Chapter II: Part 2

Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot.
The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand,
Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast
A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,
Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below
The silent river, with majestic sweep,
Pursues his shadowed way,--his glassy face
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.
Talk ye of solitude?--It is not here.
Nor silence.--Low, deep murmurs are abroad.
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky
That smiles upon their summits;--and the wind
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,
And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf,
Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright,
And nod to greet his coming!--And the brook,
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down
From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell;
The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;--
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,
Send forth their perfume as an added gift.
The river utters, too, a solemn voice,
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,
When not a sound was heard along his shores,
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek
Of some expiring captive,--and no bark
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves
Are vocal often with the hunter's song;--
Now visit, in their glad and onward course,
The abodes of happy men--gardens and fields--
And cultured plains--still bearing, as they pass,
Fertility renewed and fresh delights.

The time has been,--so Indian legends say,--
When here the mighty Delaware poured not
His ancient waters through--but turned aside
Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales.
Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill,
Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed
The wealth of summer on its graceful slope.
Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired
To light their council fires,--while its dim height,
For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared--
'Tis said--to scale; save one white-haired old man,
Who there held commune with the Indian's God,
And thence brought down to men his high commands.
Years passed away--the gifted seer had lived
Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more
His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit.
New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien,
Who strove against each other. Blood and death
Filled those green shades, where all before was peace,
And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive
E'en on the precincts of that holy spot
Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned
The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest
Again to seek the consecrated height,
Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.--
They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly
High up the steep ascent--and vanished soon
Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark
As the last hues of sunset passed away.
The night fell heavily--and soon were heard
Low tones of thunder from the mountain top,
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills
In deep and solemn peal,--while lurid flashes
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.
Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash
Burst on the startled ear;--the earth, convulsed,
Groaned from its solid centre--forests shook
For leagues around,--and by the sudden gleam
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot,
A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent
From top to base--and where so late had smiled
Green boughs and blossoms--yawned a frightful chasm,
Filled with unnatural darkness.--From afar
The distant roar of waters then was heard;
They came--with gathering sweep--o'erwhelming all
That checked their headlong course;--the rich maize field,--
The low-roofed hut--its sleeping inmates--all--
Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin.
Morn looked upon the desolated scene
Of the Great Spirit's anger--and beheld
Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:--
And men looked on in silence and in fear,
And far removed their dwellings from the spot,
Where now no more the hunter chased his prey,
Or the war-whoop was heard.--Thus years went on:
Each trace of desolation vanished fast;
Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread
With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth
Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides.
The river passed majestically on
Through his new channel--verdure graced his banks;--
The wild bird murmured sweetly as before
In its beloved woods,--and nought remained,--
Save the wild tales which chieftains told,--
To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.

BY W. P. HAWES.

Down in the deep
Dark holes I keep,
And there in the noontide I float and sleep,
By the hemlock log,
And the springing bog,
And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye;
For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook,
No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,
And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,
Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,
Then, then look out
For the hermit trout;
For he springs and dimples the shallows about,
While the tired angler dreams.

TO MAY.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

Come, gentle May!
Come with thy robe of flowers,
Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;
Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,
From their imprisoning and mysterious night,
The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May!
For at the bidding of thy magic wand,
Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,
In all their green and glorious array
They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May!
Come with thy train, that high
On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or carolling thy praise the live-long day,
Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling,
'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May!
Come with thy laughing beam,
What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,
Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray,
Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower
Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May!
When sunk behind the cold and western hill,
His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,
And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;
Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be
Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May!
Like youth and loveliness,
Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress,
The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear,
Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!
Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,
The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,
And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,
Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May!
Let thy fond votary see,
As fade thy beauties, all the vanity
Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay
In his short winter, bury beauty's frame,
In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway,
Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Bird of the lone and joyless night--
Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?
Attendant on the pale moon's light,
Why shun the garish blaze of day?

When darkness fills the dewy air,
Nor sounds the song of happier bird,
Alone amid the silence there
Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.

Thyself unseen--thy pensive moan
Poured in no loving comrade's ear--
The forest's shaded depths alone
That mournful melody can hear.

Beside what still and secret spring,
In what dark wood, the livelong day,
Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing,
To while the hours of light away.

Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me,
That life's deceitful gleam is vain;
And well the lesson profits thee,
Who will not trust its charms again!

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,
To listening night when mirth is o'er:
I, heedless of the warning, still
Believe, to be deceived once more!

CHANSONETTE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

They are mockery all, those skies! those skies!
Their untroubled depths of blue;
They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes!
Which seem so warm and true;
Each quiet star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random flies
The other's lashes through.
They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too.
For the winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the lips deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre;
Which flowers spring to strew.

THE CLOUDS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

The clouds have their own language unto me
They have told many a tale in by-gone days,
At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie
Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays
With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,
And leave their storied circles where they pass.

So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,
With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;
And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds
The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,
And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,
They have their language and their melody.

Have you not felt it when the dropping rain
From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth
With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when
The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth
In misty radiance, until cloud and spot
Were blended in one brightness? Can you not

Look out and love when the departing sun
Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical
In his last splendour, and reflects upon
Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall
Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams
Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"

Or giving back those tints indefinite,
Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch
Whereon the angel-spirits of the light
Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march,
When sank the whelming waters, and again
Left the green islands to the sons of men?

Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw
Its growing shadow on the sinking tide,
How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,
As its new lustre told that wrath had died,
Till the blue waves within their limits curled,
And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.

Gaze yet again, and you may see on high
The opposing hosts that mutter as they form
Their stern battalions, ere the artillery
Bids the destroying angel guide its storm;
If you have heard on battle's eve the low
Defiance quickly uttered to the foe,

When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow
And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast
With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,
Pulsations which perchance may be their last,
Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud;
If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.

How from the bosom of its blackness springs
The cleaving lightning kindling on its way,
Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,
That he who looks grows drunk with its array
Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim,
And dazzling darkness overshadows him.

Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known
The wondrous workings of thy firmament,
Thine untold majesty, around whose throne
They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent
In light or darkness on their destined path,
Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.

Then here, in this thy lower temple, here
We kneel to thee in worship; what to these
Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear
Are painted domes or priestly palaces;
On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,
We call on thee to commune and to bless,
And see in holy fancy each pure sigh
Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.

THE ISLE OF REST.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

_Some of the islands where the fancied paradise
of the Indians was situated, were believed to be
in Lake Superior._

That blessed isle lies far away--
'Tis many a weary league from land,
Where billows in their golden play
Dash on its sparkling sand.
No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar,
Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.

There the light breezes lie at rest,
Soft pillowed on the glassy deep;
Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast,
And watch their silent sleep.
There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing
Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.

And far within, in murmurs heard,
Comes, with the wind's low whispers there,
The music of the mounting bird,
Skimming the clear bright air.
The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide,
Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.

The sun there sheds his noontide beam
On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers;
And gaily by the shaded stream
Spring forth the forest flowers.
The fountain flings aloft its showery spray,
With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.

And when the dewy morning breaks,
A thousand tones of rapture swell;
A thrill of life and motion wakes
Through hill, and plain, and dell.
The wild bird trills his song--and from the wood
The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.

There, when the sun sets on the sea,
And gilds the forest's waving crown,
Strains of immortal harmony
To those sweet shades come down.
Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng,
And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.

E'en on this cold and cheerless shore,
While all is dark and quiet near,
The huntsman, when his toils are o'er,
That melody may hear.
And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam,
The glories of that isle, his future home.

INDIAN SUMMER--1828.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere
The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes
That gaily deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind she pours her parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.

Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;--
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee--to thee--though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore--
I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.

GREECE--1832.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Land of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valour burned,
And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land, where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopylæ of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung--
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain,
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play;
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shattered--spear in rust--
Thy honour but a dream--and thou
Despised--degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old
Dashed down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chant of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?--
The bold three hundred--where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled;
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light,
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,
Behold thy banner waves afar;
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprize,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might--in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls--
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!
His banner totters--see! it falls
In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud:
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
Their valour's but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where Science raised her sacred fane,
Its summits peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set--the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon the sky!
Gone is thy glory's diadem,
And freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem
O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

IMPROMPTU TO A LADY BLUSHING.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

The lilies faintly to the roses yield,
As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,
(Who would not strive upon so sweet a field
To win the mastery?)
And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed,
Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.

I could not wish that in thy bosom aught
Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,
Yet can't regret that thou--forgive the thought--
As flowers when shaken
Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,
Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.

A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.

BY J. I. BAILEY.

Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved
At glorious sports like these? Even now I see
Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed
In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky,
The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue!
And now with eager hopes and proud desires
Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band
Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins!
Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail
The alternate victor as he speeds along;
Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight,
And as they gaze, as many thousand souls
Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out.
Then comes the glorious moment when the goal
Is almost reached--they goad the foremost steeds
Lashing with all their might upon their flanks;
The golden chariot glitters in the course,
And swifter than the wind is borne along--
And now the victor, like a flash of light,
Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim,
While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air!
_Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I._

LINES FOR MUSIC.

BY G. P. MORRIS.

O would that she were here,
These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By echo's airy tongue,--
Where jocund Nature smiles
In all her gay attire,
Amid deep-tangled wiles
Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
O would that she were here,
That fair and gentle thing,
Whose words are musical as strains
Breathed by the wind-harp's string.

O would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in their joyousness,
Adown the rocky steep,--
Where rosy Zephyr lingers
All the livelong day,
With health upon his pinions,
And gladness in his way.
O would that she were here,
Sure Eden's garden-plot
Did not embrace more varied charms
Than this romantic spot.

O would that she were here,
Where frolic by the hours,
Rife with the song of bee and bird,
The perfume of the flowers,--
Where beams of peace and love,
And radiant beauty's glow,
Are pictured in the sky above,
And in the lake below.
O would that she were here--
The nymphs of this bright scene,
With song, and dance, and revelry,
Would crown BIANCA queen.

WHITE LAKE.[L]

BY A. B. STREET.

Pure as their parent springs! how bright
The silvery waters stretch away,
Reposing in the pleasant light
Of June's most lovely day.

Curving around the eastern side,
Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet
With fringe of grass and fern, the tide
Which sparkles at their feet.

Here busy life attests that toil,
With its quick talisman, has made
Fields green and waving, from a soil
Of rude and savage shade.

While opposite the forests lie
In giant shadow, black and deep,
Filling with leaves the circling sky,
And frowning in their sleep.

Amid this scene of light and gloom,
Nature with art links hand in hand,
Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,
As by a seer's command.

Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke,
The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark
As when the hermit waters woke
Beneath the Indian's bark.

Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek
With the herd's quiet lowings swell,
The wolf's fierce howl terrific break
Upon the sheepfold's bell.

The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer
Dart from his covert to the wave,
And fearless in its mirror clear
His branching antlers lave.

Here, the green headlands seem to meet
So near, a fairy bridge might cross;
There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet
In smooth, unruffled gloss.

Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,
A lilied harbour lurks below,
Where on the sand each ripple weaves
Its melting wreath of snow.

Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods
To the light wind in murmurs wake,
The voice of the vast solitudes
Is speaking to the lake.

The fanning air-breath sweeps across
On its broad path of sparkles now.
Bends down the violet to the moss,
Then melts upon my brow.

SONG OF SPRING-TIME.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Where dost thou loiter, Spring,
While it behoveth
Thee to cease wandering
Where'er thou roveth,
And to my lady bring
The flowers she loveth.

Come with thy melting skies
Like her cheek blushing,
Come with thy dewy eyes
Where founts are gushing;
Come where the wild bee hies
When dawn is flushing.

Lead her where by the brook
The first blossom keepeth,
Where, in the sheltered nook,
The callow bud sleepeth;
Or with a timid look
Through its leaves peepeth.

Lead her where on the spray,
Blithely carolling,
First birds their roundelay
For my lady sing--
But keep, where'er she stray
True-love blossoming.

THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun waxed dim and pale,
And the music of the waves was changed
To the plaintive voice of wail;
And fearfully the lightning flashed
Around the ship's tall mast,
While mournfully through the creaking shrouds
Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank
Before the deepening gloom;
For they gazed on the black and boiling sea
As 'twere a yawning tomb;
But on the vessel's deck stood one
With proud and changeless brow;
Nor pain, nor terror was in the look
He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength
The threatening tempest roared;
Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:
"For me there yet is hope,
The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage,
Proudly I yet can claim,
Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame."
The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,
Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death;
But 'mid the billows still was seen
The stranger's struggling form;
And the meteor flash of his sword might seem
Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm
He buffeted the wave,
The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.
Was then the love of pelf so strong
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,
Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;
For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem
That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent,
His nerveless limbs no more
Could bear him on through the waves that rose
Like barriers to the shore;
Yet still he held his long prized wealth,
He saw the wished-for land--
A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died
Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect
Bowed down his haughty soul:
Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoen's humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

LOVE AND FAITH; A BALLAD.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather,
A rosy, warm, inviting hour,
That Love and Faith went out together,
And took the path to Beauty's bower.
Love laughed and frolicked all the way,
While sober Faith, as on they rambled,
Allowed the thoughtless boy to play,
But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.

So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled
Upon the guests whom chance had sent her,
That Love and Faith were both beguiled
The grotto of the nymph to enter;
And when the curtains of the skies
The drowsy hand of Night was closing,
Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes,
While Faith was on her heart reposing.

Love thought he never saw a pair
So softly radiant in their beaming;
Faith deemed that he could meet no where
So sweet and safe a place to dream in;
And there, for life in bright content,
Enchained, they must have still been lying,
For Love his wings to Faith had lent,
And Faith he never dream'd of flying.

But Beauty, though she liked the child,
With all his winning ways about him,
Upon his mentor never smiled,
And thought that Love might do without him;
Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled,
And now one knows not where to find him;
While mourning Love quick followed
Upon the wings he left behind him.

'Tis said, that in his wandering
Love still around that spot will hover,
Like bird that on bewildered wing
Her parted mate pines to discover;
And true it is that Beauty's door
Is often by the idler haunted;
But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more
The spell that held his wings enchanted.

THE LAST SONG.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;
Then let the melancholy strain
Be hushed in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,
Creative fancy, be thou still;
And let oblivious Lethe pour
Upon my lyre its waters chill.

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Then be its fitful chords unstrung,
Silent as is the grave's domain,
And mute as the death-mouldered tongue,
Let not a thought of memory dwell
One moment on its former song;
Forgotten, too, be this farewell,
Which plays its pensive strings along!

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,
And they shall sound no more for aye:
And hang it on the cypress tree,
The hours of youth and song have passed,
Have gone, with all their witchery;
Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.

TO MY WIFE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.

When on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise,
Of Husband and of Wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,
Even years have not destroyed;
Some sweet sensation, ever new,
Springs up and proves the maxim true,
That love can ne'er be cloy'd.

Have I a wish?--'tis all for thee,
Hast thou a wish?--'tis all for me,
So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleas'd to see our happy days,
And bid us live--and love.

If cares arise--and cares will come--
Thy bosom is my softest home,
I'll lull me there to rest;
And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,
And lose it in my breast.

Have I a wish?--'tis all her own;
All hers and mine are roll'd in one--
Our hearts are so entwined,
That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,
'Tis death to be disjoined.

LAMENT.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

Oh, weep not for the dead!
Rather, oh rather give the tear
To those that darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled;
Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold cheerless sorrowing,
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on;
But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.

Oh, weep not for the dead!
No more for them the blighting chill,
The thousand shades of earthly ill,
The thousand thorns we tread;
Weep for the life-charm early flown,
The spirit broken, bleeding, lone;
Weep for the death pangs of the heart,
Ere being from the bosom part;
But never be a tear-drop given
To those that rest in yon blue heaven.

"AFFECTION WINS AFFECTION."

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this?
Oh! then no more
My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss
Its wail shall pour.

Give me this hope, though only from afar
It sheds its light,
And, like yon dewy melancholy star,
With tears is bright--

Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,
That could not sin
Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,
Thy love may win:

Let me but hope the changeless love of years,
The tender care
That fain would die to save thine eye from tears,
Thy heart may share.

Or let me hope at least that, when no more
My voice shall meet
The ear that listens only to think o'er
Tones far more sweet;

When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide
This faded brow,
This form once gazed upon with pride,
With coldness now;

When never more my weary steps of pain
Around thee move,
When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,
Love will win love.

FEATS OF DEATH.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

_Ob: 1825, æt. 17._

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

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

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

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

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

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

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

Farewell to thee,
To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell!
How often will thy form in memory
Renew the spell;
Each burning tone,
Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note;
Across my spirit like a dream by-gone,
Their voices float.

When rose the song,
The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free,
There breathed no sorrow as it swept along
Thy halls of glee;
Oh, when the gay,
The merry hearted blend the tide again,
Then fling to her, the loved one far away,
One kindly strain.

The skies are bright
That canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest;
And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light,
The loveliest:
The bird among
Thy deep perfumes pours its rich melody;
Oh, in the music of that matin song
Remember me!

Another now,
Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend;
And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow,
Who then will tend
Thy fading light?
Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly,
The last gush of thy spirit in its flight,
Remember me!

Sister, one sigh
Upon the midnight's balmy breath did float;
One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky,
One echo note:
Oh, never yet,
Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy,
Can I the mingling of those hours forget;
Remember me!

The chained spell
Is strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever;
And bound in loveliness to break, no, never!
Then fare thee well:
And perished here,
As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell,
I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear;
My own bright home, farewell!

REFLECTIONS.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

[_Written in her Fifteenth year, on seeing an
ancient picture of the Virgin Mary._]

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of book, of rosary, and bell;
Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom,
Immured within her living tomb;
Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song,
Borne gently by the breeze along;
Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell;
Of _ave maria_, and funeral knell;
Of midnight taper, dim and small,
Just glimmering through the high-arched hall;
Of gloomy cell, of penance lone,
Which can for darkest deeds atone:
Roll back, and lift the veil of night,
For I would view the anchorite.
Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at Superstition's tale;
Crossing his breast with meagre hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Arrayed before him, urge their claim
To heal in the Redeemer's name;
To mount the saintly ladder, (made
By every monk, of every grade,
From portly abbot, fat and fair,
To yon lean starveling, shivering there,)
And mounting thus, to usher in
The soul, thus ransomed from its sin.
And tell me, hapless bigot! why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids of saints must rise
To form a passage to the skies?
And think you man can wipe away
With fast and penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade
Before a bleeding Saviour's shade?
O ye of little faith, beware!
For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,
Would ought avail ye without Him,
Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise
The faded forms of other days!
Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,
The work of some forgotten hand,
Will teach thee half thy mazy way,
While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of secret charm, of holy spell,
Of Superstition's midnight rite,
Of wild Devotion's seraph flight;
Of Melancholy's tearful eye,
Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,
That trembling from her bosom rose,
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes
And some warm image lingering there,
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer,
Still, like an outcast child, will creep
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep,
And mingle its unhallowed sigh
With cloister-prayer and rosary;
Then tell the pale, deluded one
Her vows are breathed to God alone;
Those vows, which tremulously rise,
Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.

LINES.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

When in the shadow of the tomb
This heart shall rest,
Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloom
On earth's bright breast.

Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay
My lifeless form;
Seek not of such mean, worthless prey
To cheat the worm.

In this sweet city of the dead
I fain would sleep,
Where flowers may deck my narrow bed,
And night dews weep.

But raise not the sepulchral stone
To mark the spot;
Enough, if by thy heart alone
'Tis ne'er forgot.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

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

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

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

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me;
There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee,
Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast,
Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.

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

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight,
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night;
Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie,
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy;

My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art,
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart.
Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled,
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.

WHAT IS SOLITUDE?

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Not in the shadowy wood,
Not in the crag-hung glen,
Not where the sleeping echoes brood
In caves untrod by men;
Not by the sea-swept shore
Where loitering surges break,
Not on the mountain hoar,
Not by the breezeless lake,
Not in the desert plain
Where man hath never stood,
Whether on isle or main--
Not there is Solitude!

There are birds in the woodland bowers,
Voices in lonely dells,
And streams that talk to the listening hours
In earth's most secret cells.
There is life on the foam-flecked sand
By ocean's curling lip,
And life on the still lake's strand
'Mid flowers that o'er it dip;
There is life in the tossing pines
That plume the mountain crest,
And life in the courser's mane that shines
As he scours the desert's breast.

But go to the crowded mart,
'Mid the sordid haunts of men,
Go there and ask thy heart,
What answer makes it then?
Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,
In hall or festal grot;
Where love-lit eyes are beaming,
But Love himself is not!--
Go--if thou wouldst be lonely--
Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,
And own that there--there only--
'Mid crowds is Solitude.

THE BRAVE.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Where have the valiant sunk to rest,
When their sands of life were numbered?
On the downy couch? on the gentle breast
Where their youthful visions slumbered?

When the mighty passed the gate of death,
Did love stand by bewailing?
No! but upon war's fiery breath
Their blood-dyed flag was sailing!

Not on the silent feverish bed,
With weeping friends around them,
Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,
When death's dark angel found them.

But in the stern and stormy strife,
In the flush of lofty feeling,
They yielded to honour the boon of life,
Where battle's bolts were pealing;

When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane
Trampled on breasts all stained and gory,
Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,
And shared in the rider's glory.

Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,
'Neath the dark and restless water;
Seek them beneath the whelming wave,
So oft deep dyed with slaughter.

There sleep the gallant and the proud,
The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;
For whom the trump of fame rang loud,
When the body and soul were parted.

Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,
Where the vulture and the raven hover;
There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:
And widowed love goes there to weep,
That their bright career is over.

MORNING.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

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

LAKE GEORGE.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Not in the bannered castle
Beside the gilded throne,
On fields where knightly ranks have strode,
In feudal halls--alone
The Spirit of the stately mien,
Whose presence flings a spell,
Fadeless on all around her,
In empire loves to dwell.

Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters,
Call up the shadows vast
That linger in their dim domain,
Dreams of the visioned past!
As sweep the gorgeous pageants by
We watch the pictured train,
And sigh that aught so glorious
Should be so brief and vain.

But here a spell yet deeper
Breathes from the woods and sky,
Proudlier these rocks and waters speak
Of hoar antiquity;
Here Nature built her ancient realm
While yet the world was young,
Her monuments of grandeur
Unshaken stand, and strong.

Here shines the sun of Freedom
For ever o'er the deep,
Where Freedom's heroes by the shore
In peaceful glory sleep;
And deeds of high and proud emprize
In every breeze are told,
The everlasting tribute
To hearts that now are cold.

Farewell, then, scenes so lovely,
If sunset gild your rest,
Or the pale starlight gleam upon
The water's silvery breast--
Or morning on these glad, green isles
In trembling splendour glows--
A holier spell than beauty
Hallows your pure repose!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

BY W. H. L. BOGART.

Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home
In the wild regions of the far-off west,
And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,
Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.

Like him I have sought out a solitude
Where all around me is unsullied yet,
And reared a tenement of words as rude
As the first hut on Indian prairies set.

O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread
Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land,
Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,
And sway the soil with high and proud command.

And round my verse the better, brighter thought
Of beauty and of genius will be placed--
Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,
By manly or by fairy fingers traced.

Our fate's the same--the gentle and the proud
Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,
And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd
That seek a place within thy memory.

THE FADED ONE.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

Gone to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell;
Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;
Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom,
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,
A bond of loneliness--a spell of death!

Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee
Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours;
Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,
And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.
The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,
Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze,
While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,
And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,
Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.

PROEM TO YAMOYDEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.--1820.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay!
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them, in a happier day:
Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay
Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave;
His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!

Friend of my youth,[M] with thee began the love
Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,
'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;
Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams
Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage,
For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;
Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,
Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.

There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear,
O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll;
Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,
Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole;
There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,
In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;
Or hold communion with the musing soul
Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,
In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.

Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late
Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,
Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate
And kept the key, till three millenniums past;
When, as creation's noblest work was last,
Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see
Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,
And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be
An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.

And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,
Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;--
Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round
Their birth and story, as the hue they bore.
"Earth was their mother;"--or they knew no more,
Or would not that their secret should be told;
For they were grave and silent; and such lore,
To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,
The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.

Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew
Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;
And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,
But with no servile reverence, as their lord.
And on their mountain summits they adored
One great, good Spirit, in his high abode,
And thence their incense and orisons poured
To his pervading presence, that abroad
They felt through all his works,--their Father, King, and God.

And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,
The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,
Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,
They imaged spirits beautiful and good;
But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,
Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,
Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,
The angry forms they saw of powers malign;
These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.

As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,
With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,
Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,
And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame;
Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;
These simple truths went down from sire to son,--
To reverence age,--the sluggish hunter's shame,
And craven warrior's infamy to shun,--
And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.

From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,
When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,
The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,
Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.
Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride
From shores and hills has vanished, with the race,
Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,
Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,
In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.

And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet
Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain;
And so began our young, delighted strain,
That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,
And bid their martial hosts arise again,
Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave,
And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.

Friend of my youth! with thee began my song,
And o'er thy bier its latest accents die;
Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,--
Though not to me the muse averse deny,
Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry,
Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er;
And he who loved with thee his notes to try,
But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore,
And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.

But, no! the freshness of the past shall still
Sacred to memory's holiest musings be;
When through the ideal fields of song, at will,
He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee;
When, reckless of the world, alone and free,
Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way,
That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea;
Their white apparel and their streamers gay,
Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;--

And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless breeze;
Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports: the gales benign
Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbour sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.

Muses of Helicon! melodious race
Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné;
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
And drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove;
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way
Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove,
That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above.

Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone
Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;
Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known
The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;
Rightly invoked,--if right the elected swain,
On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,
Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain,
Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,--[N]
Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.

THE INDIAN.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.