THE ANGELS OF EARTH.

She Sings.

The Sun gave birth to yonder bowThat trembles in the skyThat life-bestowing sun art thou—That trembling bow am I.When he withdraws his beaming face,The rainbow disappears;And, if those frown on me but once,I melt away in tears.

The Sun gave birth to yonder bow

That trembles in the sky

That life-bestowing sun art thou—

That trembling bow am I.

When he withdraws his beaming face,

The rainbow disappears;

And, if those frown on me but once,

I melt away in tears.

I thank thee for that song. Oh! thou art, sure,The wealthiest empire ruled by mortal man.Thy thoughts fall down on me, like drops of gold.

I thank thee for that song. Oh! thou art, sure,

The wealthiest empire ruled by mortal man.

Thy thoughts fall down on me, like drops of gold.

Scene V. The Banks of a romantic river, flowing among mountains, and viewed by moonlight.

How wild this scene, among the mountains litBy moonbeams. Ivied bluff and cedared bank,And river rippling o'er its gravelly floor.The cool and silence, and the holy night,Remember me of fairies, those strange forms,That ever revelled underneath green trees,And danced upon the velvet, verdant sward.Here will I sit upon this grassy knoll,And hear the song of this sweet water's flow,And gaze upon yon moon, who nears her noon.How beautiful to me, are moonlight shores.Here will I sing of loved Odora's charms,What time she lies locked in sleep's rosy arm.No bird was ever fairer in its nest.No bud e'er sweeter in its unoped cup;No jewel brighter in the chrystal sea;No diamond richer in the caves of earth.

How wild this scene, among the mountains lit

By moonbeams. Ivied bluff and cedared bank,

And river rippling o'er its gravelly floor.

The cool and silence, and the holy night,

Remember me of fairies, those strange forms,

That ever revelled underneath green trees,

And danced upon the velvet, verdant sward.

Here will I sit upon this grassy knoll,

And hear the song of this sweet water's flow,

And gaze upon yon moon, who nears her noon.

How beautiful to me, are moonlight shores.

Here will I sing of loved Odora's charms,

What time she lies locked in sleep's rosy arm.

No bird was ever fairer in its nest.

No bud e'er sweeter in its unoped cup;

No jewel brighter in the chrystal sea;

No diamond richer in the caves of earth.

Lover Sings.

The God of love, made beauteous things,To give His Man delight—He made the sun—the bird's gay wings—The constellated night.He made the mountains of the earth,The ocean, beautiful;He gave all harmonies their birth,Man's troubled soul to lull.The charm of charms—the Joy of Joys,That crowned the perfect whole;Was, Woman's form, and Woman's voice,And Woman's tender soul.

The God of love, made beauteous things,

To give His Man delight—

He made the sun—the bird's gay wings—

The constellated night.

He made the mountains of the earth,

The ocean, beautiful;

He gave all harmonies their birth,

Man's troubled soul to lull.

The charm of charms—the Joy of Joys,

That crowned the perfect whole;

Was, Woman's form, and Woman's voice,

And Woman's tender soul.

Angels of Earth! they soothe and blessThe troubled soul of man,Bestow the most of happiness,They can.Angels of Earth—they are but few,Sustained by Heavenly grace,To raise again, and to renew,Our race.Predestined thus they do retainThat image earliest given,To Adam, yet unknowing pain,From heaven.They move before our wondering eyes,A vision passing strange,And sure we feel from yonder skies,They range.But oft, as brightest flowers and bows,The earliest fade and die;This glorious vision soonest goesOn high.Our verdant vale once knew a maid,Who dwelt in such a light,Her presence made the spirit's shade,Look bright.Harmonia was her name. Her voiceWas tremulously low;To hear it made the heart rejoiceAnd glow.Could I compare that voice divine,To bird's most joyous lay,When hailing from his lofty pine,Young day?Or, to the thrush's full, rich songThat gushes from her breast,And hushes all wild Passion's throngTo rest?Could I compare the sight of her,To glorious angel spring—To whose sweet breath—all lands—seas—stir,And sing.Oh fair Harmonia! God is love,Who gave thee to our earth,To renovate and lift aboveOur birth.Harmonia dwelt within a valeOf wildest loveliness,Where sweetest odors fill'd the galeTo bless.And so they called it "vale of Spring,"This dear Harmonia's home;Where Beauty shed, with spendthrift wing,Her bloom.The pine-crowned mountains stood around,To screen the lovely dale,From tempest's stroke, and lightning's wound,Fierce gale.Harmonia grew to woman's pride,And blent her life with one;Like rivers bright, now side by side,They run.The tale of grief, the sinner's tear,Come not to them in vain;The sad, remorseful wretch they cheer,Again.Oh ne'er thought we, a vale of earth,With morn, and noon, and even,Could seem to own the very worthOf heaven.Such is the valley of the spring,Our sweet Harmonia's home,Where beauty sheds, with liberal wing,Her bloom.Meek Eva is another soul,Ordained to soothe and bless,And charm to joy, with soft control,Distress.Meek Eva hath great, gleaming eyes,Full-orbed with radiant light,Which bring the beauty of the skies,To sight.No word of anger ever falls,From her sweet mouth of grace;No sinful passion ever pallsHer face.Sweet Eva lives to do but good,In all her gentle life:With her good fame, the neighborhood,Is rife.Angels of good, they shed abroadThe spirit of the dove;For He who gave them, is a GodOf love.Angels of light—they make a heavenOf such a world as this—They make the rugged pathway even,To Bliss.Angels of Earth—but we shall seeThese angels yet again;Where angels, robed in purity,E'er reign.

Angels of Earth! they soothe and blessThe troubled soul of man,Bestow the most of happiness,They can.

Angels of Earth! they soothe and bless

The troubled soul of man,

Bestow the most of happiness,

They can.

Angels of Earth—they are but few,Sustained by Heavenly grace,To raise again, and to renew,Our race.

Angels of Earth—they are but few,

Sustained by Heavenly grace,

To raise again, and to renew,

Our race.

Predestined thus they do retainThat image earliest given,To Adam, yet unknowing pain,From heaven.

Predestined thus they do retain

That image earliest given,

To Adam, yet unknowing pain,

From heaven.

They move before our wondering eyes,A vision passing strange,And sure we feel from yonder skies,They range.

They move before our wondering eyes,

A vision passing strange,

And sure we feel from yonder skies,

They range.

But oft, as brightest flowers and bows,The earliest fade and die;This glorious vision soonest goesOn high.

But oft, as brightest flowers and bows,

The earliest fade and die;

This glorious vision soonest goes

On high.

Our verdant vale once knew a maid,Who dwelt in such a light,Her presence made the spirit's shade,Look bright.

Our verdant vale once knew a maid,

Who dwelt in such a light,

Her presence made the spirit's shade,

Look bright.

Harmonia was her name. Her voiceWas tremulously low;To hear it made the heart rejoiceAnd glow.

Harmonia was her name. Her voice

Was tremulously low;

To hear it made the heart rejoice

And glow.

Could I compare that voice divine,To bird's most joyous lay,When hailing from his lofty pine,Young day?

Could I compare that voice divine,

To bird's most joyous lay,

When hailing from his lofty pine,

Young day?

Or, to the thrush's full, rich songThat gushes from her breast,And hushes all wild Passion's throngTo rest?

Or, to the thrush's full, rich song

That gushes from her breast,

And hushes all wild Passion's throng

To rest?

Could I compare the sight of her,To glorious angel spring—To whose sweet breath—all lands—seas—stir,And sing.

Could I compare the sight of her,

To glorious angel spring—

To whose sweet breath—all lands—seas—stir,

And sing.

Oh fair Harmonia! God is love,Who gave thee to our earth,To renovate and lift aboveOur birth.

Oh fair Harmonia! God is love,

Who gave thee to our earth,

To renovate and lift above

Our birth.

Harmonia dwelt within a valeOf wildest loveliness,Where sweetest odors fill'd the galeTo bless.

Harmonia dwelt within a vale

Of wildest loveliness,

Where sweetest odors fill'd the gale

To bless.

And so they called it "vale of Spring,"This dear Harmonia's home;Where Beauty shed, with spendthrift wing,Her bloom.

And so they called it "vale of Spring,"

This dear Harmonia's home;

Where Beauty shed, with spendthrift wing,

Her bloom.

The pine-crowned mountains stood around,To screen the lovely dale,From tempest's stroke, and lightning's wound,Fierce gale.

The pine-crowned mountains stood around,

To screen the lovely dale,

From tempest's stroke, and lightning's wound,

Fierce gale.

Harmonia grew to woman's pride,And blent her life with one;Like rivers bright, now side by side,They run.

Harmonia grew to woman's pride,

And blent her life with one;

Like rivers bright, now side by side,

They run.

The tale of grief, the sinner's tear,Come not to them in vain;The sad, remorseful wretch they cheer,Again.

The tale of grief, the sinner's tear,

Come not to them in vain;

The sad, remorseful wretch they cheer,

Again.

Oh ne'er thought we, a vale of earth,With morn, and noon, and even,Could seem to own the very worthOf heaven.

Oh ne'er thought we, a vale of earth,

With morn, and noon, and even,

Could seem to own the very worth

Of heaven.

Such is the valley of the spring,Our sweet Harmonia's home,Where beauty sheds, with liberal wing,Her bloom.

Such is the valley of the spring,

Our sweet Harmonia's home,

Where beauty sheds, with liberal wing,

Her bloom.

Meek Eva is another soul,Ordained to soothe and bless,And charm to joy, with soft control,Distress.

Meek Eva is another soul,

Ordained to soothe and bless,

And charm to joy, with soft control,

Distress.

Meek Eva hath great, gleaming eyes,Full-orbed with radiant light,Which bring the beauty of the skies,To sight.

Meek Eva hath great, gleaming eyes,

Full-orbed with radiant light,

Which bring the beauty of the skies,

To sight.

No word of anger ever falls,From her sweet mouth of grace;No sinful passion ever pallsHer face.

No word of anger ever falls,

From her sweet mouth of grace;

No sinful passion ever palls

Her face.

Sweet Eva lives to do but good,In all her gentle life:With her good fame, the neighborhood,Is rife.

Sweet Eva lives to do but good,

In all her gentle life:

With her good fame, the neighborhood,

Is rife.

Angels of good, they shed abroadThe spirit of the dove;For He who gave them, is a GodOf love.

Angels of good, they shed abroad

The spirit of the dove;

For He who gave them, is a God

Of love.

Angels of light—they make a heavenOf such a world as this—They make the rugged pathway even,To Bliss.

Angels of light—they make a heaven

Of such a world as this—

They make the rugged pathway even,

To Bliss.

Angels of Earth—but we shall seeThese angels yet again;Where angels, robed in purity,E'er reign.

Angels of Earth—but we shall see

These angels yet again;

Where angels, robed in purity,

E'er reign.

In ancient days, in old, immortal Rome,Where virtues, surnamed Roman, had their home;When Virtue triumphed over Vice, and threwAcross their annals, a more lovely hue;When every citizen was proud to beThe state's fast friend, and venal bribes would flee;When manhood wrote upon each lofty browThat glorious seal which makes the meaner bow;When Industry, Art, Science, Learning castThat light o'er Rome which gilds her to the last;The Roman minstrel caught the sacred flame,And made that age the chosen child of fame:The Golden Age recalled the happy hour,When man walked sinless in the first, sweet bower.Such was the glorious golden Age of yore,—That golden Age of virtue is no more.The modern, brighter, happier Age of Gold;—Oh! dost thou mean that Vice lies dead and coldIn her detested grave, where none will shed,Not even her slaves, a tear above her, dead—That Virtue lives—the rainbow child of heaven,And holds the balance in these centuries even?The Golden Age! the words are still the same,—The meaning once man's glory—now his shame.Hail thou new Golden Age! O heavenly Age!Mankind sustains thee with a noble rage:All, all unite to gild thee with some raysOf gathered light—themselves with shining praise.See! how they rush, and leave sweet childhood's home,The serf his hut, the lordly man his dome,Forsakes, with callous heart, each hallow'd scene,The oft frequented tree, the shady green;Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold,And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told.Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leaveYour rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve.Ye, sunny shores of France! behold them startNor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart.Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris' eyesAre rayless now—for brighter lustre vies!Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that riseIn craggy pride, and prop Columbia's skies,Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste,Roll from your shores and tempt the watery waste—Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows,Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose,Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee,Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see.Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land—Unseen the parting tear, the loved one's waving hand.Thus they depart—if those who walk the main,But few shall view their native scenes again.Oh God! how vile thy creatures there become!Thy pleadings powerless—all thy threatenings dumb:On far Australia's plains, by California's streams,Life's crimson flowing current often gleams:For Cain has found in gold another powerTo make him slay, as Envy at the hour,When Thou dost set the ever-during markOn him a Wanderer, where all earth was dark.And how uncertain is the hold on life,In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk,By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work;Till even when none are near to deal the blow,Imagination sees a hidden foe,Behind each tree, and by the little cot,Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle whereA thousand bees intone the summer air;And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs,Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings;There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime,A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower,And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower,Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss—The burning glance—the long and honied kiss—The broken sigh—the murmured, tender word,Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred—The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought,All pangs that Fate may bring, or ever brought.The lover hears that far amid the West,Gold gleams within each river's crystal breast—That, wide and far, the gorgeous vision smiles,And laps the spirit in delicious wiles.He quits—he flies—he will behold the strand,Where Wealth lies gasping for his tardy hand.He will return—an edifice shall riseIn stately grandeur to the curving skies;In their own land, his lovely bride and he,Will move a lord and lady of degree.She springs—she flings her fair, etherial formUpon his breast, which once, with love, was warm—But now curst love of gold has surely chilled,The heart that once her love so wildly thrilled.Her long, fair locks, distracted, stream below,Her gushing tears like wintry torrents, flow:Her Herbert steels his heart against their power,—The ship that wafts him sails, ere morning's hour.At length he hails the longed for, distant shore;The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er,No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power,His form to earth, to this protracted hour.He sees the land—before his gaze unfoldThe mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.Accursed pride of Lucre—loathsome DameOf every sin on earth that hath a name.In fancy now he sees his palace soarA fairy work! upon his childhood's shore;In fancy sees his smiling, loving bride,A queen amid her menial train preside;And quite forgets that she his wiser wife,Would love some cot, wherein to pass their life:—Till Fate, vindictive, lays her lover lowFar from the hand which might relieve his woe.At last, he dies—his spirit's latest groanBy her unheard—his latest wish unknown.Thus Heaven hath punished him whose love of goldHath made him slight what he should dearest hold.Beside yon haw-crowned hill, a widowed dame,Dwelt with her son, by whom her living came.Enticed by gorgeous dreams that haunt his sleep,Her age's pillar wanders o'er the deep—Deserts his aged, widowed, trembling dame—Ah thus will gain destroy the sense of shame!There on those barren hills and burning plains,His insane fancy gloats on glittering gains.Until, at last, avenging fever lays,His form on earth, through dark, delirious days,Without a mother's soothing care to easeHis dying throes, beyond those distant seas.Yet, when, in that brief space which comes before,The spirit flies, to visit earth no more,A transient light breads on his wildest brain,His bosom speaks in this lamenting strain!"Ah! damning love of gold, which sees me here,And made me leave an aged mother dear.Now Heaven, how just! repays my guilty deed!No mother soothes me in my sorest need.Yet if kind Heaven will prize that mother's prayer,Which, incense-like, now rises through the air;I build my faith—that my last breath will opeThe gate of bliss to my believing hope."Far mid yon vastest woods, behold a swain.If small his joy, small is his spirit's pain.He tills the soil, for him the wild flowers bloom,And lovely daisies shed their meek perfume.His happy wife, relieves his every care,And bliss is double when enjoyed with her.His flocks supply his little household dear,With decent garments, and salubrious fare.Glad he beholds the smiling god of day,Walk from the East upon his radiant way,Gild all the fields—the lengthy plains—the peaksOf giant mountains, with vermillion streaks—While all his farm spreads out beneath his eyes,His heart's sweet home—his little paradise.How better far this humble, noiseless life—Afar from guilty gold and bloody strife.How glad he views his prosperous projects smile,What guiltless joys his long, long life beguile.With joy he sees his offspring rise around,His body's scions, with sweet virtue crowned.And, when, at last, his form succumbs to time,He sees that offspring strangers yet to crime;And, inly joys to think his drooping ageThey will sustain, and all his pains assuage,Till, like an apple mellowed, ripe, and sound,He falls, and slumbers in his own good ground.

In ancient days, in old, immortal Rome,

Where virtues, surnamed Roman, had their home;

When Virtue triumphed over Vice, and threw

Across their annals, a more lovely hue;

When every citizen was proud to be

The state's fast friend, and venal bribes would flee;

When manhood wrote upon each lofty brow

That glorious seal which makes the meaner bow;

When Industry, Art, Science, Learning cast

That light o'er Rome which gilds her to the last;

The Roman minstrel caught the sacred flame,

And made that age the chosen child of fame:

The Golden Age recalled the happy hour,

When man walked sinless in the first, sweet bower.

Such was the glorious golden Age of yore,—

That golden Age of virtue is no more.

The modern, brighter, happier Age of Gold;—

Oh! dost thou mean that Vice lies dead and cold

In her detested grave, where none will shed,

Not even her slaves, a tear above her, dead—

That Virtue lives—the rainbow child of heaven,

And holds the balance in these centuries even?

The Golden Age! the words are still the same,—The meaning once man's glory—now his shame.Hail thou new Golden Age! O heavenly Age!Mankind sustains thee with a noble rage:All, all unite to gild thee with some raysOf gathered light—themselves with shining praise.See! how they rush, and leave sweet childhood's home,The serf his hut, the lordly man his dome,Forsakes, with callous heart, each hallow'd scene,The oft frequented tree, the shady green;Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold,And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told.Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leaveYour rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve.Ye, sunny shores of France! behold them startNor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart.Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris' eyesAre rayless now—for brighter lustre vies!Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that riseIn craggy pride, and prop Columbia's skies,Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste,Roll from your shores and tempt the watery waste—Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows,Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose,Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee,Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see.Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land—Unseen the parting tear, the loved one's waving hand.Thus they depart—if those who walk the main,But few shall view their native scenes again.

The Golden Age! the words are still the same,—

The meaning once man's glory—now his shame.

Hail thou new Golden Age! O heavenly Age!

Mankind sustains thee with a noble rage:

All, all unite to gild thee with some rays

Of gathered light—themselves with shining praise.

See! how they rush, and leave sweet childhood's home,

The serf his hut, the lordly man his dome,

Forsakes, with callous heart, each hallow'd scene,

The oft frequented tree, the shady green;

Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold,

And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told.

Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leave

Your rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve.

Ye, sunny shores of France! behold them start

Nor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart.

Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris' eyes

Are rayless now—for brighter lustre vies!

Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that rise

In craggy pride, and prop Columbia's skies,

Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste,

Roll from your shores and tempt the watery waste—

Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows,

Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose,

Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee,

Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see.

Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land—

Unseen the parting tear, the loved one's waving hand.

Thus they depart—if those who walk the main,

But few shall view their native scenes again.

Oh God! how vile thy creatures there become!Thy pleadings powerless—all thy threatenings dumb:On far Australia's plains, by California's streams,Life's crimson flowing current often gleams:For Cain has found in gold another powerTo make him slay, as Envy at the hour,When Thou dost set the ever-during markOn him a Wanderer, where all earth was dark.And how uncertain is the hold on life,In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk,By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work;Till even when none are near to deal the blow,Imagination sees a hidden foe,Behind each tree, and by the little cot,Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.

Oh God! how vile thy creatures there become!

Thy pleadings powerless—all thy threatenings dumb:

On far Australia's plains, by California's streams,

Life's crimson flowing current often gleams:

For Cain has found in gold another power

To make him slay, as Envy at the hour,

When Thou dost set the ever-during mark

On him a Wanderer, where all earth was dark.

And how uncertain is the hold on life,

In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.

Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk,

By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work;

Till even when none are near to deal the blow,

Imagination sees a hidden foe,

Behind each tree, and by the little cot,

Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.

Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle whereA thousand bees intone the summer air;And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs,Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings;There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime,A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower,And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower,Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss—The burning glance—the long and honied kiss—The broken sigh—the murmured, tender word,Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred—The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought,All pangs that Fate may bring, or ever brought.The lover hears that far amid the West,Gold gleams within each river's crystal breast—That, wide and far, the gorgeous vision smiles,And laps the spirit in delicious wiles.He quits—he flies—he will behold the strand,Where Wealth lies gasping for his tardy hand.He will return—an edifice shall riseIn stately grandeur to the curving skies;In their own land, his lovely bride and he,Will move a lord and lady of degree.She springs—she flings her fair, etherial formUpon his breast, which once, with love, was warm—But now curst love of gold has surely chilled,The heart that once her love so wildly thrilled.Her long, fair locks, distracted, stream below,Her gushing tears like wintry torrents, flow:Her Herbert steels his heart against their power,—The ship that wafts him sails, ere morning's hour.

Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle where

A thousand bees intone the summer air;

And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs,

Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings;

There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime,

A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.

Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower,

And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower,

Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss—

The burning glance—the long and honied kiss—

The broken sigh—the murmured, tender word,

Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred—

The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought,

All pangs that Fate may bring, or ever brought.

The lover hears that far amid the West,

Gold gleams within each river's crystal breast—

That, wide and far, the gorgeous vision smiles,

And laps the spirit in delicious wiles.

He quits—he flies—he will behold the strand,

Where Wealth lies gasping for his tardy hand.

He will return—an edifice shall rise

In stately grandeur to the curving skies;

In their own land, his lovely bride and he,

Will move a lord and lady of degree.

She springs—she flings her fair, etherial form

Upon his breast, which once, with love, was warm—

But now curst love of gold has surely chilled,

The heart that once her love so wildly thrilled.

Her long, fair locks, distracted, stream below,

Her gushing tears like wintry torrents, flow:

Her Herbert steels his heart against their power,—

The ship that wafts him sails, ere morning's hour.

At length he hails the longed for, distant shore;The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er,No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power,His form to earth, to this protracted hour.He sees the land—before his gaze unfoldThe mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.Accursed pride of Lucre—loathsome DameOf every sin on earth that hath a name.In fancy now he sees his palace soarA fairy work! upon his childhood's shore;In fancy sees his smiling, loving bride,A queen amid her menial train preside;And quite forgets that she his wiser wife,Would love some cot, wherein to pass their life:—Till Fate, vindictive, lays her lover lowFar from the hand which might relieve his woe.At last, he dies—his spirit's latest groanBy her unheard—his latest wish unknown.Thus Heaven hath punished him whose love of goldHath made him slight what he should dearest hold.

At length he hails the longed for, distant shore;

The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er,

No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power,

His form to earth, to this protracted hour.

He sees the land—before his gaze unfold

The mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.

How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!

Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.

Accursed pride of Lucre—loathsome Dame

Of every sin on earth that hath a name.

In fancy now he sees his palace soar

A fairy work! upon his childhood's shore;

In fancy sees his smiling, loving bride,

A queen amid her menial train preside;

And quite forgets that she his wiser wife,

Would love some cot, wherein to pass their life:—

Till Fate, vindictive, lays her lover low

Far from the hand which might relieve his woe.

At last, he dies—his spirit's latest groan

By her unheard—his latest wish unknown.

Thus Heaven hath punished him whose love of gold

Hath made him slight what he should dearest hold.

Beside yon haw-crowned hill, a widowed dame,Dwelt with her son, by whom her living came.Enticed by gorgeous dreams that haunt his sleep,Her age's pillar wanders o'er the deep—Deserts his aged, widowed, trembling dame—Ah thus will gain destroy the sense of shame!There on those barren hills and burning plains,His insane fancy gloats on glittering gains.Until, at last, avenging fever lays,His form on earth, through dark, delirious days,Without a mother's soothing care to easeHis dying throes, beyond those distant seas.Yet, when, in that brief space which comes before,The spirit flies, to visit earth no more,A transient light breads on his wildest brain,His bosom speaks in this lamenting strain!"Ah! damning love of gold, which sees me here,And made me leave an aged mother dear.Now Heaven, how just! repays my guilty deed!No mother soothes me in my sorest need.Yet if kind Heaven will prize that mother's prayer,Which, incense-like, now rises through the air;I build my faith—that my last breath will opeThe gate of bliss to my believing hope."

Beside yon haw-crowned hill, a widowed dame,

Dwelt with her son, by whom her living came.

Enticed by gorgeous dreams that haunt his sleep,

Her age's pillar wanders o'er the deep—

Deserts his aged, widowed, trembling dame—

Ah thus will gain destroy the sense of shame!

There on those barren hills and burning plains,

His insane fancy gloats on glittering gains.

Until, at last, avenging fever lays,

His form on earth, through dark, delirious days,

Without a mother's soothing care to ease

His dying throes, beyond those distant seas.

Yet, when, in that brief space which comes before,

The spirit flies, to visit earth no more,

A transient light breads on his wildest brain,

His bosom speaks in this lamenting strain!

"Ah! damning love of gold, which sees me here,

And made me leave an aged mother dear.

Now Heaven, how just! repays my guilty deed!

No mother soothes me in my sorest need.

Yet if kind Heaven will prize that mother's prayer,

Which, incense-like, now rises through the air;

I build my faith—that my last breath will ope

The gate of bliss to my believing hope."

Far mid yon vastest woods, behold a swain.If small his joy, small is his spirit's pain.He tills the soil, for him the wild flowers bloom,And lovely daisies shed their meek perfume.His happy wife, relieves his every care,And bliss is double when enjoyed with her.His flocks supply his little household dear,With decent garments, and salubrious fare.Glad he beholds the smiling god of day,Walk from the East upon his radiant way,Gild all the fields—the lengthy plains—the peaksOf giant mountains, with vermillion streaks—While all his farm spreads out beneath his eyes,His heart's sweet home—his little paradise.How better far this humble, noiseless life—Afar from guilty gold and bloody strife.How glad he views his prosperous projects smile,What guiltless joys his long, long life beguile.With joy he sees his offspring rise around,His body's scions, with sweet virtue crowned.And, when, at last, his form succumbs to time,He sees that offspring strangers yet to crime;And, inly joys to think his drooping ageThey will sustain, and all his pains assuage,Till, like an apple mellowed, ripe, and sound,He falls, and slumbers in his own good ground.

Far mid yon vastest woods, behold a swain.

If small his joy, small is his spirit's pain.

He tills the soil, for him the wild flowers bloom,

And lovely daisies shed their meek perfume.

His happy wife, relieves his every care,

And bliss is double when enjoyed with her.

His flocks supply his little household dear,

With decent garments, and salubrious fare.

Glad he beholds the smiling god of day,

Walk from the East upon his radiant way,

Gild all the fields—the lengthy plains—the peaks

Of giant mountains, with vermillion streaks—

While all his farm spreads out beneath his eyes,

His heart's sweet home—his little paradise.

How better far this humble, noiseless life—

Afar from guilty gold and bloody strife.

How glad he views his prosperous projects smile,

What guiltless joys his long, long life beguile.

With joy he sees his offspring rise around,

His body's scions, with sweet virtue crowned.

And, when, at last, his form succumbs to time,

He sees that offspring strangers yet to crime;

And, inly joys to think his drooping age

They will sustain, and all his pains assuage,

Till, like an apple mellowed, ripe, and sound,

He falls, and slumbers in his own good ground.

The sun descends along the glowing west,His bright rays quivering o'er Potomac's breast—And still he flashes, with his parting smile,And gilds the top of yonder mighty pile[C]—Which Heroes children bade arise to heaven—In this new paradise (though later given.)He sets! that glorious orb! and now is gone—And night's dark wings are slowly moving on;—But see! the moon, full-orbed, ascends the sky,And walks that dark-blue path so calm on high—Pours her soft light—a sea of silvery beams,On that proud pile—as on the sleeping streams;As if indignant that the Night would hide,With her black wing, a nation's central pride—That towering dome, beheld from o'er the sea,To crown the clime of all who now are free.As there I wandered, when the day was o'er—Near that proud pile—along the silent shore—And, fondly lingering o'er the magic scene,Marked each blest spot, where Freedom's feet had been,—The Present fled—the Future rose to light—Columbia's Genius stood revealed to sight.Her Phantom form uprose and touched the sky—Her mighty realm lay stretched beneath her eye.An awful light—yet gentle—yet serene—Shone from those eyes, and from her god-like mien;At first, cold fear ran through my shivering frame,And dread forebodings o'er my spirit came.But soon she spoke—though not in warlike tone,But mild as zephyr when his breath hath blown.A smile of kind, parental love confestHer glowing son whom now she thus addrest."O son! well-pleased, I mark thy patriot fire,Nor wholly scorn thy yet unpracticed lyre.Behold yon structure whose lone, silent heightMeek Luna gilds with her celestial light.See how it soars! and leaves the darker plain—So high—that none will soar, as that again—Until the Monument that God will rearOn sin's dark grave—as Tyranny's is here.Yes! view that Capitol;—its lofty domeO'erlooks the clime thou lovest to call thy home.Just, just the joy thou feelest—it o'er views,The happiest land that quaffs the sun's bright hues.But think thou not that, this, my chosen landHas reached its borders—they shall yet expand—Until yon heap, on which the moonbeams play,O'erlooks a hemisphere that owns my sway.There boundless tracts of evershining snow,There—flowery isles that in the tropics glow—There sea-like pampas, waving to the main,There—thousand cities dotting o'er the plain—There—noble James—there Hudson's fairy tide—There—Susquehanna—e'er with Song allied—Here—broad Potomac, too,—shall here ariseThe hum of wide industry to the skies.There—mighty Oregon—amid the West—Rolls wealth uncounted o'er his watery breast.There—mightier Amazon—the King of Floods,Sweeps grandly down from nevertraversed woods,There—Lakes—supplied by endless hills of snow—There—Mexico—the gulf of placid flow—There—wide Atlantic—blue as Beauty's eyes—There—far Pacific—vast as are the skies—Each whitened by quick-passing, shifting sails,Conspire to make me rich—till Carthage failsTo show a record of more wealth and power,Even where the farthest isles became her dower.And yon dusk hill[D], amid the moon's pale light,In nation's eyes, shall soar a prouder height—Till from each shore where man has learned to dwell—The eyes shall strain, and feel the mighty spell—For there repose the bones of Washington—Upon that hill—earth's noblest, earthly one.But this Columbia's fairest praise shall be,Her Sons shall kneel beneath their chosen tree—At prayer—as fades the daylight into even—And, lift—unblamed—their hearts to smiling Heaven.Here Learning, too, shall rear unnumbered domes,Here Shakspeares—Tassos—find more happy homes,Here Homer's fire, and Virgil's polished grace,A sacred charm shall give to many a place.Each shady hill shall be a Muse's haunt—By each pure spring aerial nymphs shall chant—Chant the sweet song to heavenly Liberty—While thundering cataracts peal it to the sea!"She spake no more;—or I too much opprestBy wondrous visions, needed welcome rest.And when I waked, the day had now unfurledHis rosy banners o'er the laughing world,And while the glorious prospect charmed my view,I felt Columbia's prophecy was true.

The sun descends along the glowing west,

His bright rays quivering o'er Potomac's breast—

And still he flashes, with his parting smile,

And gilds the top of yonder mighty pile[C]—

Which Heroes children bade arise to heaven—

In this new paradise (though later given.)

He sets! that glorious orb! and now is gone—

And night's dark wings are slowly moving on;—

But see! the moon, full-orbed, ascends the sky,

And walks that dark-blue path so calm on high—

Pours her soft light—a sea of silvery beams,

On that proud pile—as on the sleeping streams;

As if indignant that the Night would hide,

With her black wing, a nation's central pride—

That towering dome, beheld from o'er the sea,

To crown the clime of all who now are free.

As there I wandered, when the day was o'er—

Near that proud pile—along the silent shore—

And, fondly lingering o'er the magic scene,

Marked each blest spot, where Freedom's feet had been,—

The Present fled—the Future rose to light—

Columbia's Genius stood revealed to sight.

Her Phantom form uprose and touched the sky—

Her mighty realm lay stretched beneath her eye.

An awful light—yet gentle—yet serene—

Shone from those eyes, and from her god-like mien;

At first, cold fear ran through my shivering frame,

And dread forebodings o'er my spirit came.

But soon she spoke—though not in warlike tone,

But mild as zephyr when his breath hath blown.

A smile of kind, parental love confest

Her glowing son whom now she thus addrest.

"O son! well-pleased, I mark thy patriot fire,Nor wholly scorn thy yet unpracticed lyre.Behold yon structure whose lone, silent heightMeek Luna gilds with her celestial light.See how it soars! and leaves the darker plain—So high—that none will soar, as that again—Until the Monument that God will rearOn sin's dark grave—as Tyranny's is here.Yes! view that Capitol;—its lofty domeO'erlooks the clime thou lovest to call thy home.Just, just the joy thou feelest—it o'er views,The happiest land that quaffs the sun's bright hues.But think thou not that, this, my chosen landHas reached its borders—they shall yet expand—Until yon heap, on which the moonbeams play,O'erlooks a hemisphere that owns my sway.There boundless tracts of evershining snow,There—flowery isles that in the tropics glow—There sea-like pampas, waving to the main,There—thousand cities dotting o'er the plain—There—noble James—there Hudson's fairy tide—There—Susquehanna—e'er with Song allied—Here—broad Potomac, too,—shall here ariseThe hum of wide industry to the skies.There—mighty Oregon—amid the West—Rolls wealth uncounted o'er his watery breast.There—mightier Amazon—the King of Floods,Sweeps grandly down from nevertraversed woods,There—Lakes—supplied by endless hills of snow—There—Mexico—the gulf of placid flow—There—wide Atlantic—blue as Beauty's eyes—There—far Pacific—vast as are the skies—Each whitened by quick-passing, shifting sails,Conspire to make me rich—till Carthage failsTo show a record of more wealth and power,Even where the farthest isles became her dower.And yon dusk hill[D], amid the moon's pale light,In nation's eyes, shall soar a prouder height—Till from each shore where man has learned to dwell—The eyes shall strain, and feel the mighty spell—For there repose the bones of Washington—Upon that hill—earth's noblest, earthly one.

"O son! well-pleased, I mark thy patriot fire,

Nor wholly scorn thy yet unpracticed lyre.

Behold yon structure whose lone, silent height

Meek Luna gilds with her celestial light.

See how it soars! and leaves the darker plain—

So high—that none will soar, as that again—

Until the Monument that God will rear

On sin's dark grave—as Tyranny's is here.

Yes! view that Capitol;—its lofty dome

O'erlooks the clime thou lovest to call thy home.

Just, just the joy thou feelest—it o'er views,

The happiest land that quaffs the sun's bright hues.

But think thou not that, this, my chosen land

Has reached its borders—they shall yet expand—

Until yon heap, on which the moonbeams play,

O'erlooks a hemisphere that owns my sway.

There boundless tracts of evershining snow,

There—flowery isles that in the tropics glow—

There sea-like pampas, waving to the main,

There—thousand cities dotting o'er the plain—

There—noble James—there Hudson's fairy tide—

There—Susquehanna—e'er with Song allied—

Here—broad Potomac, too,—shall here arise

The hum of wide industry to the skies.

There—mighty Oregon—amid the West—

Rolls wealth uncounted o'er his watery breast.

There—mightier Amazon—the King of Floods,

Sweeps grandly down from nevertraversed woods,

There—Lakes—supplied by endless hills of snow—

There—Mexico—the gulf of placid flow—

There—wide Atlantic—blue as Beauty's eyes—

There—far Pacific—vast as are the skies—

Each whitened by quick-passing, shifting sails,

Conspire to make me rich—till Carthage fails

To show a record of more wealth and power,

Even where the farthest isles became her dower.

And yon dusk hill[D], amid the moon's pale light,

In nation's eyes, shall soar a prouder height—

Till from each shore where man has learned to dwell—

The eyes shall strain, and feel the mighty spell—

For there repose the bones of Washington—

Upon that hill—earth's noblest, earthly one.

But this Columbia's fairest praise shall be,Her Sons shall kneel beneath their chosen tree—At prayer—as fades the daylight into even—And, lift—unblamed—their hearts to smiling Heaven.

But this Columbia's fairest praise shall be,

Her Sons shall kneel beneath their chosen tree—

At prayer—as fades the daylight into even—

And, lift—unblamed—their hearts to smiling Heaven.

Here Learning, too, shall rear unnumbered domes,Here Shakspeares—Tassos—find more happy homes,Here Homer's fire, and Virgil's polished grace,A sacred charm shall give to many a place.Each shady hill shall be a Muse's haunt—By each pure spring aerial nymphs shall chant—Chant the sweet song to heavenly Liberty—While thundering cataracts peal it to the sea!"She spake no more;—or I too much opprestBy wondrous visions, needed welcome rest.And when I waked, the day had now unfurledHis rosy banners o'er the laughing world,And while the glorious prospect charmed my view,I felt Columbia's prophecy was true.

Here Learning, too, shall rear unnumbered domes,

Here Shakspeares—Tassos—find more happy homes,

Here Homer's fire, and Virgil's polished grace,

A sacred charm shall give to many a place.

Each shady hill shall be a Muse's haunt—

By each pure spring aerial nymphs shall chant—

Chant the sweet song to heavenly Liberty—

While thundering cataracts peal it to the sea!"

She spake no more;—or I too much opprest

By wondrous visions, needed welcome rest.

And when I waked, the day had now unfurled

His rosy banners o'er the laughing world,

And while the glorious prospect charmed my view,

I felt Columbia's prophecy was true.

[C]The National Capital at Washington.

[D]The Tomb of Washington, at Mount Vernon.

Of woman was I born, and man I am.I come to teach the greatest, yet the most meekOf all true lessons which man e'er can learn—God's man was made to love, and nought to hate,Except the Ill which God and angels hate.Oh! this grand lore hath fallen on my heartLike smiling sunlight on a gloomy ocean.Oft have I heard and felt great throbs of loveVibrating through the universe of worlds,Through every grain of matter, through the heartsThat live and swarm beneath the eye of God.Oft standing mid the holy calm of night,The surf of love came rolling on my soulFrom off the farthest verge of God's great realms,As rolls the surf of ocean on a beach,For ever and for ever, and for ever.Love was the Cause of all things, and the End;For God is Love and ever will be Love:And those who feel most love are most like God—As seraphs, cherubs, saints and righteous men;And those who feel least love, are least like God,As Satan, Moloch, Belial, and bad men.Once man, and all that live and move on earth,In sea, and sky, were bound by links of loveTo God and angels, in one perfect chain—And God and angels came and talked with manFull often, in the shade of Eden's trees,While lions and all lambs lay down together,All in the happy shade of Eden's trees.Oft have I watched the myriad lovely flowers,In spring and summer, in the woods and meads,And thought they clasped their tiny hands in love,Then all bowed low their painted heads in love,To the great lord of light who smiled on them.Oft have I watched the myriad forest leaves,Trembling as if with some sweet thought of love,Till love's sweet incense went up from all these,To the bright orb who smiled bright love on them:And then a thousand birds began to singOne song of love to that bright God above.Oft I have heard that larks, in England's realm,Fly from the earth, at morning's golden blush,And fill the whole bright arch with golden songs?And I have reasoned they sung only love,Which teaches them that strangest melody,Which they soar nearest heaven to warble out.Oft have I seen the beams that leave the sun,Embrace within the clouds, with shining arms—And form a splendid arch in earth and heaven,Which shines eternal covenant of Love—Toward which our hearts forever mount and sing,As skylarks mount and sing to morning's flash.Oft have I seen the sparkling water-drops,Cohere in love, and make a crystal lake—A gulf—a sea—an ocean's mighty mirror.Oft have I thought that all the system worlds,A few of which we watch, at holy night,Far up amid those deep, blue fields of night—Are hung by Love, and wheel forever roundThe Central Point, in circles swift but true;And in their orbits flying thus for ever,Sing forth a choral song of burning love,To that Creator who loves them again.Oft have I thought, the law which Newton namedThe Law of Gravitation, is the LawOf Love, which God had called the Law of Love.And if a world could ever hate the rest,'Twould rush forever to the abysm of gloom,And dreariest part of chaos. I inferGod's man was made to love and nought to hateOnly the Ill which God and Angels hate.Ah! happy spirits were they all in heaven,And all loved God, and one another loved—And all moved round the Triune God enthroned—In blissful circles—nearing him for aye,Yet not approaching ever—till that FoulAnd Hateful One fell off from love and thenFell down into his dark, eternal den,Where love's sweet beam can never, never reach.

Of woman was I born, and man I am.

I come to teach the greatest, yet the most meek

Of all true lessons which man e'er can learn—

God's man was made to love, and nought to hate,

Except the Ill which God and angels hate.

Oh! this grand lore hath fallen on my heart

Like smiling sunlight on a gloomy ocean.

Oft have I heard and felt great throbs of love

Vibrating through the universe of worlds,

Through every grain of matter, through the hearts

That live and swarm beneath the eye of God.

Oft standing mid the holy calm of night,

The surf of love came rolling on my soul

From off the farthest verge of God's great realms,

As rolls the surf of ocean on a beach,

For ever and for ever, and for ever.

Love was the Cause of all things, and the End;

For God is Love and ever will be Love:

And those who feel most love are most like God—

As seraphs, cherubs, saints and righteous men;

And those who feel least love, are least like God,

As Satan, Moloch, Belial, and bad men.

Once man, and all that live and move on earth,In sea, and sky, were bound by links of loveTo God and angels, in one perfect chain—And God and angels came and talked with manFull often, in the shade of Eden's trees,While lions and all lambs lay down together,All in the happy shade of Eden's trees.Oft have I watched the myriad lovely flowers,In spring and summer, in the woods and meads,And thought they clasped their tiny hands in love,Then all bowed low their painted heads in love,To the great lord of light who smiled on them.Oft have I watched the myriad forest leaves,Trembling as if with some sweet thought of love,Till love's sweet incense went up from all these,To the bright orb who smiled bright love on them:And then a thousand birds began to singOne song of love to that bright God above.Oft I have heard that larks, in England's realm,Fly from the earth, at morning's golden blush,And fill the whole bright arch with golden songs?And I have reasoned they sung only love,Which teaches them that strangest melody,Which they soar nearest heaven to warble out.Oft have I seen the beams that leave the sun,Embrace within the clouds, with shining arms—And form a splendid arch in earth and heaven,Which shines eternal covenant of Love—Toward which our hearts forever mount and sing,As skylarks mount and sing to morning's flash.Oft have I seen the sparkling water-drops,Cohere in love, and make a crystal lake—A gulf—a sea—an ocean's mighty mirror.Oft have I thought that all the system worlds,A few of which we watch, at holy night,Far up amid those deep, blue fields of night—Are hung by Love, and wheel forever roundThe Central Point, in circles swift but true;And in their orbits flying thus for ever,Sing forth a choral song of burning love,To that Creator who loves them again.Oft have I thought, the law which Newton namedThe Law of Gravitation, is the LawOf Love, which God had called the Law of Love.And if a world could ever hate the rest,'Twould rush forever to the abysm of gloom,And dreariest part of chaos. I inferGod's man was made to love and nought to hateOnly the Ill which God and Angels hate.

Once man, and all that live and move on earth,

In sea, and sky, were bound by links of love

To God and angels, in one perfect chain—

And God and angels came and talked with man

Full often, in the shade of Eden's trees,

While lions and all lambs lay down together,

All in the happy shade of Eden's trees.

Oft have I watched the myriad lovely flowers,

In spring and summer, in the woods and meads,

And thought they clasped their tiny hands in love,

Then all bowed low their painted heads in love,

To the great lord of light who smiled on them.

Oft have I watched the myriad forest leaves,

Trembling as if with some sweet thought of love,

Till love's sweet incense went up from all these,

To the bright orb who smiled bright love on them:

And then a thousand birds began to sing

One song of love to that bright God above.

Oft I have heard that larks, in England's realm,

Fly from the earth, at morning's golden blush,

And fill the whole bright arch with golden songs?

And I have reasoned they sung only love,

Which teaches them that strangest melody,

Which they soar nearest heaven to warble out.

Oft have I seen the beams that leave the sun,

Embrace within the clouds, with shining arms—

And form a splendid arch in earth and heaven,

Which shines eternal covenant of Love—

Toward which our hearts forever mount and sing,

As skylarks mount and sing to morning's flash.

Oft have I seen the sparkling water-drops,

Cohere in love, and make a crystal lake—

A gulf—a sea—an ocean's mighty mirror.

Oft have I thought that all the system worlds,

A few of which we watch, at holy night,

Far up amid those deep, blue fields of night—

Are hung by Love, and wheel forever round

The Central Point, in circles swift but true;

And in their orbits flying thus for ever,

Sing forth a choral song of burning love,

To that Creator who loves them again.

Oft have I thought, the law which Newton named

The Law of Gravitation, is the Law

Of Love, which God had called the Law of Love.

And if a world could ever hate the rest,

'Twould rush forever to the abysm of gloom,

And dreariest part of chaos. I infer

God's man was made to love and nought to hate

Only the Ill which God and Angels hate.

Ah! happy spirits were they all in heaven,And all loved God, and one another loved—And all moved round the Triune God enthroned—In blissful circles—nearing him for aye,Yet not approaching ever—till that FoulAnd Hateful One fell off from love and thenFell down into his dark, eternal den,Where love's sweet beam can never, never reach.

Ah! happy spirits were they all in heaven,

And all loved God, and one another loved—

And all moved round the Triune God enthroned—

In blissful circles—nearing him for aye,

Yet not approaching ever—till that Foul

And Hateful One fell off from love and then

Fell down into his dark, eternal den,

Where love's sweet beam can never, never reach.

Two lovers in the strength of life,Had built a beauteous home,Where tall, ancestral oaks uprose,O'ershadowing their high dome.He was a tall and manly form,With ringlets dark like night;But she was like the lily's stem,With eyes of moon-like light.Six happy years they chronicledWithin their nest of bliss;To taste each day some sweetest joy,They could not go amiss.Three little images of them,Two boys and one a maid,Beneath those high, ancestral oaks,With silver laughter, played.The thunder-blast of war came o'erThe lover's startled soul;The wife bowed low her head and heart,To sorrow's strong control.The lady drooped—as droops a flowerWithout the sun or rain;And now at twilight's hectic flush,She sang a wild, low strain:"He's gone, I cannot smile as whenI saw him at my side!Ah me! the memory of that hourWhen I was his new bride."Our two young hearts were joined in love,As two bright lamps of flame,Cut off from him, life is to meA mockery and a name."God help my helpless little ones,And keep them for his own.My heart is breaking—husband! longThou shalt not be alone."When faded all the autumn flowersThe lady surely died—Broken the bands that bound her lifeTo him—his wife and bride.

Two lovers in the strength of life,Had built a beauteous home,Where tall, ancestral oaks uprose,O'ershadowing their high dome.

Two lovers in the strength of life,

Had built a beauteous home,

Where tall, ancestral oaks uprose,

O'ershadowing their high dome.

He was a tall and manly form,With ringlets dark like night;But she was like the lily's stem,With eyes of moon-like light.

He was a tall and manly form,

With ringlets dark like night;

But she was like the lily's stem,

With eyes of moon-like light.

Six happy years they chronicledWithin their nest of bliss;To taste each day some sweetest joy,They could not go amiss.

Six happy years they chronicled

Within their nest of bliss;

To taste each day some sweetest joy,

They could not go amiss.

Three little images of them,Two boys and one a maid,Beneath those high, ancestral oaks,With silver laughter, played.

Three little images of them,

Two boys and one a maid,

Beneath those high, ancestral oaks,

With silver laughter, played.

The thunder-blast of war came o'erThe lover's startled soul;The wife bowed low her head and heart,To sorrow's strong control.

The thunder-blast of war came o'er

The lover's startled soul;

The wife bowed low her head and heart,

To sorrow's strong control.

The lady drooped—as droops a flowerWithout the sun or rain;And now at twilight's hectic flush,She sang a wild, low strain:

The lady drooped—as droops a flower

Without the sun or rain;

And now at twilight's hectic flush,

She sang a wild, low strain:

"He's gone, I cannot smile as whenI saw him at my side!Ah me! the memory of that hourWhen I was his new bride.

"He's gone, I cannot smile as when

I saw him at my side!

Ah me! the memory of that hour

When I was his new bride.

"Our two young hearts were joined in love,As two bright lamps of flame,Cut off from him, life is to meA mockery and a name.

"Our two young hearts were joined in love,

As two bright lamps of flame,

Cut off from him, life is to me

A mockery and a name.

"God help my helpless little ones,And keep them for his own.My heart is breaking—husband! longThou shalt not be alone."

"God help my helpless little ones,

And keep them for his own.

My heart is breaking—husband! long

Thou shalt not be alone."

When faded all the autumn flowersThe lady surely died—Broken the bands that bound her lifeTo him—his wife and bride.

When faded all the autumn flowers

The lady surely died—

Broken the bands that bound her life

To him—his wife and bride.

Love was the Cause of all things, and the End,For God is Love, and ever will be Love.God's grey-beard prophets sang a future time,When all would be restored in love to God,And the first Eden be rebuilt on earth;That lions and all lambs should play together,On the long grass of Eden's greenest lawns.That man should yet behold that happy scene,When one loud jubilate of worship—love—Should climb the heavens from each lone shore of earth.

Love was the Cause of all things, and the End,

For God is Love, and ever will be Love.

God's grey-beard prophets sang a future time,

When all would be restored in love to God,

And the first Eden be rebuilt on earth;

That lions and all lambs should play together,

On the long grass of Eden's greenest lawns.

That man should yet behold that happy scene,

When one loud jubilate of worship—love—

Should climb the heavens from each lone shore of earth.

Oh! Love's the sweetest joy of earth,Love's keenest pang is bliss,And, like a wild, delirious bee,We hang upon a kiss:With lip to lip and heart and heart,We live in that sweet death,And feel the breeze of paradise,Upon a loved one's breath.We lean upon a beating breast,As on a throne of gold;And, like a monarch, thence, look out,On love-hued sea and wold.We dwell upon a loved one's song,As on a strain of heaven,And think it charms the throbbing starsThat throng the halls of Even.Oh! Love is like a river-flood,That rolls and pauses never—An ocean-tide that bears us onForever and forever.

Oh! Love's the sweetest joy of earth,Love's keenest pang is bliss,And, like a wild, delirious bee,We hang upon a kiss:

Oh! Love's the sweetest joy of earth,

Love's keenest pang is bliss,

And, like a wild, delirious bee,

We hang upon a kiss:

With lip to lip and heart and heart,We live in that sweet death,And feel the breeze of paradise,Upon a loved one's breath.

With lip to lip and heart and heart,

We live in that sweet death,

And feel the breeze of paradise,

Upon a loved one's breath.

We lean upon a beating breast,As on a throne of gold;And, like a monarch, thence, look out,On love-hued sea and wold.

We lean upon a beating breast,

As on a throne of gold;

And, like a monarch, thence, look out,

On love-hued sea and wold.

We dwell upon a loved one's song,As on a strain of heaven,And think it charms the throbbing starsThat throng the halls of Even.

We dwell upon a loved one's song,

As on a strain of heaven,

And think it charms the throbbing stars

That throng the halls of Even.

Oh! Love is like a river-flood,That rolls and pauses never—An ocean-tide that bears us onForever and forever.

Oh! Love is like a river-flood,

That rolls and pauses never—

An ocean-tide that bears us on

Forever and forever.

This is the lore I come to teach the world—That Love formed all of matter, all of spirit;That Love keeps all things, lest they fall to chaos;That Love's pulse vibrates throughout all God's works,Whose beat is harmony like angels' songs—And man is most like God and least like Devil,When he most loves all things which God hath made.

This is the lore I come to teach the world—

That Love formed all of matter, all of spirit;

That Love keeps all things, lest they fall to chaos;

That Love's pulse vibrates throughout all God's works,

Whose beat is harmony like angels' songs—

And man is most like God and least like Devil,

When he most loves all things which God hath made.

When smiling spring, an angel fair!Walks o'er the verdant plain,And breathes a soft and balmy air,From isles beyond the main:When robins sing, and waters play,And lambs skip o'er the mead,And forest birds, with music gay,Their callow offspring feed:When May-flowers shine by every stream,And fragrants showers come down,While sun-rays o'er the mountains gleam,And form a dazzling crown:—Oh! then 'tis sweet to be with thee,Dear Nature ever fair,To roam thy walks of song and glee,Thy realms, sky, earth and air.Bright angel spring, thou seem'st divine,With ever smiling brow:No sin-created gloom is thine,Nought dims thy beauty now.Wide earth, stream, river, lake and sea,Shine forth an angel land,Where spirits, robed in purity,Roam, love-linked, hand in hand.Now June, like full-blown womanhood,Succeeds the maiden spring,And broods upon the solitude,With broad and bird-like wing.The air re-echoes forth a songOf full and perfect bliss,Where happy lovers roam along,And melt into a kiss.But Summer bursts upon the world,With views of waving grain,Beneath the sweating sickle hurled,Upon the fragrant plain.The warm, long day calls forth at length,The storm's electric fire,That shatters the oak's imperial strength,And bids the shrubs expire.The cloud rolls off—and see! what pride!A many colored bow,Hangs on the cloud's retreating side,And o'er the fields below.Then, glorious summer flies away,From upland, slope and plain;And Autumn, crowned with shocks of hay,Appears in joy again.Old, jolly Autumn! happy man!Wild tumbling on the meads;We'll love thee, Autumn, as we can,Thy glory is our needs.Thou heapest our barns with plenty—thouArt, sure our faithful friend;And, in the aspect of thy brow,Lovely and useful blend.Thy golden hues recede at length,And seem to sigh decay,Till, thou, despoiled of life and strength,Art borne, a corpse, away.Wild, bleak, and blustering Winter wild,Assumes the icy throne;Deep snows upon the earth are piled,And hushed is every tone.The trees stand bare, bleak skeletons,Of bodies once so fair,And dirges, dirges, woeful ones,Resound amid the air.Bleak, winter wild! thy dreary scenes,Have yet one modest flower;The daisy finds some little greens,Whereby she builds her bower.The daisy is a preacher wise,Whom heavenly robes array;Each winter lives, and sweetly tries,A loving word to say."Oh! man, amid thy darkest woe,Some humble bliss remains;—Then, let thy murmurings cease to flow,And hush thy doleful strains."It is the dawn. Faint crimson streaksThe dewy, orient sky,Like virtue's blush, on maiden cheeks,Ah! sweet and peerless dye.At last—the sun, an Eastern king,Comes forth in rested pride;And soars, with bright and burning wing,Above the hill and tide.Above yon Blue Ridge, towering piles,Uptorn by Nature's throe—He speeds, he speeds, through myriad miles,To his meridian glow.The birds sink down, amid the copse,And sing a feeble song;At last, each sound, on sudden, stops,And Silence holds the throng.But Evening, comes, a sober maid,With one bright, starry eye;And throws her mantle—star-inlaid—Upon the silent sky.It is night's noon. How dark, how vast,Yon boundless vault appears;A shadow o'er the earth is cast,That wakes the spirit's fearsHow death-like hushed! all life seems dead,Does Nature live at all?Ah, truest symbol! it has said,"The hush—the gloom—the Pall!"Day is the varying life of Man,—Some sunshine—clouds again—Night is his death—which erst beganWhen Sin began to reign.Dark, spectral Night! I sing of thee;For, thou art lovely, too—And Death will wake the melodyOf him whose life was true.To walk upon the azure sea,It is a thing of bliss;When skies are bright, and sails are freeAnd smiling wavelets kiss.How grandly leans the ship, a queen,Above the sparkling tide—With joy she walks the watery scene,A thing of fear and pride.To scale the crown of vast Blue Ridge,And eye the world below—Farm—river—ravine—wiry bridge—And soaring crane and crow—And misty woods—and fields afar—Neat villages and towns—Blest herds and flocks no beast can mar,That nibble sunny downs.Oh! that is, sure, a pleasant thing,And bathes the soul in joy;And many a grief-worn man 'twould bring,To be once more a boy.'Tis sweet to rove, at twilight dim,Beside an aldered stream,To list thy lady's evening hymn,'Neath starlight's trembling gleam.'Tis sweet to sit within a bower,Inwrought with flower and vine,What time along yon mountain tower,The shades of eve decline.'Tis sweet to hear the nightingale,O'erflow the forest shade,With harmony which might avail,To win a Dis-stole maid.'Twere sweet to cleave the snowy foam,With ship and spirit free,Where tropic spices ever roam,The Caribbean sea.'Twere sweet to sail by Yemen's shore,And touch that golden strand,Where Indus' river wanders o'er,Its glittering, golden sand.Oh! Nature! thou art far above,The painter's, Poet's pride—Thou art the glorious Child of Love—Adorned a heavenly bride.

When smiling spring, an angel fair!

Walks o'er the verdant plain,

And breathes a soft and balmy air,

From isles beyond the main:

When robins sing, and waters play,

And lambs skip o'er the mead,

And forest birds, with music gay,

Their callow offspring feed:

When May-flowers shine by every stream,

And fragrants showers come down,

While sun-rays o'er the mountains gleam,

And form a dazzling crown:—

Oh! then 'tis sweet to be with thee,

Dear Nature ever fair,

To roam thy walks of song and glee,

Thy realms, sky, earth and air.

Bright angel spring, thou seem'st divine,

With ever smiling brow:

No sin-created gloom is thine,

Nought dims thy beauty now.

Wide earth, stream, river, lake and sea,

Shine forth an angel land,

Where spirits, robed in purity,

Roam, love-linked, hand in hand.

Now June, like full-blown womanhood,

Succeeds the maiden spring,

And broods upon the solitude,

With broad and bird-like wing.

The air re-echoes forth a song

Of full and perfect bliss,

Where happy lovers roam along,

And melt into a kiss.

But Summer bursts upon the world,

With views of waving grain,

Beneath the sweating sickle hurled,

Upon the fragrant plain.

The warm, long day calls forth at length,

The storm's electric fire,

That shatters the oak's imperial strength,

And bids the shrubs expire.

The cloud rolls off—and see! what pride!

A many colored bow,

Hangs on the cloud's retreating side,

And o'er the fields below.

Then, glorious summer flies away,

From upland, slope and plain;

And Autumn, crowned with shocks of hay,

Appears in joy again.

Old, jolly Autumn! happy man!

Wild tumbling on the meads;

We'll love thee, Autumn, as we can,

Thy glory is our needs.

Thou heapest our barns with plenty—thou

Art, sure our faithful friend;

And, in the aspect of thy brow,

Lovely and useful blend.

Thy golden hues recede at length,

And seem to sigh decay,

Till, thou, despoiled of life and strength,

Art borne, a corpse, away.

Wild, bleak, and blustering Winter wild,

Assumes the icy throne;

Deep snows upon the earth are piled,

And hushed is every tone.

The trees stand bare, bleak skeletons,

Of bodies once so fair,

And dirges, dirges, woeful ones,

Resound amid the air.

Bleak, winter wild! thy dreary scenes,

Have yet one modest flower;

The daisy finds some little greens,

Whereby she builds her bower.

The daisy is a preacher wise,

Whom heavenly robes array;

Each winter lives, and sweetly tries,

A loving word to say.

"Oh! man, amid thy darkest woe,

Some humble bliss remains;—

Then, let thy murmurings cease to flow,

And hush thy doleful strains."

It is the dawn. Faint crimson streaks

The dewy, orient sky,

Like virtue's blush, on maiden cheeks,

Ah! sweet and peerless dye.

At last—the sun, an Eastern king,

Comes forth in rested pride;

And soars, with bright and burning wing,

Above the hill and tide.

Above yon Blue Ridge, towering piles,

Uptorn by Nature's throe—

He speeds, he speeds, through myriad miles,

To his meridian glow.

The birds sink down, amid the copse,

And sing a feeble song;

At last, each sound, on sudden, stops,

And Silence holds the throng.

But Evening, comes, a sober maid,

With one bright, starry eye;

And throws her mantle—star-inlaid—

Upon the silent sky.

It is night's noon. How dark, how vast,

Yon boundless vault appears;

A shadow o'er the earth is cast,

That wakes the spirit's fears

How death-like hushed! all life seems dead,

Does Nature live at all?

Ah, truest symbol! it has said,

"The hush—the gloom—the Pall!"

Day is the varying life of Man,—

Some sunshine—clouds again—

Night is his death—which erst began

When Sin began to reign.

Dark, spectral Night! I sing of thee;

For, thou art lovely, too—

And Death will wake the melody

Of him whose life was true.

To walk upon the azure sea,

It is a thing of bliss;

When skies are bright, and sails are free

And smiling wavelets kiss.

How grandly leans the ship, a queen,

Above the sparkling tide—

With joy she walks the watery scene,

A thing of fear and pride.

To scale the crown of vast Blue Ridge,

And eye the world below—

Farm—river—ravine—wiry bridge—

And soaring crane and crow—

And misty woods—and fields afar—

Neat villages and towns—

Blest herds and flocks no beast can mar,

That nibble sunny downs.

Oh! that is, sure, a pleasant thing,

And bathes the soul in joy;

And many a grief-worn man 'twould bring,

To be once more a boy.

'Tis sweet to rove, at twilight dim,

Beside an aldered stream,

To list thy lady's evening hymn,

'Neath starlight's trembling gleam.

'Tis sweet to sit within a bower,

Inwrought with flower and vine,

What time along yon mountain tower,

The shades of eve decline.

'Tis sweet to hear the nightingale,

O'erflow the forest shade,

With harmony which might avail,

To win a Dis-stole maid.

'Twere sweet to cleave the snowy foam,

With ship and spirit free,

Where tropic spices ever roam,

The Caribbean sea.

'Twere sweet to sail by Yemen's shore,

And touch that golden strand,

Where Indus' river wanders o'er,

Its glittering, golden sand.

Oh! Nature! thou art far above,

The painter's, Poet's pride—

Thou art the glorious Child of Love—

Adorned a heavenly bride.

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