V - -,.. «V., VM- /^ ^-^ ^0^ <^ -,.^s^.- ,# -^ '.^m^^' ,#= -^ % V ,- ^ • « / ^ 03. ^0, X-* .\^ x^ .", .^ "' .. s'- ^^^ rT^ ' *<■>' c,'^ ^ ;? '^t^ ^ 4:-^^^^^ . ^ ^ "^.^o^ .^^ ^ V x^ <.. '-^^ .A^ ^.^^ 0^ s^^;;:"/^. "^^0^ "■ ^ \> „ ^ " -<• y .^^ °^ ^0^ ^^^^^ ^ % 0. %. / ^ POEMS. POEMS; BY THE AUTHOR OF "MORAL PIECES IN PROSE AND VERSE." BOSTON, PUBLISHED BY S. G. GOODRICH. ALSO, BY H. AND F. J. HUNTINGTON, HARTFORD ; SOLD BY THEM AND BOWLES AND DEARBORN, BOSTON; AND G. AND C. CARVILL, NEW YORK. MDCCCXXVII. « Rear high their consecrated walls In attic pride. Virginia there Like matron fair. To Science yields her darling care, Sighs o'er her ancient fame and breathes to hope the prayer. She bids her embryo statesmen rise, Genius sparkling in their eyes. To bless with grateful tears, the Sage, The founder of their dome, the star on history's page. Forth from his pen of might Burst that immortal scroll, Which gave a living soul To a young nation's shapeless clay, It said " let there be light !" And startled realms beheld a new-born day. — The waking world in long subjection held, Traced with astonish'd eye The question'd right of royalty. And fear'd the thunders of a vengeful sky, While Freedom from his storm-rock'd cradle came Scorning a monarch's name. And with a daring hand the vaunted sceptre quell'd. 17* 194 POEMS. Say, — what was his reward who with the band Of constellated souls thus saved a threaten'd land 1 — To see the war-clouds fade away, And peace resume her blissful sway, — See liberty and equal law Crush fell Discord's brood malign, From every clime of earth to draw Admiring pilgrims round his household shrine, — To amass from learning's store, The proudly treasured lore. To see fair cities rise amid the uncultured waste, And in his mountain paradise to taste Those ripen'd fruits whose germ was sown in blood. And mark his country's flag wave high o'er Glory's flood. To wreath around his brow bright Honour's crown, And find in weary age the love-smooth'd couch of down. But one desire remain'd, — to see His prosperous nation's Jubilee ; — Forth came that glorious morn with radiant vest. He caught its smile, and enter'd to his rest, From life's protracted banquet rose serene, Earth's latest wish fulfill'd, and sought a higher scene. THE LAST SURVIVER OF THE SIGNERS OF OUR DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Assyria boasted him who humbled Tyre, Her warrior monarch. Greece the clarion swell'd For him of Macedon, whose sick'ning tear Flow'd o'er the narrow limits of a world, POEMS. 195 Though in a wine-cup's narrower round his soul Dissolving sank. Stern Carthage too was proud Of old Hamilcar's son, when from the height Of Alpine cliffs, with vengeful eye she scann'd Her haughty rival. Rome beset the heavens, Even while her veins were bursting, with the shout Of " lo Csesar !" — On red Sweden's sky A pieteor glared, till dire Pultowa quench'd The wild-fire flame. France trembled as she took Her idol on her shoulders, and compell'd Tribute from mightier climes, but the cold blast That swept Siberian pines breathed o'er his brow, Proving he was but clay. — — Behold they died ! Those demigods of earth, — and left their fame To ravaged realms, and slaughter'd hecatombs, And widow's tears. But in this western world Which nature in her bosom long conceal'd, As her last, precious gem, a band arose Of nobler heroes. They, no conquest sought, No throne usurp'd, nor vassal homage claim'd. But bade the sceptre, and the crowned head Bow to the righteous cause. Time laid his hand Upon their silver'd brows, and summon'd all Save one, who in the dignity of age Linger'd amid the blessings they had wrought, Crown'd by a nation's thanks. — — To honour's tomb He saw his brethren gather'd, one by one. Yet found they might not die. Amid the haunts Of industry, who o'er his harvest sings, 196 POEMS. Of letter'd knowledge, liberty and wealth, They move illustrious in the gifts they gave. When to the woodman's axe the forest groans Brief answer, and the new-born city springs, It bears their name. Those mighty streams that roll The tide of commerce o'er our cultured vales, And ocean's thundering wave which proudly bears The star-clad banner on its course sublime, Speak forth their praise. The husbandman who guides His caravan far from his father's fields. On toward the setting sun, and boldly rears A cell upon the frontiers, makes their deeds His text-book nightly to his list'ning sons Who throng the winter fire. Their pictured forms Look down from halls of taste and wake the soul Of the young student to heroic deeds. Babes learn to name them in their murmur'd prayer, And as Penates, at each household hearth, Where freedom smiles, they dwell. Say not 't is death When this clay fabric falls, and weary yields Each element a part. Is it not life To prompt heroic thought, to cheer the toil Alike of statesman and of labouring swain, — To prop the columns of a nation's strength, And soar on gratitude's unresting wing Around the earth ? — Such glorious life they live. POEMS. 197 THE STRANGER'S FLOWER. It is the custom of the Ladies of Chili to present a Flower to strangers, on receiving them into their houses. Stranger ! nero flowers in our vales are seen. With a dazzling eye, and a fadeless green, — They scent the breath of the dewy morn. They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn. But revel and glow in our balmy air, They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there. This bud of welcome to thee we give, — Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live ; It shall charm thee from all a stranger's pain, Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain, A race in its freshness and bloom are we. Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee. 'T is a little time since the lance and spear. And clamour of war and death were here ; Our sesta* the shout of the murderer broke. And we struggled to rend a tyrant's yoke. Till our midnight slumbers were pale with fears, And the fairest cheeks bore a widow's tears. But now, on the couch of its mother's breast, The infant sleeps long in its dream of rest, And the lover beneath the evening star Woos the young maid with his blithe guitar — These — these are the blessings of Liberty, And Stranger, this flower is her gift to thee. * The after-dinner sleep. 198 POEMS. « MENE." Turn ye and look on ancient Babylon, — The glory of Chaldea's excellence. — Where is thy golden throne, — thou queen of earth 1 Thy heaven-defying walls, — thy molten gates, Thy towering terraces of trees and flowers, Thy river-god Euphrates, — thy gay priests, Effeminate kings, — astrologers with eyes Seal'd to the stars 1 — Methinks, even now I trace What struck thy prince, amid his revels, pale. The mystic fingers of a sever'd hand Inscribing Blcne on thy mouldering dust. — Ask ye for Tyre, — for populous Nineveh, For temple-crown'd Jerusalem, — for Thebes The hundred-gated, — or for Carthage proud ? — Go ! — ask the winnowing winds that waste the chaff Of human glory. — Ask ye who engraved 3Iene upon Pompeii's radiant halls, When dust and ashes quench'd their revelry 7 — The hand that graves it on thy own frail frame, Thy palaces of pleasure, — domes of pride, — And bowers of hope. — The pen of judging Heaven Writes " Mene — 3Tene — Tckel" — on all joys Of this deluding world. — That world herself So blind and blinding, — she shall read her doom Upon the blacken'd sky, — by the last ray Of the pale, — fainting sun, — and smit with pangs Like him of Babylon, — shall tottering fall To rise no more. — What then shall be their lot, Who sought no wealth but hers, — nor tasted joy Save in her smile ? POEMS. 199 TO AN ANCIENT ROCKING CHAIR. Whom have thy curving arms embraced Thou ancient, stately chair 1 Since first thy form the parlor graced And claim'd the housewife's care. For full a century, I vi'een. Its mighty round has made, Since first thy columns black and sheen Their maker's skill display'd. The slippery Sofa's glossy dress Allures the weary wight, But soon his sliding limbs confess Their most uneasy plight, — Though still it decks the modern hall The eye of taste to please : While thou, a favourite art of all Who love the balm of ease. On thee, the invalid reclined, His form by sickness chain'd, Though haply still, his soaring mind Its prison house disdain'd, — And wandering wide o'er fairy land Collected rainbow rays, Or waked with memory's magic wand Fair forms of other days. Here has some ancient maiden bright Repell'd encroaching Time, Ensconced in stiff-laced stays upright With high-heel'd shoe sublime. 200 POEMS. And here the meeker matron view'd Her children trooping round, Who guide with shouts of laughter rude The ball's elastic bound, — Anon to aid their sports would spread Her gay-flower'd ample gown, Or at their quarrels shake her head And awe them with a frown. Here, in thy arms, — the nodding nurse Has slumber'd out the night. Regardless of the mutter'd curse Of the poor, gouty wight ; Or frighten 'd from her stolen dream Has heard in deep dismay The falling infant's piteous scream Who on her bosom lay. Here beauty, like some blighted flower Smit by unfriendly sky, Consumed the wakeful, — restless hour With bright, unearthly eye. While on her cheek, the hectic glow Dire symbol of decay, Reveal'd how fast the treacherous foe Was mining on his way. Ah ! — wouldst thou speak, — thou ancient Chair, What secrets couldst thou tell ? Of hidden Love's mysterious care Breathed in thy hermit cell. POEMS. 201 What mad resolves, — what deep-laid schemes What fancies bold and free, — What dazzling hopes, and airy dreams Were born and died with thee. Then wouldst thou chide her idle rhyme. Who lolling thus at ease, Mispends the untold wealth of lime In lays so light as these. A WALK IN THE CHURCH YARD OF MY NATIVE PLACE. — Come, — let me turn Through yon green avenue, — and musing walk Where sleep the silent dead. — Ah ! what a throng Have lent their fleshly vestures to the worm Beneath these shades. — Herejii-st, the forest sons Buried their lifeless brethren, — ere the feet Of our pale race invaded them, — to die. — First to thy pillow, — not with stranger step I rove, — dear Benefactress ! — thou whose voice To " virtue, glory, and eternal life " Allured my childhood. — With what gentle hand Thou from obscurity's deep shadows drew Thy favour'd one, — touching her unform'd mind With love of knowledge, — as Prometheus shed Heaven's flame upon the statue of his love. Ah ! — many a year of changes and of cares Have taught the world's hard lesson, since thine eye Bade me farewell, — yet still to thee I turn IS 202 POEMS. As tearful Israel turn'd to Zion's hill, The city of her joy. Oft have I set Within thine hallow'd mould, fair, tender plants, The stainless rose, and constant evergreen, And bless'd, and bade them cheer her bed, — whose life Was Virtue's fragrance, — breathing toward its God. Yet they have wither'd, — one by one have fallen Beneath keen skies : — so didst thou teach my heart, — (Too heedless then !) — that every earthly flower Bore in its breast, the seeds of wan decay. And soon must perish. — Still shall thy pure life. Thy peaceful death, — thy seraph smile of bliss, Such as they glow upon my nightly dream. Deep in my soul's most cherish'd tablet dwell. — When gratitude her genial warmth forgets In death's embrace, — when the last debt I pay To earth, my mother, — Oh ! that I might be Remember'd but by one fond, sorrowing heart As I remember thee. — Thou too, — dear friend Of early sports, and studies more beloved, — 'Tis meet that I should linger near thy couch Communing with my spirit. — All our hours Of blissful intercourse, — when unrobed thought Sprang to its fellow in each other's breast, — All our congenial hopes, — our sister joys When rambling o'er the mountain's craggy brow. Or winning from its cell the pencill'd flower. We spake of Nature's God, — dost thou recall Their image in the climes of love serene ? — Dwells Friendship's warmth in angel bosoms pure ? When near the foaming rush of angry floods, POEMS. 203 Where oft we roved, — now sad and lone I stray, Or hang enamour'd o'er the page sublime Of Jofty bard, — or at dim twilight think Of life's uncertainty, — or waking, muse, Blending sweet visions with the thought of thee, Is it thy sigh, that through still midnight breathes " Rise ! — sister spirit 1" — At yon humble stone Sure I should pause, with reverence justly due To him who sleeps beneath. — I knew him well ; The patient teacher of our infant years. — The terror of his frown hath driven the blood From many a truant's cheek, — while his keen eye Darting like lightning to the false one's soul, Uprooted guilt. — The pale delinquent stood Trembling before him, — if the appointed task Were unfulfill'd ; — nor could the rust of sloth, Corroding intellect with baleful spot, Long bear the atmosphere, his dreaded wrath Kindled around it. — But he lived in days Ere Nature's strong affinity to good Had been discover'd, — and ere Wisdom chose That more convenient rule, — to train the child Not where he should, — but where he tciUs to go. — I loved that man of science, — for his voice Was gentle to the youth who careful sought To stamp upon his fleeting hours, the trace Of knowledge and of truth. — I loved him more For his high sway, — which banish'd from his realm The traitor passions, — and the guileful arts. Him Education honour'd as her priest, To offer on her altar fragrant fruits •204 POEMS. Matured by labour ; — for he never sought To hoodwink discipline, — and lure the mind With false indulgence from that toil severe By which great men are great. — — This little mound, With velvet turf besprent, were better gemm'd With snow-drops white. — A beauteous infant sleeps Here with its mother. — O'er its soft blue eye And o'er the slumber of its parted lips Rose-tinted, — such a holy smile would steal As seem'd not of earth's prompting. — Said it not That the bright treasure in that chrystal vase Should soon be claim'd of God 1 — — And is it so ! — That to my place of birth, where every germ Of hope was planted, I may never come But grief chastise the joy ? — When last the morn Spread forth her purple robe, I sought a friend Who on my childhood and my youth would smile With affable regard, cheering a heart That often sigh'd in loneliness. — Fair plants Still deck'd her garden, — but she was not there To nurse their sweets. — Her well known mansion rose In wonted hospitality, — but she Welcomed me not. — They pointed to the tomb. And bade me seek her there. — And does thy head Rest with the ancient of thy noble house Immured in silence ? — Many a tear will fall Bearing the answer from the sons of need, Whom hungry, thou hast fed, — uncover'd, clothed, — And sorrowing, comforted. POEMS. 205 — With silent course Unostentatious as the heaven-shed dew Thy bounties fell ; nor didst thou scatter gifts Or utter prayers with pharisaic zeal For man to note. — Thy praise was with thy God. In that domestic sphere where Nature rears Woman's meek throne, thy'worth was eminent ; Nor breath'd thy goodness o'er cold, stoic hearts. — What gentleness was thine, — what kind regard, To him thou lov'dst what dove-like tenderness In voice and deed. — Almost Disease might bear Its lot without repining, — wert thou near Beside its pillow, or around its couch Like ministering angel. — Scarce had Spring Which shed its damp dews o'er thy daughter's grave Return'd, — ere thou wert waiting to ascend Like her, to that bright host, whose ceaseless harps Hymn the Redeemer. — She was as a rose Gather'd in loveliness, mid perfumed flowers And warbling birds of love, — yet drooping still For the pure breath of that celestial clime Where summer hath no cloud. — She, with firm hand Grasp'd the strong hope of everlasting life. And thou, — in trembling, yet confiding trust, Didst dare the waves of death's tempestuous flood With the same anchor. — So, thou art at rest, Where trouble comes not ; — though thine image lives With grieving love. — But peace ! — thou pensive strain, — How vain to mourn o'er their repose, who warn The musing idler, and the man of care, — 18* 206 POEMS. The cradled babe, — gay youth, — and vvhite-lock'd sire That soon to this forgotten cell shall fleet The shadow of their days. — Earth's most adored Feel not upon their lifeless breasts the tear Fast trickling o'er their grave ; — nor does the clay Unnamed, — unchronicled, — less sweetly sleep Within its narrow house. — For all her sons. With mournful sigh of hollow-breathing winds, Soft vernal tears, — and drooping wintry boughs, Impartial Nature mourns. — Alas ! how vain The pride that lurks in gorgeous sepulchres, — The pyramid, — the stain'd sarcophagus, The tomb columnar. Still there is a life That in our ashes lives, — a care that wakes Around our mouMering bed, — and sweet it were To think that o'er our pulseless hearts should rise In hallovv'd characters that Saviour's name In whom we had believed, — and that the pen Of truth might add — " Write ! — blessed are the dead Who die in Him." TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. Pale Primrose '. — lingering for the evening star To bless thee with its beam, — like some fair child Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car, D(jth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild. To hallow his gay dream. — His red lips breathe The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee, Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee. — POEMS. 207 Go to thy rest, pale flower ! — The star hath shed His benison upon thy bosom fair, The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head, And weary man forgets his daily care ; — Sleep on, my rose ! till morning gild the sky, And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye. WYL.L.YS' HILL. AND THE CHARTER OAK. Occasioned by the death of the last proprietor, of the name of Wyllys, in whose family this estate had remained since the first settlement of the country. Thou wert the castle of the olden time. Thou solitary pile ! the beacon light Of the benighted traveller. Thy lone brow Look'd out in grandeur o'er a pathless wild. And waters whiten'd by no daring sail ; While to the red man's startled eye, thy pomp Was as a dream of terror. Now thou stand'st In faded majesty, as if to mourn The desolation of a lordly race, Or like a faithful vassal share their grave. Farewell ! Farewell ! A loftier dome may rise. And prouder columns blot thy time-stain'd walls From the slight memory of a passing age. Yet some there are, who deem thy mouldering stones Dearer than sculpture's boast, to whose fond eye Thy silent shades, and arbours darkly wreath'd. And moon-lit walks, are peopled with the throngs Of lost affection ; for whom Memory's spell, 208 POEMS- Like her of Endor, wakes the hoary sire, Wrapt in the shadowy mantle of the grave, Gives to the matron form the custom'd seat At board and hearth, or with the joyous shout Of childhood, and the warbled song of youth Fills these deserted halls. — But thou, firm Oak ! Tirae-honour'd and majestic, who didst lock Our freedom's charter in thy sacred breast, From tyranny's eagle-glance, we need not say Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take Thy leafy garland from the hand of spring, And wear the autumnal crown as vigorously, As if thou ne'er hadst mark'd old Time shred off. Age after age, man's branching hopes, and blast His root of glory. Canst thou tell us nought Of forest chieftains, and their vanish'd tribes. Who like the bubble on the waters broke Before our sires ? Hast thou no record left Of perish'd generations, o'er whose head Thy foliage droop'd 1 thou who unchanged hast seen The stately founders of an honour'd name, The wise, the brave, the beautiful go down To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb, Like thy own wither'd leaves ? — Bloom on ! Bloom on ! Thou silent monitor, and should our sons. Gay with the cup of full prosperity. Forget the labours of their patriot sires. Be thou as Delphos to them, with thy frown Oracular, warning them well to heed The sumless price of blood-bought liberty. POEMS. 209 TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. Where art thou, wife of Crassus, whose proud tomb O'ermasters Time, mocking with towering walls, And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers His ill-dissembled wrath ? — Soft, drooping shades, The dark, columnar cypress, the pale leaves Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath Close clustering, lend their tracery to make rich Thy sepulchre. — But thou hast left no trace On history's tablet, and in vain we ask These voiceless stones of thee. — Was hoarded wealth Thine idol, like thy husband's 1 — didst thou vaunt His venal honours, and exalt the power Of the triumvir, in thy purple robes, Presiding at his feasts, till Rome was sick Of pomp and revel ? — or in secret cell To thy Penates breathe the matron prayer With trembling for his sake ? — or in the grief Of solitary widowhood, deplore His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts ? — — There is no record on these mighty walls Of thy lost deeds. Even thy sarcophagus Is rifled, and the golden urn where slept Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe For the rapacious hand. Thy scattered dust, How doth it differ from the household slave's ? Who 'neath thy bidding at the distaff" wrought, Or bent with sterner toil, in ponderous vase. Brought the cool Martian waters, or perchance Through sinuous mazes of embroidery's art Guided the weary needle. 210 POEMS. But in vain We stand communing with the faithless tomb That cast thee forth. — The strong-cemented rock Lays claim to immortality, — but dust Man's dust, must yield each element a part, To pay Creation's loan, nor can he cling To the brief memory of a shadowy race, Save through his ueeds. — O Woman, nurse of Man ! — Make not thy grave beneath the imposing arch, Or the drear pyramid ; — enshrine thyself Amid thy buried virtues, in the heart Of him who loves thee, make thy monument The graces of thine offspring, and the thanks Of all who mourn. So shalt thou miss the pomp Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless tomb Be glorious in the resurrection morn. POMPEY'S STATUE, AT WHOSE PEDESTAL JULIUS C.a:sAR FELL, IS STILL PRESERVED IN THE PALAZZO SPADJE, AT ROME. Cold and inanimate ! — Would thou couldst ope Thy marble lips, and tell what thou hadst seen Upon the ides of March! — thou, at whose feet Fell the world's monarch, eloquent and brave, The great in conquest, and the proud of soul. — Waked there no spark Promethean in thy breast, When sadly muffled in his mantle's fold Fainting, he fell on thee ] — POEMS. 211 Didst thou stand forth In the same dark and motionless beauty, while Casca's impatient sword, and the keen point Of Cassius, and the " unkindest cut of all," From the loved hand of Brutus, and the rage Of traitorous daggers search'd that noble breast, Which Gaul, and Egypt, and Pharsalia's plains Had seen bright-clad in victory's burnish'd mail, Trembling as at a war-god ? — Tragic close Of mad ambition's drama ! — the deep plaint Of " Et tu Brute !" — and the indignant pang With which that proud soul left the wounded clay. Scorning a world which mock'd it with the cheat Of friendship and of faith ! — And yet that world Had owed him little, save the blood that made Her harvests plenteous, save the unheeded groan Of famish'd widow, and of sireless babe, A meteor glory kindled up at Rome, And all beside, a desert. — Deeds like these, How weigh they in Heaven's balance, when the pomp Of earth hath fled away 1 — 3Ion may not judge. But wait in trembling for his trial-day. — — And yet 't would seem that the m.eek hind, whose hand Made hard with labour, deals the daily bread To the young nurslings of his humble nest. Whose head beneath his planted trees and flowers, Sinks calmly down in the long sleep of death, Hath better passport to the clime of peace Than the blood-nourish'd master of a world. 212 POEMS. FUNERAL, or THE OSAGE WARRIOR, A mighty form lay stretch'd and cold Beside his last retreat, The spear was in his mantle's fold, The quiver at his feet ; Grave, hoary men with stifled moan Moved on sedate and slow, While woman's shrill, unheeded tone Broke forth in lawless wo. Strange sight ! — amid that funeral train A lofty steed stood nigh, With arching neck and curling mane, With bold, yet wondering eye. — But when the wail grew wild and loud, His fiery nostril spread, As though he heard the war-whoop proud And rush'd to carnage red. — " Steed of the winds ! — thy lord doth roam Gay through the spirit's land. Where no pale tyrants eye shall come To frown on the happy band. When o'er the night, like meteor streams The lamp of their revels free, His hunting spear in lightning gleams^ And he waits, he calls for thee. He must not at the chase be late, He, of the soul of fire. Haste ! Haste !" — the death-shot seals his fate, With sharp and sudden ire. POEMS. 213 One leap, — one groan, — and all was hush'd, — He bow'd his noble head, And free the deep, red streamlet gush'd To lave his master's bed. Sad groups to guard their chieftain's clay The tumulus prepare, While low a weeping mourner lay With dark, dishevell'd hair. And when the evening star is bright, Full oft her widow'd cry, Goes forth upon the stilly night, " Why warrior, — didst thou die V — THE CEMETERY OF PERE LA CHAISE. Is this the abode of the dead ? — Oh no ! — The symbols of joy are here, — Gay wreaths round columns of marble glow. From bright-wing'd birds sweet melodies flow, Nor cypress nor yew are near, I thought that the city which death had rear'd Was with banners of grief o'erspread, — That pleasure to weave her light garland fear'd. And the path to its desolate shrines appear'd Deep worn by the mourner's tread. Yet still is there nought of secret wo 'Neath the guise of this gaudy cheer 1 — On yon little mound where roses grow, Methinks that pale flower with its lip of snow Hath drank of a mother's tear. 19 214 POEMS. Yes! Yes ! — 't is the site of the dreamless bed, There 's a voice from those sepulchres cold, — The mighty are there, — but their pomp is dead, And the lover who pale from the bridal fled, In his bosom the vi^orm to fold. Can ye tell us nought of the souls who fly From their prison of earthly gloom 1 — Hark ! Hark ! to the hollow and hoarse reply, " Ora pro anima mea," they cry From the depth of each sculptured tomb. But why do ye cry unto us, ye dead 1 — We are striving with sorrow's blast, We are weak, and mid snares of sin we tread, We are frail, and the change of death we dread. That change with you is past. Till the fearful audit of mortal crime, When the books of the judgment ope, Till the flash of that flame whose wrath sublime Shall feed on the spoils of buried time, Rest, — rest in your beds of hope. A HEBREW TALE. Twilight was deepening with a tinge of eve, As toward his home in Israel's shelter'd vales A stately Rabbi drew. His camels spied Afar the palm-trees' lofty heads that deck'd The dear, domestic fountain, — and in speed Prest with broad foot, the smooth and dewy glade. POEMS. 215 The holy man his peaceful threshold pass'd With hasting step. — The evening meal was spread, And she, who from life's morn his heart had shared Breathed her fond welcome. — Bowing o'er the board, The blessing of his Father's God he sought, Ruler of earth and sea. — Then raising high The sparkling wine-cup, " call my sons," he bade, *' And let me bless them ere their hour of rest." — The observant mother spake with gentle voice Somewhat of soft excuse, — that they were wont To linger long amid the Prophet's school, Learning the holy Law their father loved. — His sweet repast with sweet discourse was blent, Of journeying and return. — " Would thou hadst seen With me, the golden morning break to light Yon mountain summits, whose blue, waving line Scarce meets thine eye, where chirp of joyous birds. And breath of fragrant shrubs, and spicy gales. And sigh of waving boughs, stirr'd in the soul Warm orisons. — Yet most I wish'd thee near Amid the temple's pomp, when the high priest Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp, Cymbal and trump and psaltery, and glad breath Of tuneful Levite, — and the mighty shout Of all our people like the swelling sea Loud hallelujahs burst. When next I seek Blest Zion's glorious hill, our beauteous boys Must bear me company. — Their early prayers Will rise as incense. Thy reluctant love No longer must withhold them : — the new toil Will give them sweeter sleep, — and touch their cheek 216 POEMS. With brighter crimson. — Mid their raven curls My hand I '11 lay, — and dedicate them there, Even in those hallow'd courts to Israel's God, Tvt'o spotless lambs, well pleasing in his sight. — But yet, methinks, thou 'rt paler grown, my love ! — And the pure sapphire of thine eye looks dim. As though 't were wash'd with tears." — — Faintly she smiled, — " One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve. — Gems of rich lustre, and of countless cost Were to my keeping trusted. — Now, alas ! They are demanded. — Must they be restored ? — Or may I not a little longer gaze Upon their dazzling hues 1" — His eye grew stern. And on his lip there lurk'd a sudden curl Of indignation. " Doth my wife propose Such doubt 1 — as if a master might not claim His own again !" " Nay Rabbi, come behold These priceless jewels ere I yield them back." So to their spousal chamber with soft hand Her lord she led. — There on a snow-white couch Lay his two sons, 'pale, pale and motionless, Like fair twin-lillies, which some grazing kid In wantonness had cropt. — " My sons !— My sons ! — Light of my eyes 1" the astonish'd father cried, — " My teachers in the law ! — whose guileless hearts, And prompt obedience warn'd me oft to be More perfect with my God !" — To earth he fell, Like Lebanon's rent cedar ; while his breast Heaved with such groans as when the labouring soul Breaks from its clay companions' close embrace. — POEMS. 217 — The mourning mother turn'd away and wept, Till the first storm of passionate grief was still. Then pressing to his ear her faded lip, She sigh'd in tone of tremulous tenderness, " Tliou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield The summon'd jewels. — See ! the Lord did give, The Lord hath taken away." " Yea !" said the sire, " And blessed he his name. Even for tJiy sake Thrice blessed be Jehovah." — Long he prest On those cold, beautiful brows his quivering lip, While from his eye the burning anguish roll'd, Then kneeling low, those chasten'd spirits pour'd Their mighty homage. THE MISLETOE AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. Dark plant of Superstition's shade. Why dost thou lift thy cheerless eye Where reeks no Druid's purple blade, To stain fair Freedom's chosen glade, And dim her sun-bright sky ? — Sacred to orgies blind and base Where human blood was sternly spilt, How dar'st thou seek this holy place ? — Rude parasite ! whose foul embrace Has wreath'd the murderer's hilt. 19* 218 POEMS. Where Mona's ancient foliage wept Or drear Stonehenge appall'd the gloom. Thy earthless root had fitter crept, Thy mystic garland better slept Than near a christian's tomb. What though in tuneful Maro's lore* To Troy's sad chief thine aid was lent. Who dauntless trod the infernal shore Where proud and frowning shades of yore Their date of anguish spent, Yet we, to Pluto's dreary coast, Passport to ask of thee, disdain, — We seek our hero mid the host Where wails no grim or guilty ghost, On heaven's unclouded plain. See ! — watchful o'er his honour'd clay, A nation sheds the filial tear, And pilgrims kneel, and patriots pray. And plants of glory drink the day, Why should 'st thou linger here ? In war, the laurel wove his crest. The olive deck'd his sylvan dome. The mournful cypress marks his rest, Rude Misletoe ! — the Druid's guest, Hence ! — find some fitter home. • Tlie Viscum Album of Linnaeus, or sacred Misletoe of the Druids, is the same plant which was the passport of ^Eneas to the infernal regions. — See ^neid, Book 6th. POEMS. 219 THE SAINTED MOTHER. What see'st thou, parting sou!, through falling clay 1 Through the deep chasms of time and sickness pale ? What fires the fix'd eye thus with rapture's ray Mid thy drear passage through the darken'd vale 1 — See'st thou thei?- smile who bow the seraph head In guardian friendship o'er salvation's heirs ? — Is their white wing in sister-welcome spread To waft thee gently o'er a world of cares? — Doth melody, unknown to mortal ear, With full, enchanting tide mellifluent flow ? — The perfect language of that glorious sphere Which thy meek lip so well essay'd below ? — Come sceptic near this sacred couch, and try The strength of virtue's panoply, while pain Uproots of life and love the cherish'd tie And rends a mother from the mourning train. Go — king of terrors ! — prompt to thin the band Whose pure monitions guide us to the sky, — This barbless arrow from thy vengeful hand But points the christian's triumph, — hotv to die. Oh privileged were those who mark'd thee rise Thou placid victor o'er the spoiler's power ! — Imbibed they not the wisdom of the skies From the deep lesson of that awful hour ? — Adieu ! — we dare not mourn thee save with tears Of holy gratitude, — raised as thou art Above the changes of these chastening years, And blissful number'd with the pure in heart. 220 POEMS. " WHEREFORE I PRAISED THE DEAD, MORE THAN THE LIVING." King Solomon. They dread no storm that lowers, No perish'd joys bewail, They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, Nor drink of streams that fail, There is no tear-drop in their eye, No change upon their brow, The placid bosom heaves no sigh, Though all earth's idols bow. Who are so greatly blest ? — From whom hath sorrow fled ? — Who share such deep, unbroken rest While all things toil ? The dead! The holy dead ! — why weep ye so Above the sable bier ? — Thrice blessed ! — they have done with wo, The living claim the tear. Go to their sleeping bowers. Deck their low couch of clay With early spring's uncolour'd flowers. And when they fade away, Think of the amaranthine wreath The bright bowers never dim, And tell me why thou fly'st from death Or hid'st thy friends from him 1 — POEMS. 221 We dream but they awake, Dark visions mar our rest, Through thorns and snares our way we take, And 1/et tve mourn the blest ! For those who throng the eternal Throne Lost are the tears we shed, — They are the living, — they alone Whom thus we call the dead. A DIRGE. Tomb ! take our treasure to thy hoard, — The hand that we so oft have prest, The eye whence holy light hath pour'd, The glowing lip, the form adored, Take to thy breast ! — Cold, cold and thankless as thou art, How can we leave the spirit free, How can we yield that faithful heart, Which bore in all our joys a part. Thus unto thee 1 — Said we the spirit ? — 'T is not thine ! — No, guard the slumbering dust with care, Nature with flowers shall deck the shrine, And be at dewy eve's decline, A weeper there. — Dark steward ! lock with jealous fear The secrets of thy dreamless bed, For thou, when ruin whelms the sphere, The strong archangel's vdice must hear, " Restore the dead." 222 POEMS. TO AN ABSENT CHILD. Where art thou, Bird of Song? — Brightest one, and dearest ! — Other groves among, Other nests thou cheerest, Sweet thy warbling skill To each ear that heard thee, But 't was sweetest still To the heart that rear'd thee. — Lamb ! where dost thou rest ? — On stranger-bosoms lying 1 — Flowers thy path that drest Now uncropp'd are dying, Streams where thou didst roam Murmur on without thee, Lov'st thou still thy home ? — Can thy mother doubt thee ? — Seek thy Saviour's flock, To his blest fold going, Seek that smitten rock Whence our peace is flowing ; Still should Love rejoice, Whatsoe'er betide thee, If that Shepherd's voice Evermore would guide thee. ON SEEING THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL OF THE AMERICAN ASYLUM, HARTFORD, AT A FESTIVAL. She sat beneath the verdant shade Where young birds chirp'd in leafy cell. Where wild flowers deck'd the mossy glade. And tuneful waters murmuring fell, POEMS. 223 And smile, and song, and mirth were there, While youth and joy their tissue wove, And white robed forms, with tresses fair Gay glided through the enchanted grove. But there she sat with drooping head. By stern misfortune darkly bound, By holy light unvisited. And silent mid a world of sound. Chain'd down to solitary gloom No sense of quick delight was there, Save when the floweret's rich perfume Came floating on the scented air. She rose, and sadly sought her home, Where with the voiceless train she dwelt, In Charity's majestic dome, For bounteous hearts her sorrows felt. But while her mute companions share Those joys which ne'er await the blind, A moral night of deep despair Descending shrouds her lonely mind. For not to her Creation lends Or blush of morn, — or beaming moon. Nor pitying Knowledge makes amends For step-dame Nature's stinted boon. Yet deem not, though so dark her path. Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot, Or in her bitter cup of wrath The healing drop of balm forgot. 224 POEMS. Oh no ! — with meek, contented mind, The needle's humble task to ply At the full board her place to find, Or close in sleep the placid eye, With Order's unobtrusive charm Her simple wardrobe to dispose, To press of guiding care the arm, And rove where Autumn's bounty flows, With Touch so exquisitely true, That Vision stands astonish'd by, To recognise with ardor due Some friend or benefactor nigh, Her hand mid childhood's curls to place. From fragrant buds the breath to steal. Of stranger-guest the brow to trace. Are pleasures left for her to feel. And often o'er her hour of thought, Will burst a laugh of wildest glee, As if the living forms she caught On wit's fantastic drapery, As if at length, relenting skies In pity to her doom severe, Had bade a mimic morning rise. The chaos of the soul to cheer. But who, with energy divine. May tread that undiscover'd maze, Where Nature, in her curtain'd shrine. The strange and new-born Thought arrays 1 POEMS. 225 Where quick perception shrinks to find On eye and ear the envious seal, And wild ideas throng the mind, Which palsied speech may ne'er reveal ; Where instinct, like a robber bold, Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain, And leaping o'er her barrier cold Proclaims the proud precaution vain : Say, who shall with magician's wand That elemental mass compose, Where young affections pure and fond Sleep like the germ mid wintry snows ? Who, in that undecypher'd scroll The mystic characters may see, Save Him who reads the secret soul, And holds of life and death the key 1 Then, on thy midnight journey roam. Poor wandering child of rayless gloom. And to thy last and narrow home Drop gently from this living tomb. Yes, uninterpreted and drear, Toil onward with benighted mind, Still kneel at prayers thou can'st not hear, And grope for truth thou may'st not find. No scroll of friendship or of love, Must breathe its language o'er thy heart. Nor that Blest Book which guides above Its message to thy soul impart. 20 226 POEMS. But Thou who didst on Calvary die Flows not thy mercy wide and free 1 Thou, who didst rend of death the tie, Is Nature's seal too strong for thee 1 And Thou, Oh Spirit pure, whose rest Is with the lowly, contrite train, Illume the temple of her breast. And cleanse of latent ill the stain. That she, whose pilgrimage below Was night that never hoped a morn. That undeclining day may know Which of eternity is born. The great transition who can tell ! When from the ear its seal shall part ^ Where countless lyres seraphic swell, And holy transport thrills the heart. When the chain'd tongue which ne'er might pour The broken melodies of time, Shall to the highest numbers soar, Of everlasting praise sublime, When those blind orbs which ne'er might trace The features of their kindred clay, Shall scan of Deity the face. And glow with rapture's deathless ray. BIRTH-DAY OF BOTH MY PARENTS. Hail hallow'd morn ! — made sacred by their birth, Who fondly o'er my waking dream of life, POEMS. 227 Like guardian angels hung. Serene thou bear'st Upon thy radiant wing the vivid trace Of years departed, weaving round those forms For whom this lay of filial love I breathe, The tissued robe of recollected joy. — — Bright o'er those mists and shadows which involve This vestibule of being, they dispensed Light, like that star which lifts her gentle lamp O'er dewy dawn, fair herald of the day. Amid the doubtful bliss of infancy, Its mingled smile and tear, its lisping tone, And faltering step, and claim on sleepless love, I see their ministry. Mid brighter scenes, The wild, loud laugh of childhood, the gay smile With which exulting youth hastes forth to prove The charms of nature, and the arts of man, Through every change when pain or pleasure breathed Its spirit too intensely o'er a heart Wayward and full of hope, — I mark them still Bending with tireless sympathy. The hand That labor 'd for my good, — the eye that wept My slight adversity, — the soul whose chord Vibrated to my touch, — the tuneful hymn, The holy prayer that bless'd our evening couch, Were theirs ; — the uncancell'd, everlasting debt Of gratitude be mine. — Oh Guides revered ! Though with too fond idolatry ye clung Around your only one, — too oft transform'd By love's most subtle alchymy, her faults To fancied virtues, — yet your faithful voice Has warn'd from error, -and your dreaded glance Darted repentance to her heart, when vice 228 POEMS. Had overtaken it, and still ye toil'd To train her as a servant of your Lord. — Together now, with lingering steps ye tread That steep, declining path of life which leads Down to the flood of Jordan. — Oh my God ! Now in the feebleness of hoary hairs Forsake them not. On this their natal day Lift up the glory of thy countenance, And bid their childless home, their lonely breasts, Glow with that cheering radiance which now gilds Yon chambers of the east. — Whate'er they need, The gift of healing, or the light of faith. Or confidence of prayer, vouchsafe to grant ; And all that measureless and priceless love Which o'er my earthly journey they have strewn, Shed thou again on them. Hast thou not said A mother's kindness to her new-born babe, Weigh'd with thy mercy to the trusting soul, Was but forgetfulness ? — Therefore I rest My cause with thee, — for thou hast been their trust Onward from blooming youth, and years mature To weary age. What is a daughter's prayer Though steep'd in all the agony of tears. Compared with the compassions of a God ! — Be still, my soul ! — and at the altar's foot Kneel in adoring gratitude, nor fear To trust that wisdom which hath never err'd. That love which guides the v/ounded sparrow's fall. And that eternal truth on v/hich the arch Of heaven is rear'd, and heaven's rejoicing host Hano; all their fulness of immortal bliss. 1 V s' > A >p' -^^ r . V^'77;^\o^ ^e^'-'TrTs^pO :-- .*^\^ ^ '^ . ;. -* A ^ ^ , X ■* A , "^ ^ . V ■*> A = ^ v-y O V? „^ ^o v^^ % -o v^^ r- .f> -y.