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 :LTDIA -Mo Sl^aWMMET. 
 
 SPPIILlBELiPH 
 
 €AMM'T A,MM MAMITc 
 
ILLUSTRATED POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. L. H. SIGOUMEY. 
 
 DESIGNS BY FELIX 0. C. DARLET, 
 
 ENGRAVED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS. 
 
 J 
 
 ■A 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 184 9. 
 

 ^^\ 
 
 Entered accordino to act of Congress, is the iear I84S, bit CAREY & HART, 
 IN the Clerk's Oeiice of the District Court ok the Eastern District op 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 STt-i5irnTvrp.T, ht t.. Jntirsov .i\T) en, rTHNTPTi by t. k. avti p. a coilins. 
 
4 
 
 €'0 lomiul JlngFtH, 
 
 TUE MOST VENERABLE POET OF EUKOPE, 
 AND THE FRIEND OF AMEIUCA, 
 
 WHOSE STRAINS, READ IN THE SOLITUDE OF EARLY YEARS, 
 
 AND WHOSE KIND WORDS TO THE STRANGER IN HIS OWN HOlME, 
 
 ARE ALIKE HELD AMONG THE 
 
 "^IrasuvfS of iHrmovD," 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The edition now presented to the public 
 comprises selections from previous volumes, poems 
 that have appeared only in a fugitive form, and 
 others that have never before been indebted to 
 the ministry of the press. 
 
 It is hoped that its tripartite character may 
 not be displeasing to the reader, since the genius 
 of the artist and the taste of the publisher have 
 lent their powerful aid to render it attractive. 
 In the alcove of the library, on the centre-table 
 of the matron, to the ear of the young and beau- 
 tiful, it shall breathe only pure thoughts, like 
 the dew-drops lingering upon the rose. May it 
 be found worthy to touch some chord of that 
 spirit-intercourse, to be perfected in a clime where 
 the rose never fades, and the music-strain is im- 
 mortal. 
 
 Hartfoed, Ct., Oct. 1, 1848. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pase 
 
 Oriska 17 
 
 The Return of Napoleon from St. Helena 29 
 
 Unspoken Language 34 
 
 No Concealment . 40 
 
 Abraham at Machpelah 43 
 
 The Needle, Pen, and Sword 4C 
 
 The Thrush 51 
 
 The Ancient Family Clock 54 
 
 Fruitful Autumn 59 
 
 The Old Elms 62 
 
 To-Morrow 66 
 
 Eve 72 
 
 Connecticut River 76 
 
 Bell of the Wreck 81 
 
 Winter and Age 84 
 
 Birds of Passage 86 
 
 Parting of the Widow's Son 90 
 
 Aaron on Mount Hor 92 
 
 Advertisement of a Lost Day 97 
 
 The Early Blue-Bird 99 
 
 The Ark and Dove 101 
 
 The Lobelia Cardinalis 104 
 
 Farewell to the Flowers 108 
 
 Storm-Sails 110 
 
 7 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Scottish Weaver 112 
 
 Niagara 134 
 
 The Coral Insect 137 
 
 'I'he Sunday-School 139 
 
 The Indian Summer 141 
 
 The Hermit of the Falls 143 
 
 The Butterfl)' 150 
 
 Solitude 151 
 
 The Second Birth-day 153 
 
 The Dead Horseman 155 
 
 To a Shred of Linen 159 
 
 Farewell to a Rural Residence 1G3 
 
 Barzillai the Gileadite 161 
 
 Gossip with a Bouquet 170 
 
 Erin's Daughter 175 
 
 The Holy Dead 177 
 
 Dew-Drops 179 
 
 Pocahontas 181 
 
 The Little Footstep 210 
 
 Scotland's Famine 213 
 
 The Passing Bell 21G 
 
 The Western Emigrant 220 
 
 The Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Girl at a Festival 224 
 
 No God 230 
 
 The Mourning Daughter 232 
 
 Indian Names 237 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to the Body 239 
 
 Winter's Fete 242 
 
 Anna Boleyn 246 
 
 Recollections of an Aged Pastor 249 
 
 Falls of the Yantic 252 
 
 Widow at her Daughter's Bridal 255 
 
 Marriage of the Deaf and Dumb 257 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Friends of Man 259 
 
 To a Goose 264 
 
 On the Admission of Michigan into the Union 268 
 
 Stratford upon Avon 271 
 
 Midnight Thoughts at Sea 275 
 
 The Tomb 277 
 
 " Show us the Father" 279 * 
 
 Napoleon at St, Helena 281 
 
 Columbia's Ships 286 
 
 Alpine Flowers 289 
 
 The Trial of the Dead 291 
 
 Bread in the Wilderness 298 
 
 On Transplanting a Daisy from Runimede 301 
 
 The Gift of Apollo 303 
 
 Benevolence 305 
 
 Bernardine du Born 307 
 
 Morn and Even 310 
 
 The Emigrant Mother 313 
 
 Healing at Sunset 319 
 
 Death of an Infant 321 
 
 Filial Piety of David 323 
 
 The Ivy 327 
 
 The Aged Bishop 330 
 
 The Rainbow 334 
 
 The Thriving Family 336 
 
 Flowers in Childhood and Age 339 
 
 The Divided Burden 341 
 
 The Infant's Prayer 344 
 
 The Victim of the Deep 346 
 
 Harold and Tosti 349 
 
 Dreams 355 
 
 The Clock at Versailles 358 
 
 Heaven's Lesson 361 
 
10 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Prince of Edom 363 
 
 The Widowed Mother 306 
 
 The Wish of the Weary Woman 367 
 
 The First Missionary 370 
 
 A Father to his Motherless Children 373 
 
 " Sorrow as on the Sea" 375 
 
 Mutations 379 
 
 Our Country 382 
 
 Removal of an Ancient Mansion 386 
 
 The Lost Lily 391 
 
 Twilight 399 
 
 The Unrifled Cabinet 401 
 
 Talk with Time at the Close of the Year 403 
 
 Mans Three Guests 405 
 
LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 DESIGNED BY DARLEY. 
 
 THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 
 
 f To face Title.) 
 
 ENGRAVED BY R. HINSHELWOOD. 
 
 '•A while he paused 
 And set his burden down, just where the path 
 Grew more precipitous, and wiped his brow 
 With his worn sleeve." 
 
 The Divided Burden, p. 341. 
 
 4 LANDSCAPE. 
 
 (TUle-page) 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. H. D O U G A L. 
 
 11 
 
12 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY CHENEY AND ARMSTRONG FROM A MINIATURE 
 BY FREEMAN. 
 
 ORISKA. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY G. H. CUSHMAN. 
 
 "But she answercth not. 
 She speaks no more to aught of earth, but poura 
 To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild. 
 The death-song of her people." 
 
 Oriska, p. 27. 
 
 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 
 
 "Soft tales have lovers told 
 Into the thrilling ear, 
 Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old, 
 Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near." 
 
 The Ancient Family Clock, p. 55. 
 
 EVE. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY Vf. G. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 "A gentle form with pallid mien 
 Bending o'er a new-born child." 
 
 Eve, p 72. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 
 
 "Yet joyous was the hour when they, 
 
 With shout and gambol fleet, 
 Went bounding from the cottage door 
 The approaching sire to greet." 
 
 The Scottish Weaver, p. 122. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY HUMPHRYS AND WILLMOKE. 
 
 "No. When the groves 
 In fleeting colours wrote their own decay. 
 And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast 
 That sang their dirge." 
 
 The Indian Summer, p. 141. 
 
 ERIN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 
 
 "Poor Erin's daughter cross'd the main 
 In youth's unfolding prime, 
 A lot of servitude to bear 
 In this our western clime." 
 
 Erin's Daughter, p. 175. 
 
14 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. H. DOUGAL. 
 
 "There, with vigorous arm, 
 Wrought a hold emigrant, and hy his side 
 His little son, with question and response. 
 Beguiled the toil." 
 
 The Western Emigrant, p. 220. 
 
 THE AGED PASTOR. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY Vi. HUMPHRYS. 
 
 "Often have we hush'd 
 The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
 Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass'd, 
 And eager to record one favouring smile, 
 Or word paternal " 
 
 Recollections of an Aged Pastor, p. 2-19. 
 
 THE TOMB. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY G. H. CUSHMAN. 
 
 'This is the parting-place, yon turf-bound roof, 
 And marble door, where tenants may not hope 
 To enter and return." 
 
 T/ie Ibmb, p. 277. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 15 
 
 THE DROOPING TEAM. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY J. SMILLIE. 
 
 "And see, from labour loosed, the droojing team, 
 Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food 
 
 Morn and Even, p. 312. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MAID. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 
 
 "I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd, 
 In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd 
 Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd, 
 Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd." 
 
 Mutations, p. 380. 
 
c^ 
 
MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 ORISKA. 
 
 Far in the west, where still the red man held 
 His rights unrifled, dwelt an aged chief, 
 With his young daughter. Joyous as a bird. 
 She found her pastime mid the forest shades. 
 Or with a graceful vigour urged her skiff 
 O'er the bright waters. The bold warriors mark'd 
 Her opening charms, but deem'd her still a child, 
 Or fear'd from their grave kingly chief to ask 
 The darling of his age. 
 
 A stranger came 
 To traffic with the people, and amass 
 Those costly furs which in his native clime 
 Transmute so well to gold. The blood of France 
 AYas in his veins, and on his lips the wile 
 That wins the guileless heart. Ofttimes at eve 
 He sought the chieftain's dwelling, and allured 
 
18 RISK A. 
 
 The gentle girl to listen to his tale, 
 
 Well framed and eloquent. With practised glance 
 
 He saw the love-flush on her olive cheek 
 
 Make answer to him, though the half-hid brow 
 
 Droop'd mid its wealth of tresses. 
 
 "Ah! I know 
 That thou dost love to please me. Thou hast put 
 Thy splendid coronet of feathers on. 
 How its rich crimson dazzles mid thy locks, 
 Black as the raven's wing ! Thy bracelets, too ! 
 Who told thee thou wert beautiful ? Hast seen 
 Thy queenly features in yon mirror'd lake ? 
 Bird of the Sioux ! let my nest be thine, 
 And I will sing thee melodies that make 
 Midnight like morn." 
 
 With many a spell he charm'd 
 Her trusting innocence ; the dance, the song. 
 The legend, and the lay of other lands ; 
 And patient taught his pupil's lip to wind 
 The maze of words with which his native tongue 
 Refines the thought. The hoary chieftain frown'd; 
 But when the smooth Canadian press'd his suit 
 To be adopted by the tribe, and dwell 
 Among them, as a brother and a son, — 
 And when the indulgent sire observant read 
 The timid pleading of Oriska's eye, — 
 
OR t SKA. 19 
 
 He gave lier tenderly, with sacred rites, 
 In marriao;e to the stranger. 
 
 Their sweet bower 
 Rose like a gem amid the rural scene, 
 O'er-canopied with trees, where countless birds 
 Carol'd unwearied, the gay squirrel leap'd. 
 And the wild-bee went singing to his work. 
 Satiate with luxury. Through matted grass, 
 With silver foot, a frolic fountain stole. 
 Still track'd by deepening greenness, while afar 
 The mighty prairie met the bending skies, — 
 A sea at rest, whose sleeping waves were flowers. 
 
 Nor lack'd their lowly dwelling such device 
 Of comfort, or adornment, as the hand 
 Of gentle woman, sedulous to please, 
 Creates for him she loves. For she had hung 
 Attentive on his lips, while he described 
 The household policy of prouder climes ; 
 And with such varied and inventive skill 
 Caught the suggestions of his taste refined, 
 That the red people, wondering as they gazed 
 On curtain'd window and on floAver-crown'd vase, 
 Carpet and cushion'd chaii-, and board arranged 
 With care unwonted, call'd her home the court 
 Of their French princess. 
 
20 R I S K A. 
 
 A rich clustering vine 
 Crept o'er their porch, and 'neath its fragrant shade 
 Oriska sang her evening melodies, 
 Tuneful and clear and deep, the echoed truth 
 Of her soul's happiness. Her highest care 
 And dearest pleasure was to make his lot 
 Delightful to her lord ; and he, well pleased 
 With the simplicity of fervent love, 
 And the high honour paid a chieftain's son, 
 Roam'd with the hunters at his will, or brought 
 Birdlings of brilliant plume, as trophies home 
 To his young bride. 
 
 Months fled, and with them change 
 Stole o'er his love. And when Oriska mark'd 
 The shadow darkening on his brow, she fear'd 
 The rudeness of her nation, or perchance 
 Her ignorance had err'd, and strove to do 
 His will more perfectly. And though his moods 
 Of harshness or disdain chill'd every joy, 
 She blamed him not, for unto her he seem'd 
 A higher being of a nobler race ; 
 And she was proud and happy, might she bathe 
 His temples in some fit of transient pain, 
 Or by a menial's toil advance the feast 
 Which still she shared not. When his step was heard, 
 She bade her beating heart be still, and smooth'd 
 
R I S K A. 21 
 
 The shining tresses he was wont to praise, 
 And fondly hasting, raised her babe to meet 
 His father's eye, contented if the smile 
 That once was hers might beam upon his child: — 
 But that last solace fail'd, and the cold glance 
 Contemptuously repress' d her toil of love. 
 And then he came no more. 
 
 But as she watch'd 
 Night after night, and question'd every hour, 
 How bitterly those weeks and years were notch' d 
 Upon the broken tablet of the soul, 
 By that forsaken wife. 
 
 Calm moonlight touch'd 
 A fair Canadian landscape. Roof and spire, 
 And broad umbrageous tree, were saturate 
 With liquid lustre. O'er a lordly dome. 
 Whose halls had late with bridal pomp been gay. 
 The silvery curtains of the summer night 
 Were folded quietly. 
 
 A music-sound 
 Broke forth abruptly from its threshold stone. 
 Shrill and unearthly — not the serenade. 
 That thrills on beauty's ear, but a bold strain. 
 Loud even to dissonance, and oft prolonged 
 In low, deep cadence, wonderfully sad, — 
 The wild song of the Sioux. He who first 
 
22 R I S K A. 
 
 Awaking, caught that mournful melody, 
 Shudder' d with icy terror, as he threw 
 His mantle o'er him, and rush'd madly forth 
 Into the midnight air. 
 
 " Hence ! Leave my door ! 
 I know thee not, dark woman ! Hence away !" 
 
 "Ah ! let me hear that voice ! Hoav sweet its tones 
 Fall on my ear, although the words are stern. 
 Say! know'st thou not this hoy ? Whose eyes are these ? 
 Those chestnut clusters round the lifted brow, — 
 Said'st thou not in his cradle tliey were thine?" 
 
 "How cam'st thou here, Oriska?" 
 
 "We have trod 
 A weary way. My father and his men 
 Came on the business of their tribe, and I, 
 Unto whose soul the midnight and the morn 
 Have been alike for years, roam'd restlessly 
 A wanderer in their train, leading our boy. 
 My highest hope was but to hear, perchance, 
 That thou didst live ; and lo ! a blessed guide 
 Hath shown me to thy home." 
 
 " Oriska, go ! 
 I have a bride. Thou canst not enter here — 
 I'll come to thee to-morrow." 
 
ORISKA. 23 
 
 " Wilt thou come ? 
 The white-hair'd chief, I fear me, fades away 
 Unto the Spirit-land!" 
 
 "I bid thee hence, 
 To thine abode. Have I not said to thee 
 I'll come to-morrow?" 
 
 With a heavy heart, 
 Through silent streets, the sad-brow'd woman went, 
 Leading her child. 
 
 Morn came, and day declined. 
 Yet still he came not. By her sire she watch'd. 
 O'er whose dull eye a filmy shadow stole, 
 While to her troubled question no reply 
 Rose from his palsied lip. Nature and age 
 Slept wearily and long. The second eve 
 Darken'd the skies, when lo ! a well-known step — 
 Jle stood before her. 
 
 "Was it kind of thee, 
 Oriska, thus to break my bridal hour 
 With thy strange, savage music?" 
 
 "Was thy wife 
 Angry at the poor Indian ? Not to speak 
 Harsh words I came : I would not think of thee 
 A thought of blame. But oh ! mine aged sire. 
 Thou see'st him dying in this stranger-land, 
 Far from his fathers' graves. Be thou a friend 
 
24 R I S K A. 
 
 When he is gone and I am desolate. 
 
 ]\Iake me a household servant to thy wife. 
 
 I'll bring her water from the purest spring, 
 
 And plant the corn, and ply the flying oar, 
 
 And never be impatient or require 
 
 Payment from her, nor kind regard from thee. 
 
 I will not call thee husband, — though thou taught'st 
 
 My stammering lip that word when love was young, — 
 
 Nor ask one pitying look or favouring tone. 
 
 Or aught, except to serve and pray for thee 
 
 To the Great Spirit. And this boy shall do 
 
 Her will, and thine." 
 
 The pale face turn'd away 
 With well-dissembled anger, though remorse 
 Gnaw'd at his callous bosom ! 
 
 " Urge me not ! 
 It cannot be !" 
 
 Even more he might have said, 
 Basely and bitterly, but lo ! the chief 
 Cast off the ice of death, and on his bed, 
 With clenched hand and quivering lip, uprose : — 
 
 "His curse be on thee ! He, who knoweth where 
 The lightnings hide !" 
 
 Around the old man's neck 
 Fond arms were wildly thrown. " Oh, curse him not ! 
 
ORISKA. 25 
 
 The father of my boy." And blinding tears 
 Fell down so fast, she mark'd not with what haste 
 The white-brow'd recreant fled. 
 
 "I tell thee, child, 
 The cold black gall-drop in a traitor's soul 
 Doth make a curse. And though I curse him not. 
 The sun shall hate him, and the waters turn 
 To poison in his veins. 
 
 But light grows dim. 
 Go back to thine own people. Look no more 
 On him whom I have cursed, and lay my bones 
 Where my dead fathers sleep." 
 
 A hollow groan, 
 Wrung by extremest agony, broke forth 
 From the old chieftain's breast. 
 
 "Daughter, I go 
 To the Great Spirit." 
 
 O'er that breathless clay 
 Bow'd down the desolate woman. No complaint. 
 No sigh of grief burst forth. The tear went back 
 To its deep fountain. Lip and fringed lid 
 Trembled no more than in the statued bronze. 
 Nor shrank one truant nerve, as o'er her pass'd 
 The asphyxia of the heart. 
 
 Day after day, 
 O'er wild and tangled forest, moved a train, 
 
26 ORISKA. 
 
 Bearing with smitten hearts their fallen chief; 
 
 And next the bier a silent woman trod, 
 
 A child's young hand forever clasp' d in hers, 
 
 And on her lip no sound. Long was the waj. 
 
 Ere the low roof-trees of their tribe they saw 
 
 Sprinkling the green ; and loud the funeral wail 
 
 Rose for the honour' d dead, who, in his youth. 
 
 Their battles led, and in his wintry years 
 
 Had won that deeper reverence, which so well 
 
 The forest-sons might teach our wiser race 
 
 To pay to hoary age. Beneath the mounds. 
 
 Where slept his ancient sires, they laid him down ; 
 
 And there the gather' d nation mourn' d their sire, 
 
 In the wild passion of untutor'd grief; 
 
 Then smoothed the pillow' d turf, and went their way. 
 
 Who is yon woman, in her dark canoe, 
 Who strangely towards Niagara's fearful gulf 
 Floats on unmoved ? 
 
 Firm and erect she stands, 
 Clad in such bridal costume as befits 
 The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes 
 Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge 
 Of her embroider'd mantle, fleck'd with gold, 
 Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast. 
 
' oie to' au?^iit of 
 
ORISKA. 27 
 
 As though the spirit of that dread abyss, 
 In terrible sublimity, had quell 'd 
 All thought of earthly things. 
 
 Fast by her side 
 Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lip, 
 Blanching with terror, steals the frequent cry 
 Of "Mother! Mother!" 
 
 But she answereth not. 
 She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours 
 To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild. 
 The death-song of her people. High it rose 
 Above the tumult of the tide that bore 
 The victims to their doom. The boy beheld 
 The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye, 
 And held his breath for awe. 
 
 Her song grew faint, — 
 And as the rapids raised their whitening heads, 
 Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide. 
 She raised him in her arms, and clasp'd him close. 
 Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove 
 Down toward the unfathom'd gulf, while chilling spray 
 Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head 
 Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him, 
 With a low, stifled sob. 
 
 And thus they took 
 Their awful pathway to eternity. — 
 
28 O R I S K A. 
 
 One ripple on the mighty river's brink, 
 
 Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge, 
 
 And at the foot of that most dire abyss 
 
 One gleam of flitting robe and raven tress 
 
 And feathery coronet — and all was o'er. 
 
 Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge 
 
 Sounding their epitaph ! 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 29 
 
 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON 
 
 FROM ST. HELENA. 
 
 Ho ! City of the gay ! 
 
 Paris ! what festal rite 
 Doth call thy thronging million forth, 
 
 All eager for the sight ? 
 Thy soldiers line the streets 
 
 In fix'd and stern array, 
 With buckled helm and bayonet, 
 
 As on the battle-day. 
 
 By square, and fountain side. 
 
 Heads in dense masses rise. 
 And tower and battlement and tree 
 
 Are studded thick with eyes. 
 Comes there some conqueror home 
 
 In triumph from the fight, 
 With spoil and captives in his train. 
 
 The trophies of his might ? 
 
30 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 The "Arc de Triomphe" glows! 
 
 A martial host are nigh, 
 France pours in long succession forth 
 
 Her pomp of chivalry. 
 No clarion marks their way, 
 
 No victor trump is blown ; 
 Why march they on so silently, 
 
 Told by their tread alone ? 
 
 Behold ! in glittering show, 
 
 A gorgeous car of state ! 
 The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold. 
 
 Bow down beneath its weight ; 
 And the noble war-horse, led 
 
 Caparison' d along, 
 Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, 
 
 As his red eye scans the throng. 
 
 Who rideth on yon car ? 
 
 The incense flameth high, — 
 Comes there some demi-god of old ? 
 
 No answer ! — No reply ! 
 Who rideth on yon car ? — 
 
 No shout his minions raise, 
 But by a lofty chapel dome 
 
 The muffled hero stays. 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 31 
 
 A king is standing there, 
 
 And with uncover'd head 
 Receives him in the name of France : 
 
 Receiveth whom? — The dead! 
 Was he not buried deep 
 
 In island-cavern drear; 
 Girt bj the sounding ocean surge ? 
 
 How came that sleeper here ? 
 
 Was there no rest for him 
 
 Beneath a peaceful pall, 
 That thus he brake his stony tomb, 
 
 Ere the strong angel's call ? 
 Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, 
 
 A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
 An echo, never to be heard 
 
 Bj mortal ear again. 
 
 A requiem for the chief, 
 
 Whose fiat millions slew, 
 The soaring eagle of the Alps, 
 
 The crush'd at Waterloo: — 
 The banish'd who return'd, 
 
 The dead who rose again. 
 And rode in his shroud the billows proud 
 
 To the sunny banks of Seine. 
 
32 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 They laid him there in state, 
 
 That warrior strong and bold, 
 The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 
 
 Upon his ashes cold. 
 While round those columns proud 
 
 The blazon'd banners wave, 
 That on a hundred fields he won, 
 
 "With the heart's-blood of the brave ; 
 
 And sternly there kept guard 
 
 His veterans scarr'd and old, 
 Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge 
 
 Or purple Leipsic told. 
 Yes, there, with arms reversed, 
 
 Slow pacing, night and day. 
 Close watch beside the coffin kept 
 
 Those veterans grim and gray. 
 
 A cloud is on their brow, — 
 
 Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
 Or memory of the fearful strife 
 
 Where their country's legions fled ? 
 Of Borodino's blood ? 
 
 Of Beresina's wail ? 
 The horrors of that dire retreat, 
 
 Which turn'd old History pale ? 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 33 
 
 A cloud is on their brow, — 
 
 Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
 Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 
 
 By Russian tempests sped ? 
 Where countless mounds of snow 
 
 Mark'd the poor conscripts' grave, 
 And, pierced by frost and famine, sank 
 
 The bravest of the brave. 
 
 A thousand trembling lamps 
 
 The gather'd darkness mock. 
 And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 
 
 On bare Helena's rock; 
 And from the altar near, 
 
 A never-ceasing hymn 
 Is lifted by the chanting priests 
 
 Beside the taper dim. 
 
 Mysterious one, and proud ! 
 
 In the land where shadows reign. 
 Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 
 
 Who at thy nod were slain ? 
 Oh, when the cry of that spectral host 
 
 Like a rushing blast shall be. 
 What will thine answer be to them ? 
 
 And what thy God's to thee ? 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, Dec. 15, 1S40. 
 
34 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 
 
 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Language is slow. The mastery of wants 
 Doth teach it to the infant, drop by drop, 
 As brooklets gather. 
 
 Years of studious toil 
 Unfold its classic labyrinths to the boy; 
 Perchance its idioms and its sequences 
 May wear the shadow of the lifted rod. 
 And every rule of syntax leave its tear 
 For Memory's tablet. 
 
 He who would acquire 
 The speech of many lands, must make the lamp 
 His friend at midnight, while his fellows sleep. 
 Bartering to dusty lexicons and tomes 
 The hour-glass of his life. 
 
 Yet, there's a lore. 
 Simple and sure, that asks no discipline 
 Of weary years, — the language of the soul, 
 Told through the eye. 
 
 The mother speaks it well 
 
UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 35 
 
 To the unfolding spirit of her babe, 
 The lover to the ladj of his heart, 
 At the soft twilight hour, the parting soul 
 Unto the angels hovering o'er its couch, 
 With Heaven's high welcome. 
 
 Oft the stammering lip 
 Marreth the perfect thought, and the dull ear 
 Doth err in its more tortuous embassy; 
 But the heart's lightning hath no obstacle ; 
 Quick glances, like the thrilling wires, transfuse 
 The telegraphic thought. 
 
 The wily tongue. 
 To achieve its purpose, may disguise itself. 
 Oft, 'neath a glozing mask ; and written speech 
 Invoke the j^omp of numbers to enrich 
 Its dialect; but this ambassador 
 From soul to sense may wear the plainest suit, — 
 Ebon or hazel, azure-tint or gray. 
 It matters not : the signet-ring of truth 
 Doth give him credence. — 
 
 Once, old Ocean raged; 
 And a vex'd ship, by maddening waves impell'd, 
 Rush'd on the breakers. Mid the wild turmoil 
 Of rock and wave, the trumpet-clang, and tramp 
 Of hurrying seamen, and the fearful shock 
 With which the all-astonish 'd mind resigns 
 
36 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 
 
 The hope of life, a mother with her babe 
 
 Sate in the cabin. He was all to her, 
 
 The sole companion of her watery way. 
 
 And nestling towards her bosom, raised his face 
 
 Upward to hers. 
 
 Her raven hair fell down 
 In masses o'er her shoulders, while her eyes 
 Fix'd with such deep intensity, that his 
 Absorb'd their rays of thought, and seem'd to draw 
 The soul mature, with all its burdening cares. 
 Its wondrous knowledge, and mysterious strength, 
 Into his baby-bosom. 
 
 Word nor sound 
 Pass'd 'tween that mother and her youngling child,- 
 Too young to syllable the simplest name, — 
 And yet, methought, they interchanged a vow 
 Calmly beneath the unfathomable deep 
 Together to go down, and that her arm 
 Should closely clasp him mid its coral caves. 
 The peril pass'd; but the deep eloquence 
 Of that communion might not be forgot. 
 
 A youth and maiden, on the banks of Tweed, 
 Roved, mid the vernal flowers. At distance rose 
 The towers of Abbotsford, among the trees, 
 
UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 37 
 
 Wliicli he, the great magician, who at will 
 Could summon "spirits from the vasty deep," 
 Had loved to plant. 
 
 Methought of him they spake, 
 Disporting in the fields of old romance 
 With Ivanhoe, or the proud knight who fell 
 At Flodden-field. Then, as the sun drew low, 
 They sate them down, where the fresh heather grew. 
 Listing, perchance, the descant of the birds. 
 Or ripple of the stream. The hazel eye 
 Of the young dweller 'neath the Eildon-Hills 
 Perused the fair one's brow, till o'er it stole 
 A deeper colouring than the rose-leaf tinge. 
 — Speech there was none, nor gesture, yet the depth 
 Of some unutter'd dialect did seem 
 Well understood by them. And so they rose, 
 And went their way. 
 
 There was a crowded kirk, 
 But not for Sabbath worship. With the train 
 Was more of mirth than might, perchance, beseem 
 Such sacred place. Wreaths too there were, and knots 
 Of marriage-favour, and a group that prest 
 Before the altar. And the trembling lip 
 Of that young white-robed bride, murmuring the vow 
 To love till death should part, interpreted 
 
38 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 
 
 That strong and voiceless language of the eye 
 Upon the hanks of Tweed. — 
 ( I had a friend 
 
 Beloved in halcyon days, whom stern disease 
 Smote ere her prime. 
 
 In curtain' d room she dwelt, 
 A lingerer, while each waning moon convey'd 
 Some treasured leaflet of our hope away. 
 The power that with the tissued lungs doth dwell, 
 Sweetly to wake the modulating lip. 
 Was broken, — but the violet-tinctured eye 
 Acquired new pathos. 
 
 When the life-tide crept 
 Cold through its channels, o'er her couch I bent. 
 There was no sound. But in the upraised glance 
 Her loving heart held converse, as with forms 
 Not of this outer world. Unearthly smiles 
 Gave earnest beauty to the pallid brow; 
 While ever and anon the emaciate hand 
 Spread its white fingers, as it fain would clasp 
 Some object hovering near. 
 
 The last faint tone 
 Was a fond sister's name, one o'er whose grave 
 The turf of years had gather'd. Was she there, — 
 That disembodied dear one ? Did she give 
 
UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 39 
 
 The kiss of welcome to the occupant 
 Of her own infant cradle ? 
 
 So 'twould seem. 
 But that fix'd eye no further answer deign'd, 
 Its earthly mission o'er. Henceforth it spake 
 The spirit-lore of immortality. 
 
40 NO CONCEALMENT. 
 
 NO CONCEALMENT. 
 
 'There is nothing coyered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.' 
 
 St. Matthew. 
 
 Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little stream ! 
 
 That through the lowly vale dost wind thy way, 
 Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide 
 
 Of woven branches, blent with hillocks gray ? 
 The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy course 
 
 Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green 
 Tingeth thy marge, and the white flocks that haste 
 
 At summer-noon, to drink thy crystal sheen. 
 Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day ; 
 
 And then thy smiling answer to the moon, 
 Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep, 
 
 Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon. 
 How couldst thou hope, in such a world as this, 
 To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of bliss ? 
 
NO CONCEALMENT. 41 
 
 Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed ! 
 
 That in the bosom of the earth art cast, 
 And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st awhile, 
 
 Unmoved by trampling storm, or thunder blast ? 
 Thou bidest thy time, for herald spring shall come 
 
 And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art, 
 Unhood thine eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath, 
 
 And stir the languid pulses of thy heart. 
 The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews 
 
 Weep o'er thy bed, till, ere thou art aware. 
 Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem. 
 
 The trembling bud, the flower that scents the air; 
 And soon, to all, thy ripen' d fruitage tells 
 The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells. 
 
 Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought ! 
 
 That in the curtain' d chamber of the soul 
 Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do 
 
 A hidden work ? Look to the hues that roll 
 O'er the changed brow, the moving lip behold. 
 
 Linking thee unto sound, the feet that run 
 Upon thine errands, and the deeds that stamp 
 
 Thy likeness plain before the noonday sun. 
 Look to the pen that writes thy history down 
 
 In those tremendous books that ne'er unclose 
 
42 NO CONCEALMENT. 
 
 Until the Day of Doom ; and blush to see 
 
 How vain thy trust in darkness to repose, 
 Where all things tend to judgment. So beware, 
 Oh erring human heart, what thoughts thou lodgest there. 
 
ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 43 
 
 ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 
 
 Densely wrapp'd in shades, 
 Olive and terebinth, its vaulted door 
 Fleck'd with the untrain'd vine and matted grass, 
 Behold Machpelah's cave. 
 
 Hark ! hear we not 
 A voice of weeping ? Lo, yon aged man 
 Bendeth beside his dead. Wave after wave 
 Of memory rises, till his lonely heart 
 Sees all its treasures floating on the flood. 
 Like rootless weeds. 
 
 The earliest dawn of love 
 Is present with him, and a form of grace 
 Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall : 
 And then the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes. 
 And dulcet music, and the rites that bless 
 The Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene. 
 Made happy by her tenderness, returns 
 To mock his solitude. 
 
 Again their home 
 
44 ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 
 
 Gleams through the oaks of Mamre. There he sat, 
 Rendering due rites of hospitality 
 To guests who bore the folded wing of heaven 
 Beneath their vestments. And her smile was there 
 Among the angels. 
 
 When her clustering curls 
 Wore Time's chill hoar-frost, with what glad surprise, 
 What holy triumph of exulting faith, 
 He saw, fresh blooming in her wither'd arms, 
 A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth. 
 Forever blending with that speechless joy 
 Which thrill' d his soul when first a father's name 
 Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow 
 O'er which he weeps. 
 
 Yet had he seen it wear 
 Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought, 
 Perchance, unlovely, in that trial-hour 
 When to sad Hagar's mute, reproachful eye 
 He answer'd nought, but on her shoulder bound 
 The cruse of water and the loaf, and sent 
 Her and her son, unfriended wanderers forth 
 Into the wilderness. 
 
 Say, who can mourn 
 Over the smitten idol, by long years 
 Cemented with his being, yet perceive 
 No dark remembrance that he fain would blot, 
 
ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 45 
 
 Troubling the tear ? If there were no kind deed 
 Omitted, no sweet healing word of love 
 Expected, yet unspoken ; no sharp tone, 
 That jarr'd discordant on the quivering nerve, 
 For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb 
 To cry, "Forgive !" oh ! let him kneel and praise 
 God amid all his grief. 
 
 We may not say 
 If aught of penitence was in the pang 
 That wrung his labouring breast, while o'er the dust 
 Of Sarah, at Machpelah's waiting tomb. 
 The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down, 
 A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth. 
 
46 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 
 
 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 
 
 What hast thou seen, with thy shining eye, 
 Thou Needle, so subtle and keen ? — 
 "I have been in Paradise, stainless and fair. 
 
 And fitted the apron of fig-leaves there. 
 To the form of its fallen queen. 
 
 " The mantles and wimples, the hoods and veils, 
 That the belles of Judah wore, 
 When their haughty mien and their glance of fire 
 Enkindled the eloquent prophet's ire, 
 I help'd to fashion of yore. 
 
 " The beaded belt of the Indian maid 
 
 I have deck'd with as true a zeal 
 As the gorgeous ruff of the knight of old, 
 Or the monarch's mantle of purple and gold, 
 
 Or the satrap's broider'd heel. 
 
 " I have lent to Beauty new power to reign, 
 At bridal and courtly hall, 
 
Or wedded to Fashion, liave help'd to bind 
 Those gossamer links, that the strongest mind 
 Have sometimes held in thrall. 
 
 " I have drawn a blood-drop, round and red, 
 From the finger small and white 
 Of the startled child, as she strove with care 
 Her doll to deck with some gewgaw rare, 
 But wept at my puncture bright. 
 
 " I have gazed on the mother's patient brow, 
 As my utmost speed she plied, 
 To shield from winter her children dear, 
 And the knell of midnight smote her ear. 
 While they slumber'd at her side. 
 
 " I have heard in the hut of the pining poor 
 
 The shivering inmate's sigh. 
 When faded the warmth of her last, faint brand, 
 As slow from her cold and clammy hand 
 
 She let me drop, — to die!" 
 
 What dost thou know, thou gray goose-quill ? — 
 
 And methought, with a spasm of pride. 
 It sprang from tlie inkstand, and flutter'd in vain, 
 
48 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 
 
 Its nib to free from the ebon stain, 
 As it fervently replied : 
 
 " What do I know ! — Let the lover tell 
 
 When into his secret scroll 
 He poureth the breath of a magic lyre, 
 And traceth those mystical lines of fire 
 
 That move the maiden's soul. 
 
 '■'■What do I know ! — The wife can say, 
 
 As the leaden seasons move, 
 And over the ocean's wildest sway, 
 A blessed missive doth wend its way. 
 
 Inspired by a husband's love. 
 
 " Do ye doubt my power ? Of the statesman ask. 
 Who buffets ambition's blast, — 
 Of the convict, who shrinks in his cell of care, 
 A flourish of mine hath sent him there. 
 And lock'd his fetters fast ; 
 
 " And a flourish of mine can his prison ope. 
 From the gallows its victim save. 
 Break off the treaty that kings have bound. 
 Make the oath of a nation an empty sound. 
 And to liberty lead the slave. 
 
THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 49 
 
 " Say, what were History, so wise and old, 
 And Science that reads the sky ? 
 Or how could Music its sweetness store, 
 Or Fancy and Fiction their treasures pour. 
 Or what were Poesy's heaven-taught lore, 
 Should the pen its aid deny ? 
 
 ■' Oh, doubt if ye will, that the rose is fair, 
 
 That the planets pursue their way. 
 Go, question the fires of the noontide sun, 
 Or the countless streams that to ocean run. 
 But ask no more what the Pen hath done." 
 
 And it scornfully turn'd away. 
 
 What are thy deeds, thou fearful thing 
 
 By the lordly warrior's side ? 
 And the Sword answer' d, stern and slow, 
 " The hearth-stone lone and the orphan know. 
 And the pale and widow'd bride. 
 
 " The shriek and the shroud of the battle-cloud, 
 And the field that doth reek below. 
 The wolf that laps where the gash is red, 
 And the vulture that tears ere the life hath fled. 
 
50 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 
 
 And the prowling robber that strips the dead, 
 And the foul hyena know. 
 
 " The rusted plough, and the seed unsown. 
 And the grass that doth rankly grow 
 O'er the rotting limb, and the blood-pool dark, 
 Gaunt Famine that quenches life's lingering spark. 
 And the black- wing' d Pestilence know. 
 
 " Death with the rush of his harpy-brood, 
 Sad Earth in her pang and throe. 
 Demons that riot in slaughter and crime, 
 And the throng of the souls sent, before their time, 
 To the bar of the judgment — know." 
 
 Then the terrible Sword to its sheath return'd, 
 
 While the Needle sped on in peace, 
 But the Pen traced out from a Book sublime 
 The promise and pledge of that better time 
 When the warfare of earth shall cease. 
 
THE THRUSH. 
 
 "I'll pay my rent in music," said a thrush 
 Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring, 
 Where the thick foliage droop' d. And well he kept 
 His simple contract. Not for quarter-day 
 He coldly waited, nor a draft required 
 To stir his memory, nor my patience tried 
 With changeful currencies, but every morn 
 Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep 
 With his sweet-ringing coin. 
 
 Sometimes, a song, 
 All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes, 
 Falling, and caught again, and still prolong'd. 
 Betray' d in what green nook the warbler sat, 
 Each feather quivering with excess of joy, 
 While from his opening beak and brightening eye 
 There seem'd to breathe a cadence, " This is meant 
 For your especial benefit." The lay 
 With overruling shrillness more than once 
 Did summon me to lay my book aside 
 
52 THE THRUSH. 
 
 x\nd wait its close ; nor was that pause a loss, 
 But seem'd to tune and shaj^e the inward ear 
 To wisdom's key-tone. 
 
 Then I had a share 
 In softer songs, that cheer'd his brooding mate, 
 Wlio, in the patience of good hope, did keep 
 Her lengthen'd vigil ; and the voice of love 
 That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul 
 Made glad mine own. 
 
 Then, too, there was a strain 
 From blended throats, that to their callow young 
 Breathed tenderness untold ; and the weak chirp 
 Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd. 
 Each in the sweet way that he ought to go, 
 Mix'd with that breath of household charities 
 Which makes the spirit strong. 
 
 And so I felt 
 My rent was fully paid, and thought myself 
 Quite fortunate, in these our times, to find 
 Such honest tenant. 
 
 But when autumn bade 
 The northern birds to spread their parting wing. 
 And that small house was vacant, and o'er hedge 
 And russet grove and forest hoar with years 
 The hush of silence settled, I grew sad 
 To miss my kind musicians, and was fain 
 
THE THRUSH. 
 
 53 
 
 To patronize with a more fervent zeal 
 Such fireside music as makes winter short, 
 And storms unheard. 
 
 Yet leave within our hearts, 
 Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise, 
 Until je come again ; and the brown nest. 
 That now its downy lining to the winds 
 Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return 
 With the loud welcome home. 
 
 For He who touch'd 
 Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower 
 With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons. 
 In ail the varied garniture that decks 
 Life's banquet-board ; and he's the wisest guest 
 Who taketh gladly what his God doth send. 
 Keeping each instrument of joy in tune 
 That helps to fit him for the choir of Heaven. 
 
54 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 So here thou art, old friend, 
 Ready thine aid to lend, 
 
 With honest face ; 
 The gilded figures just as bright 
 
 Upon thy painted case, 
 As when I ran with young delight 
 Their garniture to trace, 
 And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch, 
 Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much. 
 
 But where is she who sate 
 Near in her elbow-chair. 
 Teaching with patient care 
 Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate 
 To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair, 
 And mark each hour with deeds of love ? 
 Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the 
 rest above. 
 
THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 55 
 
 Thrice welcome, ancient crone ! 
 
 'Tis sweet to gaze on thee, 
 And hear thy busy heart beat on. 
 
 Come, tell old tales to me : 
 Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity. 
 
 Thou hast good store, I trow. 
 
 For laughing and for weeping, 
 Things very strange to know. 
 
 And none the worse for keeping. 
 Soft tales have lovers told 
 Into the thrilling ear, 
 Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old, 
 Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near. 
 In thy sly corner hid sublime, 
 With thy HicTcT Hick!' to warn how Time 
 Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine. 
 Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine. 
 
 The unutter'd hopes and fears. 
 
 The deep-drawn rapturous tears 
 
 , Of young paternity. 
 
 Were chronicled by thee. 
 
 The nursling's first faint cry. 
 Which from a bright-hair' d girl of dance and song, 
 The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng, 
 
56 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 Did make a mother, with her quenchless eyes 
 Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories ; 
 As Death's sharp ministry 
 Robeth an angel when the mortal dies. 
 
 Thy quick vibrations caught 
 The cradled infant's ear, 
 And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear, 
 Thou didst awake the new-born thought. 
 Peering through the humid eye. 
 Like star-beam in a misty sky ; 
 Though the nurse, standing still more near, 
 Mark'd but the body's growing wealth. 
 
 And praised that fair machine of clay. 
 Working in mystery and health 
 Its wondrous way. 
 
 Thy voice was like a knell. 
 Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell, 
 When stranger-feet came gathering slow 
 To see the master of the mansion borne 
 To that last home, the narrow and the low. 
 From whence is no return. 
 
 A laggard wert thou to the impatient breast 
 Of watching lover, or long-parted wife, 
 
THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 57 
 
 Counting each moment while the day unblest, 
 Like wounded snake, its length did draw ; 
 
 And blaming thee, as if the strife 
 Of wild emotion should have been thy law, 
 When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime. 
 To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time. 
 
 Glad signal thou hast given 
 For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath' d hair 
 And flushing cheek, the youthful pair 
 Stand near the priest with reverent air. 
 
 Dreaming that earth is heaven : — 
 And thou hast heralded with joyance fair 
 The green-wreath'd Christmas, and that other feast 
 With which the hard lot of colonial care 
 The pilgrim-sire besprinkled ; saving well 
 The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast, 
 
 And round-cheek'd apple, with its luscious swell, 
 Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er. 
 He greets his children at his humble door. 
 Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard. 
 As, gathering from their distant home, 
 To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come. 
 Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's 
 board. 
 
58 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 Tliou liast outlived thy maker, ancient clock ! 
 
 He in his cold grave sleeps ; but thy slight wheels 
 
 Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock, 
 
 While o'er his name oblivion steals. 
 Man ! so prodigal of pride and praise, 
 Thy works survive thee ; dead machines perform 
 Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days 
 Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm. 
 How darest thou sport with Time, while he 
 Plunges thee darkly in Eternity ? 
 Haste ! ere its awful wave engulf thy form. 
 And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the 
 storm. 
 
FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 59 
 
 FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 
 
 Autumn grows pallid, and his bounteous course 
 Draws near its close, while with a feeble hand 
 He languidly divides to those around 
 The last love-tokens. 
 
 A few brilliant wreaths — 
 Woodbine and dahlia, tinged with berries red 
 And twined with night-shade, and those snowy orbs 
 That cluster mournful round their naked stems, 
 He gives the children, and to older friends 
 Pointeth the rich bequests of better days. 
 Full granaries teeming with the golden ear, 
 And o'er the fields the abundant stacks, where throng 
 The quiet flocks and herds. 
 
 Art satisfied, 
 Thou of the plough and spade ? Full heir of all 
 The year's perfected bounty, dost forget 
 The bounteous season at whose voice the wain 
 
60 FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 
 
 Roll'd heavy from the harvest ? Earth attests 
 His benefactions. 
 
 But behold he dies ! 
 Winds sing his dirge, and the brown leaves bestrew 
 His pathway to the tomb. Mourning, they say, 
 "Remember how he clothed us in bright robes, 
 Crimson and gold, even as that Jewish king, 
 Who fell at Gilboa, deck'd with gorgeous pride 
 Fair Israel's daughters." 
 
 Then the grass-blades breathed 
 A lowly sound, which he who bow'd his ear 
 To their crisp foreheads, caught: — 
 
 "He spared us long. 
 Holding the frost-king back, that we might cheer 
 Man with our simple beauty. Not in wrath. 
 Like some who went before him, did he tread 
 Upon our frailty. So we give him thanks." 
 
 Then the glad birds, from their migration held 
 By his warm smile, pour'd forth their grateful strain: 
 "He gave us food, and with no stinted hand 
 Scatter'd the seeds that pleased our callow young. 
 And chained the howling blasts that ere the time 
 Were wont to drive us from our nests away. 
 For this we love him." 
 
 And the bees replied : — 
 
FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 61 
 
 "We love him also, for he spared the flowers." 
 And the brisk squirrel mid his hoarded nuts, 
 And the light cricket in its evening song, 
 Yea, the poor gadding house-flj on the wall 
 Pronounced him pitiful and kind to them. 
 
 So, genial autumn, in thy grave with tears, 
 As when a good man dies, we lay thee down, 
 Covering thee with the verdure thou hast spared, 
 Fresh sods and lingering flowers. 
 
 Thou didst not trust 
 Thy purposed goodness to another's hand. 
 Cheating thy soul of the sweet bliss that flows 
 From pure philanthropy, but day by day 
 Aroused the labourer to his harvest-song. 
 Gladdening the gleaner's heart, and o'er the board 
 Of the poor man pouring such fruits as make 
 His meagre children happy. 
 
 Thus like thine. 
 Friend whom we jDraise, may our own course be found, 
 Not coldly trusting to a future race 
 Our plans of charity to execute, 
 When we are gone ; but marking every hour 
 With some ncAV deed of mercy, may we pass. 
 Bland, blessed Autumn ! to our grave like thee, 
 Mid the green memories of unnumber'd hearts 
 
62 THE OLD ELMS. 
 
 THE OLD ELMS. 
 
 I DO remember me 
 
 Of two old elm-trees' shade, 
 With mosses sprinkled on their feet, 
 
 Where my young childhood play'd, 
 While the rocks above their head 
 
 Look'd down so stern and gray, 
 And the merry, crystal brooklet 
 
 Went singing on its way. 
 
 Thus, side by side, they flourish' d 
 
 With intertwining crown. 
 And through their broad, embracing arms 
 
 The prying moon look'd down; 
 And as I fondly linger'd there, 
 
 A musing child, alone, 
 I deem'd my secret heart she read 
 
 From her far silver throne. 
 
THE OLD ELMS. 63 
 
 I well remember me 
 
 Of all their wealth of leaves, 
 When Summer in her radiant loom 
 
 The burning solstice weaves, 
 And how with firm endurance 
 
 They braved the adverse sky. 
 Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet 
 
 His country's wintry eye. 
 
 Through varied climes I've wander'd, 
 
 Where stranger streamlets run, 
 Where flaunts the proud magnolia tree 
 
 Beneath a southern sun, 
 Or where the sparse and stinted pine 
 
 Uplifts its sombre form, 
 The vassal of the arctic cloud 
 
 And of the polar storm ; 
 
 Or where the lakes, like oceans. 
 
 Their deep, blue waters spread, 
 Or where sublime Niagara smites 
 
 The admirer's soul with dread; 
 I've seen the vast cathedral's pile. 
 
 The pencil's wondrous art; 
 Yet still those old, green trees I bore 
 
 Depictured on my heart. 
 
64 THE OLD ELMS. 
 
 I sought my native village 
 
 When years had held their sway, 
 But many a column of its trust 
 
 Lay wreck'd in mouldering clay; 
 The stately and the white-hair'd men 
 
 Whose wisdom was its stay, 
 For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice 
 
 Responded, ^^ Where are they f 
 
 I sought the thrifty matron 
 
 Whose busy wheel was heard 
 When early beams of morning 
 
 Awoke the chirping bird; 
 Strange faces from her casement look'd, 
 
 Strange voices fill'd her cot, 
 And 'neath the very vine she train'd 
 
 Her memory was forgot. 
 
 I left a youthful matron, 
 
 Her children round her knee ; 
 Those babes had changed to bearded men, 
 
 And coldly look'd on me ; 
 While she, with all her bloom and grace. 
 
 Did in the churchyard lie ; 
 Yet still those towering elms upbore 
 
 Their kingly canopy. 
 
THE OLD ELMS. 
 
 65 
 
 Though we, who 'neath their shadow 
 
 Pursued our childish plaj, 
 Now find amid our sunny locks 
 
 The sprinkled tint of gray ; 
 Though still the region of our birth 
 
 Must many a change betide, 
 Long may those sacred elms retain 
 
 Their glorious strength and pride. 
 
66 TO-MORROW. 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 Once when the traveller's coach o'er England's vales 
 Paused at its destined goal, an aged crone 
 Came from a neighbouring cottage, with such speed 
 As wearj years might make, and with red eye 
 Scanning each passenger, in hurried tones 
 Demanded, '■'• Has he comeV 
 
 "No, not to-day ; 
 To-morrow," was the answer. So, she turn'd. 
 Raising her shrivel'd finger, with a look 
 Half-credulous, half-reproachful, murmuring low, 
 " To-morroiv,^^ and went homeward. 
 
 A sad tale 
 Was hers, they said. She and her husband shared. 
 From early days, a life of honest toil. 
 Content, though poor. One only son they had. 
 Healthful and bright, and to their simple thought 
 Both wise and fair. The father was a man 
 Austere and passionate, who loved his boy 
 With pride that could not bear to brook his faults 
 
TO-MORROW. 67 
 
 Nor patiently to mend them. As lie greAV 
 Toward man's estate, the mother's readier tact 
 Discern'd the change of character that meets 
 With chafing neck the yoke of discipline, 
 And humour'd it; while to the sire he seem'd 
 Still hut a child, and so he treated him. 
 When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge 
 O'er brow and cheek, the father, at some fault 
 Born more of rashness than of turpitude, 
 Struck him in wrath, and turn'd him from his door 
 With bitter words. The youth, who shared too deep 
 The fiery temper of his father's blood, 
 Vow'd to return no more. 
 
 The mother wept. 
 And wildly pray'd her husband to forgive. 
 And call him back. But he, with aspect stern, 
 Bade her be silent, adding that the boy 
 Was by her folly and indulgence spoil'd 
 Beyond reclaim. And so she shuddering took 
 The tear and prayer back to her inmost soul. 
 And waited till the passion-storm should slack. 
 And die away. Long was that night of wo, 
 Yet mid its dreary watch, she thank'd her God 
 When, after hours of tossing, blessed sleep 
 Stole o'er the moody man. With quiet morn 
 Relentings came, and that ill-smother' d pang 
 
68 TO-MORROW, 
 
 With which an unruled spirit takes the lash 
 
 Of keen remorse. Awhile with shame he strove, 
 
 And then he bade the woman seek her son, 
 
 If so she will'd. Alas ! it was too late. 
 
 He was a listed soldier for a land 
 
 Beyond the seas, nor would their little all 
 
 Suffice to buy him back. 
 
 'Twere long to tell 
 How pain and loneliness and sorrow took 
 Their Shylock-payment for that passion-gust. 
 Or how the father, when his hour had come, 
 Said, with a trembling lip and hollow voice, 
 " Would that our boy were here !" or how the wife, 
 In tenderest ministrations round his bed. 
 And in her widow'd mourning, echoed still 
 His dying words, " Oh ! that our boy were here." 
 
 Years sped, and oft her soldier's letters came 
 Replete with filial love, and penitence. 
 And promise of return. But then, her soul 
 Was wrung by cruel tidings, that he lay 
 Wounded and sick in foreign hospitals. 
 A line traced faintly by his own dear hand 
 Relieved the torture. He was order' d home, 
 Among the invalids. 
 
 Joy, long unknown 
 
TO-MORROW. 69 
 
 Rush'd through her desolate heart. To hear his voice, 
 To gaze into his eyes, to part the locks 
 On his pure forehead, to prepare his food, 
 And nurse his feebleness, she ask'd no more. 
 
 Again his childhood's long forsaken couch 
 Put forth its snowj pillow, and once more, 
 The well-saved curtain of flower'd muslin deck'd 
 The lowly casement where he erst did love 
 To sit and read. 
 
 The cushion'd chair, that cheer'd 
 His father's lingering sickness, should be his ; 
 And on the little table at his side 
 The hour-glass stood, whose ever-shifting sands 
 Had pleased hira when a boy. 
 
 The appointed morn 
 Drew slowly on. The cheerful coals were heap'd 
 In the small grate, and ere the coach arrived 
 She with her throbbing heart stood eager there. 
 " Has Willie come ?" 
 
 Each traveller, intent 
 On his own destination, heeded not 
 To make reply. " Coachman ! is Willie there ?" 
 
 "Willie? No! no!" in a hoarse, hurried voice. 
 Came the gruff answer. " Know ye not he's dead, 
 
70 TO-MORROW. 
 
 Good woman ? Bead ! And buried on the coast, 
 Four days ago." 
 
 But a kind stranger mark'd 
 How the strong surge of speechless agony- 
 Swept o'er each feature, and in pity said, 
 ^^ Perchance he'll come to-morroio." 
 
 Home she went, 
 Struck to the soul, and wept the livelong night, 
 Insensible to comfort, and to all 
 Who spake the usual words of sympathy, 
 Answering nothing. 
 
 But when day return'd, 
 And the slight hammer of the cottage-clock 
 Announced the hour at which her absent son 
 Had been expected, suddenly she rose, 
 And dress' d herself and threw her mantle on, 
 And as the coachman check'd his foaming steeds, 
 Stood eager by his side. " Is Willie there ? 
 My Willie? Say!" 
 
 While he, by pity school'd. 
 Answer' d, " To-morrow.'' 
 
 And though years have fled, 
 And still her limbs grow weaker, and the hairs 
 Whiter and thinner on her wrinkled brow. 
 Yet duly, when the shrill horn o'er the hills 
 Preludeth the approaching traveller, 
 
TO-MORROW. 71 
 
 That poor, demented woman hurries forth 
 To speak her only question, and receive 
 That one reply. To-morrow. 
 
 And on that 
 Fragment of hope deferr'd, doth her worn heart 
 Feed and survive. Lull'd by those syren words, 
 " To-morroxo" which from childhood's trustful dawn 
 Have lured us all. "When Reason sank 
 In the wild wreck of Grief, maternal Love 
 Caught at that empty sound, and clasp'd it close. 
 And grappled to it, like a broken oar, 
 To breast the shoreless ocean of despair. 
 
EVE. 
 
 For the first time, a lovely scene 
 
 Earth saw, and smiled, — 
 A gentle form with pallid mien 
 
 Bending o'er a new-born child: 
 The pang, the anguish, and the wo 
 
 That speech hath never told. 
 Fled, as the sun with noontide glow 
 Dissolves the snow-wreath cold, 
 Leaving the bliss that none but mothers know; 
 While he, the partner of her heaven-taught joy. 
 Knelt in adoring praise beside his beauteous boy. 
 
 She, first of all our mortal race, 
 Learn'd the ecstasy to trace 
 The expanding form of infant grace 
 From her own life-spring fed ; 
 To mark, each radiant hour. 
 Heaven's sculpture' still more perfect growing. 
 More full of power ; 
 
The little foot's elastic tread, 
 The rounded cheek, like rose-bud glowing, 
 The fringed eye with gladness flowing, 
 
 As the pure, blue fountains roll ; 
 And then those lisping sounds to hear. 
 Unfolding to her thrilling ear 
 The strange, mysterious, never-dying soul. 
 
 And with delight intense 
 To watch the angel-smile of sleeping innocence. 
 
 No more she mourn'd lost Eden's joy, 
 Or wept her cherish' d flowers. 
 In their primeval bowers 
 By wrecking tempests riven ; 
 The thorn and thistle of the exile's lot 
 
 She heeded not. 
 So all-absorbing was her sweet employ 
 To rear the incipient man,* the gift her God had given. 
 
 And when his boyhood bold 
 
 A richer beauty caught. 
 Her kindling glance of pleasure told 
 
 The incense of her idol-thought : 
 
Not for the born of clay 
 
 Is pride's exulting thrill. 
 Dark herald of the downward way, 
 And ominous of ill. 
 Even his cradled brother's smile 
 
 The haughty first-born jealously survey 'd. 
 And envy mark'd the brow with hate and guile. 
 In God's own image made. 
 
 At the still twilight hour. 
 When saddest images have power, 
 Musing Eve her fears exprest: — 
 "He loves me not; no more with fondness free 
 
 His clear eye looks on me; 
 Dark passions rankle there, and moody hate 
 Predicts some adverse fate. 
 
 Ah ! is this he, whose waking eye, 
 Whose faint, imploring cry, 
 With new and unimagined rapture blest ? 
 Alas ! alas ! the throes his life that bought, 
 Were naught to this wild agony of thought 
 That racks my boding breast." 
 
 So mourn'd our mother, in her secret heart. 
 With presage all too true ; 
 
And often from the midnight dream would start. 
 Her forehead bathed in dew ; 
 But saj, what harp shall dare, 
 Unless hj hand immortal strung, 
 What pencil touch the hue, 
 Of that intense despair 
 Her inmost soul that wrung ! 
 For Cain was wroth, and in the pastures green, 
 Where Abel led his flock, mid waters cool and sheen, 
 With fratricidal hand, that blameless shepherd slew. 
 
 Earth learn'd strong lessons in her morning prime, 
 More strange than Chaos taught, 
 When o'er contending elements the darkest veil was wrought ; 
 The poison of the tempter's glozing tongue, 
 Man's disobedience and expulsion dire. 
 The terror of the sword of fire 
 At Eden's portal hung, 
 Inferior creatures filled with savage hate. 
 No more at peace, no more subordinate ; 
 Man's birth in agony, man's death by crime. 
 The taste of life-blood, brother-spilt ; 
 But that red stain of guilt 
 Sent through her inmost heart such sickening pain, 
 
 That in her path o'er ether's plain 
 She hid her head and mourn'd, amid the planet-train. 
 
76 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Fair river ! not unknown to classic song, 
 Which still in varying beauty roll'st along, 
 When first thy infant fount is faintly seen, 
 A line of silver mid a fringe of green. 
 Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide. 
 To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide, 
 Or where, in azure mantle pure and free. 
 Thou givest thy cool hand to the waiting sea. 
 
 Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, 
 More ancient cities, and a bolder coast. 
 Yet from the bound where hoarse St. Lawrence roars 
 To where La Plata laves the tropic shores. 
 From where the arms of slimy Nilus shine 
 To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine, 
 Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark, 
 Or sacred Granges whelms her votaries dark, 
 No brighter skies the eye of day may see. 
 Nor soil more verdant, nor a race more free. 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 77 
 
 See ! where amid their cultured vales they stand, 
 The generous offspring of a simple laud ; 
 Too rough for flattery, and all fear above. 
 King, priest, and prophet mid the homes they love. 
 On equal laws their anchor'd hopes are stay'd, 
 By all interpreted, and all obey'd; 
 Alike the despot and the slave they hate. 
 And rise, firm columns of a happy state : 
 To them content is bliss — and labour health, 
 And knowledge power, and pure religion wealth. 
 
 The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees 
 His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze. 
 His bleating flocks the shearer's care that need, 
 His waving woods the wintry hearth that feed. 
 His hardy steers that break the yielding soil, 
 His patient sons who aid their father's toil. 
 The ripening fields for joyous harvest drest, 
 And the white spire that points a world of rest. 
 
 His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear 
 An equal burden in the yoke of care. 
 With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves. 
 Or from the press the golden cheese receives : 
 Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er, 
 With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door, 
 
78 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, 
 Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow; 
 Then hale and cheerful to her home repair. 
 When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care, 
 Press the full udder for her children's meal. 
 Rock the tired babe or wake the tuneful wheel. 
 
 See, toward yon dome where village science dwells, 
 When the church-clock its warning summons swells. 
 What tiny feet the well-known path explore, 
 And gayly gather from each rustic door. 
 The new-wean'd child with murmuring tone proceeds, 
 Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads, 
 Transferr'd as burdens, that the housewife's care 
 May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. 
 Light-hearted group ! who carol wild and high. 
 The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly, 
 Or by som.e traveller's wheel aroused from play. 
 The stiff" salute with deep demureness pay, 
 Bare the curl'd brow, and stretch the sunburnt hand. 
 The home-taught homage of an artless land. 
 The stranger marks, amid their joyous line. 
 The little baskets whence they hope to dine, 
 And larger books, as if their dexterous art 
 Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part: — 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 79 
 
 Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
 
 To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 
 
 Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride, 
 Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride : 
 From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung, 
 Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue ; 
 Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng, 
 Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong ; 
 Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought ; 
 And white-hair'd sages, sold to studious thought ; 
 Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod ; 
 And holy men, who fed the flock of God. 
 
 Here, mid the graves by time so sacred made. 
 The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade ; 
 He whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave, 
 In ancient days, yon pure cerulean wave; 
 Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced. 
 Through darkness followed, and in death embraced, 
 He sleeps an outlaw, mid his forfeit land, 
 And grasps the arrow in his moulder' d hand. 
 
 Here, too, our patriot sires with honour rest, 
 In Freedom's cause who bared the valiant breast; 
 
80 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Sprang from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry 
 
 Of threaten'd Liberty went thrilling by, 
 
 Look'd to their God, and rear'd, in bulwark round, 
 
 Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown 'd. 
 
 And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield — 
 
 Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field : 
 
 Lo ! here they rest who every danger braved, 
 
 Unmark'd, untrophied, mid the soil they saved. 
 
 Round scenes like these doth Avarm remembrance glide, 
 
 Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide 
 
 On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore, 
 
 Or ruder Erie's serpent-haunted shore. 
 
 Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crown' d, 
 
 Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound. 
 
 The exiled man, when midnight shades invade, 
 
 Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade. 
 
 Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear. 
 
 The boatman's song that charm'd his boyish ear; 
 
 While the sad mother, mid her children's mirth, 
 
 Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth, 
 
 Or cheats her rustic babes with tender tales 
 
 Of thee, blest river ! and thy velvet vales, 
 
 Her native cot, where luscious berries swell, 
 
 The village school, and Sabbath's tuneful bell, 
 
 And smiles to see the infant soul expand 
 
 With proud devotion for that father-laud. 
 
BELLOFTHE WRECK. 81 
 
 BELL OF THE WRECK. 
 
 The bell of the steamer Atlantic, lost in Long-Island Sound, Nov. 25th, 1846, being 
 supported by portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued to toll, swept by 
 wind and surge, the req^uiem of the dead. 
 
 Toll, toll, toll. 
 
 Thou bell by billows swung, 
 And night and day thy warning words 
 
 Repeat with mournful tongue ! 
 Toll for the queenly boat, 
 
 Wreck'd on yon rocky shore ; 
 Sea-weed is in her palace-halls. 
 
 She rides the surge no more ! 
 
 Toll for the master bold. 
 
 The high-soul'd and the brave. 
 Who ruled her like a thing of life 
 
 A.mid the crested wave ! 
 Toll for the hardy crew. 
 
 Sons of the storm and blast, 
 Who long the tyrant Ocean dared. 
 
 But it vanquish' d them at last ! 
 
82 BELL OF THE WRECK. 
 
 Toll for the man of God, 
 
 Whose hallow'd voice of prayer 
 Rose calm above the stifled groan 
 
 Of that intense despair ! 
 How precious were those tones 
 
 On that sad verge of life, 
 Amid the fierce and freezing storm, 
 
 And the mountain-billows' strife ! 
 
 Toll for the lover lost 
 
 To the summon' d bridal train ! 
 Bright glows a picture on his breast. 
 
 Beneath the unfathom'd main. 
 One from her casement gazeth 
 
 Long o'er the misty sea; 
 He cometh not, pale maiden, 
 
 His heart is cold to thee ! 
 
 Toll for the absent sire, 
 
 Who to his home drew near. 
 To bless a glad expecting group, 
 
 Fond wife, and children dear ! 
 They heap the blazing hearth. 
 
 The festal board is spread, 
 But a fearful guest is at the gate : 
 
 Room for the sheeted dead ! 
 
BELL OF THE WRECK. 83 
 
 Toll for the loved and fair, 
 
 The whelm' d beneath the tide, 
 The broken harps around whose strings 
 
 The dull sea-monsters glide ! . 
 Mother and nursling sweet, 
 
 Reft from the household throng ; 
 There's bitter weeping in the nest 
 
 Where breath' d their soul of song. 
 
 Toll for the hearts that bleed 
 
 'Neath misery's furrowing trace ! 
 Toll for the hapless orphan left 
 
 The last of all his race ! 
 Yea, with thy heaviest knell 
 
 From surge to rocky shore. 
 Toll for the living, not the dead, 
 
 Whose mortal woes are o'er ! 
 
 Toll, toll, toll, 
 
 O'er breeze and billow free. 
 And with thy startling lore instruct 
 
 Each rover of the sea ; 
 Tell how o'er proudest joys 
 
 May swift destruction sweep, 
 And bid him build his hopes on high, 
 
 Lone Teacher of the deep ! 
 
84 WINTERANDAGE 
 
 WINTER AND AGE. 
 
 Gray Winter loveth silence. He is old, 
 And liketh not the sporting of the lambs, 
 Nor the shrill song of birds. It irketh him 
 To hear the forest melodies, though still 
 He giveth license to the ruffian winds, 
 That, with black foreheads and distended cheeks, 
 Mutter hoarse thunders on their wrecking path. 
 
 He lays his finger on the lip of streams. 
 And they are ice ; and stays the merry foot 
 Of the slight runlet, as it leapeth down, 
 Terrace by terrace, from the mountain's head. 
 He silenceth the purling of the brook, 
 That told its tale in gentle summer's ear 
 All the day long reproachless, and doth bid 
 Sharp frosts chastise and chain it, till it shrink 
 Abash'd away. 
 
 He sits with wrinkled face, 
 Like some old grandsire, ill at ease, who shuts 
 
WINTER AND AGE. 85 
 
 The noisy trooping of the children out, 
 And drawing nearer to the pleasant fire, 
 Doth settle on his head the velvet cap, 
 And bless his stars for quiet once again. 
 Stern winter drives the truant fountain back 
 To the dark caverns of the imprisoning earth. 
 And deadeneth with his drifted snows the sound 
 Of wheel and foot-tramp. 
 
 Thus it is with man. 
 When the chill winter of his life draws on. 
 The ea,r doth loathe the sounds that erst it loved, 
 Or, like some moody hermit, bar the door. 
 Though sweetest tones solicit it in vain. 
 The eye grows weary of the tarnish'd scenes 
 And old wind-shaken tapestries of time. 
 While all the languid senses antedate 
 The Sabbath of the tomb. 
 
 The echoing round 
 Of giddy pleasures, where his heart in youth 
 Disported eagerly, the rushing tread 
 Of the great, gorgeous world, are nought to him, 
 Who, as he journeyeth to a clime unknown, 
 Would to the skirts of holy silence cling, 
 And let all sounds and symphonies of earth 
 Fall like a faded vestment from the soul. 
 
86 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 November came on, "witli an eye severe, 
 And his stormy language was hoarse to hear, 
 And the glittering garland of gold and red, 
 Which was wreath'd for a while round the forest's head, 
 With sudden anger he rent away, 
 And all was cheerless and bare and gray. 
 
 Then the houseless grasshopper told his woes, 
 And the humming-bird sent forth a wail for the rose. 
 And the spider, that weaver of cunning so deep, 
 Roll'd himself up in a ball to sleep; 
 And the cricket his merry horn laid by 
 On the shelf, with the pipe of the dragon-fly. 
 
 Soon the birds were heard, at the morning prime, 
 Consulting of flight to a warmer clime : 
 " Let us go I let us go !" said the bright-wing'd jay ; 
 And his gay spouse sang from a rocking spray. 
 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 87 
 
 "I am tired to death of this humdrum tree; 
 I'll go, if 'tis only the world to see !" 
 
 "Will you go?" ask'd the robin, "my only love?" 
 And a tender strain from the leafless grove 
 Responded, "Wherever your lot is cast. 
 Mid summer skies or the northern blast, 
 I am still at your side all your wanderings to cheer. 
 Though dear is our nest in the thicket here." 
 
 " I am ready to go," cried the querulous wren, 
 "From the wind-swept homes of these northern men ; 
 My throat is sore, and my feet are blue ; 
 I fear I have caught the consumption too." 
 And the oriole told, with a flashing eye, 
 How his plumage was dimm'd by this frosty sky. 
 
 Then up went the thrush with a trumpet call, 
 And the martins came forth from their cells on the wall, 
 And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower. 
 And the swallows conversed on the old church-tower. 
 And the council of blackbirds was long and loud. 
 Chattering and flying from tree to cloud. 
 
 "The dahlia is dead on her throne," said they, 
 "And we saw the butterfly cold as clay; 
 
88 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 Not a berry is found on the russet plains, 
 Not a kernel of ripen'd maize remains ; 
 Every worm is hid — shall we longer stay 
 To be wasted with famine ? Away ! away !" 
 
 But what a strange clamour on elm and oak 
 From a bevy of brown-coated mocking-birds broke ; 
 The theme of each separate speaker they told, 
 In a shrill report, with such mimicry bold, 
 That the eloquent orators started to hear 
 Their own true echo, so wild and clear. 
 
 Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair, 
 Swept off through the fathomless depths of air. 
 Who marketh their course to the tropics bright ? 
 Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight ? 
 Who guideth that caravan's trackless way, 
 By the star at night and the cloud by day ? 
 
 Some spread o'er the waters a daring wing. 
 In the isles of the southern sea to sing, 
 Or where the minaret, towering high, 
 Pierces the blue of the Moslem sky, 
 Or mid the harem's haunts of fear, 
 Their lodgings to build, and their nurslings rear. 
 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 89 
 
 The Indian fig, with its arching screen, 
 Welcomes them in to its vistas green, 
 And the breathing buds of the spicy tree 
 Thrill at the burst of their melody. 
 And the bulbul starts, mid his carol clear, 
 Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. 
 
 Oh wild wood-wanderers ! how far away 
 From your rural homes in our vales ye stray; 
 But when they are waked by the touch of Spring, 
 Shall we see you again with your glancing wing. 
 Your nests mid our household trees to raise. 
 And fill our hearts with our Maker's praise ? 
 
 p? 
 
90 PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 Yon slender boy his bark hath launch'd 
 
 On life's deceitful tide ; 
 His balmy years of childhood o'er, 
 
 He goes without a guide, 
 Amid the stir and strife of men 
 
 His devious course to run, 
 The tempter and the snare to bide — 
 
 God bless the widow's son. 
 
 He turneth from the pleasant door, 
 
 And from the garden fair, 
 Where with his little spade he wrought 
 
 Beneath a mother's care; 
 He bears his head like manhood high, 
 
 Yet tears their course will run. 
 When on his stranger-bed he rests — 
 
 God bless the widow's son. 
 
PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 91 
 
 Say ye he goeth forth alone 
 
 To dare the eventful field ? 
 No, no ! a spell is round him thrown, 
 
 Like adamantine shield, — 
 A mournful mother's fervent prayer ! 
 
 So, till his life is done. 
 Till time and toil and change are o'er, 
 
 God bless the widow's son. 
 
93 AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 
 
 AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 
 
 The summer-day declined o'er Edom's vales, 
 As on, through rugged paths of lone Mount Hor, 
 Three men went travelling slow. 
 
 One, whose white beard 
 O'erswept his reverend breast, moved painful on. 
 And ever, as the ascent steeper grew. 
 More wearily did lean on those who lent 
 Their kindly aid. 
 
 I see the mitred brow 
 Of the High Priest of Israel, and anon. 
 As the slant sun sends forth some brighter beam 
 Through the sparse boughs and cones of terebinth, 
 His dazzling breastplate like a rainbow gleams. 
 
 He muses o'er the distant Past, and calls 
 The buried years. Each, like unwilling ghost, 
 Comes up with its dark scroll and glides away. 
 Again the moan of Egypt meets his ear. 
 As when her first-born died; the sounding surge 
 
AARONONMOUNTHOR. 93 
 
 Of the divided sea, enforced to leave 
 
 Its ancient channels; the affrighted cry 
 
 Of Israel at red Sinai's awful base ; 
 
 Their murmurings and their mockings and their strife; 
 
 The sin at Meribah; the desert-graves 
 
 Fed with a rebel race, — all rise anew. 
 
 And, like the imagery of troubled dreams. 
 
 Enwrap the spirit. 
 
 With what earnest eye 
 And mournful, from the topmost cliff he gazed. 
 There, stretching round its base, like sprinkled snow 
 Were Israel's tents, where lay in brief repose 
 The desert-wearied tribes. 
 
 Through distant haze 
 Gleam'd Edom's roofs, with shadowy palm-trees blent ; 
 While farther still, like a black Stygian pool, 
 The lone Dead Sea its sullen waters roll'd. 
 
 He turn'd, and lo ! Mount Seir with frowning brow 
 Confronted him. All solemn and severe 
 Was its uncover'd forehead. Did it rise 
 Like witness stern, to stir with vengeful hand 
 The sleeping memories of forgotten things, 
 That probe the conscience ? 
 
 Once again he bent 
 To mark the tents of Jacob. Fair they seem'd, 
 
94 AARONONMOUNTHOR. 
 
 Amid lign-aloes and the cedars tall 
 That God had planted ; — fairer than to him, 
 That recreant prophet, who was yet to spy 
 The chosen people, resting on their way. 
 And by fierce Balak's side, from Peor's top 
 Take up his parable, changing the curse 
 Into a blessing. 
 
 But to Aaron's eye, 
 The haunts his feet must ne'er revisit more 
 Put on new beauty. For the parting hour 
 Unveils the love that like a stranger hides 
 In the heart's depths. 
 
 Was that his own sweet home, 
 Its curtains floating, as the southern breeze 
 Woo'd its white folds ? 
 
 He pass'd his arm around 
 His brother's shoulder, leaning heavily. 
 And lower o'er his bosom droop'd his head. 
 In that long, farewell look, which by no sound 
 Reveal' d its import to the mortal ear. 
 
 Anon his features wear a brightening tinge. 
 And o'er his high anointed brow breaks forth 
 A gleam of joy. Caught he a glorious view 
 Of that eternal Canaan, fair with light, 
 
AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 95 
 
 And water'd by the river of his God, 
 Where was his heritage ? 
 
 Or stole a strain 
 From Miriam's timbrel, o'er the flood of death 
 Urging him ouAvard, through the last faint steps 
 Of toil-worn life ? 
 
 And now they reach the spot 
 Where he had come to die. Strange heaviness 
 Settled around his spirit. Then he knew 
 That death's dark angel stretch'd a sable wing 
 'Tween him and earth. The altar, and the ark, 
 The unutter'd mysteries seen within the vail, 
 Those deep-set traces of his inmost soul, 
 Grew dim and vanish' d. 
 
 So, with trembling hand. 
 He hasted to unclasp the priestly robe 
 And cast it o'er his son, and on his head 
 The mitre place ; while, with a feeble voice. 
 He bless'd, and bade him keep his garments pure 
 From blood of souls. But then, as Moses raised 
 The mystic breastplate, and that dying eye 
 Caught the last radiance of those precious stones, 
 By whose oracular and fearful light 
 Jehovah had so oft his will reveal'd 
 Unto the chosen tribes, whom Aaron loved, 
 In all their wanderings — but whose promised land 
 
96 AARON OX MOUXT HOR. 
 
 He might not look upon — lie sadly laid 
 
 His head upon the mountain's turfj breast, 
 
 And Tvith one prayer, half Tvrapp'd in stifled groans, 
 
 Gaye up the ghost. 
 
 Steadfast beside the dead, 
 With folded arms and face uplift to heayen 
 The prophet Moses stood, as if bj faith 
 Following the sainted soul. No sigh of grief 
 !Xor sign of earthly passion mark'd the man 
 Who once on Sinai's top had talked with God. 
 — But the young priest knelt down, with quiyering lip. 
 And press'd his forehead on the pulseless breast. 
 And, mid the gifts of sacerdotal power 
 And dignity intrusted to his hand, 
 Remembering but the father that he loyed. 
 Long with his filial tears bedew" d the clay. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 97 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY 
 
 Lost! lost! lost! 
 
 A gem of countless price, 
 Cut from the living rock, 
 
 And graved in Paradise ; 
 Set round Tvith tkree times eight 
 
 Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
 And each with sixty smaller ones, 
 
 All changeful as the light. 
 
 Lost — where the thoughtless throng 
 
 Li fashion's mazes \dnd. 
 Where trilleth follv's sons:. 
 
 Leaving a sting behind; 
 Yet to mj hand 'twas given 
 
 A golden harp to buy. 
 Such as the white-robed choir attune 
 
 To deathless minstrelsy. 
 
98 ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 
 
 Lost! lost! lost! 
 
 I feel all search is vain ; 
 That gem of countless cost 
 
 Can ne'er be mine again; 
 I offer no reward, 
 
 For till these heart-strings sever, 
 I know that Heaven-intrusted gift 
 
 Is reft away for ever. 
 
 But when the sea and land 
 
 Like burning scroll have fled, 
 I'll see it in His hand 
 
 Who judgeth quick and dead ; 
 And when of scath and loss 
 
 That man can ne'er repair, 
 The dread inquiry meets my soul. 
 
 What shall it answer there ? 
 
 V 
 
THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 99 
 
 THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 
 
 Bltje-bird ! on jon leafless tree, 
 Dost thou carol thus to me, 
 " Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 
 Say'st thou so, mj birdie clear ? 
 What is that, in misty shroud, 
 Stealing from the darken'd cloud ? 
 Lo ! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 
 Settles o'er the whiten'd ground, 
 Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, 
 " Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 
 
 Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? 
 Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 
 Clouds are sweeping o'er the skj 
 With a black and threatening eye ; 
 Urchins, by the frozen rill. 
 Wrap their mantles closer still ; 
 Yon poor man, with doublet old. 
 Doth he shiver at the cold ? 
 
100 THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 
 
 Hath he not a nose of hkie ? 
 Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 
 
 Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, 
 Rosy wreaths and revelry : 
 Hast thou woo'd some winged love 
 To a nest in verdant grove ? 
 Sung to her of greenwood bower, 
 Sunny skies that never lower ? 
 Lured her with thy promise fair 
 Of a lot that knows no care ? 
 Prithee, bird, in coat of blue, 
 Though a lover, tell her true. 
 
 Ask her if, when storms are long, 
 She can sing a cheerful song ? 
 When the rude winds rock the tree, 
 If she'll closer cling to thee ? 
 Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
 Unappall'd shall pass thee by ; 
 Though thy curtain' d chamber show 
 Siftings of untimely snow^ 
 Warm and glad thy heart shall be. 
 Love shall make it Spring for thee. 
 
THE ARK AND DOYE. 
 
 "Tell me a story — please," my little girl 
 Lisp'd from her cradle. So I bent me down 
 And told her how it rain'd, and rain'd, and rain'd, 
 Till all the flowers were cover'd, and the trees 
 Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood. 
 And people dwelt, a fearful deluge roll'd ; 
 Because the world was wicked, and refused 
 To heed the words of God. But one good man, 
 Who long had warn'd the wicked to repent, 
 Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven, 
 Had built an ark ; and thither, with his wife 
 And children, turn'd for safety. Two and two 
 Of beasts and birds and creeping things he took. 
 With food for all ; and when the tempest roar'd. 
 And the great fountains of the sky pour'd out 
 A ceaseless flood, till all besides were drown 'd. 
 They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure. 
 And so the mighty waters bare them up, 
 And o'er the bosom of the deep they sail'd 
 
102 THE ARK AND DOVE. 
 
 For many days. But then a gentle dove 
 'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread 
 Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave. 
 All, all was desolation. Chirping nest, 
 Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw. 
 For all the people of the earth were drown'd, 
 Because of disobedience. Naught she spied 
 Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky, 
 Nor found her weary foot a place of rest. 
 So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth. 
 Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance, 
 Upon some wrecking billow floated by, 
 "With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought. 
 The righteous man that wandering dove received. 
 And to her mate restored, who, with sad moans, 
 Had wonder' d at her absence. 
 
 Then I look'd 
 Upon the child, to see if her young thought 
 Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye 
 Was a glad listener, and the eager breath 
 Of pleased attention curl'd her parted lip. 
 And so I told her how the waters dried. 
 And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds 
 Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove 
 Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds 
 Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark 
 
THE ARK AND DOVE. 103 
 
 Upon the breezy breast of Ararat 
 Reposed, and Noah with glad spirit rear'd 
 An altar to his God. 
 
 Since, many a time, 
 When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star. 
 That little one is laid, with earnest tone. 
 And pure cheek prest to mine, she fondly asks 
 " The Ark and Dove." 
 
 Mothers can tell how oft, 
 In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up 
 From a seal'd lip : and tenderly hath blent 
 With the warm teaching of the sacred tale 
 A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul. 
 New in the rosy mesh of infancy 
 Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world, 
 Like that exploring dove, and find no rest, 
 A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand 
 May gently guide it to the ark of peace. 
 
104 THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 
 
 THE LOBELIA CAKDINALIS. 
 
 "Cull me a flower," the Lidian maid 
 
 Unto her lover sigh'd, — 
 " Such as thy noble spirit deems 
 
 Fit for thj chosen bride. 
 
 " And I will wear it on my brow 
 When from this home I part, 
 And enter to thy forest bower, 
 Thy true love in my heart." 
 
 Then he, who with Acteon's stride 
 
 Had erst that region trod. 
 Now with bow'd head went searching o'er 
 
 The flower-enamell'd sod. 
 
 Unconscious of the unroused deer. 
 Or the eagle's sunward throne, 
 
 That haughty chieftain meekly roam'd. 
 His thoughts on love alone. 
 
THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 105 
 
 He cut the rich wild rose, that still 
 
 A lingering radiance cast ; 
 Though soon its falling petals told 
 
 Its day of pride was past. 
 
 He pluck'd the iris, deeply blue, 
 
 The amaryllis bright, 
 And hid their treasures through the day, 
 
 But cast them forth at night. 
 
 He bound the water-lily white 
 
 Amid her lustrous hair, 
 Yet found her black and flashing eye 
 
 Required a gem more rare. 
 
 At length, beside its mantling pool 
 
 Majestic and serene. 
 He saw the proud lobelia tower 
 
 In beauty like a queen. 
 
 That eve, the maiden's ebon locks 
 
 Reveal' d its glowing power. 
 Amid the simple nuptial rites. 
 
 That graced the chieftain's bower. 
 
106 THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 
 
 But she wlio by that stately flower 
 Her lover's preference knew, 
 
 Was doom'd, alas ! in youthful hour 
 To share its frailty too. 
 
 For ere again its glorious bloom 
 
 Rejoiced in Summer's eye, 
 She droop' d amid her forest home — 
 
 Her fount of life was dry. 
 
 Then, as the ebbing pulse declined, 
 Forth from her sacred nook. 
 
 With swimming eye and trembling hand, 
 Her bridal wreath she took. 
 
 And bound its wither'd floral bells 
 
 Around her temples pale. 
 And faintly to her maidens spake, — 
 
 For breath began to fail: — 
 
 " Should the last death-pangs shake me sore, 
 (For on they come with power,) 
 Press closer in my ice-cold hand 
 My husband's token-flower ; 
 
THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 107 
 
 "And rear the turf-mound broad and high 
 To span my lonely grave, 
 That naught may sever from my locks 
 The gift of love he gave ; 
 
 " So, when the dance of souls goes forth 
 Athwart the starry plain, 
 He'll know me by his chosen flower, 
 And make me his again." 
 
108 FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Go to your peaceful rest, 
 
 Friends of a brighter hour, 
 Jewels on youthful beauty's breast. 
 
 Lights of the hall and bower. 
 Well have ye borne your part, 
 
 Fair children of the sky, 
 We'll keep your memory in our heart 
 
 When low in dust you lie. 
 
 Your gladness in our joy, 
 
 Your smile beside our way, 
 Your gentle service round the bed 
 
 Of sickness and decay, 
 Your rainbow on the cloud, 
 
 Your sympathy in pain — 
 We'll keep the memory of your deeds 
 
 Until we meet again. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 109 
 
 Rest from the blush of love, 
 
 Rest from the blight of care, 
 From the sweet nursing of your buds, 
 
 And from the nipping air; 
 Rest from the fever-thirst 
 
 Of summer's noontide heat, 
 From coiling, worm, and rifling hand 
 
 That vex'd your lone retreat. 
 
 If e'er ye thrill' d with pride 
 
 When the admirer knelt. 
 Or on the lowly look'd with scorn 
 
 Which man for man hath felt; 
 If through your bosoms pure 
 
 Hath aught like evil flow'd, 
 Since folly may with angels dwell, 
 
 Rest from that painful load. 
 
 But not with grief or fear 
 
 Bow down the drooping head; 
 See, in the chambers of your birth 
 
 Your dying couch is spread. 
 Go, strong in faith, ye flowers. 
 
 Strong in your guileless trust 
 With Spring's awakening trump to rise 
 
 Above imprisoning dust. 
 
110 STORM-SAILS, 
 
 STORM-SAILS. 
 
 Out with thj storm-sails, for the blast is loud, 
 And seas and skies commingle. 
 
 Pleasant smiles, 
 Fond cheering hopes, delightful sympathies, 
 Story and song, the needle's varied skill, 
 The shaded lamp, the glowing grate at eve. 
 The page made vocal by a taste refined, 
 Imparted memories, plans for others' good. 
 These are a woman's storm-sails. Fain we'd keep 
 Each one in readiness, whene'er the cloud 
 Maketh our home our fortress, and debars 
 Egress abroad. 
 
 So, choose ye which to spread, 
 My fair young lady. For the foot of youth 
 Is nimblest mid the shrouds of social life, 
 And readiest should its fairy hand unfurl 
 The household banner of true happiness. 
 What has thy brow to do with frowns ? thy heart 
 With selfish lore ? as yet, so little school'd 
 
STORM-SAILS. Ill 
 
 In the world's venal traffic. Make thine eye 
 A cheering light-house to the voyager 
 Wearied and worn. Shed blessed hope on all, 
 Parent, fraternal group, or transient guest; 
 Nor let the toiling servant be forgot, 
 Who in the casket of remembrance stores 
 Each word of praise. 
 
 Mother, when tempests rage. 
 Draw thy young children nearer. Let them share 
 The intercourse that, while it soothes, instructs. 
 And elevates the soul. Implant some germ 
 Of truth, or tenderness, or holy faith, 
 And trust the rain of heaven to water it. 
 So shall those sweet, unfolding blossoms blend 
 In future years thine image with the storm, 
 Like the pure rainbow, with its glorious scroll 
 Teaching of God. 
 
 Scholar, and child of rhyme, 
 This is thy holiday. No vexing fear 
 Of interruption, and no idler's foot 
 Shall mar thy revery. 
 
 And while the flame 
 Of blissful impulse nerves thy flying pen, 
 Write on thy storm-sails deathless thoughts to guide 
 Thy wind-swept brother to the port of peace. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 As hasting night o'er Scotia's plains 
 
 Its murky mantle flung, 
 And on its skirts with ruffian wrath 
 
 A threatening tempest hung, 
 
 Beside a farm-house door, a voice 
 Rose o'er the howling blast, 
 "Ah ! give us shelter from the storm, 
 The darkness gathers fast. 
 
 "We are not vagrants, God forbid ! 
 A dark and evil day. 
 That made so many looms stand still, 
 Hath taken our bread away. 
 
 "And now, to Inverary's vales. 
 In search of work we go. 
 And thrice the setting sun hath seen 
 Our way-worn course, and slow. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 113 
 
 "My wife a nursing infant bears, 
 Three younglings at her side, 
 Weary and cold," — but churlish tones 
 The earnest suit denied. 
 
 " The humblest shed is all we ask, 
 Your food we will not crave. 
 And blessings on your head shall rest 
 E'en till we find a grave. 
 
 "Ah ! for our dear Redeemer's sake. 
 Let us till morning stay," 
 The harsh key grated in its ward, — 
 The suppliant turn'd away. 
 
 He held his hand before his face 
 
 To bar the blinding sleet. 
 And sorrow' d for those hearts that soon 
 
 Such dread repulse must meet. 
 
 " husband, you have linger'd long ; 
 'Tis lonesome on the wold ; 
 Up, bairnies, to yon bonny house, 
 And shield ye from the cold." 
 
114 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 The ■wretched man bent shuddering down, 
 Scarce kenn'd he what to say, 
 
 He could not find it in his heart 
 To take her hope away. 
 
 Yet o'er the moor, for many a league, 
 
 All desolate and drear, 
 He knew no other dwelling rose. 
 
 The traveller's sight to cheer. 
 
 " Jeanie, my poor and patient wife, 
 God give thee strength to bear ; 
 'Neath yonder roof we may not bide. 
 There is no mercy there." 
 
 The weary woman groan' d aloud: 
 
 "Not for myself I cry, 
 But for the babe that feebly pines, 
 
 Methinks its death is nigh." 
 
 The little children sobb'd and wept, 
 And, clinging round her, said, 
 "0 mother ! mother ! 'tis so long 
 Since you have given us bread." 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 115 
 
 The pitying father hush'd their grief, 
 
 And drew them to his side, 
 Till sleep, the angel, on their cheeks 
 
 The trickling sorrow dried; 
 
 Then spread his mantle o'er their breasts. 
 
 Scant though it was and poor, 
 And there mid driving snows they cower' d. 
 
 Upon the di'eary moor. 
 
 Wild throbb'd his aching head, and wide 
 
 His starting eyeballs strain. 
 While through the darkness, lurid fires 
 
 Seem'd flashing from his brain: 
 
 Strange phantom-forms went gibbering by, 
 
 And woke to fearful strife 
 The thoughts that nerve the reckless hand 
 
 Against the traveller's life. 
 
 A new and dauntless strength he felt, 
 
 Like giant in his prime, 
 Such strength as drives the madden'd wretch 
 
 To judgment ere his time. 
 
116 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 But from the fountain of his soul 
 
 Uprose a contrite prayer, 
 That Heaven would crush the seeds of crime, 
 
 And break the tempter's snare. 
 
 Kind tones the awful revery broke, 
 
 A human form drew near, 
 An humble serving-man who mark'd 
 
 Their misery severe ; 
 
 One who the stern denial heard 
 That check'd the plaint of need. 
 
 And ventured to an outhouse rude 
 The hapless group to lead. 
 
 Oh poor man, who thyself hast quaked 
 'Neath hunger-pang, and cold, 
 
 Or felt the lashing of the winds 
 Through garments thin and old ; 
 
 Far better canst thou feel for those 
 
 Who bide misfortune's blast, 
 Than Plenty's proud and pamper'd sons 
 
 Who share the rich repast. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 117 
 
 Who, lapp'd in luxury, rejoice 
 
 By fireside bright and warm, 
 Or from their curtain' d pillow list 
 
 The howling of the storm. 
 
 Rest to those wearied ones, how sweet ! 
 
 E'en on that pauper-hed, 
 The tatter'd blanket o'er them cast, 
 
 The straw beneath them spread. 
 
 But, at gray dawn, a piercing shriek ! 
 Hark to that wild despair ! 
 "My babe ! my babe ! she breathes no more !" 
 Oh Spoiler ! art thou there ? 
 
 That ghastly face the children mark'd 
 
 As up from sleep they sprang. 
 The thin blue fingers clench'd so close 
 
 In the last hunger-pang. 
 
 And pitiful it was to see 
 
 How meagre want and care 
 Had set the wasting seal of years 
 
 On brow so small and fair. 
 
118 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 Loud rose the wail of childhood's wo : 
 
 "Will she not wake again, 
 Our plaj-mate sister ? Never more ?" 
 
 Keen was that transient pain. 
 
 But whosoe'er hath chanced to hear 
 
 A mother's cry of dread, 
 Who, waking, on her bosom finds 
 
 Her nursling cold and dead, — 
 
 Its nerveless lip empower' d no more 
 
 The fount of life to press, 
 And gleeful smile and speaking eye 
 
 Mute to the fond caress, — 
 
 I say, whoe'er that sound hath heard 
 
 Invade his lone retreat. 
 Will keep the echo in his soul 
 
 While memory holds her seat. 
 
 The father started to her side. 
 
 He spoke no word of wo ; 
 Words ! — would they dare in such an hour 
 Their poverty to show ? 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 119 
 
 E'en manly nature reel'd to meet 
 
 Sucli sudden sliock of grief, — 
 And drowning thought to trifles clung, 
 
 In search of vain relief. 
 
 The swallows, startled from their nests 
 
 By pain's discordant sound. 
 Among the rafters bare and brown 
 
 Went circling round and round ; 
 
 And gazing on their aimless flight, 
 
 He strove, with futile care, 
 To parry for a little space 
 
 The anguish of despair. 
 
 But now, e'en hardest human hearts 
 
 With sympathy were fraught. 
 For late remorse the kindness woke 
 
 That pity should have taught. 
 
 There lay the babe so still and cold, 
 
 Crush'd 'neath affliction's weight. 
 For whom, perchance, their earlier care 
 
 Had won a longer date ; 
 
120 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 But in the churchyard's grassy bound 
 
 A narrow spot they gave, 
 With tardy charity, that yields — 
 
 Instead of bread — a grave. 
 
 Sad tears of agonizing grief 
 Bedew'd the darling's clay, 
 
 And then that stricken-hearted group 
 Pursued their mournful way. 
 
 O'er Scotia's glens and mountains rude 
 A toilsome path they wound, 
 
 Or 'neath some cotter's lowly roof 
 A nightly shelter found, 
 
 Until, mid Inverary's vales. 
 Once more a home they knew, 
 
 And from the father's earnest hand 
 The unresting shuttle flew. 
 
 And though but scant the dole he earn'd, 
 Yet prudence found a way 
 
 To make it satisfy the needs 
 Of each returning day. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 121 
 
 So, to her parents' lieavj lot 
 
 Some filial aid to lend, 
 The eldest, Bessie, left her home, 
 
 A shepherd's flock to tend. 
 
 Unceasing, for her helpless ones. 
 
 The industrious mother strove, 
 And season'd still the homeliest meal 
 
 With sweet maternal love. 
 
 Oft, when the quiet gloaming fell 
 
 O'er heathery field and hill. 
 And 'tween the daylight and the dark 
 
 Her busier toils were still, 
 
 She told them wild and stirring tales 
 
 Of Scotia's old renown. 
 And of the Bruce who bravely won. 
 
 In evil times, the crown ; 
 
 Or sang, to rouse their patriot zeal, 
 
 Some high, heroic stave ; 
 Or whisper'd, through her swelling tears. 
 
 Of their lost sister's grave ; 
 
 L 
 
122 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 Or bade tliem duly, night and morn, 
 Whene'er they knelt in prayer, 
 
 To supplicate for Bessie dear 
 Their God's protecting care. 
 
 Yet joyous was the hour when they, 
 
 With shout and gambol fleet, 
 Went bounding from the cottage door 
 
 The approaching sire to greet, 
 
 Who twice a month, from distant scenes 
 
 Of weary toil and care, 
 Walk'd three times three long Scottish miles 
 
 To spend his Sabbath there. 
 
 And when, like lone and glimmering star. 
 
 Across the heath he spied 
 The rush-light in the window placed 
 
 His homeward steps to guide, 
 
 Methought a spirit's wing was his, 
 
 From all obstruction free, 
 Till by his Jeanie's side he sate. 
 
 The wee things on his knee. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 123 
 
 There, wliile the humble fire of peat 
 
 A flickering radiance threw, 
 The oatmeal parritch had a zest 
 
 The unloving never knew. 
 
 And from the poor man's thrilling heart 
 
 Such grateful praise arose, 
 As they have never learn' d to breathe 
 
 Who never shared his woes. 
 
 Once, when the hallow'd day of rest 
 
 Had pass'd serenely by, 
 And evening with its sober vail 
 
 Encompass'd earth and sky. 
 
 Their cottage worship duly paid. 
 
 While from the pallet near. 
 The little sleepers' breathing fell 
 
 Like music on their ear. 
 
 The faithful pair with kind discourse 
 
 Beguiled the gathering shade. 
 As fitful o'er the darken'd wall 
 
 The blinking ingle play'd. 
 
124 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 Then Jeanie many a soothing word 
 
 To Willie's heart address'd, 
 Her head upon his shoulder laid, 
 
 His arm around her press'd. 
 
 Much of their bairnies' weal she spake, 
 
 And with confiding air 
 Incited for their tender years 
 
 A father's watchful care, 
 
 With tearful eye and trembling tone. 
 
 As one about to trust 
 Fond treasures to another's hand. 
 
 And slumber in the dust. 
 
 Her heavenly hopes, she said, were bright, 
 
 But mortal life was frail, 
 And something, whispering, warn'd her soul 
 
 That soon her strength might fail. 
 
 "Oh, Willie dearest! ne'er before 
 I've stay'd thy lingering tread. 
 For well I know 'tis hard to take 
 The time that earns our bread. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 125 
 
 ' But now one single day I ask, 
 
 For then, the weight that bow'd 
 My spirit with its presage dire, 
 May prove an April cloud." 
 
 He stay'd, to mark the fearful pang 
 
 That hath not yet been told, 
 To see the livid hues of death 
 
 The rigid brow unfold. 
 
 He stay'd, to find all heljj was vain, 
 
 Ere the next evening-tide. 
 And then to lay her in the grave. 
 
 Her new-born babe beside. 
 
 Her new-born babe ! With her it died. 
 
 And in the white shroud's fold, 
 Fast by her marble breast 'twas seen, 
 
 A blossom crush' d and cold. 
 
 Oh wounded and forsaken man ! 
 
 Whom mocking Hope doth flee, 
 The lingering luxury of grief 
 
 Is not for such as thee. 
 
126 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 Stern Toil doth summon thee away, 
 And thou the call must hear, 
 
 As the lone Arab strikes his tent 
 To roam the desert drear. 
 
 He closed the pleasant room where late 
 His cheerful hearth had burn'd, 
 • And to the waiting landlord's hand 
 The household key return'd. 
 
 And to a pitying neighbour's door 
 His youngest nursling led. 
 
 Too weak to try the weary road 
 It was his lot to tread, — 
 
 With earnest words bespoke her care. 
 Which he would well repay, 
 
 Then bless'd the poor, unconscious boy. 
 And sadly turn'd away. 
 
 With wondering eyes, the stranger-child 
 The unwonted scene survey'd. 
 
 And to the darkest corner shrank, 
 Bewilder'd and afraid. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 127 
 
 From thence, escaping to his home 
 
 With bosom swelling high, 
 Uplifted, as he fled away, 
 
 A loud and bitter cry ; 
 
 And wildly call'd his mother's name, 
 
 And press' d the unyielding door. 
 And breathless listen'd for the voice 
 
 That he must hear no more. 
 
 And, then, the holy hymn she taught 
 
 He lisp'd with simple wile. 
 As if that talisman were sure 
 
 To win her favouring smile. 
 
 But when all efibrts fruitless proved. 
 
 Exhausted with his moan, 
 The orphan sobb'd himself to sleep 
 
 Upon the threshold-stone. 
 
 Even passing travellers paused to mark 
 
 A boy, so young and fair. 
 Thus slumbering on a stony bed 
 
 Amid the nipping air, — 
 
128 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 A boy, whose flaxen curls, the care 
 
 Of matron love disclose, 
 Though sorrow's pearl-drops sprinkled lay 
 
 Upon his cheeks of rose. 
 
 But onward, toward his lot of toil 
 With spirit bow'd and bent, 
 
 Wee Willie walking by his side, 
 The widow' d father went. 
 
 Silent they journey'd, hand in hand, 
 While from its cloud-wrapp'd head 
 
 A shower of chill and drizzling mist 
 The bleak Benachie shed. 
 
 Then, from the beaten track they turn'd 
 
 A broken path to wind. 
 The lonely spot where Bessie dwelt, 
 
 In a far glen to find. 
 
 They wander'd long o'er strath and brae. 
 While blasts autumnal sweep. 
 
 Before their own poor girl they spied 
 Tending her snowy sheep. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 129 
 
 Up toward the mountain side slie gazed, 
 
 Intent, yet sad of cheer. 
 Expecting still, from hour to hour, 
 
 To greet her mother dear. 
 
 Alas ! this was the appointed day 
 
 On which that tender friend 
 Had promised with her loving child 
 
 A little time to spend. 
 
 Warm stockings, that her hand would knit 
 
 From fleecy wool, to bring ; 
 Perchance, a broader plaid, to shield 
 
 From coming winter's sting. 
 
 As bounds the glad and nimble deer. 
 She flew, their steps to meet ; 
 " Father ! and Willie ! welcome here ! 
 But where's my mother sweet?" 
 
 " Speak to her, Willie ! Kiss her cheek ! 
 That grows so pale and white ; 
 Fain would I turn away awhile, 
 I cannot bear the sight. 
 
130 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 " sob not so, my precious son ! 
 Speak kindly words, and say 
 Why your lost mother does not come, 
 And how she sleeps in clay." 
 
 So, clasp'd within each other's arms, 
 
 Upon the heather dry. 
 Beside a clear and rippling brook 
 
 That crept unheeded by. 
 
 They told their tale of wo, and found ' 
 
 In sympathy relief; 
 But he, the deeper mourner, sank, 
 
 In solitary grief. 
 
 And nought escaped his utterance there, 
 While kneeling on the sod. 
 
 Save her loved name, his poor lost wife. 
 And broken cries to God. 
 
 Nor long the kindred tear to pour 
 That smitten group might stay. 
 
 For meagre Want with tyrant frown 
 Were beckoning them away. 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 131 
 
 "Oh, put your trust in God, my child," 
 The parting father said, 
 Then kiss'd his daughter's trembling lips, 
 And on his journey sped. 
 
 And sometimes, when her task bore hard, 
 It seem'd a mother's sigh, 
 "Oh, put your trust in God, my child," 
 Came breathing from the sky. 
 
 Oh ye, who see the suffering poor 
 
 With countless ills opprest, 
 Yet on in lordly chariots roll, 
 
 Nor heed their sad request ; — 
 
 Who mark the unrequited toil 
 That with its mountain Aveight 
 
 Doth crush them hopeless to the dust, 
 Yet leave them to their fate ; 
 
 Think of the hour, when forth, like theirs. 
 Your uncloth'd soul must fleet, 
 
 Its last and dread account to bide 
 Before the Judge's seat. 
 
132 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 
 
 And if to feed tlie hungering poor, 
 And be the orphan's stay, 
 
 Shall be remember'd mid the ire 
 Of that terrific day. 
 
 Haste ! ope the hand to mercy's deed. 
 The heart to sorrow's prayer. 
 
 And bid your lowly brother plead 
 For your forgiveness there. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 " strange to say, on first becoming aware of the berearements of that terrible night, 
 I sate for some minutes gazing upward at the fluttering and wlioeling movements of a 
 party of swallows, our fellow-lodgers, that had been disturbed by our unearthly outcry."— 
 Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver. 
 
 This poem is almost a Hteral version of circumstances related in a book, with the above 
 title, published in England recently, and written by AVilliam Thom, a Scotch weaver and 
 poet. "Its object," says the author, "is to impart to one portion of the community 
 glimpses of what is going on in another." 
 
 In our own happy land, the labouring poor have no idea of the distress which he thus 
 simply yet forcibly depicts. It occurred soon after six thousand looms were stopped in 
 the region of Dundee, and just before William Thom, with his wife and four little ones, 
 left their home at Newlyte, in search of the means of subsistence at Invei'ary, as related 
 in the preceding stanzas. 
 
 " It had been a stiff winter and an uulvindly spring ; but I will not expatiate on six 
 human lives maintained on five shillings weekly, on babies prematurely thoughtful, on 
 comely faces withering, on desponding youth, and too quickly declining age. I will de- 
 Scribe one morning of modified starvation at Newlyte, and then pass on. 
 
 " Imagine a cold, dreary forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows 
 none of the signs of that time of day. The four childr^ are still asleep. There is a bed- 
 cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible. The 
 
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 133 
 
 mother sits beside the bed of her children, to lull them back to sleep, -when either shall 
 show any inclination to wake. For this there is a cause. Our weekly five shillings hare 
 not come as was expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal 
 saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I were 
 conversing in sunken whispers about making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, 
 when the youngest child awoke, beyond the mother's power to hush it again to sleep. It 
 finally broke out into a steady scream, which, of course, rendered it impossible to keep the 
 rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprang up, each little one exclaiming 
 'Oh mother! mother! give me a piece.' How weak a word is sorrow, to apply to the 
 feelings of myself and my wife on that dreary day !" 
 
 M 
 
134 NIAGARA. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 Flow on for ever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
 Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him 
 Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence — and upon thine altar pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 Earth fears to lift 
 The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys 
 Or fleeting triumphs, mid the peal sublime 
 Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks 
 Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves 
 Retire abash' d. For he hath need to sleep. 
 Sometimes, like a spent labourer, calling home 
 His boisterous billows, from their vexing play. 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 135 
 
 To a long dreary calm : but thy strong tide 
 Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart forgets 
 Its everlasting lesson, night nor day. 
 The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth. 
 Heard thy hoarse anthem mixing with their sono- 
 Jehovah's name ; and the dissolving fires, 
 That wait the mandate of the day of doom 
 To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscribed 
 Upon thy rocky scroll. 
 
 The lofty trees 
 That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore 
 Of the too fitful winds ; while their young leaves 
 Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray, 
 Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds, 
 How bold they venture near, dipping their wing 
 In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 'tis meet 
 For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir 
 Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud 
 Unblamed, or warble at the gate of heaven 
 Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems 
 Scarce lawful with our erring lips to talk 
 Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace 
 Thine awful features with our pencil's point 
 Were but to press on Sinai. 
 
 Thou dost speak 
 Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop 
 
136 NIAGARA. 
 
 From his right-hand, — bidding the soul that looks 
 Upon thy fearful majesty be still, 
 Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness, 
 And lose itself in Him. 
 
THE CORAL INSECT. 137 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 
 Who build on the tossing and treacherous main; 
 Toil on ! for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
 With your sand-based structures and domes of rock; 
 Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
 And your arches spring up through the crested wave : 
 Ye 're a puny race thus boldly to rear 
 A fabric so vast in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
 The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
 The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd. 
 O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold, 
 The sea-snatch' d isle is the home of men. 
 And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 
 
138 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 But why do je plant 'neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
 There are snares enough on the tented field; 
 Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; 
 There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up; 
 There's a poison drop in man's purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath : 
 And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 
 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold ; 
 And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see 
 The mariner's bed mid their halls of glee : 
 Hath earth no graves ? that ye thus must spread 
 The boundless sea with the thronging dead ? 
 
 Ye build ! ye build ! but ye enter not in, 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin; 
 From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your wearied eye. 
 As the cloud-crown'd pyramids' founders sleep 
 Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 
 Ye slumber unmark'd mid the watery plain, 
 While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 
 
THE SUxNDAY-SCHOOL. 139 
 
 THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 
 
 Group after group are gathering, such as prest 
 
 Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid 
 Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, 
 
 Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ; 
 Group after group glide on with noiseless tread 
 
 And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, 
 Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred. 
 
 And holy words their ruby lips repeat, 
 Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet. 
 
 Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 
 
 Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 
 Look up, ye sad ones I — 'tis your Father's house 
 
 Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 
 More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, 
 
 And watch the gaudier forms that gayly rove. 
 And deem perchance, mistaken as you are. 
 
 The "coat of many colours" proves His love, 
 Whose sign is in the heart and whose reward above. 
 
MO THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 
 
 And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere, 
 
 To deeds of saint-like charity inclined. 
 Who from your cells of meditation dear 
 
 Come forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mind- 
 Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 
 
 Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain, — 
 Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 
 
 The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain 
 A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain. 
 
THE INDIAN SUMMER. 141 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 When was the red man's summer ? 
 
 When the rose 
 Hung its first banner out ? When the gray rock, 
 Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed? 
 Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
 Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
 Like living flame? When through the forest gleam'd 
 The rhododendron ? or the fragrant breath 
 Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
 O'er the half laden nerve ? 
 
 No. When the groves 
 In fleeting colours wrote their own decay, 
 And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast 
 That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 
 The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, 
 Heavy of wing and fearful ; when, with heart 
 Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd 
 The signs of coming winter : then began 
 
142 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Tlie Indian's joyous season.* Then the haze, 
 
 Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, 
 
 Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. 
 
 The quiet rivers, that were wont to hide 
 
 'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd 
 
 By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept. 
 
 While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky 
 
 Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged 
 
 In the same element. Slowly the sun, 
 
 And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved, 
 
 And then it took upon its parting wing 
 
 A rainbow glory. 
 
 Gorgeous was the time. 
 Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee. 
 Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
 With musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
 Our joys, alas ! too oft were wo to thee. 
 Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive 
 Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands. 
 The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown. 
 And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 
 
 * An aired chief said to our ancestors, " The white man's summer is past and gone, 
 but that of the Indian begins when the leaves fall." 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 143 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 
 
 It was the leafy month of June, 
 And joyous Nature, all in tune, 
 
 With wreathing buds was drest, 
 As toward Niagara's fearful side 
 
 A youthful stranger prest. 
 His ruddy cheek was blanch 'd with awe, 
 And scarce he seem'd his breath to draw. 
 
 While, bending o'er its brim. 
 He mark'd its strong, unfathom'd tide. 
 
 And heard its thunder-hymn. 
 
 His measured week too quickly fled. 
 Another, and another sped, 
 And soon the summer rose decay' d. 
 The moon of autumn sank in shade. 
 Years fiU'd their circle brief and fair, 
 Yet still the enthusiast linger'd there. 
 
144 THE HERMIT OF TH E FALLS. 
 
 Till winter hurl'd its dart; 
 For deeply round his soul was wove 
 A mystic chain of quenchless love, 
 
 That would not let him part. 
 When darkest midnight veil'd the sky, 
 You'd hear his hasting step go by. 
 To gain the bridge beside the deep. 
 That thread-like o'er the surge 
 Shot, where the wildest torrents leap, 
 
 And there, upon its awful verge, 
 His vigil lone to keep. 
 
 And when the moon, descending low, 
 Hung on the flood that gleaming bow, 
 Which it would seem some angel's hand 
 With heaven's own pencil tinged and spann'd, 
 Pure symbol of a better land, 
 He, kneeling, poured in utterance free 
 The eloquence of ecstasy ; 
 Though to his words no answer came, 
 Save that One, Everlasting Name, 
 Which, since Creation's morning broke, 
 Niagara's lip alone hath spoke. 
 
 When wintry tempests shook the sky, 
 And the rent pine-tree hurtled by. 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 145 
 
 Unblenching mid the storm lie stood, 
 And mark'd sublime the wrathful flood, 
 While wrought the frost-king fierce and drear, 
 His palace mid those cliffs to rear. 
 And strike the massy buttress strong, 
 And pile his sleet the rocks among, 
 And wasteful deck tho, branches bare 
 With icy diamonds, rich and rare. 
 
 Nor lack'd the hermit's humble shed 
 
 Such comforts as our natures ask 
 To fit them for their daily task, — 
 The cheering fire, the peaceful bed, 
 The simple meal in season spread : 
 While by the lone lamp's trembling light. 
 As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright, 
 
 O'er Homer's page he hung, 
 Or Maro's martial numbers scann'd, 
 Por classic lore of many a land 
 
 Flow'd smoothly o'er his tongue. 
 Oft, with rapt eye and skill profound. 
 He woke the entrancing viol's sound, 
 
 Or touch'd the sweet guitar. 
 For heavenly music deign 'd to dwell 
 An inmate in his cloister'd cell, 
 
 As beams the solemn star 
 
146 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 
 
 All night, with meditative eyes, 
 
 Where some lone rock-bound fountain lies. 
 
 As through the groves with quiet tread, 
 
 On his accustom'd haunts he sped. 
 
 The mother-thrush, unstartled, sung 
 
 Her descant to her callow young, 
 
 And fearless o'er his threshold prest 
 
 The wanderer from the sparrow's nest ; 
 
 The squirrel raised a sparkling eye, 
 
 Nor from his kernel cared to fly 
 
 As pass'd that gentle hermit by; 
 
 No timid creature shrank to meet 
 
 His pensive glance, serenely sweet ; 
 
 From his own kind, alone, he sought 
 
 The screen of solitary thought. 
 
 Whether the world too harshly prest 
 
 Its iron o'er a yielding breast. 
 
 Or taught his morbid youth to prove 
 
 The pang of unrequited love. 
 
 We know not, for he never said 
 
 Aught of the life that erst he led. 
 
 On Iris isle, a summer bower 
 He twined with branch, and vine, and flower, 
 And there he mused, on rustic seat. 
 Unconscious of the noonday heat, 
 
Or 'neath the crystal waters lay, 
 Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play. 
 Yet once, the whelming flood grew strong, 
 And bore him like a weed along, 
 Though, with convulsive throes of pain 
 And heaving breast, he strove in vain ; 
 Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide. 
 Lone as he lived, the hermit died. 
 
 On, by the rushing current swept, 
 The lifeless corse its voyage kept. 
 To where, in narrow gorge comprest, 
 The whirling eddies never rest. 
 But boil with wild tumultuous sway, 
 The maelstrom of Niagara. 
 And there, within that rocky bound, 
 In swift gyrations round and round, 
 
 Mysterious course it held; 
 Now springing from the torrent hoarse, 
 Now battling as with maniac force. 
 
 To mortal strife compell'd. 
 
 Right fearful neath the moonbeam brio-ht 
 It was to see that brow so white. 
 
 And mark the ghastly dead 
 Leap upward from his torture-bed, 
 
148 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 
 
 As if in passion-gust, 
 And tossing wild with agony, 
 To mock the omnipotent decree 
 
 Of dust to dust. 
 
 At length, where smoother waters flow, 
 Emerging from the gulf below, 
 The hapless youth they gain'd, and bore 
 Sad to his own forsaken door. 
 There watch' d his dog with straining eye, 
 And scarce would let the train pass by, 
 
 Save that, with instinct's rushing spell. 
 Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, 
 And stiff and stony form, he knew 
 
 The master he had loved so well. 
 
 The kitten fair, whose graceful wile 
 So oft had won his musing smile, 
 As at his foot she held her play. 
 Stretch' d on his vacant pillow lay. 
 While strew 'd around, on board and chair, 
 
 The last pluck'd flower, the book last read, 
 
 The ready pen, the page outspread. 
 The water-cruse, the unbroken bread. 
 
 Reveal' d how sudden was the snare 
 That swept him to the dead. 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 
 
 149 
 
 And SO he rests in foreign earth, 
 Who drew mid Albion's vales his birth ; 
 Yet let no cynic phrase unkind 
 Condemn that youth of gentle mind, 
 Of shrinking nerve and lonely heart, 
 And letter'd lore and tuneful art. 
 
 Who here his humble worship paid. 
 In that most glorious temple-shrine, 
 Where to the Majesty divine 
 
 Nature her noblest altar made. 
 
 No, blame him not, but praise the Power 
 Who in the dear, domestic bower. 
 Hath given you firmer strength to rear 
 The plants of love with toil and fear. 
 The beam to meet, the blast to dare, 
 And like a faithful soldier bear. 
 Still with sad heart his requiem pour. 
 Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar, 
 Nor grudge one tear of pitying gloom 
 To dew that sad enthusiast's tomb. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave 
 
 Where a lily bad chanced to grow : 
 ' Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye, 
 
 When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
 Must sleep in the churchyard low ?" 
 
 Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, 
 
 And spoke from its shining track : 
 ' I was a worm till I won my wings, 
 And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings ; 
 
 Wouldst thou call the bless'd one back ?" 
 
SOLITUDE. 151 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell 
 Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
 While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
 Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. 
 
 Thither I went, 
 And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount 
 For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
 And fever of the world. I thought to be 
 There without witness. But the violet's eye 
 Look'd up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled. 
 And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek. 
 There were glad voices too. The garrulous brook, 
 Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
 Its history. Up came the singing breeze. 
 And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
 Responsive, every one. E'en busy life 
 Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw 
 From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
 The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
 
152 SOLITUDE. 
 
 The rifled grain, toil'd toward her citadel. 
 To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
 While from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
 Sang to her nurslings. 
 
 Yet I strangely thought 
 To be alone and silent in thy realm, 
 Spirit of life and love ! It might not be ! — 
 There is no solitude in thy domains, 
 Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
 He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. 
 Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
 "Without a witness. E'en the desert place 
 Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams 
 Are social and benevolent ; and he 
 Who holdeth converse in their language pure. 
 Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
 Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest, 
 His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 
 
THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 153 
 
 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Thou dost not dream, my little one, 
 
 How great the change must be, 
 These two years, since the morning sun 
 
 First shed his beams on thee. 
 Thy little hands did helpless fall. 
 
 As with a stranger's fear, 
 And a faint wailing cry was all 
 
 That met thy mother's ear. 
 
 But now the dictates of thy will 
 
 Thine active feet obey, 
 And, pleased, thy busy fingers still 
 
 Among thy playthings stray ; 
 And thy full eyes delighted rove 
 
 The pictured page along, 
 And, lisping to the heart of love. 
 
 Thy thousand wishes throng. 
 
154 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Fair boy ! the wanderings of thy way 
 
 It is not mine to trace, 
 Through buoyant youth's exulting day, 
 
 Or manhood's bolder race : 
 What discipline thy heart may need, 
 
 What clouds may veil thy sun, 
 The eye of God alone can read — 
 
 And let his will be done. 
 
 Yet might a mother's prayer of love 
 
 Thy destiny control; 
 Those boasted gifts that often prove 
 
 The ruin of the soul, 
 Beauty and fortune, wit and fame, 
 
 For thee it would not crave, 
 But tearful urge a fervent claim 
 
 To joys beyond the grave. 
 
 ! be thy wealth an upright heart, 
 
 Thy strength the sufferer's stay, 
 Thine early choice that better part 
 
 Which cannot fade away; 
 Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire, 
 
 Thy friends the men of peace. 
 Thy heritage an angel's lyre 
 
 When earthly changes cease. 
 
THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 155 
 
 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 
 
 Occasioned by reading the manner of conveying a young man to burial in the moun- 
 tainous region about Vettie's Qiel, in Norway. 
 
 Who's riding o'er the Giel so fast, 
 
 Mid the crags of Utledale ? 
 He heeds not cold nor storm nor blast ; 
 
 But his cheek is deadly pale. 
 
 A fringe of pearl from his eyelash long 
 
 Stern winter's hand hath hung ; 
 And his sinewy arm looks bold and strong, 
 
 Though his brow is smooth and young. 
 
 Round his marble forehead, in clusters bright. 
 
 Is wreathed his golden hair ; 
 His robe is of linen, long and white. 
 Though a mantle of fur scarce could 'bide the blight 
 
 Of his keen and frosty air. 
 
God speed thee now, thou horseman bold! 
 
 For the tempest awakes in wrath ; 
 And thy stony eye is fix'd and cold 
 
 As the glass of thine icy path. 
 
 Down, down the precipice wild he breaks, 
 
 Where the foaming waters roar ; 
 And his way up the cliff of the mountain takes. 
 
 Where man never trod before. 
 
 No checking hand to the rein he lends, 
 
 On slippery summits sheen ; 
 But ever and aye his head he bends 
 
 At the plunge in some dark ravine. 
 
 Dost thou bow in prayer to the God who guides 
 
 Thy course o'er such pavement frail? 
 Or nod in thy dream on the steep, where glides 
 The curdling brook with its slippery tides. 
 Thou horseman so young and pale ? 
 
 Swift, swift o'er the breast of the frozen streams. 
 
 Toward Lyster Church he hies, 
 Whose holy spire mid the glaciers gleams, 
 
 Like a star in troubled skies. 
 
THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 157 
 
 Now staj, thou ghostly traveller — stay : 
 
 Why haste in such mad career ? 
 Be the guilt of thy bosom as dark as it may, 
 
 'Twere better to purge it here. 
 
 On, on ! like the winged blast he wends, 
 Where moulder the bones of the dead — 
 
 Wilt thou stir the sleep of thy buried friends, 
 With thy courser's tramping tread ? 
 
 At a yawning pit, whose narrow brink 
 
 Mid the swollen snow was grooved, 
 He paused. The steed from that chasm did shrink, 
 
 But the rider sate unmoved. 
 
 Then down at once, from his lonely seat. 
 
 They lifted the horseman pale, 
 And laid him low in that drear retreat. 
 And pour'd, in dirge-like measure sweet. 
 
 The mournful funeral wail. 
 
 Bold youth, whose bosom with pride had glow'd 
 
 In a life of toil severe — 
 Didst thou scorn to pass to thy last abode 
 
 In the ease of the slothful bier ? 
 
158 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 
 
 Must thy own good steed, which thy hands had drest, 
 
 In the fulness of boyhood's bliss, 
 By the load of thy lifeless limbs be prest, 
 
 On a journey so strange as this? 
 
 Yet still to the depth of yon rock-barr'd dell. 
 
 Where no ray from heaven hath glow'd. 
 Where the thundering rush of the Markefoss fell, 
 The trembling child doth point and tell 
 How that fearful horseman rode. 
 
TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 159 
 
 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 Would they swept cleaner ! 
 
 Here's a littering shred 
 Of linen left behind — a vile reproach 
 To all good housewifery. Right glad am I 
 That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times 
 Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work, 
 And speckless sanctity of household care, 
 Hath happen'd here to spy thee. She, no doubt, 
 Keen looking through her spectacles, would say, 
 " This comes of reading hooks." Or some spruce beau, 
 Essenced and lily-handed, had he chanced 
 To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be, 
 " This comes of writing poetry." — Well, well, 
 Come forth, offender ! — ^hast thou aught to say ? 
 Canst thou, by merry thought or quaint conceit, 
 Repay this risk that I have run for thee ? 
 
 Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself 
 
 Into thine elements. I see the stalk 
 
 And bright blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread 
 
160 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch'd 
 His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom 
 Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales. 
 But, lo ! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail 
 To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife. 
 With kerchief'd head and eye brimfull of dust, 
 Thy fibrous nerves with hatchel-tooth divides. 
 
 1 hear a voice of music — and behold ! 
 
 The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel, 
 While by her side the rustic lover sits. 
 Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count 
 The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall, 
 Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought 
 (For men have deeper minds than women — sure !) 
 Is calculating what a thrifty wife 
 The maid will make ; and how his dairy shelves 
 Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese, 
 Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg 
 And pot of butter to the market borne. 
 May, transmigrated, on his back appear 
 In new thanksgiving coats. 
 
 Fain would I ask, 
 Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel, 
 By sofa and piano quite displaced. 
 Why dost thou banish from thy parlour hearth 
 That old Hygeian harp, whose magic ruled 
 
TOASHREDOFLINEN. 161 
 
 Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-sliepherd's skill 
 Exorcised Saul's ennui? There was no need, 
 In those good times of callisthenics, sure ; 
 And there was less of gadding, and far more 
 Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong 
 In industry, and bearing such rare fruit 
 As wealth might never purchase. 
 
 But come back, 
 Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop 
 In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost 
 The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot 
 When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd 
 And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun 
 Thy brown complexion bleach'd? 
 
 Methinks I scan 
 Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out 
 A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest. 
 To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire 
 The snowy whiteness of thy freshen' d youth, 
 Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe 
 Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee ? 
 Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan, 
 When there was none to comfort? — or shrunk back 
 From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow ? 
 Or gather'd from young beauty's restless sigh 
 A tale of untold love ? 
 
162 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 Still close and mute ! — 
 Wilt tell no secrets, ha? — Well then, go down, 
 With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious lore, 
 In majesty and mystery, go down 
 Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws, 
 Stainless and smooth, emerge. Happy shall be 
 The renovation, if on thy fair page 
 Wisdom and truth their hallow' d lineaments 
 Trace for posterity. So shall thine end 
 Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard 
 Thine apotheosis immortalize. 
 
FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 163 
 
 X 
 
 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 
 
 How beautiful it stands, 
 
 Behind its elm-tree's screen, 
 With simple attic cornice crown'd, 
 
 All graceful and serene ! 
 Most sweet, yet sad, it is 
 
 Upon yon scene to gaze, 
 And list its inborn melody, 
 
 The voice of other days. 
 
 For there, as many a year 
 
 Its varied chart unroll 'd, 
 I hid me in those quiet shades. 
 
 And call'd the joys of old; 
 I call'd them, and they came 
 
 When vernal buds appear'd. 
 Or where the vine-clad summer bower 
 
 Its temple-roof uprear'dj 
 
164 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 
 
 Or where tlie o'erarching grove 
 
 Spread forth its copses green, 
 While eyebright and asclepias rear'd 
 
 Their untrain'd stalks between, 
 And the squirrel from the boughs 
 
 His broken nuts let fall, 
 And the merry, merry little birds 
 
 Sang at his festival. 
 
 Yon old forsaken nests 
 
 Returning spring shall cheer, 
 And thence the unfledged robin breathe 
 
 His greeting wild and clear; 
 And from yon clustering vine. 
 
 That wreathes the casement round. 
 The humming-bird's unresting wing 
 
 Send forth a whirring sound ; 
 
 And where alternate springs 
 
 The lilac's purple spire 
 Fast by its snowy sister's side ; 
 
 Or where, with wing of fire, 
 The kingly oriole glancing went 
 
 Amid the foliage rare, 
 Shall many a group of children tread. 
 
 But mine will not be there. 
 
FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 1G5 
 
 Fain would I know what forms 
 
 The mastery here shall keep, 
 What mother in yon nursery fair 
 
 Shall rock her babes to sleep : 
 Yet blessings on the hallow'd spot, 
 
 Though here no more I stray. 
 And blessings on the stranger-babes 
 
 Who in those halls shall play. 
 
 Heaven bless you, too, my plants, 
 
 And every parent bird 
 That here, among the woven boughs. 
 
 Above its young hath stirr'd. 
 I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, 
 
 That often o'er my head 
 The blossoms of your glorious spring 
 
 In fragrant showers have shed. 
 
 Tliou, too, of fitful mood, 
 
 I thank thee, murmuring stream. 
 That blent thine echo with my thought. 
 
 Or woke my musing dream. 
 I kneel upon the verdant turf. 
 
 For sure my thanks are due 
 To moss-cup and to clover-leaf, 
 
 That gave me draughts of dew. 
 
166 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 
 
 To each perennial flower, 
 
 Old tenants of the spot, 
 The broad-leaf 'd lily of the vale. 
 
 And the meek forget-me-not, 
 To every daisy's dappled brow. 
 
 To every violet blue. 
 Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 
 
 Your changeless bloom renew. 
 
 Praise to our Father-God, 
 
 High praise, in solemn lay. 
 Alike for what his hand hath given. 
 
 And what it takes away : 
 And to some other loving heart 
 
 May all this beauty be 
 The dear retreat, the Eden-home 
 
 That it hath been to me. 
 
BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 167 
 
 BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 
 
 'Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother." — 2 Sam. xix. 37. 
 
 Son of Jesse ! let me go, 
 
 Why should princely honours stay me ? — 
 Where the streams of Gilead flow, 
 Where the light first met mine eye, 
 Thither would I turn and die ; 
 Where my parents' ashes lie, 
 
 King of Israel ! bid them lay me. 
 
 Bury me near my sire revered, 
 Who righteous paths so firmly trod, 
 Who early taught my soul with awe 
 To heed the Prophets and the Law, 
 
 And to my infant heart appear'd 
 Majestic as a God: 
 
 Oh ! when his sacred dust 
 The cerements of the tomb shall burst, 
 
168 BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 
 
 Might I be worthy at his feet to rise, 
 
 To yonder blissful skies, 
 Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, 
 Jehovah ! Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine. 
 
 Cold age upon my breast 
 Hath shed a frost like death ; 
 The wine-cup hath no zest. 
 The rose no fragrant breath; 
 
 Music from my ear hath fled. 
 Yet still one sweet tone lingereth there, 
 The blessing that my mother shed 
 Upon my evening prayer. 
 
 Dim is my wasted eye 
 To all that beauty brings, 
 The brow of grace — the form of symmetry 
 
 Are half-forgotten things ; 
 Yet one bright hue is vivid still, 
 A mother's holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. 
 
 Memory, with traitor-tread 
 
 Methinks, doth steal away 
 Treasures that the mind had laid 
 
 Up for a wintry day. 
 Images of sacred power, 
 Cherish'd deep in passion's hour, 
 
BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 169 
 
 Faintlj now my bosom stir, 
 Good and evil like a dream 
 Half obscured and shadowy seem, 
 Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, 
 
 Yea — it remembereth her: 
 Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. 
 
170 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 
 
 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 
 
 Speak, speak, sweet guests. 
 
 Yes, ope your lips in words, 
 'Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain 
 I'd have an answer. I've been long convinced 
 You understand me, though you do not choose 
 To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips, 
 For all to sport with. 
 
 Lily of the vale. 
 And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue, 
 I call on you the first, for well I know 
 How prone the village maiden is to hide 
 Her clear good sense among the city folks, 
 Unless well urged, and fortified to speak. 
 
 purple Pansy ! friend of earliest years. 
 You're always welcome. Hath no grandame told 
 You of your ancestors, who flourish' d fair 
 Upon the margin of my native Thames ? 
 
GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 171 
 
 'Twas not the fond garrulity of age, 
 
 That made her laud the past, without respect 
 
 To verity ; for I remember well 
 
 How beautiful they were, and with what pride 
 
 I used to pluck them, when my school was o'er, 
 
 And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets, 
 
 Between my Bible leaves, and find them there 
 
 Month after month, pressing their bosoms close 
 
 To some undying hope. 
 
 Bright Hyacinth, 
 I'm glad you've brought your little ones. How snug 
 You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see 
 Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out. 
 Ah ! here's the baby, in its blanket too. 
 You're a good mother, sure. Don't be in haste 
 To take their mantles ofi"; the morn is chill ; 
 I'd rather see them one by one come forth, 
 Just when they please. A charming family ! 
 And very happy you must doubtless be 
 In their sweet promise and your matron care. 
 
 Gay, graceful Tulip, did you learn in France 
 Your taste for dress ? and how to hold your head 
 So elegantly ? In the gale yestreen. 
 That o'er the parterre swept with sudden force, 
 I thought I saw you waltzing. Have a care. 
 
172 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET, 
 
 And do not look disdainfully on those 
 You call plebeian flowers, because, you know, 
 We live in a republic, where the strength 
 Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs 
 To lop the haughty and to lift the low. 
 
 Good neighbour Cowslip, I have seen the bee 
 Whispering to you, and have been told he stays 
 Quite long and late amid your golden cells. 
 Is it not business that he comes upon — ■ 
 Matter-of-fact ? He never wastes an hour. 
 Know you that he's a subtle financier. 
 And shows some gain for every day he spends ? 
 Oh ! learn from him the priceless worth of time, 
 Thou fair and frail ! So shalt thou prove the truth, 
 That he who makes companion of the wise 
 Shall in their wisdom share. 
 
 Narcissus pale ! 
 Had e'er a governess, who kept you close 
 Over your needle or your music books ? 
 Not suffering you to sweep a room, or make 
 A pudding in the kitchen ? I'm afraid 
 She shut you from the air and fervid sun. 
 To keep you delicate, or let you draw 
 Your corset-cord too tight. I would you were 
 As hardy as your cousin Daffodil, 
 
GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 173 
 
 Who to the sharp wind turns her buxom cheek 
 Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin, 
 And milk the cows, — her nerves by labour strung 
 To bear its duties and its burdens too. 
 
 Lilac of Persia ! tell us some fine tale 
 Of Eastern lands. We're fond of travellers. 
 Have you no legend of some sultan proud, 
 Or old fire-worshipper ? What ! not one note 
 Made on your voyage ? Well, 'tis wondrous strange 
 That you should let so rare a chance slip by, 
 While those who never journey'd half as far 
 Fill sundry volumes, and expect the world 
 To reverently peruse and magnify 
 What it well knew before. 
 
 Most glorious Rose, 
 You are the queenly belle. On you, all eyes 
 Admiring turn. Doubtless you might indite 
 Romances from your own sweet history. 
 They're quite the fashion now, and crowd the page 
 Of every periodical. Wilt tell 
 None of your heart-adventures ? Never mind ! 
 We plainly read the zephyr's stolen kiss 
 In your deep blush; so where's the use to seal 
 Your lips so cunningly, when all the world 
 Call you the flower of love ?- 
 
174 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 
 
 And now good-bye, — 
 A pleasant gossip have I had with you, 
 Obliging visitants, but must away 
 To graver toils. Still keep your incense fresh, 
 And free to rise to Him who tints your brows, 
 Bidding the brown mould and unsightly stem 
 Put forth such blaze of beauty, as translates 
 To dullest hearts His dialect of love. 
 
ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Poor Erin's daughter cross'd the main 
 
 In youth's unfolding prime, 
 A lot of servitude to bear 
 
 In this our western clime. 
 
 And when the drear heart-sickness came 
 
 Beneath a stranger sky, 
 Tears on her nightly pillow lay, 
 
 But morning saw them dry. 
 
 For still with earnest hope she strove 
 
 Her distant home to cheer, 
 And from her parents lift the load 
 
 Of poverty severe. 
 
 To them with liberal hand she sent 
 Her all — her hard-earn'd store — 
 
 A rapture thrilling through her soul, 
 She ne'er had felt before. 
 
176 ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 E'en mid her quiet slumbers gleam'd 
 
 A cabin's lighted pane, 
 A board with simple plenty crown'd, 
 
 A loved and loving train. 
 
 And so her life of earnest toil 
 With secret joy was blest, 
 
 For the sweet warmth of filial love 
 Made sunshine in her breast. 
 
 But bitter tidings o'er the wave 
 
 With fearful echo sped ; 
 Gaunt famine o'er her home had strode. 
 
 And all were with the dead ! 
 
 All gone ! — her brothers in their glee, 
 Her sisters young and fair ; 
 
 And Erin's daughter bow'd her down 
 In desolate despair. 
 
THE HOLY DEAD. 177 
 
 THE HOLY DEAD. 
 
 " WTierefore I praised the dead who are already dead moi-e than the living who are 
 yet alive." — Solomon. 
 
 They dread no storm that lowers, 
 
 No perish'd joys bewail; 
 They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 
 
 Nor drink of streams that fail : 
 There is no tear-drop in their eye. 
 
 No change upon their brow; 
 Their placid bosom heaves no sigh 
 
 Though all earth's idols bow. 
 
 Who are so greatly blest ? 
 
 From whom hath sorrow fled ? 
 Who share such deep, unbroken rest 
 
 Where all things toil ? The dead ! 
 The holy dead. Why weep ye so 
 
 Above yon sable bier ? 
 Thrice blessed ! they have done with wo. 
 
 The living claim the tear. 
 
Go to their sleeping bowers, 
 
 Deck their low couch of clay 
 With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers ; 
 
 And when they fade away, 
 Think of the amaranthine wreath. 
 
 The garlands never dim. 
 And tell me why thou fly'st from death, 
 
 Or hid'st thy friends from him. 
 
 We dream, but they awake; 
 
 Dread visions mar our rest ; 
 Through thorns and snares our way we take. 
 
 And yet we mourn the blest ! 
 For spirits round the Eternal Throne 
 
 How vain the tears we shed ! 
 Chey are the living, they alone. 
 
 Whom thus we call the dead. 
 
DEW-DROPS. , 179 
 
 DEW-DROPS. 
 
 " Father, there are no dew-drops on my rose ; 
 I thought to find them, but they all are gone. 
 Was night a niggard ? Or did envious dawn 
 Steal those bright diamonds from unwaken'd day ?" 
 
 The father answer'd not, but pointed where 
 The sudden falling of a summer shower 
 Made quiet music mid the quivering leaves, 
 And through the hollows of the freshen'd turf 
 Drew lines like silver. Then a bow sprang forth 
 Spanning the skies. 
 
 " See'st thou yon glorious hues, 
 Violet and gold ? The dew-drops glitter there, 
 That from the bosom of thy rose had fled, 
 My precious child. Read thou their lesson well. 
 That what is pure and beautiful on earth 
 Shall smile in heaven." 
 
 He knew not that he spake 
 
180 DEW-DROPS. 
 
 Prophetic words. But ere the infant moon 
 Swell' d to a perfect orb her crescent pale, 
 That loving soul, which on the parent's breast 
 Had sparkled as a dew-drop, was exhaled, 
 To mingle mid the brightness of the skies. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Clime of tlie West ! that, slumbering long and deep, 
 Beneath thy misty mountains' solemn shade, 
 
 And, lull'd by melancholy winds that sweep 
 The unshorn forest and untrodden glade, 
 
 Heard not the cry when mighty empires died, 
 
 Nor caught one echo from oblivion's tide. 
 While age on age its stormy voyage made : 
 
 See ! Europe, watching from her sea-girt shore. 
 Extends the sceptred hand, and bids thee dream no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 Say, was it sweet in cradled rest to lie. 
 
 And 'scape the ills that older regions know? 
 
 Prolong the vision' d trance of infancy. 
 
 And hide from manhood's toil, mischance and wo ? 
 
 Sweet, by the margin of thy sounding streams 
 
 Freely to rove, and nurse illusive dreams. 
 
 Nor taste the fruits on thorny trees that grow ? 
 
182 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 The evil, and the sorrow, and the crime. 
 That make the harass'd earth grow old before her time? 
 
 III. 
 
 Clime of the West ! that to the hunter's bow. 
 And roving hordes of savage men, wert sold. 
 
 Their cone-roof'd wigwams pierced the wintry snow, 
 Their tassel' d corn* crept sparsely through the mould, 
 
 Their bark canoes thy glorious waters clave, 
 
 The chase their glory, and the wild their grave : 
 Look up ! a loftier destiny behold. 
 
 For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers, 
 Rich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Behold a sail ! another, and another ! 
 
 Like living things on the broad river's breast ; 
 What were thy secret thoughts, oh red-brow'd brother, 
 
 As toward the shore those white-winged wanderers 
 press'd? 
 But lo ! emerging from her forest zone, 
 
 * To those not familiar with the appearance of the Indian corn, on whose cultivation 
 the aborigines of America relied as a principal article of subsistence, it may be well to say 
 that a silky fibre, sometimes compared to a tassel, is protruded from the extremity of the 
 sheath which enyelops the golden ear or sheaf of that stately and beautiful vegetable. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 183 
 
 The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown, 
 
 With nodding plumes her raven tresses dress'd, 
 Of queenly step, and form erect and bold. 
 Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the Old. 
 
 V. 
 
 Roll on, majestic flood, in power and pride, 
 Which like a sea doth swell old ocean's sway ; 
 
 With hasting keel, thy pale-faced sponsors glide 
 To keep the pageant of thy christening day : 
 
 They bless thy wave, they bid thee leave unsung 
 
 The uncouth baptism of a barbarous tongue, 
 And take his name — the Stuart's — first to lay 
 
 The Scottish thistle on the lion's mane. 
 Of all old Albion's kings, most versatile and vain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Spring robes the vales.* With what a flood of light 
 She holds her revels in this sunny clime ! 
 
 The flower-sown turf like bossy velvet bright. 
 The blossom'd trees exulting in their prime, 
 
 * The ships which bore the Virginian colonists — the founders of our nation — entered 
 the Chesapeake April 26, 1607; and on the 13th of May, five months from the time of 
 setting sail from England, which was December 19th, 1606, a permanent embarkation was 
 effected at Jamestown, fifty miles up that noble river, to which the name of James was 
 given, in honour of the reigning monarch. 
 
184 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 The leaping streamlets in their joyous play, 
 The hirds that frolic mid the diamond spray, 
 
 Or heavenward soar, with minstrelsy sublime : 
 What wild enchantment spreads a fairy wing. 
 As from their prisoning ships the enfranchised strangers 
 spring. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Their tents are pitch' d, their spades have broke the soil, 
 The strong oak thunders as it topples down. 
 
 Their lily-handed youths essay the toil,* 
 
 That from the forest rends its ancient crown. 
 
 Where are your splendid halls, which ladies tread, 
 
 Your lordly boards with every luxury spread, 
 Virginian sires — ye men of old renown ? 
 
 Though few and faint, your ever-living chain 
 Holds in its grasp two worlds, across the surging main. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet who can tell what fearful pangs of wo 
 
 Those weary-hearted colonists await. 
 When to its home the parting ship must go. 
 
 And leave them in their exile, desolate ? 
 
 * " The axe frequently blistered their tender fingers, so that many times every third 
 blow had a loud oath to drown its echo." — Hillard's Life of Captain Smith. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 185 
 
 Ah, wlio can paint the peril and the pain, 
 The failing harvest and the famish' d train. 
 
 The wily foe with ill-dissembled hate, 
 The sickness of the heart, the wan despair. 
 Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Still, mid their cares, a hallow'd dome they rear'd, 
 
 To nurse devotion's consecrated flame; 
 And there a wondering world of forests heard, 
 
 First borne in solemn chant, Jehovah's name; 
 First temple to his service, refuge dear 
 From strong affliction and the alien's tear, 
 
 How swell'd the sacred song in glad acclaim: 
 "England, sweet mother!"* many a fervent prayer 
 There pour'd its praise to heaven for all thy love and care. 
 
 X. 
 
 And they who 'neath the vaulted roof had bow'd 
 Of some proud minster of the olden time. 
 
 Or where the vast cathedral towards the cloud 
 Rear'd its dark pile in symmetry sublime, 
 
 While through the storied pane the sunbeam play'd, 
 
 * "Lord, bless Englaud, our sweet native country," was the morning and evening 
 prayer in tlie church at Jamestown, the first church erected in our Western world. 
 
186 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade, 
 
 Now breathed from humblest fane their ancient chime : 
 And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell 
 With every seeking soul, though bow'd in lowliest cell? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet not quite unadorn'd, their house of prayer: 
 The fragrant offspring of the genial morn 
 
 They duly brought;* and fondly offer'd there 
 The bud that trembles ere the rose is born, 
 
 The blue clematis and the jasmine pale, 
 
 The scarlet woodbine waving in the gale. 
 The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn. 
 
 The rich magnolia, with its foliage fair. 
 High-priestess of the flowers, whose censer fills the air. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Might not such incense please thee. Lord of love ? 
 
 Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show 
 Some foretaste of thy Paradise above, 
 
 To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below ? 
 Bidd'st thou mid parching sands the floweret meek 
 Strike its frail root and raise its tinted cheek. 
 
 * " At the beginning of each day they assembled in the little church, which was kept 
 neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the country." — Bancroft, toI. i. p. 141. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 187 
 
 And the slight pine defy the arctic snow, 
 That e'en the skeptic's frozen eye may see 
 On Nature's beauteous page what lines she writes of Thee ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What groups, at Sabbath morn, were hither led ! 
 
 Dejected men with disappointed frown ; 
 Spoil'd youths,* the parents' darling and their dread. 
 
 From castles in the air hurl'd ruthless down ; 
 The sea-bronzed mariner, the warrior brave, 
 The keen gold-gatherer, grasping as the grave ; 
 
 Oft, mid these mouldering walls, which nettles crown. 
 Stern breasts have lock'd their purpose and been still, 
 And contrite spirits knelt, to learn their Maker's Avill. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Here, in his surplice white, the pastor stood, f 
 A holy man, of countenance serene, 
 
 * "A great part of the new company who came out in 1609," says the historian Stith, 
 " consisted of unruly sparks, packed off by their friends to escape worse destinies at home. 
 The rest were chiefly made up of poor gentlemen, broken tradesmen, footmen, and such 
 others as were fitter to spoil and ruin a commonwealth than to help to raise and maintain 
 one. ' When you send again,' Captain Smith was constrained to write to the Corporation 
 in London, ' I entreat you, rather send but thirty carpenters, husbandmen, gardeners, fish- 
 ermen, blacksmiths, masons, and diggers-up of trees' roots, than a thousand of such as we 
 have.' " 
 
 j- '• The morning-star of the church was the Kev. Mr. Hunt, sent out by the London 
 
Who, mid the quaking earth or fiery flood 
 Unmoved, in truth's own panoply, had been 
 
 A fair example of his own pure creed ; 
 
 Patient of error, pitiful to need. 
 
 Persuasive wisdom in his thoughtful mien, 
 
 And in that Teacher's heavenly meekness bless'd. 
 Who laved his followers' feet, with towel-girded vest. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Music upon the breeze ! the savage stays 
 
 His flying arrow as the strain goes by ; 
 He starts ! he listens ! lost in deep amaze, 
 
 Breath half-suppress' d, and lightning in his eye 
 Have the clouds spoken? Do the spirits rise 
 From his dead fathers' graves, with wildering melodies ? 
 
 Oft did he muse, 'neath midnight's solemn sky. 
 On those deep tones, which, rising o'er the sod. 
 Bore forth, from hill to hill, the white man's hymn to God. 
 
 company in 1606, among the leaders of the infant colony. It was he who administered the 
 sacrament of the Lord's Supper for the first time in Virginia at Jamestown, the first per- 
 manent habitation of the English in America, and the site of the first Christian temple. 
 Ho was a man of a truly humble, meek, and peaceful spirit, and it is impossible now to 
 estimate the value of the beneficial influence he exercised upon the fortxines of the colony. 
 His kind offices as peacemaker were frequently interposed to harmonize differences which 
 would hare been fatal to the enterprise ; and his example of suffering affliction, and of pa- 
 tience in sickness, in poverty, in peril, cheered hi.s drooping companions, inspiring them 
 with such fortitude, and stimulating them to such efforts, as, with the blessing of Provi- 
 dence, enabled them to maintain their difficult positions." — Eev. Philip SUxughtefr. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 189 
 
 XVI. 
 
 News of the strangers stirr'd Powhatan's dreams. 
 
 The mighty monarch of the tribes that roam 
 A thousand forests,* and on countless streams 
 
 Urge the swift bark and dare the cataract's foam ; 
 The haughtiest chieftains in his presence stood 
 Tame as a child, and from the field of blood 
 
 His war-cry thrill' d with fear the foeman's home : 
 His nod was death, his frown was fix'd as fate, 
 Unchangeable his love, invincible his hate. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A forest-child, amid the flowers at play !f 
 
 Her raven locks in strange profusion flowing ; 
 
 A sweet, wild girl, with eye of earnest ray. 
 And olive cheek, at each emotion glowing ; 
 
 Yet, whether in her gladsome frolic leaping. 
 
 Or 'neath the greenwood shade unconscious sleeping. 
 Or with light oar her fairy pinnace rowing. 
 
 * Powhatan, the king of the country where the founders of Virginia first chose their 
 residence, was said to hold dominion over thirty nations or tribes who inhabited that 
 region ; and being possessed both of arbitrary power and much native talent, his enmity 
 was dreaded, and pains taken by the colonists to conciliate his friendship. 
 
 f " Pocahontas, the daughter of Powhatan, a girl of ten or twelve years of age, who, not 
 only for feature, countenance, and expression, much exceeded any of the rest of her people, 
 but for wit and spirit was the only nonpareil of the country." — Captain John Smith. 
 
190 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Still, like the eaglet on its new-fledged wing, 
 Her spirit-glance bespoke the daughter of a king. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But he, that wily monarch, stern and old. 
 
 Mid his grim chiefs, with barbarous trappings bright. 
 
 That morn a court of savage state did hold. 
 
 The sentenced captive see, — his brow how white ! 
 
 Stretch' d on the turf his manly form lies low, 
 
 The war-club ppises for its fatal blow. 
 
 The death-mist swims before his darken' d sight : 
 
 Forth springs the child, in tearful pity bold. 
 Her head on his reclines, her arms his neck enfold. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " The child ! what madness fires her ? Hence ! Depart I 
 Fly, daughter, fly ! before the death-stroke rings : 
 
 Divide her, warriors, from that English heart." 
 In vain ! for with convulsive grasp she clings : 
 
 She claims a pardon from her frowning sire ; 
 
 Her pleading tones subdue his gather'd ire;* 
 And so, uplifting high his feathery dart. 
 
 * "Lire! live!" said the softened monarch, "and make hatchets for me, and necklaces 
 for Pocahontas." 
 
POCAHONTAS. 191 
 
 That doting father gave the child her -will, 
 And bade the victim live, and be his servant still. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Know'st thou what thou hast done, thou dark-hair'd child? 
 
 What great events on thy compassion hung ? 
 What prowess lurks beneath yon aspect mild, 
 
 And in the accents of that foreign tongue ? 
 As little knew the princess who descried 
 A floating speck on Egypt's turbid tide, 
 
 A bulrush-ark the matted reeds among, 
 And, yielding to an infant's tearful smile, 
 Drew forth Jehovah's seer from the devouring Nile. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 In many a clime, in many a battle tried 
 By Turkish sabre and by Moorish spear ; 
 
 Mid Afric's sands, or Russian forests wide, 
 Romantic, bold, chivalrous, and sincere. 
 
 Keen-eyed, clear-minded, and of purpose pure. 
 
 Dauntless to rule, or patient to endure. 
 
 Was he* whom thou hast rescued with a tear : 
 
 * The extraordinary features in the character of Captain John Smith, and the strange 
 incidents which made almost the whole of his life a romance, are exhibited by many histo- 
 rians. Hillard, in his biography of him, says, " We see him performing at the same time 
 
192 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Thou wert the saviour of the Saxon vine, 
 And for this deed alone, our praise and love are thine. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Not yet for this alone, shall history's scroll 
 Embalm thine image with a grateful tear ; 
 
 For when the grasp of famine tried the soul, 
 
 When strength decay'd, and dark despair was near, 
 
 Who led her train of playmates, day by day, 
 
 O'er rock, and stream, and wild, a weary way, 
 Their baskets teeming with the golden ear ?* 
 
 Whose generous hand vouchsafed its tireless aid 
 To guard a nation's germ ? Thine, thine, heroic maid ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 On sped the tardy seasons, and the hate 
 
 Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast. 
 
 the ofiSces of a provident governor, a valiant soldier, an industrious labourer, capable alike 
 of commanding and of executing. He seemed to court the dangers from which other men 
 shrank, or which they encountered only from a sense of duty. As the storm darkens 
 around him, his spirit grows more bright and serene. That which appals and disheartens 
 others only animates him. He had a soul of fire, encased in a frame of adamant. Thus 
 was he enabled to endure and accomplish all the promptings of his adventurous spirit." 
 " He was the father of Virginia," says Bancroft in his history, " the true leader who first 
 planted the Saxon vine in the United States." 
 
 * When the colony was in danger of utter extinction from the want of food, her zeal 
 and benevolence never slumbered. Accompanied by her companions, the child Pocahontas 
 came every few days to the fort with baskets of corn for the starving garrison, f^mith, in 
 his letter to Queen Anne, writes, " She, next under God, was the instrument to preserve 
 
POCAHONTAS. 193 
 
 Tlieir hoary prophet breathed the ban of fate : 
 
 " Hence with the thunderers ! Hide their race, un- 
 bless'd, 
 Deep 'neath the soil they falsely call their own ; 
 For from our fathers' graves a hollow moan, 
 Like the lash'd surge, bereaves my soul of rest. 
 'They come ! they come !' it cries. 'Ye once were brave: 
 Will ye resign the world that the Great Spirit gave ?" 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet 'neath the settled countenance of guile 
 
 They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire, 
 • And wore the semblance of a quiet smile, 
 To lull the victim of their deadly ire : 
 But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen, 
 Blame not too much those erring, red-brow'd men. 
 
 Though nursed in wiles. Fear is the white-lipp'd sire 
 Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain 
 To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Night, moonless night ! The forest hath no sound 
 But the low shiver of its dripping leaves. 
 
 this colony from death, famine, and utter confusion, which, if in those times had once been 
 dissolved. Virginia might haTe lain as it was at our tirst arrival unto this day." 
 
194 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Save here and there, amid its depths profound, 
 The sullen sigh the prowling panther heaves ; 
 
 Save the fierce growling of the cubless bear. 
 
 Or tramp of gaunt wolf rushing from his lair, 
 
 Where its slow coil the poisonous serpent weaves : 
 
 Who dares the dangerous path at hour so wild, 
 
 With fleet and fawnlike step ? Powhatan's fearless child ! 
 
 / 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Up, up — away ! I heard the words of power. 
 Those secret vows that seal a nation's doom, 
 Bid the red flame burst forth at midnight hour, 
 
 And make the unconscious slumberer's bed his tomb ; 
 Spare not the babe — the rose-leaf of a day — 
 But shred the sapling, like the oak, away. 
 
 I heard the curse ! My soul is sick with gloom : 
 Wake, chieftains, wake ! avert the hour of dread !" 
 And with that warning voice the guardian-angel fled.* 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 On sped the seasons, and the forest-child 
 Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 
 
 * " Notwithstanding, the eternal, all-seeing God did prevent the plot of Powhatan, and 
 hy a strange means. For Pocahontas, his dearest jewel and daughter, came through the 
 irk-some woods in that dark night, and told us that great cheer might be sent us hy-and-by, 
 but that the king, and all the power he could make, would afterward come and lull us all. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 195 
 
 While o'er her features stole, serenely mild, 
 The trembling sanctity of woman's truth, 
 
 Her modesty and simpleness and grace : 
 
 Yet those who deeper scan the human face, 
 Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth. 
 
 Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll. 
 That high and firm resolve which nerved the Roman soul. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The simple sports that charm'd her childhood's way, 
 Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines, 
 
 The curious glance of wild and searching ray, 
 Where innocence with ignorance combines, 
 
 Were changed for deeper thought's persuasive air, 
 
 Or that high port a princess well might wear. 
 So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 
 
 So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
 And on the crimson cloud casts oflf its mantle gray. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 On sped the tardy seasons. Need I say 
 
 What still the indignant lyre declines to tell ? 
 
 Therefore, if we would live, she wished us presently to be gone. Such things as she de- 
 lighted in we would hare given her; but, with tears running down her cheeks, she said she 
 durst not be seen to have them; for, if Powhatan should know it, she were but dead. And 
 BO she ran away by herself as she came." — Captain SrnU/i. 
 
196 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 How, by rude hands, the maiden, borne away, 
 Was forced amid the invaders' homes to dwell ? 
 
 Yet no harsh bonds the guiltless prisoner wore, 
 
 No sharp constraint her gentle spirit bore. 
 Held as a hostage in the stranger's cell;* 
 
 So, to her wayward fate submissive still, 
 She meekly bow'd her heart to learn a Saviour's will. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And holy was the voice that taught her ear 
 How for our sins the Lord of life was slain ; 
 
 While o'er the listener's bosom flow'd the tear 
 Of^wondering gratitude, like spring-tide rain. 
 
 New joys burst forth, and high resolves were born 
 
 To choose the narrow path that worldlings scorn, 
 And walk therein. Oh, happy who shall gain 
 
 From the brief cloud that in his path may lie 
 A heritage sublime, a mansion in the sky. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In graceful youth, within the house of prayer, 
 Who by the sacred font so humbly kneels. 
 
 * The object of the capture and detention of the princess seems to have been to bring 
 her father to such terms as the colonists desired, or to extort from bim a large ransom ; 
 both of which designs were frustrated. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 197 
 
 And with a tremulous yet earnest air, 
 
 The deathless vow of Christian fealty seals ? 
 
 The Triune Name is breathed with hallow'd power, 
 
 The dew baptismal bathes the forest-flower. 
 And, lo ! her chasten'd smile that hope reveals 
 
 Which nerved the weary dove o'er floods unbless'd, 
 The olive-leaf to pluck, and gain the ark of rest. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Pour forth your incense ; fragrant shrubs and flowers, 
 Wave your fresh leaflets, and with beauty glow ; 
 
 And wake the anthem in your choral bowers, 
 
 Birds, whose warm hearts with living praise o'erflow; 
 
 For she who loved your ever-varied dyes. 
 
 Mingling her sweet tones with your symphonies, 
 Seeks higher bliss than charms like yours bestow — 
 
 A home unchangeable — an angel's wing — 
 Where is no fading flower, nor lute with jarring string. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Another change. The captive's lot grew fair : 
 
 A soft illusion with her reveries blent. 
 New charms dispell'd her solitary care, 
 
 And hope's fresh dew-drops gleam'd where'er she 
 went; 
 
198 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Eartli seem'd to glow Avith Eden's purple light, 
 The fleeting days glanced by on pinions bright, 
 
 For every hour a rainbow lustre lent; 
 
 While, with his tones of music in her ear. 
 
 Love's eloquence inspired the graceful cavalier. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Yet love to her pure breast was but a name 
 For kindling knowledge, and for taste refined ; 
 
 A guiding lamp, whose bright, mysterious flame 
 Led on to loftier heights the aspiring mind. 
 
 Hence flow'd the idiom of a foreign tongue 
 
 All smoothly o'er her lip ; old history flung 
 Its annal wide, like banner on the wind, 
 
 And o'er the storied page, with rapture wild, 
 A new existence dawn'd on nature's fervent child. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 A throng is gathering ; for the hallow'd dome 
 At evening-tide is rich with sparkling light, 
 
 And from its verdant bound each rural home 
 
 Sends forth its blossom' d gifts, profusely bright; 
 
 While here and there, amid the clustering flowers, 
 
 Some stately chief or painted warrior towers, 
 Hail'd as a brother mid the festal rite ; 
 
POCAHONTAS. 199 
 
 Peace waves her garland o'er the favour'd place 
 Where weds the new-born West with Europe's lordly race.* 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A group before the altar. Breathe thy vow, 
 Loving and stainless one, without a fear ; 
 
 For he who wins thee to his bosom now. 
 Gem of the wild, unparalleled and dear. 
 
 Will guard thee ever, as his treasure rare. 
 
 With changeless tenderness and constant care; 
 How speaks his noble brow a soul sincere. 
 
 While the old white-hair' d king, with eye of pride. 
 Gives to his ardent hand the timid, trusting bride. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Not with more heartfelt joy the warlike bands 
 Of Albion, spent with long disastrous fray. 
 
 Beheld young Tudor cleanse his blood-stain'd hands. 
 And lead the blooming heir of York away, 
 
 'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells. 
 
 Then on those tented hills and ravaged dells 
 The War of Roses died : no more the ray 
 
 * The marriage of Mr. Rolfe with Pocahontas took place in the church at Jamestown 
 in the month of April, 1613, and gave great delight to Powhatan and his chieftains, who 
 were present at the ceremony, and also to the English, and proved a bond of peace and 
 amity between them as lasting as the life of the Indian king. 
 
200 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Of white or red, the fires of hate illumed, 
 But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom' d.* 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Young wife, how beautiful the months swept by. 
 
 Within thy bower methinks I view thee still : 
 The meek observance of thy lifted eye 
 
 Bent on thy lord, and prompt to do his will; 
 The care for him, the happiness to see 
 His soul's full confidence repose in thee. 
 
 The sacrifice of self, the ready skill 
 In duty's path, the love without alloy. 
 These gave each circling year a brighter crown of joy. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Out on the waters ! On the deep, deep sea ! 
 
 Out, out upon the waters ! Surging foam, 
 Swell'd by the winds, rolls round her wild and free. 
 
 And memory wanders to her distant home, 
 To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir. 
 
 * The rose striped with white and red, sometimes called the rose of Sharon, has been 
 said in some ancient legend, to have been first seen in England after the marriage of Henry 
 VII. to Elizabeth, daughter of Edward IV., when the civil war which had so long raged 
 with bitterness was terminated, and the Red Rose of Lancaster and the White Rose of 
 York ceased to be the unnatural symbols of bloodshed. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 201 
 
 To the sad sire who fondly dreams of her ; 
 
 But kindling smiles recall the thoughts that roam, 
 For at her side a hright-hair'd nursling plays, 
 While bends her bosom's lord with fond, delighted gaze. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And this is woman's world. It matters not 
 Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell. 
 
 Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot, 
 Or in the subterranean Greenland cell : 
 
 Her world is in the heart. Rude storms may rise, 
 
 And dark eclipse involve ambition's skies. 
 
 But dear affection's flame burns pure and well, 
 
 And therefore 'tis, with such a placid eye. 
 She soothes her loved ones' pangs, or lays her down to die. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Lo ! Albion's cliffs, in glorious light that shine. 
 Welcome the princess of the infant West. 
 
 'Twas nobly done, thou queen of Stuart's line,* 
 To soothe the tremors of that stranger's breast ; 
 
 * On the 12th of June, 1616, Mr. Rolfe, with his Indian wife, who, after her baptism, 
 was known by the name of the Lady Rebecca, arrived in England. Her merits had pre- 
 ceded her, and secured for her the attentions and hospitality of persons of rank and 
 influence. The queen of James I., the reigning monarch, treated her with affability and 
 respect. "It pleased both the king's and queen's majesties," writes Captain Smith, 
 
202 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 And when, upon thy ladies richly dight, 
 She, through a flood of ehon tresses bright, 
 
 Uplifts the glances of a timid guest, 
 What sees she there ? The greeting smiles that brought 
 O'er her own lofty brow its native hues of thought. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 But what delighted awe her accents breathed, 
 The gorgeous domes of ancient days to trace. 
 
 The castellated towers, with ivy wreathed, 
 The proud mementoes of a buried race ; 
 
 Or 'neath some mighty minster's solemn pile. 
 
 Dim arch, and fretted roof, and long-drawn aisle. 
 How rush'd the heart's blood wildly to her face, 
 
 When, from the living organ's thunder-chime. 
 The full Te Deum burst in melody sublime. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Yet, mid the magic of those regal walls. 
 
 The glittering train, the courtier's flattering tone, 
 
 Or by her lord, through fair ancestral halls. 
 Led on, to claim their treasures as her own. 
 
 "honourably to esteem her, accompanied with that honourable lady, the I.ady Delaware, 
 and that honourable lord her husband, and divers other persons of good quality, both 
 publicly and at the masks and concerts, to her great satisfaction and content." 
 
POCAHONTAS. 203 
 
 Stole back the scenery of her solitude : 
 An aged father, in his cabin rude, 
 
 Mix'd with her dreams a melancholy moan, 
 Notching his simple calendar,* with pain, 
 And straining his red eye to watch the misty main. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Prayer, prayer for him ! when the young dawn arose 
 With its gray banner, or red day declined. 
 
 Up went his name, for ever blent with those 
 
 Most close and strong around her soul entwined, 
 
 Husband and child; and, as the time drew near 
 
 To fold him to her heart with filial tear, 
 
 For her first home her warm afiections pined. 
 
 That time — it came not ! for a viewless hand 
 Was stretch'd to bar her foot from her green childhood's land. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Sweet sounds of falling waters, cool and clear. 
 The crystal streams, her playmates, far away, 
 
 * The mode of computation by cutting notches upon a stick prevailed among many of 
 our aboriginal tribes. One of the council of Powhatan, who accompanied Pocahontas, was 
 directed in this manner to mark the number of the people he might meet. He obtained a 
 very long cane on his landing, and commenced the task. But he soon became weary of 
 this manner of taking the census, and, on his return home, said to his king, " Count the 
 stars in the sky, the leaves on the trees, the sands on the seashore, but not the people of 
 England." 
 
204 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Oft, oft their dulcet music mock'd her ear, 
 As, restless, on her fever' d couch she lay; 
 
 Strange visions hover'd round, and harpings high, 
 
 From spirit-bands, and then her lustrous eye 
 Welcomed the call ; but earth resumed its sway. 
 
 And all its sacred ties convulsive twined. 
 How hard to spread the wing, and leave the loved behind ! 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Sunset in England at the autumn prime ! 
 
 Through foliage rare, what floods of light were sent ! 
 The full and whitening harvest knew its time. 
 
 And to the sickle of the reaper bent ; 
 Forth rode the winged seeds upon the gale. 
 New homes to find ; but she, with lip so pale. 
 
 Who on the arm of her beloved leant. 
 Breathed words of tenderness, with smile serene. 
 Though faint and full of toil, the gasp and groan between. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " Oh, dearest friend. Death cometh ! He is here. 
 Here at my heart ! Air ! air ! that I may speak 
 
 My hoarded love, my gratitude sincere, 
 To thee and to thy people. But I seek 
 
 In vain. Though most unworthy, yet I hear 
 
POCAHONTAS. 205 
 
 A call, a voice too bless'd for mortal ear ;" 
 
 And -with a marble coldness on her cheek, 
 And one long moan, like breaking harp-string sweet, 
 She bare the unspoken lore to her Kedeemer's feet. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Gone ? Grone ? Alas ! the burst of wild despair 
 That rent his bosom who had loved so well ; 
 
 He had not yet put forth his strength to bear, 
 So suddenly and sore the death-shaft fell. 
 
 Man hath a godlike might in danger's hour, 
 
 In the red battle, or the tempest's power ; 
 Yet is he weak when tides of anguish swell. 
 
 Ah, who can mark with cold and tearless eyes 
 The grief of stricken man when his sole idol dies ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And she had fled, in whom his heart's deep joy 
 Was garner'd up ; fled, like the rushing flame, 
 
 And left no farewell for her fair young boy. 
 Lo ! in his nurse's arms he careless came, 
 
 A noble creature, with his full dark eye 
 
 And clustering curls, in nature's majesty ; 
 But, with a sudden shriek, his mother's name 
 
206 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Burst from his lips, and, gazing on the clay. 
 He stretch'd his eager arms where the cold sleeper lay. 
 
 L. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! mother !" Did that bitter cry 
 
 Send a shrill echo through the realm of death ? 
 Look to the trembling fringes of the eye ; 
 
 List the sharp shudder of returning breath, 
 The spirit's sob ! They lay him on her breast ; 
 One long, long kiss on his bright brow she press'd ; 
 
 E'en from heaven's gate of bliss she lingereth. 
 To breathe one blessing o'er his precious head. 
 And then her arm unclasps, and she is of the dead.* 
 
 LI. 
 
 The dead ! the sainted dead ! why should we weep 
 At the last change their settled features take ? 
 
 At the calm impress of that holy sleep 
 
 Which care and sorrow never more shall break ? 
 
 Believe we not His word who rends the tomb. 
 
 * Early in the year 1617, while preparing to return to her native land, she was taken 
 sick, and died at the age of twenty-two. She was buried at Gravesend. Her firmness and 
 resignation proved the sincerity of her piety; and, as Bancroft eloquently observes, "She 
 was saved, as if by the hand of mercy, from beholding the extermination of the tribes from 
 which she sprang, leaving a spotless name, and dwelling in memory under the form of 
 perpetual youth." 
 
POCAHONTAS. 207 
 
 And bids the slumberers from that transient gloom 
 
 In their Redeemer's glorious image wake ? 
 Approach we not the same sepulchral bourne 
 Swift as the shadow fleets ? What time have we to mourn ? 
 
 LII. 
 
 A little time thou found'st, pagan king, 
 
 A little space, to murmur and repine : 
 Oh, bear a few brief months affliction's sting, 
 
 And gaze despondent o'er the billowy brine. 
 And then to the Great Spirit, dimly traced 
 Through cloud and tempest, and with fear embraced. 
 
 In doubt and mystery, thy breath resign ; 
 And to thy scorn'd and perish'd people go, 
 From whose long-trampled dust our flowers and herbage 
 grow. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Like the fallen leaves those forest-tribes have fled ; 
 
 Deep 'neath the turf their rusted weapon lies ; 
 No more their harvest lifts its golden head, 
 
 Nor from their shaft the stricken red-deer flies ; 
 But from the far, far west, where holds, so hoarse, 
 The lonely Oregon, its rock-strewn course. 
 
 While old Pacific's sullen surge replies. 
 
208 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Are heard their exiled murinurings deep and low, 
 Like one whose smitten soul departeth full of wo. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 I would ye were not, from your fathers' soil, 
 Track'd like the dun wolf, ever in your breast 
 
 The coal of vengeance and the curse of toil ; 
 I would we had not to your mad lip prest 
 
 The fiery poison-cup, nor on ye turn'd 
 
 The blood-tooth'd ban-dog, foaming, as he burn'd 
 To tear your flesh ; but thrown in kindness blest 
 
 The brother's arm around ye, as ye trod. 
 And led ye, sad of heart, to the meek Lamb of God. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Forgotten race, farewell ! Your haunts we tread, 
 Our mighty rivers speak your words of yore, 
 
 Our mountains wear them on their misty head. 
 Our sounding cataracts hurl them to the shore ; 
 
 But on the lake your flashing oar is still, 
 
 Hush'd is your hunter's cry on dale and hill. 
 Your arrow stays the eagle's flight no more ; 
 
 And ye, like troubled shadows, sink to rest 
 In unremember'd tombs, unpitied and unbless'd. 
 
POCAHONTAS. 209 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The council-fires are quench'd, that erst so red 
 Their midnight volume mid the groves entwined ; 
 
 King, stately chief, and warrior-host are dead. 
 Nor remnant nor memorial left behind : 
 
 But thou, forest-princess, true of heart, 
 
 AVhen o'er our fathers waved destruction's dart, 
 Shalt in their children's loving hearts be shrined ; 
 
 Pure, lonely star, o'er dark oblivion's wave. 
 It is not meet thy name should moulder in the grave. 
 
210 THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 
 
 THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 
 
 I SAW a tinj footstep in the snow, 
 Beside a cottage door. 
 
 So slight it was, 
 And fairy-like, methought it scarce belong'd 
 To our terrestrial race. With zigzag course, 
 On the white element it left a trace, 
 While here and there, the likeness of a hand. 
 Each baby-finger like a spider's claw 
 Outspread to clutch, reveal' d some morsel cold, 
 Snatch'd, and by stealth to the red lip conveyed. 
 — Didst think 'twas sugar, child? and this round world 
 All one huge, frosted cake ? 
 
 Others have made 
 Mistakes as strange, e'en though their locks were gray. 
 
 So musing on I went, until the track 
 Of that small creature was abruptly stay'd. 
 While trampling parallel, broad, heavy feet, 
 
THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 211 
 
 In backward lines, their giant impress made, 
 Quite to the cottage-gate. 
 
 Some pirate, sure. 
 Had captured the poor traveller, in the bud 
 And blossom of its joyous enterprise. 
 And, nolens volens, bore it home again. 
 Moreover, in the note-book of the snow 
 I read this capture was against its will, 
 For at the juncture of those differing feet, 
 Marks of a passion-struggle plainly told 
 A differing purpose; and I seem'd to hear 
 The angry shriek of the indignant child 
 Intent on freedom, and the smother'd wail 
 With which, at length, it yielded to the force 
 Of nurse or servant, — and to nursery drear, 
 Perchance to darken'd closet, for its fault 
 Was borne appall' d. 
 
 So, o'er the race of time, 
 Young fancy starts, unbridled, unarray'd. 
 Undisciplined, until stern Reason's grasp 
 Arrests the fugitive. Anon, the cares. 
 And toils, and tyrannies of time, dispel 
 Its frost-work fabrics. So, with pinion'd wing 
 And fallen crest, it yieldeth to their will, 
 Bearing ^' sub jugian" on its tattoo'd brow 
 Like some New Zealand chief. 
 
212 THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 
 
 A lesson strong, 
 Yet needful, thou hast in thy memory stored 
 This day, sad infant. 
 
 Liberty's excess 
 Is pruned within thee, and henceforth must know 
 Curb and restraint, till, like La Plata's steed, 
 It heed the lasso well. 
 
 Thus, may we gain, 
 We, older scholars in life's school austere. 
 From all its discipline a will subdued, 
 And, when its hour-glass closes, find at last 
 A Father's house, like thee. 
 
SCOTLAND'S FAMINE. 
 
 There's weeping mid the lonely sea 
 Where the rude Hebrids lie, 
 
 And where the misty Highlands point 
 Their foreheads to the sky. 
 
 The oats were blighted on the stalk, 
 
 The corn before its bloom, 
 And many a hand that held the plough 
 
 Is pulseless in the tomb. 
 
 There is no playing in the streets, 
 
 The haggard children move 
 Like mournful phantoms, mute and slow, 
 
 Uncheer'd by hope or love. 
 
 No dog upon his master fawns. 
 No sheep the hillocks throng. 
 
 Not e'en the playmate kitten sports 
 The sad-eyed babes among. 
 
No more the cock his clarion sounds, 
 Nor brooding wing is spread ; 
 
 There is no food in barn or stall, 
 The household birds are dead. 
 
 From the young maiden's hollow cheek 
 
 The ruddy blush is gone, 
 The peasant like a statue stands, 
 
 And hardens into stone. 
 
 The shuttle sleepeth in the loom. 
 
 The crook upon the walls, 
 And from the languid mother's hand 
 
 The long-used distaff falls. 
 
 She hears her children ask for bread, 
 And what can she bestow ? 
 
 She sees their uncomplaining sire 
 A mournful shadow grow. 
 
 Oh Scotia ! Sister ! if thy woes 
 
 Awake no pitying care. 
 If long at banquet-board we sit 
 
 Nor heed thy deep despair, — 
 
While thou art pining unto death, 
 Amid thj heather brown, 
 
 Wilt not the Giver of our jojs 
 Upon our luxuries frown ? 
 
 And blast the blossom of our pride, 
 And ban the rusted gold, 
 
 And turn the morsel into gall 
 That we from thee withhold ? 
 
216 THE PASSING BELL. 
 
 THE PASSING BELL. 
 
 In ancient times, the passing bell was tolled when a fellow-heing approached death, 
 that Christians might unite in supplication for a peaceful passage to the departing soul. 
 This usage was probably abolished about the time of the Reformation, lest it might tend 
 to fortify the Romish custom of praying for the dead. 
 
 Oh, solemn passing-bell ! 
 What said thy measured knell 
 
 In ancient time, 
 When, breaking folly's song, 
 It warn'd a listening throng 
 
 With mournful chime ? 
 
 Slowly o'er rock and dell. 
 Thus thy deep accents fell. 
 
 Thus spake the toll: 
 " One of thine own frail race 
 Gaspeth in death's embrace — 
 
 Pray for his soul. 
 
THE PASSIiXG BELL. 217 
 
 " The strong man's arm is weak ; 
 See from pale brow and cheek 
 
 Cold dew-drops roll; 
 How can he break away 
 From those who need his stay ? 
 
 Pray for his soul. 
 
 "Hark to a wailing sound ! 
 A household gather round 
 
 With grief and dole ; 
 The mother struggleth sore, 
 She heeds her babe no more — 
 
 Pray for her soul. 
 
 "To beauty's shaded room, 
 The spoiler's step of gloom 
 
 Hath darkly stole ; 
 Her lips are ghastly white, 
 A film is o'er her sight — 
 
 Pray for her soul." 
 
 Oh, bell that slowly toll'd ! 
 Were these thy words of old, 
 
 Bidding men bow 
 In prayer for those who bear 
 The pang they soon must share ? 
 
 What say'st thou now ? 
 
218 THE PASSING BELL. 
 
 " One from his dear abode 
 Travelleth the church-yard road, 
 
 To his last bed; 
 The widow next the bier 
 Walketh, with blinding tear — 
 Toll for the dead. 
 
 " The pauper layeth down 
 Gaunt penury's galling crown 
 
 Of scorn and dread ; 
 Great as a king he goes 
 Unto his long repose — 
 
 Toll for the dead. 
 
 "From crib and cradle fair, 
 From love's unresting care, 
 
 A child hath fled ; 
 Let snow-drops lift their eye 
 Where the shorn bud must lie — 
 Toll for the dead. 
 
 " Low 'neath the coffin-lid 
 An aged one hath hid 
 
 His hoary head; 
 On staff, at sunny door, 
 Ye'll see him lean no more — 
 
 Toll for the dead." 
 
THE PASSING BELL. 219 
 
 Oh, holy passing bell ! 
 Mingling thj solemn knell 
 
 Thus with our tears; 
 While, like the shuttle's flight, 
 Like the short summer-night, 
 
 Fleet our brief years ; 
 
 Prompt us His will to do, 
 Bid us His favour sue, 
 Warn us His wrath to rue, 
 
 Unto whose eye. 
 Unto whose bar of dread. 
 Judge of the quick and dead, 
 Every hour's silent tread 
 
 Bringeth us nigh. 
 
220 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 An axe rang sharply mid those forest shades 
 Which from creation toward the skies had tower'd 
 In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, 
 Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side 
 His little son, with question and response, 
 Beguiled the toil. 
 
 "Boy, thou hast never seen 
 Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
 Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou 
 The mighty river on whose breast we sail'd, 
 So many days, on toward the setting sun ? 
 Our own Connecticut, compared to that, 
 Was but a creeping stream." 
 
 "Father, the brook 
 That by our door went singing, Avhere I launch'd 
 My tiny boat, with my young playmates round, 
 When school was o'er, is dearer far to me. 
 Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye 
 They are as strangers. And those little trees 
 
jH-r 
 
THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 221 
 
 My motlier nurtured in the garden bound 
 Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach 
 Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure. 
 Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 
 
 "What, ho! my little girl," and with light step 
 A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, 
 And, setting down the basket that contain'd 
 His noon's repast, look'd upward to his face 
 With sweet confiding smile. 
 
 "See, dearest, see, 
 That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song 
 Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, 
 Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, 
 In far New England, such a mellow tone?" 
 
 "I had a robin that did take the crumbs 
 Each night and morning, and his chirping voice 
 Still made me joyful, as I went to tend 
 My snow-drops. I was always laughing then. 
 In that first home. I should be happier now, 
 Methinks, if I could find among these dells 
 The same fresh violets." 
 
 Slow night drew on. 
 And round the rude hut of the emigrant 
 The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 
 
222 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
 And he, with head declined, sat listening long 
 To the swoln waters of the Illinois 
 Dashing against their shores. 
 
 Starting he spake — 
 "Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear? 
 'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls 
 Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, 
 Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, 
 Befit thee better than these rugged walls 
 Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." 
 
 "No, no. All was so still around, methought 
 Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
 Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows. 
 So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice 
 Dissolved the illusion." 
 
 And the gentle smile 
 Lighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth'd 
 Her waking infant, reassured his soul 
 That wheresoe'er our best affections dwell, 
 And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
 Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
 But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play 
 Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
 Their will with him. 
 
THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 223 
 
 Up rose the thronging mart 
 Of his own native city — roof and spire, 
 All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray. 
 The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neigh'd ; 
 The favorite dog came frisking round his feet, 
 With shrill and joyous bark ; familiar doors 
 Flew open ; greeting hands with his were link'd 
 In friendship's grasp ; he heard the keen debate 
 From congregated haunts, where mind with mind 
 Doth blend and brighten — and, till morning, roved 
 Mid the loved scenery of his native land. 
 
THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL AT 
 A FESTIVAL. 
 
 She sate beneatli the leafy shade 
 
 Where young birds chirp'd in leafy cell, 
 
 Where wild flowers deck'd the mossy glade, 
 And tuneful waters murmuring fell. 
 
 And smile and song and mirth were there, 
 While youth and joy fresh garlands wove. 
 
 And white-robed forms, with tresses fair, 
 Were gliding through the enchanted grove. 
 
 But there she sat with drooping head. 
 By stern misfortune darkly bound. 
 
 By holy light un visited. 
 
 And silent mid a world of sound. 
 
 Chain' d down to solitary gloom. 
 
 No sense of quick delight was there. 
 
 Save when the blossom's rich perfume 
 Came floating on the scented air. 
 
THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 
 
 225 
 
 She rose, and sadlj sought her home 
 
 Where with the voiceless train she dwelt, 
 
 'Neath charity's majestic dome, 
 
 For bounteous hearts her sorrows felt. 
 
 But while her mute companions share 
 Those joys that ne'er await the blind, 
 
 A moral night of deep despair 
 
 Descending shrouds her lonely mind. 
 
 For not to her, Creation lends 
 
 Or blush of morn or beaming moon. 
 
 Nor pitying Knowledge makes amends 
 For step-dame Nature's stinted boon. 
 
 Yet deem not, though so dark her path. 
 Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot, 
 
 Or in its bitter cup of wrath 
 
 The healing drop of balm forgot. 
 
 No ! still with unambitious mind 
 The needle's patient task to ply. 
 
 At the full board her place to find, 
 Or close in sleep the placid eye ; 
 
226 THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 
 
 With order's unobtrusive charm 
 Her simple wardrobe to dispose, 
 
 To press of guiding care the arm, 
 
 And rove where autumn's bounty flows ; 
 
 With touch so exquisitely true 
 That vision stands astonish'd by, 
 
 To recognise with ardor due 
 
 Some friend or benefactor nigh; 
 
 Her hand mid childhood's curls to place, 
 From fragrant buds the breath to steal. 
 
 Of stranger-guest the brow to trace, 
 Are pleasures left for her to feel. 
 
 And often o'er her hour of thought 
 Will burst a laugh of wildest glee. 
 
 As if the living gems she caught 
 On wit's fantastic drapery; 
 
 As if, at length, relenting skies, 
 
 In pity to her doom severe, 
 Had bade a mimic morning rise, 
 
 The chaos of the soul to cheer. 
 
THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 227 
 
 But who, with energy divine, 
 
 May tread that undiscover'd maze. 
 Where Nature in her curtain 'd shrine 
 
 The strange and new-born thought surveys ? 
 
 Where quick Perception shrinks to find 
 
 On eye and ear the envious seal, 
 And wild ideas throng the mind, 
 
 That palsied speech must ne'er reveal; 
 
 Where Instinct, like a robber bold. 
 
 Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain, 
 
 And, leaping o'er her barrier cold. 
 Proclaims the proud precaution vain. 
 
 Say, who shall with magician's wand 
 
 That elemental mass compose, 
 Where young affections slumber fond 
 
 Like germs unwaked mid wintry snows ? 
 
 Who, in that undecipher'd scroll, 
 
 The mystic characters may see. 
 Save He who reads the secret soul. 
 
 And holds of life and death the key ? 
 
228 THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Then, on tliy midniglit journey roam, 
 Poor wandering child of rayless gloom, 
 
 And to thy last and narrow home, 
 Drop gently from this living tomb. 
 
 Yes, — uninterpreted and drear, 
 Toil onward with benighted mind, 
 
 Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear. 
 And grope for truth thou mayst not find. 
 
 No scroll of friendship, or of love. 
 
 Must breathe soft language o'er thy heart: 
 
 Nor that blest Book which guides above. 
 Its message to thy soul impart. 
 
 But Thou who didst on Calvary die, 
 Flows not thy mercy wide and free ? 
 
 Thou who didst rend of Death the tie, 
 Is Nature s seal too strong for thee ? 
 
 And Thou, oh Spirit pure ! whose rest 
 Is with the lowly contrite train, 
 
 Illume the temple of her breast. 
 And cleanse of latent ill the stain ; 
 
THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 229 
 
 That she, whose pilgrimage below 
 
 Was night that never hoped a morn, 
 That undeclining day may know 
 
 Which of eternity is born. 
 
 The great transition who can tell ? 
 
 When from the ear its seal shall part, 
 Where countless lyres seraphic swell, 
 
 And holy transport thrills the heart ; 
 
 When the chain'd tongue, forbid to pour 
 
 The broken melodies of time. 
 Shall to the highest numbers soar 
 
 Of everlasting praise sublime ; 
 
 When those veil'd orbs, which ne'er might trace 
 
 The features of their kindred clay. 
 Shall scan, of Deity, the face. 
 
 And glow with rapture's deathless ray. 
 
230 NO GOD. 
 
 NO GOD. 
 
 "The fool hath said in his heart. There is no God." — Psalm xiv. 
 
 "No God ! no God !" The simplest flower 
 That on the wild is found, 
 Shrinks, as it drinks its cup of dew, 
 And trembles at the sound. 
 "No God!" astonish'd Echo cries 
 From out her cavern hoar; 
 And every wandering bird that flies 
 Reproves the atheist lore. 
 
 The solemn forest lifts its head 
 
 The Almighty to proclaim ; 
 The brooklet, on its crystal urn. 
 
 Doth leap to grave his name ; 
 High swells the deep and vengeful sea 
 
 Along its billowy track, 
 And red Vesuvius opes his mouth 
 
 To hurl the falsehood back. 
 
NO GOD. 231 
 
 The palm-tree, with its princely crest, 
 
 The cocoa's leafy shade. 
 The bread-fruit, bending to its lord, 
 
 In yon far island glade; 
 The winged seeds that, borne by winds, 
 
 The roving sparrows feed. 
 The melon on the desert sands, 
 
 Confute the scorner's creed. 
 
 ^'JSfoG-od!" With indignation high 
 
 The fervent sun is stirr'd, 
 And the pale moon turns paler still 
 
 At such an impious word ! 
 And, from their burning thrones, the stars 
 
 Look down with angry eye. 
 That thus a worm of dust should mock 
 
 Eternal Majesty. 
 
232 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 Wheels o'er the pavement roU'd, and a slight form, 
 Just in the bud of blushing womanhood, 
 Reach' d the paternal threshold. Wrathful night 
 Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung 
 On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls. 
 She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand 
 Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress 
 Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand 
 Was with the cold, dull earth-worm. 
 
 Gray and sad, 
 The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man, 
 The soldier-servant who had train' d the steeds 
 Of her slain brothers for the battle-field, 
 Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain 
 Where her sick father pined. 
 
 Oft had he yearn'd 
 For her sweet presence ; oft, in midnight's watch. 
 Mused of his dear one's smile, till dreams restored 
 The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip 
 
THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 Breathing his woes away. While distant far, 
 She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks, 
 Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still. 
 In the heart's casket, his approving word 
 And the pure music of the welcome home. 
 Rich payment of her labours. 
 
 But there came 
 A summons of surprise, and on the wings 
 Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late ; 
 The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late. 
 The mind had pass'd away, and who could call 
 Its wing from out the sky? 
 
 For the embrace 
 Of strong idolatry, was but the glare 
 Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt 
 A fell assassin's blow. Oh God ! the blight 
 That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain 
 The passive hand was grasp 'd, and the wide halls 
 Re-echo'd ^'- Fatlter ! father!'' 
 
 Through the shades 
 Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent ; 
 Bathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow, 
 And the death-pilloAV smoothing. When fair morn 
 Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd 
 Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray 
 Flush' d that wan brow, as if with one brief trace 
 
234 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all, 
 And hope's fond vision faded, as the day 
 Rode on in glory. 
 
 Eve her curtain drew 
 And found that pale and beautiful watcher there, 
 Still unreposing. Restless on his couch 
 Toss'd the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep'd 
 Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream, 
 And agony was stirring Nature up 
 To struggle with her foe. 
 
 " Father in heaven ! 
 Oh give him sleep !" sigh'd an imploring voice, 
 And then she ran to hush the measured tick 
 Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl 
 That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd 
 A boding note. But soon from that lone couch 
 A hollow groan announced the foe that strikes 
 But once. 
 
 They bore the fainting girl away, 
 And paler than that ashen corse, her face. 
 Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid, 
 Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad 
 To see a young heart breaking, while the old 
 Sank down to rest. 
 
 There was another change. 
 The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour, 
 
THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 235 
 
 And groups came gathering to the gate "where stood 
 
 The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy hearts, 
 
 And curious villagers, intent to scan 
 
 The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men, 
 
 E'en o'er the coffin and the warning shroud. 
 
 Revolving selfish schemes. 
 
 But one was there, 
 To whom all earth could render nothing back. 
 Like that pale, changeless brow. Calmly she stood, 
 As marble statue. Not one trickling tear 
 Or trembling of the eyelid told she lived, 
 Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came. 
 Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm. 
 All unreproved. 
 
 He for his master mourn'd; 
 And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft 
 His shaggy length through many a fireside hour 
 Stretch'd at her father's feet? Avho round his bed 
 Of sickness watch' d with wistful, wondering eye 
 Of earnest sympathy ? No, round his neck 
 Her infant arms had clasp' d, and still he raised 
 His noble front beside her, proud to guard 
 The last, loved relic of his master's house. 
 
 The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow 
 Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought 
 
236 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 Of babbling gossips. Of her sire they spake, 
 
 Who suffer' d not the winds of heaven to touch 
 
 The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd, 
 
 In the warm passion of his heart's sole love. 
 
 She was a mate for angels. Bold they gazed 
 
 Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said, 
 
 "How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd." 
 
 Oh woman, oft misconstrued ! the pure pearls 
 
 Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well, 
 
 For the unpausing and impatient hand 
 
 To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast 
 
 Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down. 
 
 Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint 
 
 Of common grief. 
 
 E'en on to life's decline. 
 Through all the giddy round of prosperous years. 
 The birth of new affections, and the charms 
 That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd 
 Still at her side the image of her sire. 
 As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye 
 Met hers, and knew her not. When hei- full cup 
 Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance, 
 Checking its effervescence, taught her soul 
 The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd joy. 
 
INDIAN NAMES. 237 
 
 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 "How can the Red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, 
 lakes and rivei-s, are indelibly stamiied by the names of their giving ?" 
 
 Ye say tliey all have pass'd away, 
 
 That noble race and brave, 
 That their light canoes have vanish 'd 
 
 From off the crested wave 
 That mid the forests where they roam'd 
 
 There rings no hunter's shout; 
 But their name is on your waters, 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 'Tis where Ontario's billow 
 
 Like Ocean's surge is curl'd; 
 Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 
 
 The echo of the world ; 
 Where red Missouri bringeth 
 
 Rich tributes from the west, 
 And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
 
 On green Virginia's breast. 
 
238 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 Ye say, their cone-like cabins, 
 
 That cluster'd o'er the vale, 
 Have fled away like wither' d leaves 
 
 Before the autumn gale : 
 But their memory liveth on your hills, 
 
 Their baptism on your shore ; 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it 
 
 Within her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Mid all her young renown ; 
 Connecticut hath wreathed it 
 
 Where her quiet foliage waves. 
 And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
 Wachuset hides its lingering voice 
 
 Within his rocky heart, 
 And Alleghany graves its tone 
 
 Throughout his lofty chart ; 
 Monadnock on his forehead hoar 
 
 Doth seal the sacred trust ; 
 Your mountains build their monument, 
 
 Though ye destroy their dust. 
 
FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 239 
 
 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 
 
 Companion dear ! tlie hour draws nis-h. 
 The sentence speeds — to die, to die. 
 So long in mystic union held, 
 So close with strong embrace compell'd, 
 How canst thou bear the dread decree, 
 That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? 
 — To Him who on this mortal shore. 
 The same encircling vestment wore, 
 To Him I look, to Him I bend, 
 To Him thy shuddering frame commend. 
 — If I have ever caused thee pain, 
 The throbbing breast, the burning brain. 
 With cares and vigils turn'd thee pale. 
 And scorn'd thee when thy strength did fail. 
 Forgive ! forgive ! — thy task doth cease. 
 Friend ! Lover ! — let us part in peace. 
 If thou didst sometimes check my force. 
 Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 
 
210 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 
 
 Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust; 
 Or bow my drooping wing to dust, 
 I blame thee not, the strife is done ; 
 I knew thou wert the weaker one, 
 The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
 Constrain'd to hold the breath of God. 
 — Well hast thou in my service wrought ; 
 Thy brow hath mirror'd forth my thought ; 
 To wear my smile thy lip hath glow'd; 
 Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flow'd; 
 Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies 
 Of sweetly varied melodies ; 
 Thy hands my prompted deeds have done ; 
 Thy feet upon mine errands run — 
 Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well. 
 Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell. 
 
 — Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 
 Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread, 
 Where I no more thy sleep may break 
 With fever'd dream, nor rudely wake 
 Thy wearied eye. 
 
 Oh, quit thy hold. 
 For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, 
 And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
 Have bound me pitying in thy chain. 
 
Though angels urge me hence to soar, 
 Where I shall share thine ills no more. 
 —Yet we shall meet. To soothe thj pain, 
 Remember, we shall meet again. 
 Quell with this hope the victor's sting. 
 And keep it as a signet-ring. 
 When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, 
 And nought but ashes mark thj rest ; 
 When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, 
 And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, 
 Keep thou that hope, to light thj gloom, 
 Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
 —Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, 
 Nor spot nor stain nor wrinkle bear ; 
 And I, with hovering wing elate, 
 The bursting of thy bonds shall wait. 
 And breathe the welcome of the sky— 
 "No more to part, no more to die, 
 Co-heir of Immortality." 
 
242 ' WINTER'S FETE. 
 
 WINTER'S FETE. 
 
 I WOKE, and every lordling of the grove 
 Was clad in diamonds, and the lowliest shrub 
 Did wear its crest of brilliants gallantly. 
 The swelling hillocks, with their woven vines, 
 The far-seen forests and the broken hedge, 
 Yea, every thicket gleam'd in bright array, 
 As for some gorgeous fete of fairy -land. 
 
 Ho ! jewel-keeper of the hoary North, 
 Whence hast thou all these treasures ? Why, the mines 
 Of rich Golconda, since the world was young. 
 Would fail to furnish such a glorious show. 
 The queen, who to her coronation comes 
 With half a realm's exchequer on her head, 
 Dazzleth the shouting crowd. But all the queens 
 Who since old Egypt's buried dynasty 
 Have here and there, amid the mists of time. 
 Lifted their tiny sceptres — all the throng 
 
WINTERS FETE. 243 
 
 Of peeresses, who at some birth-niglit flaunt, 
 Might boast no moiety of the gems thj hand 
 So lavishly hath strewn o'er this old tree, 
 Fast by my window. 
 
 Every noteless thorn, 
 E'en the coarse sumach and the bramble-bush, 
 Do sport their diadems, as if, forsooth. 
 Our plain republic in a single night 
 Put forth such growth of aristocracy 
 That no plebeian in the land was left 
 Uncoroneted. Broider'd frost-work wraps 
 Yon stunted pear-tree, whose ne'er ripen'd fruit. 
 Acid and bitter, every truant boy 
 Blamed with set teeth. Lo ! while I speak, its crown 
 Kindleth in bossy crimson, and a stream 
 Of Tyrian purple, blent with emerald spark. 
 Floats round its rugged arms ; while here and there 
 Gleams out a living sapphire, mid a knot 
 Of trembling rubies, whose exquisite ray 
 O'erpowers the astonish'd sight. 
 
 One arctic queen. 
 For one ice-palace, rear'd with fearful toil, 
 And soon dissolving, scrupled not to pay 
 Her vassal's life ; and emperors of old 
 Have drain'd their cofl"ers for the people's gaze, 
 Though but a single amphitheatre 
 
244 WIXTERS FETE. 
 
 Compress'd the crowd. But thou, whose potent Avand 
 
 Call'd forth such irraud enchantment, swift as thought. 
 
 And silent as a vision, and canst spread 
 
 Its wondrous beauty to each gazing eye, 
 
 Nor be the poorer, thou art scornVi and bann'd 
 
 Mid all tliy beauty. Summer scantly sheds 
 
 A few brief dew-drops for the sun to dry. 
 
 And wins loud praise from every piping swain 
 
 For the proud feat. 
 
 Yet, certes, in these days, 
 "When wealth is so esteem'd that he who boasts 
 The longest purse is sure the wisest man, 
 "Winter, who thus affords to sprinkle gems, 
 Mile after mile, on all the landscape round. 
 And decks his new-made peers in richer robes 
 Than monarch ever gave, deserves more thanks 
 Than to be call'd rude churl, and miser old. 
 — I tell thee he's a friend ; and Love, who sits 
 So quiet in the corner, whispering long 
 In Beauty's ear, by the bright evening fire. 
 Shall join my verdict. Yes, the King of storms, 
 So long decried, hath revenue more rich 
 Than sparkling diamonds. 
 
 Look within thy heart, 
 "When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath'd cell. 
 Or the sad orphan mourns, and if thou find 
 
WINTER S FETE. 245 
 
 An answering pity, and a fervent deed 
 Done in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heir 
 Of that true wealth, which Winter hoardeth up 
 To buy the soul a mansion with the blest. 
 
246 ANNA BOLEYN. 
 
 ANNA BOLEYN. 
 
 On seeing the axe witli which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, still preserved in the Tower 
 
 of London. 
 
 Stern minister of fate severe, 
 
 Who, drunk with beauty's blood, 
 Defying time, dost linger here. 
 And frown with ruiEan visage drear, 
 Like beacon on destruction's flood, — 
 Say ! when ambition's gorgeous dream 
 First lured thy victim's heart aside. 
 Why, like a serpent, didst thou hide, 
 Mid clustering flowers and robes of pride, 
 
 Thy warning gleam? 
 Hadst thou but once arisen in vision dread, 
 From glory's fearful cliff her startled step had fled. 
 
 Ah ! little she reck'd, when St. Edward's crown 
 So heavily press' d her tresses fair. 
 That, with sleepless wrath, its thorns of care 
 
 Would rankle within her couch of down ! 
 
ANNA BOLEYN. 247 
 
 To the tyrant's bower, 
 
 In lier beauty's power, 
 She came as a lamb to the lion's lair. 
 As the light bird cleaves the fields of air. 
 And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves its snare. 
 
 Think ! what were her pangs as she traced her fate 
 On that changeful monarch's brow of hate ? 
 What were the thoughts which, at midnight hour, 
 Throng'd o'er her soul, in yon dungeon tower ? 
 Regret, with pencil keen, 
 Retouch'd the deepening scene : 
 Gay France, which bade with sunny skies 
 Her careless childhood's pleasures rise ; 
 Earl Percy's love, his youthful grace ; 
 Her gallant brother's fond embrace ; 
 Her stately father's feudal halls. 
 Where proud heraldic annals deck'd the ancient walls. 
 
 Wrapt in the scaffold's gloom. 
 Brief tenant of that living tomb 
 She stands ! — the life-blood chills her heart. 
 And her tender glance from earth does part ; 
 But her infant daughter's image fair 
 In the smile of innocence is there, 
 It clings to her soul mid its last despair ; 
 
248 ANNA BOLEYN. 
 
 And the desolate queen is doom'd to know 
 How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's wo. 
 
 Say ! did prophetic light 
 Illume her darkening sight, 
 Painting the future island-queen. 
 Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, 
 Bright from blood-stain'd ashes rising, 
 Wise, energic, bold, serene ? 
 Ah no ! the scroll of time 
 Is seal'd; and hope sublime 
 Rests but on those far heights which mortals may not climb. 
 
 The dying prayer, with trembling fervour, speeds 
 For that false monarch by whose will she bleeds ; 
 For him, who, listening on that fatal morn, 
 Hears her death-signal o'er the distant lawn 
 
 From the deep cannon speaking. 
 Then springs to mirth, and winds his bugle-horn, 
 And riots while her blood is reeking : — 
 For him she prays, in seraph tone, 
 
 " Oh ! be his sins forgiven ! 
 Who raised me to an earthly throne. 
 And sends me now, from prison lone. 
 To be a saint in heaven." 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 249 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 
 
 I DO remember him. His saintly voice, 
 So duly lifted in the house of God, 
 Comes, with the far-off wing of infant years, 
 Like solemn music. Often have we hush'd 
 The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
 Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass'd, 
 And eager to record one favouring smile. 
 Or word paternal. 
 
 At the bed of death 
 I do remember him ; when one, who bore 
 For me a tender love, did feel that pang 
 Which makes the features rigid, and the eye 
 Like a fix'd, glassy orb. Her head was white 
 With many winters, but her furrow'd brow 
 To me was beautiful ; for she had cheer'd 
 My lonely childhood with a changeless stream 
 Of pure benevolence. His earnest tone. 
 Girding her from the armory of God 
 To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale 
 
250 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 
 
 Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still; 
 
 And bj that gush of bitter tears, when first 
 
 Grief came into my bosom — by that thrill 
 
 Of agony, which from the open grave 
 
 Rose wildly forth — I do remember him. 
 
 The comforter and friend. 
 
 When Fancy's smile, 
 Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring 
 The curtain'd morrow fairer than to-day, 
 Enkindled wilder gayety than fits 
 Beings so frail, how oft his funeral prayer 
 Over some shrouded sleeper made a pause 
 In folly's song, or warn'd her roving eye 
 That all man's glory was the flower of grass 
 Beneath the mower's scythe. 
 
 His fourscore years 
 Sat lightly on him ; for his heart was glad. 
 E'en to its latest pulse, with that fond love. 
 Home-nurtured and reciprocal, which girds 
 And garners up, in sorrow and in joy. 
 — I was not with the weepers when the hearse 
 Stood all expectant at his pleasant door. 
 And other voices from his pulpit said 
 That he was not: but yet the echo'd dirge 
 Of that sad organ, in its sable robe, 
 Made melancholy music in my dreams. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 251 
 
 — And so, farewell, tliou who didst shed the dew 
 Baptismal on mine infant head, and lead 
 To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest 
 Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength 
 From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid 
 Unto the early seeker. When again 
 My native spot unfolds that pictured chart 
 Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, 
 Rocks, woods, and waters exquisitely blent, 
 Thy cordial welcome I no more shall hear, 
 Father and guide ; nor can I hope to win 
 Thy glance from glory's mansion, while I strew 
 This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb. 
 
252 FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 
 
 FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 
 
 Hills, rocks, and waters ! here ye lie, 
 And o'er ye spreads the same blue sky, 
 
 As when, in early days. 
 My childish foot your cliffs essay' d, 
 My wondering eye your depth survey'd, 
 
 Where the vex'd torrent stays. 
 
 O'er bolder scenes mine age hath stray'd 
 By floods that make your light cascade 
 
 Seem as an infant's play; 
 Yet dearer is it still to me. 
 Than all their boasted pageantry 
 
 That charms the traveller's way. 
 
 For here, enchanted, side by side, 
 With me would many a playmate glide 
 
 When school-day's task was o'er. 
 Who deem'd this world, from zone to zone, 
 Had nought of power or wonder known 
 
 Like thy resounding shore. , 
 
FALLSOFTHEYANTIC. 253 
 
 Light-hearted group ! I see ye still, 
 For Memory's pencil, at her will, 
 
 Doth tint ye bright and rare; 
 Red lips, from whence glad laughter rang, 
 Elastic limbs that tireless sprang, 
 
 And curls of sunny hair. 
 
 I will not ask if change or care 
 
 Have coldly marr'd those features fair ; 
 
 For, by myself, I know 
 We cannot till life's evening keep 
 The flowers that on its dewy steep 
 
 At earliest dawn did blow. 
 
 Yet, lingering round this hallow'd spot, 
 I call them, though they answer not. 
 
 For some have gone their way, 
 To sleep that sleep which none may break, 
 Until the resurrection wake 
 
 The prisoners from their clay. 
 
 But thou, most fair and fitful stream, 
 First prompter of my musing dream, 
 
 Still lovingly dost smile. 
 And, heedless of the conflict hoarse 
 With the rude rocks that bar thy course, 
 ^ My lonely walk beguile. 
 
254 FALLSOFTHEY ANTIC. 
 
 Still tliou art clianged, my favourite scene ! 
 For man hath stolen thy cliffs between, 
 
 And torn thy grassy sod ; 
 And bade the intrusive mill-wheel dash, 
 And many a ponderous engine crash. 
 
 Where Nature dream'd of God. 
 
 Yet to the spot where first we drew 
 
 Our breath, we turn unchanged and true, 
 
 As to a nurse's breast ; 
 And count it, e'en till hoary age. 
 The Mecca of our pilgrimage. 
 
 Of all the earth most blest. 
 
 And so, thou cataract, strangely wild, 
 My own loved Yantic's wayward child. 
 
 That still dost foam and start ; 
 Though slight thou art, I love thee well, 
 And, pleased, the lay thy praise doth tell, 
 
 Which gushes from the heart. 
 
WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 
 
 Deal gently thou, whose hand hath won 
 
 The young bird from its nest away, 
 Where careless, neath a vernal sun, 
 
 She sweetly carol'd day by day. 
 The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, 
 
 From whence her timid wing doth soar; 
 They pensive list at hush of eve. 
 
 Yet hear her gushing song no more. 
 
 Deal gently with her; thou art dear, 
 
 Beyond what vestal lips have told, 
 And, like a lamb from fountains clear, 
 
 She turns confiding to thy fold ; 
 She, round thy sweet domestic bower, 
 
 The wreath of changeless love shall twine. 
 Watch for thy step at vesper hour. 
 
 And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 
 
256 WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 
 
 Deal gently thou, when, far away, 
 
 Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove. 
 Nor let thy tender care decay — 
 
 The soul of woman lives in love. 
 And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 
 
 Unconscious, from her eyelids break. 
 Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 
 
 That man's strong heart may ne'er partake. 
 
 A mother yields her gem to thee. 
 
 On thy true breast to sparkle rare ; 
 She places 'neath thy household tree 
 
 The idol of her fondest care ; 
 And by thy trust to be forgiven. 
 
 When judgment wakes in terror wild, 
 By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, 
 
 Deal gently with the widow's child. 
 
MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 257 
 
 MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 
 
 No word ! no sound ! But yet a solemn rite 
 Is consummated in yon festive hall. 
 Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take 
 That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death, 
 With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life. 
 No word ! no sound ! But still a holy man 
 With strong and graceful gesture doth impose 
 The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer 
 Present it to be registered in heaven. 
 
 Methinks this silence heavily doth brood 
 Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown' d bride. 
 What means the sigh which from that ruby li]3 
 Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element 
 Which angels breathe ? 
 
 Mute ! mute ! 'tis passing strange ! 
 Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well ; 
 For the deep trust with which a maiden casts 
 Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven, 
 
258 MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 
 
 Into a mortal's hand, — the confidence 
 With which she turns in every thought to him, 
 Her more than brother, and her next to God, — 
 Hath never yet been shadow' d forth in sound, 
 Or told in language. 
 
 So, ye voiceless pair, 
 Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm 
 Your silent altar in each other's hearts. 
 And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time 
 As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech 
 Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell 
 Where flowers fade not, and death no treasured link 
 Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn 
 The ear sequestrate, and the tuneless tongue ; 
 For there the eternal dialect of love 
 Is the free breath of every happy soul. 
 
THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 259 
 
 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 
 
 The young babe sat on its mother's knee, 
 Shaking its coral and bells with glee, 
 When Hope drew near, with a seraph smile. 
 To press the lips that had breathed no guile. 
 Nor spoke the words of sorrow ; 
 Its little sister brought a flower, 
 And Hope, still lingering nigh 
 With sunny tress and sparkling eye, 
 Whisper'd of one in a brighter bower 
 It might pluck for itself to-morrow. 
 
 The boy came in from the wintry snow, 
 And mused by the parlour-fire ; 
 
 But ere the evening lamps did gloAY, 
 
 A stranger came, and, bending low. 
 Closely scann'd his ruddy brow. 
 
 "What is that in your hand?" she said; 
 
 "My New- Year's Gift, with its covers red." 
 
"Bring hither the book, my boy, and see. 
 The magic spell of Memory. 
 That page hath gold, and a way I'll find 
 To lock it safe in your docile mind ; 
 For books have honey, the sages say, 
 That is sweet to the taste when the hair is gray." 
 
 The youth at midnight sought his bed, 
 
 But, ere he closed his eyes, 
 Two forms drew near with gentle tread, 
 
 In meek and saintly guise. 
 One struck a lyre of wondrous power. 
 
 With thrilling music fraught. 
 That chain' d the flying summer hour. 
 
 And charm'd the listener's thought; 
 For still would its tender cadence be, 
 
 "Follow me ! follow me ! 
 And every morn a smile shall bring, 
 As sweet as the merry lay I sing." — 
 She ceased, and with a serious air 
 
 The other made reply, 
 " Shall he not also be my care ? 
 May not I his journey share ? 
 
 Sister ! sister ! tell me why ? 
 Need Memory e'er with Hope contend ? 
 Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?" 
 
 ._i 
 
THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 261 
 
 The youth beheld the strife, 
 
 And eagerly replied, 
 " Come, both, and be my guide, 
 And gild the path of life;" 
 So he gave to each a brother's kiss. 
 And laid him down, and his dream was bliss. 
 
 The man came forth to run his race. 
 And ever when the morning light 
 Roused him from the trance of night. 
 When, singing from her nest. 
 The lark went up with dewy breast, 
 Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace ; 
 And, as a mother cheers her son. 
 She girded his daily harness on. 
 But when the star of eve, from weary care. 
 Bade him to his home repair. 
 When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born 
 The cricket wound its tiny horn, 
 Sober Memory spread her board 
 With knowledge richly stored, 
 And supp'd with him, and like a guardian bless'd 
 His nightly rest. 
 
 The old man sat in his elbow-chair. 
 His locks were thin and gray. 
 
262 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 
 
 Memory, that faithful friend, was there. 
 
 And he in querulous tone did say, 
 " Hast thou not lost, with careless key, 
 Something that I have intrusted to thee ?" 
 
 Her pausing answer was sad and low, 
 "It may be so ! It may be so ! 
 The lock of my casket is worn and weak. 
 And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek ; 
 
 Something I miss, but I cannot say 
 
 What it is he hath stolen away. 
 
 For only tinsel and trifles spread 
 
 Over the alter' d path we tread ; 
 But the gems thou didst give me when life was new, 
 
 Here they are, all told and true, 
 Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue." 
 
 But while in grave debate. 
 Mournful, and ill at ease, they sate. 
 Finding treasures disarranged, 
 Blaming the fickle world, though they themselves were 
 changed, 
 Hope on a buoyant wing did soar, 
 "Which folded underneath her robe she wore. 
 And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight, 
 And jeoparded its strength, in a bold, heavenward flight. 
 
THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 263 
 
 The dying lay on liis couch of pain, 
 
 And his soul went forth to the angel-train ; 
 
 Yet when Heaven's gate its golden bars undrew 
 
 Memory walk'd that portal through, 
 And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye, 
 Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky. 
 
 But Hope that glorious door 
 Pass'd not : it was not hers to dwell 
 Where pure desires to full fruition swell. 
 
 Her ministry was o'er : 
 To cheer earth's pilgrim toward the sky, 
 To cleanse the tear-drop from his eye. 
 Was hers, — then to immortal Joy 
 
 Resign her brief employ. 
 Break her sweet harp, and die. 
 
TO A GOOSE. 
 
 I CANNOT bear to hear thee slander'd, Goose ! 
 It irketh me to see the truant boys 
 Pause in their play, and cast a stone at thee, 
 And call thee foolish. 
 
 Do those worthies know 
 That when old Rome had let the ruffian Gauls 
 Tread on her threshold of vitality, 
 And all her sentinels were comatose. 
 Thy clarion-call did save her ? Mighty strange 
 To call thee fool ! 
 
 I think thou'rt dignified 
 And portly in thy bearing, and in all 
 The duties and proprieties of life 
 Art quite a pattern. Yet the duck may quack, 
 The turkey gabble, and the guinea-hen 
 Keep up a piercing and perpetual scream, 
 And all is well ; but if thou ope thy beak, 
 '•''Fie, silly creature!" 
 
 Yet I'm sure thou'st done 
 
TO A GOOSE. 265 
 
 Many a clever and obliging deed; 
 
 And more than this, thou from thy wing dost spare 
 
 An outcast feather, which hath woke the world, 
 
 And made it wiser. Yea, the modest quill 
 
 Doth take its quiet stand behind the press, 
 
 And, like a prompter, tell it what to say. 
 
 But still we never praise the goose, who gave 
 
 This precious gift. Yet Avhat can fill its place ? 
 
 Think of the clumsy stylus, how absurd ! 
 
 I know, indeed, that smart metallic pens 
 
 Have undertaken to speculate at large ; 
 
 But I eschew them all, and prophesy 
 
 Goose-quills will be immortal as the art 
 
 To which they minister. 'Twere meet for me, 
 
 Though all besides were dumb, to fondly laud 
 
 The instrument that from my childhood up 
 
 Hath been my solace and my chosen friend 
 
 In hours of loneliness. 
 
 I'd fain propose 
 That, mid the poultry in the farmer's yard, 
 The goose should wear a ducal coronet, 
 If our republic would but authorize 
 Aught like an order of nobility. 
 Yet, sure, I'll institute a simple claim 
 For justice long withheld. I ask my peers, 
 The erudite and learned in the law. 
 
266 TO A GOOSE. 
 
 Why the recusant owl is singled out 
 As Wisdom's bird ? If blind Mythology, 
 Who on her fingers scarcely knew to count 
 Her thirty thousand gods, should groping make 
 Such error, 'tis not strange. But we, who skill 
 To ride the steam, and have a goodly hope 
 To ride the lightning too, need we be ruled 
 By vacillating Delphos ? or enticed 
 To sanction her mistakes ? 
 
 The aforesaid owl. 
 With his dull, staring eyes, what hath he done 
 To benefit mankind ? Moping all day 
 Amid some dodder'd oak, and then at night. 
 With hideous hooting and wild flapping wings. 
 Scaring the innocent child. What hath he done 
 To earn a penny, or to make the world 
 Richer in any way ? I doubt if he 
 E'en gets an honest living. Who can say 
 Whether such midnight rambles, none know where. 
 Are for his credit ? Yet the priceless crown 
 Of wisdom he, in symbol and in song, 
 Unrighteously hath worn. 
 
 But times have changed, 
 Most reverend owl ! Utility bears rule, 
 And the shrewd spirit of a busy age 
 Dotes not on things antique, nor pays respect 
 
TO A GOOSE. 267 
 
 To hoary hairs, but counts it loss of time 
 
 To honour whatsoever fails to yield 
 
 A fat per centage. Yet thou'rt not ashamed 
 
 To live a gentleman, nor bronze thy claw 
 
 With manual labour, stupidly content 
 
 To be a burden on community. 
 
 — Meantime, the worthy and hard-working goose 
 Hath rear'd up goslings, fed us with her flesh, 
 Lull'd us to sleep upon her softest down, 
 And with her quills maintain'd the lover's lore. 
 And saved the tinsel of the poet's brain. 
 — Dear goose, thou'rt greatly wrong' d. 
 
 I move the owl 
 Be straightway swept from the usurper's seat, 
 And thou forthwith be voted for, to fill 
 Minerva's arms. 
 
 The flourish of a pen 
 Hath saved or lost a realm ; hath signed the bond 
 That made the poor man rich ; reft from the prince 
 His confiscated wealth, and sent him forth 
 A powerless exile ; for the prisoner bade 
 The sunbeam tremble through his iron bars 
 The last, last time ; or changed the cry of war 
 To blessed peace. How base, to scorn the bird 
 Whose cast-off feather hath done this, and more. 
 
268 ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 
 
 ON THE ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO 
 THE UNION. 
 
 Come in, little sister, so healthful and fair, 
 Come take in our father's best parlour a share ; 
 You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow, 
 Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow ; 
 Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true. 
 But the twenty-five children can make room for you. 
 
 A present, I see, for our sire you have brought. 
 His dessert to embellish ; how kind was the thought ! 
 A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue. 
 And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too. 
 The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree ; 
 What a good little sister ! come hither to me. 
 
 You've a dowry besides very cunningly stored, 
 To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board, — 
 Detroit, Ypsilanti, Ann Arbour, and more ; 
 For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store ; 
 
ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 269 
 
 You're a prog, I perceive — it is true to the letter, 
 And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better. 
 
 But where are your Indians — so feeble and few ? 
 So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew ! 
 From the forests they fade ; o'er the waters that bore 
 The names of their baptism, they venture no more ; 
 soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar, 
 Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star. 
 
 Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high, 
 Are the stateliest dames of our family. 
 Your thirteen old sisters, — don't treat them with scorn. 
 They were notable spinsters before you were born ; 
 Many stories they know, most instructive to hear, — 
 Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear. 
 
 They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell, 
 Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell ; 
 They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky 
 In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July, 
 When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red, 
 And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead. 
 
 There are some who may call them both proud and old, 
 And say they usurp what they cannot hold ; 
 
270 ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 
 
 Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray, 
 But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray. 
 For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear, 
 Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear. 
 
 They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day, 
 But you've as good right to your penny as they ; 
 Though the price of our freedom they better have known. 
 Since they paid for it out of their purses alone ; 
 Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween. 
 So, hold up your head with the " Old Thirteen." 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 371 
 
 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 What nurtured Sliakspeare mid these village-shades, 
 Making a poor deer-stalking lad a king 
 In the broad realm of mind ? 
 
 I question' d much 
 Whatever met my view, — the holly-hedge. 
 The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born, 
 And the pleach'd avenue of limes that led 
 To the old church. And, pausing there, I mark'd 
 The mossy efflorescence on the stones, 
 Which, kindling in the sunbeam, taught me how 
 Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life, 
 And how another race of tiny roots, 
 The fathers of the future, should compel 
 From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment. 
 Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere 
 Made ancient buttress and grim battlement 
 Their nursing-mothers. 
 
 But again I ask'd, 
 "What nurtured Shakspcare ?" The rejoicing birds 
 
272 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 Wove a wild song, wliose burden seem'd to be, 
 He was their pupil when he chose, and knew 
 Their secret maze of melody to wind. 
 Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain 
 With careless hand. 
 
 The timid flowerets said, 
 "He came among us like a sleepless bee. 
 And all those pure and rarest essences. 
 Concocted by our union with the skies, 
 Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide, 
 He rifled for himself and bore away." 
 
 — The winds careering in their might replied, 
 "Upon our wings he rode, and visited 
 The utmost stars. We could not shake him ofi". 
 E'en on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand. 
 As on a courser's mane, and made them work 
 With all their countless hues his wondrous will." 
 
 And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice, 
 What time the Sabbath chimes came pealing sweet 
 Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft 
 Along those banks he wander'd, pacing slow, 
 As if to read the depths. 
 
 Ere I had closed 
 My questioning, the ready rain came down. 
 
 J 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 273 
 
 And every pearl-drop as it kiss'd the turf 
 Said, " We have been his teachers. When we fell 
 Pattering among the vine leaves, he would list 
 Our lessons as a student, nor despise 
 Our simplest lore." 
 
 And then the bow burst forth, 
 That strong love-token of the Deity 
 Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray 
 Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and help'd 
 To tint the robe in which his thought was wrapp'd 
 For its first cradle-sleep. 
 
 Then twilight came 
 In her gray robe, and told a tender tale 
 Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew 
 Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon, 
 Riding in state upon her silver car, 
 Confess'd she saw him oft, through checkering shades, 
 Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side, 
 Linking their young imaginings, like chains 
 Of pearl and diamond. 
 
 Last, the lowly grave- 
 Shakspeare's own grave— sent forth a hollow tone, 
 " The heart within my casket read itself, 
 And from that inward wisdom learn'd to scan 
 The hearts of other men. It ponder'd lono- 
 Amid those hermit cells where thought is born 
 
274 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 Explored the roots of passion, and the founts 
 
 Of sympathy, and at each seal'd recess 
 
 Knock'd, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard 
 
 Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue 
 
 And every season ; and the human soul. 
 
 Owning his power, shall at his magic touch 
 
 Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires." 
 
MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 275 
 
 MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 
 
 Borne upon the ocean's foam, 
 Far from native land and home, 
 Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath. 
 Brooding o'er our venturous path, 
 While the mountain wave is rolling, 
 And the ship's bell faintlj tolling; 
 Saviour ! on the boisterous sea. 
 Bid us rest secure in Thee. 
 
 Blast and surge, conflicting hoarse, 
 Sweep us on with headlong force ; 
 And the bark, which tempests urge, 
 Moans and trembles at their scourge : 
 Yet, should wildest tempests swell. 
 Be thou near, and all is well. 
 Saviour ! on the stormy sea. 
 Let us find repose in Thee. 
 
276 MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 
 
 Hearts there are witli love that burn 
 When to us afar they turn ; 
 Eyes that show the rushing tear 
 If our utter'd names they hear : 
 Saviour ! o'er the faithless main, 
 Bring us to those homes again, 
 As the trembler, touch'd by Thee, 
 Safely trod the treacherous sea. 
 
 Wrecks are darkly spread below, 
 Where with lonely keel we go ; 
 Gentle brows and bosoms brave 
 Those abysses richly pave : 
 If beneath the briny deep 
 We, with them, should coldly sleep, 
 Saviour ! o'er the whelming sea, 
 Take our ransom'd souls to Thee. 
 
THE TOMB. 
 
 THE TOMB. 
 
 " So parted they ; the angel up to Heaven, 
 And Adam to his bower." Milton. 
 
 This is the parting place ; yon turf-bound roof, 
 And marble door, where tenants may not hope 
 To enter and return. If earth's poor gold 
 E'er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself; 
 For thou didst bring none with thee to this world, 
 Nor mayst thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou. 
 Ambition's shadowy gatherings? Shred them loose 
 To the four winds, their natural element. 
 Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties 
 Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ? 
 And was each wailing from their feeble lip 
 A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile 
 And budding hope, full springs of ecstasy ? 
 Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them 
 A parent art no more. Wert thou a wife ? 
 And was the arm on which thy spirit lean'd 
 
 2 A 
 
278 THE TOMB. 
 
 Faithful in all thy need ? Yet must thou leave 
 This fond protection, and pursue alone 
 Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death. 
 Friendship's free intercourse, — the promised joys 
 Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love, — 
 The cherish'd sympathies Avhich every year 
 Struck some new root within thy yielding breast, 
 Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager 
 Unto the land of spirits. 
 
 Yea, even more ! 
 Lay down the body ! Hast thou worshipp'd it 
 With vanity's sweet incense, and wild waste 
 Of precious time ? Did beauty bring it gifts, 
 The lily brow, the full resplendent eye, 
 The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power 
 Woke man's idolatry ? The loan is o'er, 
 Dust turns to dust. 
 
 Yet the lone soul retains 
 One blessed trophy ; if its span beloAV 
 Secured the palm of Christ's atoning love : 
 For that shall win an entrance when it stands 
 A pilgrim at Heaven's gate. 
 
"SHOW US THE FATHER." 
 
 John iv. 8. 
 
 Have ye not seen Him, when through parted snows 
 Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green ? 
 
 When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, 
 And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen ? 
 
 When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, 
 
 Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have je not seen him there ? 
 
 Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye. 
 
 Through its bright sapphire-windows, shows the mind ? 
 
 When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh. 
 
 Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined ? 
 
 Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust. 
 
 Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? 
 
 Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill 
 
 Casts ofi" its icy chains and leaps away ? 
 In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ? 
 
 In song of birds at break of summer's day ? 
 
280 SHOWUSTHEFATHER. 
 
 Or in the ocean's everlasting roar, 
 
 Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore ? 
 
 Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn, 
 When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest. 
 
 When in the heart the holy thought is born, 
 
 And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, 
 
 Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer 
 
 Swell' d out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ? 
 
 Show us the Father ! If ye fail to trace 
 
 His chariot where the stars majestic roll. 
 His pencil mid earth's loveliness and grace. 
 
 His presence in the Sabbath of the soul, 
 How can you see Him till the day of dread. 
 When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read ? 
 
NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 281 
 
 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 ' Tlie moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, 
 cluxracterless, uninscribed." 
 
 And wlio sliall write thine epitaph, thou man 
 Of mystery and might ? 
 
 Shall orphan hands 
 Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords ? 
 Or the Avarm trickling of the widoAv's tear 
 Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
 As the keen torture of the water-drop 
 Doth wear the sentenced brain ? 
 
 Shall countless ghosts 
 Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame, 
 With shadowy finger, trace thine efiigy, 
 Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd, 
 And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer 
 Given at the cannon's mouth ? 
 
 Thou who didst sit 
 Like eagle on the apex of the globe, 
 And hear the murmur of its couquer'd tribes. 
 
282 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass, 
 Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, 
 Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner 
 Descries mid ocean's foam ? Thou who didst hew 
 A pathway for thy host above the cloud, 
 Guiding their footsteps o'er, the frost-work crown 
 Of the throned Alps, — why dost thou sleep, unmark'd 
 E'en by such slight memento as the hind 
 Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone ? 
 
 Bid the throng 
 Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
 Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field. 
 Return and deck thy monument. Those forms. 
 O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd. 
 From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone. 
 Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise, 
 As in the vision that the prophet saw, 
 Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps 
 Should pile their pillar' d dust, might not the stars 
 Deem that again the puny pride of man 
 Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth. 
 To dwell with them ? But here, unwept, thou art, 
 Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair, 
 "With neither living man, nor spectre lone. 
 To trace thine epitaph. 
 
 Invoke the climes 
 
NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 283 
 
 That served as playthings in thj desperate game 
 Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd 
 To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed 
 Upon their vitals. France ! who gave so free 
 Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw 
 That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth, 
 Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. 
 Thou, too, whose pride adorn'd dead Cesar's tomb. 
 And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train 
 Who ruled thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts 
 Of sculpture and of classic eloquence 
 To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
 Thine ancient spirit quail'd ; and to the list 
 Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat 
 'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome. 
 Turn, Austria ! iron-brow'd and stern of heart, 
 And on his monument to whom thou gav'st 
 In anger battle, and in craft a bride, 
 Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. 
 Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name, 
 Like the rein'd war-horse at the trumpet-blast, 
 And take her witness to that fame which soars 
 O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
 Of Scandinavia's madman. 
 
 From the shades 
 Of letter' d ease, Germany ! come forth 
 
284 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll. 
 
 Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints 
 
 Of deeper character than bold romance 
 
 Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, 
 
 Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves. 
 
 Hail, lotus-crown'd ! in thy green childhood fed 
 
 By stiff-neck' d Pharaoh and the shepherd kings, 
 
 Hast thou no trait of him who drench'd thy sands 
 
 At Jaffa and Aboukir ? when the flight 
 
 Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 
 
 To the accusing Spirit ? 
 
 Glorious isle ! 
 Whose thrice-enwreathed chain. Promethean like. 
 Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
 Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
 Ho ! fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost. 
 Or Avith thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance, 
 Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain. 
 And give the last line of our epitaph. 
 
 But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand 
 Received the challenge. 
 
 From the misty deep 
 Rise, island-spirits ! like those sisters three, 
 Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, 
 Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 
 
NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 285 
 
 That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. 
 
 Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms, 
 
 And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, 
 
 And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb; 
 
 Come, twine some bud of household tenderness. 
 
 Some tender leaflet, nursed with nature's tears, 
 
 Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd 
 
 His cradle at Ajaccio, turn'd away; 
 
 And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave 
 
 Plunged her slight annal with the haste of fear; 
 
 And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and gray 
 
 'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon, 
 
 With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze 
 
 To an unhonour'd tomb. 
 
 Then Earth arose. 
 That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, 
 And, to the echo'd question — " Who shall write 
 Napoleons epitaph?" — as one who broods 
 O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd — '■'■None.'* 
 
286 COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 
 
 COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 
 
 The ships from young Columbia's shore, 
 
 As fleet they are, and free. 
 As those from haughtier realms that boast 
 
 Dominion o'er the sea. 
 As gallantly their banners float, 
 
 As keen their lightnings fly, 
 And braver hearts than there are found 
 
 Beat not beneath the sky. 
 
 White as the glancing sea-bird's wing 
 
 Their swelling sails expand, 
 Beside the bright Egean isles. 
 
 Or green Formosa's strand. 
 Or where the sparse Norwegian pine 
 
 A sudden summer shares, 
 Or Terra del Fuego's torch 
 
 Amid the tempest glares. 
 
COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 
 
 287 
 
 Unmoved their trackless course they hold 
 
 Though vengeful Boreas roars, 
 And make their port on stranger-coasts 
 
 Or undiscover'd shores. 
 Rude people of a foreign speech 
 
 Have learn'd their cheering cry, 
 "Land ho !— Aloft !"— and " Bear-a-hand I" 
 
 With the ready tar's reply. 
 
 From zone to zone — from pole to pole, 
 
 Where'er in swift career 
 The venturous keel a path explores, 
 
 Our Yankee sailors steer. 
 The white bear, on his field of ice, 
 
 Hath seen their signals toss'd ; 
 And the great whale, old Ocean's king, 
 
 Doth know them to his cost. 
 
 The spices from the Indian isles. 
 
 The plant of China's care, 
 The cane's sweet blood from tropic climes 
 
 Their merchant-vessels bear. 
 Wherever Commerce points his wand. 
 
 They mount the crested waves, 
 And link together every sea 
 
 The rolling globe that laves. 
 
288 COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 
 
 Still nearest to the Antarctic gate 
 
 Our daring seamen press, 
 Where storm-wrapp'd Nature thought to dwell 
 
 In hermit loneliness ; 
 "Whose masts are those, so white with frost, 
 
 Where fearful icebergs shine?" 
 My country from her watch-tower look'd. 
 
 And answer'd — "They are mine!" 
 
 Columbia's ships ! With dauntless prow 
 
 The tossing deep they tread ; 
 The pirates of the Libyan sands 
 
 Have felt their prowess dread : 
 And the British lion's lordly mane 
 
 Their victor might confess'd, 
 For well their nation's faith and pride 
 
 They guard on Ocean's breast. 
 
 When strong Oppression fiercely frowns, 
 
 Her eagle rears his crest. 
 And means no bird of air shall pluck 
 
 His pinions or his breast ; 
 And brighter on the threatening cloud 
 
 Gleam out her stars of gold. 
 Huzza ! for young Columbia's ships. 
 
 And for her seamen bold. 
 
ALPINE FLOWERS. ggg 
 
 ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 Meek dwellers mid jon terror-stricken clijOfs, 
 With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
 Whence are ye ? 
 
 Did some white-wing'd messenger, 
 On mercy's mission, trust your timid germ 
 To the cold cradle of eternal snows. 
 And, breathing on the callous icicles. 
 Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ? 
 
 Tree nor shrub 
 Dare the drear atmosphere ; no polar-pine 
 Uplifts a veteran front ; yet there ye stand. 
 Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice, 
 And looking up with steadfast eye to Him, 
 Who bids ye bloom unblanch'd amid the realm 
 Of desolation. 
 
 Man who, panting, toils 
 O'er slippery steeps, or treads the dizzy verge 
 Of yawning gulfs, from whence the headlong plunge 
 Is to eternity, — looks shuddering up 
 
290 ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 And marks ye in your placid loveliness, 
 Fearless yet frail ; and, clasping his chill hands, 
 Blesses your pencil' d beauty. Mid the pomp 
 Of mountain-summits rushing toward the sky, 
 And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe. 
 He bows to bind ye, drooping, to his breast. 
 Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing' d gale, 
 And freer dreams of heaven. 
 
THETRIALOFTHEDEAD. 291 
 
 THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 The solemn mockery of the trial of the dead, which was first permitted in Scotland 
 about the fourteenth century, was exhibited in the case of George Gordon, Earl of 
 Huntley, in the year 1664. After this judicial process, the body was removed from Holy- 
 rood, and interred at Elgin Cathedral, the burial-place of his family. 
 
 The spears at Corrichie were bright, 
 Where, with a stern command. 
 
 The Earl of Huntlej ranged his host 
 Upon their native strand. 
 
 From manj a Highland strath and glen 
 They at his summons came, 
 
 A stalwart band of fearless men. 
 Who counted war a game. 
 
 Then, from Edina's royal court 
 Fierce Murray northward sped, 
 
 And rush'd his envied foe to meet 
 In battle sharp and dread. 
 
292 THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 They met, they closed, they struggled sore, 
 
 Like waves when tempests blow, 
 The slogan-music high in air, 
 
 The sound of groans below. 
 
 They broke, they wheel' d, they charged again. 
 
 Till on the ensanguined ground 
 The noble Gordon lifeless lay, 
 
 Transpierced with many a wound. 
 
 Long from her tower his Lady look'd : 
 
 "I see a dusky cloud, 
 And there, behold ! comes floating high 
 
 Earl Huntley's banner proud." 
 
 Then, deep she sigh'd, for rising mist 
 
 Involved her aching sight ; 
 'Twas but an autumn-bough that mock'd 
 
 Her chieftain's pennon bright. 
 
 His mother by the ingle sate. 
 
 Her head upon her knee, 
 And murmur'd low in hollow tone, 
 
 "He'll ne'er come back to thee." 
 
THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 293 
 
 " Hist, Ladj, mother ! hear I not 
 
 Steed-tramp and pibroch-roar ? 
 As when the victor-surf doth tread 
 
 Upon a rocky shore?" 
 
 Not toward the loop-hole raised her head 
 
 That woman wise and hoar, 
 But whisper' d in her troubled soul, 
 
 "Thy Lord returns no more !" 
 
 "A funeral march is in my ear, 
 
 A scatter'd host I see," 
 And, straining wild, her sunken eye 
 
 Gazed out on vacancy. 
 
 Back to their homes, the Gordon clan 
 
 Stole with despairing tread. 
 While to the vaults of Holyrood 
 
 Was borne their chieftain dead. 
 
 Exulting foemen bore him there. 
 
 While lawless vassals jeer'd. 
 Nor spared to mock the haughty brow 
 
 Whose living frown they fear'd. 
 
294 THETRIALOFTHEDEAD. 
 
 No earth upon his corse they strew' d, 
 
 At no rich shrine inurn'd, 
 But heavenward, as the warrior fell, 
 
 His noble forehead turn'd. 
 
 Months fled ; and while, from castled height 
 
 To cot in lowly dell, 
 O'er Corrichie's disastrous day 
 
 The tears of Scotland fell, 
 
 Behold, a high and solemn court 
 With feudal pomp was graced, 
 
 And at the bar, in princely robes, 
 A mufiled chieftain placed. 
 
 No glance his veiled face might scan, 
 Though throngs beside him prest ; 
 
 The Gordon plume his brow adorn' d, 
 Its tartan wrapp'd his breast. 
 
 " Lord George of Gordon, Huntley's earl ! 
 
 High-treason taints thy name ; 
 For God, and for thy country's cause, 
 
 Defend thine ancient fame ; 
 
THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 295 
 
 " Make oath upon thine honour's seal, 
 
 Heaven's truth unblenching tell !" 
 No lip he moved, no hand he raised, 
 
 And dire that silence fell. 
 
 No word he spake, though thrice adjured ; 
 
 Then came the sentence drear: 
 "Foul traitor to thy queen and realm, 
 
 Our laws denounce thee here." 
 
 They stripp'd him of his cloak of state. 
 
 They bared his helmed head. 
 Though the pale judges inly quaked 
 
 Before the ghastly dead. 
 
 Light thing to him, that earthly doom 
 
 Or man's avenging rod. 
 Who, in the land of souls, doth bide 
 
 The audit of his God. 
 
 Before his face the crowd drew back, 
 
 As from sepulchral gloom, 
 And sternest veterans shrank to breathe 
 
 The vapour of the tomb. 
 
296 THETRIALOFTHEDEAD. 
 
 And now, this mockery of the dead 
 
 With hateful pageant o'er, 
 They yield him to his waiting friends 
 
 Who throng the palace door. 
 
 And on their sad procession press'd, 
 
 Unresting day and night, 
 To where mid Elgin's towers they mark 
 
 The fair cathedral's height. 
 
 And there, by kindred tears bedew' d, 
 Beneath its hallow'd shade, 
 
 With midnight torch and chanted dirge, 
 Their fallen chief they laid, 
 
 Fast by king Duncan's mouldering dust, 
 
 Whose locks of silver hue 
 Were stain'd, as Avon's swan hath sung, 
 
 With murder's bloody dew. 
 
 So, rest thou here, thou Scottish earl 
 Of ancient fame and power. 
 
 No more a valiant host to guide 
 In battle's stormy hour. 
 
THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 297 
 
 Yea, rest thee here, thou Scottish earl, 
 
 Until that day of dread, 
 Which to eternity consigns 
 
 The trial of the dead. 
 
298 
 
 BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 A VOICE amid tlie desert. 
 
 Not of him 
 Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed, 
 Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim 'd 
 Eruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge 
 Of terror and reproof. A milder guide, 
 With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng. 
 Benignant pity moved him as he saw 
 The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch 
 The springs of every nature. The high lore 
 Of heaven he humbled to the simplest child. 
 And in the guise of parable allured 
 The sluggish mind to follow truth, and live. 
 
 They whom the thunders of the law had stunn'd 
 Woke to the gospel's melody with tears ; 
 And the glad Jewish mother held her babe 
 High in her arms, that its young eye might greet 
 Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 299 
 
 It was SO still, 
 Though thousands cluster' d there, that not a sound 
 Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held 
 The wilderness in chains, save now and then. 
 As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech 
 Of distant billows, chafing with the shores 
 Of the Tiberian sea. 
 
 Day wore apace. 
 Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought 
 The unexpected eve. They linger'd still. 
 Eyes fix'd, and lips apart; the very breath 
 Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break 
 The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls 
 Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not 
 The spent sun closing at the curtain'd west 
 His burning journey. What was time to them. 
 Who heard, entranced, the eternal Word of Life ? 
 
 But the weak flesh grew weary. Hunger came. 
 Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd 
 Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt 
 Compassion for them. His disciples press. 
 Care-stricken, to his side : " Where shall we find 
 Bread in this desert ?" 
 
 Then, with lifted eye, 
 He bless'd, and brake the slender store of food. 
 
300 BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 And fed the famish' d tlaousandg. Wondering awe 
 With renovated strength inspired their souls, 
 As, gazing on the miracle, thej mark'd 
 The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard 
 Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man 
 Had never utter'd. 
 
 Thou, whose pitying heart 
 Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those 
 Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls 
 With the same spirit of untiring love. 
 Divine Redeemer ! may our fellow-man, 
 Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd, 
 Be as a brother in his hour of need. 
 
ON TRANSPLANTING A DAISY FROM 
 RUNIMEDE. 
 
 From the green turf of Runimede 
 
 A daisy's root I drew, 
 Amid whose moisten'd crown of leaves 
 
 A healthful bud crept through, 
 And whisper'd in its infant ear 
 
 That it might cross the sea, 
 A cherish' d emigrant, and find 
 
 A western home with me. 
 
 Methought it shrank at first, and paled. 
 
 But when, on ocean's tide, 
 Strong waves and mighty icebergs frown'd, 
 
 And manly courage died. 
 It calmly raised a crested head 
 
 And smiled amid the storm, 
 As if old Magna Charta's soul 
 
 Inspired its fragile form. 
 
302 A DAISY FROM RUNIMEDE. 
 
 So, where within my garden plat 
 
 I sow the choicest seed, 
 Amid my favorite shrubs I placed 
 
 The plant from Runimede ; 
 And know not why it may not draw 
 
 Sweet nutriment the same. 
 As when within that clime from whence 
 
 Our gallant fathers came. 
 
 There's liberty enough for all, 
 
 If they but use it well ; 
 And Magna Charta's spirit burns 
 
 In e'en the lowliest cell: 
 And the simplest daisy may unfold, 
 
 From scorn and danger freed ; 
 So, make yourself at home, my friend, 
 
 My flower of Runimede. 
 
THEGIFTOFAPOLLO. 303 
 
 THE GIFT OF APOLLO. 
 
 A legend of ancient mythology relates, that the inhabitants of Methymnia, on the 
 island of Lesbos, received from Apollo a genius for music and poetry, as a mark of his 
 gratitude for having extended the rites of burial to the severed head of Orpheus. 
 
 When Orpheus' limbs, by Thracian madness torn, 
 Down the cold Hebrus' sounding floods were borne. 
 The blood-stain'd lips in tuneful measures sigh'd. 
 And murmur'd music charm'd the listening tide. 
 
 Thus roam'd the head, complaining and distrest, 
 Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest, 
 And, with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore 
 The mangled victim to their verdant shore. 
 With fragrant streams the quivering brows they lave. 
 And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave. 
 Spread a soft pillow in the earth's green breast. 
 And with low dirges lull to dreamless rest. 
 Then from the tossing surge his lyre they gain, 
 A treasured trophy for Apollo's fane, 
 
304 THE GIFT OF APOLLO. 
 
 Round its fair frame funereal garlands bind, 
 And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign'd. 
 
 Hark ! — while its chords the gales of evening sweep. 
 Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep. 
 "Eurydice !" in trembling love they sigh; 
 "Eurydice !" the long-drawn aisles reply, 
 And through the temple steals, in echoes low. 
 The mournful sweetness of remember'd wo. 
 
 Methymnia's sons, with new-felt warmth inspired, 
 By all Apollo's soul of song were fired, 
 Pour'd their rich offerings round his golden shrine, 
 Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine ; 
 For he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid 
 The men whose pious rites appeased his favourite's shade. 
 
The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts."— Haggai ii. 
 
 Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine ? 
 And whose the silver ? Are they not the Lord's ? 
 And lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills, 
 And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, 
 Are thej not His who made them ? 
 
 Ye who hold 
 Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands 
 By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold 
 From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name 
 Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be 
 When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, 
 You fall away ? 
 
 Point out to me the forms 
 That in your treasure-chambers shall enact 
 Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd 
 Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all. 
 
306 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Oil, man ! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs 
 Thou knowest not who, — thou in thy mouldering bed, 
 Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep ; 
 Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave 
 Thy soul of good for them. 
 
 Now, thou mayst give 
 The famish'd food, the prisoner liberty, 
 Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul 
 A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege 
 With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art 
 Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult 
 To be co-worker with the King of kings. 
 
BERNARDINE DU BORN. 307 
 
 BERNARDTNE DU BORN. 
 
 KiNa Henry sat upon his throne, 
 
 And, full of wrath and scorn, 
 His eje a recreant knight survey'd, 
 
 Sir Bernardino du Born. 
 While ho that haughty glance return'd, 
 
 Like lion in his lair. 
 And loftily his unchanged brow 
 
 Gleam'd through his crisped hair. 
 
 " Thou art a traitor to the realm. 
 
 Lord of a lawless band. 
 The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, 
 
 The troubler of our land ; 
 Thy castles and thy rebel towers 
 
 Are forfeit to the crown. 
 And thou beneath the Norman axe 
 
 Shalt end thy base renown. 
 
308 BERNARDINE DU BORN. 
 
 "Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom, 
 Thou with strange madness fired ? 
 Hath reason quite forsook thj breast ?" 
 
 Plantagenet inquired. 
 Sir Bernard turn'd him toward the king ; 
 He blench'd not in his pride : 
 " My reason fail'd, mj gracious liege, 
 The year Prince Henry died." 
 
 Quick at that name a cloud of wo 
 
 Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow; 
 Touch' d was that thrilling cord of love 
 
 At which the mightiest bow. 
 Again swept back the tide of years, 
 
 Again his first-born moved. 
 The fair, the graceful, the sublime. 
 
 The erring, yet beloved. 
 
 And ever, cherish'd by his side, 
 
 One chosen friend was near. 
 To share in boyhood's ardent sport 
 
 Or youth's untamed career. 
 With him the merry chase he sought 
 
 Beneath the dewy morn, 
 With him in knightly tourney rode 
 
 This Bernardino du Born. 
 
BERNARDINE DU BORN. 309 
 
 Then in the mourning father's soul 
 
 Each trace of ire grew dim, 
 And what his buried idol loved 
 
 Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him ; 
 And faintly through his tears he spake, 
 
 " God send his grace to thee, 
 And for the dear sake of the dead, 
 
 Go forth, unscathed and free." 
 
310 MORN AND EVEN. 
 
 MORN AND EVEN. 
 
 "Thou makest the outgoings of the morning and of the evening to rejoice." — David. 
 
 The outgoings of sweet morn ! See the light mist, 
 
 That spreads its white wing to the heavens away ; 
 See the fresh blossoms by the blithe bee kiss'd; 
 
 The hilltop kindling 'neath the king of day ; 
 
 Spire after spire, that drinks the genial ray ; 
 The rocks, that in their rifted holds abide. 
 
 And darkly frown, with heads for ever gray ; 
 While the clear stream gleams out in trembling pride 
 Through its transparent veil, like a fair, timid bride. 
 
 Morn to the Earth ! the cup of life she quaffs. 
 
 And countless voices hail the sparkling draught : 
 Methinks the lamb beside its mother laughs ; 
 
 Up soars the lark, with song his Maker taught ; 
 
 Sweet lisping murmurs wrap the infant's thought, 
 As gladly from the cottage door it creeps ; 
 
 The wild rill glitters through the lonely grot ; 
 While the hoarse sea, whose anthem never sleeps, 
 Reverberates God's praise through all its sounding deeps. 
 
MORN AND EVEN. 311 
 
 Morn to the watcher by the sick man's bed ! 
 
 The slow, slow clock tells out the welcome hour, 
 And to the air he springs with buoyant tread; 
 
 The poor caged bird sings sweet in lady's bower ; 
 
 The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower, 
 Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain ; 
 
 While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power. 
 With merry music wake the village plain. 
 And toil comes forth refresh' d, and age is young again. 
 
 The outgoings of mild eve ! the folded rose ; 
 
 Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell ; 
 The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose, 
 
 While restless winds no more its murmurs SAvell; 
 
 The Stars emerging from their secret cell, 
 A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep ; 
 
 And then the queenly moon, attended well. 
 
 Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep, 
 
 Speaking of Nature's King in language still and deep. 
 
 The charms of eve how sweet, he best can say. 
 Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise, 
 
 And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway, 
 Turns to his home to taste its simple joys ; 
 There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys 
 
 Wake that warm thrill that every care rejiays ; 
 
313 MORN AND EVEN. 
 
 And fondly hasting from her babj-tojs, 
 His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze, 
 And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber plays. 
 
 She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe, 
 
 And from her home at early morn must go 
 To earn the bread that dries her children's tear, 
 
 How hails her heart the sun declining low ! 
 
 Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow, 
 And when afar her lowly roof she spies, 
 
 Forgot is all her lot of scorn and avo, 
 A mother's rapture kindling in her eyes, 
 While to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies. 
 
 And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team, 
 
 Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food ; 
 While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream, 
 
 The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood; 
 
 In the cool chambers of the teeming flood 
 The scaly monsters check their boisterous play ; 
 
 And, closely curtain'd mid the quiet wood, 
 The slumbering minstrels hush their warbling lay, 
 While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the summer- 
 day. 
 
THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 313 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 Fkom my own native clime, I took my way 
 Across the foaming deep. My husband slept 
 In his new grave, and poverty had stripp'd 
 Our lonely cottage. Letters o'er the wave. 
 From brother and from sister, bade me come 
 To this New World, where there is bread for all. 
 So, with my heavy, widow'd heart I went, 
 My only babe and I. 
 
 Coarse, curious eyes 
 Look'd searchingly upon me, as I sat 
 In the throng' d steerage, with my sick, sick soul. 
 But at each jeering word, I bow'd my head 
 Down o'er my helpless child, and was content, 
 For he was all my world. 
 
 Storms rock'd the bark. 
 And haggard fear sprang up, with oaths and cries. 
 Yet wondrous courage nerved me. For to die 
 With that fair, loving creature in my arms, 
 Seem'd more than life without him. If a shade 
 
314 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 Of weariness or trouble mark'd my brow, 
 He look'd upon me with his father's eyes, 
 And I was comforted. 
 
 But sickness came, 
 Close air, and scanty food. Darkly they press'd 
 On feeble infancy, and oft I heard. 
 As mournful twilight settled o'er the sea. 
 The frequent plunge, and the wild mother's shriek, 
 When her lost darling to the depths went down. 
 Then came the terror. To my heaving breast 
 I closer clasp' d the child, and all my strength 
 Went forth in one continued sigh to God. 
 Scarcely I slept, lest the dire pestilence 
 Should smite him unawares. E'en when he lay 
 In peaceful dreams, the smile upon his cheek, 
 I trembled, lest the dark-wing'd angel breathed 
 Insidious whispers, luring him away. 
 
 It came at last. That dreadful sickness came. 
 The fever— short and mortal. Midnight's pall 
 Spread o'er the waters, when his last faint breath 
 Moisten' d my cheek. Deep in my breaking heart 
 I shut the mother's cry. 
 
 One mighty fear 
 Absorb'd me, lest his cherish'd form should feed 
 The dire sea-monsters, nor beneath the sods 
 
THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 315 
 
 Of the green, quiet, blessed earth, await 
 The resurrection. 
 
 So, I shuddering press'd 
 The body closer, though its deadly cold 
 Froze through mj soul. 
 
 To those around, I said, 
 "Disturb him not — he sleepeth." Then I sang 
 And rock'd him tenderly, as though he woke 
 In fretfulness, or felt the sting of pain. 
 My poor, dead baby ! Terrible to me 
 Such falsehood seem'd. But yet the appalling dread 
 Lest the fierce, scaly monsters of the sea 
 Should wind around him with their gorging jaws, 
 O'ermaster'd me. 
 
 Nights fled, and mornings dawn'd. 
 And still my chill arms clasp'd immovably 
 The shrivelling form. They told me he was dead, 
 And bade me give my beautiful to them, 
 For burial in the deep. With outstretch'd hands 
 They stood demanding him, until the light 
 Fled from my swimming eyes. 
 
 But when I woke 
 From the long trance, that icy burden lay 
 No longer on my bosom. Pitying words 
 The captain spake — "Look at yon little boat 
 Lash'd to our stern. There, in his coffin, rests 
 
316 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 The body of thy son. If in three days 
 We reach the land, he shall be buried there 
 As thou desirest." 
 
 There, from breaking morn, 
 My eyes were fix'd; and when the darkness came. 
 By the red binnacle's uncertain light 
 I watch' d that floating speck amid the waves, 
 And pray'd for land. 
 
 As thus I kept my watch, 
 Like desolate Rizpah, mournful visions came 
 Of my forsaken cottage ; while the spring 
 Of gushing crystal, where 'neath bowering trees 
 We drew our water, gurgled in my ear 
 To mock me with its memories of joy. 
 My throat was dry with anguish, and when voice 
 Fail'd me to pray for land, I lifted up 
 That silent, naked thought, which finds the Throne 
 Sooner than pomp of words. 
 
 With fiery face 
 And eager foot, the third dread morning rose 
 Out of the misty deep, and coldly rang 
 The death-knell of my hope. 
 
 As o'er the stern 
 I gazed with dim eye on the flashing brine, 
 Methought its depths were open'd, and I saw 
 Creatures most vile, that o'er the bottom crept, 
 
Lizards and slimj serpents, hideous forms 
 And shapes, for which man's language hath no name ; 
 While to the surface rose the monster shark, 
 Intent to seize his prej. 
 
 Convulsive shrieks, 
 Long pent within my bleeding heart, burst forth. 
 But from the watcher at the mast there came 
 A shout of ''Land!" and on the horizon's edge 
 Gleam'd a faint streak, like the white seraph's wing. 
 Oh ! blessed land ! We near'd it, and mj breath 
 Was one continued gasp— Oh! blessed land! 
 
 A boat was launch'd. With flashing oar it reach'd 
 A lonely isle. Bent o'er the vessel's side, 
 I saw them dig a narrow grave, and lay- 
 In the cool bosom of the quiet earth 
 The little body that was mine no more. 
 Nor wept I: for an angel said to me,. 
 "God's will ! God's will ! and thy requited prayer 
 Bemember !" 
 
 To my hand a scroll they brought. 
 Bearing the name of that deserted strand, 
 And record of the day in which they laid 
 My treasure there. They might have spared that toil : 
 A mother's unforgetful love needs not 
 Record or date. 
 
318 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 The ship held on her course 
 To greener shores. There came an exile's pain, 
 Beneath a foreign sky. 
 
 Yet 'twere a sin 
 To mourn with bitterness the boy whose smile 
 Cheers me no more, since the sea had him not, 
 Nor the sea-monsters. 
 
 Endless praise to Him, 
 Who did not scorn the poor, weak woman's sigh 
 Of desolate wo. 
 
 No monument is thine, 
 Oh babe ! that 'neath yon sterile sands dost sleep. 
 Save the strong sculpture in a mother's heart ; 
 And by those traces will she know thee well 
 When the graves open, and before God's throne 
 Both small and great are gather'd. 
 
HEALING AT SUNSET. 
 
 319 
 
 HEALING AT SUNSET. 
 
 'At even, when the sun did set, they brought unto him all that were diseased." 
 Mark i. 32. 
 
 Judea's summer-daj went down, 
 
 And h I from vale and plain, 
 Around the heavenly Healer throng'd 
 
 A sick and sorrowing train. 
 
 The pallid brow, the hectic cheek. 
 
 The cripple bent with care, 
 And he whose soul dark demons lash'd 
 
 To foaming rage, were there. 
 
 He raised his hand, the lame man leap'd. 
 
 The blind forgot his wo, 
 And with a startling rapture gazed 
 
 On Nature's glorious show. 
 
 Up from his bed of misery rose 
 
 The paralytic pale. 
 While the loathed leper dared once more 
 
 His fellow-man to hail. 
 
320 HEALING AT SUNSET. 
 
 The lunatic's illumined brow, 
 With smiles of love o'erspread, 
 
 Assured the kindred hearts that long 
 Had trembled at his tread. 
 
 The mother to her idiot-boy 
 The name of Jesus taught, 
 
 Who thus with sudden touch had fired 
 The chaos of his thought. 
 
 Yes, all that sad, imploring train 
 He heal'd ere evening fell. 
 
 And speechless joy was born that night 
 In many a lonely cell. 
 
 Ure evening fell ! Oh ye, who find 
 
 The chills of age descend, 
 And with the lustre of your locks 
 
 The almond-blossom blend ; 
 
 Haste, ere the darkening shades of night 
 Have every hope bereaved. 
 
 Nor leave the safety of the soul 
 Unstudied, unachieved. 
 
DEATH OF AN INFANT. 321 
 
 DEATH OF AN INFANT * 
 
 Death found strange beauty on that polisli'd brow, 
 And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose 
 O'er cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice, 
 And the rose faded. 
 
 Forth from those blue eyes 
 There spake a wistful tenderness, a doubt 
 Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
 Alone may wear. With ruthless haste, he bound 
 The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
 For ever. 
 
 There had been a murmuring sound, 
 With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 
 Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
 The seal of silence. 
 
 * TMs little poem has been inserted, by mistake, in one of the American editions of 
 the late Mrs. Hemans. Though this is accounted by the real author as an honor, it is 
 still proper to state, that it was originally composed at Hartford, in the winter of 1824, 
 and comprised in a volume of poems, published in Boston, by S. G. Goodrich, Esq., in 1827. 
 Should other testimony be necessary, it may be mentioned that a letter from Mrs. Hemans, 
 to a friend in this country, pointing out some poems in that volume which pleased her, 
 designated, among others, this " Death of an Infant." 
 
322 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 But there beam'd a smile, 
 So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow, 
 Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
 The signet-ring of heaven. 
 
FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 333 
 
 FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 
 
 Adullam's sheltering cavern bent 
 
 O'er many an exile's head, 
 Who from the tyrant sway of Saul 
 
 In discontent had fled ; 
 And he, the leader of that band, 
 
 Came forth in sadden' d thought. 
 And to a foreign monarch's court 
 
 His suit a suppliant brought : 
 
 " Oh, King of Moab !" bowing down 
 With trembling lip he said 
 Who oft to victory's crimson field 
 Had Israel's thousands led, 
 " I pray thee, let mine aged sire, 
 And she beside whose knee 
 My earliest, lisping prayer was learn'd. 
 In safety dwell with thee. 
 
324 FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 
 
 " Lest, while the adverse torrent's force 
 
 With struggling breast I stem, 
 My hands grow weak, my spirits faint, 
 
 In anxious care for them ; 
 For with an outlaw's ceaseless pain, 
 
 I wander to and fro. 
 And wait Jehovah's righteous will 
 
 More perfectly to know." 
 
 Then forth to Moab's pitying prince 
 
 His aged sire he led, 
 The cavern dampness on the locks 
 
 That silver'd o'er his head ; 
 And, leaning on his vigorous arm, 
 
 A wrinkled woman came, 
 The mother of the many sons 
 
 Who honour'd Jesse's name. 
 
 The youngest and the dearest one 
 
 Now woke her parting tear. 
 And sorrow shook his manly breast 
 
 That ne'er had quail'd with fear ; 
 While, drawing near the monarch's side. 
 
 In low and earnest tone 
 He press'd upon his soften'd heart 
 
 The treasures of his own. 
 
FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 325 
 
 Low kneeling at his parent's side, 
 
 That blessing he besought, 
 Which ever in his childish years 
 
 Had calm'd each troubled thought ; 
 While they with fond and feeble hand 
 
 His clustering curls among, 
 Jehovah's majesty and might 
 
 Invoked with faltering tongue. 
 
 With tearful thanks to Moab's king, 
 
 The exile left the place, 
 For filial duty well discharged 
 
 Shed sunshine o'er his face ; 
 And sweet as when on Bethlehem's vales 
 
 He fed his fleecy flock. 
 The dew of holy song distill'd 
 
 Like honey from the rock. 
 
 " God is my light ! Why should I fear, 
 
 Though earth be dark with shade ? 
 God is the portion of my soul. 
 
 Why should I be afraid ? 
 Unless his arm had been my stay 
 
 When snares were round me spread. 
 My strength had fainted and gone down 
 
 To silence and the dead. 
 
326 FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 
 
 " Father and mother, dear and true 
 
 The homeless one forsake, 
 While like the hunted deer, my course 
 
 From cliff to cliff I take. 
 Though kings against my life conspire, 
 
 And hosts in hate array'd, 
 God is the portion of my soul ; 
 
 Why should I be afraid ?" 
 
THE IVY. 327 
 
 THE IVY. 
 
 Beautiful plant, clasping the ruin'd tower 
 That Time hath wreck' d, and venturing fearless up 
 Into the frosty sky ! hast thou a heart 
 For constant friendship, that thou thus dost dare 
 Peril, and storm, and winter's tyranny. 
 With changeless broAv? 
 
 The lonely shaft that falls 
 From its high place, thou in thy helpful arms 
 Dost wind embracing, its disjointed stones 
 Knitting with thy strong root-work, like a mesh 
 Of living nerves. 
 
 The brown and gnarled trunk, 
 Whose heart the worm hath eaten, thou dost deck 
 As for its bridal, hiding every seam 
 And wrinkle with thy broider'd drapery. 
 The broken column mid the desert sands. 
 Where dim antiquity hath dozed so long 
 That slow oblivion stole the date away 
 Which history seeks in vain, thou still dost gird 
 
328 THE IVY. 
 
 And cherish as a tender wife, who loves 
 Best when all else forsake. 
 
 'Twas sweet to sit 
 Beneath thy shade, and mark thee closely wrap 
 The castellated domes of the old world ; 
 For though within no habitants were found, 
 Save noisome bats, or the gray, boding owl. 
 Uttering her nightly shriek, yet thou untired 
 Didst do thy pleasant work of charity. 
 Feeding the glad birds with thy berries sere, 
 That thickly nested mid thy niches green. 
 Art thou a Christian, Ivy, — thus to clothe 
 The naked, and the broken heart to bind, 
 And bless the old, and cheer the desolate ? 
 A teacher sure thou art, and shouldst be rank'd 
 Among the few who by example teach. 
 Making a text-book of their own strong heart 
 And blameless life. 
 
 And should we linger here. 
 Till our props fall around us, and each rose 
 Fades in our grasp, oh ! might one friend remain, 
 Fond and unchanged like thee ; we scarce should heed 
 The touch of wasting time. 
 
 Yea, should some stone 
 Or funeral column chronicle our name. 
 Stretch out thine arms, and wreathe it, reaching forth 
 
THE IVY. 329 
 
 Thy freshly lustrous leaf, and showing all 
 The young who wander there, how to be true 
 In love, and pitiful to wo, and kind 
 To hoary age, and with unswerving heart 
 Do good to those who render naught again. 
 
330 THE AGED BISHOP. 
 
 THE AGED BISHOP. 
 
 A scene at the closing of a Convention in Virginia, by the venerable Bishop Moore. 
 
 They cluster' d round, ttat listening throng, 
 
 The parting hour drew nigh, 
 And heighten' d feeling, deep and strong. 
 
 Spoke forth from eye to eye; 
 
 For reverend in his hoary years, 
 
 A white-robed prelate bent, 
 And trembling pathos wing'd his words, 
 
 As to the heart they went. 
 
 With saintly love he urged the crowd 
 
 Salvation's hope to gain. 
 While, gathering o'er his furrow'd cheek. 
 
 The tears fell down like rain. 
 
 He waved his hand, and music woke 
 
 A warm and solemn strain ; 
 His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fill'd 
 
 The consecrated fane. 
 
THE AGED BISHOP. 
 
 331 
 
 Then from the hallow'd chancel forth, 
 With faltering step, he sped. 
 
 And fervent laid a father's hand 
 On every priestly head. 
 
 And breathed the blessing of his God, 
 And, full of meekness, said, 
 "Be faithful in your Master's work 
 When your old bishop's dead. 
 
 "For more than fifty years, my sons, 
 A Saviour's love supreme 
 Unto a sinful world, hath been 
 My unexhausted theme : 
 
 "Now, see, the blossoms of the grave 
 Are o'er my temples spread ; 
 Oh ! lead the seeking soul to Him 
 When your old bishop's dead." 
 
 Far waned the holy Sabbath-eve 
 On toward the midnight hour. 
 
 Before the spell-bound throng retired 
 To slumber's soothing power ; 
 
332 THE AGED BISHOP. 
 
 Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream, 
 
 Beheld in snowy stole 
 That patriarch-prelate's bending form, 
 
 Whose accents thrill' d the soul. 
 
 In smiles the summer morn arose. 
 And many a grateful guest, 
 
 Forth from those hospitable domes, 
 With tender memories, press'd; 
 
 While o'er the broad and branching bay. 
 Which like a heart doth pour 
 
 A living tide, in countless streams, 
 Through fair Virginia's shore, 
 
 O'er Rappahannock's fringed breast. 
 
 O'er rich Potomac's tide. 
 Or where the bold, resistless James 
 
 Rolls on with monarch-pride, 
 
 The boats that ask nor sail nor oar, 
 With speed majestic glide. 
 
 And many a thoughtful pastor leans 
 In silence o'er their side; 
 
And, while lie seems to scan the flood 
 
 In silver 'neath him spread, 
 Kevolves the charge, ''Be strong for God 
 
 When your old bUhojfs dead.'' 
 
334 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Mountain ! that first received the foot of man, 
 Giving him shelter when the shoreless flood 
 That whelm'd a buried world went surging by, 
 I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise ; 
 I see the white-hair' d Patriarch, as he knelt 
 Beside his earthen altar mid his sons, 
 While beat in praise the only pulse of life 
 Upon this buried planet. — O'er the gorged 
 And furrow' d soil swept forth a numerous train. 
 Horned, or cloven-footed, fierce or tame. 
 While, mix'd with song, the sound of countless wings, 
 His rescued prisoners, fann'd the ambient air. 
 
 The sun drew near his setting, clothed in gold, 
 But on the Patriarch, ere from prayer he rose, 
 A darkly-cinctured cloud chill tears had wept, 
 And rain-drops lay upon his silver hairs. 
 Then burst an arch of wondrous radiance forth. 
 Spanning the vaulted skies. Its mystic scroll 
 
THE RAINBOW. 33£ 
 
 Proclaim' d tlie amnesty that pitying heaven 
 Granted to earth, all desolate and void. 
 
 Oh signet-ring ! with which the Almighty seal'd 
 His treaty with the remnant of the clay 
 That shrank before him, to remotest time 
 Stamp wisdom on the souls that turn to thee. 
 Sublime Instructor ! who four thousand years 
 Hast ne'er withheld thy lesson, but unfurl'd, 
 As shower and sunbeam bade, thy glorious scroll, 
 Oft, mid the summer's day, I musing sit 
 At my lone casement, to be taught of thee. 
 Born of the tear-drop and the smile, methinks, 
 Thou hast affinity with man, for such 
 His elements and pilgrimage below. 
 Our span of strength and beauty fades like thine. 
 Yet stays its fabric on eternal truth 
 And boundless mercy. 
 
 The wild floods may come. 
 The everlasting fountains burst their bounds. 
 The exploring dove without a leaf return. 
 Yea, the fires glow that melt the solid rock, 
 And earth be wreck'd: What then? Be still, my soul; 
 Enter thine ark ; God's promise cannot fail ; 
 For surely as yon rainbow tints the cloud, 
 His truth, thine Ararat, will shelter thee. 
 
336 THE THRIVING FAMILY. 
 
 THE THRIVING FAMILY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Our father lives in Washington, 
 
 And has a world of cares, 
 But gives his children each a farm, 
 
 Enough for them and theirs. 
 Full thirty well grown sons has he, 
 
 A numerous race indeed. 
 Married and settled all, d'ye see, 
 
 With boys and girls to feed. 
 So if we wisely till our lands. 
 
 We're sure to earn a living, 
 And have a penny, too, to spare 
 
 For spending or for giving. 
 A thriving family are we, 
 
 No lordling need deride us, 
 For we know how to use our hands, 
 
 And in our wits we pride us. 
 Hail, brothers, hail. 
 
 Let nought on earth divide us. 
 
THE THRIVING FAMILY. 
 
 337 
 
 Some of us dare the sharp north-east ; 
 
 Some, clover fields are mowing; 
 And others tend the cotton plants 
 
 That keep the looms a-going ; 
 Some build and steer the white-wing'd ships, 
 
 And few in speed can mate them. 
 While others rear the corn and wheat. 
 
 Or grind the corn to freight them. 
 And if our neighbours o'er the sea 
 
 Have e'er an empty larder, 
 To send a loaf their babes to cheer 
 
 We'll work a little harder. 
 No old nobility have Ave, 
 
 No tyrant king to ride us ; 
 Our sages in the Capitol 
 
 Enact the laws that guide us. 
 
 Hail, brothers, hail, 
 Let nought on earth divide us. 
 
 Some faults we have, we can't deny, 
 
 A foible here and there ; 
 But other households have the same, 
 
 And so we won't despair. 
 'Twill do no good to fume and frown, 
 
 And call hard names, you see, 
 
338 THE THRIVING FAMILY. 
 
 And wliat a shame 'twould be to part 
 
 So fine a family ! 
 'Tis but a waste of time to fret, 
 
 Since Nature made us one, 
 For every quarrel cuts a thread 
 
 That healthful Love has spun. 
 Then draw the cords of union fast, 
 
 Whatever may betide us, 
 And closer cling through every blast, 
 
 For many a storm has tried us. 
 Hail, brothers, hail, 
 
 Let nought on earth divide us. 
 
FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 339 
 
 FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 
 
 The flowers were beautiful to me 
 
 When childliood lured the way 
 Along the green and sunny slope, 
 
 Or through the groves to stray. 
 They were to me as playmates dear, 
 
 And when upon my knee 
 I whisper'd to them in their beds, 
 
 Methought they answer'd me. 
 
 I bent to kiss them where they grew, 
 
 And smiling bore away 
 On lip and cheek the diamond dew 
 
 That glittering deck'd their spray. 
 The bud, on which no eye hath glanced. 
 
 Save His who form'd its pride, 
 Seem'd as a sister to my heart. 
 
 For it had none beside. 
 
340 FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 
 
 Then countless gay and fairy forms 
 
 Gleam'd by, on pinions rare, 
 And many a castle's turret bright 
 
 Was pictured on the air ; 
 For Fancy held me so in thrall, 
 
 And peopled every scene, 
 That flowers might only fill the space 
 
 A thousand joys between. 
 
 But as life's river nears its goal, 
 
 And glittering bubbles break, 
 The love of flowers is like his grasp 
 
 Whom stronger props forsake, 
 Who, drifting toward some wintry clime. 
 
 Hangs o'er the vessel's side. 
 To snatch one faded wreath of hope 
 
 From out the whelming tide. 
 
 Like his, who on the isthmus stands 
 
 Whose ever-crumbling verge 
 Divides the weary race of time 
 
 From death's advancing surge, 
 And sees, to cheer its dreary strand. 
 
 Pale Memory's leaflets start. 
 And binds them as a blessed balm 
 
 To heal his lonely heart. 
 
THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 341 
 
 THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 
 
 I SATV a boy wlio towards his cottage home 
 A heavy burden bore. The way was steep 
 And rocky, and his little loaded arm 
 Strain' d downward to its full extent, while wide 
 The other horizontally was thrown. 
 As if to counterpoise the painful weight 
 That drew him towards the earth. 
 
 A while he paused 
 And set his burden down, just where the path 
 Grew more precipitous, and wiped his brow 
 With his worn sleeve, and panting breathed long draughts 
 Of the sweet air, while the hot summer sun 
 Flamed o'er his forehead. 
 
 But another boy, 
 'Neath a cool poplar in a neighbouring field, 
 Sat playing with his dog ; and from the grass 
 Uprising, with light bound the coppice clear'd, 
 And lent a vigorous hand to share the toil. 
 So on they went together, grasping firm 
 
343 THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 
 
 The basket's handle with a right good will; 
 
 And Avhile their young, clear voices met my ear, 
 
 I recollected how the Bible said, 
 
 ''Bear one another's burdens," and perceived 
 
 That to obey God's word was happiness. 
 
 Then, as the bee gleans from the humblest flower 
 
 Sown by the wayside, honey for her hive, 
 
 I treasured up the lesson, and when eve 
 
 Call'd home the labouring ox, and to its bed 
 
 Warn'd the young bird, and shut the lily's cup, 
 
 I took my little boy upon my knee. 
 
 And told him of the basket-bearer's toil. 
 
 And of the friend who help'd him. 
 
 When his eye 
 Swell'd full and round, and fix'd upon my face. 
 Taking the story to his inmost soul, 
 I said, "My son, be pitiful to all, 
 And aid them when thou canst. 
 
 For God hath sown 
 Sweet seeds within us, seeds of sympathy. 
 Whose buds are virtues, such as bloom for heaven. 
 
 "If thy young sister weepeth, kiss the tear 
 From her smooth cheek, and soothe with tender words 
 Her swelling breast ; or if a secret thorn 
 Is in thy brother's bosom, draw it thence; 
 
THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 343 
 
 Or if thy playmate sorroweth, lend an ear, 
 And share with sympathy his weight of wo. 
 
 "And when thou art a man, my little one, 
 Still keep thy spirit open to the ills 
 Of foreigner and stranger, of the race 
 Whom Afric's sun hath darken'd, and of those 
 Poor red-brow'd exiles from our forest shades, 
 Where once they ruled supreme. 
 
 Thus shalt thou shun 
 That selfishness which, wrapp'd in its own pride. 
 Forgets alike the Giver and the grief 
 Of those who mourn. 
 
 So mayst thou ever find 
 Pity and love in thine own time of need, 
 If on thy young heart, as a signet-ring, 
 Thou grav'st that motto from a Book Divine, 
 'Bear one another's burdens, and fulfil 
 The law of Christ.' " 
 
344 THE INFANT'S PRAYER. 
 
 THE INFANT'S PRAYER. 
 
 The west had shut its gate of gold 
 
 Upon the parting sun, 
 And through each window's curtaining fold 
 
 Lamps glimmer'd one by one ; 
 And many a babe had sunk to rest, 
 And many a tender mother's breast 
 
 Still lull'd its darling care, 
 When in a nursery's quiet bound, 
 With fond affections circled round, 
 
 I heard an infant's prayer. 
 
 Yes, there it knelt ; its cherub face 
 
 Upraised with earnest air, 
 And well devotion's heaven-born grace 
 
 Became a brow so fair. 
 Yet seldom at our Father's throne 
 Such glad and happy child is known 
 
 So tearfully to strive; 
 
THE INFANTS PRAYER. 345 
 
 For long, with trembling ardour fraught, 
 That supplicating lip besought, 
 " Please God, let Lilly live." 
 
 And still went up the imploring strain, 
 
 That little couch beside. 
 As if for "poor sick Lilly's pain," 
 
 It could not be denied. 
 E'en when the balm of slumber stole 
 With soothing influence o'er the soul. 
 
 Like moonlight o'er the stream, 
 The murmuring tone, the sobbing strife, 
 The broken plea for Lilly's life, 
 
 Mix'd with the infant dream. 
 
 So Lilly lived, but not where time 
 
 Is measured out by Avoes ; 
 Not where stern winter chills the clime. 
 
 Or canker eats the rose. 
 And she who for that darling friend 
 In agonizing love did bend. 
 
 To pour the simple prayer. 
 Safe from the pang, the groan, the dart, 
 That grieve the mourning parent's heart. 
 
 Lives with her Lilly there. 
 
346 THEVICTIMOFTHEDEEP. 
 
 THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 
 
 Unfathom'd main ! who to thy dark embrace 
 Hast taken the born of earth, the varied haunts 
 Of his young boyhood's sport, the corn-clad fiekis 
 Where erst he held the plough, remember him. 
 Home and its many voices, wild with grief, 
 Reproach thee for his absence, and demand 
 Why he returns not. 
 
 For with vigorous step 
 He left his cottage-door. Through his young veins 
 The health-tide coursed, and in each compact limb 
 Strength revell'd. And with such confiding joy 
 He turn'd to thee, that scarce a mother's wo 
 Woke one brief tear. 
 
 Who whispereth he is dead ? 
 Dead ! And how died he ? 
 
 Answer us, thou Sea ! 
 No doubt, thou fain wouldst hide the fearful tale, 
 The plunge, the gasp, the agonizing pang 
 With which thy treacherous policy was seal'd. 
 
THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 347 
 
 What riglit hadst thou, without one sound of knell, 
 Or hallow'd prayer, or step of funeral train, 
 In thy cold-hearted heathenism to take 
 Him on whose brow the pure baptismal dew 
 Was shed, which mark'd him of the fold of Christ ? 
 E'en now thou roll'st above him, with the play 
 Of all thy crested waves, mocking the trust 
 Which, from the footing of the firm, green earth, 
 He drew to place on thee. 
 
 His boyish eye 
 Thou lur'dst with pictures of the snowy sail 
 Swelling in beauty, of the foreign port 
 Replete with wealth, and of the glowing scene 
 Of glad return. How hast thou kept thy pledge, 
 Devouring main ? 
 
 Oh ! break thy sullen pause. 
 And tell us how he died. 
 
 The storm was high, 
 And, wrapp'd in midnight, mid the slippery shroud 
 He miss'd his footing. Loose he swang and wide 
 Over the boiling surge, a single rope 
 Grasping convulsively, and on the blast 
 Pouring wild cries for help. 
 
 The strain'd ship lurch'd. 
 And from the billows rose a voice of prayer 
 Unto redeeming love. A rope was cast, 
 
348 THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 
 
 Yet he beheld it not ; a life-boat lower'd, 
 But the shrill echo of his comrades' shout 
 Sank 'neath the tumult of the thunder-blast, 
 And cold death-silence settled where he strove 
 Briefly, with panting breast. 
 
 Relentless Sea ! 
 Doth it not grieve thee, that a broken heart 
 Sinks heavy in a mother's breast for this? 
 Or that a pale-brow'd maiden counts the hours, 
 By sound of dropping tears ? 
 
 But there shall come 
 A blast of trumpet, and thy startled depths 
 All the reft spoil of earth shall render back. 
 Atom by atom. 
 
 Then mayst thou arise 
 In glorious beauty, Sailor-Boy ! and meet 
 That Saviour's smile, whose name was on thy lip 
 When broke the last wave o'er thee. 
 
 Mayst thou hear 
 His blessed welcome to a peaceful home 
 Where there is no more sea. 
 
HAROLD AND TOSTI. 349 
 
 HAROLD AND TOSTI. 
 
 Tosti, a son of Earl Godwin, joined Hardrada, king of Norway, in an invasion of Eng- 
 land, his native land, and fought against his brother Harold, the last of the Saxon 
 monarchs, at the battle of Stamford-Bridge, September 25th, 1066. 
 
 On England's shore, the pirate king 
 
 Of Norway's frigid clime, 
 From thrice a hundred beaked ships. 
 
 Debark' d his men of crime ; 
 While at his side the outlaw son 
 
 Of proud Earl Godwin came, 
 And many a child in terror shrank 
 
 At dreaded Tosti's name. 
 
 King Harold led a dauntless host, 
 
 For every loyal thane. 
 Arousing at his country's call, 
 
 Convoked a vassal-train ; 
 And while green Autumn robed the vales. 
 
 And corn was waving high. 
 Those vengeful armies frowning met. 
 
 Where Derwent murmur' d by. 
 
350 HAROLD AND TOSTI. 
 
 But England's power, in mass compact, 
 
 Was ranged o'er hill and dale, 
 Solemn, and motionless, and dark, 
 
 A mountain clothed in mail. 
 Then Harold paused a moment's space. 
 
 Ere shafts in blood were dyed, 
 And of Earl Edwin ask'd, who rode 
 
 In armour by his side, — 
 
 " Who wears yon scarf of azure dye, 
 
 And helm of burnish' d gold ?" 
 " Hardrada, prince of Norway's realm, 
 
 A warrior fierce and bold." 
 "And who is he, with towering head. 
 
 Majestic, firm, and cool. 
 Who casts around such eagle-glance, 
 
 As he the world would rule ?" 
 
 " The rebel of Earl Godwin's line ;" 
 
 Yet spared the words to speak. 
 Thy brother, for he saw the blood 
 
 Forsake his sovereign's cheek ; 
 And though he rein'd his prancing steed. 
 
 His brow was pale as clay, 
 That brow which ne'er had blanch'd before 
 
 In battle's deadliest fray. 
 
HAROLD AND TOSTL 
 
 351 
 
 Fraternal memories o'er liis heart 
 
 Like softening waters flow'd, — 
 The mother's kiss, the mother's prayer, 
 
 Alike on both bestow'd. 
 Then parted from his armed ranks 
 
 A knight of noble mien, 
 And waved a snowy flag of truce 
 
 Those frowning hosts between. 
 
 " To Tosti, great Earl Godwin's son, 
 
 King Harold bids me say. 
 Why standst thou on thy native soil 
 
 Amid its foes this day ? 
 I yield thee all Northumbria's realm. 
 
 The choicest of my land ; 
 Lay down thine arms, disperse thy host, 
 
 And clasp a brother's hand." 
 
 But Tosti turned to Norway's kino- : 
 
 "Behold my friend," said he ; 
 
 ''What is thy monarch's boon for him. 
 
 If such his gifts to me?" 
 ' Thus Harold answereth Norway's lord 
 
 Troubler of earth and wave ; 
 Just seven good feet of English soil 
 I yield thee for a grave." 
 
353 HAROLD AND TOST I. 
 
 Then Tosti shouted, loud and wild, 
 
 He smote his buckler proud, 
 And spears and lances flash'd amain. 
 
 Like lightning from the cloud; 
 And England's mail-clad cavalry 
 
 Rush'd on, with direst shock. 
 As strikes old Ocean's stormy surge 
 
 Against the fissured rock. 
 
 Then calmly from the English lines 
 
 Rode forth a mitred thane, 
 Wulstan,* the bishop, wise and old, 
 
 Of Worcester's sacred fane ; 
 Though scarce the impetuous tide of war 
 
 Held back its panting wave, 
 While thus that white-hair'd man of peace 
 
 His sovereign's message gave : 
 
 " Oh, Tosti ! by the memory dear 
 Of boyhood's early trace. 
 When thou wert victor at the ring. 
 And foremost in the chase, 
 
 * Wulstan, the venerable Bishop of Worcester, had previously accompanied King 
 Harold into Northumberland, where a violent insurrection vras quelled, without an ap- 
 peal to the sword, by the influence of his eloquence and piety. He was one of the most 
 revered of the prelates, whom the early Saxon chronicler? were accustomed to designate 
 as mass-thanes, to distinguish thorn from the barons, or world-lhanes. 
 
HAROLD AND TOSTI. 
 
 353 
 
 And bj our parent's blessed love, 
 
 That still its vigil kept, 
 When, cheek to cheek, and heart to heart. 
 
 On the same couch we slept ; 
 
 " E'en by the mercies of our Lord, 
 Who for our sins did die, 
 Spare the dire waste of blood, and take 
 A brother's clemency." 
 " Speed back, speed back, thou Saxon kern ! 
 And, if thy steed be slow. 
 The swift-wing'd darts of glorious strife 
 May chance to lay thee low." 
 
 And with the rebel's echoed ire, 
 
 A tide of crimson rolls. 
 With clang of shield and cloven helm. 
 
 And cry of parting souls. 
 Nor stay'd that deadly passion-strife, 
 
 Till o'er the ensanguined plain 
 The flying Northmen wail'd their kind, 
 
 With haughty Tosti slain. 
 
 Yet Harold, mid that triumph hour, 
 His tent in sadness sought, 
 
354 HAROLD AND TOSTI. 
 
 And deem'd the victory all too dear 
 A brother's blood had bought : 
 
 While, on that field, the bleaching bones 
 For many a year did tell. 
 
 Where Peace the angel strove in vain 
 The demon War to quell. 
 
DREAMS. 355 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 Revere the mind, so full of mjsterj, 
 E'en in its passive hours. Behold it roam, 
 With unseal' d eye and wide unfolded wing, 
 While the tired body sleeps. Immortal guest ! 
 Our earthly nature bows itself to thee. 
 Pressing its ear of flesh unto the sigh 
 Of thy perturbed visions, if perchance 
 It hear some murmur of thy birth divine, 
 Thy deathless heritage. 
 
 Ah ! dreams are dear 
 To those whom waking life hath surfeited 
 With dull monotony. When the long day 
 Wends to its close, and stealthy evening steals, 
 Like some lean miser, greedily to clutch 
 Hope's wreath that morning gave, is it not sweet 
 To close our eyelids, and to find the rose 
 That hides no thorn, the gold that knows no rust, 
 Scatter'd where'er we tread ? Is it not sweet 
 To 'scape from stern reality, and glide 
 
356 DREAMS. 
 
 Where'er wild fancy marks her fairy way 
 
 Unlimited ? If adverse fortune make 
 
 Our pillow stony, like the patriarch's bed 
 
 At lonely Bethel, do not pitying dreams 
 
 Plant a bright ladder for the angels' feet. 
 
 And change our hard couch to the gate of heaven, 
 
 And feed our souls on manna, till they loathe 
 
 Their household bread ? 
 
 To traverse all unblamed 
 Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby ; 
 To hear unearthly music; to inhale 
 Ambrosial fragrance from the spicy groves 
 That never fade ; to see the tyrant tomb 
 Unlock its treasure-valve, and freely yield 
 The loved, the lost, back to our glad embrace ; 
 To catch clear glimpses of the streets of gold. 
 And harpers harping mid the eternal hills, 
 These are the pastimes which the mind doth take 
 While its poor clay companion slumbers deep, 
 Weary and worn. 
 
 If thou in wintry climes 
 Shouldst exiled roam, thy very heart's blood chill'd. 
 Lay but thy cold hand on a winged dream. 
 And it shall bear thee straight with bounding pulse 
 To drink the sunbeams of thine own blue skies, 
 Where the young cottage children freely fill 
 
DREAMS. 357 
 
 Their pinafores with flowers. Should ocean swell, 
 
 Or the eternal mountains stretch their bars 
 
 'Tween thee and thy loved home, how strangely sweet 
 
 To touch the talisman of dreams, and sit 
 
 Again on thine own sofa, hand in hand 
 
 With the most loved, thy children near thy side 
 
 At their untiring play, the shaded lamp 
 
 Shedding its quiet beam, while now and then 
 
 The clock upon the mantelpiece doth speak, 
 
 To register the diamond sands of time, 
 
 Made brighter by thy joys. So mayst thou hold 
 
 Existence in two hemispheres, and be 
 
 Happy in both; yea, in each separate zone 
 
 Have thine own castles, and revisit them 
 
 Whene'er it pleaseth thee. 
 
 But more than this : 
 If thou wilt seek the fellowship of dreams, 
 And fearless yield thee to their loving sway, 
 And make them friends, they'll swiftly bear thee up 
 From star to star, and let thee hear the rush 
 Of angel-wings, upon God's errands speeding ; 
 And, while they make some silver cloud thy car, 
 Will whispering tell thee that the unslumbering soul 
 Wears immortality upon its crest, 
 And, by its very power to soar with them, 
 Proves that it cannot die. 
 
358 THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 
 
 THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 
 
 In the palace of Versailles, a clock, during the whole life of the reigning monarch, 
 pointed with its motionless hands to the hour when his predecessor died, and was only 
 to be again moved at the moment of his own death. 
 
 Where the halls with splendour glow, 
 Where the gorgeous fountams throw 
 
 Fullest flood, 
 There a chronicler of time, 
 Wrapp'd in mystery sublime. 
 
 Mutely stood. 
 
 Like the finger on the wall 
 That Belshazzar's festival 
 
 Dash'd with dread, 
 Stern it bore the doom of fate. 
 While the crowd with joy elate 
 
 Check'd their tread. 
 
 Fix'd as adamantine chain, 
 Wilt thou never move aa-ain ? 
 
THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 359 
 
 Then me thought an inward strain 
 
 Murmur'd low, 
 " Blind with pomp or folly's chase 
 Call the king ! He can trace 
 The true answer in my face, 
 
 He doth know. 
 
 " When he struggleth long and sore. 
 When he links to earth no more 
 
 Hate or love, 
 When his eye hath lost its light. 
 When his hands grow stiff and white, 
 Mine shall move. 
 
 "When his crown availeth not, 
 And the death-hues blear and blot 
 
 Brow and cheek, 
 When his tongue no more can frame 
 Vaunt of power or moan of shame. 
 
 Mine shall speak. 
 
 " I shall speak — I shall move, 
 While his fickle courtiers rove 
 
 Far away ; 
 With my doom of fate and fear 
 
360 THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 
 
 For the new-made monarcli's ear 
 I shall stay." 
 
 Slow the murmur in the breast 
 Died away, and there at rest, 
 
 Still and stern, 
 Stood that monitor sublime. 
 Teaching truths that power and prime 
 
 Shrink to learn. 
 
^ 
 
 HEAVEN'S LESSON. 361 
 
 HEAVEN'S LESSON. 
 
 Heaven teacheth thee to mourn, friend beloved ; 
 Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, 
 The first beginners in its school, may learn 
 How to rejoice. The sycamore's broad leaf, 
 Thrill'd by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird's nest, 
 Murmur of gladness ; and the wondering babe, 
 Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, 
 Knoweth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream 
 That throws by fits its gushing music forth. 
 The careless sparrow, happy though the frosts 
 Nip his light foot, have learn'd the simple lore 
 How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it 
 To all her innocent works. 
 
 But God alone 
 Instructeth how to mourn. He doth not trust 
 This higher lesson to a voice or hand 
 Subordinate. Behold ! He cometh forth ! 
 sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn 
 The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore. 
 
362 HEAVEN'S LESSON. 
 
 Sliarp though it be, to an unanswering breast, 
 A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring 
 From these rough rudiments, that thou shalt gain 
 A class more noble, and, advancing, soar 
 Where the sole lesson is a seraph's praise. 
 Yea, be a docile scholar, and so rise 
 Where mourning hath no place. 
 
THE PRINCE OF E DOM. 363 
 
 THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 
 
 1 Kings xi. 21. 
 
 The warriors of David came down in their ire, 
 And Edom was scathed with their deluge of fire ; 
 O'er the wrecks of its throne roll'd oblivion's dark flood, 
 And the thirst of its valleys was satiate with blood. 
 
 Its prince, a lone outcast, an orphan distrest, 
 In the palace of Egypt found refuge and rest. 
 And the queen's gentle sister, with eye like the dove. 
 Became in her beauty the bride of his love. 
 
 Yet still, a dark shade o'er his features would stray, 
 Though the lute-strings thrill' d soft and the banquet was gay ; 
 For the land of his fathers in secret he pined. 
 And murmur' d his grief to the waves and the wind. 
 
 " The voice of my country ! it haunteth my dreams, 
 I start from my sleejD at the rush of its streams ; 
 Oh, monarch of Egypt ! sole friend in my wo, 
 I would see it once more. Let me go ! let me go !" 
 
364 THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 
 
 " Wouldst thou hie to the desert, and couch with the .bear ? 
 Or the lion disturb in his desolate lair ? 
 Wouldst thou camp on the ruins with brambles o'ergrown, 
 While the blasts in their mockery respond to thj moan ? 
 
 " Know'st thou not that the sword of stern Joab was red 
 Till the dukes of Idumea were slaughter'd and dead ? 
 Know'st thou not that his vengeance relax'd not, nor stay'd 
 Till six moons wax'd and waned o'er the carnage he 
 made?" 
 
 " I know that our roof-trees in ashes were laid, 
 And the vine and the olive hew'd down from each glade; 
 Yet still some pale sprouts from their roots may be seen, 
 And the clefts of the rock with their foliage be green. 
 
 " I know that our virgins, so stately and fair, 
 Who wreathed with the pearl and the topaz their hair. 
 That our merchants, whose wealth with a monarch's has vied, 
 In Phoenicia and Zidon in bondage abide. 
 
 " But roused by my trumpet, the captives shall haste 
 From the far, foreign realms, where their life-blood they 
 
 waste ; 
 From the walls of Azotus with speed they shall fly. 
 And nest, like the bird, 'neath their own native sky." 
 
THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 365 
 
 " prince of red Edom, content thee, be still ; 
 Of the treasures of Egypt partake at thy will ; 
 See, thy wife lights thy bower with the wealth of her charms, 
 And thy babe, as she names thee, leaps high in her arms. 
 
 " Thou know'st from thy realm all the people have fled. 
 That the friends of thy childhood are cold with the dead ; 
 Every drop of thy blood from that region is reft. 
 No voice of thy kindred to welcome thee left." 
 
 " Let me go, king of Egypt, to visit my slain. 
 To weep o'er their dust, who revive not again; 
 Though nought in their courts save the lizard should glide, 
 And the bat flap his wing in their chambers of pride, 
 
 " Yet still shall Mount Seir in his grandeur remain. 
 Still the rivers roll on to the fathomless main. 
 If no tone of the living should solace my wo. 
 To the land of my birth, let me go, let me go." 
 
366 THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 
 
 THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 
 
 He languish' d by the way-side, and fell down 
 Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers 
 Pledged to his lady-love. Like her heart's joys, 
 They died with him. 
 
 There was a widow' d form 
 To whom the echo of his entering step 
 Had been as music. All alone she sits. 
 Tearful and pale. The world henceforth to her 
 Is desolate and void. 
 
 Young Love may weep, 
 But sunbeams dry its tears ; and the quick pulse 
 Of hope in Beauty's bosom doth o'ercome 
 The syncope of grief. But unto Age 
 Thus utterly bereaved, what now remains, 
 Save, with bow'd head and finger on its lip. 
 In solemn meekness and in sanctity. 
 The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view. 
 To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars 
 Time from eternity ? 
 
THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 367 
 
 THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 
 
 A FORM there was, still spared by time 
 Till the slow century fill'd its prime; 
 Stretcli'd on its bed, with half-closed e^'^e 
 It mark'd uncertain shades flit by; 
 Nor scarce the varied world of sound 
 To the seal'd ear admittance found; 
 While the worn brow, in wrinkles dark, 
 Seem'd like the gnarl'd oak's roughen'd bark. 
 
 Oh ! e'er did youthful beauty deck 
 Those wither'd limbs, yon living wreck ? 
 Did blushes o'er that leathern cheek 
 The warmth of wild emotion speak ? 
 Did rosy health that lip bedew, 
 And kneelinsr love for favour sue ? 
 Alas ! alas ! for him who bears 
 A hundred years earth's load of cares. 
 
368 THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 
 
 'Twere vain to ask, what legends old 
 That brain might in its chambers hold ; 
 What pictures in its gallery fade, 
 Bj Fancy touch'd or Hope portray'd ; 
 For Memory locks the cloister'd cell, 
 And Silence guards the citadel ; 
 But still that weary woman's eye 
 Doth gaze and fix on vacancy. 
 
 Yet the faint lungs spontaneous play, 
 The heart's pulsations hold their way, 
 And helpless to the garden borne. 
 Or laid beside the blossom'd thorn, 
 What time the vernal noontide hour 
 Gave deeper life to shrub and flower, 
 Methought a quickening influence stole 
 O'er stagnant veins, and frigid soul. 
 
 A knell burst forth ! From turret high 
 Its mournful cadence floated by; 
 E'en on that rigid ear it broke, 
 And, strange to say, the tear awoke. 
 Then lo ! a hoarse, sepulchral tone. 
 As when imprison'd waters moan, 
 Moved the parch'd lips to utterance free, 
 "Ah ! when will that bell toll for me ? 
 
"All, all are gone ! the husband clear, 
 The loving child, the friend sincere. 
 Once toward their graves with grief I prest. 
 But now I bless their dreamless rest ; 
 For lone, amid a stranger-band. 
 Sad relic of the past I stand ; 
 Dead at the root, a blasted tree ; 
 Ah ! when will that bell toll for me ? 
 
 " Hath Death forgotten ? To his halls 
 Childhood and youthful prime he calls ; 
 In bowers of love, or domes of pride. 
 He finds them, wheresoe'er they hide: 
 Fain would they 'scape, but to his sight 
 I hasten, and his shaft invite. 
 Hath God forgot ? I bend the knee. 
 Oh, let that knell be toll'd for me !" 
 
370 THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 
 
 THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 
 
 Know'st thou the Leader of that band who toil 
 The everlasting gospel's light to shed 
 On earth's benighted climes ? 
 
 Canst tell the name 
 Of the first Teacher in whose steps went forth, 
 O'er sultry India, and the sea-green isles. 
 And to the forest children of the West, 
 A self-denying band, who counted not 
 Life dear unto them, so they might fulfil 
 Their ministry, and save the heathen soul ? 
 
 Judea's mountains from their breezy heights 
 Reply, "We heard him when he lifted up 
 His voice, and taught the people patiently 
 Line upon line, for they were slow of heart." 
 From its dark depths the Galilean lake 
 Told hoarsely to the storm-cloud, how he dealt 
 Bread to the famish'd throng with tender care, 
 Forgetting not the body, while he fed 
 
THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 371 
 
 The immortal spirit; how he stood and heal'd 
 Daj after day, till evening shadows fell 
 Around the pale and paralytic train, 
 Lame, halt, and blind, and lunatic, who sought 
 His pitying touch. 
 
 Mount Olivet in sighs 
 Spake mournfully, "His midnight prayer was mine; 
 I heard it, I alone, as all night long 
 Upward it rose, with tears for those who paid 
 His love with hatred." 
 
 Kedron's slender rill 
 That bathed his feet, as to his lowly work 
 Of mercy he went forth, still kept his name 
 Securely hoarded in its secret fount, 
 A precious pearl-drop ! 
 
 Sad Gethsemane 
 Had memories that it falter' d to repeat, 
 Such as the strengthening angel mark'd appall'd, 
 Finding no dialect in which to bear 
 Their wo to heaven. 
 
 E'en Calvary, who best 
 Might, if it would, our earnest question solve, 
 Press' d close its flinty lip, and shuddering bow'd 
 In silent dread, remembering how the sun 
 Grew dark at noonday, and the sheeted dead 
 
372 THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 
 
 Came from their mouldering sepulchres, to walk 
 Among the living. 
 
 But the bold bad host, 
 Spirits of evil, from the lake of pain, 
 Who held brief triumph round the mystic cross, 
 Bare truthful witness, as they shrieking fled, 
 "We know thee who thou art, the Christ of God:" 
 While heaven, uplifting its eternal gates, 
 With chant of cherubim and seraphim, 
 Welcomed the Lord of glory entering in, 
 His mission done. 
 
TO MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 373 
 
 A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Come, gather closer to my side, 
 
 My little smitten flock. 
 And I will tell of him who brought 
 
 Pure water from the rock ; 
 Who boldly led God's people forth 
 
 From Egypt's wrath and guile. 
 And once a cradled babe did float 
 
 All helpless on the Nile. 
 
 You're weary, precious ones, your eyes 
 
 Are wandering far and wide ; 
 Think ye of her who knew so well 
 
 Your tender thought to guide ? 
 Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 
 
 Your fix'd attention claim ? 
 Ah ! never from your hearts erase 
 
 That blessed mother's name. 
 
374 TO MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 
 
 'Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 
 
 My youngest infant dove ; 
 Come, press your velvet cheek to mine, 
 
 And learn the lay of love ; 
 My sheltering arms can clasp you all, 
 
 My poor deserted throng ; 
 Cling as you used to cling to her 
 
 Who sings the angel's song. 
 
 Begin, sweet birds, the accustom'd strain; 
 
 Come, warble loud and clear; 
 Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 
 
 You're sobbing in my ear. 
 Good-night — go say the prayer she taught 
 
 Beside your little bed ; 
 The lips that used to bless you there 
 
 Are silent with the dead. 
 
 A father's hand your course may guide 
 
 Amid the thorns of life, 
 His care protect those shrinking plants 
 
 That dread the storms of strife ; 
 But who, upon your infant hearts, 
 
 Shall like that mother write ? 
 Who touch the strings that rule the soul ? 
 
 Dear, smitten flock, good-night ! 
 
SORROW AS ON THE SEA. 375 
 
 ^•'SORROW AS ON THE SEA." 
 
 Jeremiah. 
 
 ^^ Sorrow as on the sea.'" 
 
 man of grief, 
 Prophet ! who in the troublous time of siege 
 And famine, when the fierce Chaldean bands 
 Invaded Israel, didst predict her fate 
 And feel her vengeance, didst thou ever taste 
 The sorrow of the sea ? Strength reft away. 
 The spirit melted, hope in darkness lost. 
 And that eternal loathing, day by day, 
 Born of those cruel tossings that forbid 
 The tortured nerve upon its rack to rest, — 
 For these, thy plaintive harp, that sang so well 
 Of prison woes, must strike another string. 
 
 Thunder upon the main ! 
 
 Ho, mariner, 
 For whom the landsman in his happy home 
 Hath little feeling, mount the shrouds, go up 
 
376 SORROWASONTHESEA. 
 
 Into the inkj blackness, dare the shaft 
 Of heaven's red lightning on the pointed mast, 
 Speck as thou art, which neither sea nor sky 
 Own, or remember, mid their maniac strife. 
 The good ship breasts the surge, intent to bide 
 The battle bravely. Yet, like hunted deer, 
 It croucheth in the hollow of the sea. 
 Until the full-mouthed billows drive it forth 
 Reeling and scathed. Anon, the madden'd winds 
 Pour out fresh forces, and with riven crest 
 It rusheth desperate o'er the terraced wave, 
 Vex'd by their dread artillery. hearts 
 Of human mould ! that, soften' d by the love 
 Of home and kindred, have endured the scourge 
 Of Ocean's tempests, or upon the wreck, 
 Week after week, held with untold despair 
 Gaunt fellowship, ye might a tale unfold 
 To daunt the dream, and turn the revel pale. 
 
 Sorrow as on the sea ! 
 
 A woman mourns, 
 Pale as the little marble form she folds 
 Close in her arms, resisting all who touch 
 The darling of her bosom. 
 
 " 'Twill awake ; 
 It hath but fainted. The wild, rocking sea 
 
SORROW AS ON THE SEA. 377 
 
 Hath made it sick. I tell ye 'twill revive. 
 CMld ! baby ! look on me ! 'Twill smile again." 
 " Yes, mother, yes ! but not below the skies." 
 Spasm and convulsion seize her at the thought 
 That the dear idol, whom but yesterday 
 She cradled from the zephyr's roughen'd breath, 
 Alone must to the unfathom'd depths go down, 
 And for its little body find a bed 
 Amid the scaly monsters of the deep. 
 Yet so it is. And she must wend her way 
 O'er the stern waves that made her desolate, 
 To her far home again, having let fall 
 Her soul's chief jew^el in the trackless deep. 
 
 Sorrow as on the sea ! 
 
 Ye know it not 
 Who feel a firm foundation 'neath your feet, 
 And sleep, unvex'd by waves. Death comes indeed, 
 But smites you in the sacred place of graves, 
 Where ye may lay your dead with solemn knell 
 And tender sympathies of funeral train. 
 And duly visit them, and dress their couch 
 With blessed flowers, type of their rising day. 
 Yea, from the gray-hair' d sexton on his spade, 
 Bespeak your own turf-pillow where to lie. 
 And rest beside them, when in God's good time 
 
378 SORROW AS OX THE SEA. 
 
 The pale death-angel comes to summon thee. 
 True, there is grief on earth. But when je drain 
 Its cup of hitterness, give thanks to God 
 If, in your pilgrimage, ye ne'er have known 
 The sorrow of the sea. 
 
MUTATIONS. 379 
 
 MUTATIONS. 
 
 As waves the grass upon the fields to-daj, 
 That soon the wasting scjthe shall sweep away; 
 As smiles the floweret in the morning dew, 
 That eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, 
 Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, 
 Thus bloom awhile, then wither and decay. 
 
 I saw an infant in its robe of white. 
 The admiring mother's ever dear delight ; 
 It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by. 
 And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye. 
 Again I came — an empty crib was there, 
 A narrow coffin, and a funeral prayer. 
 
 I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold, 
 Nor summer's heat he fear'd, nor winter's cold ; 
 With dexterous foot he dared the frozen pool. 
 His laugh rang loudest mid his mates at school. 
 Again I came — his name alone was found 
 On one low stone that crowns yon swelling mound. 
 
380 MUTATIONS. 
 
 I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd, 
 In youtli resplendent, and by love caress'd; 
 Her clustering liair in sunny ringlets glow'd, 
 Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd. 
 Again I came — her parents' halls were lone, 
 And o'er her turf-bed rose the weeper's moan. 
 
 Oh boasted joys of earth ! how swift ye fly, 
 Rent from the heart or hidden from the eye ; 
 So through the web the weaver's shuttle glides, 
 So speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides. 
 So cleaves the bird the liquid fields of light. 
 And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight. 
 
 Dust tends to dust, with ashes ashes blend; 
 Yet when the grave engulfs the buried friend, 
 A few brief sighs may mark its yawning brink, 
 A few salt tears the broken clods may drink, 
 A few sad hearts with bursting anguish bleed. 
 And pay that tribute which they soon must need. 
 
 They soon must need ! But life's returning cares 
 Sweep ofi" the precious fruit that sorrow bears ; 
 The mourner drops his sable, and aspires 
 To light anew ambition's smother'd fires, 
 
MUTATIONS. 381 
 
 Bathe his worn brow with labour's wasting dew, 
 And, sleepless, toil for heirs he knows not who. 
 
 Thus He who marks us in our vain career. 
 In wisdom darkens what we hold most dear ; 
 Shreds from our vine the bowering leaves away. 
 And breaks its tendrils from their grovelling staj. 
 That the rich clusters, lifted to the sky. 
 May surer ripen for a world on high. 
 
382 OUR COUNTRY. 
 
 OUR COUNTRY. 
 
 Land of broad rivers and of ocean-lakes, 
 Sky-kissing cliffs and prairies prank' d with flowers, 
 That, seated on thj mountain-throne, dost hear 
 The Atlantic and Pacific's mighty surge 
 Battling against thy coast, and throw to each 
 Thy snow-white sails, that visit every clime 
 And kindred under heaven, — fair land ! free land ! 
 How glorious art thou. 
 
 Mid thy cultured vales 
 The sturdy reapers sing, garnering the corn 
 That feedeth other realms besides their own. 
 — Toil lifts his brawny arm, and takes the wealth 
 That makes his children princes ; Learning wins 
 By studious lamp the better gold, that dreads 
 Nor rust nor robber's wile ; Art deftly brings 
 Tissue and tincture and the fretted stone ; 
 Strange steeds of iron, with their ceaseless freight. 
 Tramp night and day ; while the red lightning bears 
 Thy slightest whisper on its wondrous wing. 
 
OUR COUNTRY. 383 
 
 — Proudly thou spread'st tliine eagle-pinion o'er 
 The exiled, and the crush' d from every clime, 
 Giving them welcome. May no vulture beak 
 Transpierce thee for thine hospitality. 
 But sons of strangers build thy walls, and call 
 Thy gates salvation. 
 
 'Neath thy lofty dome 
 'Tis good to linger, where, in conclave high, 
 Convene the chosen from thy many States, 
 Sages, and men of eloquence, who stretch 
 Their line of travel through an empire's length 
 To pour their wisdom at thy shrine, and make 
 Thy union perfect. From the Avind-swept hills. 
 To where the rich magnolia drinks the breath 
 Of fervid suns — from the great, beating heart 
 Of the young, giant West, to where the East, 
 Wrinkled with thought, doth nurse a nation's mind. 
 They come to do thee honour. There, to list 
 The grave debate, or catch the kindling thrill 
 With which impassion 'd eloquence maintains 
 Thine equal laws, inspires the ardent prayer 
 Of patriot love, that God would hold thee safe, 
 And firmly knit thy children's hearts, to share 
 One home, one destiny. 
 
 A mighty wind 
 Doth shake the palaces of ancient time, 
 
384 OUR COUNTRY 
 
 And voices mid the despot thrones are heard, 
 
 Crying, as in Jerusalem of old, 
 
 "Let us depart !" But thou, my blessed land. 
 
 Like some fair hearth which hovering angels guard. 
 
 Gather thine offspring round thee, and make bright 
 
 Their hallow'd chain of love. Warn them to bear 
 
 Each other's burdens, seek the common good. 
 
 Be pitiful to error, and repress 
 
 Each ruder breath that stirs to wrathful deeds. 
 
 Oh, beautiful and glorious ! thou dost wrap 
 The robes of Liberty around thy breast. 
 And as a matron watch thy little ones 
 Who from their cradle seek the village school, 
 Bearing the baptism on their infant broAV 
 Of Christian faith and knowledge, like the bud 
 That, at the bursting of its sheath, doth feel 
 Pure dews, and heavenward turn. 
 
 There is thy strength, 
 In thy young children, and in those who lead 
 Their souls to righteousness. The mother's prayer 
 With her sweet lisper, ere it sinks to rest — 
 The faithful teacher mid a plastic group — 
 The classic halls — the hamlet's slender spire 
 From whence, as from the solemn gothic pile 
 That crowns the city's pomp, ascendeth sweet 
 
OUR COUNTRY. 385 
 
 Jehovah's praise — these are thy strength, my land ! 
 These are thy hope. 
 
 Oh ! lonely ark, that rid'st 
 A tossing deluge, dark with history's wrecks, 
 And paved with dead who made not Heaven their help, 
 God keep thee perfect in thy many parts, 
 Bound in one living whole. 
 
386 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 
 
 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 
 
 Where art thou, old friend ? 
 
 When last 
 This familiar haunt I past, 
 Thou didst seem in vigorous cheer, 
 As like to stand as any here, 
 With roof-tree firm, and comely face 
 Well preserved in attic grace. 
 On columns fair thine arches resting, 
 Among thy trees the spring-birds nesting ; 
 Hast thou vanished ? Can it be 
 I no more shall gaze on thee ? 
 
 Casements whence the taper's ray 
 Glitter' d o'er the crowded way. 
 Where, embalm' d in fragrant dew, 
 Peer'd the snowy lilac through ; 
 Chimneys whence the volumed smoke 
 Of thy warm heart freely spoke ; 
 
REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 387 
 
 Fallen and gone ! No vestige left, 
 Stone from stone asunder reft, 
 While a chasm, with rugged face. 
 Yawns and darkens in thy place. 
 
 Threshold ! which I oft have prest, 
 More a habitant than guest, 
 For their blessed sakes who shed 
 Oil of gladness on my head, 
 Brows with hoary wisdom drest, 
 Saints who now in glory rest, 
 Fain had I, though tear-drops fell. 
 Said to thee one kind farewell ; 
 Fain with tender, grateful sigh, 
 Thank'd thee for the days gone by. 
 
 Hearth-stone ! where the ample fire 
 Quell'd old Winter's fiercest ire. 
 While its blaze reflected clear 
 On the friends who gather'd near, 
 On the pictures quaint and old. 
 Thou of quiet pleasures told ; 
 Knitting-bag, and storied page, 
 Precepts grave from lips of age, 
 Made the lengthen'd evening fleet 
 Lightly, with improvement sweet. 
 
388 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 
 
 Fallen dome ! beloved so well, 
 Thou couldst many a legend tell 
 Of the chiefs, of ancient fame, 
 Who to share thy shelter came. 
 Rochambeau and La Fayette 
 Round thy plenteous board have met, 
 With Columbia's mightier son. 
 Great and glorious Washington. 
 Here with kindred minds they plann'd 
 Rescue for an infant land, 
 While the British lion's roar 
 Echoed round the leaguered shore. 
 
 He, who now where cypress weeps, 
 On Mount Vernon's bosom sleeps, 
 Once in council grave and high 
 Shared thy hospitality. 
 When the sound of treason drear, 
 Arnold's treason, met his ear. 
 Heart that iie'er in danger quail'd, 
 Lips that ne'er had faltered paled. 
 As the Judas' image stole. 
 Shuddering, o'er his stainless soul, 
 And he sped, like tempest's shock, 
 On to West Point's perill'd rock. 
 
REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 389 
 
 Beauty here, ■with budding pride, 
 Blossom'd into youth, and died; 
 Manhood tower'd with ruling mind, 
 Age in reverent arms declined. 
 Bridals bright and burials dread 
 From thy gates their trains have sped ; 
 But thy lease of time is run. 
 Closed thy date, thy history done. 
 
 All are vanish'd, all have fled. 
 Save the memories of the dead ; 
 These with added strength adhere 
 To the hearts that year by year 
 Feebler beat, and fainter glow. 
 Till they rest in turf below ; 
 Till their place on earth shall be 
 Blotted out, old dome, like thee. 
 
 Other fanes, 'neath favouring skies, 
 (Blessings on them !) here may rise ; 
 Other groups, by hope be led, 
 (Blessings on them !) here to tread ; 
 Yet of thee, their children fair 
 Nothing wot, and nothing care. 
 So a form, that soon must be 
 Number'd with the past like thee. 
 
390 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 
 
 Kests with pilgrim-staff awhile, 
 On thy wreck, deserted pile. 
 And the dust that once was thine 
 Garners for affection's shrine. 
 
THE LOST LILY. 391 
 
 THE LOST LILY. 
 
 Fain would I tell a tale of Wyoming 
 In days long past. There was a rural home, 
 Lonely, yet pleasant, near whose door a brook, 
 Where water-cresses grew, went singing by. 
 In its small garden, many a cultured bush 
 Of ripening berries mingled here and there 
 With spicy herbs, sage and the bee-loved thyme, 
 While through thick boughs the blushing apple peer'd, 
 Betokening thrift and comfort. 
 
 Once, as closed 
 The autumn-day, the mother by her side 
 Held her young children, with her storied lore. 
 Fast by her chair, a bold and bright-eyed boy 
 Stood statue-like, while closer, at her feet, 
 Sate his two gentle sisters. One, a girl 
 Of some seven summers, youngest, and most loved 
 For her prolonged and feeble infancy. 
 She lean'd upon her mother's lap, and look'd 
 Into her face with an intense regard, 
 
392 THE LOST LILY. 
 
 And the quick, intermitting sob that shows 
 The listening spirit. 
 
 Pale she was, and fair. 
 And so exceeding fragile, that the name 
 Given by her wilder playmates, at their sports. 
 Of "Lily of the Vale," seem'd well bestow'd. 
 The mother told them of her native clime. 
 Her own, beloved NeAv-England ; of the school. 
 Where many children o'er their lessons bent. 
 Each mindful of the rules, to read, or spell. 
 Or ply the needle at the appointed hour ; 
 And how they serious sate, with folded hands. 
 When the good mistress through her spectacles 
 Explain'd the Bible. 
 
 Of the church she spake, 
 With snowy spire, by elms o'er-canopied; 
 And how the sweet bell, on the Sabbath morn. 
 Summon' d from every home the people forth, 
 All neatly clad, and with a reverent air. 
 Children by parents led, to worship God. 
 Absorb'd in such recital, ever mix'd 
 By that maternal lip with precepts pure 
 Of love to God and man, they scarcely mark'd 
 A darkening shadow o'er the casement steal. 
 Until the savage footstep and the flash 
 Of tomahawk appall' d them. 
 
THE LOST LILY. 393 
 
 SAvift as tliouglit 
 They fled, through dell and thicket, closely track'd 
 By grim pursuers. The frail mother, tax'd 
 With the loved burden of her youngest born. 
 Moved slowest, and they cleft her fiercely down ; 
 Yet with that impulse which doth sometimes move 
 The sternest purpose of the red man's breast 
 To a capricious mercy, spared the child. 
 Her little struggling limbs, her streaming eyes 
 Averted from the captors, her shrill cry 
 Stealing in fitful echoes from afar, 
 Deepen'd the mother's death-pang. 
 
 Eve drew on, 
 And from his toil the husband and the sire 
 Turn'd wearied home. With wondering thought he mark'd 
 No little feet came forth to welcome him ; 
 No Lily of the Vale, who first of all 
 Was wont to espy him. 
 
 Through the house he rush'd 
 Empty and desolate, and down the wild. 
 There lay his wife, all weltering in her blood. 
 Upon the trampled grass. In vain he bore 
 The form of marble to its couch, and strove 
 Once more to vivify that spark of life 
 Which ruthless rage had quench' d. 
 
 On that dread hour 
 
394 THE LOST LILY. 
 
 Of utter desolation, broke a cry, 
 
 "Oh, father! father !" and around his neck 
 
 Two weeping children wound their trembling arms, 
 
 Saved mid the thicket's tangled depths, to share 
 
 The burden of his wo. 
 
 With tireless zeal, 
 That sad dismember'd household sought the child 
 Reft from their arms, and oft with shuddering thought 
 Revolved the horrors that must mark her lot, 
 If life were hers. And when the father lay 
 In his last, mortal sickness, he enjoin'd 
 His children never to remit their search 
 For the lost Lily. 
 
 Years roll'd on their course ; 
 The boy became a man, and o'er his brow 
 Stole the white, sprinkled hairs. Around his hearth 
 Were children's children, and one pensive friend, 
 His melancholy sister, night and day 
 Mourning the lost. At length, a rumour came 
 Of a white woman found in Indian tents, 
 Far, far away. A father's dying words 
 Came o'er the husbandman, and up he rose. 
 And took his sad-eyed sister by the hand. 
 Blessing his household, as he bade farewell. 
 For their uncertain pilgrimage. 
 
 They prest 
 
THE LOST LILY. 395 
 
 O'er cloud-capp'd mounts, througli forests dense witli shade, 
 O'er bridgeless rivers, swoln to torrents hoarse, 
 O'er prairies like the never-ending sea, 
 Following the chart that had been dimly traced 
 Bj stranger-guide. 
 
 At length they reach'd a lodge 
 Deep in the wilderness, beside whose door 
 A wrinkled woman with the Saxon brow 
 Sate coarsely mantled in her blanket-robe. 
 The Indian pipe between her shrivell'd lips. 
 Yet in her blue eye dwelt a gleam of thought, 
 A hidden memory, whose electric force 
 Thrill'd to the fount of being, and reveal'd 
 The kindred drops that had so long wrought out 
 A separate channel. 
 
 With affection's haste 
 The sister clasp'd her neck. " Oh lost and found ! 
 Lily ! dear sister ! praise to God above !" 
 Then in wild sobs her trembling voice was lost. 
 The brother drew her to his side, and bent 
 A long and tender gaze into the depths 
 Of her clear eye. That glance unseal'd the scroll 
 Of many years. Yet no responding tear 
 Moisten'd her cheek, nor did she stretch her arms 
 To answer their embrace. 
 
 " Oh, Lily ! love ! 
 
396 THE LOST LILY. 
 
 For whom this heart so many years hath kept 
 Its dearest place," the sister's voice resumed, 
 "Hast thou forgot the home, the grassy bank 
 Where we have play'd ? The blessed mother's voice 
 Bidding us love each other ? and the prayer 
 With which our father at the evening hour 
 Commended us to God?" 
 
 Slowly she spake : 
 "I do i;emember, dimly, as a dream, 
 A brook, a garden, and two children fair, 
 A loving mother with a bird-like voice. 
 Teaching us goodness ; then a trace of blood, 
 A groan of death, a lonely captive's pain; 
 But all are past away. 
 
 Here is my home, 
 These are my daughters. 
 
 If ye ask for him. 
 The eagle-eyed and lion-hearted chief. 
 My fearless husband, who the battle led, 
 There is his grave." 
 
 " Go back, and dwell with us. 
 Back to thy people, to thy father's God," 
 The brother said. "I have a happy home, 
 A loving wife and children. Thou shalt be 
 Welcome to all. And these, thy daughters too. 
 The dark-eyed and the raven-hair'd, shall be 
 
Unto me as mine own. My heart doth yearn 
 O'er thee, our hapless mother's dearest one. 
 Let my sweet home be thine." 
 
 A trembling nerve 
 Thrill'd all unwonted at her bosom's core, 
 And her lip blanch'd. But the two daughters gazed 
 Reproachfully upon her, to their cheek 
 Rushing the proud Miami chieftain's blood, 
 In haughty silence. So, she wept no tears ;- 
 The moveless spirit of the race she loved 
 Had come upon her, and her features show'd 
 Slight touch of sympathy. 
 
 "Upon my head 
 Rest sixty winters. Scarcely seven were past 
 Among the pale-faced people. Hate they not 
 The red man in their heart ? Smooth Christian words 
 They speak, but from their touch we fade away 
 As from the poisonous snake. 
 
 Have I not said 
 Here is my home ? and yonder is the bed 
 Of the Miami chief? Two sons who bore 
 His brow, rest on his pillow. 
 
 Shall I turn 
 My back upon my dead, and bear the curse 
 Of the great Spirit ?" 
 
 Through their feathery plumes, 
 
398 THE LOST LILY. 
 
 Her dark-eyed daughters mute approval gave 
 To these stern words. 
 
 Yet still, with faithful zeal, 
 The brother and the sister waited long 
 In patient hope. If on her brow they traced 
 Aught like relenting, fondly they implored, 
 " Oh Lily ! go with us !" and every tale 
 That pour'd o'er childhood's days a flood of light 
 Had the same whisper' d burden. 
 
 Oft they walk'd 
 Beside her, when the twilight's tender hour, 
 Or the young moonlight, blendeth kindred hearts 
 So perfectly together. But in vain ; 
 For with the stony eye of prejudice, 
 Which gathereth coldness from an angel's smile. 
 She look'd upon their love. 
 
 And so they left 
 Their pagan sister in her Indian home, 
 And to their native vale of Wyoming 
 Turn'd mournful back. There, often steep'd in tears, 
 At morn or evening, rose the earnest prayer. 
 That God would keep in their lost Lily's soul 
 The seed her mother sow'd, and by His grace 
 So water it that they might meet in heaven. 
 
TWILIGHT. 399 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 There is a dimness, like a doubt, 
 
 That wrappeth earth and sky, 
 When Day hath in its glory died. 
 And ere the Night comes forth with pride 
 Of sable majesty. 
 
 'Tis like the soft delay of Youth, 
 
 Where Love hath built its throne ; 
 
 A coy reluctance, ere it rest 
 
 Entirely on another's breast. 
 To be no more its own. 
 
 It is the gentle pause of Heaven, 
 
 E'en as a mother mild. 
 Before some new bequest is lent, 
 Inquireth how the last was spent 
 
 Of her forgetful child. 
 
 Then Conscience, like that fearful cry 
 Mid Eden's deep repose, 
 
400 TWILIGHT. 
 
 "Where is thj brother?" turns its ray 
 Upon the annal of the Day, 
 That to its funeral goes. 
 
 Perchance, the queenly Moon descends, 
 
 And lo ! the haughty Sea 
 On her pale face doth fix his eye, 
 And bids his mightiest tides comply, 
 And own her regency. 
 
 Yet Twilight gray to me is dear, 
 More than the blushing Day, 
 
 Or noontide's plenitude of light. 
 
 Or sober certainty of Night, 
 Or Moon with silver ray. 
 
 For then, at scepter'd Memory's call, 
 
 Long buried years awake. 
 And tread in charmed circles back. 
 With music, o'er their flowery track. 
 Their ancient seats to take. 
 
 And parted friends, of whom we say. 
 
 In beds of clay they rest, 
 Bend meekly down from glory's sphere. 
 And with their angel smile, or tear. 
 Allure us to the blest. 
 
THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 401 
 
 THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 
 
 "Then shall we no more look into our cabinet, and miss its treasures." — 
 
 Baxter. 
 
 When shall that time be ? When ? 
 
 So many buds 
 We shelter'd in the garden of our heart, 
 Yet ere their young sheaths open'd to the sun, 
 They curl'd their leaves and died, we shrink to fill 
 Their vacant places, lest the same sharp grief 
 And trouble come upon us. Life doth seem. 
 With all its banners of felicity, 
 Like the fair alcove of the bard, and seat 
 Illusory, on which we find no rest.* 
 
 In the mind's store-house, gold we had, and gems 
 Gather'd from many a tome. The key we gave 
 To Memory, and she hath betray'd her trust. 
 
 * The author of the Night Thoughts had in his garden an alcove, with the represen- 
 tation of a seat so well painted as to deceive most observers. Near it was the inscription, 
 " Invisibilia non decipiunt." 
 The things unseen do not deceive us. 
 
402 THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 
 
 For when we ask of her, she saith that years 
 And sleepless cares disturb'd her, till she lost 
 Our stewardship of thought. When shall it be 
 That we may hoard for intellect, nor find 
 The work-day World, or stealthy Time, a thief? 
 
 Leases of tenements amid the sands 
 And on the cloud, papers and bonds we had. 
 In Earth's handwriting, well endorsed and seal'd 
 By smooth-tongued Hope. 
 
 They're lost ! The lock is forced ! 
 The casket rifled ! All our treasures gone ! 
 And only a brown cobweb in their place. 
 Spun by some mocking spider. 
 
 Still, ye say 
 We may obtain a cabinet, whose hoard 
 Robber, nor faithless friend, nor rust of years, 
 Shall e'er invade. 
 
 When shall that time be ? When ? 
 
 When Heaven's pure gate unfoldeth, and thy soul 
 Glides like a sunbeam through. 
 
 Then shall it be. 
 
TALK WITH TIME. 403 
 
 TALK WITH TIME AT THE CLOSE OF 
 THE YEAR. 
 
 Time, old Time, with the forelock gray, 
 While the year in its dotage doth pass away, 
 Come, sit by my hearth, ere the embers fail, 
 And hang the scythe on yon empty nail. 
 And tell me a tale 'neath this wintry sky 
 Of the deeds thou hast done as its months swept by. 
 
 " I have cradled the babe in the churchyard wide ; 
 From the husband's arms I have taken the bride ; 
 I have cloven a path through the Ocean's floor. 
 Where many have sunk to return no more ; 
 I have humbled the strong with their dauntless breast. 
 And laid the old with his staff to rest. 
 
 "I have loosen'd the stone on the ruin's height. 
 Where the curtaining ivy grew rank and bright ; 
 I have startled the maid in her couch of down. 
 With a sprinkle of white mid her tresses brown ; 
 I have rent from his idols the proud man's hold. 
 And scatter'd the hoard of the miser's gold." 
 
404 TALK WITH TIME. 
 
 " Is this all ? Are tliy chronicles traced alone 
 On the riven heart and the burial-stone ?" 
 "No, Love's young chain I have twined with flowers, 
 Have awaken'd a song in the rose-crown'd bowers; 
 Proud trophies have rear'd to the sons of fame, 
 And paved the road for the cars of flame. 
 
 "Look to yon child, it hath learn'd of me 
 The word that it lisps at the mother's knee ; 
 Look to the sage, who from me hath caught 
 Intenser fire for his heavenward thought; 
 Look to the saint, who hath nearer trod 
 Toward the angel hosts near the Throne of God. 
 
 "I have planted seeds in the soul, that bear 
 The fruits of heaven in a woi'ld of care ; 
 I have breathed on the tear till its orb grew bright 
 As the diamond drop in the realms of light : 
 Question thy heart, hath it e'er confest 
 A germ so pure, or a tear so blest ?" 
 
 But the clock struck twelve from the steeple gray. 
 And he seized his hour-glass, and strode away ; 
 Yet his hand at parting I fear'd to clasp. 
 For I saw the scythe in its earnest grasp, 
 And read in the glance of his upward eye 
 His secret league with Eternity. 
 
MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 
 
 A KNOCKING at the castle-gate 
 
 When the bloom was on the tree, 
 And the youthful master, all elate. 
 
 Himself came forth to see. 
 A jocund lady waited there, 
 Gay was her robe, of colours rare. 
 Her tresses bright to the zephyr stream'd, 
 And her car on its silver axle gleam'd, 
 Like the gorgeous barge of that queen of yore. 
 Whose silken sail and flashing oar 
 Sparkling Cydnus proudly bore. 
 The youth, enraptured at her smile. 
 And won by her enchanting wile 
 
 And flatteries vain, 
 Welcomed her in, with all her train, 
 Placing her in the chiefest seat. 
 While as a vassal at her feet 
 He knelt, and paid her homage sweet. 
 
406 MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 
 
 She deck'd his halls with garlands gay, 
 Bidding the sprightly viol play, 
 
 Till by her magic power 
 Day turn'd to night, and night to day, 
 For every fleeting hour 
 Bow'd to Pleasure as its queen ; 
 And so, that siren guest, of mirthful mien, 
 Linger'd till the vernal ray 
 And summer's latest rose had sigh'd itself away. 
 
 A knocking at the gate ! 
 And the lordling of the hall, 
 A strong and bearded man withal, 
 Held parley at the threshold-stone 
 In the pomp of his estate. 
 And then the warder's horn was blown, 
 The ponderous bolts drawn one by one. 
 And slowly in, with sandals torn. 
 Came a pilgrim, travel-worn. 
 A burden at his back he bare. 
 And coldly said, "My name is Care !" 
 Plodding and weary years he brought. 
 And a pillow worn with ceaseless thought ; 
 
 And bade his votary ask of Fame, 
 Or Wealth, or wild Ambition's claim, 
 Payment for the toil he taught. 
 
MANS THREE GUESTS. 407 
 
 But dark with dregs was the cup he quajQf'd, 
 
 And mid his harvest proud 
 The mocking tare looked up and laugh'd 
 
 Till his haughty heart was bow'd, 
 And wrinkles on his forehead hung, and o'er his path a cloud. 
 
 Again, a knocking at the gate 
 At the wintry eventide, 
 And querulous was the voice that cried, 
 
 "Who cometh here so late ?" 
 "Ho ! rouse the sentinel from his sleep, 
 Strict guard at every loop-hole keep !" 
 And "man the towers !" he would have said, 
 But alas ! his early friends were dead, 
 And his eagle glance was awed. 
 And a frost that never thaw'd 
 
 Had settled on his head. 
 But that thundering at the gate 
 From morn till midnight late, 
 
 Knew no rest, 
 And a boding tone of fate, 
 Like an owlet's cry of hate, 
 
 Chill'd his breast. 
 Yet he raised the palsied hand, 
 And, eager, gave command 
 To repel the threatening guest. 
 
So the Esculapian band, 
 
 In their armour old and tried, 
 Were summon' d to his side. 
 And the watchful nurses came, 
 Whose lamp, like vestal flame. 
 Never died. 
 But the tottering bulwarks their trust betray'd, 
 And the old man groan'd as a breach was made ; 
 Then through the chasm a skeleton foot 
 
 Forced its way, 
 And a fleshless hand to a shaft was put, 
 And he was clay. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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