Poems by Thomas Odiorne . :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems by Thomas Odiorne .

in a series of numbers

Odiorne, Thomas (1769-1851)

No. I.

NYMPH OF THE VALLEY.

MINOR POEMS.

ETHIC STRAINS, ON SUBJECTS SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL, IN THREE PARTS; AND MINOR POEMS.

No. II.

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No. I.

—“Much yet remains
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind,
And more laborious.”—
—“Sedulous, I seek to improve,
At least neglect not, nor leave unemploy'd,
The mind.”—
Cowper.

NYMPH OF THE VALLEY.

By Heaven united, not by accident
Of transient fancy, like as thousands are,
But by such secret workings of events
As sages call inscrutable. Well met,
Soul wedding soul, to each each perfect seem'd.
Manuscript.

Along a bushy slope, amongst the cliffs,
Near, where its head a rugged upland lifts,
A living fountain sends a crystal rill,
Meand'ring, ruffling, gurgling down the hill;
Then o'er its pebbly bed midst thickets winds,
And through the tangled sedge its passage finds.
Then smooth along through verdant meads it strays,
And opes its bosom to the golden blaze;
At length grown deep and swell'd by confluent streams,
It spreads a lake that like an ocean seems.
On either side, hills, crown'd with forests, rise,
Whose lofty tops associate with the skies;
Oft courting heavy-laden clouds to bow,
And drop a blessing on the vales below.

O! how in youth, at morn or eventide,
I lov'd to saunter the smooth lake beside,

And haply with some mate, of sport in search,
Hook from his wonted haunt the red-finn'd perch!
The tyrant pike, too, and the spotted trout,
Rotund and large, with transports we drew out.

Or, as we went to hunt the hare,
To set the trap, or fix the snare;
Where 'mongst the woods the wild-bees humm'd,
And, heard remote, the partridge drumm'd;
What joyful sports and seasons gone—
Youth passes never to return!
Or when the cool airs lift their caves,
Refresh'd the day, and woke the waves,
On board some barge, the fair to please,
With what delight we caught the favouring breeze!
Fann'd by zephyr, young and sprightly,
With a graceful motion, lightly,
Wav'd the forest, far and wide,
Nodding with majestic pride;
While the leaves, with rustling noise,
Added to our social joys;
And, all around, a grateful clime,
Where cultur'd fields, and rude, combin'd,
And prospects fair, and scenes sublime,
With useful thoughts supply'd the thinking mind.

Beside the lake a cottage stands;
An ample range its front commands;

And Cora, loveliest nymph of all the glades,
Adorn'd its haunts, and charm'd the rural shades.

O, she was fair! her modest aspect shone
Expressive of a mind of heavenly tone;
No pencil of the nicest tint could trace
Her eye's divinity, her features' grace;
No words describe with what a nameless ease
Her peerless manners never fail'd to please;
Where'er she mov'd, she seem'd a beam so bright,
One might have thought an angel were in sight.
I cannot tell one half:—in her combin'd
What chastest fancy paints, to please the mind;
And, though of beauty's magic power possess'd,
Not a vain thought she harbour'd in her breast;
And, (strange to tell!) endow'd with so much grace,
She deem'd herself th' unworthiest of her race.

Oft roaming near, in quest of woodland game,
A village youth, the fam'd Rhinaldo, came;
With fearful noise he made the woods resound,
And oft the damsel started at the sound.
From close behind him, as he fir'd his gun,
His yelping dog in eager transport run;
And, full of triumph if he caught the prey,
Convey'd it to his host without delay.

Trampling up a rugged steep,
In haste retire th' affrighted sheep,

Halt and turn to see what harm
Causes such a dread alarm.
If attack'd, the madded ram,
With brazen front, defends his dam,
Stamps the foot, and buts the knock,
Champion of the trembling flock;
While by frequent starts the bell
Gingles o'er the sounding dell.

But oft the youth, in voice of sweetest turns,
Woke mountain echo from the rocks and urns;
Or, by the magic of his vocal flute,
In mute suspense detain'd the gazing brute.
Such dulcet melody he breath'd along,
The birds hopp'd round, forgetful of their song;
Hush'd was the wind, the rill forebore its noise,
And list'ning silence stood entranc'd with joys.

Smooth was the flood; declining to his bed,
O'er western skies the sun carnation spread;
Irradiate crimson on the lake repos'd,
Charming its bosom ere eve's curtain clos'd;
Down came the shadows from the mountain's height;
Soft dusky vapours sooth'd the beams of light;
The weary songster to his roost retir'd;
From the dark grove the whippoorwill respir'd.
Sunk had the sun; and lo! the full-orb'd moon
Was wandering up to her nocturnal noon;
What time the virgin sought the adjacent wood,
Her wonted haunt, to indulge her heavenly mood.

Thus she began: Hail! ancient, hallow'd groves!
Your venerable gloom my heart approves!
Gladly I come to pass a musing hour
In the cool shades of your inviting bower!
Seraphs of light! who hover on the wing,
Guardians of virtue, your kind influence bring!

Holiest of Beings! (then her lips begun,)
Imbue me with the spirit of thy Son!
Beneath thy banner me from harm protect,
Forgive my sins, and all my steps direct!

She then revolv'd on what the world calls bliss,
Which from experience she had prov'd amiss;
That common friendship has, like riches, wings,
And fashionable life a thousand stings;
That, in the scales of scandal and esteem,
'Tis self-deceit to expect a level beam;
The first (it is so gross) the last outweighs,
And lightens every deed that merits praise.
She spoke; meanwhile from heaven the stars so bright,
And from her cloud the silver queen of night,
Look'd through the trees, and saw the damsel there,
And smil'd upon “the fairest of the fair.”
The thicket, interspers'd with light and shade,
A checker'd scene and motley group display'd—
'Twas autumn—thousand insects all among,
In oft repeated swells the welkin rung.

While musing there, soft slumber weigh'd
Her weary senses to repose,
Till a small voice awoke the maid—
“He who shall save thy life shall be thy spouse.”
The vision gone, the words return,
Distinct to her reflection's view,
With heavenly flame her feelings burn;
When, ranging thus the clause,
She fains another meaning, true,
“My soul is life, my Saviour is my spouse.”
But, still, without apparent cause,
The Oracle was heard again
In softest syllables to move;
Repeating o'er the former strain,
“He who shall save thy life shall be thy spouse.”
So, oft reflecting, often musing,
Thinking what the presage meant;
Without the least apparent chusing,
Or a seemingly intent;
She, by involuntary laws,
Frequent pronounc'd the vision'd clause.—
It seem'd like answer; as when round
Echo returns the noise of sound.

At length, bound homeward from his sport,
Rhinaldo now, to make the distance short,
An unfrequented path pursu'd,
That pierc'd this ancient, solitary wood.

When from some bush a noise he heard,
As 'twere the rustling of a bird.
Instant he stopp'd, and gazing spy'd,
Half hid the leafy boughs between,
A female form of blooming mein,
Fair as a fabled sylvan queen;
A lovelier never shone a bride.
As when the moon through clouds appears,
So she; all beautiful in fears.
At first a sweet surprise she show'd,
Her blushes in his favour glow'd.
In silent gaze her eye to meet,
He feels the force her charms impart;
No sight e'er seem'd to sense so sweet;
A thousand hopes and fears assail his heart.

Still half her beauty, as in shrouds,
Obstructing foliages conceal'd;
Through pendent locks her eyes, reveal'd,
Shone like two stars that peep through clouds.
His prying fancy, spelling out new charms,
Brought to his mind a thousand hid alarms;
So what her modesty would fain deny,
Seem'd twice as fair to thought's intrusive eye.

Advancing now in smiling look,
Thus from his lips his accents broke:
Say, whence art thou, my gentle maid?
Thou beam amidst the moonlight shade!
If I am no intruder here,
Nymph of the forest, O declare!

In city born, the Maid reply'd,
I now in yonder cot reside;
My early life in affluence flow'd,
Where fortune, kind, her gifts bestow'd;
Until the radiant morning beam,
That deck'd my youth's smooth flowing stream,
Darken'd by clouds, departed like a dream.

Thus left in bloom of life to mourn
A father gone, (and never to return!)
I pass'd the day in boding fears,
And drown'd the night in sorrow's tears.
No kindred soul, save one, was there,
My breast to sooth, my woes to share;
No sister to dispel my care;—
And many a look that once seem'd warm
With fondly friendship's seraph charm,
Sudden grew cold. A mother cheers
My sadly thoughts, and mingles tears with tears.

At length our small resources fail;
Our mansion sold, we left the town,
Avoiding scowling friendship's frown,
And bought yon Cottage of the Vale.
There on a mound, a rural seat,
A pleasant view, a sweet retreat,
Live we in peace, and food obtain
By such employments as our needles gain.
Nothing contents on earth I find,
Like a sweet solace of the mind.

She spoke; then he: But fear'st thou not, sweet lass,
In these dark melancholy cells,
Where oft the boding corm'rant yells,
Away from home thy lonely hours to pass?

Home I admire, the maid replied;
Dear to my heart my parent seems;
Yet oft, at fall of eventide,
I love in these lone haunts to hide,
Nor dread the boding night-bird's screams.
But when resound the lark's shrill peals;
When o'er the world the dayspring steals,
I love to ramble o'er the flowery fields.

She said; when thus the youth return'd,
While rapture in his bosom burn'd:
The worthiest of thy sex thou art!
Nay, something more than human dwells
Within the foldings of thy heart,
Or fear would keep thee from these awful cells!
Though I with frequent footsteps roam
O'er the wild woods, or fields in bloom;
I most at home should take my share,
If loveliness like thine were there.
And 'twere my heart's devoted pride,
Could I but call thee—durst I say—my bride?

A conscious blush, with passion fraught,
Suffus'd her visage as he gaz'd;

For she had heard his virtues prais'd;
And he had her acquaintance sought.
Silent they stood; till, full of charm,
Such as might saints of light admire;
Or such as might a stoic warm
With a celestial fire;
Cora replied:
O, could I right from wrong discern,
And, of myself, decide,
I could not but as Heaven allows!
Take for an answer this return:
“He who shall save my life shall be my spouse.”

Think me not rude, the youth rejoin'd;
Vain flattering words which courtiers choose,
I from my soul abhor to use;
As soon might grow the tyger kind.
In truth thee greatly I revere;
And when in future thou shalt hear,
Reft of his mate, the turtle dove,
O think, so sacred is my love!
Wert thou in peril, I would rush to thee,
Though wrathful vengeance should prohibit me!
Nay, pass the front of horror with disdain,
Thee to arrest from harm, or save from pain!

A dovelike sympathy now took control,
And o'er her visage glow'd the feeling soul.

Not with diviner beams Aurora shows
Joy in her rosy features, wet with dews:
Not with more charm seems verdant spring in bloom,
When fragrant nature breathes divine perfume.

Now side by side, along they rove,
Silent, so fill'd with magic power of love;
Till at the cottage door they stand—
He begg'd a draught of cooling drink;
When, turning with an aspect bland,
She tript it to a living spring,
Spouting beneath the mountain's brink;
And had the bliss the cup to bring,
And he to take from her enchanting hand.
Trembling he drank; he thank'd the Maid,
While him a courteous look she paid,
Bowing submiss at what he said,
Taking the cup in both her hands;
But, as Rhinaldo turn'd his steps away,
He so reluctant seem'd to part;
She wish'd, withheld by silken bands,
He had prolong'd his stay,
And thought she saw a tear-drop start.

May horror seize the wretch, one day,
Who seeks, with base perfidious views,
To win attachment to abuse,
To violate, to triumph, to betray!

The man, so infamous, so low,
To 'self himself shall prove a foe.
For while, when round thick darkness broods,
He hears the hawk's yell 'mongst the woods;
Or, in his sleep, the mastiff's growl,
Or, loud, the mountain mad-wolf's howl;
Nay, while dire whims reflection brews,
The creeking hinge, the white cat's mews;
Will not his fancy conjure up a ghost
Of horrid aspect, or a host
Of ghastly goblins, grinning spite,
To vex his haggard soul by night?

And should, when keen convictions start,
He blunt each pang upon his heart;
Should he the sense of guilt dispel,
When forc'd upon himself to dwell;
Say, can his stout heart think to brave,
Impenitent, the horrors of the grave?
And when the burning, dire disease,
Anon, shall on his vitals seize,
Producing horrible distress,
Think ye that man will go to happiness?

But, with the youth that decks my strain,
It was not so:—he liv'd a swain,
Such as a sire to virtue prone,
Might as a son delight to own,
Belov'd wherever he was known,
And whose esteem the virtuous sought to gain.

Now fly, ye lingering hours, away!
Hasten, O time! and bring th' expected day!
At length, beneath the solar ray,
Upon the lake a barge is seen,
Where, face to face, in smiling mien,
The mutual sexes shine in vestments gay.
The waves are blue, the fields are green,
The breeze expands the whiten'd sails,
While social intercourse prevails,
And bears them gently far away.

As when a swan, in buoyant pride,
Launches his bosom on the tide;
And, moving on with viewless force,
Wheels with a swelling curve his course;
Well manag'd thus, the barge with ease,
Rides gracefully before the breeze.

Lo! now direct, they glide with speed,
Along the shore where spreads the mead,
Where, from the crystal water's bed,
Pebbles reflect the twinkling beam,

Or where the finny species seem
Fond of much sport, and void of dread.
Athwart, about, they gently swim,
While just beneath the surface lies
The greedy tyrant of the stream,
And, darting, takes them by surprise.

Now looking round her, Harriot cries,
O see! how alter'd now, how strange,
The back-ground seems in unaccustom'd range!
The cot, half hid behind the wood,
Is all at once remov'd from where it stood;
The mountain swims, the shores recede,
The boat stands still; along her side,
With rapid force the waters glide,
And giddiness has seiz'd my head.

She said and ceas'd; when, in command,
Rhinaldo steer'd direct to land;
They quit the barge with lively speed,
And ramble o'er the verdant mead,
Pick various plums, select fair flowers,
And laugh away the social hours:—
While all the time, with special care,
(For in his breast soft passion burn'd,)
Rhinaldo sought to please the fair,
Till evening came, and they return'd.

The time pass'd pleasant like a song,
Rhinaldo courted, waited, long,
And oft, with delicate applause,
He nam'd his suit, and urg'd his cause:
Till the fair Maid, at length, reply'd:
But when she would say yes, deny'd:
For destiny had plann'd it so,
'Twas Cora's duty to say no!
But spoke it in such softly way,
It did not seem to mean like nay.
She said she wish'd his friendship still:
And, under that disguise,
Rhinaldo hoped to win the prize,
Nor press'd the Maid against her will.
And, if a cautious dame should say,
Or hint a fear, he might betray;
He, with a brow serene,
(As sometimes answers man his wife,)
Shook, as he laugh'd, the thought away;
For honour was as dear to him as life.

At length beside the lake one day,
Where oft the nymphs were wont to stray,
As Cora walk'd with Harriot, (sad to tell!)
The bank gave way, and Cora fell.
Harriot, distracted, knew not what to do,
But scream'd aloud, and tow'rds the cottage flew.
See how she flies! and, like a frighted fawn,

Leaps o'er a fence, and darts across the lawn!
Propitious Heaven! all frantic with despair,
Inly she cries, O save! O hear my prayer!
Onward she hied, but hied in vain;
For, ere she could return again,
Rhinaldo, sent by Heaven to save,
Had hasten'd to the spot in time;
Had plung'd into the lake, sublime,
And borne the drowning virgin from the wave.
Twice had she sunk; he seiz'd her hair,
Then rais'd her gasping person from despair.

With lively transport in his eyes,
Joy glads my soul, Rhinaldo cries;
The terms perform'd, I claim the prize.

Guilt, as a passion, ever associates itself with portentous fears. Under its influence imagination misconstrues the least strange noise, or trivial circumstance, into some vindictive visitation. So at variance with each other are virtue and vice, in the very constitution of things, and so diverse is their tendency; while happiness is the certain result of the one, ruin and misery are the inevitable consequence of the other. There is no alliance between them, either in principle, or practice, or final destination. Indeed, there would be great impropriety in supposing, that they both lead to the same bourne, or that they ought, in justice, to be treated indiscriminately alike.

MINOR POEMS.

THE ROBIN.

Hark! the native warbler sings!
To charm his mate upon her nest,
The guardian of her rest,
He tells the most melodious things—
How all nature smiles about,
How fast the mulb'ries grow,
How her gentle breast will glow,
When her tender young are out.
His dulcet strains salute the morning glows,
And sooth retiring daylight to repose.

ECHO.

Lo! beyond the distant bog,
As the peasant chops a log—
Hark! the sound, in long suspense,
Cheats the stroke, and balks the sense;
But, expanding o'er the vale,
Or along some dingling dale,
Where, the hills and woods among,
Jovial rings the team-boy's song,
Echo, softlier than a bell,
Fills with noise her airy shell;
And, according to her laws,
Protracts the sound at every pause.

PLEASANT VIEW.

Upon the plains of Jersey wide extended,
Where landscapes late my pleas'd attention drew,
Cooper's plantation with enchantments blended,
Lives in my mind, and forms a pleasant view.

On one side spreads an ancient wood majestic,
On one side rolls the Delaware sublime;
The mansion is a tranquil scene domestic,
And all around it a luxuriant clime.

Far, wav'd the harvest like a golden ocean,
High towering, nodded a fine field of corn;
With num'rous flocks the pastures were in motion,
And joyous Plenty fill'd with fruit her horn.

Enrob'd in elegance, with smiling faces,
By Art embellish'd, by Delight inspir'd,
Around the pleasure garden danc'd the Graces,
Approv'd of Fancy, and by Taste admir'd.

When on a verdant bank I took my station,
And, lingering, ponder'd on the river's pride;
The gorgeous west diffus'd a rich carnation,
And chang'd a silver to a golden tide.

Meanwhile the red-breast pour'd his raptur'd vesper,
Winding his notes to a melodious close;

He seem'd to serenade triumphant Hesper,
And lull creation to divine repose.

Along the margin of a meadow walking,
I met three wood-nymphs rambling o'er the scene;
Well-pleas'd, in sportive humour they were talking,
And nature brighten'd into sprightlier green.

The transient seraph of my soul was present;
Upon her charms with ravish'd look I hung;
Enjoy'd a fervour of emotion pleasant,
And caught the magic of her witching tongue.

'Twas not a passion of romantic story;
'Twas not a flame that beam'd a settled ray;
Like Zephyr, fondling o'er the sweets of Flora,
I stole a stock of bliss, and hied away.

Hast thou not paid to loveliness, devotion,
And caught enchantment from affection's smile?
Hast thou not felt in sympathy a motion,
That with a soothing power could griefs beguile?

Hast thou not mark'd the fervid, fond confession,
The strong desire with vivid hope combin'd,
And felt an ecstasy beyond expression,
A kindred mood, a paradise of mind?

Doubtless; and often so have I, transported,
While full of consciousness my being rose;
O! to the lass I love I'll be devoted,
With all the tenderness my bosom knows.

THE MONTH OF MARCH.

How pleasant is this place! E'en in this month
Of winds I love my home. The sky is cold
And clear. Behind the house the north wind raves;
In front, the sun emits his slanting beams.
Without a trough the melted snows to guide,
The roof lets fall a thousand pattering drops.
Passing we dodge. At yester-noon fell thick
A flaky shower, and mantled o'er the face
Of Nature that had smil'd. Earth, like a bride,
Frigid as chastity, flaunts in white robes;
But, having the dissolving touch of spring
Felt, she will soon his mild embrace enjoy.
Beneath her snowy vestments, ruthless frost
No longer binds the life-sustaining glebe,
Intent to burst its vegetative powers.
To guard the fruit trees from the nibbling flocks,
The heedful husbandman his fence repairs,
And timely prunes his thrifty orchard. Earth,
Of quick-dissolving snows, now drinks her fill.
Man's ardent bosom, now elate with hopes
Of seed-time, gathers sympathetic life
And vigour. Vegetation works unseen.

The sun grows vertical; less fierce the winds.
Aries holds light and darkness equipois'd.
In yonder mead, along the hillock's base,
From northern blasts defended, or beside
Some tepid spring e'en now my fancy paints
The vivid green grass. From the dripping bogs
Fleecy white vapours rise; and, freed from ice,
The limpid rill, rejoicing in its course,
Meand'ring, sweetly gurgles as it falls.
The fascinating verdure of the fields,
The gentle rustling of the trees, new-leav'd,
The jocund warblings of the birds are near.
Invigorated by that mystic power,
Which, from the seed and root propels the blade,
And ear, and grain, all nature soon will smile.
So by that wonder-working power inspir'd,
Man shall arise again, and live renew'd.

KATE, CRAZED.

“There often wanders one whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak and satin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.”
COWPER.

At the first glow of morn,
When jocund spring was born,
Aurelius caught, by mountain-side,
The blooming Kate, the hamlet's pride.
Awaken'd by virtue's alarms,
She flung from his arms—
He sought her hand, but she deny'd.
You know, she said, at yester-eve,
When I had you refus'd,
You rudely me abus'd,
And stole a kiss without my leave.

Aurelius now her pardon sought;
He told her 'twas a wayward thought;
And laid the charge to beauty's power,
While play beguil'd the social hour.
Such plausive words the virgin woo'd;
She straight forgave the deed so rude;
And said, the like beneath the sun,
None but Aurelius should have done.

The hint the joyous victor took,
He caught again his coyish guest,
And, in a look
Of rapt endearment, clasp'd her to his breast.

'Tis wrong, she cry'd; why do you so?
Indeed, 'tis wrong; now let me go.
The while, she turn'd her face aside,
Her rising passion to conceal,
Nor for the world would she reveal
Her secret wish to be a bride.

In vain she turn'd; with power to move,
A glance escap'd that told her love.
Beneath an oak-tree's wide spread boughs,
They talk'd of Nature's charming beam,
(Nor thoughtless of a fonder theme,)
And pledg'd at last their mutual vows.

Along the glen a river roll'd;
Contiguous, far, a cottage stood;
The fields th' approach of summer told;
While noisy echo on the hill,
Responded to the roaring flood,
And frequent tic-tac of the mill.

Suspended at her side,
And in a silk-net bound,
A harp, of golden sound,
The maid unty'd;

And as her fingers mov'd,
To tune the lively air she lov'd,
She added melting vocal tone,
And with such ravishment she sung,
It might affect a heart of stone,
While hills around in concert rung.

As time stole away,
They wish'd it to stay;
Exchang'd adieus with heart-felt pain;
But oft as fit occasion came,
They met and parted all the same,
Nor cause had either to complain.

O! never was the youth so pleasant,
As when enchanting Kate was present!
He was of an ardent turn,
His love was true, his heart would burn;
And oft, with sympathy of soul,
Almost beyond his own control,
He drew the cherub to his breast,
While the world was gone to rest.

Noble he was, of manly face;
One might his temper in his features trace;
And virtue, bounteous to her votive son,
Had given his spirit an ethereal tone.
I knew him well; my generous friend was he—
Alas, Aurelius! thou wast dear to me!

Mourn, ye fair virgins! him, ye swains, deplore!
First render'd wretched; now on earth no more!
Weep over him, ye flowers! ye gentle gales,
Sigh to the streams; ye streams, return the wails!

Wand'ring one day the groves among,
His fancy on Kate's image hung;
When to himself: Enchanting maid!
And shall I ever call thee mine? he said:
Approach, O Day! that kind event to show;
Fly, Time! nor drag along thy wheels so slow.
He spoke; and often he would stray alone,
To muse upon her lovely mind;
And oft her name repeat, in rapt'rous tone—
Ah cruel fate! O how unkind!

The conquest sure, the maid grew vain,
And, acting the coquette,
She sought to give Aurelius pain,
Slighted her vows, and scorn'd regret.

Touch'd with indignant pride,
(For love that is sincere,
Is loath to suffer wrong,)
He left his perjur'd bride,
(It was decreed above!)
And to the woods he hied along,

And dwelt a hermit there,
Hating the morning which beguil'd his love.

The yelling squalls arose,
And, frantic with despair,
Kate on her couch took no repose,
But flung her arms, and tore her hair.
The north wind flapp'd her windows rude;
Her door upon its hinges creak'd;
And elf behind her curtain speak'd,
And twice and once a white cat mew'd.
Disturb'd all night, she try'd in vain,
To drive the frightful omen from her brain.

At length, a vague report was spread,
That young Aurelius, sad, demure,
To some enchanted grot had fled,
From social haunts away, and liv'd obscure.
In deepest solitudes confin'd,
'Mongst horrid cliffs where scorpions dwell,
Within a ghosted dell,
Around which corm'rants yell,
He found a mansion suited to his mind.
Conflicting passions had his bosom torn,
Too much he suffer'd to be borne;
His parents had grown inhumane;
And Kate herself had us'd her art,
To agonize his heart.

Ah! foolish maid, he cry'd; to test my flame
With such expedients to thy shame!

Treatment such, he could not brook;
Conqu'ring himself he took
Indifference along,
And sought seclusion from a world of wrong.
Within the Zembla of his mind,
A rueful apathy, unkind,
Usurp'd the vacant throne,
Whence tender sensibility had flown.

At length through the wood a fair maid
Had heedlessly stroll'd from her way;
For after the heat of the day,
While the west is with crimson bespread,
There's romantic delight in the shade.
But see! on a sudden surprise,
She lifts, as in wonder, her hands,
And remains with astonish'd fix'd eyes.
Amidst umbrageous gloom,
A monumental ruin stands,
A dismal, solitary tomb.
Hark! the raven moans!
Hark! a fancy'd goblin grows!
Lo! beside a murky cave,
A pensive hermit sat,
While sportively the bat
With flitting wing a whizzing gave.

Solemn, awful dread
Seiz'd the falt'ring maid.
Her spirits flag,
Her footsteps lag;
Cold thrills her blood,
And, like a post,
Aghast she stood,
And, wild in reason, seem'd a ghost.

Now coming to herself again,
She thinks she sees her long-lost swain,—
'Tis he! 'tis he! she cries: the same!
She call'd aloud upon his name.
Th' enchanted caves, the woods among,
Fill'd with the sound, reverberating rung.

Struck with surprise,
The man of the wood
Started and stood,
And star'd about.
Trembling with fear and doubt,
'Twas Kate herself, he knew—
Ah see, he faints! upon the ground he lies.

Like the tempest she flew,
And the words that she spoke,
Rent the sky with a peal.
The hermit scarce had power to feel.
Kate scarce his visage knew;—

But, as he op'd his eyes,
She anxiously cries,
Aurelius! is it you?
To whom, unchang'd, he quick reply'd:
(Thus did the fates decide:)
Coquette! begone!
Kate and Aurelius never can be one.

Oh! unexpected, fatal stroke!
Detested day!
Distracted, amaz'd,
Turn'd she away—
Her heart was broke.
She straight went craz'd.

REFLECTION ON LIFE.

When we peruse the hist'ry of mankind,
And learn what crimes have been! Oh! how it wounds
The soul, to think that, of all beings here,
Man, made erect, oft creeps the lowest wretch!
For in the moral taste the standard lies,
And none but humble pilgrims walk upright.
Of all the myriads of the human race,
How few, if any, with a moral eye
On Heaven, support that godlike attitude
Eternity demands! Eternity!
Amazing word! and shall the mental spark,
Once conscious of existence, happy live,
Or wretched be, forever? What a thought!
And true: 'tis Heaven's immutable decree!
And the soul's exit from sublunar climes,
Fixes its everlasting destiny.

Were it not well for all who value life,
And calculate on happiness to come;
Though rich or poor, or wise or ignorant,
That each his pilgrimage may well perform,
Oft, on their way, to ponder on themselves—

How they may best their journey's end pursue,
And how be best receiv'd by those in wait
Upon the confines of th' eternal world,
To greet them with delight, or shun with scorn,
As their peculiar states deserve. For then,
Each aspect will express the character.
Without disguise the soul will all appear;
Vice will show hate, and virtue show her charm.
Whether 'twere proper, since the axe is laid
At the tree's root, to dally out our lives
In pastimes, sloth, and fashionable crime,
Despis'd or honour'd, as the case may be,
Or by one great exertion, set at once
Aside, the sin that doth so easily
Beset us, and, at once, repent and mend,
Is the grand point that we should solve direct;
And, as there's no alternative, beside
Virtue and bliss, and vice and punishment,
Either all hopes of happiness resign,
Or bring ourselves to instant discipline.
For to resolve to mend at future date,
Were only to postpone; and to postpone,
Were loss of chance which never might return;
But, haply, if it should, to meet it then
With new postponement by a new resolve,
Were all deception; fooling with one's self
In face of counsel; and deception, fix'd,
Perpetuates delay, and keeps the soul

In hazard unaware. It lulls and blinds
Conscience, when she should keep her strictest watch,
And weaves the name of virtue, guilefully,
Upon the cobweb of a self-wrought cheat.

Making a merit of th' intent to mend,
Some balance oft the long arrear of life
By thoughts of reformation never put to proof;
And when the King of Terrors comes along,
And finds their opportunities abus'd,
And straight his vengeful sentence executes,
Alas! alas! Oh! what will be their doom?

ON THE BIBLE.

O sacred Book of knowledge, all divine,
The Bible! richer than the golden mine!
The sun of moral systems, it unfolds
The path of glory to immortal souls.
Nay, 'tis the standard of true taste, the pride
Of letter'd learning, and the critic's guide.
With boldest figures its descriptions glow;
Its gentle tales in softest pathos flow;
The true sublime in diction apt and terse,
Or beauty's image radiates its verse;
Thoughts, there, in loftiest or in simplest dress,
Strike and affect the soul with matchless stress;
Words, there, like glowing coals, a warmth impart,
And strokes from nature shame the strokes of art.
Such charms its little hist'ry pieces wear,
They melt the reader o'er the story there;
Such thoughts its splendid imagery inspires,
Conception kindles into hallow'd fires.
Like vernal beams which vegetate the earth,
While plenteous showers give vigour to her birth;
So the blest Word, receiv'd by faith, imbues,
With life, the dead; with joyful hope endues;
Supplies the soul with ever-during food,
On earth the foretaste of immortal good.
Announce its fame, ye Angels! far and near,
Till the whole race the gladsome sound shall hear!

ARK OF FAITH.

Hail, sacred Ark of ever sure reliance,
Ne'er known to meet perdition on a shoal;
Thou, buoyant, bid'st life's dashing sea defiance,
And turn'st aside its mountains as they roll!

Along the coast of Man, in triumph sailing,
A thousand barks intend one port to make;
When, lo! Opinion's wildering fogs prevailing,
They separate, and various courses take.

Near Folly's quicksands, in a dread position,
Without a rudder, on Destruction's wave;
The schooner Chance is hurried to perdition,
And Doubt her pilot to Confusion's grave.

But the staunch Ark of Faith, with steady motion,
Hope at mast head, Experience at her stern,
Mid storms, o'er billows, grandly rides the ocean,
Certain to make the port of her concern.

For He who regulates the vast of Nature,
Whose potent word the winds and waves obey,
Will by his promise, as the Mediator,
Bring all his Chosen Ones to immortal day.

TO HOPE.

O come, thou cherub of enchanting vision,
Man's beck'ning angel through the scenes of care;
In adverse fortune make the best provision,
And save me from the horror of despair!

Since I've embark'd on life's precarious ocean,
Should the waves roar, impell'd by furious gales;
My bark at random, should the dire commotion,
Splinter her masts, and shiver all her sails;

While overhead, thick clouds and billows blending,
The skies on fire reflect a dismal glare;
O, strengthen me, amidst the scene contending,
And snatch me from the grapple of despair!

But should my ship, grown leaky all around her,
Fill with the flood beyond the power to save;
Should she amidst the mighty uproar, founder,
And leave me to the fury of the wave;

Quit me not then, upon a fragment riding,
At random hove upon the boist'rous deep;
But give me prospects of the winds subsiding,
And from despair my flagging spirits keep!

And O! at death, although distress attend me,
Depriv'd of earthly prospect of support;
Be near, thou Angel! kind assistance lend me,
And waft my spirit to its native port!

TO CHARITY.

Oh! why should man, of such exalted feature,
With soul constructed on the moral plan,
Indulge his passions as the fiercest creature,
The bloodiest monster since the world began.

How shocking! what a thirst he has for killing!
Outrageous, fell, revengeful he appears,
His blade still warm, not surfeited with spilling
The blood of thousands for six thousand years!

Spirit of Love! O come; best joys revealing,
That heaven bestows upon the human mind,
And, by thy quick'ning power, elicit feeling,
And renovate the temper of mankind!

Teach us the love of kindness to each other,
To aid the suff'rer, though we aid the foe;
And, looking on each neighbour as a brother,
Lessen the quantity of human wo.

Fair as the morn at her divine oblation,
When in her comeliest aspect she appears;
O! spread thy sacred reign o'er every nation,
And bring the triumph of the golden years!

ON GARRICK.

When on the stage fam'd Garrick trod,
And shook the benches by a nod,
His author's genius all his own,
O, how he shone!

As from his lips the words expir'd,
With animation fir'd,
A twofold language from conception broke;
He personated what he spoke,
And gazing auditors admir'd.

His looks were at his own command;
Through vaulted roofs his words expand;
While from their seats spectators lean
With greedy ears to hear;
Their passions, at his will, are seen,
Revenge, or hate, or love, or fear.

Now o'er his visage pity creeps;
Feign'd grief seems real as he weeps;
Now mov'd by love, he charms, he charms;
His ardour every bosom warms;
Hard hearts he melts to passion's tide,
And wakes desires which Nature had deny'd.

But, stung by angry passions now,
He shakes live scorpions from his brow.
Madness was in his look—
Vengeance, and scorn, and hate,
Brew'd, in his frown, the downfall of the state.
The vaulted mansion shook;
In wild despair,
Fear seiz'd the monarch's hair;—
He started from his seat:—
With gaping mouths, as op'd by fate,
Like statues of dumb wood,
Spectators stood
With fury in their ire,
With horror in their stare;
For Garrick's was a soul of fire,
And the grim spectre of the play was there.

ON WOMAN.

Ah, why is woman thus by man ador'd,
The comeliest object in creation's hoard?
Ah why, where Nature's plastic hand neglects,
Has he an eye to beautify defects?
To hold her perfect in his partial sight,
His fancy's idol, and his heart's delight?

Is it because her form is fair,
Though destitute of ardour there?
Is it because more perfect made,
Of finer mould, or nobler grade?
No; 'tis because, with strong control,
Her gentle aspect softens on his soul.
Yes; 'tis because his eye can trace
A sympathy serene,
A fascinating grace,
Depicted in her mein.
And, O! her manners—all her own;
Her voice—of an etherial tone;
Her magic smile—offspring of mind,
By thought improv'd, by taste refin'd:—
These, above all, can deck the face,
And make a blemish seem a real grace.

ON THE SEXES.

Lo! when the sexes we comprise,
And mark the divers traits that rise,
How much more delicate we find,
Woman than man, in frame and mind!
Appropriate signs, and features fair,
In manners, looks, and voice, declare,
Throughout the kindred species we behold,
The male and female of a different mould.
Each one exists but half the kind,
By Nature, fashion'd to be join'd;
Yet, though dissimilar in frame,
Their senses, passions, wishes are the same.
Each leans to each by sympathy's control,
And mutual kindness mingles soul with soul.
Desire to please, on either side,
To character exists a moral guide;
So thus, preserving decency and grace,
Excites, improves, and dignifies our race.
But there's a charm in Woman's ways,
Deserving of peculiar praise.
When man is in distress,
She has the blissful power to bless;

Her look alone can give relief;
Her seraph smile can solace grief;
Nay, she can rule him as she will,
Though he remain the master still;
But governs (if she govern right)
By gentle means, but not by might.
So each controls, while each obeys,
But, most of all, her kindness sways.
He, by her softness, milder grows;
She, radiate by his manlier brows,
New dignity displays;
Thus each on each elicits rays;
While the sweet spirit that refines,
Assimilates their manners and their minds.
O! what a happy state abides,
Where sympathies agree, and reason guides!
Where converse shows the moral sense refin'd,
And looks bespeak a loveliness of mind!
And, thanks to Heaven! the magnet in the breast,
That draws together sexes to be blest,
Attracting, is attracted to the tone,
Suited and most congenial to its own!

SOLEMN MUSING IN A STORM.

Mercy! what light'ning! and an afterclap
So soon, excites an awful dread!—the thought
Of a hereafter!—an eternal world!
Again! how instant, forky, terrible!
It pierces to the very soul's recess
With an electric shock. Dark glooms the sky;
The rain loud patters on the roof; winds rush;
And louder still a heavier deluge pours.

As there exists a God who rules the storm;
And as in him for mercy I confide;
Why not as safe beneath the thunder's bolt,
As guarded, as beneath the sun's mild beam?
But what if he should take me hence at once?
(As I am in his power, and at his will;)
'Twere but to speed the dart prepar'd for me;
And, should it come to-day, it would but meet
The present; ten years hence it would no more.
A few successive objects in the mind,
A few more pleasures, and a few more pains,
Will make the future, with its products, then,
As real as the present, now. Alas!
And is there no exemption from the grave?

With what a dread I yield to the decree!
O! in the uttermost extremity,
May he, the Just One, fill my soul with peace!
His gift, of conscious solace to the soul,
Supplants those fears which render man a slave;
And come to him who has it, terror's king,
Sooner or later, when, or where, or how,
'Twere ne'er amiss, as by the will divine.

With all thy gifts and honors, what, O life!
Is thy amount? 'Tis but a fragile hold
Of a precarious tenure of abode,
A transient durance of delight and pain.
The former makes existence to be priz'd;—
But doom'd, as some are, to perpetual wo,
Within this bourne of care, and house of tears—
Who, without hope of change, would wish to live?
Ah! without hope of change, indeed who would?
For in this irksome wilderness of time,
Chok'd up and stinted in a barren soil,
What plant can gain perfection? But with eye
Fix'd on the future good, we overlook,
Or views as trivial in comparison,
The transient evils of the present life;
While, for the pangs of mind which we endure,
There is a cure at option. What is that?—
A will resign'd, a trust in the Supreme;
The sole substantial relish in the cup

Of bitter sorrows. 'Tis a mental balm;
A moral medicine; a peace in wo.
Nought else can turn affliction into joy.
Is there a man, a prey to deep distress,
Void of that trust? What precept, what advice,
Shall be administer'd? Forgetfulness?
Alas! Philosophy? As well might one
Talk to the reckless winds, as argue him
Out of his grief for a lost child. Indeed,
So inconsolable is he, it seems
As if to temp'ral fondnesses he hung,
As his salvation's hope. But there are souls,
So merg'd within the will of the Supreme,
So panoply'd against the shafts of time,
They seem quite enter'd into rest this side
The grave. With passions wean'd from earth, and thoughts
Above the events of life, they have a source,
A never-failing source, of joy divine.

'Tis Hope that thus attaches us to life,
By promises more sweet than fancy's dreams
Of bounteous bliss from fortune's casual turns.
Advis'd by Prudence, on the plausive ground
Of waiting for a prospect opportune,
That Expectation may success ensure,
We take a draft on Time. When due, the knave
Declares it forgery. We make protest,

Return the bill; when Hope, in smiling mien,
Redeems her pledge, as is her usual way—
In coin? Oh no! by bills new drawn on Time.
We trust her still, and still to be deceiv'd.

Thus, in pursuit of promises ne'er met,—
Th' expense of protest, int'rest, postages,
Augment the balance to a debt of chance,
Till Expectation becomes bankrupted;
Unless, as sometimes 'tis the case, kind Faith,
In pity to the pensioners of time,
Steps in between, and cancels the demand,
By an exchange, at sight, upon the House
Of Heaven. No longer a deceiver, Hope
Becomes the comforter of pilgrims. On
Her wings, she bears them o'er each miry place,
To pleasant paths; and, at their journey's end,
Wafts them as lightly as the mist of morn,
O'er the dark vale and awful gulf of death.