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 JAMES NACK. 
 
 ITEW YOEK: 
 
 DELISSER & PROCTER, 508 BROADWAY, 
 1859. 
 
 
 
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 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, 
 
 By JAMES NACK, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 
 District of New York. 
 
 I 
 
 P. CAnRiCK, Printer, 
 248 Canal Street, New York. 
 
TO 
 
 C. NESTELL BOVEE, Esq. 
 
 My Deak Sm: 
 
 There cannot be a more effectual way to connect 
 tlie publication of a volume witli pleasant reminis- 
 cences, than to associate it with the name of a clier- 
 isbed friend. It is therefore perfectly natural that I 
 should inscribe the present volume to you as an 
 offering of esteem and affection. 
 
 Wishing, rather than expecting, that the following 
 pages may in part repay the gratification I have 
 derived from yours, I indulge myself at once in a 
 pleasure and an honor, by subscribing myself 
 
 YovR Feiend, 
 
 JAMES NACK. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 5 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE RING 13 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF YENGEANCE 3t 
 
 LOYE'S YOUNG DREAM 91 
 
 The Flo-wer of Love 93 
 
 Mj Blue-Eyed Maid 94 
 
 My Fondest and Fairest 95 
 
 The Charms of Woman 96 
 
 The Grave of Mary 98 
 
 My own, my chosen Bride 99 
 
 Love without Hope 199 
 
 Love will Find out the Way 102 
 
 My Love loves Me 104 
 
 Broken Ties lOG 
 
 The Best and the Worst of It 107 
 
 The Lock of Hair 108 
 
 I know that Thou art for Away, 109 
 
 Love's Ambition 110 
 
 Wedded Lovo 112 
 
li CONTENTS. 
 
 DOMESTIC PIECES 115 
 
 A New Year's Greeting to My Daughter 118 
 
 To My Wife 120 
 
 She calls Me Father 122 
 
 My Little Daughter's Welcome 123 
 
 A Father's Dirge 124 
 
 The Watches of the Night 128 
 
 My Boy 135 
 
 A Valentine to My Wife 133 
 
 My Babe 135 
 
 My Darling Little Mary 13*7 
 
 The Mother's Pride 138 
 
 The Font 139 
 
 The Namesake 140 
 
 On the Death of a Toung Sister 142 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 145 
 
 To Charles Dickens 147 
 
 Passing the Church 149 
 
 The Best of Counsel 152 
 
 To Gertrude 153 
 
 Woman's Ministry , 155 
 
 Walter Scott and Washington Irving 156 
 
 The Bell Song 159 
 
 My Childhood 110 
 
 To Cordeha 172 
 
 Alone 173 
 
 The Difference 174 
 
 The Pearl-Handled Knife 175 
 
 The Battle of the Snakes 181 
 
 Catching a Fox 186 
 
 The Old Clock 188 
 
 The Magic Eing 194 
 
CONTENTS. iii 
 
 The Story of a Kiug 197 
 
 What I would Like 200 
 
 The People's Princes 202 
 
 Twenty Years Ago 204 
 
 The Influence of the Affections 205 
 
 Song of the Toothache Imps 206 
 
 The Wet Morning 207 
 
 Life and Death 209 
 
 Bootli 210 
 
 Tlie Sum of Philosophy 212 
 
 The Hero 213 
 
 What should we Do, my Brother 215 
 
 The Canary-Bird 216 
 
 Young Napoleon at his Father's Grave 218 
 
 New Year Thoughts 221 
 
 A Hundred Years from Now 222 
 
 Yanity of Yanities 224 
 
 New Year Hymn 225 
 
 Spring is Coming 226 
 
 My Pretty Birds 227 
 
 My Cap 228 
 
 The Sun 230 
 
 A Woman as She should Be 232 
 
 Forget Me Not 232 
 
IMEMOIR OF JAMES NACK, 
 
 BY 
 
 QEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 When genius of no common order is placed in conflict 
 with circmnstances of peculiar difliculty, it presents a 
 subject of interesting contemplation to those who take an 
 interest in the philosophy of the human mind. Hence the 
 career of James Nack has engaged the attention of more 
 than one eminent writer. The elegant memoir of General 
 Wetmore is familiar to all conversant with the literature 
 of our country; and, in the present brief sketch, we shall, 
 to a great extent, avail ourselves of his remarks, with a 
 few additional particulars from other sources. 
 
 James Nack is the son of a merchant of the city of New 
 York, and was born on the fourth of January 1809. From 
 his earliest years his attention to study and literature gave 
 promise of future distinction. His first efforts in poetry 
 were at so early an age, it might be said of him as of Pope, 
 
 " He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." 
 
 But the fond expectations which his precocious talents 
 naturally inspired among his friends and family, appeared 
 to be suddenly destroyed by an accident, which might 
 have been fatal to the development of genius loss innate, 
 or faculties less enero-etic than those with which he was 
 
6 MEMOIU. 
 
 endowed. He had scarcely attained his ninth year, when 
 one day, as he was descending a flight of stairs with a 
 little playmate in his arms, his foot slipped ; in his fall he 
 caught at the nearest article, which happened to be a 
 heavy fire-screen; this gave way, and descending npon 
 his head, crushed and mangled it severely, depriving him 
 of consciousness for several weeks, and of his hearing for 
 ever. 
 
 It is a natural consequence of a deprivation of hearing 
 in early life, for the articulation to become gradually im- 
 perfect for want of an ear to guide its pronunciation, and 
 l^ACK has not entirely escaped this misfortune. Hence, 
 though his speech is intelligible to those who have grown 
 up with him, and become accustomed to its peculiarities, 
 he prefers to carry on his intercourse with others in writ- 
 ing. To many the loss of hearing at so early an age would 
 have presented almost unconquerable difficulties in the 
 pursuits of science and literature ; but familiar Avith books 
 from his earliest years, the spirited boy only applied with 
 the more diligence to his studies. The result may be given 
 in the words of the late Samuel L. Knapp, who kncAV him 
 intimately, and was well qualified by his own talents and 
 attainments to appreciate those of his young friend. 
 
 " His acquirements at this early age, in the languages 
 and all the branches of knowledge, ordinary and extraor- 
 dinary, are superior to those of any young man of the 
 same age I ever met with. There is a strength and matu- 
 rity about his mind rarely to be found in those who have 
 experienced no such deprivation as he has been visited 
 with. His criticisms have a sagacity and shrcAvdness un- 
 equaled by those who were critics before he was born. 
 He acquires a language with the most astonishing facility. 
 Ko one I ever knew could do it with the same readiness, 
 
MEMOIR. 7 
 
 except the late learned orientalist, George Betiiune Eng- 
 lish. Nack unites in a degree truly astonishing, those two 
 seemingly inconsistent qualities, restless?iess and 2^ersever- 
 ance. He reads and writes, and does all things as though 
 he had just breathed the Delphic vapor, and perseveres as 
 though he were chained to the spot by some tahsmanic 
 power. 
 
 " In a few years our gifted author will find things chang- 
 ing around him, and his youthftil labors will become the 
 foundation stones of a goodly edifice, in the fashioning of 
 which he has learned the skill of a literary architect, and 
 acquired the strength to raise a temple of imperishable 
 fame for his own and his country's glory." 
 
 Such were the impressions and expectations that James 
 Nack inspired in his boyhood, even in the veterans of 
 literature ; and a boy of such extraordinary promise must 
 have been remarkable under any circumstances. But when 
 we consider the difiiculties he had to surmount, we must 
 no less admire his energy and perseverance than his talents. 
 As General Wetmore eloquently remarks, " had not James 
 Nack been deeply imbued by nature with the vision and 
 the faculty divine — had he not been impelled by an irre- 
 sistible love and a feeling for his art, he never could have 
 overcome the numerous and seemingly insurmountable 
 difficulties which met him at every turn in the opening 
 of his career. Cut off* in early youth from that familiar 
 general mtercourse which sweetens the days of childhood 
 and smoothes the path to knowledge, his sole rehance was 
 on his own natural resources ; an intellect vigorous and 
 clear, an imagination vivid and far-reaching, and a resolu- 
 tion that could meet and subdue the irreparable calamity 
 of his Hfe." 
 
 On the publication of a volume of his poems, written 
 
8 MEMOIR. 
 
 between the fourteenth and seventeenth years oi his age 
 it was hailed with wonder and admiration. One of our 
 leading reviews, in alluding to that volume, say^, " For 
 precocity of talent and attainment under circumstances 
 peculiarly unpropitious, James Nack is an intellectual 
 wonder. As far as known, Christendom contains nothing 
 comparable to him. All things considered, Chatterton did 
 not equal him. He has written much, and many of his 
 productions are of a high order ; all of them are marked 
 with the rich and fervid outpourings of genius. For inten- 
 sity and all that gives to poetry its highest character, they 
 are certainly not surpassed, we think not equaled by any 
 of the early productions of Lord Byro:n^, and those youthful 
 productions of the noble bard have never received the 
 commendations they merit. It is not too much to say of 
 this gifted young American, that when matured by time 
 and finished by labor, some of his future efforts in song 
 may equal the happiest of those that have immortalized 
 the author of Childe Harold." 
 
 Among those who took an active interest in the young 
 j)oet was a distinguished member of the New York Bar, 
 who engaged hun in his office, and placed an extensive and 
 well-selected library at his disposal. "This situation," 
 says Colonel Knapp, " opened a new world to him. He 
 reveled in fresh delights, devoured books upon poetry, 
 history, philosophy, fiction, mathematics, politics, ethics, 
 criticism, and theology. He wrote as well as read on 
 many of these subjects ; formed a thousand theories, and 
 tore them up root and branch for new creations." 
 
 On the departure of this gentleman for Europe, young 
 Nack formed an engagement with another of his early 
 friends, Mr. Asten, at that time Clerk of the City and 
 County of New York, who had been among the first to 
 
IMEMOIIl. 9 
 
 notice and appreciate his abilities. He soon mastered the 
 intricacies of the various duties required of him ; and the 
 manner in which he has fulfilled them has been well de- 
 scribed by General Wetmore : " The dry details of legal 
 papers, the monotonous toil of searching the musty records 
 of the courts, however uncongenial to the poetic tempera- 
 ment, have no power to turn him from the path of duty. 
 lie enters thoroughly into the spirit of his various labors, 
 and discharges them with a zeal and ability which proba- 
 bly few could equal, and wdiich has secured for him not 
 only the confidence of his successive employers, but the 
 warm regard and esteem of the members of the Bar." 
 
 In the early part of the year 1838, Mr. ISTack was united 
 to a young lady to whom he had been attached almost 
 from her childhood ; and who, it would appear, from more 
 than one beautiful tribute to her worth, which may rank 
 among the happiest efforts of his pen, must have been 
 every way worthy of his choice. 
 
 The poetry of James Nack is characterized by a versifi- 
 cation remarkably flowing, easy, and musical — an unaffected 
 and felicitous diction — and a depth and tenderness of feel- 
 ing for which he may be eminently considered the poet of 
 the affections. 
 
 His personal qualities could not be more accurately de- 
 scribed than in the words of General Wetmore : " Mr. 
 Nack's habits are regular and retired. The domestic 
 attractions of home have a greater charm for him than the 
 allurements of the world. The amusements and excite- 
 ments of society can rarely win him from his books or his 
 desk. He is averse to mixed company, reserved in the 
 presence of strangers, but familiar and playful in the circle 
 of his select friends ; of strong passions ; quick to resent, 
 
 but quicker to forgive ; prone to act upon the the impulse 
 1* 
 
10 MEMOIE. 
 
 of the moment ; of a disposition gentle, generous, and sin- 
 cere. He is fond of children, and successful in engaging 
 their affections. With such qualities of mind and heart, 
 it is not surprising that he secures the Avarm regard of 
 those who have the happiness of his acquamtance, nor that 
 he is most esteemed by those who know him best." 
 
 In conclusion, the writer cannot forbear availing himself 
 of this opportunity to express his own high appreciation 
 of the worth and genius of one whom it has for many years 
 been his privilege to number among his most intunate and 
 most esteemed friends. 
 
 Geo. p. Moeeis. 
 
 I 
 
ROMANCE OF THE RING. 
 
ROMANCE OF THE RING. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 All night he rode till the break of day, 
 
 Nor paused he at any place ; 
 The red blood ran on his booted heel, 
 
 And the white foam flew in his face ; 
 The sides of his courser heaved amain, 
 
 The sides of his coal-black steed, 
 And the sweat ran down, and the smoke curled up 
 
 Yet slackened he not his speed. 
 The horse and the rider, away, away ! 
 
 Shot on like the arrow's whirr, 
 TiU the hand no longer could hold the rein, 
 
 Nor the heel could plunge the spur ; 
 His limbs all droop'd Uke a dead man's limbs. 
 
 But his steed did not pause at all : 
 Away, away ! was the rider whirled — 
 
 'T was wondrous he did not tall ! 
 His finger was girt by a little ring 1 
 
 He look'd upon it by chance, 
 
14 THE EOMANCE OF THE Exx.o.. 
 
 And, with a cry you might hear afar, 
 
 He sjDrang from his drowsy trance ; 
 He seized the reins — from his courser's flanks 
 
 Hot blood o'er the rowels splash'd ; 
 " Away ! away ! " he shouted aloud, 
 
 And away, and away, he dash'd. 
 Away, and away, for many an hour, 
 
 He darted, for many a mile ; 
 The courser smok'd as all on a flame. 
 
 And the blood in his veins did boil. 
 Away, away ! still he dashes on. 
 
 As a sinner would fly from death. 
 Till the courser's bounds grew less and less. 
 
 And he labors to heave a breath ; 
 " Away ! away ! " still the cavalier cried. 
 
 Still spurring the coal-black steed ; 
 But the shout too famt, and the gore-clogg'd spurs, 
 
 Too blunt to provoke his speed. 
 Yet onward he toil'd, till a broad deep stream 
 
 On a sudden check'd the path : 
 The cavalier sj^rung from the steed to the ground. 
 
 And he stamp'd on the ground in wrath ; 
 He stamp'd on the ground, and he beat his brow, — 
 
 One glance at the ring he cast : 
 Oh ! then might it seem o'er his features fierce 
 
 The scowl of a demon past ! 
 Again on his coal-black steed he sprung. 
 
 And never a word he said. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 15 
 
 But the sweat from his courser's mane he wrung, 
 
 And patted his bending head ; 
 The courser neigh'd — with a sudden bound 
 
 His rider through air he bore : 
 He shot to the other side of the stream, 
 
 Then fell to arise no more. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The little blades of the tender grass 
 
 The ground in soft verdure hide. 
 And the leafy boughs of clusteruig trees 
 
 Are nodding on every side ; 
 And on every bough of every tree 
 
 The birds in bright plumage glance. 
 While to the beat of their tiny feet, 
 
 The leaves all around them dance. 
 And every bird doth most sweetly sing. 
 
 And right blithsome is their song. 
 And the breeze attempers its voice with theirs. 
 
 As softly it steals along ; 
 But a sweeter sound than the song of bird. 
 
 Or the murmur of passing air — 
 Oh ! a sweeter song by far may be heard — 
 
 'T is the voice of a lady fair. 
 That lady is fair as lady may be. 
 
 Too fair for tliis world of ours j 
 
16 THE ROMA]S"CE OF THE T.ING. 
 
 As a blessed vision she might appear, 
 
 .Come down from the heavenly bowers. 
 A young boy near her, holds by the rein 
 
 A palfrey as white as snow. 
 For never a speck of other hue 
 
 On a hair of his can you show. 
 His mane is long as a lion's mane. 
 
 His tail to the ground is rolled ; 
 And he is bedight in caparisons rich, 
 
 All gemmed with silver and gold. 
 The lady signs, and the little page hastes 
 
 With the palfrey to her side ; 
 She lays her hand on the palfrey's neck, 
 
 As if she would mount and ride ; 
 But there is a rustle among the leaves — 
 
 She pauses to know whence it be, 
 And a man comes forth, and reels to her feet, 
 
 And kneels him down on his knee — 
 He kneels him down on his knee, and signs 
 
 The sign of the cross on his breast. 
 While the lady scanneth his form and face, 
 
 And the garb in which he is drest. 
 His form seems faint as a helpless babe's. 
 
 Yet in sooth 't is a noble one ; 
 His face drops sweat, as the sky drops rain, 
 
 And is red as the setting sun. 
 His garb is rich, but in many a place 
 
 Is rent, as in furious toil ; 
 
THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 17 
 
 He is booted and spurred as should cavalier be, 
 
 And his heels have a bloody soil. 
 The stranger's bosom heaveth amain, 
 
 As he kneels to the damsel fair ; 
 His lips are too parch'd to shape a word. 
 
 And he hath not a breath to spare. 
 " O stranger, what art thou ? and why art thou here ? 
 
 And why dost thou kneel on thy knee ? 
 Arise from thy knee, and stand on thy feet. 
 
 And teU me what wouldst thou with me ? " 
 Again the stranger essay' d to speak. 
 
 But essay'd to speak in vain. 
 For his lips were parched as the lips of death, 
 
 And his breath still heaved amain : 
 He sprang to his feet, he stamped on the ground, 
 
 And his teeth in fury gnashed. 
 And he bit his lip till the blood trickled down. 
 
 And his eyes like a demon's flashed : 
 And he laid his hand on the palfrey white. 
 
 As if upon it to spring ; 
 The lady's eye to his finger he turned, 
 
 Which was girt with a little ring ; 
 He pointed then to the bloody spurs, 
 
 And then to a distant way. 
 And then again to the palfrey white, 
 
 But never a word could he say. 
 " Beshrew thy meaning," the lady said, 
 
 " Art thou such an ungallant knight, 
 
18 THE EO^IANCE OF THE KING. 
 
 A lady must tread on a weary foot, 
 
 While thou ridest her palfrey white ? " 
 He put his hand to his girdle then, 
 
 And a heavy purse he drew. 
 And that heavy purse all filled with gold, 
 
 To the lady's page he threw ; 
 And a golden chain, with a diamond bright. 
 
 He tore from his breast in haste. 
 And that chain of gold, and that jewel rich, 
 
 In the lady's hand he placed. 
 Then to the palfrey he turned again ; 
 
 But his arm the lady caught : 
 " Nay, keep thy jewels, and keep thy gold, 
 
 The palfrey is thine unbought ; 
 And I would for thy sake, thou Aveary knight, 
 
 I could give thee a braver steed ; 
 But here thou must take thy rest awhile, 
 
 For rest thou surely dost need. " 
 No word he said, but he shook his head. 
 
 And again he pointed away ; 
 But she held him the faster by the arm — 
 
 " Now thou shalt not say me nay!" 
 She looked in his face with her eyes so blue. 
 
 So beautiful, and so soft, 
 And the stranger felt his dark eyes melt, 
 
 As they had not melted oft. 
 A light breeze played, and her coal-black curls 
 
 Were wafted against his cheek. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 19 
 
 And the delicate touch thrilled his every vein, 
 
 And rendered his purpose weak ; 
 But when she leaned her head, and he felt 
 
 Her cheek imparting its glow 
 To his own, and her breath to blend with his 
 
 Was sent in a rosy flow, 
 "What wonder that by her charms, such sway 
 
 In that moment was o'er him won, 
 That could he have spoken, he could but say, 
 
 " Sweet lady, thy will be done !" 
 Upon a soft bed of thornless flowers. 
 
 The lady bade him recline. 
 And the little page went at her sign, and brought 
 
 In each hand a goblet of wine. 
 *' Now pledge me, sir knight," said the lady flnr, 
 
 And he raised the brim to his lip; 
 But he suddenly dashed his cup to the ground. 
 
 As hers she began to sip ; 
 For the little ring which liis finger girt, 
 
 Again attracted his eye. 
 And he started np from the bed of flowers. 
 
 With a loud and fearful cry ; 
 She seized his arm, he flung her away — 
 
 He sprung on the palfrey white. 
 And, like the lightnhig's vanishing flash, 
 
 He shot from the lady's sight. 
 
20 THE EOMANCE OF THE RING. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 The moon is throned in the lovely blue, 
 
 Which melting upon the eye, 
 Allures the wish to be ushered there, 
 
 Reclined in its depths to lie • 
 As yet one visible star alone 
 
 The azure realm divides, 
 Which burns with a bright, though trembling light. 
 
 As before its queen it glides ; 
 On the dew-gemm'd leaves, on the placid waves. 
 
 The showering moon-beams play — 
 A beauty floats o'er all earth and sky, 
 
 That would shame the glory of day. 
 But there cannot be a thing of life 
 
 Beholding this lovely scene, 
 Or its very breath could now be heard 
 
 Disturbing the silence serene. 
 But see ; yon river, so calm till now, 
 
 Is stirred, but not by the gale ; 
 And gliding slowly towards the shore 
 
 Some object appears to sail; 
 But what can it be ? to the distant eye. 
 
 Which a glance upon it would throw, 
 'T would seem the image of yon pale cloud, 
 
 Or a drifting heap of snow. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE RrN'G. 21 
 
 It sinks, it rises, it floats along 
 
 Till upon the shore 't is thrown, 
 And there it lies, as immovable 
 
 As a thing to life unkno^vn. 
 Now all is calm, till from yonder wood 
 
 A cavalier suddenly starts. 
 On a steed, which despite his voice and rein, 
 
 Right on to the river darts ; 
 But he suddenly paused as motionless, 
 
 As he had no power to stir, 
 N^or even to breathe, nor seemed he to feel 
 
 The plunge of his rider's spur. 
 The cavalier thought he heard a sigh ; 
 
 He eagerly looked around ; 
 On a human form he cast his eye 
 
 He hastily sprung to the ground : 
 He raised the form, and he threw aside 
 
 The folds of the snow-white veil. 
 And the moonlight flowed, m a silver tide, 
 
 On features lovely and pale. 
 The cavalier starting dropped the form. 
 
 As the features met his sight, 
 'Twas the very lady from whom, but now, 
 
 He had taken the palfrey white ; 
 But again he raised her in his arms, 
 
 And he laid her upon his breast ; 
 He wrung the brine from her coal-black hnir 
 
 And his lips to hers he prest 
 
22 THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 
 
 There was no warmth, nor a sign of life, 
 
 But upon those Hps alone ; 
 And perhaps the warmth those lips bestowed, 
 
 They but received from his OTvai. 
 In vain he sought to recall her to life ; 
 
 So, that some aid he might find, 
 Upon the palfrey he laid her form, 
 
 And he mounted himself behind. 
 The steed, which had almost breathless stood, 
 
 Neigh' d with a terrible sound : 
 With the knight and the lady into the waves 
 
 He dash'd, with a headlong bound. 
 The cavalier's efforts little avail'd 
 
 The maid or himself to sustain — 
 The waves closed o'er him, and gushed in his ears, 
 
 And whirled his bewildered brain. 
 He raised his head, and opened his eye, 
 
 How strange was the scene he met : 
 He lay in a lordly hall unharm'd, 
 
 Nor one spot of his robe was wet, 
 In the midst of the hall he saw a throne. 
 
 With a sceptre and diadem ; 
 A lady entered, shrined in a veil. 
 
 Which burn'd with many a gem — 
 She took the cavalier by the hand, 
 
 And aside she flung her veil ; 
 Fair as the blush of morn was the cheek, 
 
 Which late he had seen so pale ; 
 
THE ROMAJsCE OF THE EING. 23 
 
 And her raven ringlets down lier neck 
 
 In wild luxuriance danced, 
 And her eyes — her sweet blue eyes — on his 
 
 In melting tenderness glanced. 
 She led him toward the throne, and sign'd 
 
 As there he should take his seat ; 
 But he waved his hand, and shook his head, 
 
 And kneel' d hun down at her feet ; 
 And as he knelt, emotions he felt 
 
 Which were far too sweet to speak ; 
 Till, glancing his eye toward his hand. 
 
 He started up with a shriek : 
 " Lady, lady, detain me not ! 
 
 For a deed is to be done ; 
 In beauty's cause must this sword be draAvn 
 
 By the dawn of to-morrow's sun ! " 
 " In beauty's cause ? I fear me, sir knight. 
 
 For beauty small is thy care ; 
 And little, methinks, thy courtesy. 
 
 If thou wilt not hear my prayer. 
 Now hear me, sir knight, by royal birthright 
 
 A wide dominion I sway, 
 But a bold usurper has risen m might. 
 
 To make my kingdom his i^rey. 
 Sir knight, I am a defenceless maid. 
 
 And well I may wish to call 
 A knight so noble and brave as tliou, 
 
 Friend, champion, lover, and all ! 
 
24 THE E0MA:N'CE OF THE EING. 
 
 Yes, lover^ sir knight, for wonldst thou but stay 
 
 Till to-morrow, and meet my foe, 
 My heart, my hand, my kingdom, my all, 
 
 As thy guerdon would I bestow ! " 
 She threw her white arms around his knees, 
 
 As she knelt at the cavalier's feet ; 
 And she looked in his face — he could ill resist 
 
 That look so imploring and sweet ! 
 But he cast one glance upon his ring, 
 
 And her clasp he then unbound ; 
 And he said — but with a faltering voice — 
 
 As he raised her from the ground — 
 " This moment I must hasten away, 
 
 In the cause of my lady love ; 
 But when her rescue shall be achieved. 
 
 So bless me the saints above. 
 As I shall return, with all speed I may. 
 
 This arm to devote for thee ; 
 I swear me thy friend and thy chamj^ion. 
 
 Though thy lover I may not be ! " 
 " One moment, sir knight, let me know the claim 
 
 Of her who calls thee away; 
 If that claim is just, I will pardon thee, 
 
 " ISTor longer demand thy stay." 
 The knight was impatient to be gone. 
 
 But was checked by lier tender hold. 
 And he had not the heart to spurn her off, 
 
 So briefly his tale he told. 
 
THE llOMANOE OF THE EING. 25 
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 THE cavalier's TALE. 
 
 I LOVED, and was belov'd the same : 
 
 Her young heart had not learn' d 
 The world's dissembling forms ; her flame 
 
 Pure and unhidden burned : 
 But noticed by her father's eye, 
 
 It soon alarmed his pride : 
 For his were birth and grandeur high. 
 
 Which fate to me denied. 
 Compelled to part, with broken heart, 
 
 I rush'd the war to seek ; 
 But first we both exchanged an oath. 
 
 The dearest love could speak. 
 The ring, which girds my finger now, 
 
 I bade her cherish ever. 
 As a memorial of our vow. 
 
 To love and love forever. 
 I sought the field, I forced to yield 
 
 Full many a Paynim foe ; 
 Methinks her prayers have been my shield ; 
 
 No arm could lay me low. 
 And now I had returned in fame 
 
 My native land to hail, 
 When there a page to meet me came, 
 
 Who told a fearful tale ; 
 
 2 
 
26 THE ROMANCE OF THE lllNG, 
 
 The every word convulsed my frame, 
 
 My cheek turned ashy pale. 
 He told me that my true-love dear 
 
 "Was left an orphan maid, 
 Beneath a guardian's care severe. 
 
 Who dared her rights invade ; 
 Who with iisurj^ing grasp detained 
 
 Her father's gold and land ; 
 Nor his presumj^tion there restrained. 
 
 But dared to claim her hand ; 
 And e'en had sworn, if by her scorn 
 
 His suit were still denied. 
 Upon the third return of morn 
 
 Should ruder means he tried. 
 To-morrow is the destin'd day, 
 
 But we ere then shall meet : 
 I trust this arm the wretch shall lay 
 
 Before my lady's feet. 
 To shield her from his brutal rage, 
 
 The arm of love to bring, 
 She sent in haste her faithful page. 
 
 To seek me with this rino; — 
 The ring, which when our vows were made, 
 
 I on her finger placed : 
 But, lady, I'm too long delay'd — 
 
 To save her I must haste ! 
 But for her sake, thou lady bright, 
 
 !My heart would own thy spell ; 
 
THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 27 
 
 But for her sake I could not slight 
 
 Thy charms angelical ; 
 But for her sake, not thus I might, 
 
 Have power to say, farewell ! 
 
 PART FIFTH. 
 
 One moment the cavalier waits reply. 
 
 On his ear no answer falls ; 
 He looks around, and amazed he stands 
 
 By his lady's castle walls. 
 He looked around, but he looked in vain 
 
 For the lovely stranger-queen ; 
 Again his gaze he fixed in amaze. 
 
 On the unexpected scene ; 
 And as he looked on the well-known towers. 
 
 On his mind recollections rushed 
 Of his childhood bliss, and his boyhood love, 
 
 Till the tears unbidden gushed : 
 But he swept the glimmermg from his eye. 
 
 And looking to heaven he said, 
 " Saint Mary be thank'd, by whatever means 
 
 So sudden the space has fled, 
 Which parted me from my lady's foe ; 
 
 Saint Mary, arm me this morn ! " 
 His sword clash'd on the vibrating shield, 
 And loudly he blew the horn. 
 
28 THE EOMAT^CE OF THE HINQ, 
 
 Every portal expanded wide, 
 
 But he saw no mortal near ; 
 Onward he strode from hall to hall, 
 
 But he found no foe appear. 
 Onward he strode, till checked by a gate, 
 
 Which was locked and barred as yet ; 
 As it yielded to liis gauntlet's stroke. 
 
 A throng he suddenly met ; 
 They rushed upon him, he knew not whence ; 
 
 But from their rude grasp he sprung 
 "With such violent force, that by the shock 
 
 They all to the ground were flung. 
 Again they rose, and on every side 
 
 Their weapons the knight assailed. 
 He fought full well, and he fought full long, 
 
 But at last his foes prevailed : 
 Still, though by their numbers overpowered. 
 
 He struggled as best he could. 
 Till the ring from his finger dropped to earth, 
 
 And all in amazement stood ; 
 For the ring, expanding, girt the hall 
 
 In a circle of burning flame. 
 And contracting, around the cavalier's foes, 
 
 Nearer and nearer it came. 
 Till all w^ere withered in its embrace. 
 
 But harmless it pass'd the knight : 
 In a moment, the ring, and a heap of dust, 
 
 Alone remain' d to his sight. 
 
THE EOMANCE OF THE EIKG. 29 
 
 The ring on his finger he replaced, 
 
 And he found his strength regained 
 That moment ; again from hall to hall, 
 
 Uninjured and unrestrained, 
 He past, till again his onward way 
 
 Was checked by a massy gate ; 
 In vain his efforts to burst the lock, 
 
 Or shake one bar of the grate ; 
 A laugh of derision shook the walls : 
 
 Through the bars he could see appear 
 A being of lofty size, whose lip 
 
 "Was curled with a fiend-like sneer, 
 As he pointed to a lady pale, 
 
 Who lifeless lay at his feet : 
 The cavalier struggled with frantic rage, 
 
 Impatient the wretch to meet ; 
 But he raged in vain, till he thought he heard 
 
 The musical whispering 
 Of a sweet tender voice, which said, 
 
 " Now bethink thee of thy ring ! " 
 Obeying the voice, he instantly 
 
 The ring from his finger drew ; 
 Again expanding, its fiery wreath 
 
 O'er the massy bars it threw : 
 They dropp'd to the ground like molten lead ; 
 
 Onward rushed the eager knight. 
 But he found not the lady nor his foe, 
 
 Who had borne her from his sight. 
 
30 THE EOMAKCE OF THE EING. 
 
 The little ring he snatched from the ground 
 
 And on his finger replaced, 
 He clash'd his shield again and agam, 
 
 Till the foe stepped forth in haste ; 
 One scowl they exchanged, but paused not for speech. 
 
 At the clash of each mighty stroke 
 Their weapons quivered, until at last 
 
 The sword of the cavalier broke ; 
 He flung it aside, he seized his foe, 
 
 As to grapple his life away ; 
 They struggled as every nerve w^ould burst, 
 
 Till sinking together, they 
 Exhausted upon the ground reclined, 
 
 Yet strugglmg in vain to rise ; 
 And oft as their glances met, the rage 
 
 Of a demon flashed in their eyes. 
 Hark ! O hark ! it seems that all earth 
 
 Upon its foundation rocks. 
 While ten thousand thunders tear the skies 
 
 In loud and repeated shocks. 
 The tottering roof, the falling walls, 
 
 The knight and the foe behold ; 
 But each still writhes in the other's arms. 
 
 Which grasj) him in desperate fold. 
 The roof now bursts with an awful crash, 
 
 And before their shuddering eye 
 Aj^peared unfolded a sheet of fire, 
 
 Enwrapping all earth and sky ! 
 
THE ROMAT^CE OF THE RING. 31 
 
 A shriek was heard — the loftiest tower 
 
 That moment in ruin crashed, 
 And disclosed a maid, who stood on high, 
 
 Where destruction around her flashed ; 
 Her white robes dishevelled o'er her hung, 
 
 And waved in the blazing air. 
 Which danced around her shuddermg limbs. 
 
 And wreath' d m her raven hair. 
 The cavalier would have rushed to her aid, 
 
 But he could not burst the grasp 
 Of his foe, which so closely pressed him now. 
 
 That he scarce had power to gasp. 
 The cavalier raged at the savage grin. 
 
 And the glance of malicious scorn ; 
 But the more his rage, the more the mirth 
 
 On the hated features worn. 
 " Now by this ring," said the cavalier, 
 
 " If near me be any power 
 Propitious to faithful love Uke mine, 
 
 Its favor I claim this hour." 
 Instantly in a whirlwind of flame 
 
 The ground was asunder rent. 
 And shriekmg down the burning abyss 
 
 His foe from his sight was sent. 
 The knight look'd up where the lady stood ; 
 
 A tower trembled o'er her head ; 
 The scorching flame and the smothering smoke, 
 
 More thickly around her spread ; 
 
32 THE EOMANCE OF THE KING. 
 
 The ruins rolled from liis climbing foot, 
 
 As he rnsh'd through the smoke and blaze : 
 In a moment the lady sunk in his arms, 
 
 Shrieking with fear and amaze. 
 He looks below, but the awful depth 
 
 Forbids the desperate spring. 
 Nor can he on the ruins descend, 
 
 "While his arms to the lady cling. 
 He looks above, O merciful heaven ! 
 
 The tower now bends to its fall ! 
 The knight in despair, could scarce breathe a prayer, 
 
 On the guardian power to call. 
 He heard a crash — he averted his eye — 
 
 Nearer he drew to his breast 
 The lady, as he said, " We must die, 
 
 But dying with thee I am blest ! " 
 
 PART SIXTH. 
 
 The knight looked around — ^he could ill expect 
 
 Such a scene would his eye await : 
 Unharmed the lady lay at his feet. 
 
 By his father's castle-gate. 
 The vassals clasped his knees, and his name 
 
 Repeated in shouts of joy; 
 And forth the old warrior tottering came 
 
 To welcome his gallant boy. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE RING. 33 
 
 As soon as the cavalier was released 
 
 From, the fond paternal embrace, 
 He raised the lady, who lay at his feet, 
 
 And eagerly looked in her face ; 
 He started away, he clenched his hands, 
 
 He gnashed his teeth in despair ; 
 " Is it thou I have saved from those fatal towers — 
 
 While she — has she perish'd there ? " 
 She opened her eyes, she sprung to his neck — 
 
 " My love, and art thou restored ? 
 The dangers I 've met, I shall not regret. 
 
 Since redeemed by my true-love's sword." 
 Such voice, such look, he had heard and seen 
 
 In the joy of his youthful day; 
 But the features are those of the stranger-queen, 
 
 Who tempted hun on his way. 
 He looks again, and he cannot tell 
 
 If it be his true-love or not ; 
 For, i^erhaps in his absence, some trait of hers 
 
 Might either be changed or forgot. 
 Raismg his eye, he saw on the sky 
 
 A halo of dazzling light, 
 And m a car, with many a star. 
 
 Bespangled, a being bright 
 Was seen to glide, till it paused beside 
 
 The wondering lady and knight. 
 From her dazzling face, when it hover' d near, 
 
 They hid their eyes on the ground : 
 
 2* 
 
34 THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 
 
 Her accents floated into their ear, 
 
 In soft and musical sound : 
 " Arise, sir knight, she bids thee arise, 
 
 Who has well approved thy worth ; 
 Arise, fair maid, she bids thee arise, 
 
 "Who has loved thee from thy birth. 
 Nay, lady, shun not my presence thus. 
 
 As it threatened danger nigh ; 
 Thy dearest welcome I should command, 
 
 Thy Guardian Genius am I. 
 From thy earliest hour it has been my care 
 
 To shield thee from every ill. 
 And my guardian wing shall o'ershadow thee 
 
 To thy latest moment still. 
 
 Sir knight, 't was I who the token brought 
 To tell thee thy lady's need ; 
 
 'T was I who wing'd thy hnpetuous flight 
 
 Upon an unearthly steed ; 
 'T was I who assumed this lady's charms. 
 
 The fairest that can be worn. 
 Surpassing all by thy memory sketch'd 
 
 Of the dawn of her beauty's morn ; 
 And thus I met thee in beauty's bower. 
 
 And in regal grandeur's hall. 
 Where the smile of love, nor ambition's power. 
 
 Thy heart could change or inthrall. 
 Through many perils hast thou been led. 
 
 But thy soul its strength approved ; 
 
THE ROMAlSrCE OF THE EING. 35 
 
 Many temptations around thee spread, 
 
 But thy faith was still unmoved. 
 Thine is a heart that can never be 
 
 Estranged from constancy's reign, 
 And to such a heart the hand is due 
 
 Which else thou shouldst ne'er obtain. 
 Here is the ring, restore it, sir knight. 
 
 To the hand I now link to thine ; 
 Of your heart's dearest oath, let it be to you both 
 
 For ever and ever the sign. 
 The ring was to thee a talisman 
 
 To save thee all danger through ; 
 This ring on thy hand, and truth in thy soul, 
 
 No evil could thee subdue. 
 And should the spell from the ring depart, 
 
 When danger again is known. 
 Little the need of thy faithful heart 
 
 For other aid than its own. 
 Ye faithful pair, it shall be my care 
 
 That blessings shall both await ; 
 But if at times ye are doomed to bear 
 
 The scowl of a darker fate. 
 Ye still may triumph o'er its control. 
 
 If ye still to each other cling ; 
 For evil can never enslave the soul 
 Encircled by Constancy's Ring. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 Who sins against anotlier 
 Sins most apiainst himself. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSON^E. 
 
 The Straxger. 
 Count Ernaldo. 
 Reginald. 
 The Prince. 
 Manuel. 
 
 Theresa. 
 Isabelle. 
 Julia. 
 
 Scene — ^^jxt in. Time — Tweri ty-four Hours, 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. — A neglected path^ leading to the ruins of a 
 
 castle. 
 
 Miter Theeesa with Manuel approaching the ruins. 
 
 Thekesa. Lean on my arm. 
 
 Manuel. Nay ! I can go no further. 
 
 Here let us rest a moment. 
 
 yriirowing himself languidly xipon the ground. 
 
 Theresa. Sweetest rest 
 
 Descend upon tliee ! — never mayst thou know 
 The weariness of heart. \Advancing to the ruins. 
 
 Ah ! here indeed 
 Should be our resting-place. But all is changed ! 
 Are these my halls of pride ? is this my home 
 Of joy? the home of desolation now 
 And ruin ; here the sole inhabitants, 
 As in my bosom ! Hail ! ye fallen towers ! 
 
40 THE SPIRIT OF VE:N^GEAKCE, 
 
 Hail ! image of my fortunes ! in your look 
 Is silent sympathy ! A thousand welcomes — 
 If ye could but restore him, at whose side 
 Smilmg I last api3roached you, never more 
 To smile again ; — but ye are now no place 
 For him, who as my jealous ear informed me, 
 Resuming rank and fortune, glads his pride, 
 Forgetting the forsaken. Yet once more, 
 Ye cherished halls, ^vl\l I traverse the scenes 
 Of happiness departed. Come, my child. 
 To thy inheritance! 
 
 Manuel. [Starting up as if from sleep?^ What says 
 my mother ? 
 
 Theresa. These ruins may afford a safer shelter 
 To thy repose. 
 
 Mantjel, Watched by a mother's eye 
 
 Is safety everywhere. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. — A room in the castle rudely fitted up as a 
 herinlta(je ; a dim lamp on the table. The hacTc- 
 ground is in complete darhiess. 
 
 Enter Tiieeesa and Manuel. 
 
 Theresa. At last we have tracked the light ; but even 
 here 
 Is desolation's home, or — Heaven forbid — 
 Perhaps the den of guilt. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 41 
 
 Manuel. Guilt dwells not here : — 
 
 Behold that type of hecaven I 
 
 [Poi7iti?ig to a crucifix o?i the table. 
 
 Theresa. Some anchorite 
 
 Has centered here his world. Would he w^erc present ; 
 But surely he will pardon to a mother 
 The Hberty her child's relief compels. 
 Here, rest thee on this pallet. 
 
 Manuel. I will pray first 
 
 As at my own dear home, — would we were there : — 
 My Heavenly Father ! bless my dearest mother, 
 And bless my earthly father and restore him 
 To her and me. 
 
 [A dark figure emerges from the gloom, glides to 
 the child^ and exclaims, Rise ! 
 
 Theresa. Heaven defend my child ! 
 
 Stranger. Is that thy mother, boy ? 
 
 Manuel. Yes — do not harm her. 
 
 Stranger. Didst thou not call upon her, and thy father, 
 His blessing whom I must not name ? 
 
 Manuel. His blessuig 
 
 Abide upon us all. 
 
 Stranger. A goodly jest ! 
 
 Hell hears and shouts derision ! What! His blessing 
 On me ! — Perdition ! that a foolish babe 
 Should mock me thus ! 
 
 Theresa. Mercy, thou terrible man ! 
 
 Stranger. Man! 
 
42 TnE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Theeesa. Atv^uI being, whatsoe'er thou art, 
 
 Give me my child, and let us go in peace. 
 
 Stranger. And where is peace ? — No matter, — 't is no 
 place 
 For me. Come hither, boy. 
 
 Manuel. Oh ! save me, mother. 
 
 His eyes are burning fire ! 
 
 Stranger. Thou dost not know 
 
 The evil from the good, or thou wouldst cling 
 To me, not her. She save thee ? I can save thee 
 From many a curse that she may else be thanked for. 
 Fool ! never bless thy parents, — they of all 
 Have cursed thee most ; — thou hast not words to answer 
 Their curse, but I will help thee. Come, I '11 teach thee 
 A proper orison. 
 
 Theresa. ^Ye must not hear 
 
 Such words. Come, we must hence. 
 
 Stranger. Thou trembling fool. 
 
 What power can bear you hence against my will ? 
 Stir, if you can. 
 
 Theresa. Be thou of earth or hell ! 
 
 Stranger. Say that thou fearest me not. 
 
 Theresa. I cannot say it. 
 
 For terrible thou art. Yet in my soul 
 Is something holy that should awe thee, — yes. 
 Shall awe thee. 
 
 Stranger. Name this wonder, and if heaven 
 
 And earth shake at the sound — I — I shall smile. 
 
THE SPIKIT OF VENGEANCE. 43 
 
 Theresa. A mother's love ! 
 
 Stranger. A fable, a fair word, 
 
 Repeated for the beauty of its music, 
 And not its truth. There never was a mother, 
 Howe'er she romanced of a mother's love. 
 Would do the only deed that should express it. 
 
 Theresa. I would — Heaven knows I would ! 
 
 Straxger. But I know better. 
 
 How beautiful thy child — how sweet his face 
 Of eloquent persuasion ! purity 
 His brow has moulded of the snows of heaven. 
 Which even aifection, with her lij)s of fire, 
 Trembles to touch, lest it should melt. 
 
 Theresa. Thy voice 
 
 Is music now. 
 
 Stranger. A spirit not of earth, 
 
 Insj^hered in the dark beauty of his eyes. 
 Beams glorious as the angel in the sun. 
 
 Theresa. Say on — my ear will never tire. 
 
 Stranger. [ Catching Manuel m his arms^ Fair boy — 
 Nay, struggle not — I have no will to harm thee. 
 Little my kindness to the sons of men. 
 Yet there is something in tliy innocent face 
 Sways me beyond my wont. I '11 render thee 
 The best of blessings, better, better far 
 Than parents ever give. 
 
 Theresa. And that is — 
 
 Stranger. Death ! [Aiming a dagger at the child. 
 
44 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Theresa. Death! Shield us heavenly Father! spare, 
 oh spare him ! 
 Kill tne — I care not — hut my child ! my child ! 
 Let him but live, and I will kiss the dagger 
 That drmks my life-blood. 
 
 Manuel. I will die first, mother ! 
 
 Stkanger. Behold a mother's love ! Thou bidst him 
 live? 
 
 Theresa. Oh yes ! 
 
 Stranger. So be it then ; and I disclaun 
 
 The moment's mercy that was as a rij^ple 
 On ocean's stilled infinitude ; all sinks 
 Again to a stern deadness. Far from me 
 Be it to snatch a mortal from the curse 
 Of life. 
 
 Theresa. My child, my love, again I have 
 
 thee! 
 
 Stranger. Now for a parent's part. 
 
 [^Snatching the hoy again, 
 
 Theresa. Forbear! forbear! 
 
 Wouldst thou recall thy mercy ? 
 
 Stranger. 'T was recalled 
 
 When I forbore to strike. Thou bidst him live — 
 Well, so do I, — ^but if it be in love 
 Better by far were hate. Live, boy, yes, live ! 
 But to what end ? To forfeit innocence. 
 The sunlight of thy soul, which thou must bury 
 In darkness, crushing darkness! Live! for what? 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 45 
 
 To have the roses of thy young affections 
 Devoured by adders, gnawing through thy heart 
 A path for desolation. — Live ! for what ? 
 To toil, to w^eej), to groan, — to kiss the rod 
 Thou canst not fly nor brave, and scarce canst bear ; 
 To find in all that by the name of joy 
 Provokes thy toilsome chase, a tiresome curse 
 That better had been fled — the milk of kindness 
 Turn into gall and bitterness — abhor 
 All that surrounds thee ! — and thyself the most ! 
 Live — wish for death — yet live, and dare not die, 
 Held back by cow^ard conscience. Live for this ! 
 'T is all that mortals live for ! , 
 
 Manuel. Better die ! 
 
 Theresa. And leave thy mother ? 
 
 Manuel. No — for thy dear sake 
 
 AUke to me were welcome life or death. 
 
 Steangee. I tell thee, woman, thou art most unworthy 
 The fondness of this fool, or thou Avouldst rather 
 Guide than withhold my arm against his life — 
 For were he now to die, canst thou believe 
 But that his sinless spirit, bursting forth 
 On cherub wings, would rush to the abode 
 Of bliss eternal, which, continuing here. 
 He may forever forfeit? 
 
 Theeesa. God of mercy ! 
 
 Save me from madness ! close my ear agamst 
 Such horrible suggestions. 
 
46 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Stranger. Mark me, woman ! 
 
 Be what I may, I once have been a child, 
 As innocent and blest as now is thme. 
 As near as he to heaven. What am I now ! — 
 Oh then why died I not ! — why came not then 
 Some pitying angel, from a world to snatch me 
 Where only guilt and horror lay before me ! — 
 Why dost thou weep ? 
 
 Manuel. For thee ! 
 
 Yllie Stranger turns away in deep agitation, 
 
 Theresa. Oh may those tears, 
 
 Like dews of heaven descending on his heart, 
 Melt it to penitence that heralds peace ! 
 
 Manuel. Poor man, we '11 pray for thee. 
 
 Stranger. The angelic host 
 
 Might kneel in vain — the eternal doom is fixed — 
 So be it — I will bear. — But thou, sweet boy. 
 Thou who hast wept for me Avho never claimed 
 A tear, — I must reward thee. [ Offering to stah him. 
 
 Theresa. Help ! oh God ! 
 
 Mercy — my child — oh spare him ! 
 
 [Reginald enters xoith his sioord drawn^ snatches 
 the child^ and restores him to Theresa. 
 
 Reginald. Hither turn 
 
 Thy weajDon — but perhaps thy coward arm 
 Copes but with babes and women. 
 
 Stranger. Calm thee, youth ; 
 
 My war is with the soul. 
 
 I 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VEI^GEANCE. 41 
 
 Manuel. [To Kegixald.] Xay, gentle sir, 
 We pray thee harm hun not. 
 
 Theresa. We but huplore thee 
 
 To bear us hence m safety. 
 
 Kegixald. AYe again 
 
 Must meet. I '11 find thee here ? 
 
 Stranger. I shall be found 
 
 Where least thou canst expect. — It may be, child, 
 We shall not meet again. Thou Avilt remember 
 This hour, and glory in thy moment's power 
 To soften adamant ; but pray forget not 
 It was but for a moment. I am now 
 Myself again, and hating thee, as all 
 Mankind, I say ahke to them and thee — 
 Live, and my curse upon you ! 
 
 Theresa. Let us fly I 
 
 Regix'ald. Lady, where wouldst thou go ? 
 
 Theresa. To Count Ernaldo. 
 
 Regixald. [Startln(/J] Ernaldo ! 
 
 Stranger. Hell! Ernaldo! — let me sec — 
 
 It is — I did not think another drop 
 Could fall on my black ocean — yes, that face 
 Though changed, is not forgotten. Didst thou say 
 Ernaldo ? Tell me what thou art to him ? 
 
 Theresa. His wife. 
 
 Stranger. And this ? 
 
 Theresa. His child. 
 
 Stranger. And I have cursed him 
 
48 THE SPIKIT OF VENGEAT^CE. 
 
 Reginald. I know Ernalclo Avell, the best of men ; 
 His wife has long been dead. 
 
 Theresa. Alas, thy words 
 
 Confirm my fears ; I have been so forgotten 
 That he could wed another. 
 
 STEAJfGEE. Didst thou call him 
 
 The best of men ? I 've done him much injustice 
 If he deserves that name. 
 
 Reginald. He well deserves it, 
 
 For by him, though a stranger to his blood. 
 Have I been reared from earliest infancy 
 ^Yith all a father's care. 
 
 Strangek. Hadst thou no claim 
 
 Upon it ? 
 
 Reginald. JSTone. 
 
 Stranger. Thy kindred ? 
 
 Reginald. They have never 
 
 Been known to him. 
 
 Stranger. Nor thee ? 
 
 Reginald. Thou hast no rio-lit 
 
 To question me. 
 
 Stranger. A stranger — even his kindred 
 
 TJnknoAvn — Ernaldo generous — I know better — 
 Those lineaments, and even that voice — t 'is so — 
 It must be so — yet what shall that avail me — 
 Oh glorious thought ! the heaven of my revenge 
 Oi3ens at last before me ! 
 
 Reginald. With your pleasure, 
 
THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 49 
 
 Lady, 't were best to go. These are but ravings 
 Not worth our hearing. Come. 
 
 Steanger. Against my will 
 
 You cannot. 
 
 Reginald, That 's to prove. 
 
 Straxger. One moment, lady, 
 
 Then, if thou wilt, depart. 
 
 [lie discovers his face to Theresa, iv/to shric/cs 
 and falls insensihle. 
 
 Reginald. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Manuel. My mother ! oh, my mother ! 
 
 Reginald. Hush ! she lives. 
 
 Theresa. Where is he ? 
 
 Stranger. Here, Theresa. N'ay, be calm. 
 
 Breathe not my name, not even to thy child. 
 My friend, excuse the hint, but we can spare 
 Your further company. 
 
 Theresa. Kind sir, forgive 
 
 The trouble we have given you. Leave lis with him. 
 
 Manuel. But mother, art thou safe ? 
 
 Stranger. Before Ave part, 
 
 I charge thee never to inform Ernaldo 
 What thou hast witnessed. 
 
 Reginald. Why should his wife and child 
 
 Be kept from him ? 
 
 Stranger. ^/s wife and child ? — Ah, yes! 
 
 Thou speakest of tJiese ? Far be it from my purpose ! 
 
 I shall myself at the expedient time 
 3 
 
50 THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Conduct tliem to him, and that time is near, 
 Kearer than he may wish ; till then I claim 
 Thy silence. 
 
 IvEGixALD. Lady ? 
 
 Theresa. Yes, I supplicate thee 
 
 Do all that he requires. 
 
 Reginald. Well, for thy sake [Exit. 
 
 TnERESA. [After apause.^ And is it thus — 
 
 Steaistger. Be silent. Go before me. 
 
 Manuel. Not to that place of darkness. 
 
 Stranger. Canst thou fear ? 
 
 Manuel. I fear but for my mother. 
 
 TnERESA. [As they retire and disappear in the darJc- 
 ness^ No, my child, 
 Fear nothmg : we are safe. 
 
 [The Stranger bursts into a terrible laugh; The- 
 resa shrieks. /Scene changes. 
 
 Scene 3. — A hall in thep>alace of Count Ernaldo. Enter 
 Ernaldo and Isabelle. 
 
 Ernaldo. The time has come, my daughter, to unfold 
 The dearest purpose of my secret soul, 
 Which should have been discovered long before, 
 But that I dread thy answer. 
 
 Isabelle. Am I not 
 
 Thy child, whose duty is to do thy will ? 
 Or am I of the weak and selfish nature 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VEl^GEANCE. 51 
 
 That ever shrinks from duty ? 
 
 Ekxaldo. I acknowledcce 
 Never had father child more dutiful 
 And excellent, yet for that A-ery cause 
 I dare not name the wish that ')niist be granted : 
 For should it prove unwelcome 
 
 IsABELLE. There is nothmg 
 
 Unwelcome to me in the way of duty. 
 I have observed at times that something weighs 
 Upon thy mind ; I should be proud, my father. 
 If destined to remove it. 
 
 Erxaldo. So thou art. 
 
 IsABELLE. And how ? 
 
 Erxaldo. I know thee prudent, I am sure ; 
 
 Thou hast not acted like those silly girls, 
 Who plight their hearts and hands without the knowledge 
 Of those who gave them life. 
 
 IsABELLE. It does uot plcasc me 
 
 To be suspected. 
 
 Erxaldo. Nor do I suspect thee ; 
 No, I am confident thy hand and heart 
 Are free, or I should know it 
 
 Isabelle. Cut my father 
 
 Erxaldo. What are thy thoughts of Reginald ? 
 
 Isabelle. The question 
 
 Is strange. 
 
 Erxaldo. But needs an answer. 
 
 Isabelle. I suppose him 
 
52 THE SPIPwIT OF VET^GEAIS^CE. 
 
 Conscious of what lie owes, and duly grateful. 
 
 Ernaldo. a noble youth, is it not ? 
 
 IsABELLE. It is uot likely 
 
 He should be so in birth, and for his spirit. 
 As yet it is not proved. 
 
 Eristaldo. Thou art deceived; 
 He is of noble bearing, and his birth 
 
 IsABELLE. It is unkuowu to all. 
 
 Ernaldo. True — very true — 
 
 Yet how can it be base ? Sure his demeanor 
 Forbids such thought. 
 
 IsABELLE. I think it would be easy 
 
 To find a worthier theme. 
 
 Ekitaldo. Then Reginald 
 
 Is one thou dost not like ? 
 
 IsABELLE. I neither care to like 
 
 Or to dislike him, more than others 
 Of our domestics. 
 
 Ernaldo. Our domestics, child ? 
 
 I shall be angry ; never dare apply 
 That name to Reginald. 
 
 IsABELLE. I have no will 
 
 To speak or hear of him. 
 
 Erxaldo. And when thou dost, 
 
 Be it as he were my son. 
 
 IsABELLE. Heavens ! how I scorn 
 
 Thus to degrade my father ! 
 
 Ernaldo. Yes, iny son. 
 
THE vSPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 53 
 
 And such of right he shall become by thee ; 
 He loves thee well 
 
 IsACELLE. How ! tlic auclacioiis slave ! 
 
 And dares he 
 
 Erxaldo. Never is his passion breathed 
 
 In words, but it hath visible utterance 
 In all his looks and actions. 
 
 ISABELLE. Is it tllUS 
 
 That he repays thee ? Make him know himself, 
 And turn him forth, the outcast that he was, 
 Before thy bounty gave the daily bread 
 And nightly shelter he so ill deserves. 
 
 Erxaldo. Thou art the least deserving of the two. 
 Thou disobedient girl ! — Stir not my anger, 
 Or tremble ! for by heaven I '11 cast thee forth 
 From the paternal door, to meet the fate 
 Thou wiliest his, and care not shouldst thou sink 
 In guilt and mfamy. 
 
 Isabelle, Let the worst come, 
 
 Guilt or dishonor never can approach me, 
 The not unworthy scion of a house 
 They never have polluted. 
 
 Erxaldo. [ With vehemence.^ Would to God ! 
 
 Isabelle. Sir? 
 
 Eknaldo, I forget, speak we of Reginald. 
 
 He must be thine ; if willingly received, 
 The better — with him be my blessing thine; 
 But shouldst thou still rebel — woe on thv head ! 
 
54 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Thine be thy father's curse, and none the less 
 My will shall be obeyed. 
 
 IsABELLE. ISTo ciii'se Icss welcome 
 
 Than Regmald. Ernaldo ! what ! a child 
 Of thy illustrious house, and link myself 
 To him, some peasant's brat ! the shame were worse 
 Than death a thousand times ! 
 
 Ekxaldo. Thou speakest this 
 
 In ignorance ; but I am too indulgent 
 To j^arley thus. I should employ the rights 
 That fathers claim from Heaven. 
 
 IsABELLE. Have they a right 
 
 To make their children wretched ? 
 
 Ernaldo. Say no more, 
 
 For my resolve is fixed. 
 
 IsABELLE. And so is mine. 
 
 Unbidden I shall fly the house, exposed 
 To poverty, to death, I care not what, 
 But Keginald shall never call me his. 
 ISTow let thy anger work. 
 
 Eenaldo. [After a niomenPs thought fulness.l^ It shall 
 not yet : 
 I will not go to the extremity 
 Till other means all fail. I have been harsh 
 Beyond my wont, but I am tasked to this 
 By fate imjoerative. — My child, no peace 
 Can ever enter in thy father's mhid, 
 No joy on earth, or hope of joy in heaven, 
 
THE SPIIUT OF VENGEANCE. 55 
 
 Till thou dost grant me this. 
 
 IsABELLE. I am amazed ! 
 
 Let me but know how this may be — 
 
 Erxaldo. I dare not. 
 
 IsABELLE. I yield not then to artful supplications 
 More than to savage threats. 
 
 Erxaldo. [^Kneeling^ Could I abase me 
 To this in artifice ? — Behold, I kneel — 
 Thy flither kneels, thy father calls upon thee 
 To save him — save him from the hell within him, 
 And that which yawns beneath him ! 
 
 IsABELLE. And all this 
 
 By being Reginald's ? 
 
 Erxaldo. Oh yes ! 
 
 IsABELLE. I marvel 
 
 VvHiy thou shouldst be so earnest in an object 
 That offers nothing visible, except 
 Dishonor to our house. If thou art swayed 
 By reason and by honor, give me i)roof, 
 And I submit. Why shouldst thou hide thy motives 
 Unless dishonorable ? and if so. 
 That attitude becomes thee, and is one 
 I would not bid thee change, yet have no pleasure 
 To see my father in. Excuse me, sir. YExit. 
 
 Erxaldo. And so the only means of reparation 
 Is thrust beyond my reach ! Am I to blame ; 
 "Who placed that means beyond me? — not myself; 
 Witness how diligently I pursued it. 
 
56 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 How low I cast myself, — and all in yaiii! 
 
 What other means appears ? There yet is one, 
 
 But to accomplish this I must expose me 
 
 To every slave's contempt, must die in shame, 
 
 The gazing-stock of fools, bequeath my children 
 
 My infamy, their sole inheritance. 
 
 And cast them naked, houseless, friendless, breadless. 
 
 To perish in the pitiless world. Can Heaven 
 
 Command me this ? 
 
 Enter Reginald. 
 
 Erxaldo. How sir! it is not well 
 
 To burst upon my privacy. 
 
 Regixald. My lord 
 
 Erxaldo. But let that pass, for in a welcome hour 
 Thou comest ; I but now had need of thee 
 To speak of earnest matters. 
 
 Reginald. To that end 
 
 I came, my lord. 
 
 Erxaldo. Dost thou anticipate 
 
 My question ? 
 
 Reginald. No, my lord ; be what it may, 
 
 My mind will be unfit to ponder on it 
 Till thou hast answered mine. 
 
 Erxaldo. [Throwmg himself carelessly into a seat.^ 
 I 'm all attention. 
 
 Reginald. Thy part to me, my lord, was ever one 
 
THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 51 
 
 The best of fathers well might imitate, 
 And gratitude has throned thee in my heart 
 A very idol there. 
 
 Er^staldo. So thou hast need 
 
 Of added favors ? but the way tliou talkest 
 Is much amiss. Seek not to wind about me 
 By harping on the past, but let thy Avish 
 Be frankly named, it shall be frankly granted 
 
 Regixald. How startled, how indignant, and how 
 anxious, 
 Is the idolater, when told the thing 
 His fancy made a god, is but a reptile 
 Ignoble and detestable ! In pity 
 Redeem me from such doubts, and prove thou art not 
 Unworthy of my homage ! 
 
 Eknaldo. [Stm^ting lip tremhlmg icith fury.^^ AVretch! 
 what devil 
 Hath sent thee for my torture — speak — by Heaven — 
 By hell — thou wilt not — speak — or I will tear thee. 
 Yes, villain ! I will tear thee limb from limb. 
 And fling the mangled fragments to the whirlwinds — 
 S2:>eak ! — who hath told thee this ? 
 
 Regixald. [ WJio has gazed upo^i hwi iclth astonish- 
 ment and horror^ sinks against a ^)27/«r, exclaiming 
 in acute anguisJi.'] I have not erred then ! 
 
 Erxaldo. Betrayed at last — and death — and shame ! — 
 
 but no — 
 
 It cannot be ! — 't Js false ! — curse on thy look 
 3* 
 
58 THE SPIKIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Of doubt — 't is false, I tell tliee ! — I will swear it — 
 Yes, I am innocent — ^look at these hands — 
 Avaunt, thou grinning fiend ! — it is not blood — 
 It is not blood, I tell thee ! — ha ! confusion ! 
 One spot escaped ! Hell heave thy waves of fire 
 To cleanse away this stam. 
 
 KegijStald. [Aside.^ My worst of fears 
 Reached not a crime so horrid ; 't is apparent 
 He sought to slay his wife, and thinks her death 
 Accomplished, [yls he is retiring^ Ernaldo rushes to him. 
 
 Ekistaldo. Hold, there — stir not on thy life ! 
 
 Better that thou wert damned than breathe a word 
 Of this vile lie to others. I repeat 
 'T is false, and challenge proof. 
 
 Reginald. Oh that I had none ! 
 
 Erxaldo. None — none — I tell thee none. The only eye 
 Of witness near, was sealed. 
 
 Reginald. And whose ? 
 
 Ekxaldo. [^Hecollecting h%7nself?[ My friend, 
 I have been mad, and raved I know not what. 
 Remember not my words. Come, let us speak 
 Of something near thy interest. 
 
 Reginald. This of all 
 
 Is nearest. 
 
 Ernaldo. What? 
 
 Reginald. Behold ! 
 
 Enter Theresa and Manuel. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 59 
 
 Ernaldo. All hope is over ! 
 
 Keginald. Not so. She lives ; thou canst repair lier 
 wrongs, 
 And all may yet be well. 
 
 Erxaldo. Kepair her wrongs ! 
 
 What power of earth can do it ? 
 
 Reginald. Thine, at least 
 
 In part. 
 
 Eknaldo. Thou canst lay down what terras thou wilt, 
 For I am in thy power ; but I 'm deceived 
 If thou wilt take ungenerous advantage 
 Of utter helplessness. Wretch as I am, 
 That I am not all evil thou hast proof 
 In what I uncompelled have done for thee. 
 Thus I implore thee, suppliant at thy feet, 
 By all that 's noble in thee, spare my life. 
 And fame, the life of life. 
 
 Reginald. Thy crime, though great. 
 
 Is not of those that peril life. 
 
 Eexaldo. Thou say it ? 
 
 Thou speak thus of the wrong that I have done thee ? 
 
 Reginald. No wrong have I received from thee, except 
 That when I see a fellow-creature wronged, 
 I feel the wrong as mine. 
 
 Eenaldo. Either thy soul 
 
 Is far beneath a man's or far above it ! 
 Canst thou forgive me ? — me, who — ah ! a thought 
 Flashes upon me. Lady, hast thou met 
 
60 THE SPIRIT OF VEISTGEAIS^CE. 
 
 This yoiitli before ? " 
 
 \^Awaiti?iff her ansioer loith breathless anxiety. 
 
 Theresa. Yes — once. 
 
 Ernaldo. [Hecoils^ hut recovers himself.^ And when ? 
 
 Theresa. But now. 
 
 Ernaldo. Hope comes agam ! Wliat knowest thou 
 of this lady ? [To Reginald. 
 
 Reginald. That she is thine, and this thy child. 
 
 Ernaldo. 'Tis well — 
 
 'T is excellent ! Come, I am merry now, 
 And I could shout for joy. But thou art sure 
 She is my wife ? 
 
 Reginald. Canst thou deny it ? 
 
 Erxaldo, Truly 
 
 Not I — far be it from my wish. — ^Thou never 
 Hast seen her till this day ? 
 
 Reginald. Never, my lord. 
 
 Ernaldo. Song, dance, and frolic, come ! We'll startle 
 earth 
 With peals of joy ! Thy hand, and thine fair wife ! 
 Come hither, little imp. [Manuel approaches.^ Come — 
 
 Hence ! avaunt ! 
 Let me not see that face ! 't is his ! 
 
 Reginald. My lord ! 
 
 Ernaldo. A sickness comes upon me. Prithee leave me, 
 I wish to be alone. 
 
 Reginald. Where shall I usher 
 
 The lady and her child ? 
 
THE SPiniT OF VENGEANCE. CI 
 
 Erxaldo. I care not whither, 
 
 So from my sight ! 
 
 Regixald. I brought them here, my lord. 
 
 To see them righted ; and betide what may, 
 I stir not from them till to that eifect 
 I have thy promise. 
 
 Eexaldo. I shall grant the lady 
 
 All for herself and child she may desire. 
 Trouble me not — why linger? — do ye question 
 My promise ? I will swear to it, and as witness 
 I call on heaven. 
 
 The Stranger, {^^ij^pearing suddenly^ Hell comes un- 
 called ! 
 
 Erxaldo. Oh God ! [Falls lifeless. 
 
 CURTAIX DROPS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. — An apcivtment in Ernaldo's pcdace. Ernal- 
 Do is discovered reclining on a sofa. 
 
 Ernaldo. I laid me down in health, and I awake 
 In death ! — 't is the same place, and yet I know not 
 How this may be on earth, for it is said 
 Death sends the spirit lience, and I am dead, 
 Most surely I am dead — yet is within me 
 
62 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 The conscious spirit. Was it all a fable 
 
 Of liell and heaven ? and doth the spirit still 
 
 Abide within the body till dissolved, 
 
 And hover o'er it then ? 'T is said the souls 
 
 Of sinful men are dragged to hell — and I 
 
 Have been a fearful sinner — yet where am I ? 
 
 Perhaps 't was false— ah no ! the flames of hell 
 
 Arise — they scorch me now — they glow — they burn — 
 
 Oh fire ! — Is there no hope ? — and am I lost 
 
 Beyond repeal ? I have been told the damned 
 
 Can shape no prayer for mercy — Can I pray ? — 
 
 Father ! be merciful ! Oh God ! oh God ! 
 
 I 've prayed ! — then I am safe ! — I may repent 
 
 And be forgiven yet ! 
 
 What ! where am I ? 
 Alive, and yet on earth ! — 't was but a dream ! — 
 What must those horrors be to the lost wretches 
 To whom they are no dream ! 
 
 A Voice. What thine must be ! 
 
 [Erxaldo, shuddering^ falls on his face. After a 
 moment he slowly raises his head, and looks 
 fearfully around, 
 
 Erxaldo. I w^as deceived ; guilty imagination 
 Gave audible voice to my tormentor, conscience. 
 'T was an appalling sound, the very tone 
 Of him — whom I have silenced — 
 
 Am I certain 
 His spirit is not here ? — it is — it is — 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAT^CE. G3 
 
 Mine cowers before it — oh ! an icy thrill 
 
 Darts through my shriiikuig veins — my blood is clotted — 
 
 The atmosphere of death is pressed around me, 
 
 And human breath forsakes me ! 
 
 Hark ! he comes 
 Embodied! \^TJte Prixce enters. 
 
 Yes, I '11 meet thee, for thy look 
 Will kill, and so release me. 
 
 Peixce. How, my friend ! 
 
 What hast thou done against me, that my presence 
 Appals thee ? 
 
 Eexaldo. Is it thou, my Prince ? — but look, 
 
 I dare not — look around us — is he gone ? 
 Are we alone ? 
 
 Peixce. AYe are. But may I know 
 
 Whose presence awed thee ? 
 
 Eexaldo. None. I had a dream. 
 
 And am l)ut now awakened ; but thy presence 
 My gracious Prince, would banish the remembrance 
 Of real agonies, so well it may 
 What but a dream inflicted. Deign accept 
 My heart's best welcome. 
 
 Peixce. Thanks ; I should be happy 
 
 To wait on your flur daughter. 
 
 Eexaldo. Let me hasten 
 
 To announce the honor. \Exit, 
 
 Peixce. There 's a courtier for you, 
 
 Plotting and smiling. For his daughter's sake. 
 
64 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAT^CE. 
 
 If possible, I shall not when I crush 
 His treason, crush him with it. 
 
 Enter Reginald. 
 
 Peixce. Gentle youth, 
 
 A word. 
 
 Reginald. Your pleasure ! 
 
 Prince. I have well observed 
 
 That thou art loved and trusted by Ernaldo 
 As if thou wert his son. 
 
 Reginald. Sir, these are matters 
 
 Concerning but ourselves ; and so excuse me 
 From troubling ^strangers with them. 
 
 Prince. Nay, my friend, 
 
 I only wished to say the Count's affection 
 Has fettered thine to him. 
 
 Reginald. It is a question 
 
 The Count has never asked, and why should others ? 
 
 Prince. 'T is with no idle notion that I ask it. 
 It much imports to know if thy affection 
 Is such to Count Ernaldo, I may trust thee 
 With my designs to save him from a peril 
 Inevitable else. 
 
 Reginald. Believe me, then. 
 
 At thy command. If peril threats Ernaldo, 
 All I can do in honor to avert it 
 I am prepared to do. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 65 
 
 Pkince. Now speak sincerely; 
 
 lias lie not trusted thee with some design 
 That he would hide from me ? 
 
 Reginald. Dost thou imagine 
 
 That I am fit for the participation 
 Of deeds that shun the hght ? I can inform thee 
 Ernaldo thinks not so. 
 
 PmxcE. And canst thou swear it ? 
 
 Reginald. Thou hast my word, sir ; if it is mistrusted, 
 Does that entitle thee to claim my oath ? 
 But to the point. "What the impending danger 
 To be averted from the Count ? 
 
 Peince. I ask 
 
 Thy promise to be silent. 
 
 Reginald. Well, 't is given. 
 
 Peince. From strongest evidence I have assurance 
 He is engaged in a disloyal cause. 
 That must be overthrown before, matured, 
 It takes the open field, for then its fall 
 Must be Ernaldo's fall ; but if in silence 
 We can defeat its end, he may escape 
 Unnoticed; for this object it is needful 
 That thou shouldst wind into his confidence. 
 And win me added proofs, that when Ernaldo 
 Confronts them may confound him. 
 
 Reginald. Shame confound me 
 
 If e'er I stoop to tliis ! What ! I betray 
 My generous friend ! I, who disdain to harm 
 
i 
 
 66 THE SPIRIT OF VEI^GEAT^CE. 
 
 My deadliest foe, except in open strife ! 
 Hence, else Ernaldo's very roof burst down 
 To crusli his treacherous guest ! 
 
 PmxcE. Thou peasant slave ! 
 
 How dares thy touch profene me ! [Flinr/s him off, 
 
 Reginald. Slave indeed! 
 
 [Drawing his sioord. 
 
 Enter ERjiTALDO, loith attendants. 
 
 Erxaldo. Treason ! — the Prince ! — how, Reginald ! — 
 do^m with him. 
 Disarm him ! — I am truly grieved for this, 
 My noble Prince ; the boy shall answer for it. 
 
 Reginald. And it can well be answered. In thy cause 
 I did what should be done. This noble Prince 
 Is here for noble deeds. 
 
 Prince. I can myself 
 
 Unfold them as they are. 
 
 [Signing to the attendayits to retire. 
 Now, Count Ernaldo, 
 Reply sincerely, thou shalt not rej^ent it ; 
 Whate'er thy answer, by my princely word 
 I pledge thy safety. \Aside^^ He appears disturbed ! 
 
 Ernaldo. My lord, I cannot think of any question 
 Whose answer perils me. 
 
 Prince. And canst thou think 
 
 Of what thou art suspected ? 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 67 
 
 Eenaldo. Rot the tongue 
 
 That uttered the suspicion ! — I am wronged — 
 'T is false — 't is slanderous — who has dared — away ! 
 
 [To Kegixald. 
 Fix not that msolent eye in triumph on me ! 
 Hast thou betrayed me ? — death ! — may furies tear thee ! 
 Yet am I safe — thou hast no proof-7-niy lord, 
 In all the pride of injured innocence 
 I stand secure, and smile — 
 
 Peixce. But I have proofs 
 
 Unanswerable. 
 
 Eexaldo. No — it cannot be — 
 
 Think not to start my fears — ha ! is it so 
 Indeed ! Then hail the worst — if I must perish 
 I perish not alone. [Drawing his sword.^ Impede my way 
 Who dare — off, villains ! 
 
 [lie bursts from the attendants^ and is rushing 
 aioay^ xohen the Stkanger suddenly appears before 
 him / Erxaldo recoils and throws himself into 
 the arms of the attendants. 
 
 Erxaldo. Save me — save me — 
 
 Kill me — do what ye will — but save me from him ! 
 Ye lightnings, blast these eyes that fix on his 
 Despite my will ! — Oh save me, Heaven ! 
 
 Steax^ger. Thou fool 
 
 What claim hast thou on Heaven ? 
 
 Eex'aldo. Oh that the earth 
 
 I grovel on, would burst and swallow me ! 
 
G8 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Stra^^^ger. Hereafter earth shall render thee that ser- 
 vice, 
 Yea, and a brighter element. 
 
 Ernaldo. In mercy 
 
 Shield me from his approach. 
 
 \As the Stranger approaches Ernaldo lie falls 
 C07ivulsed and iiiseiisihle in the arms of the at- 
 tendants. 
 Prince. What art thou ? 
 
 Strange-r. One, sir 
 
 Who loves not yon poor trembler with a love 
 Passing the love of woman, yet perhaps 
 About as much. Let that be as it may, 
 I wish not he should bear another's sins, 
 Having so many of his own to answer ; 
 He is no traitor to his king. 
 
 Prince. I cannot 
 
 Confide in that assurance. 
 
 Stranger. Follow me ; 
 
 Thou shalt be satisfied. 
 
 \^The Stranger retires: the Vrtegr follows hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 Reginald. [>S'w5to^m?^^ Ernaldc] How is it with you ? 
 Ernaldo. [Recovering^ looks around heioildered. 
 
 Where are the sulphurous waves ? the coiling serpents 
 Darting their arrowy fire ? the laughing fiends 
 Making a mirth of my calamity ? 
 Methouccht I was in hell ! 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 69 
 
 Reginald. Thou art on earth, 
 
 And long shalt be, I trust. 
 
 Ernaldo. Is it Reginald 
 
 Speaks to me ? and in kindness ? and his arm 
 Sustams me ! Knowest thou what my arm has done ? 
 He comes to tell thee — Mercy ! 
 
 Reginald. N<i7> he calm, sir : 
 
 'T is but the Prince. 
 
 The Peixce enters. 
 
 Peince. My lord, I am ashamed 
 
 Of my imjust suspicions. I believed thee 
 Consjiired against my father's throne, but gladly 
 I recognize thy innocence. 
 
 Eenaldo. If all 
 
 His subjects are as loyal as myself 
 His kingdom has no traitor. 
 
 Peixce. Yet I marvel 
 
 What caused thy agitation. 
 
 Eenaldo. I had heard 
 
 Before of slanderous rumors ; and what wonder 
 It wrung my very soul, to find that even 
 My Prince could deem me guilty ? 
 
 Peixce. I regret it. 
 
 But trust thou wilt excuse it, and consent 
 To knit with me a bond of amity. 
 The tie, thy daughter's love. 
 
70 THE SPIIUT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Keginald. Not Isabelle's ? 
 
 Ernaldo. Be silent, boy ! Most gladly do I welcome 
 This most imlooked-for honor. I believed not 
 That thou Avouldst deign to cast affection's eyes 
 On either of my daughters. 
 
 Peince. Deign ! say rather 
 
 Aspire ! for either merits the ambition 
 Of earth's snpremest lords. 
 
 Eenaldo. Thy words have made me 
 
 Of fathers the most happy. But to whom 
 Shall I announce the honor of thy choice ? 
 
 Prince. The Lady Isabelle. 
 
 Reginald. Even so ! 
 
 Eenaldo. For her, 
 
 I must confess that I had other views. 
 Which seem not to her liking. 
 
 Prince. And the cause 
 
 I can reveal ; her heart to mme was plighted ; 
 Nay, blame her not, for this Avas but concealed 
 Till fitting time should come for the avowal. 
 
 Ernaldo. I joy 't is come. The day that joins youi 
 hands 
 Shall be the proudest day of all my life. ' i 
 
 Reginald. Is it possible, my lord ! Hast thou forgotten 
 The outrage he has done thee ? Is it thus 
 He should be recompensed ? 
 
 Ernaldo. He was in error, 
 
 And has atoned it. I am satisfied ; 
 
THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 71 
 
 But it appears thy leave must first be asked, sir. 
 Peince. She comes, my beautiful ! 
 
 Enter Isabelle and Julia. 
 
 Erxaldo. Now, Reginald, 
 
 Think not that I am ignorant of thy motives, 
 Or thy unuttered wish. Thou lovest my daughter, 
 And thou art free to woo her ; should her love 
 Requite thee, she is thine, nor piince nor kmg 
 Shall wrest her from thee. 
 
 Reginald. Thou but bidst me woo her 
 
 In mockery ; but I am resolved to hear 
 My sentence from her lips. I cannot boast 
 Of lordly birth or proud inheritance ; 
 All I can offer thee is but a heart 
 Where love enthrones thee, and before thee bends 
 As to its earthly god. 
 
 Isabelle. \To the Prince.] Do me the favor 
 To bid that saucy boy speak to his equals. 
 
 Reginald. Furies! 
 
 Ernaldo. But thou wilt give this princely 
 
 suitor 
 A gentler answer ? 
 
 Isabelle. There is no disgrace 
 
 In his alliance. 
 
 Ernaldo. \To the Prince.] She is thine. 
 
 Reginald. She thine! 
 
72 THE SPIEIT OF VEKGEAiN^CE. 
 
 JSTo, never ! Dare but touch her hand — ^by Heaven 
 I '11 make thee tremble ! 
 
 Ernaldo. More respect. 
 
 Reginald. Away! 
 
 Stir not thy tongue to chide me ; I '11 not bear it, 
 Old man, I will not. 
 
 Ernaldo. Leave the house. 
 
 Reginald. I shall, sir. 
 
 N'ow am I free, and my delivered spirit 
 Dances in buoyant joy. There 's none on earth 
 Whose word or frown I care for. 
 
 Ernaldo. Let us leave him. [Exit. 
 
 Reginald. I leave you, and forever. Here no face 
 I care to seek again but thine, [To the Prince.] nor thine 
 In kindness. Darest thou meet me ? 
 
 Prince. I shall give thee 
 
 A present answer. 
 
 Isabelle. Prince, respect thyself 
 
 More than to notice him, a beggarly outcast. 
 
 Reginald. A beggarly outcast! "Well, I shall re- 
 member 
 Those words, and so shalt thou; they shall become, 
 To thee, as awful as the damning word 
 That welcomes from this world the guilty spirit. 
 
 Julia. [Soothing him.'] Dear Reginald ! 
 
 Reginald. There shall be done a deed 
 For which there is no name ; and when 't is done. 
 And thou inquirest whose this deed 1 laugh 
 
THE SPIllIT OF VENGEANCE. 73 
 
 Ea^cii now to think how I shall triumph then, 
 
 To yell in answer Mine! the beggarly outcast's! 
 
 Julia. Be calm, dear Reginald. 
 
 Reginald. Calm as the whirlwind! 
 
 Fly me ! — I would not harm thee — but I feel 
 As I could tear to pieces all around us, 
 Myself and thee. 
 
 Julia. Dear Reginald ! 
 
 IsABELLE. He 's wclcomo 
 
 To spend his rage in words. 
 
 Regii^ald. Words! — deeds! — such deeds! 
 
 Think me not powerless, though bereft of all — 
 Xo country mine, nor kindred, not a friend — 
 Love, honor, happiness, nor even a home 
 Is mine — ^but thou. Revenge ! thou shalt be mine. 
 Though from the lowest depths of hell I call thee ! 
 
 The Stranger. \^Rea2:)2yearmg.^ It comes ! 
 
 Julia. God shield us! 
 
 Reginald. If thou bringest revenge. 
 
 Thou art as welcome as a messenger 
 To heaven. 
 
 Stranger. ^^y? there I cannot be thy herald ; 
 
 But I can lead to vengeance. [Mcit, 
 
 Reginald. On ! I follow ! 
 
 Julia. [ Clingiiig to Reginald.] My friend, my brother, 
 stay ! in pity hear me, 
 And go not with that bad and terrible man! 
 
 Reginald. Off! troublesome girl. 
 
Y4 THE SPIPvIT OF VENGEAlSrCE. 
 
 IsABELLE. Sister, for shame ! 
 
 Julia. Thou shalt not, — 
 
 Thou shalt not go. 
 
 Stkangee. [Without.'] Reginald! 
 
 Reginald. Hark! I come! 
 
 Revenge is mine ! 
 
 [J jjiAA falls, as he breaks from her and rushes away. 
 
 CURTAIN DEOPS. 
 
 ACT ni. 
 
 Scene I. — Night. A iStorm. The Steanger is discov- 
 ered on the hrinJc of a precipice overhanging a river. 
 
 Stranger. Howl on, ye maddened elements! your 
 groans 
 That shake creation, sooner shall be swallowed 
 In eve's soft whispering zephyi's, than shall drown 
 The eternal voice within me. Every sound 
 Has been opposed to this, and all in vain ! 
 The shock of armies on the embattled field, 
 The blast of glory's trump, the thunder-burst 
 Of thronged applause, the adulation breathed 
 From kneeling myriads, the melody 
 Angelical, tlie lips of beauty bathing. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAI^CE. 75 
 
 Or trembling from the strings that dance "beneath 
 
 Her alabaster fingers — all by thee, 
 
 Merciless conscience ! — all are overpowered, 
 
 And thou art heard alone ! — ^Why then, all hail ! 
 
 Tormentor welcome ! I disdain to shrink 
 
 From horrors that with fiends I laugh upon 
 
 When others "vmthe beneath them ; — shall they laugh 
 
 To mock my own ? — they dare not — they shall tremble ! 
 
 Enter Reginald. 
 
 Steangee. [JDescending the rocJcs.'] At last he comes, 
 the unconscious instrmnent 
 Of 7ny revenge. 
 
 Reginald. Who names revenge? — Oh wel- 
 
 come ! — 
 Speak ! speak ! instruct me in some deed imearthly 
 To make me for the infernal goddess Vengeance 
 A blood-anointed priest, and my example 
 The utmost that to the incarnate furies 
 Could seem desirable of imitation. 
 
 Steangee. We shall attend to this within a moment. 
 
 Reninald. This moment. 
 
 Steangee. I must first — 
 
 Reginald. Why dost thou vex me 
 
 With trifling ? Can I heed thee while a tempest, 
 To which were this around us calm as Eden, 
 Maddens my heart to bursting ! — Hence — lead on — 
 
70 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEA:N^CE. 
 
 I care not wliither, so it lead to vengeance ! 
 
 Stbanger. Be patient ; give me time, that I may shape 
 An object for thy vengeance, so subhme 
 In horror, hell's angelic host shall clap 
 Their gloomy wings applausive. 
 
 Reginald. Yes, I 'd wait 
 
 For ages, so the sum of my revenge 
 Increased with every moment. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. — A room in Ernaldo's ^a^ace. 
 Enter Eenaldo. 
 
 Ernaldo. Happy Ernaldo ! thy illustrious house 
 Now Ihiks to royalty ! — Oh very happy! 
 Hell yawns before me, and a blood-robed phantom 
 Is ever near to plunge me in the abyss. 
 A diadem upon this achmg brow 
 Could be no charm against him, or my conscience. 
 Who shall preserve me from them ? — Oh ye heavens ! 
 'T is said that ye are merciful and mighty, 
 Mighty to save, and merciful to pardon — 
 If ye are merciful, why am I thus ? 
 Have I not knelt for mercy, prayed for mercy. 
 And wept for mercy ? From this iron heart 
 What tears have not been wrung, and all for mercy — 
 What mercy have I found ? 
 
 Enter Julia. 
 
THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. -77 
 
 ERNia^DO. Who's there ? My daughter, 
 
 What biings thee hither from the Mithesome circle 
 Where all is gay festivity ? 
 
 Julia. My duty. 
 
 EmsTALDO. Let that be made appear. 
 
 Julia. I saw thee turn 
 
 From all the merriment with clouded brow ; 
 I know the cause — 
 
 Eknaldo. Xow God forbid ! 
 
 Julia. My father, 
 
 I followed to implore thou wouldst remove 
 Thy sorrow and its cause. 
 
 Eeistaldo. \_JBltterly^ Who can remove it ? 
 
 Julia. Though Reginald was worthy blame, thy heart 
 Repents the moment's rigor that has driven 
 The boy of thy adoption from thy house, 
 I know 't is this afflicts thee. 
 
 Eexaldo. I am sorry 
 
 For what hath past ; but he may thank himself; 
 Let him abide the consequence. 
 
 Julia. Ah no ! 
 
 Thy heart speaks other language ; I miplore thee 
 Obey its better counsel ; send for him, 
 Forgive him and receive him to thy favor — 
 Say, wilt thou not, dear father ? 
 
 Erxaldo. Why, thou pleadest 
 
 With more than filial love. 
 
 Julia. He was my brother, 
 
78 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 My only brother ; was he not to thee 
 A son ? hast thou another to supply 
 His place in thy affections ? 
 
 EiixALDO. Or in thine ? 
 
 Ha ! girl ! thou lovest him ? 
 
 Julia. As a sister should. 
 
 Erxaldo. Thy tone speaks further than thy words. 
 Nay, prithee 
 My girl, forbear that look distressed ; I read 
 Thy heart, and blame it not. My other views 
 For Reginald have failed ; thy innocent love 
 Shall well redeem their failure. Do I err? 
 Art thou unwilling to be his ? 
 
 Julia. Thy pleasure 
 
 Is all I seek, dear father. 
 
 Eexaldo. "When the same 
 
 As thine, ha! wench? I wish the boy were here 
 To see that baby face, where smiles and tears 
 Make mirth of one another. Let us seek 
 The festive band ; the merriest of them all 
 Shall find a match in one of us — ha! daughter! [Exeimt. 
 
 ScEisTE 3. — The hermitage hi the ruined castle. 
 
 Miter TiiEEESA and Manuel. 
 
 Manuel. Where is that evil man ? What has he said 
 To make thy countenance so sorrowful ? 
 Mother, believe it not. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 79 
 
 Theresa. Alas! too well 
 
 I know its triitli. 
 
 Maistuel. Oh for a warrior's sword ! 
 
 Oh for a giant's arm ! that I might thank him 
 For adding to thy sorrows. 
 
 Theresa. Hush, my child ; 
 
 I would not any, thou the least of all, 
 Should harm a hair of his head. 
 
 Enter Reginald folloicing The Stranger. 
 
 Reginald. Ha ! what are these ? 
 
 Ernaldo's wife and child ! what do they here? 
 
 Stranger. Thou art deceived ; nor this Ernaldo's wife, 
 Nor this his child. 
 
 Reginald. Whose then ? 
 
 Stranger. Roy, ask thy mother. 
 
 Manttel. Yes, mother, tell me now what oft in vain 
 I 've asked of thee. 
 
 Theresa. Few nobler are in birth 
 
 And none in spirit, than thy father was. 
 His generous virtues and his high achievements 
 A nation voiced in triumph, as defymg 
 The world to match her favorite son. 
 
 Manuel. Oh mother ! 
 
 How proud I should be of him, 
 
 Theresa. But there came 
 
 An earthquake on his soul, whose terrible 
 
80 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 Kevulsion, overthrew and buried all 
 His better feelings. 
 
 Manuel. Whose unholy work 
 
 "Was that ? heaven's curse upon them ! 
 
 Theresa. His high estate 
 
 And fortune measureless, tempted a villain 
 To his destruction. 
 
 Manuel. Damn him ! 
 
 Theresa. Hush ! 
 
 Steanger. Proceed. 
 
 Theresa. One eve, returning from a pleasant ride, 
 My husband and myself, and our young child 
 Were set upon by villains ; our attendants 
 Dispersed or slain, 1 fled with womanish weakness, 
 But by the feelings of a wife and mother 
 Recalled, I hastened back — the child was gone — 
 My husband — 
 
 Manuel. Oh not dead ! 
 
 TiiEEESA. My shrieks attracted 
 
 The inmates of a neighboring cottage ; thither 
 They bore my husband's body; by our care 
 He was at last restored. 
 
 Manuel. Thank God. 
 
 Theresa. His hfe 
 
 Continued in suspense. Spare me the rest. 
 
 Stranger. It better suits my tongue. When he recov- 
 ered, 
 His wife — imprudent wretch ! — she told him whose 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 81 
 
 The murderous arm that struck him ; from that moment 
 
 His soul became a hell, whose ruling demon 
 
 Was vengeance. But in vain for many a year 
 
 He sought the murderer, who in guilty terror 
 
 Had fled the country, even without securing 
 
 The fruits he simied for. 
 
 Manuel. And my father then 
 
 Went home and claimed his own? 
 
 Steaxgee. No : he was careful 
 
 That his existence should be kept a secret 
 From all, lest it should reach his destined victim 
 And warn him to escape. Meantime to forward 
 His views, he joined himself to vile banditti. 
 
 Manuel. Oh pitiful ! 
 
 Steangee. He soon became their greatest 
 
 In prowess and in guilt ; he roved mth them 
 From clime to clime, and like a conqueror's 
 His path was tracked with blood. 
 
 Manuel. Alas, my mother ! 
 
 Didst thou attend such scenes ! 
 
 Theeesa. I little knew 
 
 That such were passing. When thy father left me 
 He told not whither he would go or why. 
 Years passed ; he came again, and I imagined 
 Guiltless as ever. He continued with me 
 Till thou wast born, but soon abruptly left us 
 Nor since returned. 
 
 Steangee. For he was called away 
 
 4# 
 
82 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 By tidings that at last his destined victim 
 Had publicly appeared, and as his heir 
 Assumed his name, his title and his fortunes. 
 But still pursuit was vain, until the wars 
 In which an honorable j)art was borne 
 By the usurper, ending, he retired 
 To his usurped domains. 
 
 Manuel, And there he fell 
 
 Beneath my father's arm? 
 
 Stranger. No : the avenger 
 
 Restrained himself, to study direr pangs 
 Than death can give. But oft to slake liis soul 
 Burning with enmity to all mankind. 
 He plunged in guiltless blood. 
 
 Manuel. Oh tell me, mother, 
 
 Tell me that he deceives me, that a wretch 
 So wicked and dishonored, could not be 
 The father of thy Manuel. 
 
 Stranger. By whose fault 
 
 Became thy father wicked and dishonored ? 
 By hers ! — Had she concealed the assassin's name, 
 The spirit of revenge had slumbered still. 
 Being without an object, and thy father 
 Had still been innocent and honorable. 
 
 Theresa. Forgive me ! [Sohhing. 
 
 Stranger. Damn thee ! aye when God forgives me 
 
 Will I forgive thee ! — Boy, I must avenge 
 Thy father's ruined soul. [Stabs her. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 83 
 
 Manuel. Oh, kill me too ! 
 
 But thou, [To Reginald.] I charge thee, as thou art a man, 
 Visit our blood upon him ! 
 
 Theresa. Hush, my Manuel, 
 
 Speak not a word against him. Heaven forgive me 
 As I forgive him. 
 
 Manuel. Oh my angel mother ! 
 
 I cannot let thee leave me. 
 
 Theresa. Nearer — nearer — 
 
 I '11 waft thy kiss to heaven, and there I trust 
 It shall be rendered back. "Where art thou ? 
 
 Manuel. Here, 
 
 My dearest mother. 
 
 Theresa. From my misted eyes 
 
 Thou fadest like a vision — yet I feel 
 Thy kisses on my cheek — one more — farewell — 
 God bless thee, my sweet boy ! 
 
 Manuel. Look there ! 
 
 [The Stranger makes a sigtial, at which some at- 
 tendants enter. 
 
 Stranger. Remove them ! 
 
 Manuel. Punish that wicked man. 
 
 Stranger. Begone ! 
 
 [Exeunt attendants with the hody^ dragging Man- 
 uel with them. 
 
 And now, sir, 
 What thinkest thou of this lesson ? 
 
 Reginald. I must tliink 
 
84 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAJS'CE. 
 
 Thou art a master-fiend. 
 
 Stranger. That woman's sin 
 
 Was worthy death. 
 
 Reginald. What do they merit then, 
 
 By whom I have been frenzied ? 
 
 Stranger. Worse than death. 
 
 Wouldst slay the Prince ? 
 
 Keghstald. Oh yes ! 
 
 Stranger. How pitiful ! 
 
 Death but inflicts one pang, and by that one 
 Averts a myriad. 
 
 Reginald. But I must have blood 
 
 To quench this raging fire. 
 
 Stranger. And thou shalt liave it, 
 
 But not the Prince's. 
 
 Reginald. Whose ? 
 
 Stranger. His destined bride's. 
 
 Reginald. Ah! 
 
 Stranger. Dost thou shudder, fool ? 
 
 Reginald. [^Faltering.'] Poor Isabelle ! 
 
 Stranger. Poor Reginald ! those are the very words 
 She whispers now to thy more happy rival ; 
 For even at this late hour a brilliant thronsr 
 Are celebrating in Ernaldo's halls 
 The approaching nuptials, and the amorous pair 
 Belike bestow a thought of pity on thee 
 Amid their revelry. 
 
 Reginald. Curse on their pity ! 
 
THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 85 
 
 Come, we shall revel too ; but it shall be 
 In blood. 
 
 Stranger. In Isabelle's ? 
 
 Reginald. I care not whose. \Exeu7iU 
 
 ScEXE 4. — A hall in Eenaldo's palace^ splendidly deco- 
 rated and illuminated. Erxaldo, Isabelle, Julia, the 
 Prince, and a throng of lords and ladies are discovered. 
 
 Ernaldo. What duUs the merriment ? Come girl, 't is 
 thme, [^To Julia. 
 
 To waken it with one of thy sweet songs, 
 That well might waken death. 
 
 Omxes. a song ! a song ! 
 
 Julia. Father — 
 
 Ernaldo. I '11 be obey'd. 
 
 Omxes. a song ! a song ! 
 
 Julia sings. 
 
 What is the sweetest feeling 
 
 That ever on the soul 
 Of youth or maiden stealing. 
 
 Bids waves of rapture roll ? 
 What the sublimest pleasure 
 
 Of those embowered above ? 
 Or earth's divinest treasure ? 
 
 'T is love ! immortal love ! 
 
 [Chorus of youths and maide^is. 
 
86 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 What are the ties most holy 
 
 That link this happy pair ? 
 And what the bliss that solely 
 
 To know on earth they care ? 
 And what the charm to either 
 
 Shall seem all charms above, 
 Which time can sweep from neither? 
 
 'T is love ! immortal love ! [ Chorus. 
 
 Ernaldo. Well, girl — 
 
 Julia. Excuse me, for I am opprest 
 
 With faintness, and have need to be relieved 
 By the fresh air. 
 
 A Cavalier. Permit me? 
 
 [ Offering his arm., which she accepts^ and reti'^es 
 with him. 
 Eenaldo. Lords and dames, 
 
 Let this not break your pastime. — Music there ! 
 Strike up a dance, and let our marble walls 
 Shake to the bound of merry feet. — What now ? 
 
 [ Jb an attendant^ who enters and approaches Ee- 
 
 NALDO. 
 
 Attendant. Entering the chamber where I had com- 
 mitted 
 The lady and the child entrusted to me, 
 I found them gone. 
 Ernaldo. Why, let them go ! I care not. 
 
 \Attendant retires 
 Fear, danger, sorrow, from this happy hour 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 87 
 
 Shall never trouble me. Strike up, I say ! 
 
 [A dance. The Stkanger and Reginald enter and 
 stand apart unnoticed. 
 Steanger. a joyous sight. 
 
 Reginald. How maddening is the mirth 
 
 Of all around us, when we ourselves are wretched ! 
 Stranger. We '11 turn their mirth to mourninir. 
 Reginald. Look — see there — 
 
 She smiles Hke heaven ! 
 
 Stranger. She smiles upon thy rival. 
 
 Reginald. Curse on her and her smiles ! angelic devil ! 
 See — see — ^liis arm entwmes her ! — well ! may this 
 Of mine drop from me, but he shall repent it ! 
 They laugh ! — Oh I could tear them ! 
 
 Stranger. Haply thou 
 
 And thy aspiring love provoked that burst 
 Of merriment. 
 Reginald. My time shall come ! 
 Stranger. Observe 
 
 They steal away together. 
 
 Reginald. And together 
 
 They die ! 
 
 Stranger. Be cautious, and in silence follow. 
 
 [They reth'e u?i2?erceivedj in the same direction as 
 the Prince a7id Isabelle. Scoie changes to a 
 garden^ by moonlight. Enter the Stranger and 
 Reginald. 
 Stranger. We have lost their track. 
 
88 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAIs^CE. 
 
 Reginald. But like a raging lion 
 
 I '11 range in every jAace, till I have found them 
 Witlim my fangs. 
 
 Stranger. Patience ; await them here, 
 
 For they must pass this way. Dost thou remember 
 How I employed this dagger ? 
 
 Reginald. I shall prove 
 
 Upon the accursed Prmce, I can employ it 
 As well. 
 
 Stranger. That as thou wilt ; but Isabelle 
 Must die. 
 
 Reginald. They both shall die. 
 
 Stranger. I hear their steps. 
 
 Remember. [Betirmg. 
 
 Reginald. 'T is resolved. 
 
 [A Cavalier a7id Lady pass by. 
 
 Lady. How beautiful 
 
 Appears the face of Heaven ! 
 
 Cavalier. Like thine ! 
 
 Lady. I never 
 
 Saw fairer sight. [They pass on. 
 
 Reginald. Ye skies ! how dare ye smile 
 In mockery of horror ! Ye beauteous stars ! 
 Young eyes of Heaven ! ye do profane yourselves 
 K ye do look upon me ! — ^Arise ! arise ! 
 Ye shades of Hell arise ! from earth and Heaven 
 Cover a deed whose darkness pales your own ! 
 
 [The Lady and Cavalier agam p)ass hy. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAIS^CE. 89 
 
 Lady. Shall we return ? 
 
 Reginald. They must not pass in safety 
 
 This time; my baffled vengeance shall not be 
 Their jest. — Ho there! — the beggarly outcast strikes! 
 
 [Stabs the Lady, who falls loith a shriek ; tlie Cav- 
 alier supports her ; Reginald is about to stab 
 him^ when Manuel rushes forioard and catches 
 his arm. 
 Manuel. Forbear ! forbear ! — Who sins against another 
 Sins most against himself. 
 
 Enter Ernaldo, the Prince, Isabelle, Cavaliers, Ladies, 
 and attendants^ loith torches. 
 
 Reginald. Too true thou speakest. 
 
 Oh Julia ! have I slain thee ! — thee of all 
 The only one that loved me ! — Would to God 
 That I had loved thee sooner ! 
 
 Julia. Reginald ! 
 
 Dear Reginald ! such tender words from thee 
 Are cheaply bought with life. 
 
 Ernaldo. Where shall I turn 
 
 For comfort ? 
 
 Strager. [Advancing.'] Here ! 
 
 Ernaldo. The might of agony 
 
 Sustains me in thy presence. Hast thou come 
 To drag me down to hell ? behold me ready ! 
 Such are my torments here, I cannot dread 
 An added pang hereafter. 
 
90 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAKCE. 
 
 Stranger. Thanks, good brother ! 
 
 Thou knowest not how much thy words deUght me ! 
 But I can tell thee something for thy comfort ; 
 Thy weapon did not perfectly accomplish 
 Thy brotherly intent. Nay, I have lived 
 For vengeance yet ; regard the scene before thee 
 And say, have I not lived to a good purpose ? 
 
 Reginald. Sj^eak not of death, sweet girl ! — there yet 
 is hope — 
 'T is not a fatal wound ; thou wilt recover — 
 Thou wilt — and I shall love thee — love thee dearly — 
 And all shall yet be well ! 
 
 Stranger. Thus I forbid it ! 
 
 [/Stabbing Reginald, \dJio falls at Julia's side. 
 Ernaldo. Oh miserable father ! 
 Stranger. Yes, I knew, 
 
 From the first moment that my eyes beheld him, 
 He was thy lawless son ; and that impelled me 
 To study his perdition, as one means 
 Of cursing thee. 
 
 Ernaldo. ^^Scarce able to articulate.'] 'T is not my son — 
 'T is thine ! 
 
 [ The Stranger stands gazing at Ernaldo for a 
 moment j then rushes to him and drags him off 
 the scene. All stand transfixed xoith horror, till 
 startled by a wild cry without. 
 
 curtain DRors. 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG DEEAM. 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 THE FLOWER OF LOYE. 
 
 That we for riper years sliould stay, 
 
 Though coldly thou declarest, 
 I tell thee, in the bloom of May 
 
 The flower of love is fairest. 
 All who have loved must know the truth 
 
 That love with tune is flying ; 
 It blooms but in the bloom of youth. 
 
 Its power mth beauty dying. 
 To beauty, by her magic strung. 
 
 Love consecrates his lyre. 
 And none, except the fair and young, 
 
 Its accents can inspire. 
 That we for riper years should stay. 
 
 Though coldly thou declarest, 
 I tell thee in the bloom of May 
 
 The flower of love is fairest ! 
 
94 MY BLUE-EYED IMAID. 
 
 MY BLUE-EYED MAID. 
 
 WKITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
 
 FoEGET me not, my blue-eyed maid, 
 
 When fate our parting shall decree ! 
 My love may never be repaid. 
 
 But still, oh, still remember me ! 
 Thy image, in my heart enshrined 
 
 In death's embrace alone shall fade ; 
 When I am in his arms reclined. 
 
 Forget me not, my blue-eyed maid ! 
 
 If on the monumental stone 
 
 The name of one thou chance to see, 
 Whose heart was thine, and thine alone, 
 
 Oh then, my love, remember me. 
 As one that were supremely blest 
 
 His life before thee to have laid, 
 Could that insure his last request : 
 
 Forget me not, my blue-eyed maid 
 
3IY FONDEST AND FAIREST. 95 
 
 MY FONDEST AND FAIREST. 
 
 My fondest and fairest ! 
 
 Oh why dost thou stay? 
 How can I be haj^py 
 
 While thou art away ? 
 I yearn to be with thee 
 
 Wherever thou art — 
 My sweetest and dearest ! 
 
 Return to my heart ! 
 
 My fondest and fairest ! 
 
 While sadly I cast 
 My glance round the scenes 
 
 Where I looked on thee last, 
 Methinks I behold thee — 
 
 To clasj) thee I start — 
 My sweetest and dearest 
 
 Return to my heart ! 
 
 My fondest and fairest ! 
 
 No longer delay! 
 I 'm weary — I 'm wretched 
 
 While thou art away ! 
 Come ! bring me the rapture 
 
 None else can impart ! 
 My sweetest and dearest ! 
 
 Return to my heart ! 
 
96 THE CIIAEMS OF WOMAN. 
 
 THE CHARMS OF WOMAN. 
 
 The glittering stars we admire, 
 
 And the sun on his throne in the skies, 
 And we worship the lovelier fire 
 
 That sparkles in woman's sweet eyes ; 
 The bloom of the flourishing roses 
 
 Delight to the eyes can impart ; 
 And the bloom that dear woman discloses 
 
 Has far more delight for the heart. 
 
 How sweetly the zephyrs are throwing 
 
 The fragrance they snatch fi'om the flowers ! 
 How sweeter the breath that is flowing 
 
 From the pure lips of woman to ours ! 
 Whatever around thee thou meetest, 
 
 The spell of delight that can lend, 
 The brightest, the fairest, the sweetest, 
 
 In woman far lovelier blend. 
 
 Her eyes have a heavenly splendor. 
 
 But if virtue have kindled its star 
 In her soul, its resplendence will lend her 
 
 A light that is lovelier far ! 
 Her breath has a sweetness when blending 
 
 With ours in the pure kiss of love ! 
 Far sweeter that breath when ascending 
 
 In prayer to her Maker above. 
 
THE CHARMS OF WOMAN. " 97 
 
 When in one all the charms are united 
 
 On the soul and the senses that steal, 
 When we gaze on her softness delighted, 
 
 Or when to her brightness we kneel ; 
 However those beauties may ravish, 
 
 And fetter the soul and the eyes, 
 Not on them all our thoughts should we lavish, 
 
 But spare one, at least, for the skies. 
 
 If the light of her eyes we admire. 
 
 Oh, what is the glory of Him, 
 From whom Heaven's eyes had the fire. 
 
 To which even beauty's were dim ! 
 Who the blaze to Apollo has given. 
 
 Which the stars to behold cannot bear ! 
 What splendor on earth or in Heaven 
 
 Can with its Creator's compare ! 
 
 If all the creation discloses 
 
 Such beauty our homage to claim. 
 How awful a beauty reposes 
 
 On the brow of the God whence it came ! 
 When woman upon you has laid her 
 
 Control, while you love and adore. 
 Oh, think of the Being who made her. 
 
 And love Him and worship Him more ! 
 
98 THE GEAVE OF MARY. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF MARY. 
 
 Far, far from this grave be the footstep unholy, 
 Its sanctity that would presume to invade ! 
 
 By all who approach it, with reverence lowly, 
 May homage to virtue and beauty be paid ; 
 
 To virtue and beauty that almost had made her 
 
 On earth, what they now have quite made her in heaven ; 
 
 For the seraphic charms, in this world that arrayed her, 
 To wither as soon as they bloomed were not given ; — 
 
 Ah no ! they were only transj^lanted again. 
 
 To bloom in the glorious world whence they came ; 
 
 Where nothing of earth or corruption shall stain 
 Their splendors on high that eternally flame. 
 
 My Mary ! my love ! art thou hovermg near 
 
 To look ui^on him o'er thy dust who is kneeling. 
 
 While wrung from my bosom, full many a tear 
 To water the grave of my Mary is stealmg ? 
 
 While o'er thee in passionate agony bending, 
 I fondly would think, from the regions above, 
 
 Thy spirit I see in its beauty descending, 
 To calm my Avild anguish for Mary my love. 
 
 1 
 
MY OWI^, MY CHOSEN BKIDE. 99 
 
 MY OWN, MY CHOSEN BRIDE. 
 
 AxD thou art torn, my fairest ! 
 
 From liim who loves thee best, 
 And I must lose the heaven 
 
 That long my heart has blest ! 
 But though we part, my fairest ! 
 
 No parting can divide 
 Our wedded hearts, my fairest ! 
 
 My own, my chosen bride ! 
 
 Forget me not, my fairest ! 
 
 Thou shalt not be forgot ; 
 Remember all our fondness — 
 
 Sweet love ! forget me not ! 
 Where'er thou art, my fairest ! 
 
 My soul is at thy side ; 
 My heart with thine, my fairest ! 
 
 My own, my chosen bride ! 
 
 For years and years, my fairest ! 
 
 A hfe of toil and care 
 Must wm a worthy fortune, 
 
 For thee at last to share ; 
 But then — oh then, my fairest ! 
 
 I '11 come with joy and pride, 
 To clahn my first, my fairest ! 
 
 My own, my chosen bride ! 
 
100 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 The meanest wretch that sullies earth 
 
 May on thy heauty gaze, 
 And all unconscious of its worth 
 
 May bask him in its hlaze ; 
 And those who care not for thy sight 
 
 Their hours may by thee spend, 
 Where 't would emparadise me quite 
 
 One moment to attend. 
 
 And those who to its charms are dead 
 
 Thy angel voice may hear, 
 Which never shall its music shed 
 
 For him who holds it dear ! 
 And worthless fools the smile command 
 
 That me with heaven would bless, 
 And heartless wretches clasp the hand 
 
 That I would die to press ! 
 
 But I who love thee — I to whom 
 
 Thou art a saint below, 
 Ne*er to approach thee may j^resume 
 
 Nor scarce a glance bestoAv ; 
 I gaze when thou art gliding past, 
 
 Unconscious of my eyes. 
 As gaze the lost at glunpses cast 
 
 From opening Paradise ! 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 101 
 
 Why should I seek thy heart to gain ? 
 
 Thy hand must be denied ! 
 Why should they link affection's chain 
 
 Whom fortune's gulfs divide ? 
 Still shall I watch thee glide before, 
 
 But bound my wishes there — 
 Such bliss is even this, that more 
 
 Seems more than life could bear 
 
102 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAT. 
 
 LOYE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 
 
 Though fixther and mother 
 
 Forbid me tliy sight, 
 Though sister and brother 
 
 Against us unite, 
 Though all that surround us 
 
 To part us essay. 
 From aU will I win thee — 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Though oceans may sunder. 
 
 Or mountains may close. 
 Or tempests may thunder 
 
 The path to oj^pose ; 
 Though earthquakes between us 
 
 The abyss may disj^lay. 
 Through all w^ill I wm thee — 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Through forest and desert. 
 
 Through flood and through flame. 
 Through pain and through peril, 
 
 Through sorrow and shame, 
 Through darkness and danger. 
 
 By night or by day. 
 Through death and destruction — 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 103 
 
 Yes, I will regain tlice, 
 
 My chosen, my Lest ! 
 My bird ! thou shalt nestle 
 
 Again in my breast ; 
 This heart for thy refuge. 
 
 This arm for thy stay, 
 I will guard thee forever — 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
104 MY LOVE LOVES ME. 
 
 MY LOVE LOVES ME. 
 
 On there is a song 
 
 That the young heart smgs I 
 That forth in a fountain 
 
 Of music sprmgs, 
 As fresh as the dance 
 
 Of the streams set free — 
 " I love my love, 
 
 And my love loves me ! " 
 
 Sweetest and dearest, 
 
 Fondest and best. 
 While with thy presence 
 
 N"o longer blest, 
 My heart murmurs o'er 
 
 As it strays to thee, — 
 " I love my love, 
 
 And my love loves me ! " 
 
 And thou, my beloved. 
 
 When I leave thy sight. 
 It soothes me to think 
 
 That thou wilt delight 
 To murmur the sonor 
 
 I taught to thee, 
 " I love my love, 
 
 And my love loves me ! " 
 
MY LOVE LOVES ME. 1()5 
 
 Wc heed not the pleasures 
 
 To others known, 
 A better and dearer 
 
 Is ours alone, 
 To whisper our liearts 
 
 In their secret glee, — 
 " I love my love, 
 
 And my love loves me ! " 
 
 And oh ! when again 
 
 I welcome thy face. 
 When agam I clasp thee 
 
 In fond embrace, 
 To me wilt thou Avhisper, 
 
 And I to thee, — 
 " I love my love. 
 
 And my love loves me ! " 
 
106 BKOKEN TIES. 
 
 BROKEN TIES. 
 
 Go — I from my soul disclaim thee, 
 Mine I never more shall name thee ; 
 By the love that thou hast slighted, 
 By the joy that thou hast blighted, 
 By the fairy visions vanished, 
 Ingrate ! go, forever banished ! 
 
 By the promise vainly spoken, 
 
 By the heart thou wouldst have broken, 
 
 Did not strength of soul sustain me. 
 
 That I mourn not but disdain thee, 
 
 Go, forever from me driven ! 
 
 Go — forgotten — not forgiven ! 
 
 When thou iindest all around thee 
 Faithless, worthless, as I found thee. 
 Thou shalt learn the worth to measure 
 Of the heart thou wouldst not treasure ; 
 But in vain thy soul's repentance — 
 Irrevocable the sentence — 
 Go, forever from me driven ! 
 Go — forgotten — not forgiven ! 
 
TIIE BEST AND THE WOEST OF IT. 107 
 
 THE BEST AND THE WORST OF IT. 
 
 When to the crowded halls of mirth 
 I turn, from lonely thoughts to fly, 
 
 And find the change but little worth. 
 
 Amid the throng alone on earth, 
 For very sorrow I could die. 
 
 But when that heavenly face I see 
 Whose loving looks to mine reply, 
 
 The world appears my own to be. 
 
 For she is all the world to me, 
 And I for very joy could die. 
 
 When youthful dreams, forever fled. 
 From memory claim the hopeless sigh ; 
 
 When long lost friends like sjjectres tread. 
 The cold, the faithless and the dead ! " 
 I feel so wretched I could die. 
 
 But when those eyes, in which I trace 
 
 The beauty of the starlight sky, 
 Look up so fondly in my face. 
 All sweetness and confiding grace, 
 
 I feel so happy I could die. 
 
108 THE LOCK OF HAIE. 
 
 THE LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 She loved me well, whose precious head 
 
 This cherished ringlet bore ; 
 Yet there will come a time I dread, 
 
 When she will love no more : 
 A thousand chances will occur 
 
 Her kindness to estrange ; 
 This little lock is all of her 
 
 That time will never change ! 
 And when the lip that once I prest 
 
 No smile to me will give. 
 This ringlet in my lonely breast 
 
 Shall bid some comfort live ; 
 And when some happier heart shall bless 
 
 The love I must resign. 
 How will I prize this little tress, 
 
 Unaltered still and nime ! 
 I have but little joy on earth 
 
 Or hope of joy above. 
 Save one that every joy is worth — 
 
 The Paradise of love : 
 Why must I know it will not last, 
 
 That fate will only spare. 
 Of all the love and rapture past, 
 
 One little lock of hair I 
 
I KNOW THAT THOU ART FAK AWAY. 109 
 
 I KNOW THAT TIIOU ART FAR AWAY. 
 
 I KNOW that thou art far away, 
 
 Yet in my own despite, 
 My still expectant glances stray 
 
 Inquiring for thy sight ; 
 Though all too sure that thy sweet face 
 
 Shall bless no glance of mine ; 
 At every time, in every place, 
 
 My eyes are seeking thine. 
 
 I hope — ^liow vain the hope I know — 
 
 That yet some blissful chance 
 May brmg thee here, again to throw 
 
 Thy sweetness on my glance ; 
 But my best love, where'er thou art, 
 
 Whate'er be my despair. 
 My eyes shall seek thee, and my heart 
 
 Shall love thee everywhere. 
 
110 love's AMBITIOJSr. 
 
 LOVE'S AMBITION. 
 
 FKOM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD KREZ, 
 
 Oh that I were a king 
 
 In golden pomp arrayed ! 
 And thou, most beautiful, 
 
 Wert but an humble maid ; 
 
 Then would I say to thee, 
 
 " Oh best beloved of mine, 
 Behold my crown and throne. 
 
 For throne and cro^^ai are thine ! 
 
 " In truth thou art not sprung 
 
 From those of royal race, 
 But Nature's royalty 
 
 Adorns thy form and face. 
 
 " I climbed the lofty heights — 
 I found them drear and bare ; 
 
 I sought the deepest vale — 
 
 The sweetest flower was there ! " 
 
 Now, from thy rosy mouth, 
 
 I hear the gentle sound — 
 " Oh let that flower remain 
 
 Still in its native ground ! 
 
 " Its beauty and perfume 
 Live in this mossy place ; 
 
love's ambition. Ill 
 
 Why break it off to die 
 Within a golden vase ? 
 
 " I ask not for my brow 
 
 A coronet of pearls — 
 Give me a buddmg rose 
 
 To place among my curls ! " 
 
 I fling my sceptre far, 
 Deep, in the deepest sea — 
 
 For what are crown and throne 
 Without thy love for me ? 
 
 'T is not a cro^^Ti of gold 
 
 Can match thy brighter hair — 
 'T is not a diamond wi'eath 
 
 Can with thine eyes compare ! 
 
 Had I as many crowns 
 As shine the stars above — 
 
 Oh ! I would give them all, 
 Sweet maiden, for thy love ! 
 
 And yet I must repeat — 
 And thou wilt not upbraid — 
 
 Oh that I were a kmg. 
 
 And thou an humble maid ! 
 
112 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 I MAY not call to grandeur's hall 
 
 The lady of my heart ; 
 I have not power or wealthy dower 
 
 My true love to hnpart ; 
 I bid her from a sphere to come 
 
 That far is mine above ; 
 Yet shall not this impair the bliss 
 
 That hails our wedded love ! 
 
 She will not grieve a home to leave 
 
 Magnificent in pride, 
 In lowly cot to share my lot, 
 
 Obscurely there to hide ; 
 Though desolate of friend or mate, 
 
 Save me and God above, 
 Yet shall not this impair the bliss 
 
 That hails our wedded love. 
 
 She has been nurst among the first 
 
 And proudest of the land, 
 Where from her head all danger fled, 
 
 At fortune's magic wand : 
 But ill my bower in stormy hour 
 
 Can shield my gentle dove ; 
 Yet shall not this impair the bhss 
 
 That hails our Avedded love. 
 
WEDDED LOVE. 113 
 
 I every clay a tender lay 
 
 Shall waken to her name, 
 And every night to throne of might 
 
 Shall kneel to bless the same ; 
 For years and years, through smiles and tears, 
 
 I '11 prize her all above ; 
 And well shall this insure the bliss 
 
 That hails our wedded love. 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES. 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES. 
 
 A NEW-YEAR'S GREETING TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 So it is gone ! — another year ! 
 
 A drop of time lost in the sea 
 
 Of dark and deep eternity, 
 In which we all must disappear ! 
 AYell, since so transient our career, 
 The blessings that attend the way 
 More precious grow with every day : 
 
 So is it with my Eveline, 
 
 And ever was since she was mine ; 
 Since first she nestled on my breast, 
 And on its beatings rocked to rest ; 
 And when her little arms at length 
 To twine around me gathered strengtii, 
 And her young eyes rej^lied to mine 
 With love's intelligence divine ; 
 When first her lips began to frame 
 
118 A NEW- year's GEEETIT^G. 
 
 Sweet murmurings of a father's name ; 
 Or with more eloquence of love 
 
 Those rosy lijis to mine were prest — 
 Oh, closer still I clasped my dove, 
 
 And conld have died so very blest ! 
 
 Years passed — the infant passed from sight- 
 A glorious child stood in her place, 
 
 With golden cnrls and eyes of light, 
 And fairy form and seraph face ; 
 
 Her feet went dancmg as they trod, 
 In fullness of her heart's delight ; 
 
 Her voice sent carols up to God — 
 
 I heard it not, but God knows best — 
 I felt so hai^py, sure He smiled 
 In love on father as on child : 
 
 I know it, for we have been blest ! 
 And though at times we feel His rod. 
 
 He blest us, and we shall be blest ! 
 
 My child, my friend, my playmate dear ! 
 And dearer still with every year, 
 Smce more and more I seem to find 
 An answering sympathy of mind. 
 My pleasures, hopes, and views that shares, 
 In part, my studies and my cares ! 
 Oh, while we live, can each depend 
 At least on one unfailing friend ! 
 
A NEW-YEAk's GIlEETmG. ng 
 
 For friendshiii, like a dream expires, 
 And love itself burns out its fires ; 
 But who, my child, shall rend apart 
 The links that bind us heart to heart ? 
 I '11 hold thee flist, whate'er my lot, 
 My child ! my friend that faileth not ! 
 And thou — betide thee good or ill — 
 Cling to me close and closer still. 
 And lay thy head upon my breast, 
 Thy refuge, and thy j^lace of rest! 
 
 Roll on, ye years ! if, as ye roll. 
 
 Ye bring more treasures to her soul ! 
 
 I know not, and I care not much, 
 
 How she may look to other eyes — 
 I praise her not for form or face ; 
 
 More happy far to recognize 
 The beauty which alone can touch 
 
 The soul — the mind's unmortal srrace ; 
 The heart, unknown to sin's control ; 
 
 The spirit robed in light divine. 
 Still soaring to its native place ; — 
 
 These be thy glories, Eveline ! 
 The Avings that yet shall lift thee far 
 
 Above the bondage of our clay. 
 And make thee as the Morning Star, 
 
 That shineth unto perfect day! 
 
120 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 The winds of March are loose again, 
 
 And shrinking, from the piercing air, 
 I shudder at the thought of pain 
 
 That I have borne, and yet may bear ; 
 But while the scenes return to view, 
 
 Which seemed to be my last on earth, 
 Keturns the heavenly picture too 
 
 Of all thy love and all thy worth ! 
 
 Thy matchless love, that bore thee up 
 
 Through trials few have heart to brave ; 
 That shrank not from the bitter cup 
 
 Of anguish, which my anguish gave ; 
 That, while thy noble heart was wrung 
 
 With pity, tenderness, and grief. 
 Still o'er my couch of suffering hung, 
 
 To give me comfort and relief. 
 
 A common love might weep and sigh. 
 
 To spare its grief, my presence shun 
 And in its weakness let me die. 
 
 Lamented much, but aided none ; 
 Thy nobler nature rose above 
 
 All trials, so they gave me aid. 
 And on the altar of thy love 
 
 Thy heart a sacrifice was laid. 
 
TO MY WIFE. 121 
 
 Thy sighs were hushed, thy tears supprest, 
 
 Lest I thy sorrow should diviue ; 
 Thy eyes refused their needful rest, 
 
 To watch the fitful sleep of mine ; 
 No sharer in a task so dear 
 
 And sacred would thy love allow ; 
 By day and night, still hovering near, 
 
 My " MixisTERixG Angel " thou ! 
 
 Thou wast my dearest hope on earth 
 
 Since first I met thy welcome sight ; 
 But nevei had I known thy worth 
 
 Till iu aflliction's darkest night : 
 Oh, then thy peerless goodness shone, 
 
 A star amid the gloom j^rofound, 
 Dispersed the clouds above me thrown. 
 
 And scattered heavenly radiance round. 
 
 The God of mercy heard thy prayer, 
 
 When hope itself receded fast. 
 And gave to thy imwearied care 
 
 The life that seemed already past ; 
 That life I ever would employ 
 
 To bless thee, and thy love repay, — 
 To give thee comfort, peace, and joy, — 
 
 To be thy friend, thy shield, thy stay. 
 
 I will not at the past repine, 
 
 Thouf^h +]ie remembrance wakes a sigh — 
 
122 BlIE CALLS ME FATIIEK. 
 
 To know the worth of love like thine 
 'T were well to suffer or to die ! 
 
 But ah ! at once its Avorth to know 
 And to enjoy its fullness, live! 
 
 Ko greater favor heaven can show, 
 And earth has nothing more to give. 
 
 SHE CALLS ME FATHER. 
 
 She calls me " father ! " — though my ear 
 
 That thrillmg name shall never hear, 
 
 Yet to my heart affection brings 
 
 The sound in sweet imagmmgs ; 
 
 I feel its gushing music roll 
 
 The stream of rapture on my soul ; 
 
 And when she starts to welcome me, 
 
 And when she totters to my knee, 
 
 And when she climbs it to embrace 
 
 My bosom for a hiding-place, 
 
 And when she nestling there reclines. 
 
 And with her arms my neck entwmes. 
 
 And when her lips of roses seek 
 
 To j)ress their sweetness on my cheek, 
 
 Or when upon my careftil breast 
 
 I lull her to her cherub rest, 
 
 The heart to which I hold my dove 
 
 Swells with miutterable love ! 
 
MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S WELCOME. 123 
 
 MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S WELCOME. 
 
 The world looks pleasantly and bright 
 
 Upon my new-born child ; 
 The fields and skies are bathed in light, 
 
 The air is fresh and mild ; 
 And it would seem all heaven and earth 
 Were gi-acious to my darling's birth ! 
 
 May this her future lot foreshow ! 
 
 Still may her skies be bright ; 
 And every scene she treads below 
 
 Be pleasant to her sight. 
 So may she live on earth beloved 
 And cherished, and by heaven approved ! 
 
 May all that smiles upon her now, 
 
 Smile on her to the end ; 
 And Avhen upon her placid brow 
 
 The shades of death descend. 
 To everlasting life reborn. 
 May she salute a brighter morn ! 
 
124 A father's dirge. 
 
 A FATHER'S DIRGE. 
 
 My hopes are blighted, and I feel 
 An anguish I may not reveal ; 
 
 And. fain I would retire apart 
 Where common eyes may not intrude, 
 Who care not for the sanctitude 
 
 Of sorrow in a father's heart. 
 But I have duties to perform 
 
 To others, who have claims as strong. 
 And still must struggle with the storm 
 Of life amid the careless throng ; 
 And veil the secret of my breast 
 With smile for smile, and jest for jest, 
 While fain I would sink down to rest 
 
 Beside my darling's clay ! 
 Yes — ^for my wife and children's sake, 
 I '11 bid my energies awake. 
 And nerve the heart that swells to break. 
 
 To be their shield and stay. 
 
 But, oh ! the sorrow, when I come 
 From weary work to lonely home. 
 To miss that face, whose pleasant sight 
 
A father's dirge. 125 
 
 Gave to that home a heavenly light ! 
 At hour of rest, how sad to miss 
 The comfort of her parting kiss ! 
 And every morning when I wake 
 This lonely heart is nigh to break, 
 For ever when I rose from sleep, 
 
 Beside me smiled her cherub face. 
 And close and closer she would creep 
 
 To nestle in my heart's eml)race ! 
 But now at every wonted spot 
 I seek her, and I find her not ; 
 Save that at times before my eyes 
 Distempered fancy bids her rise 
 As last I saw her, night and day 
 Gasping her little life away ! 
 And then my anguish and despair 
 Become too terrible to bear ! 
 
 Yet, my beloved ! though I must mourn, 
 
 And nothing can my grief beguile, 
 I should rejoice that thou wast born 
 
 To bless me though but for a while. 
 The love that lightened up thy eyes, 
 
 And smiled on thy angelic face, 
 Was such a glimpse of Paradise, 
 
 As though but for a little space, 
 A sacred influence has left 
 Of which we cannot be bereft. 
 
126 A FATIIEli's DIRGE. 
 
 And tell us what the heavens must be 
 That for a moment lent us thee, 
 And fires our zeal to persevere 
 To meet thee m that better sphere, 
 Where yet we trust redeemed to stand 
 And lead our darlmg by the hand, 
 Thou best of all our hearts held dear ! 
 
 If thou canst see us from above, 
 At last thou knowest all the love, 
 
 Nor words nor tears could tell ; 
 Thou readest m thy father's heart, 
 Of wliich thou wast the dearest part, 
 
 A love unspeakable ! 
 And thou dost love me, my sweet child, 
 And thy affections from the skies 
 Come down to bless me, till I rise 
 To meet them pure and undefiled ; 
 Oh, let me then be reconciled, 
 And conquer passion's bitterness. 
 
 For why should we deplore 
 That earth has now one sufferer less. 
 
 And heaven one angel more! 
 
 The sun rose glorious on thy birth. 
 As if he welcomed thee to day, 
 
 And shone as glorious, Avhen to earth 
 We gave thy cold unconscious clay. 
 
A father's dirge. 127 
 
 I saw him on his noonday throne, 
 
 In summer's proudest hour, 
 And thought of all he looked upon. 
 
 Thou wast the fairest flower ! 
 Where art thou now? 
 
 Nay, it is weak, 
 'T is wrong, that gloomy grave to seek! — 
 Let Faith and Hope unveil the skies 
 A moment to affection's eyes ! 
 Look up, my soul ! and there behold 
 A heavenly form with locks of gold, 
 That shade a brow divinely bright, 
 And float upon her wings of light ; 
 All Paradise is in her face. 
 And in her smile celestial grace ; 
 She looks upon us from above 
 With pity and undying love, 
 And gently beckons to her home — 
 I come, my Anna ! — soon I come ! 
 And till we meet, will strive and pray 
 To keep upon the only way, 
 Nor more repine that thou dost rest 
 Upon a Heavenly Father's breast ! 
 
128 THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 In the watches of the night, 
 
 When the world is hushed to sleep, 
 
 Comes my anguish strong and deep, 
 Like a torrent at its height, 
 Rushing with resistless might. 
 
 Every barrier down to sweep ; 
 Parts the darkness like a veil. 
 
 And reveals my dying dove, 
 With her j^atient face and pale. 
 
 And her sweet blue eyes of love, 
 Sadly looking into mine. 
 Till they every look resign. 
 Now returns the scene of death — 
 Slowly gasps away her breath ; 
 Now the lips that were my bliss 
 Move as for a parting kiss ; 
 Now she gives a feeble start. 
 As to nestle to my heart ! 
 
 How its breaking fibres thrill ! 
 All is over ! — from my sight 
 Fades the vision of the night, 
 
 And the night is darker still ! 
 
THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 129 
 
 Day returns— tliou swelling breast, 
 Hush ! and liide thy sacred guest ! 
 
 Forth mto the Avorld i go- 
 Hollow laugh and ribald jest 
 
 Kound me bandy to and fro ; 
 And I look and list the while 
 With a forced and feeble smile, 
 
 Bitter mockery of woe ! 
 Common talk of common things, 
 Like the buzz of insect wings. 
 Brushes o'er my weary mind. 
 And I answer in some kind, 
 
 What I hardly care or know. 
 
 Kay, my soul, this is not well ! 
 
 Rouse thee from thy stern, despair, 
 Crush the thoughts that would rebel, 
 
 Nobly bear what thou must bear ! 
 Leave it to the common crew 
 
 In their sorrow to be weak ; — 
 
 In the might of anguish seek 
 Mio-ht to bear and might to do ; 
 Gather up thy inmost strength— 
 
 To some earnest task apply ; 
 So shalt thou escape at length 
 
 Thoui^hts that else would bid mc die ! 
 
130 THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Thou from whom all blessings came ! 
 Thou who dost at will reclaim ! 
 Thou who the Great Father art, 
 And in every parent's breast 
 Strongest feelings hast imprest, 
 Sweetest, purest, holiest. 
 Yet canst rend a parent's heart, 
 Snaj^ping all its links apart ! 
 Thou who didst the boon bestow, 
 
 Once my comfort, hope, and pride. 
 Yet removed it at a blow — 
 
 May that blow be sanctified ! 
 Though my heart is sorely tried — 
 
 Though my hoj^es are in the dust. 
 In Tliy wisdom I confide. 
 
 In Thy boundless mercy trust ! 
 
MY BOY. 131 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 My boy ! my boy ! what hopes and fears 
 Are prophets of thy future years ! 
 How many smiles — how many tears 
 
 Shall glisten o'er this face ! 
 This eye, so innocently bright, 
 May kindle with a wilder light. 
 
 In pleasure's maddening chase : 
 This brow, where quiet fancies lie. 
 May proudly lift itself on high, 
 
 In fierce ambition's race ; 
 This form, so beautiful, so blithe. 
 May waste in sickness, or may writhe 
 
 In agony's embrace ; 
 This cheek may lose its healthful blush. 
 For sorrow's languor, passion's flush. 
 
 Or thought's corrosive trace ; — 
 But of all evils that may come. 
 My prayer the most would shield thee from 
 
 The guilty or the base. 
 Thy heritage is but my name ; 
 Then prize its purity of fame. 
 
 And shield it from disgrace ; 
 
132 MY BOY. 
 
 And if that name have some renown, 
 May it be tliuie a brighter cro^\ni 
 
 Upon it yet to place ! 
 For should a prouder wreath be thine 
 
 Than ever was or shall be mine, 
 
 The more will be my joy — 
 The vanity of fame I 've found ; 
 Still could I wish its laurels crowned. 
 
 My boy! my only boy! 
 
 And yet, should genius never roll 
 Its insj)iration on thy soul, 
 
 Nor gift thee with the might 
 To image such creations forth 
 As crown the " Mmstrel of the North," * 
 
 Imjoerishably bright ; 
 Or with a Shakspeare's muse of fire 
 Ul3 to the highest heaven aspire. 
 
 The sun of every sight — 
 If science shall not in thy mind 
 Unfold a beacon to mankind. 
 
 Amid the mental night ; 
 Or if thy arm shall never wield 
 A hero's sword, on conquest's field, 
 
 To guard thy country's right — 
 If all the glorious hopes be vain 
 That often float athwart my brain 
 
 * Walter Scott. 
 
A VALENTINE TO :\rY WIFE. 133 
 
 In visions of delight — 
 Still thou as fully canst complete 
 The hope — of all most dear and sweet 
 
 That may my mind employ — 
 All other wreaths I can resign, 
 So virtue's trophies may be thine, 
 
 My boy ! my only boy ! 
 
 A VALENTINE TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Twelve years ago ! how swift their flight, 
 
 Since first thy fate was linked with mine ; 
 How much they brought of dark or bright 
 To crown thy love, or prove its might. 
 My faithful Valentine ! 
 
 Twelve years ago, my chosen bride ! 
 
 How proud was I to call thee mine ! 
 But more my love, and more my pride. 
 Since years on years thy worth have tried, 
 My precious Valentine ! 
 
134 A VALENTINE TO MY WIFE. 
 
 It may be sorrow and despair 
 
 At times have wrmig tliis heart of mine ; 
 But to thy love I could repair, 
 And find my j^eace and solace there, 
 My sweetest Valentine ! 
 
 And every joy that I may know, 
 
 When kinder fortune seems to shine, 
 Wms from thy smile a brighter glow — 
 To see thee happy makes me so. 
 My dearest Valentine ! 
 
 Sweet mother of the cherub boy. 
 
 Round whom our fondest hopes entwine ! 
 May he his coming years employ 
 To be thy comfort, j^ride, and joy, 
 And bless my Valentine ! 
 
MJT BABE. 135 
 
 MY BABE. 
 
 My babe ! my own, my precious babe ! 
 
 When I behold thy charms, 
 And look upon the mother sweet 
 
 That folds thee in her arms. 
 It seems to me as I possessed 
 
 The richest treasures here — 
 For she is best of all the best, 
 
 Thou, dearest of the dear ! 
 
 My babe ! I have but little store 
 
 Of what most mortals prize ; 
 And thousands pranked in pomp and pride 
 
 My humbler lot despise — 
 Yet thinking of my wife and child, 
 
 A prouder head I rear. 
 Blest with the best of all the best 
 
 And dearest of the dear ! 
 
 My babe ! thou hast no heritage 
 
 Except thy flither's name. 
 Which in misfortune's worst despite 
 
 Has won its way to fume ; 
 
136 MY BABE. 
 
 And fame is only precious, that 
 It serves the lot to cheer 
 
 Of these, the best of all the best, 
 And dearest of the dear. 
 
 My babe ! if all my little store 
 
 Should in a moment end. 
 Should slander blast thy father's flime- 
 
 Forsake him every friend, — 
 Thy mother spared and thou, his head 
 
 Above the storm would rear, 
 Blest with the best of all the best, 
 
 And dearest of the dear ! 
 
 My babe ! in all thy path of life 
 
 Thy mother's steps pursue. 
 And let the pattern of her worth 
 
 Be ever in thy view ; 
 So shall thy father's heart be glad 
 
 And proud of thy career. 
 And thou be best of all the best, 
 
 And dearest of the dear ! 
 
MY DARLING LITTLE MARY. 137 
 
 MY DARLING LITTLE MARY. 
 
 When cliildhood shall have flown aAvay, 
 
 And youth its bloom shall lend thee, 
 May all the bHss of childhood's day 
 
 And innocence attend thee ; 
 Nor may a heart so pure and blest 
 
 For guilt or sorrow vary, 
 That now are strangers to thy breast, 
 
 My darlmg little Mary. 
 
 When beauty's glow is on thee thrown, 
 
 May it be thy endeavor 
 Not outward charms to win alone. 
 
 But those that perish never. 
 Since all the charms that meet the eye 
 
 Are not more bright than airy. 
 Be thine the charms that never die, 
 
 My darlmg Uttle Mary. 
 
 On earth may Mary long repay 
 
 The fondness of a mother ; 
 And from this world when called away 
 
 By death to seek another. 
 May angels her pure spirit bear 
 
 To bliss that cannot vary. 
 And may a mother welcome there 
 
 Her darling little Mary ! 
 
138 THE mother's PRIDE. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S PRIDE. 
 
 Yes, she is beautiful indeed ! 
 
 The soft blue eyes, the golden hair, 
 The brow where pleasant thoughts we read, 
 
 The radiant smile, the winning air, 
 The cherub form of perfect grace. 
 
 Whose fairy steps in music glide — 
 And oh ! that sweet, that heavenly fice ! 
 
 Well may she be her mother's pride ! 
 
 Yet may she nobler pride awake 
 
 Than all external charms impart ; 
 'T is not alone for beauty's sake 
 
 We hold her in our inmost heart — 
 Her sunny soul, her spotless mind. 
 
 Where comes no thought to shun or hide, 
 Her artless love, her feelings kind. 
 
 Have made her more her mother's pride. 
 
 Then come to me, my blue-eyed child, 
 
 And bending o'er my shoulder, fling 
 Thy golden tresses, rolling wild. 
 
 In many a soft and sunny ring ! 
 Look up in fondness to my face. 
 
 And thine upon my bosom hide, — 
 Close — closer, to my heart's embrace. 
 
 My sweetest joy! — my fondest pride! 
 
THE FONT. 139 
 
 THE FONT. 
 
 No boon that fortune can impart 
 
 May with a gracious child compare ; 
 It winds into the parent's heart, 
 
 And twines with every fibre there. 
 
 When to my arms my children spring, 
 
 Or on my breast their heads recline. 
 Or to my lips of love they cluag, 
 
 No joy on earth can equal mine. 
 
 Yet e'en on these so fair and dear. 
 
 Whose looks are more of heaven than earth. 
 
 Some shadow will at times appear, 
 
 Some stain that speaks of mortal birth. 
 
 But there is an immortal stream 
 
 That cleanseth every stain away; 
 And where those living waters gleam. 
 
 All darkness brightens into day. 
 
 And thither we our children bring, 
 
 To Him who said, " Forbid them not ! " 
 
 That He within that sacred spring. 
 
 May cleanse their souls from every spot. 
 
 Saviour of all ! who in the charms 
 
 Of childhood once this Avorld hast trod ! 
 
 We bring our treasures to Thy arms. 
 And dedicate them to our God ! 
 
140 THE NA]\[ESAKE. 
 
 THE NAMESAKE. 
 
 I HAVE a little daughter 
 
 Is only two years old, 
 Her eyes are blue as heaven, 
 
 Her locks like sunny gold ! 
 Her soft and fair complexion 
 
 Might every heart enthrall, 
 But 't is her sweet affection 
 
 I value more than all ; 
 For dearly does she love me, 
 
 And in my heart I hold 
 My charmmg little daughter, 
 
 That 's only two years old. 
 
 In other years to bless me 
 
 A youthful vision came, 
 As lovely and bewitching 
 
 As one who bears her name ; 
 And while upon my daughter 
 
 I look with fondest gaze. 
 Again returns the vision 
 
 That blest my early days ! 
 While nestling on my bosom 
 
 Looks up her face serene. 
 It seems that God restores me 
 
 My long-lost Josephine ! 
 
THE NAMESAKE. 141 
 
 Oh ! that it were no vision ! 
 
 That I might near thee stand. 
 Again thy fairy fingers 
 
 To clasp in friendship's hand ! 
 Oh, wert thou but a moment 
 
 Returned to my embrace ! 
 Oh, that I but a moment 
 
 Could see thee face to face ! 
 Look in thy eyes' blue heaven, 
 
 The golden curls remove. 
 And press on thy pure forehead 
 
 The seal of perfect love ! 
 
142 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 
 
 But yesterday a child of pain, 
 
 That saddened i^ity's eye — 
 To-day, a seraph called to reign 
 
 Above the stars on high ! 
 Well might the suffermg move our tears. 
 
 Which she endured below ; 
 But now that heaven her soul inspheres, 
 
 Those tears should cease to flow. 
 
 Why should we her release deplore 
 
 From fate's relentless arm ? 
 Why grieve that she shall grieve no more ? 
 
 As if we wished her harm ! 
 Away with the repining tear. 
 
 The ingrate sigh forbear. 
 Which if she up in heaven could hear, 
 
 Would grieve her even there ! 
 
 Yet Nature's voice, more mighty far 
 
 Than all the rest can say. 
 Still calls us from the radiant star, 
 
 Down to the mouldering clay ; 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 143 
 
 And not in words the magic lies, 
 
 To calm the anguish wild, 
 Of one whose lonely heart replies, — 
 
 " It was my child ! my child ! " 
 
 And God, who knows a mother's heart — 
 
 Permits a mother's tears. 
 When from the cherub doomed to part, 
 
 The holiest tie endears ; 
 And Jesus an example gave, 
 
 All feeling hearts accept ; 
 Weep on — for at Affection's grave, 
 
 The Peixce of Gloey wept ! 
 
 That we have lost her we may weep ; 
 
 Yet knowing she is blest — 
 That all her cares are hushed to sleep 
 
 Upon her Saviour's breast — 
 That thought vnih its consoling power, 
 
 Amid our tears shall gleam. 
 Like rainbow in a summer shower. 
 
 Or moonlight on a stream. 
 
 Her calm submission to the rod. 
 
 Which made all else repine. 
 Revealed her as a child of God, 
 
 While yet on earth, divine ! 
 With sweetest thoughts of heavenly birth. 
 
 Her sainted mind was fed. 
 
144 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUJN^G SISTEK. 
 
 Which lluiig a glory, not of earth, 
 Around her clyuig bed ! 
 
 May we from her example learn 
 
 Submission to our lot. 
 And to the Kock of Ages turn, 
 
 Whose promise faileth not ! 
 So shall our sorrows pave the way 
 
 To the eternal home, 
 Where our beloved has gone to-day, 
 
 And seems to whisper, " Come ! " 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Fkiekd of my heart ! — friend of the human race ! 
 Though I may never gaze upon thy face, 
 Nor clasp the hand that has such wonders penned ; 
 Yet when entranced by thy prevailing spell, 
 I watch the ebbing life of gentle Paul^ 
 Or looking up, as at an angel's call, 
 Pursue the heavenward flight of '-'■Little Nell^ " 
 Heart leaps to heart, and I embrace my Fkiend ! 
 
 It hath been given to thy hand to trace 
 AU that is good and glorious in our race ; 
 As with an " angel's ken" thou hast divined 
 The riches in the human heart enshrined ; 
 Crowns, sceptres, laurel wreaths, or robes of state. 
 Thy genius needs not to reveal the great. 
 
 Greatness is only greatness in itself^ — 
 It rests not in externals, nor its worth 
 
148 TO CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 Derives from gorgeous pomp, or glittering pelf, 
 Or chance of arms, or accident of birth ; • 
 
 It lays its deep foundations in the soul. 
 And piles a tower of virtues to the skies, 
 
 Around whose pinnacle majestic, roll 
 
 The clouds of glory, starred with angel eyes ! 
 
 Such is the lofty lesson thou hast taught. 
 But still diviner blessings hast thou Avrought ; 
 Like light from heaven, thy genius has unveiled 
 Aifection's dee23est mystery of grief. 
 And to despairing sorrow brought relief, 
 Where reason and philosophy had failed. 
 By opening the fountains of the heart : 
 And therefore distant strangers give thee part 
 In their affections, as a household guest. 
 Who shares the sacred secret of their breast. 
 
 There is a sorrow that can never die ; 
 
 There is a loss we never can forget. 
 Yet can it purify and sanctify. 
 
 And mingle heavenly solace with regret ; 
 And therefore do we love thee and thy page. 
 Which moves our tears, but moves them to assuage ; 
 And therefore do I hail thee as my friend. 
 
 And yield the tribute of a grateful heart ; 
 Though humble is the offering I send. 
 
 Affection may some little worth impart. 
 
PASSING THE ClIUKCII. 149 
 
 PASSING THE CHURCH. 
 
 Oft as I j^ass St. Thomas' Churcli, 
 
 A kiiidly glance I throw 
 Where sleeps a friend I daily met, 
 
 " Some twenty years ago. " 
 
 And thinking of those happy times, 
 
 As slowly past I wend, 
 I scarce forbear to touch my hat. 
 
 And say, " Good mornmg, friend ! " 
 
 Nor is it with uncheerful mind 
 
 That I his memory greet — 
 More years have past since we have met 
 
 Than shall before we meet. 
 
 And sweetly placid seems his rest. 
 
 Though near his silent bed 
 The tide of life rolls thundermg by. 
 
 As it would wake the dead. 
 
 Who knows but yet some consciousness 
 
 May linger under ground ? 
 Who knows but yet, with genial smile. 
 
 He looks on all around ? 
 
150 PASSING THE CHURCH. 
 
 The busy throngs, beset with cares 
 
 It once was his to know — 
 The dashing belles, who rival those 
 
 He loved so long ago. 
 
 And hark the heavy tramp of steeds — 
 Of men the measured tread — 
 
 The clang of trumps — the roll of drums — 
 Wake, soldier ! — lift thy head ! 
 
 Bright weapons glitter in the sun ; 
 
 Proud banners flout the sky ; 
 Up, soldier ! mount thy jDrancing steed. 
 
 And wave thy sword on high ! 
 
 In vain — Earth could not tempt him back 
 With all that i^leased him best — 
 
 For better worth than all she gave. 
 His calm and quiet rest ! 
 
 And, therefore, in the city's midst. 
 
 Serenely doth he lie, 
 Regardless of the storm of life 
 
 That rushes madly by. 
 
 For me — far from the city's din. 
 
 Be mine some rustic tomb. 
 Where trees shall wave above the sod, 
 
 And flowers around it bloom. 
 
PASSING THE CIIUKCII. 151 
 
 Life's bustling scenes have been to me 
 
 But scenes of pain and care — 
 I would not have them round my bed, 
 
 When I am sleeping there ! 
 
 Yet friendly steps will seek my grave, 
 
 Wherever that may be ; 
 And loving lij^s shall bless my name, 
 
 As now — unheard by me ! 
 
 No want of fervent tears or prayers, 
 
 Could those recall me here — 
 But what can love or friendship say 
 
 To death's regardless ear ? 
 
 Up, Poet ! — Glory bids thee rise ! — 
 
 Death shall not keep thee down ! 
 Up, Poet ! — strike the harp divine, 
 
 And wear the immortal crown ! 
 
 Rise ! — Earth restores all thou hast lost — 
 
 Fame — fortune — beauty's smile ! 
 Unheeded proffers ! — though the last 
 
 Might tempt me for a while ! 
 
 But speak not thoii^ my chosen one I 
 
 Of all beloved the best ! 
 For Love is stronger than the grave ! 
 
 And thine would break niv rest ! 
 
152 THE BEST OF COUNSEL. 
 
 THE BEST OF COUNSEL 
 
 TO THE BEST OF GIRLS. 
 
 Now heed my words, my precious girl ! — 
 
 Affection is the richest pearl, 
 
 Nor lightly should be thrown away 
 
 On those who cannot love repay; 
 
 Beware to whom thou shalt impart 
 
 That priceless jewel of the heart! 
 
 Care not alone for form or face, 
 
 Or winning words or witching grace ; 
 
 But choose thou one whose honored name 
 
 Thou canst be proud to share and claim; 
 
 Let it be one of cultured mind, 
 
 Of generous thoughts and feehngs kind. 
 
 Who never sought, nor e'er would seek 
 
 To wrong the helpless or the weak, 
 
 But ever would employ his best 
 
 To shield the friendless and opprest ; 
 
 Who proudly treads temptation down, 
 
 Nor sinks at fortune's darkest frown ; 
 
 Whose equal soul and mind sedate 
 
 Can stand vmmoved each change of fate ; 
 
 Whose faith is firm, whose honor bright. 
 
 Whose love is an immortal li^-ht ! 
 
 Such were the love, and such alone, 
 
 That can be worthy of thy own! 
 
TO GEKTllUDE. 153 
 
 TO GERTRUDE. 
 
 I LOYE thee ! — need I say it now ? 
 
 ISTot for the eye of heavenly l>hie, 
 X ot for the fan* transparent brow 
 
 AYhich azure streams meander through, - 
 The roseate cheek, the raven curls 
 
 That round the breathmg marble dance,- 
 For those adorn a thousand gh-ls 
 
 Who scarce attract my passing glance ! 
 Though thine is beauty's foirest flower, 
 
 And all the magic she imparts, 
 It is not that which gives thee power 
 
 To wind into my heart of hearts ! 
 
 I love thee for thy gentle mind 
 
 Where thought of evil hath no place. 
 Thy grateful heart, thy feelmgs kind, 
 
 Thy modesty's bewitching grace ! 
 Thy pure affection's welcome rusli, 
 
 That laves my fevered soul in bland 
 Refreshment, like the fountain's gush 
 
 To Arabs 'mid the burnins; sand. 
 
154 TO GERTEUDE. 
 
 I love thee by my perfect trust 
 
 In that affection's perfect truth ; 
 My hoj)es have crumbled oft m dust, 
 
 And friends have failed me from my youth ; 
 Though time may common hearts estrange, 
 
 And common friends their ties may break, 
 There is a heart can never change, 
 
 A friend that never will forsake ! 
 
 I love thee — not with passion's fire, 
 
 But the devotion pure and high, 
 A guardian seraph might inspire. 
 
 Who came with comfort from the sky! 
 There is a blight upon my heart, 
 
 A hopeless sorrow on my mind — 
 But Gkrtkude ! dearest ! where thou art 
 
 I seem the peace of heaven to find ! 
 
 Oh may the peace of heaven be thine, 
 
 Sweet Gerteude ! be what may my lot ! 
 When life and thee I must resign, 
 
 Remember — yet lament me not ! 
 E'en then be happy in the thought 
 
 That thou hast loved me to the end ; 
 For thou hast been the boon I sought, — 
 
 A chosen and a faithful friend ! 
 
WOMAT^'S MINISTKY. 155 
 
 WOMAN'S MINISTRY. 
 
 'T IS true that love's romantic dreams 
 Are bright as heaven's opening gleams, 
 And give to life a charm divine, 
 That wisdom sorrows to resign; 
 Yet much they err who seek in this 
 The only or the highest bliss, 
 Or deem that woman's noblest part 
 Is but to give and win a heart. 
 This angel (such in all but wings) 
 Was born for higher, holier things, 
 And best her ministry fiilfills 
 In smoothing life's pervading ills. 
 'T is hers to soothe the troubled mind, 
 'T is hers the broken heart to bind. 
 To turn the erring soul to prayer. 
 And snatch the sinner from despair ; 
 To hover round affliction's bed. 
 With angel look and fairy tread ; 
 Receive aifection's dying breath, 
 And seal the cherished eyes in death ! 
 And all the while forbear to show 
 The sorrows God alone can know ! 
 The spirit thus sublimes the clay, 
 All selfish taint refines away. 
 Till too divine to be concealed. 
 The perfect angel stands revealed ! 
 
156 WALTER SCOTT AND WASHINGTON IKYING. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT AND WASHINGTON IRVING, 
 
 God "bless tliec, Walter Scott ! 
 
 For tlioii hast blest mankind, 
 And flung upon their lot 
 
 The brightness of thy mind, 
 And filled the soul with pleasures . 
 
 None other can impart. 
 And stored the mind with treasures, 
 
 And purified the heart. 
 
 Shame on them who abuse 
 
 Their gifts of peerless price, 
 And prostitute the muse 
 
 To passion or to vice ! 
 Who pour into the mind 
 
 The bitterness and gall 
 Which makes us hate mankind. 
 
 Ourselves, and heaven, and all ! 
 We leave their withering page, 
 
 For tJiine^ with healing rife, 
 The fevered soul assuage. 
 
 And drink the stream of life ! 
 Thy shrine is virtue's altar. 
 
 Thy fame without a blot ; 
 God bless thee, dear Sir Walteti ! 
 
 God bless thee, Walter Scott ! 
 
Ik 
 WALTER SCOTT AKD WASHINGTON IRVING 157 
 
 One only son of light 
 
 Attends thy cloudless path, 
 In i3urity as bright 
 
 As thy own spirit hath ; 
 To charm away distress, 
 
 To comfort, to delight. 
 To teach, to aid, to bless, 
 
 He shares thy wizard might ! 
 His muse from virtue's shrine 
 
 Hath never turned astray, 
 Nor ever breathed a line 
 
 That love could wish away ; 
 The temple of the free 
 
 Is radiant with his fame. 
 His country's glory he — 
 
 And Irvixg is his name . 
 
 God's blessings on ye both ! 
 
 Twin heirs ,of glory's prize ! 
 HoAV often when I loath 
 
 All that around me lies, — 
 When in the crowded world 
 
 I feel myself alone, 
 From all communion hurled 
 
 That by the rest is known, 
 Debarred, by fate's control. 
 
 From every human sound, 
 And burviiiix mv soul 
 
158 WALT:eR SCOTT AND WASHINGTON lEVING. 
 
 In solitude profound — 
 Oh, then, ye glorious pair ! 
 
 I seek the world ye give, 
 And find a kindred there 
 
 With whom I love to live, 
 Your precious magic nerving 
 
 My soul to bear its lot — 
 God bless thee, gentle Irving ! 
 
 God bless thee, Walter Scott ! 
 
THE BELL SONG. ]59 
 
 THE BELL SOXG. 
 
 PARTLY FROil THE LIED VON DER GLOCKE. 
 
 Above the scenes of earthly labor, 
 
 In heaven's clear vault, the blue, the bright. 
 She swmgs on high, the thunder's neighbor. 
 
 And borders on the world of Ught, 
 Where roll the stars in circling mazes, 
 
 Her voice responding to their song. 
 While they repeat their Maker's praises, 
 
 And lead the crowned year along. 
 
 Her iron tongue, in earnest measure, 
 
 Speaks of the solemn and sublune. 
 And hourly warns us of the treasure 
 
 We hourly waste, unvalued time ! 
 To destiny a voice imparting. 
 
 She swings, its changes to proclaim. 
 And hither, thither, swiftly starting, 
 
 Keeps time to life's inconstant game. 
 
 Rmg out ! ring out a joyous greetmg, 
 
 In welcome to the lovely child, 
 Whose little heart begins its beating 
 
 In slumber's arms, the undefilcd ! 
 
160 ■ THE BELL SONG. 
 
 His future lot of gloom or splendor 
 Is curtained from his vision tender ; 
 A mother's love, her best adorning, 
 Keeps watch upon his golden morning. 
 
 Years speed like darts — for scenes of strife 
 
 Proud youth fi'om girlhood fiercely sunders. 
 Plunges mto the storms of life. 
 
 And wanders through the world of wonders ; 
 A stranger to his father's home 
 
 Returning, lo ! in youthful splendor, 
 All-glorious as an angel come 
 
 From heaven, with bashful look and tender. 
 And blushing hke the orient skies. 
 
 The maiden stands before his eyes ! 
 
 His heart is seized with nameless yearning ; 
 
 He turns aside ; alone he strays ; 
 His eyes with sudden tears are burning ; 
 
 Again he turns to seek her gaze, 
 And blushingly her pathway traces 
 
 Until her greethig makes him blest ; 
 He seeks the fairest flower, and places 
 
 Its beauty on her fairer breast ! 
 
 Young love ! what longing hopes unfoldeth 
 
 Thy golden time ! what joys of jmce ! 
 The eye an open heaven beholdeth. 
 
THE BELL SONG. IGl 
 
 And swells the heart in Paradise ! 
 Young love ! ah, couldst thou ever nourish 
 The golden dream ! for ever flourish ! 
 
 Let him, enthralled by passion strong, 
 
 Approve, before the lasting union. 
 
 If heart with heart is in communion ; 
 The dream is short, repentance long ! 
 
 King out ! rmg out ! for triumph blesses 
 
 The youth who by the altar stands. 
 And lovely m the young bride's tresses 
 
 The nuptial wreath entwines its bands. 
 Alas ! that life's enraptured fire 
 
 Should w^ith the May of life decay, 
 The fairy dreams of young desire 
 
 With veil and girdle rent away ! 
 
 Flits passion's hour ; 
 
 Yet love remaineth, 
 A ripening flower 
 
 Which truth sustaineth. 
 Into hostile life 
 
 Man forth must enter ; 
 In toil and strife 
 
 Ills thoughts must centrrj ; 
 In planting and makhig. 
 Pursuing and taking. 
 
162 THE BELL SONG. 
 
 Risking and daring, 
 Plotting and caring, 
 And running his race 
 In fortune's chase. 
 
 He prospers : — fortune rolls a boundless tide ; 
 His stores increase ; expands his dwelling wide ; 
 
 And therein ruleth 
 The matron chaste. 
 
 The children's mother, 
 With wisdom graced ; 
 
 In her circle moving, 
 
 Smiling or reprovmg. 
 
 The little girl directing, 
 
 The little boy correcting. 
 
 She plies her busy fingers 
 
 With work that never Hngers ; 
 
 Her husband's gains increases 
 
 With toil that never ceases, 
 And fiUs the closets with fragrant stores. 
 And spins at the wheel that rolls and snores, 
 And piles the wardrobe's well-polished row 
 With the shining wool, and the flax of snow, 
 And joms Avith the showy the useful ever, 
 And resteth — never ! 
 
 The father with a glance of pride 
 
 Looks from his far-extended dwelling. 
 
THE BELL SONG. 163 
 
 And counts his gains on every side, 
 
 And views his stores Avith treasures swellino: : 
 Then boasting lifts his haughty hand — 
 " Firm as the earth's foundations stand, 
 Against misfortune's rudest shock. 
 My house is founded on a rock ! " 
 Vain boast ! who can resist an liour 
 To destiny's ahnighty power ! 
 
 Ring out ! a fearful peal ring out. 
 To second terror's frantic shout ! 
 
 Hark ! the crashincf thunder 
 
 Rends the skies asunder ! 
 Lightnings quiver, flash, and shiver, 
 And roll thi ough heaven a blazing river ; 
 Earth reflects the burning flood. 
 Glow the skies as red as blood, 
 
 But not with glow of day ; 
 Yet the night is glaring bright 
 As the sun's meridian lioht : 
 The clamor of dismay 
 
 Higher swells and higher ; 
 Loud and loud the bell is rung. 
 Flies the cry from tongue to tongue, 
 "Fire! fire! fire!" 
 
 Lo I a pyramid of flame 
 Fierce as if from hell it came, 
 
104 THE BELL SONG. 
 
 Clouds of smoke around it curled, 
 Soars as if to show the world 
 
 Creation's funeral pyre ! 
 Lo ! unconquerably strong 
 Rolls the burning flood along, 
 While the air around its path 
 Glows as with an oven's wrath — 
 
 Fire! fire! fire! 
 
 Sinks the roof and totters wall. 
 
 Pillars shake and columns fall ; 
 
 Treasure won by toil of years 
 
 In a moment disappears ; 
 
 All are running, rushing, flying. 
 
 Shouting, shrieking, trembling, crying ; 
 
 Beneath the smoking ruins crushed 
 
 The beast is moaning, 
 
 The child is groaning. 
 Till both in sufibcation hushed. 
 
 But steady stand an active band — 
 The buckets fly fi*om hand to hand. 
 And from the toiling engine rushes 
 A cataract in showery gushes : 
 
 In vain — in vain — 
 
 The splashing rain 
 The mighty clement devours 
 In scorn; — then gathering up its powers 
 
 As if from laboring earth 
 
THE BELL SONG. 105 
 
 A Titan struggled into birtb, 
 
 Towers giant-like on high ; 
 And helpless, to its godlike strength 
 Man yields the hopeless strife at length, 
 
 And stands all idly by, 
 While the possessions, late liis trust. 
 Melt like a shriveled scroll in dust. 
 
 One backward glance he calmly throws 
 
 Upon his fortune's grave, 
 Then turns aAvay in stern repose. 
 
 His coming fate to brave. 
 Though destiny her power has proved, 
 
 She spares him still the best of blisses ; 
 lie counts the heads of his beloved. 
 
 And lo ! not one dear head he misses ! 
 
 Ring out ! ring out ! 
 
 Sad and slow 
 Tolls the bell 
 
 The dirge of woe, 
 In solemn train, a band of mourning friends 
 A wanderer to the home of all attends. 
 Alas ! the wife ! the fond, the cherished ! 
 The faithful mother ! she has perished ! 
 From her husband's arms for ever 
 The Prince of Terrors bids lier sever, 
 And bears her with his shadowy hand, 
 
166 THE BELL SONG. 
 
 From amid the tender band, 
 Which she in blooming beauty bore 
 To him, Avhom she may bless no more ; 
 And on her bosom nom-ishing, 
 Watched enraptured flourishing, 
 With the love, the pride, the pleasure, 
 Mother-hearts alone can measure. 
 
 Ah, tender ties of home ! ye sever ! 
 
 For she who was the house's mother 
 In bed of darkness sleeps for ever, 
 
 And now her place receives another ! 
 Poor orphans ! where her gentle guidance ? 
 
 Her tender care all else above ? 
 All ! where she ruled a stranger ruleth, 
 
 Whose love is — not a mother's love ! * 
 
 Ring out ! ring out ! a peal of dread ! 
 
 Sound trumpet ! thunder drum ! 
 Wake — rise — prepare for battle's bed ! 
 
 The foe ! they come ! they come ! 
 All start in a bewildered dream. 
 And woman's shriek, and childhood's scream 
 
 Half drown the bell's alarms ; 
 While youth and manhood hasten out, 
 
 * Thus far I have done little more than paraphrase select passages 
 from the German poem. What follows, I have added to complete the 
 idea I had in view. 
 
THE BELL SONG. 1G7 
 
 And rush, and run, and storm, and shout — 
 " To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! " 
 
 A thousand torches scatter light 
 
 On scenes of fury or affright ; 
 
 While women, with disheveled hair 
 
 And wringing hands, dart here and there, 
 
 And weej) and clamor, loud and wild. 
 
 All helpless as the wondering child ; 
 
 Or others with seraphic eye 
 
 Look up, and trust in God on high. 
 
 Pale, breathless, silent, and sublime. 
 
 Like statue of the Grecian time ! 
 
 And others bowed in weepmg prayer, 
 
 Livoke a heavenly Father's care. 
 
 Good God ! who would not die for these — 
 The cherub child that clasps our knees. 
 
 The wife of angel charms. 
 The virgin, fresh in beauty's glow. 
 The home, our Paradise below — 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! 
 
 A thousand mingled weapons clasn 
 And quiver in the torch's flash ; 
 Some grasp the sword, the musket some, 
 The axe, the spade, whate'er may come 
 
 To the unfurnished hand : 
 Staff, club, or missile — all may serv( 
 
168 'niE BELL SOIs^G. 
 
 No weapon but the arm can nerve 
 To guard its native land. 
 
 Hark ! tlie storm of battle ! 
 
 Guns and cannons thunder 
 
 As earth would rend asunder; 
 Bullets whiz and rattle, 
 
 Showermg death around ; 
 
 Thousands press the ground, 
 And groan away their souls ; 
 
 Every sword is ruddy, 
 
 Every hand is bloody, 
 And Carnage o'er the field her iron chariot rolls. 
 
 See the foe recedmg 
 
 From the victor's might ; 
 See the hero leading 
 
 To pursue their flight ; 
 See the warrior bleeding, 
 Struggling still to fight — 
 On the field disabled lying, 
 See he grasps his weapon dying, 
 
 Shoutmg, while from the battle storm, 
 The foes, confusedly flying. 
 
 Trample upon his mangled form. 
 Lightnings flashing from the eyes 
 Closed in death that soon shall be, 
 "Victory! 
 Yictorv!" 
 
THE BELL SONG. 
 
 AT\"ay lie springs 
 On conquest's wings, 
 And in the bright embrace of glory dies ! 
 
 Ring out ! ring out a solemn peal, 
 While to the King of kings we kneel. 
 
 Through whom our arms prevail ! 
 Each soldier bends his laureled brow, 
 And bows the knee no foe could bow — 
 Hail ! God of Armies ! hail ! 
 
 Around him kneel the wife, the mother, 
 The child, caressing each the other; 
 
 Their cheeks, but now so pale. 
 With triumph flushing, while their eyes 
 In rapture swimming seek the skies — 
 
 Hail! God of Glory! hail! 
 
 King out ! a glorious peal ring out ! 
 While Hke a rushing storm we rise. 
 And stand erect, and rend the skies 
 
 With one triumphant shout ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Rmg out ! ring out in tone sublime — 
 
 How aw^ul swells the glorious chime ! 
 
 While blending with its tones, we raise 
 
 To God one choral song of praise, 
 
 To God, the Father of the free, 
 
 Who giveth us the victory ! 
 
 1C9 
 
170 MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 "WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 
 
 My childhood scenes! oh, where are they? 
 
 I now am but m boyhood's years, 
 Yet on no scene my glance can stray 
 
 To memory one trace endears 
 
 Of childhood's smiles, or childhood's tears ; 
 I look at every spot so strange, — 
 
 So altered now, — and then I say, 
 While pained my heart remarks the change, 
 
 " My childhood scenes ! oh, where are they ? " 
 
 My childhood friends ! oh, where are they ? 
 
 The dearest in the grave recline. 
 And others, long estranged away, 
 
 Forget they e'er were friends of mine; 
 
 And yet I never can resign 
 The memory of even such 
 
 As least repaid affection's sway ; 
 But still this thought my soul must touch, 
 
 " My childhood friends! oh, where are they?" 
 
MY CHILDHOOD. 171 
 
 My cliilclhood joys! oh, where are they? 
 
 And where the innocence, which gave 
 To every joy its pnrest ray? 
 
 Those joys have found an early grave ; — 
 
 That innocence ! — oh could I save 
 The innocence of childhood's hour, 
 
 N"ot thus should I be sorrow's prey, 
 Nor sigh beneath affliction's shower, 
 
 " My childhood joys ! oh, where are they?" 
 
 Where is my childhood now? and where 
 
 Shall be my youth? — its every joy? 
 Its every scene ? — But spare, oh spare 
 
 Its friends, though time aU. else destroy! 
 
 And if some feehngs yet employ 
 My mmd, which heaven may pure esteem. 
 
 Oh ! may I not the horror bear 
 To say, when launched on manhood's stream, 
 
 " Where are such feeUngs now ! oh, where ? " 
 
172 TO COEDELIA. 
 
 TO CORDELIA. 
 
 Bright eyes, fail- tresses, cherub faces. 
 And forms that paragon the Graces, 
 Are found in twenty thousand places. 
 
 But for a mmd of gifted splendor, 
 A heart confiding, true, and tender. 
 The world has very few to render. 
 
 Those treasures are to thee imparted. 
 For thou on hfe's career hast started, 
 With gifted mind and open-hearted. 
 
 A name is thine that lives for ages. 
 
 And every sympathy engages. 
 
 On Shakspeare's consecrated pages. 
 
 Cordelia ! true and faithful ever, 
 Whose love and duty wavered never ! 
 Her sainted name shall live for ever! 
 
 And all that we in her admire. 
 Should duty call or love require. 
 Thy generous bosom will inspire. 
 
 But may no grief like hers attend thee. 
 But every joy that earth can lend thee, 
 And every good that heaven can send thee. 
 
 Come to my heart ! and closer pressing, 
 Receive, if it be worth possessing, 
 A poet's love, a poet's blessing. 
 
ALOXE. 
 
 Nay, ask not of the secret grief 
 
 That burns my heart away, 
 For what admits of no relief 
 
 'T is useless to betray ; 
 One cause for gloom might well appear, 
 
 Were all the rest unknown — 
 Where'er I am, whoe'er be near, 
 
 I am alone ! — alone ! 
 
 At times I seek some festive place. 
 
 Where gay companions throng. 
 While pleasure brightens every face 
 
 With laugh, and jest, and song ; 
 But lost to me the cheerful soimd, 
 
 Unheard the kindly tolie. 
 And with a thousand friends around 
 
 I am alone ! — alone ! 
 
 Yet there is one Avho had a charm 
 
 My sadness to dispel. 
 When round me twined her gentle arm, 
 
 With love no words could tell, — 
 A love that seemed to have no will 
 
 Or wdsh except my o^\ti — 
 Oh, Clara ! might I meet thee still, 
 
 T should not feel alone! 
 
\ 
 
 17-1 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 Young, beautiful, and innocent, 
 
 Her very sight could bless ! 
 Her looks, than words more eloquent, 
 
 Did all her thoughts express; 
 And then I did not feel the curse 
 
 That on my lot is thrown ; 
 For soul with soul did we converse, 
 
 And I was not alone ! 
 
 But Youth is still a thing of light 
 
 And joy. — 'SVhj should I doom 
 A cherub God has made so bright. 
 
 To share my lonely gloom ? 
 Though all the comfort thou couldst lend, 
 
 That may to me be knowai. 
 Go, Clara ! seek some happier friend, 
 
 And leave me all alone ! 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 Man strides along through thick and thin, 
 Through miry shame and thorny sin ; 
 With careless hand the thorn or spot 
 He brushes oif, and all 's forgot ; 
 But woman, soft and delicate. 
 At every step must hesitate — 
 The fallen man again can soar, 
 But woman falls, to rise no more. 
 
THE PEARL-HANDLED KNIFE. 175 
 
 THE PEARL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 
 
 A LITTLE boy sits by his mother's tomb, 
 And ^vaters the flowers that above her bloom, 
 With tears that flow from his orphaned heart. 
 Sobbing as if it would burst apart. 
 
 He looks around with a glance of fear, 
 
 To see that no ruthless eye is near, 
 
 Then draws from his bosom his cherished toy, 
 
 His mother's last gift to her own dear boy: 
 
 It was a knife with a silver blade, 
 
 And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 
 
 That little boy has a step-dame stern. 
 Whose evil feelings against him burn ; 
 Though once on the orphan boy she smiled. 
 And kindly treated her husband's child ; 
 But a change was on her feelings thrown 
 AVhen she had a little babe of her own, 
 For she loved her babe with a love so great. 
 Her love for the orphan was turned to hate : 
 For it was thought she could not bear 
 That Edwm should be his fothcr's heir; 
 
176 THE PEAEL-HANDLED KNIFE. 
 
 " And all would be for my child," she said, 
 In her guilty heart, " were but Edwin dead ! " 
 
 Oh ! a mother's love is a holy thing ! 
 
 But even from good may evil S2:)ring, 
 
 And they who would love with a sinless love. 
 
 Must set their affections on things above, 
 
 Nor ever, for perishing things of clay. 
 
 From God and his law be led astray. 
 
 Poor Edwin ! he found it a cruel change, 
 For all was bitter and all was strange ; 
 Now first in his life he felt and heard 
 The passionate blow and the angry word. 
 And knew not what it could mean the while, 
 For he had been ruled by look and smile. 
 
 His father had gone abroad for a time 
 To gather wealth in a distant clime. 
 And Edwin was left in his step-dame's power, 
 Who beat and abused him every hour. 
 But once in a day the orj^han fed. 
 And then on a bone or a crust of bread ; 
 His strength decayed, and a fever came, 
 But it made no change in the ruthless dame ; 
 She spurned him up as he sunk on the floor, 
 From which he gladly would rise no more ; 
 And she made him work like the A^eriest slave- 
 How he longed to rest in his mother's grave ! 
 
THE PEAKL-IIANDLED KNIFE. IW 
 
 To that mother's grave he crawled one day, 
 When he thought the dreaded eye away, 
 And told her unconscious ear tlie wrons: 
 Her poor little boy had endured so long ; 
 Then drew from a secret slit in his vest 
 The only comfort he yet possest ; 
 It was a knife with a silver blade, 
 And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 
 
 Alas ! for the cruel step-dame was near, 
 
 And heard what he meant for his mother's ear ; 
 
 On her evil mhid temptation flashed : 
 
 At a blow the boy to the earth she dashed, — 
 
 She snatched the knife Avith a sudden start. 
 
 And buried the blade in the orphan's heart. 
 
 She opened the door of his mother's tomb. 
 And thrust him down in that place of gloom ; 
 She hastened home and she laughed so wild — 
 " Come kiss me ! all is your own, my child ! " 
 
 A month elapsed, and the father came. 
 And kissed his babe and his smiling dame ; 
 But when he asked for his pretty boy. 
 To deepest sorrow it changed his joy; 
 " The child," she said, " of a fever died, 
 And was buried at his mother's side. " 
 
 A year and another passed away, 
 
 And the babe grew lovelier every day: 
 
 8* 
 
178 THE PEAEL-HANDLED KNIFE. 
 
 It was a bright and a merry child, 
 
 And the father of half his grief beguiled. 
 
 Another year and another past, 
 
 And the child in beauty flourished fast. 
 
 And the father's heart no more was sad, 
 
 And the mother's heart was j)roud and glad : 
 
 She forgot her sin, as too many do. 
 
 And fancied God had forgot it too. 
 
 A guilty deed may be long concealed, 
 
 But its time shall come to be revealed. 
 
 And long unjiunished may flourish crime. 
 
 But vengeance cometh in God's good time. 
 
 It was a fair and a sunny day. 
 
 And Robert went in the fields to play ; 
 
 But the shades of night began to fall 
 
 Before he returned to his father's hall — 
 
 *' Oh, Robert ! where have you been so long ? 
 
 My child, to wander so late is wrong. " 
 
 " Mamma, I am sorry I stayed so late, — 
 
 This morning I passed by the churchyard gate, 
 
 And found it open; I wandered there. 
 
 To gather the flowers so fresh and fliir ; 
 
 And weary at last with my play alone, 
 
 I laid me down on the nearest stone. 
 
 I had not been resting long, before 
 
 I noticed a tomb with a little door : 
 
 Oh, mother ! I gazed in fear and doubt, 
 
THE PEAKL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 170 
 
 For opened the door and a boy stept out ; 
 
 But wlien his beauty beamed on my sight, 
 
 My fear gave way to a strange deUght. 
 
 Ilis cheek was fair as the sunset skies 
 
 And Uke stars of heaven, liis sparkling eyes : 
 
 Adown his shoulders his ringlets rolled. 
 
 And glistened and gleamed in sunny gold ; 
 
 But the charm all other charms above, 
 
 Was the smile that melted the heart to love ; 
 
 Yet was it a sad and a serious smile. 
 
 And the tears would start to your eyes the while. 
 
 He came where I lay; — he spoke — the sound 
 
 Breathed music in all the air around ; 
 
 He lay at my side, and he took my hand. 
 
 And he talked of a brighter and better land, 
 
 Wliere nothing of evil can enter in, 
 
 N"or sickness nor death, nor sorrow nor sin ; 
 
 Where God's holy children, a radiant band. 
 
 In his garden of glory walk hand in hand ; 
 
 Where all is bliss, and all is love — 
 
 And he whisj^ered — ' Oh, come to my home above ! ' 
 
 And thus we talked till the close of day, 
 
 And then we arose to go away ; 
 
 But he flung his arms around me mother. 
 
 And kissed my forehead, and called me — ' Brother!' 
 
 And as he turned to descend the grave. 
 
 He gave me a keepsake — see what he gave ! " 
 
180 THE PEAEL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 
 
 The mother looked — with a frantic start 
 
 She j)lunged it into her guilty heart — 
 
 It was a knife with a silver blade, 
 
 And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. ]81 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CATHAEIXE. 
 
 Dear Kate — more dear than I can tell! 
 No matter thongli — you know it well — 
 Dear Kate — in this delicious weather, 
 I wish, don't you ? we were together ; 
 That we might wander, hand in hand, 
 Amid those scenes of fairy land. 
 Which now to glad thy vision rise. 
 And fancy pictures to my eyes ; 
 To climb the hills, the woods explore, 
 Or ramble by the sea-beat shore. 
 Where ringing waves delight thy ear 
 With music mme shall never hear : 
 Or rove where sweetest flowers embower 
 My pretty Kate, " a sweeter flower ! " 
 While balmy zephyrs kiss thy brow 
 Of beauty — (might I kiss it now!) 
 
 'Mid scenes like these, one summer's day, 
 A lordly serpent wound his way; 
 
182 THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 
 
 From Rattler's line of longtli lie came, 
 And gloried in a tail of flime ; 
 His pointed tongue, his sparkling eyes. 
 His gorgeous robe of thousand dyes — 
 All these with rapture swelled his hide, 
 For snakes, like other fools, have pride. 
 
 While winding through a tangled brake, 
 He chanced to meet another snake, 
 Wlio wore a suit of sober black. 
 Which might become a doctor's back. 
 And coiled in many a ring, reclined. 
 While thoughts as coiled perplexed his mind. 
 
 " Good Parson Black ! ah, is it you ? " 
 Quoth flippant Rattle, " How d' ye do ? " 
 
 " I 'm pretty well, I thank you, sir. " 
 " How 's Mrs. Black ? " " All 's well with lier. " 
 " How are the little dears ?" " So so ; 
 The youngest has been ailing though. " 
 " How go the times ? " " Oh, very bad ! " 
 Sighed Black ; " the times are truly sad, 
 Which plunges me in deep dejection. 
 And makes me ask m sage reflection, 
 Why all that is beneath the skies, 
 Is what it is — not otherwise ! 
 Why Providence, by strange mistakes. 
 Instead of men, has made us snakes ; 
 Why we are born — and wherefore die — 
 Wliy " " Fool !" quoth Rattle, " care not why! 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 183 
 
 He who himself will wretched make 
 
 Deserves the hiss of every snake, 
 
 Enough for us that all on earth 
 
 Is full of beauty, life, and mirth ; 
 
 While of its joys I have a share, 
 
 I care not who may cherish care — 
 
 Mine be the maxim wise and just: 
 
 ' Live while you live, die when you must ! "V 
 
 " Then die this moment ! " Black exclaimed, 
 
 "With foaming lip and eye inflamed. 
 
 At this the other shook his rattle, 
 
 To sound the stirring charge to battle. 
 
 So fiercely they together flew, 
 
 They bit each other right in two. 
 
 Quoth Black, " I beg a truce, my friend, 
 
 To ponder on my latter end ! " 
 
 So each in difierent windmgs past, 
 
 To seek his tail, and fix it fast ; 
 
 But in their hurry, by mistake. 
 
 Black got the tail of Rattlesnake, 
 
 And Rattle to himself did tack. 
 
 Unwittingly the tail of Black. 
 
 Now Rattle fiercely shook the tail 
 He thought his own, without avail, 
 To wake the sound once wont to be 
 His " earthquake voice of victory ! " 
 N^ow right, now left, he lashed the ground. 
 But burn the tail ! it gave no sound ! 
 
184 THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 
 
 He swings it left, he swings it right — 
 In vain, poor Rattle bursts with spite. 
 
 Black, for his part, had run away ! 
 But as he runs, to his dismay, 
 Loud from his tail a rattle peals. 
 As if the foe were at his heels. 
 More fast he runs, more loud it rings, 
 And louder, as he faster springs : 
 He runs for six successive suns, 
 And still it rattles as he runs : 
 He runs and runs till out of breath, 
 And then the rattle sleeps in death. 
 
 You say this story can't be true — 
 Dear Kate, I quite agree with you ! 
 But now that I must say farewell. 
 One little word of truth I '11 tell ; 
 And well you know I speak sincerely. 
 In saying, '■^Kate^Ilove you dearly!^'' 
 
 Postscript. Some say they are not able 
 
 To see the moral of my table ! 
 
 Inform them, had the snakes been wise 
 
 'T is like they would have used their eyes! 
 
 And secondly, it hence appears. 
 
 Our eyes are better than our ears ; 
 
 From which reflection I contrive 
 
 Some consolation to derive ; 
 
 For though I ofi have sighed, my dear 
 
THE BATTLE OF TUB SNAKES. j S5 
 
 That it is not for me to hear 
 
 The thrilling music of thy voice, 
 
 That would my very heart rejoice : 
 
 Yet when my arm is round thee wreathing^ 
 
 And on thy brow my lip is breatliing, 
 
 When thy dear head my hand caresses, 
 
 Or wreathes among thy raven tresses. 
 
 Or clasps in mine thy fairy fingers, 
 
 While fond my look upon thee lingers, 
 
 Then, while emparadised, I trace 
 
 Affection breathing from thy face — 
 
 Oh, tlien I feel in deep delight. 
 
 There is a music for the sio-ht ! 
 
 Which I would not exchange for all 
 
 Tliat ever on the ear may fill. 
 
186 CATCIIIXG A FOX. 
 
 CATCHING A FOX. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 IKSCRIBED TO MY LITTLE FRIEND CATIIAEINE. 
 
 The rise of provisions, and hardness of times, 
 Had thinned a poor fox like a stringer of rhymes, 
 And thinner and thinner became the poor sinner, 
 With never a penny to get him a dinner ; 
 (For me, when I come to that sorrowful state, 
 I know where to go — to my OAvn little Kate.) 
 But the fox only went, with a sigh and a shiver. 
 To drink, like a temperance man, at the river ; 
 When, hark! from the stream came a musical voice, 
 
 Disturbmg his reverie sad — 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 
 Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad?" 
 
 The fox turned round with a cheerful gleam, 
 And dipped his tail in the cooling stream. 
 And twitched and twirled it with all his might. 
 But never a fish was the fool to bite ; 
 This the oyster saw, while his merry voice 
 Repeated the chorus glad : 
 
CATCHING A FOX. 187 
 
 "Rejoice! rejoice! 
 Rejoice! rejoice! 
 - Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ?" 
 
 Thought the oyster, " Now is the time for glory, 
 And to win a name in historic story! 
 This mighty fox shall my trimiiph grace, 
 And my fame shall shine on the oyster race." 
 This said, he snapped at the fox's tail, 
 While all the fishes stood mute and pale. 
 " Sir fox," says he, with exulting voice, 
 
 " I guess you are caught, egad ! 
 Rejoice! rejoice! 
 Rejoice! rejoice! 
 
 Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ! " 
 
 Away from the river sped the fox, 
 Nor stojDped till he came to a pile of rocks, 
 Then he swimg his tail right fast and well. 
 And banged the oyster out of his shell, 
 And ate him up for a dinner choice. 
 And chuckled the chorus glad, 
 " Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ! " 
 
188 THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 Two Yankee wags, one summer day, 
 Stopped at a tavern on their way, 
 Sup25ed, frolicked, late retired to rest, 
 And woke to breakfast on the best. 
 
 The breakfast over, Tom and Will 
 
 Sent for the landlord and the bill ; 
 
 Will looked it over : " Very right — 
 
 But hold ! what wonder meets my sight ! 
 
 Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " 
 
 " What wonder ? where ?"— " The clock ! the clock !" 
 
 Tom and the landlord in amaze 
 Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, 
 And for a moment neither spoke ; 
 At last the landlord silence broke — 
 
 " You mean the clock that 's ticldng tlier^ ? 
 I see no wonder I declare ; 
 Though may be, if the truth were told, 
 'T is rather ugly — somewhat old ; 
 Yet time it keeps to half a minute ; 
 But, if you please, what wonder's in it?" 
 " Tom ; don't you recollect," said Will, 
 " The clock at Jersey, near the mill, 
 
THE OLD CLOCK. 189 
 
 The very image of this present, 
 
 With which I won the wager pleasant ? " 
 
 Will ended with a knowmg wink — 
 
 Tom scratched his head and tried to think. 
 
 " Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," 
 
 The landlord said, with grin admiring. 
 
 " What wager was it ? " 
 
 " You remember 
 It happened, Tom, in last December, 
 
 In sport I bet a Jersey Blue 
 
 That it was more than he could do, 
 
 To make his finger go and come 
 
 In keeping with the pendulum. 
 
 Repeating, till one hour should close, 
 
 Still, '•Here she goes — coicl there she goes!'* 
 
 He lost the bet in half a minute. " 
 
 " Well, if Z would, the deuce is in it ? " 
 
 Exclaimed the landlord ; " try me yet, 
 
 And fifty dollars be the bet, " 
 
 " Agreed ; but we will play some trick 
 
 To make you of the bargam sick ! " 
 
 " I 'm up to that ! " " Don't make us wait. 
 Begin. The clock is striking eight." 
 He seats himself, and left and right 
 His finger wags Avith all its might. 
 And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows 
 With — "Acre she goes — and there she goes!"*"* 
 
190 THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 " Hold!" said the Yankee, " plank the ready! 
 
 The landlord wagged his finger steady, 
 
 While his left hand, as well as able, 
 
 Conveyed a purse upon the table. 
 
 " Tom, with the money let 's be off! " 
 
 This made the landlord only scoff! 
 
 He heard them runnmg down the stair. 
 
 But was not tempted from his chair ; 
 
 Thought he, " The fools ! I '11 bite them yet ! 
 
 So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet. " 
 
 And loud and loud the chorus rose 
 
 Of, '"'•Here she goes — a7id there she goes ! " 
 
 While right and left his finger swung, 
 
 In keeping to his clock and tongue. 
 
 His mother happened in, to see 
 
 Her daughter; "where is 3Irs. B f 
 
 When will she come, as you suppose ? 
 Son ! " 
 
 '-'-Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 
 
 " Here ? — where ? " — the lady in surprise 
 His finger followed with her eyes ; 
 " Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? 
 Those words — that motion — are you mad ? 
 But here 's your wife — perhaps she knows 
 
 And" 
 
 '•'"Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 
 
THE OLD CLOCK. 191 
 
 His wife surveyed him with alarm, 
 
 And rushed to him and seized his arm ; 
 
 He shook her off, and to and fro 
 
 His finger persevered to go. 
 
 While curled his very nose with ire, 
 
 That she against him should conspire. 
 
 And with more furious tone arose 
 
 The "Aere she goes — and there she goes ! " 
 
 *' Lawks ! " screamed the wife, " I 'ni in a whirl! 
 Run down and bring the little girl ; 
 She is his darling, and who knows 
 But " 
 
 ^'•Ilere she goes — cmd there she goes!'''* 
 
 *' Lawks ! he is mad ! what made him thus ? 
 
 Good Lord ! what will become of us ? 
 
 Run for a doctor — run — run — run — 
 
 For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun, 
 
 And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, 
 
 And Doctor Grey, with all your might." 
 
 The doctors came, and looked and wondered. 
 
 And shook their heads, and paused and pondered, 
 
 Till one proposed he should be bled, 
 
 " No — leeched you mean" — the other said — 
 
 " Clap on a blister," roared another, 
 
 tc Xo — cup him " — " No— trepan him, brother ! " 
 
 A sixth would recommend a purge. 
 
 The next would an emetic urge. 
 
192 THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 The eighth, just come from a dissection, 
 
 His verdict gave for an injection; 
 
 The last produced a box of pills, 
 
 A certain cure for earthly ills ; 
 
 " I had a patient yesternight, " 
 
 Quoth he, " and wretched v^^as her plight. 
 
 And as the only means to save her 
 
 Tliree dozen patent pills I gave her, 
 
 And by to-morrow I suppose 
 
 That" 
 
 '■'"Here site goes — and there s/ie goes!'''' 
 
 " You all are fools, " the lady said, 
 
 " The way is, just to shave his head. 
 
 Run, bid the barber come anon" — 
 
 " Thanks mother, " thought her clever son, 
 
 '■''You help the knaves that would have bit me. 
 
 But all creation sha'n't outwit me ! " 
 
 This to himself, while to and fro 
 
 His finger perseveres to go, 
 
 And from his lij) no accent flows 
 
 But, "Acre she goes — and there she goes!'''' 
 
 The barber came — " Lord help him ! what 
 A queerish customer I 've got ! 
 But we must do our best to save him — 
 So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him ! " 
 
THE OLD CLOCK. I93 
 
 But here the doctors mterpose — 
 
 " A woman never " 
 
 ''''There she goes!'*'' 
 
 " A woman is no judge of physic, 
 
 Not even when her baby is sick. 
 
 He must be bled" — " No — no — a blister" — 
 
 "A purge you mean" — " I say a clyster " — 
 
 "No— cup him — " "Leech him — " "Pills! pills! pills!" 
 
 And all the house the uproar fills. 
 
 What means that smile? what means that shiver? 
 The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, 
 And triumph brightens \\^ his face — 
 His finger yet shall win the race I 
 The clock is on the stroke of nine — 
 
 And up he starts " 'T is mine ! 't is mine ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean the fifty! 
 I never s];)ent an hour so thrifty ; 
 But you, who tried to make me lose, 
 Go burst wdth envy, if you choose ! 
 But how is this? where are they?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 " The gentlemen — I mean the two 
 Came yesterday — are they below ? " 
 " They galloped ofi" an hour ago." 
 " Oh, purge me ! bUster ! shave and bleed ! 
 For, hang the knaves, I 'm mad indeed ! " 
 
194 THE MAGIC KING. 
 
 THE MAGIC RING. 
 
 I HAD a magic ring, 
 
 A charm of wondrous power, 
 If placed on fitting hand. 
 
 And in a fitting hour : 
 For, to a worthy hand. 
 
 This talisman would bring 
 Good fortune and renown, 
 
 And every precious thing ; 
 And youth and beauty's grace 
 
 Forever would preserve, 
 But only to the face 
 
 That might the gift deserve. 
 Concealed from every sight, 
 
 I wore this gem of art, 
 I hung it round my neck, 
 
 And hid it on my heart. 
 For years and years I tried 
 
 A fitting hand to find. 
 And to the anxious search 
 
 I gave up heart and mmd. 
 
THE MAGIC KIKG. 195 
 
 Whene'er I met with one 
 
 Who seemed of worth indeed, 
 I took mysterious w^ays 
 
 Her very soul to read ; 
 And more to prove her heart, 
 
 My heart to her I gave. 
 And waited on her wdsh, 
 
 A pleased and willing slave. 
 But ere upon her hand 
 
 The ring its glory shed. 
 Her love in something failed, 
 
 And mine forever fled ! 
 
 One came at last, who seemed 
 
 To live for me alone. 
 To never have a wish 
 
 Or will, except my ot\ti : 
 Her smile around me shone 
 
 As soft as summer skies. 
 And all the light of heaven 
 
 Looked on me from her eyes. 
 I tried her love and truth. 
 
 In every w^ay I could ; 
 But firm her love remamed. 
 
 Her truth unshaken stood. 
 " The fitting liand is found," 
 
 I said, " Thou charm divine ! 
 And in a fitting time 
 
 Thy light shall on it shine ! 
 
]9G THE MAGIC RING. 
 
 Then fortune's rarest gifts 
 
 Shall wait upon her lot ; 
 And beauty that i^^ll last, 
 
 And fame that fadeth not ! " 
 Well pleased, I wandered forth. 
 
 To muse on this alone — 
 When crashing to my heart, 
 
 There came a little stone ! 
 And whose the careless hand 
 
 By which the stone was hurled ? 
 Oh, say it was not hers ! 
 
 Not hers, of all the world ! 
 Alas ! the hand was hers 
 
 From which the missile flew ! 
 It shattered my poor heart ! 
 
 The ring was shivered, too ! 
 
THE STOr.Y OF A KING. 197 
 
 THE STORY OF A KING. 
 
 DEDICATED TO AN EMPEROR. 
 
 "What are those people reading?" 
 Said Frederick, lialf aloud, 
 
 As looking from his window 
 He saw an eager crowd. 
 
 One of his six-foot soldiers 
 
 Who heard him, answered, " Sire ! 
 Your Majesty permitting, 
 
 I hasten to inquire." 
 
 He soon returned: " Oli, Sire! 
 
 'T is horrible to see ! 
 'T is an atrocious libel 
 
 Upon your Majesty!" 
 
 " A libel ! " said the monarch, 
 
 And paused with thoughtful frown- 
 
 " Shall I disperse the people ? "— 
 " Xo — merely take it down." 
 
198 THE STORY OF A KING. 
 
 " Yes, Sire ! " — " Friend, stop a moment- 
 You '11 take it clown, indeed — 
 
 But just to place it lower, 
 So all witli ease may read." 
 
 The soldier stood bewildered, 
 But from the monarch's eye 
 
 He caught a hidden meaning. 
 And left without reply. 
 
 When he removed the paper 
 They watched with sullen eyes. 
 
 But when he placed it lower, 
 They stood in hushed surprise. 
 
 " Now read at your convenience — 
 The king Avould have it so. 
 
 Content to ask his people 
 
 Are these thingjs true or no ? " 
 
 & 
 
 They spurned away the libel 
 
 Which now had lost its weight — 
 
 A thunder rose to heaven — 
 " Live Frederick the Great ! " 
 
 Now this was not the weakness 
 Of a good-natured fool — 
 
 It was the manly wisdom 
 Of one that knew to rule. 
 
THE STOKY OF A KING. 199 
 
 Thou who to France hast given 
 
 Her former power and glory, 
 Complete thy own, by taking 
 
 The moral of my story. 
 
 Trust in thyself and people — 
 
 In chains and exile less — 
 To take the sting from libels. 
 
 Give freedotn to the press! 
 
200 WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 
 
 WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 
 
 I AM a very moderate man, 
 
 Of moderate fortune, too : 
 I 've forty dollars, and I think 
 
 A little more would do. 
 I only wish to buy a house, 
 
 Where fashion holds her sway. 
 And furnish it with all that best 
 
 Becomes the present day. 
 A carriage I would hke to have, 
 
 And horses, two or four ; 
 But forty dollars will not pay — 
 
 I 'd like a Httle more. 
 Sculptures aud paintings I would like, 
 
 The best of every time ; 
 And books by thousands, — all the good 
 
 Of every age and clime. 
 Grand parties I would like to give 
 
 To fifty thousand bores. 
 And hand my purse to borrowing friends, 
 
 (God knows they come by scores.) 
 
WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 201 
 
 I 'd like to win the ladies' hearts 
 
 With presents they adore , 
 But forty dollars won't do that — 
 
 I 'd like a little more. 
 And something of less selfish ami 
 
 Should also share my wealth, 
 The ragged I would like to clothe, 
 
 And give to sickness health. 
 I 'd like to give the foreign thieves 
 
 And beggars, every day, 
 By thousands, pours upon our shores, 
 
 The means to go away. 
 
 I 'd like to make my friends all rich, 
 
 And all the nation blest ; 
 But forty dollars will not do — 
 
 W/io offers me the rest? 
 
 9* 
 
202 THE people's PPvINCES. 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S PPJNCES. 
 
 As I was sauntering througli the street, 
 In mood half tlioiiglitful and half merry, 
 
 I chanced a barefoot boy to meet, 
 Ragged, and very dirty — very. 
 
 His brow was dark with grief — and dirt — 
 Unknown to joy or Croton water — 
 
 Yet Nature made him fair and bright 
 As any rich man's son or daugliter. 
 
 Slight fragment of humanity. 
 
 Unnoticed by thy luckier brothers ! 
 
 I wonder what thy lot will be. 
 
 And what its bearing upon others ! 
 
 Just now my dog is more account. 
 
 Who snapping at thy bare heels follows ;- 
 
 Those would not give a cent for thee. 
 Would bid for him a hundred dollars ! 
 
 That girl in gold and gems arrayed, 
 Some " curled darling of our nation, " 
 
 Who glances at thee half afraid. 
 
 Would thmk thy touch a degradation. 
 
THE PEOPLE^S PEACES. 203 
 
 That simpering fop, more girlish still, 
 Dressed up as for a world's mspection, 
 
 Averts his face with quickening pace. 
 As if he thought thy sight infection. 
 
 No matter — thou hast mind and soul 
 Within thy form's unsightly prison ; 
 
 And these may urge thee yet to rise, 
 As many a mighty man has risen. 
 
 Do wash thy face ! — so I may trace 
 Some glimpses of thy future story ; 
 
 Who knows but fate may grace thee yet 
 With youth and beauty, wealth and glory! 
 
 Oh, then, that girl who shuns thee now, 
 May seek in thee her joy or sorrow ; 
 
 That fop may boast himself thy friend. 
 
 And come like mme — to fawn and borrow! 
 
 That as it may — the humblest child 
 I reverence, though in dirt and tatters, 
 
 As equal in the sight of God 
 
 With any prince that fortune flatters. 
 
 For ye are princes, Little Ones ! 
 
 Heirs of the Kingdom of Salvation ! 
 Your heavenly birthright keep in view, 
 
 No matter what your earthly station ! 
 
204 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 I MET a girl the other day, 
 Some twelve years old, or so. 
 
 The image of a nymph I loved 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 
 The blushing cheek, the sparkling eye, 
 
 The hair of raven flow, — 
 Ah, how they set my heart a-blaze 
 
 Some twenty years ago ! 
 
 I spoke — her answers did not mucli 
 
 Of wit or wisdom show — 
 But thus the lovely Flora talked 
 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 
 What ! could a shallow girl like this 
 My heart m tumult throw ? 
 
 I must have been a httle green 
 Some twenty years ago ! 
 
 I 've met the lovely Flora since — 
 Her charms have vanished, though — 
 
 Her wit and wisdom are — the same 
 As twenty years ago ! 
 
THE INFLUENCE OF THE AFFECTIONS. 205 
 
 I look upon that faded cheek, 
 
 Unht by feeling's glow ; 
 And thank her that she scorned my love 
 
 Some twenty years ago ! 
 
 Fond boy! who now wonldst gladly die 
 
 To please some simpering Miss — 
 God knows what thou Avilt think of her 
 
 Some twenty years from this ! 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 The beautiful humanities 
 
 Of Nature in the simplest dress, 
 Speak to our sweetest sympathies 
 
 Far more than language can express. 
 I saw a ragged little boy 
 
 Run to a withered dame's embrace. 
 To welcome her with bounding joy. 
 
 And fondly press her haggard face. 
 Her shabby garment to his eyes 
 
 Is rich ; her withered face is fair ; 
 For they are hers — and she supplies 
 
 His perished mother's love and care. 
 The world is full of pain and harm, 
 
 And life at best is little worth ; 
 Yet pure affection is a charm 
 
 That almost makes a heaven of earth. 
 
206 SOISTG OF THE TOOTHACHE IMPS. 
 
 SONG OF THE TOOTHACHE IMPS. 
 
 Sometimes about a hollow tooth 
 We dance around, around the mouth ; 
 Thither the throbbing torture comes, 
 And ague swellmg doleful gums : 
 Sometimes we dance through bone and brain 
 To howls of rage and yells of pain, 
 And when with patient men we meet. 
 We dance — to the stamping of their feet. 
 At the wight's raving, dismal voice. 
 When others tremble we rejoice. 
 And nimbly, nimbly, dance we still 
 To the echoes from the horrid thrill !* 
 
 *SONG OF THE WITCHES. 
 
 " Sometimes about a hollow tree, 
 
 Around, around, around, dance we ; 
 
 Thither the chirping cricket comes. 
 
 And beetles singing drowsy hums ; 
 
 Sometimes we dance o'er ferns and furze 
 
 To hovvls of wolves and barks of curs ; 
 
 And when with none of tliese we meet, 
 
 "We dance — to the echoes of our feet I 
 
 At the night-raven's dismal voice, 
 
 "Wlien others tremble we rejoice : 
 
 And nimbly, nimbly dance we still 
 
 To the echoes from a hollow hill ! '' — Macbeth. 
 
THE WET MORNING. 207 
 
 THE WET MORNING. 
 
 EQUirPED with silk umbrella, 
 
 And broadcloth overcoat, 
 With overshoes and leggins, 
 
 And muffled to the throat. 
 Forth from a plenteous table. 
 
 Where he could nothing eat. 
 Steps Midas to his carriage, 
 
 And takes his lordly seat. 
 The sleek and 2:)ompous coachman, 
 
 The footman spruce and proud, 
 Attend upon him, cringing, 
 
 Among the cringing crowd ; 
 Yet on his cheek is fever. 
 
 And on his brow a frown, 
 As off he rides, the richest 
 
 And saddest man in town ! 
 
 Barefooted and bareheaded. 
 
 His garments torn and thin. 
 His heart as free from sorrow 
 
 As ours should be from sin ; 
 Fresh from some scanty table, 
 
 Where, well content, he fed. 
 Perhaps on bad potatoes, 
 
 Perhaps on crusts of bread ; 
 
208 THE WET MORNING. 
 
 Flushed high, not with the mne-cup, 
 
 But with his youthful blood ; 
 Regardless of the ram-drops, 
 
 Unconscious of the mud ; 
 Forth bounds the little Gamin, 
 
 And trolls his hoop along. 
 With now a careless whistle. 
 
 And now a snatch of song. 
 His jacket flung wide open. 
 
 His bosom bare and brown, 
 He runs, the ragged rascal. 
 
 The happiest wight hi town ! 
 
 With many cares and troubles 
 
 It tasks my strength to bear, 
 I look on many pleasures 
 
 I may not hope to share : 
 Yet finds the serpent, envy, 
 
 No shelter in my breast — 
 Let theirs be power and glory. 
 
 Who have deserved them best ; 
 Let theirs be wealth and grandeur — 
 
 Who best deserve — or not — 
 My own may be as happy, 
 
 Although an humbler lot ; 
 And still to every station 
 
 That Fate awards below, 
 She gives its compensation, 
 
 If we could only know ! 
 
LIFE AND DEATH. 209 
 
 And to the least among us 
 
 God sends some blessing down, 
 That leaves no cause to envy 
 
 The greatest man in town ! 
 
 Then go ! ye dreams of glory ! 
 
 Of fortune, hopes as vain ! 
 Farewell, ye smiles of beauty! 
 
 So youth and health remain ! 
 Ah ! Time, remorseless, whispers, 
 
 " Farewell to youth and health ! " 
 Rejoice, poor little Gamin ! 
 
 For thine, a priceless wealth ! 
 And one who would not envy 
 
 The laurel or the crown, 
 Might envy httle Gamin, 
 
 The happiest wight in town ! 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAX. 
 
 Life is the hot and garish sun — 
 Death the refreshing night. — 
 
 Come darkness ! I am sleepy now 
 And weary of the light ! 
 
 There springs a tree above my bed- 
 A bird amid it gleams — 
 
 It sings aloud — it smgs of love — 
 I hear it in my dreams. 
 
210 BOOTH. 
 
 BOOTH. 
 
 Just now it came into my head, 
 
 I know not how it came, 
 That somewhere I have heard or read. 
 That Junius Beutus Booth was dead. 
 
 An actor of some fame. 
 
 In Richard he was really great. 
 
 Though Kean's was lauded higher : 
 All parts, when not in tipsy state, 
 He jilayed with judgment accurate. 
 With spirit, force, and fire. 
 
 His tragic powers high praise bespeak — 
 
 His comic claim as high ; 
 Profound in the absurd or weak. 
 He made you laugh in Jerry S^steak, 
 
 And almost made you cry ! 
 
 For to his sense, with feeling rife. 
 
 The " fun " was not the best — 
 That tragedy of common life. 
 The loving fool, the tyrant vnfe. 
 He deemed a serious jest. 
 
 He was a scholar deeply versed 
 In old and modern lore ; 
 
BOOTH. 211 
 
 A poet, too, and not the worst ; 
 His lines, when by hunself rehearsed, 
 Were seldom thought a bore. 
 
 At Holland's lodgings once we met — 
 
 Our speech on trifles ran — 
 The nothings that we soon forget. 
 But leaves me an impression yet 
 Of " wit and gentleman. " 
 
 A bard, the humblest of our times. 
 
 While sauntermg down the street, 
 Together strung these careless rhymes, 
 And thought how oft ambition climbs 
 As poor reward to meet ! 
 
 What lasts of Booth ?— a paragraph 
 
 Some flippant paper gives ; — 
 A lie, or only true by half. 
 To set on barren fools to laugh — 
 And thus his " glory" lives ! 
 
 Green boy, who seest on the stage 
 
 Some bully foam and roar, 
 And thinkest it glorious to engage 
 Applause, by shammmg grief or rage, 
 Go be a fool no more ! 
 
 Few idols of the box or pit 
 
 Might well with Booth compare ; 
 
212 THE SUM OF PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 A genius, scholar, poet, wit. 
 For every range of talent fit — 
 
 And Booth is what ? — and where ? 
 
 In vain his mind was heaven-inspired, 
 
 By study, too, refined — 
 All nature gave, or art acquired, 
 Was only for the hour admired. 
 And then it passed from mind. 
 
 Life's real scenes should be thy stage — 
 
 Act well and nobly there — 
 Subdue thy passions, curb their rage — 
 Thou may est not man's apjolause engage- 
 But that of angels share ! 
 
 THE SUM OF PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Do fortune's smiles upon thee wait, 
 With honor, power, and high estate. 
 Let not thy heart be too elate — 
 
 All this shall pass away. 
 Art thou the sj^ort of fortune's hate. 
 Forsaken, poor, and desperate. 
 Still bear the worst with mind sedate ; 
 
 All this shall pass away. 
 Our joys and pains are brief in date ; 
 The deeds we do of good and great, 
 Alone survive our mortal state, 
 
 And never pass away. 
 
THE IIEKO. 213 
 
 THE HERO. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO JAMES 13. K . 
 
 Let others sing of deeds of arms 
 
 By heroes who have ravaged earth, 
 Who shook the Avorld with war's alarms, 
 
 While death and carnage crowned their worth; 
 
 A nobler hero claims my song 
 
 Than we on history's page may find ; 
 
 Not his the fame of doing wrong- 
 He lives a blessing to mankind. 
 
 A blessmg and a martyr, too — 
 
 For them all comfort he forsakes ; 
 AYhen others for assistance sue. 
 
 From friends and fimiily he breaks. 
 He leaves his food, he leaves his sleep. 
 
 E'en m the deadest hour of night, 
 Thouo-h floods descend and tempests sweep, 
 
 And heaven denies one gleam of light. 
 Throuo-h storm and darkness on he goes, 
 
 To hut or hall— no matter where ; 
 Litent to soothe the sufferer's woes, 
 
 And save the mourner from despair. 
 Scenes he must view that break his heart. 
 
 And deeds perform his blood that chill ; 
 But so that he may good impart, 
 
 He acts as with an iron will. 
 
214 THE IIEKO. 
 
 And he must bear with vain complaints, 
 When Nature makes the progress slow ; 
 
 But with a patience worthy saints, 
 Will still his needful cares bestow. 
 
 Alike to palaces of wealth. 
 
 Or hovels where the friendless pine, 
 
 He carries comfort, life, and health. 
 As if a messenger divine. 
 
 For this his comfort up he gave, 
 For this his health is often lost. 
 
 And oft another's life to save 
 The 23eril of his life has cost. 
 
 Who is this hero, who may claim 
 
 The world's applause and that of heaven ? 
 
 Ah, friend ! if I should breathe thy name, 
 No other answer need be ffiven ! 
 
 &' 
 
 All good physicians share the praise — 
 May worthy honors on them fall ! 
 
 But thou w^ho hast prolonged my days, 
 I fain would praise thee more than all ! 
 
 But not for j)raise didst thou impart 
 Thy aid, or any selfish ends ; 
 
 Yet take this tribute of my heart. 
 Best of physicians and of friends ! 
 
WnAT SHOULD WE DO, MY BKOTIIER ? 215 
 
 WHAT SHOULD WE DO, MY BROTHER? 
 
 Where pleasant fields are growing, 
 
 Where rocks are tossed on liigli, 
 Where streams m music flowing, 
 
 Delight the ear and eye. 
 Where rivalling each other, 
 
 Fair scenes invite our choice, 
 What should we do, my brother ? 
 
 Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 
 
 Where woods in tangled wildness 
 
 Oppose our weary way. 
 Where bowers in shady mildness 
 
 Invite a sweet delay ; 
 Where wild birds to each other 
 
 Their blithesome carols voice, 
 What should we do, my brother ? 
 
 Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 
 
 When slowly home returning, 
 
 While moonlight's golden streams 
 Refresh the brow still burning 
 
 With day's departing beams ; 
 While cheering on each other 
 
 With songs of merry voice. 
 What should we do, my brother ? 
 
 Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 
 
216 THE CANARY BIRD. 
 
 THE CAKARY BIRD. 
 
 TniNE is a lovely song, my bird ! 
 Though by thy mates 't is never heard, 
 And it may seem to those around 
 An idle, though a pleasant sound ; 
 For not to them is given to know 
 The feelings whence thy carols flow. 
 Bird ! thou art severed from thy kind, 
 And in a narrow cage confined, 
 AVhose bars obscure the fields of light 
 Which once alone could bound thy flight, 
 Of which the glimpses serve at most 
 To mock the freedom thou hast lost ; 
 Yet, bird, thy heart is brave and strong, 
 Companioned only by thy song. 
 Which careless if 't is heard or not. 
 Sheds light and beauty on thy lot ; 
 The gift of God thou dost employ, 
 And in its use dost find thy joy. 
 
 Like thine how oft the poet's fate ; 
 How lone it seems — how desolate ! 
 
THE CANARY BIRD. 217 
 
 No kindred spirit near to share 
 
 The feelings which he wastes on air ; 
 
 No heart in which he can awake 
 
 Kesponsive chords to thrill or break ! 
 
 Life's fettermg cares around him cling, 
 
 And bind to earth his heavenly wing, 
 
 And from his vision half eiface 
 
 The skies which are his native place. 
 
 His proudest lay is heard by few. 
 
 Nor meets from those the honor due, 
 
 But to the kindest seems to be 
 
 A beauty — but a mystery ! — 
 
 Yet though it may not win him flame, 
 
 Or love, his more exalted ami, 
 
 His godlike thoughts will have their voice. 
 
 And in that glorious sound rejoice. 
 
 As mounting heaven, it peals along. 
 
 To God as a thanksgiving song ! 
 
218 YOUI^a NAPOLEON AT HIS FATIIEr's GEAVE 
 
 YOUNG NAPOLEON AT HIS FATHER'S 
 GRAVE. 
 
 FEOM THE GERMAN OF SAPHIR. 
 
 The king of Rome in slumber 
 
 In Schonbrun's garden lies ; 
 Sees not the light of heaven, 
 
 Sees not the vaulted skies ; 
 Far on a foreign island 
 
 Reclmes Napoleon ; 
 Lies not with his own people, 
 
 Lies not beside his son ; 
 Lies not amid his marshals. 
 
 The pillars of his throne, 
 Lies not among his soldiers. 
 
 In Europe, once his own ; 
 But buried deep in darkness. 
 
 Mid circlmg seas and skies. 
 Chained to a rock forever 
 
 The dead Prometheus Hes. 
 
 Where scorching sunbeams wither 
 Trunk, leaf, and branch, and all, 
 
 The mighty Emperor slumbers, 
 •'The Little Corpoml! 
 
YCU:N^G napoleon at his father's grave. 219 
 
 No flowers above him flourish, 
 
 No cyi^ress branches wave ; 
 In sight of all creation, 
 
 No pilgrim seeks his grave. 
 
 Thus many years he slmubers, 
 
 Deserted and alone ; 
 When hark ! there comes at midnight 
 
 A knock upon the stone ; 
 A knock — a gentle whisper. 
 
 But of no mortal breath : 
 " Wake up ! wake up ! thou hero ! 
 
 Wake from the sleep of death!" 
 Another knock and whisper : 
 
 " Rise mighty Emperor ! 
 Here to thy court with tidings 
 
 Comes Earth's ambassador ! " 
 Another knock and whis23er : 
 
 " Rise father ! take me home ! 
 My soul has come in lightnmg ! 
 
 Thy only child has come ! " 
 
 Earth crumbles — marble sunders, 
 
 And heaves aside the lid. 
 That long of the dead hero 
 
 The awful ashes hid ; 
 And then its fleshless finger 
 
 Th' imperial corpse extends, 
 
220 YOUNG NAPOLEON AT HIS FATIIEe's GEAVE. 
 
 To show his heir of glory 
 His empire's farthest ends. 
 
 " Look do\\Ti into my palace, 
 
 My dear, my only son ! 
 Again do I behold thee. 
 
 My child — Napoleon ! 
 Survey the ground beneath me. 
 
 The walls on either hand ; 
 The length and breadth thou seest 
 
 Of all thy father's land ! " 
 Then hand in hand they grappled 
 
 In skeleton embrace ; 
 And lip to lip caressing. 
 
 They nestled face to face ; 
 The grave closed in that moment 
 
 On father and on son ; 
 And vanished in that moment 
 
 The House-Napoleon ! 
 
NEW-YEAE THOUGHTS. 221 
 
 NEW-YEAR THOUGHTS. 
 
 How many are now in the cold grave reposing 
 
 Who welcomed the dawn of the year that has fled ! 
 Hew little, alas ! did they think that its closing 
 
 Should find them inurned in the home of the dead ! 
 How many this year to the grave's dark dominions 
 
 Shall hasten, who welcome its rising career, 
 Ere time once again on his air-feathered pinions 
 
 Shall usher the dawn of another New-Year ! 
 
 And I, who now muse on the thousands departed, 
 
 May follow them ere the return of this day, 
 T3edewed with the tears of some friend broken-hearted, 
 
 AVlio now smiles upon me, unthinking and gay ; 
 And better than I should survive to deplore them. 
 
 The few that to share my affections remain. 
 Oh, better by far I should perish before them, 
 
 Nor hail the return of the New- Year afrain ! 
 
 o 
 
 How sad to be torn from our friends and connexions, 
 
 And hid in the valley of darkness alone ! 
 What comfort to hope their survivmg affections 
 
 Shall cherish our image on memory's throne! 
 The hearts that now love me, will they not regret me ? 
 
 Will ever my memory cease to be dear ? 
 Tlie friends of my bosom — oh ! can they forgot me. 
 
 If swept from their sight by the close of the year? 
 
222 A. IIUNDEED YEARS FKOM :N0W. 
 
 / 
 
 A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 
 
 What millions live to-day 
 As they might ever stay, 
 How soon to pass away ! 
 
 Sweet face and lofty brow, 
 So pleasant now to see — 
 Alas ! where will they be 
 
 A hundred years from now ? 
 
 The sage with silver hair, 
 Proud youth and maiden fair. 
 Time will not pause to spare- 
 Glad childhood's sunny brow. 
 The infant's dimpling face — 
 All gone without a trace, 
 A hundred years from now ! 
 
 The ills we scarce sustain, 
 The trouble and the pain 
 That vex the heart and brain, 
 And wring the calmest brow — 
 
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 223 
 
 All serious as they seem, 
 Fade, a forgotten dream, 
 A hundred years from now ! 
 
 The time seems far away. 
 Yet will not long delay, 
 It comes with every day 
 
 That goes, we know not how ! 
 Howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 'T is all tlie same at last, 
 
 A hundred years from now. 
 
 In all but this the same — 
 Some few may leave a name, 
 A monument of fame 
 
 That time shall never bow ; 
 Or heavenly-thoughted page. 
 To consecrate our age 
 
 A hundred years from now ! 
 
224 VANITY OF VAI^ITIES. 
 
 VANITY OF VANITIES. 
 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 All the joys of earth, 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Are of little worth. 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 "Wealth and grandeur high, 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Small the bliss they buy! 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Sweetest woman's smile, 
 Vanity of vanities ! ' 
 
 Charms but for a while ! 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Glory's loudest blast, 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 Dulls the ear at last ! 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 What is life at best ? 
 Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 AU but death's a jest ! 
 
NEW-YEAR IIYMI^. £25 
 
 NEAY-YEAR HYMN. 
 
 Thaxks to our Heavenly Father ! 
 
 Though angels tune his praise, 
 He will permit His children 
 
 Their humbler song to raise : 
 Thanks to our Heavenly Father, 
 
 Whose love sustains us here, 
 And spares us yet to welcome 
 
 Another hapj)y year ! 
 
 For all the years departed. 
 
 For all the years to come. 
 For all the thousand blessinjjs 
 
 That crown our happy home : 
 For all our loving kindred. 
 
 For all the friends Ave claim. 
 We thank our Heavenly Father, 
 
 And bless His holy name ! 
 
 10* 
 
226 SPRING IS COMING. 
 
 SPRIN^G IS COMING. 
 
 Spkixg is coming ! Spring is coming ! 
 Birds are chirping, insects humming ; 
 Flowers are peej^ing from their sleeping ; 
 Streams, escaped from winter's keeping, 
 In delighted freedom rushing, 
 Dance along in music gushing, 
 Scenes of late in deadness saddened, 
 Smile in animation gladdened : 
 All is beauty, all is mirth. 
 All is glory uj^on earth : 
 Shout we then with Nature's voice, 
 "Welcome, Spring! rejoice! rejoice!" 
 
 Spring is coming ! come, my brother. 
 Let us wander with each other 
 To our well remembered wildwood. 
 Flourishing in Nature's childhood. 
 Where a thousand birds are smging. 
 And a thousand flowers are springing. 
 Where the dancing sunbeams quiver 
 On the forest-shaded river ; 
 Let our youth of feeling out 
 To the youth of Nature shout. 
 While the hills repeat our voice — 
 Welcome, Spring! rejoice! rejoice!" 
 
MY PRETTY BIRDS. 227 
 
 MY PRETTY BIRDS. 
 
 My pretty birds, as sweet your song, 
 
 And of as blithesome kind. 
 As when you winged your flight along. 
 
 By but the skies confined ; 
 Though severed from your native bowers, 
 
 And caged in narrow space, 
 -A^s gay ye carol through your hours 
 
 As in your native place. 
 
 And grateful to the tender hand 
 
 That watches o'er your need, 
 Your little hearts with love expand, 
 
 While from that hand ye feed ; 
 And this is well — ye need not mourn 
 
 The scenes that ye have lost, 
 For there the pangs ye might have borne 
 
 Of famine or of frost. 
 
 But man less wise — restrained from ill 
 
 By the Ahnighty's bars. 
 The rage to have his erring will 
 
 His spirit's music jars. 
 My birds, my sweet philosophers. 
 
 May I your wisdom learn. 
 And welcoming what God confers. 
 
 To His protection turn. 
 
228 MY CAP. 
 
 MY CAP. 
 
 My cap ! my well-worn leather cap ; 
 
 Though time has diimned thy glossy hue, 
 Though broken hangs thy useless strap, 
 
 And spots obscure thy band of blue, 
 I would not give thee for the best 
 
 That graces fashion's votary; 
 So long hast thou my brow caressed, 
 
 Thou hast become a part of me ; 
 
 And happy thoughts, of better worth. 
 
 Are born in thy obscure embrace. 
 Than any diadem of earth 
 
 Encircles in its resting-place. 
 With thee on my unhonored head, 
 
 I con the page of mystic lore. 
 Explore the light by genius shed. 
 
 And gather wisdom's precious ore. 
 
 For years, in every scene of pride 
 Or joy that it was mine to tread. 
 
 My chosen friend was at my side. 
 And thou, my cap ! upon my head ; 
 
MY CAP. 
 
 229 
 
 And thus we rambled many a mile, 
 To witness Nature's wildest charms, 
 
 To revel in her glorious smile, 
 Or worship her sublime alarms. 
 
 We braved the tempest's furious shock, 
 
 In shivermg night, or burning day; 
 Headlong we leaped from rock to rock, 
 
 Or through the forest toiled our way ; 
 Or wandered where the rivers glide 
 
 In darkness by the tangled cliff. 
 Or tossed npon their swelling tide 
 
 That sobbed around the shudderm^ skiff' 
 
 With Jerome thou hast seen me share 
 
 All the communion friendship knows, 
 The wildest hope, the deepest care. 
 
 The brightest joys, the darkest woes : 
 To hmi, then, when I must depart. 
 
 To lay my head on :N'ature's lap. 
 For kingdom I 'd bequeath my heart, 
 
 For diadem— my leather cap! 
 
230 THE !SUN. 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 Come forth, thou glorious sun ! 
 
 And brighten up the skies, 
 And smile the worid upon. 
 
 Whose life is in thine eyes ! 
 Thou beautiful and bright ! 
 
 Come to thy throne of day, 
 Within whose mellow light 
 
 My soul would melt away ! 
 
 He comes ! he comes ! he blesses 
 
 Creation like a god ; 
 And flings his golden tresses 
 
 Of glory all abroad ! 
 liOok up, my soul, forsaken, 
 
 But now, by every one. 
 To greet thy friend, awaken — 
 
 The sun ! the lovely sun ! 
 
A WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 231 
 
 A WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 
 
 In person decent, and in dress, 
 Her manners and her words express 
 
 The decency of mind ; 
 Good humor brightens up her face, 
 Where passion never leaves a trace, 
 
 Nor frowns a look unkind. 
 No vexing sneer, no angry word. 
 No scandal from her lips is heard. 
 
 Where truth and sweetness blend ; 
 Submission to her husband's will, 
 Her study is to please him still, 
 
 His fond and faithful friend. 
 She watches his returning way, 
 When from the troubles of the day 
 
 He seeks a home of bliss ; 
 She runs to meet him with a smile. 
 And if no eye be near the while. 
 
 The smile is with a kiss ! 
 
232 FOEGET ME NOT. 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 When I am in that distant place 
 
 Where I must dwell awhile, 
 How will I miss thy pleasant face, 
 
 And its bewitching smile ! 
 Thy image mil pursue me there 
 
 Through each sequestered spot — 
 And oh that mine thy thoughts may share ! 
 
 Sweet friend ! forget me not ! 
 
 In thee 't was mine to recognize 
 
 One of no common kind — 
 One look into each other's eyes. 
 
 And mind replied to mind ! 
 And still thy spuit walks with mme. 
 
 Though far apart our lot. 
 And still my soul repeats to thme — 
 
 " Sweet friend ! forget me not ! " 
 
 How brief our friendship's date appears ! 
 
 And yet it seems to me 
 As if we had been friends for years, 
 
 As we for Ufe shall be ! 
 And when, by Fate's remorseless will, 
 
 I meet the common lot, 
 I ask not for thy tears — ^but still. 
 
 Sweet friend! — forget me not! 
 
(Successors to Stanford & Swords,) 
 
 :^o. 508 BEOADWAY, 
 
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