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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
WILD FLOWERS 
 
 OF 
 
 mmn. 
 
 BEING 
 
 A COLLECTION OF POEMS, 
 
 BY JOSEPH H. BUTLER. 
 
 «• 
 
 Harp of untutored song! though scorn be thine, 
 Since other lyres far loftier music make, 
 I yet will love thee. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY A. POTTER, D. 
 
 TROY, N. Y.: 
 
 FROIVI THE PRESS OF N. TUTTLE, CCXXV RIVER-STREET. 
 
 1843. 
 
Entered according' to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by 
 
 JOSEPH H. BUTLER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Northern District of New-York. 
 
 r 6 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The following pages form but a small part of the attempts at verse 
 made during the last fifteen years by a worthy and afflicted man. Jo- 
 seph H. Butler, now about thirty-eight years of age, is a mechanic, 
 in feeble health and without property. He was born in Bristol, (Eng.) 
 "It was my early misfortune," says he, in a letter, " to be deprived 
 by death of an affectionate mother, and by that event of the advan- 
 tages of even a common school education. My father always express- 
 ed the determination of keeping me from such advantages ; but for 
 what reason my friends could never understand. When remonstrated 
 with, he always replied, ' No ; I am determined he shall be the framer 
 of his own fortune.' I was fourteen before 1 could read a word, and 
 then I was my own tutor, having no one to correct my errors or dh'ect 
 my studies." 
 
 But though his early years were thus clouded by ignorance, and 
 were spent in hard labor amidst companions almost as uninstructed as 
 himself, he had that within him which could not rest satisfied with the 
 coarse pleasures and idle vacancy so prevalent around him. His heart 
 was keenly alive to the beauties and sublimities of nature. He had 
 sorrows, too, occasioned by domestic hardships and by ill health which 
 made him thoughtful,* and sympathies which prompted a warm inte- 
 rest in the sufferings of the oppressed and afflicted. During his youth, 
 
 * '* Should it be observed by some that a spirit of despondency pervades 
 some of these fragments, I ■would say that it is not the effect of a morbid 
 feeling, but rather the honest plaint of suffenng nature. I am aware that 
 it is oar duty to sustain the ills of existence with that fortitude so becoming 
 the christian. But let it be remembered, that bodily suffering drew songs 
 of sorrow from the heart of the holy Minstrel of Israel, and forced even tbe 
 patient and holy Job to sigh for repose in the peaceful grave." — Letter 
 from J. H. B. 
 
Europe was convulsed by revolutions well fitted to kindle his im- 
 agination, while his eye rested habitually on scenes, near his birth- 
 place, in which physical beauty conspires with venerable associations 
 to refine the sentiments and improve the taste. 
 
 It is not surprising that under such circumstances his feelings should 
 sometimes seek vent in the language of poetry. His first efforts were, 
 of course, crude. But they gave him pleasure. They favored habits 
 of reading and reflection. When, ten years since, he left his own coun- 
 try and embarked for the new world, the pain of separation was sooth- 
 ed and the tedium of a long and gloomy voyage relieved, by the use of 
 his pen. Since he reached the United States, he has resided in Troy, 
 (N. Y.,) and most of the pieces in this volume have been written with- 
 in that time, and have appeared in the papers of that city or vicinity. 
 Being the occasional effusions of a working-man's leisure — of one, too, 
 who has cultivated his powers under the greatest embarrassments — it 
 will surprise no one that they are marred by serious imperfections. 
 That he has been able to produce nothing better he regrets : that he 
 has been permitted to produce any thing, and thus in these excursions 
 of his fancy lose the sense of sickness and sorrow, while he has 
 given utterance to his gratitude to the Source of all Good, and has 
 cherished his love of nature, and his sympathy with all human kind, — 
 this may well be the subject of thankfulness to him, as it will be of 
 pleasing contemplation to every right-minded reader. 
 
 The subscriber confesses that he regards, with deep interest, efforts 
 of this kind among those whose lot in life is labor. For that restless 
 craving after notoriety, which sometimes afflicts such persons in com- 
 mon with those more gifted or more opulent, he feels no sj'^mpathy. 
 But it ought to be remembered, that an ambition to shine is not the 
 only incentive to literary composition, — and that even where it exists, 
 there are many other modes of indulging the passion, more injurious to 
 the public, and less profitable to the individual. The fact that such 
 numbers now write and publish poetry may have its attendant evils j 
 but since it indicates that education is spreading among the peo- 
 ple, and at the same time contributes to substitute more refined and 
 intellectual resources in place of the all absorbmg pursuits and cor- 
 rupting pleasures of a onaterial life, it seems to merit the sympathy of 
 every friend of humanity. But for the fullness with which a cheap 
 press now pours forth its fugitive productions in prose and poetry, 
 names that are destined to shine with an intense and cheering bright- 
 ness to future tunes, might have remained forever unknown. 
 
The pieces in this volume will be found to possess various degrees 
 of merit. In some instances they discover remarkable vig-or of thoug-ht 
 and versification, and are animated by the true lyi'ic spirit. In others 
 they will be found disfigured by blemishes in style and incongruities in 
 thought, such as must always be expected in uneducated poets. They 
 are published in the hope of attracting sympathy tovvarsd a worthy in- 
 dividual, who is enfeebled by disease and who struggles hard to vrm 
 an honest independence for his family. 
 
 A. P. 
 
WILD FLOWERS OF POESY. 
 
 HOUR OF CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 'Tis now the hour for contemplation; hark, 
 The village bell strikes twelve ; all, all is still : 
 E/Oars not the rushing wind — but mild and soft, 
 As the sweet kisses of a maiden's love, 
 Come the young breezes from the spicy south. 
 Yonder the sombre forest, towering high, 
 E-ises in all the majesty of strength, 
 Like armed giants standing in array 
 For battle. On the horizon's extreme verge 
 How still yon silver lake sleeps in the blue 
 Of star-lit heaven ! Its willow-fringed banks 
 Are full of beauty, and exhaling comes 
 Ambrosial fragrance from the buds of flowers. 
 
 Ye brilliant stars ! ye seeming isles of light ! 
 In the lake mirrored round me, and above 
 Sparkhng unnumbered ; what, and whence are ye ? 
 Can ye be worlds like this, blighted and sick 
 
8 
 
 With sin and sorrow ? No ; ye look too fair ; 
 I will not think you such, but rather deem 
 Ye are the resting places of the dead, 
 Who, disembodied, on the wing of faith. 
 Win their far passage to your unknown isles. 
 The more intent I gaze, the thicker come 
 Those rising worlds of light, till all the deep 
 Infinitude of space is sparkling bright 
 With mystic fires — till I could almost bend 
 Before and worship, were it not that He 
 Who made ye must be far more glorious still, 
 And worthier for my worship. Dust they are 
 On the high foot-path of the Eternal One I 
 
 If I might choose my grave, it should be one, 
 Lone and apart from all the busy world. 
 Where smiles a placid lake and willows wave, 
 And round about the giant mountains stand 
 As guards to watch my everlasting sleep. 
 
 About my simple grave let the wild flowers 
 Of early spring peep forth, and singing birds 
 Dwell in the branches of the waving trees, 
 And warble anthems o'er my lowly bed. 
 But a low mound by moss and flow'rs o'ergrown 
 The poet asks, a stone and broken lyre. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Sweet Star ! as lone I seat me here 
 At Vesper hour — my thoughts will fly 
 To one, for whom the starting tear 
 Rolls, mingling wdth the heart-felt sigh — 
 
But, ah ! she views thy hght no more ! 
 Pale watcher of the lonely tomb ! 
 She lives on some far, happier shore, 
 Whose Sim can never set in gloom ! 
 Where the bright countenance of Him, 
 The Holy One, — outshines the day — 
 And folded wings of cherubim 
 Veil their fair faces from its ray ! 
 
 ! mother, when thy spirit fled, 
 
 1 little knew a mother's worth ! 
 
 Gay dreams play'd round my infant head, 
 
 Which seemed not of this darken'd earth ! 
 
 But coming years soon told the tale ; 
 
 Each blissful vision passed away ! 
 
 For me, thorns fill life's dreary vale. 
 
 Where e'er my bleeding footsteps stray. 
 
 When last I saw thy simple grave, 
 
 A young wild rose-tree blossomed there ; 
 
 A gift some stranger-hand had given — 
 
 Short-lived as thou, — but not so fair \ 
 
 'Tis well the blest can never know 
 
 The sorrows of earth's lowly spot — 
 
 Or tears would angel eyes o'erfiow; 
 
 Glad is my heart — thou knowest not! 
 
 Then, Star of evening, shed thy ray 
 
 Upon her lone and sacred mound ; 
 
 There, linger in the twilight's gray. 
 
 When solemn church-bells holiest sound ! 
 
 There, too, let morning's star be seen — 
 
 When peeps the pale hght through the gloom, 
 
 And dew drops gem the grass so green, 
 
 That wave above her rustic tomb — 
 
 What if no kneeling angels fair. 
 
 In fretted stone, their Avings display. 
 
 Nor prostrate mail-clad knight lie there, 
 
10 
 
 Beneath the painted window's ray ? 
 
 She left a brighter — fairer fame behind, 
 Than marble monuments of art supply — 
 If fair thou art — be like her — humble — kind — 
 And learn like her, the lesson how to — die ! 
 
 THE DEITY. 
 
 The wise of every age and clime, 
 
 Acknowledge one supreme 
 And far-pervading Power, who lives 
 
 In valley, hill, and stream ! — 
 Lives in the stream that glides along 
 
 Its sweet and lowly bed, 
 Or thunders in the cataract. 
 
 With flashing foam, and dread ! — 
 Inspires the playful lambs to bleat, 
 
 In meadows fresh and bright, 
 Or wakes the slumbering lioness 
 
 In Afric's sultry night — 
 Paints the gay butterfly with hues 
 
 A queen might proudly wear. 
 Or scales the untrodden rocks, and plants 
 
 The eagle's eyrie there ! — 
 Blooms in the lovely meadow-flower, 
 
 Scenting each breeze that blows- — 
 Fashions the fragrant lily's bell. 
 
 Or paints the blushing rose ! 
 His path is high among the stars. 
 
 When Heaven is deeply blue. 
 And when the lightning's flaming brands 
 
 Break the thick darkness through ! 
 
11 
 
 On Summer eve his voice is heard, 
 
 Responsive in the grove, 
 And in the black-wing' d thunder-clap, 
 
 He, awful, speaks above ! 
 The mighty fountains of the sun 
 
 His boundless power supplies — - 
 He lights the burning star of eve, 
 
 And bids the moon arise ; — 
 In majesty and might supreme, 
 
 He rules for aye above ; 
 And be it joy to us, to know 
 
 He is a God of Love ! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 AN HISTORIC POEM. 
 
 " Sigh, dames of England ! and lament, 
 And many a salt tear shed, 
 For many an Englishman hail'd that morn, 
 That, ere the night, was dead." — Old Ballad. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The battle is supposed to have been related by an English soldier 
 to his brother. The Poem opens with the night previovts to the en- 
 gagement, which, being the eve of the birth-day of King Harold, was 
 spent by the Saxons in merriment and feasting, while the Norman in- 
 vader passed the time in prayer to God for victory. History mentions 
 that the king appeared on the day of battle before his troops, on horse- 
 back, but at the commencement of the conflict dismounted, and placed 
 himself at the head of the infantry, with a determination to conqueror 
 die ; but in this I have taken a poetical licence, and in this only, to 
 deviate from history. 
 
12 
 
 This battle, which decided the fate of England, was fought October 
 13, 1065, and raged with unremitted fury from seven o'clock in the 
 morning until sunset, when the death of Harold decided the fortune of 
 the day, and William became complete victor. Great numbers of the 
 English nobility perished on that sanguinary field, with the king's two 
 brothers, who fell fighting in defence of freedom and her glorious 
 rights. Thus was obtained by William the Norman, afterwards sur- 
 named the " Conqueror," a decisive victory on the plains of Hastings, 
 after a fierce contest, which terminated the Saxon monarchy in Eng- 
 land, and which, by the heroic feats of valor displayed by both armies 
 and both commanders, seemed worthy to decide the fate of a mighty 
 kingdom. Fifteen thousand of the Normans were slain on the field, 
 and a much greater number of the English! 
 
 Alas ! for England's chivalry and might, 
 Fallen are her bravest in the ranks of fight ; 
 Vain is the kingly crown ; — amid the fray 
 Death rends those costly ornaments away ; 
 The day is lost, — our liberty is o'er, — 
 Harold, the brave, the generous, is no more ! 
 Haste to yon mountain-cave, where, safe from 
 
 sight, 
 I will relate the tale of Hastings' fight. 
 
 The night had just her sable wing display'd. 
 And awful darkness slumber'd on the glade, 
 When by pale Luna's melancholy light, 
 Our banner'd host, impatient for the fight. 
 Scarce deign'd to taste the cup of needful rest, 
 Such hope of conquest fill'd each beating breast ; 
 Under their ample tents the heroes sate 
 Around our god-like king, in shining state. 
 And swiftly bade prepare the flowing bowl, 
 With every joy to gratify the soul ; 
 For 'twas the day that gave our monarch breath — 
 
13 
 
 Now the same day, alas ! beholds his death ! 
 Circling the festive board, the minstrels sung, 
 Till the high tents with Harold's praises rung ! 
 
 SONG OF THE SAXONS. 
 
 " Minstrels, touch the sounding lyre, 
 Every breast with warmth inspire — 
 Quaff the wine, and joyous sing — 
 'Tis the birth- day of our king ! 
 And to-morrow he shall be 
 Crown' d with wreaths of victory ! 
 
 u 
 
 Rosy morning, lift thine eyes — 
 Haste, thou glorious sun, to rise ; 
 Harold shall his weapon true 
 Deep in Norman blood imbrue — 
 Like Death's Angel, he shall spread 
 Slaughter where his footsteps tread ! 
 
 *' Then in vain shall yonder host 
 Dare their dauntless Norman boast — 
 Vainly shall he lead his bands 
 'Gainst our chief's resistless hands ! — 
 Can such recreant foemen brave 
 The terror of his lifted glave ? 
 
 " Can they meet our deep-wedged form, 
 In the battle's iron storm ? — 
 With the morn, at trumpet's sound. 
 Many a plume shall kiss the ground — 
 Heads that never bow'd before, 
 Shall be stain'd with dust and gore ! 
 
 " What our proAvess, Stamford knows, 
 With its river, gorged with foes, 
 2 
 
14 
 
 As the sun its stream survey'd, 
 Crimson'd to the evening shade !— 
 Quaff the wine—and joyous sing, 
 Victory to our warrior king!" 
 
 Thus we in song and joy the hours beguil'd, 
 Till in the east the rosy morning smiPd. 
 Meanwhile our foes pursued a different care, 
 They spent the night in fasting and in prayer ; 
 To God they cried, who reigns above the sky, 
 "Who victory gives — or victory can deny ! 
 The bird of morn had chased the gloom away. 
 And, robed in dew, appear' d the morning gray ; 
 Then, like a foaming torrent swell'd with rain. 
 The rushing squadrons darken' d all the plain. 
 Forth from our tents we mov'd, with warlike cry ; 
 To every shout the neighboring hills reply ! 
 The fatal field no more was clothed in green. 
 Nor blooming was the modest daisy seen, 
 But one wide waste, by trampling feet o'erspread, 
 The green grass wither'd, and each flow'ret dead! 
 Our god-like king his foaming courser press'd, 
 Full in the van appeared his dauntless breast ; 
 With comely grace his manly form he reared. 
 And on his brow a sullen gloom appeared ; 
 He calmed the wrath that in each bosom roU'd, 
 And the fierce heat of headstrong youth controll'd ; 
 On every side he moved with warlike grace. 
 And bade each soldier take his station' d place ; 
 His glittering armor, as he turned, display' d 
 Quick- glancing tremors, and a dusky shade. 
 Forth from the nostrils of his courser broke 
 A rolling flame, and clouds of rising smoke ; 
 His curling mane he shook, at every bound. 
 And the turf trembled as he paw'd the ground I 
 
15 
 
 In order ranged, the thick embodied host 
 Advanced in silence to their dangerous post : 
 As when a grove is shook by tempest's force, 
 Or toss'd by horrid earthquakes in their course, — 
 This way, and that, the trembling branches move, 
 So shook the lances' burnish'd points above ! 
 Like a vast sea, unnumber'd plumes combin'd 
 With gold- wrought banners, waving in the wind ; 
 And on the staff imperial, raised on high. 
 The crnnson ensign glared against the sky I 
 A flash of armor lighted all around, 
 And the fierce steeds incessant paw'd the ground ; 
 So shone the polish'd steel, so flamed the gold, 
 The eye could not, unpained, the glare beliold I 
 Scarce peep'd the sun through clouds of amber 
 
 hue — 
 The tender grass yet sparkling with the dew — 
 When from the Norman host we heard a cry, 
 And saw a dusty cloud involve the sky ; 
 Faintly we mark'd war's dreadful music play, 
 Which spake of havoc, death, and dire dismay I 
 While join'd to these did various sounds proceed. 
 Of shouting soldier, and of neighing steed; 
 Quick-shifting lances caught our aching sight, 
 Which, 'gainst the rising sun, reflected bright. 
 At this we halted, — and, with general cry, 
 Fix'd on the spot, to conquer or to die ! 
 Then turn'd our warrior-king, with cheerful look. 
 And thus aloud the listening bands bespoke : 
 
 ^' My friends! behold the foe at hand, nor fear 
 Their vaunts — but know that Liberty is dear ! 
 Think, that your wives — your lands — your chil- 
 dren claim 
 A share in all your peril and your fame : 
 
16 
 
 Then tread your leader's steps, and, fight or fall, 
 Let honor's voice your souls to action call ; 
 When round us loud the hurricane of fight 
 Shall rage disastrous, scatt'ring pale affright, 
 Either victorious wreaths I'll nobly gain, 
 Or bravely perish for my people slain !" 
 
 He spoke — with dreadful shout our soldiers cried, 
 And '' save our king" the hills and vales replied ; 
 Our prince and captains claim an equal share, 
 And range in martial state our files for war ; 
 In one thick phalanx, fenced on every side, 
 The force of foot, or rushing horse defied ; 
 Thus, ^11 complete, we seized a rising height, 
 And stood — prepared to dare the shock of fight ! 
 Then, as a tempest that the deep invades. 
 Or lightning bursting through the gloomy shades, 
 Or waves on ocean, or as floods of fire 
 Burst through the forests when the winds conspire, 
 So through the dust the rushing squadrons broke. 
 
 *^ 'igm >VU <U. •&£» 
 
 •7^ •71* *7h -TF ^ 
 
 Strong plated mail did every man enclose, 
 And their left hands sustain'd their polish'd bows. 
 We gazed like strangers on these simple arms,^ 
 Nor knew their virtue in the loud alarms ; 
 Few bended bows we drew — our warriors rear'd 
 The ax aloft where thickest foes appear' d, 
 Or, from above, our hands the falchion drove. 
 And the plumed helm and hollow cuirass clove. 
 A noble warrior,! high above the rest, 
 
 * Bows at that time were scarcely known to the English, while on the 
 contrary the Normans were very expert in the use of them ; and great 
 execution was done among the ranks of the English by the incessant 
 showers of arrows discharged from the Norman bowmen. The event 
 of the battle was indeed decided by a chance shaft which pierced the 
 king's eye, and killed him on the spot. 
 
 t The description of Duke 'Williani's person and arms is exact to the 
 
17 
 
 Waved his broad sword, and shook his plumy- 
 crest ; 
 Huge was his form, and on a steed he came, 
 Whose heaving nostrils breath'd a sanguine flame ; 
 Plain were his arms, and form'd of burnish'd steel, 
 And his closed visor did his face conceal, — 
 Fierce on his charger through the ranks he broke, 
 While dire impatience every act bespoke, — 
 His beaming cuirass and emblazoned shield 
 Shot terror round, whose splendor lit the field ! 
 And o'er his massy helmet's ample rim. 
 The clust'ring plumage waved with horror grim ! 
 On his tall steed, with an impetuous haste, 
 From van to rear the gloomy hero pass'd. 
 Then stay'd his course, at length, where, throng- 
 ing round. 
 His bravest vet'rans darken'd o'er the ground. 
 Then lifted high his beaver, and display' d 
 A visage deep in horror's frown arrayed ! 
 While from his lips, in copious showers, distilled 
 Words, that with warmth each manly hearer fill'd : 
 
 " Ye brave companions of the tented field, 
 Vet'rans in arms ! to every danger steel' d — 
 Ever attendant on your lord's commands, 
 In peace at home, or war in foreign lands — 
 How often has yon rising sun survey' d 
 Our arms victorious on the crimson glade, 
 And witness' d deeds that yet may roll along 
 The stream of Time, some future poet's song I 
 If ever martial heat your bosoms warm'd — 
 
 best historic accounts. His complete suit of armor and bow of steel 
 (which no man of our day has been able to bend) are yet preserved 
 in the Tower of London. 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 If to ob^y my voice your limbs you've arm'd, 
 And when the trumpet, breathing to the sky, 
 Bids nations meet, and warring thousands die ! 
 You round your leader kept your dangerous place, 
 And Death in all its aspects dared to face, — 
 Though round us thick the cloud of battle lower'd, 
 As on our heads a steely tempest pour'd; — 
 Think on those deeds I've named, and be again 
 Your leader's bulwark on th' embattled plain ; 
 Think not when war shall burst his iron bands, 
 And human carnage dye the thirsty sands. 
 Oh, think not that your leader's tim'rous sight 
 Shall view you, lab'ring through the cloud of fight, 
 Distant and safe ; — ^ * "^ * 
 No, — you shall see this plumage float on high, 
 Where the fight thickens, and the valiant die, — 
 "Where clouds of dust obscure the face of day, 
 Where coursers plunge, and lifted falchions play, — 
 Where horse and foot promiscuous lie o'erthrown. 
 And bleeding warriors on the herbage groan, — 
 There shall your eyes behold, ye warriors brave. 
 The blood of England reeking on my glave ! 
 Or see me prostrate on the earth's cold breast, 
 Cover'd with wounds, on glory's lap at rest ! 
 Oh, recollect, the cause in which you fight 
 Is not a private, but a public right ; 
 And when, according to our earnest pray'rs, 
 The Sire of Christ the victory ours declares. 
 The meanest soldier, who upholds my name. 
 Shall be partaker of my wealth and fame ! — 
 Fame, that shall far his glorious name expand, 
 And wealth of surest worthy rich pasture land ! 
 Full well we know what verdant meads are found, 
 Rich in immortal green, on English ground; 
 What stately castles, what surrounding hills, 
 
19 
 
 And mines of useful worth her region fills, 
 Though brave her swains, and skillful in the field, 
 To our united troops her sons must yield ; 
 Unite, my friends ! — in union victory lies — 
 Union can rear a bulwark to the skies — 
 Union can smooth high hills, and forests hew ; 
 Can level towns, and armies vast subdue ! 
 Let all who hear my voice, or see my hand. 
 Spread purple havoc through yon hostile band, 
 Who, swell'd with pride for Stamford's rebels 
 
 slain. 
 In fancy see us stretch'd along the plain ; 
 But with the aid of Mary's blessed Son, 
 And God the Father, when the fight's begun, 
 It may be ours to wake them from their dream, 
 With blows of import, weightier than they deem. 
 Such as shall put them on their last retreat, 
 Where all their martial hearts may cease to beat. 
 Methinks, my friends, that Heaven looks kindly 
 
 down 
 Upon our Avell-ranged lines, without a frown ; 
 See how the sun, all radiant to the sight. 
 Gives promise of a glorious day for fight ; 
 Then, since the smiling heavens our arms befriend, 
 Convert their favor to a noble end ; 
 No vulgar cause does now your hearts excite, 
 'Tis for a kingdom — for a crown you fight ! 
 And chiefs and nations that are yet unborn, 
 Shall hear the deeds of this eventful morn ! 
 Be but yourselves — be what you've been before — 
 Preserve your zeal, and I shall ask no more — 
 Await my word to give red vengeance way. 
 And God be with you through this dreadful day !" 
 
 He ceased — redoubling clamors shook the ground, 
 
20 
 
 While the tall hills return'd a deeper sound ; 
 And 'gainst the sun-ray, bright as sparkling waves, 
 Forth from their scabbards leapt the gleaming 
 
 glaves ; 
 Now front to front the dreadful hosts appear'd. 
 Each shook the sword, or each the javelin rear'd — 
 One awful pause did through the space pervade. 
 Save when the high-fed prancing war-horse 
 
 neigh' d ; 
 On either side the frowning troops appear'd. 
 Like a black cloud before the storm is heard. 
 Till, with a sound that pierced the lofty sky. 
 The brazen trumpet raised its voice on high, 
 Through ev'ry heart did the shrill blast prevail, 
 While echo answer' d from the winding dale ; 
 Now like two flames, by rushing whirlwinds 
 
 driven, 
 The black hosts met — and tumult darken'd hea- 
 ven ! 
 Dreadful they close — not half so loud above, 
 The thunder roars beneath the throne of Jove ! 
 Promiscuous groans attend each fatal blow. 
 And blood in sanguine streams begins to flow ; 
 Each adverse army met the shock of fight 
 With equal warmth and equal fierce delight ! 
 When, from the Norman bows, with deathful 
 
 wing. 
 Dark showers of arrows, like the clouds in spring, 
 Quench'd the sun's beams I — yet still we firm re- 
 main' d. 
 And the black tempest of the darts sustain' d, 
 Though by their points more heroes press'd the 
 
 ground. 
 Than fell beneath the sword or lance's wound ; 
 Long time the scales of war suspended stood, 
 
21 
 
 While the sad fields ran red with human blood ! 
 But the fierce Norman, weary of the strife, 
 Thought on a scheme to save his army's life;* 
 He saw us firm around our dauntless king, 
 While ruin o'er his banners waved her wing ! 
 Small space before us lay the champaign wide, 
 Where level fields were spread, in verdant pride; 
 Along the expanded plain his flight he bent, 
 While we, unconscious of his dark intent, 
 Followed the footsteps of our flying foe. 
 And dealt promiscuous many a vengeful blow : 
 '' They run," we cried, each, eager to pursue, 
 Forsook his rank, and from the trenches flew ; 
 Drawn from the heights, our close- wedged files 
 
 were broke, 
 That erst had stood as stands the mountain oak! 
 Scarce had we reach' d the plain, whenlo! the 
 
 host 
 Stood to their arms, and gain'd their wonted post ; 
 Our opening lines on every hand gave way, 
 And, sunk on earth, both horse and footman lay; 
 But our brave king, as in the press he stood. 
 With look unmoved the horrid carnage view'd ; 
 Amid the rout he plunged whh headlong speed, 
 And shouted loud, and spurr'd his eager steed, 
 And bade our warriors backwards to retreat, 
 Till welcome footing firm sustain their feet ; 
 We heard, and from the field pursued our way — 
 
 * It seems doubtful if Harold would not have been victorious, had 
 fate spared him but a few minutes long-er. William was undoubtedly 
 put to the greatest extremity as regarded his movements, and had re- 
 course to a mean stratagem for three succeeding times ; and although 
 the Saxons lost many men by their disorder, yet, owing to the cool- 
 ness and bravery of Harold, they were as often restored to order as 
 broken. Never was a battle more obstinately disputed on both sides; 
 and Harold M'ill ever be looked upon as a victim who sacrificed his 
 life on the battle-field of Freedom ! 
 
22 
 
 Slow we retired, and still maintain'd the fray ; 
 "We reach'd the hill — a desperate stand we made — 
 Hearten'd each man, and call'd on God to aid ! 
 Through every rank our king, with rapid speed, 
 Sent his fierce look, and drove his foaming steed ; 
 With human blood his horse's hoofs were dyed, 
 And foam descended from each heaving side ! 
 
 ''Warriors!" our monarch cried, "this sword 
 
 to-day. 
 Through yonder files shall make my desperate 
 
 way. 
 Have you forgot, when on the bridge you stood, 
 And stain' d the river red with Danish blood ?* 
 O, rouse your souls ! all coward thoughts expel, 
 And with undaunted heart the foe repel ; 
 Beat down the Norman standard to the ground, 
 And spread the flag of Saxon Freedom round!" 
 
 Fired at his call, upon their van we pour'd. 
 And the crush'd ranks with horrid inroad gored ! 
 With no less rage the Norman Duke inspired 
 His bands to fight, and every bosom fired — 
 Under their lord this day three horses died. 
 As round the field he spread destruction wide ! 
 In every heart he fanned the martial fiame. 
 And slaughter followed where the warrior came ! 
 But lo ! he saw the veil of evening rise. 
 And sullen night usurp the darken' d skies ; 
 He now resolved, ere sable night should close, 
 
 * Harold here alludes to his recent victory over the rebels at Stam- 
 ford Bridge, which was the primary cause of his ruin, as victories have 
 often proved to the very conquerors who gained them. His own bro- 
 ther led on the Danish rebels on one side of the river, and Harold came 
 up on the other. They met half way on the bridge, where an obsti- 
 nate and bloody battle was fought, in which the rebels were over- 
 thrown with great slaughter. 
 
23 
 
 To make the last dire sally on the foes ; 
 Then from among his trusty men of war, 
 He chose a band of vet'rans, famed afar, 
 And dash'd like lightning where the conflict raged, 
 Where, closely press'd, our broken lines engaged, 
 Calling on those who fled, to face the foe. 
 And join with him, our ranks to overthrow — 
 Yet still he found, where'er he dared to try. 
 We fought to conquer — or we fought to die ! 
 Dreadful he storm' d, and where he turn'd his 
 
 course. 
 Prone on the dust o'erthrew both man and horse ! 
 The crashing lances hiss'd around his head. 
 And from his arm the bravest warrior fled — 
 He like a whirlwind on our phalanx broke. 
 Loud hoDow groans proclaim' d each falling 
 
 stroke ! 
 Naught could the temper'd helm his arm avail, 
 Nor aught the shining shield, or coat of mail. 
 He drove through all, opposed in vain to stand 
 The glancing terror of his glittering brand ! 
 Through the thick dust I view'd the Norman 
 
 brave. 
 Wave o'er the prostrate dead his reeking glave. 
 While mad confusion raged, and pale affright 
 Swell' d the dire horror of this dreadful fight; 
 Sword clash' d on sword — the plunging coursers 
 
 round, 
 Reel'd with tumultuous rage, and beat the 
 
 ground, — 
 Then, where the fire of battle fiercest burn'd, 
 Our dauntless king his noble war-horse turn'd. 
 And, as he furious pierced the Norman mail. 
 Driving his sword through temper'd plate and 
 
 scale. 
 
24 
 
 Breaking his way through ranks who hemm'd him 
 
 round, 
 And dashing horse and rider to the ground — 
 Sent from some far-stretch'd bow, with missive 
 
 force, 
 A feather' d arrow came with fatal course — 
 It pierced our monarch's eye with hissing sound, 
 Sunk to his brain, and hurl'd him to the ground!* 
 As some proud oak, that many a storm hath stood, 
 Falls, by the woodman and his ax subdued, 
 So fell our king ! — amid the dire alarms, 
 I saw and caught him in my outstretch'd arms ; 
 His warlike hand yet grasp'd his useless glave, 
 As De^ath himself could scarce disarm the brave! 
 The Norman tyrant watch' d the conflict o'er, 
 And mark'd our leader prostrate in his gore ; 
 Then bade his followers raise a gladsome cry. 
 And shout succeeding shout assail'd the sky ! 
 From the trod fields the rising dust was driven, 
 And tumult scaled the battlements of heaven ! 
 With headlong rage, upon our band he drove, 
 Like a swift wave, or like the bolt of Jove ! 
 No longer could I fill my dangerous post. 
 Against the fury of the opposing host. 
 So left th' expiring monarch on the land, 
 And sought the thickest of our flying band ; 
 Through every soldier's heart what terror ran. 
 When on the dust we saw the mighty man ! 
 No more our ranks we keep — no longer fight, 
 But, in confusion, trust our lives to flight. 
 Now in the west the radiant source of day 
 
 ^ The exact spot upon which Harold fell is now marked by the re- 
 mains of Battle Abbey, built by the " Conqueror" to commemorate his 
 victory. It is composed of black flint stone, and is of the gothic style 
 of architecture. 
 
25 
 
 Sank broad and sanguine in the watery way, 
 Scattering his beams around the mournful fields, 
 Lighting the helms, and glimmering on the shields, 
 While each swoll'n rivulet, stagnant in its bed, 
 Shot 'neath his parting ray a fiery red ! 
 And Death's black banner waved amid the still 
 And clay-cold slumb'rers — stretch'd on vale and 
 
 hill! 
 E-umor had said, before I left the plain, 
 That the king's valiant brothers both were slain ; 
 I saw indeed, as through the fight I press'd, 
 The crimson feathers on bold Leofwin's crest. 
 Dancing on high, where the receding horse, 
 In mad confusion, urged their desperate course ; 
 Perchance they perish'd in that fatal hour. 
 Fair freedom's victims to a tyrant's power ! 
 Now did high heaven, as hateful of the sight, 
 Let down night's curtain o'er the scene of fight, 
 Stilling the nations with her peaceful breath, 
 "While faint and fainter came the peals of death ! 
 The Norman tyrant saw the day complete, 
 And England's freedom gasping at his feet — 
 Then from the fields our scatter'd bands he chas'd. 
 And to the lofty tents in triumph pass'd ! 
 Thus, oh my brother ! slaughter held her reign — 
 May Heaven avert a day so dire again ! 
 
 SONNET TO THE CITY OF TROY. 
 
 Fair city that on Hudson's banks reposing, 
 Did'st rise as under the enchanter's wand — 
 The might of art, and industry disclosing — 
 How beautiful, and wide, thy structures stand ! 
 3 
 
26 
 
 Off classic Ida's top, a charming scene 
 
 The roving eye beholds — dark wood — ^and rock 
 
 Basking amid rich valleys, ever green ; 
 
 Romantic view ! — the painter's skill to mock ! 
 
 Here would my pilgrim feet sojourn forever, 
 
 Eoving thy hills, or on thy silver, wave ; 
 
 A spell is thine, that time must fail to sever ; 
 
 Thou art the treasurer of a loved one's grave I 
 
 And when the pulses of this heart are prest 
 
 By Death's cold hand, here may my ashes rest. 
 
 A DOMESTIC SKETCH. 
 
 ^> 
 
 A Lady lay upon her couch of death. 
 In pride of life — a flow'ret from the wreath 
 Of those the world call beautiful — the tear 
 Stood in her azure eye — but not of fear ; 
 For she had done a virtuous woman's part, 
 And now resigned to God her gentle heart. 
 That starting tear — that gem of holy love ! — 
 'Tis precious as the dew-drop from above — 
 More eloquent that balm of tenderness 
 Than all the noblest orators express. 
 When flows that heart's dew to redress a wrong, 
 Say, is it not than warrior's arm more strong ? 
 Round that sad couch stood many to survey 
 The winged soul forsake its house of clay ; 
 All med'cine fail'd to save — it might not be — 
 The flower was withered with its parent tree ; 
 Both to the grave went down, blossom and stem, 
 Yet were there those who liv'd to envy them ! 
 Faint on the bed the taper's quivering ray 
 Lent its pale mockery of departed day, 
 
27 
 
 And glimmering 'mid the tapestry, danced upon 
 A face all meekness — but, alas ! how wan ! 
 Gone was the lustre of that sparkhng eye, 
 And pale the rose-tint — so must beauty die ! 
 A young, fair child approach'd the sufferer's side, 
 And, though it knew not why, the infant cried ; 
 The dying parent placed her wasted hand 
 Upon its head, and spake her last command 
 To the pale nurse, who, weeping o'er the bed, 
 Drank in the words the dying mother said : 
 *' I do not fear to die — we all must come 
 To this — the house appointed is — the tomb ! 
 And there is One ivho will wash out the stain 
 My soul that darken'd, in this world of pain. 
 It is that child that holds me — round my heart 
 A sympathetic chain, which Avill not part. 
 Binds me to earth — to see that blossom's blight, 
 Would on my coming glory cast a night — 
 Left parentless — exposed to every need — 
 O that, my dear one — that v/ere woe indeed ! 
 Thou hast been faithful — wilt thou yet be so, 
 And watch this tender pledge I leave below ? 
 Look to its cradled slumbers tenderly — 
 Its future welfare now I place with thee ! 
 Cherish it when its mother shall be dust. 
 And deal with it in all things right and just — - 
 Think that my hovering spirit can o'ersee 
 Thy conduct unto one so dear to me ! 
 Wilt thou ? — I trust thou wilt ! — thy hand — I die! 
 Kiss me, my child !" — O, that last quivering sigh 
 Came on all present — like a potent spell 
 Upon each list'ner's pensive heart it fell. 
 That nurse had vow'd full faithful to obey 
 The mother, slumbering on her bed of clay ! 
 
28 
 
 Her spirit spread its unseen wing abroad, 
 And joyful found the bosom of its God ! 
 That trusted one wa.s false I — the boy can trace 
 Her withering curse on him, and all his race ! 
 
 INDEPENDENCE ODE. 
 
 Air, — " Bruce' s Address,^^ 
 
 Hail, happy day of jubilee. 
 Thou greet'st Columbia's offspring free ! 
 And never may they bow the knee 
 But to the King of Kings. 
 
 To burst a Tyrant's iron chain, 
 How did our Patriots drain each vein, 
 They poured their noble blood like rain, 
 To make our children free ! 
 
 Then let us prize what they have done, 
 Revere the name of Washington, 
 A father's watch -word to his son. 
 Day-star of Liberty ! 
 
 Watch — so no clouds may dim its day, 
 Like vestal-fires, without decay 
 Forever beam its sacred ray, 
 
 On Freedom's chosen home I 
 
 Ye reverend heads ! now bent with age,* 
 Rugged has been your pilgrimage — 
 Ye suffered much to check the rage 
 Of Kingly Tyranny ! 
 
 * Soldiers of the Revolution. 
 
29 
 
 Your weary toils are nearly done, 
 The clouds of age o'ercast your sun, 
 Yet it shall set, as it begun, 
 In glorious Liberty ! 
 
 Honor the Patriots' silver hair. 
 Go — teach your babes to lisp a prayer 
 For these, who did their bosoms bare, 
 In danger's fiercest hour ! 
 
 Perchance again they may not meet 
 Beneath our starry standard-sheet 
 To hear the drums of Freedom beat 
 The march of Victory. 
 
 Be proud oppression laid in dust, 
 O ! blunt each Tyrant's sword in rust ! 
 Be with us ! for our cause is just. 
 Immortal King of Kings ! 
 
 Great God of battles ! bless our land, 
 Protect our rights with fostering hand, 
 Let Liberty's bright Temple stand 
 A beacon to the world ! 
 
 AN AUTUMN SKETCH. 
 
 " Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds." — Gray. 
 
 The last faint day-streaks of the purple west 
 Hang like a mantle o'er yon chain of hills. 
 Wrapping their tops in glory — Silence rules, 
 Save where the mellow sound of distant steer 
 Comes from the hollow vale, that stretches far 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 Its many windings, and the evening bird 
 Sings to the rising moon her plaintive song. 
 Here will I sit, and, as my fancies rise 
 On mounting wing, catch from the landscape 
 
 round 
 New inspiration for my humble lay ; 
 Imagination would almost persuade 
 My sight it rested, on a sea of flame, 
 O'er Heaven's unmeasured sweep, from end to 
 
 end — 
 Far as the sombre horizon extends. 
 The flood of glory rolls ; island and hill, 
 Baptized in molten gold, bask in its beams. 
 O, I could think Heaven's inmost courts reveal'd, 
 Did not the fetters of mortality 
 Admonish me of earth, and earthly things. 
 Back, back, my rising soul ! those chains must 
 
 break. 
 And dust unite with dust, ere thou art free ! 
 
 The naked limbs of yon dark pine-trees rise, 
 Like armed giants, guardians of the gate 
 Which leads to Persia's fabled Paradise ! 
 Deep, and more deep, the crimson-tinted eve 
 Glows, while I gaze, till one unclouded blaze 
 Of living rose-tint flushes Nature o'er, 
 Staining the silver waters as with blood ! 
 There, too, the season's king reins up his car, 
 And dips his horses' fetlocks in the deep — 
 His glowing race is done — unyok'd, his steeds 
 Pant in their lofty mangers for the morn ! 
 But when the morning breaks, he shall come 
 
 forth. 
 Shorn of his beams, to us ; for other climes 
 Demand their monarch, and the careful swain, 
 
31 
 
 In far-off lands, expects his fruitful ray. 
 
 Say, can it be idolatry in those 
 
 Of Persia's clime, to deify thy beam ? 
 
 Immortal fountain of ethereal fire ! 
 
 Whose mystery none can know, nor ever shall, 
 
 Till this mortality shall be cast off, 
 
 And robes of immortality be ours. 
 
 Light of expiring Summer, fare thee well — 
 
 Go on thy high and lofty pilgrimage ! 
 
 How many tears 
 Thy parting leaves undried — the mother here 
 Weeps o'er the empty cradle of her love — 
 There bends the widow o'er her stricken lord ; 
 The husband, too, looks on thy parting beam, 
 And vainly, fondly, feeds on vanished joys. 
 Could the dark tablet of each heart be read, 
 What sorrow would be traced, engraven there ! 
 Now shrined within the temple of the breast ; 
 Perchance 'twere better, since the heedless world 
 Cares too much for itself; and sorrow's tear 
 Is ever sacred let it fall in peace I 
 
 Night mounts her ebon car, — yon lake grows 
 dim, 
 And sombre shadows gloom along its wave ; 
 The skifi' is moor'd — the sun-brown'd fisherman 
 Hath coil'd his nets, and in his cottage home 
 The welcome taper gleams. In majesty, 
 The moon, disrobed of cloud, walks up her path, 
 Blending her silver rays with blue and gold ; 
 The star of evening, riding stately on, 
 Gleams as a diamond in night's braided hair ; 
 While, one by one, her sparkling sisterhood 
 Peep thro' the cloudy bars, till ether flames 
 
32 
 
 With myriad astral lamps — a temple this, 
 Where God is fitly worshipp'd — a fair shrine ! 
 Bid not the wise Chaldean choose it well ? 
 
 What local habitation shall be given, 
 To hold the soul of all created things, 
 That, boundless, dwells amid unnumber'd worlds, 
 Breathes in the blue immensity of space, 
 And nightly rides upon his star-lit car ; 
 Or, on the black- wing'd tempest, dreadful. He, 
 Sweeps the vast verge of Heaven ? His chariot 
 
 wheels 
 Flashing fierce fires, while the deep thunders roll, 
 And guilty nations shake, in wild dismay. 
 
 Go to thy roseate chamber, Summer — go ! 
 I may not greet thee at thy next return — 
 Life's waning sun may then be set for me — 
 Perhaps then, thou, returning with fresh flowers. 
 Wilt rise in glory on my silent grave ! 
 Health, friends, and ev'ry trusting aid is gone, 
 And desolation on a cloud, like night. 
 Hovers around my heart — yet, on that cloud 
 Breaks forth the bow of promise, and young Hope 
 Whispers my soul, (her form as Peri's bright,) 
 ' There is a land beyond Death's sable shore.' 
 How swiftly speed Time's evolutions on, 
 To the dim realms of vast Eternity ! 
 Where stands Xh^past — and, like a shadowy ghost, 
 Beckons the present — Time's uprising surge 
 Doth cover all things with an ocean wave ! 
 Proud names are blotted from their sandy scroll — 
 The rich man, in his pride, exulting sees 
 His splendid domes arise. To-morrow's sun 
 Sets on his new-made grave, his narrow home ! 
 
33 
 
 Departing Summer ! — once more, fare the well ! 
 We will not part at variance — I have drank, 
 "Whilst thou did linger here, my joys of thee ; 
 And when the robe of Autumn greets my sight, 
 Or withering Winter, with his icy hand, 
 Turns yon bright stream to stone, I yet can read 
 A moral in each change, and see a type 
 Oi Man, portrayed in each revolving scene. 
 
 But, Autumn, thou art mine — my worshiped 
 one ! 
 My chosen ! — thou, imperial, holy, bright — 
 Yea, let me say, unearthly — hail to thee I 
 Death, wrap thy banner round this bosom — then — 
 When Nature seems expiring — let me die — 
 And my soul thus, in glory, pass away I 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O Thou dread power, unseen, that dost control 
 The movements of creation — mighty God ! 
 Maker of star-Ht worlds, and of the soul. 
 May I dare question where is thy abode ? 
 Say, shall I tread the forest's mazy gloom, 
 Or plough the bosom of the stormy deep. 
 Or seek those isles where flowers eternal bloom, 
 And beauteous birds harmonious concert keep ; 
 Or o'er the waste of never melting snow. 
 Where grim Mount Blanc the icy giant rears 
 His cloud-capt head ; or where Niagara's flow 
 Is like an ocean ! — or, amid the spheres. 
 List to the groaning thunder and the fall 
 Of forked bolts — for Thee who art in all ! 
 
34 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN ON MOUNT IDA, NEAR TROY, N. Y. 
 
 Ida ! once more a pilgrim's wandering feet 
 Presses the russet moss that clothes thy side ; 
 From the rude world he seeks a kind retreat 
 From walks of grandeur, and the pomp of pride ; 
 On the dark rock that skirts thy azure tide, 
 He sits, and ponders on bright visions fled — > 
 Like spectres of the past their memories glide 
 Through his lorn bosom, not to feeling dead, 
 Altho' stern Fate discharged its tempests on his 
 head ! 
 
 See o'er yon hill the kingly Autumn comes^ 
 Not as a palmer clad in homely garb, 
 But like a warrior tossing his dark plumes, 
 With blood -stain' d brazen mail — on fiery barb ! 
 Lo, as the sun-ray does the mists absorb. 
 What glorious banners round his temples wave, 
 Gleaming beneath Light's ever-glowing orb, 
 Radiant in death ! — too lovely for the grave ! 
 Decay comes on — oh, what shall passing beauty 
 save? 
 
 Methinks it were a lesson fit to teach, 
 
 In silent eloquence, the doom of man ; 
 
 Look thou on yon sear leaf, will il not preach 
 
 Mortality, as well as volumes can ? 
 
 We have our spring and fall in life's frail span, 
 
 But I will never sigh for many days, 
 
 Nurst on misfortune's lap when life began, 
 
 Compassed in clouds impervious to the rays 
 
35 
 
 Of fortune's kindly sun, or the warm breath of 
 
 praise. 
 Ida ! a grandeur is around thy brow, 
 Tho' dread Niagara's voice in thunders speak. 
 Drowning thy sweet but less terrific flow — 
 Veleno's broken wave whose white foam streaks 
 Its sable rocks, charm such who grandeur seek ; 
 But yet romantic beauty 'bides with thee, 
 And on thy precipice the wild flowers meek 
 "Wave wanton in the breeze that sweeps them free, 
 As yon red sun sinks down behind the sable tree. 
 
 Where are the stalwart hunters of thy hills ? 
 Where the red brothers of thy solitudes ? 
 No Indian watch-fire lights thy silver rills — 
 No war whoop on still echo's ear intrudes ! 
 Like thy own wave, that noble tribe, and rude, 
 Hath ebb'd away, leaving another race 
 Whose feet the wild deer never have pursued 
 Upon thy hills of wind, with equal pace I 
 
 Enough — the seal of silence is upon 
 My voiceless lyre. Fair Ida, fare thee well I 
 My latest step thy fading leaves are on, 
 Yet memories of thee my heart shall tell. 
 As ghding days ring their departing knell ; 
 Like thy own waters onward to the deep. 
 Thy voice is solemn as a passing bell — 
 As down the cliff" thy tumbling billows leap. 
 So do the years of life to Death's dark oceaiv 
 sweep. 
 
36 
 
 ERIN'S HARP. 
 
 In Tara's Hall the broken Harp 
 
 To feast or council calls no longer : 
 The arm of Liberty is strong, 
 
 But here oppression is yet stronger ! 
 Isle of the Saints ! — arouse once more — 
 
 Behold the sword of vengance gleaming ! 
 Re-string thy native Harp again — 
 
 Thou art not lost beyond redeeming. 
 
 Then link your hearts and hands as one ; 
 
 Re-light the fires upon your altars : 
 The chain shall drop from every arm, 
 
 Save from the hand of him who falters I 
 Think on the deeds by others done : 
 
 How Sparta's " Lion" nobly perished — 
 Of Lexington's immortal ground, 
 
 Where Freedom more than life was cherished I 
 
 By the brave deeds of noble Tell — 
 
 By the bright acts of Bannock's glory, 
 Rise — to the rescue of your Rights, 
 
 And give another name to story ! 
 As ye are brave — your land shall rise ; 
 
 Your halls resound with notes of gladness, 
 While your proud Tyrants, powerless laid, 
 
 Shall vainly bite their chains in madness I 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Monarch, on thy throne of gold, 
 Purchased oft by woes untold ; 
 Soldier, with thy soul of pride, 
 Cast thy glittering sword aside, 
 
37 
 
 Loose the helmet from thy brow. 
 Broken is thy buckler now ; 
 Merchant, rolling in thy gains, 
 DraAvn from earth's and ocean's plains, 
 Lay thy splendors down to rot. 
 Come — and share the common lot ! 
 Poet, to whom God hath given, 
 Inspiration from his heaven. 
 With thy bright and upraised eye, 
 On yon star lit canopy, 
 Sorrow dims thy kindled fire. 
 Cold neglect may break thy lyre ! 
 Soon thy songs shall be forgot, * 
 Bow thee to the common lot. 
 Artizan, of potent skill, 
 Binding nature to thy will ; 
 Mariner, of daring heart. 
 Master of the ocean's chart, 
 Anchor where the storm is not, 
 In the haven of our lot. 
 Sculptor of the marble bust, 
 Saving human forms from dust ; 
 Lonely student, sad and pale, 
 List'ning to the fitful gale. 
 As it beats in murmurs rude. 
 Round thy cloistered solitude, 
 Sigh'st thou thus to win a name 
 In the mighty list of fame ? 
 May thy day no tempest blot, 
 Ere thou shar'st the common lot. 
 Lady fair, with sparkling eye. 
 Lay thy costly garments by. 
 Mute must be thy gentle breath, 
 In the cold embrace of death ; 
 Lowly in the grave forgot, 
 4 
 
38 
 
 Beauty shares the common lot. 
 Thou, who to the heedless gale, 
 TelPst this sad, but truthful tale, 
 Soon shall risen Luna's ray. 
 Silver o'er thy bed of clay. 
 Then, by all on earth forgot. 
 Share in peace the "common lot." 
 
 SONNET TO MILTON. 
 
 Spirits of Heaven ! undying sons of God ! 
 
 Who under the white flag of Michael came, 
 What time Rebellion stalked in the abode 
 
 Of blessed Peace for the Almighty Name! 
 Cull from the fadeless greens of Eden's bowers 
 
 Immortal buds, and for his brows prepare 
 A wreath of glorious, fragrant-scented flowers. 
 
 To crown your deathless Poet's waving hair. 
 Who, though the sun was darkness unto him, 
 
 And the young rose's carmine lost its hue. 
 And Nature's charming works were blank and 
 dim. 
 
 Patient endured I — no murmur did imbue 
 His lips ; but prayers unto the holy Name 
 Who, for his loss of sight, granted eternal fame. 
 
 THE DYING BARD. 
 
 Where is that land of spirits bright ? 
 What mighty wing can aid my flight ? 
 The mystic hour is come, 
 
39 
 
 When God, from this too cumbrous clay, 
 Commands the immortal soul away 
 
 To its unchanging home ! 
 My country ! — once the brave and free — 
 An exile's heart breaks over thee ! 
 Sear is the wreath that bound my brow, 
 My broken lyre is voiceless now, 
 
 And quenched ambition's flame — 
 Wild breaks misfortune's wave on me, 
 Dark storms of fierce adversity 
 
 At me their lightnings aim! 
 My bursting heart is withering 
 From cold neglect's all-poisonous sting! 
 Once I was welcome to the bower 
 Of lady-love, at evening-hour — 
 
 Once splendor lit the hall. 
 Where, deck'd with roses from fair hands, 
 I mingled with the youthful bands. 
 
 At gayest festival. 
 I fade, as doth the tree, alone, 
 When all its blooming mates are prone, 
 
 And scathing thunders break 
 On its defenceless head, till all 
 Withered, its once green honors fall, 
 
 Purpled with Autumn's streak ! 
 My country ! — oh, my country ! — thou 
 Art, like thy poet, withering now ! 
 
 I Avould have left thee free. 
 But thou would' st not^ and blight shall come 
 As on the marble towers of Rome, 
 
 Proud ruler of the sea ! 
 Thy red-cross flag shall cease to float 
 In triumph with each battle-note : 
 The hearts of chivalry are cold. 
 And withering in their parent mould, 
 
40 
 
 Who might have set thee free ; 
 Now nerveless is the patriot's arm, 
 That v^^ould have shielded thee from harm. 
 
 And changed thy dark decree ! 
 Be ruin's plough-share o'er me driven, 
 But spare my country — God of Heaven ! 
 
 THE RESURRECTION. 
 
 WRITTEN ON SEEING WESt's CELEBRATED PAINTING. 
 
 O'er the hill-tops the daylight slow is breaking — 
 See, morning comes, clad in her robe of gray; 
 To labor now the rustic slow is waking, 
 While the shrill bird of morn proclaims the day. 
 Say, what that light around yon rugged moun- 
 tain ? 
 Is it the day-streaks of the rosy East, 
 Or the fair ray from Light's unfathomed fountain. 
 Whose gleam hath pierced the clouds of morning 
 
 mist ? 
 Behold that form along yon rock reclining — 
 Some habitant of Heaven it sure must be — 
 The light of glory round his brow is shining — 
 Shakes the high hill, and waves the drooping tree ! 
 Prostrate on earth, survey the watchful keepers ! 
 The sepulchre expands, and lo ! He comes — 
 The Christ ! — the Lord ! — so shall awake the 
 
 sleepers 
 To light and life, immortal from their tombs I 
 Emblem of man — behold he lives eternal, 
 Risen conqueror over ghastly death and sin, 
 To realms of love and pleasure ever vernal, 
 
41 
 
 "Where pale-eyed grief can never enter in ! 
 Rejoice, O man ! thy Saviour high in heaven, 
 Hath made thy peace with thy Almighty Sire, 
 Who wills that all shall have their sins forgiven, 
 And dwell with joy that never can expire! 
 
 SONNET TO FREEDOM. 
 
 Rise, clad in majesty and girt with power, 
 
 O sacred Freedom! — give thy trumpet breath, 
 Let Justice arm thy hand and be thy tow^er. 
 
 Awake the nations from the sleep of death — 
 Fling to the winds thy standard, — spirit, rear 
 
 Thy conquering banner, dyed in holy light — 
 Breathe into tyrant hearts the breath of fear. 
 
 And quench their altar-fires in endless night. 
 Blast their dark will and give the people rest — 
 
 Let man be, as he should^ most nobly free. 
 And earth's uncounted milhons shall be blest, 
 
 And speak thy praise, O glorious Liberty ! 
 From east to west, where rolls the gladsome wave, 
 Restore thy god-like gift to every slave ! 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Gentle smiler ! — let me greet thee 
 With a father's welcome here. 
 
 Ere the blight of sorrow meet thee. 
 Ere those eyes shall know a tear. 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 Spring is offering early flowers — 
 Now she plumes the insect's wing — 
 
 Opening blossoms deck the bowers — 
 Now the early blue-birds sing. 
 
 Little blue-eyed, laughing stranger, 
 Welcome to this stormy world ; 
 
 Far from sorrow, far from danger, 
 May thy gentle bark be hurled, 
 
 Far away from those dark waters, 
 Vext by storms of human woe — 
 
 Oft the lot of earth's fair daughters — 
 -Woman's sorrows who shall know ! 
 
 Guileful tempters, dark deceivers, 
 Throng the slippery road of life. 
 
 And too oft the dear believers 
 Trust, for peace, a fiend of strife ! 
 
 Dark hath been my fate, my daughter. 
 Since the light of childhood's dawn — 
 
 Tempest-tost on life's rough water. 
 Like a bark with rudder gone ! 
 
 Friends nor kindred shall watch o'er thee, 
 
 Or thy father's anguish see — 
 Not an eye save her's who bore thee, 
 
 Not a friend, save God — and me. 
 
 O'er the blue unfalhom'd ocean, 
 Dwells thy kindred far away ; 
 
 Who shall share this heart's emotion, 
 Sweet, unconscious smiler, say ? 
 
43 
 
 May each star that watches o'er thee, 
 Harbinger a cloudless sun — 
 
 May thy lot be brighter, clearer — 
 Pretty, smiling, harmless one ! 
 
 GREECE, 
 
 OR THE FALL OF HELLAS.* 
 
 Land of the patriot boast, where Freedom chose 
 Her earliest home, and infant Science rose. 
 Where sprung those mighty chiefs in battle strong, 
 The matchless lords of eloquence and song. 
 And they who kncAV blood, pulse and soul to give 
 To the cold stone, and bid the marble live. 
 
 First in the triumphs of the immortal mind, 
 Their soaring souls oblivion could not bind ; 
 On them, and not in vain, the guiding star 
 Of Fame shone forth, and lured them from afar, 
 And in the visions which their spirits wrought, 
 They found the immortality they sought. 
 
 Hellas ! what tongue can speak, what pen shall 
 trace 
 The mournful tale, and annals of disgrace 
 Beneath the stranger's yoke ? or who declare 
 The gloom when Freedom's sun was wanting 
 
 there ! 
 That glorious land which Phoebus loved so well, 
 That land where all the Muses joyed to dwell, 
 The first alike in arts of war and peace, 
 
 * These lines were written at a time when the Greek cause appear- 
 ed so desperate, that httle reference has been made to their late eflbrt 
 for liberty. 
 
44 
 
 Once queen of earth, renown'd, immortal Greece I 
 Crouching beneath the oppressor's yoke of shame, 
 Her sons all heedless to the voice of fame I 
 
 When, o'er those fated plains, in hour accurst, 
 The wild barbarian, like a deluge bursty 
 Say, did no god appear his course to stay ? 
 No hero rise to break his proud array ? 
 Oh ! could not Pluto, from his gloomy hall, 
 To hapless Greece one chief vouchsafe of all 
 "Who in Thermopylae undaunted fell, 
 And left the birds of air their tale to tell ? 
 Alas ! they could not save their country more I 
 They slept unheeding on the desert shore. 
 
 How hath thy pride of beauty faded now ! 
 And time hath swept thy glories from thy brow ; 
 Fled is the arm of might, the soul of fire. 
 And hushed the breathings of the living lyre ; 
 And e'en the tongue that seemed as from above, 
 Those accents worthiest of the lips of Jove, 
 Have died with those that uttered, and give place 
 To the rude dialect of a barbarous race. 
 
 Silent thou sittest in the dust, thy form 
 Defiled and wasted by Fate's angry storm. 
 And thy once haughty eye hath lost its fire ; 
 A shivered sceptre and a broken lyre 
 Thy hands contain alone ; the dark decree 
 Which swept thee from the annals of the free. 
 Crushed hall and tower alike, and overthrew 
 The hero's trophy and the poet's too. 
 
 Thy famous chiefs w^ho conquered in old time, 
 And gave their names to every age and clime, 
 Have passed away ; the arm that once could save, 
 Long, long, hath mouldered in the silent grave ; 
 They come not at thy call, they cannot hear 
 Thy cry for aid nor mark thy flowing tear. 
 
45 
 
 They sleep a dreamless sleep by the deep shore 
 And shadowing mountain, but thy sons no more 
 Shall woo the Muse in her forsaken bower, 
 And desolation is thy lonely dower. 
 Vain is the cherished hope of happier scene, 
 And vain the sigh o'er glories that have been, 
 Till the proud spirit, which inflamed of yore, 
 Leaps in each breast and fires each eye once more, 
 Till Athens covers with her fleets the main. 
 Till Sparta rushes to the battle plain, 
 Till then, the Turk shall trample o'er the graves 
 Of those who freed thee, and thy sons be slaves. 
 Yet who can tread thy shores, ah I still the 
 
 same. 
 Nor feel the magic of each mighty name ! 
 Each spot is sacred to the great of old, 
 And not a single tale is vainly told, 
 Each ruined arch that greets the gazer's eye, 
 Speaks to the soul of happier days gone by ; 
 There, though thy great are gone — thy sun hath 
 
 set — 
 The spirit of the past is hovering yet. 
 To Athens go, and search the tomb of power ; 
 Go, and survey the crumbling fane and tower ; 
 "Within each sacred place the bird of night 
 At evening wings her solitary flight, 
 Under those walls the venomed serpent sleeps. 
 And the dark ivy through each crevice creeps. 
 And where to Pallas rose the choral song, 
 Heedless the unconscious peasant plods along ; 
 There, as the night breeze sweeps along the grass. 
 Amid these wrecks of fallen grandeur pass, 
 And, as you wander on your lonely way. 
 Midst the proud fabrics of a former day. 
 By the crushed arch and pillar overthrown. 
 
46 
 
 Pause, and reflect upon the glories gone ! 
 Full many an age hath fled since o'er the main 
 Hither her Cecrops led his stranger train ; 
 Of many a varied scene these towers could tell, 
 Since infant Athens rose and Codrus fell. 
 Where are the chiefs who vanquished by the shore 
 Of the ^gean, red with Persian gore ? 
 The very nation which they saved is gone, 
 But still the blue waves sweep by Marathon. 
 
 The glorious time has vanished as a dream, 
 Wlien throned on yonder hill^ she ruled supreme; 
 Tribute to her the isles of ocean paid. 
 And many a firm ally her call obeyed. 
 Her frown was dreaded by the mightiest states, 
 And from afar the nations sought her gates. 
 Hither for pleasure flocked the young and gay. 
 And here the wise taught Wisdom's heavenward 
 
 way ; 
 In that bright hour her navies swept the main, 
 Her armies vanquished on the embattled plain. 
 These scenes are fled — no more her watch- 
 man's eye 
 Shall hail her gallies from his tower on high. 
 As from ^gina's rock and Stmium's steep. 
 In homeward course, they cross the joyful deep ; 
 Nor more shall voice of sophist or of sage 
 In high philosophies the soul engage : 
 All-quelling Time hath laughed his gods to scorn, 
 Their columns crumble in the eye of morn. 
 There the night listens to the owlet's scream. 
 While ivy dances in the moon's cold beam ; 
 He deemed, while many a nation passed away, 
 His tower-crowned city should remain for aye, 
 
 * The Acropolis. 
 
47 
 
 Firm on her throne, while thousand summers 
 
 smile 
 On her the queen of many a sunny isle. 
 Her once all-glorious palaces are dust, — 
 Her navies gone — her sword and shield are rust — 
 Her warriors marked by no sepulchral stone — 
 Her halls deserted, and her towers o'erthrown. 
 When the rude gale and tempest's wasting 
 
 power 
 Bow down the plant and crush the blighted flower, 
 The storm rolls on — yet root and life remain, 
 And happier seasons view it bloom again ; 
 But not to Greece shall Fate, relenting, bring 
 Back the glad fruits and promise of her spring, 
 The hearts that beat heroically bold, 
 Lie withered in the dust, and still, and cold. 
 
 In vain the god of light looks from his throne, 
 He shines upon a land no more his own. 
 No temples now reflect his gladdening beam. 
 But mosque and minaret return the gleam ; 
 His fanes, his altars now no further care 
 May claim, — nor priest nor worshipper is there. 
 Ere that famed navy ploughed the deep which 
 
 bore 
 The Athenian hosts to far Sicania's shore, 
 With joyful haste from all her populous land, 
 Exulting myriads hurried to the strand. 
 On that glad day in glory shone the sun, 
 And on that scene his brightest beams were 
 
 thrown. 
 Throng the fierce crowds on every cliff around. 
 And loud with wild applause the shores resound ; 
 Then as they view those martial hosts depart, 
 Hope fills each soul, and high beats every heart. 
 This too is gone, and silent is that shore, 
 
48, 
 
 Save to that dark blue ocean's ceaseless roar ; 
 Those hills still frowning o'er the rolling tide, 
 Outlast the monuments of human pride. 
 On their brown sides the shepherd feeds his flock, 
 And the wild sea-bird nestles on each rock. 
 
 Still bounteous nature clothes the fields with 
 
 green. 
 Spreads all her charms, and beautifies the scene ; 
 Ages roil on — yet still the mountain rears 
 His form, unshaken by a thousand years ; 
 And still the ^gean's purpling waters shine 
 In the glad ray, for yet that sun is thine ; 
 Beneath those beams a thousand things look gay, 
 And laughing own the lord of life and day ; 
 But o'er the sage's tomb, the hero's urn, 
 To bid once more the lifeless ashes burn, — 
 That dust to warm — that spirit to recall, — 
 Bright though they be, all powerless would they 
 
 fall. 
 Turn to the sacred spot where every sense 
 Own'd the sweet spell of heavenly eloquence ; 
 Here, by soft harmony, the ear was charmed, 
 Here, by exalted thought, the soul was warm'd, 
 While, from this rock, the Olympian Pericles 
 Lightened and thundered over lands and seas ; 
 Here, midst a gather'd nation's wild applause, 
 Fulmined Demosthenes in freedom's cause; 
 But all in vain those glowing accents came, 
 The lip of eloquence — the soul of flame — 
 Not then availed to save, — though from her wall 
 Her eager warriors haste them at that call ; 
 And Chseronea's sun, on that sad day, 
 Went down o'er flying hosts and crush'd array ; 
 Red, to the deep, Cephisus' waters pour, 
 
49 
 
 And bright the flames flash o'er the Theban's 
 
 tower. 
 Those ages long are past, — the hopes they bore 
 Fled, mingled with the wrecks of things before : 
 Warrior and sage — the coward and the brave — 
 Alike forgot — the tyrant and the slave ; 
 The heroic great, mix'd in one common doom, 
 Are gone — their dust hath vanish' d from their 
 
 tomb ; 
 And not a monument nor stone have they, 
 To mark the spot where once the mighty lay. 
 But long, oh Greece ! and mournful was the 
 
 night. 
 Which, dark'ning o'er thy regions of delight, 
 Frown'd rayless forth, and bhghting, cast a gloom 
 O'er thy fair face, and wither' d all thy bloom. 
 Threw o'er each spot the blackness of despair, 
 And stamp' d a grief on every glory there. 
 
 For hush'd — long hush'd in dust, the lips whose 
 
 strains 
 Had power to loose the mourning captive's chains. 
 Whose lays, once heard, could stay the victor's 
 
 car. 
 Snatch his red spear, and calm the rage of war. 
 Such was the magic influence which clung 
 To the wild harp thy early poets strung. 
 
 And, oh ! how loved by them, in freedom's 
 
 hour. 
 The Naiads' fountain, and the Muses' bower ! 
 How sweet to them those peaceful shades, where 
 
 stole 
 Soft inspiration on the raptured soul, 
 Beaming from heaven in many a lovely dream 
 By haunted valley and melodious stream ! 
 But that sweet shade hath seen a ruder foot 
 
50 
 
 Tread down the bower, the Naiads' fount pollute ; 
 And the bright spirit of the spot hath fled, 
 And shrunk the stream within its narrow bed. 
 
 But yet, at times, will fancy's wizard power 
 Call up bright visions of a happier hour. 
 When Greece, all glorious, wakening, shall arise 
 Like her own Pallas in the astonish' d skies ; 
 Spring forth to fearful vengeance for the tears, 
 The shame, the agonies of countless years ; 
 When once again, her radiant sun shall gleam 
 O'er hearts all free, and glowing as his beam. 
 O'er hearts proud, daring, quenchless, and sub- 
 lime, 
 As those who triumph' d in her olden time. 
 Too bright for truth, the vision woos in vain — 
 What masfic voice shall bid her smile asrain ! 
 Though hope hath flash'd through darkness half 
 
 withdrav/n,=^ 
 Like the glad star that heralds in the dawn ; 
 'Twas but a treacherous meteor of the sky, 
 That blazed awhile, then vanish'd from the eye — 
 That glimmer' d but that darkness more to show, 
 Then turn'd and left a deeper night below. 
 
 Yet may a happier morn succeed, oh Greece ! 
 Chase every tear, and bid thy sorrows cease, 
 The long, long wreck of many an age of pain 
 E-epair, and raise thy prostrate towers again. 
 Though slow drags on the weary wing of night, 
 Though thickest clouds obscure the morrow's 
 
 light, 
 The darkest night that heaviest wears away, 
 Changes at last, and blushes into day. 
 
 * In allusion to the great successes which attended their efforts 
 in 1822. 
 
51 
 
 THE BANNER OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Lift the banner to the breeze, 
 
 Crimsoned with redeeming blood — 
 Gently kiss its folds, ye winds ; 
 
 Over mountain, field and flood, 
 Lift the Banner of the Cross ! 
 
 Soldiers, rally at that word, 
 Sound the clarion notes aloud, 
 
 Bare the conquering battle-sword, 
 Lo ! the foe before you form, 
 
 Vengeance gleaming in their eye — 
 Nerve your hearts with fortitude, 
 
 Answer to the gathering cry ; 
 Christ your king and leader is, 
 
 Christ will stand your legions by, 
 Christ will nerve your souls with strength, 
 
 Christ will give you victory ! 
 Helmets of salvation take. 
 
 Breastplates wear of righteousness, 
 Lift your faithful swords on high. 
 
 On to certain victory press. 
 Brighter wreaths await you now, 
 
 Than the fields of Palestine^ 
 Ever offered to the brave — 
 
 Wreaths unfading — ^joys divine! 
 Nobler conquests wait you here 
 
 Than the blood-stained Saracen, 
 Brighter far than cities raised ; 
 
 But, that fame is not with men : 
 You the stormy will must rule, 
 
 And vindictive passions tame. 
 Warriors of the saving Cross I 
 
 The Crusaders. 
 
52 
 
 Ye may combat not for fame ; 
 Leaf-like, worldly conquerors die, 
 
 Heavenly conquerors' names endure, 
 Lasting as their king's divine, 
 
 Registered among the pure ! 
 On ! ye soldiers of the cross I 
 
 Warrior-like your hardships meet, 
 When ye pass dark Jordan's flood, 
 
 Your fruition is complete ! 
 Everlasting wreaths are yours, 
 
 By angelic fingers wove, 
 Where victorious harpings rise. 
 
 Warbled with the voice of love. 
 Qather in the sacred walls. 
 
 Round God's holy altars throng. 
 There, with humbleness and joy. 
 
 Chant to Christ the heartfelt song ; 
 Soon will fade the scenes of Time, 
 
 Lost in darkness to your eyes, 
 But, in triumph with your king. 
 
 From your slumbers ye shall rise ! 
 
 WILLIAM PENN. 
 
 Through Pennsylvania's wild-wood glades, 
 
 There went a gathering cry, 
 As if red Areouski's* call 
 
 Had doomed their brave to die. 
 Each dark-brow'd warrior grasp'd his bow 
 
 And quiver stored with death, — 
 With hurrying footstep forth they came. 
 
 Dread as the simoom's breath I 
 
 Indian god of war. 
 
53 
 
 They giathered thick along the shore, 
 
 Those warlike men, and strong, 
 And dark-hair'd women clasped their babes 
 
 Amid that warrior throng : 
 There was no gun-flash through the gloom, 
 
 No hollow beat of drum ; 
 Then from their ancient forest homes. 
 
 Why do these chieftains come ? 
 And whose that form beneath yon elm ? 
 
 He bears no badge of power — 
 Yet mid those savage men he stands, 
 
 As stands some stately tower ; — 
 No knightly helmet veils his brow, 
 
 No cuirass guards his heart, 
 He asks no service of his sword, 
 
 No shield from spear or dart : 
 His weapon is the sword of Peace, 
 
 His shield the God of Love, 
 He asks not armies at his will — 
 
 His strength is from above! 
 He seals the scroll* — but not with blood — 
 
 But love and mercy fair ; 
 The sword he sends to reap the corn, 
 
 The spear to form the share ! 
 That bond, how sure — though often proved. 
 
 Mid havoc, blood, and flame — 
 Penn's gentle race uninjured stood — 
 
 The Indians love his name I 
 
 * The identical roll of parchment given by Penn to the Indians, was 
 shown by their descendants to some English officers, some years ago. 
 There is a fine painting illustrative of this event, by B. West. It is 
 Penn's pecuhar honor to stand alone as a statesman, in opposing prin- 
 ciple to expediency in public as well as in private life. Even Aris- 
 tides, the very beau ideal of virtuous integrity, failed in this point. 
 The success of the experiment has been as splendid as the most phi- 
 losophic worshipper of abstract virtue could have hoped for, or ima- 
 gined. 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 Was not this true and holy faith ^ 
 
 That warmed his noble heart, 
 To face the wild waves of the sea— 
 
 The savage Indian dart ? 
 How sweet the laurel wreath of fame, 
 
 Which blooms, unwashed in tears : 
 On Fame's too darkly crimsoned scroll, 
 
 What name so pure appears ! 
 
 THE TIME OF FLOWERS. 
 
 What a bright and cheering star is Hope ! How she leads us on 
 from the^ present to the future — unfolding her ever shifting scenes. 
 When the blast of chilling winter howls around our dwellings, she bids 
 us turn to the cheerful days of coming spring ! — and that renovating, 
 joy-infusing Power tells in gentle whispers of the " Time of Flowers !" 
 
 Beautiful is the time of flowers ! 
 
 Most beautiful to see — 
 Soft glide the rosy light winged hours, 
 While feathered songsters 'mid the bowers 
 
 Carol wild melody ! 
 
 The golden plumaged birds are gay — 
 
 The lark sings from the thorn — 
 And, glancing in the sunny ray. 
 The humming birds their wings display, 
 Like tints of early morn ! 
 
 Where the wild woodland walks retire, 
 
 I trace the mazy way — 
 To see the day-god slow expire, 
 As if he cap'd the pines with fire, 
 
 By his departing ray ! 
 
55 
 
 Beautiful is the time of flowers ! 
 
 The living air is balm — 
 While the refreshing, gentle showers. 
 Fall on the green leaves of the bowers, 
 
 As fades the twilight calm. 
 
 Now shut the sweet leaves of the rose, 
 
 Embracing each a gem 
 Of heavenly dew, — that in it glows 
 Like drops of newly-melted snows — 
 
 Low droops each slender stem ! 
 
 The lily's leaves close, one by one, 
 
 Her modest face to hide, 
 Until fair nature's sire, the sun, 
 Whose wondrous pilgrimage begun, 
 
 Comes forth in kingly pride ! 
 
 Beautiful is the time of flowers ! 
 
 At morn or closing even — 
 Light dance gay summer's laughing hours- 
 Match me such joy 'mong city towers. 
 
 So pure — so like to heaven ! 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 When the hour of death shall be, 
 Saviour ! lift my heart to thee ! 
 Thou — of Mercy's stream the fountain- 
 Hear us, from thy holy mountain ! 
 By thy cross — thy passion — hear us ! 
 Blessed Saviour, then be near us ! 
 Since thou hast of pardon spoken, 
 
56 
 
 Never was that promise broken — 
 
 Never shall be, for the river 
 
 Of thy mercy rolls forever ! 
 
 Lord, unto thy shrine on high, 
 
 Durst we lift our suppliant eye, 
 
 Where, in majesty eternal. 
 
 Blossom valleys ever vernal, 
 
 Fanned by winds that know no sighing, 
 
 Deck'd by flow'rets never dying. 
 
 Watered by that lucid river. 
 
 Flowing from thy throne forever ; 
 
 Land of every mellow ray, 
 
 Rosy morn and flaming day. 
 
 G-od of silence — God of motion — 
 
 Of the tempest and the ocean ; 
 
 God of the sun-bow's orient hue — 
 
 Of yon firmament of blue ! 
 
 God of the burning stars of even — 
 
 Of the sacred hosts of heaven ! 
 
 God of the earthquake and the flame — 
 
 Ever blessed be thy name ! 
 
 STANZAS FOR SPRING. 
 
 Again the woods are kindling into green, 
 Again the birds renew their welcome song — 
 
 The stir of busy life is heard and seen. 
 And echo's voice the sound of floods prolong — 
 As o'er the eternal rocks they burst away, 
 And laugh and glitter in the blaze of day ! 
 
 Hark ! the wild music of the vale and grove, 
 Mellowed by distance in the hush of eve. 
 The robin sings its tender notes of love, 
 
57 
 
 As Flora does her early chaplets weave — 
 
 The yellow crocus and the sweet blue-bell, 
 That love on wild romantic crags to dwell. 
 
 Mixt with young rose-buds is the wild bouquet, 
 Pale — but not scentless — and the violet blue, 
 Glowing, like woman's eye, with pity wet, 
 It bends o'er charged with heaven's refreshing 
 dew! 
 
 And in the bosom of the dell retired. 
 Like unknown genius, blossoms unadmir- 
 ed! 
 
 The morn is up ! the freshly breathing morn, 
 With breath all fragrance — and the roses red. 
 Flushing her cheek, that dewy curls adorn. 
 As round her brow the sun-light banners spread, 
 While rising in the east all bathed in fire. 
 Comes the great Sun, prolific Nature's Sire ! 
 
 Monarch of seasons I Lord of earth and air ! 
 Whose kindly influence wakens — from repose 
 Nature starts up, and on the hills once bare. 
 The tall grass waves — the golden harvest glows! 
 The flowers burst forth by his pervading 
 
 beam. 
 And ripened fruits with Jove's own nectar 
 stream ! 
 
 See, the young buds are swelling into life ; 
 In the deep woods, the cheerful squirrel's home, 
 
 The tender germs unfold in beauty rife, 
 And scented blossoms wait the call to " come !" 
 The universal work of life begun. 
 They ope their cups and drink the vernal 
 sun ! 
 
58. 
 
 Is not the eve of spring-time beautiful? 
 How calm — how still the hush of nature lies. 
 Must not that human heart indeed be dull, 
 Which feels not, gazing on yon bending skies 
 
 Where glow unnumbered worlds like isles of 
 
 light. 
 Gemming the unfathomed blue in glory bright. 
 
 All nature wakes, as if the Almighty word 
 Once more had spoken, as in days long pass'd 
 When He commanded light — and light was 
 poured 
 From the sun's fountain, beautiful and vast, 
 
 Where its deep source is fed by God's own 
 
 hand, 
 With light and life, in the immortal land. 
 
 Thus Time renews his changes round the globe ; 
 The green-robed spring — the golden summer's 
 ray. 
 Till kingly Autumn wears his gorgeous robe, 
 Then Winter blots with cloud the face of day ! 
 So pass our days from childhood, youth and 
 
 age: 
 May life's last hours present no blotted page ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 They tell us of a better land, 
 
 (When this dark life is done,) 
 Where spring unfading reigns — and shines 
 
 A never setting sun I 
 
59 
 
 The midnight stars, and silver moon 
 
 Are useless on that shore, 
 Where Death yields up his fearful reign, 
 
 And Time shall waste no more. 
 They tell of ever verdant fields, 
 
 And flowers of fadeless bloom, 
 That deck the meadows of that clime 
 
 Which waits beyond the tomb. 
 They tell us of a beauteous race 
 
 Who tread those flowers among — 
 Immortal youths — whose golden harps 
 
 King forth seraphic song. 
 
 This land knows not of the wint'ry night, 
 
 Or the burning simoom's breath ; 
 The drum or the war-cry sounds not here 
 
 To the stern command of death ! 
 The silent wing of the pestilence 
 
 Is folded from its sweep, 
 And silence chains those mighty winds 
 
 That toss the soundless deep. 
 Peace, blessed peace, extends her sway 
 
 Over that lovely shore, 
 Where the tried spirits of the just 
 
 Shall rest — to toil no more. 
 Here shall that deathless thing, the soul, 
 
 Behold its Maker's face — 
 Unveiled, in cloudless majesty, 
 
 Beaming with smiles of grace. 
 Thou spirit land — thou haven fair, 
 
 Receive my shroudless bark, 
 Long dashed, by sorrow's angry surge, 
 
 On Life's wild ocean dark ! 
 
60 
 
 THE LORD'S PRAYER. 
 
 Our Father who art high in Heaven, 
 Hallowed be thy eternal name. 
 O, let thy glorious Kingdom come, 
 Kindle our hearts with holy flame ; 
 On earth thy righteous will be done, 
 As in the courts of light above. 
 Lord of unnumbered worlds ! — O grant 
 Our souls to feel and own thy love. 
 
 Give to thy suffering children here 
 Their daily bread in peace and joy, 
 And let not aught in life or death, 
 Our hope in thee, O God ! destroy. 
 Our many trespasses forgive, 
 Done in this darkened state of woe. 
 As we forgive each other's wrongs. 
 Or evils from each secret foe. 
 
 Lead not our weak, unknowing minds 
 Where dark temptations lurk unseen ; 
 But cover our defenceless heads. 
 Ever through Life's precarious scene ; 
 For thine, O Lord, the kingdom is, 
 And thine the everlasting power ; 
 Unspeakable thy glories shine — 
 Be with us at our dying hour. 
 
61 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Mysterious Tyrant ! wilt thou ne'er relent ? 
 
 Must gentle Mercy plead in vain to thee ? 
 Still flies thy pale, wild steed, thy bow is bent, 
 
 Thy quiver stored with human misery ! 
 
 The new-born babe, the kindly gift of heaven, 
 Scarce ope's its blue eyes on the beams of morn. 
 
 When lo ! by thee the unseen blow is given. 
 And flowers its little lowly grave adorn ! 
 
 Nurs'd in the sunlight of a mother's eye. 
 Blushes a rose fast by its parent stem — 
 
 Dead falls that rose — for lo! thoti passest by, 
 And strips from love's tiara one bright gem ! 
 
 Awful magician ! thou dost oft assume 
 
 A thousand fearful forms, by land and flood, 
 
 Wrapt in the pestilence, through midnight gloom, 
 Or riding dreadful on War's tide of blood ! 
 
 Men's dwellings become desolate by thee — 
 The humble, as the lofty, must lie down ; 
 
 Thou laugh' st at worth — while monarchs bow the 
 knee, 
 Yielding to thee their gem-encircled crown ! 
 
 Monarch of monarchs thou ! — the world is thine — 
 Victor of victors, still thou shaft remain ; 
 
 While roll the rapid wheels of ancient Time, 
 Sole conqueror thou shalt be o'er land and main ! 
 
 Intemp'rance and the plague-spot, fire and sword. 
 Are these not of thy train that surely kill ? 
 
 Minions are they of their tyrannic lord. 
 Speeding on wings of wind to do his will ! 
 6 
 
62 
 
 Our great ones die, our gifted ones 4^art — 
 Some ripe for glory, others like a tree 
 
 In its green pride seared by the thunder's dart : 
 Such is, alas ! man's certain destiny ! 
 
 O ! is it not most humbling to behold 
 
 Thy hand exert its power on human clay, 
 
 To watch the death-strain' d eye in frenzy roll'd, 
 The soul's fierce conflict ere it pass away ! 
 
 'Tis gone ! — how mute the lip of eloquence ! 
 How still the form that stirred the waves of 
 Time ! 
 Tell me, ye dead, what worlds, what states are 
 hence ? 
 Where dwells the noble Mind, alone sublime ? 
 
 Sees it not mysteries we never saw ? 
 
 Lives it not in the temple of His love 
 Who form'd our dust and gave us Nature's law, 
 
 Whose banner is the white and mystic dove ? 
 
 O, when my last hour comes ! — when agony 
 Hath done its work, and icy Death steals on, 
 
 Maker of Avorlds ! hope lifts her eye to Thee — 
 Be Thou the rock my soul shall rest upon ! 
 
 Spirit ! all space pervading ! nerve my heart 
 To meet the arrow of this king of gloom ; 
 
 So shall my soul on Mercy's wing depart 
 To lands where everlasting blossoms bloom ! 
 
 Climes of enduring summer ! where the rose 
 Of Sharon scents the balmy-breathing air. 
 
 Where the dark wave of sorroAV never flows, 
 But one unclouded Eden blossoms there ! 
 
63 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Spirit of blessedness ! — immortal Hope ! 
 
 Revisit thou this heart with soothing power — 
 With angel whispers cheer my sinking soul, 
 
 And gild with light divine Life's darken' d hour. 
 When woe demands our tears, and sorrows pale 
 
 Dwell in our bosom's temple, be thou near ; 
 Like Heaven's own bow of promise 'mid the 
 storm, 
 
 Raise the fall'n heart, and dry the starting tear ; 
 When earthly trials rise in dark array, 
 
 And Death himself, with desolating arm, 
 Shall sweep from Life's wild fields each cherish'd 
 flower. 
 
 Confront Despair, and of his power disarm ! 
 Lift thy bright hand and rend the veil of night 
 Which shades a land of joy from mortal sight ! 
 
 "THEY CRUCIFIED HIM." 
 
 Woe to thy towers, Jerusalem — 
 
 Woe to thy peopled halls ! 
 Weep — for on thy fated sons. 
 
 The storm of battle falls I 
 Why are the rocks thus rent in twain ? 
 
 Why is this darkness spread ? 
 Why went the earthquake through the hills ? 
 
 W^hy rose the buried dead ? 
 Dost thou ask why ? — Look where the flame 
 
 Of the forked lightnings shine — 
 What seest thou there ? — A Cross I see, 
 
64 
 
 And on it a Form Divine ! 
 Look on the light of his cloudless brow, 
 
 "Where the blood is freshly flowing, 
 And mark his eyes, to heaven upraised, 
 
 With love and mercy glowing ! 
 The atoning blood that dyes yon cross, 
 
 Shall wash our sins away ! 
 And those blessed hands unbar the gates 
 
 Of everlasting day. 
 They crucified him ! — He who walked 
 
 Safe on the soundless deep, 
 Who stilled the waves when the mariners 
 
 Came fearful on his sleep — 
 They crucified him ! — He who bid 
 
 The blind to see the day. 
 And raised from the mournful bed of death. 
 
 The cold and senseless clay ! 
 Thou sinless sacrifice for man — 
 
 Redeemer — Saviour^ — God ! 
 May the wide earth in praise lift up 
 
 Her heart — to Thy abode I 
 
 MARGARET'S GRAVE. 
 
 'TwAS in a village church-yard that I saw 
 The dust thrown up to scoop her hollow grave. 
 The grave-digger was one of many years. 
 The frost of age had fall'n upon his hair, 
 And wrinkles furrowed deep his sun-burnt cheek ; 
 Blithe caroled the rude swain as half way in 
 The cold, damp grave he stood, — and of his love 
 For some fair village maid in youth, he told ! 
 
65 
 
 While ever and anon his spade threw up 
 An eyeless skull or broken human bone, 
 Which the old rustic carefully did pluck 
 From out the gathered earth, and lay aside ; 
 But when his task was done he took fresh straw, 
 And placed it at the bottom of the grave, 
 Whereon he carefully bestowed the bones. 
 Next day arrived the plume-clad hearse, and 
 
 brought 
 The silent dead to her appointed home ! 
 I marked the tears her frantic parents shed, 
 And many strange, stern eyes were forced to weep, 
 As the good man pronounced these solemn words : 
 *' Dust unto dust ! — the soul returns to God !" 
 Thoughts press'd in sadness on me as I heard 
 The echoes of the falling sods rise up 
 From the low couch of so much loveliness. 
 I had in boyhood often played with her. 
 And ran the giddy race around the walks 
 Of my sire's garden with her, hand in hand ! 
 When night set in, and the deep firmament 
 Was thickly strewn with stars, we Avould walk 
 
 forth 
 And seat us in the garden seat, and watch 
 The mighty mysteries of those floating worlds ! 
 My wild harp too would tempt her fairy hand 
 To turn its simple page of artless song — 
 Herself, alas ! too oft the inspiring muse ! 
 O ! she was fair as is the snow-drop's bell, 
 And gentle as the breath of summer morn ; 
 Sixteen gay springs beheld her flourishing 
 In all her luxury of charms — 
 But one week pass'd, when on her grassy grave 
 The pale resplendent moon shone deeply down ! 
 6* 
 
66 
 
 They raised the marble to her memory, 
 
 And round it grew young flowerets fresh and 
 
 fair — 
 But not one flower so fair as Margaret ! 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 " Throw away ambition." — Shakspeare. 
 
 There never was a lovelier star, 
 
 Bosomed in the vast realms of space, 
 Than was our Earth, ere savage War 
 
 And mad Ambition came, to chase 
 The smiling form of Peace away, 
 And blot with clouds the face of day ! 
 
 Then was oppression born. 
 When wronged, the poor man cried in vain, 
 Still galled the tyrant's iron chain. 
 Red glowed the field with battle's stain. 
 
 In the bright eye of morn ! 
 Then rose proud thrones in glittering pride, 
 
 With countless cost of gold^ 
 And monarchs' fleets swept o'er the tide. 
 
 And men were bought and sold ! 
 While, boundless as the ocean wave, 
 
 Ambition made the world — a grave ! 
 And Mercy wept, that angel bright, 
 Who dwells by Heaven's own gate of light, 
 While nations, at the drum's wild thrill, 
 Kushed, like the siroc strong, to kill ! 
 Then fell the pond'rous hammer's blows. 
 
67 
 
 To forge the tempered sword for foes, 
 And the dread cannon's mouth sent wide 
 Its globes of fate, while rolled the tide 
 Of fire and fury far and wide ! 
 Sinks the proud city in its blaze, 
 
 And peaceful hamlets fair. 
 To God the clasped hands upraise, 
 
 While wailings rend the air. 
 Extreme of ill I must despots rule, 
 And man be yet their wasted tool ? 
 Shall stern Oppression cross the sea, 
 To lands remote, whose sons would be 
 Among earth's children bravely free ? 
 No ! see upon the Freeman's thigh. 
 The scourge of tyrants glitters high ! 
 And, strong in God, and his right hand. 
 He rises, for his native land ! 
 Since no alternative remains. 
 He sheds his blood to burst his chains ! 
 By the free Switzer's bursting rills. 
 Or, on yon heights, Tyrol's grey hills, 
 Or, in the Spartan mountain-pass. 
 Where died the brave Leonidas, 
 Or, on some desert wild and stern, 
 A Marston moor or Bannockburn ! 
 Earth has beheld a mighty race 
 Of conquerors, her fair valleys grace. 
 But oh, their names are sullied, all 
 Who lingered in Ambition's thrall ; 
 Through the long past, fame sees but one 
 Pure, stainless, brave — 'twas Washington ! 
 He built no steps of human bones 
 To rise to power, on gilded thrones ; 
 It was a holy sword he wielded, 
 
68 
 
 A holy cause his buckler shielded ! 
 
 And every stream and mighty river, 
 
 Shall mingle in his fame forever ; 
 
 Each lofty hill, 7iow chainless made, 
 
 With every solemn forest shade, 
 
 And every adamantine rock, 
 
 Which laughs to scorn the tempest's shock. 
 
 Shall ceaseless to the world proclaim 
 
 The glory of his deathless name I 
 
 . APPROACHING SUMMER. 
 
 Bright Summer with her fragrant breath, 
 
 Again is drawing near. 
 When Nature's face shall wear a smile, 
 
 And skies be soft and clear, 
 And streams be bubbling out their joy. 
 
 As down the hills they run. 
 Like rills of purest silver ore, 
 
 All molten by the sun ! 
 And on the lake so deeply blue, 
 
 The water flowrets lie, 
 With lips of red, and eyes of love, 
 
 Fast gazing on the sky ! 
 While all the deep green woods around 
 
 With melody is rife. 
 And not a sod, or aged tree. 
 
 But teems with mystic life ! 
 Birds on the wing, and bees on flowers, 
 
 And insects glancing by ! 
 And beautiful as rainbow hues. 
 
69 
 
 The painted butterfly ! 
 See how the mormng-glories look 
 
 To heaven, with eyes of blue, 
 And ask, in silent eloquence. 
 
 For drops of silver dew. 
 Fair lilies lift their snowy cups 
 
 To catch the gentle rain. 
 That with renewing strength revives 
 
 The verdure of the plain. 
 Oh ! beautiful the young rose buds 
 
 Expand their tender leaves, 
 That grateful to their inmost hearts, 
 
 The honied dew receives ! 
 It is indeed a ' time of flowers,' 
 
 And joy, and music sweet ; 
 An azure heaven above our heads, 
 
 And gems beneath our feet. 
 O Summer I there are happy ones 
 
 To gladly welcome thee : 
 But can thy smile restore again 
 
 Lost health and joy to me ? 
 Before me clouds of midnight gloom 
 
 Their dusky wings expand, 
 And cruel storms drive on life's bark 
 
 To the dim spirit-land. 
 Father of all — man's only friend ! 
 
 O grant thy helping power : 
 Array with light Death's sable cloud, 
 
 In life's most trying hour : 
 Cheer me with visions of that clime 
 
 Where sickness cannot come : 
 Land of immortal, fadeless flowers, 
 The parted spirit's home. 
 
70 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 A Knight of the Cross came over the sea, 
 From Palestine's mountains to bright Italy, 
 His lady love's scarf on his bosom he wore, 
 While thus sung the faithful and brave Trouba- 
 dour : 
 
 '^ Lady love, lady love, wake thee, oh, wake. 
 And the downy sleep from thy eyelids shake — 
 From thy lattice shine forth as the Northern star. 
 Guiding the mariner's bark from afar. 
 
 *' All Nature lies hush'd in a beautiful sleep. 
 And lightly the winds o'er the waters creep, 
 Rustling the woods, as they gently die. 
 To a sweet and tranquil lullaby. 
 
 " The young moon bows her beauteous head 
 O'er the peaceful ocean's emerald bed, 
 Whilst swells to receive her the well pleased 
 
 tide, 
 And hoarse to the elements murmurs its pride. 
 
 *'See her crescent on high through her purple 
 path roll. 
 Bright as the love beam that falls on the soul. 
 To Life's flowerets lending a lovelier dye, 
 And tinging with silver each cloud that flits by. 
 
 ^' A thousand rich gems sparkle bright in the blue. 
 So fill'd is my heart with emotions for you — 
 Like them, though its hues may be varied, its 
 
 glow 
 Of light and of lustre, no changes can know. 
 
71 
 
 "A hallowed silence reigns over the lea, 
 And the soul from mortality's bondage half free, 
 Roams abroad, with the spirits that glide through 
 
 the scene — 
 The shadowy children of worlds that have been! 
 
 *' A myriad of beauties the soft airs imbue, 
 And lurk in each flow'ret that's gemm'd with 
 
 night-dew ; 
 Arouse thee, my beautiful one, at such hour — 
 Let Nature not mourn for her loveliest flower. 
 
 " Ho ! the banners of Christ have o'ercome the foe, 
 The turban' d ones in the dust are low — 
 I've gems from the East, I've rubies and pearls. 
 To mix, lady love, in thy soft, dark curls. 
 
 " My chosen, awake thee ! — the young god of love, 
 For the Empress of Beauty, a fillet has wove : 
 The violet, the rose, and the myrtle bough — 
 And he finds no one worthy to wear it — but 
 thou !" 
 
 THE FLAG OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Round the flag of Freedom rally, 
 
 Hearts of fire and hands of might ; 
 From each mountain-hold and valley, 
 
 Gather to the coming fight. 
 Sires and sons — 'tis not for glory. 
 
 Not for gain, your swords ye wield — 
 Yours shall be a nobler story. 
 
 Battling thus on Freedom's field ! 
 'Twas for this the " Spartan" glorious, 
 
 In the " pass" by Persia fell — 
 
72 
 
 This made Bannock's field victorious — 
 
 Nerv'd the peasant arm of Tell. 
 Hunters, from your dark-green mountains. 
 
 (Old Kentucky's fearless ones,) 
 Swift as rush your native fountains, 
 
 Haste and free your future sons ! 
 Hearts of flame, and hands of iron, 
 
 To your country's rescue come, 
 Bravely strike th' invading " Lion," 
 
 For the altars of your home ! 
 Round your Eagle standards rally, 
 
 From Niagara's roaring wave 
 To the Mississippi's valley — 
 
 Who will tamely die a slave ? 
 Yet for you one chance remains. 
 
 For your Freedom — only one I 
 Ere a Despot's iron chains 
 
 Clash around each freeborn son : 
 Strike, and ye are free forever, — 
 
 Strike for your dear, verdant sod, 
 Link your hearts, to sunder never. 
 
 On I for Liberty and God I 
 
 RISE IN YOUR NATIVE STRENGTH. 
 
 Rise in your native strength. 
 
 Mechanics of the land ! 
 And dash the iron rule 
 
 From rude Oppression's hand ; 
 By all the might of mind. 
 
 Assume the place of men — 
 Heed not the scoff of those 
 
 Who scorn the artizan. 
 
73 
 
 Ye sinews of a state, 
 
 Your nation's pride and boast, 
 Whose glory crowns her hills. 
 
 And guards her native coast, 
 You are her wealth in peace. 
 
 Her vital breath ye are, 
 And when the bolts of death are hurl'd. 
 
 Ye are her shields in war ! 
 
 By the eternal sword. 
 
 To stern-browed Justice given ; 
 By Freedom's holy self. 
 
 The night of wrong is riven ! 
 Strong monuments arise. 
 
 In record of your praise ; 
 Transmitting down your names 
 
 To men of other days. 
 
 Proclaim to all the world 
 
 Your usefulness and worth ; 
 Speak out with trumpet-tongue, 
 
 Ye mighty men of earth ! 
 "Was not the soil ye tread 
 
 Won by your fathers' blood ? 
 Then on oppression's self. 
 
 Roll back oppression's flood ! 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 There is a solemn grandeur in the tread 
 Of Autumn's silent step, when he comes forth, 
 Majestic as a king, he walks the earth 
 And turns the forests red. 
 
 7 
 
74 . 
 
 The stately woods their cheerful green attire 
 Cast off, and now assume the crimson vest ; 
 The broad leaf'd maple is in splendor drest, 
 As touch' d by unseen fire ! 
 
 Go, when the sun is verging to the west, 
 And watch the splendid tints his glories throw, 
 Like spell- work on our fading world below, 
 E'er he retires to rest. 
 
 Or contemplate yon trembling leaflet sear. 
 Now fluttering in the gale that whistles by ; 
 It tells thee, thou, as it, "shalt surely die," 
 Perchance without a tear ! 
 
 Is there no moral beauty's self may learn ? 
 Will it not teach a lesson to the great ? 
 E'en high ambition shares the leaflet's fate, 
 And pride to dust shall turn ! 
 
 Then be man's hope exalted to the land 
 Of everlasting summer — where the bloom 
 Of flowers ambrosial, dread no early tomb, 
 Water'd by God's own hand. 
 
 BIRTH DAY STANZAS. 
 
 Again the awaken' d year recalls 
 
 The day thou saw'st the light. 
 Thy fair blue eyes I fondly see. 
 
 With infant lustre bright ! 
 No earthly gems adorn thy brow. 
 
 But innocence is there — 
 'Tis joy to watch thy rosy cheek, 
 
 Free from the hand of care. 
 
'J 
 
 75 
 
 When fond I stroke the golden locks. 
 
 Which shade thy sunny brow, 
 My spnit dreams of other days, 
 
 When I was once as — thou ! 
 Now, Time's all- withering blight has smote 
 
 My sad heart's fading flower, 
 Blossom and fruit hath dropt beneath 
 
 That siroc's blasting power ! 
 
 The rainbow tints, that joy'd my youth, 
 
 Have faded from the sky, 
 And Pleasure's sparkhng fountain stream 
 
 Is vanished now — and dry ! 
 But smile thou on, my little one ! 
 
 The world is iieiu to thee — 
 No faded flowers the garland knows, 
 
 Pluck'd from Life's budding tree ! 
 
 When downy slumber's golden wings 
 
 Wave o'er thy smiling face. 
 How stainless, and how beautiful. 
 
 Thy tender brow I trace I 
 The rose-bud from thy little hand, 
 
 Falls carelessly away — 
 Thy visions are of other joys — 
 
 Some artless infant play. 
 
 But, oh, we little reck of all 
 
 That wait life's coming years — 
 Death yet may snatch thee from our arms. 
 
 And leave us but our tears ! 
 If so — and Time's stern trials past. 
 
 And we may be forgiven — 
 Thou may'st be first at Mercy's gate, 
 
 To welcome us to Heaven ! 
 
76 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD. 
 
 Suifer little children to come unto me and forbid them not. 
 
 St. Mark x. 14. 
 
 O, THESE are words of holiest joy, 
 
 The Saviour's righteous lips have spoken, 
 
 Shall grief's pale hand our hope destroy ? 
 When was his sacred promise broken ? 
 
 #<.u. •42. •u. ^u *U;> ^ 
 
 •3^ ^ •?? *7F "7l* ■?!* 
 
 *^ ^ «A£. ^ 42. ^ 
 
 •jp "js* ■«* "?s» "A* "vs* 
 
 Unmatched humility ! shall we repine 
 
 That those, thou so hast called to thee, are thine ? 
 
 Rather let Faith on v/ings of hope arise, 
 
 And seek our lost ones in their native skies ! 
 
 "Forbid them not" — that whisper sweetly mild, 
 
 Should calm the mother o'er her dying child. 
 
 The moon rides high o'er Ida's hill. 
 And on its stream her ray is sleeping, 
 
 The branches of the pines are still. 
 
 And heaven's bright stars their watch are 
 keeping : 
 
 Shine on, ye silver lights of even. 
 
 Gemming the sable robe of heaven ; 
 
 Shine on, as ye have ever shone. 
 
 In sparkling glory round his throne 
 
 "Whose awful hand, with mystic might, 
 
 First lit your vestal lamps of light. 
 
 Pale mists obscure the autumn sun. 
 
 The silent flowers close one by one, 
 
77 
 
 Silence this sacred spot pervades, 
 Keeps vigils in these solemn shades 
 Where the dark pine trees' gloomy wave 
 Shadows the mound of '' Mary's grave." 
 My " bird of love" has plumed her wing and fled, 
 
 The dust has fallen upon her lovely brow, 
 On her cold grave shall winter's snow be spread, 
 And its wild storms will beat unheeded now ; 
 When spring unlocks her store and nature's smiles 
 
 Awake the wild flower in the lonely dells. 
 And song of woodland birds the ear beguiles, 
 As through the bowers their rustic cadence 
 swells, 
 Wilt thou awaken from thy lowly bed. 
 
 With the wild field flower or the happy bird ? 
 Ah, never can thy sleep be banished, 
 
 Or once again thy tender voice be heard ! 
 On thy cold grave will blossom many a flower 
 
 Unheeded now by thee, my early lost ; 
 Sad to this lonely bosom was the hour 
 
 When death thy little path of being crossed. 
 In this dark world we cannot meet, 
 
 Since thou art with thy God ; 
 Never, until our sainted feet 
 
 Have passed o'er Jordan's flood. 
 Rise, when the coming angel's voice 
 
 Through the blue vault on high shall ring, 
 And bid the righteous dead rejoice. 
 When flames the flag of Zion's king ! 
 But thou art happy — dwelling in the love 
 
 Of the world's Saviour. He hath bid thee 
 "come" 
 Beneath the bright wing of the mystic Dove — 
 
 For spirits pure as thine, a lasting home ! 
 
 'J* 
 
78 
 
 AVON WATERS. 
 
 Air — " Bonny Doon*^^ 
 
 Thou bonny stream of Avon fair, 
 
 Forever roll thy silver tide — 
 Young Spring's first flowers shall linger there, 
 
 Along thy banks of verdant pride ; 
 And there the stock-dove's sweetest note 
 
 Shall plaintive sound thy woods among, 
 And summer breezes softly float 
 
 Upon thy classic breast of song. 
 
 'Twas on thy banks of earliest bloom, 
 
 Unfolded life's young blossom — 
 Clear shone my sky from winter's gloom, 
 
 And free from woe my bosom. 
 And there young Love first lisp'd the name 
 
 Of her I love so dearly — 
 Oft on thy banks we fondly came, 
 
 On Summer's evening early. 
 
 There last I saw her bright blue eye. 
 
 That beam'd with love so tender — 
 And there with many a heartfelt sigh. 
 
 Our hearts were torn asunder. 
 Dark are her eyes, and cold her clay — 
 
 My star is set forever ! 
 Where does thy gentle spirit stray ? 
 
 May we not meet ? — ^no — never ! 
 
 Green is the sod that wraps thy grave. 
 Thou young and peerless blossom. 
 
 Nor prayer nor tear avail'd to save 
 The idol of this bosom ! 
 
79 
 
 Then flow thy waters, Avon, flow, 
 Forever clear and brightly. 
 
 And on my Mary's breast of snow, 
 Thou verdant sod lie hghtly. 
 
 SONNET TO H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Thou of the marble heart, insatiate Death ! 
 
 Say, could not Genius save ? nor piety ? 
 Nor youth excite to pity ? — But the breath 
 
 Of this sweet Bard in prime of youth must fly ! 
 Leaving vain tears alone to dim the eye. 
 
 Why wert thou thus beloved, unhappy boy ? 
 Not vainly, since there's that which cannot die 
 
 Lives round thy harp — and be it then our joy 
 To deem that thou art happy in the love 
 
 Of Him who made thee spotless as thou wast — 
 We will not wish thee from the courts above, 
 
 Freed from all pain that wait on human dust. 
 Thou wert no fitting flower for man's abode — 
 Go ! since the pure in heart shall see their God ! 
 
 WE PRAISE THEE. 
 
 We praise thee, O, Almighty God ! 
 
 We laud thee in thy high abode. 
 All the wide earth doth worship thee, 
 
 Father of boundless majesty ! 
 To thee all angels cry aloud. 
 The heavens proclaim thy power abroad, 
 To thee the flaming cherubim 
 Forever raise the grateful hymn, 
 Holy, holy, holy, thou, 
 
80 
 
 Sabaoth's Lord, to thee we bow ! 
 
 The heavens and earth are full of thee, 
 
 Dread Father of Eternity ! 
 
 The prophets thee, O God, adore, 
 
 The apostles praise thee evermore, 
 
 The army of the martyrs praise 
 
 Thy majesty; through endless days 
 
 The holy Church, throughout the world, 
 
 With her redeeming Cross unfurl'd. 
 
 In humbleness acknowledge thee 
 
 The Father of all majesty. 
 
 With thine adored and only Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit — three in one ! 
 
 Tholi art, O Christ, of glory king ! 
 
 Thou did'st from God the Father spring. 
 
 When in thy love unspeakable, 
 
 Thou camest from heaven with us to dwell, 
 
 When thou, on that auspicious morn, 
 
 Wert of the blessed Virgin born. 
 
 When death's dread pangs thou had'st o'ercome 
 
 And foiled the terrors of the tomb. 
 
 Thy hands unbarred the gates of day 
 
 To faithful ones, who seek the way. 
 
 At the right hand of majesty 
 
 Thou sittest, with the Father, high. 
 
 And we believe that thou wilt come 
 
 To be our Judge, and lead us home. 
 
 Number us with thy saints on high. 
 
 In glory that can never die I 
 
 Save thou thy suffering people. Lord ! 
 
 O, be thy blessings on them poured. 
 
 Govern them with thy loving power. 
 
 And help them in the trying hour ! 
 
 We humbly worship thee forever. 
 
 Thou, of all life and good the giver! 
 
81 
 
 SONNET TO BYRON. 
 
 Yoke four wild steeds unto his fiery car, 
 
 Unconscious of the bit ! Let him ascend 
 The everlasting bill of Fame, where far 
 
 Its temple shines in glory without end. 
 Spread o'er his seat a lion's shaggy hide. 
 
 And lay Jove's bolted lightnings at his feet, 
 Reach yon wild harp, whose golden strings of 
 pride 
 Ring out rich music, fraught with life and heat ! 
 For lo ! the noble pilgrim home returns 
 
 From sorrowing Greece and holy Freedom's 
 cause. 
 "Woe for the hour ! his death-cold bosom burns 
 For fame no more ; and, deaf to men's ap- 
 plause, 
 He lies, a lovely wreck ! upon his bier — 
 Fame shrouds the dead ! while Freedom drops a 
 tear! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 When the Autumn winds are shrill, 
 When the sear leaf floats* the rill. 
 When the nights are waxing drear, 
 When the step of Winter's near. 
 Then my spirit drinks delight 
 From the dark and stormy night, 
 Then a something stirs my soul, 
 I can name not, nor control ! 
 I hold converse with the storm, 
 And in fancy see the form 
 
82 ■ 
 
 Of its demon ride the air, 
 Clad in wrath — and ruin bare 1 
 I love the shadows of the night, 
 And the silver moonbeams bright, 
 When they gleam along the wave, 
 Or on some deserted grave ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When, blushing, comes the orient morn, 
 Arrayed in beauties newly born. 
 And when the golden pomp of day 
 Behind the mountains dies away — 
 My God and Father ! — unto Thee 
 Then let me bend the suppliant knee ; 
 And when the starry night on high 
 Her standard rears, in majesty. 
 When in the hush of her deep noon 
 Comes forth in cloudless state, the moon, 
 Bathing in light each living rill. 
 And shedding glory on the hill ! 
 My God and Father ! — unto Thee 
 Then may I bend the suppliant knee ! 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 " In the recesses of the forest vale, 
 
 On the wild mountain, or the verdant sod, 
 
 "Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail, 
 
 I wander lonely, communing with God." 
 
 Ask ye what charms has Solitude for me — 
 The hum of bees — the birds' wild minstrelsy ? 
 The headlong rush of waters, and the wind's 
 Deep whisper in the tops of waving pines ? 
 
83 
 
 The dismal forest, and the deep ravine, 
 The mossy rock, where fruitless wild-wood twine ? 
 What joy I see in Nature robed in storm, 
 When shrouding tempest wraps her lovely form ? 
 Why my strain'd eye watches the flames of heav- 
 en. 
 When its dark curtains are by thunder riven ? 
 The unseen chain that draws the human mind, 
 By God created, and by God designed, 
 Casts its strong links around the Poet's heart, 
 With bonds too firm for human hands to part ; 
 And, true as points the needle to the pole. 
 The charms of solitude attracts his soul. 
 He seems not of this world — this cumbrous clay — 
 This tenement which soon shall pass away — 
 Is but as fetters on the immortal mind, 
 Where for a space the spirit is confined : 
 The ethereal essence that his soul inflames. 
 Burns in his heart, forever and the same ; 
 Unhappy White !* like thee, too oft they share 
 The untimely fate their beating bosoms dare, 
 And in the cold w^orld's sight rush madly on. 
 To meet the fortune which they cannot shun. 
 A melancholy shrouds the Poet's mind,t 
 
 * Henry Kirk White. 
 
 t It seems as if Nature had mix'd the cup of Hfe with peculiar bit- 
 terness for the sons of Genius As they are gifted with greater pow- 
 ers than their fellow men, so have they also a greater share of sorrow. 
 Dr. Robert Macnish observes that " there is a melancholy which is 
 apt to come as a cloud over the imaginations of such characters — their 
 minds possess a susceptibility and delicacy of structure which unfit 
 them for the g-ross atmosphere of human nature ; wherefore high talent 
 has ever been distinguished for sadness and gloom. Genius lives in a 
 world of its ow7i — it is the essence of a superior nature, clothed with a 
 more spiritual and refined verdure. Few men, endowed with such 
 faculties, enjoy the common happiness of humanity ; the stream of 
 their lives runs harsh and broken," &c. It is interesting to notice the 
 opposite articles taken as stimulants by some great men, either to soothe 
 or excite the action of the nerves and brace the imagination : — Haller 
 
84. 
 
 "Weaving a chain that mirth cannot unbind ; 
 
 Unfit to brave the rugged ills of life. 
 
 And mingle in the passing scenes of strife, 
 
 They soar aloft in proud imagining, 
 
 With souls that v^ear the garb of lasting spring, 
 
 And from their own created worlds look down 
 
 Calm on this busy world's neglecting frown. 
 
 The Ruler of the Universe hath given 
 
 A different mind to all beneath the heaven ; 
 
 The Almighty Cause, who breath' d the living 
 
 flame 
 In Csesar's heart — in Cowper breath'd the same ; 
 The same great hand which forms the bolts of 
 
 wrath. 
 Scatters the tender violet in our path. 
 To be alone amid the echoing wood, 
 To my lorn bosom is not solitude ; 
 To listen to the dashing of the deep 
 And hurrying waters, as they downward sweep 
 From the high rock, is music unto me. 
 Far sweeter than is man-made melody. 
 When stretch'd beneath the tall and waving trees, 
 I hear rich music in the sighing breeze ; 
 But, " mid the busy hum and shock of men. 
 To roam along, the world's tir'd denizen," 
 Oh ! this is solitude — then something calls 
 My wearied spirit from the peopled halls. 
 And comes a still, small voice across my breast 
 That speaks to me of solitude and rest ; 
 Yet, I do love my fellows, and would dry 
 The starting tear in pensive sorrow's eye — 
 
 drank plenty of co/is^waier; Fox used brandy; Newton and Hobbes 
 chose smoking ; Pope used strong coffee ; Johnson drank strong 
 green tea ; Byron, it is said, wrote Don Juan under the influence of 
 Holland gin ; Pitt drank wine ; Dr. Dunning, before an extraordinary 
 display of eloquence, applied a blister to his chest. 
 
85 
 
 Would cheer the widow's heart, the orphan's woe, 
 And ease those pangs the poor alone can know ; 
 But Heaven has this denied — my scanty store 
 Forbids the stream of charity to pour ; 
 And though my bosom prompts the gen'rous 
 
 deed, 
 I am, alas ! myself, a child of need ! 
 Frail is the hand that pens this humble lay, 
 And fading, like yon leaflet, fast away. 
 Hark ! — 'tis the death song of the dying year, 
 The leaves beneath my feet are pale and sear ; 
 And rustling o'er my head, the forest breeze 
 Moans sadly 'mid the branches of the trees, 
 The yellow harvest fields around me lie 
 Naked and dun beneath the Autumn sky. 
 And each sad wild flower, withering on its stem, 
 Strips Flora of her lovely diadem : 
 A deathly stillness reigns o'er hill and lea, 
 Pervades the lake, and settles on the tree, 
 Now holy silence rules^ or whispering low. 
 Their solemn dirge the fitful breezes blow. 
 Come to me, O thou spirit of this spot, 
 Revive the mournful memory of my lot. 
 Thou can'st but tell the same sad tale again. 
 How Death is here amid this world of pain — 
 How all must perish — youth, and beauty's pride, 
 Must, as those wither' d leaves, lie side by side — 
 The young, the cherish'd, the long-lov'd must go 
 Down to the dismal dust — nor cease to flow 
 The tear of rent aff'ection from the heart, 
 O'er the pale victims to Death's ebon dart. 
 I rear'd a flower,* — it blossom'd, and it grew 
 
 * " I rear'd a flower," &c. The above lines were suggested by the 
 death of an only daughter, who died Sept. 16, 1S39. 
 8 
 
86 
 
 In summer loveliness — its eyes of blue 
 
 Smil'd in the sunlight of affection dear, 
 
 And seem'd to dread no cloud or sorrow near ; 
 
 Pale Autumn came — the fading tree and flower 
 
 Proclaim' d that summer must resign her power ; 
 
 I mark'd each tender bud and blossom die 
 
 Beneath the sickly influence of its sky, 
 
 But still my cherish'd blossom sweetly smil'd, 
 
 And all its mother's tender cares beguil'd. 
 
 Insidious ravager ! all-conquering Death ! 
 
 Where didst thou lurk to stop her gentle breath ? 
 
 The ambush'd tyrant darted on his prey, 
 
 And pale, and cold, my little lost one lay. 
 
 I cannot but remember Autumn's tread, 
 
 Since he was present when her spirit fled ; 
 
 Oh I may not awake thee — but will come 
 
 To keep with thee the Sabbath of the tomb ! 
 
 Strangely my web of destiny was wove : 
 
 Never to be beloved — yet still to love — 
 
 To know^ no earthly trusty bosom beat 
 
 In unison to mine — no hand to greet 
 
 With helping aid my own — no kindly eye. 
 
 Not e'en in infancy, to watch me by — 
 
 Then, even then, no parent's smile for me 
 
 Lighted my home, or traced my destiny ! 
 
 My mother slept beneath the dewy sod. 
 
 And left me unto Nature — and to God I 
 
 Yes, Nature was my nurse — what marvel then 
 
 I seek her from the busy haunts of men. 
 
 And in the w41d woods, 'mid the moaning blast. 
 
 Hold high communion with the things long past ? 
 
 I mingle with the universe — and take 
 
 A wing unto myself, with which I make 
 
 My flight from earth, and earth-born cares, away 
 
87 
 
 To realms unknown, where beams the lamp of 
 
 day) 
 Fed by immortal hands, where sorrows cease, 
 And reigns one Sabbath of unbroken peace. 
 Yet a few suns may set and rise for me — 
 What matter — even now my spirit's free — 
 Free to commune in silence with the dead, 
 When fancy's magic wing abroad is spread. 
 Then, welcome Nature, in whatever mood — 
 Then, welcome calm and holy Solitude ! 
 Roll thy bright waters onward, Ida, roll. 
 Emblem of life — and as my rising soul 
 Surveys the flashing spray, and azure bow 
 Spanning in beauty thy wild deeps below, 
 I humbly ask, that at my dying hour, 
 Hope's blessed bow may rise when shadows 
 
 lower. 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Sweet on the wings of summer winds is the wild 
 music borne, 
 
 The wild bee's hum, the redbreast's chirp, the in- 
 sect's mellow horn ; 
 
 O, I remember how I've sat, in happier days gone 
 
 Gazing intensely on the clouds that flickered o'er 
 
 the sky. 
 And in my boyish fancy then, I saw huge castle 
 
 walls. 
 With banner'd horsemen sweeping on to gain their 
 
 stately halls ; 
 
88. 
 
 And then my roving eyes would see, by fancy's 
 hand impress'd, 
 
 The scatter' d white clouds on the blue look like a 
 flock at rest ; 
 
 Well I remember one large oak that did the field 
 adorn, 
 
 And shaded with its sable boughs, the house where 
 I was born. 
 
 And I remember how the sun came peeping 
 through each bough. 
 
 And roused me in the morning — ah, that oak is 
 standing now ! 
 
 But I no longer may behold its mighty branches 
 wave. 
 
 For in a far and foreign land I've sought me out 
 a grave '. 
 
 There yet are happy bosoms in my own paternal 
 home. 
 
 Who pluck the roses of that soil where I may ne- 
 ver come ! 
 
 I do remember well the stone, with moss and wild 
 flowers spread. 
 
 Where she I love hath sat and drank the pleasing 
 words I said ; 
 
 Then I would pull the hare-bell sweet, and weave 
 a garland fair. 
 
 And then, with many a kiss, would place the gar- 
 land on her hair; 
 
 The rock is there, the flowers grow, but I may not 
 behold 
 
 The blue-bell springing from the bank, the cow- 
 slip's cup of gold ; 
 
 We sat and watch'd the little birds drink in the 
 running stream, 
 
89 
 
 Then shake their tiny wings from dew — ^but now 
 
 'tis as a dream ! 
 Is youth so shortly passed away, and love's gay 
 
 visions too ? 
 And will the after years of life afford us nothing 
 
 new? 
 That old oak tree shall flourish green when my 
 
 heart moulders cold, 
 And through that well remembered vale the silver 
 
 stream be roll'd. 
 A change hath come since I was there — some va- 
 lued ones are fled, 
 And hands that warmly clasped in mine, are cold, 
 
 among the dead I 
 A few short years have wrought more change than 
 
 I could ever deem — 
 My early friends, my early loves, they are but as 
 
 a dream! 
 I may not see the ivy'd tower, the wood and 
 
 moorland wild, 
 The little rustic cot, embowered, which charmed 
 
 me when a child — 
 I may not now behold again the Avon rolling 
 
 bright. 
 Fast by my father's garden wall, in mazy waves 
 
 of light — 
 I may not sit again beneath the honey-suckle 
 
 bower. 
 Where my young feet have wandered oft to pass 
 
 the summer hour ; 
 The linnet sings among its boughs, the pretty, 
 
 harmless wren 
 Came to its green retreats to build its nest away 
 
 from men — 
 8* 
 
90 
 
 The trees I planted with this hand will flourish on 
 
 the spot, 
 And blossom sweetly on the air, when I am all 
 
 forgot ! 
 Ah, will the honors or the wealth which this frail 
 
 world can bring, 
 Back to our time-worn hearts restore the day of 
 
 youthful spring? 
 Time's ploughshare drives unstaid along my 
 
 heart's unyielding soil. 
 Yet two kind hearts remain to bless my unreward- 
 ing toil. 
 Enough of father, oh, my child! lives on thy pret- 
 ty face — 
 Enough of mother, little one, my fondest gaze can 
 
 trace ; 
 And she hath been and still is all, my child, to 
 
 love and me ; 
 And 'tis enough my bosom knows her second self 
 
 in thee. 
 Let fortune frown, or friends be false, I deem that 
 
 thou wilt not. 
 When thou shalt come to know the fate that forms 
 
 thy father's lot — 
 Round him did heaven's thunder-cloud its darkest 
 
 vengeance shower. 
 But passing, left me one fair plant — one sohtary 
 
 flower! 
 
91 
 
 SONNET TO SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Shakspeare ! the mighty magic of thy name 
 
 May not decay while Nature dances forth 
 With each returning Spring — or thy great fame 
 
 Be clouded while mankind inhabits earth. 
 Lo ! at thy call what phantoms rise to birth : 
 
 Kings — statesmen — warriors — women beautiful 
 As moonlit waters! and the joyous mirth 
 
 Of fairy music that could almost lull 
 Torture to rest upon his iron bed : — 
 
 And now the note of red-eyed battle rolls, 
 With clash of steel — the lofty charger's head 
 
 Tosses on high — and, stirring in our souls, 
 The fiery spirit of the soldier comes, 
 Roused by the deathful music of the drums ! 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 "Under the dark rich blue 
 Of midnight heavens and on the starlit sea, 
 And when woods kindle into Spring's first hue, 
 
 Sweet friends, remember me !" — Mrs. Ilemans. 
 
 Did He who made thee breathe into thy heart 
 An unquenched thirst to taste Castalia's stream 
 And Aganippes' fount — whose magic gleam 
 
 Lures to deceive — yet thou may'st not depart, 
 Though "Poverty's unconquerable bar" 
 Crosses thy step — and round thee burns the war 
 
 Of opposition — '' On," is yet the cry. 
 
 Though thy heart bleed, and sorrow dims thine 
 eye! 
 
92 
 
 The spell is on thee in its might, 
 
 Around — above — beneath ; 
 What counter charm may break that spell, 
 But the cold hand of Death ! 
 
 O Poetry ! my blest companion — hail ! 
 
 Together let us journey through life's vale ; 
 
 To woo thy voice I'll shun the noisy path 
 
 Of Joy's gay sons — and brave the wreckless 
 wrath 
 
 Of worldly men, who, deaf to Nature's lore, 
 
 Find but delight in adding store to store. 
 
 In crowds ashamed of thee — I shun thy smile ; 
 
 In solitude — thy charms my heart beguile ! 
 
 'Ti^ then I woo thee I — when in bluest Heaven 
 The stars are met, and Nature's voice is still, 
 (Save the big torrent rolling from the hill,) 
 
 Pale Luna smiles sweet, as a soul forgiven ! 
 
 And now Ifeel the wide mysterious charm 
 Of Nature's works — around and on my heart 
 Is laid her chain of spell-work — I depart 
 
 Reluctant from this scene wrought by th' Al- 
 mighty arm ! 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Dim o'er the earth descends the night. 
 The stars have lit their lamps of light ; 
 Blue glows the heaven's canopy, 
 As a vast ocean hung on high — 
 And streaming through the rifted sprays. 
 How soft the silvery moonlight plays. 
 While beaming on the dazzled sight. 
 
93 
 
 Sparkle those blessed isles of light, 
 
 So bright — so pure — they gem the pole — 
 
 They seem the dwellings of the soul ! 
 
 O, had I now the eagle's wing, 
 To aid my spirit's wandering, 
 I'd pass those dark and cloudy bars, 
 And tread the pathway of the stars. 
 
 My mother ! thou art where no woe 
 
 Can wring thy pure and gentle heart ; 
 And I would not that thou may'st know 
 What waves of sorrow round me flow, 
 
 Since we were torn apart ! 
 Cast on the world's wide shoreless sea, 
 "An arkless dove," I went from thee. 
 
 'Tis now the vesper hour of prayer ; 
 
 The very winds themselves are still ; 
 And rolling on her silent car, 
 
 The moon comes up yon cloudy hill. 
 
 When death shall come, as come he must. 
 And dust shall seek its kindred dust ; 
 When on my lowly grave shall spring 
 The wild flower, sweetly blossoming — 
 Redeeming Mercy ! gild the tomb ; 
 Grant rays of light and joyance fair, 
 Rend thou the mantle of its gloom, 
 Dispel the darkness gathering there ! 
 As morning drives the mists of night. 
 So may God's forming hand of might 
 Tear off the veil of mortal gloom. 
 And raise me glorious from the tomb ! 
 
94 
 
 TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 Hail, star-crowned Queen ! upon thy mystic way, 
 One little space retard thy chariot wheels, 
 
 Ere the East redden with the blaze of day, 
 
 As sandal'd with fresh dew he treads the fields. 
 
 Scattering ambrosia from his dripping hair — 
 
 Monarch of seasons — lord of earth and air. 
 
 How blue is yonder firmament — how fair — 
 Not e'en the semblance of a cloud I see ; 
 
 No whistling of the tempest wing is there, 
 
 But silence reigns o'er the wide earth and sea, 
 
 Save where some solitary bird of night, 
 
 With clanging pinion, wings his drowsy flight. 
 
 A little distant, Luna's slender horn 
 
 Is mirror'd in the dark blue water's breast ; 
 
 Child of high heaven ! and now but newly born. 
 Say where thy birth-place in the court of rest ? 
 
 What less than an Almighty hand could trace 
 
 The beauties of thy ever-changing face ! 
 
 Damp blows the rainy west wind. — Darkness 
 comes 
 Throned on big, driving clouds of ebon hue. 
 The demons of the tempest leave their homes, 
 And shroud Night's starry beauties from the 
 view; 
 Dim o'er the moon the storm extends its veil, 
 And howls a requiem in the passing gale. 
 
 'Tis done ! and lo ! the rosy-fingered morn 
 Comes o'er the eastern mountains wet with dew, 
 
95 
 
 Fresh as in happy days, primeval born, 
 
 She rises like a bride in garments new ! 
 And where by her fair feet the hills are trod. 
 Ten thousand sparkling diamonds deck the sod ! 
 
 So shall Time's wint'ry tempest pass away, 
 
 And woe, and pain, and death, be found no 
 more, 
 
 "When breaks the dawn of God's eternal day, 
 Rising resplendent on a peaceful shore, 
 
 Where the freed souls of man's immortal race, 
 
 Fadeless and pure, the fields of Eden trace ! 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 A VESSEL stemmed the stormy tide-— 
 She walked the waters in her pride : 
 Bold hearts and sunny eyes were there — 
 The mother's hope — the father's care ; 
 No storm swept on along the sky, 
 
 No surges dash'd her o'er ; 
 She flew unharmed — unheeding by 
 
 Breaker, and rock, and shore ; 
 The merry laugh went round the board, 
 At jest, or tale — and idly roar'd 
 The harmless waters round her side, 
 As on she flew in queenly pride I 
 The clouded sun, with fading glow, 
 Shadowed the waters deep below. 
 And darkness, as a mourner's shroud, 
 Mantled around that vessel proud, 
 
 Yet on she joyous flew ; 
 Still roU'd her sable smoke on high, 
 
96 
 
 As if her engines' power to try, 
 She dash'd those waters blue. 
 
 But hark ! what means that sudden cry ? 
 
 She has not struck — no rocks are nigh ; 
 Again that fearful yell ! 
 
 It rises on the stilly night — 
 Who may its import tell ? 
 
 To heaven what heartfelt shrieks aspire ! 
 
 Horror ! — the noble ship's on fire I 
 
 Ye brave, if any yet be brave. 
 
 Haste, and despairing beauty save. 
 
 ^ <4£. <4£, -^ •)£. •^ 
 
 -Tfi •7^ -Tt* •7> -tF "Ti* 
 
 But vainly o'er her burning side, 
 "Her boats dash in the stormy tide. 
 Alas ! within one grave are laid. 
 Mother and child — and wife and maid ! 
 
 The surf their winding sheet ! 
 They never more shall see the Spring, 
 With her glad voice awakening — 
 
 No kiss of friendship meet. 
 Ill-fated ones — a long adieu I 
 Life's storms no more shall break on you ; 
 Yet, oh ! for hearts that long must wail. 
 When memory tells this tragic tale ! 
 Oh ! for the ties asunder riven. 
 Which none can e'er rejoin — but Heaven ! 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 Slowly along the tops of yonder hills 
 The fading day-beam lingers — where the sun, 
 
 Great lord of light, the boundless ether fills 
 With hues of every tint. His task is done ! 
 
97 
 
 Majestically he sinks into the deep, 
 Like a proud monarch gorgeously arrayed. 
 
 Shadows their watch, as gliding spectres, keep, 
 Along the brow of heaven how calm they fade! 
 
 Do my eyes see the same bright orb of day 
 Which joy'd my vision in the days of youth ? 
 
 How our hearts change, and our youth's hopes 
 die away. 
 As romance fades before the fires of truth ! 
 
 As sets yon sun beneath the crimson wave, 
 Depart my days into the waste of time, 
 
 And every sunrise lights but to the grave ! 
 Go, glorious orb, and quench thy ray sublime ; 
 
 Yet, at thy vesper hour, an eye that's bright 
 Watches thy fading — violet-blue it is — 
 
 My daughter ! Thou art ever in my sight. 
 Thy father's darling ! be thy fate not his. 
 
 Sweet flower of early promise, thou cam'st 
 forth 
 Like to the Rhododendron of the Alps, 
 
 Where the bleak winter storm alone hath birth, 
 And cloud and vapor dim their rugged scalps ! 
 
 O, I have seen in the glad dawn of spring. 
 The little snow-drop lift its peerless head 
 
 Above its sister snows, — while the black wing 
 Of stormy March its sable shadows spread, 
 
 And on the sterile cliff' exposed and bare. 
 Have you not marked the pretty primrose blow, 
 
 To find, alas ! too oft, the nipping air 
 Lay its young buds and tender blossoms low ? 
 
 Such too the lot of genius ! But for thee^ 
 May softer skies and gentler breezes sigh, 
 
 What e'er thy father's wayward fate may be, 
 For thee, my child ! his prayer shall rise on high ! 
 
 But oh I the seeds of fate are lurking 7iow\ 
 9 
 
98 
 
 Deep in the hidden sources of his heart, 
 
 Consumption writes her name upon his brow. 
 My daughter ! it may be that we must part I 
 
 I have hoped. — and I will hope even yet, 
 To see thy beauty ripe some future hour : 
 
 Will heaven decree we pa7't^ so soon as met ? 
 Must I unsheltered leave so fair a flower ? 
 
 My dear one ! when the dust is on my brow, 
 "What other hand shall guide thy little feet 
 
 In duty's path ? — no kindred, child, hast thou. 
 Save her Avho bore — and him whose days are fleet. 
 
 MY HOME. 
 
 I SEE thee once again, my home, in autumn's mel- 
 low light. 
 
 The same blue skies are bending o'er, unchanged 
 by time's rude flight ; 
 
 The same deep springs are gushing out, whose 
 waters never fail. 
 
 And all things wear a hue that tells, it is my na- 
 tive vale ! 
 
 Bright eyes and happy hearts were thine, the 
 beautiful of earth. 
 
 All that my spirit e'er hath claimed of kindred 
 from its birth, 
 
 Eyes, that have ever shed for me the gentle beam 
 of love ; 
 
 I see thee, O my native vale ! but where are those ? 
 above I 
 
 I see thee in thy hour of peace, all glorious tints 
 avp. thine. 
 
99 
 
 But hearts are wanting noio to thee, that should 
 
 have beat with mine. 
 Though happy voices meet mine ear, they seem 
 
 not half so blest, 
 As those that soothed in other days, my spirit into 
 
 rest ! 
 The ashes of my friends are here — oh ! who would 
 
 wish to die. 
 Far from the consecrated ground where all his 
 
 kindred lie ? 
 Though hearts be wanting now to beat in unison 
 
 with mine, 
 And life is hke the farewell beam, that tells the 
 
 day's decline, 
 Clime of the mountain and the flood, land of the 
 
 forest tree, 
 I love the soil my fathers won — my home is with 
 
 the FREE ! 
 
 LINES FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 The once green fields are desolate — and now 
 The chill winds whistle through the leafless 
 
 bough — 
 The lofty hills, like aged giants, rise, 
 Lifting their snowy heads toward the skies ; 
 While comes a mournful dirge along the vale, 
 The last faint death-sigh of the passing gale. 
 Then let us pause, as flies Time's chariot past, 
 For Life is short — Eternity is vast ! 
 The days that are departed never more 
 Shall visit this glad earth — the misty shore 
 Of dim futurity, absorbing all, 
 Swallows young spring, gay summer, and the fall *, 
 
100 
 
 And what memento has the past, but woe 
 And hopes, that as the moonlight shadows go ! 
 Some happy faces that were smihng gay 
 With the departed year, have passed away ; 
 How many lovely forms, with beauty rife. 
 Have cross'd the sea of time, to death, from life! 
 And many a tender bosom hath been riven, 
 Reft by stern Time of every hope but Heaven ! 
 
 Departed year ! speed to Eternity, 
 Its awful deeps hath ample room for thee ; 
 Bear with thee Hope's fond dreams, Ambition's 
 
 pride. 
 And Beauty's rosy chaplet on thy tide ! 
 Mingle with that which was — empires and thrones 
 And mighty names, the page of history owns. 
 How solemn sounds thy deep, responding knell, 
 As on to death thou goest — Fare-thee-well ! 
 " But not alone dark visions — happy things 
 Will float above existence, like the wings 
 Of the starr'd Bird of Paradise — and Love 
 Will not be 'all a dream.' 
 
 The bier 
 Of smitten Hope shall lose the fear which Death 
 Giveth his fearful work, and earnest Faith 
 Shall look beyond the shadow, and the clay — 
 The pulseless sepulchre — the cold decay I" 
 
 Long may our flag, baptized in patriot blood, 
 Unconquered, wave its folds o'er field and flood ; 
 Home of the free, and refuge of the oppress'd, 
 Born to fulfil Jehovah's high behest ; 
 Blest be the banner Freedom's hands unbind. 
 And be our sword with myrtle branches twined ; 
 We ask of Heaven to dry each rising tear. 
 And grant us all a fair and happy year 1 
 
101 
 
 THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 The last day of summer is sinking to rest, 
 
 And the last parting day-beam has crimsoned the 
 
 west — 
 On the brow of the sun-god it sits like a crown, 
 As bright o'er the hill-tops his chariot goes down, 
 And the red wave leaps dancing in gladness and 
 
 light. 
 Playfully kissing the rocks in his sight, — 
 While he shakes from his ringlets, unfading and 
 
 fair. 
 Ambrosial perfumes on the soft evening air : 
 Let me climb to that rock, where the far-stretch- 
 ing sky 
 Expands like an ocean of Tyrian dye ! 
 And the dim vales beneath me stretch winding 
 
 and deep, 
 Where, as sentinel, Silence his night-watch doth 
 
 keep ; 
 O ! the forests look dim on the shores of the 
 
 stream. 
 And shadows of darkness arise on its gleam, 
 Where the Titan-like sons of the woodland cast 
 
 down 
 Their dark, waving branches all sombre and 
 
 brown ! 
 And the fisherman's boat in the creek of the bay. 
 On the pale, gleaming waters, look shadowy as 
 
 they ! 
 How rich yonder mountain reflects back the light. 
 From the gold-crested harvest, so wavy and 
 
 bright ; 
 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 But the task of the reaper is nearly complete, 
 
 The well ripened harvest is laid at his feet. 
 
 'Tis done ! — and bright Summer is shorn of each 
 gem 
 
 Which once deck'd her brow like a queen's dia- 
 dem I 
 
 Her tulips — her lilies — her roses — are gone ! 
 
 How faded and sear is the robe she has on ! 
 
 If you go to the garden, you find all her flowers 
 
 Are withering, and dying away in her bowers — 
 
 It is certainly sad through the gardens to stray, 
 
 And witness those beautiful things of a day ! 
 
 How they droop and decay, ere the summer is 
 past, 
 
 Like the sweet face of beauty, that age has o'er- 
 cast ! 
 
 And the songsters of spring, — must they too de- 
 part. 
 
 With their music that gladdened this sorrowful 
 heart ? 
 
 Yes ! — they too must leave me, to mourn all in 
 vain, 
 
 Since the frail tie of pleasure must sever in twain ! 
 
 But, the bright star of Evening is on its high tow- 
 
 Like a Avatchman that tells of the night's coming 
 
 hour. 
 As the dim mist comes curling from valley and 
 
 rill. 
 And spreading its vapory wings on the hill. 
 O, the last day of Summer is gone to its rest. 
 And few are the day-streaks that purple the west. 
 Farewell, to thee, Summer ! thy glory is done ; 
 Farewell, to thee, monarch of seasons, proud Sun! 
 
103 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. 
 
 There was a banner stained and torn, 
 
 Hung o'er an humble grave, 
 And, in the sculptured marble, shone 
 
 The helmet, spear, and glave. 
 
 I read the few faint words thereon — 
 
 They told the inmate's name, 
 And how he fought, and nobly died — 
 
 Bat not for gold or fame ! 
 
 Tyrants had dared to chain the land 
 
 Which gave his fathers birth — 
 He would not see pollution stain 
 
 The dearest spot of earth. 
 
 He rose — so in the darken' d North, 
 The whirlwind wakes in wrath, 
 
 And grimly through men's dwellings spreads 
 Destruction in its path I 
 
 His little band of patriots stood 
 
 Firmly around their lord, 
 Till, overpowered, these gallant men 
 
 All perished by the sword ! 
 
 Again he sought the blood-stain'd field, 
 
 (And heaven was on his side,) 
 He saw the gloomy tyrant fall, 
 
 And, 'mid his vict'ry, died ! 
 
 Around his humble grave will come 
 
 The children of his care, 
 And bless, with hsping lip, the name 
 
 Of him who slumbers there ! 
 
104 
 
 I have seen monuments of fame, 
 O'er knights and barons bold, 
 
 'Mid high- wrought crimson tapestry. 
 Adorned with radiant gold : 
 
 There I have read, amid the grand 
 And dim sepulchral gloom, 
 
 The heartless, flattering lines, inscribed 
 Upon the gorgeous tomb. 
 
 But naught hath ever struck my sense. 
 
 Like this old mossy grave. 
 The bloody banner torn — the sword — 
 
 The unambitious — brave I 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 RESPECTFULLY ADDRESSED TO THE REV. 
 
 Must chains of silence ever rest on thee. 
 
 My grateful heart ? nor ever may the stream 
 Of gratitude burst forth ? — it cannot be ! 
 
 For warm as summer's young and orient beam, 
 Comes kindness to this lone and wayward breast; 
 
 And graven on its tablet stands thy name. 
 Never to fade, while life is here imprest. 
 
 No meed had'st thou for kmdness — wealth nor 
 fame — 
 Naught, save the innate goodness of the soul 
 
 Could prompt thee, thus, to take a stranger's 
 hand. 
 Thou wert inspired by Him, whose laws control 
 
 Man's destiny, who rules with love's command. 
 A wanderer o'er the deep I came — unblest — 
 And found in thee a friend — of friends the best ! 
 
105 
 
 SONNET TO FEAR. 
 
 Dark Power ! that, robed in gloom, dost walk the 
 earth 
 At midnight oft — and, in the eye of day. 
 Baring thy giant arm, to rend away 
 
 The buds of human joyance at their birth ! 
 
 What mortal eye can thee unmoved behold ? 
 When howling in the midnight storm — or red 
 The fires of vengeance through men's dwellings 
 spread. 
 
 And groans of slaughter up to heaven are roll'd I 
 
 The red sword flashing far — or, wing'd with deaths 
 The "pestilence that walks in darkness," comes, 
 With giant stride, to desolate our homes ; 
 
 And the dread earthquake, shortening human 
 breath ! 
 Unholy one ! where was thy direful birth, 
 But with the darken' d spirits of the earth ? 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O Freedom I thy immortal sunny ray 
 Gives life unto the heart. The blood of those 
 Who die in thy great cause shall never sink 
 Into the earth I — and every spot where fell 
 Thy brave devoted bands, shall be a shrine 
 Worshipp'd by pilgrims till the end of time. 
 Rivers may change their course, and mountains 
 
 sink 
 In the dread earthquake, but the sacred ground 
 Where liberty was bought with noble blood, 
 Shall not be blotted from the page of time I 
 
106 
 CONCLUDING STANZAS. 
 
 " Thus far I have presumed, with feeble hand, ^ 
 
 To wake that harp, which oft has solaced me 
 "When the dark clouds of sorrow did expand 
 In my sad bosom." 
 
 Gay as the rising sun, when summer flings 
 
 Her radiant blossoms on the dewy air, 
 What time the day-god from the ocean springs 
 
 With gorgeous garments and ambrosial hair ! 
 Broke, on my childhood's hours, the coming morn 
 
 Of life's too flattering day ; in beauty drest. 
 Bright fairy flowers did my young steps adorn — 
 
 Dark sorrows dwell not in the youthful breast. 
 Soon these fair hours stole unperceived away, 
 
 As time's stern hand did other scenes unfold, 
 Clouds gathered on the sun-light of my day. 
 
 And o'er my heart was troubled waters roll'd : 
 Thus lurks the storm behind the sable cloud, 
 
 So, oft the fairest sun will set in gloom ; 
 Death's shafts flew thick — my growing hopes were 
 bow'd 
 
 Low in the dust ! they slumber in the tomb ! 
 On time's dark stream, with careless hand, I fling 
 
 Your buds, ye "wild flowers," plucked from 
 hill and dell. 
 Through friendship's aid ye here are blossoming, 
 
 May kindly dews refresh you— Fare-ye-well ! 
 Perchance my harp unto the wind has rung. 
 
 Dim on life's altar burns ambition's flame, 
 On the dark cypress be my wild lute hung, 
 
 I sing regardless of the voice of fame 1 
 But, if awaken'd by my untaught muse, 
 
 Some kindling heart to God shall pour its strain, 
 (His blessings fall on such like Hermon's dews I) 
 
 All thanks to Him — I have not lived in vain ! 
 
107 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Introduction, pagfe 3 
 
 Hour of Contemplation, ^ 7 
 
 To the Evening- Star, 8 
 
 The Deity, 10 
 
 The Battle of Hastmgs, 11 
 
 Sonnet to the City of Troy, 25 
 
 Domestic Sketch, 26 
 
 Independence Ode, 28 
 
 An Autumn Sketch, 29 
 
 Sonnet, 33 
 
 Stanzas, written on Mount Ida, 34 
 
 Erin's Harp, 36 
 
 The Common Lot, 36 
 
 Sonnet to Milton, 38 
 
 The Dying Bard, 38 
 
 The Resurrection, 40 
 
 Sonnet to Freedom, 41 
 
 To my Daughter, 41 
 
 Greece, or the Fall of Hellas, 43 
 
 The Banner of the Cross, 51 
 
 "William Penn, 52 
 
 The Time of Flowers, 54 
 
 Hymn, 55 
 
 Stanzas for Spring, 56 
 
 The Spirit Land, 58 
 
 The Lord's Prayer, 60 
 
 Death, 61 
 
 Hope, 63 
 
 They Crucified him, 63 
 
 Margaret's Grave, 64 
 
108 
 
 Ambition, 66 
 
 Approaching Summer, 68 
 
 The Troubadour, . . .' 70 
 
 The Flag of Freedom, 71 
 
 Rise in your native strength, 72 
 
 Autumn, 73 
 
 Birth Day Stanzas, 74 
 
 Lines on the Death of an only Child, 76 
 
 Avon Waters 78 
 
 Sonnet to H. K. White, 79 
 
 We praise Thee, 79 
 
 Sonnet to Byron, 81 
 
 Stanzas, 81 
 
 Sonnet, 82 
 
 Solitude, 82 
 
 Retrospection, 87 
 
 Sonnet to Shakspeare, 91 
 
 The Poet, 91 
 
 Evening, 92 
 
 To the Night, 94 
 
 A Fragment, 95 
 
 Sunset, 96 
 
 My Home, 98 
 
 Lines for the New Year, 99 
 
 The Last day of Summer, 101 
 
 The Patriot's Grave 103 
 
 Sonnet, respectfully addressed to the Rev. , 104 
 
 Sonnet to Fear, 105 
 
 A Fragment, 105 
 
 Concluding Stanzas, 106