Bugles upon the wind!Hushed voices in the air,And the solemn roll of the stirring drum,Proclaim the hour of prayer;While, with measured tread and downcast eyeThe martial train sweep silent by!Away with the nodding plume,And the glittering bayonet now,For unmeet it were, with bannered pomp,To record the sacred vow.To earth-born strife let display be given,But the heart's meek homage alone to heaven.The organ's mellow notesCome swelling on the breeze,And, echoing forth from arch to dome,Float richest symphonies!While youthful forms, a sunny throng,With their voices deep the strains prolong!Deserted now the aisles—Devotion's rites are past;And again the bugle's cheering pealsAre ringing on the blast!Come forth, ye brave, for your country now,With your flashing eyes and your lofty brow!A voice from the glorious dead!Awake to the call of fame!By yon gorgeous banner's spangled folds,And by Kosciusko's name!And on Putnam's fort by the light that fallsOn its ivied moat and its ruined walls,The wave-worn cavern sendsHoarse echoes from the deep,And the patriot call is heard afarFrom every giant steep!And the young hearts glow with the sacred firesThat burned in the breasts of their gallant sires.The glittering pageant's past,But martial forms are seen,With bounding step and eagle glance,Careering o'er the green;And lovely woman by their side,With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride.Sunset upon the wave,Its burnished splendours pour,And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweepsLike an arrow from the shore!There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fannedOn the mirrored stream by the breezes bland.They have passed like shadows byThat fade in the morning beam,And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye,Are remembered like a dream;But memory's sun shall set in nightEre my soul forget those forms of light.
Bugles upon the wind!Hushed voices in the air,And the solemn roll of the stirring drum,Proclaim the hour of prayer;While, with measured tread and downcast eyeThe martial train sweep silent by!
Away with the nodding plume,And the glittering bayonet now,For unmeet it were, with bannered pomp,To record the sacred vow.To earth-born strife let display be given,But the heart's meek homage alone to heaven.
The organ's mellow notesCome swelling on the breeze,And, echoing forth from arch to dome,Float richest symphonies!While youthful forms, a sunny throng,With their voices deep the strains prolong!
Deserted now the aisles—Devotion's rites are past;And again the bugle's cheering pealsAre ringing on the blast!Come forth, ye brave, for your country now,With your flashing eyes and your lofty brow!
A voice from the glorious dead!Awake to the call of fame!By yon gorgeous banner's spangled folds,And by Kosciusko's name!And on Putnam's fort by the light that fallsOn its ivied moat and its ruined walls,
The wave-worn cavern sendsHoarse echoes from the deep,And the patriot call is heard afarFrom every giant steep!And the young hearts glow with the sacred firesThat burned in the breasts of their gallant sires.
The glittering pageant's past,But martial forms are seen,With bounding step and eagle glance,Careering o'er the green;And lovely woman by their side,With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride.
Sunset upon the wave,Its burnished splendours pour,And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweepsLike an arrow from the shore!There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fannedOn the mirrored stream by the breezes bland.
They have passed like shadows byThat fade in the morning beam,And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye,Are remembered like a dream;But memory's sun shall set in nightEre my soul forget those forms of light.
AFTER ESCAPE FROM INDIAN PERILS.
BY MRS. ANNE E. BLEECKER.—1778.
Alas! my fond inquiring soul,Doomed in suspense to mourn,Now let thy moments calmly roll,Now let thy peace return.Why should'st thou let a doubt disturbThy hopes which daily rise,And urge thee on to trust his word,Who built and rules the skies?When Murder sent her hopeless cries,More dreadful through the gloom,And kindling flames did round thee rise,Deep harvests to consume.Who was it led thee through the wood,And o'er the ensanguined plain,Unseen by ambushed sons of blood,Who track'd thy steps in vain.'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears,And bade my infants play,To give an opiate to my fearsAnd cheer the lonely way.And in the doubly dreadful night,When my Abella died,When horror-struck—detesting light,I sunk down by her side;When winged for flight my spirit stood,With this fond thought beguiled,To lead my charmer to her God,And there to claim my child.Again his mercy o'er my breastEffus'd the breath of peace,Subsiding passion sunk to rest,He bade the tempest cease.Oh, let me ever, ever praiseSuch undeserved care,Though languid may appear my lays,At least they are sincere.It is my joy that thou art God,Eternal and supreme;Rise, Nature—hail the power aloud,From whom Creation came.
Alas! my fond inquiring soul,Doomed in suspense to mourn,Now let thy moments calmly roll,Now let thy peace return.Why should'st thou let a doubt disturbThy hopes which daily rise,And urge thee on to trust his word,Who built and rules the skies?
When Murder sent her hopeless cries,More dreadful through the gloom,And kindling flames did round thee rise,Deep harvests to consume.Who was it led thee through the wood,And o'er the ensanguined plain,Unseen by ambushed sons of blood,Who track'd thy steps in vain.
'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears,And bade my infants play,To give an opiate to my fearsAnd cheer the lonely way.And in the doubly dreadful night,When my Abella died,When horror-struck—detesting light,I sunk down by her side;
When winged for flight my spirit stood,With this fond thought beguiled,To lead my charmer to her God,And there to claim my child.Again his mercy o'er my breastEffus'd the breath of peace,Subsiding passion sunk to rest,He bade the tempest cease.
Oh, let me ever, ever praiseSuch undeserved care,Though languid may appear my lays,At least they are sincere.It is my joy that thou art God,Eternal and supreme;Rise, Nature—hail the power aloud,From whom Creation came.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
"La rose cueillie et le cœur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour."
The maiden sat at her busy wheel,Her heart was light and free,And ever in cheerful song broke forthHer bosom's harmless glee.Her song was in mockery of love,And oft I heard her say,"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,And her lip so full and bright,And I sighed to think that the traitor love,Should conquer a heart so light:But she thought not of future days of wo,While she carroled in tones so gay;"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."A year passed on, and again I stoodBy the humble cottage-door;The maid sat at her busy wheel,But her look was blithe no more:The big tear stood in her downcast eye,And with sighs I heard her say,"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,And made her cheek so pale;The maid had forgotten her early song,While she listened to love's soft tale.She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,It had wasted her life away:And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,Had charmed but for a day.
The maiden sat at her busy wheel,Her heart was light and free,And ever in cheerful song broke forthHer bosom's harmless glee.Her song was in mockery of love,And oft I heard her say,"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."
I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,And her lip so full and bright,And I sighed to think that the traitor love,Should conquer a heart so light:But she thought not of future days of wo,While she carroled in tones so gay;"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."
A year passed on, and again I stoodBy the humble cottage-door;The maid sat at her busy wheel,But her look was blithe no more:The big tear stood in her downcast eye,And with sighs I heard her say,"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,"Can charm but for a day."
Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,And made her cheek so pale;The maid had forgotten her early song,While she listened to love's soft tale.She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,It had wasted her life away:And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,Had charmed but for a day.
BY MISS ELIZABETH S. BOGART.
We parted—friendship's dream had castDeep interest o'er the brief farewell,And left upon the shadowy pastFull many a thought on which to dwell.Such thoughts as come in early youth,And live in fellowship with hope;Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,Unfitted with the world to cope.We parted—he went o'er the sea,And deeper solitude was mine;Yet there remained in memory,For feeling, still a sacred shrine.And thought and hope were offered upTill their ethereal essence fled,And disappointment, from the cup,Its dark libations poured, instead.We parted—'twas an idle dreamThatthuswe e'er should meet again;For who that knew man's heart, would deemThat it could long unchanged remain.He sought a foreign clime, and learnedAnother language, which expressedTo strangers the rich thoughts that burnedWith unquenched power within his breast.And soon he better loved to speakIn those new accents than his own;His native tongue seemed cold and weak,To breathe the wakened passions' tone.He wandered far, and lingered long,And drank so deep of Lethe's stream,That each new feeling grew more strong,And all the past was like a dream.We met—a few glad words were spoken,A few kind glances were exchanged;But friendship's first romance was broken,His had been from me estranged.I felt it all—we met no more—My heart was true, but it was proud;Life's early confidence was o'er,And hope had set beneath a cloud.We met no more—for neither soughtTo reunite the severed chainOf social intercourse; for noughtCould join its parted links again.Too much of the wide world had beenBetween us for too long a time;And he had looked on many a scene,The beautiful and the sublime.And he had themes on which to dwell,And memories that were not mine,Which formed a separating spell,And drew a mystic boundary line.His thoughts were wanderers—and the thingsWhich brought back friendship's joys to me,To him were but the spirit's wingsWhich bore him o'er the distant sea.For he had seen the evening starGlancing its rays o'er ocean's waves,And marked the moonbeams from afar,Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves.And he had gazed on trees and flowersBeneath Italia's sunny skies,And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.His steps had echoed through the hallsOf grandeur, long left desolate;And he had climbed the crumbling walls,Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate;And mused o'er many an ancient pile,In ruin still magnificent,Whose histories could the hours beguileWith dreams, before to fancy lent.Such recollections come to him,With moon, and stars, and summer flowers;To me they bring the shadows dimOf earlier and of happier hours.I would those shadows darker fell—For life, with its best powers to bless,Has but few memories loved as well,Or welcome asforgetfulness.
We parted—friendship's dream had castDeep interest o'er the brief farewell,And left upon the shadowy pastFull many a thought on which to dwell.Such thoughts as come in early youth,And live in fellowship with hope;Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,Unfitted with the world to cope.
We parted—he went o'er the sea,And deeper solitude was mine;Yet there remained in memory,For feeling, still a sacred shrine.And thought and hope were offered upTill their ethereal essence fled,And disappointment, from the cup,Its dark libations poured, instead.
We parted—'twas an idle dreamThatthuswe e'er should meet again;For who that knew man's heart, would deemThat it could long unchanged remain.He sought a foreign clime, and learnedAnother language, which expressedTo strangers the rich thoughts that burnedWith unquenched power within his breast.
And soon he better loved to speakIn those new accents than his own;His native tongue seemed cold and weak,To breathe the wakened passions' tone.He wandered far, and lingered long,And drank so deep of Lethe's stream,That each new feeling grew more strong,And all the past was like a dream.
We met—a few glad words were spoken,A few kind glances were exchanged;But friendship's first romance was broken,His had been from me estranged.I felt it all—we met no more—My heart was true, but it was proud;Life's early confidence was o'er,And hope had set beneath a cloud.
We met no more—for neither soughtTo reunite the severed chainOf social intercourse; for noughtCould join its parted links again.Too much of the wide world had beenBetween us for too long a time;And he had looked on many a scene,The beautiful and the sublime.
And he had themes on which to dwell,And memories that were not mine,Which formed a separating spell,And drew a mystic boundary line.His thoughts were wanderers—and the thingsWhich brought back friendship's joys to me,To him were but the spirit's wingsWhich bore him o'er the distant sea.
For he had seen the evening starGlancing its rays o'er ocean's waves,And marked the moonbeams from afar,Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves.And he had gazed on trees and flowersBeneath Italia's sunny skies,And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.
His steps had echoed through the hallsOf grandeur, long left desolate;And he had climbed the crumbling walls,Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate;And mused o'er many an ancient pile,In ruin still magnificent,Whose histories could the hours beguileWith dreams, before to fancy lent.
Such recollections come to him,With moon, and stars, and summer flowers;To me they bring the shadows dimOf earlier and of happier hours.I would those shadows darker fell—For life, with its best powers to bless,Has but few memories loved as well,Or welcome asforgetfulness.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
Now freshening breezes swell the sail,Now leans the vessel to the gale;So slant her deck, you have to clingA moment to the nearest thing;So far she bends into the deep,Across her deck the white waves sweep;Bursts through the flood the pointed prow,That loves the startled foam to throw,And thunders on before the wind,Long breaks of whirl and froth behind;And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm,The captain mutters, "mind your helm!"At night, when stormy shadows fall,"All hands on deck," the captain's call.Darkness around, save when belowDim light the bursting billows throw—And heave the waves, and beats the rain—The labouring vessel groans with pain;Strains—lurches—thunders—rocks and rolls,We smile—but tremble in our souls!Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud,And rings the tempest long and loud;But sweet the change, when tranquillyIn sunshine sleep the air and sea.Pen may not paint each magic dyeOn the soft wave and sunny sky,When comes the charming silent eve,And gentle billows idly heave.The liquid floor bends smooth and bright,Like molten silver to the light;Till, as the western clouds enfoldThe fiery sun, it turns to gold,And then a thousand colours, strayingFrom heaven to earth, and sweetly playingUpon the ocean's giant breast,Compose his savage soul to rest.And thus, within the human mind,When waves are hushed and still the wind,When passion's storm has passed away,And vice no more obscures the day,The beams of virtue and of loveBreak softly, falling from above,O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine,And calm them with a power divine.
Now freshening breezes swell the sail,Now leans the vessel to the gale;So slant her deck, you have to clingA moment to the nearest thing;So far she bends into the deep,Across her deck the white waves sweep;Bursts through the flood the pointed prow,That loves the startled foam to throw,And thunders on before the wind,Long breaks of whirl and froth behind;And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm,The captain mutters, "mind your helm!"At night, when stormy shadows fall,"All hands on deck," the captain's call.Darkness around, save when belowDim light the bursting billows throw—And heave the waves, and beats the rain—The labouring vessel groans with pain;Strains—lurches—thunders—rocks and rolls,We smile—but tremble in our souls!Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud,And rings the tempest long and loud;But sweet the change, when tranquillyIn sunshine sleep the air and sea.Pen may not paint each magic dyeOn the soft wave and sunny sky,When comes the charming silent eve,And gentle billows idly heave.The liquid floor bends smooth and bright,Like molten silver to the light;Till, as the western clouds enfoldThe fiery sun, it turns to gold,And then a thousand colours, strayingFrom heaven to earth, and sweetly playingUpon the ocean's giant breast,Compose his savage soul to rest.And thus, within the human mind,When waves are hushed and still the wind,When passion's storm has passed away,And vice no more obscures the day,The beams of virtue and of loveBreak softly, falling from above,O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine,And calm them with a power divine.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
[Written with French chalk[Q]on a pane of glass in the home of a friend.]
On this frail glass, to others' view,No written words appear;They see the prospect smiling through,Nor deem what secret's here.But shouldst thou on the tablet brightA single breath bestow,At once the record starts to sightWhich only thou must know.Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gazeMy heart seemed unimpress'd;In vain did beauty round me blaze,It could not warm my breast.But as one breath of thine can makeThese letters plain to see,So in my heart did love awakeWhen breath'd upon by thee.
On this frail glass, to others' view,No written words appear;They see the prospect smiling through,Nor deem what secret's here.But shouldst thou on the tablet brightA single breath bestow,At once the record starts to sightWhich only thou must know.
Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gazeMy heart seemed unimpress'd;In vain did beauty round me blaze,It could not warm my breast.But as one breath of thine can makeThese letters plain to see,So in my heart did love awakeWhen breath'd upon by thee.
[From the Backwoodsman.]
BY JAMES K. PAULDING.
'Twas sunset's hallow'd time—and such an eveMight almost tempt an angel heaven to leave.Never did brighter glories greet the eye,Low in the warm and ruddy western sky:Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfoldMore varied tints of purple, red, and gold.Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breastOf crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest,Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide,By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide,Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign,Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold,Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold,All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay,While hands unseen, or chance directs their way;Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queenReclining on the shaded deck was seen,At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool,The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade;The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds,And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies,To chase the viewless insect through the skies;The bat began his lantern-loving flight,The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie,With idle hum, and careless blundering eye;The little trusty watchman of pale night,The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,And took his merry airy circuit roundThe sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew,In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.
'Twas sunset's hallow'd time—and such an eveMight almost tempt an angel heaven to leave.Never did brighter glories greet the eye,Low in the warm and ruddy western sky:Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfoldMore varied tints of purple, red, and gold.Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breastOf crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest,Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide,By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide,Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign,Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold,Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold,All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay,While hands unseen, or chance directs their way;Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queenReclining on the shaded deck was seen,At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool,The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade;The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds,And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies,To chase the viewless insect through the skies;The bat began his lantern-loving flight,The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie,With idle hum, and careless blundering eye;The little trusty watchman of pale night,The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,And took his merry airy circuit roundThe sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew,In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Yes! I will hope, though fortune's stern decreeFrom all I love commands me soon to part;Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of meShall sometimes find a place in every heart,Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art—Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness,Such as to feel bids bitter tears to startFrom eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless?It cannot be that love like that which fillsMy soul for them, should be bestowed in vain,When but the fear that they forget me, chillsEach pulse and feeling—as the wintry rainChills earth and air, which yet may glow againIn summer's beams—but what can joy restoreTo bosoms upon which that blight has lain?From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more.For them I would have done—but let me notSuch thoughts recall—could service e'er repayThe blessings their companionship has wrought?—With them too swiftly passed the time away,On pleasure's wings—weeks dwindled to a day,And days to moments—such the charm they castO'er every scene, and such their gentle sway,Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last.To them I turned, as Iran's tameless raceToward their refulgent God looked till the last,And died still gazing on his radiant face;—Alas! the spring-time of my year is past—From them afar my line of life is cast,And I must wander now like one that's lost—A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast,And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd.Oh no, it cannot be that grief like thisShould be reserved to blight my coming years—That moments of such almost perfect blissShould be succeeded by an age of tears—Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears;I'll meet the future with undaunted eye,Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers,Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky.
Yes! I will hope, though fortune's stern decreeFrom all I love commands me soon to part;Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of meShall sometimes find a place in every heart,Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art—Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness,Such as to feel bids bitter tears to startFrom eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless?
It cannot be that love like that which fillsMy soul for them, should be bestowed in vain,When but the fear that they forget me, chillsEach pulse and feeling—as the wintry rainChills earth and air, which yet may glow againIn summer's beams—but what can joy restoreTo bosoms upon which that blight has lain?From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more.
For them I would have done—but let me notSuch thoughts recall—could service e'er repayThe blessings their companionship has wrought?—With them too swiftly passed the time away,On pleasure's wings—weeks dwindled to a day,And days to moments—such the charm they castO'er every scene, and such their gentle sway,Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last.
To them I turned, as Iran's tameless raceToward their refulgent God looked till the last,And died still gazing on his radiant face;—Alas! the spring-time of my year is past—From them afar my line of life is cast,And I must wander now like one that's lost—A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast,And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd.
Oh no, it cannot be that grief like thisShould be reserved to blight my coming years—That moments of such almost perfect blissShould be succeeded by an age of tears—Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears;I'll meet the future with undaunted eye,Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers,Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky.
[Translated from the Italian.][R]
BY SAMUEL L. MITCHELL.—1796.
Borne to the rocky bed's extremest brow,The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;—To join the whirlpool deep and vast below,The saltless ocean hurries through the straits.Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n,Dashes in air;—dissolving vapours press'dConfound the troubled elements with heav'n:—Earth quakes beneath;—heart trembles in the breast.With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock,To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie;And all my senses feel a horrid shockAs down the steep I turn my dizzy eye.On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime,Leaving the world and nature's works behind;And as the pure empyreal heights I climb,Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind.
Borne to the rocky bed's extremest brow,The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;—To join the whirlpool deep and vast below,The saltless ocean hurries through the straits.
Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n,Dashes in air;—dissolving vapours press'dConfound the troubled elements with heav'n:—Earth quakes beneath;—heart trembles in the breast.
With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock,To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie;And all my senses feel a horrid shockAs down the steep I turn my dizzy eye.
On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime,Leaving the world and nature's works behind;And as the pure empyreal heights I climb,Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind.
BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.
When motes, that dancingIn golden wine,To the eyes' glancingSpeak while they shine—Then, the draught pouring,Love's fountain free,Mute, but adoring,I drink to thee.When sleep enchaineth,Sense steals away—Dream, o'er mind reignethWith dark strange sway—One sweet face floatethSleep's misty sea,Th' unconscious heart doatethOn thee—on thee.
When motes, that dancingIn golden wine,To the eyes' glancingSpeak while they shine—Then, the draught pouring,Love's fountain free,Mute, but adoring,I drink to thee.
When sleep enchaineth,Sense steals away—Dream, o'er mind reignethWith dark strange sway—One sweet face floatethSleep's misty sea,Th' unconscious heart doatethOn thee—on thee.
[From the Backwoodsman.]
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,Unheeded pass'd our little roving band,—For every soul had something here to do,Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view—By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide,In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,And York and Lancaster—whose rival roseIn this good land, no bloody discord knows.Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soilRewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil;Richer and rounder every year he grows,Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knowsThan caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly,Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all!Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind,That marks its course by many a wreck behind;The purpose high that great ambition feels,Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,But never in his sober waking thoughtOne stirring, active impulse ever wrought.Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame,His home, his dress, his equipage the same;And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgotWhat once he was, or what he once was not—An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat oddThat such should be the noblest work of God!So have I seen, in garden rich and gay,A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze,Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm,And stands unmoved in one eternal calm.At last, when all the garden's pride is lostIt ripens in drear autumn's killing frost,And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end,From which detested dish, me heaven defend!
Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,Unheeded pass'd our little roving band,—For every soul had something here to do,Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view—By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide,In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,And York and Lancaster—whose rival roseIn this good land, no bloody discord knows.Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soilRewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil;Richer and rounder every year he grows,Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knowsThan caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly,Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all!Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind,That marks its course by many a wreck behind;The purpose high that great ambition feels,Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,But never in his sober waking thoughtOne stirring, active impulse ever wrought.Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame,His home, his dress, his equipage the same;And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgotWhat once he was, or what he once was not—An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat oddThat such should be the noblest work of God!So have I seen, in garden rich and gay,A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze,Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm,And stands unmoved in one eternal calm.At last, when all the garden's pride is lostIt ripens in drear autumn's killing frost,And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end,From which detested dish, me heaven defend!
BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD.
I stood upon the shore,And looked upon the wave,While I thought me o'er and o'erHere sleep the brave!The shadow of the hills,The azure of the flood,The murmuring of the rillsRecall a scene of blood.When the war-cry filled the breeze,And the rifle and the bowWere like leaves upon the trees,But did not daunt Munro!'Mid the thunders of the train,And the fires that flashed alarm!And the shouts that rent the plain,To battle rush'd Montcalm!But the red cross floats no moreUpon the ruin'd walls,And the wind sighs on the shore,Like the noise of waterfalls.And the spirit of the hourIs as peaceful as yon wave,While pleasure builds its bowerO'er the ashes of the brave.
I stood upon the shore,And looked upon the wave,While I thought me o'er and o'erHere sleep the brave!
The shadow of the hills,The azure of the flood,The murmuring of the rillsRecall a scene of blood.
When the war-cry filled the breeze,And the rifle and the bowWere like leaves upon the trees,But did not daunt Munro!
'Mid the thunders of the train,And the fires that flashed alarm!And the shouts that rent the plain,To battle rush'd Montcalm!
But the red cross floats no moreUpon the ruin'd walls,And the wind sighs on the shore,Like the noise of waterfalls.
And the spirit of the hourIs as peaceful as yon wave,While pleasure builds its bowerO'er the ashes of the brave.
[From the Backwoodsman.]
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day,And bright and early had been on his way.But that the world he saw e'en yesternight,Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight.One endless chaos spread before his eyes,No vestige left of earth or azure skies,A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere,Hid the green fields and silent all the air.As look'd the traveller for the world below,The lively morning breeze began to blow,The magic curtain roll'd in mists away,And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day.As light the fleeting vapours upward glide,Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side,New objects open to his wondering viewOf various form, and combinations new.A rocky precipice, a waving wood,Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood,Each after each, with coy and sweet delay,Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day,Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold,Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold.So when the wandering grandsire of our raceOn Ararat had found a resting place,At first a shoreless ocean met his eye,Mingling on every side with one blue sky;But as the waters, every passing day,Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away,Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peepFrom the rough bosom of the boundless deep,Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green,Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen,Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd wholeCombined to win the gazing patriarch's soul.Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye,In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy,Within the silent world, some living thing,Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing,Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there,Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air;'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay,Whose occupant was drown'd the other day;A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloomAmid the melancholy of the tomb;A charnel house, where all the human raceHad piled their bones in one wide resting place;Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo,And sadly sought the lifeless world below.
Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day,And bright and early had been on his way.But that the world he saw e'en yesternight,Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight.One endless chaos spread before his eyes,No vestige left of earth or azure skies,A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere,Hid the green fields and silent all the air.As look'd the traveller for the world below,The lively morning breeze began to blow,The magic curtain roll'd in mists away,And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day.As light the fleeting vapours upward glide,Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side,New objects open to his wondering viewOf various form, and combinations new.A rocky precipice, a waving wood,Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood,Each after each, with coy and sweet delay,Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day,Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold,Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold.So when the wandering grandsire of our raceOn Ararat had found a resting place,At first a shoreless ocean met his eye,Mingling on every side with one blue sky;But as the waters, every passing day,Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away,Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peepFrom the rough bosom of the boundless deep,Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green,Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen,Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd wholeCombined to win the gazing patriarch's soul.Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye,In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy,Within the silent world, some living thing,Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing,Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there,Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air;'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay,Whose occupant was drown'd the other day;A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloomAmid the melancholy of the tomb;A charnel house, where all the human raceHad piled their bones in one wide resting place;Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo,And sadly sought the lifeless world below.
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.
How beauteous o'er the blue expansePencilling their shadows on the evening sky,The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfoldTheir heaven wove tapestry:Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun,Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won!Behold! behold them now!Tossing their gold-edged tresses on the breeze!Gliding like angels o'er the star-gemmed floorTo heavenly symphonies!While distant seen, like hope to faith's clear view,Sleeps in calm splendour the cerulean blue!Ere yet imagination's wandHas traced the vision on the teeming brain,The fleeting pageant floats in mist, awayBeyond the billowy main:But forms more beauteous wing again their flight,While eve reposes on the lap of night.Yon castellated towerAs proudly cuts its turrets on the sky,As if the portals of its airy hallsBlazoned with heraldry!And who shall say, but in its chambers glidePale courtier's shadows—disembodied pride?The mimic ship unfoldsHer swelling canvass on the airy main;And horsemen sweep in graceful circles o'erTh' etherial plain:While forms of light unknown to mortals here,People in myriads the celestial sphere!And many-coloured flowers,Changing their hues with every passing breeze,Crown the far summits of the mountain steeps;The shadowy treesFling their gigantic branches wide and far,Dimming the lustre of full many a star.How oft in childhood's hourI've watched the cloudlets pale the evening beam,While the bright day-god quenched his waning firesIn ocean, pool, and stream.Oh, then the clouds were ministers of joyTo the rapt spirit of the dreamy boy!Mother and sister! YeHave passed from earth like suns untimely set!Do ye not look from yonder throne of cloudsUpon me yet,Beckoning me now, with eager glance to comeTo the bright portals of your heavenly home?Skeptic! whose chilling creedWould chain the spirit to life's bounded span,Learn from the clouds thatupwardpoise their wing,To valueman!Nor deem the soul divested of its shroud—Less glorious in its essence than acloud!
How beauteous o'er the blue expansePencilling their shadows on the evening sky,The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfoldTheir heaven wove tapestry:Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun,Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won!
Behold! behold them now!Tossing their gold-edged tresses on the breeze!Gliding like angels o'er the star-gemmed floorTo heavenly symphonies!While distant seen, like hope to faith's clear view,Sleeps in calm splendour the cerulean blue!
Ere yet imagination's wandHas traced the vision on the teeming brain,The fleeting pageant floats in mist, awayBeyond the billowy main:But forms more beauteous wing again their flight,While eve reposes on the lap of night.
Yon castellated towerAs proudly cuts its turrets on the sky,As if the portals of its airy hallsBlazoned with heraldry!And who shall say, but in its chambers glidePale courtier's shadows—disembodied pride?
The mimic ship unfoldsHer swelling canvass on the airy main;And horsemen sweep in graceful circles o'erTh' etherial plain:While forms of light unknown to mortals here,People in myriads the celestial sphere!
And many-coloured flowers,Changing their hues with every passing breeze,Crown the far summits of the mountain steeps;The shadowy treesFling their gigantic branches wide and far,Dimming the lustre of full many a star.
How oft in childhood's hourI've watched the cloudlets pale the evening beam,While the bright day-god quenched his waning firesIn ocean, pool, and stream.Oh, then the clouds were ministers of joyTo the rapt spirit of the dreamy boy!
Mother and sister! YeHave passed from earth like suns untimely set!Do ye not look from yonder throne of cloudsUpon me yet,Beckoning me now, with eager glance to comeTo the bright portals of your heavenly home?
Skeptic! whose chilling creedWould chain the spirit to life's bounded span,Learn from the clouds thatupwardpoise their wing,To valueman!Nor deem the soul divested of its shroud—Less glorious in its essence than acloud!
[From the Backwoodsman.]
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Now down the mountain's rugged western side,Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied,Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breastThe rolling fragments of the mountain rest;Rocks tumbled on each other by rude chance,Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance,Through which a brawling river braved its way,Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray.Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world,In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd,Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke,Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak;With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side,And arms extending round them far and wide,They look'd coeval with old mother earth,And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth.There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base,Our tired adventurers found a resting place;Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow,The little bevy nestled snug below,And with right sturdy appetite, and strong,Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along.The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree,And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee;The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were,Or heeded not the strange intruders there,Sure sign they little knew of man's proud raceIn that sequester'd mountain 'biding place;For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend,Man never makes the rural train his friend;Acquaintance that brings other beings near,Produces nothing but distrust or fear:Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know,And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow,As thus in blithe serenity they sat,Beguiling resting time with lively chat,A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear,Each moment waxing louder and more near,A dark obscurity spread all around,And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd,And not a sound but that low moan was heard.There is a moment when the boldest heartThat would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart,That never shrunk from certain danger here,Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,And heaven itself seems threatening from on high.Brave was our Basil, as became a man,Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,That every moment wax'd more loud and near.The riddle soon was read—at last it came,And nature trembled to her inmost frame;The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak,In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere,Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air;The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,The stoutest trees a stouter master found,Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go,And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below:Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd,And on its dark, quick eddying surface boreThe gather'd spoils of earth along its shore,While trees that not an hour before had stoodThe lofty monarchs of the stately wood,Now whirling round and round with furious force,Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force,And shiver like a reed by urchin brokeThrough idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;A hundred cataracts, unknown before,Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,And as with foaming fury down they go,Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below;Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue,While many a sturdy oak that stiffly bravedThe threatening hurricane that round it raved,Shiver'd beneath its bright, resistless flash,Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power,And struggle for the mastery of the hour;Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.
Now down the mountain's rugged western side,Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied,Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breastThe rolling fragments of the mountain rest;Rocks tumbled on each other by rude chance,Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance,Through which a brawling river braved its way,Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray.Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world,In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd,Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke,Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak;With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side,And arms extending round them far and wide,They look'd coeval with old mother earth,And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth.There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base,Our tired adventurers found a resting place;Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow,The little bevy nestled snug below,And with right sturdy appetite, and strong,Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along.The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree,And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee;The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were,Or heeded not the strange intruders there,Sure sign they little knew of man's proud raceIn that sequester'd mountain 'biding place;For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend,Man never makes the rural train his friend;Acquaintance that brings other beings near,Produces nothing but distrust or fear:Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know,And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow,As thus in blithe serenity they sat,Beguiling resting time with lively chat,A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear,Each moment waxing louder and more near,A dark obscurity spread all around,And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd,And not a sound but that low moan was heard.There is a moment when the boldest heartThat would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart,That never shrunk from certain danger here,Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,And heaven itself seems threatening from on high.Brave was our Basil, as became a man,Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,That every moment wax'd more loud and near.The riddle soon was read—at last it came,And nature trembled to her inmost frame;The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak,In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere,Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air;The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,The stoutest trees a stouter master found,Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go,And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below:Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd,And on its dark, quick eddying surface boreThe gather'd spoils of earth along its shore,While trees that not an hour before had stoodThe lofty monarchs of the stately wood,Now whirling round and round with furious force,Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force,And shiver like a reed by urchin brokeThrough idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;A hundred cataracts, unknown before,Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,And as with foaming fury down they go,Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below;Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue,While many a sturdy oak that stiffly bravedThe threatening hurricane that round it raved,Shiver'd beneath its bright, resistless flash,Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power,And struggle for the mastery of the hour;Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.
BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.—1804.
Thy dimpled girls and rosy boysRekindle in thy heart the joysThat bless'd thy tender years:Unheeded fleet the hours away;For, while thy cherubs round thee play,New life thy bosom cheers.Once more, thou tell'st me, I may taste,Ere envious time this frame shall waste,My infant pleasures flown.Ah! there's a ray of lustre mild,Illumes the bosom of a child,To age, alas! scarce known.Not for my infant pleasures pastI mourn; those joys which flew so fast,They, too, had many a stain;But for the mind, so pure and light,Which made those joys so fair, so bright,I sigh, and sigh in vain.Well I remember you, bless'd hours!Your sunbeams bright, your transient showers!Thoughtless I saw you fly;For distant ills then caus'd no dread;Nor cared I for the moments fled,For memory call'd no sigh.Fond parents swayed my every thought;No blame I feared, no praise I sought,But what their love bestowed.Full soon I learn'd each meaning look,Nor e'er the angry glance mistookFor that where rapture glowed.Whene'er night's shadows called to rest,I sought my father, to requestHis benediction mild.A mother's love more loud would speak;With kiss on kiss she'd print my cheek,And bless her darling child.Thy lightest mists and clouds, sweet sleep!Thy purest opiates thou dost keep,On infancy to shed.No guilt there checks thy soft embrace,And not e'en tears and sobs can chaseThee from an infant's bed.The trickling tears which flow'd at night,Oft hast thou stay'd, till morning lightDispell'd my little woes.So fly before the sunbeam's powerThe remnants of the evening showerWhich wet the early rose.Farewell, bless'd hours! full fast ye flew;And that which made your bliss so trueYe would not leave behind.The glow of youth ye could not leave;But why, why cruelly bereaveMe of my artless mind?Fond mother! hope thy bosom warms,That on the prattler in thy armsHeaven's choicest gifts may flow.Thus let thy prayer incessant riseTo Him, who, thron'd above the skies,Can feel for man below."Oh! Thou, whose view is ne'er estrang'dFrom innocence, preserve unchang'dThrough life my darling's mind;Unchang'd in truth and purity,Still fearless of futurity,Still artless, though refin'd."As oft his anxious nurse hath caughtAnd sav'd his little hand that soughtThe bright, but treacherous blaze;So, let fair Wisdom keep him sureFrom glittering vices which allure,Through life's delusive maze.Oh! may the ills which man enshroud,As shadows of a transient cloud,But shade, not stain my boy.Then may he gently drop to rest,Calm as a child by sleep oppress'd,And wake to endless joy."
Thy dimpled girls and rosy boysRekindle in thy heart the joysThat bless'd thy tender years:Unheeded fleet the hours away;For, while thy cherubs round thee play,New life thy bosom cheers.
Once more, thou tell'st me, I may taste,Ere envious time this frame shall waste,My infant pleasures flown.Ah! there's a ray of lustre mild,Illumes the bosom of a child,To age, alas! scarce known.
Not for my infant pleasures pastI mourn; those joys which flew so fast,They, too, had many a stain;But for the mind, so pure and light,Which made those joys so fair, so bright,I sigh, and sigh in vain.
Well I remember you, bless'd hours!Your sunbeams bright, your transient showers!Thoughtless I saw you fly;For distant ills then caus'd no dread;Nor cared I for the moments fled,For memory call'd no sigh.
Fond parents swayed my every thought;No blame I feared, no praise I sought,But what their love bestowed.Full soon I learn'd each meaning look,Nor e'er the angry glance mistookFor that where rapture glowed.
Whene'er night's shadows called to rest,I sought my father, to requestHis benediction mild.A mother's love more loud would speak;With kiss on kiss she'd print my cheek,And bless her darling child.
Thy lightest mists and clouds, sweet sleep!Thy purest opiates thou dost keep,On infancy to shed.No guilt there checks thy soft embrace,And not e'en tears and sobs can chaseThee from an infant's bed.
The trickling tears which flow'd at night,Oft hast thou stay'd, till morning lightDispell'd my little woes.So fly before the sunbeam's powerThe remnants of the evening showerWhich wet the early rose.
Farewell, bless'd hours! full fast ye flew;And that which made your bliss so trueYe would not leave behind.The glow of youth ye could not leave;But why, why cruelly bereaveMe of my artless mind?
Fond mother! hope thy bosom warms,That on the prattler in thy armsHeaven's choicest gifts may flow.Thus let thy prayer incessant riseTo Him, who, thron'd above the skies,Can feel for man below.
"Oh! Thou, whose view is ne'er estrang'dFrom innocence, preserve unchang'dThrough life my darling's mind;Unchang'd in truth and purity,Still fearless of futurity,Still artless, though refin'd.
"As oft his anxious nurse hath caughtAnd sav'd his little hand that soughtThe bright, but treacherous blaze;So, let fair Wisdom keep him sureFrom glittering vices which allure,Through life's delusive maze.
Oh! may the ills which man enshroud,As shadows of a transient cloud,But shade, not stain my boy.Then may he gently drop to rest,Calm as a child by sleep oppress'd,And wake to endless joy."
BY JAMES NACK.