Ye hills, who have for ages stoodSublimely in your solitude,Listening the wild water's roar,As thundering down, from steep to steep,Along your wave-worn sides they sweep,Dashing their foam from shore to shore.Wild birds, that loved the deep recess,Fell beast that roved the wilderness,And savage men once hover'd round:But startled at your bellowing waves,Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves,Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.How changed the scene!—your lofty trees,Which bent but to the mountain breeze,Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade;New sun-light through your forest pours,Paths wind along your sides and shores,And footsteps all your haunts invade.Now boor, and beau, and lady fair,In gay costume each day repair,Where thy proud rocks exposed stand,While echo, from her old retreats,With babbling tongue strange words repeats,From babblers on your stony strand.And see—the torrent's rocky floor,With names and dates all scribbled o'er,Vile blurs on nature's heraldry;O bid your river in its race,These mean memorials soon efface,And keep your own proud album free.Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers,But soon Autumnus with his showers,Shall all thy wasted strength restore;Then will these ramblers down thy steep,With terror pale their distance keep,Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage,One name upon thy stony page;'Tis hers—the fairest of the fair;And when she comes these scenes to scan,Then tell her, Echo, if you can,His humble name who wrote it there.
Ye hills, who have for ages stoodSublimely in your solitude,Listening the wild water's roar,As thundering down, from steep to steep,Along your wave-worn sides they sweep,Dashing their foam from shore to shore.
Wild birds, that loved the deep recess,Fell beast that roved the wilderness,And savage men once hover'd round:But startled at your bellowing waves,Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves,Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.
How changed the scene!—your lofty trees,Which bent but to the mountain breeze,Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade;New sun-light through your forest pours,Paths wind along your sides and shores,And footsteps all your haunts invade.
Now boor, and beau, and lady fair,In gay costume each day repair,Where thy proud rocks exposed stand,While echo, from her old retreats,With babbling tongue strange words repeats,From babblers on your stony strand.
And see—the torrent's rocky floor,With names and dates all scribbled o'er,Vile blurs on nature's heraldry;O bid your river in its race,These mean memorials soon efface,And keep your own proud album free.
Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers,But soon Autumnus with his showers,Shall all thy wasted strength restore;Then will these ramblers down thy steep,With terror pale their distance keep,Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.
But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage,One name upon thy stony page;'Tis hers—the fairest of the fair;And when she comes these scenes to scan,Then tell her, Echo, if you can,His humble name who wrote it there.
BY JAMES NACK.
And am I doom'd to be denied for everThe blessings that to all around are given?And shall those links be re-united ever,That bound me to mankind till they were rivenIn childhood's day? Alas! how soon to severFrom social intercourse, the doom of heavenWas pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,That the decree may be recall'd again.Amid a throng in deep attention bound,To catch the accents that from others fall,The flow of eloquence the heavenly soundBreathed from the soul of melody, while allInstructed or delighted list around,Vacant unconsciousness mustmeenthrall!I can but watch each animated face,And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.Unheard, unheeded are the lips byme,To others that unfold some heaven-born art,And melody—Oh, dearest melody!How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart,Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!How had my heart responsive to the strain,Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.In vain—alas, in vain! thy numbers roll—Within my heart no echo they inspire;Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control,To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,That can to animation kindle stone,To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.
And am I doom'd to be denied for everThe blessings that to all around are given?And shall those links be re-united ever,That bound me to mankind till they were rivenIn childhood's day? Alas! how soon to severFrom social intercourse, the doom of heavenWas pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,That the decree may be recall'd again.
Amid a throng in deep attention bound,To catch the accents that from others fall,The flow of eloquence the heavenly soundBreathed from the soul of melody, while allInstructed or delighted list around,Vacant unconsciousness mustmeenthrall!I can but watch each animated face,And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.
Unheard, unheeded are the lips byme,To others that unfold some heaven-born art,And melody—Oh, dearest melody!How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart,Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!How had my heart responsive to the strain,Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.
In vain—alas, in vain! thy numbers roll—Within my heart no echo they inspire;Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control,To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,That can to animation kindle stone,To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.
BY R. C. SANDS.
They say that afar in the land of the west,Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers:'Tis the land of the sunbeam,—the green isle of lovers!Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kissThe calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirsGlad measures still weave to the sound that inspiresThe dance and the revel, 'mid forests that coverOn high with their shade the green isle of the lover.But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire,When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile;From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers,And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!
They say that afar in the land of the west,Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.
There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers:'Tis the land of the sunbeam,—the green isle of lovers!
Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kissThe calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirsGlad measures still weave to the sound that inspiresThe dance and the revel, 'mid forests that coverOn high with their shade the green isle of the lover.
But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire,When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile;From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers,And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.
And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!
BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.
That silent moon, that silent moon,Careering now through cloudless sky,Oh! who shall tell what varied scenesHave pass'd beneath her placid eye,Since first, to light this wayward earth,She walked in tranquil beauty forth.How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,And superstition's senseless rite,And loud, licentious revelry,Profaned her pure and holy light:Small sympathy is hers, I ween,With sights like these, that virgin queen.But dear to her, in summer eve,By rippling wave, or tufted grove,When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,And heart meets heart in holy love,To smile, in quiet loneliness,And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.Dispersed along the world's wide way,When friends are far, and fond ones rove,How powerful she to wake the thought,And start the tear for those we love!Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,And gaze upon that silent moon.How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,The magic of that moonlight sky,To bring again the vanish'd scenes,The happy eves of days gone by;Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,The loved, the lost of other years.And oft she looks, that silent moon,On lonely eyes that wake to weep,In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,On those who mourn, and those who die.But beam on whomsoe'er she will,And fall where'er her splendour may,There's pureness in her chasten'd light,There's comfort in her tranquil ray:What power is hers to soothe the heart—What power, the trembling tear to start!The dewy morn let others love,Or bask them in the noontide ray;There's not an hour but has its charm,From dawning light to dying day:—But oh! be mine a fairer boon—That silent moon, that silent moon!
That silent moon, that silent moon,Careering now through cloudless sky,Oh! who shall tell what varied scenesHave pass'd beneath her placid eye,Since first, to light this wayward earth,She walked in tranquil beauty forth.
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,And superstition's senseless rite,And loud, licentious revelry,Profaned her pure and holy light:Small sympathy is hers, I ween,With sights like these, that virgin queen.
But dear to her, in summer eve,By rippling wave, or tufted grove,When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,And heart meets heart in holy love,To smile, in quiet loneliness,And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,When friends are far, and fond ones rove,How powerful she to wake the thought,And start the tear for those we love!Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,The magic of that moonlight sky,To bring again the vanish'd scenes,The happy eves of days gone by;Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,The loved, the lost of other years.
And oft she looks, that silent moon,On lonely eyes that wake to weep,In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,On those who mourn, and those who die.
But beam on whomsoe'er she will,And fall where'er her splendour may,There's pureness in her chasten'd light,There's comfort in her tranquil ray:What power is hers to soothe the heart—What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,Or bask them in the noontide ray;There's not an hour but has its charm,From dawning light to dying day:—But oh! be mine a fairer boon—That silent moon, that silent moon!
BY SAMUEL LOW.—1800.
Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife,Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.Who knows thy power can never know despair;Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:When cares oppress, or when the busy dayGives place to tranquil eve, a single puffCan drive even want and lassitude away,And give a mourner happiness enough.From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,They hide each evil that in prospect lies;But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,Till I, departing taper, light another.
Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife,Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.Who knows thy power can never know despair;Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:When cares oppress, or when the busy dayGives place to tranquil eve, a single puffCan drive even want and lassitude away,And give a mourner happiness enough.From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,They hide each evil that in prospect lies;But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,Till I, departing taper, light another.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,One little star benignant peep,To light along their trackless pathThe wanderers of the stormy deep.And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely formIn sorrow's gloomy night shall beThe sun that looks through cloud and stormUpon a dark and moonless sea.When heaven is all serene and fair,Full many a brighter gem we meet;'Tis when the tempest hovers there,Thy beam is most divinely sweet.The rainbow, when the sun declines,Like faithless friend will disappear;Thy light, dear star! more brightly shinesWhen all is wail and weeping here.And though Aurora's stealing beamMay wake a morning of delight,'Tis only thy consoling gleamWill smile amid affliction's night.
See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,One little star benignant peep,To light along their trackless pathThe wanderers of the stormy deep.
And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely formIn sorrow's gloomy night shall beThe sun that looks through cloud and stormUpon a dark and moonless sea.
When heaven is all serene and fair,Full many a brighter gem we meet;'Tis when the tempest hovers there,Thy beam is most divinely sweet.
The rainbow, when the sun declines,Like faithless friend will disappear;Thy light, dear star! more brightly shinesWhen all is wail and weeping here.
And though Aurora's stealing beamMay wake a morning of delight,'Tis only thy consoling gleamWill smile amid affliction's night.
BY ROBERT BARKER.
Ob: 1831, æt. 27.
Thy wave has ne'er by gondolierBeen dash'd aside with flashing oar,Nor festive train to music's strainPerformed the dance upon thy shore.But there, at night, beneath the lightOf silent moon and twinkling ray,The Indian's boat is seen to float,And track its lonely way.The Indian maid, in forest glade,Of flowers that earliest grow,And fragrant leaves, a garland weavesTo deck her warrior's brow.And when away, at break of day,She hies her to her shieling dear,She sings so gay a roundelay,That echo stops to hear.Would it were mine to join with thine,And dwell for ever here,In forest wild with nature's child,By the silent Cayostêa.My joy with thee would ever beAlong these banks to roam;And fortune take beside the lake,Whose clime is freedom's home.
Thy wave has ne'er by gondolierBeen dash'd aside with flashing oar,Nor festive train to music's strainPerformed the dance upon thy shore.But there, at night, beneath the lightOf silent moon and twinkling ray,The Indian's boat is seen to float,And track its lonely way.
The Indian maid, in forest glade,Of flowers that earliest grow,And fragrant leaves, a garland weavesTo deck her warrior's brow.And when away, at break of day,She hies her to her shieling dear,She sings so gay a roundelay,That echo stops to hear.
Would it were mine to join with thine,And dwell for ever here,In forest wild with nature's child,By the silent Cayostêa.My joy with thee would ever beAlong these banks to roam;And fortune take beside the lake,Whose clime is freedom's home.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
When Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure celestial white,With streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.Majestic monarch of the cloud,Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on.Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn;And as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance.And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,And gory sabres rise and fallLike shoots of flame on midnight's pall;Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendours flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.Flag of the free heart's hope and home!By angel hands to valour given;Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.For ever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
When Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure celestial white,With streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on.Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn;And as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance.And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,And gory sabres rise and fallLike shoots of flame on midnight's pall;Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendours flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!By angel hands to valour given;Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.For ever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
Genesisi. 3.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke,And from the abyss where darkness rodeThe earliest dawn of nature broke,And light around creation flow'd.The glad earth smiled to see the day,The first-born day came blushing in;The young day smiled to shed its rayUpon a world untouched by sin."Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth,The God who first the day-beam pour'd,Whispered again his fiat forth,And shed the Gospel's light abroad.And, like the dawn, its cheering raysOn rich and poor were meant to fall,Inspiring their Redeemer's praiseIn lonely cot and lordly hall.Then come, when in the Orient firstFlushes the signal light for prayer;Come with the earliest beams that burstFrom God's bright throne of glory there.Come kneel to Him who through the nightHath watched above thy sleeping soul,To Him whose mercies, like his light,Are shed abroad from pole to pole.
"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke,And from the abyss where darkness rodeThe earliest dawn of nature broke,And light around creation flow'd.The glad earth smiled to see the day,The first-born day came blushing in;The young day smiled to shed its rayUpon a world untouched by sin.
"Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth,The God who first the day-beam pour'd,Whispered again his fiat forth,And shed the Gospel's light abroad.And, like the dawn, its cheering raysOn rich and poor were meant to fall,Inspiring their Redeemer's praiseIn lonely cot and lordly hall.
Then come, when in the Orient firstFlushes the signal light for prayer;Come with the earliest beams that burstFrom God's bright throne of glory there.Come kneel to Him who through the nightHath watched above thy sleeping soul,To Him whose mercies, like his light,Are shed abroad from pole to pole.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
I sat me down upon a green bank-side,Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,Like parting friends who linger while they sever;Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willowRuffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;When first his power in infant pastime trying,Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screenShone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;The antic squirrel capered on the groundWhere lichens made a carpet for his feet:Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkleShot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.There were dark cedars with loose mossy tressesWhite powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flauntingGaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslantingA modest gaze, like eyes of a young maidenShining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,The winding of the merry locust's horn,The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.And did I leave thy loveliness, to standAgain in the dull world of earthly blindness?Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?Yet I will look upon thy face again,My own romantic Bronx, and it will beA face more pleasant than the face of men.Thy waves are old companions, I shall seeA well-remembered form in each old tree,And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.
I sat me down upon a green bank-side,Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,Like parting friends who linger while they sever;Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.
Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willowRuffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;When first his power in infant pastime trying,Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.
From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screenShone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.
The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;The antic squirrel capered on the groundWhere lichens made a carpet for his feet:Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkleShot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.
There were dark cedars with loose mossy tressesWhite powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flauntingGaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslantingA modest gaze, like eyes of a young maidenShining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.
The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,The winding of the merry locust's horn,The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.
And did I leave thy loveliness, to standAgain in the dull world of earthly blindness?Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?
Yet I will look upon thy face again,My own romantic Bronx, and it will beA face more pleasant than the face of men.Thy waves are old companions, I shall seeA well-remembered form in each old tree,And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.
BY ROSWELL PARK.
The mist descended from the snowThat whiten'd o'er the cliff;The clouds were gather'd round its brow,And solemn darkness reign'd belowThe peak of Teneriffe.For on that rocky peak and high,Magnificent and lone,The awfulStorm-Kingof the sky,Beyond the reach of mortal eye,Had rear'd his cloudy throne.By him the raging winds unfurl'd,Swept o'er the prostrate land;And thence, above the affrighted world,The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'dForth from his red right hand.—Uprising from his cave of jet,While mists obscured his form,With streaming locks and vesture wet,TheSpiritof the ocean metTheSpiritof the storm."And why so madly dost thou dare,Proud Spirit of the sea,To tempt the monarch of the air,With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare?What seekest thou of me?""I have risen afar from my coral caves,Where the pearls are sparkling bright,To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves;And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves,And I challenge thee here to the fight!""Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'dFrom the midst of a cloud of fire;The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd,And the island forest his footsteps crush'd,In the burning of his ire.Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom,And the depths of the ocean uprend;Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam,And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom,Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend.But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall,And evades his fierce controul;—Away in his ice-clad crystal hall,He still reigns absolute monarch of allThat surrounds his frozen pole.The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,—Again are the elements free;But many a vessel is still sinking fast,And many a mariner rests at last,In the bosom of the sea!
The mist descended from the snowThat whiten'd o'er the cliff;The clouds were gather'd round its brow,And solemn darkness reign'd belowThe peak of Teneriffe.
For on that rocky peak and high,Magnificent and lone,The awfulStorm-Kingof the sky,Beyond the reach of mortal eye,Had rear'd his cloudy throne.
By him the raging winds unfurl'd,Swept o'er the prostrate land;And thence, above the affrighted world,The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'dForth from his red right hand.—
Uprising from his cave of jet,While mists obscured his form,With streaming locks and vesture wet,TheSpiritof the ocean metTheSpiritof the storm.
"And why so madly dost thou dare,Proud Spirit of the sea,To tempt the monarch of the air,With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare?What seekest thou of me?"
"I have risen afar from my coral caves,Where the pearls are sparkling bright,To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves;And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves,And I challenge thee here to the fight!"
"Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'dFrom the midst of a cloud of fire;The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd,And the island forest his footsteps crush'd,In the burning of his ire.
Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom,And the depths of the ocean uprend;Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam,And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom,Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend.
But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall,And evades his fierce controul;—Away in his ice-clad crystal hall,He still reigns absolute monarch of allThat surrounds his frozen pole.
The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,—Again are the elements free;But many a vessel is still sinking fast,And many a mariner rests at last,In the bosom of the sea!
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair—Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare?Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field,And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield;For no gallant can splinter—no charger can dareThe lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare.When goblets are flowing, and wit at the boardSparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured,And fond wishes for fair ones around offered upFrom each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,—What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare?They may talk of the land of the olive and vine—Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;—Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles,Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;But what flower of far away clime can compareWith the blossom of ours—bright Rosalie Clare?Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair?Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare!Let him list to her voice—let him gaze on her form—And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm,Let him go breathe it out in some less happy airThan that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.
Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair—Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare?Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field,And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield;For no gallant can splinter—no charger can dareThe lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare.
When goblets are flowing, and wit at the boardSparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured,And fond wishes for fair ones around offered upFrom each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,—What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare?
They may talk of the land of the olive and vine—Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;—Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles,Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;But what flower of far away clime can compareWith the blossom of ours—bright Rosalie Clare?
Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair?Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare!Let him list to her voice—let him gaze on her form—And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm,Let him go breathe it out in some less happy airThan that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.
BY ROSWELL PARK.
Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave!The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;—The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the sprayThat lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free,The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea!Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair,Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there!Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board,Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord;And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain,To welcome her long-absent lover again.Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine,Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine;And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait;For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate.Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar,And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star;The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct,And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect!Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash;And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;—Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high;Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by!Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past;Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast;Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn,And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!
Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave!The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;—The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the sprayThat lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.
Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free,The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea!Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair,Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there!
Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board,Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord;And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain,To welcome her long-absent lover again.
Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine,Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine;And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait;For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate.
Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar,And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star;The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct,And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect!
Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash;And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;—Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high;Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by!
Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past;Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast;Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn,And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!
BY ROBERT BARKER.
How dear to love the moonlight hour,Beneath the calm transparent ether,It seems as if by magic powerThey breathe in unison together.When forest glen and fountain brightAre tinged with shades of mellow light,And every earthly sound is stillSave murmur of the mountain rill;'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion,And waken every soft emotion,To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears,And place the smiles of rapture there,"Celestial music of the spheres"Comes floating on the evening air.'Tis then that fancy wings her flightBeyond the bounds to mortals given;To regions where the lamps of nightIllume the path which leads to heaven.'Tis then she holds communion sweetWith seraphs round the eternal throne,Where long-departed spirits meet,To worship him who sits thereon.'Tis then man dreams of Paradise,If aught he dreams of place like this,'Tis then he breathes the crystal air,Which Peris breathe who wander there,And sips the fount of Native LoveFound no where but in heaven above.
How dear to love the moonlight hour,Beneath the calm transparent ether,It seems as if by magic powerThey breathe in unison together.When forest glen and fountain brightAre tinged with shades of mellow light,And every earthly sound is stillSave murmur of the mountain rill;'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion,And waken every soft emotion,To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears,And place the smiles of rapture there,"Celestial music of the spheres"Comes floating on the evening air.'Tis then that fancy wings her flightBeyond the bounds to mortals given;To regions where the lamps of nightIllume the path which leads to heaven.'Tis then she holds communion sweetWith seraphs round the eternal throne,Where long-departed spirits meet,To worship him who sits thereon.'Tis then man dreams of Paradise,If aught he dreams of place like this,'Tis then he breathes the crystal air,Which Peris breathe who wander there,And sips the fount of Native LoveFound no where but in heaven above.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,The changing hues of an April sky;They fade like dew in the morning beam,Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,And the bosom that heaves alone for me.Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stayFrom youth's gay morning to age's night;When beauty's rainbow tints decay,Love's torch still burns with a holy light.Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,And love will droop in the cheerless shade,Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.But oh! the light of the constant soulNor time can darken nor sorrow dim;Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl,Love still shall hover around its brim.
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,The changing hues of an April sky;They fade like dew in the morning beam,Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.
'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,And the bosom that heaves alone for me.Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stayFrom youth's gay morning to age's night;When beauty's rainbow tints decay,Love's torch still burns with a holy light.
Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,And love will droop in the cheerless shade,Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.But oh! the light of the constant soulNor time can darken nor sorrow dim;Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl,Love still shall hover around its brim.
[Translated from the German of Körner.]
BY ROSWELL PARK.
What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day?Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer!It hither approaches in gloomy array,While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way,The soul overwhelming with terror!Those swart companions you view in the race,—Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade,From mountain to mountain deploying?They place themselves nightly in ambuscade,They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade,The French usurpers destroying!Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,—Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by,The tyrant securely is sleeping;—They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky;With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply;Soon safe on his island-shore leaping!Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace,Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar,Where swords in thick carnage are clashing?Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore;The spark of true freedom is kindled once more,From war's bloody altars out-flashing!Those horsemen swart who the combat face,Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun,'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery?Death creeps o'er their visage,—their labours are done;—Their valiant hearts tremble not;—victory's won;Their father-land rescued from slavery!Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace,Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!The wild German Yagers,—their glorious careersDealt death to the tyrant oppressor!Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers,When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears;Since we alone died to redress her.Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;—Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day?Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer!It hither approaches in gloomy array,While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way,The soul overwhelming with terror!Those swart companions you view in the race,—Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade,From mountain to mountain deploying?They place themselves nightly in ambuscade,They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade,The French usurpers destroying!Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,—Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by,The tyrant securely is sleeping;—They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky;With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply;Soon safe on his island-shore leaping!Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace,Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar,Where swords in thick carnage are clashing?Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore;The spark of true freedom is kindled once more,From war's bloody altars out-flashing!Those horsemen swart who the combat face,Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun,'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery?Death creeps o'er their visage,—their labours are done;—Their valiant hearts tremble not;—victory's won;Their father-land rescued from slavery!Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace,Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
The wild German Yagers,—their glorious careersDealt death to the tyrant oppressor!Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers,When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears;Since we alone died to redress her.Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;—Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!
BY JAMES NACK.
I know that thou art far away,Yet in my own despiteMy still expectant glances strayInquiring for thy sight.Though all too sure that thy sweet faceCan bless no glance of mine,At every turn, in every place,My eyes are seeking thine.I hope—how vain the hope, I know—That some propitious chanceMay bring thee here again to throwThy sweetness on my glance.But, loveliest one, where'er thou art,Whate'er be my despair,Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heartWill love thee every where.
I know that thou art far away,Yet in my own despiteMy still expectant glances strayInquiring for thy sight.Though all too sure that thy sweet faceCan bless no glance of mine,At every turn, in every place,My eyes are seeking thine.
I hope—how vain the hope, I know—That some propitious chanceMay bring thee here again to throwThy sweetness on my glance.But, loveliest one, where'er thou art,Whate'er be my despair,Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heartWill love thee every where.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
[Written beneath a dilapidated tower,yet standing among the ruins of Carthage.]Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstoodThe silent lapse of many ages,The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,Around whose base the ocean rages;Who reared thy walls that proudly braveThe tempest, battle, and the wave?Was it beneath thy ample domeThat Marius rested, and from thee,When he had lost imperial Rome,Learned high resolve and constancy?Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,And well might'st teach the lesson great.Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rungOf yore, with laughter's merry shout,While beauty round her glances flungTo cheer some monarch's wassail rout;But mirth and beauty long have fledFrom this lone City of the Dead.Where busy thousands oft have trodBeneath thy mouldering marble brow,Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,Around thee all is silence now.And thus the breath of foul decayShall melt at last thy form away.Thou desolate, deserted pile,Lone vestage of departed glory,Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,As if resolved the tale to tellWhere Carthage stood, and how it fell.Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,Around thee strewn may yet be seenThe broken column, sculptured stone,And relics sad of what hath been.But thou alone survivest the fall,Defying Time, dread leveller of all.
[Written beneath a dilapidated tower,yet standing among the ruins of Carthage.]
Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstoodThe silent lapse of many ages,The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,Around whose base the ocean rages;Who reared thy walls that proudly braveThe tempest, battle, and the wave?
Was it beneath thy ample domeThat Marius rested, and from thee,When he had lost imperial Rome,Learned high resolve and constancy?Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,And well might'st teach the lesson great.
Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rungOf yore, with laughter's merry shout,While beauty round her glances flungTo cheer some monarch's wassail rout;But mirth and beauty long have fledFrom this lone City of the Dead.
Where busy thousands oft have trodBeneath thy mouldering marble brow,Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,Around thee all is silence now.And thus the breath of foul decayShall melt at last thy form away.
Thou desolate, deserted pile,Lone vestage of departed glory,Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,As if resolved the tale to tellWhere Carthage stood, and how it fell.
Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,Around thee strewn may yet be seenThe broken column, sculptured stone,And relics sad of what hath been.But thou alone survivest the fall,Defying Time, dread leveller of all.
BY J. R. SUTERMINSTER.
Ob. 1836: æt. 23.
Oh! for my bright and faded hoursWhen life was like a summer stream,On whose gay banks the virgin flowersBlush'd in the morning's rosy beam;Or danced upon the breeze that bareIts store of rich perfume along,While the wood-robin pour'd on airThe ravishing delights of song.The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,While flow'd its sparkling waters fair—And went upon his pathway proud,And threw a brighter lustre there;And smiled upon the golden heaven,And on the earth's sweet loveliness,Where light, and joy, and song were given,The glad and fairy scene to bless!Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,Who spread for him that scene of loveAnd made him, so supremely blest!That scene of love!—where hath it gone?Where have its charms and beauty sped?My hours of youth, that o'er me shone—Where have their light and splendour fled?Into the silent lapse of years—And I am left on earth to mourn:And I am left to drop my tearsO'er memory's lone and icy urn!Yet why pour forth the voice of wailO'er feeling's blighted coronal?Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,I shall be gather'd in my pall;Oh, my dark hours on earth are few—My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;—And I shall soon bid life adieu,To seek enduring joys in heaven!
Oh! for my bright and faded hoursWhen life was like a summer stream,On whose gay banks the virgin flowersBlush'd in the morning's rosy beam;Or danced upon the breeze that bareIts store of rich perfume along,While the wood-robin pour'd on airThe ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,While flow'd its sparkling waters fair—And went upon his pathway proud,And threw a brighter lustre there;And smiled upon the golden heaven,And on the earth's sweet loveliness,Where light, and joy, and song were given,The glad and fairy scene to bless!
Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,Who spread for him that scene of loveAnd made him, so supremely blest!
That scene of love!—where hath it gone?Where have its charms and beauty sped?My hours of youth, that o'er me shone—Where have their light and splendour fled?Into the silent lapse of years—And I am left on earth to mourn:And I am left to drop my tearsO'er memory's lone and icy urn!
Yet why pour forth the voice of wailO'er feeling's blighted coronal?Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,I shall be gather'd in my pall;Oh, my dark hours on earth are few—My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;—And I shall soon bid life adieu,To seek enduring joys in heaven!
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.