University of Virginia Library

GRAVE OF THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.

INVOCATION TO GREECE.

Hail holy clime!—where Science rear'd her throne,
And kindred arts like constellations shone,
Ere from her fostering wolf's caresses dread,
Rome, savage infant, rear'd her rival head;
Nurse of the bard, the hero, and the sage,
Too long the victim of oppression's rage;
Enslaved and fetter'd by the Paynim throng,
Sworn foes of science, and unknown to song;
In mockery crown'd with persecution's thorn,
And crush'd till courage from despair was born:
We see thee bursting from thy lingering trance,
Snatch the dark helm, and poise the quivering lance;
From gather'd rust thine ancient armour clear,
And with thy clarion wake the warrior's ear.—
—Rear, as at Salamis, thy lofty crest!
Pluck the red garland from Platea's breast!
Still Marathon that victor-shout retains,
Whose earthquake echo shook a thousand plains;
Still for thy temples Leuctra's laurel blooms,
And buried heroes rend their vaulted tombs;
With lightning glance thy fields of blood explore,
And stalk impervious where the life-tides pour;
With awful smile the impetuous souls survey,
With airy shield protect their dauntless way;
Their whisper'd voice unearthly rage inspires,
And bids the sons be worthy of their sires.—
—Lo! peaceful shades from blest Elysium throng,
In spectral ranks to guard the land of song;
Predict with withering curse its foemen's doom,
And blend the crescent with the Persian plume.—
—Dark frowns the Stagyrite;—with brow of thought
Glides the meek martyr from his hemlock draught;
The vine-clad Tean rears his sparkling bowl,
And quaffs deep vengeance on the Moslem soul;
Indignant Pericles, with haughty pain,
Marks the usurping mosque, and turban'd train;—
Fast by the Parthenon sad Phidias sighs,
And scornful Homer rolls his sightless eyes,
Hurls tuneful curses on the insulting foe,
And bids anew the flames of Ilion glow.
—Hail land sublime!—array'd in classic robe,
Mankind thy pupil, and thy school the globe!
Throngs taught by thee, in trembling ardour wait
Thy doubtful struggle with disastrous fate.—
—Yet one there was, who not with passive song,
Beheld thy conflict, or bemoan'd thy wrong;—
Bold to thine aid the lyre and sword he brought,
And doubly arm'd, thy front of danger sought;
Rear'd thy red banner o'er the Egean wave,
Unseal'd his coffers, and his spirit gave.
Cold rests his heart within thy hallow'd bowers,
And Helle's maidens wreath its shrine with flowers.—
—Genius of Greece! who drank his latest sigh,
Raise toward the Queen of Isle's thy mourning eye;
She marks the sons who round her sceptre crowd,
Stern to their sins, but of their talents proud:
Say, “for my sake thy wayward bard forgive,
Since, bound with mine, his deathless name shall live;
Breathe o'er his filial urn one sorrowing sigh,
And in his glory let his frailties die.”

TO THE MOON.

Hail beauteous and inconstant!—Thou who roll'st
Thy silver car around the realm of night,
Queen of soft hours! how fanciful art thou
In equipage and vesture.—Now thou com'st
With slender horn piercing the western cloud,
As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs
With trump and festival saluted thee;
Anon thy waxing crescent 'mid the host
Of constellations, like some fairy boat,
Glides o'er the waveless sea; then as a bride
Thou bow'st thy cheek behind a fleecy veil,
Timid and fair; or, bright in regal robes,
Dost bid thy full-orb'd chariot proudly roll,
Sweeping with silent rein the starry path
Up to the highest node,—then plunging low
To seek dim Nadir in his misty cell.—
—Lov'st thou our Earth, that thou dost hold thy lamp
To guide and cheer her, when the wearied Sun
Forsakes her?—Sometimes, roving on, thou shedd'st
The eclipsing blot ungrateful, on that sire
Who feeds thy urn with light,—but sinking deep
'Neath the dark shadow of the earth dost mourn
And find thy retribution.
—Dost thou hold
Dalliance with Ocean, that his mighty heart
Tosses at thine approach, and his mad tides,
Drinking thy favoring glance, more rudely lash
Their rocky bulwark?—Do thy children trace
Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb
Even as we gaze on thee?—With Euclid's art
Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they span,
Her sun loved tropicks—and her spreading seas
Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they mark
Where India's cliffs the trembling cloud invade,
Or Andes with his fiery banner flouts
The empyrean,—where old Atlas towers,—
Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage pour'd
Terrors on Rome.—Thou, too, perchance, hast nursed
Some bold Copernicus, or fondly call'd
A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls
Which shone in darkness, though our darkness fail'd
To comprehend them.—Can'st thou boast, like earth,
A Kepler, skilful pioneer and wise?—
A sage to write his name among the stars
Like glorious Herschel?—or a dynasty
Like great Cassini's, which from sire to son
Transmitted Science as a birthright seal'd?
—Rose there some lunar Horrox,—to whose glance
Resplendent Venus her adventurous course
Reveal'd, even in his boyhood?—some La Place
Luminous as the skies he sought to read?—
Thou deign'st no answer,—or I fain would ask
If since thy bright creation, thou hast seen
Ought like a Newton, whose admitted eye
The arcana of the universe explored?
Light's subtle ray its mechanism disclosed,
The impetuous comet his mysterious lore
Unfolded,—system after system rose,
Eternal wheeling thro' the immense of space,
And taught him of their laws.—Even angels stood
Amaz'd, as when in ancient times they saw
On Sinai's top, a mortal walk with God.—
—But he to whom the secrets of the skies
Were whisper'd—in humility adored,
Breathing with childlike reverence the prayer,
—“When on yon heavens, with all their orbs, I gaze,
Jehovah!—what is man?”

THE CORAL INSECT.

WITH WILD FLOWERS TO A SICK FRIEND.

Rise from the dells where ye first were born,
From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn,
Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,
And haste away with your brows of light.—
—Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,
On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down,
Shrink not,—for His finger your heads hath bow'd,
Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.—
—The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,
Have meted your robes with a miser's eye,
And check'd the blush of your blossoms free,—
With a gentler friend your home shall be;
To a kinder ear ye may tell your tale
Of the zephyr's kiss and the scented vale;—
Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh
Is health to the bosom on which ye die.

ANNA BOLEYN.

The Axe, with which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, is still preserved in the Tower of London.

BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.

There was an open grave,—and many an eye
Look'd down upon it. Slow the sable hearse
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare
The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.
—There seem'd a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.—
—There was a train
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly,
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers,
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came
With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell:—
She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend,
And tears of those who at her side were nursed
By the same mother.
Ah! and one was there,
Who, ere the fading of the summer rose,
Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death
Arose between them. The pale lover watch'd
So close her journey through the shadowy vale,
That almost to his heart, the ice of death
Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush
Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye
Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd
For that slight breath which held her from the tomb,
Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun
Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast,
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.
—Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch,
Came visions of that matron form which bent
With nursing tenderness, to sooth and bless
Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand
In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved
The sainted mother, would redeem the child.
Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resign'd? that eloquence
So fondly urging those whose hearts were full
Of sublunary happiness, to seek
A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,
Which from the marble lip in life's last strife
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?
—Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand
Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks
Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits
The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart
In praise to Him, who gave the victory.

ON A QUESTION PROPOSED

AT THE INSTITUTION OF THE ABBA SICARD, IN PARIS, “LES SOURDS-MUETS SE TROUVENT-ILS MALHERVREUX?”

Addressed to an interesting and intelligent little girl, deprived of the powers of speech and hearing.

THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE.

Ah! who can tell what horrors urge the wretch
To madness, who infuriate spurns the gift
Of this sweet life?—For life is sweet to him
Who 'neath the ceaseless lash of bondage toils,—
Sweet to the sick man, to the galley-slave,
To him who scorches 'neath a vertic sun,
Or feels the breath of everlasting snows
Congeal his soul.—Yes! life is sweet to him
Who through his dungeon-grate the scanty ray
Hails, though it serve him but to mark the chains
Gnawing his wasted flesh.—The mariner,
Buoy'd on some fragment of his broken ship,
Buffets the wave.—Wherefore?—His all is lost,
And the cold world is but a wreck to him,
Yet his blanch'd lip above the billow sighs
That life is sweet.—
Ah! life is sweet to him,
The most despised and isolated wretch
Who holds nor tie, nor brotherhood to man.
Ye cannot wrest it from the vilest brute
Or noisome reptile, but they shun with cries
Your purpose, or uplift their feeble shield,
As best they may, to guard their dearest boon.
—But man, creation's idol!—he, for whom
Yon skies were garnish'd, and their nightly lamps
Hung out,—fair earth a nursing-mother made,
And ocean chain'd,—and air surcharged with balm,
If but a rude blast rend his painted sails,
Down, down some gulf he hurls his bark, and shuns
The port of heaven.—Yet oh,—condemn him not!—
Ye cannot tell how bare the scourge may lay
The soul's quick nerve,—how fierce the passions boil,
How dark may be the hiding of God's face,
Or what demoniac forms may seize the helm
Of reason, ere with suicidal haste
He leap that slippery verge, which scarce firm faith
Can tread unshuddering.—
God of power and might!
Have pity on the feeble hearts that shrink
From transient wo, and so instruct them here
To bear life's discipline, that death at last,
Led on by nature, not by rashness urged,
May ope the gate of everlasting life.

THE RIVAL KINGS OF MOHEGAN,

CONTRASTED WITH THE RIVAL BROTHERS OF PERSIA.

—Crowns are beset with thorns,
And who can tell what woes their hollow orb
Binds on the temples!—Yet to taste that wo,
Ambition toils,—Pride strives,—Affection dies
'Neath Hatred's frown. Thus stood the red-brow'd kings,
Brothers and rivals. On their father's throne
Each strove to sit. Justly the nation gave
The sovereignty, where Nature's voice decreed
The birthright. So the eldest rose to rule
His brethren of the forest. In their cares,
Pursuits and dangers, with true heart he shared
An equal part. The hunter's toil he loved,
Like him, the patriarch's favourite son, who bore
The cheering perfume of the scented field
Within his garments. But the younger prince
Adher'd to that pale race, who on his lands,
Encroaching silently, like Rachel, sought
By arts, and counterfeited tones to wrest
The sceptre from him. He, with flattering words
Still sooth'd their avarice,—sparing not to vow
That o'er these mountains, and uncultured vales,
Tall crested woods, and streams which they desired
Their sway should reach.
Like Absalom he pined
Before his brethren,—“Oh! that I were judge
And ruler o'er you, that each one who felt
Wrong or injustice, unto me might come,
And I would do him right.”
—But the wise chiefs
Look'd gravely on him,—and the hoary head
Shook its white locks at the usurping prince.
—Sometimes when white men lured his private ear
To close debate, they to their swords would point,
Vaunting these soon could make a vacant throne;
And raise them high in eagerness, and say
His cause was theirs.—But ever at the word
A heavy sternness o'er his features came,
And terribly his dark eye beam'd reproof.
“One mother nursed us! and we hold it sin
To shed a brother's blood.” Then would he turn
In anger, and in grief, as one who mourns
Temptation most, when urged by those he loves.
For well the invaders' courtly speech be prized,
Their arts, and lore, which shamed the forest sons;—
And proud of English costume,—with the gaude
Of epauletted shoulder, and rich belt
Whence hung the glittering sword, was pleased to flaunt.
—The people loved their monarch, who, close-wrapt
In robe of pliant deer-skin, with bold brow
Shaded by coronet of feathery plumes,
Would wheel the war-dance in its frantic round
Amid the flashing of their midnight fires,
Or in grave council, with high eloquence
Control the spirit.
—But the shaft of death
Regards not titles, and the forest king
Fell like his lowliest subject. Light of heart,
The expectant prince received a nation's vows,
And rear'd himself to reign. But watchful Fate,
As if determin'd still to mar the joys
Of him who dealt in guile, with hasty hand
Number'd his days. The royal forehead droop'd
To dire disease, and the slight diadem
Disown'd its brief companionship.—One grave
Open'd for both.—Whom rivalry disjoin'd,
Nature in burial, as in birth made one.
Grief mark'd their obsequies, and the sad tribe
Like orphans mourning, heap'd the hallow'd mould.
—Not thus the Persian brothers, fired with rage
Of mad ambition for their father's throne,
Respected kindred ties. Not like those kings
Nurtured by nature o'er her wilds to roam
And to her teachings bow,—their rash swords spared
That blood which through their rival breasts was pour'd
From the same fountain.
—On Cunaxa's plain
The war they raised. Bold Artaxerxes brought
His scythe-arm'd chariots, and his countless troops,
Egyptians, by their ample bucklers hid,
And white-robed Persians with uncover'd heads
And glittering armour. Fiery Cyrus came,
Proud of his allied Greeks to blood inured
On Peloponnesus,—while his furious voice
The Paphlagonian cavalry inspired,
With rage like his.—
But see! his life-tide flows
Beneath his brother's javelin,—and he falls
Foaming, like him of Bosworth, while his teeth
Gnashing vindictive, testify the force
Of hatred built on love.

THE DEPARTED BENEFACTRESS.

MOURN YE THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD?

Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey,
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way,
O'er arid sands, with want opprest,
Who toiling knows no place of rest:
Mourn ye, because the long sought shrine
He clasps in ecstacy divine,
And lays his load of sin and gloom
Repentant on his Saviour's tomb?—
—Behold yon ship with wrecking form
Which vails her proud mast to the storm,
Wild winds and waves with headlong force
Impel her on her dang'rous course;
The pallid crew their hope resign
And powerless view the foaming brine;
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies,
And in her haven moor'd she lies?—
—Emerging from the field of strife
Where slaughter'd throngs have sold their life,
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins,
Who scarce his noble steed restrains,
The death-mist swims before his eyes
As toward the well-known spot he flies,
Where every fond affection lies.—
Mourn ye, because to home restored
Woman's white arms enwrap her lord,
While tears and smiles with varying grace,
Float o'er his cherub offspring's face?
—Yet on his path of toil and wo
The pilgrim from his shrine must go,
The ship before the tempest strain,
The warrior seek the field again,
But he, whose flesh the tomb hath found,
Whose spirit soars the ethereal round,
From him hath change and sorrow fled,—
—Why mourn ye then the righteous dead?—

DEATH OF WOLSEY.

At Leicester Abbey, November 29th, 1530.

PARTING OF LOVERS.

Ah! who shall paint the anguish that attends
The parting of fond hearts? The tear suppress'd
Lest it awake its fellow,—the long sob
Of agony,—the shade involving all
Fair objects, save one brow alone,—where seems
Centred all light and beauty.—When that turns
From the fix'd gaze,—when in dim distance fades
The form,—the shadowy mantle,—the white sail,—
Or when the echo of receding wheels
Dies on the ear—(not like those wheels desired,
When Sisera's mother from the lattice look'd,
Eager the pompous chariot to behold)—
Then the wild egress of imprison'd grief
Defies control.—How sacred every spot
That speaks of the departed,—every scene
Of mutual intercourse,—and every seat
Where he reclined!—The flower which he hath touch'd,
The page, o'er which his eye enamour'd hung,—
Robe, ring, or portrait press upon the heart
Even as his representatives, to swell
The tide of tender sorrow. Every word
Which he hath utter'd,—every varying tone,
And e'en each change of feature, are consign'd
As gems to Memory's casket. Thither flies
The lone heart in its poverty, as turns
The miser to his hoard.
—Yet he who goes,
Hath but the lighter burden. The bright charms
Of Nature's landscape,—graceful hills, and streams
Sparkling and musical,—or crested wave,
Or e'en the buffet of the wintry storm,
The tossing ship,—the busy face of man,—
And pride, that shames the weakness of the heart,
Parry the shafts of anguish.—Still, at times,
Deep sadness overwhelms the wanderer's soul;
And the light tongue of those who idly strive
To laugh away dejection,—is a probe
To the fresh, quivering wound.—Perchance, the morn
Whose kindling blushes tint the uncolour'd sky,
Reminds him of that roseate brow,—now pale,
And bloodless for his sake.—The evening star
Restores those blissful walks,—when first he found
That Heaven, as with a wreath of Eden's flowers,
Had bound their sympathies.—The full-orb'd moon
Reveals upon her silver page, those hours
So exquisite to thought,—when speech was sighs;
And new-born Love, like some fair infant roused
From pictured dreams, mingled the timid tear
With the soft certainty of waking bliss.—
Perchance, close-wrapt in the still arms of night,
The lover, when no prying eye is near,
Draws from his bosom's cell, a shining tress,
And presses to his lips; or o'er the brow
Fresh from the pencil of the artist, hangs
And thinks of her, whose prayer may never rise
Without his name.—Yet there 's a sex in hearts,
One loves with strong and passionate embrace;
The other trusts its all,—stakes life on love,—
With deathless ardour clasps one idol-prop,
And in its breaking,—breaks.

THE FUNERAL.

I saw a dark-robed train, who sadly bare
A lifeless burden toward the house of God.
I enter'd there,—for I had heard 'twas good
To see the end of man. Then slowly woke
The organ's dirge-like strain,—soft—solemn—sweet;—
It's mournful modulation seem'd to breathe
A soul of sorrow o'er the slumbering air,
With its deep-drawn and linked melody
Enforcing tears. But at the words, sublime,
Of Inspiration,—“though we seem to sleep,
As for a moment,—we shall rise, be changed,
And in the twinkling of an eye put on
The victor robe of immortality,”—
Quick, at the warmth of so divine a faith
Vanish'd those tears,—as fleets the transient dew
From the morn's eye.
There lay the form of one
Who many a year had, in that hallowed place,
Constant as came the day which God had bless'd,
Appeared to pay his vows.—Yes,—there he rose,
With reverend front,—and strong, majestic frame,
Where now as powerless as the smitten babe,
He waits for other hands to bear him forth.
Firm at each post of piety and peace
Where Christ hath bade his servants watch, he stood,
Even till the gather'd shades of evening blanch'd
His shuddering temples with unmelting frost.
He had the praise of men who knew to prize
The noiseless tenor of an upright course;—
And he had drank of sorrow.—Those who shed
The holy charities around his home,
Had long been tenants of the voiceless tomb;
And from that home, and those bright-shadowing trees,
The lingering solace of his hermit hours,
He by a freak of winged wealth was driven.
But now his head on that cold pillow rests,
Where sleepless anguish dare not plant a thorn.
No more his bruised heart pours strong incense forth
To Him who smote it,—nor his lonely tears
Freshen the turf where his loved treasures lay.
—And is there cause to weep, that yon pale clay
Should liberate its tortured prisoner?
Mourn we, because the radiant realms of bliss
Have gain'd a guest?—or that the countless ills
Which poise on vulture wing o'er helpless man,
Have lost a victim? Is it time to weep,
When at this very hour, perchance, the soul
Reads in the sun-bright register of Heaven
The need of all its discipline,—and pours
Its rapturous being forth to the great sire
In one eternal hymn?

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

THE BABE OF ST. BERNARD.

CHILLY M'INTOSH.

SAUL.

I hear the shouts at Mizpeh. Wild they swell
Upon the summer air,—and the green hills
Methinks do clap their hands and echo forth
“God save the King!”—
—I thought that God was King
Of Israel;—He who snatch'd them from the chains
Of their swarth house of bondage, through the wild
Their footsteps marshall'd,—gave their murmuring lips
The bread of heaven, and led them to a land
Of beauty and of bliss. I thought their vow
Was pour'd o'er Shechem's pillar to his ear
Who in their mansions stay'd the astonish'd Sun,
And night's pale queen, to gaze upon the work
That heaven appointed him. That warrior joy'd
Amid their convocation, when he heard
The solemn vow from willing thousands break,
“Jehovah is our King!—and him alone
Shall Israel serve.”—
—Who is yon hoary man
With arms close folded on his reverend breast,
Who seems in mournful thought while crowds exult?
Know ye not him, who by his mother's prayer
In infancy's sweet dream was consecrate?—
Who 'neath the holy temple's lonely arch,
When nought was waking save the solemn stars,
Heard the Eternal speak, as sire to son?—
Low his majestic head in grief declines,
As if he ponder'd o'er the sever'd links
Of lost Theocracy,—or sad revolved
His nation's madness, and their God's offence.
Anon, his mind prophetic mid the throngs
Of unborn people roves,—the nameless ills
Of power despotic,—till from his sunk eye
Rolls the big, burning tear drop.—
—Who is he,
With head more lofty than the countless crowd
Who gaze upon him,—and with brow so bright
In manly beauty?—The anointing oil
Pour'd by the pale hand of that sorrowing seer,
The crown that dazzles on those temples fair,
The thundering shout that sweeps the vaulted sky,
Best answer thee.—
—Years speed their silent course.
I see a palace, and a vassal train,
Proud chariots roll, and regal splendors glow,
And haughty guards surround the vaulted throne.
But is the glory of a land best told
By gaudes like these?—Or doth the crowned brow
Sleep sweeter than the labouring hind who steals
Weary, to his hard pallet?—
—What hath dimm'd
The royal smile?—And stamp'd the darken'd seal
Of moody madness on that straining eye?—
There is a shepherd's harp in these high halls,
And the demoniac monarch loves its tone
Of tender minstrelsy,—yet hates the hand
That calls it forth. Oh King! the curse hath fallen
On thee, and on thy people. Thou dost writhe
Beneath the empoison'd purple.—
—Look once more!—
There is another change. Proud hosts rush on
To battle, the bold war-horse spurns the ground,
Philistia's champions shake the glittering spear,
And Israel 'neath the banner of her king,
Frowns deep defiance.—Throng'd Gilboa quakes
At the dread onset.—Mid the thickest fight
I see the royal robe, the towering port
Of him, the crown'd at Mizpeh.—From the host
Of darkest dangers, from the direst foes
That lion-hearted monarch turns not back,
Nor his good sword declines.—
But lo! he stands
Alone, amid the slain.—One look he casts,
Accusing and despairing, up to Heaven,
Then rushes on his sword.—
—That wound hath quell'd
The last pulsation of a mighty heart,
And weeping thousands wail o'er slaughter'd Saul.

“YE SHALL SEEK ME IN THE MORNING, BUT SHALL NOT BE.”

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?—Did some white wing'd messenger
On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or breathing on the callous icicles
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—
—Tree nor shrub
Dare that drear atmosphere,—no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front,—yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribb'd ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who panting toils
O'er slippery steeps, or trembling treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to Eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness
Fearless, yet frail, and clasping his chill hands
Blesses your pencil'd beauty. Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale,
And freer dreams of Heaven.

TO THE EYE.

JOY PURCHASED BY SORROW.

ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY DEFEND THE CAUSE OF MATRIMONY.

OPINIONS OF THE UNEDUCATED DEAF AND DUMB.

THE FUNERAL OF A MOTHER.

HOPE AND MEMORY.

LATIMER AND RIDLEY.

Fled was the blaze of summer. Autumn's breath
Had scarcely curl'd the leaf, that o'er the tide
Of silver Isis hung. Up through the mass
Of woven foliage gleam'd the holy spires,
The dim, monastic turrets,—stately towers,
And classic domes, where throned Science points
Back through the incumbent cloud of buried years
To Alfred's boasted name. But a rude throng
Come gathering o'er this scenery, to throw
A blot upon its purity and peace.—
Dark brows are there,—and blood-shot fiery eyes,
And preparations dire, as for some scene
Of ignominious death; while all around
The sparkling waters, and serener skies,
And shadow of umbrageous elms, allured
The soul to mercy, and to musing thought.
—But man heeds not, though pitying nature smile,
And in her holiness and beauty seem
As if she knelt, and breathed upon his heart,
To win him from his purpose.
—Through the crowd
Triumphant led, moves on a noble form,
Majestic of demeanor, and array'd
In sacerdotal robe.
—Those temples bear
Proud London's mitre, and that lip which oft
Warn'd with warm eloquence a tearful throng
'Neath some Cathedral's awe-imposing arch,
Now in its deep adversity essays
The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check
The unfinish'd sentence,—they who used to crouch
To his high fortunes,—and perchance to share
His flowing charity. Smitten on the mouth,
In silent dignity of soul he stands,
Unanswering, though reviled.
—Lo! at his side,
Worn out with long imprisonment, they place
The venerable Latimer. Bow'd down
With age, he totters, but his soul is firm,—
And his fix'd eye, like the first martyr's, seems
To scan the opening heavens. The gazing throng,
The stake, the faggot, and the jeering priest
Are nought to him. Wrapp'd in his prison garb,
The scorn of low malignity is he,
Whom pomp and wealth had courted,—at whose voice
The pious Edward wept that childlike tear
Which works the soul's salvation,—and his sire,
Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved
As a chain'd lion.
—Now the narrow space
'Tween life and death, the dial's point hath run,—
And quick with sacrilegious hands they bind
The dedicated victims.
—He who seem'd
Bent low with years, now rose erect and firm,
To give away his spirit joyously,—
And throwing off his prison garments, stood
In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day.
And Ridley,—in whose veins the pulse beat strong
With younger life,—girded himself to bear
The burning of his flesh,—while holy hope
Drew in blest vision o'er his swimming sight
The noble army of those martyr'd souls,
Which round heaven's altar wait.
—With wreathing spire
Up went the crackling flame,—and that old man
Forgetful of his anguish, boldly cried
—“Courage, my brother!—we this day will light
Such fire in christendom, as ne'er shall die.”
—Then on that wither'd lip an angel's smile
Settled,—and life went out as pleasantly
As on a bed of down.
—But Ridley felt
A longer sorrow. Oft with sighs and prayers,
He gave his soul to God, ere the dire flame
Would solve the gordian knot which bound it fast
To tortured clay. Then fell the blacken'd corse
Prone at the feet of Latimer, who raised
Still to the heavens his brow, as if he said,
—“My children!—fear not them who crush the frame,
But cannot harm the soul.”
—Almost it seem'd
As if in death, the younger christian strove,
By that deep posture of humility
To pay him homage, who had been his guide
And father in the gospel.
—'Twas a sight
To curb demoniac rage. Yet some there were
Who deem'd such heretics might ne'er atone
To holy mother church their sinful doubts,
By fires on earth, and quenchless fires beneath.
Still o'er some brows a shade like pity stole,
Gardiner seem'd satiate,—while the hollow eye
Of persecuting Bonner flashed delight
Too great for words.
—But stifled tones were heard
From murmuring groups,—and bitterly they mourn'd
For good king Edward to his grave gone down
In sanctity,—and then the mutter'd curse
Fell deep upon that popish Queen, who fed
The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints,
And dared to light in Oxford's hallow'd vales
Her bigot flame. There was a little band
Who sad and silent sought their homes and wept
O'er their loved prelates,—yet no railing word
Or vengeful purpose breath'd,—but waiting stood
For their own test of conscience and of faith,
Inflexible,—and strong in heart to join
The martyr'd host. This was the flock of Christ.

ON THE TRANSLATION OF MILTON

INTO THE LANGUAGE OF ICELAND, BY THOLASKEN, A NATIVE POET.

REMONSTRANCE OF THE CREEK INDIANS

AGAINST BEING REMOVED FROM THEIR OWN TERRITORY.

CARLOMAN AND MEROVEE.

An ancient Franconian legend.

ANCIENT TRADITION FROM THE ISLAND OF LESBOS.

When Orpheus' limbs by Thracian madness torn
On the cold Hebrus' rapid waves were borne,
The sever'd head in tuneful measures sigh'd,
And murmuring music charm'd the tossing tide.
Thus as it roved, complaining and distrest,
Mithymnia's bands beheld the approaching guest,
Rush'd with indignant grief, and shuddering bore
The injured victim to their verdant shore.—
With fragrant balm the golden locks they lave,
And gently cleanse them from the dripping wave,
With purest flowers the polish'd brows entwine,
And bathe the quivering lips with generous wine,
Restore it kindly to the earth's green breast,
And with sad dirges lull its woes to rest.—
—Next, from the floating surge his lyre they gain,
And reverent, place it in Apollo's fane.
Round its slight frame, the freshest garlands bind,
And mourn its master to the earth consign'd.—
—But o'er its chords when evening breezes sweep,
Soft tones arise, and murmuring voices weep,
“Eurydice!”—in trembling grief they sigh,—
“Eurydice!”—the lofty aisles reply:
And through the temple roves in echoes slow,
The cherish'd burden of remember'd wo.—
The list'ning trains, with sudden awe inspired,
With all Apollo's soul of song were fired;—
The tuneful god, this gift celestial made
To those whose pious rites appeased his votary's shade.

EPITAPH

ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF JOHN VISCOMTI, LORD OF MILAN, WHO DIED IN 1354.

Traveller! slow pausing on thy thoughtful way,
Would'st thou the amount of human good survey,
The weight of honour, and the worth of gold?
Learn what I was,—and what I am, behold.
—Treasures were mine, immense as man's desires,
Cities superb, and domes where pomp retires.
Rome, queen of earth, confess'd my rising fame,
And all Italia trembled at my name.
—Yet what avails it now? I sleep in clay,
To stone a prisoner, and of worms the prey.

RETURN OF THE EXILE.

Oppress'd with wandering round this world of care,
Homeward I turn'd, but ah!—what home was there?—
The simple cottage where my childhood grew,
The verdant tree that screen'd it from the view,
The clustering vine that climb'd the broken wall,
Reft by the hand of Time had moulder'd,—all.
No sound was heard, where erst the joyous peal
Of infant laughter stopp'd the matron's wheel,
No motion left,—save where on earth reclined
Mid mouldering stones the slimy adder twined,—
“My brother worm,—all hail!”—I frantic said,
Call'd earth my mother, and the dust my bed.—
Roused from the deadening trance, I saw distrest,
The green corn waving o'er my father's breast,
While o'er her head, who cheer'd my every pain,
Rank ivy spread, the heedless traveller's bane.—
—Starting, I rush'd, this fearful scene to shun,
“Not one remains!—Oh God!—thy will be done!”—
Hoarse scream'd the nightly owl—and through the tree
Moan'd the deep blast,—but who shall weep for me?

THE GEORGIAN PLANET.

“AS THY DAY, SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE.”

“A MAN'S LIFE CONSISTETH NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THE THINGS THAT HE POSSESSETH.”

MEMORY AND CONSCIENCE.

THE CHAIR OF THE INDIAN KING.

VISIT TO THE VENERABLE CHARLES THOMPSON

WHEN AT THE AGE OF NINETY SIX—FORMERLY SECRETARY TO THE FIRST CONGRESS.

You've seen, perchance, some sever'd column stand
At Athens or Palmyra, mid the gloom
Pure, prominent, majestic,—though its base
Was dark with mouldering ruins, and the dome
Which once it propp'd, had yielded to the wrath
Of pitiless ages.—Ye, perchance, have stood
What time the pale moon bathed its lonely brow
In living light, and heard the fitful winds
Shriek their wild question, wherefore that remain'd
When all beside were fallen. Thought ye not then
Of man, who lingering at the feast of life,
Perceives his heart's companions risen and gone?
Is there not grief in that deep solitude
Of lost companionship?—
—Yet one I saw,
Who in this wilderness had trod, till life,
Retreating through the bloodless veins, maintain'd
Faint stand at her last fortress.—His wan brow
Was lightly furrow'd, and his lofty form
Unbent by time, while dignified, erect,
And passionless, he made the narrow round
From couch to casement, and his eye beheld
This world of shadowy things unmoved, as one
Who was about to cast his vesture off
In weariness to sleep.—His course had been
O'er those proud billows, where the dazzling beam
Of honour shines;—but now false Memory loosed
Her time-worn cable from the wilder'd mind,
Blotting the chart whereon it loved to gaze
Mid the dim ocean of returnless years.—
—They brought the trophies forth which he had won,
And spread them in his sight,—a nation's thanks
Graved on that massy ore which misers love:—
But vacantly he gazed, and caught no trace
Of lost delight.—The worldling's glance might scan,
In the slow changes of that saintly brow,
Nought save the wreck of intellect, and scorn
Such humbling picture; but an angel's eye
Train'd in the value of the gold of Heaven,
Would differently interpret.
—By his side
Was God's blest book, and on its open page
Gleam'd forth the name of Him of Nazareth.—
Quick o'er his brow the light of gladness came,
While on those leaves his wither'd lip he laid,
And tears burst forth,—yes,—tears of rushing joy,
For this had been the banner of his soul
Through all her pilgrimage.
—To his dull ear
I spake the message of a friend who walk'd
With him in glory's path, and nobly shared
That fellowship in danger and in toil
Which knits pure souls together.—But the name
Restored no image of that cherish'd form
In youth beloved.—I should have said farewell,
In brokenness of heart,—but up he rose
And with a seerlike majesty pour'd forth
His holy adjuration to the God
Who o'er time's broken wave had borne his bark
Safe toward the haven.—Deep that thrilling prayer
Sank down into my bosom, like a spring
Of comfort and of joy.—All else was gone,—
Ambition,—glory,—friendship,—earthly hope.—
But firm devotion, like a sentinel,
Waking and watching round the parting soul,
Gave it the soldier's shield, and pilgrim's staff
For its returnless journey.—When I saw
This triumph of our faith,—this gem, that glow'd
Bright mid the dross of man's infirmity,
Low on the earth I laid my lip, and said.
“Oh, let me with the righteous die!—and be
My end like his.”

ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAM BOAT ÆTNA,

WITHIN SIGHT OF NEW YORK, SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 15, 1824.

LAKE THRASYMENE.

Sleep on, in shadowy rest, bold, beauteous lake!—
Sleep calmly on, as if thou ne'er hadst drank
The richest blood of Carthage and of Rome.—
Dream on beneath Cortona's sheltering hills,
And lend thy freshness to the olive groves
Which bending kiss thy brow,—as if thy care
To nurse the plant of peace, might deftly hide
From nature's all-pervading eye, the stain
Of thy blood-guiltiness.—But she who rests
Her tablet on the wing of time, and flies
With him o'er every region of the earth,
Hath written of thee with her diamond pen,
And told thy secret to each passing age.—
—Shrank not thy placid waters from the plunge
Of Hannibal's plumed helmet, when he sought
To slake his battle-thirst? He heeded not
The awful redness of thy breast,—but drank
Free, as he pour'd that day, the priceless blood
Of shuddering Italy.—Rememberest thou
The rush of those firm cohorts, when the earth,
Trampled and trembling,—and the echoing hills
Attested the dire onset?—With deep groans
A mighty earthquake rent the rocks, and made
Cities an heap,—yet smote not their mad ear
Who mid the clash of sword and buckler fought,
With hatred horrible.—
—Man's passions mock
The strife of nature.—Her worst deluge spared
The righteous household.—The storm-stricken main
In wrath remembereth mercy,—wrecks not all
That to its bosom cling.—
—Vesuvius saves
Even in the height of his mad victory,
The little Hermitage that timid asks
Mercy of him, and bids his molten fires
Ripen to richer zest its vineyards green.—
—But the blind haste, and headlong rage of war,
What know they of compassion?—Bid him speak,
Who in thy dark and watery deep doth rest,—
The stern Flaminius,—he who saw defeat
The eagle standard quell, and fled to hide
His burning shame with thee, holding the frown
And grasp of pitiless Death, less terrible
Than Rome's upbraiding eye.—
In earth he dream'd
To strike a root eternal, and to hang
Unfading garlands on the fickle sky
Of stormy honour.—Even then was spread
Thy bulrush pall for him,—and from their cells
Thy scaly monsters throng'd at his approach
To gaze upon him.—
So farewell, pure Lake!—
I am thy debtor for this musing hour
Of fancy's sway,—for the bright pageantry
Of other days,—the men of mighty soul
Which thou hast call'd around.—Oh Italy!—
The beautiful,—the fallen,—the worshipp'd one,—
The loved of Nature!—whose aspiring cliffs,
And caverns hoar, dart inspiration's rays
Into the traveller's soul.—Yet what avail
The burning glory of thy sunset beam,
Thy cataracts rainbow-crown'd,—the hallow'd domes
Of thine eternal city,—or the throng
Of countless pilgrims kneeling on thy breast,
While like the mutilated kings who fed
At Agag's table,—thou dost bow thee low
Beneath a proud hierarchy, and lay
The birthright of thy sons at papal feet.—
—Bethink thee of the past,—thou glorious land!—
And purge that dark “Mal'aria” which doth blast
Thy moral beauty;—
—So shalt thou be found
A second Paradise,—by serpent's wile,
And vengeful sword of flame menaced no more.

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.

AFRICA.

AUTUMN WINDS.

Sweep on, rude winds, and rend the leafy crown
That withering Autumn loves,—and lift the sea
Up in loud wrath, and crest the foaming waves,
And make the tall ship own herself a reed.—
Go forth and vex the mariner, and give
Perchance his riches to the faithless deep:—
And then return, and sigh yourselves away
With such a syren guile, as if ye scarce
Could shut the sleeping rose.—This is your wont,
Ye boist'rous whisperers of your Maker's wrath,
Who vaunt yourselves amid the troubled clouds
One awful moment, and the next are gone
Ye know not whither.—
—Man is like to you.—
His whirlwind passions nerve him, and he tears
The realm of nature,—marks his path with wrecks,
And chasms, and sepulchres,—and then returns
From war's dire game,—perchance to sigh away
His soul in love like the soft summer gale
On Beauty's cheek,—and then lies down to mix
With the same dust that soil'd his chariot wheels.—
—Oh Thou! who holdest in Thy powerful hand
Both the wild tempests, and the breath that moves
This mass of clay,—let us not madly trust
Our treasure to the winds, and weep at last
The harvest, when the whirlwind wasteth it:—
Nor let the blossom of our nurtured hopes
Which we have sown on earth with tears and prayers
Go up as chaff on the Dividing Day.

SONG OF THE ICELANDIC FISHER.

TOIL.

“THERE IS A TIME TO DIE.”

I heard a stranger's hearse move heavily
Along the pavement.—Its deep, gloomy pall
No hand of kindred or of friend upbore.
But from the cloud that veiled his western couch
The lingering sun shed forth one transient ray,
Like sad and tender farewell to some plant
Which he had nourished.—On the giddy crowd
Went dancing in their own enchanted maze,
Drowning the echo of those tardy wheels
Which hoarsely warn'd them of a time to die.
I saw a sable train in sorrow bend
Around a tomb.—There was a stifled sob,
And now and then a pearly tear fell down
Upon the tangled grass.—But then there came
The damp clod harshly on the coffin-lid,
Curdling the life-blood at the mourner's heart,
While audibly it spake to every ear
“There is a time to die.”
—And then it seem'd
As if from every mound and sepulchre
In that lone cemetery,—from the sward
Where slept the span long infant,—to the grave
Of him who dandled on his wearied knee
Three generations,—from the turf that veil'd
The wreck of mouldering beauty,—to the bed
Where shrank the loathed beggar,—rose a cry
From all those habitants of silence—“Yea!—
There is a time to die.”—
Methought that truth
In every tongue, and dialect, and tone,
Peal'd o'er each region of the rolling globe;—
The Simoon breathed it,—and the Earthquake groan'd
A hollow, deep response,—the Avalanche
Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll,—
The red Volcano belch'd it forth in flames,—
Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge,—
And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark
With death's eternal darts.—But joyous Man
To whom kind Heaven the ceaseless warning sent
Turn'd to his phantom pleasures, and deferr'd
To some convenient hour, the time to die!

“PERADVENTURE HE SLEEPETH, AND MUST BE AWAKED.”

My dull heart slept. Its panoply was off,—
The festal hour had lull'd it, and the dew,
Swept from the flowers of brief Prosperity,
Fell like an opiate on it. The world's star,
Was dominant.—And so it coldly slept
Even in the house of God. The wakeful ear,
That trusty sentinel, essay'd in vain
To arouse its lethargy.—The organ pour'd
Such full, exulting melody, so claim'd
From all the living one pure hymn of praise,
That rapture's flush burn'd on the brighten'd cheek,
But on the secret altar of the heart
No incense glow'd.—Sweet Music sued in vain
At that seal'd portal.—Eloquence sprang forth,
From the blest teacher's lips, and in strong bands
Led chain'd attention,—yet the affections lay
In their dead trance.—But lowly Prayer knelt down,
Breathing her meek voice into Mercy's ear,
Through His dear name who bought the forfeit soul
With his own blood.—Firm Faith's unearthly glance.
And Hope bright-wing'd, and sainted Charity
Sustain'd the thrilling cadence, while it bore
The sinner to his God.—Then woke the heart,
And from its trembling fountain pour'd the tear
Which Penitence required and humbly sought
That sabbath blessing which it else had lost.—
—So Prayer prevail'd, when Music child of Heaven,
And hallow'd Eloquence, like sounding brass,
And tinkling cymbal, smote the dreaming soul
In vain.

BURIAL OF MAZEEN.

THE LAST OF THE ROYAL LINE OF THE MOHEGAN NATION.

THE SWEDISH LOVERS.

THE ELEMENTS.

Man, on the genial elements depends
For food, for warmth, for solace, and for breath,
Yet foes attack him in the guise of friends,
Destroy his trust, and aid the work of death.
Air, the sweet air, his feeble frame that feeds,
Mounts with the tempest, on the whirlwind speeds,
Breaks the strong trees that o'er his mansion spread,
Strews the loved roof in ruins o'er his head,
Lifts the white surge, the angry ocean sweeps,
And whelms his riches in the foaming deeps.—
—Water, whose limpid tide his health sustains,
And sends new vigor through his wasted veins,
Raised to wild wrath, a sudden deluge pours,
To waste his crops, and desolate his shores,
His tall domes sink,—his baseless fabrics float,
Where bloom'd his gardens, frowns a stagnant moat,
Mephitic vapours from the bound arise,
And pestilential fogs obscure the skies.—
—Fire, whose bright glance his torpid bosom warms,
Roused to quick vengeance, like a fury storms,
Amid wild shouts of fear, and terror's cry
Winds its red volumes round the midnight sky,
Consumes the fabric that his labour rear'd,
Destroys the form by ties of love endear'd,
Blackens his beauty, lays his glory low,
Feeds on his wealth, and riots in his wo.—
See, where its pride, by rocky chains comprest
In earth's dark caverns, rends her tortured breast,
Bursts from its vault, the groaning mountain rends,
In streams of red, sulphureous wrath descends,
Blasts the tall forests, ravages the plains,—
Destroys the vineyards, cottages and swains,—
O'er mighty cities rolls with whelming tide,
O'er temples, palaces, and towers of pride,—
Their sculptured grandeur feeds the transient blaze,
And o'er their head the burning billow plays.
—Say then, is man with heaven-deputed sway,
At once the sport, the victim, and the prey?—
Have all the elements combined as foes
His harm to compass, and his good oppose?—
No,—one alone, the hapless being spares,
Wages no war, and no resistance dares.—
—Earth, pitying earth, her new-born son beholds,
Spreads a soft shelter, in her robe enfolds,
Still, like a mother kind, her love retains,
Cheers by her cordials, with her food sustains,
Paints brilliant flowers to wake his infant smile,
Spreads fragrant fruits to cheer his hour of toil,
Renews her prospects versatile and gay,
To charm his eye and cheat his cares away,—
And if her roseate buds a thorn conceal,
If some sharp sting the roving hand should feel,
A medicine kind, the sweet physician sends,
And where her poisons wound, her balm defends.
—But when at last, her drooping charge declines,
When the frail lamp of life no longer shines,
When o'er its broken idol friendship mourns,
And love, in horror, from its object turns,
Forsakes the loathsome corse and shuddering, grieves,
She, to her arms, her mouldering son receives,
Murmurs in requiem o'er her darling birth,
“Return thou loved one, to thy parent earth:”—
Safe in her bosom the deposite keeps,
Until the flame that dries the watery deeps,
Spreads o'er the parching skies a quenchless blaze,
Her features reddens, on her vitals preys,
Then struggling in her last convulsive throes,
She wakes her treasure from his deep repose,
Stays her last groan amid dissolving fires
Resigns him to his Maker, and expires.

ON VISITING THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, AT CHARLOTTESVILLE.

WINTER.

Hail thou,—of leisure sweet the sire!—
Who, round the bright, domestic fire,
Dost link fond hearts in strongest ties,
And kindle hopes, and mingle sighs,
Or 'neath the taper's glancing light
Convoke the banquet's festive rite.
More beauteous seasons deck the scene
With smiling vales, and skies serene,
But they with weary toil are prest,
And thou dost bring the boon of rest.—
—Fair Flora vaunts her painted flowers,
Gay Ceres sports in fragrant bowers,
And Bacchus, proud of Autumn's crown
Red from the vintage lays him down,
But thou, blest Sire, without their care
Dost reap the fruit they all prepare.

THE SUTTEE.

She sat upon the pile by her dead lord,
And in her full, dark eye, and shining hair
Youth revell'd.—The glad murmur of the crowd
Applauding her consent to the dread doom,
And the hoarse chanting of infuriate priests
She heeded not, for her quick ear had caught
An infant's wail.—Feeble and low that moan,
Yet it was answer'd in her heaving heart,
For the Mimosa in its shrinking fold
From the rude pressure, is not half so true,
So tremulous, as is a mother's soul
Unto her wailing babe.—There was such wo
In her imploring aspect,—in her tones
Such thrilling agony, that even the hearts
Of the flame-kindlers soften'd, and they laid
The famish'd infant on her yearning breast.
There with his tear-wet cheek he lay and drew
Plentiful nourishment from that full fount
Of infant happiness,—and long he prest
With eager lip the chalice of his joy.—
And then his little hands he stretch'd to grasp
His mother's flower-wove tresses, and with smile
And gay caress embraced his bloated sire,—
As if kind Nature taught that innocent one
With fond delay to cheat the hour which seal'd
His hopeless orphanage.—But those were near
Who mock'd such dalliance, as that Spirit malign
Who twined his serpent length mid Eden's bowers
Frown'd on our parents' bliss.—The victim mark'd
Their harsh intent, and clasp'd the unconscious babe
With such convulsive force, that when they tore
His writhing form away, the very nerves
Whose deep-sown fibres rack the inmost soul
Uprooted seem'd.—
With voice of high command
Tossing her arms, she bade them bring her son,—
And then in maniac rashness sought to leap
Among the astonish'd throng.—But the rough cord
Compress'd her slender limbs, and bound her fast
Down to her loathsome partner.—Quick the fire
In showers was hurl'd upon the reeking pile;—
But yet amid the wild, demoniac shout
Of priest and people, mid the thundering yell
Of the infernal gong,—was heard to rise
Thrice a dire death-shriek.—And the men who stood
Near the red pile and heard that fearful cry,
Call'd on their idol-gods, and stopp'd their ears,
And oft amid their nightly dream would start
As frighted Fancy echoed in her cell
That burning mother's scream.

CAROLINE MATILDA, TO CHRISTIAN THE SEVENTH OF DENMARK.

From gloomy Zell, where shades usurp the day,
Where hopeless grief in secret pines away,
To Denmark's distant clime these lays I send,
To seek the husband, not to find the friend.—
—How hard my fate! although to power allied,
A monarch's daughter, and a monarch's bride,
Torn from those joys that strew'd my path with bloom,
And sternly coffin'd in a living tomb.—
—Oh! by the memory of that love which bore
My early youth from Albion's sacred shore,
By that first ardour guiltless and divine,
Which moved to leave a parent's arms for thine,
By all the hopes that lured my trusting mind,
By all thy vows, if vows thy soul can bind,
Bend to my woes!—but ah, how vain the plea
That summons pity or remorse from thee.—
—Cold as the icy girdle of thy shores,
Deaf as the storm that o'er thy mountains pours,
I see thee wield the sceptre, scourge and chain,
And rule despotic o'er a trembling train.—
—Unfading traces of thy cruel sway
Glare in my soul and fright mild sleep away,—
Thy victim's throng,—I mark the ghastly train,
Their straining eye-balls start with bloodshot pain,
The brave Struensee!—say,—what crime had he
To kindle hatred or revenge in thee?—
He mounts the scaffold,—dark with curdled gore;
He falls,—he bleeds,—his bosom heaves no more;
And I,—alas!—but stay thou fleeting line,
Why is Struensee's image link'd with mine?—
Think not that guilt this artless bond has wove
Nor blot my friendship with the name of love.—
—But me, sad victim of thy jealous strife,
Rent in my youth from all the joys of life,
My last retreat a mightier foe invades,
And darkly dooms me to impervious shades.
From my blanch'd cheek the color fades away,
Mysterious bands my buoyant footsteps stay;
While Spring's young flowers that erst my path did strew,
Unnoticed wither in their fragrant dew,
Uncheer'd I view their graceful beauties wave
And start to gather what may deck my grave.—
—Unfeeling consort!—shroud my life with gloom,
Scorn, hate, condemn, and curse me in the tomb,
Wreak all thy malice on my wretched name,
But spare my infant,—spare thy daughter's fame,
Spare the fond babe who foster'd in my breast,
Smiles at my tears, or sinks in balmy rest,
Marks not the anguish on my brow that preys,
Nor shares the grief that blasts her mother's days.

A THUNDER STORM, WHILE TRAVELLING.

With what rude drapery Nature robes her form
Here in her sports! how wild! how picturesque!—
How beautiful!—The aspiring rugged cliffs
Rear their brown heads, now bare, and now involved
In clustering foliage. Verdant girdles bind
The hillocks rock-emboss'd,—while here and there,
The white cascade, half curtain'd, leaps to join
The expecting streamlet.—Here the silent sage
Might ruminate,—the anchorite obtain
A favourite cell,—or the meek christian view
Him smile, who ever in his works is found
By those who search aright.—
—O'er the expanse
Of glittering waters glides the snowy sail;—
The lilliputian boat by infants mann'd,
Steers amid fairy islets, circles round
The indented shore,—and in a tiny bay
Makes its safe harbour.—Up in boldness springs
A steep promontory,—the pure, waveless stream
Circles its base, while its indignant brow
Frowns through a helmet of deep forest green,
Nodding in lofty plumes.—But as we gaze
An unexpected gloom pervades the sky
Of summer's beauty.—From the wat'ry glass
Gleam strong reflections of the warrior clouds
Rushing to battle. The black tempest lifts
Its mighty banner.—Prompt with missile shafts,
Red lightning threatens,—awful thunders roar,
And in wild deluge falls the hasty rain.—
Yet, in the kindlings of this fearful wrath
Nature is graceful still.
—She may not blot
The impress of her Maker,—and the heart
That loves him,—loves the tablet he hath traced
Even on the hostile cloud.—
—Fair, rural scene,
Wilt thou not smile once more?—No, darker throngs
Prolong the fierce encounter in the skies,
And heaven's gate trembles.—But thou soon shalt drink
The sun-beam,—and yon elemental war
Leave not a trace of sorrow.—Is it thus
With man's contentions?—Ask the carnaged field,
The writhing form,—the widow's lonely heart.—
—Methinks this summer scenery, in its garb
Of brief adversity, admonishes
The musing mind.—Meekly it shadows forth
The landscape of our pilgrimage.—Rough blasts
Scatter our foliage, crush our cherish'd flowers,
And hollow thunders wake our bosom'd joys
To sudden flight.—But then through parting clouds
The sun of Mercy beams, leading the eye
Upward, and by a Father's discipline
Instructing the sad heart.

ON PASSING AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA,

THE RUINS OF THE MOST ANCIENT CHURCH IN AMERICA.

ON READING THE LIFE OF QUINCY, BY HIS SON.

Behold they burst their tombs!—They start to life!—
The Chiefs of other days, who nobly ranged
Around their infant country,—prompt to guard
Her serpent-haunted cradle.—Yes! they rise
From the red battle-sods, from ocean's breast,
And from the student's cell, whose midnight lamp
Fed on the oil of life,—they come to wake
Our lingering gratitude.—
And one I mark
Amid that band, whose brief and bright career,
Bold Sparta in her better days had claim'd
With stern and lofty joy.—Ask ye what thoughts
Convulsed his soul,—when his dear, native shores
Throng'd with the imagery of lost delight
Gleam'd on his darkening eye,—while the hoarse wave
Utter'd his death-dirge,—and no hand of love
Might yield its tender, trembling ministry?—
A prayer was there, for her who ruled his heart,—
And for his babes that thrilling agony
Which none but parents feel.—Yet deeper grief
Still rankled there,—his country's wrongs and woes
Clung to the riven heart-string,—for he knew
Whose voice had sworn to be the widow's stay
And orphan's refuge;—so that patriot sigh
Heaved in that dying bosom,—when the tear
Of husband and of father was exhaled.—
—Flock'd there around his couch in soothing dreams
Mid that last agony, no cherish'd form
Of kindred or of friend?—Came not his Sire
Thither with hoary temples, bending low
In speechless sorrow,—Hancock, firm of soul,—
Great Adams, dauntless in the righteous cause.—
Or Otis,—whose electric eloquence
Was like the ethereal flash that quench'd its spire
Deep in his bosom?—Breathed not Warren's voice
In fervent whisper to that parting soul,
“Wait,—wait my brother!”—while he proudly rush'd
On with a martyr's spirit to the strife
Of young Thermopylæ?—
In vain! In vain!—
That awful hour had come which heeds no prayer
Of fond companionship.—Death's angel spake
Above the turmoil of the boisterous deep,
And warn'd the patriot hence.—
—With swimming glance,
Like him who erst from Pisgah's cliff descried
The unenter'd land of promise,—he survey'd
That emerald shore where slept in hallow'd graves
His ancestors, where rose in beauteous strength
The city of his joy,—crown'd by that mount
Where new-born Liberty essay'd to tread
The fearful wine-press,—laving her firm foot
In her sons' blood, to bless a future age.—
—The scene receded,—and he saw where Peace
Her seraph wing unfolded,—while the breath
Of everlasting melody pour'd forth
A welcome to the soul,—nor could he mourn
Exchange so blest,—but sought that brighter sphere.

“THIS YEAR, THOU SHALT DIE.”

SENTIMENT IN A SERMON.

VICE.

In vain the heart that goes astray
From Virtue's seraph-guarded way,—
May hope that feelings just and free,
Meek peace,—or firm integrity,—
Or innocence, with snowy vest
Will condescend to be its guest.—
—As soon within the viper's cell
Might pure and white-wing'd spirits dwell,—
As soon the flame of vivid gleam
Glow in the chill and turbid stream;—
For by strong links, a viewless chain
Connects our wanderings with our pain,
And Heaven ordains it thus, to show
That bands of vice, are bonds of wo.

MOUNT VERNON.

THE DEAD INFANT.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MATRON.

A VISION.

Light pour'd upon me like a rushing flood,
And all was glorious.—The brief, trembling ties
That bound me grossly to this mouldering earth,
Were fading into air.—Pure, white-wing'd forms
Flock'd round me, and with gentle art essay'd
To lure my upward flight, where harmony
Came softly breathing like some dulcet lute
From domes of pearl.—Methought they marshall'd me
Up to heaven's gate.—But on a poising cloud
Midway I hung.—So much the grosser weight
Of these corporeal elements prevail'd,
I might not rise;—and yet so sweet they sang
“Come hither!”—that by melody enchain'd
I could not backward turn.—My bright abode
Glittering with amber and with crimson, seem'd
Pavilion for some God.—Serene I lay
As on a couch impalpable,—o'erarch'd
With drapery brighter than Aurora's ray,
Which every moment changed.—Anon it sail'd
Deliciously,—as on some waveless sea
Which ask'd nor sail nor oar.—Each star breathed forth
Mysterious melody,—as on it toil'd
To do the Eternal's bidding, and fulfil
Its measured voyage.—There our orb revolved.—
Now stain'd with blood and now with sunbeams gay,
Here heap'd with hecatombs and there with fruits
Of joyous harvest.—To the loftier eye
Of some archangel traveller, whose broad wing
Circles the empyrean, it might seem
A dull, dim speck,—where crawling emmets toil
To treasure dust.—But as I gazed intent,
Black whizzing pinions, with hoarse words swept by,
As if the rude blast shaped itself a voice,
—“What doth this mortal here?”—And then I saw
A mighty seraph with a flaming trump
Descend majestic.—Toward our globe he sped,
As if commission'd to proclaim her hour
Of final dissolution.—My sad heart
Yearn'd o'er its first abode,—and though I fear'd
Her atmosphere would soon be liquid fire,
And all her glories vanish as a scroll,
I fain must leave my Paradise for her.—
—From my pure, odorous couch I madly leap'd.—
I fell interminably.—At the shock
The vision fled,—and I with transport hail'd
The firm, green earth,—and girt myself to toil
A little longer in her wildering race,
Then in her bosom sleep.

THE ENTREATY OF RUTH.

SELF EXAMINATION.

Seek not of man with light applause to pay
The priceless guerdon of a well-spent day,—
Wait not for him to judge the generous deed,
But spread the scroll, and bid thy Conscience read.
Rest on thy couch,—recline within thy cell,
And ask that silent one, if all be well?—
Then if she smile, receive the rapturous meed,—
Nor boast the motive,—nor proclaim the deed,
Wait till the day of doom, the hour of fate,
Even as the expecting Jews for their Messiah wait.

GREECE.

Clime of the unprotected brave!
Clime of the ancient, and the free!
Whose blood stain'd banners boldly wave
Mid storms that rock the Ægean sea,
With arm supine, and careless thought
Why gaze we on thy conflict dire?
To win that prize our fathers bought,
Why tamely see thy sons expire?
True,—we can glow at Homer's lay,
Enraptured hang o'er Pindar's lyre,
Start at thy pencil's deathless ray,
Thy breathing marble's force admire,
At awful Marathon can list
To catch the Persian's tone of shame,
At proud Thermopylæ assist
To bind the immortal wreath of fame;
But when from slaughter'd Scio speeds
The Moslem curse, the helpless cry,
The echo of unutter'd deeds,—
We tax our pity with a sigh!
Oh Ye! who saw the mighty yield
On Saratoga's laurell'd plain
Or bade on Monmouth's fervid field
Your wounded bosoms flow like rain,—
Rise!—though your wasted locks be gray,
Though chill'd with want your last retreat,
Lift high the wither'd hand, and say
How strong your kindred pulses beat,—
Rise!—tell your sons what generous pain,
What warm, indignant zeal revives,
When 'gainst oppression's wreathed chain
The crush'd, yet lofty spirit strives;—
And tell their cradled babes the tale,—
How oft to wrest the tyrant's rod
Do Liberty and Truth prevail
Clad in the panoply of God,—
Then, ere the holy tear shall cease
To dew their cheek like rose-bud fair,
Devoutly stamp the name of Greece
Deep, on their unpolluted prayer.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF A YOUNG FRIEND. DURING MY ABSENCE.

THE EIGHTH PSALM.

Oh Lord our Lord,—how great thy name!
Whose praise both heaven and earth proclaim!
Even babes with unaccustom'd tongue
And infant lips in knowledge young,
Pour forth the sweet, accordant song,
And put to shame the impious throng.—
—When on yon vaulted heavens I look,
That proudest page in nature's book,
Where the fair moon her course doth hold
And stars shoot forth in beamy gold,
Lord what is man!—that from above
Thou deign'st to visit him with love,
And kindly place him just below
Those angel-guards that round thee glow.—
—Thou giv'st him power to rule the train
That glide within the secret main,
And those that spread the sounding wing,
And mid the fields of ether sing,
And those who roam the varied earth
Of gentle kind, or savage birth.
—Yet what is he, frail child of clay?—
Who boasts o'er fleeting earth the sway,
Himself the being of a day,
Compared Oh God of Hosts, to thee,
Great Ruler of Immensity!

THE COMET OF 1825.

Amid the bright, ethereal road,
Serene, the solar system glow'd,
From central orb, to farthest space,
Each marshall'd planet knew its place,
All measuring out their varied year
Amid the music of the sphere,
As when from chaos first they sprang
And morning stars together sang.—
—But all at once, a stranger came
With fearful haste on car of flame,
And seem'd to threat with eagle swoop
The safety of the placid group.—
—Him, heavy Herschel first espied
And to his guards in waiting, cried,
“Ho!—heave a light out,—starboard—quick!
The atmosphere 's so dense and thick
The longitude I cannot take,
But bearing down upon our wake
A questionable shape I spy,
That through the mist looms large and high;
I'd send a boarding-boat, and know
Whether it comes as friend or foe,
But far its speed transcends my power,
It moves at forty knots an hour,
Stand to your tackle all!—I fear
'T is some amphibious privateer.”—
From moon to moon his orders ran,
Like admiral's to midshipman,
So all, their heads together laid,
Voted to call for Saturn's aid.
Then through his speaking trumpet hoarse
Stout Herschel blew a blast of force,—
His shipmates rang their bugles keen,
And fired their signal guns between.
—Grave Saturn shoved his ring aside,
Put on his spectacles, and cried,
“These idle stragglers sure increase,
Who do no work, but break the peace,
Poach where they choose on other's grounds,
And scorn all fences, rights, and bounds.—
See,—how yon flaunting coxcomb speeds,
And lashes on his foaming steeds,
Sheer o'er my turnpike-gate he leaps,
And pays no toll,—no Sunday keeps,—
He'll kill his horses soon,—'t is clear,
We strangely need a work-house here.”—
—Then added soon, with smother'd ire,
“Perchance he comes to bring our Sire
Fuel to feed his wasted fire;
Should coals be rendered cheaper here,
And our long winters less severe,
We needs must wink at this career.”—
So bade his satellites to keep
Close by his side like folded sheep,
For belted Jupiter had thrown
His gauntlet at the usurper down;—
“Ha!—Saturn! give the watch-word there,
And bid the intrusive spy beware,—
Call out your forces!—sure there 's need!—
Or stay,—I'll come and take the lead;”
Then cap-a-pie stood forth to view
Like Bonaparte at Waterloo.—
—But blustering Mars his speech curtail'd
And Jupiter and Saturn hail'd—
“D' ye sleep,—while such bold traitors tramp
Straight o'er the bulwarks to the camp?—
The powers in office best should know
Why I am disregarded so,—
Without a man or horse to aid
'Gainst rude attack, or ambuscade,—
My martial spirit chafes to bear
Such cowardice, and laws unfair,
Things cannot long be thus deranged,
Our constitution must be changed;”
And as he shook his warlike head,
His sanguine visage wax'd more red,
Like blacksmith's anvil bright with beating,
Or demagogue at freemen's meeting.—
—The Asteroids were sadly flutter'd,
And all in chorus groan'd and sputter'd,—
For youngest daughters of the sphere,
And from the nursery scarce set clear,
They deem'd themselves exceeding wise
In all the secrets of the skies.
Sleek Madam Vesta, skill'd to peep
When in her cradle, feigning sleep,
Had heard by stealth, that she was fair,—
So putting on her prettiest air,
She thought the guest she would not miss,
But win a sugar-plum or kiss.
Her visage shone so sweetly mild,
That shrewish Juno chid the child,—
And Pallas bade her mind her book,
And on the letters strictly look:—
While thrifty Ceres, early taught
To hoard the half-pence that she got,
Lock'd up her tiny stores with grief,
And in the stranger smelt a thief,
Gave up her vast domains for lost,
And like a roasting chesnut toss'd.—
—Tellus, the news could scarcely brook,
And with a strong rheumatic shook,
A chronic weakness which had clung
Close to her nerves, since she was young,—
When a cold rain, and tedious flood
Long in her upper stories stood.—
—Some superstitious legend, she
Had listening, learn'd in infancy,
That when old age should o'er her creep
And dotage lull her powers to sleep,
A flaming foe, with purpose dire,
Should rushing, set her clothes on fire.
She fear'd he might forestall the time,
Although she scarce was in her prime
She said;—but yet was prone to make
About her age some slight mistake,—
Like waning spinsters, who forget
Nothing,—except their proper date,
And sometimes tear the leaf outright
From bible register in spite.
So mother Earth oppressed with fear,
Blamed her unfriendly atmosphere,
And faint and nervous, shriek'd to see
Her sole attendant, apogee,
And rang and call'd like timid crone,
Caught in a thunder-storm alone.
—Miss Luna, muffling up her head,
Went with the ague, straight to bed,
Put out her lamp, and bade them tell
She could not hear her mistress' bell,
Begg'd them with motherwort to dose her,
And drew her cloudy night-cap closer.—
—But beauteous Venus, newly drest,
Was glad to hear of stranger-guest,
Peer'd out to see his trappings shine,
And smiled and murmur'd—“La! how fine!
Phœbus so stingy is, and cold,
That our court-dresses all are old,—
And every beau so stupid grown,
I'm moped to death here, quite alone,—
This traveller looks prodigious grand,—
Why Lord!—he 's driving four in hand,—
Old Sol can boast no studs so nice
They 'd whisk to Sirius in a trice.
Straight toward our Sire he hastes, I see,
To make proposals, sure, for me,—
I hope he 's rich—for that 's the thing,
His equipage bespeaks a king.—
Both chivalry and taste he'll prove,
By such a journey too, for love.”—
With that, she drew her dressing case
To rub the spots from off her face,
But warn'd by woman's latent fear
Too bold or willing to appear,
All faint and fluttering as a bride
She threw her lattice up, and cried—
—“Mercury!—dear neighbour! stop, I pray!
What savage monster flies this way?—
I'm scared to death,—in such a fright
I have not slept a wink all night.
You 're in your perihelion, too,
So handy to the palace, do.
Just stop,—such tremors shake my frame,
And ask our Sire the creature's name.”—
—So Mercury, train'd like modern beaux
To oblige the ladies, when he chose,
Made his best congee, bending low,
And promptly answer'd “I will so.”—
Then donn'd his salamander hat,
And off upon his transit sat,
New-greased his wheels,—and loosed his reins
Swifter to scour wide Ether's plains,
And popp'd the question to the Sun
Just as the guest his gate had won.—
—The monarch sternly from his throne
Rebuked his household, every one,
Said 't was a shame that stranger's eye
Such sloth and gossiping should spy,—
Charged them that when from foreign court
High envoys came to make report,
To mind their business, trim their light,
And keep their harness clean and tight,—
Nor vainly strive with curious eye
Into his cabinet to pry.—
—Poor Richard or King Solomon
No wiser lectured than Sir Sun,—
“For all, quoth he, who shun their labours,
And leave their work to mind their neighbours,
Will find when call'd to pay the cost,
The substance, in the shadow lost.”—

INTEMPERANCE.

I saw mid bowering shades a cottage home
Where elegance with sweet simplicity
Had blent her charms.—Around its graceful porch
Twined the gay woodbine, while the velvet lawn
Fresh roses sprinkled, and those snowy walls
Seem'd through their leafy canopy to smile
A welcome to the guest.—My heart was light,
As toward this bower of bliss I drew, to greet
A friend who in my careless boyhood shared
Each healthful sport, each hour of studious toil,
With kindred emulation.—And I thought
After my wanderings in a foreign clime,
How sweet to rest as he hath, pleasantly
In such pure paradise, and watch the bloom
Of young affections.—Near that open door
Two cherub children gamboll'd.—One display'd
In such strong miniature the manly charms
Of my long-parted friend, that in my soul
Woke the warm pulses of remember'd joy.—
There was the same bold forehead, where disguise
Might never lurk,—the same full hazle eye
Melting, yet ardent.—
On with willing smile
He led his fairy sister, murmuring low
In varied tones of dovelike tenderness,
And sometimes o'er her lily form would bend
In infantine protection, with such grace,
That in my arms I clasped him, and exclaim'd
“Show me thy father.”—
—On a couch he lay.—
Who lay?—I dared not call him friend!—That wreck
Of nature's nobleness!—Had dire disease,
Or ruthless poverty thus changed a brow
Where beam'd bright fancy,—intellectual light,
And soaring dignity of soul?—Ah no!—
For then I would have join'd my face to his
And spoke of Heaven.—But Vice her hideous seal
Had stamp'd upon those features, and the mind,
The ethereal mind debased.—
—She too was near,
Who at God's altar gave her holiest vow
In all the trusting confidence of love
To this her chosen friend.—On her young cheek
There was a cankering grief,—and the pale trace
Of beauty's rosebud nipp'd.—
—Something I said,
But faint and brokenly of former days,
When in the paths of science and of hope,
We walk'd, twin-hearted.—Then there came a peal
Of vacant laughter from those bloated lips,
And the swooll'n hand with trembling haste was stretch'd
For friendship's grasp.
—Twas but a transient rush
Of generous feeling.—At the shouting voice
Of his young children sporting near his bed
His fiery eye-ball flash'd,—and a hoarse threat
Appall'd those innocent ones,—and that fair girl,
From whom intemperance had reft the guide
Which nature gave, in terror hid her face
Deep in her mother's robe.—
—I would have cursed
The poisonous bowl, but then in the meek eye
Of her who loved him, shone such pleading tear
Of silent, deep endurance, that all thought
Of sternness breathed itself away in sighs.
—I went my way,—for how could I sustain
Such change in one so loved!—and as I went
I mourn'd that widowhood and orphanage,
Which hath nor hope nor pity.—Sad I roam'd
Far down the violet-broider'd vale, and when
No eye beheld me, to the earth I bow'd
My head, and said in anguish,—“Oh my God!—
—What is the beauty and the strength of man,
His fairest promise, and his proudest powers
Without thine aid?—So keep us from the sins
Which in us lurk, that we at last may rise
Where is no hurtful impulse, erring choice,
Or dark temptation working baleful deeds
For penitence to purge,—but Virtue dwells
Fast by her Sire,—and finds a deathless joy.”

DAVID AND JONATHAN.

SABRINA.

DEFEAT OF THE QUEEN OF NARRAGANSETT, IN 1679.

Sound, sound the charge!—
Urge on the combatants to deeds of blood,—
Embroil the forest-children with the lords
Who seek their heritage.—The steep hill's base
Is white with tents.—Beyond,—with curling wave
Old Narragansett sweeps his swelling bay,—
Indignant that his shores so oft resound
The din of warfare,—and that murder's tide
Curdles in those pure waters, which unstain'd
Had flow'd from their Creation.—
See!—they come!—
They haste to battle.—One, with volleying flash,
Whose wreathed smoke involves their rushing lines,—
The other but with quiver, and bare breast,
And lion heart.—Ah!—the contending din,
The shock,—the shout,—the revelry of war,—
I cannot sing.—They ask a bolder lay,—
A firmer hand.—There are, who can behold
God's image marr'd,—and call it glorious strife,
And godlike victory.—There are, who love
The trumpet's clangour,—and the hoarse response
Of the death groan.—I cannot strike the lyre
That breathes of war.—It seems to me that death
Doth his own work so mightily, that man
Need aid him not.—
Even in the time of peace,
The dance of pleasure, and the bloom of health,
He smites his victims oft enough, to sooth
The hater of his kind.—The longest lease
Which Earth's frail tenant holds,—his fourscore years
Of labour and of sorrow, are brief space
To do the work of an Eternity.—
And can it be that I have need to tell
Who were the conquerors,—or whose bodies lay
Strewn thick as autumn leaves upon the soil
That gave them birth?—Dark was the flight of souls
From that stain'd field,—for few would bow to bear
The captive's yoke.—Yet on their haggard brows
Who drank the cup of servitude, it seem'd
Death sate in bitterness, more than on those
Whose mangled forms beneath the courser's heel
Writhed in brief agony.—
But who is she,
Of such majestic port,—whose proud eye seems
As if her spirit equally contemn'd
Both life and death?—Is this the widow'd queen
Who for her people, and her children's rights,
Her simple shelter, and her husband's tomb
Stood boldly forth?—Her foes admiring mark
Her high demeanour, and with deference ask
For her request.—“Due treatment to a queen,
And to a woman's honour.”—
It would seem
As if those lips by Nature had been taught
The accent of command.—But when she saw
That in her victor's breasts compassion wrought,
A gentle tone of soft entreaty woke,—
“I ask my children's life.”—
—Ah!—there spoke forth
Her woman's nature.—The demand was first
What haughty Philip's representative,
A nation's guardian, and a warrior-queen,
Was bound to stipulate.—That boon obtain'd,
Affection urged its claim,—and rushing brought
The first, last wish of every mother's heart,—
Her children.—
—Spirits of the brave and free!—
Sons of my native state!—Ye circled round
That queen in her adversity.—High souls!—
In warfare lions,—but in pity mild
As the shorn lamb;—ye gave that sacred boon
Which Rome, in all her glory, sternly snatch'd
From Boadicea,—freedom.
But to what
Must she return?—What!—but a ruin'd realm,—
A broken sceptre,—a dejected race,—
Dispersing like the wild returnless winds.—
Say,—what should welcome her from the dread toil
And bloody deeds of battle?—The big tear
Of her sad outcast children,—the deep groan
Of ceaseless funerals,—famine's feeble wail,—
Lone widowhood,—and Philip's murmuring shade.—
Perchance, thou heard'st her sighs, and thy dark walls
Resounded her complaint,—thou lonely Tower!—
As through the thickets, and the pathless woods
Homeless she roam'd.—Now o'er thee, Mystery spreads
The brooding wing.—No gliding fox looks forth
From thy dark window, mid long-sighing grass
Like Morni's ruin'd tower.—No bittern screams,
Nor satyrs dance there,—nor the Cormorant
Unfolds her pinion on thy dizzy height
Nursing her young,—as in the palaces
Of desolate Babylon.—No echoed voice
Of moaning blast,—or sign of restless ghost
Reveals thy date.—But there, on that fair Isle,
Which as a gem, proud Narragansett wears,
Thou risest in thy frowning majesty
A wonder, and a parable,—to mock
The gazing throng.—Perchance the plundering hand
Of the fierce buccaneer, thy massy walls
And graceful arches rear'd;—or earlier days
And beings of some unknown race beheld
Thine infancy.—Light Fancy holds her sports
With giddy wing upon thy time-scathed crown
Peopling thy darksome chambers with strange groups
And spectral shapes;—but hoar Antiquity
Sublimely frowns upon the fairy toil,
Eluding, like the Sybil's fabled page,
The curious eye, and anxious search of man.

TO THE FIRST SLAVE SHIP.

ON THE DEATH OF AN ACCOMPLISHED PHYSICIAN.

Spirit of bright intelligence!—that beam'd
Through the quick-darting eye, and sat enthroned
On that pure smile which seem'd not of the earth!
Spirit of mild benevolence!—that hung
O'er the wan sufferer's couch, soothing his pangs
Regardless of thy own.—Spirit!—that loved
To rove amid the scenes of other days,
The shades of ancient story,—and the bowers
Of classic Fancy,—whither art thou flown?—
Why am I answer'd by the rushing sigh?—
Alas!—I know it all!—I mark'd the sign
In that deep hectic flush which stain'd thy cheek
When thou didst part from us, and knew that death
Lent that brief beauty ere he set his seal
Of icy paleness.—Thou didst go to seek
Hygeia o'er the wave,—and in those climes
Where she delights to revel.—But her gifts
Were not for thee.—Her fountain was close-seal'd
To thy parch'd lip.—And didst thou fall alone?—
Unwept, uncherish'd?—No!—in stranger breasts
Love rose to meet thee,—and a foreign voice
In holiest accents bade thee rest in peace.—
—Thy God forsook thee not,—and thy meek soul
Communing with its Saviour, saw the world
Recede unmourn'd.—Thy mouldering ashes fill
A foreign tomb,—but thou hast found a home
From whence is no departing,—where thy heart
No more vibrating on the arrow's point
Of this unpitying world,—expands to taste
Fulness of bliss.—

TO A GLOW-WORM.

TO A WASP.

SCOTTISH RELICS.

Poor wither'd leaf!—and didst thou spring
Luxuriant from that forest king,
The lofty oak, whose stately pride
O'erarch'd bold Caledonia's tide?—
—And when that bark approach'd the shore
Which Douglas' only treasure bore,
Then little relic didst thou grace
Thy parent bough, and bending, trace
Fair Ellen's form that charm'd the view
And strangely moved stern Roderick Dhu?—
Or didst thou mark that witching smile
Which could a father's who beguile,
Make even a banish'd Earl forget
The splendour of his coronet,
His knightly train, his courtly bower,
And all the entrancing pomp of power?—
—Say, didst thou feel the zephyr meek
Which raised the tresses from her cheek?—
Or hear the ruder gale that woo'd
Her light boat o'er the silver flood?—
Or didst thou catch the sigh that broke
From him by nameless feeling woke,
Who in his suit of Lincoln green
Surprised, beheld that maid serene,
With dext'rous art her voyage make,
The Naiad of that silver lake?—
—'Tis magic all!—and can it be
That thus I hold a leaf from thee
Majestic Oak!—and with it find
A sprig of heather close entwined;
And hardy fern that drank the dew
Near cold Loch Katrine's mirror blue?—
—Methinks with these should pour along
That wildering tide of minstrel song,
Which makes the soil that gave them birth
The holiest spot on Fancy's earth.—
Yes Scotia!—though thy rugged coast
Of Nature's wealth can scantly boast,
Yet haughty brows and spirits free
Have donn'd the pilgrims weeds for thee,
With staff in hand their beads to tell
By every haunted stream and dell,
Upon thy lake's lone edge to dream,
To climb thy cliffs where eaglets scream,
On Flodden-field, with pitying sigh
Start at Lord Marmion's dying cry,
Or through the outlaw's cavern steal,
Or in Diana's footprints kneel,
And find thy bound the deathless shrine
Of bards and minstrelsy divine.

THE “EYES OF THE NILE.”

ON BEING ENTERTAINED WITH PAINTING AND MUSIC.

Scenes, where the charms of nature shine
In radiant robes of art divine,
Touch'd with mild grace, or throned on high
With bold and broken majesty,—
Scenes where the enraptured soul of song
In garb historic sweeps along,
Ruling with powerful key the cells
Where love reclines, or terror dwells,
Till touch'd with life the canvass swells,
Such scenes would long the soul enchain
To the rapt eye,
But then there comes a witching strain
Soft rolling by,
And at the portal of the ear
Divides the pleasure and the tear.—
—Vainly I task description's power
To trace the magic of the hour,
And even with vainer skill essay
This wild flower at your feet to lay.
Magician! who can thus inspire
At once the pencil and the lyre.—
—It fades away,—my heath-born flower,
Oh teach me thy Promethean power,
Warmth to infuse in lifeless clay,
And snatch the dying from decay.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.

MISSOLONGHI.

ODE ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN ADAMS.

JULY 4, 1826.

What sounds are these?—Why breaks the swelling shout
Of music forth, from viol and from trump,
Harp, lute and organ,—while the tuneful breath
Of man doth lend that melody a soul
And bear it high to heaven?—How sweet the voice
Of a young nation from her peaceful vales,
Praising the God of might!—The chorus fell
In gratulation on a patriarch's ear,
Who in the bosom of his sylvan home
With dignity reposed.—His aged brow
Reveal'd that latent energy which glow'd
Deep and intense, when for an infant land
He pour'd high eloquence, and o'er her spread
His Roman shield.—And now he saw her clad
In majesty, to awe the subject wave,
Sending her teeming thousands toward the west,
And breathing from her mountain throne, the strain
Of raptured liberty.—There was a thrill
Of transport rushing through that aged breast,
Which they, whom sloth and luxury have nursed,
May never know.—Low bowing on his staff
He worshipp'd God,—and spake with kindling eye
Of that day's glory,—while the patriot flame
Which in his bosom burn'd while life was young,
Burst through the frost of years.—
—Old Time restored
Once more, that fulness of prophetic joy,
With which this unborn Jubilee he mark'd
Through the long vista of distressful years,
While the dark war-clouds gathering at his feet
Involved the scene.—It was a holy sight
To gaze upon that venerable man
Remembering all his glories, all his toils,
And feeling that his earth-receding grasp
Was on the anchor of eternal life.—
—But mid that reverent group, invisible
To mortal ken, death's mighty angel stood,
With long-commission'd dart; and when he read
The Nunc Dimittis, in that eye serene,
The sable of his ice-cold wing he wrapt
Around the patriarch's bosom.—
—Full of days,
And full of honours, on the couch of rest
He laid him down.—There was a fearful pause
Too eloquent for tears,—and then there came
The sigh of mourning thousands murmuring low
In filial grief.—I listened as the dirge
Closed that brief day, and thought how joy and wo
Walk like twin sisters through the vale of life
Twining its woof with good and evil threads,
And scarce forbore to weep, though the bright star,
Snatch'd from our lower firmament, would glow
With added lustre in a deathless clime.

DEATH OF JEFFERSON.

JULY 4, 1826.

THE LAST SURVIVER OF THE SIGNERS OF OUR DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Assyria boasted him who humbled Tyre,
Her warrior monarch. Greece the clarion swell'd
For him of Macedon, whose sick'ning tear
Flow'd o'er the narrow limits of a world,
Though in a wine-cup's narrower round his soul
Dissolving sank. Stern Carthage too was proud
Of old Hamilcar's son, when from the height
Of Alpine cliffs, with vengeful eye she scann'd
Her haughty rival. Rome beset the heavens,
Even while her veins were bursting, with the shout
Of “Io Cæsar!”—On red Sweden's sky
A meteor glared, till dire Pultowa quench'd
The wild-fire flame. France trembled as she took
Her idol on her shoulders, and compell'd
Tribute from mightier climes, but the cold blast
That swept Siberian pines breathed o'er his brow,
Proving he was but clay.—
—Behold they died!
Those demigods of earth,—and left their fame
To ravaged realms, and slaughter'd hecatombs,
And widow's tears. But in this western world
Which nature in her bosom long conceal'd,
As her last, precious gem, a band arose
Of nobler heroes. They, no conquest sought,
No throne usurp'd, nor vassal homage claim'd,
But bade the sceptre, and the crowned head
Bow to the righteous cause. Time laid his hand
Upon their silver'd brows, and summon'd all
Save one, who in the dignity of age
Linger'd amid the blessings they had wrought,
Crown'd by a nation's thanks.—
—To honour's tomb
He saw his brethren gather'd, one by one,
Yet found they might not die.
Amid the haunts
Of industry, who o'er his harvest sings,
Of letter'd knowledge, liberty and wealth,
They move illustrious in the gifts they gave.
When to the woodman's axe the forest groans
Brief answer, and the new-born city springs,
It bears their name. Those mighty streams that roll
The tide of commerce o'er our cultured vales,
And ocean's thundering wave which proudly bears
The star-clad banner on its course sublime,
Speak forth their praise.
The husbandman who guides
His caravan far from his father's fields,
On toward the setting sun, and boldly rears
A cell upon the frontiers, makes their deeds
His text-book nightly to his list'ning sons
Who throng the winter fire. Their pictured forms
Look down from halls of taste and wake the soul
Of the young student to heroic deeds.
Babes learn to name them in their murmur'd prayer,
And as Penates, at each household hearth,
Where freedom smiles, they dwell.
Say not 't is death
When this clay fabric falls, and weary yields
Each element a part. Is it not life
To prompt heroic thought, to cheer the toil
Alike of statesman and of labouring swain,—
To prop the columns of a nation's strength,
And soar on gratitude's unresting wing
Around the earth?—Such glorious life they live.

THE STRANGER'S FLOWER.

“MENE.”

Turn ye and look on ancient Babylon,—
The glory of Chaldea's excellence.
—Where is thy golden throne,—thou queen of earth?
Thy heaven-defying walls,—thy molten gates,
Thy towering terraces of trees and flowers,
Thy river-god Euphrates,—thy gay priests,
Effeminate kings,—astrologers with eyes
Seal'd to the stars?—Methinks, even now I trace
What struck thy prince, amid his revels, pale.
The mystic fingers of a sever'd hand
Inscribing Mene on thy mouldering dust.
—Ask ye for Tyre,—for populous Nineveh,
For temple-crown'd Jerusalem,—for Thebes
The hundred-gated,—or for Carthage proud?—
Go!—ask the winnowing winds that waste the chaff
Of human glory.—Ask ye who engraved
Mene upon Pompeii's radiant halls,
When dust and ashes quench'd their revelry?—
The hand that graves it on thy own frail frame,
Thy palaces of pleasure,—domes of pride,—
And bowers of hope.—The pen of judging Heaven
Writes “Mene—Mene—Tekel”—on all joys
Of this deluding world.—That world herself
So blind and blinding,—she shall read her doom
Upon the blacken'd sky,—by the last ray
Of the pale,—fainting sun,—and smit with pangs
Like him of Babylon,—shall tottering fall
To rise no more.—What then shall be their lot,
Who sought no wealth but hers,—nor tasted joy
Save in her smile?

TO AN ANCIENT ROCKING CHAIR.

A WALK IN THE CHURCH YARD OF MY NATIVE PLACE.

—Come,—let me turn
Through yon green avenue,—and musing walk
Where sleep the silent dead.—Ah! what a throng
Have lent their fleshly vestures to the worm
Beneath these shades.—Here first, the forest sons
Buried their lifeless brethren,—ere the feet
Of our pale race invaded them,—to die.
—First to thy pillow,—not with stranger step
I rove,—dear Benefactress!—thou whose voice
To “virtue, glory, and eternal life”
Allured my childhood.—With what gentle hand
Thou from obscurity's deep shadows drew
Thy favour'd one,—touching her unform'd mind
With love of knowledge,—as Prometheus shed
Heaven's flame upon the statue of his love.
Ah!—many a year of changes and of cares
Have taught the world's hard lesson, since thine eye
Bade me farewell,—yet still to thee I turn
As tearful Israel turn'd to Zion's hill,
The city of her joy. Oft have I set
Within thine hallow'd mould, fair, tender plants,
The stainless rose, and constant evergreen,
And bless'd, and bade them cheer her bed,—whose life
Was Virtue's fragrance,—breathing toward its God.
Yet they have wither'd,—one by one have fallen
Beneath keen skies:—so didst thou teach my heart,—
(Too heedless then!)—that every earthly flower
Bore in its breast, the seeds of wan decay,
And soon must perish.—Still shall thy pure life,
Thy peaceful death,—thy seraph smile of bliss,
Such as they glow upon my nightly dream,
Deep in my soul's most cherish'd tablet dwell.
—When gratitude her genial warmth forgets
In death's embrace,—when the last debt I pay
To earth, my mother,—Oh! that I might be
Remember'd but by one fond, sorrowing heart
As I remember thee.
—Thou too,—dear friend
Of early sports, and studies more beloved,—
'Tis meet that I should linger near thy couch
Communing with my spirit.—All our hours
Of blissful intercourse,—when unrobed thought
Sprang to its fellow in each other's breast,—
All our congenial hopes,—our sister joys
When rambling o'er the mountain's craggy brow,
Or winning from its cell the pencill'd flower,
We spake of Nature's God,—dost thou recall
Their image in the climes of love serene?
—Dwells Friendship's warmth in angel bosoms pure?
When near the foaming rush of angry floods,
Where oft we roved,—now sad and lone I stray,
Or hang enamour'd o'er the page sublime
Of lofty bard,—or at dim twilight think
Of life's uncertainty,—or waking, muse,
Blending sweet visions with the thought of thee,
Is it thy sigh, that through still midnight breathes
“Rise!—sister spirit?”
—At yon humble stone
Sure I should pause, with reverence justly due
To him who sleeps beneath.—I knew him well;
The patient teacher of our infant years.—
The terror of his frown hath driven the blood
From many a truant's cheek,—while his keen eye
Darting like lightning to the false one's soul,
Uprooted guilt.—The pale delinquent stood
Trembling before him,—if the appointed task
Were unfulfill'd;—nor could the rust of sloth,
Corroding intellect with baleful spot,
Long bear the atmosphere, his dreaded wrath
Kindled around it.—But he lived in days
Ere Nature's strong affinity to good
Had been discover'd,—and ere Wisdom chose
That more convenient rule,—to train the child
Not where he should,—but where he wills to go.
—I loved that man of science,—for his voice
Was gentle to the youth who careful sought
To stamp upon his fleeting hours, the trace
Of knowledge and of truth.—I loved him more
For his high sway,—which banish'd from his realm
The traitor passions,—and the guileful arts.
Him Education honour'd as her priest,
To offer on her altar fragrant fruits
Matured by labour;—for he never sought
To hoodwink discipline,—and lure the mind
With false indulgence from that toil severe
By which great men are great.—
—This little mound,
With velvet turf besprent, were better gemm'd
With snow-drops white.—A beauteous infant sleeps
Here with its mother.—O'er its soft blue eye
And o'er the slumber of its parted lips
Rose-tinted,—such a holy smile would steal
As seem'd not of earth's prompting.—Said it not
That the bright treasure in that chrystal vase
Should soon be claim'd of God?—
—And is it so!—
That to my place of birth, where every germ
Of hope was planted, I may never come
But grief chastise the joy?—When last the morn
Spread forth her purple robe, I sought a friend
Who on my childhood and my youth would smile
With affable regard, cheering a heart
That often sigh'd in loneliness.—Fair plants
Still deck'd her garden,—but she was not there
To nurse their sweets.—Her well known mansion rose
In wonted hospitality,—but she
Welcomed me not.—They pointed to the tomb,
And bade me seek her there.
—And does thy head
Rest with the ancient of thy noble house
Immured in silence?—Many a tear will fall
Bearing the answer from the sons of need,
Whom hungry, thou hast fed,—uncover'd, clothed,—
And sorrowing, comforted.
—With silent course
Unostentatious as the heaven-shed dew
Thy bounties fell; nor didst thou scatter gifts
Or utter prayers with pharisaic zeal
For man to note.—Thy praise was with thy God.
In that domestic sphere where Nature rears
Woman's meek throne, thy worth was eminent;
Nor breath'd thy goodness o'er cold, stoic hearts.—
What gentleness was thine,—what kind regard,
To him thou lov'dst what dove-like tenderness
In voice and deed.—Almost Disease might bear
Its lot without repining,—wert thou near
Beside its pillow, or around its couch
Like ministering angel.
—Scarce had Spring
Which shed its damp dews o'er thy daughter's grave
Return'd,—ere thou wert waiting to ascend
Like her, to that bright host, whose ceaseless harps
Hymn the Redeemer.—She was as a rose
Gather'd in loveliness, mid perfumed flowers
And warbling birds of love,—yet drooping still
For the pure breath of that celestial clime
Where summer hath no cloud.—She, with firm hand
Grasp'd the strong hope of everlasting life,
And thou,—in trembling, yet confiding trust,
Didst dare the waves of death's tempestuous flood
With the same anchor.—So, thou art at rest,
Where trouble comes not;—though thine image lives
With grieving love.—
But peace!—thou pensive strain,—
How vain to mourn o'er their repose, who warn
The musing idler, and the man of care,—
The cradled babe,—gay youth,—and white-lock'd sire
That soon to this forgotten cell shall fleet
The shadow of their days.—Earth's most adored
Feel not upon their lifeless breasts the tear
Fast trickling o'er their grave;—nor does the clay
Unnamed,—unchronicled,—less sweetly sleep
Within its narrow house.—For all her sons,
With mournful sigh of hollow-breathing winds,
Soft vernal tears,—and drooping wintry boughs,
Impartial Nature mourns.
—Alas! how vain
The pride that lurks in gorgeous sepulchres,—
The pyramid,—the stain'd sarcophagus,
The tomb columnar. Still there is a life
That in our ashes lives,—a care that wakes
Around our mouldering bed,—and sweet it were
To think that o'er our pulseless hearts should rise
In hallow'd characters that Saviour's name
In whom we had believed,—and that the pen
Of truth might add—“Write!—blessed are the dead
Who die in Him.”

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening star
To bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car,
Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild,
To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe
The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee,
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath
To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.—
Go to thy rest, pale flower!—The star hath shed
His benison upon thy bosom fair,
The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head,
And weary man forgets his daily care;—
Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky,
And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.

WYLLYS' HILL AND THE CHARTER OAK.

Thou wert the castle of the olden time,
Thou solitary pile! the beacon light
Of the benighted traveller. Thy lone brow
Look'd out in grandeur o'er a pathless wild,
And waters whiten'd by no daring sail;
While to the red man's startled eye, thy pomp
Was as a dream of terror. Now thou stand'st
In faded majesty, as if to mourn
The desolation of a lordly race,
Or like a faithful vassal share their grave.
Farewell! Farewell! A loftier dome may rise,
And prouder columns blot thy time-stain'd walls
From the slight memory of a passing age.
Yet some there are, who deem thy mouldering stones
Dearer than sculpture's boast, to whose fond eye
Thy silent shades, and arbours darkly wreath'd,
And moon-lit walks, are peopled with the throngs
Of lost affection; for whom Memory's spell,
Like her of Endor, wakes the hoary sire,
Wrapt in the shadowy mantle of the grave,
Gives to the matron form the custom'd seat
At board and hearth, or with the joyous shout
Of childhood, and the warbled song of youth
Fills these deserted halls.
—But thou, firm Oak!
Time-honour'd and majestic, who didst lock
Our freedom's charter in thy sacred breast,
From tyranny's eagle-glance, we need not say
Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take
Thy leafy garland from the hand of spring,
And wear the autumnal crown as vigorously,
As if thou ne'er hadst mark'd old Time shred off,
Age after age, man's branching hopes, and blast
His root of glory. Canst thou tell us nought
Of forest chieftains, and their vanish'd tribes,
Who like the bubble on the waters broke
Before our sires? Hast thou no record left
Of perish'd generations, o'er whose head
Thy foliage droop'd? thou who unchanged hast seen
The stately founders of an honour'd name,
The wise, the brave, the beautiful go down
To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb,
Like thy own wither'd leaves?
—Bloom on! Bloom on!
Thou silent monitor, and should our sons,
Gay with the cup of full prosperity,
Forget the labours of their patriot sires,
Be thou as Delphos to them, with thy frown
Oracular, warning them well to heed
The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.

TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA.

Where art thou, wife of Crassus, whose proud tomb
O'ermasters Time, mocking with towering walls,
And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers
His ill-dissembled wrath?—Soft, drooping shades,
The dark, columnar cypress, the pale leaves
Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath
Close clustering, lend their tracery to make rich
Thy sepulchre.—But thou hast left no trace
On history's tablet, and in vain we ask
These voiceless stones of thee.—
Was hoarded wealth
Thine idol, like thy husband's?—didst thou vaunt
His venal honours, and exalt the power
Of the triumvir, in thy purple robes,
Presiding at his feasts, till Rome was sick
Of pomp and revel?—or in secret cell
To thy Penates breathe the matron prayer
With trembling for his sake?—or in the grief
Of solitary widowhood, deplore
His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts?—
—There is no record on these mighty walls
Of thy lost deeds. Even thy sarcophagus
Is rifled, and the golden urn where slept
Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe
For the rapacious hand. Thy scattered dust,
How doth it differ from the household slave's?
Who 'neath thy bidding at the distaff wrought,
Or bent with sterner toil, in ponderous vase,
Brought the cool Martian waters, or perchance
Through sinuous mazes of embroidery's art
Guided the weary needle.
But in vain
We stand communing with the faithless tomb
That cast thee forth.—The strong-cemented rock
Lays claim to immortality,—but dust
Man's dust, must yield each element a part,
To pay Creation's loan, nor can he cling
To the brief memory of a shadowy race,
Save through his deeds.—
O Woman, nurse of Man!—
Make not thy grave beneath the imposing arch,
Or the drear pyramid;—enshrine thyself
Amid thy buried virtues, in the heart
Of him who loves thee, make thy monument
The graces of thine offspring, and the thanks
Of all who mourn. So shalt thou miss the pomp
Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless tomb
Be glorious in the resurrection morn.

POMPEY'S STATUE,

AT WHOSE PEDESTAL JULIUS CÆSAR FELL, IS STILL PRESERVED IN THE PALAZZO SPADÆ, AT ROME.

Cold and inanimate!—Would thou couldst ope
Thy marble lips, and tell what thou hadst seen
Upon the ides of March!—thou, at whose feet
Fell the world's monarch, eloquent and brave,
The great in conquest, and the proud of soul.—
Waked there no spark Promethean in thy breast,
When sadly muffled in his mantle's fold
Fainting, he fell on thee?—
Didst thou stand forth
In the same dark and motionless beauty, while
Casca's impatient sword, and the keen point
Of Cassius, and the “unkindest cut of all,”
From the loved hand of Brutus, and the rage
Of traitorous daggers search'd that noble breast,
Which Gaul, and Egypt, and Pharsalia's plains
Had seen bright-clad in victory's burnish'd mail,
Trembling as at a war-god?—
Tragic close
Of mad ambition's drama!—the deep plaint
Of “Et tu Brute!”—and the indignant pang
With which that proud soul left the wounded clay,
Scorning a world which mock'd it with the cheat
Of friendship and of faith!—
And yet that world
Had owed him little, save the blood that made
Her harvests plenteous, save the unheeded groan
Of famish'd widow, and of sireless babe,
A meteor glory kindled up at Rome,
And all beside, a desert.—Deeds like these,
How weigh they in Heaven's balance, when the pomp
Of earth hath fled away?—Man may not judge,
But wait in trembling for his trial-day.—
—And yet 't would seem that the meek hind, whose hand
Made hard with labour, deals the daily bread
To the young nurslings of his humble nest,
Whose head beneath his planted trees and flowers,
Sinks calmly down in the long sleep of death,
Hath better passport to the clime of peace
Than the blood-nourish'd master of a world.

FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR.

THE CEMETERY OF PERE LA CHAISE.

A HEBREW TALE.

Twilight was deepening with a tinge of eve,
As toward his home in Israel's shelter'd vales
A stately Rabbi drew. His camels spied
Afar the palm-trees' lofty heads that deck'd
The dear, domestic fountain,—and in speed
Prest with broad foot, the smooth and dewy glade.
The holy man his peaceful threshold pass'd
With hasting step.—The evening meal was spread,
And she, who from life's morn his heart had shared
Breathed her fond welcome.—Bowing o'er the board,
The blessing of his Father's God he sought,
Ruler of earth and sea.—Then raising high
The sparkling wine-cup, “call my sons,” he bade,
“And let me bless them ere their hour of rest.”
—The observant mother spake with gentle voice
Somewhat of soft excuse,—that they were wont
To linger long amid the Prophet's school,
Learning the holy Law their father loved.—
—His sweet repast with sweet discourse was blent,
Of journeying and return.—“Would thou hadst seen
With me, the golden morning break to light
Yon mountain summits, whose blue, waving line
Scarce meets thine eye, where chirp of joyous birds,
And breath of fragrant shrubs, and spicy gales,
And sigh of waving boughs, stirr'd in the soul
Warm orisons.—Yet most I wish'd thee near
Amid the temple's pomp, when the high priest
Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked
The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp,
Cymbal and trump and psaltery, and glad breath
Of tuneful Levite,—and the mighty shout
Of all our people like the swelling-sea
Loud hallelujahs burst. When next I seek
Blest Zion's glorious hill, our beauteous boys
Must bear me company.—Their early prayers
Will rise as incense. Thy reluctant love
No longer must withhold them:—the new toil
Will give them sweeter sleep,—and touch their cheek
With brighter crimson.—Mid their raven curls
My hand I'll lay,—and dedicate them there,
Even in those hallow'd courts to Israel's God,
Two spotless lambs, well pleasing in his sight.
—But yet, methinks, thou 'rt paler grown, my love!—
And the pure sapphire of thine eye looks dim,
As though 't were wash'd with tears.”—
—Faintly she smiled,—
“One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve.—
Gems of rich lustre, and of countless cost
Were to my keeping trusted.—Now, alas!
They are demanded.—Must they be restored?—
Or may I not a little longer gaze
Upon their dazzling hues?”—His eye grew stern,
And on his lip there lurk'd a sudden curl
Of indignation.—“Doth my wife propose
Such doubt?—as if a master might not claim
His own again!”—“Nay Rabbi, come behold
These priceless jewels ere I yield them back.”
So to their spousal chamber with soft hand
Her lord she led.—There on a snow-white couch
Lay his two sons, pale, pale and motionless,
Like fair twin-lillies, which some grazing kid
In wantonness had cropt.—“My sons!—My sons!—
Light of my eyes!”—the astonish'd father cried,—
“My teachers in the law!—whose guileless hearts,
And prompt obedience warn'd me oft to be
More perfect with my God!”—
To earth he fell,
Like Lebanon's rent cedar; while his breast
Heaved with such groans as when the labouring soul
Breaks from its clay companions' close embrace.—
—The mourning mother turn'd away and wept,
Till the first storm of passionate grief was still.
Then pressing to his ear her faded lip,
She sigh'd in tone of tremulous tenderness,
“Thou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield
The summon'd jewels.—See! the Lord did give,
The Lord hath taken away.”
“Yea!” said the sire,
“And blessed be his name. Even for thy sake
Thrice blessed be Jehovah.”—Long he prest
On those cold, beautiful brows his quivering lip,
While from his eye the burning anguish roll'd,
Then kneeling low, those chasten'd spirits pour'd
Their mighty homage.

THE MISLETOE AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

THE SAINTED MOTHER.

“WHEREFORE I PRAISED THE DEAD, MORE THAN THE LIVING.”

A DIRGE.

BIRTH-DAY OF BOTH MY PARENTS.

Hail hallow'd morn!—made sacred by their birth,
Who fondly o'er my waking dream of life,
Like guardian angels hung. Serene thou bear'st
Upon thy radiant wing the vivid trace
Of years departed, weaving round those forms
For whom this lay of filial love I breathe,
The tissued robe of recollected joy.—
—Bright o'er those mists and shadows which involve
This vestibule of being, they dispensed
Light, like that star which lifts her gentle lamp
O'er dewy dawn, fair herald of the day.
Amid the doubtful bliss of infancy,
Its mingled smile and tear, its lisping tone,
And faltering step, and claim on sleepless love,
I see their ministry. Mid brighter scenes,
The wild, loud laugh of childhood, the gay smile
With which exulting youth hastes forth to prove
The charms of nature, and the arts of man,
Through every change when pain or pleasure breathed
Its spirit too intensely o'er a heart
Wayward and full of hope,—I mark them still
Bending with tireless sympathy. The hand
That labor'd for my good,—the eye that wept
My slight adversity,—the soul whose chord
Vibrated to my touch,—the tuneful hymn,
The holy prayer that bless'd our evening couch,
Were theirs;—the uncancell'd, everlasting debt
Of gratitude be mine.—Oh Guides revered!
Though with too fond idolatry ye clung
Around your only one,—too oft transform'd
By love's most subtle alchymy, her faults
To fancied virtues,—yet your faithful voice
Has warn'd from error, and your dreaded glance
Darted repentance to her heart, when vice
Had overtaken it, and still ye toil'd
To train her as a servant of your Lord.
—Together now, with lingering steps ye tread
That steep, declining path of life which leads
Down to the flood of Jordan.—Oh my God!
Now in the feebleness of hoary hairs
Forsake them not. On this their natal day
Lift up the glory of thy countenance,
And bid their childless home, their lonely breasts,
Glow with that cheering radiance which now gilds
Yon chambers of the east.—Whate'er they need,
The gift of healing, or the light of faith,
Or confidence of prayer, vouchsafe to grant;
And all that measureless and priceless love
Which o'er my earthly journey they have strewn,
Shed thou again on them. Hast thou not said
A mother's kindness to her new-born babe,
Weigh'd with thy mercy to the trusting soul,
Was but forgetfulness?—Therefore I rest
My cause with thee,—for thou hast been their trust
Onward from blooming youth, and years mature
To weary age. What is a daughter's prayer
Though steep'd in all the agony of tears,
Compared with the compassions of a God!
—Be still, my soul!—and at the altar's foot
Kneel in adoring gratitude, nor fear
To trust that wisdom which hath never err'd,
That love which guides the wounded sparrow's fall,
And that eternal truth on which the arch
Of heaven is rear'd, and heaven's rejoicing host
Hang all their fulness of immortal bliss.