not, &c.

Now the birds are singing their amorous notes
Amid the boughs wide-waving;
And the whispered sigh of the zephyr floats
Where the brooks their banks are laving;
And now is the time, when all is bright,
And in softest peace reposing,
To kindle affection's purest light,
Where the sprays of the bower are closing;
Then love will burn with a brighter ray,
And smile with a glance more tender,
And dearer charms on his features play,
While our hearts to his sway we render.
Then I'll sleep not beneath the morning's beam,
That smiles like affection upon me,
Nor longer lie wrapt in slumber's dream,
Though she shower all her roses on me.

469

[Why slumbers thy lyre, which so often resounded]

“Why slumbers thy lyre, which so often resounded
With the trill of delight and the warble of love,
By whose lively numbers the heart featly bounded,
Which so often the sweet wreath of melody wove?

“Why sleeps it so silently? Is there no lover
That asks for its strain with his heart to condole?
Are there no light pinions, that carelessly hover,
To wake all its sweetness, and kindle its soul?

“Why hangs on the willow thy harp of delight?
Why loves it the gloom of those low-drooping boughs?
Why hides it so deeply in shadows of night,
And asks for no hand its wild sweetness to rouse?

“Has the hand of the bard lost its magical skill?
Is it palsied with sickness, or nerveless with woe?
Are its fingers benumbed by cold poverty's chill,
That they bid not its wild notes enchantingly flow?”

“'T is not sickness or sorrow that palsies my arm;
'T is not poverty's winter that weakens its powers;
'T is what can the hero's bold spirit disarm,
And start the salt tear in love's amaranth-bowers.

“'T is because no sweet pæans are swelling my fame,
No halo of glory encircles my brow:
'T is because no dear maid fondly dwells on my name,
Kindly smiles when we meet, and repeats the warm vow.

“When my spirits are sunk, when despondency reigns,
I hang up my harp on the low-drooping willow.
How can I then waken its soft-breathing strains?
How can pleasure look smiling on grief's thorny pillow?

470

“Should I tune my sweet harp, how discordant would sound
All its chords, when the demon is wringing my soul!
The strain would depress even mirth's lightest bound,
And sadden the eyes that in ecstasy roll.

“When you hear no light strain from my grot gently flow,
When you scarce hear a breath in the willow's dark grove,
Then know, that my bosom is bursting with woe,
For fruitless ambition, and fond, hopeless love.

“When scarce a faint warble is heard on the wire,
And sounds o'er the chords slowly, dyingly move,
O, there's nothing can kindle anew my lost fire,
But the meteor of fame and the soft light of love!”

AN IMPRECATION.

Ismir! fare thee well for ever!
From they walls with joy I go,
Every tie I freely sever,
Flying from thy den of woe.

Thou my swelling heart hast riven,
Torn my every hope away;
May, for this, the arm of Heaven
Mark thee for its destined prey.

May the knell of ruin tolling,
Wake thee from thy feverish dream,
While the awful bolt is rolling,
And the hags of vengeance scream.

471

May the bird of desolation,
On its wings of ebon hue,
Shrieking death and devastation,
Rest and hover over you.

May the owl, at midnight screaming,
Lighting on yon lofty tower,
Tell each soul, in horror dreaming,
How the clouds of ruin lower.

May an awful bolt of thunder
From those clouds of blackness burst,
Rending all thy walls asunder,
Scatter them in formless dust.

When thy walls and turrets, riven
By that bolt, to earth are hurled,
Ruin's share, in fury driven,
Blot thy memory from the world.

May a foe, like Gaul's dark legions,
Or the swarthy fiends of Hell,
Issuing from the infernal regions,
Through thy streets at midnight yell.

May thy bell, its curfew ringing,
Sound as by a demon strook,
And each wretch, from slumber springing,
Start as if an earthquake shook.

Wrapped in gory sheets of lightning,
While cursed night-hags ring thy knell,
May the arm of vengeance bright'ning
O'er thee wave the sword of Hell.

May a sudden inundation
Rise in many a roaring wave,
And with hurried devastation
Whelm thy thousands in the grave.

472

When the flood, in fury swelling,
Heaves their corpses on the shore,
May fell hyæns, madly yelling,
Tear their limbs and drink their gore.

While starved hounds the moon are baying,
Foxes yell, and gaunt wolves howl,
May the nighted wanderer straying
Startle at the tiger's growl.

When the moon, in crimson gleaming,
Rises in the gloomy east,
Through thy vaults may spectres streaming
Seek in yawning graves their feast.

Through thy ruined mansions prowling,
Where foul spirits love to tread,
May lean wolves, and tigers growling,
Gnash their teeth and tear the dead.

Ismir! land of cursed deceivers,
Where the sons of darkness dwell,
Hope, the cherub's base bereavers,—
Hateful city! fare thee well.

DESPONDENCY.

I.

It is not mirth can ease my heavy woes,
Or calm the throbbing tumults of my breast;
O, there is naught that can my eyelids close,
Or rock my spirits to a peaceful rest!
No,—life appears in ebon colors drest,
Where'er I turn my woe-worn, aching sight;
The morning dawns by every grief opprest,
And sombre twilight fades to cheerless night,
Bereft of every joy, and void of each delight.

473

If pleasure meet my ever-weeping eye,
I see a demon lurking 'neath its flowers;
The smile of joy but wakes the heavy sigh,
And seems as sad as when the tempest lowers:
O, there is nothing in love's rosy bowers
Can charm my heart, or blunt grief's poisoned stings!
Despair each cup of bliss with misery sours,
And o'er the scene a shade of sorrow flings,
While ever in my ear the knell of ruin rings.

O, how I love to ponder o'er the tomb,
And view the clay that wraps my Ellen's form!
Sweet to my soul the yew's funereal gloom,
And lovely to my sight the coming storm;
The smiling flower would but her grave deform,
Its gayest charms would give me no delight,
No warbling sound my frozen heart could warm;
But O how dear the owlet's silent flight,
The lonely turtle's wail, the deepest shade of night!

Cease, comforter! to pour thy honeyed strain,
But whisper sorrow's accents in my ear;
O, let me hear the mournful lute complain,
And breathe the sound that starts the sudden tear!
Can aught that 's gay or cheerful now be dear?
Think you, this world will ever please me more?
No,—let me rest upon my Ellen's bier:
O, let me hasten to that peaceful shore,
Where hushed is every storm, and still the tempest's roar!

II.

O, I could hide me in the darkest cave,
And weep till grief my heavy eyelids close;
My only solace is the gloomy grave,
'T is there alone my heart can find repose:

474

Life is a dreary wilderness of woes,—
No flower of friendship blossoms on the wild,
Despair's dark wave in freezing current flows,
Where mercy ne'er the orphan heart beguiled,
Where pity never wept, and friendship never smiled.

What is a friend? A hollow-hearted thing,
That smiles and smiles when fortune's look is fair;
But when the knell of ruin 'gins to ring,
Those lying lips no smiles nor simpers wear.
Can I this cruel coldness longer bear?
Ah! shall I bend, and scarcely dare complain?
No,—for the horrors of the grave I dare;
I long that dreary, still abode to gain,
Where friends shall ne'er deceive, nor flatterers mock again.

To play upon a soul that feels like mine,
To raise its hopes, then brush them all away,
To charm it with a transient rainbow's shine,—
It is a devil's sport, a demon's play.
Sport with the soul that's never sad nor gay,
But always plods in life's dull, joyless road,
That never smiled in pleasure's shining ray,
That ne'er was chilled with grief, with passion glowed,—
But leave the feeling mind to its own thoughts and God.

[Methought 'twas in the desert, at the hour]

Methought 'twas in the desert, at the hour
Of universal stillness,—the repose
Of living nature. With a dead'ning power,
The hand of ruin pressed me, and the throes
Of parting life seemed passing by;—the grave

475

Had half enthralled me,—o'er my sinking head
The dust of everlasting death was thrown.
A moment's consciousness,—then being fled,
The last weak thought evanished, and the groan
Of dying nature ceased. I stood alone,

And seemed, how long I know not, in the tomb
Of nothing,—thought and consciousness and life
Stirred not the deadness of my soul: the womb
Of endless night received me, and the strife,
Of leaving all we know for ---,was still;
The feeling of the present and the past
Alike had fled before me, and the will
To do what sense refused to do, the vast,
O'erwhelming view of ceaseless darkness, all
The hopes of better. Then oblivion's pall

Seemed drawn around me, and the sullen shroud
Of dim forgetfulness, and from the sight
Of man I was withdrawn for ever; proud
Of standing on an eminence, the height
Of genius, I had sunk, and in the night
Of gloom interminable my memory lay.
How all those golden blossoms, by the blight
Of a cold, cankering wind, had passed away!
And now not even one form shall come and tell,
This was the fatal spot where I arose and fell.

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

'T was at the dark, the solemn hour,
When midnight throws its gloom around,
When the deep-frowning tempests lower,
And the shrill-whistling winds resound
Along the forest drear, and o'er the lonely grave;
When even the courage of the brave

476

Sinks 'neath the pressure of the sullen shade;
When the heart's deceitful visions fade,—
Visions of bliss by mortals never known,
Since virtue from the earth had flown,
And anger bared his blood-distilling blade.

Lone I wandered by the tomb,
Where a wretch, who with his keen-edged knife
Loosed the bands that bind the soul to life,
And plunged himself in misery's deepest gloom,
Slumbered in sleep of death profound,—
Which shall ne'er awake,
Till the earth's foundations shake,
And the last trumpet cleaves the solid ground.

A grisly spectre met my staring sight,
Dim as the purple meteor of the night,
In robe of gory crimson clad;
His clotted hands were smeared with red,
His eyeballs rolled in frenzy mad,
His hollow voice seemed issuing from the dead.

“Shun the gloomy thought, that loves to prey
On the heart, and eats the soul away,
If you dread a living hell,
Nor with misery love to dwell.”

He said,—and from the tomb
Three yells, like hyæns rushing on their prey,
Burst their rapid way.
It seemed as if the womb
Of those eternal realms of woe and pain,
Where agonizing demons reign,
Had cleaved its iron walls again.
Soon he vanished from my eye,
In a shower of blood that stained the sky.
Dreadful was the sight
Of that lonely night,

477

Now in ebon darkness veiled,
Now with crimson overspread;
So dreadful, that the stoutest heart had quailed,
And even the undaunted brave in breathless terror fled.

ON MY FATHER'S TOMB.

No splendid stone adorns this honored dust,
Or points me where my father's relics lie;
No beauteous urn, or nicely sculptured bust,
Recalls his once-loved image to my eye.

But memory still his features can impart,
When by his evening fire he sweetly smiled,
Or when, with serious look and swelling heart,
He kindly checked the wanderings of his child.

Ah! there are those, who gratefully can tell
How oft his skill detained the parting breath,
Composed the tortured bosom's throbbing swell,
And smoothed to soft repose the bed of death,—

Can tell how oft he eased the racking pain,
How oft he cooled the fever's burning glow,
And bade fair health revisit once again
The hapless child of sickness and of woe.

All these can speak,—although no splendid tomb
Recount his virtues or adorn his grave,
No yew-trees weave their dark, funereal gloom
Nor bending willows o'er his relics wave.

478

[See how the floweret blushes in the morn]

See how the floweret blushes in the morn,—
A thousand colors o'er its bosom play;
But soon these hues, that Nature's robe adorn,
Rent by the winds, are scattered far away.

'T is thus with beauty, lovely, transient flower,—
How soon, alas! its maiden sweetness flies!
How soon it fades in life's declining hour,
And in the dust a withering rose-bud lies!

THE MOURNER.

Low sinks the sun beneath the western wave,
And twilight deepens in the eastern sky;
Pale is the gloom that shades yon lonely grave,
Where, twined in death, two lovely sisters lie.

Slow wave the boughs above their clay-cold bed,
And sighing zephyrs breathe a mournful sound;
Hushed is each song,—each beam of day is fled,
And chilly dew-drops softly fall around.

As fades the gleam of day, the cypress-gloom
Weaves its dark curtain o'er the lonely grave;
Pale moonbeams sadly glisten on the tomb,
As evening mists the weeping marble lave.

There bending o'er the turf, where violets shed
Their sweetest fragrance on the passing gale,
A pensive maiden droops her downcast head,
And breathes in angel strains a mourner's wail.

Her cheek is white,—no rose is blushing there;
The tear of grief has dimmed her sparkling eye;
Loose o'er her shoulders falls her flowing hair;
Faint from her lips is heard the feeble sigh.

479

Sweet mourner! thou hast lost thy joy,—thy all;
No sister now shall meet thee with her smile,—
Ne'er shalt thou run at Mary's gentle call,
No more shall Laura's voice thy heart beguile.

Cold is that lip, where played the smile of love,—
Pale is that cheek, which vied the rose of May,—
Quenched is that eye, once meekly raised above,—
Hushed is that voice,—that soul has flown away.

How calm they sleep!—the storm is heard no more;
This world shall never bid them weep again;
This scene of toil and weariness is o'er,
Soothed into Heaven's own peace is every pain.

Then let thy tears, dear maid! no longer flow:
Wouldst thou confine a soul that seeks the sky?
Wouldst thou recall it to a world of woe,
And dim with grief that now exulting eye?

Nay, dry thy tears,—for see, they bend in love,
And drop the dew of pity on thy head;
Their love the tenderness that smiles above,—
Their tears the crystal drops that angels shed.

How sweetly sleep their forms, in death enshrined!
And as they loved in this dark vale of woe,
So 'neath the heaving clod, in death entwined,
And locked in love's embrace, they rest below.

They could not part: Heaven saw, with pitying eye,
How fond they loved, and joined their souls in death,
And kindly bade the sad survivor's sigh
Become the dying Christian's parting breath.

Slow on the breeze the bending willows wave;
That marble monument how coldly fair!
Still is that tomb, and dark that lonely grave;
But meek Religion smiles serenely there.

480

Still flow thy tears, a brother bids them flow:
He, who was once so dear, is now no more;
Safe he is rescued from this world of woe,
And let us hope has found a happier shore.

Far, far from thee he closed his dying eye:
No sister's hand was there to give relief;
But still Affection o'er him breathed her sigh,
And weeping Fondness shed the tears of grief.

Friends, who could calm his heart and dry his tear,
Around his dying couch in sorrow stood;
O'er him that form his bosom held most dear,
Low bending, wept affection's purest flood.

Soft was the pillow where his parting breath
Hung faintly trembling on his lips of snow;
Bereft of half its stings, the dart of death
Deep in his bosom gave the fatal blow.

His eye is dim,—his cheek has lost its glow;
Cold is his stiffened hand, and mute his tongue;
White as the waving drift of mountain snow,
Those lips where sounds of love and sweetness hung.

His soul—here darkness spreads her gloomy veil,
But Hope, the cherub, points to worlds on high:
He may be happy,—cease thy plaintive wail,
And wipe the tear of anguish from thy eye.

[Slow, through the twilight gloom, Valerio's knell]

Slow, through the twilight gloom, Valerio's knell
Swells in heart-rending peals along the gale:
It summons me to take my last farewell,
And with the mourners blend my feeling wail.

481

Gone is my only friend, my dearest mate,
With whom, a child, I prattled o'er the plain,
Or 'neath the village shade attentive sat,
And lisping conned, well pleased, the rural strain;

With whom I turned the classic volumes o'er,
And drew from Maro's verse a noble flame;
With whom in Alma's walls the palm I bore,
And keenly struggled for collegiate fame.

Dear were the days in mutual kindness spent,—
How fair they rise to retrospective view!—
When each to each our aid we kindly lent,
Unconscious of the hours that o'er us flew.

How oft we wept at Orpheus' plaintive tale,
How oft, for hapless Dido's slighted love!
How often knew the moral muse prevail,
And felt our kindling spirits mount above!

How often loved the Teian's mellow strain,
And Flaccus' happy elegance admired;
Or drove with Homer o'er the embattled plain,
Our souls ennobled and our bosoms fired!

On Ovid's mournful strain we fondly hung,
When, banished to Euxina's dreary shore,
He swept his careless hand o'er chords ill-strung,
And bade his harp his hopeless fate deplore.

Warm was that heart which soon is wrapped in clay;
For want he always had a boon to give;
He took with freest choice fair Virtue's way,
And listened to the words that bid us live.

Whenever Nature's wonders met his view,
With eye effulgent as the star of even,
His pious glance serene he upward threw,
And traced the chain of causes back to Heaven.

482

Forgive, dear shade! this lisping of thy praise:
Thou little need'st the plaudits of thy friend;
But deign, when clothed in glory's cloudless blaze,
A guardian angel o'er my form to bend.

[Hard is the Poet's fate,—but more severe]

Hard is the Poet's fate,—but more severe
To luckless bard, who muses here, the doom;
Long he may shed the ineffectual tear,
Then starve, and sink unnoticed to the tomb.

What though his genius burned with dazzling light,
And vied with those who graced imperial Rome?
Wealth he neglected, and the heedless wight
Must seek in bridewell or the grave his home.

But if we spurn the living, shall the dead
Ne'er claim from us the tribute of a sigh?
Taste by exotic streams alone is fed,—
Each tongue is mute, and every cheek is dry.

We might, when years have rolled around his tomb,
Should foreign critics deign to crown his bust,
Or should their praise his withering bays illume,
Drop one scant tear upon the Poet's dust.

Some son of wealth, who thinks he loves the Muse,
May yield a stinted tribute to his fame,
And, 'neath the shelter of low-bending yews,
Erect a wooden altar to his name.

Shame on my country!—shall ignoble gain
Be all that charms or wakes the voice of praise?
O, wilt thou never hear the Poet's strain,
And weave for him Columbia's native bays?

483

[The last blue hill is fading in the sky]

The last blue hill is fading in the sky,
The shores are melting in the distant wave;
'T is there thy lovely woods and meadows lie,
Land of my birth, my home, my father's grave

But fate commands me, and I now must go,
And leave my friends and parent all behind;
Beneath my feet the waves of ocean flow,
And o'er them bounds the ship before the wind.

Land of my boyish days! and must we part?
Must all thy fond endearments charm no more?
Must I forego that ecstasy of heart
I felt with friends so often on thy shore?

The ocean foams before me,—there I go.
Who knows I ever shall return again?
Who knows what gloomy scenes of deepest woe
Await me far—far distant o'er the main?

But I must go,—my land has bid me fly,
The sword of justice drives me o'er the wave.
Yes, I must go, in foreign lands to die,
And find, with strangers cold, a tearless grave.

How gush my tears,—how throbs my fevered brain,
To think my folly drove me from that shore!
O, I shall never sleep in peace again!
Pleasure shall dawn and mercy smile no more.

My prospects—O how fair! the morning sun
Ne'er shone more lovely on a world in bloom;
But ere I left the goal my race was done,
My scenes of pleasure changed to scenes of gloom.

Justice pursues me,—I must leave that shore,
And trust my hopeless fortune to the wave;
O how I long, when life shall all be o'er—
O how I long to rest me in the grave!

484

SONNETS.

I.
THE ROSE-BUSH.

I would not rob that rose-bush of a flower,—
No! not for all the charms of Mary's smile,
Although she begged the blooming gift the while
With all a lovely woman's softening power:
No! for that glowing shrub at morning's hour,
While bending o'er the bank of yonder isle,
Can with its spangled gems my soul beguile,
Such soothing influence hath a dewy flower.
And, Mary, when I see thee gently bending
O'er yonder monument, where Laura lies,
Where marble-snow and crimson blooms are blending,
Methinks I see an angel in thine eyes,
While heavenly tears, in crystal drops descending,
Tell of our anguish when a sister dies.

II.
THE BOWER.

Retreat of Innocence! receive my form,—
The form of one who wishes for repose,
And asks a pillow, where his eyes may close,—
Where he may slumber safe from earthly harm:
And oh! within thy shade, where every charm
Of Nature wantons on the dewy rose,
Where sweetest music on the zephyr flows,
E'en now I feel my chilly heart grow warm:

485

Sure angels might repose in such a bower,
No stain of earth might dim their purity;
Here slumbering at the even's quiet hour,
The dew of innocence might o'er them lie,
While heavenly harps a seraph strain might pour,
And raise the listener's soul to ecstasy.

III.
THE EYELID.

Soft, velvet lid, that shades the living spring
Whence flows the stream of sensibility,—
Where meek-eyed loves in gentle ambush lie,
And graces flutter round on glittering wing!
Why o'er that sparkling fount thy curtain fling?
Why hide the lustre of that ebon eye,
Where Sylphs, on filmy pinions, hover nigh,
And Fairies trip around in frolic ring?
Like morning dew-drops on a bed of roses,
Serenely shines my loved Maria's tear,
When on that orb of light the drop reposes,
Or slowly steals along the sable bier,
And as her strain of sorrow sweetly closes,
There seems an angel breathing in my ear.

[IV. Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency]

Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency
Swells on the bosom of the placid lake,
And as it slowly swells, the watery flake
Plays on the snowy pebble gracefully,
While breathes around fair Nature's minstrelsy,
And morning zephyrs in the willows wake,
And from the boughs the showery moisture shake,
And winding riv'lets murmur tunefully:
How sweet upon the mossy bank to lie,
And view the shining trout that darts below,

486

While drowsy slumber hovers o'er my eye,
And all its poppy dews around me flow,
While through the quivering leaves the breezes sigh,
And round my pillow whisper mournfully!

V.
SPRING.

Winter has gone, and Spring returns again:
The lonely thrush is singing by the rill,
The lively robin warbles on the hill,
And blue-birds flutter o'er the flowery plain,
And, as they flutter, breathe a cheerful strain;
While homelier sounds the budding scenery fill,—
The tinkling shepherd-bell, the rattling mill,
And the faint rolling of the distant wain;
And lovely is the lay the milkmaid sings,
As 'neath the elm she fills her snowy pail,
And sweet the tolling bell, that slowly rings,
The softly breathing flute within the vale,
While zephyrs hover round on downy wings,
And the rapt Poet strikes his quivering strings.

VI.
TO SLEEP.

Hail, universal friend! whose gentle hand
Showers o'er our heavy eyes thy cooling dew,
And closes for a time the anxious view
Of past existence. Thou, with mighty wand,
Above the tortured couch art seen to stand,
And lay the brain's delirious rage at rest,
And ease the heart by sorrow's weight opprest.
All-conquering power! to whose supreme command

487

All living nature bows,—whose deep control
O'ermasters mightiest monarchs,—calm and still
Thou stealest on the sage's unfleshed soul,
And bendest pride and glory to thy will:
Thy whispered voices harmonize the whole,
And all beneath thy sway in peaceful current roll.

VII.
TO THE GRAVE.

There is a couch, whereon we all must lie;
There is a pillow, where the burning thought
Will find the oblivious ease it long has sought,
And memory will close her wakeful eye,
And conscience spread her vulture wings, and fly
To find on Caucasus another prey,
Where she may pounce and pounce, from day to day,
The heart that longs for death, but will not die;
And there forgetfulness has drawn around
Her raven curtain, and her hand has sealed
The inflamed eye of sorrow, and has bound
The venomed gash of early wrong, and healed
The spirit's every malady; for deep
We fall in dreamless, unawakening sleep.

[VIII. 'T is not the future dread that makes me shun]

'T is not the future dread that makes me shun
The end of all the living,—not the fear
Of that which thunders in the coward's ear,
And drives him to his fancied hell,—not one
Of those the hypocrite can work upon,
Who plays with childish, female weakness:—No,
There is no darker world where I can go,
And all that justice can inflict is done:
But life will linger even when hope has flown,
And we will cling to all that once had power

488

To charm us, soothe us, bless us, and the hour
Of early, unstained passion—that alone
Comes like a flash of light across the heart,
From whose imagined heaven we cannot, will not part.

[IX. We think of what we might have been: the stream]

We think of what we might have been: the stream
Was crystal at its fountain,—though it flowed
Without that strong, deep current, still it glowed
Beneath a brighter sky, and gay the beam
Played on its dancing waters, as we dream
In sunny climes of fairy-land, where blows
In never-fading hues the living rose,
Where myrtles shed their fragrance, and we seem,
Such is the luxury of feeling there,
The kindling energy our souls inhale,
Ourselves a portion of the balmy air,—
So flowed the stream of life, as through the vale
It threw its unstained waters from the spring,
And with its freshness wet the zephyr's silent wing.

But while the scanty rill stole through the glen
In peaceful playfulness, it chanced to meet
The turbid torrent of the wide world; beat
By rushing floods, its shores re-echoed; then
In its devouring vortex sucked, again
To be no more the pure, unmingled stream,
We hurried down the steep, which most men deem
The only path to pleasure, but the den
Lies at the bottom, where Remorse has built
Her iron walls, wherein the boiling surge,
Whirled round and round with all the rage of guilt,
The ever-rushing past will madly urge;
For in the heart where sense and passion dwell,
Erelong will heave the flood of such a restless hell.

489

But there are some more silent, calm, and slow;
Through temperate climes they take their steady way;
Their wave scarce ruffled by the ripple's play,
Enlarging through the wide, rich plain they flow,
While brooks on brooks uniting swell it so,
At length it rolls a river broad and deep;
In calmest light the tranquil waters sleep,
And there in gallant trim proud vessels go,
And moving like a swan along the tide,
With cleaving prow, and wide-extended wing,
And oary arms, the bounding wave they ride,
And as their canvas to the gale they fling,
In stately march they walk the liquid plain,
And down the widening stream plough to the deep blue main,

The boundless hall of ocean:—Life the shore,
The only shore, it spreads and spreads for ever,
And though the bark sail onward, it can never
Traverse the unlimited expanse,—its floor
Inlaid with blue and green and gold, as rise
Its lifted waves, its canopy the skies,
The ever-glowing sun its lamp, the roar
Of seas its music, and the sun-lit sparkle
Of curling foam, the phosphorescent glow
That flashes when at night the waters darkle,
The pearls and gems and sands and ores that strow
Its pavement,—'t is the home of majesty,
The palace and the shrine, where dwells eternity.

[X. I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood]

I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood,
Mightiest of cataracts, Niagara!
Have seen thy restless waters rush away,
And on thy beetling rock alone have stood,

490

And seen the morning sunbeams paint thy spray,
And countless rainbows on thy light mist play;
And I have walked along thy field of blood,
Whereon the free invaders stood at bay,
And, mantled in the shadow of the night,
Infuriate warriors wrestled in the fight,
The pale moon weeping o'er the mortal fray;
And I have gazed, from Queenston's hallowed height,
On river, lake, and plain, in sunset bright,
Gilt streams, dark woods, blue waves in sweet array:
And hither, as the years shall roll away,
The pilgrim of our land shall fondly hie,
And here the tribute of his heart shall pay,
And kneel before the shrine of God and liberty.

[XI. My hand is clasped upon my burning brow]

Myhand is clasped upon my burning brow,
And pressed to ease the tortures of my brain;
I seek to cool my parched thirst, but in vain,
The unpitying fiend no respite will allow,—
My life consumes within me with a slow,
Delirious fever,—in a heavy chain
Depression fetters all my hopes,—again
No days in love and innocence shall flow.
We might have been,—that is the maddening thought
Which gnaws my heart untiring,—I have thrown
The jewel of my life away:—I sought
Bliss high and perfect; but the prize has flown,
And I must grope in darkness, till I fall,
And slumber in the grave that shrouds my being's all.

491

XII.
TO THE PIANO.

Sweet instrument, whose mellow voice is flowing,
From yonder silken canopy, in waves
Canorous, like the hidden stream that laves
Its grassy banks, where eglantines are blowing,
And, arching o'er the waters, deeply glowing;
And as the music murmurs in my ear,
The days of long-lost happiness appear,
When, early life its dearest gifts bestowing,
I glided smoothly down the sunny stream,
And dreaming eyed the oft-reflected beam,
That o'er the crisping waters gayly sparkled,
And breathed the scent of blossoms from the bank,
Where bloomy shrubs the flowing crystal drank;
And where beneath the plane its bosom darkled,
I rested on my oar, and heard a sound,
Tender and sweetly modulate, that filled
The thicket with its echoes, far around
Unnumbered voices whispered from the wild,
The zephyr drooped his wings, the clear wave smiled,
And nature seemed as by enchantment thrilled.
There was a form, who breathed that melting tone;
She sat beneath the branches, and she threw
Her fairy fingers o'er her keys, and drew
The essence of their melody;—alone
She sat, and seemed enamored of her strain,
And now she eyed her notes, and then again
Lifted her brow to heaven;—and O what pure,
Exalted harmony breathed from that face,
The living seat of symmetry and grace!
I gazed, and from that kindling fountain bore
A draught of love admiring, which no more
Can fail, but in perennial flow endure.
I hear thy voice, sweet instrument! and then
This fairy vision comes, and o'er me throws
The mantle of its magic, and again
I hear the mellow tone, that from her sweet lip flows.

492

THE INTERLUDES OF TASSO'S AMINTA.

I.

Yes, I am he, who, on the sounding shore
Of that lone island, to the wondrous man
Who o'er the sea his fated exile ran,
So many varying forms and features wore;
By me was found the art to change the scene
Of the life-mocking theatre, when night
Holds such a kindling mirror to the sight,
That things seem gay and bright, which else were mean:
And then how many images are seen,
All pure and sweet and beautiful, light shades
Of raptured youths, and coy, retiring maids!
And when the night is silent and serene,
And throws her star-lit canopy around,
I show the scenic pomp, the elastic bound
Of merry revellers, while no rude throng
Disturbs the harmony of heart and song

II.

Ye sacred laws of love, by Nature given,—
Ye holy chains, where purest constancy
And warm desire are blent, like hues of heaven
Dissolving in Aurora's brilliancy,
Whose links, of kindred thoughts and feelings woven,
No other hand but death's can rend away,
By all the tender cares of marriage proven,
Grow easier and dearer day by day,—
Sweet yoke, delightful burden! O how sweet
And how delightful on the unequal way,
Where thorns and roses meet, thy gentle sway,
O Love! by whom two hearts together beat,

493

Two souls are kindled in one mutual flame,
And every thought, wish, feeling, is the same,
And till the last and bitter parting come
Time flows on in one bright, unruffled stream.
Thou art the kindling and consoling beam
Of life for ever hastening to the tomb,
Tired nature's sweet, restoring anodyne;—
What other power, like thee, can make our souls divine?

III.

Yes, we are gods, and in the blue serene
Of ever-during heaven, among the gems
That deck the night, the crystal diadems
Of sainted souls, on a celestial scene,
We sport in mingled dances, where the green
Of Spring of ever flourishes, her flowers
Are always bright and balmy, and her showers
Of dropping nectar light their pearly sheen.
Such high adventure, such immortal grace,
We in this mimic school of life display,
And here the world's best imagery we trace,
And sport in playful dance the hours away,—
And here, at night, along the lighted hall,
Where burning cressets emulate the day,
And harmony's soft flutes and citterns play,
Shepherds and nymphs, in youth and beauty gay,
In blended choirs lead round the flying ball.

IV.

Farewell! 't is now the hour of soft repose,
Ye pensive lovers and ye ladies fair!
Now to your silent couch of sleep repair;
Now night with showering hand her poppies strows,
And rains her violets;—now the dew-steeped rose
Hangs faintly drooping, for the day is done,

494

And mountain peaks with the departing sun
Are gayly glowing. Now your eyelids close;
But if your thoughts will wake, and fancy paint
Her airy hues of ecstasy, may love,
Wakeful or dreaming, all your cares remove,
Nor night nor morning hear your sad complaint.
Our pastoral is ended, now adieu!
And may the young God still be kind to you.

ANACREONTIC.

Το ροδον το των ερωτων.
Anac. Od. E.

Now blend the breathing roses
Of love with Dionusos;
Now bind the fair-leafed roses
Around your dripping temples,
And, laughing, drain the goblet
That foams with brimming nectar.

O rose! the sweetest blossom,
Of spring the fairest flower,
O rose! the joy of heaven.
The god of love, with roses
His yellow locks adorning,
Dances with the hours and graces.
Then crown my head with roses,
For, by thy festive temple,
I tune my harp, Lyæus!
And wreathed with rosy garlands
I dance among the maidens.

495

[O for a mantling bower hung by the loaded vine]

“Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa.”—
Hor. L. I. 5.

O for a mantling bower hung by the loaded vine,
Through whose quivering leaves shines the moon's mellow light,
Sunk on pillowy roses,
Silent to muse all the night away!

O for a soft hour at eve, with her my heart adores!
O for that union of souls, where thought to thought responds,
And our harmonized feelings
Blended may rise on the winds to heaven.

O for that language of looks, where eye to eye speaks love,
Where smile answers to smile, and tear is shed for tear,
Where our kindling glances
Tell all the wishes that burn within!

O for those days that are gone, when one heart beat with mine,
When she smiled as we met, wept her soul's tribute at leaving me,
And with seeming devotion
Hung on the lessons I loved to give.

Days! ye were lovely to me, brightest I ever knew;
Brighter ye still might have been, had not a cloud from hell,
Over my ill-fated fortunes
Hung, till the light of my soul was gone.

Backward I look on a dream checkered with bright and dark;
Youth swelled with hope, fame-enthralled, health, peace, and innocence,

496

And thy Elysian bowers,
Love, life's dearest and sweetest charm.

Such were the lights; but the shades—fear and despondency,
Hopes blighted, health lost, neglect, folly, and indolence,
Till despair wrapped her raven pall
Round my torn heart to eternity.

Fairest and purest and best,—fair as the world in bloom,
Pure as the clear mountain spring, bright as the souls in heaven,—
Such my fancy believes thee,
Such—but no efforts can make thee mine.

Life without thee is a waste, with thee a paradise;
Never on earth can we meet,—O, can we meet in heaven?
We have parted for ever,—
Thine be the joy, mine the wretchedness.

Tossed like a ship on the sea, mast broke and rudder gone,
Sorrow and madness behind, darkness and death before,
Live a few moments in agony,
Then be as though I had never been.

[High they raised the mast, and spread the white sail to the zephyr]

Ιστον δ' ειλατινον κοιλης εντοσθε μεσοδμες
Στησαν αειραντες.
Homer, Odyss. II. 424.

High they raised the mast, and spread the white sail to the zephyr,
Wide before the wind the bellying canvas yielded,

497

Round the gliding keel roared loud the purple billow,
Over the foaming waves the swift-flying vessel bounded,
She flew, like a hawk, through the sea, and the shores drew nearer and nearer,
The foam curled round the prow as the wind impelled her onward,
Through the silent night she sailed, till morning lit the mountains.

[The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear]

“Aret ager, vitio moriens sitit aeris herba.”—
Virgil, Ecl. VII. 57.

The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear,
And the grass withers in the sultry air;
On the fair hillocks, where the swains recline,
The yellow leaf drops from the parched vine:
Let Phyllis come, the groves are green again,
And the dark clouds pour down reviving rain;
Smiles every meadow, blooms each lovely flower,
And the pleased songsters hail the genial shower.
The dark-green poplar whispers o'er the rills,
And the vine blushes on the sunny hills;
The beauteous myrtle trembles o'er the wave,
The laurel shades the cool, sequestered cave:
But while my Phyllis loves the hazel grove
The lowly hazel I shall ever love.
The lofty ash is fairest in the woods,
The trembling aspen o'er the crystal floods,
In flowery gardens waves the whispering pine,
The fir looks fair where towering hills decline;
But when, my Lycidas, you once return,
When for your absence I shall cease to mourn,
The ash shall yield to you among the woods,
And aspen trembling o'er the crystal floods.

498

[Here mossy fountains pour their cooling wave]

“Hic gelidi fontes.”—
Ecl. X. 42.

Here mossy fountains pour their cooling wave,
And quiet streams their pebbly borders lave,
Here thickest shades inweave a lovely gloom
And blushing flowerets shed a sweet perfume,
Here, dear Nerine, we can spend each day,
And here can wear our cheerful lives away.

Happy old man! here, 'mid your well-known streams

“Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota.”—
Ecl. I. 52.

Happy old man! here, 'mid your well-known streams
And sacred fountains, you may long enjoy
The quiet coolness of the solemn shade.
There o'er the hedge, that bounds your narrow field,
The bees, that wanton on the willow's bloom,
Shall, by their hum, invite you to repose:
There, 'neath the brow of yonder lofty cliff,
The pruner's voice shall sing aloud to heaven:
Meanwhile, amid the still and gloomy grove,
The hoarse wood-pigeons, thy delight, shall coo,
And high amid the elm's aerial boughs
The lonely turtle pour her ceaseless moan.

499

[I. Thou, who erst on Ætna's top]

[_]

[The following were written in imitation of the irregular Greek poems of Simmias, the Rhodian. They can only be considered as trifles, whose sole merit must rest in their poetical language and rhythm. I have not chosen to give them in printing their original form, but merely to arrange them in an irregular blank measure.]

Thou, who erst on Ætna's top,
In dreaming fancy, sat,
And looked on wide Sicania's plains,
Adorned with fruits and flocks and golden grain,
Where Ceres, Flora, Pan, in mingled dance combined,
Led on the jocund hours to music's sweetest breath:
And as the sun at height of noon,
From heaven's blue canopy, effused
His living radiance o'er the earth,
Shining on mountains capped with snow and ice,
Or blackened with a waving wilderness
Of forests, that for ages long had braved
The shock of tempests and the war of winds,
When rushing from the dark Liparian caves they fly,
And sweep o'er land and sea,
Upturning from its lowest bed,
In curling foam, old Ocean's rolling waves;
Glittering on sunny rocks and hills,
Where purple vineyards teem with nectared juice, the fount of joy,
On hillocks sweet with thyme and dittany,
Where Hybla's murmuring bees, from laughing flowers,
Ambrosia cull, like molten gold in hue,
Translucent as the crystal wave,
That, in Ortygia's sea-surrounded isle,
From Arethusa wells;

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Glowing on plains perfumed with roses, where the shepherd's flute
An amorous descant warbled, while the bleat of flocks
And low of herds came floating on the wind;
And pouring all its kindling power
On meadows, where the reed
Shook and snowy lilies bloomed.

[II. The cypress, in its dark funereal dress]

The cypress, in its dark funereal dress,
Hangs o'er the sacred tomb where Virgil lies,
And as the evening breeze begins to curl
The golden waves that lave the Baian shores,
And heave in gurgling tides their crest of foam,
Kissing the polished shells and snowy sands,
A strain of sorrow seems to breathe
From those low-bending boughs, the whispering wind
Wakes every leaf to music, and the tree becomes a harmony
Of myriad voices, as if Heaven's whole choir,
Cherub and Seraph, on their harps of gold,
Should pour a dirge for man's unhappy fall,
And weep that powers, which took in Heaven
The kindling spark of life,
Should lose that light and die.
The mind is bound to sense,
And if the reins of sense
Are loosed in youth's impetuous hour,
Without a skilful hand to check or guide,
Like full-fed, fiery coursers bursting from the goal
They rush, and with them hurry on the mind, the charioteer:
Then Reason's voice is heard in vain,
Wild as the tempest-winds they fly,
Obscured by dust, and bathed in foam,

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They burst away, they know not whither. Death
Sits on his storm-cloud, draws his dart, and bends his bow;
The arrow flies with awful twang,—
It leaves the body spent, but kills the mind;
And souls, that might have soared aloft and sung,
Like him who sleeps within this hallowed cave,
Lose all their fire, and sink to earth, in dust and darkness lost.

[III. The clouds are black in heaven, the roar of winds]

The clouds are black in heaven, the roar of winds
Is heard among the tall, aspiring tops
Of hoary oaks, that wave on Gargarus,
And proudly heave their giant arms.
These oaks have stood unhurt, unmoved,
The storms of ages as they rolled:
No tempest broke their boughs,
No lightning scathed their trunks.
They stand in mockery against the winds,
And laugh the fury of the storm to scorn;
But man, poor feeble man, can lay
Their honors in the dust;
By constant toil he rules.
But man, to rule, must rule himself,
Or all his toil is vain.
In life's first dawn he needs
The watchful care of friends.
The flower that early blooms,
Must from the chilly winds
Be shielded, or it droops and dies;
The tender plant of childhood needs that care,—
It takes each form you give; the parent's hand
Can, if the task with life begin,
Train it as easily
To virtue as to vice;

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But if you let it shoot luxuriant, wild,
Or train it up to vice in life's weak dawn,
It wastes its early strength for naught,
And when the time of fruit arrives, you come
And find its branches withered, scorched, and bare.

THE GOBLET.

Where gay Falernum lifts its sunny brow
O'er wide Campania's sea of bending corn,
I rose and shook my tendrils to the gale,
And glowed with living purple and gold.
How rich, to see the teeming clusters
Droop beneath their nectared load,
To inhale the airs of fragrance,
As the wanton wind
Loaded his wings with dewy sweetness, culled
The choicest perfumes that I shed,
And, whispering o'er the banks
Of blossoms, gave them richer sweets!
Fluttering zephyrs hovered round me,
Kissed my purple, frosted coat,
And tinged their lips with honey. Dews
Wet my clusters, till themselves
Imbibed my sweets, and then exhaled
In fragrant mist away.
Pressed, and refined by time, I stand
Within the crystal goblet, while a light
Of purest amber floats around and sheds a mellow beam,
As if a cloud of clustering roses
Crossed the sun and crimsoned all the earth.

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[Expand your snowy wings, ye swans of Helicon]

Expand your snowy wings, ye swans of Helicon!
And bear me to some paradise
On India's verdant mountains, or on Iran's plains:
Lay me beneath the spreading palm,
That heaves its polished shaft aloft, and waves
Its capital of verdure; flowers that glow
Like morning's gay effulgence, fruits that hang
Their purple clusters, in communion blent,
Mingle their beauty and their sweetness;—gales
Breathe from the lovely union, fragrance-laden,
And cheer for many a league the desert round,
As budding, blooming, ripening, and mature,
In soft accordance pensilely they droop:—
The camel scents the wind,—he knows the spring
Of living coolness bubbles where it loads
Its wings with odors, and at once he starts
And scours the dazzling plain:—O, lay me there,
And, hovering over, pour your dying notes,
The dirge of one who sang and shone, a child,
And sunk at manhood in the dust, despised.

[How happy is the pure, good man, whose life]

How happy is the pure, good man, whose life
Was always good, who in the tender years
Of childhood, and the trying time of youth,
Was shielded by a kind parental hand!
No stain deforms the brightness of his soul,
Only those specks of frail humanity,
Which almost need the microscopic eye
To trace their being. As the river rolls
Pure and unsullied o'er its sandy bed
In gentle agitation, that its waves
Sink not in silent stagnancy, his life
Passes in peaceful industry its round.
He rises with the lark, and like that bird,

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Who sings her morning melody aloft
Amid the blue of heaven, he pours his voice
To God in secret prayer:
“Father in Heaven!
Omnipotent, eternal! ere the world
Rose, at thy bidding, from the formless void,
Blest in thy own essential good, thou liv'dst,
With space thy home, eternity thy day.
Before the Sun of Being rose, when night
And chaos brooded o'er the seeds of things,
Thy spirit wandered through the black abyss,
And o'er the boundless waste of waters moved.
The word went forth,—Confusion's voice was still.
At once from darkness, light and form and life,
And harmony and beauty, love and joy,
And melody and sweetness rose and filled
Creation with the wonders of thy power.
How sprang the infant sun from ocean's bed,
And glowed and glittered o'er its tossing waves!
How all the effulgent company of stars,
Blent in a choir of perfect harmony,
Lifted their voices in the arch of heaven,
And sang the birth of Being! how the moon,
Mantled in paler lustre, filled her orb
With borrowed beams, and thro' the dark-blue sky,
Dispensing love, her nightly journey ran!
How from its calm, the yet untainted air,
Waked by the morning, swept the teeming earth
In gentle gales and zephyrs bland, and shook
The vocal forest, and the glassy plain
Of ocean curled with billows! Then no storm,
Pregnant with the munitions of thy wrath,
Hung frowning on the mountains, black as night,
And grim as terror, waiting for thy voice
To unfold its lurid skirts, and onward move
To do thy vengeance. Then the sky was clear,
No fleecy vapor dimmed its purity,
Gay laughed the sun amid its fields of blue,
And peace and health and pleasure cheered the world.

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No stagnant marsh nor festering swamp sent up
Its venomed mists and baleful fogs, the dews,
Drawn by the sun from living plants, dropped free
From all infection,—then no pestilence
Lifted its hydra-head, and through the streets
Of cities, conscience-struck, replete with vice,
And misery and filth, its fruit, stalked on
Exhaling death,—no battle squared its front,
To feed its ravening maw with human blood,—
No prison spread its gates, to swallow up
And bury in its hidden gloom the wretch
Who dared to violate thy holy law,
And lift against society his hand;
Nor had the grave its all-devouring jaws
Disclosed, the couch where man must lay his head,
And sleep with rank corruption and the worm.

“All then was pure; the blue sky overhead
Transparent opened to the farthest ken
Of human vision, like a hollow sphere
Of crystal, closing all creation in.
The star of day, a radiant jewel set
In that unblemished azure, to the eye
Insufferably brilliant, from the east
Impurpled, as the dewy morning rose
And wrung the tears, that night wept, from her hair,
To the midway throne, whereon he sits at noon
And pours his most effulgent effluence down,
And thence descending to the western wave,
Or forest ridge, that tosses like a sea
Its living billows, as a conqueror, marched,—
Thy purest spark, vicegerent of thy love.
That orb has dipped his brightness in the stream
Of ocean, and his last rays on the clouds
Have painted evening's tapestry, wherewith
She curtains round her canopy with gold
And purple, ruby and emerald and blue:
Then night ascends her car,—her plumy steeds,
Like birds nocturnal, through the drowsy air,

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Fly silently and slow; she waves her wand,
And evening's many-colored veil is gone;
The sky puts off its soft cerulean robe,
And decks itself in sable livery,
Whereon innumerous gems of starry gold
Shine, with their bright eyes twinkling, as a train,
Encircling yon fair light, that charms the west,
Following the set of sun, or in the east,
Gay Phosphor, bringing on his orient beams.
Thus one unvaried mantle hid the face
Of earth from every eye, and blended all
The charms of hill and valley, bush and tree,
River and fountain, in one common shade:
Until the queen of heaven, from the deep,
Emerged, and blushing through the fiery zone
Of the low-hanging vapor, by her light
Enkindled, slowly onward held her way,
Walking in regal majesty, until
She reached the clear meridian,—there she hung,
An orb of purest silver, with the shades
Of sea and mountain checkered, as with pearls
Laid glittering on a snowy satin ground;
Ascending there, she hung a milder sun,
And poured her borrowed brightness o'er the face
Of this round earth, that rolls self-poised thro' space,
And takes its annual journey round the sun,
For ever balanced in its orbit. Night,
By this illumined, silvered o'er her brow;
And straightway, rising from a formless waste,
Smiled hill and forest, meadow, vale, and stream,
And many a white tent, where the shepherd lies
Enwrapped in downy slumber, many a fold,
Where flocks and herds concoct the feed of day,
And many a loaded bower with purple hung,
And many a harvest field, that called the swain
To put his sickle forth and reap its gold.

“The unseeded earth was bare,—its towering rocks
And sparkling sands, its snowy chalks and clays

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Imbrowned, were void of vegetation, when
The word went forth, ‘Let herb and tree appear.’
As by the touch of some magician's wand,
Fair palaces, bright domes, and gardens gay
With all the wealth of art and nature, rise,
And occupy the cheerless desert,—Life,
In all its countless forms of plant, arose,
And in its mantle robed the barren earth.
The Cedar sprang on Lebanon, the Fir
Waved on the rocks of Norway, whispering Pines,
Towering on Alpine summits, widely spread
Their feathered umbrage, dancing to the gale
And murmuring with the zephyr; o'er the plains
Of sterile sand, along the southern shores
Of tideless Baltic, or the long-drawn coast,
By which the ocean torrent rushes, plains
Beneath a tropic sun, like Zara, bare,
The home of desolation,—here by dews,
From sea and lake and neighboring mountain, clad
With dark, perennial foliage, like the shade
Funereal, that enwraps the sepulchre
Of Turk and Persian in an awful gloom,—
There o'er the dry, unwatered ridge, that swells
Round as the ocean wave that erst involved
The forest in its waters, and the sand,
Now filled with shells and corals, made its bed,—
The pitch-tree lifts her spiry head, with cones
In russet mantled, when the north-wind blows,
Black at a distance, as the mourning pall,
When all the world is gay with new-born life,
And mantled in a sea-blue covering at
The coming on of winter, taking on
Her young leaves, when deciduous foliage drops
And strows the ground it shaded, in the day
Of general mourning to the field and grove,
Smiling in tears to see herself renewed,
When Death is riding round her. Where the streams
And fountains send their tribute, in the vale
Scooped out among the hillocks, like a bowl,

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And o'er the boundless plain, low-lying, drenched
By torrent rains, the cypress weaves its dusk,
Dank canopy, that in its mantle shrouds
The stagnant flood teeming with life below.
Ah! who would venture through those boundless fens,
O'er which the tree of ages frowns, bowed down
With mossy tresses, spangled o'er with flowers,
Like gay Anacreon in his rosy wreath?
There grenadillas ramble o'er the boughs,
Laden with blue and crimson blossoms, hung
With tempting fruits, like golden apples, which
Stole on the virgin's heart and conquered her:
Above 't is beauty, and below green sedge
And spiry reeds and purpled flags conceal
The hideous forms that batten there, the snake,
Who twines his jetty folds of giant length,
And throws around his fascinating eye
Of living glow, to draw the heedless prey
Within his crushing coils. The wanderer's foot
Disturbs a reedy tuft; the rustling grass
Awakes the serpent, who, with tooth of fire,
Lurks in the thicket,—hark! the warning sound,
The death-announcing rattle sings and bids
The invader fly his danger,—adders hiss,
And lizards roar, unseen destroyers wait
To instil their poison, with a living wall
Of separation cutting from the world
These sweltering holds, wherein is found the home
Of reptiles, plagues, and pestilence and death:
But from their watery stores the sun draws up
Dews, mists, and clouds, that quench the thirsty sands
And clothe what else had been one sparkling waste
In a wide sea of never-dying green.”

Thus pass the moments by, till night draws on;
At rest with all the world, calm in himself,
Conscious of rectitude and purity,
He lays him down upon his homely couch;
Peace, on her dove-wings, hovers o'er his head

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And fans his pillow; through the slumbrous night
Fair dreams of calm oblivion soothe his soul;
No muttered groan, no sudden shriek, nor start,
Disturb his quiet, but his sleep is sweet,
And gives him kind refreshment till the morn.

[We have a body,—and its clamorous calls]

We have a body,—and its clamorous calls
And appetites importunate demand
The service of our nobler part, the soul.
O, how I long to throw this garment off,
Which burdens me with flesh, which dims the light
That else had shone so brilliantly, and moved
With such a lofty grandeur through the fields
Of intellect and fancy! Had not sense
Inthralled me in my childhood, ere the bud
Had opened to the influence of Heaven
And hope and love and beauty, had no worm
Crept to the core, and nested and consumed
The heart within, while all without was fair,
Until it slowly withered, and the bloom
Of youth was changed to paleness, where the hand
Of death had set its seal, and ruin traced
Its mark indelible, I now had walked
With front erect beneath the argent shield
Of conscious rectitude, despising wealth
And pomp and power and pride, and trampling down
Vice, though she came in all the outward charms
Of paradisal houris, or in folds
Alluring twined herself around, and fawned
With leering eye, and called with flattering tongue.

[Youth sees the world before him, and the path]

Youth sees the world before him, and the path
Of sin how fair, hedged in by every sweet
That flowers can breathe, or melting fruits distil;
For ever winding in its blossomed maze,

510

It meets the eye with pleasures ever new;
It leads to luscious gardens, snowy beds
Of lilies, heaps of roses, citron shades,
That breathe alluring fragrance, cool retreats
Beneath o'erarching vines, and lonely grots,
Where nectared fountains bubble, amber streams
Of kindling waters murmur, on whose banks
Couches of matted grass and scented bloom
Invite to slumber; music flows around,
The flute soft-warbling, and the violin,
That calls the dance, and wakes the revelry
Of jolly hearts, who float like bubbles down
The wave of being; myrtle thickets hide
The haunts of lawless love, where whispered sighs
And tittering voices through the night are heard,
And every deed of dallying wantonness
Conceived and done; fair women, like the forms
Who spread their arms to meet the warm embrace
Of saints, who dwell beneath the golden groves
Of Paradise, as Eastern fables tell,
Call to illusive pleasures. How the form
Mantled in gauzy drapery, which shows
Each fair-turned limb and rounded muscle, steeps
The soul in dreams voluptuous! how the face,
Whereon a thousand seeming graces sit,
Where the eye shines in ebon brightness, dark,
Insufferably dark, and with its lure
In fascination chains the gazer, till
She come and clasp her prey, or, dyed in blue
Of liquid softness, rolls its languid look,
And often throwing round the artful leer,
Turns from the meeting eye and sinks abashed!
The cheek for ever dimpling with the play
Of life's red current, now the crimson stream
Departing leaves it just incarnardined,
And melting into milky softness, then
The blush calls all the living lustre forth,
And like a full-blown rose it kindling swells.
Such is her path of roses; but its end
Is sickness, sorrow, shame, despair, and death.

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[The stream of life that flowed on Calvary]

The stream of life that flowed on Calvary
May yet have power to wash away my stains,
And leave my suffering spirit pure in Heaven.
She must be there, such innocence and grace,
Such cherub mildness, must find there its home.
O, had I never wandered in my youth,
Had but the living wave flowed onward pure,
As when it left its fountain, I might now
Mingle my hopes and happiness with hers.
But this can never be: the ills of life
Have thrown a separating gulf between,
Impassable, till I shall launch my bark
Upon the sea of dark futurity,
And steer my course for Heaven, those happy shores,
That bloom with love eternal; there our souls
May mingling meet, and never part again.

THE DRAMA.

Where is the light that shed its holy beam
And fired the bard by Avon's silver stream,
When Nature threw her mantle o'er her child
And woke his infant voice to wood-notes wild,
Bathed in her kindling flood his ardent soul,
And bade his heavenward eye in frenzy roll,—
That falcon eye which looked creation through,
From earth to heaven in quick conception flew,
Left all the fainter pinions far behind,
And read at one wide glance th' expanded mind,
Knew every spring and passion of the heart,
And rivalled Greece in all the pride of art?

Where is that daring, strong, gigantic age,
The glorious morning of the English stage,
When Genius took a bold and lofty flight,
And burst, all dazzling, from her Gothic night?

512

O, where are now those souls, that seemed on fire
And burning with a poet's wild desire,
Who saw and keenly loved the grand and fair,
And bodied forth their forms of viewless air?
O, where are now those thoughts and words of flame,
That shine most brightly on the roll of fame,
Those passion-speaking sounds, which fire and thrill,
And bind, as with a magic chain, the will,
Those streams of native eloquence, that flow
Like torrents rushing to the vales below,
Pouring their white floods down the mountain's height,
And sparkling in the blaze of solar light?

Is Genius dead? shall fancy wake no more?
Are all the triumphs of our drama o'er?
Is there no infant Shakespeare, who would spring,
And soar, with upward breast and daring wing,—
Who gnaws with restless tooth his galling chain,
And toils for freedom, toils and strives in vain,—
Who looks on glory with untiring eyes,
Who would be great, but cannot, dare not rise?
Awake, ye sons of poesy! awake,
And, with determined grasp, your fetters break;
Against the painted swarms of fashion dare,
And from their locks her perfumed garlands tear,
Indignant sweep her cobweb strains away,
And hush the love-sick warblers of the day:
Dare with a frown to front this downward age,
And drive melodious weakness from the stage,
And once more seating Nature on her throne,
There bid her reign for ever and alone,
And from her full, exhaustless fountain roll
The words that kindle and exalt the soul.

Where, throned on Alps, eternal winter reigns,
And Freedom wanders through her rude domains,
A race of demigods she loves to breed,
And with the bitter bread of hunger feed;

513

Till, hardy as the rocks that round them rise,
And stainless as their own unclouded skies,
Her strong-nerved sons, by want and labor nursed,
Like giants from those hard-bound mountains burst,
Fierce as the tiger, when he stands at bay,
And wild as gaunt wolves rushing on their prey;
Cruel as hyæns, when they rend the grave,
And on the red field tear the slaughtered brave:
Thus, in their new-waked might, they rush amain,
And crush the puny driv'lers of the plain,
Then, sheathing in a myrtle wreath their swords,
Walk with the port and majesty of lords.
So wake, ye true and native sons of song!
Pour all your unbought wealth of soul along,
And every energy to Nature give:—
Then once more Hamlet, Richard, Lear, shall live.

[There is a world of mind, which few can know]

There is a world of mind, which few can know,
High raised above the sensual crowd below,
Where thought is pure and free, and fancy fires
In rapture, where the mounting soul aspires,
And sails on wings untiring,—heaven is there,
And all is grand and beautiful, and fair.
How the heart swells beneath the living tide,
That rolls in kindling effluence, deep and wide!
How man drinks in the clear, untainted ray,
And dwells delighted in meridian day!
The mists that dimmed him, and the crimes that sunk,
When blind with folly and with pleasure drunk,
Are all dispersed, and o'er his august head
Heaven's purest light in streams of love is shed:
As when an eagle, from the mountain's height,
Lifts to the god of day his towering flight,
Spurns with strong wing the fields of nether air,
And soars where ether girds him, pure and rare,

514

With keen eye fixed upon the burning ball,
He feels no more this cold and earthly thrall,
But, ever mounting with intense desire,
Seeks with untiring flight the fount of fire.
O that my soul had always been thus high,
Had found no joy, no home beneath the sky!
O had perfection been my only aim,
My spirit kindled with a purest flame,
Its energies all active, all awake,
A thirst that heaven, and heaven alone, could slake,—
O had this boundless, quenchless fire been mine,
My soul might still in all its brightness shine:
But sense has poured around its inky streams,
And in its Stygian current quenched the beams;
It cannot rise, it will not sink, it must
Waste with this mortal body into dust;
It has one wish, one only,—in the grave
To find for all its sorrows Lethe's wave,
And there in deep forgetfulness to lie,
And know that body, feeling, thought, must die,
That all the glories of our heaven will fade,
And hell be but a formless phantom's shade.

[He spake, and, springing from th' embattled ground]

He spake, and, springing from th' embattled ground,
Soared from the wond'ring hosts that gazed around:
Transformed to spirit, through the yielding air
His wavy wings aloft their burden bear;
His shield hangs o'er his shoulder, like the moon,
When pale she glitters in her highest noon;
His spear is tipt with lightning, and his crest
Waves with majestic sweep, and round his breast
His gold-bossed corselet flashes, like the gem
That glitters in a Cæsar's diadem;
His flight is as a meteor, when it sails
O'er the blue sky, and far behind it trails

515

A stream of liquid silver;—now more dim,
His airy form in ether seems to swim,
Lessens and lessens to the admiring sight,
Then disappears amid the solemn night:
So fled the prodigy, and, wrapped in awe,
The kneeling hosts the heavenly herald saw.

[Malvacea calls her tribes around her throne]

Malvacea calls her tribes around her throne,
Decked in her crimson robe and golden zone;
Around her flowing locks she binds a wreath
Of brightest blossoms, while her curls beneath,
Of softest auburn, wanton in the wind,
And her argentine veil floats loose behind.
Her nymphs attend, from meadow and from stream,
From plain and hillock,—gay as morning's beam.
The tropic Naiad, Carolinea, moves
Resplendent through Guiana's giant groves;
O'er the blue wave she bends, and round her binds
Loose floating robes, that wanton in the winds;
A gaudy chaplet decks her flowing hair,
Such as the the festal maids of Chio wear,
Bright crimson sprigs on yellow beds repose,
And morning's radiance mingles with the rose.
Where Niger grandly rolls his mystic wave,
And Afric's jetty nymphs in freedom lave,
Majestic Adansonia rears her form,
And braves, through countless years, the flood and storm;
The gathered tribes beneath her boughs enjoy
Kind Nature's simple gifts without alloy,
Indulge in slumbers, which no cares invade,
Secure beneath this wilderness of shade,
Or, dancing, lead the happy moments by,
When evening suns go down the golden sky;
And as the ceaseless generations roll,
From life's first dawn, to death's unerring goal,

516

Amid the wreck, her head she firmly rears,
And bears the wasting of a thousand years.
In silken fleece more white than Zemla's snow,
Whose spotless folds in loose disorder flow,
Through India's forests soft Bombacia moves,
And lightly wanders in the woods she loves;
Above her tower the Gauts, their sable walls,
Down which the rain-stream, thund'ring, foaming, falls,
Shed coolness o'er her, and the plains below,
Through which those streams in soft meanders flow,
Their flower-starred thickets and their rice-clad vales,
Their groves that load with balm the passing gales,
Their tapering pagods and their spiry walls,
Their vine-clad cots, their bamboo-pillared halls,
All lie before her, like a fairy dream,
That glows and glitters in the evening beam.

[In endless contrariety has fled]

In endless contrariety has fled
My feverish being; love and fame have fed
My better thoughts, and been my life. My frame
Was ill adapted to my spirit's flame,
And blasted with the cold and heavy curse
Of fear and weakness, Heaven can send no worse;
And they were both perverted in the hour
When unfledged reason had but feeble power,
And they did war together, till the clay
Gained mastery o'er the mind's immortal ray;
Immortal in its longings, for it felt
The beauty of perfection, and it dwelt
On images of light and love, and drew
Those pictured pleasures that are known by few,
And it would fix the deep glance of its eye
Upon the brightness of an evening sky,
And it would fashion on the arch of blue,
And on the rainbow-clouds of gayest hue,

517

A world of happiness, and there would trace
The ideal form of loveliness and grace,
And then I was entranced, and I would seem
Ascending to my Eden on the beam
That fell so bright upon me, and my flight
Was as the twinkling of a ray of light,
And I would dream for hours, until my soul
In unmixed feeling, soft and pure, would roll.

SONNET.

Farewell! ye visions of my wayward brain,
Farewell! I send you from this lonely bower;
But I shall ne'er forget your soothing power,
Although perhaps we never meet again;
Yet I have not communed with you in vain,
If but some portion of that hallowed fire,
Which roused the ancient bard to pour his strain,
Has warmed my lips and raised my spirit higher.
Ye go abroad upon a stormy sea,
But there are some, perchance, may not despise
Such trifles, though they were composed by me,
And they may view them with approving eyes
While I, as I have ever been, shall be,
Lone reader of the woods, the waters, and the skies.