 | [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings |  |
LISPINGS OF THE MUSE.
JUVENILE POEMS, CHIEFLY WRITTEN AT AND BEFORE THE AGE OF SIXTEEN
“He LISP'D IN NUMBERS, FOR THE NUMBERS CAME.”
299
VALEDICTORY.
[_]
This poem was written at Boston, in 1805, when the author first quitted his home, and the academy in which he had been educated, for New York. The author's father, Mr. William Payne, was the founder and director of the seminary alluded to, which was known by the title of “Berry-Street Academy.”
O Time! forgive the infant muse
Who dares to sing thy speedy flight,
And waft a sigh in silent views
To realms of permanent delight!
In vain I glance a wistful thought
O'er joys too precious to be bought,
Where no sad change
Can e'er estrange
From scenes which erst engaged my feeling heart.
Who dares to sing thy speedy flight,
And waft a sigh in silent views
To realms of permanent delight!
In vain I glance a wistful thought
O'er joys too precious to be bought,
Where no sad change
Can e'er estrange
From scenes which erst engaged my feeling heart.
With fond remembrance I retrace
The years, the months, the weeks, the days,
Which “creeping in this petty space,”
I've spent in childhood's blithesome maze:
Now fled, like Ganges' sacred stream,
Or, like a visionary dream;
Now here—now gone—
Still passing on,
Or, like myself—appears but to depart!
The years, the months, the weeks, the days,
Which “creeping in this petty space,”
I've spent in childhood's blithesome maze:
Now fled, like Ganges' sacred stream,
Or, like a visionary dream;
Now here—now gone—
Still passing on,
Or, like myself—appears but to depart!
Friends of my life, and dearest held,
My filial vows to you I pay,
By love and duty both impell'd
While, from your guidance call'd, I stray,
With lively gratitude inspired;—
May all the bliss to be desired
On you descend
Till time shall end,
And crown the wish convey'd in my adieu!
My filial vows to you I pay,
By love and duty both impell'd
While, from your guidance call'd, I stray,
With lively gratitude inspired;—
May all the bliss to be desired
On you descend
Till time shall end,
And crown the wish convey'd in my adieu!
300
Still, fond rememb'rance, ling'ring, dwells
O'er my lov'd ALMA'S nurt'ring shade,
And painful recollection swells:
The clust'ring branches there display'd,
While nursed in Science' lib'ral store,
And fed with literary lore—
Oh, may they still
Thy vot'ries fill,
And they, like me, shall own their debt to you.
O'er my lov'd ALMA'S nurt'ring shade,
And painful recollection swells:
The clust'ring branches there display'd,
While nursed in Science' lib'ral store,
And fed with literary lore—
Oh, may they still
Thy vot'ries fill,
And they, like me, shall own their debt to you.
[At the age of thirteen.]
EPILOGUE TO THE WANDERER,
AN AMERICAN PLAY, ACTED AT THE NEW YORK THEATRE.
[_]
Written at the age of fourteen, spoken by Mrs. Jones, who performed the part of Julia, the Wanderer.
So, then methinks we'll leave, without repining,
This sobbing, monkish, methodistic whining:
One serious part (at least, if they will tease one)
Is quantum sufficit for half the season.
Oh, dear! I scarce can force a smile to ask
How you approve our author's infant task?
If to his “Wanderer” a home you'll give
And bid the hope of trembling genius live?—
“Pshaw!” cries old ten-per-cent, “don't talk to me
Of trembling genius, hope, and—
(Hesitating, then with a mimicking flourish,)
ti-tum-tee!
This sobbing, monkish, methodistic whining:
One serious part (at least, if they will tease one)
Is quantum sufficit for half the season.
Oh, dear! I scarce can force a smile to ask
How you approve our author's infant task?
If to his “Wanderer” a home you'll give
And bid the hope of trembling genius live?—
“Pshaw!” cries old ten-per-cent, “don't talk to me
Of trembling genius, hope, and—
(Hesitating, then with a mimicking flourish,)
ti-tum-tee!
All stuff and nonsense! If the cash be rare—
What, genius, is thy boasted lot?—despair!
Though his bold flight reached worlds at every bound,
Its end—what is it? two-pence in the pound!
The silly wight is left at last to curse
His learned noddle, with an empty purse!
Give me your plodding man of common sense,
Whose wiser study is to soar at pence;
Who thinks no style like invoice half so terse is,
And contra credit worth a ton of verses!
If wits will write, why, let them write, and starve;
For me, thank Heav'n! I have my goose to carve,
And cellar furnish'd to my heart's desire:—
Prithee what more can man or beast require?”
This said, he takes his quid, looks wise, and stirs the fire.
From judges such as these we gladly turn
To eyes that sparkle, and to hearts that burn,
That conscious, kindle at Columbia's name,
Proud of their country's letters, as her fame!
That rear th' exotic, if the flowers be fair,
But guard the native plant with tenfold care;
Nourish its tendrils like the dew of dawn,
And bid it bloom to cheer its parent lawn!
Warmed by such favor, Genius learns to rise,
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun!
A devious “Wanderer” fondly turns to you,
To ask indulgence, not to claim a due;
And oh, believe her! she would rather roam
O'er any wilds, however far from home,
Than fail to court, in modest merit's cause,
The sanction of your smile—the fame of your applause!
What, genius, is thy boasted lot?—despair!
Though his bold flight reached worlds at every bound,
Its end—what is it? two-pence in the pound!
The silly wight is left at last to curse
His learned noddle, with an empty purse!
Give me your plodding man of common sense,
Whose wiser study is to soar at pence;
Who thinks no style like invoice half so terse is,
And contra credit worth a ton of verses!
If wits will write, why, let them write, and starve;
For me, thank Heav'n! I have my goose to carve,
And cellar furnish'd to my heart's desire:—
301
This said, he takes his quid, looks wise, and stirs the fire.
From judges such as these we gladly turn
To eyes that sparkle, and to hearts that burn,
That conscious, kindle at Columbia's name,
Proud of their country's letters, as her fame!
That rear th' exotic, if the flowers be fair,
But guard the native plant with tenfold care;
Nourish its tendrils like the dew of dawn,
And bid it bloom to cheer its parent lawn!
Warmed by such favor, Genius learns to rise,
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun!
A devious “Wanderer” fondly turns to you,
To ask indulgence, not to claim a due;
And oh, believe her! she would rather roam
O'er any wilds, however far from home,
Than fail to court, in modest merit's cause,
The sanction of your smile—the fame of your applause!
FRAGMENT OF POETRY.
FOUND AT THE FALLS OF MOUNT IDA, TROY, IN THE STATE OF NEW YORK.
[_]
Several passages were obliterated, by having been frequently trodden on; and those which remained were traced out with much difficulty.
Shunning the noisy haunts of men,
He loved to wander here. His friends were few:
He cared not for the crowd. He heard, unhurt,
The scornful jest of cruel ignorance.
The poison'd arrows, which misfortune aim'd,
Pierc'd not his heart, in such bold armor clad,
That every point was blunted at the blow,
And dropp'd unheeded down!
[OMITTED]
He loved to wander here. His friends were few:
He cared not for the crowd. He heard, unhurt,
The scornful jest of cruel ignorance.
The poison'd arrows, which misfortune aim'd,
Pierc'd not his heart, in such bold armor clad,
That every point was blunted at the blow,
And dropp'd unheeded down!
[OMITTED]
Oh! he would gaze,
With rapture gaze upon this fairy scene,
And he would moralize the opening leaf,
And in each little, curious fibre find
The noblest tribute to its Maker's praise.
[OMITTED]
With rapture gaze upon this fairy scene,
And he would moralize the opening leaf,
And in each little, curious fibre find
The noblest tribute to its Maker's praise.
[OMITTED]
302
He joy'd to mark
The silver stream swift gliding twixt the banks,
Which seem'd to smile in ecstasy to see
Their lovely foliage in the polish'd wave!
In silent rapture would he sit and view
These distant waters, torn up by the crags,
Rippling and sparkling as they sprang in air:
Then traced with hasty steps the forest path,
Where stream impetuous plunges the abyss;
Then rolls along exulting to be free,
With roar at which earth trembles. Here he paus'd:
For inspiration lived in every wave,
And the aw'd soul was mute.
[OMITTED]
Within the cataract where th' embodied stream
Leaps the high cliff, with dash of fury foaming,
Sleeps the wild spirit of the storm. A cave,
Formed by the jutting of that cliff, her cell;
The water-sheets, its wall, through which the sun
Darts tempered hues of strange and various light;
And as the tumult stills,—the waves subside,—
And distant echoes die upon the ear,—
With printless tread, along its flowery banks,
The Muses love to wander, hand in hand—
There, as it gently winds among the vales,
To trace, through fairy lands, its silver course.
The silver stream swift gliding twixt the banks,
Which seem'd to smile in ecstasy to see
Their lovely foliage in the polish'd wave!
In silent rapture would he sit and view
These distant waters, torn up by the crags,
Rippling and sparkling as they sprang in air:
Then traced with hasty steps the forest path,
Where stream impetuous plunges the abyss;
Then rolls along exulting to be free,
With roar at which earth trembles. Here he paus'd:
For inspiration lived in every wave,
And the aw'd soul was mute.
[OMITTED]
Within the cataract where th' embodied stream
Leaps the high cliff, with dash of fury foaming,
Sleeps the wild spirit of the storm. A cave,
Formed by the jutting of that cliff, her cell;
The water-sheets, its wall, through which the sun
Darts tempered hues of strange and various light;
And as the tumult stills,—the waves subside,—
And distant echoes die upon the ear,—
With printless tread, along its flowery banks,
The Muses love to wander, hand in hand—
There, as it gently winds among the vales,
To trace, through fairy lands, its silver course.
Note.—The scenery of the foregoing is described from nature. It is peculiarly picturesque. The jutting out of the top of the precipice throws the wave forward with a magnificent sweep, leaving an immense chasm between the sheet of water and the side of the cliff, to which the Poet cannot help assigning some inhabitant from among the numberless spirits who are always in waiting for appointments of that nature. The author, therefore, put the storm-spirit into it, and hopes she will be pleased with her residence, which certainly possesses great attractions from the rainbow effect of the sunbeams, as they come subdued into moonlight mildness by their passage through the stream.
303
ODE
FOR THE THIRTY-FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.
When erst our Sires their sails unfurl'd,
To brave the trackless sea,
They boldly sought an unknown world,
Determin'd to be free!
They saw their homes recede afar,
The pale blue hills diverge,
And, Liberty their guiding star,
They plough'd the swelling surge!
To brave the trackless sea,
They boldly sought an unknown world,
Determin'd to be free!
They saw their homes recede afar,
The pale blue hills diverge,
And, Liberty their guiding star,
They plough'd the swelling surge!
No splendid hope their wand'rings cheer'd;
No lust of wealth beguiled;—
They left the towers that Plenty rear'd
To seek the desert wild;
The climes where proud luxuriance shone
Exchang'd for forests drear;
The splendor of a Tyrant's throne
For honest Freedom here!
No lust of wealth beguiled;—
They left the towers that Plenty rear'd
To seek the desert wild;
The climes where proud luxuriance shone
Exchang'd for forests drear;
The splendor of a Tyrant's throne
For honest Freedom here!
Though hungry wolves the nightly prowl
Around their log-hut took;
Though savages with hideous howl
Their wild-wood shelter shook;
Though tomahawks around them glared,—
To Fear could such hearts yield?
No! God, for whom they danger dared,
In danger was their shield!
Around their log-hut took;
Though savages with hideous howl
Their wild-wood shelter shook;
Though tomahawks around them glared,—
To Fear could such hearts yield?
No! God, for whom they danger dared,
In danger was their shield!
When giant Power, with blood-stain'd crest,
Here grasp'd his gory lance,
And dared the warriors of the West
Embattled to advance,—
Our young Columbia sprang, alone
(In God her only trust),
And humbled, with a sling and stone,
This monster to the dust!
Here grasp'd his gory lance,
And dared the warriors of the West
Embattled to advance,—
Our young Columbia sprang, alone
(In God her only trust),
And humbled, with a sling and stone,
This monster to the dust!
304
Thus nobly rose our greater Rome,
Bright daughter of the skies—
Of Liberty the hallow'd home,
Whose turrets proudly rise,—
Whose sails now whiten every sea,
On every wave unfurl'd;
Form'd to be happy, great, and free,
The Eden of the world!
Bright daughter of the skies—
Of Liberty the hallow'd home,
Whose turrets proudly rise,—
Whose sails now whiten every sea,
On every wave unfurl'd;
Form'd to be happy, great, and free,
The Eden of the world!
Shall we, the sons of valiant Sires,
Such glories tamely stain?
Shall these rich vales, these splendid spires,
E'er brook a Monarch's reign?
No! If the Despot's iron hand
Must here a sceptre wave,
Raz'd be those glories from the land,
And be the land our grave!
Such glories tamely stain?
Shall these rich vales, these splendid spires,
E'er brook a Monarch's reign?
No! If the Despot's iron hand
Must here a sceptre wave,
Raz'd be those glories from the land,
And be the land our grave!
TO A LADY,
WHOSE INFANT DAUGHTER DELPHINE WAS REMARKABLE FOR THE BEAUTY, FIRE, AND INTELLIGENCE OF HER EYES.
The Rose, which boasts so rich a dye,
And wantonly with Zephyr plays,
Woos the delighted traveller's eye,
Yet blushes at the traveller's gaze.
And wantonly with Zephyr plays,
Woos the delighted traveller's eye,
Yet blushes at the traveller's gaze.
That Rose, in but a little while,
Shall bloom and blush no longer there,
Shall pass away, like beauty's smile,—
Be pale and cheerless, like Despair.
Shall bloom and blush no longer there,
Shall pass away, like beauty's smile,—
Be pale and cheerless, like Despair.
But when another Spring shall rise,
Another Rose shall there be found;
Another Rose of richer dyes
Shall shed a sweeter fragrance round.
Another Rose shall there be found;
Another Rose of richer dyes
Shall shed a sweeter fragrance round.
Thou art that earlier Rose. O! long
Be friendship with thy virtues blest!
The theme of many a Poet's song;
The idol of affection's breast!
Be friendship with thy virtues blest!
The theme of many a Poet's song;
The idol of affection's breast!
305
And, if thy little one confirm
The promise of her sparkling eyes,
In Delphine we behold the germ
Of the next Rose, of richer dyes.
The promise of her sparkling eyes,
In Delphine we behold the germ
Of the next Rose, of richer dyes.
O! may this child surpass in worth
The bright example thou hast given,
Charm the enraptured sons of Earth,
Then flourish in the fields of Heaven!
The bright example thou hast given,
Charm the enraptured sons of Earth,
Then flourish in the fields of Heaven!
MARY.
“Ah me! how sweet is Love itself possest,
When but Love's shadows are so rich in joy!”
Shakspeare.
When but Love's shadows are so rich in joy!”
Shakspeare.
If Reason could the heart control,
If Memory from itself could fly,
I'd quench the fire that burns my soul,
Nor drink the poison from her eye!
If Memory from itself could fly,
I'd quench the fire that burns my soul,
Nor drink the poison from her eye!
How often have I vainly sought
To guard against Love's madd'ning sway,—
But flashing deep into my heart,
One glance has swept resolves away!
To guard against Love's madd'ning sway,—
But flashing deep into my heart,
One glance has swept resolves away!
Since Reason, then, can ne'er assuage
Presumptuous reveries like mine,
Rage on, my soul! still madly rage,
And be a fancied Mary thine!
Presumptuous reveries like mine,
Rage on, my soul! still madly rage,
And be a fancied Mary thine!
Long may the fairy vision spread
Its soothing spell around my mind,
That joy, itself forever fled,
May leave the phantom still behind!
Its soothing spell around my mind,
That joy, itself forever fled,
May leave the phantom still behind!
And when, at length, this life shall fade,
And earthly scenes recede in gloom,
My Mary's fondly cherished shade
Shall light my passage to the tomb!
And earthly scenes recede in gloom,
My Mary's fondly cherished shade
Shall light my passage to the tomb!
306
LINES,
ADDRESSED TO MRS. AIR, ON HER DEPARTURE FOR PROVIDENCE; WHICH OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY SOMEBODY ELSE.
[_]
A very accomplished lady, by the name of Air, residing at Providence, in the State of Rhode Island, was on the eve of departure from Boston, where she had been some months on a visit. A gentleman, celebrated for the frequency and felicity of his puns, was solicited by a friend of this lady to express his admiration in a farewell poem, which was, of course, expected to have been a poem of puns; but the parties were surprised to receive, in place of the expected jeu d'esprit, a grave series of compliments, conveyed in delightful poetry, but not one pun in the whole collection. This incident called forth the following
Yes! I am lost! By those bright eyes
Entrapp'd before I was aware!
Ev'n Hope deserts me! for my sighs
Are given to unconscious Air.
Entrapp'd before I was aware!
Ev'n Hope deserts me! for my sighs
Are given to unconscious Air.
Like the mild
Air which sweetly swells
The notes of an Æolian lyre,
Whose magic every woe dispels,
And fills us with seraphic fire,—
The notes of an Æolian lyre,
Whose magic every woe dispels,
And fills us with seraphic fire,—
This soothing, lovely
Air can make
The passions bend to her control,
And, with ethereal mildness, wake
The softest music of the soul!
The passions bend to her control,
And, with ethereal mildness, wake
The softest music of the soul!
Thy smile (like the pure
Air which blows
Where spirits of the blest unite),
Exhilarating Air! bestows
A dear delirium of delight!
Where spirits of the blest unite),
Exhilarating Air! bestows
A dear delirium of delight!
I live—I move—by means of Air;
Yet gentle Air resolves to fly!
Oh, stay! protect me from despair;
By Air deserted, I must DIE!
Yet gentle Air resolves to fly!
Oh, stay! protect me from despair;
By Air deserted, I must DIE!
Exhilarating air is Sir Humphry Davy's term for what is called, in the technical phrase of chemistry, gaseous oxyd of nitrogen. When inhaled, it produces the wildest ecstasy. A late writer on the subject poetically imagines that the atmosphere of Heaven is composed of that kind of air.
307
DERMODY.
“Whether by accident or design, I know not, but never were the remains of a Bard deposited in a spot more calculated to inspire a contemplative mind with congenial and interesting feelings.”—
Monthly Mirror, London, 1802.
If, pensive stranger! in thy breast
The flowers of Fancy ever bloom,
Come hither, stranger! come and rest
Upon this rose-encircled tomb!
The flowers of Fancy ever bloom,
Come hither, stranger! come and rest
Upon this rose-encircled tomb!
This tomb, to which at eve retires
Neglected Genius:—here, alone,
He weeps, despises and admires
The wretch whose wrongs describe his own!
Neglected Genius:—here, alone,
He weeps, despises and admires
The wretch whose wrongs describe his own!
The aged Minstrel, pausing here,
Of many a plaintive lay beguil'd,
Laments, with many a tribute tear,
The Poet “wonderful and wild.”
Of many a plaintive lay beguil'd,
Laments, with many a tribute tear,
The Poet “wonderful and wild.”
Could but that Poet swell the song,
And now with phrensied touch inspire
The harp whose notes he'd once prolong
Till his whole soul would be on fire,—
And now with phrensied touch inspire
The harp whose notes he'd once prolong
Till his whole soul would be on fire,—
Ah! could he touch—the thrilling strain
Would wake a kindred ecstasy,
And thou wouldst sigh to hear again
The lyre of luckless Dermody!
Would wake a kindred ecstasy,
And thou wouldst sigh to hear again
The lyre of luckless Dermody!
And o'er his lov'd remains, which sleep
Cold in this dark, sepulchral bed,
Then wouldst thou sit, like me, and weep
The wild-ey'd Bard of Erin dead!
Cold in this dark, sepulchral bed,
Then wouldst thou sit, like me, and weep
The wild-ey'd Bard of Erin dead!
And thou wouldst bathe the flowers that wave,
Till ev'ry flow'r that bloom'd before
Should, bending, kiss the sacred grave,
And bow, and weep, and bloom no more!
Till ev'ry flow'r that bloom'd before
Should, bending, kiss the sacred grave,
And bow, and weep, and bloom no more!
308
MAY AND HER PROTÉGÉ.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MRS. A. V. H. ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTH IN MAY. BY THE POET-LAUREATE TO HER ROSY-CHEEKED MAJESTY THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL QUEEN FLORA.
[_]
The following was dedicated to an English lady who had been twice married. The happiness of the earlier part of her life was blasted by the ill-treatment of a very profligate husband; but her felicity was restored by the second marriage, which was remarkably prosperous. These circumstances will explain some allusions in the poem.
My dear Madam,—The inspiration of your birthday sets even me into a humor for rhyming. What a magical day, to inspire me, of all the stupid people in the world! I hope you will not, true woman-like, be vexed at my making May your Queen, instead of making you the Queen of May, as is usual on such occasions. I could not consign you to a better protector than this blooming nymph; and I think it is fully proved in the enumeration of her past bounties, with which I have the honor to accompany my congratulations on the return of this anniversary.
Sweet May! thy magic charms inspirePoets, as well as birds, to sing;
Each hopes to utter from his lyre
The best turn'd compliment to Spring.
The flowers which start beneath thy tread,
The graces which around thee throng,
Have madden'd every Poet's head,
Since the first Poet lisp'd in song.
But, lovely May! although thy smile
Turns deserts into rosy bow'rs;
Beams forth such raptures as beguile
The wretched of their gloomiest hours;
Yet higher joys thy happy dawn,
Enchanting month! to me unfurl'd,
When, on Amelia's natal morn,
Thou, smiling, gav'st her to the world!
Yes! at that hour didst thou impart
Thy softness to her eye and face,
With thine own warmth inspire her heart,
And o'er her form diffuse thy grace!
309
Low'r'd awful o'er thy lovely trust,
November would have bid her go,
And skulk into a grave accurst:—
But taught by thee, Heav'n's darling May,
When the black tempest hid the skies,
She bow'd to its o'erwhelming sway,
Then saw a cloudless sun arise!
Yes, lovely May! to thee she owes
That conscious purity of soul,
Which, though it cannot shield from woes,
Spurns their unlimited control!
Drear was the past detested hour!
Her present bliss by contrast charms—
That past, forgotten, through thy pow'r,
In a deserving husband's arms!
Still o'er her destiny preside,
And grant that every future day,
Which, gentle month, shall o'er her glide,
Be soothing and serene as May!
THE TOMB OF GENIUS.
Where the chilling north wind howls,
Where the weeds so widely wave,
Mourn'd by the weeping willow,
Wash'd by the beating billow,
Lies the youthful Poet's grave.
Where the weeds so widely wave,
Mourn'd by the weeping willow,
Wash'd by the beating billow,
Lies the youthful Poet's grave.
Beneath yon little eminence,
Mark'd by the grass-green turf,
The winding-sheet his form encloses,
On the cold rock his head reposes—
Near him foams the troubled surf!
Mark'd by the grass-green turf,
The winding-sheet his form encloses,
On the cold rock his head reposes—
Near him foams the troubled surf!
“Roars around” his tomb “the ocean,”
Pensive sleeps the moonbeam there!
Naiads love to wreath his urn—
Dryads thither hie to mourn—
Fairy music melts in air!
Pensive sleeps the moonbeam there!
Naiads love to wreath his urn—
Dryads thither hie to mourn—
Fairy music melts in air!
310
O'er his tomb the village virgins
Love to drop the tribute-tear;
Stealing from the groves around,
Soft they tread the hallow'd ground,
And scatter wild flow'rs o'er his bier.
Love to drop the tribute-tear;
Stealing from the groves around,
Soft they tread the hallow'd ground,
And scatter wild flow'rs o'er his bier.
By the cold earth mantled—
All alone—
Pale and lifeless lies his form:
Batters on his grave the storm:
Silent now his tuneful numbers:
Here the son of Genius slumbers:
Stranger! mark his burial stone!
All alone—
Pale and lifeless lies his form:
Batters on his grave the storm:
Silent now his tuneful numbers:
Here the son of Genius slumbers:
Stranger! mark his burial stone!
PUZZLE.
[_]
The following jeu d'esprit was written in the honor of a celebrated lady in Virginia by the name of Mayo, whose virtues, beauty, and accomplishments deserve a higher eulogium from an abler pen. The effort was more immediately prompted by a remark that the name of Mayo was no way susceptible of a pun. The poem was intended to be complete as an independent allegory, and, at the same time, appropriate in every reference to its subject.
Fatigu'd and restless, on my bed
I languish'd for the dawn of morrow,
Till slumber sooth'd my aching head,
And lull'd, in fairy dreams, my sorrow.
I languish'd for the dawn of morrow,
Till slumber sooth'd my aching head,
And lull'd, in fairy dreams, my sorrow.
I seem'd in that serene retreat,
Which smiles in spite of stormy weather;
Where flowers and virtues, clustering, meet,
And cheeks and roses blush together:
Which smiles in spite of stormy weather;
Where flowers and virtues, clustering, meet,
And cheeks and roses blush together:
When soon twelve sylph-like forms, I dream'd,
Successive on my vision darted,
And still the latest comer seem'd
Fairer than she who just departed.
Successive on my vision darted,
And still the latest comer seem'd
Fairer than she who just departed.
Yet one there was, whose azure eye
A melting, holy, lustre lighted,
Which censur'd, while it wak'd, the sigh,
And chid the feelings it excited.
A melting, holy, lustre lighted,
Which censur'd, while it wak'd, the sigh,
And chid the feelings it excited.
311
“Mortal!” a mystic speaker said,
“In these the sister months discover:—
Select from these the brightest maid,—
Prove to the brightest maid a lover.”
“In these the sister months discover:—
Select from these the brightest maid,—
Prove to the brightest maid a lover.”
I heard and felt no longer free!
The dream dissolves, the sisters sever,
While raptur'd, I exclaim, “With thee,
Dear May! O, let me dwell forever!”
The dream dissolves, the sisters sever,
While raptur'd, I exclaim, “With thee,
Dear May! O, let me dwell forever!”
EPILOGUE.
[_]
An original play called “Pulaski” was acted at college, and Master Howard Payne, at that time only fourteen years of age, and who sustained the only female character in the play, was appointed to write and pronounce the epilogue. He spoke it in the dress of Lodoiska, who entered hastily as the curtain fell.
I haste, kind guests, as you perhaps will say
A wretched pleader for a wretched play.
Oh, had you seen, repentant for his errors,
Our trembling author's frown-subduing terrors,
Even if you disapprov'd you would not show it,
But spare the work in pity of the poet!
A wretched pleader for a wretched play.
Oh, had you seen, repentant for his errors,
Our trembling author's frown-subduing terrors,
Even if you disapprov'd you would not show it,
But spare the work in pity of the poet!
But soft a while—let me a moment pause—
Speak for myself—and then assert his cause;
Tell me, ye beaux, are your affections free?
You need not answer, for I plainly see
That you're all dying, luckless beaux, for me!
Speak for myself—and then assert his cause;
Tell me, ye beaux, are your affections free?
You need not answer, for I plainly see
That you're all dying, luckless beaux, for me!
Ladies! do you no indignation feel
That Lodoiska should your lovers steal?
That Lodoiska should your lovers steal?
Be calm, dear ladies! set your hearts at rest,
You shall retain your beaux, and make them blest!
You shall retain your beaux, and make them blest!
For, lest a late discovery prove inhuman,
In time I'll tell them that their fair's—no woman.
“No woman!” say you?—gentle folks, don't stare!
The transformation is no more than fair!
So many women now our breeches wear
That we must sport their dresses, or go bare!
In time I'll tell them that their fair's—no woman.
“No woman!” say you?—gentle folks, don't stare!
The transformation is no more than fair!
So many women now our breeches wear
That we must sport their dresses, or go bare!
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Says that young lady in the gunboat bonnet,
Or seems to say,—“WE, sir,—WE wear the breeches, sir! Fie on it!”
Sweet Miss, I ask your pardon, but if you
The fact deny, I'll try to prove it true.
Or seems to say,—“WE, sir,—WE wear the breeches, sir! Fie on it!”
Sweet Miss, I ask your pardon, but if you
The fact deny, I'll try to prove it true.
Are you not soldiers? Fight ye not with—eyes?
And many a stout heart carry by surprise?
Who can withstand “th' artillery of charms”?
The harvest heroes yield—to woman's arms!
And many a stout heart carry by surprise?
Who can withstand “th' artillery of charms”?
The harvest heroes yield—to woman's arms!
Are ye not merchants? and to lose vexation
Do you not marry upon speculation,
And with the highest bidder make a trade
On which embargoes can be laid?
Do you not marry upon speculation,
And with the highest bidder make a trade
On which embargoes can be laid?
But, woman-like, my tongue once under weigh
From the main point, has gone so far astray
That, self-absorb'd, I've quite forgot “Our play.”
From the main point, has gone so far astray
That, self-absorb'd, I've quite forgot “Our play.”
“Our play!” the critics sneeringly exclaim,—
“Our farce” were surely a much fitter name.
“Our farce” were surely a much fitter name.
Remember, critics, what you've seen this night
Is but an unfledg'd poet's infant flight;
'Tis yours to tempt him with bright plumes to rise,
Spring from the plain, and glitter in the skies;
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun.
Is but an unfledg'd poet's infant flight;
'Tis yours to tempt him with bright plumes to rise,
Spring from the plain, and glitter in the skies;
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun.
Ye lovely fair! beneath whose guardian eyes
The humblest bud of genius never dies,
And with your cheering smiles this honest claim,—
“The smiles of beauty are the wreaths of fame.”
The humblest bud of genius never dies,
And with your cheering smiles this honest claim,—
“The smiles of beauty are the wreaths of fame.”
FLATTERY.
[_]
Lines addressed to a lady who told the author she feared that the attention of the world would spoil him, and unfit him for anything serious. Written in 1806.
Oh, Lady! hadst thou ever seen
The tear unbidden fill my eye,
Or mark'd me in the sportive scene,
To half suppress the rising sigh,—
The tear unbidden fill my eye,
Or mark'd me in the sportive scene,
To half suppress the rising sigh,—
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Thou wouldst not think that Pleasure's glare
Had blinded, and subdu'd my heart,
Or planted deep was, rankling there
The poison of her glittering dart!—
Had blinded, and subdu'd my heart,
Or planted deep was, rankling there
The poison of her glittering dart!—
True, fortune on my boyhood smil'd,
And much of flatt'ry I have known,
Yet Sorrow claims me as her child,
And early mark'd me for her own.
And much of flatt'ry I have known,
Yet Sorrow claims me as her child,
And early mark'd me for her own.
The joy has burst its prison chains,
And rapture started from its sleep,
They left me with severer pains,
They taught me better how to weep!—
And rapture started from its sleep,
They left me with severer pains,
They taught me better how to weep!—
Few are the hours which beam like those
That I have sweetly spent with you,
Which, brilliant 'mid a cloud of woes,
In memory still their charms renew!
That I have sweetly spent with you,
Which, brilliant 'mid a cloud of woes,
In memory still their charms renew!
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY FRIEND.
Death with reluctant steps, half lingering, hies,And, arm'd with terror, pitying, shakes his spear!
He strikes, and as the lovely victim dies,
Relenting, mourns her with a silent tear!
THE COQUETTE.
Oh, tell me, sweet girl, ere we part,
If your recent reproofs were sincere,
If that anger arose from the heart,
Which glowed in those glances severe.
If your recent reproofs were sincere,
If that anger arose from the heart,
Which glowed in those glances severe.
Did you mean, love, when lately we met,
In earnest to frown thus and fly me?
Or, acting for once the coquette,
Did you counterfeit rage but to try me?
In earnest to frown thus and fly me?
Or, acting for once the coquette,
Did you counterfeit rage but to try me?
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Come! kiss and make up ere we part,
And, dearest, I'll strive to amend!
For, depriv'd of my home in your heart,
Where again shall I find such a friend?
And, dearest, I'll strive to amend!
For, depriv'd of my home in your heart,
Where again shall I find such a friend?
ODE TO CLARA.
[_]
The following was written when Master Payne was twelve years of age, on reading some publications in a New York paper signed “Clara.”
How oft have I essay'd in vain
To swell the wond'rous wizard song,
Yet still the rude and rustic strain
Groans on the lyre's unwilling tongue,
And hoarsely breathes, as if to chide
My erring and presumptuous pride!
To swell the wond'rous wizard song,
Yet still the rude and rustic strain
Groans on the lyre's unwilling tongue,
And hoarsely breathes, as if to chide
My erring and presumptuous pride!
Oh, Clara! since the muse denies
My wild, untutor'd strain to rise
With some bewitching melodies,
Deign thou, her darling, to inspire
My humble harp with hallow'd fire;
Teach it the magic of thy lyre,
That I may boldly forth and claim
Like thee, the choicest gift of fame,—
A deathless, great, and glorious name!
My wild, untutor'd strain to rise
With some bewitching melodies,
Deign thou, her darling, to inspire
My humble harp with hallow'd fire;
Teach it the magic of thy lyre,
That I may boldly forth and claim
Like thee, the choicest gift of fame,—
A deathless, great, and glorious name!
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