Poetical remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson / [Lucretia Maria Davidson] [electronic text]

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

CHARITY.

A VERSIFICATION OF PART OF THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF FIRST CORINTHIANS.

(Written in her twelfth year.)

THOUGH I were gifted with an angel's tongue, And voice like that with which the prophets sung, Yet if mild charity were not within, 'T were all an impious mockery and sin.

Though I the gift of prophecy possessed, And faith like that which Abraham professed, They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound, If meek-eyed charity did not abound.

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow, And to the flames my body I should throw, Yet the vain act would never cover sin, If heaven-born charity were not within.

TO SCIENCE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Let others in false Pleasure's court be found, But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round; Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight, Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight.

Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide, Direct my way, whene'er I step aside; May one bright ray of Science on me shine, And be the gift of learning ever mine.

PLEASURE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Away! unstable, fleeting Pleasure, Thou troublesome and g0lided treasure; When the false jewel changes hue, There's naught, O man, that's left for you! What many grasp at with such joy, Is but her shade, a foolish toy; She is not found at every court, At every ball, and every sport, But in that heart she loves to rest, That's with a guiltless conscience blest.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

The Shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care, And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed; He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air, O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade.

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen Depicted on the careful shepherd's face, When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green, He sees his fav'rite charge is in its place.

Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn, When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed, And thus with mercy he receives him home, When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed.

There is great joy among the saints ih heaven, When one repentant soul has found its God, For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given, And sealed it with his own redeeming blood!

LINES, WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page, At the sight of reward , she flies off in a rage; Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try, But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh.

She torments me each moment, and bids me go write. And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight; The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense, And against all her insults I have no defence.

I advise all my friends, who wish me to write, To keep their rewards and their praises from sight; So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride, Nor Pegasus rear, till I've taken my ride.

TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRK WHITE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades The mourning Nine , o'er White's untimely grave Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave.

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin, Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin; There his deserted garlands with'ring lie, Like him they droop, like him untimely die.

STILLING THE WAVES.

Written in her thirteenth year

"And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea,'Peace, be still!'"

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread On the rough bosom of your watery bed! Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet, But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet; 'T is He alone can calm your rage at will, This is His sacred mandate, "Peace, be still!"

A SONG.

(IN IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH)

Written in her thirteenth year

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift, His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift, His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his plaid, And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad. Ah! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now? The tiny drop trickles frae off thy dark brow.

"I come," said the stranger, "to spier my lued hame, And to see if my Marion still were the same; I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled, And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid; I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame, And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame."

"Gude Spirit of Light!" ('t was a voice caught his ear) "And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear? And has the fierce Southron then left me my child! Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild?" He turned to behold —'t is his mother he sees! He flies to embrace her — he falls on his knees.

"Oh! where is my father?" a tear trickled down, And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown: "Ah! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast, Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest!" "But where is my Marion?" his pale cheek turned red, And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried.

"She lives!" and he knew 't was his Marion's sweet tone, "She lives," exclaims Marion, "for Norman alone!" He saw her: the rose had fled far from her cheek, But Norman still lives! his Marion is found; By the adamant chains of blithe Hymen they're bound.

EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

When Israel's sons, from cruel bondage freed, Fled to the land by righteous Heaven decreed; Insulting Pharaoh quick pursued their train, E'en to the borders of the troubled main.

Affrighted Israel stood alone dismayed, The foe behind, the sea before them laid; Around, the hosts of bloody Pharaoh fold, And wave o'er wave the raging Red Sea rolled.

But God, who saves his chosen ones from harm, Stretched to their aid his all-protecting arm, And lo! on either side the sea divides, And Israel's army in its bosom hides.

Safe to the shore through watery walls they march, And once more hail kind Heaven's aerial arch; Far, far behind, the cruel foe is seen, And the dark waters roll their march between.

The God of vengeance stretched his arm again, And heaving, back recoiled the foaming main; And impious Pharaoh 'neath the raging wave, With all his army, finds a watery grave.

Rejoice, O Israel! God is on your side, He is your champion, and your faithful guide; By day, a cloud is to your footsteps given, By night, a fiery column towers to heaven.

Then Israel's children marched by day and night, Till Sinai's mountain rose upon their sight: There righteous Heaven the flying army staid, And Israel's sons the high command obeyed.

To Sinai's mount the trembling people came, 'T was wrapped in threat'ning clouds, in smoke, and flame; A silent awe pervaded all the van; Not e'en a murmur through the army ran. High Sinai shook! dread thunders rent the air! And horrid lightnings round its summit glare! 'T was God's pavilion, and the black'ning clouds, Dark hov'ring o'er, his dazzling glory shrouds.

To Heaven's dread court the intrepid leader came, T' receive its mandate in the people's name; Loud trumpets peal — the awful thunders roll, Transfixing terrors in each guilty soul.

But lo! he comes, arrayed in shining light, And round his forehead plays a halo bright: Heaven's high commands with trembling were received, Heaven's high commands were heard, and were believed.

THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

The last flower of the garden was blooming alone, The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone;

Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, And a few half blown buds 'midst its leaves were entwined.

Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou here? And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear? 'T is the tear of a zephyr — for summer 't was shed, And for all thy companions now withered and dead.

Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown? Say, why, sweetest flow'ret, the last of thy race, Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace?.

As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand, Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand; I hastened to raise it — the dew-drop had fled, And the once lovely flower was withered and dead.

ODE TO FANCY.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Fancy, sweet and truant sprite, Steals on wings, as feathers light, Draws a veil o'er Reason's eye, And bids the guardian senses fly.

Soft she whispers to the mind, Come, and trouble leave behind: She banishes the fiend Despair, And shuts the eyes of waking Care.

Then, o'er precipices dark, Where never reached the wing of lark, Fearing no harm, she dauntless flies, Where rocks on rocks dread frowning rise.

When Autumn shakes his hoary head, And scatters leaves at every tread; Fancy stands with list'ning ear, Nor starts, when shrieks affrighted Fear.

There's music in the rattling leaf, But 't is not for the ear of Grief; There's music in the wind's hoarse moan, But 't is for Fancy's ear alone.

THE BLUSH.

(Writtten in her thirteenth year.)

Why that blush on Ella's cheek, What doth the flitting wand'rer seek? Doth passion's black'ning tempest scowl, To agitate my Ella's soul?

Return, sweet wand'rer, fear no harm; The heart which Ella's breast doth warm, Is virtue's calm, serene retreat; And ne'er with passion's storm did beat.

Return, and calmly rest, till love Shall thy sweet efficacy prove; Then come, and thy loved place resume, And fill that cheek with youthful bloom.

A blush of nature charms the heart More than the brilliant tints of art; They please awhile, and please no more — We hate the things we loved before.

But no unfading tints were those, Which to my Ella's cheek arose;

They please the raptured heart, and fly Before they pall the gazing eye.,

'T was not the blush of guilt or shame, Which o'er my Ella's features came; 'T was she, who fed the poor distressed, 'T was she the indigent had blessed;

For her their prayers to heaven were raised, On her the grateful people gazed; 'T was then the blush suffused her cheek, Which told what words can never speak.

ON AN ÆOLIAN HARP.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, So soft, so melancholy, and so clear? And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, To fill each bosom with poetic fire?

Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, Catching from echo the wild note he sings? But hark! another strain, how sweet, how wild! Now rising high, now sinking low and mild.

And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, Oh, tell me where those artless notes to find! So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear, That even angels might delighted hear!

But hark! those notes again majestic rise, As though some spirit, banished from the skies, Had hither fled to charm Æolus wild, And teach him ether music sweet and mild.

Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air, Then hither fly, and to my harp repair; At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay, And charm the sorrows of thy soul away.

THE COQUETTE.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, My Ellen's lost for aye, My heart is sair and much distressed, I surely soon must die.

I canna think o' wark at a', My eyes still wander far, I see her neck like driven snow, I see her flaxen hair.

Sair, sair, I begged she would na' hear, She proudly turned awa', Unmoved she saw the trickling tear, Which, spite o' me, would fa'.

She acted weel a conqueror's part, She triumphed in my woe, She gracefu' waved me to depart, I tried, but could na' go.

"Ah why," (distractedly I cried,) "Why yield me to despair? Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway, To ease my heart sae sair."

She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go! This roused my dormant pride; I craved nae boon — I took nae luke, "Adieu!" I proudly cried.

I fled! nor Ellen hae I seen, Sin' that too fatal day: My "bosom's laird" sits heavy here, And Hope's fled far away.

Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm, I'm Sorrow's child indeed; She stamps her image on my form, I wear the mourning weed!

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled! Low lies thy body in its grassy bed; But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air, Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share.

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white, Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright. — Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below, And mark their trickling tears of silent woe.

Look down with pity in thy infant eye, And view the friends thou left, for friends on high: Methinks I see thee leaning from above, To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love.

"Weep not for me, for I am happy still, And murmur not at our great Father's will;

Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake,. Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take.

"Once you looked forward to life's opening day, The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way; Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near, Coloured it bright —'t is blotted with a tear.

"Then let that tear be Resignation's child; Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild; Weep for your child no more, she's happy still, And murmur not at your great Father's will."

REFLECTIONS,

ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT PHŒNIX,

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Islet 1 1.1 on the lake's calm bosom, In thy breast rich treasures lie; Heroes! there your bones shall moulder, But your fame shall never die.

Islet on the lake's calm bosom, Sleep serenely in thy bed; Brightest gem our waves can boast, Guardian angel of the dead!

Calm upon the waves recline, Till great Nature's reign is o'er; Until old and swift-winged time Sinks, and order is no more.

Then thy guardianship shall cease, Then shall rock thy aged bed; And when Heaven's last trump shall sound, Thou shalt yield thy noble dead!

THE STAR OF LIBERTY

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

There shone a gem on England's crown, Bright as yon star; Oppression marked it with a frown, He sent his darkest spirit down, To quench the light that round it shone, Blazing afar. But Independence met the foe, And laid the swift-winged demon low.

A second messenger was sent, Dark as the night; On his dire errand swift he went, But Valour's bow was truly bent, Justice her keenest arrow lent, And sped its flight; Then fell the impious wretch, and Death Approached, to take his withering breath.

Valour then took, with hasty hand, The gem of light; He flew to seek some other land, He flew to'scape oppression's hand, He knew there was some other strand, More bright; And as he swept the fields of air, He found a country, rich and fair.

Upon its breast the star he placed, The star of liberty; Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed, The lesser planets stood amazed, Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed, Looking on fearfully. That star shines brightly to this day, On thy calm breast, America!

THE MERMAID.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock, Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the rock, Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide?

Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod, Flies to obey the mandate of that god? Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on, Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun?

Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock, Twining with lily hand thy raven lock; Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm, Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form?

Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play, To warn the seaman from his dangerous way? Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge?

Tell me, mysterious being, what you are? So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair!

Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone, Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone?

And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave, Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave, That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed, And hush the roaring billows o'er my head.

ON SOLITUDE.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sweet Solitude! I love thy silent shade, I love to pause when in life's mad career; To view the chequered path before me laid, And turn to meditate — to hope, to fear.

'T is sweet to draw the curtain on the world, To shut out all its tumult, all its care; Leave the dread vortex, in which all are whirled, And to thy shades of twilight calm repair.

Yet, Solitude, the hand divine, which made The earth, the ocean, and the realms of air, Pointed how far thy kingdom should extend, And bade thee pause, for he had fixed thee there.

Then, when disgusted with the world and man, When sick of pageantry, of pomp, and pride, To thee I'll fly, in thee I'll seek relief, And hope to find that calm the world denied.

ON THE BIRTH OF A SISTER.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Sweet babe, I cannot hope thou wilt be freed From woes, to all, since earliest time, decreed; But mayest thou be with resignation blessed, To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed.

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, And o'er the tempest rear her angel forth! May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, To the rude whirlwinds softly whisper "cease!"

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile; Teach thee to look beyond this world of woe, To Heaven's high fount, whence mercies ever flow.

And when this vale of tears is safely passed, When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, And fly to seek the bosom of thy God.

A DREAM.

(Written in her fifteenth yoar.)

Methought, (unwitting how the place I gained,) I rested on a fleecy, floating cloud Far o'er the earth, the stars, the sun, the heavens, And slowly wheeled around the dread expanse! Sudden, methought, a trumpet's voice was heard, Pealing with long, loud, death-awakening note,

Such note as mortal man but once may hear! At that heart-piercing summons, there arose A crowd fast pouring from the troubled earth! The earth , that blackened speck alone seemed moved By the dread note, which rushed, Like pent-up whirlwinds, round Heaven's azure vault; All other worlds, all other twinkling stars Stood mute — stood motionless; Their time had not yet come. Yet, ever and anon, they seemed to bow Before the dread tribunal; And the fiery comet, as it blazed along, Stopped in its midway course, as conscious of the power Which onward ever, ever had impelled: No other planet moved, none seemed convulsed, Save the dim orb of earth! Forth eddying rushed a crowd, confused and dark, Like a volcano, muttering and subdued! There came no sound distinct, but sighs and groans, And murmurings half suppressed, half uttered! All eyes were upward turned in wonder and in fear, But soon, methought, they onward rolled To the dread High One's bar, As the tumultuous billows rush murmuring to the shore, And all distinctions dwindled into naught. Upward I cast my eyes; High on an azure throne, begirt with clouds, Sate the dread Indescribable! He raised his sceptre, waved it o'er the crowd, And all was calm and silent as the grave! He rose; the cherubs flapped their snowy wings! On came the rushing wind — the throne was moved, And flew like gliding swan above the crowd!

Sudden it stopped o'er the devoted world! The Judge moved forward 'mid his sable shroud, Raised his strong arm with rolling thunders clothed, Held forth a vial filled with wrathful fire, Then poured the contents on the waiting globe! Sudden the chain, which bound it to God's throne, Snapped with a dire explosion! On wheeled the desolate — the burning orb Swift through the heavens! Down, down it plunged — then shot across the expanse, Blazing through realms, where light had never pierced! Down, down it plunged —fast wheeling from above, Shooting forth flames, and sparks, and burning brands, Trailing from shade to shade! Then bounding, blazing —brighter than before, It plunged extinguished in the chaotic gulf!

TO MY SISTER

(Written in her fifteenth year * 1.2)

When evening spreads her shades around, And darkness fills the arch of heaven; When not a murmur, not a sound To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, softened by her light, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give; Oh, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core, And hovering, trembles, half afraid; O sister, sing the song once more Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'T were almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away.

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Should'st thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song I love?.

CUPID'S BOWER.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Am I in fairy land? or tell me, pray, To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.

And is this Cupid's realm? if so, good bye! Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; No offering to his altar do I bring, No bleeding heart — or hymeneal ring,

What though he proudly marshals his array Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way; Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly, Playing around some darkly-beauteous eye?

What though the rose of beauty opening wide, Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride? What though his garden boasts the fairest flower That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower;

Still, Cupid, I'm no votary to thee; Thy torch of light will never blaze for me; I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh; I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly!

Adieu, then, and for evermore, adieu! Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you! And, O ye powers! a hapless mortal prays For guidance through this labyrinthine maze.

THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth, Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth; Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe.

Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew, Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true; Or when the task employed my infant mind, Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind;

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee, When it had pointed silently, "be free:" Thou wert my mentor through each passing year; 'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near.

And when the wings of time unnoticed flew, I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you; Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand, Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand;

To watch thee stealing on thy silent way, Silent, but sure, Time's pinions cannot stay; How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain, When smiles were bright'ning round affliction's train?

How many hours of poverty and woe, Which taught cold drops of agony to flow? How many hours of war, * 1.3 of blood, of death, Which added laurels to the victor's wreath?

How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which rolled? When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war, And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car?

When the proud banner, waving in the breeze, Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace, Thy faithful finger traced the wing of time, Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime.

Unmoved amid the carnage of the world, When thousands to eternity were hurled, Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child, Beaming serenely through the troubled wild.

Friend of my youth, ere from its mould'ring clay My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way; O may'st thou watch beside my aching head, And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread.

ON THE EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Touch not the heart, for Sorrow's voice Will mingle in the chorus wild; When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice? No: rather mourn her murdered child.

Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood, 'Mid foes exulting in her doom, The captive Mary fearless stood, A helpless victim for the tomb.

Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled, And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze, When, like a lamb to slaughter led, Poor Mary met her murderers' gaze.

Calm was her eye as yon dark lake, And changed her once angelic form; No sigh was heard the pause to break, That awful pause before the storm.

O draw the veil, 't were shame to gaze Upon the bloody tragedy; But lo! a brilliant halo plays Around the hill of Carberry.

'T is done — and Mary's soul has flown Beyond this scene of blood and death; 'T is done — the lovely saint has gone To claim in heaven a thornless wreath.

But as Elijah, when his car Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, Dropped on his friend, he left afar, His mantle, like a meteor bright;

So Mary, when her spirit flew Far from this world, so sad, so weary, A crown of fame immortal threw Around the brow of Carberry.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH.

And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo! the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

O dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wide plain The fire of heaven descended; For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er bloom there again, For man hath his Maker offended.

The midnight of terror and woe hath passed by, The death-spirit's pinions are furled; But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high, Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world.

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake, As in mockery of what had been there; The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake, Which waves its scorched arms in the air.

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing, Joy held her high festival there; Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,) Of the close of that night of despair.

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was wreathing, At the altar the bridegroom was waiting, But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing, And Death at that shrine was their greeting.

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies, The lip which it foamed for, is cold; For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies, And Sodom is wrapped in its fold.

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death, With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand; Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath, Heaven's flames are her nuptial band.

And near to that cold, that desolate sea, Whose fruits are to ashes now turned, Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree, Now blooms where those cities were burned.

RUTH'S ANSWER TO NAOMI.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Entreat me not, I must not hear, Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; Thy answer's written deeply now On this warm check and clouded brow; 'T is gleaming o'er this eye of sadness Which only near thee sparkles gladness.

The hearts most dear to us are gone, And thou and I are left alone; Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, I'll follow thee through joy or woe; Shouldst thou to other countries fly, Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.

Thy people shall my people be, And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; Whither thou fliest, will I fly, And where thou diest, I will die; And the same sod which pillows thee Shall fleshly, sweetly bloom for me.

DAVID AND JONATHAN.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain, The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain; O publish it not in proud Askelon's street, Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet, For how are the mighty fallen!

O mount of Gilboa, no dew shalt thou see, Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee; For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead, Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed! O how are the mighty fallen!

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave! What breast will now pity, what arm will now save? O my brother! my brother! this heart bleeds for thee, For thou weft a friend and a brother to me! Ah, how are the mighty fallen!

THE SICK-BED.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

O have you watched beside the bed, Where rests the weary, aching head? And have you heard the long, deep groan, The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone?

O have you seen the fevered sleep, Which speaks of agony within? The eye which would, but cannot weep, And wipe away the stains of sin?

O have you marked the struggling breath, Which would but cannot leave its clay?. And have you marked the hand of death Unbind, and bid it haste away?

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel; Then thou hast read thy future doom; O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal, There's no repentance in the tomb.

DEATH.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light, He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night; He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose, And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death! His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.

TO MY MOTHER.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

O thou whose care sustained my infant years, And taught my prattling lip each note of love; Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song, Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

O say, amid this wilderness of life, What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive? —who in grief, Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear?

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, In all the agony of love and woe?

None but a mother — none but one like thee, Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch; Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom — Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song, Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

SABRINA.

A VOLCANIC ISLAND, WHICH APPEARED AND DISAPPEARED AMONG THE AZORES, IN 1811.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou? The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy brow;

The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad, And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud.

From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave, Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the grave; A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright, Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned with the light.

Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire; The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir; They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast, A slumb'ring volcano, an earthquake at rest.

Thou hast looked on the isle — thou hast looked on the wave — Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave; Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing, Thou spark from the fallen one's wide flaming wing.

THE PROPHECY.

TO A LADY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow, On that full, dark eye, on that check's warm glow; Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. That brow may beam in glory awhile; That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile; That full, dark eye may brightly beam In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;

But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. I know by that spirit so haughty and high, I know by that brightly-flashing eye, That, maiden, there's that within thy breast, Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest: The strife of love, with pride shall wring Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye, A dark, and a doubtful prophecy. Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse; Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. I see the cloud and the tempest near; The voice of the troubled tide I hear; The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, The rushing waves of a wretched life; Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see, And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave! Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. When I am cold, and the hand of Death Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath; When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep, Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, And think on my last sad prophecy.

PROPHECY II.

TO ANOTHER LADY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

I have told a maiden of hours of grief; Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life; I have read her a tale of future woe; I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below; I have read on the page of her blooming cheek, A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye To a brighter path through futurity. The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, And bright be the closing of life's long day; The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, And angels around thee their watches shall keep; Thou shall live in the sunbeams of love and delight, And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night; And the twilight of age shall come quietly on; Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath flown; For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul, And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll, Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest, In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest, Thy soul shall glide on to its harbour in Heaven, Every tear wiped away — every error forgiven.

PROPHECY III.

TO ANOTHER LADY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate?. It is open before thee, repentance is late; Too late, for behold, o'er the dark page of woe, Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below. There is one, whose sad destiny mingles with thine; He was formed to be happy — he dared to repine; And jealousy mixed in his bright cup of bliss, And the page of his fate grew still darker than this: He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed; But better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there, So youthtful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair. And mark ye his broad brow? 't is noble; 't is high; And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye? When the wide wheels of time have encircled the world; When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled; Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told, For farther I may not, I dare not unfold. The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed, And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade; 'T is an emblem of thee, broken, withered, and pale — Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the tale; An hour-glass half-spent, and a tear-bedewed token, A heart, withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken, All these are the emblems of sorrow to be; I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee.

BYRON.

Written in her fifteenth year.)

His faults were great, his virtues less, His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; His talents were bestowed to bless, But were as vainly lost as given.

His was a harp of heavenly sound, The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; But ah! some demon, hovering round, Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.

His was a mind of giant mould, Which grasped at all beneath the skies; And his, a heart, so icy cold, That virtue in its recess dies.

FEATS OF DEATH.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light; I have paused o'er the bower where the Infant lay sleeping, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,

Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low; I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth, And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high; The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, I stop not to pity —I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove. I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 't was recklessly hung; The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone, O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved stone.

AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers; My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter; It seemed that a law had been recently made That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid: And in order to make them all willing to marry, The tax was as large as a man could well carry. The bachelors grumbled, and said 't was no use; 'T was horrid injustice, and horrid abuse, And declared that to save their own hearts'-blood from spilling, Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. But the rulers determined them still to pursue, So they set the old bachelors up at vendue. A crier was sent through the town to and fro, To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow, And to call out to all he might meet in his way, "Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!" And presently all the old maids in the town, Each in her very best bonnet and gown, From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, Of every description, all flocked to the sale. The auctioneer then in his labour began, And called out aloud, as he held up a man, "How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy? In a twink, * 1.4 every maiden responded, "I, — I;"

In short, at a highly-extravagant price,. The bachelors all were sold off in a trice; And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.

THE BACHELOR.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

To the world, (whose dread laugh he would tremble to hear, From whose scorn he would shrink with a cowardly fear,) The old bachelor proudly and boldly will say, Single lives are the longest, single lives are most gay.

To the ladies, with pride, he will always declare, That the links in love's chain are strife, trouble, and care; That a wife is a torment, and he will have none, But at pleasure will roam through the wide world alone.

And let him pass on, in his sulky of state; O say, who would envy that mortal his fate? To brave all the ills of life's tempest alone, Not a heart to respond the warm notes of his own.

His joys undivided no longer will please; The warm tide of his heart through inaction will freeze: ~ His sorrows concealed, and unanswered his sighs, The old bachelor curses his folly, and dies.

Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate; Thy sentence is scaled, thy repentance too late; Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind, No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind.

Not a sweet voice shall murmur its sighs o'er thy tomb; Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom; Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed; By the living 't was scorned, 't is refused to the dead.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

TO MISS E. C. — COMPOSED ON A BLANK LEAF OF HER PALEY, DURING RECITATION.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast; At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat.

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow; O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, And listen to music which steals from thy heart.

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes.

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee,

Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies, I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping.

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night; Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy, My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled, And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.

ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL,

WHO WERE FOUND DEAD AT SEA.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

The breeze blew fair, the waving sea Curled sparkling round the vessel's side; The canvass spread with bosom free Its swan-like pinions o'er the tide.

Evening had gemmed with glittering stars, Her coronet so darkly grand; The Queen of Night, with fleecy clouds, Had formed her turban's snowy band.

On, on the stately vessel flew, With streamer waving far and wide; When lo! a bark appeared in view, And gaily danced upon the tide.

Each way the breeze its wild wing veered, That way the stranger vessel turned; Now near she drew, now wafted far, She fluttered, trembled, and returned.

"It is the pirate's cursed bark! The villains linger to decoy! Thus bounding o'er the waters dark, They seek to lure, and then destroy.

"Perchance, those strange and wayward signs May be the signals of distress," The Captain cried, "for mark ye, now, Her sails are flapping wide and loose."

And now the stranger vessel came Near to that gay and gallant bark; It seemed a wanderer fair and lone, Upon Life's wave, so deep and dark.

And not a murmur, not a sound, Came from that lone and dreary ship; The icy chains of silence bound Each rayless eye and pallid lip.

For Death's wing had been waving there, The cold dew hung on every brow, And sparkled there, like angel tears, Shed o'er the silent crew below.

Onward that ship was gaily flying, Its bosom the sailor's grave; The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing. Their requiem over the brave.

Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death, Fly on, with thy desolate crew; For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 'Mong the red coral groves for you.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

They told me of her history — her love Was a neglected flame, which had consumed The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught With bitterness is unrequited love! To know that we have cast life's hope away On a vain shadow! Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, As a woman's love should be, All tenderness and silence, only known By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts; A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible, Alone may give it utterance. — Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt, as only woman love can feel! Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain; And changeless as the cypress's green leaves; And like them, sad! She nourished

Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till he she loved Was wedded to another. — Then she grew Moody and melancholy; one alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, Her gentle sister; — But that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone, A maniac . — She would wander far, and shunned Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her Was as a home.

TO A LADY,

WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT SISTER.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Oh! touch the chord yet once again, Nor chide me, though I weep the while; Believe me, that deep seraph strain Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.

It murmured of an absent friend; The voice, the air, 't was all her own; And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

And days and months have darkly passed, Since last I listened to her lay; And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, Since then, across my weary way.

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.

'T is sweet, though sad — yes, I will stay, I cannot tear myself away. I thank thee, lady, for the strain, The tempest of my soul is still; Then touch the chord yet once again, For thou canst calm the storm at will!

TO MY FRIEND AND PATRON,

M — K —, ESQ.

(Written in her fifteenth year)

And can my simple harp be strung To higher theme, to nobler end, Than that of gratitude to thee, To thee, my father and my friend?

I may not, cannot, will not say All that a grateful heart would breathe; But I may frame a simple lay, Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath.

Yes, I will touch the string to thee, Nor fear its wildness will offend; For well I know that thou wilt be, What thou hast ever been — a friend.

There are, whose cold and idle gaze Would freeze the current where it flows; But Gratitude shall guard the fount, And Faith shall light it as it flows.

Then tell me, may I dare to twine, While o'er my simple harp I bend, This little offering for thee, For thee, my father, and my friend?

ON SEEING A PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN MARY;

PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE.

A FRAGMENT.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of book, of rosary, and bell; Of cloistered nun, with brow of groom, Immured within her living tomb; Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, Borne gently by the breeze along; Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell; Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell; Of midnight taper, dim and small, Just glimmering through the high-arched hall; Of gloomy cell, of penance lone, Which can for darkest deeds atone Roll back, and lift the veil of night, For I would view the anchorite.

Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, Shuddering at Superstition's tale: Crossing his breast with meagre hand, While saints and priests, a motley band, Arrayed before him, urge their claim To heal in the Redeemer's name; To mount the saintly ladder, (made By every monk, of every grade, From portly abbot, fat and fair, To yon lean starveling, shivering there,) And mounting thus, to usher in The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. And tell me, hapless bigot, why, For what, for whom did Jesus die, If pyramids of saints must rise To form a passage to the skies? And think you man can wipe away With fast and penance, day by day, One single sin, too dark to fade Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? O ye of little faith, beware! For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer, Would aught avail ye without Him, Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise The faded forms of other days! Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, The work of some forgotten hand, Will teach thee half thy mazy way, While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of secret charm, of holy spell, Of Superstition's midnight rite, Of wild Devotion's seraph flight, Of Melancholy's tearful eye, Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,

That trembling from her bosom rose, Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes And some warm image lingering there, Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, Still, like an outcast child, will creep Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, And mingle its unhallowed sigh With cloister-prayer and rosary; Then tell the pale, deluded one Her vows are breathed to God alone; Those vows, which tremulously rise, Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. — * 1.5

AMERICAN POETRY.

A FRAGMENT,

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Must every shore ring boldly to the voice Of sweet poetic harmony, save this? Rouse thee, America! for shame! for shame! Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join Thy glimmering taper to the holy flame:— Such honour, if no other, may be thine. Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke? Shall Ireland's harpstrings thrill, though all unstrung?. And must America, her bondage broke, Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, Must she be silent? — who may then rejoice? If she be tuneless, Harmony, farewell! Oh! shame, America! wild freedom's voice Echoes, "shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past? Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile? And canst thou then — * 1.6

HEADACHE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Headache! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well! Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour, — I hate thee, for I've known, and dread thy power.

Even the heathen gods were made to feel The aching torments which thy hand can deal; And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth, Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom forth.

Would'st thou thus ever bless each aching head, And bid Minerva make the brain her bed, Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe, And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow.

But always the reverse to me, unkind, Folly for ever dogs thee close behind; And from this burning brow, her cap and bell, For ever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell.

TO A STAR.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Thou brightly-glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, How quick 't would spread its wings to thee.

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost.

There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys together share; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights; There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul.

Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, How swiftly will I soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free!

SONG OF VICTORY,

FOR THE DEATH OF GOLIATH.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, God, O Israel, is your King! We have slain our deadliest foe, David's arm hath laid him low.

Saul hath oft his thousands slain, His trophies have bedecked the plain; But David's tens of thousands lie In slaughtered millions, mounted high.

Sound the trumpet — strike the string, Loud let the song of victory ring; Wreathe with glory David's brow, He hath laid Goliath low.

Mark him on yon crimson plain, He is conquered — he is slain; He who lately rose so high, Scoffed at man, and braved the sky.

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, God, O Israel, is your king! We have slain our deadliest foe, David's arm hath laid him low.

THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

The Indian Chieftain is far away, Through the forest his footsteps fly, But his heart is behind him with Conconay, He thinks of his love in the bloody fray, When the storm of war is high.

But little he thinks of the bloody foe, Who is bearing that love away; And little he thinks of her bosom's woe, And little he thinks of the burning brow Of his lovely Conconay.

They tore her away from her friends, from her home, They tore her away from her Chief. Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her to roam,

Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam, While her bosom o'erflowed with grief.

But there came a foot, 't was swift, 't was light, 'T was the brother of him she loved; His heart was kind, and his eye was bright; He paused not by day, and he slept not by night, While through the wild forest he roved.

'T was Lightfoot, the generous, 't was Lightfoot the young, And he loved the sweet Conconay; But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung, And the chords of his heart should to breaking be wrung, Ere love should gain o'er him the sway.

Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away, And sought his own forest once more; But sad was the heart of the young Conconay, Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay, And was even more drear than before.

'T is evening, and weary, and faint, and weak Is the beautiful Conconay; She could wander no farther, she strove to speak, But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck, And seemed breathing her soul away.

The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven, He turned them towards the west; For one moment a ray of light was given, Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven But to strike at the fated breast.

For there was his brother returning from far, O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung; For he had been victor amid the war, His plume had gleamed like the polar star, And on him had the victory hung.

The Chieftain paused in his swift career, For he knew his Conconay; He saw the maid his heart held dear, On his brother's breast, in the forest drear, From her home so far away.

He bent his bow, the arrow flew, It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast; And it pierced a heart, as warm and true As ever a mortal bosom knew, Or in mortal garb was dressed.

He turned to his love — from her brilliant eye The cloud was passing away; She let fall a tear — she breathed a sigh — She turned towards Lightfoot — she uttered a cry, For weltering in gore he lay.

Her heart was filled with horror and woe, When she gazed on the form of her Chief; 'T was his loved hand that had bent the bow, 'T was he who had laid her preserver low; And she yielded her soul to grief.

And 't was said, that ere time had healed the wound In the breast of the mourning maid, That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground, And ivy the snow-white monument crowned With its dark and jealous shade.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT

FOR HER INFANT.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed; Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness, Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest.

Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing cheek; Calmly he'll rest there, and silently moulder, No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake.

Dread king of the grave, Oh! return me my child! Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death! Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent, Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath!

Where is my infant? the storms may descend, The snows of the winter may cover his head; The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend, And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er the dead.

Where is my infant? the damp ground is cold, Too cold for those features so laughing and light; Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form, And shield off the tempest which wanders at night.

This fond bosom loved him, ah! loved him too dearly, And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore; All its beauty has faded, and broken before me Is the god my heart ventured to worship before.

'T is just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven, Thy will, oh, my Father! for ever be done! Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given, Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone!

ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL.

"IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST."

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Wafted o'er a treacherous sea Far from home, and far from thee; Between the Heaven and ocean tossed, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

When the polar star is beaming O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming, I think of thee and dangers crossed, For, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

When the lighthouse fire is blazing, High towards Heaven its red crest raising, I think of thee, while onward tossed, For, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

MORNING.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star; When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, To their far-away harbour, all silently driven, Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! But when I steal silently over the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!

SHAKSPEARE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Shakspeare!" with all thy faults, (and few have more,) I love thee still," and still will con thee o'er. Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, Gave thee of virtue — then, of vice a part, Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee, Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee: But admiration now, and sorrow join; His works we reverence, while we pity thine.

TO A FRIEND,

WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILDHOOD.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour, The fearless boundings of my breast, When, fresh as Summer's opening flower, I freely frolicked, and was blessed.

Oh! say, was not this eye more bright? Were not these lips more wont to smile? Methinks that then my heart was light, And I a fearless, joyous child.

And thou didst mark me gay and wild, My careless, reckless laugh of mirth; The simple pleasures of a child, The holiday of man on earth.

Then thou hast seen me in that hour, When every nerve of life was new, When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, And Hope her witcheries round it threw.

That hour is fading, it has fled, And I am left in darkness now; A wand'rer towards a lowly bed, The grave, that home of all below.

THE FEAR OF MADNESS.

WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED DURING HER LAST ILLNESS.

There is a something which I dread, It is a dark, a fearful thing; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness; 'T is not the dread of death —'t is more, It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course; May this hot brain, which burning, glows With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still, A tenant of its lowly bed, But let not dark delirium steal —

* 1.7 * 1.8

MARITORNE,

OR THE PIRATE OF MEXICO.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

ON Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, Their beacons beaming on the gulf below, As if to dare some death-devoted hand To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand; Some Orlean herald arm'd with threat'ning high To daunt the Pirate-chieftain's haughty eye, To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, And bow to painted things with trembling awe. Such herald well may come, — but woe betide The self-devoted messenger of pride! Such herald well may come, but far and near The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will, Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. The iron hand of power is raised in vain, Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 'T is his to sacrifice —'t is his to spare — He moves in silence, and is everywhere. His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, But if he pities, who may tell the deed? 'T is done in secret, that no eye may mark One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. And he, the governor of yon fair land, Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand

Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, And adds unseen fresh links to slavery's chain, Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorr'd, The Pirate-chief, the haughty island lord. And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, Had he , the moody leader of the west, To hate that fearful man, who stood alone Feared, dreaded, and detested, tho' unknown; That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light, Wreath'd in the incense of a patriot's right, To drive the bold intruder from the shore, Where war and bloodshed must appear no more; But deep within his heart the crater glow'd From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd; 'T was wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, And called for vengeance on the offender's head; For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow, Had scorn'd his power — that were enough; — but lo! There, on the very threshold of his home, There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come, And thence had borne his own, his only child, Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild; And when the maiden curs'd him in her breast Those curses came not o'er him — he was blest — For but to gaze upon her, and to feel That she whom he ador'd was near him still, Was bliss! was Heav'n itself! and he whose eye Bent not to aught of dull mortality Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er The voice of Laura rose upon his ear; That voice had pow'r to quell the fiend within, Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin. That fiend was vengeance; — e'en his virtues bow'd Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd. His virtues! yes; for even fiends may boast A shadow of the glory they have lost, —

But oh! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, For vengeance was awake, — can vengeance sleep? Yes; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-shut eye, Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, With parch'd tongue cleaving to his blacken'd cell, Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r. Yes: thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. Thus may it sleep, like Ætna's burning breast, To burst in thunders when't is dreaded least; For his had been the joyless, thankless part, Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart, And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd. Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate, Ere he became the harden'd child of hate. At first his breast was torn with anguish wild, He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind; He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind; And then his heart grew callous, and like steel Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel. 'T was like yon mountain snow-crest, chill tho' bright, Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight, Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye Had deeply, rashly stamp'd fidelity: Traitor had better seem'd — worm — viper — aught — The vilest, veriest, wretch e'er named in thought, For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er Angels above may hate or mortals fear. There was a fascination in his eye Which those who felt, migh seek in vain to fly.

There was blasting glance of mockery there, There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer For ever on his lip, which made men fear, And fearing shun him, as a bird will shun A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun; But still the mask of friendship he could wear, The smile, the warm professions all were there; Let him who trusts to these alone — beware! A lurking devil may be crouching there. Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light, And following desolation's blasting flight

There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide; His sable plumes were hov'ring o'er his brow, As if to hide the depth of thought below. He paus'd —'t was but the dashing of the spray — Again! —'t was but the night-watch on his way. He only mutter'd, gnashed his teeth and smil'd, Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild, To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip, 'T was like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, But burns it not more dimly than before? Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping, His weary vigils negligently keeping. So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye Was fix'd intently between earth and sky, As if its quick keen glance would light the flame, And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. He starts — suspicion flashes on his brain — He grasps his dagger — by St. Mark — again!

His bugle brightly glittered on his breast; His lip the gilded bauble gently press'd — One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea, Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. The figure which had slowly pass'd between Himself and yonder blaze, sank where't was seen, As tho' the earth had gaped with sudden yawn, And drank both fire and form in silence down; The beacon was extinguish'd, rock and tree And beetling cliff, and wildly foaming sea Were hid in darkness, for the deep red light Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night Was dim, as was the moon's pale tremulous glow, For tempest-clouds were rallying round her brow;

The sound of a footstep is on the shore, It dies away in the surge's roar; It is heard again as the angry spray Rolls back and foams its shame away; And shrill and clear was the call of alarm, 'T was like the breaking of spell or charm; It scream'd o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill, And the answering echoes re-echoed it still. A rushing sound as of coming waves, A glittering band as if burst from their graves, Are the answers which wake at the bidding clear Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. But scarce had the summons in silence died, When the foot which had waked the tumult wide, Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave To the lightest tread as't was washed by the wave; By the side of the Pirate, with outstretch'd hand, The bold intruder look'd round on the band;

But none saw the face of that being save he; In wonder he gazed — in his eye you might see Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-like gleam, Which whisper'd of more than fear might dream; And is it for this — for a woman like thee? He angrily mutter'd and turn'd to the sea — And is it for this I have sounded the call Whose notes may never unanswer'd fall; Whose lowest tone is the knell of more Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore? And is it for this, I must idly stand To trace the wave with my sword on the strand? Speak! — tell me — or now by the blood on its blade, I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade. The beacon! the beacon — she turn'd to the spot, And pointed the chief where the light was not; The murmur ran thro' the waiting crowd, It was loud at first but it grew more loud, Till the Beacon , the Beacon — rang on to the sky, But its light was extinguish'd, no blaze met the eye; Thus much for the moment — thy honour is clear, If it suffers then look for thy recompense here; And she threw back her mantle and gave to the light Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright A form which e'en Maritorne mark'd not unmoved, But t' was one which he did not, nor ever had loved There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee; I mark'd out the cavern —'t was near to the sea; They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one Who has sworn ere the dawn of another day's sun To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharm'd, To yonder proud city all chain'd and unarm'd; This swears he, by all that is sacred to do, I heard it, and hasten'd thus breathless to you. For pardon I sue not, O punish my crime! Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time! —

The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, Now 't is not worth asking — I sue but for death The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear; His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare; As a being all guilty and trembling would rest Self-accused, self-condemn'd in the land of the blest. And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale? His eye flash'd the darker, his lip grew more pale; But when it was finish'd and Clara knelt down, Where, where was his anger, and where was his frown? On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss — Oh Clara forgive me — remember not this, But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my woe. If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 'Neath the stone, near the rock, where the beacon light glow'd; If I live — and he hastily bowed himself — then — The Fiend and the pirate were masters again.

A light is on the waters, and the dip Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep; The hum of voices float upon the air, Soft, yet distinct, tho' distant, full and clear. Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes? 'T is well! — the world but roughly with them goes. Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine?

Oh, better had they never left yon shore, To which they may return again no more. Fools! — think they he is bleeding in a strife Where every drop writes guilt upon his life For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on earth Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth A life of bloodshed and dishonour? No! They read not right, who read yon pirate so; The plash of troubled waters, and the sound Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground, The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush They feebly kiss'd the bark, then sunk away, As half-repenting them such welcome gay, Were caught perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, Who plied his line, or net at midnight here; Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood, And toss'd his bait still further down the flood; But be that as it may, 't was heard no more, And list'ning silence hover'd o'er the shore. And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming, Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming, The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there, Its banners feebly dancing in the air; Its broad sails veering idly to and fro, Now glitt'ring 'neath the full moon's silver glow, Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown, 'T was like its chief, in silence and alone, Gazing upon the shadow which it cast O'er ev'ry rippling wave which gently pass'd. And such had been his joyless, gloomy lot, Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot, Save that accursed one whose blasting eye Was glaring on him, —'t was in vain to fly While vengeance whisper'd curses in his ear, And thought, the demon thought receiv'd them there.

But it had ever been his lot to throw O'er those who pass'd him, shades of gloom and woe; His love for Laura had been deeply curs'd, Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst; He felt himself detested, and he knew That she whom he adored abhorr'd him too. But oh the hapless, the ill-fated one, She who could love him for himself alone, Love him, with all his crimes upon his head, Love, when the crowd with detestation fled; — A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast Fell o'er her destiny; the die was cast — She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded, Whose wand'ring tendrils round the night-shade braided, Clung to its baleful breast — hung drooping there, Self-sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air And with'ring . . .

* 1.9

AMERICA.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

And this was once the realm of nature, where Wild as the wind, tho' exquisitely fair, She breath'd the mountain breeze, or bow'd to kiss The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. Here in this Paradise of earth, where first Wild mountain Liberty began to burst, Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace, The hill her throne, the world her dwelling-place. And where are now her lakes so still and lone, Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown?.

Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky? Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwin'd, Her waving alders streaming to the wind? Nor these alone, — her own, — her fav'rite child, All fire; all feeling; man untaught and wild; Where can the lost, lone son of nature stray? For art's high car is rolling on its way; A wand'rer of the world, he flies to drown The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown, In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and woe, With slavery's iron chain conceal'd below. Once thro' the tangled wood, with noiseless tread And throbbing heart, the lurking warrior sped, Aim'd his sure weapon, won the prize, and turn'd While his high heart with wild ambition burn'd, With song and war-whoop to his native tree, There on its bark to carve the victory. His all of learning did that act comprise, But still in nature's volume doubly wise.

The wayward stream which once with idle bound, Whirl'd on resistless in its foaming round, Now curb'd by art flows on, a wat'ry chain Linking the snow-capp'd mountains to the main. Where once the alder in luxuriance grew, Or the tall pine its towering branches threw Abroad to Heaven, with dark and haughty brow, There mark the realms of plenty smiling now; There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows, And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows; And man, a brute when left to wander wild, A reckless creature, nature's lawless child, What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now, From the full hand of art around him flow! Improvement strides the surge, while from afar, Learning rolls onward in her silver car;

Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head, While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed.

The muse arises from the wildwood glen, And chants her sweet and hallow'd song again, As in those halcyon days, which bards have sung, When hope was blushing, and when life was young. Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear Her sacred temple here , and only here , While Percival, her lov'd and chosen priest, For ever blessing, tho' himself unblest, Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine, And charm the ear with numbers half divine.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A COUSIN.

She gave me a flow'ret, — and oh! it was sweet! 'T was a pea, in full bloom, with its dark crimson leaf, And I said in my heart, this shall be thy retreat! 'T is one "sacred to Friendship" — a stranger to grief.

In my bosom I placed it, — 't is withered and gone! All its freshness, its beauty, its fragrance had fled! And in sorrow I sigh'd, — am I thus left alone? Is the gift which I cherish'd quite faded and dead?

It has wither'd! but she who presented it blooms, Still fresh and unfading, in memory here And through life shall here flourish, 'mid danger and storms, As sweet as the flower, though more lasting and fair!

MODESTY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

There is a sweet, tho' humble flower, Which grows in nature's wildest bed; It blossoms in the lonely bower, But withers 'neath the gazer's tread.

'T is rear'd alone, far, far away From the wild noxious weeds of death, Around its brow the sunbeams play, The evening dew-drop is its wreath.

'T is Modesty; 't is nature's child; The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower That ever blossom'd in the wild, Or trembled'neath the evening shower.

'T is Modesty; so pure, so fair, That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow, When that sweet flower is blooming there, The brightest beauty of her brow.

A VIEW OF DEATH.

When bending o'er the brink of life, My trembling soul shall stand, Waiting to pass death's awful flood, Great God! at thy command.

When weeping friends surround my bed, To close my sightless eyes, When shattered by the weight of years This broken body lies;

When every long-lov'd scene of life Stands ready to depart, When the last sigh which shakes this frame Shall rend this bursting heart;

Oh thou great source of joy supreme, Whose arm alone can save, Dispel the darkness that surrounds The entrance to the grave.

Lay thy supporting gentle hand Beneath my sinking head, And with a ray of love divine, Illume my dying bed.

Leaning on thy dear faithful breast, I would resign my breath, And in thy loved embraces lose The bitterness of death.

ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBAL-DISTONE.

The heather I trod while breathing on earth, Must bloom o'er my grave in the land of my birth; My warm heart would shrink like the fern in the frost, If the tops of my hills to my dim eye were lost.

TO A LADY

RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

There is a charm in the pallid cheek; A charm which the tongue can never speak, When the hand of sickness has wither'd awhile, The rose which had bloom'd in the rays of a smile.

There is a charm in the heavy eye, When the tear of sorrow is passing by, Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue, Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew.

It spreads around a shade as light As daylight blending with the night; Or't is like the tints of an evening sky, And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh.

THE VISION.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

'T was evening — all was calm and silent, save The low hoarse dashing of the distant wave; The whip-poor-will had clos'd his pensive lay, Which sweetly mourned the sun's declining ray; Tired of a world surcharged with pain and woe, Weary of heartless forms and all below,

Broken each tie, bereft of every friend, Whose sympathy might consolation lend, And musing on each vain and earthly toy, Walk'd the once gay and still brave Oleroy. Thus lost in thought, unconsciously he stray'd, When a dark forest wild around him laid. In vain he tried the beaten path to gain, He sought it earnestly, but sought in vain; At length o'ercome, he sunk upon the ground, Where the dark ivy twined its branches round; Sudden there rose upon his wond'ring ear, Notes which e'en angels might delighted hear. Now low they murnmr, now majestic rise, As though "some spirit banished froth the skies" Had there repair'd to tune the mournful lay, "And chase the sorrows of his soul away." They ceas'd — when lo! a brilliant dazzling light Illumed the wood and chas'd the shades of night; He raised his head, there stood near Oleroy, The beauteous figure of a smiling boy; Across his shoulder hung an ivory horn, With jewels glittering like the rays of morn; In his white hand he held the tuneful lyre, And in his eyes there beam'd a heavenly fire; Approaching Oleroy, he smiling cried, You hate the world and all its charms deride, You hate the world and all it doth contain, Condemn each joy, and call each pleasure pain; Then come, he sweetly cried, come follow me, Another world thy sorrowing eyes shall see.

No sooner said than swift the smiling boy Led from the bower the wond'ring Oleroy. Beneath a tree three sylph-like forms recline, Each form was beauteous, and each face benign;

Beside them stood a chariot dazzling bright, Yoked with two beauteous swans of purest white; They mount the chariot, and ascend on high, They bend the lash, on winged winds they fly, Above the spacious globe they stretch their flight, That globe seem'd now but as a cloud of night. Swift towards the moon the white swans bend their way, And a new world its treasures doth display. They halt; before them rocks and hills are spread, And birds, and beasts, which at their footsteps fled. Another moon emits a softer ray, And other moon-beams on the waters play: They wander on, and reach a darksome cave Against whose side loud roars the dashing wave: These words upon its rugged front appear, "What in your world is lost is treasured here." They enter; — round upon the floor are strewn, The ivory sceptre, and the glittering crown; Unnumbered hopes there flutter'd on the wing, There were the lays discarded lovers sing; There fame her trumpet blew, long, loud, and clear, Worlds tremble as the deaf'ning notes they hear; There brooded riches o'er his lifeless heap, There were the tears which misery's children weep. There were posthumous alms, and misspent time Lost in a jingling mass of foolish rhyme. There was the conscience of the miser; — there The tears of love, — the pity of the fair; There, pointing, cried the sylph-like smiling boy, There's the content which fled you, Oleroy! Regain it if you can; — then far away, And reach your world before the dawn of day.

ON SEEING AT A CONCERT, THE PUBLIC PERFORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Helpless, unprotected, weary, Toss'd upon the world's wide sea, Borne from those I love most dearly, Say — dost thou not feel for me?

Who that hath shrunk 'neath nature's frown Would court false fortune's fickle smile? Oh, who would wander thus alone, Reckless alike of care or toil?

Who would, for fading pleasure, brave The sea of troubles, dark and deep? For lo! the gems which deck the wave Vanish, and "leave the wretch to weep."

'T was not for fortune's smile of light, Which beams but to destroy for ever; 'T was not for pleasure's bubbles bright, Which dazzle still, deluding ever:

Oft have I falter'd when alone Before the crowd I sung my lay, But ah, a father's feeble moan Rung in my ears, I dared not stay.

Oh, I have borne pride's scornful look, And burning taunts from slander's tongue; Yet more of malice I could brook, E'en though my heart with grief was wrung.

Adieu! a long — a last adieu — Once more I launch upon life's sea; But still shall memory turn to you, For, stranger, you have felt for me.

ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER DEVOTIONS.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

She knelt, and her dark blue eye was rais'd, A sacred fire in its bright beam blaz'd, And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light So pure, so sacred, so clear and so bright, That Pariah marble, tho' glittering fair 'Neath the moon's pale beam, or the sun's broad glare, Were far less sweet, tho' more dazzlingly bright, Than that cold cheek array'd in its halo of light. Oh! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and high, But my fond soul adores the pure author of light, The more when she looks on the broad brow of night; On myriads of stars glitt'ring far thro' the sky, Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on high From their garden of Paradise, blooming in Heaven, On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile of even.

I love not the cheek which speaks slumber unbroken, That heart hath ne'er sigh'd o'er hope's fast fading token;

That bosom ne'er throbbed with half-fearful delight When it thought on its home in the regions of light, Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye It gaz'd on the beautiful gates of the sky, And the angels which watch at their portals of light, All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright: But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion, Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean.

ALONZO AND IMANEL.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand A form,'twas so airy, so light, He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and thro' sand, 'Neath the moon-beam so fitfully bright.

He paus'd, as the bittern scream'd loud o'er his head, One moment he paus'd on the shore, To mark the wild wave as it dash'd from its bed, Tossing high the white spray from its foam-spangled head, With a fitful and deafening roar.

He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind, Ere the tempest-god bore them away, And they told of a tortured and desperate mind, To despair's dark shadows for ever resign'd, Of a heart, once hope-lighted and gay.

The bright moon was hid in the breast of the storm, And darkness and terror drew round, Yet still he could mark her light fanciful form, As she roam'd round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm, Tho' the fiend of the whirlwind frown'd.

Oh tell me, he cried, what spirit so light, So beautiful e'en in despair, Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night, When to guide her no star in the heaven is bright, No gleam save the lightning's red glare!

'T is young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh, The rich, the belov'd and the gay, Who is doom'd from her friends and her country to fly, For she lov'd, and she wedded Alonzo the spy, Who has left her and fled far away.

Alonzo the spy! — and he darted away With the speed of a shooting star, Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay, But toward the poor lone one he bounded away, She had fled to the sea-beach afar.

One glance of the forked lightning's Play'd bright round the fair one's face, And it beam'd on Alonzo, for he was there, And it beam'd on his bride, on his Imanel dear, Clasp'd at length in his joyful embrace.

TO MARGARET'S EYE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Oh! I have seen the blush of morn, And I have seen the evening sky; But ah! they faded when I gaz'd On the bright heaven of Margaret's eye.

I've seen the Queen of evening ride Majestic, 'mid the clouds on high; But e'en Diana in her pride Was dim, near Margaret's brilliant eye.

I've seen the azure vault of heaven, I've seen the star-bespangled sky; But oh! I would the whole have given For one sweet glance from Margaret's eye.

I've seen the dew upon the rose, It trembled 'neath the zephyr's sigh; But oh! the tear which nature shed Was dim near that in Margaret's eye.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

And thou hast never, never known A mother's love, a mother's care! Hast wept, and sigh'd, and smil'd alone, Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer.

Oh, if sad sorrow's blighting hand Hath e'er an arrow, it is this; To feel that phrenzy's burning brand Hath wip'd away a mother's kiss;

To mark the gulf, the starless wave, Which rolls between thee and her love, To feel that better were a grave, A grave beneath — a home above;

Than thus that she should linger on, In dreamless, sunless solitude; Like some bright ruin'd shrine, where one All loveliness and truth hath stood.

And he, her love, her life, her light, How burst the storm o'er him! Oh, darker than Egyptian night, 'T was one wild troubled dream!

To gaze upon that eye, whose beam Was love, and life, and light, To mark its wild and wandering gleam Which dazzles but to blight;

To turn in anguish and despair —From those wild notes of sadness, And feel that there was darkness there, The midnight mist of madness;

To start beneath the thrilling swell Of notes still sweet, tho' wasted, To mark the idol lov'd too well, In all its beauty blasted;

Oh! it were better far to kneel, In darkly brooding anguish, Upon the graves of those we love, Than thus to see them languish.

A SONG.

Tune, Mrs. Robinson's Farewell.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Tell me not of joys departed, Or of childhood's happy hour! When unconsciously I sported, Fresh as morning's dewy flower!

Tell me not of fair hopes blasted, Or of unrequited love! Tell me not of fortune wasted, Or the web which Fate hath wove!

One fond wish I long have cherish'd, I have twined it round my heart! While all other hopes have perish'd, I with that could never part.

On life's troubled, stormy ocean That bright star still shone serene! To that star, my heart's devotion Rose, at morning, and at e'en!

And the hope that led me onward, Like a beacon shining brigh,, Was — that when this form had moulder'd I might wake to realms of light!

Wake to bliss — that changes never! Wake no more to hope or fear! Wake to joys that bloom for ever! Wither'd by no sigh, no tear!

A SONG.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Life is but a troubled ocean, Hope a meteor, love a flower Which blossoms in the morning beam, And withers with the evening hour.

Ambition is a dizzy height, And glory, but a lightning gleam; Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright, Which fairest shines in fortune's beam.

When clouds and darkness veil the skies, And sorrow's blast blows loud and chill, Friendship shall like a rainbow rise, And softly whisper — peace, be still.

TWILIGHT.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

How sweet the hour when daylight blends With the pensive shadows on evening's breast; And dear to the heart is the pleasure it lends, 'T is like the departure of saints to their rest.

Oh, 't is sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, To watch the ]ast day-beam dance light on thy wave,

To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay, Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave.

Oh, 't is sweet to a heart unentangled and light, When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest, To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest.

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE.

(Written in her twelfth year.)

Star of England! Brunswick's pride! Thou hast suffer'd, droop'd, and died! Adversity, with piercing eye, Bade all her arrows round thee fly; She marked thee from thy cradle-bed, And plaited thorns around thy head! — As the moon, whom sable clouds Now brightly shows — now darkly shrouds — So envy, with a serpent's eye, And slander's tongue of blackest dye, On thy pure name aspersions cast, And triumph'd o'er thy fame at last! But each dark tale of guilt and shame Shall darker fly to whence it came! A stranger in a foreign land, Oppress'd beneath a tyrant's hand, She drank the bitter cup of woe, And read Fate's black'ning volume through! The last, the bitterest drop was drank, The volume closed — and all was blank!

ON THE DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. —

I saw her when life's tide was high, When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow, When joy was dancing in her eye, And her cheek blush'd hope's crimson glow.

I saw her 'mid a fairy throng, She seem'd the gayest of the gay; I saw her lightly glide along, 'Neath beauty's smile, and pleasure's lay.

I saw her in her bridal robe, The blush of joy was mounting high; I mark'd her bosom's heaving throb, I mark'd her dark and downcast eye.

I saw her when a mother's love, Ask'd at her hand a mother's care; She look'd an angel from above, Hov'ring round a cherub fair.

I saw her not till cold and pale, She slumber'd on death's icy arm; The rose had faded on her cheek, Her lip had lost its power to charm.

That eye was dim which brightly shone; That brow was cold, that heart was still The witch'ries of that form had flown The lifeless clay had ceas'd to feel.

I saw her wedded to the grave; Her bridal robes were weeds of death; And o'er her pale, cold brow, was hung The damp sepulchral icy wreath.

THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing, Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splashing; The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream, As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream; Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees. The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad; Lo! the black thunder-cloud is spread over the skies, And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies. The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks, And the alder leaf dank, with its silver drops shakes; This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream, With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver beam, Are sacred to beings ethereal and light, Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night. Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream, The White Maid of the rock gave a shrill piercing scream; Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling wave, And rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave.

"The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock, The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak; Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid, Uncoffin'd, except by his own Scottish plaid! Long since has my girdle diminished to naught, And the great house of Avenel low has been brought; The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone, And proud Avenel's glory for ever has flown. As I sail'd and my white garments caught in the brake, 'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the lake, ' Woe to thee! woe to thee! Maid of the Rock,' Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak; ' Woe to thee! guardian spirit of Avenel! Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet and dell? No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep, Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep! Woe to thee! woe to thee! Maid of the rock,' Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak! Then farewell, great Av'nel, thy proud race is run! The girdle has vanish'd — my task is now done." Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew, And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet threw.

THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing, Thou brightest jewel of the heath, Which waves at zephyr's tightest wing, And trembles at the softest breath;

Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land, Thou pretty fragrant burnie gem, By whisp'ring breezes thou art fann'd And greenest leaves entwine thy stem.

No raging tempest beats thee down, Or finds thee in thy safe retreat; By no rough wint'ry winds thou'rt blown, Safe seated at the dark rock's feet.

TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS.

Hang not thy harp upon the willow, Mourn not a brighter, happier day, But touch the chord, and life's wild billow Will shrinking foam its shame away.

Then strike the chord and raise the strain Which brightens that dark clouded brow; Oh! beam one sunshine smile again, And I'll forgive thy sadness now.

Tho' darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee, Thy bark, tho' frail, shall safely ride; The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee, But thou wilt all their wrath abide.

Hang not thy harp upon the willow Which weeps o'er every passing wave; Tho' life is but a restless pillow, There's calm and peace beyond the grave.

AN ACROSTIC.

(Written in her eleventh year.)

THE MOON.

Lo! yonder rides the empress of the night! Unveil'd she casts around her silver light; Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march, Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch. E'en now, as weary of the tedious way, Thy head on ocean's bosom thou dost lay; In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face, And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place.

THE SUN.

[IN CONTINUATION]

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides, And from his path fell darkness quick divides; Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach, It dares not on his blazing path encroach; Down droops the flow'ret, — and his burning ray Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay. Oh! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course, Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force.

HABAKKUK III, 6.

(Written in her fifteenth yaar.)

When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear, When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear,

On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come from on high.

Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow; The voice of the deep thunder'd loud from below; Thy arrows glanced bright as they shot thro' the air, And far gleam'd the light of thy glittering spear; The bright orb of day paus'd in wonder on high, And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky.

ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED THE FLOWER OF THE FOREST.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast; Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast; The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost, Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest.

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near, Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage, By sorrow's sigh farm'd, and bedew'd by a tear.

ZANTE.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

She stood alone, 't was in that hour of thought, When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught

Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile, Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile O'er all life's sad variety of woe, Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow The deep dark traces of its passage there, In all the clouded majesty of care. That hour was twilight; and the shade of night, Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight, Was walking o'er the waters, while its train Of glittering millions danced along the main, And Zante, that fairy island fading fast, Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night, Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'n's silvery light. And where was she, the lone one, for the sky Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye — Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd; And still she linger'd there, as noting not The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot; As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky, Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye. She was a being form'd to love, and blest With lavish Nature's richest loveliness. Oh! I have often seen, in fancy's eye, Beings too bright for dull mortality. I've seen them in the visions of the night, I've faintly seen them, when enough of light And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, As forms of other worlds, or brighter days. Such was Ianthe, though perhaps less bright, Less clearly bright, for mystery and night Hung o'er her — she e'en lovelier seem'd, More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun, As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone.

There was a temple, which had stood, where then Ianthe stood, and old and learned men Mused o'er its ruins, marking here and there Some porch, some altar, or some fountain, where In other days, the towers of faith were raised, Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed; There stood Ianthe, leaning on a shrine Which rose half mournfully, from 'neath the vine, Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown And twin'd its tendrils round its breast of stone; Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step, In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept, And little dreaming of the years gone by, Ere tyrant Time had hurl'd them from on high. The moon emerging from the cloud more bright The marble surface glitter d in its light; Ianthe mark'd it — tears will sometimes steal, From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to feel — She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam Which shone upon the column, where the beam Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress, Or what it was I know not — but she wept O'er the wide ruin which around her slept; Then as if scorning— * 1.10

THE YELLOW FEVER.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

The sky is pure, the clouds are light, The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh; The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sky, And every beam of Heav'n's broad brow Glows brightly on the world below. But ah! the wing of death is spread; I hear the midnight murd'rers tread; — I hear the Plague that walks at night, I mark its pestilential blight; I feel its hot and with'ring breath, It is the messenger of death! — And can a scene so pure and fair Slumber beneath a baleful air? And can the stealing form of death Here wither with its blighting breath? Yes; and the slumb'rer feels its power At midnight's dark and silent hour; He feels the wild fire thro' his brain; He wakes; his frame is rack'd with pain; His eye half closed; his lip is dark; The sword of death hath done his work; That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip, That eye which burns but cannot sleep, That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain, All mark the monarch's baleful reign!

Oh! for one pure, one balmy breath, To cool the sufferer's brow in death;

Oh! for one wand'ring breeze of Heav'n; Oh that one moment's rest were giv'n! 'T is past; — and hush'd the victim's prayer; The spirit was — but is not there!

KINDAR BURIAL SERVICE,

VERSIFIED.

We commend our brother to thee, oh earth! To thee he returns, from thee was his birth! Of thee was he form'd, he was nourish'd by thee; Take the body, oh earth! the spirit is free.

Oh air! he once breath'd thee, thro' thee he surviv'd, And in thee, and with thee, his pure spirit liv'd; That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to thee; His ashes be spread, like his soul, far and free.

Oh fire! we commit his dear reliques to thee, Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free; May his soul, like thy flames, bright and burning arise, To its mansion of bliss, in the star-spangled skies.

Oh water! receive him; without thy kind aid He had parch'd 'neath the sunbeams or mourn'd in the shade; Then take of his body the share which is thine, For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering shrine.

THE GRAVE.

There is a spot so still and dreary, It is a pillow to the weary; It is so solemn and so lone, That grief forgets to heave a groan.

There life's storms can enter never; There 't is dark and lonely ever; The mourner there shall seek repose, And there the wanderer's journey close.

RUINS OF PALMYRA.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone? The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath flown; O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers and halls The dark veil of oblivion silently falls.

The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride, They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide, And soon, like the mountain stream's wild-rolling wave, Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave.

Oh, where are the footsteps which once gaily flew O'er pavements, where now weep the foxglove and yew? Oh where are the voices which once gaily sung, While the lofty-brow'd domes with melody rung?

They are silent; — and naught breaks the chaos of death; Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath, Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry Echoes loud thro' the halls and the palaces high.

Thou art fallen, Palmyra! and never to rise, Thou "queen of the east, thou bright child of the skies!" Thou art lonely; the desert around thee is wide, Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride.

Thou'rt forgotten, Palmyra! return thee to earth; And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth; With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time, And sink, not in splendour, but sadly sublime.

THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary! Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste! There's ever some comfort in store for the weary, And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast.

There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er the soul, Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear, That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry may fall, And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear.

There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief, Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and fear; There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm "joy of grief," Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear!

There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the breast, Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear, Which return on the heart, and there lingering rest, Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear.

'T is true, that the dreams of the evening will fade, When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and clear; Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade, And say that the world is not lonely and drear.

Oh then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste! That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear, But remember that man, undeserving, is blest, And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear.

FAREWELL TO MISS E. B.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Farewell, and whenever calm solitude's hour, Shall silently spread its broad wings o'er your bower, Oh! then gaze on yon planet, yon watch-fire divine, And believe that my soul is there mingling with thine.

When the dark brow of evening is beaming with stars, And yon crest of light clouds is the turban she wears, When she walks forth in grandeur, the queen of the night, Oh! then think that my spirit looks on with delight.

O'er the ocean of life our frail vessels are bounding, And danger and death our dark pathway surrounding; Destruction's bright meteors are dancing before, And behind us the winds of adversity roar.

Oh! then come, let us light friendship's lamp on the wave, If we're lost, it will shed its pure light o'er the grave, Or 't will guide to the haven of Heaven at last, And beam on when the voice of the trumpet hath past.

THE ARMY OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT SINAI.

Their spears glittered bright in the beams of the sun; Their banners waved far, and their high helmets shone; And their dark plumes were toss'd on the breast of the breeze, But the war-trumpet slumbered the slumber of peace.

He came in his glory, he came in his might, His chariot the cloud, and his sceptre the light; The sound of his coming was heard from afar, Like the roar of a nation when rushing to war.

'T was the great God of Israel, riding on high, Whose footstool is earth, and whose throne is the sky He stood in his glory, unseen and alone, And with letters of fire traced the tablets of stone

The eagle may soar to the sun in his might, And the eye of the warrior flash fierce in the fight But say, who may look upon God the Most High? Oh, Israel! turn back from his glory, or die.

The sun in its splendour, the fire in its might, Which devours and withers, and wastes from the sight, Is dim to the glory which beams from his eye — Then, Israel, turn back — Oh! return, or ye die.

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.

Gethsemane! there's holy blood Upon thy green and waving brow; Gethsemane! a God hath stood, And o'er thy branches bended low!

There, drops of agony have hung Mingled with blood upon his brow; For sin his bosom there was wrung, And there it bled for human woe.

There, in the darkest hour of night, Alone he watched, alone he prayed; Didst thou not tremble at the sight? A God reviled! — a God betrayed!

Gethsemane! so dark a scene Ne'er blotted the wide book of time! Oblivion's veil can never screen So dark a deed, so black a crime!

THE TEMPEST GOD.

Hark! 't is the wheels of his wide rolling car, They traverse the heavens and come from afar; Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides, The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides, The glance of his eye is the lighming's broad flame, And the caverns re-echo his terrible name.

In the folds of his pinions, the wild whirlwinds sleep, At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep, He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest, And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast; His seat is the mountain top's loftiest height; He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night.

TO A DEPARTING FRIEND.

Farewell, and may some angel guide, Some viewless spirit hover o'er thee; Who, let or weal or woe betide, Will still unchanging move before thee.

A hallow'd light shall burn at night, When sorrow's wave rolls drearily, And o'er thy way a cloud by day Shall east its shadow cheerily.

Thy bark of pleasure o'er life's smooth sea Shall gallantly glide along; Pray'rs and blessings thy breezes shall be, And hope be thy parting song.

Go then; I have given the spirits charge To watch o'er thee now and for ever; To smooth life's waters, and guide thy barge Where tempest shall toss it never.

TO MAMMA.

Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue. To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung, Thy love inspires; — fresh flows the copious stream, And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream.

THE STORY TELLER

THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Lo! enthron'd on golden clouds, Sinks the monarch of the day; Now yon hill his glory shrouds, And his brilliance fades away.

But as it fled, one ling'ring beam Play'd o'er yon spire, which points on high; It cast one bright, one transient gleam, Then hast'ned from the deep'ning sky.

Lo! the red tipp'd clouds remain But to tell of glories past; Mark them gath'ring o'er the plain, Mark them fade away at last.

The lake is calm, the breeze is still, Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; And nothing save the murm'ring rill, Can give the vacant ear relief.

Around yon hawthorn in the vale, White garments float like evening mist; 'Tis Wilhelmine, and cold and pale A simple marble stone she kiss'd.

She knelt her by a lowly tomb, And wreath'd its urn anew with flowers; She taught the white rose there to bloom, And water'd it with sorrow's showers.

Like raven's wing, her glossy hair In ringlets floated on the gale, Or hung upon a brow as fair As snow-curl crested in the vale.

And her dark eye which rolls so wild, Once brightly sparkled with hope's light, For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child, When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright.

Decourcy lov'd — the morn was clear, And fancy promis'd bliss; For now the happy hour was near, Which made the maiden his.

And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet Beneath the spreading tree, Her nimble foot was quick to meet, Her glancing eye to see.

Decourcy came upon his steed, His brow and cheek were pale; Speak — speak, Decourcy, cried the maid, 'Tis sure a dreadful tale.

My love, my Wilhelmine, cried he, Be calm and fear thee not; In battle I will think on thee, And oh, forget me not.

Adieu! he clasp'd her to his breast, And kiss'd the trickling tear Which 'neath her half-clos'd eyelids prest And ling'ring glist'ned there.

He gazed upon that death-like face, So beautiful before; He gazed upon that shrine of grace, And dared to gaze no more.

He trembled, press'd his burning brow, And clos'd his aching eyes; His limbs refuse their office now, The maid before him lies.

But hark! the trumpet's warlike sound Echoes from hill to vale; He caught the maiden from the ground, And kiss'd her forehead pale.

Why should Decourcy linger there, When the bugle bids him speed? One long last look of calm despair, And he springs upon his steed;

He strikes the sting of his bloody spur In his foaming courser's side, And he gallops on where the wave of war Rolls on with its bursting tide.

Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, Like the flaming brand of heaven? And whose the plume, that from morn till night Was a star to the hopeless given?

'T was thine, Decourcy! that terrible sword Hath finished its work of death, And the hand which raised it on high is lowered To the damp green earth beneath.

The sun went down, and its parting ray Smiled sorrow across the earth, The light breeze moaned — then died away, And the stars rose up in mirth.

And the timid moon looked down with a smile On the blood-stained battle ground, And the groans of the wounded rose up the while, With a sad heart-rending sound,

While the spectre-form of some grief-worn man, Steals slowly and silently by, Each corpse to note — each face to scan, For his friend on that field doth lie.

But whose is the figure dimly seen By the trembling moon-beam's light? 'T is the form of the weeping Wilhelmine, And she kneels by the slaughtered knight.

Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, And the rapturous shouts of strife, And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within The portals of future life.

Weep not for the dead! who would not die As that gallant soldier died? With a field of glory whereon to lie, And his foeman dead beside.

A year passed by, and a simple tomb Rose up 'neath a willow tree, 'T was decked with flowers in vernal bloom As fresh as flowers could be;

And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam O'er the scene was gently stealing, The form of the sorrowful maid was seen By the grave of her lover kneeling.

But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, And her cheek, oh how pale and fair! And the mingled smile, and the deep drawn sigh, Show that reason's no longer there.

Another year passed, and another grave 'Neath the willow tree is seen; By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine

LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE.

AN ALLEGORY,

(Written in her fifteenth year)

The night was calm, the sky serene, The sea a mirror display'd, On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen, The moon-crested waves were dancing between, And smiling through evening's shade.

On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding, Love and Joy were its guides through the deep, And their hearts beat high, while on fortune confiding, They smil'd at the forms that were gloomily striding, O'er the brow of the wave-wash'd steep.

Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate, And they flitted around so dark, That they seem'd like the gloomy sisters of Fate, Intent on some dreary, some deadly debate, To ruin the beautiful bark.

But the eye of Joy was raised on high, She gaz'd at the moon's pale lamp, The tear of Pleasure shone bright in her eye, And she saw not the clouds which were passing by, Death's messengers dark and damp.

And Pleasure was gazing with childish glee At the beacon's trembling gleam, Or watching the shade of her wings in the sea, With their colours as varied and fickle as she, As fleeting as Folly's dream.

And Love was tipping his feathery darts, And feeding his flaming torch, He was tinging his wings with the blood of hearts, He was chaunting low numbers, and smiling by starts At the flowers 'round Hymen's porch.

Meanwhile the clouds were gath'ring drear, They hung 'round the weeping moon, And still the mariners dream'd not of fear, Still in Joy's bright eye beam'd the brilliant tear, Which sorrow would claim too soon.

The voice of the tempest-god rolled around, The bark towards heaven was toss'd; Then, then the fond dreamers awoke at the sound, And Pleasure, the helmsman, in agony found That the light-house fire was lost.

Loud and more loud the billows roar, The ocean no more is gay, Love dreams of his pinions and arrows no more, Joy mourns the hour that she left the shore, And Pleasure's bright wings fade away.

Then Malice sent forth a shadowy bark, Which, bounding o'er the wave, Came like a meteor's brilliant spark, A star of light 'mid the tempest dark, A beacon of hope from the grave.

Joy onward rush'd to the airy skiff Which near them gaily drew, But ah! she sank to the arms of Grief, For the bark, which promised them sure relief Away like lightning flew.

Then the smile of Scorn and Malice gleam'd Across the billow's foam, And long and loud fell Hatred scream'd With fiend-like joy, as the lightning stream'd Around their forms of gloom.

On, on, they drifted before the gale; Again the signal rose; Joy and Pleasure the beacon hail, Love's ashy cheek becomes less pale As clearer and brighter it glows.

'T was Hope who fired the beacon high, And she came with her anchor of rest, And Faith, who raised towards heaven her eye, Spoke peace to the storm of the troubled sky, And calm to the weary breast.

And Charity came with her robe of light, And she led the wanderers home, She warmed them and wept o'er the woes of the night, And she welcomed them in with a smile so bright, That Pleasure forgot to roam.

And she led them to Religion's shrine, Where Hope was humbly kneeling, And there the tears of Joy did shine With a light more dazzling, more divine, They were mingled with tears of feeling.

There Love's wild wings shone calmly bright, As over the altar he waved them; There Pleasure folded her pinions light, And fondly gazed with a sacred delight On the scroll which Charity gave them.

MY LAST FAREWELL TO MY HARP

And must we part? yes, part for ever; I'll waken thee again — no, never; Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, And thou shalt calmly slumber here. Unhallowed was the eve that gazed Upon the lamp which brightly blazed, The lamp which never can expire, The undying, wild, poetic fire. And Oh! unhallowed was the tongue Which boldly and uncouthly sung; I bless'd the hour when o'er my soul, Thy magic numbers gently stole, And o'er it threw those heavenly strains, Which since have bound my heart in chains; Those wild, those witching numbers still Will o'er my widow'd bosom steal.

I blest that hour, but Oh! my heart, Thou and thy Lyre must part; yes, part; And this shall be my last farewell, This my sad bosom's latest knell. And here, my harp, we part for ever; I'll waken thee again, Oh! never; Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, And thou shalt calmly slumber here.

Notes

• 1 1.1

  Crab Island; on which were buried the remains of the sailors who fell in the action of September 11th, 1814.
• * 1.2

  See Biographical Sketch.
• * 1.3

  Alluding, probably, to the late war scenes at Plattsburgh. — EDITOR.
• * 1.4

  " That, in a twink she won me to her love." -- Shakspeare, [EDITOR.]
• * 1.5

  [Unfinished.]
• * 1.6

  [Unfinished.]
• * 1.7

  [Unfinished.]
• * 1.8

  (This was the last piece she ever wrote.)
• * 1.9

  [Unfinished.]
• * 1.10

  [Unfinished.]