Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sing of New-England, favored land!
Her customs dear—her social band—
Her everlasting hills that stand
Above her meads,
As when at first, by His command,
They reared their heads!—
Vision of Poesy, page 21.

DEDICATION TO EVERY TRUE NEW-ENGLANDER, MORE ESPECIALLY THE SONS OF MASSACHUSETTS.

THE PROPHECY.

Inscribed to Hon. Daniel Webster, U. S. Senate.

Most honored sir, my unalloyed respect
For him who merits well his country's praise!
Can generous heart an honest aim reject?
“No mercenary bard his homage pays,”
Nor strikes he yet a lyre of heavenly lays;
No flowers of rhetoric his pen adorn—
He walks with Nature in her simplest ways,
And boasts himself a true New-England born,
With whom the sun of life is yet in dewy morn.

Upon thy banks, Connecticut,
Alone I pensive strayed;
The glimmering day his eye had shut,
And left the world in shade.
The harvest day of toil was o'er;
To free myself of care
I sought thy loved and lonely shore
To study nature there.

Beside the trunk of ancient oak
I found a mossy seat,
To mind the rippling wave that broke
In murmurs at my feet.
My thoughts o'er different themes diffused,
But yet for none concerned—
Till, like good David, while I mused
The fire within me burned!

I gazed upon the silver tide
That swept in silence by,
Its glassy surface spreading wide
Beneath the starry sky—
When lo! to my astonished view,
Along the winding shore,
An Indian in his light canoe
Impelled a noiseless oar.

The sight itself was wondrous rare
If nothing else were seen;
But now a visionary air
And strange unearthly mien
Awakened more my great surprise,
And filled my mind with awe!
I scarce believed my tell-tale eyes
Were right in what they saw.

But my surprise to horror grew,
When with an easy hand
The Indian wheeled his swift canoe
And straightway came to land.
I felt the frozen current creep
In chilling shudders o'er me,
When with a graceful, airy leap
The phantom stood before me!

Swift as an arrow were my flight,
Tho' quaking sore with dread,
Had not my limbs seemed palsied quite
And senseless like the dead.
The men of saws a proverb have
Which often comes in place:
“Necessity makes cowards brave”—
So in the present case.

The phantom glowered upon me stern—
I quailed beneath his glance,
On him bestowing, in return,
A fearful look askance.
The robes in which he stood arrayed,
Were shadows strangely twined,
And seemed like three-fold gathered shade
With outline dim defined.

The longer I observance made,
The less and less I grew afraid.
But wholly at a loss to know
Whether he came as friend or foe—
Whether a fiend, with fell intent,
On some infernal errand sent;
Or else a sprite that haunts the flood,
With message of some future good.
But soon this train of thought was broke—
With hollow voice the phantom spoke:
“Brother,” quoth he, “whose coming dost thou wait,
That thou shouldst tarry here alone so late?
What restless passions in thy bosom swell,
That thou shouldst love the solitude so well?
Dost thou with life a hostile warfare wage,
And hither stray to vent thy foolish rage?

Is sorrow thine—art thou a son of wo?
Then, brother, speak—she is my mother, too!”
Brother, thought I,—the epithet sounds well!
Thou bidst me speak, then first of all I'll tell
This interview I gladly would escape,
Thou comest in such a “questionable shape.”
Ghost as thou art, and as I plainly see,
Yet as thou deign'st to converse with me,
For information I will answer thee.
But just ago, such was my crazy fright,
I had forgot my purpose here to-night.
My busy thoughts were wandering to and fro
Throughout the whole wide earth, for aught I know;
I thought of changes Time and men have made
Since the sun shone where all before was shade;
How on the shores of this our native stream
The whiteman's footsteps woke the Indian's dream;
How cities flourish where his wigwam stood,
And Commerce quite supplants him on the flood.

“Brother,” the phantom mournfully replied,
(And took a sitting posture at my side,)
“Thou sayest well—thy words are very wise.
I 've seen the cheerful sun and clouded skies;
I saw the gath'ring storm before it sped
To burst its blackness on my fated head!
I heard aloof the bellowing thunders roll,
And dark forebodings filled my troubled soul.

“Your people are a great and mighty race,
Skilled in all arts, and polished well in grace;
Ye have traditions written in a book,
That generations, yet unborn, may look
Therein for noble deed or famed exploit,

And you, perhaps, have read of Massasoit.
I am the spirit of that ancient chief!
I 've seen my nation wasted, and with grief
Have felt the whiteman's ‘perfidy ingrate’—
It turned my fostering kindness into hate.
When first you came, a weak and famished band,
Did I not ope to you a helping hand?
And when your feeble numbers quailed to see
The dark-skinned warriors that surrounded me,
I made a league to quell your rising fears—
Which treaty lasted more than fifty years.
Is it not so? how was my love repaid?
Extermination drew the reeking blade!
Where is my glory now, my kingly pride?
Where the staunch band that rallied at my side?
For a brief space you cherished gratitude,
(But scarcely then returned good for good,)
Whereby I gained an everlasting fame—
You borrowed mine to give your state a name.
But avarice soon quenched the vital spark
Of gratitude, and straightway all was dark!
My wide domains, out-spreading far and near,
Pride of my people—to myself thrice dear—
From my own grasp slipped speedily away,
As dries the dew before the beams of day;
And when no more the country of our birth
Gave us a home, heart-sick we left the earth.

“Yet Massachusetts is my namesake dear,
And for her sake I fain re-visit here.
With jealous eye I 've watched her rising power
E'en from her birth up to the present hour;

I 've seen her sons in Learning's halls preside,
Their light of knowledge spreading far and wide;
I 've seen her Commerce with her sails unfurl'd
Wherever waters wash the mighty world;
When the great king who ruled beyond the sea
Unwisely forged his fetters for the free,
With pride I saw old Massachusetts rise
And boast her freedom to the vaulted skies!
I saw her willing leave the furrowed field,
And snatch the patriot arms she loved to wield.
Oh, never may her patriot fire decay!
'T would be my chiefest wo to see it die away!”

The spirit's voice seemed choked with grief,
And as he paused to rest,
My heart warmed towards the ancient chief
As for a welcome guest.
Thou wast a patriot, too, thought I,
And tho' requited ill,
Our fathers' generous ally,
Who loves our welfare still.

Old Massasoit, I bless thy name!
With me thy peace is made;
I 've learned thy never-dying fame
From this thy wandering shade.
I'll recollect in future time
This evening's interview,
Perhaps to tell of it in rhyme—
But list! he speaks anew:

“Now, brother, hearken well—before I go
I'll tell you something which you ne'er would know
Were not prophetic vision given thee—
A gift, you know, which scarcely well could be.

You are aware that to a spirit's eyes
Time future in a panorama lies,
Wherein they may behold, at one survey,
The farthest confines of futurity;
May note events in which men will engage
When Time has rolled his wheels for many an age;
The rise and fall of empires, too, they see,
Long e'er on earth those empires disagree.

“Peace came at last, and hushed were war's alarms,
And victory reposed upon your arms.
Then the great chief, who all your factions quelled,
Convened his people and a council held.
I, too, was there—an uninvited one;
And since the days of glorious Washington,
Down to the modern councils of the man
Who loved to kill the friendless Indian,
Unasked, unseen, I 've had a station there,
And observation bids me this declare:
Since that your wiser fathers left the stage
Forgotten are their admonitions sage;
Wrangling and discord frequent now I hear,
And these contentions strengthen every year.
A few, unawed by party's growing sway,
Cry error, loud, and point the better way.
Among those few, delighted, I have heard
The great Defender speak that wiser word.
But mortals seldom hearken to reproof;
Headstrong with self they push advice aloof.

“Before one hundred annual suns shall burn,
And earth around the wondrous blaze shall turn,
Time shall to you a mighty change revolve—
The fabric of your Union shall dissolve!

The ancient oak lifts high its vernal head,
And wide its green and leafy limbs are spread;
But the chill frosts of autumn come at last,
And give its withered beauty to the blast!
So shall dissentions and divisions come—
E'en now I hear the stirring fife and drum.
Brother shall lift his hand against his brother,
And hostile states shall war with one another.
New-England shall withdraw from out the fight,
And rear herself against opposing might;
And when these promis'd threat'nings shall be done
She shall elect a ruler of her own.

“Brother, farewell! Remember what I 've said
When Time's hoar frosts have silvered thy young head.
My words are true as that you do not dream”—
He said, and vanished o'er the quiet stream!
I started, waking in amazed affright;
While in my ear the solemn bird of night
Uttered a scream, so startling and so shrill,
The sound itself seemed ominous of ill.
Slow homeward then my stiffened feet were bent
And pondering o'er the vision as I went,
I thought if Time to pass the dream should bring
Who 'd better rule than he to whom I sing?

See Hoyt's Antiquarian Researches, chap. 1, p 21.

Tradition tells us that Massachusetts derived its name from the old chief Massasoit, the famous friend of the whites.

VISION OF POESY.

The setting sun had closed the day,
The silent moon was on her way,
And men upon their couches lay
In slumber deep;
And I, too, felt the sovereign sway
Of balmy sleep.

But then my mind was not reposed;
For tho' my eyes no doubt were closed,
And I to all appearance dozed,
Yet I could see;
And visionary forms deposed
Strange things to me.

Methought that sudden flashed a light
Around my bed, exceeding bright;
While I, confounded at the sight,
Was sore afraid;
And 'neath the bed-clothes in affright
Did hide my head.

Half-smothered, breathing hard in fear,
Lest something worse should soon appear,
I waited awful sounds to hear,
Like dying groans,
Or see some shocking spectre rear
Its chalky bones!

When gentle sounds so “soft and low,”
And musically gliding slow,
Seemed from a magic source to flow,
My fears to quell;

Whereat, well-pleased, quoth I, “I'll know
Who plays so well.”

Unveiling then my wondering eyes,
I saw, with heart-struck, deep surprise,
A tenant of the upper skies,
Or seemed to be—
Standing arrayed in heavenly guise,
And near to me!

The phantom seemed a female fair,
With flowing locks of auburn hair,
Her snowy arm and bosom bare,
Of finest mould;
And then her robes she knew to wear
In graceful fold.

Her eyes gleamed with poetic fire;
And in her hand she held a lyre,
The chords thereof were golden wire—
Well worth the Muse;
Such as methinks the heavenly choir
Might not abuse!

She raised her lyre and brushed its string,
Softly as with a downy wing;
I heard the chords in answer ring
A pleasant tone;
To memory it seemed to sing
Days long by-gone!

Pensive she gazed upon my face,
And seemed therein my thoughts to trace;
Then with a lightsome, gliding pace
Approached my bed,
And with a winning modest grace
She bowed, and said:

“My son, I pray distrust not me—
My cognomen is Poesy;
I come with tidings unto thee—
Sprung from the Nine;
I come to tell thee thou shalt be
A child of mine!

“To Scotia's ancient bard I came,
To crown his rustic brows with fame,
And hand posterity his name
Recorded bright;
Mayhap some future bard the same
Of thee may write.

“To sing I taught his faltering tongue;
Fired with new zeal his harp he strung,
And to old Scotia, listening, sung
His ditties wild;
While he to robes of Nature clung,
Like a true child.

“I know thou lovest Nature well!
The same full oft I 've heard thee tell—
Delighted on her works to dwell,
With her to stray
Down purling brook, or lonely dell,
In musing way.

“When Spring with all her blushing flowers
Invited thee beneath her bowers,
I saw thee with her sunny hours
Adorn her name;
Or if the earth were wet with showers—
'T were all the same.

“When Summer, with her carpet green,
In all her beauteous prime was seen,

I saw thy sober air and mien,
And thoughtful look;
From her thou didst instruction glean,
As from a book.

“When waning Autumn lingered near,
I saw thee mark the rolling year,
Its withered foliage scattering sere,
With great delight;
Her solemn, magic winds to hear,
Enraptured quite.

“When bitter Winter came at last,
Loud-roaring with his stormy blast,
Bestowing, as it rattled past,
The frozen shower,
I 've seen thee shivering stand aghast,
And own his power!

“When Fortune with her fickle hand
Led thee to tread a foreign strand,
I saw thee listen her command,
And willing go;
But yet to leave thy father-land
Made tears to flow.

“And when beneath a softer clime,
Where mankind sport with careful Time,
In revel live and mock at crime—
With tuneful lays
I 've heard thee sing, in artless rhyme,
New-England's praise

“These things I 've seen and heard in the
Well-pleasing in themselves to me;
Henceforward and forever be
My dear-loved son!

And for a genius thou art free
Myself to own.

“And take thou this, my sounding lyre,
And let it rouse thy soul to fire,
And wake a strain that ne'er shall tire,
Tho' sad the heart!
Nor let thy thankful self aspire
To higher part.

“Sing of thy ancient, noble state—
Her learned sons—renowned great—
Her patriotic dead, whose fate
Your freedom gave—
Her patriotic fire innate,
That burns to save!

“Sing of New-England, favored land!
Her customs dear—her social band—
Her everlasting hills that stand
Above her meads,
As when at first, by His command,
They reared their heads.

“Her silver streams meandering slow,
As onward to the sea they flow—
Her vine-clad homes out-looking low
'Neath sheltering trees,
And seldom failing to bestow
Contented ease.

“Tell of her sons that rove the earth
Far from the country of their birth—
Tell of the bright domestic hearth,
Her daughters fair,
And of the gay and festive mirth
That centers there.

“Now to my words incline thine ear:
In every place thyself revere,
Nor the harsh voice of censure fear
For thy poor lays;
Nor beg thy fellow-man to hear
To court his praise.”

Thus spoke the beauteous, heavenly maid.
I listened well—no more afraid,
And all distrustful feelings laid
Forgetful by;
And took the lyre, e'en as she bade,
Its tone to try.

She gave it me, still vibrating.
Its sound incited me to sing,
And busy thoughts began to spring
Profusely thick,
While skilfully I touched each string
At random quick.

“My tongue broke forth in unknown strain”
To make the veriest minstrel vain;
The numbers in harmonic train
Adorned my song,
And sweet the whispering strings did fain
Rehearse them long.

I ceased my song with hands upraised,
At my untutored skill amazed;
And anxious waited to be praised—
Could she be there?
I looked, but lo! I sorrowing gazed
On empty air!

Now Phœbus from his ocean-bed
Lifted above the hills his head;

Before his face the shadows fled,
And morning broke;
And with the night my vision sped,
And I awoke.

This Vision is the substance of a remarkable dream which the author dreamed in harvest-time.

FIRE-SIDE MUSINGS

During a cold rain-storm in November.

November with his bleak and misty skies
Clothes all the landscape in a gloomy frown;
A heavy cloud upon the hill-top lies,
And the cold raindrops weigh the herbage down,
Its vernal greenness withered into brown;
The forest oaks—how gaunt and bare they be!
With not a leaf their naked heads to crown;
The pheasants all to sheltering coverts flee,
And snug the squirrel lies within his hollow tree.

And shall I sympathise in Nature's grief,
And sadly weep because she seems to mourn?
Shall I lament for Summer's beauty brief,
And joyous Autumn, ravaged now and torn
Of all the splendors which her prime adorn?
I ask the man who guides the rustic plough,
Is it not grief that can be better borne?
Or hath he never contemplated how
To wipe the gloomy frown from nature's hazy brow?

Come, let us look within the cottage door
Of him whom mad Ambition cannot lure,
Whose harvest fruits are laid in winter's store,
Himself and flocks from driving blasts secure;
Ungrateful he if overmuch demure
When bars his door the cold autumnal rain;

Let him reflect it will not aye endure;
Not always drenched the now o'erflowing plain
For when the storm is past the sun will shine again

Is not the independent cottager
Of all mankind the most supremely blest?
No charms for him the brilliant gossamer
That floats about a monarch's haughty crest.
True nobleness that swells his manly breast
Bids him despise the pageantry of art;
Full well he knows 't is hollow at the best;
And the gay bustle of the noisy mart
Grates harshly on his ear and sickens on his heart.

In vain the sons of heraldic parade
May boast of lordly pomp and honors high;
In vain the king may rule to be obeyed,
And, girt with power, his self-willed sceptre ply;
The child of Nature gives them all the lie!
To his well-reasoning and discerning mind
It seems a wondrous inconsistency
That some, alike-created weak and blind,
Should think to lord it o'er the rest of human kind.

Is not his choice far wiser of the twain
Who can at worldly honors coldly mock?
Who leaves the crowned head o'er men to reign
While he contented rules his little flock?
Who sees unmoved the firmest empires rock,
By wars up-heaved, by sore convulsions rent,
While he securely bides the mighty shock,
And sees aloof its blasting fury spent;
While for himself unharmed his prayer to Heaven is sent?

No world for him beyond his little farm,
No hankering for baubles not his own;

On every side he finds some rural charm,
And loves fair Nature for her God alone,
For in her face His handy-work is shown;
And from His bounteous hand he owns the boon
Of all the blessings thick around him strown;
For him doth Phœbus glorify the noon,
And pleasantly at night shall shine the Harvest moon.

Such choice be mine—a chosen spot of land
Here in the bosom of my native vale;
A nervous arm and labor's horny hand,
Athletic frame and constitution hale,
To hold the plough or ply the sounding flail;
A thrifty wife as loving as beloved,
Whose simple manners art cannot assail;
A happy heart, through every trial proved,
Whose trust is placed above unfaltering and unmoved.

Then put into my hands the rural lyre,
And let me wake the wildly-sounding lay;
Then while the tempest drives me to the fire
I'll lose no time in learning how to play.
And often, also, in the pleasant day,
When birds sing sweetly in the early morn,
They shall inspire me with the carrol gay;
Summer shall show the sweetly-scented thorn,
And Autumn sing to Ceres o'er her bending corn.

New-England, fain I 'd be a bard of thine!
Thou art my country—be my patron, too!
Help me to note thy virtues as they shine,
And to the world thy light refulgent show,
Above the darkness that would veil below.
To thee, my much-loved mother, I appeal;

Give me thy smile—thou hast it to bestow!
Than me, I ween, few of thy children feel
More sorrow for thy wo, or pleasure for thy weal.

Nor deem me boastful—for I scorn to see
The lips mis-call the language of the heart;
To me it savors of hypocrisy,
From which, as from a serpent's venomed dart
The feeling soul should with abhorrence start.
Am I unreasonable in my demands?
Judge ye who have the kindness to impart.
True as Time metes his ever-gliding sands.
So true I ask no favors at unwilling hands.

Such is the wish—what think ye of the same
Who boast high titles and a pompous state?
Will not death rob you of your lordly name,
And bid the worm whose wealth has styled him great
With meanest beggar share an equal fate?
Reflect a moment, ye vain sons of pride!
Reflection must your self-conceit abate—
Who but yourselves would have you to preside
Not surely He whose rule is over all and wide?

What of the choice? ye seekers after wealth,
Who lay up treasures which shall not endure;
Who sell the soul and its eternal health
For Mammon's baubles and his glittering lure
Oh, sweet Contentment shall prescribe a cure!
She bids you count the things of earth less dear
Proclaims them all fast-failing and unsure;
She cries you rest your fancied troubles here,
And as ye now serve Mammon do your God revere

What of the choice? ye dwellers in the town,
Where night and day its legions clamor loud;

Ye, who confined in walls of brick and stone,
Do mingle madly in the jostling crowd;
And who of gay appareling are proud.
What of the choice? ye no doubt deem it mean.
Have ever “thrust the sickle in,” or ploughed?
If not, ye may not judge—but I have seen
Both life in town and country, and here judge between.

What of the choice? Methinks I hear a voice,
Or rather mingled voices, in reply:
First Health congratulates me on the choice,
And calm Contentment doth it ratify;
And Independence turns on me his eye;
The Muse declares the choice both wise and sane
And Competence looks smilingly hard by.
Well, then, so far from feeling to complain,
Were I to try anew, I 'd choose the same again.

EPISTLE TO A BROTHER IN VIRGINIA.

Oct. 26, 1837.

Brother, I've taken pen in hand,
Your thoughts a moment to command;
Tho' Alleghanies 'twixt us stand,
Yet in the heart,
Despite wide-intervening land,
We 're not apart.

Here in the valley of the stream
Which first inspired ideal dream,
Which kindled the poetic gleam
Around my ways,
Which taught my youthful muse to teem
Imperfect lays—

Whose rural beauties charm my eye
More than a city's blazonry,
And which I pray until I die
May charm me still—
At present in retreat I lie,
And bide your will.

I love my dear, my native soil;
I love her hardy sons of toil;
From civil strife and foreign broil
May Heaven keep her!
May no accursed party coil
In fury sweep her!

To me this life is not more dear
Than her eternal hills that rear
Their heads, and from afar appear
In grandeur high—
Than her deep lore that fills my ear—
Her light, my eye!

But yet, with all the light we boast,
Brother, believe me, there 's a host
That darken yet New-England's coast,
Mad-groping, blind;
They are not fools, and yet almost
For fools designed.

I'll prove the truth of my remark,
How some here wander in the dark
Without a glimmer or a spark
Of Reason's light;
And know but just like dogs to bark
At what they spite:

You know the wisdom of the age,
How certain meddlers would engage

In wars that wise ones will not wage,
And wild schemes plot,
And vent their blind and zealous rage
Where they should not.

I know it, too, and took a verse
From Scripture Proverbs for discourse,
And one that touches on the curse
Of which I write;
And wrote, “for better or for worse,”
In black and white.

My sentiments I boldly told,
(Tho' in a modest manner bold,)
And in my weakness did unfold
What in my view
Are evils worthy of a scold,
The country through.

Heedless of either friends or foes—
Unasked by these, unawed by those,
I gave the public what I chose—
The message sped;
And as you rightly may suppose
The thing was read.

These were my thoughts when it was done:
Now should the coat fit any one
I'm willing he should put it on
If so he will;
And, surely 't is the sick alone
That need the pill.

And so it proved; the sick I found
Rose in delirium around,

And many, too, within the bound
Of an hour's walk;
Their ravings in my ear did sound
Like crazy talk.

One, hobbling on a Bible crutch,
Said I had grieved his feelings much;
The consequent effect was such
On his weak parts,
He knew that I had aimed to touch
Him with my darts.

Perhaps, now, you would like to know
What set the cripple thinking so;
I fain would keep it back—but no!
Truth is the word;
And yet I blush to see it go,
'T is so absurd!—

On ranting sects a word I dealt,
And spoke exactly as I felt,
That “some in strange devotion knelt.”—
Hide, god of day!
'T was this made Cripple's reason melt—
He kneels to pray!

Well, others called me infidel,
Because I dared the truth to tell:
And while they fain would ring the knell
For Opposition,
'Tis Ignorance I would impel
To abolition.

Tho' I 've not told the half I might,
If it do n't argue want of light,
Then I'm not surely in the right;
And if I err,

May I wing Wisdom in her flight—
The dear stranger!

There is a link binds soul to soul,
Tho' sundered far as pole from pole;
Not word of kings, not proud controul
That link can sever;
As long 's the “silver cord” be whole,
'T is firm as ever.

That chain around ourselves is thrown;
On me its influence I own,
And often, silent and alone,
I feel it bind,
And all our joys, in days by-gone,
Come fresh to mind.

Ah, yes! those days have flown away
Since hand in hand we used to stray
Along the walks of infancy;
And later yet,
How we have spent the youthful day
Can you forget?

How from our dear home self-exiled
On life's broad highway we have toiled,
And one another's cares beguiled
With ready cheer?
If one would weep, the other smiled
To quell the tear.

But manhood opens to your way;
Another, innocently gay,
Will now the fancied ills allay
Of careful life;
May Heaven's watchful eye, I pray,
Attend your wife.

Now as the voyage of life start
May wise discretion be your chart,
And for a compass your own heart
Has giv'n it you;
And like the needle may your part
Be ever true!

May Death full long forget the knife
To part you from your tender wife;
And may you sail secure from strife
Down sunny stream,
And with the fairest breeze of life
Abaft the beam.

And when you launch upon that sea
That rolls in deep eternity,
Oh, blissful may your landing be
On pleasant shore!
And then may Heaven welcome thee,
And evermore!

Vide the article alluded to—Proverbs xx, 3. The SERMON and the effect it produced are hinted at in the “Addenda” to the Review, in this volume.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

Forth from his father's hall a wanderer went,
His steps towards the setting sun were bent;
With heavy heart in smiling looks disguised;
By mother counselled and by sire advised.
A youth he was, and scarcely ever o'er
The threshold of nativity before;
And when each day with retrospective eye
He saw wide distance intervening lie
Between himself and all that he had left,
He felt like one of all but life bereft.
But Hope had lent him one consoling ray,

To cheer his heart while on his lonely way:
Beyond the lakes where then were frontier lands,
An ancient city of the waters stands ;
An elder brother waited for him there,
And watched his progress with the eye of care.
The weary leagues of journey o'er at last,
The voyage done and Erie's billows past,
He heard with joy his brother's welcome voice,
Who took his hand, and bade his heart rejoice.
It did rejoice—no more for home he sighed,
Contented with his brother to abide.
In him the lad a generous helper found,
Whose love was pure, whose good advice was sound.
Then in the “paths of peace” they walked awhile
And Fortune, favoring, seemed on them to smile.

How oft we see the Summer sun go down
Amid the gloomy clouds that sullen frown!
So set the sun upon the wanderer's day,
Night hid his light and darkness hid his way!
Throughout the land was heard a frenzied cry—
'T was that of men in mortal agony;
A darkling pestilence sped in the wind,
And Death with all his terrors came behind.
Who that survived those days of awful gloom
Forgets the general flocking to the tomb?
The rich, the poor, the high, the low, the great,
Learned and unlearned, shared an equal fate.
The shafts of death fell thick on every side;
They reached the twain—the elder brother died!
Palsied he fell, and with expiring breath
Bade life adieu, and calmly welcomed death.
The wanderer watched beside his dying bed,
Until at last the parting spirit fled;

Then to his narrow home he saw him borne,
And followed fast behind the hearse to mourn.
A funeral train, too, thronged around his bier
To shed for him the sympathising tear.
The man of God, with solemn, serious air,
To Heaven's high Throne preferred the earnest prayer;
While those around, each with uncovered head,
Bethought them of the virtues of the dead.
He prayed for him who mourned a brother's end,
That God to him would consolation send—
That he might find a friend in yet another,
In One “who sticketh closer than a brother!”
Then laid the dead within the “lap of earth,”
Till the archangel's trump shall call him forth.

How felt the wanderer when the scene was o'er
He dried his eyes and strove to weep no more.
Far from the busy haunts of man he strayed,
And tuned his lyre on which he sometimes play'd
As eve's grey shadows with the landscape blent,
He woke its strain, and thus his sad lament:

THE LAMENT.

The weary sun has gone to rest
Upon his watery ocean-bed;
Night comes in sable drapery,
And wide o'er earth her shades are spread,
The cheerful day of light is past,
But not from mourning earth alone—
Alas, upon my saddened heart
The light of life and joy is gone!

He whom the gods did love is dead!
The muses loved his very name!

Oh, why has Death's untimely shade
Eclipsed the day-star of his fame?
Oh, why is Science called to mourn
The loss of one in manhood's bloom?
On him the glare of knowledge shone
To light his pathway to the tomb!

Yea, thou art gone, friend of my youth,
Eldest of our fraternal band!
How stern the stroke which left me here
'Mongst strangers in a stranger land!
But Oh! my heart is sick to think
How heavy will the tidings come
To those who all unconscious doat
Upon him, at his distant home!

His feet, returned, no more shall tread
The threshold of that vine-clad door!
Around their social evening hearth
They'll see his manly form no more
No more they'll listen to his tales
Of peril on the stormy deep,
For lo! he waketh not again
From this his all-forgetting sleep!

Yon star that twinkles in the sky—
Thou 'rt witness to my pain of heart!
Thou hear'st my heart-felt, deep-drawn sigh—
Thou see'st the trickling tear-drop start!
Perhaps thou art the blest abode
Of him for whom lament I sing;
Perhaps, well-pleased, he hovers near
To take the offering which I bring.

Brother, while stars are in the sky—
While suns shall light this earth below—
So long as verdure decks the earth,
And mountains stand, and rivers flow—
While Erie's boisterous billows roll,
And this poor life remains to me,
Brother, within my grateful soul
Shall still abide thy memory!

Detroit, (Mich.)

The deceased was an officer in the United States navy for a number of years.

THE WISCONSIN MOON.

'T was in a wild and far-off land,
Where Nature's savage realms expand,
Arrayed by her primeval hand
In ancient dress,
Decking in robes sublimely grand
The wilderness;

Beyond the bouuds of our frontier,
Where Indian tribes pursue the deer,
And light the council-fire in fear
Of whiteman's face,
Who prowls for them and plunder near—
Black-hearted, base!

It was a chill December night;
The ice had shut the streamlets tight,
And o'er the earth a mantle white
Of snow was spread;
And Nature seemed all lifeless quite—
So drear and dead!

By fickle, adverse fortune led,
Half-clad, half-frozen, illy fed,

I sought my cold and cheerless bed,
But not to rest;
For gentle sleep my eyelids fled—
A stranger guest.

Beneath an open roof I lay;
And thro' the chinky wall of clay
I heard old Boreas whistling play
The whole night long,
Without the power to bid him stay
His mournful song.

I turned my restless, wakeful eye
And saw the full moon sailing high,
Slow thro' the midnight frosty sky,
When in my mind
Sad thoughts arose, and pensively
I thus repined:

Thou cheerful orb of silver light
That shines upon this cheerless night,
What space reflects thy blaze!
What dif'rent forms of mankind, too,
Inhabit planet earth below
Thy penetrating rays!
Thou shinest on the rich and poor;
And on my distant home;
Thy light is on the cottage door,
And on the gilded dome.

Yea, wealthy ones beneath thee roll
In every comfort which the soul
Can ask to gather here;
Of their abundance well might spare
A portion for the poor to share,
Their meagre lot to cheer.

But ah, the selfish creature man!
Tho' filled with plenty now,
He strives and labors while he can
To make it overflow.

Thou seeest the lowly cottage roof
Where avarice may find reproof;
Its inmates lack for show;
And yet with sweet contentment blest
Perhaps this hour they calmly rest
Without a cause for wo.
What tho' they never can afford
The luxuries of wealth—
Contentment crowns their humble board,
And heaven gives them health.

My distant happy home—ah, me!
On fairer earthly home than thee
That planet never shone;
While I, an outcast from the pale
Of social ties and friendship hale,
Must wander here alone!
Deprived of comforts once I knew,
How can I but repine,
When I reflect that but a few
Feel wo akin to mine!

I paused to muse upon my grief,
Scarce hoping to obtain relief,
But deemed myself the very chief
Of all forlorn;
While Time, the busy, silent thief,
Crept towards morn.

The waning moon went coursing on
To leave me soon in dark alone;

When Boreas in a plaintive tone
Spoke thro' the wall;
I listened in the solemn moan
An answering call:

“Compare thy case, sad tho' it be,
To other forms of misery;
See the poor beggar shivering lie
As stretched beside the way to die.
He has not e'en thy humble bed
Whereon to rest his aching head;
Spurned from in hospitable door,
Lean, hungered famine gnaws him sore!

“List the lone seaman's drowning cry
Beneath the frowning wintry sky;
See the wild waves above him roll,
Freezing to ice his very soul!
Think how with joy his feet would tread
The flooring of thy humble shed.

“Think of the prisoner's wretched doom,
Pining within a dungeon's gloom;
What groans bespeak his inward pains!
How doleful sound his clanking chains!
Perhaps he counts the winged flight
Of hours that measure out the night,
And knows that death awaits his prey,
Whene'er the sun shall bring the day.

“Think of the bondman's hopeless wo!
Can you his life of sorrows know?
Canst feel his galling fetters weigh
Upon thy limbs so heavily?
Art thou compelled to breathe his sigh
In vain for blessed liberty?

“Hearest thou the maniac shrieking wild,
From reason, hope, and home exiled;
Who to the chilling nightly air
Mutters the incoherent prayer?

“Dost mind the countless pallid train
This night are racked on beds of pain?
Where sickness trims the feeble light
That glimmers thro' the weary night?
Compare their hapless lot with thine,
And no more in dejection pine.”

I heard, and felt reproof—resolved
All sad complaint to rest;
My heart in thankfulness dissolved
That I so much was blest.

And then the same instructive strain
Sung me a lullaby;
And when from sleep awaked again,
The sun was in the sky.

LIFE—ITS DISCONTENTS.

I.

Say what is life? repining man.
A lengthened day of toil—“a span,”
A season fraught with wo;
A troubled dream which death awakes,
A highway choked with thorny brakes,
Where mortals groping go!
A drama, too, of many scenes;
Each player has his own,
But scarce his acting he begins—
He 's off the stage and gone!

Then others, his brothers,
Protract the tragic play;
The curtain must certain
Eclipse their transient day.

II.

Is Discontent the common lot?
How favored those who know her not!
Alas, how few they are!
Some give to sorrow no restraint,
And seem determined on complaint,
Tho' Fortune treat them fair.
Take one from out the favored part
To whom content is given;
He takes the boon with thankful heart,
And owns the gift from Heaven.
He fears not, he hears not
The discontented voice;
But strives well, and thrives well
Upon his better choice.

III.

Behold the soul in youthful mask!
Tho' blest with all that heart should ask,
It deems itself not so;
But forward looks with eager eye,
And counts the moments as they fly,
As dragging dull and slow.
As manhood comes at his desire
He looks on childhood past,
And while his cares begin to tire
Suspects himself too fast.
While moaning, and groaning
At retrospective view,
Still prying and trying
To seek out something new.

IV.

Mark next old age—life's setting sun.
His wasting sands are nearly run,
But as he totters on,
Still loath is he to quit the earth,
Tho' grieving in it from his birth—
Complaining, weak and wan!
How inconsistent is the life
Which Discontentment leads!
Tho' sorely vexed at worldly strife
Life's wasting lamp she feeds.
While living, she 's giving
Her hours to care and pain;
But dying, she 's trying
To win them back again!

V.

As roves the sun from east to west,
So have I roved without a rest,
Save solace for the soul;
And toss'd on Fortune's surging wave,
I 've seemed to eye my yawning grave
Within the billowy roll.
But calmly then I viewed the surge
Portentous, swelling dark,
And heeded not the gloomy dirge
That howled around my bark!
Not fearing, while steering
Thro' darkness as of night;
While groping, still hoping
That all would end aright.

VI.

Should fell despair have seized my mind
No wished-for haven could I find—
In wildering terrors lost;

Confounded 'midst the thickening gloom,
Black as the murky midnight tomb,
By whirling tempests tost!
But Hope, twin sister of Content,
Gave me her timely aid—
Aloof assailing horrors sent,
And the mad storm allayed.
Then light'ning and bright'ning
Appeared the cheerful day,
And error and terror
Before it fled away.

VII.

The sick may mourn for loss of health;
The man who rolls in splendid wealth
May yet in sorrow pine;
But, Heaven, hear thou my earnest prayer—
Whatever be my lot to share
Let sweet content be mine!
Give me an eye without a tear
For ill-timed, carking wo,
However rough my journey here
In this dark vale below!
My heart, then, shall part, then,
With ev'ry wrong forgiven,
While I here shall die here
To live again in Heaven.

A VISION.

Letter to Dr. Jno. Frissell, Wheeling, Va.

I had a vision yesternight—
A vision shown to few;
The substance of it I will write
And show to you,
And, ten to one, you'll find the sight
Was mighty true.

Methought that near a great highway
By chances I was thrown,
Where I could see the mixed array
That travelled on;
And life seemed like a busy day
That soon was gone.

There from the “loop-hole of retreat”
Unseen I gazed abroad;
Nor could I count the dusty feet
Upon that road;
But most I wondered that so fleet
The pace they trod.

While on the scene I musing gazed,
And strove to know its aim,
Sudden a light around me blazed—
A phantom came.
Struck at the sight I stood amazed—
Wisdom her name.

She spoke, and I no more afraid,
So gentle was her voice,
Aside all apprehension laid
And heard from choice;
And Oh! her kind instruction made
My heart rejoice.

“Behold we here,” she thus began,
The varied character of man.
Here do we find the dross and worth
That shine or glimmer in the earth.
Of such as these, (be truth disclosed,)
Is this dear world of yours composed.
I'll note them as they pass along—
'T is yours to judge 'twixt right and wrong:

“There comes a fool, upon whose sight
Blest Reason never ope'd her light;
Whose vacant mind and brutish will,
Howe'er advised, are brutish still.
'T is from a blank we judge a prize;
So from a fool we know the wise.—
Were not to man the contrast given,
He 'd live for hell nor care for heaven.

“Yon trifling thing that struts and flits!
Whether he walks, or stands, or sits,
Surveys himself with pleasant eye;
So doth the gaudy butterfly.
Young man, forego thy deep disgust!
You envy not his gloss, I trust.
What tho' he flutter for a day—
The first chill breeze frights him away.”
Thou 'rt right, quoth I, and in my mind
A sage comparison I find
Between the fop and idiot—
Which is the fool and which is not?

The goddess smiled, and would reply
To my remark, but presently
Another object came so near
I could discern his roguish leer.
Whereon my fair instructress said:

“His calling is no honest trade.
There's mischief brewing in his eye;
His step is soft, his hands are sly;
His conscience is as easy, too,
As infant foot in giant shoe.
To know the rogue no second glance
Is wanting at his countenance.
Not thus with all of Adam's race
You'll find their index on the face;
Were Justice never wronged you'd see
Full often 'neath the gallows-tree
The man whose fate were ne'er delayed
Had half his crimes his looks betrayed.

“Behold this man that totters by,
With stumbling foot and maudlin eye.
He is a drunkard—let him go,
Altho' by nature worthy, too.
Perhaps misfortune bade his soul
Drown care and sorrow in the bowl;
Reasons more potent e'en might urge,
Till brought to Ruin's dizzy verge.

“Mark yonder sanctimonious wight,
‘Dissembling smooth’—the hypocrite!
He is the vilest of the vile,
Skilled in dark arts and subtle wile!
Mark how with cordial smiles he greets
His luckless neighbor whom he meets,
While hatred in his bosom lies,
And evil envy fills his eyes.
You'll mind him in the ‘house of prayer’;
Among the first he 's ever there,
And few with him in zeal compare.
Unseen of men, and worship o'er,
The hypocrite 's a saint no more!”

I 've often heard before, quoth I,
Of this thing called hypocrisy.
Wilt thou to me some power impart
By which to judge the hollow heart?
“There is a rule I freely give;
'T is simply this: learn as you live.
Mind past events with frequent eye,
And let experience profit thee.

“This is the scowling infidel,
With distant air and aspect ill.
Beware of him and trust him not—
No crime too dark for him to plot;
No kind forgiveness for his foes;
No sympathy for others' woes;
No pity for the bleeding heart;
In mercy's gifts he shares no part.
His actions Wisdom grieves to scan—
He is a dark and stranger man!

“Here comes an object worth remark,
With reckless air and visage dark.
His brow to hideous scowl is bent
As if on hellish plot intent.
Mark well that man—fiend tho' he be,
Not always thus as now you see.
Once his now dull and deafened ear
Delighted Zion's songs to hear;
Once those foul lips, to scoffing given,
Were whispering pious prayers to heaven.
Go search the page of Holy Writ,
There you will find his symbol fit.”

Next in succession came along
A serious man, apart the throng,
With lofty air and thoughtful pace,

And marked throughout with native grace.
The fire of genius lit his eye;
Upturned it fastened on the sky,
And seemed to read in floods of light
The choicest page of Fancy bright.
Both scanned this man with anxious eye,
But neither spoke—I know not why.

Then last of all the wise man came—
Some know him by a christian name.
His mind was conscious aye of right;
No threats could awe, no fears affright.
A smile was o'er his features spread,
And “sunshine settled on his head.”
With lightsome step he passed along,
And Wisdom heard his happy song.
“It is my own dear son!” she cries,
While tears of fondness filled her eyes.
He, too, the recognition owned,
And in a joyful greeting joined.

Affected at the touching scene,
The tears of jealousy
Went coursing down my cheeks, I ween,
Most copiously;
Nor did I try my grief to screen
Too zealously.

I turned to ask the goddess fair
My humble self to own;
But judge, dear sir, of my despair
To find her gone!
And as the vision endeth there,
So I have done!

THE RETURN.

Tibi cano, mea mater.

Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock—
My own green land forever!—
Whittier.

I.

Connecticut, I stand upon thy shore,
And see with joy thy sparkling waters glide;
The morning breeze plays soft thy bosom o'er,
And lends new lustre to thy silver tide,
And nods the elm upon thy greenwood side.
Fondly my eyes behold thee yet again,
And thy rich vale, here intervening wide;
There lofty hills define the narrow plain—
The whole like carpet deck'd with variegated grain.

II.

I 've stood upon thy shore, famed Ohio,
And traced thy mazy channel to its end;
I 've seen Missouri's turbid current flow,
And with Missepa's mighty torrent blend,
In one grand volume to the sea descend;
I 've found midst Nature's savage solitude
The purling stream whose welling waters wend
Thro' prairies fair, by Flora gaily strewed,
And fainting knelt to drink, and felt my strength renewed.

III.

But none of these, Connecticut, can vie
With thy rich scenery of shore and isle;
None save thy beauties captivate my eye—
On none has Nature looked so sweet a smile,

Pure of itself, that savors nothing vile!
On thee my wandering thoughts I oft bestow,
In distant lands, with Mem'ry's magic wile,
I 've seen as oft thy healthful waters flow
O'er pebbles white and cold that shine like gems below.

IV.

That well-known islet, still as ever fair!
Buried beneath her big elms' sombre shade;
But soft! enchantment's magic hand is there—
Not fairy's web, nor yet of watery Naiad;
By outlaw dark that subtle spell is laid.
The story is by every gossip told,
How Kidd, the pirate, there deposite made
Of his ill-gotten wealth, and buried gold
In heavy yellow bars and “dollars many fold.”

V.

And the lone voyager, as he passes by,
Rests for the while upon his weary oar,
And turns his eye on thee distrustfully,
And the dark winding of thy shadowy shore,
For oft he 's heard thy fearful tale before.
The guardian genius of thy fabled soil
On thy behalf I earnestly implore,
Let not intrusive art thy weald despoil,
Nor Commerce fill thy ears with all her loud turmoil.

VI.

Yon mountain old! I know your outline well;
My infant eyes have oft been raised to thee;
Before my feet could walk or tongue could tell
Thy fixed and lofty frown regarded me.
I hail thee now, with every rock and tree!
Between it and the world's engrossing crowd
To this dear vale a barrier thou shalt be,

To keep aloof the rabble, mixed and loud,
Eager for glittering pelf, the humble and the proud.

VII.

And hither comes the tributary brook,
Stealing around the intervening hill;
Man has revealed thy solitary nook,
And drowned thy murmur in the clattering mill.
Much of thy beauty thou retainest still,
Tho' sad the work that careless Time has done.
But I will rest my praise of thee until
Thou hast a name to hinge thy fame upon—
So now I christen thee, Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con.

VIII.

Thou art to me like old familiar friend—
Than otherwise thou never well couldst be;
I know thy “farthest spring” and this thy end,
And so have known since early infancy.
Dost know me not?—your murmur welcomes me!
My father's house o'erlooks thy winding way,
My happiest hours were in thy company,
When but a child I sought thy banks to play,
And came with dripping frock and conscious guilt's delay.

IX.

How well I knew the angler's part to act!
Despite the storm that gathered o'er my head
With hook and line, and fisher's secret tact,
I walked thy hollow banks with cautious tread,
With treacherous bait thy finny people fed.
Then one by one I pulled them from the burn,
Their wet sides stained with silver spots and red,
Till closing day admonished my return.—
Ye fops, a moral good from simple fishes learn!

X.

This hill invites me to its woody brow;
Gladly I'll mount to it with willing feet.
How well repaid the little labor now!
Can penciled art afford so rich a treat?
'T is Natures's work, revisioned and complete.
One hour spent here repays a year of pain!
Below me, wrapt in calm seclusion sweet,
Scenes of my childhood, ye appear again!
And here I count each link in memory's golden chain.

XI.

There is a tear that gratitude distils
When on a long-lost dear we rest our eyes.
There, in the lap of circumjacent hills,
My much-loved, modest, native village lies!
Who boast of wisdom are the lesser wise;
Who boast of worth have nothing but the name;
The liar aye assumes a holy guise,
So doth the fawning hypocrite the same,
And oft his hellish arts will put the good to shame.

XII.

Sweet village, I accuse not thee of aught
Of vain pretension to unreal worth;
Not my good will could ever thus be bought—
Thou art to me the dearest spot on earth;
And, Heaven, I bless the soil that gave me birth!
Preserve thou it from every harmful guile,
From mischief-making Envy's cankering dearth
And on its' thankful sons bestow the while
Gifts which are thine to give—thy sempiternal smile!

XIII.

First the tall spire above the “house of prayer,”
Where many a Sabbath's holy hours I've spent

Free of the world and every worldly care,
And heard the voice of supplication sent
To Heaven's high Throne whose “hearing ear” was lent.
And then to list the anthem's solemn roll!—
The deep-toned bass with loftier numbers blent,
Like healing oil upon the wounded soul,
Lifting its troubled thought above poor earth's control.

XIV.

Those sacred airs are ever in my ear:
Old Hundred rolls in ancient majesty;
Or Mear's sweet tenor rises soft and clear;
Anon ascends slow-measuring Dundee
In all the pathos of its melody;
Who hears Ballerma shall not hear in vain;
And midst them all it hath delighted me
To hear sad China plaintively complain,
Or noble Patmos chaunt the solemn-sounding strain.

XV.

Yonder, upon the verge of rising ground,
In silence weeps the lonely burial-place.
There left to rest on death's cold couch profound,
Lie many tokens of a mortal race;
And veiled from me is many a well-known face.
Among those graves, at Sabbath's setting sun,
I 've musing strayed, the chisseled line to trace
Upon the front of friendship's tablet stone,
Which bade me pause and think how soon life's sands may run.

XVI.

That lowly house that skirts the village green—
No more towards it my schoolboy feet are turn'd

—No more within its brick-built walls are seen
The noisy class where competition earned
The dear-prized medal from the tutor learn'd.
Happy that youth to whom instruction shown,
Imperfect tho' it be, is never spurned!
Happy is he when lapsing years are flown,
Calls fame's bright coronet, so dearly won, his own!

XVII.

Within that ancient grove how oft I 've strayed
To pass the hour of Summer's torrid noon;
And musing seated 'neath the sheltering shade
I loved to chaunt the strains of Bonny Doon,
Or other airs, the poet's precious boon;
To mind the restless bird that flitted by,
Or the wild flower that bloomed to wither soon,
Or the swift brook that raised its murmur nigh,
Or in the distance heard the cock's shrill noonday cry.

XVIII.

Beside the church a well-known home appears,
Whose door-way opes within the leafy vine;
Beneath that roof were passed my early years,
While boyhood's hours of careless joy were mine.
Alas, how soon those blushing buds decline!
Some few may bloom, yet 't is but for a day—
And, childhood, oft such early fate is thine;
Others show long the blossom bright and gay.
Comes not the frost at last that withers it away?

XIX.

Can I forget the sorrow that I felt
When for the world I left that threshold dear?
How, often turned, my tearful vision dwelt
On each sweet scene, while yet I linger'd near?

How my heart bled, that never sank in fear?
Can I forget that trying hour?—ah, no!
Tho' years have flown the scenes as fresh appear
As if they were but yesterday ago;
Nor can they ever change but in the dust below!

XX.

Oh, faithful Memory! how dear thou art
To him whose conscience whispers nothing ill!
Who feels no secret gnawing at his heart,
And bides the sequence of his wayward will!
With dregs like these my cup shall never fill!
Give me the calm that conscious virtue hath,
The cloak of peace for storms of terror chill;
Be mine the pardoning smile for frown of wrath,
Then light my step shall be along life's thorny path.

XXI.

Blest vision of my early home! It seems
Like dwelling place beyond the azure skies
To the good man who wanders in his dreams
Beyond the point where Time's dark bound'ry lies.
Long on it yet may dwell my wishful eyes!
There may I rest me from my toilsome way.
When pilgrims cease to roam delusion flies,
But Hope's bright star shall cheer them with its ray,
Till light succeeds to light in never-ending day.

Missepa—the true Indian word, corrupted into Mississippi.

The Indian name of a Wisconsin stream. The first syllable to be pronounced broad like the first syllable of wa-ter.

AUTUMN.

Autumn, thou garner of the year!
Again thy sober step is here;
Again thy mellow scenes appear
In russet clad;
Abounding with thy wonted cheer,
To make us glad.

The Spring may boast her flowers fair,
And Summer all her charms declare;
But, Autumn, 't is thy saddened air
Charms most my heart!
King of the ever-rolling year,
I own thou art!

The morning opens fresh and chill.
The mist from off the winding rill
Creeps slowly up the neighboring hill,
And o'er away;
And early cocks, distant and shrill,
Usher the day.

Betimes aroused, the well-paid sower
Throws open wide the folding door,
And spreads upon the threshing-floor
The wheaten sheaves;
And in their heads, now beaten sore,
No grain he leaves.

I love to hear the sounding flail.
It always tells a busy tale
Of ruddy health, and labor hale,
With plenty blest;
“Seed time and harvest” ne'er should fail
Beneath its test.

The forest bellows forth a sound—
The sportsman walks his murderous round,
And squirrels tumble to the ground,
And pheasants die;
While, coursing far, the deep-mouthed hound
Yelps quick and high.

See yonder o'er the furrowed plain,
Attracted by the scattered grain,
The pigeons in a countless train
Now densely throng;
Anon they form a lengthened chain,
And skim along.

Ye woody hills that tower near!
Whilom your shades were filled with deer,
And the red Indian, too, was here,
But long ago
Did every antler disappear,
And Indian, too.

And Autumn mourns the sylvan chief—
Her wailing winds bespeak her grief;
The faded flower and falling leaf
Bewail his end;
While she withholds the yellow sheaf
She used to lend.

Is then our rich corn-harvest done,
And the bright ears forever gone?
Tho' grieving sore, I frankly own
The grievance just—

Our fathers ploughed, and we have sown
In hopeful trust;

But wrongs of a departed race
Rise up to stare me in the face,
And there, methinks, the cause I trace
Of this our grief;
Once 't was no sin, but rather grace,
To steal a sheaf!

The sun has climbed to noonday high.
See the shorn fields around me lie
Beneath the dingy, smoky sky,
Pleasant to view;
Beyond the gauzy veil descry
The vault of blue!

Hark to the sounds of boyish glee
That come from yon tall hickory;
The gleaners mount the breezy tree,
And thresh the limbs;
And oft one bids another see
How high he climbs!

Pomona here with fulness crowned
Showers her fruit upon the ground;
Scattered in golden heaps around
She spreads her board;
With plenty all her gifts abound,
Her garners stored.

Mind ye those distant sounds that come
Upon the ear, resembling some

The rolling, rattling, stirring drum,
Tho' sharp and shrill?
A merry thing, and nowise dumb—
The cider-mill.

But now 't is getting out of date;
The people have conceived a hate
Of this old-fashioned thing of late,
And worse than all,
The few that stand can hardly wait
Their time to fall.

I marvel not that it is so.
Streams change their channels as they go,
And some forever cease to flow,
Sun-dried at last;
The cider stream is running low—
Its flood is past.

Some persons of discerning wit
Complain that men have wasted it,
Who deemed its juices all unfit
For wholesome drink.
But here the subject let me quit—
The more to think.

The day now hastens to a close,
The weary sun to his repose;
Skirting the woods the restless crows
Croak discontent;
And from the field the ploughman goes,
Slow homeward bent.

Yonder is Nimrod's hopeful son,
With trap in hand and shouldered gun;
Now that the day of toil is done
He seeks the mead

In which the marsh-fed streamlets run,
And musk-rats breed.

There by the dusky fading light
He lays his snares with practised sleight,
So artfully concealed from sight
And baited well,
That none except the cunning wight
The trap could tell.

Twilight is past. Night shuts the scene!
The spreading plains of faded green,
The woody hills, the vales between,
And streams that roar,
Illumed by Phœbus' glittering sheen,
Are seen no more.

Day and its scenes no more inspire;
But see around the evening fire
The halesome youth and sober sire,
The matron dame,
The sprightly lass in plain attire—
We ken the same.

O, ye who love a city's noise,
Who pride yourselves on tinseled toys,
Whose stupid ease the mind destroys,
A showy host!
Behold the cotter's humble joys—
New-England's boast!

Autumn, thou dost a moral give
To teach us mortals how to live;
Not for this world alone to strive—
It cannot last;
Nor for its shining sands to grieve—
They 're sliding fast.

Spring, the gay morn of life is gone;
Summer, and manhood's bloom, are flown;
Autumn, and age come hastening on,
While Winter's breath
Seems with its chilling hollow moan
To usher death.

So, mortal, live that not the shade
Of that grim king can make afraid
When low beneath the turf is laid
Thy “house of clay”;
And like pale Autumn calmly fade
In death away.

For several preceding years (1837) the fall months have grown so cold that it has been with extreme difficulty that Indian CORN could be ripened at all; and farmers in some parts of New-England have abandoned the raising of the article altogether, for the same reason.

Alluding to the unchristianlike treatment of the aboriginal tribes by the white settlers who first took possession. They regarded the Indian as no better than a wild beast of the forest, and oftentimes plundered his wigwam and stole his corn.

The goddess of fruits.

ON READING BEATTIE'S “MINSTREL.”

Beattie! 'twas thine to charm the feeling heart;
To still the tumult of the troubled soul;
To thee did gracious heaven the power impart
To point the eye that read the sceptic's scroll,
To the bright pages which are Zion's goal.
To free the mind, distracted sore and riven,
From scepticism's impious control,
No more by earth's phosphoric glare misgiven,
To seek beyond the grave eternal home in heaven.

What lofty power incited thee to sing?
What hand divine attuned thy warbling lyre?
Did instinct set thee to imagining
The living numbers of the sainted choir?
Ah, like their strains thine own may never tire!
If while on earth transporting were thy lays,
What holy rapture must thee now inspire,
Since thou art called from us on high to raise
Thy voice forevermore to the Almighty's praise!

EPISTLE TO T. S********.

Oct. 1837.

Dear Friend, all Nature seems to frown,
And heavy clouds are dripping down;
While I, for want of something better,
Have thought to dictate you a letter.
Its faults I pray you to excuse,
For I shall not o'ertax the muse;
But as the sailor on the sea
Hails the first landfall on his lee,
So I, what thoughts come first in sight,
Without ado the same shall write.

It oft has been my lot to roam
Far from my native land and home;
But then 't was sweet to bear in mind
The friends of mine were left behind;
And, sir, believe me, not another
Has stood between you and my brother.
Oft I 've recalled with backward look
The joys of which we both partook:
How often by the river's shore
We 've listened to the torrent's roar,
The scene of strife in days of yore ;
Or searched for relics of a race
Who there once had a dwelling-place;
Or gathered grapes, both sweet and good;
Or pulled the fishes from the flood;
And how at eve we 've set afloat
Upon the sleeping stream our boat,
With stealthy oar, and gun in hand
To shoot the rat that swam to land;

And how the midnight moon has shone
Upon us ere our cruise was done.
Dost thou these scenes remember well?
Then I'll no longer on them dwell.

But oh! long years have rolled away
Since thus we walked in sportive play;
And I have wandered on this earth,
Far from the land that claims my birth.
Mine it has often been to scan
The varied forms and ways of man.
Permit Experience to advise,
Nor deem him therefor overwise:

First, then, if restless thoughts incline
Your feet to stray as strayed have mine,
O, be content and stay at home!
If favored here they're fools who roam.
Believe, dear friend, a wanderer's tale—
There 's not on earth a sweeter vale,
Where friendship hale extends the hand;
Where farmers till a better land;
Where yeomen vigorously thrive,
Who will industriously strive;
Where less you see the poor man's hut,
Than thy sweet vale, Connecticut!
To this remark your thoughts apply,
While I will reason secondly:

Trust not alone to outward show;
'T is not for man the heart to know.
Fair looks will oft disguise the foul—
A generous boast the stingy soul;
And I have found full oft the case,
The seeming good to be the base.

At every time, in every place,
Respect thyself with modest grace;
Hearken to admonition sage;
Revere the frosty head of age.
Should open insult rouse thy ire
Then show the true New-England fire;
But think not every slight offence
A matter of such consequence.

Deem not thyself—(perish rather)—
Wiser than thy honored father.
I once observed from out of college
A Freshman, yet so full of knowledge,
He thought himself its true possessor
As much as any famed professor.

Never despise thy avocation;
It is the proudest in the nation!
Who 's less dependent than he who
Depends alone on God to do?
Contented be, till strength shall fail
To hold the plough, and swing the flail.

On other points to keep you steady,
No doubt you are advised already.
And so may “all the joys of sense”
Be yours—“health, peace, and competence”!

But one word more before I close:
So long as yonder river flows;
So long as verdure decks its shore,
Or o'er yon rocks its torrents pour;
Till Death shall soul and body sever,
My early friend, I'm thine forever.—

Turner's Falls in the Connecticut, the scene of a desperate battle with the Indians in 1676.—See note to Lines to a bullet.

INDEPENDENCE.

I.

Genius of Independence, list!
In whate'er form thou dost exist—
Where'er thou dost abide;
Tho' ignorant of these lesser things,
I view thee o'er the heads of kings,
Despite their haughty pride.
The monarch on his envied throne
In golden chains may shine,
While humble worth that lives unknown
May be a son of thine.
Far better the latter!
Devoid of dazzling show,
His treasures are pleasures
That princes never know.

II.

The truly independent soul,
Unawed by popular control,
Unseen in fashion's ways,
Is like a taper burning bright,
Which dissipates the gloom of night
With solitary rays.
Alas, how few such lights appear
In this dark world to burn!
And mostly those which glimmer here
We scarcely can discern.
A fair thing 's a rare thing,
Tho' found in any place;
A rover world over
Will say 't is aye the case.

III.

There is that would be thought to be
A son of thine, accepted, free,—

'T is only outward mien;
The wind he illy can abide
Strips off at last the lion's hide
And shows the ass within.
These spurious cases will abound
In plenty everywhere;
The genuine is seldom found—
More rich for being rare.
These must fall to dust all,
As counterfeiters should;
Those flourish, and nourish
The vital seeds of good.

IV.

Thine, Independence, is a gift
As spotless as the pearly drift,
As flying comets rare;
'T is noble in its very name,
In all its varied forms the same,
In all refulgent fair.
Above our ills and troubles here
It bears the spirit high;
It shields the soul from every fear
And quells the swelling sigh.
And the mind, tho' confined
In life to humble sphere,
It reaches, and teaches
This rule, “Thyself revere.”

V.

Now for myself a boon I ask,
I hope to grant it is no task;
O, lift me from the rout!
When Meanness sneaks within my door,
And Selfishness shall tread my floor,
Help me to kick them out.

Grant that my heart be warm and free,
Nor frankness want the less;
Whatever I appear to be
That same may I possess.
'T is well, then, to tell men
The faults to which they 're blind,
When ailings or failings
Are of a grievous kind.

VI.

Is there a “fellow-worm” on earth,
Who, puffed with wealth or fancied worth,
Pretends o'er me to rule?
Then deep within my bosom lies
A something prompts me to despise
The pitiable fool.
I scorn him from my inmost heart
And hate his self-conceit,
Tho' half the world should take his part
And willing kiss his feet.
'T is high-born, 't is sky-born,
The ruling Power I own,
Who framed me and named me
Inferior to none.

TO A MINK,

On seeing one in the Wapesapenacon, Oct. 1837.

Thou little water-haunting sprite!
I wonder at thy great delight
In lonely stream and murky night,
And life so wet;
I fain would tame thee, if I might,
And have a pet.

You 'd find such treatment as I think
You never yet have had, poor mink!
With meat to eat and milk to drink,
And fish for game;
No chain upon thy limbs should clink,
So thou wert tame.

But now your home is in a bog,
Thy resting place a fallen log,
Thy food a nasty snake or frog,
And then you dread
The hunter's bloody, searching dog,
Or fear his lead.

The trapper wants thy furry hair
Which thou as much art loath to spare,
And so he lays the cruel snare
For thy poor feet;
Unthinking man, thy arts forbear—
Its life is sweet!

Dame Nature made thee not in haste,
But tried a dozen times, at least,
Her hand at forming other beast,
Both nice and neat,
Ere she began to show her taste
In thee complete.

But whither hurriest thou away?
In the cold brook to frisk and play,
This frosty, chill October day?
Dost spurn my proffer?
Alackaday! you'll scarcely stay
To hear me offer.

I read your answer as you flee:
“I love the sweets of liberty;

No doubt you would be good to me,
And treat me well;
But then the joy of being free—
Ah, who can tell?

So marvel not that I decline
Being just now a pet of thine;
You choose your life, so do I mine.
Contented aye,
Nor shall I at my lot repine—
So go your way!”

Well, timid thing, I 've heard thy plea,
And for as much will credit thee;
But you are off and gone, I see,
So I will go,
And with my lot I'll try to be
Contented, too.

A FRAGMENT.

Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con, I love
Along thy banks at eve to rove
In converse with the muse,
When calm the sun has gone to rest
And tinged the arches of the west
With rosy colored hues.

To hear thy waters chiming flow
As onward they meandering go
To join the parent stream;
To sit me down beside a tree
Whose tangled feet are laved in thee,
And o'er some vision dream.

TO ÆOLUS.

I.

Old Æolus, thou king of winds!
My rustic muse delighted finds
In thee whereof to sing;
To thee she tunes this simple lay,
And owns the charm-bestowing sway
Which thy free zephyrs bring.
Oft has she listened to thy strains
In some lone cot afar,
When thro' the chinks and broken panes
They stole upon her ear!
So lowly, so slowly,
The solemn plaintive moan;
Then clearly and cheerly
Piping a lofty tone.

II.

How rich thy tones when Autumn sere
Beckons thy airy harpers here
To sing the falling leaf,
The hunter's gaily winding horn,
The yellow fields of waving corn,
The heavy-nodding sheaf!
Now with a distant hollow roar
They sweep the forest aisle,
Now whining at the cottage door
With their peculiar wail.
Then lifting and drifting
The forest leaves at will,
Or straying and swaying
The oaks upon the hill.

III.

And when November from the north
Invites the early winter forth,

Beside the evening fire,
Within my dwelling bright and warm
I'll bide the warring of the storm,
And list thy sounding lyre.
Again, those solemn strains I hear,
Struck by thy hand unseen!
Amid the pausing storm's career
And fitful gusts between.
I muse then, and choose then
In Fancy's realm to roam;
My mind there shall find there
Her welcome, native home!

IV.

When life's stern cares around me frown,
And sorrows weigh my spirits down,
I never own their power;
But wake my viol's slumbering lay,
And o'er its gliding numbers play
To cheat the weary hour.
But let me catch a trembling tone
Of thy strange minstrelsy,
O, Æolus, I'll drop my own
And yield the palm to thee!
It thine is, not mine is,
Those magic sounds to draw;
So airy-like, so fairy-like,
They fill my soul with awe!

V.

The man, who pleased with Nature well,
Delights upon her works to dwell,
Abundant theme may find
For sage reflection and review,
For meditation, hourly new,
E'en in the hollow wind.

Send then, ye winds, your tuneful breath—
My muse, well-pleased, shall hear,
Until the icy hand of death
Lies heavy on her ear.
And blest, then, with rest, then,
Upon her lowly bed,
Ye'll stray there, and play there
A dirge above the dead!

[O, ye who make so much ado]

It is an honor for a man to cease from strife; but every fool will be meddling.—

Provebbs XX, 3.

O, ye who make so much ado
About what never troubled you!
Do ye believe the Bible true—
The rule of life?
Then take a reasonable view
Of this your “strife.”

This is an age of wondrous things;
Since Folly has the leading strings,
Discretion, spurned, her treasure flings
To the four winds;
While here and there a wise one clings
To what he finds.

But this surprises me the most:
To hear deluded people boast
They still possess what they have lost,
Or never had;
It certainly would seem a host
Of them were mad.

Some rave about the public weal;
And some in strange devotion kneel;

While wisely others think they feel
For human woes,
But gash the wound they strive to heal—
What else, de'il knows!

The zealot here, by frenzy driven,
Proclaims that to himself is given
To point a better road to heaven,
And far more near
Than that in which poor souls have striven
For many a year.

The pious son now leaves the road
In which his sainted father trode
And to his erring infant showed,
As too uneven;
For he has found a wiser mode
Of reaching heaven.

And here the politician stands
Upon a stage “not made with hands,”
And tells the rabble his commands;
The gazing throng
Deem him the savior of their lands,
And never wrong.

But there 's a wonder far more great,
Which I must venture to narrate;
Should woman in affairs of state
Put forth a hand?
Yet even so it is of late
In this our land.

Exceptions always I permit;
So now I readily acquit

A portion of this ruling fit—
To such all grace!
They stay at home to spin and knit—
Their better place.

But yonder super-brilliant mind
Is not thus cruelly confined
To slavish drudgery unkind;
How hard her fate,
That man alone, so weak and blind,
Should legislate!

That he the sacred desk should fill,
And only curb the froward will!
He only wield the potent quill
To write the law,
While she, poor soul, must lack the will
To pick a flaw!

This present season of the age
Societies are all the rage;
And then behold the scribbled page—
A long petition!
The ladies think they must engage
In abolition.

Alas, what bitter sighs they draw
For miseries they never saw!
Their cheeks with frequent weeping raw,
More tears to save;
But render worse the evil law
That holds the slave.

Mistaken souls, refrain from sighs,
And wipe the tear-drops from your eyes!
Wait till the negro on you cries
For all this aid;

Until that time 't were far more wise
Were it delayed.

And thus the matter seems to me:
For you to fret at slavery
Is meddling in the first degree;
So pray forbear,
And let the holy proverb be
Your constant care.

Ladies, you have my best respects!
But, meddlers, of whatever sex
Let me beseech you do not vex
On my account;
It dries the social spring, and checks
The very fount!

The “stump orator.”

[Whene'er we ope the Holy Book]

Wealth maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from his neighbor.—

Proverbs XIX, 4.

Whene'er we ope the Holy Book,
How true the words we read!
Upon these words I chanced to look,
And find them truth, indeed.

“Wealth maketh many friends;” 't is so—
Our daily converse shows it;
Wealth has the gift of weal or wo;
Where is the man but knows it?

I will not say 't is aye the case,
But very oft we see
This wealth is but a handsome face
O'er sad deformity.

How oft the vilest of mankind
Mount Fortune's glittering throne!

How oft the man who lacks the mind
To “say his soul 's his own”!

How oft the wealthy fop we note,
With proudly curling lip,
With whom, but strip him of his coat,
No ass would fellowship!

“Wealth maketh friends”!—the Lord forfend
I should gainsay his truth,
But other term than that of friend
Will do as well, forsooth.

Call we those friends who have the name
But not the friendly heart?
Who only play the winning game—
A meanly selfish part?

From all such “friends” deliver me!
I'll never court their smiles;
Kind Heaven has granted me to see
Their hollow-hearted wiles.

The poor man liveth by himself;
This truth is past dispute;
He looks on Fortune's shining pelf;
As on “forbidden fruit.”

But oft the ragged coat may hide
The soul of sterling worth;
As precious gems awhile abide
The foul embrace of earth.

And on the score of earthly friends,
But few to him are given;
But haply oft the poor man minds
A trusty friend in heaven.

THE FIRST PSALM.

Blest is the man who walketh not
Where godless wretches meet,
Nor standeth in the sinner's way,
Nor fills the scorner's seat.

The precepts and the law of God
Are chiefly his delight;
He ponders o'er them all the day
And dreams of them at night.

And he shall be like fruitful tree
Fast by the living flood,
That bringeth forth, in proper time,
Abundant fruit and good.

No drought shall wither up his leaves,
Or parch his spreading root;
The gentle dews shall wet his head,
And waters lave his foot.

How different the ungodly man!
How light and vain his mind!
In all his works he 's like the chaff
That drives before the wind.

With righteous ones he shall not stand
Before the Judge of all;
The ways of those shall please the Lord,
But he shall surely fall.

ELEGY,

On visiting the grave of Ebenezer Smith, Esq. in the south parish of New-Marlborough, Berkshire.

Come hither, every unhanged knave!
Exult your utmost here;
Come Folly's stupid, willing slave!
Villains, draw near!
Justice is dead and in the grave—
You need not fear!

Here, Truth, a weeping pilgrim be!
Come, Honor, Wisdom, Worth!
And here, O smiling Pleasantry,
Forget thy mirth!
A favored one of all of ye
Sleeps in the earth.

Come hither, heavy-burthened Want,
And breathe thy tale of wo!
Thy scalding tears without restraint
Shall freely flow;
For he who heard thy sad complaint
Slumbers below.

Here Poverty's lone widow weeps,
And Sorrow's orphans come.
Now that your kind reliever sleeps
In his long home,
No other earthly guardian keeps
Avert your doom.

Sons of unkind Misfortune, mourn!
Your heavy loss deplore;
Did he who lies here ever spurn
You from his door?

Alas! that from beyond this bourn
He comes no more!

Arouse, ye patriot sons of arms!
Rally around this grave;
No more awaked by war's alarms,
Here lies a brave,
Who left his own domestic charms
Your homes to save.

Turn, infidel, that passest by!
Thy hapless hearing lend;
Here loud a warning voice doth cry—
To it attend!
Pray that like good men when they die
May be your end.

Christian believer, hither stray
And read this sculptured stone;
A walker in the “narrow way,”
Was this just one.
How sweet at eve to rest when day
And toil are gone!

Ye saints in Heaven above, rejoice!
Rank'd in your solemn choir,
Mingles the noble, well-tuned voice
Of our grandsire;
And thankfully I'll bide his choice
For me a lyre!

INVOCATION OF THE MUSES.

I.

All hail, ye bard-inspiring Nine!
The gift of poesy is thine—
Do thou inspire my lays,

That when I tune my lyre again,
I'll strike a richer, sweeter strain,
And, grateful, sing thy praise.
Or in some wild and lonely glen,
Far hid from vulgar sight,
Oh, give to me a living pen
My burning thoughts to write!
There thinking, while drinking
Deep at thy hidden spring,
And writing my flighting
On Fancy's airy wing.

II.

I do not ask to soar too high,
Beyond the ken of mortal eye—
It savors ill with me;
But o'er the forest and the plain,
The welling spring, and roaring main,
And paint the things I see.
With Nature hand in hand to stray
Along sequestered walk,
At sombre eve or garish day,
And hold familiar talk.
And rhyming and chiming
Upon my rustic lyre,
Well mingling and jingling
With Nature's tuneful choir.

III.

I'll sing the labors of the field,
The comforts which those labors yield,
The joys of rural life;
Unmindful of the clamor loud
That makes the city's dusty crowd
The scene of wordly strife.
I'll note the season fleeting by,
Their changes as they roll;

And all the wonders of the sky
At eve shall feast my soul.
Oh, hear me, nor fear ye!—
No hypocrite that prays;
But send now, and lend thou
A leaf of Nature's lays!

LINES

Written beneath an Indian moon, west of the Mississippi.

Sweet is the cradle of my life—
The valley of my native stream;
Where first my eyes were ope'd to see
The sun that lit life's morning dream.
Dear is that home, around whose shrine,
A happy band of brothers we,
Studied in calm retreat the map
Of pictured ideality.

But ah! Time since has bid us trace
The wondrous mazes of that chart;
And from our father's door we went
With willing foot but heavy heart.
But one soon wearied in the way,
And gently sunk in slumber deep;
Then Death came to him as he lay,
And bade he should forever sleep!

Sadly the pilgrims journied on
With aching hearts and footsteps slow;
And oft they paused to muse on him
Who mouldered in the earth below.
Time o'er them flew on airy wing—
Their pathway more uneven grew;

Till as they climbed the steep to-day;
To-morrow's hill appeared in view.

A phantom bright with Syren voice,
Lured me the while to list her lay;
Careless of aught I wandered on
A thousand weary miles astray.
But ah! deceitful was that voice!
Tho' seeming near 'twas still afar.
So shines upon this moon-lit night
The twinkling ray of yonder star.

SOLITUDE.

Have poets sung thee, Solitude? Then one,
Tho' far less gifted, erreth not alone.
What though he mingles in the haunts of men,
And seems to share their joyousness—ah! then
What mortal knows his loneliness of heart!
Not thou, ye fawning hypocrite, whose part
To play in life's great drama is deceit;
Whose heart contemns him whom with smiles ye greet.
Not thou, ye better born, ye frank of soul—
By truth advised, unawed by proud control.
Not these, indeed—none of the human kind
Know of the poet's solitude of mind.

What treasures has Nature, in happy mood,
Reposed to thy keeping, O Solitude!
The flowering prairie, so wildly fair,
Perfuming the breeze with its balmy air.
Unbounded the prospect—how brightly green,
When first in freshness of morn it is seen!
When the passing wind gives to it motion,

How like the wide-rolling wave of ocean!
Will man to these beautiful plains ever come
To plant his dominion and build his home?
Can the hum of his commerce awake the ear
Where trips in the stillness the light-footed deer?
Yes, yonder the smoke of his cottage I see—
The whiteman is robbing thy prairie from thee.

Now to the deep forest you'll go with me,
Where the old moss covers the youngest tree,
Where the sun-light scarce enters, so deep is the shade,
And the veteran wood-nymphs for ages have play'd.
Here, too, for ages, their tops to the breeze
Majestic'ly swaying, these old oak trees
Have reared their high heads, while the leafy vine
Has wrap'd their old trunks in its close entwine.
The deep voice of Tempe here speaks from the past;
'T is low in the zephyr and loud in the blast;
It opens the soul to a vastness of thought
Ungathered from lore and by science untaught.
Will Time ever see thee, proud forest, laid low,
A prey to the axe with its death-giving blow?
Will the whiteman, intrusive, here open his way
Where the night-wolf now waits for the close of the day?
Will these solitudes hear his shrill whistle at morn,
Or his loud “harvest home” when he garners his corn?
Oh! ask of himself, for behold he is near,
And the signs of his coming already are here.

The Indian in his light canoe
Floats on thy lake of polished blue;
And as his bark and form appear
Mirrored below, so deep, so clear,

To the Great One he breathes a prayer
To thank him for his being there.
Nature's own child! thy treasures are
These solitudes, so wildly fair;
Thy oaks still stand as when at first
This gay world on thy vision burst,
Whose branches 'neath a vernal sky
With greenness filled thy joyous eye.
Thy father taught thee by this lake,
When young, thy birchen skiff to make;
And often to thy dashing oar
The sounding caverns of its shore
Murmured response; and oft thy song
Has woke their echoes, loud and long!
Fleet is the foot of dappled doe,
But fleeter arrow from thy bow;
Oft hast thou chased the hours away
From earliest morn till setting day,
And when the prairie hid thy game,
'Mid the tall grass you lit the flame.
But, Indian, thy glad dream is o'er—
The whiteman waits for thee ashore!

Wisconsin Territory, Oct. 1836.

HAPPINESS—AN ACROSTIC.

Hail Happiness! who can the word define?
All search for it as for a hidden mine
Placed deep within the bowels of the earth,
Pregnant with golden ores of untold worth.
It 's like the stone which alchymists would get,
Numbers have sought but none have found it yet.
Earth has it not. It is a fabled thing
Short-sighted mortals follow on the wing,
Serving the bard as theme whereof to sing.

LOGAN.

[_]

Note.—Every one, doubtless, has heard of Logan, the celebrated Mingo chief. His eloquence awed his red brethren when he spoke at the council-fire, and occasional fragments thereof are preserved to us which will never fail of eliciting admiration. His defence before Lord Dunmore, of Virginia, is fraught with native talent which cannot enough be appreciated. Mr. Jefferson was happily sensible of the fact, and “challenged the admirers of Cicero or Demosthenes to produce a finer specimen.” Logan was notedly the friend of the whiteman; and the sad story of his wrongs, particularly the barbarous murder of his whole family on the Kanawha river, by Col. Cresap, was the principal theme of discourse in his letter to Gov. Dunmore, of which the following is an imperfect versification.

'Mid the silence of night a wild vision I saw—
The ghosts of the dead rose before me in awe!
They passed me unnoticed till Logan arose,
The friend of the whiteman, the fear of his foes.

He stood in the shade of a sun-hiding hill,
As stands the lone oak when the whirlwind is still;
While eve's mingled colors of sable and grey
Were slowly suppressing the blush of the day.

Unbowed was his form by the burden of years;
Tho' sad was his heart in his eye were no tears;
The first distant star of the evening that shone
Incited to speak as in years that are flown:

“Ah, who is there mourneth for Logan? not one!
His hearth is deserted, his wigwam is lone;
The joy of his bosom is earth's hallowed trust,
His children have gone to their sleep in the dust.

“I fearless appeal to the whiteman to say
If he e'er from my cabin went hungry away;
If I lent to his wo an unpitying ear,
Or wiped not his eye from the grief-bidden tear.

“When the clangor of war echoed last thro' the land
Not Logan was seen at the head of his band,

But idly remained in his wigwam the while,
And anxiously waited of peace the glad smile.

“My love to the whiteman was steadfast and true,
Unlike the deep hatred my red brothers knew;
With him I had thought to have cherish'd my home,
No more o'er the forest or prairie roam.

“When the leaf which pale autumn is scattering now,
Was fresh from its budding and green on the bough,
My heart was turned back into winter again—
No warm summer sun can dissolve its cold chain.

“Till Kanawha's flood in its channel shall fail,
There yet is a witness that noteth my tale;
The forms of my kindred surround me no more—
Their bones are unknown in the sands of its shore!

“As lurketh the wolf, unprovoked, for his prey,
So darkly in ambush the white traitor lay;
No soul of my ill-fated kindred remains—
There runs not a drop of my blood in their veins!

“This woke me to vengeance—to vengeance I rose,
'Mongst whitemen I sought for my bitterest foes.
The ghosts of the dead are appeased by their sire,
I have glutted my vengeance, but scorn to retire.

“I joy for my country that peace should appear,
But harbor no thought like the gladness of fear;
Logan's heart is a stranger to cowardly strife—
He turns not his heel for the saving of life.

“Ah, who is there mourneth for Logan? not one!
His spirit is broken, he fain would be gone;
The ghosts of his fathers are beckoning him home,
Great Spirit, receive me—Oriska, I come!”

A mantle of clouds veiled the form from my sight
And the phantom was blent with the shadows of night.
Soon morning awoke with the beams of the day;
But chief and his nation have hasted away.

[My patriot fathers, where are ye]

Your fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live forever?—

Zechariah I, 5.

My patriot fathers, where are ye?
At rest within your earthly bed.
Fame bids your memory hallowed be,
Tho' years have fled.

Veterans, whose hearts were valor's own,
In war's soul-testing furnace tried!
Thy bleeding country's calls, once known,
Were ne'er denied.

Heroes, who heard the 'larum shout
That echoing sped throughout the land,
And first upon the turf ranged out,
With sword in hand.

Left their warm hearths without dismay,
Their weeping wives and children dear,
And calmly tore themselves away
Without a tear!

Who stood on Bunker's awful height
And gave defiance to the foe,
When streamed the deadly volley bright—
The work of wo!

Shall Monmouth's field forgotten lie?
And glorious Saratoga won?

Can we forget our pœans high
At Bennington?

Neither can I forget the few
Who bared their patriot breasts to fight,
Whose motives never coward knew,
Nor could requite.

Father in Heaven, thy child desires—
With what of aught he may be blest—
The spirit of his patriot sires
On him may rest!

A FRAGMENT.

Oh! happy that mortal to whom it is given
To rest from his task when with toil he has striven!
His footsteps are weary when thousands of miles
He strays from that land where his early home smiles;
When Time in his record hath noted the year
Full often since home, with its blessings, was near.
But joyful at last in his hail of return,
And brighter the flame of his fireside shall burn!
The tempest-tost vessel with sail to the breeze,
Floats wide on the storm-lifted wave of the seas,
Till anchored at last, when the voyage is o'er,
She furls her white wings in the shade of the shore.
So thrice happy he when beneath his own roof
He lists to the bitter wind howling aloof,
Whose life-boat with fortune's mad billow has played,
Till, wave-worn and weary, the haven is made.

Wisconsin territory, Dec. 1836.

LINES TO A BULLET.

[_]

Note.—This relic of antiquity was ploughed up by Mr. T. M. Stoughton, on the site of Turner's battle, on the Gill shore of the falls that bear his name, and by him presented to the author.—On the morning of the 18th of May, 1676, Capt. Turner fell by surprise upon a tribe of Indians located on their favorite grounds, who, weary after a long carouse in honor of late successes, were despatched in great numbers before they recovered sufficiently to show fight. Others, in attempting to escape to the opposite shore, were precipitated over the cataract. In the whole affair about 300 are supposed to have perished; and their bones and utensils are often discovered by the owners of the battle ground.

Thou battered bit of ancient lead,
I bless the day when thou wast found,
And him who turned thee from thy bed
Low in the ground!

Relic thou art of that stern day,
When in the havoc made with life
Thy resting place, our fathers say,
Was red with strife.

Hadst thou but language, veteran ball,
Thy silence should no longer be;
The story of that fight should all
Be made to me.

How broke that fatal morn! Without
No eager dogs awoke the chase,
But battle's voice and 'larum shout
Rose stern in place.

What bloody part to act was thine
In that dark tragedy? I 'd ask.
I would to know the tale were mine,
To tell, my task.

I doubt not but thy viewless flight
Was winged with sudden death that day;

By thee struck palsied 'mid the fight,
The warrior lay.

And, sharer of his bed in earth,
His sleep of ages was thine own;
Till time at length has called thee forth
To light, alone!

How changed to thee must earth appear,
Awaking thus from long repose!
Where fed the nimble-footed deer,
The tall grain grows.

Here did the red-browed Sagamore
His bitter, wo-fraught lesson learn;
Here did he from his wigwam door
In sorrow turn.

Where are those sons of nature fled
During thy long and dreamless sleep?
Dumb as the spirits of the dead
For aye thou 'lt keep.

Ah, sad the ties that blend with thee,
Dearer than history's storied page;
Sacred forever shalt thou be,
Relic of age!

And as I prize thee, I 'd refuse
For thee thy weight in sordid gold,
For half thy worth by my dull muse
Cannot be told.

Thou battered bit of ancient lead!
I bless the day when thou wert found,
And him who turned thee from thy bed
Low in the ground.

RETROSPECTION.

I love when all the world is still
At midnight's solemn, silent hour,
When retrospection's magic thrill
Steals o'er the soul with matchless power—
I love to linger o'er the days
Of halcyon childhood, swiftly gone!
When to my heart this “thorny maze”
Seemed but a world of joy alone.

Then memory fondly brings again
The scenes she always bade me love:
The verdant slope, the waving grain,
The cool retreat in ancient grove.
And oh, a voice is in my ear—
The water-brook is sweet of song
As o'er its bed of pebbles clear
It dances merrily along.

The lowing herd I loved to tend,
The flocks that knew my infant voice.
The spring where nodding oziers bend
To shade the cooling fountain choice;
The woody hill where free of care
I heard my dog's peculiar cry,
And chased the nimble squirrel there
Till tumbled from the tree-top high.

Autumn, I love thy balmy breath
That softly fanned my glowing brow,
And sweeping o'er the nut-brown heath
I feel its grateful influence now!
When in his march chill winter hoar
With frosty crystals filled the air,
O then rich nature's garnered store
It was my happy lot to share!

And still around the evening fire
I see each in their wonted seat;
The joyous group, both son and sire,
Partaking of the bounteous treat.
Wet from the press the smoking sheet
Would aye the lengthened hours beguile
With prosing tale, some daring feat,
Or humor oft excite the smile.

O time, how stilly hast thou cast
Those early days from me apart!
But memory survives the past
To trace their shadows on my heart.
And hope's bright star shall never wane,
Nor for my aid forget to shine,
Till a kind heaven bids me again
Back to that happy home of mine.

APOSTROPHE TO NEW-ENGLAND.

There is a land—there is a land
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns.

And on that land—and on that land
The smiles of Heaven rest;
With glorious light that shineth there
Her poorest son is blest.

That land is free—that land is free!
The breeze that visits there
Is happy symbol of that clime—
Unfettered as the air.

Her happy homes—her happy homes—
How fair and bright they seem!

Like fairy clime to traveler
Who wanders in a dream.

The painted cot—the painted cot,
With woodbine creeping o'er;
The little child, just learned to run,
At play beside the door.

The garden neat—the garden neat,
Where richest flowers thrive;
The pleasant hum that greets the ear
From many a busy hive.

The grassy shade—the grassy shade
Where snowy lambkins lie;
The flowery mead, and limpid brook
That wanders babbling by.

Her happy homes—her happy homes—
How fair and bright they seem!
Like fairy clime to traveler
Who wanders in a dream.

When Sabbath comes—when Sabbath comes
In stillness o'er that land,
Devotion and another world
The thoughts of all command.

The distant bell—the distant bell
Floats sweetly on the air,
And at its call full many a knee
Is bowed in holy prayer.

There is a land—there is a land
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns!

Wisconsin territory, west of the Mississippi, Sabbath morning, Jan. 1837.

[Ye woodlands mourn, ye fields, ye streams, ]

Written by request during a season of very gloomy weather in August

[_]

Air—“Bonny Doon.”

Ye woodlands mourn, ye fields, ye streams,
Ye swelling buds, ye blushing flowers!
Mourn for the bright and sunny beams—
Oh, mourn for Summer's stolen hours!
Yon little bird with folded wing,
That cowers 'neath the dripping bough,
Has not the heart a song to sing;
Where are its merry playmates now?

Thou summer sun, shine forth again,
And shed thy grief-dispelling rays!
Smile yet on woodland, stream, and plain,
And bless us with thy glorious days.
So when the storms of life oppress
And fell Despair sits brooding near,
Bursts forth the Sun of Righteousness
To cheer the heart and dry the tear.

BY UMPACHENA'S RUSHING STREAM.

[_]

Air—“Adieu, a heart-warm, fond adieu.”

By Umpachena's rushing stream
I musing strayed at twilight hour,
While the low sun's dim parting beam
Looked from the west with fitful glow'r.
The wind breathed hollow thro' the Glen;
I caught its wild and solemn strain.—
O, had I but a magic pen
Those notes I 'd write, and hear again.

It waked the chord of memory,
Low-answering in my anxious breast;

My spirit sank in reverie,
By gloomy care and sorrow press'd.
And while I pondered o'er the past,
And bent a forward look in vain,
The shades of evening gathered fast
And night veiled stream, and hill, and plain.

But soon the wind grew hushed and still,
The stream went gently skipping by;
And far beyond the woody hill
The coming stars blinked merrily.
Fair Cynthia rose with golden horn
And shed her mellow light below.—
So on the night shall burst the morn!
So often joy succeeds to wo!

LETTER

To the Rev. D. Smith, Durham, (Ct.) with the request of a revolutionary relic.

I beg you pardon and permit
This poor effusion of my pen;
What if it lack in thought and wit—
Forgive, but do not spurn it then.

No hypocrite his thoughts would mask—
I scorn the author of a lie;
'T is filial love that bids me ask
A boon that thou wilt not deny.

Not gold I crave—my aim is higher;
Not acres broad of fertile land;
Nor do I ask, most reverend sire,
Unheard-of gifts from unseen hand.

I ask my grandsire's drinking-cup,
From which he slaked his battle-thirst
When he his patriot sword took up,
In heart and hand among the first.

And wilt thou grant it in bequest?
I'll take the gift with reverence;
And Heaven shall hear my warm request
To bless thy rich benevolence.

EPIGRAM,

On seeing an old spar and chain sticking out of the church belfry for several weeks.

Ye churchmen, cease awhile your prayer,
And listen to my rhyme;
I'll make a proposition fair
Just in the “nick of time.”

For six long weeks, or thereabout,
Relieved against the sky,
I 've seen a spar and chain stick out
Far up the steeple high.

Now I debated in my mind
What good that spar could do,
But not divining, tried to find
Some use to put it to.

So to the chain you'll add a crook,
And bait it well with evil,
And I will lay, sirs, that you'll hook
That graceless wight, the d---l.

Now for a bait I 've one in view
That no fiend can resist.—
Should not the proposition do,
Pray keep the matter whist.

DEATH SONG.

[_]

Tune—“Roslin Castle.”

Adieu ye gloomy walls of stone,
Where guilt and crime in fetters groan!
That long have been my living tomb,
Awaiting this my dreadful doom.

Adieu my prison comrades all!
Hear Justice for me sternly call;
I go to answer his demands,
And yield my life beneath his hands.

Lo! the vast crowds that throng around
To see me leap the mortal bound!
While my poor eye bewildered roams
To where the waiting gibbet glooms.
Hark! to the death-march rolling slow,
As onward to the bourn we go;
With muffled drum and wailing fife
I bid my last farewell to life!

“Was it for crimes that I had done”
The Father sent his only Son
Down from his throne in heaven high,
On this polluted earth to die?
Then standing in the fatal rope
In his forgiveness let me hope,
Nor at the awful summons quail
When the frail prop beneath me fail.

[Oft in the silent watches of the night]

Oft in the silent watches of the night
Doth memory light the lamp of other days,
Whose lustrous beams restore the past to light,
And startles with the clearness of its rays!

Ah, at such times how well we recollect
Scenes around which Time's dusky wreath has twined!
Scenes which the bustle of the day reject,
And never once intrude upon the mind.

Childhood in all its beauty re-appears—
Beauty long since on fleeting pinions fled;

100

Friends, boon companions of our early years,
Now scattered far, or with the nameless dead.

I do bethink me of an ancient man
Whose solemn aspect struck my infant eye;
With superstitious reverence did I scan
His antiquated form that drooped to die.

And well I recollect the fatal night
When the old man resigned himself to death;
The geese were noisy in their awkward flight
And Notus blew with warm and misty breath.

I was a young and ghost-believing child;
And all that awful night I lay awake;
My mind was filled with apprehensions wild,
And ominously did the windows shake!

Time's dreamy interval of years cannot
From off my mind its memory efface,
Tho' more important things are quite forgot,
And many truths have sadly gone apace!

And even now at evening, when I hear
The storm-foretelling geese fly calling shrill,
Backwards I see in bas-relief appear
Distinct the old man and his death-bed still.

Notus—the south wind.

[Life's like a stream whose waters run ]

Written in an Album beneath a print representing a water scene.

Life's like a stream whose waters run
To the deep sea, with changeful flow;
Now sparkling in the morning sun,
Now stealing in the shades below.

101

THE REVIEW.

'T is pleasant thro' the loop-hole of retreat
To peep at such a world.—
Shakspeare.

When in the mood to make a pen
To let it rest! I know not when;
So glancing o'er the ways of men
With ready sight,
I 've found the present theme, and then
What's more, must write.

We'll take a kind of grand review
From this to that the country through;
What whims we note, without ado
We'll write them down,
Be they in Gentile or in Jew,
In lord or clown.

Condemn not me, ye knowing ones!
I 've not seen forty annual suns,
Nor fifty, and yet he who runs
Reads if he will—
Nor is it youth alone that shuns
To foot your bill.

E'en now, “by taking thought,” I hear
Your censures and remarks severe;
But that is what I never fear—
And in reply,
Think me wrong, if you please, but ne'er
Give me the lie!

DUAN FIRST.

Money 's the nail that first I'll drive.
We all need some of it to live,
But why do mortals vex and strive
For it alone?

102

Cheat one another, and connive
At frauds their own?

In vain the sacred man may tell
Of Mammon, the destroyer fell—
Mortals can never hearken well
With ears stopped fast!
They'll crack the nut and find but shell,
I think, at last.

E'en in the councils of our nation,
Where men hold high responsive station,
And thunder loud in declamation—
In gold's bright bubble,
For one, I see the derivation
Of every trouble.

And in the private walks of life
It forms the cause of every strife;
It bids assassins draw the knife
To put life out;
It links together man and wife
Sometimes, no doubt.

Some persons ye may hear declare:
“Give me a competency fair,
And I will cease my worldly care
And help the poor.”
Yet with their thousands then to spare
They wish for more!

If such with me should take offence,
Altho' of little consequence,
To gain again their confidence,
On them I pray
Heaven send the wished-for competence
Without delay.

103

We'll look at something else. One day
By chance it fell my lot to stray
To where men go to preach and pray
Far in the wood;
And quite as many take their way
For aught but good.

Ye might have heard the clamor loud
That rose from out that motley crowd,
And yells to make a Stentor proud,
Full half a mile;
I looked to see the heavens bowed
At first, awhile!

But soon familiar with the sound,
I cast my wondering eyes around
And saw a thousand on the ground
Shout, sing, and weep;
Men, women, children, all were found
In the same heap.

Then on the other hand, and near,
Was seen that which to tell of here
Would doubtless shock the modest ear,
So let it rest;—
Tho' there are ears that would not fear
To bide the test.

I pondered o'er the scene full long;
My cogitations might be wrong,
But yet the reasons seemed too strong
To be denied;
So taking one from out the throng,
We spoke aside:—

My friend, I would inquire of you
For what you make this great ado?

104

Your object may be good and true—
I own it so,
But evil deeds therefrom ensue,
As well you know.

Quoth he, “Our object is to raise
Our voices to our God in praise,
And from the error of their ways
Sinners to turn;
For this we spend whole nights and days
To teach and learn.”

But, sir, why seek the open air,
The nightly dews with shrubs to share,
Disease and sickness thus to dare—
Oft in the lurch?
Is there not room, and that to spare,
In barn or church?

You make a great parade and noise—
So do these idle men and boys;
You come to talk of heavenly joys—
They come for fun;
And while your part your time employs
Much else is done.

Now set the zeal of your elect,
And all the good you will effect,
And all the evil you reject,
Against this play
Of standers by, and I suspect
The last would weigh.

Your camp-scenes form another case
Akin to that which oft takes place—
'T is hanging men before the face
Of multitudes;

105

What serves example in disgrace
Often breeds feuds!

I'll tell you what I once did see:
A wretch led to the gallows-tree,
With death-march wailing mournfully—
A solemn sight,
And one that shook the nervous knee,
And bleared the light.

Thousands of men stood grouped about,
The halting, feeble, and the stout,
From perfumed fop to rustic lout,
All struck with awe!
A denser, eager-scrambling rout
None ever saw.

Well, 'neath the gallows, frowning tall,
We saw the wretched culprit fall,
And struggling die before us all.
Scarce was he dead,
When there arose a deadly brawl
With steel and lead.

The red blood flowed as whiskey free;
There would have been, it seemed to me,
Another victim for the tree
In short time more—
(Altho' the great solemnity
Was scarcely o'er)—

Had not some peace-men passing by,
Drawn to the scene of action nigh,
Compelled the rioters to fly,
And quelled the fight.
And much else that day met my eye
That was not right.

106

Those who by the scene should profit
Were benefited not a bit,
Thus warned their evil works to quit,
But every grade
From cut-throat down to pick-pocket
Each plied his trade.

“Facts,” it is said, “are stubborn things,”
Preferred before the word of kings,
And my own observation brings
Such proofs as these;
And count them vain imaginings,
If so you please.

DUAN SECOND.

I sing the wisdom of the age,
The new opinions of the sage;
We 'd pine in Ignorance's cage,
No doubt, without them
So I will try to write a page
Or two about them.

Who but has heard his father tell
How in his day things went on well,
For then the lines of living fell
In goodly places;
Nor did they, as we do, expel
All inborn graces.

Tho' much of tippling then was done,
(Which is apt to breed contention,)
The wheels of union ever run
Harmoniously.
No one rose to make dissention,
All piously.

107

Now Mormon, with his golden plates,
Says he has opened heaven's gates,
And hangs out many tempting baits
To prove the fact;
And old Joe Smith, his agent, prates
With school-boy tact.

His flock have gone far to the west
To seek some promised land of rest,
Where other sects can ne'er molest,
Nor day, nor night.
They'll never cease on earth their quest,
If rumor 's right.

Here in our own, our goodly land,
Some zealot has enrolled a band,
Whose object is to take command
From heaven, I think!
The last accounts they seemed to stand
Upon the brink.

They hold that while a thing of earth,
A soul that 's had the “second birth”
Possesses all exalted worth
That angels have;
And truly it excites to mirth
To hear them rave.

They think the great and high Supreme
A being worthy of esteem!

108

And then their worthless selves they deem
As angels holy,
Alike unknown to guilty shame,
To sin or folly!

That heathenism should be done
Beneath New-England's christian sun,
'S a crying shame—a grievous one;
And into jail
The imps should tarred and feathered run,
Or ride a rail.

There 's other sects, had I the will
To write about, enough to fill
The walls of any paper-mill—
I'll only add,
L---d ever keep them out of G***,
And we'll be glad.

In olden time there was no need
Of working each misguided deed
Which some good modern people plead
Is duty now;
And some, no doubt, expect a mede—
Let duty go.

But as to that I will not say,
Tho' let us censure as we may
The righteous truth would ne'er cry nay—
Of that I'm sure
As that some others work away
With motives pure.

We at the North saw fit to free
Our slaves, and give them liberty;
And it was done quite peaceably,
Of our own will;

109

And sons of Ham with us, we see,
Are freemen still.

Did southern statesmen interfere,
And meddle with our matters here,
And wring for us the ill-timed tear?
Believe it?—No!
They held the bonds of union dear,
As we should do.

Have we so much the wiser grown
We cannot let the South alone?
But fight like dogs for some poor bone?
Pray let her be!
When she sees fit, as we have done,
Her slaves she'll free.

Has she no judgment or volition
That we should preach her abolition,
Without regard to coalition?
And paper scrawl—
Men, women, infants, in petition—
Paupers and all?

Petitioners! a word or two
For each and every one of you!
Men, does your judgment serve you true,
Without a bias?
Most peaceful men I ever knew
Were truly pious.

Ladies, I know you would do good
In every way in which you could,

110

And in the present case you would,
But, pardon me!
In order thus to do you should
More quiet be.

Infants, the holy Scripture says,
Love and mind your parents always;
And if they ever bid you raise
Your feeble voice
To sanction what is all a maze,
You have no choice!

Ye self-made sons of poverty,
I would in turn petition ye:
Fret not yourselves at slavery
Till ye are free!
Something like inconsistency,
It seems to me.

Now, moreover and furthermore—
We moderns wander terra o'er
And seek some far-off foreign shore,
Alms to apply;
While in our midst the needy poor
Beg, starve, and die!

We 're growing wiser every year,
And to what point at last we'll steer,
Requires the vision of a seer,
Not mine, to tell;
But may we keep our offing clear
For aye of h*ll.

111

DUAN THIRD.

We have improvements now in physics,
In healing broken bones or phthisics,
In giving ailing men dietics,
In curing ills
Of all descriptions with emetics
Or patent pills.

If half were true that meets the eye
For mending our mortality,
Life's complicate machinery
Would ne'er decay;
But when it came our time to die,
We 'd blow away!

Here we read that “Dr. Blixer
Prepares and sells the Life Elixer,”
“Cough-drops,” “Syrups,” “Tonic Mixture,”
Or “Head-ache Snuff;”
Enough to make the sick man sicker
To take the stuff.

Here 's Dr. Thinkum's patent pills,
A certain cure for all the ills
That doctors score upon their bills—
Tho' ten to one,
Those whom the trashy physic kills
Are cured alone.

'T is custom at the present day
To preface with a long essay
Some new-invented quackery.
So for the hare
Men put a bait, while 'neath they lay
The subtle snare.

112

Now, Æsculapius, give o'er
Your books of scientific lore;
We need your services no more—
We'll heal ourselves;
And lay your long and well-filled score
Upon your shelves.

For lo! how often are we told,
And that with strong assurance bold,
Diseases sure are manifold,
And yet they spring
From impure blood, and here is sold
What cures that thing!

If palsy binds our limbs in chains,
If fever scorches up our veins,
Whate'er disease with racking pains
This body fills,
The remedy with us remains—
A dose of pills!

O, love of gain, how strong thou art
To render obdurate the heart,
And bid it act that meaner part,
Base imposition!
I would that Justice make thee smart
With true contrition.

And now before the theme I close
A sentence I would just propose
To execute on all of those
Who thus offend:—
Let the quack eat the drugs he shows,
And, faith, he'll end!

113

What puts the housewives in a flutter?
Hear how they loudly talk and sputter!
What means the hurry-skurry clutter—
Is it contention?
Oh, no! a thing for churning butter—
A new invention!

Inventions now abound withal.
We class them thus, the great and small;
The great, or those that thus we call,
Are labor-saving;
The small are like a pewter ball—
Not worth the having.

Of these improvements as they spring,
My weary muse no doubt would sing,
But gladly would she rest her wing,
Tho' flying low;
So will I merely snap the string,
Not bend the bow.

Ye curious, of designing bent!
I ask, can you for us invent
A something which shall give content?
With great delight
We'll have it straight to congress sent
For patent right.

Something that shall put to rest
Foes that would our peace molest?
Those that society infest
And discord make?
Something shall nerve us to the test
For conscience' sake?

Something the wheels of life to oil,
That they may run without turmoil;

114

And change the friction of our toil
To honest labor?
Forbid the slanderer despoil
His better neighbor?

Something to guide our steps aright
In this dark world of ours, despite
The frailty of our mortal sight?
To shield us strong?
And ever render us contrite
For aught that 's wrong?

Ye may not do it; but all praise
To Him who rules our crooked ways,
Who did in blessed Israel's days
His gospel give!
And evermore to man it says,
“Obey, and live!”

ADDENDA.

Perhaps 't were not amiss to state
What has befallen me of late:
Some folks would cast me in a strait,
If so they could,
Because I will not trudge the gait
They want I should.

But softly! sage ones, if you please!
I'm not the one for you to tease;
I give your fury to the breeze,
To moles and bats;
Ye may catch rats with toasted cheese—
Not cheese with rats!

Were it not better had we fewer
Such charitable ones as you are?

115

I preached a sermon from the Scripture,
With proper text;
And tho' 't was done with motives pure,
Ye 're sorely vexed.

And was it then addressed to you?
There is a proverb, old and true,
That none can feel the pinching shoe
Save those who wear it;
And how it felt ye doubtless knew,
And could not bear it.

With you there must be something ill,
That you should of your own free will
Administer yourselves the pill—
May it relieve ye!
And all the charges in my bill
I free forgive ye!

Your epithets I bid you spare!
To preach the truth so plain and fair
I never was before aware
Was sin so heinous;
And now I solemnly declare,
Lord judge between us.

Every one, it is presumed, is familiar with the history of this singular sect; and with their formation from the pretended discovery of some golden plates, revealing the book of Mormon. Headed by their principal leader, Joe Smith, they journied to the far west to seek the “New Jerusalem,” as they termed it. Instead thereof, however, they found fighting and bloodshed.

In a town, not a thousand miles distant, not only men and women signed a late petition to congress, but infants and town paupers! Is it not frequently the case?

The sermon here alluded to is found on p. 72; being an enlargement upon Prov. xx, 3. It was published in the county paper, and so incensed certain good people who considered themselves addressed, that they denounced the author as an INFIDEL, unbeliever, &c. and considered themselves greatly aggrieved.

116

A TALE OF OTHER DAYS.

PRELUDE—extempore.

Have ye not heard of captain Shays?
Sing Io—ioway
Who figured once in former days?
And jang malang-go lay!

O, was he not a soldier brave?
Sing Io—ioway
But yet a most consummate knave?
And jang malang-go lay!

Peace bade our revolution close,
Sing Io—ioway
And we were free from foreign foes.
And jang malang-go lay!

But Shays, red-reeking from the fight,
Sing Io—ioway
Proclaimed aloud all was not right.
And jang malang-go lay!

Our war had cost us many fold
Sing Io—ioway
Of dollars bright and guineas gold.
And jang malang-go lay!

The debt did heavy on us lie,
Sing Io—ioway
And so our taxes waxed high.
And jang malang-go lay!

So captain Shays got up and cried
Sing Io—ioway
Is it for this I 've bled and died?
And jang malang-go lay!

For liberty I 've drawn the blade,
Sing Io—ioway

117

And now I'll fight to be obeyed.
And jang malang-go lay!

These heavy taxes shall not be
Sing Io—ioway
Imposed on those who'll follow me.
And jang malang-go lay!

And so he roused a warlike band,
Sing Io—ioway
And he was honored with command.
And jang malang-go lay!

Awhile he marched about and roared,
Sing Io—ioway
Till like poor Logic he was floored.
And jang malang-go lay!

Now I will tell a story you,
Sing Io—ioway
'T is very strange but very true.
And jang malang-go lay!

Now Winter with his frosty breath,
His icy beard and snowy wreath,
Had piled his drifts in every nook,
And locked in fetters every brook—
When our now old, then infant state,
Convened her council for debate.
For captain Shays, and his mad band,
With boastful threats had filled the land,
And published loud his wild intent
To model new her government,
That Massachusetts then might be
The home of outlaws such as he.
Poor man! his scheme succeeded ill;
He felt at last his froward will
Come home with vengeance on his head—

118

His courage failed—his foll'wers fled.
When this was done, our government
Throughout the state her sheriffs sent,
Shays and his officers to take,
And try them for example's sake.
By chance it fell one vengeful scout
Came seeking rebels hereabout.
On the north line of Gill, (a town
Since formed, and birth-place of my own,)
From whence Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con
Comes winding in its channel on,
The scene took place which I relate—
A scene of blood and tragic fate.

The short-lived winter day was past
And coldly sped the evening blast.
A rebel leader from the fight
That ended in disasterous flight,
Had hither sought his peaceful home
Where fighting yet had never come;
And by his evening fireside sat,
Holding with friends familiar chat,
When sounds without assailed his ear,
Like hasty footsteps drawing near.
Alarmed, too well he knew the cause—
'T was a stern message from the laws!
With gun in hand he quickly fled,
And thro' the open forest sped;
While in his rear the vengeful pack
Followed like blood-hounds on his track.
At length a sheriff, drawing nigh,
Cried out “Surrender, wretch, or die!”
But, nothing daunted, the Shaysite
Outstripped the summoner in flight.

119

It fanned to flame the sheriff's ire—
He aimed his gun—it failed to fire.
Ye may suppose the rebel's blood
Was boiling like a raging flood;
And when he knew his foe's intent,
His thoughts on dark revenge were bent.
The forest echoed to his gun—
The fell work of revenge was done!

The scene is changed to dungeon dark,
Where felons pine in durance stark;
For here our hero next was cast,
His limbs in iron shackles fast.
To pay the forfeit of his crime
He waited the appointed time,
For law had sentenced him to die,
And the doomed day was drawing nigh.
At length it came with due parade,
And men of every rank and grade,
The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The snowy white and blackamoor,
Anxious and eager, thronged to see
The death upon the gallows-tree.
The soldiers, uniformed and bright,
Their muskets glancing in the light,
Moved to the death-march slow along,
With the poor wretch amid the throng.
They came to where the gallows gloomed,
And up the ladder went the doomed.
He stood upon the scaffold high
And gazed about him mournfully;
He felt the fresh and balmy air,
He saw the earth with blossoms fair,
(For long and weary months had flown
Since he was in confinement thrown.)

120

He felt 't was hard to leave the earth
When Nature seemed to smile in mirth:
Connecticut that rolled in pride,
The verdant plains out-spreading wide,
The birds in every leafy tree
Chaunting aloud their melody,
The glorious sun that lit the sky—
It was—it was too hard to die!
He turned and took a last survey
Of nature in her bright array;
Then calmly yielded to his fate,
And silently did death await.
So while he stood, tradition saith,
Trembling upon the verge of death,
A knight attendant did unroll
And holding up a written scroll,
In tone of voice, both clear and loud,
Read to the anxious, listening crowd,
In the high name of this our state—
As merciful, as just and great—
Pronouncing pardon, full and free,
For him whose death they came to see.
The shivering wretch no sooner heard
Pronounced that sovereign, welcome word,
Than down he sunk in heavy swoon—
And so my simple tale is done.

And now whoe'er the same shall read,
A moral, if he choose, may heed:
Be always sure your cause is right
Before you undertake to fight;
And rather than to risk the hope
Of pardon, when you feel the rope,
Attend the scriptural decree
And own as such the powers that be.

The skirmish at the arsenal in Springfield, in which the insurgents were worsted.

This scene took place at the capital of Hampshire, on the Connecticut river.

121

EPISTLE

To Rev. Jno. Mitchell, after the publication of his celebrated Fast Sermon.—Jer. VI. 16.

Kind sir, I beg you to excuse
This bold intrusion of the Muse!
Know thou I lately did peruse
Discourse of thine,
And on most points, dear sir, your views
Are strictly mine.

To see good people running mad,
Aiming at good, yet doing bad,
Moved me—I called the evil sad,
And cried them leave it!
So far from that, I would be glad
If they 'd believe it.

How sadly have we gone astray
In this enlightened latter day
From that well-trod and “good old way”
Our fathers knew!
Cry for reform we truly may—
We 've reason to.

Would every erring mother's son
Could see and read thy good sermon!
He needs, I think. just such an one
To set him right.
Read, and believe it when he 's done,
For well he might.

I honor, sir, your sentiment,
Your motives pure and good intent;
Comment on them, by one assent,
Is wholly needless;
But true frankness, when apparent,
Should not be meedless.

122

That there are those both far and near
Whose better judgment guides them clear
Of Error's shoals, where others steer,
Is past a doubt;
And yet to raise their voice they fear
In warning shout.

Why should they fear to speak? I ask.
Does it impose a heavy task?
To drop the figure and the mask
And show the cause,
Do they not rather love to bask
In man's applause?

Base subterfuge! it cannot hide
However well it be applied.
Let moral courage be denied
The mind of man,
And tho' he would with truth abide
He never can!

Would every sacred desk were proud
Of men with Mitchell's force endowed,
Who would not fear to speak, tho' loud
Mad zealots storm;
And bid the great reforming crowd
Themselves reform!

Then might the good old days return;
Then might our wise true wisdom learn,
And o'er disunion dark discern
The peaceful dawn
Refulgent, as it once did burn
In times agone.

POSTSCRIPT.

Sir, I am loath to trouble you,
And yet I ask permission to:

123

Your sermon is so good and true
I wish 't were mine!
And I may often read it through
If gift is thine!

Gill, Nov. 2, 1837.

TO A PET LAMB,

Lamenting the death of its mate.

Poor little lamb! thy plaintive cry
Would gather tear-drops in my eye,
And raise the sympathetic sigh;
And for thy grief
All soothing remedies I'll try
For its relief.

You mourn a little playmate dear,
And call, its answering bleat to hear;
But cold and heavy is its ear—
Silent for aye;
No longer will it gambol near
To join thy play.

I miss the little woolly sheep!
I loved to see it frisk and leap,
And o'er the verdant pasture sweep
Its sportive round,
Or in its antics climb the steep
With airy bound.

But 't is more I pity thee, lone one,
To hear thy mournful lamentation!
Thy grief seems past alleviation,
Poor little beast!
But Time will bring thee palliation,
In part, at least.

124

For thus it is with man, we know.
He sees his fellow-mortal go,
Perhaps a boon companion, too—
And weeps awhile;
But when Time's hand has healed the blow
He learns to smile.

TO THE “SALT” OF ****

STROPHE.

Now “salt is good”—the Bible tells us so,
And all its saving qualities may know.
But there is salt that toucheth not our food—
Preserves as well, is equally as good.
Without it poor society would rot,
Peace be a name and order but a blot!
He “who in heaven bore the second name”
Knew of this salt, and did address the same
When he on earth with blessed errand came.
Likewise ye are salt of saving flavor,
And there is salt that hath “lost its savor”!
What better purpose can we put it to
Than “tread it out,” and that with iron shoe?

ANTISTROPHE.

Ye who have kept 'midst error's sway
The “even tenor of your way,”
Nor gone wild-groping and astray!

Ye who have heard the frenzied cry
Of men in zealous agony,
And meekly raised the prayerful eye!

Whose conduct hath reminded me
Of Publican and Pharisee—
From all vain-glory ever free!

125

Who love to soothe the bed of pain,
Whose charity is never vain,
Who lend not to receive again!

Who “search the Scriptures” for reward,
And lean on Heaven for a guard—
Receive this tribute of a bard!

EPODE.

And thus he prays: “Time-honored” may you be
Without dim vision, or the tottering knee;
May all your wheels of life move gently on,
And cease themselves to move, the journey done;
May conscience never chide you for a fault,
Nor envy near her venomed head exalt;
May all who wish your peaceful comfort mar'd
From that same comfort find themselves debar'd;
May all the darkling passions of the breast
At your indignant glance be put to rest—
Hatred and malice, every slanderous lie,
Disunion, discord, and hypocrisy,
Be banished far as day impels the night,
And buried low forever from your sight.
Moreover, I would add yet this reflection—
In a deep grave, without a resurection!

[Fear not to put your trust in God ]

Written extempore on the blank leaf of a Bible, on board of a canal boat

Fear not to put your trust in God,
For He alone is just;
'T is faith removes His vengeful rod
When “dust returns to dust.”

126

MASSACHUSETTS.

“Ense petit placidam quietem sub Libertate.”

Inscribed to his Excellency Edward Everett, Governor of the commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Forgive this freedom in a rustic bard,
Thou who art skilful at the helm of state!
Relax awhile your weightier regard
Of learn'd oration and of wise debate,
And his poor Muse shall never prove ingrate;
She who delights to sing her father-land,
Where Freedom dwells in every breast innate,
Where Learning's temple doth enduring stand
And patriots unsheath the vengeance-gleaming brand!

Hail Massachusetts! land of learned lore;
Thy pleasant rivers, and thy ocean shore!
Thy bosky hills, high towering to the sky!
Thy happy homes, with streamlets wandering nigh!

Hail Massachusetts! to thy soil I cling;
Thy name I honor and thy worth I sing!
Thou art my mother, I thy true-born son—
Thou ne'er shalt call me an unworthy one!

Hail to the time, far back in days of yore,
When thou didst welcome to thy desert shore
A band of wanderers who came in quest,
Worn with oppression, of a place of rest!
Feeble in numbers and with prospects drear,
December frowning at the dying year;
The pleasant sun obscured by wintry cloud,
And nature ghastly in her frigid shroud.
But they were firm—for tho' in nature's wild
His eye is ever on his humble child;

127

So with the oft-repeated heaven-ward prayer,
With hearts to suffer and with souls to dare,
They made the howling wilderness their home,
Let good betide them or let evil come.
Trials ensued at first, and full of wo,
Such as New-England ne'er again may know;
But heaven was pleased to favor them at last,
Their numbers strengthened and collected fast.
The Indian, too, poor child of nature! felt
His wild heart soften and in pity melt
To see the strangers' misery and want,
And shared with them his pittance poor and scant.

Shall I digress and tell a mournful tale?
Shall I, instead of singing, weep and wail?
Alas, that I have cause to! pardon me,
My muse loves Justice, stern altho' he be!
Shades of the Puritans! can ye review
Your lives so faultless, and yet faulty, too,
And feel no pang akin to fell remorse?
Ah, happy thrice if ye feel nothing worse!
Doth not the Maker of the universe
Account the Indian rational, altho'
Save fashioning his life-depending bow,
Or his poor wigwam, yet to him as dear
As splendid palace to the kingly peer,
Or light canoe to swim his native flood—
His arts were lacking? (and these few were rude.)
Altho' fair Science never deigned to shine
Upon his path with influence benign—
Without that revelation from on high,
To teach him how to live and how to die—
With nought to guide his erring steps aright
Thro' Nature's darkness, but her own dim light—
Yet was he not a man, lord of the soil?
Whose rights, whose liberty ye did despoil?

128

And did ye ever deem him more or less
Than savage beast that roamed the wilderness?
But I forbear to dwell upon the theme—
I would 't were nothing but an idle dream.
So to my “first love” I'll return again,
And let poor Indian to his God complain.

We'll overlook an interval of years
Replete with wars and peace, with hopes and fears,
And see Oppression stern, with iron hand,
Casting her shackles o'er a struggling land.
Wasted and worn beneath their galling weight,
And nerved to daring at her pending fate,
That land determined to resist the fiend,
And for support on righteous heaven leaned.
Long shall the glorious annals of those days
Speak volumes to old Massachusetts' praise!
Long shall the blood—the first was made to run,
Cry from the ground at famous Lexington!
Long, too, shall Bunker's gore-drenched height remain,
The altar where in sacrifice was slain
Full many a son of Massachusetts brave,
Her dearest rights and life-dear homes to save!
Shall not thy memory, ill-starred Warren,
Live in the hearts of these thy countrymen?
Shall not remembrance of those braves who fell
On that dread mount be ever cherished well?
It shall be ever, and with fond regard;
It shall inspire the patriotic bard
To sing their deathless fame in future time,
In accents lofty and in strains sublime.

Like as the flame, tho' small at first awhile,
Spreads high and wide and wraps the stately pile,
So on this soil the factions kindled first
Soon o'er the land in revolution burst.

129

Wherever arms were borne against the foe,
New-England's sons dealt hardest in the blow;
Where'er was battle fought or victory won,
There, too, was marshalled Massachusetts' son.

But who is there the sleeping dead can raise?
Who, then, shall paint the perils of those days?
Ah! who can paint the sufferings of those
Who fought 'gainst want and mercenary foes?
Who shall recount the melancholy tale
Of tearful orphans, and the widow's wail?
Who tell the price that this our freedom bought,
So full of blessings and so nobly sought?
I'll not impose on my unwilling Muse
The task she doth so modestly refuse.

Oh, ever shall their memory be dear
Who caused this day of glory to appear!
Who pledged their lives, their fortunes, honor, all,
Whose dauntless hearts no dangers could appal.
Thrice blessed is the memory of the blest—
Sweet as the dews of heaven be their rest!

Hail Massachusetts! aye the brightest gem
In Liberty's refulgent diadem!
There is a light that bright above thee dwells,
That decks thy vales and burnishes thy hills;
Whose beams afar throughout the world are seen,
Bright as the sun, and clear as star at e'en.
It is the light of Knowledge, streaming free
To every one whose eyes are ope'd to see.
How doth the glare beam from her ancient halls,
Where Fame to deep-read Science loudly calls!
Whence issuing forth, each with a torch in hand,
Lit at the shrine of Learning, go a band
Of thy bright sons, to give their cheering light
To all whom Ignorance enwraps in night.

130

I ween a leader in that brilliant throng
Is he to whom I dedicate my song!

On every side I hear a sound arise—
'T is that of never-wearied Enterprise.
Hark! to the clamor of the forge and mill,
The whirling waters and the laboring rill;
The busy factory so full of life,
In all its thousand wheels with business rife.
Hark! to the seaman's glad home-hailing cry,
So full of vigor and so heartily!
Behold his canvass whitening every sea,
To every wind, to every billow free!

There is a voice goes up from all thy streams,
As sweet as falling water in our dreams;
From every sheltered vale ascends that cry;
From every forest deep, and mountain high;
From every home of thine where freemen dwell
In every passing breeze I hear it swell;
Solemn it rises from thy sea-washed shore,
Amid the hoary tide's obstreperous roar;—
It is the voice of Liberty I hear
Forever sounding in my waking ear!

My dear-loved mother, list the warm appeal
Of one who ever glories in thy weal!
While thou dost often rear thy warrior son—
To patriotic deeds incite him on;
While thou dost give thy patriot statesmen, too,
The heart of wisdom, and the will to do—
Canst thou not also rear the patriot bard,
Who in thy smile shall find his own reward?
Thy noble name shall oft adorn his lays,
And oft his theme shall be thy nobler praise.

So, in conclusion, Everett, thy health!
And God forever save our commonwealth!

131

TO THOSE WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

Written during a time of peculiar excitement.

Now Sampson when his STRENGTH WAS LOST,
Was filled with sore surprise;
He jumped into a bramble bush
And scratched out both his eyes.
And when he SAW his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush,
And scratched them in again.—
Anon.

I.

Last night I went, with good intent,
Where raving men are preaching,
With this endeavor, as I went—
To profit by their teaching.
What with the hubbub and the noise
That marked the congregation,
From those outrageous in their joys,
I viewed the operation.

II.

And now recovered from the scene
Of discord and confusion,
In Babel's walls I never mean
Again to make intrusion.
I must apologize a word
For this time going there,
But I of late had often heard
Great things were doing there.

III.

And so for once I went to make
Examination full,
And if it is not, I mistake,
“Great cry in little wool!”
I may be wrong, but yet my mind
I have a right to state;

132

Tho' some at me offence should find,
It matters nothing great.

IV.

Imprimis, then, is it not wrong
To make a use so free
Of appellations that belong
To sovereign Deity?
Now ye who take His name in vain,
Behold with consternation
Your condemnation written plain,
Despite infatuation.

V.

How can there be solemnity
Where all is loud commotion?
How can we worship Deity
Where there is not devotion?
And how can persons feel devout
Where every one is talking
And breaking forth in noisy shout,
And vile transgressors mocking?

VI.

I give you credit for one thing,
And that is wily cunning;
Ye well know how to coax and sing,
And keep your tongues a running.
It calls the simple-minded out,
And works upon their feeling,
And e'er they know what they 're about
Ye have them all a kneeling.

VII.

And well ye know how to invade
Society's weak border,
And never stop till ye have made
Confusion of good order.

133

And well ye know how to pretend
Disinterested motives;
And then for recompense ye'll lend,
Perhaps, some heartless votives.

VIII.

But O, ye rulers! have ye read
Of mighty Adonijah?
Or of the holy raven-fed,
The Heaven-inspired Elijah?
How was the Power Supreme revealed
To his prophetic ken?
The emblem shall not be concealed,
Ye shouting sons of men!

IX.

For lo! a whirlwind rushed amain
With mighty force to shake;
The solid hills were rent in twain,
And rocks in pieces brake.
After the wind a wonder new,
And earth was shaken sore;
Convulsions ran her bowels through,
And heaved in wild uproar.

X.

Anon a wonder stranger still
Rose to the prophet's gaze—
The earth, as if by Sovereign will,
Seemed in a general blaze!
But no! the Sovereign Power was
In none of them displayed,
Whatever else might be the cause
That all the havoc made.

XI.

When nature's tumult and discord,
And boisterous din were past,

134

Behold! a still small voice was heard
Forthcoming at the last.
Whereat the prophet, when he heard,
Concealed in fear his face,
For then he knew the sovereign Lord
Was present in that place.

XII.

Now ye who rant, and rave, and storm,
Must practise merely art;
The passions ye may reach and warm,
But may not reach the heart.
It is the still small voice that speaks
Within the human breast,
And he who lists its whispers seeks
The soul's eternal rest.

XIII.

And whereas ye are wont to meet
With forest oaks and birches,
As if there were no vacant seat
In barns if not in churches—
And whereas to the idle crowd,
Before they have deserted,
Ye tell with proclamation loud
How many are converted—

XIV.

This is to hint, in cautious way,
Perhaps ye are misguided;
And, may be, some of you display
Yourselves to be derided.
But rest the evil consequence
Attendant on deriders—
How many converts, six months hence,
Ye'll number as backsliders!

135

XV.

Moreover, as your meetings are
Already long protracted—
(The fruit whereof shall time declare,
Be good or bad enacted)—
And as last evening, I am sure,
Your minister desired
They might continue and endure
Till sun and moon are tired —

XVI.

This is to say, I wish ye may
Effect much good thereby,
As lasting as the fount of day
That pours from yonder sky.
And, also, I would ask of you
Some charity for me,
Because I “give the de'il his due,”
The more especially.

XVII.

Now, in conclusion, let me add,
I 've charity also;
But that the half of you are mad,
I verily do n't know.
However, He alone who made
Can judge the secret heart;
And far from me be ever laid
That consequential part.

XVIII.

Think not that I forget the few
Whose conscience needs no clearing;
But even let me hint to you,
God is not hard of hearing.
Sincerity religion salts,
And makes it prepossessing;

136

It hides a multitude of faults,
And often “gets the blessing.”

XIX.

This much is certain, all agree
We 've need of discipline;
And howe'er some may censure me,
I 've aimed at good herein.
Brethren, since in my hasty talk
I 've aimed at nothing ill,
In unity we'll try to walk,
And part in right good will!

See I. Kings, 1st chapter.

I. Kings, 19th chapter.

A fact.

ON THE FALL OF A MIGHTY OAK.

Written while sitting upon the trunk thereof, Nov. 15, 1837.

Ye sylvan gods and wood-nymphs mourn
The monarch of your shade!
The oldest of your stately oaks
Is low forever laid.

Ye little songsters of the grove,
Attune a plaintive strain,
For never to his sheltering arms
He'll welcome you again.

Ye little squirrels, blithe and gay,
Forever full of glee,
Forget awhile your carelessness
And mourn your native tree.

Ye whispering winds that loved to fill
These airy branches high,
Go sadly seek some lonely tree,
And breathe the mournful sigh.

137

Mourn, absent Spring, for thy return
Shall mortify thy pride;
Hadst never thou deserted here
This oak would not have died!

Mourn, Summer gone, and when again
Thy steps revisit here,
Let not thy cloud-dim'd eye forget
The tribute of a tear.

Mourn, Autumn, for in these old boughs,
Tho' sere with frost and blast,
Thy foliage would fain remain,
And linger to the last.

Howl, Winter! for these hoary limbs,
Some cold and sleety night,
You might have taken pride to deck
With frost-work clear and bright.

My Muse laments for thee, old oak,
As for an ancient friend;
For o'er my infant head thy arms
Did venerably bend.

But ah! how true that solemn thought
That all things here decay!
Not only nature's works shall fail,
But I must pass away.

O, man, how vain unthinking thou!
Content to pass along,
Till Death shall beckon thee to come
And join his pallid throng.

How often in thy walks abroad
Thou mayest a lesson learn,
With which improved thou 'lt willing go,
Nor wish to make return!

The White Oak retains its leaves longer than most trees in the New-England forests.

138

AURORA BOREALIS.

Can one behold the Northern Light,
And feel no wonder at the sight?
Its meteor columns flashing bright,
Nor ask the cause?
Nor feel instinctively the might
Of Nature's laws?

In savage wilds, where I have strayed,
At night beside the watch-fire laid,
Wrap'd in my blanket, I 've surveyed
The sky sublime,
And seen 'midst stellar lights displayed
Arcturus climb.

Marking the constellations rise,
That oft attract my roaming eyes
When traversing the spangled skies,
I 've pondered o'er
The strange and wild imageries
Of heathen lore.

The Milky Way, that wondrous girth
That seems afar to compass earth;
Or from the chambers of the North,
Where Science tires,
Seen issuing high and flashing forth
Those meteor fires.

Imagination, busy, fed
Upon the scene, and fancied
Some mighty hosts to battle led
Among the stars—
Of warlike spirits banished
From earthly wars.

Those mystic lights were signals shown
To guide the hosts to battle on,

139

In fields to mortal ken unknown,
Beyond that bourn
Which mortals pass, but never one
Has made return.

Then Fancy with her magic spell
Has ope'd my ears to listen well
The martial sounds that seemed to swell
Among the spheres,
As solemn as the funeral knell
Of nameless years.

O, what a field where thought may stray,
The starry skies at eve display!
Whose garniture shall ne'er decay
While time shall last,
While sombre eve with brilliant day
Shall well contrast.

[Connecticut, the stream that flows ]

Written in a skiff, on Connecticut river, at the “Narrows,” a short distance above Turner's Falls

Connecticut, the stream that flows
Beneath my feet!
What country owns, what mortal knows
A stream so sweet!

Forever varying is thy shore—
The hill, the plain;
Here sleeps thy wave, there torrents roar
And dash amain.

Here winds the flood around a cliff
Whose rocky brow,
Frowning upon my dancing skiff,
Inspires me now.

140

Here was the Indian wont to take
The sly raccoon,
And came to see the otter wake
Beneath the moon.

Otters, perhaps, here linger still;
But the red-man,
Search for him wheresoe'er you will,
Find him who can!

Thou stream forever hurrying fast,
Untiringly!
I turn to ask of thee the past,
Inquiringly.

What tragic scenes have stained your shores
All bloodily,
From where wild Ammonoosuc roars,
To the salt sea!

What tears have mingled with thy flood—
Of deepest wo!
What gory streams of reeking blood
Have tinged thy flow!

Hast thou not chronicled them all,
To our remorse?
Methinks I hear from yonder fall
The answer hoarse.

EPITAPH

For a lady famed for her virtues.

We ask no tears from sympathetic eyes—
To grieve for one who cannot grieve is wrong;
But mixed with gratitude be your surprise,
And angel deigned to dwell on earth so long.

141

IN VIEWING A RUINED HABITATION.

Why should'st thou build thy hall, son of the winged days? thou lookest from the towers to-day, yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in the empty court, and whistles around the half-worn shield.—

Ossian.

Life's golden sands, how fast they haste
To run, with ceaseless fall, to waste!
Man's hopes upon this life are placed,
Perhaps, to-day;
To-morrow Death has cold embraced
His lifeless clay.

He builds his hall in hope—alas!
Its portals he must shortly pass,
Borne out a dead, unknowing mass,
In earth to rot.
He reads his “days are as the grass,”
But heeds it not.

E'en he, who in yon ruin views
Themes for his moralizing muse,
Forgets that Time his foresight strews
With darkness dim,
And that a silent hall ensues
One day for him!

A DIRGE

Sung to Autumn on the last day of November.

Sad Autumn, adieu! over prostrate November,
Thy snow-shroud descending deep mantles thee o'er,
And o'er thy pale relics looks wintry December,
With barrenness dreary, with icicles hoar.

142

Oh! cold lies the snow on the plain and the mountain,
And fettered in chains is the sweet-winding rill;
Deserted the valley, and frozen the fountain,
And thro' the lone forest the blast whistles shrill.

'T was but late that I roved by the side of the streamlet,
And listened delighted the chime of its flow;
Or sought far remote from the stir of the hamlet,
The mountain above, or the valley below.

For Nature's full cup was o'erflowing in gladness,
And sweet was the song of the bird of the bough,
So pleasingly plaintive, inclining to sadness;
And soft was the lock-lifting breeze to my brow.

But now while those days of enchantment reviewing,
(For in my mind's eye they forever appear,)
I shrink at the prospect before me ensuing—
For oh, of myself what a symbol is here!

'T is not for thee, Autumn, I make lamentation,
For time shall renew all thy charms to thee yet;
But oh, for myself!—'t is a sad contemplation—
In Death's dreary winter my autumn must set!

Yet when the chill blasts of misfortune have left me
And cold frosts of life that embittered my joy
When death with his unsparing hand has bereft me
Of trifles that please and of pleasures that cloy—

Still sweet be the thought that thou, Autumn, shall mourn me,
And yearly thy pilgrimage pay to my grave;
While all the sad weeds that enwrap and adorn thee
Shall o'er my low pillow slow, solemnly wave

143

TO HYPOCHONDRIA.

Dimly seen in prospective.

I.

Black fiend from source infernal! thou
Before whose frown full many bow
Despondent and forlorn;
Why comest thou to me, I ask,
Dark scowling through thy hellish mask?
Thou imp of Belial born!
At thy approach how dark the world,
Tho' thousand suns should blaze!
The past in dire confusion whirled—
The future all a maze!
And how dark is the mark
To which we mortals steer!
Yea, the grave, where we crave
Forgetfulness sincere.

II.

Thou devil of the brimstone lake,
What fiendish pleasure thou must take
In harrowing the mind!
In rending it with unborn wo,
Or bid it wayward roaming go
Some fancied ill to find.
Thou art as inconsistent, too,
As sick-man's dream at night,
Whom night-mare scares with horrors new,
And nameless shapes affright.
Hence, thou fiend! I am weaned
For evermore from thee.
Some thou 'lt scare, but I swear
Thou ne'er shalt frighten me!

144

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY.

November, 1837.

As misty Notus whirls the steeple vane,
And Falls' hoarse roar foretells the coming rain,
I leave the field in which no longer now
There 's need to follow on behind the plough,
And to improve the moments as they go
I'll make attempt, howe'er I fail to do.—

I 've often pondered o'er, of late,
The noble bearing of our state,
And of her wide-spread fame;
I know the causes which conspire
To this effect, but would inquire
What first gave her a name?
In other words, what is the spring
From whence these causes rise?
Her lore that makes our ears to ring—
Her light that fills our eyes.
To laud it with plaudit
Is superfluity,
Tho' you know to do so
Is but congruity.

From whence is all that patriot fire,
Inherent both in son and sire,
Of which we well may boast?
Why, Independence, dost thou stand
Among the yeomen of our land,
A barrier to our coast?
And why is Enterprise so free
To make our arts increase?
And why doth thrifty Industry
Obtain the golden fleece?

145

Why we stray where we may,
O'er habitable space,
We meet with and greet with
Some of New-England's race?

Altho' these queries are my own,
I, too, on answering am prone—
So list and I will do it;
And if I do not answer right,
And show the reason, clear as light,
Then call me not a poet:
What makes the man in after years?
The babe that cannot walk.
What weans his heart from childish fears?
His mother's cradle-talk.
Thus we get in the debt
Of mothers, unawares,
'T is high time in my rhyme
To reckon our arrears.

Hail mothers of my ancient state!
Your fortunes I congratulate,
Your favored lot I bless!
Not even Sparta's famous dames
Better deserved their lofty names,
Than ye who 're famed the less.
“Honor to whom the same is due,”
Is maxim sage and hoary—
And I ascribe the source to you
Of Massachusetts' glory.
So take ye and make ye
The most of this my praise;
Tho' feeble, unable
My muse in wreathing bays.

It stands the daughters, too, in hand—
Those gems that ornament our land—

146

To play the wiser game;
And when their mothers leave the stage,
Clad in the weeds of honored age,
Perpetuate their fame.
But, Oh! is there not cause to fear
Some are degenerating?
Would such could see their error clear
And set to deprecating;
Right long, too, and strong, too,
And Fashions' yoke reject!
'T is wholly in folly
To bear it, I suspect.

To amputate my limping letter;
Your servant owns himself your debtor
For an epistle recent;
And could he oftener receive
The like, I verily believe
He might reply more frequent.
Concerning a reply in verse—
(As lately you did crave it)—
Review this till you can rehearse,
And, faith, you'll see you have it!
So farewell—you share well,
While breath life's flame is fanning,
In the care and the prayer
Of ever-mindful Canning.

It is an unfailing sign of an approaching storm when the roar of Turner's Falls can be distinctly heard at the village of Gill-distant 3 miles.

ON A CERTAIN INVETERATE PRATER.

Nonsense, when thou dost speak, is fed,
But Common Sense stands mocking;
Our earnest hope for thee when dead
Is that you'll rest your talking.

147

SECOND EPISTLE TO JNO. FRISSELL, M. D.

Friday eve. Dec.

Friend, heard you not my northern whistle
Shrill blowing in my last epistle?
With patience e'en that Job might learn
I 've listened long for a return.
As none I hear, I send this spy
To learn the wherefore and the why.
Oh! may it find you hale and well,
With face to heaven and back to hell;
Dewee in hand, with thoughtful face
Deep cogitating on a case.

Were I to think for theme to write,
I scarce should pen a line to-night.
First thoughts, 't is said, are aye the best—
So here 's a few—de'il take the rest:

Mankind are prone, in every earthly clime,
To wink at selfishness as not a crime;
But I, for one, can never view it so—
Your selfish man is oft a villain, too.
E'en the most selfish, covetous of pelf,
Despise the man who cares but for himself,
And yet, for reasons to themselves best known,
Call not the odious villainy their own!

I have my eye upon a certain man
Whose life is but one self-exalting plan.
Mammon 's the God he reverences most;
His soul's solicitude 's a dollar lost;
Night he consumes in cogitating schemes,
And day-light finds him practising his dreams;
Whatever game be his in life to play,
He 's sure to win some one or other way;
And if the potent ace he never steals,
He turns a Jack for trumps whene'er he deals.

148

He casts about him with a selfish eye,
Wrapped in the cloak of self-sufficiency,
Much with the air, (and you will pardon me
For making use of homely simile,)
Of my old dog, who, 'midst his other tricks,
Turns round and round upon his bed of sticks,
Until, contracted to a narrow heap,
He curls him down, and straightway is asleep.

But, sir, so thinks your humble poet:
If selfish persons would but know it,
Death will o'erreach them in the end—
That gaunt monopolizing fiend!
That my name, too, may swell the list
Of those who at the most exist,
May pass for possibility—
I say it with humility;
But I'm deceived, if nothing worse,
If one's not tacking off that course.
My chief delight is in a farm,
With all appliances to charm;
I covet not a nabob's wealth,
But give me competence and health;
“Peace like a river” o'er me roll;
And hopes of heaven fill my soul;
A faithful friend; an open foe;
And moccasins in time of snow.

Is there a critic who would smile?
Let him forbear a little while:
“Man wants but little here below,”
And many make that little do;
But more than all, his lot is blest
Who gets contentment with the rest.

And now, farewell, my valued friend!
Till life's great caravan shall end,

149

Or rather till I leave the ranks,
Slumbrous with toil and madmen's pranks;
Till tomb-stone rises at my head,
To mark the muse-beloved dead;
Yea, while I blow the rural reed,
I hail your friend, and that indeed.

A medical writer on Midwifery.

ON A CERTAIN LAWYER.

When thou in h---I shalt take thy place,
(For there thou 'lt doubtless get,)
Wo to thee shouldst thou plead thy case!
You never gained one yet.

HIS EPITAPH.

No client more, with golden fleece,
To fumble o'er and shave,
Here lies a Justice of the Peace
And a confounded knave.

The character of a certain mischief-making person given in short.

O, painted sepulchre! thou art
A paragon of evil—
Canst act a very sainted part,
And yet delight the d---l.

HIS EPITAPH.

Come, lesser hypocrites, draw near;
In sackcloth-mood behave!
And if ye cannot wring a tear,
Why, spit upon this grave!
For of all scoundrels out of h---l
This one, while living, bore the bell.

150

DESPONDENCY

Over blighted hopes and wintry prospects.

There comes a voice that awakes my soul. It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds.—

Ossian.

Lo yon declining winter sun,
Slow sinking from his labors done!
Far to the south he goes to rest
Below the verge-line of the west.
The hollow moaning of the blast,
The shades of evening deep'ning fast,
The exit of departing day,
Blend with my thoughts in grim array!
I see with retrospective eyes
A nameless mass of forms arise:—
The forms of long-departed years;
Of promised hopes and real fears;
Of mercies from a source on high;
Of friends were early called to die;
Of struggles with a stubborn heart,
Loath from its own self-will to part;
Of sorrows in their keenest form;
Of Fortune's wiles, and Folly's storm;
Of time mis-spent; of actions done,
Which Wisdom ever bade me shun;
Of frowns from His all-seeing eye
Who dwells in vast eternity—
Frowns, I may fear, deserved too well;
Of sounds from Fancy's whispering shell,
Which only sons of song may hear,
Soft, yet distinct—unseen, yet near.
But for the music of these last,
Mine eyes would sicken on the past!

Life, thou art like a pictured map
To school-boys, fostered in the lap

151

Of Inexperience, who pore
With smiles its painted surface o'er.
In after years, to manhood grown,
They find that map a wildering one,
And while its brilliant colors fade,
See inequality and shade.
To me, thus far, thou 'rt but a song—
A poem, full of figures strong;
Some sweet as flowers in pleasant spring,
Others as stern as Death, grim king!

Long since, I 've given up the chase
For happiness—it flies apace,
And when I'd think to grasp the prize,
'T was a poor phantom in my eyes!
I 've summoned Hope to my relief,
And fondly cherished the belief
That Fortune would succeed my plans,
And no more harrass with her bans.

But human foresight, ah, how frail!
How oft our brightest prospects fail!
How oft the darling hope of years
Ends in a bitter flood of tears!
How oft the heart leaps with success,
To sink anon in heaviness!
False, fabled Hope! how oft we find
Thou 'rt but a phantom of the mind!
Or like to foot-prints in the snow,
That vanish in the sun, we know;
Or like the lightning's crinkling chain,
That dazzles, and is gone again;
Or like a meteor's transient gleam;
Or like the waking of a dream.

Why thus despond—why thus repine?
What grievous ills that are not mine

152

Poor dwellers on this earth may feel!
My heart is sick—my senses reel!
My own woes, heavy tho' they are,
Fall on his head who well can bear;
And of whose strength has heav'n the care.
Tho' o'er his mind, in some dark hour,
They rush with ten-fold weight and power,
Like waters from a pent up stream,
Like busy morn on flowery dream,
And cause him for the while to wear
A saddened look and solemn air—
'T is like the tumult of a crowd,
Or like the passing of a cloud.

Ye nymphs of song, ye came to me
First in the tear of memory!
Never a bard of humble worth
But ill-star glimmered at his birth;
But Sorrow marked him from the hour
When first she found him in her power.
Yet to the sorrow-stricken bard
Imagination brings reward:
He sees, 'mid elements at war,
The god of thunder on his car;
Among the volumed clouds he finds
The hollow caverns of the winds;
He sees in Nature's varied face
A winning air, a mystic grace;
From every lost and lonely stream
He gathers thought, indicts a theme;
In every solemn wind he hears
The anthem of departed years;
He hears sweet minstrel voices sing
Beside the ever-bubbling spring—
Voices that speak behind that screen
Hides things eternal and unseen,

153

Telling there is a better clime
Beyond the tear-dimmed shores of time.

Then world, oh, stormy world, farewell!
If long in thee I yet may dwell,
A target for thy missiles sharp,
Hear this wild raving of my harp!—
Your selfishness is past dispute;
Your friendship cold, your pity mute;
Your cares a dark revolving maze;
Your frowns a cold unmeaning gaze.
I 've drank your wormwood and your gall—
What else hast thou beside the pall?
Steeled is my heart to every ill,
At every surge of terror still.
Then roll your wildest, maddest wave!
Its roar I mock, the shock I brave.—
How calm the stillness of the grave!

Then world, oh, posting world, adieu!
If short my dwelling be with you,
Think not I leave you with regret—
No prisoner sick of freedom yet.
Death, I have seen thy pallid face,
Thou terror of a mortal race,
Contemplating my own;
I knew not what thou willed to do,
And cared as little as I knew;
Nor joyed to see thee gone!
Come when thou wilt, I trust thou 'lt find
A welcomer in me;
Give freedom to the shackled mind,
The prisoned soul set free.

Oh, life! to some much loved and dear,
To me a howling waste and drear,
A labyrinth of care!

154

Forward I look, with anxious eye,
When I shall cast thee off and die,
And death's dark billows dare.
To him whose hope shall not betray,
Death brings a sweet repose;
He smiles to see thy weary day
Converging to a close.

156

A CHARITABLE EPITAPH.

Weep not for him whose bones lie here;
For if the book be true,
Himself is having now, we fear,
Enough of that to do.

157

EPISTLE TO SWAN,

Musical composer, and author of an admirable old piece called China.

My unknown, much-respected friend,
Pray pardon this aggression;
'T is from beginning to the end
But simply a confession.
The Muse is somewhat hard to please,
And little prone to flatter,
But when true excellence she sees,
It alters much the matter.

Know then I have an open ear,
(Be'ng also second-sighted;)
And when rich melody I hear,
My very soul's delighted.
When Spring her flowery mantle shows
I list the feathered choir;
When Eolus to Autumn blows
I hear an unseen lyre.

The music of the human voice
Has many charms for me
When some sweet anthem of my choice
Trills forth in melody.
There is a sweet pathetic air
Whose smoothly gliding numbers
Give calm forgetfulness to care,
And to the sleepless slumbers.

In ancient China's plaintive notes
What melting music blends!
Aloft the airy tenor floats,
The solemn bass descends.
The man who undelighted hears
Its well-chimed accents roll,

158

Must have a bubble in his ears—
No music in his soul.

Sir, I protest against the sage
Refinements of the day,
For aught that bears the stamp of age
Is thrust in scorn away.
But list, my friend, a minim rest!
This day I'm bold to say—
Mark Folly with a glossy crest,
But Wisdom's head is gray.

Would some kind Power might hear our prayers—
Again old measures bring,
And give us back the ancient airs
Our fathers used to sing!
Curs'd be the discord-working pen
Struck China from the list!
Strange! that among the sons of men
Such goose-quills should exist.

How oft the zephyrs of applause
Waft bubbles to the skies,
When, from some ill-accounted cause,
True worth unlifted lies!
But what I more would say to you
Will do in vulgar prose;
So with a sentiment or two
My hasty verse will close.

Art thou a son of harmony?
And am I not another?
Then give the welcome hand to me,
My elder minstrel brother!
The river that between us rolls
Has not the power to sever

159

The unison of kindred souls,
And let us part it never!

FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM.

Such scenes as these, New-England, are thy own.
And, oh! perhaps some wandering son of thine
Whose bark upon life's troubled sea is borne
Far from the haven of his native home,
Will oft in meditation's lonely hours
Revert to thy blue hills and valleys green,
Thy cool springs bubbling from the flinty rock,
Thy mellow Autumn waning calmly on,
Clad in its “coat of many colors” fine;
And when December comes wrapp'd in his snows,
Stormy and cold, and white with frosty breath—
Thy fire-side tales, repeated oft, perhaps,
But spiced with better flavor for their age;
Thy dear-loved homes and good old customs dear.
And memory backward points to other days
When from his father's roof he early went,
With benedictions on his youthful head,
And Hope's bright gossamers before his eyes.
But now how changed the “spirit of his dream”!
Sweet days of childhood, ah, how quickly flown!
How silently! Where now those promised joys?
Those phantom dreams of manhood's happiness?
Those budding hopes? Gone with the lapse of years!
As when the laborer on his pallet rests,
In strange chimeras fades his absent mind,
And morning breaks with stern reality
The visions of the night—so have they gone!

160

Then Fancy fondly beckons from afar
And bids him dream of brighter days to come,
When Fortune once on him shall deign to smile
And bid him welcome to his long-lost home.
Shall then that wished-for welcome never come?
(Future as hope—ah, would 't were half as sure!)

LETTER TO THE EDITORS OF THE OLD COUNTY PAPER.

Messrs. Editors:—

With blushes deep, and great chagrin
I ope'd your sheet and found therein
Myself addressed by some incog.,
Without a text, or e'en prologue.
I 'd give a cent to know his name
Who puts me thus to open shame;
But as that thing is all a Riddle,
I may as well “hang up my fiddle.”
Whoe'er he is he seems to be
In something of a quandary;
And so of course it doth devolve
On me his mighty doubt to solve.
I'll try, but always deem it vain
To teach what of itself is plain:—

Consistency I ever shall admire
Be it observed in youth or hoary sire,
But you, most powerful, severe unknown—
(And I must judge from what you 've lately done,)
Wear not that “precious jewel” in your head,
Or else your memory is dull and dead.
The man who lacks the one is but a whelp
Of Madness blind, but none there are can help
The loss of memory or its decline.
Which of these evils, unknown one, are thine

161

I will not say,—but one of them you have—
Do I address a dotard or a knave?
Review the piece to which you have referr'd
And see, yourself, how strangely you have err'd.
Doth that man meddle who consumes his days
In teaching men the “error of their ways?”
Doth that man meddle who when feuds increase,
Lends his endeavors to inculcate peace?
And doth he meddle who would warn the blind
Who truly meddle where they may not find?
Consistency, “the jewel,” answers, No!
But you who lack it may not view it so.
Have I “condemn'd learn'd, pious ladies all?”
As you 've asserted in your venom'd scrawl;
Have I deny 'd that they have souls to save?
Hold, man! I cry you—verily you rave!

As for your weighty questions I allow
They 're worth an answer—so you have it now:
First then, I have a “mother, wise and good,”
Altho' she keeps at home, nor gads abroad;
I have no wife, nor ever shall have one
Who cannot let our state affairs alone;
I have no sister, Heav'n was never pleased
To grant that solace to my “mind diseased”;
I am no Southern despot, fiercely bold—
I always hail from Massachusetts old;
Neither do I step forth in sovereign might—
To tread His image—be it black or white;
No! far from that! I ever love to see
Brethren unite and dwell in unity;
“Look round me!” Well, few of the human race
Love more than I a lady in her place,
Or more respect her modesty and grace.

And now before I leave the land,
Obedient to your high command,

162

Permit a parting word or two—
'T is the last time I'll trouble you:—

Perhaps t' were not amiss to state
What has befallen me of late;
Some one would cast me in a strait—
If so he could,
Because I will not trudge the gait
He wants I should.

But softly, sage one, if you please!
I'm not the one for you to tease;
I give your fury to the breeze,
To moles and bats;
You may catch rats with toasted cheese—
Not cheese with rats!

Were it not better had we fewer
Such irritable ones as you are?
I preached a sermon from the Scripture
With proper text;
And tho' 't was done with motives pure,
You 're sorely vexed.

And was it then addressed to you?
There is a proverb, and 't is true,
That none can feel the pinching shoe
Save those who wear it;
And how it felt you doubtless knew
And could 'nt bear it.

With you there must be something ill
That you should of your own free will
Administer yourself the pill—
May it relieve you!
And all the charges in my bill
I free forgive you.

163

DAY DREAMS—NO FICTION.

I.

Some visions I have lately had—
(Dreams ever are my teachers)—
They tell me men are running mad,
And women turning preachers.
Since days of Bible rule are o'er,
I venture the assertion,
Ye'll read above the chapel door,
Souls taken for conversion,
In full, some day.

II.

Men, like a flock of hungry sheep
When one goes out to feed them,
Beset their feeder in a heap
Wherever he may lead them.
Take from the scaffold or the bay,
But get a pitch-fork full;
The one is “stubble, wood and hay,”
The other nigger's wool,
And black, this day.

III.

It matters not how gross the food,
So long as it be new;
If swallowed soon it may be good,
'T will never do to chew.
If one not overfast with haste
Should ruminate it long,
He 'd find, besides a sickish taste,
It savored something strong,
I think, to-day.

164

IV.

Some wax so hot with pious zeal,
It makes their faces glister;
Query—might they not better feel
To shave the head and blister?
This treatment of humanity
Is said to bring relief
To those whose sail of sanity
Is taken in a reef,
Some breezy day.

V.

The many wonders of the day
Are not those of creation;
E'en Beelzebub has learned to pray,
But drives his old vocation!
How oft ye'll mind the fervent saint
Within the house of prayer;
But free him once from its restraint,
He'll make the devil stare,
Amazed, some day!

VI.

'T is strange to see the modest fair,
Sweet as the dews of Hermon,
Call for a blush-provoking prayer,
Or brothel-gendered sermon.
'T is strange to hear some folks at least
'Bout southern bondage rave,
Who more abuse their working beast
Than planter does his slave,
On any day.

VII.

Ye Radicals! full well I know
I win from you no bays;
I scruple not to tell you so,
And leave you to your ways.

165

And you provoke a vulgar verse,
My fire-brand-dealing brother!
'T is not for me to **** **** ****,
And lay it to another,
Off-hand, some day.

VIII.

But Heaven long preserve the salt
That yet preserves this valley!
Your father's ancient crest exalt
And round the symbol rally;
And let your saving power be felt,
And let your light be seen,
And take old measures in your belt,
Good order in your mien—
Ye'll win the day.

IX.

Ye modest daughters of the vale,
I hail you like a brother!
Wherein is different from the male
The politician mother?
To modesty, that brilliant prize,
The woman has pre-emption,
But if she holds not what she buys
It flies beyond redemption
On future day.

X.

But ye who still possess the same,
Endeavor to preserve it;
'T is well to have a goodly name,
'T is better to deserve it.
So may your joys be multiplied,
Your fondest hopes increase,
Your measured moments sweetly glide
And all your “paths be peace,”
And lead to day!

Note.—The manner of adding the short DAY line at the end of each stanza is borrowed from Burns' ‘Holy Fair,’ ‘Ordination,’ &c. it being more expressive of the SUBJECT than any other measure.

166

ODE TO ADVERSITY.

I.

Oh, power, all-dreaded and severe!
Forever shunned, yet ever near—
Fast following as I fly!
Come if thou wilt, I fly no more,
I give the race despairing o'er,
And meet thee eye to eye.
No mercy I expect from thee,
For thou hast none to give;
I either win the victory,
Or fighting cease to live.
If strife lasts while life lasts,
A grim ally is near;
Tho' 't is said that his aid
Is what full many fear.

II.

Between two mighty powers I stand.
The one with cold oppressive hand
Deals heavily the blow;
The other opes his friendly arms,
But, oh! I tremble with alarms—
He, too, may prove a foe!
But Hope soft whispers in my ear:
Bide his embrace, she saith;
Those most oppressed with troubles here
Most happy are in death.
Then tearless, and fearless,
Adversity I brave;
No foe more, no wo more
In the oblivious grave!

167

THE INDIAN GONE!

By night I saw the Hunter's moon
Slow gliding in the placid sky;
Her lustre mocked the sun at noon—
I asked myself the reason why?
And straightway came the sad reply:
She shines as she was wont to do
To aid the Indian's aiming eye,
When by her light he strung his bow,
But where is he?

Beside the ancient flood I strayed,
Where dark traditions mark the shore;
With wizzard vision I essayed
Into the misty past to pore.
I heard a mournful voice deplore
The perfidy that slew his race;
'T was in a dialect of yore,
And of a long-departed race.
It answered me!

I wrought with ardor at the plough
One smoky Indian-summer day;
The dank locks swept my heated brow,
I bade the panting oxen stay.
Beneath me in the furrow lay
A relic of the chase, full low;
I brushed the crumbling soil away—
The Indian fashioned it, I know,
But where is he?

When pheasants drumming in the wood
Allured me forth my aim to try,
Amid the forest lone I stood,
And the dead leaves went rustling by.
The breeze played in the branches high;
Slow music filled my listening ear;

168

It was a wailing funeral cry,
For Nature mourned her children dear.
It answered me!

TO MY FIDDLE.

Come to my arms my ancient shell!
To say the least I love thee well,
For Music loves in thee to dwell—
Her best retreat;
Thy trembling chords, when stricken, tell
Her voice is sweet.

Of beauty thou hast none to boast,
For all thou 'st had is ever lost;
Age aye is purchased at the cost
Of wear and tear;
But still thou 'rt better than the most
Of fiddles are.

Tho' Time has marked thee with his tooth,
If faded beauty speaks the truth,
That thou wast handsome in thy youth
Is plain to me;
And what is more, you came, forsooth,
From o'er the sea.

My fancy now is taking wings:
Changes are thine, like other things;
Perhaps you 've calmed for crowned kings
Their mighty cares;
Perhaps some beggar o'er thy strings
Has scraped his airs.

Perhaps within the crowded hall
You 've led the mazes of the ball,

169

And with your numbers held in thrall
The music-bound;
While listening roof and echoing wall
Gave back the sound.

Or else within the humble shed
The poor man's ears you 've haply fed;
And while the swift-winged moments sped
Unheeded by,
You 've laid him on his cheerless bed
And closed his eye.

But, tell me, hast thou ever found,
In all thy wide-extended round,
The bard, whose very soul was sound—
Deep-toned, yet sweet?
If so, my fancy 'lights to ground,
And bares her feet.

Not that she grovels here below;
Not that she fears to fly—ah, no!
Her pinions never weary grow;
She rests her flight
To see thy sympathising bow
Flounce with delight!

But cease your minstrelsy, I pray,—
Your merry notes a moment stay!
The son of song is oft at bay
With vengeful pack
That follow greedily their prey
O'er life's wild track.

But when most eager to devour,
Thou dost possess the gentler power
To turn aside the gloomy hour,
And let it pass;

170

Then see aloof the hell-hounds scour
In one dark mass!

Oft when the toilsome day is done,
And faintly sinks the summer sun,
How smoothly do the moments run,
Like drops of oil,
When to thy soft and mellow tone
I give my toil!

When blustering Winter, loud and bleak,
O'er passive Nature deals his wreak,
'T is sweet the chimney-nook to seek,
With thee before,
And drown the whistling tempest's shriek
Without the door!

But, oh! 't is graven on my heart,
That thou and I one day must part;
Death with his ever-sharpened dart
Will cut the tie;
For never yet has human art
Learn'd not to die.

Who then shall wake thy plaintive strain,
And hear thee tenderly complain
For him who sang to thee? I fain
Would thou might tell.
I 'd charge him o'er and o'er again
To use thee well!

171

WINTER.

—Or when the north his fleecy store
Drove thro' the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar
Struck thy young eye.—
Burns.

Winter, thou type of hoary age,
Chill-shivering in thy peevish rage!
In Nature's book the whitest page—
The final leaf,
O'er which the moralizing sage
May pore his grief!

I view thee with a placid eye,
As one beholds his destiny
Without the power therefrom to fly,
Had he the will;
I view thy sun-forsaken sky,
And aspect chill.

I view thee fast in sullen chains,
Forged where the icy monarch reigns
O'er dreary Greenland's drifted plains
Of lasting snows;
I view thy horrifying pains,
And mighty throes.

I listen Boreas' sounding key,
And mark the smothering tempest flee,
Wild-wreathing over shrub and tree
The wildering drift;
And thro' the roof of Poverty
Still-falling sift.

Oh, bitter power! I beg thee spare
The famished wretch, whose feeble prayer,
Moaned from the fit abode of care—
Wan Mis'ry's den,

172

Tells of the cold unfeeling air
Of brother men.

Ye fostered sons of sordid ease!
Whose chilling selfishness would freeze
The generous heart!—would ye appease
The troubled breast?
Does rigid Conscience never seize
Hold on your rest?

Has never willing Fancy led
You from your tables richly spread,
Where Luxury heaps up her bread,
And Plenty carves,
To where, by pitying hand unfed,
Pale Famine starves?

Has never thoughtful Pity laid
Her hand upon your hearts, and bade
You look from where, in wealth arrayed,
Warm Comfort shines,
To where, o'er embers half-decayed,
Want shivering pines?

Oh! let it move your hearts of stone
To hear the widow'd mother's moan,
And starving orphans, all as one,
Loud-wailing cry!
For haply ye may still the groan,
And sobbing sigh.

Lo! in yon savage wilds afar,
Where Nature's suffering orphans are,
Who wage with Fate eternal war —
Who knows their wo,

173

Or sees the deep disfiguring scar—
The ill-healed blow?

O Winter, bear their woes in mind!
Deal not on them thy fury blind;
Extermination sure will find
In them a prey
When e'en thy cold and cutting wind
Bears them away.

If happiness on earth be found
Sure 't is by him who tills the ground;
For whom in one mysterious round
Revolves the year,
And wheels thro' boundless space profound
This wondrous sphere.

When night's black curtains, wide unroll'd,
The hemisphere in darkness hold,
He hears the tempest driving cold,
Yet harmless by,
E'en to his flocks that in the fold
Close-huddling lie.

For him returns light-hearted Spring,
With richest flowers gay blossoming;
For him the little songsters sing
Sweet in the bough,
And hail him blithe on flitting wing,
Above the plough.

For him the Summer suns return,
And thro' the fiery solstice burn;
For him does vegetation spurn
The lowly earth—
The juicy briar and scented fern,
Of earliest birth.

174

For him does ripened Autumn come,
Rejoicing in the harvest-home,
And tankards crowned with hoary foam,
Foretokening cheer;
Out-spreading from her airy loom
Her carpet sere.

On him wild Winter angry beats
With blinding snows and piercing sleets;
But, oh, with what true joy he greets
The fireside bright,
When day before dark night retreats,
In sore affright!

Oh! had I as the will the means
To paint how well the fireside screens
The soul enamored of its scenes,
From world's mad hive;
How Memory o'er the hearth-stone leans
Contemplative.

How there domestic bliss invites;
How Fancy wings from thence her flights,
And thro' some far-off land incites
The mind to roam,
Yet always from her tour alights,
More pleased with home.

Away with pomp and kingly pride!
Far hence in moody hauteur stride;
Your furry vestments, best applied,
Are put to shame,
When in the cotters chimney wide
Roars the red flame.

Before the hearth, encircled half,
Now social mirth excites the laugh;

175

Or grey-haired age with well-worn staff
Points back afar,
And says his days have flown like chaff,
He knows not where.

He tells the tale of olden time,
When he was young or in his prime;
The moral points the road to crime,
And at the end
The ladder which the wretch must climb
And hell-ward wend.

The firm division line he draws
'Twixt Vice unyoked and Virtue's laws;
Shows what a pit-fall faithless straws
May oft times hide,
When 'neath our feet dread Ruin's jaws
Gape black and wide.

By turns the group aloud peruse
The weekly magazine of news;
Or to the scene-enamored Muse
List while she sings;
Or see in history's faithful views
Time's hidden things.

Perhaps a neighbor happens in,
With cronies dear his yarns to spin;
Perchance the burnished windows win
The powdered form
Of traveller, from the mingled din
Of wind and storm.

He tells the perils of the day;
How far he missed the proper way,
And wandered many a mile astray
From the right road,

176

While sore fatigue upon him lay—
A grevious load.

He brings the news from distant town;
How rents are up and stocks are down;
How politics have recent grown
Wild with discord;—
Till see! the wholesome viands crown
The oaken board.

O, hospitality sincere!
Thou dryer of the bitter tear
Which cold Misfortune's wind severe
Brings in the eye!
Thine is a heart-ease far too dear
For wealth to buy.

Haply the bard of thee who sings,
Amid his weary wanderings,
Has found thee—not in courts of kings,
Nor halls of pride,
From whence proud wealth, all-potent, flings
Dominion wide;

No!—in the homely cottage pale
You welcomed him with hearty hail,
And did officiously regale
Him on the best;
And showed him, wearied in the trail,
A place of rest.

But hark! the time-piece chimes the hour,
When Morpheus, with acknowledged power,
Bears to his dream-bewildered bower
The minds of men,
Till Phœbus gives Aurora's dower
To morn again.

177

Now each suspends his evening care
While heaven-ward goes the fervent prayer;
In blessings sought is sure to share
The stranger guest;
Then to their couches they repair,
And not unblest!

Winter, of thee the Muse is proud;
E'en when you wake the tempest loud,
And demons in a bellowing crowd
At midnight run;
Or glimmers thro' the leaden cloud
The tarnished sun.

When morn again unfolds to view
The cheerless wastes of deathly hue;
When the choked rill, the deep drifts thro',
Hoarse-gurgling runs,
And seems with feeling man to sue
For genial suns—

'T is oft of life a striking scene!
But Spring with soul-enlivening mien
Ere long will clothe the earth in green,
And free the brook.
Then, mortal, here a lesson glean,
And forward look.

“And waged with Fortune an eternal war.”— Beattie's Minstrel.

186

SECOND EPISTLE TO MINSTREL SWAN.

March, 1838.

My minstrel brother, thou whose soul
Genius delighted to enroll
Upon her wonder-beaming scroll—
A favored token—
Long may with thee life's golden bowl
Remain unbroken!

Your recent gift I value much;
A treasure 't is—and, sir, as such
I'll keep it, tho' old age should clutch
Me, bye and bye,
Tho' groping with a beggar's crutch,
Or blind-man's eye.

Of all the strains that ever flowed
From Music's Helicon abode,
Since Tubal-Cain his fiddle showed
And drew the bow,
Give me the plaintive minor mode,
Soft moving, slow!

Your plaintive airs my mind enthrall,
As once in Israel's kingly hall
Did minstrel notes becalm old Saul,
When he was crazy;—
But China, chief among them all,
How shall I praise thee

187

I wish that raven-tutored wight
Who croaked to death my favorite
Was fastened on, some winter night,
The old French King;
His voice would deepen, that he might
The true bass sing.

He 's pitched it now upon a key
He calls a kind of harmony;
But you and I must disagree,
And make discord;
The tune he sings is new to me,
Upon my word!

Sir, 't is a great, a mighty pity,
One worthy of a mournful ditty,
That some, so overwise and witty—
(Excuse the rhyme)—
Should call the humdrums of a city
Music sublime.

There 's scarce a chorister who dares
Attune those ancient country airs
That in unknown, oblivious lairs
Lie languishing;
Which, when one hears, he feels his cares
Evanishing.

And is it unimportant whether
We lose our main-stays altogether?
We'll take discernment for a tether,
And make them fast;

188

And when again it comes fair weather,
We'll have a mast.

Without a standard which can guide us,
In every thing will wo betide us;
Wisdom will scornfully deride us,
And mock our fate;
And Conscience, too, may often chide us,
But oft too late.

Swan, when within the grave you rest,
You'll leave the world a rich bequest;
Thou oft shalt be the bosom's guest,
In time to come,
For Music in thy tuneful breast
Had sure a home.

I 'm told the Muse is sometimes near
To him whom Music loves so dear;
You need not have the slightest fear
That I dispute it;
The two are twins, and none appear
Who will confute it.

You 've had it, too, in contemplation
To put me under obligation
By showing me your conversation
With her at leisure;
I need not add my approbation
Of such a measure.

An' gif ye hae no gat aboon
Pitting your lallan harp in tune,
Just weave a sang—if but a roon,
The deil-ma-care!
Nae doubt 't will steek my hamely croon,
If naething mair.

189

Leeze me on Scotia, honored isle!
Tho' distant mony a wearie mile,
Tho' ocean's waves atween us boil
Wi' frightfu' roar,
Wi' winged Fancy aft the while
I seek her shore.

Wow! 't is na wholly fancy either!
There is a sort o' kindred tether
That hauds us fast to ane anither,
I maun declare;
She is my carlin great grand-mither—
Her fa' be fair!

Auld frin', I rede ye now take heed
I canna write but I can read
Broad Scottish lallans—so “Gude speed”
Your comin' letter!
An' gif I canna get remead,
I'll be your debtor.

For one to live when hope is dead,
And horrors blacken round his head;
When Reason's brilliant light has fled
Like thawing snow-trails;
And, what is worse, till he has shed
His teeth and toe-nails—

Is living longer, I opine,
Than suits our natural design;
But may you leave life's bound'ry line
Not over fast;

190

And in your first endowments shine
Bright to the last!

Hale be thy ancient harp till then,
Thou one among a host of men!
May heaven for thy future ken
Be music planning!
Meantime, your servant, with the pen—
Josiah Canning.

This gift was a volume of music called “New-England Harmony,” containing a valuable collection of ancient church airs of which Mr. Swan was the composer.

Helicon—a mountain in Bœotia, on which stood a temple dedicated to the Muses; from whence flowed the spring Hippocrene, also sacred to the fabled Nine.

The invention of instrumental music is ascribed to Tubal-Cain.

Some wiseacre has introduced China into a recent collection of music, and undertaken to HARMONIZE it. The tune can hardly be recognized by those who admired it in its old form—the bass staff especially being totally different.

A famous rock in the midst of the Connecticut, a short distance below Templeton's ferry, Gill.

Mr. Swan, who is of Scottish descent, had it in contemplation to answer the author's first epistle, in Scotch verse; but was deterred therefrom, thinking it would be unintelligible.—The reason of the four foregoing verses being in immitation of road lallans (Scotch dialect) will be readily understood by the intelligent reader.

TO TOBACCO.

Let spleeny mopers fume and fret
Till every pore distils the sweat;
Let Opposition's fostered pet,
The blue-faced Anti,
Condemn thee till his reason get
In Bedlam's shanty—

What matters it how much they mock?
I would not give for all their talk
A famous Old Virginia stalk—
The plant so rare!
I 'd sooner take a piece of chalk
To cut my hair!

Oh thou much-loved, much-hated weed!
Why first did Nature sow thy seed
Were 't not that man might have the need
Some time to use thee?
Who thinks of this will sure take heed
How he abuse thee.

To note thy virtues, one and all,—
(The which are neither few nor small)

191

I 'd have to search and overhaul
Newspaper sheets,
And ransack cupboard, shelf, and wall
For old receipts.

To sum thy virtues all en masse,
We'll call thee good, and let thee pass;
Those who would not, may “go to grass
And feed on mullen;”
Excepting, always, bonny lass,
More sick than sullen.

I 've heard old chroniclers relate,
In blue-law days in neighbor state
'T was e'en a crime—if not so great
As theft or rape—
To use the weed, at any rate,
In any shape.

Whoever made a pipe to reek;
Whoever stowed within his cheek
The article of which we speak,
Was but a wretch!
And Justice pounced with open beak,
Her prey to catch.

Justice!—excuse the muse's lies
When humbly she for pardon cries!
'T was but the serpent in disguise.
We know full well
He oft deceives our simple eyes,
Since Adam fell.

We 've moderns, now, who doubtless yearn
To have the blue-law days return;
They 'd better be a fishing hern
And wade in ditches;

192

For who can tell but that they 'd burn
For broomstick witches?

Here let me pause. My pen I'll wipe
And take instead the fragrant pipe;
A whiff or two and I'll be ripe
For writing more;
The muse has giv'n my hand a gripe,
And ope'd the door.

Who may not sing, may surely croak;
So here 's with pen a parting stroke—
See, life itself is but a joke,
And so is care!
They'll vanish like tobacco smoke
In empty air.

Generally a severe one, however.

LINES WRITTEN IN A BIBLE.

Dread volume of inspired truth!
The staff of age, the guide of youth.
Thou best of books—of books most true,
Forever showing something new.
Happy the man thy counsels hears,
And reads thee carefully with tears!
Ill-fated he who spurns thy page,
Blind with hell's glare and impious rage!
Without thy principles to guide,
Afloat on passion's headlong tide,
He 's like the vane a steeple shows,
Veering to every wind that blows.

193

MONODY,

Written in a Grave-yard.

Turn, pilgrim, from the great highway!
Within this pale a moment stay
Your wild career!
Think, mortal, what it is to die—
A frigid corse outstretched to lie
On Death's cold bier.

Think of the dark and unseen end
To which your hasting footsteps tend—
Yea, pause and think!
A precipice may yawn before—
Perhaps your feet are even o'er
The crumbling brink!

Life is at best a transient gleam
Of sunlight on a ruffled stream—
'T is quickly gone!
And tending to a mighty fall,
The sweeping flood, engulphing all,
Steals darkly on.

'T is like a merry tale, well told,
When pleasant friends communion hold
With bosom friends;
The voice of mirth that fills the ear—
Itself well-pleased, well-ope'd to hear—
In silence ends.

Hope, fondest, brightest dream of man!
Embrace thee in his arms who can,
Dear phantom fair!
Thou form illusive to the sight,
Sprung from the beaming fount of light,
On wings of air!

194

How oft along life's rugged road
You ease the pilgrim of his load,
And hide his doom!
The while as distant as the star
That glimmers faintly from afar,
'Mid evening's gloom.

'T is is only o'er the gloomy grave
Thy flame phosphoric shines to save,
With ray serene;
Steer for it, pilgrim, full of cheer;
Carry your helm exempt from fear,
With conscience clean.

Mankind—how varied is the race!
How different are the forms we trace
O'er world's wide stage!
The nursling's tender fragile form,
The full grown man with vigor warm,
And tottering age.

Some like the wanton butterfly,
On mealy wings of gaudy dye,
Flit life away;
How false the coloring they show!
How useless! and when tempests blow,
How weak are they!

Some like the wolf in ambush lie
To tear the careless passer by,
When none can help;
The slanderer plays his subtle game,
In heart, if not in form the same—
The hell-born whelp!

Some like the lofty, noble pine,
Stand firm on Error's dark confine,
To winds a prey;

195

Firm to the last it bides the shock
That makes the lesser structures rock,
And spreads dismay.

Perchance the lightning's vivid chain
Shivers the stately tree in twain,
And mars its form;
Genius, such fate is often thine!
I liken thee to mountain pine
Rent by the storm.

But, pilgrim, to the grave at last,
Like leaves before a nipping blast,
Men crowding come;
This earth, with all its “lights and shades,”
Its beetling crags and sunny glades,
Is not their home.

Where is it then? Death only knows.
The Holy Writ the pathway shows—
Walk thou therein;
Fear not to take it for a guide,
And hasten o'er, with rapid stride,
The wilds of sin.

Its precepts treasure in your heart;
Act well and faithfully your part,
And bide the test;
And for a future home you have
Its promise—beyond the grave
A heaven of rest.

196

TO A BLACKBIRD,

Singing in the morning on the Ides of March.

Thou seeming merry, tuneful thing,
That hail'st for me the early spring!
Hast thou no cause for sorrowing
At such a scene?
Or dost thou rouse thyself to sing,
Thy grief to screen?

And dost thou see without alarm
Far in the north the gathering storm?
Unmindful of thy fragile form,
'T will beat on thee!
And where 's thy sheltering covert warm,
To which to flee?

Across the chequered fields of snow
The visage-blackening breezes blow;
And vegetation lies below
Its winter hood!
Then where, poor starveling, wilt thou go
To seek thy food?

Or dost thou live and never think
About to-morrow's meat and drink?
Is hope the sole connecting link
Binds thee to life?
Alas! without it man would sink
When ruin's rife!

Thy cheer, despite thy gloomy case,
Is like to some of human race;
How oft do smiles illume the face,
And smiles impart,
When in its secret hiding place
Stern is the heart!

197

For one who has the heart to do,
Far better is it thus to show
A cheerful look when worn with wo,
And cankering ill.
'T will make his progress calm and slow
In life's down-hill.

Oh, heaven, bestow the gracious gift!
Man's heart above his sorrows lift,
Cast dark despondency adrift
In floods of light,
And give the gloomy veil a rift
That clouds his sight.

Give him a hope that shall not fail;
And when life's winter-giving gale
Shall in his ears a requiem wail—
Like yon sweet thing,
He'll with prophetic vision hail
Eternal Spring.

VERSES TO AN ABORIGINAL RELIC,

Being a carved stone, with the head of a Whale and the back of a Beaver.

Since none can inspiration bribe,
At what deep fount shall I imbibe
The wished-for language to inscribe
An unsung song
To thee, thou relic of a tribe
Forgotten long?

A man, methinks, might worship thee,
And yet preserve his conscience free

198

From violating wickedly
A high command
Thou 'rt like to nothing in the sea,
Or on the land.

Hold, now!—a new idea I take:
A beaver 't is, full wide awake!
But, Nitchie, you forgot to make
A broad, flat tail.
'T is no such thing—for Jonah's sake
We'll call 't a whale.

It matters, after all, no great,
What thou wast meant to imitate;
You might have been, at any rate,
A fancy sketch,
Which Sculpture in her infant state
Began to etch.

Whate'er thou art, god, fish, or beast,
Thou art to musing minds a feast;
And could oblivion-searching Priest
But hear about thee,
He 'd walk a dozen miles, at least,
Than be without thee.

When he was told how thou wast found
Embedded in a little mound,
And that thy resting-place was crown'd
By ancient pine,
His eyes would grow with wonder round—
With fancy shine.

199

But, Time, thou old grave-digging one!
Thou 'st buried in oblivion
A race, altho' themselves unknown,
Their wrongs are not;
“Hic jacet,” never reads the stone
To mark the spot.

Can man, who flourishes to-day
As full of mirth as merry May,
Pass like the setting sun away—
A phantom slow?
Alas! that we can truly say,
'T is even so!

And can Oblivion's caverns deep,
Where noble minds and actions sleep,
Where honest worth and virtue weep,
Neglected low—
Man's memory in durance keep?
'T is even so!

But when the light of life is killed,
When blood of innocence is spilled,
When man his list of crimes has filled,
This truth impress—
A righteous God above has willed
To work redress.

And now I 'm thinking, as I eye
This uncooth, nameless Indian toy,
There'll be a solemn case to try
Some day or other,
When we shall face, in courts on high,
Our poor red brother.

Exodus XX. chap. 4th and 5th verses.

Nitchie, i. e. Brother—the word used by the Indians when addressing one another.

A celebrated antiquarian, author of ‘American Antiquities.’

201

AMOR PATRIAE—A FRAGMENT.

Dear as the life-blood of my heart,
My native land, to me thou art!
And till it cease to swell my veins,
While my last hold of life remains,
Till my last “minstrel lay” is sung
Thy name shall dwell upon my tongue.

What tho' imagination roam
O'er terra's face, o'er ocean's foam,
From where, red-streaming on their height,
Lone Hecla's fires illume the night,
To where mad mingling oceans span
The Land of Fire at Magellan,
And feeds upon the wondrous scene
That spreads the mighty space between—
Yet over thee her wings expand,
My own much-loved, much-honored land,
And, wearied, gently sink to rest
Upon thy kindred-throbbing breast!

Terra del Fuego—the Land of Fire.

202

MORNING PRAYER

On getting out of bed at a friend's house.

O, Thou who made yon stream to flow,
And spread its pleasant shore,
Upon this house thy smile bestow,
We pray Thee, evermore!

The honored sire—the friend indeed—
Long with us may he be!
And never, never may he need
To want a friend in Thee!

The mother shield from every ill
Within Thy arms of love,
And bear her safe up Zion's hill
To Zion's courts above.

Her daughters—richest, fairest flowers
That in this valley grow—
Transplant them to Thy heavenly bowers
When they shall fade below.

Her sons—like pillars may they stand,
Securely strong and broad,
An honor to their native land,
A pleasure to their God.

And when at last this household dear
Shall leave this world of care,
O, may they all in Heaven appear,
And none be wanting there!

203

LINES

Addressed to a Young Lady, inclosing a volume.

Envelop'd in this sheet I send
A trifling token from a friend;
The wrapper, too, before you rend,
A moment heed it,
And if you have the time to spend
Perhaps you'll read it.

'T is not my aim to sing a song,
Nor write a dissertation long,
Nor ply with force the knotted thong
Of Vengeance keen,
Nor paint in faithful colors strong
Some moving scene.

A simple truth I'll merely write.
(Could mortals aye in truth delight,
And could we think and act aright,
Frail as we are,
How little cause there 'd be for fight
And wordy war!

But was the truth as easy ever
From falsifying tongues to sever
As that which I shall soon deliver,
Deceit would die,
And Belial's children, growing clever,
Would scorn to lie!)

Till Heal-all's gentle stream shall fail
To join its parent in the vale,
Or mind one of a mournful tale
To memory dear;

204

Till Autumn winds no more bewail
The dying year—

Till silent Luna shall complain
Her lot is hard to wax and wane;
Yea, till the wide, unfathomed main
Shall dry away,
And thou shalt cease thy awful strain,
Niagara!—

Till then shall Modesty secure
Herself a praise which shall endure,
And Virtue and Religion pure—
Twin sisters three.
Were 't not that flatt'ry I abjure
I 'd speak of thee!

And since all flattery I discard,
To write another verse is hard;
The sisters be your constant guard,
And still thy care!
So prays your humble friend, the bard—
Heaven hear his prayer.

A never-failing rill of Indian memory, rising near to, and putting into the Connecticut, from off the fighting ground at the great falls, Gill.