J Se ies 3 4THE LAUREL WHEAT ES OR, AEBEDOCTIONWS KBBPSAKE.do) wat, oa \iey ‘Tak LAUREL WREATH, OR, AFFECTIONS KEEPSAKE. ORIGINAL PROSE AND POETRY. SECOND EDITION. ENLARGED AND IMPROVED. ) ) , ) ) ) ) “ Keep il—yes, kten it for my sake!” On fancy’s ear still breathes the sound ; Ne’er time the potent charm shall break. Nor loose the spell Affection bound ! PHILADELPHIA : PUBLISHED BY T. P. COLLINS, 1844,% goon ‘LL &s © bee nag? ace $ ery Cy a : i serene Seal a } ; At, | ENTERED according tot Net} of Congress, in the year 1841, by. -P. Collins, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 6 e e e rs 6 e ® e 6 ® 3 e o ¢2@ ee e Printed by King & Baird.DEDICATED TO THE FRIENDS OF GURY Of Fie«(Give me stray gems of gentle poesy ! From ponderous tomes, Never such true heaven of ?witching melody ; O’er the heart comes ; Dearer than songs of high- wrought melody, Are those wild hum’s! “Then stray gems give me! not the high and grand Such raptures yield, As those light peeps into the fairy land, Where warm hopes build Their vapour’y mansions, ’ere the world’s cold hand The heart has chilled !”PREFACE. ‘‘Fame,’’ says a beautiful writer, ‘is the sound which the stream of high thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes as it flows—deep, distant, murmuring evermore, like the waters of the mighty ocean.”’ In presenting this little volume, we seek not to be borne down upon this mighty current. Enough is it for ws that ‘in memory’s bark we may glide’’ over the pleasant seas of the past, ‘‘to visit the scenes of our childhood anew.”’ But few of the following pieces, have ever before met the publiceye. They spring not from the treasure cells of those who have often tasked the muse; or who have drank deeply at the inspiring fountain of Poesy. But around them all there lingers for us a sacred and a hallowed spell; fora ee Vili PREFACE. they recall to our minds many scenes we would never efface from memory’s tablet— they bring back to us the light of many a bright eye dimmed and gone: and we find in them the cheering assurance, that al- though the ‘‘ loved and lovely’’ have faded from our side, yet ‘‘ They shall meet, in the amaranth bowers of rest, They shall meet, to dwell in ‘the land of the blest,’ In the homes of immortal life.’’ Firmly treasured in our heart’s holiest recesses, are the memories of childhood— yea, all too firmly, lightly to pass away; for like the changeless evergreen of the mountain forest, which, heedless of the wintry frost, still bears its emerald verdure; so in our hearts the pleasant joys of youth and home, will still survive; although Death’s icy hand has nipped our fairest and our loveliest ;—and many a radiant smile, and pleasant voice are absent fromPREFACE. ix our pathway. Death cannot bear away the happy hours of days long gone, for they still live within the immortal] spirit, and live to cheer perchance the lonely future. Friends of our youth! we have twined for you this Laurel Wreath, and like the fadeless and undying evergreen, childhood’s sweet memories, still live in verdure. In the beautiful language of another: “This is the wreath, which we for you have twined, A wreath of song, may it be evergreen; A wreath of Love, round loving brows to bind, Roses fresh blown, with laurel sprigs be- tween. A wreath of joy, to give a pulse to pleasure ; Of memory»to recall bright moments fled ; Of friendship, for the faithful heart to treasure, Of holy recollections of the dead. Receive the wreath, it holds a sacred spell To bless the brows that wear it—So Farewell !’’<<‘ Ffere’s to the love—though it flitted away, We can never, no, never forget! Through the gathering darkness of many a day One token we Offer it yet. Fill, fill to the past! from its far distant sphere, Wild voices in melody come ; The strains of the by-gone, deep echoing here, We pledge to their shadowy home!PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDIGION: The first edition being exhausted, and the demand for a second somewhat exten- sive, we present to our patrons and friends another—with several omissions and addi- tions, which we flatter ourselves will en- hance the value of the work. To those who have approved the design and execution of this keepsake, and on the altar of friendship, kindled with their breath the flame of poesy,—to them we would render a tribute of gratitude, which we trust will far exceed the common measure of so public a gift. The fragments that have found their way to these pages are the suggestions of —Xii PREFACE. solitary hours—the echoes of dear remem- brances—the shadows of early life, that make its sunshine more beautiful; and if the visions that have haunted our imagina- tions have left their images on many hearts —if the tone of departed days, which stirred with its sweet impulses, the tides of our own thoughts and emotions has restored pleasant memories and revived hallowed associations in kindred bosoms, we shall ever revert with real delight to the time when were collected and embo- these reminiscences. Though some of the themes may be deemed inappropriate to the work, yet each is intended to contain some principle or affection with which the mass may sympathise. As many souvenirs of this description, are chains whose links are perfectly defined, we have endeavoured so to ornament the series that each shall be lovely im itself, and though partially con- eealed not broken, or zmvisible.CON TEN TS. What is Poetry, . My Harp, A Mother’s Wish, A Visit to the Home of my Childhood, The Angel’s Mission, The Vale of Death, Mariner’s Song, . The Dove’s Errand, Remembrance of the Dead, Hymn of the Morning, Hymn of the Night, Mourn not for Her, Page. 27 29= RS a 4 ae S i dR REA LE ST REE IIO GR Sn XIV CONTENTS. The Approach of Spring, Morning Star, .- My Sister’s Grave, The Phantom Isle, Guardian Angels, : : The Flower of Innocence, The Stranger’s Burial at Sea, Onn stat — - : ‘ Tomy Sister, . : The Voice of the Wind, Reminiscences, A Child’s Conversation, The Broken Heart, The Forester’s Lament, Rest in Heaven, Nature, My Brother’s Grave, . Love and Memory, The Bridal, Loneliness, . 52 54 56 59 61 63 CD CD ~ OO 1 Sb Oo em WD me St WwW © © _CONTENTS. Memory’s Helps, The Flower, Trust in Heaven, Petroni, A Wish, Lines upon the Death of a Friend, The Parting, The Deserted Castle, The Two Worships, The Lethean Stream, The Stranger’s Death, The Serenade, “Tell Him Vil wake Again,”’ Lines on seeing a Sea Shell, A Dream, The Diamond Fountain, The Exile’s Lament, . “She Died Afar,’’ Departed One, New England Homes,X1V CONTENTS. The Approach of Spring, Morning Star, My Sister’s Grave, The Phantom Isle, Guardian Angels, : : The Flower of Innocence, The Stranger’s Burial at Sea, Our Star, . : : To my Sister, The Voice of the Wind, Reminiscences, A Child’s Conversation, The Broken Heart, The Forester’s Lament, Rest in Heaven, Nature, My Brother’s Grave, . Love and Memory, The Bridal, Loneliness, .CONTENTS. Memory’s Helps, The Flower, Trust in Heaven, Petroni, A Wish, Lines upon the Death of a Friend, The Parting, The Deserted Castle, The Two Worships, The Lethean Stream, The Stranger’s Death, The Serenade, **Tell Him V’ll wake Again,’’ Lines on seeing a Sea Shell, A Dream, The Diamond Fountain, The Exile’s Lament, . “ She Died Afar,’ Departed One, New England Homes,; xvi CONTENTS. Y “Home, Sweet Home,”’ a *O! never Breathe, &c.,”’ The Hour of Rest, Sick Bed Musings, Song of Angels, . The Dead Infant, The Sacrifice, The Old Pine Tree, << Passing Away,’ 3 Sabbath among the Catskills, Affection’s Tribute, 151 155 157 162 164 166THE IGA WRiibh WiRT ATE, OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. WHAT IS POETRY? O what and where is poetry? If we search the mystical and hidden cells of the necroman- cer—can we find it? If we unfold the ancient lore and the sage’s tome and the prophet’s scroll will its enchanting form spring from these relics that have worn the dust of ages? If we go to some old monastery, and kneeling by the monk, repeat his many and long prayers and perform penance at those grey altars, will her magic power descend tous? No.—Study 218 THE LAUREL WREATH, vigilant and untiring, research deep and inde- fatigable, penance protracted and most cruel will not purchase this divine and precious spell. And yet life is full of poetry. There is nota breeze that trembles, or a flower that lifts its chalice to the sun, or a bird that warbles one note of song, or a star that gilds the firmament, or a morn that dispenses its light, or an eve that closes the heavy eyelid that wafts not some incense from her shrine. For what is poetry? >Tis not a collection of measured sentences, nor the harmony of numbers, nor literary bombast, --nothing atallofthis. Itis the tremulous sweet utterance of the full heart; the music of the soul, which is stirred by every wave of beauty that rolls above it, by high and heroic deeds, by every mournful memory, by each remembered word of love, and every voice that tells of hap- piness or sorrow. If we live where nature’s hand hath scattered profusely her magnificence welive inthe light of poetry. The hermit whese home is a rocky cave, whose couch the green earth, whose evening torch the moon, whose melody the babbling rivulet, has fitly chosen a poet’s corner.OR AFFECTION's KEEPSAKE. 19 Not amid life’s confusionynd gaity, not in the crowded hall, not atthe festiv. board, where the wine sparkles and the goblet is -efjied does the spiritofthe charmabide. It whisjorsy= sno still night air,it wanders to some far off iso, it lea +5 the summit of a snow-capt mountain,or walks in the moonlit vale, it clothes with radiance the frowning precipice, and broods with a celestial light o’er the dark and yawning chasm. Prose writers are frequently more truly poetical than those who professto beso. There is a depthof feeling, a richness of sentiment, an elegance of expression unconnected with the embarrass- ments of rhyme. Who is moreso than Ossian, Fenelon or Wilson, and yet they reject the har- mony of verse, and allow fancy and emotion to be the only engravers of their immortality. It is found in eloquence when the eye is en- kindled by the lofty theme, and the voice in thundering echoes quickens and thrills each pulse, the muse from her Parnassian heights stoops to add a gem of lustre to the ensignia of fame, and celebrate in song the nativity of genius and sanctify his already illustrious name. The lover of poetry is alover of the Bible ; for aa ec tanta pliant naene st. te . Se/ tory of heavenly will are contained the fin specimens of beautiful sen- Eien eC almost vivify those strains as the how bar ouches with prophetic finger the + 1eful ch His eye isheavenward while a luminousloud, that emblem of the Almighty presengé encircles him. ’Tis not to mirthful or mefancholy lays he sweeps the strings but purée seraphic melody borne from the Elysium iM where he revels in ecstatic joy. From theme ag to theme he flies, from bower to bower, from am seat to seat of bliss catching anew the hymn of praise. So wonderful the survey, so feeble his own finite capacities, that in melting pathos and humble adoration he chants, ‘‘ What is ait man that thou art mindful of him, or the son \ aan of man that thou regardest him.”’ | H Why should a poet’s life be a sad one when ui a ‘“‘still small voice’? is ever answering his l i secret musing ; when by his fairy wand he can Pan call up those floating images, ever at the bid- 1 ding of the visionary. 0 Why should dull sorrow invade him when yy such sumlesstreasuresare hisown. Methinks Litt it is an unjust assertion thatallots to him a in that sacred repOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 2) more than ordinary share of grief while he bears within himself a balm for every woe. Nought can justify it unless it be the fact of his possessing that lively sensibility that is often the accompaniment of so happy a talent. Song may be real or imaginative. The one is the poetry of sense the other of sight. One luxuriates in outward colourings, the other roams through the illimitable arena of mind and sings to us on the page of poesy; one elevates the sudden tides, the gushings of sublimity, the other moves onward like a broad majestic river winding through sunlight and shade: the one can only reflect a kind of artificial glory: the other can exult in the gloom of the prison house, and smile at the fetter and the bolt as long as thought is trans- ported by pleasing idealities. “True bard and holy! thou art e’en as one Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun Sees where the springs of living waters lie, Unseen awhile they sleep—till touched by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free!THE LAUREL WREATH, MY HARP. “Poetry has been to me something more than amusement; it has been a cheering companion when I have had no other to fly to; and a de- lightful solace when consolation has been in some measure needful.’’—H. K. WHITE. I seized my harp in sorrow’s hour, And tuned it to a soothing song ; I touched the chords, I felt their power, Awaking joys that slumbered long. My childhood’s hours came thronging 0’er The soul, in dreamy visions fair; Oh! blest the strain that can restore, My father’s love, my mother’s prayer! I hear again her thrilling tone Commingling with my harp’s wild strain ; And joys I thought forever flown, Return to glad my soul again. My harp and I will never part— My friend alike in smiles and tears ; It soothes, it cheers my sorrowing heart, With memories of departed years.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. A MOTHER’S WISH TO HER DAUGHTER. ACCOMPANYING THE PRESENTATION OF A BIBLE. “Forget not my dear child that your mother’s strongest wish for you is that you may exem- plify the principles and spirit of this Book of books, in a life of deep and fervent piety.” No! never mother on my heart Too bright a spell is made To let that gentle wish depart, Or from my mem/’ry fade. The holy wish, thy fervent prayer Are ever graven deeply there. Kind mother! had’st thou craved for me The gilded wreath of fame ; And hoped that midst its blazonry Might shine my humble name, I should not thus within my breast Have folded the fond wish to rest.THE LAUREL WRATH, Had earthly pomp, or golden power Lurked in th’ aspiring thought, The treasure of a fleeting hour That satisfieth not. Would it have found the sacred place Nor time can steal, nor death efface. No! I would deem them lightly worth Enbalming where now lie, My best, my earliest loves on earth My hope of bliss on high: But ever fragrant in that shrine I lay this strongest wish of thine. It breathed that on my life might shine The Bible’s heaven-born ray, That from my heart its words divine Might never melt away. That there its light might ever glow To cheer me thro’ this world of woe. It was a mother’s gush of love, That warmly brightly flows, From the celestial founts above A mother only knows. S That ardent wish will oft awake = Affection for a mother’s sake.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Soft dews upon my path ’twill shed When earthly links are riven, And, mother, round my dying bed Seem like a hue of Heaven. Oh may that wish by thee instilled Be in thy daughter’s life fulfilled. A VISIT TO THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. ’Tis the same, ’tis the same, every hillock and glade, The willow-tree under whose branches I play- ed, When life was all sunshine in childhood’s bright eye, And the things of the earth, seemed too lovely to die. Yes! yonder ’s the grove where in gladness I roved, And the green sunny hillock whose softness I loved, And the streamlet still ripples the rough pebbles o’er,THE LAUREL WREATH, With the same merry music, I’ve heard it be- fore. The dear ancient buildings are still standing there, (But appearances speak of the absence ofcare.) There stood a low cottage beside the green hill, And though years have past over, the Cot is there still : The same tree is bending above it as when In my babyhood gambols, I sped through the glen; The old rock is by it, just, just as of yore, O! childhood’s glad memories, how fresh ye restore! Ye! Ye! are the same, but your dwellers are changed ; The grave hideth some, and the living estrang- ed; The voices that cheered ye, in silence are hushed ; The hearts that beat joyously, sorrow hath crushed ; The eyes which once brightened, your hearth with their light, Forever are quenched in the darkness of night.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. O! thouart the same, but thoucanst notrestore, The loved—the departed—thou ’rt my home no more. For ‘’tis home where the heart is,’ and mine is afar Where the Illinois rivers and broad prairies are ; There, loved ones await me and chide my delay, And the voice to me dearest cries “‘ Hasten away !”’ Youths’ loved ones! your memory can never depart, Though another hath taken your place in my heart ; I weep for the lost whom time cannot restore, But though once my loved home, it is now mine—no more! THE ANGEL’S MISSION. Soft was the night breeze, and a gentle wing,— Bore on its pinions, spicy gales like spring ; A hallowedinfluence round its path was strewn It bore a mandate from Jehovah’s throne. EWR teeta inet ect28 THE LAUREL WREATH, It paused not in its airy flight afar, Till it had wandered past each beauteous star ; It gently parted from the seraph band, To bear a mortal to that glorious land. It stooped to visit earth at break of day, Ere yet the sun had marked his shining way; But the mild rose light in the eastern sky, Proclaimed the coming of his chariot nigh. A mother’s form bent o’er a lovely child, And sought for comfort in its features wild. The angel’s wing came brooding o’er that nest, And bore the fair one to its ‘‘ home of rest.’’ *Twas noon, and now glad nature’s fair array Was mantled with the sunbeam’s brightest ray. When Lo! that angel wing came brooding nigh To seek another trophy for the sky. The infant faded with the rising dawn, Fit emblem of the mild, the beauteous morn 3 But manhood with his high, his heaven-born power, - Passed like the vapor at the noontide hour.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Eve’s shadows deep’ning in the west afar, Gave place in beauty for each silvery star. When Lo! sweet strains like those on seraph string, Wakensoft gushes from the soul’s deep spring. That wing is seen again in heaven’s blue sphere; Again it stoops to visit earth so drear. And hoary age enrapt with that soft lay, Passed gently as the day beam fades away. The seal is set, on cherub beauty fair, The brow of manhood, must that signet wear, And age, when day is glimmering in the west, Seeks for a brighter home, a ‘‘Land of Rest.’’ THE VALE OF DEATH. Where is the narrow bound Whence they who pass unblighted by the frost Of dim old age, the young, the early lost, The loved may ne’er return?30 THE LAUREL WREATH, Will the dead answer, where? Can they forth from their hollow chambers bring Tokens, or can the silent slumbering One message hither bear ? Is it by that dark tide Whose restless waters scatter memory’s tears, Where passions might, the hoarded grief of years, Alike have sunk and died ? No! ’tis not for our ken To reach the realm of shade and mystery, To catch one glimpse of that serener sky, Hid from the gaze of men. E’en if our eyes might roam Beyond one star, upon that unknown track— We may not call the dear departed back To this our fading home. If they can never stem The dreary ocean, and regain our sphere And mingle with the gay and griefworn here Yet we must go to them.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 31] The mists of death must shade Young cheeks with paleness, and the furrowed brow— The silver-chord be loosed, the strong man bow— The living meet the dead. Sister, when fast o’er thee The cold dews fall—then as undim’d at even, ‘The day beam melts into the light of Heaven’ May thy last parting be. MARINER’S SONG. I love the blue waters—my home is the sea, All dashing, all foaming, ’tis beauty to me, Midst the roar of her waves, and the dance of her spray, I will throw the dull sorrow of life away. Though her voice is loud in her caverns deep, The nymphs of mirth and melody sleep, And oft from those stranger realms below I hear the chimes of their sea harps flow.32 THE LAUREL WREATH, Tell me not of the wealth that is treasured in mines, Tell me not of the beds where the chrysolite shines— Boast not of the pearl for the maidens fair— For their brightness and beauty is garnered here. The costliest gems lie unseen in her caves, The gold drops of India are kissed by her waves, And the sparkling ruby and diamond find rest >Neath the tossing and rage of her billowy breast. There’s fear in her thunder, and pride in her roar, But peace in each wave as it dies on the shore— There’s wrath in her glance when she rises on high But smiles on her face when the moonbeams are nigh.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 33 Let barons seek ease in their old Gothic walls, And princes their pleasure in tapestried halls, I ask for my ocean home, there would I stay, Spread the sails to the breezes, away! away! THE DOVE’S ERRAND. “ Go forth! for she is gone, She is gone with the light of her wavy hair, She has past to the fields of the viewless air, She has left her dwelling lone.’’ HEMANs. Oh! stay thee not thou gentle dove; The laughing summer hours Have sung their last sweet roundelay, Above the fading flowers. And summer’s last pale roses, The autumn winds have strewn; And paler ’neath its chilling blight, The lily’s bel) hath grown. 2 o34 THE LAUREL WREATH, The summer zephyr’s gentle breath, Hath pass’d from o’er the plain, It sports in skies of sunnier climes, Beyond the sounding main. Oh! seek those sunny climes, thou bird! Bird of the glancing wing ; In those fair gardens, chant thy notes, Thy sweetest matins sing. Oh! stay not at the bubbling fount, Thy beauteous wing to lave; Oh! stay not in the woodland shade, Or at the ocean wave. For the ice-king comes from his sparry cave, He comes with his chilling breath ; And the green earth, withers *neath his tread, And yields to his touch of Death. But, seek thou out on the pleasant shore, Of a gently murmuring stream ; A fair and aye! a holy spot, As its sacred dust may seem. And by that grave, thou warbling bird, Above that rising mound ; Fill with full swelling harmony, The sacred silence round.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. The gushing tides of my spirit’s flow, Death may not change, O Dove! So sweetly sing o’er that lowly grave, Of a mourner’s deathless love. REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. “There is a voice from the grave sweeter than song—there is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living.’””—WasuHINGTON Irvina. Oh! ask me not to join the throngs of revelry and mirth, To mingle with the galiety, the giddiness of earth— Oh ! ask me not to turn from joys, far sweeter to my soul, Than those that in the song and dance, o’er fashions votaries roll. Oh! let me cherish, let me keep, in solitude alone, The dear remembrance of those, who from this earth are gone;36 THE LAUREL WREATH, The beautiful, the lovely, who have faded even now, Ere the chilling hand ofsorrow, placed its signet on their brow. Their voices like sweet melody, were wont to greet mine ear, Their gentle words have quelled my grief, and calmed each rising fear; And never willl blot away such memories from my heart, But in each fond remembrance, still will they bear a part. How sweet, when spring’s fresh breezes blow, to sit their tombs beside, And think of those young, lovely plants, that in their spring-time died— To cast her first pale blossoms low, upon their sleeping bed, Fit emblems of the peautiful, the young, the early dead. J love to listen to those voices, as they speak in memory’s ear— They tell me of the joyous past, and the sad future cheer ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 37 Hope with her guiding finger points, she beckons grief away— She whispers, ‘“‘ we again shall meet, in realms of glorious day.”’ Oh! brighter let the spirit’s flame, on memory’s altar burn— And fresher let the flow’ rets bloom, above affec- tion’s urn; And when glad nature in her course shakes off stern winter’s gloom, Still will my thoughts be clustering, round the slumberers of the tomb. HYMN OF THE MORNING. I heard the knell of night, just as the star Of day flung o’er the heavens its purple Mantle. Dawn lay upon the hills lightly, As moonbeams on the face of slumbering Innocence. Mists from the winding waters Took the elegant flush, and in the rich, The burning glow of morn, melted away. On the winds, the laugh of waking earth38 THE LAUREL WREATH, Went forth, and all her vocal places shouted For very joy at the glad sound. From the depths Of glen and valley, darkness fled like dreams From memory, and of her swift retreating Left notraces. The tears that night had wept, Opprest the summer foliage, and hung Their trembling radiance on the drenched leaves, Then as thin exhalations rose and hid Their glory in the clouds. The flowers bent down In dewy sleep thro’ the long midnight hush, Upward meekly turned their delicate stems, To meet the gaze of that unchangeable Bye, which duly as it glanced upon them Folded back their petals, and op’ed their hues And incense to a startled world. Zephyrs Shook the beams that played im the green arches ; And the ancient pines murmur’d unwonted Music—no dirge-like tones, but melodious Chimes; tuneful as bells heard oe’r the seas—OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Swept thro’ the dark and sad solemnity Of their dim shades. Beauty and harmony Like the spelled breathings of invisible Powers, lent their own images at this rapt Hour, and by their magic inspiration Filled my lifted heart with foolish yearnings For an immortality like this. HYMN OF THE NIGHT. I love thy calm and solemn power. O Night! To gaze into thy sad mysterious Face—dim as though angels moved above it, And o’er shadowed its divine expression With their wings. It is so deeply still, That e’en the gentlest motions of the soft 4nd musical wind are all too heavy For the holy quiet of this lonely Hour. The faint ominous rustle of leaves As they slowly fall—the insect’s murmurs Startled from its rest within the shut flowers— Are the only sounds that trouble the air.40 THE LAUREL WREATH, Amid a heaving panoply of clouds, Walketh the moon like a pale glorious Spirit, and on their murky tops the snowy Gleam of her etherial nature rests. Thro’ the valley is diffused a twilight’s Purity, while darkness in her awful night Sleeps on the mountains. The inconstant stars Are out. In the clear waveless blue they float Like shapes of light, and o’er its azure depths They hither send their blessed smile, lovely As the tremulous fires that gild the crest Of ocean. Their goings forth are noiseless As the feet of seraphs, and their shadows Are but tender glances falling on us In all the gentleness of mystery— Thou hast a legion in thy train, O Night! Who sweep thro’ thy vast animate domain, And leave the traces of unnumbered heavenly Footsteps. If in the mazes of a hushed Creation, spiritual beings tread— If their calm presence broods on all around, And folds its wings on frail humanity—OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. If from their lips unearthly whisperings Of piety and heaven fall on the ears Of slumbering mortals—if they bow Their veiled yet pure and glorious natures To the feebleness of ours, with the hearts Meet worship, I shall hail the gathering Of thy shades, and ask thy mystic benison. MOURN NOT FOR HER. Mourn not for her, whose soul Released from mortal woe, and mortal care, Is wafted upward to its final goal ; Behold her there! Her eye no tear to dim! Her soul by sorrow never more opprest, Her robes wrought by the righteousness of him Who bids the weary rest! A wreath of fadeless flowers Divinely twined around her angel brow, Her harp tuned to the strain in heaven’s high bowers, Of endless victory now.42 THE LAUREL WREATH, ‘“ Worthy the Lamb,”’ they sing! The spotless lamb to be exalted thus, “* Worthy the Lamb,’’ heaven’s echoing arches ring— For he was slain for us! From the full fount above Her spirit drinks and is athirst no more ; She feasts on boundless knowledge, boundless love, Her cup of bliss flows o’er. How time began! How the foundations of the earth were laid! Life, nature, death, Heaven’s universal plan Is all to her displayed. Mourn ye not then for her, >T were sin to shed one tear, for one so blest,— Mourn for yourselves ye weepers, who have ne’er Secured this home of rest. Mourn ye the mother’s fate ; The father’s fondest hopes untimely cross’d ; The brother’s bleeding spirit desolate ; The friends who loved the lost!OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Hark, from the tomb! An echo borne upon the viewless air Strikes through the stillness of the Spirit’s gloom Prepare! prepare! That step so light, The tranquil sweetness of that angel brow, That look of gentleness, that eye so bright, Where are they now 2 Lean not on dust! Raise high your hopes above this scene of care, Fix on eternity the spirit’s trust— Your home is there! THE APPROACH OF SPRING. ——* And spring return’d Bringing the earth her lovely things again, All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, A young sweet spirit gone.’’—HEmaANnNs. The spring is bursting forth injoy and gladness ; ’Tis bearing fast away stern winter’s sadness ;THE LAUREL WREATH, 44 The unchained rivulet is brightly flowing, The whispering gales in freshness now are blowing ; But to my heart they bear a sound of sorrow, No gleamof gladness waits for me to-morrow, For gales and zephyrs cannot break the sleep- ing, Of those our childhood’s friends, for whom We’re weeping. The flowrets “neath cold winter’s mantle lying, Were pale and withered, and we thought them dying ; But they in renovated beauty meet us, And with soft fragrance in each gale they greet us ; But, ah! to me no pleasure they are bearing, My saddened spirit, still the shade is wearing, With untold grief my wounded heart is swell- ing, Some angel spirit, bear me to your dwelling. The little bird that carols in its lightness, The sunbeam dancing in its glittering bright- ness,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 45 The broad dark foliage of the cypress waving, The modest violet in the streamlet laving, Each beauty that fair nature’s hand is spread- ing, Each little blessing o’er my pathway shedding, Serve but to lead my thoughts to higher plea- sures, Where lie the boundless mines of hidden trea- sures, E’en to that land where flowrets ne’er shall wither, But there by virtue’s fountain bloom forever. MORNING STAR. Ten thousand stars of purest ray Begirt the heavenly throne ; Ten thousand suns in bright array Their maker’s glories own. But one is there whose lustre, far Out-shines the brightest gem, °*Tis known on earth the Morning Star That rose on Bethlehem!THE LAUREL WREATH, It rose on earth and gathered here The bright and shining throng, Who now around his throne appear In everlasting song. “Light of the world,’’ that star shall be, Till time’s dark reign is o’er ; The glory of Eternity, When time shall be no more. MY SISTER’S GRAVE. “*She was astranger, home with allits pleasant light was far, The deep dark waters rolled between her and that guiding star.”’ Oh! for the wild bird’s glancing wing, To skim earth’s surface o’er, And soon upon its pinions fleet, I’d seek a distant shore. Far from these regions of the North, Toward other climes I'd rise, In haste my eager flight to take To bright and southern skies.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. To one dear place, one lovely spot, Thither my course should be ; I'd seek it ’mid the tempest’s rage, And o’er the sounding sea. I'd hasten swiftly o’er the deep, I'd touch the darksome wave, I'd seek that lovely spot and weep, It is my sister’s grave. But ah! the wish indeed is vain The wild bird’s wing to try; Oh! could I now but set me down By that lone grave and sigh ; Could I but tell my treasured griefs Upon that hallowed mound, Methinks her spirit hovering near, W ould listen to the sound. They tell me that her own sweet flowers, Around in beauty bloom; That the fair rose she loved to train, Now blossoms by her tomb. They tell me that the orange groves With sweetness scent the air; And that the skies in southern climes, Are beautiful and fair.THE LAUREL WREATH, Sister! thy spirit was my guide, *Twas my directing ray, Since thou art gone my pilgrimage Is but a weary way. But sister! like an angel bright, Still to my heart be near, Oh! raise this gloomy veil of woe, My sorrowing spirit cheer. Most peaceful may thy slumbering be, Thou gentle hearted one! Though far away from this sweet vale, Thine early childhood’s home. In fancy now I often stand Beside that beauteous spot ; In memory’s garden still shall bloom, The sweet ‘‘ Forget me not.”’OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE, THE PHANTOM ISLE. “Eivery one who has made a sea voyage must have witnessed the deceptions caused by the clouds resting upon the horizon, especially about sunset and sunrise; which the eye, assisted by the imagination and desire, easily converts into the wished for land. ‘This is particularly thé case within the tropics, where the clouds at sunset assume the most singular appearances.’’—JRVING. THE isle! the isle! its brilliant shores arise And deepen in the glow of evening skies, 450 THE LAUREL WREATH, Those airy forms that wear the twilight hue, That laugh in sunlight and repose in dew ; Break on the sight like stars whose dying ray, Fitfully gleams above the rising day ; The distant fanes and domes of dazzling white, In the faint beam shine more intensely bright ; The angry waves have ceased to rage and roar, They only seem to lave that radiant shore, As if some sylvan genii of the strand Had swept the foaming surges with her wand; And towering rocks their baseless summits rear, Hanging as if by spell-work in the air. Hills, crown’d with verdure,rise to glad the eye, With broad savannahs that beyond them lie ; And shadowy cliffs wreathed with the mists of even, Hide their dim outlines in the azure heaven. Now the fair banks are blushing, now they slow But faintly in the sleeping sea below ; And yet again the scene is floating there Like some soft cloud that waves in upper air, Then sinks forever, where the glowing west Lulls every wandering beam to rosy rest.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Bidding us dream that beings of the sk y> Rove in her glades and on her bosom lie; That in these haunts of dell and forest tree, None but the birds of brightest wing can be : That on her earth perpetual green reposes And all her vales are crimson’d 0’ er with roses ; That in her streams those precious atoms shine, Which ope the silver vein and golden mine, And to exulting hearts and wishful eyes, Make of this lonely isle a Paradise. But all hath faded—melting one by one, Hue after hue—shade after shade is gone, “Till no faint lines the sad memoria] trace, That this gay phantom had a dwelling place Oh! is it thus the sunbright beach that gave Its glorious image to the gilded wave , And on the blue expanse of ocean sea, Looked like a lovely gift of Araby, Lent from that happy clime a guiding star To an unfading promised land afar ? Can clouds thus wear the hectic flush of life, And billows shadow calmness in their strife 1 The daring and the timid thither flew In thin light barks to gain the enchanting view,52 THE LAUREL WREATH, But ere they measured half the trembling waste, On which they launched with hope and reckless * haste, Silently, slowly with the day beams, set The shore, the vales, the gleaming minaret. Oft-times at eve those shapes of light are seen Clad in an autumn red, or summer green 5 Full oft the illusion doth the heart beguile, YVet—oh beware—seek not the Phantom Isle! GUARDIAN ANGELS. “Are they not ministering spirits, sent to minister unto the heirs of salvation.’’*— Do they not guard us here? Do they not whisper in the evening air ? When we are mingling at the hour of prayer, Are they not also near ? Love’s silver, fragile chord Is broken not, when they the loved are gone, It trembles in our hearts, and its blest tone Lives in each tender word.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. And if they know us yet, If still their spirits fondly deeply love ; Can they as ministering ones above Our fear and need forget 1— Do they not watch our rest ? In pleasant dreams are they not ever near To give them the bright colouring they wear And make our visions blest # Does not a father keep, A silent vigil o’er his child below ; And in the spirit land does he not know— its waking,and its:sloep 7 on a Sole Does not a miother’s eye, Still guarding, view her lovely household band; And as a viewless seraph with them stand Watching them silently ? Yes, the departed come, They gather round us at the twilight hour ; They whisper by a dove-like gentle power, Oh! seek a better home!THE LAUREL WREATH, They leave us not alone, When the cold heartless world flies from our side, And pleasure’s cup is dashed in sorrow’s tide, The loved ones are not gone— Faith whispers they are given To guard our steps, to lead us where we stray, To trace for us their own unclouded way, To endless bliss and heaven. THE FLOWER OF INNOCENCE. Ge ~ There is a little pale bjue @oyver common in New England; known by the names of “ Inno- cence’? and “Forget me not.’? (Houstonia Cerulea.) Itis familiar to the eye of every child, and becomes associated inthe mind with the happy hours of childhood. A lady of New England, at a distance from her native place, was one day seeking for her little favorite: for a long time her search was vain, when to her great delight, the banks of a purling rivulet appeared dotted over with the Flower of In-OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 55 nocence.’’ She threw herself upon the inviting turf, and feasted her eyes once more with the scene, which had long been to her, as a dream of the past. The following lines were occa- sioned by this simple incident : Ah! ’tis the same! I know it well, I loved it when a child ; It greeted me in every dell, In every forest wild. And oh! how oft in childhood’s hour On mossy bank reclined ; I’ve wished a life like thine sweet flower, As lovely, pure, refined. Months, years have passed—I gaze again On thine unaltered hue ; F Meek dweller of the glade and glen, My childhood’s joys renew ! Oh! give me back its visions bright, Its smiles and e’en its tears ; Give back its innocent delights, Its hopes of future years! Thou art unchanged! the same pure ray Beams from thy golden eye ; And still, through all thy little day, Thou gazest on the sky.56 THE LAUREL WREATH, A lowly life like thine sweet flower, Let such to me be given; Mine eye, unseeking pomp and power, Like thine be fixed on Heaven. THE STRANGER’S BURIAL AT SEA. *‘Unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.’’ i The ruder winds and storms were hushed, He Within their dismal caves, And the black and restless ocean moaned, with its sullen flow of waves— And o’er the pall of midnight skies, no star or moonbeam shed, A solitary gleam, to-light the burial of the dead.— A rush, a sound like smothered wrath, rose from the vessel’s side, As down, far down, a lifeless form sank in the troubled tide ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 57 And the meeting of the broken surge chimed with the ceaseless roar Of many waters—then the sea rolled calmly as before. No sounds of mortal agony were wafted by the breeze, No knell for the departed died along the lonely seas, No long loud wail of tenderness—no echo of despair Rose from the murmuring flood and died upon the midnight air. The deep’s eternal mutterings, its distant thundering swell, Far—far along the cloudy main rung like a passing bell, And the prophetic sea-bird flew forth from her secret cave, And widely flapt her wing, and shrieked above the stranger’s grave. And none within that gallant bark, now grieved or cared for him ; None as 4 rite of piety, chanted his requiem ;58 THE LAUREL WREATH, But cheered by fantasies of hope, how peaceful was their sleep: For o’er the lone and buried youth, they had no tears to weep. She who in gentle boyhood watched each change of cheek and brow, With her angelic ministry, could not defend him now ; And they who bowed at the same knee, loved the same tree and flower, Heard not his parting sigh, nor knew the terror of this hour. Could he have laid his throbbing head upon that mother’s breast, Could he have heard the earnest prayer of those who loved him best,— And had his dying eyes been closed by some dear kindred hand; He would not, thus pnblest, have died, far from his native land. Deep ’mid the undiscovered shrines of ocean is his tomb ; No human eye hath ever looked on its appalling gloom ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 59 A nameless and forgotten thing his unknown corse will be, Lost. mid the heaps of dead that strew this mighty sepulchre. Thus many a youthful sun has set, in clouds and stormy sky, Unbroken by a ray of hope, or earthly sympa- thy— But if to them inheritance, among the blest is given, ’Tis well that early they exchanged, this vale of tears for Heaven. “OUR STAR.” Why do we gaze with earnest eye, On the serene, the evening star ; That meekly in the western sky J Shines from afar? Is it that twilight’s blushes throw A rosy coloring on its gleam ; We watch its early rising glow, Its latest beam #Teena eaten a 60 THE LAUREL WREATH, Or that it leads the vestal throng, Who watch amid the summer heaven: Or shines the loveliest among The orbs of even? Though eve her glittering gates unbar, To crown this herald of the night ; Because it is our chosen star, We love its light. A shining talisman—whose ray Will lead its erring votaries back, When aught may lure their steps astray From love’s own track. *Tis not like earthly spells, that break Beneath the touch of wizard power; Or magic harps, that only wake, At the charmed hour. But the pale planet ever burns, As when at first we marked its flame; Thither each eye as fondly turns, *Tis still the same.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. The same sweet star—a holy spy, From its high watch towers oft will glance, To note with a celestial eye— Our vigilance. Oh! when thy heart would turn from all Affection’s paths, and wander far From those unsullied founts, recall— Our gentle star. TO MY SISTER. ‘¢ We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing, And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough ; And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing, Soft as thy smile, thou shouldst be with us now.’’—HEMANS. Return, oh! thou departed one, Return again to me That love-lit smile upon thy brow, I would that I might see.THE LAUREL WREATH, For bright hath been that glance on me, Sister! in by-gone days; And the deep impress that it left, Still round my memory plays. It fell all bright and beautiful, Like sunbeam on my track; And its persuasive, speaking voice, Oft called the wanderer back. It woke high hopes, in this sad heart By its all potent spell, And caused ambition’s fiery throes, My fainting breast to swell. Its sunny, cheerful ray fell sweet Upon the couch of pain, And raised the fainting soul, as flowers By Hermon’s dewy rain. And in dark hours of loneliness, That melancholy smile, And soft arm, twined within my own, Did my sad cares beguile. And when a mother’s gentle voice Like flute notes stirred the air, The smile that played upon thy brow, Oh! it was passing fair.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. A father’s words, to thy soft cheek The glowing smile would send, And at a sister’s joy, that look With hers would fondly blend. A heavenly glance, on that last morn, From thee the sunlight met ; The chill of Death was on thy brow When cloudlessly he set. And there, upon thy marble cheek A smile of beauty lay, Lit by the glance, thine eye had caught, Of an eternal day. THE VOICE OF THE WIND. “QO many a voice is thine, thov wind ! full many a voice is thine, From every scene thy wing o’ersweeps, thou bearest back a sign.’’ From thy deep secret chambers, Whence art thou rushing forth ? Is it to sweep o’er southern plains, Or the cold and wint’ry North #THE LAUREL WREATH, Has king Eolus from his cave, Unloosed his followers now? * And wouldst thou fain be sweeping Yon mountain’s craggy brow ? Upon the calm and summer sea, Thou dost thy station take, And by thy shrill and piercing tone, The angry surges wake : The sea bird knows thee, as he dips In the bright foamy wave} And the mermaid, ’mid her revelries In the ocean’s coral cave. “Full many a voice is thine, oh wind! Full many a voice is thine,’’ Most sweetly do thy zephyrs float Amid the tall, dark pine. I hear them whispering pleasantly In my own favourite grove, Bearing back voices to my ear, Sweet voices that I love. Thou art a welcome visiter Beside the couch of pain ; Thou bearest to the fainting cheek The rose of health again.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. The drooping vine-leaves joy to feel Thy breath amid the bowers, And we hail thy gentle coming With the spring’s first budding flowers. I sometimes fancy that the wind Bears back a pleasant tone, I listen then to catch the strain, But ah! ’tis quickly gone. Full many a voice, full many a laugh That once were glad and free, I fancy now I hear, but ah! ’Tis thee! ’tis only thee. Like a proud bird, no power can stay, No mortal hand can bind ; Free and unfettered is thy course, Thou ever changing wind. And thy broad pinions rushing by Eolian music make, We joy to hear thy melodies, They bid our spirits wake. And sometimes at the midnight hour Thou bearest to the ear Strains of unearthly harmony ; Oh! they are sweet to hear. 5THE LAUREL WREATH, Wake, them, again, O Harp of Winds! If such may be thy power, For music hath a witching charm, At the lonely midnight hour. Breathe gently o’er our spirits, then, And let them ever be Like thine, on pleasure’s airy wings, As joyous and as free. Onward, forever is thy course, So let our spirits press, Till they are landed at the port Of perfect happiness. REMINISCENCES. When the soul retires within itself, and, freed from other cares, finds delightful occupation in the simple exercise of memory, no remembrance aw so refreshes and gladdens, as that connected ill with the lights and shadows that fling their ul faint gleams o’er sunny childhood and her early haunts. Like the tints of a summer skyOR AFPECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 67 they glow with deep refulgence, ’till, one by one, they mingle and blend in the mellow hue of evening twilight. The spirit loves to seek that spot, so ever- green, where, in sanctified repose, it feels not the sullying breath of earth, marring its golden visions, or aught that bears the impress of material things, to disturb that unmixed plea- sure, which lies in the dim imagery fancy en- graves silently there.—It is a hidden foun- tain, whence are welling new draughts for the exhausted saddened heart. When life presents the dreary aspect of loneliness, and no ministering one is near to dissipate the gloom, when, shut from all inter- course with earth, in its endless varieties of foveliness—when excluded from communion with the heavens, from all companionship with the stars—from all fellowship with the sea— then it is that life’s spring time, with its thou- sand joyous associations rushes to the memory —overwhelming the heart with subdued yet glad emotion. Pleasant is it to trace the flight of fancy’s wing, as it measures those infinite regions for68 THE LAUREL WREATH, thought that lie between the threshold of home and the bright summit of fame. How it hovers o’er those blessed shades where the golden hours of childhood’s summer have fled almost unconsciously. Perchance the indefatigable student in re- volving some scheme for future eminence, is led to that train of association that recalls the early dreams of his boyhood. Home voices are mingling with them, and every spot where his first musings were indulged and cherished, now rise before him as sanctuaries containing all that is pure and holy, all the frame-work of his new chimeras—the germs of his scarce- ly realised happiness, like the echo of some long forgotten lay, heard in a stranger land, like the verdant olive branch to the weary dove flying over the abyss of waters. Thus it is to those who have known the blessedness of being one of a happy domestic circle, of listening fo a pious mother’s kind instructions, and of reading in that sweet face that o’er our childhood shone, the lineaments of that im- perishable love which sways her every motive. ‘* The captive in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell’’OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 69 feels something of a mournful joy in scanning the past so soon melted from his vision. The mariner, now on the pathless ocean, looks back with a sailor’s pride, to the stream by the cottage door, where, in reckless gaity, he launched his frail shallop, mooring it beneath the trembling shade of the forest. The poet finds a theme for loftiest verse among his native hills and vales. There is the old nook where he was wont to resort for communion with the bards of prophecy and song, and there is the ancient wood where he roamed like a free mountain child, to gather from the mossy rock, or drooping flower, or faded leaf, some- thing, round which he might cluster the simple and beautiful fancies that filled his imagination. Cold and callous indeed must be the heart that thrills not with lively emotion at the recollection of home scenes, and early days. Has Death unbound the wreath, and parted the group once so happily united—still though the retrospect is sorrowful, it has not lost its pleasures. It excites that pensive flow of feeling that is borne along by a yet deeper tide of enjoyment.0 THE LAUREL WREATH, Let us then often review them, engraving indelibly, on fancy’s diversified page, every treasured outline, every brilliant trace of love, faith, and hope, that we have once nurtured in childish fondness under the sheltering and kindly influences of home, ——— A CHILD’S CONVERSATION WITH A STAR. Star! beautiful Star! I would go and dwell with thee. I have sought a home in the forest grove, I have wandered for hours in the haunts I love, I have sat by the side of the murmuring brook, In some grassy dell or sequestered nook ; I have walked at “‘moonlight’s fairy hour,”’ Through the garden paths to the vine-clad bower, And ever when gazing on thy fair face, Have I tasted the purest happiness. Star! beautiful star! I would go and dwell with thee, For in thee alone, I read My future destiny.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Child! lovely child! Dost thou seek to dwell with me # 1 have shone on thee through the stilly night, No clouds can obscure my radiant light ; Thy choicest blessings have come from above, I have watched o’er thee with a parent’s love ; Thou shalt taste of that bliss which no sorrow can quell, For with me does thy guardian angel dwell ; Thou shalt learn that naught can the pleasure mar, Of her who inhabits thy favourite star. Child! lovely child! Thou shalt come and dwell with me, For with me alone is linked Thy future destiny. Star! radiant star! Thy light hath perfect power, I gaze at it oft in the dark midnight, For it tarries not till morning light; And when morn breaks, and the king of day Spreads far and wide his powerful ray, I fly from the world, and in fancy roam To thee, sweet star, my spirit’s home.THE LAUREL WREATH, Oh! would I were free and might soar away, From the gloom of earth to its cloudless day. Star! radiant star! I long to dwell with thee, In thy mild beams I trace My future destiny. Child! fairest child! Thou dwellest now in a star, It hath rolled in its orbit for ages on, And soon the end of its course will come; Then when this earth shall be no more, Fly swiftly away to my blissful shore, 1 will join thee there to that spirit band, Who have sought long since the better land. Thou shalt strike on thy harp the richest strains Where the angel of peace eternally reigns,— Child! fairest child! Thou shalt come and dwell with me, And in me shalt find revealed Thy future destiny.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. THE BROKEN HEART. He o’er her bent as with entrancing grace, Her fingers swiftly o’er the lute chords flew, And drew from thence, such notes as we may deem An angel doth, from harp of gold on high. And softly and seducingly he breathed Into her ear, those sweet beguiling words Which ever on a woman’s heart, do fall Like strains of choicest music. And he gazed Into her eyes, with his so eloquent With the deep language, which no lip may speak, And in her “‘ heart of hearts ”’ she felt the gaze, And hushed the very pulse of life, to drink That burning glance of love, into her soul. She was a being, such as when we see We dream of other, fairer, holier, climes, As if by chance, by some misfortune dire,74 THE LAUREL WREATH, It thence had strayed into our planet drear, And could no more return. He who could look on her, and dream of ill, Or think of sporting with the gushing depths Of love, within that unsuspecting heart ; Could within sight of Heaven plan villany, And in an angel’s presence, choose a fiend. With ceaseless toil, and unremitting care, And shew of love as guileless as her own, He strove ; until his slightest tone, or smile, Were sweeter, dearer, to her heart and ear, Than all earth’s melody and joy beside. With an embrace that thrilled through every nerve, Long after he she loved had passed away, He left her; as he said by fate’s decree, To seek his fortune ’neath the fervid heat Of southern sun. But constantly the prayer Of her young spirit, rose to Heaven for him. Days, weeks, were numbered fast, her smile was quelled, Her gay laugh hushed, and soundless was her lute,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. For silence deep and ominous to her,— Concealed his fate. The tidings came too soon, That he whose vow was made in Heaven’s broad face To love but her, now filled another’s arms. None saw the tear drop gather in her eye, As slow the canker worm crept to her heart ; Perchance, he might have seen her fair cheek blanch ; Just for an instant—but it passed away, And the sweet bird of song, her lute resumed. And now enchantment seemed upon its strings, And words of falsehood, treachery, and wrong, Were mingled withits tones; which made the cheek Turn pale, and tear drops dim the list’ner’s eye, And lips with sympathetic anguish writhe. Still on her cheek remained a fadeless flush 3 And her eye gleamed with an unearthly light 5 And her lips always parted with a smile. She sat her down one balmy summer’s eve, By the sweet lute to sing a song unheard ; But listeners were near, and sounds like those No earthly hand can ever strike again.76 THE LAUREL WREATH, It was a melody of touching tone, Which never mortal ear had heard before, And with each note came sadly o’er the soul, The mournful cadence of a breaking heart. The music ceased! and waking from the deep Entrancing magic of the thrilling strain, They moved to see, whether it were indeed The hand they loved, that thus entranced the soul, Or some strayed angel, from his heavenly home. With one hand prest upon her heart, as if The last, last string had snapped so painfully That Death itself had come to her unfelt ; The beautiful and senseless clay reclined, Eternal silence on the seraph lip, And on the brow, heaven’s deepand holy calm. Revenge itself could but have asked, that he Who wrought this ruin, might have seen her there.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. THE FORESTER’S LAMENT. “The pleasant life of the island was at an end; the dream in the shade by day; the slumber during the sultry noontide by the fountain, or the streams, or under the spread- ing palm tree ; and the song, the dance, and the game in the mellow evening when summoned to their simple amusements by the rude Indian drum.’’—IRVING. They came—Oh! bright was the day they came To these isles unseen before, The high, the proud of Castilian name, To dwell on this sunlit-shore. Far over the main, that raises its blue And darkling waves on high, They came! our groves and our hills to view, The children of the sky ! We had dreamed of climes with purer air, Dales robed in a fresher green, Blest regions more serenely fair Than the red man’s eye had seen.78 THE LAUREL WREATH, We had dream/’d that from these homes of light, Glad spirits wing’d their way To our bowers—that smiled ’neath skies less bright, And were deck’d with wreaths less gay. When the trumpet’s clear, but startling tone Was sounding thro’ forest and glen, And every vale in the sunbeams shone With the pageant of steel-clad men ; We hail’d the day that had seen a sail First whit’ning o’er our seas ; And we blessed in song the light-wing’d gale, That moor’d them beneath our trees. We joyed for we visioned their feet had prest The heights of a holier sphere ; We joyed that spirits should stoop fo rest, And love to wander here. We gave them the off ’rings spring had hung On our loaded boughs and vines, While our warriors danced and our maidens sung, Where no more the fire light shines.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. At the greenwood feast, in the mellow light Of the moon we gave them cheer, And our sons of pride, and chiefs of might, And dark-eyed ones were there. Are they fallen now, whose souls quick ray, Flashed joy on the festive hour? Have the brave and lovely drooped away, Beneath the spoilers power? Go, ye to our rivers, and they shall tell Of the noble heroic blood, That deepen’d their hue at every swell, And purpled their shining flood ! They seem to murmur how hate and guile, Bore semblance of truth and love; How beings who lured with gift and smile, Were not of the pure above. Like the deadly wind that lulled ere it crept To the sleepers on whom it breathed— They lifted the lance while the mighty slept, And stood with the sword unsheath’d. 71980 THE LAUREL WREATH, Now the turf is green where our chieftains rest, And the bending palm waves high, O’er many a stern and gallant breast, That has gloried thus to die. The rural feast, with the dance and lay, In the smile of the evening beams, With our glorious ones has passed away To the land of song and dreams. No relic of stone, or faded bower, Of the Indians’ name can tell— And no ruined shrine doth mark the hour, Or the graves where our heroes fell. But the night winds now, and the sad’ning tone That come from cave and tree— The seabird’s shriek, and the ocean’s moan, Will their only requiem be.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. REST IN HEAVEN. How bright seems earth in youth’s gay morn, When the sweet smiles of love, adorn Each pleasure tasted here ! When the young heart may loved ones greet, And at each turning friendship meet,, Nor for the future fear. When one by one these joys are fled, When smiling love’s estranged ; And friends are with the silent dead, How bitter is the change ! How sweet to meet When thus the heart is riven, The gentle yet abiding hope That still there’s rest in Heaven! When some high end by man attained, And by his strenuous effort gained, Gives joy unto his heart; When is fulfilled each half-formed wish, And when enjoying all the bliss, The things of earth impart ; 682 THE LAUREL WREATH, By forceful strokes tis rent away, And he is ’reft of all; And (worse than poverty’s array) Man triumphs in his fall ;s— How pleasing, appeasing, The promise God has given, That when all earth’s a scene of woe, Rest, shall remain in Heaven! When age with stealthy step comes on, And youth with all its joy is gone, And manhood’s active prime ; When memory fails him day by day, And youth’s bright visions all decay, However once sublime ; He sees the barque of time move on, Earth’s waters swift retreat, And soon a vast eternity, His wildered gaze must meet, How meekly, and sweetly, From earth, that man will sever, If he’s assured, he has secured, A rest in Heaven for ever!OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. NATURE. We hear the voice of Nature, In every passing breeze ; We hear its low sweet whisperings Amid the forest trees. We see the hand of Nature, In every opening flower That blooms, that fades, and withers, In Nature’s rural bower. We breathe the breath of Nature, In every scented gale ; That’s wafted in its loveliness, O’er every hill and dale. We view the works of Nature, In every falling leaf ; They tell that man is transient, That life is short and brief. We hear the voice of Nature, In every bubbling brook ; That seeks a shady winding, Within the flowery nook.THE LAUREL WREATH, We see the smile of Nature, When spring with beauty crowned ; Returns and holds her sceptre, And Nature smiles around. Yes! man was formed by Nature, He’s Nature’s brightest scheme 5; Let him seek Nature’s dwelling, With its everchanging green. Since breeze, and flower, and zephyr, Spread joy and smiles abroad ; ! And tell in plaintive accents, To look to Nature’s God. MY BROTHER’S GRAVE. Wen I visit the home of my youth, the scene of my earliest, and most fondly cherished associations; the mention of one spot will ever send a thrill of sadness through my heart, until the warm life blood shall cease to course through these veins, and the pulses that nowOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 85 vibrate with pleasure or pain, shall be in still- ness locked. It is the grave where lies a frail mouldering casket, which once contained one of earth’s noblest spirits. It is the last resting place of one whose brilliant light was early shrouded in gloom; of one who exulting in manhood’s con- scious pride, and possessing a thirst for know- ledge, limited only by the universe of God; fell as ina moment, pierced by his arrow, whose aim iseversure. Heslept beneath the waters, and the cold surf enwrapt his form as in a winding sheet; and sealed the eye, that once was wont to beam with life and hope, and bright- ly burning intellect illumined. Yes! at the vesper hour, when the glorious light of day was fading, and the peaceful rest of holy time ap- proaching; the voice of ocean waves mourn- fully chanting his requiem, came borne upon the breath of even, chilling the hearts that long had beat in unison with his, and casting the mourner’s veil over the most mirthful counte- nances. Is there no power to bind thee, Oh! relentless Death! and snatch the gay, the beau- tiful and brave from thine embrace? Must86 THE LAUREL WREATH, thou forever walk unchained among the sons of men; aiming thy poisonous arrows where thou wilt; fixing thy home at the very seat of life ; snapping the tender cord that binds the spirit toe its earthly tenement ; breaking the golden bowl ere it is half filled; and stopping each revolv- ing wheel before its circle is complete ? Say ! couldst thou not withhold thine arm and suffer that frail bark to glide unharmed over the rolling wave? Was it for this he left his child- hood’s home and all the fond endearments of parental love; to tread for years the classic field, that he might gain by constant daily care, and ceaseless midnight toil, a student’s dear bought fame? Was it for this he strove with buoyant step and fearless heart to pierce even the hidden shrines of wisdom’s temple ; walked With delight among the groves where all the Gods and Goddesses of yore held late their nightly orgies ; and drank the blood of many a hapless devotee offered in sacrifice to propitiate the shades of the departed? Was it for this he wandered oft among the muses’ consecrated haunts ; unrolled with curious eye the leaves whereon the Sybilline decrees were writ ; readOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 87 on each folded leaf a language fraught with in- terest, and traced in every verdant tree and foaming waterfall some mark of deep design, of omnipresent Deity? Was itto mingle with thy dust, oh! earth, another relic of mortality, the sea reluctantly gave up its precious charge ; that friends in bitter untold agony might look upon the wreck of cherished hopes, and warm affections ; entwine a myrtle wreath around the rudely broken shaft; and then yield to thy cold embrace the form upon whose brow was stamped the signet of the conqueror Death 7— The last sad act is over. The grave hath opened wide and closed again to hide its trea- sure from the eye alike of friend and foe: yet when “the curfew tolls the knell of parting day,’’ I love to wander thither, and kneel upon the mound that covers dust so sacred and so dear. I often trace the spirit’s flight, and ask myself: shall we know and love each other in another world? Will father, mother, brothers and sisters bow in an unbroken circle at the Saviour’s feet? As I have leaned upon the stone of a little infant, whose lips have long since learned the language of the skies, I have88 THE LAUREL WREATH, said : tell me beautiful one! hast thou found among the angel bands a single tendril to clasp around a bud so early broken from the parent stem? It answered: On that fatal night, my brother perished ’mid the wreck of waters and the dash of angry surges, I flew on wings ce- lestial, and as the destroying angel laved his dark pinions in the broad sea foam, I whispered to the lost, “‘Oh! cling not trembler to life’s fragile bark,’’ but yield thy soul to him who gave and now recalls theeto himself. Andthen I caught the struggling spirit and bore it quick- ly to its own bright home above. We find no strangers here: the song which seraphs sing hath not one harsh discordant note. Washed in the same redeeming blood, clad in the same pure spotless robe, the bliss of one is shared alike by all. As surely as thou knowest that the fair *‘ Queen of Night,’? whoso often veils her silvery face in clouds, shall shed her beams again upon thee brightly as before; so surely ' shall thy departed friend, though shrouded fora while in the darkness of the tomb, rise again with renewed life, diffusing around thee a holier light, and kindling within thy soul, anOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 89 undying flame of love to him who hath taken away “the sting of death; the victory of the grave.”’ “Then let his grave with rising flowers be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on his breast ; There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow, While angels with their silvery wings 0’er- shade The ground now sacred by his relics made.’’ LOVE AND MEMORY. There are spirits that fly thro’ the fields of air, Who are watching o’er mortal joy and care, They comfort the lonely, who pine unblest, For kindly hearts where their own may rest. They come tothe weary with dreams and sleep, And they dry the tears that mourners weep ; They wander by, when the stars are out, And eve’s pale planet is on her route,90 THE LAUREL WREATH, When flowers are hiding their leaves of light, And song is stirred by the bird of night : They cross our paths, but their silent tread Is soft as the step of the ghostly dead, And they leave no trace of their earth-ward way, Like a fitful flame or a meteor’s ray. They lose not a sigh, and misery’s tear Is treasured, with every hope and fear. They lend to a word, a harp whose strings Once touched, ofthe long departed sings ; And the glad creations that wake, to share The breath and bliss of the evening air, Are the voices, wherewith they lift the eye And heart of man from the things that die Upward, where time in its ceaseless flow, Shall never be traced by change or woe. They fly on the zephyrs that breathe from the seas, The sound of their comimg is heard on the breeze, And the murmurs that die on Eolian strings, Are the low, sweet sounds of their viewless wings.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. A look—a soul felt look, can call These spirits forth, from their airy hall ; A tone can summon the viewless band, From the phantom shores on which they stand; And a gleam of the past—or a hectic glow Of present joy, will shade the brow— sweet as ye pass us by, and memory ! Oh! your tones are Fond spirits of love The stars of Heaven, and silyery Queen of night Had disappeared, and the glad morning borne On roseate wings, exhaled the crystal drops From hawthorn bush, from bud and opening flower. Nature awoke in beauty: every breeze Was fraught with balmy fragrance—every stream Was tuned to sweetest melody, while song of bird THE BRIDAL, From garden, copse and mead, and woody glen—92 THE LAUREL WREATH, Mingling with nature’s matin hymn of praise, Awoke the heart to joy. At such an hour From a low cottage in a humble vale, Broke forth this simple strain. We bring forth flowers for the happy bride, As she leaves us now in her maiden pride ; As she bids adieu to her father’s door, To sit neath her shadowy vine no more ; No more to roam through the woodland bowers, And join in our song *mid the evening hours. She is leaving her tender parents’ smile, For a home in a distant and sunny isle ; She is leaving a brother’s watchful care, For a joyous clime and a balmy air ; She is leaving a sister’s fond caress, Another’s heart to soothe and bless— Sweet maiden, fair maiden, remember those Who twine for thy garland, the bridal rose. The days of thy childhood have flitted by, With the speed of sight they seem to fly, For ever to thee they were fraught with bliss, And gemmed with purest happiness. To gather the early springing flowers, And wile away the sunny hours ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. To seek them oft in the summer day, In dales where rippling waters play ; And when autumnal winds had blown, To mark where the withered flower was Sstrown 5 That ere cold winter’s icy breath, Was to become the “ bride of death.’’ These were thy pastimes with us, and we A “blessing and blest’’ fraternity. We’ll twine the myrtle vine again, We’ll pour once more the choral strain 5 Sweet maiden, fair maiden, O never forget Who twine for thy garland, the mignonette * We may wander still *neath the silvery moon, We nay tread the dance to the lyre’s glad tune 5 The flowers may bloom round thy valley home, The spring’s fresh breezes again may come ; The forest, the meadow, the greenwood bowers, May wear the hue of thy childhood’s hours ; The mountain torrent may still gush forth, When thou art gone with thy youthful mirth ; But the hopes we have cherished will pass away, We shall miss in its gladness thy spirit’s ray ;94 THE LAUREL WREATH, Yet still may the pleasure thou’st nourished bloom, *Neath the sunnier skies of thine island home. Sweet maiden, fair maiden, our love is true, And we’ll twine for thy garland, the violet blue, The pleasures of childhood thy love hath prov- ed, Then ‘‘ fare thee well’? maiden, so fondly be- loved! And they brought flowers, and on that sunny brow They placed a beauteous garland; and they breathed A fervent prayer, that life might ever be— As it had been to her, a happy scene; A pathway strewn with the fair fragrant flow- ers Of cherished love, and ever fresh delight. And with the sunshine of Love’s joyous smile, She passed on, to her home, that sunny isle.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. LONELINESS. *“O! a haunted heart is a weight to bear.’’ HEMANS. I sit alone, I walk alone, I muse upon the past ; Of scenes too bright and beautiful, Too beautiful to last. The gentle tone, the loving smile, Once more J hear and see; All, all, that made my childish days, So very dear to me. I think about my cottage home Close by the greenwood side ; The shady path I used to roam, When summer sunlight died. The,skies on which I loved to gaze, When stars were shining out ; The fires that blazed upon our hearth, The loved ones round about.THE LAUREL WREATH, I think about a lattice, That opened to the west ; Where the sun peeped through the woodbine leaves, Before he went to rest. I think about a sweet low voice, That sung a simple strain ; I'd give the world methinks, to hear That melody again. Then, when I walked “twas not alone, For one beloved was there ; My walks—my rides—my quiet hours, My every bliss to share. And by the power of Love and Truth, To cheer me on my way ; My home, my childhood, my beloved, Why was I doomed to stray. I sit alone, I walk alone, Oh, can I ever cease To feel that I am desolate, While far away from these? Or hope to meet in stranger eyes, The love that was their light ? Or find within a stranger’s halls, What made mine own so bright ?OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. MEMORY’S HELPS. Throng after throng of the illustrious and mighty have passed from the remembrance that often immortalizes the great, and their names are no longer engraved on their coun- try’s annals. Many dreams of the heroic who aspired to die with glory and victory at their side, no longer “‘ give to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name.’’ Words of eloquence and valorous deeds—boons that the noble only would bestow, have been unrecorded except in the affections of a few, and melted with their names into forgetfulness. If the re- hearsal of splendid achievements prompts the youthful aspirant to emulate those actions which bravery inspired; if the tale of true heroism causes the noble feeling that swelled in their bosoms to incite others to high attain- ments; and if those who revel in the distant regions of intellectual bliss on their Parnassian hill, delight to linger among the old and faded bowers of Memory—should not that Genius be honoured which perpetuates to succeeding A98 THE LAUREL WREATH, ages; imperishable memento’s of departed greatness? Then truly we may admire the master-spirit of Grecian sculpture, that dic- tated the erection of those massive structures, that adorned the era of her fame, and on which Wwe now gaze with something of awe and reverential fondness. Why does the exhaust- ed traveller summon his wasted energies to prompt obedience, that he may once view that broken column, round which romance hath hung the feats of Pompey? Why does the tourist relinquish fire-side luxuries for the cheerless waste—the damp earth and meagre fare? Itis not alone that he may bear ad- ditional testimony to the mass already accu- mulated, or that his name may be associated with the remains of Italia’s proudest efforts, but that on the enchanted ground he may revert to the period, when those waste places were animate with a busy population, and the hum of active enterprise was heard the live-long day—that his own soul may thrill with every high and generous feeling, and that he may lose reality in the past. But *tis not alone when treading upon classicOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 99 shores or beneath the shadows of primitive grandeur, the nobler sentiments bear sway ; but when his eye scans the admirable propor- tions of the statue that commemorates the triumph of Washington: or when on Bunker’s summit his vivid fancy paints the fearful con- flict, and the field dark with the hue of Death— it is then that recollections of his sires whose memory need not the chisel nor the harp to rear an enduring fabric; admonish him that there were laid the foundations of a loftier renown, than a petty conquest or foreign acquisition.— Though their faith and holy purpose may be sacred inthe keeping of many hearts, still it is not vain that the earth from her secret chambers or rocky palaces should yield where- with to remind the gay groups, that shall hold pastimes in her glades—some registry—that on this soil, their fathers bled and in the face of Death unshrinkingly fought. As often as they admiringly behold it, all the associations which brighten the ancestral page, will but strengthen their latent courage, and enkindlea flame of patriotism in their young hearts.THE LAUREL WREATH, ‘*A pen—to register; a key— That winds through secret wards; Are well assigned to memory By allegoric bards.—’’ THE FLOWER. By the marge of a mountain stream, There grew a most beautiful flower ; A sweeter, or fairer, I ween Ne’er flourished in fairy’s bower. Its bosom, was hid ’neath the shade of the trees From the gaze of the sun and the kiss of the breeze. All modest and chaste, Its charms nor the bee, nor the butterfly knew, And on to the bolder, or brighter in hue, They heedlessly passed. Its meekness attracted mine eye, Its fragrance delighted the sense ; And gazing and wondering why, Some hand had not stolen it thence,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 101 I tenderly plucked from its parent stem, And placed in my bosom, that beawtiful gem ; And fancy apart, i felt from the moment it touched my breast, A placid and peaceful and heavenly rest, Steal into my heart. Oh! I thought in my wild delight, That my flower would ne’er fade away : Hope said ’twas too beauteous to blight, Too fragrant and fair for decay. But Hope, ah! delusive, the heart ever cheats ! Though its beauty ne’er with’red nor wasted its sweets, An angel at even Beheld, and came down from his emerald bower, And stole from my bosom, my beautiful flower, And bore it to Heaven. From that hour, my soul without chart Wanders weary and lost in its woe; Sun and moon have gone down on my heart, And night is on all things below, mje at sna ‘ : es ag ie eas ea ee - eS a ataetieeet aa102 THE LAUREL WREATH, Wherever I fly, Tongues viewless, do whisper, ‘‘ Despair thee of rest, Till that beautiful flower again on thy breast In heaven shall lie !”’ TRUST IN HEAVEN. ** Earth will forsake, Oh happy to have given, The unbroken heart’s first fragrance unto Heaven.’’—HEMANS. Thou who hast pluck’d earth’s fairest flowers, And found them ever fading ; Thou who hast lingered ’mid her bowers, Where sorrow’s cloud is shading ; Thou who hast tasted from the spring, Where pleasure’s votaries hover ; Say, hast thou found the secret thing, That will earth’s sorrow’s cover? Say, hast thou found that hidden mine, Thou hast been seeking ever ? Say, hast thou knelt before that shrine From which thou ne’er wouldst sever 2OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Oh! tell a wanderer after rest, Where streams of joy are flowing; Say, can a lone dove find a nest, Amid the paths thou’rt going # Why dolask? I know too well That there are sorrows round thee ; Troubled, and careworn features tell, How hard a chain hath bound thee ; Oh! tell me by each saddened brow, By tears from fountains gushing ; Is the strong tide of memory now, O’er thy sad spirit rushing ? And does it bring back many an hour, When thy full heart was swelling ; And when in one pure chrystal shower, The tears thy griefs were telling # No! weary pilgrim! none will find Who seek amid earth’s treasures— The joys for an immortal mind, Are pure, immortal pleasures. Then trust not earth! it will forsake, Oh, happy to have given— The heart’s unbroken fragrance pure, To its own native Heaven.THE LAUREL WREATH, PETRONI. “In the Austrian insurrection of 1787, the province of Servia was involved. The insur- gents being unsuccessful, were pursued by the Turks and Bosniacs. Among the former were Kara George, a celebrated chief, and his father, an old shepherd, whose attachment to his country and parent earth was so great, that when he reached the Lave, which separated it from the Austrian territory, he refused to go further. His son half yielded to his entreaties ; but perceiving if they did not speed their flight, they would die ignominiously by the hands of the Turks—moved to desperation from the in- flexibility of his sire—he slew him, and cast his body into the Lave—then made a precipitate retreat.—M. DE LAMARTINE. He turned to bid a last and sad goodnight To the crushed altars of his happier days: Again to view them lovely in the light And gay magnificence of sunset’s blaze: To breathe a blessing on his native dell, Once more to say farewell:OR AFPECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 105 In the blue haze, the slanting beams disclose His hermitage—and on the distant hill His scattered, unprotected flocks repose, Lulled by the murmuring of the mountain rill. But to his faded sight they only seem The pageant of a dream. He gazed upon the forests wildly drest, In their soft garments of a summer green— The dizzy heights—the eagle’s cloud girt nest, Where oft in daring boyhood he had been To bend his bow, or down the rocky slope Chase the light antelope” Now on the frowning summits, Jay the smile That hails and welcomes in the evening hours, And now it slowly vanished from the pile And hid its brightness in the western bow- ers; But still the exile gazed as if held there The minion of despair.106 THE LAUREL WREATH, He watched the vapours saddening o’er the vale, Then parting as the moonlight cross’d their track, He heard the breathings of the fitful gale, And sighed—‘“‘Oh! many voices call me back, Warn me to linger not upon this bourne, They call me to return.” <¢ There are my kindred, can I now forsake Their chosen rest—the valley of my dead? If from their deep, long slumber, they might wake, Would they not mourn that I had basely fled ? Cannot life’s taper that but feebly waves Go out above their graves ? ‘Stay, now the visions of my youth are throng- ing With desolating fury o’er my brain, And vainly fire my spirit with a longing For the charmed hours that ne’er will be again ; But this no more—I only ask to die Here where my kindred lie.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 107 ** Bowed with an age of grief and years of care, Worn by the wasting canker of my heart, Who can relieve me of the weight I bear, Why therefore do I turn me to depart 4 When naught is blest and beautiful Jike thee, My own nativity. ** Yea, though the mist of battle dims thy skies, And on thy glory slavery’s night declines, And on thy bosom sacred Freedom dies, And all unguarded are thy household shrines; Yet will I cling to thee and share thy doom, Here, here shall be my tomb. . Petroni sleeps beneath the rushing Lave, The burial that he sought, he never found, Trudition even hath not marked his grave, But sometimes, when the evening tale goes round, His fate doth touch young hearts, and eyes of glee Weep o’er his memory.THE LAUREL WREATH, A WISH. Brightly has youth’s glad morning dawned upon thy pathway, gentle friend, and life’s first hours have gaily past away, and I would wish that they might ever glide on thus, **mid sun- shine and song ;”’ that no cloud might hide the glad sunbeam, and no jarring note mingle with the music of thy life. I would that the hopes which deck the future, might only fade away in glad fruition; that fancy’s fairy pencillings might never be erased, and that affection’s tendrils might ever twine around thine heart, as in thine early years. And with these long- ings for thy future weal, I fain would pour one simple prayer, one fervent aspiration. ‘* May you die among your kindred !”” We have wept together at the blighting of our childhood’s hopes, hopes fading away as the fair flowrets wither: we have wept that the young and lovely, the sisters of our souls have gone; afarthey faded, from their kindred and their childhood’s home. They have laidOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 109 their heads in the green vales of the sunny south, where balmy zephyr’s fan the scented flowers upon their graves, but not the cool breezes of their native land. But may thy gen- tle spirit wing its way when kindred forms are gathered round thee, and kindred hearts are beating by thy side: when the eyes of friends are watching fondly o’er thee; and the sweet music of familiar voices falls upon thine ear. T would that thou mightest rest in thine own green native vale, that the clear music of the stream thou hast loved may murmur by thy grave; that the fair wild flowers of thy native hills may blossom there: there may thy kindred weep. LINES UPON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. Dear one! there are many weeping, Dost thou mournful feelings share 4 Gently, gently, she is sleeping ; She will sleep forever there.110 THE LAUREL WREATH, Sleeping where the airs of heaven Ever pure and gentle roam ; Sleeping where the dews of even, Softly and refreshing come. Rest thee, loved one! much we grieve thee, Tears in vain our anguish tell; But with Jesus’ love we leave thee, And he doeth all things well. Rest thee, where the summer flowers Early bloom to guard the dead ; Where the kind reviving showers, Fall and cool thy sleeping bed. Rest thee, all our hopes have faded, Here’s no life—no health for thee ; Many hearts are deeply shaded, Many long will cheerless be. From her childhood’s home she wasted, In a bright and sunny clime ; Early ; for she scarce had tasted Of the summer of her time. Mother! who with love untiring: Watched her budding years with care ; And with hopes to Heaven aspiring, Asked and gathered blessings rare ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Father! who with joy didst shield her, fire maturity was deep ; It was hard, so soon to yield her, To that cold, and dreamless sleep. Sisters! true the bud you cherished Fondly on your lovely vine; By affection’s kindness nourished, Here: is now no longer thine. Brothers! smiles that gleamed the brightest, And that cheered thee oft are gone ; And the song that rose the lightest, To the silent land hath flown. Friends who mourn her, cease your sadness; Silent be my wailing cry— Joyless hearts, awake to gladness She we grieve for, did not die. Now she lives, where sorrow never Blights the flowers that sweetly bud ; Now she lives, she’|I live forever, In the bosom of her God.THE LAUREL WREATH, THE PARTING. «They parted—soon the paths divide Wherein their steps were one, Like river branches, far and wide Dissevering as they run— And making strangers in their course, Of waves that had the same bright source.” HEMANS. A holy haunt is that shadowy bower, Holy, that leafy screen, For the crushing weight of sorrow’s power, And the merry laugh of joy’s brief hour, Its sheltering leaves have seen. Those bright eyed girls may meet no more As they were wont to meet, To con the page of ancient lore, O’er legends dusty and old to pore, ? In that cool sequestered seat. They have heeded not the elittering maze Which mirth and folly tread, They have sat and sung their simple lays, And whiled away their happy days In the light which love hath shed.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 113 They’ ve knelt together at wisdom’s shrine, They’ ve treasured with miserly care The precious gems from that glittering mine, The golden fruit which that bending vine For the thirsting soul doth bear. But their days of childish joys are past, And the tear in each sad eye, Tells that this lovely hour is the last, And its winged moments are flying fast ; But the memory of days gone by, Of the vanished joys of their happy life, Their every hope and fear, Thoughts of the woe with which earth is rife, Of its jarring and discord, its grief and strife, Call up from its founts the tear. They part by the light of the pale moon beam, Those gentle ones and true, The joys which all so lasting seem, Flit light away as the airy dream, But hope is budding new, And fills again the fainting breast, And sings again her angel lay ; To one of the groves of the fairy west, Its sparkling streams, its homes of rest, And the light of its cloudless day ; 8114 THE LAUREL WREATH, And she sings ofa far off ocean isle, Of a bright and flowery strand, To the heart as free as the dove’s from guile, To the pallid cheek shé brings a smile, At her song of the sunny land. But years roll on with ceaseless speed In their rapid and silent course, Swift as the flight of a spirit freed, Time, onward flies with his winged steed, And none may check his force. In her forest home a gentle bride Wreaths the white rose in her hair, She smiles in her joy, and maiden pride, Her heart is his, whom she stands beside ; She knows not the being fair, Who to childhood’s hours their radiance gave, Whose joys were all her own, In a flowery land by the ocean wave, She has laid her down in the silent grave, She sleeps ’neath the Parian stone. They shall meet again, when that heaving breast Hath stilled its burning strife ; They shall meet inthe amaranth bowers ofrest, They shall meet, to dwellin ‘the land of the blest,” In the homes of immortal life.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. THE DESERTED CASTLE. How still—how cheerless are those walls From whence no laughing echo ca\ls— They seem to mock baronial pride As if her pleasures there had died. Hark! there is now no treading guard, The gates are shut and closely barred: No bounding step of childhood there Breaks the deep hush of summer air. The light, which thro’ the casement steals, The pomp of other days reveals : As o’er their pictured frames it creeps On grandeur’s dust it falls and sleeps.116 THE LAUREL WREATH, As if within that bannered hall There had been dance and festival, Retainers—songs to cheer the feast, But they had gone, and these had ceased. I’ve listened there at morning oft, To catch one breathing strain, a soft Voluptuous swell, like that whose flow Was once so musical and low. And J have often wandered round At evening nearthe enchanted ground, And fondly bade each haunted spot Give echoes—but they answered not. The silvery melody of mirth, Is hushed around the darkened hearth: Nor life, nor love, nor music bless Its wild and dreary loneliness. The stranger loves thy green arcades, And worships ’neath the bending shades: But none can ever there restore, The gentle throng that met of yore. Hast thou no voice—neglected shrine! No whisper from those walls of thine, That beareth of the dead some trace, Some token of a vanished race ?OR AFPECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Hast thou no amulet where clings A tale of lost and faded things, Which in its mystic self contains Of thee some beautiful remains 2 Ah thou art mute! no tell-tale moan— Restores what hath forever flown. The spirit of the past! whose light Gilded thy dome in days more bright. Then all thy wild retreats were filled, With home-like sounds—thy breezes thrilled, With those old songs whose precious lay Has with our fathers passed away. Oh! dear and holy are the places, Where smiles have lighted kindred faces ; And sacred is each altar where A grateful household knelt in prayer. Wherever joyous life has lent, In hall or bower, her merriment— Then all her delicate links unbound, There, there is consecrated ground. *THE LAUREL WREATH, THE TWO WORSHIPS, OR IDOLATRY AND CHRISTIANITY. «Sweet is the holiness of youth.’ WORDSWORTH. Who at the calm bright setting of the day, Loves not to watch the last o’erlooking ray, Its fading, deepening, ever changing hue, As it steals down and leaves the welkin blue, When evening foldeth on her quiet breast, Her shadowy arms and husheth all to rest ? But in that lovelier, consecrated clime, Where only summer’s changes mark the time, How brilliantly along the mountains, run The dying glances of the sinking sun, As if he lingered that he might behold The gorgeous pathway where his chariotrolled! Such was the hour when erst across thy plains Idumea! wandered gay and youthful trains, To worship their Divinity, whose glow Was softly fused upon the vales below, To pay their homage ere the fall of night, To spread their offerings on some rocky height,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 119 And sprinkle incense o’er that cliff or pile, That wore the death tints of his latest smile. Chaplets were on their brows, and in their hands Were blushing wreaths and fruits of many lands ; Fair girls were there, laden with flowers and vines, Which they had reared to deck their country’s shrines ; Loves shadows on their cheeks, and in their eyes The pale reflection of their native skies ; Round their half parted lips, gladness had hung Manifold beauty, and their laughter rung Like some wild burst of music, when it falls And leaps again from echo’s airy halls. Their raven hair with myrtle fillets crowned, To the light breezes floated all unbound, And, habited in robes of purest white, They seemed like vestals, wandering from the light Of their lone altars, to enjoy the bliss, And inspiration of an hour like this. On toward the vales o’er gazing hills they trod, Led by the footsteps of their luminous God ;120 THE LAUREL WREATH Waving their garlands, sometimes falling back To scan the length and brightness of his track, Gliding around thro’ dusky glen and grove, °Till all are standing on the heights above, When mute devotion held the enchanted throng ° T'was brief—and soonarose their evening song. Let not the coming night Gather in wrath, Lend us thy gracious light, Smile on our path. We bring our gifts to thee, Gifts thou hast blest, Where thy last glances be, There they shall rest. Shut not thy golden eye, Look kindly here, °Till gliding up the sky, Isis appear. To our night visions lend Thy softest beams, And may thy rainbow bend Above our dreams,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 121 The shepherds, heedless of the waning beam That o’er them fell, started as from a dream At those sweet strains, and, kneeling on the sod Said their low orisons and blest their God. And he, the pilgrim, turning towards his home Saw the red light on minaret and dome, Heard too the vesper-calls and with closed eyes And lifted hands, rapt by its melodies, He seemed as one in the all holy sense Of adoration breathless and intense, To lose the presence of the loved, whose power Had been omnipotent until that hour. No longer from Naamas * crowded street, Came the dull sounds of ever hurrying feet, But every pulse that stirred a wave of air, Was a rich harmony of song and prayer. The dwellers all were still—the strife and jar Of day were dropt, as when the cry of war Goes thro’ the land, and all her household cheer Is hushed by whispers of prophetic fear. A deep and wond’rous silence, save at times The distant fall of those melodious rhymes, As *twere the breathing of the spirit’s chimes. * An ancient city situate in Idumea. ee eos Sana122 THE LAUREL WREATH, Each pagan head was bowed,each knee was bent In cottage, palace, bower and battlement. Without the city, ina solitude Of twining boughs beneath the pageant wood, Too far to hear the echoes of that call, So wildly soft and softly musical, Roved yet another and a lonelier band, A trio-loving sisters—hand in hand, Singing, along their way, in each dear bower, That bears a memory of their childhood’s hour. Their tall slight forms are hardly visible thro’ The bending drapery of the avenue, Their gliding feet would not disturb the rest Of the ephemera on the turf they prest— Their very gentleness is around them cast Like a frail mantle, never to out-last The rages of a stormy world like this, And fashioned only for a life of bliss. Softly as phantoms, to and fro they pass, And their long falling raiment, on the grass, As lightly sweeps, as the most transient breeze Above them in their own acacia trees. Had some blest being from another sphere, In his celestial goings lighted here, aOR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 3 And seen them thus, and traced their rapid way Thro’ the arcades, and listen’d to their lay, Sure he had deem’d them of a kindred birth ; But lost within this fairest haunt of earth, Mourning and groping o’er the dim domain, And vainly seeking for their home again. But why are not these gentle ones bowed low In prayer.—Have they not heard, do they not know How sacred is the hour—how charmed, to those, Who, with its solemn stillness and repose, Have blended hopes of Heaven, and in the sky Discern the glory of their destiny # Were they not taught in infancy to pray To that red orb, and in its burning ray See a faint emblem of that glowing throne, That hides the visage of the bright unknown ? Have they not felt the wildness of that zeal, And blind idolatry, which thus can kneel To the far shining spheres, whose endless roll Is like the motions of the infinite soul, That ever sleepless and forever free, Moves o’er the ocean of eternity !124 THE LAUREL WREATH, No! they have learned and loved our worship only, Holy and pure to them as it is lonely, Tt hath no rites—no pomp or mystic signs, To shade its sanctity—but hath its shrines In human souls—perpetually it flings Sweet harmonies from their mysterious strings, As fountains falling o’er the herbless plain, Grow brighter on the sands, as on the main The isles that float, or in their freshness brood Above the waters, from their solitude Look far more lovely than the quiet deep Of inland vales, where the same verdure sleep, So loneliness of faith and worship seems To lighten them with spiritual gleams, Such as the good and merciful above, Grant to the erring children of their love. * * * * * The sun is down—the calm and glorious night Has fallen on the earth—the trembling light Of the unwearied stars is there as soon, And the white shadows of the ascending moon O’er the dark forest like a veil is flung, And beautiful upon the hilltops hung—OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 125 Long since the band had ceased their tuneful prayer, Spirits of silence might have slumbered there, So peaceful was the spot, so still the air— The glare of the illumined city shines Over her temples, palaces, and shrines. The multitude, that but an hour azo, Were looking up to heaven, and bending low, Are now uprisen, and as the fallen tide Whose ebbing ripples on the beach have died, Rises again and rushes to the shore, All care and life, are murmuring as before. The shouts of revelry—the silvery sound Of light-toned citharas * is floating round. Their mirth is loud, and every holier thought Of piety and Heaven, is now forgot— It is not thus with the lone maids who rove At early twilight in the bowers they love, Though there no longer, in yon green recess, Where moonlight falls with tender loveliness, Casting around such melancholy gleams, As sometimes tinge the scenery of our dreams, Where all is peace, not even a zephyr stirs \ts feeble wing—there these young worshippers, * (Ancient harp.)126 THE LAUREL WREATH, By human eye unheeded and alone, Are kneeling to the unseen, almighty one. Their saintly figures, shadowy now, now bright By the wan moon wear an unearthly light— Motionless too as those pale shapes that rest Within the tomb, in life’s habiliments drest,* So wrapt were they and lost, as in a trance, While spirit unto spirit yielded utterance. Forth from that solitude and deep repose, The voiceless language of the heart arose, Tremulous—soft—but eloquently clear To Heaven, and entered the Eternal’s ear, And the bright company of holy ones Listened with rapture to those heart breathed tones, Hushing as *twere the life of breathing things, Over them spread the covering of their wings, And warmed their spirits with a heavenly zlow Such as the blest and blessing only know, And when the spell of their young vows were broken, Each to her rest they followed with some token * Vide sepulchres of Etruria.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 127 That angel-watchers while they calmly slept, A ceaseless vigilance around them kept— And in the elements of their night dreams wove Visions of holiness, and God, and love. THE LETHEAN STREAM. “One draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep,’’ To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep, In the cool honey dews of dreamless rest, And from the soul, the lightning marks to lave, One draught of that sweet wave !”’ HEMANS. Shall I in the glad spring time, seek Amid the greenwood’s glade, Beneath the towering forest tree, And in its darksome shade # Shall 1 within the lonely vale, Where mournful echoes ring, Seek for that far famed boasted fount, For dark oblivion’s spring 4?128 THE LAUREL WREATH, Or shall I at bright summer’s hour, Search out each flowery dell, ‘Where the light hare bell lifts its head, Beside the sparkling well ?”’ Shall I within the cool retreats To meditation dear, Behold this brightly gleaming fount, Say! shall I find it there ? Or shall I ’mid my native bowers, Beside my own bright streams, Where joy and pleasure winged the hours All fraught with childish dreams ; When every gladsome laugh came back, Borne by the passing gale, And when my bounding heart was light, As the wild deer of the vale. I’ve wandered through the summer wood Full many a tedious day, In fancy sometimes I have met, Its bright and sparkling ray. I’ve bounded forward in my glee, To call the stream my own, But with the music of its waters, It was quickly, quickly gone.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. And I have sought in stranger climes, From my own home afar, I’ve traced my sad, my weary way, By heaven’s unerring star— Alruccabah, * my favourite one, Forever fixed and sure, [ve sought beneath thy guidance, Oblivion’s fountain pure. I’ve bared my burning brow to feel The Syrian breezes too, I’ve wandered far ’mid eastern fanes, Thy sparkling waves to view. But with a faint and languid eye, And disappointed tone, [ve turned again to childhood’s vale, My beautiful, my own. “One draught, kind fairy !’? did Isay ? Would I might ever lave, My soul with all its “lightning marks,’’ Beneath thy limpid wave. * The North Polar Star. Bythe Greeks it is called Cynosyre, by the Romans Cynosura, and by other nations Alruccabah. 9130 THE LAUREL WREATH, In the coo] murmur of thy flow, My wearied heart should rest, Forever drinking in the stream Of sweet Forgetfulness. THE STRANGER’S DEATH. Stranger! thou hast passed away, Like the blush of opening day, Like the fragile summer flower, Blooming, fading in an hour ; Like some touching, melting strain, Wandering o’er the midnight plain. Gone! yet as the withered rose, Still around its fragrance throws ; Stranger! so around thy tomb Lingers still a rich perfume ; Virtue, shall not, cannot die, Heir of Immortality ! Gentle stranger ! meek and mild, Thou hast been affliction’s child ;OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. But no longer poor and lone, Pilgrim! thou hast found a home, Orphan! in the spirit land Thou hast joined thy household band. THE SERENADE. “1 would that skill were granted me To weave the cunning rhyme, That thoughts like waves might answer free, And with melodious chime ; I'd sing of music’s melting power, Heard in the calm midnight, When soft notes like a silvery shower, Fal} in their liquid light.’’—Awon. The mirth had ceased from the festa] hall, The joyous guests had fled, The glare which the dazzling lights, o’er all That happy throng had shed; Had faded away, and the pale moonlight Fell o’er the slumbering earth ; And the stars looked forth from the brow of night, On the lonely haunts of mirth.132 THE LAUREL WREATH, And slumbers deep sat on the brow, And calmed the youthful breast, And radiant dreams came gently now, To the soft couch of rest. But rising on the midnight air, Rich strains of music float, And gently wakes the slumberer By its melodious note. The trembling chords sound joyously, And with the mellow voice, The flute with dulcet notes again, Bids the charmed soul rejoice. Oh! in that sweet, enchanting hour, The spirit in wild dreams of bliss, Might fancy seraph voices poured, Their strains in worlds like this. Or as soft gales from Araby, Float o’er the sounding sea, And cheer the fainting soul; So does this minstrelsy, By its low breathing harmony Or full melodious swell ; Cheer the sad heart, as fairy notes From plains of Asphodel.OR AFFECTION’S KREPSAKE. “TELL HIM ’LL WAKE AGAIN.” Not when the roseate tints of morning rise, To gild with radiance, the far eastern skies ; Not when the sun’s last bright, but lingering ray, Bears thee the farewell of departing day. Not when the glorious moon with mellow beam, Bedecks with loveliness the darkened scene ; Nor when in solemn stillness midnight reigns, Keeping her vigils o’er earth’s slumbering plains. The breezes of the spring may gently blow, Beside my grave,the streamlet murmuring flow, The Autumn leaves may rustle ’neath thy tread, But these can never wake the slumbering dead. But when that bright and glorious morn, shall come, That gathers way-worn pilgrims to their home, When all the griefs and cares of Life are o’er, Then, father dear, I’ll wake to sleep no more.THE LAUREL WREATH, LINES ON SEEING A SEA SHELL UPON THE TOILET OF A FASHIONABLE YOUNG LADY. In the coral caverns of the deep, my shadowy home is laid, And the azure weeds in majesty, lean o’er my lowly bed ; Where the surges and the ocean flowers, above my bosom meet, And the tapestry of palaces, hath been my winding sheet. Fromthe “island of the myrtle green,’’ through the waters blue and deep, They wend their Jong and weary way, where my glossy foldings sleep $ From the buried shrine of treasures, from the rubies of the sea, Through the meshes of the flowing surge, Lo! they have gathered me. And shall I not again return to the ocean’s Winding caves, To the music of their minstrelsy and the lullaby of waves?OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 135 Yet the echo of the rolling sea, though harsh it seem to thee, Proud empress of this princely hall, ’tis beau- tiful to me. The lute may lull thy fancy to dreams of rosy rest, The warrior’s bugle faintly heard, stir up thy timid breast ; But the richness of my murmur, dwelleth not within thine ear, Like melody of breezy reed, or note of soft guitar. Thy radiant eye ne’er gazeth on each waxen tint and shade, And thou never list’nest earnestly, as my echoes fall and fade: Then give me back, oh, give me back, my clear, own, native billow, To rest within my chrystal home, upon my coral pillow.THE LAUREL WREATH, A DREAM. *T was the twilight hour, and the evening star Shone brightly down from its home afar ; And the sky looked out with its eye of blue, °Mid fleecy clouds of a golden hue. The perfumed flowers all silently slept, And the clouds their dewy tear-drops wept. J felt my soul become more light Beneath the freshness of the night ; So I sat me down by a streamlet deep, And it lulled me soon to a dreamy sleep, And methought I roamed to a distant land, Where there dwelt a bright and beautiful band, The hand of art had never been there, But nature ruled supremely fair. No stately towers, no marble walls, But ’mid forest columns were lofty halls,— And their drapery of ever changing green Was richer than damask, or satin, I ween; And the rills gushed forth from perennial springs, Whose water refreshment and gladness brings,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. There dwelt ‘‘no lords of creation’’ there To sully this land, with their haughty air, But the fair ones ruled, and the fair ones reign’d, And to notice man they never deigned ;— No cross old bachelors ever came there, With their surly look, and pompous air, But they dwelt alone,—that happy band, In nature’s bright and beautiful land. Of fashions they cared not—nor ever heard ; Speculations unknown,—nor office conferred, No Bacchanal revels—no lawsuits began ; For these you may seek in the haunts of man. They worshipped God in their forest halls— And heard nature’s music in waterfalls ; And the gentle wind as it rustled by, Poured forth sweet notes of wild melody. Lessons they conned from nature’s book, In each mossy dell, and each shady nook, And when “Azrael’’ came, calmly sank to that sleep Which is silent, and dreamless, cold and deep.THE LAUREL WREATH, THE DIAMOND FOUNTAIN. (Vide the Talisman, Waverly Novels.) Deep pearly fount! its sparkling waters well- ing From the dark chambers of its unseen caves, Like some long-lost, but home-found wanderer, telling Of golden isles and azure-colored waves— In the sweet climes, whose richness only gleams Upon our eyes in fancy’s burning dreams. No other founts in brilliant wreaths were waving, Their graceful circlets on the scorching air, Nor crystal rivers with their freshness laving, The coral banks that ever glisten, where The east unbars her gates of crimson hue, And opes her spacious fields of light to view.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 139 "Twas not where groves of cassia are distilling Their dews, and dropping sweetness on the beds ; Where rarest flowers and fragrant buds are filling, The gale with sweets, the spice-tree only sheds ; In those famed lands, where one long summer weaves, Thickets of fairest roses and green leaves. Where torrid beams and sultry skies are throw- ing, Their burning radiance on the desert sands ; And fiery winds their deadly blasts are blowing, Sweeping all greenness from the wasted Jands ; There gushed this fountain from its viewless bed, And on the air, enchanting coolness shed. The pilgrim heard the flow of distant waters, And wept for very gladness at their tone Sweeter than the wild strains of Judah’s daughters, That swell’d the triumph of the royal one.140 THE LAUREL WREATH, Bringing the mem/’ry of life’s faded track, The sounds of home and happy childhood back. And when he viewed the glistening torrent falling, And caught the murmur richly deep and clear,— He sure could hear familiar voices calling, His wayward self, to all he held so dear. Then Mecca’s relics, and her sacred dome, Were all forgotten—in the light of home. The fiery Turk, and high born lord here kneel- ing— Together quafted the pearly flowing tide, And near its depths was found, the balm for healing, Saladin’s rage, and haughty Richard’s pride. There olden legend lifts the monarch’s crest, And lays the fiercer Arab’s lance to rest. And still that lone and sacred fount is shedding, Its silvery waters on the fervid air; Though king and chieftain, now no more are treading, Around the spot they nam’d and hallow’d there.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 14] Still on the glassy wave and dancing spray, All girt with sunlit glory, rainbows play. Thou’rt like a gem, unsullied and unbroken, In the deep palaces of ocean laid,— Thou art a changeless charm, a lasting token, Calling to mind the brave and gentle dead ; Throwing around the waste of death and age, A wreath, that lives and blooms on mem’ry’s page. THE EXILE’S LAMENT. “A boon, a talisman, Oh memory! give, To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore! Bid the wind speak of me, where I have dwelt, Bid the streams’ voice, of all my soul hath felt, A thought restore !’’—HEMANS. Must I leave thee in my sadness, My own, my native land ? Must I part from scenes of gladness, From your bright and flowery strand ?142 THE LAUREL WREATH, Shall the wild winds in their rushing, Sweep o’er vallies I have loved? Shall the streamlet in its gushing, Flow through haunts where I have roved ? Shall the glen where I have wandered, Now by stranger feet be pressed ? Where in boyhood’s time I’ve pondered, Or have stilled this throbbing breast? Where the music of the fountains, Filled my childish heart with glee ; And the sun-light from the mountains, Wrapt my soul in Liberty ? There in childhood’s sinless morning, Oft my feet were wont to stray ; And fond parents watched the dawning, Of the soul in wisdom’s way. From the heart’s deep fount of treasures, The full tide of bliss would flow ; And the well spring of our pleasures, Was ne’er mixed with mortal woe And can I not again retrace, Those joyous paths of youth ? Must I from memory’s shrine efface Those hallowed scenes of truth ?OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. Must those bright shadows on the wings Of time be wafted on ? Earth’s pleasures are but fleeting things, Like dew-drops they are gone. Such were the feelings that gushed forth From the lone exile’s heart ; But deeper, sadder strains found birth, When he was forced to part— I go! he cried, Oh, mourn ye winds! In hollow murmurs low, Streamlet and gushing fountain too, Take up the strains of woe! Ye mountains! from your cloud capt heights, The mournful wailings send ; Ye sunny groves! ye woodlands bright! With the sad echo blend! Dark forest glades and rustling pines, Oh! I have loved ye well! Ye once made music for mine ear, Now a sad parting knell. Oh, Memory! some talisman, Some parting token give, In the sweet annals of my home, I would forever live.144 THE LAUREL WREATH, Beside my own paternal hearth, Oh, mark one lonely spot! While years roll o’er that lovely place— Sad, sad will be my lot. I go, I go, the harp of winds, Shall bear you back my voice— A thousand joyous minstrelsies, May bid your hearts rejoice. But sometimes ’mid your revelries, Think of the exiled one— Farewell, Farewell, my native vale, Farewell my childhood’s home!! SHE DIED AFAR. She died afar! the breath of home O’er her pale brow, might never come $; Afar, amid the orange bowers, Where earth is gay, and bright with flowers ; But not the scenes whereon her eye Had dwelt in careless infancy ; Dearer to her our own wild hills, The music of their thousand rills.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE, She died afar—no mother’s tone, Blent with the low and suffering moan; No father there,—no sister’s tear Fell o’er the couch of one so dear. None bent her wasting form above, Save the young husband of her love 5 And who can tell, as glazed that eye, His depths of mental agony. We grieved, when standing by the side Of one whose love was true and tried ; She gave a last, a sad farewell To us, who loved so long, so well. Sut still we smiled, for well we knew, Our own rude winds too fiercely blew ; We joyed to see our lily fair, Borne to a mild, and balmy air, In vain! no soft breeze might restore The roses, that must bloom no more ; And day by day, that lovely bride Grew pale, and faded by his side; No care might save—too frail, too fair, E’en for that rose perfumed air ; There was no home for that sweet flower, Save in a far off Eden bower. 10146 THE LAUREL WREATH, And she who framed this simple lay, Loved her in childhood’s happy day; How often ’neath the old elm’s shade, In careless frolic, we have played ; Rambled the deep green woods among, And listened to the wild bird’s song ; Whiling away long sunny hours, In seeking for spring’s early flowers. And then, in our more thoughtful years, Ere yet her eye was dimmed by tears ; We’ve sat beneath that same elm tree, And it was sweet, yet sadto me; To listen to her glowing dreams, And watch her eye’s unclouded beams ; >Twas sad, for Jhad learned to know, Life had some joy, but more of woe. But now, in climes more fair than ours, >Tis her’s to cull immortal flowers ; -Tis her’s to see, no bright dreams fade, But in fruition brighter made. Mourn not for her, the parting hour, Was ’reft of half its bitter power— But mourn for us, who in this vale Pour for the “‘ early lost,’ the wail.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. DEPARTED ONE, “There was one mild eye, there wag one deep tone, They were dear to this heart of mine ; Dearer to me was that mild blue eye, Than the lamp on wisdom’s shrine; My soul brought up from its deepest cell The sum of its earthly love ; But it could not buy her wing from heaven, And she flew to her rest above.”’—Wiuuls. And fain would I, departed one, That from that unknown shore, Again that beaming glance of thine, To us thou might’st restore. That from the groves and forest shades Of that far spirit land, Again thou might’st return to cheer The lonely household band. The haunts thou loved to tread are green, And gemmed with many a flower, And brightly blooms the clustering vine, That shades thy garden bower 5148 THE LAUREL WREATH, And scented gales float gently by, Borne o’er the glittering seas, Waking sweet sounding melody In the tall forest trees. Full well I know no plaint of mine May reach thy raptured ear ; No voice save notes of seraphim, In paradise thou’lt hear. Though brightly blooms thy childhood’s home, As erst of old *tis fair— No earthly charm can lure thee back To taste the pleasures there. Ill strive to check my murmurings ; The thought that thou art blest, Shall still these wayward cries of mine, And give my spirit rest. Though tears of grief have dimmed mine eye, And sorrow chilled my heart, T’ll joy thy gentle spirit bears In earthly tears no part.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. NEW ENGLAND HOMES. New England homes—’twas the joyous strain, Her noble children sung, When her lonely heights dashed back the main, And her glades with the war-whoop rung. The sacred guerdon that lured the brave, The fathomless deep to dare,— And the talisman that freedom gave, To lead the timid there. The tale of these homes in a distant land, Was sounded far away— From the hills that mantle Scotia’s strand, To Genoa’s sounding bay. »T was heard on the lips of household throngs, In their gatherings round the hearth ; It lent a power to their sweetest songs, A zest to the gayest mirth. The child would start from his feverish dreams, So deeply his heart was stirred— To catch the flow of New England streams, Or the note of her forest bird. STEN ae150 THE LAUREL WREATH, The watchword rose from the winding bay, To the rock whose wave-washed crest, Still broods o’er the tide where the May flower lay, On the sheen of her frozen breast. How blest were those homes which our fathers shared, In the depths of a stranger grove; How fair were the altars their prowess reared, For their offerings of faith and love. New England homes—was the gathering cry, On Bunker’s mount of yore,— The echo rose from her rocks on high, Then died along the shore. In the battle’s flash—in the fiercest fight, When the steel was dim’d and red— They gave to the victor his arm of might— They hallowed the place of the dead. Long, long, hath that war-cry and signal word, Been hushed in our mountain caves ; And they who its summons so joyfully heard, Lie low in New England graves.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 151 But our homes—they keep as spotless urns Guard the dust of the princely dead— The shrines whose incense as purely burns, As when first thereon ’twas shed. “HOME! SWEET HOME!” “On thy calm joys with what delight I dream, Thou dear, green valley, of my native stream.’’ Home! ’tis a blessed spot, A treasure rich and rare, A spell that mid my wanderings, Has woo’d me from despair. A gleam of sunshine mid the shades Of sorrow and decay ; A Leaf that ne’er from memory fades, BH’ en in life’s wintry day. Home! in the very name There breathes a world of bliss, Which o’er my sadd’ned spirit thrills, With a deep tenderness.152 THE LAUREL WREATH, Home ! tis a cherished spot that lives Amid the dreamy past ; H’en like a bright peculiar star, Unchanging to the last. For I have been a wanderer, Amid the heedless throng ; I’ve stood, and with a “stranger’s heart,”? Gazed earnestly and long. And I have thought of deeper bliss Before I learned to roam, And scenes of quiet happiness, Within my cottage Home. And Ihave heaved the deep drawn sigh A saddened spirit flings, Upon the shrine that memory rears, O’er old familiar things. My fancy wanders through every haunt, Of the pleasant leafy shade, — I muse once more by the sunny wave, And rest in the flowery glade. The fragrance of the air Borne from our garden’s side, The beauty of the summer flowers, Then blooming in their pride.The ‘Sunset Bird,’ that seemed to sing More sweetly to mine ear, Amid the Elm Tree’s spreading shade, Beside our cottage dear. The hill side wandering far Along the western view ; The sunset tinging of the clouds With many a golden hue; The old familiar songs of praise, Seem trembling on the air ; And tones that mingled in the Jays, I never more may hear. And I have turned in sadness, Prom the selfish and the cold, And thought of true hearts blending, Within that hallowed fold. And J have struggled to be glad ’Mid other scenes of glee, But in my Home there are richer strains, Of deeper melody. Oh! it is sad to think That change must ever come, E’en to the fireside and the hearth, Of one’s familiar home. OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. ae eS Wet ea SA tae154 THE LAUREL WREATH, Yet it is so—we pass awhile, And with the world we share, We mingle in its stirring tide, Its struggling strife and care. And when we seek our home, we mourn O’er those forever fled, The dearest who have gathered there, Lie mingling with the dead. We seek them by the social hearth, But their bounding feet are gone; We list for the music of their mirth, It hath passed with its joyous tone. We miss the welcome kiss, The clasping of the hand, The pleasant sound of whispered bliss, Amid that household band. We miss them, and we garner up The memories of the past ; O’er scenes where they have lived and loved, A hallowed spell is cast. And thus our hearts grow sad And desolate, when those Who made Life’s early spring-time glad, Sink to their last repose.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE, Yes! this is Life—we may not fix Affection’s tendrils here, But plant them where no change can bring, Affiiction’s bitter tear. “OH! NEVER BREATHE A LOST ONE’S NAME !7? “Oh! never breathe a lost one’s name, To those who called that one their own, It only stirs the smouldering flame, That burns upon a charnel stone.”’ There is a touch-stone pure and sacred, that ever guards fond memory’s fountain: oh! Jet a stranger hand but touch that spring, and from the deep recess, there gushes forth, full many a stream of mournful recollections. The tide they fain would stay far in its secret chambers welling out, flows backward o’er the past, the dreamy past, calling up scenes, long since consigned to the dark Lethean stream. The name of some lost cherished one,156 THE LAUREL WREATH, when uttered by a stranger voice, and non-fa- miliar tone; brings to the wounded spirit, thoughts most melancholy; recollections sad $ and hopes forever blighted. Yes! and the parted joys of happier hours ; joys never more on earth to be repeated; hearts dissevered ne’er again save in immortal bowers to be united $ beauteous blossoms touched by Death’s cold chilling finger, that the fresh opening spring- tide ne’er again can wake to life and beauty: these come rushing back on the deep tide of thought; oh, wake them not! Let no intruding, ruthless hand, plunder from memory’s sacred shrine, and bear from thence her purest hallowedtreasure. Guard that holy fountain ; keep it safe within thy blighted heart, thou lone and sorrowing one! preserve the lovely features of the lost, still graven deeply on thy soul’s reflecting tablet; even locked most sacredly in memory’s casket. ““The heart will ache, and well nigh break, To miss that one forever fled ; And lips of mercy should not wake A Jove that cherishes the dead.’’ * 2Saaeane siictice daesestiiliel akg i tak cee OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. THE HOUR OF REST. “Tis night ; The air is motionless, and not a breath Of wind is whispering, and the pure dews drop From heaven, like tears upon this lovely death Of nature, while the landscape underneath, And the vast arch above, smile in the ray Of the full moon, who circled in her wreath Of glory, walks a queen her lofty way— And pours upon the world a calmer, purer day.’’ PERCIVAL. I have sat and watched the western sky as one by one the rich purple and golden clouds disappeared, until the last lingering flush of departing day has vanished, and given place to the softer sadder hues of evening. The same mild zephyr that is wont to sport so lightly with the waving curls of childhood, tokiss the brow of youth, fan the cheek of the aged, and breathe gently over the couch of the dying, has whis- pered as it passed away, “‘the hour of rest is nigh.”? Away then ye airy forms that haunt158 THE LAUREL WREATH, my brain and break the charm with which the angel of sleep would bind me. And welcome ye kind spirits who at the vesper hour are sent on messages of love, to sprinkle the Lethean dews o’er the pillow of the weary and the mournful, to bid the young and old alike forget their joys and sorrows, and rest in sweet obliv- ion’s slumber. Is there aught beside your silent influence that has power to spread so sweet a smile over the countenance of the sleeping infant, or send such a thrill of delight through the mother’s bosom as she fancies her little one is dreaming of heaven? Do ye not seek the mourner’s couch, and while his mind forgets the stern realities of life, restore the friends whom he has lost; or unfold to him the beau- ties of that celestial garden where the buds that are transplanted from earth expand, the flowers that are culled never wither, the ripen- ed fruit never decays? And do ye not bid him remember, that as one by one the precious links in the chain of earthly love are dissolved they serve but to strengthen that indissoluble chain which unites him to the throne of his Redeemer? Do ye not often enter the room ofFn eta acetic SSaoreeetguieese OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 159 the care-worn student as he bends with deep interest over the classic page, and pictures to his excited imagination bright visions of future glory, until he fancies the desired eminence is already attained, and the laurel wreath of vic- tory already encircles his brow? Are ye never found in the festive hall, speaking in a “still small voice’’ to the gay, light hearted beings who tread the ceaseless round of pleasure, and bidding them remember though the waters of pleasure may ever sparkle in the cup, they are but well-springs which supply the fountain of tears? Ye have deigned to visit me too, in the sweet hour of rest, while the beautiful world ? without was shaded by the curtains of night.— : q Ye have restored the light of other days, the @ companions of childhood’s happy hours, when life seemed all enchantment, the future a fairy realm of unending enjoyment. Would that your influence might always last, that those bright dreams were real, and the mournful thoughts that crowd upon my waking hours were consigned to the wave of oblivion. Oh! cease fond Memory to dwell upon scenes of sadness, upon the dark hours in a life that should be ever cheered by the sunshine of160 THE LAUREL WREATH, peace. Ocease to recall the moments when I have wept at the graves of the lovely and loved, over the wreck of beauty and intellect, over the spoils that have marked the triumph- ant path of the conqueror Death. Let affec- tion entwine a garland of myrtle for the friends who now sleep in his embrace, while Hope whispers, ‘‘mourn not for the lost, but rejoice that the spirit may find rest in Heaven.”? 1 have sometimes dreamed of heaven. I have visited in fancy that far distant land where ’tis said the golden links of friendship are reunited. I have walked by the river of life, or sat in amaranthine bowers and listened to the music of the celestial harps, until my soul seemed at- tuned to harmony like theirs. I have held sweet converse with those pure beings who cast their crowns at Immanuel’s feet, and as I listened to the language ofthe skies, earth’s brightest joys seemed worthless, and her most alluring treasures like bubbles that elude the Wisher’s grasp. But the morning’s dawn has dissolved the charm, and though all nature smiled at the return of day, I could not suppress a longing desire to realize the visions of my sleeping hours; a thirst for immortality. INanton onerine exis einen TT OR AFFECTION’s KEEPSAKE. 16] would not dream of the past, of buried joys, and blighted. anticipations, but I would lift the impenetrable veil that sltrouds the future, and learn the bliss of those who share in that eter- nal rest beyond the stave. The hour of rest! how sweet the music of those words. Ag the traveller over the burning desert hails with de- Jight the verdant oasis and the cooling fount, so does he who journeys through earth’s pathless wilderness, rejoice when the hour of rest ap- proaches; when free from the cares ofthe day, he may commune with himself, with the uni- verse around him,and with the beings of his me- mory and his hopes. And more than all, it is an hour rendered sacred by the high communings of the spirit with its Maker. Ojif there ig one blessing for which more than all others the Giver should claim our love, it is the hallowed hour when man may find access to the secret shrines of the upper temple. “Tn this there is an elevating influence That snatches us awhile from earth, And lifts the spirit in its strong aspirings, where Superior beings fill the court of heaven.”’ IITHE LAUREL WREATH, SICK BED MUSINGS. These walls have grown Familiar to my sight, and dark with age, Since first I dwelt within them. The cricket’s chirp, To which I listen through the long still night, Is like a tone of well remembered love, Or voice of friendship, heard in other days. It cheers my lonely vigils ; while in vain I woo sweet slumber Yon tall tree Which spreads its sheltering arms above my cot, Or gently waves them to the passing breeze, Or with the soft low rustling of its leaves Touched by the evening zephyrs; or awaked At midnight by erial fingers, giving forth More plaintive tones and sighs that echo mine; That tree is numbered with my cherished things, For I have hung sweet memories on each bough, And taught each leaf to echo back my thoughts.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 163 Oh! I remember well the summer morn, When gay with health, and hope years, J bounded forth to pluck the ne Or watch the spider’s pe of happy w-born rose, rsevering toil. I held a tender plant—such was I then. Meanwhile a grey haired man, spade, with cautious Drew round its roots the ne earth, Then covered all with fresh and dewy turf. I watched his busy hand with childish glee And called the tiny shoot, my sister! for I thought we shall StOW up together; mine The task to cherish it, and its to shelte My sire well guessed the passing idle And shook hig head, and smiled smile, Wly moistened 3 r me. thought, a mournful *“ Long ere this tender plant attains its Thy beauty will have faded ; thou, perchance, Be laid to rest forever neath its shade.”? The word prophetic Time hath well fulfille Jam not old in years ag mortals count, Though twice ten times I’ve branches bare, prime, d,— seen their And twice ten times renew their vernal bloom,164 THE LAUREL WREATH, Since I with pain have held companionship. Yet hath my pilgrimage been long and sad, For neither flower or fruit hath blessed the way, And love and hope have died within my heart ; All save the love, that seeks its home in Heaven, All save the hope, that lives when nature dies. ——d SONG OF ANGELS. <¢ And suddenly, there was, with the angel, a multitude of heavenly host, praising God.*’ LUKE. Hark! o’er Judea’s plains, Strange music breaks upon the ear ; Now sink, now swell the strains, Now low and soft, now rising full and clear $ Such harmonies in Heaven alone have birth— What lofty theme hath waked them now on earth ? The midnight sky is gemm’d With many a burning sleepless star— They fade—O, why is their lustre dimm’d? A glory beams from far?OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. And lo! what hosts of heavenly forms appear! Bright sons of Paradise! what do ye here? “Mortals, rejoice, REJOICE! Give thanks to God above ; Let every heart and voice Extol Redeeming Love! O Earth, thy bitter cry Hath entered Mercy’s ear ; The Lord hath heard thy sigh, And lo! a SAVIOUR near. “‘ Mortals, prepare a song, In most exalted lays ; The strains be loud and long, For glorious is the grace : Glad news of peace we bring, Peace, peace to man is given ; Glory to God, the King! Resound through earth and heaven. “ Spread, spread the news abroad, Unfold the mighty plan ; Behold the Son of God Becomes the Son of Man!166 THE LAUREL WREATH, Hail! Mighty Prince of Peace! Descending from above ; Hail! glorious, matchless Grace! Hail! EVERLASTING Love!”’ The song hath died away, And silent are the harps divine ; Yet still holds on its way, The Star that rose on Palestine ; And still forever shall it rise and burn, Till o’er the earth one cloudless day return. THE DEAD INFANT. Who hushed thee young sleeper! to dreamless . repose ? Who nipped the sweet bud, ere it bloomed as the rose? Who chilled the warm current, that ran through each vein ? Who froze up the fountains, that flow not again? T ask thee, oh Mother! who carried away The spirit that dwelt in this beautiful clay?OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. 167 Knowest thou the bright one who hath borne it from thee? Who hath cut down a tendril so young from the tree? I ask thee, oh Father! the home of thy boy, This last of thy blessings, thy pride and thy joy; Is it well with the treasure now hid from thy sight 4 is its home in the regions of bliss and delight ? An echo returns from the angels of Love, “It is well,’’ with the child in the mansions above ; The Saviour hath taken its spirit to rest, He hath called it his Lamb, and it dwells with the blest. THE SACRIFICE. Where hath not Death with his sad cold mien, And the withering ray of his glance been seen ? His footstep is heard at the dawning of day, And when evening folds the light away,168 THE LAUREL WREATH, The sound of his coming gives fear to mirth, or he crushes the beauty and love of earth. He treads in the vallies of youth and bloom, And garners fair buds for an early tomb. And ye who mourn o’er a blighted flower Have heard his step and known his power— Ye have seen his hand on the boy’s bright eye, As it faded *neath its potency— Ye have seen him close the lip that smiled, And change the face of the lovely child. But he walks not alone on this dim sphere— For an unseen Spirit is ever here, To dry all tears, and to heal all woe, To cheer the drooping, and raise the low, To take the pure and guileless, where The bowers of immortal spring-time are. And ye, who have wept for the early dead, O’er your broken hopes,and your earth-star fled, Deem not that the holy one who bears The weight of his children’s grief and cares— Was far away when the spoiler came, Thy joys to blast, and the loved to claim,— But hovered around the couch of death, To catch the sigh of its parting breath ; Then bore the spirit unstained and free, To the seats of immortality.OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. THE OLD PINE TREE. (Now standing in the vicinity of Avon, Conn.) There is a voice for me, In every breezy moan— That winds thro’ that ancestral tree, A voice of ages gone. And in its tone there jes, A deep, subduing spell ; To charm me e’en as those that rise, From haunted cave or dell. ’Tis like the solemn lay Of winds, ’mid autumn bowers, Telling of summer flown away, On the wing of festive hours. ’Tis like some lute, that brings In old familiar strain, The memory of departed things, Back to the heart again. Lonely, forsaken free! Those that grew up in pride, And flung their arms to heaven, like thee, Have fallen at thy side.70 THE LAUREL WREATH. Thou art the only trace, Left of that stately wood; Sighing above a perished race, In mournful solitude. Before the vine was reared, For cottage homes a screen,— Thy high and waving crest appeared, With plumes of living green. And when the woodman laid, Thy humbler kindred low, He eyed thee doatingly, and said, *“* Here will I stay my blow.’’ Oh! many hearts have blest, In gratitude thy shade— Who now in yonder churchyard rest, With the forgotten dead. The merry and the fair, Beneath thy boughs have met; Their memory seems to fill the air, And haunt thy shadows yet. Now from the wreck of years, O’er time’s long fearful waste— Thy low, and dirgelike music bears, These voices of the past.OR AFFECTION’S KEEFSAKE. Long may thy towering head, In fadeless honour wave 3 Thou lone memento of the dead— Thou relic of the grave. “PASSING AWAY.” Hardly a day measures the usual routine of duties incident to life, but some slight event, or more remarkable occurrence, reminds us of the frailty and short-lived nature of everything below the sun. To day, perchance a plant is spreading its foliage to the light of heaven, refreshing us with its fragrance, and delighting us with its beauty. To morrow the same existence is not —for the leaves have lost their brilliancy, the petals have fallen from their support, and the whole plant has drooped beneath some blight- ing influence. A beloved one dies—one who hath seen those days when all things wear a hue of mirth, whose step was the lightest, whose song the sweetest, and whose soul the concentration of happiness—one who but yesterday laughed with172 THE LAUREL WREATH, the gay and sympathised with the sorrowing— Now, all that remaineth of her, is in yonder quiet grave whose sod is yet unturfed. A life—how startling the thought, yet how impressive, that upon this sphere it is limited to years, even to hours ;—that we are flying onward to the time when we shall bid farewell to this magnificent creation, when the pulse of joy will be motionless, when these frames will be inanimate, and the faces that now know us —know us no more forever. This brevity is not confined to ourselves, or the ephemera that float within our ken—but the fabrications of genius, and earthly grandeur also are subject to dissolution. Undoubtedly those who wore the victorious laurel at the Roman triumph, little imagined the decline of their renown—or he who gazed in astonish- ment upon the wonderful architecture of the Coliseum, thought of the crumbling of its ele- gant shafts, or the downfall of its ponderous domes. The scholar who hath wearied himself { by intense application, and expended the “‘mid- ' night oil’? in laborious study, dreams thatthe glory of his name will never pass away. Lhe poet who flings from his harp-strings wild173 OR AFFECTION’S KEEPSAKE. and melancholy music, strikes a lay to his own immortality. But the triumph of the hero has faded fromremembrance, a few lonely columns remain to the ancient glory of the amphitheatre, and the name of the scheming student is among forgotten sounds—while the poet’s melody is with the lost tones of earth. Why then should the heart rest all its hopes of felicity upon the pleasures that fascinate but to deceive? When the sublime anticipation of holier scenes and purer enjoyments than are here afforded, fill the imagination, if revels in heavenly regions, and gives a fore-taste of that bliss which is reserved for the righteous. SABBATH AMONG THE CATSKILLS. June 26th, 1842. ; No sound of peaceful Sabbath bell, ( Is falling on my ear ; No call of villagers to church, Is rising through the air. I see no throng of worshippers Hast’ning with eager feet, To pour their morning orisons, Before the mercy seat.74 THE LAUREL WREATH 3 J cannot gaze upon such scenes, Yet well, full well, I know, That many a church is gathering, In the beauteous vale below. { know that many a happy soul, In pious worship there, Bows low before the Eternal throne, E’en at the shrine of prayer. And on this lofty mountain’s brow, I fain would worship thee ; Oh! listen to my heart’s desire, Omniscient deity! Rarth is the temple of her God— Mountains his altars are ; And from the wildest, loneliest spot, May rise the voice of prayer. Thy wondrous works, thy brightest scenes, Are spread before me now ;: Full many a lesson I may learn, On this lofty mountain’s brow. No temple vocal with thy praise— No Sabbath chimes are here, But the vast choir of nature pours, One anthem loud and clear. The winds that circle round yon cliff, These scenes on which I gaze,OR AFFECTION’S KEEPS, KE. And the dark spirit of the storm, Make music to thy praise. Fair sloping lawns, and verdant fields, And winding streams are seen, Like the still waters of thy love, And pastures evergreen. A glorious rainbow spans the heavens, Thy lasting pledge of love ; May that glad bow of promise, fix My hopes on joys above. AFFECTION’S TRIBUTE. “Another song is hushed, another harp is broken.’ And thine, freed spirit, was a harp Of sweet, but mournful tone; It was tuned to sacred melodies, Por the loved, but early gone. A sister’s “‘glance,”? and her “‘love-lit smile,’ That had faded from thy way ; And “her voice that called the wand’rer back,’’ Of such was thy sweetest lay. Of a mother’s mild and gentle tone, “Like the flute notes on the air;’’ “ Of a soft arm twined within thine own,’’ Of a father’s holy prayer.ane creeps ee Stew, 76 THE LAUREL WREATH. Of that sister’s grave, “‘by the pleasant shore Of a gently murmuring stream ;”’ Of ‘‘the clustering vine,’? by her “garden bower,”’ Of such was thy mournful theme. And I who loved thee all too well, For me, was a fond wish given ; That I may rest in mine own green dell, And our spirits meet in Heaven. That “the fair wild flowers of my native hills,” O’er my covering turf may wave ; That the music sweet of my own loved rills, May murmur beside my grave. And may it be so—thou art sleeping there, And thy song and harp are flown, And the whispering gales, and the spring flow- ers fair, _ Seem to mourn for the faded one. May thy sleep be sweet by thy mother’s side, With thy simple name above; But my bark is now on a lonely tide, For I miss thy star of love. FINIS. a eh a he og