Lyrical and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye warriors, who gather the brave to deplore,
And repine for the Chief, ye shall witness no more,
Let the hatchet of fight still unburied remain,
Whilst we joy in the glory of him that is slain.

Unbounded in soul, as unfearing in fight,
Yet mild as the dove, when untempted to smite,
His arm was resistless, his tomahawk true,
And his eye, like the eagle's, was lightning to view.

Far down in the valley, when ev'ning was still,
I heard the deep voice of the Wolf

Mad Wolf—This Chief was the one who shot Mackintosh, exclaiming to him, to die by the laws he had himself made.

on the hill;
“And hark,” said the Chief, as it echoed below,
“Tis the voice of Menawe,

This was the Chief, who commanded the party, about two hundred, who went in pursuit of Mackintosh.

the cry of my foe!

“He comes not, the coward, to mingle in fight,
“Whilst the day-god can offer one streak of his light,

But in darkness that emblems his bosom's own hue,
He seeks to perform what he trembles to do!

The Chief took his rifle, unerring as fate,
His eye glow'd as proud as his bosom was great;
I heard the flint strike on the steel, but in vain,
For I heard not the rifle re-echo again!

This is but partially true. Mackintosh did attempt a defence, but his aim, and not his rifle, was defective.

Go, sigh not away as the coward has done,
The remnant of life o'er the fields we have won,
But a mournful farewell to our fruit-trees

That their fruit-trees, should seem an object of regret at parting, when there were other, and more powerful motives for grief, may seem in our eyes absurd; yet I have good reason for the line. Of the Plum they are passionately fond. I have ridden for an hour under one continued orchard, that fringed the road.

we'll leave;
They o'ershadow our fathers, they shelter the brave!

Farther west! farther west! where the Buffalo roves,
And the red-deer is found in the valley he loves;
Our hearts shall be glad in the hunt once again,
'Till the white man shall seek for the lands that remain.

This is literal; I observed to an old Chief of the Mackintosh party, on reading to him the articles of the late treaty which was received while I was in the Nation, that he would find good hunting grounds in the west—plenty of buffalo, deer, &c. “Ah!” said he, “after a momentary brightening of countenance at the intelligence; yet when we get good settled there, and the pipe smoke well, whiteman will want more land.” This needs no comment.

Farther west! farther west! where the sun as he dies
Still leaves a deep lustre abroad in the skies;
Where the hunter may roam and his woman may rove,
And the white man not blight, what he cannot improve.

One song of regret to the wilds that we leave,
To the Chief, o'er whose grave still his warriors must grieve;
He died as a hero, and equall'd by few,
Himself his worst foe, to the white-man too true.

Farther west, Farther west, it is meet that we fly
Where the red-deer will bound at the glance of an eye;
Yet, lonely the song of our parting be sung,
For the arrow is broken, the bow is unstrung!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SCIO.

Oh! midnight shall wake thee, with music and jar,
And thy dark rocks shall echo the thunders of war;
For the desert is lit by the swords of the foe,
And the Vizier himself, now descends to the blow.

The dark-brow'd Egyptian, no longer shall roam,
O'er the Ocean of Desert, that still is his home;
From the reach of the Siroc's red-breath shall he flee,

But that Siroc shall fall, with its weight upon thee!

What tho' aid denied by the stern Janizar,
And himself with his kindred and people at war,
Yet, thy foeman shall wake thee, no longer to rest,
And sheathe his own yatagan deep in thy breast.

In vain with the tongues of thy babes shalt thou plead—
Ho! think'st thou, the Vizier, experienced in deed,
Brings one, 'mid that forest of locusts, who dares
Understand the deep language of suffering and tears?

Not Janina's dark Pacha when roused into rage,
Is less quickly deceiv'd, or less hard to assuage,
For the heart of the Arab, like the tiger can feast,
Whilst he laps the warm blood, from the still throbbing breast.

As barren and gorgeless as his desert, he preys
Like that tiger insatiate, on all that he slays;
And leaves the foul banquet with bosom imbued,

With the instinct of slaughter, and hunger, renew'd.

There was pride in each heart as the Soul of the past,
Awaken'd the forms of the sleepers at last!
And the spirit of vengeance, had whetted each sword,
Whilst the chains were all snapt of their Ottoman Lord!

But in vain was the pride of that morning beam shed,
For at eve the sun set in a garment of red:
And at midnight, the voice of the clashing gong broke,
The sleep of the sleepers who never awoke!

Oh! fearful and wild, was their first waking breath!
For the shout of the foe, was the summons of death:
And the shrieks of the infant were hush'd on the stones,
Where its lullaby sad, were its parents last groans.

Thy brow, rocky Scio, has a circlet of red,
Thy breast with a garment of ashes is spread;
At eve the sun set, with a smile on thy shore,
At morning it rose and beheld thee no more!

But thy blood shall replenish the veins of thy sons,
And thine ashes shall rise as the smoke from their guns,
Whilst the spirit that bore thee, to death in the strife,
Shall lead them to glory, to freedom and life.

SONG.

Oh! think not memory lives in vain,
Since it can still recal
That vision of my heart and brain,
Which tho' it led to grief and pain,
Was sweetly worth them all.

Think not that other prospects shine
More pow'rful o'er my heart;
The forms I witness, tho' divine,
Can never cope with charms like thine,
Or equal what thou art.

Think not, tho' winter in his flight,
May bring some weary hours,
That I neglect to hail the light
That led my happy steps at night,
To rapture in thy bowers.

Think not—ah! can I then deny,
That lonely thought to thee,

Which still, however far I fly,
Beneath a mild or desert sky,
Will never part from me?

CALM AT SEA.

Calm, o'er the wave! the listless sail
Hangs lifeless on the mast;
The sea, without a single gale
Appears to sleep at last;
And mirror'd in its face, the sun
Intensely sheds its ray,
So bright, that ye might deem, but one
Rich gem, around ye lay!

The Pirate rears his bloody flag
And leaves the Cuba shore;
Blow, breezes blow! for if ye lag
We hail that sun no more.
And should our hapless fate be such
We'll wrong not nature so,
To think that hearts who've sigh'd so much
Will feel no trace of wo!

Ripple ye waters into smiles,
The sun's vast mirror break,
Whilst far behind these dreary isles
Shall vanish in our wake.

The current runs, and o'er the wave
Night's form appears in robe of dun;
Blow breezes blow! and let us leave
This listless sea and tropic sun!

DEATH OF KING PHILIP.

Of this formidable foe of the English, much may be said. Worthy of the proudest niche of remembrance; he continued his undeviating hatred to the whites, not from any wanton desire for rapacity and blood, but a prophetic knowledge of the ultimate ruin, through them of his race. Time has shewn. I have not adhered to history; yet the outline is drawn from Trumbull's puerile and quaint book on the Indian wars, which, however contains some interesting facts.

'Twas in a vision of the night,
The spirit of that eye
Which tracks the future in its flight,
And sees the past go by—
Came o'er my bosom—I beheld
The past, its mingled scenes unveil'd
In dark confusion fly.

It was a dreary scene, and dim
As with ten thousand lights,
Must be the anxious gaze of him
That sees these varied sights;
That come in wild and mingled crowd,
The high and humble, hase and proud,
That time unsparing blights.

New scenes now flitted 'neath my gaze,
My native land I see,
As now the fitful gleam betrays
Its shadows distantly—
But who are these with swarthy brow

That look and gaze around them now
So wild and anxiously.

And one is there with musing eye,
The chieftain—ye may scan,
Whose cheek is stain'd with purple die—
A proud and lonely man!
He sat upon the ruin'd stone
That mark'd an ancient warrior gone,
Ere yet his race began.

His Chieftains, are they all around—
The few—the brave are there,
More lofty in that narrow bound
Than any other sphere—
They sit upon the moss-grown rock,
Upon their lips, the curl of mock,
The sternness of despair.

A smile is stealing o'er his cheek,
But it has sadness too,
As 'midst that band he fain would seek
Some fellow warrior's view;
Yet sad, as turning from that gaze
His cheek no more the flush betrays
That it was wont to do!

He look'd upon the dashing wave,
And bade his warriors nigh:
I listen'd as the monarch gave
His signal battle cry,

Then laid him on the rocky height,
Whilst slumber stole upon his sight,
A nation watching by.

[OMITTED]

Now o'er the mountain's rocky brow
Why leaps he in dismay?
He calls upon his fellows now—
“The war-cry and away!
The white-man, foe,” 'twas all he said,
And shook on high his battle blade,
And sought the coming fray.

But when around, beneath the sight
No foe-mens forms appear;
His warriors rising forth in might,
No coming foe-men hear—
“They come,” he cried; “ye may not see,
“But I have seen, and it will be—
“So perish they who fear!

“Rock of my sires!” 'twas thus he spoke,
“This is my latest field,
“And on thy brow, the dart be broke,
“That ne'er was made to yield—
“Pursuing still, the foe-man's feet
“Shall with your dying monarch's meet,
“And he no spear shall wield.

“Eagle, that seeks the highest course,
“And tracks the darkest sky;

“That never sought a lowlier force,
“Nor fear'd at last to die—
“I joy that time has hid his form,
“For now thou'lt perish in the storm,
“Thine own red-warriors nigh.”

So spake the monarch, and his brow
Grew darker in its hue;
His eye assumed a vengeful glow,
As o'er his band it flew;
Then sung he in a manly strain
The deeds he'd done, and those again
His soul had sworn to do!

SONG OF PHILIP.

I lay on the breast of the mountain,
The raven was flapping his wing,
And like the warm gush of a fountain
Drew the blood from my hearts deepest spring.
The winds thro' the forest were sighing,
O'er the grave of my father they came—
I saw the old warrior, around him were lying
The symbols of fight, for the many were dying
'Midst havoc, confusion and flame.

He stood and his hatchet was shiver'd,
The spear had been left in his breast;
And the lip of the warrior quiver'd,
As he look'd on the deep purple west;
But it was not fear that depress'd him,

In the fond dream of rapture he fell,
And the lip of the prophet had bless'd him,
Ere he bade his own forest farewell.

Overaw'd by his presence—I dared not
Look up at the form of my sire—
I trembled, altho' my soul fear'd not
The glance of his dark rolling ire.
No! the Eagle that's soaring unbounded,
Except by his own native pride—
Not the Viper Mohegan's

Branches of the great Narragansett stock, who fearful of the aggregated power of the properly-named, “Great Philip,” sided with him in his numerous wars, and shared in his extermination.

dark glance has confounded,
And the Nipnet

Branches of the great Narragansett stock, who fearful of the aggregated power of the properly-named, “Great Philip,” sided with him in his numerous wars, and shared in his extermination.

has dared not attack tho' surrounded,
The Tiger that prowl'd by his side!

“And where is thy bow and thy quiver?”
At length the dark crocodile spoke;
“Thy hearts blood shall crimson yon river
“And thy people shall bend to the yoke:
“Already thy foe is advancing,
“Awake from thy slumbers and see
“Their blades thro' the forest leaves glancing,
“Their lances all buried in thee!”

He turn'd as he spoke—I beheld him
Look dark on the shades of the west;
The spirit now seemingly swell'd him
As I watch'd the deep throes of his breast!
A light from his dark eye was beaming,

I followed his gaze in its flight,
And saw thro' the woods faintly gleaming,
A warrior blade, and the long plume streaming
Beneath the pale moon's misty light!

“Now the foe-man is on thee, go slumber,
“'Till thou wakest behind the dark hills;
“Whilst thy blood shall his faulchion encumber
“'Tis disgraced by the heart which it fills.
“Arise from thy sleep and awaken
“The hope that once gilded thy band,
“If thou diest, be thy land not forsaken,
“Tho' thou diest defending that land!”

He vanish'd—I rose—a cold tremor
Relax'd every nerve of my frame:
I hear him—“Thou womanish dreamer,
Remember thy nation and name!”
Thro' the mists of the valley appearing
In the dream of this moment they shone,
I have drawn the bright sword in my daring,
I have waken'd the bosom unfearing,
Let them come, and I care not how soon.

The Eagle has never yet cower'd,
And the Mohegan's arrow ne'er flew
To the rock where his mighty wing tower'd,
'Midst the freshness of heaven's own dew!
He has glow'd 'neath the sun's earliest splendor
It inspired with vigor his frame;

Can the bright wing that soars so, e'er bend, or
Be dimn'd with the dark cloud of shame?

I shrunk not, tho' worn and surrounded,
My hatchet was madden'd with blood!
I fled not, tho' trampled and wounded,
But drank of the dark streaming flood!
And who in the battle's confusion
Ere saw me withdraw from the fight?
The Mohegan whose blood is pollution
And the Nipnet dark slave of delusion,
Lives not that dare say it to night.

Let them come then—the freedom our fathers
Once gave us, if lost it must be,
I care not how soon death's arm gathers
The leaves of our fast falling tree—
But 'twere shame to the shades of the glorious,
Who have gone to the valley of maids,
That their children should come not victorious
Or follow'd by enemy's shades.

Then draw ye each bow and prepare now
To battle the foes of your land—
Let one bosom but tremble, or fear now
And he dies by his own monarch's hand!
The shades of our fathers attend us,
Ye victims of battle draw nigh,
Let Manitto scorn or befriend us,
Be it ours to conquer or die!”

He paused—his warriors gather'd round,
Nor sought they vain reply;
True valour never yet has found
It difficult to die!
And in their monarch's song, they knew
Each lot was cast, and they who flew—
Again would never fly!

There is a smile upon his brow,
As o'er the distant bills
The sun with streaks of early glow,
The dark horizon fills—
That sun shall rise no more to him,
Nor shall he live to see it dim,
Beneath the western rills!

But tho' he'll live no more to see
Its red light streak the verge
Of that wild land, which once was free,
As oceans proudest surge—
Yet will he not the chain behold,
That dares his native land enfold,
Nor hear her glory's dirge.

And now his band is compass'd round—
Prophetic was that dream—
And death on easy terms is found,
Before the mornings gleam;
And ere the day had fully broke
Night's slumbers—fate had cast its yoke
O'er Philip's latest beam.

I saw the monarch wave his axe,
I heard his war-whoop cry
From men that never turn'd their backs,
And battled but to die;
I saw him combat hand to hand
With one, whose blood is on the sand—
Another came, like cataracts
They rush together to the strand—
His hand is on the Indian's throat,
Whose lips begin to quiver—
Those are the monarch's plumes that float,
His best blood's on the river!
Yet once again his war-whoop rose
Upon the wind—and all is still!
There's blood upon the stream that flows,
And red hues tinge the hill—
Their monarch bade them never yield,
And not an Indian left the field!

THE CAVALIER'S CALL.

The ray of ev'ning's tender,
It flashes o'er the deep,
Oh! fly and hail its splendor,
And cease fair maid to sleep!
What dream of fancied treasure,
What prospect of the heart

Can match the guileless pleasure,
That moon-beam can impart?

Thy Cavalier delaying,
Awaits thy form with joy;
His life is spent in straying
Then give his heart employ.
Descend in all thy beauty,
And bless me with thy ray;
Impatient yet with duty,
I grieve at thy delay.

As o'er the fleece of heaven
Those stars, that moon attend,
A grateful duty given,
Their lights with her's they blend;
So let thine eye of brightness
Bestow its ray on me;
Whilst life and love and lightness
My heart shall gain from thee.

Then come, for soon the splendor
That lends us now its ray;
In shadow will grow tender,
And fade in gloom away.
Then whilst the hours are flying
Oh! clog with sweets their flight,
And come with look complying
And bless my heart to night!

BENEDICT ARNOLD.

Columbia shall tell of thy splendor,
Whilst her history repeats each proud name,
Nor the deeds, 'twas thy fortune to render,
Shall be totally eclipsed by thy shame!
Whilst she tells how thy baseness betrayed her
To the rage of a vengeful invader,
Shall she also renew the proud story,
Where thy gallantry led her to glory!

The beloved of thy country! the cherish'd
Of the greatest and purest of men!
In thy Suicide of Soul, thou hast perish'd
And what can restore thee again!
For the deeds thou hast done, we esteem thee,
For the deeds thou could'st do—we'd redeem thee,
But for what thou'dst have done we will hurl thee from story,
Who might have been first in our annals of glory.

Go Recreant, and tell to the nations,
That the blood 'twas thy fortune to shed
By that one act, is like the libations,
Pour'd out to the use of the dead!
The scars that thou gained'st for freedom,
A column to fame we've decreed 'em,
Whilst thy spirit and name we have hurl'd from our story
The Pleiad that's lost to our banner of glory!

OH! TELL ME NOT

Oh! tell me not, that newer scenes,
Shall tempt my roving sight;
From change of prospect, changing miens,
The tearful eye of memory gleans
Few trophies of delight.

To former hours of joy, she turns,
With wistful, anxious eye;
And if her pulse no longer burns
With former pride, she never spurns
Past pleasures careless by.

The roving form, which cannot find
One tie to chain its feet,
No chords of feeling e'er can bind,
It is the cheerless, flowerless mind,
That joy should never meet.

And Love's a rover, oft they say,
Who ne'er his influence knew;
Ah, no! for wand'ring far away,
His thoughts and footsteps back will stray,
And prove his bosom true.

SUMMER,

Written in the Choctaw Nation.

Now, in her glowing livery of flow'rs,
New sprung, and fresh created from the bow'rs,
Where Spring pours forth her horn of fruits and teems
The valley with its flowing rills and streams,
Comes forth the laughing eye, flush'd cheek and streaming hair,
That curls and wantons o'er a neck as fair,
Of gay and revelling summer. At her glance
Winter recedes, and from his icy trance
New freed, bounds forth the torrent and asserts his sway
O'er the old furrows of a former day.
The mountain wears no more the brow of age,
And nature leaves her wither'd hermitage,
To live 'midst fruits and flow'rs and freshen'd stems,
And kindles at the streamlets moon-made gems,
Whose banks support a grassy fringe of green,
Reflected in the pebbly bed, that's seen
Rippling in smiles, and whispering to the trees,
Thro' which steals gay and gladly, the young breeze,
Playfully murmuring like a swarm of bees.
The lizard steals upon the freshest flow'rs,
As death gives shadow to our sunniest hours;

And the gay butterfly on varied wing,
Pursues the insect that it cannot sting:
And all is life and fragrance; let us fly,
My gentle steed, to that far distant sky,
Where nature seems more lovely, as more dear,
The lowliest flower that I meet with there!
Away, my stag-eyed deserter, we'll greet
The home of childhood, made by change more sweet!
Away, thou sluggard! I would hail again
The cheek of pleasure, made more dear by pain!
Swifter than summer's pinions let us flee,
Where much shall then be thine, and more for me—
My steed, the sun grows fervid, and the day
Is long—we can o'ercome much space, away, away!

OH! MINGLE NOT

Oh! mingle not, in other days,
When life shall shine more fair,
To damp the kindling voice of praise,
With feeling's smile—one tear!
The grief that's felt for him, that's lost
Himself, to every pain,

Will ne'er repay the throb it cost,
Nor peace restore again.

The tear that falls from memory's breast,
One speechless rapture gives;
To feeling's soul, a greater test,
Than smiles for him that lives!
No voice of interest tempts the stream
To fall in practised wo;
Nor splendor, nor ambition's dream
Ordains that tear to flow.

No! 'tis the tribute of a heart,
Where feeling still presides;
That chain which time can never part,
And death alone divides!
Yet, mingle not, in other days,
When life shall shine more fair,
To damp the kindling voice of praise,
With feeling's smile—one tear!

THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.

She sought him thro' the bands of fight,
'Midst many a pile of slaughtered dead,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light,
With form that shudder'd at each tread:

For every step in blood was taken,
And more than woman's soul had shaken,
Unused to such, to glide alone,
Where death had raised his gory throne,
Wide, proud, of many a scarce cold bone.

She sought him, for whose vow of truth,
She left the well loved scenes of youth,
To share his fortunes, join his fate—
For that, alas! she came too late.
Already, night, a breathing time,
Had given to war, and gorgeless crime;
Had spread her mantle round to hide,
The blood, the sun had blush'd to see,
And leapt to join the briny tide,
And paled the face of victory.
The conflict urged from morning's dawn,
With unabated hate and rage,
Which blood, fatigue could not assuage,
Now paused, when evenings veil was drawn.
But not that hate, had felt remorse,
Oh! no! the sabre's rage was stay'd
'Till morn should give its owner force,
To flesh again its crimson blade.

She sought him, where a pile arose—
There war had struck her deepest blows—
Nor utter'd aught of many woes.
Tho' trembling still, her hands essay'd,

To smoothe the tresses of a brow,
And cleanse the face from dust, the blade
From stain, tho' dreading much to know,
(And trembling still, with innate fear,)
Her bosom's hope, her heart's despair.

She sought her lover's form no more—
But, when the sun with light renew'd,
Rose o'er the field of clotted gore,
That maidens lip was glued,
To one, apart from all the rest,
Who bore his death upon his breast!
Nor sigh she gave, nor tear she shed,
Her heart was still, its pulse was fled—
The maiden was already dead.

ON MY BIRTH-DAY.

My nineteenth year! old Time has brought
At last, the hour so fondly sought,
Yet what have I to boast?
He comes, and where is glory's wreath
Ambition's goal and measured breath,
The pomp that rules us most!

What have I done, that I should dare,
Again invoke the circling year,
To give maturer flow'rs?

Or, what the joys of nineteen years,
Class'd with the sorrow, shame and tears,
Of all those by-gone hours?

Tho' Love has lent its flow'ry wiles,
And gentle Beauty's tears and smiles
Alternate swayed to madness;
Yet the same Time that gave the joy
Has in his circle brought th' alloy,
And mingled life with sadness.

Visions of light! that like the bow
That clasps the aerial arch below,
So beautiful and fleeting;
Soft as the west-winds breath ye came
In balmy fondness o'er my frame,
That loved the tender greeting.

And like the harp which breathes soft words,
When young Eolus wooes the chords,
With many an amorous token;
He dares to breathe in ruder strain,
The madness of heart, soul and brain,
'Till ev'ry chord is broken!

And so, when pleasure lent its charms,
And beauty trembled in my arms,
With furious rapture glowing,
I rudely dared to seize too much,
'Till pleasure sunk beneath the touch,
That passion was bestowing.

My nineteenth year! and what a dream
The past presents; a varied gleam
Of parti-coloured folly:
Each year has brought its different feeling,
At twelve, Time came, young Love revealing—
At nineteen—melancholy!

A DREAM—A REALITY.

A veil of mist o'ershadowed my gaze,
And sleep came o'er the chambers of my soul,
And my fix'd eye was death-like, whilst the pall
Of darkness seem'd to curtain me, and light
Faded away in distance, till it grew
Even into shadow. Then a dream of dreams
Rose o'er my phantasy, and I beheld
The great of other days, the glorious crowd,
Sceptred, and those who cast the sceptres down,
The Fabii and the Cato's of old Rome,
The queen of kings and kingdoms and the world.
A deeper darkness pall'd my soul, and light
In the vast world of vision grew distinct,
And I beheld the glorious of all nations,
The great, the mighty 'mong the mightiest!
Columns and busts, and monuments arose
To trophy forth their glories. In the wide

And endless range of beauties, even beyond
The intellectual telescope of mind,
And its unbounded scope and scrutiny,
Cities, and vales, and mountains thickly grew,
Till the tired eye, fatigued forsook its task,
And closed upon their splendors;
But anon—
Over my sleeping vision broke the sound
Of wailing and of misery—I gazed, and saw
One beautiful land of glories, bath'd in blood:
Ruin and horror strode the plough-turned streets
And revel'd in their temples, whilst the arm
Of fierce colossal tyranny drag'd forth
The lovely and the grand—and they became
The vassals of his bounty—the base slaves,
Of all his mean desires, and meaner rule.

A few, the relic of their former soul,
The wreck of greatness, great amid the wreck,
Stood forth and battled for the sacred right,
That, delegate from Heav'n to fill each breast,
Immortal birthright! they could never lose.
The sun had set in heav'n and ris'n again,
And yet the fight prolong'd, proclaim'd how dear
Young freedom was to man. The dripping edge
Unsated with the conflict; and tir'd arm
Grew nerveless with the many toils of war,
But still the fight continued; yet unslack'd

The rage for human blood and human wo,
'Till Death himself was gorged with carcasses,
And loathed the banquet with satiety.
The few who fought had fallen—a glorious death,
Giving unclogg'd and never ending life.
The tyrant was triumphant, and the slaves
Who humbled at his beck, and cringed to serve
And caught the very whispers of his soul,
Ere yet his tongue could syllable his will,
Now shrunk within themselves and sought to quench
The burning brand of memory in tears!
Can this be Rome, and this Italia's shore—
These Romans? sprung from sires, as of old,
Who mock'd the world and bade her regal sway
Circle creations realm and bind the whole?

I turn'd away, and sicken'd at the sight—
But o'er my heart the spirit of gladness fell,
As I beheld the sunny vales of Greece,
Glowing with verdant mantle, and her hills
Crown'd with the happy freemen, by whose arm
The haughty Persian driven, forgot his pomp,
And sought inglorious his own realm again.

Once more the scene was changed, and I beheld
The broken fragments of a monument,
Whereon appear'd the glorious names of those,

Of yore, who scorn'd the life unbought with blood!
Beneath its shelter, from the sun, reclined
A weary man, his children by his side,
A pair of boys, that seemed too fair for slaves;
O'er whom a mother watch'd, within whose eye
Pale apprehension sat. The fathers gaze
Bore much of sorrow, but it was not grief
For long lost glories and the sway of mind,
But for the num'rous stripes his form received:
Base wretch! were there not many ways to die?
He knew not of the names and monuments,
That strewn around his footsteps, ever met
His ling'ring gaze, when no taskmaster near
Urged on his weary limbs, that once were free,
To complete the servile duties of the slave!
Their names he read—but they were names alone,
For no association of that time,
The other, long-past day of Grecian fame
Came o'er the lonely spirit of his musings.

His heart ne'er felt depression, when he saw
Daily beneath the conq'ring arm of Time,
And all his human ministers, inhuman,
Some relic of his country's glory fall!
The lichen grew above the lofty scite
Of former splendor, with its yellow fringe
Mocking the desolation, reigning round!

And he, the slave! curst parent of a race,
As cursed as he with ignominious chains,
That came the only heritage of life,
Except its feeling—say, what doth he here?

Oh! speaking desolation! he surveys
The monumental Pyramids around,
That tyranny could never quite destroy,
And yet he feels not—looks upon his boys
Hears too their artless prattle—of the things
That meet their gaze—and makes them no response:
When words from Greek, upon a spot like this,
Had roused a Grecian spirit in each stone,
To emulate the deeds of former time,
And live again, or die in solid phalanx,
Making each spot a new Thermopylæ.

OH! WANDER, WANDER HERE.

Oh! wander, wander here
Fair maid, for sweet's the fountain,
That bubbles down in streamlets clear,
From yon tow'ring mountain.
Fly, whilst day is high—
Joys will here delight thee,
For more lovely is the sky,
Where I now invite thee.

Leave, Oh, leave the crowd
That in courts is thronging;
To noisy revel, laughter loud,
No pleasure is belonging.
Fly where life will spring
With rosy touch to meet thee;
And where love will bring
Songs of truth to greet thee.

There the strain of love,
Sweetest, is unchanging,
Our pulses still will gladly move,
With no desires for ranging.
There the song that meets
Your ling'ring ear at even,
Morning still repeats
As she springs from heaven.

Then sweetest, sweetest, fly
Where the fleeting hours
Skim along a clear blue sky,
Over beds of flow'rs.
Where thy lip will glow,
And thine eye will glisten,
Whilst young Love will vow,
And young Beauty listen.

MAJOR ANDRE.

The visions of glory have bade him
The garb of the warrior assume;
And the hand of his true-love array'd him
With the faulchion, the helmet and plume.
Young Fancy in light is arraying,
The glories that round him are straying;
And Love with a promise assures him,
With the joys of the future allures him,
But they marshal him on to his doom.

With the mighty and brave he is steering,
From the home of his infancy now,
Whilst the past and the future is cheering,
Alternate, the pride of his brow.
In the past shall young memory elate him,
In the future shall glory await him,
Old Time on his journey shall linger,
Whilst Hope with his ruby-tipt-finger,
Illumines his heart with its glow.

Will glory, thou child of ambition,
Repay thee the bliss thou hast fled.....
For the shame of that foul coalition,
Which shall haunt even thy memory when dead?
Will the grief of thy country restore thee
The lightness of heart, that hung o'er thee?
Will her bosom that could not believe thee,

The guilty—O! can it retrieve thee
One glory to circle thy head?

We blame thee—that worthy of glory,
Thou forsook'st its fair shrine for a shade!
We weep thee—that born but for story,
From its niche thy proud statue must fade;
Or, if seen 'midst the many we cherish,
Thy name were far fitter to perish;
Or if parent of one kind emotion,
It is, that such gallant devotion,
On so lowly an altar was laid.

A SKETCH.

Regardless of the storm, I'll watch thee still,
And give no motive but spontaneous will:
I've loved, I love thee, when thy sun was bright,
My heart was changeless, and thy step was light.
Thinkst thou I smiled, officious but to lure,
The love, that well I knew was mine before?
Thinkst thou my heart form'd in a baser mould,
When others scorn'd and slighted, could grow cold?
No, my fond soul more proudly rose o'er fate,
Still did it love thee, and thou still wert great!
When all conspired to wound thee, thou wert sad,

And well thou know'st, my bosom was not glad.

Thou com'st at ev'ning, o'er thy weary brow,
I mark the clouds descend—I see them now:
That smile confirms me, 'tis a sickly hue,
It cannot bribe me, 'tis not worthy you!
Is not my bosom thine? tho' fortune change;
(And it has changed with you) 'twill never range:
Am I a burden to thee—thou art poor,
Then let me share thy lot, I ask no more:
The humblest pittance and the brownest bread,
The coarsest, lowliest cot or meanest shed,
So that with thee I share it, and thy brow
Wear a less doubtful shade than it doth now,
Is all I ask—nay, turn not thus aside,
I am thy other self, thine own, thy bride,
Her, whom thou said'st thou lov'dst and loved alone,
E'en when the plenty of this life were gone!
Come now, thou'rt ruined, 'twas a painful fall,
I see it in thy looks and know it all;
Thou can'st not cheat me with that stammer'd tale,
Thy tongue is truth's, and speaking else must fail.
Yet, if thy fortune hath been thus unkind,
Have we not stores of love, rich love behind?
Thou once desired no more, and deem not, I

So that thou lov'st me still, will ever sigh
For all its splendor—'twas a gaudy glare,
That we may see, and yet notwish to share—
Come let us seek our cottage—dost thou smile?
Then am I truly blest; it is no wile,
No fond deceit to lure me—I am blest,
That smile is Truth's, and peace now fills thy breast;
Now is my bosom happy; rest thy face
Upon my heart, and grow to my embrace!

MEMORY'S PAGE,

Written for a Lady's Scrap-Book.

It is proud, when the hopes of a nation
Hang lifeless, or lost, upon one—
When, tho' more exalted the station,
Its perils are sought for by none;
To stretch forth the hand of protection,
And quell the wild storm in its rage;
But ah! far more proud the reflection,
That we live upon memory's page!

Oh! what are the joys of ambition?
Can the pomp that a fortune supplies,
Repay for the servile submission
We must use in our efforts to rise?

Tho' sweet to receive the oblation,
Our pomp may exact from an age,
Yet ah! far more sweet is the station
Of remembrance, on memory's page!

Thus, tracing these lines shall reflection
Pourtray, (when the dark wing of Time,
Shall sever each present connexion,
By the influence of fortune or crime)
In colours still bright and undying,
Tho' the venom of party may rage,
That heart, which tho' far from thee flying,
Still lives on thy memory's page!

And happy is he, tho' forsaken,
By the visions of fortune or fame,
Who from memory's young bosom can waken
One remembrance, to hallow his name!
He may roam 'neath a wandering planet,
With sorrows no balm can assuage,
But his life, and the hopes that began it,
Still live upon memory's page!

SING NOT OF FAME!

Sing not of Fame! there was a time
Such songs had suited well mine ear,
And I had sprung thro' guilt and crime,
Ambition's syren notes to hear!

The wild alarm, the anxious thrill,
The expectant pulse that inly glows,
Have faded long, and left that chill,
Which hope long nurst, then lost, bestows.

Oh! rather sing of anxious hours,
Of waking nights, when all is hush'd,
When Rapture's self, asleep on flow'rs,
Dreams still of tears, that from him gush'd.

Nor pity thou, the heart so young,
Because its tale of griefs it gave;
Warm'd by such notes, from such a tongue,
It might again become their slave!

I HAVE NO HEART

I have no heart to sing of thee,
No tongue to speak thy praise;
For well I ween the theme would be
Too rich for prouder lays.
Yet can I tell, in humble strain,
Of all thy smiles and love;
And in the offering of my brain,
My hearts devotion prove.

Take then the song, however weak
The tribute that I bring;
Oh! as I've felt could I but speak
It were not vain to sing.
One hope I send in humble guise,
One pray'r—'tis breath'd for thee,
That thou may'st ever bless my eyes,
And I may ever—see!

THIS LONELY ROCK

This lonely rock at least, is free,
And here my harp may wake
Unheard, the song that breathes of thee,
Remember'd for thy sake.
That lyre so loved in other days,
Tho' now so faint its swell,
That they who join the voice of praise,

Can scarcely deem its mournful lays
Ere own'd one charm, or spell.

Its chords in mournful silence, long
Neglected, lay unknown,
Till memory kindled up the song,
Which brightened into tone.
And o'er the wires where passion sigh'd,
Exerts her ling'ring pow'r
With all the spirits former pride—
Whilst Feeling as her fingers glide,
Still weeps an endless show'r.

And here shall fancy yet renew
The measures of that tone,
Which brings to memory's treasured view
The raptures she has known.
Ah! better here in solitude,
With only memory's lyre,
To charm away the haggard mood
That still on feeling will intrude
'Till feeling's self expire.

SONNET.

If, from the morning of thy life, hath flown
The visions that illum'd it—if thine eye
No longer beacons forth, the luxury

Of innocent bliss within thee—and are gone
The hopes that lighten'd it, in youth, alone—
Then will I weep with thee—I did not come,
When life was blushing with voluptuous bloom;
But when its early flow'rs were lost and strown
Lifeless upon the waters, gliding down
The ocean of past pleasures—I will now,
Since thou'rt unnoticed by the crowds once known,
Bind young Love's wreath upon thy pallid brow—
See how the leaves are blushing; 'tis the tear
Of truth, of feeling that reposes there!

AT MIDNIGHT

At midnight did the Chiefs convene,

Whilst in the Choctaw nation, I was informed of the fact here related, almost literally, except that I have changed the character of the influence, which led the Indian to murder his friend, to one more natural in our view. The cause might more really, though less poetically, be found in Missionary-Introduced-Whiskey.

With many a cry of wild alarm,
'Till solemn silence hushed the scene,
As in prophetic charm;
When wild the cry of horror broke,
As thus a dark brow'd warrior spoke:

“I come to die—no vain delay,
Nor trembling pulse unnerves my soul;
Ye fellow Chiefs, prepare the way—
Let death's dark clouds around me roll;

My bosom feels alone life's dread—
There is no feeling with the dead!

Our tribe has lost its bravest steel;
'Tis well the scabbard follow too,
Since life no longer can reveal
Aught that can glad my view:
From its own home, I madly tore
The jewel, that my bosom wore.

He cross'd me in my hour of wrath,
And still with cruel love pursued—
An evil spirit dimn'd my path,
A film o'erspread my gaze, I view'd
No more the friend, I lov'd so well,
But some insatiate foe from hell!

My hand had grasp'd its kindred knife,
A struggle and I heard a cry—
It was the shriek of parting life,
For it is hard to die,
A friend or kindred soul to leave—
Now, there are none, for me will grieve!

Too late, too late I knew my friend,
Too late, had wish'd the deed undone!
'Twere vain, my bosom's grief to blend
With tears, that can restore me none,
(Tho' in unending streams they fell)
Of all the friend, I loved so well.

Far, wand'ring on the distant hills,

Yet, watching for the morning's dawn,
His spirit lingers near the rills,
Now anxious to be gone:
And only waits my kindred shade,
To bear it to the grave I made.

A general Indian belief, that the brave can never reach their heaven unaccompanied by the one who slew them.

His hatchet seen in gleaming light,
When first the warwhoop's cry is heard,
I've placed to meet his waking sight,
When carols first the morning bird!
Nor did my bosoms care forget,
His Pipe of Peace, his Calumet!

Prepare the grave, I long to fly,
To that far distant realm of bliss,
Where nought can dim the spirit's eye,
Or, lead the heart like this;
Where, morning owns no clouded shade,
And life is light, and undecay'd.

Oh, brother, whom I madly slew,
Then shall our kindred spirits join;
At morn the red-deer's path pursue—
At eve the tented camp entwine;
Close at one time the mutual eye,
And on one blankets bosom lie.”

No longer spoke the Warrior Chief,
But sullen sternness clothed his brow,
Whilst fate and anguish, fix'd and brief,
Proclaim'd him—ready now!

No counsel spoke—no pray'r was made—
No pomp—no mock'ry—no parade.

He walk'd erect, unaw'd, unbound;
He stood upon the grave's dread brink,
And look'd with careless eye around;
Nor did his spirit shrink,
The deadly rifle's aim to greet,
His bosom long'd its death to meet.

A moments pause—no sound was heard;
He gazed—then with unchanging look,
He spoke in pride, the signal word,
With which the valley shook—
And when the smoke had clear'd away,
The dark-eyed Chief before me lay.

SHADOWS.

[I]

There is a form, that I would view,
As thro' the mist it comes at eve—
It moves, it seems like one I knew,
For whom my heart must ever grieve:
It comes upon the robe of night,
Its form is flitting by me now,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light,
That would obscure its mournful brow.
Sweet spirit, by those heavenly airs,
That steal around my bosom yet,

By every thought that still endears;
The form of memory to regret!
By all the hopes I could not lose,
And yet have known the same as lost;
I would not (if I could) refuse
Thy sad attendance, mournful ghost!
The nightwind's growing chilly now—
Thy heart was once so gentle, kind,
That it must sink beneath the snow,
That's borne upon that wintry wind.
Come then, thy heart was once my own,
Thy bosom once to mine was prest,
Renew, sweet spright, the moments gone,
And seek the shelter of my breast.
I would not, (if I could) recal,
The moments of a former day;
'Tis pain, yet Memory fosters all—
Fond wretch! she fosters her decay!
There is no tone of thine, that's lost,
No song, no word of thine, that came
Like music, o'er a vale of frost,
Charming the ice-drops into flame;
That Memory does not cherish still,
In mournful token of the past,
Undying e'en thro' good or ill,
The only trophy, Care! thou hast!
Sweet spirit! could I but pourtray,
That trophy now before we part;
I'd point thee to my form's decay,

I'd lead thee to a broken heart!
There Memory drinks her own blue vein—
Self-sacrificed, her hope forsakes;
Feeds her own life, with her own pain,
And dies in every draught she takes.

II

Come, o'er the waste of waters blue,
The faded forms of other years;
Come, and recal my infant view,
My early joys and tears.
Shadows of former times! again
With icy lip, and sunken eye,
And mournful brow, and rattling brain,
Ye wander, sadly by!
I'll wake a harp of former tone,
Again of Being, shall ye dream,
And all that once ye deem'd your own,
Shall either be, or seem.
Sorrows, the shades of former years,
Joys, that ye thought could never fly,
Memory that spoke alone in tears,
Again shall meet your waking eye!
And whilst ye wander o'er the hours,
That wizard Fancy wakens yet,
Beware! ye rove in other bowers—
The Present, ye have never met.
The Present—lo! his form is here—
There's sadness in his very smile;
A mingled tint of hope and fear,
That cannot grief beguile!

A frozen image that was fix'd
In death's embrace, with smiling lips,
Whilst light and darkness there is mix'd,
Like Phœbus, in a brief eclipse!

DITHYRAMBIC.

Wake, O, wake the lyre,
Troll the chords along,
With a Pindar's fire,
Kindling into song;
In a wilder measure,
Still renew the tone,
Whilst Fancy casts her treasure,
From her flow'ry throne;
And the air is breathing,
Perfumes all around;
And the flow'rs enwreathing,
Have my temples bound.

Now in grandeur swelling,
Pour the notes on high,
'Till they burst the dwelling,
And mingle with the sky.
What is Life, that coldly
It should glide along?
Touch the wires boldly,
And fill my heart with song;

Till on magic wing,
In hues that heaven array'd it,
My buoyant soul shall spring
High up, to him that made it.

Now the wine is gushing,
Hues so purely bright—
And my cheek is flushing,
And my heart is light;
Time has fled affrighted,
Care has shrunk away,
No longer grief benighted—
Around us glows the day:
The day of joy and pleasure,
When Rapture's sun is bright,
And her magic treasure,
Fancy fills to night.

Strike the lyre, whilst flowing
The goblet teems again;
With all its magic glowing,
We cannot dream of pain;
The wing of joy is fleeting—
The rain-bow's varied glare,
That whilst the heart is beating,
Dissolves into a tear.
Let us grasp it madly,
Be the present mine,
And tho' it melts thus sadly,
Its tears be made of wine.

I COME TO THEE,

I come to thee, thou smil'st again,
With lips so rosy, red,
That sure it must be poignant pain,
When I have from thee fled!
I fly from thee—the big drops stand
Within those spheres of light;
Yet cruel! thou dost still command,
That I shall take my flight.

Which shall I choose—to mock thy word,
That comes in stammer'd tone,
As if reluctant—it implored,
To leave the task alone?
Or, shall I watch thy bosoms swell,
That seems in accents dear
To say, “whate'er my tongue may tell,
Oh! do not, do not hear.”

[I saw the love of Mackintosh, she lay]

I saw the love of Mackintosh, she lay
Upon the warrior's tumuli, and breath'd
Sad music, such as may be heard to stray
From mermaid, as her string of shells she wreath'd;

She lay upon the tumuli reclined,
And breath'd her song upon the list'ning wind.

Its tones were low and beautiful, they stole,
Like the low ripple on the O-co-ne wave,
When winds are sighing over it—the soul
Of feeling, mingled with the strain, and gave
A rich, and melancholy note, which told,
How all that love had sigh'd for, now was cold.

'Twas in that language, which the Indian deems
The sole-one in his fabled heaven, behind
The western hills, where rivulets nor streams,
Shall intercept the chase, or cloud the mind:
Where life shall be all morning, where fatigue
Shall never clog the form, tho' wand'ring many a league.

“And” sung the maiden, “shall the white man pale,
O'erspread our homes, and from the river's bank,
Pluck the red strawberry, and on hill and vale
Build the great house, from whence the swift-foot

The Deer. I have never heard it termed “Swift-Foot, but have endeavored to conceive in this, as in other instances, the originality and boldness of their figures of epithet.

shrank,
And from thy grave the cedar tree remove,
And each memorial of thy latest love!

“Yet, 'tis not this,” she sung in wilder mood,
Tho' nought of feeling stole upon her look,

“Not, that the cedar tree has not withstood
The ploughshare man, or that the silver brook
Must make the mill-dam, and the red-deer shrink,
No longer in its crystal wave to drink;

“But, that the Indian with the sun must glide,
To the big waters of the western sea,
And leave the vales and mountains, once our pride,
And thee, O, desert Arrow, fly from thee;
Where none shall know the story of the brave,
And strangers heedless, trample on thy grave.

Here shall thy spirit seek in vain to find,
When the pale white man has our land o'erspread,
Aught in the wilderness that may remind,
And tell thee of the glories of the dead;
The tall pine shall be torn away from earth,
As if it never had, in this wide valley, birth.

It is the morning's dawn, I know it well,
By the faint ripple on the silver stream,
And op'ning of the red flower's early bell,
And through the distant woods the faint light gleam;
Another day—Oh! Mackintosh will see
Thy woman wand'ring, from thy grave and thee.

The party of Mackintosh in the Creek nation are those destined to vacate their homes for others farther west.

TO --- ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Again the form of Time appears,
And with his shrivell'd hand,
He adds another to the years,
That mark thine early sand;
The hours that he has given to thee,
Are those of glad festivity—
As yet, his looks are bland;
But who can hope that life shall seem
Forever, but a joyful dream!

All human power and skill, are vain,
When Fate denies, to move
The rusted links of that dark chain,
Which fetters joy and love:
And binds the heart of frolic, 'till
There is no impulse to the will,
And all its wishes rove
Like phantoms o'er the dreamer's eye,
That glow and sparkle, flit and die!

Such lot, fair maid, may ne'er be thine,
And thou may'st haply glide
Adown this Beings sea of brine,
And never taste the tide:
And if Love's wishes can avail
In roving thro' life's varied gale,
Such lot were ne'er denied;
And thou might'st roam for aye, nor sigh,
The tenant of a lonely sky!

VIVE MEMOR LETHI.

Our life is two-fold—and the after time,
The course, unvarying, which we must pursue,
Lives in our full remembrance, 'till the hour
When Fate shall make the long expected change,
And give us that we dream of to enjoy!
The Traveller wakes at morning—let him mark
First at his rising, if the sun pursues,
His daily track unchanging—that he may
(A like resemblance) learn to trace his path
Thro' courses, which, nor earthly clog, nor bid,
When he has proved them worthy of himself,
Shall stay or fix as doubtful: So shall he,
After long travail in the time of trial,
Firm bearance of the buffettings of Fate,
And faithful, full acknowledgement of all,
The one, has providently given in store,
And grateful keeping, so direct himself,
That, when the minister of th' other life
Shall in his course of duty, wait upon him,
With his commission, which he cannot void,
And would not shrink from; He may render up
The duties of his charge with thankful heart;
Unquestion, join the caravan of death,
And mingle with the past, whose essence now,
Partaking of th' all pervading spirit,
Unshrinking from the survey, shall behold

The distant circumstance, the future view,
Unacted yet, on life's dark stage of cares!

So shall his bosom gladden him to find
His 'scape thus happy, as thus premature,
Ere other time had in its swift revolve,
Brought forth the mysteries, to him, that now
He sees unveiled, that have not yet their birth,
Save in infinitude—Time-known projected!

Ye may not scan the future, whilst ye still
Enjoy the present—since the after life,
That shuts the enjoyment of the former out
Alone can give it ye; ye die to live:
And in the wide survey that death affords,
Thus, indirect in giving birth to life,
The fathomless, unbounded, ye behold
Them all, yet feeling of their being none—
Partaking in your incorporeal life,
The scenes that ye survey; the sky, ye breathe,
And the eternal magnitude around,
Of which ye are a portion, and yet naught!

Time's born to-day; ye are distinct from all,
The innumerous like yourself, that float
On the dull mass around ye. Ye are born,
And time buds with ye: only, when ye leave
The wide association and admixture,
Of which ye are, and are not, it shall grow
Into another state of sustentation,
Fit to the sphere of which ye are a member,

Eternal as itself, yet void, unlike it,
As subject not to happiness or pain!

Yet in this earlier stage, when ye have don'd
The vesture of maturity, and proudly ris'n,
A fellow with the proudest, let your thought
Pre-eminent above the course dictation
Of worldlier passions, and the gust of sense,
Partake of that infinity alone,
Which surrounded, as ye are by rank mortality,
Ye feel in spirit still allied unto ye,
And ever in propinquity around;
Breathing rich incense from the other world,
That knows not the infirmities of life,
Of which ye are the semblance, and is free,
From all its doubts, deep pangs, corroding fears.

So shall ye emulate in thought and deed,
The ideal of the highest—till ye soar
Above the common stoop of apprehension,
And by extension of the innate mind
Assimilate yourself to Deity—mark not,
The lowlier spirit that would bid ye bow
In humbleness; in sackcloth, nor in ashes
Clothe your brow; and far less be your heart
A mingler in that grovelling of all,
That Deity itself has made to soar.
This, ye may not question not, since if your flight

Be with the loftiest—your soul will shrink
From aught that will impair its brighter glow,
Or dim it in the Heaven of Fame it seeks!

Yet be not proud—so that ye look around
With haught crest on your fellow, who may not
In that he has not striven, soar as proud
As in your lofty reachings: he can boast
Perchance, an equal fortune, inasmuch,
He that is lowly in his hearts desires,
And quelleth all his loftier aspirations,
Hast that, which in thy soarings thou may'st lack
Of peace and in content, and health of mind.

Science and Courage, Splendor, Pride and Wealth,
Of whom, Ambition in the wake of Fame,
Desires all men inherit, and impart,
Lineal and unimpaired to fostering years,
Percipient as the open love of rule,
And power unbounded—lofty for a time,
And rich in high perception, dense in one
Graceful as Ulysses, glorious as the gods
In plenitude of power, can outweigh
But little of the dark demands of death,
Who comes, and 'neath him these resolve to nought.

And what can pale Philosophy, that seeks
By midnight rambles thro' the fields of science
For the bleak ore of mind, that's seldom gain'd,
When gained, it's product but an earthly fame,
Of which he recks not, when his bones repose
'Neath the tall Pyramid, that crumbles too,
Even before it teaches its intent—Life is not life.
With wisdom, so does Life, teach of itself
Hourly—go search the stars—the wide
And fathomless waste of air—the deep blue
Of the far torrent; the continual roar
Of the volcano—from unmeasured depths
Rolling its volumes into light, to blast!
Search the mysteries of the yet unthought on,
Track the wide tempest and the fiery globe,
That rides portentous poised upon the air,
Filling with omens dire—what will it reck thee,
E'en though thou searchest thro' thy hidden nature.

Will Mind pre-eminent—unbounded skill,
And wisdom far above the ways of men
And known but to be wonder'd at—repay
For all the countless moments spent in pain,
O'erstudy, deep hard watching, burning brow,
Contracted o'er the taper—when all around
Is nursed in quiet slumber—dreams of Peace,
And innate happiness?

Mind has its compensation. Ideal worlds,
Where spirits of departed myriads roam,
Are in the Poet's fancy. He surveys
In every leaf—each waving tree or bush,
The form of some enjoyment. Ariels come
Obedient to his beck; and sylphlike forms,
Whose breath a softer, dearer incense gives,
Than eastern realms—whose lips are form'd to love,
And breathe the tales of lovers, and whose eye
Might fix the roving God, himself, are there
To mingle with his musings, and to fill
His heart with hope, and nerve him to success.

Then go, and if ye strike a middle sphere,
Deny the extreme, and in an even garb,
Sit down beneath the pleasant palm, and mark
(So that thou lend'st thine aid) the woes of man,
Thy fellow and thyself. Yet, rest thee not
In listlessness, lest old Time should come
With harsher looks than words, and ye shall go
Sad, with unwilling step, to seek thy home.
Then shall the giver of thy benefits,
Reproach thee with thy stewardship, and say
Thou didst forget—didst throw thyself laggard,
In soft luxuriance down, and slept, and dreamt
Thy profitless life away.

They gazed, 'till more intensely bright,
Each beauty of thy form was seen;
Still glowing—'till with even light,
Thou sat'st an element serene,
Amid a throne of liquid blue;
Whilst Phœbus as night drew his skreen,
Thy beauty and his gaze between,
Fond looks enamour'd threw;
And passion—fired erects his hair—
Then crimsoning the western wave,
And rushing forth to meet thee there,
That look of thrilling fondness gave,

Which still, altho' his ray be set
Will linger round thee yet!

Whilst Winter, wrapt in curling snow,
Pure as the wreath on morning's brow,
Startled, with anxious eye upturn'd,
And watch'd with look of wistful glow,
The magic light that o'er him burn'd—
And now no more, where all is dark,
His car shall ride the angry wind!
He dreams not as he views thy spark,
Of the soft climes he leaves behind:
And still he sees whilst borne away
To realms that own eternal snow,
In one undying, cloudless ray,
The light that mantles o'er his brow.

Nor did they gaze alone with awe,
For soon beneath thy milder light,
They saw the form of Day withdraw,
Then sought beneath thy gentle ray,
Those pleasing joys to taste, that they—
Had dared not in his sight.
So kindly watchful didst thou prove,
(Thus toying 'neath a myrtle tree)
For furthering the cause of Love,
They gave the name of Love to thee.

And there is sadness in thy smile,
Yet pleasing, for we well may deem
That there is one with gentle wile,
Who loves with equal beam.
Thou wert not doom'd to walk alone,
In silence round th' eternal throne!
Oh! no! far in the distant west
A little twinkler sheds his ray,
And bids with meek and filial breast
A farewel to departing day.

Yet, hardly seen, upon the fleece
That marks the sun's still ling'ring robe,
How do their tinsel forms increase
Upon the mantle of the globe!
Now stealing outwards, one by one
In silent majesty, each light—
And take their places 'neath thy view,
As regularly form'd, and bright,
As when in orbs of matchless blue,
They rose before the Creator's sight!

They gaze in pride and wonder, round
The heavens above, their own vast bound,
And lastly on the lesser ground;
Yet turning still, they own no grace
Can equal that which lights thy face!
Come, when the night with low'ring brow
And threat'ning look, portending wrath,

Ordains the tempest's breath to go
And scatter whirlwinds on its path:
Come thou, and in the ray that's shed
By thee, around the Pilgrim's head,
That, tho' the God of storms, conspires
To fill the skies with liquid fires,
Still bids him look with humble eye,
To that offended majesty,
And learn that, emblems station'd high,
Thy fellow lights and self must prove,
That God is still a God of love!
Thus symbols of himself, ye glow
With equal love, and he may see,
In this your calm and even flow,
A light to guide him, following thee.

Venus, evening star at this period.

THE MARTYR.

He stood unaw'd, tho' many came
To mock his dying hour;
Tho' cruel hands uprear'd the flame,
He scorn'd their hate and pow'r.
And whilst his hands were rais'd on high,
He gloried in his destiny;
Nor did his spirit cow'r,
When much oppress'd, his shrinking frame
Was bound upon the glowing flame.

His eyes were lifted up to heav'n,
His soul was spent in pray'r,
He begg'd that they might be forgiven,
Who manacled him there:
No anguish'd sigh from nature wrung,
Broke forth upon that Martyr's tongue;
But lost to every care,
His spirit seem'd already free
From mortal doubt and destiny!

They bade him look for help on high,
He bow'd, and bless'd them still;
They ask'd him, “does he hear your cry?”
He answer'd them, “he will!”
And still with meek submission rose,
His dying pray'r for all his foes,
Even those, his blood, who spill.
A spirit's light is on his brow,
A Martyr like his Saviour now!

WRITTEN IN MISSISSIPPI.

Oh! sweet among these spreading trees,
In noon-day's fervor to recline,
Whilst arching in the cooling breeze,
We watch the distant waving vine.
And at our feet the rippling stream,
In gentle murmurs glides along,
Free from the sun's oppressive beam,
We listen to the Mocker's song.

And nought disturbs the gentle lay,
Save thro' the pine-tops bending round,
The amorous wind pursues its way,
Scattering their leaves upon the ground;
Whilst far removed from noise or care,
Where man has scarcely ever come,
Borne swiftly on the drowsy ear,
We hark the noisy bee-tree's hum.

Oh! thus remote from worldly strife,
Without the toil that crowds await,
How sweet to rove the vale of life,
Unchanged by love, unharm'd by hate.
Where no extreme of joy or ill
Can urge or clog the steps of youth;
Where all of life, the wild and still,
But bears the impress stamp of truth.

Swift as the red-deer could my feet,
Compass the wastes that now divide
Thy form from mine, my more than sweet!
How soon I'd clasp thee to my side!
Here would we wing the fleeting hours—
Here taste each joy the heart can see—
Thou finding, at each step, but flow'rs,
And I, a fairer flow'r in thee!

THOU CAM'ST

Thou cam'st, when pleasure lit my eye,
And Hope's ray was unclouded—
Ere yet my cruel destiny,
Life's face in gloom had shrouded—
Thou cam'st, and rapture linger'd near,
Upon thy lip reposing;
Like birds, that fill with songs the air,
When morning is unclosing.

Thou cam'st, and love till then unknown,
In am'rous fondness found me;
He made my bosom all his own,
And scatter'd sweets around me:
He lit my heart with many a joy,
And tuned each string to gladness,
'Till reason came, and soon the alloy,
Gave uncontrolled sadness.

Thou com'st not now—no longer move
Those pulses—joy bestowing,
To meet the genial arms of love,
With more than passion glowing.
I sought the apartment dim and lone,
Where ever I have met thee—
There stands thy untouch'd harp, whose tone,
But bids my heart regret thee.

And this may pain thy woman-pride,
To know, the heart that lov'd thee,

Would, uncomplaining, still have died,
Ere yet it had reproved thee!
Yet may thy bosom's happiness,
With him that thou hast taken,
Teach mine to feel its torture less,
Tho' in itself forsaken!

SONG.

The stars are high in heav'n, Love,
Look out, look out and see,
The fairy time that's given, Love,
To light my heart to thee.
Come, dim with eyes so bright as thine
The fairy, countless hosts that shine,
In sov'reign splendor, less divine
Than those which beacon me!

'Tis now the time, when Silence sealing
The eye-lids of her sister Night,
Whose friendly shade, the scene concealing,
Which love requires, who steals from light!
The tell-tale-moon, no longer roves,
To light our silent, secret groves,
But the gentle star, our bosom loves,
Thro' ev'ning's vale is bright!

Then, whilst the stars are glowing, Love
No longer thus delay,

But come that glance bestowing, Love,
Which rivals early day!
These stars shall be my upper shrine,
My altar, Love, this breast of thine,
Whereon I'll lay this heart of mine,
And see it burn away!

MY NATAL STAR.

Awake, my lyre, tho' sad the recollection,
That now gives fervor to thy trembling strings,
Yet, may thy strain, still soothe the deep dejection,
That, to my lonely bosom, coldly cling.

Perchance some note, renew'd, of other hours,
May fail to jar upon my care-worn breast,
And Time may strew, for once, his path with flow'rs,
And mercy bid the hapless mourner rest.

Here shall my form recline beneath the willow
So loved in life, perchance in death 'twill rise
Above my grave; its roots, my head shall pillow,
Whilst its long shoots, my bosom canopies.

My hand upon thy woe-worn chords shall wander,
And I will beg, from fancy's wreath to gain
One bud, from out the many she will squander,
To deck my lyre and consecrate its strain.

Some wilding rose, may bless my sleep, reposing,
Unknowing that it blooms above the form
Of one, the tissue of whose life disclosing,
Were gleams of moonlight, thro' an endless storm.

But will it bloom, o'er one, whose life has blighted
All that it clung to? For my Upas-breath,
Has wither'd every bud that once delighted,
Chill and pervading as the grasp of death.

Awake, my lyre, the moments that are fleeting
Command thee, quickly all thy strains prolong;
And, whilst life's last throbs in my heart are beating,
We'll meet death's form, with blandishment and song.

And thou shalt half destroy his chilling power,
And blunt the dart of venom he would send;
Wing, with a fancied joy, each weary hour,
And make me dream such visions cannot end.

And I will listen 'till the coming Even,
And half forget the tyrant-conq'ror's blow;
Ah! would it were, that with such dreams of Heaven,
My heart had never been deciev'd 'till now!

There's not a ruder breath than stirs the flow'rs,
The stars are brightning up, the moon is pale,
And shines with equal light on wilds and bowers,
Sleeps on the mountain, nor forgets the vale.

There is a star, that seems to wander o'er me,
Now bright it beams, now dimly seems to fly,
In paler lustre, as it moves before me,
As if 'twas link'd with my mortality.

Now gath'ring in deep lustre—how it kindles
In a rich flame, and brighter, deeper swell;
And now, behold, its magic brightness dwindles,
My Natal Star—'tis gone—my lyre, farewell!

AH! DEEM NOT

Ah! deem not love can pass away—
When all the ties of life decay,
That flame will still exist alone,
More bright, when all the rest are gone!

Love is not known, when fortune sheds
Her gaudy day-beam round our heads;
But when the hopes of life shall fly,
Before pale sorrow's spectral eye!

When Fortune comes with gyves and bands,
And Envy rears her viper hands,
And malice, with its upas-breath,
Taints e'en the atmosphere of death!

Then, when life's taper wanes away,
Before neglect, or chill decay,
Love keeps its vigils round its bed,
And still supports the aching head!

Drinks in the plague, that wastes the heart
Of him, with whom it could not part;
Tastes his last damp and clammy breath,
And from the lip it loves—drinks—death!

THE FOREST MAIDEN.

Oh! lightly beam'd the maiden's smile,
In careless mood, in royal bow'r,
Ere yet the stranger's step of guile,
Bore one soft beauty from the flow'r.
When stars were mingling in the sky,
And moon-beam's dress'd the rippling water,
Sung forth, in untaught melody,
The proud, the great Powhatan's daughter.

Oh! then, when ev'ning's empress shone,
Like some rich eastern prince, alone;
When fleecy clouds but tipp'd the blue
Of the rich sky they wander'd thro';
And waves were rippling on in smiles,
Among the forest-circled isles,
Where, save the Indian borne abroad
By summer tempests, nought has trod—
And twilight's brown, if there it came,
Was crown'd with light, and robed in flame,
And fell upon the mountain's height,
Like clouds that wander forth at night,
To show the light that Phœbus gave,
Ere yet he sunk beneath the wave.

'Twas then, that far beyond her race,
And save in feature, all possessing,
Of gentle heart and fairy grace,
The European deems his blessing.
Of far advanced mind and soul,
Where, nature in a wayward hour,
Created her the perfect whole,
The bud of her own forest flower.
Adorn'd with that instinctive grace,
The bosom so delights to trace,
That speaks, and even can create
An active feature in our fate,
Tho' in itself inanimate:
That playful, more than childishness,
That sways to such a fond excess;

Tho' less in mind than manner, still
The perfect portraiture of will;
And makes, like soul, its magic sway,
Which still impulsive, we obey.

Hark! the warwhoop—shrilly sounding,
“'Tis my father” said the maid,
Like the sprightly red-deer bounding—
She has left the long arcade,
Where her fairy hands had singled
Flow'rs of every varied hue,
And in one rich arbour mingled,
'Neath her fostering care they grew!
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
As the flow'rs aside she laid,
“But why the warwhoop's note should sound,
When the hatchet's under ground—

The burial of the Tomahawk, smoking of the Calumet, or Pipe of Peace, and exchange of the Wampanoag, are the symbolical ratifications and assurances of the faith of a treaty.

Sure the Oneida cannot dare
Wake the vengeful voice of war,
When they laid the hatchet low,
And smoked the pipe three moon's ago.
The leaf was burnt, the calumet,
Wafted fumes that quickly met,
And the spirit from above,
Bless'd the sacred sign of love.”

Powhatan, his warriors has gather'd around,
A rock is his throne,
And his footstool, a stone,
And a circlet of feathers, his temples has bound

No courtier's servile bow is there,
But every head is raised in air,
And every one a warrior true,
A circle round his monarch drew.
The King, in conscious majesty,
Rolled around his fiery eye,
As the meteor seen on high,
Speaks of fearful things to be,
To all it sees, and it can see.
At his feet, and on the stone,
Sat a sylphlike form alone,
Whose long dark tresses streaming down.
Fell upon her shoulder's brown,
Whilst her cheek and eye, upturn'd,
With a fire unusual burn'd.

“Father, said she, when last we parted,
You said upon a Bison chace
You went, and every fawn you started,
A pet of mine, my isle should grace.
The isle with many a flow'r is bright—
The bow'r is all prepared to be
A prison for the fawn so light,
And I to keep its prison key.
You come, and I am all prepared,
My little prisoner to guard;
But, not the Bison's head, I see,
Nor yet the fawn you destined me.
I've sought my uncle, and he grew
More dark and madning in his hue!

I seek my father's face, and now
Behold the red spot on his brow.
What may this mean? no Bison chace
Ere roused that symbol on your face—
What may this mean? where'er I turn,
I mark an equal fury burn;
Your warwhoop sounded as you came—
The fatal truth—your brow is dark,
And where's my brother—ah! I mark
I view it in your shuddering frame.”
“Ay, Girl you have no brother now,
Nor I, a son—my hapless line,
A few short years will cease to shine;
And, if the mark is on my brow,
'Tis in my soul, and still must glow.
A fatal Bison hunt—but, heaven
A just and sweet revenge has given,
And I will pause, ere in my hate
And madness, I anticipate—
The torture, that the wretch must feel,
Who struck with too successful steel!
But that the foe is brave, even I
Who never felt like this before,
Could brush the tear drop from mine eye,
And like the prisoner slave deplore.

Impatient turn'd the anguish'd chief,
And bade a stern dark warrior nigh,
And whisper'd a command, which grief

Had made imperfect—“let him die,
As I decreed, before me now,
I cannot longer thus delay,
To see his blood, like water flow,
Altho' it spares my destined prey
The pangs that vengeance might devise,
To make him feel them, as he dies.
Let him appear, and meet his fate—
And if he feels his tortures great—
If one suppress'd, or sudden shriek,
His anguish, or his fear bespeak,
Then shall my heart perchance deny,
The wretch, the blessed boon to die,
Since, I were woman, to provide,
For my brave son, a coward guide.

[OMITTED]

The block is prepared, and the hatchet is bared,
And the chiefs are all nigh, with their tomahawk's reared;
The prisoner they bring
In the mid'st of the ring,
And the King bids a circle around them be cleared.

“White-man,” he spoke, “'tis thine to die;
Prepare the death song of thy tribe,
For, ere the sun shall leave the sky,
If thou can'st perish gallantly,
Thou'lt be beyond our scorn and jibe!

If that thou be'st the man I deem thee,
Altho' I hate, I must esteem thee.
Then, as a warrior, quick prepare,
The song, the spirits love to hear,
Who wander in the midway sky,
To bear the souls of those who die,
Like warriors, bravely, up on high.”

“Monarch!” the prisoner spoke, that fear
Has never been my bosom's care,
Thou may'st have seen, when last we met—
The bear-skin on thy limbs, was wet
With blood, which once own'd kindred tides,
With that which in thy bosom glides.”
“Tis well,” returned the Chief, “thy boast,
But tells me what my heart has lost;
And, tho' my foe, and one whom I
Have so much cause to wish to die,
Yet, has thy taunt, but nobly told,
That thou wert brave, and brave as bold.
Speak on thy death song, it is great,
To see the brave man meet his fate.”

“That, I fear not death,” the captive said,
Go, ask the many of your dead—
In battle field, with equal foes,
I neither stay, nor shrink from blows;
But, here, unarm'd, it were not well,
For brave men, that the chain'd man fell?”
“Give him a hatchet,” the chief spoke,
“A knife—now Captive, stroke for stroke!”

“No monarch! 'tis not this—my land
Wields not such weapons from their hand.”
Loud murmur'd then the chiefs around—
“Where is this people to be found,
These women, who can draw no bow
Nor swift the bloody hatchet throw.”

The monarch bade them silence, then
Address'd his captive foe again:
“Prisoner, I saw thee meet thy foe,
And bravely give him blow for blow;
But now, thou giv'st my thoughts the lie,
Thou art not brave enough to die.
He is a woman, I could weep,
That such as he could slay the brave;
Yet he must die, and I must keep
The coward from my brave sons grave!
His faithful dog, shall quickly die,
To keep the warrior's company.

See Note 11.

Be quick, nor long delay his death,
For fear that in his latest breath,
He taint my native land;
I would not have the warrior die,
Nor sound his glorious battle cry,
Nor boast his matchless brand;
But he—I pity, whilst I scorn
The tribe in which the wretch was born,
And whilst I look around,
I glad me, that I can descry,

Not one, who dreads the battle's sound,
Not one, who fears to die.”

They cast the prisoner on the ground,
With gyves from neighboring vines they bound,
And on a pine-tree's trunk they laid,
In very mockery of parade,
The captive's destined head.
The club is raised aloft in air—
The prisoner's features speak despair—
The warriors round, tho' used to see
The foeman die, yet seem to be,
In awful silence hush'd—
The arm that held the mace is bending,
The instrument of death descending—
No mercy in the faces by
Betokened humanity—
When forth that maiden rush'd,
From the low stone, where still affrighted,
She sat, her mental sense benighted,
And clasp'd the club, in its descent,
Whilst on her fairy knee she bent,
Pass'd one arm round the prisoners brow,
Laid her head on his own, and now,
Bade the stern warrior strike the blow.
Oh! Nature, thine the victory, thine
The godlike attribute divine,
That from the eternal fountain stole,
To purify the savage soul!
The monarch has smiled on his only child—

The prisoner is free to depart;
But the maiden is sad, for the peace that once clad,
Her eye and her cheek with its brightness so glad,
Has long since deserted her heart.
In her bower she sighs, and no bosom replies,
Her footstep no longer is light;
And one morning at dawn, the red-maiden was gone
From the vine-covered vale, and the flow'r mantled lawn,
To the home of the white man, by night.

THE EVENING BREEZE.

I come from the deeps, where the mermaiden twines
In her bowers of amber, her garlands of shells;
Where the buds are of gold, and of chrystal the vines,
Where the spirit of music unchangingly dwells.
I breath'd on the harp at Eolus' cave,
And the strain as it rose, glided onwards with me;
No dwelling on earth, but my home is the wave,
And my couch is the Coral Grove, deep in the Sea.

Has thy heart ever dream'd of some fanciful bow'rs,
That ceas'd, on thy waking, to ravish thy sight?
It was I, that arose on the wings of the hours,
And gave to thy view all those scenes of delight.
Would'st thou have all those visions so charming to view?
Wouldst thou dwell with the moon that now beams upon thee?
To the hopes and the fears of the earth bid adieu,
And fly to the Coral Grove, deep in the Sea!

With my breath, I will cool thee, when noonday is nigh,
The fairest of mermaids will lull thee to sleep,
She will watch by thy couch when the sun passes by,
Nor fly, when the moon leaves her home in the deep!
The delights of the past shall remain still thine own,
The sorrows of Time from thy slumbers shall flee,
Then come with me, taste of the raptures I've shown,
Come rest in the Coral Grove deep in the Sea.

SONG.

Columbia is a gallant barque,
And gallant tars defend her;
Her's is a sail, that cannot fly,
And never will surrender!
Where heaven displays its cloudless blue,
Where winds and waves can bear her,
Her voice in thunder speaks on high,
And distant nations fear her.

Her stars were rent from deepest night,
When tyranny was riding
From pole to pole, in awful might,
With none its wrath abiding.
Those stars within her banner placed,
Illum'd the world around her;
Whilst freedom came, with look of flame,
And from her chains unbound her!

And whilst the storm was flashing high,
And 'mid the lightning's glaring,
Those stars were seen to breast the sky,
With hope, the hopeless cheering.
And now those stars shall gleam aloft,
Where winds and waves can bear them,
Whilst freedom's votary still shall love
And freedom's foe shall fear them.

YES, LONE IS MY BOSOM.

Yes, lone is my bosom, if liken'd to thine,
And base is my soul, if it kneels to thy shrine,
And the heaven we worship, is false, if it be,
More true to the spoiler, than thy fortune to thee.

If the hope that has cheer'd me, thro' danger and death,
Be as easily lost, as its owner's frail breath,
Then 'twere meet that my heart, in its conflict should fly,
To the shelter of him, who decreed it to die.

If my hope of the future, as thou say'st, be vain,
'Twere but madness, to gaze on that future again;
And the eve of my life would be anguish to me,
Did I deem, that its prospects were shadowed from thee!

Thou may'st rule o'er the slaves whom thy fortune has made,
I am none, and by me, thou can'st ne'er be betray'd—
Thou did'st not confide to the traitor, whose shame,
Is purer and prouder, than thee, and thy fame!

ODE.

The song of Freedom floats again,
Around these holy walls;
And swifter than the comet's train,
Its sacred influence falls.
The wild grass o'er each Patriot's grave,
Luxuriant blooms;—no common earth!
The glorious dews that bid it wave,
Should teem anew a hero's birth.
Their sons, the sons of Fame and Greece,
Thro' by the humbler arts of Peace,
And follow him, who calls:
Peace! tis the reign of rest—but here.
What rest awaits us, but—despair!
The base, low crouching of the slave,
Who would not, if he could, be brave,
Whom every breath appals.

Throw by the Harp—'tis mockery now,
Ye Patriot Bards! no longer sweep
The strings that in accordance flow,
And tell of wrongs ye only weep,
When every heart, and arm should spring,
Nor thus to feet that spurn them, cling:
Our fathers fought, our fathers bled,
For rights, our fathers could sustain,
And shall it then to Greeks be said,
Your fathers fought in vain?

Your knees they were not made to creep!
Around ye look—this shore once thine,
This calm blue sky—these bluer waves;
Think ye that they were made to shine
Above, around a land of slaves?
Rise! deal the liberating blow,
At once to slavery, and the foe;
Each moment spent in peace, is shame
To all who bear the Grecian name,
'Midst wrongs so foul and deep.

These sacred ruins that uprear
Their turrets thro' the storms of Time,
Were ne'er 'till now, thus doomed to bear
The cry of pain, the curse of crime!
Here, with the remnant of his host,
The haughty Persian turn'd and fled;
Oh! worse than he—for Xerxes lost
Not Glory—ye have lost your dead!
The sacred few, who freely gave,
Their blood, their lives—Oh! would that now,
We could recal them from the grave,
To teach their children to be brave,
And perish if they could not save,
Beneath their Tyrant's blow!
These graves! ye recreants, can there be,
A greater trophy for the free,
Than mingled blood of every clime?
A glorious gift to sacred right,

To freedom, life, to slaves a blight;
A proud and glorious trace to mark,
The fall of Tyrants deep and dark,
A Tumuli sublime!
Oh, bid the flame again arise,
That warm'd that consecrated band,
Who shed their blood 'neath freedom's skies,
To—more than hallow freedom's land.

THIS FLOW'R IT BLOOMS

This flow'r, it blooms by a ruin,
But it's sweetness is dearer to me
Than the buds, which thy fortune is strewing,
Round the roots of thy family tree.
For it speaks to my soul of the blessing,
That my griefs only bid me retain;
The heart, which mine own is possessing,
And for which, thine has striven in vain.

Whilst this spot, where the Spirit of Fire
Has left in black ruins his mark,
Reposes in light, as the moon rises higher;
The proud halls of thy fathers are dark.
My soul is that ruin, and lonely
Tho' the home of my prospects, may be,
Yet bless'd with that flow'r, that single beam only,
'Tis more proud, than if cherish'd by thee!

CAMP MEETING.

And say, can the rites of devotion
Be given more purely than here,
Where the loudest and only commotion
Is caused by the winds roving near?
Can the pray'r that is breath'd by affection,
To the God that it deems ever nigh,
Be unworthy his note and acception,
Because it is breath'd 'neath his sky;
With no shrine of an earthly creation;
No dome in resplendency bright;
But his own winds to waft the oblation,
And his own Sun to guide with his light.

Had the Patriarchs of yore, when they wander'd
O'er the wild that was flame 'neath their feet,
Their time for rich palaces squander'd,
Would their pray'rs to that God been more sweet?
Tho' that shrine and that temple's erection
Were to him in origin given,
Oh! would it have led to connection,
With the shrine ever living in Heav'n.
Or, say, would the pray'r of that Being,
O'er whom fortune forever hath smiled,
Been more grateful and pure to th' All-Seeing,
Than the off'ring of misery's child?
Tho' the former in palace most splendid

The rites of acknowledgment gave;
Or the latter, whose off'ring was blended
With the winds of the desert and wave?

TO A WINTER FLOWER,

Written in the Creek Nation.

When winter comes with icy mien,
To silver o'er this brook,
Thy form in loneliness is seen,
By all forsook.

No shrub upon the fields remains,
To feed the watchful gaze,
Nor blade of grass the earth retains,
Nor sprig of maize.

The Indian here shall rest his eye,
And meditate alone,
That thou, when all his race shall die,
Will still be known.

Pensive in anxious, thoughtful mood,
His rifle at his side,
He'll wonder how alone thou'st stood,
When all have died.

What secret spring of life is thine,
Or, what art thou, to gain,

Such partial favor, as to shine,
Last of thy train?

Methinks such lot can ne'er be blest,
To feel ourselves alone,
On earth the latest, only guest,
When all are gone.

Then looking up from thee to him,
That made thy outcast leaf,
Shall wonder that his soul is dim,
And being brief.

That cannot with the sedgy grass,
That skirts yon streamlet's blue,
Compare the Indian warrior's trace,
When life was new.

PEACE.

Not in the halls,
Where mirth and merriment prolong the hour;
Nor 'mid the gorgeous walls,
Where wealth and pomp display the form of pow'r.

Not where the throng,
Heedless and wayward bow before the shrine,
Where fell ambition borne along,
Proclaims his march in minstrelsy and wine.

Nursed in no dreams
Of glory, or the boundless lust of rule;
Nor in the schemes,
Where he who seeks for fame, becomes its tool.

Love owns it not,
Since in its birth its own creation springs,
From shame, and blot
The progeny of all to which it clings.

Banquets afford
No charms for Peace, her vestments to unfold
Nor does the miser's hoard,
For she disdains the shrine that lives for Gold.

Has she a home
Amid the ball's festivity and glee;
Or, does she roam
Apart, among the hills, from converse free?

Doth her feet stray
Where commerce wooes on spreaded wing the sail;
Intent each day,
On the acquirement of life's wealth and bale?

Go, seek her form,
Not where the banneret of splendor shines,
Nor in the storm,
Where commerce seeks the wealth of Indian mines.

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Not in the crowd,
Where flattery's smile awaits the beck of power,
Nor, where the loud
And jocund viol bids to pleasure's bower.

But in the dome,
The couch for which dame nature yields her breast,
Peace builds her home,
And bids the weary wanderer come to rest.

Where, free from care,
The faded form of sorrow finds repose;
And wan despair,
In death obtains the peace, that Being never knows.

OH! LET ME DREAM

Oh! let me dream, since now, no more
Remembrance ever must awake,
And dreaming hours may yet restore,
What Time relentless still must take.
And it were well, if in the dream,
Where Fancy pictures unreal joy,
My heart once more could feel the gleam,
That once illumed it, to—destroy.

Perchance 'tis well, if reason's tongue
Can soothe the heart where passion reigns;

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Oh! had she earlier spoke or sung,
How had I listen'd to her strains!
But now, what lore of other days,
However proud its music be,
Can charm this bosom, or erase
From it, the grasp of memory?

There o'er the wreck, the ruin'd shrine,
My heart, my hope—the tyrant roves;
And revels in the vacant mine,
Of all its early dreams and loves.
Can reason now o'erpower the spell?
Can truth remove th' illusive veil,
And show me that, I lov'd so well,
A mist, my happiness and bale?

Then, tho' the truth before me rose,
The mists that clouded past away;
And all the phantoms, youth bestows,
Had vanish'd from the eyes of day;
Think'st thou 'twould cheer this gloomy heart
To know, when every hope's decay'd,
That what it cherish'd, as a part
Of its own Being, was a shade?

No! o'er the shrine of former joys,
Howe'er delusive, they may be,
Young Thought still roves, and never cloys
The ling'ring lip of memory!
There shall the heart forever pause,

102

Like madness o'er the lov'd one's grave,
Whilst Memory, like the Vulture gnaws
The life, that death alone can save!

AND DOST THOU TOO JOY.

And dost thou too joy in my fortunes decline,
Can the breast that once echoed so fondly to mine,
And the lip that so oft has but murmur'd with joy,
Now unite with the world, all my hopes to destroy?

I dream'd not of this, and my life was a dream,
But the scenes that were real, to me could not seem;
No, the hopes of my heart were the visions of light,
That decay in the tempest and fade in the night.

The dream was soon o'er, and the meteors that led
In the noon of my fortune, have vanish'd, are fled:
My hopes of the future are not with the crowd
For I know them, and feel them both selfish and proud.

I sunk not in gloom, when they smiled and betray'd;

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My soul was still proud, as when first it was made,
And I smil'd at the stroke, for my spirit was free,
And my heart was still blest in possession of thee.

If the heart that once beat in accordance with mine,
In its moments of pride, cannot share its decline;
It cannot regret, that thou joy'st to be free,
Tho' broken, 'tis proud, as when first lov'd by thee!

Oh! happy repose, when the dark wing of Time,
Shall flap o'er the couch of misfortune and crime,
May thy spirit be blest in the goal it has won,
And thy conscience approve, what thy bosom has done.

I will not reproach, with the voice of distress,
My last sigh shall teem, with the wish but to bless:
May the name that thou gainest, from thy sorrows be free,
And the heart thou attainest, be worthy of thee.

104

CAIUS MARIUS,

Amid the Ruins of Carthage.

Unbound, but overthrown, the Roman lay
Amid the ruins, by his own arm made;
Yet conquered not! proud still, as on the day,
When humbled Carthage, by his might o'er-sway'd,
Succumb'd; and 'neath her great Queen-rival fell,
Proud in her downfall; even as the sun,
Slow sinking 'neath the desert mountains dun,
Leaves a faint lingering trace to night, to tell,
That in his flight was glory. Can ye trace
Aught in his look to recompense disgrace?
Slow o'er the ruins round, his dark eye steals,
Tho' swift the vengeance that its glance reveals;
Whilst fierce conflicting passions, born to quell
The nobler fires of virtue, in it dwell;
Apt to consume, and deeming not to spare,
And tearing those, who taught him how to tear,
From human ties and feelings, prompt to slay,
Thirsty as Gladiator for his prey,
And needing but the shambles, to repay
The debt of hate, whilst pale remembrance wakes,
Revenge's red-boar-tusk, that nothing slakes,

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Not even the parting sigh, when Feeling's fond heart breaks.
Come read, ye ministers of fate, the lore,
That fills the dark eye of the fiend ye bore!
Scan the fierce Viper glance, that fails to strike
'Till it can mingle friend and foe alike,
In the wide ruin, that its mercy deigns,—
Yet pausing still, for Hate prolongs its pains,
Whilst Nature, cruel to itself, can still,
Afford one groan to glut the heart of ill!

He speaks not—silent as the columns round—
But there's a language, borne without a sound!
A voice, whose thunders, tho' unheard, still fly,
From the red lightnings of the deep fix'd eye!
Such as of yore, before the Persian came,
A glowing speech, in characters of flame;
The cloud, the flash—whose language, tho' unknown,
Is felt and understood to either zone.
And well can he, who sees that fitful gaze,
Pronounce the secret that it still betrays:
There Fear shall trembling, view his settled fate,
And vengeance come, to aid the work of Hate!

There is a mark of desolation—where?
Nature convulsive, features forth—despair!
What is the ruin of the gorgeous hall,
Uprear'd by man, when man decrees its fall!
Why sigh o'er splendor, that as man has made,

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Frail as himself—is doom'd alike to fade?
What is the hope, that youthful fancies rear?
Born in a dream, and nursed by haggard care!
What are these ruins 'mid the wrecks of art—
To that great ruin'd shrine, the human heart?
To-morrow, he who now supinely sits,
Whilst many a shadowy form, that round him flits,
Will grow into reality, and rouse
The demon hate, and his more fearful spouse
Revenge, who like the Tigress, robb'd of young,
And by the sharp steel of the hunters stung,
Blinded, will turn upon her foes, and though
She dies at length, she dies a fearful foe.
Wound after wound, it is her lot to gain,
But Hate new-nerves, and deadens every pain,
'Till as the foeman triumphs in the strife,
He gains the field, but with it loses life!
Ambition, long unsated, link'd with Hate,
Queen of the world denote thy fearful fate—
Long did thy realm, supremely proud, disdain,
The tyrants homage, as thou spurnst his chain;
Great in thy self, and conscious of thy sway,
As wide extended, as the march of day;
Thy halls, where peace had bade the artist rear,
The sculptur'd marble in proportions fair—
Genius and art commingling, and the hand
Of Gods, presiding o'er thy matchless land.

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A darker hour is thine—the sleuth-hounds wake
A fearful cry; once rous'd, they never slake
Their quenchless thirst 'till thy Patrician blood,
Has well enrich'd the lowlier Plebeian blood!
Nor such distinction shall the spoiler know,
Except, to curse the former with his blow,
Or, with a smile of scorn, his vengeance stay,
'Till he can learn how best the HEART to slay.
A godlike hatred, strikes not at the form,
That were but trampling on the tepid worm—
Oh! no! the Parent shall destroy the son,
And feel his heart-strings break, and still live on,
And then, even then, revenge be scarcely won.

A morrow shall thou see—a morrow, yes
A fearful morrow—not in loneliness!
No! hireling slaves among thy halls shall tread,
And the foul Jackal, prey among thy dead.
Thy sage and venerable heads, that bade,
The savage Gaul retire; repell'd, afraid,
Beneath a wilder savage meet their doom,
And Rome shall be their slaughter-house and tomb!
To-morrow shall these ruins be alone,
By him, who takes a ruin for his throne!
And thou, oh, Rome be doom'd for aye to know
No change more fearful, than a friend to foe;
Destined to perish by thy native pride,
Slain by thyself—thou mighty Suicide!

Ancient Rome.

108

A SCENE.

It is a night of mist and cloud,
But yet the moon appears,
Now bursting through the murky shroud,
Like beauty seen in tears.
A glory marks her rising track,
Where fleecy vestments glide;
While in the distance frowning black,
Night's darker mists abide!
A doubtful sky, a ray and shade,
A brightness and a storm is seen;
In dubious contest, each array'd,
In all its characters and mien.
The moon with clear pellucid brow,
In smiles glides o'er the fleecy space;
The cloud, what eye that sees it now,
But finds new terrors in its face!
I love to watch the doubtful strife,
To feel the sweet and soothing breeze
That wakes the tempest into life,
And shakes the dull and yellow trees.
On such a scene, in such a night,
My heart delighted loves to dwell,
For in these hours there is a light,
A general mystery and spell.
Oh! who in one eternal sun
Can find a balm, the heart to cheer?
Give me the mist, the mountain dun,
The smiling moon, and evening's tear.

109

THE LOST VOICE.

A voice was heard in the far blue sky,
Wasted on wings of melody;
When skies were all sunshine, flow'rs all bloom,
And the winds were fill'd with a rich perfume.
It floated along, and a mystery
Filled the earth, and filled the sky;
And the stars they fled from their distant height,
Thro' the realms of endless night—
And the moon was fix'd, and the clouds were still,
As the voice came by, with a magic thrill.

The winter was gone, and the summer came,
And the tones of that voice were still the same!
And it came by a city, where arts and arms,
Had lent to man their many charms;
And the Sculptor paused, and the chisel fell
From his upraised hands, as he heard the spell:
And the reapers looked up from a field of grain,
As they heard its magic notes again;
And the fruits grew ripe, and the fields were green,
Where the melody of that voice had been.

But there was a cry of wail by night,
A star had left its lonely height;
And the winds, in whispering, hollow moan,
Roved thro' the eternal space alone:
And there was an awful mystery,

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A marvel in the earth and sky;
As if a discord, far and near,
Had broken the music of either sphere;
Men look'd around, with fear and dread,
Nor felt the words that they uttered;
And the fields were untilled, and unripened the grain;
For, that voice, they never heard again.

ALEXANDER,

Over the Body of Clytus.

The Monarch, Conqueror, Ammon's son,
With thousand slaves around;
The nations, kings, his arm had won,
From earth's remotest bound;
What does he on the marble floor,
And who is he, he weepeth over?

No more the king—slave of the slaves,
Who sway even while they bow;
He glories not in nation's graves,
Than they, more anguish'd now;
His life's preserver he has slain,
When will he meet such friend again.

The sycophants, who worship, fear,
He cannot feel their love;

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To Clytus, was his monarch dear,
All other men above;
He fought, when courtier-slaves had fled,
And died, because his king was dead.

The monarch spoke not, as beside
His soldier's form he bow'd,
But on his purple robes of pride,
Large drops of anguish flow'd:
And those around, with awe beheld,
As his dark eye fill'd—and his bosom swell'd.

And his hand put back the golden cup,
With nectar brimming high;
And his heart was full, and his eye look'd up,
Through the vaulted roofs, to the sky;
Few were the tears that dark eye shed,
For his heart was deep, and his bosom bled.

“My friend,” he cried, “that Ammon's son,
Would I could deem, had struck in vain!
And I would give the world I've won,
To see thee, hear thee speak again;
Thou who would'st speak, my only friend,
When other slaves but dared to bend.

That dark fatality, which led,
My madman steel to mine own heart,
Which sought it, when Parmenio bled,
Of my own fame that better part;
And now to thine, old man, hast given,
The quittance, which mine own has riven.

112

Take hence the purple, rend that wreath,
Ye men of Persia, from my brow;
And hence, I need no courtier's breath,
To make me feel, how worse than low,
I've prostrated myself, and he
Who warn'd me, trust not such as ye.

Leave me alone, I would not weep,
O'er valour, truth, when ye are by;
Hence! or my javelin shall leap,
And ye may yet like Clytus die,
Not wept like him, and now I know,
His worth, when he himself is low.

Ay to Parmenio, Philip, go,
Thou best of traitors for my good;
Tell them, victorious o'er each foe,
I bathe my weapon in the blood,
Of those who gave me all my boast,
And only valued, when they're lost.”

Alone, the monarch wept, unseen,
But he came forth again—
And there were marks, where tears had been,
As, on the mountain, rain:
His brow had lost the pride it wore,
And, 'till he died he smiled no more.

113

I DO NOT ASK THY TEAR.

I do not ask thy tear,
I would not have thee sigh,
I could not deem the one sincere,
And feel the last would fly;
For love will court the sun alone,
He seeks no faded bow'rs,
When once life's smiling ray has flown,
He flies to fresher flow'rs.
Then give me not the tear
That starts at every call,
If not the heart's, 'tis not sincere,
And better not to fall.

The bee will court no bud
That can afford no sweet,
But seeks on airy wing the wood,
Where honey clasps its feet.
And so will love deny the smile,
Where there is no return;
Still roving where he may beguile
The truth, he must not learn.
I do not ask thy tear,
I would not have thee sigh,
My heart no fellowship could share,
With love that still must fly!

I heard the song at morn,
The bird at eve had fled;
I felt at early light the thorn,

114

Whose bud at eve was dead:
I sunk beneath a ray,
That could not be denied,
Yet saw that ray at eve decay,
And still I never sigh'd:
I do not seek thy sigh—
The smile that all may share,
May pass my bosom heedless by—
And harmless falls thy tear.

SONG.

Oh! Time has with unsparing hand
Pluck'd every flow'r that beauty planted;
And spread upon those cheeks, his sand,
Where Love once hung enchanted!
But tho' thou art despised by men,
Life's bitter, cast around thee,
I'll love thee still, the same as when
In early youth, I found thee!

And life has staid its every sweet,
Thy name cannot outlive thee,
Yet for thee still, this heart shall beat
And every throb forgive thee.
And when each servile friend is gone,
That hung but on thy pow'r,
As rainbows when the sun's withdrawn,
Delay no more their show'r:

115

Oh! then there is a heart still thine,
One true, tho' all forsake thee,
Which, tho' it might bid thee pine,
Would die ere it would ache thee:
One that can love, and yet can bear
To view another press thee,
Would die, ere it would cause thee care,
And dying, still would bless thee!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

Why, loneliness and grief be mine, when all of hope has fled—
The lamp should surely cease to shine, when all its oil is shed;
Or, if a feeble blaze it gives, its lustre is alone,
A ray that serves to say it lives, tho' all its light be gone.

Thou should'st not strive to charm my soul, with visions that must fly—
Like clouds that from the morning roll, beneath the eastern sky:
These dreams may tempt, but cease to lend, a lasting hope to joy,
And should they with my bosom blend, 'twould be, but to destroy.

116

Then cease to form the feature bright, that truth must still deny—
And he should know the morning's light, who's felt each change of sky:
The sweets with which thou would'st allure, are like the dreams of sleep,
That tempt the wand'rer to the shore, then hurl him in the deep.

SONNET

To a Child, Sleeping in its Mother's arms.

Dream'st thou of joy—young sleeper? does the light
Of innocent thoughts, within thee, wake the smile
That now is stealing o'er thy red lips—while
Affection's face tho' seen thro' tears, is bright—
As fill'd with fond o'erflowings, throbs her heart!
Sweet to be watch'd by Love, and sweeter still
With Love to watch, as genial bosoms thrill
With all that bliss may cherish or impart!
Dream'st thou of joy—young sleeper? wake thee not—

117

But let the lashes of thy dark blue eye
In slumber soft—their quiv'ring task forgot,
Sink to the peace of calm eternity!

If thou unveil'st them now—long, after years,
Will but re-close them with unsought for—tears!

A SKETCH.

It is not now, as once, when joy appear'd,
To greet her presence and her smiling eye,
Was lit with many a beam that flitted by
Becoming, when more transient, more endear'd.
Not now to her is morning dress'd in smiles,
Nor in the ev'ning does the moon display
New beauties, as she wanders thro' the isles
Of fleecy clouds, that minister to day,
And hail her presence: her bosom does not beat
To the gay revelry of tuneful feet,
Join'd in the saraband. or lively trill
That ushers in the light and swift Quadrille;
Her bosom does not now impulsive spring
To the gay wires, nor does pleasure waft
Her heart in gladness high on music's wing,
As now it rises proud, now swells in tumults soft.
I saw her once, in early youth, when joy

118

Felt all of variation, but alloy.
When rapture led the way on frolic feet,
To newer changes, and each change more sweet.
No cloud had chas'd the iv'ry of her brow,
(Ah! how unlike the form before me now!)
No tear had quench'd the sparkle of that eye,
Which seem'd to own far less of earth than sky;
A deep transcendence over all, I ween,
That life before had cherish'd, or earth seen—
Hers was the face where deep intelligence,
Not that which merely summons words of sense,
But the wild mystery of other spheres
Stole on our hearts, tho' little met our ears!
Expressive silence! where the pause alone
Was equal to the tongue's most magic tone;
Where all of wild or grand, commingling met,
In one deep voice we cannot soon forget;
Yet, but remember as a dream, where nought
Broke the proud net-work of the soul of thought!
A transient glance, a moments look was given,
And I was torn from all of love or heaven.

But still did memory long in after years,
Pursue the form (that came alone in tears)
With an unwearied diligence, that knew
Nor obstacle, nor pause that could arrest
The power that forced it to a stranger breast:
It still burn'd more intense as feeling grew;

119

'Till, as the sun's long streaks began to fly
More indistinctly o'er the western sky;
And night began in pall to clothe the brow,
Of the tall mountain that I gaze on now;
Whilst in the east appeared the yellow moon,
That gilds love's morning and attends its noon;
I turn'd my steed beneath a cliff's rude head,
And wound my way along a current's bed,
Long since forsaken by its kindred stream;
And there appear'd the village, where the beam
That mingled with my visions 'till it shone
My bosom's firmament and sun, alone—
First met my gaze; I sought the friendly door,
That erst received my form, when wand'ring poor,
I gain'd the shelter, which at once bereft
My heart of all the solace it had left:
But sad presage! the hall deserted, stands
The dark memento of some ruder hands;
The rooms deserted, echoed not the tread
Of airy footsteps—lonely as the dead;
My heart sunk in me—where was she, the one,
The light eyed maiden—can she too be gone—
The form of yesterday—to the fancied view,
The poet's vision—his inspirer too!
The rose-lipped lovely one—the smiling eye,
The speaking glance—oh! whither gone and why?

120

A moment, and a film o'erspread my gaze!
'Tis she, but not the form of by-past years;
Alas! the moonbeam's fitful light betrays
A furrow'd cheek, an eye long used to tears.
No longer eloquent—that eye is dim—
She wedded, some informing meddler said,
To one, who (just reward!) long since was dead,
Her eye could never beam, when fix'd on him!
It was returning to the uncaring mine,
The diamond that could lay there, but not shine
Unconscious of its value, he had spurn'd
Away, the richest light that ever burn'd.

GO FAITHLESS ONE.

Go faithless one, go wander
Where Fortune's gales may blow,
'Twere less than vain to squander
One thought upon thee now!

To distant regions roving,
Where other hearts may bind,
But none so truly loving
As her's, thou leav'st behind.

No loud reproach shall tell thee,
What thou can'st well believe;

121

No foolish tear impel thee,
To capture and deceive!

What, tho' the heart be breaking,
That bids thee, false one, go—
No painful throbs awaking,
Its innate grief shall show.

And tho' its hope has perish'd,
No curious eye shall see
That it has ever cherish'd
One thought on such as thee!

OH! SCION OF A ROYAL STOCK.

Oh! scion of a royal stock,
No princes at thy feet now wait;
But thrown amid the battle's shock,
A mourner at proud Emir's gate.
The sound of minstrelsy, not such
As wont to meet thine infant ear,
Where fondest kindness woke the touch,
Is destined now for thee to hear!

The timbrel speaks the voice of war,
The clanging cymbal joins the strain;
Alas! sad Princess, how they jar
Upon thy frenzied heart and brain!

122

For whom these signals—do they warm
Thy breast, frail mourner, are they thine?
Or, do they swell, with wild alarm,
A triumph at thy foeman's shrine?

And thou, so lone, whom beauty's smile
Had served to warm a rival cheek,
With hands clasp'd on thy breast, the while,
And eye so humble, wild, yet meek.
Thou, whose each wish was understood,
Ere yet expression warm'd thy tongue!
Ah! where are they, who fondly sued,
For love, that's now with anguish wrung?

The battle rages—see they fly,
The few who live, the field of Fate—
Now does she lift her speaking eye,
Where all that lives, is desolate.
But there is one who leaves the field,
Surrounded by the conq'ring foe;
His soul and sword disdain to yield,
And death and slaughter urge his blow!

And not a living victim he
Survivor, not in galling chains!
One foe but less, and he were free—
Now is he free from all his veins.
His bosom bleeds at every stroke,
Yet still his good sword waves on high;
'Till, as the foremost rank is broke,
He dies, even midst his victory.

123

Oh! scion of a royal stock,
Thy bosom's earliest hope is o'er,
That chieftain, known amid the shock,
Has fall'n, and thou may'st smile no more.
Thy young heart's richest dream is fled,
Which scarcely known, was felt too well;
Thy first hope number'd with the dead,
What other hope with thee shall dwell?

SONNET TO ---

'Tis not that eye of liquid fire,
Those cheeks that with these roses vie,
That wakes my soul to young desire,
And gives my heart to ecstacy.
'Tis not the dimple on thy cheek,
Where mingling loves and graces play;
Nor yet the iv'ry of that neck
Where am'rous ringlets love to stray.
Thine eye is bright, thy neck is fair
And soft the ringlets flowing there—
'Tis not that eye, that neck, that hair—
But 'tis thy mind's undying ray,
Whilst Life is warm, and thought is free,
That binds my constant heart to thee!

124

ONE LOOK.

One look, and by heaven, 'tis the last,
And I will gaze on her beauty no more;
For the moment of phrenzy is past,
And the dream of my madness is o'er.

By the love that she trampled in scorn,
By the moments that madden'd my brain;
By what I may bear, and by what I have borne
I will trust not her false heart again.

Ye stars, that so often have led,
To a ray—so much brighter than yours;
Thou moon, that so oft thy pale lustre has shed
O'er the form, that no longer adores;

Ye may shine in your glory, and light
Some other, more fond, as your prey;
I have felt of your warmth, and your blight,
And I fly from your influence away.

THE STAR OF LIFE.

The Star of Life is shining,
The damps of Night are fled;
No more thy heart is pining,
O'er scenes of pleasure dead.
Go, sport in frolic bow'r,
Go, bask 'neath fortune's pow'r,

125

There yet may come an hour,
When Time his blights shall shed

Go give to fortune's minion,
The heart I thought but mine;
I proudly burst the pinion,
That bound me to your shrine.
Tho' life's unfolding measure
No longer wakes to pleasure,
Yet Feeling's mad'ning treasure,
Is sweet, compared to thine.

For memory oft shall tell thee
Of vows perchance forgot;
And former thoughts impel thee,
To sorrow o'er my lot—
That but for thee, a heaven
To early morn had given,
And tinged with light, the even
That now—is but a blot.

YOUNG GLORY IS SLEEPING

Young Glory is sleeping beside thee,
Oh! wake not the boy from his dream,
Or, the solace may then be denied thee,
Which now is thy heart's only beam.

126

Thou may'st kiss from his cheek as he slumbers,
The dews that are falling around;
And whisper—O! softly, the numbers,
That late so ecstatic he found.

But let him not wake from his vision,
And find his young lip press'd by thine;
For enjoyment is only Elysian,
Whil'st at distance we worship its shrine.

That enjoyment no longer will capture,
Repetition but renders it same;
And the love lately worship'd with rapture,
Procured, becomes lifeless and tame.

Bind thy roses in gladness about him,
But touch not the deep blushing band,
Or, when thou can'st least do without him,
He may leave all its thorns in thy hand.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

Scene—a Chamber. Time—Midnight.
Chlorine
—Solus.
With what a silent tread the feet of Time,
Steal on their restless journey—yet, how slow!
I've watch'd the parting cloud, that lay dissolved

127

By yonder silver crescent, as it rose
Like a pale ghost, by day unused to walk,
And gliding through the night o'er scenes long loved.
How sweet her ray is edging yonder cloud,
Like the rich sables of a mourning Prince:
Darkness is lost, and her intenser light,
So circumscribed in its first ascent,
Now penetrates, the whole wide firmament;
Reflected thence to earth. I cannot sleep,
And why I love to gaze on thee, I know not,
But 'tis not love; and when I look on thee,
My heart, grows sadder, lonelier than before!
Perchance, I gaze with thee, since like my own,
Thy fortunes seem assimilar:—to watch
When all are sleeping; to be alone—
O! thought of agony! and have no claim
To kindred fondness; when the meanest boor,
That earns his coarse brown bread, by coarser toil,
Can solace him with thoughts of fellowship;
Of genial fellowship, that would requite
Kindness with kindness, love with deeper love.
No claim did I say, no claim! forgive me heaven,
That in its kindness, gave so dear a claim,
My infant Claudio; let me look upon him:—
But no, I will not; when I gaze, I weep,

128

And then my mad heart mingles with its tears,
Such thoughts of him, my husband, Claudio's father,
That stays me now! Ha! what noise is that?
My heart, Oh! flutterer still, 'tis he, thy lord,
Would I could sleep, and never see him thus!

(Enter Ghiraldi, intoxicated.)
Ghiraldi.
I have been drinking, Chlorine.

Chlorine.
My Lord!

Ghi.
Why that's a comment woman, get thee hence,
Thy rest must need be broken, and thou'st none,
Of the rich blessings that I have enjoyed,
To compensate thee for thy want of slumber.

Chl.
I have not, true, Ghiraldi, but I have
A greater bliss, a rich, more dear enjoyment,
To pull aside this little screen, and hear
The parting lips of Claudio, like the bud,
Bursting its leafy mansion, as the south-wind
Glides over it, whispering Ghiraldi's name:—
Then I can press them closer with my own,
And still the discontent that he would feel,
To know, Ghiraldi came not to his call.

Ghi.
A pretty office truly—fit for women—
I have been mingling, with the high, and great,
In such communion as makes equals all,
Exalting men to Gods, which nought can raise

129

So, equalizing Heaven and Earth.

Chl.
What mean you, now Ghiraldi—Oh! forbear—
'Tis blasphemy!

Ghi.
I tell thee, woman, 'tis wine, Falernian wine,
Rich, as the fabled nectar, and will steep,
The brain, like Lethe, in such fond oblivion,
That I forgot even thee, Chlorine, even thee,
Whose looks, far more than words, afford me such
Good cause for 'membrance

Chl.
Ghiraldi.

Ghi.
—Ay, Ay—
There was my Lord of—what's his name,
He of the quick conceit, and gaudy fancy—
I marvel, he did make me laugh so much
As made the tears come, not that I could weep,
I had no cause then.

Chl.
And have you now, Ghiraldi.

Ghi.
Yes, but I do not weep you see, Oh! no!
That Lethe, 'tis most potent! if 'tis true,
That Gods claim credit for the rich invention,
I will become a convert to the creed,
That is most popular, it is but gratitude!

Chl.
Ghiraldi, will you look upon our boy?
He call'd and bless'd your name, before he slept,
Look here Ghiraldi, stay you must not kiss him,
Not now.

130

Ghi.
Fear not I did not purpose it;
Get thee to rest, Chlorine, why talk of children,
When I converse of Gods, and nectar, and—
Get thee to rest.
(Throws himself in a chair.)
Why, what a senseless dog, was he of yore,
Who gave and sacrificed the world for woman,
When wine was to be bought! I've bought my evil,
Which grows more evil, as it grows less current,
The features of the coin, being much effaced!
She says, by tears, I would not deem it true,
For I would never wrong her; but, no more.
That wine, what an absorbent! what a loss
Of feeling—and not feeling, is the feeling
Which most accords with happiness.
How now Chlorine?

Chl.
Ghiraldi, will it please you to retire,
You speak so loud, that you will wake our boy.

Ghi.
Now curse the brat, since I must study how
To nurse his fancies, not endure my own!
Why woman, you would make a servitor,
To bribe me with a force into compliance;
Talk of my will, yet force me to your own,
Contest each point, and make a howling cause
Of every nothing, not within the scope
Of your inquiring reason; thou wert not wont

131

To school me thus 'till now, and by my faith,
'Tis a most premature season; get thee hence,
And if the imp should cry—

(Child cries.)
Chl.
—Now, now, Ghiraldi!
The Gods do well inspire thee, so superior,
Thou seemest now to all of earthly suffering!
Why even the brutes that thou hast drunken with,
And the curst liquor, with which thou art drunk,
Had fail'd in thus inspiring thee. Go, emulate
The higher Beings, thou would'st now consort with,
And they will laud that greatness, which exhausts
Its thunders on the defenceless: Ghiraldi, my lord,
When we were wedded, I was the heart's pride,
Of an old doating father. Sixteen years
Brought evenness and pleasure, which is Time's will
Seldom to bring to one, and I was bless'd
With all that kindness, in its purest form,
Could fancy or anticipate. There came
(For I was early thought to own some beauty,
Tho' less my father thought of that than me,
And what he lov'd me for I sought to be
Uncaring for aught else,) a lover fond,

132

And owning all of grace of person, heart,
And rich endowed mind, well stored,
Original by nature, and by man.
Progressive subsequent. He wooed, he won,
And would have wedded; but another came,
And when the former bad on business gone,
To visit foreign countries, so he filled
My father's ears with poisonous discourse
Of him, I was betrothed to, with such art,
And link of truth with falsehood, that he grew
The substitute o' the former. I became
The reward, of perfidy, whose best reward,
Had been his labour; speak I not the truth?

Ghi.
You do, Chlorine, a mournful truth indeed!

Chl.
Was it for torture, that you claim'd my form?
Our hearts ne'er mingled then, they were two links,
Which this succeeding one (pointing to the child)
hath now united.
I loved him, loving him, could I do else
Than give his father, love's remaining store?

Ghi.
You now regret our union.

Chl.
I do, I do, most deeply I regret it?
My father gave the fatal affirmation,
It was my father, said the cold response,
My heart ne'er utter'd it, and all the care,
That now I have for being, is this boy;

133

Love's pledge for love that never did exist,
Creating love himself; our fates are join'd,
And when you spurn'd, that boy, Ghiraldi, that imp,
'Twas thus you call'd my son, your son, Ghiraldi,
I spoke, but for myself spoke nothing!
Days, nights and hours have glided on in tears,
Reproaches, scorn, then hatred, was my lot,
I bore it uncomplaining; but that boy,
His spirit, 'tis his father's, fill'd my own,
And bade me curse thee for his infant tongue,
He bade me curse thee for his infant life,
Thou, giver of that, that hatest thine own gift,
For which he too may hate thee. In his name
I curse thee, Heaven! forgive me,
I do not curse my husband, but his father!
Now go, Ghiraldi, spend your nights in revels,
Your days in sleep, your time in fell reproach
Of her whose sole misfortune is to be
Your wife, but cast no scorn upon this boy,
Thy son and mine; for Heaven, or whatsoever lent,
That spirit which did make mine own lips utter
His malison upon thee, will repeat it;
And I, thy wife, will all perforce be doom'd
T' instruct thine own child to detest the blood,
That curdles in its veins, thy blood and mine.

134

TO A FRIEND,

Who said “What reason have I to desert the home of my childhood?”

Oh! you may dearly love your home,
Its calm and moonlit, fleecy skies
Delight your heart and charm your eyes,
And make you careless thus to roam,
A Pilgrim at some foreign shrine,
Which old Tradition stamps divine:
Nor sculptured column tempts your feet,
The splendors of the far, to greet;
Rut, I, whose home has ever been
A dark, and wide contested scene;
Where strife and care the hours beset,
I leave such home without regret....
There be some eyes that may be wet,
In kindness thus I deem, though, I,
Could never yet their tears descry!
And not with vain desire to roam,
Do I desert my native home!
Not that a foreign clime bestows
A brighter sun, a richer sky,
But there my heart may better lose
The memory of its misery.

Seek thou the sun, or court the shade,
A like for thee, their joys are made;
And home, the word that now ye deem,
A joy itself, and not a dream,

135

Can still bestow its kindly ray,
And bid contented hearts be gay.
But I, a bantling from my birth,
Unportioned child of mother earth,
The wild-wood bud, that careless thrown,
By step-dame hands, must bloom alone;
Receive the dew and bear the show'r,
When skies are dark and tempest's low'r;
Thus reft of all, I claim no sky,
Beneath whose warm and soothing ray,
My heart could rest from misery,
And smile its every care away:
A native home, a kindred bow'r,
Is but for fortune's favorite flow'r;
The rock, her cast-off-children own,
To leave, or perish there alone!

138

OH! THINK NOT TIME

Oh! think not Time can ever dim,
The memory of this hour,
Or, wake one fleeting thought in him,
Who feels too well its pow'r.
Ah! no! for fancy lingers yet,
To bless each early scene,
And memory sighs with fond regret,
O'er pleasures that have been.

Far, tho' another scene delights,
Another prospect charms;
Tho' pleasures wild and fickle lights,
Allure me to her arms.
The revel o'er—my heart shall fly,
Instinctive to that Isle,
Where feeling left me with her sigh,
And met me with her smile.

ANATIS.

So soft and nature's fondest smile,
Upon thy lip so brightly dwells,
That none can deem a heart of guile,
Within so fair a cov'ring swells;
So transient are the joys of earth,
That die, ere yet they spring to birth,
Thy varied fortune tells.

139

I met thee when thy cheek was bright,
Thy sun was like thy cheek,
A radiant gleam of early light,
That nought but bliss may speak;
And then I madly sunk a slave,
My heart, my soul, I freely gave,
So lost, debas'd and weak.

I envy not the brightest gem,
That gilds the monarch's crown,
I seek the bosoms diadem,
The happiness that's flown;
'Twas thine, too soon to know thy power,
And yet, to wanton break the flow'r
Ere yet its leaf had blown.

Who could have deem'd in early years,
When life and youth were bright,
That all thy joys should melt to tears,
Thy sunbeams set in night;
Such promise to a parent's eye,
To early love then wand'ring by—
Yet think of such a blight.

There's no reproach that I can speak,
I love thee, still, too well;
There is no sorrow on my cheek,
My heart would scorn to tell;
And if I weep—'tis thy decay,
That makes the tear drop find its way,
For me it never fell.

140

The joys so loved can never last,
Tho' now they seem divine,
And when thine early charms are past,
Those joys must cease to shine;
'Tis then the solace of the heart,
To know that guilt was ne'er its part,
That solace is not thine.

And thus in vice's dark abode,
Pale sorrow for thy guest,
With every fiend of guilt to goad,
The passions of thy breast,
That riot on thy ruby lip,
The joys that else, 'twere heaven to sip,
With those thou must detest.

The slave of Gorgon-guilt and gold,
The off'ring gift of crime:
And know a wretch's arms enfold,
More than thy sunny clime
Italia, ever did display,
Since fair Virginia sought the day,
That gave her name to time

That song, which breath'd in virtue's name,
Had roused each feeling heart,
Must now awake its notes to shame,
Whose minister thou art!
And yet, 'tis so divinely given,
It seems to bid the sweets of Heaven,
To Vice, a charm impart!

141

Go think on other years and weep,
Thro' guilt, thro' grief and shame,
Thy madness in this heart may sleep,
But not thine early name;
Howe'er the world may curse, condemn,
I will not, cannot join with them,
To stigmatize thy fame.

Farewell! I feel however crime,
Its veil may round thee cast,
Howe'er accused to fleeting time,
Each early vision past,
Come to this heart, when all are flown,
First scorn'd, last lov'd and ever lone,
I'll love thee to the last.

ILLUSTRATIONS,

Illustrations of designs from Moore's Lalla Rookh, and others in a lady's album.

1. Nourmahal and the Fairy.

“Oh! lady, oh, lady the moonbeam is clear,
And these flow'rs are wet with its earliest dew,
And the spell that I weave thee, is sparkling and fair,
And its brightness, dear lady, is kindling for you!
Soon shall the heart you seek,
Tremble before you,

142

Soon shall the lay you speak,
Bid him adore you!
As the hue of this flow'r,
Shall the hope of thy heart,
Bloom forth with new pow'r,
In smiles to impart,
To thy cheek all its glow,
To thine eye all its fire,
'Till the rover shall know
All his former desire.
Oh, lady then fly with the wreath that I twine,
For if morning but smiles on its fold, thou'rt lost;
And the warm summer glance, he would deem now divine,
Beneath its lone brightness, no longer would shine,
But be frost! but be frost!
The fairy twined the magic spell,
The maiden sought the ball,
The Sultan knew not as he fell,
Before young Nourmahal!
“Now fare ye well, my wreath of leaves,
Your fragrance all is gone,
And Nourmahal no more deceives,
She has gain'd the roving one.”

From Moore's Light of the Harem.

143

2. THE TWO LOVERS,

Dead of the Plague.

Sweetly sleep, and gently lie
On your bed of death, ye lovers!
Whilst yon Peri, of the sky,
Bearing incense from on high,
O'er your listless forms, now hovers.

Sweetly sleep, where pain shall ne'er,
With his foster-parent care,
Wing one shaft, your bliss to sever:
Sweetest sleep! when death shall mingle
Lips that shall unite forever,
Destined never to be single!

Happy spirits, that repose,
In an union so divine;
Like the petals of the rose,
Made together, but to shine!
Life can wing no after blow,
Time shall never more oppress ye;
Feeling, with her sister, Wo,
Ne'er shall bid the tear-drop flow,
The peace, the peace of death shall bless ye.

Death, who soothes, e'en when he blights—
Death, the tender-hearted,
That still 'midst cruelty, unites
What ne'er in life was parted!

Vide Moore's Lalla Rookh, Art: Paradise and the Peri.

144

3. THE PILGRIM ON A ROCK.

Remote from noise, or care, or strife,
From all that clogs the wheels of life,
The crowd and throng that still await,
And aye pursue the high and great,
Far distant, on the rocks rude breast,
With pliant osiers bending round,
My form, at length, shall seek for rest,
Where rest is only to be found!

Here, shall no fools of fashion dare
Intrude with worldly pomp and care;
And least of all, shall loves excess,
Arise, to make my rapture less;
But all be calm, where all is peace,
Each hour but lending its increase,
And life's stream wasting on its breast,
The holy calm, I've sought for—rest!

With earth below, the skies above,
Untouch'd by pain, yet free to love;
And Time no longer felt—pursuing
Without a curse, his daily tour,
No cries of grief to mark the ruin,
That 'midst life's din is ever sure.

Here let me pause, life's hour to spend,
These rocks my shelter, home and friend!

145

NO. 1.

This embryo in its first outline, under the form of a series of epistles, was intended to have been an epitome of the proceedings at Congress, and to have conveyed some outline of the Dramatis Personæ.

Richard---, at Washington, to his friend Edward --- in Charleston.

Dear Neddy, at last as a thing long desired,
I've safely arrived at our famed Capitol,
And like other great men, I'm most heartily tired,
And almost regret that I ventured at all.
This life is a humming top, whose chords are so many,
There are few that exist do not join in the whip,
And tho' I once thought myself equal to any,
'I'm a cypher at last, as I find by this trip.

These talkers at Congress, you cannot concieve
How they hum the poor nation they offer to aid,
Who gull'd all along, are still made to believe,
Things cannot go wrong among men so well paid.
And faith 'tis too true, if their duty was humming,
So well they succeed in their parts I am sure,
That like the poor Chief, who was silenced by drumming,
The nation believes itself very secure.

146

But a truce to this talk while I step back a little,
Just to show the events that occur'd on the road,
No tourist of fame, can discard even a title,
However obscure, that he meets with abroad.
Having twigg'd

This and several other peculiarities of slang, may be perceptible throughout. I have not sought, but merely employed those in common use.

the old cock, and obtain'd a supply,
Of that, which we wits in this nick-naming time,
Have dubb'd very properly “needful,” I fly,
To prepare the old Dicky and tip the sublime.
Next, touching the hussey, whose notions—but mum—
These things to a third one we may not relate,
But like the old woman who chose to be dumb,
We'll be secret as mice until open'd by fate.

We presume he alludes to the oracles of all times, by the expression of “old woman,” and the Pythoness in particular.

However to comfort the wench ere my flight,
I concluded 'twere better to order the chaise
To stop on the Bay, whilst its master should light,
And pop into Broad, thro' some nigh and by ways:
A thing which to tell you the truth, I had rather
By far left undone, for putting aside
The risk of exposure to an old lynx-eyed father,
I assure you I have been most cursedly tried.
[OMITTED]

147

As lovely as usual, and truth far more tender,
Than I could have had any right to expect,
For have I not done all I could to offend her,
Without even noting my recent neglect?
And so gently she look'd, and so fixed was her eye,
As its glassy orb fell on my cheek, that I ne'er
Felt so cheap in my life—and I do not know why,
But I certainly brush'd from my eyelids a tear.
She spoke not of aught that might lead me to deem,
That her heart was more lonely than when I first knew it,
But if ever a look gave reproach her's did seem
By the tears that fell thickly enough to bedew it,
To reproach me for power unkindly abused,
For conquests too cheaply consider'd when won,
And its justice was felt, for I grew so confused
That in my own turn I was nearly undone.
She spoke not of aught that my folly had done,
She seem'd not to dread aught my madness could do;
But her eye show'd the wreck of the heart I had won,
As its wan shade surmounted its delicate blue.

148

For a moment, dear Neddy, my pride was thrown by,
And I barely escaped from my follies again,
When I tell you I caught myself wiping my eye,
The truest, and you will say, bluest of men.
But I stop'd myself just as a tender confession
Was beginning to glide o'er the lines of my throat,
And mutt'ring some, in-the-way, farewell expression,
I slid to the door and 'gan butt'ning my coat.
Some other “love passages,”

Without hazarding our reputation as a commentator, we may here suggest that the writer has referred to that passage in Walter Scott's, Kennilworth, where Varney informs Elizabeth, of some love passages, having taken place between himself and Amy Robsart.

according to Scott
Renewals of this, and repeatings of that,
Which like men of the ton, I should recollect not,
Preceded my bow, and assumption of hat.

And now without further adieu, you may glance
Your eye on the map and just follow my course,
Whilst I with the stride of a Jehu advance,
With company utile, my servant and horse,
And do in the survey but fancy some scene,
Romantic, diverting to fill up the space,
In which with the air of a hero, I've been
All gesture, all glory, all ton and grimace.
For in truth if you do not, you need not expect
A description of aught, in the class I relate;
Or, I fear that you may in perusing detect,

149

A hum, for like others, I exaggerate.
With this warning be guided, I mean not to say,
However, I have any habit of lying,
But like some who are prone very often to stray,
(To use an old adage) I often shoot flying.

Not many occurrences served to enliven
The tedium of travelling a dull road along,
Except a new lesson, I acquired in driving—
A thing, which at first, tho' I did not do wrong:
Tho' Sambo, the rascal affected to titter,
As I lodged the left wheel in a stump by the way,
And in accents that seem'd rather insolent, bitter,
Affected regret for the fate of the chay.
Some hours were spent in replacing a spoke,
And paying a blacksmith for iron work done,
The rascal pretending the axle was broke,
And that 'twould be well to procure a new one;
No other event, that would warrant my noting,
Occurr'd till I reach'd the proud station in view,
But a storm that above me had sometime been floating,
Fell at last and quite ruin'd a coat nearly new.
My lodgings at --- are all furnish'd in style,

150

As we, southern blood usually do things you know;
And no doubt will continue as handsome a while
'Till the Publican tells us the sum that we owe.
Next week I am told the great race will commence,
When the four noble steeds on the course will appear,

The Presidential election, we would presume this to mean, from the figurative style of the author in general, and the context.

And if the canaille should throng not too dense,
It is not unlikely that I shall be there,
In the mean time as Coachy now waits at the door,
With his long whip in hand, just prepared for a drive;
My sheet by my narrative cover'd all o'er,
And the crowds going by, the whole city alive;
I will but request that you'll wait upon dad,
With the sanctified sheet that I herewith enclose,
Which will prove all exparte that his son is a lad,
As prominent here as his own rudder nose.
And to you, my old chum, I afford one desire,
Ere I throw down the goose-quill to bid you adieu,
That if you should seek for advancement much higher,
A space may be left on the gallows for you.

151

NO. 2. Miss Emily --- in Charleston to her Friend in Walterborough, S. C.

Dear Bess, whilst free from noise or strife,
You lead a lone, secluded life;
Enjoy the sweets that young content,
Affords you in your banishment;
And in the forest 'neath some oak,
O'er which the storm of years has broke,
Calmly the wheeling hours survey,
As slow they bear along the day,
Whilst birds and bees with pleasing hum,
Attend the sisters as they come,
With flow'rs of spring their locks enwreathing
O'er which some sylph-like form is breathing,
Rich incense that may well compare,
With flow'rs that gem Aurora's hair.
There, free from all that might oppose
Your bosoms peace and full cheek's rose,
Careless of fashion's cares, delighted
To wander only near some brook,
Undimn'd by fear and unbenighted,
With ruin'd hope and heart forsook.
Methinks dear Bess, I see thee now,
With lightsome bosom, smiling brow,
And eyes that twinkle as they view,
The scrawl your Emmy sends to you,
Descriptive of her bosom's cares,
Her fading hopes, her trembling fears.

152

'Tis as you oft have said—my heart
Has really play'd a foolish part:
Yet tho' the consequence is pain,
Confusing, rending soul and brain,
So sweet has been the bliss I've tasted,
In the short dream of love I've known
That I regret not all I've wasted—
The peace of youth—contentment flown—
The dreams of early hope, the hours,
Of mingling rainbows, suns and flow'rs,
Which time, with rising storms and blights,
Can shade, eclipse, and rend away,
And bid dark, cheerless winter nights,
Succeed the smiles of summer day!
I weep not in that apathy—
That dream-like more than vacancy,
That dearth of thought and passions reign,
That lost me all of in-content;
I weep them not, nor would again,
Recal them from their banishment!
Could I those hours of bliss renew,
That came so rich, and yet so few!
But never more, shall peace I fear,
Renew her empire in my soul,
The clouds of feeling's own despair,
Hath bade its with'ring mildew roll;
And I, self-sacrificed deplore,
The much I've lost—and fear the more!
Last winter Bess, you may remember

153

The time I speak of—'twas December,
Somewhere about the last, I came
To see the old year close with you,
With head all romance, heart all flame,
Yet mingled with some feeling too.
That time you well may recollect,
My horses frolic, in the chace,
Who bounded, ere my hand had check'd
The curb-rein, to a furious race.
'Twas then—unlimited—my fear
Pronounced one shriek of wild despair;
And when I least expected aid,
And look'd on death as certain now,
And closed my tearful eyes, afraid
To look upon my fate—I found
My steed was stop'd, I look'd around,
And met an eye so bright—a brow
Of such pure white, unmingled snow;
That lost in one delirious trance,
I dared not once again to glance,
Nor bade my coursers steps advance;
'Till he in tones that fell as sweet,
As sighs of lovers when they meet,
Now gently ask'd—if he might ride,
(Fearful my steed might once again,
Require a stronger curbing rein)
Attendant by my side?
What could I do or say, I blush'd,
And stammer'd something, which might be,

154

My thanks for aught I know—'till rush'd
My blood in streams tumultuously!
Since then my gratitude has been,
The parent of another feeling,
On which I would, but cannot lean,
And should not be revealing.
Generous, until the extent he knew,
Of all the love my bosom bore,
I dared to think his bosom true,
And sought to know no more.
And when he learnt his pow'r and felt;
How warm, devotedly, I loved
With earnest eye no more he dwelt,
On charms that once had moved,
Neglected where they once could melt,
And where they reign'd, reprov'd.

Still I was not unblest—he came,
And tho' no more with looks of flame,
And words of passion, that could tell,
All that he once could feel so well,
Yet was he not unkind—his look
The smile of love had not forsook,
And even estranged, his languid eye,
Bore still the trace of sympathy!
But yesterday—he came—I went
To meet him with the smile which still
My cheek retain'd, tho' not content—
Depending on a wayward will,
For that heart-sustenance, which flown,

155

Bears all the peace away, once known.
“He came,” he said “to bid farewel
To all of those who wish'd him well—
And I, the first of whom he ranks—
(For which I could not give him thanks,)
And in such chilling accents spoke,
In such conceited puppy phrase,
That not a single accent broke,
Thro' my closed lips to meet the look
Of cold composure in his gaze.
This served to rouse that southern pride,
Which still sustains tho' all beside
Should fly the heart whose crime was all,
Man's triumph, and its parents fall.
I felt a large drop fill my eye,
Whilst one was gathring in his own,
The dearest gem of sympathy,
My wounded heart had sometime known:
But soon he quell'd the officious friend,
That came a self-wil'd minister;
A drop, that vice could never blend,
With fashion's jest and ribald blur.
Warp'd by the follies of the town,
To affectation, not his own
Still do I hope that he will prove
True to his honor and his love.
To Washington, where he is gone,
I'll fly, and in some safe disguise,

156

Strive to regain the bird that's flown,
The heart that still, tho' false, I prize.

If I succeed, you soon shall hear,
If not—why not—Your ever dear.

NO. 3. Richard ---, Esq. at Washington to his Friend, Edward ---, in Charleston.

At length dear Chum as was agreed on,
Again I take the pen in hand,
And whilst my roving senses lead on,
Why—I shall write as they command.
A week has fled, since my last letter,
Descriptive of my own affairs,
Of which I'm certain none talks better,
When undisturbed by selfish cares:
Dispatch'd by mail, I sent in haste,
Frank'd too by—who you know,
Is much inclined to think my taste
Perception, judgment, equal to—
And I, of course will not demur,
So willingly agree to all,
His own good judgment will prefer,
To say about my upper Hall.
There's nothing here, that I can see,
A tight ribb'd dandy to amuse—
And but for name, I'd rather be
At home amid'st our native blues;

157

Than sit and mope while day-light lasts,
Upon the sun's superior heat,
Then go and join in rich repasts,
Without an appetite to eat.

Last night, a party form'd, proceeded,
Dame Amy made me her protector,
(A thing which, by the way, she needed,)
To list to John Cleve Symme's lecture,

See the new theory of the formation of the earth, and subsequent lectures by this gentleman.

A strange idea that of finding,
A door-way in the latter end
Of the old world, which we're confin'd in,
By which the in's and out's may blend.
However, it may all be true,
And I am not inclin'd to doubt it;
I only think that we might do,
(No harm I hope) quite well without it.
However if it should be so,
And times with me should be unruly,
A missionary, I will go,
Resuscitate the world below,
And lay faith's sword about me truly.
A double service that would be,
Since independent of the money,
The holy world would proffer me,
In payment for the service done ye;
My reputation long since faded,
Would be renew'd, and who could dare
Suggest that I was once degraded
With strange connexions, without fear

158

That for their impious thoughts, the thunder
Would burst with some unwonted shocks,
Upon their heads and rend asunder,
Whatever is not Orthodox!
Oh orthodox! permit me now,
In humbleness to bend my brow,
Whilst all the pride from which I start,
Forsakes my face and fills my heart!
Thou all convenient germ of faith,
Since wanting thee, we merit death,
Oblivion, something more than scaith.
Thou quality of saintly good,
More spoken of than understood!
Thou shiv'ring form that stands alone,
And damns all great-coats but thine own.
We bless thee, since, however crime
May blast our hopes to endless time,
Thou renovat'st us and revives
The prospects of our after lives—
Proves that our truth, tho' man revile,
Can make its sullen owners smile;
Supports us thro' our ordeal strife,
And with us walks the sea of life!

Ha! ha! you dog, what say to that?
Methinks that like some new made holies,
I can with grace begin to chat
About my fellows, faults and follies;
And finding ills their hearts have done,
Neglect the millstone round my own:

159

Cast off the smile of playful youth,
Assume the doubtful scowl of truth,
Clothe nature with a bigot's frown,
And look my fellow creatures down,
Who dare indulge in playful mirth,
To gild with smiles our grave-yard earth!

La vérité ne fait pas autant de bien dans le monde que ses apparences y font de mal.

The race, which in my last I spoke of
As likely to occur this week,
I understand has just been broke off,
By reason of a jockies freak—
Defer'd however, but a while,
In a few days it will be run—
I shall attend with Dick in style,
And no doubt will enjoy much fun.
Oh! here you dog, from prosing free,
With whip in hand, full booted, spurr'd,
Would that you could but fly to me,
And tip again the signal word.
No driving here to equal ours,
I've tried my best but cannot lock
A single wheel, by all the powers,
None seem inclined to try the shock
And when I dash along so finely,
With whip high smacking in the air,
The dust on all sides so divinely
Thrown upwards, that I do declare,
The only incident that's lacking,
To make it reach its highest bliss,
Is that so glorious, bivouacking,

160

Of lodge-wheel—dodge-wheel into this.
Spokes flying—horses prancing—dust
Enveloping each upper crust,
In such delightful rich confusion,
That, by the Powers! until you settle,
Where apple-women curse the intrusion,
A man ne'er knows one half his mettle;
How often have I wish'd in sooth,
That you were here to join a row;
A thing you know we southern youth,
Are up to always—“that's the how.”

A peculiarity belonging to the interior of the western section of our country.

And d---e me Neddy, when I think,
Of So. Ca. blood, and So. Ca. drink,
When memory holds the long review,
Of by-gone raptures to my view,
Where steams at Stewart's

See any Charlestonian.

on rich madeira,
Has made onr ideas flow much clearer;
When flowing rapture what could mar it?
Like Irish wake feasts where the pleasure
Was always crown'd with teeming measure,
And still preceded flowing claret!
Oh! d---e Neddy, but my senses,
Always confused at such a period,
No longer calculates expenses,
But ebbs and flows in manner very odd;
And I begin to think of home,
And—what the devil made me roam?
But Neddy, prithe do inquire
Occasionally at—and

161

No matter what is her desire,
Anticipate it I command.
But prithee let her not suspect,
The source from whence they emanate;
That she my wishes should detect,
You can't conceive how much I'd hate.
She deems me cruel, false, unkind,
And, by my soul, I cannot find,
Aught that I've done that can appear
Worthy her tenderness or care!
She smiles, but smiles in such a sort,
D---e I cannot thank her for 't,
A frown, by all the pow'rs of clay,
Would less intense reproach convey.
However pause we—do not smile
At these heart-follies, thaat you see;
I soon shall cure myself,—and while
I'm absent Neddy, let me be
First in your memory, as I fain,
Would have you foremost in my brain.

THE BIRTH OF LIGHT

Like the tempest's wreath round the mountains curl'd—
Night's mantle of mist was thrown over the world;
Whirling around in the abyss of space,

162

It's huge dark form, void of feature or grace
Roll'd alone in the sphere of its birth,
Ere the thunderer spoke into being, the earth.
Around it was flowing the waters of ocean,
With a wild, and sullen, irregular motion;
Within it, the voice of the Volcan was speaking,
Whilst the fire of his breath, its dark mantle was streaking;
Above it, in light, was the God of its being,
Alone, in the greatness of self, the all-seeing.

Hark! the mountains leap, rejoicing,
At that wild and mellow voicing;
Stills the ocean, in its rushing,
As that melody is gushing;
Lo! the voican, stays his thunder,
And his red-eyes ope in wonder;
Earth in all her parts rejoices,
With her myriad of voices;
O'er the eastern realm is streaking,
Hues of white, like lightning breaking;
Now the ocean drinks its splendor,
Shining bolder, and less tender;
Now the mountains form a cluster;
To receive the rising lustre;
Now the vallies hail the morn,
Earth rejoices—Light is born!

163

THE WILDERNESS.

He whose proud intellect forbids to rove
In nature's wild recesses, nor can taste,
From the deep waters of forgotten times,
Of feeling or of joy, with grateful thirst,
Scorning the deeply cavern'd rock, the stream
That glideth with a prattling whispering
O'er pebbly beds, or dasheth listless down,
From the far precipice, I would not seek
Much converse with. He may own a heart
Of subtler intricacy, more remote,
From nature's open book of fruits and flow'rs,
Which all may be acquainted with, but to me
There is a chilliness in lofty thoughts,
That like the mountain's brow, forever wears
A wreath of frostwork, that forbids approach.
I would mark its base, where falls the stream
And buds make merry with the gliding drops,
That steal into their open bells, at morn,
To hide, from the fierce thirstings of the sun at noon.
There is a melody in waterfalls,
A sweetness of repose in solitude,
In the far windings of untrodden wilds—
Where nature is the same, as at her birth,
I love to riot in. My heart forgets
The chains of social life, and I become
A member of the scene, I but survey!
'Tis a fond mystery to hold converse,

164

With the sweet warbler, who at noontide heat,
Whispers soft carols to the blushing rose,
That opens by the wayside, yet untouch'd
By wanton or uncaring hands, alone.
Nor is it solitude as man may deem—
But a wide glance at all existing nature,
Who sits within a tangled bower, and speaks
To the reposing earth, who straight casts down
His mantle redolent with flowers and fruits
Of mingled sweetness, and of varying hue.

'Twas a deep Indian forest, where I laid
My form, reposing from the noonday sun
Listless. A lowly green grass-plat, my couch,
And a small tuft of flowers, my pillow form'd
Which, cautiously I press'd upon, as not
To crush them, so delicate and soft they grew.
A torrent tumbling from a neighboring hill,
Incessant murmur'd, as it reach'd the base,
Where straight diverging into several streams,
It found a passage thro' a rising rock,
Furrow'd by time in his irregular course.
The tangled flow'rs and vines, a zephyr fill'd,
Discoursing, as the wind-harp, touch'd at night,
By the soft language of the enamour'd sea;
Holding such pleasant music, that it came,
Like fairy spells upon me, and I slept.
Straightway, transported to a by-gone age,
I seem'd to be—tho' still the scene, the same.
But in the distance could I hear the roar

165

Of the wide waste of waters, and at length,
My vision more expansive grew, and soon
The far Atlantic, crested o'er with foam,
And shining, like the sky with many stars,
Torn from the sun, which the disporting waves,
Leaping continual from their boundless bed,
Divided into brilliants, filled my view.
A speck was seen, tho' scarce perception-noted,
Upon the verge of the pale grey horizon,
Like a hand upon the wall at midnight.
It grew in swift proportion as it rose,
Upon the bounding billow, cleaving on
Its cresting foam, and rising at each leap,
With newer energy, and tenser nerve,
Till o'er the waters, with resistless force,
It bore wide way, as up its yellow sides,
The struggling billows leap'd. The ship drew near,
And now upon her deck, might many a face
Awe-fill'd, and wond'ring at the new found land
Be seen—They look'd around on all;
The sky that wore a different aspect,
A clearer blue, and the wide forest,
That unbounded seem'd, in the blue world
Of distance. The trees of giant height,
Mantled in foliage, and the sparkling sand,
Of Ophir seeming, and the mountains vast,
That the extended eye grew pain'd to search
Their summits capp'd with clouds.

166

The Chief he came,
Pensive, but calm, as fill'd with grateful pride,
And prostrate on the earth, to him who gave
That earth, before a waste, untrod, unknown,
He bent his soul in pray'r, whilst all around
Spoke audible the same; accepted then
The voice of nature, thro' her thousand echoes,
Straightway repeated it again, again,
Whilst tears of sweet communion fill'd each eye.

STANZAS.

When life deserts this lowly sphere,
And earth receives the form she gave,
Can wildest hope expect a tear,
From love or friendship on my grave.

The doubts of life, the fears of death
It might repel, and sure would sooth,
To know that feeling's purer breath,
Would still remember love and truth.

That one would come with tearful eye,
To seek me mid the world of gloom,
And find within my destiny,
All nature, but a living tomb.

That life and death, howe'er remote,
Are links of one continued chain—

167

Which fate, has variously wrought,
To snap, or lengthen, or retain.

Oh! could I deem, that one would joy,
To find her being link'd with mine—
Which time could singly ne'er destroy,
I would not, could not now repine,

Alone, alone, my course has been,
Alone, alone, my course must be—
No beacon light to cheer the scene—
The restless, boundless World of Sea.

INDIAN HUNTER'S SONG.

Indian maiden, Indian maiden, wilt thou be
The warrior hunter's love?
Then will he shoot the wild red-deer for thee,
As he bounds through the blossomless grove,
With his antlers thrown back and his bright hoofs of steel,
On high scarcely deigning the green earth to feel.

Indian maiden, Indian maiden, wilt thou fly
With me to the valley and grove,
Where sunshine shall light for ever the sky,
And watch the young buffalo rove—
And be my love and trim for me,

168

The yellow buckskin mocasin—
With rich variety of beads,
As Indian warrior needs,

The extreme love that the Indians have for these trifles, is too generally well known to need any further illustration. It is curious to see, how ingeniously they contrive to introduce them into every particle of their dress, in a variety of forms. I brought with me a belt of wampum, pouch and a couple of pair of moccasins, very richly studded with beads of various colours.

When comes the pale white man to see,
The ball-play's wild activity.

I had heard much of this amusement, but for a long time found it impossible to gratify my curiosity, and at length quite despaired of witnessing it. I was, however a spectator of the game, when I least expected it. During my journey through the Creek nation, a heavy thunder storm, coming on, my companion, Mr. F---, of Montgomery, Alabama, proposed that we should leave the too exposed main road, where we were in much danger from the lofty trees, for the shelter of a growth of small pines, at some little distance. We then discovered some two or three hundred indians of both sexes, who had met for the purpose of deciding a question of superiority in this game. The severity of the weather had caused them to discontinue their amusement, but desirous of distinguishing themselves before the “whiteman,” they immediately on our appearance renewed it. Of the nature of the game from the inclemency of the weather, I was little able to judge, save that it gave occasion to a display of some of that masculine power, so peculiar, to these Apollo's of the wilderness, and such as I could scarce conceive the attribute of humanity.

Indian maiden, Indian maiden, shall I say,
That the serpent unfailing to sting,
Has been bidden by thee far away,
On a distant wandering—
In search of the silver shod deer?

I have no authority, except mere fancy, for making this “labour” applicable to the Indian, as a test of his affection.

Oh fly, Indian maiden, Oh fly,
With me to the far western sky,
For the buffalo roves and the swift of foot is there.

TO --- ON LEAVING HOME.

That sun, which sinks with glorious train,
Beneath the dark blue sea,
Shall hail me, when he soars again,
Far distant, love, from thee:
Yet rising o'er the gray-haired east,
I'll think to me he bears,
A tribute from thy heaving breast,
Affection's gift—of tears.

He gilds yon mountain with his ray,
And nature smiles with glee,

169

But yet, however bright the day,
It brings not joy to me.
More welcome is the lonely dirge,
That o'er this waste of sea,
Comes reeking up with mountain surge,
For it tells my heart of thee!

Now is the sea-bird's wailing note,
Upon the waters breaking;
And, sad the tempest's echoes float,
Perchance my requiem shrieking!
Yes, the same wave that now we hear,
With solemn music blending,
May howl my dirge upon thine ear,
My love, and madness ending.

Then, thou may'st shed a tear for him,
Whose early life was sadness,
And bid for once the eye be dim,
That ever shone with gladness.
On him, whose love would ev'n restrain,
The sorrows that deplore him,
And bid thee gladly smile again,
As now thou smilest o'er him.

Oh! vain the dream that fondly sees,
Borne bright on fancy's pinion,
Soft colorings fresh and fair, as these,
In gentler hope's dominion:
And vain the solace, that would tell,

170

Tho' time and space divide us,
Of scenes and joys remember'd well,
And forms long loved, beside us.

Yet tho' the soothing dream be vain,
Of future joys at meeting—
Of early bliss renew'd again,
And early bosoms beating;
Yet, shall the bird of other days,
From memory's lab'rinth wander,
And glad the Pilgrim's devious ways,
With vision's brighter, fonder?

No more it sings of present themes,
That mellowed note of sorrow,
Has waked the wanderer from his dreams,
To meet a joyless morrow.
Thy world, thy home is gay and bright—
But his—does fancy roving
Pourtray—that wanderer to thy sight
As once, still truly, loving.

Yes, thou wilt watch that sun's last tint,
As in the west declining,
Thou see'st him leave his latest print,
On rocks where I'm repining.
And think, and dream of coming days,
When we may see it, streaming
Its beacon watch-fire, on our gaze
In warmer lustre gleaming.

171

Farewel! my native earth, thou sky
Where memory still remaining,
Looks up to, tho' afar, I fly—
Each varied tint, retaining.
Farewel! the scenes of early youth,
Those trelliced, wild-wood bow'rs,
Where Passion breath'd his vow of truth,
And feeling heard on flow'rs.

Farewel! the home, that time endears,
Where blest contentment found me,
Nursed in the arms of laughing years
With spring-flow'rs blooming round me.
Farewel, dear maid! the last I place,
Upon this parting token!
This song, may be the last I trace,
This look—the last upon thy face—
These words—the latest spoken.

Lost in the varying whirl of fate,
Far distant, sadly ranging,
Fond memory shall those dreams create,
That tell my bosom, soon or late,
'Twill meet with thine, unchanging.
Farewel! be happy, whilst thou may—
Yet, if some dream shall tell thee,
The Pilgrim died, afar, away,
Thy heart will tremble, and thou'lt say—
As feeling may impel thee.

172

OH! WANDERER

This article though written on the decease of one may be applied to the strangers generally who fell victims to the prevalence of the Yellow Fever in Charleston.

Oh! Wanderer from thine earthly home,
So gentle and so dear,
Did fortune bid thy footsteps roam,
To fate and sorrow here?
Too warmly shone our summer sun,
And life with thee, too bright—
For death, the lowly bud will shun,
For that which lives in light!

'Twere vain to say, that thou wert dear,
Where worth and virtue shone;
More vain, if we could keep thee here,
To say, thou had'st not gone!
What life and love and art could do,
Were minister'd in vain—
We could but mark thy cheeks pale hue,
And watch thy brow of pain!

So calm and placid, still and clear,
Thine eyes last fires shone,
We knew that higher, happier sphere,
Had claim'd thee for its own:
Yet felt that sadness fill each breast,
Which springs from self desire;
And griev'd even at the happy rest,
That we ourselves require!

Where was thine early cottage—they
Who foster'd thee in youth?
Afar! they view not that decay,

173

Which they will deem not truth!
But strangers, shall attend thy bed,
Who know thy worth full well;
And one shall hold thy aching head,
Whose love,

When I say that the subject of this article was C. M. Keith of this city, who died during the Yellow Fever in the year 1823, this passage will be sufficiently understood.

what tongue can tell?

Who deems thou'lt wake to bless her smile—
Return her bosom's press—
Ah! well if thoughts like these beguile
That bosom's loveliness!
To every generous virtue known,
Yet other spheres denied,
That thou should'st live to gladden one,
Who glad for thee had died.

And thinks each moment past in vain,
That brings thy form not near,
The step so lov'd, that ne'er again,
Shall meet her list'ning ear!
Yes, she had died, could she have saved,
Thy form from Fate's decree;
Tho' in that loss, her bosom waived
Its heav'n—its all—in thee!

SIX YEARS,

These lines were addressed to a little girl who promised after an interval of six years, to become the partner of my pilgrimage through life.

TO V. M.

Six years! what time will intervene—
How many hours of care,
May twine around life's varied scene,
The thorns of its despair!

174

Some little—little hours of joy,
(For time is brief with pleasure)
Whilst sorrow spreads its dark alloy,
Enduring, without measure!

Six years! ah, life will deeply change,
And Passion, now unknown,
Will all thine early hopes estrange,
As if they ne'er had blown.
The pleasures now that light thine eye,
And paint a happier lot,
Before maturer truths will fly,
And be remember'd not!

Life's little miniature! to thee
All nature glows enchanting,
And childhood buoyant, wild and free,
Can find no pleasures wanting;
But Time, fell monster! yet shall bring
Ay, even to thee, thou dearest!
The pang of feeling's venom'd-sting,
That wounds, when seeming fairest!

And thou wilt know, too soon, too well,
What now, thou little dreameth—
That fancy is an airy spell,
And joy, not that it seemeth:
That friendship kindles to betray,
Like fairy meteors glowing,
That lure the hapless wretch astray,
Destruction, death bestowing.

175

Six years, must pass, ere bliss is mine—
'Twere well, if then it came!
One vow is broke—I'll trust not thine—
Truth loves not passion's flame!
A lip as soft as thine deceiv'd,
An eye as bright, as thine, too smil'd;
A heart as fond, ('twas mine) believed—
It must not be again beguil'd.

Six years! why time and care will spread,
A deeper shade upon thy brow,
Thy cheek will lose its purest red,
Thine eye not glow as proud as now!
Six years! and I may cease to know,
Of hope deferr'd and anxious pain,
May sleep with feeling's fondest glow,
And wake beneath its rosiest chain!

And yet within that whirl of Time,
So deeply am I, passion's slave,
How much of anguish, guilt and crime,
May o'er my heart their scorpions wave!
And yet, to me, howe'er time flies,
With peace or anguish on its wing,
Be thine, life's smile, without its sighs—
Life's Hybla, not its—sting!

176

HOW LITTLE HAVE I KNOWN

How little have I known thy heart?
Sweet love, forgive my fears,
But when I saw my hopes depart,
I thought on thee with tears:
And deem'd that in the glare of light,
Fast fading from my view,
That all the dreams I thought so bright,
Would perish madly too.

Sweet love, forgive, forgive the wretch,
Who torn by doubt and fear,
Still on ideal aid would catch,
And find his ruin there!
But now restored to hope, thus loved—
Without one faint regret,
We'll fly the scenes when childhood rov'd,
And dare be happy yet.

Yes, let the miser tax his joy,
To fill his mouldering store—
Our bliss, ah! nothing can destroy,
For time but makes it more.
No dream of mad ambition's mine
Thine own, 'tis all I seek—
And well I ween, thy beauties shine,
Whene'er I press thy cheek.

Here nature, wild, luxuriant yields,
Her fruits, an ample store:

177

Young Flora decks the verdant fields,
Contentment seeks no more—
And blest with thee, sweet love, I feel
That nature's wildest dress,
Could like a fairy prospect, steal
Away, life's loneliness.

I knew thy worth, and felt the pain
Of parting thus with thee—
The hour that madden'd soul and brain,
Was that which saw me flee.
And little in that lonely hour,
My heart had hoped for this
Sweet change, when skies ordain'd to low'r,
Have turn'd to hues of bliss.

FORGIVE THE EYE

Forgive the eye, that looks on thine,
Nor yet forbidden be the gaze—
Altho' I may not call thee mine,
I yet must worship at thy shrine,
Or die beneath its rays!

Forgive the lip, that calls thee fair,
Or if it to thine own should rove,
Ah! too forgive, thou art so dear,
That tho' thou doom'st me to despair,
I cannot cease to love!

178

Forgive the arm that round thy waist,
In am'rous fondness dares to twine,
No other form has it embraced,
On other hearts it ne'er was placed,
Remove it not from thine.

And yet—forgive me not—to be
Beside thy form and only sigh,
For all the sweets that there I see,
Without the kiss, the press—the—the—

“Kings are not more imperative than rhymes.”—

Byron.

Forgive me not—I'd rather die.

WHERE ART THOU?

The scenes are bright as former years,
The sky as fair to view,
And all is sweet that youth endears,
To all it ever knew.
The hopes, the joys of childhood live,
In fond re-union now,
But 'midst the blessings life can give,
Where, where, alas! art thou?

I've watch'd the mirror'd splendor,
Bright skies around me cast,
Deep blue, carnation tender,
Have been, and now are past.
The eye of ev'ning's flushing,

179

There's light upon her brow—
Young joys are o'er me rushing—
But where, oh! where art thou?

I've wander'd far and lonely,
One hope was mine alone,
The hope that bless'd me only
When other hopes had gone—
That thou, my own, still cherish'd,
For me youth's early glow,
That hope alas! has perish'd,
And what can glad me now?

I fled, and left thee weeping,
Mine eyes too, were not dry,
And feeling ne'er was sleeping,
As memory wander'd by;
Pourtraying all those hours,
Of calm and halcyon glow,
When life reposed on flow'rs,
And pleasure smoothed his brow!

I came, the hearth was blazing,
As it was wont to burn,
When thro' thy lattice gazing,
Thou'st watch'd for my return:
And thought still fondly dreaming,
Beheld thy form e'en now—
I gaze—the moon is beaming,
But where, alas! art thou?

180

And dead are now thy flow'rs—
They're water'd not by thee,
And they bloom not 'neath the show'rs
Of tears that fall from me;
Such scorching stream o'erpow'rs,
And cannot save the tree!
There was a dream—this token
But tells its early glow—
There was a heart—'tis broken—
Oh! where, alas! art thou?

LA-FAYETTE.

Thou cam'st in the morn of our glory,
Ere the sunbeam had burst into life;
When the light of our hope, like the page of our story,
Was eclipsed by the tempests of strife!
When the ray that enkindled around us,
But awaken'd the scorn of the foe,
Who dream'd that the chain with which tyranny bound us,
Could trample our spirits as low!
Ah! little thought they in that hour,
When our fortune so glomily shone,
That their fall would be swift as the rise of their pow'r,

181

Their anguish as deep as our own:
That the pride of their hearts exultation,
The sun which they deem'd could not set,
Would be bow'd by the land they contemn'd as a nation,
Would sink 'neath the star of Fayette!
As a freeman, a parent we hail'd thee—
When the hope of our land was depress'd,
And now when the tempests of time have assail'd thee,
Our land be the home of thy rest!
Oh! prouder than monarchs thy feeling—
'Tis no renegade wail of regret,
But the bosoms of millions, that shout is revealing,
And it thunders the name of Fayette!
When the forms of the free that address thee,
Shall have mingled with those of their Sires,
Then Time shall tread light, as Death's finger shall press thee,
O'er the couch where Lafayette expires.

WELL THEN, WE PART!

Well then, we part! and now I feel
The world is but a blank to me;
And I would from its notice steal,
To hide in gloom my misery.

182

Vain is the search that fain would find,
Enjoyment worth its varied care,
And he must be to feeling blind,
Who seeking love, finds not despair!

I will not ask if thou hast felt
One pang, one throb 'till now unknown;
Thy griefs would but my bosom melt,
While mine have harden'd it to stone.
'Twere vain alas! to seek to change,
The destiny that sways us now,
Tho' it were blissful to estrange
Our hearts, to aught, but what they know.

There is a lyre—its plaintive sound
Has cheated oft my lonely breast,
And I have turn'd and look'd around,
But then the notes were lull'd to rest.
It is the reed that memory plays
Upon a lonely heart of stone,
Whilst Feeling listens as she strays,
O'er wilds that once she deem'd her own.

The moon is up—I know thine eye
Is watching now its lonely light,
And kindred hearts in misery,
Can breathe their sorrows forth at night.
Over the waters full and clear,
I hear the mellow notes arise,
'Tis memory brings them to my ear,
And feeling's list'ning soul replies.

183

'Tis sweet, even sweet to live for pain,
For anguish tells my soul of thee,
And dreams alone can give my brain,
The hopes—the joys—that may not be!
Oh! why will being ever wake
The soul from watching such a beam?
Or, heart! why do thy chords not break,
When waken'd from so rich a dream?

COME SEEK

This is a versification of an incident related in one of the public Journals, some years since, as having occurred in one of the Otabeitan Islands, of a female Otabeitan who threatened by her friends to be wedded to one not exactly suited to her taste, sought refuge in one of the “Coral Caves of Ocean,” and was there sustained by a more favored lover. He is supposed in this effusion to be urging her to the sacrifice of her friends and home.

Come seek the ocean's depths with me,
For there are flow'rs beneath the sea,
And wandering gems of ev'ry hue,
To light thy path and meet thy view!

No clouds shall dim thy joyous sight,
They'll vanish in the robe of night,
That only draws a fitful screen,
Each ev'ning of thy life between.

I would not have thee love again,
For well I know, thou spurn'st the chain,
Yet, if the heart that's truly thine
Is worthy thee, then cherish mine!

No glare, nor worldly pomp I bring—
My only wealth this broken string;

184

Fond lyre! a mournful tale it tells,
And with my heart accordant swells!

Believe me then, my early vow
Is firm—I would not break it now;
Despised by all, yet loved by me,
There is one solace yet for thee!

And when thou dream'st of other times,
Of faults that malice pictures crimes—
Oh! then I'll whisper in thine ear,
The song I know thou lov'st to hear!

Of all, that in thy hours of youth,
Was vainly known, yet deem'd but truth;
And then I'll tell how scorn'd and cast
On life's bleak bosom—yet at last,

Tho' frowning brows where there to fright,
And scorn that falls from lips of blight,
The slave of love—impetuous will,
One bosom came to cherish still!

Then come with me, if I who blest
With home with friendship's soothing breast,
Can thus that home, that friendship fly,
With thee to mourn, with thee to die;

Sure, thou who scorn'd by every chain,
That link'd thy heart to joy or pain,
Can well forget the ties once known,
And cherish love, so much thine own!

185

TO A BIRD AT SEA

Whither thy home,
Whilst with thy raven plume I see thee bend
From heavns indistinct blue and downward tend
'Mid the sea-foam,

Wanderer, of air!
Here, where no jutting rock presents its form,
To give thee shelter from th' approaching storm
What dost thou here?

Or, dost thou bring
To glad the weary pilgrim on his way,
Tidings of rocky shore, or fertile bay,
On tireless wing.

And did'st thou rest,
Ere-while, upon the distant spot, which now
Impell'd by gallant sails, our eager prow
Seeks in the west?

Then shall our hearts
Bless thy dark wing, that seeking now its home,
Thine ærie, far beyond this waste of foam,
That hope imparts,

Which none can know,
Save he, who in a distant, much lov'd land,
Has felt the thrill of feelings genial band,
And generous glow;

186

And longs with breast,
As fearless and unwearied as thine own,
To meet once more the form so lov'd and known
His heaven—his rest!

SONNET

in a Lady's Scrap-Book.

Thy page is pure as yet—so is thy life—
And thro' the storms of time, may they remain,
Thus pure—thy book, unsullied with a stain,
Thyself, still free from passion's madd'ning strife:
Yet if the hope thus breath'd for thee, be vain,
If life's young barque must meet a stormy sea,
Tost on the billows of eternal pain,
With grief and care its only destiny:—

Oh! may the hope, that still in sorrows hour,
Gilds the frail cot that bears disease's form,
Emit bright rays of all enduring pow'r,
And lift thy troubled spirit thro' the storm:
And bear thy heart on well poised wing away,
To skies forever bright, to worlds where all is day.

187

DREAM ON FOND HEART!

Dream on fond heart! too wrapt in joy,
To feel or fear, the fatal truth;
Too soon that dream, shall time destroy,
And blight each promise of thy youth.

In early hours, when life was bliss,
Bright shadows! that we ne'er forget!
Thou didst not dream of pangs like this,
A deeper pang awaits thee yet!

Thou didst not feel when fortune fled,
One living pang, one lasting wo,
Yet thou shalt weep the vision dead,
Thy foolish pulse has worship'd so.

There is an anchorite, whose pray'r
Arises from a lonely cell;
His, is the heart, whose hope is care,
Whose pray'r to heav'n, but breathes of hell!

THE REBEL FLOWER.

The origin of this is thus told by Gardner in his Revolutionary Anecdotes: “An English officer distinguished by his inhumanity and constant oppression of the unfortunate, meeting Mrs. Charles Elliott in a garden adorned with a great variety of flowers, asked the name of the Chamomile, which appeared to flourish with peculiar luxuriance. “The Rebel Flower,” she replied.” “Why was the name given to it?” said the officer. “Because,” rejoined the lady, “it thrives most when most trampled upon.

It has not a home in the pride of the palace,
The gayest, the proudest of many around;
Nor yet does it bloom in the mountains and vallies,
Where the rod of the tyrant is still to be found.

188

Oh, no! far away, where the shrine is undying,
That man with God's image erects for the free,
In that land shall we look, where the eagle is crying,
Her proudest of war-notes for freedom and thee!

In thee, all the likeness of hearts we discover,
Where the spark of the soul is undying and pure,
Which had learnt from its sorrows, to view like a lover,
The death that its griefs had long taught to endure—
But yet with the scorn that it ever had cherish'd,
Its look was still proud and unbending as thee;
And in the last moment, ere being had perish'd,
Proclaim'd to the world that thy spirit was free.

And thus, thro' oppression and tears shall we find thee,
Thou emblem of light, that may break but not bend;
That looks upon life as the shadow behind thee,
Which must cease to exist when thy spirit shall end.

189

But which still from itself and the fire within it,
Receives a new being, that dies not with thee,
Yet would merit that fate, if but one hapless minute,
It lost the pure light that encircled the free.

Live on, tho' the locusts of Tyranny gather,
The simoom they bring on their wings cannot blight;
Like the bee that drinks poison from flow'rs, they rather,
Shall meet but with death, where they sought for delight.
Live on, and the temple, we worship our God in,
Shall bear still the emblem inseparate from thee;
It is thine to grow prouder the more thou'rt trodden—
Live on then proud emblem! unshackled and free!

THE LOST HOPE.

It was a cherish'd thought by day—
It was a dream of joy by night;
Wherever Fancy sought to stray,
Thro' wilds or bow'rs, it lent its light.
Pursued with joy and nursed with pride—

190

They would have deem'd who knew his heart,
That earth had nought of bliss beside—
It was life's better, dearer part!

His breast the sky, and it the sun,
Sweet thoughts, the birds that carol'd high,
Whose silver voices join'd in one,
Made one rich heaven of melody.
Oh! where was glory's trumpet-tone?
Unsounded then, or heard in vain;
There was a humbler hope—now gone—
Where will he solace meet again?

At morn in smiles his cheek was drest,
Rich thoughts of pleasure fill'd his eye;
At eve, his heart no longer blest,
Became the home of misery.
Go, scan that eye, so lately bright,
And watch'd its same and pallid frost,
Nor marvel, when he meets your sight—
—His bosom's cherish'd hope is lost.

SONNET TO DESPAIR

Pale wretch! that lov'st to wander, when the night
Is dark and gloomy; when the storm is high,
And heav'ns red glory rushes thro' the sky,

191

That seek'st unaw'd the mountains lonely height:
And in the slumber, (if we thus may deem
That slumber, which is pain) that seekest still,
By every effort of impulsive will,
Of that which charm'd thee once, again to dream!
Frail mourner! slumber still, and it were well
If, in the vacant sameness of thy rest,
But broken by thy sighs and heaving breast,
Death's leaden sceptre o'er thy slumbers fell!
Thou wakest! and the night is gath'ring round,
It is thy day—and all that thou hast found!

MEMORY.

[I]

Around the dreams of early days,
From Time's swift wing by Feeling caught,
Stern Memory sheds her fitful blaze,
And revels in the stores of thought.
Just like the sun, when in his glow
He wakes some damps innoxious breath;
Or flowers that all their lustre throw
Upon the noisome haunts of death.

Uninjured by the march of Time,
That levels nations, worlds and all,

192

Still does it live thro' guilt and crime
The mark of wo and source of gall.
Sad relic of the things that were,
A winter breeze around the heart,
That lives and rears its sorrows there,
From whence it will not part.

The deepen'd gloom of passion's soul,
With hopes and visions long since lost,
Which still exist without control,
Unchanged by fortune's sun or frost.
And all the dreams of early years,
The hopes we cherish'd, pass'd away,
Love born in sorrow, nurs'd in tears,
Time's feet may trample, not decay.

II

'Tis Ev'ning! o'er the western sky
The Sun his purple glory flings,
And leaves a glowing track on high,
Like young remembrance when she clings
To the fond shrine where feeling first,
In accents to devotion dear,
Display'd the wild and frenzied burst,
That Memory still delights to hear.

Oh! 'tis the hour of rapturous joy,
When memory still in fondest hues,
Pourtrays in dreams without alloy,
The offering gift of love's first muse.
When infant fancy takes his flight,

193

When infant Fancy takes his flight,
And link'd with Passion dares to rove
Far in the sunny land of light,
To meet the form it can but love.

Sweet Memory! when the dream of life,
Hangs heavy o'er my aching brow,
When all around with grief is rise,
I'll seek thee, ever fond as now;
And thou shalt call again those hours,
When Joy her incense round me cast;
And roving in thy sunny bowers,
I'll lose the Present in the Past.

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

And who is he who moulders here?
Go—ask the annals of despair;
Search if its deepest page can tell,
Who brighter lived, or darker fell!
Where are the hopes that lit his youth?
The tempest storm of sorrow came,
And tore away with aspect ruth,
The bud that woke his early flame!
Too soft his heart each storm to bear,
That worldly baseness shower'd round,
Hope laughing, fled, and cold despair,
Has hurl'd him to the ground!

194

Blighted his hopes, when early love,
A form had pictur'd to the breast,
With whom, but rapture it would prove,
Without, of not one joy possest!
'Twas done—irrevocably done,
Riches could stay Love's fleeting wings;
That bosom now must sigh alone,
Despair its croaking mandate sings!
Without a joy to sweeten life,
When fortune frowns and tempests low'r,
'Tis well to quit this scene of strife,
And wing with fate the rusted hour.

He clasp'd the moulder'd form around,
“And prest each cold limb;”
“Again my only love I've found,
But why—thine eye is dim?
Where is the lustre that could cheer,
In boyhood's early hour?
The summer flies—'tis winter here,
Ah, me, 'twill blast thy flow'r!
Come with me love, I know a glen,
Where we may rest in peace,
Far distant from the abodes of men—
These vultures there will cease.
Ha! now I feel the demon here,
Come madness, frenzy come!
I'll wander with ye any where,
But—do not bear me home.

195

Then fly with me—some brighter clime,
Shall give our hearts repose;
We'll seek the land unknown to time,
Where endless blooms the rose.
And thou shalt have a gaudy bow'r,
With every thing that's fair;
We'll deck it with the ev'ning flow'r,
That blooms all lonely there.
I'll show you where the Naiads dwell,
Within their coral grove,
I'll lead you to their fairy cell,
And give you all you love!
I know a great enchanter there,
He'll give our loves a home;
Come, come, we go—'tis there, 'tis here,
Matilda—'tis the tomb!

There is a deep glen where the mountain birds roam,
To gather the prey that may hapless pass by;
There the heart broken stranger discover'd a home,
Where secure from the world in repose he might die!
Beneath a grey stone, by an unknown hand placed,
The Suicide rests, from his dark troubles o'er;
The arrows of fortune, that tortur'd his breast,
Secure where he sleeps, cannot torture him more!

196

Time often has spread his chill wings from the spot,
Unattended as yet by his sister Decay,
Except when some traveller who pitied his lot,
Has borne, as a relic, some fragment away.
And oft times the shepherd by night overtaken,
Peeps over the glen with a tremulous eye;
He fears that its tenant may once more awaken,
And thinks in each tree, he his form can espy.
He hurries quick onward, each moment still glancing
His wild eye behind him, for fear of surprise;
But when the wind whistles, the forest leaves dancing,
His heart palpitating, his fortitude dies.
But there is one eye that as soon as night closes,
May be seen thro' the grey mist in grief o'er him bending,
From the torrent of sorrow that eye ne'er reposes,
The grave of her love, like a Pilgrim attending.
No flow'ret is blooming to hallow the dwelling,
Where rests now in peace, the remains of a soul,
That expanded as proud as the cataract swelling,
Unknowing the bounds of an earthly control!

197

TO MY LYRE.

Once more, once more forgotten lyre, my trembling hands must stray,
Amid thy strings, yet feel no fire, from thy awakening lay;
Vain effort, where the pride that woke, its mountain-spirit's tone,
Now feels its innate fabric broke, and hearts rich music gone.

The many frown'd, the few reprov'd, my converse, lyre, with thee,
Since it from graver themes removed, my early destiny;
Ah! little do they know the bliss, thy smallest strain affords,
Or, the pain that mingles now with this, sad parting from thy chords.

Perchance in secret we may meet, when former faults forgot,
I then may find thy music sweet, and for thee tremble not—
Tho' Time, harsh monster, may pursue my destiny with pain
And friends now few, become more few we'll meet, my lyre, again.

Thou Tyrant of the wayward heart, that makes yet soothes its grief,
Inflicts the wound, yet can impart ev'n to that wound relief:

198

Thou rainbow in young Passion's storms whose span can still unite
Again Love's separated forms, and make their colours bright.

A long farewel, a long farewel, harsh tempests may deny,
That eagle-stretch, where thou would'st swell to Glory's halcyon sky!
Yet less that loss of note I weep when I perchance shall know
That thou'rt unworthy of the deep affection I bestow

Oh! life has many partings, this—I may not, must not deem
There's pain in, tho' I've known the bliss that lingers round the dream—
The dream the Muses bow'r imparts, that pleasing dream, where Pain
Forgets his rule o'er broken hearts, and lets them link again.

University of Virginia Library

THE BROKEN ARROW. This term is figuratively applied to the Indian Chief, Mackintosh, whose adherents were the inhabitants of a section of the Creek nation, which bears this name.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SCIO.

SONG.

CALM AT SEA.

SONG OF PHILIP.

THE CAVALIER'S CALL.

BENEDICT ARNOLD.

OH! TELL ME NOT

SUMMER,

Written in the Choctaw Nation.

OH! MINGLE NOT

THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.

ON MY BIRTH-DAY.

A DREAM—A REALITY.

OH! WANDER, WANDER HERE.

MAJOR ANDRE.

A SKETCH.

MEMORY'S PAGE,

Written for a Lady's Scrap-Book.

SING NOT OF FAME!

I HAVE NO HEART

THIS LONELY ROCK

SONNET.

AT MIDNIGHT

SHADOWS.

[I]

II

DITHYRAMBIC.

I COME TO THEE,

[I saw the love of Mackintosh, she lay]

TO --- ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

VIVE MEMOR LETHI.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

THE MARTYR.

WRITTEN IN MISSISSIPPI.

THOU CAM'ST

SONG.

MY NATAL STAR.

AH! DEEM NOT

THE FOREST MAIDEN.

THE EVENING BREEZE.

SONG.

YES, LONE IS MY BOSOM.

ODE.

THIS FLOW'R IT BLOOMS

CAMP MEETING.

TO A WINTER FLOWER,

Written in the Creek Nation.

PEACE.

OH! LET ME DREAM

AND DOST THOU TOO JOY.

CAIUS MARIUS,

Amid the Ruins of Carthage.

A SCENE.

THE LOST VOICE.

ALEXANDER,

Over the Body of Clytus.

I DO NOT ASK THY TEAR.

SONG.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

SONNET

To a Child, Sleeping in its Mother's arms.

A SKETCH.

GO FAITHLESS ONE.

OH! SCION OF A ROYAL STOCK.

SONNET TO ---

ONE LOOK.

THE STAR OF LIFE.

YOUNG GLORY IS SLEEPING

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

TO A FRIEND,

Who said “What reason have I to desert the home of my childhood?”

OH! THINK NOT TIME

ANATIS.

ILLUSTRATIONS, Illustrations of designs from Moore's Lalla Rookh, and others in a lady's album.

1. Nourmahal and the Fairy.

2. THE TWO LOVERS,

Dead of the Plague.

3. THE PILGRIM ON A ROCK.

THE BROKEN ARROW.

This term is figuratively applied to the Indian Chief, Mackintosh, whose adherents were the inhabitants of a section of the Creek nation, which bears this name.

ILLUSTRATIONS,

Illustrations of designs from Moore's Lalla Rookh, and others in a lady's album.

NO. 1.

This embryo in its first outline, under the form of a series of epistles, was intended to have been an epitome of the proceedings at Congress, and to have conveyed some outline of the Dramatis Personæ.

Richard---, at Washington, to his friend Edward --- in Charleston.

OH! WANDERER

This article though written on the decease of one may be applied to the strangers generally who fell victims to the prevalence of the Yellow Fever in Charleston.

SIX YEARS,

These lines were addressed to a little girl who promised after an interval of six years, to become the partner of my pilgrimage through life.

TO V. M.