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THE FOE T'S QUEST 
 
 OTHER POExMS. 
 
 Bv CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 
 
 N E W-Y O R K : 
 PUBLISHED BY CASSERLY & SONS, 
 
 NO. 108 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 1841. 
 
f5 12^^ 
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress in the 3'car 1840, by 
 
 CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 
 
 in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States of the 
 
 Southern District of New- York. 
 
 Alex. S. Gould, Printer, No. 144 Nassau-street, N. Y. 
 
The principal poem in tliis little volume was, nearly 
 t\vo years ago, prepared for the press at tlie earnest 
 request of a very dear friend — the late James Craufurd 
 LivinXtSton ; and is now published in fulfilment of a pro- 
 mise to the Dead — yet not without the hope of approbation 
 from the Living. 
 
TO 
 
 A callow bird, tliat from liie parent nest 
 Had fallen, helpless lay upon the ground ; 
 And there the weak and shivering thing was found 
 By one who kindly warmed it on her breast ; 
 And who, to give the little trembler rest, 
 Built it a home amid her garden", where 
 It felt the genial sun and balmy air, 
 And peace and joy once more its heart possessed. 
 " But, lady, how," the grateful birdling cried, 
 " Can I e'er make thee recompense ? To me 
 To ply the silk-worm's art it is denied, 
 Or sweets to hoard like the industrious bee. 
 I can but sing ! Yet thou wilt not despise 
 What the heart prompts, though couched in humble guise." 
 
 1» 
 
^mn ipcDn^iF^^ (gwn^^c 
 
 The page of life is aye the same. 
 
 But that which seems to eye of youth 
 
 A gUttering scroll of Love and Fame, 
 
 Of Honour and of Truth, 
 To him whom Time hath rightly taught to read 
 Its mystick lines — is Vanity indeed ! 
 
 I late beheld a thoughtless child 
 
 That did right eagerly pursue 
 
 The down, which on the breezes wild, 
 
 Boyond him ever flew. 
 How like to Love that thistle down ! methought. 
 So hard to win ! so little worth when caught ! 
 
 And then, of bootless toil not grown 
 Yet weary, turned he to pursue 
 A ball from pipe of urchin blown ; — 
 And that escaped him too. 
 I sighed to think with man it is the same — 
 Now lured by Love — now by the bubble Fame. 
 
THE POETS QUEST. 
 
 O Love and Fame ! to whom my soul 
 With all its noblest powers did bow ; 
 Who could my heart's strong tides control 
 How do I prize you now ? 
 
 As water poured upon the sand — a gleam 
 Of falling star — a scarce remembered dream ! 
 
 Alas ! my life has been a dream ! 
 
 And time, for better things bestowed, 
 
 With me, like sluggish woodland stream. 
 
 Hath onward idly flowed ; 
 Bearing, among the weeds upon its bosom. 
 Full many a withered leaf and blighted blossom. 
 
 And yet, of even the busiest life, 
 How much is spent — though wasted not — 
 In dreams ? when sorrow, toil and strife 
 Are for a while forgot — 
 
 Or when even to those very clouds are given 
 
 The sunset glories of a summer even ? 
 
 And sad, indeed, the lot of him 
 
 Who cannot hope to dream again ; 
 
 Whose future is nor bright nor dim ; 
 
 Present — nor joy nor pain ; 
 Whose heart, which erst o'crflowed witii tenderness, 
 Is arid now, and cold and passionless ! 
 
THE POETS QUEST. 
 
 Such lot is mine ! My dream is past ! 
 
 The fabrick by my fancy reared 
 
 Is on the earth in ruins cast ; 
 
 Even hope hath disappeared ; 
 And in my graveward path is left to me 
 Companion none, save mocking memory ! 
 
 O bright-eyed Hope ! and Memory, 
 
 The pale and sorrovi^ful ! Ye are 
 
 To voyagers on Life's rough sea 
 
 Their morn and evening star. 
 Or rather, ye are but the shadow^s cast 
 By travellers o'er the future and the past. 
 
 For when we forth at morning tide. 
 To journey westward with the sun. 
 Our shadows, like a faithful guide. 
 Before us ever run. 
 And thus with man, whatever his condition. 
 Youth's ardent hopes still leave behind fruition. 
 
 But, as we onward fare, and ere 
 Our toilsome journey is complete, 
 Our shadows lag in their career, 
 And shrink beneath our feet. 
 And so with man in every age it proves, 
 His hopes grow less as on through life he moves. 
 
10 THE I'OEt's quest. 
 
 But when llie eve is closing round, 
 Behold ! they turn them back again, 
 And fondly linger on the ground 
 O'er which we passed with pain. 
 And thus it is that memory oftenest clingclh 
 To that which to the heart no pleasure bringeth I 
 
 And hence it is my memory chngs 
 To all the past. There is no spot 
 On which she now her shadow flings 
 Where grief has found me not ; 
 Nor moment whose remembrance can impart 
 One gleam of light to this benighted heart. 
 
 My childhood even — the darling theme 
 Of those who, through the lapse of years, 
 Remember but the transient beam 
 That glittered through its tears — 
 My very childhood — whatsoe'er it be 
 To others— far from cloudless was to me. 
 
 For at my hearth sat Poverty, 
 That squalid witcli ! while Sickness w^an, 
 And Toil, that earns so drudgingly 
 The crust he feeds upon. 
 Were those with whom I then was forced to dwell ;- 
 Yet love could make even these endurable, 
 
THE poet's quest. 11 
 
 Mij motlier^s love ! And that indeed 
 
 A treasure was above all price ; 
 
 That for whate'er I stood in need 
 
 Could of itself suffice. 
 My 7nolJier^s love J Even now its recollection 
 Wakes in my heart the life-pulse of affection I 
 
 And reason must her throne forsake — 
 
 Frozen my life's warm current be, 
 
 My mother ! ere shall fail to wake 
 
 That pulse at thought of thee I 
 Albeit thy love, though precious 'twas and sweet, 
 Prepared me ill with worldings to compete. 
 
 For wheresoe'er a vagrant will 
 
 Directed, I was free to roam, 
 
 Sure that a kindly welcome still 
 
 Awaited me at home ; 
 Until my love of solitude became 
 A passion wiiich even time hath failed to tame. 
 
 And now, when weary of the strife 
 
 That wilh his fellow man maintains, 
 
 To win ^ome little name in life, 
 
 Or multiply his gains, 
 I wander forth, and am in all once more 
 A child — save that my childhood's dreams arc o'er. 
 
12 THE poet's quest. 
 
 Those glorious dreams ! when lost amid 
 
 The everlasting hills; or when 
 
 In bosom of the forest hid ; 
 
 Or in untrodden glen, 
 Where echo, to my halloo answering, 
 I thought the mocking voice of living thing ; — 
 
 Or stretched on marge of glassy stream, 
 Wherein a nether heaven was seen, 
 Radiant with noontide's dazzling beam, 
 Or sunset's golden sheen ; 
 Wearing the pensive hue of eve, or bright 
 With myriads of gems of living light ; — 
 
 Or laid on mossy couch, that high 
 
 Above the brattling torrent hung, 
 
 I slumbered to the lullaby 
 
 The crooning waters sung ; 
 Or sat, while birdlings sang in sweet idlesse, 
 In some bright spot amid the wilderness ; — 
 
 Or when among the breathing flowers. 
 With drowsy sense but waking eye, 
 Supinely have I lain for hours 
 In gazing on the sky. 
 Fashioning the clouds that crossed its azure plain 
 Into the forms that long had filled my brain. 
 
THE poet's quest. 13 
 
 The tower of strength ; the castle grand ; 
 
 The gallant steed and warrior bold ; 
 
 The crowned head and sceptred hand, 
 
 Of which I had been told 
 In tale or song of lands beyond the sea, 
 When evening found me at my mother's knee- 
 
 And aye that stately castle's lord ; 
 
 The rider of that goodly steed ; 
 
 That king by countless hosts adored — 
 
 Was the poor child of need 
 Whose sun-burnt brow and feet by brambles torn, 
 Save nature's covering, aught had never worn. 
 
 But open to the homeless wight 
 
 That castle's gates forever stood ; 
 
 And never more did king or knight 
 
 Rejoice in doing good ; 
 And thousands daily at the board were fed 
 Of him who oft went supperless to bed. 
 
 But not among the clouds alone 
 
 The visions of my dreams were found. 
 
 When birds to other climes had flown, 
 
 And snow lay deep around, 
 And man and beast sought shelter from the storm, 
 The winter hearth revived each pictured form. 
 2 
 
14 THE poet's quest. 
 
 And new desires — and vague as new — 
 
 Now sprang to life within my breast. 
 
 Restless and moody thence I grew ; 
 
 Sleep brought not wonted rest ; 
 The seeds of wild ambition, deeply sown 
 In my young heart, now made their presence known. 
 
 And never yet did prisoned bird, 
 When some free warbler's gladsome song 
 Is in his lonely dwelling heard. 
 More passionately long 
 To spread his wings and soar to heaven, than I 
 To gain with men a name that should not die. 
 
 But this seemed to my lot denied. 
 
 For all as easy 'twere for him 
 
 Whose hands are pinioned to his side 
 
 Against the tide to swim. 
 As for a dweller in life's lowly vale 
 The steep and slippery heights of Fame to scale. 
 
 And though, 't is true, full many a path 
 
 Leads to its dazzling summit, none 
 
 It to the eye of boyhood hath 
 
 But that of war alone, 
 From which I shuddering turned, for, ah I it bore 
 At every step the stains of human gore. 
 
THE poet's quest. 
 
 But when at distance I beheld 
 Where bright the tracks of Genius shone, 
 My heart with strong impatience swelled 
 That path to enter on. 
 
 But, to destroy the hope born of that glance, 
 
 Before me rose the giant Ignorance. 
 
 And, while a cold and vacant smile 
 
 Across his stolid features stole. 
 
 He stood, like some barbarian pile. 
 
 Between me and the goal 
 I longed to reach ; and, O ! beneath his eye 
 I felt my very soul within me die ! 
 
 But then I thought of him of old 
 
 Who with a pebble and a sling, 
 
 O'ercame the man whose name could hold 
 
 In fear a mighty king. 
 But he was one no doubtings could depress. 
 And unto such Heaven ne'er denies success. 
 
 Yet sling and stone I scarce could wield. 
 
 What I had felt and mourned for years, 
 
 My father's scorn — ^but ill concealed — 
 
 My mother's silent tears, 
 When on my pallid br*)W and ashen cheek 
 She gazed, too well confirmed. Yes, I was weak ! 
 
 15 
 
16 THE poet's quest. 
 
 And weak is mind's undying flame 
 When, like an incubus, disease 
 Hath long oppressed its mortal frame. 
 Numbing its energies. 
 But ROW, endued with sudden power, I rose. 
 The giant met, and straight did with him close. 
 
 And fierce the struggle. But at length 
 The monster to the earth I bore. 
 Dost wonder what could give such strength 
 To one so weak before ? 
 Ask thine own heart, and that will answer give — 
 ♦' Nothing but Love could such a deed achieve." 
 
 Yes, Love it was that strength bestowed. 
 
 Or, as I should more truly say, 
 
 'Twas the diviner's rod which showed 
 
 Where hid the treasure lay. 
 Oft in the meanest breast a mine is found 
 That does with ore more rich than gold abound. 
 
 And she who had existence given 
 To that which o'er my spirit shed 
 The warm and glorious hues of heaven, 
 But now so cold and dead 
 Has left the heart that cherished it, was one 
 As fair as eye of man e'er dwelt upon. 
 
THE poet's quest. 
 
 The sapling in its leafy dress, 
 
 And by the vernal breezes swayed, 
 
 Could equal not in gracefulness 
 
 The form of that young maid. 
 In which each day did some new charm disclose, 
 As in the bud ere yet a full blown rose. 
 
 But what can with her face compare ? 
 
 Not lovelier is the pride of June, 
 
 The silver moon is not more fair ; 
 
 Yet 'twas not like the moon — 
 So pale and sad ! No, rather like the sun, 
 Which gladdens every thing he shines upon. 
 
 And yet it was not like the sun, 
 
 That looks on all unshrinkingly ; 
 
 For, though a bright and happy one, 
 
 'Twas veiled with modesty ; 
 And, while with fearless step she ranged the wild, 
 Her eye was like the fawn's— timid and mild. 
 
 And then her voice ! A.mong the hills 
 When heard all nature cried, " Rejoice !" 
 Even now my bosom wildly thrills 
 As memory wakes that voice ! 
 The form and face the fancy may enthrall — 
 The voice makes captive heart and soul and all, 
 2* 
 
 17 
 
18 THE poet's quest. 
 
 Nay, dotard, peace ! It is not well, 
 For him who would all love forswear, 
 With such fond eloquence to dwell 
 On charms however rare. 
 Fairer was Eden ne'er in happiest hours 
 Than when a serpent lurked beneath its flowers. 
 
 But, having with a mighty bound 
 
 The barrier by Ignorance reared 
 
 O'erleaped, I trod the sacred ground 
 
 Which erst so fair appeared. 
 And, if at distance seen it had seemed fair, 
 It now was beautiful beyond compare. • 
 
 For myriads there — of every dye — 
 Of flowers that long had lain concealed — 
 Gems hidden from the careless eye — 
 Were now to me revealed ; 
 And 'mid the treasures that around me blushed, 
 A thousand springs of limpid silver gushed. 
 
 And all the feelings of my soul. 
 
 Which, hke obstructed waters, long 
 
 Had struggled to escape control, 
 
 Now in a stream of song 
 Burst forth. Mine was the minstrel's power ; — I knew 
 Not then the curse that ever clings thereto ! 
 
THE poet's quest. 19 
 
 But, like the steed whose spirit ne'er 
 
 Has been by servitude debase^, 
 
 I entered on my new career 
 
 With hot and furious haste ; 
 And had the race been to the swift, not now 
 Had been my heart more withered than my brow ! 
 
 For one wild passion filled my soul — 
 
 My thoughts by day — my dreams by night — 
 
 And for all pains to reach that goal 
 
 Would Marian's love requite. 
 My Marian's love ! That guerdon to secure 
 There was no evil I would not endure. 
 
 And much I bore ! My father's grave 
 
 Was tenanted ; and to supply 
 
 His place — my mother's age to save 
 
 From sordid penury — 
 I gave, unmurmuring, my days to toil; 
 Yet wasted not the less the midnight oil, 
 
 For oft the precepts of the sage — 
 More oft the poet's golden lay — 
 Have bowed me spell-like, o'er the page 
 From eve till morning gray, 
 And though the earthly frame 'neath this excess 
 Might sink, the spirit owned no weariness. 
 
20 THE POETS QUEST. 
 
 But now my mother's eye grew dim, 
 And languid was her step ; her cheek 
 Waxed pale, for aye she thought of him 
 Of whom she dared not speak ; 
 And if she chanced to smile 'twas not in mirth ; — 
 For her had desolation clothed the earth. 
 
 holy love ! Though he, to whom 
 The treasure she had yielded up 
 
 Of that fond heart in girlhood's bloom, 
 
 Had filled the bitter cup 
 Of suffering for her to the very brim. 
 It sweeter was than joy unshared with bim. 
 
 And though she lingered yet awhile, 
 
 1 saw — and O my bosom bled 
 To see — in that cold ghastly smile 
 Her heart was with the dead ; 
 
 For her's that love which knoweth no decay 
 When all which gave it life has passed away. 
 
 And now she sank apace. Mo moan 
 Escaped her quivering lips ; — her cheek 
 Was tearless ; — calm and sweet her tone 
 While she had strength to speak ; — 
 And from my face she turned her kind gaze never 
 Until the light of love was quenched forever. 
 
THE poet's quest. 21 
 
 In vain the laughing morn— in vain 
 
 The grateful breeze wooed me abroad 
 
 To lie among the flowers again 
 
 That pranked the verdant sod ; 
 In vain with burning breath the fierce noon strove 
 To drive me forth where waved the rustling grove 
 
 And even eve — sweet pensive eve — 
 
 Called to me from the hills in vain ; 
 
 My dreary watch I would not leave 
 
 At that sad couch of pain 
 While hope was left. When that was from me swept, 
 In spirit crushed, I threw me down and wept. 
 
 For long, long hours 1 could but weep. 
 
 And when at length I did control 
 
 That storm of grief, a shadow deep, 
 
 Settled upon my soul ; 
 And I believed — as all must once like me 
 Believe— in sorrow's immortality. 
 
 But no ! Howe'er affliction chain 
 
 The spirit to the earth, it will. 
 
 If but one spark of hope remain. 
 
 Rise up triumphant still. 
 And soon my love of fame— that smouldering fire- 
 Burst forth into a flame of wild desire 
 
22 THE poet's quest. 
 
 Yet not in forest wild and deep, 
 In moonlight glen, nor shadowy nook, 
 Nor 'mid the hills where echoes sleep 
 Was I for fame to look. 
 No, though immortal, 'tis of mortal birth, 
 And must be sought among the sons of earth. 
 
 So I must forth. But like the bird 
 With untried wing outspread for flight, 
 Though onward by ambition spurred, 
 I trembled with affright. 
 And had, but for the hope that led me on, 
 The darling purpose of my soul foregone. 
 
 Yet manfully I tlien arose, 
 And sundered all the ties which bind 
 The poor fond heart to scenes like those 
 I now must leave behind ; — 
 My home — though comfortless, indeed, and lone- 
 It was the only one I e'er had known ; — 
 
 And many a spot in solitude 
 That sacred was to days gone by, 
 Where, prompted by some nameless mood, 
 I wept, yet knew not why ; — 
 For o'er my spirit even in infancy 
 Was cast the shadow of my destiny ; — 
 
THE poet's quest. 23 
 
 And eke the place where side by side 
 
 My parents lay in dreamless sleep; — 
 
 No mark it bore of love or pride 
 
 Their memories to keep 
 From being swept away in Time's dark sea ; — 
 But then my name their monument should be. 
 
 My name ! When I have laid me down 
 
 To sleep in lap of Mother Earth, 
 
 As little shall of me be known 
 
 As those who gave me birth ; — 
 Mine, after all, is but the common lot — 
 A life of toil — to die — and be forgot ! 
 
 But not alone to native cot — 
 
 To scenes where I had mused and wept — 
 
 Nor to the undistinguished spot 
 
 Where my poor parents slept — 
 Though each my heart enchained with powerful spell, 
 To Marian too I now must bid farewell. 
 
 Farewell ! A word, when lightly said 
 
 That, like a cloud at sunny noon, 
 
 Throws all that's lovely into shade ; 
 
 Or, like a blast in June 
 Which steals its sweetness from the opening flower, 
 That falls upon the heart with chilling power. 
 
24 THE poet's quest. 
 
 But when it is in sadness spoken, 
 It tells of friendship's shivered chain ; — 
 Of links of fond affection broken 
 Ne'er to unite again ; — 
 Of joy, and O of hope, too oft the knell 
 Is that short, bitter, withering v.'ord — Farewell I 
 
 And now in bitterness of soul 
 Farewell was said ; and on my Quest 
 I went. But distant aye the goal 
 For which I hotly pressed. 
 Alas ! the cooling lymph I longed to taste 
 Proved but the mirage of the burning waste ! 
 
 And then — known to the world no more 
 Than ere its notice I had sought — 
 And poor, save in the bitter lore 
 By stern experience taught — 
 I homeward turned — of Fame no longer dreammg- 
 Yet, Love possessed for me its early seeming. 
 
 Yes, though my bark — long tempest tossed — 
 Upon the waves a wreck was flung, 
 There still remained when all seemed lost 
 One plank to which I clung. 
 My Marian's love ! O to how frail a thing 
 Will drowning wretch in desperation cling ! 
 
THE POETS QUEST. 
 
 Now weary, faint and travel-stained, 
 
 I stood upon the mount above 
 
 The quiet vale, which erst contained 
 
 All objects of my love. 
 The quiet vale I Ah no ! unsparing change 
 Had been before me there, and all was strange. 
 
 No vestige was there of my home ! 
 
 The vale itself had disappeared ; 
 
 And glittering fane and lordly dome 
 
 "Were from its depths upreared ; 
 And all the city's jarring sounds were heard 
 Where sang of late the brooklet and the bird. 
 
 The bird was flown ; that brooklet's course 
 Was not the one by nature given, 
 But, turned aside by human force, — 
 Lost to the light of heaven, — 
 It sought another channel to the main 
 Through hills which now lie buried in the plain. 
 
 Was this my home ! No place of rest ; — 
 No shelter for my aching head ; 
 Nay busy life even now possessed 
 The spot where slept my dead ! 
 My cup was full ;— but yet to run it o'er 
 With bitterness, there needed one drop more. 
 3 
 
 25 
 
26 THE poet's quest. 
 
 And that was added. As I stood 
 In thought perplexed, a fairy form — 
 With too much loveliness endued 
 For sister of the worm — 
 Passed by me with a bounding step, and eye 
 Bright with her pure young heart's hilarity. 
 
 My youth returned ! and with the eyes 
 
 Of other days upon that child 
 
 I looked ; and all the memories 
 
 Long buried in the wild 
 Dark ocean of the Past rose up, and I 
 In her beheld my Star of Destiny. 
 
 Illusion fond ! which reason cold 
 Too soon dispelled ! That radiant face ; — 
 Those buoyant steps, and locks of gold ; — 
 That form of childish grace ; — 
 Though like to her's whom I long years ago 
 Had left, would time have spared them still ? O no 
 
 Then turned I from that vision bright, 
 With smiling lip, but humid eye. 
 When, lo ! a being met my sight 
 Of bearing proud and high. 
 
 Whose smooth, fair brow and eye serene expressed 
 
 A mind exalted and a heart at rest. 
 
THE poet's quest. 27 
 
 Time had — to mellow, not destroy — 
 
 Her beauties touched ; and though he had 
 
 Sobered the feverish pulse of joy ; 
 
 Serious now — not sad — 
 Was the fond look with which she watched that wild 
 And happy thing, and blessed it as Her Child ! 
 
 My brain was troubled. And on her 
 
 With strange devotion as she passed 
 
 I gazed. But ne'er on worshipper 
 
 Did senseless image cast 
 A more unseeing eye than that which fell 
 Upon me, as I stood — mute and immoveable. 
 
 'TwAS She ! The curse of memory 
 
 Was mine alone — She knew me not. 
 
 And I had come o'er land and sea — 
 
 To find I was forgot ! 
 I turned me thence without or sigh or tear — 
 With nothing left to hope — and nought to fear I 
 
IP CD li IM 
 
 A TRIBUTE OF THE HEART. 
 
 I KNOW 'tis very wrong to grieve when those from earth have passed, 
 Whose dying pangs, though bitter, we beheve to be their last ; 
 Yet have I with repining heart o'er one departed mourned, 
 Whose spirit — springing from the dust — had to its God returned. 
 
 But I had loved — with love as deep and boundless as the sea ; 
 And even as my love had been was now my grief to me ; 
 And but for Him whose mercy sets to every thing its bound. 
 Long since in its unfathomed depths my reason had been drowned ! 
 
 What though but few the charms in her that stranger eyes could see, 
 Whate'er she was to others, she was beautiful to me ; 
 And with a beauty which nor time, nor even pain could dim. 
 Nor death — which now hath changed it to that of the seraphim. 
 
 But who had failed to love her that, like me, her worth had proved, 
 When even by those who knew her least she was not unbeloved ? 
 And while above the lowhest no eminence she claimed, 
 Still by the poor and sorrowing with blessings was she named. 
 
 3* 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 For though 'twas ne'er her lot to eat the bread of idleness, 
 She had an ever open hand to all that knew distress ; 
 And then so graciously she gave out of her little store, 
 She ever sent the burthened heart rejoicing from her door. 
 
 And while from virtue's path she ne'er in thought even turned aside. 
 She ever had a kindly word another's faults to hide ; 
 But when, with all her care, she failed to keep those faults from view, 
 With every word of blame from her fell tears of pity too. 
 
 And when with anguish torn, which might a sterner spirit wring, 
 
 From her pale lip was never heard the voice of murmuring ; 
 
 But placid was her brow as one that pain had never known, 
 
 And through the gathering mists of death the light of love still shone. 
 
 Then, like an infant fallen asleep upon its mother's breast, 
 With the sweet smile of innocence upon its lips impressed, 
 She sank into forgetfulness — and gently passed from earth ; — 
 Leaving to me no solace — but the memory of her worth ! 
 
POEMS. 31 
 
 THE DEATH OF JAMES CRAUFURD LIVINGSTON. 
 
 The hand of Desolation o'er 
 
 A lute of heavenly tone hath passed ; 
 A tree, that buds of promise bore 
 
 Of golden fruit, to earth is cast. 
 
 A light is quenched whose cheering beam 
 
 Was felt at many a lonely hearth ; 
 And sealed a fount, from which a stream 
 
 Flowed forth to fertilize the earth I 
 
 The cold, inexorable tomb 
 
 Has closed upon the hope of years ; 
 And Friendship weeps the early doom 
 
 Of one that's gone with bitter tears. 
 
 'Tis sad to see the young depart, — 
 
 Like flowers swept in their bloom away, — 
 
 But O 'tis sadder to the heart 
 To see them wither day by day ! 
 
 To mark the slow, but certain blight, — 
 To catch the stifled groan of pain ; — 
 
 To watch the waning of that light 
 Which ne'er shall beam on us again. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 Then, though the tear of fond regret 
 Affection's eye must ever dim, 
 
 The blessed hope we'll not forget, 
 That loss to us is gain to him ; — 
 
 That now the eagle spirit, chained 
 To earth, and struggling to be free, 
 
 Its glorious heritage hath gained 
 And soared to immortality ! 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 Napoleon ! There was a time 
 
 When at that talismanick word 
 
 All hearts — whate'er their creed or clime — 
 Would leap as if a trump were heard S 
 
 And the hot blood throughout the frame 
 Would flash ! It was the name of him 
 
 Beneath the splendour of whose fame 
 The glories of the world were dim. 
 
 The monarch bird whose mighty wings 
 Shut out the sun's meridian blaze ; 
 
 Whose perch was on the necks of kings, 
 
 While nations cowered beneath his gaze ! 
 
POEMS. 33 
 
 And now, whene'er is breathed that name, 
 Before the memory brightly flits 
 
 Full many a scene of deathless fame — 
 Marengo — Jena — Austerlitz — 
 
 And Wagram — terribly sublime I 
 
 And lo I where Lodi's Bridge is cast 
 
 Across the cold, dark stream of Time 
 To join the future and the past I 
 
 With those — ^"mid sadness glorious too-^ 
 Imperial Moscow's funeral pile ; 
 
 The fatal field of Waterloo, 
 
 And stern St. Helen's dreary isle I 
 
 But though in dust that banner proud 
 
 Which long had waved triumphantly, 
 
 To man His spirit never bowed — 
 His conqueror was Destiny I 
 
 And should his cherished France forget 
 What now is due her Chieftain's fame, 
 
 *' Posterity shall pay that debt, 
 
 And render justice to his name." 
 
34 POEMS. 
 
 AN EVENING HYMN TO MEMORY 
 
 To thee, O briglit, benignant Power 1 
 To whom so deep a debt I owe. 
 
 Here at this hushed and holy hour» 
 I bow me low. 
 
 And offer up the thanks of one 
 
 Who, though of all once loved bereft. 
 Feels not how much he is alone 
 
 While thou art left ; — 
 
 Thou who the light of other days 
 
 Dost on the dreary present shed ; 
 
 Restor'st the past ; and to my gaze 
 Bring^st back the dead ! 
 
 Ay, bringest back the dead ; for here. 
 Where now I sit companionless, 
 
 A troop of buried forms appear 
 And round me press. 
 
 Yet O not as the dead they come, 
 
 To fill the heart with childish fears. 
 
 But those who blessed my humble home 
 In happier years. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 My parents kind are hero again ; — 
 My brothers in the glow of hfe ; — 
 
 And ye my gentle sisters twain ; — 
 And thou my wife ! 
 
 All, all are here ! and eyes that shone 
 
 With love's pure light are on me still,— 
 And voices of familiar tone 
 My bosom thrill. 
 
 The body's long endured distress 
 
 In this blight moment is forgot ; — 
 The withering sense of loneliness 
 Now haunts me not. 
 
 And for tliis sweet— this blessed hour— 
 A sun-burst through the clouds of wo, 
 
 To thee, O bright, benignant Pov/er ! 
 I bow me low. 
 
 35 
 
 MY MARY. 
 
 I KNELT by the couch where thou, dearest, was lying. 
 My heart wrung with anguish thy sufferings to see ; 
 But while I heard only the sob of the dying, 
 The angels, my Mary, were whispering to thee. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 And while I hung over the clay which the dwelling 
 Had been of thy spirit, from thraldom now free, 
 And despair choked the sighs that my bosom were swelling. 
 The angels, my Mary, were welcoming thee. 
 
 And now, when with sorrow my manhood is shaken, 
 For hopes fondly cherished torn rudely from me, 
 And my heart for the loss of my first born is breaking, 
 The angels, my Mary, rejoice over thee. 
 
 MY SISTER. 
 
 On silent lip and rigid brow, 
 
 My sister ! Death his seal hath set. 
 And O to see thee once as now 
 
 Hot tears my cheeks had wet 1 
 
 Yes, ere within thy gentle heart 
 
 Had entered Sorrow's venomed fang 
 
 To look on thee as now thou art 
 Had cost me many a pang. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 And yet upon those lids I gaze, 
 
 Which never shall unclose to bless 
 
 Me with the light there hid, and raise 
 My heart in thankfulness. 
 
 For now the long and bitter wo 
 
 Thou didst so meekly bear is o'er ; 
 
 Thy bruised spirit now shall know 
 Unkindness never more ; 
 
 And never more upon thy brow 
 
 That hidden grief shall stand confessed 
 Which did thy heart consume ; for now 
 
 Thou art indeed at rest ! 
 
 37 
 
 ON A LATE MELANCHOLY EVENT 
 
 The village bell rings out a merry peal ; 
 And o'er the dewy lawn a bridal tiain 
 Sweeps gaily onward to the House of Prayer. 
 The young are mirthful, and the aged feel 
 4 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 The hours of their lost youth come back again ; 
 And all is life and love and gladness there. 
 SuSANNE — her parents' blessing and their pride — 
 And loved of all — this morn becomes a bride. 
 
 They're nov(7 before the altar. But amid 
 That happy group a shadowy being stands, 
 Whose hollow eye emits a lurid glow. 
 And while the trembling maid, with drooping lid, 
 Breathes forth the vow the sacred rite demands, 
 Which binds her to another's weal and wo, 
 With mocking smile he grasps his venomed dart. 
 Lifts it on high, and points it at her heart. 
 
 Again is gathered in that temple old 
 
 A numerous band ; but' sadness veils each brow. 
 
 Old eyes are wet — young voices weep aloud — 
 
 While dismally that village bell is knolled. 
 
 Unerringly the shaft was sped ; and now 
 
 The lovely and beloved is in her shroud. 
 
 Yet mid the wreck of hearts, with ghastly smile. 
 
 The grim Destroyer views his work the while. 
 
POEMS. 39 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE HEART, 
 
 Visions of our childhood, 
 
 Blotted out with tears ; — 
 Golden hopes, long buried 
 In the wreck of years ; 
 
 Flowers, which by the wayside 
 Perished in their bloom ; — 
 
 Voices, that reply not 
 From the silent tomb ; — 
 
 Faces that bent o'er us 
 
 In our cradled rest ; — 
 Eyes that woke affection 
 
 In the youthful breast ;— 
 
 In our sleep like phantoms 
 
 Come they and depart — 
 Shadows of the memories 
 
 Lingering in the heart. 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 
 
 The glorious sun ; the moon, so sweetly bright; 
 
 The mountains lifting their proud heads on high 
 The stars, mysterious watchers of the night, 
 
 Speak loudly of the might of Deity. 
 
 Yet the sweet floweret peeping from the sod ; 
 
 The dew-drop trembling in the violet's bell ; 
 And even the worm that burrows in the clod, 
 
 Do of His power as eloquently tell. 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE LEXINGTON 
 
 A FEARFUL thing-is Death I 
 Heaven's chosen minister of wrath I 
 That ever through life's weary path 
 
 Man's footsteps followeth ; 
 And still the first among his train 
 Are haggard grief and writhing pain. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 For never did depart 
 One, even of lowliest estate, 
 But wretched and disconsolate 
 
 Was left some loving heart ; 
 Some blighted spirit to which Spring 
 No more could flower or leaflet bring. 
 
 If then an aimless blow, 
 Which but a few fond hearts bereaves, 
 Such certain desolation leaves ; 
 
 How infinite the wo 
 When, like the wild tornado's blast, 
 He o'er a prostrate land hath passed ; 
 
 And buried in one grave 
 The glow of health, the light of mirth, 
 The gifted and the good of earth, 
 
 The beautiful and brave ; 
 The joy of youth and wisdom sage ; 
 With manhood's strength and tottering age ! 
 
 Such wo, alas ! is ours ! 
 The loving and beloved are wrapped 
 In one dark doom ; and rudely snapped 
 
 Is friendship's bond of flowers ;^ 
 And o'er us the Destroyer hath 
 Unfurled the banners of his wrath ; 
 4* 
 
 41 
 
42 POEMS 
 
 Then well may grief prevail, 
 And deeply graved on cheek and brow 
 Of every face one meeteth now 
 
 Be sorrow's dismal tale ; 
 And yet, how little can we see 
 Of the wrung bosom's agony ! 
 
 A DREAM OF THE SEA. 
 
 I ne'er have seen the sea save in my dreams. 
 Yet on its beauty, majesty and power 
 I have so often looked that now it seems 
 Something with which I even from childhood's hour 
 Have been acquent ; and of its voice each tone 
 Is to my ear familiar as mine own. 
 
 Yes, I have seen it in its every mood. 
 Not oftener basking in the morn's sweet light — 
 Its brawling humour for awhile subdued 
 Beneatij an influence so calm and bright — 
 Than when in mountain forms its billows rise, 
 And, Titan like, do battle with the skies. 
 
POEMS. 43 
 
 Nor oftener when the young moon's tender beams 
 Glint o'er its surface, which, hke maiden's breast, 
 When happy love with gladness fills her dreams, 
 So gently sinks and swells in sweet unrest ; 
 Than when the sun in midday splendour burns, 
 And glance for glance as fiercely back returns. 
 
 And O ! methinks it were a glorious thing 
 
 To make one's home upon the the boundless main ; 
 
 Where tyrant Custom never more could fling 
 
 O'er the free spirit his corroding chain ; 
 
 And feel that, when we sleep beneath its waves. 
 
 Our dust shall mingle not with that of slaves I 
 
 1 had a dream of late wherein the sea 
 Appeared in all its terrours. It was night, 
 The sun had long been hid, yet tenderly 
 Lingered upon the waves a mellow light — 
 A softened radiance, such as Memory throws 
 Upon the past as life draws to a close. 
 
 The blue sky looked into the bluer ocean 
 
 And saw therein a nether firmament ; 
 
 And through the waters wilh a swan-like motion, 
 
 Like creature proud of power and beauty, went 
 
 Our gallant bark ; — the wind that filled her sheet 
 
 Piped through the cordage, making musick sweet. 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 O 'twas an hour when the divinity 
 
 Lodged in the breast of man back to the skies 
 
 Would reascend, in aspirations free, 
 
 As sparks towards the source of heat arise ; — 
 
 An hour of sweet and sabbath-like repose I 
 
 Yet then the Demon of the Tempest rose. 
 
 And though when seen on the horizon's verge, 
 A speck he seemed ; now, as with furious speed 
 Up heaven's ascent he did his coursers urge, 
 He grew to giant size : and soon indeed, 
 As on the winds his robes of darkness flew, 
 The very heavens were blotted from our view. 
 
 The waves, which at his presence shrank with fear, 
 Lashed into madness by the tyrant's rage, 
 Their crested heads now in rebellion rear. 
 And with th' oppressor fearful warfare wage ; 
 And O to see the strife of that dread hour 
 Had taught the nothingness of human power I 
 
 Tlie very bark, which man had proudly thought. 
 For that it had been fashioned by his skill, 
 Would hold the fury of the storm at nought, 
 Became the passive creature of its will — 
 The plaything of the elements, and driven. 
 Like floating reed, before the breath of heaven. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Yet long did Hope her cheering light afford 
 In that dark hour unto the gallant hearted !— 
 But sails are shivered— masts go by the board— 
 The pumps arc choked— the very timbers parted ! 
 And O how dreadful is the agony 
 Of wretches struggling with eternity I 
 
 And hark, that cry !~so wild, so harrowing 1— 
 Which far above the howling tempest rose, 
 Of those who still to life so madly cling !— 
 And now, God ! the waters o'er them close ! 
 'Twas terrible '.-and yet, though strange it seem, 
 I love the sea even better for that dream. 
 
 45 
 
 TO HENRY OGDEN, Esa 
 
 Upon this morn of merry meetings, 
 Of friendly grasps and cordial greetings. 
 When grave and gay together mingle, 
 And wit abounds and glasses jingle, 
 While over all the radiant smile 
 Of Beauty sheds her light the while. 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 I, to whom health's too great a treasure 
 To risk it in the search of pleasure — 
 A search too often made in vain — 
 Must, prisoner-like, at home remain. 
 
 O how the fount of feeling's stirred 
 Whene'er we breathe that magick word — 
 Home ! And although the light of mine 
 Is quenched, alas ! no more to shine, 
 And hushed the cheerful voice whose tone 
 Went to the heart like musick's own, 
 And Silence broods and moody Sadness 
 Where all was light and love and gladness ; 
 Still, though of every joy bereft. 
 Full many a comfort hath it left ; 
 And for whate'er it doth possess 
 How deep is my indebtedness 
 To him who — prompted by that zeal 
 He shows for every creature's weal — 
 To one like me — unknown — unfriended — 
 And, save by want, unrecommended — 
 With ready, generous confidence. 
 Opened the way to competence. 
 
 Yes, sir, to you I owe whate'er 
 One by long suffering bowed can cheer. 
 To you I owe that still I find 
 The shelter from the win'try wind 
 
POEMS. 47 
 
 Which does mine humble roof afford ; 
 The frugal meal that crowns my board ; 
 The fire that blazes on my hearth, 
 And eke my pleasure in the mirth 
 Of my dear imps, whose heartsome glee 
 Would win a smile from Apathy, 
 For if but menaced with distress 
 Their mirth to me were bitterness. 
 Nay more. To you 1 owe that she — 
 Who was the light of life to me — 
 When leaving all she valued here 
 By death's stern hest, felt not a fear, 
 That when she should be with the dead, 
 Her little ones could want for bread 
 While life to me kind Heaven should lend, 
 And Ogden prove their father's friend. 
 
 And yet for all I owe to one 
 Who has to me such kindness shown, 
 I have but my poor thanks to give. 
 Which here I beg you will receive. 
 And with them take this wish sincere — 
 
 To YOU AND YOURS A HaPPY YeaR. 
 
 1st Jan. 1836. 
 
48 POEMS 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 'TwAS eve. But from the canopy 
 Of purple clouds that o'er us hung, 
 
 Upon the crystal lake beneath 
 A mellow light was flung. 
 
 And gayly o'er the rippling tide 
 Our bark her snowy wings outspread, 
 
 To catch the breath of flowering groves 
 Whose sweets were round us shed. 
 
 And by a goodly company 
 
 That gallant vessel's deck was trod ; 
 There woman wore her loveHest form, 
 
 And man appeared a God. 
 
 And song, and jest, and idle word 
 Were offered up at Folly's shrine. 
 
 While from our jewelled cups of gold 
 We drank the ruby wine. 
 
 'Till woman flung the holy veil 
 
 Of maiden modesty aside, 
 And with bold eye and liberal tongue 
 
 To ribald speech replied. 
 
POEMS. 49 
 
 And man, with reason formed to soar 
 Above the clouds that shadow earth, 
 
 Stooped his bright spirit in its flight 
 To grovel in lewd mirth. 
 
 But now a change came o'er the scene. 
 
 That gorgeous canopy of clouds 
 The troubled waters like a pall 
 
 In fearful darkness shrouds. 
 
 And on that turbid lake now lies 
 Our gay and gallant bark a wreck ; 
 
 And by a ghastly company 
 Now peopled is her deck. 
 
 But still the voice of revelry 
 
 Rose high above both wind and flood ; 
 But now our cups are human skulls ! 
 
 And they are brimmed with blood ! 
 
 And mingled with the song and shout, 
 Are wailings loud and impious prayer ; 
 
 With laughter wild, and curses deep, 
 And bowlings of despair ! 
 
 When lo ! another change. And now 
 The heavens a burning dome became ; 
 
 The simoom's breath is in the blast ; 
 The lake is liquid flame ! 
 5 
 
50 POEMS 
 
 And horrid monsters, such as ne'er 
 
 Before were seen by mortal eyes, 
 Were writhing on the sulphurous flood 
 
 With groans and blasphemies ! 
 
 Yet each in some distorted face 
 
 Could features trace once known full well. 
 Though in the eyes that on us glared 
 
 Now burned the hght of hell ! 
 
 And round our reeling bark they go 
 
 With fiendish jeers and harrowing cries, 
 
 To which in deep and threatening voice 
 The thunder hoarse rephes. 
 
 Then quailed the sternest spirit ; then 
 
 Shrank the proud heart, and bowed the head 
 
 Then the wild prayer that fear sent forth 
 Died on the lips unsaid ; 
 
 For O we felt 'twas vain to call 
 On Him we did so late blaspheme, 
 
 And helpless sank we down — down — down ! — 
 ******* 
 Thank Heaven I 'twas but a dream. 
 
POEMS. 51 
 
 TO 
 
 'TwAS kindly meant ; nor was't unkindly taken, 
 Though painfull}- it thrilled to ray heart's core ; — 
 
 For ah ! it did those memories awaken 
 Which I had hoped would sleep for ever more. 
 
 But of the world, thou judgest with its spirit, 
 
 And he who leaves — even though by madness driven- 
 
 Its narrow path of right must surely merit 
 Man's reprobation and the curse of Heaven I 
 
 O hadst thou known the bitter anguish hidden 
 Beneath the smile that seemed to mock at care, 
 
 For very pity thou couldst not have chidden 
 The wretch who flies to folly from despair I 
 
 THE AMERICAN CITIZEN 
 
 Mine is a name whose utterance brings 
 No thought with which the bosom thrills, 
 
 Yet from the humble acorn springs 
 The mighty monarch of the hills. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 Nor prince nor peer hath graced my line, 
 
 And poor my heritage ; but then 
 A nobler, prouder boast is mine — 
 
 I AM A FREEBORN CiTIZEN. 
 
 As free in thought — in speech as free 
 As wayward winds are in their flight ; 
 
 And owning no supremacy — 
 But the supremacy of Right. 
 
 To me the holiest spot of earth 
 Is that our Patriot Father's trod ; 
 
 But, while I duly reverence worth, 
 I bow the knee but to my God. 
 
 And though inured to needful toil, 
 To that no servile feelings cling ; 
 
 For while I tread this sacred soil 
 I am, " Ay, every inch a king ! " 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Here lies, to darkness and the worm 
 And cold forgetfulncss consigned, 
 
 And mingling with the dust, a form 
 
 That once a spotless soul enshrined ; 
 
53 
 
 The form of one whose Ufe declared 
 
 How pure the faith that she professed — 
 
 A faith by trials unimpaired — 
 
 And may her God now grant her rest I 
 
 B«t O could human love have stayed 
 
 The course of him whose stern career 
 Is onward, with remorseless tread, 
 
 O'er all most loved and valued here, 
 The grave should not have claimed her yet- 
 
 Nor yet her care her babes should want- 
 A husband's heart be desolate — 
 
 Nor Heaven have gained a habitant. 
 
 THE EARLY LOST. 
 
 Lines on the death of a most amiable girl — Miss Isabella Neville Coffey, 
 grand-daughter of Mr. Joseph Molyneux, of this city. 
 
 A BEING from the earth has passed 
 
 Whose brief existence — bright as brief — 
 
 A momentary radiance cast 
 O'er hearts now wrapped in murkiest grief 
 5* 
 
54 POEMS 
 
 Alas for human love ! and him 
 
 Who rests his happiness thereon ; 
 
 A bubble floating on the brim 
 
 Of life's dark cup — and then is gone : 
 
 A rainbow — fading while we gaze ; — 
 A flower — that withers in its bloom ;— 
 
 A meteor dazzHng with its blaze — 
 To leave behind a deeper gloom ; — 
 
 A plant that springe th proudly forth, 
 But, like the baneful Upas tree. 
 
 Unto the soil that gives it birth, 
 Brings blight and stern sterility. 
 
 And, Oh ! for human pride ! when even 
 Mind's glittering ray is but the light 
 
 That gleams along the northern heaven, 
 Yet cold and cheerless leaves the night. 
 
 For unto her whose loss we mourn 
 Did Heaven its noblest gifts impart ; 
 
 Yet ne'er in mortal breast was borne 
 A kinder or an humbler heart. 
 
 And O what fond imaginings — 
 
 What glorious hopes, tliat lustre gave 
 
 To life's most sad, unlovely things, 
 Are buried in her early grave. 
 
POEMS. 55 
 
 And yet the gentle slumberer 
 
 As sweetly sleeps beneath the sod, 
 
 As on the bosom erst of her 
 
 Who hath but led the way to God. 
 
 O earth ! lie lightly on that breast — 
 The home of gentleness and worth ! 
 
 And thou, O Father ! to thy rest 
 A spirit take too pure for earth I 
 
 ANNE O'NEIL. 
 
 A FEW short months agone, and thou 
 To our admiring gaze didst seem, 
 
 With thy sweet smile and sunny brow, 
 The bright creation of a dream. 
 
 And even like a dream has passed 
 
 Thy life ; no cloud of grief or shame 
 
 Was o'er thy bright existence cast 
 
 Till Death, like sleep to childhood, came. 
 
56 POEMS 
 
 And folded thee in his emhrace ; 
 
 When thou thy lovely head didst bow 
 Like the pale floweret that we place 
 
 Upon thy pulseless bosom now. 
 
 This sweet and fragile flower, of thee 
 How meet an emblem, gentle maid ! 
 
 Like thine its virgin purity ; — 
 
 Like thee it blossomed but to fade. 
 
 Thou'rt gone ! — yet beauty o'er its home 
 Still fondly lingers, like a ray 
 
 Of sunshine on some classick dome 
 That lovely is amid decay. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I KNOW 'tis wisdom's part to be content 
 Where'er our lot in life by Heaven is cast. 
 And therefore would I bind my spirit fast 
 To the dull desk, whereat a life is spent 
 
POEMS. 
 
 I fondly deemed for nobler purpose meant. 
 The dream of boyhood ! But when spring ia come, 
 And the sweet sun-light glinteth through the gloom 
 Wherein for dreary months I have been pent, 
 Thoughts of mine early haunts— the breezy hill, 
 The quiet valley and the sunny plain, 
 The leaping torrent and the gliding rill, 
 And forest echoing to the wild bird's strain — 
 My spirit with such passionate longings fill 
 That duty strives to fetter it in vain. 
 
 When to the earth my spirit has been weighed 
 
 By sordid penury's corroding chain ; 
 
 When withering care and unrelenting pain 
 
 Upon my bosom vulture-like have preyed ; 
 
 When the sweet light of love that round me played 
 
 In life's blest morning has been quenched in death, 
 
 And all the heart most fondly cherisheth 
 
 By one rude blast has in the dust been laid, 
 
 I sometimes have been forced, with him of old, 
 
 To cry, " Was ever sorrow like to mine I" 
 
 But when on every brow that I behold 
 
 I see impressed the universal sign 
 
 Of human wo, I hush my plaint, and try. 
 
 At least, to bear my burthen silently. 
 
 67 
 
58 POEMS 
 
 Would I were with the dead ! if with the dead 
 
 The weary spirit may indeed find rest ; 
 
 And when the earth on her maternal breast 
 
 Hath kindly pillowed aching heart and head, 
 
 Not only shall our tears no more be shed 
 
 In bitterness o'er all that made us blest, 
 
 Nor shall the vulture passions more molest 
 
 The hearts that 'neath their talons long have bled. 
 
 But even the memories of our hopes and fears — 
 
 Our guilty joys and their unholy train — 
 
 1'he frenzies of the heart and of the brain — 
 
 Remorse's riving pangs and scalding tears-— 
 
 Be buried with us in the peaceful grave, 
 
 Death were the dearest boon I now from Heaven would crave. 
 
 TO MISS S 
 
 We call that love heroick when the wife — 
 Though thereunto enjoined by holiest vow — 
 With uncomplaining voice and cloudless brow 
 Braves toil and pain and penury and strife 
 For him who was and is her all of life ; 
 And beautiful the mother's love, which knows 
 No change howe'er the wind of fortune blows, 
 Though every blast be with affliction rife. 
 
POEMS. 59 
 
 Yet each of earthly feehng bears some stain. 
 
 O how unhke the love that prompted thee, 
 
 Lady, to leave home, country, all to be 
 
 A ministering angel at the couch of pain ; 
 
 To illume the darkening mind with Faith's pure light, 
 
 And aid the spirit in its heavenward flight. 
 
 TO 
 
 Spirit of Beauty ! from what radiant sphere 
 
 Hast thou descended with thine eyes of light, 
 
 That smile than blush of early morn more bright, 
 
 And voice whose every tone falls on the ear 
 
 Like musick — such as Heaven's chosen may hear 
 
 In their abodes of blissfulness above, 
 
 Where tongues and harps and hearts are tuned to love 
 
 And wherefore dost thou with the things appear 
 
 Of this dull earth ? Was it that man might see, 
 
 By looking on that peerless form of thine. 
 
 How perfect may be wrought by Hand Divine 
 
 Beings resembling poor mortality ? 
 
 Or hast thou come to bring us back once more 
 
 To worship as our fathers did of yore ? 
 
60 POEMS. 
 
 Death levels all distinctions ; so does grief. 
 The feeling of a common loss will bind 
 In bonds of fellowship the haughty mind 
 With the most humble ; and a sweet rehef 
 It is to the o'erburthened heart to find 
 'T is not alone in wretchedness, although 
 The one that doth participate its wo 
 Beats in the bosom of the meanest hind. 
 I late beheld two mourners ; — one was young, 
 Wealthy and proud, the other poor and old, 
 And of a race despised, yet fondly clung 
 They heart to heart. What made the meaner bold 
 Had humbled her superior — the same blow 
 Had widowed both — they equals were in wo I 
 
 TO J. C. L. 
 
 I pr'ythee, Craufurd, what can tempt thy stay 
 In scenes which to the eye are fair no more ? 
 The husbandman hath gathered in his store, 
 And forest leaves are tinted with decay ; 
 The flowers are withered that were erst so gay — 
 Like youthful hopes by the cold breath of time — 
 And to some sunnier, more congenial clime 
 The warblers of the grove have winged their way. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 While we have all that eye and ear delight. 
 Broadway is a parterre of living flowers 
 Such as can blossom in no land but ours, 
 And we have musick too — at least at night — 
 Sweeter than that of birds. Then, pr'ythee, why 
 Dost linger now when all things bid thee fly ? 
 
 61 
 
 A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Spare me, O God ! yet for a little, spare ! 
 1 ask not length of days for hoarding treasure, 
 Nor yel to squander in pursuit of pleasure ; 
 Of either hitherto but small my share. 
 And now to hope for more 1 will not dare. 
 Nor even for life do I ask life of Thee. 
 But that my little ones in infancy 
 Be not bereft of their last parent's care. 
 Alas ! how could they bear so stern a fate I 
 My Mary, so mimosa-like ! — and she — 
 Albeit better fitted for the strife 
 The world enjoins — my dark eyed darling, Kate ! 
 Then grant, for their dear sakes, my prayer to Thee, 
 And their young lips shall thank thee for my life. 
 6 
 
02 POEMS. 
 
 TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 AN ALBUM PRINT. 
 
 Poor trembling girl ! where has the spirit fled 
 
 That nerved so late thy gentle breast to brave 
 
 All perils, thy beloved land to save 
 
 From foreign thraldom and a tyrant's tread ? 
 
 Had War, and all that fills the heart with dread — 
 
 The strife, the rout, the shrieks and groans of those 
 
 Trampled to earth alike by friends and foes — 
 
 Less terrors for thee than that mitred head ? 
 
 Or shrinkest thou from what thou shalt endure 
 
 Ere Heaven's dread minister, — the flames, — shall sever 
 
 The bonds that bind to earth a soul so pure, 
 
 And give it freedom — boundless and forever ? 
 
 O no ! Thy fears are now of neither judge nor stake, 
 
 They are for France — for thy loved country's sake I 
 
 On looking to the past, how brief appears 
 The time since first I entered on this scene 
 Of cares ; although few of my days have been 
 Such as with pleasure we in after years 
 Look back upon, unless there's joy in tears. 
 Yet have I measured more than half the span 
 
POEMS. 63 
 
 By heaven allotted to the ago of man, 
 
 For I this day have seen six times six years. 
 
 And now, if called upon to render up 
 
 My life to Him from whom I did receive 
 
 That boon, O what account have I to give 
 
 Of moments fled ? Alas, of Folly's cup 
 
 The maddening potion have I drained, and find 
 
 That only bitterness remains behind. 
 
 Nov. Wi, 1836. 
 
 My Mary ! mine ! Alas, no longer ynme I 
 
 He, who but lent her for a space so brief 
 
 To w^ean my heart from brooding o'er its grief 
 
 When forced its dearest treasure to resign, 
 
 Hath called her hence. Shall I with murmuring 
 
 My spirit waste that she, for whom my prayers 
 
 Unceasing rose, so soon has 'scaped the snares 
 That ever through life's path around us cHng ? 
 O no. Though nature her prerogative 
 To weep asserts, I murmur not. And yet 
 'Tis hard indeed to stifle all regret 
 
 When all is gone for which we wish to live ! 
 And now is snapt the last link of the chain 
 That bound my heart to earth — yet w^ill I not complain. 
 
64 POEMS 
 
 LIGHT SHINE TH IN DARKNESS. 
 
 When links which heart to heart have bound 
 Are shivered by the stroke of death, 
 
 And every flower that blossomed round 
 Is withered by his poisonous breath ; — 
 
 "What in that hour of anguish deep 
 
 The sinking spirit shall sustain ? 
 The blessed hope that they who sleep 
 
 In Christ, in him shall rise again. 
 
 TO MARGARET. 
 
 When the gay and the thoughtless together are met, 
 
 I join in their revels, and seem to forget. 
 
 The world seeth not 'tis but playing a part, 
 
 For what eye can fathom the depths of the heart ? 
 
 Yet O, 1 forget not ! — nor sleeping nor waking I 
 My heart amid riot is silently breaking ! 
 But only in secret his tears can be shed 
 Who, bound to the living, yet worships the dead. 
 
POEMS. 65 
 
 For not in the moment thou dearest wast given 
 To him that adored thee hy bounteous Heaven, 
 And the lips to the troth of the heart utterance gave, 
 Wast thou dearer than now when thou'rt cold in the grave ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O WHA.T has man to do with thought, 
 
 Or aught that can destroy, 
 One moment of the fleeting hour 
 
 We consecrate to joy ? 
 Come twine the festive rosy wreath. 
 
 And bind it on my brow ; 
 And fill the wine cup to the brim ; 
 
 We will be happy now. 
 
 Away ! away ! — my brain is pierced — 
 
 A thorn is in the wreath ! 
 Light laughs the goblet's ruby wave — 
 
 Yet poison lurks beneath ! 
 And O through every bursting vein 
 
 Its burning currents roll ; — 
 Tear — tear the chaplet from my brow !- 
 
 Dash — dash to earth the bowl ! 
 6* 
 
66 POEMS 
 
 TO 
 
 The World, that meddling gossip, who> 
 Does what she has least right to do, 
 Has told strange tales of me at times ; 
 And not the least among my crimes 
 It is that I am seldom seen 
 Where pious worshippers convene, 
 And that even in the House of God 
 I have been known to smile and nod. 
 Grave charges these ; and, enire nousi, 
 I fear they can be proven too. 
 For very oft the pew that I 
 Must pay for others occupy. 
 And I have sometimes smiled to see 
 How zealous hypocrites can be, 
 And humbly must confess that prosing 
 Even in a church can set me dozing. 
 Yet, howsoe'er the dame may doubt, 
 I am a worshipper devout 
 Of all tliat's worthy mortal love 
 On earth, or in the Heavens above, 
 And will in fervour yield to no man 
 In worship of that goddess — Woman. 
 
 Woman, if not indeed divine. 
 
 What earthly power can equal thin« * 
 
POEMS. 
 
 While every thing that moves below 
 Doth unto man obedience owe, 
 By Him who that dominion gave 
 Was man designed for woman's slave. 
 Ay, look ye to the past as far as 
 The time of Helen and of Paris, 
 Or even to the days of Adam — 
 The first to bow the knee to Madam — 
 And you in every age will find 
 That her's has been the ruling mind. 
 Then what by her shall be withstood, 
 
 By whom the strongest was subdued ? 
 
 To whom the wisest was a fool ? 
 
 The conqueror of worlds a tool ? 
 
 And who — as by these lines you 
 
 Has made a rhymer even of me 7 
 
 67 
 
 TO 
 
 While gazing on thy beauties rare 
 With raptures never felt before, 
 
 I fondly deemed that one so fair 
 Must be than woman more. 
 
68 POEMS. 
 
 But woman thou hast proved thou art. 
 
 That I the truth had sooner known, 
 Ere had thy falsehood crushed a heart 
 
 That beat for thee alone ! 
 
 And yet — but distant be the time — 
 Remorseful sighs thy breast may swell 
 
 To think of one whose only crime 
 Was loving thee too well ! 
 
 TO 
 
 Upon its native thorn, 
 
 In vesture gemmed with dew, 
 This rose at early morn 
 
 In virgin beauty grew. 
 And from the parent stem, 
 
 That bore it pridefully, 
 I snatched the beauteous gem — 
 
 It was so much like thee. 
 
 A kiss I did impart 
 
 Unto the blushing flower, 
 
 Then pressed it to the heart 
 
 That long has owned thy power ; 
 
POEMS 
 
 69 
 
 And fiom my heart to thine 
 This message bade it take, 
 
 " I come from love's own shrine, 
 O wear me for its sake I " 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Believe me, love, the golden light 
 
 That has our path illumed, 
 Shall cheer us onward till the life 
 
 That feeds its flame's consumed ; 
 And when each throbbing pulse is still, 
 
 Each breathing form laid low. 
 Our souls, upspringing from the dust, 
 
 Shall catch the sacred glow. 
 
 In happy boyhood thee I loved, 
 
 And thee in manhood's prime ; 
 Nor love thee less though on my head 
 
 Have fallen the snows of time ; 
 And thee as truly will I love 
 
 While life beats in my breast ; 
 And Heaven would be no Heaven to me 
 
 Were Heaven by thee unblest 1 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 T O 
 
 When life was in its hopeful prime — 
 
 The morning of a glorious day — 
 In sweet idlesse without a crime 
 
 I might have whiled an hour away ; — 
 To wear the light and rosy chain 
 
 By Beauty wove have been content, 
 While trusting I might yet regain 
 
 What was so bootlessly mispent. 
 
 But now, that Time has blanched my hair, 
 
 And set his impress on my brow, 
 The sage Experience cries, " Forbear! 
 
 It is too late to trifle now ; — 
 For whatsoe'er thou hast to do 
 
 Is on the instant to be done. 
 Nor shouldst thou fondly hope to woo 
 
 One who could scarce in years be won." 
 
 Then, though I know how very sweet 
 
 The hours of dalliance may prove 
 When two fond hearts in secret meet 
 
 Where every thing incites to love, 
 Such bliss it is not his to know 
 
 Who cannot his lost j^outh renew I 
 And I — alas that it is so — 
 
 Would wed — but have not time to woo. 
 
POEMS. 71 
 
 TO HARRY. 
 
 Heaven's blessings on that sunny brow ! — those bright and laughing eyes, 
 Where ne'er, to dim their radiance, may envious clouds arise ! 
 Be still thy heart as light as now thy frolick footsteps gay, 
 And be thy voice like summer brook that singeth all the day. 
 
 Thou yet hast known but three short years — three bright spring days to 
 
 thee, 
 With no rude blast to bend the flowers that prank the verdant lea — 
 The hand of Care has guided thee where Fancy bade thee rove, 
 And o'er thy timid steps hath watched th' unsleeping eye of Love. 
 
 But fleeting is the spring of life as clouds that fleck the sky. 
 And hopes that wear the rose's tint even like the rose will die ; 
 But in the way of life, my boy, — a weary way at best — 
 May still the consciousness of right be sunshine to thy breast. 
 
 TO KATE. 
 
 They say thou art not pretty. But O a parent's eye 
 Beholds a thousand beauties where others none descry. 
 The little graceful gambols, the many nameless wiles 
 That smooth away our wrinkles and bring us back our smiles, 
 Though heeded by no other, to him a joy impart 
 That ever makes his offspring soem lovely to the heart. 
 
72 POEMS. 
 
 But thou art more than pretty, my darling Kate, to me ; 
 
 Thy form so much resembles that shrined in memory. 
 
 And as with the eyes thou lookcst, and speakest with the tongae 
 
 Of her who through the tempest to me unshaken clung, 
 
 That if indeed less pretty than all must own thou art, 
 
 Thou ever, Kate, most fondly shouldst nestle in my heart. 
 
 A RESOLVE. 
 
 Harp of wo ! forever 
 
 Silent be thy stran ! 
 Song of mine shall never 
 
 Waken thee again. 
 
 The sweets of melancholy 
 Bitterness impart, 
 And grieving is a folly 
 
 That wears away the heart. 
 
 Withered though the flowers 
 I have nursed with care, 
 
 Still in other bowers 
 
 Shall they bloom as fair. 
 
 Then, the Past forgetting, 
 Let me turn mine eyes. 
 
 From the sun that's setting, 
 To that which is to rise. 
 
 And, since Memory bringeth 
 
 Sadness in her lay, 
 The madrigal Hope singeth 
 
 Shall henceforth cheer my way I 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 III 
 
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