I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,There are some moments when one can't help feelingAs if his heart's chords were so strongly stirredBy things around him, that 'tis vain concealingA little music in his soul still lingersWhene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:And even here, upon this settee lying,With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing,Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing:For who can look on mountain, sky, and river,Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yonAzure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending,Didst loose thy virgin zone to young EndymionOn dewy Latmos to his arms descending—Thou whom the world of old on every shore,Type of thy sex,Triformis, did adore:Tell me—where'er thy silver barque be steering,By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands—Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?Doth Achelöus or Araxes flowingTwin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers—Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing,Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver,Match they in beauty my own glorious river?What though no turret gray nor ivied columnAlong these cliffs their sombre ruins rear?What though no frowning tower nor temple solemnOf despots tell and superstition here—What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling wallsDid ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls—Its sinking arches once gave back as proudAn echo to the war-blown clarion's peal,As gallant hearts its battlements did crowdAs ever beat beneath a vest of steel,When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest dayCalled forth chivalric host to battle fray:For here amid these woods did He keep court,Before whose mighty soul the common crowdOf heroes, who alone for fame have fought,Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed—Hewho his country's eagle taught to soar,And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered,Within these wild ravines have had their birth;Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered,And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth;And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoaryBut treasures up within the glorious story.And yet not rich in high-souled memories only,Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming,Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely,And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming:But such soft fancies here may breathe around,As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night—Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul,Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light,Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole—Where dost thou find a fitter place on earthTo nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?But now, bright Peri of the skies, descendingThy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest,And Night, more nearly now each step attending,As if to hide thy envied place of rest,Closes at last thy very couch beside,A matron curtaining a virgin bride.Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,As of the good when heavenward hence departing,Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray—Would I too steal from this dark world away.
I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,There are some moments when one can't help feelingAs if his heart's chords were so strongly stirredBy things around him, that 'tis vain concealingA little music in his soul still lingersWhene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:
And even here, upon this settee lying,With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing,Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing:For who can look on mountain, sky, and river,Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?
Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yonAzure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending,Didst loose thy virgin zone to young EndymionOn dewy Latmos to his arms descending—Thou whom the world of old on every shore,Type of thy sex,Triformis, did adore:
Tell me—where'er thy silver barque be steering,By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands—Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?
Doth Achelöus or Araxes flowingTwin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers—Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing,Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver,Match they in beauty my own glorious river?
What though no turret gray nor ivied columnAlong these cliffs their sombre ruins rear?What though no frowning tower nor temple solemnOf despots tell and superstition here—What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling wallsDid ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls—
Its sinking arches once gave back as proudAn echo to the war-blown clarion's peal,As gallant hearts its battlements did crowdAs ever beat beneath a vest of steel,When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest dayCalled forth chivalric host to battle fray:
For here amid these woods did He keep court,Before whose mighty soul the common crowdOf heroes, who alone for fame have fought,Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed—Hewho his country's eagle taught to soar,And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.
And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered,Within these wild ravines have had their birth;Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered,And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth;And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoaryBut treasures up within the glorious story.
And yet not rich in high-souled memories only,Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming,Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely,And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming:But such soft fancies here may breathe around,As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.
Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night—Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul,Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light,Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole—Where dost thou find a fitter place on earthTo nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?
But now, bright Peri of the skies, descendingThy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest,And Night, more nearly now each step attending,As if to hide thy envied place of rest,Closes at last thy very couch beside,A matron curtaining a virgin bride.
Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,As of the good when heavenward hence departing,Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray—Would I too steal from this dark world away.
BY A. H. BOGART
Ob: 1826,æt.22
The flying joy through life we seekFor once is ours—the wine we sipBlushes like Beauty's glowing cheek,To meet our eager lip.Round with the ringing glass once more!Friends of my youth and of my heart—No magic can this hour restore—Then crown it ere we part.Ye are my friends, my chosen ones—Whose blood would flow with fervour trueFor me—and free as this wine runsWould mine, by Heaven! for you.Yet, mark me! When a few short yearsHave hurried on their journey fleet,Not one that now my accents hearsWill know me when we meet.Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,The startling thought ye scarce will brook,Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers thenIn heart as well as look.Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,Will soon break youthful friendship's chain—But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?No—pour the wine again!
The flying joy through life we seekFor once is ours—the wine we sipBlushes like Beauty's glowing cheek,To meet our eager lip.
Round with the ringing glass once more!Friends of my youth and of my heart—No magic can this hour restore—Then crown it ere we part.
Ye are my friends, my chosen ones—Whose blood would flow with fervour trueFor me—and free as this wine runsWould mine, by Heaven! for you.
Yet, mark me! When a few short yearsHave hurried on their journey fleet,Not one that now my accents hearsWill know me when we meet.
Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,The startling thought ye scarce will brook,Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers thenIn heart as well as look.
Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,Will soon break youthful friendship's chain—But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?No—pour the wine again!
BY EDWARD SANFORD.
There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the highAnd manly beauty of the Roman mould,And the keen flashing of thy full dark eyeSpeaks of a heart that years have not made cold;Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,Ambition, that survives the battle route.The man within thee scorns to play the mimeTo gaping crowds that compass thee about.Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet—Vanquished and captive—dost thou deem that here—The glowing day star of thy glory set—Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?To gloat upon the life blood flowing fastOf thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutterThe dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utterSlaughter among the folks of the frontiers.Though thine be old, hereditary hate,Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, untilIt had become a madness, 'tis too lateTo crush the hordes who have the power, and will,To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains,And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder,Wakes not upon thy quick and startled senseThe cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;—Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like thingsOf breathing life, that dash and hurry by?Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummiesThat grin in darkness in their coffin cases;What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stageStrutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower.Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,Pass in a moment from a king—to clown.Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow?Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughtersSet thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellowBy a sly cup or so of our fire waters?They are thy people's deadliest poison. TheyFirst make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves,And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,And lives of misery, and early graves.For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?To the deep bosom of thy forest home,The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws,For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breastOf the caged bird against his prison bars,That thou, the crowned warrior of the west,The victor of a hundred forest wars,Should'st in thy age, become a raree showLed, like a walking bear, about the town,A new caught monster, who is all the go,And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown?Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about,The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one,The power that taught thee thus to veil the flameOf thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee,Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile,Of a bound warrior in his agony,Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile.Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's,Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.Proud scion of a noble stem! thy treeIs blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now.I'll not insult its fallen majesty,Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless ploughOver its roots. Torn from its parent mould,Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air,No second verdure quickens in our coldNew, barren earth; no life sustains it there.But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing,Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;The best of blood glows in thy every feature,And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy,Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye,He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavowAll question of thy noble family;For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety,A leader in our city good society.
There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the highAnd manly beauty of the Roman mould,And the keen flashing of thy full dark eyeSpeaks of a heart that years have not made cold;Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,Ambition, that survives the battle route.The man within thee scorns to play the mimeTo gaping crowds that compass thee about.Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.
Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet—Vanquished and captive—dost thou deem that here—The glowing day star of thy glory set—Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?To gloat upon the life blood flowing fastOf thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?
For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutterThe dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utterSlaughter among the folks of the frontiers.Though thine be old, hereditary hate,Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, untilIt had become a madness, 'tis too lateTo crush the hordes who have the power, and will,To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains,And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.
Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder,Wakes not upon thy quick and startled senseThe cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;—Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like thingsOf breathing life, that dash and hurry by?Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?
Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummiesThat grin in darkness in their coffin cases;What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stageStrutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower.Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,Pass in a moment from a king—to clown.
Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow?Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughtersSet thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellowBy a sly cup or so of our fire waters?They are thy people's deadliest poison. TheyFirst make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves,And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,And lives of misery, and early graves.For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.
Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?To the deep bosom of thy forest home,The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws,For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.
Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breastOf the caged bird against his prison bars,That thou, the crowned warrior of the west,The victor of a hundred forest wars,Should'st in thy age, become a raree showLed, like a walking bear, about the town,A new caught monster, who is all the go,And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown?Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about,The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?
Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one,The power that taught thee thus to veil the flameOf thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee,Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile,Of a bound warrior in his agony,Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile.Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's,Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.
Proud scion of a noble stem! thy treeIs blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now.I'll not insult its fallen majesty,Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless ploughOver its roots. Torn from its parent mould,Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air,No second verdure quickens in our coldNew, barren earth; no life sustains it there.But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing,Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."
Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;The best of blood glows in thy every feature,And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy,Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye,He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavowAll question of thy noble family;For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety,A leader in our city good society.
[From the German of Friedrich Kind.]
BY D. SEYMOUR.
Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast?Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers?Did earth deny to thee the quiet restShe grants to all her children's countless numbers?In narrow bed they sleep away the hoursBeneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers;No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow,Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.How naked art thou! Pale is now that faceWhich once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted,A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface;Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted?Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning!No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening;Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad,As though I power o'er thy destiny had.I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn theeTo gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields;But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee,And try if to my spells thy silence yields;Wert thou my brother once—and did those glancesRespond to love's and friendship's soft advances?Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept?Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure?Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still?Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure?Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will?Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered,On a new field of life and duty entered?Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine,Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bonethine?Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions,The murderer or the murdered to be?Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions,Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free?Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story,Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory?The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand,Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains,The tear may tremble in a mother's eye,And as approaching death dries up life's fountains,Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh;Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying,Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing,And dream not that upon this little hillThe dews of night upon thy skull distil.Or wert thou one of the accursed bandittiWho wrought such outrage on fair Germany?Who made the field a desert, fired the city,Defiled the pure, and captive led the free?Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish,Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish?Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs,Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.The sun already toward the west is tending,His rays upon thy hollow temples strike;Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descendingOn good and bad, just and unjust alike.The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing,Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying;Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then;Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortalWere hurried out of life; we are at peace;Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal,Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease.Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes,And may the perfume of the forest rosesWaft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast!Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.
Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast?Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers?Did earth deny to thee the quiet restShe grants to all her children's countless numbers?In narrow bed they sleep away the hoursBeneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers;No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow,Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.
How naked art thou! Pale is now that faceWhich once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted,A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface;Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted?Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning!No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening;Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad,As though I power o'er thy destiny had.
I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn theeTo gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields;But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee,And try if to my spells thy silence yields;Wert thou my brother once—and did those glancesRespond to love's and friendship's soft advances?Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept?Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?
What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure?Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still?Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure?Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will?Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered,On a new field of life and duty entered?Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine,Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bonethine?
Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions,The murderer or the murdered to be?Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions,Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free?Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story,Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory?The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand,Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?
Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains,The tear may tremble in a mother's eye,And as approaching death dries up life's fountains,Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh;Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying,Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing,And dream not that upon this little hillThe dews of night upon thy skull distil.
Or wert thou one of the accursed bandittiWho wrought such outrage on fair Germany?Who made the field a desert, fired the city,Defiled the pure, and captive led the free?Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish,Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish?Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs,Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.
The sun already toward the west is tending,His rays upon thy hollow temples strike;Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descendingOn good and bad, just and unjust alike.The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing,Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying;Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then;Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.
Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortalWere hurried out of life; we are at peace;Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal,Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease.Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes,And may the perfume of the forest rosesWaft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast!Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
I know thou dost love me—ay! frown as thou wilt,And curl that beautiful lipWhich I never can gaze on without the guiltOf burning its dew to sip.I know that my heart is reflected in thine,And, like flowers that over a brook incline,They toward each other dip.Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light,'Mid the careless, proud, and gay,I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night,And pilfer its thoughts away.I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,And thy soul in secret shall own the powerIt dares to mock by day.
I know thou dost love me—ay! frown as thou wilt,And curl that beautiful lipWhich I never can gaze on without the guiltOf burning its dew to sip.I know that my heart is reflected in thine,And, like flowers that over a brook incline,They toward each other dip.
Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light,'Mid the careless, proud, and gay,I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night,And pilfer its thoughts away.I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,And thy soul in secret shall own the powerIt dares to mock by day.
THE MINISINK.
BY A. B. STREET.
Encircled by the screening shade,With scatter'd bush, and bough,And grassy slopes, a pleasant gladeIs spread before me now;The wind that shows its forest searchBy the sweet fragrance of the birchIs whispering on my brow,And the mild sunshine flickers throughThe soft white cloud and summer blue.Far to the North, the DelawareFlows mountain-curv'd along,By forest bank, by summit bare,It bends in rippling song;Receiving in each eddying nookThe waters of the vassal brook,It sweeps more deep and strong;Round yon green island it divides,And by this quiet woodland glides.The ground bird flutters from the grassThat hides her tiny nest,The startled deer, as by I pass,Bounds in the thicket's breast;The red-bird rears his crimson wingFrom the long fern of yonder spring,A sweet and peaceful restBreathes o'er the scene, where once the soundOf battle shook the gory ground.Long will the shuddering hunter tellHow once, in vengeful wrath,Red warriors raised their fiercest yellAnd trod their bloodiest path;How oft the sire—the babe—the wifeShriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife'Mid havoc's fiery scathe;Until the boldest quail'd to mark,Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.At length the fisher furl'd his sailWithin the shelter'd creek,The hunter trod his forest trailThe mustering band to seek;The settler cast his axe away,And grasp'd his rifle for the fray,All came, revenge to wreak—With the rude arms that chance supplied,And die, or conquer, side by side.Behind the footsteps of their foe,They rush'd, a gallant throng,Burning with haste, to strike a blowFor each remembered wrong;Here on this field of Minisink,Fainting they sought the river's brinkWhere cool waves gush'd along;No sound within the woods they heard,But murmuring wind and warbling bird.A shriek!—'tis but the panther's—noughtBreaks the calm sunshine there,A thicket stirs!—a deer has soughtFrom sight a closer lair;Again upon the grass they droop,When burst the well-known whoop on whoopShrill, deafening on the air,And bounding from their ambush'd gloom,Like wolves the savage warriors come.In vain upsprung that gallant bandAnd seized their weapons by,Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand,Alas! 'twas but to die;In vain the rifle's skilful flashScorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash;The hatchet hiss'd on high,And down they fell in crimson heaps,Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.In vain they sought the covert dark,The red knife gash'd each head,Each arrow found unerring mark,Till earth was pil'd with dead.Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hearSome voice and footstep meet her ear,Till hope grew faint with dread;Long did she search the wood-paths o'er,That voice and step she heard no more.Years have pass'd by, the merry beeHums round the laurel flowers,The mock-bird pours her melodyAmid the forest bowers;A skull is at my feet, though nowThe wild rose wreathes its bony brow,Relic of other hours.It bids the wandering pilgrim thinkOf those who died at Minisink.
Encircled by the screening shade,With scatter'd bush, and bough,And grassy slopes, a pleasant gladeIs spread before me now;The wind that shows its forest searchBy the sweet fragrance of the birchIs whispering on my brow,And the mild sunshine flickers throughThe soft white cloud and summer blue.
Far to the North, the DelawareFlows mountain-curv'd along,By forest bank, by summit bare,It bends in rippling song;Receiving in each eddying nookThe waters of the vassal brook,It sweeps more deep and strong;Round yon green island it divides,And by this quiet woodland glides.
The ground bird flutters from the grassThat hides her tiny nest,The startled deer, as by I pass,Bounds in the thicket's breast;The red-bird rears his crimson wingFrom the long fern of yonder spring,A sweet and peaceful restBreathes o'er the scene, where once the soundOf battle shook the gory ground.
Long will the shuddering hunter tellHow once, in vengeful wrath,Red warriors raised their fiercest yellAnd trod their bloodiest path;How oft the sire—the babe—the wifeShriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife'Mid havoc's fiery scathe;Until the boldest quail'd to mark,Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.
At length the fisher furl'd his sailWithin the shelter'd creek,The hunter trod his forest trailThe mustering band to seek;The settler cast his axe away,And grasp'd his rifle for the fray,All came, revenge to wreak—With the rude arms that chance supplied,And die, or conquer, side by side.
Behind the footsteps of their foe,They rush'd, a gallant throng,Burning with haste, to strike a blowFor each remembered wrong;Here on this field of Minisink,Fainting they sought the river's brinkWhere cool waves gush'd along;No sound within the woods they heard,But murmuring wind and warbling bird.
A shriek!—'tis but the panther's—noughtBreaks the calm sunshine there,A thicket stirs!—a deer has soughtFrom sight a closer lair;Again upon the grass they droop,When burst the well-known whoop on whoopShrill, deafening on the air,And bounding from their ambush'd gloom,Like wolves the savage warriors come.
In vain upsprung that gallant bandAnd seized their weapons by,Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand,Alas! 'twas but to die;In vain the rifle's skilful flashScorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash;The hatchet hiss'd on high,And down they fell in crimson heaps,Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.
In vain they sought the covert dark,The red knife gash'd each head,Each arrow found unerring mark,Till earth was pil'd with dead.Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hearSome voice and footstep meet her ear,Till hope grew faint with dread;Long did she search the wood-paths o'er,That voice and step she heard no more.
Years have pass'd by, the merry beeHums round the laurel flowers,The mock-bird pours her melodyAmid the forest bowers;A skull is at my feet, though nowThe wild rose wreathes its bony brow,Relic of other hours.It bids the wandering pilgrim thinkOf those who died at Minisink.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze,How pure it seems, from earth how free;What sweet and sad moralitiesBreathe from this air that comes to me.Look down, my spirit! see below,Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail,Or wakes to tears that vainly flow,Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.Why should'st thou linger there, and burnWith passions like these fools of time?Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn,And soar to yon eternal clime.Look round, my spirit! to these hillsThe earliest sunlight lends its ray;Morning's pure air these far heights fills,Here evening holiest steals away.Thus when with firm-resolving breast,Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high,Shalt thou with earlier light be blest,More purely live, more calmly die.This darkling dawn, doth it not bringVisions of former glory back?Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing,And soar with me on holier track.Canst thou not with unclouded eye,And fancy-rapt, the scene survey,When darkness bade its shadows fly,And earth rose glorious into day?Canst thou not see that earth, its SpringUnfaded yet by death or crime,In freshest green, yet mellowingInto the gorgeous Autumn's prime?Dost thou not see the eternal choirLight on each peak that wooes the sky,Fold their broad wings of golden fire,And string their seraph minstrelsy?Then what sublimest music filledRejoicing heaven and rising earth,When angel harps the chorus swelled,And stars hymned forth creation's birth.See how the sun comes proudly onHis glorious march! before our sightThe swathing mists, their errand done,Are melting into morning light.He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly,He walks its sides, and shades retreat;He pours his flood of radiancyOn streams and lowlands at its feet.Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illumeEach dim recess within my heart;From its deep darkness chase all gloom,And to its weakness strength impart.Thus let thy light upon me rise,Here let my home for ever be;Far above earth, its toys and ties,Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!
The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze,How pure it seems, from earth how free;What sweet and sad moralitiesBreathe from this air that comes to me.
Look down, my spirit! see below,Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail,Or wakes to tears that vainly flow,Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.
Why should'st thou linger there, and burnWith passions like these fools of time?Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn,And soar to yon eternal clime.
Look round, my spirit! to these hillsThe earliest sunlight lends its ray;Morning's pure air these far heights fills,Here evening holiest steals away.
Thus when with firm-resolving breast,Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high,Shalt thou with earlier light be blest,More purely live, more calmly die.
This darkling dawn, doth it not bringVisions of former glory back?Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing,And soar with me on holier track.
Canst thou not with unclouded eye,And fancy-rapt, the scene survey,When darkness bade its shadows fly,And earth rose glorious into day?
Canst thou not see that earth, its SpringUnfaded yet by death or crime,In freshest green, yet mellowingInto the gorgeous Autumn's prime?
Dost thou not see the eternal choirLight on each peak that wooes the sky,Fold their broad wings of golden fire,And string their seraph minstrelsy?
Then what sublimest music filledRejoicing heaven and rising earth,When angel harps the chorus swelled,And stars hymned forth creation's birth.
See how the sun comes proudly onHis glorious march! before our sightThe swathing mists, their errand done,Are melting into morning light.
He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly,He walks its sides, and shades retreat;He pours his flood of radiancyOn streams and lowlands at its feet.
Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illumeEach dim recess within my heart;From its deep darkness chase all gloom,And to its weakness strength impart.
Thus let thy light upon me rise,Here let my home for ever be;Far above earth, its toys and ties,Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Ob: 1820, æt. 25.
Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regretThat another awakened thy sigh,Or repine that some traces remain of it yetIn the beam of that eloquent eye.Though the light of its smile on a rival had shoneEre it taught me the way to adore,Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own,Because it was polished before?And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,It but fits it the better for bliss;As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.
Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regretThat another awakened thy sigh,Or repine that some traces remain of it yetIn the beam of that eloquent eye.
Though the light of its smile on a rival had shoneEre it taught me the way to adore,Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own,Because it was polished before?
And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,It but fits it the better for bliss;As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.
BY R. C. SANDS.
Ob: 1832, æt. 33.
Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,Though still unequal, hurrying on,O'erturning, in your awful race,The cot, the palace, and the throne!Not always in the storm of war,Nor by the pestilence that sweepsFrom the plague-smitten realms afar,Beyond the old and solemn deeps:In crowds the good and mighty go,And to those vast dim chambers hie:—Where, mingled with the high and low,Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!Dread Ministers of God! sometimesYe smite at once, to do His will,In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!When all the brightest stars that burnAt once are banished from their spheres,Men sadly ask, when shall returnSuch lustre to the coming years?For where is he[A]—who lived so long—Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,And showed his fate, in powerful song,Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?Where he—who backwards to the birthOf Time itself, adventurous trod,And in the mingled mass of earthFound out the handiwork of God?[B]Where he—who in the mortal head,[C]Ordained to gaze on heaven, could traceThe soul's vast features, that shall treadThe stars, when earth is nothingness?Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre,[D]Till round the world its echoes roll,And swept, with all a prophet's fire,The diapason of the soul?Where he—who read the mystic lore,[E]Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;And dared presumptuous to exploreSecrets four thousand years could keep?Where he—who with a poet's eye[F]Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,And made even sordid PovertyClassic, when inhisnumbers glazed?Where—that old sage so hale and staid,[G]The "greatest good" who sought to find;Who in his garden mused, and madeAll forms of rule, for all mankind?And thou—whom millions far removed[H]Revered—the hierarch meek and wise,Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.He too—the heir of glory—where[I]Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?Ah! glory goes not to an heir!Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!But hark! a nation sighs! for he,[J]Last of the brave who perilled allTo make an infant empire free,Obeys the inevitable call!They go—and with them is a crowd,For human rights whothoughtanddid,We rear to them no temples proud,Each hath his mental pyramid.All earth is now their sepulchre,Themind, their monument sublime—Young in eternal fame they are—Such areyourtriumphs, Death and Time.
Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,Though still unequal, hurrying on,O'erturning, in your awful race,The cot, the palace, and the throne!
Not always in the storm of war,Nor by the pestilence that sweepsFrom the plague-smitten realms afar,Beyond the old and solemn deeps:
In crowds the good and mighty go,And to those vast dim chambers hie:—Where, mingled with the high and low,Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!
Dread Ministers of God! sometimesYe smite at once, to do His will,In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!
When all the brightest stars that burnAt once are banished from their spheres,Men sadly ask, when shall returnSuch lustre to the coming years?
For where is he[A]—who lived so long—Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,And showed his fate, in powerful song,Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?
Where he—who backwards to the birthOf Time itself, adventurous trod,And in the mingled mass of earthFound out the handiwork of God?[B]
Where he—who in the mortal head,[C]Ordained to gaze on heaven, could traceThe soul's vast features, that shall treadThe stars, when earth is nothingness?
Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre,[D]Till round the world its echoes roll,And swept, with all a prophet's fire,The diapason of the soul?
Where he—who read the mystic lore,[E]Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;And dared presumptuous to exploreSecrets four thousand years could keep?
Where he—who with a poet's eye[F]Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,And made even sordid PovertyClassic, when inhisnumbers glazed?
Where—that old sage so hale and staid,[G]The "greatest good" who sought to find;Who in his garden mused, and madeAll forms of rule, for all mankind?
And thou—whom millions far removed[H]Revered—the hierarch meek and wise,Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
He too—the heir of glory—where[I]Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?Ah! glory goes not to an heir!Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,[J]Last of the brave who perilled allTo make an infant empire free,Obeys the inevitable call!
They go—and with them is a crowd,For human rights whothoughtanddid,We rear to them no temples proud,Each hath his mental pyramid.
All earth is now their sepulchre,Themind, their monument sublime—Young in eternal fame they are—Such areyourtriumphs, Death and Time.
WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire,Prints on your lip the burning kiss;Why should he not your charms admire,And dip his beam each morn in bliss?Were't mine to guide o'er paths of lightThe beam-haired coursers of the sky,I'd stay their course the livelong nightTo gaze upon thy sleeping eye.Then let the dotard fondly spring,Each rising day, to snatch the prize;'Twill add new vigour to his wing,And speed his journey through the skies.
Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire,Prints on your lip the burning kiss;Why should he not your charms admire,And dip his beam each morn in bliss?
Were't mine to guide o'er paths of lightThe beam-haired coursers of the sky,I'd stay their course the livelong nightTo gaze upon thy sleeping eye.
Then let the dotard fondly spring,Each rising day, to snatch the prize;'Twill add new vigour to his wing,And speed his journey through the skies.
BY EDWARD SANFORD.
Hisvoice was ever soft, gentle, and low.—King Lear.
Thou sweet musician, that around my bedDost nightly come and wind thy little horn,By what unseen and secret influence led,Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine,The hum of falling waters not more sweet,I own,indeed, I own thy song divine.And when next year's warm summer nights we meet,(Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to beA patient listener to thy minstrelsy.Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourseSuch eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire?Some old musician? or did'st take a courseOf lessons from some master of the lyre?Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump?Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full?Art a phrenologist, and is the bumpOf song developed on thy little skull?At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood muteDrinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute?Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song,Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,Or lay of love, thou pipest through the longStill night? With song dost drive away dull care?Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets,Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets?Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee,"In maiden meditation, fancy free?"Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yoreCharmed with their songs till men forgot to dine,And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore,Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine,They sang but to entice, and thou dost singAs if to lull our senses to repose,That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little stingThe very moment we begin to doze;Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper,Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper!Nature is full of music, sweetly singsThe bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,)Through the wide circuit of created things,Thou art the living proof the bard sings true.Nature is full of thee; on every shore,'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child,From warm Peru to icy Labrador,The world's free citizen thou roamest wild.Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll,"Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou,"The Fairies' midwife;"—thou dost nightly sip,With amorous proboscis bending low,The honey dew from many a lady's lip—(Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt)On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep,Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout""Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;"And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan,"On the fore-finger of an alderman."Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth.As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave,So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth,The living water, and the fresh air gaveA portion of their elements to createThy little form, though beauty dwells not there.So lean and gaunt, that economic fateMeant thee to feed on music or on air.Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee,Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.The hues of dying sunset are most fair,And twilight's tints just fading into night,Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes areBy far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight.The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine;Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard;'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline,To hear the opening song of evening's bird.But notes of harp or bird at distance floatLess sweetly on the ear than thy last note.The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge;Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom.Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surgeWhelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb,Then soar, and sing thy little life away!Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now.'Tis well to end in music life's last day,Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou:For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours,And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.
Thou sweet musician, that around my bedDost nightly come and wind thy little horn,By what unseen and secret influence led,Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine,The hum of falling waters not more sweet,I own,indeed, I own thy song divine.And when next year's warm summer nights we meet,(Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to beA patient listener to thy minstrelsy.
Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourseSuch eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire?Some old musician? or did'st take a courseOf lessons from some master of the lyre?Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump?Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full?Art a phrenologist, and is the bumpOf song developed on thy little skull?At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood muteDrinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute?
Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song,Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,Or lay of love, thou pipest through the longStill night? With song dost drive away dull care?Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets,Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets?Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee,"In maiden meditation, fancy free?"
Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yoreCharmed with their songs till men forgot to dine,And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore,Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine,They sang but to entice, and thou dost singAs if to lull our senses to repose,That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little stingThe very moment we begin to doze;Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper,Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper!
Nature is full of music, sweetly singsThe bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,)Through the wide circuit of created things,Thou art the living proof the bard sings true.Nature is full of thee; on every shore,'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child,From warm Peru to icy Labrador,The world's free citizen thou roamest wild.Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll,"Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."
The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou,"The Fairies' midwife;"—thou dost nightly sip,With amorous proboscis bending low,The honey dew from many a lady's lip—(Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt)On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep,Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout""Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;"And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan,"On the fore-finger of an alderman."
Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth.As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave,So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth,The living water, and the fresh air gaveA portion of their elements to createThy little form, though beauty dwells not there.So lean and gaunt, that economic fateMeant thee to feed on music or on air.Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee,Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.
The hues of dying sunset are most fair,And twilight's tints just fading into night,Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes areBy far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight.The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine;Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard;'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline,To hear the opening song of evening's bird.But notes of harp or bird at distance floatLess sweetly on the ear than thy last note.
The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge;Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom.Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surgeWhelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb,Then soar, and sing thy little life away!Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now.'Tis well to end in music life's last day,Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou:For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours,And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.
BY J. R. DRAKE.