The base text for this edition was prepared from a microfiche of an original copy in the "Edition Corvey" under a special agreement with Belser Wissenschaftlicher Dienst, Wildberg, Germany, and Boyle, Co. Roscommon, Ireland.; this text has been used for the present edition with the kind permission of Belser Wissenschaftlicher Dienst.

This electronic edition was prepared from the microfiche copy in the "Edition Corvey" by Patricia Trujillo, 2001-02.
Edition mounted to website, 2002.
Final proofreading by Rhea Dowhower, October 2003.
Corrections entered by Stephen Behrendt, November 2003.

             POEMS

                                   BY

                       MRS. I. S. PROWSE

                               _______

                             LONDON:

PUBLISHED   BY   SMITH,   ELDER,   AND   CO.   CORNHILL; —
BALDWIN AND CRADOCK, PATERNOSTER ROW; AND SOLD
                   BY ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.
                                 ____

                         MDCCCXXX

Entered at Staioners' Hall.

CONTENTS.

       ______

Autumnal Musings  1
The Guerilla Bride  15
Marius in Prison  40
Nature  43
There's no Forgetting  45
Ada  47
The Boy of Ipsara  54
A Legend of May-Day  57
Song  62
Song  63
Portrait of a Lady  65
To Spring  69

To Autumn  71
The Burning Forest, a Tale of Miramichi, New Brunswick  73
Token Flowers -- To a Young Lady  79
The Lament of the Highland Widow  80
Song  84
Painting  86
The Lady of the Tomb  87
The Gamester  89
A Tree Overgrown with Ivy in the Park of ****  97
Night  99
Home  100
On Visiting a Cataract  101
Sleep  103
Retrospection  105
To the Infant Lyra  107
Disappointment's Wreath  109
To Evening  112
Change  114
Love Transfixing a Heart -- A Gem  116
To a Lady with Flowers  117
Love's Truth  119
To Poesy  122

Written at the close of a bright day in February  124
To * * * *   126
Written in Sickness  128
Lizana  130
To Health  132
On a Magdalen  134
The Past and the Future  135
Stanzas  137
The Fatal Gift  139
Old Walls, Ruins of a Monastery in the South of Devon  147
Parting  150
Written during a Storm at Night  151
Contrast  154
Winter  155
Si Deseris Pereo  156
Serenade 158
Stanzas  159
Inconstancy  161
To Morrow  162
The Bereaved  163
The Desolate 173

ERRATA.

Page 23 line 11 for sins,         read sin's
         47       17       fairbride           fair bride
         52         5       langour            languor
         56       12       thau shall          thou shalt

AUTUMNAL MUSINGS.

‘Twas one of Autumn's melancholy eves
    That forth I went amid the waning year
Through wood-paths thick bestrewn with yellow leaves,
    Which time methought despitefully did sere,
    And much I griev'd they should his livery wear --
The spider's films lay glistening on the grass,
And clung around my feet as I did pass.

II

Up-sprung the rushing partridge from the brake,
    The roused hare started from the dewy blades
Whereto she nightly came her thirst to slake,
    And circling far above the opening glades
    Rose homeward rooks; while from the thickest shades
I heard the murmur of the forest dove,
Breathe to his mate a good night lay of love.

III

I sat alone beneath an aged tree,
    And felt the very spirit of the time
Chase from my soul all thoughts that mirthful be;
    So that it would have seem'd to me a crime
    When the ripe year was losing all his prime,
Had I not mused on storms, and blight, and gloom,
And beauteous things fast speeding to the tomb.

IV

And thus I sat me there, and ‘gan to think
    How green leaves bud to fall--young flow'rs to fade--
How Summer trees that in their beauty drink
    The dews of heav'n and given their leafy shade
    To nurse the unfledg'd bird --ere its full trade
Of song, the nestling learns--his home is shorn
Of all its garniture, and left forlorn.

V

And like to things of Autumn do our hope,
    Our trust, and young affections perish all,
Till the worn heart is left along to cope
    With apathy, which chill and dark doth fall
    Shrouding the heart as with a fun'ral pall--
A barrier ‘tween the living and the dead,
For life is death when all its hopes have fled.

VI

And what is there beyond? -- for some, return
    To the fresh springs of life--but oft'ner far
To bear the thoughts that in the bosom burn,
    Yet shew no outward trace of the dark war
    That mines within the heart, and so doth jar
The senses from their poise--and then, they fall
In scatter'd ruins like a mould'ring wall.

VII

Thus, disappointment, weariness, or grief,
    Have slain their millions: millions yet shall strive
In the same warfare -- and if long or brief
    The conflict, boots it aught? who would survive
    The expectation that keeps hope alive?
Surely as the least wretched we must class,
Those from th' unequal strife who earliest pass.

VIII

No more of such a theme--it is not well
    For one who scarce hath struck the mighty lyre,
Unthinkingly the dreary cry to swell
    Of victims to Opinion's breath of fire;
    What, tho' it did destroy their high desire?
Yet unappall'd be the Muse still my choice
E'en tho' the grave sends forth a warning voice.

IX

Yea--from the grave a warning: one is there
    Who sought it as a refuge, when too late
For health or peace, he found how falsely fair
    The hope that led him on to consecrate
    His heart unto the muse--and yet not hate,
But scorn and laughter quenched his worthy pride,
The minstrel's heart was stricken,--and he died.

X

Yet died he not in vain; if, ere they rush
    To wreak their thoughtless malice on their kind,
His fate may bid men ponder ere they crush
    The first aspirings of the Poet's mind;
    Spare the weak blossom future fruit to find,
And leave to Time the perfecter to bring
A plenteous Autumn from a tardy Spring.

XI

More still the evening grew--the wither'd leaf
    Without once circling, fell unto the ground;
All living creatures sought in sleep relief
    From the unusual calmness brooding round;
    No longer did the wild bird's song resound;'
Darken'd the heavy night clouds o'er my head,
‘Twas a fit hour to commune with the dead.

XII

The unforgotten! -- I can people here
    This solitude with beings of the past;
They whose departing made the world look drear,
    And the bright sunshine of our youth o'ercast
    With sorrow, while thro' lengthn'd years shall last:
Lo! potent as of old the magian's wand,
Fancy, has call'd up the pale shadowy band.

XIII

Shade, from the land of shadows--thus we call
    The unknown future: do we rightly so--
Or rather, is it not illusion all?
    This world, its gilded pagentry and show
    Are these realities? -- or do we know
More of the fev'rous state of life and death,
Than of the mystery which we call death?--

XIV

Life--death--are strangely mingled -- ‘tis no part
Of human reason its belief to yield
To visionary fears--yet thrills the heart
Oft with strange terror, as tho' half reveal'd
And half by our infirmity conceal'd
A spirit stood before us! -- from the tomb
A messenger of happiness -- or doom.

XV

And for presentiment--it is in vain
    We would be sceptics--every heart replies
To the prophetic spirit that doth reign
    Within its depths, and human sense defies
    To trace from whence its auguries arise;
Yet when the mystic warning we receive,
    Thought we are aw'd, we dare not all believe.

XVI

Whence is this fearful knowledge--ye who tell
    With your philosophy, the rule and cause
That shapes the ranbow--gives the ocean swell,
    And of creation know the hidden laws;
    Unveil this marvel--wherefore do ye pause?
Tell us its nature as ye tell its name,
‘Tis a small thing we of your science claim.

XVII

Shades of the dead! oh that voice--speech were given
    To those ideal shapings of the brain--
Oh could I hear e'en tho' my heart were riven
    Those well remembered accents once again---
    It may not be--the wish the thought are vain,
A mourner I, amid life's desert thrown
To feel and suffer--live and die--alone!

[7]

XVIII

Like as a traveller in the burning waste
    Of Araby holds on his lonely way,
And longs in vain the cooling rills to taste
    Round his own cottage murm'ring far away;
    And as he sinks beneath the fervid day,
He thinks how once the sparkling waters burst,
For his parch'd lip--and now--he dies of thirst.

XIX

E'en as the sense of utter solitude
    Was growing into torture, which to bear
Unless with fewer human thoughts endued,
    Had pass'd my power, and ended in despair;
    Beating with weary wings the buoyant air
Flew o'er my head a dove--as if to shew,
Mine was not the sole lot of lonely woe.

XX

And soon the solitary thing alighted
    Where near me a slight tree its shadow threw,
Yet seemed she not in any wise affrighted
    At her strange neighbourhood--but rather grew
    Into companionship--the lonely crew
Are nothing fearful--happiness may fear,
But misery--there's nought can harm it here.

XXI

What thoughts might then in her lone breast be swelling,
    Perchance the memory of her once home,
Where leaf-pavilion'd in her airy dwelling,
    She had no wish from her sweet rest to roam,
    Nor deem'd that days like this should ever come,
When lost to all she lov'd --a vagrant thing,
Where chance may lead, she folds her weary wing.

XXII

Oh! what a gush of sorrow fill'd my eyes,
    And made my heart ache--and it was to me
As if the creature listen'd to my sighs,
    And held a partnership in misery--
    With head reclined, and wings clos'd droopingly,
A very mourner--and she did not sleep,
Rememberance still doth wakeful vigils keep.

XXIII

Have I not felt this many a weary night
    When I have outwatch'd every waning star,
And sicken'd for the first pale gleam of light,
     Deeming that Phoebus and his glowing car
     Were swallow'd up of night--and when afar
I saw the gold steak lying on the wave,
Have hail'd it as the beacon which should save

XXIV

My soul from coming madness--from the press
    Of thoughts on thoughts, that in the unquiet brain
Succeed in varied froms of bitterness,
    Like the upsurging of the restless main
    Whereby things of gone days return again
In all their old distinctness--pride, regret,
Love--hatred--grief--past, but remember'd yet.

XXV

Breaking the silent trance which did me bind,
    In the wood's utmost verge was gathering
A sound, like Ocean;--'twas the ancient wind
     That through the forest old came journeying--
    Near, and more near he stretch'd his ample wing
That bent the tree-tops--then went sweeping by
With pomp, and music, and solemnity.

XXVI

The mighty voice of nature--heard by man
     In calm and storm, since first th' Eternal mind
Moved on the silent waters, when began
    The heaving mass its stated bounds to find
    Like a huge monster in his den confin'd
Struggling and foaming to outleap his chain,
And once the ceaseless striving was not vain.

XXVII

Once--and once only--when the earth was rife
     With great destruction--then, the whelming deep
Rush'd back impetuously;' and the ddark strife
    * Hath left its records on yon misty steep,
    For things that wont their darksome homes to keep
In the ‘mid waters--on the land were cast,
Tokens that the Omnipotent had past.

XXVIII

Winds! that upon your errands come and go,
    For ever--and for ever--and for ever--
Coeval with the ocean's ebb and flow,
    Types of Eternity, which we endeavour
    With human pow'rs to fathom--finding never
Or bound or clue--Wand'rers can ye not tell
Tales of yon piny mount and heath-clad dell?

XXIX

Have ye not sung to Druid to his slumbers
    Here on this tufted height--(Perchance embower'd
By shade like this, where I these idle numbers
    In weariness of heart do weave)--o'erpower'd
    By the dim future, which all darkly shower'd
Came down like night--what visions did ye bring
The white-robed seer when he lay slumbering?

XXX

†Hath not the fierce Dane felt your mighty breath
    Tossing the forest like the restless main,
While the half-savage ponder'd deeds of death
    Stretch'd in his vast encampment? what remain
    Of all the hosts that throng'd yon mountain plain--
The tumulus and its bleach'd bones--the mound
Heap'd by the human fruit that strew'd the ground.

XXXI

More gentle off'rings do ye scatter now--
    The tapering fir-cone and the beech nuts brown
Falling like rain--while from a floating bough
    The agile squirrel as a bird darts down
    To hoard th' abundant store, ere winter's frown
Shall banish fruit and blossom from the earth,
Till Spring begins anew their dewy birth.

XXXII

Thus spake I, till the last notes of the breeze
    Were dying quite away--and the dim light
Grew into loveliness--the parting trees
    Gave quiet glimpses of the Queen of night
    Who floated up the arch of heav'n--bedight
With a soft glory, beaming love and joy,
As erst she look'd upon the Carian boy.

XXXIII

Said I of joy? alas fair moon! thou art
    To many, a remembrancer of pain:
To think how they have watch'd thy light depart
    Gazing with those who ne'er may gaze again –
    Yet thou returnest, gilding lake and plain –
"The loving and the lovely" – where are they?
Thou shinest on their cold unconscious clay!

XXXIV

And shinest on – so passionless, so pure,
    Lightening the mossy grave stones with thy smile;
Nor reckest aught, what living hearts endure,
    Nor how they many be breaking all the while:
    Still art thou calmly fair, as if, nor guile,
Nor disappointment had a place on earth,
Nor thou hadst look'd on sorrow from thy birth.

XXXV

And yet a guerdon do I owe to thee,
    A meed of thanks for many a quiet hour,
When stealing form the world thou wert to me
     A spell which ever wrought with soothing pow'r
    To lull the darkest tempest that might low'r
In the heart's changeful clime – beneath they reign
My spirit felt tranquility again.

XXXVI

For this, I well may thank thee: -- time and grief
    Have swept some phantasies of youth away;
And it may be that I have small belief,
    The future will the troubled past repay;
    But ling'ring thus beneath thy softest sway
A hushing peace into my heart is sent,
Not happiness but rather calm content.

XXXVII

But thon art waning – aye, thus fades away
     All that hath lustre on my pathway thrown;
So late, and gladdening in thy silver ray,
    I seem'd to be not utterly alone:
    Fainter – fair Queen – and now – thy light is gone,
All save a gentle glory on the cloud,
Which last thy meekest beauty did enshroud.

XXXVIII

‘Tis time these aimless musings have an end,
    ‘Tis time: -- there is deep stillness on the air;
The dews fall drowsily, and all things blend
    The many colourings they late did bear,
    In the dull misty hue night loves to wear;
And on my ear a scarce heard sound doth creep,
The tranquil breathing of the world asleep.

NOTES.

(See page 9, Stanza xxvii.)
*  Haklon, one of the declivities of which was the scene of these musings.

(See page 10, Stanza xxx.)
† Adjoining the above spot, and still uneffaced by the labours of agriculture, are the traces of an encampment, which Antiquaries pronounce to have been the work of the Danes. Haldon also abounds in marine petrifications, which appear to have been deposited during some great convulsion of nature.

THE GUERILLA BRIDE.

It is a tale of Spain – Romantic Spain!
Mother of ardent knighthood, once again
Thy song is wakening: -- What, though thy name
Boast not the lustre of its early fame,
Yet are our bosoms kindled as we view
The source from whence of old the Minstrel drew
His thousand tales of wonder: -- chance nor time
Can throw a shadow o'er thy lovely clime,
Nor change can work on thy eternal hills,
Nor quench the living pulse of love that thrills
The glowing bosoms of thy daughters fair. –
Story and song float on thy sunny air,
Peopling each stately relic Time has left,
With bright creations that in darkness slept,
Memorials of thy pomp in days gone by,
Wherein thou wast alone – the Queen of Chivalry.

A heavy wail comes by – a voice of doom
Rings on mine ear – no wreath of joy or bloom
I twine for thee – from what thou wert, I turn
To muse on thy abasement – what thou art!
Alas! that all thy glory should depart:
Thou art no more than a funereal urn
Of the once mighty – What remains for thee?
The curse of slaves, the scoffings of the free.

Woe to thee, Spain! – Woe! From that fatal hour
When thy dark myriads cross'd the western wave;
The curse that the despoil'd Peruvian gave
Hath fallen upon thee in its withering power!
Woe to thee, Spain! The earth that drank the blood
Of slaughter'd innocence, sends up to heav'n
Its cry for vengeance: lo! The crimson flood
Pollutes thy very altars – unforgiven,
The plague spon on thy race – the stern decree
Of blood for blood shall be fulfill'd in thee.

How thy fair vallies, and thy mountains dim,
Blush'd with the fruitage of the laden vine;
How free at evening rose the peasant's hymn,
Blending with the meek twilight's soft decline;
How gaily, when the lusty grape wax'd red,
The vendimiadores* nightly sped,

          * Vintagers.

With song and dance, home form their pleasant toil,
Free as their own wild hills; and oft the while
The pandaretas* blent their tinkling sound,
With the light snapping of the castanette;
And soon, ere the pale star of night had set,
While yet the clear dew lay upon the ground,
The watchman-bird broke with his cheerful voice
On their short slumber, and the simple pray'r
Breath'd forth from guileless hearts without a care,
Again they went to labour and rejoice.
Then came the fierce Gaul, like the dream Simoom,
Wasting thy vales of beauty – midnight gloom
Hath since clos'd round thee – ‘till thy day is done,
And thy sons finish what the foe begun.

Thou second Carthage! ‘tis a thing to weep –
Thy coming desolation – time shall be,
Beautiful Spain! When thou, who, wert thou free,
Might'st live and be immortal – scarce shalt keep
A name among nations: -- brief and bright
Once glow'd thy fame, when, eager for the fight
Thy best and bravest rais'd the battle cry
"Gainst foreign foemen – "Death or Victory!"
And humbled ‘neath the patriot's awful frown
Fell low the despot-sceptre, crosier-crown;

          * Cymbals.

And for a time did Freedom's waters roll
To cleanse the deep pollution:—'twas in vain —
The slave hath bow'd him to his bonds again.

No more of this:—What hath my simple story
To do with present shame, or vanish'd glory?
The tender plight of hearts, with warlike fame;
When life, hope, trust, are vow'd to one sole name?
And thou, sweet Inez, what had'st thou to do
With empires or their change—thou who wast made
To live like the free birds in leafy shade,
And pour thy artless songs as warm and true?

'Twas when maternal Nature's bounteous hand
Spread her rich Summer beauty on the land,
Scattering around the Andalusian vales
Her living boon of flowers, that fill'd the gales
Of the warm South with odours—one, who seem'd
Of lineage high, or first in martial fame—
'Neath old Cordova's towers at evening came
His proud and lofty brow—his restless eye,
Spake of a soul of daring energy;
While on his cheek the glow of youth's first prime
Was shadow'd with the tinge of many a clime;
And such his form, as Grecian sculptor dream'd,
When immortality around him beam'd,
As his creations rose, daring the pow'r of Time.

He reach'd the ancient city when the day
Was softening into shadow;—one bright ray
Shone like an angel's pathway from the sky;
And in that stream of light. the temple lay—
Its blazon'd windows glowing with a flame
As if of molten gold:—the stranger came
Along the silent street regardlessly,
Until he stood beneath the temple's wall;
Then paus'd, as if he felt the sight recall
Some long forgotten theme of memory.

He trod the court of fountains:—nought of change
Had been there since his boyhood: the old trees
Scarce show'd how time had journeyed: 'twas strange
To him whose life had, like the shifting seas,
Been still the sport of chance—'twas strange how things.
Not human born, 'neath Time's unflagging wings,
Should live and bloom, while human hearts decay'd ;
Worn by the waste which their own feelings made.
From the free gushing fount the stream was springing,
Brightly as it had done in earlier years;
And its low murmur seem'd the fond tones bringing
Of voices, whose remembrance came with tears
Oft as he slept, when, with the music ringing
On his awaken'd car, he pray'd again
To slumber, and not find the vision vain:

And ‘twas an idle thought that made him dip
His hand in the clear fount, and bathe his lip
With the cool wave, as, haply, it might bring
The thoughts of youthful freshness from the spring:—
He smil'd in bitterness, to feel no art
Could cheat the anguish of a lonely heart.

The birds were coming to their leafy homes,
Glancing like stars across the marble domes;
The nightingale began her pausing song,
And oft light wings went fluttering quick among
The thick grown leaves, all sought their bowery rest,
And joyful chirpings carne from many a nest.
He envied those gay creatures of the air;
And sadly thought that he might never share
In kind domestic ties; might never prove
How dear a thing it is to feel the love
Of infant beings—the pure, fond caress
Of rosy childhood in its happiness.
Though sorrow of his peace had ruin made,
Ne'er had he felt so desolate as now;
He plung'd into the thickest of the shade,
And felt the fresh cool leaves against his brow—
One tree he well remembered; it was green
In its full strength when he beheld it last—
('Twas in his happy childhood)—it had past
Quite into age; he thought how it had been

So glorious, with all its golden fruit
And silver blossoms,—now, it well might suit
His alter'd fortunes;—one high branch alone
Gave sign of life—there a few blossoms clung
Sickly and pale, and waiting but the breath
Of the fast coming night to close in death.

How bitter were the musings of that hour!
Here, where his noble sires had come in power,
He stood alone—the last of all his race,
Unfriended, homeless!—low he bent his face
Against the aged tree, and the fast tears
Ran down its furrow'd bark—the grief for years,
Close shut up in his heart, found utterance then—
All he had suffered, all that he had lost,
Since he had been among the sons of men—
A leaf, which ev'ry storm of life had tost.
He wept, 'till the slow pealing vesper bell
Proclaim'd the time of prayer: Guevara, well
Hath come that solace to thee: not in vain
The solemn tones—he mingled with the train,
And where his Fathers' worshipp'd, once again
Their child implor'd a blessing: soon the calm
Of the old temple fell like soothing balm,
Upon his wounded spirit: all things wore
A sacred quiet; and far more than all,
Nothing there was too painfully to call

On human feelings—all around him bore
Diviner character; and most can tell
How holy things work with a mighty spell
On grief-tried hearts,—and where time-honour'd shrine,
Magnificence and glory more than thine ?
Stateliest temple! ages cannot bow
Thy rare surpassing glory to the dust;
Adorning earth, as tho' thou did'st entrust
Time, with thy preservation, and his sway
Had shielded thee amid a world's decay.
What change of nation, and of faith has been
Since first the Roman conqueror was seen
Closing thy portals, when his battle vow
Had been performed, and the tir'd earth had rest.
Here, (where thou rearest now thine awful crest)
The Goth once knelt in prayer—that day o'erpast
Came the swart Moor, and deem'd his rule should last
E'en to the end of all—what pomp was thine
(Albeit we may not call the rites divine)
When Abdoulrahman oped the marble doors,
And prostrate myriads from the chequer'd floors
Sent up their cry to Allah. When the day
Was dying in the west—how silverly
(Echoing back from dome and minaret)
Rose the Muezzin's voice in holy call,
" Allah il Allah"—God is lord of all,

"Mahomet is his prophet"—here they met,
The votaries of the Impostor's creed;
The fiery Arab swift as his own steed,
Wild as his native deserts—hither came
The curled African, with brow of flame;
Men of all faiths—the Persian and the Greek;
He who erst call'd the radiant sun his God,
With him who once had fear'd the awful nod
Of his Olympian Jove—here bending meek
Like praying childhood, throng'd the pilgrim train,
By Islam rites to cleanse sins black'ning stain.

Thus to have seen thee in thine early day
Temple of columns! when the sun's last ray
Stream'd thro' thy stuccoed windows, glancing bright
Through the long Aisles, on jasper, chrysolite,
And rainbow tinged marbles—thus, ere time
Had shadow'd o'er thy glory—great, sublime,
All that we deem of earthly pomp, went thou!
But it is past—the polish'd and the brave,
The courtly Saracen, he too must bow
To the world's changes:—the insatiate grave,
Hungry for noble victims—found that day
A bloody hecatomb:—back o'er the wave
Fled the survivors; all who sought to save
Inglorious life, when fame had pass'd away.

The cross hath triumphed: but ask of Spain
Is her lot happier? Was the Moslem chain
More galling than the Christian? No;—the cry
Of tortur'd victims—the full agony
Of sire and son and tender maiden rise
From the accursed pile, that to the skies
Blazes with human blood—not this the law
Of him the Merciful, who when he saw
The ruin'd city, wept—who felt for all,
And ev'n in death's last bitterness did call
For mercy on his murderers—proud man
With his devices marr'd the "gracious plan;"
For this the blood of innocence he spilt,
And stain'd the annals of his land with guilt.

I've said the stranger felt a gentle peace
Shrouding him with its soft and dove-like wings;
The all-engrossing sympathy that springs
From the most deep affections of the heart,
When outward things become as if a part
Of us and of our feelings, and we cease
To mourn our loneliness; when we can blend
Our nature with externals, and thus send
Our thoughts abroad for comfort.

                                                Yet awhile
Linger'd Guevara in the solemn pile

The dwellers in this place of other years
Where an old lord, and one who call'd him sire,
A gentle girl just grown to womanhood ;
The latest blossom of a lovely race
Who faded in their spring—the father's tears
Had dried while looking on the angel face
Of his last child—and she, her whole desire
Seem'd how to win him from the mournful mood,
That thought of blessings lost would oft inspire.

Thus in her palace home freshly she grew,
The young companion of the bird and flower;
And gather'd beauty from each day, that threw
Its gift of life upon her like a dower:

A poet's dream of loveliness and grace.
That Andalusian maid with her dark eyes,
Whose drooping lids veil'd their soft witcheries,
And threw a tender shadow o'er a face
Twin sister of the rose; for one might trace
Its most transparent hue on her fair cheek
And her soft: voice was sweetly law and meek,
Leaving a gentle music on the ear;
Or so one deem'd, and listened still to hear
The liquid melody—yet with a fear
The dreamy sounds might cease—such are the play
Of fountains lapsing thro' the flow'rs away;
The murm'ring winds that lull the sleeping day;
The turtle in her leafy shadows lost;
The harp aeolian by soft airs crost;
Sweet sounds which the hush'd spirit fears to lose,
Yet listens breathlessly for the fond close
To sink into its depths—like feathery snow
Melting into the silent lake below.

Thus early nurtur'd mid all glorious things
Of mountain, dell, and flood, her bosom caught
From nature's teaching, high and holy thought;
And in a world of bright imaginings
Her life flowed on like a majestic stream,
Gliding along thro' meadows fresh and green,

And golden sands—until its even course
Is stopp'd by giant rocks, and thence is seen
Foaming and struggling in its utmost force:—
Then rushing on—a mighty cataract—
Leaving behind to mark its furious track
Ruin and desolation! thus liv'd she
Till love disturb'd her sweet tranquillity:
It came—that passion in its wild excess,
And turn'd her fair world to a wilderness.
From childhood she had lov'd to stray alone,
Unquestion'd through her native solitudes,
And listen to the talking of the woods—
For, ever, when the trumpet winds are blown,
The forest trees reply, and their deep tone
Comes like the chorus of the restless sea,
That music which hath everlastingly
Peal'd through the world a spell and mystery.

Often, ere yet had ceas'd the vesper bell,
Young Inez roam'd beside her native stream
To a green bower, which summer days had made
Rich with a drapery of leaves and flowers;
Dark cork and graceful chesnut blent their shade
To hide it from the sun, and cooling showers
From a near fountain sparkled as they fell
On beds of perfume—and the temperate air
Sigh'd "wooingly" among the blossoms fair,

Nor scatter'd the fast falling cistus leaves;
'Twas such a fairy place, as fancy weaves
For love to doat on in his youngest dream.
And here Guevara found his unknown love—
Chance-guided he drew near the fragrant bow'r,
Where, on a mossy bank, like nestling dove,
Young Inez slumber'd thro' the sultry hour;
Scarce dar'd he breathe—and held his panting heart
Lest its quick throb should chase her rosy sleep,
Yet could he not from the charm'd spot depart,
Which seem'd each tranced sense spell-bound to keep.

They lov'd—they parted—met,—what need to tell
How the enthusiast girl was woo'd and won?
Ye who have lov'd with passion know full well
Its potency—of life the soul—the sun—
Yes, mighty love breath'd his whole spirit there,
Nor shrunk fair Inez from the glowing tale;
She knew not that her father's fatal care
Had vow'd her to a cloister's dreary pale,
In grateful sacrifice (or so he deem'd)
For her young life in infancy redeem'd,
From the destroying blight that left his hearth,
All desolate, save of her infant mirth.
At length before her trembling sire she knelt,
And pour'd forth all her love, her hopes, her fears;

Oh ! who may paint what the lost parent felt,
That his own voice must curse her blooming years.
He dar'd not meet her innocent fond look,
His only one, whom he had lov'd so well—
And still how dear she was, the pang that shook
His aged bosom, to his child could tell—
O'er the doom'd girl he hung in agony,
And strove the fatal secret to unfold;
Turn'd the pale victim from his pitying eye,
Ere half the tale of misery could be told;
Enough—to know that she must learn to bear,
The ever-changing torments of despair.

The morning came—the last eventful morn;
The Priests stood ready for the sacrifice,
Which from all earthly feelings must be torn,
Of superstition's vow to pay the price—
They call'd her from her couch—her cheek was wet
With recent tears—she turn'd and knelt awhile
In earnest prayer—and then her handmaids met
With a clear brow, and her triumphant smile
Show'd strange, for a young heart so rudely crost;
Had she the mem'ry of her sorrow lost,
Won by the glittering vanities around—
So deem'd her maidens, and with joyful haste
The costly ornaments upon her bound—

And added to her beauty gems and gold.
The cestus that enclos'd her slender waist
Was a King's gift, to th' Abencerrage old
Who left it as a dower to a fair bride,
Who once within these halls had kept her state;
And many a lovely one in nuptial pride
Had worn it since that day. Alas, her fate
Who wears it now! the lost! the desolate!
Vow'd to a living tomb!—her sweeping hair,
As darkly lustrous as the raven's wing,
Was woven in with gems—the diamond there
Shone like a star from heaven wandering,
Lur'd by a face so fair;—the ruby flung
Its flood of crimson light, and richly hung
The gleaming amethyst, with wanton twine,
Like ripen'd clusters of the purple vine.
Around her form fell the white shadowy veil,
Light as a floating mist—but, oh ! more pale
Was the soft cheek, its snowy foldings hid:
Still, statue-like, became her lovely face;
And in her silent eye there was no trace
Of suffering, when she rais'd its drooping lid.

Before the holy shrine at last she stood,
'Mid flowers, and incense, and rich minstrelsy;
The white-rob'd priests flung the bright censers high,
And melody swell'd round them like a flood:

Around were rang'd the beautiful, the young,
And a deep silence chain'd up ev'ry tongue:
The rites began:—when echoing thro' the aisle
A sudden tumult spread, till the old pile
Was ringing with the tread of armed men:
On to the altar sprang the daring chief,
And seiz'd the bride of heav'n—desp'rate and brief
The struggle—sank she in his arms—and then
He bore her thro' the horror-stricken throng.—
Tumultuously his followers broke along
Through the thick crowd that his retreat oppose
A passage for their chief:—around them close
The saintly numbers—but it was in vain:
Unarm'd, defenceless, how might they restrain
The daring sacrilege?—an instant more
And the fierce band bore their fair prize away;
Clos'd were the glories of that solemn day;—
The pageant, and the melody were o'er.

That spoiler was Guevara: when he saw
His only hope, by a remorseless law,
Sever'd from his fond arms—he hied away
To the old mountain fastnesses, and there
His burning tale of outrage and despair
Wrought on the wild Guerillas:—'twas the time
When France was ravaging the fated clime;

The mountaineers, active, and brave, and free,
A leader needed; one whose mind should be
Prompt to direct, and steadfast in command—
One, whose already well-instructed hand
Would strike for Liberty no useless blow,
And lay the spoilers of his country low:
That leader seem'd Guevara—his high name
Was foremost on the blazon'd scroll of fame;
Were he their chief, Freedom were their's again
He vow'd him to the band—their present aid
From worse than death to snatch his own lov'd maid,
Should be his guerdon—over hill and plain
Swift as the wind he led the willing train,—
But one hour more their haste had been in vain.

Fled they unto the mountains; hot pursuit
Allow'd them not an instant to recruit
Their toil-worn frames; nor could they rashly hope
With the insulted church's power to cope.—
They gain'd at last: a shelter—forc'd their way
Through the thick masses of entangling weed,
To a dim cavern, where the noontide ray
Hath never reach'd, nor living creatures feed;
A meagre bat clung to the marble wall
That died of famine—a tired vulture there
Uprear'd his flagging wing and soar'd away,

And a gaunt wolf rushed fiercely from his lair;
'Twas like a place accursed; shunn'd of all:
But stooping; through the dark and narrow porch,
Each mountaineer kindled his pine-wood torch;
Then burst at once upon the startled sense,
Such whelming glory and magnificence,
That jewell'd palaces in Eastern land,
Founded by Genii, or Enchanter's wand,
Were nought to the great work of nature's hand
In this vast mountain-palace: the strain'd sight
Essay'd in vain to reach the vaulted height
Of the far-arching roof; the quiv'ring light
Played gloriously on gemmed stalactite
And human voices swell'd like the full tone
Of deep cathedral organ—rolling round
An echoing continuity of sound.
Nor wanted gorgeous shrine, nor kingly throne,
Column, nor sculptur'd frieze, nor capital,
Nor crystal lustres, nor adornment small,
Of leaf and flower, wrought in rich tracery
Along the marble walls; and far away,
Far as the eye could stretch, a river lay
Rolling its sullen flood eternally—
There amid blazing torches flashing high,
Young Inez plighted her eternal vow;
Their fears, their perils all forgotten now,
Why did they not in that blest moment die?—

A wand'ring life was theirs—hunted, pursued,
Driven 'mong savage things their lives to spend,
Yet seem'd each wild and desert solitude
A lov'd retreat, where their rapt souls could blend,
And the whole world to their delighted eyes,
Glow'd with the fadeless hues of Paradise.

One evening found them in a lonely dell,
The circling mountains with a gradual swell,
To hide it rear'd their dark heads to the sky,
And many a rill came flowing silently
Down from the summits, where the cedars stood
With outspread plumes the monarchs of the wood—
And then the white rills met, and gently took
Their pleasant way along the grassy vale,
Scattering freshness—while the light winds shook
Rich fragrance from the lemon blossoms pale:
And song of bird was there—and fruit and flowers,
In rich profusion, as if vernal showers
Had started into life—or heaven's proud bow
Had pour'd its many colour'd hues below.
The eve was soft and balmy—but the day
Had been a blaze of sunshine—'neath its ray
Inez was drooping like a languid flower;
Guevara mark'd with anguish ev'ry hour
How the quick lustre of her eye grew dim;

Ne'er brighten'd it, save when it glanc'd on him:
Her cheek grew purer white—her step more weak—
Yet when of her declining he would speak,
She smil'd and bade his anxious fear depart,
But could not still the bodings of his heart.

She knelt down meekly in the soft moonlight
As beautiful as is the sculptur'd stone,
One of those sweet crations fair and bright,
That give an immortality alone
To the proud land in which they had their birth.
She knelt so calmly there, all grief or mirth
Seem'd faded from her heart—she was too blest,
Too happy in this soft and quiet nest.
To have a thought of woe—breathings of prayer
Were trembling on her lips—but still his name
Mix'd with each liquid accent as it came,
As if to love him were her only care.—
And now, she bade him bless her—and her eye
Sparkled again with light, and life, and love;
And he could mark, by the pure light above,
The crimson tints that just would come and die,
Upon her lovely cheek—and with new hope,
He drew his only treasure to his breast,
And with soft whispers hush'd her into rest.
Yet, ere she slept, she utter'd some fond word,

His name it might be—but he scarcely heard
The faint low breath:—great weariness had chain'd
His ev'ry sense, and he for hours remain'd
In heavy slumber—when he did awake
He started at the cold and icy chill
Of the dear lips, to which his own he prest—
There was no heaving of the snowy breast;
The heart that lov'd so well was dead and still—
Gone sweetly in his cradling arms to rest,
His own pale beauty lay:—he dar'd not think
He was so very lost—oh! on the brink
Of desolation, how we pause, and shrink
From the full perfect knowledge of our woe,
And try to cheat the soul that 'tis not so—
And labour like a troubled dream to chase
The frightful truth—but the sad pallid face,
The melancholy eyes half-opened,
The parted lips that have lost all their red—
The waxed hand, rigid, and still, and cold,
The shrine that did the living spirit hold,
Turning to loathsomeness and dull decay,
Oh! these are truths we may not gaze away!

He was alone—weary and spent with grief—
Yet sought he not for his worn frame relief:
And the sun rose and set, and rose again,

But there he kept, albeit he knew 'twas vain:
True to the last—holding the quiet dead
Close to his heart in fond and firm embrace.
And if a sunbeam touch'd her changing face,
He started suddenly, and then would place
With tender care his mantle o'er her head:
And often would he lift her raven curls
And kiss them fondly—or on her dim cheek
Press his hot lips—and then would softly speak
In grief's worst madness: but this pass'd away:
And then it grew a terror and a fear
To look upon the late so lovely clay.—
He shriek'd aloud—but there was none to hear,
Save the small creatures of the solitude,
And they fled frighted by his dreary mood.

Now felt he his despair's impiety,
Wronging the dead of its sole claim—a tomb;
A hiding place even from love's fond eye,
Where the dire change shall pass in awful gloom:
Oh! that drear change—beauty, and youth, and bloom,
We dare not muse upon your fearful doom—
We dare not trace ye to the silent grave,
And think how all we love day after day
Is losing its distinctness—soon to be,
The common parent of the flower and tree.

Sadly and silently he turn'd away,
With shudd'ring chill from the dim look of death—
What felt he, when he saw with shorten'd breath
A vulture hov'ring in the middle air!
God! how he rais'd him from his heart's despair—
And with his bleeding hands tore up the soil,
While his veins curdled as the foul bird flew
In less'ning circles, and still nearer drew.
At length, 'twas done—and with a dizzy brain,
He paus'd an instant from his madd'ning toil—
Yawn'd the dark grave—he dar'd not look again,
Nor pause—nor think—he groan'd one anguish'd pray'r,
Sever'd a ringlet of the glossy hair,
And—all was past—the fresh green sod was spread—
His bride—his beautiful was with the dead!

MARIUS IN PRISON.

I

    This was thy victor hour
Old warrior! when with cold stern eye,
Thou mocked'st at the tyrant pow'r
               That urg'd thy destiny:
               Thus in the living tomb,
Naked, defenceless, and confin'd;
Rising above thy abject doom,
               By the sole might of mind.

II

    Not when thy battle car
Roll'd proudly over prostrate foes,
When fam'd Numidia like a star
               Set – and no more arose;
               Not when the laurel crown,
Engarlanded thy loft brow,
In the full blaze of War's renown,
               Wert thou so great as now.

III

     Never! tho' Jove's own bird
Thy conq'ring legions onward led;
When empires hung upon thy word,
               And shook beneath thy tread;
               Nor when the strife was done,
And thy long day of splendour o'er,
Ruin'd, forsaken, and alone,
               Upon the alien shore.

IV

    What do thy fortunes bring?
A dream of glory dash'd by fears;
And for thy homeless wandering
               It is a theme for tears:
               Ambition read thy fate,
Laurels and sceptres, pow'r and fame,
Just grasp'd, and then all desolate,
               What is thy empty name!

V

     Yet is there left a time,
When mighty souls again may rise,
(Great in despair – in grief sublime)
               By their own energies:
               And thou hadst nobly died
Brave Marius! each heart must feel,
Ev'n tho' thy blood of regal pride,
               Had ting'd the murd'rers steel.

VI

    But who of men shall dare,
To set the awful spirit free,
From the proud form that seems to bear,
               Marks of Eternity!
                Lo! the base Cimbric slave,
Shrinks from his fetter'd captive's glance;
Dares not its light'ning terrors brave,
               Nor she fall'n chief advance.

VII

     Glory and fame are thine
Old Marius! this thy prison hour,
Hath won in History's fadeless line
               A high immortal dow'r:
               And surely not in vain
Has been thy boast victorious Rome
When thus thy sons could triumpsh gain
               Amid the dungeon's gloom.

NATURE.

I would that I might wander far away,
    Into some quiet valley's green recess,
Where not a sound should stir the peaceful day,
    Save forest melodies, whose wild excess,
Blown by the pausing winds, might gently sway
    My soul from her dark thinkings, and repress
     Cares, which have worn away my happiness.

It were a pleasant think to stray alone
    ‘Mid palace trees, whose thick boughs intertwined
Make softened twilight of the gorgeous noon;
    Or, haply, ‘neath some aged oak reclined,
Gather its fairy goblets; or, far-gone
    In a rich dream of poesy, unwind
    Rare spells to disenthral the prisoned mind.

To live alone with Nature; to unfold
    Her teeming mysteries; to rove at will
Through her untrodden haunts: at will behold
    Her varied forms of beauty – lake and hill,
And purple vintage, and the living gold
    Of her full harvests; or at midnight still
    Mark the bright stars their radiant course fulfil.

Eternal Nature! I have ever vowed
    My worship unto thee; thy changeful moods
Of summer loveliness and wintry cloud,
    The majesty of thy deep solitudes,
My soul has loved: then, while the toiling crowd
    Bow unto Fortune for her fancied goods,
    Give me the silence of thy pathless woods.

THERE'S NO FORGETTING.

What is it to Forget? to me
It seems not such a thing can be;
For I have ever vainly tried
To check the flow of mem'ry's tide;
As some for pleasure seek, no less
Have I pursued forgetfulness.

I've sought for it in misery
With burning brow and tearless eye,
When fate some treasur'd life destroy'd,
And left the world a dreary void;
Grief may be calm'd – but tell me not
That it can ever be forgot!

No: and the hopes, the joys, the fears,
The smiles of love, the thousand tears
That weep its falsehood; all of woe
The heart has known, -- it still must know
And bear for ever; never yet
Could it a single pang forget.

But in the Grave – ah! surely there
Comes no regret, no former care;
Oh! Once within its hallow'd peace
This agony of thought must cease; --
Say that it does, -- and I will bless
The hour that brings forgetfulness.

ADA.

A chilling night it is; th' Autnmnal wind
Sighs moaningly among the forest boughs:
And yet, this is a night of revelry;
A thousand lamps are gloiwng in yon hall,
And ever and anon, comes on the ear
A swell of melody: the village bells
Are ringing gladsomely, or, would essay
To tell of gladness, for the thick air loads
Their pealing with a heavy mournfulness
Unlike to mirth. It is the bridal eve
Of Albert, yonder castle's youthful lord.
A noble form is his: graceful and tall
Like the young mountain ash; a step of pride
Speaks the high soul within; but happiness
Softens the eye that else perchance might seem
To bear itself too haughtily: beautiful
Is the fairbride; young, delicate, as love.

Within the stately hall are noble guests;
Proud dames, and lordly knights, -- and those are gay
As love, and hope, and happiness can wish;
Fair forms are floating to rich music's breath
And song is thrilling the perfumed air
Sweet as the night-bird's lay – Yet there is one,
Amid this throng of minstrelsy and mirth,
Who pensive strays, regardless of all joy,
Regardless of her wondrous loveliness.
Graceful as a white swan upon the lake,
She moves, transcending all, where all are fair.
The sable ringlets on her parian brow
And pure unsullied bosom, contrast make
As if a raven flung his jetty wing
Across a snow drift.
Slient she is, and sad; her angel face
Pale as a moonbeam, and her large dark eyes
Seem fix'd on vacancy, until they meet
The bridegroom's look of joy, then, a quick pang
Of recollection, shakes her slender frame,
And shuddering she turns and wanders forth.

She steals away unmark'd; all are too glad,
To take account of one whom wasting grief
Has stricken to the heart: the midnight gloom
The melancholy bells, and wailing wind

Seem with her deadly woe to harmonize
Unconsciously as ‘twere, she bends her way
To the damp margin of the quiet lake
And takes her seat beside the waters dark,
Upon crumbling pedestal, where once
A temple stood to Pleasure consecrate –
Ruin'd and desolate, it well may seem
Emblem of her own state – in happier hours
This was her fav'rite haunt; and she had lov'd
To look with Albert on the varied hues
That cloud and sunbeam threw upon the lake;
Here, too, in happy childhood thy had launch'd
Their baby boats; and often had he plung'd
Into the stream for lilies snowy white
To form a coronal for her dark hair.
In their young days, each was to each, the world,
And she had never deem'd a time might come
For change or separation: Orphans both;
Their sires were brethren; widow'd in their youth,
They sought the battle field, and fell together:
From that sad hour, one home the children own'd;
And in the solitude of its old towers,
‘Mid trees whose age seem'd like Eternity,
They heard the tales of their proud ancestry
Till their young bosom's glow'd and early caught
A high chivalrous feeling: in their sports

He was her champion ever, and her smile
Was then his best reward.
The fading sky, the wild-bird's song at eve
Were happiness to her, and she would gaze
On the descending Day God, till her form
Was glowing in his glory, that she seem'd
A Delphic priestess, uttering to the winds
High mysteries: and thus she nurs'd
Romantic fancies, till her soul became
The very home of love, and Albert was
Shrin'd as a deity in that pure heart;
Her love was adoration: her sole life, -
The spring of her existence – not so, his; -
She was his pride, his sister, confidant –
But not – his love –
                                 Now busy manhood came
When Albert left his lov'd paternal home;
And rumour reach'd fond Ada, how the crowd
Worshipp'd her idol, and her heart beat high
To hear his praises – blind and self-deceiv'd
She doubted not, his heart was her's alone.

He came again to his dear home, and she
Sprang joyously to greet him: soon he told
With all a brother's confidence, the tale
How a fair girl had blest him with her love,

And in a few short months would be his bride.
She heard with death-like silence – check'd the groan
That almost pass'd her lips; and tried to frame
Her look to cheerfulness, as one who hears
A tale of common things, but ‘twould not be
For her young soul was blighted. Who shall tell
How crushingly this blow struck on her heart!
At first she wept in utter helplessness;
Alone, she wept; no eye beheld her tears;
Less buoyant grew her step, her cheek more pale,
Yet not enough to warn the gazer's heart,
That death was feeding on its lovely bloom.
E'en thus it is that Woman's heart will break!
The proud, - the fickle – these may love again –
The hapless child of Genius, loves and dies! –
No murmur ‘scap'd fair Ada, for she knew
Her's was alone the fault, (if fault it were
To love her youth's companion) death she felt
Would soon release her from th' unconscious crime.

Before the holy altar came at last
The happy Albert and his beauteous bride,
And Ada stood beside them: for awhile
Spread o'er her cheeks a deep unearthly flush
Lovely as joy's warm glow, and her sad eyes
Were lighted for an instant with a beam

Of all their former lustre, - like the flash
A fisher's oar strikes from the midnight wave
Bright – beauteous – momentary –‘twas the last!
Soon ebb'd the crimson blood back to her heart,
And into langour sunk the eye's bright beam:
The universal merriment around,
Was cruel mockery; her sick heart sought
To hide its grief in secret, so she left
The happy company –
She ponder'd long, and deeply; till her thoughts
Has lost distinctness: floating in her brain
Were sad uneasy vision, such as haunt
The sick man's slumbers – a strange sense of ill –
Fearful, but undefined: she could not live;
Hope, happiness, and love, were at an end,
For love would now be guiltiness: she press'd
Her cold hand firmly on her aching heart,
As if to stay its throbbing; and it grew
Still – and more still. – The midnight blasts were spent,
The bells were mute – the music hush'd – and soon
‘Twas quiet as if earth had ne'er been vex'd
By storm, or noise, or sorrow.
                                         Morning comes
Warm, clear, serene, as Summer linger'd yet,
And gloriously bright the sunbeams play
Upon the golden elms: the wasting winds

Have spar'd, as if in pity, some pale buds
Of clustering roses, which the honey bees
Are kissing cheerily, and butterflies
Their gorgeous wings are op'ning to the day.
Some of the revellers have come abroad
To taste the morning's freshness: by the lake
Quietly seated ‘neath an alder's shade,
Appears the form of Ada: marvel they
That she is clad thus early in the robes
Of last night's festival – but speech is none –
Nor sense – nor breath – nor motion – she is dead!
It is a mournful sight – one pale, still hand,
Stiffen'd to marble, yet its pressure keeps
Upon the broken heart: the cold night dews
Have wept large tears upon her silken hair
In which the mimic flowers of yester eve,
Cling droopingly, as they too, mourn'd for her:
The wither'd leaves a resting place have found
On her pure bosom; and her garments white
Are ‘broider'd with their many colourings.
‘Twas said the night air kill'd her: - none e'er knew
The secret of her heart, nor any deem'd,
That blighted love could thus have crush'd to death
Her youthful blossoming.

THE BOY OF IPSARA.

"The valour of the Ispariots is unparalleled: they fought with a courage never equalled, and when every hope was lost, they plunged with their children from the rocks headlong into the sea! A French frigate was laying-to during the engagement, and picked up many of them. I was one of these poor children at Smyrna, a slave to a Turk of distinction: his history is deeply distressing. His mother, he says, shot the first man who broke into the house, but was speedily overpowered: his father fought for a long time – he at length retired into a room where the family had take refuge; he killed the poor boy's three little brothers, and twice lifted the sword to dispatch him; he was the favourite of his father, - whose resolution failed him; and the wretched parent had only time to use the weapon on himself, when the room was broken into by the soldiers."   — Private letter from Smyrna.

The spoiler came – wail for the harass'd land!
    The Turkman broke upon our household rest;
Fiercely her wav'd aloft his gleaming brand;
    My mother strain'd us wildly to her breast,
A bitter moment – then, the fight began.
Whizzed the dark bolt – dead, fell the foremost man!

[55]

Bless'd mother! thou wert worthy of the time
    When Greece was mightiest; but it was in vain –
What virtue could appal the sons of crime? –
    I saw thee sink upon the heap of slain?
I caught thy last, sad, dreary look of death,
I saw – yet shriek'd not – horror held by breath.

My father – grief and fury nerv'd his arm,
     Madly he dealt around the strokes of fate;
In vain – in vain – for thronging to th' alarm,
    A legion of fresh foes is at the gate;
My valiant sire – down sank his wearied hand, -
How might one arm a legion's force withstand?

Flee for our wretched lives! – we gain'd a room
    Remote from our slaughter; and my brethren three
Clung to our sire, unweeting of the doom
    That was to save them from captivity;
On, came the foe – "children, my father said,
"There are no tyrants ‘mong the quiet dead."

That word was fate – dead my young brothers lay,
    Their sunny ringlets trailing on the ground,
Stain'd with their blood – "Boy," did my father say
    "Bare thy breast also, for the saving wound" –
My vest I open'd – look'd into his eyes, -
He could not finish his dreadful sacrifice.

"Thy mother's image boy is in thy face,
    "I dare not lift the steel against thy life;
"Strike – strike my father – save me from disgrace,
    "Hark! – nearer come th' accursed sons of strife –
"The tumult swells – one instant – one remains" –
My sire, that blow hath rescued THEE from chains.

Murd'rers – they would not kill me! I did crave
    But the poor boon of death – that I might share
My noble parents', and my brethren's grave –
    Scoff'd the dire ruffians at my gloomy pray'r –
"No – thy young worthless life in wrath we save,
"Dog! thou shall live to be the Moslem's slave."

A LEGEND OF MAY-DAY.

There is a tale of youth that lingers yet
And plays about my mem'ry: in spring time
When downy buds unclose, and forest trees
Wear their most delicate green; - it comes to me
That strange sad history: ‘twas told of one,
A dark-brow'd maiden from that southern isle
The fruitful Sicily: she left her home
For that a sordid father dar'd to rate
Her worth, with golden dross, and plight his child,
His young and blooming child to frozen age –
She dwelt in yon low cottage, now o'ergrown
With matted ivy; then, around its walls
There was a blush of roses, and at eve
The air was rich with odours from a bower
Of white clematis that hung airily
Its graceful tassels o'er the rustic porch.
There, when the noon was past, the stranger girl

Would mingle soft lute-sighing's with her voice,
And murmur to the eve, the liquid words,
The passion-breathing accents of the South.

                         ‘Twas the first morn of May,
When thro' that peaceful valley came a sound
Of happy voices gaily carolling;
And straight appear'd a fair young company,
Each bearing in her hands the choicest gifts
Of the bright Spring; they had gone forth that morn,
At earliest dawn; and thro' the meadows roam'd
Leaving a green trace in the dewy grass,
Where their light feet had hover'd, like the round
Our Shepherds tell us, fairy steps have trod.
They were abroad, before the jocund sun
Had look'd into the linnet's downy nest,
Or call'd the merry lambkins to their play –
Through the cool meads they went with song and shout
In search of all the daintiest things that grew
Among the chilly grass – one bore a prize
Of crimson-bosom'd cowslips; one had gain'd
A scented cluster of narcissus wan;
And others, from the snowy crested thorn,
Had torn large branches – but that dark-brow'd girl
Had nought save a few azure violets,
Already yielding their sweet lives to death –

But then, a maiden said, it was not fit
That one so beautiful should nothing wear,
Save sickly violets, the last of Spring –
And so she chose from her own gay store
A bright anemone, all flaming deep
With a rich scarlet dye; and pray'd to place
Her gorgeous gift among the paler flowers:
The stranger took it with a sadden'd smile,
For she had mark'd amid its glowing pride,
A blackness at the heart; - and with a sigh
She plac'd it in her bosom, and gave sign,
To all the happy group, to hang their wreaths
Upon the high rais'd pole – and now they dance
Full joyously, with fleet unwearied feet,
Till they have dried the dew-drops from the grass.

What unexpected sight has made a pause
In their glad revelry? the fluttering throng
Break off their sports, and crowd like frightened doves
Around their stranger-friend: a warrior youth
With floating plume, and step of martial pride,
Draws near the cowering girls – an instant more,
And he fondly kneeling at the feet
Of her, their sylvan queen: - it is the youth
She lov'd in her own land; for whose dear sake
She had been fain to fly her father's wrath,

And her own summer island. Now he tells
His many griefs and wanderings; tells how war
Has kept him from her arms; but now, no more
Shall expectation wear their youth away,
She is his own for ever. She must leave
Her kind and dear companions, ere the sun
That rose so brightly on their innocent mirth
Hath fill'd with golden pomp the western sky: —
Sadly they part; with many tender words
And artless tears – and faintly breath'd farewells,
And like a vision are those lovers gone.

A light bark skims the wave – her prow is turn'd
Away from Albion's shore; the evening airs
Impel her briskly on – forward she speeds,
Like a white bird o' the ocean: — on the deck
That loving pair are standing: his fond arm
Entwined around his beautiful young bride,
Whose tearful gaze is watching the last trace
Of her adopted land: it fades away
Before her eager view; and her white arms
Are stretch'd toward the vanishing isle to give
A farewell, and a blessing – quick as thought
The faithless breeze hath changed, and ere a word
Of caution can be heard, the shifting sail
Strikes on the fated lovers! they are plung'd

Into the swelling wave: no pow'r can aid,
It is so momentary – one short cry –
But on – and the dark sea meets o'er them –
Down they sink, in all their pomp of beauty!

That eve, (‘tis said) a wild unearthly shriek
Rang thro' the silent valley; and the wreath
That grac'd so proudly the morn's festival,
Fell suddenly upon the dewy ground
As lightning had pass'd o'er them; from that hour
The cottage has been tenantless – yet swains,
And village maidens tell, how in spring nights
A shadowy form sits in that ivied porch,
And softest music floats upon the air,
The same wild notes the stranger used to love.
I oft have wander'd to that lonely vale
In the calm moonlight, and have heard sweet sounds,
And, (if they came not from the nightingale)
It must have been the fair Sicilian
Pouring her song of mournful melody.

SONG.

Away! away! the morning star
Shines bright above; thy home is far;
Thy light bark tosses in the bay,
Away my Lover! haste! away!

Here take this rose, ‘tis bright as love;
This golden chain by magic wove
Bind next thy heart; - and oh! be true –
‘Till eve returns, adieu! adieu! –

SONG.

A laurel wreath for thy brow,
And a bower on the green hill side,
Thy kingdom and crown to be,
Were worth all the world beside.

With me for thy faithful page,
At thy slightest hest to run;
And tend thee from earliest light,
To the hour of the setting sun.

From the crimson rose I'd steal
Her treasure of balmiest leaves,
And the tenderest moss from the rill,
And the threads that the gossamer weaves:

These for thy couch I would spread,
And tame a young lark from her nest,
And teach her to wake thee at morn,
With the song that thou lovest the best.

Around thy lov'd harp I'd entwine
The fairest of flowers that unfold;
The musk rose, the violet blue,
And the jessamine's bugles of gold.

Our lives should glide lightly away
As the feather that floats on the stream;
But ah! this fair picture of bliss,
Is nought save a fond waking dream.

PORTRAIT OF A LADY.


A vision surpassing loveliness
Fell on the Painter's spirit, till his heart
Throbb'd with the sweet entrancement, and he caught
Th' inspired time, and on the canvas pour'd
The rich o'erflowing of his ardent soul;
While beauty made her visible presence felt
And threw the light of immortality,
Around his fair creation. Loveliest dream!
For sure thou hast ‘mid cold realities
No breathing parallel: that morning face,
An opening rose leaf! the sweet earnest eyes
In color like the cloudless heaven of June,
And that most faultless Medicean form,
Dwells there on earth such wondrous perfectness?

Young beauty! said I thou wert but a dream!
O thou art warm with life! an instant more
And the soft breast will gently heave, and part
The dewy lips with rare ambrosial breath;
And then, thy voice will be most delicate,
And murmur at its close, like the soft airs
That sigh among the cowslips on spring eves.

Again, again I turn to gaze on thee,
And now, I look upon thy regal brow
And think that thou wert in thy days a Queen!
Didst thou not live in old enchanted times,
Of tilt, and tourney, and of troubadour?
When the pure light of beauty gave to song
Its dearest grace, and valor sought its meed
At woman's hand, and own'd no higher boon;
For love was then the life-spring of the heart,
Prompting to glorious deeds, and high emprize.
How the young minstrel flung his lyre aside,
Rushed to the armed lists, and boldly dar'd
The sov'reign of his heart against a world!
Then, while the trumpets thrill'd the quiv'ring air
With their deep thunder, and the beamy steel
Glanc'd round like summer lightning – there wert thou,
High, ‘mong the beautiful – and the light veil
Flutter'd with the quick beating of thy heart,

When knelt the graceful visitor at thy feet.
And oh! how tremblingly, thy small, snow hand
Plac'd the so envied guerdon on the brow
Of thine own knight – and how the eloquent blood
Mantled on thy warm cheek, whilst thy fond eyes
Droop'd tenderly, to hide, (ah! could they hide?)
The gentle triumph of a loving heart.

Or wert thou lov'd in secret – and at night
When all the flow'rs were sleeping, and when nought
Of sound was murmuring, save a low note
Of the night-bird, and she, far, far away –
Didst thou, while all thy sunny tresses fell
About thy polish'd neck, and thy round arms
Shone like the parian marble – didst thou steal
To the high lattice, screen'd by the thick shade
Of jessamine and rose, like a young bird
Nestling among the blossoms – didst thou come
And hear from lips enamour'd, words like these

     Oh wake thee! wake thee! Ladie love,
         The cistus flow'rs are falling,
     The nightingale would learn of thee
     A dearer charm of melody –
         Dost thou not hear her calling?
     List thee my ladie love!

     Oh! slumber not my ladie love,
         Tho' orange blooms are closing;
     For now the dewy air is sweet,
     With odours that too soon will fleet,
         And all those sweets thou'rt losing
     In sleep, my ladie love.

     Now, greet thee fair, my ladie love!
         Vain is thy fond concealing;
     Do not I see thy arms' white gleam,
     Like moonlight on a hidden stream –
         Through the thick leaves revealing,
     My own bright ladie love!

     Oh! leave me not, my ladie love,
         Without one gentle token;
     Throw from the braids of thy bright hair,
     The faded rose thou last didst wear
         To keep my heart unbroken,
      Till morn my ladie love!

TO SPRING.

Beautiful Spring! still art thou fair,
    As when thy infant spirit breath'd
Its first young freshness on the air,
    And round thy graceful brows were wreath'd
The earliest buds of the new earth,
Sweet welcomers of thy glad birth.

Unfading in thy loveliness,
    Eternal youth is thine alone;
Years cannot make the beauty less,
    Which circles thee as with a zone;
Still in thy green and flowery pride,
Thy coming forth is like a bride.

Thy garlands, fresh as first they hung
    Their free luxuriant leaves in air;
Thy music, sweet as then it sung,
    And bright thy painted flow'rets are
As when in their old pomp thy came,
As bright – but not alas! the same!

This is the thought that sends a sigh,
    Into the very greenest bowers;
This is the thought that dims the eye
    When gazing on thy fairest flowers;
Never again shall joyous Spring,
Behold the same flow'rs blossoming.

And thus with life; our present joys
    Are mournful, when the spirit feels
That ev'ry passing hour destroys
    Some budding bliss – some blessing steals; -
And mem'ry weeps her bitterest tears,
O'er the dead hopes of early years.

TO AUTUMN.

Though thou art crowned with the vine,
    And golden sheaves compose thy seat;
And gentle suns above thee shine,
    And mellow fruitage strews thy feet,
To me, thou tellest not of joy,
Thou dost mature, but to destroy.

Though the fond plants that round thee twine,
    Glow into crimson at thy touch,
And thou dost paint with hues divine,
    ‘Tis but the fever's deadly flush;
For where thy brightest tints are shed,
Thy victim's days are numbered.

Those parched leaves – those dying flowers,
    Drooping upon the humid earth;
I mark'd them first when vernal showers,
    Call'd their young beauties into birth;
And I have watch'd, how, day by day,
Their grace and sweetness wore away.

And yet, I love thy deep blue skies;
    The dying glory thou dost throw
O'er the fair earth I've learn'd to prize
    Far more than Summer's brighter glow –
Spring – Summer – may deceive, but thou –
There's honesty upon thy brow!

Thou dost not mock us with a tale
    Of cloudless suns, and lasting bloom;
Thou dost not hide that Winter pale,
    Comes with his train of storms and gloom;
Thou givest thy rich stores, and then
Retirest to thy rest again.

From the cold world I turn to thee,
    And as thy fading charms I trace,
I think how pleasant it would be,
    To sink with thee in Death's embrace,
Where not the wildest storm that blows,
Could break our sabbath of repose.

THE BURNING FOREST.
A TALE OF MIRAMICHI.
NEW BRUNSWICK.

A cheerless day it was; the golden sun
Sunk to his rest in sadness – dark and dun
The heavy clouds hung motionless and low,
And silent roll'd the river's endless flow;
The very winds seem'd slumbering to lie,
And stirr'd no more in pleasant melody
Among the forest boughs; men knew not why
Their spirits quail'd beneath that sullen sky;
But thus it was – an undefined chill
Lay on their hearts, they felt that something ill
Was gathering around, but what, or where,
Conjecture could not glance, nor thought could dare.
The thick air stifled them – they drew their breath
In painful gasps, and scarce redeem'd from death,

A few brief hours; they turn'd a hurried gaze
Upon each other, lost in wild amaze
They fear'd they knew not what, nor dar'd they speak,
The terrors that had blanch'd each pallid cheek.
The night came down upon them, —darkly still,
And the tall pines upon the crowning hill,
Mov'd not in the dead air.
                                        At length there blew
A fitful wind which ev'ry moment grew;
And scatter'd the dark clouds on either side,
And lash'd into white foam the running tide;
A hollow murmur broke form the deep woods,
Then louder roar'd, as if earth's giant floods
Were pouring all their congregated might
From lofty Alleghany's topmost height.
Near, land still nearer drew the frightful sound,
And sudden, as earth's central fires had found
An upward passage, in an instant came
A wide and universal rush of flame!
The forest was one blaze; tall patriarch trees
That had withstood the storms of centuries
And mock'd the fury of the lightning's glare
That pass'd and left them scath'dless – scorch'd and bare
Shiver'd before the wasting flame – or stood
Like fiery pillars: nor alone the wood
Spread its broad configuration; fierce and fast
Roll'd on the flaming torrent – soon it cast

Its serpent wreaths about the hapless town,
And men, and beasts, and dwellings, all sunk down
Shrivell'd with the hot clasp! Miramichi
Pour'd his eternal waters fruitlessly
Upon that burning shore; th' insatiate flame
Drank up the foaming waves that sought to tame
Its savage fierceness. Not a hope of flight,
Had the pale victims of that dreadful night;
Haggard and wild, men rais'd their bloodshot eyes
Imploringly to heaven: in vain – the skies
Were hidden from them by the volum'd smoke,
Or if the furious wind a moment broke
The dusky column – showers of burning sand,
And choking dust, with many a flaming brand
Rain'd on their homeless heads – then down they sank,
While the fierce blaze their quiv'ring sinews shrank.
Fond mothers on that awful night were there
With tender infants – and in mute despair
They strain'd them closer to their breasts, and gaz'd
On the approaching death which redly blaz'd
Toward them – timid helpless girls, who ne'er
‘Till then had met the breath of midnight air,
Rush'd forth distractedly, and madly pray'd
Protection – when not one had power to aid!
Some perish'd in their dwellings, where they lay
Chain'd by disease: and many chose to stay

With noble self-devotedness, and die,
With those they lov'd, rather than seek to fly.
And one fair girl there was, whose lot had been
All happiness, if she had never seen
That western land; - not many moons had past
Since she a ling'ring farewell look had cast
Upon sea-girted Albion: her young truth
Was vow'd in holy plight to a fond youth,
Who worshipp'd her like heav'n; and earth beside
Saw not a lovelier, nor a happier bride.
They were so very blest; until at length
Dread fever seiz'd upon his youthful strength:
She watch'd him like a mother – with dear love
She stood beside his tainted couch, and strove
To cool his throbbing temples – and when all
Fled the contagion, lest its rage should fall
Upon themselves, - the tender, faithful wife,
Still hop'd that she might nurse him back to life.
Alone, she tended him, and fondly spoke
Of comfort, tho' her aching heart was broke:
Yet seem'd she calm; no tears fell from her eye,
And sometimes a throb of agony
Sprung from her heart, she check'd it, ere it grew
Into a sigh: at last his reason flew
And there he lay in dull unconsciousness
Of all her kind enduring tenderness.

And now all hope was over; the cold dew
Of death hung on his brow; again he knew
The large fond eyes, that, (oh! how tenderly)
Beam'd upon his: he felt that he must die; -
But to leave her, so beautiful and young,
So very desolate – to life he clung
In agony, and with convulsive grasp
Lock'd her within his arms, as if that clasp,
Death would not dare to sever. – But short space
Endur'd that agonizing, last embrace,
His listless arms unwound, and he fell deep
Into a heavy, dull, and deathlike sleep.
Beside that bed of death she knelt – alone –
And watch'd his troubled breathing – then came one
Panting with haste and fear – "Fly Lady! fly!
"The forest is on fire! nay, no reply,
"We yet may gain the ships – a moment lost
"Is fatal! – come! away!" – she meekly crost
Her white hands on her breast – "I may not flee;
"I thank your charity, but cannot be
"Companion of your flight: for me, to die
"Is far less painful than from him to fly;
"This is no time for words; away, nor brave
"Your own destruction; - me, you cannot save.

Then fearfully upon her lonely ear
Burst the wild shriek of horror and despair,

TOKEN FLOWERS.
TO A YOUNG LADY.

Aye, doat upon each fairy spell
Young worshipper of the bright rose!
And all the mystic meanings tell
Thy token flowrets can disclose; -
And still believe the fairest things
Fittest for love's betokenings: -
I will not cloud thy sweet belief,
Nor tell thee that thy blossoms fade,
Emblems of all the withering grief,
That follows happiness decay'd.

Young maiden, in thy coming years,
Should those bright eyes with useless tears
Weep love's beguiling – it may be
When thou hast prov'd his treachery,
Thou'lt marvel in thy heart's despair
Thou once couldst deem that love was fair.

THE LAMENT OF THE HIGHLAND WIDOW.
From "CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE".

My boy! "My beautiful – my brave!"
    Sunk is thy lofty brow;
Deep; - deep in an inglorious grave
    Thou dost not hear me now!
Yet stoops the eagle from her flight,
    And joins my frantic cry;
And echoes to the coming night
    A mother's agony!

Thou shouldst have died, my glorious child
    In the red battle strife,
When the loud pibroch mingled wild,
    With madd'ning cries for life –
Nor there, ‘till ‘neath thy mighty hand
    The bravest foe had quail'd –
Curse! curse upon the craven band
That ‘gainst thy youth prevail'd.

Yet, why didst thou, my freeborn one,
    Bend to the Saxon yoke,
When from each hill and ravine lone,
    A warning spirit spoke?
Thy father's sword – thy father's name –
    Thy father's heart, were thine –
Couldst thou not trust to these for fame,
    Nor cloud thy noble line?

Alas! alas! my fair-hair'd boy!
    I had not wept for thee,
Hadst thou but priz'd the thrilling joy
    That waits upon the free:
Ah! why were not thy own blue hills
    And thy forefathers' hearth,
The heather, and the leaping rills,
    Worth all beside of earth?

To me they were; amid the wild
    I nurs'd thee all unseen,
And dream'd that thou shouldst be, my child,
    What thy brave sire had been –
The eagle in her eiry rode,
    Where ......'s first currents ran:       [word illegible in original]
Thus cradles up her daring brood
    From all, except the sun.

Then, sweep they down, unmatch'd in might,
    Like to the fearless Gael;
And live but in the bloody fight
    And love the victim's wail:
My child, my child – thy mother's voice
    Had sav'd thee from the doom
That thou hast made thy fatal choice, —
    Shame – fetters – and a tomb.

Peace – peace ye holy mockeries
    And leave me to my grief;
Why call upon the silent skies,
    They will not give relief:
If ye can bring but once again
    My fair lost child to view,
I'll think no more your faith is vain,
    But I will worship too.

Away! I scorn ye, and your pray'r –
    What? bid me to forgive
The workers of my black despair,
    Pray that th' accurs'd may live?
Go – rob the tigress of her young,
    Then dare her wrath to meet,
Hope ye, so she'll stoop with fawning tongue,
    To lick your murd'rous feet?

Murder – the word comes like a spell
    To rouse my burning brain:
My lost one! ‘tis thy fearful knell,
    O'er mount, and lake and plain –
Alas mine own! my bright, my free!
    I would have died to save;
To think my love hath murder'd thee
    "My beautiful! my brave!" –

SONG.

Give me thy hand in mine
    And our evening path shall be,
Where the moonbeams softly shine,
    On the verge of the deep blue sea.

I'll tell thee some wondrous tale
    Of the glorious ocean girls;
Who come in the moonlight-pale,
    To braid up their dripping curls.

And I'll shew on the yellow sands
    The print of their small white feet;
As they trip it in joyous bands,
    While the light waves sing so sweet.

With dance, and with lively song,
    They cheerily wend the night;
But woe to the maid who too long,
    Shall tarry to gaze on the light.

Never more to her coral home,
    Shall that hapless nymph repair;
For the sunbeams of morning will come,
    And burn up her flowing hair.

Then give me thy hand in mine,
    And the moments shall glide away,
In rapture so almost divine,
    We never shall wish for the day.

PAINTING.

Painting! high chronicler of by gone years,
Culling rich spoils from dull oblivion's shore;
The treasurer of Beauty's lovely store,
Sending her forth in smiles, in frowns, in tears,
In matron dignity, or virgin fears,
To bloom, and to be worshipp'd evermore.
The hero winneth when his deeds are o'er,
Form thee the laurel which con tempest sears:
The patriot poureth his pure blood again;
The legislator rears his front sublime;
The lover breatheth his impassion'd vow; -
And excellence and beauty were in vain,
Didst thou not ail of great and fair combine,
And shed a glory around Hist'ry's brow.

THE LADY OF THE TOMB.

"Some time after the capture of the Isle of France, in December, 1811; a Lieutenant of one of our Ships was on the point of marriage with a young French lady, when he suddenly died. He was buried in their family vault, and to this day the young lady habited as a nun, regularly visits his tomb morning and evening, bearing a water urn, to water the flowers she has planted around his grave. She is commonly known by the appellation of the "Lady of the Tomb" – I am acquainted with the lady and her family and can therefore vouch for the truth of this story" – Letter from a British Officer, 1825.

True to the dead, Lady art thou;
Well hast thou kept thine early vow;
Faithful hast been to thy holy trust,
Of watching above the plighted dust.

Yes, lady, yes – as we see thee turn
From the joys of life to the silent urn,
Passing youth's gay allurements by,
We feel all the worth of thy constancy.

And we think of thee as a spirit's bride
From earthly passion purified;
Meeting in holiest delight,
With thine angel love in the peaceful night.

Thus it must be, or a doubt would rise
How thy young bosom's agonies,
Could let thee thro' ling'ring years pine on,
When the hope of thy life was utterly gone.

Else, couldst thou have borne with thy woman's heart,
From thine own, thy fondly lov'd to part,
And not have sought as thine only rest,
To pillow thy head on his lifeless breast?

Not coldness it was that kept thy life,
From yielding at once to that fearful strife;
‘Twas a feeling words can ne'er express,
Of love's extremest tenderness.

For love hath look'd with his own warm smile
* On that beautiful tale of thy southern isle;
And the deep enchantment breathes around
‘Till the spot becomes love's peculiar ground.

And thou in thy purity standest alone,
Sole Priestess at his eternal throne;
Bearing thy offering divine,
Of flowers and tears to the boy-God's shrine.

                    * Paul and Virginia

THE GAMESTER.

I saw a fair and flaxen-haired boy
She artless tears over a dying bird,
And press it to his innocent young lips,
Striving in vain to give reviving breath
To the death-stricken flutterer: then I bless'd
The sweet humanity of the bright child,
And thought how his kind heart in after years
Would make the happiness of beings fair,
And sinless like himself. I strove to soothe
His childish sorrow; and his large blue eyes
Look'd up in gratitude; and a bright smile
Play'd like a sunbeam on his matchless face.

Long years roll'd on; I sought the crowded town,
But often to my thought that lovely child
Came like a fairy vision: in the world
I nothing saw so beautiful so kind.
          *          *          *          *
       There is a gentle being sits alone
In yon low chamber; on her wearied knees
A sleeping babe is lying; o'er its cheek
The mother's tears have fallen – and see it stirs
Its little limbs, and with a peevish cry
Opens its full blue eyes, as if to chide
The grief that breaks its slumber – then at once
The desolate girl dries up her tears, and smiles
Upon the moaning infant, and puts back
The glossy ringlets from its smooth clear brow,
And kisses the sweet baby ‘till a smile
Disparts his coral lips: - that eye – that smile –
They are the same I once have look'd upon;
The same that grac'd the tender-hearted child
Who mourn'd his dying bird: - these helpless ones
They are his own, his wife, and his fair boy.
       ‘Tis past the hour of midnight – still she sits
And hears the sullen watchman's heavy tread
Ring slowly o'er the pavement; - her fair child
Hath sunk again to slumber; his soft breath
Moves lightly the neglected curls that hang

Upon his mother's bosom – surely hers
Should be a fate of blessedness, the wife
Of one so tender – but those lonely tears
Are these signs of happiness? that form
Wasted with feverish watchings – this dull room
With all the marks of abject penury,
These do not speak of bliss. –
                                            A heavy step
Moves slowly up the dark and narrow stair;
Can this be he, the vision of my youth,
The beautiful – the tender? – that sunk cheek
Robb'd of its youthful freshness – those dull eyes
Heavy with midnight riot – these the same
I look'd upon when innocence and health
Shone like a glory round his infant brow?
Alas for human excellence! that minds
Gifted by heaven with all the golden stores
Of genius, taste, and feeling, should so oft
Be first to catch the world's polluted stain
Whose blackness rests upon the soul for ever –
That ill-starr'd youth has fallen the gambler's prey,
His guileless heart betrayed him to the wiles
Of cold and selfish men – he hath lost all –
All, save these helpless ones, - and they remain
To share the burden of his guilt and woe. –
Few words are spoken by that wretched man,

Wearied and spiritless, he throws his limbs
Upon the wretched couch, and scarce replies
To her fond solicitude – she fears
His health has vanish'd with his happiness,
And tremblingly hangs o'er her guilty lord
With all the kind affection woman feels,
When the unworthy object of her love
By suffering pays the penalty of crime.
It is not in man's heart to see unmov'd
Such uncomplaining grief – a bitter pang
Shoots through the bosom of the libertine,
As he beholds the innocent young form
That bloom'd so lately in rosy health,
Now wan with silent wretchedness – he draws
The mild enduring being to his arms,
And tears – repentant tears o'erflow his eyes
They fall like dews from heaven – his many crimes
Are all forgiven by that gentle one, -
Spite of his faults he is her husband still –
The father of her child – upon her knees
She sinks before him, and in the great name
Of the eternal God, implores that he
Will leave the evil men whose wiles have wrought
Such change in his pure heart – her holy words,
Her beautiful pale face turn'd up to heaven
In prayer for his misdoings – his young boy

Sleeping in lovely helplessness, —he feels
That these are twining round his heart again
In all their touching sacredness. —What spells
Canst thou O vice posses, to draw the heart
From these most pure affections? Can it be
That he who looks upon that saint-like girl,
Who feels that for his sake those eyes have lost
Their liquid lustre, that young cheek in its bloom, -
Can he again return to the dark ways
Of reckless dissipation? In this hour
This dark still time of midnight, he abjures
The errors of his life, and solemnly
Calls upon heaven to witness to his vows. –
Alas! his penitence hath pass'd away
Ere many suns have set – he will not bear
The shame of poverty, and seeks again
His former base companions, - practices
The arts that once ensnar'd himself, to draw
The young and unwary into guilt:
And his sweet wife – of her he hath no thought
Except to feel her blameless life reproach
The errors of his own most guilty soul.
His young babe's fairy clasp – its half formed words,
The tender name of "Father" – all those ties
Which make man's happiness, and keep his heart,
Pure by their purity – are nought to him –

He will not even teach his looks to wear
The semblance of affection – cold and stern,
He meets the fondness of his angel wife.
She hath lost hope – her meek and patient eyes,
Have ceased their mild remonstrances – each day
She is a little weaker – feebler grows
The thin white hand, which cannot now support
The steps of her dear infant – a bright flush
Spreads sometimes o'er the whiteness of her cheek,
Then dies away, like the last rosy gleam
Of the descended sun on evening skies,
A sure and fearful omen that the night
Is closing o'er its beauty – he notes not
Her visible decay, but holds his course
Wicked and reckless still – and when one morn
Wearied with fierce excess he seeks his home,
He comes, and finds the gentle creature dead.
                                       Behold him now,
When at the midnight hour, haggard and pale,
He hurries to the haunt of infamy;
No beauty dwells upon his alter'd form;
The demon Play has stolen his youthful bloom,
And left him pale and wither'd as with age –
With eager haste he takes his ‘custom'd seat,
Amid his vile companions – and soon
The fearful rites of avarice begin.

A deep unnatural stillness as of death,
Reigns o'er th' unhallow'd votaries of wealth,
While expectation thrills each beating nerve
To painful consciousness – look upon him,
See his contracted brow, his straining eyes
Gleaming with horrid light – the wildly fix'd
As madness were at work upon his brain –
And mark his livid lips, now close compress'd,
Anon, with ghastly smile half opening – while his breath
Quick-drawn and hard, betokens that his soul
Is wrought to desperation –
Success awhile attends him – a fierce joy
Flashes across his brow, rend'ring more drear
Its fearful meaning, (as the lightning's glare
More plainly shews the depth of midnight's gloom)
With the exulting gladness of a fiend
He views the ruin of his fall'n compeers;
No kindly thought stays his relentless hand,
He owns no sympathy with fellow men,
He feels no human charities – the curse
Of avarice is on him, and he marks
The evil he is working with delight.
Dizzy with forture's smiles, he ventures on,
Nor fears that ruin may be in his turn –
He marks not his companions' eager looks
Watchful to seize the moment when he may

Stand a self branded felon – soon it comes
The climax of his shame – from ev'ry tongue
Burst threats and execrations, - rage and scorn:
Despairing – mad – he rushes from the place,
As he would flee himself – where shall he turn?
The night is dark, and the rude tempest howls;
He recks not these – a deeper, blacker night
Glooms in his breast – and fiercer tempests rage –
Shame, horror, ruin, threat on ev'ry side,
While in his bosom sounds a dreadful voice,
It tells of talents misapplied – time lost,
Affection outrag'd – every social tie
Despis'd and trampled on – at once his hand
Raises the fatal tube – and lo! ere thought
Has pause'd one little moment to repent,
He plunges into an eternal world, and ends
A life of falsehood, with a death of shame.

And here the muse would leave him – finite man
Dares not set bounds to mercy infinite;
But the soul shudders at an end like his,
And feels she more than pestilence would shun
A crime which makes its vot'ries outcasts here,
Nor leaves a glimpse of hope for an hereafter.

A TREE OVERGROWN WITH IVY IN THE
PARK OF * * * * *

          I

Old pride of the forest! thy glory is past,
No more shall Spring crown thee with chaplets of green;
Thy sapless boughs shrink from the first Autumn blast,
And grey moss is clinging where leaves should have been;
Yet the ivy its delicate limbs doth entwine,
Round a form that is hoary and ruin'd as thine.

          II

There's a tale of gone years in thy desolate form,
Dark records are whisp'ring thy branches among,
They tell of long ages when whirlwind and storm
Swept o'er thee, yet left thee unshrinking and strong;
When thou of the wood wert the glory and pride,
And the thunderbolt harmlessly fell at thy side.

[98]

          III

They speak too, of those who are mould'ring in earth,
The eyes which beheld thee when blooming and gay;
Canst thou give not one echo of all the loud mirth
That hath rung ‘neath thy shadow – is all pass'd away –
And wilt thou not say who thy revellers were
In the days of thy beauty? scath'd ruin declare!

IV

No – the night wind sighs round thee, but brings not a sound,
Save a low fitful wail, like the dirge of the dead –
Of those who have been, can no vestige be found,
And soon shalt thou be as the things that have fled,
With nought but the green and magnificent tomb,
That is spreading around thee, to speak of thy doom.

[99]

NIGHT.

Now silence reigns supreme o'er earth and sea;
     Pale Beauty rests, shrined in her lonely bow'r,
     Closing her eyelids like a gentle flow'r
And slumbering in meek tranquility.
The cares and phantasics of daylight flee,
     While nature yields to the prevailing pow'r,
     The hushing sacredness of midnight's hour,
And grief doth pause in its full agony.
In this deep quietude, I sit alone
Museful and sad; the thought of early days
     Is present to me; all the blight and ruth
Of hopes, like shadows vanish'd: the bright rays
     Of happiness that lighten'd up my youth,
Are quenched in tears, and all their glory gone.

Source of our first affections; sacred Home!
Of human loves the earliest and most pure;
How do thy hallow'd sympathies endure,
Outliving all beside! yea, tho' we roam
With the great ocean like a world outspread
Between; or tho' long years have numbered
Their weary lapse, since thy most treasur'd spot
Died on our tearful gaze—back springs the soul,
Back over time and space:—oceans may roll,
And years stretch on—still art thou unforgot.

The heart's last sanctuary:—back to thee
The sorrow stricken and the lonely flee;
Thine are the pleasant memories that float
Like notes of the wind-harp—wak'ning a train
OF former thought, with each imperfect strain;
Fond, dreamy recollections; ev'ry note
Wafting some long escaped melody—
As sounds that steal upon the ear, and die,
When summer twilight blends the earth and sky.

ON VISITING A CATARACT.

We stood at eve where the flashing waves,
Rush'd down from their mountain home;
On the dizzy brink of the time worn caves,
In a haze of silvery foam.

Ever on—ever on—how the haughty flood
Came forth like a king in his pride;
While we, as entranc'd, on the margin stood,
Nor thought of the world beside.

But our hands were clasp'd, and our voices blent,
With the tumbling torrent's roar,
Like the notes of some fabled instrument,
Along an enchanted shore.

Yet at length we sigh'd as we earnest view'd
That ceaseless flood go by;
In each heart a dreary thought would intrude,
That we saw our own destiny.

Yes, we felt as we mark'd that restless stream,
Speed on to his ocean bed;
That thus it must be with each youthful dream,
Which our souls had cherished.

And more sad—for the stores of that mighty spring,
Ever flow, yet are still supplied;
While nought a return of the joys can bring,
Which are lost in oblivion's tide.

SLEEP.

Tread lightly! ye will wake the sleeper there; —
     The beauteous boy who on the yielding moss
Curls his young limbs into the fragrant lair;
     Soft! soft! the breathing zephyrs as they cross,
Lift not the sunny ringlets from his cheek,
Lest they should chase away his slumbers meek.

Yet a full gush of song is now outspringing
     From the wing'd dwellers in yon ancient trees;
And far along the sloping vale is ringing
     The fall of waters; and at times the breeze
Flings mingled melodies upon the ear,
Of streams, and birds, and human voices clear.

He hears them not; all day his feet have stray'd
     About the harvest fields; a tiny sheaf
Of yellow corn is pillowing his head,
     And his small rosy hand yet grasps a leaf
Of the brown hazel; while unheeded round,
Ripe cluster'd nuts are scattered on the ground.

They err'd who pictur'd Love a blooming child
     And gave to sleep maturity, for Love
Hath nought of childhood's peace, nor slumber mild;—
     While yon fair boy sleeps like a nestling dove:
And over all young creatures constant Sleep,
From eve to morn his silent watch doth keep.

He loveth not to visit grief or care,
     So oft they lure him with some artful wile;
Giving him poppy wreaths to deck his hair,
     If haply, he may bless them with his smile;
Pleas'd for awhile, he with the flow'rs will play,
But ever as they fade he speeds away.

Then keep him while thou canst, bright, happy boy!
     We will not rouse thee from thy balmy rest;
Soon, manhood will the blessed calm destroy,
     And thou mayest feel thine aching eyelids prest
By heavy anguish, yet wilt strive in vain,
To bring thy youth's companion back again.

RETROSPECTION.

I thought upon the time
     When sun-lit hopes were glowing;
When moments as they flew
     With pleasure seem'd o'erflowing.

I mused upon the days
     When joyful eyes were beaming,
And every bounding heart,
     Of future bliss was dreaming.

And mem'ry gave me back
     All that I held the nearest;
Restor'd each look of love,
     Of friends who one were dearest.

And then I thought,—of all
     Who were so gay and smiling
How few remain'd to cheer
     The gloom of life's declining.

I wept to think that some
     In the cold grave were lying;
Some had forgot their vows,
     And to new friends were flying.

Of those who still were true,
     Sunk was the pulse of gladness;
The buoyancy of youth
     Had chang'd to manhood's sadness.

I turned to my own heart
     And found its young joys faded;
As summer roses droop
     Around the bower they shaded;

Still'd was the throb of love,—
     The light of hope expiring;
Life scarce had kept one charm,
    To make it worth desiring.

TO THE INFANT LYRA.

Child!—hast though plung'd into the awful depth
Of ages gone, and from oblivion's grasp
Wrested that lyre Orphëan? What old airs
Of times forgotten, tremble on the strings
That as a living pulse, responsively
Throb ‘neath thy lightning fingers? What strange spell
Hangs o'er thee, that the vanquish'd spirit sinks
And bows before thee, an dthe heart-throbs cease
With deep attention; and then, come again
Quick and convulsive?—Young enchantress tell,
Whence is thy power, and what thy destiny?—
But no—thou needest not—I know the spell
That works in thee—‘tis Genius—thou hast caught
The gift of music, and it is thy joy,

Thy life, thy passion, thus to pour thy soul
Into the raptur'd breathings of the lyre.
Thy destiny—fair child—not happiness!
No:—happiness hath never made her rest
In hearts impassion'd—eloquence, and song,
And poesy, and all unquiet things
Are in the glances of thy restless eyes
And a prophetic spirit speaks in all,
They tell me of an anxious, fever'd life,
And of a glorious, but an early tomb.—

DISAPPOINTMENT'S WREATH.

Wouldst thou twine a votive wreath for me
     From the rose and myrtle bowers?
Away! these are most unmeet to be,
     The record of mournful hours:
Roses—they blush for some happier brow;
And myrtle—‘tis sacred to love's warm vow;
But for me, when the shades of midnight gloom,
Go pluck the dull nightshade that grows on the tomb.

Or haste where the early violet lies
     Benumbed by the chilling frost;—
And gather the cypress bought that dies
     By the searing lightning crost—
Young leaves shrunk by untimely blight,
Flow'rs that have droop'd in the pale moonlight;
Half-open'd buds of the Winter rose,
Dying, or ere their leaves unclose.—

And where the Cistus tree sheds around
     Ephemeral blooms at eve,
Gather the perishing spoils from the ground
     In my joyless wreath to weave;
Emblems are they of the promise of youth—
Brilliant at morn as the earnest of truth;
Could ye deem that the lapse of a transient day
Would see both the hopes and the blossoms decay?

Mine too, be the flow'r that maidens prize
     The flow'r to remembrance dear;
Blue as the depth of their starry eyes,
     And tender as childhood's tear;
Yet cull it for me—ere it bloom'd on earth
On Lethe's shore it first sprang to birth;
And as it dipp'd in the sluggish wave,
A gift of oblivion, the dark waters gave.—

Doust thou marvel that all things of life and joy
     I pass with averted eye—
Once they were dear—but the charm to destroy,
      The dark storm of sorrow swept by;
The roses have faded—the fond hopes have fled,
With a spirit's swift flight ev'ry blessing hath sped,
Till the loves and the joys of the past, only seem
The turmoil and cheat of a feverish dream.

For, like as of old that Roman sire,
     Unmov'd on his judgment seat,
Though he saw his dearest ones expire,
     And their life blood stain'd his feet—
E'en thus have I stood with steadfast eye,
And mark'd each early promise die;
Yet never have seem'd to the world as one,
Who felt that the latest hope was gone.

It is over now—and none have known
     Aught of that wasting strife;
And the spirit grief would have overthrown,
     Looks proudly still on life:
But the desolate heart!—should its tale be told,
Ye would shrink from the conflict it could unfold,
And deem that even Death might be
Better than such a victory!

Never again may that heart recal
     The warmth of its early trust;
Gone are its kindliest feelings all,
     And their glory in the dust;
It hath nought to hope—it hath nothing to fear,
For sorrow or gladness it hath not a tear;
And if it smile as life's pageant goes by,
‘Tis in scorn of the gilded mockery.

TO EVENING.

                Spirit serene and pale
                Hail to thy modest grace!
                Thy shadowy form I trace
                Light floating on the gale
And shedding holy peace, on mountain, lake, and dale.

                Buried in downy sleep,
                Repose day's choristers;
                And the tir'd foresters
                Hast'ning from dell and steep,
To moss roof'd cots retire, and sink in slumbers deep.

                Then ‘neath embow'ring shades
                Thou sittest silently,
                With thine entranced eye
                Fix'd on the distant glades,
To watch day's latest beam, as tint by tint it fades.

                Upon thy forehead fair
                A quiv'ring moonbeam plays;
                And ‘mid the tresses strays,
                Of thy luxuriant hair,
And gently trembles on thy snowy bosom bare.

                Now, on thy raptur'd brain
                Come bright imaginings,
                And dreams of wond'rous things;
                A high romantic train
Of witching fantasies o'er all thy spirit reign.

                And soon thy liquid voice,
                Wild, musical, and sweet;
                Breathes sounds that well were meet
                To be a seraph's choice,
What time his heav'nly harp bids angel hosts rejoice.

                And thus thou pourest round
                Thy soul in melody,
                Till all the dark'ning sky
                Night's sable plumes surround,
And chilling dews fall fast upon the damp cold ground.

                Faint,—and more faintly still
                Thy trem'lous accents float;
                And now, thy tuneful throat
                Is hush'd, and o'er the hill
Thy fast receding form, glides from the midnight chill.

CHANGE.

There were tow lovers parting—both were pale,
And very silent: the fair maiden wept,
And hung upon the dark eyed youth, who bent
A mournful gaze on her, as he had known
How soon the trust and happiness of youth
Would be forgotten all:—one mute embrace,
A blessing—and a long, last farewell look
Of agony and love—and he is gone—
       Years passed away—the dark eyed youth return'd,
And in the crowded hall, again he met
Her, who had won his first and fondest vow—
But time had chang'd them both, and sad it was
To mark how cold and calm each met the eye
They once had lov'd like heav'n.—She had foregone
The pure simplicity of her first faith—

And stood a glowing Beauty, in the blaze
Of fervid adulation—he, had toil'd
For glory on the red ensanguin'd field,
And Fame had spread a halo round his head,
But wither'd up his heart: the loud applause
Of shouting millions—the fierce trumpet's call—
The neigh of his proud steed—the pealing drum—
The pomp of victory, and praise of courts—
These were the objects that absorb'd his soul,
And left no room for love—his early dream
Like morning dew-drops lost in burning noon,
Exhaled—and was forgotten.

LOVE TRANSFIXING A HEART,
A GEM.

Unerring Archer—thy dark shaft hath sped,
And done its errand bravely—young Boy-god,
Thou art the mighty ruler of this world;
And tho' thou seemest but a simple child,
And smilest in thy beauty—yet for all
This lovely semblance, thou'rt in league with death.
False tyrant—thy rich spoils are broken hearts;
And for thy types, are they not quenchless fire,
And roses blushing for the thorns they hide?

TO A LADY WITH FLOWERS.

A wreath for thee fair girl—cull'd ere the sun
     Had drank upon the trembling pearls that midnight wept
                    Upon the scented trees;
                    Or ere the early breeze
     From the ripe blossoms a sere leaf had swept,
Or the glad birds their matins had begun.

Flowers for thy beauty—hyacinthine bells
     Heavy with sweetness; valley lilies white,
                    And crimson rose-buds, seen
                    Thro' moss of tender green;—  
     And golden jonquils, sweetest when the night
Steeps in a richer dew their honied cells.

The pale narcissus, languishing to death;
     Young violets that newly on the morn
                    Have op'd their azure eyes;
                    Painted anemonies
     Flush'd with deep purple—and the snowy thorn
With dark green glossy leaves, and perfum'd breath.

Take thou my gifts—altho' thou art more fair
     Than these rare beauties; yet, or ere they fade,
                    Perchance thou wilt not scorn
                    These children of the morn:
     They may awhile thy polish'd bosom shade,
Or twine amid thy soft and fragrant hair.

LOVE'S TRUTH.

__
I look'd into the maiden's eye
    And read a dark tale there;
How bliss could change to misery,
    And love should nurse despair.
__

I saw thee in thy happiness;—how sweet
It was, to mark thy soft cheek warmer glow
E'en with thy innocent thoughts, and fondly seek
To hide those dove-like eyes from him, whose life
It was to look on thee: I know not why
A thought of sadness o'er my spirit came,
E'en when I saw thee fair as new Love's dream
And blessed as the fondest pray'r could ask—
Was it, that in the beam of thy blue eyes
I caught some strange unutter'd history
Of sorrow and despair—and that I saw
Thou wert so fragile, grief would wither up

Thy sweet form like a flower the frost hath touch'd,
Should ill befal the chosen of thy heart—
Too soon, poor Leila, came the fatal blow
Thine idol died! and thou wast desolate.

I saw thee in thy sorrow:—very pale
Was thy young cheek; yet in the hour of joy,
A dying rose leaf had as lively glow;
But then, ‘twas perfect whiteness—now the tint
"Was of the shroud and grave"—thy tearless eyes
Were heavy as a cloud did rest on them;
And for the smile that once dwelt on thy lips,
‘Twas gone for ever—yet like the sunset beams
Still left a trace where its soft light has been;
A shrine's sad glory when the God has flown.

Desolate Leila! when unsparing grief
Had broken her true heart, I saw her last
Deck'd for the ready grave: those whitest hands
With their dim violet tracery of veins,
Like pale autumnal leaves just perishing,
In holiest semblance, meekly were entwin'd
Over a heart too kind, too pure for earth:
The soft curls parted on the parian brow
Shew'd nought of death—save that they were at rest,
And clos'd for ever were the loving eyes.—

Flowers of all hues were scatter'd, and of these
The first fresh bloom had pass'd—e'en like her own!
Else had their splendor been a mockery;
Drooping and withering, it seem'd most fit
That things alike so frail and beautiful
Should be entomb'd together.—For awhile
I felt as I could gaze away whole hours,
Watching the soft and trance-like quietude,
Wherewith the spoiler Death had shrined her,
Like a young saint in the white sanctity
Of silent adoration: but too soon
The dreary sense of Beauty motionless—
The undefined chill that ever reigns
Where death is present—when our fondest loved
Become mysterious, sacred – stole on me,
Till my heart bowed before the silent power
Of the cold grave's new habitant—awe struck,
Mournful, I turn'd away—yet scarcely wish'd
I might recal the sleeper—for I felt
This earth for her had not a joy a to give,—
And—she hath bliss in heaven.—

TO POESY.

I said of thee divinest Poesy,
That thou no more shouldst my companion be;
And so I wander'd from thy side awile
And join'd the lab'rers in life's fev'rish toil.

I heard thy meek low whispers in the crowd,
Yet turn'd away, e'en while my spirit bow'd
Before thy gentle pleadings: in my pride
I scorn'd thee, and thine influence strove to hide.

It would not be—the world had nought to give,
Like thy sweet comfortings:—I could not live
As those I saw around me—could not smile,
And hide with specious words, some deed of guile.

I lov'd thee Poesy, before a thought
Had stray'd to the false world;—and I have brought
Back from that world to thee, my wearied heart,
Still thine, tho' for a time it might depart.

Ever thine own:—to me, thou art no dream
Of formless phatasies—thy visions teem
With bright realities—and my heart's prayer
Is to find words thy glories to declare.

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF A BRIGHT DAY IN FEBRUARY.

     I

All day have I been wandering
       About the breezy woods,
And lingering round each silver spring,
       That feeds the tumbling floods.

     II

A summer feel was on the air,
       Blithely the young trees bow'd,
And all the light plumed creatures there,
       Were singing out aloud.

     III

And in my heart there was a swell,
       A feeling like a song;
A sense of pleasure which might well,
       To Summer days belong.

     IV

The new dropt lamb rose from the bed,
       Where his small limbs were curl'd;
And turn'd around his feeble head,
       And wonder'd at the world.

     V

I miss'd not leaf nor tinted flower,
       The holly branches green,
And broad leaf'd ivy form'd a bower,
       With bright red fruit between.

     VI

The heath had lost its purple pride,
       But where it bloomed of old,
The furze had cloth'd its thorny side,
       With showers of living gold.

     VII

I cannot tell, not I, how bright,
       How cloudless was the sun,
As seem'd his streams of purest light,
       Into my soul to run.

     VIII

And not one thought of care or gloom,
       Obscured the pleasant hours,
I scarcely wish'd a happier doom,
       Or fairer world than ours.

TO * * * * *

To thee upon the waters! a green wealth
     A "summer luxury" of leaves and flowers,
     Is all around me: bright perfumed showers
Of sunny blossoms strew the ground; ‘tis health
To look upon such beauty: with kind stealth
     Would I convey to thee the charmed powers
     Of all the chiefest things in these fair bowers,
     To fall like blessings on thy sultry hours.

Dost thou not feel their freshness? there is sped
     A gentle spirit with my offerings;
     Welcome him wanderer, for lo! he brings
From thine own land, odours the rose hath shed
On cooling dew-drops newly gathered;
     And as he shakes them from his twinkling wings
     Upon thy brow, they shall recal past things,
     The days of youth and their imaginings.

Long years have passed by, and thou hast seen
     The glory and magnificence of kings:
     And where the vast South-ocean darkly flings
His world of waters like a mighty screen
Shrouding the unknown pole—thy path has been—
     Yet is there not amid thy wanderings
     A recollection of far dearer things,
     A thought of home to which thy spirit clings?

Thy land, thine own dear land! dost thou not pine
     For her green valleys, for her mossy caves,
     Round which the silver-voiced streamlet laves
The sun-struck flowers to freshness—how divine
Would be to thee to mark the wild flower twine
     Its fairy fingers round the oak that braves
     The wintry storms that flee from him like slaves,
     Thou—who art in the wilderness of waves.

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

I'm sad: my very soul's athirst to flee
To verd'rous shades; and by a streamlet's side
To sit me down, and through the green leaves see
The happy birds, that on the branches ‘bide.

And then, to note the fairy flow'rs, and suck
The woodbine's honied tubes, or clover sweet
That spreads a beauteous carpetry, or pluck
The tender buds of briar around my seat.

Half hid by leaves from the sun's scorching heat,
An opening musk-rose, fresh, and pink in hue,
Smells incense like, and bends as it would greet
My fever'd lip with its cool balmy dew.

Or turn, and look upon the clear cold stream
And watch its sparkling bubbles; the tall grass
That dips its head wind-bent; and the bright gleam
Of sunniness, that now and then will pass.

The myriad insects with their gauzy wings,
Quick glanced by; the wild-bee's ceaseless hum,
And cricket's chirp, like lute of many strings
Pulsing sweet music as the soft airs come.

How sweet to linger thus, and lose the hours
In blissful idleness!—while the heart swells
Freshen'd, reviv'd; as after sunny showers,
The foxglove blithely rears her mottled bells.

Sweet too, among the hawthorn's dying blooms
To list the merry-throated nightingale,
Trilling his joyous song: the twilight glooms
Soft'ning and shadowing all the perfum'd vale.

Oh! such a stream of pure delight to drink,
Is sure of nature's joys the rich excess!
I muse on it awhile—then sigh, to think
I may not taste this summer pleasantness.

LIZANA.

I saw her—the pale girl,—‘twas on the eve
     Of a long summer's day: she look'd so still,
So mild, so passionless—one might believe
     Her young heart had not felt or grief, or ill;
But in the beam of her dark mournful eye
     There dwelt a tale of sorrow: time had been
When she was joyous as the birds that fly
     To greet the birth of morning: she had seen
How happiness the trusting breast may leave,
And hope depart, and love's bright smile deceive.

She lov'd,—and was forsaken—that was all—
     But it was mortal to her; much she strove
To hide her bosom's anguish; tears would fall,
     Yet anger did not cause them; nought could move
Her gentle soul to hate, where she had lov'd
     So fervently, so deeply: well she knew
Her lover false, ungrateful—but she prov'd
     She had no hope beside him; fondly true
Was her young heart's devotion—so she gave,
Her faithfulness and love to the cold grave.

One hand was on her lute; a low, wild tone
     Her gentle touch awaken'd; soon it past
Into the quiet air: clear and alone,
     The vesper-star shone radiantly, and cast
On the thin shadowy girl a farewell ray;
     She seem'd dissolving in its tender light,
A long—long sigh, burst from her heart away,
     Breathing the name she lov'd, to the still night;
And her pure spirit pass'd so peacefully,
As it had been a blissful thing to die.

TO HEALTH.

Young, blooming Health! say where thy beauty lingers,
In what deep solitudes, or mossy bowers;
Plucking the budding leaves with dewy fingers,
The wild birds singing to thy happy hours?

Where art thou fairest one? in ocean caves
With the young sea-girls, ‘mong things rich and fair;
Blending thy music with the summer waves,
Or braiding coral sprigs in thy bright hair:—

Where art thou hidden? I have sought for thee
When the first blush was crimsoning the sky;
Have sigh'd thy name to wildest minstrelsy
Till eve's lone star, shone on my wearied eye.

Shall I behold thee, on the midnight wave
Flashing with diamond beams?—thy pathway bright
Strew'd thickly with young stars that fondly lave
Thy lily feet in showers of liquid light!

What offerings shall I bring thee? dost thou love
The first op'd flowers of morning:—drops of dew,
Pearly and glistening, as from above,
They'd caught the magic rainbow's varied hue?

Smile on me, loveliest! let me inhale
Thy balminess of breath;—again be free
To hear thy voice of gladness on the gale,
And thro' the leafy woods to stray with thee.

ON A MAGDALEN.

Weep ye not!—she hath quiet rest,
The time of her guilt is o'er;
From a world where temptation her frail heart prest,
She is gone to a calmer shore.

Weep ye not!—for her days of shame,
Tho' she bow'd to the dust her head;
Yet nought could restore her unspotted name,
She is best with the peaceful dead.

Weep ye not that the sordid worm
Shall prey on her bosom fair;
Far less will the loathsome reptile deform,
Than the spoiler who once lay there.

Weep ye not!—there's a blessed place,
Where the penitent are forgiven;
And the scorn'd and the tempted of man's erring race,
May awake to the glories of heaven.

THE PAST AND THE FUTURE.

The days that were—the days that were,
       Ere life had lost its bloom;
When hope was young—unborn was care,
       All sunlight, nought of gloom:
Alas those days! they could not last,
How soon they mingled with the past.

Away they flew, the pleasant times,
       But hope had pinions too,
And onward soar'd as fairer climes,
       Seem'd opening on her view:
Alas poor hope! this could not last,
Hope's future soon became the past.

The past—how dwindled to a span
       Its countless length of years!
As if but yesterday began
       This mortal life appears;
And morn still opes her dewy eyes,
Fresh as she look'd on Paradise.

The future—what a shadowy space
       To mock th' aspiring soul;
No power of man its depths may trace,
       Which have no bound, no goal:
Enough to know our changeless doom,
That future hath for a each a tomb.

Yet no repose—a moment's change,
       Forth wings the deathless mind,
To meet its fate in regions strange,
       To wander unconfin'd
Through realms of air, and live again
In endless bliss, or ceaseless pain.

An endless future—how the soul
       Shrinks from the mighty thought;
What awful visions round her roll,
       By daring fancy wrought;
She almost fears that bliss may tire,
A bliss that never must expire!

STANZAS.

A low funeral dirge—
Midnight thy daughters bring,
And let them sadly sing,
To the dull beating of the ocean surge.

Bid them not wail the dead—
But let them rather tell,
Of those beloved too well,
Who like the swift wing'd clouds away have fled.

The wintry winds sweep by,
They too shall join the song,
And the sad notes prolong,
With moaning cadences of harmony.

Yet wherefore—wherefore weep,
That human heart should change,
When it were far more strange
If aught so fickle should its promise keep.

Then fill the mantling bowl,
Crown midnight with the vine;
And let nectareous wine,
Wrap in Lethean bliss the tranquil soul.

THE FATAL GIFT.

     There is a low and tender swell
     Of melody upon the air;
     And breathes around an incense smell
     From lemon blossoms, clust'ring fair
     With golden jasmine, which the sun
     Has left his noontide kiss upon;
     The western sky flings back a beam,
     Of rose tint over dale and stream;
     And the crescent moon just meets the sight,
     Like a promis'd hope of new delight;
     Far in the east she lingers, till
     The Sun light fades on the purple hill,
     Then o'er the world its tranquil rest,
     She pours the light that the heart loves best.

A maiden comes forth in this balmy hour
When the young pulse throbs to its wakn'ing power;

With a light, light step, and a form as fair,
As a sunny vision of floating air;
With her long dark tresses, and melting eye
Black as the depth of the midnight sky;
But often as waking from love's soft trance,
Her rapt soul speaks in that burning glance,
And genius and passion are kindling there,
As hatred or love the maiden would dare;
And the heart recoils from the fearful thought,
Should a mind like her's to extremes be wrought.
She pauses awhile by the citron tree,
And its flowers she scatters carelessly;
She is far less calm than fond madiens be
When they muse on a lov'd one silently;
Her cheek has a flush, and her restless eye,
Glances around as her lover were nigh:
All breathless she stands, one white arm bare,
Holds back the rich curls from her forehead fair;
And the other is raised in hushing sign,
Like some listening goddess of ancient time;
She listens—‘tis silvery silent all,
You may hear the wither'd leaves as they fall;
"He comes"—ah! ‘twas nought but a wakeful bird
That shook his light plumes and tenderly stirr'd
The slumbering leaves, - not a step or a sound,
Breaks the hushing quiet that reigns around.—

Young Lisa—her lover had vow'd that this hour
Should welcome him back to her quiet bower;
A Warrior was Lindorf, his deeds and his name,
Were high in the foremost ranks of fame;
Proud, sullen, and stern, among men he stood,
But for woman he curb'd his haughty mood;
And where was the maiden could long withstand,
His guileful smile and his accents bland?
Poor Lisa! he lov'd her; could man do less
Than prize such a heart's devotedness!
Yet not his the love that strengthens with years,
Proof against absence, and sorrow and fears;
Her beauty and genius had rais'd his pride
"She is worthy the name of Sir Lindorf's bride"—
And his love was bright as the flash ye view
Of the lightning; as brief, and as blasting too.

Poor Lisa pass'd that joyless day
Alone—alone—no tidings came;
Another slowly wore away,
Another,—yet ‘twas still the same—
Seven tedious days, and hope had fled,
The eighth, she hears a courser's tread;
It stops, a step draws near—"'Tis he,"
"How could I doubt his constancy?

"My own dear Lindorf"—scarce had past
The words, ere she recoils aghast;
A stranger's eye on her's is bent,
As if its piercing glance were sent
Into her very heart, to see
If it had strength for misery:
To speak she strove—one only name
Her falt'ring tongue had power to frame;
"From Lindorf?"—"Lady, he commands
"His courteous greeting to your hands;
"And tidings from my lord I bear
"It much imports that you should hear."
"Oh welcome! I have waited long,
"And hoped, ‘till even hope was gone;
"And wept through many a weary night,
"Yet sicken'd at the morning light,
"Lest it should bring some tale of fear—
"No more of this—my anxious ear
"Awaits thy tidings" —no reply
The stranger gave; but mournfully
Gazed on the trembling girl, who took
A meaning from his troubled look,
And thus—"Whatever doom of ill
"Betide, so Lindorf love me still,
"Fear not to speak of it; I will share
"His grief, his danger, fearless dare

"Want, shame or peril at his side,
"In life, in death, his faithful bride—
"Oh! sure he lives—if pity dwell
"Within thy breast, good stranger tell:"—
"Lady, I would that other tongue
"Than mine, should speak thy cruel wrong;
"Why should I dwell upon the tale
"Of falsehood; nought would it avail
"When this the sum—in courtly pride,
"My lord forgot his destin'd bride;
"Rank, wealth, ambition, all assail'd
"And fatally their wiles prevail'd;
"He learn'd his heart's first love to smother,
"And—he is wedded to another!"
She spake not, wept not—calmly still—
And but that one convulsive thrill,
Pass'd o'er her features, you had deem'd
She was the statue that she seem'd;
The vassal thought her calm, nor knew
How wildly her dark feelings grew.
"Sweet Lady, tho' thy noble friend
"Hath broke his plight, still doth he send
"His kindest wishes—thus he said
"When I upon this errand sped—
"Tell my sweet Lisa, tho' I grieve
"Her trusting fondness to deceive,

"Tell her albeit another claims
"My fealty, still my heart retains
"Remembrance of her gentle truth,
"And would not her blooming youth
"Should pine in loneliness away,
"No, she shall bask in the bright ray
"Of my high fortunes—she shall bear
"A sister's tender name, and share
"My wealth, my splendor, and a train
"Of noble youths shall vie to gain
"Those smile which I have lov'd in vain"—
"Oh! cease for mercy—does he dare,
"Add mockery to my despair—
"Or can he think my soul so vile
"As to bestow a heartless smile,
"A purchas'd fondness?—stranger go—
"Tell him I am not sunk so low;
"Say that the slighted Lisa spurns
"His proffers,—and his scorn returns;
"Yet—stay awhile, for I would send
"A parting token to this friend—
"This girdle—‘twas his gift—‘tis prest
"Like a band of fire upon my breast;
"I would unloose it—courteous friend
"Thy poignard for an instant lend"—
Quicker than thought the shining blade
Was buried in her throbbing side,

Then from the frightful wound it made,
And reeking with the crimson tide
Of her wrong'd heart,—she drew the brand,
And gave it to the stranger's hand;
"This to Sir Lindorf, it will be
"The pledge of Lisa's constancy,
"Still shall it meet his aching sight,
"Nor pass away, by day, by night—
"Still hall it haunt his halls of pride,
"And in the arms of his new bride
"Dash e'en his brightest hour of joy
"With thought of her he did destroy!—

The dagger was brought to Sir Lindorf's hall
As he led his proud bride from a festival;
Knights and dames were around, when the token came,
And they crowded to hear the story of shame—
Sir Lindorf grasp'd the empurpled brand,
More redly it gleam'd in his lifted hand—
"Death thou false slave for thy tale of hell!"
The blow of the perjur'd was aim'd but too well;
He drew forth the steel, and flung it on high,
It whizzed like a bolt, as it cut thro' the sky;
Then deep in the lake the dire token fell,
And none may its record of horror tell—

          OLD WALLS.
RUINS OF A MONASTERY IN THE SOUTH OF DEVON.

We strolled along much at our ease,
Talking of spring, and birds, and trees;
When lo! o'ergrown with ivy green,
An abbey's dark remains are seen—
          Roofless and desolate,
          Of all its former state
          No trace remains,
          Nor chaunted strains
Of vespers, bearing on their wings
          The raptured soul to heaven.

PARTING.

Nay weep not dearest; tho' our dream
     Of love and happiness is past,
Yet bless me with one cheerful beam,
     One smile, the loveliest, and the last!
I cannot bear that tearful eye,
     The language of its meek regret,
Speaks to my heart too painfully—
     How chang'd its glance since first we met!

This hour we part—oh! ne'er again
     Shall that fond lip to me incline;
To morrow I may sigh in vain,
     To clasp that trembling hand in mine:
We meet no more—‘twere idle now
     How dearly we have lov'd, to tell;
The bliss of each remembered vow,
     Gives anguish to the last farewell.

WRITTEN DURING A STORM AT NIGHT.

Hark to the mingled voices of the storm!
The elements have met in fearful wrath,
And the earth trembles at the awful strife.
How the red lightnings flash, and spread, and glare,
Athwart the black magnificence of heaven,
As if to fright old darkness from his throne—
While the deep thunder lifts his mighty voice,
The war-note of the skies—and the fierce winds
Are lashing the vex'd ocean into rage—
There is a grandeur in this midnight storm,
And the rais'd passions, loathing the dull round
Of common life, yield to th' excitement wild,
And blend themselves with the rous'd elements.
But ‘tis a fearful sympathy! each blast
Bears on his savage wing, the dying groans
Of fathers, husbands, and the shriller wail

Of woman's agony! the feeling heart
Sickens at length of its inhuman joy,
And in this dire commotion pitying thoughts
Rob the drear scene of its strange pow'r to charm,
And calm the fev'rous rapture of the brain.

There's grandeur in the tempest—but to me
There is intenser feeling—more of awe,
When night comes on in calmest majesty—
Still,—as the hush of death—no sound—no stir—
Moveless and quiet, as creation slept,
And old primeval silence reign'd again—
In that most holy stillness, I delight
To be awake, and meditate, and muse
On thoughts beyond the bounds of dull mortality.
The pomp of other days goes slowly by—
The gorgeousness, the glory, and the bloom,
That ages have roll'd over—the proud train
Of all that once was mightiest—sounding names
Of desolating heroes, whose stern sway
Made this green earth a sepulchre, that they
Might wear a diadem! but Time is just—
Th' oppressor and th' oppress'd are equal names—
The grave-worm hath his share, the earth hath hers—
And History, that universal cheat,
With its false glory, and its hollow praise,

CONTRAST.

The tale that the nightingale fondly breathes
From her home embower'd in rosy wreathes—
The perfume exhaled from the woodbine's flower,
That lover-like clings around yon fair bower—
The tender light that the moon is beaming
On beautiful things, all hush'd, yet dreaming!
These, oh these are sweet—yet sweeter than all
Are the sigh and the glance young love first reveals,
When eloquent tears, that silently fall,
Speak of bliss that the tongue too fondly conceals.

The ruthless storm with his withering wing,
Has swept all the beauty and grace of the spring;
The song of the bird in its sweetness and power
Is silent, and dark is the evening hour;
Forms that were lovely are laid in the earth,
And a bitter lament chills the accents of mirth!
These, oh these are sad—yet sadder by far
Is the sorrow that comes when love doth depart;
When hope, that arose like a luminous star,
Grows dim and expires in the desolate heart!

WINTER.

Winter! great, wond'rous, in night's awful noon,
When tempests are awake: when thy deep voice
Comes with the rush of waters—I rejoice
To listen to thy chiding: from the moon
Thou sweep'st the clouds that spread in sullen gloom
And scatterest them in snow-flakes: down the steep
Hurlest the greaceful pine, and the firm rock
Send'st in huge fragments to the boiling deep,
While ocean reels with the astounding shock.
Winter! tho' desolation wait on thee,—
Though famine minister: though thy shard breath
Wither the mighty forest—pale to death,
The cheek of the night wanderer—to me,
Thy teachings are of power, strength, majesty.

SI DESERIS PEREO.

If thou canst bear to say adieu,
To her who loves so warm, so true;
If thou canst think thou mayst depart,
Yet leave unbroken the young heart,
Which gave to thee its earliest vow
And lives but in thy presence now;
Then quit thy love, thy bride—but know
Si deseris, ah! pereo,

Yet dearest go; the pang will be
Soon o'er; I shall not live to see
Thy look of love, which is my heaven
My happiness—to others given;
‘Tis best we part; I could not bear
Thy coldness – nor the sick despair
Of love decaying; go then, go,
Si deseris, ah! pereo.

I had a foolish hope—‘tis gone:
I thought thou might'st have lov'd alone
The simple heart which clung to thee
With more than Woman's constancy:—
‘Tis over—but I murmur not
Nor dare I wish a happier lot—
To thee, to life farewell—for oh
Si deseris, ah! pereo!—

SERENADE.

Lady! by yon silver star,
By the crescent moon afar,
By the silence of the night,
By its deep and pensive light,
By the sea's eternal flow,
Fiora bella ti amo.

By that low and thrilling tone,
Love delights to call its own;
By the tears that lovers weep,
By the visions in their sleep,
By young passion's trembling glow,
Fiora bella ti amo.

By the lustre of thine eye,
By thy liquid minstrelsy;
By the rapture of thy kiss,
By each name of love or bliss,
And by feelings which o'erflow,
Fiora bella ti amo.

STANZAS.

Wreathe thy white arms around thy silver lute,
     And try if thou canst find some chord of sadness;
Then pause for a moment in thy young heart's gladness,
     To listen while the mournful strain I suit,
     With words of sorrow—Time's distasteful fruit.

               Sigh thou mistaken heart
                    That idly didst believe,
               Hope rather might depart
                    Than friendship's vow deceive; -
               Thou hast felt the blight
                    Of falsehood on thee light.

               Sigh thou, that love's warm smile
                    Led thy young spirit on,
               ‘Till with the faithless wile
                    Thy happiness was gone;
               And beauty's scornful eye
                    Mock'd thy deep agony.—

               Say, has the voice of fame
                    Been constant to the truth,
               Or given the glorious name
                    It promised in thy youth?
               Alas! thou must confess
                    Its very hollowness.

               Sigh then deceived heart,
                    Because thy grief is vain;
               Youth's freshness may depart,
                    But cannot come again;
                Its glory and its bloom
                    Are sunk in manhood's tomb.

INCONSTANCY.

No;—‘tis in vain,—thou canst not hide,
     Thy changing love from me;
I am no more thy hope, thy pride,
     As I was wont to be.

No more thine eyes with fondness beam,
     When they are met by mine;
Careless and cold thy glances seem,
     Oh! can such looks be thine?

Hast thou forgot? when we first met,
     I fear'd to trust thy vow;
Oh would that I had doubted yet,
     I were not wretched now!

Farewell for ever! life is fair,
     And full of hope for thee;
A broken heart, a fixed despair,
     These are thy gifts to me.

TO MORROW.

Wilt thou not stay awhile thy rapid flight,
     And float unto me on the crimson cloud
Where the young Day lies pillow'd? Art thou bright
     As my fond wish hath fashion'd thee? fair browed,
With tresses dyed in beams of golden light,
     And eyes of living sapphire? I have vowed
My all of hope to thee—and call'd thee fair,
And sigh'd thy name unto the echoing air.

Amid my dreams thou wert;—a thing of love,
     A beautiful enchantment; round thee flew
Pleasures, and hopes, and glories; far above
     Thou seemd'st to sit among the stars, and view
The happiness thou gavest: come, and prove
     That thou art worthy of the thought which grew
Into my very soul; and give to me
Thy smiles, thy beauty, and thy mystery.

THE BEREAVED.

It is a sabbath evening:—calm and bright
Looks yonder village in the setting sun;
The sons of labour a brief respite share
From needful toil, a taste with keener zest
The charm of rest and freedom—childhood, age,
And lusty manhood, there commingling meet, —
In cheerful converse, or with awe devout
List to the sacred tale of man redeem'd
By love Omnipotent—and endless joy
That waits the humble, and the pure in heart.
"Happiness dwelleth—(says the moral sage)
"In scenes like this; and love, and innocence,
"Bloom in primeval beauty; scarce the taint
"Of old transmitted sin hath reach'd so far—

"Here too, the wasting passions, the chief curse
"Of fallen man, press lightly;—what could move
"The simple villager to envy, hate,
"Or comfortless despair?—his joys, his griefs,
"Are, like the sunshine, and the showers of spring,
"Gentle, and kindly mingled."—Thus the Sage—
Yet village annals other tales can tell,
And one this village owns; it is more sad
Than should belong to such a fairy place,
If thou wilt listen, I will tell it thee—

‘Twas in the stillness of a summer eve—
And eve like this—a sabbath evening too;
That hoary sires made in their tales a pause,
And infancy broke off its gambols wild,
To gaze an instant as a traveller pass'd,
His hot steed white with foam—as he had come
A weary length of way—yet slack'd he not
His lightning speed, that ever, as he struck
His steeled hoofs on earth—sent out bright sparks
As earth were sown with stars: onward he kept
With arrowy swiftness, till he stood before
An ivied cottage—there, his rider check'd
His fleet career, and flung aside the rein.—
The traveller gazed around with the quick glance—
Of waken'd recollection—stopp'd and paus'd—

The heart's deep pause, when it collects its force,
For overpow'ring joy, or deepest woe.
Joy, joy for him—unmixed—unclouded joy—
He is a Father, and this cottage holds
His child—his motherless—his only child—
The sole sweet tie that bound him to the world,
When in fresh youth, his dear and lovely bride,
Scarce felt the raptures of maternal love,
Ere death was envious of a fate so blest,
And smote her—even in her Husband's arms.
Truly was she lamented—but at length
Time brought its wonted solace—and her child
Concentrated all his fondness—for whose sake
He hath foregone the dear delights of home,
And toil'd for many suns, in fervid climes,
Lavish of health, so he might gain for her
A golden competence—his toils are crown'd
With full success; and now, his heart beats high
For their most sweet reward—the sight of her
He left a playful child—but whom long years
Have ripen'd into lovely womanhood.
His heart grew sick with joy—as memory
Brought back his fair child's form, when last she threw
Her fairy arms around his neck, and press'd
Her innocent lip to his, and breath'd her love,
The love of a pure seraph—still he saw

The rich luxuriance of her golden hair,
And the delicious murmur of her voice
Dwelt in his soul like music—
But a short moment, and his yearning heart
Shall lavish its intensity of love
On his last earthly treasure—yet he paus'd
In giddy extasy, and almost fear'd
To meet the bright young face, that he felt sure
Was looking through the roses.—
                                                 Whence is this,
That he doth gaze around so anxiously?
Alas for human hopes! No glowing form
Bounds forth to welcome him—no rosy lips,
Trembling with happy love, essay to pour
Their inarticulate joy—that there was change
Came painfully upon him—all uncheck'd
The mantling honeysuckle spread its wreaths
In wild disorder; and entangling weeds
Unsurp'd the place of Rosalie's sweet flow'rs.
Even that chiefest of her childhood's love,
The white rose tree, was wildly overgrown—
In unrestrain'd profusion it o'erspread
The chequer'd casement, and some rich festoons
Lay trailing on the earth like vilest weeds—
And he had planted it!—what might this bode?
Not thus had his sweet child been wont to keep

Her tiny paradise—a madd'ning thought
Shot like an ice-bolt thro' the father's soul;
He dar'd not muse an instant on that fear,
But springing with one bound to the low door,
He stoop'd beneath its canopy of leaves,
And call's in falt'ring tones on his lov'd child,
His own fond Rosalie—his fearful voice
Is recognized, and answered by a cry
Startling and terrible—he rushes in—
There sits the mother of his angel wife,
The more than parent of his Daughter's youth,
Clad in the robes of mourning—helpless, blind!
How liv'd the wretched man to hear the words
That aged creature spake?—"Thy child is dead!"
Scarce question'd he how the sad fate befel—
It was enough that she was gone,—the pride,
The hope, the blessing, of his widow'd heart—
What matter'd it whence the dark shaft was sped?
Yet the poor friendless dame—with grief and age
Grown garrulous, recounted pang by pang,
It was a common fate—such as is told
Of many of earth's loveliest—she grew
Peerless in beauty, and each coming day
Saw brighter blushes vermeil her pure cheek,
And more celestial lustre in her eye—

And then—Death came—mocking the feeble art
That strove to wrest from his rapacious grasp,
The bride he had predestin'd for his own.
There might be other cause, for when she died,
A golden heart, and tress of raven hair
Were hidden in her bosom—and the words
"Faithful to death," were graven on the heart—
Some school-girl token, it was then believ'd,
But the sad father other meaning found,
And thought with bitterness, his child's young life,
Had been, perhaps in sport, the sacrigice
Of selfish vanity, miscalled love.

‘Twas pitiful, to hear that aged one,
Speak of the death-bed of her cherish'd flow'r,
And of the desolation that spread round,
When she was left, childless and old—alone!
"Alas ! alas ! it was such bitterness
"To see her vacant seat, and then, with pain
"Gaze on the empty air, and try to shape
"Her blessed form once more!—but soon this pass'd,
"Mis'ry was pitiful, and clos'd my eyes—
"In mercy clos'd them—for, what need of sight
"Hath the ‘reft mother? wherefore should I look
"Upon the blooming world, to mark how bright
"Are the long summer days—how beautiful

"Are bud and fruit and blossom—all renew'd
"Save my sweet blighted flower—yet not on earth
"Was her congenial climate—safe she blooms
"In lovelier realms, where never comes decay,
"And happiness, is all immortal too—
"Soon, soon, shall I rejoin her !—for I feel
"As if the limits of mortality
"Already I had pass'd, and as it seems
"Mingle with incorporeal powers—and hear
"The solemn secrets of the world of souls.
"E'en human things seem fraught with a deep tone
"Beyond their natural sense—unless it be,
"That a distemp'ring grief hath made me shape
"Things natural, as tho' a mystery
"Lurk'd in them, not their own—it was this morn
"As slowly I pac'd round—Rosalie's lute—
"Thou knowest its sweet tones—since that darker hour
"No hand hath press'd its wires—silent it hangs
"Still, as the heart that lov'd it—as I sought
"With outstretch'd hands to find my ‘custom'd seat,
"My fingers swept the strings—my heart recoil'd,
"The sound was like an Omen—may it be
"The welcome herald of the stroke of fate."—
To vacancy the aged mourner spake,
The heart-struck sire had fled to his child's grave,
He ask'd no guidance there—mis'ry had made

The place of death familiar—there they slept
Daughter and Wife, in the same narrow bed,
Unweeting of the agony of him,
Whose heart was breaking for them; if he loath'd
Existence at that hour, and pray'd high heaven
For death as for a blessing—blame him not—
Who stands beside the grave of all he lov'd
And for an instant thinks of lengthen'd days?
Among the grassy hillocks, one there was
More recent than the rest, where the green sod
Had just began to free its prison'd shoots
From their dark bondage,—‘twas the grave he sought;
The grave that twice had oped its yawning depth,
To close on all he lov'd—there was no name,
No record of the silent sleepers there;
But footsteps there had been, and fresh earth
Was press'd as one had knelt there—and around
Lay scatter'd dying leaves of the white rose—
The flower Rosalie lov'd—and oh! how meet
To be her emblem—spotless, beautiful—
And perishing like her, with the first blast,
That shook its charms too rudely—

             Beneath a yew tree was the fair girl laid,
The morning sun look'd not on her low bed,
For all the long bright day, the dark tree threw

Its mournful shadow there—but still at eve
Came down a sunbeam on the hallow'd spot,
And a lone bird that had been mute all day,
Began a low sweet song; fit requiem
For innocence like hers—but other thoughts
Than those of soft regret are wakening now—
What words shall paint the father's agony,
The father's sole bereavement! who shall tell
(Scarce they who have endured) the with'ring grief,
The utter desolation of that thought,
"They were and are not"—they in whom we view'd
Our days of youth return; whose filial love
We fondly hop'd, might smooth at last for us
The ruggedness of life's descending road,
And make our old age lovely—wisely judg'd
The Artist, when beneath the veiling robe
He bid the feature of the mourning sire;
Full well he knew his utmost art was vain
To image that remediless despair—
—A father mourning for his only child—
So leave we the lorn sire of Rosalie.—

By the next sabbath, he was far away,
A broken-hearted man: but what befel
In that lone village,—still it looks like peace—
Clad in the loveliness of summer light—

‘Tis silent for awhile, till the deep bell
Swings heavily its sullen note of death:
Anon, there is some stir, and eager feet
Come hurrying on, till all the churchyard wall
Is peopled with young faces—winding on
Through the green lane, comes that most touching sight
A village funeral—calm and reverently,
Greyheaded men lay their still burthen down,
And dust returns to dust—there is no sound
Of human feelings—no half-uttered shriek,
No agonizing throes,—when they who live
Call back our pity from the peaceful dead—
Few tears are shed, but a kind sympathy
Holds them in quiet awe—‘tis the same grave
Where the sad father wept—but open'd now
As a kind refuge for the old and blind,
To whom death came most kindly—here at peace,
They laid her with her children.

THE DESOLATE.

Dost question of my fate? I was of those
The dreamers of the world, who fondly deem
Their lot to come shall be unclouded bliss:
It was a bitter ‘wakening, when I stood
Amid the cold realities of life,
And found no sympathy, tho' my heart bled;
And, feelings which were given me as a curse,
Work'd on my brain, till madness like a sleep
Restoring o'erwrought nature, hid from me
The wretched present, and regretted past.

I said my youth was glorious; but, first one,
And then another of my young hopes died,
And tears were paid their obsequies, yet still
The current of my soul flow'd fresh and free—
Still could I dream of happiness to come,
Still store futurity with every joy—
Would I had died before the fond belief
Had faded quite away—Oh! better far

To leave this prision-world ere it can taint
The bosom with its sorrow or its sin;
When kind regret can mix with our last sighs,
And dear humanities so strongly move,
That half with human feelings—half divine,
The spirit pauses in its long farewell.
Oh! better thus, than wait till death becomes
Woo'd with a love unnatural—till all
The beauty and the bloom of the fair earth,
Are spread before the sated eye in vain—
And not one hope clings to the wearied heart,
Nor hovers one faint blessing on the lips,
To be preserved in the living shrine
Of weeping tenderness—such is my fate,
Friendship—and love—and kindred—all but names
Telling of shadows that have floated by
And mock'd my eager grasp!
       *        *        *        *        *        *
The light of hope was round me, ever spreading
Bright exhalations like the beamy north;
So wondrous dazzling, that my ardent soul
Was cheated by the glory—on I went
In the bright track, nor cast a thought behind—
The weariness, the misery, and gloom
Of former days, past from me as a dream,
The arch of promise glittering in my view,

Forward I sprang—when lo! the meteor blaze
Was quench'd at once—the rainbow tints decay'd,
And all was dark again!—what need I tell
How dizzily my senses reel'd—how fierce
The struggle of my soul became, thus left
Amid the heavy darkness of despair!
Madly I rav'd, and told my frantic grief
To the wild winds, that with a demon art
Mock'd at my frenzy, as the echo came,
And with its hateful voice, gave back the name
That burn'd upon my lips, and brain, and heart—
               I had become all thought—I could not lose
Perception for an hour—by night—by day—
A fearful tongue was whispering in my ear,
"Death! Death!" and yet I could not, dar'd not die.
This torture had its date; and then there came
A blending of all feelings – love, and hate,
* And scorn, and laughter that had nought of mirth.
Held for awhile their influence,—how I mock'd
At fate, and with exultance loud, defied
The power of destiny—and this held long,
‘Till reason was overthrown, and powerless sank
In the unequal conflict—
                                                  ‘Twas at length,
When years of infant weakness were o'erpast,
I came again into the world; the fire

            * "Where laughter is not mirth."
                                             Lament of Tasso.

Of my impetuous passions quench'd for ever.
Lonely and self-subdued, I saw the stir,
The pleasures, and the perils of the world,
And felt I had no part in human things:
My heart was early wither'd—Hast thou youth,
On thine own mountains seen some towering pine
Stricken by the red lightning? it may stand
Long as its fellows of the hill, but comes
No more the graceful foliage of its prime
To clothe its scathed limbs: and oh how like
Has been my fate to a young blasted pine!
No spring-time thoughts shall e'er reclothe my soul
With its lost verdure.—
                                          Dost marvel now
That I grew aged in my youth? Go read
The history of many a faded cheek,
And rayless eye—and think that each hath prov'd
Some of the feelings that have wasted me,
And thou shalt wonder when thy task is done,
That they have not more potency to change
The raven locks to silver—and to freeze
The warm and glowing stream in the young veins
With their first touch, nor leave for after years
A miserable wreck, from whence the soul
Hath long, long since departed.

                                   THE END.

[177]

             LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

                           _______

Aitkin, Mrs.Exeter.
Ayre, Mrs. Teighnmouth.
Adams, R. H. Esq.

Byron, The Lady Noel, (4 Copies)
Brydges, Sir Egerton, Bart.
Brydges, Rev. Egerton
Barret, Brydges Lieut. Col. Gren. Guards.
Bartless, Bickford Esq. Teignmouth.
Bray, Mrs. Authoress of De Foix, &c.
Bray, Rev. Edward, Vicarage, Tavistock.
Bennet, C. F. Esq. Bristol, (2 Copies)
Breton, E. B. Esq. London, (2 Copies)
Breton, C. D. Esq.
Burlton, Rev. H. Exminster.
Baxter, R. Esq. London.
Baxter, C. Esq

[178]

           LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Baxter, Mrs. I.
Beaumont, Mrs. W. Nottingham.
Burrington, Mr.
Barry, Mr.
Bartlett, Miss, Ilsham.
Boyd, Mr. J. Shaldon.

Cary, Mrs. Edward, Torquay.
Campbell, Miss, London (4 Copies)
Clapp, T. Esq. Teignmouth.
Cockings, Samuel, Esq. Torquay.
Cockrem, Mr. E. Torquay, (2 Copies)
C. I. E.
Croydon, Mr. Teignmouth, (2 Copies)

Dean of BRistol
Davie, Sir H. (8 Copies)
Dicken, Mrs. Mamhead.
Daniell, Miss, Exeter.
Downes, Mrs. Prospect House, (2 Copies)
Downes, Geo. H. Esq.
Domville, Mrs. Royal Infirmary, Greenwich.
Domville, Miss
Dignan, — Esq. Liverpool.

Elliott, Mrs. Nottingham, (4 Copies)
Eyde, Mrs. Exeter.
Eberington, Miss C.

[179]

          LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Fellowes, Lady Catherine
Ford, Miss, Exeter.
Ford, Miss C. B.
Ford, Miss G.
Furneaux, Mrs.
Furneaux, Mrs. Jane
Frichor, Mrs. Exeter.
Fox, Major, Topsham.
Fox, Capt. R. N.

Greenland, G. Esq.
Greenland, Mrs.
Gresham, Mrs. Paris.
Gregory, Mrs. Teignmouth.

Havenden, Capt. 8th Hussars.
Harvey, Mrs. S. Shaldon.
Hessey, George Esq.
Hodges, Edward, Mus. Doc. Bristol.
Hayes, Miss, Teignmouth.
Hone, Capt. Exeter.
Heaven, — Esq.
Hamilton, Mrs. Retreat, Exeter.
Harrison, Mrs. London.
Hooper, — Esq.
Hooper, Mrs.
Hutton, — Esq. Liverpool.
Hughes, — Esq. Liverpool.

[180]

           LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

H—, Miss, Topsham.
Hague, S. Esq. Bristol.

Jonas, Miss, Teignmouth.

Kennedy, Rev. B. H. Birmingham.
Kennington, Mrs. Exeter.
Kellock, Miss. Greenwich.
Kent, Miss, Deptford.

Long, Walter, Esq. Preshaw, Hants.
Long, Lady Mary
Liddon, Capt. R. N.
Lear, Wm. Esq.
Langley, Mrs. Teignmouth.
Langley, Wm. Esq. Newton.
Luny, Thomas Esq. Teignmouth.
Litton, Mr. Teignmouth, (2 Copies)
Leslie, A. Esq. R. N.

Macdonald, Mrs. Col. Exeter.
Marker, Mrs. Alyesbeare.
Marker, Rev. T.
Monteith, Miss, Exeter.
Marten, — Esq.
Macdonald. Liet. R. N.

Newman, Mrs. Mamhead, Devon.

[181]

           LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Noel, Thomas Esq.
Noel, Miss L.

Phillips, Lady
Pole, Sir William, Shute, Devon, (2 Copies)
Pole, Lady
Periman, Miss, Teignmouth.
Parry, Capt. R. N.    C. B.
Parry, Mrs.
Pidsley, Mrs. Exeter.
Pidsley, Miss
Pidsley, Miss A.
Pidsley, Miss M.
Palmer, Miss
Palmer, — Esq. Solicitor, Newton.
Prowse, Mr. S.
Prowse, Mrs. J.
Prowse, Miss
Pulling, Capt. R. N.
P—— Miss, Lambeth, (2 Copies)

Rolle, Rt. Hon. Lord (2 Copies)
Rolle, Lady
Rogers, Col.

[182]

          LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Rogers, Capt. R. N.
Rogers, Miss, Teignmouth.
Russell, Mrs. Shaldon.
Rendell, W. Esq. Shaldon.
Roberts, Mrs.

Swete, J. B. Esq. Oxton, Devon. (4 Copies.)
Swete, Mrs. J. B. (4 Copies)
Swete, Mrs. (2 Copies)
Swete, Miss
Swete, Rev. W.
Swete, Mrs. W.
Still, Mrs.
Scott, Major, 17th Lancers.
Sholl, Robert, Esq. London.
Sholl, Richard, Esq.
Scatcherd, Mrs. Shaldon.
Smyth, G. W. Esq. London.
Scully, — Esq. M. D. Torquay.
Scully, Miss
Seymour, Mr. Cheltenham.
Seale, Mrs. Col. Dartmouth
Spratt, Lieut. R. N. Teignmouth.
Strong, Rev. C. Torquay.
Sheppard, S. Esq. Clifton.
Sheppard, Miss F.
Sheppard, Miss S.
Sheppard, J. Esq

[183]

          LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Stone, Lieut. R. N.
Stone, Miss
Smith, Miss, London.
Salter, Miss, Exeter.
Stirling, Lieut. R. N.
Slack, — Esq.
Sanders, R. R. Esq. Exeter (2 Copies)
Snow, Thomas Esq. (2 Copies [ ) ]

Tonkin, Capt. Teignmouth, (2 Copies)
Tonkin, Mars (4 Copies [ ) ]
Templer, Mrs. G. H
Templer, Miss
Templer, Mrs. Col. Teignmouth.
Templer, John Line Esq. Ivy Bridge.
Templer, Rev. James
Turner, Thomas Esq. Exeter.
Tincombe, Wm. Esq.
Teage, John Esq. Dartmouth.

Winter, Mrs. London.
Warren, Miss H. Exeter.
W. G. Mrs.
Wilking, W. Esq. Shaldon.
Wight, Lieut, R. N.