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193

ADDITIONAL POEMS.

195

A FRAGMENT.

[OMITTED]
His shop is a grocer's—a snug, genteel place,
Near the corner of Oak Street and Pearl;
He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace,
And ties his cravat with a curl.
He's asked to all parties—north, south, east, and west,
That take place between Chatham and Cherry;
And when he's been absent, full oft has the “best
Society” ceased to be merry.
And nothing has darkened a sky so serene,
Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium,
Till this season among our élite there has been
What is called by the clergy “a schism.”
'Tis all about eating and drinking—one set
Gives sponge-cake, a few “kisses” or so,
And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet,
“Sublimed” (see Lord Byron) “with snow.”
196

Another insists upon punch and perdrix,
Lobster-salad, champagne, and, by way
Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea,
Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven Bay.
Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright,
In the front parlor over her shop,
“Entertains,” as the phrase is, a party to-night,
Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.
And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young,
But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce,
She “entertains” also to-night with cold tongue,
Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.
In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke,
He of Teos sang sweetly of wine;
Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak,
Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.
The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place;
In Pike Street the Capulets reign;
A limonadière is the badge of one race,
Of the other a flask of champagne.
Now as each the same evening her soirée announces,
What better, he asks, can be done
Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces,
And then wine with the Fleeces till one!
[OMITTED]
197

SONG.

BY MISS ------.

Air: “To ladies' eyes a round, boy.” Moore.

The winds of March are humming
Their parting song, their parting song,
And summer skies are coming,
And days grow long, and days grow long.
I watch, but not in gladness,
Our garden-tree, our garden-tree;
It buds, in sober sadness,
Too soon for me, too soon for me.
My second winter's over,
Alas! and I, alas! and I
Have no accepted lover:
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.
'Tis not asleep or idle
That Love has been, that Love has been;
For many a happy bridal
The year has seen, the year has seen;
I've done a bridemaid's duty,
At three or four, at three or four;
My best bouquet had beauty,
Its donor more, its donor more.
198

My second winter's over,
Alas! and I, alas! and I
Have no accepted lover:
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.
His flowers my bosom shaded
One sunny day, one sunny day;
The next they fled and faded,
Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet.
In vain, at balls and parties,
I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net;
This waltzing, watching heart is
Unchosen yet, unchosen yet.
My second winter's over,
Alas! and I, alas! and I
Have no accepted lover:
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.
They tell me there's no hurry
For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring;
And I'm too young to marry:
'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing.
The next spring-tides will dash on
My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year;
It puts me in a passion,
Oh, dear, oh dear! oh dear, oh dear!
My second winter's over,
Alas! and I, alas! and I
Have no accepted lover:
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.
199

SONG.

FOR THE DRAMA OF “THE SPY.”

The harp of love, when first I heard
Its song beneath the moonlight tree,
Was echoed by his plighted word,
And ah, how dear its song to me!
But wailed the hour will ever be
When to the air the bugle gave,
To hush love's gentle minstrelsy,
The wild war-music of the brave.
For he hath heard its song, and now
Its voice is sweeter than mine own;
And he hath broke the plighted vow
He breathed to me and love alone.
That harp hath lost its wonted tone,
No more its strings his fingers move,
Oh would that he had only known
The music of the harp of love!
200

ADDRESS.

AT THE OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE

November, 1831.

Where dwells the Drama's spirit? not alone
Beneath the palace roof, beside the throne,
In learning's cloisters, friendship's festal bowers,
Art's pictured halls, or triumph's laurelled towers,
Where'er man's pulses beat, or passions play,
She joys to smile or sigh his thoughts away:
Crowd times and scenes within her ring of power,
And teach a life's experience in an hour.
To-night she greets, for the first time, our dome,
Her latest, may it prove her lasting home;
And we her messengers delighted stand,
The summoned Ariels of her mystic wand,
To ask your welcome. Be it yours to give
Bliss to her coming hours, and bid her live
Within these walls new hallowed in her cause,
Long in the nurturing warmth of your applause.
'Tis in the public smiles, the public loves,
His dearest home, the actor breathes and moves,
201

Your plaudits are to us and to our art
As is the life-blood to the human heart:
And every power that bids the leaf be green,
In Nature acts on this her mimic scene.
Our sunbeams are the sparklings of glad eyes,
Our winds the whisper of applause, that flies
From lip to lip, the heart-born laugh of glee,
And sounds of cordial hands that ring out merrily,
And heaven's own dew falls on us in the tear
That woman weeps o'er sorrows pictured here,
When crowded feelings have no words to tell
The might, the magic of the actor's spell.
These have been ours; and do we hope in vain
Here, oft and deep, to feel them ours again?
No! while the weary heart can find repose
From its own pains in fiction's joys or woes;
While there are open lips and dimpled cheeks,
When music breathes, or wit or humor speaks;
While Shakespeare's master-spirit can call up
Noblest and worthiest thoughts, and brim the cup
Of life with bubbles bright as happiness,
Cheating the willing bosom into bliss;
So long will those who, in their spring of youth,
Have listened to the Drama's voice of truth,
Marked in her scenes the manners of their age,
And gathered knowledge for a wider stage,
Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years,
And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears;
202

And younger hearts, when ours are hushed and cold,
Be happy here as we have been of old.
Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine
Where music, painting, poetry entwine
Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power
Refines, exalts, ennobles hour by hour
The spirit of the land, and, like the wind,
Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind;
To you the hour that consecrates this dome,
Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come,
When some creating poet, born your own,
May waken here the drama's loftiest tone,
Through after-years to echo loud and long,
A Shakespeare of the West, a star of song,
Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire,
All times to gladden and all tongues inspire,
Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fanned,
Floats the free banner of your native land.
203

THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER.

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN AN OPEN BOAT ON THE HUDSON RIVER, BETWEEN STONY POINT AND THE HIGHLANDS, ON SEEING THE WRECK OF AN OLD SLOOP, JUNE, 1821.

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.”
Shakespeare.

Her side is in the water,
Her keel is in the sand,
And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock
That bounds the sea and land.
Her deck is without a mast,
And sand and shells are there,
And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks,
In the sun and the sultry air.
No more on the river's bosom,
When sky and wave are calm,
And the clouds are in summer quietness
And the cool night-breath is balm,
Will she glide in the swan-like stillness
Of the moon in the blue above,
204

A messenger from other lands,
A beacon to hope and love.
No more, in the midnight tempest,
Will she mock the mounting sea,
Strong in her oaken timbers,
And her white sail's bravery.
She hath borne, in days departed,
Warm hearts upon her deck;
Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now,
The victims, and the wreck
Of time, whose touch erases
Each vestige of all we love;
The wanderers, home returning,
Who gazed that deck above,
And they who stood to welcome
Their loved ones on that shore,
Are gone, and the place that knew them
Shall know them never more.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
It was a night of terror,
In the autumn equinox,
When that gallant vessel found a grave
Upon the Peekskill rocks.
205

Captain, mate, cook, and seamen
(They were in all but three),
Were saved by swimming fast and well,
And their gallows-destiny.
But two, a youth and maiden,
Were left to brave the storm,
With unpronounceable Dutch names,
And hearts with true-love warm.
And they, for love has watchers
In air, on earth, and sea,
Were saved by clinging to the wreck,
And their marriage-destiny.
From sunset to night's noon
She had leaned upon his arm,
Nor heard the far-off thunder toll
The tocsin of alarm.
Not so the youth—he listened
To the cloud-wing flapping by;
And low he whispered in Low Dutch,
“It tells our doom is nigh.
“Death is the lot of mortals,
But we are young and strong,
And hoped, not boldly, for a life
Of happy years and long.
206

“Yet 'tis a thought consoling,
That, till our latest breath,
We loved in life, and shall not be
Divided in our death.
“Alas, for those that wait us
On their couch of dreams at home,
The morn will hear the funeral-cry
Around their daughter's tomb.
“They hoped” ('twas a strange moment
In Dutch to quote Shakespeare)
“Thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid,
And not have strewed thy bier.”
But sweetly-voiced and smiling,
The trusting maiden said,
“Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day,
To-morrow we will wed?
“And I, who have known thy truth
Through years of joy and sorrow,
Can I believe the fickle winds?
No! we shall wed to-morrow!”
The tempest heard and paused—
The wild sea gentler moved—
They felt the power of woman's faith
In the word of him she loved.
207

All night to rope and spar
They clung with strength untired,
Till the dark clouds fled before the sun,
And the fierce storm expired.
At noon the song of bridal bells
O'er hill and valley ran;
At eve he called the maiden his,
“Before the holy man.”
They dwelt beside the waters
That bathe yon fallen pine,
And round them grew their sons and daughters,
Like wild-grapes on the vine.
And years and years flew o'er them,
Like birds with beauty on their wings,
And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters,
And long and lovely springs—
Such joys as thrilled the lips that kissed
The wave, rock-cooled, from Horeb's fountains,
And sorrows, fleeting as the mist
Of morning, spread upon the mountains,
Till, in a good old age,
Their life-breath passed away;
Their name is on the churchyard page—
Their story in my lay.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
208

And let them rest together,
The maid, the boat, the boy,
Why sing of matrimony now,
In this brief hour of joy?
Our time may come, and let it—
'Tis enough for us now to know
That our bark will reach West Point ere long,
If the breeze keep on to blow.
We have Hudibras and Milton,
Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn,
And a dozen cigars are lingering yet
Of the thousand of yester-morn.
They have gone, like life's first pleasures,
And faded in smoke away,
And the few that are left are like bosom friends
In the evening of our day.
We are far from the mount of battle,
Where the wreck first met mine eye,
And now where twin forts in the olden time rose,
Through the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark goes,
And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony's Nose,
So wrecks and rhymes—good-by.
 

Stony Point.

Forts Clinton and Montgomery.

209

LINES

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM.

[_]

Air: “To ladies' eyes a round, boy!”

The song that o'er me hovered,
In summer's hour, in summer's hour,
To-day with joy has covered
My winter bower, my winter bower.
Blest be the lips that breathe it,
As mine have been, as mine have been,
When pressed in dreams beneath it,
To hers unseen, to hers unseen.
And may her heart, wherever
Its hope may be, its hope may be,
Beat happily, though never
To beat for me, to beat for me!
Is she a spirit given
One hour to earth, one hour to earth,
To bring me dreams from heaven,
Her place of birth, her place of birth?
Or minstrel maiden hidden,
Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun,
A bud, a flower forbidden,
To air and sun, to air and sun?
210

For had I power to summon,
With harp divine, with harp divine,
The angel or the woman,
The last were mine, the last were mine.
If earth-born beauty's fingers
Awaked the lay, awaked the lay,
Whose echoed music lingers
Around my way, around my way,
Where smiles the hearth she blesses
With voice and eye, with voice and eye?
Where binds the night her tresses,
When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh!
Is Fashion's bleak cold mountain
Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne?
Or love's green vale and fountain,
With one alone, with one alone?
Why ask! why seek a treasure
Like her I sing, like her I sing?
Her name nor pain nor pleasure
To me should bring, to me should bring.
Love must not grieve or gladden
My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow,
Nor woman soothe or sadden
My path below, my path below.
Before a worldlier altar
I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long;
And if my footsteps falter,
'Tis but in song, 'tis but in song.
211

Nor would I break the vision
Young fancies frame, young fancies frame,
That lights with stars Elysian
A poet's name, a poet's name.
For she whose gentle spirit
Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime,
Gives hues they do not merit
To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme,
But place the proudest near her,
Whate'er their pen, whate'er their pen,
She'll say (be mute who hear her)
Mere mortal men, mere mortal men!
Yet though unseen, unseeing,
We meet and part, we meet and part,
Be still my worshipped being,
In mind and heart, in mind and heart.
And bid thy song that found me,
My minstrel-maid, my minstrel-maid!
Be winter's sunbeam round me,
And summer's shade, and summer's shade.
I could not gaze upon thee,
And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell,
And when a happier won thee,
Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell.
212

TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.

Le Poëte, inspiré lorsque la terre ignore,
Ressemble á les grands monts que la nouvelle aurore
Dore avant tous á son réveil,
Et qui, longtemps vainqueur de l'ombre,
Gardent jusque dans la nuit sombre
Le dernier rayon du soleil.
Moorland and meadow slumber
In deepest darkness now,
But the sunrise hues of the wakened day
Smile on the mountain's brow.
And when eve's mists are shrouding
Moorland and meadow fast,
That mountain greets day's sunset light,
Her loveliest and her last.
And thus the God-taught minstrel,
Above a land untaught,
Smiles lonely in the smiles of heaven
From his hill-tops of thought.
213

ALBUM VERSES.

Within a rock, whose shadows linger,
At moonlight hours, on Erie's sea,
Some unseen, Indian spirit's finger
Woke in far times sweet minstrelsy.
'Twas in the summer twilight only,
When evening winds the green leaves stirred,
And all beside was mute and lonely
Its wild aërial tones were heard.
So I—that fabled rock resembling,
With heart as cold, and head as hard—
Appear, although with fear and trembling,
At Beauty's call, as Beauty's bard.
Yet why despair if winds can summon
Minstrels and music when they please?
For who but deems the lips of woman
More potent than an evening breeze?
Her lips the magic word have spoken,
That bids me call from far and near
Each minstrel-pen, to leave its token
Of fealty and of friendship here.
These consecrated leaves are given
To you, ye rhyme-composing elves;
214

To poets who were taught by Heaven,
And poets who have taught themselves.
To wits, whose thistle-shafts by flowers
Are hid, their points in balsam dipped;
To humor, in his happiest hours,
And punsters—if their wings are clipped.
But friendship, with her smiling features,
Will come, 'tis hoped, without a call;
For though your wits are clever creatures,
One line of hers is worth them all.
Let names of heroes and of sages,
On history's leaf eternal be;
A few brief years on Beauty's pages
Are worth their immortality.
At least this charmèd book permits us
To brave oblivion's withering power,
Till she who summons us, forgets us;
And who would live beyond that hour?
215

ODE TO GOOD-HUMOR.

Maid of the sweet, engaging smile!
Companion of our hours of peace!
Whose soothing arts can care beguile,
And bid discordant passions cease;
Virtue in thee her favorite hails,
And dwells where'er thy sway prevails,
Life's fairest charms to thee we owe,
The source of pure delight, the healing balm of woe!
Can rapture thrill congenial hearts,
Entwined by Friendship's wreath divine?
If aught of bliss its bond imparts,
The praise, enchanting maid! be thine.
Can we a soft attractive grace
In the bright beam of Beauty trace?
'Tis only when with thee combined,
Her powers can justly claim the homage of the mind!
When the first pair in Eden's bower
Enjoyed the favoring smile of Heaven,
Thy influence brightened every flower,
And blessed the balmy breeze of even.
And since in Love's connubial ties,
We best can learn thy sweets to prize,
216

'Tis in affection's fond domain,
Where still unruffled joys denote thy golden reign.
Deprived of thee, does earth possess
One charm to bind us here below?
In vain may pomp and power caress,
Or wealth its glittering gifts bestow.
Lost is their worth when thou art fled,
When Discord lifts her sceptre dread,
And pallid Envy, Care, and Strife
Unite their darkening clouds to veil the noon of life.
But when thy welcome steps appear,
This dreaded train of evil flies,
Gay Cheerfulness is ever near,
And calm Content with placid eyes;
And all that to the soul endears
This dreary wilderness of years,
All that our happiest hours employ,
When beats the willing heart to transport and to joy.
Where'er I tread this varied scene,
Good-Humor! on my path attend;
Alike when pleasure smiles serene,
Or pain and grief my bosom rend,
Do thou infuse thy sovereign power,
In youth's gay morn, in manhood's hour,
Or when, in age, life's parting ray
But faintly lingers low ere yet it fades away!
1811.
217

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF GENERAL LALLEMAND.

Sweet maid! whose life the frost of destiny
Withered while yet its first spring-leaves were green;
Pure, sainted being! from thy home on high,
Look with thine eyes of love, upon the scene
Where, for one little hour, thy spirit moved,
A visitant—to love, and to be loved,
And where thy song of youth to virtue gave
The music of its praises—the green bowers
Of home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers,
And made the laurel dearer to the brave.
Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for thee
Warmly, as when they beat beside thy bier.
And still to them, of earthly things most dear
And sacred, is thy pledge of memory—
A father's gift, whose every cherished word
Bids the sweet echo of thy song be heard;
And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be.
Would it could soothe a mother's griefs but they
Are graven deep, and will not pass away!
218

Blest spirit! long as at the name alone
Of their Eliza, tears are seen to start,
And sighs are breathed, whose birthplace is the heart.
Look on thy friends from thine ethereal throne,
With smiles that greeted them in happier days;
And pardon one to thee, and thine unknown,
Whose Stranger hand strews flowers upon thy tomb,
For he hath heard the music of thy lays,
And who can listen to its tones, nor raise
His thoughts to thee, and thine Eternal home?
219

THE VISION OF ELIPHAZ.

PARAPHRASED FROM JOB

'Twas in the solemn midnight hour,
When sleep extends its balmy power,
The slumbering world around;
When Darkness, o'er the extensive globe
Spreads, far and wide, its sable robe,
And Silence reigns profound!
As wrapped in lonely solitude,
The starry canopy I viewed,
In pensive thought reclined;
A sudden tremor chilled my blood,
My hair, with horror, upright stood,
And terror filled my mind.
Before mine eyes a spirit passed—
I gazed, with trembling looks, aghast!
As o'er the path it flew;
It stood, but naught could I descry,
The gloom, that veiled the midnight sky,
Concealed it from my view.
220

Dread Silence reigned! I, shuddering, feared!
When suddenly a voice I heard,
In slow and solemn tone:
“Shall man,” it cried, “presume to vie
In justice, and in majesty,
With Heaven's Eternal Throne?
“Can man more purity display
Than He, who formed him from the clay,
The offspring of the dust?
Behold! to those that round Him stand,
Attentive to His dread command,
He gives no charge, or trust.
“Even angels, next in might to God,
Submissive at His footstool nod,
And own superior power;
And ah! how much! how far below
Are mortals, doomed to pain and woe,
The pageants of an hour.
“Before the meanest worm they die,
And, mouldering into dust, they lie,
Within the earth's cold bed.
Many, on whom the morn arose,
Before the evening shades, repose
In mansions of the dead.
221

“And soon their memory is no more,
Long ages roll successive o'er,
And other scenes arise;
And, leagued with their departing breath,
Before the fatal shaft of death,
Their boasted knowledge flies.”
1809.
222

A POETICAL EPISTLE.

TO MRS. RUSH.

Lady, I thank you for your letter;
Would that these rhymes it asks were better
Worthy of her who taught
My song, when life was in its June,
To mingle heart with word and tune,
And melody with thought.
Gone are the days of sunny weather
(I quote remembered words), when we
“Revelled in poetry” together;
And frightened leaves from off their tree,
With declamation loud and long,
From epic sage and merry song,
And odes, and madrigals, and sonnets,
Till all the birds within the wood,
And people of the neighborhood
Said we'd “a bee in both our bonnets.”
And he said listening, he the most
Honored and loved, and early lost—
He in whose mind's brief boyhood hour
Was blended by the marvellous power
223

That Heaven-sent genius gave,
The green blade with the golden grain;
Alas! to bloom and beard in vain,
Sheafed round a sick-room's bed of pain,
And garnered in the grave.
They are far away, those sunny days,
And since we watched their setting rays,
The music of the voice of praise
From many a land, and many a clime,
Has greeted my astonished rhyme;
Till half in doubt, half pleased, it curled
Its queerest lip upon the world,
But never heard I flattery's tone
Sounding around me, “Bard, well done!”
Without a blessing on the One
Who flattered first—the bonnie nurse
Whose young hand rocked my cradled verse.
Long may her voice, as now, be near
To prompt, to pardon, and to cheer;
And long be smiles for goodness' sake,
Upon her best of happy faces,
Like Spenser's Una's given to make
A sunshine in the shadiest places!
 

Joseph Rodman Drake.

224

THE BLUEBIRD.

ON ITS FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE SPRING OF 1810.

Hail! warbling harbinger of Spring!
How soft thy wild notes fill the breeze!
Raptured, I hear thy fluttering wing,
Low murmuring 'mong the leafless trees.
Now when all lone and drear
Bleak Winter holds her gloomy reign,
And spreads afar her wide domain,
O'er brake and dell, and lawn and plain,
With joy thy notes we hear;
Their simple strains a charm impart,
Dear to the languid, aching heart.
Say, hast thou left yon mountains mild,
Where southern gales ambrosial blow?
To cheer our fields now lone and wild,
And ice-chained valleys clad in snow,
The opening spring to hail?
To bring the rosy charms of May,
The feathered choir of warblers gay,
And clothe in Nature's green array,
The mountain and the vale?
225

Then welcome to our groves once more,
Thou token sure that winter's o'er.
Sweet Bird! the grateful muse shall pay
Her homage and her love to thee;
To thee attune her earliest lay,
And wake the lyre's soft harmony;
While each exulting mind
Shall join, accordant with her lays,
And every hand unite to raise
A wreath of honorary bays,
Around thy plumes to bind;
To crown thee first of all the train
Whose sportive warblings glad the plain.
Ye wintry clouds! that o'er the heart
A shade of sable honor threw!
Ye shadowy sorrows! hence! depart—
Ye heart-corroding thoughts—adieu!
With all your gloomy train,
On wings of stormy tempests fly
To Zembla's coasts or Scythia's sky;
Then deep in trackless deserts lie,
And ne'er return again.
Let life a cheerful prospect wear,
Uncurtained by thy clouds' despair!
The mournful grove, in weeds forlorn,
Bewails her festive summer bower:
226

No warblers now to wake the morn,
Or charm the lonely evening hour!
The warblers all are gone.
Wild is the dreary prospect round,
Hushed is the murmuring torrents' sound,
And solemn silence reigns profound,
Terrific and alone!
Wild the deserted groves appear,
Untuneful, desolate, and drear!
But ah! yon songster's glad return
Proclaims thy reign will soon be o'er;
And bids the heart no longer mourn,
The Spring will soon return once more,
And Nature smile serene.
Her smiles shall dissipate the gloom,
Again the fairest flowers shall bloom,
And Summer soon her seat resume,
Her robes of brightest green;
Again the groves in state shall rise,
And purest azure gild the skies.
Hail! grateful songster, tuneful bird!
Thou earliest pledge of spring, all hail!
How sweet thy plaintive notes are heard
Floating adorn the balmy gale!
How sweet thy morning song!
227

As wildly trembling—soft and slow,
Its wood-notes fill yon vale below,
Or, on resounding echoes, flow
The distant hills along.
Then welcome, lovely warbler, here
Thy lay announcing, “Spring is near!”

HONOR TO WOMAN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

All honor to WOMAN, the Sweetheart, the Wife,
The delight of our homesteads by night and by day,
The darling who never does harm in her life,
Except when determined to have her own way.
228

TO ELLEN.

The Scottish Border Minstrel's lay
Entranced me oft in boyhood's day;
His forests, glens, and streams,
Mountains, and heather blooming fair,
And Highland lake, and lady, were
The playmates of my dreams.
Years passed away—my dreams were gone;
My pilgrim footsteps passed at noon
Loch Katrine's storied shores:
In silence slept the fairy lake,
Nor did the mountain-echoes wake
At music of my oars.
No tramp of warrior-men I heard;
Welcome-song, or challenge-word,
I listened, but in vain;
And, moored beside his favorite tree,
As vainly wooed the minstrelsy
Of gray-haired Allan Bane.
I saw the Highland heath-flower smile
In beauty, upon Ellen's isle;
229

And, couched in Ellen's bower,
I watched, beneath its latticed leaves,
Her coming, through a summer eve's
Youngest and loveliest hour.
She came not—lonely was her home;
Herself of airy shapes “that come
Like shadows, so depart.”
Are there two Ellens of the mind?
Or have I lived at last to find
The Ellen of my heart?
For music, like Sir Walter's, now
Rings round me, and again I bow
Before the shrine of song,
Devoutly as I bowed in youth;
For hearts that worship there, in truth
And joy, are ever young.
And dear the harp that sings to-day,
And well its gladdened strings obey
Its minstrel's loved command—
A minstrel-maid's, whose infant eyes
Looked on Ohio's woods and skies,
My youth's unheard-of land.
And beautiful that wreath she twines
Round Albi cottage bowered in vines,
Or blest in sleigh-bell mirth;
230

And loveliest is her song that seems
To bid me welcome in my dreams,
Beside its winter hearth.
And must I deem her beckoning smile
But pleasant mockery, to beguile
Some lonely hour of care?
And will this Ellen prove to be
But like her namesake o'er the sea,
A being of the air?
Or shall I take the morning wing,
Armed with a parson and a ring,
Speed hill and dale along;
And, at her cottage-fire ere night,
Change into flutterings of delight,
Or what's more likely, of affright,
The merry mockbird's song?
231

MEMORY.

Strong as that power whose strange control
Impels the torrent's force;
Directs the needle to the pole,
And bids the waves of ocean roll
In their appointed course;
So powerful are the ties that bind
The scenes of childhood to the mind;
So firmly to the heart adheres
The memory of departed years.
Whence is this passion in the breast?
That when the past we view,
And think on pleasures, once possessed,
In Fancy's fairest colors dressed,
Those pleasures we renew?
And why do memory's pains impart
A pleasing sadness to the heart?
What potent charm to all endears
The days of our departed years?
True—many a rose-bud, blooming gay,
Life's opening path adorns;
But all who tread that path will say
That, 'mid the flowers which strew its way,
Are care's corroding thorns.
232

Yet still the bosom will retain
Affection even for hours of pain;
And we can smile, though bathed in tears,
At memory of departed years.
'Tis distance, our bewildered gaze
On former scenes, beguiles,
And memory's charm the eye betrays;
For while enjoyments it displays
And robes the past in smiles,
Its flattering mirror proves untrue,
Conceals the sorrows from our view,
And hides the griefs, the doubts, and fears,
That darkened our departed years!
Time, when our own, we oft despise;
When gone, its loss deplore;
Nor, till the fleeting moment flies,
Do mortals learn its worth to prize,
When it returns no more.
For this, an anxious look we cast,
With fond regret, on hours long past—
For this, the feeling heart reveres
The memory of departed years!
1810.
233

RELIGION.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MY PRAYER-BOOK.

When Misery's tear and Sorrow's sigh
Oppress the feeling mind,
Say—where for refuge shall we fly?
And where a refuge find?
The morn of life may open fair,
And charm the view awhile;
The world around us then may wear
A universal smile;
But Life's a transitory scene,
Its prospects all are vain;
The bosom that now beats serene,
Too soon may throb with pain.
Though Pleasure Youth's gay hours adorn,
The wayward heart to please,
'Tis fleeting as the dew of morn,
'Tis fickle as the breeze.
Uncertain is our mortal breath,
On swiftest wings it flies;
234

And soon the iron hand of death
Shall close our dying eyes.
Such is our state—then, tell me, where,
Oppressed with care and grief,
The anxious bosom can repair,
To seek and find relief?
To mild Religion—heavenly maid!
Belongs the power alone,
To dissipate the deepest shade,
That shrouds the dark unknown.
She gives the glad inquiring mind
This solemn truth to know:
“The soul of man is not confined
To this short space below.”
Then cherish well the hopes she gives,
To banish all our fears:
“The disembodied spirit lives
Beyond the vale of tears.
“Though want, contempt, and scorn, attend
The virtuous here below,
Their future bliss shall far transcend
Their present pain and woe.
235

“In realms of everlasting rest,
Where cares and sorrows cease,
The sainted spirits of the blest
Shall find eternal peace.”
Then be to Heaven's will resigned,
And own Religion's power,
For there a sure resource we find,
In sorrow's darkest hour.
1810.
236

THE TEMPEST.

Mild beamed the sun's departing ray,
Low sinking in the rosy west;
Still was the closing hour of day
Sacred to silence, peace, and rest!
When a poor Wanderer, bent with woe,
O'er the moor travelled, sad and slow.
By dire misfortune forced to roam,
He rambled on—he knew not where;
In hopes to find a tranquil home,
To find relief from want and care.
The noonday of his life was past,
And Age his mantle o'er him cast.
He stopped, and, lingering on his road,
Admired the lovely prospect round;
Slowly the lonely heath he trod,
And gazed, in pleasing thought profound!
Enraptured at the enchanting scene,
His bosom heaved with joy serene.
But sudden-lowering clouds arise,
And blackening mists the scene deform;
Terrific darkness veils the skies,
Foreboding an impending storm!
237

The traveller sees the danger near,
And shuddering stands, appalled with fear!
Now raged the bleak wind o'er the plain,
The billows bounded on the shore;
Swift fell the cold and pelting rain,
And loud the storm began to roar.
The unhappy wanderer mourned his fate—
He mourned—but ah! alas! too late.
Wild was the prospect, far and wide,
And all was dreadful, dark, and drear;
No shepherd's sheep-pent fold he spied,
No friendly roof or shelter near;
While fiercer still the tempest grew,
As o'er the lonely heath it flew.
Yet Hope still cheered him on his way:
“Night soon will fly with its dark shade;
Aurora soon will ope the day,
And sweep the dew-drops down the glade.
Soon will the fearful storm be o'er,
And soon you'll see the cottage door.”
But ah! delusive Hope! how vain
Are all thy fond, enrapturing dreams;
Loud howled the raging wind, the rain
Still poured in swift-descending streams.
Before the blast the forest yields,
And shivered branches strew the fields.
238

At length, worn down with toil and cold,
The Wanderer sunk upon the heath;
And ere the shepherd loosed his fold,
His weary eyes were closed in death.
The last, the dreaded pang is o'er,
And low he lies, to rise no more!
Such is Life's journey—'tis a scene
Where joy and grief alternate reign;
Where mixed emotions intervene,
Of hope and fear, of bliss and pain;
Where sunbeams dart, and tempests rage,
In every season, every age.
As through this wilderness we roam,
Fond Hope may wear her sweetest smile,
And tell of happier days to come,
The wearied bosom to beguile;
But vanished is her soothing power,
In disappointment's languid hour.
Then happiest he whose hopes sublime
Are centred in the joys of heaven;
Calmly adown the stream of time
His peaceful bark shall then be driven.
Firm as the adamantine rock,
His heart shall brave “Misfortune's rudest shock.”
1804.
239

LINES

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN OSSIAN'S POEMS.

In all that Genius calls its own,
The “Bard of Cona” soars sublime!
And where the Muses' powers are known,
His fame shall brave the blast of Time!
His was the soft persuasive art!
Whene'er his fingers touched the lyre;
To melt in sympathy the heart,
Or thrill the soul with Glory's fire.
Unblest with Learning's ray refined,
He warbled—Nature's favorite child—
His notes bespoke his feeling mind,
Sublimely simple—sweetly wild.
Sweet Poet! while the Muses' flame
Within my heart enrapturing glows,
That heart shall pay thy honored name
The homage which it justly owes.
1810.
240

IN HER ISLAND HOME.

WRITTEN IN MISS BRONSON'S ALBUM.

[_]

[In the olden time, a sect of Persian philosophers formed a society dedicated to Silence. Their number was limited to ten. One of the brotherhood, a personage who was never known to speak in his lifetime, and of whom no one has ever been heard to speak since, died. Among the applicants for the vacant chair was “Sadi,” a “sage grave man,” remarkable for saying nothing, at least nothing to the purpose. Unfortunately, ere he reached the place of meeting, the choice had fallen on another. The president announced this by placing a wineglass on the table, and filling it up to the brim. As Sadi entered, he pointed toward it. Sadi bowed, as is usual on such occasions, then took a roseleaf from the floor, and placed it so lightly on the bubbles of the wine, that not a drop was spilt. They received him.— Cotton Mather.]

In her island home, her home of flowers,
The Queen of Beauty sat at noon,
In the shade of one of her wild-rose bowers,
Watching the spray of the bright sea-showers,
As it sparkled in the sun of June.
And the smile of delight round her lip that played
Was as sweet as a smile can be,
For that day had her minstrel-worshippers laid
On her altar a book where each pen had paid
Its vows to their island-deity.
241

Its words still breathed, though the ink was cold
As the hopes of the hearts she had fettered,
A magical name on the book was enrolled,
And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold,
And 'twas bound in green, and lettered.
As she counted the leaves, and counted o'er
The victims her frowns had killed,
A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore,
Came blushing, and said, “Here is one song more;”
She answered, “The pages are filled.”
He sighed, of course, but he manfully strove
To check the sigh as it rose;
And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly wove
Into very bad verses the tale which, above,
Is written in good plain prose.
And added, “In coming hours, Lady, when you
On the tears of your victims are feeding,
As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew,
Keep this withered leaf in the book—'twill do
To mark where you left off reading.”
242

TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

There's one who long will think of thee,
Though thou art cold in death's last sleep;
There's one will love thy memory
Till his own grave the night-dews steep.
And if no outward tears he weep,
And none his silent sorrows know,
Still doth his heart its vigils keep
Beside the spot where thou art low.
Sad was thy mortal pilgrimage,
And bitter tears thine eyes have shed:
But now the storm hath spent its rage;
The turf is green above thy head,
And, loveliest of the buried dead,
Sweet may thy dreamless slumbers be;
Thy grave the summer's bridal bed,
Her evening winds thy minstrelsy.
As withered on thy cheek the rose,
I cursed the hour when love betrayed thee;
'Twas mine, in death, thine eyes to close,
And watch till on the bier they laid thee.
243

No gloomy cypress-boughs shall shade thee,
No marble thy sad story tell;
The cruel world shall ne'er upbraid thee
With having loved—and loved too well.
244

FORGET-ME-NOT.

Where flows the fountain silently,
It blooms a lovely flower;
Blue as the beauty of the sky,
It speaks, like kind fidelity,
Through fortune's sun and shower—
“Forget-me-not!”
'Tis like thy starry eyes, more bright
Than evening's proudest star;
Like purity's own halo-light,
It seems to smile upon thy sight,
And says to thee from far—
“Forget-me-not!”
Each dew-drop on its morning leaves
Is eloquent as tears,
That whisper, when young passion grieves,
For one beloved afar, and weaves
His dream of hopes and fears—
“Forget-me-not!”
245

THE PILGRIMS.

They came—a life-devoting band—
In winter o'er the sea;
Tearless they left their fatherland,
Home of their infancy.
And when they battled to be free,
'Twas not for us and ours alone:
Millions may trace their destiny
To the wild beach they trod upon.
The brave on Bunker's Hill who stood,
And fearless fought and died,
Felt in their veins the pilgrims' blood,
Their spirit, and their pride.
That day's last sunbeam was their last,
That well-fought field their death-bed scene;
But 'twas that battle's bugle-blast
That bade the march of mind begin.
It sounded o'er the Atlantic waves:
“One struggle more, and then
Hearts that are now to tyrants slaves,
May beat like hearts of men.
246

The pilgrims' names may then be heard,
In other tongues a battle-word—
The gathering war-cry of the free;
And other nations, from their sleep
Of bondage waking, long may keep,
Like us, the pilgrims' jubilee.”
247

A FAREWELL TO CONNECTICUT.

I turned a last look to my dear native mountain,
As the dim blush of sunset grew pale in the sky;
All was still, save the music that leaped from the fountain,
And the wave of the woods to the summer-wind's sigh.
Far around, the gray mist of the twilight was stealing,
And the tints of the landscape had faded in blue,
Ere my pale lip could murmur the accents of feeling,
As it bade the fond scenes of my childhood adieu.
Oh! mock not that pang, for my heart was retracing
Past visions of happiness, sparkling and clear:
My heart was still warm with a mother's embracing,
My check was still wet with a fond sister's tear.
Like an infant's first sleep on the lap of its mother,
Were the days of my childhood—those days are no more;
And my sorrow's deep throb I had struggled to smother
Was that infant's wild cry when it's first sleep was o'er.
248

Years have gone by, and remembrance now covers,
With the tinge of the moonbeam, the thoughts of that hour;
Yet still in his day-dream the wanderer hovers
Round the cottage he left and its green woven bower.
And Hope lingers near him, her wildest song breathing,
And points to a future day, distant and dim,
When the finger of sunset, its eglantine weaving,
Shall brighten the home of his childhood for him.
249

TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK, ESQ.

I've greeted many a bonny bride
On many a bridal day,
In homes serene and summer-skied,
Where Love's spring-buds, with joy and pride
Had blossomed into May;
But ne'er on lovelier bride than thine
Looked these delighted eyes of mine,
And ne'er in happier bridal bower
Than hers, smiled rose and orange-flower
Through green leaves glad and gay,
When bridesmaids, grouped around her room,
In youth's, in truth's, in beauty's bloom,
Entwined, with merry fingers fair,
Their garlands in her sunny hair;
Or bosomed them, with graceful art,
Above the beatings of her heart.
I well remember, as I stood,
Among that pleasant multitude,
A stranger, mateless and forlorn,
Pledged bachelor and hermit sworn,
That, when the holy voice had given,
In consecrated words of power,
250

The sanction of approving Heaven
To marriage-ring, and roof, and dower;
When she, a Wife, in matron pride,
Stood, life-devoted, at thy side;
When happy lips had pressed her cheek,
And happiest lips her “bonny mou',”
And she had smiled with blushes meek,
On my congratulating bow,
A sunbeam, balmy with delight,
Entranced, subdued me, till I quite
Forget my anti-nuptial vow,
And almost asked, with serious brow
And voice of true and earnest tone,
The bridesmaid with the prettiest face
To take me, heart and hand, and grace
A wedding of my own.
Time's years, it suits me not to say
How many, since that joyous day,
Have watched and cheered thee on thy way
O'er Duty's chosen path severe,
And seen thee, heart and thought full grown,
Tread manhood's thorns and tempters down,
And win, like Pythian charioteer,
The wreaths and race-cups of renown—
Seen thee, thy name and deeds, enshrined
Within the peerage-book of mind—
And seen my morning prophecy
Truth-blazoned on a noonday sky,
251

That he, whose worth could win a wife
Lovely as thine, at life's beginning,
Would always wield the power, through life,
Of winning all things worth the winning.
Hark! there are songs on Summer's breeze,
And dance and song in Summer's trees,
And choruses of birds and bees
In Air, their world of happy wings;
What far-off minstrelsy, whose tone
And words are sweeter than their own,
Has waked these cordial welcomings?
'Tis nearer now, and now more near,
And now rings out like clarion clear.
They come—the merry bells of Fame!
They come—to glad me with thy name,
And borne upon their music's sea,
From wave to wave melodiously,
Glad tidings bring of thine and thee.
They tell me that, Life's tasks well done,
Ere shadows mark thy westering sun,
Thy Bark has reached a quiet shore,
And rests, with slumbering sail and oar,
Fast anchored near a cottage door,
Thy home of pleasantness and peace,
Of Love, with eyes of Heaven's blue,
And Health, with cheek of rose's hue,
And Riches, with “the Golden Fleece:”
252

Where she, the Bride, a Mother now,
Encircled round with sons and daughters,
Waits my congratulary bow
To greet her cottage woods and waters;
And thou art proving, as in youth,
By daily kindnesses, the truth
And wisdom of the Scottish rhyme—
“To make a happy fireside clime
For children and for wife,
Is the true pathos and sublime,”
And green and gold of Life.
From long-neglected garden-bowers
Come these, my songs' memorial flowers,
With greetings from my heart, they come
To seek the shelter of thy home;
Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom,
And all unmeet for gorgeous room
Of “honor, love, obedience,
And troops of friends,” like thine.
I hope thou wilt not banish thence
These few and fading flowers of mine,
But let their theme be their defence,
The love, the joy, the frankincense,
And fragrance o' Lang Syne.
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