Yes! I swore to be true, I allow,And I meant it, but, some how or other,The seal of that amorous vowWas pressed on the lips of another.Yet I did but as all would have done,For where is the being, dear cousin,Content with the beauties of oneWhen he might have the range of a dozen?Young Love is a changeable boy,And the gem of the sea-rock is like him,For he gives back the beams of his joyTo each sunny eye that may strike him.From a kiss of a zephyr and roseLove sprang in an exquisite hour,And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows,Is this child of a sigh and a flower.
Yes! I swore to be true, I allow,And I meant it, but, some how or other,The seal of that amorous vowWas pressed on the lips of another.
Yet I did but as all would have done,For where is the being, dear cousin,Content with the beauties of oneWhen he might have the range of a dozen?
Young Love is a changeable boy,And the gem of the sea-rock is like him,For he gives back the beams of his joyTo each sunny eye that may strike him.
From a kiss of a zephyr and roseLove sprang in an exquisite hour,And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows,Is this child of a sigh and a flower.
BY A. B. STREET.
Far in the forest's heart, unknown,Except to sun and breeze,Where solitude her dreaming throneHas held for centuries;Chronicled by the rings and mossThat tell the flight of years acrossThe seamed and columned trees,This lovely streamlet glides alongWith tribute of eternal song!Now, stealing through its thickets deepIn which the wood-duck hides,Now, picturing in its basin sleepIts green pool-hollowed sides,Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps,There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps,And foaming, hoarsely chides;Then slides so still, its gentle swellScarce ripples round the lily's bell.Nature, in her autumnal dressMagnificent and gay,Displays her mantled gorgeousnessTo hide the near decay,Which, borne on Winter's courier breath,Warns the old year prepare for death,When, tottering, seared, and gray,Ice-fettered, it will sink belowThe choking winding-sheet of snow.A blaze of splendour is around,As wondrous and as brightAs that, within the fairy ground,Which met Aladdin's sight.The sky, a sheet of silvery sheenWith breaks of tenderest blue between,As though the summer lightWas melting through, once more to castA glance of gladness ere it passed.The south-west airs of ladened balmCome breathing sweetly by,And wake amid the forest's calmOne quick and shivering sigh,Shaking, but dimpling not the glassOf this smooth streamlet, as they pass—They scarcely wheel on highThe thistle's downy, silver star,To waft its pendent seed afar.Dream-like the silence, only wokeBy the grasshopper's glee,And now and then the lazy strokeOf woodcock[K]on the tree:And mingling with the insect hum,The beatings of the partridge drum,With frequently a beeDarting its music, and the crowHarsh cawing from the swamp below.A foliage world of glittering dyesGleams brightly on the air,As though a thousand sunset skies,With rainbows, blended there;Each leaf an opal, and each treeA bower of varied brilliancy,And all one general glareOf glory, that o'erwhelms the sightWith dazzling and unequalled light.Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, hereThe birch and maple twine,The beech its orange mingles nearWith emerald of the pine;And e'en the humble bush and herbAre glowing with those tints superb,As though a scattered mineOf gems, upon the earth were strewn,Flashing with radiance, each its own.All steeped in that delicious charmPeculiar to our land,Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm,When Indian Summer's handHas filled the valley with its smoke,And wrapped the mountain in its cloak,While, timidly and bland,The sunbeams struggle from the sky,And in long lines of silver lie.The squirrel chatters merrily,The nut falls ripe and brown,And gem-like from the jewelled treeThe leaf comes fluttering down;And restless in his plumage gay,From bush to bush loud screams the jay,While on the hemlock's crownThe sentry pigeon guards from foesThe flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.See! on this edge of forest lawn,Where sleeps the clouded beam,A doe has led her spotted fawnTo gambol by the stream;Beside yon mullein's braided stalkThey hear the gurgling voices talk,While, like a wandering gleam,The yellow-bird dives here and there,A feathered vessel of the air.On, through the rampart walls of rockThe waters pitch in white,And high, in mist, the cedars lockTheir boughs, half lost to sightAbove the whirling gulf—the dashOf frenzied floods, that vainly lashTheir limits in their flight,Whose roar the eagle, from his peak,Responds to with his angriest shriek.Stream of the age-worn forest! hereThe Indian, free as thou,Has bent against thy depths his spear,And in thy woods his bow;The beaver built his dome; but they,The memories of an earlier day,Like those dead trunks, that showWhat once were mighty pines—have fledWith Time's unceasing, rapid tread.
Far in the forest's heart, unknown,Except to sun and breeze,Where solitude her dreaming throneHas held for centuries;Chronicled by the rings and mossThat tell the flight of years acrossThe seamed and columned trees,This lovely streamlet glides alongWith tribute of eternal song!
Now, stealing through its thickets deepIn which the wood-duck hides,Now, picturing in its basin sleepIts green pool-hollowed sides,Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps,There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps,And foaming, hoarsely chides;Then slides so still, its gentle swellScarce ripples round the lily's bell.
Nature, in her autumnal dressMagnificent and gay,Displays her mantled gorgeousnessTo hide the near decay,Which, borne on Winter's courier breath,Warns the old year prepare for death,When, tottering, seared, and gray,Ice-fettered, it will sink belowThe choking winding-sheet of snow.
A blaze of splendour is around,As wondrous and as brightAs that, within the fairy ground,Which met Aladdin's sight.The sky, a sheet of silvery sheenWith breaks of tenderest blue between,As though the summer lightWas melting through, once more to castA glance of gladness ere it passed.
The south-west airs of ladened balmCome breathing sweetly by,And wake amid the forest's calmOne quick and shivering sigh,Shaking, but dimpling not the glassOf this smooth streamlet, as they pass—They scarcely wheel on highThe thistle's downy, silver star,To waft its pendent seed afar.
Dream-like the silence, only wokeBy the grasshopper's glee,And now and then the lazy strokeOf woodcock[K]on the tree:And mingling with the insect hum,The beatings of the partridge drum,With frequently a beeDarting its music, and the crowHarsh cawing from the swamp below.
A foliage world of glittering dyesGleams brightly on the air,As though a thousand sunset skies,With rainbows, blended there;Each leaf an opal, and each treeA bower of varied brilliancy,And all one general glareOf glory, that o'erwhelms the sightWith dazzling and unequalled light.
Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, hereThe birch and maple twine,The beech its orange mingles nearWith emerald of the pine;And e'en the humble bush and herbAre glowing with those tints superb,As though a scattered mineOf gems, upon the earth were strewn,Flashing with radiance, each its own.
All steeped in that delicious charmPeculiar to our land,Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm,When Indian Summer's handHas filled the valley with its smoke,And wrapped the mountain in its cloak,While, timidly and bland,The sunbeams struggle from the sky,And in long lines of silver lie.
The squirrel chatters merrily,The nut falls ripe and brown,And gem-like from the jewelled treeThe leaf comes fluttering down;And restless in his plumage gay,From bush to bush loud screams the jay,While on the hemlock's crownThe sentry pigeon guards from foesThe flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.
See! on this edge of forest lawn,Where sleeps the clouded beam,A doe has led her spotted fawnTo gambol by the stream;Beside yon mullein's braided stalkThey hear the gurgling voices talk,While, like a wandering gleam,The yellow-bird dives here and there,A feathered vessel of the air.
On, through the rampart walls of rockThe waters pitch in white,And high, in mist, the cedars lockTheir boughs, half lost to sightAbove the whirling gulf—the dashOf frenzied floods, that vainly lashTheir limits in their flight,Whose roar the eagle, from his peak,Responds to with his angriest shriek.
Stream of the age-worn forest! hereThe Indian, free as thou,Has bent against thy depths his spear,And in thy woods his bow;The beaver built his dome; but they,The memories of an earlier day,Like those dead trunks, that showWhat once were mighty pines—have fledWith Time's unceasing, rapid tread.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend,Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep,Where no watching eye shall over us bendSave the blossoms that into thy bower peep.Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,From the safron orchis and lupin blue,And those like the foam on my courser's bit.One steed and one saddle us both shall bear,One hand of each on the bridle meet;And beneath the wrist that entwines me thereAn answering pulse from my heart shall beat.I will sing thee many a joyous lay,As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side,While the winds that over the prairie playShall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.Our home shall be by the cool bright streams,Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat,And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleamsThrough the branches around our lodge that meet.Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend,Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,Where no watching eye shall over us bend,Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend,Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep,Where no watching eye shall over us bendSave the blossoms that into thy bower peep.Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,From the safron orchis and lupin blue,And those like the foam on my courser's bit.
One steed and one saddle us both shall bear,One hand of each on the bridle meet;And beneath the wrist that entwines me thereAn answering pulse from my heart shall beat.I will sing thee many a joyous lay,As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side,While the winds that over the prairie playShall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.
Our home shall be by the cool bright streams,Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat,And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleamsThrough the branches around our lodge that meet.Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend,Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,Where no watching eye shall over us bend,Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
[Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq.]
BY J. R. DRAKE.
Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity,I'll wad ye curse the vera cityFrom which I write a braid Scots dittyAfore I learn it;But gif ye canna mak it suit ye,Ye ken ye'll burn it.My grunzie's got a twist until itThae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill itI doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it'll keep the gait,Not e'en my pen can scratch a billetAnd write it straight.Ye're aiblins thinking to forgatherWi' a hale sheet, of muir and heatherO' burns, and braes, and sic like blether,To you a feast;But stop! ye will not light on eitherThis time at least.Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie,Then drap your lip and glower surly;Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly,Ye'll no be right;We've made our jaunt a bit too earlyFor sic a sight.What it may be when summer deedsMuir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weedsSprinkling the gowan on the meadsAnd broomy knowes,I dinna ken; but now the meadsScarce keep the cows.For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted,A few bit pines and larches planted,And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntitAs e'er thou sawest;Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,Hech! there's a forest.For streams, ye'll find a puny puddleThat would na float a shull bairn's coble,A cripple stool might near hand hobbleDry-baughted ever;Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble,And there's a river.And then their cauld and reekie skies,They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes;The sun ye'd ken na if he's riseAmaist the day;Just a noon blink that hardly driesThe dewy brae.Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women,Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,For luver's heart or blade of foemanO'er baith victorious;E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,Grows bright and glorious.Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang,I've whistled out an unco sang'Bout folk I ha' na been amangTwa days as yet;But, faith, the farther that I gangThe mair ye'll get.Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soonI'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,See Mungo's well, and set my shoonWhere i' the darkBauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon,At cutty sark.And I shall tread the hallowed bourneWhere Wallace blew his bugle-hornO'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.What Yankee bluidBut feels its free pulse leap and burnWhere Wallace stood!But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppinMy braw Scots style to English loppin;I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppinI'd quit it quite:If so, I e'en must think o' stopping,And sae, gude night.
Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity,I'll wad ye curse the vera cityFrom which I write a braid Scots dittyAfore I learn it;But gif ye canna mak it suit ye,Ye ken ye'll burn it.
My grunzie's got a twist until itThae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill itI doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it'll keep the gait,Not e'en my pen can scratch a billetAnd write it straight.
Ye're aiblins thinking to forgatherWi' a hale sheet, of muir and heatherO' burns, and braes, and sic like blether,To you a feast;But stop! ye will not light on eitherThis time at least.
Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie,Then drap your lip and glower surly;Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly,Ye'll no be right;We've made our jaunt a bit too earlyFor sic a sight.
What it may be when summer deedsMuir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weedsSprinkling the gowan on the meadsAnd broomy knowes,I dinna ken; but now the meadsScarce keep the cows.
For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted,A few bit pines and larches planted,And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntitAs e'er thou sawest;Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,Hech! there's a forest.
For streams, ye'll find a puny puddleThat would na float a shull bairn's coble,A cripple stool might near hand hobbleDry-baughted ever;Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble,And there's a river.
And then their cauld and reekie skies,They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes;The sun ye'd ken na if he's riseAmaist the day;Just a noon blink that hardly driesThe dewy brae.
Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women,Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,For luver's heart or blade of foemanO'er baith victorious;E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,Grows bright and glorious.
Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang,I've whistled out an unco sang'Bout folk I ha' na been amangTwa days as yet;But, faith, the farther that I gangThe mair ye'll get.
Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soonI'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,See Mungo's well, and set my shoonWhere i' the darkBauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon,At cutty sark.
And I shall tread the hallowed bourneWhere Wallace blew his bugle-hornO'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.What Yankee bluidBut feels its free pulse leap and burnWhere Wallace stood!
But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppinMy braw Scots style to English loppin;I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppinI'd quit it quite:If so, I e'en must think o' stopping,And sae, gude night.
BY R. C. SANDS.
Eve o'er our path is stealing fast;Yon quivering splendours are the lastThe sun will fling, to tremble o'erThe waves that kiss the opposing shore;His latest glories fringe the heightBehind us, with their golden light.The mountain's mirror'd outline fadesAmid the fast extending shades;Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;For the great stream a bulwark meetThat laves its rock-encumbered feet.River and Mountain! though to songNot yet, perchance, your names belong;Those who have loved your evening huesWill ask not the recording Muse,What antique tales she can relate,Your banks and steeps to consecrate.Yet should the stranger ask, what loreOf by-gone days, this winding shore,Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—The varying legend might rehearseFit themes for high, romantic verse.O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sodOft hath the stalworth warrior trod;Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to markThe progress of the glancing bark.Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.When the great strife for Freedom roseHere scouted oft her friends and foes,Alternate, through the changeful war,And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;And here, when Freedom's strife was won,Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—Her son,—the second of the band,The Romans of the rescued land.Where round yon cape the banks ascend,Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.There last he stood. Before his sightFlowed the fair river, free and bright;The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay,Before him in their glory lay,—Scenes of his love and of his fame,—The instant ere the death-shot came.
Eve o'er our path is stealing fast;Yon quivering splendours are the lastThe sun will fling, to tremble o'erThe waves that kiss the opposing shore;His latest glories fringe the heightBehind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirror'd outline fadesAmid the fast extending shades;Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;For the great stream a bulwark meetThat laves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to songNot yet, perchance, your names belong;Those who have loved your evening huesWill ask not the recording Muse,What antique tales she can relate,Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what loreOf by-gone days, this winding shore,Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—The varying legend might rehearseFit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sodOft hath the stalworth warrior trod;Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to markThe progress of the glancing bark.Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom roseHere scouted oft her friends and foes,Alternate, through the changeful war,And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;And here, when Freedom's strife was won,Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—
Her son,—the second of the band,The Romans of the rescued land.Where round yon cape the banks ascend,Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sightFlowed the fair river, free and bright;The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay,Before him in their glory lay,—Scenes of his love and of his fame,—The instant ere the death-shot came.
BY T. W. TUCKER.
Thou fragile thingThat with a breath I could destroy,What mighty train of care and joyDo ye not bring?Emblem of power!By thee comes public bane or good;The wheels of state, without thee, wouldStop in an hour.Tower, dome, and arch,Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste,Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'stThe army's march.The spreading seasFor thee unnumbered squadrons bear,Ruler of earth, and sea, and air—When bended kneesAre bowed in prayer,Although to heaven is given each word,Thy influence in the heart, unheard,Is upmost there!Fly! minion, fly!Thine errand is unfinished yet—The boon I covet,—to forget!Thou canst not buy.
Thou fragile thingThat with a breath I could destroy,What mighty train of care and joyDo ye not bring?
Emblem of power!By thee comes public bane or good;The wheels of state, without thee, wouldStop in an hour.
Tower, dome, and arch,Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste,Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'stThe army's march.
The spreading seasFor thee unnumbered squadrons bear,Ruler of earth, and sea, and air—When bended knees
Are bowed in prayer,Although to heaven is given each word,Thy influence in the heart, unheard,Is upmost there!
Fly! minion, fly!Thine errand is unfinished yet—The boon I covet,—to forget!Thou canst not buy.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET
Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot.The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand,Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seemOf this wild scene, resolved that none but HeavenShall look upon its beauty. Round their breastA curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while belowThe silent river, with majestic sweep,Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy faceUnbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swanTo float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here.Nor silence.—Low, deep murmurs are abroad.Those towering hills hold converse with the skyThat smiles upon their summits;—and the windWhich stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf,Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright,And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook,That with its silvery gleam comes leaping downFrom the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell;The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;—And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,Send forth their perfume as an added gift.The river utters, too, a solemn voice,And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,When not a sound was heard along his shores,Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriekOf some expiring captive,—and no barkE'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his wavesAre vocal often with the hunter's song;—Now visit, in their glad and onward course,The abodes of happy men—gardens and fields—And cultured plains—still bearing, as they pass,Fertility renewed and fresh delights.The time has been,—so Indian legends say,—When here the mighty Delaware poured notHis ancient waters through—but turned asideThrough yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales.Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill,Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayedThe wealth of summer on its graceful slope.Thither the hunter chieftains oft repairedTo light their council fires,—while its dim height,For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared—'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man,Who there held commune with the Indian's God,And thence brought down to men his high commands.Years passed away—the gifted seer had livedBeyond life's natural term, and bent no moreHis weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit.New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien,Who strove against each other. Blood and deathFilled those green shades, where all before was peace,And the stern warrior scalped his dying captiveE'en on the precincts of that holy spotWhere the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mournedThe unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priestAgain to seek the consecrated height,Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.—They watched him from afar. He laboured slowlyHigh up the steep ascent—and vanished soonBehind the folded clouds, which clustered darkAs the last hues of sunset passed away.The night fell heavily—and soon were heardLow tones of thunder from the mountain top,Muttering, and echoed from the distant hillsIn deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashesOf lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crashBurst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed,Groaned from its solid centre—forests shookFor leagues around,—and by the sudden gleamWhich flung a fitful radiance on the spot,A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rentFrom top to base—and where so late had smiledGreen boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm,Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afarThe distant roar of waters then was heard;They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming allThat checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,—The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all—Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin.Morn looked upon the desolated sceneOf the Great Spirit's anger—and beheldStrange waters passing through the cloven rocks:—And men looked on in silence and in fear,And far removed their dwellings from the spot,Where now no more the hunter chased his prey,Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on:Each trace of desolation vanished fast;Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspreadWith fresh green foliage, and the swelling earthYielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides.The river passed majestically onThrough his new channel—verdure graced his banks;—The wild bird murmured sweetly as beforeIn its beloved woods,—and nought remained,—Save the wild tales which chieftains told,—To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.
Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot.The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand,Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seemOf this wild scene, resolved that none but HeavenShall look upon its beauty. Round their breastA curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while belowThe silent river, with majestic sweep,Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy faceUnbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swanTo float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here.Nor silence.—Low, deep murmurs are abroad.Those towering hills hold converse with the skyThat smiles upon their summits;—and the windWhich stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf,Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright,And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook,That with its silvery gleam comes leaping downFrom the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell;The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;—And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,Send forth their perfume as an added gift.The river utters, too, a solemn voice,And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,When not a sound was heard along his shores,Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriekOf some expiring captive,—and no barkE'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his wavesAre vocal often with the hunter's song;—Now visit, in their glad and onward course,The abodes of happy men—gardens and fields—And cultured plains—still bearing, as they pass,Fertility renewed and fresh delights.
The time has been,—so Indian legends say,—When here the mighty Delaware poured notHis ancient waters through—but turned asideThrough yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales.Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill,Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayedThe wealth of summer on its graceful slope.Thither the hunter chieftains oft repairedTo light their council fires,—while its dim height,For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared—'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man,Who there held commune with the Indian's God,And thence brought down to men his high commands.Years passed away—the gifted seer had livedBeyond life's natural term, and bent no moreHis weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit.New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien,Who strove against each other. Blood and deathFilled those green shades, where all before was peace,And the stern warrior scalped his dying captiveE'en on the precincts of that holy spotWhere the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mournedThe unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priestAgain to seek the consecrated height,Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.—They watched him from afar. He laboured slowlyHigh up the steep ascent—and vanished soonBehind the folded clouds, which clustered darkAs the last hues of sunset passed away.The night fell heavily—and soon were heardLow tones of thunder from the mountain top,Muttering, and echoed from the distant hillsIn deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashesOf lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crashBurst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed,Groaned from its solid centre—forests shookFor leagues around,—and by the sudden gleamWhich flung a fitful radiance on the spot,A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rentFrom top to base—and where so late had smiledGreen boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm,Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afarThe distant roar of waters then was heard;They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming allThat checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,—The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all—Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin.Morn looked upon the desolated sceneOf the Great Spirit's anger—and beheldStrange waters passing through the cloven rocks:—And men looked on in silence and in fear,And far removed their dwellings from the spot,Where now no more the hunter chased his prey,Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on:Each trace of desolation vanished fast;Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspreadWith fresh green foliage, and the swelling earthYielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides.The river passed majestically onThrough his new channel—verdure graced his banks;—The wild bird murmured sweetly as beforeIn its beloved woods,—and nought remained,—Save the wild tales which chieftains told,—To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.
BY W. P. HAWES.
Down in the deepDark holes I keep,And there in the noontide I float and sleep,By the hemlock log,And the springing bog,And the arching alders, I lie incog.The angler's flyComes dancing by,But never a moment it cheats my eye;For the hermit troutIs not such a loutAs to be by a wading boy pulled out.King of the brook,No fisher's hookFills me with dread of the sweaty cook;But here I lie,And laugh as they try;Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!But when the streams,With moonlight beams,Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,Then, then look outFor the hermit trout;For he springs and dimples the shallows about,While the tired angler dreams.
Down in the deepDark holes I keep,And there in the noontide I float and sleep,By the hemlock log,And the springing bog,And the arching alders, I lie incog.
The angler's flyComes dancing by,But never a moment it cheats my eye;For the hermit troutIs not such a loutAs to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook,No fisher's hookFills me with dread of the sweaty cook;But here I lie,And laugh as they try;Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!
But when the streams,With moonlight beams,Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,Then, then look outFor the hermit trout;For he springs and dimples the shallows about,While the tired angler dreams.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
Come, gentle May!Come with thy robe of flowers,Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,From their imprisoning and mysterious night,The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.Come, wondrous May!For at the bidding of thy magic wand,Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,In all their green and glorious arrayThey spring, as spring the Persian maids to hailThy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.Come, vocal May!Come with thy train, that highOn some fresh branch pour out their melody;Or carolling thy praise the live-long day,Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling,'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.Come, sunny May!Come with thy laughing beam,What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray,Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flowerHath lost its light, or died beneath his power.Come, holy May!When sunk behind the cold and western hill,His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;Come with thy musings, and my heart shall beLike a pure temple consecrate to thee.Come, beautiful May!Like youth and loveliness,Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress,The drapery of dark winter cast away;To the bright eye and the glad heart appear,Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.Yet, lovely May!Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhymeTo spurn the gilded mockeries of time,The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.And let me too, sweet May!Let thy fond votary see,As fade thy beauties, all the vanityOf this world's pomp; then teach, that though decayIn his short winter, bury beauty's frame,In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway,Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.
Come, gentle May!Come with thy robe of flowers,Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,From their imprisoning and mysterious night,The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.
Come, wondrous May!For at the bidding of thy magic wand,Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,In all their green and glorious arrayThey spring, as spring the Persian maids to hailThy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.
Come, vocal May!Come with thy train, that highOn some fresh branch pour out their melody;Or carolling thy praise the live-long day,Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling,'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.
Come, sunny May!Come with thy laughing beam,What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray,Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flowerHath lost its light, or died beneath his power.
Come, holy May!When sunk behind the cold and western hill,His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;Come with thy musings, and my heart shall beLike a pure temple consecrate to thee.
Come, beautiful May!Like youth and loveliness,Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress,The drapery of dark winter cast away;To the bright eye and the glad heart appear,Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.
Yet, lovely May!Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhymeTo spurn the gilded mockeries of time,The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.
And let me too, sweet May!Let thy fond votary see,As fade thy beauties, all the vanityOf this world's pomp; then teach, that though decayIn his short winter, bury beauty's frame,In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway,Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Bird of the lone and joyless night—Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?Attendant on the pale moon's light,Why shun the garish blaze of day?When darkness fills the dewy air,Nor sounds the song of happier bird,Alone amid the silence thereThy wild and plaintive note is heard.Thyself unseen—thy pensive moanPoured in no loving comrade's ear—The forest's shaded depths aloneThat mournful melody can hear.Beside what still and secret spring,In what dark wood, the livelong day,Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing,To while the hours of light away.Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me,That life's deceitful gleam is vain;And well the lesson profits thee,Who will not trust its charms again!Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,To listening night when mirth is o'er:I, heedless of the warning, stillBelieve, to be deceived once more!
Bird of the lone and joyless night—Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?Attendant on the pale moon's light,Why shun the garish blaze of day?
When darkness fills the dewy air,Nor sounds the song of happier bird,Alone amid the silence thereThy wild and plaintive note is heard.
Thyself unseen—thy pensive moanPoured in no loving comrade's ear—The forest's shaded depths aloneThat mournful melody can hear.
Beside what still and secret spring,In what dark wood, the livelong day,Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing,To while the hours of light away.
Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me,That life's deceitful gleam is vain;And well the lesson profits thee,Who will not trust its charms again!
Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,To listening night when mirth is o'er:I, heedless of the warning, stillBelieve, to be deceived once more!
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
They are mockery all, those skies! those skies!Their untroubled depths of blue;They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes!Which seem so warm and true;Each quiet star in the one that lies,Each meteor glance that at random fliesThe other's lashes through.They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring,Which her airs so softly woo;And the love to which we would madly cling,Ay! it is mockery too.For the winds are false which the perfume stir,And the lips deceive to which we sue,And love but leads to the sepulchre;Which flowers spring to strew.
They are mockery all, those skies! those skies!Their untroubled depths of blue;They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes!Which seem so warm and true;Each quiet star in the one that lies,Each meteor glance that at random fliesThe other's lashes through.They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring,Which her airs so softly woo;And the love to which we would madly cling,Ay! it is mockery too.For the winds are false which the perfume stir,And the lips deceive to which we sue,And love but leads to the sepulchre;Which flowers spring to strew.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
The clouds have their own language unto meThey have told many a tale in by-gone days,At twilight's hour, when gentle reverieSteals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish faysWith their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,And leave their storied circles where they pass.So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;And from the tempest-gathered fold that shroudsThe darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,They have their language and their melody.Have you not felt it when the dropping rainFrom the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earthWith its unnumbered offspring? felt not whenThe conquering sun hath proudly struggled forthIn misty radiance, until cloud and spotWere blended in one brightness? Can you notLook out and love when the departing sunEnrobes their peaks in shapes fantasticalIn his last splendour, and reflects uponTheir skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fallAbove his burial, like our boyhood's gleamsOf fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"Or giving back those tints indefinite,Yet brightly blending, there to form that archWhereon the angel-spirits of the lightMarshalled their joyous and triumphant march,When sank the whelming waters, and againLeft the green islands to the sons of men?Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threwIts growing shadow on the sinking tide,How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,As its new lustre told that wrath had died,Till the blue waves within their limits curled,And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.Gaze yet again, and you may see on highThe opposing hosts that mutter as they formTheir stern battalions, ere the artilleryBids the destroying angel guide its storm;If you have heard on battle's eve the lowDefiance quickly uttered to the foe,When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on browAnd eye on eye, while every heart beats fastWith hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,Pulsations which perchance may be their last,Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud;If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.How from the bosom of its blackness springsThe cleaving lightning kindling on its way,Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,That he who looks grows drunk with its arrayOf power and beauty, till his eye is dim,And dazzling darkness overshadows him.Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not knownThe wondrous workings of thy firmament,Thine untold majesty, around whose throneThey stand, thy winged messengers, or sentIn light or darkness on their destined path,Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.Then here, in this thy lower temple, hereWe kneel to thee in worship; what to theseSymbols of thine, wherein thou dost appearAre painted domes or priestly palaces;On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,We call on thee to commune and to bless,And see in holy fancy each pure sighAscend like incense to thy throne on high.
The clouds have their own language unto meThey have told many a tale in by-gone days,At twilight's hour, when gentle reverieSteals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish faysWith their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,And leave their storied circles where they pass.
So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;And from the tempest-gathered fold that shroudsThe darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,They have their language and their melody.
Have you not felt it when the dropping rainFrom the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earthWith its unnumbered offspring? felt not whenThe conquering sun hath proudly struggled forthIn misty radiance, until cloud and spotWere blended in one brightness? Can you not
Look out and love when the departing sunEnrobes their peaks in shapes fantasticalIn his last splendour, and reflects uponTheir skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fallAbove his burial, like our boyhood's gleamsOf fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"
Or giving back those tints indefinite,Yet brightly blending, there to form that archWhereon the angel-spirits of the lightMarshalled their joyous and triumphant march,When sank the whelming waters, and againLeft the green islands to the sons of men?
Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threwIts growing shadow on the sinking tide,How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,As its new lustre told that wrath had died,Till the blue waves within their limits curled,And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.
Gaze yet again, and you may see on highThe opposing hosts that mutter as they formTheir stern battalions, ere the artilleryBids the destroying angel guide its storm;If you have heard on battle's eve the lowDefiance quickly uttered to the foe,
When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on browAnd eye on eye, while every heart beats fastWith hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,Pulsations which perchance may be their last,Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud;If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.
How from the bosom of its blackness springsThe cleaving lightning kindling on its way,Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,That he who looks grows drunk with its arrayOf power and beauty, till his eye is dim,And dazzling darkness overshadows him.
Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not knownThe wondrous workings of thy firmament,Thine untold majesty, around whose throneThey stand, thy winged messengers, or sentIn light or darkness on their destined path,Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.
Then here, in this thy lower temple, hereWe kneel to thee in worship; what to theseSymbols of thine, wherein thou dost appearAre painted domes or priestly palaces;On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,We call on thee to commune and to bless,And see in holy fancy each pure sighAscend like incense to thy throne on high.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Some of the islands where the fancied paradise of the Indians was situated, were believed to be in Lake Superior.
That blessed isle lies far away—'Tis many a weary league from land,Where billows in their golden playDash on its sparkling sand.No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar,Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.There the light breezes lie at rest,Soft pillowed on the glassy deep;Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast,And watch their silent sleep.There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wingSits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.And far within, in murmurs heard,Comes, with the wind's low whispers there,The music of the mounting bird,Skimming the clear bright air.The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide,Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.The sun there sheds his noontide beamOn oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers;And gaily by the shaded streamSpring forth the forest flowers.The fountain flings aloft its showery spray,With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.And when the dewy morning breaks,A thousand tones of rapture swell;A thrill of life and motion wakesThrough hill, and plain, and dell.The wild bird trills his song—and from the woodThe red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.There, when the sun sets on the sea,And gilds the forest's waving crown,Strains of immortal harmonyTo those sweet shades come down.Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng,And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.E'en on this cold and cheerless shore,While all is dark and quiet near,The huntsman, when his toils are o'er,That melody may hear.And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam,The glories of that isle, his future home.
That blessed isle lies far away—'Tis many a weary league from land,Where billows in their golden playDash on its sparkling sand.No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar,Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.
There the light breezes lie at rest,Soft pillowed on the glassy deep;Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast,And watch their silent sleep.There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wingSits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.
And far within, in murmurs heard,Comes, with the wind's low whispers there,The music of the mounting bird,Skimming the clear bright air.The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide,Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.
The sun there sheds his noontide beamOn oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers;And gaily by the shaded streamSpring forth the forest flowers.The fountain flings aloft its showery spray,With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.
And when the dewy morning breaks,A thousand tones of rapture swell;A thrill of life and motion wakesThrough hill, and plain, and dell.The wild bird trills his song—and from the woodThe red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.
There, when the sun sets on the sea,And gilds the forest's waving crown,Strains of immortal harmonyTo those sweet shades come down.Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng,And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.
E'en on this cold and cheerless shore,While all is dark and quiet near,The huntsman, when his toils are o'er,That melody may hear.And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam,The glories of that isle, his future home.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at mornFloats in loose flakes along the limpid river;The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ereThe blasts of Winter chase the varied dyesThat gaily deck the slow-declining year;I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;I love the note of each wild bird that flies,As on the wind she pours her parting lay,And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to theeWith feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;To thee—to thee—though health and hope no moreLife's wasted verdure may to me restore—I still can, child-like, come as when in prayerI bowed my head upon a mother's knee,And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at mornFloats in loose flakes along the limpid river;The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ereThe blasts of Winter chase the varied dyesThat gaily deck the slow-declining year;I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;I love the note of each wild bird that flies,As on the wind she pours her parting lay,And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to theeWith feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;To thee—to thee—though health and hope no moreLife's wasted verdure may to me restore—I still can, child-like, come as when in prayerI bowed my head upon a mother's knee,And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Land of the brave! where lie inurnedThe shrouded forms of mortal clay,In whom the fire of valour burned,And blazed upon the battle's fray:Land, where the gallant Spartan fewBled at Thermopylæ of yore,When death his purple garment threwOn Helle's consecrated shore!Land of the Muse! within thy bowersHer soul entrancing echoes rung,While on their course the rapid hoursPaused at the melody she sung—Till every grove and every hill,And every stream that flowed along,From morn to night repeated stillThe winning harmony of song.Land of dead heroes! living slaves!Shall glory gild thy clime no more?Her banner float above thy wavesWhere proudly it hath swept before?Hath not remembrance then a charmTo break the fetters and the chain,To bid thy children nerve the arm,And strike for freedom once again?No! coward souls! the light which shoneOn Leuctra's war-empurpled day,The light which beamed on MarathonHath lost its splendour, ceased to play;And thou art but a shadow now,With helmet shattered—spear in rust—Thy honour but a dream—and thouDespised—degraded in the dust!Where sleeps the spirit, that of oldDashed down to earth the Persian plume,When the loud chant of triumph toldHow fatal was the despot's doom?—The bold three hundred—where are they,Who died on battle's gory breast?Tyrants have trampled on the clay,Where death has hushed them into rest.Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hillA glory shines of ages fled;And fame her light is pouring still,Not on the living, but the dead!But 'tis the dim sepulchral light,Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,As moon-beams on the brow of night,When tempests sweep upon their way.Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,Behold thy banner waves afar;Behold the glittering weapons glanceAlong the gleaming front of war!A gallant chief, of high emprize,Is urging foremost in the field,Who calls upon thee to ariseIn might—in majesty revealed.In vain, in vain the hero calls—In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!His banner totters—see! it fallsIn ruin, Freedom's battle shroud:Thy children have no soul to dareSuch deeds as glorified their sires;Their valour's but a meteor's glare,Which gleams a moment, and expires.Lost land! where Genius made his reign,And reared his golden arch on high;Where Science raised her sacred fane,Its summits peering to the sky;Upon thy clime the midnight deepOf ignorance hath brooded long,And in the tomb, forgotten, sleepThe sons of science and of song.Thy sun hath set—the evening stormHath passed in giant fury by,To blast the beauty of thy form,And spread its pall upon the sky!Gone is thy glory's diadem,And freedom never more shall ceaseTo pour her mournful requiemO'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!
Land of the brave! where lie inurnedThe shrouded forms of mortal clay,In whom the fire of valour burned,And blazed upon the battle's fray:Land, where the gallant Spartan fewBled at Thermopylæ of yore,When death his purple garment threwOn Helle's consecrated shore!
Land of the Muse! within thy bowersHer soul entrancing echoes rung,While on their course the rapid hoursPaused at the melody she sung—Till every grove and every hill,And every stream that flowed along,From morn to night repeated stillThe winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes! living slaves!Shall glory gild thy clime no more?Her banner float above thy wavesWhere proudly it hath swept before?Hath not remembrance then a charmTo break the fetters and the chain,To bid thy children nerve the arm,And strike for freedom once again?
No! coward souls! the light which shoneOn Leuctra's war-empurpled day,The light which beamed on MarathonHath lost its splendour, ceased to play;And thou art but a shadow now,With helmet shattered—spear in rust—Thy honour but a dream—and thouDespised—degraded in the dust!
Where sleeps the spirit, that of oldDashed down to earth the Persian plume,When the loud chant of triumph toldHow fatal was the despot's doom?—The bold three hundred—where are they,Who died on battle's gory breast?Tyrants have trampled on the clay,Where death has hushed them into rest.
Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hillA glory shines of ages fled;And fame her light is pouring still,Not on the living, but the dead!But 'tis the dim sepulchral light,Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,As moon-beams on the brow of night,When tempests sweep upon their way.
Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,Behold thy banner waves afar;Behold the glittering weapons glanceAlong the gleaming front of war!A gallant chief, of high emprize,Is urging foremost in the field,Who calls upon thee to ariseIn might—in majesty revealed.
In vain, in vain the hero calls—In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!His banner totters—see! it fallsIn ruin, Freedom's battle shroud:Thy children have no soul to dareSuch deeds as glorified their sires;Their valour's but a meteor's glare,Which gleams a moment, and expires.
Lost land! where Genius made his reign,And reared his golden arch on high;Where Science raised her sacred fane,Its summits peering to the sky;Upon thy clime the midnight deepOf ignorance hath brooded long,And in the tomb, forgotten, sleepThe sons of science and of song.
Thy sun hath set—the evening stormHath passed in giant fury by,To blast the beauty of thy form,And spread its pall upon the sky!Gone is thy glory's diadem,And freedom never more shall ceaseTo pour her mournful requiemO'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.