When other friends are round thee,And other hearts are thine;When other bays have crowned thee,More fresh and green than mine.Then think how sad and lonelyThis wretched heart will be;Which, while it beats—beats only,Beloved one! for thee.Yet do not think I doubt thee;I know thy truth remains,I would not live without theeFor all the world contains.Thou art the star that guides meAlong life's troubled sea,And whatever fate betides me,This heart still turns to thee.
When other friends are round thee,And other hearts are thine;When other bays have crowned thee,More fresh and green than mine.Then think how sad and lonelyThis wretched heart will be;Which, while it beats—beats only,Beloved one! for thee.
Yet do not think I doubt thee;I know thy truth remains,I would not live without theeFor all the world contains.Thou art the star that guides meAlong life's troubled sea,And whatever fate betides me,This heart still turns to thee.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
Young mother, he is gone,His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast,No more the music toneFloat from his lips to thine all fondly prest;His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,Earth must his mother and his pillow be.His was the morning hour,And he hath passed in beauty from the day,A bud not yet a flower;Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray,The death wind swept him to his soft repose,As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.Never on earth againWill his rich accents charm thy listening ear,Like some Æolian strain,Breathing at even-tide serene and clear;His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyesThe unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.And from thy yearning heart,Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,A gladness must depart,And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;While lonely memories, an unceasing train,Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.Yet, mourner, while the dayRolls like the darkness of a funeral by,And hope forbids one rayTo stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky,There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloomA trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.'Tis from the better land:There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,Thy lov'd one's wings expand,As with the quoiring cherubim he sings;And all the glory of that God can see,Who said on earth to children, "Come to me."Mother! thy child is blest;And though his presence may be lost to thee,And vacant leave thy breast,And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee—Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed,Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.
Young mother, he is gone,His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast,No more the music toneFloat from his lips to thine all fondly prest;His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,Earth must his mother and his pillow be.
His was the morning hour,And he hath passed in beauty from the day,A bud not yet a flower;Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray,The death wind swept him to his soft repose,As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.
Never on earth againWill his rich accents charm thy listening ear,Like some Æolian strain,Breathing at even-tide serene and clear;His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyesThe unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.
And from thy yearning heart,Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,A gladness must depart,And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;While lonely memories, an unceasing train,Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.
Yet, mourner, while the dayRolls like the darkness of a funeral by,And hope forbids one rayTo stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky,There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloomA trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.
'Tis from the better land:There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,Thy lov'd one's wings expand,As with the quoiring cherubim he sings;And all the glory of that God can see,Who said on earth to children, "Come to me."
Mother! thy child is blest;And though his presence may be lost to thee,And vacant leave thy breast,And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee—Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed,Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.
[Translated from the Latin of Angelus Politianus.]
BY FRANCIS ARDEN.—1821.
A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side,Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds,Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide,The poet of the tender loves infolds.Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee,That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood,Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty,Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood?Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase,His weary minutes of disease away,His frigid limbs upon the couch to place,Or with sweet converse to beguile the day.One who would mark the throbbing of his veins,The lotion's aid with ready hand apply,Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains,Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh.None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome,From Pontus far detains his early friends,Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home,Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends.But the wild Bessi of enormous limb,And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there;Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim,Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear.Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread,His savage succours on the bard bestow'd;The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led,Borne to his horse's back a reeling load.The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eyeDeep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound,Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky,With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound.Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep,The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow,The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep,And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow.Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore,And Ister wails amid his waters' bed,And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er,Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed.There with the Paphian mother in swift haste,The light-winged Doves through airy regions came,With pious care the blazing torches plac'dBeneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame.Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful swayConsum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn,His cherish'd relics they collect, and layIn decent order in the cover'd urn.With this short verse the stone they next impress:(The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,)"He who sepulchred lies in this recess,Was teacher of the tender art of love."Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand,Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round,And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's bandPour strains my lays may not attempt to sound.
A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side,Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds,Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide,The poet of the tender loves infolds.
Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee,That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood,Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty,Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood?
Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase,His weary minutes of disease away,His frigid limbs upon the couch to place,Or with sweet converse to beguile the day.
One who would mark the throbbing of his veins,The lotion's aid with ready hand apply,Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains,Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh.
None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome,From Pontus far detains his early friends,Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home,Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends.
But the wild Bessi of enormous limb,And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there;Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim,Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear.
Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread,His savage succours on the bard bestow'd;The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led,Borne to his horse's back a reeling load.
The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eyeDeep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound,Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky,With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound.
Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep,The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow,The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep,And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow.
Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore,And Ister wails amid his waters' bed,And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er,Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed.
There with the Paphian mother in swift haste,The light-winged Doves through airy regions came,With pious care the blazing torches plac'dBeneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame.
Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful swayConsum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn,His cherish'd relics they collect, and layIn decent order in the cover'd urn.
With this short verse the stone they next impress:(The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,)"He who sepulchred lies in this recess,Was teacher of the tender art of love."
Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand,Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round,And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's bandPour strains my lays may not attempt to sound.
BY ISAAC CLASON.—1825.
I love no land so well as that of France—Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne,Renowned for valour, women, wit, and dance,For racy Burgundy and bright Champagne,Whose only word in battle was advance;While that Grand Genius, who seemed born to reign,Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birthFrom heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth,Greater than he who wore his buskins high,A Venus armed impressed upon his seal;Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy,Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel.Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sighAs Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel,"Exclaiming, as he expired "Et tu, Brute,"But Brutus thought he only did his duty.Greater than he, who, at nine years of age,On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate;Who with a rancour time could ne'er assuage,With feelings no reverse could moderate;With talents such as few would dare engage,With hopes that no misfortune could abate—Died like his rival—both with broken hearts;Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's.Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall liveTill time's last echo shall have ceased to sound;And if Eternity's confines can giveTo space reverberation round and roundThe spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of "ViveNapoleon," in thunders shall rebound;The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high,Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!What though on St. Helena's rocky shoreThy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd,Perhaps that son, the child thou did'st adore,Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'dTo crush the bigot Bourbon, and restoreThy mouldering ashes ere they be consum'd;Perhaps may run the course thyself did'st run,And light the world as comets light the sun.'Tis better thou art gone, 'twere sad to seeBeneath an "imbecile's impotant reign"Thine own unvanquished legions doomed to beCursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain;That land so glorious once in chivalry,Now sunk in slavery and in shame again;To see th' imperial guard, thy dauntless band,Made tools for such a wretch asFerdinand.Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past;No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name;But France, unhappy France shall long contrastThy deeds with those of worthlessD'Angoulême.Ye gods! how long shall Slavery's thraldom last?Will France alone remain for ever tame?Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington,Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon?Is Freedom dead? is Nero's reign restored?Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz;The first, which made thy emperor the lordOf Prussia, and which almost threw in fitsGreatFrederick William; he, who, at the boardTook all the Prussian uniform to bits;Frederick, the King of regimental tailors,AsHudson Lowe, the very prince of jailors.Farewell, Napoleon! had'st thou have diedThe coward scorpion's death, afraid, asham'dTo meet Adversity's advancing tide,The weak had praised thee, but the wiser had blam'd;But no! though torn from country, child, and bride,With spirit unsubdued, with soul untam'd,Great in misfortune as in glory high,Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.Pity, for thee shall weep her fountains dry;Mercy, for thee shall bankrupt all her store;Valour shall pluck a garland from on high,And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er;Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky,And smiling seraphs open wide Heav'n's door;Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet,And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet.Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell,A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth;No craven Gaul dare wake his harp to tell,Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth.No more thy name, that with its magic spellArous'd the slumb'ring nations of the earth,Echoes around thy land; 'tis past—at lengthFrance sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth.
I love no land so well as that of France—Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne,Renowned for valour, women, wit, and dance,For racy Burgundy and bright Champagne,Whose only word in battle was advance;While that Grand Genius, who seemed born to reign,Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birthFrom heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth,
Greater than he who wore his buskins high,A Venus armed impressed upon his seal;Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy,Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel.Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sighAs Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel,"Exclaiming, as he expired "Et tu, Brute,"But Brutus thought he only did his duty.
Greater than he, who, at nine years of age,On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate;Who with a rancour time could ne'er assuage,With feelings no reverse could moderate;With talents such as few would dare engage,With hopes that no misfortune could abate—Died like his rival—both with broken hearts;Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's.
Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall liveTill time's last echo shall have ceased to sound;And if Eternity's confines can giveTo space reverberation round and roundThe spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of "ViveNapoleon," in thunders shall rebound;The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high,Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!
What though on St. Helena's rocky shoreThy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd,Perhaps that son, the child thou did'st adore,Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'dTo crush the bigot Bourbon, and restoreThy mouldering ashes ere they be consum'd;Perhaps may run the course thyself did'st run,And light the world as comets light the sun.
'Tis better thou art gone, 'twere sad to seeBeneath an "imbecile's impotant reign"Thine own unvanquished legions doomed to beCursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain;That land so glorious once in chivalry,Now sunk in slavery and in shame again;To see th' imperial guard, thy dauntless band,Made tools for such a wretch asFerdinand.
Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past;No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name;But France, unhappy France shall long contrastThy deeds with those of worthlessD'Angoulême.Ye gods! how long shall Slavery's thraldom last?Will France alone remain for ever tame?Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington,Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon?
Is Freedom dead? is Nero's reign restored?Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz;The first, which made thy emperor the lordOf Prussia, and which almost threw in fitsGreatFrederick William; he, who, at the boardTook all the Prussian uniform to bits;Frederick, the King of regimental tailors,AsHudson Lowe, the very prince of jailors.
Farewell, Napoleon! had'st thou have diedThe coward scorpion's death, afraid, asham'dTo meet Adversity's advancing tide,The weak had praised thee, but the wiser had blam'd;But no! though torn from country, child, and bride,With spirit unsubdued, with soul untam'd,Great in misfortune as in glory high,Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.
Pity, for thee shall weep her fountains dry;Mercy, for thee shall bankrupt all her store;Valour shall pluck a garland from on high,And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er;Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky,And smiling seraphs open wide Heav'n's door;Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet,And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet.
Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell,A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth;No craven Gaul dare wake his harp to tell,Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth.No more thy name, that with its magic spellArous'd the slumb'ring nations of the earth,Echoes around thy land; 'tis past—at lengthFrance sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth.
BY R. C. SANDS.
[From the French of De la Martine.]
Born with the spring, and with the roses dying,Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing,On the young flowret's opening bosom lying,Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling,Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing,And fading like a breath in boundless heaven,—Such is the butterfly's enchanted being;How like desire, to which no rest is given,Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure,Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure.
Born with the spring, and with the roses dying,Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing,On the young flowret's opening bosom lying,Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling,Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing,And fading like a breath in boundless heaven,—Such is the butterfly's enchanted being;How like desire, to which no rest is given,Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure,Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure.
BY ISAAC CLASON.—1825.
He who has seen the red-forked lightnings flashFrom out some bleak and tempest-gathered cloud,And heard the thunder's simultaneous crashBursting in peals terrifically loud;He who has marked the maddened ocean dash(Rob'd in its snow-white foam as in a shroud,)Its giant billows on the groaning shore,While death seem'd echoed in the deaf'ning roar;He who has seen the wild tornado sweep(Its path destruction, and its progress death,)The silent bosom of the smiling deepWith the black besom of its boisterous breath,Waking to strife the slumbering waves that leapIn battling surges from their beds beneath,Yawning and swelling from their liquid cavesLike buried giants from their restless graves:—He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these,Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood.But Nature's warfare passes by degrees;The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude.The dying winds unclasp the raging seas,The scowling sky throws by her cloud-capt hood,The infant lightnings to their cradle creep,And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.But there are storms whose lightnings ever glare,Tempests whose thunders never cease to roll—The storms of love when madden'd to despair,The furious tempests of the jealous soul,That kamsin of the heart which few can bear,Which owns no limit and which knows no goal,Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck,Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck.
He who has seen the red-forked lightnings flashFrom out some bleak and tempest-gathered cloud,And heard the thunder's simultaneous crashBursting in peals terrifically loud;He who has marked the maddened ocean dash(Rob'd in its snow-white foam as in a shroud,)Its giant billows on the groaning shore,While death seem'd echoed in the deaf'ning roar;
He who has seen the wild tornado sweep(Its path destruction, and its progress death,)The silent bosom of the smiling deepWith the black besom of its boisterous breath,Waking to strife the slumbering waves that leapIn battling surges from their beds beneath,Yawning and swelling from their liquid cavesLike buried giants from their restless graves:—
He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these,Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood.But Nature's warfare passes by degrees;The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude.The dying winds unclasp the raging seas,The scowling sky throws by her cloud-capt hood,The infant lightnings to their cradle creep,And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.
But there are storms whose lightnings ever glare,Tempests whose thunders never cease to roll—The storms of love when madden'd to despair,The furious tempests of the jealous soul,That kamsin of the heart which few can bear,Which owns no limit and which knows no goal,Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck,Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
And is this all remains of thee,Beloved in youth so well?Of all the charms that threw o'er meAffection's sweetest spell—The eye that beamed with light of mind,The heart so warm and so refined,This only left to tell?Yet well does it recall againThe form beloved—alas! in vain.Sad relic! but few months are fledSince thou didst grace the browOf her, who in death's marble bedIs coldly sleeping now!And when I leave my native homeO'er ocean's pathless waste to roam,With many a whispered vowDid she this raven tress confer,And called thee, Love's Remembrancer.I placed thee next my throbbing heart,Where soon I hoped to foldThe maid of whom alone thou artAll I can e'er behold!And often, on the moonlight sea,I've stolen a glance of love at thee,While pleasure's tear-drop rolledTo think I should soon cross the main,And meet my love—no, ne'er again!At last our bark return'd once moreO'er ocean's heaving breast;And lightly on my native shoreMy thrilling footsteps pressed:With breathless haste I sought the formThat, day and night, through calm and storm,Had been my bosom's guest—I sought—but ah! the grave had closedAbove that form, in death reposed!Dear gift! when now thou meet'st my gaze,What burning thoughts arise!O, how the soul of other daysComes gushing from mine eyes!I do not weep o'er pleasures fled;Nor mourn I that the loved one's dead:But when remembrance fliesBack o'er the scenes of early years,In vain would I suppress my tears!I weep—yet scarce know why I weep—For I would not recallThat being from her dreamless sleep—I would not lift the pallThat shrouds her cold and pulseless breast—No! if a word could break her rest,And give back life, love, allThat once made life so bright, so dear,I could not—could not—wish her here!Now let the tempest pour its wrathOn my devoted head!The clouds that lower upon my pathCannot disturb the dead:And oh! 'tis something still to know,Howe'er mine eyes with anguish flow,No tears can e'er be shedBy her, who, snatched in loveliest bloom,Lies mouldering in an early tomb.Life's burden I have learned to bear,But I would bear alone,Nor have one other heart to shareThe pangs that rend my own!Yes, yes, loved pledge! where now nay viewIs fixed upon the raven hue,It softens sorrow's moanTo know—whate'er 'tis mine to brave—Affliction cannot pierce the grave!
And is this all remains of thee,Beloved in youth so well?Of all the charms that threw o'er meAffection's sweetest spell—The eye that beamed with light of mind,The heart so warm and so refined,This only left to tell?Yet well does it recall againThe form beloved—alas! in vain.
Sad relic! but few months are fledSince thou didst grace the browOf her, who in death's marble bedIs coldly sleeping now!And when I leave my native homeO'er ocean's pathless waste to roam,With many a whispered vowDid she this raven tress confer,And called thee, Love's Remembrancer.
I placed thee next my throbbing heart,Where soon I hoped to foldThe maid of whom alone thou artAll I can e'er behold!And often, on the moonlight sea,I've stolen a glance of love at thee,While pleasure's tear-drop rolledTo think I should soon cross the main,And meet my love—no, ne'er again!
At last our bark return'd once moreO'er ocean's heaving breast;And lightly on my native shoreMy thrilling footsteps pressed:With breathless haste I sought the formThat, day and night, through calm and storm,Had been my bosom's guest—I sought—but ah! the grave had closedAbove that form, in death reposed!
Dear gift! when now thou meet'st my gaze,What burning thoughts arise!O, how the soul of other daysComes gushing from mine eyes!I do not weep o'er pleasures fled;Nor mourn I that the loved one's dead:But when remembrance fliesBack o'er the scenes of early years,In vain would I suppress my tears!
I weep—yet scarce know why I weep—For I would not recallThat being from her dreamless sleep—I would not lift the pallThat shrouds her cold and pulseless breast—No! if a word could break her rest,And give back life, love, allThat once made life so bright, so dear,I could not—could not—wish her here!
Now let the tempest pour its wrathOn my devoted head!The clouds that lower upon my pathCannot disturb the dead:And oh! 'tis something still to know,Howe'er mine eyes with anguish flow,No tears can e'er be shedBy her, who, snatched in loveliest bloom,Lies mouldering in an early tomb.
Life's burden I have learned to bear,But I would bear alone,Nor have one other heart to shareThe pangs that rend my own!Yes, yes, loved pledge! where now nay viewIs fixed upon the raven hue,It softens sorrow's moanTo know—whate'er 'tis mine to brave—Affliction cannot pierce the grave!
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Thou desolate and dying year!Emblem of transitory man,Whose wearisome and wild careerLike thine is bounded to a span;It seems but as a little daySince nature smiled upon thy birth,And Spring came forth in fair array,To dance upon the joyous earth.Sad alteration! now how lone,How verdureless is nature's breast,Where ruin makes his empire known,In Autumn's yellow vesture drest;The sprightly bird, whose carol sweetBroke on the breath of early day,The summer flowers she loved to greet;The bird, the flowers, Oh! where are they?Thou desolate and dying year!Yet lovely in thy lifelessnessAs beauty stretched upon the bier,In death's clay cold, and dark caress;There's loveliness in thy decay,Which breathes, which lingers on thee still,Like memory's mild and cheering rayBeaming upon the night of ill.Yet, yet, the radiance is not gone,Which shed a richness o'er the scene,Which smiled upon the golden dawn,When skies were brilliant and serene;Oh! still a melancholy smileGleams upon Nature's aspect fair,To charm the eye a little while,Ere ruin spreads his mantle there!Thou desolate and dying year!Since time entwined thy vernal wreath,How often love hath shed the tear,And knelt beside the bed of death;How many hearts that lightly sprungWhen joy was blooming but to die,Their finest chords by death unstrung,Have yielded life's expiring sigh,And pillowed low beneath the clay,Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn;The proud, the gentle, and the gay,Gathered unto the mouldering urn;While freshly flowed the frequent tearFor love bereft, affection fled;For all that were our blessings here,The loved, the lost, the sainted dead!Thou desolate and dying year!The musing spirit finds in theeLessons, impressive and serene,Of deep and stern morality;Thou teachest how the germ of youth,Which blooms in being's dawning day,Planted by nature, reared by truth,Withers like thee in dark decay.Promise of youth! fair as the formOf Heaven's benign and golden bow,Thy smiling arch begirds the storm,And sheds a light on every wo;Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue,A tone of melody is given,As if her magic voice were strungWith the empyreal fire of Heaven.And love which never can expire,Whose origin is from on high,Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire,From the pure fountains of the sky;That ray which glows and brightens stillUnchanged, eternal and divine;Where seraphs own its holy thrill,And bow before its gleaming shrine.Thou desolate and dying year!Prophetic of our final fall;Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear,Thy beauties shrouded in the pall;And all the garniture that shed,A brilliancy upon thy prime,Hath like a morning vision fledUnto the expanded grave of time.Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight,How all life's phantoms fleet away;The smile of hope, and young delight,Fame's meteor beam, and Fancy's ray:They fade; and on the heaving tide,Rolling its stormy waves afar,Are borne the wreck of human pride,The broken wreck of Fortune's war.There in disorder, dark and wild,Are seen the fabrics once so high;Which mortal vanity had piledAs emblems of eternity!And deemed the stately piles, whose formsFrowned in their majesty sublime,Would stand unshaken by the stormsThat gathered round the brow of Time.Thou desolate and dying year!Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine;Like evening shadows disappear,And leave the spirit to repine.The stream of life that used to pourIts fresh and sparkling waters on,While Fate stood watching on the shore,And numbered all the moments gone:—Where hath the morning splendour flown,Which danced upon that crystal stream?Where are the joys to childhood known,When life was an enchanted dream?Enveloped in the starless night,Which destiny hath overspread;Enroll'd upon that trackless flightWhere the death wing of time hath sped!Oh! thus hath life its even-tideOf sorrow, loneliness, and grief;And thus divested of its pride,It withers like the yellow leaf:Oh! such is life's autumnal bower,When plundered of its summer bloom;And such is life's autumnal hour,Which heralds man unto the tomb!
Thou desolate and dying year!Emblem of transitory man,Whose wearisome and wild careerLike thine is bounded to a span;It seems but as a little daySince nature smiled upon thy birth,And Spring came forth in fair array,To dance upon the joyous earth.
Sad alteration! now how lone,How verdureless is nature's breast,Where ruin makes his empire known,In Autumn's yellow vesture drest;The sprightly bird, whose carol sweetBroke on the breath of early day,The summer flowers she loved to greet;The bird, the flowers, Oh! where are they?
Thou desolate and dying year!Yet lovely in thy lifelessnessAs beauty stretched upon the bier,In death's clay cold, and dark caress;There's loveliness in thy decay,Which breathes, which lingers on thee still,Like memory's mild and cheering rayBeaming upon the night of ill.
Yet, yet, the radiance is not gone,Which shed a richness o'er the scene,Which smiled upon the golden dawn,When skies were brilliant and serene;Oh! still a melancholy smileGleams upon Nature's aspect fair,To charm the eye a little while,Ere ruin spreads his mantle there!
Thou desolate and dying year!Since time entwined thy vernal wreath,How often love hath shed the tear,And knelt beside the bed of death;How many hearts that lightly sprungWhen joy was blooming but to die,Their finest chords by death unstrung,Have yielded life's expiring sigh,
And pillowed low beneath the clay,Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn;The proud, the gentle, and the gay,Gathered unto the mouldering urn;While freshly flowed the frequent tearFor love bereft, affection fled;For all that were our blessings here,The loved, the lost, the sainted dead!
Thou desolate and dying year!The musing spirit finds in theeLessons, impressive and serene,Of deep and stern morality;Thou teachest how the germ of youth,Which blooms in being's dawning day,Planted by nature, reared by truth,Withers like thee in dark decay.
Promise of youth! fair as the formOf Heaven's benign and golden bow,Thy smiling arch begirds the storm,And sheds a light on every wo;Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue,A tone of melody is given,As if her magic voice were strungWith the empyreal fire of Heaven.
And love which never can expire,Whose origin is from on high,Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire,From the pure fountains of the sky;That ray which glows and brightens stillUnchanged, eternal and divine;Where seraphs own its holy thrill,And bow before its gleaming shrine.
Thou desolate and dying year!Prophetic of our final fall;Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear,Thy beauties shrouded in the pall;And all the garniture that shed,A brilliancy upon thy prime,Hath like a morning vision fledUnto the expanded grave of time.
Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight,How all life's phantoms fleet away;The smile of hope, and young delight,Fame's meteor beam, and Fancy's ray:They fade; and on the heaving tide,Rolling its stormy waves afar,Are borne the wreck of human pride,The broken wreck of Fortune's war.
There in disorder, dark and wild,Are seen the fabrics once so high;Which mortal vanity had piledAs emblems of eternity!And deemed the stately piles, whose formsFrowned in their majesty sublime,Would stand unshaken by the stormsThat gathered round the brow of Time.
Thou desolate and dying year!Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine;Like evening shadows disappear,And leave the spirit to repine.The stream of life that used to pourIts fresh and sparkling waters on,While Fate stood watching on the shore,And numbered all the moments gone:—
Where hath the morning splendour flown,Which danced upon that crystal stream?Where are the joys to childhood known,When life was an enchanted dream?Enveloped in the starless night,Which destiny hath overspread;Enroll'd upon that trackless flightWhere the death wing of time hath sped!
Oh! thus hath life its even-tideOf sorrow, loneliness, and grief;And thus divested of its pride,It withers like the yellow leaf:Oh! such is life's autumnal bower,When plundered of its summer bloom;And such is life's autumnal hour,Which heralds man unto the tomb!
New-York:
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No. 38 Gold Street.
[A]Goethe and his Faust.
[A]Goethe and his Faust.
[B]Cuvier.
[B]Cuvier.
[C]Spurzheim.
[C]Spurzheim.
[D]Scott.
[D]Scott.
[E]Champollion.
[E]Champollion.
[F]Crabbe.
[F]Crabbe.
[G]Jeremy Bentham.
[G]Jeremy Bentham.
[H]Adam Clarke.
[H]Adam Clarke.
[I]The Duke of Reichstadt.
[I]The Duke of Reichstadt.
[J]Charles Carroll.
[J]Charles Carroll.
[K]Not the sportsman's favourite (scolopax minor) of our Atlantic shores, but the large crested woodpecker, so called in the western counties.
[K]Not the sportsman's favourite (scolopax minor) of our Atlantic shores, but the large crested woodpecker, so called in the western counties.
[L]Or "Lake Kau-na-ong-ga," meaning literally "two wings." White Lake, which is the unmeaning modern epithet of this beautiful sheet of water, is situated in the town of Bethel, Sullivan County, N. Y. It is in the form of a pair of huge wings expanded.
[L]Or "Lake Kau-na-ong-ga," meaning literally "two wings." White Lake, which is the unmeaning modern epithet of this beautiful sheet of water, is situated in the town of Bethel, Sullivan County, N. Y. It is in the form of a pair of huge wings expanded.
[M]The Rev. James W. Eastburn, by whom, in conjunction with Mr. Sands, the poem of Yamoyden was written, in separate portions.
[M]The Rev. James W. Eastburn, by whom, in conjunction with Mr. Sands, the poem of Yamoyden was written, in separate portions.
[N]Hesiod. Theog.1. 1. 60. 30.
[N]Hesiod. Theog.1. 1. 60. 30.
[O]It may perhaps, to some, appear incongruous thus to mingle Heathen musicians among the Hebrews; but it is believed the incongruity will disappear on a moment's reflection upon the history and character of Herod the Great. His expeditions to Rome, Greece, and Syria, &c., were frequent, and he was not scrupulous in the introduction of games, sports, and gorgeous customs of the oriental nations, to heighten the effect of his own pageants. He built and rebuilt divers Heathen temples, and among them the Temple of Apollo, in Greece. Some historians deny that he was a Jew; but say that he was originally the guardian of the Temple of Apollo at Askalon, who, having been taken prisoner among the Idumeans, afterwards turned Jew.
[O]It may perhaps, to some, appear incongruous thus to mingle Heathen musicians among the Hebrews; but it is believed the incongruity will disappear on a moment's reflection upon the history and character of Herod the Great. His expeditions to Rome, Greece, and Syria, &c., were frequent, and he was not scrupulous in the introduction of games, sports, and gorgeous customs of the oriental nations, to heighten the effect of his own pageants. He built and rebuilt divers Heathen temples, and among them the Temple of Apollo, in Greece. Some historians deny that he was a Jew; but say that he was originally the guardian of the Temple of Apollo at Askalon, who, having been taken prisoner among the Idumeans, afterwards turned Jew.
[P]These lines, so musical in the original, and susceptible of equally melodious translation, were penned by the unfortunate Mary a few hours before her execution.
[P]These lines, so musical in the original, and susceptible of equally melodious translation, were penned by the unfortunate Mary a few hours before her execution.
[Q]The substance usually called French chalk has this singular property, that what is written on glass, though easily rubbed out again so that no trace remains visible, by being breathed on becomes immediately distinctly legible.
[Q]The substance usually called French chalk has this singular property, that what is written on glass, though easily rubbed out again so that no trace remains visible, by being breathed on becomes immediately distinctly legible.
[R]The above lines were translated by Dr. Mitchell, in October 1796, from the Italian of Dr. Gian Baptista Scandella, an accomplished gentleman, who afterwards, in September 1798, fell a victim to the yellow fever in the city of New York, just as he had finished his American tour, and was on the eve of embarking for Europe.
[R]The above lines were translated by Dr. Mitchell, in October 1796, from the Italian of Dr. Gian Baptista Scandella, an accomplished gentleman, who afterwards, in September 1798, fell a victim to the yellow fever in the city of New York, just as he had finished his American tour, and was on the eve of embarking for Europe.