Chapter III: Part 3

Away, away to forest shades!
Fly, fly with me the haunts of men!
I would not give my sunlit glades,
My talking stream, and silent glen,
For all the pageantry of slaves,
Their fettered lives and trampled graves.

Away from wealth! our wampum strings
Ask not the toil, the woes of them
From whom the lash, the iron wrings
The golden dross, the tear-soiled gem;
Yet bind our hearts in the pure tie
That gold or gems could never buy.

And power! what is it ye who rule
The hands without the souls? oh, ye
Can tell how mean the tinselled fool,
With all his hollow mockery!
The slave of slaves who hate, yet bow,
With serving lip but scorning brow.

And love, dear love! how can they feel
The wild desire, the burning flame,
That thrills each pulse and bids us kneel--
The power of the adored name;
The glance that sins in the met eye,
Yet loved for its idolatry!

They never knew the perfect bliss,
To clasp in the entwined bower
Her trembling form, to steal the kiss
She would deny but hath not power;
To list that voice that charms the grove,
And trembles when it tells of love.

Nor have they felt the pride, the thrill,
When bounding for the fated deer;
O'er rock and sod, o'er vale and hill,
The hunter flies, nor dreams of fear,
And brings his maid the evening prey,
To speak more love than words can say.

Have they in death the sod, the stones,
The silence of the shading tree;
Where glory decks the storied bones
Of him whose life, whose death, was free;
And minstrel mourns his arm whose blow
The foeman cowered and quailed below?

No; they, confined and fettered, they
The sons of sires to fame unknown,
With nerveless hands and souls of clay,
Half life, half death, loathe, but live on;
And sink unsung, ignobly lie
In dark oblivion's apathy.

Poor fools! the wild and mountain chase
Would rend their frail and sickly forms;
But for their God, how would they face,
Our bands of fire, our sons of storms;
Breasts that have never recked of fears,
And eyes that leave to women, tears.

They tell us of their kings, who gave
To them our wild, unfettered shore;
To them! why let them chain the wave,
And hush its everlasting roar!
Then may we own their sway, but hark!
Our warriors never miss their mark.

Away, away from such as these!
Free as the wild bird on the wing,
I see my own, my loved green trees,
I hear our black-haired maidens sing;
I fly from such a world as this,
To rove, to love, to live in bliss!

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

BY WILLIAM DUER.

Fair orb! so peacefully sublime,
In silence rolling high,
Know'st thou of passion, or of crime,
Or earthly vanity?

In that bright world can lust abide,
Or murder bare his arm?
With thee are wars, and kings, and pride,
And the loud trump's alarm?

What beings, by what motives led,
Inhale thy morning breeze?
Doth man upon thy mountains tread,
Or float upon thy seas?

Say, whence are they? and what their fate?
Whom whirls around thy ball?
Their present and their future state,
Their hopes and fears recall?

Canst thou of a Redeemer tell,
Or a Betrayer's kiss?
Their's is a Heaven or a Hell?
Eternal woe or bliss?

Can infidelity exist,
And gaze upon that sky?
Here would I bid the Atheist
God's finger to deny.

What horrid sounds! what horrid sights!
What wretched blood is spilt!
While thou, and all the eternal lights,
Shine conscious on the guilt?

Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry;
Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace;
And Avarice hide his heap and sigh;
And Rapine's reckless face.

In thy pale light the Suicide,
By some deep lonely lake,
Or from the headlong torrent's side
Doth the vain world forsake.

And often, ere thy course is run,
Thy cold, uncertain light
Gleams where the culprit's skeleton
Swings to the winds of night.

A light cloud hangs upon thy brow,
(What foul deed would it hide?)
'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now,
Looks down on human pride.

And now the midnight hour invites
Th' accursed witch's vow,
While to her thrice accursed rites
Sole witness rollest thou!

Lo! underneath yon falling tower
The tottering beldame seeks
Herbs, of some hidden evil power,
While muttered charms she speaks.

Or where some noisome cavern yawns,
Where vipers get their food,
Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawns
Her pestilential brood:

There--while the bubbling cauldron sings
Beneath their eldritch glance--
As wild their fiendish laughter rings,
The haggard sisters dance.

Can sin endure thy majesty,
Nor thy pure presence fly?
'Tis like the sad severity
Of a fond father's eye.

There, where no mortal eye can see,
No mortal voice can tell,
Wisdom hath marked thy path to be
Th' Almighty's sentinel.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE COVER OF A PRAYER BOOK.

BY THOMAS SLIDELL.

There is a tree, whose boughs are clad
With foliage that never dies;
Whose fruits perennially thrive,
And whose tall top salutes the skies.

There is a flower of loveliest hues,
No mildews blast its changeless bloom;
It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath,
And breathes a still more sweet perfume.

There is a star, whose constant rays
Beam brightest in the darkest hour,
And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart,
Though storms around his pathway lower.

That tree, the Tree of Life is called,
That flower blooms on Virtue's stem,
That star, whose rays are never veiled,
Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.

ODE TO JAMESTOWN.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Old cradle of an infant world,
In which a nestling empire lay,
Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd,
Her gallant wing and soar'd away;
All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west,
Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!

What solemn recollections throng,
What touching visions rise,
As wand'ring these old stones among,
I backward turn mine eyes,
And see the shadows of the dead flit round,
Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

The wonders of an age combin'd
In one short moment memory supplies,
They throng upon my waken'd mind,
As time's dark curtains rise.
The volume of a hundred buried years,
Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave,
I see the lonely little barque
Scudding along the crested wave,
Freighted like old Noah's ark,
As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd,
With the forefathers of another world.

I see a train of exiles stand,
Amid the desert, desolate,
The fathers of my native land,
The daring pioneers of fate,
Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth,
And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the gloomy Indian range
His woodland empire, free as air;
I see the gloomy forest change,
The shadowy earth laid bare;
And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer,
The smiling labours of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze
In wonder or in scorn,
As the pale faces sweat to raise
Their scanty fields of corn,
While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,
By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food.

A moment, and the pageant's gone;
The red men are no more;
The pale fac'd strangers stand alone
Upon the river's shore;
And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd,
Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.

The forest reels beneath the stroke
Of sturdy woodman's axe;
The earth receives the white man's yoke,
And pays her willing tax
Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,
And all that nature to blithe labour yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads,
And gathering crowds expand,
Far as my fancy's vision spreads,
O'er many a boundless land,
Till what was once a world of savage strife,
Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds,
Each happy, great, and free;
One empire still another breeds,
A giant progeny,
To war upon the pigmy gods of earth,
The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.

Then, as I turn, my thoughts to trace
The fount whence these rich waters sprung,
I glance towards this lonely place,
And find it, these rude stones among.
Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound,
The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long;
The stone, but not a word, remains;
They cannot live in deathless song,
Nor breathe in pious strains.
Yet this sublime obscurity, to me
More touching is, than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe;
They live in millions yet unborn,
And pious gratitude shall wreathe
As bright a crown as e'er was worn,
And hang it on the green leav'd bough,
That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks;
No one that loves his native land;
No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,
Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand,
Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear
Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round--
Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career,
Is written on this sacred ground
In letters that no time shall sere;
Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew,
And founded Christian Empires in the new.

And SHE! the glorious Indian maid,
The tutelary of this land,
The angel of the woodland shade,
The miracle of God's own hand,
Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace,
And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.

Sister of charity and love,
Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,
Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove.
Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,
He is no man who does not bend the knee,
And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock,
To me shall ever sacred be--
I care not who my themes may mock,
Or sneer at them and me.
I envy not the brute who here can stand,
Without a prayer for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl _her_ earth,
Or breathe Virginia's air,
Or, in New-England claim his birth,
From the old Pilgrim's there,
He is a bastard, if he dare to mock,
Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.

LOOK ALOFT.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have
been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about
to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate's
characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber."]

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail--
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart--
"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart--
The wife of thy bosom--in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast,
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!

FRAGMENT.

BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.--1747.

Father of Light! exhaustless source of good!
Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!
Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,
Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;
Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light
Shone queen amid the silver host of night,
High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,
By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.
With the celestial choir then let me join
In cheerful praises to the power divine.
To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire
A mortal breast with more than mortal fire.
In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,
With light encircled, and with glory crown'd:
Through all infinitude extends thy reign,
For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain;
But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky
Thy omnipresence fills immensity.

BYRON.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

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

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

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

JOY AND SORROW.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime,
In worship to the rising sun;
But Sorrow loves the calmer time,
When the day-god his course hath run;
When night is on her shadowy car,
Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep;
And guided by the evening star,
She wanders forth to muse and weep.

Joy loves to cull the summer flower,
And wreath it round his happy brow;
But when the dark autumnal hour
Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low;
When the frail bud hath lost its worth,
And Joy hath dashed it from his crest;
Then Sorrow takes it from the earth,
To wither on her withered breast.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

Thou brightly-glittering star of even,
Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven,
Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,
How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee.

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

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

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

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

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd,
With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;--
Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time--
Cultivation has softened those features sublime;
The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade,
And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.

DRINK AND AWAY.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM CROSWELL.

[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received
into a large basin, which bears name signifying
"Drink and Away," from the great danger of
meeting with gues and assassins.--DR. SHAW.]

Up! pilgrim and rover,
Redouble thy haste!
Nor rest thee till over
Life's wearisome waste.
Ere the wild forest ranger
Thy footsteps betray
To trouble and danger,--
Oh, drink and away!

Here lurks the dark savage
By night and by day,
To rob and to ravage,
Nor scruples to slay.
He waits for the slaughter:
The blood of his prey
Shall stain the still water,--
Then drink and away!

With toil though thou languish,
The mandate obey,
Spur on, though in anguish,
There's death in delay!
No blood-hound, want-wasted,
Is fiercer than they:--
Pass by it untested--
Or drink and away!

Though sore be the trial,
Thy God is thy stay,
Though deep the denial,
Yield not in dismay,
But, wrapt in high vision,
Look on to the day
When the fountains Elysian
Thy thirst shall allay.

There shalt thou for ever
Enjoy thy repose
Where life's gentle river
Eternally flows,
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee
For ever and aye,
With none to molest thee--
Then, drink and away.

THE HUDSON.

BY MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES, 1793.

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green
The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray;
Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,
And now through arching willows steal away:
Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,
Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade,
And many a stately dome, in ancient pride,
And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.

There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand,
The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view,
Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland,
The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue;
The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove,
The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank,
The long green valley where the white flocks rove,
The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank;
The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,
Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam;
The bending willow weeping o'er the stream,
The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.

Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,
For many a league the sullen waters glide,
And the deep murmur of the crowded tide,
With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills.
On the green summit of yon lofty clift
A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow,
Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,
Tremendous falls in the white surge below.
Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,
Around it mountains vast their forests rear,
And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car,
The dews of night have shed their odours there.
There hangs a loüring rock across the deep;
Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around;
Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,
While Horror startles at the fearful sound.
The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,
Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep:
Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees,
And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.

TRENTON FALLS, NEAR UTICA.

BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.

_Ob: 1827._

Ye hills, who have for ages stood
Sublimely in your solitude,
Listening the wild water's roar,
As thundering down, from steep to steep,
Along your wave-worn sides they sweep,
Dashing their foam from shore to shore.

Wild birds, that loved the deep recess,
Fell beast that roved the wilderness,
And savage men once hover'd round:
But startled at your bellowing waves,
Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves,
Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.

How changed the scene!--your lofty trees,
Which bent but to the mountain breeze,
Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade;
New sun-light through your forest pours,
Paths wind along your sides and shores,
And footsteps all your haunts invade.

Now boor, and beau, and lady fair,
In gay costume each day repair,
Where thy proud rocks exposed stand,
While echo, from her old retreats,
With babbling tongue strange words repeats,
From babblers on your stony strand.

And see--the torrent's rocky floor,
With names and dates all scribbled o'er,
Vile blurs on nature's heraldry;
O bid your river in its race,
These mean memorials soon efface,
And keep your own proud album free.

Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers,
But soon Autumnus with his showers,
Shall all thy wasted strength restore;
Then will these ramblers down thy steep,
With terror pale their distance keep,
Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.

But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage,
One name upon thy stony page;
'Tis hers--the fairest of the fair;
And when she comes these scenes to scan,
Then tell her, Echo, if you can,
His humble name who wrote it there.

THE DUMB MINSTREL.

BY JAMES NACK.

And am I doom'd to be denied for ever
The blessings that to all around are given?
And shall those links be re-united ever,
That bound me to mankind till they were riven
In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever
From social intercourse, the doom of heaven
Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,
That the decree may be recall'd again.

Amid a throng in deep attention bound,
To catch the accents that from others fall,
The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound
Breathed from the soul of melody, while all
Instructed or delighted list around,
Vacant unconsciousness must _me_ enthrall!
I can but watch each animated face,
And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by _me_,
To others that unfold some heaven-born art,
And melody--Oh, dearest melody!
How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart,
Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,
Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!
How had my heart responsive to the strain,
Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.

In vain--alas, in vain! thy numbers roll--
Within my heart no echo they inspire;
Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control,
To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,
Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;
And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,
That can to animation kindle stone,
To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS.

BY R. C. SANDS.

They say that afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers:
'Tis the land of the sunbeam,--the green isle of lovers!

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover
On high with their shade the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile;
From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,
The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!

THAT SILENT MOON.

BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.

That silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile, in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,
On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendour may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart--
What power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day:--
But oh! be mine a fairer boon--
That silent moon, that silent moon!

TO A CIGAR.

BY SAMUEL LOW.--1800.

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive even want and lassitude away,
And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,
Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?
If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,
Till I, departing taper, light another.

HOPE.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,
One little star benignant peep,
To light along their trackless path
The wanderers of the stormy deep.

And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form
In sorrow's gloomy night shall be
The sun that looks through cloud and storm
Upon a dark and moonless sea.

When heaven is all serene and fair,
Full many a brighter gem we meet;
'Tis when the tempest hovers there,
Thy beam is most divinely sweet.

The rainbow, when the sun declines,
Like faithless friend will disappear;
Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines
When all is wail and weeping here.

And though Aurora's stealing beam
May wake a morning of delight,
'Tis only thy consoling gleam
Will smile amid affliction's night.

THE LAKE OF CAYOSTÊA.

BY ROBERT BARKER.

_Ob: 1831, æt. 27._

Thy wave has ne'er by gondolier
Been dash'd aside with flashing oar,
Nor festive train to music's strain
Performed the dance upon thy shore.
But there, at night, beneath the light
Of silent moon and twinkling ray,
The Indian's boat is seen to float,
And track its lonely way.

The Indian maid, in forest glade,
Of flowers that earliest grow,
And fragrant leaves, a garland weaves
To deck her warrior's brow.
And when away, at break of day,
She hies her to her shieling dear,
She sings so gay a roundelay,
That echo stops to hear.

Would it were mine to join with thine,
And dwell for ever here,
In forest wild with nature's child,
By the silent Cayost[=e]a.
My joy with thee would ever be
Along these banks to roam;
And fortune take beside the lake,
Whose clime is freedom's home.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud,
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendours fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
For ever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

MORNING HYMN.

_Genesis_ i. 3.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke,
And from the abyss where darkness rode
The earliest dawn of nature broke,
And light around creation flow'd.
The glad earth smiled to see the day,
The first-born day came blushing in;
The young day smiled to shed its ray
Upon a world untouched by sin.

"Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth,
The God who first the day-beam pour'd,
Whispered again his fiat forth,
And shed the Gospel's light abroad.
And, like the dawn, its cheering rays
On rich and poor were meant to fall,
Inspiring their Redeemer's praise
In lonely cot and lordly hall.

Then come, when in the Orient first
Flushes the signal light for prayer;
Come with the earliest beams that burst
From God's bright throne of glory there.
Come kneel to Him who through the night
Hath watched above thy sleeping soul,
To Him whose mercies, like his light,
Are shed abroad from pole to pole.

BRONX.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,
Like parting friends who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,
Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,
Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;
When first his power in infant pastime trying,
Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;
The antic squirrel capered on the ground
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet:
Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting
Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,
Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting
A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden
Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,
The winding of the merry locust's horn,
The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:
Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,
Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand
Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see
A well-remembered form in each old tree,
And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

THE STORM-KING.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

The mist descended from the snow
That whiten'd o'er the cliff;
The clouds were gather'd round its brow,
And solemn darkness reign'd below
The peak of Teneriffe.

For on that rocky peak and high,
Magnificent and lone,
The awful _Storm-King_ of the sky,
Beyond the reach of mortal eye,
Had rear'd his cloudy throne.

By him the raging winds unfurl'd,
Swept o'er the prostrate land;
And thence, above the affrighted world,
The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'd
Forth from his red right hand.--

Uprising from his cave of jet,
While mists obscured his form,
With streaming locks and vesture wet,
The _Spirit_ of the ocean met
The _Spirit_ of the storm.

"And why so madly dost thou dare,
Proud Spirit of the sea,
To tempt the monarch of the air,
With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare?
What seekest thou of me?"

"I have risen afar from my coral caves,
Where the pearls are sparkling bright,
To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves;
And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves,
And I challenge thee here to the fight!"

"Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'd
From the midst of a cloud of fire;
The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd,
And the island forest his footsteps crush'd,
In the burning of his ire.

Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom,
And the depths of the ocean uprend;
Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam,
And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom,
Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend.

But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall,
And evades his fierce controul;--
Away in his ice-clad crystal hall,
He still reigns absolute monarch of all
That surrounds his frozen pole.

The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,--
Again are the elements free;
But many a vessel is still sinking fast,
And many a mariner rests at last,
In the bosom of the sea!

SONG--ROSALIE CLARE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair--
Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare?
Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field,
And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield;
For no gallant can splinter--no charger can dare
The lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare.

When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board
Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured,
And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up
From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,--
What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,
Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare?

They may talk of the land of the olive and vine--
Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;--
Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles,
Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;
But what flower of far away clime can compare
With the blossom of ours--bright Rosalie Clare?

Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair?
Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare!
Let him list to her voice--let him gaze on her form--
And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm,
Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air
Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.

TO A PACKET SHIP.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave!
The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;--
The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the spray
That lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.

Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free,
The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea!
Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair,
Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there!

Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board,
Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord;
And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain,
To welcome her long-absent lover again.

Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine,
Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine;
And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait;
For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate.

Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar,
And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star;
The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct,
And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect!

Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash;
And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;--
Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high;
Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by!

Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past;
Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast;
Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn,
And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!

MOONLIGHT.

BY ROBERT BARKER.

How dear to love the moonlight hour,
Beneath the calm transparent ether,
It seems as if by magic power
They breathe in unison together.
When forest glen and fountain bright
Are tinged with shades of mellow light,
And every earthly sound is still
Save murmur of the mountain rill;
'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion,
And waken every soft emotion,
To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears,
And place the smiles of rapture there,
"Celestial music of the spheres"
Comes floating on the evening air.
'Tis then that fancy wings her flight
Beyond the bounds to mortals given;
To regions where the lamps of night
Illume the path which leads to heaven.
'Tis then she holds communion sweet
With seraphs round the eternal throne,
Where long-departed spirits meet,
To worship him who sits thereon.
'Tis then man dreams of Paradise,
If aught he dreams of place like this,
'Tis then he breathes the crystal air,
Which Peris breathe who wander there,
And sips the fount of Native Love
Found no where but in heaven above.

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky;
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;
When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.

Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,
And love will droop in the cheerless shade,
Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,
It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.
But oh! the light of the constant soul
Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim;
Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl,
Love still shall hover around its brim.

LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE.

[_Translated from the German of Körner._]

BY ROSWELL PARK.

What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day?
Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer!
It hither approaches in gloomy array,
While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way,
The soul overwhelming with terror!
Those swart companions you view in the race,--
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade,
From mountain to mountain deploying?
They place themselves nightly in ambuscade,
They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade,
The French usurpers destroying!
Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,--
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by,
The tyrant securely is sleeping;--
They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky;
With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply;
Soon safe on his island-shore leaping!
Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar,
Where swords in thick carnage are clashing?
Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore;
The spark of true freedom is kindled once more,
From war's bloody altars out-flashing!
Those horsemen swart who the combat face,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun,
'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery?
Death creeps o'er their visage,--their labours are done;--
Their valiant hearts tremble not;--victory's won;
Their father-land rescued from slavery!
Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace,
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

The wild German Yagers,--their glorious careers
Dealt death to the tyrant oppressor!
Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers,
When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears;
Since we alone died to redress her.
Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;--
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

STANZAS.

BY JAMES NACK.

I know that thou art far away,
Yet in my own despite
My still expectant glances stray
Inquiring for thy sight.
Though all too sure that thy sweet face
Can bless no glance of mine,
At every turn, in every place,
My eyes are seeking thine.

I hope--how vain the hope, I know--
That some propitious chance
May bring thee here again to throw
Thy sweetness on my glance.
But, loveliest one, where'er thou art,
Whate'er be my despair,
Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heart
Will love thee every where.

LINES.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[_Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet
standing among the ruins of Carthage._]

Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstood
The silent lapse of many ages,
The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,
Around whose base the ocean rages;
Who reared thy walls that proudly brave
The tempest, battle, and the wave?

Was it beneath thy ample dome
That Marius rested, and from thee,
When he had lost imperial Rome,
Learned high resolve and constancy?
Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,
And well might'st teach the lesson great.

Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung
Of yore, with laughter's merry shout,
While beauty round her glances flung
To cheer some monarch's wassail rout;
But mirth and beauty long have fled
From this lone City of the Dead.

Where busy thousands oft have trod
Beneath thy mouldering marble brow,
Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,
Around thee all is silence now.
And thus the breath of foul decay
Shall melt at last thy form away.

Thou desolate, deserted pile,
Lone vestage of departed glory,
Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,
While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,
As if resolved the tale to tell
Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.

Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,
Around thee strewn may yet be seen
The broken column, sculptured stone,
And relics sad of what hath been.
But thou alone survivest the fall,
Defying Time, dread leveller of all.

FADED HOURS.

BY J. R. SUTERMINSTER.

_Ob. 1836: æt. 23._

Oh! for my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.

The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,
While flow'd its sparkling waters fair--
And went upon his pathway proud,
And threw a brighter lustre there;
And smiled upon the golden heaven,
And on the earth's sweet loveliness,
Where light, and joy, and song were given,
The glad and fairy scene to bless!

Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,
When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,
To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,
While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!
And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,
While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,
Who spread for him that scene of love
And made him, so supremely blest!

That scene of love!--where hath it gone?
Where have its charms and beauty sped?
My hours of youth, that o'er me shone--
Where have their light and splendour fled?
Into the silent lapse of years--
And I am left on earth to mourn:
And I am left to drop my tears
O'er memory's lone and icy urn!

Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;
Oh, my dark hours on earth are few--
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;--
And I shall soon bid life adieu,
To seek enduring joys in heaven!

THE WIFE'S SONG.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As the tears of the even,
Illumined at day
By the sweet light of heaven,
Seem gems on each spray;
So gladness to-morrow
Shall shine on thy brow,
The more bright for the sorrow
That darkens it now.

Yet if fortune, believe me,
Have evil in store,
Though each other deceive thee,
I'll love thee the more.
As ivy leaves cluster
More greenly and fair,
When winter winds bluster
Round trees that are bare.

LAMENT.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

There is a voice, I shall hear no more--
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,--
Precious and rich--but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear--
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed--
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

Alas! for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes--on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom--
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died--
Oh loved one!--would I were by thy side!

Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm--
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom--thou art not here.

Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest--
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.

Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid--
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;--
All that was lovely to me is there,
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

LINES

[_Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend._]

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As playful boys by ocean's side
Upon its margin trace,
Some frail memorial which the tide
Returning must efface;
Thus I upon this brittle glass
These tuneless verses scrawl,
That they, when I away shall pass,
May thought of me recall.

The waves that beat upon the strand
Wash out the schoolboy's line,
As soon some rude or careless hand
May shiver those of mine.
But though what I have written here
In thousand fragments part,
I trust my name will still be dear,
And treasured in the heart.

THE SEPULCHRE OF DAVID.

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the
cities, both without and within his own kingdom:
and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus, who had
been king before him, had opened David's
sepulchre, and taken out of it three thousand
talents of silver, and that there was a greater
number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice
all his wants, he had a great while an intention
to make the attempt; and at this time he opened
that sepulchre by night and went into it, and
endeavoured that it should not be at all known in
the city, but he took only his most faithful
friends with him. As for any money, he found
none, as Hyrcanus had done, but that furniture of
gold, and those precious goods that were laid up
there, all which he took away. However, he had a
great desire to make diligent search, and to go
farther in, even as far as the very bodies of
David and Solomon; where two of his guards were
slain by a flame that burst out upon those that
went in, as the report was. So he was severely
affrighted, and went out and built a propitiatory
monument of that fright he had been in, and this
of white stone, at the mouth of the sepulchre,
and that at a great expense also."--_Josephus._

High on his throne of state,
A form of noblest mould,
The Hebrew monarch sate,
All glorious to behold.

With purest gold inwrought,
Full many a sparkling gem,
From distant India brought,
Enriched his diadem.

A crystal mirror bright,
Beneath the canopy,
Shot back in silvery light
The monarch's panoply!

All round the lofty halls,
Rich tapestries of gold
Hung from the glittering walls,
In many an ample fold.

And breathing sculptures there
In living beauty stood,
Borne by the monarch's care
From o'er the Ægean flood.

Dipt in the rainbow's dyes,
Apelles's magic hand,
To please the wondering eyes
Of Judah's haughty land,

In liquid colours bright,
And traced with matchless care,
Had left, in glorious light,
Its richest beauties there!

The silver lamps by day,
Hung massive, rich, and bright;
And from the galleries gay
Shone brilliantly by night.

And by the monarch's side,
His guards, a noble band,
Arrayed in regal pride,
In burnished armour stand.

Proud chiefs and ladies fair,
Swept the broad courts along:--
In pleasures mingled there,--
A gay and gallant throng!

Apollo's tuneful choir,
And Korah's sons of song,
With psaltery, harp, and lyre,
Were mingled in the throng.[O]

And from each trembling string,
Sweet sounds of music stole;
Gentle as Zephyr's wing,
The tuneful numbers roll.

Beyond the portals wide,
Beneath the sylvan bower,
Cool founts, in sparkling pride,
Send forth their silvery shower.

The flowerets gay and wild,
In beauty bloomed not less,
Than erst when Eden smiled,
In pristine loveliness.

And through the gorgeous halls
Rich odours filled the air,
Sweet as the dew that falls
On Araby the fair!

All that could foster pride,
All that could banish care,
Was gathered by his side,
And richly lavished there.

Lost to the splendid show,
The monarch's restless mind
Darkened an anxious brow,
Which furrows deep had lined.