Chapter V: Part 5

The maiden sat at her busy wheel,
Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee.
Her song was in mockery of love,
And oft I heard her say,
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,
And I sighed to think that the traitor love,
Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of wo,
While she carroled in tones so gay;
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage-door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,
But her look was blithe no more:
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,
And made her cheek so pale;
The maid had forgotten her early song,
While she listened to love's soft tale.
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
It had wasted her life away:
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

FORGETFULNESS.

BY MISS ELIZABETH S. BOGART.

We parted--friendship's dream had cast
Deep interest o'er the brief farewell,
And left upon the shadowy past
Full many a thought on which to dwell.
Such thoughts as come in early youth,
And live in fellowship with hope;
Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,
Unfitted with the world to cope.

We parted--he went o'er the sea,
And deeper solitude was mine;
Yet there remained in memory,
For feeling, still a sacred shrine.
And thought and hope were offered up
Till their ethereal essence fled,
And disappointment, from the cup,
Its dark libations poured, instead.

We parted--'twas an idle dream
That _thus_ we e'er should meet again;
For who that knew man's heart, would deem
That it could long unchanged remain.
He sought a foreign clime, and learned
Another language, which expressed
To strangers the rich thoughts that burned
With unquenched power within his breast.

And soon he better loved to speak
In those new accents than his own;
His native tongue seemed cold and weak,
To breathe the wakened passions' tone.
He wandered far, and lingered long,
And drank so deep of Lethe's stream,
That each new feeling grew more strong,
And all the past was like a dream.

We met--a few glad words were spoken,
A few kind glances were exchanged;
But friendship's first romance was broken,
His had been from me estranged.
I felt it all--we met no more--
My heart was true, but it was proud;
Life's early confidence was o'er,
And hope had set beneath a cloud.

We met no more--for neither sought
To reunite the severed chain
Of social intercourse; for nought
Could join its parted links again.
Too much of the wide world had been
Between us for too long a time;
And he had looked on many a scene,
The beautiful and the sublime.

And he had themes on which to dwell,
And memories that were not mine,
Which formed a separating spell,
And drew a mystic boundary line.
His thoughts were wanderers--and the things
Which brought back friendship's joys to me,
To him were but the spirit's wings
Which bore him o'er the distant sea.

For he had seen the evening star
Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves,
And marked the moonbeams from afar,
Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves.
And he had gazed on trees and flowers
Beneath Italia's sunny skies,
And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,
To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.

His steps had echoed through the halls
Of grandeur, long left desolate;
And he had climbed the crumbling walls,
Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate;
And mused o'er many an ancient pile,
In ruin still magnificent,
Whose histories could the hours beguile
With dreams, before to fancy lent.

Such recollections come to him,
With moon, and stars, and summer flowers;
To me they bring the shadows dim
Of earlier and of happier hours.
I would those shadows darker fell--
For life, with its best powers to bless,
Has but few memories loved as well,
Or welcome as _forgetfulness_.

ON SHIP-BOARD.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Now freshening breezes swell the sail,
Now leans the vessel to the gale;
So slant her deck, you have to cling
A moment to the nearest thing;
So far she bends into the deep,
Across her deck the white waves sweep;
Bursts through the flood the pointed prow,
That loves the startled foam to throw,
And thunders on before the wind,
Long breaks of whirl and froth behind;
And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm,
The captain mutters, "mind your helm!"
At night, when stormy shadows fall,
"All hands on deck," the captain's call.
Darkness around, save when below
Dim light the bursting billows throw--
And heave the waves, and beats the rain--
The labouring vessel groans with pain;
Strains--lurches--thunders--rocks and rolls,
We smile--but tremble in our souls!
Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud,
And rings the tempest long and loud;
But sweet the change, when tranquilly
In sunshine sleep the air and sea.
Pen may not paint each magic dye
On the soft wave and sunny sky,
When comes the charming silent eve,
And gentle billows idly heave.
The liquid floor bends smooth and bright,
Like molten silver to the light;
Till, as the western clouds enfold
The fiery sun, it turns to gold,
And then a thousand colours, straying
From heaven to earth, and sweetly playing
Upon the ocean's giant breast,
Compose his savage soul to rest.
And thus, within the human mind,
When waves are hushed and still the wind,
When passion's storm has passed away,
And vice no more obscures the day,
The beams of virtue and of love
Break softly, falling from above,
O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine,
And calm them with a power divine.

TO THEMIRA.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[_Written with French chalk[Q] on a pane
of glass in the home of a friend._]

On this frail glass, to others' view,
No written words appear;
They see the prospect smiling through,
Nor deem what secret's here.
But shouldst thou on the tablet bright
A single breath bestow,
At once the record starts to sight
Which only thou must know.

Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gaze
My heart seemed unimpress'd;
In vain did beauty round me blaze,
It could not warm my breast.
But as one breath of thine can make
These letters plain to see,
So in my heart did love awake
When breath'd upon by thee.

EVENING.

[_From the Backwoodsman._]

BY JAMES K. PAULDING.

'Twas sunset's hallow'd time--and such an eve
Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave.
Never did brighter glories greet the eye,
Low in the warm and ruddy western sky:
Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold
More varied tints of purple, red, and gold.
Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast
Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest,
Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide,
By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide,
Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign,
Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.
Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold,
Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold,
All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay,
While hands unseen, or chance directs their way;
Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,
With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,
Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen
Reclining on the shaded deck was seen,
At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool,
The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.
Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,
And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade;
The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds,
And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.
Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,
The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;
The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies,
To chase the viewless insect through the skies;
The bat began his lantern-loving flight,
The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,
Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,
His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;
The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie,
With idle hum, and careless blundering eye;
The little trusty watchman of pale night,
The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,
And took his merry airy circuit round
The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,
Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew,
In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.

THOUGHTS ON PARTING.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Yes! I will hope, though fortune's stern decree
From all I love commands me soon to part;
Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of me
Shall sometimes find a place in every heart,
Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art--
Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness,
Such as to feel bids bitter tears to start
From eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless?

It cannot be that love like that which fills
My soul for them, should be bestowed in vain,
When but the fear that they forget me, chills
Each pulse and feeling--as the wintry rain
Chills earth and air, which yet may glow again
In summer's beams--but what can joy restore
To bosoms upon which that blight has lain?
From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more.

For them I would have done--but let me not
Such thoughts recall--could service e'er repay
The blessings their companionship has wrought?--
With them too swiftly passed the time away,
On pleasure's wings--weeks dwindled to a day,
And days to moments--such the charm they cast
O'er every scene, and such their gentle sway,
Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last.

To them I turned, as Iran's tameless race
Toward their refulgent God looked till the last,
And died still gazing on his radiant face;--
Alas! the spring-time of my year is past--
From them afar my line of life is cast,
And I must wander now like one that's lost--
A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast,
And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd.

Oh no, it cannot be that grief like this
Should be reserved to blight my coming years--
That moments of such almost perfect bliss
Should be succeeded by an age of tears--
Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears;
I'll meet the future with undaunted eye,
Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers,
Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

[_Translated from the Italian._[R]]

BY SAMUEL L. MITCHELL.--1796.

Borne to the rocky bed's extremest brow,
The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;--
To join the whirlpool deep and vast below,
The saltless ocean hurries through the straits.

Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n,
Dashes in air;--dissolving vapours press'd
Confound the troubled elements with heav'n:--
Earth quakes beneath;--heart trembles in the breast.

With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock,
To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie;
And all my senses feel a horrid shock
As down the steep I turn my dizzy eye.

On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime,
Leaving the world and nature's works behind;
And as the pure empyreal heights I climb,
Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind.

CANZONET.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

When motes, that dancing
In golden wine,
To the eyes' glancing
Speak while they shine--
Then, the draught pouring,
Love's fountain free,
Mute, but adoring,
I drink to thee.

When sleep enchaineth,
Sense steals away--
Dream, o'er mind reigneth
With dark strange sway--
One sweet face floateth
Sleep's misty sea,
Th' unconscious heart doateth
On thee--on thee.

THE PENNSYLVANIAN IMMIGRANT.

[_From the Backwoodsman._]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,
Unheeded pass'd our little roving band,
--For every soul had something here to do,
Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view--
By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide,
In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,
And York and Lancaster--whose rival rose
In this good land, no bloody discord knows.
Not such their fate!--the ever grateful soil
Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil;
Richer and rounder every year he grows,
Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows
Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly,
Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;
Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,
Or sudden rise, when sold--still worse than all!
Calmly he lives--the tempest of the mind,
That marks its course by many a wreck behind;
The purpose high that great ambition feels,
Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,
But never in his sober waking thought
One stirring, active impulse ever wrought.
Calmly he lives--as free from good as blame,
His home, his dress, his equipage the same;
And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot
What once he was, or what he once was not--
An honest man, perhaps,--'tis somewhat odd
That such should be the noblest work of God!
So have I seen, in garden rich and gay,
A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;
Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,
Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze,
Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,
Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;
It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm,
And stands unmoved in one eternal calm.
At last, when all the garden's pride is lost
It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost,
And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end,
From which detested dish, me heaven defend!

LAKE GEORGE.--1829.

BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD.

I stood upon the shore,
And looked upon the wave,
While I thought me o'er and o'er
HERE SLEEP THE BRAVE!

The shadow of the hills,
The azure of the flood,
The murmuring of the rills
Recall a scene of blood.

When the war-cry filled the breeze,
And the rifle and the bow
Were like leaves upon the trees,
But did not daunt Munro!

'Mid the thunders of the train,
And the fires that flashed alarm!
And the shouts that rent the plain,
To battle rush'd Montcalm!

But the red cross floats no more
Upon the ruin'd walls,
And the wind sighs on the shore,
Like the noise of waterfalls.

And the spirit of the hour
Is as peaceful as yon wave,
While pleasure builds its bower
O'ER THE ASHES OF THE BRAVE.

CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.

[_From the Backwoodsman._]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day,
And bright and early had been on his way.
But that the world he saw e'en yesternight,
Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight.
One endless chaos spread before his eyes,
No vestige left of earth or azure skies,
A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere,
Hid the green fields and silent all the air.
As look'd the traveller for the world below,
The lively morning breeze began to blow,
The magic curtain roll'd in mists away,
And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day.
As light the fleeting vapours upward glide,
Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side,
New objects open to his wondering view
Of various form, and combinations new.
A rocky precipice, a waving wood,
Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood,
Each after each, with coy and sweet delay,
Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day,
Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold,
Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold.
So when the wandering grandsire of our race
On Ararat had found a resting place,
At first a shoreless ocean met his eye,
Mingling on every side with one blue sky;
But as the waters, every passing day,
Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away,
Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep
From the rough bosom of the boundless deep,
Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green,
Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen,
Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole
Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul.
Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye,
In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy,
Within the silent world, some living thing,
Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing,
Or man, or beast--alas! was neither there,
Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air;
'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay,
Whose occupant was drown'd the other day;
A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom
Amid the melancholy of the tomb;
A charnel house, where all the human race
Had piled their bones in one wide resting place;
Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo,
And sadly sought the lifeless world below.

THE CLOUDS.

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

How beauteous o'er the blue expanse
Pencilling their shadows on the evening sky,
The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfold
Their heaven wove tapestry:
Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun,
Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won!

Behold! behold them now!
Tossing their gold-edged tresses on the breeze!
Gliding like angels o'er the star-gemmed floor
To heavenly symphonies!
While distant seen, like hope to faith's clear view,
Sleeps in calm splendour the cerulean blue!

Ere yet imagination's wand
Has traced the vision on the teeming brain,
The fleeting pageant floats in mist, away
Beyond the billowy main:
But forms more beauteous wing again their flight,
While eve reposes on the lap of night.

Yon castellated tower
As proudly cuts its turrets on the sky,
As if the portals of its airy halls
Blazoned with heraldry!
And who shall say, but in its chambers glide
Pale courtier's shadows--disembodied pride?

The mimic ship unfolds
Her swelling canvass on the airy main;
And horsemen sweep in graceful circles o'er
Th' etherial plain:
While forms of light unknown to mortals here,
People in myriads the celestial sphere!

And many-coloured flowers,
Changing their hues with every passing breeze,
Crown the far summits of the mountain steeps;
The shadowy trees
Fling their gigantic branches wide and far,
Dimming the lustre of full many a star.

How oft in childhood's hour
I've watched the cloudlets pale the evening beam,
While the bright day-god quenched his waning fires
In ocean, pool, and stream.
Oh, then the clouds were ministers of joy
To the rapt spirit of the dreamy boy!

Mother and sister! Ye
Have passed from earth like suns untimely set!
Do ye not look from yonder throne of clouds
Upon me yet,
Beckoning me now, with eager glance to come
To the bright portals of your heavenly home?

Skeptic! whose chilling creed
Would chain the spirit to life's bounded span,
Learn from the clouds that _upward_ poise their wing,
To value _man_!
Nor deem the soul divested of its shroud--
Less glorious in its essence than a _cloud_!

THE TORNADO.

[_From the Backwoodsman._]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Now down the mountain's rugged western side,
Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied,
Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast
The rolling fragments of the mountain rest;
Rocks tumbled on each other by rude chance,
Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance,
Through which a brawling river braved its way,
Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray.
Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world,
In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd,
Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke,
Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak;
With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side,
And arms extending round them far and wide,
They look'd coeval with old mother earth,
And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth.
There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base,
Our tired adventurers found a resting place;
Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow,
The little bevy nestled snug below,
And with right sturdy appetite, and strong,
Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along.
The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree,
And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee;
The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were,
Or heeded not the strange intruders there,
Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race
In that sequester'd mountain 'biding place;
For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend,
Man never makes the rural train his friend;
Acquaintance that brings other beings near,
Produces nothing but distrust or fear:
Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know,
And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow,
As thus in blithe serenity they sat,
Beguiling resting time with lively chat,
A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear,
Each moment waxing louder and more near,
A dark obscurity spread all around,
And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,
While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd,
And not a sound but that low moan was heard.
There is a moment when the boldest heart
That would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart,
That never shrunk from certain danger here,
Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;
'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,
And heaven itself seems threatening from on high.
Brave was our Basil, as became a man,
Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,
'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,
That every moment wax'd more loud and near.
The riddle soon was read--at last it came,
And nature trembled to her inmost frame;
The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak,
In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,
The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere,
Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air;
The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,
The stoutest trees a stouter master found,
Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go,
And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below:
Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,
Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd,
And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore
The gather'd spoils of earth along its shore,
While trees that not an hour before had stood
The lofty monarchs of the stately wood,
Now whirling round and round with furious force,
Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force,
And shiver like a reed by urchin broke
Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;
A hundred cataracts, unknown before,
Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,
And as with foaming fury down they go,
Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below;
Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,
Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue,
While many a sturdy oak that stiffly braved
The threatening hurricane that round it raved,
Shiver'd beneath its bright, resistless flash,
Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.
Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power,
And struggle for the mastery of the hour;
Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,
And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.

TO A LADY.

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.--1804.

Thy dimpled girls and rosy boys
Rekindle in thy heart the joys
That bless'd thy tender years:
Unheeded fleet the hours away;
For, while thy cherubs round thee play,
New life thy bosom cheers.

Once more, thou tell'st me, I may taste,
Ere envious time this frame shall waste,
My infant pleasures flown.
Ah! there's a ray of lustre mild,
Illumes the bosom of a child,
To age, alas! scarce known.

Not for my infant pleasures past
I mourn; those joys which flew so fast,
They, too, had many a stain;
But for the mind, so pure and light,
Which made those joys so fair, so bright,
I sigh, and sigh in vain.

Well I remember you, bless'd hours!
Your sunbeams bright, your transient showers!
Thoughtless I saw you fly;
For distant ills then caus'd no dread;
Nor cared I for the moments fled,
For memory call'd no sigh.

Fond parents swayed my every thought;
No blame I feared, no praise I sought,
But what their love bestowed.
Full soon I learn'd each meaning look,
Nor e'er the angry glance mistook
For that where rapture glowed.

Whene'er night's shadows called to rest,
I sought my father, to request
His benediction mild.
A mother's love more loud would speak;
With kiss on kiss she'd print my cheek,
And bless her darling child.

Thy lightest mists and clouds, sweet sleep!
Thy purest opiates thou dost keep,
On infancy to shed.
No guilt there checks thy soft embrace,
And not e'en tears and sobs can chase
Thee from an infant's bed.

The trickling tears which flow'd at night,
Oft hast thou stay'd, till morning light
Dispell'd my little woes.
So fly before the sunbeam's power
The remnants of the evening shower
Which wet the early rose.

Farewell, bless'd hours! full fast ye flew;
And that which made your bliss so true
Ye would not leave behind.
The glow of youth ye could not leave;
But why, why cruelly bereave
Me of my artless mind?

Fond mother! hope thy bosom warms,
That on the prattler in thy arms
Heaven's choicest gifts may flow.
Thus let thy prayer incessant rise
To Him, who, thron'd above the skies,
Can feel for man below.

"Oh! Thou, whose view is ne'er estrang'd
From innocence, preserve unchang'd
Through life my darling's mind;
Unchang'd in truth and purity,
Still fearless of futurity,
Still artless, though refin'd.

"As oft his anxious nurse hath caught
And sav'd his little hand that sought
The bright, but treacherous blaze;
So, let fair Wisdom keep him sure
From glittering vices which allure,
Through life's delusive maze.

"Oh! may the ills which man enshroud,
As shadows of a transient cloud,
But shade, not stain my boy.
Then may he gently drop to rest,
Calm as a child by sleep oppress'd,
And wake to endless joy."

SPRING IS COMING.

BY JAMES NACK.

Spring is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping.
In delighted freedom rushing,
Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness saddened,
Smile in animation gladdened;
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth.
Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remembered wild wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
Where a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

FROM A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN,
AFTER HAVING HAD HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM.

BY C. C. MOORE.

This semblance of your parent's time-worn face
Is but a sad bequest, my children dear:
Its youth and freshness gone, and in their place
The lines of care, the tracks of many a tear!

Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure
Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave:
We pant for somewhat that may still endure,
And snatch at least a shadow from the grave.

Poor, weak, and transient mortals! why so vain
Of manly vigour or of beauty's bloom?
An empty shade for ages may remain
When we have mouldered in the silent tomb.

But no! it is not _we_ who moulder there;
We, of essential light that ever burns,
We take our way through untried fields of air,
When to the earth this earth-born frame returns.

And 'tis the glory of the master's art
Some radiance of this inward light to find;
Some touch that to his canvass may impart
A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind.

Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show
But some faint shadow of a transient thought,
Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow,
Some swift impression in its passage caught.

Oh! that the artist's pencil could pourtray
A father's inward bosom to your eyes;
What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way,
What aspirations for your welfare rise.

Then might this unsubstantial image prove,
When I am gone, a guardian of your youth,
A friend for ever urging you to move
In paths of honour, holiness, and truth.

Let fond imagination's power supply
The void that baffles all the painter's art;
And when those mimic features meet your eye,
Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart.

Think that you still can trace within those eyes
The kindling of affection's fervid beam,
The searching glance that every fault espies,
The fond anticipation's pleasing dream.

Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise,
Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will,
The warning voice, or precepts that may raise
Your thoughts above this treach'rous world of ill.

And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power;
To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend:
Not the companion of an idle hour,
But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend.

THE MITCHELLA.

BY S. L. MITCHELL.

[The Mitchella is a very delicate flower, a native of our
woods, and although originally named from another botanist
called Mitchell, was always a great favourite of Dr. S. L. Mitchell.
The "double nature" alluded to in the poem refers to the fact of the
flowers uniformly growing in pairs.]

Sequestered safe beneath the sylvan bow'rs,
Lo! fair Mitchella spends her joyous hours.
The double nature on her form bestow'd
Displays a winning and peculiar mode.
With lilac wreath her beauteous front is grac'd,
A crimson zone surrounds her slender waist;
A robe of green trails sweeping o'er the ground,
And scents ambrosial fill the air around--
Thus Proserpine o'er Enna's precincts stray'd
Till gloomy Dis surpris'd the unthinking maid.
From Earth to Tartarus transferr'd, in vain
She intercedes her native home to gain.
Jove grants in part her pray'r: above to know
One half the year, the rest to pass below:
And Ceres sees her daughter's two-fold mien,
On Earth a nymph, in Pluto's realms a queen.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap--
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter:
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen--
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys--and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jirk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY
WHOSE HEALTH WAS IMPAIRED BY THE AGUE AND FEVER.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.--1805.

Dark minister of many woes,
That lov'st the sad vicissitude of pain,
Now shivering 'mid Antarctic snows,
Now a faint pilgrim on Medina's plain.
Say, can no form less fair thy vein engage?
Must feeble loveliness exhaust thy rage?
Oh, mark the faltering step, the languid eye,
And all the anguish of her burning sigh:
See the faintly struggling smile,
See resignation's tear the while;
So to the axe the martyr bends his form,
So bends the lovely lily to the storm.
Still though, sweet maid, thy yielding bloom decays,
And faint the waning tide of rapture strays,
Oh, may'st thou 'scape griefs more envenom'd smart,
Nor ever know the ague of the heart.
For rising from the sun bright plain,
The _bended_ lily blooms again;
But ah! what life imparting power
Can e'er revive the _broken_ flower?

THE GIFTS OF PROVIDENCE.

BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.--1747.

Oft on the vilest riches are bestow'd,
To show their meanness in the sight of God.
High from a dunghill see a Dives rise,
And, Titan-like, insult the avenging skies:
The crowd in adulation calls him lord,
By thousands courted, flatter'd, and adored:
In riot plunged, and drunk with earthly joys,
No higher thought his grovelling soul employs;
The poor he scourges with an iron rod,
And from his bosom banishes his God.
But oft, in height of wealth and beauty's bloom,
Deluded man is fated to the tomb!
For lo, he sickens, swift his colour flies,
And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes:
Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan,
Extort the unwilling tear, and wish him gone;
His sorrowing heir augments the tender shower,
Deplores his death--yet hails the dying hour.
Ah, bitter comfort! sad relief to die!
Though sunk in down, beneath a canopy!
His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light,
Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night:
And now the great, the rich, the proud, the gay,
Lies breathless, cold--unanimated clay!
He that just now, was flatter'd by the crowd
With high applause and acclamation loud;
That steel'd his bosom to the orphan's cries,
And drew down torrents from the widow's eyes;
Whom, like a God, the rabble did adore--
Regard him now--and lo! he is no more.

FROM A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.

BY C. C. MOORE.

The dreams of Hope that round us play,
And lead along our early youth,
How soon, alas! they fade away
Before the sober rays of Truth.

And yet there are some joys in life
That Fancy's pencil never drew;
For Fancy's self, my own dear wife,
Ne'er dreamt the bliss I owe to you.

You have awaken'd in my breast
Some chords I ne'er before had known;
And you've imparted to the rest
A stronger pulse, a deeper tone.

And e'en the troubles that we find
Our peace oft threat'ning to o'erwhelm,
Like foreign foes, but serve to bind
More close in love our little realm.

I've not forgot the magic hour
When youthful passion first I knew;
When early love was in its flower,
And bright with ev'ry rainbow hue.

Then, fairy visions lightly moved,
And waken'd rapture as they pass'd;
But faith and love, like yours approved,
Give joys that shall for ever last.

A spotless wife's enduring love,
A darling infant's balmy kiss,
Breathe of the happiness above;
Too perfect for a world like this.

These heaven-sent pleasures seem too pure
To take a taint from mortal breath;
For, still unfading, they endure
'Mid sorrow, sickness, pain, and death.

When cruel Palsy's withering blow
Had left my father weak, forlorn,
He yet could weep for joy, to know
I had a wish'd-for infant born.

And, as he lay in death's embrace,
You saw when last on earth he smil'd;
You saw the ray that lit his face
When he beheld our darling child.--

Strange, mingled scene of bliss and pain!
That, like a dream, before us flies;
Where, 'midst illusions false and vain,
Substantial joys are seen to rise.--

When to your heart our babes you fold,
With all a mother's joy elate,
I fondly think that I behold
A vision of our future state.

Hope comes, with balmy influence fraught,
To heal the wound that rends my heart,
Whene'er it meets the dreadful thought
That all our earthly ties must part.

Bless'd hope, beyond earth's narrow space,
Within high Heaven's eternal bound,
Again to see your angel face,
With all your cherubs clustering round.

Oh! yes, there are some beams of light
That break upon this world below,
So pure, so steady, and so bright,
They seem from better worlds to flow.

Reflected images are seen
Upon this transient stream of Time,
Through mists and shades that intervene,
Of things eternal and sublime.

Then let us rightly learn to know
These heavenly messengers of love:
They teach us whence true pleasures flow,
And win our thoughts to joys above.

And e'en when clouds roll o'er our head,
Still let us turn our longing eyes
To where Eternal Love has spread
The changeless azure of the skies.

PROPHETIC.

[Lines written on the window-glass of an Inn in England
during the author's travels through Europe in 1774-5.]

BY GULIAN VERPLANCK.

Hail happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat;
Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,
But wealth and power have no immortal day,
For all things ripen only to decay.
And when that time arrives, the lot of all,
When Britain's glory, power, and wealth shall fall;
Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchang'd decree
In other worlds another Britain see,
And what thou art, America shall be.

LINES

[_Suggested by a Perusal of "The Life of Chatterton."_]

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

And yet there are, who, borne on fortune's tide,
Down the smooth vale of time unconscious glide;
Ne'er dream of wretchedness when they repose,
Nor wake to other cares, to other woes.
And when the north wind rages through the sky,
Withhold from bleeding poverty a sigh;
Leave those to weep, who, torn from all held dear,
In want and silence shed the frequent tear;
Who, reared 'mid fortune's noon, ill brook the shade,
And feel with tenfold sense its damps invade;
Feel more than chilling frost neglects control,
And all the horrors of a wintry soul;
For ah; how oft from penury's cold grave,
Nor worth nor all the power of mind can save?
Condemned through life a ceaseless war to wage
With all the pride and dulness of the age;
Still vain each wish o'erwhelm'd, each hope elate,
Oft Genius sinks desponding to her fate,
Or moves the indignant pensioner of pride,
Her triumphs blazon, nor her spoils divide;
And, wrapt in chilling gloom, ne'er feels the day,
Taught by her hand round happier wealth to play.
Ah, stern decree! that minds whom Heaven inspires
With more than angel thought, than angel fires;
Whose virtues vibrate to the tenderest tone,
And wake to wo ere half her woes be known;
From the high boon a sterner fate derive,
And suffer most, to suffering most alive.

THE MAGIC DRAUGHT.

[_Addressed to a young Lady who gave him
Seltzer water to drink._]

BY DR. S. L. MITCHELL.

Brisk sparkled the liquid, most lively and fine,
Transparent as amber, than crystal more pure,
Appearing those qualities rare to combine,
Adapted exactly his health to secure.

Pursuant to order, he drank in a trice,
Full confidence in his physician he placed;
For who that is favour'd with lady's advice
Can ever refuse their prescriptions to taste?

Unconscious what mischief within it might lurk,
He swallowed the doses again and again,
Till he fancied within him a manifold work,
Disturbing his heart and distracting his brain.

Suspecting, at last, from his feelings unus'd,
A trick on his faith had been wantonly play'd,
"Some philter or potion" he swore "was infused,
Some magic or poison instilled by the maid."

"Not this a Nepenthe the mind to compose,
Which Helen at Sparta employ'd in her feasts,
But a draught such as Circe, the sorceress, chose,
Transforming the drinkers to four-footed beasts."

"Not a worse composition did Shakspeare behold,
Prepared in their cauldron by witches obscene,
Nor were drugs more detested, as Hayley has told,
Commix'd by the fiends when they conjur'd up Spleen."

Thus railing and raving, awhile he went on,
Bethinking he soon must his testament make,
When lo! all the terrible symptoms were gone,
And his woful conjecture turn'd out a mistake.

No water from Seltzer the vessel contain'd,
Nor has Pyrmont or Spa such a remedy known;
For she candidly, since the prescription, explain'd,
Prepar'd by a process entirely her own.

The tears which at church on Good Friday she shed,
After Easter was over, had fairly been dry'd,
But the 'kerchief on which she supported her head
Was laid with the precious effusion aside.

This 'kerchief, to bleech in the sunshine was plac'd,
And expos'd to the weather by night and by day;
With snow-flakes of April was often incas'd,
And moisten'd as often by dew-drops of May.

In ether's high region, where thunders prevail,
Those drops by explosion's electric were form'd,
Had once in descending been frozen to hail,
And twice in the rainbow's refraction been warm'd.

Collecting these drops on their fall from above,
With myrtle's quintessence she tinctur'd the mass;
Then breath'd in the mixture the spirit of love,
And blessing, enclos'd it securely in glass.

This potent elixir, he plainly observes,
Of his head and his heart has pervaded the whole;
Excites every fibre, and quickens the nerves,
With sweet agitation delighting the soul.

Yet he fears its effects on his temper and health
Will make him his toilsome exertions disclaim;
No more be devoted to projects of wealth,
Nor seek to be crown'd with the laurels of Fame.

Nay--an antidote sovereign he long has possess'd,
His affections from spells and enchantments to free;
No foreign intruder can enter a breast,
Pre-occupied, heart winning S----h by thee.

IMPROMPTU.

[_On Miss ----'s paying the tribute of a
tear to a scene of distress._]

BY JACOB MORTON.--1790.

Soft as the dews of evening skies
Which on the flow'ret's bosom fall,
Were those sweet tears in Anna's eyes
Which wak'd at pity's gentle call.

Ah! may that tender, feeling heart,
Where thus sweet sympathy doth glow,
Ne'er feel the pang of sorrow's dart,
Nor sigh--but for _another's_ wo.

APPEAL

TO A CERTAIN GREAT MAN, WHO HAS QUESTIONED
CERTAIN REVEALED TRUTHS.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.--1805.

Thou talk'st of _Reason's_ unassisted eye:
Lift then thy darling Reason to the sky,--
Paint, if thou wilt, the unincumber'd mind,
Vast in its powers, and in its views refin'd;
To truth aspiring on the wings of day,
And spanning systems with a godlike sway.
The portrait you have formed you dread to own,
And Guilt's deep blushes o'er its shades are thrown:
For has the Almighty thus inform'd the race,
His _truth_ to question and his laws deface?
Bestow'd a mind the Eternal's mind to blame,
And _Reason's_ deathless force, His reason to defame?
As well might Jove's imperial bird defy
The Power that made him soar, because he soars so high.

LINES

TO A DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GOVERNOR CLINTON.

BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK.--1829.

And thou, fair flower of hope!
Like a sweet violet, delicate and frail,
Hast reared thy tender stem beneath an oak,
Whose noble limbs o'ershadowed thee. The damp
Cold dews of the unhealthy world fell not
On thee; the gaudy sunshine of its pomp
Came tempered to thine eye in milder beams.
The train of life's inevitable ills
Fell like the April rain upon the flowers,
But thou wert shielded--no rude pelting storms
Came down unbroken by thy sheltering tree.

Fallen is the oak,
The monarch of a forest sleeps. Around,
The withered ivy and the broken branch
Are silent evidence of greatness past,
And his sweet, cherished violet has drunk
The bitter dews until its cup was full.
And now strange trees wave o'er it, and the shade
Of weeping-willows and down-swaying boughs
Stretch toward it with melancholy sorrow--
All sympathizing with the drooping flower.
And years shall pass ere living trees forget
That stately oak, and what a fame he shed
O'er all the forest, and how each was proud
That he could call himself a kindred thing.

Long may the beauty of that violet
Grow in the soil of hearts; till, delicate,
Yet ripened into summer loveliness,
A thousand branches all shall contending cast
Their friendly shadows in protection there!

THE SON OF SORROW.

TO MYRA.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

When deep despondence gathers into shade,
And grief unfeign'd calls fiction to her aid--
Paints through the vista of expected years,
Hours clad with wo and visions dim with tears--
The past and future one large waste of gloom--
Here mem'ry's madness, there oblivion's tomb;
No ear to list, no voice to soothe despair,
And even death is deaf to sorrow's prayer.
Oh! say, sweet minstrel, (for thy sighs I know
Are wont to mingle with the sighs of wo,)
Where shall the hope-deserted pilgrim fly
To live too wretched, and too weak to die?
Perhaps, e'en now, impassion'd and sincere,
The sigh of beauty steals upon his ear--
Soft as the sky-wove theme of viewless lyres,
That soothe his spirit when the saint expires:
And oh! perhaps, ere quite dissolv'd in air,
That sigh may breathe oblivion to despair;
Melt o'er the throbbing string in Myra's lay,
Till wo, enraptur'd, bears herself away.

PORTRAITURE.

[_From "Vice, a Satire," 1774._]

BY GULIAN VERPLANCK.

_Ob_: 1799.

Go, learn thou this: From regulated Sense
Is all our bliss--from sober Temperance.
How much, Oh Temperance! to thee we owe,
What joys sincere from thy pure fountains flow;
Life's most protracted date derives from thee
A calm old age, and death from anguish free.
Doth Death affright thee with his dread parade,
The hearse slow moving, and the cavalcade?
Go, early learn its terrors to despise,
Read virtue's lesson, and in time be wise.
Enough of crimes on these Heav'n's vengeance wait,
Let Satire aim at faults of humbler state.
Whoe'er observes, will find in human race
More difference of character than face;
Some nice, odd turns, in all th' observer strike,
Each his peculiar has, nor find we two alike.
Blest with each art that soothes the ills of life,
A quiet mind, not made for noise and strife;
In whose fixed calm no jarring powers contend,
Design'd to act as husband, father, friend;
Had Philo been content with what was given,
And, truly wise, enjoy'd on earth his heav'n:
Philo had lived--but lived unknown to fame;
Had died content,--but died without a name.
No, Philo cried, be glorious praise my care,
Nor let this name be mix'd with common air;
For this he wastes the weary hours of night,
Leaves peace to fools, and banishes delight;
Nature in vain throws in her honest bars,
The wretch runs counter to himself and stars;
In vain--for lost no character he seems,
And Philo does not live, but only dreams.
Others there are, who to the shade retire,
Who'd shine if nature would the clods inspire,
And, as she gave them parts, would give them fire;
But languid bodies, scarce informed with soul,
In one dull round their vacant moments roll;
Heavy and motionless as summer seas,
They yawn out life in most laborious ease;
Passions, half formed, in their cold bosoms lie,
And all the man is sluggish anarchy.
Yet wits, and wise, when some small shocks awake,
As when the surface of some stagnant lake,
Urged by the action of the busy air,
Breaks its thick scum, and shows the bottom clear.
Who knows not Florio? sweet, enraptured elf!
Florio is known to all men but himself.
Him folly owned the instant of his birth,
And turned his soul to nonsense and to mirth;
Nor boasts a son, in all her dancing crowd,
So pert, so prim, so petulant, and proud.
Mixture absurd and strange! we find in him
Dulness with wit, sobriety with whim;
A soul that sickens at each rising art
With the mean malice of a coward's heart.
So milky soft, so pretty, and so neat,
With air so gentle, and with voice so sweet;
What dog-star's rage, what maggot of the brain,
Could make a fop so impudently vain,
To throw all modesty aside, and sit
The mighty censor of the works of wit?
Say, wretch! what pride could prompt thee to bestow
Abuse on power, the greatest power below;
The Muse's power? That power thyself shall know:
Her pen shall add thee to the long, long roll
That holds the name of every brother fool.
Of various passions that divide the breast,
Pride reigns supreme and governs all the rest;
Its form is varied, but to all supplied
In equal shares, however modified.
Blest source of action, whose perpetual strife
With sluggish nature, warms us into life;
Thou great first mover, 'tis alone from thee
That life derives its sweet diversity.
Yet hapless he, whose ill-directed pride
With soft seduction draws his steps aside
From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite;
With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height.
Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose,
A friend's defection, and the spleen of foes.
Black calumny invents her thousand lies,
And sickly envy blasts him if he rise--
He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules,
Must think and act no more like other fools:
For him no more that social ease remains
Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains;
Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen,
To search for faults it spares in other men.
How shall he wish in vain, once more his own,
That hour when free, and to the world unknown,
Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown.

THE FAREWELL.

BY JOHN I. BAILEY.

Oh! leave me still thy tender heart,
Though love's delirious reign is over;
I, too, will act the traitor's part--
Cordelia-like, become a rover.
No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine,
That beam as sweetly on another,
Save with the feelings pure that twine
Around the bosom of a brother.

Loved smiles! that once around me shone,
And waked to feelings of devotion;
Thy sway is past, thy charm is gone--
Thou art resigned without emotion.
No more to charm my wildered dream,
Or hope's delusive joys to heighten;
O'er my lone heart thy cheerless beam
Falls, but has lost the power to brighten.

The auburn ringlets of thy hair
May twine as graceful still, and let them--
Those locks were once as loved as fair,
Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them.
Yes! I could view those curls entwine
Around another's hand that wreath'd them;
Unmoved, recall those tones divine,
Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them!

Thy form no longer wears the spell,
As when a lover's dreams it haunted;
Nor can affection fondly dwell
On every grace that once enchanted.
Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain;
Go! yield thy charms to bless another;
I would not seek their wiles again,
I only ask--to be thy brother.

SONNET TO MYRA.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

How sad the exile from his native skies
Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell--
No ear to catch his penitential sighs,
No voice to soothe him in his last farewell.
Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore,
And gazes anxious on the main
Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign
Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more;
Then horror climbs the dusky wave,
And beckons madness to her grave,
Where, cradled by the surge to rest,
Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest."
Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms;
Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms.

TO CORDELIA.

BY JOHN J. BAILEY.

Smile not, sweet girl, 'tis even so--
Cordelia, smile not unbelieving;
My words, though not so sweet, I know,
As thine, were never _so_ deceiving.

And if I _must_ be sworn to prove
That I have said sincerely, thereby,
I'd choose thy brow, so formed for love,
To be the book I'd kissing swear by.

Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vain--
I value not thy frowns a feather--
'Tis not thy nature to retain
An unkind thought for hours together.

I envy not thy lover's joys,
Nor flattering smiles that so endear them;
Thy brittle chains caprice destroys;
Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them?

Yes! I could give thee many a name
Of those who've waked thy tender bosom;
A flame succeeding still to flame,
Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em.

Content to wound that bosom too,
That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee;
Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true,
What joy could ranging thus afford thee?