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SWEET AUBURN 
 
 MOUNT AUBURN, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 CAROLINE F? "b R N E 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN OWEN. 
 
 1844. 
 
\ \ 
 
 .03* 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 
 
 C. F. Orne, 
 
 in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CA M BRIDGE: 
 METCALF AND COMPANY 
 
 PRINTER3 TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Mount Auburn is an object of interest not 
 merely to a few individuals or even towns, but 
 many thousand hearts are directly or indirectly 
 concerned in whatever relates to this beautiful 
 land of the departed, this " City of the Silent." 
 To me every thing connected with it has a 
 peculiar interest. Its old name, Sweet Auburn, 
 was very dear to me, and from the days of my 
 earliest recollection its scenes have been familiar 
 to my view. Beneath the shade of its trees, 
 generation after generation of my ancestors have 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 played as children on their fathers' broad do- 
 mains, of which these grounds formed a part, 
 or, soothed by the near murmur of its wind- 
 swept pines, have lain down in their last repose. 
 My love for it, therefore, was but a natural 
 inheritance, which continually increased as the 
 days of life wore on. There every thing was 
 beautiful to me ; the birds sang more sweetly, 
 the flowers were more fragrant, more profuse 
 in their blossoms, more lovely in their colors, 
 and the little water-courses had a more agree- 
 able murmur. There the " long, warm summer 
 day " was scarcely long enough for my com- 
 panions and myself to enjoy the cool retreats, 
 the favorite walks, the hills covered with the 
 fragrant wild-strawberry, or the various and 
 beautiful tribes of mosses, in their simple but 
 attractive forms and colors. We gave our own 
 names to our favorite hills, and held on them 
 our little festivals, or, climbing to the highest, 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 reposed on its summit, and recounted the wild 
 and wonderful stories which possess so powerful 
 a charm for childhood. 
 
 The wild grace, the untrained loveliness of 
 Sweet Auburn has given place to the cultivated, 
 regular, and more artificial beauty of Mount Au- 
 burn. But connected with the latter are more 
 ennobling associations, more hallowed memories. 
 A calmer, a more subdued and thoughtful spirit 
 pervades the scene now become sacred to the 
 deepest affections. We cannot tread lightly or 
 irreverently over the ground which holds in 
 trust the honored remains of a Channing, a 
 Ware, a Buckminster, a Worcester, and num- 
 bers more, beloved for their piety, their use- 
 fulness, and the expansive benevolence of Chris- 
 tian hearts. 
 
 It has been for many years my favorite de- 
 sign to make this place the subject of the poems 
 which are now presented to the public. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 Of the other pieces in the collection, most of 
 them have already appeared in various maga- 
 zines and other periodicals, but I trust are not 
 unworthy of being preserved in a more perma- 
 nent form. 
 
 Cambridge-Port, April, 1844. 
 
CONTENTS- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sweet Auburn 1 
 
 Mount Auburn 27 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 The Lady Arabella 91 
 
 Roses 116 
 
 Dream-land 126 
 
 The Deaths of Josephine and Napoleon . . 139 
 The Removal of Napoleon's Remains . . 147 
 
 Time, the Hunter 160 
 
 The two Trees 163 
 
 Song of the Mermaids 168 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 The River of Temperance . . . .171 
 
 "We loved him"' 173 
 
 The Earth and the Moon .... 175 
 
 Dirge 178 
 
 Childhood's Sigh 180 
 
 A Scene in England 184 
 
 The Maidens and the Leaves . . . 189 
 
 The Music of the Spheres .... 193 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 17, line 9, for seven read Jive. 
 " " " 10, " tenth " eighth. 
 
SWEET AUBURN 
 
TO 
 
 THE HON. MARTIN BRIMMER, 
 
 MAYOR OF BOSTON, 
 
 TO ONE WHOSE BROTHER FIRST DESIGNED, AND 
 
 WHOSE OWN EFFORTS HAVE EEEN MOST ASSIDUOUSLY GIVEN TO 
 
 T*HE COMPLETION OF MOUNT AUBURN, 
 
 THESE LINES 
 
 ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 Caroline F. Orne. 
 
SWEET AUBURN 
 
 Far-famed Mount Auburn ! in the days of old, 
 
 As nature bade thy varied charms unfold, 
 
 Ere yet the hand of art had changed thy mien, 
 
 And in thy pristine beauty thou wert seen, 
 
 A lovelier object wert thou to my view, 
 
 Thy name was dearer that my childhood knew. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! send the spirit of thy shades 
 
 To light my song when memory's radiance fades. 
 
 A stranger's * hand hath struck the lyre for thee, 
 
 And I, thy child, how can I silent be 1 
 
 I, who have wandered o'er thy sun-lit glades, 
 
 Have idly mused beneath thy twilight shades, 
 
 * The "Monte Auburno " of Alessandro is referred to here. 
 
 1 
 
2 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Through the long summer day have passed the hours. 
 
 Gathering from thy green sod fresh-springing flowers ; 
 
 Or, at the time of noontide's sultry heat, 
 
 Have sought some breezy, calm, and cool retreat, 
 
 Where the sweet pine-scent filled the odorous air, 
 
 And all around was bright, and free, and fair : 
 
 Child of the soil, — how can I choose but write 
 
 Of all these varied scenes of fresh delight ? 
 
 My childhood's feet have pressed thy verdant sod, 
 
 O'er all thy woodland paths how oft I 've trod ! 
 
 Or where thy trees, with giant arms outspread, 
 
 A cool, green canopy above my head, 
 
 Gazed through their branches, where the soft blue sky 
 
 Looked mildly down, as with a human eye ; 
 
 Or, lingering by the side of thy small brooks, 
 
 Have fixed upon their lilies eager looks ; 
 
 As one, a vestal pure, her incense gave. 
 
 While, calmly floating on the idle wave, 
 
 The other would her petals all unfold, 
 
 And o'er the waters gleam a cup of gold ; 
 
 Oft with unsteady step and trembling hand, 
 
 I 've won the prize and brought it safe to land. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 3 
 
 While through the long grass wound the startled snake, 
 
 The partridge, scared, rose whirring from the brake, 
 
 Oft on Moss Hill I 've spread the mimic feast, 
 
 With gay companion for my merry guest. 
 
 Their smooth, broad leaves the oak-trees would afford, 
 
 For polished plates, to grace our festal board ; 
 
 That festal board of soft, green moss was made, 
 
 With acorn cups for drinking bowls arrayed ; 
 
 Our food the fruit, our drink the limpid spring, 
 
 O'er its white, pebbly bed low murmuring. 
 
 But gayer feasts, Sweet Auburn, thou hast seen, 
 
 Upon thy velvet moss of emerald green, 
 
 When gallant youths, and gentle, lovely maids 
 
 Held joyous festival beneath thy shades. 
 
 When through thy winding woodland paths they 've been, 
 
 Paused on thy hills, or wandered through each glen, 
 
 Half-credulous, half-doubting, would they stand 
 
 Beside those plains of white and barren sand, 
 
 And, gazing round them, mark with curious eye 
 
 The foot-prints of Satanic Majesty. 
 
 And here, upon the dawn of sweet May-day, 
 
 Ere yet the sun had chased the dews away, 
 
 
4 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 While yet the tender leaves were fresh and young, 
 
 And the cool zephyrs sweetest odors flung 
 
 From their small urns, and wooed the timid flowers 
 
 To leave the shelter of their woven bowers, 
 
 When all the smiling scene on every part 
 
 Was filled with gladness, as a warm, young heart, — 
 
 Then hither came, in joyance and in glee, 
 
 To these sweet shades a " merrie companie." 
 
 The daughters of the city, gentle, fair, 
 
 In light and graceful beauty wandered there; 
 
 And, gay of heart, and of most gladsome mien, 
 
 Extolled with high delight the sylvan scene ; 
 
 There, too, more favored maidens, who each day 
 
 Saw the bright earth in loveliest array, 
 
 The soft and rosy hue of whose fair cheek 
 
 Seemed of sweet health and happiness to speak ; 
 
 And Harvard's sons, forgetting scholiasts' lore, 
 
 Conned a more pleasant lesson gayly o'er ; 
 
 Wearing fresh garlands of the young leaves green, 
 
 Lightly they gathered round their youthful Queen ; 
 
 Or, where the May-pole, twined with wreath and crown, 
 
 Seemed from its leafy honors to look down, 
 
SWEET AUBURN. D 
 
 And nod approval with a smiling glance, 
 
 They wove with flying feet the airy dance. 
 
 Here, too, the voice of merry childhood rung, 
 
 And wild-wood echoes answered as they sung ; 
 
 Or, as they danced and frolicked round the trees, 
 
 Their ringing laugh flew on the light-winged breeze. 
 
 O happy childhood ! every bird's sweet voice, 
 
 Green grass, and springing flower bid thee rejoice ; 
 
 And the cool brooklet, murmuring o'er each stone, 
 
 Has, like thy heart, an ever-joyous tone. 
 
 Here, where the moon shed down her brightest beams, 
 
 Paling to silver all thy rippling streams, 
 
 Oft would the lover's lute, in pensive strain, 
 
 To his cold mistress sighingly complain. 
 
 And here, in youthful beauty and in grace, 
 
 Fairest and loveliest both in form and face, 
 
 The queen of Fays oft struck the light guitar, 
 
 While joyous echo bore the notes afar. 
 
 Pleasant it was to me alone to rove 
 Through the green precincts of thy lovely grove ; 
 
D SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Pleasant to pluck the wild fruit from its stem, 
 
 Or 'neath its green leaves seek the hidden gem ; 
 
 Or, with that fresh delight of childhood's hour, 
 
 In thy green shaded haunts find some new flower. 
 
 Pleasant it was to watch from tree to tree 
 
 The lithe-limbed squirrel springing merrily ; 
 
 Or hear the many-voiced and tuneful choir, 
 
 Their plumage glancing in the sunbeam's fire ; 
 
 While the quail whistled in its plaintive tone, 
 
 And cooing stock-doves made their gentle moan : 
 
 Or join the race with playmates full of glee, 
 
 Adown Stone's mount, a mountain then to me ; 
 
 Or, older grown, to climb its summit high, 
 
 And gaze around me with delighted eye. 
 
 Lo, where the morning sun shed its first ray, 
 
 Boston's bright spires and domes before me lay ; 
 
 Dorchester's heights, and Charlestown's battle mound, 
 
 And many a famous scene lay all around, 
 
 Far as the eye might reach, was freedom's hallowed 
 
 ground. 
 Hamlet and town shone in the distance bright, 
 And Charles far-winding glowed a beam of light. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Mount upon mount far in the distance rose, 
 Calm in their grandeur and their still repose ; 
 Clothed were their sloping sides with varied hue, 
 Their summits veiled in soft, ethereal blue. 
 And, where my eye delighted oft would rove, 
 Stately old Harvard stood in academic grove ; 
 Proud Alma Mater of full many a son 
 Whose brilliant course was in her walls begun, 
 Since from her friendly arms forth she bade go 
 Her nine first sons,* two hundred years ago. 
 For their own dwellings, huts and cabins rude, 
 Behind which stretched the interminable wood, 
 The settlers' axes scarce had felled the tree, 
 11 School of the Prophets ! " ere they founded thee ! 
 Time-honored Cambridge ! here upon thine air 
 Swung the first church-bell, calling men to prayer, 
 And sending its clear summons far abroad 
 To those who freedom had to worship God. 
 And of those engines of unmeasured power 
 For good or evil, here in happy hour 
 Was raised the first our native land to bless, 
 In North America the earliest Press. 
 
 * In 1642 graduated the first students of Harvard. 
 
8 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 After long years of steady, ceaseless toil 
 
 For his red brethren, children of the soil, 
 
 The Apostle Eliot found the end was gained, 
 
 The glorious crown of his success attained, 
 
 When from this press unto that race was given 
 
 A Bible, that should teach the white man's heaven 
 
 In their own forest tongue, the wild, the free, 
 
 Where breathed the roar of streams, the voice of liberty. 
 
 Alas, for his high hope ! extinct the race, 
 
 And vanished utterly from earth's fair face, 
 
 For whom his nightly toil, his daily prayer, 
 
 His anxious thought, and never-ceasing care ; 
 
 Their very language, like the wandering wind, 
 
 Or a forgotten melody, passed out of mind ! 
 
 Flinging its thousand banners to the breeze, 
 
 The proudest 'mid thy tall and stately trees, 
 
 Standeth the lofty Elm, beneath whose shade 
 
 Our army's Chief first drew his battle blade, 
 
 That leaped from victory, to victory, 
 
 Till from oppression all the land was free. 
 
 The proud Elm stands, but the more ancient Oak 
 
 Long since was felled by time's remorseless stroke ; 
 
SWEET AUBURN. ! 
 
 The brave old tree, where long our fathers came 
 
 To hold their councils, or their rulers name. 
 
 Scene after scene recurred to memory still, 
 
 As thus I musing gazed from Auburn's hill. 
 
 Proud mansions round me rose of wealth and state, 
 
 Where dwelt the patriot, sage, and nobly great. 
 
 Embowered in trees, yet rising fair to view, 
 
 Yon stately home held one* to whom was due 
 
 High honors, which a grateful country gave 
 
 To him whose zeal was high, whose heart was brave, 
 
 Whose hand was ready in her righteous cause, 
 
 To aid her councils, or enforce her laws. 
 
 If a proud feeling ever might be known 
 
 By mute and senseless walls of wood or stone, 
 
 Well may this mansion feel full proud to hold, 
 
 Within its sheltering arms' embracing fold, 
 
 Yet two more spirits, by whose lofty worth 
 
 Blessing hath been, and yet shall be, for earth : 
 
 One who hath sought, with deep and holy zeal, 
 
 God's justice, love, and mercy to reveal, 
 
 The one long labor of whose life has been, 
 
 For his dear Master's love, lost souls to win ; 
 
 * Hon. Elbridge Gerry. 
 
10 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 And one upon whose brow lit up by truth 
 
 Lingers the summer of his early youth, 
 
 And yet whose name our land is proud to own 
 
 And joys to honor as her Poet-son. 
 
 Thus would I sit and muse on former times, 
 
 Give fancy range, wander to other climes, 
 
 Or to the earlier ages of our own, 
 
 Ere yet the soil a white man's foot had known ; 
 
 Till sportsman's gun, or wandering student's tread, 
 
 Disturbed my reverie, and fancy fled. — 
 
 Not as thou wast, Sweet Auburn, art thou now, 
 Not as thou wast two hundred years ago ! 
 The red man paused beneath thy lofty trees, 
 And caught each murmur borne upon the breeze : 
 With noiseless arrow from unerring bow, 
 Thy harmless denizens full oft laid low. 
 The red man's children yelled their war-whoop's cry, 
 And laughed to hear thy echoes make reply. 
 The Indian youth, with skilful hand and true, 
 O'er thy fair Charles oft sped the swift canoe. 
 The Indian girl, with darkly glancing eye, 
 And fawn-like motion, bounded lightly by. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 11 
 
 And Indian warrior, child, and youth, and maid 
 
 To the Great Spirit their devotions paid. 
 
 They loved thy shade ; with fearless step they trod, 
 
 And with proud bearing, o'er thy verdant sod. 
 
 They deemed thee theirs; deemed the Great Spirit gave 
 
 Their hunting-grounds to them, the bold and brave. 
 
 Thy branching oaks o'ercanopied the seat 
 
 Where the war-council once was wont to meet. 
 
 Those giant oaks ! could not the usurper's hand 
 
 Spare even those from off the doomed land ? 
 
 Here the grim savage, in his war-paint dire, 
 
 Danced with loud yells around the council fire ; 
 
 Here were displayed the horrid trophies riven 
 
 From bleeding victims to their conquests given ; 
 
 Here was the prisoner to the stake fast bound, 
 
 While demon bowlings filled the air around ; 
 
 Here flashed the tomahawk before his eye, 
 
 While cruel tortures strove to force a cry, 
 
 A sign of suffering, from his mangled frame, 
 
 Pierced by keen darts, or scorched by fiercest flame. 
 
 But stern endurance marked the dying hour, 
 
 And the proud death-song rung with scornful power 
 
12 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 From dying lips, breathing defiance stern, 
 Till the last sparks of life had ceased to burn. 
 O, they indeed were cruel ! Christian men 
 Shudder at horrid deeds enacted then ; 
 But in the dungeons of a Christian clime 
 Are there not darker deeds of blackest crime 1 
 Where papal altars grimly frowning rise, 
 There reigned all evil in a Christian guise ; 
 Mokanna's veil hid not so dire a sight, 
 Beneath its folds of silver gleaming bright, 
 As in the Christian garb was there concealed, 
 In all its horrors yet to be revealed : 
 The rack, that demons eyed with kindling glance 
 Of fiendish triumph, — the Bastile of France, — 
 The Russian knout, — the exile's weight of woe, 
 Siberia's endless winter doomed to know, — 
 Ah, say ! what country, or what favored land, 
 Has never known oppression's bloody hand 1 
 These wild, unnurtured tribes had virtues, too, 
 That o'er their darker deeds a mantle threw. 
 They did not spurn the weary stranger's prayer 
 For food, or shelter from the inclement air; 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 13 
 
 Nor harshly drove him from the tent's low door 
 For want of yellow dust, a little golden ore. 
 Oppression made them demons ; they were brave, 
 They loved their country, scorned the name of slave, 
 And for their father-land they fiercely fought, 
 Their wild, untutored minds with vengeance fraught. 
 The white man came ; as noontide's scorching heat 
 Wastes the bright dew-drops in their cool retreat, 
 So wasted from the land that primal race, 
 At the stern mandate of the paler face. 
 Rest they in peace ; their savage virtues shame 
 Too many a savage with a Christian's name. 
 Thy shades, Mount Auburn ! saw a stranger band 
 Delighted roam across thy fertile land. 
 They loved thy beauties, and, with grateful awe, 
 Believed their God had given them what they saw. 
 Meandering Charles ! upon thy graceful stream 
 Gazed fairer faces, lit by hope's bright beam. 
 Where the tall trees thy highest banks o'ershade, 
 By hills surrounded, lies a small, green glade ; 
 Near by, a spring of water brightly wells 
 With a low music, as the sound of bells 
 
14 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 'T is a sweet, lovely spot, a fairy place 
 Of gentle beauty, and of quiet grace. 
 Thy waves, fair river ! linger on the way, 
 To kiss the sunny slope with wild-flowers gay, 
 Just as they paused two hundred years ago, 
 And brightly sparkled in their rippling flow. 
 Yet change has been upon the land around, 
 Since first that little band a shelter found 
 Upon thy banks ; since first their mansion rose, 
 And hum of laborers broke thy still repose. 
 Much thought they of thy beauties even then, 
 But more of shelter from the forest men. 
 Armed must the sentry stand, the laborer toil 
 To turn the furrow, or to sow the soil ; 
 Armed must the shepherd watch his fleecy care, 
 Cropping the emerald turf so fresh and fair. 
 Yet still, from underneath the embowering shade 
 By sturdy oaks and graceful elm-trees made, 
 Oft would the sweet, though wildly-warbled, note 
 Of rustic pipe on summer breezes float; 
 And old tradition tells of dark-eyed maid 
 Peeping with timid glance from deep green glade, 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 15 
 
 To list the music, and the minstrel see, 
 
 Who made such strange and wondrous melody ; 
 
 And oft the gentle youth was bade beware 
 
 Of secret ambush, or of hidden snare. 
 
 Not then, like us, in peaceful quiet deep, 
 
 Might those first settlers yield themselves to sleep; 
 
 No ; ere the sun's last beams had passed away, 
 
 Ere yet a star shot forth its trembling ray, 
 
 In the old fort a shelter must they seek, 
 
 Women and children, — strong must guard the weak. 
 
 With senses sharpened, and acutest ear, 
 
 So did they watch, the savage foe to hear, 
 
 Snatched fearful slumbers and unquiet rest, 
 
 By weight of cares o'erburdened and oppressed ; 
 
 Yet never failing in their faithful trust, 
 
 Strong in the strength of Him, the merciful and just. 
 
 Yet time sped on ; the red man vanished fast, 
 As heaven's dark clouds are swept before the blast ; 
 Echo no more gave back the savage yell, 
 Startling the fawn far down the distant dell, 
 
16 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Yet prayers still rose from dwellers on thy sod, 
 Heartfelt orisons to the white man's God. 
 A rapid change stole o'er the land apace, 
 Less wildly beautiful became its face ; 
 But fields of waving grain, and meadows green, 
 And golden orchards everywhere were seen ; 
 The groves were vocal with the merry note 
 From many a tuneful warbler's tiny throat. . 
 Years passed ; another mansion reared its head, 
 For thy first comers dwelt among the dead ; 
 And the first dwelling, falling to decay, 
 Was left deserted, mouldering away ; 
 Few traces of that dwelling now are seen, 
 To tell the inquiring eye what there has been ; 
 Yet oft I stand the river's margin by, 
 What time the tide is flowing full and high, 
 And mark the spot where first my ancestors 
 Delighted placed their feet on Auburn's shores. 
 And busy fancy peoples each dark glen, 
 With dusky figures of the forest men ; 
 Or bids that ancient homestead once more rise, 
 Antique and strange, before my wondering eyes. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 17 
 
 Its casements wide, where the dim light might pass 
 
 Through the small diamond panes of leaded glass, 
 
 Its few defences from the savage hand, 
 
 And all around its richly cultured land. 
 
 And those old pear-trees, standing proud and high, — 
 
 They seem to tell a tale of days gone by ; 
 
 Since first their slender stems pierced through the 
 
 mould, 
 And their green leaflets hastened to unfold, 
 Seven generations all have passed away, 
 The tenth is passing, and yet there are they, 
 Though change is all around, they yield not to decay. 
 That second mansion still is standing now, 
 Not as it stood fifty long years ago ! 
 It stands where yonder wreath of vapor blue 
 Rises above the trees that hide the view ; 
 Its rustic porch was once with roses gay, 
 And honeysuckle's blooming, scented spray. 
 A laughing garden lay outspread before, 
 With many a blossom thickly spangled o'er ; 
 Lilies in snowy beauty there were seen, 
 Peeping from leaves of fresh and shining green, 
 2 
 
18 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Meet emblem of the pure and kind of heart, 
 Who dwell in that sweet home from guilt apart; 
 Fair flower of meekness, there the daisy bloomed, 
 And Viola's sweet breath the air perfumed ; 
 Sacred to love, the myrtle flourished there, 
 In gentle beauty radiantly fair ; 
 Insects and gem-like birds there flew around, 
 It seemed a garden of enchanted ground. 
 Among the flowers, and fairer still than they, 
 Were groups of children at their frolic play, 
 Darting like sunbeams 'neath the leafy trees, 
 Their soft curls waving in the gentle breeze ; 
 The youngest still the favorite, still caressed, 
 The eldest boy the guardian of the rest ; 
 A lovelier group was surely never seen, 
 Ev'n 'mongst the fairies in their circlets green. 
 The centre walk a light pavilion graced ; 
 An elm, its graceful branches interlaced, 
 Its noble form above the structure reared, 
 Oft smiling faces from its branches peered ; 
 Adorned with statues was that building fair, 
 The Muses might have made their sojourn there. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 19 
 
 The garden's boundary was that river deep, 
 
 Whose waters flowed in many a graceful sweep ; 
 
 The willows, bending downward, kissed the stream, 
 
 The softened sunlight cast a fainter gleam ; 
 
 On either side were fields with plenty crowned, 
 
 While softest verdure covered all the ground. 
 
 In burning summer's fiery noontide heat, 
 
 A pleasant shelter, and a calm retreat, 
 
 Arose the Hill, crowned with majestic trees 
 
 Impervious to the sun, but open to the breeze. 
 
 A grove, with shady walks, allured the sight, 
 
 Meet place for contemplation's lonely flight; 
 
 Or, when in summer clad in brilliant green, 
 
 Like one's own bright and smiling youth 't was seen ; 
 
 Or, in sad autumn, with a gayer guise, 
 
 'Neath which decay was pictured to the wise. 
 
 An orchard's golden fruit, temptation rare, 
 
 No dragon guarded it with watchful care, 
 
 In blooming clusters might have lured an Eve, 
 
 Or Atalanta's feet the onward paih to leave. 
 
 Who was the owner of this broad domain, . 
 The hill, the grove, the orchard, and the plain ? 
 
20 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Was he a man ambitious, haughty, proud, 
 
 Who looked with scorn upon, the passing crowd, 
 
 Rude to inferiors, cringing to the great, 
 
 And paying court to pomp, and power, and state? 
 
 O, no ! for widely different from these, 
 
 With manners courteous, gentle, full of ease, 
 
 His heart was noble, generous, free, and kind, 
 
 His intellect rich, lofty, and refined. 
 
 As some fair stream in secret beauty glides, 
 
 Its course revealing by its verdant sides, 
 
 So flowed his bounty ; so its course alone 
 
 By grateful blessings from the poor was known. 
 
 The children loved him ; with light-hearted glee, 
 
 Danced at his footstep, joyed his smile to see. 
 
 " Was he, at home," some one, methinks, I hear, 
 
 " Thus to his parents, wife, and children dear? " 
 
 Ah, yes ! at morning's dawn, at set of sun, 
 
 His aged parents to the Holy One 
 
 Prayed, that rich blessings daily might be shed, 
 
 Free as the dews, upon their loved one's head : 
 
 His wife, the gentle mistress of his heart, 
 
 Throned in his bosom as his better part, 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 21 
 
 With love sincere to his love made reply, 
 So spoke her beaming smile, her joyous eye : 
 Courteous and mild, calm, patient, and serene, 
 Her gentle beauty might have graced a queen. 
 Their children, beautiful as spring's first flowers, 
 Bright as Aurora, or the laughing Hours, 
 With lips of love, — let this be virtue's test, — 
 Their children rose around and called them blessed. 
 Nor yet alone his birth-place owned him good, 
 But, in the forest's lonely solitude, 
 A fair town, rising, echoed to his praise. 
 In the rude rustics' simple, untaught lays. 
 The aged men ev'n now delight to tell 
 Of him their fathers used to love so well ; 
 Who gave the poor a shelter, home, and rest, 
 And ne'er refused a refuge to the oppressed ; 
 Open to all was his own mansion fair, 
 Stranger and friend alike found welcome there. 
 As kind, as courteous, were the manners bland 
 Of all that smiling, gentle, household band ; 
 Ringing with mirth, with merry steps, and glee, 
 No happier circle ever might you see. 
 
22 SWEET AUBURX. 
 
 Why should .a change come over scenes like these ? 
 
 Why should Death's pinions flutter in the breeze ? 
 
 Why should the good so soon be called away ? 
 
 Why should they not a little longer stay ? 
 
 We know not ; — but, alas ! 't is ever so, 
 
 The best, the purest are the first to go. 
 
 His aged mother scarce was laid to rest, 
 
 Ere sickness' hand pressed heavy on his breast ; 
 
 Around his couch of suffering and pain 
 
 His friends in sorrow gathered, but in vain. 
 
 He blessed them all in accents soft and low, 
 
 Bade them be ready and prepared to go, 
 
 When God's kind hand should summon them away 
 
 To brighter regions and eternal day. 
 
 Vainly, alas ! his friends and kindred wept ; 
 
 The man of many virtues calmly slept : 
 
 Full many an eye the tear in secret shed, 
 
 Bowed down with sorrow was full many a head. 
 
 Who followed virtue to the lowly grave ? 
 
 High-born and wealthy, noble, proud, and brave, 
 
 All who had loved him, and his worth who knew, 
 
 Comrades and kinsmen, gallant friends and true, 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 23 
 
 A princely train, with dirges bore him home, 
 And strewed fresh myrtle leaves above his tomb ; 
 Crowds of the poor, bound by no other tie 
 But that of grateful love, with many a sigh 
 And saddening thought, their mournful homage gave, 
 And bathed with tears that dust they would have died 
 to save. . 
 
 There came a change o'er that sweet household band, 
 There came a change o'er all that pleasant land : 
 And, after years had rolled their ceaseless round, 
 That tree-crowned Mount was consecrated ground. 
 That summit high, his honored name which bore, 
 Whence oft he viewed the lovely landscape o'er, 
 Which had descended still from sire to son, 
 Since in the wilds their life was first begun, 
 Which was designed to be their heritage, 
 While time sped on its flight from age to age, 
 Now by slight chance, for trifles oft prevent 
 The wisest plan, the best matured intent, 
 Passed from the heirs into another's hands,* 
 To one who loved the broad and shaded lands ; 
 
 * Mr. George Brimmer, with whom originated the design of the Cemetery. 
 
24 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Whose boyhood's hours were passed the fair place near, 
 
 To whom in manhood's days its scenes were dear ; 
 
 And who, when life's farewell was faintly said, 
 
 Was laid to rest beneath the embowering shade. 
 
 From those two mansions men of truth and worth 
 
 Went forth to scatter blessings o'er the earth. 
 
 In earlier days, by earnest enterprise, 
 
 They saw new towns in beauty round them rise ; 
 
 And that pure gospel, sent mankind to bless, 
 
 Preached like St. John amid the wilderness. 
 
 Some were in arts of husbandry well skilled, 
 
 Some in the state high rank and station filled ; 
 
 And some as merchants sent an honored name 
 
 Back to the land whence their forefathers came. 
 
 And yet how few of all that numerous band 
 
 Sleep in Mount Auburn's consecrated land ! 
 
 The father in his manhood's sunny prime, 
 
 The gentle maiden in youth's summer time, 
 
 And two fair infants in their earliest bloom, — 
 
 They rest together in the quiet tomb. 
 
 Two hundred years! ah ! space enough for change, 
 
 Within the circle of their lengthened range. 
 
SWEET AUBURN. 25 
 
 Two hundred years ! and, lo ! the forest deep 
 
 Becomes the silent land of dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye spirits of my sires! while earth shall stand, 
 
 Be guardian genii of this hallowed land. 
 
 As the low sighing breeze comes wandering near, 
 
 Methinks your spirit voices oft I hear : 
 
 And the soft music of the whispering leaves, 
 
 Mystic, harmonious, involutions weaves, 
 
 As if a spirit song, in accents bland, 
 
 Were gently wafted from the better land. 
 
 O place beloved ! endeared by many a tie, 
 
 The tear of sorrow dimmed my heavy eye, 
 
 And deeply was my heart and idly stirred, 
 
 When first thy destined change I wondering heard. 
 
 Now have I joy, for many love thee now, 
 
 Though cloud and shadow rest upon the brow 
 
 Of those who in the solemn precincts tread, 
 
 And shed the heart's dew o'er their silent dead. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN 
 
TO 
 
 THE HON. JOSEPH STORY, 
 
 THE FRIEND OF LETTERS, 
 WHOSE LIFE HAS BORNE EQUAL EVIDEV 
 
 OF MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL GH 
 
 THE FRIEND Of MY FAMILY, 
 THESE LINES ON MOUNT AUBURN 
 I I'EFULLY INSCRIBED 
 BY 
 
 Caroline F. Or.Ni 
 
MOUNT AUBURN- 
 
 A reverence for the dead ! What age, what clime, 
 
 From the remotest to the latest time, 
 
 Has not this sacred feeling known, expressed, 
 
 To that last place where the departed rest ? 
 
 The same deep interest in the solemn grave 
 
 Which Abraham felt towards Machpelah's cave, 
 
 What being ever lived of human mould 
 
 That feels not now, or has not felt of old ? 
 
 The pilgrim wends his way to other lands, 
 
 Before their mighty tombs in wonder stands, 
 
 And the wild Arab gazes up in awe 
 
 To Aaron's tomb, on desolate Mount Hor. 
 
 Centuries ago, a wild enthusiast came 
 
 And kindled nations to resistless flame, 
 
32 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Led them to view all other gain as dross, 
 
 When marshalled 'neath the Banner of the Cross ; 
 
 Armies on armies sought with desperate war 
 
 Vainly to win the fallen Solyma, 
 
 And from the hands of infidels to save 
 
 The Holy Sepulchre, Messiah's grave. 
 
 Vain was their lofty zeal, their valor vain, 
 
 The Holy City infidels retain ; 
 
 Jerusalem, the fallen, to this day 
 
 Groans 'neath the Moslem's stern and iron sway. 
 
 Of Israel's chosen and peculiar race 
 
 A feeble remnant holds degraded place : 
 
 And yet, so deathless is their love, so strong, 
 
 They will endure deep insult, cruel wrong, 
 
 Oppression, poverty, contempt, and scorn, — 
 
 Grind them to dust, — all this may yet be borne, 
 
 They cannot be more blest, if, when they die, 
 
 Their bones beside their fathers' bones may lie 
 
 In the broad valley of Jehoshaphat ; their race, 
 
 Ages on ages, claim this burial place. 
 
 Within this valley stands the lofty tomb, 
 
 Cut from the solid rock, of Absalom ; 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 33 
 
 Christian or Jew, each passer casts a stone 
 At this memento of the traitor son. 
 Who would not rather court oblivion's wave, 
 Than have the eye of scorn rest on his grave ? 
 The lowliest spot his dust would better shield, 
 The poorest grave in Aceldama's field : 
 Better would be the humblest grassy mound, 
 Where fragile flowers upspringing may be found, 
 While children, as they pluck them from their bed, 
 Fear lest their little feet should trample on the dead. 
 
 The Moslem, too, their holy offering, 
 Garlands and blossoms to the sleeper bring, — 
 They sit beside the grave, they watch the flowers, 
 And the whole people at the sunset hours 
 Unto their Cities of the Silent come, 
 And look with faith's clear eye beyond the tomb ; 
 Faith in an error ! would that we might have 
 An equal faith in what has power to save. 
 
 A reverence for the dead ! the savage wild, 
 Nature's untutored, rude, and reckless child, 
 3 
 
34 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 And the most civilized, humane, refined, 
 
 The gentlest and the haughtiest of mankind, 
 
 Christian, barbarian, all of every name, 
 
 One common sympathy in this may claim. 
 
 " Far from the graves of kindred may you sleep," 
 
 Is ever deemed a bitter curse and deep. 
 
 Who would not have the greensward lightly pressed 
 
 Above the narrow bed of his last rest ? 
 
 Who, from his friends and kindred far away, 
 
 Would not, like Jacob, seek his bones to lay 
 
 Beside his fathers', and, in quiet deep, 
 
 With them to sleep the last, long, dreamless sleep ? 
 
 The Druids raised their lofty pile of stones 
 
 To guard their great men's venerated bones. 
 
 The Saxon Fathers, as we rightly read, 
 
 Sowed their God's Acre with immortal seed. 
 
 O, well have many named the grave-yard's bound, 
 
 And made it, too, a blooming garden ground, 
 
 Whose copious showers of tears fall fast and free, 
 
 Whose fruit is garnered for eternity ! 
 
 Not in the Old World only may we view 
 This reverend care, but also in the New. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 35 
 
 The stoic Indian o'er the silent dead 
 The tears of grief and sorrow may not shed, 
 But yet to him there is no greater woe, 
 Than from his fathers' bones exiled to gQ. 
 The wondrous mounds, so like a fortress strong, 
 Baffling the student's close research and long ; 
 Those monuments of an extinguished race, 
 That scarce have left a faint and feeble trace 
 To mark the living, honoring thus the dead, 
 Hence shall new light upon their nation shed. 
 
 Where the rude Bedouins' burial places stand 
 In the wild, lonely waste of barren sand, 
 A few stones, in a little heap upthrown, 
 The Arab's resting-place mark out alone ; 
 Yet he looks forward to his final home, 
 As a proud noble on his stately tomb. 
 
 In China stands a City of the Dead, 
 Where to their forms are sacred honors paid. 
 Well built their houses, green plants o'er them twine, 
 And smile the blossoms of the climbing vine. 
 
36 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Iii the small chambers placed on platforms high, 
 
 In coffins made of camphor-wood, they lie ; 
 
 Embalmed each tenant of his narrow bed, 
 
 And in his richest, costliest robes arrayed ; 
 
 And many an incense-burner standing there 
 
 Has wafted its sweet odors on the air. 
 
 In this immense mausoleum, where the tomb 
 
 Is thus divested of its dreary gloom, 
 
 Part of each house is to the worship given 
 
 Of the strange god who rules the Chinese heaven. 
 
 The Hindoo gives his body to the fire, 
 His ashes mingle with his funeral pyre : 
 This is the honor paid unto the great, 
 The wealthy, and the high in rank or state. 
 The poor, thrown in the river to decay, 
 Of vile, rapacious birds are made the prey. 
 
 At Syracuse, they lay the Capuchin, 
 Labelled and dried, his narrow coffin in. 
 Within Palermo's convent lie in state, 
 Nobles, and high-born dames, the proud and great, 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 37 
 
 Robed in rich garments gleaming bright with gold, 
 And gems that sparkle from the satin fold : 
 Life's very mockery, each in splendor lies, 
 While death stares ghastly from their hollow eyes. 
 
 In Russia's Holy City,* saints are laid 
 In open coffins gorgeously arrayed. 
 Religious zeal here a new form assumes, 
 And desperate hands have built them living tombs : 
 Their pall, their shroud, their dress becomes alone, 
 Themselves encompassed in a wall of stone ; 
 But a small opening left, their food to pass, 
 And when they die, 't is covered o'er with glass : 
 These they call saints, and in their homage vie 
 To these poor relics of mortality. 
 Yet who would sleep like these to gain a name, 
 A worthless place, a faint, uncertain fame ? 
 Who turns not with a shuddering heart away 
 From where in one promiscuous mass there lay, 
 In the dread charnel of their common tombs, 
 The mouldering bones that fill the catacombs? 
 
 * ChiofT. 
 
38 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Foolish and wise, the coward and the brave, 
 
 Contempt and honor, thrust in one vast grave. 
 
 Who would be thrown 'mid these, or who be lost 
 
 Among the mummies of that myriad host, 
 
 In Thebes' Necropolis ? Even the pride and boast 
 
 Of Egypt, those great tombs that stand 
 
 In lonely grandeur on the desert sand, 
 
 Magnificent in splendor, cannot save 
 
 The tenants of a vast and mighty grave 
 
 From the despoiling hands of Arabs wild, — 
 
 The love of gold strong in the desert child. 
 
 The hand of art a regal splendor flings 
 In Melook's* valley o'er the "Tombs of Kings." 
 Each chamber for the dead, each corridor, 
 Sculpture and painting ornament them o'er. 
 The " Hall of Pillars" rises proud and fair, 
 The " Hall of Beauty" still is standing there ; 
 The gods they worshipped, sculptured on the walls, 
 With lofty grandeur guard the sacred halls. 
 As if a solemn vigil they would keep 
 Above the honored dead who silent sleep. 
 
 * Biban el Melook. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 39 
 
 In that lost city,* where each regal street 
 
 Js trode alone by Arab robbers' feet ; 
 
 Lofty and high, proud and magnificent, 
 
 The mighty tomb, the sculptured monument, 
 
 Carved from the living rock, hold not in trust 
 
 Their haughty builders' desecrated dust. 
 
 So fearfully did vengeance wield the brand, 
 
 And pour the Almighty's curse upon the guilty land. 
 
 The Eternal Pyramids, that rise sublime, 
 
 Calm from their altitude look down on time. 
 
 On Karamania's coast, sarcophagi, 
 
 Mausoleums, and urns in ruin lie. 
 
 Athenia's great men, her illustrious dead, 
 
 Were in her sacred Ceramicus laid, 
 
 And Rome's proud monuments and Appian Way 
 
 Breathe, from the sculptured marble, " Traveller, stay !" 
 
 England her abbeys boasts, where proud and high 
 
 Her haughty hearts in regal splendor lie : 
 
 Ancestral tombs, where long and lofty lines 
 
 In silence sleep within their marble shrines, 
 
 Petra. 
 
40 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 While through stained glass rich light falls on the tomb, 
 And beam the rose-tinged rays throughout the twilight 
 
 gloom. 
 Greece has her classic shrines; her monuments, 
 Rich in their sculpture, Italy presents ; 
 And oft the stranger's voice is heard to praise 
 The peaceful, solemn shades of Pere-la-Chaise. 
 They claim our reverence who are lowly laid 
 To sleep beneath the mourning cypress' shade ; 
 The solemn cypress, sad funereal tree, 
 From Persian Gulf unto the Caspian Sea; 
 And sacred to the dead it still is found 
 On Chinese shores unto their utmost bound ; 
 From where Maznnderan far distant lies, 
 To where Constantinople's crescents rise. 
 
 A reverence for the dead ! all hearts obey, 
 Wide as the universe extends its sway, 
 But most its power the Christian heart should feel, 
 And its best influence Christian lands reveal. 
 It writes above the dust sweet words of love, 
 It lifts the eye of faith to worlds above ; 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 41 
 
 Inscribes not on the hero's tomb alone 
 
 " Siste, Viator " ; but on every stone, 
 
 That marks a spot where truth and worth may claim 
 
 Love of fond hearts, though all unknown to fame. 
 
 It sanctifies the earth, and makes the ground 
 
 A holy spot, where'er the dead are found. 
 
 Blessed be its hallowed influence ! it led 
 
 To consecrate for ever to the dead 
 
 A spot than which the eye may never trace 
 
 In any land soe'er a lovelier place. 
 
 Blessed, O Mount Auburn, be thy leafy shades! 
 
 Blessed be thy hills, thy streams, thy cool, green glades ! 
 
 Change hath passed o'er thee since the days of yore, — 
 
 Blessed be thy hallowed sod for evermore ! 
 
 Calm was the morning of that lovely day ; 
 The autumnal sun in golden splendor lay 
 On the smooth turf, the broad, enamelled plain, 
 The waving harvest field of ripened grain, 
 And shed its glory o'er the forest wide 
 In rich and glowing colors deeply dyed ; 
 Upon the earth the cloudless heaven smiled ; 
 The soft south-west breathed perfume faint and mild ; 
 
42 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Such kindly influence from above was shed 
 
 Upon that day which gave thee to the dead ! 
 
 Where the green hills, rising abrupt and steep, 
 
 Guard that calm dell * where peaceful waters sleep, 
 
 An earnest multitude assembled there 
 
 Listened with reverence to the solemn prayer, 
 
 That, rising through the dim aisles of the wood, 
 
 Went from full hearts up to the living God. 
 
 Then swelled the choral song, the hymn of praise 
 
 Went floating through the greenwood's twilight maze, 
 
 Filling the air with harmony of heaven, 
 
 Till the rapt spirit deemed seraphic response given. 
 
 Alas ! how many, who with hearts full fraught 
 
 With reverent feeling, and in silent thought, 
 
 Listened intent to catch the briefest word 
 
 Of onef whose eloquence all hearts has stirred, 
 
 How many now are silent laid to rest ! — 
 
 Light lies the turf on many a loved one's breast. 
 
 Thou who art weary of the world's wild strife, 
 Leave for a time the busy scenes of life, 
 
 * Consecration Dell. f Hon. Joseph Story. 
 
43 
 
 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Come to these shades ; in meditation calm 
 For thy chafed spirit shall be found a balm. 
 Pause at the portal for a moment's space 
 Till the inscription you may clearly trace, 
 Blessed words of comfort, and assurance blessed, 
 That heaven, not earth, is the believer's rest. 
 
 Draw near with quiet, reverential tread, 
 'T is holy ground, — this City of the Dead ; 
 Let no rude accents of untimely mirth 
 Break the calm stillness of this sacred earth ; 
 With a soft footstep draw more gently near, 
 Pain not with careless jest the mourner's ear ; 
 Be the low voice attuned to accents bland 
 Within the shadow of the spirit land. 
 Here are the ashes of the loved inurned, 
 Here hath the dust unto the dust returned ; 
 Here doth the living heart, by anguish led, 
 Call wildly to the heart, cold, still, and dead ; 
 No voice is uttered from the sombre gloom, 
 There comes no answer from the silent tomb. 
 Where, where are those, the loved, the lost? O, tell, 
 Where doth the disembodied spirit dwell ? 
 
44 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Fulness of joy, say, hath it entered in, 
 
 Which ear hath heard not, eye hath never seen ? 
 
 Or, steeped in bitterness, doth the soul raise 
 
 To a lost heaven its dark, despairing gaze? 
 
 O awful mystery ! and revealed to none 
 
 Till the death-angel claims them for his own. 
 
 Still the worn heart, restless and sad, will crave 
 
 An answer even from the silent grave. 
 
 Do they, who loved us once, still love us now, 
 
 Joy in our joy, mourn for our guilt or woe? 
 
 Or doth the memory of this world but seem 
 
 As the dim shadows of a troubled dream ? 
 
 Angels must see us, for with one sweet voice 
 
 Over repentant sinners they rejoice : 
 
 May it not be that those for whom we weep 
 
 Are guardian angels now, who watch to keep 
 
 The tempted soul from idol worship free, 
 
 In the lone chambers of its imagery, 
 
 Or rouse its slumbering energies to life, 
 
 Or guard it in the hour of mortal strife ? 
 
 O, who, who has not heard, when sin assailed, 
 
 When virtue, fainting half, has almost failed, 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 45 
 
 Who has not heard a low, sweet, pleading tone, 
 "Sin not, my child ! do not this wrong, my son ! " 
 As if a spirit voice had stirred the air 
 With the beseeching fervor of that prayer ? 
 Would we but heed it always, we should be 
 From sin's strong power and from dark evil free. 
 By stormy passion we are tempest-tost, 
 In the wild strife, the low, sweet voice is lost ; 
 Or pleasure's syren warblings fill the ear, 
 And the sad, warning tone we will not hear. 
 Yet, even when yielding, where we ought to win, 
 A spirit-sigh seems mourning for our sin, 
 And stirs the heavy air that hems us in. 
 
 Methinks, Mount Auburn, in thy deep shades blest, 
 Life's weary wanderer may full softly rest ; 
 Nor he alone, who, weary with the strife, 
 Has fallen upon the battle-field of life, — 
 Not he with victory crowned, and honors proud, — 
 Not the high-hearted, not the much endowed, — 
 Not these alone proud monuments uprear ; 
 Not the renowned alone are sleeping here. 
 
46 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Here rests the infant, who his mild, blue eye 
 
 Unclosed a moment, then, with tremulous sigh, 
 
 Into his mother's bosom gently crept, 
 
 Turned from life's scenes away, and calmly slept. 
 
 Here, too, the mother rests ; her sweet caress, 
 
 Her heart's deep love, her words of tenderness, 
 
 The dear bereaved ones nevermore shall bless. 
 
 Here, too, glad childhood ; o'er its narrow bed 
 
 Innocent flowers their grateful odors shed. 
 
 Here loved, and early lost, young maidens sleep ; 
 
 Nor tears, nor prayers from death their forms could keep. 
 
 Youth, with its high resolve and proud desire, 
 
 Its noble ardor, its impatient fire, 
 
 Cold in the dust has silently laid down ; 
 
 Manhood is sleeping, age with silver crown, 
 
 The man of God, the warrior and the sage, 
 
 The atheist scoffer at the holy page, 
 
 The wise, the ignorant, the low, the high, 
 
 The good, the beautiful, together lie ; 
 
 The wealthy 'neath his proud sepulchral stone, 
 
 The poor man in his nameless grave alone. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 47 
 
 And yet, perhaps, 't is but of little worth, 
 
 Whether a stone shall mark the spot of earth 
 
 Where sleep the dead ; the humblest grassy mound, 
 
 Unnamed, by those who love us would be found. 
 
 Unto the spirit, what was once its home, 
 
 Truly, of little value has become. 
 
 But, for the living, well to often stand 
 
 In the still precincts of the silent land, 
 
 To read those lessons from the sombre tomb, 
 
 Which they themselves shall teach, few days to come. 
 
 Thought in this lovely place more holy grows ; 
 Feeling's deep current here more tranquil flows ; 
 A calm, a soothing influence o'er the heart, 
 These scenes, so fair, so beautiful, impart. 
 From the dark pines a restless, murmuring tone 
 Wails o'er the dead a ceaseles, dirge-like moan ; 
 And their sweet fragrance to the air is given, 
 Incense-like wafted on the breeze of heaven. 
 Soft blue eyes glistening with the tears unshed, 
 Fair, dew-gemmed violets, weep above the dead ; 
 And starry asters purple leaves unfold, 
 And solidacjo lifts its rod of gold. 
 
48 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 The wild white lily clothes the sloping hill, 
 
 The feathery brake adorns the winding rill, 
 
 And fair pink blossoms 'mid soft white ones grow. 
 
 And the queen lily rules the waters' flow. 
 
 Yet not alone do wild flowers blossom here, 
 
 But lovely offerings to the dead appear. 
 
 Where the departed silently repose, 
 
 Affection's hand has trained the gentle rose ; 
 
 From a twined arch of its own branches wrought, 
 
 Its blooming clusters with sweet odors fraught, 
 
 I saw it bend above a sculptured stone, 
 
 Whereon " Maria" was engraved alone ; 
 
 Sweet name, Maria ! though I knew her not, 
 
 Still did I linger round the quiet spot, 
 
 And deemed that simple name oft said, "Forget me not." 
 
 And many flowers of varied hue are there, 
 
 Which kind hands nurture with a tender care. 
 
 How beautiful to light the sombre gloom, — 
 
 With flowers and garlands to enwreath the tomb ! 
 
 The spirit of mankind, throughout all time, 
 
 In many a land, in many a varied clime, 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 49 
 
 Has thus, by tender, holy feelings led, 
 Brought these pure, lovely tributes to the dead ; 
 They tell of true, of deathless sympathy, 
 Of chords of love too strong to severed be. 
 When death has laid his stern, resistless hand 
 Upon a son of Afric's distant land, 
 And earth has taken back the silent frame 
 Unto the lowly dust from whence it came, 
 The humble grave a shrub is planted o'er, 
 And this is sacred held for evermore ; 
 From it the stranger's hand must take no leaf, 
 Or even touch this symbol of their grief. 
 The Egyptian people, twice within the week, 
 The graves of their lost friends and kindred seek, 
 And strew sweet basil on the sacred ground, 
 To shed its odors on the air around. 
 In Schwytz * they plant the pink ; in Germany f 
 Perennial shrubs and lovely flowers we see, 
 And garlands hung on tombs, and water-vases 
 For the sweet blossoms ; making pleasant places 
 
 * In Switzerland. t In Wirfin in Germany. 
 
 4 
 
50 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Where still, though many years have come and fled, 
 
 The living tenderly recall the dead. 
 
 In Wales, the snow-drop and the violet 
 
 On innocent childhood's little graves are set ; 
 
 Where the henevolent and good repose, 
 
 Cluster the blossoms of the rich red rose. 
 
 Beautiful customs ! long may they prevail ; 
 
 For, when this sacred tenderness shall fail, 
 
 And give to cold and rude neglect a place, 
 
 There folly, vice, and guilt our eyes will trace. 
 
 Long years ago, ere art with plastic hand 
 Had changed the aspect of this lovely land, 
 In a lone, silent spot, all rude and wild, 
 Within its grave was laid a nameless child ; 
 Over its ill-starred form, in grief and fear, 
 Scarce did its mother pause to shed a tear, 
 But laid the green sod on the unconscious dead, 
 And with one glance of anguish trembling fled. 
 And since with sacred rites these shades were blest, 
 And consecrated as a place of rest, 
 There have some unnamed, new-made graves been found, 
 Stolen by pious fraud in holy ground. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 51 
 
 But the first sleeper, whose much honored dust 
 This sacred earth now holds in solemn trust, 
 Was one in reverence held, one whose bright name 
 Homage for worth, for intellect could claim ; 
 Let prating fools of sex and weakness cant, 
 And dream there 's wisdom in their idle rant ; 
 The truly great, wherever they may find, 
 Will bend before, the majesty of mind ; 
 And woman did thee justice, when she gave 
 The monument that stands above thy grave, 
 Bright evening star* among the first that rose, 
 Where now a brilliant constellation glows, 
 Whose light is sparkling with effulgence clear, 
 And beaming o'er our Western Hemisphere. 
 
 'T was a due honor, Spurzheim ! to thy worth, 
 Classic sarcophagus and holy earth, 
 No place could be more beautiful, and none 
 A better land, thy native land alone; 
 Philosopher ! to whom our country gave 
 Many hearts' love, but, O ! an early grave. 
 
 * Miss Hannah Adams. 
 
52 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Beautiful are the winding path-ways made 
 Around'the hills, and in the cool, green glade: 
 Fair are their vistas opening to the view, 
 Their sylvan names are soft and pleasant, too ; 
 Peaceful and calm the sleeper may rest well 
 In the cool shades of Consecration Dell. 
 On the green hill-side, waving o'er the tombs, 
 The feathery brake nods its long tufted plumes ; 
 The solemn wind-swept pines, like ocean's surge, 
 Breathe from their hearts a melancholy dirge ; 
 Silent and still the water sleeps serene, 
 Its surface covered with the polished green 
 Of a most delicate plant, that o'er it weaves 
 A glossy mantle of the finest leaves. 
 Upon this sloping hill-side there sleeps one, 
 For blameless purity of life long known, 
 For duties well fulfilled, a life well spent, 
 And a true heart, kind and benevolent ; 
 Strangers may need a stone to mark the spot, 
 By those who knew thee, Bradlee, unforgot ! 
 
 Up to the summit of that highest hill 
 Oft do my weary footsteps wander still ; 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 53 
 
 But, ah ! more toilsome seems the steep ascent, 
 
 Than when my childhood's bounding footsteps went, 
 
 With careless speed, up the green sloping way, 
 
 In the cool morning of the summer day ! 
 
 Then my gay steps were by a light heart led ; 
 
 Then in these quiet shades there slept no dead ! 
 
 With heavier heart, and with a footstep slow, 
 
 To that well-loved, remembered scene I go ; 
 
 For there, away from the world's weary strife, 
 
 Far from the turmoil, the rude jars of life, 
 
 Where woven boughs cast a cool shadow deep, 
 
 Calmly reposes in a dreamless sleep 
 
 One to whose grave in sadness I draw near, 
 
 And o'er his ashes shed the filial tear. 
 
 In life he loved the calm seclusion well, 
 
 And often mused and wandered through each dell, 
 
 And through the Walnut grove, and up the Hill, 
 
 And o'er the Ridge, and found new beauty still. 
 
 The wandering footstep here finds every place 
 Full of calm beauty and of quiet grace ; 
 In the bright morn's or evening's golden light, 
 Or, as more near advance the shades of night, 
 
54 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 When all the tree-tops bathed in splendor glow. 
 
 And a deep shadow rests on all below ; 
 
 Or as, like golden bars, the struggling rays 
 
 Pierce through the fretted leaves' entwining maze, 
 
 As Forest pond, that, sleeping tranquilly, • 
 
 From its clear depths gives back each leaf and tree, 
 
 Each tomb, each monument that 's mirrored there 
 
 So perfect, the blue fields of upper air, — 
 
 The o'erwrought heart exclaims, " O, how unearthly 
 
 fair ! " 
 Upon the margin of this water sleep 
 Those for whom many eyes will often weep ; 
 Yon graceful pillar marks the place where rest 
 Children, the beautiful, beloved, and blessed ! 
 Standing in the high places of the earth, 
 While every voice pays homage to his worth, 
 While honor crowns him with a fadeless wreath, 
 While fame is his beyond the power of death, — 
 Oft must the father* turn from these away 
 To where the early lost, the loved ones lay : 
 The little ones, whose voices, hushed and still, 
 His ear no more with their sweet music fill. 
 
 * Judge Story. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 55 
 
 And she, the loveliest, like a child of Heaven, 
 Unto his heart a few brief summers given, — 
 She was so fair, so passing beautiful, 
 The heart that loved her not were dead and dull ! 
 No eye so cold, that did not feel more blest, 
 But for a moment on her form to rest ; 
 Even to my childish fancy she did seem 
 The embodiment of some exquisite dream. 
 Tears that from parents' eyes alone can flow, 
 Grief that a parent's heart can only know, 
 Even words like his but feebly, faintly tell, — 
 " Louisa, darling child, farewell, farewell! " 
 
 " Blessed are the pure in heart,'' is written where 
 The monument to Wetmore rises fair. 
 " Blessed are the pure in heart ! " to them is given, 
 Our Saviour says, " to see the God of Heaven." 
 
 On yonder shaft, those blessed words impart 
 Sweet consolation to the mourner's heart j 
 " Suis et sibi " ; truly may it be 
 The entrance into immortality. 
 
56 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Pause at this broken shaft * a moment's space, 
 Admire its beauty and its quiet grace ; 
 That branch of roses beautifully wrought 
 Is with a deep and tender meaning fraught ; 
 The branch is broken, and the fallen rose 
 And its sweet buds a story sad disclose : 
 11 Unto my wife and children," — simple, brief, 
 The touching, heartfelt eloquence of grief! 
 
 The tomb that rises Durgin's form above 
 Is a memorial of his pupils' love. 
 The shaft of black and polished marble near, 
 Bearing a cross upon its surface clear, 
 Is beautiful, yet simple and severe.! 
 
 And thou, | whose earnest, ever active mind 
 This home of the departed first designed ; 
 Whose manly form is sleeping 'neath the sod, 
 Where oft in happy days thy footsteps trod ; 
 This was thy favorite walk ; this sylvan scene 
 Thy loved retreat ; o'er yonder rude ravine 
 
 * The monument of John Tappan. 
 t Monument of Samuel G. Williams. + George W. Brimmer. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 57 
 
 Sprang the light bridge at thy command ; and thou, 
 
 'Neath the cool shade of overarching bough 
 
 Pausing, wouldst muse upon life's varied show, 
 
 Its hurrying tumult, and its fevered glow, 
 
 Passion and strife, — the wild and eager race, 
 
 Where shadowy phantoms mock the headlong chase, 
 
 Its rushing tide whose murmurs never cease, — 
 
 And haply then, while bathed in the deep peace 
 
 That like an atmosphere around thee spread, 
 
 And influence benign upon thee shed, 
 
 Haply thy spirit felt the calm repose 
 
 Had beautiful accordance with life's close, 
 
 And felt how meet it was, that, when the frame, 
 
 Should to the earth return from whence it came, 
 
 In sacred stillness, holy, quiet, deep, 
 
 It should repose in the last solemn sleep, 
 
 Where the soft breeze should blow, the green boughs 
 
 wave, 
 And early flowerets smile upon the grave. 
 'T was well fulfilled, — the purpose of thy heart, 
 Ere thou wert called from earthly scenes to part, 
 And leave the useful, high and honored sphere, 
 Which well and faithfully thou fill'dst while here. 
 
58 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Years will roll on, and those who mourn for thee 
 Unto their absent one shall gathered be, 
 They who in life have won them high renown 
 Near thee in peaceful silence shall lie down ; 
 With thine inwoven was their life's bright thread, — 
 The same green turf shall lie above the dead. 
 
 Ah ! when upon the Ridge I thoughtless strayed, 
 When in yon hollow deep I careless played, 
 And, climbing up its rough and tangled side, 
 Gazed downward with an eye of conscious pride 
 At my own daring, then thought could not trace 
 The change that came upon this pleasant place. 
 Now round me lie within the quiet grave 
 How many who to life new lustre gave, 
 Who breathe from marble shrine, or granite tomb, 
 " Such, O proud man ! shall be thy speedy doom ! " 
 Here, where I stand, and with a mournful gaze 
 Look back upon the past and pleasant days, 
 In the brief vista of late years is seen 
 A youthful form of proud and noble mien : 
 In his dark eye sits visibly enshrined, 
 And on his brow, the glorious light of mind ; 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 59 
 
 And listening multitudes, that gather near, 
 Believe that Shakspeare's very self they hear. 
 Mute is that voice of eloquence ! that eye is sealed 
 Whose glorious light the spirit-depths revealed. 
 O youth ! O genius ! in thy loftiest flight 
 Sudden around thee closed the shades of night ; 
 Low at my very feet thou liest now, 
 The cold earth pressed upon thy colder brow.* 
 And het beside thee sleeps, whose judgment clear 
 Just cause the evil-doer had to fear ; 
 Whose life, in usefulness and honor passed, 
 Shone with pure brightness even to the last. 
 As the flowers, springing from your lowly bed, 
 Their grateful perfume all around them shed, 
 So does the memory of your truth and worth 
 Breathe its sweet influence still upon the earth. 
 
 A few more steps 1 wander, and behold 
 A cenotaph, whose lines deep griefs unfold, 
 And mark love's tribute unto memory, 
 For him J who distant sleeps beneath the sea, 
 
 * W. H. Simmons. t Judge Simmons. 
 
 X David Patterson. 
 
60 
 
 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 But yet whose virtues, purity, and truth 
 
 Won bright renown and love, even in his early youth. 
 
 Upon that day, so lovely and so bright, 
 When sacred ceremony, solemn rite 
 Did consecrate this place, then beauteous there 
 Stood a young maiden* innocent and fair ; 
 Her grace, her gentleness, her kind heart made 
 Friends from whose love her memory cannot fade. 
 A few days passed away, days few and brief, 
 To all who knew her filled with deepest grief, 
 For death had claimed her, — and the loved and dear. 
 Reposing calmly, rests in silence here. 
 Hers was an angel spirit ; earth could fling 
 No stain, no shadow on that seraph wing ; 
 Her brilliant path with lowly heart she trod, 
 And, like the saints of old, she walked with God. 
 To her death came not in his terrors clad, 
 But beautiful, though stern, serene, though sad. 
 Even in its wanderings, her gentle mind 
 Ever some scene of loveliness would find ; 
 
 * Miss Bond. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 61 
 
 And clothed in beauty, wonderful and bright, 
 
 What would be fearful to a less pure sight. 
 
 Voices of music softly bade her come, 
 
 And oft she gently sighed, " I would go home ! " 
 
 Sweet spirit ! there is harmony divine 
 
 In a life pure and radiant as thine. 
 
 Thou art gone home ! Of the beloved, whose tears 
 
 Mourned the brief number of thy golden years, 
 
 To whose fond hearts thou wert so justly dear, 
 
 Many have joined thee in that happier sphere ; 
 
 Yet is there left one whose undying love 
 
 Still upward gazes to the world above : 
 
 Still is her heart thy lost love's faithful shrine ; 
 
 Still does her spirit commune hold with thine ; 
 
 Oft has she drank the bitter cup, but still 
 
 She bends submissive to her Father's will. 
 
 She will rejoin her loved, after few years, 
 
 Where there are no more partings, no more tears. 
 
 Yon granite obelisk,* that riseth high 
 And seemeth pointing upward to the sky, 
 
 * Wyman and Howe. 
 
62 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Contains a world of love, and hope, and faith, 
 In the one word that 's written underneath : 
 " Resurgemus! " O, may that word impart 
 Courage and strength to every fainting heart ! 
 And, while the mourner weeps in sorrowing love, 
 O, may he look beyond the world, — above ! 
 
 Approach yon pure white marble cenotaph, 
 And read the brief and simple epitaph ; 
 For, O ! how much that little line unfolds, 
 " The sea his body, heaven his spirit holds." 
 If many a token of esteem and love, 
 By which kind hearts their fond affection prove, 
 If poet's line, if student's glowing page, 
 If a true sympathy, may e'er assuage 
 A parent's grief, — thine, wholly thine are these, 
 Father of him * who sleeps beneath the restless seas ! 
 
 Here for a moment let the wanderer turn 
 His gaze, where, low beneath the sculptured urn, 
 Two brothers t sleep; in youth's bright morning hour 
 Cut down as grass, and fading as the flower. 
 
 * E. Buckingham. t Mason. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 63 
 
 Around their path, and bright upon their way, 
 The glowing hopes of»early manhood lay ; 
 When the glad earth with all her joys was rife, 
 They left it, — but for an eternal life. 
 
 This granite temple bears an honored name,* 
 To many dear, and not unknown to fame. 
 
 The student at thy cenotaph will pause, 
 Ingenious scholar in mechanic laws ; 
 And call to mind the knowledge and the skill, 
 That raised for Colburn's name prouder memorial still. 
 The monument of stone but few may heed, 
 The page of wisdom all mankind may read. 
 
 Here Cheever's ancient and familiar name 
 Even from the careless may some notice claim. 
 
 The Stranger's Tomb ! Ah, with what saddening 
 thought 
 And mournful meaning these few words are fraught ! 
 
 * J. Lowell. 
 
64 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 They speak the stranger in a stranger land, 
 
 Far from his country, from the household band 
 
 Who would have soothed his hours of weary pain, 
 
 And almost called him back to life again : 
 
 There greets his sight no dear, remembered place, 
 
 His last glance falls on no familiar face ; 
 
 No tearful sister stands in sorrow by, 
 
 No gentle mother's hand may close the eye, 
 
 Whose earliest look of love beamed on her own, 
 
 No dear one kiss the brow, cold as the marble stone. 
 
 O stately Harvard ! from thy classic bounds, 
 How oft have wandered to these shaded grounds, 
 Thy youthful sons ! Some built them rustic bowers 
 Festooned with creepers wild and clustering flowers ; 
 Here in the long and joyous summer day 
 Lingered o'er sweet romance, or poet's lay, 
 Filled with soft music all the dreamy air ; 
 Or, wandering with some gentle maiden fair, 
 With the enthusiasm of early youth, 
 Vowed an eternal constancy of truth. 
 Ah! who e'er trod his Alma Mater's halls, 
 Or breathed the air within her sacred walls, 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 65 
 
 That did not love Sweet Auburn's quiet shades, 
 Her lonely glens, her open, sunny glades? 
 Whose wandering footstep has not often trod 
 O'er her green moss and flower-enamelled sod, 
 And felt the soothing influence o'er his mind, 
 And all his feelings softened and refined ? 
 And, ah ! how many in their riper age, 
 Whose names are written on historic page, 
 To die not till our country too shall die, 
 How many in this loved seclusion lie ! 
 How many, too, life's warfare just begun, 
 Have left the battle strife they might have won, 
 Have bade the heart's wild ciarion music cease, 
 And, listening to the low, soft notes of peace, 
 Through the dark valley of death's shadow passed, 
 And found repose within thy shades at last ! 
 And those whose distant dust commingles not 
 With consecrated earth in this blest spot, 
 Who sleep in ocean, or in other lands, 
 To them the cenotaph, by gentle hands 
 Of kindred, or of friends most loved and dear, 
 Or mourning classmates, is erected here. 
 5 
 
66 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Well named they Harvard Hill this rising ground, 
 For Harvard's sons are sleeping all around. 
 Here may we see her honored Ashmun's name, 
 Who waited not for years to bring him fame, 
 But seized the prize, and won the noble race, 
 Ere his bright youth had given to manhood place ; 
 At his Redeemer's feet he laid his crown, 
 And passed from earth in all his young renown. 
 And close beside him resteth one* endeared 
 To many whom he hath sustained and cheered, 
 And gently guided up the steep ascent, 
 Upon whose summit their regards were bent ; 
 He was the well-loved guardian of youth, 
 And the firm friend and advocate of truth ; 
 Well called " the great, the learned, and the good,' 
 The kind of heart, the generous of mood. 
 The youthful patriot won his laurel crown 
 Ere sixteen summers o'er his head had flown ; 
 Yet 'mid his early triumphs called to mourn, 
 He bent in sorrow o'er the funeral urn 
 Of a beloved mother ; earth could give 
 No higher pleasure than for her to live; 
 
 * President Kirkland. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 67 
 
 The measure of his after-joys to fill, 
 One greater joy was ever wanting still. 
 Proud Harvard's honored chief for many a year, 
 To him affection's sigh, and sorrow's tear, 
 And high award of praise were given from hearts sin- 
 cere. 
 
 Thou,* too, who many years hast held the sway 
 O'er fiery youth, that little loves to obey, — 
 Thou, the ripe scholar, with deep wisdom crowned, 
 The honored, the revered, the high-renowned, — 
 Great privilege was thine ; thou didst inherit 
 The lofty virtues of that noble spirit, 
 The record of whose life thy filial hand 
 Has kindly given to his grateful land. 
 To thee are length of years, and honors rife, 
 The approving smile of Heaven upon thy life : 
 Long may it be ere in this holy ground 
 The record of thy virtues. shall be found ! 
 
 How beautiful this cross, so pure, so plain ! 
 Emblem of Him who died and rose again ; 
 
 * President Quincy. 
 
G8 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Holy memorial and doubly blest, 
 
 Guarding the sleeper in his quiet rest, 
 
 And ever pointing upwards unto heaven, 
 
 The mourner's hope, from earthly idols riven. * 
 
 Yon marble from Italia's sunny land, 
 Rich with the labor of the sculptor's hand ; 
 A temple beautiful, a most pure shrine, 
 Yet on its snowy surface bears no line 
 To tell the loved and lost are resting there, — 
 Long may it be ere it such record bear ! t 
 
 Here rests a Stanton ; here a Murray sleeps ; 
 And where the twining vine still upward creeps, 
 And, as its sweet perfume around it throws, 
 Mingles its blossoms with the climbing rose, 
 Lies one in all the beauty of her youth, 
 In all the innocence of love and truth, 
 Called to leave all most dear to her young heart, 
 And from the fairest scenes of earth to part. 
 
 * S. Swett's monument. 
 
 t The monument belonging to S. Appleton. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 69 
 
 And he,* whose love was so devoted, deep, 
 It could not die with her, it could not sleep, 
 But yet more strong and more intense it grew, 
 Till the grave's portals for him opened too, — 
 With his two lovely boys, still day by day, 
 Unto her grave he took his sorrowing way ; 
 His gentle hands formed overarching bowers, 
 And tenderly he reared the scented flowers ; 
 He waited but one offering to give 
 To science and his country, which will live 
 While they shall live, then his freed spirit bright 
 Plumed its glad wings, and took its heavenly flight. 
 
 A Curtis, name to valor justly dear, 
 'And Worcester, " Friend of peace," are resting here ; 
 A Stearns, a Fessenden, — these names recall 
 Virtues and genius known and loved by all ; 
 Learning and wisdom, and the noble deed, 
 And the true heart, — they have received their meed. 
 
 A few brief summers o'er the head had rolled 
 Of one who sleeps beneath this marble cold ; 
 
 * F. P. Leverett. 
 
70 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Behold engraved hereon the maiden name 
 
 Of one whose sufferings a tear may claim. 
 
 O, tenderly regard the sacred dust 
 
 Which these calm shades now hold in solemn trust ! 
 
 Young and beloved, the fair and youthful bride 
 
 Leaned on a broken reed that pierced her side ; 
 
 O, how could he, who vowed through life to love, 
 
 So false and faithless to his promise prove ? 
 
 How could he wring the broken heart with pain, 
 
 Till death was mercy and the grave was gain ? 
 
 Yes, death to thee was but a blest release ; 
 
 Rest thee, sweet sufferer, rest thee here in peace ! 
 
 But, for the wretch whose name thou wouldst not have, 
 
 To fling dishonor on thy early grave, 
 
 For him let deep remorse its torments keep, 
 
 Let not for him the fires of vengeance sleep, 
 
 But let the finger of contempt and scorn 
 
 Mark even the ashes in his funeral urn ! 
 
 The wandering vine extends its scented bloom, 
 The weeping willow droops above the tomb, 
 Where sleeps the true, the pious, and the young, — 
 Thy praise, McLellan ! often has been sung; 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 71 
 
 Called early from thy ministry of love 
 
 To more enduring scenes in realms above. 
 
 Young soldier of the cross ! thy memory 
 
 Dear to the hearts of many long will be ; 
 
 And oft thy well loved friends will pause to weep, 
 
 Where thou art lying in thy " long, cold sleep." 
 
 Upon this monument another name,* 
 A warrior's, too, some thought may justly claim, 
 For, brave among his country's brave ones found, 
 His was an early death upon the battle-ground. 
 
 Placed by fond hearts, and by fraternal hands, 
 This offering of sincere affection stands; 
 It tells of one,| true-souled, pure, and refined, 
 Of gentle nature, of a lofty mind, 
 The classic scholar, preacher of the word, 
 And faithful follower of the ascended Lord. 
 Far from his home he closed his brief career, 
 Far from the hearts that loved and held him dear. 
 A brief, bright space he to the earth was given, 
 Then summoned home, that blessed home in heaven. 
 
 * Hull. t Rev. S. Stearns. 
 
72 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Thou who with restless feet art hastening by, 
 Whose bounding heart is light, whose hope is high, 
 Who cannot dream of death, e'en 'mid the dead, 
 Here let thy course be for a moment stayed ; 
 Bend, humbly bend before this lowly shrine,* 
 And read with reverence the sacred line, 
 Learn from the words that here arrest thine eye, 
 " Who liveth and believeth cannot die." 
 Believest thou in Him who came to save 
 From the dark terrors of the sinner's grave ? 
 If thou believest not, turn not away, 
 But bow thy forehead to the dust and pray, 
 That He, who breathed into thy form life's breath, 
 May save thee from the fearful second death. 
 Make thou thine own the sacred promise sure ; 
 'T is God's own word, and therefore must endure. 
 
 Beneath this lofty oak, whose branches throw 
 A softened shade upon the marble's glow, 
 Reposes one t who lived yon city's pride, 
 Then, full of years and honors, gently died. 
 
 * F. T. Gray's monument. f Jesse Putnam. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 73 
 
 Here sleeps beside him one whose lengthened life 
 
 (For more than sixty years a faithful wife) 
 
 Saw her her varied duties well fulfil, 
 
 Not seeking for her own, but for her Father's will. 
 
 How I have loved, in some sequestered place, 
 Seated upon some monument's broad base, 
 Silent, alone, to meditate and muse, 
 And many an hour in reverie to lose ; 
 To watch the struggling light, through leafy wood, 
 Or through some opening, pour its golden flood ! 
 A dreamy stillness reigned throughout the shade ; 
 The soft, green leaves a whispering music made, 
 While, answering sweet to the low harmony, 
 The rippling waters murmured gently by ; 
 The light and wandering air was softly stirred 
 By the sweet song of many a summer bird, 
 Or by the frolic race and chattering 
 Of the lithe squirrel in his daring spring ; 
 Little he recks, the sportive wild and free, 
 Of suffering, sorrowing humanity, 
 And with his former light and careless bound 
 Springs o'er the monuments of holy ground : 
 
74 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Disturb him not with threats or rude alarm ; 
 
 Let him be happy, thee he may not harm ; 
 
 As Nature made him innocently gay, 
 
 Why shouldst thou take his little life away 1 
 
 Less pleasant sounds the stillness sometimes broke, 
 
 The workman's whistle, or the hammer's stroke ; 
 
 Or some discordant voice, rough, harsh, and rude, 
 
 Disturbed the calm and sacred solitude. 
 
 And I have wandered far from these away, 
 
 Through sombre paths, where scarce the light of day 
 
 Might penetrate, until at length I came 
 
 To where some sleeper reverend thought might claim. 
 
 In Cypress Avenue, where many a place 
 
 Of taste, and art, and elegance bears trace, 
 
 I often pause to admire the inclosure there, 
 
 Made by four brothers,* — beautiful and fair, 
 
 Where many blossoms shed their sweets around, 
 
 And, dropping perfume, bend towards the ground. 
 
 " That youthful marvel," who too early died, — 
 Hope of the church, its ornament and pride, 
 
 * The Lawrences. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 75 
 
 " Full of all studies," modest, zealous, wise, — 
 His mortal dust here still and silent lies ; 
 His spirit lives immortal, and the earth 
 Long shall bear witness to his truth and worth.* 
 
 And where thou sleepest, silent and alone, 
 Mine aged friend ! f beneath the sculptured stone, 
 Fain would my heart some grateful offering lay 
 Upon thy shrine, some feeble tribute pay 
 Unto thy memory ; for, in days long gone, 
 Much gentle kindness unto me was shown. 
 Slight was the offering then within my power, 
 The blooming bud, the faintly fragrant flower; 
 And thou vvert pleased, for thou didst love them still, 
 Beauteous and pure, with love age could not chill, 
 Nor even death ; for, on that morn of May, 
 When with full heart I silent turned away, 
 (They told me thou wert dying,) then, the while, 
 Thy dim eye kindled, and, with pleasant smile, 
 Thou welcomed, as in happy days gone past, 
 My first spring offering, and, ah me ! my last. 
 
 * J. S. Buckminster. f Mrs. Cragie. 
 
76 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 There is a flower, I oft have heard thee tell, 
 
 Whose strange, peculiar beauty pleased thee well : 
 
 It lifts its delicate, pale, fragile stem, 
 
 Clasped with white leaves, and, like an anadem, 
 
 Sprinkled with black its white flowers crown its head, 
 
 As 't were a gentle mourner for the dead ; 
 
 For ever may it grow, as now it grows, 
 
 On the spot sacred to thy last repose ! 
 
 Many have missed thee ; many hearts are sad, 
 
 Thy tones of tenderness full oft made glad ; 
 
 Thy warm affections slumbered not, nor slept, 
 
 Thy kindness in no sluggish current crept ; 
 
 Chill, frosty age aimed one ice-pointed dart, 
 
 'T was melted in the sunshine of thy heart. 
 
 All were thy friends, for thou wert friend to all ; 
 
 Never unanswered was the faintest call 
 
 Upon thy sympathy, which still could see, 
 
 He is my neighbour, who has need of me. 
 
 But though before thy tomb I sorrowing bend, 
 
 I would not call thee back, my own kind friend ! 
 
 Be o'er the dust a " requiescat " said ; 
 
 Joy to the happy spirit heavenward fled ! 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 77 
 
 With sculpture rich, where'er the eye may turn, 
 Rise cenotaph, sarcophagus, and urn. 
 The broken shaft, the oak-leaf garland bound, 
 And olive wreaths, the monuments around, 
 The inverted torch down-drooping mournfully, 
 The kindled flame to heaven ascending high, 
 The serpent, emblem of eternity, 
 The words of hope and faith so sadly sweet, 
 That everywhere the wandering vision greet, 
 And the departed in these shades who dwell, — 
 Both time and space of these would fail to tell. 
 Yet pause we here, where, if the sculptor's art 
 May ever soothe the mourner's sorrowing heart, 
 It may console the friends who weep for thee, 
 Young, innocent, and gentle Emily ! * 
 We stand beside thy couch, to hear thy breath 
 We almost pause ; and is it sleep or death, . 
 The cunning hand of art would seek to trace 
 On the calm features of thy placid face ? 
 Through the oak's purple leaves a radiant light 
 Cheats for a moment the bewildered sight, 
 
 * Emily Binney. 
 
78 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 And, bathed in rosy hues, uport the snow 
 
 Of thy fair cheek there rests a crimson glow ; 
 
 So still, so gentle thy repose, and deep, 
 
 We almost fear to wake thee from that sleep : 
 
 Alas ! thy slumber is too deep, too still ! 
 
 'T is death that on thy brow has set his seal. 
 
 The loved of many, scarce, with merry feet 
 
 Bounding along life's pathway, didst thou greet 
 
 The looks of earnest love that watched the while 
 
 Lest thy young spirit learn the world's deep guile. 
 
 While thy glad heart with love beat gay and light, 
 
 While thine eye beamed with ever new delight, 
 
 While thy sweet voice even as a free wild bird 
 
 Warbling glad music evermore was heard, — 
 
 Then came the Reaper, in that joyous time, 
 
 And claimed the flower to grace a fairer clime; 
 
 Then thy light foot fell wearily and slow, 
 
 Then thy sweet voice was heard in moanings low, 
 
 Soon thy bright eye grew dim, faint, faint, thy breath, 
 
 And thy young voice was hushed and still in death. 
 
 Rest thee in peace, beloved one ! till the light 
 
 Of that last morn shall break the shades of night, 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 79 
 
 Till the Archangel's trump, with summons dread, 
 Shall bid the earth and seas give up their dead. 
 
 Peace to thy shades, Mount Auburn ! peace to those, 
 Who, free from earth and all its cares, repose ! 
 Well may we call thee beautiful, and well 
 Pause with delight upon the theme to dwell ; 
 For children, dying, oft have earnest prayed 
 That they might sleep beneath thy holy shade. 
 Thou ever beautiful ! at morning's hour, 
 When the first joyous rays wake the young flower, 
 When the bees hasten on their gauzy wings, 
 And fill the air with busy murmurings, 
 While, idly sleeping on the bright flower's breast, 
 The golden butterfly is yet at rest ; 
 When the soft moss, with its bright emerald hue, 
 Flashes and gleams with pearl and silver dew ; 
 When the sweet matin song of birds is heard 
 From thy green coverts ; when, by light winds stirred, 
 The delicate birch-leaves flutter soft and low, 
 And the cool waters in the sunshine glow 
 With a faint gleaming light; when peaceful love 
 Is brooding o'er thee as a heavenly dove, — 
 
 • 
 
80 ^ MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Then the soul, flinging earthly trammels by, 
 Soars in its upward flight towards infinity. 
 
 Beautiful thou, when autumn suns are low, 
 And all thy gorgeous robes in splendor glow, 
 When through the hemlock's dark and sombre hue, 
 And the deep green of oaks and maples through, 
 The sumach's fiery flame in splendor shines, 
 And gleam like warriors' spears the glittering pines, 
 And deeper yet the mournful cypress weaves 
 The shadowy gloom of darkly clustering leaves, 
 And birch-trees' golden leaves and silvery bark 
 Gleam 'mid the poplars' crimson deep and dark. 
 On the brown pine-leaves thickly strown around, 
 Soft is the footing, but uncertain found ; 
 The dusky ash lifts its gray arms on high, 
 The silver birch nods to the passers by, 
 And flutters hastily its fairy dress, 
 In sportive and coquettish loveliness. 
 Amid the glowing leaves on sprig or spray, 
 Gleams the rich plumage of the harsh-toned jay ; 
 While soft and low, in plaintive cadence heard, 
 Comes the last parting song of summer bird, 
 t 
 
MOUNT AUBUKN. 
 
 As if it poured its very heart away 
 
 In the bewildering sweetness of that lay. 
 
 All through the atmosphere, a faint, warm haze 
 
 Gives a mild radiance to the sun's broad rays ; 
 
 In delicate lines of silver tracery, 
 
 Floats the light gossamer from tree to tree ; 
 
 The rustling leaf abroad its banner flings, 
 
 To woo the wandering zephyr's sportive wings; 
 
 The downy seed goes floating idly on, 
 
 And one by one the ripened nuts drop down. 
 
 Then a calm gladness fills the musing mind, 
 
 A heavenly joy from all excess refined, 
 
 A strain of pensiveness not melancholy, 
 
 A joy subdued and free from earthly folly. 
 
 When the light robes of silver mist enfold 
 Thy graceful height, when sunset clouds of gold 
 Hover above thee, as if angels' wings 
 Paused on their message from the King of kings, 
 To shed the radiance of celestial light 
 O'er the dark portals of the grave's deep night, 
 Then more than ever beautiful art thou, 
 The heavenly halo round thy glorious brow. 
 
 81 
 
82 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 And thou wert beautiful that sacred day, 
 When the wild storm-cloud dark above thee lay, 
 And from its depths the lightning's vivid flash 
 Leaped forth amid the thunder's heavy crash : 
 From thy deep shades an answering tone was heard, 
 By martial music sad thy heart was stirred ; 
 A gallant band, in warlike, proud array, 
 Went slowly moving on their solemn way, 
 And through thy winding paths and coverts deep 
 They bore the soldier* to his place of sleep ; 
 The volleyed peal above his narrow bed 
 Was faintly heard 'mid heaven's artillery dread. 
 Soft may he sleep, — the loyal and the brave, — 
 Soft may he sleep within his honored grave ! 
 The weight of many years was laid on him, 
 But yet the holy fire grew never dim 
 On his heart's living altar ; high above 
 All cares of earth rose that pure flame of love, 
 And led him with a strong, resistless sway 
 To join the multitude upon that day,t 
 
 * Captain Josiah Cleaveland died June 30th. 1843, aged 90. 
 1 June 17th, 1843. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 83 
 
 When, like the sands upon the sea-shore found, 
 
 Yon lofty monument they gathered round. 
 
 Once had he stood there at his country's call, 
 
 And seen her gallant sons around him fall, 
 
 When valor's heart was in the conflict tried, 
 
 Each man a hero on that day who died. 
 
 Now when the work was finished, and through time 
 
 Should still bear witness of those deeds sublime, 
 
 Again upon that glorious ground he stood, 
 
 And saw with kindling eye that all was good. 
 
 Too much, too much of joy ! his heart beat high 
 
 In raptured ecstasy, then sank, to die 
 
 Brave warrior on the battle-field of strife ! 
 
 Brave soldier in the Christian's conflict, — life 
 
 Yet shall fair childhood to thy grave draw near, 
 
 Lessons of wisdom from the old to hear, 
 
 And learn from him who sleeps beneath the sod, 
 
 How they may serve their country and their God. 
 
 Cleaveland ! with thee methought the line to close, 
 And from my pleasant labors to repose. 
 
 fe! 
 
84 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 But ere 1 close the sad, funereal strain, 
 
 Again " deep calleth unto deep! " again 
 
 The fiat is sent forth, that summons high 
 
 From whose dread messenger no man may fly. 
 
 The solemn dirge-note and the mournful wail 
 
 Have scarcely ceased to swell upon the gale, 
 
 Ere like the voice of Echo they return 
 
 From desolate homes where the heart-stricken mourn. 
 
 The wise, the great, the noble, and the good, 
 
 Genius, the lofty soul, the mild of mood, 
 
 All suddenly, while life the brightest shone, 
 
 Received that mandate from the Eternal One, 
 
 Were quenched like brilliant stars from the blue heaven, 
 
 But O, a higher life, a nobler sphere, was given ! 
 
 A feeble tribute let me pay to one* 
 Whose life of love is past, whose race is run. 
 His sweet and solemn voice shall never more 
 Lift up its melody on earth, shall never pour 
 On mortal ears its low and pleading tone, 
 Or rise in prayer to the Eternal's throne. 
 
 * Rev. Henry Ware. 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 Like clustering stars did his rare virtues shine, 
 
 And round him shed a heavenly light divine. 
 
 He swept with master-hand the poet's lyre, 
 
 The thrilling chords sent forth ethereal fire. 
 
 His searching eye gazed through the heavens afar, 
 
 And traced the pathway of each golden star, 
 
 And felt the heavens declared the glory high 
 
 Of God's eternal, infinite majesty. 
 
 He looked on earth with countless beings rife, 
 
 The endless myriad forms of varied life, 
 
 And knew them made by one Almighty hand, 
 
 Which pours its blessings over every land. 
 
 He loved his fellow-men, their faults could view 
 
 With lenient eye, yet to himself be true ; 
 
 Could warn the sinner from the wrath to come, 
 
 And lead the prodigal, repentant, home ; 
 
 Do good all silently, like summer rain, 
 
 Or as the gentle dew falls on the plain. 
 
 The mortal form was frail, the spirit drew 
 
 From heaven its strength to surfer and to do. 
 
 No more on earth his kindly deeds we trace, 
 
 We see no more his calm and holy face, 
 
 85 
 
86 MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 But as of old a voice from heaven said, 
 
 So may we now say, " Blessed are the dead 
 
 Who die in the Lord ; they from their labors rest, 
 
 Their works do follow them ! " So is he blest, 
 
 The pure in heart, the virtuous in deed, 
 
 Who from all sects, from men of every creed, 
 
 Won love and reverence, such as must be given 
 
 To all true servants of the God of heaven. 
 
 By Channing's side he sleeps, that shining light, 
 
 That fearless champion of truth and right; 
 
 Nobly in life they lived, in quiet deep, 
 
 The o'erwrought frame is laid in peaceful sleep. 
 
 Age after age our country still shall claim, 
 
 Grateful and proud, each high and honored name ; 
 
 The influence of those lofty spirits pure 
 
 Must live while truth and freedom shall endure. 
 
 Beloved Mount Auburn ! in thy peaceful breast 
 May I find calm repose and quiet rest, 
 When closed the scenes of life, when strife shall cease, 
 And gently o'er me hover heavenly peace ; 
 Then, then, dear earth, take back thy weary child 
 Into thy gentle arms, O mother mild ! 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 87 
 
 May the green sod, where I in childhood played, 
 Above my silent heart be lightly laid, 
 And the wild flowers, that then such gladness gave, 
 Breathe their faint perfume o'er my lowly grave. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 
 
 The moon looked down on many a land, 
 
 On the sea-girt rock, and the wave-dashed strand, 
 
 On snow-capped mountain, and fertile plain, 
 
 On the silent city, and restless main. 
 
 The moon looked down from her golden throne, 
 
 And the sleeping world beneath her shone ; 
 
 The unconscious babe was laid to rest, 
 
 Pillowed full soft on its mother's breast ; 
 
 Fair childhood, weary of sport and play, 
 
 Had sunk to sleep with the sun's last ray ; 
 
 The flowers their weary lids had closed, 
 
 And earth in the mellow light reposed. 
 
92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 All was silent, and all was still, 
 
 Save the ever murmuring rill, 
 
 Singing its music quiet and low, 
 
 And kissing the flowers in its gentle flow ; 
 
 And ever anon a low chirp heard 
 
 From the downy nest of some startled bird ; 
 
 And fire-fly lamps in the long grass shone, 
 
 Like clustering gems at random thrown. 
 
 The Ladye sat at her casement low, 
 The soft breeze wandered to and fro ; 
 It kissed her brow and gently played 
 With the shadowy tresses that o'er it strayed ; 
 O, the Ladye's cheek was like the snow, 
 Save one deep spot of the crimson glow ; 
 The Ladye's hand was pale and thin, 
 Lightly wandered each soft blue vein ; 
 In her lustrous eye was a saddened light, 
 As the Ladye looked out on the summer night, 
 For across life's pathway a shadow fell, 
 And clouded thy heaven, Lady Arabelle. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 93 
 
 Deep the forest and black the shade 
 
 By the gloomy, ancient pine-trees made; 
 
 Hollow murmured each wind-swept bough, 
 
 As the fresh night-breeze went rushing through ; 
 
 Brightly glittered the silver sand, 
 
 As the dashing waves broke on the strand ; 
 
 And high rose the masts of the vessel that lay 
 
 With her white sails furled in the broad, smooth bay. 
 
 Far away o'er the ocean foam 
 Was Lady Arbella's ancestral home; 
 Softly she breathed a gentle sigh, 
 As her thoughts went back to the days gone by : 
 She saw before her the castle walls, 
 She stood once more in the ancient halls ; 
 Once more a gay and light-hearted girl, 
 She dwelt in the home of the noble earl, 
 And fondly her father looked down and smiled, 
 With a father's pride, on his lovely child ; 
 Her gentle mother's arms were wound, 
 In a clasp of love, her form around, 
 And her favorite brother's bright, dark eye 
 Was lighted with joy when she was nigh ; 
 
94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 All wove about her a kindly spell, 
 All spoke to the heart of Arabelle. 
 Royal splendor and proud array, 
 Pomp and grandeur before her lay, 
 Stately ceiling and pictured walls, 
 Lofty domes, where the soft light falls 
 Through colored crystal of varied hue 
 On the marble pavement white and blue ; 
 This was the home of her happy youth, 
 'Mid virtue and valor, love and truth. 
 
 On this soft green turf her feet had trod, 
 She had plucked the flowers from this verdant sod 
 She had watched the bounding deer spring by, 
 Or, startled, gaze with earnest eye ; 
 She had sat beneath yon stately tree, 
 Flinging its branches wide and free, 
 And the very sounds she seemed to hear 
 That fell so sweetly then on her ear. 
 From her parted lips she murmured forth : 
 " O lovely land of my home and birth, 
 Farewell, farewell, dear home, for ever ! 
 For O, again I shall see thee never ! 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 95 
 
 All the haunts of childhood's hours, 
 Every green spot to memory dear, 
 Sweet as the breath of perfumed flowers, 
 Softer than music to the ear, — 
 Ye who were twined so round my heart 
 That its very chords seemed rent apart, 
 When I left you all for another land, 
 My native shore for a foreign strand, — 
 Take the last sigh and sad farewell 
 Breathed from the heart of Arabelle. 
 
 11 Think not I mourn my earthly loss, 
 I count it but gain for my Master's cross. 
 I mourn for thee, my native land ! 
 Oppression and wrong go hand in hand ; 
 Evil thy rulers, and dark thine hour, 
 For crime sits throned by the side of power ; 
 Darker, darker thy days shall be, 
 The vial of wrath will be poured on thee ! 
 JMen of sin are the servants of God, 
 O'er thee is held their iron rod ; 
 Wider and blacker shall spread the cloud, 
 Folding thee in its sable shroud ; 
 
96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Wise and good thou hast driven forth, 
 
 Men of virtue, truth, and worth, 
 
 But from their noble sacrifice 
 
 A loftier nation shall arise, 
 
 They shall serve God in purity, 
 
 Free from haughty iniquity; 
 
 Many long years shall pass away, 
 
 But the morning shall dawn to perfect day." 
 
 Again she looked forth from her casement low, 
 And she heard the murmuring waters flow ; 
 She saw the corn-fields waving green, 
 And the white tents gleaming in silver sheen. 
 Few were the dwellings, few and rude, 
 Beyond was primeval solitude ; 
 Step of man had seldom been there, 
 The wild beast lay in his hidden lair, 
 Or glared with dark, ferocious eye 
 On the helpless victim wandering nigh ; 
 And the wind had a dreary, sighing tone, 
 As if it sobbed with a wailing moan. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 97 
 
 Shivered the Ladye's fragile form, 
 
 Frail as a reed before the storm, 
 
 And her heart beat quick, for she thought of one 
 
 With whom all trials were lightly borne ; 
 
 With him she had crossed the ocean blue, 
 
 All things to dare, all things to do, 
 
 To found a nation where all might be free 
 
 To worship God in sincerity. 
 
 Sad was the heart of Arabelle, 
 Fast from her eyes the tears down fell ; 
 For she knew her days were kw and brief, 
 And that long before the forest leaf 
 Should trembling fall from the slightest spray, 
 She would have faded from earth away. 
 Not for herself she wept, but him, 
 For she knew the light of his life would be dim, 
 And she felt it a bitter thing to part 
 From the true, the tender, the faithful heart ; 
 And she almost feared ere his return 
 She should silent sleep in her funeral urn. 
 
98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 She felt the night-wind chill and cold 
 Piercing through her mantle's fold ; 
 Weary and weak she knelt in prayer, 
 That this bitter cup the Father would spare, 
 And strengthen her husband's fainting soul, 
 When the waves of sorrow should o'er him roll : 
 Then on her couch she lay down to rest ; 
 In the visions of night her soul was blest. 
 
 The clouds of morning were crimson and gold. 
 Gleaming like banners in many a fold ; 
 Up rose the sun from his ocean bed, 
 O'er the New World his glory was shed, 
 The dark pine forest gleamed in the light, 
 With its glittering leaves so slender and bright. 
 From the straw-roofed hut and the lowly tent 
 Light wreaths of smoke were upward sent, — 
 For Salem, the City of Peace, had then 
 But eight rude dwellings on all her plain, 
 And the settler's axe through the forest rung, 
 When the early rays of the dawning sprung. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 99 
 
 Sweet was the air that summer morn, 
 The carol of birds was lightly borne, 
 Sparkled the corn leaves fresh and green 
 With pearls of dew and silver sheen ; 
 Forth went the laborer to his toil, 
 For there were but few to till the soil, 
 And the fear of famine dark and dread 
 Hung heavily o'er the settler's head. 
 
 Through the forest at early day 
 Two travellers hastened on their way : 
 One had a mantle around him thrown, 
 Rainbow plumage upon it shone; 
 Inwrought with shells and sparkling beads, 
 It told a tale of the warrior's deeds, 
 For he was an Indian chief and brave, 
 Who counsel and guidance the white man gave : 
 The other who travelled the forest wild 
 Was England's yet more noble child ; 
 
100 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He was a stranger in the land, 
 His pilgrim's staff was in his hand ; 
 Scarcely a moon had fleeted by 
 Since his vessel these shores drew nigh, 
 But well he loved the land of the West, 
 And deemed it a place that God had blest ; 
 And here beneath its lovely skies 
 Soon should his future home arise. 
 
 Blackstone the hermit, who lived alone, 
 Where Shawmut reared its triple cone, 
 Had bid him come with his little band, 
 And dwell in his fairer, better land. 
 And now the pilgrim's heart was gay, 
 As he wended joyous on his way : 
 He had chosen his home at last, 
 In a goodly land his lot was cast, 
 In a brief space he would be beside 
 His gentle and noble-hearted bride ; 
 Fondly he loved on the theme to dwell, 
 For all his thought was of Arabelle. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 101 
 
 Every land with her was fair, 
 Light for her was every care, 
 Fervently she thanked high Heaven 
 That this treasure had been given ; 
 Trustingly with him to come 
 She had left her stately home, 
 And would he not, for her dear sake, 
 A garden of Eden the wilderness make ? 
 
 Ere he reached the town his Indian guide 
 Had parted from the pilgrim's side ; 
 He wended alone upon his way 
 To where the dwelling of Endicott lay ; 
 His simple homestead was somewhat less rude 
 Than the comfortless huts which round it stood. 
 Dark fell his shadow upon the floor, 
 As he paused for a moment in the door, 
 When a cry of joy through the cottage rung, 
 And the arms of his Ladye were round him flung : 
 Tears of joy o'er her pale cheek fell, 
 And gemmed the dark lashes of Arabelle. 
 
102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 O, but her husband's heart was fain, 
 
 As he clasped her gentle form again ! 
 
 And he poured forth words of truth and love 
 
 To her he valued all earth above. 
 
 O, 't is rare in the world to see 
 
 Such devotion and constancy ! 
 
 'T were too much bliss to mortals given, 
 
 Too near were the earth allied to heaven. 
 
 These moments of rapture too swiftly flew, 
 They were the last he ever knew ! 
 The Ladye's head on his shoulder was laid, 
 And he saw not the ravage disease had made 
 But when she moved with a modest grace 
 And lifted her wan yet lovely face, 
 Where the hectic burned with its fatal glow, 
 Then struck to his heart the deadly blow ; 
 Sharp and bitter his anguished cry, 
 " O God ! have I brought thee here to die ? " 
 Fearful agony shook his frame, 
 And sobs from his heaving bosom came ; 
 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 103 
 
 Dark and wild was his gleaming eye, 
 As he lifted his gaze to heaven high, 
 Almost it said he deemed unjust ; 
 The heavy doom his hopes had crushed ; 
 Tears poured down his cheeks like rain, 
 And his voice was choked by sobs of pain ; 
 But calm o'er the passionate words that fell 
 Rose the silvery voice of Arabelle. 
 
 11 My heart's beloved ! O, do not weep, 
 Because I go to my dreamless sleep; 
 Mourn not because the Father's will 
 Forbids my being with thee still. 
 For thy return I have watched and wept, 
 And vigils through long night-hours have kept, 
 And have prayed the Father, on bended knee, 
 That but once more thy form I might see. 
 The bitterness of death hath passed, 
 For thou wilt be with me at the last. 
 Calm thee, beloved, and weep no more ; 
 The grief, the trial will soon be o'er. 
 
104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Father's hand is with us still ; 
 Shall we not bow to his holy will ? 
 I may no longer be with thee here, 
 But He will send thee the Comforter ; 
 For us our Master bore the cross, — 
 With him to die is, indeed, no loss ; 
 'T is but the chastening hand of love, 
 Which leads us both to the world above." 
 
 O, but her voice, so sweet and low, 
 Was softer than music in its flow ; 
 And to look in her calm and holy eyes 
 Was like seeing an angel of Paradise ; 
 And it stilled his passion's troubled wave, 
 And courage and strength to the weeper gave, 
 And he felt the truth of the holy word, 
 And calmer said, M It is the Lord ! 
 I was unworthy to be so blest, 
 Let him do as it seemeth best. 
 The heavy hour that calls thee to die 
 Will break my strongest earthly tie. 
 
\ 
 
 THE LADY ARABELLA. 105 
 
 God has given me work to do, 
 
 Still that work I must pursue ; 
 
 But the happiest moment I can know 
 
 Will be when I, too, am called to go. 
 
 Very dear hast thou been to me, 
 
 In thy angelic purity ; 
 
 And thy perfect love had power 
 
 To cheer life's darkest, gloomiest hour. 
 
 " I thought to make thee a happy home, 
 Where the blight of sorrow could not come ; 
 I thought to have made my arm thy shield ; 
 I thought my heart would have sheltered thee ; 
 But God has called me my treasure to yield, 
 For I loved thee with wild idolatry. 
 I am smitten through with the pointed dart, 
 The barbed arrow has pierced my heart ; 
 The burden is laid on my very soul ; 
 The waves and billows above me roll ! 
 Pray that I sink not beneath their swell ; 
 Pray for me, pray with me, Arabelle ! " 
 
 I 
 
106 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Low on the cabin floor they knelt, 
 Poured out to God their hearts in prayer 
 He who hears the raven cry 
 Heard and answered his children there ; 
 Strength was given them to endure, 
 Courage their fainting souls to save, 
 And they felt eternal life was theirs, 
 Beyond the portals of the grave. 
 
 Paler and weaker, day by day, 
 The gentle Ladye faded away, 
 Sank to rest, as a fragile flower, 
 Borne away from its sheltered bower, 
 And planted far in the lonely wild, — 
 So faded England's lovely child. 
 The murmur of the summer breeze 
 Lightly stirred the forest trees ; 
 The curled waves melted on the strand, 
 All was fair on the sea and land, 
 Shone in the heavens the sun's low ray, 
 As the Ladye's spirit passed away. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 107 
 
 He who sat beside her bed 
 
 Uttered no sigh, no tear-drop shed ; 
 
 So still, so fixed his earnest eye, 
 
 Inly they feared he, too, would die. 
 
 Not a word did her husband speak, 
 
 Calmly he kissed her marble cheek, 
 
 Calmly he kissed the pallid brow, 
 
 And the curved lips colder than the snow ; 
 
 And they his motionless face who saw 
 
 In their hearts were stricken with fear and awe. 
 
 In many a manly heart was grief 
 That a life so fair should be so brief, 
 And far and wide on every hand 
 A voice of wailing went through the land. 
 Deeply, deeply their loss they wept, 
 Their best, their loveliest in silence slept; 
 And the sons of the forest bewailed the hour, 
 When faded from earth the English flower. 
 Not like her kin was she laid to rest, 
 No velvet pall, and no plumed hearse ; 
 No costly marble was piled on her breast, 
 Chiselled for her no elegiac verse : 
 
108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In the fresh sod her grave they made, 
 Lightly the greensward was o'er her laid ; 
 The wind-swept pines and the ocean surge 
 Poured forth for her the funeral dirge ; 
 Grander, loftier was their swell, 
 Than ever from pealing organ fell ; 
 And a life in holy purity spent 
 Was the Ladye's proudest monument. 
 
 Manjp long years have come and gone 
 Since the Ladye passed to her heavenly home, 
 And the ancient forest has bowed its head, 
 And the red men are numbered with the dead 
 And for straw-roofed cottage, and lowly wall, 
 Are princely dwelling and spacious hall. 
 The rays of the morning gild with fire 
 The summit of many a lofty spire, 
 And on the spot where the Ladye was laid, 
 When her grave on the forest edge was made, 
 Standeth a stately and sacred fane, 
 Casting its shadow upon the plain. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 109 
 
 When the tidings were borne to the Ladye's home, 
 Far away o'er the ocean-foam, • 
 
 With grief and sorrow they mourned the loss 
 Of her who had taken the Master's cross ; 
 For there lived not one in Lincolnshire, 
 To whose heart the Ladye was not dear. 
 Bard and historian long shall dwell 
 On the life of the Lady Arabelle. 
 
 Her grave was damp with the morning dew, 
 When the stricken husband towards it drew. 
 Clad in the sable vestments of woe, 
 His form was bowed, and his step was slow : 
 He knelt with his forehead to the sod, 
 Fervent and deep was his prayer to God. 
 Slowly he turned from the grave away, 
 Where his track through the lonely forest lay : 
 Heavy he leaned on his pilgrim staff, 
 As he trod the narrow and toilsome path ; 
 And silent and still walked by his side 
 His faithful friend, his Indian guide. 
 
110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He uttered no word of weariness 
 
 When he reached his home in the wilderness : 
 
 Kindly in Shawmut they greeted him, 
 
 For they saw the light of his eye was dim, 
 
 And they strove, with their gentle words of cheer, 
 
 To comfort the heart they held so dear. 
 
 He did not smile, he did not weep, 
 
 The shaft had stricken all too deep ; 
 
 But to prosper religion's holy cause 
 
 His labors knew no rest, no pause. 
 
 Whatever work was just and true, 
 Still he was ever ready to do : 
 Freely he gave with liberal hand, 
 To prosper his chosen and well-loved land ; 
 Zealous in every work of love, 
 To build up the church of God he strove. 
 But there were many who wept to trace 
 The change in his calm and smileless face ; 
 For they could not but see, that, day by day, 
 The thread of his life was wearing away, 
 And that nearer and nearer the time drew on 
 When his place should be void and his journey done 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 
 
 When hushed in death the voice should be 
 That had guided them so tenderly ; 
 When wisdom's words should cease to flow, 
 Cold be the warm heart's generous glow, 
 And he, their blessing, their hope, their stay, 
 Should be called to pass from earth away. 
 
 One brief month had hastened by, 
 The time had come, and the hour was nigh, 
 And the pilgrim laid him down to die : 
 Friends who had loved him had gathered near, 
 With deep-drawn sigh and falling tear. 
 Tears were on Winthrop's manly cheek, 
 And vainly he essayed to speak ; 
 But he pressed the hand of his dying friend, 
 And o'er his low couch would often bend, 
 As he listened to catch the accents dear, 
 The last sweet words he might ever hear. 
 
 " Listen, my dearest friend and best, 
 To my earnest, last request ! 
 'T was my hope and my heart's desire, 
 When the sleep of death upon me fell, 
 
 111 
 
112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 My form should be placed in the holy earth, 
 Where sleeps my sainted Arabelle. 
 But the way is long, and it may not be, 
 And our parted souls will meet as soon 
 As if the mortal forms they wore 
 'Neath the same sod had lain them down. 
 Where I thought to have made my home, 
 Where I had meant my house should be, 
 Where the sod is broken, my own kind friend, 
 There would I have thee bury me. 
 
 " We have taken sweet counsel in our lives, 
 O true-hearted one and brave ! 
 But do not mourn when I am gone, 
 Shed not a tear upon my grave ; 
 For faith has made my vision clear, 
 And brightly have been revealed to me 
 Scenes that are hidden from mortal gaze, 
 In the depths of far futurity. 
 Where the lofty trees that wave, 
 And bend above my humble grave, 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 113 
 
 Cast their shadows on every part, 
 Shall be a mighty city's heart. 
 In the waters of yon blue bay, 
 Where our few vessels at anchor lay, 
 A forest of masts and spars shall rise 
 From ships that shall sail to every land, 
 Whose canvass be spread beneath all skies, 
 Whose anchors be cast on every strand. 
 These hills shall be moved, and for every tree 
 There a dwelling-place shall be ; 
 A hundred spires shall catch the ray 
 Of the setting sun and the dawning day. 
 Sons and daughters shall bless the land, 
 Plenty and peace be on every hand, — 
 Boundless wealth and prosperity, 
 
 my country ! God giveth thee. 
 
 1 thank the Lord that I have been 
 Permitted to see this work begin, 
 For so it shall be assuredly, 
 Even as I have declared to thee." 
 
 O'er his lips played a heavenly smile, 
 In his eyes shone a holy light ; 
 8 
 
114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 They who looked on his face the while 
 Deemed he held converse with angels bright. 
 Almost it seemed a sin to mourn 
 For the holy and wise who had from them gone. 
 He " died in sweet peace " ; but the people wept 
 For their earthly stay and trust who slept. 
 
 In yonder noble city's * heart, 
 Where her earliest children sleep, 
 Where the ancient Chapel's t wall 
 Casts its shadow dark and deep, — 
 There within the church-yard old 
 They laid the Pilgrim's honored dust ; 
 Though no marble marked the spot, 
 Earth has kept the sacred trust. 
 Wise and good men, when they died, 
 Sought to lie down at his side. 
 Many an ancient sculptured stone 
 By the tall grass is o'ergrown ; 
 Waving willow boughs are bent 
 O'er the antique monument. 
 
 * Boston. t The Stone Chapel. 
 
THE LADY ARABELLA. 115 
 
 Spots of rust are thick and dark 
 In the chiselled letters' mark ; 
 Moss has crept upon the stone, 
 And within the crevice grown. 
 There, when summer breezes blow, 
 And the green boughs idly wave, 
 And the long grass sighs around, 
 Bending o'er the lowly grave, — 
 There 't is pleasant to look down 
 On the tomb-stones gray and brown ; 
 Pleasant musingly to gaze, 
 And think upon the former days. 
 For by the green graves of our dead 
 Upward are our wishes led ; 
 But for these we might not love 
 Our land other lands above ; 
 But for these, indeed, might we 
 Forget our immortality : 
 And for this I love to gaze 
 On this record of old days ; 
 On the graves our fathers made, 
 On the ground where they were laid. 
 
116 
 
 ROSES. 
 
 Who does not love the rose ? From earliest day, 
 
 It has been sung in poets' varied lay, 
 
 Fairest of flowers ! Upon her slender stem, 
 
 Glittering with dew-drops like a diadem, 
 
 How, on a summer's morn, she sits serene, 
 
 With graceful sway, a fair, unrivalled queen ! 
 
 Who does not love the rose? Love's own sweet flower, 
 
 In courtly halls, or in the rustic bower ; 
 
 From the first moment when its vermeil glow 
 
 The timid rose-bud coy begins to show, 
 
 Through all its life, so sweet though yet so brief, 
 
 Till the last fragile, wan, and dying leaf 
 
 With perfumed sigh yields up its odorous breath, 
 
 And, a "pale ruin," gently lies in death. 
 
ROSES. 317 
 
 Love's own peculiar flower ! its magic tone 
 
 Needs no interpreter to make it known, 
 
 No mystic lore, no hidden skill or art, — 
 
 Its simple eloquence speaks to the heart ; 
 
 If joy or sorrow rule the passing hour, 
 
 The rose, the gentle rose, is love's peculiar flower. 
 
 'T was in the olden time, 
 
 Long centuries ago, 
 Ere yet the rose displayed 
 
 Its crimson or its snow, 
 From out fair Flora's court 
 
 A light-winged zephyr sped, 
 A herald to the sunbeams, 
 
 That golden glory shed, — 
 A herald to the breezes, 
 
 To the zephyrs of the flowers, 
 And a herald to the gentle rain, 
 
 That falls in diamond showers. 
 And the soft rain, and the breezes, 
 
 And the beams of golden sheen, 
 
118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 All hastened to the palace 
 
 Of the lovely floral queen. 
 And there, with strange observance, 
 
 With mystic spell and rite, 
 Sunbeams and zephyrs wrought by day, 
 
 The gentle rain by night : 
 The sunbeams wrought all silently, 
 
 The zephyrs gently blew, 
 And at eventide and morning, 
 
 Came the refreshing dew. 
 And every day came Flora, 
 
 And brought the rosy Hours, 
 To watch the growth and progress 
 
 Of the new and wondrous flowers. 
 And she set a fay to watch by day, 
 
 And one to watch by night, 
 To guard the plants from insects, 
 
 From mildew and from blight : 
 For there were evil spirits 
 
 That sought to do them ill, 
 And were always hovering round them, 
 
 To work their wicked will. 
 
ROSES. 119 
 
 But when the timid buds 
 
 Of soft and tender green 
 Amid the emerald leaflets 
 
 Just peeping out were seen, 
 And she should have watched with care 
 
 More earnest and more deep, 
 The little faithless fay 
 
 At night fell fast asleep. 
 And while soft slumber bound her 
 
 In fetters firm and strong, 
 The evil spirits hastened 
 
 To work the flowerets wrong : 
 They changed the colors in the buds, 
 
 And withered some away, 
 And some in spite they killed outright, 
 
 But fled at morning's ray : 
 And when the fay awoke, 
 
 She started with affright, 
 To find such mischief done 
 
 Within a single night. 
 When soon fair Flora came, 
 
 And saw the ruin wrought, 
 
120 .MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The careless fay she sent away, 
 
 And banished from her court. 
 And now the expanding buds 
 
 Sent forth a faint perfume, 
 And, bursting from each calyx, 
 
 Behold, the roses bloom ! 
 Thrilling with pride and joy, 
 
 Flora exulting stood 
 And gazed upon their beauty, 
 
 In most enraptured mood : 
 " Run, run, my little page," she cried, 
 
 " Bring all the courtiers here, 
 And we '11 distribute roses, 
 
 As best it may appear." 
 When all the court were met, 
 
 And had admiring gazed 
 Upon the lovely flowers, 
 
 And wondered much and praised, 
 Said Flora, " Yonder rose, 
 
 Whose leaf of purest snow 
 Most lovely and most fair 
 
 No spot or stain may show, 
 
ROSES. 121 
 
 I give to maidens young 
 
 Whose hearts are free from stain, 
 Guileless and innocent of sin, 
 
 Unconscious of its pain. 
 When the young trusting heart 
 
 A kindred heart has found, 
 And love has wove his fetters light 
 
 And the free spirit bound, 
 Then shall this perfumed flower, 
 
 Of love's own proper hue, 
 Celestial rosy red, 
 
 To the betrothed be due. 
 When by the altar's side 
 
 The solemn words are spoken, 
 And those sweet vows are said 
 
 That never may be broken, 
 The lovely blush rose laid aside, 
 
 The gentle wife must wear 
 The rose all clad in emerald moss, 
 
 Lovely beyond compare. 
 To her who 's lost the charm of life, 
 
 The fondest friend, the nearest, 
 
122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Though others may be fond and true, 
 
 The truest and the dearest, — 
 Unto the widowed heart I give, 
 
 Sad emblem of her grief, 
 This mourning rose of purple hue, 
 
 Of soft and velvet leaf. 
 To her, the fair and good, 
 
 The gentle, true, and kind, 
 The lovely, meek, and pure, 
 
 Of lofty soul refined, 
 Who, in her life's sweet spring, 
 
 Ere yet one hope might wither, 
 Hears a voice from on high, 
 
 Say to her ■ Come up hither ! ' 
 Who meekly, mildly bends 
 
 To drink the cup of death, 
 And with triumphant smile 
 
 Resigns her fleeting breath, 
 Pure spirit ! her I give 
 
 The sweetest flower that blows, — 
 Even angels on their radiant crowns 
 
 Might wear the thornless rose. 
 
ROSES. 123 
 
 To her, whose sad and bruised heart 
 
 Has known that deepest grief, 
 That pang for which art has no cure 
 
 And time brings no relief, 
 Who 's found the heart she leaned upon 
 
 A piercing broken reed, 
 And bitter, where she looked for sweet, 
 
 For honey, gall instead, 
 Whose fame the vile ones of the earth 
 
 Have basely sought to mar, 
 But vainly, — for 't is but a cloud 
 
 Before a radiant star, — 
 And yet who meekly bears her lot, 
 
 Whose heart, though bruised and broken, 
 Even in the dark night of despair 
 
 No murmuring word has spoken, 
 Whose virtues brighter, still more bright 
 
 The hours of life disclose, 
 True woman ! unto her I give, 
 
 The monthly cluster rose." 
 Now Flora looked with saddened eye 
 
 On the less lovely flowers, 
 
124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The evil sprites had marred or spoiled, 
 
 And, turning to the Hours, 
 Said she, " These flowers we must bestow 
 
 As symbols of displeasure, 
 Of some offences, errors, sins, 
 
 According to the measure. 
 To her who trifles with the hearts 
 
 That bow themselves before her, 
 And would desire them each and all 
 
 To worship and adore her, 
 And then with cold and ruthless hand 
 
 Quenches the kindled fire, 
 Heartless coquette ! to thee I give 
 
 The sweet and thorny brier. 
 By her, the false and faithless one, 
 
 Whose plighted word is broken, 
 I bid the striped rose be worn, 
 
 Of so great fault the token. 
 This other rose, whose blossoming buds 
 
 Bright yellow leaves unfold, 
 I give unto the sordid one 
 
 Who basely weds for gold. 
 
ROSES. 125 
 
 And she whose cold and icy heart 
 
 No ray of love e'er knows, 
 The current of whose selfish thoughts 
 
 In one small channel flows, 
 Meet emblem of herself, may wear 
 
 The unlovely marble rose. 
 Sanguinea ! dark and bloody red, 
 
 Thou unto her art given, 
 Who from a fellow-mortal's breast 
 
 The dear life-blood has riven ; 
 The crimson hue, that o'er thy leaves 
 
 So sadly, deeply stole, 
 Can never be so dark a stain 
 
 As dyes her very soul." 
 No more, there were no more to give, 
 
 Emblems of joy or woe, 
 At lovely Flora's palace, 
 
 Long centuries ago. 
 
126 
 
 DREAM-LAND, 
 
 The ancients believed that dreams were sent to mankind from under a 
 spreading elm-tree in the infernal regions, in the shade of which Somnus 
 and Morpheus usually sat ; that all good dreams came through the ivory 
 Sate, and all bad dreams through the gate of brass. 
 
 Methought I stood in a pleasant land, 
 
 By summer's cooling breezes fanned, 
 
 And I sat me down beneath the shade, 
 
 By a lofty elm-tree's branches made. 
 
 Not a sound disturbed the silent air, 
 
 But the sluggish stream that murmured there : 
 
 So quiet, so calm, so gently still, 
 
 That Fancy roved with an unchecked will, 
 
 And here, 'mid a grove of shadowy pine, 
 
 ToAhe god of Silence would build a shrine ; 
 
 And there, 'mid the yew-shades dark and deep, 
 
 An altar should rise to the god of Sleep ; 
 
DREAM-LAND. 127 
 
 And under the spreading elm-tree's shade, 
 
 Offerings to Morpheus should be made. 
 
 But, lo ! on the even's soft, balmy air, 
 
 The stars came forth in their beauty fair. 
 
 Methought that I heard a rushing sound, — 
 
 I started up, and I looked around, 
 
 When, behold ! through the darkened air I saw 
 
 A chariot slowly toward me draw. 
 
 In that chariot rode a lady bright, 
 
 Whose form was most lovely to the sight ; 
 
 Her ebon hair in loose tresses flowed, 
 
 By zephyrs kissed as she onward rode, 
 
 And " a world of meaning " seemed to lie 
 
 In the depths of her darkly brilliant eye. 
 
 A veil, with bright stars bespangled o'er, 
 
 Gracefully floating, the lady wore ; 
 
 Of ebony hue, a star-tipped wand, 
 
 She lightly bore in her snowy hand : 
 
 She gently smiled, as she passed me by, 
 
 And gracefully waved her wand on high. 
 
 And tiny figures thus gayly sung, 
 
 As the dew from their fairy wings they flung : 
 
128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Hail, hail to our queen ! all hail ! 
 
 Even's sweet hours 
 
 And the dewy flowers 
 Welcome her starry veil. 
 
 u Hail, hail ! our beauteous queen ! 
 
 Bright dews we fling 
 
 From each fairy wing 
 O'er earth's hills and valleys green. 
 
 " Hail, hail ! to our bright queen, hail ! 
 
 She waves her wand, 
 
 In her gentle hand, 
 O'er each mount and hill and vale. 
 
 " She gives to the traveller rest, 
 
 And the laborer's feet 
 
 His home may greet, 
 And with sweet repose be blest. 
 
 " For sorrow she brings a balm, 
 
 And the weeping eye 
 
 May in slumber lie, 
 And the troubled heart be calm." 
 
DREAM-LAND. 129 
 
 I watched the car as it rolled away, 
 Till the music died of that fairy lay. 
 I turned me back to the old elm-tree ; 
 I saw two figures, — who might they be 1 
 The face of the eldest was calm and mild 
 As the placid face of a sleeping child ; 
 Gravity, mingled with smiling grace, 
 Was seen in the younger's expressive face. 
 I listened, and heard the eldest say : 
 " Hearken, my son, and our queen obey ; 
 She has brought this mortal beneath our tree, 
 A lesson to learn from you and me. 
 O'er her eyes a spell will I throw, 
 That through our realms she may safely go ; 
 You shall show her such secrets of old, 
 As never before were to mortals told." 
 
 He waved his wand above my head, 
 And darkness over me seemed to spread ; 
 My hand in his the youngest drew, 
 And my vision again came clear and true : 
 Thousands of tiny forms seemed there, 
 Floating about in the ambient air. 
 9 
 
130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 11 Listen, O mortal ! " the youngest said, 
 
 " And learn on what errand these forms are sped. 
 
 Spirits, who watch around the bed 
 
 Where childhood pillows its innocent head, 
 
 Go, bear him visions of sunny hours, 
 
 Of bee, and bird, and of fragrant flowers ; 
 
 Let him chase the butterfly in its flight, 
 
 And play by cool waters, sparkling bright. 
 
 Haste on your message, the hour grows late, 
 
 Pass ye forth by the Ivory Gate." 
 
 These messenger spirits of peace and love 
 
 Had the snow-white wings of a gentle dove : 
 
 In their soft blue eyes shone a placid light, 
 
 As they darted away in joyous flight. 
 
 11 Spirits, who watch o'er the maiden fair, 
 Lifting the curls of her glossy hair, 
 Go, wave your bright wings above her head, 
 Sweetest of odors around her shed ; 
 Give her bright visions of love and truth, 
 Such as are meet for her stainless youth ; 
 Let her rove forth in the silent glade, 
 Where the spreading trees make a cooling shade ; 
 
DREAM-LAND. 131 
 
 Let her wander with him her heart holds dear, 
 Where the running rivulet sparkles clear ; 
 Let them twine a wreath of all fragrant flowers, 
 Such as are wove by the laughing Hours. 
 Haste on your message, the hour grows late, 
 Pass ye forth by the Ivory Gate." 
 Dove-like the wings that these spirits bore, 
 But a heavenly blue was the hue they wore. 
 
 11 Spirits, that gently and silently glide 
 To your stations around the good man's side, 
 Go, bid him dream of the hearts he has blest, 
 Of the weary to whom he has given rest ; 
 Let him hear rich blessings asked in prayer 
 By the widow and orphan gathered there ; 
 Let the lisping voice of childhood speak, 
 Let the tear of gratitude gem the cheek 
 Of the aged man, as he blesses him 
 Who shone like a light o'er his pathway dim. 
 Haste on your message, the hour grows late, 
 Pass ye forth by the Ivory Gate." 
 Wings like the bird of paradise bright 
 These spirits unfolded in their flight. 
 
132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Ye spirits, that watch and ward do keep. 
 Where the weary poet may bow to sleep, 
 Weave ye around him a spell of light, 
 Glorious visions of beauty bright; 
 Let him walk unseen amid the crowd, 
 Speaking his name in praises loud ; 
 Let him see his burning words of power 
 Kindling the heart in its darkest hour, 
 In the noontide of joy, in sorrow's shade, 
 Familiar as ' household words ' be made ; 
 Around his brow the green bay-wreath twine, 
 Whose leaves shall ne'er lose their glossy shine ; 
 Bid him closely study the human heart, 
 From the loftiest down to the lowest part : 
 Tell him to search, with the keenest look, 
 Through every leaf of fair Nature's book, 
 Till his mind expand, and his soul shall glow, 
 As torrents of knowledge shall o'er him flow ; 
 Rouse ye his heart, as ye over him float, 
 Till it seems to be stirred by a ' trumpet note/ 
 And he proudly vow to write his name 
 Highest of all in the scroll of Fame. 
 
DREAM-LAND. 133 
 
 Haste on your message, the hour grows late, 
 Pass ye forth by the Ivory Gate." 
 The spirits that proudly this message bore 
 Wings like the soaring eagle wore. 
 
 " Ye spirits, that love to hover nigh, 
 When the mother closes her watchful eye, 
 Bid her loving and gentle heart rejoice, 
 Let her hear the music of childhood's voice, 
 Let her fair-haired girl and her dark-eyed boy 
 Gather around her with smiles of joy ; 
 Let her prophet-eye fix an eager gaze 
 On the blissful scenes of coming days, 
 Till her cheek shall glow, and her heart shall beat 
 With the gushing tide of rapture sweet, 
 And all her trials and anxious care 
 Shall vanish away as in empty air. 
 Haste on your message, the hour grows late, 
 Pass ye forth by the Ivory Gate." 
 The beautiful spirits that floated by 
 With the wings of cherubim did fly. 
 
134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Many a gentle messenger sprite 
 Saw I speed forth in their gladsome flight : 
 Some to the sailor, who, firm and brave, 
 In his gallant ship crossed the ocean wave; 
 Some to the statesman of noble heart, 
 Spurning deceit's darkly subtle part, 
 Who solely sought for his country's good, 
 And in armor of truth undaunted stood : 
 But of all who were blessed I cannot tell, 
 They were only of those who had acted well. 
 Some frolic sprites I could not but spy, 
 Who wore the wings of a butterfly ; 
 These bore visions of playful mirth, 
 Loving to teaze the children of earth ; 
 They sought the merry, light-hearted, and free, 
 Filling their minds with visions of glee. 
 All these messengers, early and late, 
 Sped them forth through the Ivory Gate. 
 
 " Spirits, that darkly and silently creep, 
 Where the usurer lies in a troubled sleep, 
 Let visions of darkness before him rise, 
 Let him hear his victim's moaning cries, 
 
DREAM-LAND. 135 
 
 Let him see the widow and orphan there, 
 
 But not for a blessing, their desperate prayer ; 
 
 Let those he has robbed of home and all 
 
 For a bitter curse on the traitor call ; 
 
 Let him see, in the midnight dark and dread, 
 
 The savage robber beside his bed ; 
 
 Let sounds of such terror his slumbers shake, 
 
 That his heart shall fail, and his flesh shall quake, 
 
 And he dread, like an evil demon's power, 
 
 The terrible visions of midnight's hour. 
 
 Away on your message, the swift hours pass, 
 
 Speed ye forth by the Gate of Brass." 
 
 These darksome spirits had harpies' wings, 
 
 And venomed darts like scorpions' stings. 
 
 " Spirits, that round the murderer stand, 
 With a brother's blood on his red right hand, 
 Make a hateful curse of his dreaded sleep : 
 Let all loathsome reptiles around him creep, 
 Let the serpent hiss, the adder sting, 
 And cluster round him each noisome thing ; 
 Let the form of the dead before him rise, 
 With pale, pale face, and reproachful eyes, 
 
136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Till in terror and anguish he groan aloud, 
 And envy the dead in his pall and shroud. 
 Haste on your message, the swift hours pass, 
 Speed ye forth by the Gate of Brass." 
 With vultures' wings these spirits flew, 
 Ill-omened and dire, to their message true. 
 
 " Spirits, with wings of the blackest dye, 
 That ever the slanderer hover nigh, 
 Who plays a worse than murderer's part, 
 (For, in stabbing fair fame, he stabs the heart,) 
 Go, let him feel, in a vision dire, 
 That his own false tongue is a flame of fire, 
 Till its fierce and scorching blasts reveal 
 The pangs he has made another feel, 
 And he finds his black and treacherous heart 
 Is pierced by a keen and venomed dart. 
 Haste on your message, the swift hours pass, 
 Speed ye forth by the Gate of Brass." 
 Wings like the raven's, of blackest hue, 
 These spirits unfolded to my view. 
 
DREAM-LAND. 137 
 
 '■' Spirits, whose mission of dread and ill 
 Ye evermore hasten to fulfil, 
 Ye, who to punish the traitor go, 
 Who has mixed for his country a cup of woe, 
 Let him see, in his sleep, a nation's eyes 
 With looks of contempt before him rise ; 
 Wherever his treacherous gaze he turn, 
 There let it meet the ' finger of scorn ' ; 
 On the earth, the heavens, the sea's wide flow, 
 In letters of fire, let ' traitor ' glow ; 
 Let myriads of voices fill the air, 
 For ever shouting forth ' traitor ' there. 
 If the glance of despair on himself he turn, 
 There let him find the deepest scorn, 
 Till the reptile in dust shall grovelling lie, 
 And seek to conceal what can never die. 
 Haste on your message, the swift hours pass, 
 Speed ye forth by the Gate of Brass." 
 A dragon's wings these spirits wore, 
 Half-human, half-serpent, the forms they bore. 
 
 Crowds of these spirits I thus did see, 
 As I sat beneath the old elm-tree. 
 
138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Some to the guilty drunkard went, 
 
 On his own destruction madly bent ; 
 
 Vile and degraded, disgrace and shame 
 
 Must mingle for ever with his name. 
 
 Some to the fawning hypocrites flew, 
 
 The mean, sycophantic, crouching crew! 
 
 Some to defrauders, and worldly wise, 
 
 Some to the lovers and makers of lies. 
 
 Of those that were sent to the doers of ill, 
 
 All that I saw would a volume fill. 
 
 Some spirits were sent, with an aspect grave, 
 
 To sprinkle the dreamless with Lethe's wave. 
 
 While deeply I mused on each wondrous sight, 
 
 Methought I heard sounds of laughter light; 
 
 With somewhat of wonder my eyes I raised, 
 
 And the scene was fled on which I had gazed : 
 
 'T was no pleasant land, but my own small room, 
 
 Where the moon's bright beams pierced through the 
 
 gloom ; 
 But a glimpse I caught, in its startled flight, 
 Of the form of a butterfly-winged sprite. 
 
139 
 
 THE DEATHS OF JOSEPHINE AND NAPOLEON. 
 
 5 T was night ; upon her couch of death the royal Em- 
 press lay, 
 
 Her loving, kind, and gentle soul was soon to pass away ; 
 
 Her weeping children by her side in earnest prayer 
 knelt low, 
 
 And oft the deep, convulsive sob betrayed their bitter 
 woe. 
 
 The meek and reverend priest stood there, and soothed 
 the sorrowing band, 
 
 And spoke in accents calm and mild of the bright and 
 better land. 
 
 An angel-smile now lighted up her fair and lovely face, 
 
 Where pain and suffering seemed to shed a purer, 
 holier grace : 
 
140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "Weep not," she said, — her voice was faint as the 
 
 summer breeze's sigh, — 
 " And be not grieved, my gentle ones, that I so soon 
 
 must die ; 
 Cherish my memory within your faithful hearts and 
 
 true ; 
 For the best good of France I 've done all in my power 
 
 to do ; 
 I 've sought to soothe the mourner's grief, to calm the 
 
 sufferer's woe, 
 I never willingly have caused a single tear to flow; 
 And in my Saviour now I trust, whose love no words 
 
 may tell ; 
 My children, long and dearly loved ! kind, faithful 
 
 friends, farewell ! " 
 The last sweet, sadly solemn sounds died on the air 
 
 away, 
 And soon in calm and gentle sleep the lovely sufferer 
 
 lay; 
 While from the mourning group around no sound of 
 
 grief was heard, 
 Save when by some half-smothered sigh the air was 
 
 lightly stirred. 
 
THE DEATHS OF JOSEPHINE AND NAPOLEON. 141 
 
 There was not one who ever knew, not one who e'er 
 
 had seen, 
 But loved within their inmost heart the good, kind 
 
 Josephine. 
 The tearful suppliant never bent the knee to her in 
 
 vain, 
 Her heart was all too kind to see untouched another's 
 
 pain ; 
 To suffering want her open hand dispensed a liberal 
 
 store, 
 And daily was she blest in prayer by thousands of the 
 
 poor. 
 How could a spirit pure as hers earth's darker trials 
 
 know, 
 Drain to the dregs the bitterest cup of human grief and 
 
 woe? 
 How could a priceless love like hers be coldly cast 
 
 away, 
 And broken be the holiest vows a mortal man may say? 
 It was Ambition's ruthless hand which crushed the 
 
 gentlest heart 
 That ever 'mid the scenes of earth unsullied bore its 
 
 part; 
 
142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Reckless Ambition ! that attained its proudest, loftiest 
 
 height, 
 Then sunk with sudden, fearful speed in dark and 
 
 gloomy night. 
 Yet still the loving heart he broke, when high in 
 
 "pride of place," 
 Would willingly have shared his fall, imprisonment, 
 
 disgrace ; 
 When she who should have been with him, his younger, 
 
 fairer bride, 
 His fallen fortunes did not share, was absent from his 
 
 side. 
 O matchless in thy woman's love ! O high and pure of 
 
 heart ! 
 Earth had no more to keep thee here, — 't was better 
 
 to depart. 
 
 Wild is the tempest's fearful sweep 
 O'er the lone island of the deep ! 
 The maddened waves with mighty roar 
 Dash foaming on the rock-ribbed shore, 
 
THE DEATHS OF JOSEPHINE AND NAPOLEON. 143 
 
 Whose giant cliffs rise stern and high 
 And the wild tempest's rage defy. 
 Onward, in fierce, delirious wrath, 
 The storm-king sweeps his fearful path ; 
 The whirlwind rides on mighty wings, 
 And everywhere destruction brings. 
 Trees that for centuries have thriven, 
 Spreading their branches free and fair, 
 Now from the earth are wildly riven, 
 And scattered on the darkened air ; 
 The spreading willows' pensile boughs, 
 Beneath whose cool and grateful shade 
 The weary exile sat and mourned, 
 Are now in ruin lowly laid. 
 But, O ! the tempest's frightful power 
 Is all unheeded in this hour 
 By that small, tried, and faithful band 
 Around their monarch's couch who stand : 
 The appalling horrors of the storm 
 O'er them no deeper shade can fling ; 
 They see above their Master's form 
 The dark Death-angel's gloomy wing. 
 
144 3IISCELLANE0US POEMS. 
 
 Wild is the awful scene without, 
 Terrific is the tempest's din ! 
 More wild, more fearful, gloomier far, 
 The struggle of the soul within ! 
 
 3D 
 
 He who his blood-dyed flag unfurled 
 Victorious over half the world, — 
 Whom kings and princes bowed before, — 
 Who made the diadem Ire wore, — 
 Who like an idol was adored 
 As his proud army's " Victor Lord," — 
 Whose voice of power, whose very glance, 
 Shook to its heart the realm of France, — 
 Whose " star" had shed its brightest light 
 Only to set in deeper night, — 
 Who won the loftiest height of all, 
 That greater still might be his fall, — 
 Yes ! he who held the world in awe, 
 Whom, fallen, the earth in terror saw, 
 Is bending in this fearful hour 
 Before the last and greatest power, 
 Whose claims the highest heart of pride 
 May never, never set aside ! 
 
THE DEATHS OF JOSEPHINE AND NAPOLEON. 145 
 
 Hark ! from his parted lips what sound 
 Startles the weeping group around ? 
 Lo ! in his wild, delirious trance, 
 He raves of his beloved France ; 
 His spirit, busy with the strife, 
 The turmoil of a warrior's life, 
 Breaks forth into the battle-cry, 
 " Now, now ! Dessaix ! Massena ! fly ! 
 Ha! press them close! ours, ours the victory!" 
 Now the wild transports die away, 
 Gleams for a while a calmer ray ; 
 His wife, his son, his thoughts now claim, 
 Fondly he whispers each loved name. 
 While mourning for his Austrian queen, 
 Comes there no thought of Josephine ? 
 Wronged, slighted, in his height of power, 
 She is avenged in this dread hour. 
 His lofty mind grows dark and dim, 
 The cloud of death o'ershadows him ; 
 Again he wanders in the past; 
 These few faint words, they are his last, — 
 
 10 
 
146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He sees the battle's stormy fray, 
 
 Gives one faint shout of " Tete d'Armee! " 
 
 And then the dark eye's lightning fire, 
 
 Once so terrific in its ire, 
 
 So wondrous in its spell of power, 
 
 Death's dull, dark film now glazes o'er. 
 
 As a deep, heavy, sullen sound, 
 Above the tempest echoing round, 
 Told the last hour of dying day, 
 Napoleon's spirit passed away. 
 
14' 
 
 THE REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON'S REMAINS. 
 
 The sounding surge of the ocean's wave 
 
 Dashes against St. Helen's rock, 
 That stands like a warrior stern and brave, 
 
 Breasting the desperate shock ; 
 The crested billows to foam are lashed, 
 The stormy waters to spray are dashed, 
 
 But the rock frowns still and grim : 
 As a warrior cased in his plaited mail 
 Feels not the javelin's hurtling hail, 
 
 In the battle's rushing din. 
 
148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Meet is his tomb for the giant stern 
 
 Who strode o'er the prostrate world, 
 Who deluged the earth with a crimson stream, 
 
 Where his meteor-flag was unfurled. 
 Meet is his tomb ; with the dashing surge 
 Evermore sounding the ocean-dirge 
 
 Of the conqueror's lonely sleep ; 
 Meet tomb for the frame of the warrior bold, 
 Whose restless spirit earth might not hold, — 
 
 That isle on the rolling deep! 
 
 But who are these, in the midnight deep, 
 
 Thus gathered around his tomb I 
 And why does the light of the gleaming torch 
 
 Flare up through the sombre gloom? 
 They are friends, who were with him in days of power, 
 They are friends, who were with him in sorrow's hour, 
 
 But, behold ! what do they here 1 
 They have come for the dead ! the silent urn 
 Must yield up the dust of the warrior stern, 
 
 To whom nations bowed in fear. 
 
The hands of the laborers toil amain, 
 
 As the stars gleam forth on high ; 
 O Josephine ! does thy bright star shine 
 
 In the depths of the azure sky ? 
 The sun in the heavens shines full and bright, 
 And pours in the tomb a flood of light, 
 
 Ere they lay the colfin bare ; 
 And with trembling hands they have touched the urn, 
 And the hearts of the bravest within them burn, 
 
 For the mighty dead is there ! 
 
 The mighty dead ! in whose living hand 
 
 The fate of earth's kingdoms lay ; 
 And sceptres and crowns but playthings were, 
 
 Beneath his despot sway ; 
 And human blood but a stream of gore, 
 And human lives but sand on the shore 
 
 Of his ambition's sea ; 
 And the faithless breach of a promise made, 
 And the lofty and noble to death betrayed, 
 
 But a stroke of policy. 
 
150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 O, ever around the conqueror's path 
 
 Will throng the dazzled crowd, 
 And the ear of Heaven insulted be 
 
 With their plaudits long and loud ! 
 With the trumpet of fame they sing renown, 
 And they place on his brow the laurel crown, 
 
 And the knee before him bow. 
 But where is the homage and worship given, 
 When the power from the red right hand is riven, 
 
 And the crown from the haughty brow? 
 
 But other and loftier deeds were his 
 
 In his days of regal power, 
 And he left to the sunny land of France 
 
 A better and nobler dower, 
 And a brighter halo around his name 
 Than ever can shine from a warrior's fame, 
 
 Or a chieftain's high renown. 
 And his spirit is still abroad in France, 
 It has roused them once from their slumbering trance. 
 
 And stricken the tyrant down. 
 
THE REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON'S REMAINS. 151 
 
 There were million hearts that beat for him. 
 
 Who were valiant, tried, and true, 
 When the last and fatal blow Was struck 
 
 On the field of Waterloo ; 
 When he gave himself, in an evil hour, 
 A prisoner to a foreign power, 
 
 To an ungenerous foe. 
 And a faithful few were with him, while, 
 Like an eagle caged, on that sea-girt isle, 
 
 He pined beneath the blow. 
 
 They have opened the triple coffin now, — 
 
 Is it dust that they behold? 
 Why starts one back with a scream of joy, 
 
 As they raise the satin fold ? 
 Napoleon's self before them lies, 
 On the Emperor's form they fix their eyes, 
 
 On him almost adored ; 
 On his broad, high brow, with its placid light, 
 And his hands, like a lady's, small and white, 
 
 That wielded the gleaming sword. 
 
152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Deeply their hearts are within them stirred. 
 
 And their eyes are filled with tears, 
 For that placid' face is hardly changed 
 
 By the sleep of twenty years ; 
 From his eye the warrior's fire has fled, 
 And a smile on the lip of the silent dead 
 
 Seems of inward peace to speak; 
 O, there are hallowed moments, when, 
 To the bravest hearts and the strongest men, 
 
 Tears are no longer weak ! 
 
 They have closed the warrior dust from view, 
 
 They have left St. Helen's shore, 
 And France from his English foes receives 
 
 Her gallant son once more. 
 They have laid him beneath the drooping fold 
 Of the crimson pall inwrought with gold, 
 
 The Eagle and the Star ; 
 With burning lights around him placed, 
 With pomp and pageantry embraced, 
 
 He is borne to his rest afar. 
 
153 
 
 He is placed again upon the shore 
 
 Of his beloved France, 
 And a million hearts their triumph show 
 
 In the dark eye's flashing glance. 
 And myriad eyes have watched for him, 
 From the first pale ray of the morning dim, 
 
 Till the sun rose high and bright ; 
 And the funeral pomp and the mourning train 
 Of gallant vessels passed up the Seine, 
 
 Bathed in a flood of light. 
 
 And thousands of brave and gallant men, 
 
 Their country's strength and stay, 
 For the bravest soldier France might boast 
 
 Waited and watched this day. 
 Yet once again 't is the solemn night, 
 When, by the torches' gleaming light, 
 
 A manly form is seen, 
 With stately head, and pallid brow, 
 Kneeling before the coffin low, 
 
 With dark and troubled mien. 
 
154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He* is a warrior who has fought 
 
 On many a battle-field, 
 And in the sternest conflict hour 
 
 Would rather die than yield. 
 But he kneels his monarch's form beside, 
 And memory's flood with a rushing tide 
 
 O'erwhelms him with its power, 
 Unseals in his heart the mighty deep, 
 And as warlike men alone can weep, 
 
 So weeps he in this hour. 
 
 And those around him awe-struck stand, 
 
 For his grief is stern and strong, 
 And he strives not to hide his anguish deep 
 
 From the mutely gazing throng. 
 If the heart by the coffined dead be stirred, 
 Till in trumpet tones it will be heard, 
 
 What power had the living form ? 
 If the bravest warriors powerless kneel, 
 » And the heaving chest, and tears, reveal 
 
 The mastery of the storm ? 
 
 Marshal Soult. 
 
THE REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON'S REMAINS. 155 
 
 But the scene again is changed, and now, 
 
 In royal pomp and state, 
 Beneath the Invalides' proud dome 
 
 Monarch and people wait ; 
 'T is a solemn and a stately sight, 
 The sable draperies dark as night, 
 
 The gloomy grandeur there ; 
 Proud banners from the well fought field, 
 Where sternest foes were taught to yield, 
 
 Are waving on the air. 
 
 Each pillar some high trophy bears, 
 
 Telling Napoleon's fame, 
 And the laurel wreath is still entwined 
 
 Around the conqueror's name ; 
 And the tricolor proudly gleams 
 Amid the thousand darting beams 
 
 Of pale and silvery light, 
 As when, on some stern battle day, 
 'T was foremost borne amid the fray, 
 
 First in the stormy fight. 
 
156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thousands beneath the lofty dome 
 
 Have prayed to see this hour, 
 And many a brave old soldier there, 
 
 In bygone days of power, 
 Oft drew for him the gleaming sword, 
 Bade nations own their " Victor Lord 
 
 On many a triumph-day, 
 Despising wounds, despising death, 
 And counting life but idle breath, — 
 
 Such his all-potent sway. 
 
 And one,* by age and suffering bent, 
 
 For this has lingered here, 
 To gaze within the realm of France 
 
 Upon his master's bier. 
 O, 't is a goodly sight, I ween, 
 The stately pomp, the solemn scene ! 
 
 And the holy bishop stands, 
 With reverent mien, in silence there, 
 And eyes upraised, as if in prayer, 
 
 And clasped and lifted hands. 
 
 * Marshal Moncey. 
 
THE REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON'S REMAINS. 157 
 
 But hark ! what sound on the silence breaks, 
 
 Startling the listening ear? 
 The deep-toned cannon's thunder-voice 
 
 Tells that Napoleon 's here ! 
 Onward the funeral pageant comes, 
 With the long, deep roll of the muffled drums, — 
 
 A sadly solemn sound ; 
 And the hearts of the myriad crowd, that wait 
 To gaze on the funeral pomp and state, 
 
 Beat with a quicker bound. 
 
 O, 't is a proud, yet mournful hour, 
 
 To those, the true and tried, 
 Who stood, in victory, woe, and death, 
 
 Fast by their master's side ! 
 Faithful, when, round that lonely isle, 
 Earth's trembling kings kept watch the while, 
 
 O'er one lone, captive form, 
 With Argus-eyed and jealous care, — 
 For more they feared the spirit there, 
 
 Than the earthquake or the storm. 
 
15S MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 
 
 Through the long line of warrior-kings 
 
 The monarch's dust hath passed : 
 Stood they not there to wait for him, 
 
 The mightiest and the last? 
 Did not their spirits, hovering there, 
 Gaze, viewless, from the silent air, 
 
 Upon that long array? 
 Napoleon ! did thy spirit then 
 Claim mastery o'er the souls of men, 
 
 And hold their hearts in s\\ 
 
 They pass, with slow and stately step, 
 
 His own proud dome beneath, 
 In holy silence stand the throng, 
 
 With stillness as of death ; 
 Till trembling music round them floats, 
 Low, sweet, harmonious angel-notes 
 
 Soft wailing in the air ! 
 'T is the requiem for the silent dead ; 
 By the holy bishop the mass is said, 
 
 And the solemn, thrilling prayer. 
 
'T is over ; regal pomp and state 
 
 Alike have passed away, 
 The homage to the kingly dead, 
 
 The pageant of a day. 
 But who with prophet eye shall look 
 In the dim future's unseen book, 
 
 Its mystic language find ? 
 Or tell what spirit shall arise 
 From where his form in silence lies, 
 
 To bless or blast mankind? 
 
160 
 
 TIME, THE HUNTER. 
 
 There were hunters bold in the days. of old, 
 
 Say legend, lay, and rhyme, 
 But no hunter there can ever compare 
 
 With that stern old hunter, — Time. 
 He rouses his game both early and late, 
 
 In darkness as well as in light, 
 And stealthily, silently, follows he, 
 
 He follows by day and by night. 
 
 Death and Decay are his hounds alway, 
 The hounds of old Hunter Time ; 
 
 And he follows them fast as the rushing blast, 
 In every age and clime. 
 
TIME, THE HUNTER. 161 
 
 'T is in vain to fly, 't is in vain to hide, 
 
 His hounds are fleet and their scent is true, 
 
 And earth has no place in all its bounds 
 That may hide his prey from view. 
 
 No bugle-blast goes sounding past, 
 
 As the Hunter hurries by, 
 No trampling steed, with furious speed, 
 
 No shouts that rend the sky : 
 No deep-mouthed bay from his hounds is heard, 
 
 As with silent feet they spring ; 
 The Hunter utters no view halloo, 
 
 As he stretches his tireless wing. 
 
 The whole earth's bound is his hunting-ground, 
 
 And all things are his prey, 
 And the mighty and vast must fall at last 
 
 'Neath the fangs of stern Decay, 
 And Death shall seize on the fairest form 
 
 That ever on earth has shone ; 
 And they vie in the speed of the fearful chase, 
 
 As the Hunter urges them on. 
 11 
 
162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But the day will be, when the Hunter shall flee 
 
 Before a mightier power ; 
 And Death and Decay shall vanish away 
 
 In that solemn and dreadful hour, 
 When the angel shall stand with one foot on the sea, 
 
 And one on the trembling shore, 
 And utter the awful and dread command, 
 
 That Time shall be no more ! 
 
163 
 
 THE TWO TREES 
 
 In a green and lowly valley 
 
 Stood a fair and graceful tree, 
 And among its drooping branches 
 
 Many a warbler carolled free. 
 
 Underneath its pleasant shadow, 
 
 In the summer sunset hours, 
 Danced the gallant youths and maidens, 
 
 Crowned with wreaths of blooming flowers 
 
 Hither from life's toil and labor 
 
 Oft the aged came to rest ; 
 Flying feet of sportive children 
 
 On the velvet greensward pressed. 
 
164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There they wove the wild-flower garland 
 On the pleasant morn of May, 
 
 And they raised their glad young voices, 
 Warbling many a joyous lay. 
 
 Near that tree the bubbling waters 
 Ever sparkled in their flow, 
 
 O'er the white and shining pebbles 
 Murmuring soft, and sweet, and low. 
 
 Wandering breezes perfume-laden 
 Played around that favorite tree, 
 
 Breathing through its soft green foliage 
 Pleasant airs of mirth and glee. 
 
 All around that gentle valley 
 Lofty hills rose proud and high, 
 
 Piercing with their crested summits 
 Through the clear and bright blue sky. 
 
 On the loftiest peak full proudly, 
 And with giant arms outspread, 
 
THE TWO TREES. 165 
 
 All its green leaves waving freely, 
 A sturdy oak upreared its head. 
 
 Oft it gazed on scenes of beauty, 
 
 On the wide and verdant plain, 
 Village church and busy hamlet, 
 
 Waving fields of ripened grain. 
 
 In its strong and sturdy branches 
 
 Oft the eagle built its nest, 
 And the mountain torrent thundered 
 
 O'er the rough rock's rugged crest. 
 
 Many years the storm outbraving, 
 
 Laughing all its power to scorn, 
 It had seen its weaker brethren 
 
 By the whirlwind rent and torn. 
 
 As some rich man, high in station, 
 
 Gazes with disdain and scorn 
 On his less exalted neighbour, 
 
 Lowlier placed, or lowlier born : 
 
166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 • 
 
 So the oak, for many a season, 
 With contempt and haughty pride 
 
 Viewed the tree that in the valley 
 Grew the rippling stream beside. 
 
 This world's wealth is vain and fleeting, 
 
 Pride oft goes before a fall, 
 And the sudden rushing tempest 
 
 Oft will stoutest hearts appall. 
 
 And one day the muttering thunder 
 
 Through the heaven's wide arches rolled, 
 
 And the fiercely flashing levin 
 
 Rent the black cloud's massy fold. 
 
 All the rock-cliff shook and trembled 
 At the sound of fear and dread, 
 
 Shrunk the streamlet, paused the torrent. 
 Leaping from its rocky bed. 
 
 As the pure and humble-minded 
 Unto sorrow meekly bow, 
 
THE TWO TREES. 167 
 
 Not against the storm contending 
 Which has power to lay them low : 
 
 So the elm-tree, humbly bending, 
 Stood with garments torn and rent, 
 
 In the valley lowly drooping, 
 
 All its branches bowed and bent. 
 
 But its root was all uninjured, 
 
 And its heart was strong and true, 
 
 And a day of pleasant sunshine 
 Might its outward form renew. 
 
 But the oak-tree, high and haughty, 
 When the storm-cloud passed away, 
 
 Shivered, blackened, torn, and blasted, 
 All its boughs in ruin lay. 
 
 Its proud heart was crushed and broken, 
 
 All its bravery was gone : 
 Such the fate of scornful proud ones, 
 
 Trusting in themselves alone. 
 
168 
 
 SONG OF THE MERMAIDS. 
 
 There rose a burst of music wild, a sweet and mourn- 
 ful strain, 
 
 It floated with the summer breeze across the heaving 
 main ; 
 
 Dirge-like and low the solemn notes came to the start- 
 led ear, 
 
 Hut in their soul-subduing strain there was no tone of 
 fear. 
 
 No trumpet's note, no pealing drum, no widely echoing 
 
 horn : — 
 Far different sounds from those of earth were on those 
 
 breezes borne : — 
 T was music, from their winding shells, by mourning 
 
 mermaids played ; 
 For a gallant, brave, and noble form to his rest was 
 
 lowly laid ; 
 
SONG OF THE MERMAIDS. 169 
 
 And still, soft voices filled each pause the thrilling 
 notes between, 
 
 And plaintively his dirge was sung by minstrels all un- 
 seen. 
 
 " He shall softly sleep in our grotto bright, 
 Lit by the pearls' and the diamonds' light ; 
 Of the coral fair shall be made his bed, 
 And each varied tint shall its beauty shed. 
 
 11 The pale sea-flowers on his couch we lay, 
 Dripping all fresh with the ocean's spray ; 
 And we strew them above his lonely bier, 
 That in calmness he may repose him here. 
 
 " For quenched is the light of his brilliant eye, 
 
 No gem could that living light supply ; 
 
 And his glorious brow is not less fair 
 
 Than the foam's light wreath on his raven hair. 
 
 " And his manly heart is now still and cold, 
 Closely embraced in death's icy fold : 
 
170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There are those that for him will sigh and weep ; 
 No grief will disturb his tranquil sleep. 
 
 " There may storms arise, but he '11 heed them not, 
 They have no power in our quiet grot, 
 And the waves of old ocean sweep gently by, 
 With a calmer voice, as they linger nigh. 
 
 " O, soft be his sleep, till, as legends say, 
 Ocean and earth shall both pass away ! 
 O, soft be his sleep, and free from alarms, 
 A child of the earth in ocean's arms ! " 
 
 Again there rose that music wild, that sweetly mourn- 
 ful strain, 
 
 Then died as with the wind's last breath it floated o'er 
 the main. 
 
171 
 
 THE RIVER OF TEMPERANCE 
 
 'T was once a slender fountain, 
 
 And bleeding hearts its source ; 
 Now a mighty rolling river, 
 
 It sweeps its onward course. 
 It pours its sun-lit waters, 
 
 A deep, resistless tide ; 
 And many a country's daughters 
 
 Watch it with joy and pride. 
 
 Its banks are green and pleasant, 
 Its waters bright and pure ; 
 
 By its side dwell prince and peasant, 
 The rich man and the poor. 
 
1T2 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 It calms the fevered spirit, 
 It cools the burning brow, 
 
 And those hidden fires it quenches, 
 Deep in the heart that glow. 
 
 It brings the joyless mourner 
 
 Hope, heart, and courage high, 
 And it mocks the soulless scorner 
 
 With springs that never dry. 
 Roll on, thou mighty river, 
 
 Unchecked, unbounded be ; 
 Nor cease thou thy course for ever, 
 
 Till the last soul is free ! 
 
173 
 
 WE LOVED HIM.' 
 
 On his tomb were inscribed the simple but eloquent words. — « We 
 loved him." 
 
 We loved him ! — O, how beautiful, 
 How tender, and how true ! 
 
 How full of blessed memories 
 Those simple words and few ! 
 
 We loved him ! — 'T is a father's tomb 
 
 The holy record bears ; 
 A father passed away from earth 
 
 And all its weary cares. 
 
 We loved him ; — on his lofty brow 
 Truth's signet seal was set, 
 
 And in his high and noble heart 
 All manly virtues met. 
 
174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 We loved him ; — generous, yet just, 
 Most kind when seeming stern ; 
 
 We weep above his hallowed dust 
 Within this sacred urn. 
 
 We loved him, while upon this eartli 
 He did his Father's will ; 
 
 To us remains the blessed hope 
 In heaven to love him still. 
 
175 
 
 THE EARTH AND THE MOON. 
 
 High sat the queenly moon 
 
 Upon her golden throne, 
 The glittering courtier stars around 
 
 In jewelled vestures shone. 
 
 She gazed upon the earth, 
 That fair beneath her lay ; 
 
 The earth in silent beauty slept 
 Beneath her royal sway. 
 
 The flowers had closed their lids, 
 The birds had ceased to sing, 
 
 And rested on each drooping spray 
 With weary, folded wing. 
 
176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 What did the sons of earth 
 
 Beneath the moon's bright beams ? 
 
 Some like the flowers all peaceful slept, 
 Some lay in frightful dreams. 
 
 She saw the city's watch 
 
 Faithless in slumber fall, 
 And in the low, degraded street 
 
 The frequent, midnight brawl. 
 
 Of lawless pleasure's cup 
 Some madly drank amain ; 
 
 But, O ! how bitter were the dregs, 
 How full of woe and pain ! 
 
 Some lay on beds of state, 
 And vainly sought repose ; 
 
 Some waited round the sufferer's couch, 
 The dying eye to close. 
 
 The student o'er his books 
 Bent by the taper's light, 
 
THE EARTH AND THE MOON. 177 
 
 With fevered cheek and pallid brow 
 And eye too wildly bright. 
 
 Few were the eyes to heaven 
 
 Upraised in silent prayer, 
 But of those whose hearts in vain might strive 
 
 With grief too great to bear. 
 
 And a veil of soft, dark clouds 
 
 The moon around her drew, 
 And the sorrows and the sins of men 
 
 Were hidden from her view. 
 
 12 
 
ITS 
 
 DIRGE 
 
 A diiu;e is sounding in mine ears, 
 
 Solemn, and sweet, and low, 
 Soft notes of heavenly harmony 
 
 Blent with earth's sounds of woe. 
 
 The moaning of my dying child, 
 
 A voice of grief and pain, 
 Comes wailing through the silent air, 
 
 A deeply mournful strain ! 
 
 A dirge, a solemn-sounding dirge, 
 
 It ever moaneth on, 
 And mine eyes are filled with fruitless tears 
 
 For her whose rest is won. 
 
DIRGE. 179 
 
 Spirit of music ! is it thou 
 
 From whence these soft notes flow ? 
 
 And mournest thou in soul-like strains 
 Thy votaress lying low ? 
 
 Daughter of music ! from the earth 
 
 Thy soul of song is riven ; 
 Thou art gone with thy clear and flute-like voice 
 
 To join the choir of heaven. 
 
 Sound on, thou melancholy dirge, 
 
 Be ever sounding on ! 
 For she, whose voice was melody, 
 
 From our saddened hearth is gone. 
 
180 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S SIGH. 
 
 "Thou child with shadowy hair, 
 And darkly fringed blue eye, 
 
 Dim with the unshed tears, 
 Clouds in a summer sky, — 
 
 " Why art thou not with those 
 Whose frolic-bound ing feet 
 
 Over the flower-gemmed sward 
 Are dancing light and fleet? 
 
 " Why turnest thou away 
 
 From joyous, youthful bands ? 
 
 Why meekly o'er the breast 
 
 Dost fold thy small white hands? 
 
childhood's sigh. 181 
 
 " What sorrow may be thine, 
 
 Thou beautiful and mild ? 
 What grief to thee severe 1 
 
 Tell me, O gentle child ! " 
 
 The fair child spake no word, 
 
 No voice came floating by, — 
 The air was only stirred 
 
 With a deep and troubled sigh. 
 
 More eloquent than speech. 
 
 More sad, more mournful far, 
 Than tears which lightly fall, 
 
 And soon forgotten are, — 
 
 Language most deeply sad, 
 
 Is gentle childhood's sigh, 
 Touching the hidden spring 
 
 Of tender sympathy. 
 
 Fair childhood ! thou shouldst be 
 Gay as the flying hours; 
 
1S2 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And ev'n thy very tears, 
 But dew upon the flowers. 
 
 O, not within thy heart 
 
 Should live that grief untold, 
 
 Which speaks but in a sigh ! 
 
 " Sighs are for hearts grown old." 
 
 Sighs are for those who know 
 The weary, wasting strife, 
 
 The false and fleeting show 
 Of the mirage-land of life : 
 
 Sighs are for those who mourn 
 Affection's trust betrayed, 
 
 The mockery of truth, 
 And lofty hopes low laid : 
 
 Who have grown old in grief, — 
 It is for these thou art, 
 
 Sad, melancholy sigh ! 
 Voice of the heavy heart ! 
 
childhood's sigh. 183 
 
 Language woe-fraught as this 
 
 Sweet childhood should not know ; 
 
 But the clear spring of joy 
 In music tones should flow. 
 
 And joyous hopes should glow, 
 
 In iris colors bright, 
 Around each youthful brow, 
 
 A coronal of light. 
 
 For us there is a land, 
 
 A better, happier shore, 
 Where sighs shall flee away, 
 
 And sorrow be no more. 
 
184 
 
 A SCENE IN ENGLAND 
 
 Wild raves the wintry wind, 
 The arrowy sleet pours fast, 
 
 While the vexed spirit of the storm 
 Flies moaning on the blast. 
 
 Haste to your happy homes, 
 
 Haste to your hearth's warm glow, 
 
 Haste to the ease which ye perchance 
 May not deserve to know ; 
 
 Ye, on whom fortune smiles, 
 And sheds her genial ray, 
 
 Who deem that clouds can never rise 
 To shroud in gloom your day ; 
 
A SCENE IN ENGLAND. 185 
 
 Upon your soft, warm couch, 
 
 Upon your downy bed, 
 Ye may repose your weary limbs, 
 
 Or rest your aching head ; 
 
 But here, in this lone cot 
 
 Ye pass unheeded by, 
 Children of poverty and want 
 
 Have laid them down to die. 
 
 Cold is their bed and damp, 
 
 They have no food, no fire ; 
 Life's ebbing current fainter flows, 
 
 Its last cold waves retire. 
 
 Who sits beside their couch 
 
 With woe-worn, wasted form, 
 His thin cheek marked by famine's hand, 
 
 By sorrow's bitter storm ? 
 
 He is the father of those boys ; 
 Has he no power to save ? 
 
186 MISCELLANEOUS POE3IS. 
 
 His hand is impotent to snatch 
 Those loved ones from the grave. 
 
 One wasted hand is hid 
 In his wildj flowing hair, 
 
 And in his fixed and hollow eyes 
 There sits a calm despair. 
 
 One faintly murmured prayer, 
 One low and shuddering moan, 
 
 And those emancipated souls 
 To a better world are gone. 
 
 Yet from their father's eyes 
 There falls no tear of grief, 
 
 No heavy, sorrow-laden sigh 
 Gives his worn heart relief. 
 
 But still and calm the voice 
 In which his words are said, 
 
 Though fearful in their import stern, 
 " Thank God that they are dead ! 
 
A SCENE IN ENGLAND. 187 
 
 " Think ye I loved them not, 
 
 Because I do not weep? 
 Because 1 thank the God of heaven, 
 
 That cold in death they sleep ? 
 
 " To see what I have seen, 
 
 To feel what I have felt, 
 A heart as nether millstone hard 
 
 Would into softness melt. 
 
 " Could ye have seen their forms 
 
 Shrink, pine, and waste away ; 
 Could ye have seen gaunt famine's grasp 
 
 Press closer day by day ; 
 
 " Could ye have seen them starve, 
 
 Ay, starve, for want of bread, 
 Ye would exclaim, as I do now, 
 
 ' Thank God that they are dead ! ' 
 
 " How can I mourn their loss ? 
 How can I shed a tear ? 
 
188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Life, from their cradle to their grave, 
 Was cold, and dark, and drear." 
 
 The rich man's palace towereth high 
 The poor man's hut beside, 
 
 And mingled with the wail of woe 
 Are songs of mirth and pride. 
 
 At wealth and luxury's festal board 
 The high-born guests have stood, 
 
 Nor heard starvation's fearful cry 
 Of "Give us bread or blood !" 
 
 O England ! selfish, vain, 
 Haughty, and high of heart, 
 
 How like a whited sepulchre, 
 Proud hypocrite, thou art ! 
 
189 
 
 THE MAIDENS AND THE LEAVES 
 
 On the grassy banks of the winding Charles 
 
 Stood two gentle maidens fair ; 
 And their youthful voices in joyous tones 
 
 Rung out on the breezy air. 
 
 One had locks the hue of the raven's wing, 
 When the sunbeams on it glance ; 
 
 And an eye that a poet might have borne 
 " In the days of Young Romance." 
 
 And a fair, pale face, and a marble brow, 
 
 That told of the noble mind 
 Which lay, like a brilliant and sparkling gem, 
 
 In that beautiful form enshrined. 
 
190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The other was formed in a different mould, 
 
 And the wandering zephyrs flew 
 Through her waving tresses of shadowy gold, 
 
 And her laughing eye was blue. 
 
 Her winning smile and her gleeful glance 
 
 Like a beam of sunshine fell ; 
 Making the saddest heart rejoice, 
 
 Like some sweet, bewitching spell. 
 
 And her gifted mind shone brightly out 
 
 In her fair and youthful face, 
 And the charm of a kind and a gentle heart 
 
 Shed around her a lovely grace. 
 
 But what were they doing beside that stream, 
 
 With its waters sparkling bright? 
 They were casting green leaves on its bosom fair, 
 
 And watching their onward flight. 
 
 They named each leaf for some gallant youth 
 That sued for their hearts, I ween ; 
 
THE MAIDENS AND THE LEAVES. 191 
 
 And his fate, in the rapid and fitful course 
 Of the hurrying leaf, was seen. 
 
 And woe to the youth whose leaf was caught 
 
 In the whirling eddies' flow ; 
 Or stopped by the clustering pebbles small, 
 
 Or bruised on the rocks below ! 
 
 But joy to the youth whose fragile leaf 
 
 The arrowy current bore 
 Safe through its dangers and perils dark, 
 
 To the smooth and sandy shore ! 
 
 But while they were watching those floating leaves, 
 
 O, why did their looks grow sad, 
 And their voices take such a deep, low tone, 
 
 That erst were so gay and glad 1 
 
 They were thinking, the soul of man, alas ! 
 
 Like a leaf to the current given, 
 Has many a struggle with evil powers 
 
 That would bar its way to heaven. 
 
' MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 'T is too often wrecked on the rocks of Pride, 
 
 Or lost in the gulfs of Passion ; 
 Or prisoned among the thousand snares 
 
 Of a vain and worldly Fashion. 
 
 O, happy the souls that reach the shore, 
 
 All their perils safely past, 
 Their troubles, their toils, and their dangers o'er, 
 
 And their haven reached at last ! 
 
 And the two fair girls, with thoughtful brows, 
 
 And with wiser hearts, I ween, 
 With gentle looks, and with quiet steps, 
 
 Turned away and left the scene. 
 
193 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES 
 
 'T is not amid the crowd, the strife, 
 The tumult and the care of life, 
 
 Its vain desires and turmoil vain, 
 Its hopes, that, like the inconstant moon 
 
 Now brightly wax, now feebly wane, 
 Appear and disappear as soon, — 
 
 Not then the heart attuned to love 
 Rises the cold, dark world above. 
 
 Not when the soul in selfish aim, 
 
 In narrow, sensual desire, 
 Forgets the source from whence it came, 
 
 And smouldering lies the ethereal fire, 
 13 
 
194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 That heavenly hopes and wisdom's fears 
 Should have kept bright through countless years,- 
 Not then the dull perception feels 
 The glory that high heaven reveals. 
 
 Free from wild passion's evil stain, 
 Free from the fetter and the chain, 
 
 Free from the thousand cords that bind, 
 Free from the utter selfishness 
 
 Around the very heart-strings twined, 
 And crushing all their power to bless, — 
 So must the heart and soul be free, 
 Diviner life than this to see. 
 
 The outer beauty of the earth, 
 
 The brilliant glory of the heaven, 
 To him who thinks them little worth, 
 To see them all may yet be given ; 
 But closed his ear and closed his eye 
 Unto an inner life more high ; — 
 His spirit bends not at the shrine 
 Whence flows a harmony divine. 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. 195 
 
 But when the soul in holy love 
 Is lifted earthly cares above, 
 
 When in the heart there lives no thought 
 An angel's self might blush to own, 
 
 When all the feelings finely wrought, 
 Mingle in love's accordant tone, — 
 
 'T is then the soul enraptured hears 
 The heavenly music of the spheres. 
 
 As, floating through ethereal space, 
 
 All in appointed orbits turn, 
 In glorious light their paths they trace, 
 And with divine effulgence burn ; — 
 Harmonious since the birth of time 
 The measured movement of their chime, 
 Its deep, eternal music rings 
 High anthem to the King of kings. 
 
 Few, few the wondrous strains have heard, 
 But all the inmost being stirred, 
 
 And with mysterious rapture filled, 
 Have felt as life divine were given, 
 
196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 As if their hearts like harp-strings thrilled 
 Responsive to the choir of heaven ; — 
 Only the free, pure spirit hears 
 The heavenly music of the spheres. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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