Poems by George P. Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Love me!—No.—He never loved me!”
Else he'd sooner die than stain
One so fond as he has proved me
With the hollow world's disdain.
False one, go—my doom is spoken,
And the spell that bound me broken.

Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!—
Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride?
No.—The struggle life may cost me!
But he'll find that I have pride!
Love is not an idle flower,
Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Title, land, and broad dominion,
With himself to me he gave;
Stooped to earth his spirit's pinion,
And became my willing slave!
Knelt and prayed until he won me—
Looks he coldly now upon me?

Ingrate!—Never sure was maiden
Deeply wronged as I. With grief
My true breast is overladen—
Tears afford me no relief—
Every nerve is strained and aching,
And my very heart is breaking!

Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted—
Thrown, like worthless weed, apart—
Hopes and feelings seared and blighted—
Love him?—Yes, with all my heart!
With a passion superhuman—
Constancy, “thy name is woman.”

Love, nor time, nor mood, can fashion—
Love?—Idolatry's the word
To speak the broadest, deepest passion,
Ever woman's heart hath stirred!
Vain to still the mind's desires,
Which consume like hidden fires!

Wrecked and wretched, lost and lonely,
Crushed by grief's oppressive weight
With a prayer for Clifford only,
I resign me to my fate.
Chains that bind the soul I 've proven
Strong as they were iron woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending
From my cheek its healthful bloom;
Sad my thoughts as willows bending
O'er the borders of the tomb!
Without Clifford, not a blessing
In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!—a straw within the balance
Opposed to love, 'twill strike the beam:
Kindred, friendship, beauty, talents?—
All to love as nothing seem;
Weigh love against all else together,
And solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown—away disguises
Naught but death relief can give—
For the love he little prizes
Can not cease, and Julia live!
Soon my thread of life will sever—
Cifford, fare thee well—for ever!

THE MAIN-TRUCK; OR, A LEAP FOR LIFE.

A NAUTICAL BALLAD.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay,
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay—
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Jack, the captain's son,
With gallant hardihood,
Climbed shroud and spar—and then upon
The main-truck rose and stood!

A shudder ran through every vein—
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky!
No hold had he above—below,
Alone he stood in air!
At that far height none dared to go—
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed—but not a man could speak!—
With horror all aghast
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.

The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue,
As, riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck—He gasped,
“O, God, Thy will be done!”
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son!
“Jump far out, boy! into the wave!
Jump, or I fire!” he said:
“That only chance your life can save!
Jump—jump, boy!”—He obeyed.

He sank—he rose—he lived—he moved—
He for the ship struck out!
On board we hailed the lad beloved
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
Then folded to his heart the boy,
And fainted on the deck!

Founded upon a well-known tale from the pen of the late William Leggett, Esq.

POETRY.

To me the world's an open book
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running brook
That sings its way toward the sea.
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass,
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below, the stars above,
In all their bloom and brightness given,
Are, like the attributes of love,
The poetry of earth and heaven.
Thus Nature's volume, read aright,
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light,
And all the world with poetry.

THE CROTON ODE.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE CORPORATION OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK.

Gushing from this living fountain,
Music pours a falling strain,
As the goddess of the mountain
Comes with all her sparkling train.
From her grotto-springs advancing,
Glittering in her feathery spray,
Woodland fays beside her dancing,
She pursues her winding way.

Gently o'er the rippling water,
In her coral-shallop bright,
Glides the rock-king's dove-eyed daughter,
Decked in robes of virgin white.
Nymphs and naiads, sweetly smiling,
Urge her bark with pearly hand,
Merrily the sylph beguiling
From the nooks of fairy-land.

Swimming on the snow-curled billow,
See the river-spirits fair
Lay their cheeks, as on a pillow,
With the foam-beads in their hair.

Thus attended, hither wending,
Floats the lovely oread now,
Eden's arch of promise bending
Over her translucent brow.

Hail the wanderer from a far land!
Bind her flowing tresses up!
Crown her with a fadeless garland,
And with crystal brim the cup.
From her haunts of deep seclusion,
Let Intemperance greet her too,
And the heat of his delusion
Sprinkle with this mountain-dew.

Water leaps as if delighted,
While her conquered foes retire!
Pale Contagion flies affrighted
With the baffled demon Fire!
Safety dwells in her dominions,
Health and Beauty with her move,
And entwine their circling pinions
In a sisterhood of love.

Water shouts a glad hosanna!
Bubbles up the earth to bless!
Cheers it like the precious manna
In the barren wilderness.

Here we wondering gaze, assembled
Like the grateful Hebrew band,
When the hidden fountain trembled,
And obeyed the prophet's wand.

Round the aqueducts of story,
As the mists of Lethé throng,
Croton's waves in all their glory
Troop in melody along.
Ever sparkling, bright, and single,
Will this rock-ribbed stream appear,
When posterity shall mingle
Like the gathered waters here.

FRAGMENT OF AN INDIAN POEM.

They come!—Be firm—in silence rally!
The long-knives our retreat have found!
Hark!—their tramp is in the valley,
And they hem the forest round!
The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver,
The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While across the eddying river
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring!

The blood-hounds darken land and water;
They come—like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing,
See upon the free winds dancing
Pennon proud and gaudy plume.
The strangers come in evil hour,
In pomp, and panoply, and power!
But, while upon our tribes they lower,
Think they our manly hearts will cower
To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strength they feel;
Our veins they drain, our land they steal;
And should the vanquished Indian kneel,
They spurn him from their sight!
Be set for ever in disgrace
The glory of the red-man's race,
If from the foe we turn our face,
Or safety seek in flight!

They come—Up, and upon them braves!
Fight for your altars and your graves!
Drive back the stern, invading slaves,
In fight till now victorious!
Like lightning from storm-clouds on high,
The hurtling, death-winged arrows fly,
And wind-rows of pale warriors die!—

Oh! never has the sun's bright eye
Looked from his hill-tops in the sky
Upon a field so glorious!

They 're gone—again the red-men rally;
With dance and song the woods resound:
The hatchet 's buried in the valley;
No foe profanes our hunting-ground!
The green leaves on the blithe boughs quiver,
The verdant hills with song-birds ring,
While our bark-canoes the river
Skim like swallows on the wing.
Mirth pervades the land and water,
Free from famine, sword, and slaughter.

Let us, by this gentle river,
Blunt the axe and break the quiver,
While, as leaves upon the spray,
Peaceful flow our cares away.

Yet, alas! the hour is brief
Left for either joy or grief!
All on earth that we inherit
From the hands of the Great Spirit—

Wigwam, hill, plain, lake, and field—
To the white-man must we yield;
For, like sun-down on the waves,
We are sinking to our graves!

From this wilderness of wo
Like a caravan we go,
Leaving all our groves and streams
For the far-off land of dreams.
There are prairies waving high,
Boundless as the sheeted sky,
Where our fathers' spirits roam,
And the red-man has a home.

Let tradition tell our story.
As we fade in cloudless glory,
As we seek the land of rest
Beyond the borders of the west,
No eye but ours may look upon—
We ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN.

LAND-HO!

Up, up with the signal!—The land is in sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The cold cheerless ocean in safety we 've passed,
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last.
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,
To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Land!—land-ho!—All hearts glow with joy at the sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is waving!—Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again!
Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth,
The holiest spot on the face of the earth!
Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to to thee
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho!—land-ho!—We near it!—We bound at the sight!
Then be happy, if never again boys, to-night!

The signal is answered!—The foam-sparkles rise
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes!
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care,
Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
One health, as chime gaily the nautical bells:
To woman—God bless her!—wherever she dwells!
The Pilot's ON BOARD!—Thank heaven, all's right!
So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea—
And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

THE COTTAGER'S WELCOME.

Hard by I've a cottage that stands near the wood—
A stream glides in peace at the door—
Where all who will tarry, 't is well understood,
Receive hospitality's store.
To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford,
The stranger we ever invite:
You 're welcome to freely partake at the board,
And afterwards rest for the night.

The birds in the morning will sing from the trees,
And herald the young god of day;
Then, with him uprising, depart if you please—
We'll set you refreshed on the way:
Your coin for our service we sternly reject;
No traffic for gain we pursue,
And all the reward that we wish or expect,
We take in the good that we do.

Mankind are all pilgrims on life's weary road,
And many would wander astray
In seeking Eternity's silent abode,
Did Mercy not point out the way!

If all would their duty discharge as they should
To those who are friendless and poor,
The world would resemble my cot near the wood,
And life the sweet stream at my door.

THE LAND OF WASHINGTON.

I glory in the sages
Who, in the days of yore,
In combat met the foemen,
And drove them from our shore.
Who flung our banner's starry field
In triumph to the breeze,
And spread broad maps of cities where
Once waved the forest-trees.
—Hurrah!—

I glory in the spirit
Which goaded them to rise
And found a mighty nation
Beneath the western skies.
No clime so bright and beautiful
As that where sets the sun;
No land so fertile, fair, and free,
As that of Washington
—Hurrah!—

THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.

“A song for our banner?”—The watchword recall
Which gave the Republic her station:
“United we stand—divided we fall!”—
It made and preserves us a nation!
The union of lakes—the union of lands—
The union of States none can sever—
The union of hearts—the union of hands—
And the Flag of the Union for ever
And ever!
The Flag of our Union for ever

What God in his mercy and wisdom designed,
And armed with his weapons of thunder,
Not all the earth's despots and factions combined
Have the power to conquer or sunder!
The union of lakes—the union of lands—
The union of states none can sever—
The union of hearts—the union of hands—
And the Flag of the Union for ever
And ever!
The Flag of our Union for ever!

Oh, keep that flag flying!—The pride of the van!
To all other nations display it!
The ladies for union are all to a—man!
But not to the man who'd betray it.
Then the union of lakes—the union of lands—
The union of states none can sever—
The union of hearts—the union of hands—
And the Flag of the Union for ever
And ever!
The Flag of our Union for ever!

LINES

AFTER THE MANNER OF THE OLDEN TIME.

O Love! the mischief thou hast done!
Thou god of pleasure and of pain!—
None can escape thee—yes there's one—
All others find the effort vain:
Thou cause of all my smiles and tears!
Thou blight and bloom of all my years!

Love bathes him in the morning dews,
Reclines him in the lily bells,
Reposes in the rainbow hues,
And sparkles in the crystal wells,
Or hies him to the coral-caves,
Where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves.

Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune—
With fays and oreads lingers he—
Gleams in th' ring of the watery moon,
Or treads the pebbles of the sea.
Love rules “the court, the camp, the grove”—
Oh, everywhere we meet thee, Love!

And everywhere he welcome finds,
From cottage-door to palace-porch—
Love enters free as spicy winds,
With purple wings and lighted torch,
With tripping feet and silvery tongue,
And bow and darts behind him slung.

He tinkles in the shepherd's bell
The village maiden leans to hear—
By lattice high he weaves his spell,
For lady fair and cavalier:
Like sun-bursts on the mountain snow,
Love's genial warmth melts high and low.

Then why, ye nymphs Arcadian, why—
Since Love is general as the air—
Why does he not to Lelia fly,
And soften that obdurate fair?
Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart!
She scoffs at Love and all his art!

Oh, boy-god, Love!—An archer thou!—
Thy utmost skill I fain would test;
One arrow aim at Lelia now,
And let thy target be her breast!
Her heart bind in thy captive train,
Or give me back my own again!

THE DREAM OF LOVE.

I've had the heart-ache many times,
At the mere mention of a name
I've never woven in my rhymes,
Though from it inspiration came.
It is in truth a holy thing,
Life-cherished from the world apart—
A dove that never tries its wing,
But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls
Her gentle look and winning ways
Whose portrait hangs on memory's walls,
In the fond light of other days.
In the dream-land of Poetry,
Reclining in its leafy bowers,
Her bright eyes in the stars I see,
And her sweet semblance in the flowers

Her artless dalliance and grace—
The joy that lighted up her brow—
The sweet expression of her face—
Her form—it stands before me now!
And I can fancy that I hear
The woodland songs she used to sing,
Which stole to my attending ear,
Like the first harbingers of spring.

The beauty of the earth was hers,
And hers the purity of heaven;
Alone, of all her worshippers,
To me her maiden vows were given.
They little know the human heart,
Who think such love with time expires;
Once kindled, it will ne'er depart,
But burn through life with all its fires.

We parted—doomed no more to meet—
The blow fell with a stunning power—
And yet my pulse will strangely beat
At the remembrance of that hour!
But time and change their healing brought,
And years have passed in seeming glee,
But still alone of her I 've thought
Who's now a memory to me.

There may be many who will deem
This strain a wayward, youthful folly,
To be derided as a dream
Born of the poet's melancholy.
The wealth of worlds, if it were mine,
With all that follows in its train,
I would with gratitude resign,
To dream that dream of love again.

I'M WITH YOU ONCE AGAIN.

I'm with you once again, my friends,
No more my footsteps roam;
Where it began my journey ends,
Amid the scenes of home.

No other clime has skies so blue,
Or streams so broad and clear,
And where are hearts so warm and true
As those that meet me here?

Since last with spirits, wild and free,
I pressed my native strand,
I 've wandered many miles at sea,
And many miles on land.
I 've seen fair realms of the earth
By rude commotion torn,
Which taught me how to prize the worth
Of that where I was born.

In other countries, when I heard
The language of my own,
How fondly each familiar word
Awoke an answering tone!
But when our woodland songs were sung
Upon a foreign mart,
The vows that faltered on the tongue
With rapture thrilled the heart!

My native land, I turn to you,
With blessing and with prayer,
Where man is brave and woman true,
And free as mountain air.

Long may our flag in triumph wave
Against the world combined,
And friends a welcome—foes a grave,
Within our borders find.

OH, WOULD THAT SHE WERE HERE!

Oh, would that she were here,
These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By Echo's airy tongue:
Where jocund nature smiles
In all her boon attire,
And roams the deeply-tangled wilds
Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
Oh, would that she were here—
The gentle maid I sing,
Whose voice is cheerful as the songs
Of forest-birds in spring!

Oh, would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in sportive joyousness
Adown the rocky steep:
Where zephyrs crisp and cool
The fountains as they play,

With health upon their wings of light,
And gladness on their way.
Oh, would that she were here,
With these balm-breathing trees,
The sylvan daughters of the sun,
The rain-cloud, and the breeze!

Oh, would that she were here,
Where glide the rosy hours,
Murm'ring the drowsy hum of bees,
And fragrant with the flowers:
Where Heaven's redeeming love
Spans earth in Mercy's bow—
The promise of the world above
Unto the world below.
Oh, would that she were here,
Amid these shades serene—
Oh, for the spell of woman's love,
To consecrate the scene!

THE SWORD AND THE STAFF

The sword of the hero!
The staff of the sage!
Whose valor and wisdom
Are stamped on the age!

Time-hallowed mementoes
Of those who have riven
The sceptre from tyrants,
“The lightning from heaven!”

This weapon, O Freedom!
Was drawn by thy son,
And it never was sheathed
Till the battle was won!
No stain of dishonor
Upon it we see!
'T was never surrendered—
Except to the free!

While Fame claims the hero
And patriot sage,
Their names to emblazon
On History's page,
No holier relics
Will liberty hoard
Than Franklin's staff, guarded
By Washington's sword.

THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

Upon the barren sand
A single captive stood;
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red-men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim:
The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air
The savage war-club swung:
The frantic girl, in wild despair,
Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb—
Subdued by that heroic maid
Who breathed a prayer for him.

“Unbind him!” gasped the chief—
“Obey your king's decree!”
He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.

'Tis ever thus, when, in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.

THY WILL BE DONE.

Searcher of Hearts!—from mine erase
All thoughts that should not be,
And in its deep recesses trace
My gratitude to Thee!

Hearer of Prayer!—oh, guide aright
Each word and deed of mine;
Life's battle teach me how to fight,
And be the victory Thine.

Giver of All!—for every good—
In the Redeemer came—
For raiment, shelter, and for food,
I thank Thee in His name.

Father and Son and Holy Ghost!
Thou glorious Three in One!
Thou knowest best what I need most,
And let Thy will be done.

LIFE IN THE WEST.

Ho! brothers—come hither and list to my story—
Merry and brief will the narrative be.
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory—
Master am I, boys, of all that I see!
Where once frowned a forest, a garden is smiling—
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes round my door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
The land of the heart is the land of the West!
Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

Talk not of the town, boys—give me the broad prairie,
Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free:
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,
Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea!

A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging,
Won't find it at all if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest!
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West!
Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a jot for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,
And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!
Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

In the ranks of Marion's band,
Through morass and wooded land,
Over beach of yellow sand,
Mountain, plain, and valley,
A southern maid, in all her pride,
Marched gayly at her lover's side,
In such disguise
That e'en his eyes
Did not discover Sallie!

When returned from midnight tramp,
Through the forest dark and damp,
On his straw-couch in the camp,
In his dreams he 'd dally
With that devoted, gentle fair,
Whose large black eyes and flowing hair
So near him seem,
That in his dream,
He breathes his love for Sallie!

Oh, what joy that maiden knew,
When she found her lover true!—
Suddenly the trumpet blew,
Marion's men to rally!

To ward the death-spear from his side!—
In battle by Santee she died!—
Where sings the surge
A ceaseless dirge
Near the lone grave of Sallie.

JANET McREA.

She heard the fight was over,
And won the wreath of fame!
When tidings from her lover,
With his good war-steed came:
To guard her safely to his tent,
The red-men of the woods were sent.
They led her where sweet waters gush!
Under the pine-tree bough!
The tomahawk is raised to crush—
'T is buried in her brow!—
She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now!

Her broken-hearted lover
In hopeless conflict died!
The forest-leaves now cover
That soldier and his bride!
The frown of the Great Spirit fell
Upon the red-men like a spell!

No more those waters slake their thirst,
Shadeless to them that tree!
O'er land and lake they roam accurst,
And in the clouds they see
Thy spirit, unavenged, McRea!

LISETTE.

When Love in myrtle shades reposed,
His bow and darts behind him slung;
As dewey twilight round him closed,
Lisette these numbers sung:
“O Love! thy sylvan bower
I'll fly while I 've the power;
Thy primrose way leads maids where they
Love, honor, and obey!”

“Escape,” the boy-god said, “is vain,”
And shook the diamonds from his wings:
“I'll bind thee captive in my train,
Fairest of earthly things!”
“Go, saucy archer, go!
I freedom's value know:
Begone, I pray—to none I'll say
Love, honor, and obey!”

“Speed, arrow, to thy mark!” he cried—
Swift as a ray of light it flew!
Love spread his purple pinions wide,
And faded from her view!
Joy filled that maiden's eyes—
Twin load-stars from the skies!—
And one bright day her lips did say,
“Love, honor, and obey!”

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

This book is all that's left me now!—
Tears will unbidden start—
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past,
Here is our family tree;
My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearth-stone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look
Who leaned God's word to hear!
Her angel face—I see it yet!
What vivid memories come!—
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I 've tried:
Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy:
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

The belles have all departed—
There does not linger one!
Of course the mart's deserted
By every mother's son,
Except the street musician,
And men of lesser note,
Whose only earthly mission
Seems but to toil and vote!

A woman—blessings on her!—
Beneath my window see;
She 's singing—what an honor!—
Oh! “Woodman, spare that tree!”

Her “man” the air is killing—
His organ 's out of tune—
They 're gone, with my last shilling,
To Florence's saloon.

New York is most compactly
Of brick and mortar made—
Thermometer exactly
One hundred in the shade!
A furnace would be safer
Than this my letter-room,
Where gleams the sun a wafer
About to seal my doom.

The town looks like an ogre,
The country like a bride;
Wealth hies to Saratoga,
And Worth to Sunny-side.
While Fashion seeks the islands
Encircled by the sea,
Taste finds the Hudson Highlands
More beautiful and free.

The omnibuses rumble
Along their cobbled way—
The “twelve inside” more humble
Than he who takes the pay:

From morn till midnight stealing,
His horses come and go—
The only creatures feeling
The “luxury of wo!”

We editors of papers,
Who coin our brains for bread
By solitary tapers
While others doze in bed,
Have tasks as sad and lonely,
However wrong or right,
But with this difference only,
The horses rest at night.

From twelve till nearly fifty
I 've toiled and idled not,
And, though accounted thrifty,
I'm scarcely worth a groat;
However, I inherit
What few have ever gained—
A bright and cheerful spirit
That never has complained.

A stillness and a sadness
Pervade the City Hall,
And speculating madness
Has left the street of Wall.

The Union Square looks really
Both desolate and dark,
And that 's the case, or nearly,
From Battery to Park.

Had I a yacht, like Miller,
That skimmer of the seas—
A wheel rigged on a tiller,
And a fresh gunwale breeze,
A crew of friends well chosen,
And all a-taunto, I
Would sail for regions frozen—
I 'd rather freeze than fry.

Oh, this confounded weather!
(As some one sang or said,)
My pen, though but a feather,
Is heavier than lead;
At every pore I'm oosing—
(I'm “caving in” to-day)—
My plumptitude I'm losing,
And dripping fast away.

I'm weeping like the willow
That droops in leaf and bough—
Let Croton's sparkling billow
Flow through the city now;

And, as becomes her station,
The muse will close her prayer:
God save the Corporation!
Long live the valiant Mayor!

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.

In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he.
Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love—
In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.

In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow,
The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride;
Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow,
And stole the broad lands where their children reside:

Whose fathers, when dying, in fear looked above,
And trembled to think of that chief and his love,
In the days that are gone, by this sweet flowing stream.

THE BALL-ROOM BELLE.

[_]

(MUSIC BY HORN.)

The moon and all her starry train
Were fading from the morning sky,
When home the ball-room belle again
Returned, with throbbing pulse and brain,
Flushed cheek and tearful eye.

The plume that danced above her brow,
The gem that sparkled in her zone,
The scarf of spangled leaf and bough,
Were laid aside—they mocked her now,
When desolate and lone.

That night how many hearts she won!
The reigning belle, she could not stir,
But, like the planets round the sun,
Her suitors followed—all but one—
One all the world to her!

And she had lost him!—Marvel not
That lady's eyes with tears were wet!
Though love by man is soon forgot,
It never yet was woman's lot
To love and to forget.

WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.

[_]

(MUSIC BY RUSSELL.)

We were boys together,
And never can forget
The school-house near the heather,
In childhood where we met;
The humble home to memory dear,
Its sorrows and its joys;
Where woke the transient smile or tear,
When you and I were boys.

We were youths together,
And castles built in air,
Your heart was like a feather,
And mine weighed down with care;
To you came wealth with manhood's prime,
To me it brought alloys—
Foreshadowed in the primrose time,
When you and I were boys.

We 're old men together—
The friends we loved of yore,
With leaves of autumn weather,
Are gone for evermore.
How blest to age the impulse given,
The hope time ne'er destroys—
Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven,
When you and I were boys!

OH, BOATMAN, HASTE!

[_]

(MUSIC BY BALFE.)

TWILIGHT.

Oh, boatman, haste!—The twilight hour
Is closing gently o'er the lea!
The sun, whose setting shuts the flower.
Has looked his last upon the sea!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!—aha!—we 've moon and star!
And our skiff with the stream is flowing.
Heigh-ho!—ah!—heigh-ho!—
Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho!

MIDNIGHT.

Oh, boatman haste!—The sentry calls
The midnight hour on yonder shore,
And silvery sweet the echo falls
As music dripping from the oar!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!—afar fade moon and star!
While our skiff with the stream is flowing!
Heigh-ho!—ah!—heigh-ho!—
Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho.

DAWN.

Oh, boatman haste!—The morning beam
Glides through the fleecy clouds above:
So breaks on life's dark, murm'ring stream,
The rosy dawn of woman's love!
Row, then, boatman row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!—'T is day!—away—away!
To land with the stream we are flowing!
Heigh-ho!—dear one—ho!
Beauty responds to my glad heigh-ho!

FUNERAL HYMN.

“Man dieth and wasteth away,
And where is he?”—Hark! from the skies
I hear a voice answer and say,
“The spirit of man never dies:
His body, which came from the earth,
Must mingle again with the sod;
But his soul, which in heaven had birth,
Returns to the bosom of God.”

No terror has death, or the grave,
To those who believe in the Lord—
We know the Redeemer can save,
And lean on the faith of his word;
While ashes to ashes, and dust
We give unto dust, in our gloom,
The light of salvation, we trust,
Is hung like a lamp in the tomb.

The sky will be burnt as a scroll—
The earth, wrapped in flames, will expire;
But, freed from all shackles, the soul
Will rise in the midst of the fire.

Then, brothers, mourn not for the dead,
Who rest from their labors, forgiven;
Learn this from your Bible instead,
The grave is the gateway to heaven.

O Lord God Almighty! to Thee
We turn as our solace above;
The waters may fail from the sea,
But not from thy fountains of love:
Oh, teach us Thy will to obey,
And sing with one heart and accord,
“He gave and He taketh away,
And praised be the name of the Lord!”

O'ER THE MOUNTAINS.

Some spirit wafts our mountain lay—
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
To distant groves and glens away!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the tide of empire flows—
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Rejoicing as it westward goes!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
To refresh our weary way
Gush the crystal fountains,
As a pilgrim band we stray
Cheerly o'er the mountains.

The woodland rings with song and shout!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
As though a fairy hunt were out!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the voice of woman cheers—
Ho! boys, hili ho!
The hearts of hardy mountaineers!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Like the glow of northern skies
Mirrored in the fountains,
Beams the love-light of fond eyes,
As we cross the mountains.

WOMAN.

Ah, woman!—in this world of ours,
What boon can be compared to thee?—
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

My mother!—At that holy name,
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame—
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not, crush!

And sisters!—ye are dear as life;
But when I look upon my wife,
My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother—sisters—wife and friend!

Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away!
Were I the monarch of the earth,
Or master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.

ROSABEL.

I miss thee from my side, beloved,
I miss thee from my side;
And wearily and drearily
Flows Time's resistless tide.
The world, and all its fleeting joys,
To me are worse than vain,
Until I clasp thee to my heart,
Beloved one, again.

100

The wildwood and the forest-path,
We used to thread of yore,
With bird and bee have flown with thee,
And gone for ever more!
There is no music in the grove,
No echo on the hill;
But melancholy boughs are there—
And hushed the whip-poor-will.

I miss thee in the town, beloved,
I miss thee in the town;
From morn I grieve till dewy eve
Spreads wide its mantle brown.
My spirit's wings, that once could soar
In Fancy's world of air,
Are crushed and beaten to the ground
By life-corroding care.

No more I hear thy thrilling voice,
Nor see thy winning face;
That once would gleam like morning's beam,
In mental pride and grace:
Thy form of matchless symmetry,
In sweet perfection cast—
Is now the star of memory
That fades not with the past.

101

I miss thee everywhere, beloved,
I miss thee everywhere;
Both night and day wear dull away,
And leave me in despair.
The banquet-hall, the play, the ball,
And childhood's sportive glee,
Have lost their spell for me, beloved,
My soul is full of thee!

Has Rosabel forgotten me,
And love I now in vain?
If that be so, my heart can know
No rest on earth again.
A sad and weary lot is mine,
To love and be forgot;
A sad and weary lot, beloved—
A sad and weary lot!

THY TYRANT SWAY.

The heart that owns thy tyrant sway,
Whate'er its hopes may be,
Is like a bark that drifts away
Upon a shoreless sea!
No compass left to guide her on,
Upon the surge she's tempest-torn—
And such is life to me!

102

And what is life when love is fled?
The world, unshared by thee?
I'd rather slumber with the dead,
Than such a waif to be!
The bark that by no compass steers
Is lost, which way soe'er she veers—
And such is life to me!

A HERO OF THE REVOLUTION.

Let not a tear be shed!
Of grief give not a token,
Although the silver thread
And golden bowl be broken!
A warrior lived—a Christian died!
Sorrow 's forgotten in our pride!

Go, bring his battle-blade,
His helmet and his plume!
And be his trophies laid
Beside him in the tomb,
Where files of time-marked veterans come
With martial tramp and muffled drum!

Give to the earth his frame,
To moulder and decay;

103

But not his deathless name—
That can not pass away!
In youth, in manhood, and in age,
He dignified his country's page!

Green be the willow-bough
Above the swelling mound,
Where sleeps the hero now
In consecrated ground:
Thy epitaph, O Delavan!
God's noblest work—an honest man!

RHYME AND REASON.

AN APOLOGUE.

Two children of the olden time,
In Flora's primrose season,
Were born. The name of one was Rhyme
That of the other Reason.
And both were beautiful and fair,
And pure as mountain stream and air.

As the boys together grew,
Happy fled their hours—
Grief or care they never knew
In the Paphian bowers.

104

See them roaming, hand in hand,
The pride of all the choral band!

Music with harp of golden strings,
Love with bow and quiver,
Airy sprites on radiant wings,
Nymphs of wood and river,
Joined the Muses' constant song,
As Rhyme and Reason passed along.

But the scene was changed—the boys
Left their native soil—
Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,
Reason's manly toil:
Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,
While Reason grew exceeding rich.

Since the dark and fatal hour,
When the brothers parted,
Reason has had wealth and power—
Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted!
And now, or bright or stormy weather,
They twain are seldom seen together.

105

STARLIGHT RECOLLECTIONS.

'T was night. Near the murmuring Saône,
We met with no witnesses by,
But such as resplendently shone
In the blue-tinted vault of the sky:
Your head on my bosom was laid,
As you said you would ever be mine;
And I promised to love, dearest maid,
And worship alone at your shrine.

Your love on my heart gently fell
As the dew on the flowers at eve,
Whose bosoms with gratitude swell,
A blessing to give and receive:
And I knew by the glow on your cheek,
And the rapture you could not control,
No power had language to speak
The faith or content of your soul.

I love you as none ever loved—
As the steel to the star I am true;
And I, dearest maiden, have proved
That none ever loved me but you.

106

Till memory loses her power,
Or the sands of existence have run,
I'll remember the star-lighted hour
That mingled two hearts into one.

WEARIES MY LOVE?

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?

Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!—with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness.
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I love her still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tear.

My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego:

107

From neither assistance I'll borrow
To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever
Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray:
Memento of mine again never
Will shadow the light of her way!

FARE THEE WELL, LOVE.

Fare thee well, love!—We must sever!
Not for years, love; but for ever!
We must meet no more—or only
Meet as strangers—sad and lonely.
Fare thee well!

Fare thee well, love!—How I languish
For the cause of all my anguish!
None have ever met and parted
So forlorn and broken-hearted.
Fare thee well!

Fare thee well, love!—Till I perish
All my truth for thee I'll cherish;
And, when thou my requiem hearest,
Know till death I loved thee, dearest.
Fare thee well!

108

THOU HAST WOVEN THE SPELL.

Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me,
Through all the sad changes of years;
And the smiles that I wore when I found thee,
Have faded and melted in tears!
Like the poor, wounded fawn from the mountain,
That seeks out the clear silver tide,
I have lingered in vain at the fountain
Of hope—with a shaft in my side!

Thou hast taught me that Love's rosy fetters
A pang from the thorns may impart;
That the coinage of vows and of letters
Comes not from the mint of the heart.
Like the lone bird that flutters her pinion,
And warbles in bondage her strain,
I have struggled to fly thy dominion,
But find that the struggle is vain!

109

BESSY BELL.

When life looks drear and lonely, love,
And pleasant fancies flee,
Then will the Muses only, love,
Bestow a thought on me!
Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love,
To waken strives in vain;
To Joy's entrancing measure, love,
It ne'er can thrill again!—
Why mock me, Bessy Bell?

Oh, do not ask me ever, love,
For rapture-woven rhymes;
For vain is each endeavor, love,
To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes!
Yet still believe me, dearest love,
Though sad my song may be,
This heart still dotes sincerest, love,
And grateful turns to thee—
My once fond Bessy Bell!

Those eyes still rest upon me, love!
I feel their magic spell!
With that same look you won me, love,
Fair, gentle Bessy Bell!

110

My doom you 've idly spoken, love,
You never can be mine!
But though my heart is broken, love,
Still, Bessy, it is thine!
Adieu, false Bessy Bell!

THE DAY IS NOW DAWNING.

WILLIAM.
The day is now dawning, love,
Fled is the night—
I go like the morning, love,
Cheerful and bright.
Then adieu, dearest Ellen:
When evening is near,
I'll visit thy dwelling,
For true love is here.

ELLEN.
Oh, come where the fountain, love,
Tranquilly flows;
Beneath the green mountain, love,
Seek for repose;
There the days of our childhood,
In love's golden beam,
'Mong the blue-bells and wildwood,
Passed on like a dream.

111

WILLIAM.
Oh, linger awhile, love!

ELLEN.
I must away.

WILLIAM.
Oh, grant me thy smile, love,
'Tis Hope's cheering ray—
With evening expect me.

ELLEN.
To the moment be true,
And may angels protect thee—

BOTH.
Sweet Ellen, adieu!
Dear William, adieu!

112

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's troubled sea;
And whatever fate betides me,
This heart still turns to thee.

113

SILENT GRIEF.

Where is now my peace of mind?
Gone, alas! for evermore:
Turn where'er I may, I find
Thorns where roses bloomed before!
O'er the green-fields of my soul,
Where the springs of joy were found,
Now the clouds of sorrow roll,
Shading all the prospect round!

Do I merit pangs like these,
That have cleft my heart in twain?
Must I, to the very lees,
Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?
Silent grief all grief excels;
Life and it together part—
Like a restless worm it dwells
Deep within the human heart!

114

LOVE THEE, DEAREST?

Love thee, dearest?—Hear me.—Never
Will my fond vows be forgot!
May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
Turn not from me, dearest!—Listen!
Banish all thy doubts and fears!
Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest!—Ah, believe me,
Love's bright flame is burning still!
Though the hollow world deceive thee,
Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile?—A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!
Wilt thou give thy hand?—To-morrow,
Hymen's bonds will make us one!

115

I LOVE THE NIGHT.

I love the night when the moon streams bright
On flowers that drink the dew—
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
I love, I love, love—you!

I love to stray at the close of day,
Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night—the glorious night—
When hearts beat warm and true;
But far above the night, I love,
I love, I love, love—you!

116

THE MINIATURE.

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.

“This picture is yourself, dear Jane—
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I 've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you.”
“And has it kissed you back, my dear?”
“Why—no—my love,” said he.
“Then, William, it is very clear
'T is not at all like me!”

117

THE RETORT.

Old Nick, who taught the village-school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was as stubborn as a mule,
She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
And prim and formal as a quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!—and red
And white his face alternate grew!
“Less freedom, ma'am!”—Jane sighed and said,
“Oh, dear! I did n't know 'twas you!”

118

LINES ON A POET.

How sweet the cadence of his lyre!
What melody of words!
They strike a pulse within the heart
Like songs of forest-birds,
Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell
Among the mountain-herds.

His mind 's a cultured garden,
Where Nature's hand has sown
The flower-seeds of poesy—
And they have freshly grown,
Imbued with beauty and perfume
To other plants unknown.

A bright career's before him—
All tongues pronounce his praise;
All hearts his inspiration feel,
And will in after-days;
For genius breathes in every line
Of his soul-thrilling lays.

119

A nameless grace is round him—
A something, too refined
To be described, yet must be felt
By all of human kind—
An emanation of the soul,
That can not be defined.

Then blessings on the minstrel—
His faults let others scan:
There may be spots upon the sun,
Which those may view who can;
I see them not—yet know him well
A poet and a man.

THE BACCHANAL

Beside a cottage-door,
Sang Ella at her wheel;
Ruthven rode o'er the moor,
Down at her feet to kneel:
A spotted palfrey gay
Came ambling at his side,
To bear the maid away
As his affianced bride.

120

A high-born noble he,
Of stately halls secure;
A low-born peasant she,
Of parentage obscure.
How soft the honeyed words
He breathes into her ears!—
The melody of birds!
The music of the spheres!

With love her bosom swells,
Which she would fain conceal—
Her eyes, like crystal wells,
Its hidden depths reveal.
While liquid diamonds drip
From feeling's fountain warm,
Flutters her scarlet lip—
A rose-leaf in a storm!

As from an April sky
The rain-clouds flit away,
So from the maiden's eye
Vanished the falling spray,
Which lingered but awhile
Her dimpled cheek upon—
Then melted in her smile,
Like vapor in the sun.

121

The maid is all his own!
She trusts his plighted word,
And, lightly on the roan,
She springs beside her lord:
She leaves her father's cot,
She turns her from the door—
That green and holy spot
Which she will see no more!

They hied to distant lands,
That lord and peasant-maid:
The church ne'er joined their hands,
For Ella was betrayed!
Torn from her native bower,
That modest rose of May,
Drooped, in his stately tower,
And passed from earth away.

They laid her in the ground,
And Ella was forgot—
Dead was her father found
In his deserted cot.
But Ruthven—what of him?
He ran the story o'er,
And, filling to the brim,
He thought of it no more!

122

TWENTY YEARS AGO

'Twas in the flush of summer-time,
Some twenty years or more,
When Ernest lost his way, and crossed
The threshold of our door.
I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet,
His brow of Alpine snow,
His manly grace of form and face,
Some twenty years ago.

The hand he asked I freely gave—
Mine was a happy lot,
In all my pride to be his bride
Within my father's cot.
The faith he spoke he never broke:
His faithful heart I know;
And well I vow I love him now
As twenty years ago.

123

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

Freedom spreads her downy wings
Over all created things;
Glory to the King of kings,
Bend low to Him the knee!
Bring the heart before His throne—
Worship Him and Him alone!—
He 's the only King we own—
And He has made us free!

The holiest spot a smiling sun
E'er shed his genial rays upon,
Is that which gave a Washington
The drooping world to cheer!
Sound the clarion-peals of fame!
Ye who bear Columbia's name!—
With existence freedom came—
It is man's birthright here!

Heirs of an immortal sire,
Let his deeds your hearts inspire;
Weave the strain and wake the lyre
Where your proud altars stand!

124

Hail with pride and loud hurrahs,
Streaming from a thousand spars,
Freedom's rainbow-flag of stars—
The symbol of our land!

I LOVE THEE STILL.

I never have been false to thee!—
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I 've loved, as woman ever loves,
With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou 'st proved as man too often proves,
A rover—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops
To bind thee captive in my train!—
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Loves golden chain and burning vow
Are broken—but I love thee still!

125

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
When love dispelled the clouds of care,
And time went by with birds and flowers,
While song and incense filled the air!
The past is mine—the present thine—
Should thoughts of me thy future fill,
Think what a destiny is mine,
To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

LOOK FROM THY LATTICE, LOVE.

Look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me!
The cool, balmy breeze
Is abroad on the sea!
The moon, like a queen,
Roams her realms above,
And naught is awake
But the spirit of love.
Ere morn's golden light
Tips the hills with its ray,
Away o'er the waters—
Away and away!
Then look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me.
While the moon lights the sky,
And the breeze curls the sea!

126

Look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me!
In the voyage of life,
Love our pilot will be!
He'll sit at the helm
Wherever we rove,
And steer by the load-star
He kindled above!
His gem-girdled shallop
Will cut the bright spray,
Or skim, like a bird,
O'er the waters away!
Then look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me,
While the moon lights the sky,
And the breeze curls the sea!

SHE LOVED HIM.

She loved him—but she heeded not—
Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
That made her drear and desolate!

127

She loved him—but the sland'rer came,
With words of hate that all believed;
A stain thus rested on his name—
But he was wronged and she deceived;
Ah! rash the act that gave her hand,
That drove her lover from her side—
Who hied him to a distant land,
Where, battling for a name, he died!

She loved him—and his memory now
Was treasured from the world apart:
The calm of thought was on her brow,
The seeds of death were in her heart.
For all the world that thing forlorn
I would not, could not be, and live—
That casket with its jewel gone,
A bride who has no heart to give!

THE SUITORS.

Wealth sought the bower of Beauty,
Dressed like a modern beau:
Just then Love, Health, and Duty
Took up their hats to go.
Wealth such a cordial welcome met,
As made the others grieve;

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So Duty shunned the gay coquette,
Love, pouting, took French leave—
He did!
Love, pouting, took French leave!

Old Time, the friend of Duty,
Next called to see the fair;
He laid his hand on Beauty,
And left her in despair.
Wealth vanished!—Last went rosy Health—
And she was doomed to prove
That those who Duty slight for Wealth,
Can never hope for Love!
Ah, no!
Can never hope for Love!

ST. AGNES' SHRINE.

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.

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She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll—
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.

To and fro, from hand to hand
Came and went a carrier-dove,
Till throughout the Holy Land
War resigned his sword to Love.
Swift her dove, on wings of light,
Brought the news from Palestine,
And the lady her true knight
Wedded at St. Agnes' shrine.

WESTERN REFRAIN

Droop not, brothers!
As we go,
O'er the mountains,
Westward ho!
Under boughs of mistletoe,
Log huts we'll rear,

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While herds of deer and buffalo
Furnish the cheer.
File o'er the mountains—steady, boys
For game afar
We have our rifles ready, boys!—
Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
Like chaff, boys!—ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!—
Hah—hah—hah!

Cheer up, brothers!
As we go,
O'er the mountains,
Westward ho!
When we 've wood and prairie-land,
Won by our toil,
We'll reign like kings in fairy-land,
Lords of the soil!
Then westward ho! in legions, boys—
Fair Freedom's star
Points to her sunset regions, boys!—
Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
Like chaff, boys!—ha!
And join in the laugh, boys—
Hah—hah—hah.

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THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE.

The shades of evening closed around
The boundless prairies of the west,
As, grouped in sadness on the ground,
A band of pilgrims leaned to rest:
Upon the tangled weeds were laid
The mother and her youngest born,
Who slept, while others watched and prayed,
And thus the weary night went on.

Thick darkness shrouded earth and sky—
When on the whispering winds there came
The Teton's shrill and thrilling cry,
And heaven was pierced with shafts of flame!
The sun seemed rising through the haze,
But with an aspect dread and dire:
The very air appeared to blaze!—
O God! the Prairie was on fire!

Around the centre of the plain
A belt of flame retreat denied—
And, like a furnace, glowed the train
That walled them in on every side:

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And onward rolled the torrent wild—
Wreathes of dense smoke obscured the sky!
The mother knelt beside her child,
And all—save one—shrieked out, “We die!”

“Not so!” he cried.—“Help!—Clear the sedge!
Strip bare a circle to the land!”
That done, he hastened to its edge,
And grasped a rifle in his hand:
Dried weeds he held beside the pan,
Which kindled at a flash the mass!
“Now fire fight fire!” he said, as ran
The forkéd flames among the grass.

On three sides then the torrent flew,
But on the fourth no more it raved!
Then large and broad the circle grew,
And thus the pilgrim band was saved!
The flames receded far and wide—
The mother had not prayed in vain:
God had the Teton's arts defied!
His scythe of fire had swept the plain!

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THE EVERGREEN.

Love can not be the aloe-tree,
Whose bloom but once is seen;
Go search the grove—the tree of love
Is sure the evergreen:
For that 's the same, in leaf or frame,
'Neath cold or sunny skies;
You take the ground its roots have bound,
Or it, transplanted, dies!

That love thus shoots, and firmly roots
In woman's heart, we see;
Through smiles and tears in after-years
It grows a fadeless tree.
The tree of love, all trees above,
For ever may be seen,
In summer's bloom or winter's gloom,
A hardy evergreen.

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THE MAY-QUEEN.

Like flights of singing-birds went by
The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
When, in my native bowers,
Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!

Like airy sprites the lasses came,
Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
The crystal from the fountain,
The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.

Around the May-pole on the green,
A fairy ring they tripped away;
All merriment and pleasure,
To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.

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Though years have passed, and Time has strown
My raven locks with flakes of gray,
Fond Memory brings the hours
Of buds and blossom-showers
When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May.

VENETIAN SERENADE.

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—Arise!
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice—
Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water—
My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
Sings to the rose.

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Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—The day
Brings warder and cloister!
Away, then—away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
Than he to his love!

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

“The plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will,
Who mourns unseen and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and wo,
Till Morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.”
J. R. Drake.

Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?—What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?

Why come from yon leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?—
Why ask of me to whip poor Will?
And is Will really poor?

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Of poverty's his crime, let mirth
From out his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!

Art Will himself?—It must be so—
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another's wo
As deeply as his own.

Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat,
While other birds repose?
What means thy melancholy note?—
The mystery disclose!

Still “Whip poor Will!”—Art thou a sprite,
From unknown regions sent
To wander in the gloom of night,
And ask for punishment?

Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt?—or, what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt—
No money in thy purse!

If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah! well may'st thou repine:
The sympathy I give I need—
The poet's doom is thine!

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Art thou a lover, Will?—Has proved
The fairest can deceive?
Thine is the lot of all who 've loved
Since Adam wedded Eve!

Hast trusted in a friend, and seen
No friend was he in need?
A common error—men still lean
Upon as frail a reed.

Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame,
A crown of brambles won?
O'er all the earth 't is just the same
With every mother's son!

Hast found the world a Babel wide,
Where man to Mammon stoops?
Where flourish Arrogance and Pride,
While modest Merit droops?

What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain?
To guess it who 's the skill?
Pray have the kindness to explain
Why I should whip poor Will?

Dost merely ask thy just desert?
What, not another word?—
Back to the woods again, unhurt—
I will not harm thee, bird!

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But use thee kindly—for my nerves,
Like thine, have penance done:
“Use every man as he deserves,
Who shall 'scape whipping?”—None!

Farewell, poor Will!—Not valueless
This lesson by thee given:
“Keep thine own counsel, and confess
Thyself alone to Heaven!”

THE EXILE TO HIS SISTER.

As streams at morn, from seas that glide,
Rejoicing on their sparkling way,
Will turn again at eventide,
To mingle with their kindred spray—
E'en so the currents of the soul,
Dear sister, wheresoe'er we rove,
Will backward to our country roll,
The boundless ocean of our love.

Yon northern star, now burning bright,
The guide by which the wave-tossed steer,
Beams not with a more constant light
Than does thy love, my sister dear.

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From stars above the streams below
Receive the glory they impart;
So, sister, do thy virtues glow
Within the mirror of my heart.

NEAR THE LAKE.

Near the lake where drooped the willow,
Long time ago!—
Where the rock threw back the billow,
Brighter than snow—
Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished
By high and low;
But with autumn's leaf she perished,
Long time ago!

Rock and tree and flowing water,
Long time ago!—
Bee and bird and blossom taught her
Love's spell to know!
While to my fond words she listened,
Murmuring low,
Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened,
Long time ago!

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Mingled were our hearts for ever,
Long time ago!
Can I now forget her?—Never!
No—lost one—no!
To her grave these tears are given,
Ever to flow:
She 's the star I missed from heaven,
Long time ago!

THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER.

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village-pastor's child,
In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:
Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain,
To seek the groves of her retreat;
And many followed in her train,
To lay their riches at her feet.

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But still, for all their arts so wary,
From home they could not lure the fairy.
A maid without a heart they thought her,
And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring
A bard became her father's guest:
He struck his harp, and every string
To love vibrated in her breast.
With that true faith which can not falter,
Her hand was given at the altar,
And faithful was the heart he brought her
To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.

How seldom learn the worldly gay
With all their sophistry and art,
The sweet and gentle primrose-way
To woman's fond, devoted heart!
They seek, but never find, the treasure,
Revealed in eyes of jet and azure.
To them, like truth in wells of water,
A fable is the pastor's daughter.

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MARGARETTA.

When I was in my teens,
I loved dear Margaretta:
I know not what it means,
I can not now forget her!
That vision of the past
My head is ever crazing;
Yet, when I saw her last,
I could not speak for gazing!
Oh, lingering bud of May!
Dear as when first I met her;
Worn in my heart alway,
Life-cherished Margaretta!

We parted near the stile,
As morn was faintly breaking:
For many a weary mile
Oh how my heart was aching!
But distance, time, and change,
Have lost me Margaretta;
And yet 't is sadly strange
That I can not forget her!

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O queen of rural maids—
My dark-eyed Margaretta—
The heart the mind upbraids
That struggles to forget her!

My love, I know, will seem
A wayward, boyish folly;
But, ah! it was a dream
Most sweet—most melancholy.
Were mine the world's domain,
To me 't were fortune better
To be a boy again,
And dream of Margaretta.
Oh! memory of the past,
Why linger to regret her?
My first love was my last!
And that is Margaretta!

THE COLONEL.

The Colonel!—Such a creature!
I met him at the ball!—
So fair in form and feature.
And so divinely tall!
He praised my dimpled cheeks and curls,
While whirling through the dance,
And matched me with the dark-eyed girls
Of Italy and France!

145

He said, in accents thrilling—
Love 's boundless as the sea;
And I, dear maid, am willing
To give up all for thee!”
I heard him—blushed—“Would ask mamma”—
And then my eyes grew dim!
He looked—I said, “Mamma—papa—
I'd give up all for him!”

My governor is rich and old;
This well the Colonel knew.
“Love's wings,” he said, “when fringed with gold,
Are beautiful to view!”
I thought his 'havior quite the ton,
Until I saw him stare
When merely told that—brother—John—
Papa—would—make—his—heir!

Next day and the day after
I dressed for him in vain;
Was moved to tears and laughter—
He never came again!
But I have heard, for Widow Dash
He bought the bridal ring;
And he will wed her for her cash—
The ugly, hateful thing!

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THE SWEEP'S CAROL.

Through the streets of New York city,
Blithely every morn,
I carolled o'er my artless ditty,
Cheerly though forlorn!
Before the rosy light, my lay
Was to the maids begun,
Ere winters snows had passed away,
Or smiled the summer sun.
Carol—O—a—y—e—o!

In summer months I 'd fondly woo
Those merry, dark-eyed girls,
With faces of the ebon hue,
And teeth like eastern pearls!
One vowed my love she would repay—
Her heart my song had won—
When winter snows had passed away,
And smiled the summer sun.
Carol—O—a—y—e—o!

A year, alas! had scarcely flown—
Hope beamed but to deceive—
Ere I was left to weep alone,
From morn till dewy eve!

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She died one dreary break of day!—
Grief weighs my heart upon!—
In vain the snows may pass away,
Or smile the summer sun.
Carol—O—a—y—e—o!

THE SEASONS OF LOVE.

The spring-time of love
Is both happy and gay,
For joy sprinkles blossoms
And balm in our way;
The sky, earth, and ocean,
In beauty repose,
And all the bright future
Is coleur de rose.

The summer of love
Is the bloom of the heart,
When hill, grove, and valley,
Their music impart;
And the pure glow of heaven
Is seen in fond eyes,
As lakes show the rainbow
That 's hung in the skies.

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The autumn of love
Is the season of cheer—
Life's mild Indian summer,
The smile of the year!
Which comes when the golden
Ripe harvest is stored,
And yields its own blessings—
Repose and reward.

The winter of love
Is the beam that we win
While the storm scowls without,
From the sunshine within.
Love's reign is eternal—
The heart is his throne,
And he has all seasons
Of life for his own.

MY WOODLAND BRIDE.

Here upon the mountain-side
Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
In flush of summer weather.

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Green was then the linden-bough,
This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,
In this summer-bower,
With all pleasant things has flown,
Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
But her memory will stay
With me, though we 're parted—
From the scene I turn away,
Lone and broken-hearted!

OH, THINK OF ME!

Oh, think of me, my own beloved,
Whatever cares beset thee!
And when thou hast the falsehood proved,
Of those with smiles who met thee—
While o'er the sea, think, love, of me,
Who never can forget thee;
Let memory trace the trysting-place,
Where I with tears regret thee.

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Bright as yon star, within my mind,
A hand unseen hath set thee;
There hath thine image been enshrined,
Since first, dear love, I met thee;
So in thy breast I fain would rest,
If, haply, fate would let me—
And live or die, so thou wert nigh,
To love or to regret me!

MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA.

My bark is out upon the sea—
The moon 's above;
Her light a presence seems to me
Like woman's love.
My native land I 've left behind—
Afar I roam;
In other climes no hearts I'll find
Like those at home.

Of all yon sisterhood of stars,
But one is true:
She paves my path with silver bars,
And beams like you,

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Whose purity the waves recall
In music's flow,
As round my bark they rise and fall
In liquid snow.

The fresh'ning breeze now swells our sails!
A storm is on!
The weary moon's dim lustre fails—
The stars are gone!
Not so fades Love's eternal light
When storm-clouds weep;
I know one heart's with me to-night
Upon the deep!

WILL NOBODY MARRY ME?

Heigh-ho! for a husband!—Heigh-ho!
There 's danger in longer delay!
Shall I never again have a beau?
Will nobody marry me, pray!
I begin to feel strange, I declare!
With beauty my prospects will fade—
I'd give myself up to despair
If I thought I should die an old maid!

152

I once cut the beaux in a huff—
I thought it a sin and a shame
That no one had spirit enough
To ask me to alter my name.
So I turned up my nose at the short,
And cast down my eyes at the tall;
But then I just did it in sport—
And now I 've no lover at all!

These men are the plague of my life:
'Tis hard from so many to choose!
Should any one wish for a wife,
Could I have the heart to refuse?
I don't know—for none have proposed—
Oh, dear me!—I'm frightened, I vow!
Good gracious! who ever supposed
That I should be single till now?

THE STAR OF LOVE.

The star of love now shines above,
Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves
Its serenade for thee.

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The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear till thou appear
To decorate the night.

The light of noon streams from the moon,
Though with a milder ray;
O'er hill and grove, like woman's love,
It cheers us on our way.
Thus all that 's bright—the moon, the night,
The heavens, the earth, the sea,
Exert their powers to bless the hours
We dedicate to thee.

WELL-A-DAY!

Love comes and goes like a spell!
How, no one knows, nor can tell!
Now here—now there—then away!
None dreameth where!—Well-a-day!

Love should be true as the star
Seen in the blue sky afar!—
Not here—now there—like the lay
Of lutes in th' air!—Well-a-day!

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Should love depart, not a tie
Binds up the heart till we die!—
Now here—now there—sad we stray
Life is all care!—Well-a-day!

NOT MARRIED YET!

I'm single yet—I'm single yet!
And years have flown since I came out!
In vain I sigh—in vain I fret—
Ye gods! what are the men about?
I vow I'm twenty!—O ye powers!
A spinster's lot is hard to bear—
On earth alone to pass her hours,
And afterward lead apes—down there;

No offer yet—no offer yet!
I'm puzzled quite to make it out:
For every beau my cap I set—
What, what, what are the men about?
They do n't propose—they won't propose,
For fear, perhaps, I'd not say, “Yes!”
Just let them try—for Heaven knows
I'm tired of single-blessedness.

155

Not married yet—not married yet—
The deuce is in the men, I fear!
I'm like a—something to be let,
And to be let alone—that 's clear.
They say, “She 's pretty—but no chink—
And love without it runs in debt!”
It agitates my nerves to think
That I have had no offer yet.

LADY OF ENGLAND.

Lady of England—o'er the seas
Thy name was borne on every breeze,
Till all this sunset clime became
Familiar with Victoria's name.

Though seas dividê us many miles,
Yet, for the Queen of those fair isles,
Which gave our fathers birth, there roves
A blessing from this Land of Groves.

Our Fatherland!—Fit theme for song!
When thou art named, what memories throng!
Shall England cease our love to claim?
Not while our language is the same.

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Scion of kings! so live and reign,
That, when thy nation's swelling strain
Is breathed amid our forests green,
We too may sing, “God save the Queen!”

OH, THIS LOVE!

[_]

Music—“Jess Macfarlane.”

Oh, this love—this love!
I ainse the passion slighted;
But hearts that truly love,
Must break or be united.
Oh, this love!

When first he cam' to woo,
I little cared aboot him;
But seene I felt as though
I could na' live without him.
Oh, this love!

He brought to me the ring,
My hand asked o' my mither—
I could na' bear the thought
That he should wed anither.
Oh, this love!

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And now I'm a' his ain—
In a' his joys I mingle;
Nae for the wealth of warlds
Wad I again be single!
Oh, this love!

MARY.

One balmy summer night, Mary,
Just as the risen moon
Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,
We left the gay saloon;
And in a green, sequestered spot,
Beneath a drooping tree,
Fonds words were breathed, by you forgot,
That still are dear to me, Mary,
That still are dear to me.

Oh, we were happy then, Mary—
Time lingered on his way,
To crowd a lifetime in a night,
Whole ages in a day!
If star and sun would set and rise
Thus in our after years,
The world would be a paradise,
And not a vale of tears, Mary,
And not a vale of tears.

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I live but in the past, Mary—
The glorious days of old!
When love was hoarded in the heart,
As misers hoard their gold:
And often like a bridal train,
To music soft and low,
The by-gone moments cross my brain,
In all their summer glow, Mary,
In all their summer glow.

These visions form and fade, Mary,
As age comes stealing on,
To bring the light and leave the shade
Of days for ever gone!
The poet's brow may wear at last
The bays that round it fall;
But love has rose-buds of the past
Far dearer than them all, Mary,
Far dearer than them all!

THE BEAM OF DEVOTION.

I never could find a good reason
Why sorrow unbidden should stay,
And all the bright joys of life's season
Be driven unheeded away.

159

Our cares would wake no more emotion,
Were we to our lot but resigned,
Than pebbles flung into the ocean,
That leave scarce a ripple behind.

The world has a spirit of beauty,
Which looks upon all for the best,
And while it discharges its duty,
To Providence leaves all the rest:
That spirit 's the beam of devotion,
Which lights us through life to its close,
And sets, like the sun in the ocean,
More beautiful far than it rose.

THE WELCOME AND FAREWELL.

To meet, and part, as we have met and parted,
One moment cherished and the next forgot,
To wear a smile when almost broken-hearted,
I know full-well is hapless woman's lot;
Yet let me, to thy tenderness appealing,
Avert this brief but melancholy doom—
Content that close beside the thorn of feeling,
Grows memory, like a rose, in guarded bloom.

160

Love's history, dearest, is a sad one ever,
Yet often with a smile I 've heard it told!
Oh, there are records of the heart which never
Are to the scrutinizing gaze unrolled!
My eyes to thine may scarce again aspire—
Still in thy memory, dearest let me dwell,
And hush, with this hope, the magnetic wire,
Wild with our mingled welcome and farewell!

'TIS NOW THE PROMISED HOUR.

A SERENADE.

The fountains serenade the flowers,
Upon their silver lute—
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
'T is now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower.

161

The day we dedicate to care—
To love the witching night;
For all that 's beautiful and fair
In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given—
The moonlight on the tree—
And all the bliss of earth and heaven—
Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
'T is now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower!

THE SONGS OF HOME.

Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays,
Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills,
And takes my heart back to the happy days
When first I sang them on my native hills!
With the fresh feelings of the olden times,
I hear them now upon a foreign shore—
The simple music and the artless rhymes!
Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more,
Those cheerful lays of other days—
Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!

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Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains,
Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell;
They send the life-blood bounding thro' my veins,
And linger round me like a fairy spell.
The songs of home are to the human heart
Far dearer than the notes that song-birds pour,
And of our very nature form a part:
Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more!
Those cheerful lays of other days—
Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!

MASONIC HYMN.

Our Order, like the ark of yore,
Upon the raging sea was tossed;
Secure amid the billow's roar,
It moved, and nothing has been lost.

When elements discordant seek
To wreck what God in mercy saves,
The struggle is as vain and weak
As that of the retiring waves.

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The Power who bade the waters cease,
The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band,
He gave the gentle dove of peace
The branch she bore them from the land.

In him alone we put our trust,
With heart and hand and one accord,
Ascribing, with the true and just,
All “holiness unto the Lord.”

THE DISMISSED.

“I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit,
But why did she kick me down stairs?”
Halleck's “Discarded.”

The wing of my spirit is broken,
My day-star of hope has declined;
For a month not a word have I spoken
That 's either polite or refined.
My mind 's like the sky in bad weather,
When mist-clouds around us are curled:
And, viewing myself altogether,
I'm the veriest wretch in the world!

164

I wander about like a vagrant—
I spend half my time in the street;
My conduct 's improper and flagrant,
For I quarrel with all that I meet.
My dress, too, is wholly neglected,
My hat I pull over my brow,
And I look like a fellow suspected
Of wishing to kick up a row.

In vain I 've endeavored to borrow
From friends “some material aid”—
For my landlady views me with sorrow,
When she thinks of the bill that 's unpaid.
Abroad my acquaintances flout me,
The ladies cry, “Bless us, look there!”
And the little boys cluster about me,
And sensible citizens stare.

One says, “He 's a victim to cupid;”
Another, “His conduct 's too bad;”
A third, “He is awfully stupid;”
A fourth, “He is perfectly mad!”—
And then I am watched like a bandit,
Mankind with me all are at strife:
By heaven no longer I'll stand it,
But quick put an end to my life!

165

I 've thought of the means—yet I shudder
At dagger or ratsbane or rope;
At drawing with lancet my blood, or
At razor without any soap!
Suppose I should fall in a duel,
And thus leave the stage with éclat?
But to die with a bullet is cruel—
Besides 't would be breaking the law!

Yet one way remains: to the river
I'll fly from the goadings of care!—
But drown?—oh, the thought makes me shiver—
A terrible death, I declare!
Ah, no!—I'll once more see my Kitty,
And parry her cruel disdain—
Beseech her to take me in pity,
And never dismiss me again.

LORD OF THE CASTLE.

“Lord of the castle! oh, where goest thou?
Why is the triumph of pride on thy brow?”
“Pilgrim, my bridal awaits me to-day,
Over the mountains away and away.”

166

“Flora in beauty and solitude roves,
List'ning for thee in the shade of the groves.”
“Pilgrim, I hasten her truth to repay,
Over the mountains away and away.”

“Guided by honor, how brilliant the road
Leading from cottage to castle abode!”
“Pilgrim, its dictates I learned to obey,
Over the mountains away and away.”

THE FALLEN BRAVE.

From cypress and from laurel boughs
Are twined, in sorrow and in pride,
The leaves that deck the mouldering brows
Of those who for their country died:
In sorrow, that the sable pall
Enfolds the valiant and the brave;
In pride that those who nobly fall
Win garlands that adorn the grave.

The onset—the pursuit—the roar
Of victory o'er the routed foe—
Will startle from their rest no more
The fallen brave of Mexico.

167

To God alone such spirits yield!
He took them in their strength and bloom,
When gathering, on the tented field,
The garlands woven for the tomb.

The shrouded flag—the drooping spear—
The muffled drum—the solemn bell—
The funeral train—the dirge—the bier—
The mourners' sad and last farewell—
Are fading tributes to the worth
Of those whose deeds this homage claim;
But Time, who mingles them with earth
Keeps green the garlands of their fame.

SONG OF THE TROUBADOUR.

IN IMITATION OF THE LAYS OF THE OLDEN TIME.

“Come, list to the lay of the olden time,”
A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:
“The scene is laid in a foreign clime,
“A century back—and love is the theme.”
Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme,
Of lady and lord of the olden time

168

“At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair
“Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime:
“Her beads she numbered in silent prayer
“For one far away, whom to love was her crime.
“Love,” sang the troubadour, “love was a crime,
“When fathers were stern, in the olden time.

“The warder had spurned from the castle gate
“The minstrel who wooed her in flowing rhyme—
“He came back from battle in regal estate—
“The bard was a prince of the olden time.
“Love,” sang the troubadour, “listened to rhyme,
“And welcomed the bard of the olden time.

“The prince in disguise had the lady sought;
“To chapel they hied in their rosy prime:
“Thus worth won a jewel that wealth never bought,
“A fair lady's heart of the olden time.
“The moral,” the troubadour sang, “of my rhyme,
“Was well understood in the olden time.”

169

CHAMPIONS OF LIBERTY.

The pride of all our chivalry,
The name of Worth will stand,
While throbs the pulse of liberty
Within his native land:
The wreath his brow was formed to wear,
A nation's tears will freshen there.

The young companion of his fame,
In war and peace allied,
With garlands woven round his name,
Reposes at his side:
Duncan, whose deeds for evermore
Will live amid his cannon's roar.

Gates, in his country's quarrel bold,
When she to arms appealed,
Sought like the Christian knights of old,
His laurels on the field:
Where victory rent the welkin-dome,
He earned—a sepulchre at home.

170

The drum-beat of the bannered brave,
The requiem and the knell,
The volley o'er the soldier's grave,
His comrades' last farewell,
Are tributes rendered to the dead,
And sermons to the living read.

But there 's a glory brighter far
Than all that earth has given;
A beacon, like the index-star,
That points the way to heaven:
It is a life well spent—its close
The cloudless sundown of repose.

That such was theirs for whom we mourn,
These obsequies attest;
And though in sorrow they are borne
Unto their final rest,
A guide will their example be
To future champions of the free.

171

THE HUNTER'S CAROL.

A merry life does the hunter lead!
He wakes with the dawn of day;
He whistles his dog—he mounts his steed,
And scuds to the woods away!
The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark,
As they troop in herds along;
And his rifle startles the cheerful lark
As he carols his morning song!

The hunter's life is the life for me!—
That is the life for a man!
Let others sing of a home on the sea,
But match me the woods if you can!
Then give me a gun—I 've an eye to mark
The deer as they bound along!—
My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark
To carol my morning song!

172

WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT.

A monument to Washington?
A tablet graven with his name?—
Green be the mound it stands upon,
And everlasting as his fame!

His glory fills the land—the plain,
The moor, the mountain, and the mart!
More firm than column, urn, or fane,
His monument—the human heart.

The Christian—patriot—hero—sage!
The chief from heaven in mercy sent;
His deeds are written on the age—
His country is his monument.

“The sword of Gideon and the Lord”
Was mighty in his mighty hand—
The God who guided he adored,
And with His blessing freed the land.

The first in war—the first in peace—
The first in hearts that freemen own;

173

Unparalleled till time shall cease—
He lives immortal and alone.

Yet let the rock-hewn tower arise,
High to the pathway of the sun,
And speak to the approving skies
Our gratitude to Washington.

THE SISTER'S APPEAL.

A FRAGMENT.

You remember—don't you, brother—
In our early years,
The counsels of our poor, dear mother,
And her hopes and fears?
She told us to love one another—
Brother, dry your tears!

We are only two, dear brother,
In this babel wide!
In the churchyard sleeps poor mother,
By our father's side!—
Then let us cherish one another
Till in death we bide.

174

SONG OF THE REAPERS.

Joyous the carol that rings in the mountains,
While the cleared vales are refreshed by the fountains—
After the harvest the cheerful notes fall,
And all the glad reapers re-echo the call!
La ra la la, &c.

Oh, how the heart bounds at that simple refrain!
Dear haunts of my childhood, I'm with you again!
Green be your valleys, enriched by the rills,
And long may that carol be sung on your hills!
La ra la la, &c.

WALTER GAY.

To know a man well, it is said, Walter Gay,
On shipboard with him you should be:
If this maxim 's true, then well I know you,
For we sailed together the sea, Walter Gay,
For we sailed together the sea.

175

I now watch the star from the strand, Walter Gay,
As oft from the surge I did then:
Like that all alone you sparkled and shone,
The clear northern star among men, Walter Gay,
The clear northern star among men!

May your future course, like the past, Walter Gay,
From wreck and misfortune be free:
Your sorrows and care fade into the air,
Or vanish like foam on the sea, Walter Gay,
Or vanish like foam on the sea!

The friendship that 's formed on the wave, Walter Gay,
Is deeper than plummet may sound:
That can not decay till we lose our way,
Or death runs the vessel aground, Walter Gay,
Or death runs the vessel aground!

When life's voyage ends, may your bark, Walter Gay,
Spread sail like the wings of a dove—
And, when lulls the wind, safe anchorage find
Within the good harbor above, Walter Gay,
Within the good harbor above!

176

GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE.

HE.
What can a man do when a woman's perverse,
And determined to have her own way?

SHE.
At the altar you took me for better or worse:
Am I worse than you took me for—say,
Silly elf?—
Am I worse than you took me for, say?

HE.
For an angel I took you in beauty and worth—
The priest a mere woman has given!

SHE.
A man would prefer a true woman on earth,
To all the bright angels in heaven—
Silly elf!—
To all the bright angels in heaven!

177

HE.
You are ever ready my feelings to hurt
At the veriest trifle, of course.

SHE.
Forgetting a button to sew on your shirt
You deem a good ground for divorce—
Silly elf!—
You deem a good ground for divorce!

HE.
Well, marriage a lottery is, and a blank
Some men surely draw all their lives.

SHE.
Such fellows as you, sir, themselves have to thank;
Good husbands make always good wives—
Silly elf!—
Good husbands make always good wives!

178

TEMPERANCE SONG.

(WRITTEN FOR THE LADY BY WHOM IT WAS SUNG.)

[_]

Air—“Some love to roam.”

Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowl
And the wine-cups circle free;
None of that band shall win my hand:
No! a sober spouse for me.
Like cheerful streams when morning beams,
With him my life would flow;
Not down the crags, the drunkard drags
His wife to want and wo!
Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!

At midnight dark, the drunkard mark—
Oh, what a sight, good lack!
As home draws near, to him appear
Grim fiends who cross his track!
His children's name he dooms to shame—
His wife to want and wo;
She is betrayed, for wine is made
Her rival and her foe.
Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!

179

BOAT-SONG.

Pull away merrily—over the waters!
Bend to your oars for the wood-tangled shore;
We 're off and afloat with earth's loveliest daughters,
Worth all the argosies wave ever bore.
Pull away gallantly—pull away valiantly—
Pull with a swoop, boys; and pull for the shore:
Merrily, merrily, bend to the oar!

Pull away cheerily!—land is before us—
Green groves are flinging their balm to the spray;
The sky, like the spirit of love, bending o'er us,
Lights her bright torches to show us the way.
Pull away charily—pull away warily—
Pull with a nerve, boys; together give way:
Merrily, merrily, pull to the lay!

Pull away heartily—light winds are blowing,
Crisping the ripples that dance at our side;

180

The moon bathes in silver the path we are going,
And night is arrayed in her robes like a bride
Pull away readily—pull away steadily—
Pull with a will, boys, and sing as we glide
Merrily, merrily, over the tide!

WILLIE.

I clasp your hand in mine, Willie,
And fancy I 've the art
To see, while gazing in your face,
What 's passing in your heart:
'T is joy an honest man to hold,
That gem of modest worth,
More prized than all the sordid gold
Of all the mines of earth, Willie,
Of all the mines of earth.

I 've marked your love of right, Willie,
Your proud disdain of wrong;
I know you 'd rather aid the weak
Than battle for the strong.
The golden rule—religion's stay—
With constancy pursue,
Which renders others all that they
On earth can render you, Willie,
On earth can render you.

181

A conscience void of guile, Willie,
A disposition kind,
A nature, gentle and sincere,
Accomplished and refined:
A mind that was not formed to bow,
An aspiration high,
Are written on your manly brow,
And in your cheerful eye, Willie,
And in your cheerful eye.

I never look at you, Willie,
But with an anxious prayer
That you will ever be to me
What now I know you are.
I do not find a fault to chide,
A foible to annoy,
For you are all your father's pride,
And all your mother's joy, Willie,
And all your mother's joy.

You 're all that I could hope, Willie,
And more than I deserve;
Your pressure of affection now
I feel in every nerve.
I love you—not for station—land—
But for yourself alone:
And this is why I clasp your hand,
So fondly in my own, Willie,
So fondly in my own.

182

THE ROCK OF THE PILGRIMS.

A rock in the wilderness welcomed our sires,
From bondage far over the dark-rolling sea;
On that holy altar they kindled the fires,
Jehovah, which glow in our bosoms for Thee.
Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower,
Or rose from the soil that was sown by Thy hand;
The mountain and valley rejoiced in Thy power,
And Heaven encircled and smiled on the land.

The Pilgrims of old an example have given
Of mild resignation, devotion, and love,
Which beams like the star in the blue vault of heaven,
A beacon-light swung in their mansion above.
In church and cathedral we kneel in our prayer—
Their temple and chapel were valley and hill—
But God is the same in the isle or the air,
And He is the Rock that we lean upon still.

183

YEARS AGO.

Near the banks of that lone river,
Where the water-lilies grow,
Breathed the fairest flower that ever
Bloomed and faded years ago.

How we met and loved and parted,
None on earth can ever know—
Nor how pure and gentle-hearted
Beamed the mourned one years ago!

Like the stream with lilies laden,
Will life's future current flow,
Till in heaven I meet the maiden
Fondly cherished years ago.

Hearts that love like mine forget not;
They 're the same in weal or wo;
And that star of memory set not
In the grave of years ago.

184

THE SOLDIER'S WELCOME HOME.

(WRITTEN UPON THE RETURN OF GENERAL SCOTT FROM HIS BRILLIANT MEXICAN CAMPAIGN.)

Victorious the hero returns from the wars,
His brow bound with laurels that never will fade,
While streams the free standard of stripes and of stars,
Whose field in the battle the foeman dismayed.
When the Mexican hosts in their fury came on,
Like a tower of strength in his might he arose,
Where danger most threatened his banner was borne,
Waving hope to his friends and despair to his foes!

The soldier of honor and liberty hail!
His deeds in the temple of Fame are enrolled;
His precepts, like flower-seeds sown by the gale,
Take root in the hearts of the valiant and bold

185

The warrior's escutcheon his foes seek to blot,
But vain is the effort of partisan bands—
For freemen will render full justice to Scott,
And welcome him home with their hearts in their hands.

THE ORIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE.

Once on a time old Johnny Bull
Flew in a raging fury,
And swore that Jonathan should have
No trials, sir, by jury;
That no elections should be held
Across the briny waters:
“And now,” said he, “I'll tax the tea
Of all his sons and daughters.”
Then down he sate in burly state,
And blustered like a grandee,
And in derision made a tune
Called “Yankee doodle dandy.”
“Yankee doodle”—these are facts—
“Yankee doodle dandy;
My son of wax, your tea I'll tax—
You—Yankee doodle dandy!”

186

John sent the tea from o'er the sea
With heavy duties rated;
But whether hyson or bohea,
I never heard it stated.
Then Jonathan to pout began—
He laid a strong embargo—
“I'll drink no tea, by Jove!”—so he
Threw overboard the cargo.
Next Johnny sent an armament,
Big looks and words to bandy,
Whose martial band, when near the land,
Played—“Yankee doodle dandy.”
“Yankee doodle—keep it up!
Yankee doodle dandy!
I'll poison with a tax your cup—
You—Yankee doodle dandy!”

A long war then they had, in which
John was at last defeated;
And “Yankee doodle” was the march
To which his troops retreated.
Young Jonathan, to see them fly,
Could not restrain his laughter:
“That tune,” said he, “suits to a T,
I'll sing it ever after!”
Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace,
Was flushed with beer and brandy,

187

E'en while he swore to sing no more
This—“Yankee doodle dandy.”
Yankee doodle—ho! ha! he!
Yankee doodle dandy—
We kept the tune, but not the tea,
Yankee doodle dandy!

I 've told you now the origin
Of this most lively ditty,
Which Johnny Bull pronounces “dull
And silly!”—what a pity!
With “Hail Columbia!” it is sung,
In chorus full and hearty—
On land and main we breathe the strain,
John made for his tea-party.
No matter how we rhyme the words,
The music speaks them handy,
And where 's the fair can't sing the air
Of “Yankee doodle dandy!”
“Yankee doodle—firm and true—
Yankee doodle dandy,
Yankee doodle, doodle doo!
Yankee doodle dandy!”

188

LINES

ON THE BURIAL OF MRS. MARY L. WARD, AT DALE CEMETERY, SING-SING, MAY 3, 1853.

The knell was tolled—the requiem sung,
The solemn burial-service read;
And tributes from the heart and tongue
Were rendered to the dead.

The dead?—Religion answers, “No!
She is not dead—She can not die!
A mortal left this vale of wo!—
An angel lives on high!”

The earth upon her coffin-lid
Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu!
The mound arose, and she was hid
For ever from the view!

For ever?—Drearily the thought
Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain;
When Faith the recollection brought
That we shall meet again.

189

The mourners wound their silent way
Adown the mountain's gentle slope,
Which, basking in the smile of May,
Looked cheerfully as hope.

As hope?—What hope?—That boundless One
God in His love and mercy gave;
Which brightens, with salvation's sun,
The darkness of the grave.

NEW-YORK IN 1826.

(ADDRESS OF THE CARRIER OF THE NEW-YORK MIRROR, ON THE FIRST DAY OF THAT YEAR.)

[_]

Air—“Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays.”

Two years have elapsed since the verse of s. w.
Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem;
With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you,
She often frolicks with one G. P. M.
As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches,
And lockets and broaches, without any end,
Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure,
And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.

190

'T is useless to speak of the griefs of society—
They overtake us in passing along;
And public misfortunes, in all their variety,
Need not be told in a holyday song.
The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet,
And they 're not at all sweet—but look at their pranks:
Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings,
With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks.

'T is useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too,
Profits and losses but burden the lay;
The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too,
Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day.
Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed,
And cruelly treated the world mercantile,
The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses,
Are greater, he guesses—but still he can smile.

'T is useless to speak of the gas-light so beautiful,
Shedding its beams through “the mist of the night;”
Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful,
Dazzle the vision with columns of light.

191

The lamb and the lion—ask editor Tryon,
His word you'll rely on—are seen near the Park,
From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out,
Yet often they go out, and all 's in the dark.

'T is useless to speak of the seats on the Battery,
They 're too expensive to give to the town;
Then our aldermen think it such flattery,
If the public have leave to sit down!
Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden—
Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must—
Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willing
To pay them a shilling—so down with the dust.

'T is useless to speak of our writers poetical,
Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write;
There are others, whose trades are political—
Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight.
There 's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector,
And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews,
And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser,
And Grim the confuser of morals and news.

192

'T 'is useless to speak of the many civilities
Shown to Fayette in this country of late,
Or even to mention the splendid abilities
Clinton possesses for ruling the state.
The union of water and Erie's bright daughter,
Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more;
And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles)
Have vanished like bubbles that burst on the shore.

'T is useless to speak of Broadway and the Bowery,
Both are improving and growing so fast!
Who would have thought that old Stuyvesant's dowery
Would hold in its precincts a play-house at last?
Well, wonder ne'er ceases, but daily increases,
And pulling to pieces, the town to renew,
So often engages the thoughts of our sages,
That when the fit rages, what will they not do?

'T is useless to speak of the want of propriety
In forming our city so crooked and long;
Our ancestors, bless them, were fond of variety—
'Tis naughty to say that they ever were wrong!

193

Tho' strangers may grumble, and thro' the streets stumble,
Take care they don't tumble through crevices small,
For trap-doors we 've plenty, on sidewalk and entry,
And no one stands sentry to see they don't fall.

'T is useless to speak of amusements so various,
Of opera-singers that few understand;
Of Kean's reputation, so sadly precarious
When he arrived in this prosperous land.
The public will hear him—and hark! how they cheer him!
Though editors jeer him—we all must believe
He pockets the dollars of sages and scholars:
Of course then it follows—he laughs in his sleeve.

'T is useless to speak—but just put on your spectacles,
Read about Chatham, and Peale's splendid show:
There 's Scudder and Dunlap—they both have receptacles
Which, I assure you, are now all the go.

194

'T is here thought polite too, should giants delight you,
And they should invite you, to look at their shapes;
To visit their dwelling, where Indians are yelling,
And handbills are telling of wonderful apes!

'T is useless to speak of the din that so heavily
Fell on our senses as midnight drew near;
Trumpets and bugles and conch-shells, so cleverly
Sounded the welkin with happy New Year!
With jewsharps and timbrels, and musical thimbles,
Tin-platters for cymbals, and frying-pans too;
Dutch-ovens and brasses, and jingles and glasses,
With reeds of all classes, together they blew!

Then since it is useless to speak about anything
All have examined and laid on the shelf,
Perhaps it is proper to say now and then a thing
Touching the “Mirror”—the day—and myself.
Our work 's not devoted, as you may have noted,
To articles quoted from books out of print;
Instead of the latter, profusely we scatter
Original matter that's fresh from the mint.

195

Patrons, I greet you with feelings of gratitude;
Ladies, to please you is ever my care—
Nor wish I, on earth, for a sweeter beatitude,
If I but bask in the smiles of the fair.
Such bliss to a poet is precious—you know it—
And while you bestow it, the heart feels content:
Your bounty has made us, and still you will aid us,
But some have not paid us—we hope they'll repent!

For holyday pleasure, why these are the times for it;
Pardon, me, then, for so trifling a lay;
This stanza shall end it, if I can find rhymes for it—
May you, dear patrons, be happy to-day!
Tho' life is so fleeting, and pleasure so cheating,
That we are oft meeting with accidents here,
Should Fate seek to dish you, oh then may the issue
Be what I now wish you—A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

196

THE HERO'S LEGACY.

Upon the couch of death,
The champion of the free,
Gave, with his parting breath,
This solemn legacy:—
“Sheathed be the battle-blade,
“And hushed the cannons' thunder:
“The glorious Union God hath made,
“Let no man put asunder!
“War banish from the land,
“Peace cultivate with all!
“United you must stand,
“Divided you will fall!
“Cemented with our blood,
“The Union keep unriven!”
While freemen heard this counsel good,
His spirit soared to heaven.

197

WHAT CAN IT MEAN?

(WRITTEN FOR MISS POOLE, AND SUNG BY HER IN THE CHARACTER OF COWSLIP.)

I'm much too young to marry,
For I am only seventeen;
Why think I, then, of Harry?
What can it mean—what can it mean?

Wherever Harry meets me,
Beside the brook or on the green,
How tenderly he greets me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?

Whene'er my name he utters,
A blush upon my cheek is seen!—
His voice my bosom flutters!—
What can it mean—what can it mean?

If he but mentions Cupid,
Or, smiling, calls me “fairy queen,”
I sigh, and look so stupid!—
What can it mean—what can it mean?

198

Oh, mercy! what can ail me?
I'm growing wan and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?

I'm NOT IN LOVE!—No!—Smother
Such a thought at seventeen!
I'll go and ask my mother—
“What can it mean—what can it mean!”

WHERE HUDSON'S WAVE.

Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Cronest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star!
And there, amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,
My fair and gentle Ida dwells,
A nymph of mountain-birth.

The snow-flake that the cliff receives,
The diamonds of the showers,
Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves,
The sisterhood of flowers,

199

Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze,
Her purity define;
Yet Ida 's dearer far than these
To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills. The shades
Of night are on my brow:
Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades,
My soul is with you now!
I bless the star-crowned highlands where
My Ida's footsteps roam:
O for a falcon's wing to bear
Me onward to my home!

AU REVOIR.

Love left one day his leafy bower,
And roamed in sportive vein,
Where Vanity had built a tower,
For Fashion's sparkling train.
The mistress to see he requested,
Of one who attended the door:
“Not home,” said the page, who suggested
That he'd leave his card.—“Au revoir.”

Love next came to a lowly bower:
A maid who knew no guile,

200

Unlike the lady of the tower,
Received him with a smile.
Since then the cot beams with his brightness
Though often at Vanity's door
Love calls, merely out of politeness,
And just leaves his card.—“Au revoir.”

TO MY ABSENT DAUGHTER.

Georgie, come home!—Life's tendrils cling about thee,
Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led.
We miss thee, love!—Home is not home without thee—
The light and glory of the house have fled:
The autumn shiver of the linden-tree
Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!

Georgie, come home!—To parents, brother, sister,
Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall,
Where shines the river through the “Jeannie Vista,”
While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall:
Our spirits falter at the close of day,
And weary night moves tardily away.

201

Georgie, come home!—The winds and waves are singing
The mournful music of their parting song,
To soul and sense the sad foreboding bringing,
Some ill detains thee in the town so long:
Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear,
And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!

Georgie, come home!—The forest leaves are falling,
And dreary visions in thy absence come;
The fountain on the hill in vain is calling
Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home.
And I imagine every passing breeze
Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!

Georgie, come home!—Thy gentle look can banish
The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth;
In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish,
And sorrow soften into mellow mirth.
Return, my darling, never more to roam:
Heart of the Highlands!—Georgie, dear, come home!

202

SONG OF THE SEWING-MACHINE.

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!
Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;
And, unlike the drudges human,
Never weary night or day;
Never shedding tears of sorrow,
Never mourning friends untrue,
Never caring for the morrow,
Never begging work to do.

Poverty brings no disaster!
Merrily I glide along,
For no thankless, sordid master,
Ever seeks to do me wrong:
No extortioners oppress me,
No insulting words I dread—
I 've no children to distress me
With unceasing cries for bread.

I'm of hardy form and feature,
For endurance framed aright;
I'm not pale misfortune's creature,
Doomed life's battle here to fight:

203

Mine 's a song of cheerful measure,
And no under-currents flow
To destroy the throb of pleasure
Which the poor so seldom know.

In the hall I hold my station,
With the wealthy ones of earth,
Who commend me to the nation
For economy and worth,
While unpaid the female labor,
In the attic-chamber lone,
Where the smile of friend or neighbor
Never for a moment shone.

My creation is a blessing
To the indigent secured,
Banishing the cares distressing
Which so many have endured:
Mine are sinews superhuman,
Ribs of oak and nerves of steel—
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman
Born to toil and not to feel.

204

MY LADY WAITS FOR ME.

[_]

SUGGESTED BY A POPULAR GERMAN MELODY.

My lady waits!—'Tis now the hour
When morn unbars her gates!—
My vessel glides beneath the tower
Where now my lady waits.
Her signal flutters from the wall,
Above the friendly sea!
I live but to obey her call!
My lady waits for me.
My lady waits—for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

My lady waits!—No fairer flower
E'er deck'd the floral grove,
Than she, the pride of hall and bower,
The lady of my love!
The eastern hills are flecked with light,
The land-breeze curls the sea!
By love and truth sustained, for flight,
My lady waits for me.
My lady waits—for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

205

MUSIC.

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree,
And so has the shell that complains to the sea,
The lark that sings merrily over the lea,
The reed of the rude shepherd boy!
We revel in music when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run,
And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!

The spirit of melody floats in the air,
Her instruments tuning to harmony there,
Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care,
In blessings sent down from above!
But Nature has music far more to my choice—
And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!
No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice
When breathed by the being I love!

206

THE MILLIONAIRE.

In the upper circles
Moves a famous man
Who has had no equal
Since the world began.
He was once a broker
Down by the Exchange;
He is now a nabob—
Don't you think it strange?

In his low back office,
Near the Bowling Green,
With his brother brokers
He was often seen;—
Shaving and discounting,
Dabbling in the stocks,
He achieved a fortune
Of a million rocks!

Next he formed a marriage
With a lady fair,
And his splendid carriage
Bowled about the square,

207

Where his spacious mansion
Like a palace stood,
Envied and admired
By the multitude.

Then he took the tour
Of the continent,
Bearer of despatches
From the President:
A legation button
By permission wore,
And became that worthy,
An official bore.

Charmed with foreign countries,
Lots of coin to spend,
He a house in London
Took at the West End,
Where he dwelt a season,
And in grandeur shone,
But to all the beau monde
Utterly unknown.

England then was “foggy,
And society
Too aristocratic”
For his—pedigree:

208

So he crossed the channel
To escape the blues,
And became the idol
Of the parvenues.

“Dear, delightful Paris!”
He would often say:
“Every earthly pleasure
One can have for—pay.
Wealth gives high position;
But, when ‘money 's tight,
Man is at a discount,
And it serves him right.”

After years of study
How to cut a dash,
He came home embellished
With a huge—moustache!
Now he is a lion,
All the rage up town,
And gives gorgeous parties
Supervised by—Brown!

The almighty dollar
Is, no doubt, divine,
And he worships daily
At that noble shrine;

209

Fashion is his idol,
Money is his god,
And they both together
Rule him like a rod.

Books, and busts, and pictures,
Are with him a card—
While abroad he bought them
Cheaply—by the yard!
But his sumptuous dinners,
To a turn quite right,
With his boon companions,
Are his chief delight.

There his wit and wassail,
Like twin-currents flow
In his newest stories,
Published—long ago.
His enchanted hearers
Giggle till they weep,
As it is their duty
Till they—fall asleep.

On his carriage panel
Is a blazoned crest,
With a Latin motto
Given him—in jest.

210

His black coach and footman.
Dressed in livery,
Every day at Stewart's
Many crowd to see.

[OMITTED]

Well—in upper-ten-dom
Let him rest in peace,
And may his investments
Cent. per cent. increase:
Though on earth for no one
Cares the millionaire,
So does not exactly
His devoted—heir!

[OMITTED]

There 's a useful moral
Woven with my rhyme,
Which may be considered
At—some other time:
Crockery is not porcelain—
It is merely delf—
And the kind most common
Is the man himself

211

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES H. SANDFORD.

He died, as he had lived, beloved,
Without an enemy on earth;
In word and deed he breathed and moved
The soul of honor and of worth:
His hand was open as the day,
His bearing high, his nature brave;
And, when from life he passed away,
Our hearts went with him to the grave.

What desolation filled our home
When death from us our treasure bore!—
Oh! for the better world to come
Where we shall meet to part no more!
The hope of that sustains us now,
In that we trust on bended knee,
While thus around his faded brow
We twine the wreath of memory.

212

SEVENTY-SIX.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

The clarion call of liberty
Rings on the startled gales!
The rising hills reverberate
The rising of the vales!
Through all the land the thrilling shout
Swift as an arrow goes!
Columbia's champions arm and out
To battle with her foes!

AFTER THE BATTLE

The bugle-song of victory
Is vocal in the air!
The strains, by warrior-voices breathed,
Are echoed by the fair!
The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought,
Soars proudly to the sun,
Proclaiming the “good fight is fought,
And the great victory won!”

213

A PARODY.

On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
And wished that he had stayed away.
We laid him on the beach to dry,
Then served him frizzled on a dish,
A warning to the smaller fry,
As well as all the larger fish.
O—o—o—o—o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
And wished that he had stayed away.

Oh, 't was a scaly thing to haul
This tom-cod from his native spray,
And thus to frighten, one and all,
The finny tribe from Rockaway!
They shun the fisher's hook and line,
And never venture near his net,

214

So, when at Rockaway you dine,
Now not a thing but clams you get!
O—o—o—o—o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
And wished that he had stayed away!

Should critics at my ballad carp,
To them this simple truth I'll say,
The grammar 's quite as good as Sharp
Wrote on the beach of Rockaway:
The tune 's the same that Russell cribbed
With the addition of his O,
Which makes it, or the singer fibbed,
Original and all the go—
O—o—o—o—o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
And wish'd that he had stayed away!

215

THE STAG-HUNT.

The morning is breaking—
The stag is away!
The hounds and the hunters
The signal obey!
The horn bids the echoes
Awake as we go,
And nature is jocund
With hark!—tally-ho!
Hark away!
Tally-ho!

Hark forward!—Tantivy!—
The woodland resounds
With shouts of the sportsmen
To cheer on the hounds!
The horse and his rider,
The deer and his foe,
Dash by to the music
Of hark!—tally-ho!
(He 's at bay!)
Tally-ho!

216

DELIVER US FROM EVIL.

Deliver us from evil, Heavenly Father!
It still besets us wheresoe'er we go!
Bid the bright rays of revelation gather
To light the darkness in our way of wo!
Remove the sin that stains our souls—for ever!
Our doubts dispel—our confidence restore!
Write thy forgiveness on our hearts, and never
Let us in vain petition for it more.

Release us from the sorrows that attend us!
Our nerves are torn—at every vein we bleed!
Almighty Parent! with thy strength befriend us!
Else we are helpless in our time of need!
Sustain us, Lord, with thy pure Holy Spirit—
New vigor give to Nature's faltering frame;
And, at life's close, permit us to inherit
The hope that 's promised in the Saviour's name

217

UNION.

This the word beyond all others,
Makes us love our country most,
Makes us feel that we are brothers,
And a heart-united host!—
With hosanna let our banner
From the house-tops be unfurled,
While the nation holds her station
With the mightiest of the world!
Take your harps from silent willows,
Shout the chorus of the free;
“States are all distinct as billows,
Union one—as is the sea!”

From the land of groves that bore us
He 's a traitor who would swerve!
By the flag now waving o'er us
We the compact will preserve!
Those who gained it and sustained it,
Were unto each other true,

218

And the fable well is able
To instruct us what to do!
Take your harps from silent willows,
Shout the chorus of the free;
“States are all distinct as billows,
Union one—as is the sea!”

WE PART FOR EVER.

Fare thee well—we part for ever!
All regrets are now in vain!
Fate decrees that we must sever,
Ne'er to meet on earth again.
Other skies may bend above thee,
Other hearts may seek thy shrine
But no other e'er will love thee
With the constancy of mine.
Yet farewell—we part for ever!
All regrets are now in vain!
Fate decrees that we must sever,
Ne'er to meet on earth again.
Fare thee well!

Like the shadow on the dial
Lingers still our parting kiss!
Life has no severer trial,
Death no pang to equal this.

219

All the world is now before thee,
Every clime to roam at will,
But within the land that bore thee,
One fond heart will love thee still.
Yet farewell—we part for ever!
All regrets are now in vain!
Fate decrees that we must sever,
Ne'er to meet on earth again.
Fare thee well!

COME TO ME IN CHERRY-TIME.

Come to me in cherry-time,
And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time,
Here among the roses!
When the breezes crisp the tide,
And the lindens quiver,
In our bark we'll safely glide
Down the rocky river!

When the stars, with quiet ray,
All the hill-tops brighten,
Cherry-ripe we'll sing and play
Where the cherries ripen!

220

Then come to me in cherry-time,
And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time
Here among the roses.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JESSIE WILLIS.

After life's eventful mission,
In her truthfulness and worth,
Like a calm and gentle vision
She has passed away from earth.

Lovely she in frame and feature!
Blended purity and grace!—
The Creator in the creature
Glowed in her expressive face!

Angel of a nature human!
Essence of celestial love!
Heart and soul of trusting woman,
Gone to her reward above!

Mourners, dry your tears of sorrow—
Read the golden promise o'er:
There will dawn a cheerful morrow
When we meet to part no more.

221

THANK GOD FOR PLEASANT WEATHER.

Thank God for pleasant weather!
Chant it, merry rills!
And clap your hands together,
Ye exulting hills!
Thank Him, teeming valley!
Thank Him, fruitful plain!
For the golden sunshine,
And the silver rain.

Thank God, of good the giver!
Shout it, sportive breeze!
Respond, oh tuneful river!
To the nodding trees.
Thank Him, bud and birdling!
As ye grow and sing!
Mingle in thanksgiving
Every living thing!

Thank God, with cheerful spirit,
In a glow of love,

222

For what we here inherit,
And our hopes above!—
Universal Nature
Revels in her birth,
When God, in pleasant weather,
Smiles upon the earth!

THE MASTER'S SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE FREEMASONS OF ST. JOHN'S LODGE NO I, NEW YORK.

Members of an order
Ancient as the earth;
All within our border
Realize its worth.
Genial is the greeting
That awaits us there,
On the level meeting,
Parting on the square.
Like the workmen olden,
Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
Ever bear in mind.

Masons never falter,
We each other know,

223

As around the altar
Hand in hand we go;
Loud hosannas singing
To our Source above,
And heart-offerings bringing
To the God of Love.
Like the workmen olden,
Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
Ever bear in mind.

There 's a mystic beauty
In our working plan,
Teaching man his duty
To his fellow-man:
As a band of brothers,
Ever just and true,
Do we unto others
As we 'd have them do.
Like the workmen olden,
Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
Ever bear in mind.

224

THE MISSING SHIP.

She left the port in gallant style,
With sails and streamers full and free!
I watched her course for many a mile
Far out upon the distant sea!
At dusk she lessened to a speck,
And then I could not trace her more!
Sad hearts were beating on her deck,
Sad hearts were beating on the shore.

Two of the outward bound I knew,
One beautiful, the other brave—
The master worthy, and the crew
Born to contend with wind and wave:
For travel some, and some for gain,
And some for health had gone abroad;
Our prayers were with them on the main,
God-speed the ship and all on board!

That vessel never reached the land!
No tidings of her ever came!
Those who beheld her leave the strand,
For years in anguish heard her name!

225

And even now in vain they try
To breathe it with a tranquil lip,
Or hide the moisture of the eye
While speaking of that missing ship.

JEANNIE MARSH.

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,
Where she was born among the cherries;
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,
A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
A dimple in the smile of nature.

226

LUCY.

Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,
My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies
With these sweet numbers throng,
Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,
Trip merrily along.

Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,
Your words will whirl around,
Like foam-beads on the water,
Or rose-leaves on the ground,
Or waltzers in the ball-room.
To music's airy sound.

There is, my gentle Lucy,
In all you say or do,
A bright poetic impulse,
Original and true,
Which Art can not acquire,
And Nature gave to you.

227

The olden fable, Lucy,
My muse to you would bring:
The bird that can but will not,
Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral
To modern memories cling.

Awake the harp, dear Lucy!
Like the electric wire
It will convey to millions
The heart-absorbing fire!
And those who lean to listen
Will linger to admire.

EPITAPH.

All that's beautiful in woman,
All we in her nature love,
All that 's good in all that 's human,
Passed this gate to courts above.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN W. FRANCIS, JR.

He was the pulse-beat of true hearts,
The love-light of fond eyes:
When such a man from earth departs,
'Tis the survivor dies.

228

NATURE'S NOBLEMEN.

A FRAGMENT.

When winter's cold and summer's heat
Shall come and go again,
A hundred years will be complete
Since Marion crossed the main,
And brought unto this wild retreat
His dark-eyed wife of Spain.

He was the founder of a free
And independent band,
Who lit the fires of liberty
The revolution fanned:—
His patent of nobility
Read in the ransomed land!

Around his deeds a lustre throngs,
A heritage designed
To teach the world to spurn the wrongs
Once threatened all mankind:—
To his posterity belongs
The peerage of the mind.

229

A WALL-STREET LYRIC.

John was thought both rich and great—
Dick so-so, but comfortable:
John lived at a splendid rate—
Coach and horses in his stable.
John could ride when Dick should walk—
(This excited people's talk!)—
For John's wealth, Dick's rugged health
Few would exchange if they were able!

Dick was friendly years ago—
With ingratitude John paid him:
Dick found this was always so
When John had a chance to aid him.
John still cut a brilliant dash,
While he could command the cash,
But for Dick, whom John would kick,
At last a change of luck has made him!

John, 'tis said, is “bound” to lose
Lots by rail, and 'bus, and cable!
And the banks his notes refuse,
Now they think his state unstable.

230

This may be a story strange
Of the bulls and bears on 'change,
Where the truth, in age and youth,
Is often a poetic fable!

KING COTTON.

Old Cotton is king, boys—aha!
With his locks so fleecy and white!
He shines among kings like a star!
And his is the sceptre of right,
Boys, of right,
And his is the sceptre of right!

Old Cotton, the king, has no care,
No queen, and no heir to his throne,
No courtiers, his triumphs to share,
He rules his dominions alone,
Boys, alone!
He rules his dominions alone!

Old Cotton, the merry old boy!—
Like smoke from the pipe in his mouth
His years glide away in their joy,
At home, in the warm sunny south,
Boys, the south,
At home, in the warm sunny south!

231

Old Cotton will pleasantly reign
When other kings painfully fall,
And ever and ever remain
The mightiest monarch of all,
Boys, of all,
The mightiest monarch of all!

Then here's to old Cotton, the king!
His true loyal subjects are we:
We'll laugh and we'll quaff and we'll sing,
A jolly old fellow is he,
Boys, is he,
A jolly old fellow is he!

WORDS

ADAPTED TO A SPANISH MELODY.

My lady hath as soft a hand
As any queen in fairy-land;
And, hidden in her tiny boot,
As dainty and as light a foot.
Her foot!
Her little hand and foot!

No star that kindles in the sky
Burns brighter than my lady's eye;

232

And ne'er before did beauty grace
So fair a form, so sweet a face!
Her face!
Her gentle form and face!

My lady hath a golden heart,
Free from the dross of worldly art;
Which, in the sight of heaven above
Is mine with all its hoarded love!
Her love!
Her boundless wealth of love!

LOVE IN EXILE.

[_]

ADAPTED TO A HUNGARIAN MELODY.

My heart I gave you with my hand,
In brighter days than these,
In that down-trodden father-land
Beyond the distant seas,
Where you were all the world to me,
Devoted, fond, and true,
And I, in our prosperity,
Was all the world to you!
Robbed by a tyrant's iron sway,
We're banished from that land away!

233

Sad wanderers from our native home!
A ruler in a foe!
An exiled caravan we roam;
But hand in hand we go!
And thus whatever fate betide
We bless our lot in life,
Since no misfortunes may divide
The husband and the wife!
Here we defy the tyrant's will,
We're happy in each other still!

In dreams still near that porch I stand
To listen to her vow!
Still feel the pressure of her hand
Upon my burning brow!

234

And here, as in the days gone by,
With joy I meet her yet,
And mark the love-light of her eyes,
Fringed with its lash of jet

O fleeting vision of the past!
From memory glide away!
Ye were too beautiful to last,
Too good to longer stay!
But why, attesting evening star,
This sermon sad recall:
“Than love and lose 'tis better far
To never love at all!”

WELCOME HOME.

My Mary's voice!—It is the hour
She promised to be here:
Taught by love's mysterious power,
I know that she is near.
I hear the melody she sings
Beneath our happy dome,
And now the woodland cheerly rings
With Mary's welcome home.

235

My Mary's voice!—I hear it thrill
In rapture on the gale,
As she comes gliding down the hill
To meet me in the vale.
In all the world, on land or sea,
Where'er I chance to roam,
No music is so sweet to me
As Mary's welcome home.

THE SYCAMORE SHADE.

I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye,
Who was born in the shade
The wild sycamore made,
Where the brook sang its song
All the summer-day long,
And the moments went merrily by,
Like the birdlings the moments flew by.

I knew a fair maid, soul-enchanting in grace,
Who replied to my vow,
'Neath the sycamore bough,
“Like the brook to the sea,
Oh, I yearn, love, for thee!”
And she hid in my bosom her face—
In my bosom, her beautiful face.

236

I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide!
Wooed and won in the shade
The wild sycamore made,
Where the brook sings its song
All the summer-day long,
And the moments in harmony glide,
Like our lives they in harmony glide.

UP THE HUDSON.

SONG AND CHORUS.

Up the Hudson!—Fleetly gliding
To our haunts among the trees!
Joy the gallant vessel guiding
With a fresh and cheerful breeze!
Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us—
(Hearts that love us to the core!)
And with fond expressions greet us
As we near the welcome shore!

CHORUS.

Ho! ye inland seas and islands!—
(Echo follows where we go!)
Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!
Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!

237

Up the Hudson!—Rock and river,
Grove and glen pronounce His praise,
Who, of every “Good the Giver,”
Leads us through these pleasant ways!—
Care recedes like water-traces
Of our bark, as on we glide,
Where the hand of nature graces
Homesteads on the Hudson side!

CHORUS.

Ho! ye inland seas and islands!
(Echo follows where we go!)—
Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!
Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!

ONLY THINE.

I know that thou art mine, my love,
I know that thou art fair;
And lovelier than the orange-flowers
That bind thy glossy hair:
That thou hast every gentle grace
Which nature can design—
I know that thou art mine, my love,
I know that I am thine:
Yes, thine, my love,
I'm thine, my love,
Thine, thine, and only thine.

238

I know that thou art true, my love,
And welcome as the breeze
Which comes, with healing on its wings,
Across the summer seas:
That thou hast every winning charm
Which culture may refine—
I know that thou art mine, my love,
I know that I am thine.
Yes, thine, my love,
I'm thine, my love,
Thine, thine, and only thine.

EPIGRAMS.

ON READING GRIM'S ATTACK UPON CLINTON.

'T is the opinion of the town
That Grim 's a silly elf:
In trying to write Clinton down,
He went right down himself.

ON HEARING THAT MORSE DID NOT “INVENT” THE TELEGRAPH

First they said it would not do;
But, when he got through it,
Then they vowed they always knew
That he didn 't do it!
Lies are rolling stones, of course,
But they can 't adhere to Morse.

239

ADDRESS

FOR THE BENEFIT OF WILLIAM DUNLAP.

[_]

(SPOKEN BY MRS. SHARPE)

What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight!
What scene of splendor—conjured here tonight!
What voices murmur, and what glances gleam!
Sure 't is some flattering unsubstantial dream.
The house is crowded—everybody 's here
For beauty famous, or to science dear;
Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux,
Poets and painters—and Heaven only knows
Whom else beside!—And see, gay ladies sit
Lighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit—
(A fairy change—ah, pray continue it.)
Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes,
Full of the spirit of departed times;
Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight,
All gather round me on this brilliant night.
And welcome are ye all. Not now ye come
To speak some trembling poet's awful doom;

240

With frowning eyes a “want of mind” to trace
In some new actor's inexperienced face,
Or e'en us old ones (oh, for shame!) to rate
“With study good—in time—but—never great:”
Not like yon travelled native, just to say
“Folks in this country can not act a play—
They can't 'pon honor!” How the creature starts!
His wit and whiskers came from foreign parts!
Nay, madam, spare your blushes—you I mean—
There—close beside him—oh, you 're full nineteen—
You need not shake your flowing locks at me—
The man, your sweetheart—then I'm dumb, you see;
I'll let him off—you'll punish him in time,
Or I 've no skill in prophecy or rhyme!
A nobler motive fills your bosoms now,
To wreathe the laurel round the silvered brow
Of one who merits it—if any can—
The artist, author, and the honest man.
With equal charms his pen and pencil drew
Bright scenes, to nature and to virtue true.
Full oft upon these boards hath youth appeared,
And oft your smiles his faltering footsteps cheered;
But not alone on budding genius smile,
Leaving the ripened sheaf unowned the while;

241

To boyish hope not every bounty give,
And only youth and beauty bid to live.
Will you forget the services long past—
Turn the old war-horse out to die at last?—
When, his proud strength and noble fleetness o'er,
His faithful bosom dares the charge no more!
Ah, no!—The sun that loves his beams to shed
Round every opening floweret's tender head,
With smiles as kind his genial radiance throws
To cheer the sadness of the fading rose:
Thus he, whose merit claims this dazzling crowd,
Points to the past, and has his claims allowed;
Looks brightly forth, his faithful journey done,
And rests in triumph—like the setting sun.

ADDRESS

FOR THE BENEFIT OF JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

[_]

(SPOKEN BY MRS. CHAPMAN.)

Nay, Mr. Simpson!—'T is not kind—polite—
To shut me out, sir?—I'm in such a fright!—
I can not speak the lines, I'm sure!—Oh, fie!
To say I must!—but if I must—I'll try!

From him I turn to these more generous souls,
The drama's patrons and the friends of Knowles.

242

Why, what a brilliant galaxy is here!
What stars adorn this mimic hemisphere!
Names that shine brightest on our country's page!
The props of science—literature—the stage!
Above—below—around me—woman smiles,
The fairest floweret of these western wilds—
All come to pay the tribute of their praise
To the first dramatist of modern days:
And welcome, to the green home of the free,
With heart and hand, the bard of liberty!

His is a wizard-wand. Its potent spell
Broke the deep slumber of the patriot Tell,
And placed him on his native hills again,
The pride and glory of his fellow-men!
The poet speaks—for Rome Virginia bleeds!
Bold Caius Gracchus in the forum pleads!
Alfred—the Great, because the good and wise,
Bids prostrate England burst her bonds and rise!
Sweet Bess, the Beggar's Daughter, beauty's queen,
Walks forth the joy and wonder of the scene!
The Hunchback enters—kindly—fond—severe—
And last, behold the glorious Wife appear!

These are the bright creations of a mind
Glowing with genius, chastened and refined.

243

In all he 's written, be this praise his lot:
“Not one word, dying, would he wish to blot!

Upon my life 't is no such easy thing
To laud the bard, unless an eagle's wing
My muse would take; and, fixing on the sun
Her burning eye, soar as his own has done!

Did you speak, sir?—What, madam, did he say?
Wrangling!—for shame!—before your wedding-day!
Nay, gentle lady, by thine eyes of blue,
And vermeil blushes, I did not mean you!
Bless me, what friends at every glance I see!
Artists and authors—men of high degree;
Grave politicians, who have weighed each chance,
The next election, and the war with France;
Doctors, just come from curing half a score—
And belles, from killing twice as many more;
Judges, recorders, aldermen, and mayors,
Seated, like true republicans, down stairs!
All wear a glow of sunshine in their faces
Might well become Apollo and the graces,
Except one yonder, with a look infernal,
Like a blurred page from Fanny Kemble's Journal!

But to my task. The muse, when I began,
Spoke of the writer—welcome ye the man.

244

Genius, at best, acts but an humble part,
Unless obedient to an honest heart.
And such a one is his, for whom, to-night,
These walls are crowded with this cheering sight
Ye love the poet—oft have conned him o'er,
Knew ye the man, ye 'd love him ten times more.
Ye critics, spare him from your tongue and quill;
Ye gods, applaud him; and ye fops—be still!

ADDRESS

FOR THE BENEFIT OF HENRY PLACIDE.

[_]

(SPOKEN BY MRS. HILSON.)

The music's done. Be quiet, Mr. Durie!
Your bell and whistle put me in a fury!
Don't ring up yet, sir—I've a word to say
Before the curtain rises for the play!

Your pardon, gentlefolks, nor think me bold,
Because I thus our worthy prompter scold:
'T was all feigned anger. This enlightened age
Requires a ruse to bring one on the stage!

Well, here I am, quite dazzled with the sight
Presented on this brilliant festal night!

245

Where'er I turn, whole rows of patrons sit—
The house is full—box, gallery, and pit!
Who says the New-York public are unkind?
I know them well, and plainly speak my mind—
“It is our right,” the ancient poet sung—
He knew the value of a woman's tongue!
With this I will defend ye—and rehearse
Five glorious Acts of yours—in modern verse;
Each one concluding with a generous deed
For Dunlap, Cooper, Woodworth, Knowles, Placide!
'T was nobly done, ye patriots and scholars!
Besides—they netted twenty thousand dollars!
“A good round sum,” in these degenerate times—
“This bank-note world,” so called in Halleck's rhymes;
And proof conclusive, you will frankly own,
In liberal actions New-York stands alone.

Though roams he oft 'mong green poetic bowers,
The actor's path is seldom strewn with flowers.
His is a silent, secret, patient toil—
While others sleep, he burns the midnight oil—
Pores o'er his books—thence inspiration draws,
And waste's his life to merit your applause!
O ye, who come the laggard hours to while,
And with the laugh-provoking muse to smile,

246

Remember this: the mirth that cheers you so,
Shows but the surface—not the depths below!
Then judge not lightly of the actor's art,
Who smiles to please you, with a breaking heart!
Neglect him not in his hill-climbing course,
Nor treat him with less kindness than your horse:
Up hill, indulge him—down the steep descent,
Spare—and don't urge him when his strength is spent;
Impel him briskly o'er the level earth,
But in the stable don't forget his worth!
So with the actor—while you work him hard,
Be mindful of his claims to your regard.

But hold!—methinks some carping cynic here
Will greet my homely image with a sneer.
Well—let us see—I would the monster view:
Man with umbrageous whiskers, is it you?
Ah, no—I was mistaken: every brow
Beams with benevolence and kindness now;
Beauty and fashion all the circles grace—
And scowling Envy here were out of place!
On every side the wise and good appear—
The very pillars of the State are here!
There sit the doctors of the legal clan;
There all the city's rulers, to a man;
Critics and editors, and learned M. D.'s,
Buzzing and busy, like a hive of bees;

247

And there, as if to keep us all in order,
Our worthy friends the Mayor and the Recorder!

Well, peace be with you! Friends of native worth,
Yours is the power to call it into birth;
Yours is the genial influence smiles upon
The budding flowerets opening to the sun.
They all around us court your fostering hand—
Rear them with care, in beauty they'll expand—
With grateful odors well repay your toil,
Equal to those sprung from a foreign soil;
And more Placides bask in your sunshine then,
The first of actors and the best of men.

251

The Maid of Saxony;
or,
Who's the Traitor?

An Opera in Three Acts.

[Ho! Hans!—Why, Hans!—You Hans, I say]

GERTRUDE.
Ho! Hans!—Why, Hans!—You Hans, I say!
Awake!—Here'll be the deuce to pay!
For coming guests get fire and lights,
And help me put the room to rights!
(Hans stretches and yawns.)
Hans!—I 've no patience with the lout!
What, Hans, on earth are you about?
(Shakes Hans, who yawns again.)

252

Did ever room look so forlorn?
Hans!—Hark! I hear the postman's horn!

(Sounds of a horn in the distance. Hans stretches, yawns, and rises.)
HANS.
What der tuyvel is der matter,
Dus you chitter—chatter—clatter?

GERTRUDE
(aside.)
His impudence can not be borne!

HANS.
What's dat I hear?

GERTRUDE.
The postman's horn!
(Sounds of horn again.)
Whose notes o'er moor aud mountain flung—

HANS.
Are not so noisy as your tongue!

(Horn sounds as though approaching; whips are heard, and the post-coach is supposed to arrive outside with Passengers. Enter the Attendants, with portmanteaus, carpet-bags, etc., and Passengers.)

[Rejoice! rejoice! we're safe and sound]

CHORUS.
Rejoice! rejoice! we're safe and sound,
And shelter for the night have found,
Within this snug abode!

253

The dust may rise, the rain may fall—
Beneath this roof we'll smile at all
The dangers of the road!

SOLO.
Then let the cheerful board be spread;
To supper first, and then to bed,
Till birds their songs begin:
Thus, whether sleeping or awake,
The weary traveller will take
His comfort at his inn.

CHORUS.
Rejoice! rejoice! we're safe, etc.

259

[The life for me is a soldier's life ]

SONG.

The life for me is a soldier's life!
With that what glories come!
The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,
The roll of the battle-drum;
The brilliant array, the bearing high,
The pluméd warriors' tramp;
The streaming banners that flout the sky,
The gleaming pomp of the camp.

260

CHORUS.

A soldier's life is the life for me!
With that what glories come!
The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,
The roll of the battle-drum!

263

[Confusion!—Again rejected ]

SONG—KARL.

Confusion!—Again rejected
By the maid I fondly love!
Illusion!—In soul dejected!
Jealous fears my bosom move.
Dear Sophia!—Hope's deceiver!
Whom I love; but love in vain!
Can I to my rival leave her?
No—the thought distracts my brain!

Love—revenge!—Oh, how I falter!
Passion's throes unman me quite:
Now he leads her to the altar—
How I tremble at the sight!
Hold, tormentors! cease to tear me!
All in vain I gasp for breath!
Hated rival—scorn I bear thee
Which can only end in death!

265

[When I behold that lowering brow]

When I behold that lowering brow,
Which indicates the mind within,
I marvel much that woman's vow
A man like that could ever win!
Yet it is said, in rustic bower,
(The fable I have often heard)
A serpent has mysterious power
To captivate a timid bird.

This precept then I sadly trace—
That love 's a fluttering thing of air;
And yonder lurks the viper base,
Who would my gentle bird ensnare!

266

'T was in the shades of Eden's bower
This fascination had its birth,
And even there possessed the power
To lure the paragon of earth!

269

['T is a soldier's rigid duty]

'T is a soldier's rigid duty
Orders strictly to obey;
Let not, then, the smile of beauty
Lure us from the camp away.
In our country's cause united,
Gallantly we'll take the field;
But, the victory won, delighted
Singly to the fair we yield!

Soldiers who have ne'er retreated,
Beauty's tear will sure beguile;
Hearts that armies ne'er defeated,
Love can conquer with a smile.
Who would strive to live in story,
Did not woman's hand prepare
Amaranthine wreaths of glory
Which the valiant proudly wear?

271

[The spring-time of love is both happy and gay ]

SONG—FREDERICA.

The spring-time of love is both happy and gay,
For Joy sprinkles blossoms and balm in our way;
The sky, earth, and ocean, in beauty repose,
And all the bright future is couleur de rose!

The summer of love is the bloom of the heart,
When hill, grove, and valley their music impart;
And the pure glow of heaven is seen in fond eyes,
As lakes show the rainbow that's hung in the skies!

The autumn of love is the season of cheer—
Life's mild Indian summer, the smile of the year—
Which comes when the golden-ripe harvest is stored,
And yields its own blessings, repose, and reward.

272

The winter of love is the beam that we win,
While the storm howls without, from the sunshine within.
Love's reign is eternal—the heart is his throne,
And he has all seasons of life for his own.

278

[From my fate there's no retreating— ]

DUET—LANISKA AND FREDERICA.

From my fate there's no retreating—
Love commands, and I obey;
How with joy my heart is beating
At the fortunes of to-day!
Life is filled with strange romances—
Love is blind, the poets say;
When he comes unsought, the chance is
Of his own accord he'll stay.

279

Love can ne'er be forced to tarry;
Chain him—he'll the bonds remove:
Paired, not matched, too many marry—
All should wed alone for love.
Let him on the bridal-even
Trim his lamp with constant ray;
And the flame will light to heaven,
When the world shall fade away!

[Lads and lasses, trip away]

CHORUS OF PEASANTS.

Lads and lasses, trip away
To the cheerful roundelay!
At the sound of tambourine,
Care is banished from the scene,
And a happy train we bound,
To the pipe and tabour's sound.
Merrily, merrily trip away,
'T is a nation's holiday!

280

Merrily, merrily, merrilie,
Bound with spirits light and free!
Let 's be jocund while we may;
And dance—dance—dance—
And dance the happy hours away!

When the gleaming line shall come,
To the sound of trump and drum;
Headed by advancing steeds,
Whom the king in person leads—
Let us hail him in his state,
For the king's both good and great!
Merrily, merrily trip away,
'T is a nation's holiday!
Merrily, merrily, merrilie,
Bound with spirits light and free!
Let 's be jocund, now we may,
And dance—dance—dance—
And dance the happy hours away!

288

[All hail the king!—Long live the king]

CHORUS.
(Grenadiers and all the Characters.)
All hail the king!—Long live the king!
Our hope in peace and war!
With his renown let Prussia ring—
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
He is the pillar of the state!
Our sword and buckler he!
Heaven give to Frederick the Great
Eternal victory!

290

[Home, home, home—]

CHORUS.
(German air.)

Home, home, home—
Dear, lost home!
Though here we pine in slavery,
Our hearts are all in Saxony,
Our girlhood's happy home!

Land of the free and bold,
To hopeless bondage sold!
While abject toil and fear
Enchain thy daughters here,
We yearn for thee,
O Saxony!—
For freedom, love, and home!

(The Girls attempt to waltz to the music; but, overcome by their feelings, they resume their tasks.
SOPHIA.

Home, home, home—
Dear, lost home!
Though cares oppress us fearfully,
We exiles carol cheerfully
Of girlhood's happy home!

Beneath our native sky,
The hours went swiftly by;

291

While on a foreign soil,
Our youth consumes in toil!
We yearn for thee,
O Saxony!—
For freedom, love, and home!

301

[Sky, stream, moorland, and mountain ]

SONG AND CHORUS.

[_]

(German air.)

SOPHIA AND FACTORY GIRLS.

Sky, stream, moorland, and mountain,
Tree, cot, spire, and dome,
Breeze, bird, vineyard, and fountain,
Kindred, friends, country, and home!—
Home, home, home, home!—
These are the blessings of home!

(The Factory-Girls now waltz cheerfully to the music.)

Hope how fondly I cherish,
Dear land, to see thee once more!
O Fate! let me not perish
Far from my own native shore!
Home, home, home, home!—
Saxony, Liberty's home!

(The Girls waltz as before, etc.)

Those who freedom inherit,
Bow not to Tyranny's throne;
Then, friends, in a kind spirit,
Judge of my love by your own.
Home, home, home, home!—
The land of the heart is our home!

303

[Dared these lips my sad story impart]

SONG—KARL.
Dared these lips my sad story impart,
What relief it would give to my heart!

304

Though the scenes of past years as they rise,
Bring the dews of remorse to my eyes,
Yet, oh hear me, and ever conceal
What in agony now I reveal!—

KING.
Speak freely, Karl—

KARL.

And behold, while I throw off the mask!
Ah, no, no, no, no, no—
I shrink in despair from the task!

In the page of my life there appears
A sad passage that 's written in tears!
Could but that be erased, I would give
All the remnant of days I may live:
Yet the cause of the cloud on my brow
I have never disclosed until now—

KING.
Say on, Karl—

KARL.
Here behold!—It is branded in flame!
Ah, no, no, no, no, no—
I shrink in despair from my shame!

310

[Fiery Mars, thy votary hear ]

SONG—HAROLD.

Fiery Mars, thy votary hear!
Weave for me a wreath of glory!
When I rest upon my bier,
Let my memory live in story!
Aid my sword in time of war!
In my country's cause I wield it—
Only with the breath I draw,
Will I to the foeman yield it!

311

[Ah! Love is not a garden-flower ]

SONG—SOPHIA.

Ah! Love is not a garden-flower,
That shoots from out the cultured earth;
That needs the sunbeam and the shower,
Before it wakens into birth:
It owns a richer soil and seed,
And woman's heart supplies them both,
Where it will spring, without a weed,
Consummate in its growth.

These leaves will perish when away
From either genial sun or shower;
Not so will wither and decay
Celestial Love's perennial flower.
'T is our companion countless miles,
Through weal or woe in after years;
And though it flourishes in smiles,
It blooms as fresh in tears!

313

[The King, the princes of the court ]

DUET—SOPHIA AND FREDERICA.

The king, the princes of the court,
With lords and ladies bright,
Will in their dazzling state resort
To this grand fête to-night:
The merry-hearted and the proud
Will mingle in the glittering crowd,
Who glide with Fashion's sparkling stream
Where one I love will shine supreme!—
La ra la, la ra la, la la la, etc.

The cavaliers of Italy,
The gay gallants of France,
With Spain and England's chivalry,
Will join the merry dance.
The court of Love—the camp of Mars,
Fair Prussian dames, “earth-treading stars,”
To music's strain will float in light,
Where one I love will beam to-night!—
La ra la, la ra la, la la la, etc.

315

[Victoria! victoria ]

CHORUS.

Victoria! victoria!
The Saxon maid is free!—
Victoria! victoria! etc.

321

[This gloomy cell is my abode at last ]

DUET—SOPHIA AND COUNT.

SOPHIA.
This gloomy cell is my abode at last;
The sole reward for all my perils past.
T is strange that love within the breast should dwell,
When hope, dejected, bids the heart farewell!

322

COUNT.
What sounds are these? No human form is near,
And yet that well-known voice I faintly hear,
'T was sure the fancied music of the mind,
Whose breathings mingled with the midnight wind.

BOTH.
Yes!—'T is lost!—'T is gone!—Hark! it comes again,
Like distant echoes of a melting strain:
In melody her/his spirit floats around!—
That voice!—These walls are vocal with the sound.
I hear its music near me still!—'T is there!
Sure 't is some gentle spirit of the air!

323

[Hark! 'tis the deep-toned midnight bell ]

BRAVURA—SOPHIA.

Hark! 'tis the deep-toned midnight bell,
That bids a sad and long farewell
To the departed hour;
How like a dirge its music falls
Within these cold and dreary walls,
Where stern misfortunes lower!

Ah! vainly through these prison-bars
Glide the pale beams of moon and stars,
To cheer this lonely tower;
From evening's close to dawn of day,
Hope's star sheds not a single ray
To light the solemn hour!

Alas! what pangs must guilt conceal,
When innocence like mine can feel
So crushed in such an hour!
I know not whether love be crime—
But if it is, in every clime
'T is woman's fatal dower!

327

[Once, mild and gentle was my heart ]

SONG—KARL.

[_]

(German air.)

Once, mild and gentle was my heart!
My youth from guile was free!
But when love's bonds were torn apart,
What joy had life for me?
No words, no threats could daunt my soul,
My reckless spirit spurned control
Till swayed by smiles from thee!

A wanderer o'er the desert sand,
An outcast on the sea,
An exile from my native land—
What 's all the world to me?
Each friend misfortune proved a foe:
I scorned the high—despised the low—
Till swayed by smiles from thee!

330

[The gentle bird on yonder spray ]

SONG—LANISKA.

The gentle bird on yonder spray,
That sings its little life away;
The rose-bud bursting into flower,
And glittering in the sun and shower;
The cherry-blossom on the tree—
Are emblematic all of thee.

Yon moon that sways the vassal streams,
Like thee in modest beauty beams;
So shines the diamond of the mine,
And the rock-crystal of the brine;
The gems of heaven, the earth and sea,
Are blended, all, dear maid, in thee!

339

[That law's the perfection of reason ]

SONG—WEDGEWOOD.

That law's the perfection of reason,
No one in his senses denies;
Yet here is a trial for treason
Will puzzle the wigs of the wise.
The lawyers who bring on the action
On no single point will agree,
Though proved to their own satisfaction
That tweedle-dum 's not tweedle-dee!

To settle disputes, in a fury
The sword from the scabbard we draw;
But reason appeals to a jury,
And settles—according to law.
Then hey for the woolsack!—for never
Without it can nations be free;
But trial by jury for ever!
And for tyranny—fiddle-de-dee!

341

[With mercy let justice]

CHORUS.
With mercy let justice
To mortals be given,
For Justice and Mercy
Are twin-born of heaven!

343

[What outrage more, at whose command ]

SOLO AND CHORUS.

KARL.
What outrage more, at whose command
Am I thus shackled and restrained?—
What mockery 's this? In this free land
The subject's rights should be maintained.

344

CHORUS.
The traitor braves the king's command!

KARL.
Those whom the lion would ensnare,
Should of his reckless fangs beware!
The forest-monarch, held at bay,
Will turn and spring upon his prey!

CHORUS.
Thus bold will guilt full oft appear!—
The sword of Justice let him fear!

WEDGEWOOD
(as KARL is placed in the witness-box.)
Silence in the court!

CHORUS.
With mercy let justice
To mortals be given;
For Mercy and Justice
Are twin-born of heaven.

351

[The javelin from an unseen hand ]

QUINTETTE AND CHORUS.

KARL.
The javelin from an unseen hand
Was sent that laid me low!—
Behold exposed the felon's brand
Unto my mortal foe!

CHORUS.
Who 's now the traitor? etc.

352

[Rejoice! our loyal hearts we bring]

CHORUS.
Rejoice! our loyal hearts we bring
As free-will offerings to the king!

SOLO—SOPHIA TO KING.
Oh, let me to thy ermine cling
In gratitude, (kneels,)
God bless the king!

CHORUS.
God save the king!
Long live the king! etc.

356

[Our hearts are bounding with delight ]

FINALE.

Our hearts are bounding with delight!
'T is Freedom's jubilee!
For right has triumphed over might—
The bond again are free!
Hurrah!—hurrah!
Let the welkin ring!
To Justice and Liberty
Pæans we sing!