Chapter IV: Part 4

He rose and left the hall,
The night was drear and wild--
Above the embattled wall
Tempestuous clouds were piled.

Deep in the deeper gloom,
He held his sullen way--
To David's hallowed tomb
To where his ashes lay.

The haughty monarch came,--
Earth trembled at his tread--
With sacrilegious aim
To rob the royal dead.

No treasures found he there,
Nor precious gems, nor gold--
The walls were damp and bare--
The region drear and cold.

He cast his anxious eye
Where slept great _David's_ son,
Where _Wisdom's_ ashes lie,
The peerless _Solomon_!

He raised his ruthless arm
Against the low-arched wall--
While wild and dread alarm
Rang through the vaulted hall.

Loud on the monarch's ear
Broke the hoarse thunder's crash--
And blazed around the bier
The vivid lightning's flash.

Death came upon the blast;
As by the lurid light
They saw that he had passed,
And triumphed in his might:

For on the chilly ground,
Inanimate as clay,
The troubled monarch found
His favourite captains lay.

Aghast and pale he fled,--
And shook through every limb--
Cold drops rolled down his head,
Lest death should follow him!

He raised a marble fane
Upon the hallowed spot,
But ne'er, O ne'er again
Could that night be forgot!

And oft in after years
He woke in wild affright,
And wailed, with scalding tears,
The deed of that dread night!

WOMAN.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

No star in yonder sky that shines
Can light like woman's eye impart,
The earth holds not in all its mines
A gem so rich as woman's heart.
Her voice is like the music sweet
Poured out from airy harp alone,
Like that when storms more loudly beat,
It yields a clearer--richer tone.

And woman's love's a holy light
That brighter burns for aye,
Years cannot dim its radiance bright,
Nor even falsehood quench its ray.
But like the star of Bethlehem
Of old, to Israel's shepherds given,
It marshals with its steady flame
The erring soul of man to heaven.

RHYME AND REASON.

AN APOLOGUE.

BY G. P. MORRIS.

Two children, "once upon a time,"
In the summer season,
Woke to life--the one was Rhyme,
The other's name was Reason.
Sweet Poesy enraptured prest
The blooming infants to her breast.

Reason's face and form to see
Made her heart rejoice;
Yet there was more of melody
In Rhyme's delicious voice;
But both were beautiful and fair,
And pure as mountain stream and air.

As the boys together grew,
Happy fled their hours--
Grief or care they never knew
In the Paphian bowers.
See them roaming, hand in hand,
The pride of all the choral band.

Music with harp of golden strings,
Love with bow and quiver,
Airy sprites on radiant wings,
Nymphs of wood and river,
Joined the Muses' constant song
As Rhyme and Reason pass'd along.

But the scene was changed--the boys
Left their native soil--
Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,
Reason's manly toil.
Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,
While Reason grew exceeding rich.

Since that dark and fatal hour
When the brothers parted,
Reason has had wealth and power--
Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted.
And now, on bright or stormy weather,
They twain are seldom seen together.

AH NO! AH NO!

_To a Favourite Child._

BY JAMES NACK.

In life, perhaps, thou hast only trod
As yet in a path as soft and sweet
As the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod,
Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet.
In the path thou hast only begun to tread,
Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting;
And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled,
By innocence chased on her snow-white wing:
For often a paradise seems to attend
Our earliest steps in this world below;
But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end?
Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!"

The tree with verdure adorns the shore
While the laving spray at its foot is thrown;
But the waves roll on to return no more,
And the tree stands withering all alone.
Each friend of our early years is a wave
In the sea of joy we are flourishing by;
But they roll away to the gulf of the grave,
And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh.
And such is the doom I must bear--for now,
While yet in my boyhood I find it so--
But never, dear cherub, may heaven allow
Such doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!

A HEALTH.

BY MISS ELIZABETH C. CLINCH.

_Ob. 1832: æt. 17._

Fill high the cup!--the young and gay
Are met with bounding hearts to-night;
And sunny smiles around us play,
And eyes are sparkling bright:
Let wit and song the hours beguile,
But yet, amid this festal cheer,
Oh, let us pause to think awhile
Of him who is not here.

Fill high the cup!--yet ere its brim
One young and smiling lip has pressed,
Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to him
Now far o'er ocean's breast!
The cordial wish each lip repeats,
By every heart is echoed here;
For none within this circle beats,
To whom he is not dear.

A sudden pause in festive glee--
What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth,
Hath checked each heart's hilarity,
And given to sadness birth?
O! read it in the shades that steal
Across each animated brow;
The wish none utters, yet all feel,
"Would he were with us now!"

Yet chase away each vain regret,
And let each heart be gay;
Trust me, the meeting hour shall yet
Each anxious thought repay.
Is not his spirit with us now?
Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam,
The wanderer's yearning heart can know
No resting-place--but home!

Then smile again, and let the song
Pour forth its music sweet and clear--
What magic to those notes belong
Which thus chain every ear!
Soft eyes are filled with tears--what spell
So suddenly hath called them there?
That strain--ah, yes! we know it well;
It is his favourite air.

With every note how forcibly
Return the thoughts of other days!
The shaded brow, the drooping eye,
Are present to our gaze.
With all around his looks are blent;
His form, is it not gliding there?
And was it not _his_ voice which sent
That echo on the air?

One wish, with cordial feeling fraught,
Breathe we for him ere yet we part,
That for each high and generous thought
That animates his heart,
That Power which gives us happiness,
A blessing on his head would pour!
Oh! could affection wish him less?
Yet, could we ask for more?

A HYMN.

BY DAVID S. BOGART.--1791.

Almighty King, who reign'st above,
Thou art the source of purest love;
The splendid heavens thy glories show,
Thy wisdom shines in all below;
Seraphs before thee humbly fall,
Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all;
And, wrapt in high transporting joy,
Thy attributes their thoughts employ.
Shall mortals, then, refuse to join
In works so heavenly and divine,
Mortals who live and move in thee,
And thy continual goodness see;
Thou God of Grace, make it my choice
In praising thee, to lend my voice;
Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm,
And make my troubled soul all calm;
Teach me the duty of my life,
Preserve me from unhappy strife,
Conduct me safe through all my days,
And keep me in thy peaceful ways.
When time is done, and death draws nigh,
Then leave me not alone to sigh;
Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart,
And, sure of heaven, let me depart.

REMINISCENCES.

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

Oh, who would flee the melody
Of woodland, grove, and stream--
The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky
By morning's virgin beam;
To wander 'mid the busy throng
That threads each city's street,
Where cank'ring care and folly's glare
In unblest union meet?

Emilia! o'er the fleeting hours
Thy smile once bathed in light,
Fond memory hovers pensively,
And joins them in their flight;
And lovelier far than sunset's glow,
By rainbow beauties spann'd,
Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole
When first I press'd thy hand.

The south wind, on its joyous way,
Came fraught with balmier breath,
And frolic life, in thousand forms,
Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!
Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,
Re-tuned the shepherd's song;
And bird and bee, in reckless glee,
Pour'd melody along.

The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade
Upon the streamlet's breast,
The red bird, on the chesnut bough,
Re-builds its fairy nest;
But through the thicket's leafy screen
Fancy alone can trace
The sparkling eye--the vermeil dye
That mantled o'er thy face.

Though since that hour, upon my path
Are graven hopes and fears,
And transient smiles, like April beams,
Have gilded sorrow's tears;
From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,
My soul with rapture flies
To the sweet grove, where faith and love
Beamed from Emilia's eyes!

Then woo me not to sculptured halls,
Where pride and beauty throng;
Far lovelier is my mountain-home,
The wild-wood paths among;
And though the hopes by boyhood nursed
Have vanish'd like the dew,
In Memory's light they bless my sight
With charms for ever new.

ELEGIAC LINES.

BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.

While you, my friend, with tearful eye,
These soft elegiac lines read o'er,
And while you heave the tender sigh
For lov'd Amanda now no more.

This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,
Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,
This lesson from Amanda learn,--
That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.

That he alike his ruthless reign
Does o'er each age, each sex, extend,
That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,
Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.

But in the height of Beauty's bloom,
Each dear connexion of the heart,
He points them to the gloomy tomb,
He bids them--and they must depart.

A SONG OF MAY.

BY W. G. CLARK.

The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling--
There are songs in the stream--there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale;
The desolate reign of old winter is broken--
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm,--and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers--
He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.

The young bird is out on his delicate pinion--
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure--
The woodlands are singing--the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.

Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!--
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild-wood--the sheen of the blossom--
The fresh-welling fountain,--their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams--when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.

From the wide-spreading earth--from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:
The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth--
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;--
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.

Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended--
'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the _newness_ and sweetness of Being are ended--
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping--
There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.

It is shut to the glow of this present existence--
It hears, from the past, a funereal strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish--
Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given,
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven--
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;--
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.

ON READING VIRGIL.

BY MRS. ANN E. BLEECKER.

_Written in 1778._

Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by,
Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye;
Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,
And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?
Like him, I lost my fair one in my flight
From cruel foes, and in the dead of night.
Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs,
And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours?
See York on fire--while, borne by winds, each flame
Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main,
The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,
From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.
Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade
I saw my aged parent safe conveyed;
Then sadly followed to the friendly land
With my surviving infant by the hand:
No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed,
To load my shoulders and my flight impede;
Protection from such impotence who'd claim?
My Gods took care of me--not I of them.
The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his last
When all domestic dangers he had passed;
So my lov'd parent, after she had fled,
Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed:
--He held his way o'er the Cerulian main,
But I returned to hostile fields again.

THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
BY W. G. CLARK.

"O Domini Deus speravi in te,
O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me:
In dura catena, in misera pena,
Desidera te--
Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!"[P]

It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glide
Along the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide;
When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen,
When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men;
And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye,
A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;
For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set,
And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.

Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,
As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul--
When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her
bursting tears,
The phantasies of early hope--dreams of departed years;
When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung
Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among--
When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye,
When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.

Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,
Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's
mysterious flame;
When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one,
Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun;
Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow--
The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow:
But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,
Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.

And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven,
Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given;
They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway,
And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way;
It was the last dim night of life--the sun had sunk to rest,
And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;
And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,
Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:

"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,
The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth;
The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round
On the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground;
And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar,
Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star;
I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light,
And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night.

"Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring--
While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing?
Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?--the syren voice which flung
The chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?
Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,
Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred?
Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death,
As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its
chilling breath?

"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes
are gone,
And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one!
Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath
been spoken,
And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,
Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bend
In humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend!
Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee,
Give me the eagle's fearless wing--the dove's to mount to thee!

"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears--
How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years!
I give my heart to earth no more--the grave may clasp me now--
The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough;
The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away,
And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;
I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each
kindred breast,
'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE.

[_From the French of Beranger._]

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

They'll talk of him, and of his glory,
The cottage hearth, at eve, around;
Fifty years hence no other story
Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound.
Then shall the villagers repair
To some gray ancient dame,
And bid her long-past times declare,
And tell his deeds, his fame.
"Ah, though it cost us life and limb,"
They'll say, "our love is still the same,
And still the people love his name;
Good mother, tell of him!"

My children, through this very region
He journey'd with a train of kings,
Followed by many a gallant legion!
(How many thoughts to me it brings,
That tell of days so long gone by!)
He climbed on foot the very hill
Where, seated on the bank, was I
To see him pass. I see him still;
The small, three-coloured hat he wore,
And the surtout of gray.
I trembled at his sight all o'er!--
Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!"
"Mother, he spoke to you, you say?"
"Ay, said 'good day' once more."

Next year at Paris, too, one morning,
Myself, I saw him with his court,
Princes and queens his _suite_ adorning,
To Notre Dame he did resort;
And every body blest the day
And prayed for him and his;
How happily he took his way,
And smiled in all a father's bliss,
For heaven a son bestowed!
"A happy day for you was this,
Good mother!" then they say:
"When thus you saw him on the road,
In Notre Dame to kneel and pray,
A good heart sure it showed."

"Alas! ere long, invading strangers
Brought death and ruin in our land!
(Alone he stood and braved all dangers,
The sword in his unconquer'd hand.)
One night, (it seems but yesterday,)
I heard a knocking at the door--
It was himself upon his way,
A few true followers, no more,
Stood worn and weary at his side.
Where I am sitting now he sat--
'Oh what a war is this!' he cried.
Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that?
Did he, then, sit in that same chair?"
"My children, yes!--he rested there!"

"I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladly
I brought him country wine and bread;
The gray surtout was dripping sadly;
He dried it by this fire. His head,
He leaned against this wall, and slept--
While, as for me, I sat and wept.
He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer!
I go to Paris, France to free,
And better times, be sure, are near!'
He went, and I have ever kept
The cup he drank from--children, see!
My greatest treasure!" "Show it me,"
"And me!"--"and me!" the listeners cry--
"Good mother, keep it carefully!"

"Ah, it is safe! but where is he?
Crowned by the pope, our father good,
In a lone island of the sea
The hero died. Long time we stood
Firm in belief he was not dead,
And some by sea, and some by land--
But all, that he was coming, said.
And when, at length, all hope was o'er,
Than I, were few that sorrowed more!"
"Ah, mother, well we understand!
Our blessings on you; we too weep,
We will pray for you ere we sleep!"

THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain--
Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain.
The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,
Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;
And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng,
Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.
This is thy birth-day, dearest--the fairest of the year--
To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;
The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee,
As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that
sets him free.
I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills
My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills.
I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,
Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live--
But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,
Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF COL. WOOD OF THE UNITED STATES' ARMY,
WHO FELL AT THE SORTIE OF ERIE.

BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.

What though on foeman's land he fell,
No stone the sacred spot to tell,
Yet where the noble Hudson's waves
Its shores of lofty granite laves,
The loved associates of his youth,
Who knew his worth--his spotless truth,
Have bade the marble column rise,
To bid the world that worth to prize;
To teach the youth like him aspire,
And never-fading fame acquire;
Like him on Glory's wings to rise,
To reach, to pierce the azure skies.
And oft the Patriot _there_ will sigh,
And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye,
Whene'er fond memory brings again
The Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.

LIFE'S GUIDING STAR.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

The youth whose bark is guided o'er
A summer stream by zephyr's breath,
With idle gaze delights to pore
On imaged skies that glow beneath.
But should a fleeting storm arise
To shade awhile the watery way,
Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes,
And speeds to reach some sheltering bay.

'Tis thus down time's eventful tide,
While prosperous breezes gently blow,
In life's frail bark we gaily glide
Our hopes, our thoughts all fixed below.
But let one cloud the prospect dim,
The wind its quiet stillness mar,
At once we raise our prayer to Him
Whose light is life's best guiding star.

DESPONDENCY.

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION AND SORROW FOR LOST TIME.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams,
That darken thus my waking hours?
And whence this blighting cloud, that seems
To wither all thy better powers?
What is this cankering worm that clings
Around my heart with deadly strain,
That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings,
And makes my life one age of pain?

I find no joy in home or friends--
E'en music's voice has lost its spell--
To me the rose no perfume lends,
And mirth and I have said farewell.
I dare not think upon the past,
Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain;
Of youth's pure joys that could not last,
And hopes I ne'er shall know again.

I dare not ask the coming years
What gifts their onward flight shall bring;
For what but grief, and shame, and tears,
From wasted time and powers can spring?
Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles,
And teach my heart to seem to glow,
Though colder than those Northern isles
Of ice and everlasting snow.

Upon the frozen surface there,
With tenfold light the sunbeams play--
But false the dazzling gleam as fair--
No verdure springs beneath the ray.
And falser yet the laughing eye--
The cheek that wears a seeming smile--
The heart that hides its misery,
And breaks beneath its load the while.

TO A GOLDFINCH.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

Bird of the gentle wing,
Songster of air,
Home, from thy wandering,
Dost thou repair?
Art thou deserted then,
Wilder'd and lone?
Come to my breast again,
Beautiful one.

Here in the rosy beds
Hover anew;
Eating the garden seeds,
Sipping the dew:
Then in my bower
The fragrance inhale
Of each lovely flower
That waves in the gale.

When the bright morning star,
Rising on high,
Day's early harbinger,
Shines in the sky,
Then shall thy numbers,
So lively and gay,
Rouse me from slumbers,
To welcome the day.

When the still evening comes,
Tranquil and clear;
When the dull beetle roams,
Drumming the air;
Then, on the willow-trees
Shading the door,
Sing me thy melodies
Over once more.

Thus shall the moments fly
Sweetly along,
Tuned to thy minstrelsy,
Cheered by thy song;
Till as the light declines
Far in the west,
Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines,
Hush thee to rest.

THE MIDNIGHT BALL.

BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.

She's bid adieu to the midnight ball,
And cast the gems aside,
Which glittered in the lighted hall:
Her tears she cannot hide.
She weeps not that the dance is o'er,
The music and the song;
She weeps not that her steps no more
Are follow'd by the throng.

Her memory seeks one form alone
Within that crowded hall;
Her truant thoughts but dwell on one
At that gay midnight ball.
And thence her tears unbidden flow--
She's bid adieu to him;
The light of love is darken'd now--
All other lights are dim.

She throws the worthless wreath away
That deck'd her shining hair;
She tears apart the bright bouquet
Of flowrets rich and rare.
The leaves lie scattered at her feet,
She heeds not where they fall;
She sees in them an emblem meet
To mark the midnight-ball.

THE DESERTED BRIDE.

[_Suggested by a Scene in the Play of the Hunchback._]

BY G. P. MORRIS.

"Love me!--No--he never loved me!"
Else he'd sooner die than stain
One so fond as he has proved me
With the hollow world's disdain.
False one, go--my doom is spoken,
And the spell that bound me broken!

Wed him!--Never.--He has lost me!--
Tears!--Well, let them flow!--His bride?--
No.--The struggle life may cost me!
But he'll find that I have pride!
Love is not an idle flower,
Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Titles, lands, and broad dominion,
With himself to me he gave;
Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion,
And became my willing slave!
Knelt and pray'd until he won me--
Looks he coldly now upon me?

Ingrate!--Never sure was maiden
Wronged so foul as I. With grief
My true breast is overladen--
Tears afford me no relief.--
Every nerve is strained and aching,
And my very heart is breaking!

Love I him?--Thus scorned and slighted--
Thrown, like worthless weed, apart--
Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted--
Love him?--Yes, with all my heart!
With a passion superhuman--
Constancy, "thy name is woman."

Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion--
Love?--Idolatry's the word
To speak the broadest, deepest passion,
Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd!
Vain to still the mind's desires,
Which consume like hidden fires!

Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely,
Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight,
With a prayer for Clifford only,
I resign me to my fate.
Chains that bind the soul I've proven
Strong as they were iron-woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending
From my cheek its healthful bloom;
Sad my thoughts, as willows bending
O'er the borders of the tomb.
Without Clifford not a blessing
In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!--a straw within the balance,
Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam:
Kindred--friendship--beauty--talents?--
All to love as nothing seem;
Weigh love against all else together,
As solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown--away disguises--
Nought but death relief can give--
For the love he little prizes
Cannot cease and Julia live!
Soon my thread of life will sever--
Clifford, fare thee well--for ever!

THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Loved, lost one, fare thee well--too harsh the doom
That called thee thus in opening life away;
Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb
I come at each return of this blest day,
When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,
The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,
For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone
Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.

But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings
Thy form before me as in life it came;
Affection conquers death, and fondly clings
Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;
And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,
While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,
With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,
Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.
_Sunday Evening._

SONG.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

A careless, simple bird, one day
Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers,
Fell in a cruel trap, which lay
All hid among the flowers,
Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,
He knew not what to do,
Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,
At length away he flew,
Unhurt--at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret
And idle anguish free,
He, singing, says, "You need not set
Another trap for me,
False girl! another trap for me."

ANACREONTIC.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Blame not the Bowl--the fruitful Bowl!
Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring,
And amber drops elysian roll,
To bathe young Love's delighted wing.
What like the grape Osiris gave
Makes rigid age so lithe of limb?
Illumines Memory's tearful wave,
And teaches drowning Hope to swim?
Did Ocean from his radiant arms
To earth another Venus give,
He ne'er could match the mellow charms
That in the breathing beaker live.

Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard
In characters that mock the sight,
Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured,
Brings all their hidden warmth to light--
Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,
Though graven deep, appear but dim,
Till filled with glowing Bacchus up,
They sparkle on the foaming brim.
Each drop upon the first you pour
Brings some new tender thought to life,
And as you fill it more and more,
The last with fervid soul is rife.

The island fount, that kept of old
Its fabled path beneath the sea,
And fresh, as first from earth it rolled,
From earth again rose joyously;
Bore not beneath the bitter brine,
Each flower upon its limpid tide,
More faithfully than in the wine,
Our hearts will toward each other glide.
Then drain the cup, and let thy soul
Learn, as the draught delicious flies,
Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl,
Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

MELODY.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

If yon bright stars, which gem the night,
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred spirits re-unite
Whom death has torn asunder here,
How sweet it were at once to die,
And leave this blighted orb afar,
Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,
And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If wandering through each radiant one
We failed to find the loved of this;
If there no more the ties shall twine
That death's cold hand alone could sever;
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful as they shine for ever.

It cannot be each hope, each fear,
That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a happier sphere
Than this bleak world that holds us now.
There is a voice which sorrow hears,
When heaviest weighs life's galling chain;
'Tis heaven that whispers--Dry thy tears,
The pure in heart shall meet again.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild,
In later ages, the huge seas above?
And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child,
Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love?
Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove,
Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years,
When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove,
When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears,
When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers?

Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run,
Elysian solitudes, untrod by man,
Silent and lonely, since, around the sun,
Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began?
Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan?
With wasted perfume ever on them flung?
And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span,
When Alexander fought, when Homer sung,
And the old populous world with thundering battle rung?

Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth,
No musty tomes are here to tell of thee;
None know, if cast when nature first the earth
Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree,
Or, whether since, by changes, silently,
Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew;
Or if, before man's little memory,
Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two,
And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.

I know but that I love thee. On my heart,
Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now;
Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian art
Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow,
No broken temples, fain at length to bow,
Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time.
Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw;
Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme,
As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime.

But thou art sternly artless, wildly free:
We worship thee for beauties all thine own.
Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be
Admired, but only for herself alone.
With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown.
No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise;
Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone,
Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes,
Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.

I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams.
Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast.
Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems
Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest!
Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd,
Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon;
Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd;
Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun--
Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run!

And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky;
And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending, that the cheated eye
Forgets, or which is earth or which is heaven--
Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even,
Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height
Puts off the azure hues by distance given;
And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight,
Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright.

Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below
Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea.
Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow,
Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously;
Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be,
Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds,
At break of day, this scene, when, silently,
Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd,
While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,

Till earth receive him never can forget.
Even when returned amid the city's roar,
The fairy vision haunts his memory yet,
As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore.
Imagination cons the moment o'er,
When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed.
Scarce loftier, Jove--whom men and gods adore--
On the extended earth beneath him gazed,
Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.

Blow, scented gale--the snowy canvass swell,
And flow, thou silver, eddying current on.
Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,
That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone.
By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,
By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise,
At every turn, the vision breaks upon,
Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes
The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise,

Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep,
More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll,
Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep,
Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul!
The pent-up flood, impatient of control,
In ages past, here broke its granite bound;
Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole;
While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground,
And these gigantic hills for ever closed around.

And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell,
The nymph of sportive mockery, that still
Hides behind every rock, in every dell,
And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill.
No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will,
The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore,
Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill,
The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar,
Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.

Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired.
Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide,
The Briton youth, lamented and admired,
His country's hope, her ornament and pride,
A traitor's death, ingloriously died,
On freedom's altar offered; in the sight
Of God, by men who will their act abide,
On the great day, and hold their deed aright,
To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light.

But see! the broadening river deeper flows,
Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,
While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws
Its softening hues on stream, and field and tree;
All silent nature bathing, wondrously,
In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires,
And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see,
Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires,
Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.

May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore,
Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene.
Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar,
Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween--
And every where thy various barks are seen,
Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow,
Encircled by thy banks of sunny green--
The panting steamer plying to and fro,
Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.

And radiantly upon the glittering mass,
The God of day his parting glances sends,
As some warm soul, from earth about to pass,
Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends,
Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends,
More bright and bright, as near their end they be.
On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends,
Each land irradiate, and every sea--
But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!

HE CAME TOO LATE!

BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.

He came too late!--Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which, lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.

He came too late!--At once he felt
That all his power was o'er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him, and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late!--The subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late!--Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,
Nor in his whispered tone.
And when, with word and smile, he tried
Affection still to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman's pride,
And spurned his fickle love.

VERSES,
WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF FORTUNES, 1787.

BY THE LATE GEN. MORTON.

As through the garden's sweet domain
The bee from leaf to leaf will rove,
Will cull its sweets with anxious pain,
Then bear its treasures to his love;
So from those leaves which bring to view
Things hid by fate in Time's dark reign,
With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you,
The richest blessings they contain;
But fortune here our power restrains,
Nor leaves her blessings in our hand:
To _wish_, alone to _us_ remains,
The _Gift_ is still at _her_ command.

Take, then, sweet maid, this wish sincere,
Which in a friendly heart doth glow--
A heart which will thy worth revere
Till life's rich streams shall cease to flow:
On the fair morning of thy life
May love beam forth his brightest ray,--
May friendship's joys, unvexed by strife,
Glad the meridian of thy day;
And when life's solemn eve shall come,
And time to you shall ever cease,
May then religion cheer the gloom,
And light thy path to endless peace.

EPITAPH UPON A DOG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

An ear that caught my slightest tone
In kindness or in anger spoken;
An eye that ever watch'd my own
In vigils death alone has broken;
Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought
Affection to the last revealing;
Beaming almost with human thought,
And more than human feeling!

Can such in endless sleep be chilled,
And mortal pride disdain to sorrow,
Because the pulse that here was stilled
May wake to no immortal morrow?
Can faith, devotedness, and love,
That seem to humbler creatures given
To tell us what we owe above!
The types of what is due to Heaven?

Can these be with the things that _were_,
Things cherished--but no more returning;
And leave behind no trace of care,
No shade that speaks a moment's mourning?
Alas! my friend, of all of worth,
That years have stol'n or years yet leave me,
I've never known so much on earth,
But that the loss of thine must grieve me.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing,
The blush of the sunset is glowing no more--
And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing,
With ripples of silver is kissing the shore.
I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted,
In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem,
And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning,
From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them.
Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing,
And raise your young voices in music once more;
Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealing
In the ripples of silver which roll to the shore.

But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded,
And the fields and the forests are withered and sere--
When the friends now together, by distance are parted,
Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here;
Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united,
I lingered at evening to bid you adieu;
When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted,
And wished I might linger for ever with you?
Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing,
Though desolate oceans between us may roar,
The beach--and the stars--and the waters revealing
Thoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore.

STANZAS.

BY JOHN INMAN.

L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses
y font aussi beaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les
richesses, l'amour ne produit que la misère.
C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai.--_Madame de Beaumarchais._

Alas! alas, that poverty's cold hand
Should come to wither young affection's flowers--
Marring the fairy pictures hope has planned
Of love and joy in future happy hours--
Alas, that all the blessings fancy showers
O'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears,
Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!

A moment's pleasure and an age of pain--
One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom--
And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain--
Of all who bow before thee, this the doom--
And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom,
Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest,
To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest.

JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers
Flash'd the red sun-beams gloriously back,
And the wind-driven banners, and the steel
Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly
The sun, and on the fortresses of rock
Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd
To the stern men who girded by its light.
Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath
Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,
Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet
Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook
By the rude armour on their branches hung.
Suddenly in the camp without the walls
Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war
Gather'd around their kings, and "Joshua!
From Gilgal, Joshua!" was whisper'd low,
As with a secret fear, and then, at once,
With the abruptness of a dream, he stood
Upon the rock before them. Calmly then
Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare
And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;--
"God of this people, hear! and let the sun
Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon
Rest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased--
And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth
Stands on her axis indolent. The sun
Pours the unmoving column of his rays
In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;
The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;
The clouds and vapours that at night are wont
To gather and enshroud the lower earth,
Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up,
Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,
Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down
In broken masses on the astonish'd plains.
The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;
The weary birds go to their leafy nests,
But find no darkness there, and wander forth
On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;
The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,
Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat,
Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.
On with thy armies, Joshua! The Lord
God of Sabaoth is the avenger now!
His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath
Poureth the beams of the retarded sun,
With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.
The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;
Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,
Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.
On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood
Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till
Thy banners in returning triumph wave;
Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds,
And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,
Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God,
Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.

SONG.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

I trust the frown thy features wear
Ere long into a smile will turn;
I would not that a face so fair
As thine, beloved, should look so stern.
The chain of ice that winter twines,
Holds not for aye the sparkling rill,
It melts away when summer shines,
And leaves the waters sparkling still.
Thus let thy cheek resume the smile
That shed such sunny light before;
And though I left thee for a while,
I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.

As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam,
Or wander on a foreign strand,
Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home,
And better love his native land;
So I, though lured a time away,
Like bees by varied sweets, to rove,
Return, like bees, by close of day,
And leave them all for thee, my love.
Then let thy cheek resume the smile
That shed such sunny light before,
And though I left thee for a while,
I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.

WEST POINT.

[_Suggested by the attendance on Public Worship
of the Cadets.--June, 1833._]

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

Bugles upon the wind!
Hushed voices in the air,
And the solemn roll of the stirring drum,
Proclaim the hour of prayer;
While, with measured tread and downcast eye
The martial train sweep silent by!

Away with the nodding plume,
And the glittering bayonet now,
For unmeet it were, with bannered pomp,
To record the sacred vow.
To earth-born strife let display be given,
But the heart's meek homage alone to heaven.

The organ's mellow notes
Come swelling on the breeze,
And, echoing forth from arch to dome,
Float richest symphonies!
While youthful forms, a sunny throng,
With their voices deep the strains prolong!

Deserted now the aisles--
Devotion's rites are past;
And again the bugle's cheering peals
Are ringing on the blast!
Come forth, ye brave, for your country now,
With your flashing eyes and your lofty brow!

A voice from the glorious dead!
Awake to the call of fame!
By yon gorgeous banner's spangled folds,
And by Kosciusko's name!
And on Putnam's fort by the light that falls
On its ivied moat and its ruined walls,

The wave-worn cavern sends
Hoarse echoes from the deep,
And the patriot call is heard afar
From every giant steep!
And the young hearts glow with the sacred fires
That burned in the breasts of their gallant sires.

The glittering pageant's past,
But martial forms are seen,
With bounding step and eagle glance,
Careering o'er the green;
And lovely woman by their side,
With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride.

Sunset upon the wave,
Its burnished splendours pour,
And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweeps
Like an arrow from the shore!
There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fanned
On the mirrored stream by the breezes bland.

They have passed like shadows by
That fade in the morning beam,
And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye,
Are remembered like a dream;
But memory's sun shall set in night
Ere my soul forget those forms of light.

THANKSGIVING
AFTER ESCAPE FROM INDIAN PERILS.

BY MRS. ANNE E. BLEECKER.--1778.

Alas! my fond inquiring soul,
Doomed in suspense to mourn,
Now let thy moments calmly roll,
Now let thy peace return.
Why should'st thou let a doubt disturb
Thy hopes which daily rise,
And urge thee on to trust his word,
Who built and rules the skies?

When Murder sent her hopeless cries,
More dreadful through the gloom,
And kindling flames did round thee rise,
Deep harvests to consume.
Who was it led thee through the wood,
And o'er the ensanguined plain,
Unseen by ambushed sons of blood,
Who track'd thy steps in vain.

'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears,
And bade my infants play,
To give an opiate to my fears
And cheer the lonely way.
And in the doubly dreadful night,
When my Abella died,
When horror-struck--detesting light,
I sunk down by her side;

When winged for flight my spirit stood,
With this fond thought beguiled,
To lead my charmer to her God,
And there to claim my child.
Again his mercy o'er my breast
Effus'd the breath of peace,
Subsiding passion sunk to rest,
He bade the tempest cease.

Oh, let me ever, ever praise
Such undeserved care,
Though languid may appear my lays,
At least they are sincere.
It is my joy that thou art God,
Eternal and supreme;
Rise, Nature--hail the power aloud,
From whom Creation came.

BALLAD.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

"La rose cueillie et le coeur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour."