The posthumous works of Ann Eliza Bleecker, in prose and verse. To which is added, a collection of essays, prose and poetical, by Margaretta V. Faugeres.

POEMS.

A DREAM.

March, 1789.

WHEN drowsy Sleep had clos'd my weary eyes Fancy convey'd me to a sandy shore, Where the steep cliffs, wet with the midnight dews, Re-echo'd to the surge's hollow roar;

Night had methought put on her soberest charms, The silvery stars a feeble glimmer gave, The winds rung mournful through the elm's green arms, And the wan moon-beams trembled on the wave;

When from among the rocks the voice of Grief I heard, it sadly warbled in the air; Wond'ring, I turn'd to view from whence it came, And lo! a form appear'd divinely fair:

Her auburn hair hung creless round her neck, Sorrow sat weeping in her beauteous eye; The rose had faded in her downy cheek, And from her beating bosom fled a sigh:

Grief from her frame the bloom of health had chas'd, The flood she approach'd with tott'ring pace and slow; To the blue vault of heav'n her eyes she rais'd, And, sighing, thus began a tale of woe:

'Still as the eve returns, my pensive soul 'O'er the Atlantic casts a mournful glance, 'And o'er the swelling surges, as they roll, 'Pursues my BELMONT to the shores of France.

'When he departed tears refus'd to flow, 'Seal'd were the fountains of my aching eyes, 'And my big heart swell'd with oppressive woe, 'Just breath'd a wish to yonder beaming skies.

'Ye winds be prosperous, and ye sapphire skies 'Let no black tempest o'er your bosom move; 'Be calm ye seas, nor let your billows rise 'To agitate the mind of him I love.

'No angel wafted to the skies my pray'r; 'Vain was the wish, it sunk upon the shore; 'BELMONT was gone! the part'ner of my care 'Was gone forever, to return no more!

'By winds tempestuous was the vessel driv'n 'O'er the broad waste where lonely waters roll; 'Darkness hung awful round the low'ring heav'n, 'And heavy thunders groan'd from pole to pole.

'All round the ship the clam'rous billows dash'd, 'Here mountains rose, there sunk to yawn|ing graves; 'From heaven's wide gates a mighty torrent rush'd, 'And plung'd them headlong in the foaming waves▪

'There sunk forever all my hopes of bliss— 'I bade a long farewell to happiness; 'From that sad moment when the ruthless deep 'On its cold bosom laid my LOVE to sleep.

'Low my fond BELMONT, low now lies thy head; 'Rude surges wash across thy peaceful breast;

'Forgot are all thy cares, thy fears are fled, 'And all thy griefs in blissful flumbers rest!"

She paus'd; she ceas'd, check'd by a flood of tears; When from the waters rose her BELMONT's shade; Serene his aspect as the night was clear; Thus spake the angel to the sorrowing maid▪

'CALISTA, give thy fruitless sorrows o'er, 'Oh wipe those riv'lets from thy beauteous eyes, 'Weep for thy faithful, long-lost LOVE no more, 'Nor swell thy bosom with heart-rending sighs.

'Why shouldst thou grieve? why sorrow for the dead? 'Dost thou not know thy plaints are all in vain? 'When low in death the humid corse is laid, 'Nor sighs nor tears shall bring it life again.

'When awful thunders rattled round the skies, 'Mixt with the shriekings of the hopeless crew;

'When lived lightnings dim'd our lifted eyes, 'And Death itself presented to our view!

'Amid this soul-affrighting dismal scene, 'Upon the ROCK OF AGES standing firm, 'My happy spirit rested all serene, 'Nor trembled at the roarings of the storm.

'When gloomy waters rank'd me with the dead, 'Quick to the deep my guardian seraphs flew, 'And on their glittering pinnions me convey'd 'Far, far beyond where shines the ethereal blue.

'There on the bosom of unfading Bliss 'I rest, while ages after ages roll; 'Each passing age shall see my joys increase, 'And still enlarging my capacious soul:

'Yet thence my watchful spirit hies, 'With pleasing cares, and hovers round my fair, 'To sooth corroding sorrows that arise, 'And mitigate the pangs of anxious care.

'Adieu much lov'd CALISTA! weep no more, 'Banish sad thoughts, prepare to meet thy love;

'Soon will this hasty strife of life be o'er▪ 'Adieu, CALISTA, we shall meet above!'

The VISION gently faded from mine eyes; Scarce did his form the yielding waters cleave, And the soft echo of his tuneful voice Died on the dashings of the distant wave.

A VERSION of the LORD's PRAYER.

Nov. 1790.

OMNICIENT God! great Ruler of the earth! Parent of man! exuberent source of good! Whose hand hath spread the south and frigid north, Whose throne from all eternity hath stood.

Upborne on Contemplation's lofty wing, We bring our supplications to the throne Of him from whom our choicest blessings spring, Whose being ne'er hath a beginning known.

Thou who with dazzling glory art array'd, Forever hallow'd be thy sacred name; Nor may the creature which thy hand hath made Presume his Maker's awful name profane.

But hasten on the blest important hour, When all creation thee her Lord shall know, When all shall feel and own thy mighty pow'r, And ev'ry knee and ev'ry heart shall bow.

As by the orders which surround thy hill, And chaunt their hymns round thy effulgent throne, And thy commands with tireless speed fulfil; So let thy will, oh GOD! on earth be done.

Each day convenient food let us receive, And what thou see'st we lack do thou bestow; And oh! may heav'n the kind forbearance give Which daily we our fellow mortals shew.

Ah let not Pleasure's facinating baits Allure us to the slipp'ry paths of Sin! Nor let her gently lead us to those gates Which she, alas! will never enter in:

But shield us, Lord, beneath thy potent wing▪ Wide o'er the earth thy peaceful banner spread, And there let ev'ry way-worn pilgrim bring His cares, and rest beneath its ample shade.

Oh earth! come worship at JEHOVAH's throne Ye habitants of heav'n your anthems raise, Omnipotence and glory are his own, HE but is worthy of eternal praise!

To ALFRED, in Answer to a Complaint.

October, 1790.

MY friend 'tis true, I own it is, The world's a cheat, as is believ'd; And those who look for solid peace On earth, will find themselves deceiv'd; There are no pure substantial joys To be possess'd below the skies.

But I believe, beneath the sun, No pow'r exists, by Reason sway'd, Who has not had, in Life's gay run, His share of happiness display'd; A share of that which fills the breast, And lulls th•• soul perturb'd to rest.

O Youth! what bliss in thee is found! Blest time of gambol, sport and joy, When music rolls in ev'ry sound, And ev'ry object charms the eye;

When few our cares, and soon forgot, Each pleas'd, delighted with its lot.

When riper years steal o'er our head, They often come replete with good; But we, by erring Fancy led, Reject the benefits bestow'd, Some empty flitt'ring form pursue, And lose the shade and substance too:

Yet are there not of that possest Which makes their lives glide on with ease, Something which makes one mortal blest But would destroy another's peace, Which reconciles him, soon or late, To the most adverse turn of Fate?

The ragged grey misanthropê, Disgusted, from the world withdraws, Yet looks with pitying eye to see Mankind deride his sapient laws; Humanely drops a tear and cries, "O that mankind like me were wise!"

The slave hard labouring at the oar, Believes his lord's condition worse, (The gouty, tortur'd epicure,) And breathes his pity in a curse;

Nor would the wretch exchange his chain For all the glutton's wealth and pain.

E'en he you think opprest with care, The idle beggar at your door, Who only wants a little share, A crust, a drink, he asks no more! He thanks the pow'rs who have not said, By labour he should earn his bread.

Whatever garments Bliss assumes, She is to time nor place confin'd, Nor straw thatch'd cot, nor stately rooms, But dwells in the contented mind: She holds her empire in the breast— The cheerful mind is ever blest.

We mar our peace by pond'ring o'er The evils incident to man; Sorrows to come, ills yet in store, "We wont be happy when we can." Let man not then condemn the fates For ev••ls he himself creates.

LINES Written on a blank Leaf of Col. Humphrey's Poems.

October, 1790.

WHEN first the savage voice of WAR We heard, Death bellowing from afar Across the surging seas, Thy tuneful lyra, hadst thou strung, And Liberty's enchantments sung, The music floating from thy tongue Had bid the tumult cease: Soon had it quell'd the fierce alarms, The foes, sooth'd by its soft'ning charms, Had gladly thrown aside their arms, And sued for smiling PEACE.

To ARIBERT.

October, 1790.

OFT' pleas'd my soul looks forward to that day When struggling to ascend the hills of light, My spirit bursting from these walls of clay, Through heav'n's broad arch shall bend its steady flight:

While a few friends attend the lifeless form, And place it in the bosom of the earth; Cov'ring it close, to shield it from the storm And the cold blusters of the whistling north.

Near the sea shore the corse shall be convey'd; A small white urn the polish'd stone shall grace, And a few lines, to tell who there is ••aid, Shall Friendship's hand engrave upon the face.

The dark green willow, waving o'er my head, Shall cast a sadder shade upon the waves; And many a widow'd swain, and slighted maid, Shall wear a garland of its weeping leaves:

Far spreads its shadow o'er the pathless vale— Through its lank boughs the zephyrs sighing pass, And the low branches, shaken by the gale, Bend slowly down and kiss the fading grass.

To this lone place the bird of night shall come; To me shall hie the widow'd tur••le too, And as she perches on the chilly tomb, Warble her woes in many a plaintive coo.

There too the trav'ller who h••th lost his way, By the dim glimmer of the moon's pale beam,

Shall spy the marble which conceals my clay? And rest his weary feet to read the name.

When o'er our world Night's auburn veil is cast. Oh! should'st thou ever wander near these shores, Pond'ring the cheerful hours which fled so fast, With those who were—but are, alas! no more:

To this lone valley let thy footsteps turn— Here, for a moment rest thy pausing eye; Just brush the wither'd leaves from off my urn, And yield the tribute of a friendly sigh.

With thee perhaps Matilda too may stray, To see where lies the friend once held so dear, And (as she wipes the gath'ring dust away) May to my mem'ry drop perhaps a tear:

And should some artless, undesigning friend Enquire 'whose head rests here?' him you may tell, As slowly o'er the sod your steps you bend, ''Tis Ella rests within this humble cell.'

To the Memory of ALEON, who died at Sea in the Year 1790.

February, 1791.

ALEON is dead!—The sullen trump of fame Blew the sad tidings to the western shore: The scythe of Time, the wasting hand of Pain Hath lodg'd him with the myriads gone be|fore.

How late he wept his brother-warriors dead! Cut off untimely in Life's early day: Alas! the kindred spi••it too is fled; We now to him the same sad tribute pay.

He, like themselves, 'the creature of a day,' Beneath the frigid arm of Death hath bow'd: Yes, Aleon lies—the valiant and the gay, Deep in the bosom of the stormy flood.

Thus courage, beauty, sentiment, and wit Bloom in an hour, and bloom but to decay: Life quits its suppliants, as the airy sprite Before the morning gale fleets fast away.

Yet to his mem'ry shall a pile be rear'd, And each past service meet a kind return; Still shall his name by freemen be rever'd, And laurels spring and blossom round his urn.

'But pensive poetess,' some one may say, 'When these memorials of the good shall fade, 'Will not his worth to time become a prey, 'And sink into Oblivion's darkest shade?'

Ah! surely no—the triumph ends not here, Beyond the tomb his brightest prospects rise; Sublime he soars above this vale of tears— He gains a life eternal when he dies.

An ADDRESS to a PROFILE.

1791.

BEAUTIFUL profile, much, too much belov'd, By her whose artless heart dictates this lay; Why is thy dear original remov'd From my impatient eyes so far away?

Thou dear resemblance of that noble youth, Why art thou all that I can call my own Of him? why not his heart, that seat of truth! Why are my tender cares to him unknown?

Ah! rather why did I my heart permit ••ondly to roam o'er Hope's illusive plain Why for a stranger did its pulses beat, While fl••••'••ing passions throb'd through ev'ry vein?

While I complain, perhaps he gaily roves, From cruel doubts and disappointments free; And (sick'ning thought!) perhaps he fondly loves, Nor knows there lives a hapless maid like me!

Deceitful Hope! thy flow'ry courts I'll quit, Nor more present my off'rings at thy shrine, But scorning censure, weep my wayward fate, For L**** never—never can be mine.

ELEGY to Miss ANNA DUNDASS.

March, 1791.

'O ELLA! tune thy lyra,' didst thou say? And art thou, ANNA, pleas I with notes like mine, Which chord but with the slow ••on'd dirge-like lay, Which sad and plaintive weep at ev'ry line?

Let others ask reful•••• ••t Sol for aid, When glows the or••ent with pervading day; Or court the Muses in the balmy shade, Where vi'lets bloom and dimpling foun|tains play.

I wait not Phosphor's nor Apollo's beam, Nor the warm smiles of joy inspiring Spring, To rouse my Muse—woe is a ready theme, And drowsy night the season when I sing.

Such nights, when Luna faintly gilds the waves, And shad'wy forms fleet o'er the wat'ry waste; When restless spirits leave their ••••rsy graves, And stalking slow, moan to the hollow blast.

'Tis then, amidst the universal gloom, My pensive soul pursues her fav'rite plan, Weeps o'er my friends descended to the tomb, And mourns the melancholy state of man.

"Child of a day"—the be•••••••• of an hour, He hurries swiftly through Life's troublous scene; Treads the same round which thousands trod before, Their dies, and is as tho' he ne'er had been.

Y•••• he must die, the nearest friends must part, The victor Death accepts not of a claim; And though the stroke may crush a kindred heart, He heeds it not—to supplicate is vain.

But oh! 'tis sad to see an infant pour Its plaints round one just ready to depart; This bursts the heart consign'd to Death before, And adds a sting to his acutest dart.

This, ANN ELIZA, on a dying bed, Severely felt—she fondly wept for me; She strain'd me in her arms, and weeping said, "When I am gone—ah! who will care for thee?

"What tender friend will guide thy infant thought "When cares shall call thy father far away? "By whom wilt thou to act aright be taught? "Ah! who, my ELLA! who will care for thee?"

Oh! 'twas a bitter pang—I feel it yet! My bosom swells with every sigh she gave; And the soft drops with which her cheeks were wet Wound the full heart they dropt but to re|lieve.

But ANNA, lest my sorrows give thee pain, While thus the tear of fond affection flows, I'll hush my plaints—and close the mourning strain, And bid adieu awhile—to all my woes.

MORNING.

1791.

THE spicy morn, with purple ray, Faintly illumes the eastern skies, While from each dew besprinkled spray Ambrosial odours gently rise;

Silence still holds the wide domain, The Zephyrs slumber in the shade; The stream that creeps along the plain, Scarce murmurs to the list'ning glade:

No songstress breathes her artless lay, No footsteps print the dewy vale, O'er the broad lawn no lambkins stray, For sleep still nods o'er hill and dale,

Where pensive Grief forgets to sigh, There Morpheus still thy station keep, And with thy signet seal the eye, The eye which only wakes to weep.

But while I speak, the prospects change, The warblers dance upon the air, The fleecy tribe the pastures range, Refresh'd with sleep, and free from care:

All nature bows—all nature sings, And to its author homage pays; Each part a grateful tribute brings, The whole creation gives him praise.

Be thou not, oh! my languid soul, An indolent spectator here, While clouds of cheerful incense roll To him who rules above our sphere:

Before him pour the lay sincere, When Morning's beams thine eyes shall bless, And let the shades of Ev'ning hear That still thou dost his name confess.

EVENING.

1791.

SOL's golden chariot down the western sky Has roll'd, clos'd are the pearly gates of light; The varied prospects, fading, leave the eye Wrapt in the shroud of solitary night.

Hudson, in silence, laves the moon-gilt shores, The winds hum sullen o'er the lucid plain, And Grief her plaints in pensive music pours, While Echo, sad, repeats the melting strain▪

Ah! what a tone arrests my raptur'd ear, Sweet as the thrush's note at close of day, While balmy breezes, thro' the humid air, On gilded plumes waft the soft sounds away.

'Tis Artha sings, the mournful voice I know, I know the broken sigh which checks the song,

While accents soft of unaffected woe, Warm from the heart, drop from her artless tongue.—

"O chilly moon! O paler lamp of heav'n! "The joys I've known by thy fair light are o'er, "And these sad eyes, which hail'd returning ev'n, "See beauty in thy silver ray no more:

"For since my brother slumbers with the dead, "Each once-lov'd object wears a cheerless gloom; "Each jocund thought, each happier view is fled, "Is with my Orlin sunk into the tomb.

"Five years had seen me taste unmingled joys, "When War's trump blew—I heard the solemn swell; "My father heard his struggling country's voice, "He felt her wrongs—he rush'd to war— he fell!

"With pious hand my Orlin wip'd the tear "From the pale cheek of her who gave us breath;

"But vain to soothe her anguish was his care, "She pining sunk, cropt by the hand of Death!

"One yet remain'd my heedless steps to guide, "To feel my sorrows he forgot his own; "Blest with his care, I had no wish beside; "But he—oh, bitter thought!—he too is gone!

"O life! how complicated are thy woes! "Fain from thy realm of sorrow would I fly, "Forgot the goods and ills thou canst bestow, "And pass thy closing gates without a sigh.

"Peace! peace, my heart! thy achings soon will cease, "Forbear thy pantings, I shall soon rejoin "The happy spirits of my loves in peace, "And taste with them the bliss which is divine.

"Silent as Death the moments stole along, "Last night, as late thro' mould'ring ruins I past; "The bird of eve had clos'd her darkling song, "Nor hung an echo on the dying blast:

"When lo! in sleepless unremitted calls "The death-watch beat the flying hours away, "And sighing ghosts bent thro' the broken walls, "And slowly whisp'ring, chid my ling'ring stay.

"O grant me resignation! power supreme! "'Till thou in love shalt summon me away, "'Till Death shall wake me from this troub|lous dream, "And mine eyes open on eternal day."

So be it love—may Peace her pinions spread Around the weary couch by Artha prest; May angels warble sonnets round her head, To lull her melancholy soul to rest.

And oh! may heav'n, in pity to her woes, Soothe her sad heart, to many a pang a prey, And in religion grant her sweet repose, 'Till angels waft her to the realms of day.

NIGHT.

1791.

HAIL TWILIGHT! hail thou sober pleas|ing form, Who now approachest us in fair array,

Thou offspring of the Sun, where'er thy light Is shewn, thou giv'st new life to all around; The weary peasant from the gilded mount, With joyous heart, descries thee from afar, And hastening homeward, whistles through the field His thanks to thee for bringing him relief. The horse and oxen now forsake the plough, Or quit the heavy yoke, and seek the shade, Where in some rolling stream they quench their thirst, Or on the bank repose their weary limbs In sleep; enjoy the present hour, nor see Their future ills, nor recollect the past. But see the EVENING solemnly draws near; All Nature welcomes her; the fleecy tribe Bleat forth their thanks to him who gave them breath, As slowly to their fold they bend their way, And their conductor lifts his heart and eyes In silent awe, and gives his Maker praise: The feather'd choir now warble softliest notes, And every hill responds to Music's voice; While wandering breezes through the dewy wood On their light plumes, the whispering echos bear:

And shall I hold my peace when all around Invite me to partake with them the rich, The sweet, the great repast of gratitude? No! I'll break forth and mingle with the throng, And thus address my Author and my End: 'LORD, what is man, or what his mighty deeds, 'That thou from thine eternal throne should'st stoop 'To pity him, and grant him happiness, 'To be his guest▪ and health to be his friend? 'Where'er we turn we see thy mighty love, 'Thy matchless goodness, and unequall'd pow'r: 'Make us to love thee, FATHER, as we aught, 'And make our ev'ry action, word and thought 'To speak thy goodness, and to give thee praise." The queen of night, with her resplendant train, Shines from behind the hills; her golden lamps Hung high in heaven, bedeck the dark blue sky, And grace the earth, and scatter wonted light. Ye wond'rous worlds who now to us appear Like little orbs, inferior to our own, Still sparkle bright, and glitter on through time, And shew to all the nations round▪ that HE Who built your spheres, is powerful and great!

How calm the night! how silent and serene! No dreadful whirlwinds blow, nor thunders roar, Nor earthquake shakes the ground, but all is hush'd, The Zephyrs softly steal through the deep grove, Fanning the slumbering birds, while Cynthia's beam Quivers in silence o'er the glassy stream, Mov'd by the breathings of the passing gale▪ Not such the eve when BERTRAND left these shores, Deep howl'd the storm, heav'n's windows open'd wide, And rain, hail, sleet and snow came rushing down In many a fiery blast, on furious wing: Then sulphur mixt with ice, and flame with snow, Black thunders roll'd across the angry heav'n, And forked lightnings thro' the sable skies Hurl'd swift destruction on the world beneath; Old Ocean roar'd, and from his lowest caves Sent forth his darkening waves, which round the ship With force impetuous long dash'd to and fro;

But ere the rising of another sun Oerwhelm'd the passengers with "watry death." Oh! what a night of sorrow and despair! BOREAS and NEPTUNE, and AEOLUS fought; The weeping NAIADS left their oozy beds And fled for succour to the distant shores, While frighted THETIS stiff'ning with amaze, Forgot the pow'r to flee! Long held the contest, till the pitying SUN Look'd down, and saw how in confusion wild The wat'ry empire lay; he interpos'd, And summ'd up all his shining rays, a host Of glittering warriors, whose refulgent spears Dispers'd the fluttering clouds, and calm'd the air. Now Midnight's mournful veil is drawn around▪ While the wan moon gleams fainter through the trees, Vapours opaque the shadowy mountains shroud, And shricking ghosts fleet fast along the plain. Now is the mournful time! the hour of woe, When Poverty's forsaken aged sons Toss on their thorny couch in deep distress, And Sorrow's ancient weeping daughters now Reflect on all their woes, their former griefs, Their miseries, and dread futurity:

Hark! how that groan, wrung from the heart of woe, In bitter agonies arrests my ear! Dismally plaintive rolls the feeble sound, And calls for succour from some pitying hand: Ah! the dread King of Terrors e'en they call To hurl with speed the long expected dart! Perhaps he strikes! perhaps just now the soul Sprung from its bands into eternity! Dark seems the passage—all the lights are clos'd, And the dim eyes of my affected soul Open upon the doleful scene, in vain: How feels the soul just stepping from its barque, Upon hose boundless shores, dreary and dark, Where ends all space and time, a stranger there? She knows not where to turn her wondering form▪ Till some kind Spirit, sent from the abode Of JESUS, takes her to the land of peace, Or from the realms of sorrow, some black fiend Seizes her pale, and trembling as she stands, And plunges her into the gulph of woe! How silent, O how peaceful is the GRAVE! Silent and dark as thee, O much lov'd Night!

There neither Pride nor Discontent can come, Nor pensive Melancholy, no, nor is The mournful voice of Sorrow heard to weep! There are our griefs in sweet oblivion lost, When every avenue of life is clos'd; And though our friends may moan around our couch, We still sleep on regardless of their plaints: There finds the weary traveller a rest, And there the child of Poverty a home; The bosom that with sharp affliction throbb'd, And the sad heart that swell'd with many a sigh, There rest in silence, and the sad tongue which In piteous accents told its miseries And woes, ceases for ever to complain! Oh thou repository of the dead! Thou asylum of many a broken heart! Close lock'd within thy cold unfeeling arms ELIZA's body sleeps! dust sinks to dust! And the slow worm, unconscious of her worth, Crawl o'er my parent's consecrated breast, That breast so lately fill'd with every grace, With every virtue which could charm the soul: But their meridian soon, too soon they reach'd; For while gay Beauty mantled on her cheek,

And jocund Youth sat smiling in her eyes, E'en then the King of Horrors rais'd his dart And chill'd her blood, and bid her trembling heart With fond maternal love to beat no more. Mine was the loss, but sure it was her gain, Death could but conquer clay, the rest was free. Methinks I see her leaving mortal life, Her spirit fluttering to attend the calls Of waiting angels, whose melodious voice Wear out the pangs of death, and hail her safe; While the big soul, burst from its narrow shell, Expanding flies: the scene grows brighter still; Some lofty seraphim appears her guide; With joyful smiles his radiant footsteps shine, And scatter day and glory from the skies: They reach the gates where "Bliss forever reigns," Where griefs and carking cares no more shall be, But lost in wondering at the SAVIOUR's love, Each spirit spends eternity in bliss, In silent rapture, nameless extacy! Oh thou pure essence! could I follow thee Still farther on, how would my soul rejoice! But Nature bids me stop, nor urge my flight (Eagerly stretch'd) to where I cannot see.

Forever fled from earth!—my heart still bleeds At the remembrance, when in agonies I saw her lay, when the cold chills of Death Ran through her frame, and every drop of life Within its closing channel lay congeal'd! Fresh in my mind the uncheery scenes arise, Each groan again I hear! each piercing cry! Each languid look I see! the dawn of death, And the sad beatings of the death bell still Hum slow and dismal in my frighted ear! Alas! O GOD! wilt thou not hear the pray'r Sent from a heart sincere, robb'd of a fond Indulgent parent, whose oft-heard advice By thine assistance me hath brought thus far. O bow thy mighty ear! still be my GOD, PROTECTOR, and my GUIDE thro' Life's sad ways! That when my soul shall sever from its clay, And I unmourn'd slide gently in the grave, My happy spirit, purified, may join ELIZA, on the shores where Rapture dwells, And thro' Eternity's exhaustless round Praise and adore the SOV'REIGN LORD OF ALL.

To MORTIMER Embarking for the West-Indies.

1791.

FAREWELL, my friend, the steady gale Invites the anxious crew away, Rolls up the waves, swells ev'ry sail, And ling'ring chides thy long delay.

And yet, methinks, with falt'ring voice, A something bids me wish thee stay; 'Tis Friendship waits to give advice, Just hear her speak, and then away.

While wand'ring o'er the stormy deep, Resign thyself to Virtue's sway; Let Rectitude thy bosom keep, And Peace shall gild each fleeting day▪

And oft as with reverted eyes You sighing look towards your home, Remember, that benignant skies Protect you wheresoe'er you roam.

Let gratitude dictate a lay To him who brought thee o'er the main, Where the fair islands greet thine eye, Where spring and autumn jointly reign.

Tho' splendid Vice with dauntless hand, There slights the mask she puts on here; Where thousands court her lov'd command, And worship her with zeal sincere.

Yet when her gay, her frantic train Would tempt thee to the rounds they run, Remember, that thou art a man, That thou art Eboracia's son.

Nor let the senseless, daring proud, Who flock around unwary youth, Persuade thee to the impious croud Who mock at God, and hate the truth.

But all thy days to Wisdom give, Improve the moments as they fly; So shalt thou like the righteous live; So shalt thou like the righteous die.

A VERSION of part of the 7th Chapter of JOB.

1791.

AS sighs the lab'rer for the cooling shade, When glowing sun-beams scorch the verdant blade, Or as the hireling waits the scanty sum, By the hard hand of painful labour won;

So waits my spirit, with anxiety, Death's calm approach, from woe to set me free; For oh! my days are spent in vanity, And nights of sorrow are appointed me. I love not life—it is a burden grown— Distress and Care have claim'd me for their own, And pale Disease, with unrelenting hand, Sports with my sighs, and casts them to the wind. In vain doth night return to bless these eyes; Sighing, I say, "Oh when shall I arise? "When will the night be gone!" Convuls'd with pain, I raise my eyes to heav'n for aid in vain; My heart grows faint—and tossing to and fro, I waste the lonely hours in sullen woe. Or if indeed my eyes should chance to close, And weary nature gain a slight repose, Then am I scar'd with terrifying dreams; Wild shrieks I hear, and melancholy screams, While hideous shapes croud on my troubled sight, Adding new horrors to the glooms of night.

Oh! I'm forlorn—in bitterness of soul My cries burst forth—like floods my sorrows roll— Forgot—abandon'd—destitute—alone— No pitying ear inhales the heart-wrung groan, No friendly converse my sad spirit cheers, No feeling breast receives my bitter tears; Gone is each comfort—hope itself is fled; O that I rested with the quiet dead! No glimpse of good mine eyes again shall see, Let me alone—my days are vanity. But soft my griefs, my life is but as wind, Soon will it pass and leave no trace behind; Soon will my aching heart a respite have, Lodg'd in the mould'ring chambers of the grave. As fleets the cloud before the northern blast, So doth the life of mortal beings haste; And I shall sleep in dust—there weary pain Shall never vex my anguish'd frame again: Then tho' adversity, with iron hand, Shall crush the rising honours of the land: Tho' war may waste—and sickness blast in death, The soul that murder spar'd upon the heath, Yet shall I slumber, 'midst the awful roar, For he that sleeps in death shall wake no more.

A SALUTE to the Fourteenth Anniversary of AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.

1791.

ALL hail to thy return, O! ever blest auspicious morn, By mercy's author giv'n: See! to greet the happy day Sol expands his brightest ray, And not a cloud obscures his way, Nor shades the face of heav'n. More sweet this day, the cannons martial roar, Than all the dulcet sounds which music's soul can pour; For ev'ry gale that o'er Columbia flies Bids on its balmy wings some Paean rise, Some song of Liberty; And ev'ry peal that mounts the skies, In solemn tones of grandeur cries, "AMERICA IS FREE!" Sound, O Fame! thy clarion strong, Bear the golden notes along, Let Gallia hear the song; Beat each heart with pleasure high,

Flush each cheek with purest joy, Let rapture glitter in each eye, And tune each grateful tongue. Hail! O land!—long may old time behold Freedom o'er thee her standard wide unfold, While ages shall roll on, 'Till to a chaos sinks again this ball, 'Till worlds to primogenial nothing fall, And quench'd thy blaze, O sun!

WINTER.

November, 1791.

OFT times the wand'ring Muse by silence led, When pensive Night hath wrapt the world in sleep, By dewy lawns and warbling rills hath stray'd, Trod the green slope, or climb'd the crag|gy steep;

Or, by the margin of some weeping stream, Where spreads the sensitive its leafage fair, Watch'd the faint quiv'rings of the lunar beam, Or feeble glimmerings of some distant star;

Or, where some ragged cliff, with low'ring brow, Blackens the surface of the swelling deep, Where billows dash, and howling tempests blow, Where wizard shapes their nightly revels keep;

Or on the shelly shores, where spirits roam, Sounding their sorrows to the midnight gale, While round their steps the restless waters foam, And hollow caves respond the dismal wail.

There (as upon the flood floats the moon's rays, And rolling planets shed their silv'ry light;) There, wrapt in musings deep, and stedfast gaze, In solemn rapture hath she past the night.

But now the frighted Muse these scenes forsakes, Quits the gay forest and enamel'd plain, The shadowy vales, the smooth pellucid lakes, For Winter comes with all his blustering train—

He rolls his rapid storms along the skies; With tumult fraught, the raving tempest roars; O'er the broad beach the heaving surges rise, Groan in the winds, and foam along the shores.

With hasty wing the vernal season flies, Some happier clime, with smiles benign to charm, While the keen arctic whistles round our skies, And the tall forest nods before the storm.

Despotic Time, who guides the changing year, Blasts the fair scenes that rose at his command, And weeping Nature, desolate and drear, Owns the sad traces of his spoiling hand:

And yet, again shall this same hand unfold Winter's cold gates, and bid the fountains flow; Make rosy Spring profusely pour her gold, And bid her blossoms wear a richer glow.

The lark shall quit the solitary bush, Smooth her soft plumes, and tune her warb|ling tongue, While from some copse the late dejected thrush Cheers the glad vallies with a sprightly song.

Cease then, O Muse! to drop the useless tear, Ah! touch no more the melancholy string, Since Earth again the blooms of life shall wear, And wintry glooms give place to smiling Spring.

FRIENDSHIP.

January, 1792.

'FRIENDSHIP! I hate thy name—my rancled heart, 'Forever wounded by thy treacherous hand, 'Bleeding afresh defies the pow'r of art, 'Its pangs to soften, or extract the smart, 'For who, ah who can draw the bitter dart 'Implanted by a chosen, bosom friend? 'Too long I harbour'd thee within my breast, 'Thou base destroyer of my rest; 'Too long thy galling yoke did bear: 'For while I cherish'd thee with fostering care, 'Thou didst thy pois'nous sting prepare, 'And wrung the heart that fondly thee carest. 'But now adieu, thy reign is o'er, 'For thee that heart no longer sighs; 'And at thy voice shall joy no more 'Suffuse this cheek, nor grace these eyes. 'Thy ev'ry transport I'll forego, 'Thy sov'reignty disclaim; 'And if no more thy sweets I know, 'I know no more thy pain.

'Tranquil my hours shall glide away, 'No more a prey to poignant woes; 'Content shall bless each rising day, 'And charm each night with calm re|pose. 'No more shall tears stray down my cheek, 'Wak'd by thy sympathetic voice, 'Nor griefs, too big for utterance, break 'An injur'd heart that venerates thy ties; 'Nor sighs all eloquent a language teach, 'That mocks the idle power of speech.' Thus, once in anguish'd mood I wept and sung; Warm from the heart th' unfeeling accents sprung; For Perfidy's cold touch had chill'd Each softer, gentler motion there, And ev'ry painful chasm had fill'd With weak mistrust and fretful care. But vain I sought those scenes of bliss, Which Fancy's flatt'ring pencil drew; When the delights of smiling Peace Each hour should brighten as it flew: With Friendship ev'ry joy had fled, With her each rapture took its ••light; Nor longer charm'd the branching shade, Nor fragrant morn, nor spangled night.

In vain for me the songster swell'd its throat, In vain the buds their moisten'd sweets dis|close; Nor cheer'd their glowing tints, nor sooth'd the note; Alas! the selfish heart no pleasure knows. 'Ah, Hope!' sigh'd I, 'are these thy proffer'd joys? 'Are these the hours of bliss that should be mine? 'Few have I known since loos'd from Friend|ship's ties.' Again my vows I offer'd at her shrine. Sudden, as from Castalia's favour'd spring, As sweet, as soft a tone I hear, As ever floated on mild Ev'ning's wing▪ Or sooth'd pale Echo's ear. Caught by the strain, each tear forgot to flow, Each bitter rising murmur straight represt; When, with enchanting air and placid brow, The lovely fair Calista stood confest. In feelings lost, tumultuously sweet, Exultingly I own'd her gentle sway, And blest the heart whose sympathetic beat Hail'd the young dawn of Friendship's rising day.

To the Reverend J*** N*****.

January, 1792.

HERE, late, where Ruin's standard was un|furl'd, And bloody war laid waste our western world, The mildest beams of Peace benign are shed, And Piety exalts her conquering head; Age finds her flow'ry path, and heedless youth Submissive kneels the advocate of truth! With spirits chang'd we think of feuds no more, But greet our seniors on a distant shore; Tho' barren wilds and mountains intervene, And the Atlantic rolls her floods between. Will then fair Olney's aged bard excuse The weak exertions of a youthful muse? The genuine wishes of whose heart sincere, All glowing breathe to heaven for him a pray'r. Long may'st thou to thy land a blessing be, And many fruits of thy kind labours see; May Patience soothe thee in thy worldly cares, And a bright faith light thy declining years; 'Till late our GOD shall call the Wanderer home, And bid the longing, hoping exile, "come."

Then may thy soul, upborne on angel's wing, Fleet to the realms of everlasting love; With raptur'd myriads Mercy's source to sing, And all the fullness of Emanuel prove.

To the MOON.

April, 1792.

WHILE wand'ring through the dark blue vault of heav'n, Thy trackless steps pursue their silent way, And from among the starry host of ev'n, Thou shed'st o'er slumbering earth a milder day; And when thou pour'st abroad thy shadowy light Across the ridgy circles of the stream, With raptur'd eyes, O changeful nymph of night! I gaze upon thy beam.

GREAT was the hand that form'd thy round, O Moon! That mark'd the precincts of thy steady wheel,

That bade thee smile on Night's oblivious noon, And rule old Ocean's solemn swell; GREAT was the POWER, that fill'd with ra|diant light Those Worlds unnumber'd, which from pole to pole Hang out their golden lamps to deck thy flight, Or gild the Planets which around thee roll.

From realms of Love, beyond where moves the Sun, Whose distant beams create our brightest day, Beyond where Stars their ceaseless circles run, Or l••rid Night emits his opaque ray; Mounted on the dark'ning storm, On the strong whirlwind's ragged pinions borne, With glory circumfus'd, the Source of Bliss Sublime, came flying o'er the vast abyss.

His voice was heard—in dire dismay Chaotic Darkness fled away, While bursting waves of Light the flight be|held, And all the spacious void triumphant fill'd.

Without delay, this restless ball Uprose, obedient to his call; But that he spake it into light, It still had slumber'd in eternal night: The mountains rear'd their verdant head, The hills their destin'd places found, And as the fountains pour'd their waters round, Ocean submissive wander'd to her bed; The Sun arose—with beam benign he shone, And terra cheer'd with splendours all his own.

"Go gild the morn," his maker said. Impatient to obey, O'er half the globe his rays he spread, And blaz'd along the day.

Then wast thou form'd with all the starry train That decorate the ev'ning skies; Some made to travel through the sapphire plain, And some forbid to set or rise.

Long hast thou reign'd, and from thine amber throne The various changes of this world hast known; H••st seen its myriads into being rise, S••••••••e their short hour, and then their life resign;

New generations seize the fickle prize, And like their sires, but strengthen to decline: Yet be not vain, (though since thy natal day Some thousand years their circling course have made) For lo! the aera hastens on apace, When all thy glory shall for ever fade. Earth shall the revolution feel, The change of seasons shall be o'er, Time shall forget to guide his wheel, And thou, O Moon, shalt set to rise no more!

SILENCE.

Philadelphia, 1792.

DAY slow retreats on showery wing, And Evening climbs the eastern skies; The hovering vapours round the shores arise, Or to the tall rock's frowzy summit cling: The hum of busy care is done, A welcome respite twilight brings; And in the ear of Labour's son, The lulling song of Quiet sings. All, all is still and peaceful as the grave, Save where the Delaware's distant billows roar,

When driven by rushing gales, the yielding wave Throws its white waters on the echoing shore. Hark! the shrill quall wi••h deep swoln note Breaks the dumb silence of the scene: The waking breezes sullen round it float, Fold their soft wings, and sink to rest again.

Hail, lonely hour! enchanting Silence hail! When no intrusive ••ound thy realm invades, When fervent thought can pierce Night's closest veil, And rise exulting o'er surrounding shades; Say, will Day's glories with thy clouds compare, Where boisterous Tumult rolls his thundering car? Or, can Apollo's blazing beams diffuse O'er the sad heart, surcharg'd with grief, So kind a balm—so sweet relief, As thy soft winds and od'rous dews? Ah! well thy power I know, while wander|ing here, Far, very far from all my heart holds dear; Where, while remembrance brings their image near, Down my pale cheek tear follows tear;

And the big sigh, in vain supprest, Urges a passage from a swelling breast▪ Yet do I know thy soothing power e'en here, Though far—ah me, how far from all my heart holds dear!

To ETHELINDE.

1792.

NO longer let me weep a prey to love, Sad victim to ill-fated passion's sway; A thousand sighs will ne'er their source remove, Nor tears its fond remembrance wash away.

Ah me!—when sinks the heart by griefs deprest, And Hope denies her balmy soothings sweet, And busy Memory wrings the bleeding breast; Then, surely, then is wretchedness complete.

Come Hope, in Ethelinde's enchanting form, Come bid my useless tears forbear to flow; Check the wild passions in my breast that storm, Rude as the gusts o'er Erie's surfs that blow.

Why should I grieve?—no swain with artful tongue Has broke the vows I ventur'd to approve; For Alma's TRUTH my easy heart has won, Whose form is beauty and whose voice is love.

Does he not feel?—why then that frequent sigh When grief or sickness cloud my pensive face? Or why that pleasure sparkling in his eye, When cheerfulness and health resume their place?

Why does his cheek with sudden flushes glow, From a short absence when we meet again? Or why dejection hang upon his brow, When other fav'rites my attention claim?

Oh! if he loves—with passion such as mine— Life's varying scenes how easy shall I find? How light will be the woes of CAROLINE? How rich the pleasures shar'd with such a mind?

But—if I must a common lot deplore— Oh! if my ALMA chuse some happier fair, Then will I fly to some forgotten shore, And waste my sorrows on the desert air.

Ha!—will the forest's echoing glooms be found More cheering than the voice of Ethelinde? What!—can eternal absence heal my wound, Or blot his lov'd idea from my mind?—

No, surely, no—firm as the earth's broad base Are my affections round his virtues twin'd; And Time, beneath whose touch all else decays, Serves but the ligaments more close to bind.

Then will I stay, a votary to his charms, And, kneeling victor at Submission's shrine, Clasp the blest woman in my conquering arms, And all the heart that once was mine to her resign.

To the same.

1792.

AH! cease the "dirge like lay," my Ethe|linde; Wipe off the tear that quivers in thine eye, Nor let the bosom of my best lov'd friend Heave with the deep but unavailing sigh.

On the broad pinions of u••wearied Time Our months and days are swiftly borne away, And each succeeding hour, in constant chime, Consigns some dear enjoyment to decay.

Age steals the rose from the dejected cheek, And plants his ensigns on th' unwilling brow; Cheerfulness sighs—and Wit forgets to speak, Lost in eternal torpor—Oh what woe!

But Grief, (ah me, how well the truth I know!) Grief, with officious hand, propels us on, Urges our speed, lest Time should move too slow, And ere we reach Life's noon, our sun goes down.

Cease then to weep, my beauteous Ethelinde, Cease thine own rugged path with thorns to strew; Oh check those griefs I know not to befriend, Nor give aloose to such immoderate woe!

What! shall my cares on ALMA rest alone? Shall all thy wishes to MYRTILLO fly? And shall the heart that meets no kind return, Burst—coward like—and bleed its channel dry?

No, Ethelinde, with generous pride I burn, ALMA, the noble ALMA, I resign; And tho' my heart awhile its loss may mourn, It never to relenting shall incline.

The gracious Power whose word hath given us life, And mixt our cup with pleasure and with pain, Will strength afford to pass the mental strife, Or strength at least the conflict to sustain.

Oh! would but man enjoy the blessings given, How many tears had never learn'd to flow! How few deep sighs had wing'd their course to heaven! How few the hearts surcharg'd with help|less woe!

For us young Evening sheds her soft perfumes; For us blith Morn expands her golden eyes; For us the Sun heav'n's azure arch illumes; And forests bloom for us, and oceans rise.

But oh! the ingrate man, with selfish mind, He spurns the bliss which heav'n design'd his own; His airy wish outstrips the hasty wind, And grasps at raptures never to be known.

In efforts vain he toils away his days, Pursuing Fancy in her mad career; Though still deceiv'd, he still her call obeys, And sinks at last—the victim of Despair.

Such is vain man's—and such hath been our lot, Such the dim mist that dark'd our earliest years; Fixt on our happiest hours a lasting blot, And bath'd each following day in heart-wrung tears.

Where are the golden joys we once have known? Where the calm comforts which for us have bloom'd? Smooth, gliding scenes of peace! they all are gone, All by oblivious Sorrow—all entomb'd.

Oh! sad regret, the feeling heart beats full, Vain prove th' attempts wild nature to subdue: My lyre is struck with wandering hand and dull, While lawless tears the pausing strings bedew.

On seeing a Print, exhibiting the Ruins of the Bastille.

1792.

AT each return of the auspicious day Which laid this mighty fabric in the dust, Let joy inspire each patriotic breast To bless and venerate its august ray; Let Gallia's sons attune the harp of joy, And teach the trump its boldest notes t' em|ploy; Let clarions shrill the deed declare, And blow their son'rous notes afar;

Let music rise from ev'ry plain. Each vine-clad mount or daisied dell. And let Aetius float the strain Across old Ocean's ample swell.

Ah▪ see the Bastille's iron walls thrown down, That bulwark strong of Tyranny; See her proud turrets smoke along the ground, Crush'd by the giant arm of Liberty! Her gloomy tow'rs—her vaults impure, Which once could boast eternal night; Her dungeons deep—her d••ns obscure, Are urg'd unwilling to the light.

Oft in these dreary cells, the captive's moan Broke the dead silence of the midnight watch, When Memory, pointing to the days long gone, To wasting sorrows woke the feeling wretch.

Here everlasting Darkness spread Her veil o'er scenes of misery, Where Sickness heav'd an anguish'd head, And roll'd a hopeless eye. Here drown'd in tears, pale Agony Spread her clasp'd hands toward the sky, While all convuls'd, extreme Despair Swallow'd the earth in speechless rage, Or phrenzied gnaw'd his iron cage, Tore off his flesh, and rent his hair.

Such were thy glories, O Bastille! Such the rich blessings of despotic pow'r, Whose horrid daemon quaff'd his fill, Daily of bitter tears and human gore: But now 'tis o'er—thy long, long reign is o'er, Thy thunders fright the trembling hosts no more; Thy shafts are spent—thy sons no more engage To add new triumphs to thy train, To bind new victims to thy chain; For thy most valiant sons are slain By the fierce strokes of kindled patriot rage. Roll'd in the dust, behold thine honours lie, The sport—the scorn of each exploring eye.

Hail gallant Gauls! heroic people hail! Who spurn the ills that Virtue's sons assail, Whose hearts benevolent, with ardour bound The hard••got blessing to diffuse around: Oh! be your struggles blest, and may you see Your labours rivail'd by posterity; 'Till the small flame (which first was seen to rise, 'Midst threat'ning blasts, beneath Columbian skies, Which, as it taught its splendours to expand, Arose indignant from Oppression's hand,

And blaz'd effulgent o'er the mighty plain) Luring your heroes o'er the stormy main, 'Till this small flame, fed by their nurturing hand, Not only canopies your native land, But far extending its prolific rays, Envelopes neighbouring empires in the blaze. And thou, FAYETTE! whom distant lands de|plore, As now self-banish'd from thy native shore; Tho' zeal mistaken, may a shadow throw Athwart the laurels which adorn thy brow; Yet shall they bloom—for in thy generous breast No soul like Coriolanus is confess'd: To Gallia still thy warmest wishes tend, And tho' an injured exile, still a friend! When grateful nations tell thine acts to Fame, America shall urge her oldest claim, Point to the worthies whom her sons revere, And place FAYETTE with those she holds most dear.

To the Memory of Mrs. HENRIETTA ANNA MARIA DUBUISSON.

October, 1792.

OH! lovely vision! art thou gone? Dost thou repose in Death's dull shade? Are all thy boasted glories flown? Dost thou too rest among the dead?

Oh, fairest flower that ever bloom'd To deck life's variegated scene, How short liv'd have thy beauties been? No sooner open'd than entomb'd!

With rising joys Hope strew'd thy way, And Hygea's roses deck'd thy brow; Lovely, and young, and good, and gay, Thou wert—but ah! what art thou now?

Cold—lifeless—dead—a senseless clod— To death's chill grasp an early prey; Frail as the tenants of the sod Which shrouds thee from the face of day.

Let frantic Mirth be pensive here; Here let Youth weep its transient bloom; Here let vain Beauty drop a tear, For Harriet moulders in the tomb.

Come, weeping Muse, come form a wreath To deck the turf where beauty lies; Where the soft winds of Evening breathe, Where Morning's sweetest dews arise.

But wherefore mourns my heart thine early doom, Or strays in weeping silence round thy grave? Can the dull ear of Death my sighs receive? Or dwells the aethereal being in the tomb?

No, bursting from Death's dark confines, And wand'••ing on the gales of even, It wings its flight to happier climes, And gains at last—its long wish'd heaven.

Tell me, fair essence, when releas'd from clay, Thy pinions open'd in a land unknown, Did no kind angel haste on purple plume, To hail thee safe—and guide thee on thy way?

Did not the echoing Lyra's melting strain Obliterate the memory of each tear, To rapture soothe each yet remaining fear, And urge thy wond'ring spirit from its chain?

It did—it did—the solemn strains Seem to vibrate on my enchanted ear; And wilder'd with the floating tones I hear, Life's ruby current warbles in my veins.

'Welcome from the hands of Pain, 'Welcome from Sin's baneful pow'r, 'Welcome from Death's drear domain, 'Thou shalt feel their ire no more.

'All that thou hast heard below, 'All that Angel pow'rs can know, 'Peace eternal, joy divine, 'Everlasting love are thine.

'Let the garland we assume, 'Amaranth with myrtle join'd, 'Flow'rets of perpetual bloom, 'Thy triumphant temples bind.

'Lo! the walls of Paradise! 'Lo! the pearly gates unfold! 'Darting splendours down the skies; 'Lucid gems and sparkling gold.

'There no Sun, with dazzling beam, 'Gilds the glowing cheek of morn; 'There no Moon, with smile serene, 'Waits mild Evening's calm return:

'There dwells UNCREATED LIGHT, 'Blazing with unfading ray; 'Ne'er we know returning night— 'Blest with everlasting day.

'Hark!—I hear the ••arbling throng 'Hail thee to thy native home; 'Hark! their Lyras bid thee come— 'Haste, fair Angel,—haste along!

To the Memory of Mrs. SCRIBA and her infant Daughter.

1792.

THE blasts of December are heard on the hills, They have scatter'd their high-drifting snows o'er the plain; The breath of rough Boreas the fountains con|geals, And Flora bemoans her blight'd honours in vain.

The Tulip is faded—its tinges are fled— The Violet shrinks from the loud-howling gale; And the soft dewy Rose droops its languishing head, And ceases its balm-breathing sweets to ex|hale.

Thy wide desolations, oh Emblem of Death! Spread glooms and dejections across the sad mind;

And we trace a lost friend in each bare dreary heath; And we hear their last sigh in the voice of the wind.

Yet the gambols of Spring shall thy rigours un|bend, And cherish the scenes Maia's absence that mourn; But the Winter of Death hath no solace—no friend— Nor buds the green Spring for the dust-bear|ing Urn.

On the cheek of our LAURA how late bloom'd the Rose, And Innocence shot from her eyes its soft ray; But the blush is extinguish'd—no more that cheek glows— And those eyes drink no more the effulgence of day.

Wife, Sister, Friend, Parent, ah names dear in vain! As fragile and fair as the gay clouds of dawn; Ye are vanish'd, alas! like the breeze on the plain, And all, but your mournful remembrance, is gone.

My spirit the days that are past oft reviews, And pensively treads where her joys were once strewn; While a fond retrospection her sorrows renews, And she weeps o'er the hours that for ever are flown.

Like some beautiful flow'ret, whose delicate form Still delights, tho' o'erthrown by the tem|pest's rude breath; Thus Laura, tho' prest by Affliction's cold storm, Yet cheerfully smil'd on the bosom of Death.

Tho' the arrows of Anguish assaulted her frame▪ And the night like the day brought no sooth|ing repose; And tho' fast sinking Life rent each languishing vein, Not a single complaint, not a murmur arose.

'Cease for me, weeping friends, the SUPREME to invoke; 'I leave the rough pillow of Agony's bed, 'To rest in the Regions of Glory'—She spoke, And th' unfetter'd spirit exultingly fled!

And thou, too, ELIZA, the grasp of Disease Hath crush'd thy young blossom and wasted thy sweets; And the Cherub that long'd for the mansion of Peace, From the darksome abode of Affliction re|treats.

Yes, the wings of that moment which speeded her flight To the bosom of LAURA, beheld her con|vey'd Where the uncloying scenes of perpetual de|light Can never admit of a pause nor a shade.

There, surely the day of distress hath an end; There, parting and weeping for ever are o'er; There, the Winter of Death finds a solace, a friend; And there buds the green Spring, to be rifled no more.

To ETHELINDE.

1792.

HAIL to the heart, whose gen'rous pride, Can burst the iron bars of grief, Can Love's fantastic ills deride, And from itself procure relief.

If tears Oppression's hand would gild, Or sighs a feeble respite yield; Or if ••he woe•• remember'd oft, By repe••••tion gre•••• more soft. Th•••• mig•••• ••re court the weeping muse, O'er 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sad bosoms to diffuse Her soothing pow'r—in melting lay T•• 〈…〉〈…〉 sing our griefs away. But ah! how well (too well) I know Who weeps, he but indulges woe; And every briny tear that flows Binds to the heart its griefs mo•••• ••••ose▪

Rise then, my soul, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••our rise, Expand thy wishes far and wide, Go contemplate the starry skies, Go emulate thy SEX's PRIDE.

Ah! vain attempt—on pinions strong She soa••s beyond the panting wind; And all enamour'd of her song, She leaves thee, wondering muse, behind.

Shame to the heart, whose tranquil beat Ne'er felt contending passions keen; Ne'er k••••ew the vict'ries of defeat, When Reason joy'd o'er Folly slain.

Ye••—while among the stars she shines, And "visits wo••••ds conceal'd from sight," A humbl•••• theme I chuse for mine, The Dusky Dawn and Misty Night.

I'll drink the sparkling dews of morn, And watch Apollo's earliest ray; Or greet the shepherd's mellow horn, That lulls the closing hours of day:

Or, bending o'er old Ocean's stream, Mo••••t the tall Pico's loftiest b••ow, And, guided by Cylene's beam, Pause o'er the distant world below:

Or, hanging o'er some caver•• dark, Where troubled waters heave and swell, List to C••••r••••da's angry bark, Or howling S••ylla's fearful yell:

Or, mingling wi••h th' enthusiast throng, Who to Melpomene's harp a••••ire, Mimic CALISTA's melting song, Or pensive ELLA's weeping lyre:

Then mourning thro' some forest's gloom, From ••••umbering 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wake Echo pale▪ And pl••ck the blossoms of the dale, To deck some lonely 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Such be my songs, while Ethelinde, Smiling, my artless labours views, Reward—the best that can a••••end The flights of CAROLINA's ••••se.

A VERSION of Mrs. BARBAULD's Tenth Hym••.

1793.

OFFSPRING of woe, what mean those sighs That from thy bursting bosom heave? What mean those gushings from thine eyes? What hast thou seen to make thee grieve? Alas! alas! I've seen the Rose To the warm Sun its leaves expose; Elate, it drank his golden ray, And spread its beauties to the day.

Again I look'd—that very beam Which op'd its dewy blooms at Morn, Smote it at Noon, and on the st•••• Had only left the ra••••ling thorn! A stately Tree grew on the plain; Wide to the win••s its boughs were spread, Deep in the earth its roots were lain, And firm its mighty trunk was made.

Again I look'd—the Eastern Blast Had bid its emerald glories waste, With greedy tooth, th' insatiate Worm▪ Had rudely pierc'd its noble form; The Axe had lopt its limbs away, And all foretold a swift decay!

I've seen the lovely Insect throng Desporting on the beams of morn, They danc'd the bubbling stream along, On the light plumes of Zephyrs borne; Their azure wings were star'd with gold, Their bodies ting'd with tyrian hue Soft d••••n'd—their numbers were untold. And quick as lightning's glance they flew.

Again I look'd—the Evening's cool Had chill'd their limbs and check'd their flight, The Breeze had brush'd them in the pool, They died before the mists of night; The Swallow chose them for her food, They fill'd the Pike's voracious maw, And of so great a multitude, So gay, so fair—not one I saw.

Proud of his strength, I've seen vain Man, His cheek with youthful beauty glow'd, He walk'd, he danc'd, he leapt, he ran, And quick his vig'rous pulses flow'd:

Eloquence dwelt upon his tongue; Science his swelling heart embrac'd; The mountain Echo learnt his song, And ev'ry charm his nature grac'd.

Again I ••ook'd—on the bare ground· Stiff and immoveable he lay; Horror and fear prevail'd around, And check'd the cheerful sports of day: His hands—his feet no motion prov'd, No song employ'd his tuneful breath; From light, and love, and sense remov'd, A prey he fell to rav'nous Death!

Oh let me weep! this rav'nous Death Lawless o'er earth extends his sway; Creation feels his blighting breath, Shrinks from his touch and fades away.

Since Shrub, and Beast, and Man in vain Against the mighty Spoiler strive, The Sun, and Moon and Starry train Shall not his ruthless pow'r survive: They too his baleful grasp shall feel; Earth from her bound'ries shall retire, And Sea and Mountain, Rock, and Hill, And Space and Time shall all expire!

The following Lines were occasioned by Mr. RO|BERTSON's refusing to paint for one Lady, and immediately after taking another Lady's likeness.

1793.

WHEN LAURA appear'd, poor APPEL|LES complain'd, That his sight was bedim'd, and his optics much pain'd; So his pallet and pencil the artist resign'd, Lest the blaze of her beauty should make him quite blind. But when fair ANNA enter'd the prospect was chang'd, The paints and the brushes in order were rang'd; The artist resum'd his employment again, Forgetful of labour, and blindness and pain; And the strokes were so lively that all were assur'd What the brunette had injur'd the fair one had cur'd. Let the candid decide which the chaplet should wear, The charms which destroy, or the charms which repair.

To NATURE.

1793.

YES, Nature! thou art lovely, every scene Is form'd to yield the throbbing heart delight; Whether thou art bedeck••d in changeful green, Or shrink'st beneath a shroud of sparkling white▪ Whether when Morning mounts her crimson car, Wakes the young gales, and gilds the eastern main! Or when grey Evening lights her fav'rite star, And shapes fantastic glide along the pla•••• For in thy Gaiety the Lover finds Some faint resemblance of his darling fair, And trusts the rivulet or courteous winds May to her ear his tale impassion'd bear; And when hoar Winter storms along the skies, And frights old Ocean with the fearful roar, The Wanderer forlorn, treads the bleak shore, Mingsing with waves and winds his tears and sighs: Yet 'tis a solace to his misery, The howling whirlwind and the surging sea. How oft, Oh Summer! have thy jocund hours Flown disregarded o'er my head?

Alas! I courted not their softening pow'rs, Since all I lov'd from me was fled. Ah! then I hied me to the pebbly shore, And o'er the waves would cast a tearful eye, With the vain hope my CYRILLE to espy. And press him to my aching heart once more: The war of ••••shing storms and Ocean's howl, Were the lov'd soothers of my anguish'd soul. Cheer'd with his love again, thy charms, O Spring! Rise with redoubled softness on my view; I love the breath of Morn, mild Evening's dew, And all the varying scenes thy reign can bring; Yet, 'reft of all thou hast, ah! I should not repine, While LOVE and CYRILLE I could claim as mine.

ARRIA's TOMB.

1793.

PRIDE of the peaceful solitary Night, While now thou cheer'st her solemn gloom; Through these damp shades a weeping Wan|derer light, And guide my pensive steps, to Arria's tomb:

There will I vent the anguish of my soul, Bathing my looks in Night's unwholesome dew, While fierce around my head the shrill gales howl, And spectres pale, the shades of Night pursue: But see, a spirit fleets before mine eye; Ah! well I know 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••guish loaded sigh; It is my Arria's form; yes, dear forlorn! Thy Georgianna weeps upon thine urn. Thou feeble ghost, whose tears yet seem to fall Down a dejected cheek, all cold and pale; As sad thou glid'st along the moon-gilt wall, And list'nest to the Night-bird's chilling wall. Dear weeping lilly, did not once Health's rose Blossom upon thy cheek with loveliest grace? Did not once Peace within thy breast repose, And tranquil Cheerfulness beam through thy face?

Oh, LOVE! what hast thou done? thy lawless pow'r Subdu'd a heart too gen'rous to deceive; But, ah! unpitied, it but beat to grieve; Scorn, cruel Scorn! embittering every hour. Shut from the world, she bore her griefs alone, And of life careless, wept her hours away; While Death, exulting o'er his precious prey, Cropt the sweet blossom ere it yet was blown.

Oh, thou hard heart, where PITY never dwelt! May dire Affliction mark thee for her own; May'st thou endure pangs worse than Arria felt, And no one pity thee, nor heed thy moan;

May pale Remorse on all thy steps attend, Shewing a form thy folly would not save; May thy sad life be spent without one friend, And not one tear be shed upon thy grave!

To a CANARY BIRD.

1793.

BEAUTIFUL bird, of saffron plume, Whose warbling whispers tell the approach of night, With soften'd cadence ushering in the gloom, The solemn gloom devote to calm delight.

Tell me, confin'd within thy wiry cell, The little notes thou chantest so serene, Say, are they plaints thy breast that swell, And is Captivity thy theme?

Or, sever'd from thy lovely mate, Her loss dost thou bewail? And all thy little wrongs relate In melancholy tale?

Ah, no! so soft, so sweet a strain Vibrates not like the moan of pain; Such tones as from thy bosom flow Ne'er left the bursting heart of woe.

Yet, peaceful, inoffensive guest, Could freedom make thee still more blest, I would unbar thy prison gate, And let thee go, to seek thy fate.

But ah, I know, unskill'd in flight, Through the dark desert should'st thou stray, Thy wings would tire, and ere the mists of night Some cruel bird would on thee prey.

Or else thy little frame expos'd To the raw blasts, and midnight air; Hungry, and faint, and uninclos'd, Thou would'st, my songster, perish there.

Stay then sweet PAN, and when the morning's light Steals through the op'nings of thy grated dome, Do thou thy pleasing hymning pow'rs resume, Praising the Author of each new delight:

And I, on bended knee most sure, Humbly my lays with thee will join; Nor will my martins be less pure For mounting up to Heaven with thine.

THE BIRTH DAY OF COLUMBIA* 1.1

1793.

COME round Freedom's sacred shrine, Flow'ry garlands let us twine, And while we our tribute bring Grateful paeans let us sing; Sons of Freedom join the lay, 'Tis COLUMBIA's natal day.

Banish all the plagues of life, Fretful Care and restless Strife; Let the memory of your woes Sink this day in sweet repose; Ev'n let Grief itself be gay On COLUMBIA's natal day.

Late a despot's cruel hand Sent Oppression through your land; Piteous plaints and tearful moan Found not access to his throne; Or if heard, the poor forlorn Met ••ut with reproach and scorn.

PAINE, with eager virtue, then Snatch'd from TRUTH her diamond pen,

Bade the slaves of tyranny Spurn their bonds, and dare be free▪ Glad they burst their chains away; 'Twas COLUMBIA's natal day.

Vengeance who had slept too long, Wak'd to vindicate our wrong, Led her vet'rans to the field, Sworn to perish ere to yield; Weeping Memory yet can tell How they fought, and how they fell.

Lur'd by virtuous WASHINGTON, (Liberty's much favour'd son,) Vict'ry gave your sword a sheath, Binding on your brows a wreath, Which can never feel decay While you hail this blissful day.

Ever be its name rever'd; Let the shouts of joy be heard, From where Hampshire's bleak winds blow Down to Georgia's fervid glow; Let them all in this agree, "Hail the day which made us free!"

Bend your eyes toward that shore Where Bellona's thunders roar,

There your Gallic brethren see Struggling, bleeding to be free! Oh! unite your pray'rs that they May soon announce their natal day.

O thou POW'R! to whom we owe All the blessings that we know, Strengthen thou our rising youth, Teach them Wisdom, Virtue, Truth; That when we are sunk in clay They may keep THIS GLORIOUS DAY!

JULY THE FOURTEENTH.

1793.

HARK! hark how the clamours of war Thro' Gallia's wide regions resound; Bellona has mounted her car, And scatters her terrors around: Captivity bursts off her chains, Her shoutings are heard on the heath, Her vet'rans are crouding the plains, Resolv'd upon Freedom or Death.

But see! from her battlements high, Plum'd Vict'ry undaunted alight; Her standard she waves in the sky, And urges her sons to the fight.

Their swords all indignant they clash, They rush round the Bastille's strong walls▪ Ah! heard you that horrible crash? The tow'r of proud Tyranny falls!

The minions of despotism fly, Pursu'd by destruction and wrath, Fear wings their sad flight, and their cry Disturbs the deep slumber of Death. Haste, haste, man's disgrace disappear, Vile wretches, of nature the blot, And wherever your hamlets you rear, May shame and distress be your lot.

But Gallia, all hail! may thy chiefs A temple to Liberty raise; And there may their feuds and their griefs Be lost in its altar's bright blaze. And when they remember this day, Bedeck'd with the laurel and vine. May anguish and care flee away, And their voices in anthems combine.

And then may the warblings of songs Be heard from Columbia's green vales, While Echo the wild notes prolongs, And whispers them soft to the gales.

And oh! let the zephyrs so fleet Bear the sweet swelling tones o'er the main, And there, let them fondly repeat In the ear of each Frenchman the strain.

To Miss MASON, at New-Rochelle.

1793.

ENQUIRING Fancy plumes her wings, To seek thee on HASPEDOC's shore; And Friendship true, her tribute brings, To glad the lonely vacant hour.

And all attentive would she glide Along thy footsteps; musing slow, Whether thou climb'st the mountain's side, Or cheer'st the clovery dell below.

Where art thou now? led by the evening's cool Stray'st thou along some echoing forest's shade? Or on the grassy margin of some pool, Beneath some willow art thou slumbering laid?

Where the swoln throated thresher throws His warblings on the winding gale, And the soft scented frail wild rose Sprinkles its odours in the vale?

Or dost thou bend o•• ••••me stupendous cliff, Whose awful shadow fr••wns along the deep; And see'st from far the rough winds sweep, Through the high surging sound, the scudding skiff?

Or else, where courteous BARTOW's dome Raises its hospitable head, Perhaps thou wanderest down the gloom Of the long alley's verdant shade?

Where'er thou art, the scene I know; Through all thy fav'rite paths have trod; Have mark'd the gay field's varied glow, And, pausing gaz'd upon the flood.

Where yon gay locusts shade the green, And gently whisper to the breeze; Where chirps the wren their boughs be|tween, And flow'rs and shrubs conspire to please:

There ALFRED oft at close of day, Attun'd his numbers soft and slow, And sung the silent hours away, And fed each panting gale with woe: And I, when high the clear full moon Had hung her lamp amid night's noon, Have roam'd along this beauteous glade;

And all regardless of the blast That whistled round my naked head, My saddest weeping hours have past E'en here, till many a dewy show'r Had silver'd o'er my fragrant bow'r And damp'd my locks; then quite opprest, Late have I sought the couch of rest.

Beauteous ROCHELLE! along thy rocky shore Full many a bard his tuneful strains shall pour, And as the numbers float along the stream, Thy rustic beauties shall compose his theme: Thy wild romantic islands green, Thy limpid waves that srlent glide To meet old Ocean's emerald tide, Thy shelving banks, thy rude cliffs steep, Thy nodding forests, dark and deep, And fruitful meadows spread between. And though perhaps the gentle poet's name Be ne'er recorded in the scroll of Fame; Yet, when he rests beneath the valley's clod, Thy GENIUS weeping, shall bedeck his fod; Thy flow'rs shall blossom sweeter round his grave, And softlier towards his couch shall creep thy pearly wave.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Addressed to the members of the CINCINNATI of the state of New-York, on the FOURTH of JULY.