ALEX. F. FAULKNER'S LIBRARY.

No.

FROM THE LIBRARY OF

REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D.

BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO

THE LIBRARY OF

PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY

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Sectlorif

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PHIL. A»E L.FH1A ,

A8h & Mason, CWsmrt Street 1826

w*rmm w®mw®*

WILLIAM B. TAFFAK

My song, though unadorned, may touch the heart/

PHILADELPHIA:

A^H k MASON, CHESTNUT-STREET

n. Wright, Printer 1826.

TO

MRS. ACSAH NEVINS

OF PHILADELPHIA,

:YS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE OP GRATITUDE AND RESPECT.

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED.

LYRIC POEMS,

MUSIC OF LIGHT.

Ere Eden blossomed wild,

Or earth received a form, - Ere the Eternal voice

Called sunshine from the storm; Ere on chaotic deep

The empire of old night- God looked, and tumult fled,

God spake, and all was Light: Music, first born of heaven,

Left not her natal bower, "Till Ages' chronicler

Proclaimed Creation's hour: The strain of harmony

The depths had never heard, There Silence reared her throne,

Till Light and Song appeared.

Then in their choral spheres

Rejoicing planets ran, Then, sovereign of the world,

\rose immortal Man 1

LYRIC 1P0EMS.

Then heard the Star of Morn.

Along the wavy airs Soft strains of Music float

That Seraphim might share; Unearthly was the sound,

It spake to raptured sight; And subtle sense received

The Melody of Light.

Sweet was the dulcet strain,

Loud the ascending song, That o'er the eternal plain

Mellifluous rolled along; And, say ! when Deity

Alone sublimely stood, And blest a virgin world

And called his labour " good"— Broke not forth brighter rays

Of glory, o'er the whole? Say, woke not He a chord

Of Music, to the soul!

Ages passed by, and He,

The Paschal Lamb was slain.: Death held not Deity,

Immanuel rose again; Now o'er the darksome tomb,

The couch on which He lay. Lo, Resurrection pours

Floods of undying Day; Say ! is not Music there

Where Light and Life are shed? Yes! and mankind shall share

Those strains, when worlds have fled.

LYRIC POEMS.

1 dreamed of loveliness. The gay romance

Of vagrant fancy, in fair vision came. —

Hope wav'd her wings, and Expectation, big

With promise, hovered. On a river's brink

Methought I stood, whose tranquil waters slept

Beneath the sunbeam. Mighty vessels rode

Upon the curling billow. The tall barque,

Her streamers floating on the breeze, urged on,

With Laughter at the helm, and one

Built by the hand of Pleasure for her own,

Sped foremost of the train. A lovely skiff,

By fairy toil apportioned. Her light prow,

Glided in beauty o'er the sparkling deep,

With speed that mocked the dolphin. Her white sail.

As now it caught the sun's reflected ray,

Coursing along the waters, to the eye,

Seemed like a fleecy cloud, with burnished skirts,

Descending from its height to kiss the wave-

Her freight was Childhood. Suddenly the sun

Withdrew his fires, and night usurped the day.

The tempest gathered and rude startling peals

Roll'd o'er the firmament. With fitful scream,

The affrighted sea-bird fled its troubled nest,—

The deep rose up to heaven, the lurid glare

Of lightning flashed on death — I saw no more.

Again I looked, the barque had disappeared,

But ever and anon the rifted tide

Disclosed the shattered rib, or broken spar,

Sole relics of its beauty. Men beheld,

And some with apathy — some mourned. I dreamed

Yet once again, and to my view was one

10 JLYBIC POEMS.

Who walked in youthful beauty, the desired

Of many hearts, object of tender love. —

O he was fair, his cheek had stol'n the dye

Of May's first bud, — his eye spake the deligh'

Of artless boyhood. On his open brow

Sat the calm look of cheerfulness, and there

Truth seemed to dwell. None knew him but to love:

Yea, he rejoiced in pure affection's ray,

That on his warm heart shone, reflecting thence

Its holy peace, its true tranquillity.

He looked abroad to heaven in conscious joy,

And saw his sun yet in its morning course.

The stern death -angel came and he was not!

A heart-wrung father pressed his snowy lip,

A mother agonized upon her child, —

The grave received him, — I awoke and wept.

WRITTEN AT LONG MEADOW, MASSACHUSETTS,

O, who would not shun the hurried din That riots, proud city! thy walls within? Who would not turn his pilgrim feet From the crowded hall to the calm retreat, And climb with the sun his native mountain. And seek at noon the favourite fountain? Let such with his joys be far from me, I give, simple scenes! my love to ye. Away, away from the fevered mart, Where avarice rules in the slavish heart. Where all is soulless and all is cold. Save love of self and love of gold;

LYRIC POEMS. 11

1 hasten from the enchanter's spell,

To scenes where nature delights to dwell;

To the clime of my earliest, brightest dreams.

Where on ruder hills, by purer streams,

Through sunnier vales, 'twas mine to roam,

Than thought ever imaged — it was my home!

Yes, land of my childhood! dear art thou —

New England! dearer to fancy now,

Than when — as thy mountain breezes free,

In the laughing hours of infancy,

From thy fields and thy floods, 'twas mine to borrow

Bliss for the day and hope for the morrow.

\nd here, where along romantic shores

Her waters, Connecticut proudly pours;

Where the yellow and purple harvest is seen.

Gorgeously waving o'er meadows of green;

Where the village spire is seen to shine

Like a snowy wreath 'mid groves of pine,

Where the village bell is heard in a tone

Of sadness, as it seems to moan

In music, along the valley and hill —

Here in the bosom of all that's still,

And pure and holy, the wanderer knew

The smile of love and the greeting true.

Who would not shun the hurried din,

That revels, proud city! thy walls within?

Who to the domes of the proud would stray,

When the heart and its joys are far awayr

12 LYRIC POEMS.

THE AMERICAN BANNER.

O'er the thousand hills of fame, O'er unnumbered hearts of flame, O'er a nation's deathless name, Peerless banner! wavest thou 5 O'er the subject-sea that laves Shores that never nourished slaves, Soil that yielded martyr-graves, Beam the stars of glory now.

Years have fled since bold^hearts high Reared thee, and by earth and sky Swore that free they'd live, or die 'Neath the symbol of the free ; That proud oath, where storm-clouds curled, They redeemed, and thou, unfurled, Venerated by a world, Wavest, flag of liberty!

Eyes beheld thee on that field, Where thou gleam'dst a meteor shield, That are dim this day, or sealed In the warrior's stirless sleep; Banner of the sainted dead! Wave in triumph o'er his bed, Whom thy folds to victory led, Immortality to reap.

Standard ! float forever thou From our proudest mountain's brow; Shine, a heaven lit beacon now, Cheering nations — cheering Greect!

LYKIC POEM;

Spirit! that hast thither flown, Crush the Moslem on his throne; Where the crescent long hath shone. Hover, angel -dove of peace I

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

Since thou betook'st thee to thy rest,

Long time, my Father! hath passed by; And gathered now upon thy breast,

The dust of twenty years doth lie: Corruption, too, its work hath done,

With many that wept then for thee; And those thou loved 'st, one by one,

Have slumbered in tranquillity: I was but young, and yet the day

Hath never from remembrance gone, When I beheld thee borne away,

When I was left, and felt alone; 0, there's a throb of dreariness,

That mere affliction never gave, — v

Earth seems to him a wilderness,

Who bends upon a parent's grave.

How many visions, opening bright,

Have dazzled, cheated, and have fled. How many hopes have sunk in night,

Since thou hast tenanted that bed ! And multitudes whose looks were high,

Like waves, have sparkled, heaved and gone, The voice of war hath thundered by,

And thou, regardless, tiast slept on$ B

14 LYRIC POEMS.

That dreamless couch! that peaceful tomb'

O, they do greatly err that tell Its chambers are abodes of gloom,

Where death and terrors only dwell; For me, I love to think upon

That only refuge of repose, Along whose depths — cheered by no sun —

The light of resurrection flows.

Thou art one of the chosen band

That ring high harps where splendours glow; I do rejoice — and yet thy hand

I've needed to guide#ie below; In boyhood's path I missed the care

That thorns detected 'mid the flowers; 0, I had few or none to share

As thou would'st share, and cheer my hours! For I have wandered in a wild

Where disappointment still appears; AVhere wast thou, Father! when thy child

Trod ways uncertain — oft in tears? Yet brighter hopes have sometimes shed

Their rays, and I have triumphed too. At thoughts of that untroubled bed

Whose slumbers are forever true.

Though many years have wandered by,

Since I have looked upon thy face; Though thou, hid from my gaze dost lie.

And far from me thy resting place— My Father ! hallowed is the thought

That dwells, and fondly dwells with thee: Dearer in this dim world there's nought,

Than is thy memory to me:

LYRIC POEMS. 15

'Tis joined with love of her, whose love,

A mother's! cheers my lonely way; And while I mourn thee now above,

My heart to her would tribute pay; Rest thou ! — I strew not on thy bed

The early flower, yet green and fair The spot where thou reclin'st thy head,

The memory of the Just is there ! April 29 th, 1826.

MATERNAL LOVE.

Fair is the opening grace That blooms and blushes on the artless maid;

Beauty, unfolding, we delight to trace, To innocence and youth our earliest vow is paid.

Yet youth is like the flower, That rears its petals on the lap of May;

Who that admires, laments not its brief hour, And cherishing its sweets, asks not a longer stay?

Far lovelier than these, And dearer to the heart of sober joy,

Is she whom the delights of home can please, Who to her bosom clasps her much-loved smiling boy.

O, surely none can tell, What nought but love, parental, e'er can feel —

How strong, how tender is the witching spell These dear ones round us flin£, from life what cares thpv steal!

SO L*IUC POEMh.

Graces, though prized, must die; Yea, even that form of symmetry, shall age

Relentless, humble, and the love -lit eye, That speaks and sparkles now — Time shall its fires as- suage.

Maternal Love still new, SI ill precious — brightens with the touch of years;

O, cheerless is the heart that never knew All of its joys and pangs — its secret smiles and tears!

ABISBAI/S INVOCATION.

Haste, foes of my country! to battle advance, To their prey loose the war-dogs of rapine again; Let the fleur-de-lis symbol of slavery and France, The flag of the tyrant, wave proudly o'er Spain !

Nay, cease not your curses on him that once led Your forces, Castilians! to vanquish or fall; Who fought for his birthright, his kindred, yet fled From the shrine of his worship at treachery's call.

Good God! what is country or kindred to him Who laughs at the birthright by villainy sold? Hence, Honour! the light that plays o'er thee is dim. Eclipsed by the lustre of royalty's gold.

* The Spanish General, infamous for his treason, during" th< invasion of'Spain by the armies of Louis XVIII. in 18?.?.

LYRIC POEMS. I?

0, it glads me when vengeance falls ripe on the fools Who to anarchy yield the just rights of the crown; Base plebians! they reck not themselves are but tools Which the foot of the strong shall to dust trample down,

Advance, Angouleme! and deep, deep to its hilt, In the heart of the generous bury thy steel; Nay, start not, Ven murder is 'reft of its guilt, When the hell-brooded act is for monarchy's weal.

Thou Genius of Slavery ! with pestilent breath —

Thou night-angel ! compass their armies about;

That the swords which have pierced Gallia's eagle t*

death, At the lily of Bourbon may fear to flash out.

Shout, shout, Imperator! Magnanimous Czar! Protector of nations! thy triumph's complete, Or shall be, when quenched is the patriot's star. When the last pulse of liberty ceases to beat.

TO LAFAYETTE,

On his expected visit to the United States — written in May, 1824.

Thou wilt seek, aged warrior! once more

The soil of the grateful and free;

With thy presence wilt gladden the shore

Whose millions will recognize thee,

The ally that came from afar,

When arose the Revengeful and Proud:

18 LYRIC FQEMS.

When the storm-burst was heard, and the star Of freedom looked out from a cloud.

Thou wilt come and exulting, survey, Where that beautiful gem of the night. With splendour that mocks at the day, Beams out on the field of the fight; Thou wilt come in the autumn of years. To reap what thy spring-time hath sown: To the grave, hoary man ! thy compeers Have descended, and thou art alone.

Thou wilt meet those whose glory, and pride. Whose feeling, bid scorn to forget The Man whom adversity tried, The friend of his species, Fayette! In their sons live the fathers again, \nd each bosom will throb to its core, When thou treadest the hills of the slain? \nd the vales fertilized with their gore.

We remember — what freeman will not! — The Man of the People, whose name rime's 'scutcheon reveals without blot. Ye ages! eternize his fame; Be it joined yet with his who shrunk neveV From the toil of humanity's friend; Their bosoms were one- — and forever With Washington, Fayette should blend.

The land of the sceptre and slave, Thy birth-place — is alien to thee; Yes, Europe, accursed, is the grave Of all that is generous and free:

LYRI C POEMS.

Haste then gallant one! and repose 'Neath the peace-branch thou helped'st to rearj Not a heart but whose warmest pulse glows, Lafayette! to welcome thee here.

Occasioned by the anticipated presence of Lafayette in the United States, at the forty -ninth Celebration of their Independence.

He hath stood in his years, on the bed of the slain, The fields where his comrades perished 5

Vnd mem'ry, the tie hath renewed again, With those his heart had cherished.

On the heights where the champions of freedom fell,

At the hour of a nation's glory, He hath bid the proud pillar rise, and tell

To ages, its deathless story.

In the tent he hath rested, that sheltered the chief,

In the day of doubt and danger; His tomb he hath wet with the tears of grief,

They were not the tears of a stranger.

He departs! — we could wish here his autumn of bliss.

Might ripen — kind winter before him — In vain! for the waters that gave him to this

Loved clime, to his own will restore him.

Yet, ere millions who fondly love that Name,

Ingratitude ever spurning— With mingled emotions shall faulter acclaim

To their Guest, o'er the billows returning^

20 LYRIC POEMS.

Ere the great and the good, from his dear native land*

Receives the Patriot's greeting; Ere he clasps to his own, on that idolized strand,

The bosom, where love is beating:

With the sons of the tried, who in peril were true,

He will hallow the Day of Oblation; Ye manes! hover near us, and gratefully view

The smiles and the tears of a nation.

He will witness the rapturous homage of love,

That Man is sublimely bestowing, On Him, whose achievements are written above,

Whose worth in the heart is glowing.

At that board he will honour the time-stricken head,

Once known 'mid the cannon's rattle; At that feast he will pledge the Valiant — the Dead —

Who rest in the shroud of battle.

Then go, Friend of Man! at the shrine of whose name.

Our holiest love is burning; The nation that welcomed, will fender acclaim

To its Guest, o'er the billows returning.

LAFAYETTE

AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

My Father ! My Father ! when hosts were embattled, The cordons beheld me, thy Son, at thy side; Where freedom's flag hovered, her thunder-drums

rattled, I fought to defend her — to avenge would have died .

LYRIC POEMS. 21

A (Stranger I came, jet thou didst not reject me, In thy councils, thy thoughts, didst invite me to share, Thou didst honour and love me, my Father! and bless

me, That love thrilled my heart's core — it still lingers there.

I return to the fields of the patriot's glory, Those fields wave their harvests like Eden in bloom; But the deeds of the warrior live only in story, And thou, too, my Father! hast gone to the tomb.

My Father! My Father! one war-tent did shield us, Companion in perils, thy joys, too, were mine; In death not divided, one grave shall receive us, I hasten to mingle my ashes with thine.

THE SLAVE SHIP.

The tall ship bounds across the wave,

Her canvass gaily spread; She hastens past the billowy grave,

And over ocean's dead; Now tempests revel round her mast,

And now the gale is gone; Unheeding tempests, proud and fast.

The tall ship hurries on.

Now less'ning to the weary eye,

The flying vessel seems A pigmy thing of vanity,

That mocks men in their dreams:

r2£ iaiuc poems.

Dimly she climbs along the steep.

A bubble of] the breeze ; Then flashes o'er the yielding deep,

The meteor of the seas!

And whence that speed? Her flag on high.

Waves it for glory now? AVhere undiscovered worlds may lie,

Points she her daring prow? Nobly to cheer the patriot's toil,

Bears she high hearts afar? Or, to the 'nighted pagan's soil,

The light of Bethlehem's Star?

Onward she flies! Thou saw'st that deckt

The warrior treads not there ; In gallant trim, she sails, the wreck

Of bosoms in despair! And who shall tell what bolt of God

Against her forth is gone? Aye, while his anger is abroad,

The Slave Ship hurries on!

EPITAPH,

Taken from a Tomb in the Cathedral of Sienna.

" Wine gives life! it was death to me. I never beheld the morning sun with sober eyes; even my bones are thirsty. — Stran- ger! sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the cup and depart."

Thus Versified-

Even here, where I long vigils keep.

Do thou the goblet fill:

J.YR1C POEMs.

In generous wine these relics steep,

My bones are thirsty still ; Pour out oblations on my grave!

Dost start? — nay, do not fear, For of that cup, the maniac slave

Now powerless lies here.

Is it not life? Yet unto me

The blight of hope it was; My years were given to misery;

I curse thee, wine! the cause: Brighter than morning was my lot,

But serpents wreathed the bowl; Give me of wine ! death quenches not

Thirst that consumes the soul.

Cheerily laughs thy sun? — its beams

Thou w el com est, yet I Never beheld these, save when dreams

Of madness floated by; Vye, where in peace dust should recline

The worm gnaws on my heart; Sprinkle the feverish turf with wine,

Pour out the cup — depart!

THE INCARNATION

Jerusalem awakes,

Her giant shadows flee; Night's sentinel forsakes

The hills of Galilee; And scatt'rincr tints of morn have met Above the brow of Olivet.

24 LYRIC POEMS.

In ruins slept a world

Once innocent and fair; His banner Sin unfurled,

And Death trod proudly there; Darkness held empire, till afar, Symbol of hope, rose Bethlehem's Star.

The angel choir that night Brought tidings down to man;

On floods of wavy light, Celestial music ran;

" Glory to God! Good will to eartlj.

Salvation by Immanuel's birth!"

Light broke on Syrian plains

To cheer a world in wo; And there were heard the strains

That, none but angels know; That light shall shine from sun to sun, That song through every clime shall run.

The chambers of the tomb

Yield renovating breath; He snatched from these their gloom,

And victory from deathf Now spices flow along that bed, Now Resurrection crowns the dead.

LYRIC POEMS. 25

Wearied with play, that night, my Mortimer Betimes had sunk to slumber, and he now Quietly nestled on his pillow, that To innocence and childhood lent sweet visions. He slept, unheeding the wild storm which held, That winter night, rude empire. All within Was quiet,- — midnight's stern serenity Dwelt in each chamber, and that house was still And calm, in the repose of loneliness. He is my eldest, and a parent may Indulge his love. Wrapt in his dreams he lay, Tranquil and happy seeming. He is fair, Yet fairer seemed he than his wont in sleep. His rounded arms were folded, as if toil Were ended now, and he in balmy rest Should find new vigour for the coming day. His flaxen hair lay carelessly upon His polished brow, and ther» many a curl Rioted in luxuriance. The red lips, That pouted at my lightest kiss, half closed, Spake to beholders that within was peace. Near him slept Henry, youngej^railer too; A tender plant that seemed noftormed to bear The ruder winds of life. He slumbered where He coveted to slumber — in her arms Who gave him life. A mother's love was there To shield her darling boy; and dearer now To her sad bosom was that little one, And closer to her heart she pressed him, as if fear Had taught her, he too, should that couch forsake. For one was not — William, that lovely one — -William, that constantly had slumbered there With his twin-brother, shared n,ot now that bed: C

26 LYRIC POEMS.

He too had gone to rest — a rest how sweet —

How holy! — In a farther room he lay,

Wrapt in the robe of whiteness that adorns

Departed innocence. O, how composed,

Sublime, was that deep sleep! Still he slept on

In all the beauty, all the loveliness

That late adorned him. - Sickness had not stolen

One grace that death had not threefold restored;

He lay before me in his coffin, there

So tranquil, that unto my stricken heart

I said, he is not dead, — my boy but sleeps.—.

Aye, long might I believe so, were it not

For the fixed impress, still — something severe —

Even in smiles, that death always doth wear.

Summer looks out! how green and gay

Is earth, how bright her flowers! 'Tis nature's merry holiday,

And these her white-winged hours; The winter winds are hushed to rest,

And storms, ^ more revealing Their terrors, sleep,— on ocean's breast

The wanton breeze is stealing.

Where's now the frost that chained the brook,

And storm that heaved the sea? The wild wind that the forest shook,

The snow that clad the lea? Winter! thou'st fled! and men rejoice,

And every bird in tune Puts forth its little warbling voice,

To welcome laughing June =

lyric poems. gf

Thus when upon the 'nighted one,

A weary wanderer driven, A castaway, unsought, undone,

First shines the peace of heaven: When the fair Sun of Righteousness

In splendour, brightly glowing, Breaks through the sundering storm to bless

That heart, to overflowing —

0 where's the tempest that had spent

Its fury on the broken? For see! the cloud of anguish rent,

Reveals the rainbow token: Lovely, when wintry storms depart,

Summer's glad smile to see; Lovelier, when feels my drooping heart,

One look, O God! from Thee.

Ye Dead! Ye Dead J your rest is sweet,

From dreamy trouble free; The lab'ring heart forgets to beat,

Beneath the alder tree; O, gladly, 'neath the grassy turf,

The care-worn would recline; Or 'neath the wave where fairy hands,

Bedeck the lowly shrine; Ye Dead! ye Dead! he comes! he comes!

And he that woke to weep, Shall bosom every secret ill,

Where ye long vigils keep.

28 LYRIC POEM-,.

Ye solitary relics! pent

In earth, to earth a prey, Ye voiceless lips! how eloquent

To me is your decay; 0, sweet the consecrated soil,

Where pilgrims cease to roam, Where fainting mortals end their toil,

And misery finds a home; And sweet the couch where coral wreaths.

Deep in the surging brine, In ocean's dark, unfathomed caves.

The sleeping dust entwine.

Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep.

When tempests rode the cloud; Or when the night-star paled the deep.

The deep became their shroud; Think not for those who press that bed.

No seemly knell is rung; Think not no rites embalm the dead.

Nor holy hymn is sung; Heard ye not on the midnight wave,

When whispered anthems stole? 'Twas o'er the sea-boy's early grave.

A requiem for his soul.

Dear to the shipwrecked is the port.

Where, on a stormless sea, His barque rides safe from every gale.

From shoals and quicksands free; Dear to the wanderer is the star,

That points his doubtful way, That cheers and guides him when afar.

His falt'ring footsteps stray:

LYRIC POEMS.

And dear the hour when I this head,

May pillow on its rest, When I, amid the thronging dead,

Shall be a welcome guest; O, dear to me that last repose,

Where I this wasting form, May shelter 'neath the opening rose,

That knows no wintry storm.

THE THUNDER STORM.

The storm is up ! — along the sky Swiftly the ebon rack is driven; And look! yon curling cloud floats nigh; Charged with the panoply of heaven: It rends! and gath'ring to a heap, Of angry billows takes the form; How troubled is that upper deep-— God! thou art awful in thy storm.

*Tis pass'd*— and see! o'er fields again Sunbeams their laughing light unfold: On tower and tree the sparkling rain Drops like a shower of molten gold: On yonder hill-top rests the bow! The air is redolent of balm; How bright is all above, below ! God ! thou art glorious in thy calm.

So, when the tempest shrouds my skies And grief holds empire in my soul; 1 see the desolation rise, The waves already o'er me roll? c 2

3Q LYRIC POEMS.

Thou speak'st, and like a tender sire Thou dost thy child's frail fears reprove: Lofty art thou when storms retire; God! thou art dearer in thy love.

TO NEW YORK,

Written during the raging of pestilence in that city in 1822.

O, sister City! now in tears

Of bitterness, thou weepest sore; On thee the angry cloud appears,

And heavily the tempests lour; Within thy gates the voice of wo

Is heard — there lingers fell despair; The beauty of thy house is low,

The pale Destroyer walketh there.

The aged father's heart is riven,

His prop is hurried to the grave; The babe, sweet cherub, lately given,

Hath fled, God claims the boon He gave; In Ramah, lamentation's sigh,

The midnight burst of grief was known. In thee how oft the mother's cry

Hath told her bosom's treasure flown!

While in thy street the trophied King Rides forth upon his phantom steed,

And bids his lance new conquests bring, And bids again fresh victims bleed.

LYRIC POEMS. 51

Be ours the sympathising part

To pluck away the rankling spear,

Be ours, upon the broken heart, To pour compassion's holy tear.

O thou ! who, on the storm careering,

Deal'st the red thunder to thy foes, O thou! who in the calm appearing,

Speak'st to the trembler sweet repose; We ask thy help, for help is thine,

Bid the Death -Angel now forbear; Though 'neath thy footstool, terrors shine,

The mercy-seat, 0 God! is there.

The public prints announce, that it is in contemplation by the Navy Department, agreeably to a resolution of Congress, to order a vessel out to bring the remaim of Commodore Perry to his native land*

Went he not out in proud array,

Wreaths on his youthful brow? He went from fields of well -won fray

Forth to bid others bow; He went as the devoted should,

Even at a nation's call; Why weep that for the Brave and Good

Is wove the funeral pall?

Ended the watchful warrior's toil,

His mightiest conflict o'er, Returns he now with glorious spoil,

Unto his native shore;

32 LYRIC POEMS.

He comes-~but not with song and shout.

He comes, and eyes are dim; The muffled drum and fife ring out

Their melancholy hymn.

How loftily ran his career,

Let vanquished veterans tell; Briefly — we know by sorrow's tear.

'Tis whispered in that knell; Yet for him, leader in the fight,

Freshly survives a name; Upon his 'scutcheon falls the light

Of high and spotless fame.

Hence! ye that weep o'er blighted bloom.

Wailing that youth should die; Hence! his is not the timeless tomb

Where hopes unbudded lie: O, for the glorious death of them

That live beyond our tears! O, for the name — the unwasting gem —

That mocks the touch of years !

THE YEAR.

Thou unknown fragment of that scroll Whose signet was, ere Time began,

Ocean, whose waves were wont to roll Ere God from nothing fashioned man?

Whence art thou, evanescent Year?

Atom! declare, what dost thou here?

LYRIC POEMS.

Is it, pefchance, to mock awhile,

With added moments, life's poor day?

With cheating vision to beguile Man that appears and hastes away?

Deceitful tide! thy meteor wave,

Buoys him, yet bears him to his grave.

Wilt thou not like the other years That were before thee, disappear?

Why com'st thou with thy dreams and tears, Thy burdens, melancholy year?

rTis fit thou too should?st come and go,

For nought unchanging is below.

*Tis fit that all should fade and die,

Yea, Ruin's voice shall shake the spheres;

The yellow leaf that sails on high, The weary date of days and years,

Alike pass on and are forgot,

Once here, but now rcmcmbcicd nut.

Vnd let them pass, for what but dust Are wheeling worlds, and what are we?

Creatures, from frailty formed at first, Yet, linked to an eternity,

When ruined worlds on worlds shall roll.,

Then lives the disembodied soul.

*4 LYRIC POEMS.

" A Hindoo of a reflecting turn of mind, but devoted to idola- try, lay on his death bed. As he saw himself about to plunge into that boundless unknown, he cried out, ' what will become of me?' ' O,' said a Brahmin who stood by, * you will inhabit another body1' ' And where/ said he, ' shall I go then?' « Into another!' ' And where then?' • Into another, and so on, through thousands of millions!' Darting across this whole period, as : hough it were but an instant, he cried, * Where shall I go then?' and Paganism could not answer."

Thou canst not whisper to that soul,

Now pluming for her flight — Of other worlds that dimly roll

Beyond those orbs of light; Thou canst not guide her trembling barque

O'er yon uncertain sea; That ocean -path is wild and dark,

Benighted one! to thee.

Thou canst not, boaster as thou art,

Discern another clime; Nor calm the pulsea of tho heart

That beats no more for time: For thou hast never known nor dreamed

Of wisdom's only way; Upon thee yet hath never beamed

Salvation's guiding ray.

What shall assure thee of a shore.

Where dwell the shadowy band, That ages by-past, went before

To seek that unknown land? Thy immolations? — can the sigh

Of agony, reveal Mercy to him, self-doomed to die

Beneath the bloody wheel?

LYRIC POEM*. 35

Thine idols? — though the costly gent

Sparkles around their shrine; Though thou in blindness, unto them

Yield homage, deemed divine — Know, Pagan! one such secret tear

As penitence lets fall, Is unction to the heart, more dear.

More holy than them all.

THE DEAF AND DUMB.

The Deaf and Dumb! — tell me what heart Of human mould, beats not with some Kind throb, in which heaven shares a part, Of feeling for the Deaf and Dumb?

The Deaf and Dumb! we ask no voice Of winning eloquence, to plead In their behalf., to bid rejoice These innocents with pity's meed;

The Deaf and Dumb alone shall speak, In language that prompt nature knows; Shall bless you, yea, while down the cheek Of tenderness, the warm tear flows.

Theirs is a voiceless phrase, unknown To grosser sense — the glad repeat Of cherubs, round the shining throne, Hymning their love, is not more sweet.

The eye through which the soul is seen5 The bosom-pulse of hope and fear,

36 LYRIC POEMS.

The lamp of love, whose ray, serene. Kindles communion, holy, dear,

Are theirs, — sweet ones! we pity not Your fate, of bliss the real sum Is given to consecrate the lot Of innocence, — the Deaf and Dumb!

TO MY BOY, SLEEPING.

O, sweetly thou art sleeping,

And thine are dreams of joy, Thy mother too is keeping

Her watch o'er thee, my boy! Thy healthful cheek is shaded

With hair of auburn dye; The last dear smile, unfaded,

Tells artless pleasure nigh.

And long unknown to sorrow,

Loved one! mayst thou repose. Be thine the hope of morrow,

And thine the thornless rose: Life's path — how drear and lonely.

Uncheered by love's warm glow: A parent's rapture, only

A parent's heart can know!

When of our joys, the nearest,

Too oft, alas ! depart, O, blest is he whose dearest,

Spring only from the heart;

LYRIC POEMS.

The tide of time is stealing, Each hour, some bliss away;

But these dear throbs of feeling: Can never know decay.

Yet while I hover o'er thee,

Upon thy cheek, the tear Hath fallen, as before me,

Life's numerous ills appear;

0 heaven, avert, or lighten, Those ills, and if astraj

Thou goest, may Hope's star brighten, And guide thee on the way.

O, waken from thy slumber.

My cherub boy! that I May every beauty number,

That glances from thy eye; Beneath those fringes darting,

Are beams I long to see; Those ruby lips, disparting,

Should lisp of love to me.

1 gaze — and still new pleasures My bosom overflow;

0 tell me, best of treasures!

What is it moves me so? Yet hush ! I would not wake thee,

So tranquil is thy rest; To sleep again betake thee,

Thy couch, a mother's breast!

D

38 LYRIC POEMS.

PRAYER FOR GREECE.

Written on hearing of the fall of Missolonghi

Thou, Worshipped! Thou! forever nigh, Who wear'st the title, u King of Kings;- '

Hear the petition, O, Most High! That feeling to thy footstool brings.

Thou see'st where of thy rites and name, The scornful Moslem makes a boast;

O, from thy chariot wheels of flame Look, and confound the godless host.

O'er the once lovely Grecian plains

Rolls desolation like a flood; The solitude of ruin reigns

Along those vallies, steeped in blood

The robber and assassin stand Where tributaries bent the knee;

And from that stricken, weeping land, Rise spire and shrine, but not to Thee)

And yet her strife — she knew Thee not — Thou saw'st, when the shamed Persian fle

When Sparta, on one glorious spot, Numbered her choicest with the dead.

And Lord! when Persecution's star In later time, hung o'er our night,

Didst thou not, Mighty One in war! Go with our armies to the fight?

LYRIC POEMS. *9

Leader in that unequal fray!

Didst thou not smite the spoiler dumb, When on that teeming, awful day,

Fled foemen at thy thunder-drum?

Deliverer! thus to hapless Greece

Be thou a present help and shield; Thine be her battles, Lord! till peace

Wave dove-like pinions o'er that field.

Speak! and where mocking crescents wane, Behold the Banner-Cross unfurled!

And Greece, restored, become again The beauteous Eden of the world.

The heavens were still. High on his ebon car Night rode sublimely,— -earth its vigils kept,

And nought looked out on Midnight's holy hour,

Save her pale tenant, the sweet vestal star,

That, twinkling in its solitary bower,

Seemed, lovely portress! watching while men slept,

In safety sleep they? mark yon curling flame,

Whose towering columns, wreathing with the sky. Tell of Destruction's triumph. Hear that cry!

Witness that burst of anguish! these proclaim Thy horrors, Desolation! See, the foe

Exultingly comes on; the work of art,

The costly pile, the curious and the rare,

Now sate his horrid gorge. The shriek of wo.

© ©

The furious shout, the sigh deep from the heart. Are heard. — The throb of agony is there!

40 LYRIC POEMS.

Yea,* he hath fled— saw'st thou the mounting spire Of billowy flame? Even on that sea of fire His barque was wafted to the port of peace.

Spirit! we weep, yet weep not thy release

From toil and suffering. Thine it was to know The interchange, whose high communion, sweet,

Partakes of heaven. — Can worlds such peace bestow? The garment of thy heaviness is now

Changed to the robe immortal hands have wrought: Joy, like a cherub, sits upon thy brow, —

The pearl is thine, of price unknown, unbought. And he that wept below now sits at Jesus' feet.

I saw the outcast — an abandoned boy,

Whom Wretchedness, debased, might call its own.-

His look was wan, and his sad sunken eye,

IVJute pleader — told a bosom -harrowing tale; —

For he was one, unknown to fost'ring care,

That should have shielded and protected him

In childhood's dang'rous hour. No father's prayer,

In midnight orison, had risen ever,

Before the viewless throne, to fall again

In blessings on the lad. No mother's tear

Had dropt in secret for the wanderer. He,

Dejected, stood before me, and methought

Resembled much a flower, a ruined flower,

But lovely once, and might have bourgeoned gaily.

Had not Adversity's dread simoon passed,

And blighted all its sweets. I he buds of hope

* Founded on fact

LYRIC POEMS. 41

Bloomed on — but not for him. The morning sun

Shone gladly out — but all to him was dark.

His soul was in eclipse, — the energies

Of mind lay dormant, withering in their prime.

I looked, but he had passed me; — he stole on

Despondingly, irresolute his pace,

As on forbidden ground. The world seemed not

For him,— haply its frigid boon were much,

To yield the sufferer Misery's shelt'ring grave.

I saw the outcast. — but to fancy's view Methought a vision, fair and bright, appeared. So changed, I mused — but the intelligence Darting in lustre from his mild full eye, Assured my throbbing heart 'twas he indeed. Gone was the sallow hue, the sombre cast Of wretchedness, and in its stead, the glow Of cheerfulness shone out. His parting lip Disclosed the smile content delights to wear, When peace within sits revelling. His step erect, Told of a heart at peace.— He walked in the beauty Of reckless boyhood. Wondering, then, I asked The cause. He pointed meekly to a dome Whose hallowed portals tell the passenger That the Eternal deigns to call it His, — Known of all nations as the house of prayer- Here, said the youth, While glistening drops bedewed His beauteous cheek, — here Pity led my way} And he that knew no father soon found One Able and sure to save. And he, whose tears No mother's hand had kindly wiped away, Found One who said, "Come! thou forsaken, come Unto my bosom — rest, poor wanderer, here!" He ceased — my full heart, as 1 went my way, Called down God's benison on the Sunday School, d 2

i'l LYRIC POEMS.

EXPOSTULATION.

Stay, yet, white man! heaven no longer Can thy lust of gain endure; Stay thy hand, yet, bold oppressor! Crush not the defenceless poor.

*'Lo, the Indian!" — child of sorrow, Remnant of a mighty race; Grief is his, no ray of gladness Beams upon his dwelling place.

Free as were his mountain breezes, Once he roamed, the son of kings; Boundless was his rude dominion, Where he drank his native springs.

Wouldst thou chase him from his covert, Bid him to the desert My? — Wouldst thou tear him from the hill-side, Where his father's ashes lie?

Thou hast seen upon his reason, Science her mild influence pour; Thou hast seen the ray of Bethlehem Shine, where all was night before.

Man! of these wouldst thou despoil himr- Filch his heaven — drive hope afar? Yes, for sordid gold, the white man Would blot out Redemption's Star.

LYRIC POEMS. 4S

God of justice! though pavilioned 'Mid the thunder, misery's sigh Claims thy notice: Thou'rt a Helper. When no other help is nigh!

DEATH OF FISK,

American Missionary at Palestine.

Went he unto that holy land,

In panoply arrayed, With banner and with gleaming brand,

In that high and bold crusade? Fought he where Christendom, its hosts

Poured forth of warlike men, When Coeur de Lion smote the coasts

Of the scornful Saracen?

Or unto Helena's* proud shrine

Did the votary ascend? Did he at altars deemed divine,

With kings and warriors bend? He wept where martyrs wept, and prayed

O'er the ruins of that land, Where sleep, beneath the palm-tree's shade,

The seer and the patriarch band.

* The original building, erected A. D. 326, was destroyed at the beginning of the eleventh century, and rebuilt by a Greek emperor in 1048. Nicephorus enumerates twenty-six churches and chapels, built by the empress Helena in the Holy Land. — Clarke's Travels.

44 LYRIC POEMS.

He trod not Olivet's ascent

"With thought of high emprize; He went as sandalled pilgrims went,

In meek and lowly guise; O, dearer to his love, thy name,

Thy peace, Jerusalem! Than the trumpet's loudest note of fame

O'er the coronal's brightest gem.

Sped not to Palestine, men, who

Should fearless heralds prove? Aye, they went forth and they were two*

In form, but one in love; . The field is ripe and where are they?

Their path is now untrod; Send labourers! — these have winged their way

To the city of our God !

THE PROPHECY OF NOAH.

And he said, cursed be Canaan, a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.

And he said, blessed be the Lord God of Shem, and Canaan shall be his servant.

God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan shall be his servant.

Genesis ix. 25, 26, 27.

The billows no more on the mountain-tops 9lept, No longer a world in its agony wept;

* Messrs. Fisk and Parsons.

LYRIC POEMS. 45

With his waves had abated the wrath of the Lord, And the rainbow looked out where of late gleamed the

sword. Of the thousands that scoffed was there none to tell

now, How mighty His vengeance when kindled His brow; The gay and the reckless, and those vexed with cares, The young in their wine-cups, the man of gray hairs, The noble in greatness, the maiden in pride, Alike met the besom — they slept 'neath the tide! The Patriarch lingered on Ararat still, The light of Jehovah yet waved on that hill; And dear to his heart in that wilderness-world, Was the cloud of rich mercy that over him curled^ And say! ehods not vision its hallowed power? O Patriarch! Prophet! behold now thine hour! u A deed of the night, Ham! was known unto thee, And Canaan subdued to his brethren shall be; For Ham is poured out the red vial of wrath, O'er the portion of Canaan hath passed the fell scath; On the shores of the Ethiop is gathered the flood, Come not on my sight, 0 ye visions of blood! Why floats on mine ear that harrowing cry? With the crime-tainted breeze why mingles the sigh? 'Tis the groan of the captive, the shriek of the slave, Ah! he lays down his fetters and stripes in the grave! To the land of the South speeds the merciless barque, 'Tis not, O my God! thy delivering ark! — It comes from the white Christian-trafficker's clime, And the Cross of the Innocent wavers o'er crime; That banner floats high on the death-scented gale, From that sepulchre-barque comes the prisoner's wail, The cowardly taunt is that African's food, His tears are for thirst and his aliment blood ;

46 LYRIC POEMS.

Recollections of home with its treasures pass o'er him, The long lingering watchings of grief are before him, Madly he rushes to where the dark billow Yields to the wretched its cold dreamless pillow; He sinks — an immortal forever hath flown, To wander away from the light of the throne; God! on me and on mine thou hast scattered thy dew, Let thy rainbow of love beam on Africa too!

Look afar, my first born ! to the regions that lie Luxuriant and fair 'neath the young eastern sky; Whose rivers roll onward their silvery flood Through vales that are lovely as gardens of God: The birth-place of blessings, uncounted and free, The land of rich promise I give unto thee; For possession to thee and thy children, to them An inheritance worthy the offspring of Shorn. Yet not for the plains where fertility teems In abundance, surpassing the husbandman's dreams, Nor yet for the valley, or cedar-clad mountain, Or streams that gush out from many a fountain, Or rivers that water the wide plain of palms, Not for these, O my son — of decay are these charms, — Do I bless yon possessions, for now to mine eye The dim flood of ages rolls fearfully by— I see a Deliverer, beneath Syrian skies I behold offered up the One Sacrifice ! Lo, blessings poured out from obscure Galilee In floods, shall all nations enrich, yea, I see Kings, warriors, and people of languages far, Bow down to His sceptre who rides by name Jah ! Hasten thou, day of wonder! break out holy morn, When the Uncreate Godhead, a babe shall be born!

God shall bless and enlarge thee, O Japheth! and thou Awhile shalt repose beneath Shem's fruitful bough:

LYRIC POEMS. 4T

To thee and to thine the portion shall be

Of lands stretching far to the uttermost sea;

Beyond the tall mountain, whose proudest cliff sees

His base idly washed by blue Euphrates;

Even there where the sun on the wave's yielding breast,

Descends in the eve of his glory to rest.

Regions well favoured, my son! shall be thine;

Hail shores of the blest! where beneath his own vine

Each one shall repose. Hail land of the free!

And tell me, my spirit! what more wouldst thou see?

Why opes to thy vision the vista of years?

Ah, why to one robed in clay-vestment appears

Fruition of blessings to men yet unknown?

Sure the light that waves round thee is caught from the

throne; The cloud big with mercies already is o'er thee, A world disenthralled and redeemed is before thee, Arise, O my spirit! thou seest the birth Of glories surviving this heaven and earth!"

THE DEPARTED WIFE.

And thou hast fled, fair spirit! — True, the boon Of thy perfections was too rich for earth: — Yet we lament that worth so rare, thus soon, Thus suddenly, is blighted. — Yes, the birth, So promising, of thy mild graces, proves For heaven. — The tomb conceals our fondest hope, Yet in the hearts' retirement, spirit! thou Still liv'st. There contemplative fancy loves Still to behold thee — with the unbounded scope Of chastened love, there she beholds thee now.

48

LYRIC POEMS.

Thou livest; — Faith discerns thee 'mid the choir

That minister above.^-Thj robes of white,

Emblem of the sweet purity that loved to reign

"Within thy bosom, tell that thou art one

Of the celestial sisterhood, whose lyre

Wakes the first song in heaven. The gems of light

Sparkle around thee, while thou tread 'st yon plain

Of bliss ineffable. O, who would shun

The invitation to his place on high,

"Were it — like thee to live— like thee to die?

Thou'rt absent, mourned one! — but memory will

Embody thee, and in his vigils oft

Shalt thou to thy bereaved, minister-,

And calm his midnight anguish. - In the dream

Of tenderness shalt thou address him. Soft

And soothing, gentle one! will be the stir

01 recollections in his widowed heart; the theme

Shall solace him, for all of loveliness

That once adorned — spirit! adorns thee still.

O sweet to him that treads life's wilderness,

A pilgrim mourner, drooping and alone;

Sweet is thy cordial, memory! thou canst pour

The balm of Gilead on the wountled. Thou

Canst chase the chill -drop from the sufferer's brow.

And bid renew the endearments known before.

Thou call'st thy vision — she who late had flown,

Returns again, and 'tis to heal the heart.

And she is near, and now a balmy smile

She gives to her beloved, and awhile

He, happy, feels not the soul-rankling dart.

Thou art not gone — for 'neath yon grassy mound, In slumber, thou reclinest; and so deep, So calm and holy is thy rest, profound, We would not, dare not break, sweet one! thy sleep.

LYRIC POEMS. 49

There rest! — and we will bid the wild-flower grow Upon thee, and her green shall Summer throw Around thy bed. — Nor shall the wintry storm, Careering o'er thee, thy fair couch deform: There rest, till reeling Nature's cries disclose Hope^s morn to them that peacefully repose.

Winter! there are, among the race of men, Strangers to thought, who slander thee;

Thy frowns appal, thy smiles escape their ken, Far lovelier the garb thou wear'st to me.

I love thy rocking storms to hear;

Thy blasts, that bid the aged mountains nod, Thy winds are music to mine ear,

To me their murmuring is the voice of God.

Season of kindly charities!

'Tis thine to thaw man's heart — the frigid soul, Sterner than frost, is melted, nor denies

Its aid, to bid the tempest-tost be whole.

Bland mother! thou art not austere;

Though frozen be thy aspect, bliss is thine, Unknown to fairer May; upon thy shrine,

Purer than summer's dew, is seen the orphan's tear

Parent of treasures, thou!

Should I not love thee? 0, can aught compare With thy dear fireside joys? — the tranquil brow,

The wife's warm smile, and children's kiss are there.

E

50 LYRIC POEMS.

Is there a heart on which thy own May bosom in affliction's hour?

Whose pulse, to selfishness unknown, Beats quick with feeling's holy power:

Is there a soul so nobly free,

'Twould proudly love, though all beside Had passed thee in adversity,

"Wrapt in the mantle of their pride?

O, seize that heart! for richer 'tis

Than all that glittering dust can boast;

Cherish it thou ! 'twill yield a bliss

To cheer, when worlds on worlds are tost!

Though hard thy lot, Misfortune's son !

A prey to ills — dare not repine; On thee Hope's beacon -light hath shone.

If such a heart iff truth be thine.

i public journal states that a number of gentlemen in Boston have associated, and agreed among themselves to drink no ardent spirits or wine, for the term of ninety days, under a penalty of ten dollars, volunta- rily imposed upon themselves for each violation of the agreement.

'Tis well that ye reject the cup

"Whose dregs are poison all; Nor round your hearth the beverage sup,

Nor at the banquet hall:

LYRIC i^OEMS. St

The foaming draught ye dash away

From temperate lips — 'twere well Could ye the thousands check, who stray

Madly unto that hell.

O God ! the generous youth to see,

Their country's truest pride — Who to that 'whelmning vortex flee.

And perish in the tide; O God! the maniac-tribe to know,

That swell the guilty scroll; That writhe 'neath self inflicted ivo.

The vulture of the soul!

Sword! flesh thy yet unsated blade —

Of thousands drink the gore, Vet hath the cup inglorious laid

In death, its thousands more; Arrow of night! seek out the host.

And bid its thickest bow; Yet shall that chalice trophies boast,

Pestilence! more than thou.

Beware — nor yonder goblet grasp,

Now sparkling to the brim — Though pearls of price 'twere thine to clasp;

Though gems shone round the rim; The purple juice, mantling aright,

That far its fragrance flings, Avoid it — 'tis to reason's si^ht

A serpent armed with stings.

52 LYRIC POEMS.

Fair stars! upon the brow of night Ye look, from yonder fields of blue, Where ye, 'mid melody of light, Bright wheeling worlds! your way pursue.

Ye never tire,— pure diadems, The marshalled sentinels on high, Ye shine, and ever shine, the gems That fringe the curtain of the sky.

Minstrels are ye — your early song Followed the Voice Omnipotent, When light and music flowed along Over the spangled firmament.

Ye stars ! if aught 'tis yours to know, Beyond your own returnless bourne, With pity have ye not below Glanced on these vales where mortals mourn :

O, as I scan your nightly march, Your anthems steal upon mine ears; As sprinkled o'er yon glitt'ring arch, Ye wake the music of the spheres.

'Tis fancy! — yet the empyrean strains Impart kind Gilead to my breast; They tell of brighter, fairer plains, Where troubles cease— where pilgrims rest.

LYRIC POEMS. 53

THE UNHALLOWED GRAVE:

Suggested by some exculpatory stanzas, attributed to the pen of Mrs. Beauchamp, who, in the summer of 1826, in Kentucky, committed suicide a short time previous to the execution of her husband for the mur- der of her former betrayer; to which deed he was in- stigated by her unprincipled revenge. They were both young'— -were devoted to each other — and, accord- ing to their request, ivere buried in one coffin.

Shall angel Pity plead above

For crime unwept, nor thunders chide

The bitter hate, the unholy love, That nerved the reckless Suicide?

Thou soul-wrecked one! whose was the form Of beauty, matched with lofty mind;

Yet, passion stirred, who woke the storm Of desolation to thy kind;

Erred'st thou! — Alas, to err is ours, — Why sought'st thou not the Gilead near?

The blot that dims earth's guiltiest hours Is dashed away by Sorrow's tear.

Dishonoured! — lost life's diadem! — Yet Mercy, lingering nigh, is seen;

Heaven's coronal can boast no gem Brighter than griefs of Magdalen.

Vengeance.' — 0 God, shall mortals bare The arm, and Thy red terrors wield—

54 LYRIC POEMS.

Rouse Retribution from his lair, And to revenge, relentless, yield?

No, these press not the lowly head Where peace and innocence do lie;

Nay, plant not flowers upon that bed, The rose would wither there and die.

Yet where stern Passion's martyrs sleep, Now cleaving to unconscious clay;

Shall pure and pitying Woman weep, 'Tis not in her to turn away.

O, her warm heart can never shun Thoughts, that these victims unto ill,

These buried outcasts — lost — undone, Were fellow flesh, were human still.

The slave-holder's throne is the Ethiop's grave, Thou hast marked it on Caribbee's shore!

He frowns, and the soil of the generous and brave, Is steeped with the African's gore.

On those beauteous isles, pearly gems of the deep,

All of nature is lovely and fair; 'Tis man, god-like man, bids his fellow to weep,

His brother casts out to despair.

Could your griefs, wretched slaves! could your injuries speak,

O, God! what a tale to unfold; Blush, blush, guilty Europe! shroud, manhood! thy cheek,

Weep, weep the dominion of gold.

LYRIC POEMS. 55

Yet that here where our symbol, the wild eagle, flies, 0 shame! writhes the African's soul —

That on fields bought bj freedom, an outcast he dies. Time! veil it — 'twill darken thy scroll.

Why smoke your proud summits, ye hills of the slain?

In days of the battle, why fell The thousands, whose bones whitened valley and plain,

When the war-cry was slavery's knell?

Why laud we, exulting, the Festival Day?

And why to the glorious Dead Do our hearts the oblation of gratitude pay,

As on their cold ashes we tread?

My country! that plightedst to freedom thy troth,

Redeem it! — thou art not yet free; On Eternity's page thou recorded'st thine oath,

'Tis broken! there's Slavery with thee.

Hymn, written for the celebration of the 49th Anniver- sary of American Independence at Philadelphia.

The patriot sires in glory sleep:

Their sepulchre is holy earth; And we upon their ashes, keep

The sabbath of a nation's birth.

God of our battles! didst not thou

The right arm of those warriors guide,

Who laid in blood the foemen low

And freely gave their own heart's tider

56 LYRIC POEMS.

And didst thou not along our shore, Bid angel Peace extend her wing:

And folding banners wave no more, And social arts in verdure spring?

These are thy works, 0 God ! and we, The sons who never could be slaves,

Who proudly view fair Freedom's tree Expanding o'er our fathers' graves —

We crush the mind, we forge the chain.

Yea, from the soil by charter given, This hallowed hour the sigh of pain

Ascends, accusing us to Heaven.

Will mockery ask, this Day, what spoil Hearts shall in glad oblation yield,

The firstlings of a teeming soil, Or choicest cattle from the field?

Will solemn vows — where paeans swell, Lauding our fabric's goodly plan —

Atone, while stripes and fetters tell That man is pitiless to man?

Vain all, the Highest hath no need , Of our first fruits or altar's smoke;

Dearer to God is Mercy's deed,

Freemen! to break the Ethiop's yoke.

LYRIC POEMS. 57

Hymn, written for the celebration of the 50th Anniver- sary of American Independence at Trenton, N. /.

When thy own Israel, God of love! Forth from Egyptian bondage came,

Thou didst before her armies move, In thy pavilion-car of flame;

And brightly shone thy power about, To guide and guard the chosen band,

'Till thou hadst safely brought them out From peril, to the promised land.

So wast thou, Lord! our fathers' shield, When they were feeble and alone;

Thou, from thy war-cloud, on that field Look'dst, and the vaunting foe was gone;

So didst thou guide them, when no more Flash'd banners out and glittering swords;

And thou hast blest the sea and shore, Whose toil and battle were the Lord's.

We worship where those warriors stood, When drum and trumpet sounded long;

And on the soil that drank their blood, In peace we pour the festive song;

That soil! — it nourished Freedom's tree, The plant that freshly bourgeons now;

O God ! may unborn nations see Our sons rejoice beneath its bough.

We worship — but where are the Brave That warred and watched in manhood's bloom:

Their locks are hoar, and some do wave Amid the breey.es of the tomb!

58 LYRIC POEMS.

Yet thou, with more than angel's wing Wilt overshadow Freedom's coasts;

As did their sires, the children bring Homage to thee, Lord God of Hosts !

Mark ye the men of other days,

The true, the tried of yore, Even now they come, on Fancy's gaze.

As in might they came before; They come — aye, 'tis a gallant show, —

These died not for a name; Not to pluck garlands from the foe,

Or trumpet-songs from fame.

In proud array their ranks again

Start from the heaving sod, They marshal on the embattled plain,

Their warrior-feet once trod; The sainted, the immortal band,

Forever Freedom's boast, On Recollection's mount they stand,

A glorious, god-like host.

Clothed in the perils of that Day,

And wounds, no longer dumb, With honours torn from deadly fray,

The ghosts — they come! they come! Each phantom -finger points afar

To many a blood dyed field; Behold their wounds! in every scar

Behold a nation's shield !

LYRIC POEMS. 59

They come, exalted from the crowd

Of all the ignoble dead; To tell of these whom grief hath bowed,

Who bled as they have bled; In the light of every lofty deed,

Their shadows rise to view; They come from trophied tombs to plead

For these — the lingering few.

The breeze that waves their withered hairs

Is stirred not with their breath; Voiceless — yet deep that speech, for theirs

Is eloquence of death: Stretch out the strong, the succouring arm

For these, the faithful Brave; The weary-worn — their passage calm

Down to the peaceful grave!

DESOLATION OF TYRE.

It shall be a place for the spreading of nets, in the midst of the sea. — Isaiah.

High on the rock-embattled steep

That braved the storm and flood, Proud mistress of the foaming deep,

The queen of traffic stood; Damascus, Syria, and the Isles,

Enriched her gathering store; The ships of Tarshish bore their spoils.

And Ophir gave the ore.

60 LYRIC POEMS.

In broidered robes her virgins shone,

And kings confessed her sway ; The costliest odours were her own,

The nations were her prey; Beautiful were her graces all,

Yea, of that city's praise The minstrel sang in bower and hall,

And strangers came to gaze.

Dim is her glory, gone her fame, Her boasted wealth has fled;

On her proud rock, alas! her shame,

. The fisher's net is spread;

The Tynan harp hath slumbered long, And Tyria's mirth is low,

The timbrel, dulcimer, and song. Are hushed, or wake to wo!

THE LAST VOYAGE.

He launches on the waveless deep,

Sad thoughts crowd on his joy, That hour he hath beheld her weep, —

The mother o'er her boy; Loftily now before the breeze,

The vessel rides, and fast She dashes through deceitful seas,

That voyage is her last! The gallant ship hath spread her sail,

With her did hope depart? Day follows day, and wherefore fail

Tidings to cheer the heart!

LYRIC POEMS.

61

Not unto that bereaved home,

Will he come, where tears are shed;

He comes not, and he will not come 'Till the sea gives up its dead!

They reck not of the ocean-caves,

Where men and treasures lie, Buried within their dreamless graves,

Beyond e'en fancy's eye; Thev reck not dust is given to dust,

And the coral wreaths his brow; And she that was a widow first,

Childless is written now: That noble ship— that cheerful crew—

Those, what dire scath befel, Is it not hidden from our view?

The last great day shall tell ! Yet we may deem no quiet pillow,

No death-bed was for them; Nought but the wrecked ship and the billow.

That rushed to overwhelm.

That hour, of friends to soothe, was none.

Of shipmates, none to pray; The gulf before them—each alone

Must tread the trackless way: O, that wild passage! who can know

Of the spirit's fearful wreck; When loosing hold of all below

She fled from the sinking deck! Ave, and how many wander now.

On that dark heaving sea; Whose strength shall soon be taught to bow,

As Death, lost one! bowed thee:

F

62 LYRIC POEMS.

Arm of the Lord ! haste thou and save!

Of these may it be said, They lie in that unfathomed grave,

With the Redeemer's dead.

Odes, written for the first and second Anniversaries oj the American Sunday School Union — 1825 4* 1826.

I.

The angel -ranks that gird the throne Of Majesty, stand not alone; To mortals, disenthralled, 'tis given To join the choral hymn of heaven: Hark! even now a richer strain Comes floating o'er the eternal plain; To infant choirs those harps belong, And children's voices swell that song.

Gabriel ne'er touched a sweeter string,

His legions listen as they sing;

O, whence those cherub minstrels, — say, — ■

Clad in Immanuel's bright array?

In scenes where thoughtless worldlings dwell.

Their lot was cast, whose lyres now swell

The thrilling melody above,

Thine be the praise, 0 God of love !

The Sun-day School! Earth has no name Worthier to fill the breath of Fame, — The untold blessings it hath shed, Shall be revealed when worlds have fled:

LYRIC POEMS.

O thou of Bethlehem ! once a child, — Jesus! compassionate and mild, Approve thy work, be this the sum Of all our toil — " Thy Kingdom Come!"

II.

If this low vale of strife and tears

Were never sunned by Mercy's beam, Where gladness now, O God, appears,

How dark would thy creation seem! Revealed in splendours was thy Name,

When Morn her banners first unfurled: Yet lovelier is the Light that came,

Shedding Redemption o'er a world.

To this high impulse man has bowed,

And frigid hearts have learned to love: The fierce are humbled — on the proud

Sits meekness, like a peaceful dove: Now are the mighty of the earth

Workers with God — now hoary Age Pants to partake the second birth.

Now children are his heritage.

Earth has a theme allied to Heaven,

And joys like those that linger there, When to these lisping ones is given

The artless eloquence of prayer; They waken, too, a trembling string,

— While holy rapture warms and thrills, With hymns as sweet as seraphs sing

Upon those everlasting hills.

64 LYRIC POEMS.

Our hearts rejoice — our bosoms glow —

This hour what cheering visions rise! These children, nurtured thus below,

Shall swell the assemblies of the skies' Glorious will be his diadem,

And songs and extacies unknown, Who forms for God one beauteous gent

To sparkle on the eternal throne!

TO ONE THAT MEDITATED SUICIDE.

Thou, whom stern anguish wastes away, Whose sallow cheek is token, That angel-peace makes not her stay With thee, the lost and broken—- Thou shudderest at the many pangs That weary ones inherit; Misery, with relentless fangs, Hath fastened on thy spirit.

Too weak to bear the petty strife

And vanquish by enduring,

Wilt thou, a recreant, rush from life,

Remorse, unknown, ensuring?

The secret strings that have their birth

In kindness, wilt thou sever?

And snap the cords that link to earth.

Aye, rudely, and forever!

And, rash one! darescthou deface His tabernacle given,

LYRIC POEMS. 00

Whereon is left the matchless grace,

The dignity of Heaven?

Exist not ties to bind thee still

To those of thy own nature?

Imperious duties to fulfil

Unto thy great Creator?

Bethink thee! — is there not a heart Whose pulse to thine is beating? And dost thou not possess a part In childhood's guileless greeting? Stay thee! a soothing hand is near To dry the tear that's stealing: And Hope, the bright enchantress, here Her rainbow is revealing.

'Tis sad, in sorrow's bitter doom This gay cold world to cumber; Yet who within the sullen tomb, Uncalled, would seek a slumber! O, Thou! the framer of my lot, Who gav'st and who has taken, Do this, and more, but leave me not Thus hopelessly forsaken.

Occasioned by an incident during a storm*

The parent-bird had built its nest

'Mid poplar boughs secure, On high, where ills might ne'er infest.

Nor treacherous foes allure:

6*6 L¥«<3 POEMS,

'Twas hers with never wearied ton, The toil that mothers love —

To gather for her young, the spoil Of field and flowery grove.

Ah, happy brood! we heard their notes-

With every rising sun, Joy bade them swell their little throats.

When day its course had run; O, might such bliss of home remain,

A lesson for the proud, Who daily seek, but seek in vain,

For peace amid the crowd !

But sorrow came, to let us know

The bliss that mortals prize, Can never thrive unmixed below.

Its home is in the skies; Is even innocence like yours,

Sweet birds! a prey to ill? Then, what to guilt repose ensures,

Or whispers, " peace, be still!"

The midnight thunder rolled afar,

The whirlwind bade deform, The tremblers shrunk, for them no star

Looked out amid the storm; — Fierce came the blast, and spire and tree

Quivered beneath its power, Mankind were safe, alas, for ye

Poor birds! 'twas misery's hour.

The morning came and nature shone. Yet heard we not the song, —

LYRIC POEMS. 67

0, heart-subduing was the moan

That mother poured along; The thunder passed not harmless by,

The lightning scathed the bough, Abroad the scattered fragments lie,

"Where are her offspring now!

SIMEON'S PROPHECY.

The Temple of the Lord is still,

Forsaken are the golden shrines; Upon Moriah's holy hill,

The day-beam of Salvation shines: And hark! a voice along her halls

Is heard, in strains of prophecy; ''Awake Jerusalem! — thy walls

Rebuild, thy glory draweth nigh.

11 Now, Israel, shall thy tumults cease,

Up, Judah! and with songs adore; My waiting spirit! go in peace,

Thou hast beheld — what need'st thou more: *Tis Inspiration's awful voice,

The utterance of fleeing breath; The soul recalled to bid rejoice,

When quivering at the gate of death.

Yes, favoured one! 'tis thine to trace His lineaments who dwelt of old;

Those withered arms, in strong embrace, The Hope of untold worlds enfold:

68 LYRIC POEMS.

I see thee, man of wintry hairs !

I see the lightning of that eye,* I tremble, while its glance declares

The mystic Godhead passes by.

Thou holy Seer! what visions rise,

In long perspective, on thy soul; Ages of glory meet thine eyes,

And unborn years before thee roll : Who would not die as thou would'st die,

When Light and Life attend the bed? Who would not wish, like thee, to lie

Where blessings crown the faithful dead

THE PRISON.

They have built ye firmly, frowning walls'

With the iron and the stone; And cheerless is your prison house,

Where the wretch may sigh alone.

Unto the lost one, here, may years

Of grief unnoted roll; Thou art, unsated sullen tomb!

The Bastile of the soul.

Within your cold damp-dripping cell,

Unseen by human eye, Methinks 'tis horrible to dwell,

Less dreadful 'twere to die.

LYRIC POEMS. 69

To know that the bright blessed sun,

It was not mine to see; That spring should bloom and summer smile,

Yet bloom, nor smile for me —

To listen for the voice, or tread

Of man, yet list in vain; Thoughts of the dying and the dead,

Than these, were lesser pain.

Yet to the lost, abandoned one,

Cast out, yea spurned of all, O'er whose fond hopes and early dreams

Despair hath flung her pall —

To him, the dead, is life revealed, —

His dungeon -walls are heaven, When Mercy, breaking through the gloom,

Whispers, " Thou art forgiven!"

SPRING HAS NOT COME.

When Henry left these faithful arms.

To seek the battle plain, He strove to soothe my fond alarms,

And heal my bosom's pain; And while he clasped me to his breast.

And gently chid the tear, The tender kiss that love impressed.

Hushed every rising; fear.

70 LYRIC POEMS.

'Twas then he vowed, ere early Spring

Returned to deck the flowers, The kindly breeze should Henry bring,

Again to cheer the hours; 0, then, why doth the snow that lay

Upon the neighbouring hills, Dissolve beneath the genial ray,

And glide in murmuring rills?

0, whence the pure and balmy gale?

Why blooms the opening rose? Its early sweets the shepherds hail,

They hail the storm's repose: Ye thoughtless shepherds! cease your mirth,.

Ye maids! no wreath entwine; Spring has not come to deck the earth,

Nor dews to gem the vine.

Again will bleak and snow-clad hills,

Stern Winter's reign disclose; The frost will chain the murmuring rills,

And blight the untimely rose; For my loved Henry far away

Is true, my heart can tell; And this shall hush all sad dismay,

And soon all shall be well.

LYRIC POEMS. 71

SONNET TO JACOB PERKINS, ESQ.

OF LONDON'.

To thee, Magician! would aspiring verse

The tribute give, to monarch-genius due; And should the lay that would thy worth rehearse. Borne o'er Atlantic — whisper unto thee, Disdain it not, humble though it may seem,

And void of polish, admiration true It tells, and high and noble is the theme.

And where thou baskest in the fostering ray, The sun that ever should on Genius beam — And gatherest laurels in the fields of Art,— Haply this offering, grateful, even may be,

Wafted from climes that knew thy early day; Where thou indulged'st, once, the excursive dream, Now realized — Land of thy birth — thy pride — thy heart!

MISS FRANCES

Yes, thou wast called, and who could save!

Cut down in morning's careless hour, We bear thee to a timeless grave,

Earth bosoms not a lovelier flower; We weep, — how vain the bitter tear!

Lament — how fruitless is the sigh! 0, shall we never learn that here

The germs of promise bud to die?

72 LYRIC POEMS.

Thou wast the hope of waning years,

Valued, and friendship knows how well: Beloved — alas, a mother's tears,

A mother's love alone can tell: Who weeps not, when corruption takes

Its slumber in the ray less tomb? O, who shall weep when beauty wakes.

In gladness, to immortal bloom!

Shall loveliness, sweet girl! like thine,

Expand its beauties but to fade? Speak, Frances! say, at yonder shrine

Thou minist'rest, a vestal maid: The intellectual graces given,

The mental charms that love excite, Can never die — exhaled to heaven,

They glow, the quenchless gems of light.

Farewell! we ask, dear relics! not

The sculptured marble to adorn Thy grave, nor for the hallowed spot,

The monument or lettered urn; But while Decay feeds on thy brow,

And damp and darkness linger there, Within the heart's retirement, thou

Shalt live in form and graces fair.

LYRIC POEMS. 75

Song of the Warriors the night preceding the Battle of Bunker-Hill.

This night, ye hardy yeomen! wield The spade, on glory's fallow field; And ne'er shall garnered harvest yield A richer meed of victory; Toil on! toil on! ye true and brave, Dig for yon foe his gory grave, — Aye, share that pillow! -'tis to save Your sires and sons from slavery!

Who sleeps when lustful tyrants wake: Who in her peril will forsake His country? let the dastard quake At Lexington's artillery; Toil on! toil on! 'tis glorious cheer! Our swords well tried, the Briton near. Fame's monument shall yeomen rear "Neath heaven's starry canopy!

On Charles's tossing wave below. His vessel rides and he, the foe, Unconscious of the whelming blow, Shouts in his scornful revelry; Toil on! toil on ! the yeoman sings, — Unheeded yonder red-cross flings Its fires — we fear no wrath of kings. God builds the Patriot's sepulchre!

G

74 LYRIC POEMS,

THE CONVICT BOY.

He was a father's hope; on him A mother oft had cast the eye Of secret pride, and though now dim With blinding tears of anguish, I Saw that her gaze was on him still 5 Still in her throbbing heart's warm core, She that hath borne his weakness, will Shelter her lost one. O, not more Clings ivy to the fostering tree, Woman! than pity clings to thee: Her boy may mock her hopes, yet ever As he treads Guilt's deceptive wild, By all else shunned, the mother never Can shun — for is he not her child?

He stood before me in yon hall Of inquisition, held on crime; He stood, a fair and lovely boy In aspect; one whose early prime Blossomed with hopes of peace and joy. I saw the big tear frequent fall Down his wan cheek — it might be so — My soul was moved — in truth I know It ivas the tear of penitence! Remorse, regret and bitter shame Stood on his youthful brow; the sense Of his misdeeds, had vanquished quite His bosom's once proud stubbornness: I said, that boy's now sullied name Himself will yet redeem. Away

LYRIC POEMS. 75

Shall flee this morning cloud, and bright And pure will be his future day: The aged father yet will bless A son restored, — the glad caress, A mother's fond caress, shall well Declare what lips can never tell.

That lovely boy — that only son— That penitent, whose tender years. Pleading for the misguided one, Called not for rigour, but for tears— That child was hurled to the curs'd den Of midnight thieves, of convicts foul; Of those that wear the murderer's scowl; Fell miscreants, that with forms of men, Are demons in iniquity: Inquired stern Justice — " and why not?" Perchance 'twas well, and yet to me, On Mercy's hem it seemed a blot.

Ode/op the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Battle of Bun- ker-Hill.

Where rest the mighty Slain,

'Neath monument or mound, On teeming hill or plain,

That spot is holy ground: Sons of the Warrior! rear

The obelisk on high; Sons of the Brave ! revere

The deeds that never die.

LYRIC POEMS.

Bid ye the column tell,

That on this place of graves. The men of valour fell,

Who scorned to live as slaves: God — whose sublime decree,

Speaks elements to rest, Gave victory to the free,

And safety to the oppressed.

Ghosts of the glorious Dead!

Our venerated Sires! Your offspring bless, and shed

On them your sacred fires: At this auspicious hour,

On this devoted spot, Glory, we feel thy power —

What bosom owns it not I

Rear ye the lettered Rock ! —

What though it pass away, Though marble ne'er can mock

Resistless Time's decay, The Patriot's deed is known

To archives of the sky; Emblazoned on the throne.

The record cannot die!

LYRIC POEMS.

THE MAGDALEN'S HYMN.

I know the world derides my claim

To healing pity and protection; I know that to the child of shame,

It turns no look of kind affection :

Full well I know the bitter scoff, That greets the hapless female ever;

The cold and selfish cast her off, To soothe her and reclaim her, never:

And some that give the ready smile,

Approving, to the gay deceiver, Abhor her, who a prey to guile,

Was a too faithful fond believer.

Yet there is Gilead for my need,

And balm, too, for this bosom's anguish;

For He that marks the bruised reed, Will never let the wounded languish.

Be still, my heart! — away ye fears!

Tempests that have my spirit driven, — Even He who looked on Mary's tears,

Hath whispered — " Thou, too, art forgiven.

77

THE BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.

What story to posterity's dull ear Tells Egvpt's pyramid? Only that men g 2

78 LYRIC POEMS.

Some while appeared on God's fair heritage. As crouching slaves — the million spawned for one,- And he, the poor ambitious fool, that fain Would live forever, jet unknowing how, With blood and sweat hewed out this sepulchre — Oblivion's den; — and shrouded is his name So deep in the curs'd tomb, that toiling Age Has lost its faintest shadow. Not such thou, Proud Rock! by sons of Independence reared. Sculptured by Immortality. Rear high Thy consecrated head! for thou art based Upon no common earth; the blood and dust Of martyrs are beneath thee; on their bones Stand thou! — forever stand, and tell of Glory. Forever? — aye, for thus should virtue live: Live, Monument! though silent Centuries heap On thee their dust — though at fell Ruin's touch. Thou crumbiest — fallest, — not the cenotaph Of mightiest kings, shall be so eloquent, Or seem so precious as one stone of thee.

Thou sleepest, gentle boy! and thy green bed

Is undisturbed. The dream of innocence

Is thine, for thou, to the fond eye

Of watchful love, bloomed 'st not more gracefully

In form, than in luxuriance of mind.

Thou sleepest, gentle boy ! and leavest a void

In aching hearts. Ah, our sad thoughts will oft

Dwell on the soothing retrospect of worth,

Once thine, and in communion sweet,

Will we hold dalliance with thee, sainted one!

For thou art not far from us— thou wouldst not

Leave those that dearly loved — that love thee still.

LYRIO POEMS. 79

Thou'rt near in vision, though ascended, where The robe of Immortality is wrought. Thou strayest in fields of fadeless verdure now, — The flower thou gatherest knew not the blast: Thine is the clime, whose aromatic sweets, Excelling Araby, breathe genial gales To the entranced soul. Thrice happy thou, Blest traveller! We would not call thee back To this cold comfortless sojourn. O, no, Enfranchised one! we ask not thy return: Thou hast departed, therefore we will weep, — Thou*st journeyed on, we linger still behind, Yet soon to follow — therefore we will weep No more, dear absent one! but wait the car That shall convey us, longing, to thy arms.

Days departed ! whither fled? Moments! whither have ye gone? Ye are mingled with the dead, Numbered, never to return: Time! how swiftly, silently, Hast thou urged thy mystic flight, — To unknown eternity, To the whelming flood of night! *

Dying Year! and is this all? Shuts thy scene in chilling gloom? Yes, and Nature weaves her pall, Year, departing! for thy tomb, Here shall sleep the shadowy fears, Here the triumphs of thy span; Here shall slumber smiles and tears, Here the dreams of passing man.

80 LYRIC POEMS.

Schemes of bliss that rose awhile. Griefs that clouded life's career, Joys that dazzled to beguile, Crushed alike, ye perish here: Sleep they all? — shall none reviver Year! then where thy trophies, say? What shall in thy annals live,— Live, when Time hath passed away?

Shall the deaPning battle shout,

Urging on to victory?

Shall the victim's blood, poured out

To the idol- deity?

Furl thy banner, Glory! furl it,

Trophy of the slaughter ground;

Time, the conqueror, shall hurl it

To Oblivion's dark profound.

Stands the proud man's dwelling, reared On the wreck of poverty? Triumphs yet the oppressor, seared, Mocking tears of misery? Yet the flame of Envy burneth, In that breast broods hateful vice, Wretch accursed! — sweet Mercy spurneth The cold heart of Avarice.

Perish these — let none revive! Year! then where thy trophies, say? What shall in thy annals live, — Live, when Time hath passed away? Saw ye not Compassion's deed, When, to soothe a brother's moan, Pity flew to misery's need? — 'Tis recorded near the throne!

LYRIC POEMS. 81

Heard ye not the balmy voice, Grateful as the dew of heaven,— When a brother bade "rejoice!*' " Sin no more, and be forgiven?" Dying Year! then not in vain, Meteor-like, thou'st glided by; Moments! ye shall live again, Deeds of mercv never die.

Ye spirits of the just, that soar

Beyond those starry fields sublime, Dwellers in light! with whom are o'er

The pageants and the tears of Time, — Say, are the thoughts we entertain

Of yonder unknown worlds, untrue? Are those high mysteries but vain,

Dissolved, or unrevealed to you?

Prophets! — a long and awful train,

Pilgrims! that bowed beneath the rod, And martyrs! who from racks of pain,

Soared to the presence of your God — Earth gave ye not her poor renown;

— Humility your only gem — "Twas yours to seek a nobler crown,

Say, wear ye now that diadem?

Thou disembodied one! whom here 'Twas ours, in fellowship, to know:

Who, buoyed by Faith, without a fear, Fled from endearments prized below:

LYRIC POEMS.

On the dear hopes that soothed thy bed, Hath Disappointment flung its pall?

Or dost thou bosom now thy head On Him, thou chosest as thy All?

Forbear! — yon ministering one,

Thine eyes, in flesh, shall never see; The dull cold sepulchre, its own,

Mortal! shall never yield to thee: See! on Futurity's long night,

A cheering beam of heaven is shed; Receive thou Revelation's light,

If not>— wouldst thou believe the dead?

TO THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

Slaves of royalty ! advance ! Russia ! leader of the host; Perjured Austria! crouching France! Welcome, welcome to our coast! Aye, the welcome freemen show To the base, we give to ye; Death to him whose coward blow Strikes at heaven-born Liberty!

Touch our soil, and that true spirit, Spark, ethereal, given to Men — Which from patriots we inherit, Shall, resistless, rise again: Touch our soil — dare not! 'tis holy, Every clod would rush to life; Heroes from their cerements gory, Starting, would renew the strife!

LYRIC POEMS. 8:

Shame that men — God's image wearing- Scorn his work and crush the Free ! Men they are not, whose curst daring Rivets chains of slavery: Shrink je traitors ! for the sword, Righteously unsheathed, shall never Rest, till wrath's red vials poured On your crimes, blot ye forever.

Holy Despots! not in regions, Warmed with Liberty's fair beam. Should the tyrant halt his legions, Should the sword of bandits gleam: Haste to yon inglorious clime, Where of earth abide the stain; Nations, sunk in sloth and crime; Haste to Naples! haste to Spain!

Rise! ye Patriots! to recover Vantage-ground, by treachery lost; Gallant veterans! fight over Battles with the craven host; Mina, yet, the lion-hearted, To redeem his race shall fly; Chiefs shall rally, though long parted, Roused by Riego's dying cry!

84 LYRIC POEMS.

THE WHITE-HILLS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.

I see ye towering, — Genii of the North ! I see ye stand, the monuments of time, Clad in the dread sublimity of years; Well do I know ye by the frosty robe, God's drapery, that wraps your giant forms.

Parents of freedom! on your hoary heights, The fearless eagle makes her eyry, there Plants her domain, approachless to the foe. The hardy yeoman vent'rously is seen With patient labour toiling your ascent, Invading solitudes, where fitful winds Talk 'mid the pines, — he treads the dizzy cliff, Thence, wondering, surveys the little world Of forest, village, lake, that clothes your feet. The sailor knows ye — nearing the rough coast,—- From the tall mast, his lonely weary watch, Descries and greets ye as a long lost friend, When your hoar summits, glittering to the sun. Seem to his gaze but fleecy summer clouds.

And what are works of man, the edifice, The toil of ages? — what the aspiring dome? Yea, what the vaunted mockers of old Time, Egyptia's columns — what are they to these? Works of God's finger! ye shall lift your heads Majestically, when the pride of man Shall waste and crumble, yea, when Memphian plains Are cumbered with the ruined pyramid.

LYRIC POEMS. 85

TO A DEAF AND DUMB GIRL.

I grieve not Heaven to thee denies

The attribute of speech, When reading in those kindling eyes,

All that the mind can teach; I grieve not no assuring tone

Of love, bids thee rejoice; Thou favoured one! to thee is given

The Spirit's soothing voice.

1 grieve not that to thee life's scroll

— Such is the Eternal's will — Is unrevealed, thy gentle soul

Reads not that page of ill; 0, reckless maiden! trace not thou

Those characters of fire; They tell of wrongs, of bitter strife,

And blight of fond desire.

The flickering light that gilds our day,

On thee may never shine, I grieve not, — yonder steady ray

Of peace, is ever thine; And pure and tranquil is that rest,

Where thought, untroubled, flows, As waveless ocean, on whose breast

The moon-beam seeks repose.

Shut out from scenes of feverish joy,

Removed from grovelling sense, O, how sublime is thy employ,

With high Omnipotence! H

86 LYRIC POEMS.

Far from the din of this low sphere.

Its smiles, or frequent wo, Thou hear'st a voice we cannot hear

Of themes we cannot know.

Thou drinkest of the crystal well,

Whence living knowledge flows; Vet on that fount is laid the spell,

That shuts up human woes; (), never, never may the sigh

Of agony severe, Thy bosom rend, nor that mild eye

Be dimm'd with Misery's tear.

Occasioned by reading the account of the projected Jew- ish settlement on Grand- Island^ New- York.

And the Ark rested upon the mountains of Ararat. — bible

Ararat! on thy brow of blighted green, That morn, the pilgrim-ark was seen, When the waste of waters, rebuked, had fled, And a world restored, looked out from the dead, That weeping world — Could Jehovah forget The work he had made and blessed? 0 yet That hour was seen, a God revealing Himself in love to the patriarch kneeling; The light of his mercy shone abroad On the mighty wine-press, Wrath had trod: And above, in glorious pomp reclining, The beautiful bow of promise shining,

LYRIC POEMS. 87

As it flung along the rejoicing sky

Its noble arch of Eternity's dye —

Seemed in its strength to link, like some

Bright chain, this world with the world to come.

The bow of God abides in its splendour,

And His love who spanned it, is yet tender

And bright and warm in its living glow,

As the mellow tints of that radiant bow:

Ararat in verdure lifts his head,

As he did ere that morn of life, from the dead;

And greener his olive flourishes now,

Than when the spent dove reposed on its bough;

That messenger-bird found her wonted nest,

But Israel! where is the place of thy rest?

In love, God withdrew his curtain of billows

From the world he hath whelmed, where men made

their pillows In death, when the Just, the Avenger was there. Yet not for support in that dream of despair. The light of his anger forever pass'd by, When his rainbow of peace blushed out on the sky; In its scabbard is hidden the flame of the sword, Where then is his temple — the ark of the Lord? Rejoice! for the ark of the Lord is here— His glory looks out in the penitent's tear; With the humble in heart Jehovah is found. Where the contrite prays is holy ground: Then ye that build ! — O build to His Name, Who died, who rose, and lives to reclaim From sin and its pains his ransomed own; Whose was the suffering— whose is the throne: To Jesus the City of Refuge raise, Call her walls Salvation, her bulwarks Praise !

88 LYRIC POEMS.

TO MY MOTHER, IN NEW ENGLAND,

Mother! six summer suns have flown

Since thou and I have metj And though this heart has wept alone..

It never could forget The happy hours of infancy,

Those hours unknown to care — When sheltered in a mother's love

It fondly nestled there.

Mother! I well remember thou

Wouldst smile upon thy boy; And warmly on his childish brow,

Imprint the kiss of joy ; I wondered why my gladness then

Was changed to sudden fear, When on my glowing cheek I felt

The traces of a tear.

And memory lingers at the hour

When, leaving all my play, I sought her presence, from whose smiles

I was not wont to stray; I was a mother-boy I knew,

Yet was I much to blame? For pleasure of the heart like this,

The world has not a name.

I slept — but thou could st not, for oft

My sleep, unquiet, told Of sickness stealing o'er my frame,

And midnight saw thee hold

LYRIC TOEMS. B8

Thy child within thy wearied arms,

Whilst thou, to nature true, Wouldst soothe my frequent pain with all

A mother's love could do.

Long years have wandered by since then,

And I have sped my way, Far from New England's hills, where I

First hailed the laughing day; Yet, Mother! truant thought returns,

And lingers oft with theej Hast thou not, 0 my parent! yet

A blessing left for me?

Thou art not what thou wast, for Age

Has silvered o'er thy hair; Thy eye is dim, thy cheek is pale —

Time sets his signet there; Yet dearer, dearer to this heart,

Thy reverend hoary head, My Mother! than the auburn locks

That youth upon thee shed.

How could it fail to touch my heart,

With filial thought, when I Knew it was care for me that paled

Thy cheek, and dimmed thy eye? Yes, eloquent the tender glance

That thou dost turn on me; Dimly, yet kindly — in that look.

How much of love 1 see !

Be it my lot to smooth the way, Before thy pilgrim feet;

H %

90 LYRIC POEMS.

And cause the heart that yearned for me, Long, long with hope to beat;

Be it my lot to pillow where Thou seek'st thy last repose;

One little flower shall mark the spot — The simple church-yard rose.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

Star of the East! the Shepherd's Star!

Benignant was thy lustre, when

It told of mercy from afar,

And beamed Salvation down to men:

The mystery, surpassing ken

Of angel -powers, revealed'st thou;

Celestial were thy glories then

That burst and streamed on Midnight's brow :

As bright thou burn'st in yon blue field,

How dim to thee the toys of kings!

Vain the delight their pageants yield,

Compared with that which from thee springs:

O, Earth and all her little things,

Of real bliss can give no ray;

Her fairest flowers have secret stings,

Her splendours shine and pass away.

Star of the East! no gems that burn •

Amid these lesser orbs we see;

Or where upon their axles turn

The worlds of vast infinity,

Thou peerless one! can vie with thee:

They never heralded the plan?

LYRIC POEMS. 91

Conceived — performed by Deity — That speaks of pardon, peace to Man: They hold along the empyrean coast Their viewless march, unheard, unknown; The least among the radiant host, That silent shine, and shine alone; But thou, bright Star! Redemption's own! Didst wander 'mid the light of song; Thou cam'st with music from the throne- Attended by a seraph throng.

Star of the East! the tempest-tost,

On life's uncertain billows borne,

By gales of stern affliction cross'd,

By hidden rocks of sorrow torn —

When breaks the cheering Star of Morn,

When night and thrall forever flee,

O, where the doubts and fears forlorn

Of him, the wanderer of the sea!

Break out, blest Star! with peaceful ray,

Our pilgrim footsteps to incline;

To guide and guard our weeping way,

\long these doubtful shores to shine;

The heavenly beacon-light of thine

That trembled once on Bethlehem's plain,

Shall guide us to the Source Divine.

Shall lea4 us to the Child again.

92 LYRIC POEMS.

The loss of the breath from a beloved object, long suffering in pain and certainly to die, is not so great a privation as the last loss of her beautiful remains, if they continue so. The victo- ry of the grave is sharper than the sting of death. — Moore's Life of Sheridan.

0, let her linger yet awhile

With me^— that lovely clay! Those features where death seems to smile—

O, let her longer stay !

Let me again adorn her hair, With flowers she loved so well;

Again that bosom seek, and there My every grief dispel.

She'll not reprove, though love detains

Her here awhile, for she Was dear, yet dearer those remains,

O, let her stay with me!

I'll sit beside her and I'll deem

I do but watch her sleep; She looks so heavenly in that dream,

I cannot choose but weep.

It may not be! — that altered brow

Tells of Corruption's hour: It may not, must not be, and now,

O Death! I feel thy power:

To thee my wedded love I gave,

In silent sorrowing; Yet is the victory of the Grave.

Severer than thy sting.

LYRIC POEMS. 93

THE HOUSE OF REFUGE.

Thou'st seen the boy in his bright glow

Of spring-like promising; Thou'st seen him in Guilt's vortex low,

An unnamed loveless thing; And thou hast, Levite-like, pass'd on,

Or given the fruitless sigh To hopes that budded and were gone,

To promises that die.

Shouldst thou not, parent! weep o'er him?

Thou hast a darling boy! O, what if that pure ray were dim,

That lights up now thy joy! Mother! that closer to thy breast,

Pressest thy guileless son — O, what if thou shouldst deem her blest,

The childless stricken one!

And he at that tribunal nOw,

Was he not one to love? Aye, on that early-troubled brow,

Sat meekness like a dove; And those bent eyes, in happiness,

Gave once the laugh to care; And that wan face wore cheerfulness,

That boyhood loves to wear.

Is't fit that one so fair and youno;,

Should be cast out from men: Be heedlessly to ruin flung, \> though he ne'er had beer,:

94 LYRIC POEMS.

Bethink thee! Admonition's lip Might win him from that way;

And now, well warn'd, he would not sip The sweets where danger lay.

0, save him! — Aye, I know thou wilt,

Thou canst not bid him dwell Where the curs'd air breathes only guilt,

Within the felon's cell ! The Refuge! — angels bless the plan,

That, while it holds the rod, Restores a fallen man to man,

A wanderer to God!

THE SUICIDE:

Occasioned by the self-murder of the Marquis of Lon donderry, in 1822.

O, what is that the world calls fame?

And what the phantom glory? Why pants the votary for a name

To live renowned in story?

Mistaken he that climbs the steep,

The precipice unheeding, He gains the height — it is to weep;

He smiles, — his heart is bleeding.

But late the strain of pleasure rose,

His mansion echoed gladness; His heart seemed pillowed on repose, —

'Twas bursting e'en to madness !

LYRIC POEMS. 95

Yea, false Ambition! 'twas thy slave,

On thy accursed altar, Dared the Omnipotent to brave,

With deed that bids us falter.

Go, son of poverty! rejoice,

— Thy bosom whelmed with sorrow,— Though care be thine this day, the voice

Of hope shall cheer the morrow.

Though toss'd thy barque, though in distress

Thou rid'st the angry billow, Rejoice! rejoice! thou dost not press

The Suicide's cold pillow.

To the Surviving Defenders of the Castle of St. Juan de Ulua.

Men of the hostile ground!

From yonder field shall spring A greener leaf than the victor wears,

Plucked for a tyrant king.

Though your blood ran rivers there,

Each drop is a costlier gem, Than the priceless pearl that proudly shines

In Ferdinand's diadem.

The trumpet calls to war!

And the true and tried obey; And the sons of Freedom hasten forth.

In their bright and bold array —

96 LYRIC POEMS.

'Tis glorious when they draw

The sword with unfaltering hand;

'Tis godlike when they rush to death. A heaven-devoted band:

They go, for a nation's gratitude Awaits the victor brave;

They go, for the tears of woman wet The faithful soldier's grave.

But ye have given your lives

For nought, ye valiant dead! And ye that rushed to the bootless strife.

By a phantom were ye led.

For the tyrant's heart is cold,

'Tis shut to fame forever; It may rouse to hate and festering pride,

But to gratitude, honour — never!

All is not lost, ye Brave!

Your swords reflect no stain; Though yon leaguered walls, of all your hos

Frown only on your slain, —

The craven king shall hear

—Why waxes his cheek pale? —

Tidings, that Spanish Men are found, Whose hearts can never fail.

All is not lost, ye Brave!

Ye have bled — what could ye more? Yet Liberty's banner wantons now,

Where Slavery's drooped before !

LYRIC POEMS. 97

SPAIN

Written in anticipation of the Invasion of Spain, by the Jlrmies of Louis XVIII. in 1823.

Yes ! march ye forces in array,

Yon peaceful state invade; Pounce, eager falcons! on your prey,

Draw forth the unrighteous blade!

Go, Autocrat! thou foe to man,

Go bind the free-born soul! And ye base kings, that dare not scan

His vengeance — bid it roll!

Yet know, the desolating tide

Ye, impious, loose again, Back shall recoil, to whelm your pride,

From free, unconquered Spain.

Go forth, ye slaves! — although the light

Of Victory gilds your plume, That ray shall shroud, in fearful night,

Those laurels deck the tomb.

Enters within God's canopy,

In mockery to the throne,' One hireling prayer of Slavery?

It enters not alone, —

Ten thousand, thousand, as one heart, Spain! join the prayer for thee;

Ten thousand, thousand swords will start For Spain and Liberty! ' I

98 LYRIC POEMS.

Hear ye not voices? — 'tis the shout That, kindling, swells on high, —

See ye not light? — those brands are out, They flash upon the sky.

Sooner those tongues shall writhe in gore.

Those swords be drunk with blood, Than Spain prove false to days of yore,

False to herself and God.

Then onward, onward, vaunting band!

Rear Slavery's symbol high; Vet halt, proud legions! Freedom's land Is holy — touch and die!

Vway, away through trackless space,

The disembodied soul shall fly; Of all once known and loved, no trace

Shall greet her passage in the sky; The dust remains, the beauteous form

Changed to a tenement of clay, And all the graces that could warm

The answering bosom, pass'd away.

Thus shall this spirit hover soon,

Impatient, quit its narrow sphere, — Earth, yielded for a brighter boon,

Shall not detain the wanderer here; O, then I'll ask a swifter wing

To waft me from this thorny wild To fields, whose living flow'rets bring

Their gilead to Misfortune's child.

LYRIC POEMS. 99

Yet, would I not at once forsake,

Methinks, the heart I vowed to love — 0, no! I would not wholly break

The ties below, confirmed above: But when, around the sapphire throne,

Glows the wrapt thrill of holy birth, Heaven will forgive the impulse, flown

To meet its kindred throb of earth.

THE DYING YEAR.

Thou dying Year! thou dying Year!

Have we not seen thee quickly fly? Vision of days, but lately here,

We wake, and thou hast hurried by! In fitful murmurings, sadly wild,

Thy dirge the sullen winds have sung; And Winter comes, thy weeping child,

His fleecy mantle o'er him flung.

Prophet of ages! hoary seer!

Thou wast not seen where systems roll- When flew thy axle, Charioteer!

In noiseless triumph to its goal? Suns, burning once, now quenched, no trace

Marked of thee, in infinity, Nor the dim worlds that hang in space,

Wrapt in their own eternity.

Thou wast — yet mortals know not whence, Hast been enjoyed — thou art not here,

Thou'st vanished! gone forever hence, Yet we shall meet thee, deathless Year!

100 LYRIC POEMS.

The Chronicler, unwearied Time, Exultingly points to the scroll

Where, deeply graved with touch sublime. Live the long annals of the soul.

There dwell, in characters of fire,

Corruption's deed and brooding Hate; And, lettered there, in language dire.

The mad oppressor views his fate: — There lives the prodigal's just doom,

And his, that shared the selfish part: And there, in never-dying bloom,

The actions of the generous heart.

Before the darkly-burning throne,

Time renders up his dreadful seal; The deeds of men, unclothed, alone,

The mystic manuals reveal; JTis finished, — in Heaven's chancery,

i — Angels behold it with a tear — The scroll is given— Eternity

Embosoms the receding Year!

INTEMPERANCE.

Go thou of the excursive mind,

And trace the hapless poor! Go! heal the wounds that fate unkind

Inflicts so deep and sure: And why doth want these victims claim?

Why raves the stricken soul? The faltering lip and sigh proclaim,.

"It was the fata! Bowl'"

LYRIC TOEMS. 101

View yonder female — wan with woe,

She scans her little store; The smile of joy once lit that brow,

That smile illumes no more: Proud wealth and splendour once were hers,

And all was peace within, But Ruin spread its baleful lures,

It was the draught of sin.

That orphan! — Ah, how poorly clad,

Its look — how lone and drear! Its pittance gone, 'twas all it had,

'Tis hunger brings the tear — Wouldst thou its cause of misery trace,

And whence that pallid mien? Go, view its home — there 'rayed in vice

Is curs'd Intemperance seen.

See yonder train — the sable plume

Bespeaks the tale of wo; "Tis one cut down in early bloom,

For whom these sorrows flow: His was the generous bosom's swell,

The heart to kindness free; \las, how changed ! these pageants tell,

Intemperance! 'twas by thee.

Go, brave the tempest while the deep

Divides with horrid yawn; Go, plunge from Andes' frowning steep.

And meet thy fate with scorn; Do this — but, heedless youth, beware

The pangs that rack the soul, Do this — but 0, in time forbear,

And spurn the fatal Bowl! i 2

102 LYHIC POEMS.

THE FIELD-STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

" The field-star of Bethlehem is the most ghost-like of flowers. It resembles a large hyacinth, the blossoms almost green, the stalks almost white, with a strange shadowy mixture of tints, a ghastly uncertainty, a sepulchral paleness, a solid, clayey, visible coldness. Dr. Clark found the field-star of Bethlehem on a tu- mulous, in the Troas, which is called the grave of Ajax. Never was any locality more appropriate. It is the flower of the grave."

There's a plant of the desert, all lonely 'tis seen, It blossoms unknown on the couch of the Brave: With the hue of the sepulchre, coldly in mien, Blooms the Field-Star of Bethlehem, the flower of the

It seeks not the garden, it shuns the parterre,

Though lovely, the lowliest of Flora's gay train:

In the grove, though the choicest and sweetest dwell

there, Lives not this shy stranger, the queen of the plain.

The moon in its brightness looks out on this flower. But chilly and pale each moist petal appears; The night-star, while glowing alone in its bower, Still wonders to see the sweet tendril in tears.

The soil of the vanquished hath given it birth, The clime of the abject its beauty hath nourished; Its home, the degenerate, polluted of earth, Yet the spot where the sage and the warrior have flour ished.

Vrea,and shall flourish proudly! for they that have slept Awake from long night, spurning fear and the chain;

LYRIC POEMS. 103

And where, o?er her ruins, young Liberty wept, The smile of the free brightens gladly again.

Bloom, bloom, lovely flower! but no longer alone. Unfold all thy fragrance! yet not on the grave; A clime unpolluted henceforth is thy own; Bloom thou for the soldier, a wreath for the Brave!

Occasioned by the death of the Rev. James Richards, American Missionary in Ceylon, — August, 1822.

Holy the place whose kindly soil Yields for the flesh its sweet repose, Where rests the pilgrim, free from toil, Where the rich spice of fragrance flows: Calm is his sleep, whose life Was given to pain and God; Who pass'd the vale of strife, That his Great Master trod.

Called by the Voice of Love,

He laid life's sorrows by —

To take the fadeless vesture wove

By Cherubim on high:

He bade to Time adieu,

His race already run, —

He hail'd, with steadfast view,

Eternity begun.

Spirit! upon the wings of prayer, Enfranchised, thou hast gladly flown To undiscovered glories, where The rav that burns is from the throne:

104 LYRIC POEMS.

Tears are the diadems, Bless'd one! that deck thee now; And souls, redeemed, the gems That sparkle on thy brow.

Isle of the beauteous Indian deep! Land of the godless pagan's shrine ! Weep — in your groves of odour weep! Sigh 'mid the olive and the vine: Haste, Ceylonese! and bring Your tribute to the dead; Your choicest chaplets fling Upon the martyr's bed.

Sleep, true disciple ! for thy rest, The rest of piety — shall be Soft as his dream, who on the breast Of Jesus, leaned so peacefully:* Sleep! for upon thy grave Shall tropic flow'rets bloom; And the young aloes wave O'er thee, its glad perfume.

M'DONOUGH.

Thou shouldst not to the grave descend Unknown to foe, unwept by friend; Nor need the panegyrist's verse In glowing strains thy deeds rehearse.

* Now there was leaning- on Jesus' bosom one of his disci- ples, whom Jesus loved. — John, xiii. 23.

LYRIC POEMS. 105

We ask not for thy early tomb Ambition's proudest leaf to bloom; Nor that a nation should decree Marble or obsequies to thee.

Yet when the recollected charms Of modest worth, one heart embalms; When that heart prompts the holy tear To joys once known— no longer here —

Chide not! — the clime to which thou'st fled. Where sighs are not, nor tear is shed, Is genial to that love, whose birth, Like angel's love, was not of earth.

Farewell— and while we. say Farewell! We weep not that yon narrow cell Encloses thee, for there thy head Is pillowed on the Hero's bed.

The Hero's bed ! how sweet to die When victory's won — How sweet to lie Where laurels deck the warrior's brow, Where tears and smiles attend him now !

Another! yet another? — thus, O Death! Thou dost enrich thy scroll. Was it for this M'Doxough rushed to fight, and from the grasp Of veterans tore the laurel? thus to bloom Brightly, but briefly?— was it for the tomb? No, Spoiler! for the wreath thy victim wore,— Nor gathered from Ambition's guilty field,

106 LYRIC POEMS.

Nor cull'd from orphan's, or the widow's spoil — Is but transplanted to a richer clime; And now it bourgeons where no Siroc blast Can harm its verdure. Warrior! happy thou! Thy last foe vanquished, thou hast cast thy sword Forever by— yea, pillowed now thy head On the inviting couch of deathless love!

0 sainted babe ! and hast thou sought Thus soon,rthy home in yonder sphere? And is thy every wish and thought Purged from the dross that veiled them herei

With faculties enlarged, refined — Read'st thou those mysteries unknown? Dost thou— a pure immortal mind, Stand where the rainbow girds the throne?

Thou dearest one ! — and art thou far Removed from perils that we see? — Beyond the chambers of the star, Ranging the bright empyrion free?

And dost thou from those worlds of bliss, Whose depths no mortal sense may know- Bend, in an hour of love, to this Receptacle of tears and wo?

O, let it be, bless'd one! to teach Thy parents how to follow thee.—

LYRIC POEMS. s 107

Bid them forsake this span and reach3 In thought, thy own Eternity:

Bid them rejoice — for though in earth The beauteous clay, they cherished, lies,— Yet, formed in Christ, a nobler birth, A saint is given to the skies.

FAREWELL TO NEW ENGLAND.

Farewell to the scenes that my childhood has known. The spot Recollection reviews as its own ; The land of the yeoman, by industry bless'd, The home of the free, to the exile a rest; Thou clime of my birth! though I wander away, Thought lingers with thee, it never can stray: For dear to this bosom, New England! the soil, Where Love cheers the cot, and Content sweetens toiL

Farewell to your waters that peacefully glide, The rich intervales and the mountains your pride; The marts which the triumphs of enterprize tell, The hamlets, where peace and tranquillity dwell; Farewell, native scenery! to me ever dear, I give to your charms the heart's tribute, a tear; For sweet to this bosom, New England! the soil, Where Love cheers the cot, and Content sweetens toil.

Farewell to the homestead, half hid in the glade, The orchard and elms where my infancy strayed; The meeting-house spire that rose from the vale, The mill, and the streamlet that watered the dale;

108 LYRIC POEMS.

In vision the wanderer, afar to the west, Will stray o'er the objects that boyhood loved best, For dear to his bosom, New England ! the soil, Where Love cheers the cot, and Content sweetens toil.

I said thus to my glass —

'Twas at a lonely hour, When Memory bade pass

Before the mental eye

Affliction and her power — 1 said thus to my glass —

'Twas in a desert spot, Screened from the world's cold gaze- By it remembered not: I said, " thou art my Good.

Though Evil be thy name, I'll quaff thee and forget,

In thy delights, my shame? Pour out libations then !

The thirsty goblet fill; I'll drink to faithless men,

To Love, more faithless stilt- Have I not scanned the round

Of all they call sincere? My spirit! hast thou found

A kindred spirit here? Have I not craved the boon,

More precious than their gold — A heart, within whose truth

I could my own infold?

LYRIC POEMS. 109

They laughed my words to scorn,

They jested at my tears; ?Tis good that I were born,

For wine hath vanquished fears: Pour out libations, then!

Who cannot ills endure That flesh is heir to, when

He hath a friend thus sure? Fill ye the goblet high !

Let mis'ry drain it up; Affliction shall her pearl

Dissolve within that cup."

I said, and on my sense

Unearthly visions stole; \ges of old — to come —

Passed by my troubled soul; And One appeared, whose brow

Was wounded with the thorn; And He replied not, when

Reviled by men of scorn; J heard Him agonize

In prayer — God's holy Soil' — My Father! thy blessed ivill

dlone, not mine be done! What said 1 to my glass

At such an hour as this? I saw the tempter pass

Away — transporting bliss Poured its full tide along

My bosom, and I said, Or softly murmured, Thou!

Who heard'st me here repine.

In dust who see'st me lie: K

110 LYRIC POEMS.

Forgive, and take me now To thy embrace, for I, Father! henceforth am thine.

The Ceremonies attendant upon taking the Black Veil were recently performed at the Convent in George- town^ when the vows that are to separate her from the world were taken by a Lady who took the White Veil a year since.

Thou seek'st a world of grief, to shun

In yon seclusion, where The day is ended, as begun,

With holy hymn and prayer; "Tis'well the pageantries to flee,

That years have empty shown,- The bosom is from tumult free,

That beats for Heaven alone.

Yet, deem'st thou consecrated walls

Can shut out thoughts of sin? Dead to the world's alluring calls,

Hear'st thou no voice within? Hath Fancy ne'er at vesper song,

In haunts forbidden, trod? — Yea, where thou kneel'st, do tears belong

Wholly unto thy God?

Buried within thy solitude,

Unseen by mortal eye, Say not that ill cannot intrude.

Nor folly ne'er be nigh?

LYRIC POEMs. Ill

O, think ! — though painful be her heed,

Who fears 'neath guilt to bow; Dearer to God that well-won meed,

Than vestal robe or vow.

DEATH OF THE PATRIOTS,

JOHN ADAMS AND THOMAS JEFFERSON,

July Fourth, 1826.

The trump of war rings loudly, yet

Burns brighter Glory's flame; Where the Sons of Liberty have met

To seal the scroll of fame; They pause! that band — it is not fear

That bids the life pulse start; O, no ! the high and resolved are here,

And those of the valorous heart.

They shrink not from the unequal fray,

These noble, godlike men; And yet, 0 heaven ! to thrust away

Cords that bind not again! — Now cheer ye! cheer ye to the strife!

For God the lot is cast; To arms I to arms ! the combat's rife,

The Rubicon is pass'd.

Years that have flown ! ye gave to birth

Deeds of the lofty Brave; A nation, free among the earth,

*vts queen on Slavery's grave;

1 12 LYRIC POEMS.

And those renowned, her Men of might.

That battled, toiled, and bled, Have gone in the raj of Victory's light,

To join the martyr-dead.

Blest is their lot! no common mould

In wraps the veteran's form, He slumbers, gathered to that fold

Where beats not Sorrow's storm,: But ye, hoar Sires! 'twas fit that ye

Thus hallowed your Proud Day, When in thunders of that Jubilee

Your spirits passed away!

Yea, while our anthems roll'd afar.

And our banners floated high, Glory sublimely wreathed the car

That bore ye to the sky; — Released, ye wait in flesh, not now.

The spirit-stirring call; O, God! 'tis lofty thus to bow,

*Tis glorious thus to fall!

Occasioned by the proposition that the Jefferson Fund should, in consequence of the death oj the patriot, be appropriated to other than the original design of li quidating his debts.

Touch not that gift! it is hallow'd to feeling, To the virtues of him that in glory hath fled; An offering, a nation's emotion revealing, 'Tis sacred to fame, it belongs to the dead.

LYRIC POEMs. 1 1-3

Lay it, ye worthy! with hearts proudly beating, On altars lit brightly with gratitude's fires, Bless to his mem'ry the home of kind greeting. Preserve to his offspring the hall of his sires.

He hath fled in his griefs! even now to that spirit, — Haply it lingers around us in love- Give reverence ye, who this moment inherit, Blessings bequeathed by the sainted above.

Ye unrevealed ages! eternize the glory, That already a star on your vestibule glows; Men! letter the rock with the deeds of his story, Honour the spot where his ashes repose.

His pageant is dimm'd with the tears of a nation,

Blest are the tears that such relics bedew;

Yet richer and purer the grateful oblation*

That soothed, e'en when Time was receding from view!

REQUIEM,

Written/or (he 24th of July, 1826.t

lx glory wrapt, the Sages sleep — How venerable are the dead,

* Alluding to a remittance of seven thousand five hundred dollars from New York, which satisfied some craving- creditors, and enabled the benefactor of his country to die in peace.

-j- Observed in Philadelphia as a day of mourning- for the illus- trious Adams and Jefferson.

K 2

114 LYRIC POEMS.

When freemen gather round to weep, Upon the hoary patriarchs' bed! Garnered in ripeness, to the tomb They sank by nature's kind decay; Earth! take their dust, 'till thou in bloom Yield it, when skies have fled away.

We mourn the Chiefs of that proud band That rose in Freedom's trying hour; To sound her trump and save the land, Their native land, from Slavery's power; Their mighty souls no terror knew, They blenched not at the rebel's name, When, calling heaven the deed to view, They gave themselves to deathless fame.

As Israel's covenant went before

Her hosts, a sign and guide to them,

So these the sacred Charter bore,

A leading and a cheering gem;

And through the frequent scath and fight,

That beacon led our fathers on,

Till o'er Columbia's weary night,

In splendours broke the noonday sun.

Glorious in life, to them 'twas given

In hallowed hour to pass away;

Blest hour! mark'd by approving heaven,

A Natal and Triumphal Day;

The thunders that will ever tell

To future time our Jubilee,

Patriots! shall ring a mournful knell

Of grief — of gladness too, for ye!

LYRIC POEMS. 115

While one by one the ancient Sires Have joined the dead at glory's call, To us be given their holy fires. On us may their bright mantles fall* Ye bending spirits! hover nigh, Inspire us, while anew, we swear The boon ye left we'll guard, and die Ere we that birth- right do impair.

" A young- man, for theft, was lately adjudged to the peniten- lary for one year. During his trial he appeared careless and indifferent to his fate. After sentence was pronounced his mo- ther was permitted to speak to him. ' My boy,' said the old lady, 'go to the penitentiary, serve out your time there, and when you return I will receive you as a mother still.' — They separated, the boy was about to be conducted to jail, and the mother was going towards her horse, for the purpose of return- ing home: — the thought of being thus torn from her child in dis- grace bore too hard on her aged breast, already worn with grief and enfeebled with care. She could no longer support the heavy load — she tottered and fell — her situation was seen, and many ran to her relief— but the mother's grief and affliction had ceas- ed! She was pale and lift less. The unhappy father took his son aside, and thus addressed him: 'Behold, my son, the effects of guilt. Your mother is no more, and I must now pursue what lit- tle remains of life's journey, stricken and alone.' The boy was subdued — his face, which before had the appearance of hardi- hood, was seen bathed in tears."

Go! — though thou'st pierced the bosom now,

That nourished, once, thy frame: And bade with grief thy father bow.

And giv'n gray hairs to shame: Yea, though the recompense of care

Be tears and bitter ill; Yet thou art he, the child of prayer,

My son, my loved one still.

116 LYRIC POEMS.

Go! and in yonder silent cell,

Thy early lapse atone; For him, the penitent, 'tis well,

Who thinks and weeps alone; Thou art not, though a wand'rer, far

From hope of pardon, free; Even now beams out the Naz'rene's Star

For thee, my son ! for thee.

Go! — though in years and desolate

Thy sire pursues his way, The God that smote me knows my state,

And He will be my stay: For thee! — when treading yon bright plain,

Thy race, too, gladly run — The lost shall be restored again,

Woman ! behold thy son !

Ti^e ransomed spirit to her home, The clime of cloudless beauty, flies; No more on stormy seas to roam, She hails her haven in the skies: But cheerless are those heavenly fields, The cloudless clime no pleasure yields, There is no bliss in bowers above, If thou art absent, Holy Love!

The cherub near the viewless throne Hath smote the harp with trembling hand; And One with incense-fire hath flown To touch with flame the angel-band;

LYRIC POEMS. 117

But tuneless is the quiv'ring string, No melody can Gabriel bring, Mute are its arches, when above The harps of heaven wake not to Love!

Earth, sea, and sky one language speak, In harmony that soothes the soul; 'Tis heard when scarce the zephyrs wake, And when on thunders thunders roll: That voice is heard and tumults cease, It whispers to the bosom peace, Speak, thou Inspirer! from above Vnd cheer our hearts, Celestial Love!

In the British Museum I viewed a tombstone, that parental affection had reared in a city of Greece, two thousand years ago. I reflected that the parents had followed their son to a dark and cheerless grave. — Two thousand years ago, in Greece, a future life and immortality were unknown. — Letters of an American.

The father mourned his only son,

And who might check those tears? The grave was now to close upon

The hope of waning years; But she unto her bosom press'd

Her child, in agony; For never more upon that breast,

Might he, her loved one, lie.

And who the wild despair may tell,

That o'er her spirit past, That mother — when she sighed farewell.

And drank that look — the last!

118 LYRIC POEMS.

O, she knew not the babe she wept Now trod yon sparkling plain;

That he who in corruption slept, Should wake to smiles again.

They gave that infant to the earth,

But graved not on the stone Of Resurrection's living birth,

When wasted worlds were flown; Yet what of mercy now appears

To heal Death's dart of wo, We, who lament with chastened tears

Our buried ones, may know!

CHARLES CARROLL, OF CARROLLTON,

T7ie only Survivor of the Signers to the Declaration of American Independence.

The few — the tried — O, where are they, Once eager at their country's call —

That mightiest grew in Danger's day, That suffered, strove, and perilled all?

Ah, see! from their mysterious clime,

The sainted shades — they come! they come!

They're silent as the womb of time, Yet at that silence men are dumb.

They speak in every lofty deed

Conceived, achieved, for freedom's sake;

When rousing at a people's need, The servile chain they dared to break

LYRIC POEMS. 119

Behold them now — behold them here!

They live in every generous breast; In plenty's smile, and in the tear

That gems the mem'ry of the Bless'd.

But who is he — alone— -the last?

Go ye and mark the Veteran well; Aye, gaze upon the mighty past,

And to the heart its tidings tell.

'Tis great to view ! — a link he seems Conneciing yon dim world with ours;

And soothing as the ray that gleams On autumn's latest, loveliest flowers.

Relic sublime — he lingers yet — But soon to join that brother-band;

Aye, soon — too soon, the sun is set Of thy last saviour, native land !

The last — already o'er his head The light of unborn days hath shone;

Between the living and the dead, Wrapt in his years, he stands alone.

UZZAH:

From the Second Book of Samuel.

His war-tent in Rephaim the godless hath spread, That valley is strown with the bones of the dead; Phiiistia! the arm of the Strong was on thee, When His whisperings were heard in the mulberry-tree;

120 LYRIC POEMS.

And the king hath arisen with men of the sword, And nobles to bring up the ark of the Lord, Even Him, God of triumphs, Jehovah by name, "Whose pavilion looks out from the Cherubim's flame.

Rejoice! for the ark hath gone up with a shout, With glory and beauty 'tis compass'd about; To the song of the minstrel, the timbrel hath rung, And the cloud of His love is with Israel among; Sound cymbal! sound cornet! proclaim Jubilee, Thy ark, thy salvation, abideth with thee; Thou, Israel! no longer art scatter'd abroad, With psaltery and anthem give praise unto God.

Why lingers the Cov'nant at yon threshing floor — And whence is the trembling where Levites adore? Hath God, in his anger, gone up from his own? Hasten, men ! and in meekness bow down at his throne: The ark of his worship by crime is profaned, With presumption the garment of Israel is stained; That Symbol sought he to uphold in his pride? — God accepted him not — he hath touched it and died!

TO MY TWO CHILDREN.

Ye are alive to bliss, my boys!

Your pulses beat to healthful play, Visions of peaceful heartfelt joys —

Do they not hover o'er your way? Your bounding bosoms, light and free-

Nor past nor future is their care; Sufficeth it alone, that ye

The bright alluring present share.

LYRIC POEMb. 121

Tis transient all — yet who shall break

The fair frail mirror of your mirth? Ye are but dreamers — who shall wake

Ye to realities of earth? Dream on — Dream on — it cannot last, —

With boyhood will depart that dream, And soon, to retrospect, the past

But shadows of the dead shall seem.

Who would forget, that once a child.

Life put on lovely robes for him? Aye, then imagination wild,

Flashed to the eyes that now are dim; Who can forget when hope danced high,

And Syren- Love of witchery sung? — Some may forget, but ne'er shall I,

The white-winged hours when joy was young.

Yea, though upon my tempered brow

Romance hath ceased to bind her flowers, And pilgrim though I wander now,

Thought lingers o'er my childish hours: Green spot of life! how sweet to gaze

On bliss, so simple, yet sincere; To turn from the wild waste of days

And feast my aching vision here!

\ve, smile my boys! — 'twere better so,

Than darkly read the coming ill; That chequered page the gray-haired know.

But heedlessness is childhood's still; Blest ignorance! Compassion's balm,

To drug the life-cup of our tears; Existence! thou wouldst wear a charm

Did prescience come not with thy years. L

122 LYRIC POEMS.

Laugh on, my children, while ye may,

Yours now is not the actor's part; That laugh, perchance, in future day,

May vainly hide a broken heart; Yet lingers in your perfect bliss,

Ingenuous feeling, brightly new; And childhood's love, and childhood's kiss,

Are ever holy, ever true.

MRS. SARAH J*****.

She wakes not — she, whose look was love,

Whose voice was Music's breath, That angel -smile is caught above,

That voice is lost in death; She that was beauteous and sincere,

To man's last foe hath bowed, Each grace is now companion here

Unto the worm and shroud.

She wakes not— aye, from that long sleep

When shall earth's tenant wake? Dreams of the sepulchre are deep,

What shall those visions break? Unto that cell of gloom and damp,

Earth's tumults come not nigh; She wakes not at the hurried tramp,

Nor at the battle-cry.

She wakes not till the trumpet's tongue •Stirs shudd'ring sea and earth; When worlds on worlds, in ruin flung. Shall heave as at their birth;

LYRIC POEMS. IL23

The heart that knew Affliction's power.

The oft-dimmed eye, now sealed, Shall beat not, beam not, till that hour

In thunders is revealed.

She wakes not early ills to brave,

That bade her spirit bow; The tears she unto sorrow gave,

Are gems of beauty now; She wakes not— yea, she hath awoke!

— Escaped from night below — What floods of morn have on her broke.

That bright onel — who may know?

INVOCATION.

We ask thee not, O God ! to bow

Thy heavens, these sighs to hear; Unto those seats of light and song

They fly, and reach thine ear; For thou art condescending still,

When suppliants come to thee; Though thy pavilion is the cloud,

And low and poor are we.

Thou know'st we tabernacle where

Envy and wrong abound; In bosoms of our dearest trust

Deceit is oft'nest found; Thou know'st that man to fellow man

Is oft the direst foe; The streams of kindness in his sflul

Are tainted as thev flow.

1.24 LYRIO POEMS.

For who hath pillowed all his heart

On seeming Honour's breast, Nor found, in Sorrow's bitter doom,

That refuge but a jest? Who hath not sought some lofty hope.

And said, here is my stay, Yet saw how like the summer sun,

It passed in clouds away?

Yea, he, the heritor of ill,

In silence must it bide; The world that wrings out bitter tears.

Will yet those tears deride; But thou, O God ! art not of clay,

To shield the wretch is thine; ?Tis good to tell our cares to Thee,

Who wilt to help incline.

Man may administer to him,

The hapless child of need; Yea, and bind up the broken heart

When int'rest prompts the deed; But Thou lov'st those that know Thee not.

And thus dost man reprove; Thou art — and there is none beside —

Disinterested Love!

LYRIC POEMS. 12,5

THE AFRICAN CONVERT.

Here was a human being- who had been made to drain the cup of misery to its very dreg's by the wickedness of his fellow men; and yet that very wickedness, by tearing- him from his native land, had placed him within the Gospel sound, and thus worked out for him a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory than all the principalities and powers of this world could bestow. — Tales of an American Landlord.

They have torn thee from thy native soil,

And girt thee with the chain; Of bones and sinews made their spoil,

Can blood wash out that stain? They have scoffed at all thy bitter grief.

And mocked thee in thy need; Yea, from despair withheld relief, —

God hath frowned on the deed.

Yet, foul though be that damning blot,

That crime, accurs'd of heaven, To thee, tried one\~they knew it not—

Mercy and peace are given; For thou that wast in thraldom bound,

— That grace do thou adore! — Thy heart subdued, hast ransom found,

In Christ, a slave no more.

Unto that Power bend thou the knee,

Who saw thee in thy blood; And through wild griefs conducted thee

To find repose in God; The cup of anguish thou hast shared,

Though full, was dregg'd by love; 0, what are stripes or death, compared

With crowns of life above!

L 2

126 ; LYRIC POEMS.

MY BOY'S GRAVE.

We visited thy grave, my child!

Last night, thy mother and 1 5 We saw it clad with spring-flowers wild,-

The bed where thou dost lie; We thought of all that's bright and fair,

As false and fleeting too; We looked on that grassy turf, and there

We saw that Death is true;

And Memory told of every smile,

Each look was dear as ever; Time may a mother's grief beguile,

Blot out that look? — O, never! *Tis her's within the heart's recess,

To all but heaven unknown — To cherish its image, and to bless,

The spotless cherub flown.

We had marked thy beauties stealing on.

As we nourished the tender flower; We, trembling, loved our little one.

For frail is childhood's hour: And as we kissed thy infant brow,

And clasped thee oft, the fear Of parting wrung our bosoms, but now

'Tis over, — thou art not here.

Our dreams of thee were gay, my boy!

We have wept those visions fled; But now the healing tears of joy

Are given to the dead;

LYRIC POEMri. 12;

From dying friends, from griefs, and all

Of existence' rude alarms, Thus free — who can lament the call.

Sweet one! to thy Father's arms?

THE BARBADOES GIRL TO HER LOVER,

Thou'st gone, and all of life has fled;

Yet I grieve not, for I Know thou saw'st not the tears I shed,

But now thwr source is dry; Thou'st gone, and think'st not in jon climes

Of her with whom thou'st strayed, At evening, in the walk of limes,

And 'neath the mangrove's shade.

Forgotten is the star-lit night

Thy hand in mine was press'd; The fire-fly* shed its em'rald light,

Where wav'd the corn-bird's nest:t The flower I gave, forgettest thou?

Thou wor'st it on thy heart, — And mine believed the fond false vow,

That we should never part.

* This insect of the West Indies, when disturbed, shoots forth from its eyes two streams of green intense light.

■j- To secure her eg-gs from intruders, the corn-bird suspends her nest by a twisted cord of creepers from the outermost limb of the great trees. — Six Month's Residence in the West Indies.

J28 LYRIC POEMS.

What is to thee this faded form,

And cheek now sicklied o'er? The bounding spirit — Ah, the worm

Hath pierc'd it to the core: I can't one flattered beauty trace, —

They whisper— and they sigh — There's death-hue lingering on my face.

And wildness in mine eye.

'Tis well, though thou unto despair

My bosom's hope hast given; And hast with shades of bitter care

Darkened my all of heaven; I do forgive thee — often yet

For thee I strive to r£'aj: I do forgive— but toforget~-

My broken heart soon may.

THE HOUSE OF INDUSTRY.

Go! rear the dome whose portals high, Gladly receive the child of sorrow,

Go! wipe the tear from Misery's eye, And cheer the sad with hope of morrow.

Go thou, whose yet untroubled bed

Ne'er knew the midnight burst of anguish:

Go where the dream of joy has fled, And penury is left to languish.

Affliction's wave thy barque may whelm, And tempests shroud thy sun of pleasure;

LYRIC POEMS. l£f

Then let Compassion sit at helm, And be sweet Charity thy treasure.

Hear'st thou that mother ask employ?

She strives to check the tear that's stealing; Her miseries are forgot — the boy

She fondles stirs that fount of feeling.

Yon tim'rous girl implores relief — Obtained — 0, this shall sooth your sadness.

Dear helpless parents! banish grief,

Four child will turn that grief to gladness!

I covet not the frozen heart, There never throb of love is beating—

That bids the Konpst poor, depart!

That gives not Wretchedness kind greeting.

When active Pity forms the plan, To meliorate rough fortune's frowning,

0, surely then we see the Max,

God's noblest work, His labour crowning!

THE REDBREAST.

In the Gothic church, at a sea-port in the East Riding of York- shire, (England) immediately after the sermon, and as the minis- ter was repeating the usual subsequent prayer, " May the peace of God which passeth all understanding," &c. a redbreast, that had taken shelter in the sanctuary from the inclemency of the sea- son, poured forth, as if by inspiration, such a sweetly plaintive song, that the church resounded with its vibrations.

Beautiful bird! com'st thou to pour, — Wanderer from thy native plain.

130 LYRIC POEMS. ,

Thy simple, yet melodious strain, In walls where mortals God adore?

Why warble here the plaintive lay That swells and dies along the air, And mingling with the voice of prayer.

Bears thought in extacy away?

0, could we, guileless one! like thee, Our bosoms thus attuned to love — Waft artless orisons above,

How pure would our devotions be!

Nor vocal hymn, nor organ's swell That richly rolls upon the ear, Is, as thy untaught thrillings, dear,

If it keari-worship do not tell.

MARY AT THE SEPULCHRE.

" Jesus saith unto her, Mary, she turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master.

" Jesus said unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascend- ed to my Father; but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father and your Father; and to my God and your God." — John. xx. 16, 17.

Jerusalem is silent now,

Her priests and warriors sleep;

And dimly on yon vaulted brow, The stars their vigils keep:

Unheeded is that voiceless gloom- That stillness hath no dread

To her, that weeping, seeks the tomb Of the beloved dead:

LYRIC POEMS. 131

The morn, on Zion's lonely hill,

Hath cast no beams abroad; Yet Mary's footstep lingers still —

She goes to seek her Lord: Why stands she wondering? — Hands unknown,

Have burst the shroud and pall; And roll'd away the sealed stone,

And rent the prison -wall.

Jesus, the Dead, she sees no more,

And weeps in fond alarm, — 0, shall she not upon him pour

Her spices, myrrh and balm? Bless'd One! thy love and faith are great.

Is not thy triumph near? Yea, He thou seek'st cloth on thee wait,

Mary! behold Him here!

Yet on thy azure robe of light,

Where starry gems of glory lie, One spot, Columbia! dipp'd in night,

One cloud is seen along thy sky; — 'Tis Slavery! yea, the Negro's tear

Hath dew'd the soil where martyrs bled; His with'ring curse hath met the ear,

Breathed o'er the bones of Freedom's dead: Farewell to Liberty for thee,

'Till these, thy basely thralled, are free!

132 LYRIC POEMS.

Europe ! vicissitudes are thine,

The tyrant's scourge by thee is felt; Thou bendest at the idol shrine

To which our fathers darkly knelt. Unhappy Spain! thou once wast free,

As are the waves that lash thy shore; Yet hath the Bigot vanquished thee, —

Yon Heaven, that saw the Ruffian pour Thy blood, as water on the ground, —

Yon Heaven, that heard the vow accurs'd That binds the Holy Miscreant Band,

Shall smile on thee, ill fated land!— « And, starting from her depth, profound.

Spain shall arise, and from the dust Of these, her martyr'd, swords shall leap

To tell that justice cannot sleep. Rejoice, fell spirit of Despair!

Inquisitorial Demons, hail! I see your vengeance darkly glare,

Already death-shrieks load the gale; — Yet, mock not, France! thy victory's vain,

Thy ruthless hand hath forged the chain, The iron, true, is deeply driven,

Curs'd be the bolt that slaves have riven, — At Freedom's soul-inspiring call,

Which Spain shall hear, and hearing live, The bolt and chain will, scattered, fall;

The dead in bondage shall revive, — Aye, and of them that crush thee now,

— Those fiends of an unthought-of hell — If one survive, his gloomy brow,

Stamp'd with that Cain-like guilt, shall tell To wondering men the quenchless shame

Of him that scorns the Patriot's name!

LYRIC POEMS. 15;

All are not free! — My country, is it thus?

And is thy consecrated soil deep stained

With Ethiopian tears of bondage? Free?

And art thou free, whose thousands till and curse

Thy soil, unfriendly? Never canst thou claim

That god -like title till the slave is free.

Yet some are found among thy sons, that scorn

Their fellow beings to retain on terms

So abject, damning, to the name of Man.

Who envies not, and envying, would not seek

The pearl, of price unknown, Philanthropy?

To see the enfranchised African look out

From Misery's abyss, to the glad light

Of beaming cheerfulness, and on the face,

Where anguish lately sat, to see the tear

Of gratitude and joy, — who would not part

With hoards of avarice to catch that smile? —

With Slavery's gains to buy that holy tear!

Soul of Benevolence! thou that below

Dwellest, a bright and pure Intelligence,

Lending to our gross earth somewhat of Heaven,—

Thou art not seen in the recorded deed

Of purse-proud grandeur, nor dost thou delight

In Ostentation's alms, whose left hand knows

And trumpets forth its fellow's charity:

*Tis the disinterested act that claims,

And trulv claims, applause of Man and God,

M

134 LYRIC FOEMb.

Versification of an Extract from the Italian,

I asked of Time whose was the name

That here in ruins lay; What were his deeds of lofty fame?

Time hastened on his way.

To Fame I spake — " O, thou! to whom

All that survives belong" — Fame fled in sorrow from that tomb,

Hushed was her trumpet-song.

Grieved, then, I turned and saw the form

Of One thai walked alone; The Spirit of Destruction's storm,

He strode from stone to stone.

si Tell me! for thou alone hast power, For whom arose the shrine?"

In voice as of the crumbling tower. Oblivion said — His mine!

TO THE CRESCENT.

Moslem Banner! burnest thou

Where the Grecian hails the fight,

Triumph, balefire! triumph now!

Soon thy beams shall shroud in night.

LYRIC POEMS. LSS

symbol of a recreant power.

Thou that gem'st the Sold airs throne. Thou that from proud dome and tower

Twice six hundred years hast shone — Crescent! nowr thy glories wane.

Ruin o'er thee flings her pall, Never to revive again,

Vaunting Crescent! thou must fall.

Who upon God's chartered soil,

Who that's Man, would be a slave! Who would swell the Despot's spoil,

While that earth affords a graver Who to Turkish tyranny,

Coward — bends his abject soul. Let him not in combat die,

Let oblivion o'er him roll: Liberty! thy deathless song,

Ever noble — still inspires; At its echoes shall, ere long,

Quiver Stamboul's thousand spires: Hellespont's oft blood-stained border

Hears e'en now the quickening cry; St. Sophia's quailing warder

Sees the gathering tempest nigh !

Moslem empire! lone not now,

Stainest thou fair Europe's hem; Fouler, deeper spot than thou,

Blotteth her proud diadem; Fall'n Iberia! thy past story

From neglect awhile may save Thy lost name — thy future glory

Sleeps in a redeemless grave:

136 LYRIC POEMS.

Crescent! though thou gleam'st awhile.

From tall dome and minaret, Yet in peace the Cross shall smile

O'er the land of Mahomet; Yes! and where thou burnest, we,

Freedom's sign may greet again — Who, O heaven! once more shall see

Disenthralled Regenerate Spain?

ONE HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW

My heart is desolate and sad, — Others may dream, yet unto me The visions that my boyhood had, Are lost in dull reality; I sometimes wish my soul were not By stern Neglect compelled to bow; Yet wherefore? 'twill be all forgot One Hundred Years from Now.

The friends I had, the hungry tomb Hath stol'n away, or, bitterer still, Coldness hath nipped their love in bloom. And kindly thoughts are turned to ill: 'Tis sad to mourn the buried friend, Most sad to meet the altered brow; Yet what of this? — all care will end One Hundred Years from Now.

Sorrow with me hath done its worst; She whom I love — her face is wan, —

^LVRIC POEMb. 1ST"

Yea, I have given to the dust The babe my bosom doated on: Yet, as upon its clay-cold bed We wept, sweet voices whispered, how Gladly we'd meet, long ere had fled One Hundred Years from Now.

'Tis Nature's law — then why repine That man should tread a thorny way? The hopes that now thus darkly shine, Shall yet break out to perfect Day; And 0, my spirit! this thy shield Shall be, when bade by griefs to bow — The mystery will be revealed One Hundred Years from Now.

" In the town of Nunda, (Alleghany county) upon the farm of Benjamin Earl, Esq. has been found a large number of human bones, in the last stage of decay. They were but very slightly covered with earth, and appeared to have been promiscuously deposited, without any regard to order, in a field containing probably thirty acres. The great size of some of the thigh- bones denotes men above the ordinary stature, and the equality and uniformity of their decay prove that they were all buried at the same time. At what period, and by what cause, they were left there, is impossible to determine. We may conjecture that they are the remains of brave warriors who fell on the field of glory — but whose exploits have died away in the lapse of past ages, never to be heard of more."

Yes! they have fled — the war-whoop's call

Shall animate no more to glory; The trophies of the grave are all

Remain, Oblivion shrouds their story.

38 LYRIC POEMS. g

O, Glory! what art -thou? — a dream,

That cheats the slumb'rer, yet believing:

Why dost thou, faithless phantom ! seem To us so beauteous, yet deceiving?

Short-sighted man ! the toil is thine To win the dizzy heights of danger,

The goal achieved, thou wilt repine, Thy heart to calm repose a stranger.

And thou, the child of feeling, who,

Perchance, hast wandered to Hope's bower

And of the roses plucked a few, To cheer thee in the lonely hour —

Depart! — for tears will nurture not

The fragile flower of morn to bless thee;

It dies, alas! and on the spot

The night-shade rises to caress thee!

founded on a fact that occurred in September — 1826.

1 long have thought man's heart, though formed to

gentleness, And moulded by sweet Mercy, changes soon To unrelenting hardness, when exposed Unto the bright rays of prosperity. For I have seen the meek one chafe and rage, Vea, in his anger, tread on him that wore ■\ form like to his own. I have beheld

LYRIC POEMS. 139

When he did spurn his fellow, and did curse The fatherless and widow in their want!

I followed late unto the narrow house. One, that I knew in his more prosperous day; Whose heart was ever open to distress, Whose hand was liberal to befriend. Yet he, Left to Adversity's rude grasp — found those That shared his cup and converse, distant now,— Mean parasites, that shunn'd Affliction's door: And at that funeral many tears were shed, — More, as it seemed, than Death — our common lot — ■ Alone should claim. I asked of her that leaned For needed help upon me, and who shook And wept as if her very soul did sob — The cause of this, so strange distress, and heard A tale of grief — my heart wept as I heard. A man of avarice — a pitiless Base worshipper of gold, had seiz'd this son Of hard Misfortune — from a sick-bed too, — Aye, from a wife and babes, on whom disease And wasting sorrow long- had fastened — Had torn him, and for lack of sordid coin, Doomed him to perish in the prison-house. His wife— faithful as Woman ever is — Though stricken, left him not. Even at the hour Of his extremity, she closer clung Unto him; want nor wretchedness could frown That tender, virtuous helpmate from his side. And, as she saw Death hastily approach, And marked damps gathering, and no one near To aid the sufferer, the screams she sent From Misery's abyss one would have thought Might stir the dead. Yet no help came, and there,.

140 LYRIC POEMS.

In that damp prison, in her wild despair, She sat, and held his throbbing head, until Death's marble impress, fixed upon his brow, Told that his heart was broke—That room was still !

END.

INDEX

Page

Music of Light, 7

I dreamed of loveliness, ------ 9

O, who would not shun the hurried din, - - - - 10

The American Banner, - 12

My Father's Grave, 13

Maternal Love, 15

Abisbal's Invocation, 16

To Lafayette, on his expected visit to the United States, 17

He hath stood in his years on the bed of the slain, - - 19

Lafayette at the tomb of Washington, - 20

The Slave Ship, 21

Epitaph, taken from a tomb in the Cathedral of Sienna, 22

The Incarnation, 23

Wearied with play that night, my Mortimer, - - 25

Summer looks out! how green and gay, - - - - 26

Ye Dead! Ye Dead! your rest is sweet, - 27

The Thunder Storm, 29

To New York, 30

Went he not out in proud array, 31

The Year, 32

Thou canst not whisper to that soul, - - - - 34

The Deaf and Dumb, 35

To my Boy, sleeping, 36

Prayer for Greece, 38

The heavens were still, -39

I saw the outcast — an abandoned boy, - 40

Expostulation, 42

Death of Fisk, 43

The Prophecy of Noah, - - - - - - 44

The departed wife, 47

Winter! there are among the race of men, - - - 49

Is there a heart on which thy own, .... 50

INDEX.

Page

-Tis well that ye reject the cap, 50

Fair stars! upon the brow of night, 52

The Unhallowed Grave, 53

The Slave-holder's throne is the Ethiop's grave, - - 54

The patriot sires in glory sleep, 55

When thy own Israel, God of love! . ... 57

Mark ye the men of other days, - 58

Desolation of Tyre, 59

The Last Voyage, 60

Ode, written for the first Anniversary of the American Sun- day School Union, 62

Ode, written for the second Anniversary of the American

Sunday School Union, - 6S

To one that meditated Suicide, ----- 64

Occasioned by an incident during a storm, 65

Simeon's Prophecy, 67

The Prison, 68

Spring has not come, 69

Sonnet to Jacob Perkins, Esq. of London, - 71

Miss Frances , ib.

Song of the Warriors, ------- 73

The Convict Boy, 74

Ode for the fiftieth Anniversary of the Battle of Bunker-Hill, 75

The Magdalen's Hymn, 77

The Bunker-Hill Monument, ib-

Thou sleepest, gentle Boy! ------ 78

Days departed! whither fled? 79

Ye spirits of the just, that soar, 81

To the Holy Alliance, 82

The White-Hills of New Hampshire, - 84

To a Deaf and Dumb Girl, 85

Ararat! on thy brow of blighted green, 86

To my Mother, in New England, 88

The Star of Bethlehem, 90

O, let her linger yet awhile, 92

The House of Refuge, 93

The Suicide, 94

To the surviving defenders of the Castle of St. Juan de Ulua, 95

Spain, 97

INDEX.

Page

Away, away through trackless space, - 98 Hie Dying Year, --------99

Intemperance, 100

The Field-Star of Bethlehem, 102

Holy the place whose kindly soil 103

M'Donough, 104

Another! yet another? 105

O, sainted babe! and hast thou sought, .... 106

Farewell to New England, 107

1 said thus to my glass, , - 108

Thou seeks't a world of griefs to shun, - - - - no

Death of the Patriots, HI

Touch not that gift! - 112

Requiem, 113

Go! though thou'st pierced the bosom now, - - 115

The ransomed spirit to her home, 116

The father mourned his only son, - - - - 117

Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, ------ ng

Uzzah, from the Second Book of Samuel, - - - 119

To my two children, -120

Mrs. Sarah J *****, - 122

Invocation, - - . 123

The African Convert, ------- 125

My Boy's Grave, 126

The Barbadoes Girl to her J.over, ----- 127

The House of Industry, 128

The Redbreast, -------- 129

Mary at the Sepulchre, 130

Yet on thy azure robe of light, 131

All are not free, 133

Versification of an extract from the Italian, - - 134

To the Crescent, ^

One hundred years from now, - 136

Yes! they have fled, — the war-whoop's call, - - - 137

Founded on a fact that occurred in September, 18C6. 138

~yA,\**