TO EVELYN.

[6]It is necessary for the condemnation of a slaver, to capture her when she has either negroes on board, or slave-irons and extra water-casks. These they always disembark before they come into port, and do not take on board until they are ready to sail.

[6]

It is necessary for the condemnation of a slaver, to capture her when she has either negroes on board, or slave-irons and extra water-casks. These they always disembark before they come into port, and do not take on board until they are ready to sail.

[To be continued.

TO EVELYN.

———

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

———

“I had a dream, and ’twas not all a dream.”

Dearcousin mine, last eve I had a vision —Nay, do not start!There softly stole into the bright ElysianOf my young heart —A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealingAmid the shadows of my soul’s revealing.The sunset clouds were fading, and the light,Rosy and dim,Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright“The Switzer’s Hymn”Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song —Waking my heart’s hushed chords, erst slumbering long.Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on,Like wild, sweet strainOf spirit-music o’er the waters borne —Bringing againFond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart,Dim cloistered in my bosom’s shrine apart.And then came visions of my own bright home —The happy bandFar distant—who at eventide oft come,Linked hand in hand —When to my quickened fancy love hath lentEach thrilling tone, and each fond lineament.They come again—the young, the beautiful —The maiden mild,The matron meek—whose soft low prayer doth lullHer sleeping child;The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire!Who guides his trembling steps—yon gray-haired sire.And then came thronging all earth’s gentle spirits —That ministerLike angels to our hearts—thus they inheritFrom Heaven afar —Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye,Which scatters sunbeams on our darksome way.My vision changed—those messengers of light,To fays had turned,Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when nightHer star-lamps burned;They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion,For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission.And then they scattered far and wide, and soughtThe thorny ways,And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought —The cunning fays! —From all the brightest and the fairest flowersThey culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers.And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns —Because, perchance,Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns,Might rashly danceThereon with his worn sandals; others plantedBright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted.And some were roguish fays—right merry elves,Who loved a jest,And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,”Within some rose’s breast,And there employed their most unwearied powersIn throwing “incense on the winged hours.”What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beamsWith glory bright,Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleamsOf rosy light;But fadeth not that vision from my soul,Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control.And blest, like thine, is every gentle spiritThat ministersLike angels to our hearts!such shall inherit,From Heaven afar,That pure and radiant light, whose holy raysE’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways.

Dearcousin mine, last eve I had a vision —

Nay, do not start!

There softly stole into the bright Elysian

Of my young heart —

A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealing

Amid the shadows of my soul’s revealing.

The sunset clouds were fading, and the light,Rosy and dim,Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright“The Switzer’s Hymn”Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song —Waking my heart’s hushed chords, erst slumbering long.

The sunset clouds were fading, and the light,

Rosy and dim,

Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright

“The Switzer’s Hymn”

Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song —

Waking my heart’s hushed chords, erst slumbering long.

Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on,Like wild, sweet strainOf spirit-music o’er the waters borne —Bringing againFond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart,Dim cloistered in my bosom’s shrine apart.

Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on,

Like wild, sweet strain

Of spirit-music o’er the waters borne —

Bringing again

Fond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart,

Dim cloistered in my bosom’s shrine apart.

And then came visions of my own bright home —The happy bandFar distant—who at eventide oft come,Linked hand in hand —When to my quickened fancy love hath lentEach thrilling tone, and each fond lineament.

And then came visions of my own bright home —

The happy band

Far distant—who at eventide oft come,

Linked hand in hand —

When to my quickened fancy love hath lent

Each thrilling tone, and each fond lineament.

They come again—the young, the beautiful —The maiden mild,The matron meek—whose soft low prayer doth lullHer sleeping child;The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire!Who guides his trembling steps—yon gray-haired sire.

They come again—the young, the beautiful —

The maiden mild,

The matron meek—whose soft low prayer doth lull

Her sleeping child;

The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire!

Who guides his trembling steps—yon gray-haired sire.

And then came thronging all earth’s gentle spirits —That ministerLike angels to our hearts—thus they inheritFrom Heaven afar —Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye,Which scatters sunbeams on our darksome way.

And then came thronging all earth’s gentle spirits —

That minister

Like angels to our hearts—thus they inherit

From Heaven afar —

Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye,

Which scatters sunbeams on our darksome way.

My vision changed—those messengers of light,To fays had turned,Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when nightHer star-lamps burned;They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion,For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission.

My vision changed—those messengers of light,

To fays had turned,

Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when night

Her star-lamps burned;

They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion,

For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission.

And then they scattered far and wide, and soughtThe thorny ways,And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought —The cunning fays! —From all the brightest and the fairest flowersThey culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers.

And then they scattered far and wide, and sought

The thorny ways,

And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought —

The cunning fays! —

From all the brightest and the fairest flowers

They culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers.

And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns —Because, perchance,Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns,Might rashly danceThereon with his worn sandals; others plantedBright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted.

And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns —

Because, perchance,

Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns,

Might rashly dance

Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted

Bright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted.

And some were roguish fays—right merry elves,Who loved a jest,And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,”Within some rose’s breast,And there employed their most unwearied powersIn throwing “incense on the winged hours.”

And some were roguish fays—right merry elves,

Who loved a jest,

And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,”

Within some rose’s breast,

And there employed their most unwearied powers

In throwing “incense on the winged hours.”

What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beamsWith glory bright,Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleamsOf rosy light;But fadeth not that vision from my soul,Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control.

What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams

With glory bright,

Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams

Of rosy light;

But fadeth not that vision from my soul,

Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control.

And blest, like thine, is every gentle spiritThat ministersLike angels to our hearts!such shall inherit,From Heaven afar,That pure and radiant light, whose holy raysE’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways.

And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit

That ministers

Like angels to our hearts!such shall inherit,

From Heaven afar,

That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays

E’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways.

A PIC-NIC AT WHITE LAKE.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

“Contingentor executory remainders, whereby no present interest passes, are, where the estate in remainder is limited to—(how warm it is)—to take effect either to a dubious and—uncertain—person—or—upon—either to a dubious and uncertain person, or (conscience, how sleepy I am) upon a—a—dubious—and—uncertain—event—to take effect—either—estate in remainder—is—contingent or executory remainders whereby—no—” woods—birds—sunshine—moss—green leaves—crash—bless me, Sir William Blackstone, Knt., one of his majesty’s Justices of Common Pleas, flat upon his reverend face, (wig and all) shocking! Well, all I can do by way of apology, will be to raise the learned knight from his unbecoming posture, and—how tedious this law is! I really thought a moment ago I was in the woods; but, alas! I was only dozing. My office to-day appears very dull. That book-case, with its rows of Johnson’s, Cowen’s, and Wendell’s Reports, Chitty on Bills, Comyn on Contracts, Barbour’s Chancery Practice, et cetera—this desk piled with papers tied with red tape—these three or four yellow chairs—that spectral broom in its dark corner—and this spotted spider on my one window, industriously engaged in weaving a large wheel-like web over two of its upper panes—really I begin to be sick of them. I’ll see what is “going on” out of doors. What a golden day. The sky is of a rich, tender blue, with here and there a soft pearly cloud sleeping in its depths, like snow-flakes on a bed of violets. And the sunshine, what a rich, deep blue it has. I think I’ll take a walk. Those woods, out there beyond Fairchild’s pond, seem beckoning to me; and the village offers as little variety as my office. There are two or three idlers on Wiggins’ tavern stoop—a cow and three geese are feeding quietly in the green lane that runs to “our barn,” past my office—beside the barn stands my gig, clean and glittering, from the just suspended efforts of “Black Jake”—a couple of stage-drivers are tarring the wheels of one of the huge red coaches that run regularly between Bloomingburgh and Monticello—the captain is on his way to the “corner well,” for a pail of water—an old horse is grazing on the “green” near the court-house—and a “team” or two are standing by St. John’s store. Let me see—which way shall I go! up the turnpike, or down to the “Big Rock.” But, hey-day! here comes Mayfield in great haste.

“Well, Mayfield, what’s in the wind now?”

“I say, squire, how would you like a pic-nic at White Lake this afternoon?”

“A pic-nic! hurrah! just the thing. Will the girls go?”

“They are all crazy at the idea—that is, all that I’ve seen.”

“Then let us speak to Lavigne, and Hull, and Murray, and Williams, and so on, and all bustle round and invite our ladies, and be off in an hour.”

Away we both go, and in a short time the boys are all notified, the girls all invited, and the arrangements all made.

At three P. M. we start from “Hamilton’s stoop,” as usual. Williams, with his wife, in his neat little wagon; myself and lady in the gig, and the rest in a huge, lumbering two-horse conveyance, with a range of seats, and clattering, when in motion, like a hail-storm. Up the broad village street (to wit, turnpike) we merrily go—by the Episcopal Church, surrounded with its mountain-ash trees (amidst which even now stands our respected “Dominie,” gazing at them with the affection of a parent—for he planted them there with his own hands)—through the outskirts of the village—past the fence of pine-roots, wreathed in every imaginable shape, like twining serpents—and in a short time we are toiling up the steep winding pitch, called “Jones’ Hill.” The sunshine is sweet, although somewhat warm, and there is now and then the downy touch of a breeze upon our foreheads. We glance at the stretch of wood and meadow, backed by a low, blue line of hills, which meets us at the summit, and then bowl down the slope into the hollow. “Kinne’s Hill” next taxes the endurance of our steeds; but we reach the top, and look around us. How beautiful is the scene! What streaming black shadows are cast by every object; what a soft gloss is on yon emerald meadow, and how far the pointed shade of that solitary hay-barrack is cast upon its rich surface. How the light gleams upon the fences—catches upon the acclivities—bathes the tips of the scattered chimneys, and stripes half the bosoms of the distant hills. How it touches in here, and streaks out there, and settles in a broad space of deep yellow in another place; for, be it known, that at four o’clock of a summer afternoon (just the hour that we are upon “Kinne’s,”) commences the time for witnessing the effects of the now slanting sunshine. But I must not stay here forever admiring views and effects, particularly as my horse, “Old George,” is dancing up and down as if his hoofs were encased in hot iron. So I ease the reins, and down we dash toward the Mongaup, which we soon see flowing, sweet and cool, in the shadowcast by the opposite hill. Beautiful stream, I hail thee! How often have I “churned” thy pure, soft current in pursuit of the golden-spotted trout; and in the mellow autumn sunshine, when the rich haze of the “Indian Summer” shimmered in thy forests, how long and patiently have I beat thy thickets, and stood upon thy run-ways to “draw lead” upon the deer. However, this is no time for the pathetic; so I keep a cautious rein upon “George,” as I pass through the covered bridge spanning the stream, and then let him out past the white-porticoed tavern upon the right. Up and down hill we then all move and rattle, until gaining the summit of a long ascent, we see “Jordan’s Inn,” and a little beyond, the broad, bright waters of our destined goal, White Lake. Severally alighting at the door of the tavern, our steeds are commended to the tender mercies of the landlord; and we all, with our baskets of eatables and drinkables, pursue our way to the borders of the lovely sheet. How beautifully it is slumbering beneath this rich light and soft heaven. The pictures of the white clouds sail across it like pure thoughts over a happy heart. Deliciously stream the shadows from the projecting banks; and see, there comes a little breeze, dotting the waters with its light footsteps, and then leaping up into yonder maple, making it turn suddenly pale with its flutter. The opposite shore looks green and cool; and there, in a beautiful recess or hollow, is to be our pic-nic. I discovered that recess myself. I was out fishing one day with Ike Davis, and waxing rather weary toward sundown, we pulled along the western shore to enjoy the shadow. Pushing along through the water-lilies, whose blossoms were strewed like golden balls all around us, I chanced to spy this little hollow. So we drove our skiff half its length on the silver strip of sand, and threw ourselves upon the soft grass, enjoying the coolness and fragrance till the stars came. I dreamed a great day-dream during those two hours; a dream fleeting and unsubstantial as the gold and crimson cloud whose reflection lay upon the smooth water before me. But to return.

There is the scow (not a very romantic craft, reader, I own) fastened by its stone to the bank; and near it is the very skiff Davis and I used. The skiff is light and fleet, but as for the scow, it goes every way but the straight one. It will glide corner-wise, and make tolerable good way even broadside; but as for going straight forward, it appears to be the last thing in the world it intends doing. However, not more than four can sit comfortably in the skiff, so the majority of us must trust ourselves to the cork-screw propensities of the scow. Lavigne and Murray, with their ladies, take possession of the former, and the rest of us the latter. We all, then, embark upon the pure, glossy sheet for the recess. Ha! ha! ha! this is too amusing. Whilst the skiff shoots from us straight as a dart toward the goal, we go shuffling and wriggling along, first one side and then the other, like a bumpkin in a ball-room; and as the four who assumed the paddles relax their efforts in despair, the old scow turns broadside, and as if in contempt, is actually, I believe, making way backward.

“Paddle away, boys!” I exclaim, “or we’ll be at the bank again in a minute.”

“Paddle yourself,” growls Hull, who always entertained a decided objection to much exertion, although in the enthusiasm of the moment he had grasped one of the propellers. I seize the paddle he relinquishes, and whilst he seats himself sluggishly on the side of the scow, I bend myself to my task. The skiff is by this time half way over; and the good-natured laugh of its party at our troubles, comes ringing over the water. However, after a while we “get the hang” of the odd thing, and the pleasant tap, tap, tap of the ripples at its front, tell that we are moving merrily forward. Oh, isn’t the kiss of that wandering air-breath delicious! Whew! what a fluttering and whizzing! A flock of wild ducks, scared up from that long, grassy shallow to the right. How the sunshine gleams upon their purple backs, and flashes from their rapid wings. There they go toward the outlet at “the mills.” And the water, how beautifully mottled are its depths; how clear and transparent! It seems almost like another atmosphere. See the fishes swarming below. There goes a shiner like a flash of silver; is that an ingot of gold shooting past there, or a yellow perch? And, upon my word, if there wasn’t a salmon-trout showing its long, dark wavy back beside that log at the bottom, large enough for a six-pounder. I do wish we had our lines here. However, we came for a pic-nic, not a “fish.”

Well, here we are at the recess, and the skiff has been here certainly these fifteen minutes. It is a beautiful place, really. The bank recedes in a half circle from the water, leaving a space of short, thick turf, with an edge of pure white sand, on which the ripples cream up and melt in the most delicate lace-work. The place is in cool shadow, cast by the tall trees of the forest crowning the bank—and such fine trees, too. There is the white birch, with its stem of silver-satin; the picturesque grim hemlock, soaring into the heavens, with a naked top dripping with gray moss; the beech, showing a bark spotted like a woodpecker; and the maple, lifting upon a trunk fluted like a cathedral-column, a green dome of foliage, as regular as if fashioned by an architect. Of all the forest-trees the maple is my favorite, although it is somewhat difficult to select where all are so beautiful. Besides the birch, hemlock, and beech, above mentioned, there is the poplar or aspen, which, although horribly nervous, is a very pretty tree. The stem is smooth and polished, with white streaks over its green; the limbs stretch out broadly, and the leaves are finely cut with a “white lining” underneath. When the breezes are stirring, the changes of the tree are marvellous; and its whispers in a still, sunny, noon, when the rest of the woodland is motionless, aredelightful, like the continuous and rapid drip, drip, drip, of a little rill in the grass. Then there is the elm, bending over its flexile summit in a perpetual bow to the trees around it, with clusters of fringe over its branches in April, and flaunting its October banner of rich yellow. There is the chestnut also, in June showing you tassels of pale gold amidst long, deep-green leaves, and in the autumn hanging its brown fruit over head, as if tempting you to climb. And lastly, there is the bass-wood, displaying in the latter days of May its creamy blossoms, so sweet, that you know you are approaching it, whilst wandering in the forest, by the rich odor alone. Still the maple, the beautiful maple, is “my passion.” It hails the blue-bird in spring, with its crimson fringes, dropping them in a short time to lie like live embers amidst the green velvet of the rising grass; in summer it clothes itself in broad scalloped leaves that flicker to the most delicate wind in the softest music, changing from green to white very gracefully, and in the autumn—reader, you have witnessed a crimson cloud burning in the mid-west, at sunset, after a shower! well, the color is not richer than that of the maple in that magic season. It shows like a beacon in the forest. I have stood in a deep dell, so deep, that I could discern a white star or two in the sky above me, and seeing the autumnal maple, have supposed it for the instant a spot of flame. How splendid! how gorgeous it is in its “fall” garb! It blushes, as Percival says,

“Like a banner bathed in slaughter.”

There are various flowers peeping out of the crevices of the bank—the pink briar-rose, and the yellow wild sunflower. The mellow hum of the bee swings now and then past us; and the cricket grates upon its tiny bars (a fairy lute) from the dusky nooks about. It is just the place for the occasion. There is a natural mound, too, in the middle of the place, that will serve excellently well for a table. So let us open our baskets and produce their contents. Ham, chicken, tongue, sandwiches, et cetera, with pies, cake, and preserved fruit. Some half-dozen long-necked bottles then make their appearance, with their brand upon them. What can be within them! What is that which makes the cork pirouette with such a “pop” in the air, and then swells to the rim of the glass in a rich, glittering foam, and with a delicious hum, like the monotone of a sea-shell? Don’t you know, reader? If you don’t, I shan’t tell you. It isn’t water, however.

The cloth, in snowy whiteness, is spread over the mound, and garnished with cup, saucer, plate, and dish. In an angle of the bank, faced with rock, a fire in the meanwhile has been lighted, of pine-knots and dry branches, for the manufacture of our tea and coffee. One of the party, having gone a little into the woods in search of blackberries, now returns, bearing a basket heaped up with the rich, glossy fruit, as black as Kather—somebody’s eyes—(the somebody is now making our tea and coffee at the fire yonder)—and they are as bright specimens of ebony as any I know of. The golden butter, and the silver sugar—(I like epithets—don’t you, Mr. Critic?)—are ranged in their places with the other viands, and the whole so crowd the table-cloth as fairly to hide its whiteness. We draw to, and fall to. What a clatter of knives and forks, and what a sound of cheerful voices. Care is at a discount—mirth is in the ascendant, and nature is in accordance with our mood. We are in the height of fashion, too, out here in the woods, so far as respects music, to grace our repast; not the clanging sounds of brass instruments, and the head-ache poundings of the bass-drum, but the sweet melodies of the forest. A cat-bird is spitting out a succession of short notes like a bassoon; the brown thrasher is sounding her clear piccolo flute; one of the large black woodpeckers of our forests, with a top-knot like a ruby, is beating his drum on the hollow beech yonder; a blue-jay every now and then makes anentréewith his trumpet, and the little wren flourishes her clarionet in such a frenzy of music as fairly to put her out of breath. The scene itself is very bright and beautiful. Sunset has now fallen upon us. A broad beam of mellow light slants through the trees above us, making the leaves transparent, each one looking as if of carved gold, and shooting through the midst of our party so as to bathe sweetly the faces of some three or four of our girls, and then making a bridge over the long nose of Hull, it stretches across the lake to the opposite shore, where the windows of Jordan’s Inn are in a blaze with it. At the edge of the lake, and a few feet from our party, a great swarm of gnats is dancing in its light, now up, now down, speckling the air in the shape of a wheel in motion. And the lake before us—so pure, so breathless, so holy—it seems entranced in a mute sunset prayer to its Maker. It has a tongue of praise sometimes—a tongue of liquid and dashing music—but it is now holding “Quaker meeting,” and is communing with God in sacred silence. And yet, after all, not wholly silence, for these little ripples, clothed in silver, run up the sand, and then fall prostrate, with a sound like the faint patterings of a shower upon leaves.

With the exception of this pencil of light, our hollow is filled with a cool, clare-obscure tint, like sunshine robbed of its glare—or like sunshine and moonlight mingled together—or, on the whole, like the rich harvest moonlight, with a dash of green in it. It is exquisitely soft, soothing, and beautiful. It seems like a light reproduced by the forests after they have all day been drinking the day-beams.

The jest—the story—the lively sally—the quick repartee, pass gayly around the circle. The destruction amongst the good things of the table becomes momentarily less, and finally ceases altogether. The solitary sunbeam melts away, but the clouds overhead are becoming richer and rosier; and the lake—it is a perfect Eden of beauty. Pure as innocence, and smooth as the brow of childhood, it stretches away,decked in the most glorious colors that eye ever beheld. Long lines of imperial purple—the tenderest azure—broad spaces of gleaming gold, and bars of richest crimson—all, all are blended upon the beautiful sheet, like the tints that tremble upon “shot” silk, or those that chase each other along the neck of the sheldrake. The sight fills the heart brim full of loveliness, so as even to surcharge the eye with tears. The most delicious emotions struggle for utterance, but the majesty of the beauty represses all sound—it awes the soul to silence. Old memories throng upon the heart—memories of early, happy days, and of the loved and lost. The lost—ah, too soon did some die in their young beauty, whilst others dropped, like ripe fruit, into the tomb. But they all went home, receiving “the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” Happy in their lot, ay, truly happy. And the youthful hopes and aspirations, they have all, too, vanished. The indefinite brightness resting upon the future—the soaring ambition—the romantic day-dream—the generous feeling—the warm trustfulness and confidence in the goodness of our race—all, all vanished.

Now right across that streak of crimson the loon pursues her way. Her track seems made of diamonds and rubies, and the plumage of her wings is touched with the magic brilliance that fills the breathless air. And now she glides within yon purple shadow, and is seen no more. The tints grow richlier, and then begin to fade; sweet rural sounds come softly over the water; the low of cattle; the tinkling sheep-bell; the echoing bark of the dog; and the ploughman’s shout to his homeward oxen.

And the twilight deepens. One by one the stars break out from the sky, and on the earth the outlines of objects begin to intermingle. The trees on the banks around us are blending, and the spaces beneath their branches are becoming black. The farther waters glimmer dim and dusky; and the tavern on the opposite shore is half shaded into the misty back-ground.

But the wild, red globe of the harvest-moon slow heaves to view until it rests upon the hill-top like the old Scotch beal-fire. How glorious will the scene shortly be rejoicing in her pearly beauty; yet the indistinct gray of the landscape, now showing like an India-ink drawing, is sweet and tender, social, and full of kindness. It is emphatically the hour for song; and so, recovering from the short silence that had fallen upon us, a call is made upon our two singers for the exercise of their abilities. Now both of them are of the masculine gender; for, strange to say, not a girl of our party has any voice for the public, but one, and she is painfully bashful; so our two thrushes are always in requisition. They differ, however, in their accomplishment. Lavigne has a sweet, flexible, tenor voice, whilst Murray’s is a rich sonorous bass. Our first call is upon the latter, who, being a lieutenant in the “Monticello Greys,” has a taste inclining to the warlike; and so, clearing his voice with a loud effort, he sings —

Banners all around us flying,Trumpets all around us ringing,Weapons gleaming, chargers springingComrades, who’s afraid of dying!Forward march! on, on we go,Gladly, freely, breast to foe;Forward, comrades! on we go—Such the joys we soldiers know;Honor bright to fleeting breath,Give us victory or death!With our bosoms to the foe—Such the joys we soldiers know.When is past the conflict gory;When the veins have ceased their leaping,Then the watch-fire redly heaping,Round fly merry song and story.Care and grief behind we throw,As the gleaming glasses flow.Forward march! we bid them go—Such the joys we soldiers know.Ever ready for the field,Never fearing life to yield,Firm we stand before the foe,Such the joys we soldiers know.

Banners all around us flying,

Trumpets all around us ringing,

Weapons gleaming, chargers springing

Comrades, who’s afraid of dying!

Forward march! on, on we go,

Gladly, freely, breast to foe;

Forward, comrades! on we go—

Such the joys we soldiers know;

Honor bright to fleeting breath,

Give us victory or death!

With our bosoms to the foe—

Such the joys we soldiers know.

When is past the conflict gory;When the veins have ceased their leaping,Then the watch-fire redly heaping,Round fly merry song and story.Care and grief behind we throw,As the gleaming glasses flow.Forward march! we bid them go—Such the joys we soldiers know.Ever ready for the field,Never fearing life to yield,Firm we stand before the foe,Such the joys we soldiers know.

When is past the conflict gory;

When the veins have ceased their leaping,

Then the watch-fire redly heaping,

Round fly merry song and story.

Care and grief behind we throw,

As the gleaming glasses flow.

Forward march! we bid them go—

Such the joys we soldiers know.

Ever ready for the field,

Never fearing life to yield,

Firm we stand before the foe,

Such the joys we soldiers know.

As the deep tones die upon the ear, we all, after expressing the usual thanks, turn to Lavigne to follow up the good example thus set him. Descended from an old Huguenot family, his first thought is to the land of his fathers, and with much animation in his looks, he breaks out into the following strain: —

Lovely France—la belle France!At thy name my bosom bounds,To my eye sweet visions dance,In my ear soft music sounds.Hail, thy purple vineyards glowing!Hail, thy flowery streamlets flowing!Of my life thou seem’st a part,Lovely France—la belle France!Glorious France, how dear thou art!Lovely France—la belle France!Famous are thy battle-fields;Where e’er points thy glittering lance,Victory there her trophies yields.Hail, thy high historic story!Hail, thy legends rife with glory!Shrine where bends my willing heart,Lovely France—la belle France!Glorious France, how dear thou art!

Lovely France—la belle France!

At thy name my bosom bounds,

To my eye sweet visions dance,

In my ear soft music sounds.

Hail, thy purple vineyards glowing!

Hail, thy flowery streamlets flowing!

Of my life thou seem’st a part,

Lovely France—la belle France!

Glorious France, how dear thou art!

Lovely France—la belle France!Famous are thy battle-fields;Where e’er points thy glittering lance,Victory there her trophies yields.Hail, thy high historic story!Hail, thy legends rife with glory!Shrine where bends my willing heart,Lovely France—la belle France!Glorious France, how dear thou art!

Lovely France—la belle France!

Famous are thy battle-fields;

Where e’er points thy glittering lance,

Victory there her trophies yields.

Hail, thy high historic story!

Hail, thy legends rife with glory!

Shrine where bends my willing heart,

Lovely France—la belle France!

Glorious France, how dear thou art!

We are now all fairly embarked on the tide of song, and Murray is again called upon. There is no affectation or false modesty in our circle, and he instantly complies.

Merrily row boys! merrily row boys!Merrily, cheerily, row along!And whilst our prow makes merry music,We’ll too raise the song;We’ll too raise the song, my boys,Swift as we row along,Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,Merrily, cheerily, row along;And whilst the waters ripple round us,We’ll too raise the song.Spreads the wave, boys, broad and clear, boys!Spreads the wave, boys, bright along;And whilst our oars make merry dashings,We’ll too raise the song;We’ll too raise the song, my boys,Swift as we row along,Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,Merrily, cheerily, row along;And whilst our prow makes merry music,We’ll too raise the song.

Merrily row boys! merrily row boys!

Merrily, cheerily, row along!

And whilst our prow makes merry music,

We’ll too raise the song;

We’ll too raise the song, my boys,

Swift as we row along,

Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,

Merrily, cheerily, row along;

And whilst the waters ripple round us,

We’ll too raise the song.

Spreads the wave, boys, broad and clear, boys!Spreads the wave, boys, bright along;And whilst our oars make merry dashings,We’ll too raise the song;We’ll too raise the song, my boys,Swift as we row along,Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,Merrily, cheerily, row along;And whilst our prow makes merry music,We’ll too raise the song.

Spreads the wave, boys, broad and clear, boys!

Spreads the wave, boys, bright along;

And whilst our oars make merry dashings,

We’ll too raise the song;

We’ll too raise the song, my boys,

Swift as we row along,

Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,

Merrily, cheerily, row along;

And whilst our prow makes merry music,

We’ll too raise the song.

“Now, Lavigne, your turn has come again,” say we all; and fixing his eye upon pretty, modest little Mary Maitland, with whom he is, or fancies himself to be, in love, he launches into the following tender ditty: —

What thought makes my heart with most tenderness swell?’Tis the thought of thy beauty, my sweet Gabrielle;To the light wind of summer the pine-top swings free,But lighter and freer thy footstep to me.Oh! the sunshine around thee casts brighter its glow;And the breeze sighs more blandly when kissing thy brow;The robin chaunts sweet its melodious glee,But the sound of thy voice is far sweeter to me.Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell,For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle;The star of the evening is lovely to see;But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me.In life my bright angel, when struggling in death,Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.

What thought makes my heart with most tenderness swell?

’Tis the thought of thy beauty, my sweet Gabrielle;

To the light wind of summer the pine-top swings free,

But lighter and freer thy footstep to me.

Oh! the sunshine around thee casts brighter its glow;And the breeze sighs more blandly when kissing thy brow;The robin chaunts sweet its melodious glee,But the sound of thy voice is far sweeter to me.

Oh! the sunshine around thee casts brighter its glow;

And the breeze sighs more blandly when kissing thy brow;

The robin chaunts sweet its melodious glee,

But the sound of thy voice is far sweeter to me.

Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell,For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle;The star of the evening is lovely to see;But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me.In life my bright angel, when struggling in death,Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.

Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell,For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle;The star of the evening is lovely to see;But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me.

Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell,

For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle;

The star of the evening is lovely to see;

But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me.

In life my bright angel, when struggling in death,Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.

In life my bright angel, when struggling in death,

Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.

Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,

The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.

By the way, Lavigne, to his natural gallantry adds somewhat of poetical ability; and it is shrewdly suspected that he is the author of the above song. However that is, whilst he was in the midst of his pathetic strain, with his hand on his heart, and his eye fixed expressively upon Mary, a small manuscript fell from his pocket, which I took possession of, for the purpose of restoring to him after he had finished his song; but the superscription catching my eye, by the clear light of the now risen moon, I concluded to keep it awhile for the purpose of teazing him. I subsequently took a copy; and after hinting most provokingly concerning it at several of our gatherings, in his presence and that of Mary, restored it to him. Here it is —

TO MARY,ON HER PRESENTING ME WITH A VIOLET.This gem of vernal breezes bland,How bright its azure beauty shone,When first thy soft and fairy hand,Placed the slight stem within my own.So rich the fragrance round bequeathedBy this fair flower—this modest shrine —I thought thou must have on it breathed,With those sweet crimson lips of thine.I placed the blossom next my heart,And fondly hoped its life to stay;But each hour saw its hue depart,Until it withered quite away.Oh! how unlike my love for thee,The blighting of this tiny flower!Time gives it but intensity,And years will but increase its power.For I have shrined thee in my heart,Thou all of Earth’s sweet flowers most sweet;And never thence canst thou depart,Until that heart shall cease to beat.By day thou art my constant thought,Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see;My dreams are of thy image wrought,And when I wake I think of thee.Loveliest of God’s created things!My soul to thee through life is given;And when that soul takes upward wings,I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.

TO MARY,

ON HER PRESENTING ME WITH A VIOLET.

This gem of vernal breezes bland,How bright its azure beauty shone,When first thy soft and fairy hand,Placed the slight stem within my own.

This gem of vernal breezes bland,

How bright its azure beauty shone,

When first thy soft and fairy hand,

Placed the slight stem within my own.

So rich the fragrance round bequeathedBy this fair flower—this modest shrine —I thought thou must have on it breathed,With those sweet crimson lips of thine.

So rich the fragrance round bequeathed

By this fair flower—this modest shrine —

I thought thou must have on it breathed,

With those sweet crimson lips of thine.

I placed the blossom next my heart,And fondly hoped its life to stay;But each hour saw its hue depart,Until it withered quite away.

I placed the blossom next my heart,

And fondly hoped its life to stay;

But each hour saw its hue depart,

Until it withered quite away.

Oh! how unlike my love for thee,The blighting of this tiny flower!Time gives it but intensity,And years will but increase its power.

Oh! how unlike my love for thee,

The blighting of this tiny flower!

Time gives it but intensity,

And years will but increase its power.

For I have shrined thee in my heart,Thou all of Earth’s sweet flowers most sweet;And never thence canst thou depart,Until that heart shall cease to beat.

For I have shrined thee in my heart,

Thou all of Earth’s sweet flowers most sweet;

And never thence canst thou depart,

Until that heart shall cease to beat.

By day thou art my constant thought,Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see;My dreams are of thy image wrought,And when I wake I think of thee.Loveliest of God’s created things!My soul to thee through life is given;And when that soul takes upward wings,I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.

By day thou art my constant thought,Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see;My dreams are of thy image wrought,And when I wake I think of thee.

By day thou art my constant thought,

Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see;

My dreams are of thy image wrought,

And when I wake I think of thee.

Loveliest of God’s created things!My soul to thee through life is given;And when that soul takes upward wings,I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.

Loveliest of God’s created things!

My soul to thee through life is given;

And when that soul takes upward wings,

I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.

Richly doth the moon now kindle up the scene with her pure silver glory. How deliciously her delicate dreamy light rests upon the quiet fields, the motionless forests, and the slumbering lake. How sweet the harmony between heaven and earth. The sky is flooded with the rich radiance, quenching the stars, save one or two that sparkle near the orbed source of all this brightness. And on the lake is a broad path of splendor, gorgeous as the angel-trodden ladder witnessed by the patriarch in his dreams. Our little hollow is lit up with matchless brilliancy. It is absolutely filled with the moon’s smile. Let us examine some of the small effects of the light. There is a shifting, dazzling streak upon each ripple as it dances up—the side of yon pine, this way, is covered all over with bright tassels, whilst the other portion, except its dim outline, is lost in gloom. There is an edging of pearl woven along the outer fringes of this hemlock, gleaming from the jet-blackness enveloping the stem. This great crouching laurel, which Ike Davis and I saw looking like one giant bouquet of snowy blossoms, seems now, in each individual leaf, to be sculptured from ivory, or as if the blossoms had all been melted into a liquid mantle of light. The moss underneath that bank seems covered with rich net-work; whilst beside it, on that little glade, is a broad space of pure lustre, like a silver carpet spread there by Titania for the dance of her sprites.

And there is another radiance, too, besides that of the moon—the fire-flies. Every dark covert is alive with the gold-green sparklers, winking and blinking very industriously, as if they had only a short time to work in, and were determined to make the most of it.

There are multitudinous voices also all around us—on the ground, and in the branches—crickets—tree-toads—now and then a wakeful grasshopper—and the whet-saw, or cross-bill, tolling out its clear metallic notes from the depth of the forest.

Ah! it is a witching hour—most sweet, most touching and beautiful. However, we cannot stay here all night, even in the midst of moonlight fragrance, and music. So we all quit our seats, unwillingly,however, and move to the edge of the water. The scow receives us, with the exception of our two singers, who, with their ladies, embark in the skiff. We leave the whispering ripples—break through the net of lilies, making the yellow globes all round palpitate up and down like living objects trying to escape—and launch, straight as the sideways spasms of our swinish craft will allow, into the moon-lit middle of the lake. The skiff is performing numerous antics, as if in derision of our slow progress, crossing and re-crossing the spangled pathway of light, with an effect picturesque and spectre-like. The boat—each figure in its most minute outline, hat, profile, limbs, and all—the oars—even the row-locks—are drawn with a spider-web accuracy upon the rich, bright back-ground in the passages across, seen, however, only for a moment—quick—startling—as if lightning had flashed over, and then all relapsing into the usual moonlight indistinctness. It is something, also, like the opening and shutting of the fire-fly’s lamp, this exhibition of the party, as it were, by flashes.

But, hark! subsiding into quiet, and keeping but a little distance now from our slow, laboring bark, the skiff sends forth upon the night a strain of richest harmony. Lavigne and Murray blend their voices primo and secundo; and as we all glide slowly and sweetly toward the shore whence leads the way to home, to the air of “Come rest in this bosom;” this is the song they sing: —

Oh! what are Earth’s pleasures and glories to me,Compared with the bliss that I know when with thee;I grieve when thou grievest—feel mirthful when gay,And happy when near thee, and sad when away.The sunshine is darkened when missing thy smile,There’s naught then my sorrow and care can beguile;My path seems deserted, Hope’s pinions are furled,For thou art my sunshine, my hope, and my world.I’ve gazed with delight on thy beautiful eyes,Till words were denied me—I breathed naught but sighs;I’ve watched thy sweet motions so graceful and light,Till my heart overflowed with pure joy at the sight.I would turn from the song of an angel to hearThy voice of soft silver fall sweet on my ear;And, oh! in despair’s bitter anguish and gloom,I would turn e’en from life, for thy rest in the tomb.

Oh! what are Earth’s pleasures and glories to me,Compared with the bliss that I know when with thee;I grieve when thou grievest—feel mirthful when gay,And happy when near thee, and sad when away.

Oh! what are Earth’s pleasures and glories to me,

Compared with the bliss that I know when with thee;

I grieve when thou grievest—feel mirthful when gay,

And happy when near thee, and sad when away.

The sunshine is darkened when missing thy smile,There’s naught then my sorrow and care can beguile;My path seems deserted, Hope’s pinions are furled,For thou art my sunshine, my hope, and my world.

The sunshine is darkened when missing thy smile,

There’s naught then my sorrow and care can beguile;

My path seems deserted, Hope’s pinions are furled,

For thou art my sunshine, my hope, and my world.

I’ve gazed with delight on thy beautiful eyes,Till words were denied me—I breathed naught but sighs;I’ve watched thy sweet motions so graceful and light,Till my heart overflowed with pure joy at the sight.

I’ve gazed with delight on thy beautiful eyes,

Till words were denied me—I breathed naught but sighs;

I’ve watched thy sweet motions so graceful and light,

Till my heart overflowed with pure joy at the sight.

I would turn from the song of an angel to hearThy voice of soft silver fall sweet on my ear;And, oh! in despair’s bitter anguish and gloom,I would turn e’en from life, for thy rest in the tomb.

I would turn from the song of an angel to hear

Thy voice of soft silver fall sweet on my ear;

And, oh! in despair’s bitter anguish and gloom,

I would turn e’en from life, for thy rest in the tomb.

A BACCHIC ODE.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Wine! bring wine!Let the crystal beaker flame and shine,Brimming o’er with the draught divine!The crimson glowOf the lifted cup on my forehead throw,Like the sunset’s flush on a field of snow!I burn to laveMy eager lip in the purple wave!Freedom bringeth the wine so brave!The world is cold!Sorrow and Pain have gloomy hold,Chilling the bosom warm and bold!Doubts and fearsVeil the shine of my morning years!My life’s lone rainbow springs from tears!But Eden-gleamsVisit my soul in immortal dreams,When the wave of the goblet burns and beams!Not from the Rhine—Not from fields of Burgundian vine,Bring me the bright Olympian wine!Not with a ray,Born where the winds of Shiraz play —Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay!

Wine! bring wine!Let the crystal beaker flame and shine,Brimming o’er with the draught divine!

Wine! bring wine!

Let the crystal beaker flame and shine,

Brimming o’er with the draught divine!

The crimson glowOf the lifted cup on my forehead throw,Like the sunset’s flush on a field of snow!

The crimson glow

Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw,

Like the sunset’s flush on a field of snow!

I burn to laveMy eager lip in the purple wave!Freedom bringeth the wine so brave!

I burn to lave

My eager lip in the purple wave!

Freedom bringeth the wine so brave!

The world is cold!Sorrow and Pain have gloomy hold,Chilling the bosom warm and bold!

The world is cold!

Sorrow and Pain have gloomy hold,

Chilling the bosom warm and bold!

Doubts and fearsVeil the shine of my morning years!My life’s lone rainbow springs from tears!

Doubts and fears

Veil the shine of my morning years!

My life’s lone rainbow springs from tears!

But Eden-gleamsVisit my soul in immortal dreams,When the wave of the goblet burns and beams!

But Eden-gleams

Visit my soul in immortal dreams,

When the wave of the goblet burns and beams!

Not from the Rhine—Not from fields of Burgundian vine,Bring me the bright Olympian wine!

Not from the Rhine—

Not from fields of Burgundian vine,

Bring me the bright Olympian wine!

Not with a ray,Born where the winds of Shiraz play —Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay!

Not with a ray,

Born where the winds of Shiraz play —

Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay!

Not where the gleeOf Falernian vintage echoes free—Or the gardens of Scio gem the sea!But wine! Bring wine!Flushing high with its growth divine,In the crystal depth of my soul to shine!Whose glow was caughtFrom the warmth which Fancy’s summer broughtTo the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought!Rich and freeTo my thirsting soul will the goblet be,Poured by the Hebe, Poesy!

Not where the gleeOf Falernian vintage echoes free—Or the gardens of Scio gem the sea!

Not where the glee

Of Falernian vintage echoes free—

Or the gardens of Scio gem the sea!

But wine! Bring wine!Flushing high with its growth divine,In the crystal depth of my soul to shine!

But wine! Bring wine!

Flushing high with its growth divine,

In the crystal depth of my soul to shine!

Whose glow was caughtFrom the warmth which Fancy’s summer broughtTo the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought!

Whose glow was caught

From the warmth which Fancy’s summer brought

To the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought!

Rich and freeTo my thirsting soul will the goblet be,Poured by the Hebe, Poesy!

Rich and free

To my thirsting soul will the goblet be,

Poured by the Hebe, Poesy!

A VALENTINE.

———

BY R. H. BACON.

———

Alas! sweet ——, how hard a task is mineThy behest to fulfill. The poet’s heartFreezes with winter; and his lyric art,Torpid and dull, no coronals can twine,Even in honor of Saint Valentine!Yet must the saint be honored; so I layA frozen dove upon his frozen shrine,And ice-twigs pile for sacrificial pyre,While driving snows obscure the short-lived day,Praying thine eyes for soft consuming fire!The thawing ice fit emblem then will beOf tears, that sickness laid its hand on thee:The flashing light, that shows the altar burning,Shall be my gladness at thy health’s returning;Health, Joy and Spring in one sweet band returning!Cambridge, St. Valentine’s Day, 1847.

Alas! sweet ——, how hard a task is mine

Thy behest to fulfill. The poet’s heart

Freezes with winter; and his lyric art,

Torpid and dull, no coronals can twine,

Even in honor of Saint Valentine!

Yet must the saint be honored; so I lay

A frozen dove upon his frozen shrine,

And ice-twigs pile for sacrificial pyre,

While driving snows obscure the short-lived day,

Praying thine eyes for soft consuming fire!

The thawing ice fit emblem then will be

Of tears, that sickness laid its hand on thee:

The flashing light, that shows the altar burning,

Shall be my gladness at thy health’s returning;

Health, Joy and Spring in one sweet band returning!

Cambridge, St. Valentine’s Day, 1847.

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