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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 

s 


/ 


Sectlorif 


jMn   m    tfo   hosam  <*'  all  tiuits  still, 
b,,1  /tor,  anJ  !>,h,,  '/><■  w^mdertr  huw 
ft,,  ,-,„;/,  <>//>»:■  ami  '/"  p*doy  *■"• 

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 


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