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WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 BV 
 
 ^©o ^. L ^WIIEY, 
 
 OF 
 
 TENNESSEE 
 
 "The accomplished writer, may express with great power and beauty, 
 sentiments very foreign from his or her heart; but when the untaught 
 strike the lyre, the songs are always true to the feelings of the soul. 
 Hence the character and history even of these last may be as certainly 
 deduced from their poems, as the order and genus of a wild plant may be 
 traced by its flowers." 
 
 NASHVILLE. 
 
 CAMERON AND FALL, DEADERICK STREET. 
 
 1843. 
 
 .1^^, 
 
Entered according to the Act of Congress in the year 1843, 
 
 BY MRS. R. J. AVERY, 
 
 In the Clerk's office of the Middle District of Tennessee, 
 
 Q h .vB^ o 
 
 0^' 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Mr, Addison had an aversion to those egotists who tigure 
 largely in a preface, and advises a writer never to speak of 
 himself, unless there be something very considerable in his 
 character, and then adds "because there is no man who fancies 
 his thoughts worth publishing, that does not look upon himself 
 ns a considerable person." 
 
 If this be the case with men, what may not be presumed of 
 ' ursex, who, it is supposed, feed on vanity? 
 
 Cowley remarks, *'Itis a hard and nice subject, to write of 
 one's self. It grates our heart, to say any thing of disparage^ 
 ment, and the reader's ears to hear any thing of praise from us." 
 
 Again, some modern writer has observed "a middling poet is 
 laughed at by the foolish, pitied by the wise, and slighted by 
 all;" and an ancient one is still more severe when he says, 
 ^'Neither Gods nor men, nor book-shops tolerate mediocrt 
 poets." 
 
 In fine, there are so many beautiful and truthful sayings 
 from the wise, that a genius of a mediocre stamp feels a con- 
 siderable embarrassment on the subject of authorship. 
 
 With so much to discourage, will this insufferable ijamf?/ pre- 
 dominate? And what reasons have you to offer (will the wise 
 ones say) for so unpardonable a temerity? I don't know that 
 1 am disposed to give the true reason. T cannot say I have 
 
 ^^llfcdt**^^^: 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 been importuned by my friends, that is an apology Addison 
 hates, and besides it would not be true. 
 
 If I have to bear the opprobrium of being vain, I know of 
 no better way than to write as I have been wont, and brave the 
 consequences. 
 
 I have thought I was not actuated by vanity — but to put my 
 opinion in competition with men who wrote the Spectator would 
 be the most intolerable vanity. 
 
 How happy it is for us, Ladies, that nature has given so 
 much elasticity to our tempers and dispositions — and I think 
 it very well too, that we have so goodly a portion of versatility 
 and credulity, that we can be made to believe almost any 
 thing. 
 
 Perhaps it may be asked, "why were you not made to believe 
 it would be wiser to burn your scraps than to publish them?" 
 On the other hand, some have said "one's Book is the bantling 
 of the brain, and to say the least, it would be a literary infan- 
 ticide. 
 
 Now I think that I am one of those compound mixtures, a 
 heterogeneous mass that nature in her freaks sometimes makes 
 experiments of, — and, contrary to her general laws, the longer 
 I live, the more imperfectly I understand her manoeuvres, and 
 consequently contest no point. Therefore, if I am thought 
 to be visionary and enthusiastic by the wise folks — it may be 
 so. And if my scribbling prove valueless — such is, (as I have 
 said) the nature of woman, that she will wring out, as it 
 were, a consolation from some source- — and mine will be that I 
 can retire from the big world, and like the butter-fly extract 
 sweets from wild flowers. 
 
OD NOTES WILD 
 
 MY BOOK. 
 
 Go littie Book! but shun the critic's cyel 
 it will thy various foibles spy; 
 Go little Book! borne upon a sigh. 
 
 To the meek — the poor: 
 To them, I will bequeath thee, when I die, 
 
 To grace their store. 
 
 Go little Book! imperfect as thou art, 
 Thoumay'st to some, a soothing word impart; 
 Seek thou, to find, a kind and feeling heart 
 
 Of sympathy and love; 
 Yet I am loth, to see my volume start, 
 
 The world to prove. 
 
 Shun thou! my Book, the cruel satyristj 
 A. critic's pen, is their sweetest bliss; 
 And fly the traitor's treacherous kiss! 
 
 As from death; 
 01 find where thou mayest rest in peace. 
 
 With modest worth. 
 1* 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 I own thy imperfections may be seen, 
 I know thou hast on charity to lean, 
 But O! the bitter sarcasm, sharp and keen, 
 
 Keep from its sting; 
 And now, my litle Book, tho' simply plain 
 
 To virture cling. 
 
 There thou'lt meet with what is thy just due, 
 
 (If worth be thine;) 'Twill deal both fair and true; 
 
 I'll lay thee open to its honest view, 
 
 And fear it not; 
 Go little Book! thy devious way pursue, 
 
 From my lone Cot. 
 
 Tho' as my first, my heart still yearns to thee, 
 With all a mother's tender sympathy, 
 And should I witness thy prosperity, 
 
 Would I be vain? 
 Truly! methinks, no human vanity. 
 
 Would seize my brain. 
 
 For what is vanity? Go ask stern death! 
 
 He'd answer thee, by stifling thy breath, 
 
 Ah! now methinks the helpless child of earth, 
 Should spurn the thing; 
 
 Methinks that I would know its paltry worth, 
 
 Were I a King. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 MY LYRE. 
 
 My Lyre, no artizan could make, 
 'Twas strung by nature;— she alone 
 Can its deep lethargy awake, 
 
 To strike a tone. 
 
 Its notes are from the shady groves, 
 The murm'ring rills and summer bowers; 
 All nature's gems the Poet loves, 
 
 But most her flowers. 
 
 And those wild ones, in some lone vale, 
 Ne'er gazed upon by any eye; 
 I prize them most, though dim and pale» 
 Yet can't tell why. 
 
 And birds, that in a covert rest, 
 That sing when day's dull cares are o'er; 
 The Whip-poor-will, I like him best. 
 For will — is poor. 
 
 And then: — ah me! — why should I say, 
 What more I love? or, what I hate? 
 If this be egotism, — pray 
 
 Me — Cease to prate! 
 
 But I have said, *'go little book" 
 And though a Tyro, quaint and trite; 
 0! do not at my foibles look! 
 
 But let me write. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Simple and wild, — to many strange, 
 A creature fall of hopes and fears; 
 The "little poems*' I arrange. 
 
 Then blot with tears. §^ 
 
 Fearing the criiic's cruel ire; 
 Hoping, — (though with a trembling sigh • 
 Some hand will fen the Poet's fire, 
 Or it must die. 
 
 Though the French tourist, — Tocquevilit 
 Asserts in his "Democracy" 
 »*We have no pure Casta lian rill" 
 "No melody." 
 
 Uncouth, perchance, and even mde 
 We seem'd, — to Monsieur's polished eye; 
 In a lone wild, — in solitude. 
 
 He passed us by 
 
 From France we ne'er can copy airs, 
 Xor ape her courtly etiquette: 
 Our sons, — lite bold and hardy Tars, — 
 Our Daughters, — Violets. 
 
 Nor yet from Italy's soft sky. 
 From citron groves, or spicy bowers. 
 Do we twine wreaths of roseate die, 
 Or cull sweet flowers. 
 
 Our Bouquets simple tho' they be. 
 In our own native woods thev bloom, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Uncultured,— in our Tennessee, 
 
 They yield perfume. 
 
 Take them! — nor crush them in their budi 
 Rural wreaths of natural growth, — 
 No foreign charms were ever wooed. 
 To give them worth. 
 
 And this, — ah! call it what you please! 
 A Bouquet, — or the "wood notes wild" 
 'Twas gathered 'neath our forest trees, 
 By nature's child. 
 
 MY MUSE. 
 
 My Muse! thou art a solace unto me; 
 
 And when thou art afar, 
 In nature there is no soft melody, 
 
 No sweetness, in the air. 
 
 Thou art a sun -beam — yea a glorious light ; 
 
 On my benighted way; 
 When thou departest far, with me 'tis night; 
 
 When thou art here, 'tis day. 
 
 Absent, — the past is but an idle dream, 
 
 The present, — ennui; 
 Futurity, — a dark and mystic theme. 
 
 That deepens ev'ry sigh. 
 
10 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Sweet Poetry, I'll claim thee for my own, 
 Though all the world deride; 
 
 I'll gird thee to my heart, — precious zone, 
 If good, or ill, betide. 
 
 THE WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 01 The wood-notes wild! the wood-notes clear 
 
 That come to the ear like a charm; 
 The echo — the echo sounds afar 
 And we feel an enthusiasm warm: 
 The wood-notes are ringing. 
 The gay birds are singing, 
 The daisies are blooming, 
 The violets perfuming. 
 
 The sweet vernal air. 
 
 O! The wood-notes wildl the hours beguile; 
 
 They breathe new life through the air: 
 Let me enjoy this pleasure awhile. 
 And forget that I ever knew care: 
 
 See! the light humming bird' 
 As its flutter is heard. 
 Now it glitters like gold, 
 In the tulip's rich fold, 
 
 And then flies afar. 
 
 The mock-bird and robin, cuckoo and thrush. 
 Are tuning their notes for a song: 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 11 
 
 Proudly they sit, in the brown hazle bush, 
 While the echo of notes floats along; 
 And the Wood-Pecker's tap. 
 As he draws the rich sap. 
 From the sweet maple trees, 
 Where the wild honey bees 
 
 Buzz 'round all the while 
 
 The wood-notes wild delight the young ear, 
 
 The heart bounds with ecstacies new 
 And the eye forgets the sorrowing tear 
 As our sports o'er the plains we pursue; 
 Hark! the partridge whistles 
 In the row of thistles, 
 The doves are now cooing. 
 The linnets are wooing. 
 
 All natui'e doth smile. 
 
 The wood-notes wild, still ring in my ear 
 
 The tinkling of bells in the grove; 
 The ewes and the lambs and the wild spotted deer, 
 Are objects that still I must love; 
 And the cattle's deep lo\\ 
 And the tame milk cow. 
 Or the young lambs at play, 
 On a bright sunny day. 
 
 Pleases one like me. 
 
 Now day is o'er, and the birds are at rest, 
 To my cot I'll hie me along 
 
12 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The birds on the spray and those on their nest 
 Have ceased to warble the song. 
 All nature reposes 
 As the summer day closes, 
 And a stillness like death 
 Reigns over the earth 
 
 Till the dark shadows flee. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Thou art the poetry of life, O Nature! 
 With smiles we greet each infant feature, 
 We talk of spring, of flowers and trees, 
 And all thy beauty, the Poet sees. 
 Yes! Nature laughs to see thee come 
 And drive off" winter's surly gloom; 
 The forest wears a greener coat, 
 The partridge whistles a shriller note; 
 As the season comes for making nests, 
 A general bustling restlessness 
 Is seen, throughout the feathery world, 
 Each to his mate has loudly called 
 For industry, like the busy bee, 
 To gather moss from tree to tree, 
 And all along the grassy way, 
 The little flowers are opening gay. 
 
 Spring! tell us how thy gentle breezes, 
 With influence seemingly so mild. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 13 
 
 Can wake from lethargy and death, 
 
 What winter with his icy breath, 
 
 So cruelly locks up and freezes? 
 
 Cold winter's gone, nor heeds thy smile. 
 
 The poor, who shivered cold and wan, 
 While-icicles around them hung ; 
 Who scarce enough of covering found. 
 To close the eyes in slumber sound; 
 Whose rough cold hut was never dry 
 While winter's clouds o'erhung the sky. 
 Who found no time or means to toil. 
 Save that of mending up the fire 
 To win the freezing urchin's smile 
 Before the embers would expire; 
 Such poor, hail thy mild cheering sun. 
 As joy and happiness begun. 
 
 THE POET AND WOOD PECKER. 
 
 "For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;" 
 "And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds," 
 "So honor peereth* in the meanest habit. 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark?" 
 
 Poet. Why, Wood-Pecker, why so industriously work? 
 And pull off the bark with so sudden a jerk? 
 Thou'st hammer'd so long at that old elm tree, 
 And the rude hollow sound gives no harmony. 
 *Appeareth. 
 
 2 
 
14 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 W.P. "Thou know'st ev'ry creature on earth must be fed, 
 And like you, I must toil for my own daily bread." 
 
 Poet. Why wast thou not like the mocking-bird made 
 With a musical throat, to sit in the shade? 
 Thou'dst cherup and carrol from morn till night 
 And each varying note would give us delight. 
 
 W. P. "Why wast thou not made like Byron or Dickens? 
 
 Like me thou wouldst not have gleanings and pickings." 
 
 Poet. Thou art tart, poor bird, what makes thee so gruff? 
 Has partial old nature not given enough 
 To thy plebeian race, whom none can admire? 
 A very small pittance should iill thy desire. 
 
 W. P. "A very small pittance! my soul is as large 
 As those who can win a brilliant reward." 
 
 Poet. Po! po! silly bird, talk not of the soul 
 
 Thy feathers are dull, nor gilded with gold 
 And every one knows wood-pecker's thy name 
 Even if thou couldst sing they'd give thee no fame. 
 
 W, P. "I know the world to be selfish and cold 
 
 And I nate all its smiles that are purchasd with gold." 
 
 Foet. Ah! the world looks at the es^xterior garb, 
 And the feeling heart gets many a barb; 
 Kind fortune bestows, her gifts on the great, 
 And leaves the poor to chance and blind fate. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 15 
 
 W. P. "I have learned the philosopher's art by my bill, 
 To thump my own tree, and my own craw fill. 
 The mock-bird and parrot, may chatter for fame, 
 I'll mark every tree, with the wood-pecker's name." 
 
 MY OLD QUILL. 
 
 We pluck thee, from thy mother's side 
 
 Tho' so snugly, thou didst hide 
 
 in her soft plumage, fringed and wide; 
 
 O strange abuse! 
 We'll gloss thy side, to make thee sleek 
 And split thy tongue, that thou may'st speak, 
 Then shave thee downward to a peak, 
 
 For our own use. 
 
 Then, thou dost solace us old quill, 
 Though no bright pages thou canst fill, 
 Thou canst tumultuous feelings still 
 
 And calm our sighs: 
 If thy old tongue, be black and furr'd, 
 Nor thou canst utter one fine word, 
 So thy old screaking sound is heard, 
 
 O! 'twill suffice. 
 
 If the troubl'd heart be full of wo. 
 And none the wounded feelings know. 
 And tears, as wont, refuse to flow 
 Then thou art here; 
 
16 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Our trembling fingers snatch thee up, 
 And as we drink life's bitter cup, 
 Thy old gray plumage bids us hope, 
 And spurn all fear. 
 
 Come! my old quill; I love thee well» 
 Thou canst, the burning feelings tell. 
 Thou too, canst wear the wizard spell. 
 
 To charm the soul; 
 Thy origin, no difference what, 
 If from the swan, or bird of jet, 
 So thou but write, it matters not, 
 
 Thy worth is gold. 
 
 Ah! come, thou rusty lame old thing. 
 Come! now and all thy powers bring, 
 Some spell around my bosom fling, 
 
 Despite of care; 
 O! help me through this opaque scene 
 Throw o'er my path one silv'ry sheen 
 Or point, old quill! where I may lean, 
 
 And hide the tear. 
 
 THY ORIGIN? 
 
 Thy origin? sweet Poetry! — whence didst thou come? 
 
 Wast thou sent, to smooth the rough way? 
 From whom wast thou sent? and where is thy home? 
 
 Light the path with thine own soft ray. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 17 
 
 Thou hast breathed! My spirit is full of thee now, 
 
 The dark world is hid for a while; 
 Thou hast breathed! — I feel immortality's glow, 
 
 Light on my wan cheek, with a smile. 
 
 Thou art kinder than man, — thy spirit is soft, 
 
 And thy mission below is to please. 
 When the world by its sternness has wounded us oft, 
 
 Thou wilt soothe and give the heart ease. 
 
 THE WILD POET. 
 
 "And as imagination bodies forth 
 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 
 A local habitation and a name'. ' 
 
 Ah! who would wish the Poet's crazy brain? 
 
 Though it expands with purest bliss, 
 It then contracts with agonizing pain. — 
 Ah! who would wish the Poet's crazy flight? 
 That steps from cloud to cloud, 
 And mocks the sun-beam's height. 
 
 Who would not feel the Poet's ardent love? 
 
 A passion, burning 'round the heart. 
 Fanned by the wings of some celestial dove:- 
 But who could bear his bitter, burning Jiate? 
 
 When a deep wound is made 
 
 By the little, low ingrate? 
 2* 
 
18 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The morbid one, — whose quiet rest is sweet: 
 
 Whose soul loves not the scenes, where cloudsr 
 And storms, hail, rain and sun-shine meet: — 
 Give me that rest?! Is ol- -It suits not the soul, 
 Whose thoughts pierce Eternity 
 Some mist'ry to unfold. 
 
 But the Wild Poet, from his gilded car 
 
 Is tumbled down, with haggard face, 
 And finds his flowery castles air 
 Then who would wish a Poet's wayward fate? 
 Whose brain finds images, 
 Gods, — or Demons to create? 
 
 01 the inglor'ous apathy of soull 
 
 A stranger to all rapt'rous joy, 
 Inflexible, and stem, and deathly cold: — 
 Let me feel! — tho' agoniz'd with throes that burnl- 
 
 And from my very soul. 
 
 The grov'ling miscr'ant spurn. 
 
 APATHY. 
 
 I'm told, 0! sullen apathy! 
 Thou art a sweet security. 
 From this horrid misery 
 
 That wrings all hearts: ' 
 That thou canst stay the memory, 
 
 And blunt keen darts 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 19 
 
 apathy! this bounding thrill! 
 This restless spirit, never still! 
 This dark presentiment of ill! 
 
 Or rapture caught. 
 Tell me! O tell me! canst thou quell 
 
 The burning thought? 
 
 If so, then haste! quick! haste to mel 
 With thy bronz'd face of apathy 
 Bear this deep love; — this sympathy 
 
 Away, — away! 
 Bid joy, and grief, this moment flee! 
 
 Nor sad, nor gay — 
 
 — E'er be my ardent spirit, more. 
 
 This intense passion, to adore; 
 
 Those burning throes, that on me pour, 
 
 0! bid them flee; 
 And now thy cold dews quickly shower. 
 
 Stern apathy! 
 
 I'raready to be petrified. 
 In dull monotony I'd glide 
 0! turn me o'er on either side 
 
 And freeze me up! 
 Stop this tumultuous burning tide, 
 Of fear and hope! 
 
20 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 GO! WINTER, GO! 
 
 Go! winter, go! with all thy chilling snows, 
 A gentler monarch, now must reign awhile, 
 
 'Neath every step, she treads, a blossom blows. 
 And all her subjects, meet her with a smile. 
 
 She sits upon her throne, arrayed in flowers. 
 No costly gem, adorns her lovely crown. 
 
 Yet o'er all queens, her matchless beauty towers, 
 Her sceptre, throws a halo, all around. 
 
 Ay every spear of grass, or little bud, 
 
 Or bird, or insect, whether great or small, 
 
 Feels that her reign, is governed by a God, 
 That life and love, are measured out to all. 
 
 The rose and myrtle, twine her wavy hair. 
 
 Snow drops, and dahlias, bow beneath her feet, 
 
 The sweetest incense, floats upon the air, 
 
 And vines, are clust'ring, round her mossy seat. 
 
 Her band of music, nature's own sweet choir 
 Of birds and bees, and every vocal sound. 
 
 While all the dells, and nooks, have strung a lyre. 
 And harmony, reverberates around. 
 
 And hast thou come to show benighted man 
 The power of God, the opening of the grave; 
 
 Go — read the evidence — the beauteous plan — 
 The resurrection — and the proofs ye have. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 21 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 And hast thou come at last sweet spring, 
 And art thou here once more? 
 
 Ay! hear the merry wild birds sing 
 Around the cottage door! 
 
 And see the early swallows too! 
 
 Chirping beneath the eaves; 
 Soon, soon the little violets blue 
 
 Will ope their budding leaves. 
 
 Nature awakes from winter's sleep 
 
 To do thy bidding — spring 
 Look! now! I see one violet peep 
 
 'Neath frozen turfs that cling 
 
 Loth to unloose their frigid grasp 
 
 So cruel e'en like death, 
 Sustain it! by thy gentle clasp 
 
 And warm it by thy breath — 
 
 — Young spring! and bid each tint revive! 
 
 To charm the Poet's eye, 
 The Poet that would ever live 
 
 Beneath an April sky — 
 
 A sky that looks serene and mild 
 
 On all the fragrant bowers, 
 0! how I wish, I was a child. 
 
 To wade through April showers, 
 
22 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 To chase the spotted butterfly 
 To swing 'neath shady trees 
 
 To know no other kind of sigh 
 Save the low murmuring breeze. 
 
 I'd be again that merry thing 
 
 Just like a summer bird 
 When echo from my song would ring 
 
 And bring back word for word. 
 
 Each day was then an April one 
 Bright smiles succeeded tears, 
 
 But ah! those sunny days are gone 
 And left a woman's cares. 
 April 1st, 1843. 
 
 IDUMIA. 
 
 Idumia! Idumia! thy glory is gone. 
 
 Thy grandeur hath faded away, 
 Where temples were reared rude brambles have grown 
 And a blighting sirocco hath o'er thee blown, 
 While winds of the desert in a dirge-like moan 
 
 Sighs — all have gone to decay. 
 
 0! fallen Idumia! thou desolate wild! 
 
 Where savage and wild beasts are seen. 
 O'er thee a most beautiful landscape once smiled, 
 And there, — wiiere the curious artizan toiled, 
 See the toad and lizard and green serpent coiled, 
 
 And hear the loan owl's wild psean. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 23 
 
 And Asia! Thy temples — where are their pride? 
 
 Thy gods and their godesses — where? 
 Are they gleaming with gold? like a fair eastern hride 
 Do they swim in the Nile? are they laved by her tide? 
 No! their fragments are seen for the world to deride 
 
 Or borne by the bleak winds afar. 
 
 Oh! when will the night, the dark shadows of night 
 
 Which begirt thee so closely around 
 Have passed, and the glorious day-star of light, 
 With a radiance unseen, transcendantly bright 
 Again deck thy borders, again glad the sight 
 
 When Judah's sweet harp shall resound. 
 
 Then haste! sluggish time, when Sharon's sweet rose 
 
 Shall blossom again to the breeze, 
 W^hen the lion and lamb shall calmly repose 
 In one lair where the beautiful orange tree grows, 
 Where the air with pure incense so sweetly blows 
 
 And mellow fruit falls from the trees. 
 
 THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Clouds! beautiful are ye! 
 
 We love your various forms to see; 
 
 Now ye seem to touch the tree 
 
 With crimson glow: 
 Ah! see the gold and purple flee 
 
 Either fast or slow. 
 
24 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 There a pyramid of white, — 
 Then a soft and silvery light, — 
 Now ye're gone out of sight; 
 
 So beauty flies: 
 Yet its transient charms delight 
 
 The gazer's eyes. 
 
 Again you come, — another form, 
 The scarlet tint; — bright and warm, — 
 Ah! I gaze on thee, and dream 
 
 Of a bright world. 
 I turn to earth, and then I seem 
 
 From grandeur hurl'd. 
 
 I look again, and there ye are, 
 Another shape, tho' bright and fair; 
 Ah! now a lovely dress ye wear, 
 
 Like the damask rose; 
 And then I see the evening star 
 
 Its light disclose. 
 
 So flies our life's short dreamy day, 
 Like a passing cloud, it fades away, 
 But hope points to a brighter ray, 
 
 A world of rest; 
 Where joys will last, and ne'er decay. 
 
 And we'll be blest. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 25 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 The Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet, 
 
 Are of imagination al! compact: — Shakspeare. 
 
 O! This strange imagination! 
 Can nothing stay its rapid flight? 
 Thought, after thought, in wild rotation, 
 Darting hke a stream of light. 
 
 Say! cannot reason stop its soarings? 
 And bind it with her strongest chain? 
 Now — now — a thousand thoughts are pouring 
 From the poet's curious brain. 
 
 One moment, — down to Hades' regions — 
 The next, it roams Elysium o'er 
 It musters then a thousand legions, 
 The broad creation to explore. 
 
 It scales the eagle's topmost eyry, 
 Then plunges through unfathom'd deeps; 
 It flies o'er deserts wild and dreary 
 Or through the narrow cavern creeps. 
 
 What place is barr'd from its intrusion 
 Unlimited; — without an end! 
 It brings us wealth in great profusion 
 Then leaves us poor without a friend, 
 3 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 imagination! imagination! 
 Strange feature of our restless brain, 
 Thou fill'st the heart with sweet sensation 
 Then wound'st it with the keenest pain. 
 
 MEMORY.. 
 
 And what art thou? 0! Memory! 
 That whirls over time's musty page 
 To retrace one's own strange history, 
 E'en from our very earl'est age. 
 
 Thou throw'st th'layers of time aside 
 To tread the paths of youth again, 
 Our childish sports o'er forests wide 
 Comes to our vision fresh and plain. 
 
 E'en if time has round our temples 
 Scatter'd, thin and silvery hair; 
 Mem'ry brings the rose and dimples 
 That once smil'd on features fair. 
 
 Or if death's cold hand hath taken 
 
 Dear ones from our fostering arms, 
 
 Mem'ry — Mem'ry — will awaken 
 
 Their sweetest look, — their brightest charms. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. ^7 
 
 THE HUMAN HEART. 
 
 Strange creature, — canst thou tell us why 
 
 From thee ascends the deepest sigh? 
 
 And how it is, that love's soft thrill 
 
 Does all thy veins and tendrils fill? 
 
 When friends, long gone, to us return 
 
 Such offerings at thine altar burn? 
 
 And when their voice in echoes sound, 
 
 Why thy tumultous thrilling bound? 
 
 How jealousy, with arguseye, 
 
 From thee, sends out her keenest spy? 
 
 And envy, — with malicious dart, 
 
 Is said to come strait from thee, Heart! 
 
 And scorn, — does it from thee proceed? 
 
 An enigma — aye thou art indeed. 
 
 Strange creature! Thou didst never tell, 
 
 Why hatred, oft in thee doth dwell; 
 
 And if the world its thorns impart. 
 
 Why swells thee, with its fest'ring smart? 
 
 When gratitude has nought but tears, 
 
 Why art thou sick and faint with fears? 
 
 And why, if e'er the scene's revers'd 
 
 A fullness makes thee almost burst? 
 
 And why — when death's relentless hand, 
 
 Has touch'd thee with its icy wand, 
 
 Why canst thou cease to feel, or cease to live? 
 
 So complicated! so strangely sensitive! — - 
 
28 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Yes! cold as marble, and senseless as a stone, 
 Where now the purest, noblest passions burn^ 
 Deserted then, the passions flee away, 
 Leaving thee a lump of isolated clay; 
 All, all thy busy thoughts and anxious cares, 
 And projects wild for many painful years, 
 Are now forgot; — and scarce the spot is known, 
 Where was consigned this flutt'ring feeling one. 
 
 DAY BREAK. 
 
 "The silent hours steal on, 
 
 And flaky darkness breaks within the fast." — Shakspeare. 
 
 Turn to the east! ah see that streak of light! 
 Bursting on the eye with grand sublimity: 
 What mighty hand loops back the vail of night, 
 And speaks to earth its pure divinity? 
 
 Look westward on that mute and calm repose, 
 As yet unconcious of the dawning light; 
 Wait till day breaks, and all its charm disclose. 
 Ah! then thou'lt see a thrilling, touching sight. 
 
 A light pours all around and charms the eye, 
 As tho' it had, just bursted from the tomb; 
 Presently thou'lt an orb of fire descry, 
 Whose radiant track disperses every gloom. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 29 
 
 See! now it mounts its golden way sublime, 
 The road it has pursued for many centuries; 
 And will pursue until the wheels of time, 
 Shall stop its course to solve such mysteries. 
 
 O Nature! What art thou? in visions dark, 
 Howe'er so elevated be our themes; 
 The light we borrow, 'tis a glimmering spark, 
 Disturbed and weakened by our earthly dreams. 
 
 Will Eternity be day-break to the soul? 
 And free the struggling mind from doubts and gloom? 
 Grateful indeed will be that heavenly goal, 
 While the weary dust lies quiet in the tomb. 
 
 A day break to the soul! O glorious thought! 
 O rapturous joy! to anticipate the day, 
 When light, pure light from Deity is caught 
 When knowledge comes with every darting ray. 
 
 FLORA'S CHILDREN. 
 
 "How much of the poetry of life springs from flowers. How delicate 
 a pleasure is it to twine the orange blossom or japonica for the bride — to 
 arrange a bouquet for the invalid — to throw simple flowers into the lap of 
 childhood — and to pull rose-buds for the girl of whom they are the em- 
 blem."— Lady's World op Fashion. 
 
 Bright Flora's children glittering with doAV, 
 Make every Poet's heart bound with delight; 
 Ah! who could all her lovely foilage view? 
 And feel no rapture at the glowing sight? 
 
 3* 
 
30 WOOD NOTES WILI>. 
 
 Nature! thy hand presents us beauties rare, 
 See the rich blossoms, waving with their sweets, 
 Oh! what can with the pure white rose compare, 
 Whose od'rous perfume every object greets. 
 
 Such beauties mock the coarser scenes of earth, 
 And bid the eye look upward for its joys; 
 Their fragrance tell from Heaven they had their birth, 
 . And points where pleasure never, never cloys. 
 
 See too the crimson bud! how bright it glows! 
 A lively contrast, to the virgin white; 
 Then the tints of vari 'gated hues 
 That burst with splendor on the gazer's sight. 
 
 Nature! thou art poetry itself! 
 And should a Fairy muse from ev'ry flow'r 
 Spring up: — We'd greet each little mystic elf, 
 And own the influence of thy magic power. 
 
 BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Thou darting little brilliant creature! 
 Hast thou the faculty of thought? 
 Who points thee to the rose's feature? 
 And tells thee 'tis with sweetness fraught? 
 
 We've seen thee fly from flower to flower, 
 With pleasure glist'ning in thine eye. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 31 
 
 To sip the sweet, the dewy shower, 
 That drops in spangles from the sky. 
 
 Now sparkling, as a showry gem, 
 When thy wings are poized in air; 
 Then darting like a sunny beam, 
 To drink the lily's nectar'an tear. 
 
 Wouldst thou, our little beauteous guest, 
 Exchange thy fate with such as we? 
 no! thou canst midst odours rest, 
 Ever joyous, blithe and free. 
 
 Ah! sad would be the change for thee, 
 Bright creature of the sunny sky! 
 Thou knowest not, what is misery, 
 Nor the deep meaning of a sigh. 
 
 SUN RISE. 
 "But, look the morn, in russet mantle clad." 
 
 Glorious sight! — seethe bright sun arise! 
 With spangled rays lighting up the misty skies. 
 Ah! see it draw night's sable curtain back, 
 With grace pursuing its own even track; 
 All nature now, awakes from dormant sleep, 
 The little birds from clust'ring bushes peep; 
 And, starting, see that lovely day has dawn'd, 
 They pour forth songs, to hail the vernal morn, 
 
32 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The lowing herd, each from their grassy beds, 
 Stray lazily along the dewy meads. 
 All much delighted wit4i nature's noble plan, 
 But inconsistent, strange, and wayward man. 
 He sees, what the Great Architect has made. 
 From the loftiest thing, down to the grassy blade. 
 And does he feel entirely acquiescent? 
 To Him, who is forever omnipresent? 
 Does he, with a subdued and humble will 
 His great Creator's glorious laws fulfill? 
 And, like the other class of His creation, 
 Each one pursue his own assign'd vocation? 
 Whether in a lowly, rustic, humble sphere, 
 Or one, which, to him, many honors bear? 
 And, as the brilliant orb of radiant light. 
 Is duty one sweet taok of pure delight? 
 Man seems to stand 'midst all other creatures, 
 Alone, — impress'd with noble godlike features. 
 Why then, should he descend to sordid earth? 
 For pleasures, which could never there have birth? 
 Where sin and mis'ry, death, and keen despair, 
 Has waged with hapless man, a fearful war: 
 Yet there is something in the heart of man. 
 That plainly tells of a proud origin, 
 A little whispering voice, low and soft, 
 That raises man's ingenious soul aloft; 
 Tells him that spark can never, never die, 
 Breath'd from the fount of Immortality. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 33 
 
 THE WORLD AND PILGRIM. 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 Strange Pilgrim! tell us whither goest thou? 
 
 With thoughtful step and care worn brow? 
 
 Stay Pilgrim! stay and rest with me awhile! 
 
 My brooks are clear, and my blossoms smile; 
 
 Here grow the rose, the lily and the vine, 
 
 Which yields the rich, the cheering gen'rous wine; 
 
 Various pleasures will await thee here, 
 
 Taste! trav'ler, taste! and give thy heart good cheer. 
 
 Thou'rt weary, Pilgrim! lay thy load aside! 
 
 I will a banquet for thee, quick provide: 
 
 Oh! pluck my fruits, and flow'rs! drink thou my wine! 
 
 Regale thyself! all that thou seest is thine. 
 
 PILGRIM. 
 
 Thy rosy chaplets in my youth were worn, 
 They died away, and left behind a thorn; 
 Thy snow-drop and lily, in my garden grew, 
 . They sank before me like the early dew; 
 Thy grape's rich clusters in my youth I press'd, 
 Its bev'rage gave no joy, or tranquil rest; 
 Allure me not! by thy false shew of bliss, 
 I seek for wealth — for real happiness. 
 
 '^ WORLD. 
 
 For wealth! Pilgrim! f%n thou'lt stay with me, 
 Look o'er my kingdoms,^^ far as the eye can see 
 
34 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Wealth pours its treasures, from river, lake and pool, 
 In diamonds, sapphires, gold, and pearl; 
 In lands, in produce, and in costly towers, 
 In Princely domes, and in spacious bowers: 
 
 Pilgrim! Pilgrim! waste no longer time! 
 In journeying to seek a better clime. 
 
 PILGRIM. 
 
 I've worn thy pearls, thy di'monds and thy gold, 
 
 I've bought thy produce, and thy lands have sold; 
 
 Have heap'd thy treasures, and have built me domes, 
 
 I've seen them vanish where I find thy tombs. 
 
 Why those green mounds, thus scatter'd o'er the ground? 
 
 Can it be there, that gold and gems are found? 
 
 Can the bright children of the sunny sky, 
 
 Meet death? and 'midst such pleasures die. 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 Pilgrim! think not, of tombs and death! 
 We snatch our pleasures, with each fleeting breath: 
 We conquer all things, save the insatiate grave, 
 For death! grim monster! will his victims have. 
 
 PILGRIM. 
 
 Ah! then thou ownest, that death has power. 
 That he can blight, the fairest, sweetest flower: 
 
 1 seek a country, where death cannot reign, 
 I seek for happiness, unmixed with pain. 
 Leave me, O world! Thy votaries emigrate. 
 Each one disposed, to find a large estate; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 35 
 
 I am returning, to my Father's home, 
 
 I did, like them, to distant countries roam; 
 
 I've found, that all things flee from earth, 
 
 That thou giv'st sin, and misery, birth; 
 
 That thou too, hast a false, and fleeting show. 
 
 Where is thy power? when the last trump shall blow? 
 
 When time shall end her course, where wilt thou stand? 
 
 Canst thou save one, by lending thy broad hand? 
 
 Where then, thy boasted wealth? thy domes and towers? 
 
 All crushed, and shrivelled, like thy withered flowers. 
 
 Cease world! O cease! thou too, must flee away, 
 
 When this poor pilgrim, lives, in endless day. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 To close the eye, on the bright blue sky, 
 And be laid in the cold damp earth, 
 
 To sleep profound, under the ground 
 Where no beautiful things have birth. 
 
 Oh! gloomy this cell, where the dark ones dwell, 
 
 No — ray to illumine the spot, 
 But this is our doom, and the coffin's our room 
 
 Where repose is too deep for a thought. 
 
 Ah! death tortures the heart, with his fell dart, 
 Nor heareth the mourner's deep sigh; 
 
 He regards not the prayer, death sees not the tear, 
 Nor heedeth he grief's frantic cry. 
 
36 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Insatiate thing! thou reignest as king, 
 
 O'er all this terrestrial globe; 
 The high, and the low, thy dread summons know, 
 
 Wrapt in thy snowy stiff robe. 
 
 Thine icy wand, and thy stern command, 
 
 Cuts down the sweetest flower. 
 The plebeian race, and the princely face, 
 
 Feel alike thy blanching power. 
 
 MANY POETS HAVE SUNG. 
 
 Many Poets have sung of the miseries of life, 
 
 The terrors of war, of man's woes and man's strife. 
 
 Some are wretched, because they have a good wife^ 
 
 And others, because they have none. 
 They will sigh o'er their losses, crosses and pains. 
 O'er the tooth-ache — the head-ache — and sore chilblains; 
 O'er the keen old frost, and the cold drizzling rains, 
 
 And the scorching rays of the sun. 
 
 Let's turn the world o'er on the silvery side. 
 
 And cull from its bosom, that's far and wide. 
 
 Those sweets, which kind nature has thought to provide 
 
 For the joy and comfort of man: 
 We'll talk of society, friendship and love. 
 Of a bevy of birds, and a sweet orange grove. 
 We'll snatch our pleasures, in spite of old Jove, 
 
 And take all the comfort we can. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 37 
 
 Society drives old dull sorrow away, 
 
 And shortens the hours, on a long summer's day; 
 
 The heart never aches when the feelings are gay, 
 
 And the eye forgets all its tears: 
 That sweet interchange of kind feelings and thought, 
 That intellectual feast with ecstacy fraught, 
 The soul's tender thrill, which gold never bought, 
 
 Oh! it dispels dull cares and fears. 
 
 Then solitude comes and it too has a charm. 
 
 To cull o'er the heart's treasures, so pure and warm, 
 
 To feed on the joys, that have outlived the storm, - '0'^'\ 
 
 That so often shatters our bark, 
 Pure joys ne'er disturbed by the stranger guest, 
 That creap o'er the soul, like the dreams of the blest, 
 And give to the heart a calmness and rest, 
 
 And fan up a heavenly spark. 
 
 Let the misanthrope mope o'er his musty old book, 
 We'll follow the windings of some rippling brook, 
 We sport not with gun, nor angle with hook, 
 
 For one intellectual delight. 
 We inhale the perfumes of the sweet orange grove, 
 And sip on the dew, that the wild birdslove; 
 From flower to flower as the butterflies move, 
 
 And hope, is ever in sight. 
 
 By and by, like the birds, we will fly far away, 
 And seize a harp with seraph's sweet lay — 
 And live where there's joy from day to day. 
 And be so entirely blest. 
 4 
 
S WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 0! then we will drink of the river of life. 
 We will hear of no wars, contentions or strife, 
 No man then will mourn o'er a scolding wife 
 There will be permanent rest. 
 
 Where the sweet almond tree, never will fade, 
 The citron and orange boughs, clustering shade. 
 Where each budding flower and silvery blade, 
 
 Is twined by the finger of love: 
 When the mind inhales, true wisdom and light, 
 When the joys are large, and faculties bright, 
 Where no shadows dwell, for there is no night; 
 
 God lives in that garden above. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 A glorious dress thy vernal beauty wears, 
 
 Bright balmy spring! 
 Thy sunny ray delights and warms and cheers, 
 
 And makes us sing. 
 
 Surly old winter has surely gone! 
 
 Spring's balmy breath plays o'er the lawn, 
 
 And a fragrance so sweet is exhal'd at morn. 
 
 See! sporting wild, the spotted herd. 
 And children roaving o'er the mead, 
 Soon thou wilt wear a deeper green. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 39 
 
 Tlien here and there a violet seen 
 
 Which will each day, with brighter hue 
 
 Expand and glitter as the dew. 
 
 Young birds are fost'ring in thy boughs, 
 
 And choosing mates and whisp'ring vows 
 
 O Spring! thy breath is poetry and love 
 
 When youth and beauty wander through the grove. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Thy sultry air midsummer! droops my flowers; 
 
 See! fall the petals to the parched earth, fpWl! 
 
 Nor can the few and interrupted showers. 
 
 Resuscitate them with a second birth. 
 
 Thou flitting cloud! pass o'er that fiery orb! 
 
 Which sends its beams like burning lava down, 
 Veil its bright face, with thy shadowy robe, 
 
 Until we reach, some rural shady ground. 
 
 Where zyphyrs cool, bestir the forest tree. 
 
 And fan the fever from the burning cheek; 
 Where rippling rills run soft and merrily, 
 
 The weary mind would such refreshments seek. 
 
 Then let us while the burning hours away. 
 
 And dream of hope, of joy, of constant love; 
 Where chatters the mock-bird, the thrush and jay, 
 
 And innocently coos the plaintive dove. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 For contemplation, and melancholy thought, 
 Thou art with images, sublimely fraught; 
 
40 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thy yellow leaves, with tints of various hues, 
 Spreading a carpet, for the wand'ring muse. 
 And thy rich foliage, falling to the ground, 
 Leaves the reflecting mind in thought profound 
 
 Ah! fading autumni typical of man's decay, 
 A gloom hangs o'er the forest once so gay; 
 Like with 'ring time, o'er beauty's sunny brow, 
 Fading the cheek, and stealing the bright glow; 
 Dimming the eye, that shone, with brilliant light, 
 And changing the brown curls, to silvery white. 
 O autumn! thou provest that all things must decay, 
 That man is frail, the creature of a day. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The brown leaves, lie bestrew'd o'er the ground. 
 The winds, of bleak winter, are mutt'ring 'round. 
 
 From the forest afar; 
 See! he comes with a stern undaunted mien, 
 His storms of snow, and his freezing rain. 
 
 Little children! beware! 
 
 He comes with a gloom surrounding his head. 
 And his breath strikes leaves and blossoms dead, 
 
 All nature dreads his ire; 
 His aspect is hard, and sternly severe, 
 The north wind blast, extorts the warm tear, 
 
 Mercy! mend up the fire! 
 
 Now in his fury he's scatt'ring the hail. 
 And hoisting aloft, a north wind gale: 
 
Wood notes wild. 41 
 
 O ! bar up the cottage door. 
 Hark! that thund'ring crash, will tear it apart, 
 I'm almost freezing, I'm cold at the heart, 
 
 Pity! pity the poor! 
 
 I'he icicles hang from the bending spites 
 They glitter and wave, like silvery wires, 
 
 E'en from one suniiy rd.y. 
 Look o'er the lawn! and the birds you will see, 
 Sitting mute, and sad, on each lieafless tree, 
 
 Not a feather looks gay. 
 
 Go! wild old Boreas, wind thy shrill horn! 
 
 Go! blow through the forest, the streets and lawn! 
 
 We'll turn thee out of the door; 
 Hark! the cold wind comes anon through the cracks, 
 Thou art stinging us now, Oh! Oh! our backs! 
 Mercy! mercy — tlie poor! 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 The weary sun hath made a golden set, 
 And by the bright track of his fiery car, 
 Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.— Shakspeare. 
 
 We view thy bright o*b, as it sinks in the west 
 And slowly lose sight, of thy shining vest, 
 Now thou'rt sunk, in the trees^ and thy silvery breast 
 Is lost, tiU the moiling appears. 
 
 4* 
 
42 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 0! what were our world, if thou ne'er should arise. 
 And with thy fair face, illumine the skies? 
 What could comfort the heart, or cheer the eyes, 
 And dissipate man's gloomy fears? 
 
 How wise and beneficent, the Giver of light! 
 How various the beauties he pours on the sightl 
 How wisely he orders the day and the night! 
 
 For the rest and comfort of man. 
 O why should an apathy come o'er the soul? 
 A lethargy inglorious, ungrateful and cold? 
 Will the heart not adore, where the eye can behold, 
 
 The wonders displayed o'er the land? 
 
 Would, that our hearts were ever in tune. 
 To praise thee at morning, evening and noon. 
 We sigh that our natures forget thee so soon. 
 
 When mercies are scattered around. 
 We mourn, that we merit, thy chast'ning rod. 
 We weep, that our follies, displease our God, 
 For sin's rude brambles spring up from the sod, 
 
 And briers grow o'er the ground. 
 
 IN DAYS GONE BY. 
 
 In days gone by — when the ^vorld was young» 
 Love's beautiful companion was joy; 
 
 But some how or other, we vexed old Jove, 
 And he vowed such bliss to destroy. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 43 
 
 He said that sorrow should travel with love, 
 
 And that moment sorrow was nigh: 
 Old Jupiter laugh'd from the clouds above, 
 
 To hear Cupid's votaries sigh. 
 
 But he cannot escape from his sorrowful guest, 
 
 She pursues him o'er brier and brake, 
 If he lights on a rose for a moment to rest. 
 
 She is seen close behind at his back. 
 
 QUERY. 
 
 Why art thou so partial, nature? 
 
 When thou dost to man thy gifts bestow; 
 To some poor wretches, a heart thou e'en deniest. 
 
 And in the place of this strange creature. 
 
 Thou givest a huge lump of ice or snow^ 
 Which e'en the sun, or fire, or very deal defiest. 
 
 Pray nature! tell us why is it so? 
 
 Some hearts run o'er like a boiling spring; 
 While others freeze in apathy so cold and stern, 
 
 That we might hold a torch and blow and blow: 
 
 Until the very arguments we'd bring. 
 Would almost make a Zembla's snow bank burn. 
 
44 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 ANOTHER QUERY. 
 
 Say what is this that bears the spirits up, 
 Under misfortune's most oppressive weight? 
 And what is this that makes the heart still hope, 
 Contend and argue with its sterner fate? 
 'Tis true we cannot know the human heart, 
 One day it sinks, beneath a weight of woes, 
 The next a vivid ray, will through it dart, 
 And calm the tumult, of its bitter throes. 
 
 HOPE DECEIVES. 
 
 Triie hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings, 
 
 Kings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures kings. — Shakspeark. 
 
 Hope! although thou dost deceive, 
 
 Thou art a charm; 
 E'en the visions thou dost weave, 
 
 Have power to calm. 
 
 Storms may blow and fate may lower. 
 
 Still thou art there; 
 With thy bewitching soothing power. 
 
 To promise fair. 
 
 Thy flattering smiles although so false, 
 
 Our hearts deceive: 
 The confiding one thou oft exalts. 
 
 Merely to grieve. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 45 
 
 Thou art a strange and wayward thing, 
 
 A moment, gone! 
 I ween a brighter wreath to bring. 
 
 The brow to adorn. 
 
 Soon as its charm has faded quite; 
 
 With brighter glow, 
 Thou hast another just in sight, 
 
 To fit the brow. 
 
 So from the cradle to the grave, 
 
 Thou'rt deceiving; 
 We ne'er receive, but still shall have 
 
 The web thou'rt weaving. 
 
 PILGRIM AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 There's nothing in this world can make me joy: 
 
 Life is as tedious as a twice told tale, 
 
 Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. — Shakspeark. 
 
 The Specter, Gloom, approaches me again, with raven coat, 
 and wraps his long dark wings around my head; and every 
 thought that comes is tinged with shadows. — Author. 
 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, 
 Which hushes all! a calm unstormy wave 
 Which oversweeps the world. — Byron. 
 
 PILGRIM, 
 
 Mine eyes are weary. Grave! lend me thy bed, 
 Where I may sluraber, with the peaceful dead; 
 
^ 
 
 46 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Youth's beautiful and vivid dreams have flown, 
 And time has o'er my brow his white robe thrown: 
 My early friends are gone, Grave! tell me where 1 
 Point to the spot! and bear my spirit there! 
 A stranger now, the world owns rae no more. 
 Those charms that won its love in days of yore, 
 Have flown away; and left a shadowy form, 
 Bearing the marks of many a blighting storm; 
 . Mine eyes are weary, Grave! lend me thy bed! 
 That I may slumber with the quiet dead. 
 
 GRAVE. 
 
 Callest thou on me, replete with gloom profound? 
 Whose cell is dark, beneath the cold damp ground: 
 Hast thou e'er noted ray appalling gloom? 
 Surveyed with care my lone contracted room? 
 Or hast thou heard tlA deep and hollow sound? 
 When the pale corpse waslower'd in the ground? 
 Or witness'd the long echo from my cell 
 When dust to dust had sounded its last knell. 
 Look in my cavern! see the dark red earth! 
 The sepulchre where spectres have their birth, 
 O! weary Pilgrim! contemplate those truths! 
 Then, if thou canst my narrow cavern choose, 
 I'm bound to lend my cold and cheerless bed. 
 Where thou may'st slumber with the silent dead. 
 
 PILGRIM. 
 
 I retrospect the time, when life was young, 
 When hope and joy, secm'd to my vitals strung, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 47 
 
 When mirth came booming with so full a gush, 
 
 As lit the eye, and gave the cheek a flush; 
 
 'Twas then I loath'd thy dark and gloomy cave, 
 
 t 
 Thou dismal refuge! horrid! horrid grave! 
 
 This time has pass'd, tho' still my dreams are young, 
 
 Bright ideal visions have not from me flown; 
 
 Reverses give to one, a quicker eye 
 
 To note dark scenes, or beauteous gems descry; 
 
 And yet the world is not to me the same, 
 
 Love proves a sottnc?, and '■'■friendship but a name^^ 
 
 When waves of sorrow burst upon my head, 
 
 Friendship withdraws, and sympathy is fled, 
 
 I'm weary, Grave! lend me thy dismal bed. 
 
 May aching eyes, close with the sleeping dead! 
 
 GRAVE. 
 
 Once more look o'er the earth! its fields and flowers, 
 
 Its murmuring rills, its shady groves and bowers; 
 
 Life's cheering voice, peeling o'er hill and dale, 
 
 From every living creature of the vale. 
 
 O! look on nature's charms! compare them all 
 
 With my dark coflfin! and the gloomy pall! 
 
 The stagnant air, confined within my cell, 
 
 Where onZy one, poor lonely one! can dwell; 
 
 Shut out from all the lovely scenes of earth, 
 
 All social joy, hilarity and mirth; 
 
 Sleeping, — sleeping too sound for sweet repose; 
 
 The wandering spirit — where? 0! no one knows! 
 
 weary traveller! dost thou wish my gloom? 
 
 Wilt thou take refuge in my shady room? 
 
48 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Come to my dwelling, dark and cold and stern; 
 I can no creature from my bosom spurn. 
 
 PILGRIM. 
 
 Ah! terror seizes on my inmost soul, 
 Ceasel cruel grave, thy horrors to unfold; 
 Lonely and friendless, tho' mj portion be, 
 An heir to grief, to want, to misery; 
 Tho' dim mine eyes, and tho' my locks are white 
 Yet Grave! thou art a dismal, dismal sight, 
 Hide from me now! — thy yawning cavern close! 
 Let me but lift mine eyes where beauty glows, 
 That one bright vision may flit o'er my way, 
 Ere I am shrouded in thy cold damp clay. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 Would some bright angel from the world of glory. 
 
 Tell us of Heaven; 
 In notes undying, — breathe the beauteous story, 
 
 Of sins forgiven. 
 
 Of bright and joyous days, without one shade of night, 
 
 Of love, pure love; 
 Of shining seraphs, robed in unsullied white, 
 
 That dwell above: 
 
 Of bliss eternal, — soul vivifying thought, 
 That thrill our hearts 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Of flowers that bloom forever, with fragrance fraught, 
 Whose odour, life imparts. 
 
 Tell us of perfect health, where no disaster comes, 
 
 Of joys not blighted; 
 Tell us of tranquil skies free from all low'ring storms, 
 
 Of love requited. 
 
 Of the soft breeze that brings perpetual sweets, 
 
 And life's pure river; 
 O! whisper of the gold enameled streets, 
 
 Of God, the giver. 
 
 And give us a light, that we may travel on, 
 
 Through mist and mire; 
 Resting in our Saviour, Christ, — the Father's son, 
 
 Nor ever tire. 
 
 And tell us, ere long we'll have our large estate, 
 
 A glorious crown, 
 And live eternally, with all that's wise and great, 
 
 In bliss profound. 
 
 But the purest joy, to meet with those above 
 
 Never to part; 
 Frendship divinely sweet, bound with a cord of love 
 
 i\.round the heart. 
 
 49 
 
50 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 '*Time is never so cruel as when, while stealing from us the power to 
 p?eaae, leaves us in full possession the unhappy privilege to be charmed.' 
 
 BCLWKR, 
 
 O Time! thou art a cruel thing; 
 Thoa stealest from us the "power to please," 
 Nor dost thou cold contentment bring, 
 Or chilling apathy to freeze 
 The thrilling heart. 
 
 And yet thou lea vest us the power, 
 The privilege of being charmed, 
 With every bright and beauteous flower. 
 Nor paus'st to see whom thou hast harmed , 
 Thou fleeting time. 
 
 Thy finger sinks the temples in. 
 And the rich locks of burnish'd gold. 
 Grow dull and gray and very thin, 
 As thy stern visage we behold; 
 Thou ancient time. 
 
 The bright blue eye, that once could iaughv 
 With sparkling hope, and joyful glee; 
 Is dim; — to see the tot 'ring staff. 
 That carries our decrepitcy; 
 Old Father time. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 51 
 
 Yet, why care I, for thy stern coarse? 
 Nohonor'd favour'd child am I; 
 To me, thou ever was't morose, 
 Nor heedest thou the trembling sigh ; 
 Hard hearted time. 
 
 For sorrow mark'd me at my birth, 
 And bound a wreath of anxious care, 
 So tight around the child of earth. 
 That wrung the hot and bitter tear, 
 From my young eyes. 
 
 And as I grew it tighter press'd, 
 And gave my heart such thrilling pain, 
 I've often thought that thou would'st rest, 
 That heart and aching brain 
 Thou passing time. 
 
 Then onward move, old ruthless time! 
 With me thy bus'ness soon will close, 
 Ah! then I'll find another clime, 
 Where happiness forever flows 
 In Heaven. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 How emblematical of life's 'ventful dream, 
 
 Are the fall of leaves; 
 Whose mellow tints, like a rich carpet seem, 
 
 Beneath the bare trees. 
 
52 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 While the parent trunk stands naked and forlorn. 
 
 Like a sorrowing one;- 
 And the murmuring winds, which around it mourn^ 
 
 Sigh for joy that's gone. 
 
 O! autumn! thou hast a melancholy voice» 
 That comes with thy winds; 
 
 No reckless, thoughtless creature can rejoice, 
 At such faded scenes. 
 
 For who, that beholds the once proud stately tree» 
 Deaden'd, disrob'd and bare; 
 
 But owns all earthly grandeur, — vanity? 
 Life but a voyage of care? — 
 
 WHEN CARES OPPRESS. 
 
 When cares oppress the anxious mind, 
 And sigh responds to sigh, 
 
 Where can we real pleasure find? 
 The ardent feelings cry. 
 
 In gayest scenes, we seek for peace, 
 That peace we fondly love; 
 
 We sigh to find no real bliss. 
 
 In all the heart can prove. 
 
 The festive dance, the brilliant play — 
 By those we've oft been charm'd: 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 53 
 
 But mental sighs, will surely say, 
 Were we for such things form'd? 
 
 Have we not left the birth-night ball, 
 
 And sad in thought retir'd? 
 Have we not heard some spirit call, 
 
 With holy love inspir'd. 
 
 And whisper of those Heavenly throngs, 
 
 Where all is perfect love; 
 Where seraph joys, and seraph songs. 
 
 The noblest feelings move. 
 
 Ah! now deceived in all such schemes 
 
 Of happiness below; 
 Ah! now I find them idle dreams, 
 
 I'll let the phantom go. 
 
 The world's sweet smile, is poison'd bait. 
 
 Its flat'ry 'noxious food, 
 The soul, must such false honors hate, 
 
 That means to dwell with God. 
 
 HAST THOU A BALM? 
 
 Hast thou, Heaven! a balm for every woe, 
 
 That earth imparts? 
 Do thy bright mansions, with such blessings flow; 
 
 To cure all hearts? 
 5* 
 
54 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Seek then my soull with more avidity, 
 
 A clime so pure: 
 Wake up! wake up! from this dull lethargy, 
 
 And God adore. 
 
 Rapturous thought! when unabating love, 
 
 Shall heal the soul: 
 A balm — a balm — in that bright world above. 
 
 For wounds ne'er told. 
 
 TALENTS AND WORTH. 
 
 Talents, and worth, and beauty, all must die: 
 
 The deep — dark grave, hides them from mortal sight: 
 
 Dust to dust, is laid with many a sigh, 
 
 And brightest things are wrapt in endless night. 
 
 Does nature look less fair? does nature weep? 
 No, — onward she tracks her rough, or even way, 
 The same bright day for toil, the night for sleep, 
 And all her borders decked quite as gay. 
 
 Genius dies, — the rose blooms just as sweet; 
 The azure sky, looks cloudless as before: — 
 The march of science, moves along as fleet; 
 While death is knocking at the great man's door. 
 
 Strange art thou nature! not by mortals read. 
 For mystic matter, solves not a myst'ry; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 55 
 
 Go! call upon the pale and silent dead! 
 To read to us, man's unknown history. 
 
 So complicated,— so dark, and fathomless; 
 Thou art mysterious, — complex mind! 
 In what unknown, unheard of, deep abyss? 
 Can we a key to thy lost secrets find? 
 
 THE LAST ENEMY. 
 ^'The last enemy that shall be destroy'd is death."—!. Corinthians. 
 
 There's power to conquer thee, insatiate death! - 
 
 O glorious, glorious victory! 
 Thou, who hast sported with the mortal breath 
 
 Since the first page of human hist'ry. 
 
 Thou ghastly king! thou art at last o'erthrown 
 
 hallelujah! — glory! glory! 
 No more we'll hear thy deep and hollow groan 
 
 Angels repeat, repeat the story! 
 
 Oh! gloomy grave! accomplice of this king, 
 Thou art despoil'd of thy wan prey; 
 The monarch's fallen, — saints, and angels sing! 
 He reigns not in Eternity. 
 
5© WOOI> NOTES WILD. 
 
 WHAT I LOVE. 
 
 I love to hold converse, with birds and with trees,. 
 And the bright azure sky, that glows far above; 
 And murmur the while; — It is God who sees. 
 It is God, who beholds, his children with love. 
 
 Let me talk with wild flowers, that peep from the eod, 
 When tones that are harsh, wound my repose; 
 They whisper me kindly, they tell me of God, 
 And a place where true friendship perpetually flows. 
 
 I love to commune with the wind as it flies 
 Unseen, through the dark forest and grove; 
 And hear the low echo, as it softly replies, 
 He who sends it is God, — He is love, — He is love. 
 
 I love the lone woods, where the flow'rs bloom wild,. 
 Either mountain or dell, where the Ivy bush grows. 
 The red berry or thorn, which pleases the child. 
 Such give me a pleasure; — Why? nobody knows. 
 
 Yet far more intensely, I adore the warm heart,. 
 Where sympathy glows with a generous love; 
 When I weep; — O to see the kind tear start 
 In the eye,~such unison comes from above.. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 57 
 
 BEAUTIFUL STARS. 
 
 Beautiful stars! how many art thou? 
 That so thickly bespangle night's canopy; 
 Tell usi 0! tell us thy destiny! 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
 v^- 
 
 Could we borrow the wings of angels bright. 
 How soon would we take a mystical flight, 
 To thy fair worlds, this moon-light night; 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
 We'd pierce thy soft rays of silvery hue, 
 We'd sup with thy children on heavenly dew, 
 And 0! could we meet with hearts that are true. 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
 We'd rest us awhile in thy worlds above, 
 And live on sympathy, friendship and love, 
 Tranquilly sweet, through thy borders we'd rove, 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
 Come tell us, bright stars, of thy flow'ry world, 
 Are thy walls of jasper? and thy streets of pearl? 
 Come now thy trophies of glory unfurl. 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
 Thou tellest us naught, ambiguous and cold. 
 Thy mystical history none can unfold. 
 For ages, no secret of thine has been told. 
 Beautiful stars! 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 POET'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 Why are the Poet's thoughts so crazy? 
 
 Ever and anon at play; 
 To pluck the violet rose or daisy, 
 
 And light on every thing that's gay. 
 
 Or through midnight's deepest shadow, 
 
 Flitting as a spectre wild; 
 Then weaving a light silken ladder, 
 
 To catch the rainbow as a child. 
 
 O! the Poet's curious dreaming. 
 
 Fit only, for the mad asylum; 
 
 Fainting, dying, heart's blood streaming, 
 Himself in a complete delirium. 
 
 He grasps the sun-beam's ray of glory, 
 
 And ranges through elysium bowers: 
 
 Then listens to the demon's story; 
 
 Until a tempest o'er him lowers. 
 
 THE THREE DEMONS. 
 
 O! I would talk of twilight and of stars, such themes as Poet's iovc,— 
 save for this gloom that flits across the mind, dark as old Mississippi's 
 turbid waves, and spectres tall, stalk with me, on her margin, — and 
 then the 'magination conjures up "sea monsters" from her deep,.— and 
 other curious things. — Author. 
 
 In a deep low vale where the winds murmur'd low. 
 And the meteors at night, are seen faintly to glow, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD- 5 
 
 Is a dark lone dell, studded thickly with pine, 
 Where the eyes, of wild beast, are seen fiercely to shine; 
 There the slow tortois, and green scorpions sleep, 
 And the, large water-mockasons lazily creep; 
 On a cold hazy night, as a storm mutter'd low, 
 A torch of blue light, was seen faintly to glow; 
 When three tall Demons, approach the cave 
 For desultory chat, either witty or grave„ 
 
 Satonos, a fiend, most intriguing and sly, 
 Had been in his prime, a political spy; 
 Distinguish'd, in Satan's counsels of state, 
 For eloquent speeches, none could with him prate; 
 Much work had he done, in Satan's dominions, 
 With men he caused jars, and different opinions; 
 
 Belzuba, a Demon, wild, airy and gay, 
 Was not so profound, but at all vicious play, 
 Was the champion, the hero, theapollo of devils, 
 And was foremost, in all riots and revels; 
 'Twas said his vivacity, so charm'd all the crew, 
 E'en Satan's own favorites, too fond of him grew. 
 
 I 
 Demosto's character, unlike either fiend, 
 
 Was serious, meditative, profound and bland; 
 
 He had studied Theology, intently and grave, 
 
 Was acquainted with man, both christian and knave; 
 
 By him, M^as invented, all mischievous fraud, 
 
 For the souls of the clei*gy, he got double reward: 
 
 He was chosen by Cardinals, Monks and Deans, 
 
60 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 To throw o'er their dignities, silvery sheens: 
 He controled the Bishops, the Friars and Popes, 
 Was with all devotees, in their midnight gropes; 
 In fine he had done the world so much evil, 
 He was deemed, by all Hell, a most valuable devil. 
 
 They enter 'd the cave, by a glimmering light, 
 The Owls, and the Panthers, scream with affright; 
 And the glare of their eyes, lighted the wall, 
 Where the scorpion, and lizard, were seen to crawl, 
 They seated themselves, and kindled the fire; 
 And to pass off the time, began to "enquire, 
 What progress each one, had made in his art, 
 Of disturbing the world, and corrupting man's heart. 
 
 Satonos arose, and thus spoke to his friends, 
 
 I have traveled and toil'd to gain our ends; 
 
 With man I'm acquainted, I've studied his nature 
 
 And know ev'ry turn, in the versatile creature. 
 
 I have found his heart, to mercy inclined. 
 
 In despite, of a natural, depravity of mind. 
 
 And found without stratagem, his benevolence such, 
 
 His goodness our arts, may at last overreach. 
 
 And have strove, to root out this kindness and love 
 
 By an art, that would outwit, e'en Pluto or Jove 
 
 Then adroitly placed in, a capricious thing 
 
 Call'd honor, patriotism, true to country and king. 
 
 Now pretending to love, their country, and homes 
 
 They pillage, and murder, and burn foreign domes, 
 
 While hecatombs are offer'd, to our bold king, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 We to his Majesty, the spoils daily bring. 
 Arise, bold compeers! tell what has been done! 
 That our Monarch, may own each legitimate son. 
 
 Equally ambitious, have I Belzuba, been, 
 I've studied man, and all his actions seen: 
 I too have found, a blandness in his heart, 
 A principle, that would true joy impart: 
 A something charming, that would sweeten life, 
 Destroy all discord, misery, and strife, 
 A love for thoae fair, fragile creatures , 
 Which mock the rose, for loveliness of features. 
 Fearing the influence, of each potent thing, 
 That would to man, such real blessings bring: 
 This was my scheme, to rob him of such bliss, 
 Love I withdrew, and put in avarice. 
 Ever since the change, the unhappy man, 
 Dreams not of love, but silver, gold and land. 
 Steeling his heart, against all softer charms, 
 Love, save for gold, now ne'er his bosom warms. 
 And that pure flame, that emanates from heaven. 
 Is from his heart, by sordid avarice, driven. 
 Demosto! now tell, all thy bold achievements 
 Of man's unlucky woes, of his bereavements. 
 
 Demosto rose, the owls for midnight scream, 
 The panther's eyes dart forth, a fiercer gleam; 
 The snakes uncoil, to catch the fiendish sound. 
 And then was silence, in the cave profound. 
 
 6 
 
 61 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 ComradesI I now to thee unfold. 
 
 My projects, reckless, daring, bold, ' , 
 
 My whole delight, has ever been. 
 
 To nurture misery, and sin. 
 
 Our speculations, lead to the same end, 
 Tho' for our prey, we different courses wend; 
 The ways of man, attentively I've mark'd 
 And found within his breast, a gem, a spark. 
 Inclining him, too seek for lasting good; 
 Intuitive knowledge, as 'twere, of God: 
 By deep research, I found where this gem lay 
 Within the heart; — and from it threw a ray 
 Too luminous, for Demons to behold. 
 And not desire, its influence to control. 
 
 Hush that hissing! thou serpents vile! 
 
 Till I relate, how I did man beguile! 
 Profound attention! compeers, my story heed! i 
 
 Religion from the heart I stole, and plac'd'it in the head. 
 Doctrines now bewilder man, he has another creed, 
 Sceptics and persecutors reign, and martyrs bleed, 
 Pestilence, and war may boast, — T exceed them all, 
 Millions have I slain, since man's unlucky fall. 
 Yield me the victory Demons! bear me the palm, 
 All must acknowledge, I've done the greatest harm. 
 
 Brave Demos! we the victory to thee bear. 
 Thy schemes were deepest, and stronger was thy snare, 
 But — come! come, the day approaches, let's, let's away, 
 We must not be seen here, in the light of day. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 63 
 
 THE LONE COT. 
 
 O! The winds howl fearfully, around the lone Cot, 
 
 Can taste and refinement dwell there? 
 Ah! dark is the storm in that desolate spot 
 
 Where the blast draws the unwelcome tear; 
 Can thoughts sublime, and sentiments pure, ■ ; 
 Inhabit the Cot, of the wretched and poor? 
 
 0! the winds howl wild, and the storm gathers thick. 
 
 And the fire grows feeble and dull. 
 No bright lamp can burn, for drown'd is the wick, 
 
 0! that the bleak storm would lull; 
 And who is that creature, that watches alone, 
 Nor looses one sound, of the wind's hollow moan? 
 
 The children all wearied, have sunk to repose, 
 And sleep, while the storm patters down; 
 
 But there sits that creature, whose eye cannot close. 
 While the winds, mutters mournfully round. 
 
 Her bosom swells high, in the utmost despair. 
 
 As the dark clouds ride o'er, the last twinkling star. 
 
 It snows, and the flakes, that descend through the roof, 
 
 Besprinkle, the lone cottage floor. 
 The rich, and the vain, in pride stand aloof, 
 
 And think, such belong to the poor; 
 Can feelings, of loftiness, and grandeur of thought, 
 Inhabit that dwelling, with misery fraught! 
 
(54 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 b 
 
 The curtain of night, is drawn o'er the world, 
 
 And her great chandelier, is lighted, 
 With reflecters, that gleam like the richest of pearl, 
 
 Or the diamond eyes, of a beautiful girl, 
 For the way-faring man that's benighted. 
 0! glorious night I 
 O! beautiful sight! 
 Are the stars, and the moon, with their silvery light. 
 
 And the clouds, — how august, — with their golden hue, 
 
 Lighted up, by that bright chandelier. 
 While glittering dots, like the spangles of dew, 
 
 And molten seas, and mountains of blue, 
 All o'er the horizon appear. 
 
 O! beautiful sight! 
 O! glorious night! 
 With the stars, and the moon, and their silvery light. 
 
 Let others admire the brightness of day, 
 
 Give me the deep silence of night; 
 Let them worship the sun, with his piercing ray, 
 And follow his course through the tedious day, 
 I turn from the gorgeous sight. 
 To stillness like this 
 A repose of bliss 
 When the dew-drops, and night-flowers sweetly kiss. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 65 
 
 Here, in this quiet and dreamy repose, 
 
 When each thought, is a breath from the heart, 
 With nought to impede, like a river that flows 
 They pour from a fountain of bliss, or of woes, 
 Yet a calmness to me, they impart. 
 As they rise on the air, 
 And are borne afar. 
 To the courts of Heaven, in the language of prayer, 
 
 And then the loved ones that rest in that place 
 
 In prospective, I view at this hour, 
 
 Adorned with a richness, a beauty and grace, 
 
 A dazzling charm, of form, and of face, 
 
 But my muse, has not the power, 
 Divinely to tell. 
 
 The half that I feel. 
 
 When a vision of glory, o'er my faculties steal. 
 
 MOON LIGHT. 
 
 "This night methinks, is but the^day-light sick, 
 "It looks a little paler." 
 
 Benign and gentle, shineth thy soft beam, 
 
 O'er all the sleeping earth, 
 Go — to the silent grave-yard; there's thy gleam, 
 Go — to the halls of mirth! 
 
 There-~There thou art. 
 6* 
 
$6 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The Pyramids, that ancient Egypt piled; 
 
 Iduraia's desert sands, 
 Tho' cursed, — thou still hast ever on them smiled. 
 
 There thy bright orb expands, 
 There — There thou art. 
 
 A kind benevolence beams from thee, 
 
 Impartial, — *]ike to all. 
 The savage Arab, under his palm tree, 
 
 Beholds thy bright rays fall 
 
 There — There thou art. 
 
 But purer seems thy patient saintly watch 
 
 Around the quiet dead; 
 With holy awe thou seemest to approach, 
 
 The lonely sleepers bed 
 
 There — There thou art. 
 
 Whether laid away in a princely state. 
 
 Or 'neath the willow tree, 
 Thou questionest not the quiet dreamer's fate, 
 
 There, thy pure beams we see, 
 There — There thou art. 
 
 Still pouring sacred, holy — holy light. 
 
 Over each turfted mound. 
 And the dark flitting shadows, seemeth bright. 
 
 Hallowing all the ground, 
 
 There — There thou art. 
 
 Still watch on! compassionate bright orb. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 67 
 
 'Till their deep sleep be o'er, 
 Then thou mayest fold thy silvery spangled robe 
 And watch them here, no more, 
 Here — Here no more. 
 
 NIGHT STROLL ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 On the margin of thy stream, 
 As the sun's last parting gleam, 
 
 Glimmers on each tree; 
 When the birds that shun the day. 
 O'er thy waters, whizzing play. 
 And the lenghtening shadows wide, 
 Fringe thy banks on either side. 
 While the mocking-bird with song, 
 Mimicking the feathery throng. 
 
 Making melody. 
 
 'Tis then I stray alone beside 
 Thy dark water's rushing tide, 
 
 In the stilly hours; 
 Not passionless, as that pale queen, 
 That guilds thy borders with her sheen, 
 Nor, merry as that mocking pair, 
 That chatters, — whistles — cherups — there, 
 But, like the shadows o'er thee flung 
 The mind is sad, — the light is gone 
 
 And darkness lowers. 
 
68 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 But, ever and anon, a beam, 
 
 Breaks through the darkness on thy stream, 
 
 Type of the mind; 
 So at this twilight hour, — afar. 
 By faith, I view a glorious star; 
 The cloud has gone, a golden ray 
 Has flung the shadows far away; 
 Light gushes down, a heavenly calm, 
 Succeeds each little passing storm, 
 
 Pure, — sweet, — refined. 
 
 Just so, alternate shade or light, 
 Flits before the Pilgrim's sight, 
 
 In a desert wild; 
 And now the mind has grown serene, 
 With rapture I behold the scene; 
 A thousand beauties I descry, 
 Around, beneath, — outspread, on high, 
 The moon has lit the ripling stream. 
 And Fairies dance on her bright beam, 
 
 Old night's beguiled. 
 
 Visions and dreams, away! away! 
 
 A Steam Boat nears, see the light spray 
 
 And see! — on deck 
 Convivial glee, in mimic show, — 
 I view them, as they swiftly go. 
 Proud of their power to skim thy tide. 
 And nobly does the vessel ride. 
 And lofty in her bearing too; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 69 
 
 But ah! no more her lights I view; — 
 Now, a mere speck. 
 
 She's gone! I scarce her 'scape can hear, 
 But lo, a dozen Flat Boats near, 
 
 With merry song, 
 Moving along thy muddy stream; 
 Secure in the kind moon's bright gleam; 
 Thus, mighty river! — night or day, 
 Thy waves are ploughed, and every spray. 
 That sparkles in the star-light's glare. 
 Tells busy, bustling men are there; — 
 
 A restless throng. 
 
 DEW DROPS. 
 
 At early morn thy pearly eye, 
 Peep from the rose bud's richest dye. 
 And, from the lily's virgin cap, 
 I love to see the wild bee sup 
 The dew drops. 
 
 And ere the spring one garb has worn. 
 I wander o'er the naked lawn. 
 To find the early violet; 
 Although my feet are dripping wet 
 With dew drops. 
 
 O Nature! nature! Thou, to me 
 Art; what thou art, to the wild bee, 
 
70 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 I plague the flowers, the bouquets pull, 
 While every little cup is full 
 Of dew drops. 
 
 'Tis strange — I cannot tell one why, 
 Such beauties make me often sigh; 
 But oftener I have gazed and smiled, 
 Which makes me deem myself a child, 
 'Mid dew drops. 
 
 And 'mid the flowers, a perfect bee, 
 Like her e'en making melody, 
 Buzzing, buzzing, here and there, 
 Snuffing the fragrance from the air. 
 And dew drops, 
 
 Nature! thou didst use me wrong, 
 
 1 should have been a bird of song, 
 A tiny, warbling busy thing. 
 For ever, ever, on the wing 
 
 With dew drops. 
 
 THE BLITHE, ETC. 
 
 The blithe summer birds have flown 
 
 Are gone. 
 Away on the wings of the air; 
 
 Afar, 
 
 . ■€.. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 And the leaves, one by one, 
 Murmur, summer is gone, 
 And winter is coming, 
 Beware! 
 
 Autumn's cool zephyrs now blows;- 
 
 The rose 
 Is not on the bush, or ground 
 
 Ere found. 
 And each deaden'd tree, 
 Sighs most piteously, 
 A dirge-like air; 
 
 A moan. 
 
 Ah 1 and must this be the way? 
 
 The gay! — 
 Will they pass too — like a dream? 
 
 A stream? 
 Far away out of sight: 
 Not a sunbeam, to light — 
 The desolate way, 
 
 The night. 
 
 Ah no! ah no! In the sky. 
 
 On high: 
 There's a star that the shepherds 
 
 Declare, 
 Shines with luminous ray; 
 Bright as midsummer's day, 
 There's refuge and rest; — 
 
 There fly. 
 
 71 
 
 '■-St 
 
72 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 'TIS SWEET AMID, ETC. 
 
 'Tis sweet amid the ship-wrecks of the heart, 
 To find one little budget stowed within; 
 When one by one, we've seen each hope depart; 
 'Tis then, with much avidity we glean. 
 From that small bundle, which is ne'er forgot; 
 O how we cull it o'er to find a bright green spot. 
 
 And, like a pilgrim in a desert waste. 
 That happily, perchance, has found a rill, 
 Amidst the hot siroccos; — lights and tastes 
 And cools his feverish brow, and sups his fill; 
 We search the bundle, the little gem to find, 
 And there it is (a jewel) within the mind. 
 
 THE PARTING, 
 
 This unknown future, — when we part,- 
 This knell, — if we should meet no more, 
 Those bitter pangs that we endure, 
 
 'Tis like death's own keen dart. 
 
 'Tis past, and truely thou art gone, 
 The few short weeks have flown away, 
 The time prescribed for thee to stay, 
 
 Have quickly — quickly flown. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 73 
 
 My heart, — my heart is strangely sick, 
 And nature hides her gleamy face. 
 And something dark broods o'er the place, 
 
 Heart! — why dost thou beat quick? 
 
 Is it that cruel word, farewell!? 
 That falls upon thee, like a weight, 
 Portentous of disastrous fate? 
 
 Or like a funeral knell? 
 
 O! thou too fond, too yearning heart! 
 That so o'erlooks thine own deep throes 
 That lives in another's bliss or woes; 
 
 Nor feeling thine own smart. 
 
 Thou art gone, — and if the power, 
 Were given me, to light thy way, 
 I'd send a bright, and cloudless ray, 
 
 I'd make thy world one flower. 
 
 Upwards, — and upward thou should'st rise, 
 And every step that touched the flower 
 I'd breathe on it a heavenly power, 
 That near'd thee to the skies. 
 September 7th, 1842. 
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 O! when will my summer flowers return? 
 When will they bloom again? 
 
 7 
 
74 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 "When the old monarch, Winter, bleak ard stern," 
 
 "Ceases to reign." 
 
 Will they bloom as fresh? as sweet and fair? 
 
 As ere they sank away, 
 "When ye feel the summer's balmy air" 
 "They'll open gay." 
 
 And will the vines their tendrils twine 
 
 Around my summer bowers; 
 "Yes— when the sunbeams on them shine 
 "With April showers," 
 
 But oh! my loveliest flower is gone, 
 
 A rose of purity, 
 With the summer it will not return, 
 Return to me. 
 
 "It is removed, — far — far above 
 "Cold winter's blighting wand, 
 "Was gently borne in the arms of love 
 "By God's command." 
 September, 1842. 
 
 Ahl I miss, her joyous playful glee. 
 
 Her sweet endearing smile 
 Can I forget, — memory! — 
 
 Leave me awhile! 
 October 9th, 1843. 
 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 75 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 They tell me beauty soon will fade, 
 Though witching in its power, 
 
 Ah! see its lovely light and shade, 
 'Tis in the morning flower. 
 
 'Tis on the cheek of bright sixteen, 
 
 So redolent and fair, 
 Around the dimpled mouth 'tis seen, 
 
 And on the gleamy hair. 
 
 And in the kind and gentle air, 
 The soft and tender tone, 
 
 And round the polished forehead fair 
 It sits a jewel'd zone. 
 
 But oh! the bright, the laughing eye. 
 Beauty must triumph there, 
 
 Though colored like the azure sky 
 Or like the raven hair. 
 
 No difference, — if the glance be kind. 
 
 Benevolent and pure; 
 Ah! then it speaks a Heavenly mind, 
 
 That seraphs might adore. 
 
 They tell me beauty soon will fade, 
 Though witching in its power; 
 
 Ahl see its lovely light and shade, 
 'Tis in the morning flower. 
 
76 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 INVALID'S SONG. 
 
 Give me the sweet wind from the hills, 
 A balm for the Invalid's brow, 
 
 O the cool, the murmuring rills 
 Where the beach and the willow trees grow. 
 
 Bear me now to the beachen tree, 
 The buz of the wild bee is there; 
 
 Around there is soft melody, 
 And the rippling waters are clear. 
 
 Now fill the cool cup from the rill, 
 And bathe! my feverish head; 
 
 All — all be quiet and still. 
 While ye make down the Invalid's bed. 
 
 Near the mossy stone I will lie, 
 Where the flowers are peeping around, 
 
 The birds will sing a lul-a-by 
 While I'm sleeping upon the ground. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL CYPRESS VINE IN FULL BLOOM. 
 
 The frost hath spared thee yet, my vine, 
 
 The frost hath spared thee yet, 
 And thou still with fond affection twine 
 
 Around my summer seat. 
 
WOOD" NOTES WILD. 77 
 
 Thy sister flowers are all asleep, 
 Sleep with their mother earth, 
 
 And thou alone art left to weep 
 The gone-by days of mirth. 
 
 Each morn, I visit thee, my vine, 
 Thinking to find thee gone; 
 
 But the hoar frost, hath been so kind, 
 To leave my favorite one. 
 
 O pity! that so bright a thing 
 
 Should pass from earth away, 
 And pity that death's barbed sting 
 Makes lovely flowers decay. 
 October, 20th 1842. 
 
 THOU HAST LED ME, ETC. 
 
 Thou hast led me in a way, 
 I ne'er had thought to go, 
 
 Thou source of pure etherial day. 
 Thy mighty power to show. 
 
 No flowers, o'er paths were strewed, 
 
 For my unguarded feet, 
 No bright-eyed sylvan goddess wooed- 
 
 — Me to her golden seat. 
 
 But, if my Redeemer, thou — 
 
 Didst point the thorny way, 
 
 Then let me humbly, meekly low, 
 
 Taught only to obey. 
 7* 
 
78 WOOD NOTES WILB. 
 
 LOVE IS INNATE. 
 
 Love is innate, 'twas breathed within my heart. 
 
 Ere childhood's dreams were o'er, 
 And can I with the cherished idol part? 
 And love no more. 
 
 No! I have said with me it was innate, 
 
 A pure and holy flame, 
 However dark and gloomy be my fate, 
 
 'Tis more than a name. 
 
 It reaches farther than the eye can see 
 
 Grasps more than earth can hold, 
 It is co-equal with eternity, 
 
 'Twill there unfold— 
 
 — Its lovely charms, unbounded in its might, 
 
 Where no absorbing cares 
 Will droop the wings of love's ascending flight 
 With burning tears. 
 
 Extinguished — no, — It can never be, 
 Though crushed within the soul 
 It has a depth of thought, a purity 
 That can't be told. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 79 
 
 MOON. 
 
 How long hast thou been shining — patient moon? 
 
 How long hast thou been shining? 
 Alike on the wild bacchanalian's room, 
 
 Or on the lone one pining. 
 
 Hast thou no time-piece? gentle, gentle beam! 
 
 To tick the hours? the lonely hours, 
 Since first thy soft rays poured a holy gleam 
 
 On the wild sleeping flowers. 
 
 ON MY BLIGHTED CYPRESS VINE. 
 
 Thou hast sank — my beauteous vine, 
 Thy leaves are pale and wan, 
 
 And when the sunbeams on thee shine, 
 Thy flowers will then be gone. 
 Away, away. 
 
 Soon as the white frost met my eye, 
 
 I thought of thee, my vine! 
 And then I heard the bleak-wind sigh, 
 
 Thy flowers, thy flowers are gone 
 Away, away. 
 
 I hastened to my little bower, 
 Where thou, but yesterday 
 
80 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Towered so high in beauty's power, 
 Hast sunk and died away 
 
 Away, away. 
 
 And then a moral to my heart. 
 Came with the sighing wind 
 
 "We must with every idol part," 
 "To adore, is but to sin," 
 "Aught save the great I AM." 
 
 I humbly bowed and turned away. 
 With one dark withered leaf, 
 
 A memento for the heart — when gay, 
 That earthly joys are brief. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 Tell me if this be solitude! 
 Not one loved voice to break this deathly gloom. 
 
 Yet beings of the mind intrude 
 And by enchantment decks a room. 
 With shade or light 
 A day or night, 
 Hope or despair, 
 A smile or tear. 
 Just as their wayward fancies please. 
 Will they my fond affections tease? 
 
 Retrospection with a vivid glow. 
 Brings what has faded long, long ago, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 81 
 
 Her visions are so beautiful and wild, 
 I am again a little playful child, 
 Standing beside my own fond mother's knee 
 As I was want, so full of buoyant glee; 
 And rosy, romping children all are there, 
 That used to join in dance or mimic prayer. 
 There too are baby dolls, our baby house, 
 And e'en the tabby cat has caught a mouse, 
 But then she turns with an earnest wo. 
 And whispers those have died long time ago, 
 And busily within the mind she stirs 
 Fond recollections — To womanhood recurs — 
 Mischievously — and tell me o'er and o'er 
 The things she's treasured in her greedy store; 
 The picture to my wakened fancy glows, 
 Fragrant and fresh as spring's earliest rose. 
 
 The bright, the glowing — the enviable sixteen, 
 When every flower was sweet — and meadow green. 
 Seems to have pass'd but yesterday — and I — 
 Scarce realize — grief — care and misery. 
 Then memory too— play her active part. 
 Lights up a smile— 'Or wounds the aching heart, 
 And Ideality on her fairy wings 
 Brings to the mind a little world of things; 
 She soars beyond the sight — she leaves the past, 
 And laden with her spoil returns in haste, 
 Spreads the rich banquet— to the poet's eye, 
 Gems from the ocean — earth — and azure sky; 
 E'en to the gates of Heaven she ventures near, 
 
82 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Her elevated thoughts disdain a fear, 
 
 And oft upon her dewy wings — a light 
 
 Descends — as sunbeams to the poet's night. 
 
 Hope lastly comes — she with a radiant brow, 
 
 With an immortal wreath and youthful glow, 
 
 The kind supporter on life's dreary road, 
 
 The sweet conductor to a bright abode; 
 
 She twines the wreaths around the broken hearts, 
 
 She bids them bloom — extracts the pointed darts; 
 
 Forgetting earthly woe and earthly joy, 
 
 She points to happiness without alloy. 
 
 Ah! thou best gift of Heaven — thou beaming light. 
 
 Life without thee would be a starless night; 
 
 We bow to thy pure shrine — we clasp thee near, 
 
 A treasure to the heart — a boon most dear. 
 
 Thus solitude, we cheat thee of thy gloom, 
 
 And have our social friends in the mind's room. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 Why should our cup be often mixed with bitter? 
 When o'er the earth such fragrant odours pour, 
 Why comes an antidote in a long letter? 
 Or from a rummage in our escritoire? 
 O the elastic texture of the mind! 
 The feminine! — (I know not what men are) 
 'Twere vain to try — a hemp chord ne'er can bind 
 An April rain — a sigh — a smile — a tear. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 83 
 
 A letter — here's ray implements unfurl'd, 
 A letter — I'll direct it to the world. 
 And I intend to say just what I choose, 
 If it be prose, or poetry — or what — not 
 Without consulting e'en a single muse, 
 With — or — without an Idea — or a — plot. 
 
 I will not be a sycophant, with thee. 
 
 Nor with the minions — that play on thy stage, 
 
 Pardon — Oh! world — my blunt sincerity, 
 
 I mean no war with thee or thine to wage, 
 
 But then methinks thou art a veering stage, 
 
 Where every sage or juggler plays his part; 
 
 From infancy to gurrulous old age. 
 
 And more or less each one's a knave at heart; 
 
 Were I an artist of the graphic class, 
 
 I'd paint thy theatre in miniature, 
 
 I'd draw the curtain from the motly mass, 
 
 And show how each one played behind the door, 
 
 But this would give me no eclat — and I— - 
 
 Would be condemn'd by many a beau and bell. 
 
 They in their wrath might sentence me to die, 
 
 And more — perhaps, they'd send me straight to h — 11. 
 
 But I am growing wicked — pity me! — 
 
 I've spurn'd away all sentimental throes. 
 
 If kept from nature's charms — her melody, 
 
 I'll pledge myself to be like lapland's snows. 
 
 For why should one in thy cold climate feel 
 
 A sweet — a pure disinterested Love, 
 
 i; J 
 
84 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 When hearts we meet are made of flint or steel, 
 That tears — nor sighs, nor language cannot move? 
 
 It is, we do presume, distinctly known, 
 
 That Ladies will ask why? — and wherefore this? 
 
 Particularly when they've peevish — grown 
 
 Therefore 'tis not so often thought amiss; 
 
 Then tell me, world! why some must meet thy frowns? 
 
 Why thorns and briers strew their devious wey? 
 
 While others not more worthy, wear thy crowns? 
 
 Gleaming beneath thy smiles, from day-to-day, 
 
 And tell me why? thy smile elicits — Love? 
 
 No — I will not abuse that noble flame 
 
 Love — Love divine — came from a world above, 
 
 Then tell me why it gathers wreaths of fame? 
 
 Why is it that innumerable friends 
 
 Crowd the rich board of all thy favoured heirs? 
 
 When no glad feet to the lone cottage winds, 
 
 Where dwells no riches, save in holy prayers, 
 
 Ada had lived in luxury and ease. 
 
 But one by one her goods were borne away, 
 
 Ada in prosperous life had charms to please, 
 
 A creature full of hope, buoyant and gay. 
 
 Some lov'd her for her soft and winning ways. 
 
 Some vow'd she was a paragon, — a charmer; 
 
 But this was all in Ada's golden days. 
 
 Thy gifts, O World! made every friend the warmer. 
 
 If Ada wrote, her stanza's were so fine, 
 
 Or if she sang the strains were even glorious 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 85 
 
 And then her champaign — was the richest wine, 
 It made the whining of her cats sonorous? 
 Her Children 0! each one was quite a Star, 
 Cupids — Apollo's — Genius's — forsooth 
 The images of dear Marme and Pa — 
 "Indeed my Little darlings 'tis the truth." 
 Thou cruel World withdrew thy gracious show'rs 
 And Ada's friends were really petriiied; 
 Her generous heart exerted all its powers 
 lu vain — each friend with a cold ague died. 
 
 4 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO TIME. 
 
 See the track of thy foot, on the once smooth brow, 
 
 Like the frost, on the pale wither'd leaf; 
 And the weight, of thy years, bends the proud head low, 
 
 As a heavy, and o'erloaded sheaf. 
 
 Tho' the mind feels, not thy blighting power, 
 
 For its freshness, is like the young morn; 
 It gathers a brightness, from ev'ry sweet flower 
 
 The furrowed brow to adorn. 
 
 Ah! but this stratagem, will not sufiice. 
 
 Thou hast robb'd us, of all that can charm; 
 
 Thou'st stolen youth's brilliancy, 'way from the eyes, 
 And the maidenly grace from the form. 
 
 How cruel! — to steal the exterior grace. 
 And leave the sad power to be charmed; 
 8 
 
86 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Fade the rose, that blush'd o'er the beautiful face, 
 With a sweetness, so touching, so warm. 
 
 'Tis so! — and the brow that is wither'd with care. 
 Excites no warm sympathy from man; 
 
 And the eye that's dimm'd, by affliction's sad tear, 
 Is but seldom, admired again. 
 
 Oh! why should the heart, so sadly repine? 
 
 Or shrink like a sensitive leaf? 
 If affection here fails; — there are joys divine, 
 
 Where the bosom is cured of grief. 
 
 Then come smiling hope, thou ne'er will forsake; 
 
 All thy beautiful visions unfold; 
 Thou canst the fine sentiments, of feeling aw^ake. 
 
 And impart, what cannot be told. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 
 
 "Sleep, gentle sleep," 
 "Nature's soft nurse." 
 
 Come with thy wizzard charm, sleep! 
 And o'er my wearied senses creep. 
 And all my busied fancies steep 
 
 In lethargy profound; 
 And let those eyes, so prone to weep. 
 
 Sleep sweet and sound. 
 
 But if thou please, the fancy wild 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thou still may'st leave; — like a playful child, 
 That some bright vision may beguile 
 
 The rustic girl; 
 And when the brain is free from toil, 
 
 Then let me smile. 
 
 Poet's may mock the inglorious charm. 
 
 Of dozing sweet, on couches warm; 
 
 And sing of mountains, clouds and storm, 
 
 But give me sleep! 
 And wrap me snug, from fear of harm, 
 
 Where day can't peep. 
 
 Ah! they may sing of ardent fire. 
 And touch the minstrel's sweetest lyre, 
 But they'll ne'er my drowsy head inspire 
 
 With poet's dreams; 
 Nor fix my morhid fancy higher 
 
 Than curtain themes. 
 
 They tell me, of such virtues rare, 
 Which they inhale, from morning air; 
 That the early dew, and flow'rs fair. 
 
 Ere the sun arise; 
 Glow, like a bright, and silvery star, 
 
 To charm the eyes. 
 
 I heed them not, — sleep comes o'er me, 
 With a soothing, dull monotony. 
 And bids all restless, passions flee. 
 
 87 
 
88 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Before its power; 
 And then I lie so quietly, 
 
 Nor count each hour. 
 
 I 
 Let poets snufF the midnight lamp, 
 
 And deem that sleep, their fancies cramp, 
 
 And all their vivid, fires damp. 
 
 (Each glorious thought;) 
 I'll sleep away and they may stamp 
 
 My name as nought. 
 
 Come thou sweet somniferous charm, 
 And bring thy strongest morphine balm, 
 And let me sleep, so sound and warm. 
 
 Some dozen hours: 
 Then let it thunder, hail, or storm, 
 
 I heed no showers. 
 
 O! when I'm wrapt in such repose, 
 As none, but the dozing sleeper knows; 
 The plates may chink; — the chicken crows, 
 
 But I am still 
 Coiled up in bed, head and toes, 
 
 To sleep my fill. 
 
 MY OLD ROCKING CHAIR. 
 
 Old Rocking Chair! thou'st been a friend to me, 
 And many turns there's been, 'twixt me and thee: 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Since first we did, in amity agree, 
 
 To dwell together: 
 We've seen both discord, and harmony; 
 
 And all kinds of weather. 
 
 My babes I've nurs'd, in thee, old chair, 
 And I have known thee, many a year; 
 Ah! oft in thee, I've shed the tear, 
 
 By anguish wrung: 
 Then rocked away, both grief and care, 
 
 With a lullaby song. 
 
 Old friend! thou need'st a few repairs, 
 Hard times, have given thee some few scars; 
 I too, like thee, have been through wars, 
 
 Since first we met; 
 Yet we have both escaped death's jaws, 
 
 Nor paid that debt. 
 
 We are much alike; — Thou'st lost thy glaze, 
 Just so, mine eyes, their brilliant rays; 
 We've both outlived, our golden days. 
 
 And happy dreams; 
 Thou want'sta coat — and I my stays. 
 
 Old friend, it seems. 
 
 The world, old chair! has used us rough, 
 We've found it made of motly stuff, 
 It often spurns us with a gruff, 
 
 As on we move; 
 I think old friend we've seen enough 
 
 To cure our love. 
 8* 
 
 89 
 
90 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Could thy old crocking sound unfold — 
 The various thoughts; — (could they be toldj 
 That's filled my brain; — as oft I've stole 
 
 To thy old seat; 
 A folio volume could not hold 
 
 What thou'dst repeat. 
 
 Old friend, we'll soon belaid away 
 And other trashy will come in play 
 Like all things else, we've had our da,y, 
 
 And we must go, 
 Forgotten by the grave and gay, 
 
 Passingr to and fro. 
 
 THE SWALLOW 
 
 Hast thou come? bright harbinger of early springl 
 Hast the come, to tell us that winter is past? 
 And dost thou, the welcome intelligence bring? 
 That the snow, and the frost, and the cold winter blast, 
 Have departed? for the sweet little flowers to peep 
 From under the sod, — with their beautiful hues: 
 The multiflora, and woodbine, o'er houses to creep, 
 To form a thick shade, for the fanciful muse? 
 
 Now, welcome my bird! thou'rt welcome indeedl 
 To bring such refreshing good news! 
 
WOOD NOTES "WILD. 91 
 
 Hastel gather thy straws, and thy chaff with speedl 
 
 And a snug little hole, in the chimney choose! 
 
 To build up a beautiful nest. 
 Ah! true, thou cant sing, like the pretty raock-bird^ 
 
 Nor wearest thou, so rich a dress; 
 But where thy maternal, chat'ring is heard 
 
 Thou remindest of mother's, who fondly caress, 
 
 The sweet little ones at the breast. 
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 Thy infant age, has charms, 
 Wrapt in thy mother's arms, 
 
 Sweet one! 
 Thy rosy dimpl'd face, 
 And tiny head, with cap of lace^ ' 
 
 Neatly put on; 
 The cherry lip, press'd to the breast, 
 With artless playful, restlessness, 
 Ah! pure innocence, is thine; 
 The silken hair, so soft and fair, 
 Like golden, sun -beams shine. 
 
 Babe! thou art beautiful indeed! 
 
 Thine eyes outshine, the di'mond bead; 
 Thy soft smile, like angels sweet. 
 We delight to see thee oft repeat; 
 We love to see, thy innocence asleep; 
 
92 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 We oft, to thy soft pillow creep, 
 And think thou seest, an angel train, 
 That lulls thee, with their softest strain. 
 
 Babe! cant it — can it be? 
 That we will ever see 
 Those dimpl'd hands, now soft and fair, 
 Engaged in carnage, blood and war? 
 0! babe! and can that lovely brow; 
 Emblem of the unsullied snow, 
 O! can it, will it ever bow 
 
 To one low thought? 
 No! let thy soul be fraught. 
 With wisdom from on high; 
 And may, thy virtues grow, 
 As nurtur'd, from the sky. 
 And may'st thou, be taught to know, 
 God reigns on high: 
 And views with beatific eye, 
 Age^ youth and infancy. 
 That He has a place of rest. 
 
 For innocence to dwell; 
 Of such, equisite bliss. 
 That no tongue, can tell 
 Its excellence, and worth: 
 Or how Deity, could give such beauties birth. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 93 
 
 What bounding step 
 
 Is heard to skip, 
 
 So buoyantly along? 
 
 With the merry song? 
 Ah! youth's gay charms are there: 
 The features round and fair, 
 
 The laughing eye, 
 With colour, like the azure sky: 
 
 And cheeks, that like the rose, 
 
 While redolent and fresh, 
 Selects the morning to disclose 
 The purest, sweetest dress. 
 
 The sunny locks of gold 
 
 Around the face. 
 Are seen to play; 
 Bach gesture, will unfold 
 A soft bewitching grace, 
 
 Which winds its way, 
 Directly to the heart. 
 The form erect and firm; 
 The feelings, kind, and warm; 
 Youth knows not yet, how to depart, 
 From pure simplicity; 
 But innocent and free, 
 It dances on, too merrily. 
 
94 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 To dream of sorrow; 
 For can it borrow, 
 From old decrepid age, 
 One anxious care, or thought; 
 Nor can its thoughtlessness turn o'er the page. 
 With sage experience fraught. 
 But 0! it cheers the heart, 
 
 To look on thee; 
 And age with fresher memory; 
 Recalls the past; 
 And can with cherish 'd recollections see, 
 When such mirth, did to her impart, 
 An ecstacy of joy. 
 Without alloy. 
 
 Ah! lovely age I 
 Before the world^s dark page. 
 Has open'd to thy mind, 
 With lessons, sternly taught; 
 That, wisdom must be bought; 
 That Zoeemay fail; ^.nA friendship prove unkind. 
 
 I view thee, with my heart, and eyes o'erflown; 
 I see thee when these dreams of bliss are gone. 
 And sympathize with thee. 
 
 Along life's way; 
 And pray , that in Eternity, 
 We all may find, one bright and endless day: 
 Of bliss without alloy, 
 A genial clime, where happiness, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 95 
 
 Is never known to cloy. 
 A garden in all seasons, 
 Yielding every kind of fruit; 
 Trees with a thousand varioas sweets; 
 Buds hourly are seen to shoot; 
 And wreaths of richest gems. 
 
 Around each head; 
 Which forms bright diadems, 
 That every hour will shed, 
 Such spangled blooms, 
 Of dazzling gold: 
 So exquisitely bright. 
 That one single ray. 
 Would throw a light, 
 A thousand leagues along the way, 
 Among the trees, and fruits, and blooms, 
 Fragrant, with a thousand sweet perfumes. 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 This care worn shell, 
 Each coming day can tell. 
 
 Its gradual decay; 
 In the once smooth face, 
 The lineal marks ye trace, 
 Furrowing their own way. 
 
 Some crumbling partj, 
 To mortify the heart, 
 
96 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Is seen to go: 
 
 A tooth breaks off; 
 The full round face grows soft; 
 And silvery hairs, scatt'ring grow. 
 
 The body once erect, 
 Now stooping o'er; 
 The brisk, elastic step, 
 Is heard no more; 
 But in its stead, 
 A sluggish, heavy tread, 
 Weary and slow: 
 As though each foot, 
 Much caution took, 
 Its tiresome way to go: 
 And then, the heavy load ye carry, 
 A bundle of anxious cares; 
 Ye cannot stop, ye cannot tarry; 
 Time waits not, for you here. 
 
 Yet, though the pace be slow, 
 
 Ye soon will know 
 A place of rest: 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 The care-worn breast; 
 And then ye'll quiet lie, 
 And the too, feeling heart. 
 Will have heaved, its last long sigh. 
 And have felt, its last keen smart. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 97 
 
 INFLUENCE OF TIME. 
 
 Time lays his hand, on the smooth fair brow, 
 And leaves, a shadowy trace; 
 . He breathes, on the beautiful cheek's rich glow, 
 And ye find, a withered face. 
 
 He touches the form, and lowly it bows, 
 The bright eye recedes from his gaze; 
 
 He combs the dark hair, and quickly it grows 
 White, — white, as yon silvery rays. 
 
 One mystical thing, looks on as he flies. 
 And smiles at his blanching power; 
 
 The edge of his scythe, it coolly defies, 
 And feels like an immortal flower. 
 
 Tho' it grows so sad, so weary and dull, 
 
 Confin'd alone in its cell; 
 It pants for a fountain, that ever is full, 
 
 Where the beautiful spirits all dwell. 
 
 It sighs for the rose, that fades not away, 
 And weeps, for love that is pure; 
 
 It would o'er the fields of elysium stray. 
 And learn how bright seraphs adore. 
 
 But 0! it inhabits a dwelling so dark, 
 
 A lonely^ — a desolate thing; 
 Tho' it feels in its nature, a heavenly spark, 
 
 The light, and the beauty, is gone. 
 9 
 
98 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 And 'tis like a benighted wanderer now, 
 In a forest, — bewilder'd and blind; 
 
 Where no breezes are sent, to fan the faint glow 
 Of this dark, and mystical, Mind. 
 
 TO A STAR. 
 
 Thou twinkling star! that peeps beneath my curtain, 
 
 Dart thou away! 
 Thou keep'st old Morpheus from mine eyes 'tis certain, 
 
 With thy soft ray. 
 
 Thou fiU'st the mind, with tumultuous rapture, 
 
 And complex thought; 
 To comprehend thy strange, and brilliant texture, 
 
 With beauty fraught. 
 
 Shinest thou, to mock, the lurid scenes of earth? 
 
 Thou sparkling thing: 
 The Mighty One, who gave thy beauties birth, 
 
 Reigns, Universal King! 
 
 His power supreme, created thy soft beauty. 
 
 And bid thee shine; 
 And every twinkling ray, tells man his duty: 
 
 That God's divine. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 99 
 
 BRIEF MOMENT. 
 
 The moment has flown; — time has left it afar, 
 
 But memory holds it, — ah! dearly: 
 It seems in life's Era, as a beautiful star 
 
 That has set, and left me so lonely. 
 
 It haspass'd; — and the brief little moment's gone, 
 On a page of the heart 'tis engrav'n; 
 
 The record seems bright, as a beautiful morn, 
 Or as thoughts, that the soul has of heaven. 
 
 It has pass'd; — and is there another, — (save one) 
 Who remembers the time with emotion? 
 
 Or a heart, that can breathe so deep, deep a tone? 
 Or love with such ardent devotion? 
 
 MY THOUGHTS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MRS. F. B. F. 
 
 My thoughts have roamed o'er the world, 
 And sadly return 'd to my breast; 
 Nor have they a sentence e'er told, 
 Where my spirit can quietly rest. 
 
 Again, they go forth, from the heart, 
 With feelings of hope and despair; 
 They pierce, with a meteor's dart, 
 Through the trackless ether, afar. 
 
100 WOOP NOTES WILD. 
 
 They ask the blue clouds for a place, 
 Where a weary spirit can rest; 
 Like a mist, they vanish in haste, 
 And my thoughts come to me distress'd. 
 
 Again, to the stars they approach, 
 And deem that their silvery light, 
 Will give them some clue, or torch. 
 To illumine the fathomless nighty 
 
 0! the stars glide silently down, 
 And the beautiful sky looks dark; 
 E'en the soft moon seeraeth to frown. 
 List! — a sound I hear! hark! 
 
 'Tis the voice of the spirit-dove, 
 As it flies through the viewless air; 
 And it comes, with a message of ^^€; ' 
 To bid all the weary prepare 
 
 For a journe}^; — far, far away, 
 To mansions prepar'd for the bless'd; 
 No night there e'er follows the day. 
 And the spirits are ever at rest. 
 
 •VV;^ ;.•/'■ .■ -'V 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 Fleet bird! it seemeth^ — the moments to beguile. 
 That had I wings like thee, of golden hue, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 I'd light upon yon silv'ry crescent pile, 
 And build my nest 'midst clouds of honey dew; 
 Methinks, my bird! with thy bright buoyant wing, 
 I'd reach that arch and to its fringes cling. 
 
 That world of grandeur — clouds on clouds I see, 
 Nothing to equal their soft brilliant lustre, 
 Pyramids of gold surrounding the blue sea, 
 Rich shells and granite rocks all in a cluster; 
 Such, beautious clouds, are your chamelion charms, 
 Various and flitting in their mystic forms. 
 
 And versatile as ye are, we delight 
 To gaze upon that soft and fleecy mound» 
 Studded with gems of scarlet, gold, and white, 
 It seems that there rich jewels might be found. 
 Lend me thy wing! gay tenant of the sky, 
 To pluck those coral wreaths of roseate dye. 
 
 O! lend thy wing! — and bear my spirit far. 
 That I may lave it in yon purple ocean. 
 My heart is glowing like that evening star, 
 That seems to twinkle with some sweet emotion. 
 Ah! happy bird, thou lendest not thy wing. 
 Then go thy way — go with thy love and sing! 
 
 THE CYPRESS VINE. 
 
 How beautiful this vine, where the soft tendrils twiae. 
 All around the old parent stem, 
 
 9* 
 
102 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The emblem of love, from the bright world above^ 
 Such clmging attachments would seem. 
 
 There's a world of delight, where no withering blight 
 
 Will tear the affections apart; 
 Where no apathy cold, will wound the kind soul, 
 
 Or pierce the affectionate heart. 
 
 0! rapturous thought, with ecstacy fraught. 
 
 To dwell in that beautiful place; 
 Where blossoms ne'er die, nor the heart heaves a sigh, 
 
 Nor care ever saddens the face. 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 Amidst the many voices of the grove. 
 
 We hear one mournful tone; 
 0! 'tis the innocent, — the bird of lovel 
 
 That sighs the plaintive moan: 
 Tell me thou gentle innocent — tell me! 
 What gives thy quiet spirit misery? 
 
 Thou art weary: — hast thou searched in vain? 
 
 O'er earth, and ocean wide, 
 To find one little spot, exempt from pain, 
 
 For guiltlessness tcf hide? 
 Tell me! what thou hast learned my quiet bird, 
 What from the earth, or sea, or sky thou'st heard? 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 103 
 
 Has earth reveal'd to thee, her hidden woes, 
 
 From 'neath her spangled veil? 
 And shown to thee, those keen and bitter throes 
 
 *'That turn the good man pale"? 
 Or wast thou nestled, on the grave's tomb stone, 
 Where thou did'st learn from man, thy pitious moan? 
 
 Or did old Ocean stay, its sullen sound? 
 
 Roll up its mighty waves? 
 To show, that no bright spot was ever found. 
 
 In her deep watery graves: 
 Or wast thou frightened, at her chaos bed 
 That showed the bones, of many thousands dead? 
 
 But stay thee yet: — tell of the azure sky! 
 
 Where thou hast lav'd thy wing, 
 In pearly dews, in seas of richest dye; 
 
 Didst thou hear angels sing? 
 Didst thou reach Heaven so near, my quiet dove 
 To hear them sing one song — of perfect love? 
 
 Then sing to us, of the Elysian plains. 
 
 Tell us of something fair! 
 If thou didst catch, the soft celestial strains, 
 
 Give us, the Heavenly air! 
 O bear our spirits, from this gloomy earth! 
 And take us, where such heay'nly sounds have birth. 
 Mississippi, June, 1841. 
 
104 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 WERE I A BARD. 
 
 I have been fall oft 
 The chase of fortune; now she hath o'ertaken 
 My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
 Sick, poor, and lonely. — Byron. 
 
 Were Ian honor'd one, a titled bard, 
 Perchance like Byron, I would write a tale; 
 For genius brightens, where it meets reward, 
 It lights no torch, within a lowly vale; 
 There its deep sighs, are borne upon the gale. 
 And wafted, to some sweet Elysian bower, 
 Where it can rest, nor feel the sharp assail. 
 Of the keen satyrist, or critic's power, 
 But gather fragrant sweets from every bud and flower. 
 
 A thousand phantoms, fright the timid muse, 
 The muse, that o'er the humble wight presides; 
 The path to honor, he would gladly choose, 
 But ah! that bitter scorn, which oft derides, 
 The humble poor, whom ev'ry ill betides; 
 Appalls; — and then the vivid mind gives way. 
 Till a bright thought, into the bosom glides, 
 In search of some new light, some hidden ray, 
 To burst the gloom of night, and give that mind clear day. 
 
 O th€ ingenious projects of the mind! 
 Whose thoughts, trace every winding avenue^ 
 Some secret charm, or hidden good to find, 
 A path to honor, that it might pursue; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 105 
 
 But is there aught, to give the mind a clue ? 
 Fortune has baffled, ev'ry glorious scheme, 
 And what presents, to the desponding view? 
 But blasted prospects, or an idle dream, 
 Adversity! thy clouds, hath darken 'd my sad theme. 
 
 And cramped the mind, in an iron case, 
 The rust of which, wants soothing, limpid oil, 
 For their rich images all die, or waste; 
 Despondent feelings stop all pleasing toil. 
 
 poverty! thou dost fair visions spoil. 
 And biiid with fetters, the ingenious soul, 
 And ev'ry plan, thou canst completely foil. 
 This truth, this simple truth, has oft been told. 
 
 But those feel not its weight, whose coffers clink with gold. 
 
 Wealth ne'er can comprehend this hard learn 'd truth, 
 
 1 would, it could be told, in burning words, 
 Perchance they might admit, the fact, forsooth, 
 Nor think that Bards, could live as wand'ring birds, 
 Or as the straying flock, that idly herds, 
 
 In shelters rude; — Experience only knows, 
 If our best efforts, always meet rewards. 
 The tornadoes pass, when the flowret blows, 
 And heavy clouds hang o'er the sun, that in splendor rose. 
 
 POVERTY. 
 
 Avaunt! thou meagre, ghostly wretch! 
 Thou cruel, frowning, starved elf! 
 
106 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Barest thou a high born soul to teach, 
 
 Ah! thou art truly death itself! 
 Thy with 'ring grasp, cramps the aspiring thought, 
 And thy cold aspect, is with misery fraught. 
 
 Yet we will give thee all thy due, 
 Although thou art, a tiresome school, 
 Thy lessons hard; — but O! how true! ~ 7-- 
 To shew the wise man, or the fool; — 
 Freed from the mask, which glitt'ring fortune wears, 
 And the vain sycophant's dissembling airs. 
 
 And in those lessons, we too learn, 
 Tha.t friendship's like the zephyr's sigh; 
 Altho' thou teachest with rigour stern, 
 Thou provest too, that love can die; 
 Yes, Poverty! thou showest plain, stubborn truths I 
 Then why thy rueful visage, so much abuse? 
 
 Because thou givest mental pain, 
 And woundest the feelings of the soul; 
 We urge thee to depart in vain. 
 Still thy rude aspect, we behold; 
 
 Thou wantest etiquette; — stern poverty; 
 
 Thus to intrude, where none are wanting thee. 
 
 Had I been fortune's favorite heir, 
 I'd prove the world, ere I'd talk of love: 
 A rude disguise, myself I'd wear. 
 And o'er the wide creation rove; 
 Till once 1 found, a noble soul in maw. 
 Who could, through any garb, true merit scan. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 107 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 I never had a pretty flow'r, 
 
 Which grew upon a fav'rite mound; 
 
 But some rude blast, some chilling show'r, 
 
 Snapp'd its pedestal to the ground. 
 
 I never had, a fav'rite tree, 
 
 Where I would carve, the name I love; 
 
 But ruin mark'd its destiny; 
 
 Or I was doom'd from it to rove. 
 
 I never had, a valu'd pet, 
 A purring cat, or singing bird; 
 ■^ But would, my tenderness forget, 
 ,/^ And oft my feelings, disregard. 
 
 Nor, did lever have a. friend. 
 Whose delicate, and tender love, 
 Was like the ring, — without an end, 
 -r- Or affection's simile;^ — The dove. 
 
 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Give me the sweet wild flowers, I love them the best, 
 Uncultur'd, unnotic'd, in their own rural dress; 
 If they grow on a heath, 'midst the thorn and the brier, 
 Ah! 'tis such that I wish, 'tis such I admire. 
 
108 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Bring the pale desert rose! whose fragrance was given, 
 To the winds, that blow over some wild barren waste; 
 Which was nurtur'dby none, save the kind hand of heav'n, 
 0! in my own bosom, such flowers I'll place. 
 
 And why, thou mayest ask, do I love the wild rose, 
 It blooms not so fresh, so luxuriant or bright; 
 Ah! that cannot be told: — for the heart only knows, 
 Its own warm emotions, and its own pure delight. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 "She looked in her heart and wrote." — Sydney. 
 
 Friendship! sweet name! comes o'er my wearied ear. 
 
 As an echo, that is heard afar; 
 Which fainter grows, when we approach it near. 
 
 And ere 'tis reach'd; — 'tis lost in air. 
 
 Friendship! tell me where thou dost dwell! 
 
 Can aught, save gold, win thy esteem? 
 What once I thought thee, my fond heart can tell, 
 
 In gone-by days, in life's young dream. 
 
 O! thou didst seem, a cherish'd, holy thing. 
 
 Fraught, with benevolence, and love; 
 Thy charm, did o'er my heart, an ardour fling, 
 
 That caught its rapture from above. 
 
 The warm heart, then, alone demanded thee; 
 The world, had not its blights imparted, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 109 
 
 Thou, then didst come, unsought for, kind and free, 
 Thy ofF'rings my full heart requited. 
 
 Since the cold world, has blasted my fond hopes, 
 
 And the sun is setting o'er my head; 
 At this twilight hour, when the heart seeks props, 
 
 'Tis now that Friendship's from me fled. 
 
 Should fortune change, and lavish gifts on me, 
 Twining wreaths of fame around my brow; 
 
 Would friendship court me, or would friendship flee? 
 Methinks I'd win the obsequious how. 
 
 But fortune's gifts would not enhance my worth, 
 
 Or give one charm to my mental powers; 
 Unless, perchance, its means give talents birth, 
 
 As embryo buds expand to full-blown flowers. 
 
 OVERFLOWING OF THE MISSISSIPPI, 
 
 MARCH, 1842. 
 
 Why dash thy furious waves in wild turmoil? 
 Lashing the shores and bearing off the soil; 
 What means this fury, thou lumb' ring piles of drift? 
 Chasing each predecessor; confused and swift; 
 So recently thy current smoothly ran, 
 But now, a fearful change has o'er thee gone; 
 A furious madness seems to mark thy course, 
 Thy angry ripples, gurgling loud and hoarse; 
 And thou, like a courser lash'd on every side, 
 10 
 
110 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thy white foam spouting from thy nostrils wide; 
 What demon is behind thee? what fearful thing? 
 Has every snowbank melted? — brook and spring 
 Pour'd their last drop into thy muddy tide? 
 To make thee overflow from side to side? 
 Stay thy fury! thy hoarse and rushing sound 
 Appals each hearer, with an awe profound; 
 Climb not eo rapidly, thy rugged way! 
 Nor carry off such piles of crumbling clay! 
 Hark! hearthat mighty crash! what means the sound? 
 'Tis echo's voice raverberating round; 
 Telling of thy destructive, furious powr; 
 What thou canst make, or spoil, in one short hour; 
 Thou canst, bold river! with one rushing sweep. 
 Plunge acres into thy broad, turbid deep; 
 And limpid lakes are form'd at thy command. 
 Where stood the tallest trees, on firmest land; 
 Subdue thyself! — draw back thy raging tide! 
 Before thou overflow 'st from side to side. 
 
 \-' 
 
 GLORY NOT. 
 
 "For wlio maketh thee to differ from another? and what hast thou 
 that thou didst not receive? Now if thou didst receive it, why dost thou 
 glory, as if thou badst not received it? — ii Corinth. 4 ch. 7 v. 
 
 Art thou a gifted, highly honor'd one? 
 Did genius breathe upon thy natal star? 
 And weave a crown, bright as the orient sun, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. Ill 
 
 To bind the tresses, on thy brow'so fair? 
 
 Yet what hast thou, that thou didst not receive? 
 
 O! glory not. Could'st thou such talents give? 
 
 Is thy bright form, from beauty's model wrought? 
 With sweet medona features, soft and fair? 
 Thy soul endow'd with rich, capacious thought? 
 So that no creature could with thee compare: 
 Yet glory not! these beauties all must die; 
 They vanish as a dream, or bosom's sigh. 
 
 Has fame a wreath to fit thy sunny brow? 
 That throws a halo round thy devious way; 
 The honor'd head, e're long, must lowly bow, 
 And yield to death's unconquerable sway; 
 Then glory not! since nought we have is ours; 
 All — all must wither, as the vernal flowers. 
 
 Or love, does it anticipate each wish? 
 
 Or sympathy stand ready to relieve? 
 
 Art thou capacitated, for all bliss? 
 
 Still glory not! these things may all deceive; 
 
 Friendship and love and wealth may flee away, 
 
 And leave thee, a night, without one ling'ring ray. 
 
 There is a rest, where friendship never dies, 
 Where love glows brighter, as it longer burns; 
 A glorious home — beyond the deep blue skies; 
 Where every generous thought meets warm returns. 
 There thou may est glory in immortal joys. 
 In friendship pure, that never, never cloys. 
 
112 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 STORM AT NATCHEZ. 
 
 MAY, 1840. 
 
 "War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire; 
 
 Intestine broils, oppression with her heart 
 
 Wraptup in triple brass, beseige mankind." — Young; 
 
 Awake my muse! midst scenes so full of grief, 
 
 Though weak and powerless, to bring relief, 
 
 And come with every feeling kind and warm, 
 
 To mourn the miseries of this fearful storm: 
 
 Sleep muset — to paint the scene is not for thee, 
 
 Tho' fraught with pathos and with sympathy. 
 
 Sleep muse! — nor chant thy mournful melodies; 
 
 'Twere mockery to such lasting miseries! 
 
 Nor dare presume to scan that power divine, 
 
 Who holds the clouds, and rides upon the wind. 
 
 Nor dare one murmur! or one impious word. 
 
 When dust to dust is level'd by his sword. 
 
 Ah! mournful city! where once the cheerful clang 
 
 Of active business o'er thy pavements rang. 
 
 Oh! mournful city! once convivial glee 
 
 Ran through thy domes, so blithe and merrily: 
 
 Yes — doom'd Natchez! how altered is thy state. 
 
 How changed those homes where science proudly sate. 
 
 Where have they fled! how have they disappear'd. 
 
 Models of taste, by th' ingenious artist rear'd, 
 
 All crushed by one disastrous, deadly blast, 
 
 And left as a lone, dilapidated waste. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 113 
 
 OhJ Natchez! we mourn thy recent, hapless doom, 
 
 And sing a requiem o'er thy faded tomb; 
 
 We deprecate with tears ,our common fate, 
 
 And in thy sorrows warmly participate: 
 
 We'd humbly bow, in sac-cloth meek and low. 
 
 To Him who dealt this sad, disastrous blow: 
 
 Own our impotence; — like the 'phem'ral flower, 
 
 That blooms at morn, and withers in an hour. 
 
 O! we would scan, man's mighty power and strength, 
 
 Circumference, — diameter, — and length; 
 
 Compute it! measure it! and tell us all 
 
 That keeps man hourly from the last dread fall. 
 
 Point to that mourning city! then ask his power! 
 
 At that momentous, appalling, fearful hour, 
 
 When tallest buildings tremble to their base. 
 
 And death-like paleness crept o'er every face; 
 
 Ask then whose arm eould stay the whirlwind's blast. 
 
 And seize the vivid lightning as it pass'd? 
 
 Could, hold those pillars, once so firm and strong, 
 
 Which were like straws around the pavements flung! 
 
 Ah! those pale, mangled forms, breathless and cold, 
 
 Could the sad history of man's strength unfold. 
 
 ON THE FALLING OF THE MISSISSIPPL 
 
 "Thou rulest the raging of the sea, when the waves thereof arise- 
 -Thou istillest them."— Psalm 89, v. 9. 
 
 Thou rijilest the tide of this proud stream, 
 Source of unlimited power; 
 10* 
 
J14 ' WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thou commandest a pause, and the waves seem 
 Obediently to cower. 
 
 Like a wild courser, furiously enraged, 
 The bold stream rush'dand tumbl'd on; 
 
 A war with rafts and boats it waged, 
 The borrow 'd weapons now are gone. 
 
 The piles of drift, the large, uprooted tree. 
 
 The angry, gurgling, rapid flow. 
 Are gone — a dull and sluggish source we see, 
 
 Sullen, subdued, and slow.. 
 
 Thy steps retrace! go back the rugged way! 
 
 Which in thy fury thou didst take. 
 As thou didst rise, lashing with every spray, 
 
 The rough, uneven banks that break, 
 
 And tumbling headlong in thy muddy deep, 
 With solemn sound, and awful splash; 
 
 Large houses thou wouldst take with one broad sweep 
 And one tremendous, thund'ring crash. 
 
 Go back! impetuous tide, nor farther come! 
 
 Thy most daring swell is over; 
 Thou who didst revel in each victim's doom, 
 
 With loud roar, or angry murmur. 
 
 Calm thy bold self! thou hast no longer strength, 
 To mount with speed the craggy steep; 
 
 The swiftness was not thine! go boast thy length! 
 Exult! proud thing, in thine own deep. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 115 
 
 AHI N0» 'TIS NOT, 
 
 Ah! no, 'tis not the midnighfs dreamy hour, 
 That the bitterest thoughts arise, «» 
 
 'Tis at the dawn of day, when grief has power 
 To breath its deepest, deadliest sighs. 
 
 Ask thebereav'd one if the midnight gloom, 
 
 Deepens one shadow o'er the heart; 
 Oh, no! 'tis vernal morn, when beauties bloom. 
 
 That sorrow will its stings impart. 
 
 Ask the pale debauchee, if midnight wakes 
 
 Remorse, the keenest, in his soul? 
 Methinks he'll say, — 'tis when the morning breaks, 
 
 The knell of conscience strikes the toll. 
 
 Then why is midnight deem'd the spirit hour, 
 When horrors crowd in thick array? 
 
 To seize each victim, by some wizzard power, 
 And bind him till the break of day. 
 
 THE HUMMING BIRD. 
 
 Thou little buzzing humming bird, 
 Thy bill seeks every flower; 
 
 And labour meets, its rich reward. 
 From the honey -suckle bower. 
 
116 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Gay, tiny thing, like the zephyr's breeze, 
 Lightly thou tou chest the wild rose; 
 
 Then darting far, amidst the trees, 
 Where the sweet bud proudly grows. 
 
 Go bjfd! go kiss the tulip's lip, 
 
 Then taste the lovely violet; 
 And from the pink, sweet nectar sip, 
 
 The jasamin do not forget. 
 
 It has a charm surpassing all 
 Of flora's beauties of the earth; 
 
 That charm can never with me pall. 
 Her choice it was — who gave me birth. 
 
 Of all the vines that deck'd her walk, 
 She loved the jasamin the most; 
 
 And with its blooms her mind would talk, 
 Till feelings were in raptuf e lost. 
 
 Humming bird! light on that flower. 
 And taste the honey from its cup; 
 
 Methinks thou'lt get from that sweet bow'r, 
 The richest nectar thou canst sup. 
 
 Rest there, it will not satiate, 
 Its odor, like intrinsic worth, 
 
 Will last, e'en after cruel fate, 
 
 Has pluck'd it from its parent earth- 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 117 
 
 THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 No one e'er returns from the spirit land, 
 
 To reveal the dark secrets of fate; 
 No, not one soul, from that numerous band, 
 
 Who has enter'd death's strongiron gate. 
 
 Why thus secure, are the portals of death? 
 
 That no trav'ler retraces his way, 
 To speak of the form, bereft of its breath. 
 
 Or the spirit, when freed from its clay. 
 
 Can forgetfulness reign, in the spirit land, 
 Think they not, of the loved ones behind? 
 
 Methinks could the heart, with rapture expand, 
 'Twould 'round those loved ones be entwin'd. 
 
 And will it thus be? when I too shall die? 
 
 Shall I know nought of friends whom I leave? 
 When their bosoms are pain'd by the deep sigh. 
 
 Shall I not be permitted to grieve? 
 
 THE SPIRIT DOVE. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MRS. F***. 
 
 Bring me news! spirit Dove! from the city of rest, 
 For my heart has grown weary with cares; 
 
118 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Bring me news! spirit Dove! from the home of the blest, 
 The place unacquainted with tears. 
 
 Thy visits below are to soothe, spirit Dove! 
 
 To bind up the deep wounds that bleed; 
 For what is thy name? or thy nature? but love! 
 
 Bring the balm! bring the balm! that I need. 
 
 A message! sweet dove! from the friends of my heart; 
 
 I've told thee my spirits were low, 
 Bid them whisper thee something, ere thou depart, 
 
 Then haste, spirit Dove! — be not slow! 
 
 Impatience has seized me, I cannot not now stay, - 
 Lend thy wing! spirit Dove! lend thy wing! 
 
 I'd fly to my friends, and join in the lay. 
 That the angels in ecstacy sing. 
 
 Teach the strain! spirit Dove! teach me the strain! 
 
 As thou bear'st me above the blue sky; 
 Quick! quick! spirit Dove! for my energies wane. 
 
 Breathe the life that never can die. 
 Nashville, June 20th, 1843. 
 
 TO THE STARS. 
 
 Tell me, thou beauteous canopy of night! 
 How thou art studded with such gems of light! 
 A thousand silvery stars thy darkness cov'ring; 
 And ray&of liquid light seem o'er us hov'ring. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 119 
 
 O! would some voice solve the long hidden story! 
 Tell how they shine! reveal their secret glory! 
 And shew that wonder-working power Divine 
 Which planted them! — and bid their beauties shine! 
 
 Bright glittering stars! thou shamest this poor earth; 
 Shewing glories of incalculable worth; 
 Shining thy praises, to that power supreme, 
 Whose wisdom glows in one perpetual beam. 
 Thou twinkling stars! dart one instructive ray 
 Through this dull mass of morbid, opake clay! 
 Which shrouds the heart, and stills the silent throes, 
 That, like some hidden treasure, faintly glows. 
 Canst thou not, by some bright and magic charm; 
 The anxious bosom of its cares disarm? 
 Disperse the gloom! which would the soul enshroud, 
 Gath'ring o'er the head like an impending cloud. 
 And bid those cares — those heavy, with 'ring cares, 
 That dim the eye with floods of burning tears, 
 Be chased away! — by thy soft silvery rays. 
 And cheer the heart with dreams of brighter days. 
 
 DAYS OF MY EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Days of my early childhood! like happy dreams. 
 That flit across the heart in hours of sadness. 
 
 To cheer the lone one, as bright and sunny beams, 
 Give to the wither'd flowers new life and gladness. 
 
120 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Dreams of those youthful days! O, blissful visions! 
 
 Thou comest to gild the present twilight hours; 
 Thou seem'st to memory like some bright elysian, 
 
 Adorn'd with variegated, lovely flow'rs. 
 
 Visions of early days! gay retrospections! 
 
 Thou whilest away the melancholy hours; 
 The heart is sweetly touch'd with recollections, 
 
 Even of a fav'rite tree, or shady bowers. 
 
 Why hast not memory fail'd, or fancy flown? 
 
 When time has touch'd each feature of the face? 
 And why has not the mind, caught the dull tone? 
 
 As well as ev'ry soft, exterior grace. 
 
 Strange mind! thou art a fathomless abyss! 
 
 Who knows thy length? thy breadth? or curious texture? 
 Susceptible of wo! or alive to bliss! 
 
 Emotions rous'd — e'en by a simple picture! 
 
 CAN SWEET POETIC, ETC. 
 
 Can sweet poetic stanzas flow 
 
 Far from the Muse's seat; 
 Can lovely flowers in deserts grow? 
 
 (The wild rose sure is sweet!) 
 
 Then let the wild, untutor'dbard, 
 Just touch her wood-note lyre; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 121 
 
 She claims no honors, or reward, 
 Nor boasts a Poet's fire. 
 
 Yet still she loves the rural shades, 
 
 The lucid, sylvan streams; 
 The pearly brooks, the silent glades, 
 
 The Poet's pleasing dreams. 
 
 And when the world gives mental pain , 
 
 To the "Wood-Notes" she retires; 
 Therein her native, simple strain, 
 
 Sings as her muse inspires. 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 There is something plaintive, in thy midnight wail, 
 
 Poor forest bird! 
 As thy too-hoo! hoo hoo's borne upon the gale. 
 
 And nearer heard. 
 
 Here, dwelling in a lone, sequestered spot^ 
 
 Remote from friends; 
 Of native vines I've built a sylvan grot, 
 
 'Mid rural scenes. 
 
 When all are still, save this sad sighing heart, 
 
 Who sits alone; 
 Watching the twinkling stars, as down they dart, 
 
 I hear thy moan. 
 11 
 
122 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thott seem'stfrom that old sloping, shady tree, 
 
 To bay the moon! 
 Or comest thou to mock my night's soliloquy? 
 
 Thou saucy loon? 
 
 Well, — wail away! thy hoo-hoo — hoo-hoo — song, 
 
 Befits me well; 
 No other notes, should to this place belong, 
 
 Where hermits dwell. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 0! the bright sunny month of June! 
 
 When the leaves are thick and glossy, 
 And the birds sing many a tune. 
 
 Round the trunks, so green and mossy. 
 
 Ah! sweet, and balmy, month of June, 
 Now the flowers, are rich with odor; 
 
 Now the butterflies at noon. 
 Sip the honey-dew together. 
 
 Rich and glorious, month of June, 
 The fields are all clothed with verdure; 
 
 And the gardens, promise soon, 
 To yield us their sweet ripen'd treasure. 
 
 0! the dreamy month of June! 
 
 It suits the Poet's wild musing; 
 And at night, the stilly moon. 
 
 Keeps the restless eye from dozing. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 THE WHIPPOORWILL. 
 
 Thou strange, retiring, lonely, bird. 
 Why dost thou love the sable night? 
 In deepest shades, thy notes are heard, 
 And morn, but witnesses thy flight. 
 
 When day has clos'd with ev'ry care. 
 
 And all the busy world is still; 
 
 When night's fair orb, shines bright and clear, 
 
 'Tis then we hear, poor Whip-poor-will. 
 
 Why dost thou not, in sunny rays, 
 Like other birds, delight to dwell? 
 Why are thy plaintive, mournful lays, 
 'Lone, for the gloom of night to tell? 
 
 Poor bird! I love thee yet the more, 
 A sadness steals around thy songs. 
 Thou shun'st, the inhospitable door, 
 And chant 'st at night, thy piteous wrongs. 
 
 Ah! has the mournful truth been told? 
 That friendship, dwells not here below; 
 Dost thou, in cruel man, behold. 
 Thy stern and unrelenting foe. 
 
 But then a charm is in thy song, 
 A recollection sad, tho' sweetest, 
 Mem'ry recalls the scenes long gone, 
 As thou, the "Whip-poor-will" repeatest. 
 
 123 
 
124 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Then sing! poor bird, sing! "Whip-poor-will," 
 Thy note charms one, so strangely sad; 
 E'en if thy song, mine eyes doth fill, 
 There's something still, that makes me glad. 
 
 THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. 
 
 Roll on mighty River! nor can thy dark waves, 
 Count the millions who lie, in thy fathomless bed; 
 The noble, the ignoble, in thee find their graves, 
 And strew'd o'er thy bottom, are bones of the dead. 
 
 Roll on mighty River! nor can the warm tears, 
 That flow from the dim eyes, and mingle with thee; 
 Count o'er the sad hours of life's anxious cares; 
 That fortune's reverses, have doom'd us to see. 
 
 "Alone on thy banks," as the boats pass along, 
 We dream o'er the friends that are far — far away. 
 While the bugle's shrill note, or the boatsman's rude song. 
 Is borne o'er thy waves, like a minstrel's wild lay. 
 
 Ah! why are we doom'd in a valley to live? 
 Where beasts of the forest, and wild men abide; 
 When for friendship, and love, we incessantly grieve? 
 And murmur, that fortune, our sorrows deride. 
 
 Are we like the natives, that wandering mass, 
 Who stray in thy bottom, or paddle thy stream? 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 125 
 
 If nature had mark'd us, for that daring class, 
 Would friendship, and love, be the motto? the theme? 
 
 But friendship, and love, in its purity dwells. 
 Where the mind will revert, with a calm delight ; 
 And tho' in a prison, the soul often feels 
 Like bursting the chain, that confines it to night. 
 
 COLD WINTER'S COMING. 
 
 O! let me talk with spring's sweet birds and flowers; with winter's 
 snows and storms, or e'en the thunder's deaf ning roar; — They'll kindly 
 speak to me. 
 
 The beautiful foliage, has lost its green. 
 And a sear-coat, o'er the forest is seen. 
 Cold winter is coming, I ween, I ween, 
 
 With his piercing breath; 
 And his icicles sharp, will be felt so keen, 
 
 Like arrows of death. 
 
 Mild autumn's receding! the falling leaves. 
 
 Tells a tale on the last shivering breeze; 
 
 Fly! Redbreast fly! to the south or thou'lt freeze, 
 
 When winter is come; 
 There will not a leaf be left on the trees. 
 
 To make thee a home. 
 
 RED BREAST. 
 
 "Pe-whee! — pe-whee! but the cold winter's winds» 
 "Never mars our peace, or freezes our shins, 
 11* 
 
126 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 *'We hop and we skip, when the storm begins, 
 
 "So happy and free: 
 "'Tis he who partakes, of old Adam's sins, 
 
 "That must flee! must flee!" 
 
 LADY. 
 
 He eomes with a gloom on his surly brow, 
 And bows ev'ry beautiful blossom low, 
 By-and-by he'll scatter the hail and snow, 
 
 With furious blast: 
 And teach ev'ry bare little foot to know, 
 
 How to go in haste. 
 
 SNOW BIRD. 
 
 *«0 Lady! my feet are entirely bare, 
 "But Lady! the snow-drifts I never fear, 
 "I delight in this stormy time of the year, 
 
 "To scratch in the snow; 
 '*But Lady! kind lady! why falls the tear? 
 
 "Canst thou, sorrow know?" 
 
 LADY. 
 
 Sorrow, my Bird! grows indigenous here, 
 And draws from the eye, the burning tear, 
 But thy little heart, has nothing to fear, 
 
 From the cold, or heat; 
 No season to thee, is gloomy or drear, 
 
 On thy varied seat. 
 
 And thou little stranger! come tell me thy name, 
 I'll pet thee gay thing, and make thee so tame. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 127 
 
 The sportsman may wound thee, m quest of game, 
 
 With his deadly gun; 
 truly! O truly! 'twould be a great shame. 
 
 To disturb thy fun. 
 
 WINTER-KING. 
 
 "I'm Winter-King, lady; perpet'al snow, 
 "Nor the winds, which over the Andes blow, 
 "Never make my hard little nostrils glow, 
 
 "With a deeper red; 
 "When I soar aloft, to the mountain's brow, 
 
 As an arrow sped. 
 
 "But my iady! why is thy face so pale? 
 "And why do the tear-drops, thin eye-lids veil? 
 "Fear'st thou, the south-wind's blustering gale? 
 
 "It comes — 'way I fly, — 
 "Old Boreas now, has hoisted his sail, 
 
 ''Aloft, in the sky. 
 
 LADY. 
 
 No my kind little friend, I fear no storm, 
 To the sorrowing heart, they cause no alarm, 
 Their grandeur sublime, the bosom can charm, 
 
 And exalt the mind; 
 Unless by permission, they do us no harm, 
 
 Their Maker is kind. 
 
 Thou hast come, cold winter, we feel thy sting, 
 Thy wand, has touched, every living thing. 
 The earth cannot thaw, till the smiling spring, 
 
128 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Breathes her influence round: 
 Then my pretty birds, thou wilt gaily sing 
 When violets, deck the ground. 
 
 But winter! thou hast thy comforts in store, 
 • If we build the fire, and bar up the door, 
 Yet why? art stem, to the naked and poor. 
 
 With thy shiv'ring storm: 
 While so oft thy dread, and thundering roar, 
 
 Brings a dire alarm. 
 
 VANITY. 
 
 -"Man, proud man, 
 
 Dressed in a little brief authority, 
 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven 
 
 As makes the angels weep." 
 
 What is thy origin? of what art thou composed? 
 
 Thou strange emotion! 
 By whom was thy weak nature first disclosed? 
 
 How long, in fashion? 
 
 Or what sustains thee? 'midst such dissolutions 
 
 Of far better things! 
 Or how darest thou to make thy bold intrusions? 
 
 With Pleb'ans and Kings. 
 
 How dost thou live? come tell us, thy reflections? 
 
 Thy home, and nature? 
 Takest thou thy lessons from the Ape's devotions? 
 
 Thou'rt like the creature. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 129 
 
 Come! speak thee out, and tell us what thou art? 
 
 Thou look'st defiance! 
 Thy pompous air! — can it sustain thy part? 
 
 Speak, thy reliance! 
 
 Is it in gloomy sepulchres, amidst the dead, 
 
 Thou learn est airs? 
 In war — in famine? — or from the dying bed 
 
 Of fallen stars? 
 
 Sure, if that casket, so much prized by thee , 
 
 Must turn to dust. 
 The bitter thought, would wound the vanity 
 
 Of that proud bust. 
 
 That high toned step — that scornful air, 
 
 That fashionable cut; 
 Thy curl'd mustachios, and thy polish'd hair. 
 
 In smooth order set. 
 
 Come vanity! come hand-in-hand with me, 
 
 See, thy brother worm! 
 I'll lead thee, to a sad reality; 
 
 It can do no harm. ' 
 
 I'll show thee pale disease, with its blanching pow'r! 
 
 Ah! sad sight indeed! 
 The mourning house, where dark misfortunes lower, — 
 
 The poor orphan's weed. 
 
 O! stop not here! go on to beauty's grave! 
 Move the coffin's lid! 
 
130 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Why start ye back? — what is it thou wouldst have? 
 Is the beauty hid? 
 
 See'st thou the same bright eye — the rosy face? 
 
 In a dreamy sleep? 
 Wake up the creature, to thy fond embrace, 
 
 Ah! now at it peep! 
 
 Startle! — Oh! a dread mass of bones and earth! 
 
 Winding sheet, and shroud; — 
 Here is thy mother — the author of thy birth — 
 
 She speaks; — indeed, aloud! 
 
 Yes! thou art mine! and like me thou shalt be. 
 Thou shallow creature; 
 
 Aye, these shall feed upon thee, vanity, 
 And spoil each feature. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 Why tremble ye! green trees, 
 Astho'some spirit murmer'd in your boughs? 
 Telling of blighted hopes, and broken vows; 
 
 Or is it the sweet breeze, 
 
 That softly blows around? 
 While leaf and bud seem fluttering with glee, 
 Waving their boughs to the low melody 
 
 Of the mysterious sound? 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 131 
 
 Strange! wind, tho' never seen! 
 Yet felt— thine influence, ever and anon, 
 A moment here and there, and then thou'rt gone, 
 
 In soft or shriller paean. 
 
 O! we would hold thee fast, 
 As thou art booming o'er the turbid deep, 
 Or as thou dost in the tornado sweep; 
 
 But viewless thou hast past! 
 
 So versatile indeed, 
 Fearful, and daring, in the tempest blast. 
 Disturbing seas, — or laying cities waste, 
 
 With anunbridal'd speed. 
 
 Thou ridest upon the cloud! 
 And sportest with darkness, storms and hail, 
 And nature stands aghast, with visage pale, 
 
 While thou'rt roaring loud. 
 
 Thou comest then so mild, 
 Kissing the cheek of the young maiden fair, 
 Or, stirring the soft ringlets of her hair. 
 
 Thou seem'st a very child. 
 Who reads thee? mystic wind! 
 But He, who bids thee sway thy wizzard spell? 
 O'er earth, and sea, and sky, thy breezes swell, 
 
 Vail'd — nor by man e'er seen. 
 Unknown to us, — breeze! 
 We leave thee to thy strange and flitting way. 
 Greeting thy smile, or owning thy dread sway. 
 O'er the broad land and seas. 
 
132 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 LItTLE GIRL AND SPARROW. 
 
 My sparrow! what makes thee so merrily go? 
 Do not the snow-flakes that around thee blow, 
 Sting thy little nose, and bite thy little toe? 
 
 That makes thee hop all around? 
 "The cold, ray young lady, never bites my toe, 
 "It was made to scratch in the virgin snow, 
 "But I'm in a great hurry — 'way I must go! 
 
 "Whe! whe! to pick on the ground." 
 
 How canst thou get food, when the snow covers all? 
 How canst thou keep warm, when fast it does fall? 
 Hide now! little bird, before that dark squall, 
 
 Blow feathers from thy pretty breast. 
 "Whe! whe! Fm too small for the storm to touch, 
 "The blustering winds ne'er can ruffle me much, 
 "While it storms I could sit upon that old beach, 
 
 "Whe! whe! and sing me to rest." 
 
 Hast thou nothing to fear? my tiny sweet bird! 
 Thou art very small, for big things to regard, 
 Little merit can't always meet with reward, 
 
 And tiny thou art, to be sure; 
 "The God who made you, created me too, 
 "Where a sparrow doth fall, His eye will pursue; 
 "Whe! whe! He has said it, and his words are true, 
 
 "Whe! whe! He regards the poor." 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 133 
 
 MAGNOLIA TREE. 
 
 Those who have visited Louisiana have, doubtless, observed 
 the long, dark moss hanging from the branches of the trees; 
 and perhaps there is no one tree that excites more interest than 
 the Magnolia. 
 
 Why wearest thou a sable robe, fair tree? 
 
 That darkly waves beneath each spreading bow; 
 
 Thou evergreen, thou sweet Magnolia, 
 
 Why dare this moss, 'mid thy rich blossoms grow? 
 
 And why did nature shade thy satin leaf. 
 With a dark veil, that gloomy vaults should wear? 
 While winds around, seem but to sigh of grief. 
 And associations grave, calls forth a tear. 
 
 Thy rich white blossoms, scent the southern air, 
 And clust'ring branches, beautify the scene; 
 No foliage can, with thy thick boughs compare, 
 Graceful Magnolia! the South 's fair Evergreen. 
 
 But this dark moss, that waves with ev'ry breeze. 
 Tell us! O tell us! why it makes one sad? 
 So mournfully it hangs, 'neatli the tall trees, 
 It seems to say, the heart must not be glad. 
 
 Means it to whisper, tremulous and low, 
 
 A lesson to the vain, and thoughtless fair'i' 
 
 That, tho' a diadem may deck the brow, 
 
 'Tis not exempt from sorrow, pain, and care? 
 
 Louisiana, March, 1841. 
 
 12 
 
134 WOOD NOTES "WILD. 
 
 STANGER, FORGIVE. 
 
 TO H K, — ON A STEAM-BOAT, MARCH, 1841. 
 
 Love ye, therefore, the stranger: for ye 
 Were all strangers in the land of Egypt. 
 
 Deuteronomy, 10 c. 19v. 
 
 Stranger! forgive the faltering poet's pride, 
 Amidst this noisy scene, to raise her voice, 
 This showy Steam-Boat, nor the lashing tide, 
 Stays not the Muses, from their daring choice. 
 
 We mark'd thee, as the puffing Boat moved on, 
 Surrounded by a group of various faces. 
 And we did note, that o'er thy features shone, 
 A dignity, — a charm, — found with the graces. 
 
 And what is it, that 'wakes the human heart? 
 That stirs emotions, strange and undefin'd? 
 When e'er we see a being set apart, — 
 Removed! exalted! from the common mind. 
 
 Is it a foretaste of those joys above? 
 
 Where interchange of thought and feelings meet? 
 
 Is it a preface to that heavenly love. 
 
 That flows with rapture, at the Saviour's feet? 
 
 'Twill not be stranger in a world of bliss. 
 Friendship will there supplant the frozen word; 
 No stranger dwells in that pure land of peace. 
 Where hearts are bound by one eternal chord. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 135 
 
 EARLY DAYS. 
 
 How clearly, now, can memory review, 
 
 Those pleasant scenes that time has long swept by; 
 
 And the tenacious mind is ever true, 
 
 To retrace the steps of youth j and infancy. 
 
 To throw off the layers of grief and pain, 
 
 Which time's rude hand, has roughly laid; 
 
 To travel o'er the path to school again, 
 
 And cross the babbling brooks, that urchins wade. 
 
 It gives to one, infantile, heart-felt joy, 
 As memory reviews the fair-hair'd girls, 
 Who sported with us, for the glitt'ring toy. 
 With dimpled face, and sunny auburn curls. 
 
 And then the wild, mischievous, romping boy, 
 Whose flaxen locks were scatter'd by the breeze; 
 With face of mirth, that nothing could destroy, 
 Swinging, here and there, on branches of the trees. 
 
 Ah! musingly, we can each play-house greet, 
 Where baby dolls, and tiny dinners were, 
 Where happy faces did, with rapture meet. 
 Tugging along with little feet quite bare. 
 
 And when those mirthful, childish days were flown, 
 How plain indeed, can the memory see. 
 After we were men and women grown, 
 The bower, the grove, the favorite tree. 
 
136 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 When the young spirit, was so blithe and free 
 From sorrow; — at the rural sweet repast; • 
 When every heart, with joy beat merrily, 
 And every hour seemed gayer than the last. 
 
 Peace overflows our sparkling golden cups, 
 Hope dances on so merrily before; 
 Mirth, in our bonny halcyon banquet sups. 
 And pleasure, ever joyous, keeps the door. 
 
 Ah! sportive days! truly thou art gone! 
 Where the rose was piiU'd, without the thorn; 
 
 Experience now has taught, 
 
 The world has nought, 
 
 Has nought, — to give. 
 
 But much to grieve, 
 
 Substantial and pure, 
 
 And much to endure. 
 
 Youth! — age looks on thee. 
 
 And feels a sympathy. 
 
 And could we teach, by precepts wise, 
 What we have learn'd, with tears and sighs; 
 We'd have thee surely shun 
 The rocks we've wreck'd upon. 
 
 Ah! youth! 
 
 Stern truth, 
 
 And lectures grave, 
 
 Thou wilt not have! 
 
 Thou deem'st not, that age can show, 
 
 How the veering world will go; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 137 
 
 **That friendship's but a name," 
 
 Or that wealth, and fame. 
 
 Can leave thee in disgrace, 
 
 Without one hiding place; 
 That beauty's cheek will fade, 
 That grandeur and parade, 
 
 Give cause to sigh; 
 Wilt thou only go, the way we've trod? 
 Learning wisdom, by the chast'ning rod, 
 From God on high? 
 
 OUR WANDERINGS. 
 
 The mind grows sick, with grov'ling earthly toys, 
 And burns with ardour for some purer joys; 
 It tow'rs aloft, it sinks, then soars again, 
 It glows with ecstacy, or writhes in pain; 
 Versatile, and strange! — contending with our fate! 
 Faint and diminutive ! — or, sublime and great 
 Alternately we are! — nor solv'd, — nor known; — 
 Whence we come — or travelling to what bourn. 
 
 Here, are our sorrows, anxieties and cares, 
 And here, glows a sun, to dry desponding tears; 
 The mountain's height, — for an expanded wing, 
 Or valley low, where mourning doves may sing; 
 Strange mind art thou! to burst thy wall of clay, 
 And drink in knowledge with each darting ray, 
 12* 
 
138 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 That shines from God's effulgent throne of light, 
 Nor more be found, 'mid gloomy shades of night. 
 
 This life buoy, bears us to the loftiest height, 
 Thought plumes its wing, and takes an eagle's flight; 
 With mind exulting, tracks the starry way. 
 To brush our wing upon the sun-beam's ray; 
 But earth-born pinions, droop with heavy dew. 
 And down we're driven from the etherial blue, 
 Headlong tumbling, amidst thorns and briers, 
 Where every glorious thought, in gloom, expires. 
 
 A MOUND IN MISSISSIPPI, 
 
 FORMED BY THE INDIANS. 
 
 Thou ancient relic of a race unknown, 
 Whose bones have moulder'd, 'neath this mound so wild. 
 For centuries past, — till the tall trees have grown 
 O'er this strange monument, of the forest child. 
 
 Thou ancient mound, — thou lone, sequester'd spot! 
 With contemplative mind, I look o'er thee, 
 Rear'd by a people — long^, long since forgot, 
 And left a memento of Antiquity. 
 
 My thoughts now throw the layers of earth aside. 
 Unlock the mystic vault, where silence reigns; 
 Where skeletons of men, that once in pride 
 Roam'd o'er the forest, monarch of the plains. 
 
 Here too, are emblems of the savage man. 
 Beside the giant bones, once nerv'd so strong. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 139 
 
 The spear, the bow, the hatchet of that clan, 
 Whose hearts were merry with the wild war song. 
 
 Ages have pass'd, since this vast mound was made, 
 It braves e'en floods, and whirlwind's raging storms, 
 Old trunks of trees, by ruthless time are laid, 
 But no decay, this firm foundation harms. 
 
 Would some old chieftain, burst this pond'rous mound, 
 
 Reveal the secrets, of the ancient dead! 
 
 Tell us how long, he's slumber'^d under ground. 
 
 Or where the last of his bold race has fled. 
 
 Adieu! adieu! till the last trump shall sound, 
 Then thou'lt surrender up thy sleeping dead; 
 The swarthy race, reposing 'neath this mound, 
 Will rise in wonder, from their ancient bed. 
 
 STEAM BOAT *********** 
 
 Gaily on ye glide, 
 
 Ye favorite Boat! 
 
 Smothly skim the tide. 
 As on ye float; 
 Ye carry Lords, and Ladies, of proud estate, 
 But one soul ye bear, outweighs all other freight. 
 
 'Round, above, below. 
 Dangers thick! — beware! 
 As on the deep ye go, 
 Shun snag and bar! 
 
140 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 The freight of souls, weigh down ten thousand tons, 
 Then, see ye! how the stately vessel runs. 
 
 Mark thy speedy way! 
 Like a bird, tho' calm, 
 Ye cut the sparkling spray, 
 As if by charm; 
 May He, who rules the boisterous, turbid waves. 
 Keep all ye proudly bear, from watery graves. 
 
 LAMARTINE. 
 
 Opinions vary, and critics write of men. 
 But all that comes from De Lamartine's pen 
 Is full of beauty, sentiment, and charm. 
 And if one writer can, with pathos warm, 
 Touch the cold heart, — 'tis he. 
 
 O! while ye read his own bright pages o'er. 
 So variegated and so rich their store. 
 Ye catch the ardour of his noble theme. 
 And enter into the sweet poet's dream. 
 With pure sublimity. 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 Beautiful is thy pale beam! 
 Orb of the siknt hours! 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 141 
 
 Astronomers gaze! — and dream 
 Thou art strew'd with flowers. 
 
 Like Eden's garden, Moon! art thou? 
 Where the flowers, did sweetest grow, 
 Around the polish'd jasper wall, 
 Ere our first parent's hapless fall? 
 Where the heavenly shades were sweet, 
 And angel bands did mortals greet; 
 Where God did walk, 
 And with Adam talk; 
 When their whole employ, 
 Was, with rapt 'rous joy, 
 To cull the rich, the glowing flowers, 
 And nurse the sweet perfumed bowers; 
 To taste the ripe, delicious fruit. 
 And catch the strains of the asolean lute. 
 
 But Moon! tell us, what thou canst be! 
 For ages, thou hast rolled on: 
 It seems, almost, an eternity, 
 Since thy fair, silvery rays first shone; 
 Yet the same spangled, radiant light, 
 Thou pourest along the starry way; 
 Making so beautiful the night. 
 That we scarce e'er can wish for day; 
 Thou hast appear'd so long the same. 
 We only know thee, as the Moon; 
 Hast thy soft charms, no other name? 
 Curious minds, would know thee soon, 
 
142 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Could they but reach to thee, 
 And all thy myst'ries see. 
 
 Dost thou not tire? obedient thing! 
 
 In thy undeviating way; 
 
 Thou smil'st alike, on beggar and king, 
 
 And light'st the path where wand'rers stray; 
 
 But we hear nothing, from thy region; 
 
 Pray tell us, Moon! must we believe. 
 
 That thou art, the pure elysian? ~^ 
 
 Where none were ever known to grieve: 
 
 That thy interior, glows as bright, 
 
 As thy own beautiful fair form; 
 
 Thy lamps! — give they perpetual light? 
 
 That ne'er extinguishes, by hail or storm: 
 
 Do thy inhabitants have joy and rest? 
 
 With innocence, and perfect peace; 
 
 And are thy children supremely best? 
 
 This may be all, an idle dream, 
 And thou may'st shine, with borrow'd light. 
 Yet 'tis thine own soft ray, 'twould seem, 
 Thou lovely Fairy; — queen of night. 
 
 What e'er thou art, — thou hast a charm. 
 At twilight hour, — to gaze on thee; 
 Thy gliding shadows, pale and calm ; 
 Thou hast a wizzard spell for me: 
 
 For I can gaze, 
 Upon thy rays. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 143 
 
 With fancy's charm, before mine eyes; 
 And see a thousand beauties rise, 
 From thy mysterious orb, — %ir queen! 
 Who wear'st that face of silv'ry sheen. 
 
 Good night to thee! thou tellest nought, 
 But yet thou art, with beauty fraught; 
 Good night, pale thing! thou hast gone down. 
 And I am wrapt, in gloom profound. 
 
 PLACE OF REST. 
 
 Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours, 
 Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Is there rest, for every weary one? 
 O! I am weary, and my soul would run, 
 With ecstacy and haste, to that sweet home, 
 Where angels roam. 
 
 For me no flow'rs spring up to cheer the eye. 
 There breathes for me, no sympathetic sigh. 
 Tell me! some spirit, — will I rest on high. 
 Where joys ne'er die? 
 
 O! come sweet ones! that were so dear to me. 
 While ye were steering o'er life's troubl'd sea; 
 Come, with an angel's heavenly sympathy! 
 With melody! 
 
144 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 And breathe to me, one tone of peace and love, 
 Whisper me something, of thy home above. 
 Of a never withering, spicy grove. 
 Where cherubs rove. 
 
 Weary am I, of mist, and gloom, and cloud, 
 Of terrestrial cares, which so much enshroud, 
 The nobler thoughts, (of the numerous crowd) 
 In these low grounds. 
 
 Those signs of wo, where disappointments hang. 
 Those pointed thorns, to give the heart a pang; 
 Spirits! sweet spirits! breathe a heav'nly song, 
 In kindest tone. 
 
 The seraph strain, will raise the thoughts on high, 
 And stay perchance, the deep oppressive sigh. 
 And may be too, 'twill teach me how to die; 
 The balm apply! 
 
 O! let me dream, that my own little ones. 
 The cherubs, whom my heart so fondly mourns. 
 Whisper to me, in their own silv'ry tones. 
 Sweet symphonies. 
 
 Say, spirits dear! "Mama, the time will come, 
 "When ev'ry weary one will find a home, 
 "And none thou lovest, will from thee roam , 
 "Heaven has no gloom." 
 
 "We are thy guardian angels, dear mama, 
 "And oft in watching thee, we see the tear; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 145 
 
 Full well we know thou art oppressed with care, 
 "Mama! do not fear. 
 
 *'Ere long in white, thou'lt walk the golden street, 
 "0! then thou'lt see the pearl and jasper seat, 
 Where dear Laurena and I so often meet, 
 "With kindred sweet. 
 
 *'And now. Mama! Laurena has bright wings, 
 Her little lisping tongue, divinely sings, 
 "And her crown outshines tlie crown of kings; 
 "Her glorious Pseans — 
 
 "Ring through the ambrosial, balmy air, 
 "And the sweetest notes are sent afar, 
 "From her golden lyre and soft guitar; 
 "Mama! dry the tear!" 
 
 LAURA'S GRAVE. 
 
 For peace is with the dead, and piety 
 Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn 
 O'er the departed. Southet. 
 
 That mound so green! — ah! who can tell its worth? 
 
 Where my dear Laura's ashes moulder; 
 It seems to me, that consecrated earth 
 
 Should be veil'd to every rude beholder; 
 And that no eye should look on Laura's grave, 
 
 Save one, thatbeam'd with heavenly love; 
 13 
 
146 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Nor rude brier, should near my Laura wave. 
 
 But air, that angels breathe above, 
 Should gently stir the rose and eglantine. 
 
 The violet, and jasamine, 
 
 That on Laura's grave are seen. 
 
 She lov'd those flow'rs, that now bloom around 
 
 This lonely spot, where lies my treasure; 
 Where with each breeze, a mournful wailing sound, 
 
 Is borne along, in dirge-like measure; 
 For trees, and birds, and flowers should all weep, 
 
 That one so lov'd, did thus early die; 
 But nothing wakes my Laura from her sleep; 
 
 Willows waving, nor the mourner's sigh; 
 O! vines and blossoms! cluster 'round this bed! 
 
 And flow'rs, your sweet fragrance shed, 
 A tribute for the dead. 
 
 Rest! sainted one! tho' borne afar from thee. 
 
 And silence reigns around thy little tomb. 
 Yet angel watchers, which no eye can see, 
 
 Have taken thy quiet spirit home; 
 And those guardian angels keep the spot. 
 
 Until thy long, 'deep sleep is ended; 
 Yet not one look of thine will be forgot. 
 
 But all thy winning charms amended; 
 When the angel band awakes nxj Laura, 
 
 And bears her where there is no sorrow, 
 To joys that know no morrow. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 147 
 
 LAURENA'S GRAVE. 
 
 My heart still mourns to think of thee, 
 
 And thy lone, little grave; 
 Where grows no flower or shady tree, 
 
 But wild weeds o'er thee waA^e. 
 
 No — not a flower adorns thy tomb, 
 
 For thou wast left alone; 
 Unless some little wild things bloom 
 
 Around my cherub one. 
 
 For thou art laid 'mid strangers, love! 
 
 And far is that lone spot; 
 Whilst I was doom'd from thee to rove, 
 
 To mourn a hapless lot. 
 
 Yet tho' no blooms bedeck thee, lovel 
 Thou wast a precious flower, 
 
 But thou art gone to bloom above. 
 In some injmortal bower. 
 
 MONODY ON R. R. A. 
 
 OR, AN APOSTROPHE TO DEATH, 
 
 No victim satiates thee, 
 Thou cruel spectre! 
 No bribe secures to us, 
 One kind protector. 
 
148 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 From thy barbed sting, 
 
 Voracious thing. 
 Thou dehghtest in the heart's agony, 
 Reveling in all human misery, 
 Thou cruel death! thou wan creature! 
 That with one touch spoils every feature. 
 
 The cheeks may glow so redolent and fair, 
 
 The eye may sparkle, as the brightest star, 
 
 Inimitable grace may win each one. 
 
 And all exclaim that none e'er brighter shone, 
 
 When thou touch 'st with thine icy hand, 
 
 How chang'd! how cold! how pale! how wan! 
 
 Thou'rt indeed the wormwood and gall, 
 
 Pour'd out in loathsome draughts to all; 
 
 A sly, insidious, barbarous foe, 
 
 O'er dearest ones thy winding sheet must go. 
 
 TP ■Tti TF ■Tti "^ TF 
 
 Here stillness reigns! — the tongue forgets to move, 
 That oft had breathed the tones oftenderest love; 
 The once bright eye! — the orbs now glazed o'er. 
 The hand of ice! — to grasp a friend's no more. 
 
 Could not two idols, from one bleeding heart, 
 
 Have satisfied thy more than cruel dart? 
 
 No! those that feel thy sharpest, keenest throes, 
 
 At such thou aim'st thy most malignant blows; 
 
 Successful archer! thou didst come too soon, 
 
 Ere the warm blood was staunch 'd from thy last wound: 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 149 
 
 Unfeeling spectre! thou didst come too sly. 
 Nor give one warning that thy sting was nigh; 
 O! midnight murderer! conceal'd and dark! 
 
 Thou tak'st thine aim, true to thy chosen mark. 
 
 * ** * * * * * * 
 
 No one presentiment of thy deathly call, 
 
 Didst thou by dream or vision give; 
 
 That ray morning flower, ere the night dew's fail, 
 
 Wast not to live; 
 Like the sweet rose, half open to the morn. 
 Was she, whom thou didst early blight, 
 The tender bud had not yet fully blown, 
 By thee cut down and wrapt in shades of night; 
 But cruel death, how little dost thou care! 
 For the deep, deep sigh, or the burning tear. 
 O! I would go, where death has never enter'd, 
 
 Where blighting storms, ne'er touch the hearty 
 Where happiness and rest are sweetly center'd, 
 
 Where friends ne'er part: 
 The weary soul's entranc'd, to dream of rest, 
 
 'Mid angel throngs: 
 To clasp lov'd ones to the maternal breast, 
 
 To hear immortal songs; 
 The song, that tells thy reign has ended. 
 That asks thee, Death! where is thy stingV 
 The place where hearts are purely blended, 
 Like sounds that vibrate from one string. 
 13* 
 
150 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 AMANDA'S BIRTH DAY— 1840. 
 
 What would'st thou have me say? Amanda dearl 
 On this fair day, that's dawn'd on thy twelfth year, 
 Thy natal day, (sweet monthly when flow'rs appear, 
 
 The sixth of May: 
 While nature tunes her melodies to cheer, 
 
 And all is gay. 
 
 I'll tell thee of this month, twelve years ago, 
 
 When thou did enter first this world of wo. 
 
 To act thy part, where thorns and flowers hoth grow, 
 
 My pretty maid: 
 How thy bright eyes did like the di'mond glow, 
 
 In twilight shade. 
 
 And shall I tell thee how thy tiny form. 
 
 Was wrapt in Marino mantles warm, 
 
 Or how thy mother's breast did shield from harm 
 
 Her little one; 
 And clasp'd thee in her arms 'mid calm and storm. 
 
 Lulling thy moan. 
 
 And all along thy life's eventful way, 
 
 How oft thy mother's anxious heart doth pray, 
 
 That her "Amanda," like the opening day, 
 
 And radiant morn; 
 May ever, with the fairest, purest ray, 
 
 Her life adorn. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 151 
 
 Tread cautiously, my child! the rugged road, 
 Some have, through life, to hear a heavy load, 
 'Tis not for all to walk where flow'rs are strow'd. 
 
 My own sweet girl! 
 Nor is each one, by fickle fortune woo'd, 
 
 To wear her pearl. 
 
 But seek thou the pearl of real worth, ray child! 
 And win by virtue, Heav'n's approving smile; 
 Then the vain dross of earth, cannot beguile, 
 
 Thy spotless soul; 
 And while thou'rt trav 'ling thro' a desert wild, 
 
 Thou'lt Heav'n behold. 
 
 DULL SORROW. 
 
 Dull sorrow wove a robe for me, 
 In a dark loom, of cares and fears; 
 The warp was spun by misery, 
 And all the filling died in tears, 
 
 Distress cut out this robe of wo, 
 And wrapt it all around my head; 
 It hid me quite from top to toe, 
 Trimm'd with a trailing fringe of dread. 
 
 I grop'd along in deep despair. 
 Till presently sweet hope I spied; 
 
152 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 She threw the dismal robe afar, 
 And bid me all such things deride. 
 
 She breath'd upon my heart, and lo! 
 A little light was kindl'd there, 
 Her anchor loan'd, she told me go, 
 Nor e'er again yield to despair. 
 
 THE CRAZY ONE. 
 
 She sat on the ground, 
 
 In thoughts so profound. 
 With her eyes directed above; 
 
 Her dark auburn hair, 
 
 Disturb'd by the air, 
 She look'd the image of love. 
 
 I said to myself. 
 
 Can this fairy sylph, 
 Be a frail daughter of earth? 
 
 I heard alow sigh, 
 
 And saw the soft eye, 
 As it meekly gaz'd o'er the earth. 
 
 Her form seem'd so light, 
 
 And her cheek was so white, 
 So pensive the cast of her eye; 
 
 So graceful the air, 
 
 Of this lovely fair, 
 Methought she had dropp'd from the sky. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 153 
 
 lask'donenigh, 
 
 If the sylph would fly? 
 If we were to venture too near; 
 
 "The maniac girl, 
 
 "Who roams o'er the world; 
 "Speak to her! thou'st nothing to fear!'* 
 
 A maniac? no! 
 
 It cannot be so! 
 Could reason have flown from that dove? 
 
 "Her vows were plighted, 
 
 "Her joys are blighted, 
 "And now she is dying of love.'''' 
 
 SOME SPIRIT. 
 
 For I was made in joy 's despite, 
 And meant for misery's slave, 
 
 Camoens. 
 
 Some spirit whisper, to my fainting heart. 
 
 The words of peace; 
 A cordial to my bleeding wounds impart, 
 
 My anguish cease. 
 
 Or bid me sleep, the sleep that waketh not, 
 
 And dream of love; 
 Consign me to some sad and gloomy spot, 
 
 Where mourns the dove. 
 
154 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Let no one point to the wild wand'rer's grave, 
 
 Plant nothing there! 
 In secret let the wild weeds o'er it wave, 
 
 But drop no tear! 
 
 WHAT ARE THE TOILS? 
 
 What are the toils and miseries of life? 
 They will pass as a feverish dream; 
 All anger, hatred, mischief and strife. 
 Which like the volcanic lava doth seem, 
 
 Will be quietly laid to rest. 
 What if the heart has receiv'd deep wounds? 
 That heart, ere 'tis long, will cease to beat; 
 Time ne'er pauses, and a few waning moons. 
 Shrouds the cold heart in the grave's winding sheet, 
 
 Perchance, too, to dwell with the blest. 
 
 Why should such scenes, as disturb the meek eye, 
 Where purest thoughts ne'er rest with delight. 
 Cause the deep gloom, and the heaviest sigh, 
 When a place of repose is bursting in sight? 
 
 O nature! 'tis thy murm'ring voice. 
 May the sweet spirit dove exert its own power. 
 That the heart may become acquiescent. 
 And He, who supports in each trying hour, 
 Give the grace that will be all-sufficient, 
 
 That in him we may e'er rejoice, 
 
 i W^/l«''V*f WVJ ^Vw VV- 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 155 
 
 A TRIP FROM NEW ORLEANS TO LAKE PONCHAR- 
 
 TRAIN, ON THE RAIL ROAD. 
 
 February 22, 1840. 
 
 Hark! hark! the signal bell! 
 
 The passengers are seated: 
 Quick as thought, moves every wheel. 
 
 Ere a word's repeated. 
 
 We pass all objects by, 
 
 Fleet as a met'or's blaze; 
 Nature's wonders we descry, 
 
 And on her beauties gaze. 
 
 Above, in festoons dark, 
 
 The moss hangs from each tree; 
 Ah! grand is Nature's work! 
 
 Far as the eye can see. 
 
 The Palmeto's broad, thick leaf, 
 
 Spreads a rich carpet o*er: 
 On we wheel! — scenes are brief! 
 
 The lajie — the lake to explore! 
 
 No time for contemplation, 
 
 The vivid thoughts must fly; 
 Too quick for meditation, 
 
 Too gay for one deep sigh. 
 
 But oh! the deep, smooth lake! 
 Dark, as the calm blue sea; 
 
156 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thou canst bright thoughts awake, 
 With dreams of Deity. 
 
 Yes, thou art now in view, 
 The car one moment stops; 
 
 The eye meets objects new, 
 As out each gay one hops. 
 
 O! the mind's delighted 
 
 With all these glowing things; 
 
 There's a Mobile Packet! 
 List! — now— a French boy sings. 
 
 Here sit the orange girls, 
 
 With apples, nuts, and cakes; 
 
 See the dark hair, in curls, 
 
 Sport 'round the sun-burnt cheeks. 
 
 Oh! we are infatuated, 
 
 Each heart is full of glee; 
 
 Not city bred, — nor satiated, 
 We're girls from Tennessee! 
 
 The roving thought digresses, 
 The car again comes back; 
 
 With dishevell'd robes and tresses, 
 We pass the coach and hack. 
 
 Until the city spires 
 Burst full upon the eye; 
 
 Our trip is o'er. — Poet's fires, 
 Extinguish, with a sigh! 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 157 
 
 MUSIC. 
 **I am never merry when I hear sweet music." 
 
 Thou canst entrance the heart, 
 And chain the list'ning ear; 
 Thou canst pure bliss impart;— 
 Command a smile, or tear. 
 
 Muaiic! thou breathest of love! 
 
 Or why a thrill so pure? 
 The strain comes from above, 
 
 To bid us grieve no more. 
 
 Thou art a thing divine! 
 
 Else M^hy the 'raptur'd soul? 
 Bounds, that we can't define, 
 
 That language ne'er has told. 
 
 Music! Oh music! turn thou, to me! 
 
 My soul's dissolv'd in melody; 
 
 Music! Oh music! bear me afar! 
 
 On one seolian melting air; 
 
 'Twould prove to me, the winds had caught 
 
 The meaning of my strange^ wild thought 
 
 MARY'S WATERY GRAVE; 
 
 OR, APOSTROPHE TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. 
 
 Many look on thy gurgling tide. 
 As if each ripple bore a getti; 
 14 
 
158 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 And gaze in wonder, — by thy side, 
 Entranc'd, by some bright magic dream; 
 But I behold thy murmuring wave, 
 And think of Mary's watery grave. 
 
 No! not a turbid wave of thine, 
 
 Can cheer, or calm our sorrowing hearts; 
 
 Within thy deep, I seem to find, 
 
 Something for me, that grief imparts; 
 
 And if one in thy bosom lave, 
 
 I think of Mary's watery grave. 
 
 When e'er I gaze on thy broad stream, 
 Methinks I see the many dead, 
 Who ne'er awake from their long dream. 
 Nor stir, from thy cold cheerless bed; 
 The many, which no prayer could save. 
 From thy insat'ate, wat'ry grave. 
 
 True, thou bearest rich burdens off I 
 
 Peru, and Ophir's finest gold; 
 
 And Steam-Boats ride in pride aloft, 
 
 For lounging gazers to behold; 
 
 But whether pass, the knight or knave, 
 
 I still mourn Mary's watery grave. 
 
 Off a social band thou bear'st, 
 
 And gay convivial scenes ensue; 
 
 Why threaten'st thou? none there, that car'st. 
 
 They dare thy deep! — and, mirth pursue! 
 
 Tho' if I stoop to touch one wave, 
 
 I weep o'er Mary's watery grave. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. > 159 
 
 Serene was that unclouded morn! 
 And nought had told me of despair; 
 The sun, in peerless beauty shone, 
 And hope, kind hope! supplanted care; 
 But on that day, thy gloomy wave, 
 Proved my poor Mary's watery grave. 
 
 A tragedy, — so deep indeed, 
 
 It gives to thee, a double gloom; 
 
 Oft thou dost cause, my heart to bleed 
 
 As on thy margin, sad I roam; 
 
 And view the dark and turbid wave, 
 
 For such was Mary's watery grave. 
 
 O! THE JOYFUL. 
 
 The following lines were suggested by seeing that part of 
 the Mississippi Valley, where I then was, entirely inundated 
 by the overflowing of the "Great King of water," and also by 
 frequently seeing groups of young and happy creatures, on their 
 pleasure excursions, gliding o'er the meadows, and winding 
 around the forest trees, in their light Canoes. 
 
 O! the joyful pleasure scene! 
 Through the forest, dark and green, 
 The little skiff is off I ween. 
 
 To kiss the morning air. 
 
 Now they wind around the trees, 
 Taste the summer's cheering breeze. 
 Unconscious, each moment flees 
 
 Away from youthful charms. 
 
160 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 See them, as they smoothly glide, 
 O'er the waters, far and wide, 
 Lads and lasses, side by side, 
 In harmony so sweet. 
 
 They raise aloft the starry saiJ, 
 To win the sweet refreshing gale, 
 Every songster of the vale. 
 
 Pours music on the ear. 
 
 O! the graceful Gondaliers, 
 With matchless skill, the vessel steers. 
 While blooming lasses free from cares, 
 Laugh as they smoothly glide. 
 
 Youth and innocence! how fairl 
 Nothing can with thee compare. 
 Of all dangers unaware, 
 
 In sweet security. 
 
 We see thee, with an aching heart, 
 Simple! — winning, — void of art! 
 Ere from childhood's dreams ye part, 
 Or sorrow touches thee. 
 
 Heaven guard thee from all ill! 
 For its blessings, meekly kneel! 
 That it may, each bosom fill. 
 
 With pure tranquility. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 161 
 
 THE MANIAC GIRL. 
 
 Earth witnesses many a wo, 
 
 Her clime is such, that sorrows grow, 
 
 Round court, and cottage; 
 And why should we, those tales relate? 
 How fair'st flow'rs, meet the darkest fate; 
 
 From youth to dotage. 
 
 Eliza was an artless child, 
 
 A fair young thing, that knew no guile, 
 
 Sweet as the violet; 
 Nurtur'd with piety, and love, 
 And tender as the constant dove, 
 
 Her charms, can I forget? 
 
 Alonzo, with dissembling art. 
 
 Did seek, and win, this maiden's heart, 
 
 (Light and shadows meet;) 
 She, lovely, innocent, and mild, 
 His sordid soul was all defil'd. 
 
 Full of base deceit. 
 
 'Twas wealth, his selfish heart adored. 
 Its semblance brought him to her board, 
 
 Riches was his God; 
 He deem'd her father's coffers full, 
 And dream'd of servants, land and gold, 
 
 When he Eliza woo'd. 
 14* 
 
162 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 She lov'd him with a woman's love. 
 Which e'en death can scarce remove, 
 
 So ardent, so sincere; 
 She sought to win him to her heart, 
 By every sweet and playful art, 
 
 Hiding the anguish'd tear. 
 
 Virtue, was ne'er his friendly guide. 
 He left his young and lovely bride, 
 
 For a false one's arms: 
 He spurn'd her warm devotedness, 
 And sought by gay and smooth address^ 
 
 Another's charms. 
 
 Reason, confus'd, and overcome. 
 Did from her gentle bosom roam, 
 
 (Ah! now she is wild!) 
 In pity to her wounded soul. 
 It left her mind without control, 
 
 Like a roving child. 
 
 Now sad, — now gay, — alternately, 
 She seeks the grove, and haw-thorn tree. 
 
 And gathers the wild thorns; 
 And oft she draws the purple tide, 
 Wounding her hands on either side, 
 
 Then sadly, she moans. 
 
 Then she will set, and gaze awhile, 
 Talking on subjects strange and wild. 
 Throwing her robe aside: 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 163 
 
 Or look so beautiful and wise, 
 That one would think her speaking eyes 
 Had reason, them to guide. 
 
 KLIZA. ■ 
 
 ♦•Come hither, Hannah! thou'rt my nurse, 
 "Here! fill for me this empty pursel 
 
 "With the sunny beams: 
 '•Then, bind this girdle on my brow! 
 •'0! let him see, my heart's blood flow! 
 
 "Ah! see how it streams! 
 
 ^•I'll sing a love song for thee, girl! 
 '•Whilst thou my raven tresses curl, 
 
 "Of the bleeding flower; 
 ♦•I'll tell thee, too, a fairy tale, 
 •♦The bride, who wore a dark green veil, 
 
 "Oh! stay — stay an hour!" 
 
 SONG. 
 
 '♦To the silvery moon I go! I go! 
 "Come, Jaybird and Robin, lend me a wing! 
 '♦See! my chariot wheels move on so slow! 
 ♦♦As we fly, pretty birds, we'll sweetly sing; 
 "And when we get to the moon's bright world, 
 "We'll find him there! we'll find him there! 
 "0! then from his lips, I'll win a smile, 
 ♦'And, he'll deem me the fairest of the fair." 
 
164 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 IN THE VOICE, &c. 
 
 In the voice of the wind 
 
 There's a charm; 
 Though it comes in a shrill wild psBon;- 
 In a storm; — 
 
 It is well! 
 For, — to me, 
 There's sublimity, 
 In its swell. 
 
 If it comes in a murm'ring tone. 
 
 Or a 'moan; 
 As from one that is sad and forlorn. 
 Though alone, 
 
 'Tis my choice, 
 For, — to me, 
 There's melody 
 In her voice. 
 
 Or when in a zephyr so mild, 
 
 Like a child. 
 Ah! then to catch the pure breeze. 
 From the trees. 
 
 Is a bliss. 
 For, — to me 
 There's purity. 
 In her kiss. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 165 
 
 If ye blow in the soft twilight, 
 
 Or at night; 
 Or come sweet wind, when you will! 
 Let me feel, 
 
 Thou art here! 
 For, — to me. 
 There's harmony. 
 In the air! 
 
 But if from the lawn where the flowers. 
 
 From the bow'rs, 
 Are scattering their leaves all around; 
 On the ground; — 
 'Tis so sweet. 
 Then to me. — 
 It would be 
 A rich treat. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 To and fro, the boughs are bending. 
 To their lairs the beasts are wending; 
 Deep and loud the thunder's roaring. 
 Floods, in torrents, now are pouring; 
 Hark! that crash! — 
 And lightnings flash, — 
 O! the dark, — the fearful storm! 
 Father in Heaven! will it harm, 
 
166 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Thine own bought ones, 
 For whom the Saviour's blood atones? 
 
 Hark! hark! — another paeon 
 
 Comes with the unbridled wind; 
 Unbridled? no! the reigns are in His hand, 
 Nor could the tempest blow, save by His command. 
 
 Father! preserve us now! 
 Let not the fierce artillery of Heaven, 
 
 Scathe our naked brow! — 
 Must soul and body, now be riven? 
 
 Oh! no cov'ring have we, but from thee, — 
 
 That can repel Heaven's keen artillery. 
 
 Another! and another! — Oh! — 
 The force re-doubles, louder, — louder still! 
 
 Is it portentous of unheard of wo? — 
 Father in Heaven! the tempest quell! 
 
 But stay! — forgive! — ^ 
 
 Presumptive it may be. 
 To ask, to live. 
 Him, who see'st at once, time and eternity. 
 
 Thou, who didst form this clay, 
 Unerring, knowest the way, 
 To take from it the soul; 
 Then, Father! now behold! 
 Thy creature meekly kneel; 
 And if, with the next peal, 
 A vivid flash, benumbs this frame. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 167 
 
 Let me but murmur thy great name! 
 (And ere the life thou gavest is gone,) 
 Say, Father in Heaven — thy will be donel 
 July 26th, 1842. 
 
 LEAN NOT ON EARTH. 
 
 Is earth thy staff? 0! lean not here! 
 
 A bruis'd reed! — yea, oft a pointed spear, 
 
 That wounds, but cannot heal. 
 The finest feelings, wither at her blast, 
 And her cold frowns are like the chilling frost, 
 
 Which we too keenly feel. 
 
 O world! — could all thy vot'ries learn, 
 
 To scorn thy favors, and thy flatt'ries spurn, 
 
 Thy witch 'ries and thy arts; 
 And could our eyes, be made so clear, 
 To see thee, as thou should'st appear, 
 
 We'd drive thee from our hearts. 
 
 Thou may'st depress the feeling mind. 
 The immortal soul, thou can'st not bind. 
 
 By thy oppressive power; 
 In deepest gloom, the soul springs up, 
 And feels a Heav'n reviving hope, 
 
 Of some bright coming hour. 
 
 Could we repel thy venom'd darts. 
 And build a bulwark round our hearts, 
 
168 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 That would throw back thy stings; 
 E'en in a wilderness — removed 
 From objects that are dearly loved, 
 
 We'd dwell — nor envy kings. 
 
 Then why not now obtain this shield? 
 This breast-plate, which defies the field 
 
 Of warfare, or of death; 
 The subj ect, in my bosom warms, 
 Earth — I'll defy thy pelting storms. 
 
 Yea, with my latest breath. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 
 Thou'rt going from thy early home, my boy! 
 Where a mother's eye, ever watch'd o'er thee; 
 Thou'lt prove, my son! the world has base alloy, 
 And learn, by lessons stern, its treachery. 
 
 No heart will ever throb for thee, my boy! 
 As this fond one, in my maternal breast; 
 Can aught, a mother's holy love destroy? 
 Imperishahle! eternally impress''d.' 
 
 And mark, my son! thou'lt often find the smile, 
 That facinates and charms the youthful heart. 
 Is worn by the sycophant, who would beguile, 
 And wound the feelings, by a treach'rous dart. 
 
 One precept wise, dropt from the lips of love. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 169 
 
 I'd have engraven on thy youthful mind; 
 "Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove;" 
 This on the tablet of thy bosom bind! 
 
 Wisdom, my child! 'twill prove a gem of worth, 
 Win it! and wear it for thy diadem! 
 'Twill bear thy thoughts aloft, far from the earth. 
 And glory there will be thy endless theme. 
 
 A FUGITIVE THOUGHT. 
 
 Sure, Love must emanate alone from heaven, 
 A feeling holy, ne'er can spring from earth; 
 Then why was it, to earthly mortals given? 
 To lead them, where the hallowed flame had birth. 
 
 But why? canst tell? some hearts ne'er feel its power, 
 Is it, — they're cased up, in a frigid zone? 
 Where icy flakes are gathering every hour? 
 Nor one warm ray has ever on them shone? 
 
 Ah! Love may wane, e'en in its native soil, 
 For want of food, to cherish the pure flame; 
 Neglect may ev'ry flowery vision spoil, 
 And Love, like "friendship prove a mere" name. 
 
 But can it die? can the celestial spark, 
 Tho' faintly glimmering on its cheerless way, 
 Annihilated be? — no! list thou! — hark! 
 A light points, where love never will decay. 
 15 
 
170 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Bright beacon! gild my dull and weary wing! 
 That it may bear me to some place above; 
 Where one seraphic strain, which angels sing, 
 May fill my soul with immortal love. 
 
 ESTELLA'S VOICE. 
 
 "The man that hath not music in himself, 
 Nor is not raov'd with concord of sweet sounds. 
 Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 O! let me hear that strain! 
 Gentle as the sighs of ev'en; 
 'Twill sooth my bosom's pain, 
 And make me dream of heaven. 
 
 0! 'tis a voice so soft, 
 It wakes up dormant nature: 
 And bears the soul aloft, 
 Full of holiest rapture. 
 
 Ah! 'tis a voice so sweet. 
 It calms each ruffl'd feeling; 
 'Tis like — when spirits meet, 
 Where holy strains are pealing. 
 
 BIRTH-DAY OF AN ONLY SON. 
 
 Time, my dear boy, with rapid wings, 
 Ne'er pausing once to rest his pinions, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 171 
 
 Thy one-and-twentieth year, — brings: 
 Monarch of his wide dominions! 
 
 Swiftly he moves, — tho' quietly, 
 And hides his scythe beneath his wing; 
 Disease and death, and misery^ 
 His annual rounds, surely bring. 
 
 Nor can we feel, his blighting pow'r, 
 Ere he steals from us our glory; 
 Leaf by leaf, he spoils the flower, 
 'Fore we know the fatal story. 
 
 Note! dear son! his fleeting movements, 
 Nor let him find thy locks grown gray; 
 Before thy mind gains improvements, 
 That would gild a winter's day. 
 
 Winter! — 'Tis age I mean, my child, 
 When sear leaves o'er thy brows are bound; 
 When those who on thy bright youth smiled, 
 Are slumb'ring 'neath the cold damp ground 
 
 Then if thoufind'st thyself alone, 
 A stranger in thy native land! 
 Let virtue be thy brightest crown, 
 Go thou! with wisdom, hand in hand. 
 November 11th, 1842. 
 
172 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 AFTER A STORM. 
 
 The clouds have dispers'd, and thunders have ceas'd, 
 And a bright little star, is descried in the east; 
 The dark mutt'ring storm, has entirely subsided, 
 And how sweet is the halcy'n rest that's provided, 
 
 By Deity's beneficent hand. 
 How bright glows the sky, ah! the moon now appears! 
 And glides like a fair queen, that has no compeers, 
 She rides on the cloud, with her silv'ry light, 
 And richly adorns the dark curtains of night; 
 
 So silent, majestic and grand. 
 
 And now, the rude wind has ceased to blow ! 
 And now, that the pained eyes have ceased to flow ! 
 Do we feel that the heart is entirely subdued? 
 And glows with a heavenly gratitude? 
 
 To him who commanded the storm. 
 Do we bend the soul, to the giver of light? 
 And implore his care, through the silence of night? 
 We know that his omniscient eye will not sleep; 
 And that guardian bands, their night-watches keep. 
 
 To shield us from every harm. 
 
 SWAN'S NEST,. 
 
 ON AN ISLAND IN THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 Bird of the snow-white breast! 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 173 
 
 Weil hast thou chosera this sequester'd isle, 
 Where nature with her brightest sylvan smile, 
 Plays round thy quiet nest. 
 
 Here thou reignest a queen, 
 Sole monarch of this little world of flowers, 
 Where clust'ring vines are forming shady bowers, 
 
 'Neath the tall evergreen. 
 
 But tell us, lonely thing, 
 When the dark clouds are mutt'ring in the west, 
 And forked lightnings flash around thy nest, 
 
 Where, do thy young ones cling? 
 
 Or when tornadoes sweep. 
 And stir old Mississippi's angry waves. 
 And spectres wild, start from their wat'ry graves, 
 
 Tell us, canst thou then sleep? 
 
 O! sweet security! 
 Thou envied bird! entirely free from care. 
 Nor midnight gloom, nor storms can give thee fear, 
 
 What is it?— purity? 
 
 Thy dress denotes thee pure! 
 Wast thou disgusted with a noisy world? 
 Where men and things are in confusion hurled, 
 
 On a poor sandy shore. 
 
 That thou did'st choose this spot, 
 Where nothing could disturb thy tranquil rest, 
 15* 
 
174 WOOD NOTES WILDi 
 
 Where no rude boys could harm thy pretty nest, 
 0! 'twas a happy thought. 
 
 Thou solitary glade! 
 Now I must leave thee for that noisy shore, 
 Where busy scenes will greet me at my door, 
 
 Bird! how I love thy shade. 
 
 IDEALITY.- 
 
 Ideality! thou wak'st the drowsy soul. 
 
 And coins from nature, beauties all thine own; 
 
 The vivid thoughts, glow like pure burnish'd gold,. 
 
 In temperate, torrid, or the frigid zone; 
 
 And thou art developed in the peasant's head, 
 
 Equally as strong, as in the princely lord; 
 
 Thy visions flit around the sufferers bed. 
 
 And glorious thoughts, to the sick mind aiford. 
 
 Ideality! thou soar'st above this earth. 
 
 And for a moment o'erlooks the things of time; 
 
 Thy love of the sublime, from Heaven had birth, 
 
 How canst thou then, soujourn in this dull clime? 
 
 Thou borrow'st the wings of the bird of power, 
 
 The bold, the daring Eagle, of the sky; 
 
 That thou may'st dive, or soar, in one short hour, 
 
 To the ocean's bottom, or to clouds on high; 
 
 There thou dost cull the riches of the sea» 
 
 Or wear the rainbow, belted as a zone; 
 
 With this sweet life-buoy, — this Ideality, 
 
 That has through ages, like a meteor shone. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 175 
 
 OUR EARLY HOME. 
 
 What is this, that glows within the heart, 
 
 For those, whom our fond nature claims? 
 
 From such, we may be doom'd to part, 
 
 Yet warm affection still remains; 
 
 Nor, have the strange vicissitudes removed, 
 
 Impressions, strong for those we once have loved. 
 
 Absence may wean, yea and cold neglect, 
 May chill our warmest, early love; 
 The heart, that has been often wreck'd, 
 May from its fond affections rove; 
 Still that circle around our infant home, 
 In fondest recollection, finds a room. 
 
 Ah I the world's bleak storms may keenly blow, 
 
 Its usage may be rough and cold, 
 
 We may form new ties, for which will glow 
 
 That sterling love, purer than gold; 
 
 Yet that first home, where we used to dwell, 
 
 Creeps o'er the mem'ry, like a magic spell. 
 
 That sacred time, ere misfortune's frown. 
 Had sternly said, lean not on earth! 
 When all our loved ones smiled around, 
 The cheerful fire, and clean brush'd hearth; 
 That bless'd time, ere one young creature knew, 
 What checker'd paths through life he would pursue. 
 
176 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 ^X^' 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 A strange and wayward genius, as thou wert. 
 For thee, there glows an admiration still; 
 Thou seem'st to me, as some rich gem, begirt 
 With impure earth: — or, like a limpid rill. 
 Loosing its way, where foul miasmas steal; 
 O pity! that a gem, so rich and rare, 
 Should be the sport of passion — fancy — will — 
 And pity 'twere, a bright and glorious star 
 Should set in gloom, a slave to passions, discontent and care. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Ah! little can the wealthy lordling know. 
 The miseries and wants of humble worth; 
 Many a gem conceal'd, would brightly glow. 
 If sever'd from the dark and motly earth. 
 
 And such thou wast, fair Ruth! a native gem. 
 Whom blighting storms had swept too rudely o'er; 
 But though rude winds oft chill'd the tender stem, 
 Rich charms were hid within its bumble store. 
 
 Though poverty, like death, is stern and cold. 
 And Ruth's perfections, as a desert flower, 
 In deep retirement did their charms unfold. 
 Patiently awating some more prosp'rous hour. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 177 
 
 With one, whom a sad and ruthless fate, 
 Had thrown upon the world's cold charity; 
 She lived, removed from the proud and great, 
 Secure in nought, save her own purity. 
 
 Sorrow and want, had bowed the widow's heart, 
 And Ruth, with all a daughter's j&lial love. 
 Did to Naomi soothing words impart. 
 And fix her thoughts on better things above. 
 
 (Poverty! stern, heartless, cruel thing!) 
 From Moab's daughters ev'ry hope had flown, 
 Why disparity 'tween Plebian and King? 
 One rev'ling in wealth! — the other, pale and wan. 
 
 But want, sad want, did urge its sti'ong demands, 
 When thus Naomi spoke to gentle Ruth: 
 '^Daughter! the fields, that generous Boaz tends, 
 Are ripe for harvest, — go across yon heath! 
 
 "And glean! my child, tho' keep thee far behind!" 
 See here! a noble pride can never die; 
 Where innate grace dwells purely refined, 
 Want ne'er can crush those aspirations high, 
 
 That swells the soul, even if its wall be clay, 
 And sable curtains thickly hang around. 
 Thoughts 'scape their fetters, — like a piercing ray, 
 Communes with greatness, by an instant bound. 
 
 Why thus digress? — Fair Ruth now left the cot, 
 In her own meek and beautiful attire; 
 
178 WOOD NOTES "WILD. 
 
 With modest diffidence, she sought the spot, 
 Unconscious none could see, and not admire. 
 
 Such pure simplicity, and beanty too. 
 As might have graced a proud and princely form; 
 But all her thoughts were to Naomi true, 
 Whose cot was scarce a shelter from the storm. 
 
 Ere she had reached the field, her pensive eyes, 
 Were veil'd with a proud humiliating tear; 
 But sorrow seeks to hide the bursting sighs, 
 And Ruth's fair self, did lovelier appear. 
 
 Boaz, — the master of this spacious field, 
 Was formed to love the beauties of the mind; 
 No sordid avarice couW his bosom steel, — 
 To all, — his heart was generous and kind. 
 
 'Midst other gleaners, he this wood-nymph spies, 
 And to his fav'rite servant, Milo, said: — 
 "Tell me! old man, who's she, with downcast eyes? 
 She whose golden tresses curl around the head?" 
 
 "A Moabitish damsel, honor'd sir! 
 That dwells beside the grove, in an old cot; 
 She with her aged mother lives not far; — 
 Look here! good sir! I'll shew the very spot." 
 
 Good Milo! strew the sheaves along her way! 
 Her hands are delicate, to toil so hard! 
 O shame! that one, fair as the flow'rs of May, 
 Should glean all day, for such poor reward. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 179 
 
 Then Boaz did approach the humble fair, 
 While a sonorous voice, stole on her ear, 
 "Lady! those sheaves will thy soft fingers tear, 
 O! dost thou not these thorny brambles fear? 
 
 Methinks, fair Ruth! thy form is slight and weak, 
 To bear fatiguing, arduous toil, like this; 
 Art thou not weary? — I would hear thee speak: 
 For sure thy voice would give the hearer bliss. 
 
 His words came o'er her heart like music's charm, 
 And humble Ruth, raised her languid eyes; 
 Beside her stood, in manly grace and form. 
 Stately and calm, a youth of noble size. 
 
 Again her eyes were shaded from his gaze. 
 The dark, long silken lashes veil'd them quite, 
 And Boaz' soul was thrill'd, by their soft rays, 
 No other gleaner, caught his ravish 'd sight. 
 
 Come on the morrow, Ruth! come and glean! 
 Full sheaves we'll strew thickly along thy way, — 
 But I would barter all, for one soft sheen. 
 From eyes far brighter than the orb of day. 
 
 Ah! Boaz could have talk'd 'till evening shade 
 Had wrapt the world in its most sable garb; 
 For Cupid had a deep impression made, 
 And from his bow, had flown the keenest barb. 
 
 The humble Ruth, stole meekly to her cot, 
 And told the strange adventures of the day; 
 
180 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Ah! then it was, she moan'd her rustic lot, 
 Her heart had treasur'd all the youth did say. 
 
 And Boaz to his stately mansion strode, 
 Where ev'ry luxury awaited him; 
 For wealth profusely spread his costly board, 
 Yet he mused, as one entranced in dream. 
 
 Nor could the strongest morphine balm impart, 
 A lithif'rous pow^'rto his fancy wild; 
 E'en in his dreams he asked his throbbing heart. 
 Could it forget Ruth's soft bewitching smile? 
 
 And thus in communion with his heart, he spake: 
 If I, from humble life select a bride. 
 Who but the proud, or the ignoble rake. 
 Will ever dare my virtuous course deride? 
 
 Is not the violet, that humbly grows, 
 In some low vale, the sweetest flow'r of all? 
 Tho' it may not its lovely tints disclose. 
 But will its fragrance on the senses pall? 
 
 No! its retiring, unobtrusive worth, 
 Strikes each beholder by its modesty; 
 Then if this damsel be of humble birth. 
 Where could I find such pure simplicity? 
 
 When morning broke, unclouded beauties shone, 
 O'er hill and dale, and all the verdant trees, 
 And ev'ry songster, of that lovely morn, 
 Pour'd forth their sweetest, softest melodies. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 181 
 
 But Boaz, restless with unquiet thought, 
 Arose, and left his morning's rich repast, 
 To taste the early air, with fragrance fraught. 
 O'er brake and brier, he rambled on in haste, 
 
 (For love will seek to hide from gazing eyes. 
 And musing, stray in solitude afar, 
 Where it can breathe its own tumultuous sighs. 
 And no rude ear, its softest accents hear.) 
 
 Then, could he, by those rustic reapers pass. 
 And ne'er look on their cheerful hardy work; 
 But 0! where was that pretty rural lass? 
 That in his heart such pure emotions 'woke. 
 
 Ah! there the gentle, graceful damsel wrought! 
 Though far behind the other gleaning lasses: 
 Her quiet eyes, so full of meaning fraught, 
 Her simple air, seemed modeled by the graces. 
 
 Now, what could generous Boaz think, or do? 
 It were but chivalrous to greet the fair, 
 And then he meant to act most strickly true, 
 But how could he, his early love declare? 
 
 Nor had he seen her, until yester' morn. 
 Then why precipitate? why in such haste? 
 Yet had he not been told, they were forlorn? 
 Abiding in a lonely, cheerless waste. 
 
 'Twere noble, then, to pour the soothing balm, 
 On poor Naomi's fast declining years; 
 16 
 
182 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Boaz thought, the whole had such a charm, 
 That it completely banished all his fears. 
 
 Then he to Ruth approach'd, while pleasure's glow, 
 Mantled his face, and gave a brighter charm; 
 Nor could a Queen have won a nobler bow. 
 Or lent an ear, to vows more purely warm. 
 
 And thus the feelings of his soul he spake: 
 Ruth! / love thee; thou hast won my heart; 
 Say! couldst thou then, a heart of feeling break? 
 O tell me not, that we must live apart! 
 
 Dear Ruth! thy God slmll also be my God, 
 Myself, my home, accept them for thine own! 
 
 spurn me not! — that I have early wooed, — 
 The good Naomi should not dwell alone. 
 
 Ruth's speaking eyes look'd gratitude and love. 
 
 Meekly and low, she thus replied to him: 
 
 O! talk not so! Boaz is far above. 
 
 What I, in humble life must to him seem. 
 
 1 would not scan thy station, lovely one! 
 
 'Tis thine own beauteous self my heart desires; 
 Say thou'lt be mine! I ask no other boon, 
 'Tis all my most fastid'ous heart requires. 
 
 Need it be told, how the declining sun. 
 Of good Naomi, set in peace and joy; 
 Or how, by mark'd attention, Boaz won, 
 That pure affection, free from all alloy. 
 
^'^'tiv.,^^ WOOD NOTES WILD. 183 
 
 One little month! and Ruth's fair, lovely form, 
 With matchless air and grace, was seen to glide, 
 Through a magnificent and spacious dome. 
 The generous Boaz' sweet and blushing bride! 
 
 Ah! happy pair! the model of thy bliss, 
 Is from a clime of pure and quiet love; 
 'Tis rarely found in such a world as this, 
 Love so sincere comes from a world above. 
 
 REMINISCENCE. 
 
 To tell the hopes, the fears, the ardent joy, 
 
 That crossed my path in life's young day; 
 
 The mildew blights, that all those dreams destroy, 
 
 The flowers, the thorns, that checker'd all my way; 
 
 Would take a poet, versed in ev'ry wile, 
 
 The burning tear, the rapt'rous, joyful smile. 
 
 When life was young, I plucked the summer rose, 
 
 And smiled^ to think a thorn behind it grew; • 
 
 Time did ere long the fatal truth disclose. 
 
 The thorn h^d pierced my bosom through and through: 
 
 The wounds were heal'd — again I looked on earth, 
 
 Allured, by all its fEiscinating mirth. 
 
 Along my path, I found another flower. 
 The like, I thought no creature e'er had found, 
 Then came contagion, like a whirlwind shower, 
 And crushed the cherish'd idol to the ground; 
 
184 WOOD NOTES WILB. 
 
 0! it was like the life strings torn apart, 
 The tendrils all, were fasten'd to my heart. 
 
 The wound was fresh, when, lo! I found a bud, 
 And plac'd it fondly on my sorrowing breast; 
 My other flower had gone to bloom with God — 
 The slender stem was quietly at rest.-^ 
 01 oft I clasped my rose-bud in my arras, 
 And thought of all its lovely sister's charms. 
 
 Was I to keep this treasure? no! — death came 
 Again, and pierced me with his iron dart, — 
 But still I live, — with mortals have a name, 
 Though sorrow drowns each pleasure of my heart, 
 O! would such chastenings from the Heavenly rod, 
 At last, conduct me to the realms of God. 
 
 ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "Strange fancies crowd upon the curious mind, 
 And lead the imagination at their will." 
 
 How dark is the night! The moon will arise! — 
 And light up the gloom with her silvery eyes; 
 How lonely! — O! would that old Allen Bane 
 Around my couch would play a soft strain, 
 Could I but 'wake that old harper of yore. 
 Draw him o'er the deep sea to 'merica's shore, 
 'Twould be charming, to hear an old Scotch lay, 
 from a bard, who had slept since Douglass' day;- 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 185 
 
 I'll chant him a song; — perchance he may rise, 
 In his scotch-plaid, — and my senses surprise; 
 Tho' even, if he comes, all shiv'ring and gray, 
 I'll seize the old 'sprite and force him to stay. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come spirit! thou of the olden times, 
 'Wake from sleep! and visit my lone cell! 
 Come old Harper! from fair Scotia's climesj 
 Awake! awake! with thy magic spell, 
 The 'nthusiast wants a wizard's lyre, 
 Tuned with the minstrel's ardent fire, 
 
 O! strike — strike a note, wild, sad and soft! 
 Old minstrel, of the Douglass train! 
 And bear ray spirit far, far aloft! 
 By thy sweet Scotch highland strain! 
 And tho' no minstrel greets thee here, 
 O! charm the lone Enthusiast's ear! 
 
 For one that worships thy noble race, 
 Implores thy music for an hour, 
 Good spirit! leave thy happy place! 
 And play around her rural bower. 
 'Tis on a broad and mighty stream, 
 The wild Poet has her fairy dream. 
 
 He comes, aJas! a shivering dread, 
 Creeps o'er my senses, — (O! I am cold!) 
 I feel now the presence of the dead, 
 O! Powers! shall I the spirit behold? 
 Id* 
 
186 WOOD NOTES WILI>i 
 
 Ah! now again I'm calm, old spirit'. 
 Haste! play me off thy sweetest duette! 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Thou wild Enthusiast! thou of my race! — 
 
 No marks of minstrelsy in thee I trace; 
 
 My line was woo'd, by Cupid and the graces, 
 
 Our noble house ne'er dwelt in desert places. 
 
 We tuned our harps, 'mid courts and rosy bowers, 
 
 Our thrilling strains, swept o'er ambrosial flow'rs. 
 
 I rise, to spurn thy invocation, rudel 
 
 Or I should ne'er have sought thy solitude; 
 
 Perchance, in pity to thy hermit lot, 
 
 A shade I'll send, — the shade of Walter Scott. 
 
 His soul was tuned to sympathy and love, 
 
 I'll court his spirit from the realms above, 
 
 To sooth a lone acetic in distress. 
 
 And turn her thoughts to poetry and peace; 
 
 Adieu! nor e'er another minstrel wake! 
 
 Whilst thou art near the native's wild cane-brake, 
 
 The Mississippi's vale, of swamp and mire. 
 
 And foul miasma, unstrings the boldest lyre. 
 
 ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Go! spirit, go! and bear thy lyre afar! 
 Thou hast no sympathy for wild despair, 
 For one who mourns her sad and lonely state* 
 Go — go, and leave me to my reckless fate. 
 
 Alone — alone — I turn mine eyes to earth; 
 Claiming my heritage! — thou gavest me birth; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD* 18"7 
 
 Now give me pleasure! fill my cup with joys! 
 Deceive me not! with bubbles and with toys. 
 I am thy vot'ry, — pay me with thy love! 
 Force me not thus, to supplicate old Jove! 
 Answer my questions! if my requests thou spurn, 
 I would from spirits, earth, and all things learn. 
 Why a translucid ray, from spheres of light, 
 Illuminate the soul, then leave me night? 
 Why is that soul, with rapt'rous feelings fraught? 
 And thoughts of various character, meet thought? 
 Why should love, — a noble, god-like feeling, 
 Come o'er the heart, as heavenly music stealing? 
 Charming the senses, and shairing all the soul, 
 Binding other passions, by its soft control; 
 Why should it fail, and bitter thoughts impart, 
 Wormwood and gall, a death- wound to the heart. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 Alas! I'm ignorant of thy very birth, 
 
 And merely know, thou art a thing of earth; 
 
 Nor ask of me, for happiness and joy, 
 
 I promise bliss to none, without alloy; 
 
 Nor tell me more, of wild tumult 'ous feeling, 
 
 A morbid softness o'er thy senses stealing; 
 
 Know thou thyself! and learn thou art but dust, 
 
 Lean not on me! nor to my favors trust! 
 
 Trust Him! who made such feeble worms as thou, 
 
 To Him, make ev'ry thought and passion bow! 
 
 0! ask of Him, submissively and meek, 
 
 He spurns no one, who would true wisdom seek. 
 
188 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 SECOND SPIRIT. 
 
 I now appear, thy doubting thoughts to free, 
 
 Hearing, Enthusiast, thy wild soliloquy: 
 
 The world is cold, unfeeling, stern andn*(^e, 
 
 And none takes pity on thy solitude; 
 
 Methinksthe minstrel spirit judged thee wrong, 
 
 Thouseem'st tome a very child of song; 
 
 But calm thy sorrows, contend no more with fate» 
 
 Subdue thy love, thy scorn, thy bitter hate, — 
 
 Thy tender thrills, thy gush of glorious feelings 
 
 Something ne'er told, o'er thy senses stealing; 
 
 Thou may'st be formed for friendship or for love; 
 
 But, Enthusiast, whither dost thou rove? 
 
 In a celestial world, far, far above, 
 
 I'm taught such things, as here, thou canst not prove; 
 
 Feelings, that lead thee to the far off skies, 
 
 Emotions pure, that burst in plaintive sighs; 
 
 Those dangerous passions that o'erwhelm the soul, 
 
 E'en love, or hate, to act without control, 
 
 Will plunge thee in a vortex of dismay, 
 
 And lead thy spirit from the purest way, 
 
 Thy wild enthusiasm ! let it be subdued ! 
 
 Such feelings are not always understood; 
 
 Here you pluck roses that grow with the thorn, 
 
 And grief's badge of wo, by every one is worn. 
 
 ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Thou hast subdued my pride and vanity, 
 I own I am a simple, wayward wight. 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 189 
 
 O ! lead me to that fount of purity ! 
 
 Whose limpid waters give the blind their sight. 
 
 Kind spirit ! tell me of thy heavenly rest, 
 
 Thy pure society, — of spirits blest. — 
 
 Sing to me! spirit, of thy happy world. 
 
 Of beauties that can never fade away; 
 
 Help me seek the inestimable pearl, 
 
 That shines its brilliancies eternally; 
 
 O spirit ! tell me of thy bliss sublime, 
 
 My heart is weary of this changing clime. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Tell thee of bliss, in the bright world above ! 
 A tongue would fail to speak of perfect love; 
 This earthly prison cramps all thoughts sublime, 
 Nor canst thou know our joys, in this dull clime; 
 Suffice to know, our state is pure delight; 
 E'en the rich gardens ravish the keen sight; 
 Where fruits are gather'd, luscious to the taste, 
 And yet they prove an intellectual feast; 
 The odorous flow'rs pour light upon the mind. 
 We in each bud a mental lesson find; 
 Rich vines grow twisted into diamond wreaths, 
 And gems of every hue shoot from the trees; 
 Who can describe that world of glorious light? 
 Arched round with stars so beautiful and bright, 
 That each succeeding ray instructs and charms, 
 And wander where we will, no object harms; 
 In that bright world are pools and limpid streams. 
 And in their waters every virtue teems:. 
 
190 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 But vain my efforts, — angels can't portray, 
 And I must now depart, — I must away; 
 Too long I've tarried in this vale of night, 
 The moon is now concealing e'en her light; 
 Adieu ! thou lonely one, adieu ! adieu I 
 And the moon sank down as the spirit flew. 
 
 MERMAID. 
 
 The Ocean ! — the Ocean! 
 
 Where the green-hair'd sea-girl 
 
 Twines her wreaths of bright coral, 
 
 Or mother of pearl; 
 'Tis said, that her strains, like some heavenly lute, 
 Float o'er the main, till the surges are mute: 
 Then to her chamber where the light of her pearls. 
 Throws a radiance around her soft gleamy curls. 
 
 What art thou? strange one! 
 
 A soul, transmigrated? 
 
 That, with beauty once shone: — 
 
 For some crime art thou fated 
 To dwell in the deep? — like a mis-shapen sprite, 
 And lull sea-monsters with a requiem at night; 
 The Fairy was cruel, — Thy sin, — was it pride? — 
 That thy robes are the waves, thy mantle — the tide. 
 
 IIow long wilt thou stay? 
 Fair lady; — how long? 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 191 
 
 And dance o'er the spray, 
 
 To thy fairy-like song: — 
 And art thou to live, till the ocean be dry? 
 Till the bright burning stars, drop from the sky? 
 Till the Zasi mortal thing has breath'd his last breath? 
 Must thou witness all this? ere thou meetest with death. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 I saw the young bride stand beside the altar, 
 On her fair brow, sat innocence and love — 
 And round her lips, play'd a bewitching smile 
 Of happiness, and sweet security. 
 
 No pause of time — on, on, in rapid flight, 
 He wends his way. 
 
 Years had roll'd on apace — 
 
 ********** 
 
 The picture presents again with change of scenery, 
 Mirth, joy, and hope, had wing'd their flight. 
 
 Ruthless time 
 Had wrought on things a change more visible: 
 The once fair brow, — was shadow'd deep by age and care, 
 And anxious watching. 
 
 Tears and sorrow had plough'd 
 Full many a furrow, on the round, soft cheek: 
 All felt the blanching touch of time, so deathly, 
 Save one mysterious ^ indissoluble thing; 
 Thou cruel spoiler of nature's fairest works, 
 Thou seemest but to wear the rust from off" this geniy 
 
192 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 That glitter'd 'neath a veil so dark and odious, 
 Concealed, — Its light reflects back on itself, 
 Not visible. 
 
 The exterior wins man's noble love, 
 The sunken eye, dim'dby the very tears 
 Pour'd out for him, — serve but to cool his flame, 
 Though woman's pure, devoted, ardent love, 
 Demands returns. 
 
 CAN GOLD GAIN FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 "Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! 
 As well mere man nn angel might beget, 
 Love, and love only, is tlie loan for love.'' 
 
 YODNG. 
 
 "Can gold gain friendship?" Yes, mistaken sage, 
 Gold gains the friendship of the present agel 
 ^'Impudence of hope!"- — Thinkest thou 'tis so? 
 Then impudence belongs to one, — I trow. — 
 And if that one, untutor'd, rustic wight. 
 Should breathe rude sentiments — nor chaste nor like 
 A Young, — a Cowper, — or Sir Walter Scott, — 
 Poh! — who is he who cares one sjngle jot? 
 Or if the world brands her as arrant fool, 
 No earthly harm, — the creature has no gold. 
 
 Most honor'd sage! — permit an humble muse, 
 
 Her own simplicity of style to choose; 
 
 To lisp the words which thou didst sweetly sing, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 193 
 
 And charm 'd, when e'er thou touch'd the lyric string; 
 
 If rude inverse, — deem not her feelings hard, 
 
 For sensibility clings to every bard; 
 
 We keenly feel, if not so smooth of speech 
 
 As thou*, who did Castalius' fountain reach. 
 
 For if we be a minstrel, poor and low, 
 
 Or ane, from whom, the sweetest strains can flow, 
 
 No matter, — if we be a child of song, 
 
 To us, the pungent, bitter thoughts belong, 
 
 To us belongs, the heart's pure tender thrill, 
 
 That comes unbidden, e'en where we want it still; 
 
 For those, who oft may wrong the feeling heart, 
 
 And cause, by cold neglect, the keenest dart. 
 
 Methinks the poet, who sings of constant love, 
 Or friendship, that no vicissitudes can move. 
 Has only found it, wrapt up in a bubble, 
 Cram'd in a corner, of his own bright noddle; 
 And if his pate^hy some rough thing was shaken, 
 Awak'd from dreams, he'd find his bubble broken. 
 
 **Poh! — poh! — such sentiments were never heard, 
 "They shock the mind, of every courteous bard; 
 "They come from rhymers, of the last degree, 
 "And wild as loons, with pure insanity." 
 
 Ah! polished Bard! America is wild^ 
 And every poet here's a rural child; 
 But truth is taught us in the simplest form, 
 And from the heart, our sentiments come warm. 
 *Dr. Young. 
 
 17 
 
194 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Perchance no friends, e'er passed thy guilded door, 
 Who were too kind, to see a kinsman poor; 
 And no blue faces, did e'er thy elbows pull, 
 Because, good Doctor! thy long purse was full: 
 For thou, old Bard, liv'dst in the poet's agCt 
 When wreaths of laurel, bound the minstrel's page, 
 '■^Love'^ then "was loan for love,'''' — but in our day, 
 (^An iron age,) the creature will have jpa?/. 
 
 TO THE MUSES. 
 
 Who would court, thy false and treacherous smile? 
 
 Not those, who value happiness and rest; 
 
 Thy favors, lead the 'magination wild, 
 
 And those who paint thy sorrows feel them most, 
 
 Then seek some brighter spot, some honor'd name, 
 
 To guild for thee a diadem of fame. 
 
 Hence thou shalt find, a uprightly rustic dame. 
 That finds a happiness in cheese and butter; 
 Who has acquired an honorable fame. 
 For honest industry and sturdy splutter; 
 Who makes the best of pickle, pies, and cake. 
 And cooks with skill, the exquisite beef-steak. 
 
 Ah! such delicious things, come to the taste. 
 The olfactory nerve — the eye — the tongue; 
 No moonshine here — no glittering lace, 
 That crazy bards have often wildly sung; 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 195 
 
 But a large dish, so full of chicken pie, 
 An Epicure might eat his fill and die. 
 
 We think, of all the abject, paltry things^ 
 Among creation's catalogue of apes; 
 Is a thread-bare Poet — who in his garret sings. 
 And for his meals pops out his head d^nd gapes; 
 Ye Gods! — preserve us from the poet's fate, 
 Who starves to death, in dreaming he'll be great. 
 
 MY BROKEN LUTE. 
 
 No more will thy low tones be heard. 
 
 My crush' d, my broken Lute; 
 No more thou'lt 'wake the sleeping bird, 
 Thy strings are mute; 
 My kindest friend I 
 My Lute! 
 
 What cruel blast has shivered thee? 
 
 Regardless of my wo! 
 None, has for me that sympathy, 
 Thou didst bestow: — 
 Forget thee, friend? — 
 Ah! no! 
 
 Though broken, and the winds of heav'n, 
 
 Have borne thy strains afar; 
 Just so my wounded heart is riv'n; 
 Grief dries the tear; 
 
196 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 Solace, I've none, — 
 Save prayer. 
 
 But ah! though friends be parted here. 
 
 They'll re-unite above; 
 Where notes are pealing, sweet and clear. 
 From Lutes of love; — 
 Where friendship's like 
 The dove, 
 
 Unchangeable — nor will a blast 
 
 E'er more disturb our rest. 
 There we will smile at sorrows past, 
 With angels blestf 
 Where nought will wound 
 Our breast. 
 
 My "Lute"! I'll hang thy broken strings, 
 
 On some lone Cypress tree; 
 The nightingale, that sweetly sings 
 In sympathy; 
 A dirge may chant, 
 For thee. 
 
 And as the winds are passing by, 
 
 Perchance one tender strain, 
 Faint as seolian's softest sigh. 
 May 'wake again 
 Thy broken chords, — 
 Thy strain. 
 
 Farewell! and here, no more we meet, 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 197 
 
 Fate breaks the chain of love; 
 Our notes that mingled once so sweet, 
 In the green grove; 
 The winds have borne 
 Above. 
 June, 1842. 
 
 IN THE DEEP, ETC. 
 
 In the deep shadows, 
 Fire flies are glowing; 
 O'er the rich meadows, 
 Soft winds are blowing; 
 There the lone Nightingale sings to her lover: 
 There the poor Whip-poor-will tells his tale over: 
 By a murm'ring rill, 
 Whip-poor-will ! 
 Whip-poor-will! 
 
 Far above our heads, 
 Bright stars are peeping. 
 On nature's broad beds, 
 Her children are sleeping; 
 But the musing eye, on a stilly night, 
 Pierces e'en darkness, with a pure delight; 
 Still, by the deep rill, 
 We hear poor Will, 
 Whip-poor-will I 
 17* 
 
198 WOOD NOTES WILIf. 
 
 The Moon's now rising, 
 In her queenly attire; 
 In splendor, surprizing; 
 She lights up a fire, 
 So silvery and soft, it ne'er dazzles the eye. 
 But throws a rich lustre o'er all the sky; 
 Then all is so still, 
 Save poor Will, 
 Whip-poor-will! 
 
 At this dreamy hour, 
 A Heavenly charm; 
 With magic power,. 
 The feelings warm; — 
 And we see by faith, a city above, 
 Where spirits are moved, by feelings of love; 
 Where no eye will fill, — 
 For poor Will; — 
 Whip-poor-will!. 
 
 Will — why is thy song, 
 Like one in distress? 
 All the night long, 
 What can oppress? 
 A spirit; — a fairy, — perchance thou may'st be, 
 Doom'd to do penance, at night, on a tree; 
 Then nothing can still 
 Thy wand'rings poor Will, 
 Whip-poor-will! 
 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 19& 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST. 
 
 'Twere vain for "me to sport with comic scenes. In life's 
 young dreams my buoyant spirits flowed and inundated all with- 
 in their sphere. 
 
 The poetry of life may make them rise, perchance, but then 
 they ebbingly retire, true to their stagnant pool. — Author. 
 
 Thou art gone to rest, mine own sweet one! 
 
 Far away from this valley of tears; 
 Thou art gone! — and I am left alone, 
 
 In a desert, surrounded with cares; 
 My spirit 'rose to pursue thee, my love! 
 
 To the home, where the beautiful dwell; 
 It failed to reach the mansion above, 
 
 And returned to its desolate cell. 
 
 Now, — 'tis a spirit so restless within, 
 
 It would burst its dark prison and fly, 
 To thine own rest; — where angels are seen, 
 
 To thy glorious home in the sky; 
 But 'tis fetter 'd here, and can't now go, 
 
 Though its cage, ere long, must decay; 
 Strings that vibrate to sorrow and wo. 
 
 Eventually wear quite away. 
 
 Then at some stilly hour of ev'n, 
 When the sky, with bright gems are glowing, 
 
 I'll go to thee, love, — 'way to thy Heav'n, 
 With a heart that's full to o'erflowing: 
 
 Now, while I gaze on those lights, far oiF, 
 
 
200 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 With a fondness that few hearts can know; 
 The twinkling stars seem to call me aloft, 
 Till I'm warmed with a heavenly glow. 
 
 I trace in that silv'ry world above, 
 
 A place where pure spirits may dwell; 
 Hook, till I seethe veil remove, 
 
 And then with an ardor, I kneel, 
 And pray, that I too be robed in white, 
 
 With celestial spirits so pure. 
 Where innpcents have perpetual delight. 
 
 Where the heart is pained no more. 
 
 TO THE BREEZES. 
 
 Come to my bosom! gentle breeze! 
 
 And cool the fever there; 
 Thou art so fresh, from the green trees. 
 
 And from the flowers fair. 
 
 0! if I bare my bosom now. 
 
 Wilt thou a balm impart? 
 Thou kindly eas'st the pained brow; 
 
 O! soothe the aching heart! 
 
 No! gentle breeze! it will not do, — 
 
 Thy efforts all are vain; 
 Thou canst not cure mental wo, 
 
 Nor ease the heart's deep pain. 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
WOOD NOTES WILD. 201 
 
 Go to yonder drooping flower, 
 Resuscitate its leaves; 
 
 There apply thy healing power, 
 The flower never grieves. 
 
 THE DYING POET. 
 
 A little longer! — 0! let me look once more! 
 On scenes that were my soul's delight; 
 Throw open wide the door! — 
 Can this be night? 
 BIy eyes are heavy, — but I can awake. 
 For my sweet flower's sake; — 
 Here, — bring them! — wild, 
 And strew them o'er the bed 
 Of Nature's child!— 
 A little while— O!— 
 Take me where the fresh winds blow, 
 Ah! — bear me to the grove! 
 
 The air I love, 
 The air! — O me! — the sweetest thing in life, 
 With blessings rife. 
 
 The singing birds, to me, imparted bliss; 
 But what is this? — 
 O! give me breath! — 
 Can this be death? 
 
 m 
 
202 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
 
 That presses on ray heart; 
 Is it his cruel dart? 
 
 Stay! O death! — awhile, 
 And let me see the smile 
 
 Of Nature, 
 Lovely in every feature; 
 
 Nay, e'en a glee, 
 
 I oft could see. 
 
 In each hush and brier, 
 
 And leaf and spire; 
 The murm'ring, too, of the limpid rill, 
 
 Methinks I hear it still; 
 
 Some sound I hear, fjl^ 
 
 Tho' not distinct and clear. 
 
 What can it be? 
 Is it death's voice? — or melody? 
 May be 'tis the sweet nightingale, 
 
 From yon low vale. 
 Come, — to bid farewell, 
 To sing my parting knell. 
 
 Well! 
 So let it be, 
 I cfin no longer see, 
 Adieu! — sweet friends, — adieu! 
 The Poet's heart was true. 
 Solitude, Tennessee, June 18th, 1842. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 My Book, 5 
 
 My Lyre, 7 
 
 My Muse, 9 
 
 The Wood Notes Wild, 10 
 
 Spring, 12 
 
 The Poet & Wood Pecker, 13 
 
 My Old Quill, 15 
 
 Thy Origin, 16 
 
 The Wild Poet, 17 
 
 Apathy, 18 
 
 Go! Winter, Go! 20 
 
 April, 21 
 
 Idumia, 22 
 
 The Clouds, 23 
 
 Imagination, 25 
 
 Memory, 26 
 
 The Human Heart, 27 
 
 Day Break, 28 
 
 Flora's Children, 29 
 
 Butterfly, 30 
 
 Sun Rise, 31 
 
 The World and Pilgrim, 33 
 
 Deatli, 35 
 
 Many Poets Have Sung, 36 
 
 The Seasons, 38 
 
 Sunset, 41 
 
 In Days Gone By, 42 
 
 Query, 43 
 
 Another Query, 44 
 
 Hope Deceives, 44 
 
 Pilgrim and the Grave, 45 
 
 Invocation, 48 
 
 Time, 50 
 
 Autumn, 51 
 
 When Cares Oppress, 52 
 
 Hast thou a Balm, 53 
 
 Page. 
 Talents and Worth, 54 
 The last Enemy, 55 
 What I love, 56 
 Beautiful Stars, 57 
 Poet's Thoughts, 58 
 The Three Demons, 58 
 The Lone Cot, 63 
 Night, 64 
 Moon Light, 65 
 Night Stroll on the Mis- 
 sissippi, 67 
 Dew Drops, 69 
 The Blithe, etc. 70 
 'Tis Sweet Amid, etc. 72 
 The Parting, 72 
 Lament, 73 
 Beauty, 75 
 Invalid's Song, 76 
 To a Beautiful Cypress 
 
 Vine in full bloom, 76 
 
 Thou hast led me, etc. 77 
 
 Love is Innate, 78 
 
 Moon, 79 
 On my blighted Cypress 
 
 Vine, 79 
 
 Solitude, 80 
 
 A Letter, , 82 
 
 Apostrophe to Time, 85 
 
 Invocation to Sleep, 86 
 
 My Old Rocking Chair, 88 
 
 The Swallow, 90 
 
 Infancy, 91 
 
 Youth, 93 
 
 Old Age, 95 
 
 Influence of Time, 97 
 
 To a Star, 98 
 
204 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1<^.- 
 
 Page. 
 Brief Moment, 99 
 
 My Thoughts, 99 
 
 The Lark, 100 
 
 The Cj'press Vine, 101 
 
 The Dove, 102 
 
 Were I a Bard, 104 
 
 Poverty, 105 
 
 A Fragment, 107 
 
 Wild Flowers, 107 
 
 Friendship, 108 
 
 Overflowing of the Mis 
 
 sissippi. 
 Glory Not, 
 Storm at Natchez, 
 On the Falling of the 
 
 Mississippi, 
 Ahl No, 'tis not. 
 The Humming Bird, 
 The Spirit Land, 
 The Spirit Dove, 
 To the Stars, 
 Days of my early Child- 
 hood, 
 Can sweet Poetic, etc. 
 The Owl, 
 June, 
 
 The Whippoorwill, 
 The Mississippi River, 
 Cold Winter's Coming, 
 Vanity, 
 The Wind,. 
 
 Little Girl and Sparrow, 
 Magnolia Tree, 
 Stranger, Forgive, 
 Early Days,^ 
 Our Wanderings, 
 A Mound in Mississippi, 
 Steam Boat, 
 Lamartine, 
 The Moon, 
 
 109 
 110 
 112 
 
 113 
 115 
 115 
 117 
 117 
 118 
 
 119 
 120 
 121 
 122 
 123 
 124 
 125 
 128 
 130 
 132 
 133 
 134 
 135 
 137 
 138 
 139 
 140 
 140 
 
 Page, 
 143 
 145 
 147 
 147 
 150 
 151 
 152 
 153 
 154 
 
 t*lace of Rest, 
 Laura's Grave, 
 Laurena's Grave, 
 Monody on R. R. A. 
 Amanda's Birth-day, 
 Dyll Sorrow, 
 The Crazy One, 
 Some Spirit, 
 What are the Toils, 
 A trip from New Orleans, 
 to Lake Ponchartrain 
 
 on the Rail Road, 155 
 
 Alusic, 157 
 
 Mary's Watery Grave, 157 
 
 0! the Joyful, 159 
 
 The Maniac Girl, 161 
 
 In the voice, &c. 164 
 
 The Storm, 165 
 
 Lean not on Earth, 167 
 
 To my Son, 168 
 
 A Fugitive Thought, 169 
 
 Estella's Voice, 170 
 Birth-day of an only Son, 170 
 
 After a Storm, 172 
 
 Swan's Nest, 172 
 
 Ideality, 174 
 
 Our early home, 175 
 
 Byron, 176 
 
 Ruth, 176 
 
 Reminiscence, 183 
 
 Enthusiast, 184 
 
 Mermaid, 190 
 
 A Picture, 191 
 Can Gold gain Friendship, 192 
 
 To the Muses, • 194 
 
 My Broken Lute, 195 
 
 In tli€ Deep, etc. "*'• 197 
 
 The Loved and Lost, 199 
 
 To the Breezes, 200 
 
 The Dying Poet', 201 
 
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